Long time comin'

[from Tumblr]

I just finished a blog (elsewhere) on my awesome mum who visited Paris in '68 and kept a matchbook from a drugstore, found it, photographed it and sent it to me. I could write about her in pages and pages of coolness and dumbfoundedness. All families are complicated, but I do think there's a trend of complex relationships between mothers and daughters. My sister gets along better with my mum for the shopping, girl chat, gossip. While I philosophize and politicize and debate with my dad. But I am, core and core, more like my mum than my sister. I see her in the mirror. I fought her like she fought her own mother. I party like her. I may have alcoholism like she does. While I smoke less now, I smoke, like she did. I dance like she does - my father jokes that she has no rhythm, but really she's got like all 16 levels of beats to every song going, in her hands, her head, her hips, her feet, her fingers. She traveled the world on 5$ a day and had princes swooning for her and took photos of VD clinics. I don't have princes, or 5$ a day, or.. um, VD, but we have similar interests. She was a go-go dancer, although she says she kept her bikini on. I took mine off for the Soho shot for the Filmmaker's film. Yes, she's always been a bit removed, a bit distant, a bit untouchable, but always somewhat truthful ("I love you but I don't like you right now" when I was a bratty 15 year old) and forever loving ("love you so much! signed, Mumma").

I could talk about my 26 hour date with Tall Tom and how we had pasta with too many pimentos with the Italian, 2 Indians, and 2 Canadian Indians, and how I stayed the night and we had sex and then the next morning had brunch with an old rich man and his wife at Deux Magots, and then went to the Louvre because we wanted to walk but it was too cold outside, about how he made lies and some half-truths to explain the art, and how he didn't know I had an art degree, and then we walked to the Japanese district to the same café we've tried for 3 times and it still was closed and so we got noodles at another place, and then metro'd to see a movie but there was absolutely nothing good to see so we just went back to his place and while he cleaned out his garbage-smelling refrigerator (because he's a young bachelor) I had a smoke and we then we fucked and napped and I had horrible dreams and felt anxious and claustrophobicized and woke up needing to leave but he convinced me to stay longer for another fuck and I made horrible fun of him by asking if I fucked like a corpse still and if he didn't mean something different then and how shy he was to try to explain, since he'd already stepped up his game by trying his hand at spanking me, and how I did leave and kicked myself in the pants for - again - falling into teaching a boy about what I wanted and then felt slightly relieved that at least there's another man in the world who knows kink and might like it, and then I showered after 26 hours of not showering properly (trying not to be condescending I suggested he invest in shampoo other than man-smelling ones, and maybe some regular soap that's not Axe for Men, and wouldn't it be nice to have some lotion after a shower?), and then, well, I passed out for sheer exhaustion.

I could, certainly, talk about all of that. But really... is there any reason?

My mum rules. I miss her. Boys and men are predictable and I appreciate that, but they're still weird.