29 September 2002 - 5:23 p.m.

I learned yesterday that, in spite of my urbanity, I can still have fun with a pair of spotted asses on a farm.

But everywhere I go, I look for smokestacks, and the Cathedral of Learning. I feel out of place. But in a good way. I think.

I became involved with a grasshopper yesterday, or rather, was stalked by one. He appeared on my shoulder, and I decided to hold him in my hand because I didn't want his getting lost in my hair. After a full ten minutes and a few too many attempts at love bites on my hands, (and way too much ridicule from other picnicers) I transferred him to twig and told him we were through.

About an hour later, I felt a familiar weight on my shoulder. My grasshopper friend had returned. Only this time, he was missing the lower half of one leg, clearly gnawed off as a poetic gesture.

Sigh.

I'd like to say it did not cast him aside yet again because he was now a freak, but what could I have done? I was hungry. I turned him out into the grass and fetched some processed meat from where it was charring on the grill. Awww, yeah.

And here was where my missing smokestacks and soot-stained buildings seemed to get in the way of things: some day, I can't think of a thing to say to anybody, and it's more than clear that people had nothing to say to me. It's not that anyone was unfriendly, but there are times when the fact that I don't do yoga, or own a gun, or have any good dog stories works against me a lot. I'm an inflexible, cat-loving pacifist, and sometimes that's all the conversation I'm good for.

As usual, Ms. Virginia was very much a pla and asked me what was wrong. I couldn't lie. "Everywhere I go, the conversation stops."

Well. Ms. V and R-initial-initial-initial would have none of this, and had succeeded in turning my frown upside down - wait, WHY did I just type that? - when I looked down at my feet, where someone had discarded a cup. On the rim, looking up at me, was my jilted grasshopper. "Oh my God!" I exclaimed.

R. thought this was pretty funny, probably in the same vein as the creepy guy in the museum who had to touch me to see if I was real. He gave a quick chronicle of our relationship that will probably end up in a book of found poetry that I plan to start compiling right after this entry, and will title "Sixteen Assholes:"

"He hopped up to you, and saw that you were dressed provocatively, and fell in love with you."

Um.

That statement was 2/3 true, but I have to question the use of the word "provocative." I was wearing a light blue sundress with wide straps, a high, square neck, and a full skirt that fell below my knees. And the bodice had pintucks.

Can someone who is better at math than myself explain to me when pintucks started to equal provocative? I was pretty sure that pintucks=prissy and provocative=hootchified, but I was never very good at proving theorems.

I'm still not even good at spelling theorem. Is that even right? Do I even care? No.

Why am I telling this story again? I know the Brunching Shuttlecocks coined the term "tangent fiction," but I think I could really do a great job in that genre.

Anyway, when the party began to die down, I got to enjoy a lot more conversation, and I got to see a creek. No one has ever walked near a creek in provocative dress. It has never happend in the annals of history, I swear. I took History of Clothing, remember? Granted, that was before I started this diary, so don't look through the archives to see whether or not the class included a unit on the history of provocative dress. You will just have to take my word for it.

Why am I making such a case for my lack of provocation yesterday? I guess it's because I don't like the notion that I am sticking out to the point that people treat me differently. I know that the Sixteen Assholes inspiring my poetry (and I use the term Asshole with a great deal of affection and respect) are a t-shirt and jeans crowd, but what of it?

Don once said that I was a lady who demanded deference. Fuck that shit! I mean, I am, but - well, fuck that shit, anyway. There has to be a way of relating to people without putting on denim. When I find it, I'll let you know.

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: