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DIARY OF A CALIFORNICATOR VIII

"I took a pile of old writing and burned it to the ground. It was ugly and LOUD. Back in the day when I was looking for a way to use art as urinal. I would interview boys like Zemilio on myth, fantasy women, gorillas and forests. I would read Darcey Steinke's Suicide Blonde and Blake Nelson's Girl and feel like an original gutter boot stomper. I would write stories about band geeks who smoked menthols, carried lighters in their underwear and dated sexy Mexican girls. I would attend parties for the last gigs of discordance, and bring skeletons out of the closet to dance till dawn with. Back in the day when rage was the perpetually hip accessory."

by Kimberly Nichols

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


February is luscious and indecisive. It is full of the color red and embers. I find myself ripe with one million emotions and nothing. I feel growing pains in my mind. It is a month of eating figs and livers in a cavern of desire where all of my friends turn into mirrors. The underground wolf with the handful of currants comes asking for a little Valentine's Day parade. My friend P tells me that everything I do is funneled through a love tunnel and I feel on fire.

Smith has been talking about blowing this town for ages. But he changes his mind every time he gets a new girlfriend. He's been seeing Melanie for a few months now and when he shows me his photo album I see pictures of her, asleep in the morning, caramel colored beige hair mussed up, a curvaceous leg sticking out from the sheets. He calls her his beacon of light. He is still in that stage of life where his only salvation comes from another.

My lover and I talk about everything. We decide to grow rather than battle. Sex turns luscious.

I am sitting in the Indian food joint one day, drinking a beer while waiting for my lover and I start to bat my eyes at an Indian girl at the table across from mine. I think about shadows and the way our deepest ones take hold in the middle of nowhere. And then the next thing I know, I hear myself singing "Let's play" and whispering "Let's play" and "you know you really want to" and I even draw the curtains, dim the lights, pull the chain of my psyche's umbrella. Closed in the rain.

Up and down, the wind whips through the tumbleweeds. Soon the desert will be carpeted with purple wildflowers. Falling asleep seems naturally luscious. My dreams are vivid and blinding.

I took a pile of old writing and burned it to the ground. It was ugly and LOUD. Back in the day when I was looking for a way to use art as urinal. I would interview boys like Zemilio on myth, fantasy women, gorillas and forests. I would read Darcey Steinke's Suicide Blonde and Blake Nelson's Girl and feel like an original gutter boot stomper. I would write stories about band geeks who smoked menthols, carried lighters in their underwear and dated sexy Mexican girls. I would attend parties for the last gigs of discordance, and bring skeletons out of the closet to dance till dawn with. Back in the day when rage was the perpetually hip accessory.

But no more, not today. Today is all about decadence. Next month I shall turn 29. I have learned the value of Mexican beer and pecans, avocados and rum, strawberry yogurt and cool whip, and a maturity that comes with choosing quality and carefully.

The moon is massive and gold behind thin streaks of gray cloud. February, full of pretty nights that breed the heathen in me. With no regard to why I yearn.





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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