the poetry of madness
Name: Lord Malinov
driven by curiousity and an intense need for understanding, I strive to learn and express in every step of the marvelous journey that life is providing
anita
bluematrix
Brainwave Generator
catdancer
duckpower
Euclid's Elements
geekgirl
indigo4963
jackal
Journal of Desire
Malinov's Romances
moonglow
no one tell my dad
Potentials Unlimited
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With the kids gone for a few days, I took the opportunity to get some Indian food last night. Although the children are developing a wider array of tastes, the spices of the sub-continent are not within range of a family meal quite yet. I little mirch masala and a bottle of wine took me ot the edge of complete fullness.
"Can I get you some dessert?" an adorable waitress asked.
"I want some sugary balls." The waitress laughed.
"That's what the staff calls them."
From the two sisters who run the Dallas Clay Pit to the guys busing the tables, this is the sexiest staff ever collected in a single non-stripping restaurant. Elyssa - last night's waitress - was by far the cutest of the group, even cuter than Christine who looks remarkably like a young Shirley Maclaine. I left her my number, but she hasn't called. Not yet, anyway.
I moved to Texas for the food - the incredible lack of chiles, peppers and mexican food in general in the east had been a serious trial for me. I often stop by the mall to grab a taco. The manager of the Collin Creek bueno is a lovely girl named Fernanda. I have always made her very, very nervous.
As I approached the counter, I saw the truth in a second - Fernanda is pregnant. The engorged breasts were a quick read, but the glow of her face was unmistakeable. A few steps back and the slight swell of her belly was obvious. I didn't want to say anything until I was sure - for obvious reasons - but it didn't take more than a few seconds to be sure. Pregnant women are so beautiful.
The genetic urge to care for the woman is incredible. The lust is delightful.
When I worked at the patent office, there was a tall germanic woman who tormented my thoughts. When she became pregnant, I was beside myself. I watched her for hours, just content to see such loveliness. Pregnancy is so sexy.
I want to tell Fernanda how beautiful she looks. I hate the fact that pregnant women think they look ugly. They just couldn't be more wrong.
Today, I must call my recruiter Jenn. I am marshalling my forces to prepare for the intense onslaught that will follow. I must be steady and patient. I must be prepared to say NO.
Enjoy,
M
The picture with the kids is three years old, so everyone is much changed, but not so much. Greg is two years older than his taller brother Matt. Tess doesn't approve of her image, but the last three years have made her twice as beautiful, so nothing would do her justice.
Matthew wanted a picture with Spongebob when we visited my brother two years ago, but changed his mind as we reached the front of the line. So I took my opportunity to hang with the spongeman.
M
After a nice roast chicken, Greg asked me to go fishing with him. I was taking my strat through a full cycle of blues and agreed to leave after another verse. I snuck in a few more verses before he insisted we go.
We live in Canyon Creek, an older suburban country club area with monstrous trees and, naturally enough, a small creek. The banks reach about twenty feet at the widest and no more than a few feet deep generally. Not too far from where we live is a small flood-control dam that also provides some lovely little falls. After a week of exploring, Greg and I decided that the best place to fish would have to be the dam, where the water is probably eight feet deep. Despite the drought we have experienced lately, the creek is at the top of the dam.
Even after seven years, the intense heat of a Dallas sun is a continual shock. There is nothing like the sun.
The dam, settled in a rain-forest thick green overgrowth that reaches thirty feet from the ground up. Meditation incarnate as the falls gently sing their aquatic harmonics. Photographers often use the setting, particularly for weddings and other romantic portraits. Other than late in the evening, it is rare to be alone at the dam for long. We have met dozens of wanderers as we sat on the banks or boulders and poised a tasty worm temptingly for kicks.
An old man and his grandson were fishing near our usual spot when Greg and I crested the hill. "Fellow fishermen," the thirteen year old announced happily. Despite the fact that Greg lives in intense self-centeredness, he is remarkably gregarious and eagerly approached the pair to find out the current state of the creek. We set up camp under a tree and baited our hooks. The boy gave us some further advice to help our quest and the pair packed up, wishing us luck.
A pretty photographer was setting up at one end of the dam. Since she had no one to photograph, I thought she was doing some landscapes. Soon, a gang of four carrying light shades arrived and began setting up to take photos of a lovely lady and her dude. The other photographer continued to work nearby.
As I sat on the grass, teasing the fish with a free meal and hook, Greg went over to stand on the dam. I told him to keep out of the way of the photography, but he is charmingly headstrong.
"I caught something," Greg yelled from behind the thin veil of overgrowth between us. We'd landed about a dozen fish over the last week, a delightful array of six-inch perch, crappie and bass. After their lesson in not eating hooks, we'd toss the young fish back to fight another day. I didn't even stir. Greg had been known to sound a false alarm when the fish almost bit the hook.
"It's big," he shouted and I looked over to see him pulling his rod into a semi-circle. I figured he'd caught a branch or a turtle, either of which is quite a fight but never won. As he continued to reel, I picked up the net and began to walk toward him. Our fish catching routine had been fairly established.
Out of the muddy creek water, Greg pulls a monstrous large-mouth bass - over a foot long and at least five pounds of fish flesh. I'm still quite a ways away, but next to Greg is a tall young man holding the light screen. He showed Greg how to hold a bass and helped him remove the hook. I was struck dumb, never imagining that our casts into this little stream would ever yield such a fish. I was doubly glad the young man was at hand to give us bass lessons.
"Hey, kid," the photographer said, his camera set up about ten feet from Greg. "Let me get some pictures."
So, not only did Greg catch one of the largest fish I've ever seen taken from freshwater, but has professional photographs of his fishing conquest. I'll post the pics when I get them. Unbelievable.
I have begun negotiations with my headhunters. Since the kids are here, I can't leave Dallas, but I may take some interviews around the country for kicks. After all, who knows what may arise. I'm even employable internationally. Few things are as fun as travelling on other people's money.
I've engaged a top-shelf intellectual property attorney recruiting firm to market me. They get paid a percentage of my compensation, so I expect that they'll look for big money. I can work with that, although I am very sensitive to matching the work with the pay. I'm not selling my soul without proportionate rewards.
Because of my experience, I know things about patents that no one else knows, particularly outside of the DC area. No one in Texas comes close. I don't mean to brag. These are concepts I need to raise to consciousness. I need to create the confidence I will need to demand huge sums.
When I first began working as an attorney, my billing rate ($180/hr) disturbed me. After a while ($250/hr) I would quickly tell people when they couldn't afford me, when they didn't need a specialist to do an ordinary job.
Confidence is essential. No one hands you enormous sums if you are uncertain. As much as anything, I sell my self-confidence to bolster their confidence. So I have to believe. Fortunately, I have skills.
I took the boys back to their mother's last night while Cats took Tess to pick up a friend who was spending the night with her. As I've said, my recent encounters with the eX have been disturbing in the ease we are achieving. Cats took some insurance papers to the eX and found herself as disturbed - warm and fuzzy feelings with a woman who had become viscious in her dislike. The urge to forgive is naturally strong, but that slippery slope leading back toward a place that had caused years of suffering. The kids give us every reason to keep things working positively. The future is bound to be very strange.
I am eager to see the pirate again.
M
Since I became a writer at the age of five - ha, for what that's worth - I have believed in an open journal. I have never discouraged nor prevented anyone from reading anything I've written. Don't you love absolutes. They sound so authoritative.
Hiding yourself from people becomes hiding from yourself. If people don't like what you write, maybe they don't like you. Don't waste time on people who don't like you.
How many marriages would be prevented if we required people to promise they would like each other, til death do you part. Love forever is easy. Liking is another matter entirely.
Religion made sense to me when I stopped anthropomorphizing. We are the Universe. Everything else is making up stories. We have no real explanations for anything. Just patterns and guesses.
The Universe has a sense of humor. The Universe prefers circles. The Universe will not tolerate hubris. Even change changes. Knowledge is slippery.
The more we learn, the more we don't know. Infinite up and Infinite down.
We are a speck of dust in an endless emptiness. Where's Horton when you need him?
I have the kids again today - the eX and I are really getting this communication thing back up to speed. I must confess that sometimes, on the phone with her, discussing the kids, I feel as married to her as ever. Familiarity draws us back into our grooves. We are both rather realistic, forgiving people. The future is bound to be very strange, very strange indeed.
I earned over one million dollars in the past six years. I have several thousand books and a playstation2 to show for it. Fortunately, I am still a patent attorney. I can make that up in a few months. ;)
I should really stop giving my paychecks to women. I should at least pay attention after I do.
I'm going to contact a headhunter today. I've been putting it off, wanting to feel strong enough to handle the negotiations that will follow. I feel that strength. I feel confident that I can handle anything.
Looking back, the divorce had a profound effect on me. So many things that seemed ultimately important suddenly seem foolish. Maybe this is what veterans felt. Once everything we hold dear is threatened, the nonsense fades by perspective.
When I worked at the KU library, I found a signed edition of the Complete Eugene ONeill. In fifty years, no one had ever read the books. I cut the pages as I devoured every word. What a thrill.
M
In the course of a three minute conversation, the pizza girl pointed out her wedding ring, called her husband a "crazy mexican," told me what time she got off work and asked me if she was going to see me again.
So I ask myself, what was she really trying to say?
And the answer is really none of my business. The moment my analysis asks "what is she thinking," I have abandoned analysis for anxiety. Because I cannot, through reasoning, ascertain her thoughts. The only meaningful analysis I can perform in this regard is on my own thoughts. What would I think if I were her? Who would I be if I were her, having thoughts? What situation would I be in, having thoughts?
Be very wary of trying to guess someone else's thoughts. You may be right, but probably not.
As a fiction writer, on the other hand, the thoughts of a character are my business. I supply the history, the perceptions, perspective, analysis and responses. The character becomes an aspect of me. What was I really trying to say?
Play the position and not the player. In so many ways, this is counter-intuitive, but it is the only realistic path. A nod to the Ronster for this important lesson.
My discussion of addiction does not bear analysis as I am only defining the term. The way "addiction" is being used by current parlance is nearly meaningless, basically synonymous with compulsion. By restricting addiction to true addictions and separating out addictive behaviors, we can talk meaningfully about the problems of addiction.
An irrational habit is a compulsion. If you wash your hands before you eat, that is a habit. If you wash your hands again before you eat, that is a compulsion.
I have added the category of maintenance behaviors because I can't think of another way to describe the addictive behavoir associated with amphetimines . The problem here is that the behavior is not irrational - I want to take speed because I am tired. I want to take speed again because I'm tired again. It is not physically painful to quit speed, so it is not an addiction. It is rational, so it isn't a compulsion. Perhaps it is just bad for us, but they've been claiming for decades that coke is addictive and it isn't, so I think we have to recognize that there is an addictive behavior involved.
Since are on the subject of the DSMIV, we could also work on the definition of codependent. I think people are using the word to mean "dependent" with emphasis. A co-dependent is someone who helps another person maintain a dependence because the dependence helps maintain the relationship.
If I am dependent on alcohol and you keep buying me booze because as long as I am drunk, I'll need you, then you are co-dependent on alcohol.
I harp on these things because they cause me lots of trouble. There are many things to discuss, but if we can't agree on a meaningful terminology, then our ability to communicate is severely hampered.
My very first concert was the Grateful Dead. I saw the Police on their Synchronicity tour.
He could play the guitar just like ringing a bell
Go go
M
Since my last divorce, I have given a great deal of thought to the concepts and realities of marriage.
Stupidly, I first married at twenty to a girl very much like me. I had actually broken up with her, but my parents started warring and I dove back into the relationship, hoping to manifest stability with magic words. In retrospect, the main thrust of our relationship was really escaping from family forces, which we did by moving to DC.
We split up almost painlessly soon after we established ourselves in Capital City. A divorce without kids is really just another breakup.
The tale with kids is much longer and complex. There were reasons we were together and eventually there were reasons we could not be together. Strong sexuality - the only celibate period in fifteen years was during her first pregnancy, not because we weren't horny but simply scared - subsequent pregnancies had quite the opposite effect - anyway, strong sexuality dominated our relationship. We were both very liberal sexually, although my sexuality manifested more in fantasy than action, while the eX had little trouble acting on the ideas.
In our sexuality, we attracted other sexual people. So began a long period of permissive swinging.
We weren't always very honest, but more to avoid causing pain rather than trying to get away with things.
I was involved with Cats before the divorce, as was my eX. It is difficult to categorize our relationships as they avoid the most ordinary forms. The eX met a jealous kook who took complete control of her. At the same time, Cats' husband took off for foreign lands.
My eX locked me out of the house. Since she was studying for the bar, I decided it would be best to move in with my sister while things cooled off. A month later, I was served with divorce papers, accusing me of every possible crime including an affair with Cats. The children were fed lies which eventually fell apart. As the eX and her doofus became stupider and stupider, the kids retreated from them and took to Cats, whom they had known for many years. I moved in with Cats, still living alone in her house.
Marriage, for us, has largely involved the children. I'm involved with Cats and even seriously committed to her and married for legal purposes. But beyond the legal implications, I have no care for marriage. I have spent my entire adult life as a spouse. I cannot subjegate myself to a role any longer.
Marriage used to be a promise to stay together forever. That proved unrealistic. Marriage is more of a commitment to stay together long enough to raise the kids. Again, it proved unrealistic.
We can promise to stay together but we can't promise to like each other. Things change, people change, desires change. A promise to love forever is a prayer lofted to the gods. It is not an enforceable contract.
I see little purpose to seeking sex in an unfeeling, promiscuous manner. Not because of my relationships but because it isn't really that interesting. People are interesting. The ideas that excite us are far more exciting than touches of sensitive flesh.
Put them both together - now we're cooking.
In order to be a good father, I must be a whole person. For my own sake, I must be a whole person. For Cats' sake, I . . . you get the picture. I must be a whole person.
Am I open to getting to know people? Am I interested in erotic encounters? Am I ready to grow?
Life is too short to be married in the classical sense. I suppose it is good for young people, but I'm damn sure that I'm too old to be spouting bad love poems. The gods are within me, as much as anyone.
Enjoy,
M
where was I?
Nine days with the kids came to a gentle close. I spent much of the last days fishing with Greg. I've fished most of my life but more out of togetherness than real interest. Encouraging Greg to leave the wonders of his mind is a positive thing, so I am all too ready to join him down at the creek. I caught two fish on Sunday, my first in decades, if we can discount the monster catfish at my parent's farm which are too easy to catch and a royal pain to dehook.
Let's discuss addiction. Bad terminology makes this question too complicated.
Addiction is a phenomenon of barbituates. After the substance is ingested, refraining from further doses of the substance causes physical pain. Barbituates dull the nerve impulses. When the barbituate wears off, the nerves are in a heightened state, which is painful.
Spend time in a darkened room and suddenly expose your eyes to a bright light. This is the pain of withdrawl, except that the pain is all over the body rather than just in the eyes. This need to avoid the pain is addiction.
Alcohol, opiates, nicotene. Depressants.
Nicotene is a very weak barbituate. Nicotene addiction can be avoided with a little ibuprofen. The addictive quality of cigarettes is very small compared with the addictive behaviors that accompany them.
This is the only form of addiction. Most of what people nowadays call addiction is really addictive behavior. Addictive behavior is any behavior that mimics addiction. Basically there are two forms of addictive behavior; maintenance and compulsive.
Maintenance addiction is what happens with speed or coke. When we take a stimulant, our body is excited to provide additional energy. When we stop taking stimulants, we face temporary exhaustion. To avoid the exhaustion, we take more speed. Since speed freaks are usually driven by a need to be productive, the exhaustion part of the cycle is unacceptable because it results in a loss of productivity. In order to maintain our productivity, we take more speed.
Compulsive addiction accounts for most additive behaviors. In this case, the addiction is no different than the compulsions of an obsessive-compulsive person. Typically, the compulsion is engaged in to distract our minds from other problems. When the compulsion has negative impacts, people call them addictions.
Bob Crane's daughter said that her father was a "sex addict." A sexual addict is not an addict, for denial of sex does not result in physical pain. Excessive sexual obsession is a compulsive addiction behavior. Bob Crane - Hogan - was not addicted to sex as much as he was addicted to attention. Sex is just a very personal form of attention, substituting for the applause he no longer got. You would not cure Crane by weaning him off of sex - his self-esteem was mixed up with positive attention - the only answer would be to deal with his lack of self-esteem.
Judy Garland was said to have an "addictive personality." This is just a foolish way of saying that she was obsessive compulsive. You don't cure obsessive-compulsive behavior by ceasing the compulsive behavior - you deal with the lack of self-esteem that creates the OCD.
Many of life's problems arise from a failure to distinguish symptoms from causes. Treating symptoms can ease suffering but will rarely effect a cure. It is better to ignore the symptom and focus on the cause.
The pizza girl let me know - not too subtly - that she was married. I already knew that. She immediately became concerned that I would not be back for more pizza. I will certainly let things cool down - I have learned the importance of not scaring people. Chances are good that this pull-back is just a prelude to a push forward. Since I have no real goals, I have nothing but time. We shall see what transpires next.
The eX has continued her positive swing. We are able to talk easily about the children and work together to make the schedule easier for everyone. The kids feel free to move back and forth, and so are reaping the benefits of two stable house-holds.
My daughter found herself running around Saturday night with two boys fighting for her attention. I was exceedingly pleased that she felt free to discuss this difficult situation with me and even more so with Cats. For the first time, I found myself rooting for one boy over another, keeping this opinion to myself as best I could. I firmly believe that a parent should not be a coach but a mentor. I try not to tell the kids what to do or even what they should have done. I focus on helping them make their next decision.
Forget the past. Forget the future. Life is right now.
She knows that we are freaks, in the sex fiend sense. She even knows that Cats and the eX were once lovers. The honesty makes it much, much easier to talk to her. The best way to ruin your relationship with your kids is hypocrisy. Kids know lies when they hear them.
I don't even really hide my smoking from them. They were fully informed of my vices by the doofus, who did me a favor by deriding me for vices that he had shared. The eX used to insist that I could not change - regarding behaviors we both participated in - but insisted that she had changed. The logical inconsistancy was not lost on the younguns. I would rather have my children know me than alienate them with hypocrisy, pretending to be something else.
The children have come through the divorce better than most. I take much of the credit for refusing to act like an idiot and put the children between us in our foolish wars. It takes an adult to let the children feel important while changes take place. It is sad that more parents are not adults.
I have heard, several times, women proclaim that belly shirts - a shirt that ends above the hips - are meant for women who don't have bellies. What a load of stupid crap. Only a truly twisted man wants a woman who looks like a child, which is the only kind of woman without a belly aside from the truly insane gym siren. Belly shirts are beautiful because men love bellies. The belly of a woman is a living symbol of her fertility. Men's interest in women is largely fertility based.
I hate it when people want to hide the beauty of the human form. There is nothing more beautiful in this world. Someone who doesn't like the way people look should hide themself. Old people are beautiful. Fat people are beautiful. Youth is beauty. People are beautiful.
Minds get ugly. Souls become ugly. Attitudes are ugly.
People are beautiful.
Enjoy,
M
the sweetest melody
is an unheard refrain
I'm a fan of the romantic poets and no one reaches the sublime heights like Keats. Beauty is truth.
My documentary obsession has bled over into true crime analysis shows. I'm fascinated by the incredible dissatisfaction that arises when justice is not served and elation that follows a proper sentence for some evil villain. These feelings have an evolutionary root - people who find joy in justice have a selective advantage over those who feel neutral to the situation. Are these feelings somehow related to the pleasure of musical resolution?
I read yesterday that the joy of discovery is related to opiate responses. Perhaps, then, musical resolution is related to the opiate responses.
There is an unpleasant ugliness when people convicted without doubt continue to insist on their innocence. As much, the need to blame epitomizes the foulest aspects of humanity. Our enslavement to fear.
"anger is a great motivator" This, I believe, is the real purpose of anger. Not for lashing out, but for demanding action.
What do we do when someone is wrong but is adamant that they are right?
Accept that other people's thoughts are beyond our control.
The desire to control is a manifestation of our enslavement to fear.
The eX is going to take the kids to dinner and a movie tonight, which is especially nice as an example of our new ability to work together smoothly. I want to write her a letter - three years of non-communication need expression - but I don't want to loft any shots that may disrupt our peace. I can write carefully, but it is difficult to recognize buttons and triggers she may have developed in the cold war. I will tread lightly, if I tread at all.
Life is so much fun.
lower your sights and raise your aim
M
let me define, to avoid any frivolous digressions. I'm against unsolicited criticism. I don't believe criticisms should be volunteered to someone who has merely dared to express themself. Critical analysis is for learning, not for knocking someone over the head.
Being smart comes with responsibility. Sarcasm is usually a way of saying "Hey, stupid." Smart people can be bullies with far more cruelty than the stupidest muscle dude. Words can never hurt me, my ass.
I didn't make him for you.
Another day of Texas sun. My flowers love it, as long as they get plenty of water. Me, too. Once upon a time, I had a swimming pool with a hot tub and a sauna. Then one day, they were annexed by the eX. If you don't see the divorce coming, you can lose lots fast. Denial is a weak approach, both tactically and strategically.
I miss my pool.
M
untactical repression results in psychic pathology
expression counters most of the effects of repression
criticism is not expression, it is meta-expression
nothing positive can derive from criticizing another person's expression or critizing them for expressing themselves
if you can express yourself better, do so
I believe in encouraging those who dare to express themselves. At the least, I leave others to express themselves as they will.
As with all free speech, there are time-place-manner restrictions.
I was wearing a red t-shirt with a cute and nasty looking devil on it. I changed it before I took Cats to the orthopedist - she had her pin removed, so lots of happy pills for her - but I changed my shirt because most patients of such doctors are old and they scare so easily. I don't mind expressing myself before strangers - obviously - but I don't enjoy expressing myself inappropriately to the situation. Usually, my intent regarding other people is either neutral or connecting - rarely do I desire to offend for the sake of causing a ruckus. If I did, I wouldn't start ideological wars with old people. Might as well go to campus if I want a debate.
I have a shirt that says "obscene." No one has any idea of what to think of me when I wear it. I don't have any idea, myself. At the mall, the effect is not positive, but very weird.
I learned, strangely enough, from hanging out with swingers that being physically attractive is a very superficial advantage. Being emotionally stable is far more important. I learned not to mind who was naked and while drinking in young loveliness with mine eyes when the occassion arose, learned that the woman behind the boobs is the key to getting along.
I learned from hanging out with strippers that there is a world of sadness out there. No matter how bad you have it, there is someone suffering more.
I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.
ain't it the truth? ain't it the truth?
M
"Is that is? Can I read it?"
I was pushing the folded pages across the counter and stopped. Cynthia paused, waiting for my words.
"Sure," I said, "but you have to understand that I wrote this several years ago. Three years ago. Also, I wrote this about you, not for you, so it is a bit direct." I don't know what I expected her to understand from that statement, but she wasn't really listening anyway. Her entire attention had been focussed on the papers between us.
"I understand," she said and began to speak a confused jumble of words. I soon gathered that she was searching for the word "perspective." She apologized for her weakness of language and added, "I'm mexican."
I'm too old to think about ethnic differences other than in terms of culture. She hadn't told me anything I hadn't guessed, given the way she looks and her proficiency in spainish. The words she spoke, however, melted my thoughts. They exposed a deep current of unassuming vulnerability and gentle fears. I haven't been able to shake the feeling.
A three minute conversation and I'm into my eighth page of transcription and commentary. Every word is a universe. In the beginning was the word.
I believe that reality is a manifestation of consciousness. I just need to find an experiment that will prove it is so. And do the experiment. And draft the proof. Is there a lack of reality in unconsciousness?
to sleep, perchance to dream.
M
my age came up when I told Cynthia that I smoked cigarettes about twenty years ago.
"When you were one?" she teased. "How old are you?"
She had shown me an energy drink.
"Have you had these?"
"Yeah, but not lots."
"I like to drink them when I smoke. Do you smoke?"
"Not tobacco," I replied, doing the first step of the cannabis shuffle.
"Not cigarettes," she said. "I hate cigarettes. But you smoke?"
"Yeah," I agreed, "but not tobacco."
"Yeah. Not tobacco."
I think the first time I did the shuffle was my second college roomate. Bill looked like Eddie Money, which is not a totally postive thing. I was settling into our dorm room when Bill came in with his friend Rob.
"Do you smoke?" Bill asked.
"Not tobacco," I replied. Bill pulled a tray out from under his bed and the sophomore year had begun. Carter was still president and we smoked an incredible amount of weed. We didn't slow down when Reagan was president, but the dope just didn't taste as good. Probably the perquat.
they should make a t-shirt that says "I don't smoke tobacco." why are they so lazy? oh, yeah. the weed.
I don't believe maryjane causes amotivational syndrome. I am every bit as lazy when I'm straight.
We get mad at the people who rob us of our innocence. We should thank them for relieving us of our naivete. Innocence is a warm blanket that isn't worth a shit when you're starving.
thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love
M
sometimes in the neighborhood, I gaze through the plate glass, watching cynthia working. the sight of her soothes me, an unusual island of stability in three years of cascading rapids. through all my insansity, my pizza girl has been a gem.
I've spoken with her enough to know that she isn't especially bright, not in the hyper-educated sort of way, anyways. There can be an incredible beauty in simple charms.
I'm old enough to have accepted that no one will ever again play more than a role in my life. Idealism is all about ignoring the details, unworkable in unadaptable generalization and missing the real magnificence that is the detail. Romantic is a school of poetics, not a living philosophy. Some roles are better than others. Auditions are open to anyone who can find me.
Tracci was not a bright girl, except for the radiance of her young exuberance. I was twenty-seven and she was almost nineteen. As a matter of perspective, her previous boyfriend was thirty-five, a mere boy from my current vantage. City girls grow up young.
We had known each other for several years - fellow bureaucrats - when she came to my apartment and asked to take a shower. She emerged wearing one of my shirts, a soft white cotton against cocoa skin. Tracci soon asked me to screw her ass, because that wouldn't be cheating on her boyfriend. Apparently he was only staking a claim on her cunt. I confess that I did go along with this interesting moral analysis. He became history with the application of my tongue to her girl. Seven years of sex and she'd never had an orgasm. I helped her make up for lost time.
Tracci was as sweet as she was pretty, and she could sing nicely. She just wasn't too bright. There is only so much fun we can have without talking and it didn't take long for talking to lead to trouble.
smart people are often much more seriously disturbed than our simpler brethren. A high-octane engine will kill you that much faster. Beauty is it's own genius.
It was one of Wilde's.
Your majesty is like a stream of bat piss
It was one of Shaw's
I only meant that your majesty shines out like a shaft of gold when all around is dark
Well done, Shaw.
M
I've posted this before, but since it is relevant to current discussions . . .
~~~
"Hey there," the pizza girl said, "David?"
The question mark is part of the flirtatious game we play, this lovely
pizza girl and I. For about six months, at least once a week, I drop
by to pick up a pizza for the family. Usually she gives me a big
pepperoni pizza, although every so often, I manage to sneak a supreme.
The kids aren't entirely ready for the full blown pizza experience,
but on well chosen occasions, they'll bear the excesses of flavor for
my sake.
The pizza girl knows my name. I can hear it in her voice when I call
to make my order, see it in the bright smile she gives as I enter the
tiny shop. The pizza girl knows my name but pretends she doesn't. On
the other hand, I don't know her name. I'm too shy to ask. When I
imagine talking to her, I call her "beautiful."
"Hey, beautiful," I imagine myself saying, "how's the pizza business?"
"It sucks," she'd reply with an infectious grin. Sometimes I imagine
the conversation will be easy.
I picked up five pizzas on Halloween, feeding a party of kids before
they assaulted the streets on their annual candy begging mission. I
arrived a bit early. The pizza girl wore low slung jeans and her
pizza t-shirt tied up to expose her smooth midriff. I licked my lips
as she checked the pizza progress, turning her back as I feasted my
eyes on the delicious vision of her behind.
"It sucks working on Halloween," she said, after telling me I'd have
to wait another ten minutes. "I'd rather go out and get fucked up."
My mind reeled with responses to that opening, so many witty
rejoinders assaulting me that I found myself unable to speak. That's
my usual technique - smile and imagine all the things I might say.
It's not an effective style, generally, although my apparently
handsome visage tends to carry the amused silence better than we might
expect.
"I love your costume," I imagined myself saying. The pizza girl
blushed.
In most instances, the pizza business is too busy for me to manage
more than a few words with her before another customer calls. I don't
worry, for our demand for pizza is incessant. I will soon return for
another brief tete-a-tete.
"You seem tense," she'd say. I love to imagine it will be easy.
"Was that your wife who called?" she asked, last time I picked up a
pizza.
"Sure was." I'm not one to deny the obvious.
"She doesn't like picking up the pizzas?"
"I guess she doesn't," I replied, once more at a loss for anything
witty to say.
"Or maybe you just like coming up here?"
"Yes, I do." I am a self-proclaimed master of dialogue, yet
profoundly unable to actually say anything clever on the spot.
"Have a nice evening," she says.
"You seem tense," I might reply.
"I am so tense," she replies.
"You need a massage," I observe, confident of the fact that, in fact,
everyone always needs a massage.
"Oh, I do," she replies, her dark eyes aflame.
"I have a table and very strong hands."
"Do you?"
"Give me an hour and I'll relieve some of that tension." My voice had
dropped to a smouldering whisper. I am so seductive in my fantasies.
The pizza girl has very long black hair, down past her shoulder
blades, silky straight and flirtatiously alive. I imagine brushing my
hand through her hair, drifting down along the smooth curves of her
satin latte skin. Perhaps twenty in age, giving or taking a few
years, the pizza girl sounds coarse and abrupt with the rest of the
Spanish-speaking pizza crew, but energetic and delicately warm with
me. I know she thinks about me. I can hear it in the way her voice
changes for me.
"That'll be eight sixty-five." As I hand her the ten, I'm watching
her breasts move gently beneath the pizza t-shirt she always wears.
Full, voluminous boobs jiggle slightly with the energy of her
excitement. I blindly imagine the dark nipples beneath the cloth,
catch vague hints of the hardness that develops under my gaze.
"I love your titties," I imagine myself saying, suddenly crude for the
sake of acceleration.
"Come back at ten," she might say with a laugh. "I'll introduce you."
My cock stirs, anxious to participate in the proposed soiree. Don't
worry, big fella, we won't forget you.
As she takes the change from the cash register, her hand stretches
forth. My hand reaches toward her and she lays the bills and silver
into my palm, gracefully touching my hand with hers, lingering in the
connection for as long as pizza decorum will permit. Our eyes meet.
Her nipples harden perceptibly. I want to speak.
"Thank you," is all I can bring myself to say.
The pizza guys always seem to be watching, curious, amused or jealous.
Since I don't speak their language, I have no clue. The pizza girl
doesn't do anything overt to express her feelings for me, so I assume
she doesn't want them to know anything. Maybe she does. I can only
imagine.
"Don't tell me you weren't coming on to him, slut pizza girl."
"So what if I was. Mind your own business."
Suppose we meet for a cup of coffee, a dish of ice cream, a bottle of
beer. She wanted to get "fucked up," so perhaps the beer is what
she'd prefer. We might share a twig, put the daze in our
lust-enflamed eyes. I brush the hair back from her face, caressing in
a moment the soft flesh of her browned cheek. She kisses me. I
enfold a breast in my left hand, squeezing the heavy flesh and teasing
her thick nipple. She takes my rigid cock in hand, slips the
stiffness between her sultry lips. I kneel behind her, hands grasping
her young round ass, riding our hunger home.
"Do you want some Parmesan or peppers?" she asked.
"Sure."
Fumbling with the pizza box, she graces me with garnishments. I smile
wantonly, wishing I could dare to ask her name.
"Have a nice evening," she said. I could feel her wish to be part of
that imagined time.
"I will," I replied. "You, too, beautiful."
This is the story I wrote in the write fight - I believe we had three hours and I used about an hour and a half to compose this one. A special prize for anyone who can identify the six seed words I had to use in the story - three from Katie and three from Denny, our judge.
~~~
"Please come out with us, Daniel. It will be fun for you, I promise."
"Not tonight," Daniel said calmly.
"Why not?"
"I have plans, Elise. Maybe some other night."
"What plans? You haven't been out in almost two years."
"I go out."
"Haunting used bookstores isn't going out. Besides, we're just going out for a drink and then to the Avalon Theater. You like plays, remember?"
"I have plans tonight."
"With whom, Daniel? A date with a book? A woman?"
"Yes. I mean no."
"It isn't healthy, Daniel. You're getting a reputation as a real crank. People are talking about you. My friends are always talking about you. People always ask me when you're going to start dating again. Just go out with us tonight."
"You're sounding like Mom, Elise. Some other time."
"I'm going to come over."
"Fine. But not tonight."
"I'm sorry. It's just that I love you, Daniel. I worry about you."
"I love you, too, Sis." Daniel hung up the receiver with a sigh. The idea that people were talking about him disturbed him slightly. Daniel didn't consider himself a crank. The thought that Elise and Jim and Karen were going to talk about him irked him deeply. They didn't understand what he was up to. No one could possibly understand. "Tonight," he said to himself, "tonight has to work."
The sun receded finally beneath the crest of pine trees and the huge space of Daniel's study filled with creeping shadows, the dull orange glow of a distant sunset giving a ruddy tone to the pale wooden floors. Daniel rubbed his brow. A sense of possession stole over him. He began to pace, walking slowly toward the twenty foot windows that faced the bloody sky, and turning to walk back toward the blazing fireplace at the far end of the hall.
"Two years?," he asked himself. "Two years, and when will it end?"
Daniel's boots marked an even interval of time as his walk led him to the deepening night and back to the blossoming flames. A sinister wind stole through slight cracks in the upper reaches of the grand room with a howl. His heart began to thump when his resolve broke down and he stole a lateral glance at the long shelves of books covering the study's northern wall.
"Once again," he muttered in surrender. "The last time, again."
Still trying to resist the allure, Daniel's dark eyes fixed on a book standing alone behind his desk, an outcast from its mortal brethren, shimmering unnaturally in the nocturnal gloom. "Five hundred times," he mused as his feet slowly drifted off the well- trod path and toward the dark shelves. "At least five hundred times. This has to end."
Although the last gasp of Daniel's resolve had been exhausted so many times before, the same shudder that had rippled through him on the very first night struck him again. The ritual was well defined, but the thrill was far from gone. Tonight, he thought and not for the first time, will be different. Even without the hope that gripped him on this night, there was no bravado in his thought. Every night had different.
As he touched the ancient leather spine of the tall book, Daniel shook. It had been a week since he had opened the pages, an arduous week of incredible self-control since he had read the mystic words. It was the longest stretch of abstinence that Daniel had endured since he found the book in the tiny bookstore in East Berlin. There had been nights when he read the page three times in six hours. Resistance had been inconceivable, until he had a reason to hold back. Tonight would be the payoff. Daniel spoke a Latin prayer.
The old grandfather clock struck a sweet tone and Daniel nearly dropped the book in fright. Adrenaline poured through his ragged heart and he collapsed into the chair behind his desk. "Good," Daniel said when he recovered his senses. "Tonight will take every ounce of my emotion. Blow storm!" he yelled.
The book fell open at a touch, directly to the page Daniel sought. It seemed his whole life had become contained in the words stretched across that single piece of parchment. At first glimpse, the words seemed to burn and writhe. Daniel knew he was tangling with ultimate darkness, an evil beyond any human conception. Still he continued. He couldn't care for good and evil. He could only care for love.
Some nights he had to make a decision before he began, but not on this night. A single name possessed him, ached within him. His eye caught the first word of the incantation. Daniel braced himself, like a patient preparing for the undoped touch that would begin the cut of a scalpel.
"Katrina," he said, giving in to the passion. "Come to me." Strange words followed and the spell was begun.
A flame rose from the center of the study, a tiny flicker of orange and a dazzle of white sparks. The fire slowly grew until the heat touched Daniel's face and called forth a wash of sweat. Smoke poured from the flashes, choking him cruelly. The root of the bonfire spread until ten feet of Persian rug seemed to be feeding the conflagration, flames shooting up as though it consumed a middle- aged pine. The last word left Daniel's lips and he closed his eyes and turned away from the fierce blast of infernal fire.
A crackle tore through the roar and a cool breeze suddenly caressed Daniel's burning body. He opened his eyes. A vision of white light nearly blinded him, but still he stared, knowing what sight awaited him. The light dimmed and the spirit Katrina stood before him. Daniel wanted to cry.
Everytime she was conjured, Katrina appeared differently. On that night, her long golden hair was tied in ponytails, reminding him of a sweet girl he had met when he was young, a simple cowgirl at a country dance, hoping for a little dance and romance. Daniel had often wondered how much of Katrina's form came from within him, but there could be no answer. She was always like someone, and yet like no one he had ever known. Katrina was whoever she was. Daniel could know no more.
"It's you," she said with a smile. Her voice echoed with the sound of crystal bells and young birds.
"It's me," Daniel replied, his heart bursting with longing.
"I'm glad," she said.
"Do others conjure you?" Daniel asked, surprised by a thought he had never considered.
"Sometimes."
"It had never occurred to me," Daniel said, frowning. "When was the last time?"
"I have no sense of time," Katrina said. "I don't know."
"Do you . . . ?"
"They're foul, twisted men, used to abusing power. I hate them."
"And me?"
"I long for you, Daniel. You draw me to you."
"I think of nothing else."
"I can feel your devotion. It makes me live."
"My life is in trouble. I have an idea. I need you."
"What can we do?"
Daniel walked around the desk to where the apparition seemed to stand. Her lean body seemed fashioned of fog, a translucent shimmer in the form of a lovely woman. A silver gown hung from her shoulders. A worried look streamed in beauty.
"I believe we can set you free." Daniel reached out to touch Katrina. His hand passed through her arm, as though he had grabbed a puff of smoke.
"I'm frightened," Katrina said. She wanted to cry but no tears would come from her ghostly eyes.
"Trust me," Daniel said.
"What will you do?"
"Have you noticed," said Daniel, aching to touch the sad woman he loved so deeply, "that there are times when you seem to take substance."
"Not really," Katrina said softly.
"There have been nights," Daniel confessed reluctantly, "when I have conjured other spirits. I haven't always known . . . "
"You've conjured other women?" Katrina said.
"Sometimes. Some evil spirits."
"Were they beautiful?"
"Yes. Not like you, dear Katrina, but in their own wicked way. They seem to know something, or at least believe in it. They have tried to arouse me, to make me want them. And it seems to me that the more that I do want them, the more substantial they become."
"You wanted them?"
"Lust is a powerful emotion. But I also feared them, and I don't think lust is enough. I don't know, but it has always fallen short. When the moment comes that my desire for them subsides, they quickly fade away. It is the nature of lust to dissolve in satisfaction. Love is different, stronger."
"I see. So if I make you want me, I will be alive."
"I don't know. Maybe there is no threshold. But the substance they take is strong - some have even been able to touch me. I believe there could be some way."
"They've touched you?"
"I'm sorry."
"No. Don't be sorry. If I could only touch you, for just a moment, I could forgive everything."
"I know you, Katrina. I love you as deeply as a man could ever love a woman. I love the sparkle in your eyes and the curve of your flesh. Rouse my emotion, make me want you."
"How?" Katrina asked, blushing as only a ghost can blush.
"Do you dance?" Daniel asked.
"I think I can."
"Then dance for me," Daniel said, leaning back against the mahogany desk and smiling. "What do the foul, twisted men ask from you?"
"They ask me to dance," said Katrina. Fire seemed to spark in her pale eyes, a desperate hunger that began to move her hips, a lick over her grey lips. "I must do as I am asked."
"I can't bear to imagine you in the clutches of some other man," said Daniel angrily, furious, ready to strike out at any man who would dare intrude.
"They're handsome men," said Katrina, picking up her skirt to reveal the smooth lines of her lean legs. Daniel felt his heart begin the throb furiously. "Do you like me?"
"Beautiful," he replied, tingling with excitement.
"Can I take this off?" she asked with a coy smile.
"Please," whimpered Daniel, his gaze fixed on her.
"It isn't hot," Katrina said as she lifted the robe up. Her wide hips gyrated slowly as she left them bare. Katrina turned to show him her creamy full bottom, a hint of form without color, like an old French postcard of a girl reason tells us has been long since dead. Daniel burned with desire, his attention caught by the swells and valleys of her shadowy body.
"I want you," she growled as the robe fell to the floor. Full breasts bobbled slightly as though excited by his heavy breath.
"I want you," he replied, reaching down involuntarily to scratch the tenseness of his loins.
"No," she said sharply, ceasing her dance.
"What?" he asked, pained.
"Don't touch." Her head nodded toward his swollen crotch. "Don't release your desire."
"Yes," he said, wondering if he could really restrain himself. "You're right."
"I'll do the touching," Katrina said, placing a finger at the shimmering crest between her thighs. "So hot for you."
"Yes."
"My boobs, too. Do you want to taste my nipples?"
"Yes."
"I've always loved you, with all my heart. You make me hungry."
"Yes."
"My pussy's so swollen, so moist, so fiery."
"Yes."
"My ass?"
"Yes."
"I can almost feel your hands on my shoulders, your kiss on my lips."
"Yes."
"I need you this way, can you touch me, do you want me?"
"Yes."
"I grow richer and fuller. You were right. I will live."
"Yes."
"I will live and we'll fuck."
"Yes."
"I can almost feel you. Do you want me? Do you want me?"
"Yes."
"Come here," Katrina said, her voice sultry and commanding. "Come kiss me." Daniel shook in anticipation. Her body seemed almost alive, a woman's naked flesh, aroused and drawing him near. A demonic look flashed through her eyes, lust overflowing her soft demeanor. Daniel rushed three steps forward and took the girl in his arms.
A kiss melted on his lips with the intensity of kissing a burning hot iron, yet at the same time luscious and sweet, a sudden sense of fulfillment, of holding all love in his arms.
"Lover," Katrina moaned as she held him tight in her arms. Her body melded to his, caressing him gently as she kissed him with all her soul.
"No," he said as convulsions exploded inside him. The woman suddenly began to fade. Her touch turned to a cool mist. "No," he whimpered and Katrina vanished away.
Tears flowed from his dark eyes as Daniel collapsed on the floor of his midnight dark study. A dampness in his trousers echoed the tears.
"Tomorrow," he said finally, desperate in failure. "I'll bring her back tomorrow night. One more time, one more try."
Almost three years later, Cynthia received her own copy of "The Pizza Girl." Despite my caveats, the direct nature of the story is bound to affect her. What will she say? Same bat time, same bat channel.
She thought I was twenty - a bit unrealistic, given that she knows my fifteen-year-old daughter - but about as kind a compliment as a young lady can give an aging poet.
In network terms, I am an ancient one from the age of legends. For about a decade, I hung out in the newsgroups assd and assm - alt.sex.stories.discussion and alt.sex.stories.moderated. We posted our work to assm and talked shop in assd. Despite the constant flow of stroke stories - masturbatory bits of naughtiness - there was a strong gang of serious writers of every kind. Not just every kind but every kind.
I guy who wrote stories about sexual relationships with dogs. A pedophile. Shock writers.
There was a girl named Katie who arrived on the scene long after I had become an elder of the flock. She was an unskilled fiction writer on most every count, and she wrote horrible tales of violent sexual encounters. She responded fiercely to criticism of her stories. I interjected that skills can be learned but there is no substitute for passion. I assured Katie that she could easily learn to write well, for she had the wild desire.
I'm always postive when dealing with inexperienced writers. We can be so easily frightened away.
So I go about my business writing saucy stories of friends and consequences, ignoring most of the arguing that keeps a newsgroup alive. One day, I recieve a letter from Katie, offering me a story she had written about me. About my persona, Lord Malinov, anyway. Lord Malinov had recently held a literary orgy at his castle, on an island in the North Sea. People wrote stories of the things that had happened at the story and I arranged it into a web journey of endless decadence. So we were all writing stories about each other.
In Katie's story, I meet her and a friend near my castle. We have sex in a most lurid fashion. The girls reveal that they are underage and proceed to take control with threats of exposure and more sex.
Whoa. I back away from the computer slowly. I think this conversation is at an end.
Eventually, I learned that Katie is a (well-beyond the age of consent) lipstick lesbian living in a small border town. She writes computer books for money and returns to the hospital every six months for a psychotic episode. These terrible stories are just her kind of story, no offense intended.
A few years later, discussing writing exercises, I invented a game we called "write club." Don't talk about it, please. Two writers exchange a few seed words and have a few hours to write a story. A judge decides the winner, just to make it exciting, I guess.
Katie insists that we try the game together. I wrote a marvelous story called "Wizardry" about a guy trying to summon a ghostly lover. Katie wrote a really not very good story about a dead lover. However, it was the first romantic story she'd ever written and she like writing it. Her fans went wild. I won the game but she abandoned shock writing for love stories.
Not too long after, she was back in the hospital. I haven't heard anything since.
I don't even know how much of the persona was true. I hope Katie is all right. She did have some kind of passion.
M
there's a red house over yonder
that's where my baby stays
Human beings find a strange satisfaction in the resolution of a three chord progression. I'd like to hear an explanation of that phenomenon. I have not yet imagined the forces that might lead us hence.
so much of beauty is sensible - instinct, balance, et cetera - but musical beauty is not so simple
the same feeling of satisfaction arises from the proper resolution of a conflict in a story - is there a fundamental connection between a properly crafted plot and a well-formed melody? Did storytelling and vocal tones form patterns that created a satisfaction response that has evolved into music?
wake me up before you go-go
I did some fishing yesterday for the first time in decades. The crown prince has developed a fascination for the sport, one well suited to his love of stuff. Greg has the myopic passion of uncontrolled genius. To see him create something with Legos is like watching a concert pianist. incredible three-dimensional spatial creativity. He may be well suited to physics, although he could turn his talents in pretty much any direction. He can be a beast to deal with, although he has tamed many times over since his youth, particularly with the introduction of add and anxiety meds, along with my anxiety cure.
He lost weight as an infant, refusing to eat anything but exactly what he wanted. A stubborn infant is a remarkable thing to witness.
My other kids have brilliance and sense, but much less of Greg's lunatic quality. He really combined the strongest qualities of my eX and me, a truly mind-blowing idea.
My daughter complained that she was making some of the boys in the cast crazy and some of the girls were getting miffed at the attention she was getting, even though she didn't necessarily want it.
I sighed. I've been struggling with that basic problem my whole life. After some words of wisdom, I added; "as Jackie teaches, the beautiful are not responsible for the responses we evoke." I probably paraphrased Jackie, but I'm a rewriter - that's what I do. If people act kooky because you are attractive, so be it. Our only choice is in responding to their kookiness.
For most of my life, the response I have evoked in other people has frightened me into introverted retreat. Since I have learned to understand, things have been more interesting in so many ways.
cause if my baby doesn't love me
I know her sister will
M
Having witness a few rounds of South Pacific, I find myself wanting to round out the characters with more complexity and quickly begin rearranging the dialogue accordingly. Perhaps I should find a local company to join, give me some new experiences trodding the boards and working to a point where I can write the dialogue.
I have a good ear for dialogue. I listen and remember every word.
The principal force working against my memory is my tendency to re-write. I prefer to consider what people should have said, when the words wander outside of voice-jargon.
I went to pick up my daughter at the church and watched fifteen minutes of the sr. high travelling show, just returned from Chicago. Tess had declined to join them so that she could do South Pacific, but many of her friends are in the group that went. I left the church proper when the music finished, unaware that they were about to introduce the new head pastor, or whatever methodists call the rector.
During the twenty minutes that followed, I stood in the narthex, soon joined by my eX. We had our first conversation in almost three years. She promised not to send me to jail and complimented my writing vociferously. We talked kids and law and basketball.
Almost as though none of this had ever happened.
I'm grateful in so many ways. However, I suspect that life is not done with me and I can't help but be wary of the possibilities. Nothing spells change like the brief feeling that I know what's going on.
As Socrates once said, "I drank what?"
So, I thought to rewrite Midsummer in modern terms - not simply a modernization but going more at the plot and psychology layers beneath the greek facade.
A party night. No magic, just sex, drugs and music. Couples together, lovers obsessing, couples fighting. Lies and gossip and misdirection. Angry authorities and meddling shits. A club with distinct parts.
broken promises
I need to think through the plot of MSND, pull my metaphors further.
M
I dropped by the theater to pick up my daughter. As I stood in the lobby, an older man strode out. I stepped out of his way as he seemed surly. He walked out into a courtyard. Soon, an attractive woman left the other side of the theater, holding a cell phone to her ear as she walked.
"I was going to the bathroom," I think she said as the guy stepped back inside.
"Get off that phone," he said meanly, grabbing the phone away from her ear. "Give that to me."
"I was calling you," she said, looking surprised but no way as surprised as I was.
He looked over the phone as he walked back into the darkness. The woman followed close behind.
Stunned, I wrote the entire episode out in my head and then wrote it again.
This is my last rewrite.
For now.
M
screaming monkeys from hell - I'd give good odds there is a band with that name, playing electric folk
The only band I ever truly discovered is Tapping the Vein. Heather tortures me lyrically, in a darkly sexy way.
sexy mind, sexy thoughts, sexy words, sexy lover
physical sexuality is only the beginning
Fantasy is a complex subject. stories, visions, emotions, sounds. elements of arousal.
ask anyone to describe their fantasies and except for prepared answers you will be greeted with silence
not because we don't know our own fantasies
but because we've never attached words to the elements in the flow of our arousal
there is very little social language for fantasy because it is never a social event
personal language typically doesn't involve words or other imposed grammar
role-playing is the most social fantasy and so has been explored most extensively but is an infrequent element of fantasy
fantasy is mostly like method acting, living the moment, pursuing the arousals
sex is a dialogue of fantasy
as we learn to express, we must learn to understand
dancing
M
I enjoyed the music of three dog night - old fashioned love song, easy, one, joy - when I was a youngun. I have no idea who formed that band, being from the days when we didn't know the names and faces of musicians. We had to stop singing Joy in music - sun of a gun, drink his wine, make sweet love - the man keeping us down, again.
The Velvet Underground plays Venus in Furs. Incredible music. Sacher-Masoch wrote Venus. Strange tale.
Having overdosed on de Sade, I once taunted Ladyplume with an argument to ban de Sade. I am a firm believer in free speech. His work really is that terrible.
If I were Supreme Ruler, I would censor him simply for bad writing - nothing is more inexcusable than wasting words on bad prose. Off with his unpoetic head! Maybe his French stylings would save him, but I think not.
I suspect that I could be an awful tyrant, given supreme authority. My sense of humor might get the best of me. Bah, why would I want that kind of responsibility. The Universe didn't put me here to herd the world.
I'm here to sing.
M
I have been able to dazzle my daughter lately with an unexpected expertise on things theatrical. My first desire, as a writer, was to write a play. I have always been enchanted with the idea of writing a character and then seeing that character brought to life. I also realized that writing a play would require learning to understand the medium of the theater. I have been doing my homework. I have patiently waited all my life for opportunities to share such things.
All my interests revolve around my love of a good story.
I'm coercing the boys to take on Perfect General, a wonderfully simple tactical game. In its simplicity, it becomes easy to recognize that a battle is a mind game, tricks fought with trickery. The game itself dissolves as feints, thrusts and parries reflect the neural patterns of our individuality.
Tess railed against angry man rock, lambasting untalented screams and ugly ferocity. She proposed finding some of these bands and explaining the terribleness of their song.
"I didn't make him for you," I countered.
"What?" she said, smiling, knowing I was quoting something but not sure what.
"What do you think, Janet? - I don't like men with too many muscles - I didn't make him for you."
I told her the story of my first encounter with the Rocky Horror, kidnapped from my grandparents, dragged to downtown KC, witnessing the most theatrical event I had ever seen. In 1979, the midnight show included a full cast in the aisles, waterpistols, toast and the most incredible audience participation humor ever witnessed.
Over the years, after thirty-some shows in a variety of places, the audience deteriorated to a very drunk frat guy screaming "where's your fucking neck?" through the entire film. All things must pass. So it goes.
Tim Curry did the voice of evil in an animated film with fairies, a rainforest and a shrunken dude. Anyone?
There is a scene in MST3K where Mike is talking to the robots who have found a collection of production still from Mike's career as an actor. Given a picture of him in a sailor suit, he says, "here I am in South Pacific as the loveable Stewpot." Of course, he's wearing a sailor suit in all the photos, including Hamlet. They're comfortable.
"Here I am in Oh, Calcutta!"
"Wow, you're naked aside from the sailor suit."
Enjoy,
M
http://www.asstr.org/files/Collections/Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated/Year2003/45598
November 26, 2003 - just as the divorce began to crash down around my head
I met the pizza girl some three years ago. I've known her name for the last two, but our conversation has been limited to twenty-second sound bytes. In asking her sister about her, I placed Cynthia in a position where she could speak to me with the advantage of an ally. The walls come tumbling down.
The story is very personal, the stream of imagination as I pick up a pizza. I wrote it about her but not for her, so there are things in the story that are direct - on the other hand, I've known her for so long that I suspect we understand each other in these matters. We shall find out. Life is so fascinating.
M
I suspect my relationship with the pizza girl has moved into a new phase. Over the past month, when I've gone to get a pizza, another girl was working the register. Realizing that Cynthia could disappear from my life with hardly a word, I asked the girl if she had gone.
"She's my sister," the young woman replied.
When I picked up a pizza last night, I was immediately greeted by the sisters. They fawned over my hair, which had an ungroomed frizzy-curl going on. "Do you still like to party?" Cynthia asked. "Do you go to the clubs or just hang out."
"Not so much lately. I'm just hanging out."
"I haven't seen your eX in a long time," Cynthia said. I had been buying pizza from her when I was still married. "She's probably like, I'm not buying a pizza from the same place David does."
"Actually, maybe three years ago, I wrote a story about you. That's probably why she doesn't come here any more."
"What's the story?" both sister drew close across the counter, waiting for my tale.
"I'll have to bring you a copy," I said. "It's called The Pizza Girl. I didn't know your name for a long time, so you were always the pizza girl."
"That's right," said the sister. "You're the pizza girl."
I promised to bring her a copy. "If you're here," I said, realizing that I had only rarely seen her lately.
"I'm here every day 5-9, except Wednesdays."
Since I met Cynthia, she has married and had a baby. I never saw her pregnant, much to my disappointment, as I am extremely fond of pregnant women. Given the standard course of human relations, it is quite possible that her marriage has begun to crumble. For at least a year after the wedding, she tried to keep her emotional distance, discussing my girlfriends whenever it seemed that we might be on the path to connection. That tendency has faded.
I went for some Indian food at the Clay Pit, something I have done weekly for the past few years. My waitress from the week before - Christine - came over to the table I had been seated at, moving very deliberately.
"Why aren't you sitting in my section?" she demanded to know.
"I just sat where they led me," I tried to explain.
"I'm Christine," she said. "Next time, tell them you want one of my tables."
Yes, ma'am. She's quite cute - a young Shirley Maclaine - but equally nervous, driven to uncontrolled clumsiness when I am around.
A little rain is falling, something we need desperately. My flowers are blooming wildly. I'm consuming the male of my crop as the pollen flowers open, hoping to avoid any pollination give time to allow the girls to develop into full bloom. I have about a dozen new sprouts shoosting up to the sky.
I am currently reading the New Olympia Reader, a new anthology of pieces published by Grove Press. The real claim to fame of Grove was the first US publication of Lolita. When Nabokov was recognized in this country for his skills, moving from the universe of dirty books to literature, Vlad refused to speak to Girodias, the editor at Grove who had championed him in the early days. Good erotic writing is so delicious.
Enjoy,
M'
Standing in the corner
the music raging loud
bumped in chaotic presses
words fading on the tongue
close together, heated
each breath a sensuous stroke
suddenly she descended
sat on her naked haunches
fumbled with my trousers
worked john thomas out
crowded close into her kiss
sparks within the darkness
M
we go around and around
the question is
did we learn anything
this time around
Leonard Bernstein said that he would know a Gershwin tune by the end of the first bar. I am surprised at the number of songs written by Gershwin that I know but did not know were by George. Quite the writer.
I don't know enough Gershwin to recognize his work. There are more contemporary musicians that I can recognize with a minimum - Santana's guitar, Stevie Wonder's harmonica, Phil Collin's drums. I have often wondered at this identifiable quality that some musicians effect.
There are many writers I could recognize stylistically fairly quickly. Writing parodies has given me a good appreciation for affecting a voice. I can usually recognize my own work, but I'm as often amazed to discover words from my past that seem completely foreign.
If I started now and didn't write anything more, I probably couldn't re-read everything I've written before I died. Assuming, of course, I could locate copies of everything I've written. My biographers have one hell of a tough task in front of them. I have scattered my oeurve all over this galaxy.
I don't care much for the Who, but I could listen to Keith Moon play drums all day. Good drummers are hard to find.
I remember watching Ed Sullivan on Sunday night. I remember watching clips from Vietnam on the evening news. I remember hearing the Beatles, the Band, Roberta Flack. I remember watching "this is your life" and "to tell the truth." I saw "What's Up, Doc," at the drive-in. My father shattered his arm the next morning, putting away the air mattresses we slept on in the station wagon.
Today begins an extended week with the kids, a share of the summer time. I don't have any real plans except a serious desire to talk to them all, see what I can do to get them on the right course, whatever that might be. Four more performances of South Pacific. Bali Hai.
there are no books like a dame
and nothing looks like a dame
M
While President of these United States, Carter endorsed the decriminalization of marijuana. I voted for him in 1980, despite the announcement that Reagan had already won before my vote was cast.
Then we took acid and celebrated the end of an era. My friend Miguel, who had driven us to the polls, was embroiled in an affair with my roomates girlfriend, which led to some fascinating fireworks at the dorm. A month later, Theresa approached me. I declined, a decision that I have never fully understood.
One Saturday morning, Bob the Asshole knocked on my door. He had just scored a bag and felt compelled to share it with me, as I had done so many times for him. Except that it was seven in the morning. Bob earned his moniker by being a jerk, generally, hanging out with us regardless of a lack of invitation. He wasn't a bad guy, looking back, but he made it difficult to like him.
Miguel was born Michael, but one semester he took sixteen hours of Spainish to exhaust the foreign language requirement in one go. His father was a pilot and so Miguel had spent many weeks in Spain.
But if baby I'm the bottom
You're the top
M