For D. K. Read

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

Last Poem of the Day

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Running The Maze

Daddy was an expert at driving the lab animals mad
It was his job, it was his passion. Daddy had talent for it.
Daddy married a woman with a pretty child and no maternal
Instinct drove them to it. Unhinge that child Daddy, see what
She can take. The little whore becomes your slave until she is
Too old. Unhinge that child. What is she but a ticking time bomb.
Call her a liar and she becomes one, threaten the cage again, bind her
Mind with fear like Chinese women’s feet. Women are used to torture
The women her mother hates so much, apron wearing women,
Domesticated dumb cows. The girl will run the hamster wheel of
Repetition, repetition, repetition
Until she’s the only one left alive, alone at last. Talks about it like
Normal life, like normal life
Like normal life.

Death

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

Emily Dickenson

Body Warmth , a short story

Willamina was a logging town. Surrounded by forest, dotted by ponds full of logs. It always smelled like wood smoke and pine pitch, and rich wet earth. I still love that smell. That combination of fresh rain, decaying vegetation, the smell of green and burning sawdust. I think we stayed in a motel for the first couple of days, but my memory of it has the fevered, steamy quality of an erotic dream.

Our first house was on the outskirts of town at the top of a long sloping hill. It was a small white box, with a smaller white box behind it. The garage was almost too short for the station wagon. The house had a small living room, a small kitchen, one small bathroom and one small bedroom. It had a back porch which doubled as a laundry room. The washing machine was one of the old fashioned kind that had a roller on it. It was just like Grandmother’s in Texas. The water emptied into a big, double sink. I slept across that room, next to an inside wall for warmth.

School started right away. We moved in, and Daddy and I went off to school. Maggy was left at home to do the unpacking. We didn’t bring furniture, so she had to furnish the house. She did it sparsely, beds first. Mine was a metal-framed single bed with a lumpy mattress. Theirs was a double box springs and mattress, no frame, no headboard. They eventually set it on bricks at the four corners to get it up off the floor. Two beer boxes up-ended were used as tables on either side of the bed. We used the biggest box we packed for a kitchen table. There was built-in storage in the bathroom for towels and stuff, but no chests of drawers, no dressers, no chairs to sit on when we ate dinner. Maggy hated the house and Willamina. She hated the constant rain, the 100% humidity. She hated not working. For two weeks she haunted the second-hand shops looking for the odds and ends of civilized life and found little that pleased her. The house remained sparsely furnished.

One of Daddy’s students gave me her old bicycle. I loved it even more then my bike in Salt Lake. This one was a real grown-up girls bicycle with a basket on the front and a long flat panel on the back to carry a passenger. It had a bell, too. Even with the seat as low as it would go, I could barely reach the peddles when I sat. It became my private measure for how much I was growing.

Maggy became increasingly difficult to be around. If I came straight home after school, she would hound me about cleaning my room, picking up the clothes off the floor of the curtained-off corner that was my closet. She’d say things like, “It’s about time you started to take some responsibility around here. I’m not your slave, do you understand me! You’re going to learn to clean up after yourself and start doing chores, like everybody else. Where’s your homework?”
“I did it at school, in the library. Why are you so mad at me?”
“I’m not just mad at you. I hate this place. Now help me clean up. Start in your room.”
“Why did we come here if you hate it?”
“Because it was the least of three evils.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“I know you don’t. It doesn’t matter. Just stay out of my way and keep your room clean. I want you to clean the tub after you bathe. You could help a little more with the dishes, too. Now do what I ask, and leave me alone.” She turned her back and walked out of the kitchen into the living room where she had her sewing machine set up on a card table. She was making curtains. I stood there, very quiet, and then I went into my room and started with the closet. I picked up the piles of clothes on the floor and laid them on my bed. Then I started playing dress-up. After I tried on an outfit I hung it up or folded it, and put it in the cardboard boxes that were my chest of drawers. If something smelled really bad, I dumped it in my dirty laundry basket. Then I quietly tiptoed out the back door and got on my bicycle. I rolled out the driveway and instead of circling the house around the picket fence that surrounded the front yard, and heading down the paved road to town, I took the dirt road at the back of the house, coasting over the pot-holed, rocky surface, cruising the neighborhood, heading for the woods that bordered the north end of town, only a few blocks from our house.

I found trails among the trees, ferns as tall as a grown-up bordered the trails. I found delicate, orchid like flowers, fallen trees with trunks covered in a rug-like green moss. Within the cover of that forest, even in heavy rain I could remain remarkably dry. The trees were like gently dripping umbrellas. I found a huge variety of mushrooms and toadstools, and saw squirrels and chipmunks, does with faintly spotted fawns. I saw a skunk and he saw me. We stared at each other for a moment, then he turned and walked away, stopping once to look back at me. Then he hurried on. I went home when it started to get dark.

The smell of dinner hit me before I even opened the back door. And I could hear my mother’s voice raised. I paused with my hand on the doorknob. Maggy was raving about mildew. About mildew and money. That seemed safe enough for me to open the door. As I entered the kitchen, glancing quickly at the table to see if it needed setting, I heard her say, “So I got a job. I start work Monday. I’ll work in the front office at the Electric Company. Judy’s going to have to help out here. And I’d appreciate it if you backed me up on that. Could you try to get home a little earlier?” Then she noticed me getting silverware out of the drawer. “Where the hell did you go?”
“I just went for a bike ride.”
“Did you hear what we were talking about?”
“I heard you say you got a job.”
“Well, that’s going to mean more work for you. I’m counting on you to help me out here, okay?”
“Okay.” I went about my business of setting the table. We had chicken with dumplings and salad. It was great, one of my favorite things. A filling, comforting food. And there were leftovers to eat after school tomorrow. And nobody would be home, so I could do what I wanted and wouldn’t get yelled at. I sang as I washed the dishes. “We are poor little lambs who have gone astray, baa, baa, baa. We are little lost sheep who have lost our way, baa, baa, baa. Gentleman songsters off on a spree, doomed from here to eternity. God have mercy on such as we, baa....baa...baa.”

When I took my bath I sang “A tisket a tasket, a red and yellow basket, I wrote a letter to my love and on the way I lost it.” I couldn’t remember any of the other words, so I kept repeating the same line over and over. I scrubbed out the ring in the tub with my washcloth and bar soap. I hung up my towel. I put on my pajamas, carried my dirty clothes into my bedroom and threw them on the closet floor. Maggy was sewing, and Daddy was grading tests. I said goodnight and went to bed. I was delighted that Maggy would be going to work.

When Daddy came in the next night to read with me, he said, “It‘s cold out here. We need to get you a heater. Sit up and let me scoot in there. We can keep each other warm while we read. Did you ever hear of the Donner Party?”
“No. What kind of a party did they have?”
“They were explorers, pioneers, and they got caught in a snowstorm, crossing Donner’s Pass. That’s a high mountain pass. They ran out of food, and they were so cold. Almost as cold as I am right now.” He stuck his bare feet on the side of my calves. They were like ice.

“If I’m going to finish this story, you’re going to have to keep me warm. Come here.” He wrapped me in his arms, and pulled me close to his body. Snuggling me in close, my head nestled in his armpit. “They call it the Donner Party, because it was a group of people who all died in a horrible winter storm. Nobody was prepared for how much snow there was or how cold it got. When the horses died, they ate the horses. That kept them alive for awhile, but now and then someone died in the night, even though they all slept together, like this. Do you know the best way to stay warm?”
“To wear lots and lots of clothes and keep your hat on?”
“That’s best in the day time, but at night, even with clothes on, your body temperature drops. So the best thing to do is share body warmth with someone else. Let me show you what I mean.” I had my back to his stomach, and he scrunched back from me and pulled his sweatshirt up, and pulled his pants down. Then he moved his bare stomach and chest and legs close to me, and it was like backing close to the gas heater in the living room. Then he pulled my nighty up and it was skin to skin. My butt was cold until it snuggled into his lap, which was hotter than the rest of him. It was like the hottest part of the fire. “See what I mean? That’s how the Donner Party stayed alive as long as they did.”
“Did they all die?”
“I’ll finish that story next time, but you need to practice your reading, so read to me kiddo.”

I leaned forward, breaking contact, to reach my reader. Daddy pulled me back, and with his hand he opened my legs, slipping his penis between my legs, resting it snug against my peepee. It was warmer than anything. Then he said, “Now I’m comfortable and warm, how about you?” I nodded my head. “Well, are you going to read to me?”

I turned pages to the slow, rhythmic rocking of Daddy’s naked body behind me, between my legs. His breath was warm and wet on the top of my head. I turned another page and held my breath, listening. He whispered, “Does that feel good? Are you warm enough?” I nodded my head. He used the hand that had slipped his penis between my legs to reach across and touch himself. Then he put his fingers on my peepee and they were slippery. They slid into the lips of my peepee, and he opened them so his penis was rubbing against me closer and slippery. He whispered, “Give me your hand.” I took my hand and put it in his, and he moved them both to the hot slippery place between my legs. He put my palm over the wet round top of his penis, with his hand on top on mine, he pressed our hands around it, and our hands moved together, touching my slick peepee then pulling back to move through the crack of my bum, then forward again, so slow and warm and slippery. The inside of my thighs were slippery, too. He made a soft huffing sound and our hands filled with hot wet slimy stuff. He held my hand there, full of that stuff, while he whispered into the top of my head, “God, oh God, you are the sweetest...oh...ah, God...”Then he used the hem of my nighty to clean up our hands. It was the beginning of a new tradition.

Another tradition was shooting rats at the city dump. The only picture of me holding that gun and aiming it, is when I'm nine. The gun I'm holding in the picture is my mother's Luger pistol, a spoil of war my first father brought back from his adventures in World War II. I am a thin, long legged girl with shoulder length hair. The picture was taken at the city dump in Willamina, Oregon, in the summer. My Daddy and I are out of school and shooting rats at the dump. He leans against our ugly green station wagon, a cigarette dangles from his lips, and when he isn't aiming a camera at me, he's holding a bottle of beer and smoking a cigarette. I'm a good shot by then, but I don't remember when I held this gun for the first time. It has a fierce little kick that I have learned to control. I am standing there facing my Daddy, with the gun held in my right hand, arm extended, head turned to the right, shot by the camera in profile, squinting slightly as I aim. My left arm hangs so nonchalantly at my side. I have very good posture. I'm wearing shorts, a camp shirt, and espadrilles. It was so easy to swing that gun in a quarter arc and shoot my Daddy dead. I remember the thought drift through my brain like the wisp of a dream. And then as if it were just a dream, I do it. I don't even think about it. It just happens. That quarter swing of my arm, and I pull the trigger. My aim is wrong. The top of his head flies off and splatters the windshield of that ugly green station wagon. He doesn't make a sound. He is slumping down, sliding off the bonnet of the station wagon, missing the top of his head. Then there is the sound of the beer bottle hitting the dirt. It's a soft little sound, as the beer bubbles up and spills into the dirt. Now it's so peaceful at the dump.

I'm curious, and walk slowly toward the station wagon with the gun dangling from my right hand. The cigarettes are in the breast pocket of his short sleeved shirt. Blood and bits of other stuff are soaking the shoulders of his shirt and I want to get the cigarettes out of his pocket before they're ruined. I put the gun in his lap, and then I reach into his pocket and grab the pack of cigarettes and his zippo lighter. He's never let me use the lighter. He always lights my cigarette for me. It takes me two tries to get the flame to pop up. It's easy. I wonder why he made such a big deal about the zippo being dangerous. I sit in the dirt, and lean back against the tire in the shade. It's so quiet. I can hear birds chirping and a squirrel scolding off in the distance, the sound of insects.

Death Never Takes A Holiday

This Thanksgiving two people close to me had a friend whose child or husband died. Not exactly close to me, but still, what effects my friends effects me, in part because I have so few friends. For one thing, it makes me think about death in general, and the rituals surround death in particular. It also makes me think about the expectations most of us have about these particular holidays. And that for most people having a death in the family on or near one of these holidays, will forever after make the holidays a time of sorrow.

For another it reminds me how happy I am to have planned for my own death. I have very little sentimentality about death. There are so many reasons for this lack, but part of the reason is knowing my family's history with a slow and horrible death, and the little kit I keep around for the purpose of taking my own life should it become an intolerably painful burden. Some will find this a horrible thing, ghoulish beyond belief, that anyone could think death would be preferable to any kind of life. But life for life's sake, regardless of the pain, or lack of a functioning body, or the slow destruction of the brain, these conditions seem like a pretty good reason for me to take the easy way out.

Then there is the death industry. Sadly, I haven't heard of any financial troubles for the death industry in these hard economic times. We can sink into a global depression but the death industry will flourish. And to my way of thinking this is an unforgivable gouging of the bereaved. But even in the best of times I have felt this way. Take embalming for instance. I've though for a long time that embalming should be outlawed. It's toxic, for one thing. We utter the words, "ashes to ashes, dust to dust... And yet we preserve the corpse with embalming fluid, put it in a lead lined casket and sink it into the ground. What an odd ritual.

At the mortuary much is made of "honoring the dead," and like a hospital, every minute detail of "honoring the dead" is charged for. Even if you have instructions from your loved one that cremation is the way he or she wants to go once dead, there are details to be discussed with the mortician. Since they can't sell you a casket the price of a Cadillac, they can push embalming for which they charge a hefty fee. If you don't go for that, the least you can do with the body is have it bathed to be prepared for the fire. What a concept. Wash it first, then toss it into the oven. Save the ashes in a costly Urn--another exorbitant expense, when a cardboard box would do just as well. Buy a cookie tin at Big Lots if cardboard isn't good enough for the ashes.

And then there is the deceased's wishes about "the scattering of the ashes." The impossibly romantic and sentimental desires of those who know they are dying and are sentient enough to talk about it and plan their final journey, sometimes enter into grandiose fantasies of ash scattering in all the places they wanted to see, but could never afford or find the time for. But now that the end is near, they can ask the living to make this trip for them as a way to "honor his/her life." Unless you leave me half a million dollars in your will, along with this type of odd after death desire, I will dump your ashes in the garden. I've heard that ashes are good for the soil, so long as the body was not embalmed.

My mother did two favors for me in her life. She died on Christmas morning, finally giving me the one Christmas present I'd wanted for at least twenty years. And many years prior to her death, she donated her body to the University of Utah Anatomy Department. At her death she was living in the Alzheimer's ward of a small nursing home. For the last six months of her life, the only words she spoke were "Fuck you!" or "Fuck off!" and the only meaningful gesture she made was flipping the bird or giving the middle fingered salute as the exclamation point that accompanied these words. She had been doing this to me for years, so I kind of took it personally. But I was reassured by the nursing staff that at the end she was indiscriminate in her bird flipping and profanity. She was always mean to me. Now she was mean to everyone. That made me feel a little better. She stopped eating the day before her birthday, December 23rd, and died early Christmas morning, around three AM, about the time Santa was whispering in my ear, "It's about time you got what you wanted for Christmas. Better late than never."

Since the University picked up the body, wrote the death certificate and put up a marker in their garden thanking her and her family, there was nothing for me to do but write her obituary. I didn't do this for her. I didn't do this for me. I did it for her friends. I listed her many accomplishments and the recognition she received, but left out the one accomplishment that was most meaningful to me--that of driving me crazy by the time I was three years old. I left myself completely out of her obituary. I included a photo of her that I took when she was in her early fifties. She was once a very beautiful woman, and I had captured that loveliness in the photo. But still, death isn't cheap, even with no burial, no cremation, no death certificate to pay for. The obituary (only one column) was over $300.

And in this one aspect of my mother's long life, I have followed her excellent example. I have donated my body to the University of Utah. Hopefully I will have the presence of mind to write my own obit, and leave a little money to publish it in the paper. Death is hard enough on the survivors, so I plan to make it as easy as possible on those I love. But by the time I die, I may have no loved ones. They don't call me that savage bitch for nothing. But at least I've stopped flipping them off.

Infection Spreads

Here are the rules: So says Splotchy

Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.

If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.

Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.


The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)

I couldn't believe my eyes. Surreptitiously, I tried to establish, without giving it away, if anyone else had seen what I had. For ten years I had been looking for that box. What looked like an ordinary cardboard box to most contained something most precious. Only by the small golden "P" was I able to identify what I was looking at. (Freida Bee)

How the box got here, or how I happened to be on this bus with it now--these questions were immaterial. I just had to get that box. The bus slowed to a stop, so I steadied myself. Just as I was about to make a grab for the box, however, it moved. Someone else was picking it up to take it away! I had to stop her! (Dguzman)
What? This couldn't be happening--to get this close and watch some quick-footed little dwarf just up and snatch it away from me...no! I got up and just as I did the sweaty hillbilly in front of me stood up and stepped into the aisle. Moving like a bad mime imitating a man in a box he extended his arms and stretched, looking up at the ceiling as he did so. The dwarf with the box--I couldn't be sure if it was a man or a woman, but something about her seemed feminine--slipped out the front door and off the bus. I took a deep breath and slumped back down into my seat. (Bubs)

I sized up the chances of getting bodily fluids on me for a few seconds before I decided to risk it. I needed to get that box back.

"Sir, do you think I could get past you?" I ventured, standing stiffly, hoping to move near the front door to catch a quick exit at the next stop.

"Ah's gettin' off a' tha nex' stop," he said as he wiped his brow and placed his hand squarely on my shoulder.

"Well, fuck," I thought, getting more and more irritated each second his residual touch seemed to burn itself permanently into the fabric of my sweater. "I need to ask the bus driver about the next stop, really quickly. Do you mind?"

I could see he was challenged. His size alone made the bus an unfortunate place for him to endure, but I was concerned I would not be able to catch up with the thief who stole my box this time.

"Ah know these parts real good-like an' kin tells you anythin' you wants ta know."

"Sir, I really just need to be ready to step off the bus as soon as it stops," I said irritatedly now, as the bus jerked to a stop in its typically abrupt manner. I fell forward smack dab into his chest, catching a whiff of a strange smell that simultaneously made me gag and feel groggy only moments before I felt my head spinning as he caught my fall, grinning knowingly. (Freida)


When I come to, I can still smell the stench of the huge man, but find myself alone in a what appears to be, in the gloom of a lurid sunset, a shack on the edge of a swamp. I try to get up to open the fragile looking door, but my knees buckle and won't hold my weight. I sink back on a rough shelf and notice that the smell is stronger here. It is a mixture of sweat and something chemical, like maybe ether or chloroform. I use my arms to pull me away from the smell, and end up leaning against the wall with the door, but the latch is too high for me to reach it without the use of my legs and I am sweating and shaking.

I hear a rustling sound and I am afraid it is rats. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck waves like sea grass in a gentle breeze. The feeling is like a gentle touch, not bad at all. In fact I feel my sex organ stir and swell and moisture springs from my skin like dew. My nipples stand at attention and it isn't cold. This is not the sweat of fear, this is arousal. What is happening to me? (the savage one)

I tag:
Linda Sama
Dusty
Simstone
Anita
MrMacrum

AIG gives "Retention Payments" to Top Executives

We bought AIG to save the insurance giant from insolvency. One of the conditions on our several hundred billion dollar bailout was that the top executives forgo bonuses. That sounds pretty clear and reasonable. They had been taking an economic nose dive while continuing to give millions in bonuses and golden parachutes to executives responsible for making decisions that drove the Insurance giant into the ground. So, now that we own 80% of the company, they are giving "retention payments" to executives. So a bonus for failure is now a "retention payment". Sounds like we are getting fucked again. Since we are the majority stockholder of AIG, I say we fire their asses.

Process

In response to a question about creativity


When I read, all I do is read, as if it were a full time job. When I painted all I did was paint. It's the same with writing. I am not able to combine obsessions. Creativity takes me like a possession. It seems effortless at its best. Only the editing is work.

When I painted it took a lot of time to learn when to stop. I had to back off to mere suggestion of line. I deconstructed my painting to pen and ink and very few lines. I did my best portraits during this period. One was of my third husband and he looked like James Joyce. I captured him in maybe five or six lines. The suggestion of the man.

I've done many self portraits. Unable to afford models I painted what I saw. I did still life, interiors, architecture, but portraiture was my favorite. My best were sold. One was a gift to the third husband who burned the house down after I left him. And with the house, went those two portraits.

My Foolish Heart, Bill Evans Trio

One Dream of the Erotic Kind

I've been having erotic dreams longer than most of you have been alive. Maybe you're all the children of my erotic dream non-couplings. Now that's a thought. I did dream once upon a time that I wanted children, lots of them. And here you are, all grown up and on your own. That is the sort of mother I might have been--farm them all out until grown. Then welcome only the pretty successful ones home. Is this a story brewing a life warping vision in my brain?

I really only need to tell you one of my erotic dreams to give you an idea of what went wrong with men and me. But Ill leave that for later.

First I'll tell you the most baffling of my erotic dreams. I was living in Italy at the time. Hanging out with the famous artists, and in this case actually spending a weekend at Arnoldo's country house near Zemi. No dream yet. Like I've said before, Arnaldo's room was given to me, while the guys all slept in the big dorm sized room with lots of beds. But in Arnaldo's room there was only one bed, and it was huge. The bed itself was a slab of stone on a pedestal. On top of that slab of stone were layers of goose-down mattresses. The linens were white and actually handkerchief linen. Pillows of every size, all with white linen cases. But the comforter was a weightless expanse of seamless fur. It was a long grey fur. Maybe fox or lynx, but gray the same color of the stone. Before I'd moved to Italy I had modeled at the grand old I Magnin in downtown San Francisco. So I modeled plenty of furs. And to my way of thinking they were mostly too heavy. Lovely yes, but heavy. Especially the long haired furs. And too much fur for most women. But the fur on this bed was as weightless as if it floated.

I had modeled with only two women in Italy that really wowed me and one of them was Danielle Luna the only black model I had ever seen. She and Verushka were roughly the same size. Both about six feet tall, thin with beautiful bones and skin. Verushka had very white skin and almost platinum hair. Danielle was built the same but with very dark skin and blueblack hair. And I had worked with them once. We'd done a shoot for Milan's biggest luxury department store. Because I was the shortest of the three of us, and mid range in coloring, I was positioned between and in front of them. Perspective is everything.

Never mind. Let's get back to the erotic dream. I am taking a nap in Arnaldo's bed. And Danielle Luna is floating above me as I sleep. She doesn't actually touch me so much as run her hands above my naked sleeping body. Every hair on my body is electrified and the wave of air as her hand passes produces each hair's orgasm. She puts her mouth on mine and we both float just above the fox fur which also waves like a gentle sea beneath. My entire body is an orgasm from the tips of the hair on my head to the soles of my feet. I awaken alone in a glistening sweat twisted in the linen sheet. When I go downstairs, Tony Delrentzio looks at me and says, "you're blushing." And I blush, guiltily.

Afternoon Moon

I took this shot of the moon fairly high in the sky day before yesterday in the afternoon about 3PM. I have seen a daytime moon many times before but never one so bright in a brightly lit afternoon sky.

White Trash Cooking, The Book

This is it, take a close look. Could you resist this book? It's not the book jacket, though it has its mighty charms. Part of my delight with this book is the table settings. I can remember reading that the plastic table covering is one option, but for certain foods, layered newspaper is preferable. That would be for fancy parties of crawfish or shrimp eating--truly messy food to eat. And when the meal is finished, you haul the newspaper and all it's messy shells to the trash. We white trash folks can be so very practical without ever losing our charm. I am pleased to know how many of us are or were owners of this gem. Makes a lovely Xmas gift. And there are little stories about how a particular recipe was invented. Like the Grand Canyon Cake, Nan told us about from her copy. All it takes is white cake mix, round cake pans, aplenty, food coloring, and whiskey of some sort. I'm thinking moonshine, but that just the romantic in me.

View of the Winter Light Late Afternoon

Looking out the kitchen window mid December 2008.

"To Sleep, Perchance to Dream, There's the Rub"

I have, in the long distant past, had a series of wonderful recurring dreams. My favorite is the most joyous feeling in my entire dream life, including all those marvelous erotic dreams that punctuated my vivid life among the living. I could tell you what was going on in my real life whenever I had an erotic dream. But the series of my best dreams is surrounded by a big nothingness, a life that pales so completely that it could have merely been an illusion. I don't know why. And because I don't know why, I wonder about it.

I am outside, walking somewhere, minding my business, whatever that means. And I come upon some small obstacle in my path. The thing in my path is an insignificance. But what happens next is meaningful. I hop over the obstacle and in the hopping I float. It feels so good. Like nothing I've ever imagined. I try it again, and again I float, weightless and free. The dream ends there, but the feeling lingers. And I think about it often. Let's pretend in my real life I am in a blank white space now where nothing happens at all. And the next time I sleep, I try the weightlessness again and it works better than before. I can jump higher, stay up, remain weightless longer. Is it flying? Not really. Not quite. There are periods of real life that are complete blanks, but then again I dream the dream and each time I get better at it. I can jump so high and stay up there weightless so long it is now flying. I can glide above the earth with no effort at all. It seems endless. And then it ends.

File This Under, More Holy Crap!

Chicago Sun Times Front Page

Holy Crap! Patrick Fitzgerald Bags Another Big Fish

From the Washington Post:

U.S. attorney says Blagojevich went on a "crime spree," trying to "sell" Obama's vacant Senate seat and shaking down contractors for campaign funds.


From The New York Times:

Illinois Governor in Corruption Scandal
Charged in Scheme to Sell Obama’s Seat to Highest Bidder
By MONICA DAVEY and JACK HEALY 7 minutes ago

Gov. Rod R. Blagojevich of Illinois was arrested and charged with corruption, including an allegation that he conspired to profit from appointing a senator to succeed Barack Obama.

* PDFs: News Release | Criminal Complaint (Contains Profanity)
* Text: Justice Dept. Briefing
* Comment Post a Comment | Read (482)
*
Back Story With The Times’s Monica Davey

U.S. Attorney Patrick Fitzgerald discussed the charges against Gov. Rod R. Blagojevich of Illinois at a news conference in Chicago on Tuesday.
Frank Polich/Reuters

U.S. Attorney Patrick Fitzgerald discussed the charges against Mr. Blagojevich at a news conference in Chicago on Tuesday.

* Times Topics: Rod R. Blagojevich
* Picking Obama Successor Puts Spotlight on Governor (Nov. 13)

It's Shit On a Shingle at My Place Tonight

So, how many plates shall I get out?

Some of you may be too young to understand the name of my dish as you have neither served on a navy ship or had a relative who liked to relive the magic of a life at sea, but I'm pretty sure that's where the name comes from. No don't go there, I'm not talking about sea sickness at all. I'm talking food that is cheap and filling. Comfort food, if you will. The stick to your ribs kind. Maybe it's prison food, too.

Once when I was visiting one of my lefty friends in New Orleans, I found a small bookstore in the Quarter that had a copy of a book called White Trash Cooking. I'm not kidding. Of course I bought that overpriced paperback, and worth every penny it was. So valuable in fact that when my house was broken into, the bastard stole my copy of White Trash Cooking. Have you noticed that final g on cooking? Wonder if it was a phony? No, I know white trash cooking, and this was the real deal. Every ingredient can be found at your local convenience store alone with your Kools. Unless we're talking crawdads, or frogs for instance. One of my favorite recipes was the sugar sandwich. I swear I never made one, but damn it was tempting. Take two slices of Wonderbread. Spread with one of four greases: butter, margarine, Crisco, or lard. Sprinkle generously with granulated white sugar and eat. Yup, that's it.

I wish I still had that book, but I did memorize a few recipes and have added my own flourishes. Any recipe with a cream sauce I'm good with. Add a salty dried beef, finely cut into small pieces to spread that salt around. A bunch of frozen peas. Buttered toast. Pour the "chipped beef" mixture on the buttered toast and hunch yourself down at the table with a cheap beer. Heaven on earth some days. Delicious enough to make me moan. But it doesn't take much to make me moan. It's a very versatile dish as it can be served at any meal. Scramble a couple of eggs and dump them on the toast and then spread the shit on it and you've got yourself a hearty rib sticking breakfast.

I just checked and yup, it's still on the market. I'm gonna order one as soon as my social security check clears.

Manic and Heading for a CRASH!

Well, all it takes to know that I have been manic is a look at the number of rambling, incoherent, and entirely unworthy posts I've written or assembled over the past couple of days. To you it's the weekend. To me it's just Saturday and Sunday, no different from Monday, let's say. One can only go that fast so long without eventually crashing. Oh, I still have the boundless energy, but having refused to use it to some necessary good, like dusting for instance, I am still sitting here typing away. So, now it's time to apologize to those insomniacs who have been following this oncoming crash.

It is amazing to me that I can have so much fun, sitting here in my bunker typing away into the wee small hours (oh Sinatra, must YouTube that) of the morning entertaining myself immensely. But then to awaken with a sore throat and a crashing headache and still refuse to see the dust. But not any more. No, now I will dust, dammit. But just in case you're dying for some Chairman of the Board, here it comes...

And Happy Diana Krall Day to Me

There may be trouble ahead, but while there's moonlight and music and love and romance, let's face the music and dance...



This is my real musical alter ego. And she almost sings in my register, so I can almost sing along with her. But this music comes to me out of my childhood, from watching movies like these in black and white in front of my grandmother's TV, from places like this, with dancers like this, and this time Nat King Cole sings it for us...



Which all came from this brilliant songwriter composer, Irving Berlin.