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Friday, Jun. 28, 2002 / 11:42 a.m. ~The Rain Falls and The Sky Shudders~ And I could say to you that I know exactly what I want. That it has become a focus for me. A goal, but not in that defining way, more like something I can touch and feel and dream about, because it is so clear. And you might wonder about it all, but I would assure you all is well. It feels good. Not to worry, I�d say. There�s a cold draught on my face, I feel a tension between my ears, behind my head, in my neck. We ate hard boiled eggs, and caviar from a tube, first thing at work. Missing were chopped onions and Champagne. The caviar was so concentrated, so fishy, so salty, not black, but pink like salmon � D., the Supervisor, got it from Sweden (where she spent some formative years of her life). Lulu is not here, and I feel free, a weight lifted. I don�t have to hear her needy constant verbalizations of every thought entering her overactive brain. It�s music now, it�s little asides, to Penelope, or Listerine, and Listerine is normal today, happy and pleasant, very easygoing. It�s pleasurable, almost. �The Rain Falls and The Sky Shudders� is playing in my ears, and it�s something that could play there all day long and I�d be satisfied. I still feel on the edge of something, and it may be a strong desire to achieve, or to realize, to make something happen. Certain events can be forced. There is no reason to wait, if one wants something badly enough, if there is an ache, a desire so strong it hurts to let it pass, well. Well. A life lived free of desire? What would it be like not to want? Not to feel I HAVE to have it? Now?! I don�t want to live that way after all. Not to desire materialistic possessions, yes, that I can understand, but sex? Love? Passion? I want to desire. I want. I desire. No desire not to desire. That would be death, and I am still alive. So I know exactly what I want. It�s a mission. It�s me with purpose. Short-term goal. Something smells like my grandmother. I just smelled her. It�s gone now. No, it�s not wrong, it�s not unusual. I have a story to tell that will illustrate exactly how wonderful and amazing it can be, and it will be if I decide it: When I worked at the bookstore, the first one, there was a beautiful young woman who came to work as cashier. She was a Nubian Princess, she was tall and lanky, her neck was long, her posture erect and regal, her skin dark and smooth. Her hair was short, shorn but roughly so, very natural, and she was natural in her beauty, nothing artificial about her. Her laugh was high and lilting, she observed more than she spoke. She seemed shy, but she was taking mental notes, it became apparent. She was/is an Artist. Her father is acclaimed as such as well, famous, a winner of Awards. This was a brief stopping point for her, this job, a way to make some quick cash, read some books, meet some people, get ideas. Everyone who met her wanted a piece of her, however small. She was elusive, enigmatic, and a fan of Spalding Gray. When I found out, I was ecstatic! She knew �Swimming to Cambodia�, loved the part about the woman and the banana, planned to give Spald a banana as a reminder, when he came for a signing/reading. Yes, Spalding Gray would be coming to the store, and we were so excited! Most people I talked to didn�t know who he was, much less appreciate his intelligence, his wit, or have a clue about his monologues. But she knew. And we planned to talk to him, to try to go out with him after the signing/reading. Alas, I promised a co-worker a ride home afterwards and she pressed me for that ride. The cashier stayed, told me she had plans, she was going to pursue Spalding. I was so angry at myself, and my ride-less co-worker. I wanted to tell her to take the bus, but I had promised, so I made good on that promise, and I left Spalding and the cashier behind. She did it. She went out with him, then to his hotel, made love with him, spent the night with him, and told me the next day, quietly, shyly, mischievously, and she had no regrets. She wanted a piece of him, of his brilliance, she admired him, wanted to be with him, she made it happen. He loved that she brought that banana to give him, he understood and appreciated her immediately. She asked me not to tell anyone, but I always have, in hushed tones. I leave out her name, though I�ll never forget it. And several years later I was at an Art Opening and there she was, one of several Artists whose work was on exhibit. I saw her, admired her Art, and reminded her of how I would always remember her, as the one who slept with Spalding Gray. She would laugh, throw her head back, look at me sternly, as if I should not repeat it, I need to keep that to myself. But I never could do that. I think now she is in New York City, and rather famous, but I�m not sure. I imagine her happy, loved, free, and creating Art. I�ll always think of her as some type of personal heroine for me, someone who wanted something, and she went for it, nothing held her back, no regrets, no stigma attached, just pure admiration and wanting to experience someone for what�s inside of him, what he can give to her. A piece of someone, like a gift, and so joyously received, with no possessiveness, no desire for anything more than that one experience, as if it�s enough. That�s what I think of, now. I�m certain Spald had other �affairs� on the road, on his book tours, while performing his monologues in cities across the country. When I saw him here, I�d won tickets from the College Radio Station, but I went alone. I was in the first row, center, he looked right into my eyes for most of the monologue. I was transfixed, and I wanted to sleep with him too, but I was too respectful of his relationship with his long term girlfriend (or was she his wife?), so I didn�t even make an effort. He�s an amazing man though. Intelligent, artistic, and witty men always are. Cost of the War in Iraq
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