Nov. 12=one of those fire and brimstone days…

It was one of those days that was bound to result in bloodshed. Ivy rested tensely in her seat on the perfectly crowded bus, seething. Seething? Well, the feeling was like one of those science fair, build your own volcano projects. Her interior contained all the necessary ingredients for the climactic little eruption: vinegar and baking soda. Was there anything else?… I’ve never actually made one… I DID, however make “oobleck”… the perfect combination of cornstarch and water, that can be experienced as BOTH solid and liquid. If you grab it fast, it is entirely solid, but once you hold it in your hand, it oozes with sensual innocence right thru your fingers.

Could Ivy’s internal state be analogous to oobleck? Yes! Because though she was inevitably solid and finite this day, this anti climactic bus ride, but, too, she felt to be melting elusively thru the cracks in her own mind; the sweeping valleys that breathed dangerous life into her emotional scapes. But let’s travel back to the volcano theory. For a woman who had always been prone to self indulgent melancholy and hyper self reflection induced depression, today she felt markedly angry. Fierce. As she made her way to the bus stop, she imagined herself a tigress, held captive in a human body, and ready to pounce and devour at any and every instant.

Ivy was so pissed, if she had’ve spat, the wet little gob would’ve burst into flames before it hit the ground. Or, more accurately, the floor of the ACTransit bus that was slinking it’s way along telegraph avenue, thru a soupy November morning. Ivy’s anger was the brightest color on this grayest of days. If you’d have viewed her anger thru special infrared, anger viewing goggles, you would have seen a turquoise so flaming and enchanted, you would know without a doubt it was inhabited by an obnoxious band of psychedelic elves.

Fuck this. I thought I’d be able to get back into my novel, but the world of my novel holds no weight, compared to the reality that presses me into the grill from all sides. I feel like one of the pannini sandwiches they are serving up here at Guerilla Café. Pardon me while I inspect my bare skin, in search of the neat, evenly spaced little black grill marks. If I were a paninni sandwich, my insides would melt and squish out the sides of me. If I were a paninni sandwich, I’d be able to seduce anyone into anything. Maybe I can, anyway…

I am so tempted to be a whore today. That’s why I wanted to write a novel where the main character was a whore. So that I could live it, without really having to live it. Dawn took short cuts. Athena makes muddy messes. Athena pulls up her sleeves and pulls down her pants, and is willing to get dirty. Soul dirty. I say that… because on the page, I am FREE. I can stand for anything, stand inside of any shade of danger, and remain pristine. But what would it really BE like to have a desperate cock pumping in and out of my pussy? What would it be like to open my womb to the masculine ache of the world? Chances are, that I already know.

M (I’m gonna abbreviate his name, since he’s sitting right to my right), M is showing up so pathetic today. Is that why I want to leave him? I am absolutely not attracted to him in this moment. He looks like he’s fallen apart at the seams. Beans and feathers and little bits of strafome are cascading from the cracks in his flesh. In this moment, I wonder why the fuck I have chosen to bind myself to him. Bind. Yoga= to yolk. Yoga as the choice of to what we bind ourselves in this life. If I were single, I’d be a prostitute. Maybe it would fuck me up beyond belief… but maybe not. I’d certainly write about it. And you know what? I’d live in my own apartment. And I’d keep studying yoga. I’d hire a personal coach, and create some goals and structures that would keep my life powerfully on track. I’d see Amy Taylor, and have an hour a week that was entirely devoted to my healing. To my free flowing energetic rivers. I would have fluorescent pink walls. I would have a vast, open space for me to dance whenever, however, ever-ry moment. Fuck, would I dance! And I’d get a little Chihuahua, who would come all around with me. A little dog with big balls~ figurative balls, because his literal balls would be MIA, for sure.

Oh, here comes another wave of violence. Because I can SEE that world so clearly. That world where I have a fucking immense bathtub~ probably a claw foot tub. And a mother fucking gas stove. I can hear a voice, suggesting modestly that my words would be a lot more powerful if I would just cut out the gratuitous mother fucks and such. But then what would I do with all this fire??? Where would it go? I would burn my insides down. Maybe that’s what’s called for… Maybe if I just burned my insides down, I’d have more space to exist. But for now, I must spray this blow torch of flaming fucks. I know, I’ll explore alternative ways of expressing. I’ll say it with a fuck AND with a neo-erudite-enlightened twist as well, and then YOU can be the mother fucking judge. You can be the blessed judge. The god fearing, iron-fisted, bling sporting, tennis club, trust fund baby judge, mkay?

Why do I want to roundhouse kick the world? Why do I want to knock the motha fucking wind out of her highness, Life? (Why do I want to knock the wet, oozing, pussy wind out of Life? The teen pregnancy, high school drop-out wind… The filthy, diseased, wanna be first-lady-fucking breeze out of Life)

I just want to stumble on the treasure map. I scan the ground when I walk, looking for crumpled, green bills. Ask me how embarrassed I was to admit that in writing. I dunno who’s ever gonna read any of this, but if it was YOU, my tail would involuntarily disappear between my legs. You would never see my tail again, unless, it happened that you were trekking thru the mountains of Japan… what are they called? Mount Fuji, right? And you’d see a once exhalted tigress tail flailing helplessly amist the mountainous rubble. “Hey! Is that… Is that… Why YES, it IS, it’s Athena’s tail!!!” Maybe that’s what I’ll write my novel about. About a Japanese trekker who finds the former, escapee tail of an ashamed, would-be writer. A lost soul, who spends her days scouring the earth for the map that can guide her back to the essential piece that she vowed to lose, as she incarnated. And the sickest part of this nauseating plot, is that the booty this blindly divine creature is searching for, is right inside. Right at the core of the heart of the soul of the ISness that is her SHEness. But thanks to our good olde infallible friend, the law of attraction, I found two whole dollars on the ground yesterday! TWO WHOLE MOTHER FUCKING DOLLARS!!! Two heavy breathing, soul-squeezing, dream-drenched dollars.

And then I spent them on a bloody bus ride. I’m gonna skip the mother fuck this time around and go straight for the literary jugular. I blew my first point zero, zero, zero, zero, zero (how many zeros would preceed the decimal point to dissect a million into small enough parts to violently squeeze it into two measly dollars?) million on a frivolous ride in a dirty blue seat, to sixty dollar haircut appointment. You know what it felt like? It felt like a first time, long anticipated fuck with a hot lover, who splooges all over the entrance to my pussy, without even succeeding to penetrate me at all.

I could have ridden my blasted bike, and saved the two crunched up, hallow-ed dollars for… for… two copies of the Street Sheet. One fuyu persimmon. (they’ve just come into season… and it is my mission to eat as many as I can in this modest window of autumn, in which they exist.) I could have bet on the winning horse, or bought a pen that brings me particular pleasure to write with… But I flushed it down the public transportation toilet.

You know what Heimlich maneuvered the tears right out of my guts this morning, as I embodied the ferociously bounding, unapologetic tigress, toward the bus stop? A single burning pink rose. Words. They can be so fucking obtuse and clunky. I’m whipping out my machete, and I’m gonna hack miracles free from this linguistic underbrush, so that you may see and feel the strange psychedelic grace that smacked into me like a brick wall on hot wheels. I was traveling thru demented ghettos in my head, and even more intrepid emotional scapes. My world was an inevitable tragedy, not even hesitating to happen. And then a cluster of colorful images rushed at my eyes. They poured into my eye sockets, and made their way with brazen immediacy straight into a little sexy oasis pocket of my soul. It felt like the most pleasant and sassy slap imaginable!

Missus Nobody, Herself, might as well’ve thrown a fist full of radio active glitter at me! This single pink rose… think artificial flavors, colors, the whole fluorescent disco princess shebang! Her stem was long, like a tightrope stretched across a sizable chunk of eternity, reminiscent of an elegant, tribal woman’s neck, that had been stretched to give a baby giraffe a run for it’s money. This pink seductress, though, would have been nobody, without the innocent benevolence of the maddeningly perfect backdrop. Think bleeding, sea green crayon. Now think horizontal siding on a large, Victorian house.

Have you ever taken psychodelics? Because this scene shimmered like a mirage in the distance. It looked like a singing, dancing telegram from a very sexy, well-fucked goddess, visiting from a much kinder, though kinky world.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. tschraga
    Jan 08, 2009 @ 23:56:59

    thank you for writing and sharing your magnificent prose, Athena. i look for ward to more more more fabulousness flowing out of you.

    Reply

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