11.22.04

Got out the dang door last evening. Off to the Beat Revival. Read Beautiful Men to an appreciative audience. Then again, though written sincerely, what audience doesn't enjoy getting complimented?

The energy was funky last night. A lot of free-floating sexual energy filled the basement bar with a chthonic mixture of innuendo and outright porn. Strange.

Still, it was lovely to sit with the fantabulous Mlle.E. and chat about the madness of boys and men.

When I went outside to get the newspaper, I scurried and my breath came in puffs of condensation. It did more to knock the Sandman from me than a steaming cup of coffee. My low-riding lounge pants (folded over at the top so the cuffs wouldn't drag) didn't meet my too-small thermal top and t-shirt. My belly, exposed to the air, felt tight and goosebumpy.

I looked at the street. Stray leaves in gold, red, and reddish-brown have scattered across the blacktop. It reminds me of an autumn kimono; leaves scattered across a dark ground. The perfect obi would be cinnamon/orange with an aster pattern batiked all over it in cream. The under kimono would be dove grey, reminiscent of November skies.

Whew. What was that?

Dang.

Must be time to forage for some food.

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