hear is my handle, hear is my spout

the heat doesn't get to me, it just makes for slower and crazier. eyelid twitches, ramadan eating hours, liquid consumption increased. yesterday . montana. we were to conquer the west. the bag has a printed sphinx next to the camel under the steamboat and the flamenco dancer. gloss your glass with the linen world. buffed sailors have nothing on island farers, beehive dwellers and salt pillar bus stops. fuct whit men with top knots. if you put a man in a box with disolvable peanuts, he would stoop breath before being dropped but i am not sure. oranges from australia are one nine tee nine a pound. assuming growth costs next to nothing, subtracting profit, i should be able to fly to asutralia for ___?$ with ground transport to an inland city, hairspray and water. also lodging until gestation. europe should be cheaper. i want pay by the pound plane tickets.

dish towel

hymn a raya. him all ya . we drive to the mountains and drop the man out the back rolling the carpet rocks slide frictionless through chicory. in the heat wave i sleep walk to the white slat closet open and the door and crash hatboxes stacked higher than i can can see. but you knew my line of sight was low. slight, eyes like bed sheets soaked in the rain from an open ledger. red lines, green letters. led better backwards. loosing race to mars turns other cheek.

lawn and order

are all about lines and the space race. we win . but then we have to explain the little yellow signs by saying don't eat the grass and miming death. please leave your cigarette butts in the street. i two three. so much. so very. so big. so so.

blue+red

make purple. pansies, queens, shrinking violets. cheap star contact lens. sometimes someone will say they've been atop the mountain to look for good god through the smoke and gauze skirts. they don't have much to say about, exactly, peace festival in aspen, japan. except for that wondered if god was their and no now he's here or where or
god is anywhere. because i am young and everyone says i look girl and now you. and thankyou and goodnight.


this will be as hard as i thought it would and not any softer .

street fare

flesh in this country works in collusion with other flesh, not the body of the bearer. geometry is new, barely held by stretch fabric, exhibitionistic, so sexually agressive that it ceases to be about the heat. or the humidity. not so sexy though, except for the occasional accidental lolita, or teenage couple. americans really have mastered the art of being fully exposed and remarkably unerotic. kids huddle, women push strollers eating fried dough, bottoms half mooning out of denim shorts, men round and bouyant. one has small clasp buried in his bellybutton for inflation. in the event of a water-landing, use your fellow passenger as flotation device. everybody seems to have on more highly ornamental underwear than clothing, skin tones complemented. empire waist tube top smocks are popular, everybody, everybody, it seems is thinking about pregnancy this year, what with the war and the impending sense of population slice. the glory of the festival is food rather than drink. no one is drinking anything but sugar water. the people are all saying eat me before i eat you, etc.

opening

oolong hi is highly refined japanese moonshine mixed in equal parts with low grade dark oolong tea, typically of the pet-bottled variety. iced. a delicious travesty of both good liquor and promise proffered by oolong. but very drinkable. somehow metonomic. japan, velvet rut usa, both very drinkable, dericious even, accent on the r, but both, somehow, wasteful, riddled with holes and bottled in plastic. i meant to set up this blog a year ago to record some of the things i was emailing home from japan, but when i was there it refused to let me set it up in english. i plan on taking off sooner or later again. the middle tends towards the middle, except that now we're in the middle school pop-bottle experiment about emulsion, all being shaken.


oil and kool-aid lava-lamp. if i were better at working days than nights, i would probably go i love my sewing machine. and i'm still trying to figure out if witnessing is enough, if, as i suspect, that the most ethical path for some of us comes from a politics of the everyday and has as much to do with sightedness and not being an asshole as anything else. and voting.

why blog it? who doesn't want their diary published given that by some standards, the success of people in the arts is measured by our public access to their documents, their sketchbooks, matchbooks and the like.

funny how many consonant "l" words refer to bodily functions or negative actions- slog, slurp, blab, blather, slap, sly, slip, slop, blow. so for a while this will be running both retroactively and forward, as i sort through the last year's worth of writing, and continue.

part of this is also motivated by an obsession with the degree to which real experience is now being mirrored, -meta-ed, metastasized by the web. i don't believe in airconditioning, prefer vinyl, skirts, bone over plastic as it were

but i still find myself looking up the names of people i know late at night to see where they are, if they're mentioned, where they work. also, random strings of keywords, to see whether i or people i know have in some way been recorded or connected- red head teahouse waitress corset. sylph like new wave poetry live arts. do i exist in the meta world, as if it mattered

cape cod trailer park architecture school buddhist meditation. sexual cypher male wednesday adams. french-kissing contest charlottesville. hookah bar bad service. cryogenic indie rocker. failed phd motorcycle enthusiast.

i know a man who waxes his mustache. it seems to me that, with everything there, these things should exist again. more complete. occasionally i just look up my name (cordelia) but apparently, buffy the vampire slayer has sabotaged my parent's desire for their daughter to bear a unique and culturally loaded name. i find a lot of fan-fic. at least i never find the nudie pics. that's good i guess.

london bridge is falling down, falling down...

a slightly different type of apathy. from the one i had before i left. why i came back. why i will leave again. why that is growing more difficult

i'm waiting for martial law; hemlines have dropped, etc. the times printed a really awful editorial about how the visa-waiver program needs to go, because god forbid, a naturalized european citizen of middle-eastern descent might escape from his sleeper cell and enter the united states without going through a consular interview and dropping 300 bucks on going to the embassy.

xenophobia has reached a point here where nobody is really thinking or worrying about the london bombings except for preventing them here. there is this attitude that europe is finally loosing the crusades, so we should build a wall, because god forbid, the sanctity of our consumptive consumerism be threatened. all of the japanese middle class i met makes do without airconditioning or central heating. and they love to talk about the four seasons. they know how to bicycle in the rain! their is a special device for holding umbrellas mounted. they don't have ovens or dishwashers (okay, maybe that last bit has more to do with oddly shaped dishes and the lack of women's lib than any adaptation to a less materialistic lifestyle). and they will never tell you THEY are having a bad day. it's cute, they shop all the time, but they never buy anything larger than will fit in a medium sized shopping bag. women carry their lunches in the prettiest ones for work. not that i really want to carry my lunch in a victoria's secret bag, i see peaches bruising now. but.

maxim printed a 69 reasons to love your country for july. the first reason was cheap gas. the second was nice roads. I don't even drive! i hate roads. then naked chix (okay) and cars and lawns (number one consumer of pesticides and chemical fertilizers in the country, all you super holy only whole foodsers in the suv's in virginia). budweiser. really. yes, santa says this war is being fought for your right to fly down asphalt arteries in your malarial metallic mosquito shell, the bigger and more blood-sucking the better. that's to say, apparently both the people and the media might as well be sniffing glue, and propaganda machine in full force, even before the bombings.

i don't want to get started on guantanamo. or the wierd deportations. or the denial of visas to interfaith advocates for conferences- literally knights in shining armor, who happen to have the wrong last name. or the airplane abductions of suspected in the knows.

it's raining panties

just because she a cyclone
don't mean you got a be a trailer park.
in reference to the electricity prank
that "i didn't recommend"

just say no!