Category Archives: Stories

When do you Write off an Ejaculate?

At a salon recently, my new acquaintance spoke this sentence to me: “When do you write off an ejaculate?”

If I hadn’t been talking to an accountant, I would’ve taken a few steps back.  Instead, I said, “Do you realize how long I’ve been waiting to meet someone who could utter that statement honestly while describing their line of work?”

Sperm banks need accountants too.

Ejaculant

I’ve been working on a new art piece and had it hanging at one of several places I share my ideas in progress.

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A friend walked by responding to its latest improvement of little beads hanging below, “ooh, it now has ejaculant.””like coolant?” I replied.

After an awkward silence, he asked, “isn’t that what it’s called?”

Umm … I decided to go ahead.  “Well, it’s e-jac-u-late,” I enunciated each syllable, “not e-jac-u-lant.”

He looked at me dumbfounded, like I was speaking a different language and these two different sounds were not discernable to him.  I tried again but I got the same look.  We dropped it.

Later I was relating the story to another male friend.  I told him that someone had called it ejaculant.  My friend looked at me, waiting for the punch line.  I said, it’s e-jac-u-late, not e-jac-u-lant.  Three times I repeated it, but same as the last guy, we got nowhere.

His chemistry background prompted him to say it’s just like precipitant.  I said yeah, it IS just like precipitant, only the word is precipitate. After more online dictionary consultations, he finally agreed although loudly proclaimed that he liked ejaculant better and stomped off muttering something about how nouns and verbs should never be the same word.

Just as I was going to post this, I decided to see how many other occurrences of this misspelled word there were.  According to a google search today, there are 145,000 listings for ejaculant as compared to 1.8 million for ejaculate.  Seems it is a word fetus on its way to becoming a true individual word of its own someday, maybe, and the joke is on me.

Asking

I asked one woman if I could take a picture of her belly button. I thought I knew her pretty well and was sure she’d go for it and maybe even fling her clothes off a bit further than necessary just for added flair.

She replied laughing but adamant, “My belly button’s gone bad and is not for show.”

I am not a Monogamous Crocheter

I just heard someone describing herself as a monogamous knitter – she works on only one project at a time. I have always worked on multiple projects at the same time. Does that make me a polygynous crocheter?

If my projects have gender (or is it sex? does a fuck doily have sex? is a cock doily male?), I could be a polyandrous or polygamous crocheter? And if they all approve of each other, maybe I’m a polyamorous crocheter, into fibrous polyfidelity.

I have no idea what kind of graphic to use to compliment this post.

12-Step program for Crocheters Anonymous

I wish I’d been the only person to have gone through this but I know I’ve talked to other crocheters who definitely relate. Not all of you, though, thank Baubo.

For those who are on the other side and would like to work through this, I offer you…

Twelve Steps for Crocheters Anonymous
— or how to grow into being comfortable crocheting in public

  1. Admit that you are powerless over crochet, that your life has become unmanageable until you figure out how to do your hobby with pride and in public when you wish.
  2. Believe that in the power of Baubo, you can restore your crochet tendencies to sanity.
  3. Make a decision to grow your tendencies to crochet into a happy healthy habit.
  4. Make a searching and fearless inventory of all the items, garments, doilies, or otherwise that you fervently dream of making someday and post it where you can see it and be inspired.
  5. Tell one friend that you are a crocheter. Imagine Baubo standing by your side in support, behaving herself for the moment.
  6. Find a café far enough away from your home that you can be very sure you won’t be recognized. Crochet a row or two. If anyone talks to you, politely brush them off. Days or weeks later, find the same or different café far enough away that you won’t be recognized. Crochet until two people talk to you about your crochet. You need not fess up about what you’re really making although do admit to crocheting.
  7. Tell another friend that you are a crocheter.
  8. Make a list of all the persons you wish you had crocheted a gift for. Post this list next to the inventory list for inspiration.
  9. Make gifts for these people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others (heavily starched items for children are not recommended).
  10. Find a café close to home, one that you have a chance of being recognized. Crochet until two people ask you about your crochet. No need to fess up about what you’re making. A few weeks later, go back and crochet until someone who knows you talks to you about your crochet. This time, tell them honestly about what you’re making. You can break this last step into two if you like.
  11. Seek through ESP with Baubo to improve your crochet skills and ask her, the universe, and everything what you might crochet next.
  12. Having become fully comfortable in your habit, carry this message to other crocheters who ask for it. Continue practicing these principles in all of your affairs. (But don’t crochet while on jury duty or changing a baby diaper.)

Took me two years to get crochet-sober but now I am able to admit to others that I enjoy this artform.

Club Disnesalen

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Welcome to Esalen.

Club Med or Disneyland for the spiritually inclined.

The first time I arrived at this intimate resort, the lawn and the air above it took on an amber glow from the late fall setting sun. I glanced around for Jean Luc Picard, sure that I had just landed on a Star Trek TNG planet. it was stunning and I truly felt transported.

Then my mind screamed, “This is not utopia!! Don’t think it’s utopia! There’s all sorts of stuff wrong here that no one’s talking about! People sleeping with others’ partners and lying about it! Stealing office supplies and food and sheets!”

Ok, ok, I said.

Well, no I didn’t. This battle raged in my mind pretty much that whole 3-day visit. Probably my mind trying to save itself from itself once again when that one part gets sucked into some deep survival-level yearning for an idyllic place and wouldn’t it learn its lesson already!

That was 5 years ago. This time I arrived at night, not exactly on purpose. And with all the narrow winding little roadlets on this slippery hillside, I wouldn’t recommend it for your first 20 visits. But at least my mind was more like, ok, we’re gonna (yeah, it’s a “we” up here) hang out and just take in the place and enjoy it and then we’re gonna leave.

I know, I know … why’d I go if it was this hard to get myself in to a place that I was choosing to pay for? That’s a totally different part of my brain, which will probably show up later in this piece.

This place is about an hour’s drive south of Monterey, CA. No cell phone service. For the whole drive. It’s about as remote as you could imagine and still be under a 3 hour drive from San Francisco. The main and only road (Hwy 1) that services this area has been knocked out by huge rockslides and mud flows recently such that supplies had to be helicoptered in. For months if I’m not mistaken.

And it’s along the coast. Did I mention that yet?

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That IS the Pacific Ocean. he f-n’ Pacific Ocean.

Damn.

To get from my room to each meal I had to walk alongside it.

Three times a day.

Hear the regular splashing of waves on the rocks … gaze at the blue spanning forever.

 

And then on the way back, guess what I had to do.

Do you know how repetitive that could get? Me neither.

 

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So, this Esalen place has calming winding trails through lovely groomed flower and vegetable gardens. You can get centered as you walk to your yoga class or massage, which seems to defeat the purpose. Luckily I was only heading to a writing workshop.

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Buddha Schmuddha. Oh, anything that appears too spiritual or full of self-importance, I have to make fun of. It’s my job. Luckily I know that Buddha is on my side in this one <wink to the Buddha>. Well, Jesus is too but a lot of his friends here don’t know that yet. Buddha and her friends – we’re in.

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A Chinese-ish message in stones. earlier someone had spelled “ignore this”.

I took some eucalyptus leaves and spelled “ok”.

mMybe this (Chinese, Japanese, Korean? Kanji?) msg is saying, “Get a life”, or “Fuck off, girl! can’t you respect just one thing? You Americans can’t leave anything alone.”

It seems like four Kanji characters, which usually translates into at least three English sentences.

Who knows, maybe it says “peace” or “I wuv u”.

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Aah!! A snake in a tree!

No, it’s art.

No, it’s real!

It’s Esalen. It can be anything you want it to be.

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Garden. This is a garden – as in vegetable garden. The food we ate here actually grew on the property – well, a lot of it – and it was picked by people we saw just hours ago in the garden picking it.

Novel, eh? Definitely got my attention.

My family had a decent garden when I was growing up and so I always knew where my carrots came from.

I remember even earlier than my teens  being fearful that most around me just went to the grocery store blindly, it seemed, and didn’t they know that all our food was coming to us by trucks! And what if the trucks stopped coming?

Our garden was largeish but barely fed our 6 inhalacious mouths for its summer season. And then what?

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Smurf houses. Several times a day I passed these houses built into the little creek hillside. Started singing my own song, “I’m a little munchkin…”. I’m making fun but would I love to live here? Ha ha haa! Absolutely! But they do make me feel like a little elf or troll poking around the place.

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Strolly footpath below with the main highway above. Don’t expect to go more than 30mph over time getting anywhere on it. Windy, not as in gassy, but with a long “i”.

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Too lazy to create an animated gif of this hummingbird but I’ve never seen one so tame.

Given the Pavlovian training he’s had at this place, he knew not just that he wasn’t in danger but was feeling honored that he could be the target of my meditation and proudly embued all his hummingbird goodness onto me.

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Beak right

Beak left.

Right.   Left right.   Left right left.    Strike the pose.

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I fell in love with the metal work around this place. light fixtures, fences, gates …

 

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The baths, the Baths!

Squint as you look into the mid-distance in this photo and you’ll see a building-esque shape at the end of a downward path cut into the hillside.

It houses open air massage tables and several tubs – hot and cold, big and small. under the sun and stars. suits optional. 24/7. No appointment necessary. No time limit. Ok, I’ll say it again: no.   Time.   Limit.

Many earn their pruneskin belt here.

Done with class and wanna soak? Have at it. After dinner? Just show up. Instead of class? It’s your life. Soak as you please.

I think people come to Esalen to soak. Then, if they have time, they eat and do some other stuff.

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You won’t come here for the phone booth. And you won’t stay for the WiFi although they will leave the light on for ya.

A few cute little enclosed booths scattered around the property held these quaint but very large call-making devices. You go in and “dial” a number.

Ok, they didn’t have rotary phones but how weird to realize I’m not really that old and I’ve spanned the change from rotary to cell. I remember being so happy when I was in my teens and we got an extension cord so I could talk privately around the corner in a closet with the door closed.

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Check your cloud email to the left if you were actually restrained enough to not bring your laptop to this idyllic place.

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My room! My room!

See the little open door?

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Oh yeah, so I came to Esalen to attend a writing workshop and, like, write. I did do a fair amount of that and some of it was actually fun, like playing.

I hated to write as a kid. but who knows what grabbed me more than 10 years ago to sign up for my first creative writing course and meet a few of my muses. Gosh, they’re entertaining. who needs movies when one has a brain this busy and silly… .

I was hoping to get a bunch of work done on 18 fronts that I’m writing on now. Instead, my mind wrote stories from my ego’s perspective, I held parties in my head with dead people, and Buddha and a rat told me how well my truck fit them. Lovely. Now, how is that going to pay the bills?

We did a number of exercises that were like scales for the choir performer. One had a strong meditative bent in an unusual way and I felt it profoundly, so profoundly it almost killed me.

We piled up a bunch of stuff in the middle of the room to create “chaos”. hen we took our pencils and followed a line … s l o w l y    with our eyes and pencil.

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Like, imagine you’re looking at this scene above. and then …

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With your eyes, you follow the line shown in this image.

And you take an hour to do it.

Mesmer-IIII-Zing. like I’d fallen into a black hole. enned out, man. Coooooollll.

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But then at lunch my gaze fell onto one of many large jade plants…

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Stunned… I stared.

My eyes    s  l  o  w  l  y    followed the lines.

The many

many

lines

of the big   jade   plant.

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……

I pulled my gaze away …

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only to land on a more blue-green version of the same.

 

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And again.

Hours later an Esalen crew rescued me, muttering under their breaths about another one of Gillian’s exercises gone awry.

So, about this said writing that this said author said did.

Since Gillian (informed instructor) was familiar and even dare I say highly supportive of my doily art, she asked me to bring some of my doilies to the workshop. I obliged but was highly sensitive to this being a writing workshop, not a dirty cock vulva asshole pissdrop doily show. But at some point the doilies were broken out (a cardboard tube of refrigerated biscuit dough with a pudgy pasty white cartoon character come sto mind) and allowed to infuse into our surroundings.

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Fuck, no. Gillian grabbed the little guys and put them into the empty candy papers and placed them next to our gorgeous wineglass centerpiece of a lovely deeply-scented rose contributed by Diane.

By the looks of this image, if I hadn’t been there, I’d be looking for fang marks from that Leo that surely pounced them, head whipping left and right, gobs of frothy slobber flying.

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Then she placed the mini cock on David’s foot, as a 6th toe? Yeah, that’s a common euphemism for it.

Luckily, David’s a surgeon so he could do the removal himself.

“Hey guys, i came here to write. whenever you’re ready” I pleaded.

Are you kidding?! I enjoyed every second of this, laughing big with people who weren’t learning for the first time from my crochet work what female genitals look like, who weren’t begging me to keep these things covered up, and who were doing new fun things with them that hadn’t even been imagined yet! And we were doing this in mixed company, even!

… more writing was had … more soaks … more sharing of stories … more truths revealed but we didn’t see them ’cause we were laughing too much.

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On my way out, I happened across my most serindipidous sighting of the week on these pristine utopian grounds – a bra and a cup. er, two three cups? er … .

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The tree in this photo has a branch that’s totally upside down but still living.

As silly or unintended by the tree as this may be, I take that as encouragement that if we actually get a chance to appear upside down to others before we die, we’re lucky.