It is true. I have exposed myself. My love for travel has nothing to do with the rolling awe of northern California wine country, nor the crisp melt of an autumn Michigan apple, nor anything to do with that British Columbian feline whom claimed my heart, seeming to understand me better than any of my human friends. (That's right: my soul mate kills mice. In his mouth. For the fun of it....Slowly.)

Nor do I incesently travel so I can have everything I adore available all the time and I never have to make a choice or commit or be responsible to anyone but myself. Not that deep at all, Simple Instrospective Simon.

It's a bath tub tour. That's all. I drive endless highways and fly gaping canyons to take a bath in the world's tub. Sure appears that way at least. Mom and dad's classy black, red heat light, six foot (stretch out your arms and your legs), steamy full-wall mirrors bath tub in Michigan. That's one of my favorites. It's the watering hole that started this whole obsession. You see, we didn't have a functioning shower when I grew up. Every nite a full sized red light steamy mirrors black bath was an elaborate ritual just to wash the hair, rinse the salty spot behind each knee, or read another chapter in whateva book.

I had my very own pool of solace at 45th and 8th in Manhattan. My first apartment alone was 15x15 (no kitchen, no livingroom, no turningaround, no kidding) - the toilet and sink right on top of each other - I would fall back asleep every morning using one and resting my head on the other (use your imagination). Yes, this apartment fit inside Hell's Kitchen's pantry four times over - except for the bottomless old school NYC bath. Endless hot water that came out of a space saving spout on the side wall. I rigged it to have no emergency drain. I could sit straight up and the water would cover my nipples. I overflowed twice.

There's a bath at my favorite Goth's apartment that had no hot water - just cold, as long as I waited and tested and fiddled: just freezing cold water because he never turns on the hot water heater, aparently, he is so Goth.

There's a bath in my gardening mentor's bungalo on the north side of Chicago - a turn of the century home with cracks in the blue bathroom tile right around the cold water knob. A furry spider lives in there. She came out to observe me lingering in the warmish water once. She was curious. So was I.

There is a bath in Los Angeles that I can open the window next to and feel the steam move, breathe fresh air, curl up, flip over, stretch out, talk to myself, think watevea and feel whateva until I don't need to think or feel anymore. And every once in a while when the Bath Gods smile favorably, an exquisite man materializes in the intoxicating candle lit air. My vision quest before me, he kneels at my altar with offerings of steeping tea. Looking into his frightenly present eyes, I sip it like it was the last drip of eternity's taste. When it cools enough though, I pour it right down my front, some in my mouth, more on my chest, tea finds my bath and lie back, steep an invitation. Who has wet and who has dry skin?

So I drove 17 hours Monday to get to Denver, CO to sit in Julie and Chris's stout bath, only a mere foot high. To accomadate a questionable water heater, I poured boiling water from a tea pot around my feet with a tray of ice cubes for melting in my mouth. Freezing and thawing and melting and burning.

As a professional house guest, I will drink from the crusty cups in the sink, I will snuggle down on the unvacummed cat haired floor, I will fold and compact and discard my life to maintain as little evidence as possible of my existence in your space with one simple hope: that your drain be hair free, that your faucet offers boiling, and that the acoustics are complimentary when I sing.

0 comments Links to this post

I'll get comfortable when I die.

I'll slouch back and prop up my feet when I go to that island no one can find. When I cross that river none can survive. In a hammock sipping chamomile and honey as the Reaper courts me his bride.

With chocolate kiss hearts. A box of pomegranate seeds. The nectar wine looks like blood to me. I choose to drink.

And like bride and groom cutting icing cloud skyscraper sweet sugar cake, satisfying each other, getting sloppy all over the face, on my wedding day I'll follow the white horse into the fog. And do something normal. Just like anyone would.

Predictable and normal and dependable and grounded and so so comfortably.... dead.

Until the day they let the ashes fly, let every moment come as a surprise. I will never know you, but it could take a life time to not find out.

0 comments Links to this post

iMiss.
Such a useless feeling.
My neck is tight and the hands I want to relax me are not here.
To relax me there.
Let it go.

It's gone.

I'm glad I miss you. It's a consciously experienced and magickally delicious feeling. Meaning only: I've allowed connection. I've fostered connection. You have allowed and fostered as well. I see it alert awake like the only candle somewhere forgotten that nobody blew out, bic lighter flicking transisting on the ceiling while we both finally sleep.

I can see how you need to be loved and wonder why anyone wouldn't want to do only exactly that and nothing more anymore again. On your lips.

No tomorrow. Forever tonite.

Not tomorrow, not next week, not in three months, can we look lock eyes and blowback one smokey breath and communicate stories and souls. silently frightened of this intensity. Not when we see each other again (painful promise). Only now. We do all of this. I promise. But no other time, okay?
Only now.

Now, alone feeling something. Something pulling my chest scrunching my nose snagging my pink upper lip.

I create realities. I manifest entities. But what use is all that if I can not make that fucking cell phone ring with your digital voice on my other end saying only three words "I"
neither hello nor goodbye "miss"
only whatever comes to mind and takes very little time and let's me know I was alright dangerously imagining today sweet leatherbound "you".

The painful part don't make me dance anymore.

Give me a feeling I want to move.

0 comments Links to this post

There is an experiment to do.

Manifest. Manifest.

All the words have blurred together in my mind. I hear myself say it aloud or
in my mind
who am I? what's the difference? what do i think i'm doing?

I answer differently every time.

Nine inch nails hold me together at splitting seams. It seams Saturn decided to bring me back around. "We are eternal love – this pain is an illusion."

Sex. Why to dance. Guide my body. I feel you. I move you. Move through me. Move through me. Dark answers for dark qestions. This dark question is ever being asked.

I am the dark question.

Manifest. Manifest.

0 comments Links to this post