I feel like a great steaming pile of ass.
Someone broke into my house last night, made food, left crumbs on my desk and in my bed, and stoled my liver.
Oh, and they turned the heat up to, like, 110°.
Thieves are getting weirder and weirder, I tell ya. Must be that god damned rock n’ roll music. Too much television. Or something.
Hey! Winifred’s in town! Winifred’s in town!
She’s my rock. She’s my sister. She’s my mind-fuck. She’s my earth, and I’m her satellite moon. She’s the Diva and I’m the Simpering Groupie. She works it on out. She rocks the best under pressure. She calls a spade a spade. She has big blonde poodle hair. She works it, owns it, loves it. She’s from San Farisco. And she’s in New Orleans for a whole five days!
She’s one of the few people on this planet who recognises that I (like her) have 57 faces, and that each one is important and needs to be explored and cultivated — pampered and powdered — coaxed and coddled. She also realises that certain people tap into and work some of our different faces. I am lucky. I have harvested a global group of friends over the years who, one by one can pretty much hit almost 50 of my 57 faces — give a puff of life to my many variegated facets and façades, and help me to become whole.
Winifred in particular has about 8–10 faces in me that she alone can access — a formidable number. I can “go places” with her where I cannot go with other people.
And she returns the compliment, outlining things in her that only seem to surface when we are together.
Sat out on the balcony last night, drinking wine, bemittened, “going there” again after all these years. “It’s so good,” quod the lady, “to see you again! You’re touching special Marquis Lobes in my mind that no one else can get to.”
“Likewise, my dear, likewise,” I answered, feeling the soreness of those 8–10 faces that no one manages to explore but her, stretching, coming back to life, deepening and widening.
Mindfucking.
There are endless ways to connect (to paraphrase the pervading theme of Queerscribe.) Being with Winifred reminds me that life is a beautiful thing, for reasons I can easily lose sight of when she’s 2000 miles away.
She touches, feeds and prunes some very important faces within me.
And I am in love with her, and myself, all over again, and always for new and fabulous reasons.
I am petitioning two things from her at the moment.
- To start a diary. This should be easy enough. She’s quite a respectable writer, and I anticipate with great glee the places she could explore through the gentle discipline and anonymity of starting an online journal. This is the easy part of my petition.
- To move to New Orleans. Everyone knows San Francisco is dead now. Khaki invasion, SUV’s in the Mission, studio efficiencies in the Tenderloin going for $1200/mo. 20-nothing dotcommies spreading their newfound riches about in the inimitable fashion of the nouveaux riches. She likes New Orleans. She’s contemplating it. She’s contemplating it. My reasons are not entirely selfish. This would be a good town for her, knowing it, and her, as well as I do. So. We’ll see. We’ll just see!
We also get into terrible fashion trouble when we’re together. Went out to dinner uptown last night and popped into Sally’s Beauty Supply store after where I usually buy my hair dye. They were out of my Laquisha-Pink dye goo last night (le Marquis is, au fond, a black girl), and, perhaps because I was with Winifred, it was decided that I am to have midnight blue hair.
Which means of course I’ll have to bleach first.
I’ve never bleached before, besides the lo-fi peroxide in your everyday dye developer. This is rather frightening. I bleached Patti’s hair once, left the stuff on a little too long, and her hair disintigrated between fingertips like the dust of a flower-frog.
I have very long, very damaged hair.
By bleaching, I may very well go bald, essentially.
Ah well. I’ve been thinking of cutting it off anyway. I’m up for the risk and the danger.
So let’s begin.
I’ll try to keep y’all posted via photos, but my camera seems a bit wonky at the moment and won’t … quite … work. Damn.
Visit the Marquis’ Crush o’ the Week. (I could be arrested for this one.)
NEW FEATURE! “DJ, SAVE my life!” Wanna feel like a Marquis? Download the music he’s listening to. But do it quickly. This mp3 will be erased at my next diary entry because I’m stealing bandwidth. (If you missed one in the past, email me, we’ll work something out.) TODAY: The Partridge Fambly, “I Think I Love You” (2.7 MB).
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