Let Me Get That For You: Choreographed Movement For Being Caught in a Sudden Rainstorm

It's taking me time to emerge from a cocoon made something of vital attention and action, and a pandemic. Somewhere, in between it all, I was in grad school. Next semester will be my last. Even as I type that sentence, I feel the soured pain of denied pleasure spread across my face in the beginning of a smile. (It's too early; don't jinx it.)

Since ending my most recent semester last week, I have been wrapped in literature, the news, protest, information, a new razor and a satisfying bar of soap that smells of walnut shells and tar. There are a line of masks hanging by my front door. Some are clear face shields. Most are black. There is a green one in there for a surgical flair and because it feels a bit more precise than the others do.

Today I needed to hide out. The day has been spent mostly in an orange bikini top, a thin black slip, and with a freshly painted pedicure I did myself. A deep blue-green.  I have been watching films in Spanish and noticing, again, the pause and dance that happens in doorways with con permiso and with pasa. I feel satisfied in recognizing the conjugation in the sharp edged gossip of se follaron.

I've spent a good deal of the day on the floor.

Today, no book holds my attention but, in the one book that held my attention for a bit longer than the others, a man is found laying on the floor by his assistant. The assistant asks him if he's okay, if he fell, etc. and the man responds with annoyance at his questions. He is simply smoking on the floor and is it really so strange? He goes on to proclaim the function and necessity of laying on the floor at times:

The ground or, in this case, the floor, is the safest, firmest and most modest place there is; and, as well as providing the best view of the sky or the ceiling, it's an ideal spot in which to do some thinking [...]You'll have to get used to seeing me here, because once on the floor you cannot fall over or, indeed, fall any lower, a great advantage when it comes to making decisions, which one should always base on the worst possible hypothesis, if not on sheer desperation and its usual companion, meanness, then there's no risk of your giving way to sentimentality or being disappointed by whatever decision you happen to take.

be loved; be well,

k.

[Image: Guy Bourdin]
[Excerpt (As if the punctuation did not give it away):  Javier Marías, Thus Bad Begins]

Glory, or, The Fabric of Frenzy

Current state of affairs:

One of the the things I love the most is having a very favorite tank top to wear with the underwear that look like little shorts and curling up on my bed to write late at night after a productive and eventful day/night. On top of that, tonight, I have a favorite incense burning in the hallway. It is frankincense, but a particular, thicker stick and smoke.  It smells like campfire to me and makes me feel like the best of both worlds:  A slumber party and a bonfire- all panties; no mosquitoes.  What could be better?

I'm coming home late tonight.  This morning was filled with family and a little serious nephew I adore and over relate to. The highlight of this afternoon was the wait staff at a restaurant giving him a small bowl of chalk in which to draw on the chalkboard table. He immediately spilled the stumps of colored chalk onto the table and organized them into piles by color and just left them there.  Throughout the meal, if he started getting antsy or nutty, all I would have to do was reach over, grab one of the pieces of chalk, and place it into a pile other than the color of said chalk. He would immediately get quiet and serious again as he picked up the mismatched chalk and placed it into its proper pile.

Later on was filled with pre-semester preparations and postings.  I am very excited and have met some of the people who will be in my program. School starts on Monday: I can't wait!

Other than that, I've been having thoughts and conversations revolving around utopia/dystopia that have been satisfying and igniting in equal parts. I'm excited lately about chivalry and toughness; delicacy and security. I like feeling physically safe. I like feeling taken care of. I like feeling cared for. These three things are things that feel good to receive and to give.  They all lead to learning and love and, best of all, just straight up mthafkin joy.

Things feel good as of late. Big.Wide. Flourishing.

Keep the path, and keep linked with people who truly want you to grow. There is room for everybody here, but first you have to be able to see and believe that you are warmly invited.

You are.

Shout out to my friends that know the art of making a decently convincing fake blood batch in a pinch. Your genius and heart never end.



Be well; be loved,

k.

(image via mudwerks tumblr)

When I Was Growing Up, One of My Brothers Referred to Me as Sir

I just saw The Field Guide to Evil, which is a bunch of shorts from really great film makers from around the globe that were asked to make a film based on folklore or a fairy tale.

Here's the thing.

The last film is Peter Strickland's The Cobbler's Lot and I CAN'T STOP FLIPPING OUT ABOUT HOW GOOD IT IS.

It has everything:

Shoe fetish, men with eyeliner, a woman with a trained raven, a toppy king (also in eyeliner) who pulls the most fucked and amazing toppy death couture I've ever seen in my life, blood on a quasi-wedding dress, jizz, women in these weird body stockings that are supposed to make them look naked, young men kneeling in front of an older man in a throne, two brothers who look like young/weird Robert Smiths, a forest, embroidered stockings, a princess, murder, ghosts...  It is a visual and thematic orgasm. Someone *please go and see this so that we can talk about it*.


(image: Man Ray, Legs)

The Reason Fist Fights In Movies Tend to Start with a Double-Fisted Grab of a Shirt Collar

I was curious about you.

We were just scratching the surface.

Your belt wrapped around my legs, or me behind you to imagine for a bit.

One of the issues with everything being back to normal is that I want to fuck all of the time.

I don't want to fuck just anyone.

I am enjoying the sweetness of beauties that are so thoughtful in their gestures.  The ones paying attention to my likes and trying to recreate them.

An old fashioned movie with poetry and gifts and thoughts.

Those things are nice.

But they aren't what I want.

I find myself thinking beyond the flirtations with you.

That's what those months were.

Surely, you know that.

They were flirtations.

They were not your face in between my thighs.

They were not the sweat of your imagination.

They were, without question, not the sweat of mine.

I know that it scared you.

Scared you in that same way that, as a child, you would feel the rush in your stomach when you couldn't feel the depth of the pool with your toes.

You clung to the side

but there was always the thrill

of letting go.

Not gradually

but pushing off the edge

and in your kidd-o way

not giving a fuck if you died

because at least the thrill of it

would be the last thing

you remembered.





be well; be loved,

k.





(image Mark Rothko, Reds (Red Painting), 1957-1958 via dailyrothko tumblr)

[Shout out to Ayurvedic herbs. I feel like a new man. 110% for the past several weeks. I am so thankful/grateful. My body and brain can tell that they are back to normal, and just in time for Spring. 

Here is to celebratory little white panties and ridiculous amounts of leg.]