Jetlagged and Cranky

Pretty much sums it up.

My international P-W (potential, prospective, or possible - wife) meeting didn't go as plan, but was nevertheless delightful, except for both of our sneezing and coughing and my snoring. We ended up only having one night to meet, the limbo of my trip when I arrived back in Berlin from Paris only to leave for the States in the morning. I arrived as a kind-of pathetic bride/groom; voice half there, burdened with baggage, running low on Euro. I came bearing a droopy wilted rose and a real Parisian croissant.....totally forgot she was vegan. But she took care of me and let me relax from my capable, independent traveller mode into a happily ignorant follower. The sick leading the sick. Each of us, independently was hoping to convince the other to go to the new Holocaust Memorial for our one-night, International date. I introduced her, in concept and image only, to Pee-wee. She translated everything and explained why Sweden may need my pleasure activist gospel. There's strange, mostly solo, soft-core porn on free Berlin TV late at night. She bought me octopus, and ate the croissant anyway.


Back up weeks ago to Berlin when I'm really there, there for more than the great, snotty, between flights date. I find and ad with a compelling photo on the artists section of Berlin Craigs List. I email the artist, telling her that while I realize she is not posting in the personals, I think her work and name are hot. Then I check out her site. She seems to be in the states, and holy shit, I think this may be my wife. The themes, the images, the my-typeness of it all....we are cut from similar conceptual cloth. I almost write her again just to say " And I think you may be my wife..." but refrain for the sake of appearances of sanity. Surprisingly, I get a reply, and quickly.
Even more surprisingly, she seems to have addressed my unspoken, unwritten lunge towards connection...well, ok, betrothal:

"Haha...well, thanks but I am happily hitched. Glad you liked the work.
~Kalliope"


Beautiful, talented....psychic!? But alas, apparently not for me.
It's cool though, I think the practice lunges keep me in shape.


I encourage you all to check out her site and give her money and shows.

Crazy Love

Could you Love This Person?



(warning: spoiler, especially in the links)

Crazy Love: The marriage I will do anything to avoid.

One of the craziest love-abuse-marriage stories ever. Seriously. A reminder that at this point, falling off the 'crazy' wagon for me is a neutral-friendly email, and all those thoughts about flat tires and spray-painted windows and bottles full of piss and disemboweled abdomens stay in my active little head, while this world is really full of genuine wackos passing themselves off as human beings, and in this case, more than getting away with it. I feel like I'm crazy when I get to feeling like Mr. Tehn but actually I don't hurt people except for mutual consensual pleasure and money and have never once contracted anyone to throw acid at any of the people who get new shiny girlfriends. Not once. This movie may elicit some hatred of men, I must warn you, especially if you are susceptible to that anyway. Or it may just boggle your gender-neutral mind, completely.

Regardless, when Irene and I left the video store today I showed her the cover and she said: "Looks like you. Both of them."
And I don't deny it. In fact I feel like the above picture is an accurate portrayal of about 70% of my personality and internal image. I've got many little people living in this Mer-cat (including a beautiful and demanding Princess that hasn't held court in far too long; a nurturing Mommy who cooks, cuddles, and reads aloud; a dapper vintage cad with a foppish hat and roguish cane; and a little hobbling naked imp covered in snake skins and dried glue) but this double image of femme glamour and intense wacky creep makes up the lion's share. The Burt Pugach part of the picture reminds me a lot of R. Crumb, a figure I have taken to relating to more and more over the last year (but only mostly because I am a notorious pervert with similar taste in women). Note the -weeesque bow tie. The Linda Riss side is the fancy lady from my photo shoots, though in fact she was a very nice girl and a virgin until her 30's. We have similar eyebrows.

Though the resemblance goes a bit deeper than appearances, or more accurately, self-image.
So while the story of these people horrifies me, as components of the psyche, I am fascinated with them. More than that, I recognize them as my own. I relate to both the drastic obsession and the appeal of being loved fanatically. I understand the dark barbed lure of insanity, the seductiveness of passion untempered by reason. These days I channel that urge mostly into art and BDSM and also the occasional harmless rant in my living room. Not as romantic as a heroin addiction, but easier to recover from and probably more sustainable. This is a picture of boundlessness, in wanter and wanted. Rumi always puts it in terms of the lover and the beloved.

As usual I am, and want, both.

Best Xmas Ever!

At the old BDSM dungeon/queer sorority/house of pancakes, there was a magnet on the fridge that I'll always remember. It was just a quotation from Tallulah Bankhead which said "It's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time." It always struck me as very true, whenever I had all of the intriguing plot devices of my life working, I never wanted to stop and record them, but if I was lonely or lamenting or procrastinating unpleasant or difficult tasks, suddenly I found I could write again. The quotation always made me feel a little proud, a little guilty, a little absolved and a little sad. This week has been a perfect example of not feeling able to take the time to write because ever since the solstice I have been in a great mood and busy and having lots of fun. Let me just take a minute to note how nice it is after this year of valley and then brief shining peak and then more fucking chilly valley, to just feel good and happy and fun for no particular reason (though of course the new bed magic, solstice, my horoscope, the new "Lighten Up" tincture I've been taking, creating a fun and loving space with my chosen family for holidays, etc. have I'm sure all done their part). It's like being able to breathe deeply again after not realizing you've been holding your breath.

So here's the brief, crucial elements, best xmas ever break-down:
1. Food-prep with the ever diligent and tolerant and sweet and fun Marko, the low point being when all of our lovely pierogies stuck together in one big mush pile, which quickly turned into a gleeful monstrosity mutant pierogi mother which was boiled all together and threatened to be forced upon Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants to eat in one sitting whilst we cheered him on. Marko brought Slavic music and was a delight to cook with, though I fear I may have over-worked him. Hopefully he will call me back soon.

2. Wigilia party! Wow, it just felt amazing to share a part of my heritage and family tradition with a bunch of lovely freaks. It made me so happy and was very touching and everyone seemed to love the food and have a good time, even participating in the wafer tradition and eating all the "Sledzie" (herring marinated in oil and onions) which I was sure no one would eat. I wore a fancy red velvet dress stolen from my sister and Pee-wee slippers given me by my mother. Kilo showed up and fried fish like a fish-frying master and people brought non-Polish food (you could tell it wasn't Polish because it was green) and everyone looked great. I got lots of beautiful loving friend time, some gifts and hugs and new-bed cuddles. The whole thing made me so happy.

3. Party at Tricksie's house. A real, old-fashioned, hot-young-people, holiday pleasure fest. So much food. Plenty of drunks (but not too-drunks.) Mistletoe and lapdances (ok, I started the lapdances). The Rolling Stones and Gremlins and Muppet's a Christmas Carol. Special non-alky egg nog made just for me. Queers and straights and hipsters and weirdos. Kissing and cuddles. Lots of laughter and a beautiful tree. A festive new mocktail created by Chris: a peppermint candy in a glass of chilled tonic water. Party time into the morning.

4. Unexpected lovely mistletoe/party payoff: Santa brought me sex!
Super sweet and fun! Hooray!

5. Waking up in the afternoon to this text message: " I got engaged!", from a Baltimore number. Tiredly fumbling through my numbers, deciding if it was my sister or beloved ex, I would loose my shit, but if it was my other friend and former date, I would be ok. Good friend and former date it is! Holy shit! One of those moments of "Oh yeah! Here it begins! A big ole new phase of life events starting in my little world!" (Perhaps a fortuitous sign for our wife-bent heroine?) Many congratulations to Erica!

6. Pie and sparkling cider with pomegranate juice for breakfast. Calling the family, everyone is happy. (Benefit of calling the family over being on the family's couch during this time of year.) I totally forgot that I also get presents! A slow and leisurely progression towards 16th street. The streets are so quiet and calm, the Mission feels like a ghost town and it's glorious.

7. 16th St. giant backyard TRAMPOLINE party! Snacks and queers and silly dancing! Wearing my new beret and a mustache. Sexy Madlibs! Trampoline!!!!

8. Sweeney Todd! Too sexy to criticize except to say that the vocal track wasn't loud enough during the songs, but knifeplay and blood and Johnny and Helena! ACK! So exciting. Probably a poor movie, but too exciting. Dark theater groping. Cheering for the mental patients.

9. Finally home and a very sweet gift exchange with Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants. New Leatherman, AWESOME! Bonding and dozing during Cry Baby (double Depp?! Hellz yeah!) reminding us of our homeland and bizarro roots. Finally plodding off to new bed cozy sleep.


More dates for this week, one pseudo, two real. It's exciting to be happy and feel real and in touch with pleasure in some deeper way again.

Not to mention the leftover Barszcz.
(And to all the non-Poles, just because "uszka" means 'little ears', doesn't mean they're not vegetarian. )

Merry Happy Joy and Love to everyone. Sleep well and warmly, I wish you much peace.

My First Partial Offer

Well this weekend marked a milestone for SLWaW and a number of them for me, personally, but the most relevant of them was that I got a partial, mostly joking, potential offer for a maybe wife.

Someday.

She is gorgeous, over 20 years my senior, the girlfriend of dear friends of mine, and lives out of town. So there are some potential drawbacks (mostly the out of town part) and also a great deal more of getting-to-know in ways other than biblical. The road to wifey is neither short nor easy, well, at least it hasn't been for me. But I feel much encouraged by even casual interest in my proposition. It's exciting!

It reminds me of the rule I learned in my Arts Administration for the Independent Artist class (thank you Krista DeNio!): the guideline for promotion is a 10-1 ratio. If you flyer for an event, about 1 out of every 10 people who pick up a flyer will show up. Now I know that marriage is a little more specialized of an event than a Hanukkah-themed burlesque circus, or a plague of masturbating Pee-wees, at least in this town, but I figure after several hundred, or no more than a few thousand drunken offers of"oh, I'll be your wife!", something has got to pan out.
(The lovely lady in question was not drunk by the way, that's just how I envision future encounters or offers emerging: them drunk and clinging to their seething date, me Charlie Chaplining it out of there.)

Wow, I was just about to get so 90's lesbo. Well, I've been accused of being a 90's lesbo before, so I might as well go for it. What I was going to say was: as the fine film 'Go Fish'* taught us, "The Girl Is Out There."

So, one down, countless more to go. Hooray for the first, not-totally-single, step.







*As a 16 year old living in Baltimore, I went to the local small art theater no less than 3 times when Go Fish was in the theater. I clearly remember one time arranging for a mixed group of boy-girl couples and friends to go with me so I wouldn't seem so damn gay, though I'm unclear about to whom. (Same thing with 'The Incredibly True Story of Two Girls In Love'. As far as media went, if there were ladies who liked ladies, I ate it up, though I remember being a little confused at the time by the boxing butch.) Even at 16, I identified most with the butchy lethario, Daria. After at least one of my gleeful viewings I went, by myself, to the cute dyke cafe, the now defunct 'Cafe Diana'. My head swimming with Guinevere Turner's comely image, I got myself tea and cake and sat there amongst the lavender walls, glowing with feelings of satisfied lesbianism, about to burst with my own queerness, dying for someone to talk to me. Of course, no one ever talked to me, I must have looked like some very strange kid who (as Irene and I say about dudes in suits at the Lex, the local dyke bar) 'didn't know where I was'.
It turns out that I never really got the hang of 'lesbianism', per se, sexually I'm too curious and flexible, though I may be one in spirit. But it was the 90's, in Baltimore, and I still refused to say 'fag' out of respect and hadn't ever met a transperson yet and was desperately in love with my best friend and didn't even know I was goth. So lesbians, wherever I could get them, see them, be around them trying silently to make them love me, were it for me. No wonder I'm a 90's lesbian, I never really got to be one when that was all the queer I knew. Well, another psychological mystery solved. Ima go listen to some Ani.