December rolls up like a gritty whore after a night spent with tourists on the Lost Wages Strip. Hello, December! You already tired and sore, honey? Yeah.
Now that you have that in your heads.
I did start a new play.
Three times now. I think this last time I’ll let it unroll how it wants, see what the tricksy muses wish to fart out.
My muses don’t murmur soft gracious urbane phrases and plot lines, oh no. They’re those terrible old women who don’t give a shit anymore. The ones that lift their butt cheek to let loose a long, satisfying ass honk. Then laugh, then cuss up a storm, trying to remember where they left their teeth. They wear comfy clothes splattered with stains and mysterious patches. Their hands could sand wood to a smooth finish. Feet like hooves.
Occasionally they take off for adventures, go get laid and run from foreign cops in stolen cars they can’t really drive. Before turning up to fart, belch, drink coffee and gossip in my head.
There’s no snow yet. A few tries but nothing that’s stuck. I can’t wait. That first real snow fall. Storms of snow. Makes me wish I lived in a snow globe. Not really, but it sounded poetic and sweet, didn’t it?
I’m wading into stagnant pond scum, inner-person wise. The inside tides have shifted. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here, yeah. That’s my life motto at the moment.
But hey. I started a new play.
I want to make rugelach [my computer wants to change that to rubella], even though I’d have to take a shower, put on town clothes, go fetch some cream cheese, apricot jam, cheap walnuts. Raisins?! I have the cinnamon. Maybe I’ll just sprinkle that on some toast, roll that up, call it good. I’ve never made it before. A little rolled up cookie full of jam, nuts and raisins. It doesn’t seem particularly hard to make. It’s a change from sugar cookies.
I don’t want to wander over into maudlin land. I know very well sharing the actual thoughts in my head are never really welcomed. By anyone. I always snort, get a cold shaky feeling, when someone tells me to be myself. No thanks. I’d rather roll in a dead deer carcass that believe anything that comes out of another person’s mouth. Cynical? Yep, that’s me.
Hello, December.
ANN WUEHLER 