Saturday, November 09, 2002

Turn Ons/Turn Offs.

Yes, I know that lots of people have sexual fantasies. I have those too. But there's this one fantasy that really gets me HOT. I call it the 'smoking fantasy.' See, we're in this room. No, we're in a warehouse. It's filled with soft couches, velvet ones. And very tasteful chandeliers and what-not.

(Note to self: Husband hates it when I 'decorate' the fantasies or dress the participants. "There was this really hot girl! And she was wearing brown thigh high boots (well, that parts OK with him) and she had on a cream colored cashmere sweater, a dark brown mid-length leather coat, and a light brown suede skirt...We are in this room with a red accent wall..." Due to this narrative problem, husband has lost interest in my fantasies. Those women's magazines always tell you to share your fantasies but for some reason his eyes glaze over.)

Anyway, back to the warehouse...The thing is: Everyone in this warehouse is smoking. And everywhere you turn there are big glass bowls (really pretty ones) full of cigarettes. Not just any cigarettes but the really good Drum and American Spirit and Gitanes and Third World Marlboros and Dunhill. And matches...books of matches.

We just smoke and smoke and smoke and smoke. We lie on the couches and smoke. Smoke fills our hair, our lungs, every niche and cranny of our bodies. There is no thought of cancer. In fact, tobacco doesn't cause cancer. Or wrinkes. You just get more healthy and beautiful with every puff. You don't have to pay very much for cigarettes. They are the cheapest thing you can buy--costing less than a pack of gum.

Sometimes I leave out the warehouse part. We just get to smoke all the time, everywhere, as much as we want. And there are no reasons absolutely no reasonsnot to smoke. The smell of smoky clothes and hair? All people in the world find this utterly delicious. They talk about how horrible it is to kiss someone who hasn't had a cigarette in the last few hours.

In fact, in this world there are even public service announcements telling us to smoke more..

Well, the fantasy just goes on and on. It gets me so hot!

You thought there was going to be sex in it? Oh. I'm sorry...I thought this was everyone's secret fantasy. Having sex...I mean--you can do that. Anytime you want. No one can stop you. It's as wholesome as apple pie and mom. But that's forbidden and downright wrong.

Do you ever just want to?

Do you ever just want to: Take a gun and shoot yourself in the head? don't.

Yeah, me neither.

Friday, November 08, 2002

I am trying to think what other things have been tried other than outright revolution...There are coups...Gee, I just can't think of anything else. Uh oh.
Some Other Plans That Won't Work

I did have a quite brilliant in its impossibility political strategy dream last night. I dreamed that there could be two solutions to the terrifying situation we-have-been-in-for-a-while-that-just-got-a-lot-worse (I should have been German).

I was talking to Kristin...wait! I think I posted this dream already. She had bought a lot of toilet paper? Oh, who cares no one reads this blog anyway...Ah, that makes me strangely happy. So I can just repeat myself repeat myself repeat myself.

I do consider my future self to be a different person in certain respects though. I post for her...I post for you

Future Miel

Anyway...the political dream...Kristin had bought a lot of consumer products in bulk. So very unlike her. In any case I told her my plan...(1) HAVE RADICALS SECRETLY TAKE OVER THE REPUBLICAN PARTY...Yes, we'd have to recruit them young. They'd have to be blonde with big smiles...they'd have to be white and very, very middle class...And willing to marry women who will bear young uncomplainingly and look ultra-feminine...Etc. But if we got them to be leftists young enough, etc., etc. We'll teach them both Marx and to enjoy football and get MBA's (or whatever makes it possible for you to get into a fraternity). Then....slowly but surely...they begin to run for office! They take over. They are in office--radical lefties on the inside, George Pataki clones on the outside.

Could we breed them? That would probably work better as a way to get them to do our bidding...(Hmmmm. Maybe that is where they come from though? Is there a farm?)

And then! Well...Uh...I'll figure that part out later.

This obviously takes a lot of money.

Plan (2) requires much less money. In plan (2) we just convince EACH AND EVERY SINGLE PERSON NOT TO VOTE!! NO ONE VOTES...ABSOLUTELY NO ONE. And then...No one can win. There will be NO elected officials.

Plan (2) is not terribly easy to execute however (I assume each candidate will vote for him/herself but then the vote really comes down to which candidate has the most family members--how do we stop the wives and children from voting?). Still, it's worth a shot.

The alternative plan is (I am executing this one daily):

The Zombies

By: Donald Barthelme

In a high wind the leaves fall from the trees. The zombies are standing about talking. "Beautiful day!" "Certainly is!" The zombies have come to buy wives from the people of this village, the only village around that will sell wives to zombies. "Beautiful day!" "Certainly is!" The zombies have brought many cattle. The bride price to a zombie is exactly twice that asked of an ordinary man. The cattle are also zombies and the zombies are in terror lest the people of the village understand this.

These are good zombies. Gris Grue said so. They are painted white all over. Bad zombies are unpainted and weep with their noses, their nostrils spewing tears. The village chief calls the attention of the zombies to the fine brick buildings of the village, some of them one thousand bricks high -- daughters peering from the windows, green plants in some windows and, in others, daughters. "You must promise not to tell the Bishop," say the zombies, "promise not to tell the Bishop, beautiful day, certainly is."

The white-painted zombies chatter madly, in the village square, in an impersonation of gaiety. "Bought a new coat!" "You did!" "Yes, bought a new coat, this coat I'm wearing, I think it's very fine!" "Oh it is, it is, yes, I think so!" The cattle kick at the chain-link fence of the corral. The kiss of a dying animal, a dying horse or dog, transforms an ordinary man into a zombie. The owner of the ice-cream shop has two daughters. The crayfish farmer has five daughters, and the captain of the soccer team, whose parents are dead, has a sister. Gris Grue is not here. He is away in another country, seeking a specific for deadly nightshade. A zombie with a rectal thermometer is creeping around in the corral, under the bellies of the large, bluish-brown animals. Someone says the Bishop has been seen riding in his car at full speed toward the village.

If a bad zombie gets you, he will weep on you, or take away your whiskey, or hurt your daughter's bones. There are too many daughters in the square, in the windows of the buildings, and not enough husbands. If a bad zombie gets you, he will scratch your white paint with awls and scarifiers. The good zombies skitter and dance. "Did you see that lady? Would that lady marry me? I don't know! Oh what a pretty lady! Would that lady marry me? I don't know!" The beer distributor has set up a keg of beer in the square. The local singing teacher is singing. The zombies say: "Wonderful time! Beautiful day! Marvelous singing! Excellent beer! Would that lady marry me? I don't know!" In a high wind the leaves fall from the trees, from the trees.

The zombie hero Gris Grue said: "There are good zombies and bad zombies, as there are good and bad ordinary men." Gris Grue said that many of the zombies known to him were clearly zombies of the former kind and thus eminently fit, in his judgment, to engage in trade, lead important enterprises, hold posts in the government, and participate in the mysteries of Baptism, Confirmation, Ordination, Marriage, Penance, the Eucharist, and Extreme Unction. The Bishop said no. The zombies sent many head of cattle to the Bishop. The Bishop said, everything but Ordination. If a bad zombie gets you, he will create insult in your bladder. The bad zombies banged the Bishop's car with a dead cow, at night. In the morning the Bishop had to pull the dead zombie cow from the windshield of his car, and cut his hand. Gris Grue decides who is a good zombie and who is a bad zombie; when he is away, his wife's mother decides. A zombie advances toward a group of thin blooming daughters and describes, with many motions of his hands and arms, the breakfasts they may expect in a zombie home.

"Monday!" he says. "Sliced oranges boiled grits fried croakers potato croquettes radishes watercress broiled spring chicken batter cakes butter syrup and café au lait! Tuesday! Grapes hominy broiled tenderloin of tout steak French-fried potatoes celery fresh rolls butter and café au lait! Wednesday! Iced figs Wheatena porgies with sauce tartare potato chips broiled ham scrambled eggs French toast and café au lait! Thursday! Bananas with cream oatmeal broiled patassas fried liver with bacon poached eggs on toast waffles with syrup and café au lait! Friday! Strawberries with cream broiled oysters on toast celery fried perch lyonnaise potatoes cornbread with syrup and café au lait! Saturday! Muskmelon on ice grits stewed tripe herb omelette olives snipe on toast flannel cakes with syrup and café au lait!" The zombie draws a long breath. "Sunday!" he says. "Peaches and cream cracked wheat with milk broiled Spanish mackerel with sauce maître d'hôtel creamed chicken beaten biscuits broiled woodcock on English muffin rice cakes potatoes a la duchesse eggs Benedict oysters on the half shell broiled lamb chops pound cake with syrup and café au lait! And imported champagne!" The zombies look anxiously at the women to see if this prospect is pleasing.

A houngan (zombie-maker) grasps a man by the hair and forces his lips close to those of a dying cat. If you do heavy labor for a houngan for ten years, then you are free, but still a zombie. The Bishop's car is working well. No daughter of this village has had in human memory a true husband, or anything like it. The daughters are tired of kissing each other, although some are not. The fathers of the village are tired of paying for their daughters' sewing machines, lowboys, and towels. A bald zombie says, "Oh what a pretty lady! I would be nice to her! Yes I would! I think so!" Bad zombies are leaning against the walls of the buildings, watching. Bad zombies are allowed, by law, to mate only with sheep ticks. The women do not want the zombies, but zombies are their portion. A woman says to another woman: "These guys are zombies!" "Yes," says the second woman, "I saw a handsome man, he had his picture in the paper, but he is not here." The zombie in the corral finds a temperature of one hundred and ten degrees.

The villagers are beating upon huge drums with mops. The Bishop arrives in his great car with white episcopal flags flying from the right and left fenders. "Forbidden, forbidden, forbidden!" he cries. Gris Grue appears on a silver sled and places his hands over the Bishop's eyes. At the moment of sunset the couples, two by two, are wed. The corral shudders as the cattle collapse. The new wives turn to their new husbands and say: "No matter. This is what we must do. We will paste photographs of the handsome man in the photograph on your faces, when it is time to go to bed. Now let us cut the cake." The good zombies say, "You're welcome! You're very welcome! I think so! Undoubtedly!" The bad zombies place sheep ticks in the Bishop's ear. If a bad zombie gets you, he will scarify your hide with chisels and rakes. If a bad zombie gets you, he will make you walk past a beautiful breast without even noticing.

Thursday, November 07, 2002

What is the plan?

Is the plan then my friend to write a mediocre novel when you could actually do some GOOD work of your own.

Yes. I think so. I think that might be the plan!

Unable To Destroy Empty Space...No, not deep. Just blogger.

cannot erase the thing unless I put something else there.
(It just sounds so so zen-like...Maybe I should pretend it is not utterly mundane?)
By introducing me to this website the woman who tells the stories at What's New Pussycat ( has solved my identity crisis.

Now I just go to: for a googlism. It tells me who and what I am.

And then I know who I am.

Why Are These All So True? It's uncanny.

miel is french for "honey"
miel is a partner in the springfield office of
miel is de naam voor ons gildenbier
miel is perfectly positioned to provide true value
miel is already playing in a very crowded new york market
miel is the pioneering it company in india to be totally security
miel is an outstanding european conference providing an international forum for the presentation and discussion of the recent developments and future trends in
miel is bottle conditioned
miel is located in the department of caldas
miel is due to open in october
miel is developing for the exciting indian internet
miel is a wholly owned subsidiary of public
miel is poised to strengthen malaysia's successes in
miel is survived by her brothers homer miel of stanton
miel is only 15 minutes by train from malaga international airport or a 10 minute journey by taxi
miel is also the recipient of the motorola ceo quality award for software
miel is located about 20 km from the airport in malaga
miel is the sun kissed shower of the enamored nymph
miel is the vehicle to drive them in realizing their dreams; they feel they are part of the remedy the haitian music industry
miel is citrix authorized learning center
miel is een vreemde vogel; hij houdt àlles bij
miel is a wholly owned subsidiary of motorola inc
miel is the honeymoon suite of majahuitas
miel is a mild exfoliant that softensmiel is up to
miel is een geboren knutselaarmiel is not responsible for the content of those sites
miel is well known in puerto pollensa for its friendly and efficient service
miel is dezelfde mening toegedaan en vindt ook dat de drempel misschien iets te hoog ligt
miel is bought
miel is being built by a joint venture of large south american contractors
miel is capable of attaining high speeds; it just takes her awhile to get there
miel is developing the protocol stacks and codecs
miel is a staff reporter for plastics news
miel is a personal zine packed with information about
miel is regional director for russia for internews network and a member of the board of founders of internews russia
miel is a public relations officer at north york general hospital in toronto
miel is
miel is collected in vats or huge pottery urns in the fermenting house
miel is a nice river south of town near the street to guantánamo
miel is sleeping
miel is a surreal story about a meadow with bees flying around
miel is quickly gaining a reputation as a golf destination offering not only a challenging course
miel is a populated area between the mountains and the coast
miel is cool
miel is the shopping area of benalmadena
miel is only 3 minutes away where there is tivoli world
miel is an exquisite beverage
miel is a very special
miel is a shop specialising in natural and organic foods
miel is dat we dinsdag zullen kunnen aanzetten
miel is dat als we morgen niet kunnen vertrekken
miel is a
miel is that it represents a considerable savings in labor and money
miel is 7 months old and a strapping 65 pounds

miel is an officer of the city of phoenix which is located in maricopa county
miel is better than the last batch of crlm
miel is de verantwoordelijke voor de vlaamse afdeling
miel is strained
miel is very smart for her age
miel is a dairy ice cream with nibbed nuts
miel is a cartoonist for the singapore straits times
miel is a bustling centre for shopping and business
miel is op zoek
miel is done with a steel spoon like tool
miel is an ob
miel is de
miel is killer
miel is naar de kapper
miel is inmiddels druk bezig met de het organiseren van activiteiten voor de tweede week en arie vertelt het uitgebreide verhaal van de mythe van oidipous en
miel is chers à winnnie
miel is uiteindelijk degene die hem naar het ziekenhuis brengt
miel is the most business orientated area between the pueblo and the coast of benalmádena
miel is a true citizen of the world
I dont' want to post my characters or plan anything in advance at all. This is a true stream of consciousness novel in every sense of the word. I don't even plan to go back and read what I wrote until it is done. Just seems more fun that way.

It's stirring up emotions in me though. What a weird thing. Well, not weird...Am I not queen of emotional reactions?

However, I should remind myself of crucial elements--the intensity of academic/school experience, the experience of psychadelics (sp?), the horror of the Reagan '80's esp. Central America. Somehow I have a half baked plan to meander in that direction. Hey, a bildungsroman should have it all.

No sex though. Don't want to overload myself on youthful experiences.

Well...50,000 words. Much longer than anything I've ever written in a sustained way. Why am I doing this except for the willful desire to ruin my life? Hmmmm. I do believe I don't really enjoy ruining my life. Rather...I like to go to the edge of ruin and pull back. the guy who played chicken in Rebel Without A Cause who goes over the cliff in his '52 Chevy there is always the time your sleeve gets stuck in the handle.

Must stop playing chicken with self. Yes...I will. Just as soon as I finish this 50,000 word novel.

Wednesday, November 06, 2002

I'm really falling behind on that nanowrimo thing. And it is had to accept how sucky one's novel is...I like to blame it on the fact I don't edit, etc. But

The problem is since it is a coming-of-age novel (a bildungsroman for the more pretentious of us...who I can't pretend to be since I'm not quite sure how to spell bildungsroman) it turns out sounding exactly like a teenager's blog. I suppose I should be happy for the authenticity of this. The redundancy and flat writing of the overly self-absorbed.

Way to cure this: Move to the third person. Irony factor: In my journals as a teenager I very often wrote about things in the third person. Now I am trying to write a novel based largely on my own life (well, who doesn't do that...and it takes so much less time) in the first person. About day to day activities. Did my journal ever...even once discuss my daily activities. (Sadly, the 'journal purge' of the early '20's will never allow me to check up on any of these facts)? I recall never discussing my daily activities. I'm totally disinterested in what actually happens around me which is why I don't have what it takes to be a real novelist.

Yet...writing this novel is interesting. Just as painting made me notice the visual much more writing makes me more attentive to the dialogue--to other people--to situations...etc. Even to plots. E.g., I read about (sad story) the head of some Jewish non-profit making a plan to bomb a synagogue and do something else equally atrocious. He slit his throat and jumped over a railing and yet he is still alive. Of course I thought--that's someone's material. That's material (not mine).

Yet...may I mention that writing a novel is simply the absolutely LAST thing I should be doing. That it is a pathway to self-destruction and life implosion as sure as the pre-med's oxycontin habit? Just reminding myself...Have yet to do anything about it, of course. The addiction has begun.
My new nanowrimo blog is: Why do I always pick these long titles? I think it is because I am so disturbed when someone else has chosen my preferred blogspot domain...I hate to be anticipated...someone else got: Freedom Is Free, e.g. Oh wait! Gotta snap up Viva Barbie! Before it is too late...

Freedom is Free. That's dumb anyway...Sour grapes. What would we do without them?
Self Help Books I want to write. I know...I said I would write about death and plastic next.

But I was just remembering my plan to make millions writing self-help books...If only nanowrimo was nasehwrimo--national self help book writing month. Then my plan to make millions would begin to take shape.

I remember one title and the rest have slipped my mind (for the moment)...It was: Why Are People So Bad? Actually, that was the title I wanted to use for my dissertation.

Oh yes, the other one: Work Is Bad!

It's a book to help people work as little as possible and still survive. Not that I know enough about that. But I don't think that matters in the self help world.

I thought it would be MUCH more shocking in America than a book about sex, violence and what have you. To tell people not to WORK. Wow. I'd at least make it on Sally Jesse...Oprah--no. She only goes for that positive stuff. Alas. How I would love to be on Oprah.

That was one of my possible career plans: Become a talk show host(ess?).

I would be incredibly good at it. But what are the steps one takes to become a talk show hostess? Don't say: Be in the movies or on a TV show. There has to be a better way. Must do more research on Oprah's path to host-dom.

So perhaps that could be one of my major life goals (MLGs): Get on Oprah. Somehow...someway. I remember she once had a show on how we should drink more water. That could be a zen koan almost--Why is getting on Oprah is both so easy and so difficult?

Tuesday, November 05, 2002

DRC cont. (please remember readers that NaNoWriMo is about word counts...Must have 5,000 words by midnight November 31. OK. I have about 500. So that makes...4,500 to go? How many pages is that? Like 200? 150. Whew!

Thus if someone stumbles across the blog and is critical of (a) grammer (b)speling (c) the way I type out nineteen hundred and ninety nine (a great idea I got from reading I, Anger's blog just go and jump in the very cold and sparkling yet polluted lake! Must make the word count...must make the word count...

Oh yeah: Another idea. Have my characters repeat thoughts in their head...and dialogue. Like So I said to him 'what's that you said?' He replied, "What's that I said? What did I say? Why did you ask that. I said: If you have a cold, take some vitamin C that's what I said!" "What's that you said!" he repeated sarcastically.

Of course, I know no one reads my blog...most likely. How would anyone know it was here. That is what is so great about blogspot. It is all hidden away except for that brief millisecond in the sun. Except Luis Urrea said he might read my blog. Trying not to let the pressure of that get to me. He may have come and gone already. Perhaps he was only being kind.

Luis Urrea wrote me an email...I'm still trying to mentally adjust to that fact.

Shit! I only have time for one line because I HAVE TO VOTE BEFORE THE POLLS CLOSE. SHIT!

The line: The magic and glitter of Shangri La, the 5 year span that Spanish Traces will still be tasteful was perhaps supposed to make up for the decimation of the orange groves when the city expanded. Trees were still left here and there--as decor, not a source of food.

My mother had once said "Every city needs a greenbelt around it. In case of famine." I was only five and this made a big impression. It took me many years to just relax around the dinner table after that, secure in the food of tomorrow. As I watch the greenbelt disappear around my city, slowly but surely, a clod of fear began to form in my heart.

THIS IS MY NANOWRIMO OPENING LINE (I really should do this in word, etc. but maybe I don't want to save it if the webworld crashes--I like the fragility and possibility all my words can vanish, etc. No, actually when I put it in my computer I have to face the guilt that there is really something else I MUST be doing and I am being BAD...This quasi-creativity for me is a form of self-destruction/career suicide...luckily, the internet makes it possible for me to ignore this fact.)

Chapter 1 of The Divine Reward Clearinghouse (OK first few sentences)

Here in the wild west everything turns out to be a fake something else. My grandmother lives at Spanish Traces. Across the street is Shangri La. Spanish Traces allows stucco to stand in for authentic hand poured adobe watered by the sweat of peasants. Shangri La has those pointy Arabic inserts with real glittery green tiles all along its front. Spanish Traces is newer the Shangri La, the pool is less green. Yet, I prefer the Shangri La and wished Nana lived there instead...those extra 10 years the Shangri La has on Spanish Traces makes it almost authentic with its 1950's semi-historic touches. The walls of Spanish Traces are almost hollow in their flimsiness. The Shangri La is made from real bricks. The Shangri-La will outlast us all.
A leather jacket and a memory of early corporeal desire...I didn't quite finish the earlier blog. In my innocence, in my habitual teenage drunkenness I would occasionally get into situations that might have turned out terribly badly had I not been protected by some unseen hand (thank you, Virgen de Guadelupe). In this particular instance I ended up in a van with a punk band called "Channel 3" that hailed from Long Beach, California. Rather than admire them for being punk, for being in a band, and what have you I admired the one I think I was supposed to hook up with for being in college and being an English major. This thilled me far more than any electric guitar solo (although punks never do solos I guess). Even back in those days I had a perverse value system. What was he currently reading? I wanted to know. I think his answer was The Catcher in the Rye. Then, thinking myself tremendously clever I wanted to know: Did he think human beings were inherently good or inherently evil?

Somehow I had it in my mind from somewhere that the book--whatever it was--contained a philosophical position that humanity is inherently good. I realize now that this just wasn't a very intelligible or answerable question. At the time it was the best thing I could come up with in way of conversation. I assumed even then (wrongly...and for many years) that what men desired most from me from was witty conversation.

I don't think he was all that interested in my question or even tried to answer but I stubbornly pursued an answer all the same. At the same time the fact I was more than underage wasn't lost on him. I do think he made some half-hearted erotic suggestion...And probably wondered to himself 'how did I end up with one of THESE? The groupie who just wants to talk!' Still he was nice and I think gave me a few gentle kisses and that was all. The thing I remember most at the time was the difference in size between him and me and the smell and heft of his leather jacket. He seemed large and invincible compared to me...more real than anyone else. It was the first time I had actually thought 'there is a man there...this is a man and this is what a man feels like next to me.' Well, OK. I didn't think that I simply was aware of it in a way I never had been. It would be a number of years still before I really had any sense that my body--my physical self--was pretty damn relevant to my life but I imagine I remember this moment because it was the first glimmer of that awareness.

And I suppose it was my overall chatty nature that allowed me to get into these situations time and again and escape undeflowered.

Up next--Death and Plastic...

Sunday, November 03, 2002

Leather jacket...drinks...drunkenness: In many ways it is sad to say I'll never have that sexy drunken jubilance again I remember sexy drunken jubliance before the time I had ever even had sex. Sitting in the parking lot at 'shows' at Madison Square Garden, 14 years old, in my orange chaffon 1960's mini dress with the orange velvet polka dots. I was like a drunken princess surrounded by vomiting skinheads. The 'adults' were like...17. They seemed so old, so sophisticated. I remember going into the alley (probably that alley was none too safe) with Janine and her older male friends (she always had them). We saw an old beat up chair in the alley and one of the guys pointed to this chair and said 'hey, look. Art.' This was the most worldly, witty comment I had heard thus far in my young life. I knew it was apropos of many circumstances but was afraid to repeat it verbatim. Rather, I just tried versions of it on for years.

Now...the sad truth is...while I might still appreciate such a comment almost no one I know would. Years of polishing wit for a non existent target audience, wit down the drain.