Household Size: 4.
Mar, 2019 Thru August 31, 2019
Ashirah Kilmer Eligible
Ashirah Kilmer Eligible
My neighbor, Alec was the first Mexican dude to move into our immediate neighborhood. He rents an upstairs apartment from Miss Kay, the short, skinny bad-ass Vietnamese woman who has run the Kays fashion store a few blocks from here for the last 18 years (I’m told). That makes hers one of the oldest, if not the oldest, Vietnamese stores here in B’Ville.
Alec speaks broken English more proficiently than my broken Spanish but we trade languages when we talk. A few years ago, Alec hooked some other heavy-drinking, really nice Mexican dudes up with the house behind us and they’ve been there steadily. Unfortunately Pépe got caught with some herb last year and was deported. It’s fucked up. These guys all work hard, when there’s work.
Raymundo is a carpenter, Rafael does roofing and Alec is a welder. They party out in the yard a lot and have a lot of friends of all races. Recently this one Vietnamese dude who hardly speaks a word of intelligible English became a very regular guest at the scene. He’s got one of those really recognizable scratchy voices and speaks with a decidedly South Asian cadence. They’ll be out there at eight in the morning sometimes, laughing their asses off for hours, and I can hardly imagine what their communication is like since I imagine that the only language they have in common is English. It’s actually pretty inspiring.
The other day Alec and I were engaging over the borrowing of a drill. He was pretty lit up. Guess he was putting a door in for Ramundo and them. Anyway he commented on my dandling earrings, which I began to explain were for Obatala, the Ifa deity of balance, justice and humanity. I go, “they’re for”, and he interrupts, “ladies!”
Then he starts telling me about his three girlfriends and how they love his “deek”.
“I got ten a half in’. Dey love it. I got ten a half in’.” I pat him on the back, “You got more than me, man. Good for you.”
Then he starts showing me some porn website on his phone and talking about putting pictures of his dick up and getting paid $300 to go up to Atlanta to fuck (“ha say wee”) two women for a few hours, and about his nineteen year old girlfriend who didn’t want to have sex “inna ass” with him and now can’t get enough of it.
Was he hitting on me? (His ears are pierced too.) Was he bragging? Was he suggesting I put a picture of my “deek” on a website? I’m confused.
I imagine it would be fun having a “ten a half in’ deek”, as long as it behaves. I need to improve my Spanish.
Rikki is at gymnastics with the girls. Rinah does 8 hours a week. “I’m on a team, and I can do a back walkover by myself.” Ashirah can do a backbend from standing without help.
Would happen if one spouse stopped initiating any kisses or hugs in their marriage? Since the experiment’s start, there hasn’t been a kiss or a hug in one particular marriage. Seven year itch. The twenty year funeral.
Is this it? The monster that I fear I am?
Some friends recently divorced after a thirty-five year marriage. Damn, folks. What now, and what was the point of the last fifteen, the last thirty? Are we just too tired to find another path?
Polyamory. Yeah, right. Antiamory. Non-amory. We light flames with our music. Our wonderful, and painfully iconoclastic blend that fits cleanly into a possible future that very definitely does not currently exist.
Went to–or rather took the family to–the state fair last night. “For Over 120 Years.” Purgatory. The carnies. Some friendly. Most tired. Large noses, misshapen jaws, narrow eyes. What drugs were you doing last night? What are you on now? Please, put my six year old on your rickety metal machine that turns her sideways at 40 miles an hour on a metal track.
The music. A cover band sings, “I got friends in low places.” Hit songs of the past five years. Disco here. Hard rock there. Alcohol is served. Dollars are exchanged. Five dollars is today’s dollar bill. Everybody wins a prize. Giant dolls. Inflatable animals. “It’s the fair, you’re supposed to have the best time of your life”, one caller suggested. Purgatory.
What planet are these people from? What planet am I from? Are we the same species? Philosophy descends like a fog. Zombie walk from ride to ride, game to game, guided by Ashirah. Leaking five dollar bills. We eat dry french fries and bagged cotton candy. I skip the cotton candy. Once you’ve had crack…
Rising from the dull bed, unfulfilled and seeking to release some restlessness. Make another deposit in the bank of verse. Wrapping this blanket of importance around these broken shoulders.
There is a heart. There is a heart. More than just that little black marble in the wrinkled sandwich bag.
Pull these thoughts. Suck this mind down into the bucket of emotion. Funny thing about a barrel of laughs, when the party quiets down, it makes for lonely company.
Everyone’s asleep including the cat. Wrapped in a blanket of purpose, the poet sets her head on fire, mistaking it for a candle wick.
Works out well. With embers where the face was, she can finally sleep.
Feebly following along another path to nowhere. Hello old neglected diary. Rags dies. Ten years old. Poor lonely little pup. His tongue turned to death in his mouth. I held him for the terminal injection. He’d had a pretty sucky looking week. Rivka called it on Friday. Took him to Dr. Steadman on Monday.
This is life. Breathe deep. Susan got cancer. Andrea and Ed died of it. Stress and sugar.
Rikki and I struggle deeply. Our “act” is in the outhouse. Mad Crappy. They try too hard. Which of us is the most narcissistic? How much of a controlling, codependent prick must I be?
Being in a house full of naked females is pretty awesome, even when their pissy toilet paper spills regularly out of the bathroom trash. Why do I wait for them to change it?
Fuck resentment. Fuck mania. Do I want to be awake at 1am writing this? Do you want to be reading it, or is it just obsession? What are we looking for?
Mom is turning 80 and doesn’t want to make a thing of it. I hear that. Fuck birthdays, but that’s kind of selfish.
The kids. They’re all about their birthdays. Aširah wants to invite her new best friend to hers. She met the girl once months ago. We all obsess. She’s getting roller skates for her birthday. And a helmet and knee and elbow pads. Rinah gets some pads too. And a ton of shit from the dollar store. The real dollar store: The Dollar Tree. The final distribution point for commercial failures.
Now is the time to buy grown-up person coloring books. Found some gems.
Carrie’s in publishing. They literally can’t give the coloring books away. Sending them to pulp by the thousands.
On a lighter note, Aširah lamented the other morning, “G’wown-ups a’h duh kings an’ kweens of weelaxing!”.
It’s one thing being gay in theory. It’s another in practicality. Pensacola, Florida ain’t exactly San Francisco.
Eight months ago we were polyamorous in theory. Now it’s real. Our boyfriend is beautiful. Well over six feet tall with very dark skin and a wide, bright smile. His speaking voice has a very high range that on the phone would be mistaken for a woman’s.
Rikki did not expect him to be interested in them. Our new boyfriend is fairly bird-like with affectations that would lead one to expect they weren’t interested in pussy. Whether or not pussy is an interest, Rikki is. The two of them are adorable together. Fucking adorable.
In many ways we barely even know this dude. He’s been our voice trainer for a few months. Sings his ass off. So far it’s just been kissing and hugging and maybe a little crotch massaging. Rikki and I fucked slowly and every time I would gently say the name of our new love, Rikki would moan. Rikki was singing like a bird. Rikki has been on cloud nine since finding out that our new boyfriend was not just my new boyfriend: bubbling and gushing on and on.
I can’t believe that he’s interested in me.
Rikki has always talked about being a fag hag. A fruit fly.
Rikki says that seeing he and I together, I am “so gay”.
You are so gay.
Bubbling and gushing.
It’s taking a little getting used to. So gay is something that as a kid in Hoboken, New Jersey was no thing to be. I aim to fearlessly embrace this, though. If I am so gay, so be it. So gay and then some. Fuck yes. How liberating.
And I get to enjoy this absolutely gorgeous feminine partner in skin, shape, voice, motherhood and wisdom.
The top of the world is a nice place to look around from.
Broken-fuckin-hearted. If I even know what that word means.
Saturday started with an early morning visit to the market for raw milk (3 gallons), vegetables and maybe some humane meat.
Jerry Jackson and I mangreed with each other for a few minutes. That’s where men get together and mansplain with each other. He goes, “I deal with a lot of fundamentalism, but the Christian community housed two hundred people last night, what did the yoga community do?”
Ran into another head-shaving mom and learned about her and her beautiful husbands impending divorce. He insists. They have been co-habitating with her parents, which must tie in at some level.
“You can tell him Mike iLL says he’s being a fool.” And as if on cue, Dude pulls up twenty feet from us on his moped (or whatever it is). She chokes up and walks away.
He’s shrugging his shoulders and looking everywhere but in my eyes insisting that he’s “happier now.”
My usual rap: “isn’t one crazy partner enough? we end up with the same issues again. you are such a great couple.”
Been reading the author bell hooks, who talks about crossing the threshold of pain to find the self and live in love. So when “a round peg and a square hole” comes up I arrogantly say, “you can either go through the pencil sharpener or stay square. you can even die square.”
An hour or two later Can Imagine is at our house with an opportunity. A bee swarm up in one of his trees. It had happened to be National Tree Climbing Day and we spend an hour or two cutting a lowering this limb down to shake the swarm into a screen box. Can wonders if monogamy is actually a good plan. We talk about how many pounds of bees this heavy box must be holding.
Shaking the bees into the top bar hive, there is a pretty large pile, many of which would be dead.
Well today I confirmed that that pile was most of the swarm. Literally thousands of bees, who’s death I am responsible for.
Our marriage has also been very very fucking rocky lately and to complete the weekend, the International Folk Dance Group are discontinuing for the time being do to lack of attendance.
What should die is thinking I’m supposed to be in charge. Fuck you whoever told my great great grandparents that.
Gorgeous rain. Night rain. Rags shivers always. Does he remember the great flood? Dogs, Gods love made visible. Rags deserves more. Everybody around here is neglected.
“Intense, Remote and Intelligent”, Doris said. Three words. Without a moment’s hesitation. Like she just knew it.
Rikki is transgender. Pussy is a Penssy. We barely use it. Asexuality is a thing. Why do women have breasts? So men will talk to them.
Getting older and staring at women’s asses. Fuck. This isn’t what life is about, is it? What kind of role does sex deserve? Sacred? A distraction? Both?
Oshun is goddess of sex, love and abundance. We barely even have dance. The children do. Spinning skirts.
Om. Indian and Muslim cats who awake at three am for two hours to ponder the universe: hang with God. Jam with God.
Went with almost five Ashirah to the instrument petting zoo today, then croissants on the grass in the park. The cafe had given us red and white checkered wax paper. The perfect little disposable picnic blanket. It was the best day of our lives.
Wondered a little while later, was there a best day? Rivka goes, “you might not remember it.” So fucking wise.
How do I find these people with so much fucking integrity. Even the liars I hang with have integrity. Nice.
Other homeless transgender people stay here now. STRIVE peops. So far between good and great. Or fine and great, anyway. Cool learning. So much to learn.
Try to remember to shut the fuck up. Talking is a dangerous occupation.
Free from eating today. Hoping to track down the cause of this persistent rash on the legs. Would love to reset my ego. It’s a lot of work to haul around.
Maybe happiness is a false goal. An impossibility. We distract ourselves from a giant hole which is the foundation of this existence. A huge longing. Maybe we just want to experience as much joy as possible.
With our art, our projects we place interesting shapes and pretty colors, ideas, graphic relationships across the emptiness that fills the hole. Ideally we paint the sides of the hole. We paint our way down to the bottom of the hole, finding our way to the eternal bliss on the other side. But we have to turn ourselves inside out in the process.
Having never made it through all the way, we emerge from the process having unloaded some pain, some baggage. Maybe we share the process, the colors. An exhibit.
Afterwards we realize we are still half-way inside out. Our intestines are hanging out over the edge of the pelvis. The mouth is inside out, silver fillings and yellow roots showing. The white stuff at the back of the tongue is thicker than you realized. The stomach is stinky. The heart exerts itself publicly, trying to get the attention of the exhausting stillness of the partially unfolded brain.
We start reassembling ourselves into some kind of non-offensive form. Something easier on the eyes. We consider discontinuing the practice. Who would mind if we ceased our endeavors? If we simply stopped generating more colors, more success, more of the music that litters the sound waves, ears and landfills of this world.
Good for you, they’d might say. Well done. If John Lennon became a shoe salesman, would it have bothered you?
Billy told us a great story last night. His first big gig at like 18 or 19 was playing with this smooth jazz superstar who plays one of the softer-sounding brass instruments. There had been a song at—as an instrumental—was a top ten chart-topper for a long time and everyone knew it. The dude would pay it everywhere: Happy Mood, or something.
The band would get on a plane and out pops the horn. Everyone recognizes the popular melody and applauds. At restaurants after the gig they’d arrange champagne bottles for Billy to play the accompanying beat on.
Smooth Jazz was an object of ridicule and scorn at this point for hipsters and serious musicians, but it was a good gig and took Billy around the world for years as the guys popularity gruelingly waned. Eventually iLLy-B was able to establish himself on a hipper scene and moved on.
When he got married, Billy invited the guy to his wedding, but begged all his friends, “don’t let him play the song.”
During the reception all these edgy, esoteric musicians and the “the song” guy are smoking out back and the guy goes, “ya think it’s time to play the song?”
John—who can’t say no to anybody despite is mischievous nature—breaks the pensive silence with a slow, “yeah.”
So they all go in. Billy’s in his wedding suit. Dude starts playing “the song”: doo doo dawh, dot dot ta-dah. dot dot ta-dah, dee dah dah… . Billy’s heart is sinking. His wedding is ruined. Then someone starts playing along on their beer bottle. And another. Soon everyone is playing. It was the peak of magic. And for Billy, an epiphany.