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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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Today Is The First Day...
Entry Interruptus I killed that last entry because x walked into the pod where I was posting and I didn't necessarily want him to find out the super-secret Diaryland location. Not that he'd even be interested most likely, but I like to keep my alter ego alter, if you know what I mean. Rock, Paper, Scissors From the paper diary: The cutie at Starbucks on Jefferson makes me smile. "How are you today?" he asks in his soft, muted boy voice. "Good," I reply. "You?" He nods. "Good enough?" I ask. "I'm good enough," he replies. We have a soft, muted vibe-y thing going, I think. He looks about fourteen (he's in his early 20's) and I'd fuck him in a minute--just to watch his expression change. I'm perched on my bike in the gas station parking lot, on my cell phone, talking to Mayflower. A leggy blond is pumping gas into her black SUV. I am only partly aware of her, but as I end my cell phone call, I take a closer look. It's a man in drag. I love men in drag. I say to May, "I think that's him." The newest match.com set-up. The guy is in flip-flops, shorts, a Carthart (sp?) baseball cap. He's working on his laptop--an old one... He follows me out. ("Let me get a look at this bike of yours.") He stands and talks and talks, skirting around asking for sex. (He's checked me out earlier.) I ignore the implications of his conversation. I shake his hand in parting. He suggests a hug. (I am already suited up to ride, crash padding and all.) Go ahead, I think, I won't feel a thing. x and May make sense together, but only in the strange way that we all silently agree that salt and pepper are the spices that belong on the table together. Salt and pepper and not oregano and paprika. What am I afraid of? What am I waiting for? Jennifer Connelly (sp?), an actress I don't like, in a Vogue interview, says she has trouble making decisions. "I can't pull the trigger on the thing," she says. I hear her. I cry my way through parts of Zen & The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I realize that, as an artist, my goal is to learn to do the material's bidding, to be ego-less in the process of creation (as god was), to make the clay into what it wants to be. I feel, at 153, fat. I've put on about 6 pounds. My stomach feels loose and my thighs barely touch at the top. Driving: Two men in a car speed up to get a look at me. Three men pull along side, tap on the window, make kissing noises. Two men smile and wave. The metaphysical Matthew update via an online dating service. I am one of many girls to him. I'm glad. The Demon Who Always Does The Right Thing says of Ama: "I want to know that she's happier without me than she was with me." George Bush is re-elected. Life goes on as before. I don't feel troubled, just vaguely uncomfortable. I have trouble getting to the gym to do cardio. I hit on a plan: I will buy magazines that I can only read on the elliptical trainer and that I have to leave at the gym. It works. Today, I read about the princes William and Harry in People magazine, then abandon it at the desk. Sophistica provides the theme of this period in my life, as usual: I will never feel as though I've found "my people." I look forward, with some trepidation, to the graduate school application process.
More lies:
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