I’m a far cry from the Isle of Innisfree, I’ll grant you in a pathetic manner. I’m frustrated, tired, wishing I had gotten up and read my fellow furrower’s spewage sooner. For, having waited til the late hour of 8:50 pm, nearly 9, I feel very little astir in my brain. This must be how a bee feels when, returning to the hive after a long day, she discovers some foolish adolescents have destroyed the hive, gassed it or somesuch. All of her fellows lie dead, some stuck to the sides of the hive, others in mid-flight, frozen, their wings honey-tipped and sticky. In their haste and panic, some of the honey has spilt, forming honey waterfalls now cooled in the winter afternoon. Chilled, gummy youngsters cling to their mothers along this trail of honey, carrying their teeny tiny little stuffed animals…

The trouble with being competent, Emma points out, (in so many words) is that then one will be held responsible. I have these fellows come and work for me. They wear their ineptitude like a crown, or like a tacky class ring… 1994 engraving….flashy rhinestone multi-faceted ruby in gaudy setting. See?!! I’m completely irresponsible! And so, by being the responsible one, I”m left holding the bag.

I’m feeling bitter and icky tonight. Lo. How very strange.I’m glad, Lily that you’re not depressed. I know you think I”m out here on the West Coast, worried about you on the East Coast. But I’m not. I have felt the embrace of Celeste, and been warmed by the smile of Margaux. Their hugs, albeit perfunctory, were genuine. Only a truly innocent being can pull that off, methinks. My perfunctory hugs are always awash with counterfeit, just one squeeze and the receiver knows the hug is strained, wedged, produced by coercion. Not so the hugs of Celeste & Co. It is easy to understand your address. I comprehend your attendance in the office of the lawyer and his strange sister, as well as your appointment as notary.

The girls are worth every moment spent gawking at the gaping void.
Wishing myself more slackerly, more tuberous and less efficient, I do write. Or I fill the page. I’m just kind of mad at everything right now, I feel like a poison I would not have my friends drink.

Speaking of friends, though not of poisons, I made it to UPS today and mailed a package to Lily and one to Diana Adoveravoski. I haven’t observed Diana’s birthday in many years. It is my fervent hope that she does not reciprocate, showering me with expensive luxury items she can ill afford. Diana, I want you to rest, and dream of the Isle of Innisfree, and find time to spend in the bee-loud duck glades you have crafted from your very heart’s core.

The deep, woozy and heavy sounds of sleep call for me now. My feet, pumped full of blood, beg to be elevated. My mind, burdened with cares, petty peeves and the like, asks to be relieved, to enter a quiet and warm space, there to rest, as peaceful as if I slept listening to a lush waterfall in an ancient time on a peaceful planet envisaged by lesbian sci fi writers with loosey-goosy ethics.
WORDS FOR 01/15/2008, DIANA ADOBERAVOSKI’S BIRTHDAY
COERCE/storied/RAMPART/DESIRE/PRISONER/CLOUDS/moonlit/CREEPY