Sabato, Nov. 8, 1997
Parma, Italy

Endorphins zip through my neurons. My brain takes me to far off corners while my body is still. I feel and see all sorts of phenomena.

Silky legs that kick through the green bubbly water.

The egg falls -- slow motion -- revolving in the air. Plop, it lands in your hand, the shell safe. I slide down the thick silver pole, and it presses between my legs, the friction and warmth building. Clinton's rosy cheeks flush even more.

I'm too susceptible to the influence of TV's images, as they pass through the air onto the screen before my eyes. Zap. How does this affect my brainwaves?

A hot bath. Climbing a ladder up to the cloud, where I step off and boing through the fluff. If I could, I would get a pair of scissors and snip snip off all of Roxeanne's long blonde hair until it was just a mound of dead stuff on the floor. That would make her mad. She wouldn't have an identity without her image.

Bumblebees buzz through the air singing their songs while fleshy thighs shake and jiggle. I smell peppermint. It's from the pink stuff flowing out of the faucet, glug glug.

And she skipped the boring part because life is short.

I thought he was Robert Downy, Jr., but then he spoke in italiano. Damn, this isn't straight from my brain but intercepted by the images on the television screen. Some bizarre show with men on stage with pink & blue hair, holding fake stuffed dogs and rabbits -- and that one isn't a part of my imagination. I turned it off because I think my mind could come up with better images than what I saw.

Creative release. Don't let your pen stop moving. Sometimes I'm hit with artistic urges; then I'm stuck because I can't think of who I should make my project for. No one out there would appreciate it as much as me, would they? Plus I can't do anything as raunchy as I like it b/c who wouldn't get offended? Whereas here, in this little blue book, I have no limits because I have no audience. No rules to this game. Just let it flow.

Like a river. If I could take a bath in any substance, what would it be? Nutella sounds schiffo right now since I ate too much cioccolato today. Bath in honey? Sticky soft supportive. Her toes wiggle. On the moon you can bounce up high and never come back down. "Where is down?" you wonder.

Slip on the long piece of yellow plastic on the lawn that hot summer day when you run the hose. Slip n' slide. Let gravity work for you.

My lips always need lubrication.

Do some people always live with some numbing substance to keep a gap between their perception and the true reality of who they are? Easy path. Cigarettes give me a head rush. Can't think too fast when I do that. Suddenly tempted to light the one I sneaked from the M.S. pack I found in the drawer in the living room. Has my initials, you know. Belongs to the self-proclaimed "commmie" next door who has collagen-stuffed lips and a real fur coat.

Kissing isn't as pleasurable these days as it used to be. Standing downstairs in M's house with A.J.; he's about to leave on a summer trip with his dad. We kiss. It feels so good that I won't let him go. Why can't it feel that right & pure & easy & blissful anymore?

Were tongues really meant to mingle?

I want to turn myself inside out and purify my body of all its built up waste. Start over. Only ingest water and leaves and roots. I like the taste of dirt. The smell of moist soil. Dark and soft and mulchy. Squish it between your fingers.

My red underwear is spread out on the radiator to dry after being laundered. I've never worn a g-string.

Crickets in the summer.

Count to ten in how many languages? In my dream it was her birthday. A huge crowd gathered behind a curtain to surprise her. The young man held a cake that glowed with candles. Sshhh... TA-DA!! Buon compleanno. She is beaming with joy, not expecting the party. She has crass honesty. Older and not completely straight. Well-loved by all.

I like the green ripe grass that doesn't cut like the edge of a piece of paper. Instead the blades fold against your skin softly, giving in to your weight. You can eat it too. Moo. Tip? Slip the lip before I whip you pip of a grip. Tangy on the corn chip.

Is originality impossible these days?

Clamping her leg around the trunk, she dug herself into the dirt and became the roots. The sepiatoned bark melted into her skin, and when she stretched her toes, they grew into branches in the air.

My neck hurts. Will you come here and massage it? Just slip into the inner courtyard (the first door on the right, off Parma's colorful Via Cavour). The light is always on at night. Climb the second set of stairs. Yes, all the way to the top, five flights up. You will be out of breath when you get to the last door. Your heart will be beating very quickly, and a light sweat has broken out on your forehead, lower back and upper lip. I will have left the door unlocked, so you can quietly let yourself in, closing la porta behind you. Then you will tiptoe through the carpeted living room to find my room. You don't turn on the light. You just pull off your shoes and jacket and then slowly crawl into my king-sized bed, snuggling up to my warm sleeping body. Hold me. I won't wake up. My R.E.M. will just get better.

I'm happy with my body tonight. My nipples are content under soft black silk. My skin is clean and fresh.

Sometimes what looks opaque is actually sheer.

After reading the first chapter of The Agony and The Ecstasy, I want to go back in time and roam Firenze's strade til I find Michelangelo, that curious artiste, in his sandals and long shirt, passionately watching the people around him.

Antiperspirant is a sin.

Sometimes I get the feeling that fluidity is my ultimate key to happiness. I need to become liquid in my thoughts, energy, emotions, movements, expectations and outlook. Flow, flow.

I miss her already. How precious it was to have mia mamma here with me. Love is tangible when I think of how I feel about her.

What's your favorite ink color?

Crunchy cucumbers create crisis, crammed catastrophically into Caleb's crying crevice.

Why is nudity so difficult a concept for some people?

Plunge into the buoyant warm salty water.

The other day, sitting in an audience, I looked around me and saw that most people seemed to clap their left hands onto their right, their right palms being faced upwards. I do the opposite, right onto left.

She jumped too soon and fell into a sack of flour that stuck to her sticky skin. It made her look like a piece of meat ready to be thrown into the skillet of spattering hot olive oil. I sat on the sofa and listened to the crackles and sparks. Sounded like a sauce simmering on the stove. But then I realized that the sputters were actually Sylvia's shower, the drops of water fiercely hitting the plastic curtain and tub.

What does "lipid" mean again?

Kraft cheese is not a possibility for me, now just an artificial mound of ignorant chemically processed poison soft fluff.

Isn't it weird when the walls of a house creak or snap on their own? Like ya hear it one night when you're just lying there in bed trying to go to sleep, absentmindedly stroking yerself, when all of a sudden -- SNAP! -- the wall in the next room makes a quick little noise like it was readjusting itself to get comfortable. Haven't heard it here, now that I think about it. Maybe cuz these walls are made of 17th century stone and plaster.

Tick tick. Those waves are moving slower now. My head even kind of aches, like it's tired of thinkin' or sumpin. Creeping to a standstill. Gotta do this here activity again sometime. Mighty fun cuz it get my creative juices all a flowin.

Nov. 10 Brainflow
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