Sunday, August 2, 2015

THIS kind of email from a writer-friend reminds me I'm not nearly as "weird" as I think. Ha. (nor as smart.)

WARNING: Bubblites,  most of you will be offended for sure. (At least the HYMN will. )- Stop reading, please. Good talk.  Disclaimer: Although, I have zero problem with any thing written here, in fact, I adore his raw and descriptive application with words like "tits" and then" integumentary system." His thoughts, words and actions in no way represent my own. My own are usually clearly stated in person or within these pages. I'm merely sharing a little piece of stream of conscious magic. I love it. He reminds me of Bukowski or Miller....

As we found out last night...He has improved greatly from 1994: "Who had the right to say we are sequals, in my mind you and I are no equals. Hands we may hold and converse as we may, I was not born today, today. Our builds are alike, we both have green bikes, I think what I might, together we can't agree on which one is right. I am from Scotland and you are of guilt. You wear a dress and I wear a kilt."


Note: This is merely one of many many many emails that I usually find in my mailbox at about 6am, even though they were sent while I was sleeping. The median time of arrival of such emails is approximately 2am. Ok, Enjoy.

There is something beautifully distasteful, yet so honest and poet here. He draws a scene with mere letters connected together. It is the written version of "things people like he and I think" non-stop, all day, every second whilst experiencing our lives. Lucky are the writers who find each other. Otherwise, we'd have no one to which we could type and hit "send" to. 

Thanks, Madonna (BQ) for the funny sign offs, the cute plays on my name and mostly for inspiring me to get better at juxtapositions and six syllable words. Love ya!

Oh heey Lu's
Trying to ring the dry pulp of my brain into a glass. I  wanted to stay home and write tonight, but I have no ideas. So, I'll write you. An old pal was in town last night; at 11 on a school night he decides we should go to a strip club. Who am I to turn that down? We went to one in a gritty neighborhood southwest of downtown. The blocks alternate between Latino and Vietnamese shops and neighborhoods. An estuary of immigrants, mixing at the margins and remaining clear and segregated in the cores.
 Anyway, the gals were crazy exotic, which is unexpected in (redacted)-town) One of them was from Cuba, I must not have been speaking clearly because I would ask her questions and my friend would have to translate. We were all speaking English though. She looked like Rhianna with smaller tits and a harder life story. I told her that I had been to Havanna and liked Cuba. She did not, not at all. She scowled at me for the rest of the night. Another chick was dancing with her 'sissy'. Literally, they were sisters and did this whole act together. 
One thing leads to another and I am somehow engaged in a lap dance grind fest with one of them. She was black and stupid fit and bonkers cute. She's going through the motions and I'm trying not to get an erection. A total stranger in my lap, rubbing my face in her tits. I was sort of struck by the integrity of the integumentary system. Who knows what the f&ck it protects me from? I should take better care of my skin. She was a pretty sweet girl and tolerated my uncomfortable giggling. She asked what was wrong and I told I was concentrating on controlling my reaction to her grinding.
 She stopped and looked at me and asked if I was married? No, I told her. She jumped back to mashing her ass in my lap and said 'So what's the problem then?'. It didn't stop my concentration. I think I won, not totally, but it was a small victory. For a moment there was this crystalline bass-pounding honesty between us. She was trying to illicit a reaction, to sell the fantasy, to simulate the impossible. Simulated f*ckng in a room of mostly dudes and some other girls walking stiffly in 8" inch heels carrying smooth round breasts that shuttered with each step. I wanted to ask her about what she thought about married guys in there? Do they grudgingly dispense their entertainment? Do they quietly hide their contempt behind smiles and rhythmic gyrations?
 I can't fucking wear plaid anymore, the fu$king hipsters ruined that shit. I suppose we tell stories with our clothing, to the extent that we can convey anything with the rags we drape on our deteriorating frames. What story does plaid tell? It says that, Jesus, everyone else is wearing it, so I should let everyone know that I'm down. A divorced woman in her 50's just moved in behind me. She is cute and likes to paddle board. I don't get paddle boarding. They fuck-ng love it out here. What is it with chicks and low grade aerobic activity? Ellipticals and paddle boards and the like? Is that how they attract mates with slow repetitive rhythmic motions? How goes the shiz in the metaphysical realm? 
Bitch, I'm Madonna.

If you enjoy "Madonna's" writing, to bad. He struggles with a nagging self-limiting belief of inadequacy (like all writers) and is very busy owning his yacht business and taking care of his Emu. But, I'm working on him.

"Shimmer with a smile. Life is hard, bloom anyway."


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