Happy and In Love Dreams

When I am feeling depressed and disconnected
I dream that I am Happy and In Love with
men other than my Beloved.

In the last week I had three
of these dreams in a row.

Dream Number One:
I am Happy and In Love With
my boyfriend from my mid-twenties.
I loved this boy. He was a big,
masculine and totally cuddly Serb.

We were great.

Then he let another Serb girl
give him a blowjob on a washing machine
in his apartment building laundry room.

That led to my first good sonnet.
And a breakup.

God only knows how because I don't
remember--We finally got back together.

Then I got pregnant.
And he was already going to Brazil
for 3 weeks...so a friend took me
to get the abortion.

I was in his bathroom peeing when
he got back and his "cosmetics travel bag"
was open on the floor....and inside it...
a lot of condoms.

He had gone to Brazil
leaving his pregnant girlfriend
with a armful of condoms in his bag.

Sounds like a very bad country song.

I did not like being a backwoods
stereotype..so I moved to LA.

He has never recovered.
It sounds conceited but it is true.

His next girlfriend looked Exactly like me.
Which is a little difficult to do.

He went from being an occasional
pot smoker to an I-don't-know-whater
and the next time I saw him
he was weeping over me
and weighed almost nothing
and was practically homeless.
He might even be dead now.

In the dream he was healthy
and we were Happy and In Love
and he was swinging an
enormous penis in the breeze.

The next dream was about
James Franco.
Who I know.
But have never been with.

But that.
Is another story.


Sniff. Sherwin.

I was dampened and saddened
to find out, 8 minutes ago, that
Sherwin Sleeves, the man who speaks
the great podcast "Atoms, Motion, and
The Void" (as recommended by the
sensual La Belette Rouge),

this Sherwin Sleeves is not
a real person...but a character
invented by Mr. Sean Hurley.

I believed he was real because
I believe in experiences like his.

I, too, was pretty convinced I was
an alien when a child.  And I still
am not altogether unconvinced.

This was helped along by
two. separate. psychics. who
told me in two. separate. cities
in two. separate. years. that:

I am, in fact, 20% alien.

And believe me, I go into
these things trying to look
as normal as poss. with no
mention of anything like aliens.


When Sherwin Sleeves talked
about his similar feelings I felt,
well, at home.  And when he
talks about acting, isolation,
and fissures in reality, I felt
I was there besides the fire.

When he talked about straight
out magical experiences, I thought:
he is writing some fiction or
embellished non-fiction...but he
is still: Sherwin Sleeves.

Now. He is no more.  And
I am even more downcast than
I was before I found this out.

The downcast that led me to write
a stupid post yesterday...is in the
downer side of cast-i-ness.

This may have ruined the podcast
for me.  I want Sherwin and his
experiences to exist.

there is a solitude that opens
like a sheer box for me every day...
some days more than others...
even The Cat willows in at me from
behind those glassy walls...

it can be bleak being a little
20% alien girl.

but no doubt.
it will be better.

Now I have to go and buy paint.


The Book of If

The Book of If is a 389 page book
of questions.  Questions about anything
you can dream up.  It is perfect for many things:

Playfully fucking with your friends.
Pushing your students to think a little. bit.
Pushing yourself to squint at your darkness.

I love my darkness.
I cuddle up to my darkness.

So here are three questions for you all:
(although not very dark at all)

If you had to physically strike one person
from your past, who would you hit, and where?

If you had to give up one physical sense,
which would it be?

If you could temporarily freeze the world,
and everyone in it (except yourself), what
sexual things would you do, and to whom?

I am too tired from doing hours of joint mudding
in the bedroom to write anything else.

and too sad about my lack of followers...

and, Bernard Werber is seriously lacking
in response to my proposal....sigh

whine whine whine


How Me and The Universe are Boyz

You're about to leave for work.

Suddenly, your butt itches, sparking
off a memory of a high school dance
and how people laughed at your awesome
sparkly purple heels which, in turn, makes
you decide to change your shoes.

You arrive at the corner coffee shop
6 minutes later than usual.

All the regulars are there, but there
is a new person in line.  She is entrancing.

You see her and you Know her.
She is one of your Soulmates.

She just happened to drop in this
coffee shop because her car has
broken down on her way to work.

You do like a match
and strike up a conversation.
You fall in love with each other.

"For want of a horse...."
Thanks to the itch of the buttocks...

Is basically my idea of how me
and The Universe are Hot Buds.

Shit like this has happened to me,
and to you, all our lives.  Of course.

If I had not, for example, haphazardly
slept with a distant acquaintance
for no reason known to myself,
I would not have walked into
his living room the next morning
to find one of my Soulmates
sitting on his couch...and I would
not have moved to Chicago...and
I would not have had the soul-freezing
heartache that pushed me into
being a writer...and I would not
have ended up in France...and I would
not have met my Beloved...and...and...and...

Just imagine: My Life Without My Cat!!!!!
And all because of an uncalled for Booty Call!!!

So it was no surprise to me
when I discovered that Bernard Werber's book:
The Encyclopedia of Relative and Absolute Knowledge
has not been translated into English.
Ok. I lie.
I was surprised. 

Beloved and I ate dinner at The Neighbor's
(who was testing out his new restaurant recipes
on us again) and the book was right on his kitchen 
table.  The Neighbor is not a great reader, so 
this is not a usual happening.  

The book is a whimsical, insightful and fascinating
exploration of a number of topics ranging from
"What do dolphins dream about" to "How to tell
if an egg is hard-boiled or raw."

It led to a multi-facted conversation which
ended with a discussion of what it means that
The Neighbor and I don't like it when people
see us poop...but Beloved, who is much more
uptight than the two of us, is just fine with it.

(Pooping: most vulnerable of everyday human
moments: us at our most animal and uncontrolled:
etc, etc, etc---GOOD TIMES!!!)

I woke up this morning and searched the internet
for the English translation.  I mean, Werber wrote
"The Ants" which is a pretty famous book.  And
while the Encylopedia is well read in Russia, 
the English population has yet to get its paws
upon it.

So I am writing to Werber to tell him that 
it is a I who am destined to write 
the translation of his book.

Here is the first excerpt:

Birthday Cakes
The blowing out of candles on the occasion
of each birthday is one of the most revealing
rituals of human kind.  
It is through this ritual that man recalls
that he can create fire, and then extinguish
it with his breath.

This control of fire is one of the rites of passages
that bestows upon a baby the state of responsibility.
That the very elderly no longer possess the breath
necessary to snuff out the candles, however,
illustrates their social exclusion from the 
physically active human world.

This is how it works.
You keep your eyes open.
You jump on that shit.

The End.

I hope you all have many moments of "enjoyment" today.


Awesome Translation Moment

Jouir:  To Enjoy.

This word is used in the same
manner that "to come" is used
in a sexual experience.

Which is to say:

When I am having an orgasm
with My Beloved...he whispers
"Enjoy! Enjoy! Enjoy!"


I wish you all much Enjoyment Enjoyment Enjoyment today!


My Profound Fear Of Poop.

Pre PS: First of all, what do we think of the fact
that my best friend only has sex with her husband
about once a month.  They have a really good
emotional and intellectual relationship and they
both really like sex.  And they are not generally
over tired.  What does this mean?
I wanna know!!!!!!!



I fell in a sewer when I was 8.
A German Sewer, to make matters worse.

I was exploring the local haunted house,
kicked back a VW Bug trunk lid that was
lying on the ground, and slipped into the
hole it was covering...only to find myself
chest high in shit.

Reader, the only thing that saved me from
drowning in this deep hole of shit
was that I flung out my arms and stopped
myself from completely falling in.

I could have drowned in shit.
And NOBODY would have known where
I was.  Floating down a long shit hole.

What the fuck was I doing wandering the
streets at 8 years old anyway????
O Mom...

So I pushed myself up.
Dragged my ass home.
And was put in the bathtub by the
red-headed after school tutor.

Since Then?
Me and Poop?
I am only really able to deal with my own.
(And I do love to take me a poop.)

My first serious boyfriend, who I loved
dearly and am still friends with, is quite
brilliant and can not stop talking. 

Even to the point where, horrors of
horrors, he would insist on calling me into
the loo while he was pooping. And what
he was saying was usually so interesting
that I would actually succumb to at least
sitting just outside the open door, managing
my vomit reflex, while listening to him
go on and on about Brecht or Bartok
or Big Giant Black Holes.

Big Giant Black Holes OF POOP!!!!!

Even animals feel my fear of poop.

I was left alone with a baby once.

This baby was my godchild.
She, like so many other babies, had the
delightful sense of humor that triggered
the Poop Reaction as soon as her mother
left me alone with her.


"Ok Baby," I said, "It's you and I and
your poop...alone together...we can get
through this.  I promise, PROMISE, not
to vomit on you." 

As I was changing the diaper,
retching all the way through,
the family cat wound herself around
my feet and encircled and laid down
on them...purring furiously.
"You will get THROUGH this forest of
poop!" she seemed to be purring.

The latest occasion of loveliness was the other
day when Beloved and I were buying building
supplies at the French version of Home Depot
"Mr. Bricolage" (Mr. Putter Around The House).

"O! Beloved! I need to pee" said I.

Into the bathroom I trot...only to find:


I could not move.
And then I vomited.

Ok.  I exaggerate.
I didn't vomit.


Some poor body iller than ill can be
rushed into the bathroom, pulled down their pants,
and (and imagine how fast this must have been)
bent at the waist and wasted the walls with
a horizontal geyser of poop.

That Poor. Dear. Darling of a Person!!!

I was once in such a position.

I had just arrived in LA.
I was feeling confident and happy
and even something thing like attractive.
Everyone was incredibly nice to me
those first couple of weeks.

While looking for an apartment I met
a man with whom I ended up talking and
he then invited me out to dinner with
himself and his boyfriend.

Free Grub!!!

So I dress myself up in a short, tight dress
and heels (very, very rare for me whose
favorite new piece of clothing is still
my Batman Hoodie) and gamboled out
to meet the boys on Melrose Blvd at
a great. thai. restaurant.

Who knew about the horrors of Thai. Iced. Tea.

Clearly not Me.
I drank TWO!

After the dinner we decided to wander
around Melrose Blvd which, at that time, was
a street full of fashion boutiques, tattoo parlours,
indie record stores, and restaurants.

All of a sudden, mid-wander, I am hit,
I mean HIT, with the need to shit.

I am in the middle of the street.
In heels and a tight, short dress.
With two men whom I do not know.

And I feel like a flame is trying to shoot
out of my butt.

I follow the guys into a tattoo parlour
and casually and discretly ask the desk
dude if I can use his toilet.

"HA HA HA HA HA" he basically says...

With ass clenched, we "wander" into
another store...same. fucking. thing.


At this point, my most sensitive and
dear Reader, the shit in my bowels
is starting to release poison into my system.

I am sweating.
I am sure I am going to faint.

"You look pale!" says one of the lovely fellows.
"Are you ok?"

I have to fess up.  "I think I need to pee"
I practically weep.

We are on a mission.
And there is no end in sight.

I am going to die.
An Irish pub.

I run in...in a most tight assed way.
I run up to the barman.

"If I cannot use your toilet
I will die in a pool of shit right
here in front of all of your very hip customers"
I say.

Let me tell you.
If I had not arrived when I did.
And not had that extra second to angle
my butt down.
There would have been poop
all over those Irish pub toilet walls.

While reflecting on the beauty
of indoor plumbing.
I conjured up what I knew would
be an Oscar Winning Performance.

a beautiful restaurant.
dim lighting, soft and tasteful music.
Seated at a table is a couple.
He is in a fine suit.
She is dressed in a long slinky silver robe.

They are very much in love.
Or at least, she believes they are.
Suddenly she understands that he is
telling her that he no longer loves
her, that he never loved her, that he
could never love her, that he is leaving her.

She gets up unsteadily from the table.
She is in total and complete shock.
Her world, as they say, is crumbling around her.

She turns to walk out of the restaurant.

As she totters away we see a stain
start to appear on her dress.

And then a stream
of liquid shit
rushes down her legs
seeping through the silver fabric.

She stumbles from the restaurant.

The actress???????????


OSCAR OSCAR OSCAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It would even beat Kate (The Great) Winslet's
amazing pee scene in "Holy Smoke"!!

How many of you felt that way when
you heart had just been unexpectedly
and brutally crushed!!

Where is the director with
enough guts to do this scene!!!!

I know The Pfeiffer would be up for it!!!!

Just like I know so many of you are up
for the Tasty Sperm challange
(hah! you were wondering when that was
going to come up again).

but i digress.

in summary.
not a thing I want to play with.
but a thing.
that i do like to do.

When any beautiful and elegant
actress shits herself in a movie...
I will be calling for my residuals!


My Ass Is Feeling Much Less Abrased!!!

Pre PS: I'm a little tipsy.  The Neighbor
had the Opening Night of his Cafe.

That was a little bit more like it.
The Other Therapist.

She was 75 and dressed in jeans.

You've gotta be hot for a shrink like that.

She practises EMDR!!!!
(Which, I think I no longer need--
but you never, ever know!).

She quickly broke that shit down
and was all over the cultural differences,
having lived 20 years in France after
living the rest of her LONG LIFE
in the UK and the US (Two Very
Different Cultures Which Share
a Somewhat Similar Language, Yo!).

I was worried that My Beloved
would feel a little overwhelmed
seeing that she was all about the
equality of the sexes.  He is, after
all, a French Man...and he is in the
process of discarding some long
believed indoctrinated beliefs

Like.  Really.  :

It is not acceptable that I put down the
bathroom tiles...even though I am better
at it...and he is better at cutting them.

But he liked her.

And we didn't have a breakdown,
neither singularly nor together.

we didn't want to commit joint suicide
by way of drowning when we left!!!!

in her office block there is a bakery.

We learned One Very Interesting Thing:

In the relationship (both hetero and non-hetro)
each partner tends to pick someone
who is like their same-sex parent.

ie: I am fucking my mother.


I always thought it was the opposite.
But, in fact, upon deeeeeeeep reflection,
it appears to be true.

Beloved is sleeping with a version of
his Pops, and I...with my Hot Mom.
(and she is.  Hot.)


But also


Try this out at home, kids!!!
Does your Beloved share similar
traits to your Mom (if female)
or Dad (if male).

It's a hot idea here in the
South of France, and we spent
Saturday further mudding the blossoming bedroom
while pausing to recount the many similarites
that each other had to the appropriate parental

I can tell you...his dad is something
of an asshole.  BUT.  an asshole for whom
I have grown to have a lot of affection.

But the fact remains: an asshole.

I share the traits of an asshole.

At times.
The truth can be a real ass-reamer.

I do, of course, according to My Beloved,
have many positive traits that the Pops
has not.  I am not like his father.

I am stubborn.
I am directive.
and a few other things that The Pops is too.

My Beloved has MANY of my mother's
good qualities.
Like her, he betrayed my trust when
I was the most trusting....

as well as a few other things,
such as it irritates him when I am
tired in the morning...oh...and the
fact that I always ask "Why?".
(Why doesn't everyone ask "Why!?")

It also helped that I did not wish
to deck this therapist...who did not leave
me completely hanging like the other
therapist when I was weeping my silly
ass away.

We are going with Lady Bilingual.

I hope you are all having a joy-saturated night!!!