Category: scribbler

Keep your sun-drenched days and well-oiled bodies. When the wind rips limbs off trees. Pushes…

When I was a girl we lived across from a parking lot. On the other…

Midnight. Spooning with Mr. Crazy Pants.  My back to the window where a gentle early…

Sometimes, when I’m stuck in a never ending line of traffic. When even though I’m…

I keep getting confused between Rachel Shukert and Jillian Lauren. Both of them have hot…

It was a lovely wedding in a neighborhood church that welcomes all possibilities of love….

All my life –seriously, all my life, and that is considerable at this point, all…

I’m a shelter dog at heart. It’s not even well hidden. If you’ve never been…

I hear dead people. I heard them call my name when no one was there….

I have the week off. I don’t know why I said that. I have no idea. A day? A week? I don’t know. But it sounds like something regular people say. Like that. But, really, Myron’s mad cause I’m making money for someone else, and I think I’m going high-class but somehow I’ve fucked this up before I even get a chance to fuck it up.

I have a bum leg. Actually, it’s a bum foot. A motorcycle accident in  ’79…

“It’s two blocks, you could walk faster than…”
“I could. But I don’t hafta. I have cash, see? So, I don’t hafta walk. I’m paying, so just drive….”
“Sonofabitch,” I mumble under my breath. I’m a loud mumbler.

I’ve been gone. I’m sorry. I’d tell you where I’ve been, if I knew. I’d like nothing more than to know where I’ve been and what I’ve done. I’d like to pull my brain out through my ear, pop it in the VCR, sit on the couch with you, a vodka and a bowl of popcorn and see what happened; see the things my brain is busy blocking out. Or maybe it’s the vodka that blocks it all out. There is no way of knowing.

In case you were wondering, I can be seduced by good music. When the music…

There’s a Sufi poet, Hafiz (the best translations are the ones by Daniel Ladinsky).  Hafiz…

I had to take a little time off from the “other” blog, from writing in…

I recently found myself trying to talk an Executive team into allowing their employees the…

I’m driving and the music is blasting. Frequently. There are certain bands, certain music that…

Last night I had dinner with the Death Doulas. I haven’t talked about this before,…

It’s 3AM and the Lollipop is empty, except for a few regulars. Everyone’s feeling good and it’s like this morning never happened. Piper’s chain smoking Newports and laughing about something Chief’s saying; Myron’s in the back room with a new dancer, and me and Max are trading insults. It’s what passes for flirting between us and I’m so into this game, I don’t notice the Big Man’s come in until I hear the tap tap tapping of his diamond pinkie ring on the bar.

Some days I’m all Kumbaya Some days I’m all Fight Club Some days I’m all…

Maxie slides onto the stool next to me and looks at my empty glass. I’d swallowed it in one gulp. “Here, kid. Ya look worse’n usual. You could use another.” He pushes the bottle towards me. I can always use another, I think. “Now, spill it,” he says.

Still staring at my reflection, I gingerly press my fingertips against the burns on my chest. And just like that, that smell is back; the sulfur of match-heads, the slightly sweet hint of tobacco, burnt hair and flesh.

ANTONI CRANE is one of Naked Ladies. Her essay, Almost Girl, was originally posted on her blog. It’s reprinted here, in toto, with her permission.