mixaphorically speaking

A cup of tea, a cookie and Yoo-Hoo

Roy bent my ear last night. Speaking of Hank, hashing over Cash. We are two old souls he and I, separated only by a few decades of dust and lust.

We'd met once before - me leaning over the side of the curb at the corner store, he on his Harley taking in the July sun. I had my 2005 Sturgeus T-shirt on and he couldn't help but comment.

"Too early."

I looked his way and wheezed.

"Are you actually going or are you only interested in making a fashion statement?"

More wheezing, less looking. It took me about minute to answer. "I can't go this year." I pointed at my hidden belly. It wasn't obvious enough. A bit of heavy breathing and then, "Pregnant...."

"Oh, so you are."

Now, it was a really fucking hot day, so the sight of a sweaty pregnant woman sitting in a parking lot probably wouldn't throw up too many red flags (other than what the hell am I doing sitting in a parking lot - but hey, this is America). Roy jauntily went on to illustrate his cumulative cycling adventures, every once in a while gesturing at his silent partner, who was sitting to his left on an even larger Harley. Buddy nodded when appropriate and you could have taken me out of the equation all together for the absolute lack of cognizance I was exhibiting. Or not. They didn't seem to notice.

See, I was on the corner that day waiting by the pay phone in the event I needed immediate medical attention. My heart rate was 160, resting. I could barely catch a breath or speak as my head fought to stay in the game, drooping against an unsteady shoulder when its strength gave way. The words flung at me bounced around like a pinball, hitting a nerve before jack hammering across with lightning speed, only to fall into a pit.

By the time my composure returned, we'd been "talking" for twenty minutes and all I could cull from the experience was this: two bikers in their 60s, pretty girls, good times, the way it was, the way it is. The details escape me.

This is why what happened tonight tickled me plenty.
Same store, inside this time, my frozen hands trying to dislodge an encrusted vat of sugar and fat, aka ice cream.

"Late night chocolate craving?"

I turned ever so slightly. "Um, yeah. Not mine, though." Pointed at my belly. Not obvious enough: "Pregnant."

"Wow, you sure are. Haven't dropped yet have you? Sure, I know, I've got two of mine own."

I seriously doubted he "knew", but groovy. Déjà Vu anyone?

Roy followed me around the store as I scrounged for the best that the 7 had to offer, espousing his knowledge of all things maternal with stories of vomit and back pain, bed rest and road trips for various sundries to quell the ache of gestation. As irritating as it was on some level, his calm inobservance was ultimately charming. I stopped what I was doing and gave him my full attention.

We stood in the shadow of the packaged-for-your-protection Playboys and chewed the fat, everything from religion to Richard Pryor, from family ties to family chokeholds. I recounted how my mother’s relentless genealogy research uncovered seven half-siblings; and Roy had a similar story, only his father ended up living 60 miles from him his whole life and he never knew it. Both were told at a young age that their fathers were dead. Ironically, when they finally learned the truth, both were.


Then it was on to music and politics, theatre and, really off topic, gardening. Patrons passed carefully, pardoning themselves as they thanked heaven for big tits and Big Gulps. The woman behind the counter leaned our way and smiled. “It’s so nice to see two people talking. Here it’s nothing but hurry, scurry.”

And after two hours of such nicety, my stamina depleted and I politely turned to depart. Perhaps it was the sudden pallor that visited my countenance that prompted him to spit out, "You don't look so good, darling."

"Nope. My heart is acting up."

"Say, that's funny, man, there was another pregnant girl I ran into with a heart problem...like couple weeks back, right outside…"

"Is that right, Roy?"

Big grin.

Baby shower at Maresha's

salvage

I marvel at the changes in my body as I run a finger over one plump nipple. How out of tune was I? It's peculiar to hear a sharply hit baseline.

My concern with the Squirt's growth has grown less as he tumbles and spins within. Such gymnastics! If it continues like last night, I'll not sleep a wink, and have lush dreams.


I caught a glimpse of a young man on a bicycle this afternoon, lazily pedaling through a meadow alive with wrens and blue jays, snapdragons leaning heavy on the stem and the blurry down stroke of a grasshopper's yellow wings. I couldn't recall the exact feeling of a bike in motion, downhill with my feet extended in front of me, spinning myself out of control.

When I lived in Alaska, my Schwinn and I were joined at the hip, for it was my main mode of transport and exhilaration. A mixture of poverty and happenstance was the culprit you see, however I was a horrible cyclist and prone to vehicular mishap. And while I ached (literally) to have a modicum of grace, clumsiness did have its virtue.

My best friend in the fourth grade was Annbella Balboa, a tiny scrub of a thing from a nearby Inupiaq village. She had seven brothers, who spoke a mixture of Yup'ik and English, and an extended family, recently descended from the northern most point of Alaska to work in the outskirts of Fairbanks. Rocky, 15 years-old and the eldest son, took it upon himself to be the hub of American pop culture for his family and his lust for boxing n' cinema led to the existence of unusual nicknames. I wasn't allowed to watch TV -- therefore completely oblivious to this oddity -- but poor Annbella, small and, like me, unassuming, took an enormous amount of abuse as a result.

The area around our school was prime for exploring and general troublemaking, and we, outcasts by name and hair color, spent hours playing hooky, riding free through the rocky hills and flower strewn meadows. Our favorite game was to see how fast one could go down Old Rock Canyon without serious injury. We hurled ourselves fearlessly down, ping-ponging at a furious pace between rocks, dirt, bugs and the reverberating bump, bump, bump, into a lush valley of brilliant green. The goal was to stay upright, however biting it at the end was much preferable to eating it along the way. The bruises, black-eyes and sprangs were easily explained; it was either “get it” our way or take our chances with the mealy-mouth, feather-banged bitches that sucker punched their way to victory.

By the end of that semester not a hand was laid on us. Yes, my lovies, all praise the freedom peculiarity redeems.

Lego men don't use bad words...in space

With a keen eye for stop-action photography, Mattias Backström remixes the Star Wars Saga with some Major attitude, a bit o' pop culture cinema with a twist of Reality TV, more cuss words than you can shake a stick at, and...Jesus. Why not?

Got hours to kill? Click it, baby!

This time, last year....

Here is 1 of only, count 'em, 24 pictures of the 10 rolls of film I shot in NYC. Wah! I knew I put off developing this shit for a reason.



The surviving pics include some random shots, a bit o' SoHo, and my first trip to Coney Island. The neighborhood artwork and student portraits where exposed due to a malfunctioning advance lever. S'ok, just an excuse to go back and take more.

Click to enlarge....



Love American Style













4 out of 5 messiahs agree, speaking in tongues is HOT















He let me, too...nice.












Apparelent irony
















You like to wash, don't you?













Nonsense! You're only saying that because no one ever has













Tired of the subway? Feh!
















Coney Island Poop Patrol Wants YOU!















Job FAIR Soliloquy




















Orange RUFFy













Tilt & wHURL

I wish I was a bouncing, smiling Zoloft bubble.

A colony of vultures ate her remains

My own toostie roll was inside out this morning. It set the tone of my day, and there is a ringing in my head. Pretty little birdies circling round n' round. But my man sends me good love -- enough to wash all this bird shit away.

Faith. I'll take it over hope any ol' time.

So, here I sit with it all over me, dear Lord. Can I pray? Yes, please, yes. I need no other worries, and one thing I've had in the myriad concerns that surround me was the assured faith that this child was OK. Every test and check up, OK. But not today.

Not today. Small for gestation. I haven't gained any weight. I eat and feel sick. My energy is close to non-existant. So here, again, I rest in faith. Please, sweet my Lord, take care of my boy.

That is all I ask, and I won't worry no more.