Ramblings from the Lower East Side – Sex, Toys, and Window Displays – Year 2000

Primitive Daughters are taking over the world. Hold onto your belt buckles. I’ve got to take time to dissect this, pick what’s good and use it somewhere. So much bad shit in my life, our lives, us women—but I don’t want to celebrate that. I want to celebrate the small wonders, the gifts, the pleasures and acknowledge the sorrow, crime, bullshit, banality, violence that we all experience without getting too heavy. Just exact.

Looking back, between then and now, I recoiled, tightened up. The astrologer said to look back to 10 years ago. What were your dreams? So I’m looking. What do you want now? How can you back your dreams with your experience?

Writing used to be so loose – I want that back. One of my New Moon wishes (May 13, 2010) – to write freely and openly, to have friends to write and share with, and to publish.

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9/4/2000

Writing with Annavie—Labor Day/free-write excerpt

 

When brown eyes become beautiful for the first time—after peering at you a thousand times, it’s like waking up out of a muggy-drugged haze. He calls your name and your chest opens up; ribcage has wings and takes flight. Fear and joy flood your throat, as your backbone is the only thing holding you upright. The girl behind the coffee counter says, “Out of nowhere his lung collapsed.” The feeling in your chest is completely different; it is the feeling of flight that makes you know you are alive, expansion. You think maybe your mind is collapsing because your heart is taking over.

Dusty Springfield, smooth and smoky.

Son of a Preacher Man. LOVE/HATE, GOOD/EVIL, your knuckles are clear. I still am afraid of you, just a little. Can imagine being in the back porch in the Deep South, new moon, we’re swinging on the wooden swing my daddy built when I was five. The air is so heavy, wet, my dress clings to me and we want to touch each other so badly, yet it’s so hot. That want, that need, feels threatening so we sit quietly, just rocking, and the hinges of the swing softly squeaking. You smile at the sound and smile into the black wall-sound of crickets.

Honeysuckles. Stealing them from bees. I’ve never been stung and I’m terrified to be. My sister was stung and her hand swelled up to the size of my baseball mitt.  My other sister was stung and didn’t even flinch. My mom just says, “Act like they are not there and they’ll leave you alone.”

Now that the farm behind my home is gone, the moon seems farther away. I want to watch the sky in silence, but my friend just chatters on about something I lost interest in hours ago. Still I’m glad she came with me, I feel her unfurling, the tightness, constriction of her being – untwisting. I know she will be silent when she is able.

As soon as I jumped in the water I feared the 500-pound snapping turtle. The water smelled of fish and rotting organic matter. I suddenly can’t swim without the borders of pool walls. I manage the dog paddle and backstroke.

Backstroke, That’s all I wanted, my back stroked. When was the last time I had my back stroked without having to give back? Back, Back at ya. Bat your lashes, plug yer nose, dive in.

Cool jerk. Cooling jerk-off. Jerk off, cool off. It’s nice to know you think of me when you jerk off, but sometimes it pisses me off.

Cool jerk. That is a problem when your jerking is cool; you forget I’m trying to sleep.

Sleep. Sleep was not something I had much of when I was a little girl. I wonder if I would have been taller, or maybe a librarian instead of a musician. Staying up all night.

Howling in my ears, wind caresses my face, my arms, as I pedal my bicycle in the night. I wanted to do something good, and the only thing I could think of was riding and riding and riding.

I’m self-centered right now. My writing is my writing and I’m here with Annavie trying to break out of my isolation and complaining patterns and just share the bumps in my brain patterns by widdling them out with words. This is what I want to do—and from a place of non-judgment, or actually detached analysis so I can tread in and leave behind my fear. I am alive; therefore I have something to say.

If I could ever tell you what I wanted to tell you I wonder if you would even care. I am not mad at you, nor do I regret the time we’ve had together. Isn’t that the noble thing to say? A part of me feels this anyway. No regrets. I leave you, loving you, your potential, your potency, your present being. You are where you need to be.

I can’t be good, so I’ll be free. Didn’t you turn me on? Bad boy on your motorcycle, and me, your Red Holly. You are you and you must be free.

I wanted to live in a folk song, like Joe Hill, or Billy Joe. How come so many songs are about a Joe of some kind?

Distracted by my belly, swollen from bleeding, and my back cramped. At the same time I’m choked up at the thought of (him) coming in. My palms are sweaty, dry, shaky. He likes the soup here, too. I wonder if he’s had any yet. Am I just a silly girl excited and giddy over nothing? Over just catching a glimpse of a man because it’s the best I can do in my current emotional state.

State. NJ leering in the shadows, the trees. Stranded in the damp forest floor, my tiny red capsule car must contain us both. I swear God put us there. We both are feeling the same way, but can’t say our feelings out loud. We’d rather be silent, implode. I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to cry. When I get out to walk in the mud, you plead with me to get in the car. In the distance I see something white and shadowy pas through the trees. I get back in the car.

I get back in the car. It smells of sex. It smells of sex. It smells of sex. Is the hooker man out there? Did we conjure him up with our smells? I feel nothing. Body heavy, back aching.

Annavie staring out the window. I am glad we are doing this. Hand must keep writing. I’ve got to take time to dissect this, pick what’s good and use it somewhere. So much bad shit in my life, our lives, us women—but I don’t want to celebrate that. I want to celebrate the small wonders, the gifts, the pleasures and acknowledge the sorrow, crime, bullshit, banality, violence that we all experience without getting too heavy. Just exact.

I never thought of Annavie as someone from a foreign place. The fact that she is not from the US is not something that would give me good cause to ignore her ideas. If anything, I am more interested it proves that as humans we all need the basics no matter where we are from—and it’s also cool to see where our ideas are parallel.

I was going to Toys in Babeland to look into purchasing a sex toy, but I got self-conscious. I browsed over the books for a while and then made my way over to the dildo display, the whole time thinking, I’ll bet the girls behind the counter see this all the time; people coming in to look at sex toys, but trying to be sly by looking at the books instead. Once I did make my way to the “wall of dicks”, they all looked ugly and alien to me—so many arranged in one spot. Big fat ones—6 inches around, glittery ones, pale flesh-colored ones and black ones, bendable double dongs and little butt plugs, meaty ones that weren’t even hard, and hard ones with bulging veins and knobby heads.

All these dicks with no men attached. It was then that I realized that I would like a real man with a real dick, not just a dick.

Outside, at the window display at Toys in Babeland is a huge pile of crocheted nipples in all shades of pink. I want to make a blanket of nipples now. What a wonderful Valentine’s Day gift. What is more nurturing than a blanket of breasts? I suppose if you feel suffocated by your mother, a blanket of nipples might freak you out, but if you enjoy nipples, breasts, it could be rather sweet and comforting. All that pink, all those little bumps, little knobs. Delightful.

One could even go as far as making a penis quilt, unless of course, one had the previous alienating dick experience mentioned above. Something tells me that it’s merely a state of mind. I may walk into the store tomorrow, find the perfect penis and have no trouble forking over 50 bucks to take one home and keep for my very own.

I can picture myself making a crocheted prick quilt for my friends Ralph and David.

One has to have a sense of humor about one’s sexuality. Perhaps that is why two people who were in love/are in love can’t break up and then just have sex like it’s OK. No responsibility after so much just doesn’t work, so when it is all about sex and nothing else it’s a total lie. And sometimes sex, sex, sex, sex, sex.

Primitive Daughters are taking over the world. Hold onto your belt buckles.

Sometimes I think I should publish my own bi-monthly spiritual/feminist/sex magazine. No hippy/dippy/hokey/folky stuff—some elements perhaps, but let’s get it on deep dark and heavy. Think strong, powerful, vulnerable, wet, hot, juicy, vagina, magic wands, percussion, bliss, outrage(ous). Think what you want to stand for.

© 2000

  1. please, may I have some more?

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    1. I’ve got books and books worth. Time to organize . . .

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  2. Annavie-Vanessa May 15, 2010 at 2:33 am

    Holly you rock so far out my sistah!! Your writing is awesome….immediate,electric and transporting..YEs YEs You must get the montly mag 2gether and YES YES u must write a novel and publish. I am so honoured that I am mentioned and that we shared those writing moments and that we have had an important impact on each other’s writing. We may have been born on different continents but we are family..family of the word and the creation and my love for you is for always and for real. Xx

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    1. Vanessa~
      There is something about being near you that makes magic. I miss you! And I am so glad to know you. And, thank you!
      Mags and novels – they will happen. Love you – your sistah from across the world . . .

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