Things have been really really good lately. Really fucking good for lack of a better term. I went through my blogs before I posted them scrubbing them for my dirty mouth, which we all know I have. Well, you know it. You get allusions to it. It is something I just have on me, a very emphatic way of expressing myself. Though I can think of alternative ways of saying it, saying fucking over flipping is really a bit more aggressive. Flipping would work if I was a former nun, or a school teacher, or a girl not covered in tattoos, but I am not a nun or teacher, but yeah, but I am plastered with art. Luckily for me I look younger than I am, which also helps in my search for new friends, and maybelovers or boyfriends. I am kind of at a bizarro crossroads where I am seriously loving meeting all new friends, but someone eventually has to cut the mustard, someone has to be ready to take me on. I am not an easy one to deal with I recognize. I am not sedentary in the least. I enjoy moving through life as an active participant. I will come up with the bizarre scenarios. I will make you go with me somewhere where we don’t speak the language, I will swim in the green of the ocean, zipline down open mouths of the forest, see volcanoes erupt, see Europe soon enough–I want, I need. I need to spend New Year’s there. I am thinking maybe October to get my tattoo since I still need a car, which I don’t have, and no cash for the tattoo either. This will be in Toronto, because somehow I keep getting thrown back there for reasons nobody seems to know. But the artist: You know he’s good:
I like doing different stuff all of the time, moving fluidly through life like fire and rain.
I have a water arm and a fire arm tattooed on me. Flowers, dragon koi, peony, geisha, eagle wings and flower things. When I was at the Denver Botanic Garden I smelled every flower. Every one, even if they stunk. There was always the possibility it wasn’t the best smell, but I can say for the most part, the little bug flags that they are, these pretty suckers were meant to attract honey bees. They were sweet, sometimes too sweet, but there was beauty in being able to kneel down in front of any flower and take it in. I am getting a peacock tattooed on me soon, from my back extending down to cover my ribs, belly and even down the tops of my ass. Then I will get the grand waves down it, the scorching fire on the other side, and recolor all of my existing tattoos in. I need a month long vacation to achieve that I think, to give space for healing in between. I almost need two people working on me, but that might be hell on earth for pain. Or I could sleep as I often do–it sometimes is very easy to fall under the trance of the endorphins. They do certain things, and can numb the perception of pain in your brain. You almost like it, it being a certain component of who you are, that quest to finish who you are.
When I was at the writers’ workshops, there was a lot of really fantastic stuff that went down. Many people wrote very different ways and there were several I could relate to, because everything hadn’t always been colored inside the lines for them. So many different people, different personalities, so many levels of talent. It’s like we are all in different places in our writing process, but everyone was such an awesome cheerleader, I can’t even thank them all enough. And stand bewildered almost by the true community thread that seems to weave its way through the room when people are talking about their writing and the cheerleading that always goes on.
And it was beautiful. So beautiful. I cannot say enough about the things I saw, but here’s a tease:
The other super magical thing is I was taken care of. Entirely and completely. For 6 days we all had our meals made for us three times a day, very regimented…7:30, 12 and 6 pm were mealtimes. We didn’t have to do anything period, but volunteer one shift during the week to help do dishes. The food was very decent, the staff was super nice.
And I am really bad doing that all for myself. I have enough food, sure. But it’s a hard justification to always cook for yourself, so I like going out once a day I guess, for something to eat. It’s a terrible waste of money, but it exposes me to the public when friends are just now starting to blossom into more tangible things. I need to have one of my brunches. I do good ones–I used to host, well Kristen and I would host every Sunday for a while until we realized people were coming over to eat our food but we were still spending money on alcohol because we liked coffee patron. Shit is good, man. You want to drink it. The whole fuckin’ bottle. Right down, it is the best for getting shnockered in the most sober way possible. I never missed going home when I was back East. I never got lost, I never blacked out. Cannot say that now that I am here, however. You tolerance gets cut according to the amount of oxygen you get in your body. Hence sea level lady was a 3-bottles-of-wine-drinking, shot-tipping funny girl when Lisa and I would roam free. We always had the best time. Always. Sometimes we would drink a couple of giant beers which were somewhere around 48 ounces for $6 here:
That is where we came up with our hysterical genius. We need to have our own channel. We are the funniest girls together and now I have a phone which can record the shenanigans. Come here Miss G. You know you want to! You need it, it’s good therapy. The mountains and the scale, the planetarium that is Buena Vista. There is so much to see. You come here and be my guest.
(Lisa doesn’t read my blog, actually.) I am pretty sure none of my friends do to be honest. Everyone is super random who falls into the path of my word spewage, concept sewage, need to diffuse it, tiny diary which doesn’t even have most things in it that will be in my memoir and short stories. I have a memoir I am working on, and another one that is creative nonfiction. I am also editing my poetry and sending it out. I need to get stuff done. And if I don’t get it done soon I’ll be drowning here in a minute. In a debt pool. I need to make shit happen. Not make stuff happen (oh god why did I do that to the whole blog?!).
It’s only been very very recently that I had to open my mouth again, because sometimes, really? Fuck is a pretty fucking useful word. It sounds good. It’s satisfying. You can say it any way you mean, from fuck, as in “please fuck me now“, or fuck as in “shit, what’s worse than this?” You know you have all done that. When you get close to someone and you are super hot for them, you might moan out a “fuhhhckkkk” when things start leading in those directions, and you might say fuck, as in “FUHCK!!
I know this means Oprah might not read my book, but I need to get my shit out there as me, and have people understand that sometimes my language is as base as the emotion. The sound, the emphasis, the enunciation, it’s supposed to mean something. It’s the language of everyone, where some people cannot understand the didactic involved in supplying everyone with the same vocabulary if people aren’t even reading books anymore. My vocabulary is no small thing. I am not one of those who’s forgotten how to read–and though I suppose I am kicking for the flagrant foul, oh well–it’s gonna be ok–and if it’s not, oh well…I am not going to go re-pollute my blogs to include those words, but know that freaking and flipping=fucking. Stuff=shit. Jerks=assholes. I am largely me the incarnations now, but the censorship kind of drove me crazy. It was self-imposed, but for good reason.
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