Knitting Ferocious Spiders

Lovely, even. It was needed. Glad to be done. Despite the fact that it all breaks down; that novelty, and the thrill of a different worry against the skin, dries to a paper rash of friction, so soon as the day after; and that the dustbunnies will begin to eddy again in the unused rooms of sexual exploration, even before they're completely empty… even without all that, is this: kicking out my heels and wrapping them around someone else’s back. It was fun. It’s a florid (grudging) way of saying I’m happy that I got laid. Oh, and it’s been awhile. I almost shocked myself when I counted on my fingers the other day: four, five – my god – six months. Am I joking? Something must be done. I mean, you’ve only got so much time. So many possible orgasams in the allotted space, a finite number of good kisses that can part you lips, make you hungry…. Everything in this life is limited. It’s all going to come to an end . What the hell was I doing, sitting around, playing Final Fantasy and wrest...

The cats have hid money and fire under my books. Well. A twonie, and a book of matches... they pattered them around, got them up under the bookcase... but it's as close to divine intervention as I'm gonna get. I'm taking it as a sign: the blog has begun! "When there's money 'n' fire under yer words -- well then, boy -- ya know ya got somnthn' WURTH somnthn'." And it's all gotta start somewhere. Or out of somewhere; somewhere that feels like nowhere, a black suffocation, that I might as well call this entire night, wound too tight, choking myself on all the things that I should be doing, but am not: should be getting a move-on with New Zealand and my plans to relocate there for a while; should be writing my Beggerstown story; should be writing a.n.y.t.h.i.n.g; should be treating this creative force inside myself with the devotion and dedication it deserves. Those being primary, the source of the personal admonishments hurtling me through...