A House Party at the Dyckman Projects in 1976

The elevated train at the margin of the housing projects lacerated the track.  Northbound, it rounded the curve, until disappearing, the metal tail lashing flames fading to the stratosphere. From the height of the tracks, a passenger on the train saw electric blue glow around the windows of apartment 12C in the 3rd building of the complex. The faint saxophones and hyper-tribal percussion music grew louder.  The windows swelled and contracted. On the street, parked cars popped up from the concrete, crashing back down in sparks to the beat:  “Watch me now, feel the groove…into something, gonna make you move….”  Dusk colored light covered nine buildings of the complex in magenta, and the energized teenaged organism inside of apartment 12C caused streams of sweat to trickle down the cream colored walls and steam to rise from the floor.  The shades of black, brown, tan and mocha pulsated it would seem as independent rhythmic forces, but they were all part of one throbbing mass.

I wanted to cut her hair.

She was in the chair in front of mine.  Her hair was colored badly, overgrown, uneven past her shoulders.  I wanted to cut her hair.  I wanted to give her a bath and put her to bed.  I wanted to kiss her all over, maybe sing something to her, even though I don’t like to sing.  Just something.  To soothe her.  She could be well off by herself; but she’s sanguine, hopeful as a child about tomorrow.  That day would bring someone along for sure.  Me.  She was strong and assertive but equally vulnerable – like that dog with all the different colors and no collar who belonged to no one – its hair was unruly, dull in spots.  For a while he had managed to survive on scraps and bowls of food put out by neighborhood animal lovers — I could take care of her — introduce her to a different way, calm her.

A Sword Chinned B**ch’s Romantic List of Music

The ideal portrayed in love songs is unattainable and frozen in time, static and packaged. Often these songs barely reflect the complexity of sex and relationships.  So I don’t want to hear this kind of music while I’m having sex.  I don’t need all that smooth-talking and flowery music.  If the sentiment expressed in these songs exists between me and the person I’m having sex with then we don’t need the artificial accompaniment.  I might enjoy listening to “love songs” when I’m not having sex however.  A couple of my favorites that might remotely be classified as ‘love songs’ still can’t even be strongly identified with the music typically considered such — ELP’s Still, I Just Wanna Make Love to You by Etta James,  and Girl Blue by the Main Ingredient.

Overall I find love songs too sugary.  The songs I like are wild, passionate, furious and have sensual and infectious rhythmic patterns and beats – isn’t that what great sex should be?  Check out at least a couple of a Sword Chinned Bitch’s songs to have sex to below:

1.   My Thang, by James Brown:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=46ueqMcyfwo

2.   Make Some Room, by Sade:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyDBQLUU48A

3.   Crazy Train, by Black Sabbath:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=otdHbA4GlSI

4.   Incantation, Nocturnal Dominion: www.youtube.com/watch?v=0g2v6bAwRk4&feature=related

5.   Moondance, by Summoning:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=eALBAr-aISo

6.   Kingdom Gone, by At the Gates:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=NlRSIFnV-FY

7.   Nar Mataru/God of Emptiness, by Morbid Angel: www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8sBPMqARRE

8.   Poison, by Bell Biv Devoe:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=YejxyaFyUHc

9.   Been a Long Time, by Led Zepplin:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=P14ia9cKwVA

10. Dancing Days, by Led Zepplin :  www.youtube.com/watch?v=YGST7qYvlMw

11.  Rock Lobster, by the B52s (I did it before they did it in the movie!):  www.youtube.com/watch?v=tDZy6-fMCw4

12. Funeral Feast, by Mortician:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zv1RE7FUufM

13. Slam, by Onyx:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=TortQoLorZc

Who Let That Crazy B**tch Into The School?

This isn’t a reblog but an excerpt of my Royal Dansk Danish Butter Cookies post. Maybe no one but my dear blogging buddy Madame Weebles saw it because I had just started blogging.  But if you have seen it, perhaps you should read it again as I’m sure you’ll gain some new and exciting insights…  Yes, it was a long ass post!  I wanted to highlight the fantabulous Mrs. Flynn from it — dedicate the whole damn post to her — here she is:

…my 2^nd grade teacher, poor, weird Mrs. Flynn.  Who let that crazy bitch into the school!?   Yes, the bitch was a mental case.  If you touched her, she’d yell “Don’t touch me!  Don’t ever touch me!”  She was a dumpy woman with a big square head, red hair, and very pale skin.  She kept always on her desk a tin of Royal Dansk Danish Butter Cookies which she never offered to us kids.  I loved Royal Dansk Danish Butter Cookies, and would eye them covetously, fantasizing about a day when she would change her non-sharing ways.  She ate them anytime she wanted, right in front of us – the buttery pretzel shaped ones, with chunky sugar granules on them.  Something about her piggish face reminds me of the Nazi female prison commander in Seven Beauties.

One day she told us that we weren’t going to practice spelling, or numbers or any of that shit.  Instead she commanded us to run around in circles in the classroom – that’s right, just run around.  Some of the boys took to it immediately and ran around like maniacs, banging into tables, chairs, and into each other, falling down all over the place.  By the end they were all red faced, sweaty and ripped up.  And Mrs. Flynn from behind her desk screamed, “Don’t stop, run, run – keep running, yeah!”  She then went back to reading the paper and eating butter cookies.  A few girls ran with abandon as well, their little skirts hiked up in friction around their tights, but I remember the circle of us who just sat there, scared — Martin, Michelle and maybe a couple of others.  A couple of those kids were crying because they knew that this was not normal and that Mrs. Flynn had lost her marbles, and that she was an adult and what were we supposed to do now.  I didn’t cry but sat there staring, freaked.  What a crazy scene!

I think about those stupid kids today, the ones who just ran around enjoying it.  Are these the ones who grew up to take advantage of the moment, to live life to the fullest?  The bungee jumpers, parachuters, and Polar Bear Club members?  Or maybe they’re in prison.  I think I heard that Mrs. Flynn found out that she had a brain tumor.  I think she had just found out and had a nervous breakdown the day she told us to run around.  But still I mean come on, why take it out on little kids.  But the poor thing probably had a weird time of it with life in general, what with her aversion to being touched and to sharing her Royal Dansk Danish Butter Cookies.

Georgia O’Keefe

 

You shouldn’t wear those earrings here.  At work.

Why?

They look like, clitorises, hanging from your ears, that’s why.

They’re Georgia O’Keefe.

She didn’t make earrings.

Okay Georgia O’Keefish.  A designer based one of her paintings on the design.  I bought them at a street fair.

Well, you just corroborated what I said — she didn’t make earrings.

These earrings just celebrate her – look, look at them.  Want to touch?

They just look… (fondling them).

They look…what?

These earrings are, very provocative.

I can’t help it if you’re getting turned on by my earrings — they’re just pretty peach colored flowers in a pointed oval shape with protruding petals in the middle.  What if they were painted another color, like black?

They’d look like black clitorises then.

Aw c’mon Barry even black women don’t have black pus – I mean black clitorises – well some are darker, but not like pitch black.

How do you know?  You can’t just go by yours.

Okay so now we’re talking about my vagina – at work.

You’re the one who started it.

No.  You are.  You said my earrings look like clitorises.  I’m just wearing pretty pink colored flowers.

I black out — come to…transformed.

 

You cut yourself, and I relieve the deep, metallic flow of blood with my mouth.  That ancient taste permeates my tongue.  I breathe deeply in to gather it – more.  I wait before an electric wave carries me — my mouth slides lightly over your arm, to your lips.  Taste!   Your salty blood on my tongue.  Isolated senses push my muscles, again!  Again.  Without permission.  I black out — come to…transformed.  Fused, we take our time to speak and the moistness between us evaporates into the continuum of time.

And now this — aw, it’s only a minute, 42 seconds — it’s an accompaniment to my poem — just don’t look up the lyrics!

23 Skidoo!

 

What’s that age where it’s okay for women to talk about how hot they used to be or to talk explicitly about sex in mixed company?  There’s an age where nobody gives a crap anymore, like that crazy old lady at the barbecue who takes her titties out and says “C’mere, suck on these!”  She’s the life of the party, the quirky old drunk broad. She’s not a threat to any of the women and nobody wants to fuck her so it’s okay if she says “I used to be a beautiful woman long ago who’s had sex with many many many many men, and boy what I would pay to suck your dick!”  “Oh boy, your Auntie Sandee’s a riot T!  She must have been something else back in the 20^th century!”  “Yeah, we know.”  23 skidoo!

The 7th Circle of Hell

 

I’m the one who should be relegated to the 9^th circle of hell — oh, I meant the 7^th circle.  This region of hell is for those who perpetrate violence against old people.  After two days of tirade against the old lady who charges me with forcing her down a flight of steps with my help, I have shed my defenses.  I went through the stages of feelings and came out on the other end, which includes the understanding of where she might be coming from.  This means putting myself in her shoes (orthopedic).  She’s merely being proactive, yes, in gathering information regarding this farce.  No?  Well, God forbid, some slowly developing crack in her ass should develop as we both landed on our asses when we fell – no, no, another crack — I assume that she has one crack already.  This would be very expensive to repair.  So she might have to sue the organization for medical coverage.  Yeah, that’s, it probably.

Seriously, I hope she’s okay.  It can be dangerous to fall when you’re old.  A lot of old people go rapidly down hill after falling – oh God I’m scared now.  What if she, should…  A-anyway, this incident was educational.  I learned about the dangers of helping a stranger, and I learned how my own self-centered fear had me imagining this poor woman in a boiling pot of oil.

A Pot of Boiling Oil in the 9th Circle of Hell

 

Some of you may have read my post about the shriveled bat that I tried forcibly helping down the steps.  While I actually didn’t force-help Methuselah down the steps, I should have backed off when she said she could crawl to the banister by herself.  To give a summary of that post, ‘blibbity, bop, clop, cloppity, clack, crack’ is the sound we made when we both fell after she linked her arm into mine to accept my ‘forced help’.  I had asked if she was hurt, if she needed an ambulance – no and no she said.  Frankly I thought the shit was kind of funny.  Eh.  But it seems now that this woman is blaming me for her fall — yes, one might perceive that it was my fault, if they want to look at it that way.  This woman had become friendly with me, told me all these stories– so I was concerned when I saw her trying to get down the stairs.  A few days ago I helped another old woman off of the bus — I will never help another old person again, unless they beg!  This old woman is indeed a devious person who will in a matter of minutes, as she’s 200 years old, die and be relegated to a pot of boiling oil in the 9^th circle of hell.  This is all I’ll say.

On a day of hormonal fluctuation and premenopausal body morphing issues, I feel like a big fat dumbass who should have known better.  But guess what?  I was the only one who got the final Jeopardy answer — Taj Mahal bitch!

Previous Post

 

I only ever dreamed of being an artist like my dad.  It’s hard.  I never knew what else to do with myself.  I’m a hippy, I think really.  While my tag is Sword-Chinned Bitch, I’m not a bitch and I never wanted to be one.  My brother gave me that name when I was 12.  We’d had a fight.  I was skinny with a sharp chin.  I told people about it in adulthood and they rolled on the floor laughing, so I thought it would work well as a blogger name.  My friend years ago used to call me his hippy chick, but then he said, oh never mind, because he realized that hippies were really wealthy white kids.  I’ve also been called space cadet, kook, weirdo – most affectionately by friends.

I never thought about making money.  I don’t think in terms of money, not really.  Ask me how much I paid for something and I usually can’t tell you.  I don’t even like clothes.  I remember years ago at this company I worked for we had a X-mas party and Lou Hagopian the director said we’d all be getting a $1000 bonus – this was in 1984. We were in an auditorium at a fancy hotel.  Everybody popped up out of their seats and screamed except me.  My coworkers on either side looked down at me.  “Come on Sandee, aren’t you happy,” the one said.  “Oh yeah, sure,” I said.  I rose up to clap, but it was disconnected, an act.  I didn’t know what the fuck it meant that I would have $1000 extra bucks.

I would like to make a vocation of writing.  But I have to enjoy my day to day life and not project to a future that I would like to happen.  At this age I have learned that one needs money and it makes me neurotic.  As long as I’m comfortable being what I am I guess I’m good.