Wednesday, June 30, 2010

chronicles of a literal woman

Hello darling. Such a beautiful afternoon. Very cool out, I have a sweater draped over my shoulders. I may need to shut the bedroom windows for overnight. Took a short nap in my seagreen chenille sleeping sweater, the one I usually wear in dead of winter. I love that thing. I found it many years ago on a sales rack at Lord & T. on Fifth Avenue. It was marked ridiculously down - I think I paid around four dollars for it. There was a very nice clerk there I remember, hovering in the sales racks, who watched me as I exclaimed to her about the find. I don't have a sense of angels all that much in my life, but I think of her and wonder a bit. Thank you angel, that shrunken, oft-washed sweater has been much worn and slept in and kept me cozy for a number of years. I hadn't thought of it as a security blanket - but I suppose it has acquired that aspect. The first couple of years I owned it I wore it as a regular garment, with jeans... so many washings it shrank...

Bob Schneider's on now... love that song... come hold me, bring the bringdown, bring the bringdown baby... your smile, it's a beautiful thing, I bring it with me...

hands of desire - throw it all to your fire

I'm so glad you found your iphone. I was afraid you'd dropped it somewhere on the endless beach, or in the sea. I dreamed about you last night, very vivid. You called me on the telephone, from Provincetown. You wanted to get together and I said, a tad primly (a quality I recognized even in my dream) that I was committed to catsitting for a week... we reunited...

I open up Word to examine more details of my dream - endlessly slow to load - glance at handwritten notes in planning trip to city. I noted what I should "bringdown" - written as one word. Bringdown: eggs, OJ, roast chicken, pasta, pesto, farmstand veg., butter. And of course rosé, which goes without noting.

Now Allison Moorer's on, Broken Bird. Love that song. Today is Emily Norcross Dickinson's birthday - that is, the poet's mother's birthday. The Secret Life of E.D. facebook page people posted very intriguing, challenging thoughts. (It's a wonderful page, but it's so original that I wish they'd create their standalone website already - they certainly have the content, and the following.) They posted daguerrotype images of the two Emilys, mother & daughter, and there is a physical resemblance. I don't know anything about the mother and thus have never considered her. But I read a bit about her - well, more on that, perhaps, some other time.

Am in a dark room, at a computer. Wearing a tight low cut white tank top. My breasts are spilling out of it. I’m aroused. I try to rearrange myself, make the top tighter, contain my full breasts. The phone rings, a loud ringing. Someone picks it up. I sense that it’s for me. My mother calls up the stairs to me – tauntingly chants that it’s “darling.” I go to the phone [an extension upstairs, at an office table]. It’s __. I hear his beautiful familiar voice. Where are you. He’s in Provincetown. He quit Alaska he’d had enough. He wants to get together. I tell him that I’m committed to catsitting for the week. Can he come stay with me? We’re not communicating very well. He cuts in and out. The other line rings. It’s Brian (I think). I go back to trying to talk to ___. Not getting anywhere really, sometimes the line is dead, or he’s silent on the other end. ___'s brother comes in and sits next to me. He’s beaming. He looks just the same. I’m happy though surprised to see him, I smile in acknowledgment. I’m still on the phone, and the brother sits there beaming. He’s there because ___ is coming and he's happy that we'll finally be together. … ___ comes and there is to be a big feast, maybe a wedding for us (not sure) but certainly a feast to celebrate his return. Long table is being set up in yard. ___ wants to watch a video and so I take him to the stacks [airy, daylit, maybe even out of doors]. We peruse the books – there's a hardcover volume entitled Intense Love published by FS_, colorful paper jacket. I put the book aside (on an upper shelf to my left) a book I ordered and want to remember to read. I kiss him, I say I love you, and he says I love you, I have always loved you. I put my arms around him. He feels fantastic, just the same, magical, electric. I kiss his neck, lick his earlobe. He’s smiling, he’s wonderful. We start to make love, he enters me, and I put my leg up against the bookcase.
Penelope has joined me upstairs in the aerie. In the last couple of days one of the four cats (we're thinking Penelope) busted a small opening through a lower corner of the screen door from the porch - now the cats (Miss P anyway) let themselves in, come & go as they please. Maybe it's not toolmaking exactly - but it's some kind of sign of animal intelligence, problem-solving...

Will announces that we've just heard Chronicles of Literal Man, Rob Morsberger. It's an awesome song that I went downstairs specifically to turn up the volume on ... I'm still here you dirty bastards. I'm not even positive what he's singing about. Maybe not exactly, but close enough.

Love you.

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