Well overdue posting something here-- but I got real quiet about 6 months ago-- and i stopped wanting to give anything of myself away round about the same time and so this space became rather uncomfortable for me.

But I liked this thing-- it was a place to put writing I could access from anywhere-- a place to keep the things i was afraid wouldn't keep so well in my head-- a chance to check back on progress and process.

Hit it today cause i know i had put a date here-- and i wanted to know when i was due to send a little something somebody's way   . . . and i found that there was a whole year missing from this place-- and that seemed sad.

I think i am starting to miss the sound of my own voice.

Hateful, underdeveloped thing that it is.

What to say of where I've been?

Hell, let’s just leave it at 'rather not.'

And the how?

I cry a lot now. Started in July and just hasn't stopped.

I let myself think long enough to complete a thought and my eyes'll punctuate it by swimming-- my sinuses fill with hot air-- and I have to stop thinking and slow my breathing or I will fall the fuck apart.

Bit of a radical departure-- but hell there has been a lot of that.

And I am older and maybe more fearful and certainly a bit more worn but I care about that all less.

I speak less and to fewer people.

Must be some kind of parallel there between the unexpected state of my emotional life and the strange twist my work life took back in May. . .  If you had told me that I’d be working in a cube OR crying thrice daily 10 years ago, I’ve have kicked your ass.

I can tell you that it doesn't turn out like to think it will— none of it-- and that there are far worse places to be than in the deep end. And that wanting can make you feel wrong and that home is a very slippery thing.

Sit next to me in a bar these days and I’m likely to ask you to toast a spectacular disappointment—and if you know of any cheap places to rent.

She was on the bus this morning.

The second time I have seen her.

The most beautiful girl in my neighborhood.

Bottle-blond hair, a powdered nose. Carefully put together in an old second hand coat with a whit mink collar. Perfectly arched black brows, red, red, red lips.

A little black felt hat.

And tattoos of roses on the meat of her hands- between the thumb and the fingers.

The first time I saw her I was so struck I stared and listened in on her phone conversation— she is a hairdresser somewhere. She lives with a man who sleeps too late and stays out too long. She is a working-class queen.

She dresses like she lives in her own time and I want watch her get ready for a night out.

I want to suck the lipstick off her lips.

I want to take a full, perfect portrait of her so that I have some part of her- I want to stand her in front of a red backdrop the color of her lipstick and see if I can talk her into wearing her best for me—I want to make some record of her-- that she was there- in the hood- during her thirties- that we were breathing the same air, ridding the same bus.

Last time I had this urge to take someone’s photo was during a 3-month crush I had on a high school thug I rode the bus with 5 years ago or so- he was just the most beautiful boy I had ever seen- and such a fucking monster- selling dime bags of weed on the bus and talking about fights he was going to get in. I felt like he was the most fragile, temporary thing I had ever seen—that someone somewhere was going to beat his ass or shoot him in the chest, the face, that he’d go to jail or into the army and the physical beauty of this boy would get wrecked. I thought about renting a studio near his house—and taking portraits of friends-and neighborhood hood folks- just so I’d have a portfolio to show him one day on the bus—just so I could pursue him and ask him to let me capture him- then- before he went away or become something else entirely.

So some months back I had to have a non-working part removed. Conveniently enough they were able to do the whole thing laproscopically which involved punching a hole in me for a scope, one for the tiny little tools, one for the tube they would use to suction out said non-functional organ and one hole to pump in some sort of inert gas inflating my abdomen so they had room to do what they had to do in there.
After they were done with these four holes they stitched them up with the type cat-gut that is supposed to just dissolve away inside your body.
Supposed to is the key here.
Because it did not.
Weeks later I was icking the main man out as I pulled stitch after stitch out of these now bright-pink scar mounds. The stitches were really bothering me-- in a low-grade my body doesn't want this shit in here way so I pulled them out-- and in each case, as soon as the stitches were pulled out the healing of that particular surgical site accelerated.
During the follow up with the docs, I presented a little crack-rock sized zip-lock baggy full of my stitches and ask if I had gotten them all. The medical staff was slightly annoyed that I has done this-- but looked at my stitches - pulled the little lengths of cat gut out, stretched each one out, counted them and assured me that, yes it seemed I had, indeed, pulled all my stitches out.
Why do I mention this?
Because my lovely older sister had cause to get some stitches herself recently-- and as we talked on the phone one night she mentioned that they were irritating her. I told her that she, like me, might not dissolve stitches.
And when she had her own follow up a week or so ago-- she asked the doc to have a look at the irritating stitches.  She told him about her sister whose body does not eat stitches well. He assured her that they should pretty much be gone by now-- but consented to check in on the stitch situation.
And sure enough-- the stitches were still there.
Not dissolved at all.
So he pulled them out-- and while he was doing this-- on a rather delicate part of my sister's person, he broke the tension by saying, "you know, something about you girls just isn’t right."
When she told me on the phone last night we dissolved into a mutual fit of laughter. We have always known his statement to be true-- but it is good to have the assessment of a medical professional to back up your own self-image.

Make a space.
Think about other spaces.
Read about work and the built world.
Draw spaces. Collect photocopies.
Print them. Transfer them.
Screen print.
Play with fabric.
Play with sewn pattern.
Built forms.
Make something pleasurable.
Enjoy the physicality of object making.
Sort everything.
Structure beautiful work.
Produce.
Shop something out there.

Clean the other places.
Select, start seeds.
Make good choices.

Structure better storage.
Say thank you.

Speak to people.
Send them things.

Have a rich and productive cleaning regimen.

Plan.
Write lists.
Cook.

Mania is good.
Cultivate it.
This is better than.

Looking to spend a bit of time thinking.
It only took all week, two albums, three different kinds of fucked up and saying some of what’s been on my mind to interest me is such things. But here I am.
So yeah. Maybe this won’t be my best mind but it is the one I’m willing to take out for spin. 

After a bus’s wait on a 6 degree morning, I was cataloguing cold-weather dressing. Better boots and lesser hats. Stitching on leather. Fabrics’ hand, structure, drape. Variety and envy. Then, there was a woman. Late 60s, a little lipstick, I think. Kempt but on a string. Maybe a little crazy looking. But crazy with a house. Her brown knit muffler was finished with one and a half raccoon tails. She left me wondering about her- or her people’s hunting habits.

I have been wholly seduced by survivalist text. Fiction, reference, interweb. 

Got a backdoor offer to go hunting from a phenomenal daddy at work. But, see, not me proper. My man. Had he been interested, I might have gotten to wait on a couple of dudes—or keep company with his lady. Alas, I had to decline on my Main Man’s behalf.

Never the less, I still hold out hope that I will, one day get my chance to offer up head to a couple of men going on, playing a game or drinking a bottle. 

It is a joy to wander around this city, to touch things and think of people. Even if the pile of gifts contains little more than shiny paper on a pile of used books, small tools and Japanese cell-phone charms.

I have said I am blue to some. To others that it is getting dark in here. Saying it seems to be part of how I got about smoothing my shit out so I can put it back away. 

I’ve started saying that I fear the future. That if it is more of the same I’m likely to quit on this shit. I lament not having more skill. Less flightiness. I say this life I have made can’t go on. I just get caught up in that notion that I am not doing well enough, at some of this, to keep at it.

But then there is a book of fantastic short stories. A book I want 5 people to read at once. That has paragraphs I read out loud and stories I have read three times.

And a night of rock and roll. Songs singing to me that I aint living like I should. Others that I only hear this in my head. Another that’s a hymn to the strange state of grace that dissatisfaction can be. The one I sang getting out of work, walking to the bus stop—the lullaby whispering that it all fell away so little by little that you didn’t know you were there until there was nothing but beer and the remote control.

A map of the Natchez Trace Parkway. 440 miles from Nashville, east of Muscle Shoals. Though Tupelo and every bit of what was Choctaw and Chiwapa and Chickasaw. Through the battle site where Kosciusko fought. On to Jackson along side the Yockanookany, veering off towards the Big Black River before running up to the Mississippi in Natchez. I can’t decide if I want to ride it or just live with this map pinned up for ten years used as a reading list and an escape plan.

And I’m just about on to thinking that this life doesn’t give us much more that someplace else to be.

Get up. Get on. Look at people. Read things. Put things in order. Chase ass when you feel good. Be angry when you don’t. Try to remember to point it at something useful, but don’t sweat it too much when you hit a patch of diffuse rage. Tell someone you aren’t living like you should. Get a new map. Buy gifts. Make plans. Ask questions. Clean the house. Walk the dog. Get to work. Get something done. Take the bus. Talk dirty. Take a nap. Leave things. Water the plants. Let go of trying to hold onto to something more than that.

5 years.

I occupy quite the happily contrived little space.

Many surfaces are worried. And there is an air of composure.

But really, and maybe intentionally- but, I think, more likely even, implicitly- these details don’t quite hold up. There are so many. There is effort and craft and choice and editing all about this place. But (of course) something, always, doesn’t hold up. The contrivance is not only style. There is a bit of gleeful compulsion. There are interests supported by a phalanx of books and modest art collections. Carefully put about furniture. It seems to be more about finding a physical illustration that nothing is good without some measure of the bad: that the act of making- a home in this case- relies upon failure.

This is a home of finished walls and home-made draperies. There is a panty of tools and jigs, rigs and machines. Whole batteries of storage boxes. A back- porch workbench. Curated objects. Careful thieveries. And stuff. Picked up in alleys. Stolen from yards and desk drawers. 15 years of yard sales and junk piles. The tenacious and tender things that we have found, bought, feed.

I play at wanting to be a home maker. Literally. I am well educated as an occupant of a 100+ plus old structure and have only, in the briefest spates, spent my nights sleeping in structures made after WWII. But I may always fantasize about a house. I like them all and may have several. But I would like one of my own.

 I endeavor to do, more and more, the work that is affiliated with the making of one’s own life. I garden, but I want to farm. I read books but wish to husband animals. I landscape but I would improve land. At 33 I am still working on that same set of floor plans many of us started out drawing and re-drawing in elementary school. To those I have added raised bed designs, green roofs and central gantries.  I only spent $300 on my couch but I will find a way to pay for insurance and its protection against the anxiety that all could disappear. I engage in lengthy fantasies about stockpiling seed and food.

 And this turning in, turning away from the world into a full, rich notion of a private life is, itself, disturbing. It induces self consciousness (and, I have got say from the amount of better living through chemistry I – and others- engage in round these parts- that ain’t favorite state to be in these days). Self critism. Is it another guise of the femine mystique? Is this what happens to handy lesbians in middle life?

 I was doing more, for others, when my home was more of a wreck—and I was, certainly, doing it more, with others, when my home was not yet.  And at times I can fool myself into thinking that this drive to better autonomy, fuller separation from others- and embrace of the notion that one might have a life on one’s own is once again asserted, perversely it seems, in domesticity.

I read books about isolation and the lives lived in previous times. The emergence of class and endurance of blood. The carefully crafted notion of duty. Stories about failure and response.

I garden now. And that maybe that is why I have come to support some notion of nature. It means only that all of us seem to want to do those things we have been made to do. It seems natural that we fall into chaos; we do too much and destroy or consume better, more graceful or simpler states.

I can say, though, that to some extent it is a preformative privacy. I often, do play well to a house of one but the best work is done for the entertainment of others.

Still here in Houston. Still working on the Rocket. Rocket is still really fucking big. Not much to say about work, really.

Aside from work, there is the joy of finding, buying and systematically reading the complete works of Jane Rule. Her only work to achieve much fame seems to have been Desert of the Heart- which I haven't read yet. Rather, I have read Outlander, After the Fire, This is not for You, Theme for Diverse Instruments and still working on Lesbian Images. Still ahead of me on the bookshelf at home are another half dozen more. This is Lesbian Literature with two capital 'L's and I love it. Do bear in mind that these are not dirty books- there is no hot, wet, pink pussy in these books- they are beautifully written stories of love and life and meaning in lesbian lives. I can not recommend her works highly enough-- If you can find it.

My new found pleasure in buying hoards of books out of print since the mid seventies is enabled entirely by abebooks.com where it is possible, it seems, to find absolutely anything your book-coveting little heart may have ever desired. If you ever find yourself living alone in a sparsely furnished corporate apartment with mild, intermittent insomnia shopping for rare books on line via abe is wonderful. You hunt, you find, you buy- for a very good price- and then can drift off to la-la-land dreaming of your fabulous new find making its way to you from the happy book vendor all the way to your shelves after a lovely ride though some fancy post office conveyor belts. Ah! Soothing, happy, sleepy conveyor belt rides.

Thanks also to abe there is the excited anticipation of my first edition Male and Female Kinsey Reports slowly making their way to me via the pokey Canadian mail system. Not first printings- but first editions none the less- and from a vendor who sent me a photo of the outside of my package covered in Canadian stamps before he dropped it off for its own ride.

Aside from books there is another bit of electronic commerce that has gotten me much worked up as of late: the recent purchase of a 1920's steel bed frame on ebay. It is exactly the thing I have been hoping to snag for 10+ years after passing up the opportunity to buy a gorgeous example when I was a poor college student. Marketed as more sanitary than wood beds, it is of a type first marked in he late Victorian era that became very popular for furnished rooms and residence hotels in American cities after the social reform movement made some inroads in influencing domestic furnishing. And if you don’t know by now that I want all my sex and all my dreams and all late night worries to be transient hotel sorts of sex and dreams and worries then you just weren’t paying much attention. It is the sort of bed I have tried (unsuccessfully, alas) to chase junk men down the streets of Chicago to liberate form their over sprung pick-up trucks.

And when I get it home (when next I'm home in Chicago) the Main Man and I will go out and buy the long overdue anniversary mattress and have a fantastic new bed t sleep upon for the week of thanksgiving wackiness that awaits us.

Typing of which- the Main Man and I intend to host his folk (mother-father-bother-brother's lady) and my folks for a fine smaksgiving feast. As is ever the case with hosting any holiday there is lots to do- but we will do it very well- and now that I have secured and cleaned and ordered all my service wear I am starting to look forward to the whole damn thing. Not to say that it wont be a family holiday with all the wackiness that those sorts of thing bring-- nor to ignore the mountain of house cleaning I have ahead of me after leaving main man mostly alone to fester in our apartment lo these last, many months, but- hey- we cook well, I set a fantastic table and it is really up the guests to figure out how to make polite conversation with each other- so I can't sweat that one.

And now All I can say is: So, you wonder why I don't write more, right? What with all this excitement?

So the notion of laying out just what it is I’m out chasing ass over has been bumping around in my head this evening. Here is a quick shot at the short list:

1. Blow Job Tuesdays. I’d love to set up something regular and pretty clean of play. Something with a buddy from outside of the leather world. Head to his place after work- on the way home- make him a drink- and then right down to business. No kissing, no foreplay. Me working his cock. Sucking a load out of him and finishing with an exchange of thanks yous and a little laughter. Maybe stay for a drink- maybe get myself one, alone, on the way home.  No pants off here. Just a little light grinding on the toe of his shoe.
2. Monthly Nap w/ Friend. After an afternoon of wandering around, every so often I want a clean, straight up embracing nap. Love, comfort, trust and sleep are the best restoratives. But being a pervert means the too many of my not-so-(honest about being a)-prevert friends think that all physical contact is going to lead to a full on session.  Sometimes I want nothing more that to lay down with sunlight coming through the curtains and someone I love in a way that does not involve rubbing junk on junk- or anything else for that matter- in my arms. Of course, if said friend were to try to wake me up with a make out session I’d most likely be game. I find that I thinking about making out more now than I have in 10 years.
3. Periodic Heavy Daddy Sessions. Boot shines, blow jobs and getting fucked. Strict rules and harsh punishment. Firm hand from a man in control. Lots of abusive language and more than a few spankings. Someone to sit at the feet of with my head in his lap when I am worn out from being put through my paces. Maybe monthly.
4. Occasional Bar Hook-ups with Older Butches and Younger Bois. Just a little casual action with the sort of folk who really float my boat. Bathroom finger banging after a healthy round of bar-booth-kissing. If the un-imaginable should happen and I find myself in the company of a dyke whose bed is currently empty, then I’m all for heading home for a full tumble.
5. Friendly Service Sessions with my Leather Folk Friends. Everyone needs a little help sometime- and whether that is cleaning up the playroom or oiling the leathers, I’m glad to be of service. No sex here- just a surprising kiss or a good hearty grab of my ass when you say ‘Thank you.” I like to feel competent and sexy sometimes- and a as a bottom who enjoys getting in trouble, being called nasty names and  generally being a bad girl- that sense of pride can be pretty hard to come by when I take my pants off.
6. Annual Weekends with Nasty Nicky. Just because that dirty old fuck and I should always tear it up once a year.
7. Occasional Dalliances with Straight, Blue Collar Guys. From the flirting through the morning after- making him breakfast, I love the seduction of straight guys of a certain type. I love shooting off their hand guns out in the yard after a sweaty session of sex.  Hearing about their kids and their ex wives and the state and duration of their sobriety. Being shown the bike in the garage and then getting to suck him off while sitting on his mechanics stool- he’s got one hand on my head- and one behind him on the work bench. Men who smell like work and want to buy me a steak.   I want to be that free girl- no kids, no problems. Just an ear and a pair of big blue eyes over dinner with the near certainly of a new wet pussy afterwards when he takes me home.
8. Dirty Birthday Parties. Yes, I truly do want to be ridden like the birthday party pony. I’d love to pull a train- and be my own party favor. Can’t say this is sort of thing I’d be up for every year- but I’ll settle for the full count of my spankings presided over by a buddy in a bar who is happy to give a couple away to strangers for the price of one beer each on those off years.
9. The Occasional Double Team. Crying, gasping and coming around two dicks at once- its true. This one is the sort of thing best done with two guys who are old buddies. Because nothing primes the pumps like years of telling each other stories about the action you have been able to score separately.
10. Always- the mix of quickies, deep dicking, spanking, petting and occasional heavy sessions that I have found with my amazing Main Man.

It is early and, I don’t usually think too much on the weekends.

Can’t sleep. Got tired of reading my 20 year old books.

Too much to think about and too much to do.

A gesture towards someone turned into a real pain in the ass today. 

I have been dragging around this town lately.

Dreading the bus filled with school children and parents.  A real freak-show sometimes: an obese infant eating onion snacks from his mother’s hands.  He had hands like over inflated plastic sandwich bags- with little tiny ineffectual fingers, un-clipped nails. His skin seemed thin, with lots of scratches and light little scars and he was tiny at the joints, still. His face was filled and hung except for the tip of his nose. She had neglected to take the emergency room ID badge off her bag.

Tonight. I find my self asking questions about what I’m trying to get after here, and I think only of impractical things.  I wish for work in the textiles trade, a life lived early.  Secret knowledge and some way to take a nap with whom ever you wish on an early fall afternoon.  

I find myself wishing to be home. To be away. For action. For rest.  

I want to listen to music and be happy. I keep wandering off.

I have always had a tough time with complex fantasy- and I have spent a fair time working with the structure and nature of fantasy, interest and desire. But I’m just not too good with it myself.

 I studied a lot of theory while and before making work that didn’t quiet do what I had hoped. They often weren’t beautiful enough. 

I’ve had two multi-year tours in the sex trades.  But am less than great with sex. 

Before that I had fallen into several spates of life.

I was devoted to a woman early and lost her.  

I was away from home a lot.  I can think of 23 places I have lived. 

I was religiously fervent in way that felt meaningful and moving. 

Later, I prayed to god that I could turn my eyes from him and have done so quite effectively for many, many years.

I feel myself move as if in a fog most days, now. And then it seems too-- but, frankly, I have gotten bad at remembering all the things I have wanted and had.

I fell like I am supposed to be better about desiring some specific future or place or thing- so as to be better at chasing that.  And I find myself asking what it is I have ever wanted – I make decisions- and I work but always in a very responsive way. I but this weather has me thinking about the past. And the pleasant times and missing something.