"This story is old, I KNOW / but it goes on" -- Morrissey, naturally.
Last night I dreamt again of flight:
I lifted myself off the ground and, slumph, bumphed my head against the ceiling. Its not difficult to do. Its like holding your breath, or not looking into the dark corner right before bed. Its a delicate bauble Ive perfected, in dreams, since childhood. So, with my feet dangling just out of reach like a balloon string, I made small talk with the other folks in the room. Only one person was amazed: wee Bob Juarez, who went to my high school, and is now gay. He stared agape. Howdy Thom, I waved down. Everyone else was nonplussed. As I say, we made chat. Someone took exception to something Id written, a poem or story. Someone else defended it vigorously: it was the best thing Id ever done. Look, I tried to shrug, though the ceiling against my shoulders prevented me; look, thanks for the support and all, but Ive been levitating for an hour or so up here, and you think my *prose* is the best feat Ive ever accomplished?
* * *
So thats how life is, of course. I write to you, darlings, from the back of a caf, where the barista flirts with a bike messenger, and I have worn the wrong shirt yet again. I carefully trim witty phrases for Facebook status lines, and someone posts whau which thirty-three people Like and thats just how life is, of course, and theres no sense getting miffy about it at my age.
But of course, I am a bit miffy tonight. Life, tonight, is just window shopping. The barista has red hair. I am determined, just once, to have a torrid affair with a redhead. I want it in my mouth. Ill demand she stops shaving. I want to wake up with her armpits and thighs and saliva. I wont like her, no sir, not one bit, and she wont be vegetarian, and shell vote Republican and shell have purchased every season of Friends and shell tip her head quizzically at every single unbelievably incidental thing I say. And when we fight, and she asks me why Im so keen on dating her anyway, Ill shout, Because youre an adorable redhead and thats on the fucking list! and goddammit Ill be right.
Goodness how miffy I am tonight -- and not just personally miffy, but politically and philosophically and cosmically. I remember again that I live in a world in dire want of universal meritocracy, sense, decency, memory, kindness, and some well-deserved elitism for a change. I remember again that all the pinky primates havent wised up just enough to be effectively selfish and keep themselves alive. And boy I must be right and truly miffy if Im doing the sophomoric routine of wagging my finger at humanity.
Oh, oh rocks, I so need a timeout. I see that. Timeout. Ill refill my tea and put on a brave face.
* * *
Done. So, now, lets put me in a better mood by chatting about the things I have coming up for you -- my tiny, brave audience.
Taking a hint from my own wildly successful inaugural blog -- which owes everything to Calico -- I have been interviewing some of my SG friends. Ive been asking them complex, silly questions. When our back-and-forth conversations wrap up, Ill publish the transcripts, one at a time, and you will be amazed at the utter brilliant kind wise funny sexy insane delights your fellow SGs have to offer. Or maybe you wont be amazed -- because youve known all along.
So those are coming soon. Tell your friends. I aim to put on a show.
But for now, look for me in your dreams. And if you see me hovering up by the ceiling, trying and failing to look falsely nonchalant, do me a kindness and -- point! -- and exclaim! -- and shout Thats brilliant!
Last night I dreamt again of flight:
I lifted myself off the ground and, slumph, bumphed my head against the ceiling. Its not difficult to do. Its like holding your breath, or not looking into the dark corner right before bed. Its a delicate bauble Ive perfected, in dreams, since childhood. So, with my feet dangling just out of reach like a balloon string, I made small talk with the other folks in the room. Only one person was amazed: wee Bob Juarez, who went to my high school, and is now gay. He stared agape. Howdy Thom, I waved down. Everyone else was nonplussed. As I say, we made chat. Someone took exception to something Id written, a poem or story. Someone else defended it vigorously: it was the best thing Id ever done. Look, I tried to shrug, though the ceiling against my shoulders prevented me; look, thanks for the support and all, but Ive been levitating for an hour or so up here, and you think my *prose* is the best feat Ive ever accomplished?
* * *
So thats how life is, of course. I write to you, darlings, from the back of a caf, where the barista flirts with a bike messenger, and I have worn the wrong shirt yet again. I carefully trim witty phrases for Facebook status lines, and someone posts whau which thirty-three people Like and thats just how life is, of course, and theres no sense getting miffy about it at my age.
But of course, I am a bit miffy tonight. Life, tonight, is just window shopping. The barista has red hair. I am determined, just once, to have a torrid affair with a redhead. I want it in my mouth. Ill demand she stops shaving. I want to wake up with her armpits and thighs and saliva. I wont like her, no sir, not one bit, and she wont be vegetarian, and shell vote Republican and shell have purchased every season of Friends and shell tip her head quizzically at every single unbelievably incidental thing I say. And when we fight, and she asks me why Im so keen on dating her anyway, Ill shout, Because youre an adorable redhead and thats on the fucking list! and goddammit Ill be right.
Goodness how miffy I am tonight -- and not just personally miffy, but politically and philosophically and cosmically. I remember again that I live in a world in dire want of universal meritocracy, sense, decency, memory, kindness, and some well-deserved elitism for a change. I remember again that all the pinky primates havent wised up just enough to be effectively selfish and keep themselves alive. And boy I must be right and truly miffy if Im doing the sophomoric routine of wagging my finger at humanity.
Oh, oh rocks, I so need a timeout. I see that. Timeout. Ill refill my tea and put on a brave face.
* * *
Done. So, now, lets put me in a better mood by chatting about the things I have coming up for you -- my tiny, brave audience.
Taking a hint from my own wildly successful inaugural blog -- which owes everything to Calico -- I have been interviewing some of my SG friends. Ive been asking them complex, silly questions. When our back-and-forth conversations wrap up, Ill publish the transcripts, one at a time, and you will be amazed at the utter brilliant kind wise funny sexy insane delights your fellow SGs have to offer. Or maybe you wont be amazed -- because youve known all along.
So those are coming soon. Tell your friends. I aim to put on a show.
But for now, look for me in your dreams. And if you see me hovering up by the ceiling, trying and failing to look falsely nonchalant, do me a kindness and -- point! -- and exclaim! -- and shout Thats brilliant!
Lyrics
Come to New Zealand. I know a vegetarian redhead who votes liberal and lives across the harbor from me. She loves camping, and is finishing up her master's degree. I suspect her penchant for patchouli and tendency to talk about life as a journey would eventually weary you, but by that time I'd have stolen you away.
He's an odd sort of fellow, and in his younger days he may have been the type to snap you like asparagus. I'm not sure if that's part of the appeal. I've already married a redhead, and it didn't work out, and I think maybe 'circus freak' was on my list, and that's how it started. Just once I wanted to have a torrid affair with someone who could put both legs behind his head.