This *is* the place. The moment in time. My moment.
“All hell is about to break loose,” I say to the Queen of Eeyore’s, H2. What I mean is, in my life, things are about to add up. My equation is soon to be solved. Was for almost three months. Foul weather and lingering trauma did not prepare me for the free fall of loss. A familiar trajectory. This time my safety measures and backup systems are working smoothly. All is fine. All is not well. I am happy.
I am happy.
What is more than that?
We are happy. We could be happy together. Do you want to be my girlfriend? Perhaps I should ask more often. Not leap into the arms of anyone with out a bit more flight planning and sustained periods of rest. Unrest and discord is not my aim. When that becomes the average, the common thread in my relationship, it becomes untenable. Time to fly.
{queue.I’m.gonna.let.him.fly.Patti.Griffin}
Look up from the keyboard, you’re mising the joy passing, the river of hippie life. Even more magical than the affluent organic Pilates practitioners at “holy foods.”
Bubbles all day. Thin, uberthin, hippie chicks “out walking with gorillas down my street.”*
She is here. She has a newborn and heavy breasts. (Oral fixation, anyone?) Sorry, that was crude. Is it okay if I get crude in my own book? Yes, yes it is. It’s expected. The AI duo won’t like it. There’s no “motherfucker” in duolingo and that’s a shame. What about cursoLingua?* The cursing phrases from over 1,000 languages, with pronunciation and nuanced historical relevance. There is no joy in a 2,237 day streak on duolingo in a language you don’t really read, write, or converse in. What are you doing? Reliving some memory of your trip to Paris?
Never mind. Alive alive oh.
Here beside the bandstand, in the cool shaded grass as the temperatures are rising with the sun above. No knowledge of my son below. No knowledge is okay. Nothing matters. Nothing is important. My control over others is a dangerous fetish best left for the NOLA witches and thieves. Nothing but thieves here. Nothing but sex workers, sex lovers, and sex avoidant pretending to be liberated.
Sensuality requires inner calm and confidence. If ever brush of your bottom means I’m initiating sex with you, it’s going to wear us both out. Let’s set the marker: I want you, yes. I want the idea of you in fuzzy tiger ears holding your not-yet-walking son who needs a new nappy. Shit. I do not want to be back in that movie. But those… Nope. Stop. Reset.
Watching people is nice. If someone is uncomfortable with delight in the river of life, they might be struggling with their own inner voices. It’s natural and holistic. Breasts are our origin story, all of us. Well, vagina, actually, but you see where I’m headed. Breasts are life. (pause line of thought for common decency.)
The beautiful woman with the fuzzy ears and her tall and tattooed man, have an ugly pale baby. Squatting and looking happier now. That post poop look. But she, the mom, damn! The band is about to start and my guess is, she’s gonna move. Let’s see how that develops.
[Note to reader: the narrative unexpectedly ends here… we are seeking details… it may have been an EMP event or an alien abduction, sources and captured phone streams on TikTok and Instagram pin the time at exactly 3:22 pm. The narrator was walking home from the festival of free love. No further information is available.]
*David Byrne
*Joe Jackson, Look Sharp
*cursoLingua: cursing phrases from over 1,000 languages, with pronunciation and nuanced historical relevance.
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