BY WANDA PHIPPS
A JOURNAL OF EMOTIONAL SENSATION
Thursday, December 13, 2001
Final warmth--comfort--stage fright replaced by deep blue, deep reds, rich unfolding. I could never read this to an audience--too naked--too free--but I probably will, I always do what I'm afraid to do, what I think I could never do--the fear pushes me.
But right now your voice has left me content--a promise of more leaves me not tied in anticipation/uncertainty knots--but as if the act has already been completed--spell out desire to me and I am satisfied, full--here I am lying in a soft bed of cotton or like my old fantasy of easing into a bathtub full of creamy mashed potatoes. My favorite food. You serve me my favorite food--put it into my mouth over and over again and I love the fine texture, taste of comfort and I open my mouth over and over again until I'm full, safe, warm, covered, smothered--no--smoothed--all edges smoothed to curved shiny polished surfaces. Is this possible? Yes. Can this happen? Yes. This is happening now at this moment. This is happening. This is.
Friday, December 14, 2001
Passed out at 11:00pm--woke up at 4:00am--quiet house--clock ticks loud and the tea kettle totters on the burner after boiling--softest light--love the hours when everyone's asleep--reminds me of teenage insomnia--all the nights reading and writing until dawn and collapsing with the sunrise. Last night I bombed in the amazing "floating ballroom"--hate that--definitely "on enemy turf"--down, down--on to the next. Now I'm a bleeding woman on the window seat. On to Aventuras en la ciudad de Anacleto. No pain, just waking extra early--too much activity inside my body to sleep. Too much activity in my mind not to write. Should I ask this? Try this? Go there? Can I? Hot--still--only low traffic sounds on Atlantic Avenue--quiet night's underbelly vibrating--soft hum--love that.
Go here? There? No there? Or there? No stay put--quiet--stillness--focus--lovely lemony taste in my mouth--can concentrate on particulars or let mind wander to more attractive gestalts.
Monday, December 17, 2001
I am covered in rose oil from Calcutta--on the subway reading Dael's words about words--discovering books as a child--smelling books to inhale the words--I'm covered in rose oil and cherry almond lotion--hair with slight scent of mint--my harlequin-diamond leather jacket holding cigarette smoke from the party at the Old American Can Factory. Put on my attracting mask to explore the subterranean caves--nervous--flattered--late again--relaxing from the day--tensing towards the night.
Tuesday, December 18, 2001
Remembering sweet Jack sweet sweet cider--swept up beyond thought--only music--giggles--nestling hot--turned inside out--inside radiating outward--electrical current-like sensations moving--striking from tongue to clit--head to heart--from the small of my back to the soles of my feet--crook of my elbow to the curve of my ankle--eyes to streetlamp--fingertips to the shining Christmas ornaments on the ceiling--neck to the sidewalk below--concrete--asphalt street--clavicle--brick wall--soleus muscle--neon marquee--eyelashes--raindrops--toes--plate glass window--earlobes--bare trees pointing--lips--parking meters--breasts--rushing cabs--flesh--gray black sky...
As the shamans say "My beautiful gifts are all complete and full."