Life Is Selfish…

…and thank goodness for that bit. The moment life stops being self-centered, death comes and steals the show. Nothing against death, who looks so chic in all her black and bone motifs. But… some of the best feels require some flesh.

Like coffee, can you see me delighting in coffee without using some tongue?
Exactly! Tongueless coffee might be joyless (and, perhaps, impossible),
especially on cloudy days (when we want to grin even if the sun is in a mood).

Anyhoo, life wants more Magaly for herself (who can blame her? I’m freaking awesome), and I must indulge her wants. No major changes. Just that I’ll post stories and poems only on Tuesdays. But worry not (well, maybe a bit), since I promise (threaten?) to stalk you on Facebook and Instagram every single day.

And for the 13 or 31 of you who are not on Facebook or Instagram, I shall post FB and Insta recaps (photos, poem bits, random rants) every other week or so. These recaps shall include writing updates and riotous ramblings about what I (and one of my parasols) get up to in The Woods and in The City.

 

the recaps and rambles will look something like this:

Last year, my Piano Man got me a red parasol.
I love it (not just because it’s red), but because it makes everything cooler.
Also, someone on FB said the pattern looks like veins and arteries,
which makes it cooler in a whole new way.

 

The pomelo seedling below was birthed from a fruit I ate some months ago…
I’m wondering if the tea (I hope to get from its leaves) will be just as sweet.
The wee stone in the pot followed me home from Friday Harbor.

in the spring,
soft leaves and heart stones
grow beauty

 

writing and stuff…
– I am rewriting some of my old stories and poems, trying to decide which collection to publish first. Or if I want to go for a twosome. We shall see…

What about you, my Luvs, what have you and life been up to these days?

Of Blacking Out The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, and… a Skull-Full of Chili

I wrote a letter to Freud’s ghost, inquiring about his stance on ink. Freud’s ghost didn’t respond. But I received replies from his superego, ego, id, and… a wraith, named F. Slip, who follows Freud’s ghost around, moaning, “Are you my mummy?” The superego letter included a discount coupon to the Pi circle of laser surgery hell. The ego sent a 1001-page essay on how I hadn’t been properly potty-trained. The id wants naked photographs of my deepest inner self… in color (the word color was underlined and italicized). F. Slip wrote sex, anger, dreams, angry sex dreams, dreamy angry sex, blacked out the initial attempts (not very well), and ended with, “Are you my mummy?”

After all this, I’ve come to the conclusion that Freud’s ghost is probably too busy to care about me turning The Psychopathology of Everyday Life into blackout poetry. So, it’s getting inked… along with one of his biographies, and a half-drowned copy of Lady’s Chatterley’s Lover. It felt… appropriate.

.
some wee notes…
– for my dear Y, who asked for something hysterical that included Sigmund Freud, Doctor Who, and food that tastes yummy, but “looks slightly gross.” (Y is having stomach surgery in a couple of days, and she wanted “a riotous belly laugh” while she can still feel it in the tummy she was born with).
– I’ve always thought the superego is way too sanctimonious to actually pay attention to what’s going on. The ego is probably a mad scholar so focused on research that it can never see people. And, let’s face it, the id is a pervert. If a Freudian Slip was personified, his eternal confusion would make him a great companion for Doctor Who’s “Are you my mummy?” creepy kid.

scripts on autumned leaves
waiting for my muse and ink
to spring them anew

 

And, the slightly gross bit…

woman needs not be
a zombie to crave what lies
luscious in a skull

Y, I hope you laughed.