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DIARY OF A CALIFORNICATOR XVI

"Every morning as I run I catch a whiff of various smells coming from the houses of the other people in the world. Marajuana fumes, jasmine flowers, mechanical juice, and barbecue. I wonder what my house smells like to the casual passerby. Cadmium yellow and metallic blue. Schizophrenia. Roses. The musk of a girl on the perpetual verge."

by Kimberly Nichols

COPYRIGHT © 2003, 3 A.M. MAGAZINE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


"You are like rushing out the dusty screen door, leaving behind a coat, hat, gloves. A velveteen tea cup." Smith says.

Years ago at my first poetry reading Smith wore eyeliner, dark and beautiful, that rimmed lush cocaine enlarged eyes. Both of our poems were about dirt, grease and lust. Now he has left again. Out that same dusty screen door. To live in a city of industry where college kids hang over the balcony in poverty ridden apartment buildings, smoking cigarettes and listening to the sounds of the domestic violence. My life gets curiouser and curiouser as his emails come littered with tales of bike rides and Celine novels.

My lover has become my hero again. I spend the month on a roller coaster having vowed to stop all forms of medication; of manufactured life. Every time I fall he scoops me up from the gutter. Only the gutter is no longer my friend and my lover is getting tired of my mania.

Lulu is back from Senegal, ripe with sex and nostalgic for her native beau, surely dark skinned and lovely with thighs that squeezed tight for the duration of her adventure. I don't know how to fit her back into my life now that I am healthy.

I find a photograph of Sheila sitting in the Playboy store in New York City selling glitter and sequins to ten-foot tall drag queens. I remember the flyers for punk rock shows that were plastered across her lips and the way she smiled just so for my lover as he clicked her picture. I paint her lips on a canvas for posterity and tell my friend Paul that she is a dream girl for 2003 fit for the likes of Morrissey.

My dreams are peppered with fucking and shitting. My body is bypassing the ego and cleaning me out without my permission. I have a list of resolutions that stretch for miles encompassing an impossible geography. I can't stand the politics of living in America so I commit to French lessons so that I can become fluent within four years and get the hell out of this consumerist hell that I dwell in. I start to paint sundowns seen from Brandon's backyard. I draw strange thin girls in black comic book poses that don't speak English.

I go to lunch with friends and get kissed by an Italian director. Pecan crusted chicken and cosmopolitans and he with his crinkled face, roving hands, gay entourage, fantastic eyes and a dark cigarette, blowing smoke at the waiters. I am the lead singer in a peach satin bubble skirt; my nipples exposed.

I just don't know how to handle myself at this time. Always on that tightrope wire. Scared and turned on simultaneously. Ready to devastate an entire disco at the same moment I run inside to hide.

Every morning as I run I catch a whiff of various smells coming from the houses of the other people in the world. Marajuana fumes, jasmine flowers, mechanical juice, and barbecue. I wonder what my house smells like to the casual passerby. Cadmium yellow and metallic blue. Schizophrenia. Roses. The musk of a girl on the perpetual verge.







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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