Chaps Tar Uno
Take my hand
Take my whole life too
Her inimitable voice trickled over each
word, and dances in my memory. I can see
her in that giant turquoise Buick on our way to one of our many shopping trips,
on the Garden State Parkway. A moment of pause and she
might be singing Elvis Presley.
..Darling so it goes
Something’s are meant to be…
Two nights ago I slept the way a baby might
sleep, curled up next to her mother’s warm tummy. I floated out of the depths of hibernation a
few times and admired the quality of my rest, without disturbing it. Then, my
muscles eased, my eyes gently re-closed, and I drifted back into my sub-conscious
wonderland.
Overwhelmed by the blasting of melancholic
pulses through-out yesterday, at the influx of my pre-menstrual psychosis, last
night I tighten up, and squeezed till I could not bring my parts any closer
together. Even my breathing was corrupted, and I woke up coughing because of
the trick my mind played with visualizing a floating Oz-like face blowing smoke
and crowding my lungs. Waking up later
on into the darkness that’s clearly haunted with ghosts, ninjas, and killers, I
was frozen in bed. Wanting nothing more then to call my grandmother, who would
turn on her nurturing I love yous as soon as she sensed my childlike discomfort;
then considering phoning Joshua who may or may not respond to my frightened
little girlness, I knew that I could not seek relief from anyone but myself.
Chaps Tar Dos
“I have more love for
you in my elbow than any one of those fools in Shanghai…”-Yvonne.
( Yvonne is a great friend, architect, and
older sister who lives and works with the Los Angeles elite)
The architecture of my flesh and bones is
freaking out. I’ve managed to transform
myself into a sinewy Rambo-like Maiden of Muscle. It has been called to my
attention that I could start carrying around a huge machine gun, but before
that step I was considering just wearing camouflage around more often, covering
my hair with mud and leaves, and perhaps learning Tarzan mating calls. I might start riding a lion to work, instead
of my wimpy bicycle too. In the process
of my development in the land of huge “scary” girls, I’ve screwed up my back,
and had to visit a magical body worker for some advice on how to correct my
pain. Self diagnosed via internet, I
came up with the conclusion that I had a broken rib, but ultimately I tamed it
to, a dislocated one. Richard Brown, the
master of the universe, with his mega-degree black belt, towering body
architecture, and straight forwardness diagnosed my ailes in the following
phrase, “You’re all fucked up.” Like a
regular Sylvia Brown, Richard, could tell that I did gymnastics, played some racquet
sports, about an injury from my past, and even what kind of yoga I practiced
the most, all in the revealing autobiography of my muscle development. A gentle massage followed, his adept fingers
guiding just the right muscles to relaxation, and he taught me a few exercises
to cure the pulled muscle beneath my
shoulder blade. Now that my shoulder is
better, I’m lucky to report that in an embarrassing lunch, sharing stories of
our ridiculous youth, I laughed so hard that I naturally flailed my torso back and forth like
a pendulum out of control. Eventually, with enough powerful jolts, I hurt the front of my body. I
must have been slurping air at such a rapid
pace to flood my lungs with fresh oxygen in order to support all my
snorting,
drooling, and flailing that I broke a rib, disclocated it, or
just yanked yet another exausted muscle into submission.
Chaps Tar San
”Love makes you bold, makes you bright,
makes you run real risks, which you sometimes survive, and sometimes you don't.”-
A National Geographic article that I read during lunch one day about the
connections between love, obsession, and mental illness.
Over lunch with a new
friend and fellow Rambo-ite we discussed budding romance, or lack there of, the
sensitivity of each casual passing, and the thought obsession that occurs when
one magical person crosses paths with our fantasy of intimate human
connection. Women, sensitive, to the
sensitivity of men, will alter their decisions based on not wanting to seem
like we are, “lurking”, too interested, or just simply strange. Unfortunately I think we are generally,
lurking, too interested, and definitely strange. I can remember a time when a man, who I was
attracted too, complimented the pants I was wearing and I just I stared blankly
forward, until maybe 45 seconds later when he finally turned away from me, I mumbled a faint “thanks” through my loose lips. In the
time it took me to respond, I considered what he said, how cute he was, and
finally that I didn’t feel like responding, but that I knew that I should so as
to avoid seeming like a weirdo. Other
women will avoid going to the same places that her love interest might
attend. Some, tell their lover that they
simply hate them and never want to see them again. In China, it isn't rare to compete
for a girl who brutalizes you until you either concede or prove to her that
your love is authentic in your obvious desperation and commitment to her warfare. A female friend told me today
that she’d wait 10 years. She was even
happy with just being friends. Realistically, we count days, save your
messages, and recall them to our friends.
We worry about what we looked like when we saw you last, and always
think your great even when you wreak of body odor and have shiny red umbros on
from 1992. We’re distracted in
everything we do because our focus is on our new love. Even when hope is gone,
we still have hope. Even when another
boy tries to intercept our insane devotion, our minds remain steady on the
goal. If we are defeated, it takes
months to overcome the loss. We are completely
insane, totally interested, and all at once, we are completely in love.