Blue Fleagle: The Plot Reveal In Newhalem!

I am only sitting down to write because the dew is not dry on the lawn yet. Catch me if you can!

When I met my Biker my life came to an interesting stopping point and stood there waiting for me to catch up. Instead of catching up, I tweaked and flapped and generally made a nuisance of myself. I had no context from which to operate a life that wasn't completely fucked up and running on coping with disaster from moment to moment. This is what happens to you when your parents are dysfunctional and you grow up in the midst of crazy people...you simply don't learn how to do sane. When sane happens you aren't relieved, you're freaked out. Someone has just given you a brand new car and a licence... but you don't know how to drive, you don't know where you are, and you don't have a destination. Or a map.

I had suddenly found myself with a good family and a stable life. I had no goddamn clue what to do next.
So I started giving myself an ulcer and having random panic attacks. I did stop smoking though...which did nothing to make me look any saner and probably scarred my daughter for life.

This kind of sucked.

In this way I finally managed to flog my immune system into subnmission, and the first flu bug that came down the pike chomped down on my ass like a mad motherfucker. I was bedridden. I could not walk without holding onto the walls and furniture like Helen Keller. I was running an insane fever and weak as milk.

The afternoon the fever broke I woke up from some pretty Heironymous Boschian dreams bathed in sweat, but in my right mind for the first time in a week and a half. I had something to eat, showered, sat out in the front room and watched some tv and eased back into the land of the living.

That night I had a Grandmother Dream.

It wasn't particularly vivid; I didn't wake up disoriented wondering if it had been real or anything. What it had been was extraordinarily lucid, clear, plain, incredibly freighted with what I have to describe as a sense of personal Truth.

All night long I dreamed about my grandmothers house, her yard, her things. It was like a museum of her life. I dreamed memories of things that I'd seen while she was alive and afterwards.
She was absent. I was in her place.

I woke up the next morning and started to rebuild my life, and build a life for my family.
I'd just been given a template to work from.

Years later I was listening to author and Colville NA Sherman Alexie being interviewed on NPR. He spoke about a Grandmother Dream that he'd had at a similar point in his life that had affected him the same way...he woke up the next morning with a beginning-place from which to rebuild his life.

This is why I live the kind of life I live. It's patterned on my Grandmothers life. Her values, her methods.

This is why I no longer identify 'white', either. Something that desparately wanted to survive and be sane inside my mind chose a NA set of cultural symbols to spur me on with. And it worked. This is not to say that I discovered the right 'magic' exterior to myself, but that I had built something safe on a very basic mental level, and labelled it Native. That's what I am.

The difference is, Alexie was raised on the Colville Reservation, by NA parents. I was adopted off the reservation and raised by white parents in a white suburb.
I live on the world like my Grandmother did.
She was a member of the German tribe.

I told you I had a strange brain.

the garden beckons and i....am....compelled......

i love you all!

meanwhile i am busier than a one legged man in an ass-kicking contest, as CB would say...it is spring, it is not raining, and i have one million and one things to do outside before the dirt turns into cement. i am one busy little muk!
i will be back soon....i just gotta garden, yo!

NEW POST

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOhhhh...
this is the new post,
lalalalalala
this is the new post
lalalalalala.
this is to make space between this post and the last post
woo, oooo,
this is the neeeeeeeeeeeew
pooooooooooost


the end.

Oh fine. NSFW. There. I hope you're happy now.

Right around this time of year, my thoughts inevitably turn to improper methods of tit fucking.
Don't you find that to be the case?
You pathetic flat-chested persons, just go stand by the walls and whisper spitefully amongst yourselves 'K?

If a person is gifted mammarially there comes a time when the subject of tit fucking is just going to become an issue...usually right around the same time that a male someone is getting a blow job. God only knows what possesses some men at a time like this, but it's happened more than once that I've had someone suddenly dive for my cleavage like RoseAnne Barr heading out after a runaway hot dog cart. One minute you're wondering if you have a split of 7-up near to hand and the next thing the guy's bouncing his ass down your torso. Which can kick up quite a breeze, fellas. It ain't rose scented either.

Now if they're on the young and overeager side they won't be thinking about much more than 'must....blow....load' so more than likely Buckwheat won't give you much of a chance to comment while he gets himself situated. In my experience this maneuver is usually performed with the ninjalike grace of a drowning Labrador Retriever...their elbows in your hair, their knees pinching your rib-fat, their swollen meat thumping it's way down your sternum gadoinga gadoinga gadoinga, like like a bald quadraplegic chasing a contact lens...

Ay Caramba! IS SO SEXY!

While you frame just how to say 'Would you get the fuck off my hair you retard' in a loving way they grab a tit in each fist and splat them together like a pair of unwanted twins.
THEN they start ramming away at the cleft between them.

Guys, stop and think a second. It takes every single one of you at least three years from your first piece of ass until you finally figure out where the right hole is anyway, and that's the one that produces it's own lubrication. If you've learned anything at all in that time it should have been that you cannot force your way through. 'Steel rod' is just an expression.
Anyway it's more like a big purpley-pink asparagus. But a friendly one.

It might help to think of it as making a tasty sandwich.
RIGHT: Bread, Meat, Bread.
WRONG: Bread, Bread, MeatMeatMeatMeatMeatMeatMeat.

Simple biology:

BOOBS ARE ATTACHED TO A SURFACE.
A HUMAN SURFACE.
A human surface that by this point is experiencing a not insubstantial amount of pain due to being partially scalped while having each breast forced together into one central megaboob while you launch yourself at it dick first like a monkey humping a football. Let me add that at this point you do not look particularly alluring. The view from below consists of a scarlet sweaty person straining like they're trying to pass a piano.

Nobody is having fun here. You will not be remembered fondly. And as a woman, when you add all that to the *ahem* projected outcome (you see what i did there?? oh, my face is laugh! but yeah...all that and a pearl necklace too! yay!) the inevitable conclusion one comes to is "You, sir, will not be added to my speed dial"

1. LUBE. IT'S A GOOD THING.

This is regular skin. It's absorbent. Sweat does not last. Spit does not last. Old spoo transferred from elsewhere does not last. Which practice ranks right up there on the erotic scale with picking your nose and eating it, btw. Not even plain water lasts. Booze burns, pop gets sticky. Face the goddamn facts... You need some slippy slidey stuff.

2. BOOBS ARE MADE OF HUMAN.

If you ever want to play with them again, treat them nice.


3. YOU ARE BEING OBSERVED

The frantic crap does not play. Nothing-and I mean nothing at all-makes you look more lame than that frantic scrabbly boner chihuahua bullshit. Get a goddamn grip...or a grip's all you'll be getting in the near future.

Ask.
Be considerate.
Act normal.

Remember: those tits are awfully close to those teeth, senor.