emma b. says

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Here we sit in our sort of gilded silver chair of super powers, cobbled in our wee apartment out of the spare bits and spray paint, a little of this and a little of that --- whatever is about the house, incandescent lightbulbs (such a fuss) lipstick and nail polish, the rasor in the shower, it's all good, shaved to the perfect bermuda triangle, no one to fall into. It matters not, we remind ourselves as the sky burdgeons and dribbles a little rain.

Here we sit, done and undone in our new finery, pink and cream, perfect for the newly vestigal and hardly reformed, we have laquered and relaquered our fingernails, which have never been free of the the accumulations, the food stuffs, the sex stuffs and the whatnots, I don't think I have ever really ever been clean.

Then he calls, takes back all the innuendo, takes back all the nuance, asks if I will pardon, tacit the willfull forgetfullness, it's just dinner between friends, it's just that, nothing for it, so why reach.

but between you and I, I did. I reached in my sleep and I reached at the shoe department at nordstroms, I have been reaching, so long and so very hard in my dreams and my waking demons who haunt all the vas et vient of the conversations I haven't had and most certainly wont.

I suppose there is a certain gallantry about being rejected before the fact on principal, and though I didn't slam the phone into the cradle and declaim through the veil of tears, well fine then, let's call the whole thing off and run off to Afghanistan to seek refuge in Cole Porter. No. I just got all stoic and snuck off to smoke imaginery cigarettes in the stairwell and tried really, really fucking hard to adopt a certan nonchalance and a certain laissez faire, so it goes and so I roll.

But at the same time I am not going to lie down, oh, but my history is full of lying downs, in the name of somebody else's peace, in the name of peaceable restitution, in the name of walking away without a public scene.

But again the hour is late, where do the hours melt to. I should probably keep from talismans and sentimental ocean breaks, stick to the plausibility of the bathroom cieling needing a vacuum, used to the unbreakable silence of long weekends, unsed to waking up unsurprised at the vastness of my empty bed, used to me. I will be no doubt too tired to employ any wiles, grace a the lateness of the hour and my inability to give a fuck for all the contrivances of seduction, is that I have voluntarily ceased to care or that any desire I might have nourished close to my long dormant furnace has gone ashen.

Saturday, February 17, 2007

And I am Telling You That I am Not Going (Except that I have already left the building)

Sometimes the drum roll is half a beat behind, but you in your silly pants and dreaded white patent leather boots have already turned some kind of existential corner, pulling on your meteroric trombone, puffing, huffing and puffing, bleat your goodbyes like you hardly even noticed them. Except that you did.

You will come to town, and we will flirt over wings, I have every intention of dragging my quarry to my lair, I have every intention of savoring every orgasm I can coax. I have every intention of letting the roll of my ocean break against your thigh, and were I not such a lady I would surely gobble you, Grendel-like, in the honey-heat of that moment that I imagine. Munches on it's bones it does, sucks the marrow... Sucks the marrow and tosses the savaged bones aside, rests on it's haunches and unleashes some kind of howl, full of full, full of blossoms and unfettered wildness and depth of sorrow and beginnings and endings, but mostly since I am telling you that I am not going but really since I have already left, I would rather speak of branches of dogwood and of quince.

Since there is no use in telling you that I am already gone, not that you might notice, let us observe flora and water. When we are dreaming when we are three quarters awake...

I forgot the starlings. Dark clouds of effervescent birds on the horizon... but that's not...

No, it's not that I have no words, it's just that the statute of limitations has run out, it's only that, I was going to say that the magic has run out. Because I am who I am, and because I must adhere, I am telling you, though you will never know it, that I have one last slender ember with your name engraved on it, engineer. You will either ignite it, or I will bury it deep in the graveyard of remembrances and I am telling you that you will cease to be part of my presence. I am telling you that, I am telling you that I am once and for all definitevely done. (nearly) gods bless the saps on the verge, bless us to the scarlett centers of our love charred hearts.

Take your pick girl, you have the tuburcular world that beckons, and all the half-assesd adventures... there are no guarantees, and there are a finite number of french horns to flesh out your soundtrack, there is love in the corners where you appropriate it, everything else is black and white early french farce.

What the hell anyway, today was a very good day and I am happy.

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

the infintesimal melt down

because we all know it's never the big things, also I am mining my future, as I have refused my own self a loan on credence, because I have a habit of running with scissors -- splayed -- pointy ends honed to daggers. I find it amusing, everyone else just cowers, well fine then.

Frere Emma has suggested I veer from the apocalyptic, so I have decided to swing towards the apopleptic....It wasn't my fault anyway, blame it on Cormac McCarthy - I knew I should have never read the road -- I haven't been the same since. Gavin Newsom you are a gigantic nincompoop, related I would happily have a politician roast on my foreman grill in the light well, because oh am I motherfucking sick of focus group speak and we are a year and a half away from the election.

Seconds and hours of newspeak and ridiculous clips of also-rans in hair helmets forcefully gesticulating with closed fists. I am sorry Hillary, I used to like you when you had a pair, but if I have to listen to a year of vacuous speechifying, I might have to go to one of those states like Ohio and kick you squarely in the ass. Enough is enough already - enough with the Bushes and enough with the Clintons. Dynasty was soooo reagan era, and since wispy boys with wispy beards have clogged all the good bars, boys in need of tacos and beans, did I miss the memo when we all forgot about foie gras, what the hell is happening anyway, there is a broad line between sensitive and preciously fey.

Do I need another city, do I need another local, is this endemic? Where pray is the last stand up man, please tell me, I have an itch in need of scratching, I have miles and I am ready to fly. Have I become hopelessly dated? Will I ever have another date? Do smart girls get laid in this mediawonderland, or do we sit on the sidelines and scoff like the bunch of Anarchist Cheerleaders In That Nirvana Video We Wish We Were and Sort of Almost Were that was so very long ago, really now that I think of it, was so long ago.

I can hardly remember in my dotage, but it might be the wine. I am not exactly sure that I give a fuck in the bright light of the empty bottle of liquor store quality cote du rhone -- chances are my mind will be changed in the haze of sobriety and... and all that work to be done... well you know, whatever, nevemind.

Friday, February 02, 2007

It's all going to end in tears anyway, that's the inevitable, historical conclusion. I can't be certain of what it is, I suspect it might be my own funeral. But between now and the categorical End, there are dinners out with my good friend, there is hope in the sharp edged shadows of the stretching day. There is respite in the crevices between the big politics and the little politics, linger long in the interstitial. There are Very Bad Things afoot, I will race you one legged to the finish line for a victory jig, a carefree lapse, one last consequence free tumble, before all of us begin to lose by the tiny increments that lead seemlessly to abject savagery. Oh no, not us. Just you wait and see.

Thursday, February 01, 2007

sometimes songs get lost on playlists, they resurface weeks and years later to momentarily confound, belt a few meaningful chords and are gone again. Mayhap forever this time, memory as whimsy as it is.

Then again, never underestimate the power of a good dj, slinging sentiment like a gunslinger, all of us cattle trapped in our cars, dappled in bulls eyes and shaded by structured demographic marketing, still we yield to the romanticism just as surely as we don our designer sunglasses against the feeble rays of the winter sun.

and never underestimate the full moon. here we have a tidal pull and I would really like to rest my head in the lee of the dunes on a warming plate of spaghetti, pull the coals about me and bark or trill, or perchance enact the hurdy gurdy while screeching at the opaque night sky, there are no mystics here after all, no more, they for forevermore in tales all for princesses and peas, a smattering of dwarves and Magyical Creatures - fuck renfaire anyway, fuck those dirty hippies and erstwhile drama queens for ------ why can't I find that damn song anyway, also why I haven't I won the lottery, because, well why not me.

why not me, I am one of those 21st century holdouts, I still believe, categorically, in everything. Unwisely, wittingly. Such as it is, I am thirty-five years old and I still make wishes on eyelashes and hold my breath through tunnels, I cannot suppress that notion that one day my ship will come in, on it my prince charming, in the hold all kinds of riches, or not. Daydreams they do scatter in the cold light of reality, just as surely as my bed tonight will be mine and mine alone. But what are tales for, but to bolster, carry me forth on the froth of my sheets out into the warm seas into Poseiden's embrace, I'll go down to bet on sea horses and get proficient with a trident.

so to wake in a giant clam shell, so to wake up in sheets, nobodies Venus on her way to work.