Friday, February 17, 2017

Vomiting Up Love

Falling in Love is Being Sick to Your Stomach
Yup, I said that correctly. And I mean it. Falling in love is exactly like being sick to your stomach. You want to vomit. Seriously, think about it.
First, when it initially starts to happen, you aren’t sure what that feeling is. You know you feel a bit odd, but you aren’t sure whether your hungry or sick or have just caught some minor bug. And you try not to mention it to anyone because they will either be afraid that it is catching or they will try to tell you all the ways they have gone through exactly what you are going through now and how to deal with it. Additionally, at that early stage, you would just as soon get ignore the feeling or get rid of it as admit that it is real.

Then, it hits you full force. You are in love. Entirely smitten with someone. Yup, you are gonna throw up. You are gonna vomit right there in front of everyone and send crowds scattering. You try to hold it back and behave as if all is normal. You go on with your routine as if nothing were changing, but right below the surface is that urge, that need, that feeling which keeps welling up. People begin to notice you acting odd. Your patterns change. You make sure your route just happens to go by the desk or house of the object of your affection - just like you would make sure to always be near a toilet when you are sick. Maybe your paths will cross.
And then it happens. You have told yourself that you wouldn’t let it happen. You have promised that your sickness would never become public. Dammit, there is no way you are going to let this come out. And then it rolls off your tongue and out of your mouth right in front of the one who means the mouth to you. You retch up the emotions from the deepest part of your gut and heave them into the space between you.
And they stare at you. Silence.
Sorry, I cannot tell you what happens next. I wish I could. With any luck, they will put you down like a sick farm animal. It would be the easiest and, by far, the least painful alternative. But that isn’t likely to happen in our day and time.
Second best is that they look at you and your sick, move forward, take your head in their arms, and vomit all over you. Two sick souls comforting each other in shared illness. Now that is love. You can hope.
In my experience, they turn away. They look at you aghast. Perhaps they shriek slightly and accuse you of trying to get them sick. They let you know, in no uncertain terms, that they care about you and your well-being, but they cannot afford to get sick. Please keep this sickness to yourself. Do not share it. Perhaps you aren’t even sick, they suggest, you just think you are. Get over it!
And they turn away. Leaving you there. Both sick and lonely. Your guts are in front of you, and you don’t know what to do. The person you thought would perhaps hold you, take care of you, care about you, has left you to be sick on your own. And, if you are luck, you feel, you will die. Sooner rather than later.
And if you don’t die. If you do survive this, that person who you value so much will never look at you the same again. Remember the last time you got horribly sick and you threw up your favorite food? Or when you got drunk on bourbon when you were young and vomited it up so hard that it came out your nose? It lost all attraction, didn’t it?  The one that you were so drawn to has made you sick. And you cannot look at them the same way ever again.
And knowing of your sickness, and the possibility of relapse, they will never let you near again. Arms length is where you will stay.
And there will be a hole. A hole where once there was love. And sickness.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Silly Me

You break my heart.
Every time you enter a room and don't look at me,
you break my heart. 
Every time the phone doesn't ring, the mail isn't from you,
    or my messages sit silent,
you break my heart. 

I see others going around buying flowers, planning dinner,
     or just picking out enough for two instead of one,
     and it breaks my heart. 

I know it cannot be. 
From the hug released too quickly to the seat you chose at lunch,
You have made it all to obvious - this separation between you and I. 
And it breaks my heart. 

I will move on,
treat you as a friend,
be adult and professional about this.
But just to be clear on this one point,
You break my heart. 

Sunday, November 20, 2011

The National Nazi Uterus Party

A friend of mine in Charleston is writing some fantastic posts on how a woman is to deal with the The Secret Society of the Uterus. These woman see fit to compare, complain, plan and make sure that everyone evolved or at least within ear shot know each woman's full menstrual cycle, when she is ovulating, and her favorite position to review he sperm-donor in that there is the highest probability of the two life parts getting together and forming a baby who will grow up to be just another rhetoric spewing brat who wants guns, freedom, not have to do an honest days work - but complain against people who are really need help.

And on that note, or a few before, I realize that I am high as a kite. Hello world! ;) Time for me to quite trying to type.

Thanks @AndraWatkins You are an inspiration and your blog is a thought provoking riot.

Damn - have to take this jack up mind or what is left of it and put it in a less dangerous or at least less public location. Cheers!

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Excuse, Even Me

I will admit that I have never heard of such a thing as bacon lube. Is it made of bacon? Does it taste like bacon? Do you use it on bacon? Can you have both bacon and sausage in one sitting? Well, dear Andra Watkins, the Accidental Cootchie Mama herself, seeks to enlighten us and I am ll ears.

Click on the title of this post or go to to find out what I am rambling on about.

Monday, August 16, 2010


Ghost by Marco Brambilla from ARTJAIL on Vimeo.

Thanks to TS Elliott for leading the way to this.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Dinner Out

Gardner slid his hand slowly under her dress and began to caress her thigh. She looked over at him out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t stop him or move her leg away. She took another bite of her steak and chewed slowly.

“You know, this place really is a little loud.” Race looked around as he said that, he seemed to be looking for either the source of all the sound or a quiet place within it.

“Yes,” Gardner said, still rubbing Bonnie’s leg, “it’s loud, but the food is pretty good and the seats are soft. I can put up with some noise when it’s worth it.” Gardner reached across with his free hand and picked up his beer. As he drank, his other hand moved slowly with each caress further up a little firmer into the muscle of Bonnie’s leg.

For her part, Bonnie just kept on eating. If you didn’t know her, and luckily Race didn’t, you wouldn’t have suspected that anything was wrong or different. But she was eating her steak more slowly, and she wasn’t talking much at all. She was just chewing her steak with a slow even motion of her jaw; so slow that she seemed to be waiting for her dinner to dissolve in her mouth.

“What do you think Bonnie? Isn’t this place too loud?” Asked Race, pointing at her with his steak knife?

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied after swallowing, “All I know is that I am tired. This has been a long week and every part of me aches.” As she last words of that rolled off her tongue, she let her legs spread a little wider apart under the table. Because of the booth and the tablecloth, no one could see, but Gardner felt it immediately and moved his had a little farther up as he took another drink of beer.

Just then, Race stood up and pulled out the chair beside him.  “Here’s Julie now!  It is about time you got her dear.” Dressed in tight blue jeans and boots, Julie cut an imposing figure.  Of course this was helped along by the fact that she was blonde and bronze and nearly six-feet tall without the help of the boots.

“What the hell do you mean ‘about time you got here’? I told you that I was going to be late because of that traffic. If you hadn’t wanted to meet on this side of town, I could have met you forty-five minutes earlier.” Julie had the attitude to match the appearance.

“Whoa, just hold on there.  First, I was only kidding. Second, it was these two newly wed love birds that picked this place, not me.” Race was backing up fast.

Gardner, without stopping the motion of his left hand, spoke up next. “We picked this place because it’s good and it’s close to work.  And we live in the opposite direction.”

“And don’t forget that we have a hundred-dollar gift certificate here that we go for our wedding.” Said Bonnie.

“Well yeah, there is that.” Gardner seemed to wince with the admission.  “You don’t mind us throwing that in to this evening’s bill, do you?”

“Hell now!  That works for me.” Said Bonnie changing tunes. “Now all I need is a beer.  Who gave you that wedding present anyway, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Gardner’s fingers were now starting to play with the edge of Bonnie’s panites. He would drift under the edge, then back out. Snap the elastic a little bit and then smooth it out; all neatly hidden beneath the table.

“Oh, that was from some of the people at my office,” Bonnie said. “The guys up in the front sales office took up a collection and gave it to us.  I think some of them thought it was a lame gift, but I think its cool.  I love being able to go out without spending any real money. Here’s you waitress.”

The waitress walked up and seeing Julie, asked her what she would like. As Julie was answering though, the waitresses, grinned knowingly.

From 2009, I think...

The Walking Streets

I walked the streets that night with my hands stuffed deep into my pockets.  Looking back at it now, I can’t believe that I didn’t fall and break my head.  Either that or get mugged.  I walked the streets of the French Quarter for hours not looking where I was going.  I paced of the streets, Royal, Bourbon, Louis, Esplanade, grid by grid. Like a mouse working a maze I walked through every inch of the Quarter. But, so different from that mouse, I wasn’t looking for a way out.

No, I was looking for a way in. And I wasn’t going to find it, nor was I looking for it, on the streets or in the alleys. I was searching my memory.  What had I done that made me such an outcast in this place where I wanted to belong so horribly?  What had I said that made everyone I met treat me as a complete stranger, no matter how many times we had met. Was there something in my mannerisms that put off these people who would put up with the most dysfunctional assortment of souls that humanity had to offer? I paced the sidewalks and streets looking for an answer.

I wasn’t really looking where I was going, but I was guided by the sounds and scents around me.  Around Bourbon the sounds were loud music, inebriated laughter, and the occasional yell from a crowd.  The scents were a mixture of alcohol, sweat, and desperation.  The night was quiet near Jackson Square; the sounds of people walking, whispering in the shadows, and the faint streams of music from clubs farther down the blocks. Good food was in the air; fine restaurants and coffee houses and the occasional hand of a cigar.  But the other way, on the other side where real people still lived and life went on without the parties, there the sounds were those of the night. Faint tvs and domestic quarrels, cars and dogs, stereos and cook.  The sounds that meant this was still a real city and not a movie set.  And the odors there matched the sounds. Staple cooking and household cleaners; beer and cigarettes, were the order here. It was all here, all of life was in these blocks.

But I just kept walking.  I had been told not to walk to far from the main tourist areas by more than one well meaning person. Stray to far from the beaten path and I would stand to get mugged.  But I couldn’t even get mugged. No one was interested in me.  Not the gutter punks performing for handouts, not the hookers in drag on the corners, not even the taxi drivers or mounted patrol seemed to car that I was walking. Walking.  Grid by grid, road by road, I paced off the Quarter again, and again, and then again.

It was 4 am before I finally started to feel tired enough to think about going back to my room for the night.  I hadn’t eaten since that lunch with her earlier in the day, but I still wasn’t hungry.  I might never eat again I thought, and then laughed at myself out loud of for being melodramatic and stupid.  Perhaps those two always went together; melodrama and stupidity. Add in a little self-pity and you would have me all rolled into one neat little characterization.  But, at least I was finally tired.

I made my way back down Dauphine across Esplanade. As I had done many times before, I passed the house that was supposed to have belonged to the father of Marie Laveau.  For the first time all evening I looked at something besides my feet.  Like much of New Orleans it had probably been impressive in its day. Now it was dark and decaying. I had seen a light on inside here and there in the past so I assumed it was still occupied, but it was hard to imagine how.  The peeling paint was the least of the worries for this old lady. The roof had obviously begun to fall in years ago, and as many window panes were broken as were still in tact. I felt like I was looking into the face of someone just waiting to die. Someone who kept waiting while the years stole away all that had brought joy and meaning. The children, the music, the flowers, the joy was all gone only to be replaced by and empty longing.  A longing for it all to be finished.

I suddenly realized that I had stopped walking and was standing on the front steps of that grand old house. I don’t know why, but I had been drawn up to it; up to place my hand upon her wall. But with a start I realized what I was doing and backed off and hurried up the street to my place.  Quickly unbolting then bolting the doors I made my way into my own house and then bedroom.  All night long I had been walking in a daze, and now I was frightfully alive. What had I been doing?

Written in 2004