breakingsod.com

Craigslist is actually good for something! I got me a fancyass new haircut fer free!(not to mention champagne, the Red Salon does it with style man-ouch, I know, bad pun)

It was fun though, even sitting through several hours of hair mentoring as the dude who cut me worked on his graduated, inverted bob-sheesh, I don’t think I’ll be able to touch my head now, I might muss the masterpiece!

People kept gawking and commenting as they cut me too. I felt like a pampered showpoodle.

And now, as you can see, I’m too sexy for my own milkshake.

Started a new painting tonight, actually two new paintings, but the first one is(yaaaawn…) a door, yup, just a door.

Definately not my idea.

The Moondancer, on the other hand is my delight.

She’s a companion piece for my Rivergoddess, though she’s turning out quite different! Hopefully not too different to grace Heather’s bemountained bathroom.

Slithering thoughts
butt and buck,
unkindled.

Cutting away,
shutting away,
the ache of manufactured nonchalance.

Cursing between my heart and tongue
a tumultuous hurricane describes
the treacherous gap.

Let them eat cake!

It’s a pretty place.

’specially when you use every single block in the house!

even the yak was impressed.

“If you loan someone money and you never see them again, its money well spent.”

Isabelle Allende, “City of the Beast”

they splorch.

Wound up my long friday evening of massaging bodies at Turtletown.

I shook all the kinks out(well, maybe not quite ALL of them-being such a kinky girl) on the dance floor amidst the spectacular, wild, warm, loving, sexy, hilarious flying turtles.

Then we all snuggled up for strawberries, chocolate and even an improv sinking ship(true story!) theatre act!

Twas the perfect end to a less than perfect week.

We shared freaky vomit stories and talked heart-wrenching buddhism ’til the wee hours.

Life is good-even when it sucks.

Wish I had a cloche for me.

‘Shit’she said.

‘I’ve lost it.’ Dragging her fingers aimlessly
through the bits and pieces of people she used to know.

‘It’s got to be here somewhere’.

I look at the box, but my search starts
with her rigid, angry shoulders,
Awkward flutters subsiding under seismographic hands.

Churning loose the dammed muscles,
melting spasms of denial,
exposing caverns of hot, hot shame.

The eruption shakes her whole slender frame.
Wrapped and rocked in my arms she sobs
ten years of damage into my lap.

‘It’s OK,’ I murmur through her hair in my mouth.

‘I found what I came here for.’