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This Is Not What You Think It Is - Part IV

 I’m high and riding with my lover on a magic carpet being lifted by Rimbaud like thermals over Moroccan steppes, passing sub Saharan Lawrence of Arabia sand dunes with desert nomads atop camels with swords in their waistbands and ammo slung over their shoulders but back in that Santa Cruz house, there is a real woman who just died.  Crazy times.I got her e-mails in a barrel.  Here’s one chosen at random.

An “on-line instant message chat.”  I take the blame…she does do great dialogue…what can I say?

Cordelia: maybe you need a simpler girl...one who's not so complicated?

Cordelia: someone who is always Chipper!  and says "Hey!  Happy Friday!" and wears sundresses and pink lipstick and blond ponytails and watches soap operas and American Idol and is fascinated by Anna Nicole Smith.

Swoon: who u talking to, Willis?

Cordelia: no, you is Willis, not me is Willis, Willis.

Cordelia: speaking of cocaine, did you hear Gavin's going to go into treatment?Cordelia: Gavin's great.  A swell fellow.  A fellow who swells.  And used to swill.  A swell ex-swiller.  Cordelia: great hair.  great policies.  great policy follicles.  The policy follies.  The folicle policles.  I'm getting seriously insanely punchy.

Swoon: you've flipped to the other side...hold on to the edge.

Swoon: pick up the waste basket and hurl it!

Cordelia: mothaaaaa fuckaaaaaaaaa!

Swoon: put your finger down your throat and just heave all of it.

Cordelia: I'm punchy as hell, and I'm not gonna take it any mo'!

Swoon: take off all your clothes.

Cordelia: brraaaaaahhhhhhuuuuurrrghhhhh.

Cordelia: ok.

Cordelia: i don't think they want me to stay naked.  I'd better get dressed.

Cordelia: Have you ever ordered pharmaceuticals online?

Swoon: take hostages...i'll call the news people.

Cordelia: ok.   searching for ak-47 now...

Swoon: i once ordered pot from 1 800 CALL POT in nyc.

Swoon: what pharmaceuticals do you want to order on-line?

Cordelia: bcps.

Swoon: what is bcps?

Cordelia: Birth Control Pills.

Swoon: maybe e-bay sells them.

Cordelia: ew, probably like old ones.

Cordelia: do you want any more of our old chats?

Swoon: probably...but i'm having enough trouble just going through what i have and trying to make sense of them, or use appropriately....but no doubt should have them....keep that shredder handy though...don't want them to get into the wrong hands.

Cordelia: you overestimate other people's interest in your private life.

Cordelia: Remember?  People are self-absorbed.

Swoon: and you are "just a humble scribe."Swoon: sorry "but a humble scribe."

Cordelia: then again, just cuz you're paranoid don't mean they aint out-ta getcha.

Cordelia: i AM but a humble scribe!Cordelia: do you sing any neil diamond songs?

Swoon: even paranoid schizophrenics are sometimes right...and anyways, i'm not really paranoid, just if somehow I ended up running for President that stuff could be used against me.

Swoon: Do you really think I would ever sing any Neil Diamond songs?

Cordeila: I AM, I SAID...!

Cordelia: For irony?Swoon: .I like it.

Cordelia: Maybe we could blank out every third word so that we wouldn't have to pay for the rights to the song.

Cordelia: Note to self: consult with transsexual intellectual property lawyer.

Swoon: WTF? Do I live for the future, the past, the present?

Time passes.  Exactly 7 months later.  Trying to hold back the unraveling as we speak…Big Billboard Sign posted called “STAKES”…now there are stakes…remember when it was a fairy tale.  Seemed like just a short time ago…just floating on a magic carpet, all beautiful with no consequences.  Then real or imagined insecurities, paranoia, alcohol issues, and your basic Long Day’s Journey into Night’s full panoply confirming that “a living thing is a memory which acts.”

Cordelia: Hey.  Sorry to bother you.   But I’m wondering what’s going on.  Especially in light of all that’s happened in the last few days.  It would seem there’s plenty to talk about.  And now you don’t want to talk at all.  I’m wondering if this is your way of ending it.  If it is, please be clear.

Swoon:  I do want to talk about it.  Of course. Just wanted some time / space to reflect, mkay?

Cordelia:  You have time and space to reflect.  I don’t feel any particular need to have a conversation about it right now.  But what you seem to want is no communication or contact about anything.  It would be mature and healthy and kind if you would be clear.  You want no phone calls or IM’g or how’s your day going?  Until you decide, is that right?

Flashback to hours before we met I’m thinking: If we age together gracefully, I will give you presents of warm and lavanderly scented and most erotically folded laundry beyond your wildest dreams....maybe you'll look better then what you look like, better than you've ever imagined or remembered yourself looking like, and will have that je ne sais exudation of palpable sex that every man fantasizes about...

 Holy-mackerel truths.   I talk to myself:  do not let these undiagnosed potentialities sail out into the void.  The sky is not bleeding, maybe the blind men and I are reading.  Maybe there is no sunlight, the world has turned all black.  Angel on left shoulder, devil on right.  Tears welling in eyes.  I need to tug on a skirt….

“If we shadows have offended,Think but this, and all is mended,That you have but slumber’d hereWhile these visions did appear.And this weak and idle theme,No more yielding but a dream,Gentles, do not reprehend:

If you pardon we will mend.” – WS MSND

Enough.  Recognize that things have changed.  Windows opening or closing?  Maybe, maybe not.  Best to fill in the spaces…back to the beginning.

About time!  Like, who are these guys?

Me.  (The good times are NOT killing me.)  In no special order: neurotic ex New Yorker, worried man with a worried mind, adequately controlled seething rage, cross cultural differences, got that DNA of parking genes, imagine rehearsal funerals for the living, O’Neill’s “a living thing is a memory which acts”, creating a history and holding onto a history that we have yet to create.  Don’t like Bob Guccione, Donald Trump, Neil Diamond, Martha Stewart, Barbara Walters, Celine Dion, might like Helen Mirren’s Queen Elizabeth, don’t like malignant Fox News pied pipers fetishizing fear - shooting numbing, addictive toxins into our bloodstream and marketing cardboard  Bushites or Bushtypes.  If ping pong was a professional well paid sport, I’d be rich.  If expertise in parallel parking was also well paid sport, I’d be at top of the game.  You either digitally grade parallel parking on a regular basis or you don’t – either part of your DNA or not. Basically, I play ping pong well, know how to park really well, wish I played 2nd base for the NY Yankees, and like Homer Simpson, I’m hungering for that all you can eat buffet.

(Hey – found out that Cordelia likewise takes solace in finding the perfect parking spot and would never, never park in a lot.)

Translating emotional on-line and real line experiences in different landscapes melanged with pathos of ignorance, global empathy, rebellion against complacency, that seething rage, that DNA of parking, that dept. of redundancy dept. on–going problem, rehearsal funerals for the living, overloaded detritus, artfully arranged surfaces on the left coast versus the right coast, the undercurrent and the underbelly, fun houses and circus lore for the sane and the insane, speaking in riddles, perceptual anxiety and per Richard Foreman - "there's a world trying to run faster than the unconscious mind"...and six months later I’m sitting in an internet café trying to figure out what size lingerie underwear I should get for “us.” 

[Woman:  reads portions of online profile- I am but a humble scribe.]

Man (to Woman):  I’m an ex-New Yorker, ex-actor (though acting and writing again). Here’s my scoop:  sorta look like Robert Downey jr (hopefully not his jail mug shot), melanged with George Clooney, Dog Day Afternoon  Pacino and healthier Lou Reed-

Woman (to audience): He once seduced a woman by pretending to be Lou Reed (said he met her on flight from SF to LA, she was convinced he was Lou Reed, he couldn’t back down, and post sleeping with her, together they scoped out  LA record shops to check out sales), and, probably to this very day, she believes she had sex with Lou Reed for three days….(and wonders about it – it was during Lou’s most gay phase, “face north Jack” and so on and so forth.

Man: I’m athletic, grounded, fit, attractive, intelligent…never in my life.

Woman: (to audience): Confident…

Man: I’ve studied in Europe, lived in West Africa.  Current day job takes me to China.  (to audience):  I am weary of cyberspace.  Cyberspace, this bizarre peripheral reality of cyberspace but taking a shot, you know, throwing a stone (mimes throwing stone across water of audience) throwing a stone in the water and seeing how many skips you get.  Looking for real connection with an intriguing renaissance of wonder attractive woman for adventures around the block or around the world.  (but trying to avoid recent fatal attractions to self-involved narcissists.)

Another random early e-mail exchange:-

Woman:  Ougadougou.

Man: Ougadougou?

Woman: Ougadougou.  That’s where my cousin lived for a few years, learning to be a master drummer.  Why were you living in West Africa?

Man:  Was in the Peace Corps in West Africa. Teaching nuances of farming.  I hail from long family history of farming in Brooklyn.  Anyway, then I wandered West Africa collecting blankets, I made it a business.  Then one day I was sitting in a whirlpool, and this guy asked me if I wanted to be an actor.  So he put me in a soap opera.

Woman: You have stories.  Men with stories are my weakness.

Man:  Oh, do I have stories. 

Woman: Do tell.

Man:  I have stories.  I was surrounded by baboons once.  I was in a car accident in Montenegro section of Yugoslavia and ended up being taken by gypsies to only medical facility in the area, an insane asylum.  I was struck by lightning.  My dog became acting superstar, we were on David Letterman show not for stupid pet tricks, but to introduce an emerging dog star.

Woman:  My, what big stories you have!

Man:  In the back of a New York City taxicab, I had Dylan, ON MY LAP, drunk, passed out on my lap.

Woman:  Like the Pieta, stretched across your lap.

Man:  Exactly!  It was like the Pieta!

Woman:   I have this saying.  WWBD.  What would Bob do?  (to audience): Dylan, on his lap, the Pieta.  (to man):  Give me a call sometime, if you wish.

INSERT-- [Woman:  reads equal part of online profile] – “deeply empathetic and big-hearted.  I am in love with language.  I love human beings and am curious about who they are and why.  I’ve volunteered for much of my life (for the homeless in NYC and LA, hospice in SoCal).  I dance with complete abandon.  Emotionally genuine.  Open-minded.  I love Yiddish.  Loyal.  I like to dissolve illusions, even though illusions are fun and there is a time and place for them.  Sensual.  Creative:  I finished my great American novel and am working on my second.  I think the key to life is to make room, emotionally / spiritually, for everybody and everything.”

“Non-negotiable: Honesty and integrity.”

Attractive:  “I love men who make me laugh.  I find brainiacs irrestible, especially ones who can explain quantum physics.  Kindness and a big heart for people from all walks of life are big for me.  Men who can write well have a distinct advantage.  Talent makes me weak in the knees.  Empathy is a turn-on, as are goofs (or dry wit for that matter.)

Physical chemistry is a must for romance.  But aforementioned chemistry, I have come to believe, is all about pheromones.  Really, I have no type.  We either resonate or we don’t…”

Man:  So I call her.  And we meet.  

A moment when the wind blows the leaves off the trees.   A time to shift gears to Drive, gas pedal to the metal, the gravel totally splaying out of the parking lot and sending me on my way.  There is something happening here…..

I wake from a dream….”the rains keeps falling in buckets, there’s definitely gravity working here, the water is almost chest deep and it is cold, soon it will turn Montclair into swampland with slithering snakes making a series of S’s in the black water, scatterings of shattered bones, and the pools of water have rainbow colored tones from gas/oil spillage and eventually the swamps will just self ignite and spontaneously combust and there goes the neighborhood.”

That might be very well I says to myself.

Per Delmore Schwartz – “Time is the fire in which we burn.”

Woman:  And we meet again.  There is fire, literally, (Crucible art show), and that other fire.  And we kiss. 

Man:  The pheremones thing is working.  He sees solar flares, he says.  He sees mountains on the moon, he says.

Woman:  Hey, I had fun last night.  Great fire.  And great kisses.

Man: The kisses were right.  The ride home was like crossing frozen tundra. (I was riding souped up 120 cc scooter.)  Remember the fleeting possibility of something exquisite. 

Woman:  Hmmm… Back atcha.  I bet you say that to all the humble scribes.

I make wine out of water.  I an retard the spoilage of food.  The world doesn’t know this.  The curtains are drawn open…glasses from Crate & Barrel outlet store glisten in this fantasy’s crisp late afternoon light.  There is a smile etched across my face.  This is what I think:

            Yet, I am afraid.  Time running out.  And, I am still alone, still stumbling through the dark.  Ash in my throat….

“Bout time, and good a time as any to finally and honestly talk all about me:  Here’s my scoop:  49 year old ex New Yorker, divorced, father of two college aged sons who I ferociously love.  My nest is empty.   I’m a worried man with a worried mind, living in the tranquility of the bay area.  I have no idea if this is funny.  And, frankly, I’m worried about that too.  It’s too fucking personal.

Experiencing left coast cultural challenges – I’m fish out of my water.  I don’t like most people and I’m understandably irritated by them.  Example:  I find it refreshing when I’m backing into a metered parking spot in trumanshow like town of Montclair, (in the Oakland Hills),  and somebody attempts to steal my parking space.

When I deplane, I check to see if any ex Nazis are traveling incognito, cause goddamn it, somebody has to.  Unlike most Berkeley denizens, I don’t view long lines at the Berkeley Bowl as an opportunity to meet and get to know my neighbors on line.  On line, in line, have a catch, play catch, all these syntactic differences….who knew?

My sons, 18 and 22, and I very early on decided that “swearing to God” on important stuff just didn’t make sense.  So we decided to “swear on your penis”….  “Are you going to be home by midnight?  Swear on your Penis!”  “Okay, dad, I swear on my Penis.”  Most amusing when said in the party of others not familiar with our mores.

It’s early 2006, so it’s an opportunity to think about what’s happened to me in the past year.  I have a high libido, but, early last year I realized that my sons were having more sex than me.  I had long since stopped brushing up against strangers so I’m waiting for the right woman to have copious amounts of most transcendant sex with.  I wasn’t meeting interesting women at chicken breast counters at Albertson’s or at internet cafes.  I needed to make a change.  I decided to post a profile on an internet on-line dating site. 

Seeking connection and comfort flying incognito in this uniquely textured landscape.

I am weaving webs of desire with complete strangers in this cool and anonymous space.  I am drenched in shallowness ready to devour whatever is in front of me.

This is not what you think it is….(continuing motif)

I meet this woman:-

She says:  “We play a game.  This is what you tell me.  “You can’t move.  I get to blindfold you.  You stand in the middle of the room so that I can move around freely and you don’t know what direction I’ll come from.  I get to do what I want with your clothes, including pull them down in ways that bare surprising parts of you.  Or take them all the way off.  But I probably don’t take them all the way off.  You feel hot breath on your upper thigh.  Teeth on the back of your neck.”

Yeah, right, let’s be alone together.  Nothing left to do when you’re waiting for the miracle to come.  Don’t press me too much bout how I’m doing…let me play it dumb. 

I sat sadly by her side.

‘Reason and love keep little company together nowadays’  “MSND” (?)           

I have met women and though things might have started out okay, they ended for ridiculous reasons but real.  I didn’t like the way she swam, her reaction to oncoming traffic, the way she formed her words in her mouth, her stance on Weimeraners, wrong draw pulls on kitchen cabinets, the way she muffled a sneeze, astrology, insignificant gestures and the name of her kitten.  And that is regardless of how great the sex was.  I am hard person to bond with – my therapist says I’m so hard on other people cause I am unbelievably hard on myself.  But not going there now.  Prefer to riff on the following on-going theme in my world:-

In 2007, it is clear that our world is so much smaller and stranger than even 20 years ago.  And in this cyberspace world, our mortal souls cannot navigate and our souls get left behind.  Our present has so changed, and changes in those nano-seconds, that compared to our parents or grandparents pasts, presents, or futures, ours is much too volatile that it is not even accessible nor comprehensible.  Per the prince of digital cool, William Gibson, “we only have risk management.”  The spinning of the given moment’s scenarios.  “Pattern Recognition” so that our only constant, in our day to day historic lives, is that the past changes…and with that, the more you go into the future, the significance of the past diminishes in an exploding geometric pattern.  O’Neill again…”a living thing is a memory which acts.”  Memories ambush me at all times.  Per Monty Python, never underestimate the Spanish Inquisition.  Not all memories may be retired.  Memories float in and out of this glass wall of memory. 

We are all being swept away, swept on the digital highway and it has socially changed how we as individuals ultimately interact…with ease we can seek out mirages of connection.  That God is disconnected no one seems to notice, I say, with stupid smile on my face.

And probably not necessary to mention; but I am a bit of a complicated Piscean, still waters run deep, and may, more often than not, come across as  incomprehensible or indecipherable in traditional face to face encounters.  My mind easily prone to stream of consciousness associations, sex and death ruminations, complex mathematical enigmas and at any time I might be lost in untold celluloid out of body adventures.

Last Tuesday night; remembering an old love, imagining her body being devoured by bad poets and hordes of salivating midgets, (no slight to the vertically challenged, just like the imagery), playing cheap and out of tune violins.  Bouquets of flowers withering, trains moving down the track, and howling at the moon crystal night of time does no good…yes, sometimes all I can see is what I am lacking and I’m back in 2nd grade and I can’t find my pens and pencils and I panic.  That 2nd grade nightmare is really about as bad as I get.  Though I did have one lover who dreamed of medieval torture, hacking of limbs, warping of time and space, and fisting.

Lovers gone, or passed away, or unavailable or over or not right.  Love as the engine of survival...endless summer nights…sunlight drifting through the blinds.

So, back to the connection I’ m seeking and the hoped for entwinings of the flesh, heart skipping of beats, and that something is happening here and not quite sure what it is.  Simplicities of pleasure co-mingling with complexities of coupling…bringing together the dark congealing history of whom what is…that potential shrapnel flayed into flesh.  Thighs glistening, faces pressed to the glass, soldiers playing video war games in Iraq as the planets and comets with tails blazing and amazing and, yes, falling.  Are there any prostitutes in Iraq?  Isn’t that part of the American Dream?

There is NO curfew.  Trees are falling, curled leaves are burning, hungry horses crying, oiled swamps combusting, images of distant buildings falling again and again, ash like snow flakes in the air, can’t make out the sun, the few that are left all wearing masks, and that father and son walking towards the coast on The Road.  There are no neighbors to gesture to….trembling hands we sit helpless as the kittens die.

The sky is not bleeding, the blind men and I are reading.  Throw a smooth flat stone into the ocean and see how many skips I get.  Pay the price for admission with no guarantees.

But I am positioned for disappointment.  (that L.A. agent in speed riff about the link between writing stories and Nietzshe along lines that writing stories are all about disappointment.  Nietzshian view that it is our responses to disappointment that makes us interesting.)

Though one of my core talents is meeting an abundance of intriguing or shrieking women.  Not sure about the why or how, just, over time, this is indeed the case.  One of her core tenets is in analyzing my motivations and giving them interpretations that have meaning.  And this is before you have actually met her or have a clue of who she is or whom she might be.  I meet complete strangers, engage in conversations easily.  In anonymous world of cyberspace, I will make connections via words, photos, on-line profiles, sussed out hunches based on some e-mail corresponding, 10 minute phone calls, and then the inevitable cup of joe encounters.  Grazing through cyberspace is like walking through big crowds…there are oh so many strangers and most you will never see again.  One of the attractions and desperations of cyberspace is the spontaneous made up perceptions of connection and meaningfulness when there is none.  Apophenia.  It is cold, it is sterile, it is a well populated arena, but it is an illusion on a grand scale.  It pays to be paranoid in cyberspace as the comfort of surfing gives one a false sense of crepuscular calm.

Hold me close at night…tell me good bedtime stories. Play with fair playground rules.   A warm sun in a cold galaxy.

            Enough about me…already worrying if I am self involved narcissist – but that’s throwback to dept. of redundancy dept.  So, Cordelia, tell them about who I was “on-line”…my profile.  Go ahead and tell them who you thought I might be.  I’m a lazy bastard…please, please take over already.  For everyone’s sake.

Nah. (cut her off)…let me control this thing and tell you about her.  Who is she, what is she doing, and what is she doing it for?

            Cordelia and who I thought she might be via this “on-line” profile.

(fyi – people write long descriptions of who they are, what they want, how they’re attracted to people, long dissertations on politics, life style, drugs, sex, physical requirements/preferences, food choices, home decorating, family, friends, independence versus maintenance, color choices, heirloom tomatoes, anarchy, income, likeable smells,  position on burningman, most humbling moment, favorite on-screen sex scene, celebrity resemble most, five items can’t live without, what you’ll find in their bedroom, personal motto, position on piercings, tattoos, favorite item of clothing, what you’ll find in their refrigerator, even how often you clean that refrigerator?!!! …)

Cordelia said, “I miss the smells of the subway in NYC” – Bingo - sometimes there is a blaze of light in 11 words.

???? Understanding and appreciating another human being while dealing with the dualities of a mature man trying to be rational while on “full sexual alert.”

Back to my rambling:  (please be patient – when she takes over it will be much more organized.)

How’s this?  Pulitzer Prize Worthy Fucking in a veritable Pulitzer Prize Winner’s bed.  I kid you not….and he and his wife did not want us to change the sheets.  That’s whole other story but will be dealt with.

This tale of sex and love is still unfolding; my lover sometimes with arms’ extended and sometimes with lethal weapons at the ready.  Unmitigated bliss melanged with the tears and fears and misunderstandings and complexities of memory - time past and time present, and the mutating future contained in time past.  That all eternally time present…and that eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.  My life is being recontextualized in every single nano second…my memories are not being recalled but being recreated anew each and every time.

This is not what you think it is.  (continuing motif).

“A scream came across the sky” and last night I dreamt that spent jet fuel wafted down like particles of mist.  Shadows on the pavement.  And nobody noticed.  Glaciers melting, deserts expanding, ports in Northern Canada being bought up in frenzy for quicker routes to Europe with all that impenetrable ice gone and I’m still just trying to figure this thing called love.  With age you’re supposed to be wiser, especially in the logic of love.

“The basic concept of time is the flow of actions and events, normally observed to be in a single "forward" direction from past to future, or the measurement of this flow.”

Back to Time and all the connotations that go with it.  If I was a bona-fide autistic, I’d know that people don’t want to know the truth, people don’t observe the details, people cannot run their lives according to a train time-table, and there is such an enormity of experience that if you’re sensitive it is all “white noise.”

Occam’s Razor:  Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.  No more things should be presumed to exist than absolutely necessary.

Meeting on-line via hip dating site.   (July 4, 2006 11:37 pm – “kindly chk out my profile and if interested, perhaps further dialogue/coffee/tea/drink?”)Migrating to e-mail communications via personal e-mail addresses.Phone conversations as well as Text Messaging.

Bizarro textures of cyberspace and lost in translation results.

Throw some fragments:-

Remember phone conversation where I asked re odds that we’d sleep together before we ever met….!!!!  Within milliseconds of meeting, blink of an eye first impressions.  (more mind roaming – blink of an eye is about 1/10 of a second, a heartbeat is about one second…nowadays, events are happening in increments far briefer than that blink of an eye stuff – attosecond is a millionth of a trillionth of a second, zeptosecond is a billionth of a trillionth of a second, yoctosecond is a trillionth of a trillionth of a second….do you know the time it takes for a quark particle, whatever that is, to circle around the proton of a atomic nucleus? – I think science postulates around the mid point between a zepto and yoctosecond or 10 to the negative 22nd second).

So even fleeting moments are relative – though I do believe in the raw beauty of a perfectly beautiful fleeting moment. 

And the delight of low replies.  I like the sound of her voice when she says my name.  It is simply too cool to be forgotten.

And ordinary moments and ordinary people transmogrifying into extraordinary moments and extraordinary people giving birth to extraordinary tales.  So, in this totally relative time span, where I will dwell on the adventures and misadventures of these two people, who are mere dust specs in the 14 billion years of known or calculable time, and whatever significance our big bang has against the big bang of 14 billion years beforehand, is deliriously and infinitissimally so insignificant.  And what else do I have to do but dwell on the tragicomic gradual unfoldings of our lives.

  Before you know enough to know whether she is lying, or sublimating…filling in the spaces in between in a story that is not linear or complete.  And did you know that amnesiacs are both cut off from their past and their imagined future?  That remembered experience and imagined experience stem from the same part of the brain – they are reflections from the same mirror.  And those same neural networks make memory and imagination work?

So mix up the soup; instead of a “screaming came across the sky,” the spent jet fuel came misting down upon the huddled masses; their lungs scorched and burnt, their eyes swollen and sore, their hopes continually crushed but they remain innocent with arms outstretched for embracing. (perhaps spontaneous combustion writing on land of titles Montclair…and chk “you make love like a lesbian” and s shaped snakes slithering in my backyard.)

I chose to embrace Cordelia’s imperfections…yes or no?

Sketchy way of getting to know someone on-line. 

Ensuing issues like Love, Sex, Intimacy, Fear, Paranoia, Insecurity, Drugs, Alcohol, Family, Art, Dying and Death, Fame, Winning and Losing – a reality tale of coupling in the 21st century, finding love, holding onto love and creating art all at the same time.  Epiphanies on Dating n Dying -  Sustainable Sex and Love in the 21st century on the Left Coast Monologues.  A Penis, A Vagina, on-line dating, and their transmogrifications.

Keeping the record…I have a lock of her hair.  I did Tipping Point and Blink in reverse.  I stumbled with my blink of an eye instantaneous falling in love experience.  This is the first time that love did not strike as lightning but as dream like though arduous journey that increasingly, over time, startles the heart and mind more and more and more.  Not a blink of an eye reaction but series of accumulated tipping points. 

And I have a lock of her hair, not a flake of her life, but the richness of her interior life…what else do you have left…?

            I’m Sparkice.  I’m a paleontologist, I’m a labial piercing expert, I do Vaginal Rejuvenations…..I’ll start by giving an overview.  She, aka __________, does dialogue much much better than me.

            It’s late September, Cordelia is house sitting for a famous author.  Here we are having lots of Pulitzer Prize winning sex in Pulitzer Prize winner’s house, on the coast, south of San Francisco.  We’re having lots of sex, sometimes unusually unusual sex on a 12’ wide world’s most comfortable bed.  The bedroom walls, 16’ high lined with books that appear to be climbing the walls, and those library like ladders. (find the library ladders erotic too – always wanted to have sex in the 42nd Street New York Public Library- in the reference section - as finding a new lover is like discovering a whole new wing in the reference library.  But back to the story at hand.

            How did we get here?  Hands in my pockets, I spit out my gum.

We’re having all that sex surrounded by all those books.  Most of the books have to do with the making of atomic weaponry.  I’ve skimmed more than a few of the books – he’s a noted historian – the devil is in the footnotes – and I’m more than a little convinced that he and his post traumatic stress psychologist wife – are actually filming or videotaping our adventures, here, in their bed.  Not sure why, but that’s also an entirely other story.  (but here’s glimmer of why – every time we spend the weekend in that bed, housesitting for them, they specifically tell Cordelia to do this and that and this thing and that thing regarding which cutting board to use, which garbage is re-cycling, what can and cannot be eaten, what foods and snacks the cat may have, but no need whatsoever to change the bed sheets.  Definitely weird.  The house is incredibly tasteful, and almost anally clean – and they tell Cordelia not to change the sheets – they are returning on Sunday night and the cleaning lady will be there on Monday.  So don’t bother.  Something is going on.  Something vicarious or something weirder – he’s written detailed book about his sex life and about the sexual adventures with his wife.  So….i spend part of the time checking the floors, walls, ceiling, under the bed, for that hidden web cam camera. (think of Gene Hackman at the end of early Coppola film, The Conversation.) So far I haven’t found it – and let me just say, that I wouldn’t hold it against him or them – could actually respect them for that.

   Something about having lots of sex surrounded by books about the development of weapons to end the world is erotic.  Sorta like the Woody Allen obsession with Nazis and The Sorrow and The Pity.  The neurotic New York Jew thing – a worried man with a worried mind.  Guilt always enhances sex – ergo – unusual sex on giant bed surrounded by sophisticated analyses of the making of the A-Bomb is just plain perfect.  Cumming with images of nuclear mushroom clouds.  And this whole Pulitzer Prize winning author’s house brings back flood of Philip Roth masturbating on buses memories as a highly sexed / even more highly confused 13 year old as well as phase I went through when I thought I was solely responsible for the safety of all the passengers on whatever flight I flew on – if I didn’t masturbate, while en flight, no matter the duration of the flight, i.e. if 15 hour flight to China or 50 minute flight to L.A., the safety of the passengers were at stake.  (And, no, I am not on any medications….much longer story and involved near fatal plane crash w/ said act performed in plane lavatory and all were saved….)

Filler distraction - some people remember a zillion jokes.  Here’s the only one I can remember right now: “Buddha walks up to hot dog vendor outside of Madison Sq. Garden on night of a Knicks’ game…northwest corner of 33rd street and 7th Avenue.  Hot Dog vendor says, “what d’ya want?”  Buddha says, “Make me One With Everything.”

She walks with me and she talks with me...and we roll up that hill.