down in me

i edited an issue of noo weekly which is like, fucking NICE. it includes work by:

stephen daniel lewis
brittany wallace
adam j maynard
kuzhali manickavel
melissa goodrich
andrew borgstrom

i feel very happy with it. thank you to ryan call and mike young, both of whom i have long distance crushes on like a fat loser. here’s an incomplete list of neuroses that i do not feel happy with:

cleaning my ears with cotton buds
using an oven glove
blowing cigarette smoke on people
stepping on lines or things on the sidewalk
body hair, specifically that i will somehow miss shaving behind the knees
being inappropriately dressed in relation to event/weather
being ‘unoriginal’ but feeling sure being ‘original’ is impossible
thinking small black things on the floor or wall are insects

i have fallen in and out of love seventy-three times since friday. sometimes everyone i see looks so damn fine to me. i would walk down the street kissing anything that moves because my vagina’s wet and pulsing. it’s radiating love like i am a carebear and my pussy is the sun on my belly and it will kill you or make you happy. because being alive is so painfully lovely sometimes, i feel i could get stabbed right now and love it. something about the oneness of being, the universe, in one of my sentences i am everyone and everything and how could you not be in love with all the sides of all the coins

sweet sweet jensen wilder drew this for me. isn’t it lovely? don’t you guys think he is great at drawing the notoriously difficult hands? i think i love him:

this isn’t the first time a boy has drawn me dick though. look at the dedication from sam pink in my copy of frowns need friends too:

is it something about me? hmmm. anyone else want to send me naughty sweet drawings of our appendages? mail [at] downinme [dot] com

so the other day on ‘other’ i wrote this thing about mysterious daniel spinks, and his beautiful bear parade e-book, small pale humans, and it had a yum response from a few glowing internet humans and i wanted to gather it here because i don’t know why, just to remind myself that things can make ripples and stories can be eaten and strangers can be in love and when i want to die again i’ll try to remember that.

gene morgan: Three years ago I picked him up at his home and we went to a party. He’s a very nice person.

I’m pretty sure he’s been working on a book, I heard, somewhere. At least, I’ll be disappointed if he isn’t.

ryan call: ani, thanks for this. ive not thought of spinks in a while, but i like sph a lot. i think it is my favorite bearparade book. im going to reread it now.

kevin: I had a similar experience to both you and Crispin with this story. It is probably one of the top 2 most memorable stories from Bear Parade. It’s also one of the first few stories I had ever read on-line. Strangely, I always ask myself “Does Daniel Spinks have a wife?” every time I read it. For whatever reason I feel that knowing the answer to that question change how I read the story.

@jensenwilder Good morning - I’m reading http://bit.ly/cTeiDk after getting a heads up from @ani_smith’s article on otherother.org

@scattermole This is really brilliant and disturbing and funny: http://bit.ly/c7ULk7 All of it is. Offer yourself to it. /@ani_smith

@amphibius @ani_smith that book changed my life

@amphibius @ani_smith when i finished that book i searched for him on twitter and was so sad when he wasn’t here. hugs

I blew my nose on his plaid shirt sleeve. Left it all damp and green with mucus. It felt good. I’d achieved something amazing. He looked at me sideways. Said thank you. Said I love you, baby. I love you so much right now I want to give you something too. He unzipped his fly, dropped his Levi’s and boxers and wiped his ass on the hem of my tulip skirt. Aw, baby! I squealed. You’re like the sweetest boy ever, you know that? You really are. I love you, baby boy. He said I love YOU baby. We loved each other, really did. We loved each other ‘til the end of time forever and always more and infinity times a zillion. Plus more. I tugged on his cock giggled and blushed. He grew quick and half-lidded watched me hard. I love you baby. I love you MORE, baby. He picked his nose and smudged a big brownish green glob on my pink tee shirt over my left nipple. I continued to smile broadly and tug. I looked down at my breast. I love you. I love you. I love you. I licked his eyeball and he loved me forever and I squeezed his cock and he threw a left jab to my eye. I didn’t recoil and so the right hook caught my nose. I coughed and spat blood on his face. He held me upright with my face in both his hands. Said, aw look at you baby, you’re so fucking beautiful I want to eat you. Bloody smile. Not if I eat you first, baby.

Did you know? The warmth of her colours I taste, in each of her savoury adjectives, when alone with the picture of her hair, tangled in the breeze. Her  s p a c i o u s  caprices, near perfection to my hungry eyes. And, she too, delights in the calming qualities of repetition.

Did you know? I upset you once, I might do so again. But the tender way you relate her stories, well. Something about words gleeful and strange, mewling or howling words, the fickle creatures, they leave me wanting and go curl up purring at your feet.

Did you know? She tempts me wild with her rabid punctuation. She fills my head with horrorshow bugs and tales of a girl I wish I knew. Between vodka shots, I’d french twist her hair and we’d clickety clack on old typewriters, donning creamy silk blouses edit-stained with red ink.

Did you know? Apparently, his skull’s finally been cracked open and his head really is fit to burst with girls’ body parts and other unphotographables. There’s nothing strange about either of us, though. Except maybe the company we keep.

I want to lay horizontally across your lap, resting in the bend of your arm with my cheek on your chest, my ear to your heartbeat, my nose poised to inhale you; my bottom on your thigh and my legs dangling off the side - your free hand reaching across me, stroking me gentle but sure - first my shoulder, upper arm, my elbow, my hand. Then my stomach, the side of my torso, my hip, thigh, knees. I want you to speak to me softly, sweetly. Tell me something kind, preferably about me, but nothing too obvious. I will reach up to stroke the side of your face, your neck; to feel how solid your shoulder, your chest. You can take my hand in yours and bring my palm to meet your lips. I’ll feel a touch of self-consciousness, wondering how my fingers smell, but this feeling will dissipate with your calming, tender kiss. I want you to lightly brush the hair off my forehead and kiss the bridge of my nose. Smile faintly at me. I want every deliberate action to reiterate my safety and existence. Every affirmative gesture securing my place in the physical world.

In the sea of faces I groped noses and hair-handfuls and poked eyes, blindly feeling through until I stumbled upon yours: perfectly moulded under the fleshy pads of my fingers and palms; the crook of the nose at just the right angle to the bend of my thumb, the rosy cheeks pliant beneath my fingertips, and a jaw line, plainly pointed in my specific direction. An awkward position, to be sure, but one into which we couldn’t help but fall. We are the clock-watchers, the song-singers, the passively-aggressive, tragic romantics of this story. We amble along unsure, viewing everything askew, watching mostly from without, quietly humming to each other.