Slide past Toledo and Boston, straight on to Meredith, New Hampshire

funny funny - i see that everyone has demons as everyone gets chewed up by mosquitoes to varying degrees, as everyone gets tickled and cooked by the sunlight to varying degrees (does my skin itch because of bite or because of burn?), so i see when i look them over

we've been intoxicated for days, on a bender incommensurate to our actual needs or so they say, because apparently everything is alright, beautiful, good even. but i wonder what joke is being played on us that we are so delightfully tragic, so erotically bored, needing so much to stretch out our arms and grab. we're out here getting bruised up and crispy, stewing in juices we have injected into our brains.

groups, conflagrations, gatherings. we're in the middle of the burning man of the motorcycle community and i wonder how we all (not just us but anyone joined up for moments unforgettable) manage not to tear each other apart, how we keep things copacetic, how we manage to ignore the simmering ailments below our surfaces. POOR BABY, i say, what ails you? i really want to know. maybe we can make sense of this. we seem to me to be storms brewing within delicate webs of skin and hair. how do we manage? how do we not let the storm pour out of our insides through our nostrils and belly buttons or spit it up in a ball of bile-colored mucus?

but of course in the mornings the lake is cool and you can see straight to the bottom in the shallows. two swallows dip and dive overhead, looking as if they are trying to kiss in mid-air. my skin smells good. i find a fuzzed-over anchor and some empty mussel shells in the water. everything is delicious and the drinks are cold. i look at insects i've never seen before. i feel fantastic and more alert and ready than i have in a while even though i am sleeping far less. we all laugh until our stomachs hurt and we spill things and break things and clean up and take the recycling out and make plans for when we ride further down the coast. we play endless games of cards and we cook in the sun.

i say goodnight. get out of here. you're ridiculous.

for the good life is out there somewhere, so stay on my arm you little charmer

from my journal at 7:30am today, or 8pm on monday 4 u, 

dunno if it will be interesting at all

what IS interesting, is that it is RAINING

not as hard as it did i'm sure during winknight's stay in summer 05, but wow i was soaked earlier walking to and from dance. i haven't seen a rain like this in... who knows. certainly not in washington nor in pune so far. so june or july in chicago. it's wonderful except that the water on the street is full of ambiguous matter.

ok ok.

i'm at home [in hyde park] talking to justin on gmail, skype, phone or something. he is at the baohaus, i have to go soon [to india? somewhere permanent, so there is an urgency] but i want to see justin before i leave but i project that he is reluctant or doesn't think it is important [or like seeing me when i'm about to leave would just open up new wounds or something so it's better not to see each other at all... a familiar train of thought for me]. i go there and find my vest/package, sand, no rock, cigarette wrapper from cigs i bought in bombay. justin is kinda sorta in the other room[i originally typed 'kinda aorta'!].. i don't think i actually physically see him. [second or third dream where this happens! i havent seen justin in weeks]. i go through give away boxes of clothes and take a striped shirt from ali. 

SWITCH

i'm wrapping electrical chords around irons, playing "like a virgin" by madonna, britney, and christina [remember that vma performance where they kissed and it was scandalous?]. then scene change to wearing wobbly high heels (like from the kingfisher swimsuit calendar model reality tv show) at a dilapidated opera house. amulya mandava is claiming something about rewriting/organizing some great music masterpiece of orchestral music by a composer i don't like but i can't remember who, now. the stairs are difficult. i hear someone say "it won 2 tonys". when we get to the lobby i'm with granny, granddad, and mom. the opera-food-place is baking $3 cookies and granny remarks that they're finally baking their own, and needs to throw something out. 

SWITCH

in a mildly dilapidated grand building [the opera house after being abandoned in 50 years? which reminds me of the train station in bombay... marble floors and nice stairs, but dirt and funny smells everywhere]. i'm finding anastasia and ali, they're in class or something. i'm doing something with blue ink. it's raining and coming through the roof. i pee while walking down the grand-ish stairs [same scene as walking down stairs in opera house, only no high heels and i'm with a&a] . i'm not wearing pants. there might be more. a&a are nonchalant, not interested in me.

then? the interview with the nice couple, how they met. through craigslist. a cute ad. they have fun! they do such n such! then i see he has a computer. on the side of the building. it is big, about 3 feet tall-- looks like "tsunami dream" comp of my dad's. outside, still colonial bombay architecture, 

THEN do i go to the part where i am part of a murder scheme? i waylay someone (the target?) by reading something to them, and then a guy down the street shoots them. i move on and question the ethics of what i just did. maybe that person was hannah because i also dreamt that i read a long sentence from a yellow paper that was my high school transcript with multiple clauses, conflicting imagery, weird vocab, also claiming that india was in africa. hannah said "what does that even mean?" ad we're like yeah wtf i dunno. 

also at some point i'm stretching in some kind of gym class and my legs look more like granny's and a little diamond-like shaped (like harlequin babies) and some dude shares that he used to know a kid who had it who could never poop. but that when he was a kid his poops were too watery. maybe the kid with weird skin died? or had some other strange ending. 

============

that's the end of my journal entry. wow it was boring, but i was so excited writing it this morning. i can pretty much clearly identify where all of these images situations and feelings come from in my conscious life, so in a way, i thought that sharing this with you all lets you know how my unconscious is processing the stuff i'm seeing thinking feeling and talking about. instead of writing those things down directly. home, love, place, bodily discomfort, language, death, buildings, art, where the fuck i am/am i.

ink-spitters never run out of ink

as i swam through my hair amidst the rhythmic chirp of crickets, i felt my tentacles stirring. two emerged from the tips of my pelvic bones and i felt two burst from the middle of my back, rubbing pleasantly against my vertebrae. a fifth itch in my ankle became a squirming mess of suckers on the bathroom floor and a sixth slimy arm slithered soundlessly out of my belly button. from each palm explodes more than a handful of angry writhing seaflesh that triples my armspan. donning a pink bandanna and with a mouthful of ink, i am a bomb, borne from hard dirt and soft grass and speckled assholes.

the smoke of my cigarette hangs in the air and curls into a dragon, diving toward the light as i watch. i have three buttholes distributed around the back yard but i put it out under a rock and then, after spitting on the end, throw it into a large reedy bush.

a fragment, half-smoked

recently i have been wincing more upon recollection of recently laid-out misspeaks
also, i have been stuck in a cycle something like this: yeah, i do feel like a woman/ali; then not.
flirting with ideas of gender revolution, of harmonica beatboxing and how my voice saves and betrays me.

(then i lifted a lighter to my lips and flicked it, and upon realizing that i did not have anything in my mouth to smoke, slowly lowered the lighter)
(how did i get ash all over my lips?)
(my eye stings as i inhale and my tired throat gets a little flatter, losing a tiny bit of air)
(the butttray is about 1/2 Cigarettes and 1/2 rollies, an interesting mark of something.)