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.

Happy Zappadan Children

I'm giving Blue Gal credit for turning me on to Zappadan. Truth is I was stoned at the time and I could have been anywhere, but Blue Gal had just befrended me on Twitter.

I have hated the "Holiday Season" all my life. It's better now that I'm the last of my family alive. Cuts down on the unnecessary shopping. But I'm not averse to some general rowdy solitary fucktardery at home alone, just me my dog, and my new bong. It was my first Zappadan gift to myself. So all together now, light up the night. It's the season of Zappadan and will be until Chimpy is gone and my close personal friend Barack is in charge. So until then, celebrate like your life depends on it, preferably alone, so no one gets hurt.

A Sunday Song to Get You Dancing

Ghost Dansing introduced me to this artist just the other day. Now I can't get enough of her. Much of it has to do with the artistry of her videos. I'm not quite so fond of her live performances but Monsieur Randal would like her French pieces, yes, those parts too. She is a pleasing bit of eye-candy for us all.

Now go to church children, while Nanna stays in the garden of Eden and loads her bong.

Perhaps To Die By a Splotchy Virus Passed to Me On the Bus

Arkum hums with a high electric whine, a noise that is like tinnitus to the nth. The man with the monocle who was so strangely dressed coughed on me as the bus lurched to a stop. I hope it wasn't the virus. Now I hunch my shoulders against the freezing wind that hugs the frozen ground. I have two cloptomiters to go before I'm home and it's dark but for the purple neon gloom, looking like a distant nuclear disaster but is merely low light bouncing off the distant metropolis along with the nearly unbearable high whine. And then the wind blows it back upon itself and for a few moments of relief I almost hear silence. I can barely see the ground beneath my feet.

What was I thinking when I dressed for the day? My feet are freezing. Thank the dog for the electric eye. I can see the faintly pink glow of my signature footprint along this well trod strip of stone. But it seems eerily empty for now. Odd. This time of night is usually humming with voices coming out of the dark. All I hear is the high city hum and the wind. Several layers of skirts fly up from a gust of wind and I almost topple backward. These tall rubber boots on their platforms are wonderful in a crowd, extend the stride, and strengthen the buttocks, lifting its heft of weight into the air like a pillow. But skirts?

I hear the dog once and know I will turn left half way up the lane to my bunker. His voice always rings out once when I reach this spot and even without the eye I turn left, arm raised, palm flattened upward to make contact with the wire of the compound. I trail my gloved fingers along the fence until I feel the gate. Here I must remove my glove and place my naked palm against the freezing surface of the palm ID pad. And it slides open almost silently. I enter and hear it slide shut behind me. It locks with a hollow sound that makes me shudder with pleasure. Now small photocell lights flank the path like little pale full moons.

I have a single bunker. I am gifted in certain arts. I can talk to the mad and read their minds. I can smell danger. And I am old. No small accomplishment in these times. So the dog, as he calls himself, and I live together in a cube of concrete with a pyramid roof alone, in silence, but for the sound of my own voice softly talking to myself and his rare great bark or low growl.

He doesn't rise when I come in. But I hear him panting softly in his dark corner. The room is only warmed with his body heat. All the fuel was burned long ago. But food will be brought for both of us. He could so warm me better if we slept together but he will not. So I wear all my clothes trying to keep from shivering. I would never ask to sleep in his bed but have invited him into mine. Often. No luck.

And now before my fingers stiffen in the cold I must answer the questions sent to me by the mad. Only the mad understand the mad, but not all the mad have my gift to hear their inner voices. We are all somewhat gifted. Some of us have visions, hear voices, but I can only listen to the inner voice, the one that never says aloud what it most fears.

Freida of the Bees, Dusty the leftwinged nutjob and Hale McKay the man with a hammer always in his hand, these have the gifts and they will pass them on...

Saturday Amongst the Living

One of my three female friends lives a few houses away. On Thanksgiving morning one of her Bunko girlfriends' husband died. It turned a quiet, peaceful Thanksgiving into a deep wound. And so this past couple of weeks she has been doing the hard things a good female friend does at a time like that. He was too young to have died of "natural" causes though he had a heart attack and then a stroke in the past, survived all that, then went into multi system organ failure unexpectedly and died quickly. So an autopsy was performed and my friend was the one given the task of officially identifying his body. She was the one to tell the mortician that "No, they did not need a $1,000 urn for his ashes, not they did not want him embalmed for washed for the crematorium. Still the cost was shocking. Then it was my friend's job to scoop the ashes from the cardboard box into a container she'd found at a discount store. Then she helped write the obituary. And before the "celebration" of his life at her friend's house, she poop scooped the back yard of their condo. Now that's a friend.

But she needed a break. And I'm the only one of her friends out of this loop. One of the many advantages of being a voluntary shut-in, is the ability to avoid all this expensive and traumatic life. Oh yes, I do know that the rituals surrounding death just might be very important for the living, but not for me. I worked hard to ensure that no one will have to spend a penny or a moment's attention to my untimely death--it should have happened thirty years ago or so... But here I am, still as strange and self destructive as ever. Me and Amy Winehouse--we're gonna live forever.

Anyway, my friend is the queen of speed shopping. And we had things to do and places to go today. Odd that either of us would actually choose to leave home on a day we both call the "amateur shopper's day." But we had a list and a treat at the end, so off we went in her recently serviced minivan to what we used to call Fred Meyers, but is now really the Smith's Superstore. We still call it Fred Meyers, even though it's been the Smith's Superstore for years. She knows this monster like the back of her hand, or so she said. But the bastards have rearranged the store so nobody can find what they came in for and now we're all pissed off and looking at overpriced shit we had no idea we needed. My friend heads right for the poor college graduate who's stocking cereal and has him take us to the new place they sell electric kettles. I find the one I want and we're off to the hardware department to get a duplicate key made. And we're out of there, heading south toward the smoke shop on 39th South and 3rd East. This place is a find. It sits in a tiny strip mall and I stand outside in the sun, sucking down a Marlboro Menthol light 100 while she sits in her minivan and sucks down a beer disguised as a pepsi.

The smoke shop is a fine place to shop. I replace my recently broken pipes, get some pipe cleaners and a carton of Marlboro Menthol Light 100's A new-fangeled cigarette holder and we're off to this little restaurant for good cheap Mexican food in a small mall called Ivy Place. We are so pleased with the success of our trip out. We have not spoken of death. Success at every turn, despite the presence of other people. The food is good and the place is full of Mexican men nursing hangovers--early afternoon breakfast and a beer. We eat vast quantities of good Mexican food and listen to a Mexican language station on TV and loud Mexican music on the jukebox. Just like a vacation and It's all delicious. While she waits for a take-out order for her husband, I go out for a smoke and spot the Spoons and Spices across the parking lot. I head inside, elbow my way politely to the counter, to ask for directions for the stove-top espresso makers. A young women leads the way. They have one twelve cup left but no box. I say it's for me, I don't need or want a box. She wraps it up and bags it, takes my money and I'm out of there in minutes. Then we are heading home and very pleased with ourselves.

Yo Yo Ma, Bach Suite No. 1

One of My Recurring Childhood Dreams

It was always the same, this dream. I am a little girl sitting in a kitchen chair. And I notice I have small hole in my arm. It is not bleeding, but I notice a small bone poking out. I touch it and it slides right out of my arm and into my hand. I look at it carefully enough to notice that there is no blood, no meat clings to it. And when I look back at the hole I notice that there is another bone poking out. And so I begin the deboning of myself. In the end I become a blob of boneless flesh. Now I know I'm in trouble. I open my mouth to call for help and my teeth crumble and fall from my mouth. And then I know I am helpless.

I had this dream for several years. Probably from the age of seven to maybe ten or eleven. It is always the same. Exactly the same. No variation at all. Never. Years later when I told my therapist about this dream I didn't like the interpretation. She believed it was a sexual dream about what my daddy did to me. I would say, "But I was alone." She would say, "What does the hole symbolize? What does the bone symbolize?" I would cry. Now I turn it into something of mine. I claim it's power. I give it a bit of form and wonder what you see? What is the hole? What is the bone? Why do the teeth crumble and fall?

There is a small hole in my arm
I pull the bones out one by one
Until I am empty, my fingers limp and
Useless, I open my mouth to call for help
My teeth crumble and fall from my mouth
My head a shapeless blob and now I know
At last that I am helpless, and you will never love me


From the dictionary of dream symbolism
Bones

To see bones in your dream, suggests the discovery of your personal, family, or cultural secrets. It is also symbolic of your underlying strengths that you have not yet recognized. Consider the symbolism of getting to the "bare bones" or the significance of "having a bone to pick with someone."

To dream that your teeth is lose, signifies failures and bad news.

To see a hole in the ground, denotes hidden aspects of your activities. On the other hand, it may mean that you are feeling hollow or empty inside. This dream may be an awakening for you in that you need to get out and expose your self to new interests and activities.

To dream that you fall into a hole, signifies a pitfall in a situation in your life or that you are stuck in a hole. Perhaps, you have dug yourself into a hole and can not get out of it.





Thank you Ghost.

These are Two of My Favorite Men

Studs Terkel

5/16/1912 to 10/31/2008

For Anita and Liberality who loved Studs, too

Trying to Make it Real, Compared to What

I've been watching the auto industry executives trying to bullshit their way to a several billion dollar bailout for them. And they're trying to make it real, compared to what? They haven't a clue how we live, and how their decisions caused the cascade of shit that trickled down on us compared to what? Ever get your car repo'd Mr Executive? So now that you didn't fly in on your corporate jets we're just supposed to write you a check and make your dreams real? Compared to what? Seven years ago when the Iraq war started, did you go into the business of making up-armored Humvees for our troops, or did you make bright yellow Hummers for little men with big wallets and small... Compared to what! And when little man Bush, stood (puffed up with his own importance) before us and pronounced his plan to put us on the path to security against the terrors, he said "Go Shopping." What??!! What did you say? "Buy a Hummer and we'll give you a big tax break." I screamed, "Compared to What?"

Lily Dior

Dreams

When I was a child, my dreams were often filled with terror. I have looked closely at the content of those dreams in therapy, and they are fairly obvious. I was always being chased by some kind of bully. I was never really bullied by other children. It was only in my dreams and the bullies were never children. They were not always male, in fact, often female. Even as a child I knew who those bullies represented. But only in my dreams was it so clear that they were out to kill me. But once I left home at seventeen, those dreams ended. Case closed. Yes, my parents could still make my life hell in one way or another, but I was no longer dependent on them, and so they could no longer kill me in quite the same way. And it was in this period of my life that I began to try to kill myself, and not in my dreams, but in real life, in real ways--nothing passive about it. As you can see I failed.

But in my adult life, no matter how awful certain periods of that adult life was, my dreams were my refuge. Because my early life was so intensely bad, and yet looked so good from the outside, my distress was not noticed by anyone who could or would have been able to help me. So I grew up crazy but looked quite sane. And into my early twenties (for the most part) I kept my mouth shut about the early family abuse. It took the suicide of my favorite cousin to shake the truth out, to spill my guts and confront both my parents. My father disowned me, and his father disowned me, so I was written out of their wills and never spoken to again. My mother put her fingers in her ears and screamed lalalalala as loud as she could and ran from the room, metaphorically speaking.

During this part of my life I began to succumb to long episodes of depression. Sleep became my best friend. Because in sleep I dreamed a lovely life. Or an interesting life that might be disturbingly strange, but not frightening. I had recurring dreams of my ability to jump free of gravity and float and fly. These were euphoric dreams of such joyous freedom. During the waning days of my third marriage, I dreamed repeatedly that I would get on a plane as a passenger to find that in reality I was the pilot and the runway was a city street. And in every one of these strange dreams, I was successful at dodging cars and threading the electrical lines that crisscrossed city streets and take off to eventually land under similar circumstances.

I've had the baby dreams. I dreamed of the NFL Baby Farm run by Rosie Greer. I dreamed I went to the grocery store and they were having a special on babies--two for the price of one. What a deal. I got one of each, and they were wrapped in newspaper like a bouquet of flowers then placed in a large grocery bag. I carried my groceries to my car, placed all my purchases in the trunk like always, slammed the trunk shut and drove home. Once at home I placed the babies on the floor, left them kitty kibble and water and went to work. I dreamed I gave birth to a litter of puppies. And so on. I think lots of women have strange baby dreams. I'd bet men do not.

And so my dream life went on until I had my bout with a major psychosis. The hallucinating kind. The kind of event even I could not ignore. I called 911 on myself and after two weeks in the looney bin I came out feeling lobotomized by the antipsychotic drugs and all dreaming ended. For many years. Oh perhaps I did dream, but could not ever remember the experience. I felt cut off from my subconscious self. Sleep was a black hole I fell into. I did not wake refreshed, and never woke delighted with the workings of my sleeping mind.

But as I stabilize these days, post Maggy's death, my dream life is returning. And I awoke from a dream of such loveliness this morning I was sad to have to wake up. My bladder was the culprit in ending this dream. But the gist of the dream was that I was helping a friend who was a wedding planner. We had an appointment with a client who lived in a castle--not the fairy tale kind, but the house as big as a large city kind. And this dream location was in Denver. I've lived in Denver, so I know this wasn't the Denver of reality. I'd call this house style Tudor, but do not think English castle, think big country mansion the size of a large town. I expected the clients to be asses, as I have a prejudice against the very rich (my father's parents were rich as were all their friends--a thoroughly awful bunch of snobs) so I was very surprised to find that every person I met (all family members of the one to be married) were not only charming, but desirable as well, gender had nothing to do with it. And they seemed to want to adopt me. This is where the full bladder ends the dream. But the melody lingers on.