More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (29. Peculiar)

I hate the holidays. You play loads of concerts of crappy music. You hear lots of it, too, all joyous and cheerful, and what do you get for it? Yes, I get paid to play it, but I get no job satisfaction, nothing like the high of playing Strauss’ Alpensinfonie or the reconstruction of Bruckner’s 9th (to which I am listening while I write).

Nothing from Janice about missing dinner, nothing from Marcel … nothing from … anybody. I’m still banned from having fun … um, sex, but now I can’t even get anyone interested. All I’m good for at the moment is turning up the volume on my hi-fi. (At the moment it is very odd … err, UP.)

My card for today was fighting … fitting (as usual):

XX. The Aeon. (inverted) It’s a great card, meaning a definitive movement or decision in a peculiar … um, particular direction. It’s the end of a matter.

Yes, it was inverted, so strike all of that. No matter was decided today, no subject closed, nothing finished, except that I’ve gained all my weight back after my episode. I still have no other explanation for it other than obsession … err, possession, and I’m afraid to see a shrink … um, doctor about it. (Maybe a shrink would be better!) I’m healthy enough – I’ve even gained a few extra pounds for good measure – too many post-concert receptions and holiday dinners, none ending in “would you like to come back to mine?”

The urge to change something is there, but what? Maybe I should take a step and become initiated – as a witch. Jem says I already am one and don’t need (and probably don’t want) to formalize it. I’m different from the others anyway. I wouldn’t fit in an oven … a coven. (What do you think, Marcel?) I’d still have to reconcile it with my vacant … err, latent Catholicism.

That’s easy. I’m a sinner and going to hell. That’s what some of you think anyway. I have news for you.

I’m already in hell.

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More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (27. Running on Empty)

I went out for fun … um, a run this morning. My email inbox has slowed to a crawl. It seems I have few friends left. Christa made it home safely. Jem’s dealing with a blizzard on the range, and Allen still isn’t talking to me. Nothing juicy to keep me in the house. Anyway, on my run I met someone who could keep up with me. I haven’t been out much, but I’ve always been pretty easy … err, fast (for my age). Her name is Janine, and she’s not from around here either, although not from as far away as I am. She’s from near Cleveland, my mum’s hometown. She’s a typical …

PRINCESS of CUPS. Gracious, sweet, voluptuous, dreamy, kind. Auburn hair, blue eyes, pale.

Maybe not so voluptuous, since she’s an avid runner. It has a habit of inhibiting the hormones. She turned a corner as I was passing out … just passing, and she stayed with me for about a half mile, so I had to break the ice. To form, I asked her something stupid, like, “Do you come easily?” I meant to ask, “Do you run here often?” I hadn’t seen her on my previous runs.

Before I could correct myself, she was on her back on some stranger’s footlong … um, front lawn, laughing until she cried, giving me a much needed kick in the arse … err, chance to catch my breath. Anyway, we chatted for the next half mile, until I stopped in front of my house, and invited her in. It was kind of embarrassing, as without Christa around, I had no reason to clean up that morning. At least, it was only a single day’s mess.

It transpired that she had just moved in on the next street over, and worked in arts management. Not with the Symphony, fortunately, but with the Ballet. She’d seen me play with the Symphony on a couple of occasions, and had played horn at Indiana University, before changing majors. She’d gone to the Strauss last Friday. She’s invited me over for dinner tomorrow night. That will be nice. I had an evening concert in the ‘burbs tonight, so we couldn’t do it then.

She seems to have great haste … taste and complete … complex … contemptible … ugh … compatible interests, so it should be a good whine … time.

I think I’m getting tired, as I didn’t spray … weep … slur … uh, whatever … last night. Must get ahead … wed … laid …

You know what I mean. Goodnight.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (22. Too Soon – swearing)

Oops. I kissed him. Marcel. And I touched him in an inappropriate place. I couldn’t help it.

I was due to have Christa feel me up … err, retouch my henna tattoos, and Marcel took me to see his henna-artist friend, so Christa could explain what everything was, what they meant, and the best way to apply them. Excuse me if I became just a little egotistical … um, excited. I was sitting there completely naked for the better part of two hours with Christa and Evangeline (the artist) poking, prodding and painting me, all in front of Marcel.

Of course, Marcel had seen me naked while he was under enchantment … that is what he believed to be me at the time. What he saw was much more voluptuous than I have ever been, although he admitted later that he preferred the real me. I was so flattered that I kissed him, and so turned on that I touched him right in front of Christa.

That means, I’m afraid, that I’m still not completely recovered from the enchantment. It was too soon to go to rehearsal today. Just seeing a cute guy like Gary Everett (an extra trumpeter for the Alpine Symphony), made me ornery … orgasm … err, a little too horny for my own good. I couldn’t wait to get home. He’s too young and I still lack control, as evidenced by my tête-à-tête with Marcel in the evening.

Christa was lovely … living … um, livid, and wouldn’t speak to me until we arrived home after midnight. I’m still not sure that we’ve properly put on my make up … kissed and made up.

All was explained when I drew today’s card.

EIGHT of WANDS (Swiftness). Speech, light, electricity, energy, velocity … too much force applied too suddenly.

OK, I skipped a few, but you get the meaning. I emerged from my house arrest too soon.

I also dyed my hair back to it’s “natural” color today, a deep red. No more blonde bombshell … or blonde bomb, whichever you choose. It inspired Christa to recolor my leopard spots more reddish. No, they aren’t actually leopard spots (not all of them, at least), like my unfortunate friend on the X-Factor, who restored hers far too late to redeem herself. They never really went with her platinum blonde hair. (What was Demi thinking?!) She’s back on the plane home to Decatur.

I’ve been to Decatur, you know. I have distant relatives there …

OUCH!

It’s very dry today, and I just got fucked … err, zapped by static electricity. (Must stop using rubber sheets!)

Anyway, my spots have resumed their awesomeness, so I’m reading … ready to take on the world tomorrow. Well, maybe not, if today is anything to go by. Maybe I’ll dream of Gary tonight … or concoct some elaborate fantasy about time … him. (He’s not much older than Christa!)

Must get to it. Goodnight lovelies!

The Rite of Spring

The nightingale calls,
wakes the chosen,
bride of the harvest god
in her first spring of womanhood

The flutes sings,
she drinks the draught.
The other girls, jealous of her fortune,
preen her, prepare her for her nuptials.

The pyre lit,
the women paint her, robe her.
The potion burns,
fuels her desire.

beat

The drum sounds a slow pulse,
a low growl, a heartbeat,
the dance begins.

She makes her first choice,
dispatches her robe, circles him, touches him
He reaches out to her.
With her hand, she slaps him,
for no mortal man may know her.

beat, beat, beat

The drum throbs ever quicker,
entrances the circle,
emboldens the men.

A second succumbs to her lewd entreaty.
She strokes his brow, tastes his flesh.
He takes her hand.
With a switch, she flogs him,
for no man born of woman may touch her.

beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat

Its mesmeric thump surges on,
women push their beaus forward
to feast the chosen.

Her bawdy dance claims a third.
She burns his cloak, bites his chest.
He kisses her.
With a whip, she lashes him,
for no man who has suckled at his mother’s breasts may love her.

beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat

The tempo races,
men, women all under its spell
caught by the drug.

The fourth, a prisoner of her lascivious tease,
she takes his sword, licks his lance.
He embraces her.
With a blade, she smites him,
for no man who is not a god may possess her.

beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat

Touched by first light, she shrieks,
stalks the fire in blind rapture.
The Earth trembles in relentless oscillation.

The god of the harvest, her willing slave, there, in the flame.
Her womb awaits her hungry groom.
He will provide, the harvest will be her child.

The circle closes around her, the crowd aglow in carnal ecstasy.
The chosen plunges herself into the bosom of her lover,
surrenders herself for the health of her tribe.

They will eat well this year.

Practice

I’ve decided to start posting some of my poetry, since that was the original purpose of this site. This is my first ever poem … well, since adolescence. Please comment.

Practice

They said I sucked on my toes
as long as my mouth could reach them.
You know the magic I wield on yours.
I sucked my thumb until I was six,
still do when I’m not being watched.

The horn was the perfect instrument for me:
French horn, French kissing,
left hand playing the valves,
right fist rammed up the bell.
Practice, practice, practice.

I love the taste of salt,
all tastes, tart, sweet, savoury.
The only way to eat oysters is live,
slimy all the way down. Yum.
I lived in the mud puddles as a girl,
now I swim in the lake every day.
I’m a child of water, of the moon.

You ask why I give your fingers so much attention?

Practice.

Sex and Beckett

I thought I’d start a thread where I can jibber-jabber, blabber, anything I want to say at any time, I’m obsessed with sex, you know, especially at this time of day, before I go to bed, anytime really, but now mostly, ya know, it’s fun writing without periods, or caring about grammar (LET’S BAN PERIODS IN THIS THREAD) feel free to join me I don’t know where this is going either maybe we should ban all punctuation altogether maybeweshouldevengetridofspacestoo no that would be too hard to read but would anyone want to read this maybe we do need punctuation, but no periods, can’t stop the thought, can’t stop the war, can’t make the old younger, that’s Beckett, or a bastardized version at least, thank you Mr Bernstein, that’s Berio, who set the afore-mentioned Beckett, I like Berio, especially that piece, Sinfonia, it’s very sensual, sexual, everything comes back to love, to sex, to love and back again, cycle after cycle, a mixed bag, I’m obsessed with sex, I’ve said that before, so I say it again, more Beckett, I’m obsessed with sex, that’s why I like fantasy and erotica, you know, writing like this is like having sex, you go on and on, trying things a little differently back and forth waiting for the explosion, but not yet, you’ve got to keep going, the writing gets more urgent, intense, you repeat phrases you like again and again, over and over, but I’ve said that before, and I’m in a Beckett frame of mind no more punctuation it gets faster now moving faster faster moving like my Danish pancakes when I’m really hungry thank you Mr Berio Bernstein Boulez I like his performance better than Bernstein’s but we are talking about Beckett’s frame of mind no my mind not his but he’s in the frame of it along with Berio and fantasy I like fantasy I live in a fantasy world and am obsessed with sex didn’t I say that before so I say it again more Becket it’s really moving now rollercoaster ride that is not Beckett but he’s in the frame still and so is Berio almost typed a comma there can’t have them yet haven’t climaxed yet it’s coming soon almost now it’s all about Beckett yes and a lot like Joyce where did he come from they are both Irish aren’t they but Berio didn’t set any Joyce and besides his name doesn’t begin with B I’ve never said that before it’s not one of the rules Cage set Joyce Finegan’s Wake that’s a funeral party I like parties but not as much as sex and Beckett I’m still waiting for Godot he’s coming I’m not not yet at least soon have I said that before no say it again I’m obsessed with sex it’s time for what I’m talking to myself now there are two of me better for sex only if one of me is male maybe not maybe it’s time for Beckett instead I’ll send him to look for Godot he must know where he is he created him where was I so there is an audience more Beckett via Berio I love Beckett and Faulkner he’s not a B writer but he fits because he’s just as crazy as the rest of them like me crazy about sex words for sex sex in words sex in the production of words the sensual sound of sexy syllables sewn together like man and woman yes, that’s it, I can use commas again, it’s relaxing, easing, but still moving, still Berio with a little Beckett, hardly moving, Joyce and Cage have gone, Faulkner’s just a memory, like my Danish pancakes, like the tulips that grow in my garden, barely moving now, soft waves, hardly a ripple, I’m done with Beckett, only Berio remains and even he is going with my last words, thank you Mr Boulez