Not just to tame alcohol intake or to moderate drugs with rehab. But ~balance~ in this milieu of radical consumerism and consumption. Do I really need a spanking new wardrobe of Chinese SCHMATTA to ring in every season? What about that new car smell? When one, already, with a glue gun can bedazzle? How many escape domains does one require for equanimity? We fabulous faddists of META incorporation does it matter, update vs preservation, what choices if ultimately all that is done is landfills and multiplication? It’s the equanimity card but not in the sense of meditation or yoga it’s living with what we leave behind. The judicious shopper is advised to consider a personal construct to culture.
Is a waiting room, still. You’ve been naughty and adjudicated. But don’t get to go to jail for slapping Chris Rock. An ankle monitor maybe. Early retirement. It’s a time out. A meditative staycation.
I can tell you now that William Hurt slayed me too. I met him in the Hollywood Hills. It was after an especially busy night at the Roxy. The road managers from both dressing rooms had been very inspiring with cocaine support. Plus a party invitation but I was too messed up to find it. I kept looking at the address I had scrawled. Driving in circles, I knew I needed help but it with almost 3AM. Desperate, I looked for groups of cars and called out to some party people high in the bird streets. Asking, is this the right party? They invited me to join them for a drink on the patio overlooking the lights of LA LA. I was introduced all around and seated next to the honored thespian but engaged with everyone else until he began to poke at me. Told me I was ignoring him and being mean. They had said he was going to be the next big thing in Hollywood. HIM? WHY? They had finished shooting ALTERED STATES. While not released they believed they had a hit. That William Hurt was going to be the next Robert Redford. OH. To sort out our private dilemma we went on a walk and then crawled into a loaner car. He had come out west for the funeral of his mother. Was going back to New York the following day. Did I want to come? HELL NO. He was full of shit. We did drugs and laughed like idiots. There were tears and soft silky babies hair kisses for 6 hours he was a star. What an audition. He was complex and mercurial, gentle and fierce. Just the right measure of sarcasm while asking questions and listening actively. I had zero sense of who he was but trouble. He could play any part and I told him so.
I notice an absence of vehicles next door. Dogs howling and barking more than usual. I’d been planning to creep over, but my ankles are two pirate pegs, not for shore.
I think I hear Mahina in one of those cages.
She was my neighbor’s present to his son. An investment. Her puppies would reproduce fine hunting dogs.
In the tarot, the howling dog and wolf of THE MOON card are described as a distraction. The barking, a delusion. Symbolic for haunted personalities. Borderline even.
My living room has a fixed window on the valley and panorama of ocean but begins with their property. I’ve tried to block them but nothing works for the sound, no amount of bamboo. And I know Mahina’s voice, she whistles and it mingles with the wind.
HOWLIES! The ancestors hunted wild boar and fought chickens before the planet was on fire. They’ve always kept dogs mean. Mahina’s life has an ancient plan of motherhood & hunting but the performances have become few and without exercise, it’s pitiful.
Wild boars proliferate like people here. Because she’s been bred for pigs who will bulldoze a perfectly kept garden and leave nothing.
You see, THE MOON is a rabbit hole of a card that will lure you back even in your escape. My search of Ebay for a 2021 winter collection? A bile of it all. A clash of ill fitting duck hunting camouflage fatigues. Leaves, trees, and dog patterns. Light on turkey and ducks. To dress up for a masquerade I can’t attend.
Another bad idea a (wide angle) security camera duck taped to my stomach. Hands free for tossing Greenie dental chews into the cages only on top of scraped turd scabs from the pool cue hose poked thru the grating.
My FREE PEOPLE flowing boho maxi dress carrying a joint might not work. I’m not I Love Lucy wearing a I’m TRESPASSING I’m cute sign. When the son specifically said, Don’t come here when we aren’t home.”
I don’t want to get shot and solitary isn’t against the law. There’s just barking complaint forms on-line. Humane to peoples ears societies framed in the welfare of animals.
We moved once already to get away from the sounds of Luana. a pyromaniac cat poisoner who used to work at the humane society. Educated on how to put dogs and cats down she couldn’t stop. A pet nanny to me before I understood who she was. A CAT KILLER.
Here’s some detective work I did on her. At the local auto parts store a woman who fit her description bought anti-freeze. But I knew her tires were flat and automobile inoperable. She couldn’t afford to get it fixed. So this was odd. Why did she have anti-freeze empties in her trash?
If ELIO were present, he would remember THE MOON card as MONKEY BUSINESS. The question is who do you want barking your orders? But Dad, maybe if we had listened to bats we wouldn’t be in this predicament.
I’m hearing Mahina and the coast looks clear. Unless they come home suddenly. All have to act. Like the bag of bones I’m distributing is too attract my dog. Here Pup! I’d wave the bones, give the all clear sign of cheer.
When I asked 2 years ago if I could buy Mahina. The son said, You can’t afford Mahina.
Should I tell him I’ve been saving? He doesn’t wave back.
After Mahina has all the puppies she can have. . I can find out which church they all go to on Sunday’s after my ankles heal. Join in.
At least do a drone visit to see THE MOON. With FaceTime screen & audio to say aloha! I hear you. With butt vision, rubbed up against the blades so she’ll know.
T H E H A N G M E N Treasonous Italians apprehended and facing death want to cuddle. Lockup love. Prison affair. Waiting room.
Note while not hung by the neck above a scaffold with a trap door, living upside down is a precarious and finite proposition for even those with the strongest of constitutions.
For years I had a crush on a guy who had had a crush on me, but initially I wasn’t interested. He reminded me of a grease monkey in his onesie with a rag in his back pocket. But who doesn’t want full service ultimately? He was hot with a mustache and that filling station style grew on me. I found myself day dreaming and moony, almost getting teary eyed in my revelries around my period. I wondered what our puppies would look like? If I could actually move in to his place even though it wasn’t my kind of special place. My mother was definitely interested, hiring him to indulge in her newest fetish of stained glass in all her windows and doors, showing off his work as if he was doing it for free. I expected to nurture my lust on the sly forever. Until finally I decided what the hell I would flirt or do something to give him a sign but no licking lips or flicking hair. I threw a party for his birthday surprising him with naked pictures of gay centerfolds torn from the pages of BLUE BOY balloons and cake. It worked and he asked me out. With his massive hands on the wheel of his custom truck I was captive when he launched into a monologue about feminine hygiene. A lecture on the correct direction that girls must wipe felt like a preparatory class. Crack to snatch he insisted was disgusting and he waited for my ratification. I knew then I would never wipe the way he wanted me to. Not ever. When he used the word cooch about an ex and how beet feces ended up there and in his mouth, I found myself relieved and asked him to take me home. I learned then to crush a crush takes a bit of uneasy listening.
When I was not such a young girl, I bought a Rubik’s cube. If you don’t know they come already solved. When I removed it from the package I set it for three moves off. Then put it in my purse. At a friends house I casually took it out and made a big show of struggling to solve it in under a minute. Decades later my friend still imagines I have some facility with intelligence.
My review of Spanish vs Italian. Take the number fifteen. The Spanish pronounce it “keen-say”. A king sound but with a sleepy troll of a dialect. The Italians with all the force of empire say QUEEN-DE-SHE. And while one word might not seem like a fair review, remember Socrates always holding up 1 finger.
CICCI 