I FINALLY FLIPPEDTHE SWITCH

I have often prayed that I would wake up one day as a 100% lesbian, instead of only 27%, which of course leaves 73% engaged in male-seeking behaviors. The males, they are so tempestuous with the dealings of their limbs and eyeballs. I've got the tempest inside. Could someone please show me a rock into which I may crash repeatedly until my ship shatters and I become one with the ocean? Ha ha. Ha. That's so Danielle Steel. But how to be one's own tempest AND rock? AND deal with the monthly shedding?! AND mascara?!! Jesus Christ.

It's no wonder that when a woman commits murder, it's in some totally freakin nutto flippo way, like, she drowns her seven babies and one neighbor kid in a bathtub filled with Mr. Bubble, or, she stabs some guy's eyeballs out with scissors, and then cuts his nuts off, and then cuts out his kidneys and makes a baked artichoke-kidney dip out of them, and eats the dip with sesame crackers, and then pukes it out all over him, OR, she sprinkles powdered sugar and arsenic on the warm cakey doughnuts she serves to her children every morning for breakfast until their livers fail (Flowers in the Attic, anyone?). Men just shoot guns or punch people to death. Boring!

I'm not a lesbian. Not that there's anything wrong with not being one. The aforementioned prayers were really half-thoughts made in desperation after being treated like a doll for too long (just because I'm a little bit pretty? How about some originality already?). In fact, I'm rather missing the out of town male counterpart. I mean, goddam it. (Hi honey! Hope the New England states are as warm and comforting as the hot god-vessel of my being!)

It's 18% at most, really.

But none of this has anything to do with the switch I've flipped.

In my days as a writerly poet type, the words for a thing came with careful effort. Even so, those of you who knew me when will probably agree that I really cranked out a few killers. But only a few, and far between. And the association between a thing and its words was never instantaneous. And so my poetry was eaten of worms, and gave up the ghost.

The switch I've flipped is a qualitative change in the visual part of my little ol' brain. The visual cortex, I believe, is what the kids call it these days. For a year and a half, I've been taking art/design classes, working the vis-legs. Sometime recently, the dam broke, and now the image associations just keep coming. They're gushing, in fact, like some kind of niagara color falls. I feel five again, but also seventy-five, and drawing is less daunting and more satisfying, and the layers of light and shadow are more easily separated, and color is as satisfying as a deep tissue massage. And ISN'T THIS EXCITING?! Something happened. I got some muscle. Like when your brain steeps in a new language long enough to speak it fluently. So now I need to speak. So please stop reading this.

Now.