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I listen to the fleet rushing in. The madness seems oddly serene. The weirdness of my desires to be dangerous. The sensualness of dirty, not in body but in mind. Oh yeah, I have this mind that is so dark. Like getting spanked. Or getting raped on film. Now thereís a thought to take me through dizzy days of secretion and sauce for the goose type of thing. I donít know if things are real. I donít know if I am the true Darla my mom sometimes thinks I am. I like to write drivel. Or simply be me, okay?
Next time I feel ill Iím not telling you. You think I should be walking in the rain and stop shunning you. My deft movements do not satisfy your burning need for the sordid. You would like to see me in a cartoon. You would like to see me as a naked dancer on the shore, selling myself to passing lawyers. I once knew a lawyer called Frank. Used to tell me how interesting he was. He used to hold his blond head up proudly and tell me what a good fellow he was. Ugh, he was such a jerk
God is not one of us, okay? You are not God. I would laugh in your face. You have too much of a dark mind. You like to smack people too much. You enjoy hurting. You get your kicks that way doing the dirty on the innocent looking chicks you come on too. My friend Eloisa once told me you were a dragon from hell. I thought she was crazy. But truth will out. And you dare to appear at my door in the night in all your conceit and with a strap in your hand and a filthy leer.
Eloisa and I are in Mellows sipping white wine and looking chic. We give challenging looks to marauding guys who figure they have a chance with us. The music is gangsta rap. The usual guys beating up on girls. I would rather eat egg sandwiches than go with a gangsta who wants to fill my mind with crap while tossing his hairy arms around me and looking wide eyed like heís really somebody, which of cause heís not. Eloisa is having trouble with some guy in her office. He wants to crap on her for kicks. Really, these sick guys.
Had a weird dream where I was in a school I did not wish to be in. I felt small and alone, though one talked to me. I did not know why I was there apart from maybe to play games. But I donít do games. So where the hell does it come from, this madness the mind creates to unsettle one? I sit here in my glooms and feel the gentle heat of the summer sun peeping through my window and thoughts of this wretched school which may be parked in the middle of nowhere. And I feel dead.
I met some client today who is the image of Hedy Lamarr. I was like open mouthed when she stepped in. She needed just to be briefed about a coming interview with the boss. But my eyes would not tear away from her. The reason I say this is because I saw two movies last night on YouTube staring Hedy. Only Hedy has been long dead. But suddenly here is her double. When she noticed my gazing at her she wanted to know whatís up. So I told her and she laughed and said somebody told her that before. Wow.
Listen, what could be more exhilarating than meeting the perfect lover while strolling along a country lane in darkest Baltimore? I figured my Aunt Jade would have ideas like that. Where summer romance meets Shubert and dreams of madness with a serene attitude. I have been told I have these odd attitudes where I go down dark dusty lanes talking to my self about my new shoes and how they hurt or are too high and get guys ogling my legs too much. I wanna be free of all ogling. Ah gee, Iím the odd girl out, see man, huh?
Thereís a trip going to Venezuela for gardeners who just lost their moms. Yeah I know, kinda weird. But one has to take the good with the bad, right? I was up in Baltimore with Aunt Jade. We were in some coffee bar sipping our lattes and looking chic. Aunt Jade is fifty going on nineteen. We look like almost sisters. Jade has the mind of a young girl still. She even went to college late. I wanted to be a valedictorian, but never was. But my sweet Aunt Jade was, damn the lovely woman. I melt when we talk.
When I was young I wanted to be Sal Paradise and live on the road. I wanted to live with a hot Mexican chic and be just a regular guy, right? My mom would say, honey, youíre a girl. Wow, I would reply, guess youíre right. My mom was never very deep. And so I lingered on the margins of life livin mostly in dreams where oh yeah I was Sal livin it up, takin drugs, doin all kindsa shit and livin the life I truly wanted too till one night strolling down a haunted street in Maine, I died.
How did it all begin? I appeared one night as shadow on the wall of his room. He was just sitting there, a slim, middle-aged man with the craggy features of 1940ís movie star Joseph Cotten. At first he didnít even notice me so involved was he in trying to work something out in his head. But then his eyes grew wide and he smiled at me. ďHello,Ē he said in a kindly voice. I smiled back. ďHey,Ē I said, ďhowís it going today?Ē He frowned at that. ďItís okay,Ē I said, moving closer,Ē I can help you,Ē He sighed.
Dead Brain was one of my friends back in college. Yeah, itís her real name. Her parents, Mr and Mrs Brain thought it a cute idea to call their new daughter Dead. They were druggies, Iím told. They died in a fire one night while under the influence leaving Dead to be brought up by her Aunt Suki in Ohio. Dead was beautiful but shy and introverted. She hated her name. And knowing she was going to be stuck with it she was constantly in a state of depression. I felt bad for her. One morning she died. Poor Dead.
I have been asked by my friend Brion, if I would like to be a University lecturer. Youíre crazy, right? I say. And he shakes his shaggy dog hair style head slowly. Look honey, I say, I never even went to college, right? So what? he says. I think the guy is going nutso. Anyway, I say, I need to pee. Then go, he says. So I go. And Iím on the pot and thinking how do I get away from Brion? He obviously has the hots for me. but the feelings are not mutual. Gee, I feel so sick.
You sit in the cellar and laugh. You donít know why. You would like to meet a nice guy but all you meet are trolls. You begin to wonder if the best way is be a troll yourself. Remember the time your mama told you, you were a little troll? Now it all seems so clear. You feel you should somehow get out of this place and find a chair to cry on. You donít want to be bland in this present age. But basically you know youíre just as bland as could be. Plus youíre a raving troll, okay?
Nothing has to make sense, I tell him. He looks at me like Iím a jelly. I turn away. Why do men make me sick? I feel I just want to go and eat a damn good meal with the most wonderful guy ever? I told my mom that once. She laughed like a Hyena. I wanted to give her a kick. Instead I turned to my sister Alice. Honey, I said, may I kill you today? She moved away. I couldnít blame her considering how threatening I must have looked to her. But basically I didnít give a crap.
Well dearies, cookie class is over. And thanks be God for small mercies. Cooking was never my forte. And the school jungle never was my scene. Ah well I can look back like a barrister on acid at the good times of my youth and how it was. You gotta move with the times, I guess. I tell this guy from work called Zim, ďHoney you look like a broken fridge,Ē His curious eyes tell me he thinks Iím nutso. Well what if I am? Itís my life, okay? I turn back to my book. My new novel. Iím sweet.
Demi is a battered wife, she tells me. She is being stalked too. She tells me in a light voice and an attitude of no real fear. Almost as though she really doesnít mind. I have none Demi since school. She was a fine cook. Not much good at anything else. But she became a chef in a local hotel. She is still there, married to the hotel owner, a dark, heavy set man with a thin scar on his chin. He scares me just looking at him. The stalker I have not seen. Demi likes to talk a lot.
A woman fire fighter lives in a log cabin with an old water carrier called Joe in a street on the east side of New York. She doesnít actually fire fight anymore. Rather she pretends to be a Witch to make money. Totally weird. I was driving in the area, I donít know why, when I saw the little sign about her being a Witch. And she can cast spells and stuff. I was interested. So I went in and we talked a while. Thatís how I know about her fire fighting days. She seemed awfully happy with her lot.
I wake up to find Iím lying next to a middle-aged business man I met in a hallway of a conference I was forced to attend three weeks ago. The conference was dull. I leaned nothing. But the guy sitting next to me was so desperate to lay me he offered me a thousand dollars just to sleep with him. So here I am at, just checking my watch, six thirty three am. I have a plain to catch in an hour and I donít want to have to say goodbye to the guy. So guess what? I just go.
Look, Iím a happily married woman; I tell the old guy I told you about. He woke as I was leaving. He rushed up to me. He wanted to go with me to where I was going. So with a sigh I let him take me to the airport. But this is not enough for him. He wants to take me out tonight. I tell him itís impossible. He says no. I say yes and turn away. He grabs my arm and I lose it totally. I scream in the airport lounge causing mass panic. The guy has been arrested.
Iím homeless in San Francisco with fifty dollars in my pocket and nowhere to sleep. I meet some weird guy in a park who clings onto me after I say hi in passing. He tells me he is the child of a soldier. I say, wow, thatís cool. I keep trying to lose the guy. But heís like a fly around a dung heap. Finally he follows me into a bar where I shriek, go away. When he doesnít and nobody helps me I pretend to pass out. Some guy takes me home. He feeds me baby milk. But why?
Yesterday afternoon I spent a lot of time in my kitchen wanting to do nothing. So I just sat there with coffee on the table and looked out the window and tried to blank my mind. But it didnít work. Things, I donít know, images started popping in my head. In one I was decapitating a manís penis head. It was a giant penis head and I just had this chopper in my hand and lopped it off. Thinking about it made me feel sick and I had to try to blank my mind again. But really it wasnít easy.
She says, am just messing around here. Looking at stars and shapes of patterns Iím making in my head. I could be a troll. Would I like to be a troll? Do we need trolls? What are they for? Would you like to be a self-employed troll? Go on, have a go. Or make a call to someone late at night and just say hi, and then hang up. Easy peasy. You could do it in your sleep. Or have a late night bagel. Or hit yourself on the behind. Or simply be anything you want. What do you say?
She has decided to write a book called Revenge of the Trolls. Itís going to be about a bunch of trolls who work nights at the Whitehouse. One of them, his name is Eric, has a missing right eye. People look at him and think Iím gonna throw up coz I canít stand people who walk around with one eye. I mean, itís really too much, donít you think, my dear? Bottom line is the trolls are running the country. What do you mean you already knew that? And would you please stop fraternizing with those deadly Canadian Hockey stars?
I was watching the sun. Feeling kind of dead and unpolished and unsophisticated. A neighbour from next door had cut down a plant in my front garden without my permission. I was angry. Feeling helpless that somebody could just walk in and think itís perfectly right and proper to do what they like. He obviously is a stuck-up prat. I might lose my temper with him some day and begin a fight because Iím like that when pushed. I push back, hard. Very hard. People think Iím meek and mild. But if you push me you find out Iím not.
Itís tough at the bottom, you know? I feel sitting here that Iím a shamus from hell. You know what I mean? Nah, neither do I. But I speak the words that come. And sometimes they come thick and fast. And it can get disturbing if Iím like in a park and I suddenly get my act together and start telling the world what Iím really feeling in the moment. But right now Iím just on a rant. You know I get the feeling every so often that ranting is a good thing. And I should do it to death.
Iím not a wino in any sense of the word. Iím just a simple loving girl who sits alone in the evening light and watches the stars above and action in the streets of the city below. I feel a warm glow of dread that something terrible might happen at any moment. Strange to feel that warm glow for something that could be nasty. But maybe itís me. Perhaps itís just something ingrained in me. I donít know. I donít particularly care. If somebody is reading this and trying to work me out. Let me tell you, matey, you wonít.
Let me tell you all. Someday soon Iím gonna be mighty rich. And Iím gonna have me a house on a hill above the city that I can look down on the minnows who treated me like shit. And yeah, Iím gonna have a baby. And when he/she is growing up Iím teaching he/she to hate, you know, real bad. Like a boxer on his last legs with just a few more relevant shots left to throw. And guess what, one of em connects. And itís over for the opponent. And Iím just so damn glad. And feel so good.
The grass is not greener on the other side. Itís blue. Well, purple, actually. But makes no difference. The other side is run by a guy called Ron. He wears a red berry and has a big nose that makes him look like Buster Keaton. Actually perhaps it is dear old Buster. Well he never smiles, as Buster didnít too. But this guy is no movie star. Heís into cutting throats and watching you bleed to death while he sups a cool beer. He lives in a little bungalow on a high hill. And he picks his nose a lot.
What are dark dances? Are they dances in the dark? Or is there something underlying about the whole thing? Well I just thought ide ask. Because I had seen this little sign on the tube train last night that mentioned that people were welcome to come to the Dark Dance on the Wednesday next. No actual details about the whereabouts of the dance. Just come along. Itís free. Well I have to say Iím curious as hell about it all. I want to go just to take a quick peek. Oh and apparently there is a free bar and buffet.
I was watching some god awful off Broadway musical with my friend Jojo when she told me she had this reoccurring dream where she fell upstairs. I told her that was pretty unusual. She nodded. Actually the story was quite dull. And I felt a bit like a dill pickle in the tiny audience watching some hams ham it up. It might have been an autobiography of a flea or something. I was unable to follow the story. Only the voice of Jojo was keeping me sane. And even then I was flagging till she suggested coffee after the show.
Sin takes a rose. And the humble Gardenia giggles like a school girl on speed. Iím no tourist, Sin croons. I said you were, Gardenia growls, and you are. Heavenís dear, you must be. Nah, Sin replies not in the least feeling humble. She is holding a small wooden cactus in a pretty hand. One side is broken. She doesnít give a damn. I love things, Gardenia says. Sin turns away. She knows Gardenia is shy and really only pretending all this. When Gardenia removes a flick knife, though, Sin isnít so sure any more. She runs for her life.
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