. . . arianainlove: confessions of a bisexual polyamorist . . .
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* it’s not lake merritt’s fault I wrote this poem * the wrestler misses your bed * Travelling With My Love In A Catholic Country * Rising Into Love With You * Poems Composed on 880 North / In the Middle of the Night / In the Storm * * * Visit My Massage Website:Present Touch Massage: Ariana Waynes, CMT * * * Love these ones, too:Apocalypse AngelCubicle GirlDipti OrangepeelerMarty McConnell Perceptions PostSecret Roger Bonair-Agard Sriram Wammo The Nation Democracy Now KPFA Michael Moore Furthermore, the notes are not automated - they are all written personally by me. So, you get an extra note/memo/letter (depending on my mood), in which I might just wax philosophic on any number of topics that seem relevant, preferably in a few sentences or less. Or I might talk about how it feels that you all are in this journey with me or I might talk about updates to the site. But whether I say very much or very little on any given day, it feels more personal. Like I'm talking directly to you. I feel more connected to the folks on the notifylist. There, I've said it.
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10-23-01 - 6:37 p.m. Begin here. There's no sense in beginning here. So I received this message. Surely my eyes grew wide. Surely my mouth hung open. Surely my right hand moved to cover it. I tried to make sense of the address, of the supposed sender. I made anagrams of the letters in 'ileen listen.' I called the voicemail, hoping to hear a familiar voice. Nothing. A mechanical recording. I counted the number of 'fluid bodies' in the poem. Connected them to certain poems I'd performed the previous evening. Perhaps my anonymous so and so had met me at the poetry slam. The person was not someone whose writing, however, I knew well. It was not a poetry slammer. That much was certain. That much was easy. What do I do? I write back. Ridiculous to greet a poem such as this with anything as mundane as That night. Date: Fri, 01 Jun 2001 01:19:52 -0700 you make a private investigator out of me. i read and reread the lines trying to find the face behind them. i rearrange the letters ileenlisten, i seive them for meaning listen i leen, ell einstein, your mind defies my best guesses. i try dusting the voicemail for thumb-prints or hum prints, something familiar in the ear, a tone maybe striking a chord with my own but i'm met with more mechanisms and the considerable absence of flesh. i surmise your fluidbody arose strictly to compose an anonymous missive to pose a conundrum to a usually laughing woman who devotes herself to games and affection and mystery detection at least as much as she attends to movement and to poetry. i mean you even found me here, settling into an new electronic address, so you must have met me, pressed your flesh against mine recently (unless, of course, you have spies). most likely i met you last night at the slam (or at least, you met me) i must confess-- my stream of consciousness hit a dam trying to jam itself against the (gorgeous writing on the) wall of you and make it through. * * * throw open the screen door, won't you strip yourself naked before my windowpane and bare at least so much or so little as a name. ~a * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * You are cordially invited into the psyche of Ariana Waynes: http://joyfulgrl.diaryland.com Come and play! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I sent it immediately. And fell asleep. The next morning? Wait and see. it really means a lot to me when you say hello after stopping by. suddenly, i'm wanting this guestbook to be a forum for further dialogue. |
