Some girlfriends are coming over tomorrow night to choreograph a dance routine. R & I are the same height & look like sisters, J is very tall with dark hair & long body. I think the three of us could do a spectacular choreo playing with the height & shape differrences. We shall see.

There is this one piece of Turkish music I love, but the tempo changes so frequently and the song is ten minutes long I just don't think we could do it. We could, but it would take a year to choreograph. However, there is another, shorter, less dramatic song I know we could combine lots of interesting moves. It's an Egyptian cd I bought from my dance instructor, who imports and sells good music. She's very picky about the quality of music, and I agree-- there's nothing worse than having to listen to crap synthesized shit 200 times while you're learning what moves to do in each measure of the song. But this Egyptian cd, which I bought before September 11, 2001, can no longer be imported into the USA. There are quite a few recordings that are still being published, you just can't bring them into this country.

I want to make up a sweet little choreo for this oh so subversive music.

I have been practicing this one rather complicated move. It's called a resistance move, because the isolations of muscles create the effect that you're floating. You start by rotating your rib cage vertically, like you are drawing a circle on the wall with your sternum. With that going, you use this standard undulating kind of walk to the side, feet crossing over eachother, crabwise and opposite the way your rib cage is going. Very cool effect, not easy to pull off. Practice makes perfect.

Looks like Leah blew my cover on May 30 so I might as well do damage control. Despite his protests, the secret crime fighting force of the Angels was all the Coyote's idea. Ang calls us crazy but then who really believes she got a new job and had to hurry up & hire her own replacement? The truth is we have a secret rendezvous with xbi agent Tony on a small island somewhere in the Arabian Sea. I can't disclose any more information. The world will be a better place, so long as our mission goes well. This message will self-destruct in two days.


I heard the devil's chariot in the middle of the night rolling across the sky. We had a humdinger of a thunderstorm. I was awakened at 4am by anxious dogs. At first when I got up I thought there was a cop car parked out front, lights flashing, but soon realized it was lightning and thunder.

It was spectacular.

It was about three miles south of us when I got up at 4, and it continued to roll right over us. All the animals decided our bedroom was the safest place to be; one dog under the bed, one on the rug beside S (who kept dozing off in between the thunder rolls), one cat in the closet, the other in the clothes hamper.

I had never felt so much electricity in the air. It shook the house, rattled the windows. I've been in storms here in the Pacific Northwest, seen some nasty weather, but haven't ever been afraid to go outside like last night. It was too close for comfort; we could hear the sky split, heavy screeching crackle of the lightning, and then the immediate BOOOM!rumblerumble boomrumbleboom rumblerumble rolling across the sky. It lasted for about an hour. The lightning lit up our whole house brighter than daylight.


I work in a very relaxed office. We have no public interaction except via telephone, and I usually run around barefoot or in my socks. Jeans, t-shirts, shorts, sandals are all acceptable. Sometimes, if the boss knows a big mucky-muck is coming to the office, she asks us to please dress nicely for the day, which is no hardship, since it gives all of us 12 women chances to say things like, "Oooh, I love that skirt, it's so flattering on you!"

Well, today is one of those days when we're all gussied up. When I was getting dressed this morning, I pulled on a new pair of black tights. Black skirt, black shoes, black tights, little green top, my husband said, "Oooh la la." Anyway, the tights felt quite comfy, and now I am realizing they felt comfy because they aren't tight enough. Guess I bought some that are too big. They are creeping down with each step I take, and since I move all over the office, I take lots of steps. It looks ridiculous, big saggy loose elephant-skin ankles. If I pull them up they stay up for about half an hour, and then they're droopy again. Droopy hose. Bah. Can's wait until those important people come & then leave so I can get rid of the stupid tights, run around with bare nekked leggies.


The beach was so refreshing. We live less than an hour away, and S & I used to go every weekend. It's been hard to find time to do anything, between the business & work.

The water was like ice, and felt like fire at first, but then it seemed to take all the aches and pains in my whole body and suck it out through my toes. I stood with the water halfway between my knees and ankles, watched the waves, felt the pull of the water and sand. Little tiny brine shrimp went scurrying past my toes, it was hard to see them but when the sun came out I could see their shadows. I somehow managed to get my pants soaking wet, even though I was careful about the waves, so I made a nest for myself in the little grassy cliffside out of the wind. Dogs came and found safe warm places near me, and in a short while, S found me & curled up next to me, put his head on my shoulder.

The salty air and warm sun made for good napping. His hair smelled like beach and felt soft on my cheek. It was heavenly to relax all curled up with S, legs and arms entwined. He is a wonderful man.
He had been hunting, and found some agates, some driftwood, and some petrified wood.

The sand was loose and fine and the sun was out, not too windy. I love the beach. The sound of the waves, the solitude, the pebbles, the tide, the sea birds, the sand. The constant inconstancy of the place.

Such a bittersweet weekend.
Friend Rob & his brother came Thursday, attended their great uncle's funeral on Friday, left on Saturday. They said it was nice to see us but I wished it had been for a vacation and not for a funeral.

Friend Sean is visiting now, he arrived Saturday. He is considering moving to Oregon. Works a soul-sucking data-crunching job and can't breathe in the place where he lives. And if he moved up here it would be without his wife a son.

Sean is an operatic tenor. He has the most beautiful voice. He gave up working with the big orchestra in SF because of the politics and the commute, and aside from his computer job teaches private voice lessons these days. He took us to the beach, which was a great treat. We haven't been to the beach in months. Sean sang the whole way there. It was delightful to go riding through the rainy forested coast range headed for the beach with him singing everything from tv show themes to church hymns to Italian opera.

I found out my Grandma is back in the hospital. My Mom was visiting her when I called, so I talked with my Dad. Grandma is 87 years old. When I talked to my Mom later in the evening she was crying. It's hard to hear my sweet Momma cry.

We had friends over last night. She has a wonderful voice, & he brought his guitar. They sang and played for us, we fed them venison and marionberry pie. I sent them home with about ten roses, some irises, and hugs.

I need Moses
To come cross this sea of loneliness
Part this red river of pain

Everywhere is somewhere and
Nowhere is near
Everybody's got somebody
With their wine and their beer

And I'm just a tragic figure
In this corner over here
Go back home to an empty apartment
With a best friend who is... queer.

Oh, diamonds
I need Moses
To cross this sea of loneliness
Part this red river of pain...


Time for the weekend.

Gracias to Joe for stalking me.

Hello to Leah, who has to work Monday because she lives in a different time zone or another country or something.

Smiles for Dave, for his insightful posts and interesting comment debates even if he misunderstood and thought I said he was a big dumb jock.

Greetings to Bubu and Doobs, who live closer to me than I can imagine!

And go howl at Terry who posts the coolest pics & great links.

Have a good one.


Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.

Tonight my girlfriend R performs in a club in Corvallis. She finished her red costume Monday & wore it to class last night to make certian it would stay in place despite the shimmies and twists. It's lovely, dark red velvet decorated with chains and faceted gold beads. Understated. Beautiful. Ring them bells.

This house woulda burned down a long time ago.

Tomorrow KJ & his daughters are coming for dinner. KJ is Iranian, and was part of the workers & peasants party in Iran. He fled to Iceland from political persecution after his best friend was executed.
His daughters are Iranian & Icelandic and they are just heart-achingly beautiful.

I ain't done nothin since I woke up today.

Also tomorrow our old college friend Rob is arriving with his brother. They're attending a funeral for their great uncle and grandmother, who died in a house fire.
Rob is one of those really smart people who acts like he doesn't know anything. He was a forward observer in the 82nd Airborne. I met him because he was also an English major, & S knew him through College Bowl. One night S & Rob & I were playing Trivial Pursuit & Rob was losing until he took off his boots & socks. He actually said, "Oh wow, my feet kind of smell. Hm. Well that's just too bad for you" and proceeded to win.

Make me a poster of that old rodeo.


Doobs has prompted me to blab a bit about life. In the previous comment box she said it sounds like I am enjoying my life, and asked if I would change it for anything.
That's one of those curious questions...

Like asking a little kid what they want to be when they grow up.
When I was a little kid I never could answer that question. I don't know if I can do it now, either.

My husband's mom told me before I got married that it never bothered her how long S took to get his degree. He spent 10 years as an undergrad, did great in all his classes, changed his major four times. When he was five years old and she asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, she told me he looked at her very seriously and said, "I want to learn everything."

Me, I haven't wanted anything but to be happy. Happiness for me is simple-- I am happy.
Gloria Steinem said happiness is a conscious decision, not an automatic response.

This is life, and it's hard. People die, people hurt, people get lost. But life is what you make it. My current situation does not really fit my idea of happiness, but I am determined to make the most of it. Ride it until the wheels fall off, as they say. I worry about family and friends. I have loved ones who are sick, who are dying. But you know, we're all here for such a short time, it is best to treasure the moments rather than be unhappy about them. Life is pain. Eat, drink, be merry, because tomorrow it could be all over.


Maybe we all want something we don't have.

Wild weekend and I don't even know what happened to Monday. Sunday was delicious and warm, and S & I walked a few nice miles down by the river & then had beer & lunch at a cool old brew pub downtown.
Saturday was hard and tempers were reflected in the tempestuous weather-- warm and still then breezy and cloudy, then stormy. It hailed and rained. And then the sun came out again. We had a beautiful girl come sing like an angel in the coffeehouse. S worked the counter with B, who just moved into the room above the coffeehouse. B liked it. He's from Chicago. He called all the women "sweetheart" and all the men "comrade" as he handed them their chai teas and lattes and cremosas.
It was a long night.

My dance instructor is doing a workshop at the school of ballet and then a performance at the coffeehouse on June 7, which happens to be my birthday. It will be the big three-oh for me. Funny but I still feel like I'm 23. I was a late bloomer. I can't think of a better way to spend it than to see Astryd dance.


Draggin today. We had some nice folks over for bbq'd rack of lamb last night. They arrived late, we ate later, they left really late. But it was worth it. It was fun. We were silly by the end of the evening, telling stupid, corny, dated and bad-taste jokes, none of which are really funny enough to recount but at 11 pm after 3 bottles of wine and with very full bellies, most things are funny.

The meal was delicious, and so was the apple crisp she brought, which weighed a ton.
Dessert dishes are like stereo components; the heavier the better. You can be happy with the light, cheap, bare-bones, gonna-break-in-a-year turntable (oh yeah gotta have vinyl), but you know you will be so much more satisfied with the teak-wood, brass-knob, weighs-a-frickin-ton, smoothe-as-butter turntable.
Same thing with dessert. Especially the butter part.

I would love to go sit in a hot tub right now. And then take a nap.

Here's a revolving door with quite a personality and his own email address.


We got roses.

It's a good year for the roses, oh yes. I went out in the drizzly misty twilight last night and picked about ten blossoms from various bushes in our yard. The previous owners loved rose bushes; there are about 50 of them, lining the fences and in the flower beds. I don't have a favorite, but I like the roses that smell good. Some have been bred for fancy colors and don't smell like anything.

There are some I know, like Mr Lincoln, and Chicago Peace, and American Beauty, and Double Delight. We got old roses, tree roses, antique roses, heirloom roses, climbing roses, bourbon roses, miniature roses, rambling roses, tea roses, regular old white and regular old red, yellow, orange, and all kinds of pink.

This winter we didn't have time to trim them back at all and guess what? they look fantastic.
They're beautiful.
But there are lots of thorns.

I keep running into conversations about free will and God. It's an important issue to me because I strive to live simply and honestly, and have found Christianity to contain the simplest set of rules for me to do so: Love one another is pretty simple.

But there are lots of thorns.


Feeling crappy but not nearly so crabby today.
I ate macaroni and cheese & had a beer for dinner last night. Wahoo I am raking in the health points with that one.

The cottonwood trees here by the river are spewing their white crud everywhere. Tree sex.

I had this strange dream last night, probably induced by valerian, garlic-brandy tincture (hhhhlllt) and nyquil and I finished an Anne Rice mind candy book about 10:30, so I picked up where I left off in the middle of Mody Dick and fell asleep while reading.
It was a full moon and a wind-tossed sea and Raymi was standing with her hair all wild in the front of this big Spanish galleon, all sails billowed, pirate flag whipping in the wind.
She smiled and said, "Woe be to the fucking leviathan who crosses me," with a wink and then she bared her vampire fangs.


At the Sacramento International (ha) Airport yesterday, when I was already late, I was "selected" for a security screening. I think it's because I rolled my eyes when they made the businessman in front of me go through the magic doorway twice even though he hadn't sounded any alarm the first time.

I had to take off my shoes, carry my bag and coat over to the "screening area" and stand with my arms outstretched. I protested, I said, "But my flight is boarding."
The drone with the magic wand told me I had to be screened before I could board.

I asked, "What happens if I miss my flight?"
"That's not my problem," she said.
I was really uncooperative. I hadn't slept well, and after 3 days of breathing valley air my head hurt and I had turned into the Incredible Snot Machine.

"Why me?" I demanded.
"You've been selected for a security screening." Bzzz bzz bzzzz.
"Hold your arms up and stand on the footprints"
"Who selected me for a security screening?"
Bzzzz "Stand on the footprints, ma'am."
"What happens if I miss my flight?"
"I can't help you with that. Please take a seat and I'll check your bag."

I sat legs and arms akimbo, staring at the ceiling. I SO wanted to blow a snot rocket at her.

It only took a few moments, and then I was able to run to my gate, catch my plane, and get the hell out of Dodge.

I commiserated with the nice older man sitting next to me on the flight to Portland. He looked at me and said, "You're maybe 5'3" and weigh 110 pounds. Do they think you're going to break down the door and commandeer the plane? That's like my last flight they pulled aside this old lady in a wheelchair and thoroughly checked out her and her wheelchair. They took this tiny half-inch-long commemorative knife away from me, like it could be considered a weapon. It's ridiculous. I understand why they shouldn't do racial profiling, but at least use some common sense."

As Mark Twain said, the thing about common sense is that it's not so common.


Had a nice visit with my parents and Grandma. Killed a bottle of cheap red vino with my Dad. Picked all the lemons in the backyard and made lemonade and drank so much of it my tongue was burning but it stopped my sinuses from burning, at least for a short time. Ah, allergies.

I would turn into such an alcoholic if I lived there.

Concertina wire around the top of the beauty salon to keep people off the big flat Spanish-style roof. The building had been tagged so heavily with red spray paint it looked like it was bleeding. Broken down burned out car in the library parking lot.

Cars and cars and cars so many cars. Gas stations and drive-thrus and car washes with 20 cars lined up. Car culture. Drive to work, work to drive. SMOG. And everyone drives 80 all the time, even on the city streets.

Big wide open but you can't see the horizon because the air is brown, and you can't have none of that land, that land was stolen a long time ago.

People I love telling me capitalism is good and it's okay their daughter is going to school to be a "worker" because we all have to work within the economic system and the economic system is doing great, nevermind what the experts say, life is good and anyone can be rich. Those damn spics have 20 people living in that house across the street and the old woman sells cotton candy on the street corner, does she have a permit?

Chlorinated flouridated recycled sewage water coming out the tap. But they don't let people swim in the reservoir anymore.

But there are good jobs here, nevermind the 4 hours you spend commuting each day.

I always find it interesting when people of northern European descent rage against "invasive species" like the eucalyptus trees that line most of the highways and provide necessary wind brakes.

Pollen and dust and smog, oh my.

They say you can never go home again. They're right.


I am packed and ready for my flight. One surprisingly small bag fits my shoes, three days' worth of clothes, gifts, a video, some cd's, a book, and a dance costume. I can run with it slung over my shoulder, which I intend to do on the people-mover in Portland just for the hell of it.

So first to Portland, then on to Sacramento. Or "Sacramenna" as the natives call it. From there to Davis, for dinner and nostalgia, although both campus and town populations have doubled in the past ten years, and I guess there's no going back, but I do miss the quiet small town feel. Even the school buildings have changed, with renovations and demolitions and additions. The only thing the same are the massive cork oaks that line the campus streets, and the magpies.

Then MomnDadnGrandma will take me through the no-man's land of river sloughs and byways, rolling fields and over bridges, south to Antioch, where I grew up.
Antioch was a good place to escape.

When my folks bought their nice modest home 10 blocks from the river in the old downtown, when I was 4 years old, there were 16,000 people in Antioch. Now it is considered a "bedroom community" and the words "homogenized suburbia hell" come to mind. Yo yo yo, it's the East Bay, wuddup. Red necks and gang bangers and low-rider El Caminos (which never went out of style), where it's hot enough to boil eggs on the sidewalk in the summertime, where "culture" means graffiti and stylized mini-trucks.

But it will be nice to see everyone, especially my parents and Grandma, whose health has been failing in the past 6 months and who has had to move in with my parents. Also my oldest and dearest friend lives around the block from my parents' house, and I fully intend to collect on that bloody mary she promised me a year ago.


S & J perfected Cafe Cubanos yesterday in order to serve them at the coffeehouse (which entailed consuming about 10 espressos half packed with sugar-- he & J were talkingsofastbungholios) and there's no way I'd avoid a heart attack if ever I drank one.

For dinner we ate bbq'd pork chops and spicy beans and rice, and I made the interesting discovery that my cat likes spicy pinto beans. I was giggling about her devouring the fourth bean when S leaned over, amused, and reminded me miss kitty sleeps by my head.

At this same time the phone rang. My friend M had gotten home that afternoon, found her stupid lying pendejo porn-addict-alcoholic C halfway to drunk, told him, "I love you, but..." and got her girl L to take her out. They were celebrating M's new-found freedom, deciding on a plan of action, and discussing C's accusation that M wasn't willing to help him through this difficult point in his life. I think 6 months with absolutely no effort on his part to quit drinking, 6 months of putting up with rude lewd and hurtful comments from some drunk asshole, that's when it's time to say "There is some sh*t I will not eat" and thank you, ee cummings.

So the red-head M-my-belle and the tall dark wild-haired L called us from this cool old basement bar that's beneath a restaurant down by the railroad tracks, smoky mirrors, funky nooks and crannies, well-worn seats. M & L had managed to get a booth, which was really this secluded little grotto in the wall with a deep make-out seat, small table, candle, and its own light switch.

We all got nestled in & S ordered me a whisky sour, got himself a vodka & tonic. We chatted about SARS, about health care or the utter lack thereof in Oregon, about Iraq, about God, about where M should move, and about how she should spend the night with L rather than go home.

M showed us how she can tie a knot in cherry stems with her tongue. Damn.

We stayed for a few hours. We stayed long enough for the late night crowd and the schmaltzy jazz band to arrive and fill the place. From our secluded little cubby we could see everyone, but no-one could see us. We exited our booth single file between songs, first M, then me, then L, then S. He said all the old guys in the crowd were watching us lovely young ladies as we walked down the crowded path, and then raised their eyebrows as he walked past. On the way home we joked about him being hidden away with the red-head, the blond, and the brunette, and what a hardship it is that I have pretty friends. Quite tipsy and happy. He makes me laugh.


I deserve a beating from Tony Pierce,
although I'm not really that kind of girl...

drama queens and fistfights at midnight
writing classes and dance classes
and discussions of home-wreckers who aren't
shaking for no good reason and
no whiskey in the house so drink some tea
okay let's all go to bed
tomorrow tomorrow
it's tomorrow already shit
no we can't call the cops
no we can't go break their windows
go to bed five thirty comes too early

no wonder i'm exhausted


Comments are here again!
And my sincere thanks to Coyote for his suggestion.

I just figured out what the template is (DOH!). No I am not computer-savvy. All those numbers blur together, all those ^ > ..// [ *&%$#$#! ? ? and people read that stuff? I am SO happy in my iggernance.

Sincere apologies to all-- I had to delete the comment box because the feckin work security system had blocked it. It's not something I can screw around with.
I thank you all for reading & for your comments, and will hopefully have another comment box up soon.
What a pain in my ass.

Some days I sits and thinks, some days I just sits.


What an exhausting weekend.

Thursday we had a most wonderful dance party at the coffeehouse. It was great good fun except for one ego was bruised because she imagined she had been "left out" and probably still feels like that but I managed to smoothe the ruffled feathers. People are so silly. I am fed to the teeth with high horses and monster egos. Enough already.

Friday we had two acoustic shoe-gazers come widdly-widdly into the wee hours; a glassful of wine helps the widdly-widdly "we haven't practiced much together" crap go down easier. Much more fun was when KJ's 3-year old daughter told me she was going to sing and I was going to dance. It was much better than the acoustic shoe-gazer widdly-widdlies. KJ supplied a good rhythm guitar, the impertinent little one sang a song about hot dogs and the coffeehouse and strawberry cream sodas and taking a bath and having to go to bed, and I danced for them. It helped that I was in an altered state (cough cough) but it was truly the highlight of the night. That, and I enjoyed happily staggering around the block in the rain with an equally tipsy S, looking at all the irises and cherry blossoms and empty shops, street lights reflecting on windows.

Saturday night we had the singer-poet S calls "Glo Butt" come & do his Dr. Suess impersonation, and they brought a good crowd. They also had the Cowgirl with her hula-hoops come. Cowgirl rocks like granite, she is awesome. Big silver nose ring, dred locks under a well-worn cowboy hat, tiny little damn hot body, spins two hula hoops around her waist while dancing. I have a huge crush on her. Another late night but it's okay, it's all good, S talked to D and KJ about becoming pardners because otherwise the coffeeshop is doomed... more later. Too fucking depressing.

Sunday was nice. Sunday night we went to R & L's for hamburgers & had great fun gabbing away with them until 1:30 when we realized the lateness of the hour and the necessity for bed.

And let us praise kitties who wake us up at exactly 6:30 because we accidentally forgot to set the alarm.


The year we got married S & I lived in a tiny shotgun shack in the agricultural fields southeast of Sacra-tomato. It was a genuine shack, initially was a farm worker's home near a big old farmhouse. I say "shotgun shack" because if you stood on the front porch, you could shoot a shotgun through the front door, living room, kitchen, and dining room and out the back door.

The two bedrooms and tiny bathroom had been added on some time in the previous 50 years, and the floor was uneven, so it felt like you had to walk uphill to get to the bathroom. The whole house was sinking into the boggy ground right next to the slough, and, also standing on the front porch looking inside, it was possible to see how the four doorways were all leaning either to the right or the left.

There was a corn field behind the house, and a rice field across the road out front, and when the crop dusters came droning, they would often fail to cut the spray before they got to our home. Crickets came in floods inside our house & died. I have never been in a worse place for sheer number of spiders-- I'd check the bed before climbing in it each night, and more often than not I would find a gold-nasty spider, related to brown recluses although not as poisonous, in between the sheets. A big slough with blackberry tangles on the banks ran alongside the house, and there were more kinds of mosquitos than I have ever seen. Our first night in the house we realized a skunk was living beneath the kitchen. That was an adventure.

So, too, was an adventure when the toilet broke and the landlord refused to repair it for a week. Good thing the truck stop at the Interstates 80 & 5 was so close. I won't even tell about the shower, which was not. Nor about the septic tank exhaust pipe, which let out beneath the eaves, right next to the tiny bathroom window.

It was a terrible place, but it was the only affordable home ($600/month) we could rent that allowed us to have the dog.

Our landlord was a parody of nouveau-riche hispanic born-agains, complete with half-unbottoned Izod shirt, too much aftershave, and about ten gold chains, one of which bore a cross, another the star of david. He hammed up his accent, too, especially when saying his name, which was Ernesto.

In the spring we went on a road trip north along the coast and ended up visiting my aunt and uncle in Cottage Grove, OR, which is 16 miles south of Eugene. And when my uncle said, "Come live in our pump house" we jumped at the chance.

The only thing I miss about our first little house in California is the birds. There were snowy egrets, bitterns, herons, hawks, magpies. There were songbirds of all sorts. My favorites, though, were the swallows who had built a nest under the eaves of the front porch, and would sit and chat with eachother in their mud and straw nest during the heat of the day. In the morning and evening they would swoop out of the nest and flit through the front yard, under the branches of a monstrous old walnut tree that had been there forever. They were beautiful, indigo blue backs with gold bellies.

They had a baby that fell out of its nest the same week we moved away.

During my last trip through that valley I saw big billboards proclaiming "10,000 new homes!" to be built along that old farm road. And while I don't miss the shack, I miss the swallows.
Children love the dance.
They like the noisy coins and chains, the finger cymbals (or zils), the long full skirts, the energy. Most children under 10 don't have fucked up notions about sexuality, and aren't afraid to stare, completely rapt, fascinated, and trying to absorb every detail and motion. They want to do it too, the spins, the clapping, the hip-shifts, the sassy walks.

Middle Eastern dance, or belly dance, or dans orientale, or raqs sharqi or whatever you want to call it is very sensual, but it is also very empowering. I've been in performances when the audience won't watch because they're embarrassed. I've seen grown men shyly avert their eyes from a beautiful dancer and I know why, but it baffles and amazes me. It's also infuriating; I feel like kicking their chairs and growling, "She's not flirting with you, she's not doing a strip tease, she's not doing anything but dancing, you idiot." Bah.

Last night in the coffeehouse (which was packed) was great. My favorite moment was at the end, after everyone had danced, most of the crowd left (I threatened to beat them if they didn't get up there & dance-- couldn't believe I said it but I guess it was a leftover of adrenaline from my performance. Anyway most of the people I didn't know left the building...oops), R & I were dancing on the rug. We have the same color & length hair, we're the same height, and we both had big circle skirts on, hers red and mine a dark purple. We were spinning with the edges of our skirts touching. I remember thinking, "I could do this forever." S said it was beautiful and dramatic.

The Greek word "dromos" is the root for "dramatic" and means "to spin." I like that.


In preparation for all the fun and dancing this evening, for lunch I ate BEANS
(mad cackle as that "beans beans the musical fruit" song jangles in my head).

Actually, I ate rice with chipotle sauce and avocados; I just wanted to say I ate beans.

And once again I get to go home 2 hours early because my boss rocks. Oh yeah baby.

I'm muddling through this blog thing here; I never thought I'd have an online journal. Seemed strange to me. But it sort of... expands the universe. I mean, I could be anything. I could be a bald giant dressed all in purple.

I could believe in Coyotes and time as an abstract.

I could be a beautiful free spirit from Ghana.

I could be a world traveler poet.

And maybe, I might just be me. Eating beans before a dance performance (more giggling-- really I didn't but the thought DID cross my mind... twice or thrice now...).

The sun is shining. I'm going home to get my bicycle and take a quick ride & a quicker shower before getting gussied up in heavy jangly noisy coin belts and enormous silk skirt and tiny little bejeweled top... gotta remember to buy some vino, also. Oh yes. A good time will be had by all.

Happy May Day.

I love my job. I envy people who can work out of their homes, but then they never get memos from the boss like this in their inbox:

"Rumor has it that there may be sunshine this afternoon and since this is the last chance to enjoy April sunshine I think you should take two hours sun-holiday this afternoon."

I went & ate a hot dog made by S's Iranian friend who uses our coffeehouse kitchen for cleaning utensils for his hot dog cart. I sat on the steps and enjoyed the sunshine, birds singing, sound of traffic on Hwy 99, listened to S & B talking about liberty and God and International Workers' Day. After B and the cackling women writers' group left the place S & I were alone, and feeling delightful and quite amorous we...

made origami boxes and swans, which soon evolved into paper airplanes of great imagination. We flew them off the porch into traffic. We had great air battles over the counter. We laughed until our side hurts, closed ten minutes early, bought a bottle of wine, went home and had artichokes from our garden with some lamb-burgers. A good day.