i want to recall a pertinent detail, to me anyway. there was a most vivid moment, driving back down the road, out of the woods, thinking about what had just happened, all that means, all the planning, so, you know, heady stuff.

i guess to maybe bring ground us a bit, j turns on the radio to the sounds of terance trent d'arby singing 'wishing well'. and one of the things that endears me about j is his great attachment to 90's top 40. i don't get it 100% but it tickles me nonetheless. and i thought, i get to enjoy 'wishing well' without shame or embarrassment for the rest of my life.

how comforting and comfortable we'll be. i'm trying to say it was poignant somehow. the only time i'm sure a terance trent d'arby song has ever been poignant.

Wishing Well (A Tone Poem)

Kissing like a bandit
Stealing time
Underneath a sycamore tree
Cupid by the hour sends
Valentines
To my sweet lover and me
Slowly
But surely
Your appetite is more than I knew
Sweetly
Softly
I'm falling in love with you

Wish me love a wishing well
To kiss and tell
A wishing well of butterfly tears
Wish me love a wishing well
To kiss and tell
A wishing well of crocodile cheers

Hugging like a monkey see
Monkey do
Right beside a riverboat gambler
Erotic images float through my head
So I wanna be
Your midnight rambler
Quickly
Quickly
The blood races through my veins
Quickly
Loudly
I wanna hear those sugar bells ring

Wish me love a wishing well
To kiss and tell
A wishing well of butterfly tears
Wish me love a wishing well
To kiss and tell
A wishing well of crocodile cheers

i'm getting married

...and it wasn't a dream.

i'm speechless at the depths of the happiness i'm feeling. i'm scared of every risk i'm taking. i'm dazed by the sheer goodness of my fortune. but i'm ready for all of it.

with this man, i'm ready.

tipper gore's hairy cheesecake

so tipper gore and i are chatting it up. she wants me to put some highlights in the bangs of her graying blonde hair. we get her set up on a bar stool in an alley way for easy clean up. I'm also trimming up her ends and at the same time preparing a gigantic factory-sized cheesecake. truthfully it looks delish, but then i decide that a key ingredient is tipper gore's clippings. so into the dish it goes with the cream cheese and sugar. we cook it up and it's delightful, if chewy.

if this all sounds latently indecent to you, i can't say i fully disagree. c'est le fromage.

a very special episode of 'celebrity botched open heart surgery'

so last night. have you ever seen that movie 'may'? and she sews the perfect man? in my dream, i'm a similar sort of experiment for a crazed serial killer heart surgeon. i don't distinctly remember his face, but he seemed to be a mix of matthew broderick, kevin spacey and this guy with a pencil-thin mustache i went on a date with once. his name was Richard and he was a performance art student at kcai. what's the common thread here? creepy men i sense a latent serial killer/mother fixation vibe in. (though i've always considered m. broderick a likeable killer-type.) so in my apartment, he's got a knife and makes me lay out on this big butcher-block top table in my kitchen. it's nighttime and my pov is outside the apartment watching through warehouse type windows at this guy cutting me up. he removes part of my face and most of my fingers. then he opens up my chest and bypasses part of my heart, making it into a one chamber heart. Pov switch, i’m on the table looking up at him through vision that blurs in and out, still alive and trying to figure out how to survive. finally, he finishes and leaves me for dead, my one-chamber heart just barely pumping blood.

somehow i escape down to the street. i have to get to a hospital. i stumble through the streets, and end up at a beautiful clean hospital. but, i don't trust the doctors, dr. serialkillerkevinspacey may work there, so i sneak through the back stairwells.
finally i find someone to help reconstruct my face and heart but i have to agree to appear on america's new favorite reality TV show 'Celebrity Botched Open Heart Surgery'. don
king's brainchild. oprah was already there in the hospital taping so it was a big-time show, or so they told me. i guess the idea was to reconstruct my face to look like a celebrity and thereby make me a legitimate 'Celebrity Botched Open Heart Surgery' contestant. so i go under. don king talks up the surgery like it's the bout to end all bouts. will she survive? all proceeds as planned. i'm ready to leave the hospital, and part of the show is that there is a big send-off with spotlights showing both the team that performed the surgery and the celebrity helicopting into the sunset together.

the next thing i know, i'm in this little plane-helicopter thing (it has wings on the side and a propeller on top). the nurse is sewing up my lip and drops the needle out the window and it pierces the wing. we begin a freefall into the hospital's corporate lake. i look up at the doc and realize it's dr. serialkillerkevinspacey. and at that moment, with the fear in my eyes, he recognizes me as the frankengirl he left for dead. i know as soon as we hit the water he's going to drown me to cover it up.

we hit water, i dive to the bottom. he stays up top to stay in frame for cameras filming our big send-off (thankfully drowning me is not as high of a priority as face-time). i look up and the spotlights light his silhouette as he halfway looks for me under the water’s surface, at the same time waving to be saved. divers now converge on him and take him to safety. it's my chance and i swim to the edge of the lake but the lake doubles as a home for cold-war era bombs. they are still closely protected, even so, scaling them is my only way out. i decide to take the chance that they may see me and shoot, thinking me a spy. luckily, saving the celebrity doctor creates a perfect diversion and i climb the bomb housing and make my way to nearby train tracks.

next thing i know, i'm living in the ghetto of a large northern city. this is my new life. attempting to hide from the evil doctor, i've gained 200 lbs. and become a large androgynous black girl with much-neglected hair (i should know to relax it, but in the dream i’m just inept with my ethnic hair). i've been living here with my surrogate family who took me in, long enough for neighbors to notice me and talk. i decide it's time to leave my hideout and lose the disguise. I drop the weight first. a neighbor boy sees me and falls in love. i'm not too interested, because i know that soon i'll be back to regular white girl sarah and he'll be confused and regretful. then i wake up.

the point is, check out may. creepy feminist girl hasn't been done so well since sissy spacek in carrie.

the nostradamus of relationships

mr. whiteboots, you were a luftmensch. where are you now?
-----Original Message-----

as near as i can remember of mr. whiteboots' words to me (plus my thoughts):

{the approach}
{the lean-in}
MW: Is that girl next to you your sister? [He wants to hit on Sarah.]
8: No.
MW: Does she have a boyfriend? [He definitely wants to hit on Sarah.]
8: Not that I know of. Hey, I want to give you something. {reaches in pocket and gives MW an Ennui pin}
MW: {looks at pin, pockets it} Thanks.
{caresses 8's cheek} Have you looked in a mirror? [What the hell?]
8: Every day -
MW: You look like James Dean.
8: Thanks.
MW: You look like that guy from 'The Time Machine'... those high cheekbones, strong nose, and gorgeous smile. [Oh shit, he's hitting onme.]
What's his name?
MW's Girlfriend: Guy Pearce.
MW: That's the one.
8: Thanks, thanks.
MW: But you're just standing there, holding up the wall, next to that beautiful fucking girl and not doing a fucking thing.{backs away. imitation of slouching do-nothing. goofy voice.}I'm not sexy. I'm bald, got glasses.
[Whoa, this is not what I expected.]
{leans in again}
But you are fuckin' sexy, man. And it's so obvious you want her. And she wants you. You may not think so. You may not think you do it for her, but she digs you. Fuck man, she's beautiful and if you had the fucking...the fucking balls-you'd do something about it.
[He's got a point, however wacky.]
I got some kinda gift for this, man. I'm like the Nostradamus of Relationships. {MW's girlfriend takes a looooooooong drink from MW's beer. MW looks at 8, looks at girlfriend. To 8, laughing:}
Fuck.
{extends hand to shake}
8: {takes MW's hand and leans in this time} I know, man. She's hot as hell. There's just some hesitation.
[Do I really want to talk to this guy about this?]
MW: Fuck that. You're a sexy mother fucker, man. And you're cool as hell. Look where you are. I'm serious. And she's beautiful and you both look good. If she doesn't want you, then fuck her - fuck her in the earhole. But I'm not wrong.
8: Well...{smiles} thanks.
MW: {breaks handshake. starts to leave} You're fucking sexy, man...and I'm not even gay. Enjoy the show.
{extends hand again}
8: {takes hand} You too.
MW's Girlfriend: {waves} Good night.
{exit MW and girlfriend}
[What the fuck was that all about?]

achluftmensch!

luftmensch \LOOFT-mensh ("OO" as in "foot")\ noun

: an impractical contemplative person having no definite business or income

Example sentence:
"The son ...," wrote American author Irving Howe, "is leaving to be a luftmensch - a starving poet, a painter without pictures, a radical leader without followers."

Are you someone who always seems to have your head in the clouds? Do you have trouble getting down to the lowly business of earning a living? If so, you may deserve to be labeled a "luftmensch." That airy appellation is an adaptation of the Yiddish "luftmentsh," which breaks down into "luft" (a Germanic root that can be tied linguistically to the English words "loft" and "lofty"), meaning "air," lus "mentsh," meaning "human being." "Luftmensch" was first introduced to English prose in 1907, when Israel Zangwill wrote "The word 'Luftmensch' flew into Barstein's mind. Nehemiah was not an earth-man .... He was an air-man, floating on facile wings."

parlor games with the dead intellectuals

i imagine it would be wonderful to have a dinner party hosted by my subconscious. who would it invite? what kind of parlor games would it want us to play? would it be an entertaining hostess or a withdrawn one?
i'm quite sure my subconscious would be rather cheeky and seat the later freud next to my mother on one side, and on her other side, jung. my subconscious would find it fun to bring a drag king as a dinner date, and seat him next to my father, just to see what comes or does not come of it. Likely father would not notice the contrary sex beneath the facial hair and hearty laugh. the ever observant butler would be sartre, who my subconscious will attempt to debrief afterwards, with only marginal success.
we will not play horseshoes, but rather 'pimpshoes', a game in which my guests look at each other's shoes and make character assassinations based on the state of the shoes, or guess what unsavory locales the shoes have lurked in, or otherwise uncover some secret they may tell us about the wearer. but freud will get tense when it is his turn because his shoes are boring and all the guests have fallen uncomfortably silent. so he shows his toes, eliciting a round of oo's and surprised hand clasps from the crowd, most never having seen the pale translucent feet of a deified psychoanalyst. of course, freud technically cheated but he did indeed win that round of pimpshoes.

things that go rump in the night

if dreams of celebrities are supposed to indicate a healthy level of self-esteem, i wonder what does it say about me that i dream of gary busey and jan michael vincent?

i'm thinking that reflects just the opposite really.

so last night i dreamed i was living in san fran with jan michael vincent (post-air wolf) in the late '80's. we had a house full of kids, none of which i believe were actually mine, but rather a group of semi-orphans created by jan himself and his ex-wives and one-night-stands. we lived in a big, dumpy, but sunny, victorian in the haight. i remember just chasing around a lot of kids and trying to keep them doing homework and watering the massive plants hanging from massive macrame hangers. also, funnelling the children around the city to school, lessons, etc. i'm not sure what this means. i've never been to sanfran, much less california.

another dream involved facing off with a character i periodically draw: a bald clown with a bad attitude who wears just jeans and a crappy tee. i named him 'rumpy the clown'. anyway, rumpy and i are battling in water for control of a city and all its inhabitants. he dunks me in the water. i push him and one of his minions off their raft and he falls in. his minions, by the way, are all these hot mermaid girls. anyway, i have flapper-type goth girls helping me canoe around and get strategic position on rumpy. it all takes place in a river, but the river is like in a whale belly; it's in a large fleshy cavern. eventually the flappers and i defeat rumpy and make the town safe for all types, not just hot mermaids and clowns.

In the words of James Lipton, "You are a dee...light"

I won't sleep with stupid people. When I have sex I like to have my brains fucked out; I'm not having anyone touching my brain who isn't my equal. You have to be equals otherwise it's going to be a mess.
-- from Tracey Enim

i can't wait to go home and paint and read tonight. i'm way off my sublimation schedule.
painting is like dreaming.
painting is like kissing.
painting drunk is like fucking drunk, it feels good at the time, then you wake up to devastation. [insert sound of screaming jello "too drunk to fuck" here]

"Contains the legendary disemboweled dogs scene"

oh i thought i had told you. fri night's dream was very simple. but very unique in that i never dream of names or color schemes or exclusively using pov angles. i was standing in the stacks of an old library. i don't see my surroundings but i'm somehow aware of them. the shots are totally pov and i see my left hand very pale reach up to a newer looking book that stands out because of it's coloring. all the others are old and dusty, but this has shiny silver foil lettering, in a huge bookman-type font "PREU". and deep purple broadcloth or whatever they use for covering most books, meaning the covering wasn't velveteen or anything extravagant. i had the distinct feeling that you were a fabulous well-known writer, possibly because of the appearance of the name. and as i pulled it out, i felt satisfied that i had foreseen such things, i felt a sense of good memories swimming around, that kind of drunken feeling when blindsided by a rush of goodness, good memories. and i was curious about where you were, what you wrote about, or possibly who wrote about you. i didn't open it though, i just felt the letters and the cloth and thought about you and put it back. ["it's interesting that in both these dreams i remember the distinct feeling of memories swimming around as i performed actions, though i, in my dream state wasn't able to access the exact memories, but rather just the feelings they brought."]

last night i dreamed of gary busey

he and i were homeless in downtown k.c. with a child (apparently ours) and it was a dark and frigid midnight to early morning. we are completely broke, but all liquored up anyway, and we decide to entertain ourselves by coasting in a shopping cart down Main. Main itself was completely deserted except for us in our shopping cart and a taxi cab outside the db (or in that general vicinity). the kid seemed to enjoy the ride and didn't mind having such losers for parents (apparently he had never heard of gary busey). at some point, i'm worried for the kid because it's so cold. we need to find a warm place to stay for the evening, so we break into an underwear shop housed in a very large open warehouse space. i'm still drunk and begin to do some hobo-shopping--running from bin to bin, submerging my hands in piles of underwear, tossing them up, rich with all the pretty underthings i'd ever wanted. also i knew i could sell everything i took and buy the kid some food and school supplies he needed.

i think that dream means i'm ready for children.

hobo coffee

QUERY:
tell me this: do you think my mind has been irrevocably warped by too much reality tv/cnn/fox, etc? Example: yesterday pm, i went to get coffee in the break room. i poured a cup into my country apple motif coffee cup. started to sip, noted a weird foam on top, swirled the suspect bevie around and then noticed a kind of sludge. and my immediate thought was of those tv shows where they have hidden cameras in break rooms and film people peeing in the coffee pot, spitting in the peanut butter, whatever. then i think, could such a thing happen at the chr foundation? then i think, sarah, you're crazy paranoid. what's your vote?

ANSWER:
ok, you're asking me two different questions -
1-has your mind been irrevocably warped by too much "real" media?
and
2-are you crazy paranoid?

1 - cf. baudrillard
2 - no. you're just hyper-aware. (but i don't think anyone whizzed in your coffee, either.)

my sexual organ is French

it smokes too much and talks very very fast.

ok so - one of the most vile images i've found in a poem ever:
"Before tearing out your ugly sexual organ, incontinent and slimy,
so french."

why dadaist poetry never got much respect, i'll never know.

i-z-u vacationing on the shichito islands

in a meeting this morning, i'm sitting at the head of a large conference table, no one is listening to each other, even tony robbins himself couldn't decode the management-speak flying about, and the thought quietly and calmly arrives in my head, "what if i just pee'd my pants right now? how would you like that?"

i can't decide if that's a passive-agressive thing, or just my competitiveness to rise to the top of the chaotic/neurotic/semi-catatonic heap. either way, these are the thoughts that tide me over in meetings. so if you ever find yourself on the other side of a board room table from me, take solace or discomfort in the fact that i'm probably wondering if you're wearing a diaper under that suit, you sicko.

Welcome to KeyWestPalmDaytonaBeach! Wanna party?

the wellspring of majestic dreams dried up last night.

the entire dream had the look of a bad 80's spring break movie. in fact, the setting was something like daytona beach circa 1987. so many men with lemon-juice-lightened hair and skin the color of dirty pennies. i don't remember any women but me in the dream. i frequented a little fish shack favored by locals whose closets must've been fully stocked by the summer clearance rack at burlington coat factory. this is the kin dof place where all the regulars order the special (brown tuna special tonight). anyway, i'm a wandering about my life, the dream, in a drunken stupor, the girl who stayed way too long at the house party and hasn't yet discovered that it's over. then scene-change, i'm on a rooftop dancefloor comprised of lasers under the glass floorboards. dancing to cheesy music and dressed in neon colors.

what a fashion nightmare.

sleeping through the belle epoch

last night. (well, really this AM) what dreams!
first one - j and i thought i might be pregnant - i just started on the pill, again, so no worries in waking life - and we went to kmart, specifically it appeared to be the old one that my mom worked at for a short spell in the 70's when it was new. we hunt around for the right test, trying to determine the difference between the $14.95 test and the $19.99 test, if there was any. finally we choose one and go to the middle of the store where the dressing rooms are. my parents are there waiting on the sitting bench outside the crappy little makeshift rooms. my dad was not very happy with j. my mom, not so happy with me. and my dad said something about better marry her and my mom sort of mumbled agreement as i tried to ignore them and went to pee. kind of an uncomfortable moment out there between the 3 of them. so i pee in this thing, and it's a big blue plastic box, shaped just like our scanner/printer in waking life. i call j over. we can't figure out the results so we take it back to the pharmacy. the pharmacist is this creepy middle-aged jew who looks like ron silver with frizzy hair. he puts on his glasses, walks to other end of the counter, and looking at the test says, ok, 77% negative, you're not pregnant. then he gave us some masturbation tips which was totally sickening, and actually wrote them out on a prescription pad. dream over.

before that i had dreams about fin de siecle paris. it was covered in snow and it was beautiful. i was staying in a commune-like old house with academie de beaux artes students. riding in open top doubledeckers around the city (not historically correct i know). dressing in beautiful turn of the century frocks and getting the hems wet in the snow. oh it was visually amazing and i felt a general excitement of discovery all around me. that feeling of being new in a foreign city, and gloriously lost.

then i woke up to jason looking down at me and kissing me--a most romantic wake up call.