Dear J. Dove, 9:35

(just found this letter that I’ve been dragging around for months, too)

A beautiful day sent by the gods that be to save my very fragile sanity. A trip to Bellingham and up, up, up to the frozen Twin Lakes that rest beneath Mt. Baker. In slippery tennis shoes 2 sizes too big, I slid my way on my feet, on my back, rolling over and over in the show - freefalling into eternal bliss, rubbing noses with mother nature. And there was a catholic bishop who asked his Indian guide as they reached the top of a mountain peak, "When do we head back?," ad the Indian replied "When you find the place where God rests, you spend the night."

(weeks later this next part)

And she deliberated about going to Bellingham for Ski to Sea to see al she could see, until a late night phone call with the once mother-in-law to be; no more. With visions of a chestnut VW van, long hair moistened by the humidity of the homemade sauna, and a Natural bath in the pond she realized that this scene was not here, not now. Like the fly fears Shell No Pest Strips, her decision to pass up a day in Bellingham came out of a bodily response that even Dr. Spock could not ignore But her dream to ride off into the sunset on a black stallion adorned in black leather and silver jewelry burns even deeper in her soul.

I’m looking for a living situation where I can live in some rich persons guest house and barter my rent for household chores and yard work; childcare is definitely out of the question. Going to check up at the University, or take out an ad: "Long-hair degenerate, wannabe daguerreotype-genius female seeks living situation conducive to late night activity, as much space as possible, on busline in exchange for housecleaning, cooking, and/or yard maintenance. Willing to care for any pets. No childcare offers, please."

Shall I put it in the local rags? Perhaps I should leave out "degenerate," it might scare capitalist types who might equate it for other dirty words, such as Communist?

Think I just realized part of the reason I’m so fucking unstable these days. Has something to do with what’s called the GOOD GIRL tapes. SO we all know what tapes are when speaking of upbringing and other subversive forms of social brainwash. And the good girl tapes, the most subversive of all used in most patriarchal societies, have a track record of largest minority under its mind control. The good girl being the nurturing woman, ready to please, concede and voluntarily breed. And me, always trying to clean up, go out seldom, be so sweetly entertaining, find a job in my field. Here I am going out of my way to please people who can’t even begin to appreciate my personal lifestyle and outlook. I’m constantly trying to get blood from a turnip. (I even managed to talk myself into trying to get a hold of Paul again. Luckily, he decided to get macho and told me to give it up. Self-preservation what?) After two years of good girl brainwash, this chick’s going to do some serious deprogramming maneuvers in the darks.

Well, on my fourth cup of coffee, fifth cigarette and third tampon. By the way, Yes, do forward al writings to my address, they will be well-guarded and given all the respect and admiration they deserve. I am not worthy to receive them, but only write the words and I shall be healed.

Bought myself a garter belt the other day. Not quite the type you’d see in a porno mag; it’s a bit wider than most, with seven hooks up the side, white cotton with small stitched in blossoms all around. Had my Aunt Maise help me with the technical hookup. Wore it for it’s first run to a performance of Swan Lake. Figured I was one among few women there with a ventilated crotch. The ballet was less than exciting and Maise and I were more intrigued with the collection of humanity there than we were with the ballet. At one of the intermissions outside with the smokers, Maise commented on the fact that perhaps you would enjoy the foray of concert-goers. I informed her that you wound not be so cutting and cruel as she and I were being, remembering a comment you made once on the ability of my family to cut to the quick, draw blood on the first stab, all the while smiling a pleasant-as-hell smile. As Pete (my boss on the landscaping job) would say, "I have no desire to become a part of the Ash Show." And perhaps he is the most intelligent of us all, yet I was born an Ash and I shall die an Ash, knowing I have carried with me into any battle my trusty shield bearing the Ash coat of arms; praying for the dead, fighting like hell for the living.

Just trying to get into the mindset of the lonely, tortured Artist. Living and bleeding with dignity, quiet arrogance and hidden vanity. God damn, it feels good to write.

Pat (a male friend from Seattle) is coming by to take me to breakfast, although I’ll probably end up paying for my own eggs, hash browns and toast. Must say I’m not as interested in him as he is in me, which, more than most, irritates me no end. It’s just if men act too eager and too needy I get disgusted and want them out of my face. You see, J. Dove, I am a cold cruel bitch when it comes right down to it, not the biblical version of the nurturing, all-understanding woman; but then, you already knew that. Perhaps you’ve known that for three years now.

So, we come to the end of another letter and I hope I have managed to entertain, titillate and amuse. Put another coin in the hot water tank for me. See you in New Orleans. Sleep well, knowing that I think of you everyday. Work your spells, my sweet angel, and until Mardi Gras, I’ll see you in my minds eye with your hands flying as you talk of love and beauty.

Kiss Kiss...

Forever in blues jeans

Estrelica