end of summer

palos verdes, torrance, long beach

mhm

today the sun on the sill is not enough. or the too blue sky. i need oranges hidden in my skirt. a hillside to hike. the shock of a puffy pink scrunchie felted in the sage scrub. something i can reach out and touch. mostly, the quick slip of yr hips brushing against a squat yucca. small pleasures. cause there aren’t any others. eat quiche on a bluff half-shaded by stately cypresses. mistake a sleeve of snakeskin for a sequined headband.

we drive. car chugging along the crush of waves. not far but far enough to forget long train rides, arraignments, parking tickets, overtime, “designer vaginas,” and early-morning cat callers. amongst the eucalyptus and low hanging orange trees, we spread a purple quilt, rub coconut sunscreen between our toes. a bee lands on yr checkered shirtsleeve; you sit very still. i smear sunscreen on my shoulders, neck, and face till i smell good enough to eat. the bee, eyeing a split piece of fallen fruit, flies off.  all the snacks we packed: devoured in the car. nothing left for us to do but lay down, let the heat turn the pages of our books yellow.

all this crazy gift of time

the short shorts go straight my head. i wear my itty bitty corduroy cut-offs on the train to hollywood. i press my face against the hot hot glass. sun wet on my thighs. eyes closed. light show on the inside of my lids. on the roof of tamara’s condo, we brush our hair, eat tortilla chips sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, lick each other’s fingers clean. in a stone bowl, we crush basil leaves with gin, blend with over ripe berries. “straws,” tamara says. “we need straws.” she runs downstairs to the kitchen, returns breathless. “no straws.” no matter. we drink our gin slushies, flaming purple moustaches crusted on our lips. “what do you want to do tonight,” tamara asks. “smoke cigarettes.” mitch knocks on the door, a bag of vegetables tucked under his shoulder. his tan, corduroy pants all but slipping off his hips. when he hugs me, his grey t-shirt lifts, revealing his pale, almost silvered skin. “look at you,” he smiles, pointing to my shorts. i twirl. lean in to whisper, “look at you,” tracing the outer ridge of his abs with my finger. we split a cigarette. my first in months. i cough. tamara slaps my back: “you’re losing yr edge.” i wonder why her breath smells like tequila. mitch suggests we play truth or dare jenga. “loser cooks dinner.” i always pick truth. tamara dares. mitch refuses to answer so he can spend twenty minutes massaging the frilly green leaves with olive oil and crushed red pepper flakes. we eat as the sun sets. stars obscured by the brackish glow of a towering lampost. “dominoes?” tamara asks. instead mitch spreads five blankets out on the ground, layers them in a criss-cross pattern, forming a giant starburst. we lay down in the very center. tamara holds his hand, rubbing his palm with her thumb. i twirl her hair in my finger, noticing for the first, a single grey strand amongst her otherwise meticulously manicured blonde locks.

witchy weather. grey clouds seal off the edges of the sky. i refuse to think about anything deeper than whether i will wear light or dark rinse jeans. cupcakes for breakfast. kale salad for lunch. in the afternoon, margaritas mixed with cheap tequila and even cheaper tripel sec. watch every episode of devious maids. smirk at a slide show of mischa barton’s gravest fashion mistake. i am so chatty. but the apartment is empty. the cat asleep.

swirl of sun, just enough for me to sip my tea and read about john brown’s noble hanging. i’d like to read on, through the sunset, till the last fingerlet of light dies, but instead i lug my body over to the computer and type up notes for a commissioned essay i fear i may never finish. oh god how i crave a long, luscious walk in gold dusted dusk, snapping pictures of all things pink: moist blooms, a waxy starburst wrapper, discarded ankle socks glowing against the dirty yellow grass. or maybe i would drive to the canyons, echo mountain, stand beneath that trickle the state of california calls a “waterfall” and shoot myself half-nude. my glorious youth. instead, i stay inside.

take a shower to feel closer to nature.

driving to valencia this afternoon, flying through the san gabriels at eighty-five miles per hour, i saw a little black sports car on the opposite side of the freeway drift, ever so effortlessly, into the mountainside. the car slammed into the rocks then bounced back into the road; luckily, the other drivers swerved to miss it. the impact of the car against the mountain was such the windows and tires blew out, at the exact same moment. the driver died instantly.  no screeching tires, no swerving, apparent loss of control. the car looked so peaceful as it soared straight into the mountain.

later, another crash, on the 5, headed towards los angeles. a minor fender bender but still. my heart lurched as i drove by. usually i would be simply annoyed by the traffic delays. today i said a little prayer. many little prayers.

moody for days. the usual sadness. i don’t fight it. i watch lots of netflix. cupcake grease smeared across the bedsheets.

last night i had dinner with my friend  P who is majoring in philosophy at ucla, writing his thesis on zizek. “already? he’s big enough for a thesis?” i asked. “he’s the elvis of cultural theory.” a phrase i never understood—how can an intellectual be a “rock star.” a rock star is a rock star. a popular writer is a popular writer; ain’t never gonna be cool. however, I wouldn’t be surprised if z shared some of elvis’ sexual proclivities.

P was originally from new york, and as such, took great pride in his taste in restaurants on both coasts.  last night we dined at a little french bistro. i could not read the menu so i let P order. was willing choke down whatever, including a crisp bottle of sauvingon blanc. he ordered seafood. very delicate seafood which i ate in very small bites. its been months since we first hung out, yet i still cannot figure his angle—that is, why he invites me to dinner at all. our nights almost always end up in a fight. and too much alcohol. last night was one such glowing experience. as we switched to pinot grigio, he said of  a friend’s new poetry collection, which features short epiphanic poems, “its as if she licks a tree and has an epiphany.” i wondered—at first with horror then delight — if had i fallen prey to the same writerly crime of finding meaning in everything and nothing in my clit book. but there are worse things than a pussy epiphany. few things sweeter.

day of rain. m’s LA mix washing over me. driving in my big blue car -- as if staring out a glass marble. lee hazlewood’s drugged out vocals woke up sunday morning my mind all in a haze. intense cigarette cravings. the world, unrecognizable in the utterly unfamiliar drizzle. i imagine the sewer rats washed out to sea, triumphantly riding a crest of polluted rain-water. this morning the concrete was so fragrant with the dawn showers i actually bent to sniff it, there on my knees,  ignoring the fat clumps of lavender and various herbs that filled my neighbor’s window box.

woke to a knock on the front door, big brown box sitting on the stoop. a care package from mom including a variety of teas, chocolates, giftcards, a monogrammed handkerchief from my grandfather as well as several photo albums. i cried as i flipped through the glossy prints of C and i – two very young girls greedily unwrapping gifts on christmas morning, getting dressed for the first day of school, sitting at the breakfast table easter morning clutching a half-eaten bunny in one hand and a bowl of oatmeal in the other. it was a pleasant cry. light and restorative.

the house has been so still with M away; my days less structured. i laze around in bed until mid afternoon then slip on a black dress, dark shades, walk to the store. i can’t be bothered to plan ahead, prefer my daily jaunt to the market. today every aisle was jammed with tourists stocking up on bottled water and trail mix as well as frantic locals searching for cheese platters and water crackers. a man in a tweed blazer stood in front of a rack of cabernet, obscuring the bottles, shouting into his phone, “i can’t hear you! are they 30 dollar people or can we slide by at 15?” while i waited at the checkout, i read about kim kardashian’s pregnancy in OK magazine: “no we’re not kidding! kayne west is the father!” the woman in front of me bought OK along with two other celebrity rags and yoga journal, carefully placing the latter on top.  on the sidewalk parents wearing plus sized jerseys squawked “stop! stop!” as i dodged their toddlers who were decked out in matching sports gear. although the rose bowl was still several days away, the vendors were out on every corner.  each year it is the same husband and wife duos in their tents, hawking hats and beer mugs. before long i will know them by name.

at night i wrapped a scarf around my neck and walked three blocks till i was in a paradise of red and white christmas lights. four long, tree lined roads full of million dollar homes comprised the city’s annual “holiday tour.” although the houses themselves were decadent—dressed with delicate white icicles—the tasteful lights proved boring. the best lawn shows occurred in the suburbs where a variety of plastic figurines dotted the parched grass lots, and the houses were adorned with lights of every color—blue, orange, yellow, purple, green. one house i spied last week was decked out entirely in pink, including the tinsel, and a wee nativity scene featuring barbie as the immaculate virgin mary.  next to me several families on foot snapped pictures of their kids eating candied apples or burning their tongues on carnation hot chocolate . when it began to sprinkle, the crowds forged on; the children clutched their parents hands to keep from slipping on the newly slick concrete. i did not feel as if i was walking so much as floating through a field of light. the drizzle only enhanced my polychromatic trance.

SUSAN RICE HOLDS 600,00 DOLLARS WORTH OF STOCK IN THE FIRM BEHIND KEYSTONE XL

+

ACTIVISTS DEMAND THAT LORETTA PRESKA BE REPLACED AS JUDGE IN THE CASE AGAINST HACKER JERMEY HAMMOND, FOLLOWING RECENT REVELATIONS THAT HER HUSBAND WAS A VICTIM OF THE STRATFOR COMPUTER HACK ORCHESTRATED BY HAMMOND

new things

excerpt from I HAVE DEVOTED MY LIFE TO THE CLITORIS @ LIT magazine issue 21

Vivien and Ondine @ Caketrain issue 10 (a collaboration w/ 10 people edited by jessalyn wakefield)

interview with kate zambreno @ BOMBLOG

a full time job changes everything. so does working nights. the ripe morning glow is all mine. at the studio by sunrise i stretch and twist and leap through the air till my muscles vibrate. on my way home i do not walk so much as slosh. in our cramped kitchen, M and i cook our monk’s lunch: brown rice, beets, and leeks. i stand at the sink, peeling carrots, waiting for M’s quick kiss on my shoulder while he fries up a sausage for himself. at our heels, shoved against the stove, the cat mews for grease. we eat on the living room floor. dishes. i read, rolling onto my stomach then my back, unable to finish more than three pages of victorine, a novel about a 13 year old girl’s quiet, yet explosive, sexuality. its elegant, very lush. however, my mind is all chatter. already i dread my 2pm, sun-soaked commute through the valley despite the natural splendor.  as i speed north, first signs of the sun setting. a small wonder more drivers do not careen off the cliffs, staring into the lavender distance

diary love

a few months ago the internet started to bore me. i mean, really bore me.  after more than a decade of blogging, i was ready to explore other forms of sharing, especially ones that didn't involve the internet. instead, i began mailing out my personal diary in monthly installments to a few friends, and in return, they send me their journals. i'll still update precious little lamb pit but not as often, and mostly with pics, youtube, etc. if you'd like to share your journal with me--or read other's jounals--email me at cloying (at)gmail.com.

PROJECT CENSORED: VANISHING VOTES, DISAPPEARING DEMOCRACY AND MEDIA MISDIRECTION

+

GOIN' TO HELL ON A SLED BY JOHN D LOUDERMILK