little drawings in thompson square park
A knock came on my window yesterday afternoon, the illustrious vectorman was back in the house, consequently, back in my life.
To what extent one never knows. I started remembering snowstorms in Brooklyn, torn down loves. trust. fate.
Spent much of yesterday afternoon, crouched down in the park, drawing diagrams with him..diagrams of sticks and stones, and pieces of leaves. collaborating, explaining. He is that kind of light. beauty. so beautiful and good that he is afraid of himself. He speaks in a language all his own, and most don’t know how to take him so they fight him off, badger him with fists and frights of words that leave him cowered, broken. I am happy he is around again. I have made many new friends as of late. Most due to the stagnation of telephone lines connected to boxes. The internet, ah yes. Most of my new crew came from there. Jason and Jason and Jeff and Matt, and Jeremy and Colin, and Leon, Chad, Carl, Robert, yet another Jason, and. Beatrice. I hung out in a pack yesterday that was uncomfortable at best to describe. Today I have a photoshoot in just a couple of hours. The photographer is some 23 year old who has a keen eye to disassemble and make brilliant. Though for me, photo shoots have become more of a necessity than some burning desire to expand another’s book. I have so many scars yes. And even though certain types of modeling are not for me, certain others are. Name dropper I am not. But. I would enjoy being the only deAa or deanna that is known for big things. but not face things. The kind of art that punches you in the face and leaves your nose sore. and eyes weepy.
Art, yes, music. Writing. I am fiercely savagely independent. Without love, direction and the pursuits thereafter become pointless. I have enjoyed the attention the boys afford me. But they fail on a greater level. I want someone so interesting that I wake up with fucked up dreams of what was spoken. What was said. And in my own conscious daydreams hopes of brighter days. Not fragmented bullshit. I realized I could hang out with a different guy every day and each one would show me something different. and I would want to take their qualities, seperate, and construct my love. Booming out across plateau fields, thundering down.
I am hoping to accomplish these big dreams. Primarily infringed upon through lack of financial encouragement. My discourses are always confused, zapped into holes of oblivion by a sheer lack of..financing.
I wrote this tv show about doing a special on my disease. I hope to educate the greater masses so people don’t have to die or just wake up in a hospital bed after surgery not knowing about what happens. TV, the big hype the annoying bullshit. The ways in which we educate, not so limited to the written word, but the spoken word flying across cable boxes.
I, too, want to have thailand visions. I am going there. yes.
I am just not one of those people who sits back, wishing and waiting. To plant the kiss would be as much mine as it would be your push. I tackle them sometimes with knots of words they don’t know what to do with. I leave them paralyzed by their own fears. I realize the power that we women have, bearers of the pussy, to fuck things up. People think that it’s wrong, using that to advance oneself; not through fucking, no, but knowing what you have and then using it to gain even a smile from another. This is no bad thing. It’s nature. And it’s more nature than nurture that your knob flies up at the first wink or smile from a bearer of the pussy. One you find yourself having a mini day dream about as your lips start to part in reciprocal action. We do that, too, dream about a physical exchange. even if we are involved, in love. It is purely animalistic, and human. To dream about lips locked and thighs knocking is one of the most primal things about the species. When I want something I hunt it down. When I want someone, they know it. There is no question.
I realize I sound like some predator of sorts. But. In the defense of the other pussy bearers, I am just living in the real world. Not the world of unsung dreams and nightmares of the missed kiss. Most don’t like that. And that’s why most of you get the shaft.
* this is my freshly unwashed face. post masturbation.
