Mike‘s Dj-ing tonight at Lick.
About time I get to go dance. Tear a heart shaped hole in the eloquent tongue of my bodies motion. Language darling, of sex and death and that unsteady beat, arrhythmia. Thumbtack toes and a sticky smile, not very many people have seen me go dancing at the lesbian bars. I grind and dip, swooping in to catch the pretty girls and let them go. I collect people, I play pool on the dark uneven table, I suggestively chalk my cue and abandon it for music, kicking off my shoes in a corner to collect later.
Wouldn’t you like to see? I like to have a room of people dancing with me, we’re all girls, there’s no lurking quietly in the dark. Hard hot hands, I grab you and twist you to me. My thigh goes here, gasps to the thud of the electric drums, clarify what you want. I’m not going to give it to you, but I’ll tease. Let you lick me, let you kiss me goodbye, but you’re not coming home. Dirty dancing, I only take.
Wish I had a fishnet shirt.
I’m not supposed to talk about it. I said I wouldn’t, I said it was yours alone. I didn’t lie, but I chafe like the leather collar you let me buckle onto you, like the cuffs that don’t have the fuzz inside. I search your face every time I do it, I tense at the gasp, a tigress relax of sin and skin winding themselves around keys and locks and your eyes, dear god, your eyes. They close for me, sheathing the blinding green conciousness in little flaps of lickable flesh. I could bathe in the lines radiating from your eyes, crows feet to claw me down and remake me.
We got out of Tijuana alive, but for our lungs. A drunk man tried to make a stumble for it at the border, walking through the turnstiles and weaving for the exit doors on the other side. “Sir! Sir!” He didn’t make it. We didn’t see the finish of his story as we were being held up ourselves by the clerk. The ID I brought with me to get into the States wasn’t apparently enough, but he let me go on my word that I would be eventually getting a passport.
Stopped at San Diego on our way back. Our impression was that it’s a friendly place, the gaslight quarter a martini blend of Seattle and San Fransisco. We were on the hunt for delicious chocolate, and we found it almost right away. A marquis sign advertising fudge caught us into parking.
exploding cell phones
This came out of thenowhere putting up an infidelity story, and slinka putting up a fridge-magnet sillything. If my brain considered simple sentence structure as this flowed out, I think it might have turned out. Cest la vie.
I suspect that at some point I will have to attempt an infidelity koan. A rather odd topic, but one that it seems every damned female one of us has brushed against. In a way, I like that. Wickedness abounds my lovelies, a further assurance that the world is as odd a place as we’ll let it awaken to. As perfect example of real-time plot twist, it turns out that our house-guest won’t be staying as planned. She’s going back to her husband, she’s a married woman now, like she was eleven years ago, half my life ago. She’s put the ring on her finger. It’s that step into blooming unknown that I like the best. Forcing myself to put my foot down the dark alley that a thousand films have told me not to. Dare me, my darlings. It’s a pity she’s going to Winnipeg in winter.
Check out the latest insanely good inking by vagrantkid by the way.
Tonight I found a local has discovered me from Warren‘s journal again. A friend this time, someone I welcome. Readers trickling in, he’s the second brave soul that I know of to attempt a full read through of this unwieldy thing. He’s cementing the approximate two-hundred number of those who drop in here from time to time to kill time. Who are you people anyways?
I’m craving some sunshine, a hot heat hit of warm weather with my boy holding my hand. This mad gray world fills my space, a cloudy brain at the freezing point of water. I’m made of it, drenched pores in cold, skin made as stone. I’m happy though, flesh and blood in a blanket of loving memory, may he rest in peace, may she, may they come together in flame. Procession of thoughtbeat, flickers of trees leaning toward the ocean in endless rows. Legends, blurred.
I love you my darling, I hold you, you’re mine.
From the restaurant in Tijuana we could see very little. Bright stores packed corner to corner with tasteless trinkets. Wrestling masks, sombreros, stones polished into aztec suns with inset mirror eyes. Everything was decayed, the buildings cracked and the street torn open, leaving sewage to air. Our food was delicious, though we made sure our drinks were bottled. The staff was kind, smiling because we couldn’t quite communicate. Only the headman knew passable english. He walked me to the lavatory, taking my arm and promenading me past the empty dancefloor, streamers brushing my hair in time to the dated music.
I left Alastair at the table and I held his hand when we walked the street. He looked like a tourist, a skinny brit in a yellow jacket. I don’t know what I looked like, but everyone assumed I knew Spanish. Trickling comprehension began to solidify in my brain. Frustrating to understand and not be able to reciprocate. I’ve never been called a wife so many times in my life. Walking, I wanted to memorize the city. Blade runner lights off in the distance, we went north to an arch scraping the lowest bits of sky. There were no stars through this pollution, only planets spinning brightly above. Under the arch was darkness, a dead sign hanging from wires, REVOLUTION, the beginnings of wary interaction with a dangerous city. There was a circle there, streets spoking off in all direction. We went right, where the lights were. More tourist shops piled to the ceiling with nothing worth looking at.
Waking from cold at four in the morning lends me to a few conclusions. First off – no matter how hungry one might be at such a time, do not attempt cooking by throwing random cans of edibles into a pot with insta-soup noodles, the noodles are a bad starchy idea what hates you. It doesn’t matter if you have nothing else, it is a weary path of thick sickly glop. I think I’m going to give up on this “soup” and freeze to death with my comfort food, stave-off-the-lack-of-sun-depression frozen strawberries. Second – a warm pair of pyjamas is apparently vital when the bed is not shared. As it’s been a few years since this was last a problem, I had utterly forgotten about it. How ordinary is that? Third – I am assuming the ferret is in the room, so therefore I can extrapolate from previous behaviour that he will wake me up at six and again at eight, so where the frag is the ferret? Fourth – shopping for real food has to happen, and pots, and a pan, and I have to pick up the package at the airport and… goddamn those noodles were a this-must-be-the-sort-of-thing-drunk-people-think-are-clever idea. You are all more intelligent than me. I finally have proof and it is in a pot and glaring at me.
I watched you driving away from me in my mind. My plane banking in the opposite direction from your line of sight. Going home but leaving it behind in a white california classic. I put my hand out and left it on your leg as my eyes read the lines of the novel, I was caught in the middle seat. The girl next to me was crying, but I only felt a little hollow, like there’s a space now that’s empty. A tenuous thread of warmth spooling down to you through your window and the moonlight and sodium lamps on your skin. I was glad it was dark outside, I could only see a lava glow shimmer of the city being left behind. An okay surrounding pan shot of the ground glittering and the plane above, white belly climbing.
I’m back from L.A. It’s cold here, but it was when I left. Ice on the ground and up by the moon, the deciduous trees looking out of place after only a week. I can’t find the palm trees, I can see the edge of the city from my balcony door window. The jigsaw puzzle doesn’t like putting together my earlier day of sun and beaches and ferris wheel rides with this grid of streets I know better than anyone. How long does it take for everything to converge? I feel like I opened my eyes into a different world, a smaller one, with wettish handshakes.
I should clean my room some more.
just the slightest note: there’s a film with what appears to be Willum DeFoe and scottish ninjas and I was never informed?
The gray weather has caught up with us in movie heaven. I’m working today, sitting on the hotel bed with the children scrolling by on the light up laptop screen. Music is on finally, my propensity for sending files to everyone paying dividends I never expected.
We started to Tijuana with the jeep top down, cliche divas in for hot weather on the american Thanksgiving Day. We packed the camera and bottled water, and got caught in traffic, surviving off granola bars. We stopped in San Clemente, where Alastair will be living in a week or two. Two little girls came up to me as I was playing in the waves, “Have you ever been to a beach before?” She seemed sad when I said I had. She asked if I knew if the skinny man over there was taking my picture.
Mexico was frighteningly simple to get into, a roofless metal tunnel, jury-rigged from corrugated steel sheeting and four by fours, hammered together over stained cement. Everyone else was carrying something, plastic bags and backpacks. The end of the path forked, the majority walking right, but to the left was a light up sign saying TAXI. The second man who approached us, we took his vehicle, a mary magdalene hologram sticker on his dashboard next to the speedometer. “Take us to Revelucion?”
The traffic is more chaotic, but friendlier, a more organic extension of travel. The air is simply poison, a scraping miasma of acid that burns the back of the throat. We were dropped off on a raucous corner, barkers starting in as soon as I stepped foot to pavement. Rapid spanish chattering from all directions, mixed with protestations and cajoling lures in english imploring us to buy from the shops lining the street. Above us pounded heavy dance music, hits that weren’t from the 80’s and 90’s, like a retro night gone sour, the sort of music people dance to at drunken weddings. We followed a man up yellow and black caution line painted stairs to an empty restaurant, every step with a message in english with odd grammar. YOU CUSTOMER IS MOST IMPORTANT PERSON HERE, OUR TACO IS BEST. I was surprised by how much of the menu I could read, the language keeping me on my toes, an edgy realization of faded knowledge bothering my mind with inconsistencies.
Just upfront, SAW is a terrible movie. Desperate, hideous, and hateful. It’s simple existance is a ghastly insult to audience intelligence and a harrowing journey through mediocrity.