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DIARY OF A CALIFORNICATOR IX

"My friend Brandon comes over for creative night. We light joints, sandalwood candles and spread paint all over my home. We listen to Squirrel Nut Zippers and Moby and open our veins. We spill our blood onto canvas. His comes out in bright canary colored yellow joy bubbles while mine comes out in miniature scaled feathers over a deep and tumultuous Irish ocean. The spirit guides are with me as the Ides of March stride in deep poesy fashion out to a crystal Banshee tended water oblivion, neglected of solid guarantee, yet still I dance."

by Kimberly Nichols

COPYRIGHT © 2001, 3 A.M. MAGAZINE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


No matter how much you've grown up and away, your childhood manages to continually bite you in the ass. These are the moments in your life where you truly go crazy; case in point:

1. One minute I am drinking a beer with my mother while my father chides me about my lack of fiscal responsibility and the next thing you know I am at Borders book store bawling my eyes out with headphones on listening to Bee Gees, Bikini Kill, Belle and Sebastian and Pizzicato Five.

2. Spirituality and health? What is that?

3. I think of my dead father, I tell my lover I need space, I want to close my eyes and fall into a pink bordello lined with down feathers and the answers to all of my pain.

4. March is musical. On my birthday my lover and I drive to UCLA for All Tomorrow's Parties. Sleater-Kinney plays to an intimate crowd and I dance around while continually ramming into the kissing goth couple behind me. Every time my thighs accidentally poke into eyeliner boy's hand he cops a feel that sends me reeling into fantastical threesome land. His girlfriend isn't bad either with her fuschia shadow and little girl stare. I am falling down fearlessly amid Janet Buck's heart sweat drumming. By the time I land wistfully into my lover's lap, sweating and defeated for a dose of Wilco at the end of the evening, I have come to find that love is more in the gentle caress at midnight than in the rainy dreams pre-dawn or in the eternal line for Aphex Twin.

5. "Something in my veins is bloodier than blood."

6. Segue.

7. Day two in LA sends me reeling for the Hustler store to buy cheap nail polish, Ocean scented perfume and meals at Argentine Grills where girls sucker my lover for their attentions in the silk clothes they procure in half tinted tops with breasts spilling out.

8. The world is so full of allure. Discernment is the key to Zen. And falling down gracefully.

9. Red wine, windy day, cool skies, children playing outside. I just finished painting a massive blue sea and the green clouds are raining and desire wafts around on balloons in the springtime.

10. My best friend is moving to Italy to marry her man. To have bambinos and heatwaves and hammocks and sun. I spend Sunday with her in a send off fashion with her dog, good bud, my art, her breezes, and our hearts. We talk about love/hate relationships, the ego and faith.

11. I talk to P on my birthday. I am at home and slightly buzzed, brewskies in the afternoon and words that come rumbling out of my keyboard into schizophrenic piles. I am trying to make sense of it all in a world that is "not all about me". I tell him about Sunday and how I spent a half an hour in my car looking into the rearview mirror and introducing maturity to my face with glee. He tells me that he has been experiencing the same thing.

12. My friend Brandon comes over for creative night. We light joints, sandalwood candles and spread paint all over my home. We listen to Squirrel Nut Zippers and Moby and open our veins. We spill our blood onto canvas. His comes out in bright canary colored yellow joy bubbles while mine comes out in miniature scaled feathers over a deep and tumultuous Irish ocean. The spirit guides are with me as the Ides of March stride in deep poesy fashion out to a crystal Banshee tended water oblivion, neglected of solid guarantee, yet still I dance.

13. Because I have to. My blood is made of Merlot tainted thorns and everything I do becomes buried in that burgundy graveyard.

14. Convertibles are down. The town is growing restless. The drought this year has left our hearts absent of purple wildflowers but not absent of the recluse abandon. At a gay bar on Friday I drink with old queens. We toast the poor rich boys in their false label denim.

15. I am falling gracefully. I am open to trust. I want silver lined pillows in my hell bed. I want gold trimmed heartache in heaven. The perfect duality rests at my feet, strokes my brow carelessly as the days waltz onward.

16. Seeing eye to eye. When does humanity decide to take that stance? I don't know. Schizophrenic Spring. Where nudity lies steeped in the gutter with old cigarette butts, wisps of bliss, half-and-half innuendoes and circus type acts.

17. In the book Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco, I find the facts. Salvation is granted to the ugly and nobody else. And Oscar Wilde says that one's real life is often the one that one does not lead. Four years ago I dreamt of a man in a brown felt suit floating with me around a tree and today I think he is living somewhere, egging me on to the forest of my dreams.

18. I have dreams about stuffing indigo poppies into my mouth. I don't know if I am trying to feed my self with the strength of voice that I need or if I am truly trying to just overdose on the blues.

All in a day's work my son; all in a day's work young man.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kimberly Nichols is a freelance writer/artist/burgundy spaghetti strapped Raggedy Anne in fishnets, living in the California desert. She attributes lust, hedonism, the electromagnetic field and white light as pure motivation in her drive towards omniscience. When she isn't glued to her computer screen she can be found dancing barefoot at drum circles, skinny dipping in the ocean, scouring the desert for cactus skeletons to pose people upon or gathering a good blistering drunk with fine friends and sangria. Her psychological non-fiction appears frequently in the alternative rag Desert Post Weekly. She has been published in Alternative Arts and Literature, Small Spiral Notebook and Feminista and is currently at work on a collage series called Girls of the hundred Proof Bordello Define Desire. Let her write on your back with thorns, wine or iodine and she'll paste you on a rusty nail in one of her paintings.








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