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DIARY OF A CALIFORNICATOR IV

"The day moves on, I swim in a sea of buzzed arousal and I watch the dancer give my lover a lap dance. When it is my turn, the dancer throws her hair around my face and shields us from view of the bouncers. She looks at me from within the tunnel of her locks and kisses me deeply. I kiss her back and dive into the day's fire."

by Kimberly Nichols

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


It is Tile Worker Tuesday at the Tittie Bar in town and time has become suspended. My lover and I are playing emotional hooky after the events of the morning at the World Trade Center. We don't know quite what to do. Putting words to the horror would only trivialize it and interacting with other human beings is, at least for the remainder of September 11th, impossible. We spend all morning on the phone contacting friends in New York. My lover's best friend walked onto the subway, en route to his job and when he emerged from the gaping underground tunnel, the skyline had changed. Another friend sat finishing his second scotch at nine a.m. With foggy minds and an inability to work or think, we end up in this seedy pub with a few scattered workers on their lunch break and a handful of blasť dancers taking the stage.

Being close to the gutter, we find a respite. The strippers shoot tequila. The owners hide their eyes. My lover and I drink beer, flirt with a bisexual dancer and find a little grim comfort in the way dark places envelop you, peppering the psyche with a surreality, no a mis-reality. The day moves on, I swim in a sea of buzzed arousal and I watch the dancer give my lover a lap dance. When it is my turn, the dancer throws her hair around my face and shields us from view of the bouncers. She looks at me from within the tunnel of her locks and kisses me deeply. I kiss her back and dive into the day's fire.

When I was a dread-locked, Birkenstock wearing wanna-be hippie in the ninth grade, I spent many days ditching school and trekking up to the Indian Canyons where, with a few friends and some weed, we could escape the world of resort town academia on a few flat, granite boulders in the sun. On days like those I would lie down prone and listen to the crickets chirp and watch my friends make out while I pondered the ideas of invisibility and being one with nothing.

I spend the rest of September finding comfort in the computer screen. I contact friends from all over the world. I reach out to my editors who I have never seen. I tell strangers I love them. I spin a little out of control in times like these. Everybody does.

My best friend Darling who has been on an introspective tip for a year now, calls up all of her old fuck buddies and decides to loll in flesh decadence and party for a while in the land of life is too short. My friend James quits his job to become a social worker and writes me notes about starting a "true" underground in America by ceasing to report our incomes. Instead of rallying around the flag, everyone I know has given up on government; has given up on the egotistical powers that rule each slim space of this earth. It isn't one against the other. It is micro them against macro us. Three million perspectives colliding so we strive to breed new thought.

My artist friend Knox in Texas writes me about the sudden insurgence of hemoglobin shaped art into American galleries. Parasites, amoebic shapes, petri dish conclusions on canvas in red, orange, pink neon and yellow. As if artists are forcing the elemental back into the open to transform the technological detachment that has been propelling us towards globalization but also turning a microscope onto our exposed paranoia.

The month ends with a pregnant and bloody Pisces moon that sits ripe with juice over the outskirts of town, floating above the sand dunes with a detached sense of mischief and glee. The presence of evil sulks behind it, a massive beast made of molecules. Like two dualities in the sky vying for top prize. This game is inevitable.

I finish the month with the persistent itch to read Douglas Coupland's Life After God one more time. I pick up the book, dog-eared with defeat, and get only halfway through the first short piece. I realize that his soulful renditions of tomorrow have already turned into this girl's yesterday and there is no telling what is to come. For any of us.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kimberly Nichols is a freelance writer splitting residence between the southern California Desert where the air is clear and the mountains are magical and Boston for her much needed fix of urbanity. She is a featured freelancer for the local alternative weekly, The Desert Post Weekly. She is also a society columnist for The Desert Sun newspaper. Her non-fiction specialties are women's issues, psychology, philosophy, sex, and art, book, culture and music reviews. Her fiction and poetry has appeared in Feminista, Alternative Arts and Literature and 3am Magazine. She also works as a publicist for various bands and artists. In her spare time, Kimberly can be found in the yoga studio, on the dance floor, at the beach or in Greek and Indian restaurants. She is currently at work on a book of poetry and a series of fine art collage entitled Girls of the Hundred Proof Bordello Define Desire.






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