Mania

Been hearing Henry Mancini all evening; beautiful melody on loop in my head.

Feeling a little fragmented, but not in a bad way. Sushi-shopping for supper. Insects galore congregating on the screen. I still haven't showered (dirtylittlebitch); sometimes postponing it is fun, just to test how long I can stand it and enjoy that hot steaming release as the surface tension eases...tonight would be a good night for a pedicure and an apricot-oil rubdown. Charlie Chaplin films, Xanax (courtesy of my fabulous cohort; i.e. partner in crime), sex, sushi...hmm...what am I forgetting...? Soft, snuggly thigh pillows.

Been craving more poetry lately...want to read it aloud, but preferably to an audience. Becoming sensitive to a strange mix of my own desire to share myself (physically, emotionally, spiritually, creatively) and be open. But a shy sort of hesitance (like that shown me by the shepherd at work today...Beautiful golden eyes, fixed but mistrustful...an urge to play and a fear of being touched. I still insist that there are few feelings in the world that beat earning the trust of a shy or wild animal. Before I left that yard, he had let me scratch his back and offered me three kisses--one on the eye, one on the cheek, and one on the lips. Soft and somewhat bashful, but it sent me soaring.) keeps me back on my heels. I want to sing and whistle and dance...spread joy carelessly. I like reading aloud to a willing partner, but I'm always afraid of exposure...if I read something to someone and they appreciate it, the day is never wasted.

Maybe I'll just keep e.e.cummings in my bag at all times. Shout it from my car downtown! I resolve to start playing in more public water fountains and singing aloud on my bicycle. Mm. Yes.

Primeval equinox

My work is interrupted as swiftly as it is begun. Struggling with the epistemology of modernist fiction and philosophy, head buried in piles of paper, I glanced up at a motion in the pale sky. Ten large white shapes against the gray--a rhythm in flux between complete stillness and the fluid, metered sweeps of wings. The last time I glimpsed these birds they were gliding South, smooth as swimmers. Now I see them heralding the spring in, impervious to this belligerent frigidity and dampness. These could be the same birds I saw last fall; no way of knowing...to me, in my perception, they are the same birds because they represent the same thing. Such control and measured endurance as to pull me to my feet and urge me to throw open the door and watch them until they disappear. An ancient desire to join them is pierced by the painful, penultimate reality that my feet and legs are as roots in the soil. But they travel on, compelled by the beat of their own wings and some soft rhythm in the cosmos--so strong a vibration that each tissue thrills. My ears are numb; nonetheless my lungs, heart, and groin all feel the same pull. Gravity. Rotation. Deep forces urge us to flock and breed...in the springtime, I am bent further--though gently--towards my own animal nature. Violence, lust, and maternal tenderness all stir under the insistence of the warming sun. My form pleads for music, sex, song, wine, and dance...an urge to hedonistic indulgence in the ease of natural pleasures. Easter Sunday, and pagan surges of electrical strength send sparks from my scalp and fingers. Crushed by ecstasy--death and life dissolving into one perpetual resurrection. Amen.

Putting the "vent" in "adventure"

Heading up to Fayetteville to house-shop a bit this weekend...told myself I'd spend the spare time I have today working on my final project paper. I'll get to it when I finish this. Feeling all shitty, sick, and feverish today...did some yoga just to get the blood flowing in my hands again. It's going to take a near-miracle to inspire something worthy of my three committee members' time.

Went out to Juanita's last Saturday night; J had intended to come along and then abandoned the rest of us at the last minute, leaving me to snuggle up to a series of beers, shots and a fun-loving dance partner. Still, things just aren't the same when I look single to all the hungry eyes out there. It's weird how exposed and dirty I start feeling in the midst of the Little Rock meat-market scene. While I know it's just me and my social angst, something just shudders at the notion of a seething, breeding group of preppy VD-carriers all trying to look equally attractive and cool to members of either sex. If I'm gonna blend, I gotta get me some high-heeled shoes, a home-tanning bed, a rape-apron (ladies, they're the shirts cut off above the belly with a wide-open back), and add about another half-pound to each titty. Jeez. The only woman I'd have taken home with me, if I was a guy on the prowl, was a good friend, already dancing all sweetly with her beautiful breasts against my back. But we couldn't even just enjoy the music and one another's rhythms without getting drooled all over by the local yokels.

Starting to feel like a total stiff; either me or this town is in desperate need of a big, juicy, fun-enema. Aside from the friends that came with me, (whose company is always enjoyable whether we're in, out, or smoking ourselves retarded somewhere in-between) I just wasn't impressed with the barflies. The images of the crowd that stand out the most prominently in my mind are those of the burned-out bartender, silently slopping out drinks to the minions, the bouncer cradling his head in his hands from exhaustion when he thought no one was looking, and the greasy-fried rednecks oggling whatever slice of pie sidled past with an air of inaccessibility. A scene all-too accessible on a Saturday night. Next time we should just wander around on the golf course with a couple of blankets, some wine, and a big tasty doob.

Right now, I'm totally open to suggestions about the nightlife here...because at the moment, I'm beginning to understand why David Cross continues to diss us as a metropolis. Then again, maybe I just need to stick to dinner, a movie, and an occasional outing to a good concert. Till then I'll be satisfied just to finish this damned paper before spring break.

In sickness and in...ugh.

Obviously, something was snapping the last time I made an entry. Whether it has snapped, is snapping, or will snap, I'm nonetheless doing everything in my power (which unfortunately wanes as the pain lingers and shoots through a new nerve center every day) to function. Speech therapy may be in order if my communicative abilities continue to degenerate at this pace. I'm in flux somewhere between severe depression and total fatigue. Itching in my throat and ears; whatever germ I'm fighting will take its first chance to leap into my chest and make some mucus there. I know better than to expect immediate results from meditation and other self-care, but DAMMIT! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME???? Everything hurts. No energy. And I have this strange intuitive sense that something "bigger" is responsible. Who knows. All I know is that my pleasure, well-bring, physical health, and motivation are just bottoming out. My wit, written or spoken, has become practically nonexistent. Ready for spring, come hell, high water, or global warming.

"The sea, it swims like a sore head
and the night is aching;
two lovers lie with no sheets on their bed,
and the day it is breaking..."

Angry with everything. Wishing for lightning, anything, to split the sky and just set the chaos loose--take it out of my head.

Fucking Monday. Struggled all day to keep these emotions under, and now once I'm finally home they all break and slap the surface like so many cold waves of tension. Why now? Safer not to pretend I'm okay, once I'm away from people I may like, but in front of whom I cannot cry. Everything is turning inward, including destructive urges.

"Did I disappoint you? Leave a bad taste in your mouth?
You act like you never had love,
and you want me to go without..."

Psychotic pervert. Villain. Professor. Professed Mentor. Professional Tormentor.

"LOVE IS A TEMPLE, LOVE THE HIGHER LAW!
You ask me to enter, but then you make me crawl."

Blood in the tips of my fingers, between my temples, on my tongue where I chew it...furious, roaring, and ultimately powerless. Fuck this fucking feeling. Fuck it. Write it out. Ride it out. Slap of a snare drum steady in my chest.

Cigarettes, beer, xanax...shoot up smack, poison as antidote. Why take responsibility for our feelings? Who wants to? Drown...drown...drown.

"A vampire, or a victim;
it depends on who's around."

Let it out! Kill the beast! Take up arms against the terrorists! I feel this tidal flood of panic and hate rushing and eddying outside, licking my doorstep and windowsills...promising to pull me into its undertow if I don't swim with the stream. Manic waves of fear and loathing. And why?

"Well, it's all in your mind...it's all in your mind..."

one love. one. blood.

taken. given. burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail, poisoned in the bushes and blown out on the trail.

Tell me something. Tell me one thing. How much is a woman supposed to take? Tell me. How much?

"All she can. All she can."

Why? Why? Why? Why?