theoretically,
i want to take you to the violet hour
and make sure you don't pay
and get us shithoused on their red rum punch
launch myself at you
once we're all but drooling in the lamp low chilter world
knock you back in that stupid, ridiculous, high-backed velvet chair
knock your chair into the other stupid, ridiculous, high-backed velvet chairs
so all the people who are the sort to go to the violet hour on a saturday night
hate us
and we get kicked out and told not to come back
i hope we can still go across the road for margaritas
i hope we're bruised and maybe there's blood in my mouth
theoretically

a lil bit of something else

so to avoid the onslaught of the wheezing robots, i changed the blog to "readable by authors/invited readers only." hope that's okay with you. if you want to open a fellowsquid-squirrel-fox's mind to something adventurous,
- click "customize" at the top of this page (or navigate to the "dashboard")
- click the "settings" tab
- click "permissions" (the last tab)
- scroll to the bottom and add your buddy's email address to the waiting-wanting "invited readers" box
they'll get an email with the address and so long as they are not a robot, are welcome here.
[update: after talking to some squids, i switched this back so you 1) don't have to sign in and 2) anyone can read the blog. as a little sidenote to myself&all, since this is an open page and we sometimes direct our friends here, use yr Sense and don't post any super private info--address, phone #, full name, etc. and since the robots are here, email addresses are rife for spam so keep em to yrself.]

in other news,
capitalism is so boring.

for instance,

this weekend i went to madison with z, the isthmus of bikes-goodfood-tall leaning trees-lakes-co-ops-“ethnic”food-bourgeoisdelight and for the rest of us it’s a prime site for liberatory politics and homes that heal after a long day of the same-the same-the same, this time in wisconsin. the capitol building is better when the farmer’s market rings around it and after we make the rounds (cheese curds, kale, wallawallawallawontcha onions, conversation, little leaf samples, toothpicks for free, hot pickles, endless preserves) we go at it again with coffee-as-handwarmer just to see if there’s something we missed. for instance, a pastry. for instance, strawberry rhubarb something. for instance,

we toured some co-ops, not quite tourists more like “membershipper&waywardperson,” dwelling in the in-between between living and desiring, asking and choosing. reading house journals, asking about conflict, in this gap between rhetoric and reality finding cleavages of spirit and quietude. for instance, how much is dirt a part of your house practice? do you do the dishes because you have to or because you love to? when you say something objectionably real, do others agree? and are you friends? were you friends first? for instance, who shows up? who lives here? for instance, in this huge space, yard-public-rooms-niches-shed-kitchen, where in here do you live? for instance,

cigarettes on a porch, punching kimchi until it sweats, introducing legs to hills and mounds to muscles, homebuilt saunas full of steam and newly-met naked bodies, greywater toilets, filling up space with talk, local beef and indian honey, filing cabinets rocking back and forth with the weight of zines that could change the world if they landed in the right hands,

for instance, our hands found each other.

for instance, getting this funny feeling between my hand, heart, stomach, junk, bellybutton that maybe what i want (permaculture, farming, living, learning, thriving, flourishing, creating, loving) might not be as far away as the west coast, that there are places where life is easier to live well, a funny feeling of jealousy and impatience and through stories and reconstructions and resonance,

coming to love my now/here/present all the more, as ephemeral as it may sometimes seem.

something like,

dear madison,

you are one hot isthmus. thanks for the sunset. i think i’ll be back to go bikeriding with you soon. meet you by the ramps at the farmer’s market?

with communal warmth, cool breezes, and flying hair&pages,
eliot