Porn and Sadness and Suicide

Since starting this "blog" I have been trying to write
only when energized so as to hit the marks.

Thinking about suicide, or dying in general, does
not fatten any energetic tonal possibilities.

But it is something I do fleetingly throughout
the day. I think about it and how tired I am of
living and how sad I am that I feel nothing right
now which leads me where.

I know that I love my man. I know that feeling
is somewhere in some soular closet smothered
under my hats and socks. And that feeling is the
one that leaves me open and red and completely
vulnerable. He has been doing what he can to
close that space up. I think that it is too much for him.

We see only the beautiful things in ourselves when someone
looks at us with that golden massive glow of love and acceptance.

If you don't love yourself, how can you accept that
love? My man thinks it is not a good idea to love
oneself. This is a cultural difference.

I don't like porn. It makes me feel out of control and drugged
and I don't want my man looking at other women and getting off.

When I was back in the US he used it.
This is so disappointing to me and so deadening.

But what frustrates me is that he says he is not jealous,
or he tries to play it off like that, and really it may be because
I have never given him reason to be jealous. And, frankly,
maybe I should. Maybe I should make him feel how I
feel when I think of him jacking off to the images of
someone else.

It would be so very simple and easy.
Regardless of the dust I can be quite beautiful sometimes.
Although when I was a model, that was when I got the
least amount of men.

But I am starting to not give a fuck.
I'm leaving behind even being sad.

So I'm listening to Girlyman.

That Pussy Rocks

The cat is a buddha on the kitchen stool.

Should the end of the meat packing world arrive,
the cat will feed us with mice, doormice, birds, lizards
and, of course, rabbits. My little vampire.

When the rain falls she runs into the house crying
for us to dry her. When we say hi to her she returns
the welcome and adds some opinionson the political
situation or the health care crisis.

When I stay in bed too long she prances in, kisses me
with her whiskers, and then reports on how lovely it is
outside and that I should really get up. She only drinks
water from the bucket we keep by the shower for runoff
water. She eyes intruding cats with curiosity and blinking eyes.

Let me reach for a smoke.

The cat is my first child.

On Hotting Oneself Up

I am all about the beauty sleep.

Being 40 and taken for younger all my adult life has more to do with
sleep than my cheekbones. Fo Sho Yo. Give me the juicy 9 hours
and 3 dreams a night and I will leave my man high and juicily dry.

Give me less: haggard. Sad. Spiritually disemboweled.

My man drew me a bath last night, and I stepped onto the page
and right through to the hot, hot water with a beer and a cigarette
and Jaimie Cat Callan's "French Women Don't Sleep Alone,"
which is sweet, if a report of French city women, and got me thinking about lingerie.

So to complete the experience I perfumed and smoothed myself
and then hotted myself up with a slip, matching red lingerie
and a skirt and sweater before sliding into the kitchen.

Let this be understood: I spend most of my time in dust filled
clothing while sanding, tiling, painting and generally filling
my life, and hair and skin, with dirt.

I do not spend my time being obviously hot.

It felt good.

A Big Sheep

An enormous sheep is cattily eyeing me from her perch on our kitchen island.

Nevermind the sheep...just the idea of a "kitchen island" and me is a bit of a shock.

As is the 500 year old brothel that I am rebuilding from a ruinous state with my French lover here in the south of France. All of which would suggest that I am rich and an adult.

Yet 40 years have not yet conferred any feeling of adulthood upon me. Nor has it brought in the duckets. What it has given me is years of various lovers, an ex-husband, and enough knowledge to leave me feeling that I know nothing.

Scruffy person.
Working on making a person.
Laying aside 2 miscarriages and 3 abortions.
Wishing for a place in this French thicket
where I could throw down to a little XClan.

The soul cleansing left me feeling something like neutral.
Now when we argue I feel distant. But fixed to point making.
And sorrowful for the suffering of the heat that beats in my darling.

Am I proud of my past and it's suffering?
Am I clinging to that flag as it whips in the fat breathed air?
If I let go of the occasional jealousy and the idea that I cannot trust
will there be anything left of me?

If it is I who start the chess game, without no initial reaction
to someone else' s pawn, will I win and do I care to win...
since I don't care if I lose?

Paulo Coelho + Angels + Me?

Could it be that I have been bitten in the ass by my angel?

For months I have been thinking of pushing it through with this blog.
No real matter that the word "blog" annoys me as much as the word "drizzle."

Dooce, and all of her kind. I like it?

So I talked to a man who talks with angels (archangel Michael shows up for him, it seems...
along with chats with the souls of Obama and Sarkowsy).

He cleared the excess morsels of souls that had attached to my own little portable soul.

Two days later the book "The Valkyries" showed up on the arm of my couch.

And today I subscribe to Paulo's blog and the clearance word for the subscription
(that wavy nonsensical word in the box) is DOUCS.

So here I am typing.
Listening to my angel.

How can I change this font to Garamond and get my ass to the gym?