Pist. 2012

Lunch with Pist who is cracking my inviolable heart.
His obvious pain. The cruelty of a severed spine.
Tell me about the accident, I said.
Do you want the detailed narrative or the short version?
Whichever you prefer.
Circumstances, he said.
We exchanged the same parched smile.

Pist. 2012

I admit I'm suspicious of men who cultivate food appointments with me without the boundary defining friendship conversation.
With some men this never needs to be discussed, we just get it. But Piston's inquiry about my serious commitments edged me and when I mentioned it he smiled by lifting one side of his mouth. It was the same methodical wry smile I often find on *my* face. I was asking about your work schedule, he said rolling is eyes, Relax we're not on a date. I treated him to my version of his smile and relaxed.
OK, so I mentioned he's no ballerina on the track at the gym. Rigid back, no swing to the shoulders. It's painful to spy on him walking the track while trying to keep my pogo dancing on the elliptical rhythmic. It's all he does at the gym: No lifting, no machines, nada. Three days a week he's a freaking track junkie. I was thinking about paying 46.00 a month to stroll the track when he tells me the story of a Frida Kahlo-esque accident two years ago in some southern goth backwater town in Mississippi where he was doing research on frogs. This resulted in extended hospital tours that involved lying on polluted beds, howling, incapacitated and beckoning death.
I was a client with no experience to direct my care, he said, I was forced to consider the existential question. The question that takes on a rabid twist for a 'patient' who chooses to spend his time in what basically was a prison. The question that is also in an old Sylvia Plath poem, do you know it? He quoted:

That being free. What would the dark
Do without fevers to eat?
What would the light
Do without eyes to knife, what would he
Do, do, do without me?

I know it, I said, it's called The Jailer. And the question, buried deep, is How did I get here?

Early

My sleep was loaded with you.
We were in a rotating landscape of houses, alleys, garages.
Significant that the alleys were concrete and not black asphalt for white settings dominate my perfect dreams.
The scenes kept shifting but we remained together. We were consistently and successfully dodging something intangible.
You were awkward which charmed me and oddly decisive.
I thought you were tolerating me when a hidden affection escaped through your hands. I caught some of it when an abbreviated smile landed in my hair.
I woke rubbing my head and listening to the cries from various crows as they passed over the house.
I woke smiling.

FEAR.

I inadvertently woke Pst who sleeps all day and works in a Lab all night (he's a very white man) with I Love Livin In The City.
I suppose snarlng along with the lyrics out loud was inconsiderate but I was really hankering to hear FEAR'S Fuck Christmas.
Pist: WTF IS THIS!? Me: Hey, you should have seen them live. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ptb-4p0198&list=TLPQMzAxMTIwMjNosKZVVXpydw&index=2&ab_channel=KicksInStyle

How Nerds Flirt

Copy of text sent to JP 9 years ago. Hahaha.

pUZZlE PaLaCE

Aha!
I discovered this box on the kitchen table this morning.
1) I love Roman keys. Some things never go out of use.
2) I love these physical puzzles.
These puzzles are such a mediative process but a bit easy.
Thanks to my man upstairs who's been dragging the night shift for 3 years. Science never sleeps.
If you like investigative reporting and being terrified read The Puzzle Palace.

We've opposite schedules

Here's your sleep down portrait. I told you, foilage in hair! Leave your job there.

Antique celluloid hair comb for V-D day

Shine Bright

The white Iris glittering with its own iridescence in the garden I made for Pist.

Aw

Power Selfie. 2015

Waiting for the son.

Beaumount Antire. 2014. The Sixth Decade

Waiting for Pist to unlock the road gate to his property.

He's Out There

Text from the boi currently in the Wild: Picking berries along the trail on a great evening. Helmet Hair is a little outa hand.

Noted this morning. Thanks boy :)

I'm obsessed with the Number Three

Knowing my obsession with the number Three Pist wrote in an email: I was born on the third day of a month which is divisible by three on a Wednesday.
This is how nerds flirt.
And it helps if they drive this.

Thanks, P.

Pist (exiting the bathroom): You've a full on arsenal of girl products in there.
Me: So how many did you use?
Pist: Uh...two...how's my hair look?
Me: Killer, baby.
Pist: Is that a Max Neiger brooch?
Me: Def Czechoslovakian but I doubt it's a Neiger. The smaller stones aren't rope bezel set.
Pist: But you like it?
Me: I love it. It makes my eyes roll up in my head with that intense blue and its delicate filigree.