>I’ve been using my body in the best way I know how. Stretching and sculpting and working with my hands. When I say this, I mean that I’ve realized something about endorphins over the past week. I’ve been doing some serious handy-work on my house and I feel so powerful about it. Please excuse me if I gush a little. Its been a real mood booster, folks.

One thing that I know I can do well is work with my hands. Use my muscles to forget anything that might be wrong. Push, and grunt and sweat into something until its completion under my will.What I want to say, is that its about where I come from, too. When I’ve got a project, I get up in the morning and dont stop working unti lI go to bed. I forget to eat most of the time while im doing it. I sweat everything I’m dealing with and all the bad shit I’ve put into my body out into the wood and then I turn that wood into something better. The ladyfriend was worried, I’d been inside my house all weekend, working, sweating.I said, ‘Are you kidding? Im a fucking workhorse, Baby.”

I can’t stop. Once I’ve motivated myself to get out the hammer and nails, its over for days. My best friend came over two days, and we tip-toed around each other the best way that men can. We listened to country music and we worked. We talked about secret things, about hard things, while we worked our bodies up to overheating, while we stared at the walls in my house instead of each other. He held me up, and helped me up without making me feel weak about it. I’ve had a gym membership, but I dont go because something about it doesn’t sit right with me. Something about standing in one place, about moving my body on some fancy machine, that doesn’t show me a result anywhere but the way my muscles might be warm afterwards. Something about paying to do this with dozens of other people zoned out around me doing the same is really concerning.

What I want to say, is that Its about where I come from because working is in my muscle memory, in my subconcious as being somewhere I can feel confident, competant, safe. I’ve been using my body the best way I know how. You can see the results of it in my home, sanded and sculpted and rubbed and cut and painted and remolded into something solid. If you look hard enough, you can see the results in my face; set to resolution.


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>I am so floored by the great response to my first post that I can barely type a new one. Of course, fear has already set in and instead of pretending like I’m completely above it all I’m going to be honest: Blogging makes me a little anxious. Anxious and also a little turned on. Anxious and turned on and hoping to please, like a very small child jumping up and down in place and making little noises. You know what I’m talking about. I’ve just got to thank my lucky stars for Sinclair, a great friend and calming influence.

Working an office type job where I sit in front of this cockamamie box full of all kinds of media doesn’t help with my productivity level, but it affords me the ability to chat and write at will and for that, this working class boy feels like fortunate man. A fortunate man who’s a bit of a sell out, but nonetheless.This is all water under the bridge.

22 days and counting, and numbers are still plaguing me. It began really with a series of emails which at last count clocked in at over 900 in 3 months. Text messages, phone calls, photographs, blogs. Months worth of building tunnels into each other. Its like gravy, thick and sticking to my ribs.

Thats how she is, rib-sticking. Like some hearty meal I can smell cooking when I walk into my house on a Sunday afternoon I’ve yet to meet. The kind of meal where there are no leftovers, just another button on your jeans undone. The kind of meal that holds you in that Sunday afternoon and carries you all the way to lunch time on Monday.

‘I want to hear everything you have to say.’ Almost whispered it into the phone after hearing me stop myself from pouring her a glass of my secrets. This like calling a starving beast to knaw on a limb or two. You are liable to end up a quadriplegic. Because Im a writer that way. Insatiable. Ready to ravage you with things you never imagined you’d want to sip on.She matches me word for word. Poem for poem. Story for story. We are baking bread in each others bellies. Warm and rising to meet. Steady, slow and always wanting more.


>I am starting this blog just as its title suggests, with a naughty feeling and a wistfulness (or brooding, depending upon how much you like me). Naughty because I feel like I’m cheating on my first blog, and am enticed by the curling finger of semi-anonymous thoroughfare I have access to here. I’m an avid reader of several blogs here on blogspot, and am inspired by their brilliance and also by the community of folks developing around/because of them. Also, I think I’m ready for a new writing challenge as I’ve become seriously lax in that department lately. After leaving my regular weekly writing class, all that I have left it seems are occasional super sly writing dates with a few trusted friends. While these corner cafe clandestines are amazing and helpful I know there there has got to be more. Of course, as a writer, we always want more. More words, more paper, more folks to be an audience to the combination of the two. Its kind of sexy, right? Secret blogging and clandestine cafes.What I really want to say, is that numbers are more important to me lately than they usually are. Time isn’t sauntering on at the speed to which I’ve grown accustomed. Its sticky-jelling itself to days, leaving me breathless with the effort to push it forward. Leaving me feeling like I’m spending another summer in the town where I grew up. One hundred and twenty degrees in August, and my flip-flops all melted on the bottom. Thing is, I moved on since then and now summers are mild at best. I find myself wearing a sweatshirt in August, and ducking under awnings on street corners to avoid the rain. What I really want to say is that numbers are plaguing me right now because I’m on the edge of this big canyon looking over, and when I feel a slowness like that summer instead of a cool gush of wind, I know it must be real important for me to take a long look. In 23 days my lover is flying here from her home to be with me for a month. I hope its clear now where the wistfulness comes from.>When she arrives I have a list of things to do, day by day. I’m keeping a list so I don’t lose track of myself, because its apt to happen. I keep this list in my back left pocket underneath my hanky. Its getting too long for just one month. I’m making it longer on purpose because I know I won’t want the end of the month to mean her leaving. I know what I want already, and I’m standing in the face of it scared as shit and laughing hysterically because that’s the way this cowboy livesWe’ve never kissed. Never held hands. Never hugged. The most we’ve done is shake hands and maybe bump into each other accidentally.Its sensational. The way in which we’ve learned each other. But its only sensational when I tell it aloud. The way in which I know her is as solid and comforting as the way my ass will fit in my rocking chair on the front porch when I’m 80.