dégoûtant! walging! repugnância! (jus du pot tête)

Kate and Dianulli #2

2011-04-30T10:37:00.000-04:00

from the desk of Dianulli
letter to nowhere

Dear Katherine,

Lovely to hear from you darling, as it always is. The chapter list is most definitely it. It has reflections of rain and wet leaves and expensive wine and that heavy, clunky jewelery you love so much. Molly gave you the real one, I am very pleased to tell you.

I'm so sorry I've been out of touch, though it's pleasing to hear you can still taste me in the water. We do our best to remain "implicit", a term I remember you liking. My sleep continues unabated, and I think I shall only wake up once or twice more before the end of all things for you and be as helpful as I used to be. Do you still have your ring?

I'm glad you've kept me out of the book. It would have been suicide to include my part in it... though I do hope you've discussed at least some of it without linking and attribution, even if it isn't funny.

I don't know who the Englishman is, or even if he's English. Or a man for that matter. You should know, if you don't already, that Callie was planning (and may have been successful) in frankensteining Klixcilitep with a derivative of the Star Sapphire. I can't see how it would have worked, but if it did you definitely have a new one. But you know how memory works. Maybe it's been there this whole time and Callie's weird ritual was to the point of granting you comfort more than it was to change anything.

You should be nice to her, Katherine. She loves you dearly.

By the way, don't take the neurontin anymore.

Love,

Dianulli

p.s.: it might be francis. more later.

Kate and Dianulli #1

2011-04-30T09:57:00.004-04:00

letter to nowhere:

Dianulli,

The book comes along. I remember telling you there was no organization to the material; that I was swimming around in confusing diary entries and stories about things that I couldn't imagine having happened, but all of that changed last week when Molly got frustrated and just handed over the chapter list. Here it is:

1. baby solipsis
2. something cold
3. something warm
4. the magic garden
5. katherine's song
6. the prince of knives and scrolls
7. the princess of bones
8. mother perdition
9. murder
10. molly fucking maker
11. the jade house
12. the red queen wins
13. the black storm
14. aunt umbra
15. lliddu and claxis and katie and poe and breakfast with a gingerbread dragon
16. what francis did
17. a boy and his monster
18. calliope dances

I wonder how long she's been sitting on this. Has she told you anything about it? She's still not talking and I'm not going to force her to do anything. Anyway her help here is most comforting and welcome. I was starting to think I'd never be able to finish this beast and of course, no one's help is usually forthcoming. You're not in it, by the way. Do you remember Wilde saying "If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you"? I can't find anything funny about your part in this, Dianulli.

By the way, do you know who that English guy is? Is he even English at all? He sounds like Michael Caine, which I find weirdly calming. I keep thinking Jasper from "Children of Men". Maybe that's what he wants me to think. Obviously someone is playing with me, right? Molly can't make any new ones, can she? I think she thinks she can. But I think she's cheating and not copping to it.

I hope this letter finds you well; you've been out of touch for so long. I know you're still there-- I can taste it in the water. Why so quiet? Please write back.

Love,

Kate

Turn Left

2009-09-17T04:17:00.001-04:00

I came to it on July 12, 1997. It was a Saturday.

I was sitting at a Swedish restaurant in Chicago, across from my friend Christine. We'd been looking at apartments together for a couple of weeks, and had settled on one in Andersonville, Chicago, which was where all the lesbians used to live. It had a pyramid shaped bathroom and a living room with 14 foot ceilings. I pressed a meatball into the plate with the bottom of my fork and watched it ooze through the tines. My head hurt and I was afraid of something.

Chris and I had a weird friendship. We'd made out a few times, but she'd had problems getting rid of a psycho-alchoholic boyfriend of hers. About six months earlier, while I was getting evicted from an apartment that I'd shared with my ex-wife, he'd shown up at my door with a loaded revolver and threatened to kill me if I ever talked to Chris again. With a coolness that I've not been able to summon since, I asked him if I could buy him a drink so we could talk things over. Ten minutes later we were at the bar downstairs, laughing over shots of tequila. He thought it was hardcore that I didn't use a lime or salt. I thought it was disgusting, but it was very important in those days that I zen my way through these sorts of situations, bending like a reed in the wind, accepting murderous psychosis and rolling it over with a few drinks and a dirty joke about old ladies.

I don't know what I'll do if it happens to me again.

Chris was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. We met at the restaurant where she worked, which was one of those overpriced places that sold a lot of soft shell crab. I can't remember why I was there, but when I saw her standing behind a beer-tub in a little black dress... she was too much of a person to be where she was. She had intensity. I was too shy to say anything to her that night, so I just sat by the window drinking my Red Death, making off with quick glances at her unbelievable face. Then she looked right at me. I vomited a little in my mouth. I knocked my drink over. I fell sideways out of my chair and hit the floor. I picked myself up and straightened my half-tucked shirt and summoned a suave smile in her direction. The face she made as she tried very hard not to laugh was more beautiful than the one before it, so I beat it the hell out of there before I fell down again.

I went back the next night, and she was bar tending. I ordered a drink and a small dinner at the bar, so I'd have a chance to talk to her, but she was too busy to do much besides clear up the mess after my meal, so I spent my time there just watching her. She got watched a lot. Everyone at the bar was doing the same thing I was; getting lost in that face of hers...

She had short black hair and green eyes, pale ivory skin, and when she smiled it looked as if she wasn't from this planet. I fell in love with her, though she never knew it, sitting at the bar over the next few months, eventually talking to her and getting to know her well. We were friends then and hung out a lot, mostly getting high in her apartment and then getting lost looking for the coffee shop on the corner. We didn't agree on anything, but we didn't really have arguments. We'd get lost in each other's opinions, exploring them and savoring them, not once feeling threatened by them. It was better that we didn't agree on anything, you dig? We went so much further, so much deeper than we would if we'd been a very similar kind of person. She was alien and I craved it; so perfectly different from me.

We sat at Ann Sathers, the Swedish restaurant, and I was mashing my meatball into the plate. I think she loved me the way I loved her then. She was always exploring my face and touching my hands, and she'd make a tiny humming sound when she smiled at me. We had the apartment, and the only thing for it then was paying the landlord to move in. We hadn't done that yet.

I was afraid. Everything started crashing around me suddenly as I squashed my meatball, her ex boyfriend and his revolver, my divorce and eviction, my new job that I still wasn't very good at, hating Chicago and everything in it except Chris...

I broke her heart. I told her I didn't know why I couldn't move in with her, but that I just couldn't do it. At the time it felt like moving in with her was a harbinger of death. Something about it left me cold and terrified. I felt as if moving in with her would be the worst of all possible decisions, so I told her then and there.

I don't blame her for slapping me, and it was the last time I saw her.

Now that more than twelve years have gone by, I think I know why I was so afraid. I was at a turning point in my life in that moment at the restaurant with Chris, and the decision I made in that moment would permanently change the course of my life. The terror I felt was of the unknown, see? And I had a decision to make. And I made it. And now, after more than sixteen years, I realize that I made the wrong one.

Imagine erasing twelve years and putting something else in its place.

Not one thing leading up to having my brain electrocuted in the basement of a hospital in Massachusetts would have happened. And nothing after that, either.

Next time, turn left.

Brandeis University and National Security

2009-07-27T09:32:00.003-04:00

This is going to be a short post.

Enough time has passed that I can finally share what I know about a certain Brandeis University policy:

When I worked at Brandeis, I had access to an enormous amount of information about the internal function of the university, as I was partially responsible for the whirling shitstorm that is their Peoplesoft implementation.

Among the many, many problems I had with that school, its staff and its policies was the fact that every time the department of homeland security wanted any sort of information on any student of middle eastern descent, Brandeis would hand it over immediately and without question or fight. In fact, I was aware of at least one student that was watched very closely during his/her entire time at Brandeis, completely unaware. He/she of course hadn't done anything to warrant this profound privacy breach other than having brown skin and a funny name.

And the politically correct, feminist, right-thinking staff at Brandeis thought that it was just peachy to roll over and take it up the ass from the feds, while at the same time most other Boston institutes of higher education were fighting the feds as hard as they could--and as publicly as they could.

All of this was around 2003-2004. I wasn't involved in the handing over of this information by the nutless, spineless, weak headed staff at Brandeis. But I heard them talking about it nervously from time to time around the office, obviously knowing that what they were doing was wrong, and feeling very guilty about it.

But they did it anyway.

Of everything that happened during my short experience with Brandeis University, this one is by far the most revolting.

I'm leaving this post open to spiders. I hope some of the people I worked with eventually find this post and understand that their ironic roles in this blasphemy. A Jewish university handing over personal information about innocent kids to the federal government for purposes of national security is vaguely reminiscent of something that no one has any business forgetting.

Keywords: Brandeis University peoplesoft oracle PEAK ITS fuckheads

fragment

2009-04-16T11:12:00.000-04:00

It occurred to me last night as I strolled past Gramercy Tavern, where dinner can be had right here in the Gramercy Park area of Manhattan...

Wait.

See here: I'm calling it the "Gramercy Park area of Manhattan" instead of the "Gramercy Park Neighborhood", because this is no longer a part of Manhattan where there are neighborhoods. At the time of this writing, most of the neighborhoods in Manhattan and at least half of Brooklyn (and 30% of Queens) have been obliterated. In their place are a growing number of towers filled with the sort of people for whom the person in the picture there to the right cannot possibly exist.

Wait.

There's no person in the picture. There might have been, had I taken it a few hours earlier. It's too late for a person, but just the right time for about 150 pounds of frozen meat.

So I mean to say "In their place are a growing number of towers filled with the sort of people for whom the 150 pounds of frozen meat in the picture there to the right cannot possibly exist".

It occurred to me last night as I strolled past Gramercy Tavern, where dinner can be had right here in the Gramercy Park area of Manhattan for about $200 per person, so long as the wine is reasonably priced, that human urine isn't among the things a wealthy banker (one of whom I imagined was imagining to himself how nice a piece of waitress tail would be as a digestive after gorging himself on taxpayer money) imagines that he will find in his soup.

I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I do know that it was a very, very cold night when I found the body in the park.

Whatever mess there may have been was frozen and invisible.

I didn't know what I was looking at for a little while, which is what always happens to me when I come across a cadaver. Sometimes I can hear a little bit of the grinding in my mind: "Is it a lamp? no. Is it a book? no. Is it laundry? yes. I mean no."

I stood there for a little while after making sure that he was beyond any of us, and after taking a few pictures, watching people walk by. The body was in a certain context, see? The park, very cold winter night, icy sidewalks, yellow sodium lamps on the hospital across the street, dead homeless dude frozen to the ground. There's a harmony to it such that the eye doesn't pick out any of those elements by itself, but only sees them as a whole environment that one must traverse in order to get to the good deli on first avenue. Or to the emergency room just across the street.

Homeless dudes belong on the ground.

One morning in Brooklyn while I was in a cab, I saw something that reminded me of a person-sized ice cream cone that had been smeared across an intersection by a giant child. No one walked past that. And yet I hadn't realized what I'd actually seen until I was halfway over the Brooklyn Bridge.

I've never pissed in soup.

genome suicide

2009-04-02T13:38:00.000-04:00

I made a conscious decision when I was sixteen years old that I would never in my life have children.

It was one of those adolescent promises, like this: "I'll never eat anything that had eyes", or "I'll never be a Republican". But it was a little different than the other ones into which I was shoehorning the rest of my corporal state. I had a really good reason to never reproduce. It's my genes, see. I have a strong suspicion that they're really bad news.

If we accept that:

1. What we know about human reproduction, biologically, is scientifically sound and factually true
2. That Jesus was a real person, and that Jesus' biological mother was a virgin when he was conceived

then we must also accept that:

3. Jesus was a clone of her mother

I was thinking about it the other night, up on the roof, which is where I do all of my thinking these days. It's a place where at 4am you can be in the middle of New York City while at the same time being utterly alone. Sometimes I think about bringing some binoculars up there and peering into people's apartments all over the neighborhood and a good chunk of the East Village, but somehow it feels like it would ruin my feeling of solitude. I think I prefer it when even just for a brief moment at 4am on most weekday mornings, I can easily imagine myself as the only person alive in the entire city.

I like imagining that. The feeling of absolute solitude, to be perfectly alone is a pleasure of the highest order for me. That's because even when I'm alone I'm not really alone. My ego-states appear to be so well designed as to be nearly capable of making a pot of coffee on their own, leaving what amounts to the rest of me free, for example, to misplace my keys twice while waiting for the rest of them to finish up with that coffee.

I made the decision to never have children when I was 16, and it was at a point in my life before I knew what an ego-state was. I didn't know a lot at the time, but I was fresh with the knowledge that sometimes space-shuttles blow up in midair, and that boobs feel nice when you squeeze them. I also knew... or I thought I knew... or I was just very keenly aware... that I was working with a mind that wasn't very stable. I would occasionally find it leaking, or drifting into semi-human ontological constructs which included lots of room for things like The Dilution of Murder with Recursive Morality and Diapers for Dixie: The Southeastern United States as the Wayward Brat, two expositions I wrote in 10th grade, both failed for plagiarism.

I still deny it, Mister Sobrinski. I'll never forget you or your flaccid red pen. You were a monument to lowered expectations, your giant, clay head and little eye slits, swollen with I suppose whatever it was that made the rest of you swollen, your fingers always fat and twitchy and uncomfortable looking, pointing impotently at the pointless scrivenings of the children of government farmers, trying to teach them that two 'very's is one too many but finally settling on nine being just enough to describe how much they hated your class, as we all did nine verys worth, even you. Most of all you, come to think of it. Your derision for your own classroom and everything in it made a mark in me that I have no business forgetting.

I call that one "Claxis".

I don't remember when or how I came up with that name, except I do know that a later moniker of mine, "abraxas" was a variant of it as far as I was concerned. Claxis is not a name of something like a person or a character, but more like the name of a certain kind of sorting of things, like "wooden" or "laborious" or "sticky", only for a kind of collective sort, like "cold, dewey leaves with little points on them". It's also as far as I'm concerned, the name of a state of mind. If I am in "Claxis", I have a very specific set of responses to stimuli, and a very specific set of patterns of thinking about stimuli. Here's the erroneously short version: I name my ego-states.

I name them things that you don't name something that's alive, because although it might be arguably useful to consider some of these ego-states as semi-independent entities from time to time, it's also patently false. Doing so would imply a plurality of autonomies, which I tend to prefer to rationalize beyond in my experience, always remembering what Mister Rogers told me when I was little:

...you know, the angry you is still you inside...

And the Claxis is the part of me which desperately needs to expose the lies of those in the role of "authority", particularly when humbled by someone "lesser".

It has a named counterpart, which is in all ways its complement. The counterpart is subtle and passive, and is the part of me which desperately needs to blend-in, to remain hidden and unexposed, quiet and undisturbed.

I call that one "Lliddu", and ultimately it is because of Lliddu that I decided to end my genetic line.

Stories from the Rein-Voir ny Drogh 'Uill

2009-01-06T11:06:00.005-05:00

2008

2008-12-25T13:01:00.001-05:00

This is the very last song that I remember hearing:

1969

2008-12-24T02:12:00.001-05:00

This is the very first song I remember hearing:

Allium Amber

2008-12-19T10:27:00.000-05:00

It goes like this:

Chew up a mouthful of garlic.

Now bite down as hard as you can on a nine-volt battery while at the same time you have a very attractive friend who smells a little bit like lavender hit you right between the eyes with the round side of a ball-peen hammer as hard as they can.

When manage to wake up, have your friend offer you a choice of orange juice or coffee. Pick the coffee and pour it down your shirt. Have your friend hand you another cup of coffee and pour some of that one into your mouth and note the existential confusion as your tongue remembers a thing that your brain doesn't:

heat.

Pour the rest of that one into your lap and hand the empty cup to your attractive friend who smells a little bit like lavender.

Your friend is a little too good looking, the way a chick bartender with big tatas is a little too good looking. There's a reason they're both very attractive, you dig? The bartender is very attractive because it helps redistribute some of the wealth in your pocket to her pocket. But why is your friend so good looking? The bartender pays the rent with her looks, see? That's why she has a job like that.

But what do your friend's looks have to do with the job she does, to ask people to eat garlic and batteries while hitting them as hard as she can in the head with a hammer?

It was obvious the very second you met her, remember? Ah, no... probably not. That's the hammer part. Well, if you did remember meeting her, you'd probably remember looking up at her from your wheelchair and shaking her hand when she introduced herself. You'd probably also remember her smiling warmly and looking right at you with her beautiful eyes when you said your name, and then watching her articulate her pretty, light pink lips sweetly as she said your name back to you to make sure she remembered. You'd not be able to remember hers by the way, whether or not she'd been hitting you in the head with hammers.

Then you'd remember, while still holding your shaking hand warmly with both of hers, her asking if you'd like to hop up onto the gurney so they could hook up all the cables they need to make sure you stay alive. You'd remember hopping up onto the gurney, swiveling on your butt and lying back, absently rubbing your wrists under the sleeves of your gown, pensive, wondering when the restraints would make their usual sudden appearance.

And then you'd remember realizing that they'd been there the entire time.

That's why she's so pretty, get it? Do you remember now? Do you remember the garlic zap? And do you remember what you wrote back then? I remember what it was:

"She was worse than a straitjacket, that monstrous woman. A straitjacket robs you of movement, but a pill and a pretty face rob you of will to resist"

You could have just as easily been writing about sirens.

So, to put it under a nice little bow with v-cut tails, here is the question again:

What do your friend's looks have to do with the job she does, to ask people to eat garlic and batteries while hitting them as hard as she can in the head with a hammer?

And here is the answer:

To make sure they'll say yes.

e.s.a.: 2 -- k, ktb

I found another memory today

2008-11-03T12:58:00.000-05:00

My brain knits itself back together, bit by bit. This morning I woke up with access to 12 year old memories from my time in Chicago. Ten minutes ago while I was remembering a terrible thing that someone had said to me in those days I suddenly remembered why they said it, and I had a flash of the words "My Cat Charles". I watched myself quickly search google groups for exactly those words in exactly that order as if I knew when I typed them over a decade ago that I'd be typing them again quite a long, long time from then...

And as I typed them I felt a loneliness, a wispy distant sadness that was at the same time very close, two ends of it arcing over the decade between. My fingers had a memory of that coldness in them, and it's as if I'd just now finished typing the rest. Here's what I wrote on January 2nd, 1997:

RIP for my cat Charles, who died December 31, 1996 at 7:45 a.m. CST.

He suffered a total kidney failure...I brought him into emergency and they
put him on a saline/glucose iv....

The next morning he went into sugar shock when they took him off the
iv...he convulsed and they gave him valium to stop the seizure...

He never woke up. I had him put to sleep about 20 minutes later when his
breathing began stopping for 7-10 seconds at a time...

I loved that cat. He was everything to me.

If I had gotten him to a vet when I discovered some minor symptoms of his
bad kidneys (I didnt know they were bad then), he may have been able to
live. I wondered about his symptoms, but they didnt seem severe at all.
I changed his food and his litter and most of them went away.

Then all of a sudden, it happened. I had masked the symptoms but not the
underlying condition.

Please, if you have any doubts about the health of your cat, no matter how
insignificant its symptoms may be, PLEASE take them to a vet. It may very
well be nothing, or you may be preventing the onset of an acute condition
which could possibly be very serious.

I wish I had done it.

-----yttrx

And here's what some nice person wrote in response:

My sympathies for you in the loss of Charles. Soon the happy memories
of your life together will be what you remember. You have already, with
your warning, done something to ease the pain of your last times your
friend.

And I find now that I really don't have any memories of Charles, except his death, and the mean thing that someone said to me about it. That person is gone now, and I'm the only one alive who knows what she said. How funny and horrible to only remember that.

Three Queers

2008-10-25T09:59:00.000-04:00

I wrote this yesterday, but I was too high to remember to post it by the time I finished. Instead I went up to the roof and listened to an old man tell me stories.

On today, the day of my birth 39 years ago, I have decided to finally make a list of things about myself which I've suspected for a long time are not normal, so that I can start to turn this weird sort of sketch that I've been working on in my mind into something a little more focused. An inward guide, I guess you could say.

Fuck you. My midlife crisis is MINE and no one else's. At least mine's about hash and introspection and not fast cars and loose women.

Hmm.

Anyway, here:

1. I exclusively think in pictures and sounds, never words or numbers or anything else. When I think of disliking someone, I imagine a tincture of sewage and mud spread out through my mind, flies buzzing over it, and occasionally a bubble or two rising to the surface and popping disgustingly, or something at least in symbol reminiscent of that. I've talked to a lot of people who tell me that they think in language or a combination of language and pictures, sometimes sounds, but I've not met anyone yet who thinks entirely without language. I'm very interested in why this is, and where the probably millions of people are who think in the same fashion.

2. My dreams are four dimensional. I used to think everyone's were, but when I go into a lot of detail about a dream to someone else, I have to explain to them that while I'm moving around from place to place in my dream I'm also going backwards and forwards and sideways in time too. Sometimes there's no time at all in one of my dreams, and I experience all of it simultaneously. I never tell anyone about those, because I can never explain them without frustrating myself.

3. My memory is compartmentalized and associated with emotion and geography. There are quite a few things that I can never recall unless I'm feeling the same way I was when I wrote them to my short-term memory, or unless (slighly less often) I'm physically in the same place as I was when it was pushed to short-term memory. I've gotten very good at dropping myself into different emotional states briefly in order to retrieve an important memory (where my keys are, when I paid my cell bill, stuff like that) and then jumping back out again into whatever my natural state is at the time. However, I've never looked in a mirror while doing this and I'm beginning to think my face might do something a bit untoward during a memory retrieval done this way. I get asked what the matter is a lot when I do it in front of someone.

These things are of course only very interesting to me, which is why I've made this post. I feel like I'm showing off a couple of exquisite examples from an enormous collection of glass telephone pole insulators, apologies to E. G. on that one. Still, I have a cold, cracked feeling about my impending midlife crisis, and my aim is to study the map (which I'm currently drawing) carefully before I take even one step forward.

empty

2008-10-23T06:50:00.000-04:00

I didn't think I'd ever feel this way, but then there are a lot of things that have happened in the last few years that I never thought would happen. It's a very long way between an army of good friends and companions to where I am now, and I've been on the path for a long time.

Hindsight is 20/20. You can't see it starting when it starts. I stepped onto this path with the assumption that my friends are my family and that I would always have them, just as a person always has their family--or should, almost no matter what they do or who they are. Isn't that how it's supposed to work? I've always thought that that was how it's supposed to work, but then again I don't have anything to go on there. I divorced almost my entire family when I was a kid.

Tomorrow is my 39th birthday. Yesterday I picked up a big nugget of brown turkish hash as a birthday present to myself. I couldn't smoke the whole thing in a day, let alone a week. I really like bounty though, so seeing a lot of something makes me happy. There's something profoundly sweet about a thing that won't run out for a long time. I've had the sort of life so far where everything is on a timer. There is no permanency anywhere in it. All things to me are transient and temporary, so it's generally best to not get too attached to any of them. I'll attach to some things though; the things that there's an obviously large supply of, such that I have lots of warning before they're gone.

I have no set plans for tomorrow. I had plans a couple of months ago though. I was to go to a day spa with my girlfriend and be treated to relaxation and de-stressing with her. I've been pretty stressed out lately and it was a thoughtful gift. But between then and now my relationship with her detonated, as I truthfully knew from the very beginning it would, and the gift evaporated.

Tomorrow I'll have my hash and omlette in the morning, and coffee, and I'll feed the cats and watch a little morning news. After that I'll probably go sit in the park by the dog run and watch the dogs play for a bit. I'll have to start pretending it's some other day pretty early on, or I'm sure to humiliate myself.

I really don't mind getting older. But as I do year after year, I see fewer and fewer people around me. For a variety of reasons, but mostly because I've been inattentive and distant, I've lost all of the friends I had ten years ago, and most of the ones I had four years ago. And with the loss of a girlfriend/companion and those environs, I'm looking around now and realizing that I've become quite alone.

Who am I typing at?

No one in particular I guess. I just wanted the Universe to know that this year I will not be experiencing a deep embrace from someone I love on my birthday, which is the only thing I ever want on my birthdays. I understand, Universe, that it's my fault. I've made some terrible decisions and stuck with them knowing that they were terrible decisions. I've been pigheaded and short-sighted and quick with judgements.

Everything that's happened has happened as a result of something I've done. I am not a victim here.

I'm just regretful and lonely.

My cat lately has been curling up on my lap and sleeping--which is something she's never done in almost twenty years of life. She's also been vocalizing strangely, in sort of a needy way and staring at me a lot. She's not eating much. I think she's not much longer for this world, and I think spending my 39th birthday with her might finally be a good decision.

I don't hate you all anymore

2008-10-04T13:18:00.000-04:00

It's true.

I'm not saying that I love you either. You don't deserve it.

There's a single line from a monologue in a movie that I'm embarrassed to admit that I've seen over seventeen thousand times. Here it is:

"I spy a family"

Two days ago, probably 20 years after I first heard that line, I was sitting in the Ramble in Central park, looking at the boat pond, watching people rowing. Its meaning wound up and punched me right in the throat.

And today I'm beginning to feel a little sick.

Sarah Palin BDSM

2008-10-03T11:39:00.001-04:00

From: me
To: a guy I know who produces hardcore BDSM porn

When am I gonna see a chick in Sarah Palin glasses hogtied and choking on cock?
-----

From: a guy I know who produces hardcore BDSM porn
To: me

Weird, we shot it last night. I don't think the glasses really add the "punishment fuck" angle we were going for at all. Tell me what you think.

If you've found this place...

2008-10-03T10:22:00.000-04:00

then you don't need to know the prices.

This is my real blog, which I've just now decided to create as a homage to the last real blog I had, which was a live journal by the name of "luxxx". I tossed up anything I goddamn well felt like in those days, and have regretted it every minute since.

But since I'm quite comfortable (thanks for asking) living in a very small bucket of regret and ennui and also since I've been denying myself the gratification of *really enjoying them* for a number of years, I've decided that I deserve much better. Therefore this blog, where I may wallow in my own leakage unmolested, except by occasionally perceptive comments concerning my sexual orientation.

I've been getting into a lot of anthropomorphilia lately, by the way.