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"No I am not Buddhist, nor Catholic, nor ghost. I am just trying to spin my wheels here with the rest of you men. I am trying to make amends. I am taking grammar lessons in an old world."

by Kimberly Nichols


Luster. Quadrants I glimpse. Brilliant shiny openings.

My Christian girl friend is cooking me a homemade meal. Her tats explode out of a spaghetti strapped tank top full of big black polka dots on white cloth. She asks me if I am a Buddhist when I refuse to eat pork. I just smile. I think I'm a little bit of everything, I tell her. We're all after the same goal.

The perfect day begins in California. Trees weeping in winds. Slight silence. Rush of occasional traffic. Sonic Youth in the sunlight driving one way down a street to see my best friend on a Saturday morning and I realize the renaissance in reality. The shifting thoughts that occur when you're all alone under a vortex of sun, cloud and stone. The perfect day begins. And it is carved everywhere.

I sit in a bar with R. A bar I first frequented with my good friend Smith as we sat and traded the notebook back and forth across the table over chocolate martinis. Writing about grease, hope, sex and love. A place that feels like home in a strange way. Tonight I am here with R and my friend Wim is explaining everything going on with his band.

"Everyone promises us everything," he says, "but then they follow through with nothing."

The waitress is amazing; calm cool oblivion and girlish charms.

The world starts to spin and I wonder why. I blink and switch from painful to purely dreaming.

Everything is busy. Lulu and I become depressed at the exact same moment. It happens on a Sunday. I want everything and nothing without a single grain of discernment. She calls me after twilight and asks "Why I am still here? In this place? This up and down. This indecision." I wonder that myself and fall asleep under a Scorpio moon that bathes me in deep nourishment.

No I am not Buddhist, nor Catholic, nor ghost . . . I am just trying to spin my wheels here with the rest of you men. I am trying to make amends. I am taking grammar lessons in an old world.

A girl I know talks about trauma on the news, sitting pretty with her mile-wide smile and I witness the dumbing down of America. And a new friend tells me that all he does is work; not out of a sense of obligation but out of an extreme desire to conquer something.

We are supposed to all know better by now but our wisdom turns into cliché, wifebeater channel afternoon specials, glossy depictions of idealized zen, and fuschia bouganvilla roses.

And we never say anything further.

"Just getting a connection in the first place is a pain in the ass."


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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