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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Risky Demons
How To Spend A Weekend I'll get up early in the morning and ride Frida down to the farmer's market in the valley. I'll ride her through the valley and perhaps out to the next town, which is a thirty or so mile trip. I've missed my Frida, as the last several days I have not, for various demons, been able to ride. Lack Luster I went to Ron this morning for a coloring. He evened out the bad home dye job that I've been supporting like a bum boyfriend for a year and added some gold toned and very subtle color to increase the depth of the flat black I'd foolishly believed would really wash out in 28 shampoos. Now my hair is all shiny and healthy looking and a very sophisticated golden black color, if I can use such a description. Ron is fabulous, too. I love that man. Now, of course, being a hairdresser, he's gay. I don't think they'd issue a license to cut hair to a man who wasn't gay. (And, yes, I know that there are exceptions, but they are few and far between, and you can always tell the male non-gay hairdressers because they all own Harley Davidson motorcycles and wear lots of leather: leather motorcycle jackets, leather boots, leather chaps...okay, well, so that leather thing's not much of a gay/non-gay male hairdresser distinguishing characteristic, so I'd stick with motorcycle ownership as my criterion.) So, yeah, Ron is also convinced that, because I was married to a gay man, that I am a lesbian. (Well, Ron and half the world thinks this.) We often talk about gay and lesbian issues, and I know that he thinks that I am frighteningly well-versed in lesbian issues, though I am not really, I am more just in empathetic sympathy with all women's issues, being, you know, a woman and all. We also talked about the whole skinny/fatty thing. I told him the story about Max's co-worker who came in and said "Hey, Skinny!" to me and I very gently corrected her (I thought) about commenting on anyone's body or body type by saying to her, "Would you have ever said, 'Hey Fatty!' to me before?" and when she said, "No, I guess not," I replied, "Well, it's inappropriate either way, don't you think?" And I thought the matter was settled, both of us being intelligent women and all. Only, not so much. The next time I saw her, she came in and said, "Hey Skinny!" and I replied, after just a beat in which I searched for and found the nerve to do it: "Hey Fatty!" And I told this all to Ron, who has been skinny skinny skinny all his life, and he threw up his hands and cried, "You get it! Oh, I'm so glad you get it!" I love Ron. And I Love You Too, Demons I am grateful. I am grateful for Ron, who gets it too. I am grateful for dreams, for dreams I can interpret, for the dreams I can't interpret, for the dream that is my waking life. I am grateful. I am grateful for Fridas: for my Frida, for Frida Kahlo, both of whom are vehicles that draw me into other landscapes, interior and exterior and unfamiliar. I am grateful. I am grateful for this time, for Max, for this day, for my life, for Judi, for Quorn, for iced venti Americanos with sugar-free hazelnut syrup, for the woman who eyed me jealously at Starbucks, for the women who eye me curiously everywhere, for the fact that I am a woman to be given the eye, for the fact that I reject all prying eyes with equanimity. I am grateful. I am grateful and obedient. I am grateful and humble. I am grateful. Rousseau? "Every [wo]man has a right to risk [her] own life in order to preserve it." Or, rather: Every woman has a responsibility to risk her own life in order to save it.
More lies:
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