First Character:
A New Millennium
I'll admit it: part of me misses Memphis. I really did have a good thing going there for a while, with my bartending job at Karla's Kandies, and my new girlfriend Louise. She had a nice ass, a cute face, the daintiest little voice, and the softest sweetest smelling pussy from Memphis to Singapore. I loved the way she would take an hour to put her face on, sitting glued in front of the television, with her eyes darting back and forth between the TV screen watching Good Morning America and her table-top make-up mirror, uttering the occasional random sentences like: "Do you think Rosie O'Donnell has ever given anyone a blow job?" She was a real hoot sometimes.
The only problem was, I got really bored being a lesbian. All the stereotypical things: first of all, the men trying to turn you straight... I mean why is it that men are all so threatened by the idea that women don't need a dick to feel satisfied sexually? People, listen to me: now that I have one, I can see for myself what a useless piece of meat it really is! And there were other things about the lesbian lifestyle that kind of got to me too: the over-coddling that happens in a relationship between two women, the bitchy catfights with Louise, the unfathomable urge to get a crew cut... What was becoming of me?
Well, anyway, I did what I had to do, and now I'm a young man looking for love in the Old World! I wonder what will happen to me over the course of the next year? Probably, I'll wind up cutting the damned thing off. Maybe then I'll be able to fool them all and audition for the Athenian Opera as the only living castrato left in Europe. Maybe I'll meet a nice young Greek lass and settle down on a sheep farm up in the hills somewhere; smelling forever of olive oil, feta cheese, and sun-dried tomatoes! Or, if I am really unlucky, maybe I'll head back home and try to make it up to Louise. The only thing I wonder: would she really be that likely to take me back now that I have so much chest hair?
I. Petal
How Real Might Feel
Turning on the hot water faucet at full force, breathing in the steam, the mirror slightly clouding over, Petal formulated her next move in a flash of inspiration while simultaneously steaming her face into its most gorgeous and lively incarnation. Her pores fully open, then as quickly closed with a splash of cold water, she felt renewed and refreshed. She was ready to call her Turkish lover; a born sentimentalist, Utopian, and ramshackle folk-musician known to his closest friends as Rag. Rag was so good to her. She could always count on him for a few of the most essential things: a soft yet stable embrace, a tender caress, a nicely prepared middle-eastern meal scented with exotic spices like cardamom and anise, a satisfying session of adoring cunnilingus. After spending nearly two confused years attempting to break up with him, she had finally given herself over to the familiar pleasures that Rag could provide. He might not be the richest man, or the most ambitious or adventurous; but time had taught her that his romanticism, poetic nature, gentle manners, and delicate yet ironic sensibility was something to be cherished. Besides, as his name suggested, Rag was pretty good at cleaning up her messes.
You see, although Petal was a dainty and intelligent person, her accounts of the depravity and neglect of her nearly fatherless childhood provided evidence enough (for those who took the time to actually concern themselves with such things) to fully explain the severe emotional and psychological problems that made it so difficult for her to commit. In many ways, Petal resembled the typical man in this respect, an opportunist always looking around the corner, randomly seeking "something better". A fallen aristocrat and natural bohemian, it was difficult for her to ever feel truly satisfied with what she had. Having been raised in the avant-garde neighborhood of SoHo before it had gone upscale, a need to feel the constant excitement of a whirlwind of events was deeply ingrained into the fabric of her being. Though she loved her San Francisco garden and her occasional jaunts into the spare, quiet desert or expansive awe-inspiring mountains, her internal rhythms had been paced at a very early age to the chaotic cacophony of Manhattan. Still, in the privacy of her girlish bedroom with the lacy curtains and mahogany furniture, like a lady in a tower atop Nob Hill, Petal was prone to fall victim to relentless old-school feminine daydreams, and often envisioned lovers dueling for the rights to her hand, in some sort of medieval battle. It was a little hard sometimes to accept that she had grown a bit too old to interest most of the younger, fairer skinned men, the ones who sparked her imagination into a state of absolute arousal.
Crossing her small bedroom, searching slowly through her closet for the perfect black sundress, Petal began, just briefly, with absolute consciousness, to talk to herself. Her voice was warm, feminine, a cross between Marilyn Monroe's girlish breathy inflection and the hazy speech of Demi Moore or Kathleen Turner. It really was her most distinctive feature. "Ok, Rag's birthday is next weekend. He's turning forty for Christ's sake. I know I broke up with him again last week. I realize I may seem a bit capricious, but this is not the time to make him feel like his world is crumbling apart. He needs me to be there for him now, to give him a sense of purpose and value. I can't do this to him right now. It would be too cruel. On the other hand, if not now, when? It just seems like he's never going to be able to possess the zesty drive that I think a man should have. But, he is in school now, taking steps towards building a future, and I guess that's something. He is so smart, in his way. I don't know why I can't just be satisfied! I think I need to go on another expensive trip to an exotic third-world destination after this birthday thing is through, maybe then I can get my head together."
Petal picked up the phone. Miquela would know what to do. She knew she could always depend Miquela to listen to her problems, help her sort out her thoughts, and accept her misdirected criticism with absolute unfazed charm. Miquela was a dear, even if her Amazonian stature did render her a bit awkward at parties, and her self-obsession made her a difficult friend to manipulate. But, of course, this obstinate vanity and genderless strength were the very qualities that had drawn the two wym-un together in the first place. True, Miquela could be difficult to handle sometimes, as her aspirations (delusions?) of becoming a world-famous performance artist and belly dancer sometimes obscured her ability to love those around her. And yes, Miquela had plenty of her own flaws, assuming constantly that the whole world was interested in every insipid detail of her life. She was so convinced of this, in fact, that she had recently begun to send mass emailed exposes of her dreams to total strangers, hoping for some kind of attention, praying that somehow a great Big Sister in the sky was watching her, just waiting for the right moment to reward her for leading such a shamelessly egocentric lifestyle.
*
Only yesterday, Miguel had been writing in his journal, when Petal came over to ask for help. He assisted his friend Petal with her computer problems briefly, but quickly became fed up with digital reality, and shut it down, the beast. Petal disappeared into her sick Rag's room down the hall, leaving Miguel to wander outside onto the patio in the back of the fairy tale house. Opening the creaky fairy-tale door, he stepped outside and immediately the scent of jasmine and rosemary wafted into his nostrils. He saw the calico cat just lying there in a puddle of warm sunshine. She looked so delicate and warm and happy, so soft and full of pleasure. He stroked her body softly, then harder, really focused into what he was doing, fully conscious of the textures of her cat muscles, enjoying the feeling of her tender fragile frame in his large strong hands. She purred luxuriously. Her name was Coriander. He knew her special places, he knew how to make her writhe with pleasure. He knew how to make her moan like a woman on the verge of a climax. The sun was warm and fluid feeling against his back. The plants in the little magical garden were beginning to bloom, and Miguel noticed one pink poppy blooming slowly, languidly, in the early sunshine of a California spring, lifting its delicate face so droopily, with petals that looked like tissue paper.
Life was so beautiful, even though none of Miguel's friends loved him anymore.
Later that day, on his way to his job at the big shiny tower, he was sitting on the underground train. For many minutes, lost in his own world, he thought about the passing moments and time and the fact that there are no real reasons for anything, but then all the sudden sometimes things will click together and you will find God. With a jerk, his consciousness snapped out of his own thoughts, and he became aware of the world around him. A young girl with a fuzzy electric pink sweater caught his attention. She was a little Afghani girl, her face told a story of quiet despair and bravery, and suddenly she leaned her head against the older veiled woman standing beside her, presumably her mother. Her eyes looked up briefly and Miguel saw in them the most amazing humanity. She seemed so vulnerable and yet at the same time, so strong. Miguel felt proud to have witnessed this amazing moment. It was special. He was aware. His consciousness of his awareness made him feel entitled to fame and fortune. He was a bit insane that way.
*
Ring ring. Ring ring. Sharp and jangling, almost old-fashioned.
Tossing the covers back, her vision blurry with early morning goo clotting the fake eyelashes, Miquela fumbled for the phone. She managed to lift the receiver to her ear with a weighty gesture. Her foggy voice slipped from her body like a collapsing domino.
"Hulloh?"
"Good morning Miquela, it's meeeeeeee. Do you want to have some tea this morning with meeeee, my sweet, or maybe an early morning shot of Cuban whiskey? Let's live it up today, why not make it all what we want it to be, cherie? We could drive out to the beach and take those pictures of yourself that you have been bugging me about."
Surprisingly, Petal sounded more adorable than usual. The little girl inside her wizened frame was oozing through the telephone line, circling around her consciousness like a witch's spell, finding it's way into the agreeable part of Miquela's ear. Miquela could not resist. How could you say no to one so artfully charming? Besides, this would be the perfect chance to have Petal take those pictures. "All right, darling. You're on. Sounds like a blast. And, we really have to do something about this birthday of Rag's. We need to make him feel special next week. Let's get him a rifle and a safari hat! Or a round trip ticket to Madagascar! That would shake him up and rouse him from this pre-40 funk a bit!"
"I'm making him that mandolin, Miquela darling, remember? For an actress, your short-term memory isn't that great. We were just talking about this yesterday."
"Sorry darlink, I just woke up. I'm not even thinking that clearly yet."
“Well, listen. I haven't even had my shower yet either. Why don't I come over to get you in about a half an hour? Sound good Miquela?"
"Divine. See you then."
As soon as Miquela hung up the phone, the loneliness began to sink in. It was hard sometimes, to refrain from feeling jealous of all her coupled friends. Even odd shaky couples like Petal and Rag had a certain kind of fundamental stability that they didn't really seem to appreciate. "Try living without a single scratch of human touch for a full month and see how good your attitude is," thought Miquela bitterly to herself. Her self-consolations bordered on pathetic. "Noone really understands how ultimately refreshing yet paradoxically painful solitude can be. I must have some kind of special worldview. It's not that I am unpleasant company, it's just that people understand that I need space to grow into the fullest version of myself possible. They are counting on me. They need me to help them get in touch with that part of themselves. In me, they see their own aspirations and ambitions reflected back to them. My failures are theirs. My joys and sorrows and triumphs are shared with all of them. And rather than becoming diluted, my emotions refortify in every person who empathizes with me. I am a conduit, a prophet, a shaman. I am necessary. I inspire."
Yes, predictably enough, Miquela was as insane as Miguel. And not nearly as creative or original as Amanda. But that's another story entirely.
She told herself she was a visionary quite often, because this justified her own useless habit of self-obsession and self-promotion. But the truth was, Miquela possessed none of the full, circular, rounded and all-encompassing feminine vision of her oft-mocked co-conspirator Petal. Petal's mind worked like a Virginia Wolf novel, passing in and out of random impressions, hopes, sensations, intuitions. Miquela instinctively knew this, and harbored a silent jealousy bordering on vicious envy. Consoling herself, she thought, 'Well, at least I have never had to use tampons. There are some pretty nice things about being the kind of woman I am. I am free. Easy. And I never worry about my clock ticking, because I don't have one."
*
"How dare she write about me? I know I shouldn't have read her diary like that, but how could she possibly think those things about me? Is that what she really thinks of me? Am I that terrible of a person, that predictable? She doesn't give me any credit for anything! Has she completely forgotten about my care-taking of my mother in the face of an absent and self-centered sister, my political idealism, my fragile tender femininity mixed with intense hunger for power, my vision of success for all parties concerned, my creative ability to imagine myself as an aristocratic supporter of the arts? Then she has the nerve to accuse me of censorship! Can't she think of any better villains to satirize? What about that awful visionless President who stole the election, the man who wants to drill in the Arctic Wildlife Refuge and start another war with Iraq? How can she do this to me? Exposing me like this to her imaginary friends! I will do something to show them all! I will surprise them if it's the last thing I do!"
Petal was having a bad day.
But she was not a woman known to wallow. She decided this was the day she would finally do it. She was going to get her own apartment even if it meant absolute isolation. She was ready to cut her past ties and begin to chart the course of her own life.
"Fuck Rag's birthday: my life is passing me by. Fuck Miquela if she thinks she is going to convince me to stick it out with him. She's just a bitchy, jealous, predictable puppet of a non-human. This time I mean it. Rag and I are through. But first I have to go and hug him, I am so worried about him. I miss him. He may be the only man I ever get to love. He may be the only one for me. But I don't even care: it's up to me this time. I don't know. I am so sad and I just can't handle any more rejection from the world. Just give me a chance to relax and sleep. Somehow, someway, all will be fine. I'm going to cut all ties: I will run and run and then I will be free."
II. One Year Later: Still No Sin
A Dream
With ashes burnt down to the stub, her hand sought the crystal ashtray absent-mindedly, quenching its ember with a slow sizzle. Suddenly inspired, she stood up abruptly, leapt across the room with the determination of a basketball player, and began to search her closet for the perfect ensemble. She wanted to feel comfortable, prepared, ready for anything. She chose a simple burgundy dress and some sensible black pumps. This time, Cyn would not outshine her, or make her feel like "the young one".
Words swirled through her brain like tiny tornadoes. "Cyn, you have got to understand, I can't do this all by myself. Mom is dying, this isn't just a summer cold! I have been over there everyday for the past two months, and I don't even live in the same town. You do. You can't expect me to take care of her without any help at all. And I think it's cruel to even think about putting her in a home. She has given us her lifeblood, and that is how you want to repay her? Come on, Cyn, work with me here! I mean, you're the mother, not me. You should be able to see this from her point of view already. I shouldn't have to explain this to you, Cyn, most people with any sense of compassion whatsoever would just know it intuitively. I know it's hard for you, I know you have other responsibilities. But you think I don't? It has taken me years to get to this point, finally moving forward in my career and really taking action in my life without incessant prodding from a therapist. Oh God, now I am starting to sound like Meryl Streep in Marvin’s Room. But I am serious. Now, it's time for you to put aside your differences with both of us. Just because you are the big sister doesn't mean you are off the hook."
Petal awoke.
Pulling back the curtains, she gazed lazily into the distance, out into the sunny San Franciscan afternoon. All her dreams were coming true. She was reinventing herself. Who could have ever guessed that this would come to pass? Especially since she had been released from her self-imposed prison only a year ago. Ever since then, things had gone her way. She scanned the room, her eyes gazing with fixed determination, seeking an antique heirloom that her mother had recently given to her. Where was the trunk? It was imperative that she open it immediately. Inside, she knew that she would find the key to all the mysteries, and her life.
The sunshine poured through the window like liquid jewelry. It warmed her, and she realized that it was time to move forward. No one: not any of the girls at work, not a single man, not even her own sister knew. Tenderly, she caressed her fertile belly: the baby was due in little more than six months.
Plan Q
Wow. This hotel lobby looks so ultra-modern, kind of ridiculous, like a 70's concept of a funky futuristic space or some kind of retro-contempo airport lounge or something. Who could have guessed that New York actually had places that looked like this? Too much ochre, too many chrome globe lamps, and the plants here are all too damned tall and skinny, but it really does make the perfect setting for the most exciting adventure of my life thus far. And, kitten, that's really saying something considering all the mayhem I've already squeaked, squeezed, and sleazed my way through since I ran away from Mom's controlling clutches 18 years ago.
You see, I've always dreamed of becoming a screen star; but who could have guessed that just when my life really starts resembling a bad movie, I end up feeling like an exhausted actress rather than a flawlessly flat, yet oh-so-compelling ingenue? Pretending to flip through this Allure magazine, I am hoping that no one will notice me. But with these dark Jackie O's with the dusty periwinkle frames perched on my visage like a gaudy Christmas tree ornament and this neon olive-yellow rain coat wrapped around my gangly frame, I feel like I stick out worse than a sore thumb. So much for my disguise, I might as well be dressed like one of the guys on those old Fruit of the Loom commercials! The word "strange" doesn't do justice to the feeling I have now, sitting out here in the open like this, knowing that I have two of the most valuable diamond pieces in the world stashed away in my clunky vinyl handbag. But as far as anyone knows, I suppose, I am in possession of nothing more interesting than a tube of lipstick, some loose change, maybe a few unwrapped tampons.
I don't know why I keep thinking about her, but somehow I know my mother would never believe I actually had the guts to do this. The last time I spoke to her she just heaved a sigh of resignation, and suggested I try a different color eye shadow. I believe her exact words were: "If you really have to go there, maybe you should try a lilac or pale green instead of that insipid trailer-trash blue!" God, she should talk! Just kidding... She has always understood me so well, and it never even took a minute of explanation on my part. You have never seen two people so cosmically, intellectually and spiritually attuned! And if you believe that I have some swamp land for sale, especially for you, in the heart of central Florida!
Well, I have to think quickly now. There isn't much time, and if this plan can just flow smoothly I might be en route to that deserted beach in Mexico before the rise and fall of another moon, just like the boys in that movie, what was it called, was it The Shawshank Redemption? God that picture sure was a tear jerker, wasn't it? But I have no time to compare my self, a drag queen with a dissatisfying office job, to a Stephen King character. I have to stay focused here, and remember the goal. I told Jeffrey specifically to meet me here at 2:15, and it's now nearly half past. He's always late, he really runs his life according to his own rules. I guess he always has, so you know I'm not really worried yet. Just a bit agitated. I just hope he realizes my plane takes off in another few hours. I have to get him my bag, complete with the watch and tiara, and instructions for how to sell them on the black market, before all hell breaks loose and they start looking for me!
OK, let me make sure I have done everything according to plan so far: Steal the jewelry. Check. Throw the uniform down the garbage shoot in the apartment on York. Check. Cab ride to Bleecker, then drop the envelope with Sid's keys into the mailbox, apartment # 4. Check. Down a quick shot one last time at Uncle Charlie's. (Well, I wasn't really supposed to, but can you really blame me with all this stress?) Pick up bags with clean laundry and compacted coke in Chinatown at Freeman's. Check. Take second cab with the Cabaret ad on Delancey and Stanton back uptown to the West Side. Wait it out here at the hotel. Shit. Everything is going exactly as planned. Except where the hell is that boy?
Fantasy on a 21st Century Wilde
Flipping briefly through a book of Elizabethan poetry as he swirled the tingly scotch around his mouth, he opted instead for a more modern appliance, reaching for his phone. His long, bone-white fingers began to dial. If only Jack, his co-conspirator in this plan to revamp his life, were home. Jack would cheer him up; convincing him, even in the face of utter catastrophe, that everything was still going perfectly, according to plan, despite the setback of losing the second suitcase. There had been only two, so of course, Algernon, with his predilection for drama, had misplaced the one that contained the contraband, a highly valuable illegal substance that he had agreed to sell on the black market with Jack's assistance. How could he have made that stupid mistake? Jack had told him a thousand times that the first case was only a decoy. How could he have possibly forgotten?
Lumen
Lumen crawled out from the dank loamy hole with eyes squinting, shielding atrophied retinas with pale thin hands, blinking back the rays of the warm but obtrusive early morning sunlight. He had forgotten what it was like to be able to see, in daylight: all those years underground amidst the phosphorescent tubes and plastic knobs, deprived of anything real or organic, had left him thin, pallid, and unhealthy. Indeed, he had looked forward to those moments, late at night while the brainwashed robotic guard slept, when he would scrape and dig in the cold dense earth, upwards towards his liberty, even though it meant that he had to swallow a few handfuls of dirt every night to hide the evidence. Deprived of any stimulation besides his own imagination, he had cherished that simple pleasure of digging, of being connected to something that wasn't synthetic.
Lumen scratched his head, ran fingers through his wiry hair, and laughed out loud. So this was it. Freedom. He breathed in, coughing as his wasted lungs expanded to accommodate unprocessed air for the first time in... how long had it been? Five years? Ten? Twenty? All those years in the darkness, all that time spent pondering the recesses of his dreams, alone, experiencing the hope that propelled him forward, simultaneously with the chaos of his own random mind. His banishment underground had come at the worst possible time: right as he was about to make major waves, finally promote his message with mass publicity, dominate the communications industry, and champion his vision via media takeover, it had happened. A single traitor had ruined everything. The entire movement had dispersed. Authorities had been notified, forces gathered, someone threw a switch, chucking a cog into his proverbial wheel, and he sunk under, faster than an anvil in the ocean. Now, eons later, he had finally emerged from the depths of the phony isolation, the recessed and artificial despair.
Looking around, he realized how correct he had been: from the looks of things, with surprisingly dewy green vines and adolescent seedlings beginning to creep over the burned charred remains of vehicles and buildings, his predictions had all been correct. The insistence of Big Business to maintain production rates, coupled with the refusal of the Tyrannical Economic Despots to stop pursuing random concepts (i.e., Money... Had there really ever been anything concrete to support it's assumed value anyway? No.) and begin to imagine an alternative route to prosperity had resulted in mass destruction, famine, and, by the looks of things, genocide and violence. For a moment, Lumen had to chuckle as he realized that at this point, he had been reduced to little more than a stereotypical science fiction character, alone in a courageous, fresh, post-apocalyptic world. Feeling like a new Adam, the most obvious questions began to press his mind: what would he do next? How would he proceed? Did he have a unique vision? Could he make a difference in the impending sequence of events? What would his first toddling steps be?
Let the High Priestess Freeze Us
Tango Tanya picks up the broom and begins to sweep. Her face, like a Fellini film, grotesquely gesticulates as she complains flagrantly to her boss about low wages. The black mascara on her eyelashes clumps together against powder white lids, sticky and thick. Her lipstick is smeared. She looks pretty weird. Her tight miniskirt hugs her wide sexy hips and she begins to dance, her curly red hair burns like a fiery trance. She wiggles and squirms like a piñata full of worms. A black and white tiled floor, sunlight pouring through the windows and the open door; it smells like a summery city outside, but her mind will glide to another time. "Hey you silly Mister, you think I'm just a twisted sister? Well let me tell you something you stinky old man, I'm going to get it whenever I can! You can't control me or tell me what to do! Not even what soap I use or what brand of shampoo! I am a mystical mythic mama, I ain't got no time for drama, this is life Mister, so just remember, I am NOT your sister!"
Snapping and clicking as she lifts a jar half-full of rice, she starts to shake it and spout out advice. Her thick high heels clack against the tiled floor, she leaves you hanging and begging for more. She rolls her huge lavender tide-pool eyes: you're crazy if you think it's a disguise, because the sparkles on her cheeks will keep you dazed for weeks. The walls may look dirty, the smoke may feel greasy, the gigantic rings on her fingers may make you feel sleazy. But her big cartoon curls, and her hips that swirl, give you faith that you've entered a brand-new world.
Eccentric Academic Systemic Polemic
Though his insistent wild penchant for flirtation with the young may have slightly soiled his reputation among a substantial portion of the elite theater community, Jack Richardson maintained his high stature and popularity for several other reasons. For one thing, few had led as exciting a life as he. Most in the academic world had only read about or dreamed of the kinds of adventures and exploits that he had actually experienced. Attempting to satisfy their aspirations to be considered "eccentric" (if not utterly avant-garde or blatantly bohemian), including Jack in their innermost circle granted them the illusion that they too had had excitement in their lives. Rubbing elbows with a man of such confidence, fearlessness, and vast experience lent them a certain sense of exotic strength; when in reality they secretly knew that their own lives had largely transpired between the pages of someone else's books. Because of this, his somewhat inappropriate and ungentlemanly lapses into “less than dignified behavior" could easily be overlooked, and explained as the natural conduct of a man so attuned to his own essential animal nature, his id if you will. Yes, they excused even his most embarrassing blunders and blatant faux pas for a reason they barely could admit to themselves: they actually enjoyed his company. And, to maintain their higher status, in a most self-congratulatory manner they regarded their own ability to forgive and empathize with him as the inevitable standard of compassion and benevolence that must be acquired by those whose backgrounds suggest a more refined and educated sense of civilization and propriety.
Querida
I feel so lucky just to be alive, honey! I do. Every day I clean my house real good, shine things up, get rid of the dirt. Yeah, I'll clean, honey, just like I used to do for those rich folks… like Jerry Herman, you know, the composer who wrote "Mame" and "La Cage aux Folles"? I used to clean his house, honey. It's true! So I'll clean my house just like that only better, honey…. Because this is where I live, Ok? Honey, you know I've come a long way since those nights walking those streets in Bogata! Yes, honey… I made it all the way here to Flatbush. Brooklyn, honey. Pretty fucking funny, isn't it? But you know, I want to feel fresh, honey, and having an organized house helps me stay focused and feel young.
I'll light some incense, wipe off the little shrine with the bronze Buddha statue, and dust all the picture frames with the beautiful photos that Jeffrey took of me. I’ll wash down the floors so your bare feet will feel lovely and clean dancing in my living room, with the jade plants and the brightly painted walls of sea-foam blue. I'll put on some snappy music and sing out loud in an orange turban with my hand-beaded necklaces wrapped all around my wrists, neck, waist, whatever. You can come over and visit me anytime you want. It's always better to have good company and good food, you have to get out there and enjoy the day, take a walk in the park with your friends or whatever. I don't think so, baby, there's no reason to mope around all the time feeling depressed!
Maybe next time you visit, we can do draga…. We dress up real pretty like ladies and strut around feeling glamorous and oh so sexy. The beads hanging on my wire lampshade will cast beautiful thin shadows that make those mystical patterns all over the ceiling, and I will slip into my purple suede Dee-Lite platform heels. You will laugh, honey, as I stomp the floor like a flamenco dancer, getting deeper and deeper into the music, as if I’m in a trance. Then I'll take my wigs down from the shelf, drag out the special trunk with the feather boas and the lacy magenta negligees, and we can have a real costume party, ok sister? I might even shave and pluck my eyebrows real good, to help me feel lovely and smooth, with the delicate face of a lady. Ha, ha!! I don't think so honey, tonight I'm feeling real trashy, real slutty, I want to get out there and rule the streets! People will make room for me as I pass, honey, with the razor blade flipping under my tongue, people had better treat Querida like a lady, otherwise she might have to start acting real bitchy!!
Oh, you can't come over tonight because you are too busy working on computer? Feeling with the times, huh? Real modern….wow…. Oh, ok, well fine, be that way if you really think you are too good for me tonight! I'm going to just light me up a good joint, take some deep breaths, drink some fresh carrot juice with beets and ginger and garlic, maybe take in a few episodes of The Golden Girls.
I have to admit it… sometimes I miss that nasty Dalmatian. Maybe I should get her back soon. Walking Coco like that always gave a structure to my day, plus she loved me and made me look even cuter than I already do. But then again I was getting so tired and it's good to have a change. Maybe Jeffrey might come home soon. I don't know where he is tonight, I miss him, but… I know how to make myself feel good when I'm alone. You can call me cock-junkie if you want to honey, but you never know, maybe Mr. Right Now is waiting for me behind a tree out there in the park! You never know, baby! You never know….
But I don’t want to focus too much on my bad habits… we have to remember my good qualities, you know, like… Did you remember that necklace I made for you for your birthday? You know, the pretty one with the polished jade stones and the burnt orange marble? It looks good on you, honey; it brings out your eyes. I knew you would like it, I knew you would. Because you are a sweetheart too, and you deserve nice things too, even if you aren't as pretty as Querida…! Just kidding honey, just kidding! By the way, I'm sorry your wrist got hurt the other day when we walk those dogs out in the park. I didn't mean to scare you like that, I really didn't. I thought you knew I was about to do a cartwheel!
I almost forgot. I have to take my medicine. I always wash down those fucking pills with ginger tea and then smoke a nice fat joint because that way I don't feel so sick. Then, I'll just go outside for a while in the cool February air (actually here in Brooklyn, it's pretty fucking cold Ok?)… but I'll look at the moon over Prospect Park, think about the stars in the heavens, my mother in Columbia who I haven't seen for almost twenty years. Twenty years… You know I might see her this summer in Peru, honey… Yeah, Jeffrey might get me a plane ticket, but you know I'm going to get so emotional, like that time you came with me to the court date in downtown Manhattan when I got granted my political asylum… I get going like that sometimes, very emotional, you know it honey… But I will take some deep breaths, honey. And I will feel peaceful not haaateful. You know some of those queens in New York City, they so haaateful, like, "Oh my God, she's so haaateful and materialistic, she only cares about herself, she's totally materialistic and disgusting, how haaaateful…!". I'm not going to be like that honey. I will smile and laugh out loud at least once more before bed and I will keep myself having a good attitude. Did I show you the picture of my family that my mother sent to me? It's so cool. I’m glad that my father is dead, fucking maricone…. But my mother, I think so I really miss her. Sometimes I feel like she's right here inside of me, when try really hard to feel good and sweet and work hard to keep things feeling clean and putting out that good energy. Good vibes. That's why all the neighbors in the building call me Querida. You know, that means dear sweet kind generous woman, and it never even occurred to me until now how strange that is. That's what my aunts used to call my mother. Never thought about it too much, honey. I just took it for what it was. Well, let Mama give you one more piece of advice, ok… you gotta just take it one day at a time, honey, and you better be thankful for each and every moment of your life, because you never know which one will be your last……
Catastrophic Explosions:
A Postmodern Parable
His life seemed to him like a series of catastrophic explosions, from each of which he had barely escaped alive. But Alex persevered in seeking total change, despite the fact that recently the whole world seemed to be telling him to just stay in one place for a while. His own mother, in fact, had offered to give him an advance on his inheritance if he would just stay in Miami for another year and continue on with his bartending job, thereby remaining a little closer to her. She lived in Orlando with her 3rd husband, and rarely left her house except to buy exotic plants and gardening supplies for the spacious "tribute to Eden" that she cultivated on her 4-acre estate. He wasn't about to consider her needs, though, when making decisions about his own life. Besides, when your favorite Tarot Card is the Tower, symbolizing sudden change, potential disaster, and the ending of relationships; it's hard to follow the advice of your more conservatively minded, if not completely boring, relatives.
True, it wasn't so bad being a bartender at one of the hippest dance clubs in Miami. With plenty of tanned sexy women around to flirt with, and a decent wad of hot cash in his tip jar at the end of every working night, he couldn't complain. Recently, he had gotten some new headshots printed up, and within days of sending them to a few agents, several calls for commercial auditions began to flood his answering service. Tomorrow, he was to report to the set at the downtown Bally's gym at 8 am sharp for his first commercial shoot.
Alex led a charmed life, and he knew it. After all, how many people had made it there and back from walking the streets of Amsterdam as a prostitute, giving blow jobs for money to support a heroin habit at the age of 18, and managed to reach the ripe age of 28 with $50,000 in the bank? It was a miracle he was alive at all, when you thought about it. He didn't have any regrets about anything, even though he preferred eating pussy to sucking dick. Unfortunately, most of his clients back in Holland had been men, but whatever. He was getting enough of the cute kitty nowadays to cancel out any permanent homosexual implications that he feared being a male prostitute would imply. And besides, most often, the hairy old men had just wanted to suck him off, anyway. If you knew how to be butch enough, most men were happy to pay you for a little abuse, and you didn't have to really touch them at all. It was a lesson it only took him a few days to learn.
Looking back, the past ten years seemed like a long surreal dream to him. Just thinking about it all could actually make him feel like a walking talking living breathing piece of art. If someone just started projecting some slides onto him, with a few images of burning American flags, some garbage heaps dumped onto the streets of LA, maybe a few silhouettes of dancers, their shadows cast on the beach, then you probably wouldn't be able to see any difference at all between his life and a piece of avante-guard postmodernist theater.
It all came rushing back to him at once sometimes: the years of Jungian therapy, his stint as a go- go boy in Paris, the jewel heist he was involved with in Memphis, the subsequent plastic surgery, the rich older woman who had supported him on the Upper East Side in New York for 6 months, the drug dealing, the strippers, the loft parties, the transatlantic flights, the fashion shows… Yet here he was, happy, getting laid, pouring drinks for the beautiful people by night, pumping iron and sunbathing by day. Too bad that none of it ever satisfied him.
No, he was doomed and he knew it, trapped in a perpetual paradox: no matter how many adventures he had, they just served to make him feel like everyday life was unbearably boring, but ironically, the more he sought to escape this feeling through reckless change, the worse he felt. Like an ancient character from a parable, there is a lesson here.
A Day in the Life
Alone, removing a filled sheet of paper from his typewriter with his tiny hands in a manner that would have called attention to their characteristically boyish feline grace (if anyone else had actually been in the room), Mischief felt proud. His writing was developing abundantly. Crystallized nuggets of language seemed to burst forth from the recesses of his memories so easily these days, and it empowered him to witness these abstract ideas and images become tangible, like jewels on the page. Reflecting unselfconsciously, he had to admit that he felt better than ever before these past months, at least physically. The fact that he could drink fresh-squeezed orange-juice in the warm winter sun and walk across the sprawling green golf course to work in a T -shirt everyday had been so good for his overall wellness, even if the cynical side of him hated to admit it. He didn't miss the cold Northeast at all. Abandoning those old self-destructive habits and starting a new chapter of his life here in Florida had been a wise move indeed. Sure, his days in this small southern town weren't as "exciting" as they had been in the urban meccas of NYC or Boston, but they also weren't as painful. The hell was over. Recognizing his own maturity, he felt privileged. Considering what he had been through, he had to be thankful that he had survived and was here to see the other side. Really, it was a miracle that he was still alive. And yes, surprisingly enough, living clean and sober was actually agreeing with him.
Moving slowly, he puttered around his room briefly, hunting through the clutter for his other sneaker and a fresh pair of socks. He overturned objects randomly, bent over like a madman for a brief second with his skinny arms flying through the air like the panels of a windmill. No time to shower today. No girlfriend, so why bother? But the lack of a lady in his life didn't make him feel any less entitled. He would find her eventually. He knew that. He looked down at his footwear with a hint of pride. He had purchased these sneakers for himself with his own money. There was a time when he wouldn't have been able to resist spending his paycheck on something a lot less useful.
Mischief looked out his window. The Florida sun today blazed hot, reflecting against the white concrete, the heat sinking deep into the green lawn of the front yard. Anticipating the tingly feeling of its rays warming his mouse-like face, he yawned and blinked his eyes slowly, twisting his thin lips into an ironic grin and scratching his sharp skull in a private moment of self-deprecation. No matter how great everything might seem inside the familiar comfort of his bedroom, facing the reality of Mailboxes Etc. everyday was a little bit jarring, if not disappointing. Sometimes it was hard to think of where to turn next to build a more stable durable happiness.
Slightly embarrassed, he wondered about the consequences of yesterday's escapades. Giving that book, with it's heartfelt inscription on the inside cover, to the salesgirl at the salon next door might have been foolish, but at least he had created a little bit of drama among these dull yet kind suburban humans. How silly of him it had been not to notice her wedding ring. He could have sworn she was single. Even though things hadn't turned out quite how he wanted, a bashful nod and wink would probably become a welcome part of his monotonous morning routine that would only vaguely remind him of The Truman Show. At least, he would enjoy watching her react. And, when you got right down to it, considering he didn't know for sure how long he was going to live here, for a charming young lad to behave in a way that would create fond memories in the minds of these folks seemed absolutely appropriate. What else was an artist supposed to do if not that?
Cafeteria Chatter at the Guggenheim
Ennui: Bring it on!
Grinning and making silly faces, Saster pokes my ribs with her finger and elbows my waist:
"You know, I'm thinking of getting a gold cap, right here on my front tooth. What do you think of that, huh Slim? Huh? Huh? (laughing to herself) Maybe all I really need is a good trip to the boyfriend store: www.pickthendrophim.com.
"Seriously, though, I think I have a serious problem. I'm not kidding. I have been having way too much trouble sleeping these days, it's awful and I feel so exhausted all day and I just can't get to sleep at night. It's crazy, because I'll put on some ghastly foreign film at 8 o'clock in the evening, and I can barely keep my eyes open to watch it, I am so thoroughly tired. But then as soon as my fingers hit the remote control to turn off the TV, I shut my lids and then my mind just starts reeling. I don't even know what I think about exactly, I guess the fact that I am getting older really horrifies me. I mean, I am 32 years old and the biggest and most exciting change I have to anticipate right now is the fact that I am going to start an internship at a film company. An internship for Christ's sake, and at this point I have been out of college for over a decade! And get this, I went to the interview, and the woman who ran the place asked me how old I am, and when I told her, she said to me 'Usually we try to get people who are still in their early- to mid-twenties to be our interns, because they don't mind doing mundane tasks like getting us coffee and organizing our file cabinets.' I looked at her straight in the eye, and without a trace of irony, quickly retorted: 'Look lady, I don't mind doing that kind of dumb stuff as long as I'm getting something out of the experience.'
"Slim, I can't tell you how ridiculous it makes me feel to be in this situation. Then the woman has the nerve to say: 'Well, 32 isn't really that old, the average age of our employees here is 30', as if that is supposed to make me feel better. It's like, I'm 32, older than the average, so therefore, I am OLD. And don't sit there grinning, telling me how losing sleep makes people age faster, I don't want to even think about it. Just what I don't need, anther useless piece of trivia I can obsess about when I'm tossing and turning in bed. And yes, I have tried yoga, deep breathing, herbal remedies, chamomile tea, hot baths, the works. My insomnia is beyond this kind of stuff, I know it. I think I need drugs. Not tranquilizers, but some kind of anti-anxiety medicine, like Paxil or something. If I don't start getting proper rest, I swear to G-O-D, I am going to lose it, I really am. It's the last thing this damned city needs, anther raving madwoman, loose on the streets of Manhattan!
(Taking in a row of merchandise and "modern art" books displayed on shelves in the room…)
"Would you just look at all this junk? This place is nothing but a den filled with bourgeois crap! Don't even tell me I am lucky to work at this fucking museum. It was a fun ride for a while, but listen to this: one of my underlings, this girl who took my old job when I was promoted, has been making more money than me for the past year. I have known about it for a long time, it has to do with her not being in the union or something, so therefore I guess she has fewer benefits, so they pay her more. Whatever. It's just a load of bullshit. And I was about to go into my boss's office today and simultaneously demand a raise and a shorter workweek so I can start the internship. And right as I am confidently sashaying in to lay this ballsy request on him, he stands up and says, 'Oh I have been looking for you I have a big new project that you might be interested in, it's going to be a lot of work, so it should definitely keep you really busy, blah blah blah.' So now I can't exactly ask the bastard for time-off. I swear I don't know what they'll ever do without me: I'm the closest thing to interesting they ever see in that damned office!
"Really, I don't know why people think this place is so fantastic. It's really just a phony mausoleum filled with hyped-up relics from less-interesting times, where people come to make themselves feel important and cultured. It's just such a drag, such fucking bullshit, you know? And look at this new cafe: it looks like some kind of postmodern hybrid pastiche of a recently painted prison lounge and the set from Battlestar Gallactica! The designers probably think they are so hip. Just because you install some aluminum tables, remove all the windows and replace them with bad track lighting doesn't make you 'cutting edge'. I mean, seriously, what the hell am I doing here?!? I just can't really stand it anymore, but I don't know where else to go right now.
"You know, sometimes I think that the cause of all of our despair and pathos is the fact that we all have these intense ambitions to do something truly amazing with our lives and because of this, we are never truly satisfied. Most normal 'average' people are content to just work dumb jobs, raise families, water their gardens, watch sitcoms, go see an occasional movie or Bruce Springsteen concert... who the hell knows? Sometimes I wonder if I might be happier if I met a nice successful man who could take care of me, work part time, have a couple of kids and a nice house with a yard, and take up knitting. Can you imagine? But then I just can't seem to meet anyone that I really like, you know? It's fucking obscene. It really is. I can't believe I have come to this pathetic state, working here day after day at the Guggenheim and unburdening my soul on a coffee break to you.
“Well anyway, on a slightly more inspiring note, I did have a really fabulous time skiing in Colorado for two and a half weeks. I met this really nice young lawyer; he was fairly handsome, seemingly intelligent, successful, making excellent money, and you know what? I wasn't even mildly interested in him! He was such a fucking bore, it was awful to just sit and talk to him for more than a few minutes at a time. He gave me this Gucci wallet, which was a lovely gesture, it really was. But I just couldn't keep my eyes open or keep myself from yawning once he would start talking to me about his mutual funds… Quelle drag. So anyway, I have been working on this 24-year-old buck that I met recently. He's really cute and blond, and I think I might be able to get him in the sack before long. That's all really need: a good lay from a cute young man. Fuck all these skanky beasts that treat me like some kind of high-class call girl. I would much rather bed an impoverished stallion that makes me feel sexy and sensual and young, any day of the week. Hey, I think I have a new dating rule: if you have caps on your teeth and think you are the shit just because you went to law school, please don't bother calling me for a second date, unless you plan on performing some serious ass-eating. That's right, Slim, I'm sick of all the smoke that's blown up my ass in the form of useless flattery, gushing compliments, and awkward advances from dorky guys. What I really want is a rim job! How does that sound, my dear?
“What? You think we should do it?!? Don't be absurd! Absurd?! Jesus Christ, don't be obscene! Didn't you learn anything from your relationship with Amanda? You are much better off keeping your female friends just that: your friends, you big fag you. Listen, I'll tell you what. Here's how you have some sex. First, you stroke your penis really good, see, and you get it nice and hard. Then you tell him to bend over, see, and then you take some Vaseline, and smear it around his anus, really gently, right? Then you insert your penis, nice and slow, and gently, you start rocking your hips, back and forth. First, you put it in, and then you rock your hips back, and then your rock your hips forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, that's how you have sex…....”
Bored Bored Bored -A Housewife's Tale
(And Then There's Maudlin)
You really want to know how bored I am? Fine. Sit back, take a load off, and I'll tell you. AlI I do is sit around this dump waiting for old lovers to call, composing letters to the editors in my spare time, trying on decade-old clothes and reapplying vermilion nail polish from a half-empty bottle (only to immediately take it off again), procrastinating making any major decisions out of a pathetic fear that my life will become even worse. I am just tired, is all: the faded peeling wall paper, my husband's predictable after-work routine, the lackluster smell of the White Castle on the corner wafting into my drab kitchen... Honey. The entire borough of Brooklyn is just getting me down!
I don't really like who I am becoming, as the ashtray begins to fill more rapidly everyday, and the trips to the hairdresser stand out as the highlight of my entire week. My neuroses really aren't that interesting to anyone, let alone my therapist, not even myself. Sometimes in my sessions with Dr. Judith, we just talk about the latest episode of Ally McBeal. It really is a waste of time and money, I suppose, but at least talking to Judy gets me out of the apartment.
I never thought I'd end up this way, the kind of person about whom the successful and well-adjusted think "Oh well, who knows what happened in her childhood that makes her think that living like that is acceptable? You know what, I don't know and I don't want to know! I'll just send her the Christmas card and start screening my calls!"
I can't blame my friends. In a way, they all really tried to be there for me over the years, you know, and all I did was babble on about my problems for hours, over the telephone or just sitting down in some smoky cafe, just like Joni Mitchell talking about the last time she saw Richard. But they have got to understand that I only did it to feel like we were really sharing something, to somehow intertwine our lives; and yes, now that I think about it, I was hoping that talking to them would somehow make the burden just a little bit lighter.
I know, I know, you're probably thinking I should take a class or something, or go out and buy myself a new cat-suit and a tight angora sweater, pale blue and oh so soft. Or of course, I could do what any normal person would do and find a job! But that would mean making it somewhere on time, and setting an alarm at night. Honey, my years back in Vegas, working the clubs until 4 am and sleeping past noon everyday, make it impossible for me to ever adjust to a more normal schedule!
(Reminiscing) When the DJ finally fell for me, and offered to take me with him to Europe for a whole month, I really thought I had found permanent happiness. But by the time the plane landed at JFK, the fights had become so unbearable that I just deplaned and took the nearest cab into mid-town Manhattan. That was 10 years ago, and honey, I'm feeling a little bit ashamed to admit that I've been stuck here in the big rotten apple ever since.
It wasn't that hard to find a husband. I took a room at a Girls Dormitory, just like Anne Wells in Valley of the Dolls. The next day, I found a job at one of the titty bars within walking distance from the Port Authority. And within a few weeks, I thought I had one over on Sweet Charity. Watch out, ShirleyMcClaine! I snagged that mother-fucker like a mohair jacket on a wire hanger, honey, I really did! Who knew then that he only eats broiled chicken liver and fake mashed potatoes for dinner, or that he smells like a dead sewer rat first thing in the morning, which is unfortunately the only time he can get it up? So you see, I have a reason to be bored. I am a sexy manicured mama with nobody around to treat me like the real diva I am. So I'll just sit here in front of the television, filing my nails with an emery board, plotting the perfect moment to escape. When the time comes, I'll take my act back on the road, you'll see. I'll throw a few wigs and dresses into a bag, maybe a few pairs of heels, and then the fun will begin again. Maybe I'll move back to Vegas and make it up to Mr. DJ. Or maybe, if I really want to see another side of life, I'll sell all my possessions and head out to an organic farm somewhere on a commune in Oregon. Maybe there, people will really appreciate me for who I am… If you try hard enough, can't you just see me trading in my sequined miniskirts and satin nighties for a few paisley hippie frocks, some worn-in Birkenstocks, and a couple of clean bandanas?
Everyone Loves a Clown
The cufflinks kept slipping. Sitting in his dressing room, Mike Spellerman's fingers were about as nimble as swollen macaroni. It wasn't like he was trying to thread a needle for Christ's sake! "God damn it!" he said, tossing the useless accessories to the side. Struggles like this were the least of his worries: he had a whole nation to entertain! Mr. Spellerman looked in the mirror, adjusted his pink polka-dot tie with the big white spots, straightened his squeaky red nose, took another swig from his famous mug, and cleared his throat. Ignoring the stress, he wiped the beads of sweat forming at his brow, grinned his famous gap-tooth grin, and exhaled a deep breath. He reminded himself of the facts: "They warned me that there would be nights like this when I took the job, that I'd have to go on LIVE for part of the show. No big deal, I could sleepwalk through it. Anyway, the bosses can't really complain, at least I consistently do my best." That afternoon, the audience had graciously understood. A few had even laughed when Mike had explained to them that due to technical problems, they'd have to come back for the rest of the show when it was actually "Late Night."
The men upstairs seemed disappointed, but Mike knew that he had handled the situation to the best of his ability. "Do they really think I can be my funniest every day of the week? It's humanly impossible to keep playing the fool day after day without ever getting a break! I'd like to see them do any better, those tightwads... They are lucky to have me: I do more promotional work for this city than anyone, more than even Woody. Definitely more than Rudy, that's for sure! The whole city owes me when you think about it: I put a human face on this place. Without me, they would think that New York was a den of faggot socialist Jews and fascistic Italians. I have given my life to this city and they know it. Who else can they count on for a few laughs at the end of the night, huh? At least I send them all to bed with a smirk on their faces… even the cynical ones!"
The black coffee had worked. Mike Spellerman stood up and walked across the dressing room to his favorite private sanctuary. Unbuckling his belt on the way, he closed the door behind him, and sat down. Resting on "the throne" with his pants around his ankles, he really did resemble an old-fashioned clown, if not a direct descendent of Jerry or Milton, or that freak Mr. What's-His-Name? Zappa? He smiled at the thought. Those were the days. People actually had a sense of the absurd back then. It must have been all the grass.
The cold porcelain felt hard against his ass. He pushed. He took a deep breath and pushed again. Oh, the relief...! Success at last! Suddenly, he felt hopeful, renewed, and ready to do something new. Yes, tonight would be different. He would prove to them all how much dignity he had, the depth of his heart, the clarity of his vision. He would show those guys in the office the power of a true artist, and lead the way for the others. "They can't stop me. They won't have the chance. I don't care if all the corporate sponsors pull out. I am going to tell the truth and talk about what really happened. I don't care if I lose ratings. The people love me, and I am going tell it like it really is for once. America can handle the facts, I know they can. New York has borne the brunt of this administration's lies for too long, and I think the public has a right to know. This whole group-denial thing has got to stop. It can't be good for our psychology. I have proven for years that I can make them laugh. After September 11, I helped them cry. Now it's time to wake them up. And those 2% who own 80% of the wealth won't stand in my way, I think it's time for a real revolution, and I am going to lead it!"
One hundred and fifty years later….
Little Marvin Jefferson opened his history book, flipping to the very back chapter, as his teacher instructed. "Yes class, that was a very hard time for Americans. People had lost their ability to trust each other, nobody knew whom to believe anymore, and everyone was scared. After the collapse of the towers, it was as if the rug had been pulled out from underneath the nation, and people were shaky on their feet. Folks were dizzy, unsure, and pessimistic. But the night that Mr. Mike Spellerman told the truth, the revolution finally began. Because of this funnyman, a new world-view came to predominate: we joined together, pulled up our bootstraps, and changed our way of life. We started to care about each other and our environment, we began to organize our modes of technology into the life-sustaining systems that have allowed us to become who we are today: a country where real freedom and happiness prevail, where everyone thrives. Thank the Goddesses above for Mike Spellerman's courage and visionary activism! If it hadn't been for him, the nation would have been in the hands of those very shortsighted politicians, and it may have meant the end of civilization altogether. Because of Mr. Spellerman, civilization didn't end: it EVOLVED. Any questions? Good. Tonight, your homework is to go home and ask your parents to tell you if they remember any of their grandparents' stories about the times when the U.S. was still dependent on fossil fuels. Please take notes. I will be collecting them in the morning. Class dismissed."
Ears Too!
An Anthropologist
(Sitting in a canoe and talking into his hand-held tape recorder...)
Nearing midnight, a baritone wolf softly and happily cries to the moon from across the black water. You can barely hear the plash of the oars gently parting the waves for the sweet chirps of crickets. It's a wild world out here tonight, my friends! My eyes are adjusting, as all objects take on a mystical- reddish purple glow, and I recall the many new friends I have made these past weeks in this remote jungle village, where things are revealed so slowly, like a flower opening on a spring day. I have to say, it's been wonderful to get away from all the hustle and madness for a while.
I finally know what to write my anthropology thesis about. It will discuss the fact that in some cultures, people don't have the same isolated sense of self that we have in America. Instead, the folks out here actually see themselves as part of a greater whole, like cells in an animal's body. If even one member of the family-tribe, or species for that matter, is unwell; then it's as if part of the living body has cancer. So it's in each person's best interest to ensure that everyone is happy and comfortable. Because even if one person suffers, feels depressed or gets sick; it throws off the whole balance for the group. No guilt equals no sorrow. No yesterday, no tomorrow.
My God, if you could just look at those stars… those bright celestial bodies… the constellations… See how they really do twinkle! With that full moon on the horizon, the light now reminds me of the last time we were together, eating by candlelight in a warm café on a foggy evening back home, so resonant the light, so romantic. If I close my eyes, I can almost see the smooth edges of your beautiful face, dusted with a magic caress of moonlight, and smell your sweet gingery breath. When I concentrate, my fingers can feel the warm softness of your skin, and my back can feel the gentle touch of your fingers.
The howls from across the lake are like delicate sighs of wonder, slight prayerful moans of thanks for the pleasure that really can be every day. It's easy to believe how, out here, in the wilderness, drifting amidst a constant state of miracles, there's no reason to feel unhappy about anything, ever.
