*new* *old* *me* *rings* *email* *host* *you* *notes* *best*
*interview* *tests*


*mess. 2001-05-17 9:00 p.m.*

for me mess has always been holy. it�s all part of this world, this lifeness. this everything.

it�s all connected. it�s all sacred space. and evidence of interacting with that sacred space.

which is holy. which is sexy.

my hands have purple ink on them right now. this makes me excessively happy. i�ve

always been like this. ink. on my hands. makes me happy. makes me feel productive,

artistic, creative, like i�m really doing something. since i first started coloring. when ink

would mysteriously scamper to the most mysterious places of my body. my face, my

back. my mom would ask me how i got ink there. i never could tell her. but it made me

happy.

but still, the best place for ink, besides on a fresh sheet of paper, is my hands.

my well-scrutinized hands. i know that my middle fingers are both really crooked, but in a

symmetrical way. i know that my fingers are really tiny and i hate playing the piano,

because i feel like my hands just don�t stretch that far. i can see blue veins. on both sides

of my hands. i don�t know how to read palms, but i think my life line is short. i wonder if

there�s someone bored in some mortuary somewhere, checking the lifelines of everyone

there against the ages at which they died.

my small hands have been distressing to me for a long time. i feel like they�ve never

changed, since i was 7 years old. they�ve seen a lot more, done a lot more, but really,

they�re the same hands. i guess i have a small penis. damn.

but i was telling you about mess. about my hands and mess. and how much i love it. ink

is not my favorite mess. i think i have two favorite hand messes, and it makes me feel like

george costanza to admit this, but yeah, my hands love food and sex.

i tell people i can�t cook. but really, i don�t think anyone would really want to eat my

cooking if they saw what i do with it. when i cook for other people, it�s never as good,

because i use utensils. but when it�s for my own self, it�s all about the hand mixer.

literally. cake batter, spaghetti sauce, smoothie bananas smooshed down into the blender.

licked off cleanly. happiness is this.

nobody wants to see that. i feel like it�s vaguely obsene. maybe i�ll cook for someone

again. someone who has experienced my hands already.

and then there�s the sex mess. actually, my hands only like the sex mess for a brief amount

of time. it has to be licked off, carefully. slowly, slowly, slower, look in my eyes, get

down deep between my fingers, that�s you that�s me, that�s us on my fingers. get in there

down my short life line. taste us. we�ve mingled. we�re holy.

*listening to: *
<<< | >>>


*<<<<<* *<<* *<* | *>* *>>* *>>>>>*
*random* *list*