emma b. says

Sunday, March 14, 2004

blog, blog, flippity blob blog blah

Emma is feeling a little ( a lot ) disconsolate.

But first the weather. Again and unseasonably warm March Sunday. We might launch into a diatribe about global warming, but we are not complaining and beside we have not the energy to diatribe, and we thinks that our stupid CD player has just bit tge dust...

reason # 114 why it is sometimes useful to have a mean about the premises, they can tinker with shit that I find confounding. Too many red, yellow and green wires...

but I digress

We cut our hair short, short and we are having a bit of buyers remorse, then again. We are more than willing to attribute it to the our raging hormones - we are in the midst of laying our little egg, and just cuz a body needs to advertise, we have sprouted the Worlds Largest Pimple next to our nose.

Emma was not so fortunate to sample any sweet, sweet manflesh over the weekend, but on Friday we did manage to land a phone number which we may or may not have the balls to call... A. recommended that we ice the monstrosity, and currently we are at our desk with an icecube pooling down our cheek. We feel a little silly.

but that is that, and so it goes, from whence it came. And there it goes, there it goes.

we must be tired for our eye is twitching

Weekend wrap up:
Friday m and I stay up past our bed times. I flirt shamelessly with Lovely MS, get a number, take a taxi before I make an ass of myself. Tonight M reassures me that I did not paw the poor bastard, but concedes that he may not have an untainted recollection.

Saturday: My head hurts less than it ought too when I open my eyes. Jeff calls and wants to train. Golden Gate park, brilliant sunshine, Jeff inflicts some serious smack down on us. After we have rolled in the dirt with a hang over as bright as the sun in the cloudless sky, after he as contorted our limbs, and nailed us with a wooden swords we would like nothing better than to slug the sonofabitch... But it is fun and makes us feel very strong.

When we get home we are covered in grime, and suspect that we will wake up very, very bruised. Bus to the ferry building to catch a boat to Sausalito. The sun is up, the ferry rides the swells, there are swells on the boat, there is a hodgepodge of language, there is a really tall man blocking my sun. I didn't even reach for my book, just sat still as statuary, sun on my face, sun on my face.

Something about being on the bay, being at eyelevel with all of our landmarks, bridges and buildings and mountains and islands and a lone tree.

Eleven years later and I still hold my breath.

A and K and I hang out in Tiburon, margaritas at twilight at Guaymas. I get hunger pains, I get hunger pains for R. The missing comes on tangibly and I have to go outside to look across the bay to where he is, where he is somewhere between the pitch of the water and the sprinkling of the lights.

your loves never leave you. flit about the conciousness like so many humingbirds, dazzling green, lightening quick, flash of passion, flash of peach.

Sunday: I am bruised. Both shoulders and a purple line down my back. My hips sport a vermillion hue. My hormones have gone completely apeshit and I decide that I hate my new short, short hair. My left ovary has tied itself into a precise knot and i would real,y like to rip somebody's (anybody's) throat out. Instead I will take a hot bath, with ice on my nose... And hope that The Worlds Largest Pimple will subside by morning.

And dream of kisses, mouths and skin on skin and more skin on skin...

Emma bids farewell and fecund dreams.


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