I'm Thinking Of Running Away To Cuba

My imagination is fueled by Celia Cruz singing "Rie Y Llora" and my sister modeling my aprons.  One of the two looks like a drag queen's dream and sings like a firecracker and all I can say is that it's not my sister.

My sister is more Indie and gritty and tough and prettier than Sophia Coppola will ever be.

I am as sore as a whale who's just crossed the Australian reef all the while crooning that winter is coming and won't the krill please jump into my gaping maw?  I had to do some crazy exercises in Kung Fu yesterday like throwing punches at a punching pad while laying on the floor.  Not my best look.

I'm thinking of running away to Cuba. 

Then again, with our economy experiencing a little tuberculosis I'm thinking that the USA might develop a flavor not unlike the dusty hot poverty* worn by Cuba for the past few decades.  I'm thinking that Americans won't wear their worn out cars with nearly as much style or celebration.  I think Cuba represents the most stylish dive into the heart of entropy anyone's ever demonstrated and my countrymen have spent so much time insulting Cubans that they've failed to take the pointers offered in Cuban class: "How To Have Spunk While Crossing The Atlantic With Only A Pair Of Socks (101)"

Such a shame.

You can't see me right now, (thank Jesus and his stupid posse of wannabes), but if you could you would be "treated" to a little scene of Celia Cruz worship by way of an embarrassing degree of white woman attempts to get with the rhythm and be funky and, you know, NOT BE LAME.

Which always leads to lameness in the exponential camp of numbers.

Believe me, if you were listening to this you wouldn't be able to stop moving either.

Motion is beautiful... 

...in pit bull heads jumping to the sky to grab at fallen hazelnut branches.  In bodies moving even when they have every limitation earth can give them.  In wind arranging the leaves and the petals and your hair.

I am letting all my usual suspects go.  I promise I'm moving forward MSS.  It takes some fun and some good music for many nights in a row but I do always move on.

Don't I?

I grab at the crazy happy light percussion brought to me from unexpected channels because it's like the summer tomato; a rare succulent beast whose moment of glory is accomplished and finished in the blink of an eye and if you nap you will not know the acid sweet drip of summer juice meant to be eaten just as the summer sun mellows itself near the horizon and your hunger is heightened for all things divine.

Let me not write eulogies to tomatoes!

I can't help myself.  My joy is always a bit funereal in flavor.  Always writing the eulogy for cold objects.  Always saying goodbye like a person in love with weather who knows it will evaporate and change and transform from minute to minute.  Unless you live in San Diego.

Chop chop!

Bust your moves before the morning comes. 







* For anyone who is shockingly out of touch, we actually have a lot of American citizens starving to death, living in the deepest degradation, and bathing in the most infected hopeless dust clouds since the Depression.  Just peel your ignorance off of your eyeballs and all will be revealed.