Her ideal car color was red

I should have known — her ideal car color was red, she said. Red — denoting sensuality, violence.  Blood and anger. Power, passion & war.

And I can see her in that car, too. Probably a sports car. A Lamborghini — the one where the two doors open at a predatory slant, like the wings of a vulture, en route to pounce.

But she came off as meek, sweet, compassionate. Almost childlike. Despite her explosive physical beauty. Despite the fact that her laugh was breathy, her voice frequently slurred. Like she was in the middle of sex.

And she had that glow, too. In fact, her cheeks swelled with so much blood & heat when she smiled that sometimes it would seem like the thermostat moved up a few ticks.

In my consciousness, red is akin to Venus (aka Aphrodite), the goddess of almost anything carnal.

  • Venus, the goddess for whom a wine festival — Vinalia Urbana — was held annually on the 23rd of April, her signature month — its linguistic origin linked to the name Aphrodite.
  • Venus, the one who fought over the mortal Adonis with the goddess Proserpina until Zeus intervened, decreeing that the pair spend a third of the year apiece with their object of affection, leaving him free to choose where he’d spend the remaining third.

In the end, Adonis was exclusive with Venus, until he was killed by a wild bore.

Money and blood

I don’t have anything against making rent payments. I just don’t like to watch — just like when I get blood drawn. I look away when the needle goes in, then turn around again as the nurse is placing a band-aid on the boo-boo.

Granted, paying rent is easy enough these days. It’s all done online. I just don’t like to be the one to enter my card information and click “agree” to accept the so-called convenience charge.

Delegating this monthly task would be ideal. I’d log in to my account and have a designee do the dirty work. The person would then tell me, “Your rent is paid,” and I’d breathe a sigh of relief. Like when surgery is over and the nurse nudges you back into consciousness, tells you that the operation was a success.

Problem priorites

I am in a chatty mood today, so I will discuss while at the same time trying to entertain.

It is not beneath me to steal napkins from the Whole Foods cafe area because my house is in need of them and I don’t want to bother with buying them after I finish my lunch due to refusal to wait on the checkout line just for a dumb pack of napkins.

I eat two pieces of teriyaki salmon and some mashed potatoes and declare myself on vacation from all responsible thought. Mashed potatoes provide a primordial joy, so it’s hard to take the world seriously when you’re eating them. I get that same who-gives-a-crap-about-anything-else attitude also when I eat ice cream, or, of course, have sex.

Regardless, after having stuffed a modest wad of napkins into my purse, complete with the Whole Foods logo and some facts about animal welfare and hormone-free meat, I meander over to the adjacent bookstore, drink a double espresso and purchase a fun literary magazine (Barrelhouse) and a new 5 x 7 journal. Then I scurry home with my treasures.

She went with the Bride of Frankenstein Look

I think ringlety hair on a woman is super hot. I think it’s because it’s big & wild & seemingly chaotic. Also, the idea of possibly being unable to run my fingers through her hair is oddly appealing. I cannot help but think that I would instead hold it in bunches, which is also an appealing thought.

In a manner of speaking

The rule, generally speaking, is don’t have a visible ridge. Take skin flaws, for instance, which can include crevices, creases, nooks, crannies and dings — facial lines that look like lightning or autumn branches and twigs, exposed neurons or the guts of membrane.

But you may, on the other hand, go ahead and have a menacing malformation in the topography of your psyche if you would like, disregarding — perhaps even flaunting — that spot where people will stumble and risk being maimed or at bare-minimum suffer a conk on the head or a stubbed toe, which can be hell since those mishaps befall us so abruptly.

“Ow,” we say. Or, “fuck.”

An ex-boyfriend once said he had a ridge on his nail. I had never heard the word used in relation to the anatomy. But he labeled it as such and filed it smooth with my lavender nail buffer. Continue reading “In a manner of speaking”