Birds of a Feather, or the Air
Birds of a Feather, or the Air
For Tuesday, the bird motif. Drying my hair out in the sun, I see a swallow drop a white feather & loop back (they fly like gravity-defying boomerangs) & catch it again. Why? Nest material? Then it sat up on the uh portico, the frieze, the umbril, the cornice top. It sat & it smirked. Yes, birds can smirk.
Then walking over to the Starbucks on another boringly perfect day (all I need to make me swell is a lively conversation), I almost got run off the sidewalk by a quartet of dumpy white boys in gap-pants & T-shirts. Eeek, I shrieked, holding my Munch in my paws. Wa Wa Wat izzit? Four fat guys. Techies, I'd bet.
I'd like to add something about spring lapsing/surging into summer. It falls like a wave. Roses fragrant in the heat & the mock orange, my favorite. Afternoon (4:30) sun shining through a high curtain of chestnut leaves. Yes, paint of emeralds.
And then: I feel good. I phone Liz C. I even phone for a job. I dare hope & I send a query after a story. I get mad at the bloodsucking speculators....and that's tonic. I'm so happy, I want to buy clothes. Yes, even to go shop.
I also want, in absence of a magic carpet to the ocean, a trip to the Nisqually delta.
BM Starbucks 6/19/01
I Should Tell JHY
I should tell JHY about the sex-maddened sparrows flying heedless into the Henry library & knocking themselves cold against the windows. And the benign little dwarf (Crazy) who took the latest one up oh so gently, took her outside & set her loose to fornicate another day. So natural selection is sometimes thwarted, sometimes helped by the forces of wha, or stochasm.
Therefore, why not other dimensions. Where Tomas went, I could go. Unless he's ducked back in here already.
Be my luck to miss him.
I do miss him.
You know I'd replace him, but the signs all say: No. Go home. You git.
I run into pudgy librarian Rachel schlepping her bags of groceries up the street. No work today? I'm drunk on the light, I tell her. Isn't if fine, she says.
I want something & I don't know what it is. I want some other thing & I do know what it is. And the cat too.
Make it.
BM *Bux 6/20/01
Two O'Clock
Two o'clock is the time I'm sure to feel okay, if not better than okay. Sometimes well-being sets in with the coffee, but I've been flailing through my weed-field Creative Imagination for the last weeks & getting nowhere, which makes euphoria a bit more elusive. I've picked up plenty of foxtails in my cuffs though.
And today I saw what happened to Julia. Maybe. All I've written may turn out to be otiose & nugatory.
On the other hand, my solution may be a cheap rip-off of Don Juan. (Hey, why not?) But Julia would/will have disappeared. Meta will say so. Mallory is dead of course — he drew his shadow (re-/suppressed side) to him. Julia was open.
But what about the lost parents? Father or mother? I need a dream. (She needed a dream). Dead or missing. Missing has more power because it gives the imagination a canvas to paint and paint again. Julia goes missing—like __________(the woman Dave hears about or Jackie from UCSF).
Meta goes down after her? Julia went after— ? Whoever is in that flat in Paris. Addicted to or abusing drugs, and—pressed against the membrane. Then maybe I’ll figure out what part is the scaffold & take it down.
Maybe the scaffold is the best part.
BM *Bux 6/21/01
They Gave Me a Stone
I asked for blood.
I asked for blood sausage
I asked for a bun & mustard...
I asked for a loan
I asked to be left a loan
I asked to be left the family history
I threw the stone back at em.
Journals? I want to be a feuilletoniste at least. (Ned Rorem can do it, why not I? I can't write songs either.)
The young women walk by with plump shelves fore & aft (ass). I have ironed out those...not the wrinkles—no, not hardly. My backside as flat as an ironing board, while the wrinkles are in my cheeks. Bring the iron.
Hey, all that blood stuff is over. What shall I do now? So much possible. Too much? I think most people are double-whelmed; people in the U.S. anyway. How much gives full return? I don't know—but I'm not like everybody else. Of course, they aren't like everybody else either. Some people like toys (children & men, f'rinstance). Some people like games. Sex. Romance. Children. Women like cootchie.
And many like improving on nature, one way or another.
I got no message last night—or not one I could make use of. Some guy with a violent book—maybe about the Terror (French Rev.), but something alien to me. I didn't know him & I don't think I knew what he was doing in my dream.
But I slept well. No noise all night.
I finished Part III of Matryoshka (Meta's) but never did place her in her day. Vivify her—I don’t know that I will. I actually left her consulting with a she-shaman to find out what happened to Julia. I don't know...if Ju has become one. Well... I hate too much coincidence, but I've just got her to Port Moresby. Or somewhere in the East Indies. We’ll see.
It cooled off & got cloudy. But the sun is burning laser holes in the fluff. I approve of that too
BM *Bux 6/22//01
Where, Where?
Where do they come from, the slender boys with ripples of long blond hair in 3 or 4 shades from dirty sand to clean sea foam. Did they get their genes from a Swede? A German? Someone from North of the Alps. And more important, where is that particular boy going? Yoo hoo, honey!
Actually, old sort-of boyfriend Lee Eide was almost that blond...moony color. And in truth, that lad with the tresses, loping along, slightly sway-backed, is a bit alien to me. Now that the heat has left me. I see everyone as at least a bit alien. No. All alien, only some aliens are friendly (Lee B.). Enough.
I need a word for priestess. Also for goddess. Any time you have to take a [male] word & add a Fem. suffix, you've already lost. What then, borrow? Devi – or one deva. Sisters. Nuns? Aunties? All right...
Is Julia going to come back Meta? Later?
I meant to go to Golden Gardens for a loooow tide. Hoping to find the water out halfway to Bainbridge & the fish flopping around. I didn't make it. I never do. Maybe I will tomorrow.
Instead I went to the U. Distract on foot, wandered down the Ave noting the empty stores—Pier 1 gone—& the changes. Buffalo Xchange where Wildflowers used to be (where sang the nice man who killed himself). And that eating-place with the gyros, was that there? And all around skinny little baby derelicts throwing each other across the sidewalk. Then I went to the U. Library & got a virus in my disk, I do believe.
A woman sings (T.G., they ditched the Frank Sinatra CD's) & I tell Deanna that if I could sing like that, I'd never complain about another thing. I'd sing!
BM *Bux 6/23/01
For Tuesday, the bird motif. Drying my hair out in the sun, I see a swallow drop a white feather & loop back (they fly like gravity-defying boomerangs) & catch it again. Why? Nest material? Then it sat up on the uh portico, the frieze, the umbril, the cornice top. It sat & it smirked. Yes, birds can smirk.
Then walking over to the Starbucks on another boringly perfect day (all I need to make me swell is a lively conversation), I almost got run off the sidewalk by a quartet of dumpy white boys in gap-pants & T-shirts. Eeek, I shrieked, holding my Munch in my paws. Wa Wa Wat izzit? Four fat guys. Techies, I'd bet.
I'd like to add something about spring lapsing/surging into summer. It falls like a wave. Roses fragrant in the heat & the mock orange, my favorite. Afternoon (4:30) sun shining through a high curtain of chestnut leaves. Yes, paint of emeralds.
And then: I feel good. I phone Liz C. I even phone for a job. I dare hope & I send a query after a story. I get mad at the bloodsucking speculators....and that's tonic. I'm so happy, I want to buy clothes. Yes, even to go shop.
I also want, in absence of a magic carpet to the ocean, a trip to the Nisqually delta.
BM Starbucks 6/19/01
I Should Tell JHY
I should tell JHY about the sex-maddened sparrows flying heedless into the Henry library & knocking themselves cold against the windows. And the benign little dwarf (Crazy) who took the latest one up oh so gently, took her outside & set her loose to fornicate another day. So natural selection is sometimes thwarted, sometimes helped by the forces of wha, or stochasm.
Therefore, why not other dimensions. Where Tomas went, I could go. Unless he's ducked back in here already.
Be my luck to miss him.
I do miss him.
You know I'd replace him, but the signs all say: No. Go home. You git.
I run into pudgy librarian Rachel schlepping her bags of groceries up the street. No work today? I'm drunk on the light, I tell her. Isn't if fine, she says.
I want something & I don't know what it is. I want some other thing & I do know what it is. And the cat too.
Make it.
BM *Bux 6/20/01
Two O'Clock
Two o'clock is the time I'm sure to feel okay, if not better than okay. Sometimes well-being sets in with the coffee, but I've been flailing through my weed-field Creative Imagination for the last weeks & getting nowhere, which makes euphoria a bit more elusive. I've picked up plenty of foxtails in my cuffs though.
And today I saw what happened to Julia. Maybe. All I've written may turn out to be otiose & nugatory.
On the other hand, my solution may be a cheap rip-off of Don Juan. (Hey, why not?) But Julia would/will have disappeared. Meta will say so. Mallory is dead of course — he drew his shadow (re-/suppressed side) to him. Julia was open.
But what about the lost parents? Father or mother? I need a dream. (She needed a dream). Dead or missing. Missing has more power because it gives the imagination a canvas to paint and paint again. Julia goes missing—like __________(the woman Dave hears about or Jackie from UCSF).
Meta goes down after her? Julia went after— ? Whoever is in that flat in Paris. Addicted to or abusing drugs, and—pressed against the membrane. Then maybe I’ll figure out what part is the scaffold & take it down.
Maybe the scaffold is the best part.
BM *Bux 6/21/01
They Gave Me a Stone
I asked for blood.
I asked for blood sausage
I asked for a bun & mustard...
I asked for a loan
I asked to be left a loan
I asked to be left the family history
I threw the stone back at em.
Journals? I want to be a feuilletoniste at least. (Ned Rorem can do it, why not I? I can't write songs either.)
The young women walk by with plump shelves fore & aft (ass). I have ironed out those...not the wrinkles—no, not hardly. My backside as flat as an ironing board, while the wrinkles are in my cheeks. Bring the iron.
Hey, all that blood stuff is over. What shall I do now? So much possible. Too much? I think most people are double-whelmed; people in the U.S. anyway. How much gives full return? I don't know—but I'm not like everybody else. Of course, they aren't like everybody else either. Some people like toys (children & men, f'rinstance). Some people like games. Sex. Romance. Children. Women like cootchie.
And many like improving on nature, one way or another.
I got no message last night—or not one I could make use of. Some guy with a violent book—maybe about the Terror (French Rev.), but something alien to me. I didn't know him & I don't think I knew what he was doing in my dream.
But I slept well. No noise all night.
I finished Part III of Matryoshka (Meta's) but never did place her in her day. Vivify her—I don’t know that I will. I actually left her consulting with a she-shaman to find out what happened to Julia. I don't know...if Ju has become one. Well... I hate too much coincidence, but I've just got her to Port Moresby. Or somewhere in the East Indies. We’ll see.
It cooled off & got cloudy. But the sun is burning laser holes in the fluff. I approve of that too
BM *Bux 6/22//01
Where, Where?
Where do they come from, the slender boys with ripples of long blond hair in 3 or 4 shades from dirty sand to clean sea foam. Did they get their genes from a Swede? A German? Someone from North of the Alps. And more important, where is that particular boy going? Yoo hoo, honey!
Actually, old sort-of boyfriend Lee Eide was almost that blond...moony color. And in truth, that lad with the tresses, loping along, slightly sway-backed, is a bit alien to me. Now that the heat has left me. I see everyone as at least a bit alien. No. All alien, only some aliens are friendly (Lee B.). Enough.
I need a word for priestess. Also for goddess. Any time you have to take a [male] word & add a Fem. suffix, you've already lost. What then, borrow? Devi – or one deva. Sisters. Nuns? Aunties? All right...
Is Julia going to come back Meta? Later?
I meant to go to Golden Gardens for a loooow tide. Hoping to find the water out halfway to Bainbridge & the fish flopping around. I didn't make it. I never do. Maybe I will tomorrow.
Instead I went to the U. Distract on foot, wandered down the Ave noting the empty stores—Pier 1 gone—& the changes. Buffalo Xchange where Wildflowers used to be (where sang the nice man who killed himself). And that eating-place with the gyros, was that there? And all around skinny little baby derelicts throwing each other across the sidewalk. Then I went to the U. Library & got a virus in my disk, I do believe.
A woman sings (T.G., they ditched the Frank Sinatra CD's) & I tell Deanna that if I could sing like that, I'd never complain about another thing. I'd sing!
BM *Bux 6/23/01
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