The People I've Never Slept With
Jun. 26th, 2006 02:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
x_losThere's a whole slew of people in the world who can say with clear conscience they've never attempted to break into a profesional sporting facility using only their precarious claims to beauty and scant journalistic credentials to talk to, and by that I mean sleep with, a 21 year old French toreror prodigy. I can no longer claim to be among them, and must ask what sadistic bastard unlocks and flings wide the door to the showers RIGHT AFTER said athleete leaves?
A part of me said Erin, don't try too sleep with the substitute fighter you practically wrote about before you met him. He's clearly your Bosie. This will end in tears and self-indulgent Irish poetry. But I was obviously not thinking with the part of me that heeds literarry references, for the majority of me said "guuuuuuh. " And the rest "But if he's my Bosie, I can have sex with him before the whole Reading Goal thing, right?" "But Erin," continued that sensible niblet again, "He's French, and you speak English and some Spanish. What's the liklihood of you being able to communicate that your bones are at his disposal for jumping?" The rest of me resolved to find a way. If necessary with the aid of diagrams. But alas and alack, I did not find my love, and I have nothing of him but the memory of his seven perfect veronicas, his immaculate Lalanda butterfly, and that stack of programs I lifted in annoyance after failing to get grooves on, now residing in my purse.
I spent the weekend in Granada, touring an extensive Islamic palace called the Alhambra, seeing the remains of the Catholic Kings, their daughter Juana the Mad and her faithless husband Phillip the Hamdsome. I saw a frescod hospital festooned with paintings, all rotting into eachother and patchily hung with signs for xray and cardiology wings. It has been said that Granada is a glorious ruin, and I can believe in, the city sinking in on itself, eating its own spent decadence. I saw the gypsy caves, which have been inhabited since before christ continuously up until today, when 3,000 families dwell in them.
I read four Lorca plays on the bus and in the hotel room at night, approprite since his Rural Trilogy takes place in a mysthical alter-Granada, and Lorca is now one of my favorite playwrights. He's like tossing Beckett, Kushner and Tori Amos in a bottle and shaking well. I think Harper may in some ways be influenced by Yerma from the play of that name, and the House of Bernarda, in terms of exploration of what women can do to each other in female social settings in a patriarichal world, is horifyingly unstinting, it's a giving play I mean, and has the tensile strength and flexibility of Amos's imagery in Under the Pink and Boys for Pele. At no time does a male character occur in House, and yet the women destroy each other over the potential power of men.
On the bus home What a Girl Wants played, dubbed over in Spanish, and it is ridiculous in any circumstance in case you hoped translation would give Firth his dignity back.
I've been following Spain, England and the USA in worldcup, and I kind of want to rally behind Mexico after seeing a midle of one of their games in a gypsy run Moroccan restraunt in Granada. BTW, have stolen gypsy mint lemonade recipie, and they''re probably going to give me my soul back or some shit, so watch that.
My World Cup pick is Ditka. I think Ditka will form a giant Ditka-Leviathan and absorb Beckham into his left nostril and Da Bulls will win Da World Cup. At least it's not Brazil, guys.
A part of me said Erin, don't try too sleep with the substitute fighter you practically wrote about before you met him. He's clearly your Bosie. This will end in tears and self-indulgent Irish poetry. But I was obviously not thinking with the part of me that heeds literarry references, for the majority of me said "guuuuuuh. " And the rest "But if he's my Bosie, I can have sex with him before the whole Reading Goal thing, right?" "But Erin," continued that sensible niblet again, "He's French, and you speak English and some Spanish. What's the liklihood of you being able to communicate that your bones are at his disposal for jumping?" The rest of me resolved to find a way. If necessary with the aid of diagrams. But alas and alack, I did not find my love, and I have nothing of him but the memory of his seven perfect veronicas, his immaculate Lalanda butterfly, and that stack of programs I lifted in annoyance after failing to get grooves on, now residing in my purse.
I spent the weekend in Granada, touring an extensive Islamic palace called the Alhambra, seeing the remains of the Catholic Kings, their daughter Juana the Mad and her faithless husband Phillip the Hamdsome. I saw a frescod hospital festooned with paintings, all rotting into eachother and patchily hung with signs for xray and cardiology wings. It has been said that Granada is a glorious ruin, and I can believe in, the city sinking in on itself, eating its own spent decadence. I saw the gypsy caves, which have been inhabited since before christ continuously up until today, when 3,000 families dwell in them.
I read four Lorca plays on the bus and in the hotel room at night, approprite since his Rural Trilogy takes place in a mysthical alter-Granada, and Lorca is now one of my favorite playwrights. He's like tossing Beckett, Kushner and Tori Amos in a bottle and shaking well. I think Harper may in some ways be influenced by Yerma from the play of that name, and the House of Bernarda, in terms of exploration of what women can do to each other in female social settings in a patriarichal world, is horifyingly unstinting, it's a giving play I mean, and has the tensile strength and flexibility of Amos's imagery in Under the Pink and Boys for Pele. At no time does a male character occur in House, and yet the women destroy each other over the potential power of men.
On the bus home What a Girl Wants played, dubbed over in Spanish, and it is ridiculous in any circumstance in case you hoped translation would give Firth his dignity back.
I've been following Spain, England and the USA in worldcup, and I kind of want to rally behind Mexico after seeing a midle of one of their games in a gypsy run Moroccan restraunt in Granada. BTW, have stolen gypsy mint lemonade recipie, and they''re probably going to give me my soul back or some shit, so watch that.
My World Cup pick is Ditka. I think Ditka will form a giant Ditka-Leviathan and absorb Beckham into his left nostril and Da Bulls will win Da World Cup. At least it's not Brazil, guys.
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