I recently picked up season 4 of Weeds. I'm too cheap to pay for the HBO/Showtime subscription, so I love TV shows on DVD. Anyway, Nancy was having a conversation with her sons and she quoted Annie Sprinkle!
I haven't thought of Annie Sprinkle in forever! I was 14 years old when I first read about Annie Sprinkle in a underground magazine. I can't quite remember the name of the magazine, but they had a "Gross Issue". It was thee most awesome issue ever in the history of publications. There was a column that told EMT's stories, and all the gory scenes and accidents that EMT's had to answer in emergency situations. Which was told in very graphic and explicit detail. It was awesome. There was editorial and feature stories about exhibitionists and fetishes. It wasn't porno. It was more like beyond porno. I am so the type of person that loves knowing all this stuff.
Well, Annie Sprinkle definitely was into weird shit (literally). She was a performance artist. The magazine ran an editorial about her, I think it was back in 1991. She talked about some of her performance art shows... people would pay to watch her have her period, she would make weird concoctions of meats and fruits (pretty much anything you can find) throw them in a blender and put them in a one of those icing bags, squeeze it into her ass, shit back out in pie crust, and eat it....ahahahaha.
That woman is hilarious. She's a former prostitute, porn star, PhD in sexology, and artist. I think they also did one of the HBO sex specials on her. She's extreme, she's funny, and she's honest.
I think it's good to have this kind of honesty around. More harm comes from ignoring things you wish didn't exist or don't want to acknowledge or understand, then it is to just confront it. Sex is one of those things for a lot of people. Just because you don't acknowledge something doesn't mean it doesn't exist, or that it can't affect you. It's better to deal with things head on and treat it with a little hearted sense of humor (within reason of course, like all consenting adults, no one gets hurt kind of thing). As disgusted as you might be about people like Annie Sprinkle... I think there are far far worse things brewing below the surface of normal conventional people. At the very least she makes me laugh. That goes a long way for me.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Unblocking writer's block
I've read more than a dozen books in a period of 3 months. I've been trying really hard to read everything I can to keep my mind open and going while I write my book. I'm writing fiction, so I read non-fiction, memoirs, fantasy/sci-fi novels, mysteries, newspapers, magazines, young adult novels, children's books, poetry, philosophy, plays... jesus, I think I read more in the last few months than I did my entire college career.
My book is progressing, and evolving. I know the story, and I now how to write it. It's just hard sometimes to sort it out in a descriptive way. I worry about little things, like am I moving too quickly, am I not moving fast enough, does this need to be developed more. I think it about constantly, and it's the only thing on my mind. I swear if this was a man, I'd would have been obsessed and arrested for stalking. I don't know how Nikolai puts up with me and my inability to move away from my computer and office for 12 hours out of the day. I only really stop to eat, work-out, and sleep. There are occasions when I realize I hadn't left the house in days. How sad is that?
Despite this commitment I've made to myself, the distractions are endless. Children are too fun to just keep writing non-stop sometimes. They crack me up. Malena, she's got free dress this week and she has been doing such a good job accessorizing her outfits with scarves and boots...hehehehe. Layla? She's just awesome and hilarious all the way around. So, the writing isn't moving as quickly as I would like, but I'm getting there.
Sucks having writer's block for the last 2 weeks. I think I'm good now though. I finished another chapter, and am excited to get to the next. I usually have this big conclusion at the end of my entries, but I think I'm just trying to sort out what I'm doing, remember why I'm doing it, and keep on doing it. Seems self defeating to write about having writer's block, but there you have it...I'm self defeating.
My book is progressing, and evolving. I know the story, and I now how to write it. It's just hard sometimes to sort it out in a descriptive way. I worry about little things, like am I moving too quickly, am I not moving fast enough, does this need to be developed more. I think it about constantly, and it's the only thing on my mind. I swear if this was a man, I'd would have been obsessed and arrested for stalking. I don't know how Nikolai puts up with me and my inability to move away from my computer and office for 12 hours out of the day. I only really stop to eat, work-out, and sleep. There are occasions when I realize I hadn't left the house in days. How sad is that?
Despite this commitment I've made to myself, the distractions are endless. Children are too fun to just keep writing non-stop sometimes. They crack me up. Malena, she's got free dress this week and she has been doing such a good job accessorizing her outfits with scarves and boots...hehehehe. Layla? She's just awesome and hilarious all the way around. So, the writing isn't moving as quickly as I would like, but I'm getting there.
Sucks having writer's block for the last 2 weeks. I think I'm good now though. I finished another chapter, and am excited to get to the next. I usually have this big conclusion at the end of my entries, but I think I'm just trying to sort out what I'm doing, remember why I'm doing it, and keep on doing it. Seems self defeating to write about having writer's block, but there you have it...I'm self defeating.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Sway
And she swayed to and fro
As she walked in and out of the room,
All eyes on her.
Her movements,
The shifting of her round hips,
Rotating her ass with each step.
Everyone knew this walk,
Everyone knew what each sway of her hips implied,
And what it would mean if you could get her alone.
Jo.-
May 30, 2009
As she walked in and out of the room,
All eyes on her.
Her movements,
The shifting of her round hips,
Rotating her ass with each step.
Everyone knew this walk,
Everyone knew what each sway of her hips implied,
And what it would mean if you could get her alone.
Jo.-
May 30, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Art of smoking...
An excerpt from the book I'm writing:
She leaned her side against the wall, took a deep drag, and exhaled the stingingly sweet smoke from her lungs out of her nose and mouth.
Clara perfected the art of smoking, and she thought about her actions deliberately and carefully each time she lit up. She loved it. She loved the look of it, the smell, the way it felt between her index finger and middle finger, always between the top and middle knuckle. It always irritated her to watch people who socially smoke holding a cigarette like it there’s a bomb between their fingers and a stiff hand. Stiff hands are always a dead give away, when you were dealing with a novice smoker. That and the way they took a drag.
Clara liked to let the thick tendrils of smoke creep out of her nose and mouth, draw it back into her lungs, and then blow it out in a long steady stream. When an "amateur" smokes, it's always a quick drag. Then they hold the smoke their mouths, never taking it into their lungs, until they practically spit the smoke out. Why bother, if you aren’t going to learn to appreciate it?
"Ok, so maybe I take smoking entirely too seriously," she thought sarcastically and smiled to herself as she watched the cherry burn and creep up the cigarette paper turning everything in its path into ash, "Like a fucking metaphor for exactly who i am..." she thought. Being a good girl was tough for someone who can’t help being bad.
She leaned her side against the wall, took a deep drag, and exhaled the stingingly sweet smoke from her lungs out of her nose and mouth.
Clara perfected the art of smoking, and she thought about her actions deliberately and carefully each time she lit up. She loved it. She loved the look of it, the smell, the way it felt between her index finger and middle finger, always between the top and middle knuckle. It always irritated her to watch people who socially smoke holding a cigarette like it there’s a bomb between their fingers and a stiff hand. Stiff hands are always a dead give away, when you were dealing with a novice smoker. That and the way they took a drag.
Clara liked to let the thick tendrils of smoke creep out of her nose and mouth, draw it back into her lungs, and then blow it out in a long steady stream. When an "amateur" smokes, it's always a quick drag. Then they hold the smoke their mouths, never taking it into their lungs, until they practically spit the smoke out. Why bother, if you aren’t going to learn to appreciate it?
"Ok, so maybe I take smoking entirely too seriously," she thought sarcastically and smiled to herself as she watched the cherry burn and creep up the cigarette paper turning everything in its path into ash, "Like a fucking metaphor for exactly who i am..." she thought. Being a good girl was tough for someone who can’t help being bad.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Stupid Quizzes
I've been taking those quizzes about what certain things define me. Ugh, I hate them. I got Wuthering Heights in the latest one. The one book I obsessed over for decades. Stupid book, that I love so much. And of course this would be my most favorite part:
"I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.—My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being."
Aww, now I have to go back and read the book again for like the umpteenth time. Reading Wuthering Heights is like sweet torture.
"I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.—My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being."
Aww, now I have to go back and read the book again for like the umpteenth time. Reading Wuthering Heights is like sweet torture.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Reading Writing Remembering
It all feels like such a joke, but I feel so happy when I finish writing a chapter. I'm consuming book after book like it was crack, and I can't turn my brain off for shit. I'm also constantly haunted by images of my past. It's coming at me in waves. I want to ask questions and find out answers about my life, but I can't. There isn't anyone to ask anymore.
I'm feeling like a pariah, a recluse. I want an apology, that I know will never come, and if it did... it's too late. It would be empty and worthless. It's so sad to see someone you love so much...and know they don't see themselves.
I'm purposely reading books written by women, and I"m finding that there is an underlying emotion behind a lot of broken characters. I find a lot of parallels.
He thinks he's a young bright thing, that someday someone will save him from his self-loathing. He thinks if he confesses his sins at the start, that if the woman knows what she's getting into, then that somehow proves how much she loves him. If she doesn't accept it then he's just nipping in the bud whatever real relationship that can develop on its own terms. What he doesn't understand is that all that invokes in a woman is either to love a broken one-legged dog or realize what a pathetic weakling he is. Either way it turns out, it's all true. He feeds off the love, sucks it dry, because he knows he can never be the man she's hopes he can be. It's silly, but women want to be the one that saves a broken man... but the only thing that can save a broken man is himself. No one can save him. EVER.
This is what I have relive every time I write.
I'm feeling like a pariah, a recluse. I want an apology, that I know will never come, and if it did... it's too late. It would be empty and worthless. It's so sad to see someone you love so much...and know they don't see themselves.
I'm purposely reading books written by women, and I"m finding that there is an underlying emotion behind a lot of broken characters. I find a lot of parallels.
He thinks he's a young bright thing, that someday someone will save him from his self-loathing. He thinks if he confesses his sins at the start, that if the woman knows what she's getting into, then that somehow proves how much she loves him. If she doesn't accept it then he's just nipping in the bud whatever real relationship that can develop on its own terms. What he doesn't understand is that all that invokes in a woman is either to love a broken one-legged dog or realize what a pathetic weakling he is. Either way it turns out, it's all true. He feeds off the love, sucks it dry, because he knows he can never be the man she's hopes he can be. It's silly, but women want to be the one that saves a broken man... but the only thing that can save a broken man is himself. No one can save him. EVER.
This is what I have relive every time I write.
Monday, April 27, 2009
8th grade life, no life...
My parents are cleaning out their house and have stored away many of the books that I left behind. I had more than 400 books at my mom's house. Everything from children's books from the 70s to all of my books from college. Among them were some of the journals I would keep, dating back to 2nd grade. It's so weird to read them again. But what's even weirder is that I found a journal that I used to write my stories and poetry in.
One of the poems was Satan's Scream, which I've posted before. The other was a story that I never finished about a group of high school friends who learn that one of their friends has a dark history filled with suicide and accidental deaths. They find out about his past from a new and mysterious kid at school. The friend with the dark past had moved away because he was sure that his best friend's suicide and his girlfriend's car accidents were murders. He was convinced he was next. So, he moved started a new life and never spoke about his past to his new group of friends.
I wish I had finished the story. The writing was juvenile, but the story and plot were actually pretty good. I was tripping out. I didn't use a computer, I would write everything down, and it wasn't the best way to write a story. I was 13, and I didn't have any patience. I was filled with happy nostalgia reading the story. I didn't do much as a kid or teenage, except write and read, so my memories are inside the volumes upon volumes of journals that I kept over the years, and rereading some of the favorite books I had as a child. It's kinda fun, and a little pathetic that I didn't have much of a life.
One of the poems was Satan's Scream, which I've posted before. The other was a story that I never finished about a group of high school friends who learn that one of their friends has a dark history filled with suicide and accidental deaths. They find out about his past from a new and mysterious kid at school. The friend with the dark past had moved away because he was sure that his best friend's suicide and his girlfriend's car accidents were murders. He was convinced he was next. So, he moved started a new life and never spoke about his past to his new group of friends.
I wish I had finished the story. The writing was juvenile, but the story and plot were actually pretty good. I was tripping out. I didn't use a computer, I would write everything down, and it wasn't the best way to write a story. I was 13, and I didn't have any patience. I was filled with happy nostalgia reading the story. I didn't do much as a kid or teenage, except write and read, so my memories are inside the volumes upon volumes of journals that I kept over the years, and rereading some of the favorite books I had as a child. It's kinda fun, and a little pathetic that I didn't have much of a life.
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