fromthemouthofmoi

To those of you that read this blog I just wanted you to know that I am busy with other projects just now. This blog is not defunct, it's just laying low.

Then I was much younger than you I still had not learned to manage my hands Fingers were shoved into pockets Endlessly picking away at things My feet were both left My lust got caught in the headlights

When everyone points, protest When most people laugh, declare When people become silent, reiterate When someone denies, claim When trash is heaped high, assert If backs get turned, vow If all you find are deaf ears, repeat If the stance becomes threatening, maintain If they sit on a fence, stress If you find yourself frustrated, swear

I am driving down The Palisades Parkway and suddenly I am overwhelmed with the feeling of missing Simon terribly. I pull off at exit three and turn into Oak Tree Road. It is dusk when I arrive. I enter the house, but I am in Cushman and Alice's  old home. The house is filled with others that miss Simon too. Everyone is in corduroy, chambray and well worn leather shoes. I feel like I am home. Different people come to me to show me things they have, that remind them of Simon. One woman shows me a puzzle she has made and on it she has painted various animals in various scenes reminiscent of Christmas scene folk art. Another young man has a worn photo of Simon he shares with me. Everyone is drinking whisky from short wide glasses. I notice Tony and he comes over to me, and he is so warm. His body is toasty. He stands behind me embracing me. We then go sit in a huge chair like this: He behind me and me cradled in between his legs. He feels so warm. He rocks me, we talk about Sim...

All these years later Your eyes have returned To cast upon me a gaze I am older now And from whence I began I do not start I start with wounded knees And graying hair And a pocket full of irony I am told I must find my child And swaddle her with gold A precious thing, both her and me

I've returned to Blanche's house on South Street. The door is open as it always was, and I enter. I go up the short flight of stairs to the living area but the room is dark, cluttered, dusty and hung with Christmas ornaments. All the curtains have been drawn. I feel happy to be there and the condition of the house has not sunk in yet. I continue to wander around, going to the kitchen thinking I will make her a cup of coffee for when she returns. It is then that I notice the kitchen cupboards are blue and metal, half ajar, and no longer lovely wood. I also notice that all of the Christmas garlands are strung so low that I have to bend down to pass under. On a table, piled high, are various electronic music systems and I frantically search for the stereo that once belonged to her. I find it and wonder why it has been packed away in such a careless manner and why so much dust has accumulated upon it. I go into her office room where once a piano stood and instead there is a couc...

Photo courtesy of Dr. Brian Glatt When I was younger and had the chance to walk around half undressed as only the young can do, strangers would often come up to me, with face screwed in a knot of fright, point and ask: What's wrong with your armpits? I stare at other women's breasts, constantly on the lookout, seeing where mine stand in this self inflicted imaginary lineup of perfection. I used to notice cleavages a lot because I didn't seem to have one. I have one now because I figured out: It's all in the bra, baby. I also notice women who have no need for a bra, and if I tell you the truth here, right now, I harbour great big green, smoldering stinking envy for these women. I hate them.  I've been shackled in a bra since the age of 6 months and women who can traipse around braless just get on my nerves. I inherited my grandmothers breasts, and if you ask me on what side that grandmother was, I will say: It doesn't matter because on both sides each ...