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September 16, 2001:
gecko love at the Alhambra
Domestic seismology has produced topographical changes. I live alone. On a park. In a house I call the Alhambra.
The color of the iron grillwork is found not on a color-wheel, but on a spectrum somewhere between Vagina-Lip Pink and Sockeye. The Mexican tile of my front porch reminds me of Granada's Alhambra except for the fact that the Alhambra is beautiful and my porch is... not beautiful. But it is way-funky, especially when I flick the switch which powers the orange-colored porch light. It gets downright religious or kinky--one of the two. And it causes a pleasant influx of Geckos.
These Geckos look remarkably like those gentle aliens who disembarked the Mother Ship in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. They are quiet and translucent with large, black eyes that let you know they damn well feel your pain. Unlike Sharon Stone, I am not a huge fan of lizards; but I really like these Geckos. They're friendly and peaceful and, like me, they enjoy simply hanging out.
Since I do not now (nor have I ever) found males attractive, I am reasonably certain I am not gay. But if the very thought of the male form did not gross me out, I would be an asset to the gay community. I am neat and I am clean and I like my house that way. I would not only like to bone Martha Stewart, but I'd like to thank her for her wonderful Everyday Collections of flatware, dishes, glasses and coordinating bedclothes. Incidentally, I enjoy dish-washing more than ever because, now, I do not have a dishwashing machine. I am the dishwashing machine.
With any luck, there will be another break in these entries while I see if I can fly to Maine and back. If my commercial flights get cancelled, I may step out onto my front porch and board the Mother Ship.
© 2001 by the beastmaster