considering

flitting through and over and around winchester: what should i say? i couldn't make enough time for all the lovely persons involved. it can't be good nor altogether evil (!) that i really hate the idea of work these days. if you want to go back after a break, perfectly do, but the converse is also perfectly true. a conception of mysterious cosmic service convenes with the opposite. thank you, mighty claus, for enabling internet on my computer again after a year. this is sweet. now i have to clean my room

in a) seneces ditissimi b) senatores

yes, today was catering the third in a series. folks pay two to three thousand dollars a pop for a day dressing like british gamekeepers: there is much plaid, tattersall and otherwise, earth tones but mind you RICH earth tones; aloofness; baldness to bullet-tip on old men who went to uva, no doubt: they are bred with something of the horse, selected for panoramic sinuses and a thousand-count satin voice. but i, hired help though i was, dropped a petit toast livermousse-side down to the feet of the host.

the hostess, a hose: 'oh, i'm so very glad the senator got to make it today. he does love to tramp around shooting when he can. usually comes once a season, but lately he's been on the television every day!' many good clean folks making fun of the land's fat would have recorded this, 'O i'm SOO glad the senator...on TV...' but do not realize that articulation and careful pauses mark a gentleman or a lady, along with soft r's and never shouting. everyone was out shooting pheasants and after that, we waited for the senator, to descry his palpable humanity;

i've seen another senator dolled up and dragged ornamentally around. this was a few years ago, woodberry, The Game (maybe even The Hundredth Game) when a louisianan chum's parents paraded then the junior, now the senior senator of that state on their arm and/or lapel. was introduced. no big deal, but neither am i. later i was not much longer friends with this fellow who was not very interested, as was the case with most of these fine young citizens, in remaining buddies with a quer.

but today's senator was a gentleman. he didn't have the getup down to the nines- no breeches, no sea-blue or cerise kneesocks of finest combed angora, and it looked like he made a pass at all these things with a permutation of items from his senatorial wardrobe. it came out looking kind of silly; maybe this was the reason everyone else there (rather than simply swimming grinning brazen to him to shake his hand off, and keep a hangnail or a button) took to him with vicarious regret.

to ladysmith black mambazo

night before last i caught the end of this heralded series with this heralded sir SIR david attenborough or is he a lord by now? for its imperturbable or genial narrator. insects in depth, in color, acting a fool, by way of the hottest & coolest in new technology and lenses, so they looked the size of our everyday dogs and baboons. two summers ago when the cicadas buried winchester and missed us in charlottesville, he'd meanwhile touched down for a hot second somewhere in the northeast (maple bark and sugar leaves told me so) and filmed it there too, and we saw him perturbed only then, when the male cicada he was tantalizing with the female cicada sound- close enough to the snapping of fingers for his pet to follow it- cut the shit, made haste to desire his filleted head and cuddled his ear. pfoo! oh! i never! i had myself, after his o-british example, cooing for the rest of the night like teacozy dalloway in st. james' street. when the cicadas encountered winchester two summers ago i had wished they'd come here, too. i can remember the last time they ALL CAME OUT AT ONCE, when i was three, in certain friendly shades of sunlight that lit up all the cicadas and me zipping by one another, hot on our loopy way to nowhere,

also there was a Feature on insect supercities, afterwards, pursuant to a glass of wine and one of champagne, i walked home and fell into bed in contacts and unwashed- the last few weeks have me taking adult pride in going unwashed for a day or two- and promptly found myself in a dream, of which i remember very little except a hard-driving sense of function trumps all: so maybe i was a robot, maybe an ant. a shadow of antennae asking another pair remains to tell me it was the latter. certainly i remember no chrome and no silicone. i did wake up the morning tired still: champagne, or speedy delivery? sir david puts forth a glance, or perhaps a pheromone- quite unintentionally, you know- such that the ladies have crushed the others to bruising under their pandemonium, and he's had quite regularly to knock the extras aside with the face of a shovel. he revealed that army ants choose their new camps not on a dossier through central intelligence, but through a matrix of chance (imagine!) and the decisions of thousands of individual ants. so maybe i was telling myself the story of My Big Day as an Ant, when my intrepid scuttling led the others into, instead of around, this comfy rotten hole.

there was just a wrong number. i sounded inexplicably confused (who no this is hedge fine blooms) and the vigor of that guy's apology accorded with it

delights & queries

:: in the Netherlands, lesbian S&M clubs can receive government funding through some sort of 'gay emancipation' item
http://www.wildside.dds.nl /house_rules/house_rules-e.html
:: when I start moving again, I'll go outside and it's nice and get some lunch and read the new newspaper
:: Cathy is coming and we will dance
:: very nearly almost done with THAT thing that's been hanging over my head for a year and a half, it'll be done within three days
:: anti-Zionist orthodox jews in Tehran? the world is more complex than we thought
:: Kofi Annan is a snuggly-wuggly teddybear, now in the dulcet years of his denouement
:: "the shins changed lives in garden state with their amazing song"-connor mckay
:: o time for lunch

today's items

During sickness I finished this little book, this story by little Jew how you say, fresh off the boat from motherland? and then Counterfeiters (faux-monnayeurs! strain that through your teeth) by Frenchman. Then bought Pynchon and criticism and Joyce, because I did not have, but don't like Joyce much, shoot me if you will but 's kind of drudgery. This is only two hundred pages in. I can't read without thinking I should be doing something else. Til Friday I'm broke and it's reading in the evening. Someone show me the Way of Resourcefulness, or perhaps it means selling all items and squatting. Slug of a mind ain't having it. Get on. Get out.

But we had a fun party! Saturday we made quiche and mexican spaghetti and a keg. For Heifer International; I turn over a new leaf; I no longer harden my heart. Or maybe it seems like this is the most worthwhile charity I've seen. $210 raised, plus what we put in ourselves, gets us a water buffalo. I imagine it going to Cambodia. That is all

Dice Street

So the other day, Thursday 30 November 2006 I got a bunch of stitches in my hand- Friday before I cracked one of the larger vases we use at the Omni and filled it anyhow; vase degenerated even more in transit; Thursday we were changing these items out and I went to carry it to the dumpster (with intent to shatter violently as I could); jostled door, thicker part of vase collapsed under its own weight and guillotined my right hand from the pinkie to middle of palm. There's a lot of padding and tensile material that comprises the meat of your hand, I found, when this ribbon of fat decided to ooze from the gash and remind me of a liberated brain or the edge of a giant clam. Since has teemed with surrealities aided, no doubt, by this hydrocodone they gave me. The poor old guy in the bed next to me looked like he might not have made it- his wife was friendly and kind and for both their sakes I hope he did. She took it like a champ and there were a few apologetic little jokes he couldn't breathe to tell, but she knew them as well. And then since I escaped I feel socially lubricated or lucid enough, or free enough from my caustic sarcasm, to account for moving smoothly among a handful of friends I hadn't seen in a while, and an obscure pair of sexual encounters: I notice these things because I often want to escape my own skin, and in fits of momentary intensity I end up across some chasm even from the people I know and love best. Recently I read a self-congratulatory little book by some jerk named Paulo Coelho, and he (there's attempted no division there between author and narrator) would volunteer a reason that involved Living instead of being, maybe, but certainly some sort of self-imposed pleasure. That's no compelling or even interesting rationale. Nor is a chemical basis. It's just kind of nip to walk around and wave this leper's hand wrapped in spotty gauze.