Just Give Me Some Cloth and Let Me Go

I just got another sewing machine - the other one bit the dust and was beyond repair - so I went out and bought bolts of some of the oddest designs I could find so that I can whip up even more outrageous costumes for myself.  Right now, I'm going through a '60's phase (with my kind of updating it), so I'm going to make a pair of bellbottom jeans in seriously psychedelic colors with a paisley artist-style shirt (the kind with the huge sleeves and the neckline is laced-up).  I've got a ton of accessories to go along with it - peace sign necklaces, rings and scarves; oval John Lennon specs, and a good friend who seems to be able to find anything at yard sales had found me a pair of platform shoes - they're a little too big, but I can stuff the toes and totter about as unsteadily as I do on a good day anyway.

I, also, found an old pattern for the infamous '60's mini-shirtdress.  They look like a shirt that just is a bit long, is all.  The thing that made them fit into the '60's were the patterns, and I found 6 yards of chambray covered in all manner of colored bubbles.  Alone, or with a pair of lime green or hot pink leggings, it'll be a hot outfit.

Anyway, I'll be posting pics of my get-ups, and the ones I make for others.  Something to keep the bogies away.

F**k the Smokemen.

Davida

Pictures of an Illusion (for KW)

 



 

 

I used to leave the webcam on so that I'd have pics for you, but I take such a rotten pic that I never sent them.  The bottom one is when I suddenly become very aware of the cam and shut it off.  Pics of me reading aren't very interesting.

 

 

 

I recently went to a wedding of two Muslims with a friend.  I wasn't too thrilled with wearing the thingee on my head.  It's a weird kind of circular scarf that you are supposed to pull up over your nose in public, but I didn't do that.  I, also, didn't stay for the reception as this was a traditional family, and since 1) there was no booze, and 2) women are pretty much treated like furniture, I left to the chagrin of the friend who had to drive me home.  They had food, but it all looked...strange.   A pair of goats had been roasted for one thing and they still had their heads attached as whoever gets to eat the eyeballs is considered to have had the best - ugh - of the beasts.  I like goats.  I had one as a pet in Texas.   No goat for me...

 

 

Finally, these are my rose-colored specs.  Anything to keep me delusional, I say.

 

So, here's some fucking pics, and you can go eat a goat.

 

Davida

 





I Can Only Imagine (for KW)

It's very hard for me to admit this: when you caught me - that's the badger in you - I felt...nothing.  In fact, that absence of feeling anything at all is what truly shocked me.  I told myself it would hit me later, then - when it didn't - I made pretend (even to myself) that I was devastated.

  I confessed to everyone (including the bishop).  Tears flowed like rivers.  A few of them even cried themselves.  I almost had myself convinced.

Finally, I chalked it up to the truth:  I simply do not understand most of the things I do.  I'm not a bad person.  I'm generally polite and helpful if needed, and I'm the Patron Saint of Broken Bipeds in Emotionally Disarray, but I just fail to connect to someone else the way most people can, and do.  This is why I've always known that I was destined to be alone in my life.

I liked dating when I was a kid, but the whole point of dating is that it's fun.  You go to horror movies and eat pizza.  You drink beer in the park, and roll around in the bushes.  You go out dancing simply to get to grind into each other so that, later, both of you are suitably frustrated by the time you get home and feel like you've just gone ten rounds with a giant squid.  Dating was easy, and I was cute, so I did a lot of it.  It's only when I got older and people expected more of me that I began to understand that I was different.

Oh, the sex was fun - it was the only thing better than dating - but it seems that if you have sex with someone more than three times (and, for some reason, three times is pretty accurate), you were automatically signed-up as A Thing, A Couple.  The person you had sex with three times stops asking you to do things - they just assume that you are going to be with them after work every day, and to spend the weekend until you get married, and learned to hate and revolt each other.

If three times was the rule for being in a relationship, I developed the pattern of going on for three months before walking away.  Three months of it was about all I could stand.  I get tired of feeling like I have a conjoined twin stuck on my ass, and I end it for no real reason other than I am bored and sick of it.

I can only imagine how badly you must feel, and that's the problem - I can only imagine it.  If I could do anything to mend you, if I were able to do whatever that might be, I would.  You're, still, a valuable person I want the best for, believe it or not, and maybe one day you'll understand what I can't.

Again, I'm sorry, but you must admit the hours we spent together were not wasted on either of us.  We did good things for each other.

In the Ballpark for (KW)

Okay...the third time's the charm, right?

I have a lot of things I want to say to you, but I'm not sure, exactly, what they are.  Oh, I'm in the right ballpark, but there's no stadium lights, it's a new moon at midnight with no stars.  Not even a Zippo...  I'm not lost, mind you, I just can't quite see where I'm going here with you.  Gotta watch my step here...it's a minefield...

 

I don't know what I know anymore.  I've never had more than a nodding acquaintance with reality to begin with, and it seems my cognitive abilities have packed up, moved out and gone to the Bahamas until I can string more than one coherent thought in a row for you.  I know you'll find this one day because you are part badger.  I'll probably never know if you read it, though, and that's all right.  This is more for me than it is for you anyway.

 

I mean, you know what I've been through.  That was/is all true, unfortunately.  I suppose at some point I should thank God for this School of Hard Knocks for it's leading me to a certain, if small, portion of  personal and spiritual illumination, but - He didn't have to be so rough, did He?  He didn't have to throw you in my path, either, but I guess both of us regret that.

 

By the way, you knew.  You've always known, and just didn't want to.  Let's get that straight right away.  Also, I meant no harm.  At first, I just wanted to break you out of that hell you'd built for yourself, lift your self-esteem, get you out and about, and, hopefully, joining the human race again.  After that, well - I just don't know what the hell happened.  Love is such a strange animal, after all, and none of us are immune even when we fight to be.  I was 'Stonewoman' for a reason - I had no desire to ever become involved with anyone ever again, and, actually, I haven't.  I have always known that I need to be alone.  It's part of my destiny, and I've become ever more adverse to people in general.  Not because I'm unable to love them.  I simply never understood them.  Not anyone.  Ever.  Not even you.

 

I'm sorry.  That isn't near enough, but I am.  I, still, think I was good for you, though.  You are so much stronger than you were years ago, and I no longer worry about you dying alone with your life unlived.

 

Well, that's about all for today.  It wasn't much, but...it's all I have right now.

 

And I am sorry.  Sorry, and sad. 

 

Davida