Lancelot leaves on Monday for Hot-lanta. I’m fried and burned out and frazzled. I’m also broke as a joke and starting to show signs of my age (Goddamn you motherfucking “expression lines.” Damn you straight to hell.).

Strangely enough, I’m feeling rather hopeful. Like maybe, just maybe, there’s a light at the end of this warren of tunnels we’ve been navigating like drunks on a scavenger hunt for the past year. Drunks with inner ear problems and the DTs. And Tourette’s. And leprosy. Ok, so I might be exaggerating. A little.

But we might just make it. (Now that I’ve said that, watch — the shit will hit the fan. The universe hates it when I get cocky.)

In light of my cheerful(ish) disposition, some fun:

Fundies (And not the religious kind! Although I understand some of them have magic underwear.)

I think the word he’s looking for is “library.” What an amazing concept.

Heh. Birds of a feather.

When album covers attack

Have you had your LSD today?

It’s a Wonderful Internet (click around, pull tabs, use sliders)

Neat. But exceedingly pointless.

Oh, hi!

Does it make me a bad person if I really like these photos?

We were so ambitious. Alas.

But don’t fret! There’s still hope. Have a great weekend, y’all!

Lancelot and I love Amsterdam. It’s one of our favorite places. It’s been a while since we’ve been able to leave the States, and what with the whole money not growing on trees thing, it looks to be a little while longer before we can hop the pond again. But I miss it.

I miss the frites and the sex museum and the cobblestone streets and the canals. I miss the narrow, pretty houses with their straight up stairways. I miss the coffee shops and the psychedelic art and the Bob Marley wailing from radios. I miss the bicycle bells and trams. I miss Oranjeboom and Old Amsterdam and chocolate. I miss the Vondelpark and the Oude Kerk. I miss the de Wallen, the red lights, the slick lust, the ribaldry.

And so, in honor of that most tolerant of cities, a poem I wrote ages ago.

Red Lights

The sex district throbbed underneath the neon lights,
like a woman with a paying customer, legs raised up
and spread, topped with candy colored tights.
Down an alley went the beggar clinking change in his cup,
while Max and Sam and Frederic shouted, “Yeah! Show it all,”
to a group of nude dancers in a club called “Bottoms up.”
Across the street a woman slumped against the wall,
her face smeared with makeup, dirt and grime,
asked a covert gentleman, “Do you have the time?”
The man just hurried past her, his coat drawn close and tight
to cover up his hard-on which was doubtless rather small.
Inside a darkly lit bar a group of tourists laughed
as waves and waves of pleasure rolled over them from hash.
They thought they’d stay in Amsterdam where it’s always night.

I know. I just can’t stop fiddling with my template. It’s a problem.

What is the best way to deal with passive aggressive behavior?

Did y’all think I’d forgotten about Ask Gypsy? Well, I haven’t. I’ve been delaying because of that question right up there. I want to go in order of submission, but dagdabit if that question didn’t bring me to a screeching halt.

Because I have a suspicion that I am passive aggressive.

I had to look it up, but see? Right here it says

Another form of passive-aggressive behavior is leaving notes to avoid face-to-face discussion or confrontation.

Yep, I do that. Often. All the time, even. I write Lancelot reminders on his bathroom mirror in dry erase marker. Why? Because I’m a controlling nag, that’s why! Also, because I want things to get done and he has a very selective memory.

But let’s look at the other common signs:

* Ambiguity — Who, me? Ambiguous? Wishy-washy? I don’t think so. Do you?

* Avoiding responsibility by claiming forgetfulness — Ok, sometimes. But not all that often. Really!

* Blaming others — Only when it’s their fault, which is often. Ish.

* Chronic lateness and forgetfulness — Nope. I am almost never late. Ask Trouble. Forgetful? Only if I’ve been smoking a lot.

* Complaining — What, I’m not allowed to complain now? Sheesh.

* Does not express hostility or anger openly - (e.g., expresses it instead by leaving notes) — I already said I leave notes, but I don’t do it like this. And when I’m mad, you’ll know it.

* Fear of authority — Only of the healthy variety.

* Fear of competition — A smidge.

* Fear of dependency — Sometimes.

* Fear of intimacy (infidelity as a means to act out anger) — Oh, hell no.

* Fosters chaos — Not in the least. I like peace, man.

* Intentional inefficiency — What, you mean like, “Poor me, I can’t reach that”? Sometimes. But only if I want to see Lancelot being all manly and helpful of this damsel in distress. Most of the time if I’m inefficient it’s not intentional.

* Making excuses — Sometimes.

* Losing things — Not really.

* Lying — No. I’m not good at it.

* Obstructionism — Um. No?

* Procrastination — I do put the “pro” in procrastinate.

* Resentment — Only people who have it better than I do. Does that count? It does, doesn’t it?

* Resists suggestions from others — Yeah, I’m a bit butt-headed.

* Sarcasm — Nooooooo! Heh.

* Stubbornness — I’m an Aries, what can I say.

* Sullenness — Nah, I’m generally pretty cheerful.

* Willful withholding of understanding — I don’t understand.

Ok, so maybe I’m only slightly passive-aggressive.

But how about people who are habitually passive-aggressive? How do we deal with them? We give ‘em a kick right up their patootie is how.

Or, we can confront them, call them on their inconsistencies, and be completely direct with them. Don’t play their game.

Easier said than done? I know. But if they try to control you through snide comments, call them on it. If they frequently say they’ll do something and don’t, point it out. If they make excuses, tell them you’ve heard it before. Pay attention to their actions, not their words, and leave them behind if they can’t manage to be on time.

Anyone else have some helpful hints for dealing with passive pains in your ass? Aside from ritual slaughter.

Got a question? Ask Gypsy.

We stood in the waves, bare feet sinking in the sand as we cast our lines out into the Gulf. I hooked my own shrimp, proud of not being squeamish. I watched him, strong arms reaching back to throw the line in a dizzy arc toward the waves, eyes the color of the sky squinting against the sun. When I pulled in a whiting, its small form flashing against the sand in futile wriggles, he cheered for me, saying, “That’s a good eating fish there, baby! Good job!”

We fished in tandem, casting out, tugging on lines, keeping them taut, gently reeling in, occasionally getting a strike and jerkily hauling the fish into our bucket. Not talking, really, just lost in the process, feeling the spray of water and wind. When I lost a hook to a hungry catfish, Lancelot put my line between his sharp, white teeth, bit off the curled end, then threaded another hook. He deftly twisted the line around, knotting his fisherman’s knot with brown, sandy fingers.

He’s so able, this man of mine. Solid on the beach, identifying fish and birds and plants and lures and tackle and tides and currents. He teaches me that life also happens outside of cars and buildings and books. Out in the sunshine and the waves.

After working like a slave, with no pay, for almost a year on our failure of a restaurant and searching for a job for about three months, Lancelot has finally gotten a job.

Hallefuckingluiah!!!

He starts May 13th as a manager at a soon-to-be-built restaurant. He’ll have 40-hour work weeks, health insurance, 401k, time off, opportunity for advancement, etc. The bad news? He has to go to training for two months in Atlanta. Which means I’ll be all alone in the world without my sugar bear for two fucking months. Sigh.

But! In the interest of positivity and silver linings on dark clouds, I’m going to concentrate on the many, many good things about him being gone for two months.

1) He will likely be home most weekends. At least he better be, goddammit. Atlanta is only four hours away.

2) Also, maybe I’ll get a weekend trip to Atlanta out of the deal. Are you there Varsity? It’s me, Gypsy.

3) He has a job. Let’s not forget that. Actual employment. With benefits, no less. Praise baby Jesus.

4) Lots and lots of time to read.

5) I get to watch my Netflix selections, which include things like Death at a Funeral, Lust, Caution, The Education of Shelby Knox, and The Cockettes, instead of his Netflix selections, which are almost exclusively Jet Li. Ok, so I’m exaggerating.

6) I might watch BBCA for three days straight and never have to switch to the fishing channel.

7) He has a job. It’s worth repeating.

8 ) I will have an opportunity to lay off the herb and switch to red wine. Lots of it, maybe.

9) Perhaps this will be the impetus I need to start eating right again. Then again, perhaps I’ll subsist on a diet of macaroni and cheese and Skinny Cow. Look, there’s the word “skinny.” That counts, right? I should slap that word on a package of bacon. Well, the slices are skinny.

10) Have I said reading? I have, haven’t I?

11) I’ll have a chance to really perfect that whole masturbation thing. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m already perfect. Is there perfecter? Because maybe I’ll be that. I’ll devise new and wonderful ways to get off singly. I might have to go back and pick up that vibe I was eying at the sex shoppe the other day. It was orange.

12) He won’t know if I buy more shoes.

13) We could probably stand to spend some time apart. I love him. He completes me. He’s the peanut butter to my jelly and he’s the person I want to spend all of my time with. But he also drives me up the wall and I drive him to drink. I’m a believer in the concept of relationship sabbaticals, and perhaps it’s time for us to have one. This has been the year from hell, and the stress of opening and closing the restaurant has got us both in a twist. It might be really helpful for both of us to get some time to decompress and start appreciating each other more again. The last time we were apart like this I went to NYC for some training and it was spectacular for us. He came to visit me half-way through my stay and it was one of the most romantic times in our relationship.

So, I’m ok with it now. I’m trying to stay positive. And I hope this new opportunity works out for Lancelot. Lord knows he needs a break. But remind me of all this in a couple of weeks when I miss him desperately and am clutching all four puppy dogs tight for comfort.

She always wore this army jacket, olive green and a little ratty, large silver hoop earrings, and over-sized black sunglasses. I think the first time I actually spoke to her was on a bus to somewhere. We were part of a semester study abroad program in Florence, Italy, and I remember a red bus and speaking to her. But I don’t remember what we said. She might remember. What I do remember is she made me laugh. A lot.

We were carefree college students, tripping around Europe on our parents’ money, attending classes on Italian, art, literature, writing, and history during the week and wandering around Florence, Venice, Rome, Austria, Amsterdam, London, and Paris on the weekends. We drank a lot, smoked a lot, flirted a lot (although the object of her flirtations would change in later years), laughed a lot, and never, ever cried.

When we got back to the States, we moved in together, along with another girl from the program. We had a house by campus and it was the second best time of my life, living with those girls. We lounged on our dingy sofa and laughed and talked and drank and laughed and had porn night and laughed and did Screaming Jeopardy(tm) and laughed.

H. is one of my bestest friends. She’s beautiful and awkward and smart and artistic and anxious and goofy and open and generous and woo-woo and cultured. She is one of my favorite people in the world, and even though I haven’t actually seen her in person since—oh, when was it? 1999?—we keep in touch through constant emails. She is the Patsy to my Edina, if Patsy got clean.

So, go visit her won’t you? And be kind. She’s a little nervous about this whole blogging thing.

I spent a lot of time this weekend thinking about art and my place — or lack of place — in it. I’m finishing up Holy Skirts, a novelization of the life of Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, poet, artist, model, dadaist, bohemian. She took lovers, created art out of trash, wrote surrealist poetry, and wore a bustle with a tail light. I also watched a documentary about the Ballet Russe; all those Russian girls in tutus, the lean and handsome men, the grace and pageantry. And art.

From the time I was little, I was on the edge of art. I took dance as a child and loved it. Ballet, tap, jazz. I was good, with natural rhythm and musicality. Good, but not great. And I was lazy. I dreamed of being extraordinary, of auditions and rehearsals and pointe shoes, but I was never driven enough to work for it.

There were drawing lessons, pottery lessons, painting lessons. I had an eye for color and composition, but no great talent. And because my older brother was vastly more gifted than I at painting, I didn’t try very hard. Why compete when I knew I couldn’t win?

I took music lessons, too. Guitar, piano, voice. I was never very good with an instrument, but singing came naturally to me. And though I enjoyed it, though I was told to keep it up, to practice, to use my gift, I didn’t. My innate laziness overrode my talent, and for all these artistic endeavors I was above average, but never the best.

How stupid I was not to press on. But when it got hard, I quit. When it no longer felt effortless, when I had to work longer, practice more to keep up, pay more attention to get better, I lost interest. If I couldn’t be the best naturally, I didn’t stick around to be disappointed.

I still feel like I’m on the edges of art. Many of my friends are artistic, working in the arts or actually creating art. I enjoy creative people, people who are driven to explore artistic outlets for
personal expression. In college, I took art history class after art history class, read literature, studied humanities, filling my head with Delacroix and Waterhouse and Thomas and Sexton. I traveled Europe, wandering through museums and cobbled streets and churches, imagining myself artistic and driven to create.

Instead of jumping in, dedicating myself to the one area where I had a real chance of crossing over from appreciator to artist — writing — I held back. I thought, if I can’t write, I’ll edit. And then maybe, someday, down the line when I’m more confident or talented or have more to say, then I’ll get started. I’ll set aside the time and work and then the words will flow and I’ll create and I’ll be an artist.

But I don’t, and down the line keeps coming and I still don’t. I let my laziness, my fear of exposure, my lack of focus, my sense that I won’t be good enough be excuses for not trying.

And then I read about Elsa and her urge to tangle words together, to create meaning out of refuse. I see those dancers in the Ballet Russes, with terrible pay and incredible training schedules and rigorous travel, compelled to dance because it’s who they are, it’s what they must do. And I hate myself for being lazy, for accepting mediocrity, for not wanting it badly enough, for not needing it.

Heart (Dance of Shiva) by Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven

Around me hovers presence that thou art,
secretely atmosphere draws cloudy——dense——
perfume athwart mine cheekbone swings intense——
smile on mine lip——
I kiss thee——
with mine heart !

Ja——with mine heart——
that can perform fine tricks
since it is housed with wizzardry and art—— !
soul——how enchanted art thou——
by such heart ! !

Ho !——lover far——

Last month, when my mother was coming for a visit, I bought a chair for her. Our living room is awkward. It’s narrow, and there aren’t a lot of options for seating. We have a couch and a Lay-Z-Boy recliner, but the recliner doesn’t face the TV. It’s off on the side by a lamp and table, a little reading cozy. But, with Mom coming, I wanted her to be able to sit with us and watch movies, and our couch just isn’t big enough for three.

I scouted around, looking for something cheap and comfortable but small. We had to squeeze the chair over between the couch and the sliding glass door. Lancelot was sure I’d never find anything, that there wasn’t any room, that I was wasting my time. Money was an issue, as he’s still sans employment. But I was confident I could find something that would work. Mom was coming for a visit, and by god I was gonna find her a decent place to sit.

And what should I find in our neighborhood Goodwill but a small upholstered chair. It was a hunter green; a nice, neutral color that matched our “decor” (if you want to call scavenged and inherited pieces decor). I eyeballed it and figured that it would fit in our little corner. It was comfortable, too, and a decent price.

I bought it.

When Mom came, she had a comfy little chair to sit in and visit with us, and I felt proud of my frugality and perseverance.

After Mom left, and still calling the chair “Mom’s chair,” I began to migrate from the couch to that chair during our evening veg-out sessions. It just seemed easier. I’d drag over one of our rolling ottomans, put my feet up, and relax while Lancelot lounged on the couch.

But recently I’ve noticed that Lancelot and I haven’t been touching quite as much. Nothing glaring, and there’s nothing wrong, it’s just… different. Before we were always twined around each other, holding hands on the couch, snuggling up, trailing our fingers along each other’s arms, resting with our head in the other’s lap.

I began to feel a bit disconnected, but I couldn’t place why. Last night, I think I figured it out.

We were watching Wire in the Blood, and something — a longing to be near him, perhaps — prompted me to move from Mom’s chair to the couch next to him. Instinctively we reached for each other’s hands, he played with my ring, we made kiss sounds to each other (gimme a break — it’s just something we do). And it was just so much better. More peaceful. Comfortable. Right.

I blame it all on Mom’s chair: it was obviously trying to come between us.

Me: “Hello?”

Him: “Hey. Why didn’t you say goodbye this morning, before you left?”

“What? You were in the shower and I had to leave.”

“So? You can’t come say goodbye while I’m in the shower?”

“I can, but I thought I kind of covered that.”

“When?”

“In the living room? When you were letting the dogs out? I scratched your back and gave you a hug and a kiss.”

“That’s not saying goodbye, though.”

“It’s not?”

“No.”

“Is this why you’re calling? To see why I didn’t say goodbye?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. I thought something was wrong.”

“Aw, I’m sorry babe. You just wanted to give me a hard time, didn’t you?”

“Kinda. But you need to say goodbye.”

“Ok. I’ll try to remember that.”

She noticed the boy who brought the milk in the morning, with his fine, sharp shoulders and the sly way he looked away from her when she paid him. She smiled at the house painter when he came to work in the spare bedroom, and she passed the doorway several times a day trying to catch his eye. He had a broad body and merry, light blue eyes. She sketched the ripple of a man’s bare back, the torso of a contortionist she had seen at the circus. When she closed her eyes, she saw the long members of every man she had been with, standing up and offering themselves to her like tall, wild mushrooms.

It overtook her like a fever, this desire for other men. She desired their salty, soapy smells, the slight roughness in the pads of their fingers, chin and cheek stubble, the muscle and warmth through wool trousers, the high handle of shoulders and firm arms around her waist. Her wanting did not discriminate. She leaned in toward men in chairs, whose paunches were suddenly secret pillows; she touched the arms of graybeards and met their mocking eyes; she followed stable and delivery boys, her gaze on their gangly, helpless gaits. She wanted all of them, one by one, and at once.

Holy Skirts, by Rene Steinke

I was always the horny one. My friends didn’t seem to know this ache, they didn’t see the blueish veins in the underside of a muscled arm and feel a tug. They saw eyes and smiles and tenderness. I saw those, too, and I wanted the sweetness, but I craved the touch, the thrust, the grasp.

In college, after love left me, my eyes were so hungry, ravenous for male forms, watching and wanting. In class, I watched them shifting in their seats, draping long legs across knees, strong toes in flip-flops curled and flexing, the downward tilt of stubbled chins, arms crossed with fists beneath biceps.

At bars, I watched them laughing, their throats pulsing on Michelob Light and Jaggermeister. I pushed behind them, trailing my hand across the small of their backs, excusing myself, tossing back apologetic smiles. I danced, cradling longnecks, hands in my hair, eyes half mast and seeking. Invariably, arms would snake around me, and I’d lean back, not caring what he looked like, not bothering with the niceties, just sinking into the feel of a body curved around mine, sweat-slick hands sleeking down my sides.

And if, in that rhythm, he smelled good, or had nice hands, or a wicked swell, or lean hips, or strong thighs, I’d turn and wrap a hand around his neck, smiling up, inviting.

Driving now, I see them running, the flash of their thighs visible in the sweep of their shorts, ruffled by their momentum. And I turn in the driver’s seat, watching them go by.

I watch their husbands, how their eyes crinkle or how the hair on their arms is crisp against tanned flesh. I see their bunching calves and wonder if their wives see them, too. I imagine them in bed together, what they do, how they sound, what they like.

Most of all, I see Lancelot. My eyes follow him, seek him out, crave him. I tickle my fingers along the underside of his arm, where the skin is softer than down. I dip my hand into the back of his shorts, where the small of his back creates a gap. I watch the wings of his shoulder blades shift under his t-shirts, and I see scars and scrapes and nicks along his strong fingers.

And I’m still the horny one.

I was feeling inspired by Ms. Steinke.