SHEsaysWITHaSMILE.blogspot.com

WOMEN, a poem, by (charles bukowski!) ENCORE POST by (me!) sandra, tvgp

encore post from 12/26/07. inspired by tonight's visit to cosmo's where beautiful minh washed/dried & flat ironed my hair.. while my handsome prince sat patiently waiting

"i've written about this place too.." i said with a smile

"when?" he asked

"long time ago... but's it's rated R, i think you might like it"

"where can i find it?"

"i think it was 2008?"

"i tried reading each one of your blogs, but... [gestures exhaustion with his head tilted and face scrunched]

"i would never put anyone through that," i whispered across to him, "i have to write a lot of shit to get to the good stuff"

-so i promised him i would link it, make it easier.


i'm pleased with this post. i was nervous on a few accounts... my first stage performance at the bankhead theater in eve ensler's vagina monologues was upcoming, and i was not qualified really, to memorize my lines. i was nervous too, and at the same time, about reading a raunchy book in public.. all the nervousness escaped into this story...

PLUS -who doesn't have a great memory at cosmo's? such a staple, an important member in pleasanton's family tree. i have pictures of my son's first hair cut there.. and we have been returning, inconsistently, for some 11+ years

******

originally posted 12/26/07:





with so much cleaning to do, i've decided to blog.

somewhere on tine bruun's blog is a most incredible, passionate poem by charles bukowski. reading that poem on her blog was my introduction to this man, and i had to learn more

so i grabbed a book impulsively off the shelf at a book store when i saw his name:

women, a novel, by charles bukowski. -and now it makes more sense.. why that man in the book store winked at me

anyway.. i had NO IDEA what i was getting myself into. about 20 pages in, i said to myself..






25 pages in, i said.. what year was this thing published? flipped to the front: 1978.

ah, now everything makes sense. and i do make it a practice to read a variety of authors and perspectives and styles. -but not a public practice.

this explains why when my son was getting his haircut at pleasanton's famous cosmo's, i was very careful about how i pulled this book out of my bag. -actually i had been very careful about how i placed this book in my bag. any other book, and i simply place in a book mark, but this one i folded inside out to mark my place (and hide the cover).

cosmo's being the popular place it is.. i was surrounded by men. God forbid one of them knew this author, this book, this story and associated it in any way with me. but something about this experience -reading things like

pg 134: "when we get to new york i'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked before!"

"you mean it?"

"yes."

she grabbed my cock and leaned against me.
my first and only redhead. i was lucky...

and realizing that there were at least 5 men over the age of 40 in various chairs at cosmo's

and realizing how men over 40 are often far-sighted...

well, something about this.. sitting center stage with such a raunchy read ... male creatures to my left and write, bodies veiled in backwards batman capes, scissors to their balding heads, in such obvious search for something, anything, to occupy their minds while they endure (for men unattracted to their barberess) or enjoy (for men sinfully attracted) this grooming tradition...

something about this experience primed me for nervous giggles. -i could feel it.

my mind drifted from the story... enjoyed a brief and very entertaining fantasy:

"excuse me. excuse me everyone. i'll be performing soon.. my acting debut..

do you mind if i practice a scene here? it will only take a moment... and then you can tell me how i'm doing.. would that be okay?"

and what else are men going to say when they're trapped in barber chairs for the next few minutes anyway? they would LOVE the entertainment. and so i didn't need to wait for an answer officially

i just jumped to my feet and started in:

"the clitoris is pure in purpose. it is the only organ in the body designed purely for pleasure. the clitoris is simply (and i've visions of myself walking from chair to chair, making eye contact with each and every vulnerable man) a bundle of nerves:

EIGHT THOUSAND! nerve fibers (i wink), to be precise. (i smile).

that's a higher concentration of nerve fibers than is found ANYWHERE else in the body, including..

fingertips (i kiss a few); lips (i kiss a pair) and tongue (add to next kiss)

and is twice (jump center stage/hold out two fingers)

TWICE (hold peace sign high in the air)

TWICE (two dance turns and solid landing) the number in the penis (light gesture over one or two pointing from beneath their cape)

who needs a handgun when you've got a semiautomatic?" (tilt head and smile. complete matter of fact, academic knowledge and sexual innocence).

and the room is entirely silent. still and silent with pup tents here and there. not one scissor, cutting. not one razor, buzzing. every barber and every customer unable to process what they've just witnessed.

and then.. unstoppable applause. and when i turn around to take my bow and thank everyone for their time.. a crowd has formed outside the barber shop too. everyone smiling, laughing, clapping.

and then i glanced at my son, 3/4 through his handsome big boy cut, and he was smiling so big at me. i realized then, he thought my smile was for him. it became so immediately. curtains closed on my grand and imaginative performance. i made a silly face at him. and he made a silly face back at me. something we do every haircut; as predictible and fun as the lollypop treat that follows.

i returned to charles.. the book wide open flat on my lap, hiding the cover. i read discretely, quietly, semi-conscious of my smile; still primed...

and then i got here, page 140, and couldn't hold back any more.

says,

there is a problem with writers. if what a writer wrote was published and sold many, many copies, the writer thought he was great. if what a writer wrote was published and sold a medium number of copies, the writer thought he was great. if what a writer wrote was published and sold very few copies, the writer thought he was great. if what the writer wrote never was published and he didn't have the money to publish it himself, then he thought he was truly great.

and all my built up nervous laughter came write out.

i know this increased the curiousity about what book i was reading...

posted by SHE @ 2:14 PM