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Smoky Thoughts I have so much to say lately, I don't know where to begin. It's been too much for me to rein in and try to cover chronologically, coherently, so I've instead fallen silent and spent hours scribbling notes to myself, which no one could possibly understand, even if they were actually legible, which for anyone other than me, they are probably not. Here is a beginning. Dear SoccerBoi: I couldn't say to you, "You're a hot piece of ass, and I wanna fuck you," if I loved you, if I were interested in being anything other than friends with benefits. I am not in love with you. I do not want anything more than your occasional company and hopefully the excellent blowjob and fuck that come with that, and perhaps sometimes a cuddle. As discussed in a previous entry, sex and love are not so easily-connected for me, and if I start out having sex with you, I'm probably not going to end up wanting to be in a relationship with you. Your fears are unfounded. Yes, I would date you, but it would be foolish on my part, as I know it would end badly, and probably rather soon. So let's just go back to being friends and IM'ing each other now and then and you calling me Stud and blowing me and taking it in the ass like the champ that you are, ok? Yeah, that's what I want to say. I think I'll wait a day or three before I do, though. "It comes so easily to you," she says. But not to her. Maria McKee acknowledges the pain, the difficult of being an artist. She admits, thereby, that it does not always come so easily to her, and intimates that she knows that it doesn't always come so easily to me, either. Or to you, or to them, or to any of us. And that is why I love her. (After a hiatus of several years and a departure from a major label, Ms. McKee, lovely as ever, has a new album out. It is called High Dive, and though it takes a few listens to really get inside it, it is brilliant. More on that later.) As regards bullying: At what point in time did (we?) the "ugly ducklings," the excluded, the isolated, the outcasts, determine or discover that we had power such that we ought to punish those who bullied us? (In ages past, did the bullying simply not extend as far as it does now, or was it simply accepted, suffered through in silence?) And now, is it merely politically correct that we respond this way, or is it just wonderful? Obviously, we must smash the racists, the homophobes, the jocks who believe they have impunity, and rebuild them into socially responsible individuals before they grow up to be scary useless creatures, but we must also avoid creating a mamby-pamby society. A daunting task. Sparked sulfur is the odour of Hallowe'en (lighting the jack-o-lanterns); the fourth of July (fireworks in the back yard purchased in another county, where they were legal); Christmas (decorative candles burning in the evening -- lighting candles for entertainment or atmosphere or whatever it is -- what an odd thing to do!); harvest festival time (that sweet, sugary-spiced brown/red/orange/yellow smell that is fall -- skies greying, the air cool and moist with soil and decay, breathing feels different); the fire in the wood-stove in the den, which when we resorted to oil heat became my play-room, then my music-room; the fear of lightning and thunder fighting the love of storms for the lighting of candles when the power would go off; burning the trash in the barrel in the back yard and the view of the flames glowing, lighting the figure of my father as I'd watch from my parents' bedroom window...Sometimes I miss the feeling of that house out in the country, the safely autumnal rural neighbourhood, childhood among pine needles by the river. [There's a note here about Captain Morgan's Rum that I can't read well enough to type out because I was so trashed that my handwriting became utterly illegible, even to me. I shall try to reconstruct it later. I'm going to try to go through this week without consuming any alcohol. After being either drunk or stoned or some combination of the two nearly every night last week, I feel that it is important that I should try, as a test of myself. I'm tired of hang-overs.] r
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