January 24, 2006


I left the house like I was breaking a fast, curious, tepid, relieved to be in the familiar 31 degrees. I put on the detective hat (Brandname "TOTES" on the side) yellow toggle button coat and my rubber boots and blue pants, and yes, I am dressing like Paddington bear on purpose, because why not dress as weird as you feel; big difference between actualizing a dream and turning into an adult baby or a plushie fetishist. Just know.

I got to the Bottle and my Paddington look was noted and my friends were nearly incredulous-- "Almost three days is a long time to not leave the house" they said. I was sick for one and a half and busy for the rest, guys, it's not like I am agoraphobic. One time thing, coupled with the wicked winter of this middle west, who wants to go brave the elements. I am a hoosier hearted woman, suffering farm stock, mind you. But I ain't a toughy. Plus, Wyatt the Kitten, now all of four lbs maybe, has taught himself to fetch and sits at my side liek a sentry while I type, waiting for me to toss a toy, and for him to prance back, his mouth big enough to keep the toy--it is a hard operation to abandon.

My friends and our other friends, we chewed up three hours ignoring bands, sitting on the couch of the pool room, with polite gossip and discussion of the technical and the what ifs about the 72 virgins that await martyrs in heaven. We all concluded: who wants to sleep with nothing but a bunch of virgins anyhow, because if you've ever slept with a virgin, you know, you have to keep getting with them for a good while before they are even half knowing what to do; 72 of them seems sisyphysian task rather than heavenly bestowment of riches. Erika read in Newsweek that girl martyrs, the reward is being MORE pure, into infinity -- such a curious heaven, filled with laborious or furious devirgining for some, for others, gleefully bone-free 4 life. (Not to be all Gee, isn't Islam, like, just soooo weird or anything, because, despite being down with Jesus, I understand most monotheism to be heavy and bizarre at best, and though I xtian-identify, I know the bible is ultra redonkuliss, with 940 year old women giving birth, and people living in the desert off what turned out to be bread made from worm shit, that Noah's ark would have had to be about the size of an aircraft carrier to fit the animals, and the concept of sin, touching hems making people well etc. )

Towards the end of the night, we squeezed in and out of the photobooth, once photographed and then camped out, gnawing the tamales I bought, hands greasy, with Mark and Erica telling me about having to destroy what they knew, all the embittered old familial examples of marriage in order to go forth and get married themselves. Best ever: when you know people before they know each other, people who chronicly were with the WRONG PEOPLE, never knowing each other, AND POW one day they will be married and in love and your neighboors. I like hanging out with Mark and Erica as I am real sucker for romance. I am willing to be a sucker for it; all the other ways to be about it are no fun (cynicism guised as "wisdom" always)--indulgence and faith, baby, why not and all the way.

Posted by Jessica at January 24, 2006 01:50 AM | TrackBack