I wake and for the third morning in a row hear Joan Armatrading singing these lyrics in my head:
If you’re gonna do it do it right
Don’t leave it overnight
Also for the third morning in a row–more like the sixth, who am I kidding?–the rain is pounding against my window. I can tolerate this much rain in the spring–there’s a point to it, even a gift–but in February it’s just mean. Cold and wet and mean. Which is how I’ve been experiencing everything, including myself. Take the dream from which I’m waking. It’s as rough as the weather. Continue Reading →
Pictured here please find the AV materials I made to accompany last night’s dream. It was one of the worst I’ve ever had.
I was stuck in the California desert in some sort of sprawling hotel-convenience store complex in which I was nonetheless expected to look and act camera-ready for a tv show for which I was about to get picked up though I had to walk six miles in the desert to meet the car. Also the show itself was morally bankrupt and as I was walking there I got attacked by a bunch of white teenaged male meth addicts with huge seeping herpes lesions on their faces and penises hanging out of their zippers like stunted third legs; naturally these young men were slinging huge guns over their shoulders. I got away by insulting their intelligence and the size of their organs–through humiliating them, essentially, which is how I have resisted most male sexual assault and harassment in my waking life–but I lost my way in the process. I was walking in circles having lost my phone computer clothing wallet and o my context; was bleeding and naked and dangerously deydrated and sunburnt; and was sorry but not shocked that the only response of the tv people, when they finally stumbled upon me, was annoyance that I was not more camera-ready. Continue Reading →
I am beyond cool with the fact that this leggy supermodel is my most constant valentine. She is coated in the softest stripiest fur, purrs rather than barks (more than I can say for my human loves), never steals the covers, has the tiniest emotional carbon imprint , and thinks everything I write is the bees knees. Sure, I spent the day debunking the capitalist myth of romantic love for an essay on the second-wave legacy of The Feminine Mystique, and that felt pretty durned good. So did the two episodes of Broad City I just inhaled with two shots of tequila. But my point—and I do have one, to quote the great Ellen DeGeneres—is that love is love is love, and I’m grateful to experience it in so many ways in this life. I wish you oodles of love as well.
I wake and for the third morning in a row hear Joan Armatrading singing these lyrics in my head: