SuspendedAnimation

naked,

which is to say, I'd love to write you all a post because I recognize that it's been a while, but I am naked right now and on my way to the shower and only have an hour to get ready to go to a wedding at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, so, now would not be a good time. In other words: just stopping by to say 'hello'—nakedly.

strobe light, turbo zoetrope, dreamscape machinegun

Confusion, excitement, insight, discomfort. All rubbing elbows while I keyboard in the thick sleepy air of my study, dreaming of two-zone climate control. The downstairs is chilly with air conditioning, the upstairs stultifying; but there's something satisfying about my stubborn persistence here. If only I had the stern habit of mind to direct my energy consistently toward some rationally recognized priority, some wise measuring. I know I don't, so as I am now and here, I feel grateful when I manage to harness the mustangs intermittently, briefly, skillfully I hope ...

Early in the day I was thinking on some inchoate but pretty well articulated insight. You know when a number of filaments trailing off various simultaneous lifestreams appear to be drawing together into a stronger cable right before your eyes? like that. Ah, it was about loneliness again. The irony and oppression of how each of us pursues a seamless, impermeable 'me' in which to dwell, and then drown in sorrow at the isolation of seamlessness and impermeability. And then lash out at anyone impudent to hold up a mirror reminding us of our many fissures and pores. Did you know that there is no real boundary to the body (much less to the self)? There is a boundary, yes. But it is not a real boundary. It is not so much fictional as contingent.

That current of thought meshed with another, something very unfamiliar and odd to me: I had (have) a story idea ... a narrative that has nothing whatever to do with my own memories (that's the unfamiliar part). I'm playing this one close to my chest—don't even bother asking me about it, or I'll run off like a frightened bunny. But it arrived, and stayed, and I even took some notes. Huh.

And I can feel that there's something stirring, something afoot, that I finally am about to leap headlong to whatever is next. I know I'm being vague and abstract. All the pyrotechnics here are quite invisible to the eye. But inside? I'm all rage and roar and colored sparks. I have to say, it makes me kind of tired.

by their tools shall ye judge them

if you've been stopping by lately hoping I have something to say, you'll have noted that I had nothing to say but that my colors have been shifting around and my banner playing fast and loose. At first I loved that first new banner, but that was when the novelty had not worn off, so weary and disgusted was I with what I now allude to, within deep recesses of my cerebral cortex, as Þe Olde Looke. (Yeah, thass right, I can think a thorn. suck it!)

But then my dear, candid pal was kind enough to tell me that it looked like 'shite' (quoth he). The orange, gasp, the orange. The raggy, shaggy remains of what was once perfectly charming Copperplate font (which was designed by none other than the Frederick Goudy, I'll have you know). It wasn't my fault! I was using the cheap-ass, crappy software that came with our digital camera. I only had, like, twenty colors to choose from for the text, too. That dark green was waaay too yellow, to my mind.

So anyway, since my friend was generous enough to offer his critique, ahem, I graced him with the privilege of designing the banner. Okay, he offered, and he did a much better job than I could've done, and it only took him (counting ...) seven tries until he made one that met with my approval.

Thank you, Len. I do love it.

re-run, sorta

because like it's old but it was never posted ... um. Wait! it's found art!
you know how if you never delete your email ... um.
so ... you know how sometimes you have to spend about two hours deleting old emails?
I ran across one that had me sniggering at my own funny is all.

it all began so innocently.

someone posted the following comment on a friend's blog 'way back in the fall of 2004, in response to a comment I had made:

Jilbur, you kill me. Love your site too.

This led to the following email exchange between my fellow blog-writer pal and me:

from: [email protected]
to:[email protected]
subject: also
if you check my comments, you will notice that someone is using MY BLOG as a platform to give YOU PROPS.
This cannot stand!
*withers
*drops to floor as emptied-out skinbag

from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
subject: Re: also
Well, but they were kind of lame props, dontcha think? I mean, if I kill her so, first of all, why isn't it my blog she's commenting on? and second: why isn't she dead?

add an echo chamber and you get the idea

redecoratejellybeansroommystudyisamesssaladwithtunafor
dinnerneedliquidsoapdispenserforguestbathapplytothatothe
rjoboopsforgottorsvpthatkidsbirthdaypartydidiregisterfortha
tconferenceneedtodoatleastthreeloadsoflaundryhowmuchwo
uldnewflooringcostina10'X13'roombetterputsomeofthesecdsa
waywhydoesshedumpsomanyofhertoysinmystudywhenamigo
ingtostartknittingagaingoodlordi'mreadingthreenovelsandhalf
adozenADDbooksatleasttheAdderallseemstobehelpingstillhave
n'tinsertednewcalendarpagesintomyfilofaxwonderwhetherHowi
ethrewawaythatCompanyKidscaalogyetbutthat'sprobablymuch
moreexpensivethanTargetcanyoubelievehowboringandexpensiv
ethatPotteryBarnKidscollectioniswhydoesshehavetostomponthef
loorslikeanangryogre?

no worries

a bit better. a slight suggestion of 'maybe.'

This is the word I hate most at the moment: 'fashionista.' Sometimes I feel as though if we could just cleanse the planet of all annoying words, one at a time, we'd all feel fresher and daintier in no time flat. Well, I mean, I know some of us don't want to feel daintier, so those individuals could choose another adjective ("manly yes, but I like it too")—would 'more vigorous' work? In the end we'd have only the best words left, like 'm0therfuck3r' and  'cr4nium' and 'sn0trag' and 'minu5cule' and 'bl0wj0b'  ...

What is the word you hate most today?

'no', annotated

It has been brought to my attention that the previous post might have a fine shred of ambiguity clinging to it somewhere.

'no' is ringing in my ears. 'no' is everywhere.

not 'no' in the sense of 'hmmm, here's something I'd like to do or have or be' and the answer is: no!

though that would also be a bummer.

more like 'no' in a voice below the dB of hearing that nevertheless seems to saturate everything within, without, around me. 'no' that strips the affirmative before it can take its place in the order of things, 'no' like a fast-acting solvent that evaporates all traces before you have the time to turn around, leaving only a faint odor of sterility and disappointment.

glad I could clear that up.

no.

no.

sorry: no.

Yeah, like to help you out with that, but ... no.

Another day? another time? perhaps. Today? Now? Not so much.

Too little; too late.

Uh-uh.

Forget it, pal.

Listen carefully:

NO!

drink me

I have a new perfume; it was a birthday present from my lovely, generous, hint-taking husband. mmmmmmmmmmm ...

It took me a long time to figure out why I like certain scents. I'm too disorganized to wear perfume consistently (have the same problem with earrings ... my watch ... er, bathing ... makeup), but I have now reached an age advanced enough to discern a perceptible pattern in fragrances I like: they have to smell, well, edible.

The first scent I stuck with for a while was Samsara by Guerlain. It's not too heavy, some amber and spice to it, but underlying: vanilla and a slight whiff of almond. I never had the perfume version of this actually: my mom bought the body cream for me for my 26th birthday (do the math yourself, shut up), and I never even got through it though I used it fairly often. My sense of smell is rather over-acute, and even when I use scent or scented products as sparingly as possible, I go through a short 'gak' period within the first half hour in which I walk around cursing myself for having over-applied the fragrance that is insistently smelling itself to me as I go about my business.

I could disingenuously say that I then went through a fragrance-free period, but here's the thing: I had a secret weapon, and her name, it was Aveda. Sometime back in the early 90s, one of my friends always had this great smell hanging about her but demurely, consistently denied the use of fragrance, until one day in her bathroom I found it: Shampure. Again with the spices and also distinct citrus and some woodsy notes, dominated by clove. I used that shampoo for years, and still use Aveda hair products (no evil phthalates!) Ever since then ... Gee, My Hair Smells Terrific.

But anyway. Within the last year or two, I've gone back to using Real Perfumes, and the vain vain vain part of me is fond of the snobby conceit of Not Smelling Like Your Average Girl. No, but in a good way. So I tend to be captivated by the allure of relative obscurity in fragrances. I was wearing both Mûre et Musc and Mûre et Musc Extrême by l'Artisan Parfumeurs (mûre being 'blackberry'—and very blackberry it is), and both Fleurs de Chocolat Lucia (now known simply as Fleurs de Chocolat; (top: orange peel, mandarin, vanilla; heart: orange flower, verbena, ylang ylang; base: bitter chocolate, amber, ginger) and Fleurs de Chocolat Manon (possibly discontinued) (top: pear, linden, fig; heart: freesia, wild rose, jasmine; base: bitter chocolate, rosewood, cloves).

And then, when Howie and I were wandering Soho during our recent New York mini-retreat, I found my new flavor: Nuits de Noho, from Bond No. 9 ... and though from the description it seems like the least edible of all my fragrances (top: bergamot; heart: rosewood, jasmine; base: patchouli), when I wear this I feel like snacking on my own forearms all damn day. And patchouli? hello? I can't tell you how many times I've practically lost my breakfast crossing paths on a sidewalk with some hemp-dressed young slattern saturated in patchouli. It smells to me like something you should hang in your closet to repel moths and/or vampires—I certainly never expected to associate the smell with anything luscious. But there is is. Go ahead—drink me.

* * *
I'm perfectly aware that I could have titled this post more ... precisely, given that I've been describing these fragrances in terms of edibility, not potability. So here's the rationale for my choice: 1. shut up; 2. there's no illustration of that famous little cake with the words spelled out in currants; 3. shut up; 4. there's a certain level of explicit obscene allusion, in reference to myself, that even I shrink from.

hey kids! let's put on a show!

Worst thing anyone ever said to me in bed:

Do you want me to stimulate you manually?

Howzabout you? C'mon, folks. pony up. This ain't no free lunch. No context, please: these things are always more entertaining without it.