BEGONE, JUPITER

Pitting irreverence against despair

Now is the time when I must pay homage to the legend of a UPS man, a beautiful young dreadlocked cat who came to my house to deliver a box of books. I was living in a four story brownstone at the time, and two of my gorgeous assistants were running around on the second floor, where I asked him to carry the box.

“Damn,” he said, once upstairs. “This just like the house of ladies,” he said.

There was a blowup sex doll at the top of the stairs who had been the cover model for my first book. He appraised her with interest.

“I apologize for the blowup sex doll,” I said. He turned suddenly soft and vulnerable.

“You shouldn’t call her that,” he said gently. “She’s just a woman who got no feelings.”

Instant legend. UPS man, wherever you are…(black power salute). You only become dearer to me with time.

It has been a very interesting 6 months. Jupiter has been in retrograde until yesterday, I read somewhere. Apparently Jupiter has been raping me over a fire hydrant since August of last year. I like to think this explains everything. I’m clinging to any reason for all the recent chaos in my life. An astrological K-hole makes as much sense as anything else, including sorcery.

Since I was thrown out of my home, moved to New York for a job, and let go from the job after a mere 3 months, I’ve been very fortunate of late to be editing other people’s books. I just finished one very entertaining manuscript of expert, black-ops level advice on how to cheat on your spouse, and another book of highly personal gay porn, which is fun. I wrote a tremendous amount of gay porn to put myself through college, and found the book I was editing to be quite cheerful and heartwarming, and in need of little in the way of deep surgical editing, other than the eliminating of several dozen uses of the word “manhood” and the phrase “proud manhood.”

I’ve elected to mostly ignore the crimes of the current administration, and Elon Musk claiming prima noctis over all the brides in America. I managed ignoring Trump handily his first administration, in which he mostly golfed; this time, I am certain the daily news will be atrocity after atrocity, since there are no more meaningful checks and balances, and this is what America apparently wanted — an unrestrained criminal id monster galumphing around the country with no muzzle whatsoever. Just jacking off in the World Bank and pissing on the Holocaust Memorial and fisting Rosa Parks’ corpse and who knows what. He knows how to really fuck with power now, after futzing and jiving through his first administration; now he is now going to carve his face into the world. I keep wondering which will kill us first: global warming, or the rampant ego of this terrifying moloch.

Heckling Melania is always fun, anyway. Round two of her disastrous First Ladyship should be entertaining. She’ll commission a black diamond Christmas Tree or transform the White House Nixon bowling alley into walk-in closet, or something else really gauche and Moscow slutty. She’ll start eating peacock meat in front of hunger strikers, or bite someone’s Mexican baby. I can’t wait for her upcoming children’s book, “Marry Rich Fat Guy Before Ugly and 25.”

A friend of mine who is a schoolteacher in Houston told me that last week, in her school district, a white teacher called ICE to have them remove an undocumented student. The principal of the school had to hold ICE at bay. When my friend arrived at work on Monday to teach her class, which is 75% Hispanic — there were a number of missing students, who were presumably undocumented; apparently their parents had kept them out of school out of fear of being separated from them. She went in the ladies’ room at work and cried.

I’ve been walking around Prospect Park with my friend Mo, trying not to discuss or think about these things. We’ve been friends since college. It’s cold as fuck in the park these days — Canada geese are walking around the frozen lakes.The trees are empty of leaves and stand like fan coral in front of the cold blue sky, which always evokes paintings of the Civil War for me. We’ve been going on vigorous 5 mile constitutionals in the blistering wind. The veins of the leafless trees are a poignant sight on my final days in New York. It seems a terrible pity to miss Brooklyn in the springtime, which is riotous and symphonic.

There’s just been so much fucking slouching towards Bethlehem lately. One must pull up one’s boxer briefs and say, Begone, Jupiter! I will fight the multiple depressions of the world with insouciance, vandalism and swear words. Eccentricity is key to spiritual survival at times like these, so bust out those alcoholic clown pants and let your freak flag unfurl.

As my ex-friend Gaylord once said, “Yeah, life sucks…so where’s the discotheque?”

One solution for your current torpor might be literally right under your nose.

I am interested in starting small group writing classes with 5 members each. Students write 1000 words a week and each piece gets read each week. 1000 word chunks are a fantastic way to build books, one-man-shows, plays, short stories….it is the fundament of everything, in my opinion. Everyone’s pieces get covered each session. I give comments and criticism, and then the class joins in for more discussion of each piece. I have loved such opportunities in my own writing life, because the class becomes a tribe — a writing dojo. It’s a great way to accelerate your skills quickly — it’s really a quantum leap.

Classes would be on ZOOM weekly, $100 each, and they will last 75 minutes.

Please let me know, dear subscribers, if you are interested or NOT interested in such a class, and tell me why at cintraw@gmail.com.

IN the meantime, keep kicking Nixon. In times of insanity, greater insanity is needed.

Alafia.

Contact me for your editing, writing coaching, or oil-painting needs at cintraw@gmail.com.

Theme Song: Jack Black

Artwork: “Lupe and Leti,” oil on canvas, Cintra Wilson 2019

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@cintra-wilson