May 23, 1996 (#12) (and before ...)
Once again weak excuses about time when, really, what do we have but time. Time to smell the dew that glistens on a bright morning glory, time to gently coddle the coffee from it's simmering pot, time to turn on the modem and answer the e-mail. Perhaps for you my little lichens, but not for me. The morning ablution routine is at least two hours before I'm presentable.
But during these lovely morning times, I have a chance to reflect on all my lovely lovelies, those constant corresponders who keep me going through these troubled times no matter how much I suppress the screams of rage.
Yes my little liverworts, I am trying to avoid a painful topic right now in order to preserve a life of one who should know better and didn't.
So, let's pop onto more pleasant topics and give credit where credit is due, especially to those who deserve it, unlike someone who may possibly read this or may not but it really doesn't interest me. Really.
I have so many friends who are well brought up. For instance, Mr. Jewel. Now Mr. Jewel is a lovely chap, older though he may be, (now Jewel, sage and beauty are sisters, just like us). Well, lovely Jewel has popped the rubber stopper off the cane and was off to see Rent with his poppet. Surprise, love has transformed our Jewel into a theatre loving critic! Well, just a little as there would seem to be quite a bit wrong with Broadway's most over advertised musical. Thanks goodness it was nominated for the Antoinette Perrys'! I was all pins and needles. My Jewel, I think I'll keep him despite the threats I still receive from You-Know-Who.
And as a polar opposite is my stalwart companion, Joe. Joey, a tanned Italian brick house living in Los Angeles (Oh how he loves his city.). Oh Calgon, take me away. Joe has lately been up to his ears in personal trauma. He has been seeing a rather quiet, too quiet, young man in Ohio, well actually not seeing him which is the real problem and this silly Ohioan paints a rather dreary picture of that state. I knew that Joe was in need of spiritual help as he began to compare himself to a lesbian. While I understand the metaphor, rationally and anatomically, this would be unlikely. In the middle of all this, my unselfish Atlas has to dry his tears and put on his happy face to pull another compatriot through the fires of love. Oh Joe, Sicily lost it's best when your family got on that boat. (His mother makes the best biscotti!.)
Speaking of Sapphic worship, there's sweet Betty. Straight, but yearning to make her offering to St. Uncumber, casually known as a patron saint to lesbians - don't tell the pater. I think she is receiving kind and good advice from her lesbian friends - listen to them Betty, they know best! In all her angst, she devours movies and selects the best for us, specifically noting the sartorial highlights. A kind child.
On a rather abrupt note, I come to James. I'm just not sure about most of James, but something draws me there. There's a Messiaen-like quality to him. Constantly haunted by his ex, literally, well, or at least bad hallucinagens, he mixes cowboys and Ingmar Bergman in a deadly cocktail.
Cocktails, my little brachen, cocktails. Oh Verlene! Verlene LaLong-Bois, a special friend, for a special time. I live my life through her travails. In a recent thirty day period, my Verlene went to London for Spanish, a Congo Line Festival in the Barbadoas and a tour of South America including Peru, Bolivia and Argentina. Tell me I don't bristle with envy and awe. How she finds the time to have such a rich life and still think of me? I'm tearing.
My other sweetie, Areta von Kass, blossomed into my life most recently and pursues her dreams much like Verlene on a more limited budget and sort of one-track mind. Beseeched to visit her, I am waylaid by my own selfish and inconsequential troubles. I shamedly ignore her pleas to help save her from boys, boys, boys, but I love her so because she is sincerity - en tout. Will you ever forgive me my darling? You must. I'm not constant, but I am strict.
Aha, Zach. My erstwhile nephew who, lost in the desert for so long, found by Javier taken to see a burning man -- suddenly he has an epiphany. Me. This poor child has lost himself in the wrong pagan religion. Oh, I suppose that's a bit judgemental, but then so am I.
Now you may be saying, but Trudy, we don't care a bit about them, what about And of course, Barbara's! Well my little scale moss, I try my best to be patient with them. I try not to make a scene. I offer to set them up on reruns - all to no avail. She's in jail, and I am simply on a cliff waiting for Nelson Eddy to let go. Enough already, I made you and I can destroy you and now is not the time to test me. I'm real cranky, but always polite.
Have I avoided talking about me? You noticed, you're so sweet. Yes, I am choosing to thrust myself, Abattoir and even brave Lancelot into my work - they really have nothing else to do and I need them so.
Perhaps I will learn to update myself more often as opposed to sinking into pools of self-pity and unhappiness which don't really make for positive thinking. Norman, be my hero.
Until the gout subsides,