Monday, February 20, 2012

Fingers, toes & everything else crossed

My great-grandmother went back to college in her 70s and stared freelancing for the Seattle Times after that. If she knew what little Gina just sent off to the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival to be read onstage by the Naked Ladies Reading troupe she might be blushing in her granny panties. Or maybe she'd be proud. I'll go with the latter. Ol' Granny lived large for her time & so am I. 'Bout time, too! I hope I hope I hope I get in to the festival this year again -- third time's a charm, yes?

Here's one of the pieces I sent in, a sensual prose poem along with a pilo-o-smut -- I think she'd actually like this one.

Recipe for Man


I once created a man out of thin air. I began with a fistful of light that I caught as it streamed through canvas tent walls, and a lungful of the warm berry smell of pine needle duff that I inhaled on that perfect summer morning. I was only eight at the time, but I saved the light in the small penny pocket of my ripped blue jeans and kept the pine-scented air in the filaments of my hair. A fire-scorched walking stick carved of maple became the man’s bones. The sound of an owl hooting into the black soul of midnight became his voice. With my mother’s spinning wheel, I created tendons and veins and wove miles and miles of thick, greasy strands into the artful patterns that gave his body its graceful strength. The curve of time and a twist of fate saved in a cigar box beneath a quilt in the corner of my hope chest became his heart. For years and years I scrimped and saved bits and scraps of found things, the poetry in things….like bird’s nests and old marbles and the way aspen leaves flutter and the glint of a salmon as it rises and a firstborn’s hand against her father’s cheek and a letter home and the soft leather of old track shoes and the smell of bread baking and the white crust of salt on the collar of a hickory shirt after a day splitting wood. These things became the man’s strength and spirit. I waited patiently for a hundred thousand centuries, anticipating the perfect moment. Finally, on a brilliant May afternoon, while hiking in the mountains, I suddenly saw him there in the rocks. The idea of him shimmered in the sun, etched against the basalt. I positioned my crystal lens just so, unleashed the light from my pocket and breathed him alive, a perfectly imperfect sculpture of stone and bone and blood and the poetry of things. Just as I imagined he would be.
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A former lover from way back got in touch recently. He happens to share my initials, which has always made me smile. We had some very sweet, sexy times together in our youth and it's been wonderful to reconnect. That poem and this image remind me of him. Here's to the "other" GW and all the good, strong, passionate men I've known in this crazy little life. You boys really do make the big blue marble go 'round.
 

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