Monday, December 31, 2012

Sketchbook: Status Update 2012



Dear 2012,

Thank you for your moments of sucking, so that other moments felt better. Thank you for the new job and pay increase. And the dental! I really needed the dental, so thank you. Thank you for beginning the year with Mom on Chemo and ending with Mom Not Cancer Filled. Thank you for the surface tension and bubbles (you know what I mean, 2012). Thank you for not blowing up. That was pretty nice of you. Thank you for the awesome astronomical phenomena from one sky sailor to another. Thank you for also being the Year of Dragon because, as you know, we dragons are awesome. 

Now, 2012, may you move on to memory and shed yourself like a theme transforming in a story. It’s time for a new chapter on the revolution around this sun of ours. For some reason, I imagine you, 2012, like a lover one kisses one last time and then walks away from. Its not you, it’s me, and I am ready for a new year.

Sincerely,
gg

Saturday, December 22, 2012

me trying to be nonsmoker: first the withdrawal



Saturday, December 22, 2012
Diary of a Nonsmoker: day one. my brain involuntarily flashing a cigarette in my hand lighting the end. Withdrawal feels like promises of happiness. Disphoria, body tingles all over like I’m bending. This pit of my stomach craving ingestion. Brain flutters ideas of what could fill me. I’m currently drinking mint tea to keep the vortex from focusing on starches and candies. Drinking a glass of cranberry juice for the sugar boost. It’s the images in my head and the body halls that I find the hardest. They promise me so much, If I just cave into the day dream. Even now, I want to end this sentence with a cigarette.

waves. I’m taking a nap.

Slept all day, now sick to my stomach.

Feeling surreal when nothing surreal is going on, I decide to go grocery shopping. Jim takes over driving the cart, he keeps calling my attention back, “hey zombie”. My motor skills stuttering he opens the bottles while we sample smells of body wash – impromptu aromatherapy. It’s not until the dish soap aisle when I discover inhaling lemon scratches the spot in my head popping hallucinations of breath catch then hold the wafting carcinogens eating a nice little buzz on the back of my brain before exhaling. Yeah, lemon scratches that.

My friend is patient with my ambivalence in making decisions. I’m out of it like a hippie. I feel drunk without alcohol. Withdraw is not so bad, except the pictures rolling around in my head. Little earthquakes of radar, bouncing off my skin and shocking the muscles. I am cautious. Cuidado. I can see myself zoning out to the point where I manifest the cigarette in my hand welcoming the hallucination into reality. Fuck, I do love to inhale.

Jim keeping me company, I do not slip away. Instead I chew a straw, sniff the lemon soap until day one is done and its time to go to bed.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

sketchbook: cockled tongue coyly excavating



Lightening cracks the air, a mad scientist affair streaking across the night sky. Humid synergy paints the skin with perspired energy clinging against the shirt. We ignore the signs of the impending storm and head up the road to the Neighbor Wives.

“Where are the houses?” He asks.

We come across two houses where no grass dares to disgrace the front yards, exchanging 1950s constipated order of homogenous turf for a wilder affair of Brown Eye Susan’s kissing Basil while Tiger Lilies hug the invisible boarder between earth and side walk. I brush excited fingertips over Goldenrod and smile a “We’re here.”

Greeted by a wife, a fairy flowing among the flowers, ready with hugs she blesses our passage to the backyard as we are welcomed among the vegetable gardens and fire pit.  Urban living transformed into the womb of mother earth, we seat ourselves under the pine tree to listen to the sizzling tease of Cunt Poetry. Wife, the neighbor, interweaves her wisdom between poets gracing the porch that has become our stage. To not love the woman, the pussy, is blasphemy under this night sky tonight.

The night progresses with cockle'd tongues coyly excavating the grace of being woman, being male, being a lover of all life that started with exploration of a thousand ways we can express our sexuality. There is no shame, no transgression into fear.  The Neighbor Wives offer us a safe haven in their garden to share our golden voyages into loving the body of woman.

At intermission, the sky decides to open with her blessing, baptizing the heated air with refreshing rain. We find ourselves dry under the alms of the pine tree while the down pour turns into a flood. Then without notice the rains stop and we can begin again on our journey into loving ourselves. 

(Summer Spice)

Monday, July 2, 2012

sketchbook: heat induced insomnia under independent sky


Train whistle blows, stinging this humid air with movement. Rain stamps the sidewalk in a stiletto tease, evaporating into sizzling memory before the Weather pages can keep their promises of storms. Fireworks crack the air with surrogate lighting. My sticky skin begs for shower induced remedy. Hot, late, can’t sleep. I figure I’d complain with imagery better than this heat encroaching me.