I ate chocolate covered espresso beans by conscious accident and intentional subconscious brushfire; now my extremities feel like a classic Warhol painting looks; when lately I’ve had moments with my solo material of stepping into hyperdrive at later hours and sometimes a little Jolt Cola equivalent can help or sometimes it can be too much like now; oh well; all of the projects are brimming at the same time; I pulled my back out over a month ago trying to prevent a bull rush of a dancer on stage from falling down and the muscle near my sacrum tweaked so loudly I could hear it do I’ve been laid up; it makes me cranky and when I’m laid up, my dog’s laid up and she’s been limping now; pets psychically link to your energy; today’s the first day I felt the engines start to rev and when I got my my dog was hopping around like a firecracker; it soothes me as at her age when she slows down I start drifting into thoughts of her ascending into Doggie Heaven via the giant spinning bagel. I am not ready for the giant spinning bagel to descend upon my household and have a carb-overloaded Jesus Dog take my little squashie away; hopefully as my back heals completely she will too and chunky Jesus Dog can go to Dunkin Donuts two blocks away and chat about the Rapture with the seventh day adventists who hold their meetings over crullers;
Th achy back has forced my to screw my butt into the chair and wrestle with my material; and like every artist I’m pretty certain there’s grappling with walking away from survival into a faith door, the floating faith door that follows me around and maybe it opens or maybe it’s locked or maybe it doesn’t exist but I do know that it’s squeaky and noisy and anytime I move away from what’s death, what’s callous and cold and old in my life there is noise; the noise of life, the little blasts of compromise that come from behind; some areas are bleak, some are coated with sugar, and some float on barbed wire but the door stands and floats; as soon as my back clears, I’m back on stage; and I can wear my sexypants; this is my purpose in life; this is what the gods whispered to me right before I populated my mother’s womb: Lee, you must ride these sexypants to glory; this is your purpose, for which you were built; if you don’t all the dead talk show hosts will revolt.
I am on OKCupid and honestly I had forgotten what a grueling process it is to reject and be rejected; I have soft clay heart that beats strongly but in in Swiss time precision; people look at my ad and I look at theirs and I feel badly not responding to those who rate my ad 4/5 stars but when I see they drink heavily or like dating raccoons or having sex while having raccoons watch I get a little discerning; I am looking for one person in particular; it’s scary marbles out there; one woman said contact me if ‘you’re not an asshole with something to prove.’ That paints a bleak picture of my gender; I’m giving this site seven more days; after my juice cleanse when my bowels are as slick as a waterslide I’ll be clear about it;
I leave with a clip I wrote on the back of a figurative napkin in a bar sewn together by thoughts with dreadlocks; from my novel in progress:
Lona swam through the store as men dropped to their knees and for a moment, Lona could fly through each diamond, as if she could read them like tea leaves, wrapping their history around her torso, searching for the answer and after a few minutes of this spontaneous musical number, as men became dancers around her, in velvet vests singing like blooming ostriches their mandate of passion and giddy malaise without their object of hunger, one of the men had proposed to another man’s girlfriend;