I wake up at 6, takes twenty minutes to persuade myself from bed. It’s still crushingly busy at work. I fell asleep on the warehouse floor at midnight earlier this week, while the boys kept humming on, til 1 am, 1:30, 2…
So sleepy. But this has been my plan: this is the morning I’ll ride my motorcycle in the street.
So far I’ve just been noodling around, practicing in parking lots. Scooting my Rebel along the greasy, cracked strip of asphalt back and forth behind our warehouse.
Almost running into ditches, parked cars, etc.
Goddammit I’m doing this. Because this is the day and this is my plan.
Unlocking the wheel, strapping my tank bag on. Wiping the seat off with a painter’s rag; embarrassedly waiting for the man sleeping in his van across the street to drive away before I hop on and duck-walk down our gravel driveway into the street.
FINE-C, sitting there warming up, watching the traffic. Lots more of it than I planned.
I’m suddenly so nervous I feel like I have to pee, maybe throw up, but when I don’t kill it on my first turn off the street suddenly I no longer give a shit about the cars, the people watchful inside them.
“You have a right to do this,” I keep saying- or hearing- in my head, and how funny that this is what it says to me, this voice I’ve never heard before- “You have a right to learn this.”
Killing the bike on turns; motoring happily around Hampton Park, taking up space at stoplights-
“You have a right to do this!”
I go chilling through a series of neighborhoods, azalea blooms fallen electric in the street, smashing through sleepy mirrors full of nothing, house after house with its eyes closed beneath the draping branches of wandering oaks,
and then manage to kill it somehow right in the middle of the (thank god empty) road. Swedish-looking middle-aged woman walking by with her tiny dog. Fussing my bike into movement again, I grin over at them: “I’m gonna do this!”
She flexes her muscle at me, smiling a little- “You’re gonna do this!”
And then I do, I ride away, very slowly, haha, down the block.
I don’t hit any cars and no cars hit me.
My Rebel 250 is just a gloriously sexy scooter, really; and I don’t look cool on it, not with my cat glasses, my big silver spaceman helmet, dorky braid hanging down under the back. Killing it dead and motoring around slow as a tired cow-
but I feel the tickling edge of something that must be freedom.
Ah, this muggy, lovely morning, and the air full of water. Sitting with coffee on the porch watching the sky turn blue, and my bike in the driveway grinning back at me.
Oh hey there, Thursday.
PS. still saving up for a camera. Almost there.
A Gothic Thriller from Pauline West
“It is in the brain that the poppy is red, that the apple is odorous, that the skylark sings.”
- Oscar Wilde
Years ago, you asked me how I came to be a loner. Traveling on a wolf’s passport, you called it.
I laughed. I think I said, “I’m gonna go with response ‘A.’”
“That’s A for ‘Ask me tomorrow, right?’”
You knew all my jokes. We’d worked together a long time.
But the truth has blood on it. I couldn’t tell it to you then. If these pages have found you now, there is no longer anyone alive they can hurt.
The night I met Death, he thought he was just passing through...
+++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++
So recently we had this delicious spell of stormy mornings, and I found myself nostalgic, for some Bizarro reason, for small-town Kansas and her lovely, lonely old Victorian wheatfield hotels... so I wrote a story.
Interested in being an early reader in exchange for your honest review? Send me an email at mygoodnesspauline @ gmail dot com and tell me how much you love bloody fairytales :)
I'm gonna try some new stuff with this one. I'm all atwitterpated with nerves/terror, but I think I'm gonna try reading it for Youtube... this one is so fucking fun to read aloud, and if there's anything I've learned from all my misadventures, it's that you just gotta keep throwing yourself out there.
There's lots of snarks waving around their pitchforks & sharpened sticks, but also some lovely Other Witches, and how else can we find each other, if not by all of us flailing, shaky-winged, out into the empty air?
It was a lifelong dream of mine to hole up for a month or at the Savoy Hotel back home in Kansas City, but, alas, the place burned down. Harry Truman used to eat his boiled egg breakfasts there...and dad used to take us on special occasions for lobster bisque and shrimp cocktails.
Gleaming silver and dark, thick-paneled wood, tinkly ice, old-fashioned waiters. Worn red velvet carpet, slippery leather booths. I loved that place intensely. Curses.
However, I held the below images in mind as I wrote, and you can also check out my Pinterest (guilty habit!) moodboard for it here.
Man, to write awhile in an old, falling apart, stuck-in-the past hotel, wouldn't that be heaven...!
… because shit is a power word, it just means that you're really angry. But you can’t say it until you’re older.
Because its crass
Why do you say it then?
Because mommy is crass
Because… I don’t value... a lot of the things society cares about? Like being polite, or censorship of emotions. But there are so many amazing words, sweetheart, swearing is also very lazy…
Because there’s so many-
No I mean why does- I don’t care about being polite either
Well, maybe you should give it a shot
Because you might decide you want to be a part of society. I don’t want to limit your options
Lots of people like society
Sweetie! You can ask me as many questions as you want, but at least digest, digest them a little!
Because mommy is mortal!
"when you can't look on the bright side, I will sit with you in the dark."
Christian takes me to a Spoleto party. Cavernous ceiling, the walls painted charcoal black and these magnificent columnar lights stretching floor to ceiling in the darkness.
And these huge, spotlit wooden swings.
The swings were wonderful. It had been forever since we'd caught up, and sitting there talking felt as if we were enclosed within our own space of light, a tiny room of conversation off to the side. But in reality, we realized later, anyone on the swings looked as though they were acting in a scene from a play, and you couldn’t resist watching them.
A silver-haired gentleman in burgundy velvet jacket, his head thrown back laughing as he and a lady swirled around, waltzing in and out of the spotlight. I couldn't stop watching them. They knew, they loved it, they laughed harder.
“I can’t stop watching!” I said, covering my eyes. “I’m staring, this is what sunglasses are for.”
“But it’s all so beautiful,” he said.
“I love it so much.”
We’re standing on the train tracks out back of Logan’s warehouse, he’s opened it up to the night and everybody’s dancing, spilling out into the grass. Costumes, party cups, pretty lights.
“What’s your name again?” this guy says.
We’d been introduced earlier, and I didn’t actually feel like talking anymore, it was so beautiful and clear and starry- so I said one of those things you say to try to end a conversation. “Names don’t matter,” I said.
He turns at me, interested. “Oh, so we’re there, huh?”
I’m a bitch with a bone. “No, you don’t understand what I mean. They don’t matter; names are a social construct. To organize people. But names aren't any more real than societies themselves. Civilization, legislation, the idea of time. None of these things are real, consequential. I mean, we can call a mountain a mountain. That doesn’t mean it actually is a mountain. Right? You don’t need a name if you know who someone is.”
“Whoa,” the guy says to Logan. “She’s on the good drugs.”
In a long white wig and white rubber cat suit, and unable to resist a storyline.
“The beautiful thing about rationalization,” I said, pleased with myself now, sweeping my cup of champagne around, “you can rationalize absolutely anything!”
“I don’t know man,” Logan said to the guy, “she’s a writer.”
“Wish me luck, man,” the guy said.
“Fft, I’m married, it isn’t like that.”
“But we do need to organize people,” the guy said, ”or we can’t have a society. And society’s been pretty good, overall.- I mean-”
“Has it? I think America’s falling into decadence. I think we’re a failed experiment. Culture as an idea is lovely, but the majority of people, I think they’d be happier in migratory hunting societies.”
“Well, I just want to help animals, anyway,” he said.
“But it’s funny, right? How we feel empathy for animals because we think, oh, they’re innocent, they’re subject to the predations of man-”
“But for so much of humanity, it’s exactly the same thing. People are innocent all over, too. They suffer to the predations of those at the top. Everybody needs help, don’t they?”
“I guess, man,” he said- not realizing, I realize only now, the reason why we do need names.
Also why, maybe, sometimes you just answer the fucking question.
We miss the turn to the taco place, talking about dreams.
Earlier, after the meeting, I’d asked the guys if their dreams were ever… weird.
“I mean, like, narrative dreams, but ones that have nothing to do with you or your life. Sometimes I have these dreams that are like bizarre movies about other people, I can’t figure them out.”
Lane nodded. “Sometimes I’m outside my body, watching. But I’m always me.”
I fiddled with my shoe. “Last night I dreamt I was a man. With these two kids, and we were standing in this dark waterway, and somebody shot one of them. And then, while I was trying to save him, the shooter stole the other kid.”
“You know, in Freud and all those guys, everything in your dreams is a symbol. Even if they don’t obviously have to do with your life.”
Down on my knees in that dark water, weeping.
My love and my art.
Chase two birds and both will fly. Is this true?
“Isnt it amazing,” Lane says in the car, “how those early psychiatrists first came to analyze dreams, to understand all the symbols? I guess there's certain things that are true across all cultures. But discovering that- being the one to put it all together- wow.”
Andrew pulls up next to us at the stoplight. He's on the motorcycle, all in white, wearing sunglasses against the wind and his long hair flying wild. My husband looks as happy as a bird with a french fry.
“This place is nine minutes away, my ass!” he says.
I reach out to pat Andrew’s head through the window. “Ssh, ssh. All right then, fuck the tacos.”
So we go back to Lane & V’s, and the boys make us chicken-fried rice. It’s been weeks since we’ve all been together. It feels wonderful.
V settles back into the sofa with a sigh. “My family!” she says, smiling around at us. My best friend, radiant in pink pajamas- wadding up and throwing little balls of paper for the cat to chase. Andrew falling asleep on the sofa between us, Lane tipping back in his chair, telling stories. Family. Yes.
My parents had been in town for a few days that week.
Showing them around Charleston, all the thousand little things I’d known for years they would love if they could only see them.
And having them with us, seeing them love it all-
I can’t catch the right words for this.
There was a moment in one of the gardens, my mom smiling up at the trees, that I hope I’ll remember all my life.
Saying goodbye to them outside our house, I started bawling.
33 year old woman bawling like a kid, barefoot in the street. I’d felt it coming on, how hard it was going to be. To not know when we’d all see each other again- and may not ever here, ever again, in this place where they’d been so happy.
How lucky to have such love in one’s life, that saying goodbye should be so hard.
And how fucking painful.
I remember the first time I came across Buddhist thinking. My horror at the idea that one should renounce all intensity of feeling, as everything is but a dream. So that you don’t cloud your mind with the pain -or the wonder, either- since it is all for naught.
Truth is Not a Toy. That was a great headline in the NYT this weekend.
Those Buddhist truths-
I know I let myself feel everything too much. That this is a choice.
But I don’t want to change. I like cherrypicking from wisdom texts, and living my life by them- for a while- but at bottom, let’s be honest, I don’t ever have any intention of withdrawing from the edge, of trying to protect myself from the pain of feeling everything, of experiencing everything. Even though I know it’s all meaningless, really...
Making one’s own meaning. I wonder. Does that make a toy of the truth?
No one honks when you take yourself a dog’s age fishing at the stoplight. We all got nothing but time.
Trading recipes with the clerk and other people in line at the grocery.
Saying heya and how are you to everyone you pass on the sidewalk, meaning it. Both of you slowing down to smile & wave as you go by.
Bumping into friends, everywhere, all the time.
The unblinking acceptance of eccentrics and quirks; the embracing thereof.
Old trees. Puppies.
The constant, delicious frisson of high and low culture, lushness & decay, wealth & poverty. We live in the richest, most fragile of soils. Charleston is a hothouse flower indeed.
My gorgeous, lustful, hothouse flower Holy City. Give us our sins again.
This is a wild soul-book