Eulogy for Jason Z.

Finding it geographically inconvenient to stalk, service staff were the only women in his life. He made scrapbooks to remember them out of napkins and crumpled receipts, like that morning with Thalia when he dropped the fork and she picked it up and then she dropped it, and it bounced not once but twice and she smiled and her apron was black and so was her hair. Slippery Fork Morning. He prayed that she liked him as more than a customer, having known him over bunches of brunches. But no. One day he will be back, with a different name and a different face to try again.

Problem/Solution/Com- plication

Problem: I deny death in day to day life. When it happens, it's shocking to an unpleasant degree.

Solution: I address the terror first. Death is the ultimate unknown, but trillions have done it. From the other side, I'm sure they'd say it's no big deal. It's always there. It's natural.

Complication: If it happens to me, I'm going to poop myself.
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Ode

Using the mind without the heart, it could take several lifetimes to understand her simplicity. From her we learn devotion to the things that make us more human. We learn selflessness. She gives. Like art, she changes us.

We bask in the warm light that surrounds her and bend to her soft vital power. She whirls tender and furious, fueled by a small piece of Hell itself that has always been there and has always hurt.

Men pursue her in search of erotic delights and well-cooked meals -- tender flesh and fresh vegetables. She's dangerous to them, and she senses that. Her inner wildness fuels a man's insecurity. Failure to dominate her crystallizes inadequacies and lights his long fuse of self-doubt. She can forestall the explosion, but she can be capricious.

Even at 4:55 A.M., even before she brushes her teeth, she adds to the beauty of the world. It's in how keenly she feels. It's in how she makes us feel. As people turn toward her they become more themselves.

Without her, we are the new moon: heavy and without light, magic, or romance.
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Three Links

It's hot. I could fry eggs on the hood of my car, and they'd be seasoned with street dirt, peeling paint, and whatever birds like to eat plus white goop. I'll call them Parked Car Eggs or Huevos al Carro Aparcado.

These are interesting bits, in no particular order (well, in the divine order, which none of us can know):

1) 12th and Moore

2) Meditations on Grilled Cheese and Gloomy Mondays

3) Since I'm too lazy to go back and link, this was from InStyle

I'm so brown right now. I wish brownness to everyone, unless you're in Arizona, where it could cause complications. If you're there, definitely call them "Parked Car Eggs" and keep your documents handy.
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On Crying

The refrigerator hums over the silence. My reflection, transparent on the glass coffee table, stares back at me. My eyes are pools of oil, but somehow beyond petroleum. A bubble strains against my chest and rises into my throat. It hovers there as I try to think tragic thoughts, then it fades into summer darkness. No tears come.

Until recently men were not supposed to cry, tears being the enemy of reason, a problem instead of a solution, potential aggression wasted. It's hard to hunt while crying. It's hard to cry while hunting.

Now, however, a family's greatest danger is the tyrant within -- a concealed mental illness exploding a payload of unexpressed emotions. Only a fragile and selfish man equates tears with weakness. A strong man cries to prove his excess of strength and his ability to thrive in a more emotionally nuanced world.

I must let tears cleanse my face and give pain its respect. Sometimes I need help crying. It's work to get to those emotions. There are blockages. So I pour myself a gin and tonic. The ice cracks. I squirt the lime slice at my eyes and miss. On the couch, I drink deeply. My iPod plays "America." Ah, Paul Simon, I too am empty and aching and I don't know why.

I've lost many people who I loved and who loved me, some for years, some for just a day or a tender night. Some I chased away and some just disappeared. They're gone forever and so am I as I used to be. Forever. Those simple happy days will not return. Never.

A warm wet wave rises. My throat catches. Huzzah! I sob, and salty poison drips from my eyes and nose. It stops being poison when it hits the air. I'm lighter already. I am. A little more of this and I could seduce a cloud and make it rain, sticky umbrellas everywhere.
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From the Diary of the Writer-as-Creep

I study her writing technique, her phrases, how she uses commas, and internalize her voice. If I think as she writes and write as she thinks, it will confuse our inner monologues, our identity lines soon indistinguishable. Once realized, we are either soul mates (lovesexlove) or long lost siblings (sexguiltsex).
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Fun Things

Hey, a list!

1) outdoor comfort with live music
2) sex, sexual proclivities
3) having written
4) not fearing deportation
5) cooking for hungry people
6) flying dreams
7) adding crazy to crazy
8) bowling
9) when I guess a woman's thought
10) talking about my blog over coffee