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All posts for the month June, 2012

A House Party at the Dyckman Projects in 1976

Published June 30, 2012 by Sandee

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.

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I wanted to cut her hair.

Published June 29, 2012 by Sandee

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

Published June 28, 2012 by Sandee

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?

Published June 27, 2012 by Sandee

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 2nd 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

Published June 26, 2012 by Sandee

 

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.

Published June 25, 2012 by Sandee

 

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!

Published June 24, 2012 by Sandee

 

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 20th century!”  “Yeah, we know.”  23 skidoo!