Nikki Giovanni
kidnap poem
ever been kidnapped
by a poet
if i were a poet
i'd kidnap you
put you in my phrases and meter
you to jones beach
or maybe coney island
or maybe just to my house
lyric you in lilacs
dash you in the rain
blend into the beach
to complement my see
play the lyre for you
ode you with my love song
anything to win you
wrap you in the red Black green
show you off to mama
yeah if i were a poet i'd kid
nap you
I got home and was grumpy, but I went anyway. Cristy IMed and it sort of coaxed me to go. I would have gone anyway because I told people I would and I generally keep my word, but encouragement helped.
I met up with Library Lisa and her friends, one of whom I had ogled when she sat down. She looked over at me, too. Nope, no instant chemistry but when Lisa finally dragged herself over I enjoyed watching this new woman cavorting.
This new gal, let's call her "R," reminds me of V's best bud, P. (The one I made the "no dope" vow to.) I almost broke the "no dope" vow last night but I was driving and I refused the offer.
I think I should keep the promise for my own self-respect. I wonder if V swore off. Not my concern I know. Next topic....
Before the show started, I was watching this woman who had the whole thing going on. Syncopation. All parts in motion. She was older, and dapper in a black vest and tie. She was dancing for two hours or so and I was enjoying watching her have fun. She danced alone or flirtily danced with anyone nearby. I was tempted to go put a dollar in her pants... but she probably would have grabbed me to dance.
So I watched people dancing and my sister and her friends arrived. They stood around and wanted to dane but didn't. They enjoyed the show and laughed at the queens' dirty jokes.
I kept daring them to give a queen a dollar. Finally, Kelli was harrassing a woman and lifting her blouse. I walked over and gave the woman a dollar in her shirt. The crowd cheered and Kelli slapped my arm for it.
I probably wouldn't have done it but with my sister there I was inspired.
I still don't feel like dancing in public. Mumble mumble knees. Mumble mumble feet. I used to dance but it was so long ago. I don't think I have the same... flare.
So I left the bar about 1:20. I would have stayed later with my sister but I have a promise to keep this morning and needed some rest.
My promise involves travel and cleaning supplies. A change of clothes might be a good idea, too.
I might be gone all day, Cristy. Are we gathering tonight?
After a somewhat meandering route, I found the Hallandale branch library and went inside. I found a map on the wall and figured out that I needed to go back north and then west again. I checked out the library and seeing that they also have the same public pc system attempted to use one. A librarian walked over to me and said "You need to close. We have people waiting to use the PCs...." I didn't fuss or explain that the express PCs where I work are for people just like me. I left, thinking that she was like that co-worker of mine... you know, the bitchy, officious one.I packed a notepad and my library copy of Harry Potter and went to a Saturn dealership about 40 miles south.
I attempted to read while my brakes were replaced. They needed it. ("Somebody... stop me!")
I carped and grumbled to myself that all the world's a goddamned phone booth now. The Saturn dealership is wide open inside and tiled, so I heard everyone yammering into their cellphone, "I'll be there as soon as my car is fixed" and "How is so-and-so?"... and the muzak... and the TV in the waiting area. But somehow I managed to choke down two more chapters.
I got out earlier than I expected and decided to go see a friend who lives about 10 miles south. I got to her house and kept on going. For some reason, I didn't want to stop.
I decided that I would drive the hellish, overcrowded roads and see Miramar again.
The Coca-Cola Bottling Plant is now neighbor to a large complex of The Miami Herald. I made a note to mention that to Dad next ime we chat. I passed the old Gethsemane Church in what was a "black" area and the Seven Sisters BarBQ Pit. I saw old buildings I knew and new buildings that I did not.I noted that when I was a kid, car trips felt like they would never end, and now I see that what felt like hours to me where only spurts of ten or 20 miles. I passed things I remembered and things that had taken the place of the buildings that I remembered on Pembroke Road.
I found the Baptist church at the corner that signalled my old neighbohood and turned onto Tropicana St. I glanced at the houses were long-gone acquaintances had lived. I pulled into the driveway of my old home.
The enormous tree next door that I used to climb with Jimmy Armstrong was gone. Every house looked a little nicer than it had 27 years ago.
Seeing the driveway, the front door, I got choked up. I remember my mother there. 7240 Tropicana St., Miramar, FL
I could have pulled over and bawled, but I didn't.
We have a picture, somewhere, of my parents standing in front of that door, shaking hands and smiling, having just decorated it for Christmas. I remember love there.
We moved there when I was about 6 (second grade) and left when I was 13 (freshman year of high school.)
I decided to check the elementary school next. Open and breezy when I was a kid, it is now gated and walled. I saw, too, the church across the street where I attended Girl Scout meetings.
I'd had enough. I didn't go to the high school or into the commercial area of town. I headed back to I-95. I drove through nearly blinding rain and then calm to get home.
Now that I'm home, I don't want to go out like I've been planning to do for several weeks. But I think I need to.
This is a work by Henri Matisse. It is a mandala of dancers. I believe it's called "The Dance." It, or a reasonable facsimile, was emblazoned on the Activity Building at Unity College in Maine for many years until some prude decided we needed to paint over it. But RH loved the painting. I appreciated it as well. It made a statement about what the college wanted to be.
Some of my favorite artists are Joan (pronounced Juan) Miro and Georgia O'Keeffe. I like them for drawing attention to small details. Miro's work can be so playful. O'Keeffe puts your face in a flower. (That you see people parts is not her fault.) I love folk artists simple depictions of life. I like flights of fancy and I like the glimmer of an eye. I like Winslow Homer. I like a deceased local artist you've probably never heard of, A.E. "Beanie" Backus. He painted rustic and gorgeous landscapes. I love the detail of the greats like Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Titian and Fra. Filippi. If I had to choose just one genre to look at on my walls... I think it would be wild landscapes, not concrete. Maybe native peoples by the water... or not. I love paintings of women. Olympia by Manet. I made a point to see that at the Musee D' Orsay. You always see her, rarely the cat on the bed or the maid by the bedside. I love oriental paintings. Simple brush strokes make cats, monkeys, mountains. When I was a kid I enjoyed Ukiyo-e and Dada. There's a lot of art out there. Chihuly has a whole room of his glass in the ceiling at the Norton Museum in West Palm Beach. Very cool. One word: Putti! (and squid;0D)
OK, I'm rambling because it is so slow here today at the library. Quack, quack, quack.
So I'm reading Harry Potter and I notice spelling errors. Words not in their proper tense. Very curious. I'm wondering why, how it happened. Could it be on purpose? Someone as deliberate as J.K. Rowling wouldn't intentionally bobble her grammar, would she?
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It's getting so that we can almost tell which patron is in the library by the tune on their cell phones!!!!
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Harry Potter: You can be number 99 on the holds list or get him today for 1 week for $1.
All through my life I have thought about writing a children's book.
When I was... lemme think... probably about 9 or 10, I did write one called "Bob the Bug." Bob was a jaunty little beetle who argued eloquently for kindness in regard to the lives of his peers. The whole thing was on waxy art paper and created completely in red crayon and lovingly stapled together. As a kid, I had some natural artistic talent.
I don't think I can recreate the brilliance of "Bob the Bug," but with the right subject matter I think I might create something pretty cool.
And if I do... I know an artist to ask.... (You know who you are.) ;0)
I want to write
I want to write the songs of my people.
I want to hear them singing melodies in the dark.
I want to catch the last floating strains from their sob-torn
i am so glad and very (e.e.cummings)
i am so glad and very
merely my fourth will cure
the laziest self of weary
the hugest sea of shore
so far your nearness reaches
a lucky fifth of you
turns people into eachs
and cowards into grow
our can'ts were born to happen
our mosts have died in more
our twentieth will open
wide a wide open door
we are so both and oneful
night cannot be so sky
sky cannot be so sunful
i am through you so i
If (Rudyard Kipling)
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
I have been wanting to write but not coming up with much. I have been thinking about how much a longer entry of some depth was appreciated. I want to do that again.
I have the next two Saturdays off and want to go out. I don't drink if I don't have a place to crash or a ride home and I am not the sort to strike up a conversation with just anyone. That's why I need a group of people to share these times with.
I haven't had much to say. It's quite all right to have some quiet times, to reflect, to re-create.... I have written a few things but have not published them here yet.
I listen to NPR stories about war and terror. It's so much easier to distract yourself when you aren't living it. I suppose it's natural for us to protect ourselves pyschically, especially when we feel powerless. But we aren't powerless. We just have to stop thinking, and voting, like sheep.
And I was fortunate to be one of the first library patrons to get a copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, so some others things have been put to the side for a few days! I want to get it read and pass it on to the anxiously-waiting 100s on the list.
And here's a shout out to my homegirl, relentlessly blinking cursor. The Bitch!
(Think your mama and her friends will wanna go out again? I have some others to ask but I dig those crazy chicks!)
... to read all of the entry's in Judi's latest contest! Day-um!
http://journals.aol.com/judithheartsong/newbeginning/entries/1493
I doubt that anyone who has read me doesn't know about this incredible artist and powerful spirit. She and her Virginia don't even know that they are touchstones to me. A shard of hope about the way life should be. If nothing else, vicarious happiness.
True, nobody's life is ideal and we all have our issues... still, when something is good and right it makes the whole world better.
"Terrorism has no nationality," Egyptian Prime Minister Ahmed Nazief told The Associated Press. "This is a terrorist act and .... can't be explained or justified."
By SARAH EL DEEB, Associated Press Writer 7/23/2005
The evil has happened again. Terrorists mean to stop us. To get us so busy restoring ourselves that we are crippled and come to a standstill. And yes, there is no nationality or race to it. Muslims died in the London bombings. These people do not care.
Egyptians and tourists were doing their thing at a resort....
Who are these bombers? People capable of the unconscionable. And they are necessarily even religiously motivated but so warped of personality....
...and we are going to celebrate it Sunday at this Florida landmark.
I wasn't in on the planning of the event.
Are you laughing yet?
Well, Gatorland has been in operation since 1949. I guess we're in for a fine day of Alligator viewing.
A Gatorland birthday includes the following for the birthday person; unlimited train rides for the birthday person, an animal character hat and a cake in the shape of an alligator.
I don't know how or why this choice was made, but it is original....
A friend wrote saying that she was upset because I had blocked her from responding in my journal. I hadn't.
Just now, when I clicked the button to leave a comment in Judi's journal, I also got a message that I was blocked. But it still showed up in her journal somehow.
It's some sort of AOL snafu. Journalers still love you. We write for you. Do not be dismayed and do not give up!
"Stop that!"
"What do you have in your mouth?"
"Is that really necesssary on the dining room table?"
"Are you insane?"
"Aaaiieeeee! Don't drop that, it's still wiggling!"
"Stay in the house, bad kitty."
"Get back in the house, bad kitty."
"What in the world are you staring at on the ceiling?"
"Ooof! Ugh. Did you have to land on my guts?"
"Have you seen the claw clippers?"
"Kitty wanna bath?!"
"I love you, but your breath...."
"Are you gonna hurl?"
and...
"Would you mind lobbing that onto the linoleum instead of the rug?"
"If people could do that, nothing else would ever get done."
"You're nothing but a foodstuff, you know."
"Wanna brushin'?"
"You didn't mow the lawn today, either."
"So it's all come to this: I'm being herded into the kitchen by a cat."
"Who's my little fuzzy-wuzzy?"
"Ouch!"
"What do you think you are doing?"
"Don't lick me! I am not on the menu!"
"I hear you but where in the world are you?"
"Thanks. I love dead lizards in my bed."
Oh, sure... you're all aloof NOW...."
"What do you want NOW?"
"C'mere, kitty, kitty."
"Who's tail is that and where is the rest of him?"
"Slow down!"
"And what would you like for dinner tonight?"
"I love you, kitty, kitty."
I find it bemusing and sad that when I talk to people about getting tested for STDs, they say that they are clean because they give blood.
Blood donations are tested for HIV.
What about Syphilis, Gonorrhea, Chlamydia, Herpes and Hepatitis?
No one is immune from disease. If you give blood on a regular basis... fine... skip the HIV test. But do go in for the others.
And while we're talking about health... have you been flossing?
The plaque in your teeth is the same plaque that clogs your bloodstream. It's true.
A clean healthy mouth prevents a multitude of ills. (As someone who gets breathed on by the public all day, I can vouch for that!)
Here's what it was like:
I went to the Health Department, arriving about 9:20. My appointment was for 9:30. I maybe should have arrived at 9.
I signed in and waited to be called. I was called and sat down and filled out some basic forms aboout my name and address.
I went and waited with a mixed crowd of people in a sterile and kind of boring, but large waiting room... probably for over an hour.
There were some little kids running around and they, along with a TV running CNN health blurbs, provided the entertainment.
My turn finally came and I was led to a small room and handed a cup. I obligingly peed in the cup in the privacy of a bathroom and returned it to the nurse.
I was then led into an exam room and asked to sit in a chair while I was asked about my health status and my sexual activities. They asked if I was born in the U.S. and if I'd ever had a blood transfusion.
Then the nurse asked me to removed my pants and wait on the table for an exam. The doctor came in and took a swab from my vagina. I finally got the lady who had asked all the questions to crack a smile when I said that if I had known this was coming, I'd have shaved... ... my legs.
I did tell her and the doctor that I was a lesbian. These people are professionals, sworn to help. They see all kinds of people. And it's private information.
The doctor and his assistant left the room so I could dress and then I met two more nice ladies who took my blood for the HIV test.
So that's urine, vaginal swab and blood.
I paid... it was $30. I made an appointment to come back in three weeks.
It was not a major inconvenience. I hit my car about 11:57.
Why did I do this?
I did this because I want to be sure that I am healthy. I have no symptoms. I have no suspicions. I want to be able to give the gift of reassurance to people who will be intimates. I also want to give the gift of time to people I have been with if I am sick. And I want you to feel okay about doing this for yourself.
We are responsible to each other, even after a relationship ends.
Yeah. It's scary. I'd hate to be the one who made someone sick, but life is a gift that we shouldn't take for granted.
In three weeks... I'll tell you what the follow-up is like.
4460
Karl Rove is Bush's guy, and Bush is a very loyal man. It is very hard for him to not protect his friends.
Did you ever see the movie, "Straw Dogs?"
Sometimes a fellow picks the wrong person to stick up for.
The practical essentials of life are food and shelter. (I lump clothing into shelter, for that is what clothes are.)
The grand esentials are something to do, something to love and something to hope for.
The final essential is a sense of belongingness and love.
As for me, I get the final essential from my family, my friends and my co-workers, but I have also been getting it from this journal.
Tonight Cristy commented that she loved and appreciated an entry. Judi wrote that she related to it. An 18-year-old lesbian from Texas IMed to share her appreciation.
I belong with my family, I belong with my friends, I belong with the family of man.
So do you.
I was watching "The Prisoner of Second Avenue" starring Anne Bancroft and Jack Lemmon. There is a scene in which Lemmon thinks he has had his wallet stolen and chases a young mug through Central Park. He tackles the strapping lad and takes the wallet.
The next year, 1976, the lad plays a prize fighter in a movie he wrote. Yep, it's Sylvester Stallone. I looked him up on the IMDb(Internet Movie Database). It seems that Stallone is currently working on Rambo VI.
Rambo number six? What do you suppose this one is about? Rambo goes to the VA?
Curiouser and curiouser.
So yesterday I am lying in bed in my underpants because it is hot even with the a/c and two fans going.
I have smelled rain but the rain doesn't stop here.
The bedspread is soaked but I don't even care.
I get up to do some laundry, that's about all. I am known for preferring heat to cold, and for being cold when other people are comfortable or even warm.
I placed a towel between the computer and myself to absorb the glistening. (For that is what Southern ladies do, you know.)
But I am asleep and my hair is hagged out when I hear someone banging on my door.
I call out that I'll be there in a moment and then start digging for anything to put on. I find a pair of shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. I keep a Marlins cap on a nail by the inner door and I put that on, too, because the whole Medusa effect is not what I'm going for.
(Reminder to self: Keep some clothes by the bed!)
It wasn't my friend, the racist nudist next door. It was the little guy from across the street, one of the only other five neighbors I've ever spoken with at all.
He tells me he's sorry he doesn't come over to say "Hello" more often. He tells me that I am a nice neighbor to have around. He talks about the racist nudist and says he thinks he's a woman-hater. I say ol' Dick hates everybody but he's very good to me when I need help. George, the little guy, seems kind of surprised to hear it.
Then he asks for my landlords phone number. My landlord flattened out the road in front of my place a few weeks ago and laid down some crumbled asphalt. It's a very nice surface on a sandy road that tends to get big holes in it.(The neighborhood is on a sandy ridge, one of the high points left behind when the ocean waters receded way back when.)
My landlord operates one of those giant construction dumpster services. He has tractors and trucks and all kinds of guys working for him.
When he was here, he also steamrolled my yard. I have no idea why he steamrolled the yard, I just noticed that the tree stump in the center of the yard was gone and that the wildflowers up against the house where suddenly higher than the rest of the yard.
Makes ya' say "Whaa...?!"
Ah... I cursed the absence of rain and went to Cristy's, but in the early morning, rain finally came.
Even though we have had lots of rain, sand does not hold it well and the grass quickly folds into needles and turns brown. It's more fun to mow it when it's green and full... and it is time to mow but I've been bad....
Why I keep a journal/the autobiography of a journal
I keep a journal because it is easy to transfer thoughts into print. It's hard to open yourself up but the relative anonymity affordable via the Internet makes it easy to let loose.
I was relatively safe in the world. In second grade, my mother and I were in a car accident that nearly killed both of us.
I went through the windshield of the family station wagon. My mother was nearly cut in two by a seatbelt in the days when the buckle laid on top of your stomach instead of to the side.
I remember waking up and knowing that I was in a hospital. I was 6 or 7, but I wasn't scared. I suppose I was too young or too doped to be scared. My mother was a nurse and my grandfather was a doctor. I just wasn't intimidated.
I was first published in elementary school, in the school bulletin. Poetry from a third-grader, however silly, is, I suppose, something to make note of.
I always had an affinity for letters and words. I grew up in a home that sagged from the weight of approximately 2,000 books.
At an early age, I knew the names of Mary Renault, Winston Churchill, Edward Crankshaw, Jubal Early, Jeffrey Shaara, R.F. Delderfield, Rudyard Kipling, and I knew the genres of each author.
I learned to read, in part, by ciphering the titles and names. I liked to see letters emerge from my pencil point and form words. I enjoyed running my fingers over sentences so that it looked like whole thoughts printed from my body.
I learned to read because my parents read to me. It seemed very natural to me. It made sense. I was rarely troubled by spelling. I did other things while other kids sat in a circle getting extra help in figuring out pronunciation.
Years passed. I wrote good papers and the teachers all liked me.
In middle school, blending with a mixed crowd of kids, life became harder by far. Old classmates sat silently, dealing with their own issues, while new kids teased and harrassed me. I was different. My face was scarred and my growing sense of internal difference was also a presence. Home was my refuge and my refuge was full of writings.
Finally, in my freshman year of high school, a place where I was becoming more comfortable and some of my old friends were back together, my father accepted a job here... here in the town where my grandfather arrived in a Model A Ford in 1924, here where my mother was born and raised, here where my parents met and fell in love. We transferred with great happiness. It was here that writing became something I could focus on.
I was new. Other kids were trying to figure me out. No one picked on me. That my grandfather was well-known and well-loved helped a lot. I can remember writing in high school and loving it. I joined the literary magazine staff and was named art editor because I could draw. The teachers encouraged us to write and write well.
I no longer had to deal with harrassment. I could focus on school. I made new friends. My lesbianism bubbled just below the surface but I kept it in check. I was too shy to ever even think of acting on it.
We kept journals for Creative Writing, Literature and Humanities. My teachers enjoyed my journals and used them as examples to the class once or twice. My Literature teacher even asked to keep my journal when the year was over.
In my senior year, we took on an exchange student from the Philippines. She was a smart girl with big black eyes. We used to lay together in the same bed and kiss each other on the neck. I traced the words "I love you" on her back and on her hands. Only some force of reason kept me from kissing her mouth and taking her clothes off.
The time for college came. I arrived in the evening and could barely settle down. The next morning I was up with the rooster and zipping around like I was on cocaine. There was an older student there, with a serious buzz and a hat made from newspaper. She teased me some and gave me a task to do to channel my energy. She actually put me out on the driveway to wave the new students to the Admissions office. That was Kim. She didn't say much to me, but she knew by my energy that I was gay.
For all this talk, you’d think I was really active, but truth is that I was painfully shy. They say that of me now, but they really don’t know what I was like before.
At college, I finally was among other gay students. I went through a boyfriend or two, but they ignored me when they didn’t get any real sex. Then Kim started talking to me and she and Cheryl took me under her wing. They lent me books. They shared their home. We hung out with Rhett, who was in my class, and her lover, Joan. If they hadn’t adopted me, there’s no telling where my life would have gone.
Somehow, Kim encouraged and inspired my writing. Yes, my crush on her was deep. It was painful to be on campus when they went home. I started a new book of poems. One day, I had left it open when I stepped out of the professors’ offices where I worked. When I returned, Ed (one of the professors) was bent over the book and smiling. That was a catalyst. Even though others had encouraged me, that moment sealed it. He told me that my writing was very good. After that, I felt open to sharing it more. That was my poetry, the most intimate thing I did.
Graduation time came. So did a woman named Cathy. In my fourth year, she distracted me from everything. I was trying to put together a slide show for a class and she was outside the window, sunning herself in the field. I never finished the slide show. I never finished the class. Even though I went through the ceremony with everyone else, I left without the sheepskin.
I got home after my internship and found my father in dire straits. I worked a few more times in New Hampshire and then Ohio, but I came home. I stayed eight years, until my mother died.
During this time, I wrote. Sometimes I journalled but mostly, I wrote letters. Long letters. Weekly. A 50-page missive to my friends was not uncommon. And when I couldn’t write to them, I wrote about them in my poetry. At the end of school, Kim and Cathy had gotten together. Kim and I didn’t speak for a long time. I’m talking five years. But everything that is true eventually comes back around to where it should be.
It was always Kim that I wanted to share my whole inner world with. To this day I doubt if there is anyone who knows me more than she does. She is a most uncommon Grace. She is very bright and very pretty and very strong. I never see her but she is always my friend, as is Rhett.
When there is nothing else right in the world, there is this outlet. Really pouring out your soul can be very hard. I found that pouring it out to nobody was empty, but pouring it out to someone made it worthwhile. And I found that just writing what you would say if you had the guts to say it is the way to write.
The beauty of an online journal is that you can be private and still tell everything… within reason. I try very hard not to be hurtful, but sometimes the truth, as you see it, is hurtful.
I have found the courage to say the things I never could before. And I need to be read when I write.
It is a gift to myself and, sometimes, a gift to others.
One of the things that I value most is that it has introduced me to a lot of interesting and kind people who form an odd community of (mostly) unsung writers.
Here in our journals, we can leave a little bit of ourselves and find our commonalities. We discover that though we may feel freakish, we are really all the same inside.
I keep a journal because it keeps me anchored in people in a world where I am often alone.
Derek gets up early just about every day and checks AOL.
I'm so glad he does because I do not always set my alarm but I usually don't sign off AOL, either, so I hear his buddy sound about 7:30 and it wakes me up.
I hope he never changes the sound. Cristy's is too quiet... and she isn't an early riser when she doesn't have to be. And when she is up early she isn't online. :o|
Judi is up early fairly often. ;o)
The rest of you either don't compute until later or are in another time zone. (lol)
Nope, it's Derek I can almost set a clock to.
Thanks, D! :oD
A few nights ago, I had the wonderful pleasure of sharing kisses with a black woman. (She is also of American indian descent.)
Ohh...mmyyyy... sttaarrrrrrssssssss. Her lips were so very full and so very soft I could have died. I was weak in the knees afterwards.
I've come a long way... ... from the first memory I have of an African-American woman.
Queen, her actual given name, stood in my grandfather's kitchen in a starched white dress. I was probably knee-high to her and she looked like a statue to me. She was immaculate and she laughed at whatever it was I said when I noticed her.
The year? Let's say... 1971.
There was a table in the kitchen and she sat there as we ate, having her supper also. I asked her to the table and she said "No." She was okay at her own table, she told me.
Her hair was coiffed and she had big dimples and shining eyes. She cooked and cleaned for my grandfather. She made his eggs, bacon, grits, toast, juice and coffee in the morning. She put together his lunch, and dinner, too.
It wasn't until many years later, when I was in my 20s that I saw how and where she lived.
Her brother, O.C., was Grandaddy's yard man. He raked the sand beneath the mango tree into smooth rows and cleared fallen palm leaves away from the rocks under which the roly-polies I loved to observe congregated.
I didn't have a sense of superiority or inferiority, just wonder. Queen and O.C. always smiled at me. I remember them laughing and smiling.
They may have walked to Grandaddy's house from "Colored Town." The neighborhoods that make up that area are in the center of town, not on the outskirts. They may have been dropped off. I know that they lived less than a mile from Grandaddy's 1928 Spanish Revival-style house.
I don't remember the first time I heard the "N" word. When I did hear it, it usually wasn't pronounced correctly. The last syllable was more like "-gra" than "ger." I don't remember who or where or why. I just remember it was vitriolic.
When I attended kindergarten and elementary school, some of my classmates were black children. I attended school with a boy named "Major" and his pretty little sister named "Toy." I can'tremember their last names, but I can't remember anyone's last names from that far back... except the kid who slammed me in the head with a heavy metal truck and the boy next door and my sister's best friend.
Somehow, afterward, I learned fear and distrust. I can't see any reason why.
My grandfather was a physician who fought to offer hospital access to everyone in the community regardless of their ability to pay.
My father is a good man who supported Civil Rights by reporting on the violence in Alabama and Florida. He was nearly strangled by a farmer who caught him taking pictures of beatings while a police officer turned his back.... Ever since, he wore clip-on tie until he started working in Miami and abandoned button-down shirts for the breezy guayabera shirts favored by the Cubans.
But I digress... somehow along the way, it happened. It snuck into the schoolyards, it floated through a family reunion, it weaseled into a conversation, it climbed the tree where my friends and I watched passing cars.
I've said it. I have known this cloud of stupidity in my own heart.
I'd say from the innocence that started with an ebony goddess in white, I'm coming back around... to bringing someone beautiful to share the table, to having the honor of sharing the table....
I have learned to stop fearing and meet the people I fear. I have learned that softness trumps fear and it's response, violence, in animals, and in people. Not always, but almost.
There is a bunch of local kids who come to the library and play on the computers all day. Usually we have to tell at least one and sometimes many that they have to go home.
Today the kids were so good, just a little loud. I even told the children's librarian that I wish I had a prize for them. Well, the day was going great, and then... in 45 minutes after that contumacious co-worker of mine went on the desk, that the biggest instigator, who'd been good, was getting up and yelling as he left... having been told to go.
It's her intolerance that sets the mood. It's her inability to put up with anything outside of the realm of her little world that paints things to the unhappy and the violent.
It's only thought... the decision to move to the positive... that makes all the difference.
AllIcan say is I can't wait to kiss my friend again. And I don't think I will ever look at a black woman again without cracking a smile.
The title of this entry is from the last line of the poem "Snake" by D.H. Lawrence.
Waking up sick to my guts about losing that friend. What can you do?
Wait and see how long it takes to stop aching.
@$%&*#!
1:17 p.m. I'm at work. I'm thinking I was raised not to give up. I think about trying to contact her and beg for forgiveness. (I'd send flowers if I knew to where!) She's something special.
Then I think about continually being pushed away by V. Damned if I'll do that again. I might let it happen twice, but that is my absolute limit now.
It was an unfortunate circumstance.... but "it's all good," I suppose.
If you slip into the archives of this journal you will see a tribute to my friends from college. One portion extols the wonders of my buddy Kim.
She took me in when I was a scared kid. Tonight I thought I'd do something crazy and call her. I am so glad I did. I don't know why I was missing her but her voice is just as young as ever and just as enthusiastic.
I'm sitting here thinking about the possibility of anything disparaging within this tome of my brain but I disclaim any ill intent if it does exist. I'm just having a "hope I didn't say anything bad!" moment... akin to feeling the need to clean before the relatives visit. But I'm not changing anything. Kim is time- and fire-tested.
If she doesn't know I love her by now there's no hope!
I mention because I gave her a way to find the journal...
someone who was known me for just over half of my life will see things very differently than anyone else.
I hope there isn't too much chagrin, old pal.
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It's all about me, isn't it? Damn.
I had really been enjoying conversations and getting into this woman I met online.
The complication: kidney stones... hers.
I could have waited or I could have been even more attentive. Here's this wonderful person who is in terrible, unimaginable pain... over the weekend I feared that se had been hospitalized when I couldn't reach her or even find her sons online. I got scared though... that maybe I had said or done something that offended her....
People find it so easy to turn the ice on you. I felt it necessary to protect myself. But I called. I wrote. I IMed. My urge to protect myself over took me.
In doing so, I offended her last piece of patience in the midst of her agony. She told me goodbye. I'm very sad about that.
I wanted to do more for her. She wouldn't even let me send flowers. She has her right to protect herself and her kids. She is strong and smart. A lioness with definite opinions and the chutzpah to share them. I tried to leave it open. I think, though, that done is done when you are dealing with someone so strong-willed.
I pray that she is blessed with great people in her life, someone just a little more patient and less self-protective....
Still, the door is open for her. Lucky is the next one she meets....
There's a lot of upheaval going on in the Philippines. We have friends there. We have friends here. Is it even making the news?
(How many Filipino nurses do you know?)
Corazon Aquino shoulda never left the scene... at least as far as I know....
I kissed a Filipina once... or twice....
Mahal na mahal kita.
Johnny Depp's picture is on a box of Hostess cupcakes now. That's too funny. (I saw it on a Yahoo! ad.)
I actually went to the same high school as Johnny during my freshman year. He hasn't changed too much.
I didn't actually know him, but I saw him and knew of him because I had a girlfriend who kept saying, "Johnny Depp is soooooo cute!"
Sorry... no stories to tell. I don't think we had any classes together, but if we did I wasn't paying attention to boys anyway....
Woke up a little after noon. I think I got home sometime after 2 this morning.
I went out with my friends. Cristy (relentlessly blinking cursor) drove in her controversial Chrysler 300. (This is a car for pimps and retired people. It's no wonder she is not satisfied with it. She needs a hussy car. Maybe... something with a low profile but room for a small child, a Golden Retriever and some shopping bags... or a husband and some luggage.)
When it comes to drink I am a lightweight. I had two glasses of vodka and cranberry juice and I was done. I wish I'd stopped at the first one and had water the rest of the night... or just had water all night. I shouldn't drink. I like being fully present.
I would have enjoyed flirting with a woman my friends' friends brought with them even more than I did.
I got a good look at the woman. She had long blond hair, brown eyes, a wide, inviting mouth. She also had loneliness in her eyes.
I missed a few opportunities to compliment her and make her laugh. She wanted to be told she was appealing. She is appealing. She called herself old and fat, and I was so surprised to hear her say it that I didn't say anything, but I should have responded with something slightly lustful. "Mature and voluptuous," perhaps. Nope, brain cells swimming can't shout to shore.
She told me she was a member of the Rare Fruit Council. Badda bing badda boom! My first thought was "I'm a RARE fruit!," but I didn't SAY IT. Cristy kept telling me I should have.
Then I asked what she did. She's a nurse.
(OMG! I loooovvvve nurses! Does anyone not?)
I watch her free and slinky dance out on the floor with my friends but I just couldn't join in. I don't know what's wrong with me.
I like to dance. I think my feet and knees beg me not to. And the stuff they play these days... I like something a little slower... with lyrics I can relate to.
If I really wanted to get my groove on with somebody, I'd get the DJ to spin something cool. If I was very serious about someone, it'd be Joan Armatrading's "Love By You" or "Whatever's For Us."
I wouldn't mind if they played some 60s and 70s pop. If you follow this journal you know I love King Harvest's one hit "Dancing in the Moonlight." I dig groovy mild stuff. Van Morrison, jazzy riffs, things that are fun and easy.
I like Sarah Vaughn and Eartha Kitt. I like Muddy Waters and John lee Hooker. I like BeauSoleil. I like the Grateful Dead and Bonnie Raitt. I like Louis Armstrong and Charo's guitar playing.
I can enjoy modern tunes with popping beats and sexual overtones. It's all good, but give be something that fits my rhythm and suits my mood. Give me a woman who'll touch me, with whom I can find the right synchronous movements. Yeah, baby.
Waking up to more high winds and gray skies with the guarantee of rain today.
I get to walk the dogs tonight, too. That is, if I can get the dogs to go out....
Some dogs are hearty and happy-go-lucky and march into the yard. Others take a look and give me the "you-gotta-be-kidding" routine. Some run out and then realize they are wet and it's windy and they say "No Thanks... I'll hold it another 12 hours."
Some dogs charge out of their kennels. Others cower and refuse to walk out on their own.
The kennel is completely enclosed so they aren't exposed to weather or bugs or heat. We let them out run by run... or family by family if there are two or more boarding together.
Some animals become fearfully aggressive when they get caged. Others don't seem to mind. Some just try to hide. Most dogs are pretty cool about it. They are smart enough to realize they aren't alone, no one is hurting them, they have blankees to rest on and food and water.
Some of them are probably glad to be away from kids who pull their tails and old women who squeeze them hard and tote them around in their purses.
There are dogs that have been boarding for many years. They know the routine. They are old friends and I am always happy to see them. Except for one... he's just mean through and through. He pinned me in his cage once. I got out somehow but I was very unhappy while he was terrorizing me with wide-eyed threat barks.
I've learned a few tricks. I can "lasso" dogs as they exit their run. I know to throw cookies into the run of ornery dogs like the one who pinned me and stills visits us sometimes. (And I was proud to catch a cat that was running around the kitty ward, while the doctor was standing there with some other befuddled co-workers, by gracefully slipping my arm beneath it as it flew and coming up with the critter under control.)
And there are dogs who can be counted on to go right back into their runs when they are finished. And others who wanna cruise the kennel and tease the other dogs.
I only got bit once, by this old, decrepit, blind, short dog. I walked close and it jumped up and bit my hand. It was a surprise but it was old and blind and scared. It didn't want affection from a stranger.
There was another instance when a pit bull (or American Staffordshire Terrier ifyou prefer) took my leg in its mouth. Luckily, I had on blue jeans that day instead of thin hospital scrubs that the full-timers must wear. All I got out of that was a bruise. I'm glad he wasn't being serious.
And I have been pushed pretty hard by rottweilers and boxers and such... dogs that like to rise and be noticed.
Most of the time I go there grumpy. I leave tired but happy. I love being around the animals. They don't lie about their feelings and they don't yell without reason. They accept love for what it is and as it comes. If you really listen to them, they will tell you many things and teach you something about being human.
I don't know that there's anything wrong with wanting to be someone's dog....
Every day the people of Iraq live with acts of terror, assassination, brutality, oppression, dehumanization, torture.
Iraqi parents love their children, too.
Have you written your congressman lately? Maybe sent a letter to a soldier? We can't do that much on our own, but even on our own we can do something.
I have been keeping quiet and not focusing on politics in this journal. Whatever I do, I usually don't discuss. I do, however, think about young lives... American and allied amputees, kids dying in the desert, children killing children over issues I can't truly understand because they don't seem logical.
We are lucky so far. War is not daily here. Not yet.
Date:
2005-07-07 09:35
Subject:
Terrorism in London
Security:
Public
Mood:
pessimistic
Music:
Madeleine Peyroux: Careless Love - J'ai deux amours
Starting the car this morning, I caught a bare snippet of "bombing in London" from Mark & Mark before they cut to commercial. Bombing in London? Let's see: G8 summit in Scotland, yesterday's pick for the 2012 Olympics, summer rush hour traffic opportunity. No question in my mind, whatever the supposed "rationale" (and with these people, how can one suppose they have a rationale when they themselves are hardly rational at all?), I just knew that when the fellahs came back, there would be mention of al Qaeda.
Is anyone really, truly surprised by this? I'm surprised that I'm not more affected somehow, like it's become a routine - or if not a routine, then an anticipated hazard. Gotta love the conseravtive bombast tho: "Those libruls are soft on terra!!" Never mind that the UK is frighteningly "liberal" compared to the US (and they have that evil, anti-Christian "socialized medicine" going on over there, too!), and Tony Blair is one of the biggest liberals of all. Never mind that the terror attacks the Neocons find inspiring for flag-waving continually happen in those hated big cities, especially "librul" enclaves like New York, Madrid and London. Seems the Neocons have that in common with the al Qaeda thugs: they both hate blue states and bluer cities.
It's a dreadful tragedy, that ordinary folks can be targeted as if they were the footsoldiers in their governments' wars. Thinking about it raises some ugly, uncomfortable and dangerous questions. Don't all those flag-waving, yellow-ribbon-magnet bearing, America-love-it-or-leave-it McPatriots consider their fervent red-white-and-blue exhortations as being part of the war on terra? What about that truly obnoxious bumper sticker that is reaching epidemic proportions in this neck of the woods, the one that demands "Support President George W. Bush and Our Troops", bold lettering on a star-spangled background. To hear them talk, to read their letters to the editor, to read their postings on hundreds of blogs and message boards across the web, one might think that these folks definitely consider themselves Soldiers for Bush, as much as perhaps Soldiers for Christ - if they aren't already one and the same in some circles. And yet, enlistment numbers continue to sag and stop-loss orders are completely maxed out. There are plenty of people out there - like the ones cheering the imprisonment of Judy Miller - who talk as though their support for the war in Iraq is on a par with actually taking up arms in the desert. Why not let them share some of the costs, considering that they're so fucking willing to have someone else do all the dirty work for them. If they believe in it, they should step up for it, no?
The truly tragic part is that the overwhelming majority of Britons disapprove of the Iraq war as a whole, not to mention their nation's own role in it. Had Blair not been a liberal, there is little question that he would have lost his post. Then there's our own little fascist prick, Bubbles, swaggering up there in front of all the other G8 leaders, rambling on about "evil" and "terra" and capturing the terrorists to "bring them to justice." Is this a stock speech for this guy? How many times have we heard him say "bring them to justice"? As if saying it made it so. Where the fuck is Osama anyway? "I don't think that much about him," says Bubbles. So much for justice. Besides, how could any reasonable person take him seriously given the nature of the ties between the Bushes and bin Ladens? So maybe not the terrorist branch of the family, but there is something going on there that just isn't above board.
No matter how tragic, how terrible, BushCo will use the victims' blood to refresh its war paint: that was evident in the strangled, mangled sentences Bubbles managed to choke out in his address this morning. And there's no end to this. It will just keep cycling around and, eventually, we will have surrendered our most significant liberties to purchase the illusion of safety and security. We are snivelling cowards, we Americans, and will receive the proper rewards of cowards: more death, more destruction, more debt.
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A good rant this morning must have purged me because I'm feeling quite content now. Sometimes I have to wonder if I'm manic. Or it may just be that life is hard and worry is a b****.
Or maybe I'm feeling good because good people are in my life, more are coming into it and I actually do like my job in spite of it's lack of benefits.
Maybe it's a good hair day. Maybe I've found something to look forward to.
Maybe the book drop was less full this morning and I didn't have to work as hard....
Maybe the woman I talked to last night warms my cockles... quite a bit.
Maybe the idea that Judi Heartsong calls me friend is very cheery.
Maybe feeling muscles developed from excessive book processing after the holiday weekend is actually encouraging.
Whatever the cause, knowing that I am likely to be otherwise mooded a little bit later on, I need to savor this.
4199
This morning I am livid about what's happening in London. Transportation bombings, if you haven't heard. The people they should be mad at are not riding the Metro.
Violence begets violence, they say. We had to muck about with people who know nothing but killing each other for thousands of years. This is their culture. Was fueling the goddamn SUVs worth it?
And Americans just ignore the fact that the family of our president has been in bed with these people for quite a while. (Notice I didn't call them f***buddies. I'm being nice.)
The people of London are not estranged from violence. They have been subjected to things blowing up for quite a while... due in a great part to angry Irish.
London is a great city and the Brits are more than a bit of all right. But London is very cosmopolitan. You are more likely to hear Asian dialects than English as you cruise the streets.
Arabs, Jews. Irish, English. Plantation owners, slaves. Chinese, Japanese. Easter Islanders versus themselves. Cowboys and Indians. F***ing cut it out people. Can't you see that we are really all the same?
How can you ask a woman not to abort an unwanted child but then support men killing other men over issues of finance veiled as revenge on terrorism? Nobody cares that the United States trained and armed mass murderers. You can't expect rabid dogs not to bite.
The more technologically advanced the world gets, the more caveman it becomes. Hate that streams back multiple generations is eating the world. Do these people even know what started all this bullshit?
Hatfield vs. McCoy, film at 11
... I am not a librarian. You have to have a degree in library science to earn that appellation. Nor am I a veterinary technician.
I work in a library, doing many things.
I work in an animal hospital, doing many things.
I check out, discharge, shelve and repair books.
I walk dogs, medicate dogs and cats, and clean up after them.
I can't give you much in the way of animal care advice.
If you ask me where a subject is located, I might know offhand, but then again I might have to walk you to it.
Then again, if you want a word, title or author's name or it's correct spelling... do what the librarians all do... ask me.
A strange thing has happened to me. I find that I am not tired of fireworks this year.
In the past few years, I didn't really give a flying dang, but now... I just wanna watch 'em.
Dunno why.
Sitting on the river bank with my Dad the other day, I noted that we celebrated our independence by supporting the Chinese.
Dad, perhaps a little chagrined, pointed out that we support the Chinese everyday... we almost don't have a choice.
But everywhere in America that fireworks are legal... if you could have seen the US from space the other night....
As I drove home, I noted the low haze in the sky and bursts in the sky all along the way. Multiply times America....
Last night, I opened an AOL chatroom and found someone in Ohio to flirt with. At the end of our session she told me "I am a woman of color," as if it would make a difference. I replied "And your point is???" Then I added, "I love chocolate."
We jibed. That's really all that matters.
4151
So I went to town and walked to the water's edge with my father where we watched fireworks together with a small crowd.
We could see fireworks all along the waterway and from as far as nine or ten miles north in Port St. Lucie.
One of the few good things about living among such prosperity is that a lot of people are rich enough to blow a hundred dollars or more on fireworks. It makes for an amusing evening.
And when the finale ended, we watched the lights of many boats zipping east to home.
I have a longing to see Vicki one last time so that I can get the image of her long, depressed face out of my head. I want to see a slimmer, happy Vicki... with that beautiful laughter. And honestly, I would love to see her with some she adores and is happy with. Someone who is whatever I wasn't. (The farther away it gets, the clearer it becomes and the answers or speculations on the answers come into focus.)
Sherbet/sorbet for the mind. That's all. I don't want to do anything or say anything. I wish I could be invisible and just catch a glimpse. The last time I saw her is burnt into my brain. I just want to know she is happy.
She's been on my mind so much now because it's the fourth of July and the park where they celebrate in her city is just across the street from her house.
Other people won't know how lucky they are to see a tall, beautiful woman watching the fireworks with her friends and her kids.
Yeah, I know this makes me pathetic. The haunting diminishes every day, but the fact of love remains... as empty as it can be, but present nonetheless.
This is one of the images you will receive if you ask Google Image Search for Bull Dyke. Apparently it is a sticker someone sells. lol There's only one or two real bulldyke in the search.
Most other lesbian images that I find are those meant for the titillation of men. Women naked together in high heels? I don't think they had me and my friends in mind....
...I mowed the lawn, showered, went to Dad's to see about their dogs... including sedating the collie, drove to Sandy's and saw that there were few cars there so I left, thinking maybe I had the wrong day.
I drove back to my father's house and changed my clothes (from shorts to jeans) and talked to my sister's friend who is living with them (she is an orphan). She, Cassandra, asked me about the gay bars in PSL. I gave her my phone number so she can call if she wants to go. Working at Walgreen's, she has made friends with a drag queen who comes in for make-up.
I drove back to PSL to find the Unity chapel where the MCC meets. There were two cars there. That intimate of a church experience is not what I need or want.
I drove past Sandy's again and started for home. I stopped for food and was about 8 miles when I checked my cell phone and saw messages from my friends. I called them and turned around. Fourth time was the charm. It turns out that everyone had parked in other driveways to avoid the debris from the planned fireworks extravaganza.
I'm not really daft, but I could use a few clues now and then, my peeps!
Anyway, I finally got there and was greeted by a unanimous "Jeeeaaannnnnnn!" when I walked in the door. That made me smile and laugh. Even people I didn't know were greeting me. Sweet! It's good to feel loved.
I spent the rest of the day until about 7:30 or 8 this morning there.
With the a/c and 3 fans on, it's about 84 degrees Fahrenheit INSIDE today.
That's the summer of '05 for you. If it isn't wetter than Davy Jones' then its as hot as the blazes.
HOW ARE YOU CELEBRATING THIS WEEKEND?
Last night as I wandered around Sandy's house, listening to music piped in via some sort of music service on the television, I had visions of being a drag king. Unfortunately, my hips are unmistakeable as those of a real woman. Only a queen dressed for satire would look like this.
I would need a professional make-up artist and some engineers to pull off drag, but my gawd! wouldn't it be fun to drape scarves on cute women while lip-synching something like "I'm a girl watcher" or "What's new, pussycat?" Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa....
There are some great songs for drag kings out there. The lustier, the better. And I am not a singer by any means, but some songs I think I could actually pull off because they do not require much from the voice. I wish I could remember what I heard last night....
I think my friends would absolutely die to see me cutting up since I am so quiet the rest of the time. A tacky act or not, it could be fun. Too bad I'm not pretty. If there was a singer out there that was scarred up... I'd be a shoo-in.
Well, there are legendary male singers who are ugly but they are also thin little monkeys.... Jagger, Tyler....
There might be some Elvis songs that could work, too.
LOL
I left Barry and Sandy's house this morning after letting out the dogs there and saying goodbye to Derek, who gets up with the roosters.
Barry lights lots of fireworks each year. This was the first year I went Very impressive display. I was thinking that it might be easier and more fun for Barry if he had at least one other person helping him, or maybe a small crew.
He said himself that he can't enjoy them like his spectators do because he is busy trying to make sure he doesn't blow himself up. Ask and you shall receive Bear. (I am not volunteering. I bet Derek would love to help set things off.)
On the way home, I saw a cab and I realized that it was D**** M****. Mr. M**** is an old black man who is his own cab company. He seemed pretty ancient when my grandfather was alive. He used to drive my grandfather for free for all the things my grandfather did for Mr. M**** and his community.
Now Mr. M**** must be close to 80 if he isn't already there. But he was on the road this morning and I followed him all the way to my tiwn where he turned in to a nursing home and I knew he was probably picking up a regular fare to go shopping or maybe to church. (Some people do go to church on Monday.) Then, too, he may have been collecting someone from the night shift. It's even possible that he was going to see his wife... I don't know that she is there, but anything is possible.
I used to wonder who people are and where they were going. Now that I drive, half the time everyone else is an ******* who is impeding my progress. Sometimes, I still wonder who these people are, where they come from, why they came here, what they think they are doing....
I am sorry that I wasn't here with my cat last night. Saturday's fireworks had her alarmed and running through the place or drawing close to me for reassurance.
I hope that she realized at some point that nothing bad was happening to her.
She was very happy to see me this morning. I wondered if her yowling to me out the window wasn't enough to wake the guy next door.
I noticed that he has a new batch of kittens hanging out at his house, cruising his carport. If I were to start the whole cat lady thing... I certainly have the animal resource right next door.
The last batch of kittens were stubby-tailed and medium-haired. These little bombers have their tails and appear to be short-haired.
I wonder what kind of cats he'll foster next.
It's actually 7/4 now. It's O dark 30. Actually according to the clock, it's just after 2 a.m.
I am in Cristy's mother's house, in Cristy's sister's bed, using Cristy's computer. Cristy knew I'd jones and turned it over to me so that I could do what I feel compelled to. She's such a good friend. How can I say that with all the emPHAsis it deserves?
I wanted to reach the woman I have been flirting with online for many days. Today is her birthday. I tried sending her a Hallmark greeting this morning, but the e-cards weren't flying right, so I created one of my own for her. Gotta love Google Image Search!
So Cristy's mom had her friends bring over a single woman for me. But no one bothered to introduce us. My gaydar... well, sometimes it doesn't function right. It took me a long while to note that the women who accompanied this new person had matching rings.
I didn't assume anything about this new person. I just went about my business. Being quiet and minding my own business is pretty much my business.
It's actually pretty major that I have assimilated enough chutzpah to go to people's houses and be comfortable just being me, as only quasi-normal as that is.
I am not someone most people would immediately choose as blue ribbon. I have a bad complexion, I dress only passable, I slouch. I don't make much money, I have little free time, I don't cook or clean for myself unless I really feel pressure to do so.
So anyway there was this woman, a cute blonde. I never spoke to her. She attended her friends. I ignored her.
I was asked to go out with these women next Saturday night. Help!
It's not the "going out"... it's having any energy left for going out. I work the library and the kennel next Saturday. No one ever understands how tired I am at the end of one of those days.
Maybe I need to buy a can of Red Bull....
Tonight I discovered that I like cranberry juice with lime and vodka. I am not a drinker of any calibre. If that has a name, I don't know what it is. I just know that it was pretty cool. Not overwhelming in taste nor in effect on my noggin. I was just curious about the vodka, and it was sitting out on the counter.... I was in a mood to allow alcohol to loosen me up but responsibility is my middle name.
You'll think I've been drinking when you hear all the things I did today (yesterday.)
But right now... I need to sleep.
I repeat, stay safe....
The first seven years of my life are not very clear. I do remember some things, like the big ceremony we had when we graduated from kindergarten, being with my cousins and paternal grandmother during summer, my mother wearing this amazing yellow dress that was pleated and fancy when she brought my birthday to my kindergarten class at King Street Baptist Church in Cocoa.
I remember visiting my grandfather's house. I remember my second grade teacher who spoke in a quick Irish brogue. (Why is it called a brogue? For anyone else we would say accent?)
I remember vacationing in North Carolina. I remember going to see the outdoor drama "Unto These Hills," which tells the story of the Cherokee people.
I remember writing my first poem in first grade and having it put in the school paper. I can't remember that teacher though.
I do remember that when I came back to school after the car accident she and my father were talking at the school (a prelude to my return to class) and she told me that I would be her "Sunshine Girl" that week and got very excited. You got to wear a paper sun.... (That was Sunshine Elementary School in Miramar, Florida.)
I do remember more from my earlier life. I remember starting first grade at Cambridge Elementary School in Cocoa. I remember recess and nap time and throwing up on my desk and being sent home. We would get a garbage can on wheels full of half-pint milk cartons before naptime.
I remember being in a play there. I had a bit part and we used my Halloween costume because everybody had to be dressed as something. I was a clown in red and green.
I remember going to a park near our house that had a lake. There was a roped off area for swimming and an alligator came swimming past the rope. The boys who were life-guarding threw rocks and Coke bottles to make it go back to its side.... I don't remember ever swimming there again.
I had a swing set in the backyard and played with a boy named Gary Kessler. I think he was my first crush and I think he offered to marry me. He used to call me "Jamboree" because he couldn't say "Jean Marie."
I had a fire truck go-cart and a little red tricycle.
I used to love going to the library. It was a nifty place. I remember puppet shows. I met Smokey the Bear there.
It was in that house that I saw the shadowy outlines of dogs one night and woke my dad. Our dog was in heat and all the boys knew it.
I had incredible eyesight. At age 40 I have yet to need glasses but my vision when I was a kid was superb. I saw things moving in pitch darkness. That is how I came to have a pet garden snake named Sammy. I saw him wiggling in my room and walked back out. "There's a snake in my room." Response: "How can you tell, it's as dark as pitch." Me: "I saw it."
Sure enough, there was a handsome little snake by my dresser. He probably somehow slid in through a window after slipping up a bush.
It was in Cocoa that we would sometimes go to check out "The Jumping Flea Market" after church. It was there that I picked up a raggedy pink stuffed dog. That dog became my best friend. It was the one thing I asked my father for when I woke up in a hospital a few years later.
The other thing I remember, and I am sure I wrote about this already, was going to see an Apollo launch from a shore just opposite the site. I was a night launch and even from our site, the rocket looked massive. The countdown came and this conical skyscraper made fire and rose to heaven. I couldn't have been more than 4 or 5.
Today I have a window air-conditioner going. My "feline companion" and I are alone. Outside, even though it's just before 11 a.m. there is the sounds of fireworks all around. They started last night and seem to be answered by reports from other directions. Boys will be boys (and some girls, too) but I kind of miss the time when they were illegal in this state. I know the hospitals do.
I skipped the opportunity to go be with family in Orlando today. I might end up feeling guilty but I don't want to be with my people these days.
I will go north in the afternoon, stop in to give my step-brother's collie some tranquilizers for tonight and then probably go on up to Cristy's mother's for their holiday pig-out and pyro-technics.
I might (but probably won't) go to the MCC at 5. I am curious... but I hate church. I believe in God but rarely have I heard a sermon that meant something real or sat among people who meant what they said when they prayed. I am no better but I can't stand to lie.
A day like today must be hell for returning veterans.
The cool thing about the fourth (or the 3rd, as this happens to be)... when you are travelling on I-95 or even the turnpike... there are fireworks going off everywhere.
Have fun and stay safe.
King Arthur starring Clive Owen
Good for many reasons including a fresh telling and Guinevere (Kiera Knightley) getting to kick some major Saxon booty.
The Notebook starring Gena Rowlands, James Garner, Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams.
Heartening tear-jerker from Nicholas Sparks. A sweet story... about real love.
1913-2005