1995

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January 06, 1995

Restless, Absurd Lone Geek

The well meaning friends in my life allege that a woman (me) as gregarious, witty and not too hard to look at would have better options for occupying her time than emailing & surfing the web. Filling my head with pop culture and chatting with faceless lusty nerds from Pasadena is the extent of excitement I can muster in the post-marriage limbo I inhabit these days. My consolation is that I’ve shut myself up in a warehouse along First Avenue --- I get the lurker’s view while starting up anew.

Parenting the goddess, or “co-parenting”, as our (former) marriage counselor referred to it, now occurs in an every-other-week wave --- because I want to be progressive and fair with her daddy. Her daddy, the man I thought I’d be with forever, but find that in order to live up to it and actually love him forever I need to learn to live without him (perhaps in spite of myself). First Avenue is probably the best place to begin the process of redefining myself. I’m shedding a 10 year skin and I’m not sure which street I belong on, nor who I should be talking to.

Not sure exactly why I write --- probably because no one ever told me I couldn’t.

Peace, love and co-parents r me,

Michele

January 10, 1995

Drizzle… Drizzle… Drizzle…

Fog, drizzle, yawns and a cup of coffee that appears to be cross-dressing as an oil slick. It has been one long day in the trench of the self-employed systems analyst. I’ve been on my own for the past two years --- prior to this I worked for “big construction” in a variety of capacities (ruled by Mercury – drive a Chevy). My focus is primarily small business and I also provide technical expertise (girly brain muscle) to hardware vendors who need bodies to actually install the shit they sell. My days involve kicking CPU’s, swearing under my breath, holding hands with the techno-timid and simple everyday software application exorcism. The best part of the day is when it actually ends and I am relieved to find that I still possess a full head of hair.

Waiting patiently at her after school program at the local park and ready for a night of adventure in our downtown lair is the wee 7 year old goddess in my life. Already a go-getter with natural abilities in the arts, music and being firmly sure of herself, it’s fun to drive home with someone so wonderfully bright, true, strong and beautiful --- in perfect pitch with this life. No need to defrag, backup or plan an upgrade on the goddess --- she’s totally next generation.

Me, I’m a walking disco ball with knowing eyes and big scary tits. Being multi-faceted is a blessing and a curse --- a Mercurial charm leaves scattered but strong impressions. I’m a lone wolf with a contrary gregarious nature and my M.O. these days is to arrive alone (always late) and leave alone (always early). On the Avenue I’m hard to miss in the crowd, I’m the brunette with the flowered dress and leather jacket walking beside an animated miniature version (who does cartwheels at the corners.) If you’d ever stop and introduce yourself to me I’d look you in the eye, give you my full attention and extend a firm handshake.

Peace, love and drizzle schnitzel,

Michele

January 13, 1995

Bytes, Basins, Bicycles & the Bourgeois

Home again, time for a primal scream. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, that’s better. It has been a long day with too many miles between the five clients that resulted in 11.5 billable hours. Life bytes when I’m this tired and I dropped everything to the floor as soon as I walked in the door and started the water for a long, hot bath but was detoured to a long sit on the “cold, cold chair from Kohler” while I read the Kama Sutra and the Webster’s dictionary.

Tonight, the warehouse district outside my door is alive with suburban art patrons and “here for free cheese” people. It’s easy to spot the “obscured vision from living sheltered in the outer rings suburbs” people as they crawl gallery to gallery. They clutch their pocketbooks to their chests and scurry in a hurry from one weary building to the next. Very similar to house cats that have never left the controlled confines of a house and are suddenly flung out an open door onto a massive lawn. I’ve witnessed this phenomenon and watched them crawl on their stomachs with ears flattened to their heads making freakish guttural sounds (cats that is). It’s the sound of being overwhelmed by the enormity of the sky and the involuntary paralysis that infinite space provokes on those that internally bleed on the bourgeois ideal. A physical reaction to the reality of how small and vulnerable one feels when taken out of their element. I should talk, as I lurk in the safety of my warm open space, four floors above it all, judging the Minnesota house kitties like a bitch queen in the balcony.

Minnesota is the home of many a fine house kitty, purring pretend liberals with tight smiles and insides that convulse when they come face to face with people on the street. The faces on my street change dramatically as day turns to night. During the day its business people, professionals and artists mixed in with the homeless and the patrons of the half dozen businesses that still supply sex related services that line the block. The night time mixes in the revelers from the outer suburban rings as well as the folks who live under bridges and only come out at night. Many a liberal MN house kitty has a monologue on how they fed the homeless with a church group, or how their best friend in college was of some exotic ethnicity. There are far too many streets in Minneapolis where the only visible human struggle is parallel parking beside indoor heated shopping mall temples. There are far too many people of the street that you can run into in Minneapolis who struggle hourly for the basics and only want a kind word and everyday human acknowledgement.

In the midst of this energy and flashing activity I feel so lonesome for the night skies of my childhood on Lake Michigan. How strange it would have been to me then to be here in this city where the stars are barely visible at night. To be surrounded by buildings that lean on each other like a group of revelers leaving a closed pub. This is quite a contrast to the remote little stucco house that sat on the last acre of farmland juxtaposed against a forest along the ragged shores in Wisconsin. The loner that I can be was developed day after day in that beautiful and isolated landscape --- dreams were hatched over the miles of asphalt, dirt & gravel under the wheels of my bicycle --- pedaling extra fast past the dogs at the farm down the road because they loved to chase my wheels and nip at my legs. Great training I suppose --- because now I pedal fast through life and assume that anything chasing my wheels probably bites --- so I coast past potential beasts with my feet to the handlebars and knees to my chin.

I’m tired… Etta is singing “Sunday Kind of Love” and the newly re-filled bath is steaming and calling my name. My eyelids are as crusty as the salt on the rim of a margarita glass one finds behind the sofa two weeks after the party. My mind matches that visual and presents itself as the ripe and reeling waft of a fermenting tequila puddle abandoned at the bottom of the glass.

The goddess will be home in two days --- Tomorrow I have a client call to make before I can call it a week and after that my girlfriend/hairdresser is popping by with scissors & dye --- I’m going redhead --- WTF and then some dancing and laughing. Sunday is usually very quiet on my street and I’m likely to sleep in as I’m assured that Saturday night and well into Sunday morning the streets will be active, alive and loud despite this cold and I’ll be riding the sound out. The lights blink in the abandoned alley bar across the Avenue illuminating the picture of Carmen Miranda taped to my monitor --- somewhere in Wisconsin a dog whines in his sleep as he dreams of me flying by with my shins to my chin above my Schwinn.

Peace love, woof woof & a bath,

Michele

January 15, 1995

No Sleep for the Lust Conspirators

Alive and awake, I knew it would happen eventually and the extra sleep allowed me the added boost of energy needed to spread myself as thin as possible in the 5 hours that equal a night out. The night commenced with scissors and dye as my stylist friend popped in before her bartending shift at First Avenue. I love my cute short hairdo, but it’s a bit on the red side and I need to get over the shock of it. Luckily I look extra spunky fabulous in my black wool baseball cap. Afterwards it was dinner and clubbing in the company of two ex-Vancouverites. My efforts to show them the city and sights only elicited comments on similar places in Vancouver, BC. –yawn-

The people who work at the Fine Line Music Cafe across the street from my warehouse space allowed me the pleasure of clearing out the last of the closing time suburban stragglers at the bar. It’s a satisfying job that pleases the antagonist in me and also makes my voice many octaves lower.

NEWSFLASH, I was just interrupted by a phone call, the sexy chef at Caffe Solo (who reeks of sex) has a hearty ha-cha-cha for my stylist friend (who has just now finished her shift). It appears as if I am going to accompany her with a walk around the corner for some after-bar breakfast and lust witnessing.

Peace, love and early morning lust,

Michele

January 18, 1995

Aye Que Buena

I am efficiency walking with big olé tits today --- only 9:30 and already I have dropped a grade school goddess safely to school, traded abuse with the cook (excuse me, chef) at the Modern Café and thoroughly enjoyed a plate of huevos rancheros, which is currently culminating into a peppy Mexican hat dance in my colon. I have showered, dressed and swallowed the daily vitamins, ginseng, garlic & cayenne (to kick in a bit of mariachi inspired accompaniment for my breakfast); I have returned each and every voicemail message received since 4:00 pm yesterday and have cleared the next few hours to gather tax info for my accountant.

The sun is out and shining on the east facing windows directly across the avenue. It’s strange that I left the house this morning at 7:00 a.m. in the dark and then returned wearing sunglasses an hour ago. Freezing rain hit yesterday so the dingy warehouses all look spectacular today with a sparkling Windex shine on their weary brick facades.

Now its Taj Mahal singing some blues standards --- 1994 tax information and perhaps a walk down the hall and a nice read of the Webster’s dictionary in my white-tiled porcelain office annex.

Peace, love and a Buenos Dias in the neighborhood.

Michele

January 20, 1995

So Happy for Friday

The week of the “Grade school Goddess” slowly comes to a close, a week full of morning balkiness, evenings of cozy sweet bundle joys, racing in the flatulent Chevrolet to after school care, and a few 99 cent flicks at the Terrace. Tomorrow we have ballet class and then will endeavor a psychic fair with my friend Chris, who is also going through a divorce and wants to consult someone who surfs in other dimensions. Consulting the paranormal must surely indicate our collective lack of confidence in the lawyers we’ve retained.

My imminent-ex/co-parent/friend on the planet is finally selling some paintings, and just received an educational position with the St. Paul Police department. He will be instructing an Art class designed for juveniles arrested for Graffiti vandalism. This is a first in the cities and shows promise of continuance and growth. Woo and hoo, he may now be able to take over the house payments (joy of joys) and we can settle the finances. I can only cross my fingers however, he vacillates wildly between painting and music and for all I know next week he’ll announce that he’s touring again. I have emotionally and financially supported his endeavors in both art and music for more than 11 years now. He gets me caught up in his pursuits and then out of the blue drops them and kicks them under the bed. My eventual reluctance to “get behind” the man is in direct proportion to the hours of music that waste away in the cellar and the miles of canvas that line the garage.

It’s about as cold as January can be and still shiny from the ice. The goddess insisted on sleeping with me tonight so I pulled out the sofa bed and she passed out in less than 5 minutes and what a beautiful sleeper she is.

Peace, love and sleeping timeless angels,

Michele

January 24, 1995

Carnival Rides

I bought some especially sweet strawberries yesterday and enjoy them now with my espresso and blackberry juice. I’m sure it will all shoot out of me like a crazy red breakfast Ferrari once I pop my daily vitamins --- how’s that for a planned activity?

I stayed in last night despite boredom and a need for attention --- too blue and this feeling is just too new. It was the first night of my “solo” bi-monthly experience. Translation: the goddess is at the imminent ex’s until Sunday. The evening was a pleasant mixture of lemon rice soup, accounting for 1994, reading the reprint of Evolution Man (makes me laugh out loud), and going to sofa (bed) at an unstylish 10 pm.

The day so far has been one client call after another, banter with the red-headed cable guy who finally showed up to fix my service and downloading SXSW stuff for a friend around the corner. The imminent ex showed up out of the blue at 7:39 a.m. after dropping the goddess off at school. The poor man looked all around my space as if I have someone hiding in the closet and then comes up with some cheesy reason for popping in unannounced. I don’t know if he is disappointed or relieved to find that I am alone as he searches for the reason that I choose to live my life away from him --- as it’s always easier if there is another person involved to take the blame and heat off of yourself. His only point of reference for my behavior as a “single” is of the Shelly Show behind the bar at Shank Hall, the big breasted smartass wild party girl he met back in the early 80’s --- now that girl would have someone hiding in the closet and also had a phone conversation going with the afternoon’s man du jour. Of course I have naturally evolved out of the Shelly Show, I’ve left that Tilt-a-Girl far behind.

Admittedly, I am one tremendous flirt, have always been and hope I never change. I found myself in a lot of questionable and awkward situations when I was much younger due to a free-spirited approach to experimentation and an optimist’s disregard for consequence. I was much hungrier for attention and approval back then, very young, and a little too eager to be the apple of everyone’s eye. I was a moxy factory back in those days and the spoils of my adventures in the straight ahead were truly interesting friendships and experiences, sex like carnival rides --- exhilarating, stomach churning, costly if you stayed too long, and then contrarily jumping back in for more just after praying the previous ride would end. Sometimes I get a bit wistful for the “girl with balls” that I used to be, but then I wake up and wonder how the hell I got here in one piece.

Regardless, the ex will not let go at this point --- still thinks I’ll come to my senses and come back home. I’m done with being the bitchy cartoon lady next to his “perfect” persona of poor misguided, handsome and deep artist type studying for the lifetime role on this planet as the next ultimate martyr and saint. I may send him some nails and a cross for Valentines Day so he can just finish the job.

He made it a point to update me on the gallery owner who is more interested in how he’s hung vs. hanging his abstracts on her gallery walls. It would be easier if he would indeed let her distract him and let go of me --- they have my permission. My hormones don’t help the situation. I shouldn’t have let him fuck me under his Christmas tree as we trimmed the tree together for the goddess’s benefit last month but sometimes the ho-ho-ho inside me wins.

Peace, love and the amazing tilt-a-girl,

Michele

January 26, 1995

Baud-y Cows

All partnerships suffer from communication quirks and how painful it is to do the line dance of endurance with the rest of the herd and going unheard for the most part. The secret ingredient of the long marriage must be a lethal mix of blindness, deafness and complacency. I don’t ever plan on being a cow in that field again. I’d rather volunteer my ass to the butcher and just get it over with.

I’m afforded a free and lethal buzz tonight as the vents blow in the glazing fumes from the artist’s space next door. This environmental hazard necessitates open windows and the A/C fan on full blast. I wish I had fingerless gloves and some duct tape to restrain my nipples as they lean out of my shirt in complaint --- it gets in the way of typing.

This contaminated air rides tandem to the emotional toxins (compliments of the ex) leave me with no alternative other than some more finessing of my dancing party girl character. The fileserver that I should be loading with Novell 4.1 Netware is still on the operating table at the hardware vendor’s, this indicates a system reprieve for the next two days and no money. Such is the life of the self-employed, when it’s no work it’s all play and no pay.

Peace, love and teats r us,

Michele

January 28, 1995

Astral Avocado Projection

I’m in a self-imposed exile in my tower over First Avenue after a quick and chilly walk for fresh air and mango butter. I dozed off while watching the 80’s tribute on VH1 with visions of Huey Lewis dancing in my head --- obviously not a sex dream.

I miss Seattle today, the Square, the market, a drunk walk on a fat pier, or peering down the falls in Snoqualmie. Maybe I left my soul twin there for feasts of smoked salmon and bruschetta at the Pink Door followed by sultry grinding to whatever “greazy” R&B is playing at Larry’s. My bitter half remains chained to my body, which restlessly paces this warehouse space today.

The ambivert is ambivalent about life today, the fresh air and change IS probably around the corner for me. But knowing my luck, it has its foot extended so it can trip me as I pass and look up my skirt. I feel like I am performing in this life more than blending in with the chorus. Hate it, love it, hate it, love it some more --- all at once, what a life.

I’m heading for the bath --- water, sage, candles and of course mango butter for that troublesome dry winter skin. I plan to lie back in the heat and scrutinize the meaning of a serialized dream that I keep having. A recurring journey by foot through a desert canyon where I’m enjoying the smooth taste and texture of an avocado as I pass people sitting upon rust colored rocks – some I know, some I don’t (or at least I haven’t met them yet.) Perhaps it’s just my brain processing that book on Astral Projection while my stomach contemplates the arrival of one of nature’s most perfect foods.

Peace, love and holy guacamole,

Michele

January 29, 1995

3:00 A.M

It is now 3 am and I am buzzing with sobriety at the moment, having spent the night out dancing from club to club. First Industrial at First Avenue, followed by 70’s Disco at the Gay 90s and then capped off with some funky house jams at the Rogue. My friend Debra and I were on an all dance/no drink mission this evening. Dancing and listening to good music empties my soul out in a most cathartic way.

I had a nice flirt with the bartender at the pool hall on the walk home --- actually, my banter and tits scare the shit out of him and the more flustered he gets, the sassier I become. Home alone, perfect… and in the mean time (and I do mean “mean”), I plan to fill my head with Tom Robbins “Still Life with Woodpecker” and fall asleep to the idling cars of the early morning porn seekers parked outside my window. Flirting is best, the rest can come later --- and I use that verb quite loosely, or at the very least, I plan to some day.

Peace, love 3:00 A.M. on the Ave,

Michele

February 4, 1995

Welcome to Whine-esota

Try as I might and I surely did, it was impossible to get the pin back in my brain grenade today. Yet somehow (through gritted teeth) I increased my Accounts Receivable until they reached a height that seemed appropriately opposite my less-than-zero attitude toward life this week. Home again, a deep sigh and then I finally acquiesced to the mountain of laundry with a basket and a fistful of quarters. I would have rather bought replacement underwear (which is what smart girls do when they have disposable income). So it’s billing in the mail and hot knickers fresh from the dryer on this ordinary day frozen in Whine-esota time.

Peace, love and yah sure you betcha,

Michele

February 9, 1995

Eh hmmm

I remain, Michele, pre-Spring, optimistic about longer days in the armpit of America

Peace, love and the groundhog went back to bed,

Michele

February 12, 1995

Brrrrrr Titty

The air outside turned around and ran back home to January. I prepare myself in layers of protection just to go out into the frigid air to periodically start my car and save it from freezing out there on the avenue. It has been a strange month so far, weather-wise and otherwise. Over the course of the weekend my “usual” has switched from gin and platonic, to a scotch and sofa ---- I still haven’t worked up to the whiskey and seven inches.

Peace, love and baring a frozen brrr-east,

Michele

February 14, 1995

Sweet Techno Valentine

Cloistered in these past weeks, I hid in my warehouse from all and took a cruise inward. Today as I unlock my psyche and peer out of my exile, the opportunities and vibes flash by like meteors --- or were they always there and hence the reason I hid in the first place?

There is a very strong possibility that I may take a 3-4 month contract with American Express and move my techno ass to the West metro of Boston, this is primarily a LAN install with a good measure of workstation upgrades, training and hands on end user support. Essentially it means I’ll be making some cake while being elbow deep into the guts of dusty IBM workstations and playing agony aunt to the poor souls who lose their files, preferences and all direction once they cross over to a WYSIWYG world.

This job is essential as tax time nears --- a veritable God send. The downside is that even the slightest possibility of Mom leaving town for an extended period of time brings out the big wet tears on the face of the sweet goddess --- it will be weeks of tears on the other side of the phone.

I haven’t been back to Boston since I left in 1984. Back then I lived on Boylston across from the Fens with Fenway Park just behind me off the back alley. The years are a blur of dark nights in the basement at the “Rat”, parties at the Piano factory, crazy vintage costumes with day-glow bullet bras that I loved so much I would wear them on the outside of my outfit on Saturday nights dancing at Spit on Lansdowne Street. It was important to time my hot sex encounters with Red Sox home games during baseball seasons to ensure raucous cheering as a background element. When I think about it, everyone I knew went by a nickname or stage name, Johnny Angel, Mono-man, Lester-goon. I also remember many solitary evenings of walking on Church Street in Beacon Hill and feeling an awe at the history and drama that had played out there for the past 300 years. Or those Sunday mornings of walking through the deserted Combat Zone with Mono-man for Vietnamese food in an old converted White Castle. I’m sure it has changed a lot in the past 11 years, much like everywhere else, the faces on the scene change, men lose hair, women fight gravity, and the ones who stay in the scene resemble old vinyl furniture that you have to look at twice to discern if it is cool vintage, wacky kitsch, or destined to be carted off to the Salvation Army.

The memories and people are all safe somewhere, I believe that --- we never really say goodbye to people or places, the memories linger and the lessons come to us hours, minutes and sometimes decades later. A reason for every place, a reason for every encounter --- everything matters and I never have or will take that lightly. Lately there has been a re-emergence trend in my life, people that I haven’t seen or thought of in years have been calling and sending Christmas cards. I have been running into people on the avenue outside that I knew from different cities and diverse times. It is as if they are out there in some strange orbit and seeing them again is very similar to a solar or lunar eclipse, and somehow not so terribly surprising. Then off they go again and I muse, “Hmm that was cool, wonder when the next eclipse is going to be....”

Peace, love and where I used to “pahk the cah”,

Michele

February 16, 1995

When the Ex wants to limbo some more

Mr. Wiffle-Piffle-Waffle-Paffle (the ex) wants to keep the house after all (4th change of heart this year). In his best Church Lady voice he wondered aloud if perhaps that given the travel requirements of my job, we might consider joint legal custody and give him sole physical custody of Gina. He insists on verbiage to the tune of “agree that we both continue to live in Minneapolis” until the goddess has reached her teens. The ex: a blasted eternal satellite that orbits and interferes with everyday radio reception. I take deep breaths and concentrate on thinking “BIG PICTURE” at this point but I guess when you come right down to it, divorce is like waking up after the one night stand (where the person forgot to go home). Its biting off an arm to escape vs. facing the ugly reality of choices made whilst drunk on love. His manipulation is so predictable and coincides with the opportunity in Boston. He doesn’t want me to leave --- he doesn’t want me to go back there and he doesn’t want the responsibility of full time parenting for the better part of (gasp) three months.

Oh, by the way, did I mention that my proposed Boston trip isn’t looking so good today. I re-focused the energy into productivity and accomplished major home/office/mommy tasks this evening. I sure can get a lot done when I am good and pissed off. Maybe I’ll go outside and paint my damn car tonight too.

To cap it all off, I tripped and fell on my face (as in skirt over head) as I exited my car this evening. Of course a very attractive man was walking by --- he gave me an appreciative yet sympathetic grin.

Peace, love and the passive ex lacks,

Michele

February 17, 1995

Stink-ro-nize this

I feel a bit better today, my fall in the street must have been a necessary cosmic event, as yet another handsome man (this one lives across the hall) has unearthed four (somewhat transparent) excuses to pop in on me today. The last visit was to inquire if he could take my garbage out to the dumpster. Never again will I underestimate the power of clean and tastefully saucy underwear presented in a vertical spontaneous rush hour manner.

I’m horny and the only safe option I can find is exploring the web and the wild, wild carpal tunnel of love it offers. It’s amazing what 5 hours sleep, a few espressos, and smut inspired typing in four synchronized chats will do to the outlook of one so crabby, lost and oh yes, lonely too.

Peace, love and cyber sex,

Michele

February 21, 1995

Hoarse with the Norse and awaiting Divorce

I experienced a very long, strange weekend in and among the fringe. I believe my pheromone factory has once again opened for business and the minimum wage love workers are ready to sign up on my payroll. This last full moon has me in a peculiar emotional imbalance, either irreparably pissing people off, or endearing myself to them for life. I lost my voice to the cold that the goddess and I are both fighting. I sound very much like Suzanne Pleshette today and was advised that I could make a great living being a stay-at-home mom taking 1-900 calls.

Spring flashed us last week and then retreated like a cock-tease vernal virgin. So now it’s back to being fucked in the good old Nordic way with below freezing weather that kicks your ass but keeps us all looking so young looking (frozen) --- winter in Minneapolis is akin to straddling cryogenics. We’re a lot like Walt Disney, except we don’t die --- just feel like it when we have to walk 3 blocks to a frozen car.

Last night I dreamed of anxiety ridden old ladies tending to beautiful gardens in early bloom --- trees along the edges of the dream were awash in green so transparent and new it looked like water color. In the dream I suddenly remembered that I had relinquished my garden and roses when I left the marriage and moved from the house. I awoke with a huge sense of loss and longing, I wonder if it’s for the garden or for the marriage --- ah well, something else to think about as I take a shit today.

The cold snap has me feeling more impatient than usual and hell bent on finding a suitable way to resume my work related travel without conjuring the passive manipulation from the martyr without a clue.

Someday I’ll leave this all behind, but today it’s a sick sweet girl snoring from her bed, Ruth Brown in the CD player and the constant flow of traffic that sounds like an ocean because my ears are so plugged. If I close my eyes I can smell freesia and I’m singing and dancing in the streets of Amsterdam on Queen’s day --- but today I’m hoarse, in all respects of course.

Peace, love and elusive spring,

Michele

February 22, 1995

Bearing Down

My modem died, the goddess has streph throat – but I’m assured she’ll live through it. I’m trying to stay busy and productive and have been busy hanging partitions in my warehouse den of despair. A man, proclaiming himself the “chocolate orchid of love” continues to call me at all hours. All I really want to do is fall into a deep sleep and wake up healthy so the goddess and I can go on the gallery crawl. If someone gets the inclination to write me out a check for a million or two, I could easily scrap those plans and book an escape to the Caymans.

Peace, love and licking the ugly side of life,

Michele

February 27, 1995

98.6 and Back Among the Living

Ah, the miracle combination of antibiotics and a few days of sleep. I’ve arrived at Monday morning, back at the helm of my fledgling consulting business and I’m happy that my accounts aren’t too pissed at me for being sick and M.I.A. last week. It was a combination of streph and exhaustion that drove me to the lower bunk for three days of sleep, more sleep and gallons of water. Now it’s time to jump right back into my life in preparation of the goddess who will be home for a week. Luckily I got to have her for four days last week while we were both convalescing. She is always amazing, despite her fever and chills, she still managed 15 cartwheels per hour. The ex stopped by (…again…) this morning, I looked well rested and thoroughly unkempt, he lingered as usual, so I made him coffee and tried my best to make him feel comfortable. We both need to get out of neutral and get on with getting the paperwork done that predicates the rest of our life (without each other.) Life is so strange.

I spent a lot of time lying in bed getting lost and catching up on my reading (in between blowing my nose) this weekend. From time to time I would look up and stare blankly at the work waiting for me on the desk by the window. It makes me wonder if I wanted to continue on as a tech gun for hire or make a big change. It could be the Gemini in me, we have the distinction of getting very restless (also known as flighty.)

Life and infinite possibility dance on the Avenue below. Maybe I’ll find the focus and chutzpah to sit down, go through the tons of journals I’ve written and write a book. Or, maybe I will run away with a heavy metal band and sew sequins on their jockey shorts from the back seat of a tour bus that lurches across America. It’s possible that I could finally get divorced and then shock everyone by marrying a big strapping dairy farmer from Alexandria. Maybe I’ll continue to inhabit this buzzing limbo until I happen upon a classified ad with a heading entitled “Maverick Renaissance Woman Wanted”.

The reality is, at this minute in time, the need for a nice long shower beckons and will be quickly followed by moving my ass out the door for work and lots of catch up work. Luckily for me and matching my optimism are blue skies dotted with hopeful white clouds against the red brick buildings that somehow appear to be content with their shabby chic appearance. They wear the droppings of a thousand pigeons proudly as if its old family jewelry --- look out world, I’m too am ready to take your shit once again.

Peace, love and temperatures and droppings,

Michele

March 6, 1995

Lemmings, Millions and Kool-Aid

Fuck, it snowed again today -- Minnesota has a fabulous way of shoving Winter up your ass when you focus too intently on the spring being dangled surreptitiously under your nose. While instructing the goddess on the finer points of playing a computer game called Lemmings, I inadvertently find myself addicted again --- yes ---- shit ----- I’m even having dreams about those nasty little green haired buggers.

I’m working from home today and the only good thing about the snow outside is that it muffles the sound of the Avenue below. The bills and work on my desk scream at me in bold 10-point typeface. To the side, junk mail from American Family Publishers roars “M---- is in a Dead-Heat Tie, and is guaranteed at least $10,000,000.00 Cash!” A more apt proclamation would be: “M------ better get your ass in gear or else your life will be nothing but pain, beans and Kool-Aid for the next month!”

Peace, love and life up the ass,

Michele

March 7, 1995

Warming up on the Western Front

The papers threaten that it will be quite spring-like this weekend. I have been scrambling like crazy today and then I fell into the goddess’s bunk bed this afternoon for a long late winter (..er, early spring) nap. Last night I caught Tracy Chapman’s show at First Avenue so I was tired and a bit crispy all day. Tonight, my focus is on getting my billing out, finishing up my 94 taxes and filling out the questionnaire for our divorce papers. We should be officially de-nuptialized in about 10 weeks at about 175.00 a piece. I plan to keep the good communication going between us as it saves time and money!

Gina is finally settling into our new life here in the warehouse district. It took a few months, but she is back to being the sweet, funny, sensitive, and fair human I have been in love with for 7 years. I think I am calming down a bit as well. My potential work with AmEx in Boston went South (ProTech lost the bid) so I am concentrating on finding another outsource job to add to my “in-town” list. Going through my books for 94 nauseates me and I’ve realized that money runs through me like bad Mexican food.

Here’s a funny one, I gave a man my email address vs. my phone number last night --- how very nineties of me.

Peace, love and its a-baud time,

Michele

March 11, 1995

Pulling Love Muscles for Michele

Not far behind in the rearview mirror of this independent “sans child” week, are seriously overbooked days of work. Hooray for Saturday and double hooray for my sweet sister, visiting from Chicago. We are all about hanging together, talking, drinking coffee and now I can take the time to type while she settles into the “library” reading the Kama Sutra. It is nearly 50 degrees outside the confines of my warehouse space here in this frigid and unforgiving North. This translates to parades of “glow-in-dark” Nordic types strolling First Avenue dressed only in beachwear. This is no exaggeration.

Strange weekend, a friend was in town last night and he didn’t call me, which quite frankly pisses me off. We have been friends for well over 15 years and he was the one that changed my drink to scotch and sofa last month. The old adage “never fuck your friends” is true I guess. What is it with some men, or all men for that matter? A short lurid detour and suddenly I’m off the radar as friend and in the dirty laundry basket of requited conquests --- if women had dicks the world would be less dirty laundry and more lurid detours. There are lessons to be learned from this, and I’m trying hard to pay attention to this particular lesson plan of life. Perhaps I am TOO organized when it comes to emotionally arranging the way these people fit into my own personal contrary gregarious/lone wolf existence, obviously more organized than he is in this particular instance.

So I guess this means that to keep balance I shall have to become a mind reader and never veer from the relationship boundaries that have been internally delineated in the minds of my male friends who inwardly are curious and subsequently outright childish after they have eaten the candy they “thought” they stole from the candy store. Oh please someone cover my mouth and stop this tirade of “genderizations” that I continue to rant just because one man doesn’t know where to put me now that he’s had the pleasure of doing me.

Rest assured that my plan involves never giving up on men --- although it may see me capitulating to the pulsating release valve of the old shower massage from time to time, I’ll always hold out for the keener wiener.

Peace, love and neon Nordic legs,

Michele

March 15, 1995

Daffodils… so pretty, yet so stinky

I have been kicking the consulting life in the ass this week and have averaged about 12-14 billable hours each day. I’m finding more and more that the full moon makes a great business partner as equipment always seems to act up this time of month. Its that water pull, the condensation on those little chips are aching to become one with the atmosphere and escape from their plastic and diode decorated dungeons. And of course, there are the moonstruck people of the world --- this week I’m part technology, part psychology.

The goddess turns 7 on Monday, the first official day of spring. We are having a sleep over for 9 --- count them --- 9 little girls on Friday. My youngest sister will be driving here from Wisconsin this weekend to add two additional young ones to the heap and also help me manage them all.

Topic switch, and here we go back to my previous rant of “don’t fuck your friends” because I am still so very peeved about what a freaking dork he’s being about this. I have known the turd since I was 15 years old, thank God I never endeavored anything physical with him when I was younger and more fragile emotionally. I’ve decided that if there is a problem it is surely his own, and when I do see him again, he gets the slightly chill “...oh, were you in town?” kind of attitude.

It is fabulously warm and sunny here in Minneapolis. I can see the Nordics glowing from block to block. The sun feels good and my daughter bounces all the way down the street on these warm walking evenings.

Peace, love and a spring in her step,

Michele

March 16, 1995

Frazzle de Dazzle de Ra Ra Ra

I’m moving at a freakish pace which makes me stop and exclaim aloud, “Someone has been putting amphetamines in the water supply, I just know it!” Three people have died in Minnesota from the dreaded flesh eating bacteria, my space is a wreck and the shrill squeals from 9 adolescent mouths looms in the future.

Me, I continue to kick it in a high gear throughout most of the day, I’ve been communicating with a friend who is in S. Africa for a couple of months (producing the Jazz Heritage Festival w/Stevie Wonder) who is having an issue with her email.

Gina is so excited about her upcoming party that she woke me at 5:00 am ready for breakfast and company, so my dreams piled up into one another like a car wreck on the REM highway into one smoking and unrecognizable lucid blur. Today would be a great day to spend a few hours on a golf course in Bermuda, but I think I’ll take a stroll with the goddess through the garden of urban delights, get some quarters to do my laundry, buy some cigs and push the mess here into a corner. Mr. ex (as in excruciatingly nice these days) is stopping by with a full sized mattress for the bottom bunk here, so no more futon butt for me in the morning.

Other than that, I’m marveling at how just a little touch of heavy fog give the Avenue that smoke-filled lounge allure.

Peace, love and a quarter to little girl party time,

Michele

March 17, 1995

Savoring the Soggy Grains of Life… with fruit

This maverick went to bed at I am, and was then awakened at 3:30 am with a phone call from a most frantic friend in S. Africa. Her laptop died and of course I jumped right in and tried to facilitate a replacement --- I’m the one to call apparently I know how to get things done.

The timing of this lack of sleep couldn’t be worse. There is too much to get accomplished when a person is expecting 9 little chicks in her warehouse space for slumber party craziness. So excuse me while I take these crispy green eyes closer to the espresso machine as I attempt to dance the mess of this day around. I’d hate to pass out at the slumber party and wake up with my hand in warm water with painted messages on my face and a tape recording of my teeth gnashing in perfect tempo to the stress of day tangoing in the deepest recesses of my psyche. As the lesbians in Dublin say “Erin go braless!”

Peace, love and droopy teats,

Michele

March 21, 1995

Sisters of the Road

I joined AOL for my free 10 hours --- wish my faster modem was working. Traveling the web at 2400 baud is no doubt similar to sex in the senior center, something I’m sure I’ll be up for in about 50 years from now.

I love coffee and need coffee. The coffee council needs me too. I’m a walking, bouncing billboard of caffeine derived moxy and wit with wilting breath from coffee and cigs followed by more coffee and cigs.

I survived the Friday night of nine screaming, whining, fighting, hungry, thirsty, oops wet my sleeping bag, girls. My youngest sister was here and we endured hourly phone calls from her “stalking” boyfriend. The last straw was this morning when he phoned at 5:00 am and woke the entire crew of sleep over girls. How ironic that the desperate actions of those who fear losing their “lovers” usually pushes the lovers further away.

I have no patience for the ex this week. He acted selfishly all weekend by not helping with the parties and out of town guests for the goddess’s birthday (which is normal for him I guess). He gets on this passive bend, acts tense and when I look at him directly and ask “What’s wrong?” He stammers a “Nuuuthhinggg…”

My name on America Online is BoxCBertha (Box Car Bertha, “Sister of Road”). She was a rail riding, socialist child in a commune at the turn of the century and one of my heroines. Some say she was an urban legend while others claim to have met her. I just found her book at a resale shop in Stillwater and was intrigued. At some after life party I plan to hang out at the table with Box Car Bertha, Dirty Helen, Josephine Baker, and Etta James. I hope to have a few more memorable stories of my own by then so I can keep the girls laughing.

Peace, Love, and Sisters,

Michele

March 24, 1995

Ghosts, shit and obligations

I am fully recovered from the weekend and feel rather strongly that one of the most successful things I could accomplish in this life would be to operate purely out of inspiration and not obligation.

Had a psychic friend over the other night, she confirmed the haunted building stories told by the wait staff in the restaurant below. The invisible tenants of this building comprise a few mischievous apparitions. For some strange reason this doesn’t surprise or bother me. For the most part I suffer their silly pranks. They like to hide my keys, move the cheese, and re-arrange the fridge. It seems to hit harder on the ones who are afraid, it turns the lights off in the basement, slams doors, and pounds on the cooler walls down in the deep recesses of this building. The building itself is exactly 150 years old, and had many identities prior to being renovated into lofts. Less than 10 years ago it was the City’s most notorious bath house.

But, I am happy to say that everyone has indeed gone home and I am quite alone (aside from my paranormal roommates). Gina spent last night with me, she seems to have matured overnight since her birthday and it goes without saying that I wish I could be the mommy everyday vs. every other week.

There is always new shit around the corner and funny that I just read an article about a man who quit his bank job to pick up dog shit for a living. So I must make it a point to always remember that schnauzer’s shit to one is another one’s gold.

Peace, love and oh welcome shitty (golden) Monday,

Michele

March 29, 1995

Droning Tour Buses

I dreamed that I was a roadie for an eccentric acoustic guitarist who wanted me to shine his picks with Formula 409 (… is it the ex or was it Kirsty McColIs tour bus idling outside my window all night long). Hell froze over yesterday, so I joined the health club as I had always promised I would in the wake of an Alberta clipper moving through the nether world. Buns of steel now loom as one sinewy moon in my future skies.

I’m patiently waiting for the green to appear anywhere on the landscape. Of course it snowed again and as always Minnesota continues to be anything but hopeful.

Peace, love and March can be over anytime now,

Michele

March 30, 1995

Dr. Jekyll in a 34 DD

Darn it all, the ex did not spontaneously combust in his sleep as I had fervently prayed for last night. Instead, my car died in the middle of rush hour traffic today. I took the time between flipping off the people who were flipping me off to contemplate NOT paying my taxes and just wait for the IRS to nab me and prescribe some quality time (7-10 years) in Federal Prison to catch up on my sleep or write a novel.

It’s been a hard winter, no peace, no sex, no money, no love, only work and a parade of jerks. I am human espresso today, acid tongue, bitter heart, boiling mad and ready to stain and burn anything that gets in my way.

Peace, love and thoroughly unlikable,

Michele

March 31, 1995

One Flew over the Corsica

Brought the old Corsica to its knees yesterday, it died mid-town, mid-traffic, mid-Pearl Jam. What a rotten day and boy was I glad when it was finally over. I had the piece of “you know what” towed away for the second time in 5 weeks, this time I didn’t wait for the truck, I threw the keys on the front seat, had a nice temper tantrum in my work clothes and stalked off to the car rental agency.

I haven’t checked to see if the piece of crap ever made it to the Kevin’s garage, but I honestly wouldn’t care if someone had stolen it. So now I’m in a rented Mazda Miata with a great stereo, power everything, and I am driving the hell out of it!

After Mr. Chevrolet wakes up from his mechanical coma I’m going to drive him over to the dealership and trade him in on something new. Can’t say I feel much better, only better than yesterday, still praying for a quick spontaneous combustion for those who make my life hell.

Time to go plug the meter outside and a quick check out the window tells me that it is once again snowing. Perhaps it’s always winter here and I just missed my medication today.

Peace, love and lobotomies make winter go away,

Michele

April 2, 1995

Weekends with a Goddess

The goddess and I woke up early and jumped in the rental car Saturday morning with no destination in mind. We drove south along the Mississippi river for 125 miles, stopped in sleepy little river towns to stretch and walk and made it a priority to stop and inspect the log cabin birthplace of Laura lngalls Wilder (the goddess is reading the Little House on the Prairie books these days). How very nice to drive without a specific purpose (…other than Laura Ingalls… of course). To smile patiently as I drove under the speed limit behind the farmer Browns as they held me up on the winding roads, to eat ice cream and lean against a warm car, smile and say hello to all the cute grannies walking by us on the river. The stereo played our standard road trip tapes, Squeeze, Etta James, The Reverend Horton Heat, The Replacements and good old Eddie Cochran. We sang together and danced in our seats as the sun melted in the west.

At one point today we pulled over and bought two kites to fly in the warm expanse of spring sky. My ability to fly a kite incredibly high had the goddess completely in awe, “Daddy can never get them this high Mama!” As the other kite flyers packed it in and left for the day, we rested side by side on our backs in the middle of the soccer field and pretended the planes flying above were our kites. On the drive home, in to the sunset, she yawned from the back seat and sleepily commanded, “Please play that Stain on my Notebook song again mama.”

It’s nice to have a day when I don’t feel so pissed off at the world. During the quiet drive home I realize that what I must do is finalize the issues that are eating me from the inside out. Tasks like filing my divorce papers and filing my tax papers. Limbo makes me boil and I’m usually quite bubbly with it having perfected the art of procrastination.

In the land of “ex” there are plans being hatched to punish me for living, punishment in a rather clichéd and uncreative way --- as in, through my wallet. I really have no great love of money or amassing a big pile of it in the name of security, it goes through me like bad Mexican food – I ride it like big waves that might never come again. Given his capitulation from music to art and back again over the years, I have been relegated to the role of stability and bread winner. He has always hated this dynamic but none the less has become dependent on it. I am damned if I have it and damned if I don’t. Of course I know that our problems have nothing what so ever to do with money, but ironically that is how my punishment will be exacted for falling in and then failing in love with him.

Some love fades away and other love fills in the gaps and insulates you from the cold winds of loneliness. The laughter of the goddess will caulk these rickety panes and keep me warm as I look out the window at the faded illusion that was a Marriage Made in Milwaukee. She was the best gift we ever gave ourselves --- one size fits all.

Peace, love and kites in the nights,

Michele

April 5, 1995

Pedestrian Blues

I caught the Morphine show at First Avenue last night --- what a show!! My girlfriend was obviously in need of some huge attention as she showed up wearing only a black satin nightgown and created quite a stir wherever she went but no one quite had the nerve to talk to her, perhaps it was a bit too intimidating. I, on the other hand, wore a perky little red plaid jumper and emphasized the tart in tartan. Sassy but approachable works for me and I usually let the pins and the twins speak for themselves.

Cocktails on the other hand, never agree with me. I’m not a good candidate for liquor of any kind and find that after three drinks I’m well on my way to being a mean and surly drunk, and I can forget about functioning the next day. Unfortunately my friend in the satin nightgown also works at First Avenue and was in charge of drink ordering (free), much appreciated, however I’m suffering the perks of the over-pour as I write this.

My car is still in the garage and I had to return the rental car yesterday so I am a reluctant pedestrian until the Mazda is once again road worthy. I woke up with a huge thirst, and then ironically got a call from a client whose pipes had burst the night before. I limped in hung over and saved the cyber day for them. I could use a bit of rest but I messed my system up after drinking too much coffee on my “date” this evening with someone I met at the Morphine show last night. His name is Hung --- how funny is that and my, did the girls giggle when I shared that moniker with them. Nothing magic happened and I gave him the economy Shelly show, gregarious despite the lingering hangover and rapid fire conversation to camouflage the terminal green sadness that casts a shadow over my eyes.

I feel closer and closer to writing a few short stories --- darkly humorous and manically metaphoric romps through irony, joy and heartbreak. I’m still standing and laughing, and I miss my rotten old car. The hangover headache lingers and is bolstered by the glazing fumes coming from the artist next door --- he’s strumming my pain with his glazing, zinging my hangover with his strokes, killing me softly with his art, killing me softly…

Peace, love and leaking precious brain cells,

Michele

April 6, 1995

Hindu Pea Surprise

Morphine plays in the back of mind, a low wailing tenor sax and double bass, “Someday-ay-ay-ay, there’ll be a cure for pain...”

Last night is over as is the vivid abstract of a dream I had as I paced the incline of a massive metal scale measuring wealth and poverty in its cold tin pans. In one pan a party was in full swing, complete with celebrities and scene-sters in the drink who cavorted like the idiots they can be without the boundaries most of us adhere to. On the other end of the scale, neglected children were playing ring around the rosy and taunting an emaciated dog that they circled. I stood helpless in the dream and looked up for some sort of clue --- no inspiration came. I could chalk this lucid visual up to a passive high from the glazing fumes next door, or as a subconscious plea for some balance in my life as the peas continue to elude my knife and roll right off the plate of my days.

What a gross and spoiled piece of American shit I’ve become in a scant 6 years, bitching because I don’t have a car and have to be a pedestrian this week. I am one of those rare people who learned to drive later in life purely out of necessity, in my case at the tender age of 27. I never had the cash or the need to be chained to anything destined for dents from Detroit, especially while I lived in Boston and also in the midst of working in nightclubs in Milwaukee. It was an intense feeling of liberation to finally take my first solo drive down the highway --- the intensity of those first moments made it worth the wait.

I finally learned to drive during the summer of 1987 when the ex felt he needed to quit college and move back to Milwaukee to form a band. I stayed put in Minneapolis and continued to work to pay off our debts and save the money required to take the time off and find something comparable back in the land of the Wiscons-insane. So, I advanced from novice driver to highway mama over the miles that separated us during the course of that summer. I drove to Milwaukee every weekend in our little red Renault Encore, flipping the dial and singing along to the songs of the day, doing primal screams in the car after 250 miles to keep my heart pumping and my mind awake.

I also learned how to get myself pregnant that summer --- I loved that part of my life. Driving and having animated discussions with the tiny intra-uterine spec called goddess. Being pregnant with her agreed with me so well and in my bliss I convinced my man to drive the prairie west to Denver to new beginnings, a promotion at work and a condo in the foothills. Pregnancy made me energetic and horny baby, and extremely determined to set everything right and true where our future was concerned. The hormones and happiness were so inspiring that I was tempted to try for a second child when the cream of our marriage started to separate and turn to the nasty cheese it is now. I’m glad I resisted that urge and had the strength and insight to not get caught up in lining the nest to keep it anchored --- which I’m learning is a common reaction to those suffering in bad marriages. Children are miracles that we are allowed to participate in and I don’t have nearly the control over it that I think, it’s better to keep them safe and watch the magic unfold around me quietly like air through my fingers.

The goddess has hands that still have a chubby, baby-like quality, the sight of which triggers emotional and physical memory of kissing the tips of those fingers as they’ve grown over the past seven years. Sweet hands that inquired, mastered tasks and wriggled emotively up to me as she held out her arms and demanded, “Mama hold me!” The index and thumb that carefully picked up Cheerios for the first time now hold pencils, paint brushes and peck out “Jingle Bells” on the piano. They join to smooth her hair in the mirror when she thinks I’m not watching, they wave good bye to me from her daddy’s car every other week, they instinctively find my own whenever we cross a street or encounter the unfamiliar. She depends upon me less and less as she grows and somehow I feel more hopeful than mournful at that prospect. Our mechanics will change, but when you live your life with walking miracles the essence remains sweet and strong and right. Whenever I am doubtful of this, all I need to do is look at the hands, they do indeed tell it all.

The scales balance and the peas form a lotus in the middle of my plate. One eye closes, but another one opens and winks at me.

Peace, love and the daily dharma,

Michele

April 8, 1995

Insomnia, Journals and a Spinning World

I picked the goddess up at her dad’s for a Thursday night date to watch a skating exhibition at the Target Center. It’s late and I should really be trying to get some sleep as it has been eluding me for the past few nights --- and oh how I’ve tried. Tonight I picked through a box of old journals and was inspired enough to write a few pages of what may become a story someday. I ended with 5 pages and a yearning to continue writing forever in a remote and distant location.

Today a client asked me how I envisioned my business growing in the next few years. “Steady and coherently.” was my reply. In my dreams I remain optimistic about an inheritance from a long lost relative, a laptop and an undemanding job at a hotel in Bermuda where I can keep myself in necessities and indulge the inner narcissistic writer with solitude.

But for today it’s steady and coherent --- my life goes up, my life goes down and I’m assured the world will keep spinning around. Since my daughter turned three she became more like me, her life goes up and her life goes down, she’s assured that the world will keep spinning around

I’m not dizzy, disgusted or bored. I’m just a collection of undefined elements that cling to my shoes like T.P. out of the ladies restroom. It’s like being hungry for a food that has yet to be invented --- it’s holding out for the love of a man that I haven’t even met yet --- because I believe I will.

Peace, love and spinning is believing,

Michele

April 9, 1995

Night and Day

Days can become unremarkable and equally uneventful when 24 hours become reversed via insomnia. My mood matches the overcast weather and my ambivalence is in direct disdain of the 12 inches of snow predicted to fall within the next two days --- why in the hell do I live here?

Hung would like to “hang” out with me again and the son of an acquaintance indicated his interest in exploring his fantasy about me to a mutual friend. I opted instead to see Tank Girl with my pal Christopher and check out the last set of Freedy Johnson at First Avenue. I was inspired by the wise-acre, spit in your face self assurance of Tank Girl. It made me bounce up and down the stairs of First Avenue with a Rolling Rock in hand as my friend Christopher eyed the crowd in search of “the most perfect woman in the world”, apparently perfection avoided First Avenue last night as he never had one in sight.

The International Film Fest starts at the U in about two weeks and once again I will embark upon my annual passive journey around the world. In the dim lights and the scratchy seats of the Bell Auditorium I live vicariously through the eyes of who ever inhabits the screen, be it a Finnish alcoholic, a tragic vagabond musician in Korea or even a spunky moon shiner in Iceland. I mega-dose on about 30-40 films in the course of 2 weeks and it always seem to alter the way I deal with life for the months to follow.

A check of my voicemail from last night reveals a message from the goddess. She asked if I would come along on a field trip to the zoo with her class. She says that her classmates like me to come on field trips because I am a lot of fun and not too mom-ish. She was short and sweet, “That’s all I want to know Mom, love you... bye!”

Now it’s 3:00 am and I need to consider sleep or tomorrow will again be another wash with Monday seeming next to impossible.

Peace, love and good morning,

Michele

April 11, 1995

April Showers and Human Flowers

A last minute programming epiphany, just the inspiration needed to finish one remarkable piece of work that had previously festered in a puddle of procrastination on my desk for far too long. The joy of these 11th hour miracles are fleeting as I remember that it’s the last minute rush that reassures continued growth of the procrastinator --- me. I wonder what a big fat fall upon my face could do to stop this curse. But then again, if common sense and precise methodology prevailed in the land, there would never be opportunities for super heroes to save the world either.

An April day, one full of work and then followed by a sweep through the grocery, picking up the goddess, dinner, dishes, paper kewpie dolls, eighteen cartwheels to and from tumbling class, capped off with two encores of “Hakuna Matata”, giggles, hugs, much brushing of the scattered teeth remaining in her mouth and finally a snug as she drifted off to sleep. The CD has just ended on the player and a pleasant stillness hums in time with the rain, the gentle goddess snores and it blends with the flow of traffic below my window.

I turned my head toward the window and caught my own reflection as I paused from my typing. The halogen lamp burns beside me, with the area behind my desk appears dim, dreamy and other worldly. I never smile at my reflection in the mirror and especially not in windows at night. I couldn’t lift a corner of my lip to save my life --- all I can muster is a nod and a matter of fact exchange of glances with my reflection, “Yep, we’re both still here…”

April is beginning to become the month that leaves my throat lumpy and my eyes misty as I remember it to be the month of the last conversation I ever had with my best friend Kathy. It was in the dazed surreal hours following a car accident I was involved in. She had heard about my mishap through mutual friends who had rescued me and then stopped at her shop for flowers. She sent them off with the most beautiful rose in her shop and when I received it I phoned her immediately to thank her. I was feeling very emotional at the moment and told her how much her friendship and kindness always touches me. She laughed huskily at this and said, “Michele, you know I can never stand it when you are sad, I depend upon you as one of the only people who can make me laugh my ass off.”

Imagine my shock when only three days later her daughter called urging me to get to the hospital as soon as I could because Kathy was in intensive care and not expected to last through the night. She had been battling the ravaging effects of Hepatitis C for nearly 3 years and her liver and kidneys were shutting down. In the months previous she never shared her pain with anyone or let on that she was nearing the end. She went about living her life as if there were no limits and continued to feed our collective denial --- perhaps to bolster her own but most likely to spare us any pain.

When I reached her bed side she was moaning and thrashing, her Mother stroked her hair and I stood there wringing my hands not quite sure what my place was in all of this. Her daughter quietly told me that I could have a few minutes to say goodbye and suddenly we were alone. In the face of this finality my ears rung, my body buzzed and my throat was dry as I whispered in her ear, “I love you so much girl, I’m here and I’ll stay here if you’re not quite ready to give up --- I know how scrappy you can be when you want to.”

Throughout the afternoon, to the evening and into the early morning of the next day the group of friends grew and waited as Kathy was stabilized to the point where they could attempt surgery to stop the hemorrhaging. There were no promises and we all held our breath and prayed. She survived the surgery and we wept in a relief that was short lived --- it was soon dashed to the ground by the perfunctory, expressionless tone of the surgeon as he informed us that the surgery, although successful, only bought her another week at best and probably without regaining consciousness.

Quietly she languished in a coma for the next three weeks --- day by day her skin became a deeper jaundiced shade of gold and her breath quieter and gentler. I spent many hours in the intensive care waiting room along with family and other friends who shared my need to keep vigil. I would stroke her hands and tell her jokes and speak in crazy accents that used make her erupt in uncontrollable fits of laughter. I kept her apprised of spring’s progress as the first shouts of green appeared in the bare trees and flowers doggedly pushed through the brown and bruised nightmare the earth can be after a brutal winter. I told her that I would always be there as a friend to her daughters and that she would be so proud of how strong and amazing they were in the face of this nightmare.

The goddess loved her Aunty Kathy and the feeling was mutual from the day I gave birth to the goddess until the end. After the goddess was born, Kathy came out to Denver to help me and stayed for the three weeks it took to ease me out of being totally overwhelmed by the responsibilities of motherhood. The goddess and Kathy had a very special friendship and could spend hours working, playing and creating together in Kathy’s flower shop. If I showed up too early to collect the goddess they would look up from what ever they were doing and glare at me like I was a killjoy.

Kathy and I spent many hours in her big old Chevy Blazer, to and from work, out on the town or just running errands together. She couldn’t sing a lick but would crank up Steve Winwood and sing at the top of her lungs as we barreled down the highway. She was the type of friend who put loyalty first and if you were wrong she’d still side with you against anyone else and work out the details with you privately. If you messed up, had food stuck in your teeth, or a dry breather up your nose, she would never hesitate to point it out and allow you to fix it before you embarrassed yourself. She had a deep husky voice from smoking too many Old Golds, a petite body with wildly expressive hands and arms that wigwagged as she talked like a hula dancer. When she smiled her cheeks nearly popped off her face and her eyes disappeared behind a white even smile that she always attributed to her Vademecum toothpaste. She was so tickled by people and humor that I delighted in the many opportunities to make her crack up and laugh so intensely that she’d massage her face and plead, “Stop, stop, haw, haw, haw….my cheeks are cramping up!”

On the night before Mother’s Day the decision was made to remove her from life support. Her mother, sisters and daughters were there by her side as she slowly left us behind. I kept her two grandchildren at my house and selfishly I hoped she’d stop by in spirit on her way out. Every time that a child stirred that night or mumbled in their sleep I wondered aloud, “Kath?” Her daughter called me at 3 am, “She’s gone, I was watching her breathe and it was so light I could barely see her chest move. She looked so small and fragile and so very beautiful in that last second…”

I spent Mother’s day with my family, with numbness, and a new awareness of the fragile nature of each passing day. A Steve Winwood song was played at her funeral service. When asked to stand and share our memories, I tried to muster the courage to speak, and before I could, the goddess stood up and told everyone of her special relationship with Kathy, which moved many people to tears. I sat in the park across from the church with the goddess afterward and second guessed my decision to bring her to the service as she sobbed in my arms and experienced the pain of loss for the first time in her life. My doubts were vanquished much later that day when I observed her embrace Kathy’s daughter Shannon and hand her a picture. As she bent down to give the goddess a kiss, the goddess stroked her hair and looked her in the eye as she said in a calm and matter-of-fact way, “Don’t be sad Shannon, Kathy is in a very beautiful place now and now she won’t have to wait every year to start her garden.”

Late that Summer, Kathy’s ashes intermingled with rose petals from her shop and were cast quietly upon her beloved St. Croix river. I feel her at the edge of the water among the flowers and trees and in the park where the goddess hangs upside down laughing on the swings. She tends to the water colored hibiscus I visual when I turn off the halogen light, lean back, close my eyes and allow the pain and longing I feel to water my cheeks.

I imagine that the truck I hear idling outside is the infamous red Chevy Blazer, slowly I make out the strains of “The Finer Things” with her voice happily cutting through it like a concrete saw. My thick whisper squeezes by the lump in my throat and says “Hey Kath? Remember the 3rd day of Christmas in 1985? The night I won the 3 French Hens at the Rosewood Room and we danced them on the bar and sang Supreme Songs with twisted salmonella references?” “Haw Haw Haw… noooo, please stop Shel, that story always cramps up my cheeks!”

Peace, love and my angelic gardener friend,

Michele

April 14, 1995

Lilacs and Heather for the Tooth Fairy

The friend working on the Heritage Jazz Festival in South Africa has the blues and surrounded by workaholic, narcissistic music industry people who set impossible schedules and expect the minions to jump and perform miracles to make up for the clear lack of thoughtful planning. Her last email was so sad, and ironically enough, this afternoon I received a very silly postcard from her in the mail. She is passionate about her work in the industry and has the brains, determination and skill required for a long successful run. It’s her compassion, youth and obvious physical beauty that sets her up for the derisive attitude she has to put up with from “road rough” Rhondas as well as the paws of libidinous road managers and musicians. I told her that these people have always reminded me of dirty angry black flies that seemingly swarm out of nowhere when new blood comes walking down the road. The best you can do is swat at them when they get too thick and try to stay clear of the shit holes they breed in, which is the music industry --- for the most part.

I’ve been the lucky recipient of two full nights of sleep --- HOORAY --- and it’s about damn time. The goddess had a release day from school and played at her friend Erin’s house --- and from the stories I’m hearing tonight, it was quite a full day with a fair share of drama. It began by catching a baseball (with her left cheek), losing another one of her baby teeth and an afternoon at an indoor water park. We were both too tired and hungry to make dinner so we went downstairs to La Cucaracha and she passed out in her bed in less than 10 minutes after coming back up to our space.

I stopped today at the flower shop next to the New French and purchased a big over-priced beautiful and fragrant array of cut flowers to celebrate the return of the sun and to surround myself with the hopeful scent of lilac and freesia up here in the land of brick. It triggers the optimist in me and makes me more gentle and patient for some reason. Perhaps there is something to aromatherapy after all.

More communication with the ex last night, it’s the same old dance but at least we both stand up and hit the dance floor. I let him know that I’m getting farther behind holding up 90 percent of our combined financial burden. He counters with a sigh and says, “I’m doing the best I can.” To be clearer I say “I can’t help you out any longer because it is killing me financially. You need to make adjustments in your life and start carrying your fair share.” This prompted a long silence. Of course it will be up to me to arrange exactly how we further disentangle. It’s a good thing I’m used to this, and I’m silly to think it would miraculously be any different at the end than it has been since the beginning. My anger has softened and is slowly evolving into a more reasonable and pliable entity. I need to call upon that energy to attend to the final details of this marriage. It’s time to turn the page, finish the book and try out a new library card.

I just caught myself looking at myself in my reflection in the window, it was very awkward for both of us, I probably won’t do it again. Now it is time to search for a dollar for the tooth fairy to leave under the goddess’s pillow. Then it’s off I go for the trifecta as I attempt to acquire yet a third night of restful sleep.

Peace, love and the sweet smell of closure,

Michele

April 16, 1995

Etta, Easter and Ethyl Mertz

The lament of working single mothers everywhere is: the toilet needs scrubbing, the floors need sweeping and my vacuum just sat mutely in the corner this week. I did get the laundry done and the dishwasher lulled me to sleep last night.

The goddess and colored eggs and decorated them for Easter – I’ll say, one looks just like Carmen Miranda. We were happily surprised to learn that the Easter Bunny was able to hide them all in this crazy open space along with finding a great hiding space for the goddess’s basket of goodies.

This morning was pure joy with a lot of bouncing from excitement and too much sugar before breakfast. I was relieved to find that this holiday started pretty much the same as it usually does whether or not it is one or both parents with red eyelids on the sofa at 6 am. We met her Dad for the Sunday Gospel Brunch across the street and it was a pretty wild affair with surprise guests from Yugoslavia doing an impromptu jam of “When the Saints Come Marching In”. The goddess then took off with her Dad for yet another Easter event, this one aboard his boss’s yacht on the river. I crossed the street, took the elevator up and put on some Etta James. We both want a Sunday kind of love.

Now it is quiet, my house is clean, the billing is in a neat pile ready for the mailbox, checks set for deposit and the desk is ready for whatever mess the next week will bring. The goddess sleeps in the top bunk, Ricky Ricardo sings on the television, and I will soon be falling into the bunk below, hopefully not dreaming about Ethel Mertz.

Peace, love and a Sunday kind of Sunday,

Michele

April 18, 1995

Arghh… Awake

Damn it!

Peace, love and here comes the sun

Michele

April 19, 1995

Glum in me tum

I’m getting over one of the worst bouts of food poisoning I have ever experienced. I’m all about feeling queasy, empty and much lighter physically and emotionally. As I recovered I applied the same purge logic to the papers that stand in the way of my peace and sanity and forced myself to finish my taxes and finalize the dreaded divorce questionnaire. I’m moving closer to the next phase – whatever that may be. The ex calls and expects that I should come up with a 6k tax payment so that he can work out his own deal with the IRS – dream on sweet sweet MF.

I’m glad to be rid of the body chills that have been crawling over me for the past 12 hours --- not to mention the reprieve from involuntarily emptying the contents of my body every hour on the hour. It hit so fast, and I have no respiratory symptoms, so there is no way it was the flu. I’m blaming it on the dodgy crab legs I had when I took Shannon out for her birthday last night. I only had a single glass of wine and less than 2 hours later the feeling that something just wasn’t right hit, by this time I was back at Shannon’s looking through pictures of Kathy. I went home early and fell immediately into bed and spent the next three hours in denial of the inevitable and riding the waves of nausea over the roar growing in my lower abdomen until my body erupted from all ends at about 2:00 a.m.

Perhaps it was coincidence, but it was odd that our conversation last night involved me telling the story of my only brush with death, which happened to be the time I was in a coma and battling the flu at 1 ½ years of age. I still have a scar on my leg that is ½ inch long where the doctor cut in to find a vein for the I.V. that kept me alive. I was given last rites in the same hospital and on the same night as my grandmother received hers. She died the day I came out of my coma and now that I’m older I wonder if maybe Grandma Eva is my lucky star --- I wonder if we hung out on the plain between life and death before we both went our separate ways back then in 1963. Now it’s back to the bunk bed of and dreams of those delicious yet evil dancing crabs legs of death.

Peace, love and the love of Sweet Eva,

Michele

April 20, 1995

Axis Me No Questions

Once again I’m back to sliding behind the crippled PC’s at the billable sites. I’m back on my axis in the galaxy on the Avenue and have ingested my first (somewhat) solid food in 2 days, wonton soup with two fat pink shrimp – so far, so good. A few men have been orbiting my planet today, but I am not ready to give any of them landing clearance at this point.

The friend who has been in South Africa surprised the heck out of me today by arriving home 3 weeks ahead of schedule with a harrowing tale of trying to elude the Johannesburg police. Apparently the promoters (some industry sphincter from Chicago) pulled out of the festival at the last minute and left everyone there holding the bag. The team assembled had to literally flee for their lives and didn’t feel safe until they exited the plane in France. Sound like a made-for-TV movie to me. I’m just glad she made it home, safe, wiser and ready to get back into the swing of things here.

We went out to see a band called Tribe of Millions, a band I absolutely love --- great vocals, rocking funky guitar, with bass and drums the stuff irreparable tinnitus is made of.

Peace, love and telling no lies,

Michele

April 25, 1995

Sunny Chills and Lights Shining

It’s sunny here with somewhat of a chill still hanging in the air --- a subtle reminder of line of latitude I inhabit. My Corsica, demon vehicle is sputtering and hesitating (much like me this past month) and generally making me nervous. A person I truly respect (my 7 year old) offered this advise as I was grumbling under the hood, “Maybe you should take it to a professional. You know… someone who actually does commercials --- like Vision World, only for cars.”

I attended the wedding of two former co-workers (who met at work, imagine that!) The Reverend had a distinctly British accent, and having just recently watched the film Funny Bones, I found it hard not to crack up when the groom accidentally parroted the Reverend’s accent. It was nice to catch up with old friends and to bask in a bit of unsolicited attention because I looked pretty swell in my sweet little “going to a wedding” dress.

I was home with my food poisoning on the day of the Oklahoma bombing, I’m still in a state of shock and I wonder if I will ever get the visions of those innocent victims out of my head --- or if I even want to. The sad part is that there are probably hundreds or even thousands more fundamentalist, crackpots like that swarming and watching this whole event closely --- really scary. We are so conditioned to believe that acts of terrorism only happen in other countries (albeit funded in the most part by some sort of U.S. government interest) and have been living with a false sense of security for far too long ---- we really need to wake up.

The goddess has been talking about this all week long, she wants reassurance that it will never happen to her. It breaks my heart and I simply tell her that all life is very fragile – every day is a blessing and should be taken all the way in. She told me last night at dinner that she knows there are bombs that could blow up the whole United States. I just pretended to chew a bit longer than usual as I really didn’t know how to reply to something like this.

My prayers these days are abstract visualizations of the walls of heaven leaning down in one brilliant wave of light – to illuminate the darkness in all of us and to shine on the beauty of each fragile blessing of a day.

Peace, love and shine on,

Michele

April 27, 1995

13 Miles and 44,987 to Go

I finally caved and traded in the grey metal enema bag (a.k.a. the Corsica) for a new Mazda 626 --- shiny, gold and fresh off the semi. It’s the first new car I have ever had, and I can hardly believe they actually let me drive it off the lot. The feeling was similar to the one I had when the nurse handed over the baby goddess and chased me out of the hospital 7 years ago.

I have been catching up on work here and haven’t been the chatty, social charmer that most people count on seeing every other week. Now I really have to work to make that lease payment the first of each month.

I’m a bit disappointed at the film selections at the festival this year. Last night I caught a decent Chilean film called “Amnesia” and then later walked out of a Ukrainian film involving reindeer herding in Lapland complete with dwarfs wearing angel wings. Funny Bones was excellent! It was picked up by the Uptown theater for an extended run so I may see it again. There is a film from Argentina called “Killing Grandpa’ that plays on Sunday, it is on the same magi-realism lines as “Like Water for Chocolate” and I am looking forward to seeing it.

Tomorrow the goddess and I have the day off and I plan to give her absolutely all the attention I can gather. The week flew by so quickly and we just didn’t have the time to hang out in our spunky, funky and crazy monkey, spontaneity junkie sort of way.

Peace, love and new car smell,

Michele

May 1, 1995

My Annual GREAT Escape

I feel the dire need to begin a 12-Step program for people addicted to foreign Art film festivals --- God grant me the serenity to accept that the by-product of watching 10 films in row is bearing witness to more naked breast, hootie pie and wankers than a radiologist sees in a week.

On my way into to the Urban tonight after a full day of film, I couldn’t help but notice that it is once again the “children’s hour” in the warehouse district. On Sunday night the clubs become all ages and with it come waves and waves of “all ages” folk on foot who carry guns, knives, and not a whole lot of remorse. I thought it best to ride the current wave out with a glass of wine and some chit-chat with the cute beagle-owner who lives above the New French. So I did.

I’ve spent the last 36 hours moving from theatre to theatre on the University campus to catch as many films as I could. There is nothing that compares to this one sick obsession of mine. Thankfully it only comes once a year and lasts for two weeks --- hmmm, sounds a bit like married sex, eh? At any rate I try to mix up the countries as best as I can --- the elements of films that stand out for me from this last stretch of viewing involved: Korean school boys obsessed with American culture; a sled ride with a 4-year old holocaust orphan set against the stark winter landscape of Munich; in bed with an octogenarian Argentinean millionaire and the woman who pulls him back from deaths door; driving remote Norwegian highways with a couple from Oslo who go to extreme measures to conceive a child; and of course a deep and darkly humorous version of “It’s a Wonderful Life” Kafka style.

I could continue on and on because I didn’t even touch on the carnage of Queen Margot and King Henri or a look into the porn industry of Iran. Maybe this makes me a passive world traveler, or better, I know how to get away while hiding out.

Peace, love and a look ‘round the world,

Michele

May 2, 1995

Harboring Nothing Fishy

On the subject of musical careers, the ex’s talent as a writer and guitar player is nothing short of extraordinary. Despite our separation I have a deep respect for his natural artistic gift. The road block in his career path started when he was a young man being squashed and stifled by overbearing, passively manipulative, evangelical parents. They encouraged the pragmatic and safe and demanded that he go to school to become an art or music teacher so he would have a respectable career. I’m sure this directive at that time in his life was processed as massive doubt in his artistic abilities. In rebellion, he took the music gig route initially, but he was always looking over his shoulder for their approval. They viewed this portion of his life as not his fault, but the bad influence of his girlfriend at the time --- funny, I bet he does too. Had they been able to get past their desire to stay within the confines of the status quo and encouraged him or even let him go, I believe his journey would be a lot different than it is now. His portrayed confidence is really only a smoke shield, a self-conscious bravado, he doesn’t believe he has what it takes and is quick to drop and run at any hint of criticism. He doesn’t seem to have a problem criticizing others and their music (or art) of course.

The goddess possesses all of the ex’s natural ability and then some – and she watches us closely for clues on life. So it’s even more important than ever that I keep walking straight ahead, continue to tell it like it is and live graciously with whatever comes out of it. I pray that in the years to come he finds a truth he can walk in time with, because in the end the goddess will of course be who she chooses to be. It will be influenced by our actions --- never by our words, reproach or conditions.

Other than that, I would love to sing like Etta James and belt out songs until my tits ached – but I can’t, so I won’t.

Peace, love and cream of reproach (the breakfast of life’s dog paddlers),

Michele

May 8, 1995

Helpful Hormone & Household Hints

I’ve lost the focus and ability to attend to the business of the day. I’d love to pay some bills, send out a few invoices and scatter the contents of the new boxes that arrived from the old marital home. The sky is misting today and the traffic hisses over the top of the precipitation like pancake after pancake poured upon a hot tar griddle.

I was set up on Saturday night --- setup as in surprise date with a much younger man who I’ve know since he was a kid --- sounds wrong already. He confessed that I had been the object of his boyhood fantasies from the day he met me at the tender age of 12 precisely half my age at the time. Needless to say, my self-esteem has been buoyed (or “boyed”) after some crazy physical curiosity seeking took place in the 48 hours that followed. There’s nothing that will shake you out of the divorce sexual exile quite like being referred to as “woman deluxe” by a grinning and appreciative 22 year old. Now I pray I don’t run into his parents – it would be a bit hard to repress my smirk after this one.

Romance is in the air for Tom as well, he’s actively dating a teacher (she wants a baby already), and to make things really interesting, his new room-mate at the house (male) has a crush on him. This makes it really easy to shift my attention elsewhere as the divorce vehicle merges at the last minute onto an entirely different highway.

Despite these highs, lows, and flips --- on the outside I still look the same as I smile, hum and bounce through the gray mist outside. I’m ready to be “the mom” again this week and can’t wait to hear the goddess’s tales of the week without her. There will be chats, cartwheels and pear tarts from the New French bakery on the way home from school. The rays of her sweet timeless radiance never fail to cut through the fog of my days.

My life is beginning to get randy and spontaneously sexy once again --- I wonder if it is incidental or subconsciously premeditated.

Peace, love and turn the page,

Michele

May 9, 1995

Mist and Quiet

My Dad was too young to serve in the WWII, however, his three brothers and two brother-in-laws fought throughout the Pacific and Europe. My grandmother Eva was a member of the alter society of St. Josephs Catholic Church in DePere, WI and her devotion to the power of prayer saw her spending the better part of the war kneeling and praying for the safe return of all. All of her prayers were answered, and knowing what I know about war and statistics, it’s quite a miracle that they all did come home in the end, the scars acquired were of the emotional and spiritual kind.

The U.S. has not known the true terror of an enemy attacking over our own hills for more than 200 years. As citizens of this country we have a false sense of security and are shocked at the reality of the true of enemy --- ourselves. When a Waco, TX, LA riot or Oklahoma City occur, it feels like war, except a new kind of war --- overly televised dissection of the extremists in our ignorant, self-absorbed and discriminating society. We will never fall from an enemy attacking --- I believe that in the end it will just be a massive implosion.

My love hangover has subsided into an occasional twinge in my stomach – my sex balloon deflated and bouncing along the carpet at the moment. The goddess has decided to sleep in a sleeping bag beside my bed this evening, having kissed her for the 75th time I think I’ll crawl in bed myself and giggle over the side with her until we are both snoring.

Peace, love and a great big sigh,

Michele

May 10, 1995

Beeps in the Night

The espresso is black as tar and just as biting today because I spent the night antagonizing a little thief. Some little rug rat walked off with my pager last night as I watched the goddess in her gymnastics class. Anger had me waking up every hour on the hour and paged the little bugger. Being self-employed, the loss of a pager is tantamount to someone shooting my secretary between the eyes. However, living in a world that caters to instant gratification, I am assured I’ll have a new pager in my hands by some time this afternoon.

I am in the painful throes of pulling the rest of my belongings from the house. As we evaluate and divide the artifacts that we acquired during our twelve years of marriage, the tone is very civil and almost chill. “Do you want this?” “Are you sure you don’t want this?” My stomach flips and rumbles every time I step into that house. At one time I wanted it all, the house, the marriage, the family and the contents therein. Now I just want it all to be over and the less baggage and belongings, the better.

Today the goddess has an extra aura of cuteness and an inventive vocabulary to match. As we scurried to leave the house on time I complimented her on her enviable ability to get it all together and blow out the door in record time. She shrugged her shoulders and said “Yes, people like my quickinality.

The rep from the phone company called with the cost for replacing my pager - $199.00. I will strangle the little bastard walking around his school yard today with my pager hanging on his belt loop

Peace, love and thief-inality sucks,

Michele

May 11, 1995

Quickinality Plus

On this beautiful warm day in May, the hours are lost to laptops with PCMCIA card issues and the futile attempt to load 8 pounds of logic into non-absorbent 10 ounce brains.

The goddess purloined one of my favorite red lipsticks this morning and when I picked her up later this afternoon she met me with red stained lips and kiss marks on her knees, arms and tops of her feet. Of course I couldn’t resist giving her yet another right in the center of her forehead.

My pager was returned by the 14 year old that stole it yesterday --- it was disabled at 8 a.m. when I reported it stolen and the new pager activated with my old number. Like an idiot, he gave my pager number out to about 10 friends --- who all paged me today. In a calm, friendly, yet menacing way I convinced a few of them to tell him to give it up or I would implicate them in the theft. Apparently my threat worked and made its way back to him as suddenly I am $200.00 heavier in the wallet and I have my old buzzing pal back in my pocket.

It is sunny here, and the 2 out of 12 plants that survived the winter (of the ex’s discontent) are sitting in the big windows on First Avenue getting a bright blast from the late afternoon sun. So, now I’m off down First Avenue myself, goddess in tow and ready for a blast of warm, explosive fun I call daughter.

Peace, love and smooch marks,

Michele

May 14, 1995

A Sunday Kind of Love

Mother’s day winds down and all that’s left are the demands of a goddess on the top bunk, “I’m hungry mom!” I hope she dreams of food because that is the closest she’ll come to it until breakfast tomorrow. Hopefully breakfast tomorrow will be a bit less paranormal and dramatic than it was today. Our warehouse space is one big open 1200 SF room with a huge walk-in closet in the corner closest the door and a bath directly across the hall from the closet. Everything else is wide open, including our kitchen, which has an island that we eat and work at. Directly across from the island is a huge hanging partition and parachute which delineates the goddess’s personal space. The goddess is an early riser and lets me sleep in until about 8:00 a.m. on weekends so she usually pours a bowl of Cheerios and sits at the island and watches the TV. On this particular morning, while pounding down the Cheerios she saw an apparition of me walking from the bathroom to the closet. She called out to me and when I didn’t answer she walked into the closet, which was dark and of course I wasn’t there. I was still in the bunk fast asleep --- this was when she screamed at the top of her lungs. I woke up and came out from behind the partition and she was sobbing and telling me that I played a rotten trick on her. This is one of the oddest things that has ever happened to either of us. The goddess used to tell me stories of the people who talked to her when she was very young. She was a close personal friend of the Virgin Mary and had angels at the foot of her bed. This freaked her out back then, I told her that at least they were kind and benevolent souls who were obviously there to protect her (ok I didn’t use the term benevolent, but you get my drift). I told her to tell the Virgin Mary and the Angels that they should probably stay invisible because it was freaky to see them. Once she did this --- no more angels, or at least visible ones.

This Mother’s day spanned the facets of emotion, startling and freaky in the first hours, comfortable, sweet, bittersweet, maudlin, hilarious and then quietly reposed. After our brush with my astral self we met the ex for brunch. He wrote a beautiful note with things like, “I never doubt your judgment where the goddess is concerned. You are fair, understanding, inspiring, and most definitely fun,“ The goddess made a card in the shape of a woman wearing a leather motorcycle jacket and RayBans. She wrote, “M favorite thing about my mother is she is varey (sic) funny and acts silly. I know my mother loves me because she tells me so.”

Early in the afternoon the goddess and drove to the city of Hudson on the St. Croix river to pay our annual tribute to our friend Kathy We throw flowers into currents of the river in remembrance of her on Mother’s Day, as it was on Mother’s Day two years ago that she left us. The concrete pier extends from the city park and reaches almost, but not quite across the river. Families stroll to the two mounds of sand that dangle on each end of the pier. A riverboat is docked and waiting for people to climb aboard for a scenic brunch down the river that separates the Nordics from the cheese heads of Wisconsin. As we tossed tiny red carnations into the swiftly running current the sun finally began to break through the clouds. As it warmed my face I took this as a very good sign that she sees us and loves us too --- from where ever she is. My energy renewed and I felt as if I could finally digest this happy, sad, silly, scary day in May.

The goddess and I spent the rest of the day in the warm sun along the banks of the St. Croix. Picking up and balancing worms on sticks, twirling on the merry-go-round until I felt like puking, swinging high, swinging upside down, swinging with legs locked. Climbing on monkey bars, dancing the mambo and doing handstands in the empty band shell --- followed with a bit of vaudeville ”You remind me of a man. What man? The man with the power...” Later, I’m driving west to our home into the blinding sun as it set with the goddess passed out in the seat beside me with the remnants of a DQ Dilly bar baking into her sweet skin.

The news from the top of the bunk goes like this, “ Mom.... every time I close my eyes I feel like I’m on the merry-go-round.” I smile and say “Woo hoo… go with it, that sounds cool!” I think it would be safe to say that we have been “spirited” in every possible way on the Mother’s Day in 1995.

Peace, love and the astral projector,

Michele

May 15, 1995

Michele as Cine-mama

I would love to meet the spirit guide who is directing the movie also known as my life. Yesterday started out ala Steven King, ended like a Frank Capra flick with my day of work resembling a grainy, poorly scripted IBM training film. Tonight is a cross between Repo Man as I contemplate my bills and then How to Marry a Millionaire as I waited to hear from “boy” at La Cucaracha enjoying enchiladas in mole sauce and flirting with two sexy French guys who direct training programs at Microsoft. Upon my ascent up the elevator, two voice messages are waiting from “boy”. I’m fairly certain the night is going to end up like a Russ Meyers film as I rat up my hair and consider putting on the vintage orange boucle jumpsuit hanging in my closet. I’m about four condoms away from the credits rolling at this point.

Peace, love and that’s a wrap,

Michele

May 16, 1995

Traction, Taciturnity and Tachisme

A morning maiden who laments, “Never me, never more!” Or, would that be a morning raven? I am about 45 minutes away from lunch and a lurch down Lyndale to one of my steady accounts in Uptown. The “boy” is an insomniac and kept me awake or was that half asleep, for the better part of the night. He said he rarely dreams but he had one for the first time in years this morning. In the dream I was dancing naked at the Fine Line --- good God, hope I wasn’t doing the astral thing again! Once a friend of mine from Milwaukee called and woke me from a sound sleep to announce that he had seen me streaking the etheric highway while he was meditating. This has me wondering if there is something a bit more significant than the anxiety interpretation of those infrequent dreams of being naked in public.

I’m brooding a bit about the expiration date on the “boy” package that unwrapped itself in my living room last night. He is physically marvelous and one huge testosterone bomb that turns me into a hormonal pyromaniac. Aside from the sexual chemistry there are aspects of relationship that hold higher importance to me, those being conversation, a partner with the required wit to actually follow me and get my wit, camaraderie and then possess the willingness to trust and let go. I love company and connection but it all falls apart if I don’t take regular trips on the tacit airline in my mind. I move forward each day because I love happily wading through ponds of thoughts too deep to formulate into words. I can eat up an entire weekend by getting lost in a book, I live for getting out on the town on my own and raising hell and leaving the splotch of my words and image on the canvas of others like walking tachisme.

“Boy” is not exactly talkative and is quick to point out the intimidation he feels by my sheer presence and calm command of things when we are dressed and functioning outside of sex magic. The smoke of intimacy unfurls and is dispersed quickly by the fan of logic. I am old enough to know the differences between love, sex and forcing relationships where they will never comfortably exist. I really have to let him know that for me, it’s purely physical and selfish at this point. My gin and tonic philosophy. Sex is like gin, one tastes good, in succession they make you dreamy and numb, too much and you act foolish, not enough and you salivate like Pavlov’s dog every time you hear Bombay. Love is tonic. It tickles you, the taste is strong and foreign at first, always quenches the thirst and mellows out the strength of what you choose to mix with it. Tonic has a pull that can be long, coherent and satisfying without gin ---once you accept its bitter taste....

Peace, love, tonic and gin,

Michele

May 17, 1995

Dreams of Paul Westerberg

This morning I needed an espresso so badly that I rolled off the bed, pulled overalls on over the boxers and t-shirt I wore to bed and stumbled into the heavy “going to work” pedestrian traffic to the coffee shop across the street. Sleep still a mask on my face, green eyes bleary as they sweep over face of a man in a suit who smiles and declares, “My, aren’t you a delicious and breakfast-y looking sight”.

Last night in a dream I walked past Paul Westerberg on the street. I said, “Paul Westerberg, ’m aching to be!” To which he replied “Just like me.”

Peace, love and I’m kind of like a breakfast,

Michele

May 18, 1995

Boogie Nights

The night started with a whimper and ended with some boogie at the debut of a new regular gig at Lee’s Liquor Bar. A retro evening of disco, soul, R&B and that thumping Philly sound from the 70’s. It was fun, festive, and extremely sweaty! All of my bald-headed and ingeniously pierced warehouse neighbors were there so it felt almost like a neighborhood block party. The bar is manned by elderly male bartenders, who probably aren’t as cranky as they present themselves to be. I handed over $1.50 to one of them for a glass of tap water with 3 ice cubes in it – I tipped him $2 and smiled very sweetly at the dismissive snort he gave me as he mentally branded “annoyance” on my forehead.

I stopped for a latte at 1:00 a.m. – big mistake – as it totally fucked up any plans for getting a decent night’s sleep. I recall opening my eyes and peering at the clock at precisely 3:33 this a.m., beside my television I saw a strange green mist, no doubt a compliment of the latte’s effect on whatever lucid dream I was having. I do remember dreaming / waking up and staring at a 7 foot man with flaming red hair as he walked through my space. I said “Hey… can you walk through my wall?” He then walked into the wall and knocked himself on my head. Perplexed I then asked him, “Well if you can’t walk through walls.. how the hell did you get in here anyway?” He condescending intoned, “Maybe you forgot to lock your damn door.” When I awoke at 8:12 a.m. I wasn’t surprised to find that I had left the damn door unlocked.

I just yawned, tired but enough to put a damper on the Michele that the world will see today. Awake and bouncing down the street I go – friendly, helpful computer chick me in a floral print dress and Doc Martens. In one hand a screwdriver spins, the other brandishes a steaming cup of coffee.

The words that make it onto the journal are straggly nuisance hairs compared to the sleek mane of dialog that runs through my brain when I’m conveniently without a pencil. I really need to get a recorder and fill the damn thing up with the narrative of my days.

So now, it’s all about heading to the shower, then off to the streets and humming offices of paying customers where I will re -define PCMCIA as Portable Computers Make Consultants Incredibly Angry.

Peace, love and morning (latte) breath,

Michele

May 20, 1995

Sunny and Real

Well, I woke up at the usual time, 8:00 – except, whoops --- I overlooked the need to get up earlier when the goddess is here as 8:00 also happens to be when her school bell rings. One call and here comes Dad to the rescue in his blue Toyota so I can get ready and blow out the door for a 9:00 appointment. Today is a full plate of reality and responsibility, as most working days are. Last night the goddess and I took a 2 ½ hour walk along the paths that snake along the Mississippi literally blocks from our door. We crossed the Hennepin Avenue suspension bridge, walked along Riverplace and then stopped at the movie theater to buy some popcorn to feed the birds (and ourselves.) Exhausted but refreshed from fresh air and loose happy times she jumped in and out of the tub and headed straight to bed. My dreams were of property managers on David Letterman displaying conceptual drawings of shopping malls built atop massive parking structures. Then I dreamed I was sitting on the front step of my childhood home with a very old and unfamiliar man. He was blocking the door to keep the dog in the kitchen while I was transfixed upon the image of small boy chasing after a brown station wagon that crept away to the highway on the long gravel driveway.

MUCH LATER – I’ll say, its 2:00 a.m. on Saturday. I popped in at the 5 Corners to catch my “scotch and sofa” friend’s monthly show. He confessed that he had tried a number of times to call me, unfortunately my number is unlisted and the best he could do was call the ex’s house and hang up when the goddess answered. I slapped him on the ass and offered him a Tic Tac and he responded with a wink, a smirk and a free t-shirt.

After my appointment yesterday I stopped off at a house that “boy” is in the process of demolishing for restoration. My new navy suit didn’t hold up so well after the energetic writhing that ensued against the hammered and dusty interiors. Feeling flushed and generous afterward I offered to call him after my night out with the girls --- but then I promptly withdrew it. It made me feel like a cow in need of some milking after tromping through the fields of nightclubs. Hanging out with the “girls” is so hit or miss and there are times I tire of being the de-facto ringleader. There is an underlying tension of competitive, petty and bitchy behavior that swings one way or another depending upon which way our hormones hinge on any given day. I like to think that I have a bit more command over it and above the bullshit of having a soul locked in an estrogen factory, but I know I’m full of shit.

I wish for quiet and enlightening dreams tonight --- I will try to envision myself as a butterfly breaking free quietly in the hours before dawn without fanfare or fireworks. Just a calm and peaceful clarity to help me wake up and whole heartedly accept who I am and who I am coming to be (however estrogen impaired I may be.)

Peace, love and the nightly flutter,

Michele

May 23, 1995

I know, I know… I axed for it…

I’m a confusing mixture of a soft, enlightened (albeit a bit horny) interior with an outward resolve of stone. The perfect amalgamation of qualities that attracts the type of men with a dull and rusty relationship axe to grind.

The day started fresh out of a dream that was very graphic and real, one where I was going down, down and dirty on a faceless male and thinking, “Get ready girl… this is going to be a big violent load to swallow.” In a broad sense, it turned out to be a most prophetic dream --- as the day was all about hard gulping in a purely emotional sense.

The ex phoned me early in the morning complaining of heart palpitations. 3 hours of tests reveal that it is probably the result of intense anxiety, with the ER doctor’s directive to “get thee to a therapist!” In between trying to keep the goddess calm as we whiled away the hours in the emergency room at HCMC, I contemplated sharing with him my own bouts of anxiety where I have to pull off the highway because I suddenly forget how to breathe and a feel as if my heart is about to explode. Somehow I know it would only make him more anxious than he already is, so I swallowed hard and let him grind his anxiety against my smooth hard exterior while internally I continue to knot, fray and recoil.

Like a stone wall I weathered the sad and accusing eyes of the “boy” after telling him that I am taking a break for a few weeks despite the way my evil libido complained internally.

Tonight I spent some quality release time with my trusty shower massage and then settled in to watch an old Josephine Baker film that I had rented entitled, “Princess Tam Tam”. It was a French film made in the 30’s, which required me to don sunglasses in order to read the subtitles against the black and white film. I admire Josephine Baker, her vitality and verve inspires me so much that some day I may whip up a banana skirt and dance down First Avenue.

Before drifting off to sleep I visualize a quiet life to come. One where my ass is firmly planted in the cool pink sand of Bermuda with my beautiful, brown daughter in the distance doing cartwheels in the sand. My fingers are in position on the keyboard below that familiar word, QWERTYUIOP.

Peace, love and stone love,

Michele

May 23, 1995

Four Legs Good, Two Legs Bad

There is a beauty associated with gathering everything you possess, sprinkling it liberally with the fuel of resignation, lighting a match and then starting over from scratch. This very aptly describes the divorce process --- or at least the emotional journey through the post marital trenches.

In my dreams last night, I was on an exploration mission in the deep recesses of space with two decidedly wimpy male astronauts. With our spacecraft broken down and stranded on a desolate landing strip, I offered to don a jet pack and risk the journey across the millions of galaxies to our home base. At this the son of bitches straddled one another and took off in the jet pack shouting, “Hope we make it back, but if we can’t, it’s been swell exploring with you!” Disgusted, yet undaunted I set out on across the terrain until I happened upon what appeared to be a deserted mining town in South Dakota. On a podium located at the entrance to town, pages flapped in a scrapbook dedicated to a hometown beauty queen named Wanda. I looked over a few pages and was given a glimpse of a beauty and the town, both in their heyday and in stark contrast to the barren, stillness before me. From behind I heard, “We don’t have much, but we will share all we have with you.” I turned to see the old man and the young boy sitting on the hood of a brown station wagon from a previous night’s dream. Of course, my alarm clock began buzzing at this point.

The goddess was in full command of her “quickinality” this morning and jumped in the shower without prompting. We grabbed a box of Cheerios on the way out the door and passed it back and forth along with a quart of orange juice as we drove over the bridge to Webster Open School. I cursed my way through more PCMICA SCSI hell and inhaled deeply as I redlined a few pages in a proposed Technology Plan for the public school system. The goddess greeted me with a sweet ketchup flavored kiss later that day after “barbeque club” ended at her after school program. Having gorged on hotdogs for the previous hour, she wasn’t at all interested in dinner. So, with a menu dictated by my menses we nibbled our way through cold nachos, a bag of chocolate chips, carrots and popcorn as we watched “Animal Farm” together for the first time. I must report now that the goddess is no longer a fan of pigs.

The subject of pigs and “four legs bad…” makes me wonder if I’m be selfish or just bent on self-preservation as I flee from one suffocating embrace (the Marriage Made in Milwaukee) and yet another (overly arduous “boy”). I just need to bring it back to standing on my own two legs again because the chaos I feel when entangled in these horizontal foursomes of legs is like that of a person drowning. Oh well, I do feel a bit sassier and myself in the midst of this libido exile, because I know first hand that absence makes my common sense grow sounder.

Peace, love and conjugal oinks,

Michele

May 29, 1995

Highway Angels

The goddess and I pointed the Mazda South on Friday and headed for my sister’s home on the range North by Northwest of Chicago. The road trip was sunny and fast as we are seasoned road trippers and able to keep ourselves happy and occupied through an entire tank of gas. After about 300 miles or so, we hop out, fill the tank, scrape bugs from the windshield, jump rope, hula hoop, spin a few cartwheels and then replenish our water supply, hop in the car and continue the trip.

The rain and drizzle hit on Saturday and continued through the weekend. This didn’t stop us from taking in our surroundings, riding the tire swing in the apple tree or skipping down a rugged cow path to feed the baby calves on the farm. The colors of spring appear to pop with more intensity against the gray gloom as opposed to being washed out by the brilliance of the sun. The lilacs were in full fragrant bloom, the bushes surrounded by row upon row of peonies swaying like bald headed Martians ready to explode like fireworks on the ground – something I can easily visualize as there is nothing finer than peonies in full bloom, hanging like engorged pink and white clouds with the weight of each flower as heavy as its scent. The goddess enjoyed the wide open space of the life in the country and was exhilarated by the sweet freedom from roaming and exploring the massive farm. As she would run in and out of the house, banging the screen door and scaring the cats. I’d lean over from whatever I was doing and kiss the forehead above her pink, flushed and animated face. Warmly I inhaled her sweet smell – a scent very reminiscent of spring days past in my own childhood.

It’s so nice to simply exist for a weekend with no particular plan in mind, especially with the people you love. It’s amazing how well we continue to flourish in the days that braid us into this crazy life. Crazy lives that were seeded and watered and grew entwined like weeds in the fray of lost and unhappy dim sunshine of our parents, only to then flee each other intent upon building our own person and then later, arc back into a beautiful circle of acceptance that requires no explanation. I love my sisters and brothers as I will never love any other – despite the games and the power struggles, this is just a part of who we are. I have no doubt that whenever the circle of our togetherness is required we will magnetically come together, as we always have. I love the way my family acknowledges with knowing smiles the antics of the goddess and I adore the spontaneous exuberance with which the goddess leaps in and knocks over my siblings with her love.

Back to Minneapolis in the course of 6½ hours filled with mileage and daydreams, flipping the radio dial and listening to the ambitious plans of a goddess who intends to re-design Disneyland and give Mickey Mouse a makeover. As she dozes off, my thoughts return to daydreaming and I notice that 94 West has donned a spring wardrobe with a pastel palette splattered with every shade of wildflower. I dance in my mind to the songs on the radio as I pass grannies obeying the speed limit and offer up the right of way to those fresh from Indianapolis.

A tank and a half of gas later, a sweet kiss goodbye to the goddess as I drop her at the ex’s and then suddenly I am alone in the hum of an empty warehouse that I now call home. Safely restored, rested and calm among the brick on an Avenue resembling a ghost town. Quiet and placid today but assured to be bright and alive tomorrow as the work week begins. Just like me.

Peace, love and meditates by mileage,

Michele

May 31, 1995

Whew

Of course I made it through the 11th hour running and mishaps that occur to those of us (me) who procrastinate putting together a proposal until the night before it is due. I wonder if this had anything to do with the dream I had about a friend of mine being interviewed on the Today Show about his book, which he stole word for word from my Danger Diary. In the dream I was more pissed at myself for letting all of these words and thoughts continue to hang and fester in the nightmare that is my usual procrastination. I guess we will never know until the night before I feel the need to have it all published.

Now it’s time for a rousing chorus of “Here’s to me, Mrs. Robinson…” those peevish, sexually prime 30’s I have been warned of are beginning to hit me “hard” --- pardon the pun. I’m deaf, dumb and blind to any type of reason when horny --- a wriggling and juicy Helen Keller. It’s clouding my vision and so I plan to lock that horny bitch up in a closet for a few weeks and make some clear decisions.

Ah, and then there is “boy”, physically and sexually magnificent and then being exactly the opposite in personality. He’s quite an angry young man and far too locked up emotionally for me to continue on in good conscience. He sees me as someone strong who will lead him out of the mud and into a brighter life --- too much like a mother’s role for me, as I feel I deserve a partner and I already towed someone around on the highway of love for the previous 12 years. I need a sign on my forehead that reads “Sorry, my love winch is out of order baby”.

Yes indeed, I am ready to board a vessel for one and head into the sun with eyes closed and my index finger dangling in the cold water of a clear choice. There I go, my libido sail flapping uselessly in the wind as it needs some fresh air and a soul scrubbing from some bleaching sunshine. Whew…

An astrologer told me 12 years ago that he saw me alone as I was older. “How do look?” I asked him. He smiled, leaned back and replied, “Wealthy, youthful, happy, relaxed and most definitely all alone.”

Peace, love and headed for Garbo,

Michele

June 4, 1995

Archives

Alone and quiet here without the goddess, so I cracked open the old Dole banana box of journals that go back… way back to middle school. It’s amazing that a beat up cardboard box can hold so many treasured memories and loose gems times nearly forgotten. I can trace the change in my writing style and outlook on world as if they were rings on a tree stump. I was formed by so many experiences, from Milwaukee to Boston and love to loss. I found a piece of paper with the words of an e.e. cummings poem carefully copied back in 1974, the words jump out at me in the elegant and fanciful cursive of the 13 year old girl I was at the time.

may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secret of living,

whatever they sing is better than to know...and if men should not hear them, men are old.

may my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple,

and even if its Sunday may I be wrong, for whenever men are right they are not young.

and may myself do nothing usefully and love yourself so more than truly.

there has never been quite a fool who could fall pulling all the sky over him with one smile.

It is nearly 3:00 a.m. on the Avenue but insomnia and the feeling that I’m forgetting something keeps my mind a buzz and too preoccupied to drift into another etheric jaunt. I hope it doesn’t make me miss the better part of tomorrow, as my driver’s license officially expired about 3 hours ago and I’m eager to drive to the DMV feeling conspicuously expired and ready to fail the eye test and pose for yet another mug shot. I turned 34 at midnight tonight and celebrated earlier with a friend at Chez Banana and then later some dancing at the Cabooze to a great band called Greazy Meal… yum in all respects. It was a sweaty night of dancing to some great soul music and a playful parry of advances from a pack of males who like to pay homage to dancing girls with bountiful chests DD-DD-lightful us. Tomorrow (um, today) the goddess and I will be having dinner downstairs at La Cucaracha, where there will be plenty of our special brand of merriment, kisses, cartwheels and an infinite number of reasons to go on for another 34 years or more.

Now it’s time to try once again to say goodnight and to fall down among the pillows and pull this Venus/Gemini night sky over me with one wistful mercurial smile.

Peace, love and quite a fool am I,

Michele

June 5, 1995

Let’s Call this Song Exactly What it is

The birthday celebrations are over now. I’m home with my stomach and legs feeling tight and buzzing from hours of energetic dancing to Dr. Mambos Combo. My jaw aches from laughing and feeling sublimely merry out with my friends and enjoying the Monday night vibe at Bunkers. These are indeed the finest pains one could hope for.

Peace, love and Rock Steady baby,

Michele

June 6, 1995

CDs to Play, Bills to Pay, and Thankful Today...

I sought refuge from a hail storm in a music store today and walked out into the sunshine an hour later with about 17 hours of new music to take in.

Tonight I walked the urban landscape and read Fruitopia labels with a blue be-speckled goddess. We colored in an anti-coloring book as we waited for our lobster tacos and fruit plates and performed cartwheel magic for the percussionist hanging out on a sidewalk on First Avenue --- she dared me to do a cartwheel and when I did, she called me a show off! Apparently it was a good one and it’s entirely possible I upstaged her, which is very rare. The tub was over the limit with bubbles and silliness as well and she insisted I take a few pictures of her head in a shroud of glittery bubbles with a rubber ducky added for interest. She passed out as I read a story about a movie star mouse.

I paid the bills, it’s always such a rush and relief to see them stamped and ready for the post. I also penned a few letters and card – authentic hand written –oh-my-God-what-has-keyboarding-done-to-my-once-legible-penmanship- letters. I even wrote a thank you card to the ex, for goodness sakes I’m surely destined for heaven now!

Peace, love and cartwheels for the higher power,

Michele

June 7, 1995

Five Course Day

Appetizer:

Cameo plays “Word Up “ and it pulls the goddess from the bunk bed and inspires her to dance with me across the expanse of our space with the ruffles on her Betty Boop night shirt a-swinging.

Soup:

I remain a hot steaming, not to mention, creamy woman of action this year. My ex smiles wistfully as he calls me “little stinker”, the “boy” who refuses to leave my loins calls me “little hottie”. As I pulled the network diagrams for the technology plan from the laser printer a client called me “little dynamo”. Unfortunately, I cut someone off on the highway today and I saw him mouth, “little f**ker”.

Cold Salad:

The temperature dropped by 45 degrees in the last 24 hours. I’m expecting to see pumpkins and crackling brown leaves blow across the highway but it’s nothing put tall, fresh and green grass for miles and later the scent of lilacs as tiny lavender petals are beaten to the ground by the torrents of rain.

Entree:

The al-fresco diners of my neighborhood have all stayed in with their Sega and videos from Blockbuster. The plastic chairs where they regularly hold court are stacked in the alley and subject to the rain, like falling tears of longing for those sweaty Minnesota butts that brought money, mayhem and merriment in the weekend past.

Dessert:

Gina and I danced passed the warm restaurants on our way home from the parking ramp belting out “Jingle Bells”, which caused some of the people we passed to stop and do a double-take. Waiting for us at the door of our warehouse building was another Gemini friend with yet another birthday cake for me --- this one strawberry cream --- yum de yum.

The Check:

The goddess leaves next Wednesday for a two week vacation with her Grandparents to check out the sights of South Dakota. As she tours Mount Rushmore and Badlands, I’ll be missing her like crazy and jealous that I’m not the one having all the fun with her. I’ll get over the initial shock and feel very excited for her and also happy that she has grandparents who want to spend time with her. She’s a very lucky girl and I need to share her unselfishly, I’m working on it.

Life is one fabulous dinner, and even more festive if you dance out of the restaurant in white go-go boots singing like Nancy Sinatra.

Peace, love and are you ready boots?

Michele

June 8, 1995

Su-su-sushi, not so nice

I need to stay clear of sushi, I make the most horrible faces and hide the seaweed in my cheeks until no one is looking and I can spit it out in my napkin. Tonight I had to stuff the napkin in my purse because it would have been too embarrassing to leave a half chewed plateful for some poor busboy to find later. I hope I’m not responsible for any hari-kari deaths of the sushi rollers I’ve disgraced with my inability to ride with sushi. If so, that would explain the tiny phantoms I see out of the corner of my eye, in the etheric they wait patiently and whistle Shonen Knife tunes, intent upon lunging at the first perfect opportunity to hold me to the floor and stuff seaweed down my throat.

So now I plan to pour a bucket of water over this wicked witch of a day and watch it melt away.

Peace, love and ding dong the day is dead,

Michele

June 12, 1995

Goddess in the sky with Nikes

The goddess is 50 feet in the air going around and around on a ride called “The Trapeze”. All I could see was the bottom of her shoes with the laces flapping as she waved at me upon each revolution. What a life, my daughter is doing 20 mph circles 50 feet above my head and we are both laughing --- had I just popped into this life it would scare the shit out of me.

Yesterday was our annual Valleyfair excursion and filled with the usual miles of walking in the baking sun, wringing out after being delivered like a midway baby from one water ride to the next. The excursion wouldn’t be complete without my usual explanation (rant) of why I will never embark upon trying to win a 7 ft. tall Sylvester plush toy. Dare we even call it a toy? These days exhaust us both and we fell asleep very shortly after arriving home – for me, into dreams of computers with bad power supplies and configurations written in dead languages.

The alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. and we were suddenly alive and buzzing around. “Don’t forget to send the cookies for my class Mom!” “Mom… where are my docs… can you iron my shorts… can you comb out my hair?” “Mom, can you please skip your espresso today so I can be early?” Slam goes the car door as she skips off to the front door of Webster Open for the last day of school. She turns and blows me a kiss and through the open window I call after her, “Bye babe, I love you! You remember I won’t see you for a whole 2 weeks!” “I know mom, I’ll miss you too… love ya… bye!”

I’m making too much of my separation anxiety, but I can’t help that my eyes were itchy and mouth was dry as I drove to my “garbage hauler” client in East St. Paul. Levis, t-shirt and no makeup for me today – the Shelly Show arrives with the f-word tucked somewhere behind my cheek like a furtive tobacco chewer. I made it through the day and feel the need to recharge and be at the ready to embark on some adjustment to my maudlin and melancholy attitude.

It’s time to soak the blues away in a nice hot tub before I make a mandatory appearance at a cocktail party. This calls for Morphine (the CD of course), candles and a tall glass of ice water. I’m intent on conjuring the Shelly Show that feels the need to titillate until very late.

Peace, love and picture yourself,

Michele

June 15, 1995

The Factory Life

“Daddy, I want an oompa loompa!” Veruca Salt

When the goddess leaves, so does my sense of urgency with simple every day matters. Things like waking up for instance. Needless to say I’m running late and off to work and then preparation (a procrastinator’s version of preparation) for the dreaded CNA classes that start next Monday.

It’s heating up outside and I like it that way, especially since I have a new car with A/C that actually works. The goddess is well on her way to the Dakotas and I am going to save a friends ass with my lap link and computer acumen.

Peace, love and I’m sure I’ll get to it…

Michele

June 15, 1995

Seal the Deal

Perhaps it’s time to write with a bit more thoughtful introspection as I’m listening to Seal (Prayer for the Dying), destined to be a soundtrack for the 90’s, or at least the steamy sexy scenes in the movie of my life. Crossing that bridge with lessons I’ve learned, I’m playing with fire and not getting burned I may not know what you’re going through but time is the space between me and you there is a laughter that we know hold on say yes while people say no...because life carries on it goes on.... life carries on....when nothing else matters

Is it coincidence that I begin to really listen to the lyrics in this song in the weeks preceding the legal end of my 12 year relationship with the ex. Last Tuesday as stopped by to drop off clothes for the Goddess’s trip, Tommy breaks our peaceful silence by telling me that he has been listening to the same CD, which is quite a departure from his usual tastes. I wonder what possessed him to just blurt this out to me when I hadn’t mentioned that I had been obsessed with it lately. Just another taste of our strange synchronous union in another dimension, one we will probably always inhabit. Parallel in heart somehow, true in nature and woefully incompatible in the day to day.

He knows inherently when I am letting the wench hair fly but he doesn’t ask me who it is, instead he skewers me with his piercing blue eyes and tells me I can still have it anytime I want it. I told him that I’ve turned the page, finished the chapter and he must still have a page or two stuck together. We have amassed quite a book the two of us – I’ll cherish it and keep it safe in the library of my mind, but it’s very clear that I need to switch genre and category on the next book I endeavor.

The last words in the last chapter of our book will be stained with my tears. I pray I will close that book softly and pack it away with care so that I can show it to the goddess someday when distance allows me an epiphany or two on the how and why of the Marriage Made in Milwaukee. The dreams within the pages may give her insight someday when she herself is not so sure about the painful reality of love, union, partnership and the sharing, giving and taking of beautiful dreams. Goddess, heart of my heart – love is not a lottery nor is it a marathon race. There are no proven techniques, the contracts mean nothing and you do not win by bulldozing nor lose by acquiescing. It is simply the best dance you will ever have when you are true enough to yourself to extend your hand, accept another’s hand with purpose and intent to dance as long and sweetly as you both can.

The most beautiful parts of those dreams and the past are now measured by the lines in the palms of my hands and only a palm reader and my soul know for sure.

I accidentally titillated a window washer today. It hit 90 degrees at midday and as I left the street and hit the cool air of my space I stripped off my sundress and walked to the computer in my bra and boxers with peonies from the farmers market in hand. I hit the power on the computer and monitor and caught a glint of something out of the corner of my eye. I looked up and caught the gaze of a window washer across the avenue --- I waved and nonchalantly walked back to the closet for my bathrobe.

Peace, love and don’t forget to dance,

Michele

June 18, 1995

Eau de Goddess

The pace of each day decelerates as we pull deeper into the summer’s heat heavy with humidity. More crazy dreams last night, this time I was sitting in a corner in the Milwaukee Museum crying buckets and wailing out loud as people walked by without acknowledging or noticing my obvious distress. Later in the dream I was walking down a busy street full of politicians and snake oil charmers having a debate in puffed out and loud bravado. Walking in a pack just behind me were three dogs, a black Labrador, a Springer Spaniel, and a White Wolfhound that continually nipped at my ass. Perhaps it means that I need to just get over the pain and bullshit and move on. The nips from the Wolfhound were not vicious, they were more impatient in a herding sort of way and a voice said “Keep walking straight ahead, the reason you can’t focus on anything is because there is nothing here to focus on --- the reason exists in the future.”

Computer upgrades and cheese enchiladas – root beer and sexual innuendo with the hot bartender downstairs at La Cucaracha. It’s easy to slack in this heat and maybe I should just keep moving straight ahead --- as in straight ahead to the couch for nap with the sun heating me as the A/C cools me.

Later now, as in 10:O0 pm or so and after a very quiet chat with the ex. I am confused at this point and know that my angry words are the result of fear and sadness.

I have a message from the goddess in my voice mail. Ah technology, and soon she’ll be emailing me from school, later from college. But today it’s her sweet far away voice saying, “Hi Mom, today I jumped off the high dive with my life jacket on. No one thought it was too special and that’s why I called you. I knew you would think so --- don’tcha?” “Well, that’s all… I love you Mom, bye!” If I could bottle anything and open it up to feel good when I’m feeling blue, it would be the 7 year old voice of the goddess.

Peace, love and a dab behind the ear, wrist and elbow,

Michele

June 20, 1995

Sharing the Waring, the Sound of Her Pheromones blaring

The week has been strange and somehow this is comforting because I totally know how to live through the strange days. I bid an irrevocable goodbye to the “boy” and he finally got the message that the mom spa is closed for business. The scotch and sofa guy was in town for a gig on Friday, he popped in and we took a 40 block hike around the town to help him get his intestines and colon a bit happier after a 10 hour ride on the old tour bus. He left me with his latest CD of show tunes and cover art that has him looking like a cross between Elvis and Ethel Merman. No tension between us, so I guess it’s safe to say you can go all the way up to scotch and sofa with old friends without regret --- but I’m still glad we didn’t do the whiskey and 7 inches.

I long for my little goddess and worry that her evangelical grandparents have her wrapped up and uptight that she’ll be unable poop – a by-product of anxiety. I hope she’s out there asserting herself just like her mama does and not giving in to the passive manipulation and control that they push in the good name of Jesus and the status quo. Ok, I’m just really pissed off because they allowed her to call her dad 4 times while I received one --- one that I missed because she called while I was at work.

It is hot here and it’s damn hot in South Dakota where the goddess sleeps tonight. It is still in the upper 80’s at 2:00 a.m., or whatever time it happens to be at this moment in time. I spent the previous two nights dancing like the happy and satisfied wild woman I am. It just takes a bit more water to exercise my soul with the soles of my feet. Life in the Midwestern desert, with bottles and bottles of water as I drive through the heat, leaning back into the leather seats of my Mazda with the hot air (and bugs) hitting my hand as it rides the wind outside my window. The cool blast of air conditioning hits my face full force as I sing along to the Replacements tape playing in the car stereo.

Filling my days with work, dancing, dreaming and sleeping alone feels right --- at least for now. But what I write about is a different matter entirely. Maybe this could a preface for whatever comes from the letters and memories I make here on First Avenue…

Eros and the subject thereof

The sublimation of animal tendencies that ooze from every pore

Whir through the social blender until transformed into a thick luscious drink of a girl

Swimming down their throats like heavy cream

Sinfully sumptuous in a tall impermeable metal container

The girl on First Avenue with pheromones that make sidewalks flap

Peace, love and queen of the whirled,

Michele

June 25, 1995

Rain and Worms

Saturday was a lazy day in the warehouse as I snoozed through a most riveting episode of the Muppet Babies and then stopped in for a pedicure and a cuddly visit in the goddess’s bunk bed/fort/spa. I felt a bit guilty about not having fresh milk for the Captain Crunch that morning, but sometimes I just love how it tears up the insides of my mouth, a spoonful of dry Captain hurts so good --- the goddess disagrees. I shrug and wash it all down with the cold espresso that languished during my Muppet Babies dream.

The goddess spent the afternoon with her pal Natasha and in those brief quiet hours I sat at my desk and composed letters via email and my own shaky scrawl. I wish to balance my emotional PH today --- I’m a bit on the acidic side and would love to run away to Bermuda, have a lobotomy and blow a billionaire in any order.

Sunday brings the hissing rain and the end of a weekend -- it matches my mood as I recoil, spit and rattle to warn all that cross my path today. The goddess fled five days earlier than planned from her vacation (ordeal) with her grandparents. I had intended to finish up my class outline over the weekend among other (procrastinated) projects and find that I have to let it all fly until she goes to bed. Our sense of love and play conjure too many interruptions in our busy, lazy and crazy space on the avenue. I’m getting tense with the poor kid and she deserves more from me than the limited language of my anxiety --- exasperated, deep and heavy sighs. I asked the ex if he wanted to hang with her, but he couldn’t help me out as he, “…uh, uh… has a… uh, uh… date”. I ponder the idea of leaving him in a spin when he frantically calls for last minute goddess coverage the next time that I, “…uh, uh… am getting… uh, uh… laid”. Ah, but the reality of this is the goddess trumps them all in my book --- apparently “uh, uh… dates” trump the goddess in his.

The divorce papers arrived yesterday and state that I will have joint physical and legal custody of the goddess with no child support. Someday, I will receive half of the current equity in the house (without interest) of course. It is in my best interest to try to remain calm and work harder at building a friendship with the ex --- something I find unappealing this week. It’s hard to be friends with a flaming narcissist who bleeds my bank account and simultaneously smears his pain passively on all who will listen to his tale of “Woe is me, she doesn’t love me anymore.” I want to yell “Hey, can you wave your stigmata somewhere else, it is beginning to stain my good mood.”

Maybe it was because I was disappointed once again at how he deals with the manipulative shenanigans of his parents. He’s always the little boy, in fear of their judgment and simultaneously protecting them and defending their recent bullshit. Or perhaps it was getting the more salient morsels of a recent conversation (emotional dump) he had with my sister in Chicago. He stopped in for a long heart to heart with her recently, complete with forlorn face, wringing hands and flashing victim sign. I’m so used to my role of bitch and blame receptacle and I’m not at all surprised to learn that his family and friends hold me entirely responsible for the marital break down. Once again the ex gets to be the victimized little martyr --- and oh how he loves the adulation he receives as the casualty of the Marriage Made in Milwaukee.

Me, I get to be the bitch who rides life bareback complete with a blistered labia and both guns cocked and aimed – but hey, I have a catchy new slogan that reads “If I said it, I meant it then and I did it --- If you don’t like it, bend over and fall in love with yourself.”

Peace, love and what I say,

Michele

June 27, 1995

The Ties That Blind

I’m working on visualizations to clear away the pain and anger that cloud my vision and supercharge my spleen with the “ex bile”. My visual epiphany involves the two of us facing each other at a 3 foot distance. Webs of strings and ribbons attach us to one another, in every color and size – hand to hand, heart to heart and so on. A gold gleaming scythe appears and cuts the attachments neatly in the middle and with this, all of the strings and ribbons retract back into our respective bodies. Where upon I open my eyes and feel an ease in my stomach and a sweet emotional lurch as my heart settles back and beats freely and alone once again as his image and energy float swiftly away into oblivion and I am alone.

It is ridiculous to imagine us as “pals” this month or much less, friends for life as we crawl out of the marriage wreckage. It’s hard to conjure the love and intensity I once felt with him and it unsettles me to know that it wasn’t very long ago that it was all I could see as I inhaled and danced in it. The only truth tonight is that my hands are a smaller version of my dad’s --- they have a kind and fair personality in their expressive motion --- my heart is large, accommodating and nicked up at the moment. I expect the angelic painters will arrive any day now to spackle and clean it up for the next occupant.

Peace, love and aorta spackle,

Michele

July 3, 1995

It’s a Quarter to Three and…

Tarot at the Thai house --- this involves a few glasses of wine across the table from my friend Terri as she turns the cards and sifts through the mud that is my future. My readings are consistent, always an acknowledgement of my ability to carry more pain and loneliness than could be tolerated by the average person. The promised reward of light and wisdom at the end of the struggle with empowerment to the tenth power of any tear I have shed… I don’t all that special at the moment and my gut feeling is that because my road winds rather ironically through this life, the wisdom I seek will only appear as a 20 second deathbed epiphany --- beside the point for this life and of course I’ll lose it the instant I reincarnate into whatever is next.

The ex decided to blow mega bucks on the goddess --- paltry payment for his guilt over including her on a FUCKING DATE with the woman he’s been seeing. I shake my head, as involving the goddess in our dating life is something we had both agreed not to do. I’m not surprised and once again dismayed --- his decision making is so penile-centric and I’m eternally grateful for my own lack of appendage --- it ensures that I keep my promises. I’m suspect of their intentions of including the goddess so early in this new relationship and to be honest, I don’t know if I am ready to share her with another woman yet. The goddess wasn’t happy about it and why would she be, she still entertains the fantasy of mom and dad reuniting.

At any rate, what I really wanted to do last night was check out a band called Tribe of Millions, a three piece funky rock band with a Living Color flavor. Instead I reluctantly agreed to hang out at a “Board Game Issue” event at the neighbor of my stylist friend. This guy is an editor of one of the local music rags and hosts an annual trivia event featuring the Beatles and attended by the bored board game enthusiast, who’s who of the Minneapolis music scene. l pretended to not know who many of them are. I pulled out my best blond tricks, which cocked an eyebrow or two and prompted the stylist to kick me under the table quite a few times – ouch! You think she’d know me better by now!

Too much Beatles trivia, Pepsi and Chips Ahoy left me with a surly attitude and a queasy stomach. None the less, I was still hoping to see Tribe or maybe stop at the Cabooze for Greazy Meal. But no, the stylist remembered that she had sideways promised the bartender at the 90’s that we’d stop in for some cocktails and dancing. Luckily I live around the block and I could beg off --- my stomach was getting worse from the previous hours of junk food and junk pop culture.

Tonight the goddess woke up crying and as she stumbled out of bed and into my arms, she vomited all over me. She has the distinction of being the only person in the world I can hold my shit together for, anyone else and I would have joined in barfing with them.

Peace, Love and the Goddess hurls,

Michele

July 9, 1995

The Saga rolls on and on…

Currently I entertain photographing some of the artifacts of the Marriage Made in Milwaukee --- that, or investing in a color scanner because as I go through these letters (penned in the decades before my current attachment to the keyboard) there are many abstract bits, interesting medium, as well as a lot of emotion in how the words crawl, jump and splay across the pages. The ex dropped off a box full of all of the notes, letters and cards that I had given him in the past 12 years in addition to the journals that he kept during our courtship and first year of married life. His purge is my pain today.

Our love was etched and launched inside this box of tin, bar napkins and art museum cards. What we lacked in words we filled in with sex and passion – outwardly so different and when down to skin and pen we knew each other’s soul. Of course when he dropped the box off we went through a bit of the letters together --- the goddess was spending the night at a friend’s --- so of course we tore up the warehouse on one last desperate tirade of sex. Tears, laughter, screaming, and eventually a strange calm at about 7 in the morning (… or was that exhaustion?)

So it’s 10 steps back as he cried and said that he has always been wide open and waiting for me to come back, as I sob and say that I’m sure I’ll never love anyone as much as I love him. We look honestly at each other in the morning light and remember that living together is domestic death. We feel an intensity of love that is undeniable yet not enough to moor us through the daily processes of partnering that only proves to isolate us from each other. We both know its right to disengage and move forward --- it’s just so damn hard.

Peace, love and as the bed spins,

Michele

July 11, 1995

The Irony Pile

My resolve and optimism lays wrinkled but clean in the laundry basket of life. No “bounce” in my step today and the iron is cold and broken under the sink The universe tosses more to the “irony” pile in the form of a judge who had a cancellation in her calendar --- so instead of getting divorced on September 20th, it looks like we will be going to court tomorrow --- on our 10th wedding anniversary.

Peace, love and it’s nearly over,

Michele

July 12, 1995

Now a Miss

I’m officially a “miss” and it only took 15 minutes before the judge --- single once again and it doesn’t feel so very different, just heavier. Leaden like this 100 degree day with tornados whirling about on the great open plains to the west. I walked home from the city center, sweating… slowly marching in a daze as my ache and metabolism slowed to the rhythm of the heat in this day.

We left each other by the fountains in Gavidae Common outside of Saks 5th Avenue --- I pointed to our reflection in the mirror and said “There are the young lovers and the Marriage Made in Milwaukee. Let’s leave them here forever wrapped with love and never forget how important they will always be --- somehow I need them still exist, yet separate from me.” With that I turned and kissed him very tenderly on the lips --- I meant it and was lost in it for a bit. I didn’t look back at the reflection because I will need to know that they remain there, my healing depends on the visual.

Tonight and together we will tell the goddess that it is over. She had already sensed it and reacted in the past few days by being very clingy with me and balky with her dad. She’s just so smart, deep and in the end, fearless --- with the inner confidence of someone sure of how much she is loved and treasured.

I smile as I think of how she looked jumping off the high dive at the park pool yesterday. Her swirling and determined dog paddle to the side of the diving pool, the flash of concern that immediately morphs to determination as she ascertains the distance she needs to paddle to the ladder that will take her out of the pool. The fast, tight, dripping wet walk as she works hard to resist running while focused intently on getting back in the diving line. I really want to call out to her and instead I smile with my entire being when she catches my eye --- it’s much better to quietly enjoy her for the art film she is. Beautiful brown skin and lashes like expensive fringe framing two green eyes that emit the luminous qualities of moons and dreams in the summer.

Peace, love and shine on goddess eyes,

Michele

July 13, 1995

No Lawyers, Guns or Money...

I woke up single today and it didn’t feel all that great because I’m still on an emotional spin. I hid out while my composure hung on a cliff --- not sure whether to jump into the dark abyss or wait for the winds of change to set me aloft and improve my view of the valleys in my future.

The goddess called me at 7 a.m. “Just because I love you Mom…” She took the news extremely hard last night and we all sat on the curb in one big group sob that lasted for hours. Ever resilient, she didn’t mention it tonight as we went swimming again at the pool --- with humidity factored in it feels like 120 degrees here today.

The ex has been nominated in the Folk Singer/Guitarist category for the local music awards and declared that he was in for some “schmooze” this evening. Very out of character for him, perhaps this new freedom of ours has encouraged him to jump start his own destiny.

We had a very romantic divorce --- it bordered on the date category. We met on the steps of the courthouse, exchanged farewell notes and had a sweet lunch and a glass of wine afterward.

Here’s what the ex wrote to me:

I’ve been telling myself, even when it’s painful, that your, my, our, growth is something in which to rejoice. I will always send intense heat and flames of love to your growing power I sense you’ve done this for me too. You have “empowered” me lately because I feel loved and appreciated for this moment, past and potential. Consequently I feel real things seem more possible... there is a combination here that makes miracles appear. Like this awful and beautiful day. And of course the goddess, our love manifest, who grows more independent, our thread, our gauge, the living love link. The awesome little silvery one who will outshine and eclipse. More open now, awake and hopeful. The true voyage feels like its beginning. We are unified in outlook and spirit -- more separated in order to share more of the best. It’s a rare thing we have. True Love. It’s also something we can’t live up to everyday. But there’s a future we can’t know about --- but it’s greater than any thing we can even imagine now. Without your intensity my own seems too isolated. Stay in my heart. This is the end of the conventional, earthly, and legal. Look out baby ---- something new is coming.”

and me to him:

It was always wonderful to just lay close, talk and absorb your soulful sweetness as I hand fed you every bit of my heart and mind. Those images fade and the future beckons in a foreign language that may require a lifetime of Berlitz to master. I know that when we do sort out the new energy there will be so much more of ourselves to share. It will always be beautiful to know and love you -- as I always will. Our times, all of them, have their own sacred place in my soul. We have journeyed far together in a shared intensity that shattered eardrums and convention with our cries of love, pain and desire to know. The decree from Hennepin County is the RIP sign that I place over the grave of conventional marriage --- it doesn’t work for me, but I’m so glad that I came to that realization with you --- who I love oh so very unconventionally. I hope you hang on to the other worldly expression that we live for in the early days. Lost on beaches and in words with fits of laughter, heavy sighs, our life combining felt like a new invention with instructions encoded in discarded icons littered on the street. Our existence recorded in journals, art and hours of naked poetry reading by flashlight. Every kiss delivered as if it were the final kiss of my lifetime. All of the moments that led us to a shared life and then greatest alchemy of our love and rockets, the goddess. I feel lucky to have you both in my life and know that today as we release the conventional on paper, we also breathe new life onto our unearthly beautiful cosmic cord and set the power of every dream we ever shared into a beautiful dance of promise over the weird and wacky etheric. Although I must admit, in this process of moving on, every pain I have ever swallowed has resurfaced and clenched my uvula of all things.

So… the marriage and convention fails and flips off society, and this sour culture of ours --- somehow we smile, because we tried like hell. We left the marriage and each other primarily because we loved each other and didn’t have the heart or stomach to see what another 10 years of complacency would do to our souls. In the end, our exit from a shared life was dignified, tender and didn’t compromise our integrity. This is what I believe and this is what our daughter will hopefully believe someday when she is over the pain of being cheated from the “Leave it to Beaver” fairy tale.

Peace, love and how was I to know,

Michele

July 15, 1995

Cyber coal mines

I felt as if I had worked my ass off today --- in fact, I exclaimed as much when someone asked “How’s your day?” Yet somehow my ass was still there and available for some shaking later that night as I popped in to catch the Stickmen play across the street. My pheromones took the lavender soap to new intoxicating heights as well because I heard more than a few “Oh my God, you always smell so good!” Now, if my mood had it’s own trademark scent, it wouldn’t be nearly as lovely --- I’m feeling mean spirited and the mood doesn’t match my current incarnation of a very fetching big breasted single woman on a full moon night. If my mood was calling the shots I’d resemble June Cleaver with malevolent wit as sharp as meat cleavers that spilled from red, perfectly outlined lips.

At 6 am this morning I hit the snooze and then the alarm went off again 10 minutes later, this time the goddess had climbed down from her bunk and snuggled in with me. I loved that sweet brown arm around me neck and I smiled myself awake -- these are the gorgeous moments in my life and it feels like dancing.

Now it’s 22 hours and a life time later, I should fall into bed and get whatever sleep I can as I have a barbeque somewhere in Red Wing tomorrow and then plan to be back in time to catch the last set of Big John Dickerson and Down Right Tight across the street. Then on to Sunday I will go with the ex to see “Danny and the Deep Blue Sea” at the Garage Theatre. I’ve never gone on a date with an ex-husband before --- it must be because I smell so good.

Peace, love and I’m worried about the beaver,

Michele

July 19, 1995

Outlaws in my Bed....

Sometimes I wonder if any of my previous incarnations saw me involved with cowboys, outlaws and gangsters ---- the parallels to my favorite flavor of musician in this current life are uncanny. My fascination with mavericks borders on the pathological. I’m ever ready for the day I extend my thumb and catch a ride on the back of a vintage Indian motorcycle with some guitar slinging outlaw. His case slung across my back and the magenta hues of the sky casting a hue of blush wine upon my bare legs as I tear off into the wind and the setting sun of what remains of my life.

Peace, love and stick ‘em up life,

Michele

July 22, 1995

Dooorrrrthy…

Do we have a meteorological problem here and was that really a Scottish terrier that flew past my window with a most concerned look upon its snout?

Peace, love and sirens,

Michele

July 29, 1995

Through the Blue Goggles of a Goddess…

Once again I rotate in the microwave of steamy days on this prairie after the small reprieve in the previous week of sunny mild days and cool nights. The humidity creeps in and possesses each hour as if someone opened a bathroom door after a long hot shower.

The goddess looks cute in her blue diving goggles and no longer pinches her nose with her fingers as she leaps from the 3 meter high dive. She shows great determination in finessing her form in these days of pool and I am so proud of her. Her Daddy and I continue the process of letting go emotionally and find it is much more difficult than simply dividing the saucers and sofas. Thankfully our resignation is respectful and the patina of our love adds dimension and color to what was once shiny and hopeful.

Last night I dreamed that Letty, my own estranged mother was walking toward me singing a Billie Holliday song in a gorgeous voice I remember from my childhood. “… in my solitude you’ll taunt me, with memories that never die…“ I said “Oh mom, if you would only sing to me like that all the time --- with that sweet look in your eyes --- I might like you more.”

The last Saturday of July 1995 finds me up to my elbows in filing, listening to the powerful and angelic voice of Jeff Buckley and ever mindful of the vacuum cleaner winking at me from the corner. Soon the Hoover will join in a humming duet with the CD’s on the stereo as I will kick into being domestic in these sticky hot days of summer.

Peace, love and green eyes blue,

Michele

July 31, 1995

Manuals on Manuels

If there truly is a life review in the minutes before my death or as a preamble to my entry into the afterlife, it will be quite interesting viewing. Some claim there are no coincidences and every person in your life is there for a reason, I take that to heart and don’t waste much time or energy trying to unravel the things that really make no sense --- as it all will someday.

Saturday began with Cornflakes and cleaning and a domestic circle jerk that revolved all the way around to a bath, pajamas and Saturday Night Live. After about 10 minutes on the couch I felt the energy pull from the activity outside and when I found that I couldn’t ignore it, I wasted no time in throwing on something slut-tastic and ejecting myself out onto the avenue. I made it across the street to the see the Curbfeelers at the Fine Line and within minutes of my arrival I became the object of an eye-peeling encounter with a swarthy male visiting from Spain. Later, after a night of dancing and bouncing sex molecules we had a nice long clothes peeling encounter before he met the van that would take him to the airport and back to Madrid… whew and oh my God, to the muy sexy Ignacio and perhaps his magnetism is what pulled me from the couch after all.

Sunday morning in the warehouse district, sumptuous, surly and senseless --- in other words, perfect.

Peace, love and senselessly satisfied,

Michele

August 10, 1995

Like flies on…

It is 8:30 and all is well in the warehouse district tonight on the tail of day spent working under the duress of a client I’ve dubbed “the breather”. He is a walking caricature of the Herb Tarlick character from that long ago 70’s show, Fernwood Tonight. A wheezing, drooling micro-manager wrapped in polyester and tied off with a white patent leather belt who steals furtive glances at my breasts as he goes over the list of work I must accomplish that day. Why is it that the most disgusting clients are the ones that pay the most and pay on time --- I wish I didn’t need to work there, but I do.

My internationally flavored sex hangover has subsided --- finally. The after effect flits across my brain as the idea of checking out Spain someday. From what I gather on the culture it’s custom made for me --- never punctual and operating best in the wee hours.

The pheromones parachute out of me like an elite band of air men as I gather new admirers in the most mundane places. At a lunch counter I noticed someone eyeing up my avocado and offered the handsome stranger a slice saying food is better shared. We’ll be sharing more food on our date next Monday. Later, while filling my gas tank at an Amoco station I rarely use, I ran into the man I danced it up with at the Morphine show a few months back. I motioned to his bare legs and said “I always wondered what your legs looked like… so much skin!” He replied, “Yeah, you know… you can never have enough skin or breakfast --- weren’t we going to meet for breakfast?” “Yes Dave, I believe that we are having breakfast on Tuesday, 8 am at the Modern, I’ll see you there!” Then later, waiting in line at the post office I feel the heat of eyes on my back and turn into the gaze of a cutie with curly blond hair. I raise my eyebrows and smile, he extends his hand and I shake it. “John…” and return a “Michele”. He compliments the firmness of my handshake. “It’s a self-employed handshake.” I offer. Conversation ensued in line and continued to the end of our post office business and off to the steps. We went our separate ways after exchanging numbers and making plans to meet for a drink on Wednesday.

Perhaps I’m sexier when my lust has been slaked and I’m still digesting the possibilities. Whatever it was that oozed out of me today, it would be nice to bottle it. I will ponder this as I walk about the warehouse in boxers and a wife beater and prepare for the road trip to Wiscons-in-sane this weekend.

Peace, love and I am a love turd today,

Michele

August 14, 1995

Life’s a beach

I know how limo drivers feel as I am now fresh from touring my brother’s family and the goddess across the river to Wisconsin and back again in a rented Lincoln Town car that had 18 buttons to adjust the seat. 1020 miles under my right foot after my first weekend home in over a year. Sadly, it felt the same as it usually does when you gather a group of people in emotional pain who tend to over drink and peck at each other after the 3rd beer. I played it smart and took off with the kids as often as possible and put many miles on my brother’s mountain bike. I drank many quarts of Evian around the fire pit at night to the tune of “Remember when you did this to me?!” “Remember when you did that to me?!”

This morning I was up before the dawn and antsy to get on the road --- everyone else was sleeping except for the goddess and my two nieces. We drove to the lake to watch the sun rise and pick rocks and sticks where I reveled in the twinge in solar plexus as the sounds of the beach came back to me --- I had nearly forgotten what a symphony the wind, waves, grasshoppers and the pine make in my soul.

Now I have to go with the goddess to catch the ex playing a solo gig at the Minneapolis Cafe. He missed her while she was away with me this weekend and thinks it would be nice for us to sit in a booth, eat French fries and listen to him sing depressing songs about love gone bad with this thing called mom.

Peace, love and Shel’s a Beach,

Michele

August 17, 1995

Something’s Got to Give...

Letty, my mother, loved to sing the McGuire sisters around the house when I was a child. This morning I awoke with her marvelous alto in my head singing in harmony to “Something’s Gotta Give”. Never mind that I was having an insane dream about chasing a huge yellow iguana around the backyard of my childhood home. In the dream I was shouting at the ex to catch the iguana’s twin as it scuttled over hill and headed for the highway. Perhaps it was an alien version of my running away tale, because once I captured the iguanas and walked through the back door with them they called me mama in unison and I dropped them in horror.

Total cost of the Wiscons-insane road trip will be the equivalent of 16 billable hours, car rental, hotel, and a regenerative emotional sweat on some therapist’s leather recliner. I don’t believe that I will ever go back there anytime soon as this latest reunion proved once again that going home can sometimes be more toxic than tonic.

Now I must go, out of the corner of my eye I see the goddess holding the hairbrush like a microphone with wet hair plastered against her gorgeous brown skin (white cheeks). Something about the way she bows to herself in the mirror makes me want to catch the 2nd act of her nightly bathroom show. After that I plan to chase her around the warehouse and tickle her until she falls to the floor paralyzed with laughter.

Peace, love and the goddess sings tonight,

Michele

August 21, 1995

Buenos Dias en El Noche

Good morning from the blurry 9:00 pm perspective of a girl who suffered from insomnia the night before and then slept like a baby well into the sunset. Perhaps it’s a subconscious preparation for a future life abroad --- the eerie thought that I had somehow slipped into the wrong life ripped through my head like a scythe as I awoke. That or some more spiritually aware soul managed to switch bodies with me during this wretched year of my not paying attention.

On this turned about day/night I can only think about how much I am growing to hate the problems associated with technology. My patience is whittled away by soothing and solving the problems of people who pace a rote existence 9-5 and freak at any impasse. Rather than roll in the bile of these days I drive fast on the highway home and envision myself behind a bar anywhere in the world but here --- serving up food, banter, wit and insight. My happiness and peace is buried somewhere in future nights of too many glasses of wine and dancing on tables singing soundtracks from glorious MGM musicals like Annie Get your Gun and then later writing about it while the rest to the world sleeps.

I survived another date in the previous weekend with yet another young, sweet man brimming with the suburban herd mentality. He fails to see that we see things differently --- fully enamored of my strength and sexuality and after the second date gets visions of a conjoined fuck heaven in the suburbs with matching bands, matching jeeps and doing it on the kitchen table. I look into his eyes and shudder because lately nice men remind me of charismatic serial killers like Ted Bundy. My mental metaphor for embarking on another relationship and straddling the status quo feels like a long torture followed by being snuffed out and buried in a shallow grave along a deserted desert highway.

Those young men seem to like me, my ability to carry on decent (if not lively) conversation and the sexual steam that rises from me like cartoon stink lines. Or maybe it’s just because I am a ripe and compelling contrast to women their own age who get by with firm skin, giggles and making out with each other on the dance floor. Sadly, the young ones usually don’t have a big date budget and haven’t experienced much life since college. It’s beer dates and belching conversation for the most part --- my marriage was one big fucking beer date. I vow to become more selective and wiser when it comes to future dates --- not Budweiser.

I toy with the idea of finishing my installs through September and then selling off my accounts and allowing myself 3 months to see what type of life I could conjure abroad. I have done it before, not as an ex-patriot, but as an ex-Midwestern in Boston with less than $100 dollars in my pocket. Somehow I am buoyant, plucky and dumb enough to embark and survive these types of adventures. The worst case scenario sees me returning to Minnesota after a lovely experience in Europe and subcontracting somewhere until I can’t take it anymore and restore myself once again in this nomadic fashion.

It’s lucky and unlucky to brightly see beyond what most others see and it inspires me to write, belch words that give people pause and skip down the fool’s path in life. It also ensures that I am hopelessly deficient in the “ignorance is bliss” trait. Apparently, as I grazed the buffet on the way into this current incarnation on earth I forgot to add a heaping spoonful of this attribute on my plate of graces. My selections were multi-colored and unusually high in fiber and irony.

And so, this is how it is --- once again I’m living and dreaming in these quiet and introspective hours that juxtapose the morning. Alone, hopeful and so sure of sunrise, yet I always fall asleep in the final minutes before it peeks over the horizon. I find that if I pray too hard for a day to come, it only sets me up to miss it entirely.

Peace, love and thoughts from a 34 yr old cardboard box,

Michele

August 22, 1995

In Search of Her Elusive Life - Part 2

I am feeling sassy and half a belly over the border of belligerence today, the 3 espressos in lieu of food only fueled the fire. Despite my evil tongue, I managed to stomp through this day without bothersome lawsuits or stinging slaps in the face. The universe doesn’t approve of my toxic personality and sent me a cryptic message in the form of a mosquito that embedded itself in my left cheek as I leaned my head out the car window to scream obscenities at an imbecile driver. It looks like the blackhead from hell and is probably only there to point out that my dark moods are a huge blemish on the complexion of my life. Apparently there is a deep cosmic need to apply an emotional Biore patch to my soul.

Tonight I am going to see Poppa Chubby at First Avenue. The goddess absolutely HATES his song “Sweet goddess of love and beer” --- or maybe she just hates it when I sing it to her. The evening holds yet another date, this one with a man who has been phoning me since he found out that the ex and I signed the big bad D papers. He doesn’t fit the serial killer profile as he is a well established, wry and a somewhat jaded music industry type. He does however, fit the grave robber profile.

Malevolence oozed from me no matter how hard I tried to conjure hopeful thoughts during lunch with a friend. Instead of spreading my usual cheer, mirth and optimism all I could muster was a terse monologue that went something like this: “Too much enlightenment and education expands your mind, heart and soul and only sets you up for ruin, because then you abide by the illusion that you and what you do is somehow important to humanity. I would rather be a hyena --- animals have it so much better living a life uncomplicated by ego and the super ego. The hyena life is short and based entirely upon survival and furtherance of the species… no less or no more important than any other life on the planet.” She just stared at me and needless to say I only succeeded in further depressing the both of us. But it is true, and the human species started out pretty much the same as all animals --- we just evolved quickly from the trees and had that nice fellow Darwin to document it for us. With that happy thought, I may refrain from doing it like a doggie or swinging like a sexy ape from the bunk beds for quite a while. Although learning to whoop in a meld of hyena and Tank Girl may add some fun and a new trend towards primitivism in the warehouse district tonight.

Peace, love and faux pas on four paws,

Michele

August 29, 1995

Animaniacs and Vegetarian Kids

The goddess has officially declared herself a vegetarian. The seed was planted after we caught the flick “Babe”, a story about a talking pig. The farm wife’s obsession with how she planned to carve up poor little Babe did not bode well with the goddess and she was torn in her empathy because she also hated the swine in Animal Farm. Her revulsion of eating flesh started a few weeks back when the ex took her home for a family reunion. The event featured a pig roast and granny left the pig’s head sitting in a pan on the kitchen counter. This made the goddess ill and inconsolably sad, so much so that she hasn’t been able to even speak of meat since. Tonight, after a bean burrito at La Cucaracha she announced, “I have a dancing addiction, and I am now a vegetarian!”

She is excited and bouncing everywhere with the thought of another school year beginning in less than 6 days. We waited forever for the elevator on the fifth floor of the parking ramp tonight, when the doors opened to let us out on ground level there was a crowd of people ready to jump in. The goddess tossed her head and breezed toward them saying “Sorry folks, no autographs tonight!” This drew a few chuckles, as well as a “...aw but we’ve been waiting here so long!!” from the crowd.

Sometimes I feel like I just woke up after a long, hot, and sleepy summer. Orbiting the brightly colored “Planet Goddess” I pick up speed and animation --- I stretch, I smile and endeavor to be the best comet mom I can.

Peace, love and mother of a dancing addicted vegetarian,

Michele

August 31, 1995

Winds of Basil....

This day in August started out hot and thick in the city --- almost as heavy as the moustache on the nun who taught my catechism class in 1968. As the goddess and I walked home from the parking ramp late in the night, the wind changed and the temperature dropped 15 degrees in the 4 seconds it took to cross First Avenue. The humidity of today had her pigtails wound up in springy curls that clutch at her face as alternately smiles and gives me the lovely dirt smudged yawn.

I hope the wee urban urchin makes it through the bath --- amazing how a simple flash of her eye shifts my attitude to new levels of clarity. On another note, the ex has a gallery show coming up on September 9th and I am happy and hopeful for him. He has amassed quite a collection of painting since I moved out, hmm… I guess I’m not such a muse after all

Peace, love and urchins,

Michele

September 6, 1995

Aunty Em.. Aunty Em

No Kansas metaphors about the weather here in tornado alley --- besides, I think I’ve done that already. The goddess landed the role of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz play to be shown at the annual Winter Carnival at our neighborhood rec. I am very proud and very impressed at her determination --- as she immediately needed to hit the library and check out books on acting methods and plays. Her tenacity is admirable and I don’t know where she gets that from --- certainly not from procrasti-mom.

School has started and procrasti-mom catches up on her billing with the TV buzzing in the background. The Today Show is a mélange of dancing dogs, aging pop culture icons with books on addiction and good old Willard Scott who clued me in that in 12 short days we will enter into the possibility for snow in these parts. It’s hard to believe I could be scraping my windshield when it is still 84 degrees outside --- but why would he lie about a thing like that? It is impossible to find any news of substance and this is why I hardly ever watch it. The local news is about as exciting as a Fluffer Nutter sandwich, the national news is war, stock market, and O.J. Simpson (did he do it??). This is why my television (in the rare times it is on) is primarily tuned to movie classics and Nickelodeon.

Me, I need to get cast in the play called “The rest of Michele’s Life”. I contemplated this present and the future as I walked and walked the extra long route to the post office last night. I’ve come to the conclusion that the leaves will indeed turn, whither and nourish whatever comes next – so we will just have to see how the next season will be for Michele.

Peace, love and turn, turn, turn

Michele

September 9.1995

Geek in the morning

...and that is me, home from the trenches under a sky that resembles a melted bowl of sherbet after pulling an all nighter server install and across the wire migration. The tedium is really the most difficult aspect of it all --- so now I ponder the idea of another cup of coffee while I listen to Garbage.

Ah, what a life the fates have designed for Michele… a bit weathered from battling the flu earlier in the week and facing the new brisk turn in the weather with my moth eaten motorcycle jacket. I’m iconic in this ironic façade… appearing tough and formidable on the outside yet so sweet and crisp on the inside. Similar to the Granny Smith apple I opted for in lieu of the coffee. Would I have the luxury of knowing “what is” and “what will be”, I would probably just stay in bed under the warm comforter with the cool air of reality dancing on the tip of my nose and painting the edges of my dreams with ancient wisdom and secrets until of course I could no longer resist the urge to pee. This is a by-product of drinking pots of coffee during all night stints at technical brain barbeques.

Today I missed the goddess so much that I stopped in at her school today unannounced, and there she was in purple tights, overalls, Doc Martens, and a head of hair that shouted the neglect it experiences while staying at dad’s house --- neglect in serious dread lock proportion. I let it go and resisted the urge to plait it back while I smiled at her and evenly said “Count to four and jump into my arms baby!” Then, one… two… three… four… leap, hug, kiss and ahhhhh so nice!

Peace, love and a new day,

Michele

September 10, 1995

Sunday ... no rest for the wicked

....or earth bound angels like me. Last night I attended the ex’s opening during the Gallery crawl. Despite the pride I felt for the body of his work, I couldn’t help but feel like the amputated arm of our marriage walking in on my fingers. His bio stated that the majority of his work was influenced by pain, conflict and inner turmoil --- I guess that would be me. Not all muse’s wear gossamer, but apparently my labia is inspiring because his two point perspectives looked familiar to me --- like something I had seen before --- as in, reflected in a mirror between my legs. This was neither confirmed nor denied by the artist, however… it did illicit a tilt of the head and a wink.

The next week of work beckons and I find that I am not quite finished with the previous, and this is my life. One foot in Friday and stepping toward Monday --- somewhat like a never ending tour, but without the road inspired constipation. I am always in my element when the scenes are changing and happily enjoy watching as much as interacting. My self-confidence is always improved after a trip down the highway or through the skies to new destinations. My Marriage Made in Milwaukee was also quite a strange and personal journey, with it comes an almost eerie confidence after making it through from beginning to end. The last 12 years have been comparable to completing a course of study --- or discovering dinosaur bones --- or better yet, escaping from the cannibal intent upon simultaneously loving and sautéing me.

I am taking the goddess to First Avenue on Thursday afternoon to hear the sound check for the Reverend Horton Heat (psycho rockabilly) she wants to see the show, but has 14 years of waiting until she can make it past the guy who checks IDs at the door. 14 years will go fast and then she’ll be the one moving at warp speed from city to continent and back. I’ll be the one waving goodbye and hello --- waiting for the postcard.

Peace, love and sitting on the lap of Sunday (eyeing the big plate of Monday),

Michele

September 14, 1995

Downtown, things will be great when you’re…

Sunny with clear blue skies that inspire me to wear an orange polyester poncho and belt out Petula Clark songs from my open window above the Avenue. The goddess bestowed her praise upon the mother who raised her head off the pillow at a perky 6:00 a.m. (… a task that eludes her most days...) and allowing the morning to hum around as lunches were prepared and minds where fixed upon a new sunny day out in the world, of learning, growing, making money and playing soccer with the 4th grade boys (a goddess joy of joys). The thought of this makes her tramp extra hard to make her Reeboks light up as they hit the pavement.

A friend’s email describes the twists and turns of his current tour --- this sounds very similar to my sex life, or perhaps my sex life is very similar to a tour (or a circus.) This then reminds me that I have an appalling fondness for comparing absolutely everything to sex, which then jump starts a marauding cluster of hormones intent upon possibly having some tonight.

Autumn is coming (..insert innuendo here..) and I love this time of year (no swallows). In all seriousness, the clear skies and gusts of wind remind me of a wide open mind, infinite possibilities blow through it with red and golden leaves of faith.

Peace, love and innuendo then out the other,

Michele