The Perfect Matador Knows Her Arena...

i'm out. i finally fold.

i'm thinking the internet is some evil magic. it's getting easier and easier and easier to ignore everything that comes into me and my world, so it's not that. in fact, the internet feels like so much blocking---whether it's advertising, spam, viruses, or emails that get lost in the bullshit and i can never catch up---

but it's the energy. there's so much misery and loneliness and WATCHING out of FEAR. i can fucking feel it like a blast of hot summer subway urine in the koch era before disney and the connecticutians took over.

but i don't have the support staff or the positive resources to fend it off and i am already broken-hearted at finally losing my father, and lisa... my last and final tethers to all that i thought i was, all that made me.

i can barely keep up with those i call friends, and those i don't already know barely can matter. i've no energy to care. and you kind of have to as an artist, or you're a blood sucking asshole.

anyhow, i had to see myself anew. reconsider a different story that isn't just "reacting" but "directing."

small...

so...

i set comments here to not just post and i got a barrage of emails telling me to post 'em, but i see it's from "anonymous" again, so i simply delete them all. no problem, right?

only that there's no fucking point to my even doing this if this is the only level of conversation i have the power to inspire here. (but maybe it was actually me getting an "answer above the question"? gifts come in all sorts of ragged disguises. that's the constant frog/prince reality and hide-and-seek of life's truths.)

i tried to channel my personal arts into my more public ones, and try and inspire, but i am being dealt too many blows and this is a fucking waste.

it's so fragile when art becomes nothing but a self-absorbed "ego" project, and that's what it's become. i perpetuate the same isolated loneliness i rail against.

i am not doing anything positive in this arena.

i smile at how i felt i needed to be eriquita to somehow become small.

small?

say it isn't so.

but it feels so much lighter.

letting go...

once you've let go of the illusions of your past, your family, your role in it, as well as the world, then it's like being born again and given another chance at Life with a lot of verb to it.

i thank you for sharing this time with me. it feels like it's finally the right time to let go of all this that i used to care about. art, books, changing the world.

i need to be smaller. bow out of this arena where it still feels very much like that endless TRON universe grid thing. it feels like emptiness, loneliness, and death. it feels like suicide to stay here.

in my smaller, more analogue world, it's starting to feel warm and grounded and safe.

when i was writhing in agony over the realizations that i had to finally leave lisa and my father, james said that when you feel more emotionally fulfilled, you have no room for diminishing love. the conditions do not exist for a diminishing love when you feel honored and safe in your life.

and it's true.

so i thank the anonymous person for being an inspiration, a spark of life reminder that i must always move toward positive energies, not apathetic death. that means that even your "negative" energy was able to be seen as positive as it transmuted to me! how perfect!

i've played asshole long and hard enough, i know the burning, writhing maggots of seething rage so constant it's like the constant rush of traffic in your veins.

that is how i have finally learned the ability to be a superhero and block the fake stuff and see the "nuance" of one's humanity--even if for a second---underneath.

james is right. everyone has that cry inside of them. the cry where you're in the fetal position and you want to die. everyone has it. fuck. even my dad?

and then i forgive him for everything and love him more as i wish him well in my heart. to say it aloud would only be cruel. we both know we tried to be the last ones in the room. he did the best he could, as long as he could.

he's okay without me. me showing up just sentimentality. dragging an old framed photo out for the story that never changes or evolves with any new depth of understanding.

so anonymous didn't fool me!

i have been beaten enough, and gotten used to it, so i also know what it was to convince myself at least i was noticed, so that must be love because indifference is real hate to me.

i forgot this.

i can never get lazy. i must always re-paint that lesson a thousand times. i get clever about faking myself out like i've grown enough to sit on my new laurels. they are old and expire like the miracles and raw milk.

so thank you anonymous. i could fucking kiss you on the forehead. i saw your flicker of humanity. now stop getting your attention by being the asshole. step up to a new game. life is short. you're enough of an asshole to be an equal part sweetheart. we all are.

it's the ones "keeping it together" you've gotta worry about.

anyhow, the rest of you, thanks for keeping in touch with my art/business attempts. i was wrong about so much. everything. i had no idea what it all really was, and even as i'm seeing the realities, i know i'm still a little kid outside of the board room.

and don't copy me or listen to me. ignore me. rebel against me or my truths. if i've seemed to "cut you off," it's not personal. i'm fighting for my life and sanity here, and many of you keep me in little boxes of something that you "think" i represent.

i can't be anyone's big sister to rebel against anymore. got that load of crap from my own former pedestal-foisting sister. her admiration had a kickback that really got all medusa on me.

but also, i just need to be quiet and find myself without anyone trying to define me. i am in a reclusive place and need to be careful with what i take in.

as i said, it's survival. i've put my entire life towards art, and it's finally over. when you see you're just wanking off for yourself, then the impetus to communicate simply... leaves.

yes, it's sad. it's death. but i know that i have to be small now. so i ask many of my friends and workmates to be patient with me and my silences. i have taken in so much "stuff," i need to clean out myself and see what remains.

no, WHO remains. who am i without art and convincing and trying to love and change the world?

who am i when i'm small? analogue? there's more kinder magic in the analogue for me right now.

i'll leave this clog up until they take it down. it's over. a part of my life as an artist that is now finished.

i don't keep "in touch" because i think there really isn't any need. when you're done, you're done. i'm not really a sentimentalist. or maybe i'm the worst kind. i think let's do the passion intense and once well until we're wrung out. why drag out a "keeping in touch" relationship of small talk?

anyhow,

we die many deaths. or one long life of death, i guess.

i don't know. i'm babbling. because i also hate to say good-bye. i even hated leaving for the weekends as a kid.

but once i turned away, i was off on a new adventure with new stories.

i never even missed my mother at summer camp. i was where i was.

thank you and best of luck in trying to figure out who you are and what you're doing here and what you'd like to leave behind like a kiss on the cheek.

thanks "anonymous." inspiration is everywhere, and you were a sleazy little spittle-spewing angel.

i'm lucky that i could even SEE you. thank you.

and those of you who feel itchy and compelled to do anything, just do it! fuck up. apologize later. the ones you need, for lessons or backup, will remain. that's why you go insane. shake your own game up. see things anew.

inspiration is everywhere. 


so i'll follow mine to find the arena in which i can shine magnificently as myself. it exists. i will make it. 


it's got to do with a rectangular dining table full of food and drink, candles, others' jumping kids on the edges, and lots of long conversations with no shoes or cell phones. that's how small i'm going now. i want the world!

x

Eriquita. The Perfect Matador.

click image (and then again) to see first zoot suit inspired eriquita clothing.

also, to anyone who feels ugly like that toad guy who was fucking that young girl:

i don't mean to hurt feelings by saying that the young girl was going to shudder about this evidence and the effects of fucking such a man in the first "trimester" of one's sexual life--right out the gates.

this is what i mean about who you are coming out in your face. i see beauty in kind intentions, not well-placed "symmetry." symmetry bores after 5 minutes. show me your scar and tell me a good story and i'll go around the world with you to make more.

(i've had twilight zone-like bouts of insanity about taking photos of  a couple of people who seemed pretty enough in real life but they look like monsters in their photos. i've seen that in real life when i see someone's sicker, narcissistic, small inner desires seep out and drain other people like poisonous gases).

anyhow, little girls fucking fat creepy toad guys on camera: you've gotta work UP to getting off and sucking imperfection, in yourself, as well as others. or it can warp what you think about yourself.

i looked for the flashes of human kindness in his face, because porn for me is not only brute fucking or power dances, but naked emotion slipping aside the initial opening performance.

and the old man was never beautiful to me, that's why he was so utterly repulsive, and she, the beauty forced to not only suck, but kiss and be fucked in the bright light of day on camera, by the fetid, oozing beast of Death who didn't care what this would mean for anyone but himself.

hence the continued way we break down and "turn" each other out.

such a waste of such power. power of people, interaction, fucking, cameras, everyone jerking off.

he never did anything to consider her pleasure. he never accidentally touched her with any tender kindness. that is evil and inhumane on an epic level. the kind of evil that compounds its interest.

fucking is never "just fucking," no matter how much Penthouse Forum matter you jerked off on in the 70s and 80s, as i did. i believed you could somehow fuck a kentucky fried chicken drumstrick without making a horrid, ridiculous mess.

in hindsight, the later-to-emerge gerbils and cell phone urban legends even make more sense.

you fuck for the past, present, and future.

and when you fuck a girl like that out of the gate, you mark her for life. baby chicks should be jerking off to other plastic, meaningless things closer to her age. not starting at the end with the old pedophile down the street for an eternity.

he marks her in many, many ways and not for the better. that is evil to me

and she starts so low, it's in her head. no little girl should know what it is to move a man's mudflap out of the way to suck his shaven dick.

ugh.

and then you photograph it, thereby marking her for her life? no one her age will touch her without treating her like...

(you fill in the blank.)

and i had to deal with a barrage of over a dozen spitting, enraged "anonymous" pussy comments yesterday---i only read a few to get the tenor that he/they actually read multiple posts. talk about flushing your own head down the toilet.

but i laughed and knew i was doing my job when one anonymous comment asked, "have you ever even been to bangkok?"

men are funny. funny scary, sometimes.

anyhow, i'm haunted by how the man in the chinos would give more presentation to a handshake than to entering a woman's vagina.

it's like jerking off to the world trade center getting crashed into by airplanes.

it was uncomfortably awesome in its brute and unabashed total devastation and waste.

i realize i swim in different blood baths now. yeah, i've got a monster creepy side and i could probably jerk off to someone getting a bloody beat down if i was in the right frame of mind.
that's how we can jerk off to things that make cower and shiver in the corner of the shower for 20 minutes.

sex and desire is... inexplicable. it is what it is.

i'm depraved like everyone else. i was made by everyone else. i live among everyone else.

i don't even get how the entire world can watch Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. for a dozen years! you'd have to have Jayne Mansfield's daughter, Mariska Hargitay, and the hot and sweaty under and above the collar, Christopher Meloni--who was crazy mad scary hot in Oz, by the way----

you'd HAVE to have them help you curl up and relax and enjoy a nice episode of made up entertainment about new ways to rape and murder children.

that shit leaves me shuddering like how can you watch this shit? and in public? 


and i'm still the asshole? really?
and to all those who wrote:

so everyone's got a dark side and i'm here to tell you that as depraved as i am, i think most regular people are scarier. way scarier.

especially when they point at others as if they are an entirely different species.

i'm sorry i terrified some of you enough to have you spiraling madly out of control in your minds with rage. finding out that women don't necessarily love gang bangs with old or clueless flabby sweaty men in dark cement rooms, and that i can and LOVE that i even HAVE the ability to eat a gallon--yes, two 1/2 gallons!--of ice cream in between perfuming myself, dancing around with spoons of mint chip in my mouth, then jerking off afterwards---

why does a woman with a huge appetite and an even huger mind of ideas and a massive mouth scare so much?

if you can even make it through Law & Order SVU, then you're more hard core than me. fuck, if you even jerk off to the SVU stuff, then own it. at least to yourself. it's been on for what---a dozen years?

millions of people can stomach made up useless stories about terrible things done to women and children on a multiple daily basis for their relaxation and enjoyment.

i don't get that shit at all. seeing young girls dug up from dumpsters isn't "entertaining" for me, at least.

i go to bed traumatized from made up kits of abuses someone else spent most of their youth writing and making up and refining for another 42-minute episode. but even i eventually got sick from too much ice cream. how can fake child rapes eventually not effect any of us? it's sport. like raping and beating kittens, then going, "aaaaaw, that's so sad. rewind and play it again!"

so yeah, i also can jerk off to all sorts of depraved creepy stuff and figure it's the next best thing to using all of my holes.

some of you apparently were so terrified and enraged at me fucking with your cartoon way of how you see women.

relax.

take care of yourself.

if you're reading so much of my work here, all unedited and my raw self, then you're getting something out of it. but i won't deal with anyone who can't talk to me with dignity, eloquence, and respect.

if i won't let my family close to me for less, then you mean nothing to me. so yeah, i could probably jerk off to the joy that i've made you bust a vein in your temple. i am sick. especially when i'm given free reign to be as sadistic as anyone else for a short time. 

when i am in that place, jail time is an adventure and a future story. you've read enough to know i live for the fucking stories, even when i've gotta keep the best ones to myself. especially when i've gotta keep the best parts to myself. 

i'm sicker than even you know, my dear readers. we all are.

but i'm trying to be responsible, less indulgent, and more thoughtful for the long haul.

i'm sorry that you are scared. but the world actually opens up when you realize that, not only women, but even animals and children and all sorts of living beings have feelings and just because they can't talk (yet) doesn't mean they don't feel pain, etcetera etcetera.


besides, it's good for you to default to a ground-clearing sort of kindness that reverberates like a bell.

i'm glad that you read me, so much of me. it means you cared about something. something rocked your world.

i'm not going to respond like how you expected. you're not "toxic" or worth ignoring because you're a fan simply because you read so, so much of me. i'm honored to get such a strong, vitriolic reaction.

thank you. you're alive, even in the sleazy spittle. dry your mouth and try again. with your identity as i openly use mine.

own your words.

that's lesson number one on owning yourself, your reality.

thank you for spending hours writing and raging at me. i love being in others' heads uncontrollably.

for now, you'd just be coming in my face (and by now i trust you know how i feel about this creepy, unhot, infantile "look at my poo over here on this, now!" trend, yes?) so i won't read any more comments even labeled "ANONYMOUS."

come on.. you're already here. can't we go a little farther than that? make it interesting. for yourself as well as me.

own your shit up front and out front. because it's exhiliaratingly hot as hell to tell someone "fuck you" with your full name attached.

then you can eat gallons of ice cream, jerk off, and smell like magical custom perfume, too.

i'm telling you... the water's warm in here.

or it might be fresh blood.

use your name. step up. don't be a pussy with me. i can't stand pussies. 

and then we will speak as equals.

i'll forgive you. i forgive everyone eventually.

do you care?

of course you do.

over a dozen rants in under a couple of hours? you care sooooo much.

thank you, "anonymous."

now say your names.

i don't want to act as cynical as a million-year-old. right now i am willing to be pleasantly overwhelmed by your sudden and dear humanity, and see if there's a beautiful, unexpected surprise.

surprise me! step up, have honour behind your words. it is spontaneous living in the now, surprising yourself. be grown! i welcome it! i crave your honor and nobility! you're okay. i can take it. just speak to me as if you would want me to speak to you. let's start there.

or if you want to simply come on faces and fuck me without at least biting my neck in at least a formal and hot "hello" first, we must end it here.

(smile)

g'day.

hey, you all see my stylistic inspirations for Eriquita in the drawing above? it's all about "attitude." i'm walking up to a whole lotta attitude i'm not sure i've a right to. but if don't, who shall?

not safe for work or your own privacy...

after trying to split a pitcher of margaritas with sara (who said "there isn't much alcohol in this stuff" while i had to concentrate on every word she said to stay upright), i came home, passed out at 10pm, and woke up at 1:30 am to maniacally jerk off to thoughts of the snake fucker before i fell back asleep.

and over the following 36 hours, i dabbed on my new perfume i can't describe to anyone (probably designed that way, as it seems to have jammed my ability to accurately describe anything right now) ate a gallon of turkey hill chocolate chip mint--my favorite ice cream in the world---and have been jerking off to all of my old porn bookmarks. 

i went to the gym and avoided looking at men's eyes because i feel like i leak sex in everything i look at, and here on the east coast, men feel quite open at interrupting my work outs to give me advice. they almost look for openings and i feel like i "think i'm all that" as i ignore lips moving, but sometimes i take off my earphone and thank them for advice on where the clamps are, etcetera.

there's a lot of "papi" energy around, and i love it when i almost dropped the weights on my chest when i went too high when i had the fever. i yelled, "spot! spot! spot!" and that's how i became friends with Nelson who said he's always got an eye on me when i'm working out.

even a gallon of ice cream later (turkey hill chocolate chip mint is worth the price of a flight out here), i feel like i look amazing. i love my shape as if i were one detailed cartoon character drawing i was working on over a whole week. 

it's no wonder i'm jerking off to myself. this was how i started fucking myself constantly in the bronx when i was 11 and actually had a room with a big vanity mirror. mid thigh up. the german side of my white family had for the family mirror, practically a free makeup mirror in a plastic sleeve with the bank's logo on it. we were told not to be vain and my mother hated it if i ever acted pretty, which meant just standing still.

my mom declined buying a house once simply because it had mirrors all over it. the italians in jersey LOVED mirrors back in the day. 

anyhow, i barely care how i look outside to others in my clothes. i lift up my shirt when i go into sara's bathroom to pee, and the huge mirror makes me so fucking proud, i wonder what to DO with myself and i'm off and running.

porn and my strong waist? it's a wonder if i'll ever find another lover as fascinating as i find myself in private! 

anyhow,

sometimes i'm afraid to look for new porn because i'm afraid i'll stumble upon a snuff film that i find an excuse to jerk off to because i can find damn near anything hot. except animals are out, now. i don't even wanna touch animals in my mind. 

leda can have that swan all to herself. / i fold.

humans are enough fucking work.

but apparently i'm shaky on girls because i felt like i should slap my hand for some of the creepy porn below. my perfume shimmers and changes colors like a candy apple mother of pearl finish. depending on how the light hits it, another color shines brighter than the rest.

but i find that the more i look at porn, the more plastic surgeries seep loudly like blaring wounds, and i have to cover parts of their bodies with the black tape that used to cover eyes before everyone wanted to grow up to be a porn star.

except in japan. genitals and men's faces get digitally blurred while we need to see the expressions on their faces, as clear as the pussy lips parted by digitized penises, it's funny, hot, and scary. like japanese horror that says, "here, smell THIS."

black natural girls? yum yum yum. real tits that sway and swollen milky pussies are as rare as actual emotions in a hollywood film, and startles with its sudden reality and Truth. 

http://www.youjizz.com/videos/ebony%20pussy%20eating-2231533.html

and i love love love fluffy women. big women. real tits, and thighs that spread across sofas like burnt sienna waves of grain... and teaching. teaching in the ways of sex is so sweet. but i love victims. bugs on pins. and convincing them to stay via the stockholm syndrome.

but in real life i want them to leave, so i jerk off on the fantasy of collecting lovers like a glass menagerie. the reality is so much more mundane and distills down into the same "yes, honey" of most long term marriages to me.

http://www.youjizz.com/videos/skinny-and-bbw-black-lesbians-198354.html

and gang bangs are like snuff films. this one's particularly sweet and scary. they are like frightened, excited jackals with hard ons and empty stomachs. you can see the tension between her inability to "own" the room, and the reality that she does and could do anything with a room full of men with frustrated fully-dressed hard ons.

gang bangs are like visions into hell for me. and i guess that's why i can jerk off to them and wonder how such women don't actually rule the world. she has NO idea who or what she is and has done.

she's been told other things, and that's what keeps her nervously dancing the jig with the multiple arms of a goddess.

so that's why i jerk off to this one. it horrifies me. the sounds in the background are like stephen sayadian's sounds of hell in the final threesome scene where two girls fuck each other with tongues that enlarged like cow tongues and the devil's cock unfurls like a fat draw bridge.

i only have been able to jerk off to this one until the guy in chinos fucks her with his pants on while she's sucking off the leader alpha guy. then the spell is broken, the tension is broken, and i know how such movies end. with a metaphorical or literal spooge in the face just to remind her who and what they want her to think she is.

that's why gang bangs also feel more like thinly-veiled homosexual gang bangs. frustrated men jerking off to each other, but using a caricature of a woman as an excuse.

that's the crooked part. there are many in sex. some would argue it's the repository of our human crookedness!

and thus, another group of men jerk off into their own faces and the beat goes on. no orgasms beyond the orgasms...

that's what porn promises but like many regular relationships, never delivers because it simply can't...

http://www.youjizz.com/videos/karen-dean-stranger-gangbang-2181760.html

the japanese are running away with porn and leaving us all crudely humping the stone age. sometimes they get it horribly wrong with nails-on-chalkboard sexual ideas, but that's the "leakage" of being horribly RIGHT...

http://www.youjizz.com/videos/mother-and-daughter-bus-trip-2238431.html

the japanese have perfected the beautiful balance of molestation done right. done so that you end up getting off instead of going to therapy for 30 years. i don't know the actual culture, but i'm just jerking off to the snuff porn of life and you can't rationalize a hard on or wet pussy.

don't even fucking TRY. and that's why the japanese leave us in the dust. we're reading about being in the here and now and eating grass-fed beef but you can't expect the same of your porn. it's often the most sickest, cheetos-infested porn that's the hottest because you know it's not too precious to complain about something you did later.

harlots are the ones reared on high fructose corn syrup of keeping secrets for an eternity.

(that's kinda' the problem)

http://www.youjizz.com/videos/japan-sex-school-2261087.html

and this one below, i love because of its lack of theatre and i love the real tits, fresh pussy hair (i get so many sympathetic pangs from pussy hair stubble. ugh!) / and i LOVE how it feels like they just met and get the small talk out of the way and eat pussy. that's my fantasy and why i'm not a real "lesbian."

i like the simpler silence of men so i can think other thoughts and not worry i'm gonna get in trouble for missing a non-verbal detail later on.

women's bodies are fucking amazing.

http://www.youjizz.com/videos/hairy-marie-and-sativa-2187303.html

 again, like real emotions, milky reality is its own fetish, and a flinch of cream below is the hottest part of the entire thing...

http://www.youjizz.com/videos/mature-woman-seduces-younger-girl-and-fucking-on-lesbian-action-178655.html

and even though this one below is almost insufferable because of the late seventies/early '80s misty lesbian thing, it reminds me most of going down on sandra may with how silky it all looks in its reality...

http://www.youjizz.com/videos/obsessed-lesbian-scene-183537.html

and this is a creepy old man one that can simultaneously make you wanna hurl and jerk off at the same time if you can decide this girl's sacrifice won't be in vain, and you'll jerk off to the beauty of all our humanity, even when it's old, warty, and ugh...

i have to be able to jerk off to death to even talk about this one right now, as it's BEYOND any "beauty and the beast" fantasy because the reality of how this girl even ENDED UP HERE is like a gang bang to me. in private. with no management to keep an eye on things.

(fuck.. she's so young.)

but what you're seeing with her, is an ethereal ability to learn to see the beauty in ANYTHING and ANYONE. you have to when you're naked with it. stockholm syndrome.

and often in the  most seemingly creepy and crooked relationships, there's a secret, untouchable holiness and humanity.

unless you've been the harlot or splashed around in the sleaze, you wouldn't understand.

because in the end, no one's disgusting. it's what we do that's disgusting, how we do it, etcetera.

sometimes in our quest for the orgasms beyond the orgasms, we club baby kittens to death. we forget to ask ourselves if it's good for us, is it ultimately good for everyone?

that's the test.

anyhow, this is a touchy subject to discuss in "mixed company" of people who just watch and don't truly understand such darkness and merely judge or fear it (rightly so. you CAN go insane here very easily and not make it back).

and i've already had myself right and well this morning. so we'll move on...

http://www.youjizz.com/videos/old-fat-man-and-sweet-teen-fuck-in-the-park-151918.html

this is another below, one that's sweet only in the creepiest moments of "oh my god, he's so old and flabby in his spirit and soul, he has to wear a fucking COCK RING to keep it up for this fucking angel to suck his dick???"

eeeeeek.

but it's so wrong wrong wrong, you have to thank her and not waste it.

(these ARE snuff films in a way, and the most naked ones i jerk off to out of some kind of ...i don't know. connection? empathy?)

like a lot of us girls who got creeped out by what we've fucked or sucked, we have to learn to also jerk off to it all eventually because when you click into what makes you the same, instead of separate and insane, you can transcend it all....

(if you're lucky)

http://www.youjizz.com/videos/bea-park-bj-old-man-2283396.html

and this one below was one of my more alarming favorites.

it feels like a "stately room" in bangkok or manila or somewhere you double your income by taping the whole thing in the first place. as you have traveling business clientele, or tourists, you do what you can while you've got 'em.

gift shop on the way out of dirty panties draped on a boutique scarf tree? soon! soon! 

http://www.youjizz.com/videos/asian-hottie-does-old-man-2204280.html

plus the old guy reminds me of someone i knew in jersey as a kid. friend of the family and is really, really into god and jesus. the papa kind where jesus is blond.

and that he'd be visiting a hooker ("girlfriend") in another land every six months and fuck her like THAT?

wow. that's an added hot level of "wrong." hypocrisy or REALITY is hot when it's unearthed and jerked off to.

anyhow, this woman's poor and her tattoo on her back would cost more than everything in that room. i've seen those blankets in the trash before outside in the bronx. they're like broken foam and homeless people end up with them. 

it's at the end of her bed.

and she's fucking a white guy with a camera in the corner,

and she goes into that out of body place a lot of us girls have had to go to to wait for it all to be over.

how she does the lower professional's quick "kiss"-and turnaway move? she does what she has to to get a decent tip and a return customer six months from now. the fantasy that she wants to kiss him back. and when white men discovered the clitoris, it was a whore's nightmare because then they discreetly had to move hands away and cover up their real maidenhood because pleasure is private and something you give and share with someone.

and finally she moves his hand from her pussy when he's off and running. 

(don't dare think of me and my pleasure, because if you did, you wouldn't BE here)

it's all so half-assed. 

but he fucks her like it's his last fuck ever before he goes out to sea and dies of scurvy,

and for that, you've gotta jerk off out of gratitude for them sharing their humanity.

i'm as fucked up as everyone.

that's why i can jerk off to anything.

it's that he who hasn't sinned, pick up the first stone thing.

it's like saying thank you for showing me yourself and myself.

and what is purer than the sexual act? 

i get it.

even as it all contradicts itself.

it's the darkness that creeps out.

but you have to GO there to see it's ALL HOLY.

we can transcend beyond jerking off into each others' faces.

the orgasms beyond the orgasms...

words. / names.

i don't like the words god so much or "higher spirit," "holy spirit," and even the word "light" makes me itch and i had to read more of marquis de sade's "juliette" today. it's also like fucking necessary scripture. matt bright was RIGHT. 


anyhow, if i don't balance all this talk of goodness and light and CHASTITY (imagine that!), i feel like i'm about to sit in church with my legs crossed for an eternity, or at the very least, sprawled bonelessly in a hot tub and imagining space ships.


it's "sedentary." 


lazy.


and the ships could be there, but i'm more preoccupied with what is already here with me on the ground.
magic and telepathy are now commonplace. ordinary in their specialness. part of the conversational cues, like when you touch your neck or shake your foot nervously.


and the words floating around like letters in your soup... ? like Opium parfum, they've all got too much corporate baggage shtick that isn't even mine, never was, and i'm not going to be lazy enough to take it on. i'll just have to take it off later at some point.


you always do.


anyhow, i prefer the more stable, skinless, flying, stoned, loving, connected state i'm talking about to be called "the orgasms beyond the orgasms." it inspires me and makes me smile. remember. it's ENERGETIC, moving, kinetic. 


so much less passive than liberal elite higher spirits that just seem to sit there floating too politely in the lotus position, in their expensive yoga pants feeling smug and self-important in their prescribed peace before the zen alarm goes off.


(that has and can be me, too.)


the orgasms beyond the orgasms...


yeah...


it's fucking be bop, y'all...


i feel kinetic energy and movement. rush rush rush of excitement and time, even as time is compressed now. i want my words to grow and outgrow their specificity the moment i say them. it keeps me humble and curious. essential for the rain dance to not become shtick.


i want my words to rush to infest my mouth like streaming cock roaches running from the sprays of death and time---and then i want them to leave again right away when they learn there's no rest for the wicked.


and i was looking for Ordained Guidance, but oddly enough, it eludes me like the molestations i craved as a child. 


now i believe that the people out there who officially call themselves gurus and masters at this stuff? i think they had a moment or two that blew their reality a bit, grabbed it, had it bronzed, then had the cards made up.


but while miracles are amazing and everywhere, they inspire eternally, but expire instantly---like raw, unpasturized milk---and you must always toddle out innocently and rain dance for new miracles.


so beware. i think that the REAL ones who know what they're doing actually DON'T know what they're doing. they almost wing it like the mastery of improv.


to find a spiritual teacher, it's like you have to find a peer. then you see yourself instead of facing the cold pedestals you lazily want to put others on so you don't have to do the hero work. true teachers never know enough to stop learning alongside you. it's a self-cancelling thing, i think. the moment you want a dime store "god," that's the moment you're both just playing house.


i think you have to not know and scare yourself silly to really learn because you'll wanna forget the moment you learn, and sit on the sofa and your laurels.


anyhow, i'm not gonna become "kitten lopez." it was a cartoon diversion from myself. my humor often chickens out and finds the first hackneyed joke to live by or on. i insult myself. it is shtick. it's lazy. it's harder to figure this out anew.


so i have to re-name my new perfume and my direction. i'm going to call it "Eriquita." that's the diminutive form of my name, and only the closest members of my family ever called me that, and they called me that when they loved and adored me.


it's the opposite of saying "erika christine lopez!"


it's eriquita, and means little erika. when you roll your "r"s, you'll find you've moved forward about ten feet. try it. you have to force yourself to stand still with your hands at your side. roll your "r"s; you'll see...


when my mom or grandmother said it (even without rolling Rs), i'd melt like a boneless kitty cat rolling down the stairs and i'd become their beloved eriquita.


and now that i've grown up to become the little girl i've always wanted to be, i'm eating my supper backwards and living life upside down. i could never wait to be an old lady until now that i've been one.


i don't know who "eriquita" is right now. but that's part of the strands that are making me. and it keeps my family with me now that we all have to leave each other for now.


i have the perfume that's like a flashlight. it's like my soundtrack now. my cloak. my sword. my future!


i can mix my metaphors because it's all a game of salad.


i'm going to risk being smaller in everything but how i love.


...or maybe especially in how i love?


i'm not sure. the same "notes" keep coming up about smallness being massive, etcetera. i don't know HOW to be small very often, so i'm twirling around in paradoxes, and depending on the location of the sun, i have to be ever vigilant that i'm not resting on an earlier answer that ceases to be relevant by 4 pm.


i think the next thing i need to learn is to bring about that floating stoned post-orgasmic feeling that i feel duplicated in a myriad of different ways--after a spontaneous adventure with a person who was willing to meet me at every point and go further until we blew each of our minds; after a lazy morning fuck; in the gym; while dancing; a great conversation; standing up against authority for something larger than "moi"; and of course getting lost in art that unfolds like a reverse murder mystery, making new life instead.


if i can learn to focus again on the intensity of those farther than me, i won't flinch from the intensity when it blows my head off in tiny or big or platonic or gooey love affairs everywhere.


that's the shit that's like coming in your pants and skulking away imagining all the things you would've said if you had a phrase book for the cool. quivering up next to god, and running away because you're about to pee your pants and you're worried about wet spots with god?


god moves were MADE for wet spots of all kinds, anywhere, anytime.


smile and shrug and be thanking your lucky stars you WEREN'T caught dry. that's a sin! you might as well be dead and save the water for someone who won't fucking WASTE it.


anyhow, to hold back because of the leakage?


total pussy move. leakage and madness are essential dues for genius and the orgasms beyond the orgasms. so i'm gonna learn how to go chin out on this being small and vulnerable thing.


a knife in one hand / my heart in the other.


and if i wet my pants? well... i'll just have to learn to get off on the terror of embarrassment and letting another public fear go away like dandelion fluff.


"eriquita." how the FUCK am i supposed to do this? this is what i mean by fear. it terrifies me enough to find it fascinating and meaty to inspire and terrify for a long time coming.


the more terrifying, the better you can get off. the higher you fly when you didn't go splat.
and the bigger you're willing to go after you do go splat.
what's there to lose?


i mean, really?


that's the secret. another secret that out in the open, doesn't make it any easier.
in fact, it makes it HARDER.
because now you can't pretend you don't know!


ha. / tag....


you're sooooooo "it."


x

The Fragrance Shop New York is actually a superhero sex goddess temple on E. 4th St.

note: i didn't take any other pictures of The Fragrance Shop New York at 65 E. 4th st., other than this one i just took, because i realized that i prefer to walk around without anything in my hands. as i'm learning how i'm going to start to "see" differently with a camera, and just be a human being without any "props" between myself and people i meet, i see that a lot of the most intense magic with others comes when i'm completely unprepared to see a thing. when i'm just in the moment, not expecting much but expecting anything and everything.

if i take photos of others, it'll have to mostly be when we're both in agreement and i get to take you in greedily without doing that discreet thing where i politely look ahead so i can see you walk into my view and take you in without you being aware that i'm staring shamelessly.

i'm very half white. that's why i pilfered shots of the shop (the dog is in my shots) from others who went before me. i'm so half white, i even had to learn to talk about money in polite conversation.

that's why i love sunglasses.

LET'S BEGIN...

okay, so last i think i wrote, i was talking about the magic of how i felt a sudden warm rush of love and NEED at my just having to hear back from my friends and have them let me see them. i thought i'd needed them like water, but she needed me, too. i'm digging this "reciprocal" thang that's going on all the sudden.

so it's like i recalibrate myself and *snap* like that, this visit is pure perfection, and i'm getting the "santero," or high priest of whatever all this nature is, and i'm getting the lesson of a lifetime. 

i'm blown away. it's enough.

sara and i have our own sangha/church/fellowship on sunday and i feel all tingly and alive and in the moment and like time is compressed and irrelevant as she brings the stories and struggles of yore to life for me in the very moment, the here and now.

what i love about the stories of goodness and jesus, are that it doesn't matter to me what is "real" or if "he" existed or not. it's enough that they'd even be IMAGINED so long ago, and then i feel like i'm studying and focusing and emulating a michelangelo lead drawing, and i draw with my safe pencil and won't go mad from lead (albeit from other things), but except for that one thing, there is no time distance. we are human, we are the same, we feel the same things, have the same struggles...

and the reason it is enough for the miracles and goodness in the stories of some jesus guy, is because just as it creeps you out when some writer puts out a creepy ingenious way of having human beings eviscerate each other---if it is imagined, it will be done somewhere.

and so it is with goodness, good deeds, and all that stuff. i don't CARE if there was one jesus because if that's all we were supposed to hope for, we're fucked waiting around for some new messiah to come, when WE are our own messiahs but do we come....?

we are our own messiahs because the stories are there to INSPIRE because if one person lost 10 pounds and walked across water, so can i.

you're not supposed to dwell on the otherness, the superhero divine part. the human part's supposed to inspire.

so if was imagined, it was done. it WAS done because i don't care about waiting around for one perfect love, saviour, etcetera etcetera...

so much to say but my thoughts are already starting to collide and i need to reign them in or i can't leave the house without walking into trees.

okay, so what do i mean when i hear "if it was imagined, it will be done..."?

and we are our own messiahs?

i mean that we are merely human. we need each other. we need to be accepted. it's a broken sociopathic idea to live alone in the woods without anyone. we are drops of water, but we are one body of water.

we need to see examples of what came before so that we may see what is POSSIBLE.

that is what i've been told over and over by the most intense mystical people. some of whom couldn't take it here anymore. the pain of trying to stick around got to be too much in the end, but i'm going to live on for them. i'm going to struggle to put words to ideas they were working on.

we are each like scientists, we artists. no! more like alchemists.

but we KNOW there's something even more powerful than any earthly gold when you get the right elements together. when we're dancing... when we're walking on WATER... yeah...

this is be bop, baby daddio.

anyhow, so alchemists and messiahs...

we need to see ideas bigger than us so that we may strive to walk UP and INTO ourselves. we copy the michelangelo drawings to dare to feel what he felt, we dare to swagger alongside marlene deitrich in "blue angel" because we see her divinity AND humanity...

so then we may climb up to our own!

fuck! i'm getting it! but i'm gonna soon FORGET it. this is trippy sounding and words squirm and become other meanings in front of your very eyes, like a sharkskin suit.

fuck...

okay...

so we're stuck in some beaurocratic reality where we've allowed and succumbed to living our time on here as numbers and polite consumers. fucking CONSUMERS.

we say we adore clint eastwood, but he's make believe. he became a fucking mayor of carmel for crissakes. 

that's fine.

but the REAL lone guy who goes out in real life and loves and calls women "goddess," you excoriate. 

why? because he smoked an entire cigarette on national TV without fucking apologizing like smokers now cower and do outside in the cold?

for what?

for a present, a here and now where liberal elite borrow colored children because they were too busy to have their own and they flinch from midwestern women in blue eye shadow because they're allergic to her perfume?

fuckin' hell.

it IS a struggle between good and evil.

anyhow, so we are our own messiahs because all we have to do is SHOW each other how to be truly divine. we have to go mad and show that it WON'T end up on your personal record for LIFE! and if it does, your "life" was too small for what i'm talking about.

you have to live for an idea. you have to be a part of something bigger than just yourself and your little human fucking NEEDS.

balance.

(fuck, i guess this is the dark side Lalita said i still have)

anyhow, back to this...

(how can you even BE here with me? i swear i've lost my mind)

let me tell the story.

so i love how "if this was imagined, it is enough and it has happened and will happen again."

meaning that i've SEEN little messiahs everywhere all of my life. i've seen heroic acts of love and moments where people step up and BEYOND themselves, and they are in this "skinless" state of grace.

i've SEEN it.

it's the most holy thing you can witness.

and it is why i have a perfect life and childhood. they are the realities that enabled me to imagine good just had to prevail.

and an aside (fuuuuuck! my MIND!) is that james and i talked about this "waiting for him" idea. i love sara's take on me getting back my chastity (LOVE that idea), but i'm not so sure that 14 years nets that kind of "waiting" any longer.

not to say that our love isn't as epic as some love montage where i'm hanging from the rafters in chains with a ball gag in my mouth and my legs suspended and flying behind me while a riding crop writes my entire name on my ass.

oh yeah, i'm talking about Erika CHRISTINE Lopez, y'all.

anyhow, back to messiahs. i think.

anyhow, so james is amazing. he basically said, "i'm a man and won't actually ever like the idea of you being with any man ever again besides me, but i want you to be happy first and foremost and fall in love and experience more of yourself. and we only get closer and closer, so we will trust that our love is deep enough to make it through anything."

james is a messiah to me. i'm not into flaky forms of be in the moment/fuck anyone drifting by, because this kind of relationship makes you treasure the intensity of the energy you have, so you're careful to not contaminate it without outside cheaper imitations of intensity, depth.

but like the flakier forms of free love, i do believe that it's taken a fucking handful of people to prepare me for love affairs! not just former lovers. everyone i treated with the same intensity as a lover. yeah. i'm THAT intense. 

it makes ME go mad, too.

which is actually sanity.

okay, so i'm near new york city at my friend's house. my friend didn't need much in the way of any consoling. she's already starting running and racing, and i see she has the same clarity of mind and intensity that the laura pasik, margaret, and adrienne and i have.

she just is fighting his lethargy, so i basically rephrase some of what she's feeling in vague unsureness, to bring "light" to her intuition. what do i mean? i mean that she intuited in a mystical way, but her logical day brain talked her out of what she knew in her gut. i simply showed her concrete examples of where her intuition actually had facts.

see? this stuff is actually very logical to me. there's no magic. only paying close attention. all you need to see is right there in front of your eyes. but you must always fight the love of fantasy, and yet reality can pose as fantasy...

and there's your constant struggle between good and evil that lalita said life is about. 

goddesses... 

she's a goddess...

which brings me back to faery tales being today's news, and magical realism being reality when you stop living as a yawning drone who's so fucking dead you act cynical and asexual, so "I've seen it all before."

so, my friend is fine and will be fine. she's fighting the vagueness of lethargy and runs again and she will be clear and in the moment with herself and whatever she thinks and feels will be okay because i've also reminded her that there are not only two choices. be creative with boundaries and adhering to them.

this is why i stop when james is not happy and isn't growing. i can "feel" it and i stop even as the most seemingly inopportune time because i know we  have to nip the lethargy in the bud because layers will fucking pile on and then i'll end up in a situation like the one with my friends in the far, far away land.

the one where the woman is a goddess and she made her man and they forgot it wasn't about the tithings of "stuff" and it was killing him and all he wanted to do was jerk off to porn, fuck his wife, smoke cigarettes, and have a beer on his gorgous back lawn. 

that's all he wanted. 

she lost her inspiration and forgot what she really wanted and that's why she invited me there. but she forgot to let go and she wasted me and the moment. i never show up for no reason. i have to be invited in or i look away. i won't even look in people's medicine cabinets.

was the most trustworthy babysitter when i was a kid because i never cared enough about others to look through your shit. i learned whatever i had under my bed was way more interesting by the time i was even ten, because i was fucking patricia's phallic roll on deodorant bottle.

and my final shame is admitting that after she found it covered in my dried up pussy juices and a tissue wrapped around the outside to "disguise" it, i was shameless enough to steal it back again.

and she found it again.

never said a word. 

i used to have so many things covered in dried pussy juices, and it'd be too late in the night to rinse it off and i'd panic when a friend was over and i'd forgotten to rinse off the curling iron and there's nothing like the smell of heated up pussy juices on a black conair teflon curling iron with a yellow handle.

WBLS... 

frankie crocker still makes me hot because i was doing all sorts of wonderfully lascivious things to myself in the mirror at night. who wouldn't wanna be a girl?

but i'm over my black men fetish from when i was a girl. they are just like us. i'm over my baby bird imprinting. they were always tall. lisa was right when she said, "anything less than 6'3" just won't do."

people are just people. my fetishes are childish primary color memories. now i'm into humans who blow my cotton picking mind, i don't care how they're packaged. it's a miracle they often exist at all in this day and age.

anyhow, lisa and me..

we started so young, we need giants to feel safe because we are already goddesses but we forgot.

which is why we must REMIND each other of our superhero divinity! 

look at what i can do! you can too!

which is the opposite of hate yourself/you suck advertising.

look at me. by all rights, i should be dead. apologetic for even being alive this late and ungrateful for my chance to serve some insatiable capitalistic bullshit artist crap. 

artists? where the fuck are all the true artists, long time passing?

anyhow, i'm raving and it's beautiful. i could jerk off except now typing IS a form of jerking off and this is where being skinless and not giving a fuck anymore is so amazing and FUCK YOU...

anyhow, so i'm in the market for new stories about how i'm gonna reinvent myself. i'm looking away from the fantasies of the past and looking for INSPIRATION anywhere, anywhere---wanna read the old testament? great. bring it alive. make it real, allow me tip toe in the steps of michelangelo and i'll give in for as long as i can stand the light...

and for the last decade (or more, actually), i've ceased to do anything for myself for any real joy or pleasure or seeming indulgence.

my birth certificate for example. lost the original long form with my feet and time of birth. some people over the past 25 years have always wanted to do these readings on me to explain shit to me, and i'm game but never wanted to be like john coltrane, and hear i'm from some dark constellation of planets and that i'm gonna die young, because there's no "woo woo" about it when you're a fucking HEROIN addict and maybe...

just maybe you're gonna die young...

so i don't wanna take stories too seriously. they change depending on your wisdom and how much shit you REALIZE you don't know and will NEVER know.

and so now i'm gonna take my own advice to charlie sheen and notch this shit UP, and i've lost MY inspiration about what the fuck i CAN do in my time i'm allowed to fuck up and play here on this earth and so i need INSPIRATION

i'll get it anywhere i can. but i've gotta move... go toward the energy... always MOOOOVE... move away from feeling bad... (yeah, i get it, Lalita!)...

and so i'm gonna tell the woman i trust with my chart and my sanity, and i'm gonna give her my time of birth because the other one wanted to be my psycho lover and talk about NEVER TRUSTING SUCH A WOMAN. you fall asleep around a woman like that and you're a zombie if you're not vigilant.

so i trust suzanne rush and she's realistic enough to tell me to go absurdly macro, but help give me the perameters of "reality." meaning that as "insane" as i may seem to many of you, i'm SUPER careful about trusting my manias on the ungrounded. i think this is how i feel i'm in service of a greater "idea." i feel fortified by the likes of james, laura, dorothy, and so, so many others. it's overwhelming. i don't want to let them down of their investments, no matter how small. they are each like those kids in the hospitals who beg you to make a home run.

you'd be just as fine jerking off, fucking your wife, and drinking beer and smoking in your back yard admiring your lush lawn, but home run? and you've got nothing better to do so you oblige. it's all very blue collar.

jesuses everywhere. if it can be imagined, it's been done. 

and you've seen the holy moments yourself. 

sara is funny because she "seems" naive to others who look at their screens too much, but she sees between the atoms. and she told me the story of a little "crazy" boy who's nine years old and she was helping him take a test, and he was supposed to find the antonyms and he didn't choose the most obvious ones like cold and hot because he found the nuance in the "expensive" and "cheap" one.

he went on a long treatise about overpaying for inferior quality (which says a lot about his mother's rants of buying crap), and cheap not necessarily meaning inferior quality, and sara looked broken hearted as she laughed a sad laugh and said, "he's nine years old, considered special needs and in these remedial classes and he answered ABOVE the actual answer! nine years old. he got more than the answer, and yet he answered 'wrong.'" 

her heart was broken because how do you love children for real, and see the sausage factory of genius minds? he is already physically fucked with and twisted with prescription drugs and labeled all sorts of things and he sees ABOVE the fucking "answer."

this is what we do to our prophets, artists, rebels.

this has all been written about before. 

split apart into many fables and woven back into one? who CARES? if it is imagined, it has been done...again and again and again.

but now the numbers are more in your favor than ever before. you don't have to die alone as much.

you have to choose between being a consumer and alive as a human. 

money and god.

so now that i need new stories and inspiration, i will ask suzanne rush to tell me of epic possibilities, and if i find the adventure exciting after sleeping on it, then i will try to oblige and make a home run.

for the ones who come after me. so they know what it is possible and try to reach beyond me so that we may all live forever and be each others and our own messiahs. 

that's all you can do.

this is how to retaliate when you want to fall in love with the snake fucker and you can't have what you want when you want it. you try to behave because little ones are involved so then it changes how you DO everything because you know that even thoughts are like waves and dandelion fluff and you don't want such power to hurt them as it has you.

when your parents are gods and their fights still rain down on you for years. it's time to give it up. be free of their darkness. so much to say good bye to.

anyhow, so i seem all swaggery in how i can traipse all over the world, but others do my schedules and set things up and i've got deadlines of somewhere to be for someone else. and i never go on easter egg hunts just for myself. it's gotta have only some greater goal in mind.

this is the fucked up german side of cheapness that thinks you can't put the heat on when you're alone. someone else always has to be there for you to be comfortable. ugh.

anyhow, so i get panicky and afraid of not having anyone expect me and i think that i've become so rigid in only doing things if they're for others or others are involved. 

i used to live life according to the adventure i forsaw, and i promised myself that i'd always live that way, but i punked out. i got cheap. forgot you have to BE comfortable. when i gave up everything to be white, i learned to submerge and hate myself like so many women without expressions for modern times have.

what do you see? feel? we cannot find our way when we cannot see ourselves reflected in your faces. or we see ourselves and we've learned to jerk off on everyone's faces, including our own.

so i try not to let go anymore. be more uptight. i'm already crazy enough. more than i can handle myself at times. i sound so fucking POLLYANNA. but i'm not spacey. never a space cadet.

i think i need to be a little spacier.

and i get afraid of being lost. lost and hurt. and ignored and left to die! how insane! this is how i FIND myself. because i can get hyper focused on details and really GET lost! my head's been like this since i was a young runaway and i'm not one anymore. i have to be aware but not panicky like everyone is nowadays. 

actually, i get like sara's kid. i don't necessarily see their logic, but i have my own lateral logic that doesn't make any sense in the real world and i used to miss trains or spend time backtracking and paying fees.

on foot, i used to suddenly look up and find myself in a touchy situation and have to do fancy footwork to get out. 

but i've always been safe. i've not ever been harmed when i then turn to focus on who i'm with.

so it's epic for me to just go off on my own and hope to find something without meandering all over the place and in people's backyards. (given free time, i go off on larks)

so i make it back home and feel like a teenager going far away on her own for the first time.

next day, i'm tired. willing to stop while i'm ahead.

but just as the birth certificate took 25 years in getting, there was one other place i've wanted to visit for the past 8 or so years. 

The Fragrance Shop New York.

let me just start by saying that i don't put too much credence into coincidences and such. they happen all the time when you're living "right," and are therefore to be expected. however, they point to a general direction for me. a pat on the back that this is the right way when i'm worrying that i'm aimlessly meandering in life and not focused or driven enough.

i must find the balance. 

anyhow, quickly:

when i was 11 i wanted to reconnect with the puerto rican side of the family in new york. they'd left manhattan (spanish harlem) years earlier for the bronx, and my grandmother, grandfather, and uncle jimmy were living i think on decatur off gun hill road. up by the cemetery. 

and my mother was no longer a lesbian and fell in love with my uncle jimmy and they ran off and i'd had it with my mother not being "normal and boring," so i stayed with my grandmother in the bronx.

but while my mother and jimmy were courting, jimmy would take me to the movies and buy me grown up clothes at alexander's. he was a salsa musician and for work he did music at la mama theatre, and i got to show up and hang out back when all the white women in their twenties looked like gilda radner or lorraine newman, scrawny with leotards and hairy armpits and a lot of beautiful flair for drama and laughter. 

i saw ellen stewart when she had black hair. she burned into my memory as a fierce superhero goddess. you may forget the facial details, but the feeling is always the same. that's why i jumped up and down with the six year old chubby girls watching their baby fat tits jiggle in the mirror. 

they ran from me out of embarrassment, then i said, no! jump! you make me feel beautiful too and wanna jump! never forget to jump as long as you can!

anyhow, after la mama's

they went to phebe's afterwards, and i remembered it all.

but i didn't even NOTICE i was back on the same fucking street some 25 years later, when emily rems first produced my solo show at WOW theatre, 4 flights up. i didn't notice until emily mentioned la mama was across the street.

fuck the chronology. new york's a decent sized town and a constant return to the same block over many years, milestones as a dreamer, artist, superhero sex goddess (smile)---it's a sweet little walk down memory lane with all the big points underlined and italicized on east 4th street. keeps it simple for me. 

but 8 years ago i didn't see any of this magic right there all around me, i was working working working and all i really noticed in the moment was judy mc guire, the writer who opened for me, the scent she was wearing was the cleanest, most innocent and powerful thing i'd inhaled in a long time.

judy gave me the rest of her 1/2 oz. bottle, i forget the scent and it's back in san franciso, but it was from The Fragrance Shop New York and i used it, and knew i had to order more.

over the past 8 years or so, i've been to the city many times but never seemed to make it when it was on 7th street, and i didn't want to have even the most modest expectations be dashed by a smarmy corporate little store i can find anywhere.

when you leave corporate scent, and do custom anything, it's like a gynecological exam if you do it right and turn yourself over to the artist. that's when you get their most inspired work. an artist trusted will return the favor twenty-fold.

and forever. they never run out.

but i was up early, and the day was more beautiful than the day before when i successfully got my birth certificate ordered and ate 2 perfectly crisp and foldable slices of new york pizza before i got on the train back.

so i walked through places where my parents met and lived, and when i saw phebe's at the corner, i smiled and knew i was having the perfect adventure. nothing had gone wrong at all.

and it kept getting better as i passed la mama's and where i first smelled the oils that stayed with me for years, and it was just upstairs on the block and here i was, on the same block some 8 years later, and it seemed it, along with a leather shop, were the last of the kind of stores you used to find there not too long ago. 

i'm so lucky to even remember.

but The Fragrance Shop New York is Lalita's shop, and when you read yelp reviews, it's two things to people: to some, they're confused about the concept and go in blustery and expecting some corporate-contrived customer service. 

to others, it's a fucking goddess temple, and they go to be annointed and protected and loved by Lalita. it's a small token offering that Lalita even charges $10 for her to customize your scent for you. (apparently the rare and courageous man goes there, too, but he'd forever be a visitor on a day pass, no matter how 'extended' it may seem. it's more divinely feminine than the ladies room in radio city music hall.)

anyhow, Lalita, she's a fucking PAINTER with scent, and she gives you something you can or need to "walk into."

 like any superhero sex love goddess, Lalita tries to make you feel like you're a part of the process by having you pick out the scents you're attracted to. but i bet if she had a better take, she'd steer you correctly. she's an artist. i knew it when i smelled the quality of the first oil years earlier. it's "clean." it just feels right.

 this sounds like a commercial, but it's not. i'm telling you that if you're in the process of reinventing yourself, fragrance is like a superhero shield. 

even though californians hate any stink that isn't their own, i've decided that i'd LOVE it if people flinched from me more often, so i'd been thinking of how to add scent to my transformation. i watched lalita take the two high school girls being "done" before me, and heard how lalita had helped evolve and deepen and strengthen their former simpler girly or fruity scents and add something to "slink and swagger" up to with ferocity.

and i told them that if they are even there doing this each time they need help reinventing (high school's about over), then they are magical and "know" how to step into bigger selves and never be bored or dead. they will swagger. i said, you know.

and kristin smiled knowingly. when i reminded her soccer friend, nora, how it feels to kick ass, she smiled and got it, too. 

they were fucking gorgeous. 

 anyhow, while kristin and nora were letting scents and concoctions and tweakings warm to their skin, Lalita danced droppers on and off my arm as i talked and got to know the girls. she was paying attention. listening. 

now that i know men can love in mystical, supernatural ways, i see artists EVERYWHERE, and i know that this is Lalita's life service. these are like blessings of protection, and they are clean. like a sheet of white paper.

i feel like i have to honor her work and live up to her powers! like sitting with your shoulders back.

i sound insane and all california woo woo, i KNOW. and if it weren't for beautiful soft and hard assed jane, who came in from the sudden spring rain shower, and she was old new york in your veins. that means that she'll tell you to go fuck yourself in a new york minute, but she'll be the first one to help you out if you trip over your shoe laces.

i felt normal when she ranted about confronting a snarky rude guy she was in a business meeting with. she interrupted him and said, "excuse me, but you're being really sarcastic and rude."

he said, "sorry, that's just how i am."

"how you ARE?" she confronted. "that's like getting into a car and running over me again and again and telling me 'sorry, that's just how i am.' it's mean and rude and disrespectful. stop it."

i've said the same thing.

it was gorgeous that the high school girls were watching. how could they not? we were in 10 square feet of space, if that.

then we got onto women needing to love themselves and all the surgeries she's seeing with women our age (she was 50), and the girls took it in.

lalita said plastic surgery was like a wound, a pain. i feel the same way. like a fresh pain and i can't look directly at a procedure, while i love watching my own blood get drawn. it is rich and proud blood, swaggering into the vial!

anyhow, jane thought we were all best friends. nope. 

it was more fellowship. more sangha. more church.

and then they all left and that's when Lalita said i was supposed to be there, and she was so glad. and that it was taking 20 different oils to make my own personal scent. the most complicated one she's ever made in 20 years, she said.

i don't brag, i confess.

i confess that i'm going to go as big as i can, next. 

i've nothing to lose! but my imagination is too small now.

i need to think even SMALLER, though. and that is bigger somehow.
everything is a paradox and its inverse could be the lesson. i know squat.

so

i let it be known i wanted something CRAZY BIG and MYSTICAL i could WALK INTO.

and she saw into me as i've seen into others, and she saw all the darkness i still have to let go of.

i told sara i was afraid. what if i sounded even more woo woo? i'd have to beat myself up just to STAND myself and all this love crap.

but Lalita was right. we each have the ability to go here, be here. not feel pain or suffering. forgive.

 be in love when you're not "in love" with anyone in particular. i think that's a starting off point, but it's tragic to let it be a transient feeling when i think it's the POINT.

it's why james says he wants that crazy in love transcendence, and he wants me to have it, too.

it's why we must find solidity in our ability to always grow and move, and never be stagnant for the perceived "safety" of another. interestingly, it's "safer" to strengthen your loved one.

to encourage them to dance, and often.

it's obvious the pain is unnecessary and Lalita said the same thing. she's from thailand and raised buddhist, but she also gets her Truth and inspiration from EVERYWHERE. she told me to read the scriptures. funny, but only SHE could tell me that and have me willing to do it.

and i just met her. and yet i felt i'd known her forever.

i knew her better than people i've known for years. and i felt overwhelmed with all this lightness. she said it was the holy spirit, and god. she's buddhist, so i can take her "everything" notion of god. although the "papa" god is all one in the same.

we're all saying the same thing. you can see it in sara's eyes and lalita's eyes. there's a strength and a kindness and an unconditional love.

that's what i want to learn next.

i want to let go of my parents' stories and now be free to live my own starting here and now. history's fine, but it's just another story. a launching point to use what you want to inspire or use throughlines.

fuck shakespeare's 7 basic plotlines. this archaic shit knew it all along.

we all want a chance to be a hero.

that's the messiah thing. 

how i save myself by being what i want to fuck and who i want to fuck.

in the photo of the new "Kitten Lopez Perfume," i include one of the fedora's i'm gonna start wearing, along with the chain bracelet i got during my "flaming iguanas" trip in arizona years ago, and the silver cuff i got in arizona as it reminded me of pen and ink. 

it's the stuff i use to walk into who i want to become. the amulets. the spells.

anyhow, i was so overwhelmed and tripped out by the sudden "lightness" and love i felt from Lalita, i asked her if she saw it, too. she said she did. 

and it was like i'd finally found the lover who'd admit the magic with me, and not run away in terror. 

this time i was the shocked one. i didn't want to leave, but i could see how it can be overwhelming when you're not prepared for it. 

and Lalita was smiling like this is her normal state. she must be like sara's student, daniel, and answer below the answer when people think this is a fucking SHOP.

it's a goddess temple and when Lalita told me that my service was to tell young girls things like i did the high school girls, she reminded me that i don't need anyone to greenlight how i live or what i tell anyone. 

she saw a lot of darkness, still, and said a lot of amazing things i'm too tired to write right now, but i felt like here i was again, living in a goddamn faery tale, and i'd wandered into another dimension where it's like i'm in the alchemist's chambers.

and the other women felt it, too. 

so i'm not "imagining" things. 

i'm scared. i'm going to take my "advice" to charlie sheen and let go even further. i get so scared i'll one day let go to the last tiny thread i have to basic humanity. i'm two tantrums away from being chained to a pipe with a drain in the middle of a tiled room.

so what will happen if i let go of the last saltiness?

better than me, she also pulls inspiration from EVERYWHERE when she weaves your scent into you and who you want to become. she asked what month was i born, asked about my folks, said stuff about 20 bottles to make my scent. where was i at 20?

go back and forgive yourself and them. everyone.

she was all about forgiveness.

and she's right. i forgive. i need to work at forgiving myself. even now. 

it's soooo hard.

it's so easy to succumb to the self indulgent lethargy and laziness of self-hate.

i felt bathed. she explained so much that i want to keep to myself. that's why no camera. 

i wanted to see and feel with my body.

she reminded me things must feel good in all chakras, and the answer is right.

(same concept as avoiding lethargy and those who make you feel lethargic around them--it's deadly and passive and creepy. it's what saps me. emotions don't zap me. indirect layered creepiness does. it's exhausting to constantly try and deflect but see UNDERNEATH it. so i prefer simple direct honest people who have the courage to tell me THEIR truth. i can work with that and even spoil them better when they know what gets them off)

anyhow, 

after two hours of beautiful intensity, i left into the sunshine and the wet sidewalk like i'd been cleaned. 

and i knew that everything is going as it's supposed to. life is amazing and i can't believe i get to be this happy without some fucking bout of cancer or something. 

so i'm telling you the truth of The Fragrance Shop New York. it's a goddess temple for women to heal and become MORE of themselves, and love themselves, and it's in the playtime guise of a tiny little shop. 

it's mystical. it's divine, it's fucking HUMAN. stop being consumers. live, breathe, sweat, be messy, hairy, inhale, swallow... fucking inhale then swallow and sweat and live. be creative. 

that's why i'm here. Lalita said the same thing as that old cha cha girl goddess i met on the plane. our jobs here are to make others feel good about themselves. 

fuck, it's the ONLY thing! saying "look at me!" gets so fucking boring after ten minutes.

look at you! you're fucking perfection as you are.

this is the oldest simplest story of all. you're precious, perfection, beautiful, amazing... 

just...

besos,

x