30 January 2007

ConEd Doesn't Know That Much about the Internets.

So, i don't know how you pay your bills, but i do all my stuff online these days. I do it under the assumption that the powers-that-be are protecting me. I think most companies have figured out that it's a good idea to require a password to access one's online account. Not ConEd. You can e-mail them at customercare@coned.com to tell them to clean up their act.

27 January 2007

Breaking: Potheads Get Arrested.

I signed up for news alerts about marijuana from Google. (That's how i knew that Spongebob was moonlighting.) I'm rather disappointed; most of the news about weed covers busts and arrests. People grow/deal/distribute/buy/smoke weed and the police sometimes catch them. Is that news? This story managed to get my attention. The anonymity of the internet is dwindling and there is no such thing as privacy.

SG

22 January 2007

I Thought Christmas Was Coming: a triptych of haiku

It's not October?
I realize
I just celebrated last year's New Year. (i)

I got older overnight.
The weight of the season;
settled down on my face. (ii)

Cleaning doesn't seem to help.
Snow makes every other white dingy;
fingerprints-- white walls! (iii)

19 January 2007

Happy Belated Birthday, Dr. King.

I Don't Want to:

  1. give up smoking weed.
  2. not want to give up smoking weed.
  3. be a buddhist.
  4. get hit by a car.
  5. make excuses.
  6. be judged.
  7. love unrequitedly.
  8. lose my potential by not living up to it.

Dr. King said:
If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well.


At the end of June, Sotheby's, one of the big auction houses in New York, had on display many very rare documents of Dr. King, including drafts of the "I Have a Dream" speech with his handwritten notes in the margins. Lots of stuff with his handwriting on it. Isn't handwriting personal? It was intimate, poring over his sermons and bluebook examinations and letters to his congregation and his wife. As i stood in Saotheby's, dressed up (it's Dr. King, after all.), writing in my journal about what Dr. King had written in his, i felt like i was doing something that human beings had been doing for ages: using my own hands to do my own work.

This week, i listened to "I've Been to the Mountaintop," which was the speech he gave the day before he was assassinated. I thought, the world needs another Martin Luther King, jr. Then, by way of the maze of thoughts my mind winds itself through, i thought, no, wait, the world needs me to do my work. I remembered the exhibit, seeing his history in one place. None of us can predict the consequences of our actions; but i'm certain that Dr. King knew that what he was doing mattered. Not because he thought he was a superhero, but rather because he deeply understood that the actions that each of us take are important.

I have forgotten that lately and i've gotten lazy. When i remember that what i do matters, compassion and mindfulness absorb into my actions and apathy is negated. When i don't remember, i usually smoke too much pot and take a lot of baths. I've been lucky so far; my forgetfulness hasn't caused too much harm. But i keep asking myself this question: Am i being helpful? And further, what can i do to promote balance in the world i live in? And how are my actions contributing to imbalance?

Since i started this blog, an unexpected consequence has occured due to having an audience. I write about my trials and tribulations with weed all of the time in my journal; but until i became StonedGrrrl, i never had a mirror to show me what i looked like. What this mirror is showing me is that justifying my weed habit is becoming more and more untrue. I could spend the rest of my life smoking weed like Michelangelo painted pictures; but i don't know if it would be worth it.

17 January 2007

Up and Down (a short story)

I am lying on my back, awake behind half-shut eyes, in bed. He is running his fingers up and down the inside of my thigh. I open my eyes and turn to what i suspect will be Nathan's face smiling at me; but his face is closed. His fingers keep running, up and down the inside of my thigh. Touching me - not just touching me, but caressing me - has become a part of his constitution now. Awake or sleeping, his fingers don't have any choice. As soon as they make contact, they have to start stroking, tracing little pictures over my skin. No one else's fingers have touched so much of me.

As i am lying on my back, awake with open eyes, in bed, watching the sun brighten my room, his fingers chasing themselves up and down the inside of my thigh, i'm also wishing that i were stoned.

I turn my body to face his and his fingers adjust, without so much as a hiccup of confusion, and make their way around my side, up my back and then down and then up, and then down and down, and then up, and then down down down. His fingers tease the edge of the slit between my cheeks. I wonder if i am his marjiuana. Does he wish for my presence when my presence isn't needed? Does he think about giving me up? Does he think he might be better off without me?

Would i be better off without him? When i get stoned, i think, this would be perfect if Nathan were here. Is that true? Or do i get so high that i don't remember anything about him? If i had to pick between the two, i'd definitely choose the boy over the plant. Is that true; if it is, why am i lying on my back, awake, in bed, next to him, his fingers doing their work of memorizing the topography of my body, wishing for a joint?

Maybe i don't wanna get too close to this. Maybe i don't wanna get used to this. If i spend this relationship stoned, i won't grieve as much when it's over, i won't remember as much as he will. He'll reel and rail and sink into depression and i'll be a little bit sad. Beyond the sadness that arrives whenever a thing ends, i'll have nothing. And if my amygdala does spit up a memory, maybe this one, i'll be so far removed that i'll mistake my own memory for that of a sentimental movie i once saw.

I watch the movie of him breathing, sleeping, touching, stroking, running. I watch the movie of my hand crawling around to his back. I hear the soundtrack of his voice say, "Tamar." I breathe under the darkness of blankets and his body; my breath gets hot and i want Nathan. I move closer to him so i can hold him with my whole body and the arch of my foot discovers his calf. The way he's holding me changes and i know he's gotten the point. His fingers expand and then contract over my ass, pulling me even closer to him. I wrap my leg around his waist so that he has an unobstructed path to my sex; he kisses me. At the peak of our kiss, as we begin to exhale together, he is inside me. He makes yummy sounds. I'm gasping for breath and my voice climbs higher than it normally does. Why can't i hit notes like these when i try to sing, i think. After that momentary distraction, my mind comes back to him and i don't wish i were stoned anymore.

He guides me onto my back without falling out, and whispers, "Hi," before he slips down down down. He folds my lips back and licks me on the inside and then lands his tongue on my clit. Slowly quickening circles, around and around as he moans and i moan. I'm gonna come soon and i try to enjoy the path to coming instead of just waiting to come. I remember that he likes doing what he's doing right now; i'll take my time. He's good at what he's doing, sounds like he's eating an especially good meal. He can feel me about to come and right before i do, he stops, pushes himself past my clenching muscles and i come all around him. He holds my arching back and now those slowly quickening circles are around my nipples. I'm screaming his name. He's panting. You know how it is. I hope. He says, "You're so fucking hot." I wonder why he didn't say i love you instead. But i know he loves me; and i love him.

He's inside me and i wish i were stoned.

Afterwards, i am lying on my back, awake, in bed. He's taking a shower. I run my own fingers up and down the inside of my thigh, and wonder why he likes me so much.

14 January 2007

I Don't Want To:

  1. go to jail.
  2. get evicted.
  3. die from a dental infection.
  4. get an STD. (highly unlikely at this point in my life, by the way.)
  5. get caught.
  6. die alone.
  7. look older than i am.

I think that's all i'm actively trying to avoid today.

I do want to be your friend.

SG

11 January 2007

The Personals

I gave up on The Crush because it's been over a month since i've seen him. But i'm more of a word-y person, not a visual, image-y type person, so i'm probably gonna keep using The Crush's face and body for my masturbation/marriage fantasies. I don't know The Crush at all, so anything that i've been fantasizing about is a result of what i want my next boyfriend to be as opposed to what The Crush is actually like. It's gonna get boring pretty soon, though.

I was with Tanisha at The Living Room seeing Jenny Owen Youngs again. She asked me what kind of guys i liked. Here's what i came up with in the order that i came up with them or the order i can remember them. Please excuse the lack of paralellism and continuity:

1. Has big ideas and thoughts and is able to talk about them. I like to talk.

2. Kindness.

3. Has to be hot.

4. Needs to be grounded in some sort of spiritual practice.

5. I need to feel like i'm learning something from him.

6. More importantly than #5, i need to feel like he's learning something from him/i'm teaching him something.

7. We need to be okay with farting in front of one another. (Tanisha then told me she never demonstrates headstand when she teaches yoga because, "farts come out of my vagina." hee-hee.)

8. Lots of laughing. LOTS. A fuckin' lot.

9. I didn't tell her this, but thinking of it now: needs to be able to share good music.

Now i feel like this is a Craigslist ad.

After Jenny's set, i ran into my friend, Tracey the Boy, as he was leaving. I think he has or continues to have a crush on me and a psychic once told me that we would be good together. Apparently, she's the psychic to Eric Clapton.

It would be very odd indeed, and most unexpected if Tracey the Boy and i ended up ensemble; I thought he was a fucking idiot when i first met him. My feelings since then have softened, as has his idiocy.

I think i might have accidentally flirted with him.

04 January 2007

That Guy

My friend, Tanisha, works at The Living Room down on Ludlow Street on Thursday nights. I visit her and she gives me free drinks. This is a slightly complicated process since she is the service bar bartender and customers can't get get drinks directly from her but rather through the waitress. I lean on the bar as she makes me whiskey sours - heavy on the sour, which does not mean light on the whiskey. She turns to her right and gives the drink to Matilda, the waitress. Matilda turns to her left and hands the drink to me.

While i get tipsy for free, i listen to whatever well-intentioned artist might be playing. Jenny Owen Youngs played tonight. I had never heard of her before but she's my new favorite. I assume that she, like so many female singer-songwriters aged 12 to 16 in 1992, was inspired by Ani DiFranco. Jenny actually has managed to develop her own attitude and style. She sang and played guitar with another guitarist and a drummer. They had some surprsising melodies along with satisfying predictability. (Of course! After the slow vocal/guitar intro comes the driving bass line. Or something.) Jenny's rapport with the crowd endeared her to me even more than her music. Complaining about the warmth of the lights, she said, "It's like a holocaust, but with heat instead of people dying." I believe that should be the new meta-politically-incorrect catchphrase. "It was like a holocaust, but with a job interview instead of people dying." "It was like a holocaust, but with a cab ride instead of people dying." Anyway she's good and you should listen to her because there are fewer and fewer songwriters that have voices to carry the lyrics they write.

Before Jenny's set started, some guy next to me turned to his friend and said, "Gotta turn off my phone before the show begins. I don't wanna be that guy." Looking at his skinny, sculpted like tiny purple flames mohawk and Carhartt "work" jeans, i thought, you already are that guy. Perhaps you've managed to overcome your insecure self-absorption enough to silence your cell phone (although, i'm guessing it was an attempt to refer to your new Razr or Treo), but your Livestrong bracelet is showing and i suspect there is a tribal tattoo circling your bicep underneath your thermal t-shirt. Give it up, guy. The more you resist becoming "that guy," the more you will become him. Just avoid saying the N-word, even if you REALLY indentify with hip-hop.

Earlier in the day, i was strolling throught the East Village. I passed a woman i had never seen before, who, as i passed, said (to me? i don't know.), "She's a black dogwalker with an orange scarf and my leg has a cramp." I thought, i am black. I am weaing an orange scarf. I walk dogs. This situation leads me to several questions: First, what the fuck? Who are you? How did this limping, overweight New York woman know anything about me? Where has she seen me before? Has she seen me before? With a dog? How does she know i'm the walker and not the owner? I was a good 30 minutes from my dog-walking route during our encounter and based on her slight handicap and girth, i had to assume that she wasn't very far from her home. Striking the possibilty that she knew me, i must believe that this is a revelation from the Universe that i am being noticed and taken care of. I don't get the whole leg cramp thing, though.

03 January 2007

a haiku (in spirit, if not in form)

up too late and so is A.
so are you
what are we doing?

02 January 2007

Metaphors Are Best When Hidden by Literal Truths.

I'm getting that things-aren't-gonna-get-any-better-for-me-no-matter-how-much-i-do-yoga-meditate-pray-this-is-as-good-as-i'm-gonna-be kind of feeling. I'm a fuck-up in yogi's clothing, suspended in the air on the upward swing of a pendulum, on the side of goodness and sainthood, preparing to careen back to slovenliness and diabolism. The latter side has some major air resistance.

I haven't gotten caught, but that doesn't mean i'm getting away with anything. I wish lying didn't come as easily to me as it does. I smoke too much pot to remember all the stories i tell to cover my ass.

There's been no shift, no opening, no fresh start. I'm carrying the suck of 2006, the slimy, leaking garbage bag that 2006 was, right on in to 2007. This will be a year of reckoning. I hope. And i hope not. I hope i can pay for the shit i've fucked up without ending up feeling too bad about myself. But that's just another way of trying to get out of the mess i've made. I've gotta pay for the shit i've fucked up, whether it feels good or no. It's gonna be no. My body is getting itchy thinking about how much i screwed up this year. Now, screwing up isn't nearly as fun as it used to be. Let's just say this:

1) I can no longer fool myself into hunger when all i want is to taste.
2) I've had eight glasses of water today and my lips are still dry.
 

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