So I'm this lonely painter see, and I really do live in a box of paints, a new one
this past while, in an old Orangemen's hall in a sorta newaged up neighbourhood in a
little garden village full of professors of things like cultural studies, academics
into gender studies, tired city gays who cook fritatas on Sunday and call anything
without wine or beer in it a martini. We understand other cultures by eating their
food, by importing their blouses in the utne reader. You know the scene. Everybody's
to the left so far they have to balance their vehicles with rock. Trust account
hippies. I weed my garden and oh lord how this sets me apart because everything should
be natural, and nettles make a tasty brew and a sweet little hair conditioner too,
though nobody does, none of us do and darling boy, we do not trim the rue it was
planted in honor of artemis.The goddess.Even though it throttles the roses I moved
from my grandma's garden. I sometimes think they've sanctified their lazin!
ess so long they believe the crap they spew.
Remember when journalists used to talk about the baby boomers moving through
the snake? That clumsy catchword poetics? They never that I heard mentioned that the
closer to the tail the boomers got the more they became......well, think about it, and
being that much younger than the boomers think how rich the soil will be in my old
years. So we had a christening in the garden, a new little imported Chinese baby,
tasteful as all get out and there was an anglican ceremony by daylight, and a pagan
ceremony by night, with calls to artemis and a cast of others who I did not sense stir
in their long sleep for the blessing any more than I sensed them stir when I trimmed
surreptitiously the aforementioned rue. And after calls to the panoply of pagans calls
to the bartender, and clutched clanking bottles, some into the house for solemn talk,
and early beddybyes, but a few out to the box of paints I live in for people who like
to rock. Now the music had all been newagey pap, or world mus!
ic softly played, or Billy Holiday for the Boys in emotional drag, or bluegrass and
lord I had wearied of it. I was filled with gall that smoke erases and it did but the
yups and the dinks needed music and all I had was downloaded Joni Mitchell, hey
manlike she's just so dark man, and doncha have any........no, sorry, just hiphop and
Joni. They settled for Joni. Across the table, over a flat out painting a woman's eyes
lit up. She'd been bitterly sarcastic all day but I thought she just hated me on
sight. We ended up dancing a dignified variation on the old fashioned waltz and I
remember looking deep into one another's eyes and mouthing Cowards against the
altitude, cowards against the flesh, cowards caught between yes and no, restless this
time on the line for yes yes yes, Cowards restless in the play of your changing
traffic lights, cowards slinking down the hall to another restless night. And we drank
ourselves silly and downloaded anything that might irritate a gentrifi!
ed hippy and we played it loud and danced. Cause we was coolsville. A real little
Jonifest. And we vowed to make it to the next one, an organized one. Take care guys
and thanks for the company through my lurking. If it wasn't for the list here and a
couple of kinda raunchy webcams I'd have long ago gone mad. It can happen to a
punk.....in lotusland.
greenstudio
