Hallowed Be Thy Name: The Evoked Thirst at the Mention of a Book Gutter

The rain came this morning.

I am currently hiding out in an empty room that, although lined with copious amounts of windows, is dimly lit due to the weather outside.

I've been reading a book that, at root, has to do with magic and quantum physics. The intersection of science and the occult and life and impact. Information about engineers and scientists and philosophers and inventors and electrical geniuses (or genii, if you really want to use that word) who all say similar things about the fields that connect us all and our ability to impact and/or read them. It's fascinating stuff and, without question, it is exactly what I need to be reading at present.

I'm keeping up with my readings for class. This additional reading just offers me the type of necessary dessert to maintain my quickened pace of excitement for life at this moment.



Be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Paul Huf: Zadkine’s Garden, Paris 1947 via belazela tumblr)

"I Ain't Nothin Like Your Last Dude, What's His Name? Not Important." : The Honesty of Game

One of the more hilarious conversations I've been in lately had to do with a stripped and blunt conversation about game.

Some people have it.

Some people do not.

The conversation ended with my friend, who is also an ex of mine, saying simply:

You and I have game.

Some people do not.

(pause)

A point of pride is that I can say, without question, that every single one of my friends has game.  It is quite incredible and, at times, blows my mind with their honest suaveness and intelligence.

(pause)

It doesn't matter how much you know about books, how much you know about music, what you can or cannot do with your hands, if you cook well or if you don't:

If you don't have game, (here meaning the ability to be creative, loving, smart, and secure in yourself), I will get bored of you.

And when I get bored of you, I may start to bat you around because it's more entertaining than your insufferable plans that you found in the "Things To Do This Weekend" section of the newspaper.

I will get bored when you don't recognize your class- and race- and gender- and citizenship- and language- and educational background- privilege.  I will listen to you talk about the "injustices" that you experience and think of you as a miniature Donald Trump and his puckered asshole of a mouth pulsating and complaining about all of the things that have done him wrong.

So please:

If you are going to approach me, on any level:

Be intelligent. Be aware. Be critical. Be non-abusive. Be fabulous.

And for fuck's sake:

Have some game.



be well; be loved,


k.

(title: Lyrics from Truffle Butter)
(image: Kate Moss by Craig McDean, W Magazine, May 2001 via deshistoriesdemode tumblr)

Two Can Play at This Game But Only One, Of Course, Shall Win.

Last night, at quarter after midnight, a large, tattooed man began pounding on my door with such violent punctuation that the entire frame shook.

I should say that I do not know this man.

I've never met him.

But I know that he owns the kind of truck one would need a stepladder to get into.  It is black with tinted windows and is the kind of truck that is always spotless and shining.  The first time I saw it, I criticized myself for thinking "That looks like a  douchebag's truck" - although I admit it was more in critique of the mixed feelings I've always had about the term 'douchebag', and less about the stereotyping of this particular type of truck's owners.

The door frame was moving in and out and in again in rhythm with every pound of the door.  I'm not stupid, I remember thinking,  I'm not going to unlock the fucking door.

The thing about these moments, when you are caught at such a late hour in a t-shirt and panties lit only by the flickering of the image of the program you are watching, is that the abruptness of the first pound on the door is that much more unnerving.  Much more vulnerable than if you were clothed, on the street, in broad daylight and saw it coming.  In moments like these,  you get a taste of iron in your mouth in anticipation of the blood that will fill it after you are punched in the face by an angry stranger.  Your heart drops straight to your asshole and burns there while you formulate a plan to get away.

I should say that what he was about to yell at me about, or rather, the problem that he had with me, was valid. 

It is valid. 

I'm still not going to unlock the door.

Quick thinking in moments like these, while your body refuses to move is a bit difficult, but you manage.  Until one day, you don't.  Fortunate for me, yesterday wasn't the day that I didn't manage.

The person who opened the door to stop the pounding was not me.

The person who opened the door was smart enough to hold the door at an angle that would give the impression of open-but-guarded-because-it-is, afterall-after-midnight, but also cut his field of vision off from seeing me, there, planning.

Even with my heart pounding, I felt fleetingly victorious that I, physically, did not have to hide:  I lay there on the couch.  And while I pressed back into the couch with my spine, I also lifted my chin into the air to prove, to myself, that I was not hiding.

He may find me soon, but by then he will be too late.


k.