A link to a great story of an ending

Steel Peaks

Thrush

I love the word Thrush. It's an unpleasant 'thing' you can catch from going down on someone who has a wicked yeast infection. But the word is fun in my mouth, but not in an antibiotic needing way.

Thrush. Say it. She rushed through the thrush and the thrush rushed through her.

Thrushing through the throngs of thickening brush she crushed the little brush of thrush and finally it hushed, etc.

Thrush, thrush thrush.
say it, pussyface.


P.S. Thrush is also a bird but that's not as fun. Ignore.

Oh
Merry christmas

A continuation of:

My spine cannot withstand the pressure of sovereignty


Amada was shaken by the grip and words Pilar spoke and even though she denied any truth to them every time she relived the sound of Pilar's voice and breath in her face, she saw herself nodding some distant agreement.

Amada Tarrago Casas Castanos Domenech Barreiro Loaeza has her lineage spelled out behind her like a rainbow tail for everyone to pluck at. She is the daughter of Manuel Tarrago the Spanish diplomat to the Corzine kingdom north of the mountains of Sonay. He was known for his abilities to lay peace at the feet of the warring factions in Corzine, his words always soothed the hearts of warriors. In the twenty years of service, he never walked away from a potential battle without having quelled whatever rage was upon them. That is until the day he set foot in Spain, retired with family in tow, Amada only seven years of age.

Sansar of Corzine, a warrior of great proportions, dismayed by the almost constant peace his homeland had known since his youth decided to slay the cause, Manuel Tarrago. Knowing Manuel was embarking on his journey home, Sansar started out before him to Madrid. Sansar knew the kill would be more profound and powerful of a trophy in the homeland of the enemy.

He laid in wait at the curve in the path to the Tarrago estate. And with luck, as the family arrived, Manuel was in the rear. Sansar let the child and woman pass and as Manuel sang the last verse of the rhyme Amada always asked for, Sansar pressed his saber into the quick of Manuel's heart and felt the pulse through the saber's metal cease and the brightness in Manuel's eyes drifted out of his body and floated amidst his wife and child, disappearing into the heart of Amada.

But Sansar never looked back long enough to see the essence enter the child who wailed over her father's body. And this was a deep and stupid mistake, as all true warriors always wait and watch for the traveling essence's entrance into another and slay the budding, more powerful enemy.

Amada crumbled into the pool of blood of her beloved father and raged to the gods and saints who heard nothing because they didn't exist. She wished and begged to have one more day with him. She was already looking into the past and seeing her mistakes and missed oppurtunities to be with him. Within seconds she was teaching herself how to kill herself with blame.

Just that morning he had set her on his knee and cooed, "Look out into the mist, this is where the joys of your life exist. Bring forth your inner fire to collect all that you desire and think of me as you find the key to your soul's love, not captivity. Little precious, buzzing bee, oh do be free, and dance with prosperity, the kind that contains, happy, love and only a splash melancholy."

Amada was not one to listen to her father's deep and passionate words, she twisted and turned in his lap and pulled his mustache out of frustration. Pushing away, she ran into the field where her dog leapt high like a deer as he hunted the furry animals that scurried there.

Amada's actions, even though, made by a sweet, impatient child stayed with her forever. She believed if she had listened and held him close as he spoke to her, time would have changed, a different path would have been taken and her father would still be alive. This became a marker in which she pierced her soul, a scar she would covet and mourn all her life.

blocked and dusty

Celestial standings in waiting lines of star dust
gritty with irritation, a little heart-felt swinger flew
into the rings of a saturn like sky
hitting some invisible ozone
bursting like fireworks
he gave us something to oooh and ahh for

Jostle me from my writer's block
give me reason to not jump this planet
and find me some different air to breath
I am a wandering piece of energy
changing degrees and patterns
fluctuations bursting through seams

A word sits, bright on my desk
like a little star it shimmers
I reach for it and place it here with the rest
and it wiggles into another meaning
wiping my sentences confused

The little image making time in this cluster of words that chafe to scatter
is you and I covered in the dust of a star we rolled in
intent on a different kind of satisfaction
our fronts our fingers
our backs our hair
we rolled there sweaty and wet
we laughed because we didn't need air

Scuff my boots on the rocks of planets that light up like crackling logs
in a universe telescopes haven't yet created
I will always be here, there
grey dust boots and hands in pockets
searching for those wiggling words that jumped and hid.

Escape, chapter two

I slid out from my safe haven, reluctant to go back to my table. I was actually thinking of a way I could get to the exit, out on the street and in a cab to anywhere but here. But I walked the path through the other diners wondering why in times like this we project that everyone else is free, happy and having the best time of their lives.

I tried to make eye contact with Tonya, give a 'let's go' signal. She looked up while talking to Sam as I approached. I pumped my eye brows up and down and jutted my chin towards the door, "let's get the fuck out." I thought she was getting it but I realized her gaze towards me was vague and she was lost in her conversation.

The act of reentering a scene of a crime knowing you are about to commit the murder before it happens is excruciating. I pictured Sam and Dave with concern and dismay in their clucks and hugs as they open the door to a distraught Tonya tomorrow. She would be crying and looking smaller than normal, they would sit and wonder why I would break from her like I did, what could have occurred in my thinking since nothing seemed wrong. They would guess an affair, then come to the conclusion it's just some troubled writers need to be alone and brooding, that it's our nature in order to create. More consoling, choosing sides, (Tonya's), making the spare bed so she could stay close to friends who loved her, etc.

I didn't much care at the moment. What I needed more than anything was to get the hell out of here and away from the glances of the woman who just toppled my life. Without realizing I picked up my fork and made an aggressive jabbing motion at her that luckily no one caught but her. Her eyes widened and she looked as if she were staring at a rabid squirrel.

I'm loosing my shit and I need to get up from this table. Dry mouthed, I lurched towards my glass of water knocking it over. Simultaneously everyone scooted their chairs back and lifted their arms like they were on a roller-coaster ride, all exclaiming, "ooohh!" I flushed and stammered an apology, collecting all the available napkins, uselessly dabbing and rerouting the water away from laps. The server came with a towel and I grabbed up my coat, scarf and hat, "So sorry, listen I'm not well, I mean I don't feel well. I'm gonna end this, or rather say good night and go away, home and leave here...yeah, I'm just gonna head on home, away, to the apartment. Tonya I'll see you later. No no, stay. I had a great time." Quick pats and shoulder squeezes, quizzical looks and then I was free.

Escape

I made my way through the crowded hallway to the back of the restaurant. The kitchen sat open and the cooks and wait staff eyed my briefly as I put my head in my hands and took a deep breath, oblivious that I was standing in their path to the dining room. After a moment of complete self absorption, I wedged myself into a corner to make way.

She was here, some woman I'd forgotten I'd met, months ago. She sat with Tonya, Sam, Dave and I. She and her lover had walked in, saw Sam, an old friend and sat down with us. She ordered a vodka tonic and her lover and mine spoke across the table of insignificant where's and whats. She and I sat, remote, wary, looking at each other.

Tonya and I had moved in together a month earlier. Our connection was easy and pleasant, I thought why not? She was practically living with me anyway. And as these decisions are like dominos I also started to consider going back to the ad agency for something stable to tide me over till I got back to writing and finishing my novel, which would probably result in another slew of bad reviews, barely making enough to live. And why not get that closet in the hallway cleaned out so when Tonya's family came for Christmas we could open it without being frightened books, umbrellas and games would fall onto our guest's heads.

Yes, this was the sound of my mind settling and I didn't notice since this action only creates a very subtle hum, like the machines my grandfather was attached to just before he died.

I stood wedged into the corner near the kitchen in the panic one feels knowing one has committed a grave, unconscious error. This isn't a revelation that this forgotten woman who sat across from me, trying to remember where we met, is the newly realized love of my life. What she was was the reminder of a freedom I almost gave up for a subtle feeling of a dim happiness.

A light turned on, illuminating my sleep walking of the last six months, and with this comes the waking. I know now, when I walk back into the dining room I will see Tonya and our friends, I will remember our hall closet, I will think of my old boss at the ad agency and I will never again see any of them as I saw them a half an hour before. And this was the beginning of my plan to escape.

what I was really doing

I was picking a stalk of bok choy in the grocery. A mindless action that ripped open a praise, a revelation, that adjusted my point of view just enough to see the whole picture.

What I thought I was doing was selecting food to fit in my basket while consciously keeping my irritation at a minimum at being constantly bumped and gently pushed out of the way of the hordes of people on the train, on the sidewalk and in the store.

But this rip in my grumpy occurred and the booming game show voice said, "Well, well! You are the next lucky motherfucker to get a glimpse at how fucking happy you really are! Look around you and see where you are and feel your realness outside of that voice in your head..and you will know a moment better than any joy your inner banter can create because this..this is real."

I stood there, continuing to keep my head down as to not scare the hordes with my ecstatic revelation. Just me and the Bok Choy, havin' a moment.

the freedom in the root of violation

My hand hit the ground as I prevented my body from landing heavy. A pain shot through and I could feel the stones under my palm pierce the skin. They seemed to belong and I welcomed their violation.

As I watched and felt myself on the ground, I thought about the roots of the tree in my grandmother's yard and wondered if the stones were pained by roots intrusion into their space in the dirt, under the tree, deep in the earth.

Everything has it's turn of violation and I hope at some level we, violated, can find the little opening where we take that breath of awareness, of the vitality of being ruined, and say, in truth, it was worth it.

god renamed

There was a whisper in my ear, as I turned, I caught only a fleeting glimpse of your ethereal mass as it escaped through the portal back to where you really belong. I've made you a cautionary tale to be told to little children before they learn romance.

But I speak through layers of sheer, emotional color that I laid upon your ghostly presence and my voice is muffled even to me. I am sorry little wolf, forgive me what I made you and unmade you.

There is an indian dentist who fixed my tooth, he said to me, "there is no god but the one you make and I can see in your mouth that you have spoken a name and it has become your god. But what I question is, is the person attached to the name worthy?"

He chipped a piece of your name away and peered. Stoically he huffs, "You must find your reasons to bind this lass to the story you have made of her." And on he poked and drilled.

So now, I look for my truth so I may release myself from the tragedy I see you through. It is a waste to make you less and more than what you are because who you are is perfect enough.

strum

There is a song written with me in it's chords. It started in a park in the mind of a musician. She carried it home to her guitar. Hands to wood, it slipped onto the strings to be strummed.

There's a neighborhood in Brooklyn, I remember from summer. And this song sits here or near, in winter, in the hands and mind of a musician.

I wonder, does this make me eternal? Do the chord's vibrations enter the universe, to be heard by something somewhere far? And will the strum say, 'it was for a forgettable lass somewhere in a place and a time long dead, but for this distant sound she is dust'?

There is something appealing about being forgotten, but for this one song. Maybe it's the only marker worth having.

shout out, bitch

A woman walked her dog next to me and mine. She said her dog had attitude and he made demands upon her. When he did he always ended each sentence with bitch.

Yo get me some food, bitch. Take my ass out, bitch. You best play with me, bitch.

I laughed when she told me. When I did she seemed to think we had a cool, chick bond. She seemed freed from some social expectation she held over herself when she discovered I wasn't offended by her humor.

She started making up silly sentences that her dog would say to her so she could end them with bitch. She began to frenzy like a horse rearing back, she would buck her head each time she said bitch.

I realized I became some sort of key to freedom for her and she decided to take full advantage. I continued to laugh at her dog sentences as I was fascinated as to how wacky she would get as the minutes ticked by. But alas, I was unable to take her to a full ecstasy of the freedom of social boundaries as we had reached her door too soon.

But by the time we had got there she was in full swing of 'white girl pretending to have black girl groove', struttin her stiff, narrow ass with every shout of bitch.

Good times.

My spine cannot withstand the pressure of sovereignty

I was ambushed and slayed by a horse thief named Ode, who sold me to the slave owner, Naheeb in Tehran. Naheeb's response to my capture and delivery to his door was a silent laughter that ended hoohahoo as his lungs ran out of air.

Pleased he was indeed, as I am one of those people who exist without my whole and can be parted in pieces and sold for more. Naheeb, I am sold to but not in complete. Ode has decided he will keep the key to my soul and when and if Naheeb sells all of my bits, he will come back and take 10 percent of the profit and share the life from my soul with Naheeb.
This is a dirty trick often played on slave owners but alas there is no one to complain to when dirty deals in souls and bodies are concerned.

Naheeb digs his thumbs in the soft of my shoulders, "Damnable bitch, tell me this, what part of you is ground softest to grist? What part is precious and beloved? That which is not frayed like this expression on your face, ugly and betrayed?"

I fall to the sand and dig with my hands, "A piece, soft indeed, with love to bleed. It is my heart, the stone beating in the center of me. Please take as you like. It has become my plight since she left me in that place for Ode to delight, to steal me and take flight."

Naheeb took my heart to Malaga. His plan in Spain was to sell it to the light skinned store owner Santi. But Santi, astute in crimes of the heart and the taste of it's flesh saw the discoloration, perforation, deterioration and demurred, pocketing his money with a knowing smile upon his face.

Stone mad, rough Naheeb was. Chastising the beating muscle all the way back to Tehran where he found me waiting for my thrashing which I received quicker than normal. "You slut, you daughter of a whore, you have lied to me no more! You have said your heart beat strong with the blood of a love you so ache and long. That it would quicken and thicken the closer I came to this woman in Spain who you pine for, but I acted in vain! You said, 'Go to Spain ask for Santi of Malaga, he will not disdain. He will see the warmth beating and let no opportunity slip, fleeting.' You lied, yes you lied good. You bitch, you are worthless like wood."

A beating I got and the beating felt right and after his rage I begged another chance. "Sell me again, please try if you will and pardon me still. I told not a lie, a mistake I have made. This love I have had is more middle in Spain. My heart will respond in this region, it is the season, my love will be there, and near the bruja who stares to the stars so clear. Go to Segovia, a lass named Pilar, she lives in tree branches close to the stars. The people will show you, guide you, she's not far. A bruja, majestic, strange, true and bizarre."

And out he went, towing my heart in a bag tied with twine thinking this beating rock may take to the hills if he became complacent. Into Segovia he finally arrived. It took many months, there were problems and people to pay off on the way. He was thinner and quieter by the time he set foot.

He went to the magistrate and begged an audience. Both men sat in stuffed chairs with mutual judgment and suspicion. Naheeb changed expressions and kindly patted the man's hand, "Kind sir I must ask, there is a strange woman, she has put me to task, to find her jewel she lost on her way, she sits in the trees to see stars bright as day. Can you guide me to her, this bruja I do seek? I am weary and bone tired, not a cent in my pocket. I will pay you thrice at the end of the week."

The magistrate rolls his hat and pats his pocket in indignation. What a question to ask such a man of his position. This arabic phenomenon with such absurd speculations of brujas in trees in a town like his.

but as he scoffed and cleared his throat he knew just who Naheeb spoke of, he made sure to draw a map instead of taking him to the orchard where the witch fed on small animals as she stared and ranted at the sky.

Naheeb kicked up dust as he walked the road to The Tree of Pilar. He wondered why the magistrate wrote it in capital letters as if a mad woman deserved them. The orchard came into view as he rounded the hill. Citrus and otherwise, these trees Naheeb had never seen and to the end of the road stood the most majestic and bizarre and within it's branches sat and ugly beautiful bruja named Pilar.

"Woman, I speak to you, there is a heart in this bag to atone. It is fine and right with love to spend and I have been told you will buy it, behold! It beats of a blood filled with broken love of a slave I do own, she is half yours if you take this piece, a token, a jewel, a bone."

Not prepared for the movements of a 1000 year old bruja, Naheeb was startled by the woman turned snake who slithered off her branch and onto his shoulder to see what fool would offer the stone of a heart of lost soul he'd enslaved. She eyed his intentions and saw the lies and greed. She realized his slave had brought this fool to her coven of trees so she may lay him out and eviscerate his existence, smiting his life. In doing so this slave would forever lose her heart as the bruja would surely devour it for dessert. A sacrifice only the truly brokenhearted would commit.

And for a moment Pilar remembered her life as a mortal so many years before. She saw what this love could have been like and the slave who lived it, became a part of her. And with the evil of her prey she grew strong and deadly around the neck of Naheed and took his life for her own and fed upon the grizzled heart in his chest and relished his squeaks of distress. She uncoiled and like the sands of time she blew to Madrid to a building filled with the smell of the love in the stone heart of the slave and there she found it's intended.

Amada, a woman so slight yet huge with a beauty above many. She sat in a fear hid well by her courage as she had seen death stare her to the soul before. This witch she trembled silently in front of was of the kind she had never known before. In awe, she felt a strange privilege to be accosted by such an majestic entity.

Pilar reached out and took Amada's throat neatly in hand and whispered this missive, "Behold beloved of a dead and broken heart. It is here with me, in this bag, a muscle from which you chose to part. In fact it has always been from the start, here with YOU as you have a part in it's discovery, in it's private hell, so dark. But alas my beauty! This heart does start as it nears you, it still loves you, a decision again, so dark so dark."

Pilar grew from the strength of Amada's defiance that pulsed through the veins in her soft, lovely neck, "I would cast a spell upon the heart and heal it whole if I knew that the slave's goal, wanted freedom from you, you warrior, little wolf, proud soul. Even now, still at night you creep slowly to the window and wonder what light does she have left to shine and where will she be in fortnight? Filled with a spite not even you know why, you wish her a blight. And unbeknownst to you she feels it with fright and loves you despite."

Pilar bent down low with eyes of a snake and kissed the lips of Amada and told her the reason for her loathing of the one who loves her, "No more rhymes because desperate is the fear of your experience of nothingness." Coming closer, Pilar whispered, "She vexed you raw with the good and bad of emotions you can never have. And in the lacking you feel, your fear turned on the delicate love of a hard to reach possibility and killed it. She is a reminder of that which you will not let yourself be." And as Amada grasped at the hands that refused to let her breath, Pilar relinquished her power over her and slithered out into the night to Tehran.

And as I lay waiting endlessly for nothing but Naheeb and his beatings to remind me I am alive, the bruja of The Trees of Pilar can upon my bits and pieced me together again. She grabbed me up with a witches force and threw me across the room, landing me with a thud. "Stupid mortal, love as you may but do not let this moment of oppurtunity wander stray. You must find this Ode, and take back your soul. Truly, look at this odd love you grasp and hold, for it's broken and old. Oh it is sweet and fine, but DO NOT to cling or try to malign, fierce fight is only for the divine. Do not go astray in depths of decay, one day there will be and you will see that it is possible to live with no one, but thee."

And as the years pass, and I have my soul at last, I sometimes sit in The Tree of Pilar, me at her knee, I never go far. She graces me with her presence you see, because there is no strife in the loyalty of the dead, free of life.

Little Human

Paula (Powla) sits in my lap shaking her arms, legs splayed out staring at the picture in my hand. She grabs my fingers in order to make my hand move the picture. The movement excites her mind, stimulates some distant connection she once had to her frontal lobe. She is a delayed child. She has a damaged brain with such an amazing ability to be in the moment, every second. She is my teacher.

I sit staring and kissing her sweet face for hours. She is beautiful and recognizes me. She reaches out to me, grabs and pulls herself up onto me for the 23rd time in two wonderful days. I can't get enough of her. Her only desire is my lap and this picture. My only desire is to hold her tightly, kiss her cheek a million times and hold her picture just as she likes.

Now I've left, she is in Philly, I am in NY. All I want to imagine is her face, eye lashes and creamy brown eyes. She smells like a little human and I want her cheek right here. I want to maul her and squeeze her.

I am blessed to have had her in my lap and will be blessed when it happens again.

one sided phone call to 'the pound of flesh' collector

What do you want me to say?
....I HAVE asked for it back, she won't give it!

..How shall I hand you this thing you want when it's not in my hand to give?

..Yes I know but there is nothing to do. She is lost to another land. I'm not traveling oceans to retrieve it.

..But why do you want it? It's useless rot.

It has no color left! I'm telling you, it's not worth your effort. Look I'll give you the other one. It's a fine piece of fleshy, pulsing goo. It will please you...

..Now wait a fucking minute! I'm NOT trying to trick you into anything
...NO, this isn't a game. I'm just not walking across oceans of time to retrieve the dead weight of a thing that no longer exists because you think it's something you want.

Well fine then...I can't seem to convince..
..well then, I don't know what else to say
...fine, goodbye.

yearning for spring

A sense of timing
eyes in low hue
there is an ice forming
a flower once grew

into my highlands
and down into low
the cats they lay spying,
my love as she grows

towards the hills
the orchards do cling
I remember the pictures
A town aged
a land forever yearning for spring

to my heart you lie facing
a tower that fell
covered your head
and mouth full with hell

and this you say changed you
and with this you now face
and this that you want
there is no trace

It is a sin
a sin to behold
the lack, the beginning
it never unfolds

you may cast as you like
there is no end
till you turn and face
the clinging within.

a sky, dark and gloaming
a hunger that calls
your flight to a land that lies yearning for spring,
forever in fall

This is my power to believe in

When did you leave me? It happened as I woke. The dawn flickered in my eyes and you were gone. I left the keys in the tin tray on the table with the change. The change we emptied from our pockets last night. After the wet streets, filled with our laughter, our pants wet almost to the knees from jumping into puddles. Into the wet grass we slipped and fell and laid and kissed.

This is a story that never happened. This random, ephemeral she...unless. Unless I see her out of the corner of my eye, dawn flickering, just to the side of nowhere.

It doesn't really matter, where she is, where I am. This is what time follows, these little thoughts, real and not. They are beautiful, all of them. And time humors me with it's gentle tick.

In the end do our connections add to my value? Am I better for knowing you? Will you even look to the stone marking my grave as years pass? There is nothing left of any of this and now it's smarter to believe only in mountains as they mark their own graves for ever. Or as forever as we'll know.

You may read a gloom in me, you may like to feel a pity. 'Sorry you're sad and trapped and wicked'. But you just don't know what strength pushes the power, the quake that draws me, that explodes and blows through my mind and words. You just don't know.

I am a dark mutha who sees so much joy in this wicked, violently beautiful world. I am the black, the grey, the vibrant too. There is too much joy even in the dark to fade. Never, I will never be what you think even when you know what that is.

Dirty Socks

There is a wedding shop across the street. There is a man and woman, wooden, standing in the window looking blankly out, displaying their marriage gear. Sullen and dead as mannequins are I can't help but feel they represent a large population of the living.

Why do we stand in front of someone who tells us we are bound? I panic at the hopes and dreams of those who see 'forever' in their bouquets, tux and tails.

He stands, staring at his reflection in his shoes as she clutches her flowers. They fight back the tears of expectations of what this moment means and will eventually splinter into.

Two kids, the TV running, dirty socks and resentment brings out the bags you pack that take you back to that part of you you forgot to take with you.

a frail pull, a fragile glow

Sister says she wants to read me.
Sister says she wants to know.
Sister wants to believe me,
and I must make it so.

I cannot give her a piece of me.
This would be a death you see.
A given token of blood and gore.
I am not a tool to dig with,
to find hidden metaphor.

Collapse upon me broken sea,
Wash and deliver the mystery,
Bring it warm and still aglow,
to the hands of my sister,
a gift to sow.

Reap me now before the tide draws back
Twisted fins and souls bare in lack
Begging time,
begging a release from woe
Into the moons fading, forever glorious glow.

Today, Tuesday, vote. Please vote.

Go read my dad.

a rot begins

I'm searching for a silence I can sit in. But I behave like a wild, cornered animal when the opportunity comes. It flings my body aside and stares me into a terror I can not face. I am not that brave.

I have too much inside that I don't want to hear. I fear all the little truths that attempt to address me just as I sleep, just as I wake. They may contain the recipe of my death.

In response to my denial of my Self my mind has decided I will die a slow rotting death of the flesh. It is it's way of calling attention to my lack of inner fortitude. I have depended on this outside and I am being presented with the possibility of it's waste.

It conjures that one day I may lay in an immovable, stricken body, alive as I ever could be. Looking out into a world I could never be a part of again. Burning alive. With no ability to live. And this is the only true terror I have.

I can lay safe and comfortable in warm soothing baths and in a second the thought of immobility and sickness creep into my mind, creating a body made to be my souls cell and I gasp and stiffen. holding my hands to my face, wiping, wiping the thought away. I sweat, even in water.

I am avoiding the inner truths and now they have come to trick or treat me, to fuck me until I listen as a child would to the Self truth, one in which I fear I will die.

But this is my cowardice baying at it's own superstitious moon. It's not a question of if, it is definite, I will die. But as with everything, within my death is my rebirth.

I am intent on this suicide but I would rather have the sword of an executioner on my neck.

I am a lazy killer.

A coward of sorts. Hari-Kari this ultimate silence is, brutal.

And I'm avoiding the cut, to which my inner response will be another sickness dining on my body tonight. I am a great horror show. I invite you to watch the story that plays on my minds screen.

searching database

Words escape. they have flown my mental coop, on to bigger and better brains.
I'm left with images that won't graduate into sentences, verbs, not even sounds.
All that I've mustered is this cardboard version of a post. A set of words made in cut out, pasted and carried to your eyes, absent of movement. For now, my dollar store gift till a colorful thought arrives.

misbirthed, a quandary in time

A setting sun on the clouds of a day similar to today. I've reached my past and climbed the present and at these heights the only focus is on the wind, the rain. Washing the dirt of misinterpretation, misconception.

The abortion of time. A clot of flesh birthed and deathed too soon. The soldiers of the wound run to find the reasons why It wasn't right. It, being those depths of love that carry your voice to my soul.

I am weary and even I buy their reason, believing the stories of my own mistake. I am caught in the slow forgetting and the prison of never letting go.

Absorbing the visual

A clear and concise tale can be cut and layered by emotional descriptives, mirroring a familiar scent of memory back to the reader. Texture to color, deflect intent. Opening veins of thought, tapping heart strings to play the processes of the mind. Rewarding the churn with slow and complex visuals. Giving the story a pull, a drag, the mind follows, playing catch up, eating and enjoying the complexities of the read.

I reside in the dust of Darfur, in the land of Sudan

I am far from myself, so close to empty. But I have my own hand to hold and for now this is what I crave to own. I will not move from this place, this place in the sand. I will not walk away with another stranger, candy given, pain to come.

I have seen pictures of bodies, dead on the fields of Sudan. So still, so done, rotting in the sun. The breeze shifts a cuff, pushes the sand onto the nail of a hand that once caressed someone it loved. The rot and decay quietly consume every memory, every kiss.

I lie there with them, inviting the decomposition of my existence. The great leveler of egos, petty concerns and trivial worries. The peace maker between warring hearts, broken and deferred dreams. Dead on a field, in a land not my own. I would become the dust of Sudan.

Neptune's bidding

This is just jest and play. There is no trip to Spain on a train or a plane. No Egyptian dogs or robots to reboot.

It's all a dream, weighted and thrown to the sea. The dream and she. They live on the sandy bottom with the crabs and eels. She's Neptune's jelly fish.

She's stung my ragged edges until she's reached indifference. But it's a hateful indifference. A difference indifference.

Through the currents she looks to land, gloating in her ability to breath water, to swim away smug and pleased knowing I am land locked. But I wade, I'm a wader in her sea, her spineless body and heart sting to paralysis my stupid stupid soul.

Us, on a bus in Madrid

I, we and you are a different us than yours. And really, your us probably doesn't include me. It is another us, on a bus in Madrid.

I have a ticket to us. It carries me to Spain by way of plane. Two cats and an unskilled communicator. Visiting a robot and a dog with an Egyptian name.

I will arrive and kiss her metally mouth and search for the on switch to her heart and push the friend button again. There's software to download, forgiveness and an open mind to soften her hard, drive.

help me

3/4 root-canal. Tomorrow. I am not happy. I don't do well with Novocain, it doesn't work for me. The last time I had work done at the dentist (12 years ago) the doctor finally said, "I can't give you anymore, it's effects won't increase at this point." This was after seven shots.

The thought of the needle going into my mouth makes me squirm out of my seat. I just looked at myself after writing that and I'm halfway off the couch, ass hanging over, my ex's laptop precariously dangling between my knees as I dodge the needle and the doctor that's not really here.

Dad will you please come with me and hold my hand and tell me what an ass I'm being? Need my daddy.

I know, I know, it's so not cool to need your daddy when you're 37. But I never said I was cool.

soft serve

There is this wacky guy who lives in the building of one of the dogs I walk. He gets into the elevator with me and my dog and screams, "HI INDIE!" Indie sits close to me looking at him with half interest half discomfort.

I'm looking at the guy trying to not let my lip curl into a snarl. He's not a bad guy just fucking clueless and overly happy in that fake loud pushy way.

Loud Happy Guy yells, "ARE YOU GOING FOR YOUR WALK IN THE RAIN INDIE?!"

Indie: Why yes, I am accompanying my dog-walker here for an hour long stroll where we will also stop by Nellie's place and pick her up too. Hopefully I'll have a nice firm shit so it's not too much trouble for Robin to pick up as she does get pissed when my shit comes out like soft serve. A few pisses on choice trees and hydrants and I should be home in time to grab one of my owners shoes, jump onto the couch and have a chew or two before she comes home. Thanks for asking.

Loud happy guy always thinks if the dog looks at him he has to say, "OH SORRY INDIE, I DON'T HAVE ANY TREATS ON ME RIGHT NOW!"

He then looks at me and by now I am snarling at him because I know what he's going to say "ISN'T IT FUNNY HE ALWAYS WANTS A TREAT?!"

And for the 76th time I say, "Actually just because the dog's attention may be on you doesn't mean you need to anthropomorphize his behavior into behavior you yourself exhibit, the need for a treat, your treat being the crumbs of attention you get from being such a kiss ass loud happy guy."

Ok so I don't ever say this.

I just spread my tight lips into an imitation of a smile, staring dead eyed beyond his head biding my time till the doors open.

cell phone rapists

Got my last Verizon cell phone bill, the one where they say payment due immediately since you've cancelled with them. Over the summer I had one bill at $400 and another at $900+. Sucked, had to change carriers.

I wrote Good Riddance on the front of the bill with an exclaimation point. Felt good.

Blank

Sorry no writing. Story-less.

The all important decisions of a Saturday morning

I shall have tea, with toast and peanut butter and raspberry jam. No I shall make bacon and toast and an egg to sully my toast in.

But then again I could pour a bowl of cereal with a lovely banana cut in.

Although I would rather go downstairs to my favorite bodega to my Arab brothers and ask for a coffee, light, one sugar and have them make me an egg, ham and cheese on a roll.

While there I will probably be drawn to the doughnut section and alas, there is so much to choose..But then again, there's Dunkin Donuts right up the way and the girls there melt the sugar in a sip of hot coffee before they add the ice into my iced coffee so there's no grit at the bottom.

But alas, I do have bagels and cream cheese in the fridge..

Just watching the Merry-go-Round

And again, smokin truth from my dad about that imbecile in the white house

Gill the web designer

Today I was walking to work. This guy stops me and says, "Excuse me Miss, have you heard the announcement that His Holiness will be blessing us with his presence here in Harlem today?"

My head is shaking, "No" as I'm trying to figure out if he's talking about Louis Farrakhan, the Dalia Lama or some high falootin Baptist preacher.

He leans over and says, "Girl, I'm jus fuckin wit choo." I slapped his arm and we walked bumping shoulders, laughing for a block.

And this is what makes me LOVE this city.

Savages

So for the umpteenth time I enter my apartment and my cat Cliff bulldozes his big head into my leg in a pre-rape frenzy to be fed immediately. He screeches and shoves me into the wall, "Oh, you wanna set yer shit down? Fuck you feed me. You wanna take a pee, fuck you feed me."

"Wait, fucker!", I use my foot to push him across the floor hoping it's with enough momentum to bowling ball him into my other nagging cat Iris.

To avoid any further build up of resentment that may lead to me killing them, I force myself to take care of what I want to do first. Real selfish shit like, take my shoes off. Put my bags down and get a drink of water. As I'm doing this he's weaving between my legs, screeching and I'm taking phantom swings at his head, cursing his mother.

Finally I pull the food out of the fridge, phantom kicking and punching at him to keep him out from under my feet. I drop his food bowl with a clang and he huffs the mush into his fat head, crashing his teeth into the metal bowl.

And now they lay so cutesy and lovey on the bed. Purring and cleaning like that's who they really are and I'm sitting here seething, plotting their demise.

The offenders.

I'm so hot

Today I was hit on by a ten year old.

He looked me up and down and said, "Whad up mami?"

Inwardly I said, "Nutin much little papi. Yo baby, I AM old enough to be yo mami."

Outwardly I smiled in that laughing way, he blushed and darted away. Very cute.

Spanked and liking it

I've been reviewed and judged by Ask And You Shall Receive, a.k.a. iwillfuckingtearyouapart.blogspot.com.
She spanked me for whining and for my blood smeared background. These things I can change, the one little prop she gave was that she thought I wrote well..yes! So all in all, I'm pleased.

leaning into the sharpest point today

My friend and I are feeling the contortions of ours hearts as they break and mend. We've been writing to each other a lot.

She quoted a Buddhist saying which I embrace, "Lean into the sharpest point." Meaning feel the pain, all of it without pushing it away. If we do this it will remove the fear and let us progress through it.

Another quote she has thought hard on in her process is from Vernon Howard, "Anger or bitterness toward those who have hurt you will block your path to higher ground. You can have anger toward people or you can have freedom from people, but you can't have both."

She mentioned the anger takes a little longer to get through, as evidenced in this, her words I quote, with permission of course: "When I was praying each day that my robot ex would flip her SUV over the side of the old Kingston bridge suffer a C3 fracture, sustaining paralysis Christopher Reeve- style and awake each morning at 3am to a nurses aid changing her diaper... well this quote helped me through that time."

The rage, it's exhilarating to read. I don't have it to this extent but it is so refreshing to hear the dark of another to help bring back some of the light. She's awesome.

an open hand and heart

The Amish girls that were killed..

A conservative evangelical pastor went to Pennsylvania from Washington DC right after he heard about the killings. He didn't go to the Amish but to the family of the killer because he knew their hell would be forgotten or ignored. I really liked that he'd done this. I respected him for it.

After, he visited an Amish family and watched a mother clean the body of her daughter for her wake and burial. He said the mother touched her body with such love. The grandfather stood by and told the children in the room not to judge the man who killed the girls. To not think evil of him because of what he did.

This is love.

And if I didn't fuck girls, love NYC, curse and think like a sailor I would want to be Amish. But quite frankly, even all of that aside, I'm not sure I could consistently hold such love and forgiveness in me. I am so moved by them.

the workings of the universe coming to pat my heart

My friend sent me this:

"Only one thing made him happy
and now that it was gone
everything
made him happy."- Leonard Cohen

How perfectly it fits into the space that was just emptied by the one thing I loved.

My hands sticky, fumbling with the last bite attached to the pit

My friend said laugh hard three times today and make one really good memory. I didn't laugh hard three times. Maybe once, it wasn't a good day. But I did make a memory.

There was this nectarine. Given to me by a doorman who feeds me fairly regular, kisses me often and tells me secrets about the people in the building. This nectarine looked like any other. But a luscious gift it was, containing such a flavor I almost wept. Every bite a blessing.

"Jorge, the nectarine you gave me, I've never tasted one so delicious I was so happy to have it, thank you."

"I know you baby. I know you to give thanks for de froot. You know, before I was alive I say, 'God, make me in de center of de froot!" and he did. I know you mami, you and I are de same. We see we need to give to the froot, to God."

Indeed

Dragon

Irreverence is essential. That which offends is home to me at 2:44am. I'm on the verge of owning my Ugly.

I spend time pretending to not see my mean lurking in corners. There's sick denial of my Ugly that has it consuming the pretty just to get noticed. So let me say, yes I meant it at the time. I am your dragon. And I'll be it again.

There are times when I would like to knock babies and their cutesy mommys out of the way and fuck girls under 18, 'cause they had it coming to them.

I do judge your slovenly ass as you sit so pleased with yourself on the train. And when you bump into me I sometimes think of how liberating it would feel to sucker punch you so hard in the back of your head that you fall and break your face.

I would like to collect lovers, one for each mood and shade of Ugly and pretty I own. And like the Marilyn Manson lyrics go, "I'm not in love, but Im gonna fuck you till somebody better comes along." Better yet, I AM in love but I'm gonna fuck you till somebody better comes along.

I covet attention from others. I'm piggish about it and play smooth, pretend to be delighted and surprised. I judge my body for aging, it's failure to remain unrealistically, exactly the way I fucking want it. I judge yours for repelling me, making me loath you, for attracting me, making me want you.

You are too white and gentrified. You are too ghetto and rude. You are a fucking bore and when I pass you I see how much better I am and how clueless you are to it. I would put my hand on your head and push off into another direction if I weren't repulsed by the touch.

I want. And I don't want to give back unless it makes me look good. I am a vacuum and I will suck you dry and leave you stupefied. Stupefied 'cause you thought I was 'so nice'. I will be discontented with what you give and leave you no peace till I get more.

Sometimes I love movies depicting the pain and death of the innocence of others. Horror flicks that creep me out by turning me on with blood and death and terror.

I love Marilyn Manson. He's my Ugly and my pretty's hero. He says all the things I'm thinking about you and the world. He stands up for and in his Dark and kicks your balls with it.

And yet, I'm worn by Ugly. I want so much to pretend and not own it. My mom's like this. "Let's pretend it didn't happen and everything will be fine." I'm sticky on one side with this stupid denial. Fuck off and out of me already.

The worst part is my regret and shame about my actions. These actions and thoughts have lead me to realize I would have been better off owning my selfishness as it happened. But I turned from the fire and let it burn unchecked till there was nothing left but fucking regret and an Ugly so big it deserved to be capitalized.

My Ugly lights up like a beacon to the damned. I will drown you if you seek refuge.

Marilyn Manson-User Friendly

I should have taken his picture

There is a bodega on the corner of my building. It's run by an Arabic family. They are so lovely. I think they're all brothers or cousins, whatever, they are lovely.

The most beautiful of the lot was working this morining. He made me coffee, light, one sugar. He said I could speak Arabic. If I can speak English I could speak Arabic. He said something about how America is the place where everyone comes and because of that English speakers can learn other languages with the help of all the other people...something, something.

It didn't make sense and I didn't care. He's so lovely and his energy is so open and friendly. He could have been speaking Arabic to me and it would have had the same effect.

I miss them already

Yesterday's de-blogging orgy rocked. Will write more after tea.

Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog!

A post to the damnable White House monkey and all his bastard soul sellers. Belledame fetches her axe

By The Clock. GCS, NYC baby

The sun is coming through my dirty window in a pretty, smudged sort of way and the cats are silent, finally. They are fed and have become two balls of sleeping animal making sure to leave more hair on my sheets.

Belledame222, Kristin, Antiprincess and I are getting together to de-blogger bond. Touch hands, hug, create togetherness and become wealthier for knowing one another.

bear country

There's someone I like....
She's an assistant director in Canada. We talk on the phone, Immediate Message, send each other videos (not that kind, dirty dirty minds) and she has a web cam, so's I's can see her cute face when's we talk.

Let me put that in past tense. We used to do all of that but since she started filming on a remote island near the Northwestern Territory we haven't been able to communicate on anything that requires a signal. She will occasionally find a spot where a miracle ray of signal happens to pass by her bear infested island and she can get on her laptop and write a line or two or text me on her phone.

I write to her too. Little emails, IMs and the very rare 35 cent phone text, knowing she's not going to get them for a month if ever. Our messages have become brief sad fits of 'I miss you, wish I could hear your voice, this sucks'. And we're feeling like temporarily star crossed lovers. Very dramatic, yeah so?

And last night, goddamn it, last night I'm fucking about on the computer, IMing with a friend and my phone rings. It says Unknown and I immediately think of this ridiculous client I have who often engages me in long conversations about how hilarious her dog/child is and the thought of listening to her and being polite was out of the question.

Why didn't I think maybe it was Unknown 'cause it was from a fucking pay phone in back woods, remote island, hunting lodge Canada..why? Why didn't I?

I ain't got zip

My powers of story telling have vanished. If you should see them scuttling down darkened street corners apprehend and I shall reward.

A gift for myself. To mend

There is a reoccurring twitch that's setting up in my spine. An indication of an emotional breakthrough about to erupt. Whether it makes a scene or not is the question. It feels like drama and the stage is set so stand the fuck clear.

If I could only claim crazy occasionally then I could act a fool and get away with it. I could crack like the sad and discontented egg I am and fry. But most of all what I need to claim is the gift of how to give and stop caring so much about how to get. I am a selfish only-child at Christmas. I still have that picture of me surrounded by my loot. Hair brushed straight and white, hands folded like a little princess.

I wanted you. I wanted. And I can't have so fuck you.

Mean girl inside, useless strategy considering my soul is sooo soft. I am so soft, you'll never know. I am a contradiction. Able to shock the best of you who know me. Once she said, "Why are you so nice?" Then later she said, "Since you were so mean, I've done my best to detach."

I do not know how to make peace with the Want and the Give. I can't seem to drive that clear flat plain on cruise control. With all the enlightenment flickering around me like fireflies I fold my hands over my eyes, mouth and ears like a multi-armed Hindu goddess of ignorance. No officer I didn't see the signs..

I swear to god I'm gonna break and leave a wet smear on the subway platform. And people will walk by and say, "What the fuck? Did someone wretch?" But it will just be bits of me, not dinner. Bits of useless rage and childish self pity and the deep heart break of dreams deferred. As she sits in her forget. In her multi-colored bandana forgetting. Forgetting me.

Yesterday a great, fat wall of flesh stepped in front of me as I stepped off the train. Closing off my escape route, he did. I was on a mission, racing to get into my apartment. The slovenly beast lumbered to and fro too fat for me to move around. Too selfish, gloating to not enjoy his blockage of my freedom.

I squeaked between him and the wall and as I passed in a rage I raised my hand to the sky and shook it. Like a fucking 'jazz hand' move from an age 7-10 dance class and I knew then that I was on the fray.

leaf power

She asked, 'What happens to a dream deferred?'

Does it dissipate into useless energy that recycles into what's closest? Like that tree over there? Does it become leaf energy and is that leaf stronger than the rest for getting the lost dream, the dream on hold?

Or when dreams defer is it a slow letting? Like a hole in a balloon. Seeping out of me, spilling onto the seat I sit, The woman I bump, the door I push. Like dirty hands I spread germs of loss?

Whatever the way, at first they always have the stench of disappointment. If we're lucky they filter through and become clean, clear relief.

Too White and Nerdy

A link to a link of a video that was a link from a friend of the link I'm linking you to.
Fetch Me My Axe

My Pop Rocks

Go see my Dad. If you've been following this topic you'll enjoy this post.

My dad is fucking hilarious with the best dry, political wit ever. You have got to go wander through his posts.

Where are you?

Belledame222 and I hung out in the east village. We were supposed to hang out downtown, well I thought we were. We had decided to meet at The Strand bookstore.

At 11 I was there, at 11:15 Belle called said she was walking towards it, be there in a sec.
Five minutes passed.
I call, leave a message, "Hey, I think we're at different Strands. Call me."
Two minutes, Belle calls, "What Strand are you at?"
Me, "On Fulton, you?"
"12th and Broadway."
Me, "For fucks sake."

I get on the 2 train, get off at 14th, promptly walk in the wrong direction for five minutes. Call Belle, tell her I'm an asshat and will be there in 15 instead of 10.

Finally, we are together.

Belle and I are the picture of opposites. She is short with long, wild, shocking red hair. I am tall with boring straight, very short, brown/grey hair.

Belle is so cerebral and crazy smart that I have to listen with rapt attention to understand where she's going with stuff. She is a lesson in quieting the mind and listening carefully. She comes from a different angle of a subject than me. I have to walk around the object and get the full view.

Of the topics we discussed, we concluded that coven witches need to not have control issues with their students of the craft. We decided this at the Ukrainian diner on 2nd.

We ambled down 2nd, into a too expensive Indian store, then a weird open lot behind an apartment building that was an old cemetery with vaults hung in the walls surrounding. A woman stood here in the open with her two standard poodles insisting we sign her guest book so the organization that maintained this open lot/cemetery could get more funding with a show of all its enthralled visitors.

At Houston, Belle suggested a movie. We saw Sherrybaby. Popcorn, Junior Mints and Coke.

There is discussion of a future meet up with Kristin and Antiprincess. I like.

It was a good Sunday afternoon.

re-fart

It was Game Night, Cake Night last night, which is exactly what it sounds like. I arrived at M and S's apartment where Scrabble had already started. I enter the game two turns behind and start eating chocolate chip cookies with milk. (Cookies are an acceptable form of cake-ish food for Game Night, Cake night.)

The board is difficult as the words are all clustered to the bottom and there has been a struggle to come up with good words. My first word is made with just a P making POO, POOP. Nice.

We continue with DAILY, COMA and REHEM (re-hem is mine), which is questionable because it needs a hyphen but clothes can be re-hemmed and we're desperate for words so it squeezes by.

S and I look to the northern reaches of our board which is still uncharted territory with unlimited resources to be exploited. M and J start to sing Boy George's Karma Chameleon song with the words on the board. Coma, Coma, Daily Sex Rehem....Poop and Rehem...Poop and Reheeee'eemmm.

S is struggling with his shitty letters so he argues that technically re-fart is a word, just like re-hem. But it's not cause you can't re-fart. He gives his argument's example; Farting Contest. Contestant number two comes to the microphone, he tries to fart and is distracted by a screaming child in the stands and asks to try again. The judge says, "Contestant number two will re-fart."

Fair enough, it works in this example but it doesn't matter to M, J and I. One can not re-fart. One can re-hem as there is still a hem to redo but you cannot collect the already farted fart and re-fart. S is reluctant but concedes.

By this point I've eaten three cookies, a piece of organic cake with a glass of milk, most of the bowl of popcorn and a beer that N who just came in has brought.

Eventually we conquer some the of the unused northern board and in the end I win the game even after coming in late. I gloat about this now as I have very little formal schooling and my friends are all graduates of impressive universities and all are educators themselves.

We eat and drink more, laugh and joke. We move on to another game in the living room but I won't go into it's details as I didn't win, so what's the point?

Saturday Morning

Phone Call:
Ring tone, Cassie's Me & U,

It's J.

Me: In my best obnoxious British accent, 'cause J.'s English, "Hellooo Daaaaling!"

J: "Eggy Breky?" Translation, (Hey, want to go get breakfast with R and I?)

Me: "Yaaa"

J: "Bye"

Ass pat

Yesterday I watched this guy drive his car up the wrong side of the street. It reminded me of another time this happened at the same spot.

Last winter I was walking my dog in the morning and a cop came roaring up the wrong side of the street with sirens blaring and I smelled trouble immediately. I was on the rise of the hill and I could see in the direction they were coming that the light had just turned green and the cars were heading down.

I wasn't close enough to wave an alarm to anyone and sure enough the cop hit a car head on. I ran over and the guy who's car had been hit was not hurt and on his phone already. My dog and I rushed over to the drivers side of the cop car and the driver was in shock. She was panting and her partner was bleeding from his neck but mostly okay. So I sat with the driver and stroked her hair until the wall of alarmed cop cars came screeching up to save their fellows soldiers of the street.

When they roared in, jumping out of their cars ready to box whoever did this to their own, when it was thems that did it, I quietly stepped away and left.

But I didn't really leave because the moment I had with that cop was intense and it meant a lot to me. First the intense desire I had to soothe her was powerful and then the shear act of touching a cop in general was tweaking me out for hours after.

Maybe this doesn't translate. Maybe touching a cop seems like no big deal and maybe it isn't but here in NYC my experience has been different. On two different occasions I've seen people approach the po'lice, touching their arms and both cops stepped back and said, "Don't fucking touch me."

As I am a very touchy feely person I was instantly terrified and after these instances, every time I came near a cop I had to repeat, "don't touch the cop, don't touch the cop." Cause what I can't do I want more than anything. And now, desperately I want to pull the stray hair away from the eyes of Ms. Copper. Or give the biceps of Mr. PoPo guy a nice squeeze when I pass, maybe a pat on the ass. And what's worse is my compulsive urge to slide my fingers across their holster..

I'm so scared of myself near cops, when they're around I stay 6 feet away and look in a different direction cause, like dogs, (say it with me) If I don't see them, they're not there.

When police cars cruise by and I'm not paying attention my feet will jerk my ass across the sidewalk and walk me into it's path. I want to reach in and give Mr. Doughnut Eater a squeeze on the cheek. I'm sick and getting sicker over this. If I could meet a cop that I could touch then I would be cured.

See President Bush as Gandhi. Dubya goes on a hunger strike for peace in Iraq

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

ugly

I've been a hurtful person lately. I have said some things that I meant, but in a cruel way because I was hurt. This has always been a problem. When really hurt, I often attack.

I'm feeling pretty bad about it. Bad indeed. And now there's nothing left to be done but realize I've caused permanent damage to the heart of someone. It's hard to make peace, in fact there's not much peace to be had.

The way it looks, neither will there be forgiveness. That which was of value between us isn't worth the hurt that sits heavy and large in the room.

I have to find the practice of restraining my reactions to the emotion of pain. To feel it yes, but not strike out like a cat. Causing maximum damage in a flash of time.

Today I wish to step gently. I'm so disappointed with me because really, this is the worst behavior I own and it's still alive and well.

**I have to find and believe that it's worth feeling all the pain caused me without striking out at the person who caused it, making them hurt too. Because isn't this on a large and small scale what it's about? What many of us so much want to see in the world? To feel the rage and not act out of it? Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., The Dalai Lama..

I want this strength for myself

2 cows, a chicken.

Click on the photo to get a better view.

J, R and I were walking home from dinner passing one of J's favorite grocery stores. There are two cows and a chicken posing on the top of the store. There is always coversation being made about the chicken and how huge it is compared to the cows. He is out of proportion.

J keeps speaking about it, looking at it. And I keep saying, 'Yes, I know, I hate it.' She wants me to look but I can't. She thinks my reaction is amusing so I explain that the proportions are unacceptable and completely intolerable to my reality thus I must not look at it. And as with dogs, if I don't see it, it's not there.

A weird quirk has risen to my surface and J loves it so I explain a little something.

As a child I played with Barbies, cars and other little peopley toys. I enjoyed finding things that I could use in the lives of these creatures such as the little things they put in the pizza box to prevent the box from mashing onto the pie. These plastic protectors make great tables for little peopley characters (you know, the little Star Wars characters, etc.) but completely unacceptable with Barbie because it's way too small and that's just insanity.

A banana split boat from Dairy Queen is ideal for Barbie in the tub when she wants to float on the lake but it's way too big for the other peopley people and could not be used by them or sit anywhere near where they reside in my room.

Big Tonka bulldozers and dump trucks are awesome for Hans Solo and Chubaca as they fit inside but ridiculous for Barbie and Matchbox cars. And other children who mix are stupid and my patience and respect would quickly run dry. Leading me to wander alone to the monkey bars or another sand box where I could bring order back into life.

I still find things that would be ideal for Barbie but not Luke Skywalker or vise versa. I want to bring them home but that's just weird at this point in my life. And so is the chicken and the cows and I will not have my stomach lurching about with anxiety over them. I will not look and thus, they do not exist.

What are you looking at and why are you writing in that notebook?

A story? hmm no, don't have one. But let's ramble and see where we end up, shall we?

Ok, thinking about my train ride but alas this is a worn topic, not for me but maybe you...

And the people on the train too. They're sick to death of me staring around sucking the energy out of the air, collecting samples to type up and spill out onto my blog. I see the angry stares now.

'Yo, white girl, don't you know my ass is trying to get home so's I can rest my weary bones? Back that vacuum you call a brain right the fuck up and leaves me alone. Damn girl, get a life.'

But you are my life.

'Then yo ass needs to be gettin some of that expensive thurrapy.'

Well maybe but I would much rather sit here across from you and adore you when you're not looking.

'Look I ain't no fuckin lezzy so gets yo crazzzy self the fuck on up and out. Now I ain't fuckin round, move yo skinny white ass.
Damn she on my last nerve yo...'

sigh...

my blog should be called, On a Train

I love this song so much I turn my IPod up to maximum volume and it strains and damages my already stressed ear pieces. They emit little shreaks and clacks with every drum beat and guitar reverb.
I must fill my head full with this song. If I don't, this train may jump it's track and I will never feel this songs beat, it's exhilaration again and then where will I be?

Somewhere without this song, that's where.

INCUBUS baby, INCUBUS

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

breast to breast, train lover o mine

On 9/11, Monday, I went down to the WTC site, took pictures and walked with the rest of the sad people. I'll show the pics and tell you about it in another post as I'm needing a break from thoughts of that.

On my way home I went to the Chambers Street A train station and it was still considered rush hour so a lot of people were waiting. The train was taking a long time coming, like a half an hour long. So by the time it ambled in there were maybe a hundred people boarding.

It was the most crowded train I've ever been on. The man to my right was mashed up against me, the woman to my left and I could have been lovers the way we were pressed. My back was against a glass barrier and to stay calm I kept telling myself at least I was taller and my head was above the crowd.

The train pulled away and at the next station there were hordes of people wanting on and very few on the train getting off. This lasted for most of the up and down length of Manhattan, as I live in the northern most part.

I told the lady, my temporary train lover that it was a good thing I loved people cause our intimacy level was really high at the moment. She laughed, said she didn't live here anymore and the situation was a little intense for her. She told me she lives in the suburbs of PA and I oooed and aaaed although the idea was excruciating to me. Anywhere but NYC is.

Train lover fell into silence and I hoped she wasn't thinking about freaking out since our bodies were all but fused together.

A fight almost broke out further up in the car and the ongoing rant of one of the perpetrators made the guy behind train lover tense and he muttered to himself.

Although it was a pain in the ass it was another train ride I loved. I can't help but find these moments of condensed focus on what's around me, of the press of people against me as metaphors for life in general. They are the quick versions of class. They're summer classes.

(I was able to take the pics after it got less crowded so it doesn't show the press at its worst but you get the idea. Sorry they're so blurry.)

9/11

I don't know what to say about this post. I've spent all night looking at videos to find the right ones to put here and it doesn't really matter anymore it's all the same horror and death. Despite how intense and uncomfortable it may be I wish you would watch every video as whatever you'll feel for the next ten minutes is nothing like what was felt by those there.







Please click here, this is beautiful

Then this happened...

And I remember this. Too many volunteers, too many donations. They would put us to tasks like 'move this box over there', 'put those gloves here.' There were so many of us. This is where the good came back and through all of this horrible tragedy this amazing strength grew in everyone in this city because of 9/11.

Sonja was in the park next to the first tower when it fell.
She told me yesterday she was reading where a fireman said if he had run south or west from the falling tower he would have died. She ran east, if she hadn't I wouldn't know her or have a clue of her existence today. She has a profile on myspace. Please go over, read her blog entries, see her video. She very much wants us to never forget.

Sometimes I feel foolish for how affected I was by this horrible event as my story isn't near as terrifying as so many others but I have one, here's a little piece of it:

Tori sang this on David Letterman right after 9/11.

I laid on the couch with K. in misery. I remember Letterman trying to make a show despite the hell that had just happened. I was hardly functioning, hardly aware. And the sound of Tori's voice rose up and spoke to my pain. And now I can't hear this song and not think of 9/11 and that night on the couch.

This post is for those who died, for those who survived, for Sonja who survived and changed her life because of it.

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

roots

There was a guy at my friends brunch party who was telling us about a family reunion he went to yesterday. It was on the land owned by his family for four generations.

His great-grandparents were from Hungry. They came here, bought land and created a farm and a hotel which the family ran for, I think, two generations.

He remembered his grandmother talking about how her parents died when she and her siblings were very young. The kid's aunts and uncles cared for them as they continued to work the farm and the hotel.

There was a big tree that sat near the lake. The kids, missing their dead parents and grandparents designated this tree to be their grandmother. They would each take turns sitting between it's roots, leaning into it's trunk pretending to be held by her.

These children are now very old and they still tell people their grandmother was a tree who sat near the lake on the land their family owned.

Kristin, jewel in the sand eating peaches, making god real

Why and what?

I've seen a lot of silly shit in the city.

I've seen a woman dressed in a clown suit who honked her horn at people when they commented on her outfit. I've seen a junky pull her pants down and pee as if she were in her own bathroom (which I suppose she was) right on the corner of 109st and Broadway.
I unfortunately walked up on a woman sitting on a park bench blowing a man who casually stood over her with one leg on the bench mechanically moving in and out of her mouth. Sorry, too much visual.
But notice how I don't erase it.
And every day, there is something else but usually just a different version of the thing before.

But I have to say, I've not seen this before.




I am taking a poll.
Why is he there? And what the hell is he thinking?

I mean doesn't he know how many dogs have shit and peed on that very spot? I should know, I'm a dog walker.

where?

I don't know where to put the litter box. It doesn't fit anywhere. I don't want it in my bedroom cause the smell isn't conducive to sleep or love making. The frggin bathroom hasn't a spot for it and it's not going into the kitchen or the livingroom...that leaves the hallway/entryway. This is a great place as I enjoy letting people into my apartment and having their first impression be the faint odor of cat pee.

I would pay for the moving truck

I'm listening to Homer beg for sex from Marge on the Simpsons.

I'm also listening to the twit who lives above me thump around her apartment like a 200 pound man. I want to slap the stomp right out of her.

I'm a teensy grumpy, I could really go for a good beat down. Some unassuming white girl, say my upstairs neighbor..

I would wait till she left her apartment. I would slip down the stairs after her and follow her past 204st .When we got to the side gate of the old Dykeman farmhouse I'd pull her ass into the opening and knock the desire to live right out of her and tell her she's too loud and too stupid to get away without being mugged at least once in NYC.

Then she would move.

...

I can't think of anything interesting enough to tell you about.

I've fucked off long enough regarding the unpacking of boxes. Could someone come over and help? This sucks.

fat boys with big bowls of miso soup

I'll have you know I was a runner up in Izzy's caption contest.

I won a tee shirt. It says something like Smart and Sexy on it and according to Izzy is a great boob shirt.

Winner and other runner ups are listed at the bottom of this post.
Honesty, I think Mom-101 shoulda won.

Its all about timing

Forcast,
Today: Periods of rain. High near 66. Windy, with a east wind between 29 and 33 mph, with gusts as high as 47 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. New rainfall amounts between a half and three quarters of an inch possible.

I'm moving today.

grit

I was on the train home. It was crowded as it's yet another fucking rainy day.
I'm standing in front of the doors with a guy beside me. I'm pissy and irritated by..I don't know what. An accumulation of daily whatevers.

As we come to the stops and the doors open I step aside and let people on or off. Mr. Fucko next to me doesn't move an inch for anyone. He stands his stone faced, Aztecan presence square and stares into the dim thoughts of his small, empty brain. Thus I have to really smash myself aside to allow my fellow people to flow.

Usually I would have a different attitude but I am weak with grumpiness, so I stared at his stupid head where his stupid face sat for three stops, willing him to turn into the toad he is.

So finally I say to him, I say, "I know your little mind thinks you rule this big world cause you're so tough with your selfish, rude insistence to stand like a dick in everyones way but I'm here to tell you you suck and we all think you do and you need to go home and take a long look in the mirror and realize you are just a piece of grit someone's desperately trying to wash out of their eye."

And with that the people stood and cheered. They lifted me above their heads and praised me. And the stupid, stunned man withered and shrunk into a toad.

sweaters are out of storage

There's a panic that wells up in me as the summer starts to fade. I feel like I'm sliding down a hill into a darker place. The colder months are always a time of introspection for me. A time of retreat.

Soon my friends and I won't stop to chat, we'll be striving to our next destinations, moving through the cold hoping to get done with work and to our warm apartments. There will be less meeting out for dinner and drinks.

A connection I have will be severed by a trip aboard. An open ended adventure with no guarantee of renewal.

I'm reluctant to welcome grey sky and scarves back into my life..I'm not ready for the darkness and solitude.

And it just started raining. Again.

Oh look, it's overcast outside. Again.
Oh look, my mood fits it perfectly.
Matching greys.


We're in the same room and can't find each other.
The jar lid is too tight, hope is being suffocated.
I want a stronger flow, my boat doesn't float well in a shallow current.

What other colorful, descriptive phrases can I muster to express my sense of disappointment to an ending connection with someone I wish to be close to? I could sit here all day.

Weird sensation, the inability to connect when it's what I crave.
And still I wish to see her again.
Two opposing desires sit in the center of me. A rotten lot.

Here's an email from my friend in France and it says it all and I hate that it does:

I agree with you on communication and expressing feelings. i need that too.

Now you can not ask someone to be different. In fact, i've learned that people won't give you what they can't even if you ask for it every day. You won't change that.
If you are not happy with that, just walk away. You don't fit with each other.

You shouldn't ask yourself 'Am I asking too much" (you should not be waiting for something she can't give, or asking for it) but , if I may, instead of that, ask yourself : "can she give me what I need?"

never wait for anyone to be like you want them to be, or you're going to wait a long time...really.

A three hour tour

The info in this post is mostly of interest to New Yorkers (maybe), as the rest of you might not know what I'm talking about.

Went to a party out on Staten Island today. Left at 11:30am and got there at 2:30pm.

Took the A from 200th in Inwood. The train claimed it was going express from 125th to 59th so we stayed on instead of transferring to the 1 at 168th. At 125th the conductor told us we were going local..

At 59th we caught the 1. At 14th we had to get off and catch the 2 as the 1 tunnels were under construction and the train wasn't going to South Street. We caught the 2 and got off at Canal as the 2 was going express to Brooklyn.

We were herded like cattle onto a shuttle bus at Canal to take us to South Street. When we got there the ferry had just left so we waited a half and hour for the next. On Staten Island we caught the train to our destination. 20 minutes.

When we got there our friends (two of them) who were picking us up seemed to have forgotten there were four of us. They picked us up in their Mini. So I sat on Nate and J sat on R and we played clown car.

Nate and I are a bit thin and I'm sure he lost circulation in his right leg.

The party was for Steve who was turning 30. He has a huge Italian family and many friends. The food was amazing, the people were great and there was water volleyball, beer, wine and espresso.

And we got a ride with a friend back into the city and we didn't even have to play clown car again.

Our trek out was worth it, good times.

A gift

There is this beautiful boy I know. I rarely see him but I've known him for 3-4 years. He's just graduated college and is back working for his uncle in a rubber hose factory. Yes there is a rubber hose factory in NYC, who knew?

He's someone people think of as an old soul. His capacity to be genuine, to be a simple, gentle human is very moving to me.

There have been times he's seen me from afar, stopped what he was doing, paused conversations and came to me, reached out for my face kissing me softly, embracing me gently to his heart and in his eyes there is a true love and pleasure to see me. I've never been greeted so lovingly by family, lovers or friends.

I can't begin to tell you how I cherish these brief encounters. I ran into him today. He said, "Be careful I'm sick today." I kissed him anyways, I'm sure he would have done the same as sickness isn't a deterrent to an expression of love. He told me about working for his uncle as I walked him to the train. His gentleness warmed me and started my day in joy.

This is his constant gift to me and I hope I give him the same as my heart is full and open when I see him, I have no reservations, we seem to move in the same ether, the same intentions to connect flow between us. He is a gift.

A run-on sentence

She said to watch my footing, the floor dips and sways near her so I left stepping out into the grass to get a better safer angle through the window and although I could see I could no longer smell her smell or touch her skin and this made me hesitate and my mind ran with reasons to find better footing but I had my bond my love to stay and so I sit out here on a chair looking in the window waiting for her to stop adding more layers to her water proof gear and turn to look at me but alas I will hear what she will say and it will be "We will be better friends than lovers."

last day of leo

It's my birthday today and I'm definitly not as thrilled as I used to be. The only thing that makes this day any different is my ability to call clients and tell them I want the day off.
I'm going out to eat with friends later. I've told everyone not to make a production over me, especially in the restaurant as I'm not into attentions put on me that I didn't ask for. I will walk away from the table if anyone thinks about telling the waiters to sing to me. And no I'm not one of those people who says don't make a big deal then laughs and laughs when they do. I'm more the kind of person who says seriously don't make a big deal or I'll fucking hate you.
Once I watched a birthday ceremony at a restaurant where the servers came over and shoved a crown on the birthday girl, grabbed her shoulders and sang some crazy song as they twisted the crown round and round on her head. By the time they were done her long hair was matted and twisted and the crown was down over her face. Good times.
If this happens tonight I will kill myself.

And with her I always need wise cracks

Just a shout out to my friend who slept with two different people in one day.

How does this happen? Well you have one come for the weekend and just before you take her to the airport you have goodbye sex then as you're driving home you get a call from another cute girl who asks you to stop by the club before you go home. You then proceed to get drunk with cute girl and go to her place after.

This is how you become a slut...but I say it with love, honestly. I love that this has happened because I will always have some wise crack to fall back on when she talks smack to me.

Who would I like to meet? Toasty, that's who.

I'm petsitting. The apartment is a little skeevy. Trying to adapt. Can someone bring over clean sheets and a good vacuum? Maybe a couple of drinking glasses without chips that match? How does such a foofy chic live like a frat boy?

I'll be home to take you in my arms

When I was 19 I got into a car with two boys from southside Phoenix and ended up in the parking lot of some bar, drunk and violated. The present bestowed upon me for my mistake, for their cruelty was a pregnancy. And my responding gift was to abort.

I've always been and still am an advocate for this right. To part company with the mass of cells that grow into a human within our bodies. I've gone far enough to say it didn't matter to me if it was murder, though I didn't believe that it was. I'd do it again and help anyone who needed it to have their freedom back. I would scratch and claw the faces of the pro-lifers blocking the entry to any clinic and if and when the conservatives overturn Row vs. Wade I'll still help anyone who asked for it.

The revelations that move us to a different view happen in the simplest, immediate ways. So as I laid in bed this morning listening to a song by Tori Amos called Playboy Mommy (a song to the baby she aborted), the image of the torn flesh they took out of me on that table appeared in my mind. In the gentlest and kindest way this broken piece of baby said I'd killed it. My own private murder. My own committed responsibility, this little life ripped out of me. And it wasn't a judgment, a condemnation or a call to guilt. Just a fact.

A fact that this baby and I will never meet and will always be separated by my act. This baby would be 18 in May. A missed opportunity. I can tell you all the reasons why it was best I didn't take this baby's life into my care, there were many. And I can't bear the thought of ruining a human so in the end I still say I did the right thing.

But as I get older this baby and I occasionally meet and I see the glimmer of mistake or maybe just regret for not knowing it.

I could go into this further, I could tell you what a sweet love I've had for the soul since the moment I knew it was inside of me and the love I had for it when I ended it's growth to life. Would you believe that this act contained love? It doesn't matter if you do but these things run through my mind.

These are things to consider.


Playboy Mommy
Tori Amos

In my platforms
I hit the floor
Fell face down
Didn't help my brain out
Then the baby came
Before I found
The magic how
To keep her happy
I never was the fantasy
Of what you want
Wanted me to be

Don't judge me so harsh little girl
So you got a Playboy mommy
But when you tell 'em my name
And you want to cross that bridge
All on your own
Little girl they'll do you no harm
Cause they know
Your Playboy mommy
But when you tell 'em my name
From here to Birmingham
I got a few friends

I never was there when it counts
I get my way
You're so like me
You seemed ashamed
Ashamed that I was
A good friend of American soldiers
I'll say it loud here by your grave
Those angels can't
Ever take my place

Don't judge me so harsh little girl
So you got a Playboy mommy
But when you tell 'em my name
And you want to cross that bridge
All on your own
Little girl they'll do you no harm
Cause they know
Your Playboy mommy
But when you tell 'em my name
I got a few friends

Somewhere where the orchids grow
I can't find those church bells
That played when you died
Played Gloria
Talkin 'bout Hosanah

Don't judge me so harsh little girl
So you got a Playboy mommy
Come home
But when you tell those soldiers my name
And cross that bridge
All on your own
Little girl they'll do you no harm
Cause they know
Your Playboy mommy
But I'll be home
I'll be home
To take you in my arms

That kind at Beth's wedding

I saw myself stepping on the stone path as if I were creeping up on something. An event, a situation, the climax, a new chapter or the ending of an old is in the air and I'm sneaking up on it.

My intuition is bouncing like a ball and I'm wondering if this 'something' is a white cake with raspberry frosting made just for me or a loose board in the floor designed to let loose with my weight.

I'll either get up from the table dusting the crumbs or climbing off the floor dabbing the wound. However it turns, I'll stand. But I prefer cake.

Yes let's have cake.

Que color es "A"

I'm watching S. teach her niece the alphabet. She speaks softly in spanish, her voice is soft and gentle. Her eyes are content on A.s little face.

I get chills when S. touches me and now I get them just by watching her. My heart grows with love..and it's times like this that I live for. It's times like this that make me late for all the other obligations. Times like this make me cancel dates, miss trains and forget to write on my blog...

I like it.

I stumbled before the dive

I'm late for a response. Has this happened to you? Someone has asked for your reply and you're too head fucked to give it?

You very much want to reply, "why yes indeed, I will follow you even with this blasted blindfold on...", "No, I'm not afraid of being left here in the dark..."

I wish so much to be courageous. To be so in the moment as to jump into nothingness and say whatever this is and wherever it eventually leads is fine by my zen ass.

I can't help but feel so limited in my thinking. I am tethered to my emotions. Or maybe it's my expectations. My desire for events to unfold to my liking.

Disappointed with self. Self disappointed back. I know this is human nature but I suffer from the belief that I'm better than the rest of you. Go ahead chastise me, maybe I need a verbal thrashing.

I fade

A mist conceives an image within the dampness of air. It is lovingly coaxed to life by hands my lips turn to honey to kiss. I am second best to a ghost. I am ephemeral.

shiiiiiiiiiit....

I was stuck on the train for an hour around 1am the other night. The signals at 96th weren't working properly so we sat. The train was filled and I had the luck of sitting across from a seriously drunk-belligerent-know-it-all-lecturing-homeless-with-serious-attitude a-hole who had a friend in tow. We'll call his friend the token-aimless-easily-pushed-around-semi-tough-yet-slow-witted-white-kid.

Over and over the train started, slowed and stopped but luckily we had the sage wisdom of the belligerent drunkard to keep us enlightened. He would claw at his young captive, chastising him for some wrong doing regarding a guy who had approached the kid while the kid was with his girl and how the kid hadn't beat said offender senseless as the drunkard thought he should. "yeww fuddin shoo kick hissss asss to da curb mudafuka!" A shove to the kids shoulder for emphasis.

The conductor would occasionally come on the speaker and apologize. Someone would yell their complaint at his voice then resign themselves to being like the rest of us, accepting our stuckness.

A new, unknowing person would enter and sit in the constantly empty seats next to the drunkard and this would give the kid the welcome relief of being left alone so know-it-all could verbally assault the new, innocent person.

New Yorkers are the best to learn from when it comes to Ignore and The Silent Retreat. They do it with such smoothness and ease. I love the process.

New Woman sits next to Drunkard.
"whaaa da faaa yew dewwwin fucka?! Yew some whiiite bitch mudafuka, shiiiiiiiit..."
Woman gives calculated side glance. Locks eyes with a-hole for a second. Gathers info like Crazy Drunk Fuck. He Looks Like He'll Carry On The Whole Time I Sit Here. She disengages eyes and without even turning head quietly scans area for another seat.
"Yew soome dumb fuka wiii ya sorry assss..."
Woman gets up, expression unchanged, unscathed and moves to a better place. This went on the whole time. One person after another. Some people sat amused, some even engaged with him. I love New Yorkers...

After a while I thought it would be nice if some big scary guy got on and mashed the drunkard into the floor but alas, that's not so nice to wish for. And if they had I may not have heard him say one thing that was kinda sage. His friend had said something about where he was from and drunkard responded, "Where yew fraa? Where yew fraaa don't matta mudafuka, where yew at is what matta" I totally agree. Don't you?

click me

Ok, this is must see.
Watch it all the way through. You're going to love it.

Coming from belledame222 and friends.

spell what?

I'm petsitting and I've been delinquent with my blog. Color me a bad blog mom.

I'm on my friends computer and I don't know how to use the friggin spell check so you will be able to tell what an ignoramous I am regarding spelling. I hate to admit this but I feel we're close enough for me to reveal it to you.

It's like we're dating and we're at that stage in our relationship where I'm sharing a vulnerable secret.

We're sitting at a little cafe, drinking wine. I'm gently rolling the glass, letting the ester of the wine make tracks down the sides..
I say, "I'm a bad speller. I often call my roommate J. to ask her how to spell something."
You nod, having a vague feeling you would rather I not confess anymore.
"I'm also an ignoramous about how to make words possessive. Does the ' go in between the last letter and the s always or are there times it goes after the s and when am I supposed to know when?"
You half heartedly smile, restraining yourself from asking me if I finished middle school.
"If you asked me to give examples of pronouns or advectives I wouldn't be able to. I also don't know when I'm supposed to use " or ' so I interchange them whenever I like."
I ask if you want more wine you say no and ask for the check. I go home wondering why you didn't kiss me goodnight.

Isn't he a hottie?

Went to Brooklyn Pride yesterday to see Alphonso. He had a booth there, selling his book, Sons. It's about a teenage boy stuggling with his sexuality in the hip hop culture of Brooklyn, circa 90s.
I have it from a good source that it's well written, a good read. I bought it and I'm going to start it as soon as I'm done here. Please take a look, buy it, tell your friends about it. As blog writers yourselves you know what it means to pass along the word, get the hits, the comments. Let's give him a little love, he rocks.
Alphonso's website
Looking for hits from Google..
Literary gay men. Homosexual fiction. Hip hop culture. Brooklyn. Adolescent homosexuality. African American.

extraction

Remember Anubis? The true carpet muncher?
Several days after indoor grazing he still wasn't well. He was pampered, consoled and cooked special food for to entice him to forget his blunder and get on with being the fine dog that he is. Nothing.
On the fifth day Anubis went out for a shit break in the yard. Which seemed odd since he really hadn't eaten anything since upstairs and downstairs carpet.
He seemed to be having a hard time finishing up and reluctantly S. went out to assist. The kind of assist that makes dog owners want to give their dog away rather than do.
Long, sick story short, S. pulled about a yard of carpet out of Anubis' ass. She said literally, a fucking yard. Sometimes a dog needs a human hand and that's love my friend.