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rockrrqueen
Member Since: 10/3/2006 9:24:28 PMLast Seen: 12/2/2006 3:33:36 PM
About Me
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Posted 10/30/2006 2:33:36 PM
“What is she doing now?” That’s what I would think if I had a brain to think with. But entities like me are not in possession of their physical characteristics. Get it? I’m a ghost. She knows this. She knows I’m hanging out in her bedroom. I don’t know why I like it here. Oh if I only had a brain. At night she dreams I’m sitting on her dresser. She wonders what I think of all her lovers. I don’t really want to know her thoughts but she thinks them at me anyway. Why isn’t she afraid of me? It’s almost like my presence is comforting to her. She talks to me. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here but welcome, oh yeah and say hi to my loved ones maybe their being is in your dimension.” She makes a list of a bunch of dead people, her otherworldly shout out. She knows a bunch of dead people. As she calls their name wafty hazes shimmer out. I can smell animal sweat, I hear horses hooves. I follow her when she ventures outside. She walks fast. All those people dead on their feet think she’s unhinged. It’s too bad that when they think this they are prone to revulsion and fear. When she walks she thinks about her father. She thinks about how she had to trot to keep up with his long legged stride. She imagines that she’s riding with him. She imagines she is riding an appaloosa pony. And she’s patrolling these pastures. There is very little grass here. Only the stuff she’s smoking. Her feet hit concrete and she tries to work out in her mind how her horse should be shod so his hooves are protected. She doesn’t believe any animal was built to gallop along on hard cement. She wishes she had enough confidence to give skateboarding a try. I wish to god that her brain would shut the fuck up. If I was in the flesh all her thinking would make me tired. But mostly it just irritates me. Her neighbors think loud, most people do. They want us, the dead, the spirits to listen. Not that they would ever admit to that. But mostly their thoughts are splintered and so much worrying. While us, we laugh and the limbs of trees wave around with the hilarity of the dead. Her neighbors wonder what she does all day. They wonder what she does hiding out in her house, ignoring the lawn in the summer. Letting the grass grow up to her hips in the back yard. Not paying any heed to the unkempt pathetic flower bed in the front. I know that she loves the tall grass in the back. Delights in the chammomile, and all of the thorny wild artichokes. She loves the way the grass swishes when she dekes out the backyard to smoke and wander. Her little stand against totalitarian urbanization. Her neighbors call the property management company and complain about the unruly backyard. She feels sorry for them, to be so uncomfortable with the wild and unkempt doesn’t bode well for their future. I’m pissed. I don’t understand why I have to be stuck here listening to her thoughts and feeling her intuitions. I’m fucking dead, I was supposed to leave this all behind me. I can’t even remember how I got here. I think if I could I would be able to find a way out of this damn maze. Her maze where I get lost in the furniture and thought patterns. She opens a drawer and I fall into its contents. She sings and I get sucked into her throat and then pushed back out by her stomach muscles. Who knew the dead could become lost, untuned musical notes? I like it best when she is listening. To the bass heavy throb that emits from her sound system. Or to herself as she sits typing. I know she is trying to listen to me. I’m reluctant to let her in, but as smoke I don’t really have a choice. There is an altar in her bedroom. She sits cross-legged and sucks on her bong. Sending a prayer up to Kali and the elephant-headed god, as well as Ariadne. She talks to spiders and the air around her light’s up with delight when she finds them in her house. “Welcome Grandmother” She gushes. What fucking live human gushes to Spiders? Where’d this insane woman come from? Why does it seem like she’s trying to drink, smoke and fuck herself into a different state of being? I don’t think she wants to be dead exactly. She loves touching herself. Ghosts lose the privilege of masturbation. But I think she wants to see with the eyes of the dead. In her dreams I have straight black hair and I’m skinny. There is someone else with her while she is dreaming. I can hear the whispers and the presence is warm. When she wakes she is reluctant to get out of bed. Especially if she was dreaming of sex the night before. But I feel her annoyance when one of her lovers stays too long. While she makes her bed she thinks, “why is he still here? I need some time to myself.” Then she feels guilty. Hoping that her lover doesn’t pick up on her resentment. She loves when they tell her she makes them feel special. She knows she’s a whore at heart. But why the hell is she comfortable with that? Like she knows that she’s supposed to be doing that which she practices. I didn’t realize ghosts could be confused. But this strange live human is confusing. She feels smug about that. Loves that no-one can quite figure her out. She drops clues here and there but just smiles benignly when someone picks them up and asks her about them.
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Posted 10/27/2006 8:34:15 PM
I have a lot of catching up to do. I was hanging out on myspace http://www.myspace.com/weesakeejak http://blog.myspace.com/weesakeejak And I took a little trip over to my friend Alverez's space. I really admire that guy as a poet and an artist, and so I start investigating his friends Chu Tu and Who Knew I Blew You Away Too. They are so Witchy. They are crazy Alchemist Fly Womyn I tell you what. They are the shit. All this time I have been sitting around waiting for something to happen and they are happening. I want to happen like that. Talk about word warriors. They are the queens of word warriors. The Amazonic Queens of Word Warriorness. The way they play with words is almost shameful! If you are into real poetry go check it out. If you don't understand it thats alright, read it some more. Read it out loud, I dare you let the words hop around in your head. Let yourself get dizzy. Damn speaking their word sequences is better than drinking and smoking. Put those four together and I don't even have to shut my eyes to go astral in first class even. Makes me proud to be a womyn and humble and young feeling all at the same time. It really doesn't get any better. Why are you still reading this, go read some intoxicants stop wasting your time and mine.
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Posted 10/23/2006 2:07:31 PM
I have strange dreams. Every night (or day) it's nothing new. When I was a tiny (yet chubby) child, every night I dreamt that I was floating off my bed, out of my room and down the stairs. As I reached the bottom of the stairs I would turn into a spark and I would fly out into the night sky. I've had dreams I was flying around on an ornately carved Chinese chair. In this chair I traveled the world, back and forth in time where I met dragons, and genius artists. Last night I dreamt that I had to have surgery again. I had more stitches in my stomach. I have a scar at the top of my pubic area. I got it when the obstetrician opened me up to stop me from bleeding to death from an ectopic pregnancy. Usually they can do that surgery with lasers and tiny cameras inserted through the belly button (I could be wrong on that one) But because I was bleeding so much internally all the cameras could see was blood. So they had to open me up. They also pumped 4 pints of blood into me. I almost died. I got to experience morphine though. It makes me puke, but I felt pretty blissed out. When my Mom came to see me in recovery I was all "its alright they said I could still have babies" My mom wasn't crying over my lost child though. She was crying because they wouldn't tell her what happened to me. They weren't even going to let her into recovery. They only did because she stood in the waitingroom bawling until someone felt sorry for her. All that really happened. More than that happened, but I don't have to detail all of it. It was an interesting, harrowing experience. It's very painful to have a baby growing in the wrong place and bursting through one of your tubes. I realized after that that sometimes it can be fatal to be a womyn. Back to my dreams. For awhile in my dreams I couldn't fly. I would get off the ground but then I would hit a bunch of electrical cable and I would fall back to the earth. Once I tried to fly through the cables and they hit my ankle. I woke up and my ankle was burning. Isn't that kind of matrixy? I think that the electrical grid interferes with my lucid dreaming. What a piss off. This blog is very non-sequitor, more so than my other ones. I'm writing that to let you know that I know I'm jumping all over the place. I'm using this as a warm-up. I have strange dreams, but one of the strangest I ever had was the one in which I met an old lover. I was so excited to see him I said "pinch me I must be dreaming" He did, and I didn't wake up. When I woke up later I laughed. It's good to know that whole "pinch me I'm dreaming" thing doesn't work. Besides when you're having a good dream why would you want to wake up anyway? I have something else to say to Lunalupa, what makes you think I'm not beautiful? You think I harbor bitterness because I'm not attractive. That's an interesting assumption on your part is'nt it? I'll tell you something else, lecherous males don't care if you're attractive, their disgusting behavior has nothing to do with what you look like and everything to do with your self-esteem. They prey on girls they know will take it. If you scream "get your fucking hands off me you perv!" They'll leave you alone, or kill you depending on how psycho they really are. I had this bus driver totally creep me out, he was talking about a girl having a one night stand and suffering damage to her genitals because of it. Then he proceeded to tell me how he helped her by applying cream to the places she couldn't reach. He acted like he was a freaking hero or something. I should have got off the bus, but it was late on sunday night and it was cold out. He knew I was in a tight spot. That guy is a sick pig, and I'm sure he would've been that perverted if I wasn't so damn cute. I reported him. I hope he gets fired. I hate that I still put up with that shit. I really have to learn to be louder. Maybe I'll find him in my dreams and cut off his tongue, stuff it up his ass. I think thats what he deserves.
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Posted 10/11/2006 12:46:04 AM
I watch you cut loose from your cronies. Walking across the field. Climbing the hill and standing above us to smoke. I liked where we were sitting. The grass was cool and not too prickly. The poplars little leaves provided shade like the loving touch of mother, enough shade to ensure comfort but with a little light filtering through. The pattern of the leaves in the light was lacy and inviting me to lay back and explore the natural design possibilities. I stretch arched and tilted my head in a yoga pose I invented to take a look at you from an upside down viewpoint. You look very city for this place. A place that is undergoing the awkward concrete alterations of pseudo-urbanism with a veneer of good-natured aplomb. Struggling to atrophy its isolated small town roots. But there is more going on here than at first you would think. Dancing in the club the night I arrived with beautiful Jay of the West Indies and the atmosphere changes to discomfort and hostility. I wonder if it is because I'm a flashy white girl dancing with brown boys in a place where all the girls are trying to outflash each other with fake glitter and powdery tits. And there are no dark skinned ladies dancing. The ones I see look uncomfortable and sullen. I wonder if people in the place can feel that I think they're frauds. This is such a flimsy illusion, its all I can do to stop myself from laughing hysterically. I'm dancing my war dance. Slapping my palm on the sticky cork floor singing wake up! Wake up! Wake up! And now I have gone too far. There is a low, angry buzz that unnerves me. I start to panic and I walk by Jay and his friends twice before seeing them. I have my hat pulled down low over my eyes so I won't make eye contact with anyone that may be looking for an excuse to take me out. But that place with its scanners and black light and Britney Spears made me want to eat through the iron bars of the inquisition. Standing at the door waiting to get in and I could feel the tight grin of hyped up tension. A bunch of coked up fake titted bouncer-loving girls tried to hassle us before we even saw the meat head uh I mean the bouncer. When we got to the door we were told we couldn't get in there and had to go to a different entrance. The first door was the V.I.P door. Like they were expecting J.Lo to show up or maybe P. Diddy. In serious buttfuck no-where northern Canada. Yeah right cause all the Hollywood A list wants to be seen up there. And it was so unlike the next night. A free outdoor concert, an afro shaved into a peace sign. Ahh yes, peace begins at home. The second annual peace fest. Very local, with kids in all kinds of gear, punk kids, girls with purple hair and fish net slithering over their young bodies. These are the people I was missing at the club. The ones having too much fun to spend time trying to out judge each other. Some of them are even looking kind of hip-hop. Still, a baseball cap on a young boy looks farmerish up in this latitude even if it is crooked. And you standing above us smokin lookin like you owned the vibe. You hadnt seen the town yet. I dont think youd actually seen anywhere you passed through. But I was here waiting, checking things out so I could show you what this town was really about. I didnt bother with Wal-mart or stuporstore. The sweet inside of this town lay past those scions of somnambulist populations. In old town I find the grotty hotel with the toughest bars I never thought of entering. I found the secondhand shop with the true sounding mandolin. I found a bookstore that pretty much covered all the possibilities you can think of in the written word. I found a woman who served up a delicious quesadilla and more helpful directions on where to find some recreation. I got it all sussed. Ready to set the spirit of music in motion here like a Chinook howling through the buildings of the city. My contribution? A little sexual tension, because thats important. How can one create without a sexy vibe goin on? Well I mean you can but I get drawn in much deeper with a promise of pleasure that is pleasure within itself. And all creation is a mirror of the divine creation. The best thing about the Big Bang theory is the name. In my paradise my favorite musicians are playing every night in a music festival called the Big Bang. There we all are, jamming, dancing and fucking and playing and supping. Everyone from Mark Twain to Frida Kahlo to Kurt Cobain and Janis Joplin, and lets not forget Anais Nin. She could almost be the embodiment of Grandmother Spider. Yeah and Marvin Gaye and Jimi Hendrix could don their Coyote/Quetzlcoatl regalia. Aaah the big fucking Big Bang Powwow in the sky. Martin Luther King and Cochise could roll the bones. Quanah Parker and Bob Marley could race their horses to Ursus major, using the Big Dipper as a watering hole for the celestial steeds. Kerouac, Plath, Lennon and Harrison could compete in the drum contest while Hiawatha, Sacajawea, and Cynthia Parker teach the Jingle dance. Tupac could lead off the intertribal dance. Buffalo Man would be a judge along with Qolus and Orca. Kochininako could oversee the fry bread production. The Kachinas would be mixing up the instruments and turning them into strange guitar/drum/ turntable/saxophone hybrids. It goes without saying that there would be big fucking trees (yes I do mean that literally) Trees that the amorous can climb into and roll around in love nests lined with phoenix down. Billie Holiday, Big Mama Thornton and Bessie Smith would be outsinging each other and their notes would form wings on their backs. So they could be swooping and singing and performing reverse 360s, while everyones orgasms outdo each other in the fireworks competition and the embers falling would form crystal primary hued blooms. Primary hued edible blooms. And when these crystal miracles are ingested you shit sulforous rainbows. And you taste Salvation and you discover your own angel wings. And you love your cloven hoofs. In my paradise Mother Mary teaches the Kama Sutra. And Jesus paints hieroglyphs on cliffs made of brimstone.
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Posted 10/6/2006 1:43:08 PM
The loonie chick (oh that's not her name?) is offended cause I made a comment that had to do with her obvious boring shallowness. Oh yeah sorry about the name calling it's just easy and my witty isn't very on lately. Well only after about five shots of jaggermeister and 4 shots of sambuca. Or so I'm told I don't actually remember... Honestly if you don't have anything better to write about than your looks?..... Well you're definitely not a poet. I mean not even Beyonce is goin around crowin about how hard it is to be pretty. Your saving grace? You're gonna get old. And our culture believes old is ugly. We live in a culture that has no respect for the crone. Which is our downfall. A culture that embodies the principals of a teenage welfare mom will not survive. Don't get me wrong I have nothing against teenage welfare mom's we all gotta start somewhere. But as a blueprint for a culture? Talk about the proverbial overpass collapsing. Especially since your average schmo is worshipping at the temple of Paris Hilton. Anyway back to getting old and ugly. When all those beautiful people grow weary of mooning and cooing at themselves in the mirror (wouldn't they make a pretty field of daffodils? then they could be picked and relegated to the vases they belong in, not believing they actually have anything to say) When the reflection in the mirror no longer pleases. When you know the bank manager is flirting with you cause he thinks the #'s on the page are pretty. Then you can tell me about bitterness. And maybe just maybe your creative juices will flow. George Elliot had a horse face, but never lacked for lovers or friends because she had a vivacity that hardly anyone could surpass and she could write like a hot damn! And then there is Joplin, Janis Joplin. I don't think she ever lamented about being too pretty. But no-one can belt out a tune like her. She was a loud ugly woman who doesn't get enough credit in the womyns movement. I still see too many little girls being seen and not heard. Lets write about that. Lets write about how we take our daughters out and teach them how to holler with all the power in their stomach muscles. Let's talk about our daughters the martial arts masters. Lets brag about how much wood we can split. How long we can sustain that note on our junky old gibsons. Let's talk about riding our old yet impeccably maintained motorcycles through the foothills of Morocco. Lets show off the belt buckle we won riding bulls. Let us honor the crone who washes the dead. I'll leave you with a quote from a fellow rrrwomyn. Ani D. I think shy is boring, I think depressed is too/ I think pretty is nice but I'd rather see something new/ now go hang out with your grandma
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Posted 10/4/2006 1:03:55 PM
Too much time spent wanking. Hanging out in front of the screen wasting time. Don't get me wrong staring into space is about 50% of the writing process, but all I seem to be staring into is the abyss of my own shallow fantasies. And yes all of them are sexual. I can't and don't want to help it I'm a horny girl. It was Henry Miller that suggested we all write with hard ons. Or in my case a puddle. However my attention span could be described as a victim to distractions. Like a victim currently awaiting a doctor in a hospital emergency room cubicle. But it'll get better. I dreamt about my boat this morning. My sister and I found her (her name is Qolus btw) and we were spiriting her away from the evils of the wharf. I never liked wharfingers I have a set prejudice against them. Annoying officious bureaucratic milquetoast police wannabe's that they are. We motor-cruised Qolus to a safe anchoring spot and then I went back to retrieve the dingy. On the way I ended up on a wharf finger with a bunch of children on it. They were engaged in kindergarten like activities. I mingled with the children as I headed up to the exit of the finger. The exit seemed obstructed I ripped off a board to make an opening. But I couldn't get out that way it was too small. So I jumped in the water instead. I got to the dingy and I had to pull mightily on its anchor as it had drifted. The ancor line was tangled with another line. I used all my strength to unwind the restraints, but I also used the natural power of the tide and wind, which thankfully were in my favor. The dinghy eased and I started it's two stroke. While on our way toward Qolus it seemed as if we weren't moving yet we were. Time moves differently when you're semi immersed in water. We stopped at an island and I found a village of nomads tending their fires. I stood on a vertical, sheer cliff looking down at the water. I knew I was going to find a way down that cliff. As I was looking down a giant frog with two people on its back swam by. It was like a taxi, cause as soon as it came close to the shore the people swam off the frog towards the beach. Then I jumped into the ocean to meet the frog. Then I awoke.
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Posted 10/4/2006 12:49:52 AM
I dont think about Tracker anymore. Okay thats not exactly true, but I dont think about him all the time. Just every day. But not all day. When I first left I cried some over him. But he wanted to leave me and I couldnt let him be the first to get out of that stinking town. Luckily Alyssa keeps me pretty busy who'da thought that I'd be a strippers costume handler. And d.j. Dont forget that. The pay sucks but at least I have a place to sleep. I like Alyssas place. I like the busy street. Its so different from Wiktons dead streets. Theres always something going on underneath the living room window. Sometimes its people screaming and fighting or just drunk and whooping it up. A couple of times I think I spied that goddamn sick junkie that I yelled at before I got to my job interview. He stands on the street looking up. He cant be looking up here. He doesnt even know me. He's probably just fucked up what he's doing at this end of town I cant fathom. Its warm, weird for this time of night, or day depending on how you look at it. The street is quiet now the revelers are somewhere else. Passed out or fucking or wanking or something. In a little while street cleaners will be scrubbing away the nights soil. Making things shiny for the tourists. Alyssa is out schmoozing with some of her wealthy clients as she calls them. She doesn't do them for money I dont think she does any of them very much, she has a select few that patronize her. They keep her in pretty clothes, booze and drugs. She wont share much of that though. She says she doesn't want me going that way. I think she thinks she's my fucking mother or some such shit. Little does she know that my mom took a dirt nap a long time ago. I like being here alone. Ive been working out some songs. Alyssa doesn't like me playing my guitar when she's here cause usually she's sleeping. She's sensitive. Gets a little cranky too. I dont think I'm gonna hang around much longer. Although I dont have much for options. I'm still not going back to fucking Wikton thats for sure. Although I'm tempted to get in touch with Granny, not that I miss the old bitch. It might be a good idea to let her know I'm alright. I'm still not thinking about Tracker. Even if I do call home I wouldn't ask Granny about Tracker. Because I dont care where he is or what or who he is doing. I really dont. The phone is resting on a delicate end table. The kind with the round top and a single middle piece that divides into a tripod. I'm strumming my guitar but I'm focused on that telephone. But what the hell am I going to tell Granny? A bunch of lies I guess. She might like to hear my voice. Then again I'm probably going to be subjected to her screeching. Not what I like to hear at all. I can imagine how the phone call would go. "Hello?" "Hi Granny" "Cassie where the hell are you, you damn little fool!" "Granny I'm in Vancouver and I'm doing fine, I've got a job." "Cassie you put your ass on a bus and get back home right now! No self-respecting granddaughter of mine is going to wallow in that vat of sin and vice!" See this is where I know that the conversation would start to go wrong, because I would have to correct her and tell her that as we speak I am wallowing in sin and vice and that I like it. And then screeching and yowling and slammed phones. What a way to disturb my sweet music vibe. Also its like five in the morning there. Granny's an early riser but I think that hearing from me and me telling her I'm not coming back to Wikton would cause her, and everyone who comes into contact with her to have a very ugly day. I'm starting to get a little sleepy. I know I'm not going to fall away until I hear the birds calling. They are like my lullaby, that and the street cleaners. I expect that Alyssa will be home soon. She never stays the whole night anywhere. She claims that her bed is the only place in town that she gets a decent forty winks. Forty winks, who the hell says forty winks anymore? I'm planning on heading down to the beach tomorrow I know its gonna be warm and I know some people down there that I like to jam with. I'm starting to think that its time I got some gigs. Ive written a few songs of my own and I have about a half hour set list. I also know some people who busk. They make decent coin. I need to do something to augment my income and find a place of my own. Alyssa's been good to me in her own way. And I actually dont mind the work. I just feel its time to move on. I was watching this guy play the other day down on Granville. Man he was good. I stood there and I didnt even realize I was swaying my hips in time with his horn. I was entranced. The guy himself wasnt much to remark upon. But the notes he was blowing out of his trumpet. They were like a drug to me. With every phrase and change of cadence it was like the air changed color. But it was kind of scary sounding. Like masturbating in the shed behind the house and hoping that Granny didnt walk in. Or walking back to the cabin from the barn in the middle of the night and feeling like there was some wild beast watching you. And kind of sad to, but not tired sad, more mad, like crazy sad. A sad that made me want to jump up and scream to god. Thats what it felt like he was doing, like he was taking all the pain and life off the streets and throwing it in the air for some spirit to examine and deliver a judgement on. And soon I started to feel like I was being sucked through this guys mouthpiece and then blown all over the street. Like he was stroking a wound and then administering a balm to it. I remembered Jodi. How he smiled at me after a long day in the saddle. He grinned and looked so satisfied, full of the smell of pine and sage, full of the songs of the chickadees. Surprised, I could feel tears running down my cheeks and chin. I didnt even wipe them off. I just swayed there listening. And I didnt feel sad, not like I usually do. I wasnt pissed off and hating the world. I was just loving Jodi. Loving how he always showed me the beauty he felt in his heart. I wanted to know how that trumpet playing guy did it. How he got to me like that and if anyone else felt it. I looked around. There were a few people standing there with me. They seemed to have looks of awe crowning their faces. Some people were walking by and they almost looked annoyed by the noise level or something. I felt pity for them. Those of us who were feeling him stood in a loose circle with the music all around us like a protective shield. There was this knowledge breaking over me that if I remembered some of the notes he was playing, if I sought them out everyday the protective force would never shatter or wane. When he finished we didnt even clap right away. We could still hear him playing. After an indetermined amount of time the last notes seeped away like waves racing back towards an ocean of music. And we blinked and clapped. But the guy, he was already gone. I would like to be able to describe that moment to Granny, but I dont think she would understand what the hell I was doing loitering on the street. Granny always told me; "Streets are for walking Sissie, not standing around on lookin stupid" This was usually her comment when we walked by some Indian guy leaned up against a wall. I want to say to her, sometimes Granny streets are for dancing on. I want to say to her we should dance down the streets all the time. Any old fool can walk. But it takes a special fool to dance the rhythms of the street down. Oiy just to see the expressions on her face turn from pissed to flabbergasted to downright perplexed is almost worth going home for. Almost, but not quite. I need a smoke. I get up off the couch and go into my room. Its a decent room. Its got a single bed pushed up against one wall. There is an old periwinkle blue dresser with faded and raggedy scratch and sniff stickers stuck to it against the other wall directly across from the foot of the bed. Resting on top of the dresser is a smoke box. Well I call it my smoke box its a shoe box that I have attached leather hinges to and decorated with pictures cut out from old national geographic magazines. I have pasted pictures of trains crawling down lush mountains. On the top of the box is that picture of the Afghanistan woman with the brilliant blue smoke eyes. Inside is all my paraphernalia. I pull out my papers and the smaller glass box that I keep my weed in. Now to roll one. After I have created a pretty nice looking joint if I do say so myself , I walk out into the living room and light it. There is a table beside the window where I can sit and smoke and look down at the street. All there is to see; a pool of cold yellow light that pours out of the street lamp. But as I stare and inhale the sweet sensai smoke I blow it out the window, towards the light working on coloring the coldness of its weary incandescence. As I blow, a light breeze off the pacific rolls passed. The smoke intermingles and the moist salty air takes on an almost savoury flavor. I have this sensation happening, my brain feels like its falling through the back of my head. Maybe its not my whole brain, but part of it falling away to reveal an emerald green luminosity. Maybe its more like green jello. It seems to be jiggling to its own wonky rhythm. Some parts of the jello are darker than the others, like shadows but they are coming from inside the blob. I sigh. Its probably my past coming up to distract me from whats happening right now underneath the street lamp. But underneath the street lamp there is nothing. And the air smells less like the beach and more like exhaust, both car and people. Fuck this. I'm going for a walk. It'll be daylight soon. I'm not too scared. Besides I am quick and wary. I travel like smoke. No-one can grab a hand full of smoke, and before you even know I'm coming I've already passed you by. So out the door, down the stairs out on the landing of the apartment building. Its an older, three storey brick building with a 20s art deco feel. All the street facing windows are bayed. But its behind me now. I'm striding down the street. Around a corner and then down another street full of old houses modified into apartments and more brick apartment buildings. The closer I get to the ocean of course the more chic become the multi-dwelling houses. It gets a little boring after awhile but I keep myself aware in case theres some lurking jackal-like pervert. Light is diluting the darkness, turning it grey. And the wheeling obnoxious whining seagulls are back at it. Now I can really smell the pacific. That fresh saltiness and the cloying fishiness intermingle in just the right amounts this morning. Now is the time for those go-getters to be going and getting shin splints. Or what they term as power-runs. Cause we all know its about power. Well give me the power of the tide or give me death. I cross the street to reach the sand. Theres a bit of a parking lot in the way, but its easily spanned. A few cement steps and there is sand stretching loose and long. There is sand garnished with drift wood and beach glass. There is sand, dry where it meets with the cement wall and then gradually retaining moisture as a sign of the receding tide and farther out, the ocean. No big waves here just gentle lapping. In the magic interm between night and dawn there is no wind. The tide is slack. And time is paused. The world is mine and mine alone. Or so I thought but some other bum is sitting on my drifted cedar log, looking at my ocean. And playing, what the heck is he playing? Aw fer cryin out loud the schmo is playing a freakin flute! What does he thinks hes stinkin Jethro Tull? Hoah this is not how my walk was supposed to end up I dont want to share my beach with anyone. Let alone a flute freak. I walk up and stand a few feet away from the jerk. I'm trying to glare him off my beach. I can see that he's looking at me. But he's still facing the ocean. He has his eye on me but only peripherally. As I'm glaring at him I start to notice that hes kinda cute in a freaky hippy sort of way. He has long curly, very pretty girly hair. He is in possession of hair those annoying Barbie Doll chickies in my high school would have endlessly coveted if they werent too busy making fun of him while he wasnt looking. His hair is gold tinged in the rising sun and the curls are just right, corkscrew like but a relaxed cork screw after its opened a bottle of wine and taken a draught for itself. His face is kinda long but sort of noble looking. He has huge grey-blue eyes and long eyelashes I notice. Okay I might be noticing too much and not glaring enough cause this dude is not looking intimidated at all. I narrow my eyes a little. He's wearing a grey and black knit pullover and faded jeans. And of course the ubiquitous signal of hippiedom everywhere, he's wearing sandals with grey work socks. The kind with the white toe and heel. He looks a little undernourished but he has well defined muscles. Yep I know that I'm looking now and not glaring because he just turned to look up at me. "ehello ehow are you?" Oh shit he's French. I think I accidentally am meeting a French guy. I really dont know how to handle this. I'm Albertan I'm not supposed to like anyone French or freaky or hippiey. But I kinda like this guy. I think my big brain is going to explode. French freaky hippie guy looks at me concerned. "What is wrong? You look like you swallowed a frog." " Uh you're on my beach" The guy looks shocked. He does, he looks like I came up behind him and yelled "Big Purple Anaconda!" And he wants to believe that there really is a big purple anaconda, but he feels it might be a trick. "What this is your beach?" he says quixotically while looking around for a neon sign with my name on it. Of course he's not going to find one. "Well its not my beach, its just that I was hoping to have some time here by myself and youre kinda messing it up for me." What the hell is wrong with me? Thats the most polite Ive been to anyone since I was fourteen and still scared of Granny. "Oh sorry about that I just like the way my flutes sounds when the sun is coming up." I want to groan, not only is he French, he's cheesy. I mean for christs sake the way his flute sounds as the sun is coming up? I kind of expect him to start levitating or ohming or some such shit. "Ah yeah I like the sound of nothing when the sun is coming up." He looks back out at the ocean as if he's seriously contemplating what I said. "Well the sound of the rushing universe is quite lovely." "The sound of the what? The Russian universe?" What the hell is this guy talking about? He starts to guffaw. I'm not nearly embellishing here. This guy is actually guffawing, but in a sweet way. Uhoh I'm starting to think he's sweet, I'm in trouble now. I must appear troubled because he says "Look I'm not trying to hit on you hear I just like laughing with you." Okay, he looks like he's telling the truth. I think he is telling the truth. Shit, this is getting stranger and stranger by the second. "yeah, laughing, hah thats funny I'm Cassie, who are you?" "My name is Grenny" "Grenny huh, well thats French I guess." "Howd you know?" I think he sounds surprised in a happy way. "Well you kinda have an accent, but its not too strong, I mean I can still understand what youre saying and everything." Why do I sound like I'm apologizing? Its his damn accent.
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