Wednesday, November 25, 2009

An interview

I NEVER saw myself as a hotboy, SL or otherwise, but apparently I got the thumbs up by Bubbles Komachi, one of the six or so SL'ers whose company I enjoy immensely and who has tried over and over again to make me a more posh avatar. Despite the fact that I deplore prims (I'm known for making my head smaller so I didn't have to edit my hair), she has tried to kindly persuade me to upgrade my tastes from freebie clothes to a couture, and I have encouraged her to continue exploring her poetic voice; she is a budding SL star of spoken word. A self-proclaimed "gansta" (yeh, right), she has become an SL blogger worth noting.

Finding Bubbles' previous articles entertaining, I gave in to the interview request and subsequent photoshoot. Although, not surprisingly for me, I rate low on the "meter" (a 8.3 compared to the other hotties who have gone as far up the chart as 9.7), I had a blast. Bubbles took in account my religious convictions, and my faithfulness to my marriage, and was very tasteful with her questions. According to one of my raters (the girls and guys whose votes determine the meter), I expressed quite a bit of "snark" which I think people in RL would say I'm full of as well. All in all, I had a great deal of fun, but Huck, Hadley, and all the other SL true hotties out there are perfectly safe. I ain't stealing nobody's cred. :)

You can read of my hotness at

Thursday, November 5, 2009

It Only Breaks Along the Cracks

As he sat there, Freud-like, scribbling on yellow steno paper, He remembered—or he thought he remembered, maybe he just remembered the stories— when he was two and was locked in the car the faces of giants at every angle trying to set him free his mother screaming silently just outside the glass— fear, confusion, heat— they broke the glass but it didn’t shatter— put your head down cover your face baby— all the pieces stayed together a transparent jigsaw puzzle the man punched it and broke through the air came in cool.
He remembered it for only a second at the sink —I’m cracking up spinning out— metaphors come to the insane there was no logic here —hold my breath, no breathe— all he had to do was the dishes he fell to the floor plate after plate fell hurled their china shards in a spiral across the yellow linoleum red dots across the sunny yellow— he had wanted hard wood, but— Someone had to get in past the panic punch through —insignificant so major— come, cool, inside
She held his head to keep glass from shattering
not knowing it had to break to let in air.
Because it only breaks along the crack
And you may fall in the mire of madness
with only the little dwarf pills to join hand to hand to pull you back
and afterward the shame—
there will always be the shame—
the how can you do this to your family shame

and he must say to the sinking soul lying on the couch beside him,
“you can learn to swim from two types of teachers,
the one who always perfectly split the water
and the one who almost drowned.”