He said he was going to penetrate me with his big green mouth and smoke-filled rainbow cloud.

This is the dream I had last night. Maybe I’m in love with an alien.

The Burden of Being Trapped in a Woman’s Body

Conversational Pieces that Illuminate…..

The scene:

Texas Roadhouse Restaurant

8:30 pm

Dinning Companions, Seven

On Friday night, your girl Sally Sunshine found herself surrounded by a table of conservative Republicans. It was, more or less, your garden variety “we hate gays, feminists, and anything resembling counterculture” crowd. One of the dudes was even wearing cowboy boots. I knew I was out of my comfort zone, but still proceeded to stir shit up anyway. As most of you know, dissent and deviant behavior is a favorite past time of mine.

Actually, the overall mood and conversation was not that hostile. Discussion ranged over a large array of topics like politics, religion, abortion, sexuality, astrology.. all the hot buttons were pushed and nobody got pissed.

However, I knew I was in trouble when the boot guy asked nervously, “So, is astrology like a religion?” To which I responded in kind, “Eh, not exactly young grasshopper, listen and learn.” Ok, so I wasn’t that mean, but I did explain that astrology is not a religion and I am not a Wiccan Priestess.

Next, a polite Harley guy to my right, begin to grill me about my travel habits, interests, profession, and…… abortion?.... Evidently, he must’ve assumed that I had an opinion on the matter. We began by debating the whole ‘when does life begin’ issue. After I thoroughly squelched his argument he moved on to the old fall back, religious justification. This is always a good cop out since none of us can be certain that God even exists or what the ramifications of our actions will be after we leave this planet. My guess is as good as yours, literally.

Anyway.

I attempted to steer the conversation from the invisible guy in the sky theory and back to basics, arguing that in order for women to have any sort of dominion over their lives we need reproductive freedom and choice. I went on to explain that when one’s back is up against the wall of an unplanned pregnancy, all bets are off.

Because we are biologically born women, does that mean we should be prisoners of our bodies? Sure, some experience motherhood as a true blessing and joy, hell it could very well be their life calling. However, some of us recoil at mere thought of having children, or in some cases, just the actual pregnancy portion of the deal. I, for one, have never been excited about the idea of ‘something growing inside of me’, alien invasion anyone? My biases aside, it must be recognized, some of us are just not big fans of being mommies.

This having been said, I asked him to look at the practical side of situation. Typically, the onset of puberty begins for women between 11-13 years old in which menstruation commences. Menopause, then, begins in the late forties after women have completed their childbearing years. For illustrative purposes, let’s assume that first menstruation was at age 13 and menopause at 48. People, that’s 35 freaking years of reproductive potential. 35! During that time, is it plausible that a mistake may be made? I know I’ve forgotten to take my pill in a rush to leave the house in the morning or in hasty drunken stupor had unprotected sex, hell, it happens. Mistakes will be made, errors in judgment will occur, and consequences born out of extreme negligence will ensue. It’s called life.

However, this is not the point. The point is women should have the all the tools (family planning, yearly obg/yn exams, regular contraceptives, emergency contraceptives, and abortion) available to them to exercise the right to pursue their respective destinies with self-determination and dignity.

Most men move through their lives with a relative degree of freedom and anonymity. They do not or cannot understand what it is like to be chained to the burden of biology or the dilemma of being stuck inside a fertile body. For those of us who live with this anxiety constantly (those not wishing to conceive) it’s a pretty fucking weighty paranoia even if you are normally as safe as possible and ignore the fact that humans make mistakes.

These feelings, at least in my case, certainly account for a large portion of that “post sex” guilt/worry. The nagging.. what if, what if, what if that plagues the brain and never ceases to stop. That is, until the next month when I declare victory over biology once again and run screaming from the bathroom, "Thank God, I’m free at last. God Almighty, I’m free at last!"

A Letter to Paul

"She is standing on my eyelids
And her hair is wound in mine,
She has the form of my hands,
She has the color of my eyes,
She is swallowed by my shadow
Like a stone against the sky."
– The Beloved, Paul Eluard, co-founder of the surrealist movement

Oh, Paul. How romantic you must’ve been. When you fell for the charming bewitching Gala you fell into her web ever so deeply. And later, when you were disillusioned by the loss of your love to painter Salvador Dali, you left the surrealist movement and aligned with a Stalin- esque philosophy. Melancholy aside, you were instrumental in spreading the word. Surrealism as movement or as a revolutionary way of viewing the world through the artist’s eye flourished during your time. Sure there were others like Andre Breton and Louis Aragon, but you, you were a romantic fellow, tortured but inspired by the gaze of a beautiful muse. And I can appreciate that. The fantasy leaves one suspended in a state of wonder. I could spend my entire life there except at some point I may need to come up for air.

So breathe.

Surrealism week continues with a collection of modern day surrealists:

Cynthia Tom

Finding your Voice


The reluctance to reveal is tempered with defiance.

Conscious contact with the ground


I often dream of black and white checkered floors in vast long halls with the pattern repeating. This one resonates. It’s my favorite here.

Pauline Jones

Dream Parking Spot


Ah.. the human inclination toward incubation

Noriko Ohashi

Three Sisters

Here is the connection, now find your way out of it. Separation is never easy.

Poseidon


Slipping from his wet hands…

LLUIS

Don’t Mess with the Dead


Death.. that old ball n’ chain, can’t quite escape now can we

Dina Lenkovic

The Burning City


morbid truth disguised as art

I like it raw

"I could feel what he was feeling
Lines like these have got to be
An architect's dream
It's always the same
Whenever he works on a pavement
It starts to rain
And all the time
The light is changing”- An Architect’s Deam- Kate Bush

When I first lay my eyes on something, whether it’s a person, place, or thing I automatically have strong positive or negative feelings about him/her/it. Generally, there are no in betweens. It either is, or it isn’t. Although this take it or leave it attitude has produced some unfortunate lapses in judgment, I still defer to my first initial impression. Intuition, as it were, is far more accurate than not.

In viewing a particular person, piece of art, or even a home, often the spirit of the object in question comes across fairly easily due to the permeability of the unconscious. This, of course, is not a new concept. Artists, writers, actors, psychologists (Freud, Jung) ect.. have been accessing information at this level since the dawn of time. The content of the unconscious, usually seen as vast vessel of seemingly untouchable info, suddenly becomes available. Thankfully, small doses of unreality can be used to our benefit for a little creative release.

The raw contents of our unconscious minds are confusing and strewn with mythological references. So, we have to sift through this pile of seemingly useless ruble to draw out our inner genius. And when I say genius, I mean in a mad-scientist’s laboratory kind of way where we are creating in layers and uncovering new ideas in the fold. What I’m talking about is the process or creativity in action.

Even as a wee lil’ one, I was bombarded with images, alternate realities, and experiences of a different variety. I was a quiet child, silent, yet taking in everything sometimes twice over. I had a hard time communicating what I was seeing or feeling with adults, but, nonetheless, it was there. Even my dreams were, and still are, strange, prolific, and detailed. A lot of writing on this blog is from different dream sequences passed along to you as reality, or some semblance of. Hey, peeps, it’s gotta come from somewhere.

Turns out, all along I’ve been a surrealist. I wish I would’ve understood that as a child/teenager, as it would’ve made those long drawn-out drugged-out trips into the unconscious a lot more comfortable. Plus, I could’ve saved some brain cells in the process. Heh. Well, anyway, what’s done is done.

But, in the interest of promoting art and beauty in a sick and ugly world, I’m declaring it Surrealism Week on Sally’s blog. After all, the sun has ingressed into Taurus now, releasing us from that impetuous fightin’ Aries energy. Let’s all take a deep breath and enjoy the silence along with the art, the beauty, the music, the passion, the lovemaking (with others or self), and in general, warm fuzzy excess. I’ll be posting art, music lyrics, and links about the surrealist movement throughout the week for ya.

Let’s start with surrealist artist Salvador Dali, a fellow Taurean…. god I love this man.


One Second Before Awakening from a Dream Caused by the
Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate, 1944



The Burning Giraffe, 1937



The Dream Places a Hand on a Man's Shoulder, 1936



Swans Reflecting Elephants, 1937



Perspectives, 1937



The Hallucinogenic Toreador, 1970

A Swift Kick to the Groin

sticking it to the stone…

I am divesting in you, closing your accounts, taking out the trash, and removing your scaly hand from my mouth. I’m taking each and every sentence you uttered in my presence and declaring it null and void. I’m watching you stumble away, limping, without interest.

And this is the world we live in?

If you aren’t disgusted yet, you should be.

Puritanical Patty and the Thought Police

And the winner is.....

Until recently I was oblivious to all of this infighting among feminists. I just merrily went along my way with my feminism in tow and never gave it second thought. Now I can see there are clearly two different factions of internet blogger feminists and the battle lines have been drawn in the sand.

The sex negative, anti-porn, anti-femininity, and “don’t do that, you bad girl” judgmentals have assembled on one side. For efficiency purposes we will call them the blue team. On the other side of the ring, we have the sex positive, ass-kicking, capitalist loving, money makin’, desire expressin’ ladies. For the purpose of being colorful, we’ll call them the red team.

Both teams are feminist, but practice feminism in a multitude of ways. However, both teams are occasionally disgusted and enraged with one another’s approach to the F word. The red team doesn’t care for the blue teams abusive vindictive holier than thou’ reactions to their natural lusty ways. The red team also abhors the blue team’s hypocrisy for posting pictures of porn on their websites while claiming that porn supports and triggers violence against women.

The blue team wants the red team “to get control, and for god sakes, stop enabling the patriarchy!” and “remove those high heels, lipstick, and thong panties while you're at it!” and “Damn it red team, you silly little girls, take off that make-up and get with the program!”

Then, the blue team proceeds to devalue everything the red team does for the advancement of women AND individual red team women are attacked for even attempting to disagree with their imperialistic thought processes. How dare we!

but seriously…

Where do all these Puritanical Patties come from? I have no idea how so many of them were able to collectively climb out of the gutter on the same day. Getting together for another session of verbal group vomit again girls? Why I had no idea, I didn’t receive an invite for that party.

Obviously, you can see which team I favor. So, in support of all the fabulous brilliant reds blogging out there, RED TEAM GO!

And the World Mourns

Empty prayer, empty mouths, combien reaction
Empty prayer, empty mouths, talk about the passion
Not everyone can carry the weight of the world
Not everyone can carry the weight of the world

Talk about the passion
Talk about the passion

Empty prayer, empty mouths, combien reaction
Empty prayer, empty mouths, talk about the passion
Combien, combien, combien de temps?

Not everyone can carry the weight of the world
Not everyone can carry the weight of the world
Combien, combien, combien de temps?

-Talk about the Passion, R.E.M

Unless you have no empathy for your fellow human beings, yesterday was a difficult day.

Yet, tragedy of this sort is often viewed from intellectual distance. Since the continual daily demands on our time and energy make it nearly impossible to do otherwise, many simply turn their brains off and ignore the impact of world events. A friend of mine said he couldn’t bear to watch the news coverage on Hurricane Katrina anymore because it was “too difficult to face.” This head-in-sand routine has got to stop.

But if and when the emotional impact of these tragedies creep into our respective individual landscapes it often hits hard. Our schools are supposed to be peaceful safe-havens, a place where dreams are born and realized. Many have compared the university system to the concept of the Great Mother, embracing and nurturing students during their transition into adulthood. Parents send their children to colleges expecting they will be safe and flourish accordingly. Attacks within these structures serve as an example of the psychological blue print of the current world order. A mother’s grief, the shock of a sudden loss, the proverbial cosmic rug being yanked out from under one’s feet, all manifestations of our shared reality within the system.

Whether it’s a road-side bomb exploding and killing 30 in Iraq or a gunman on a college campus killing 33, the grief is the same, and we all fester and rot in it together. We cannot afford to draw lines around a map anymore and pretend that we’re not apart of it, it’s real and it’s us. No amount of reality TV, alcohol, sex, or other avoidance tactic will distance us from it. It’s our world and we are responsible.

A Rant and a Slap!

I f***cking hate lawyers. As clients they are a royal pain in the ass. I want to bludgeon their eyes out with a fork and then make their colleagues eat them as penance for their self-righteousness. Hey lawyers, not everyone is ENAMORED with your smug demeanor, in fact, it’s disgusting, vile, and most of all… irritating! And another thing, if you think you know more about tax law, retirement planning, or accounting principles than me, well, do your own f-ing tax returns then!

Bastards.

** No lawyers were harmed during the making of this post, especially my mother and sister, who are both lawyers.

Easter Sucks

There's no religion but sex and music
There's no religion but sound and dancing
There's no religion but line and color
There's no religion but sacred trance

There's no religion but the endless ocean
There's no religion but the moon and stars
There's no religion but time and motion
There's no religion, just tribal scars
-“Send Your Love”- Sting


Let the Carnage Begin

Yesterday I wanted to spend the whole day writing a big fat anti-Christian post, but got side-tracked with booze, boys, and guitars. Oy.

Thus, I have no intelligent commentary or witty repartee to invoke about this holiday of major suckyness, except to say that, well, it sucks. You may be thinking, why Sally Sunshine, why does it suck so much?

My answer: Because I said so.

Be a good little reader and accept everything I say as rule and/or divine law and don’t ask too many questions. For example, like the question why. “Why” has never led to anything productive. Around here we bow our heads, pray feverishly, ask for mercy, bite our tongues, and for God sakes, we avoid honest discourse at any cost! In fact, each one of you must donate $5000 to my “Sally Sunshine Supreme Ruler of the Universe” account immediately. As you know, your impending salvation and depends on your conformity, let the soul saving begin! Also, in order to secure your adoration and complete devotion, I will remind you of my importance in your world. Silly reader, I led you out of your world of darkness and showed you the truth, the light, and the way. I even sacrificed my pen so that you may read my typed thoughts. Lucky you! Now, give everything to me (10%, at the *very* least), shut up and do as I say!


Point Made.

My first “disrespectful” incident with regard to scripture happened when I was 13 years old when I used Bible paper to roll a joint. Sure, it wasn’t the most obvious use of The Paper, I should’ve used it to wipe my ass instead, but alas, joint-smoking took precedence. There were many other creative uses of bibles growing up. For example, when having wild boar pre-marital pig sex, and the headboard is scraping against the fresh paint on your wall, go ahead and grab that bible! It works as a handy insert between the two. Plus, no more pesky banging noises either! Oh, and how could I forgot the ol’ lipstick blotter trick. Ladies, often times we, in error, apply a heavy coat of lipstick when all we desire is a thin coat. In the event of heavy application error, rip out one of those handy-dandy bible pages and blot away! Oily skin? Not a problem either, pull out a page and get to work!

So be resourceful, don’t let that leather-bound bag o’ shit in the dresser drawer collecting dust go to waste!

And there you have it, save a tree, Sally’s Easter celebration is complete.

hello new shoes, bye bye blues

I put some new shoes on,
And suddenly everything is right,
I put some new shoes on and everybody's smiling,
It so inviting,
Short on money,
But long on time,
Slowly strolling in the sweet sunshine,
And I'm running late,
And I don’t need an excuse,
'cause I'm wearing my brand new shoes. -New Shoes, Paolo Nutini

Walking down the streets of New York City in my four inch heels, my feet started to hurt. I finally acquiesced to the pain and darted into the first store I saw. From the back room, an imposing blonde woman appeared. She led me over to look at all the shoes displayed on the wall. My eyes first zeroed in on the kaki colored pair. As soon as she returned with the shoes, I noticed the price - $325! Evidently, I had stumbled into a high-end store even though the outside of the store suggested otherwise. From my reaction she knew I wasn’t buying and proceeded to ignore me until I left. On my way out the door, a pair of dark brown funky platforms called my name, but I was determined to find a cheaper pair.

I left the store disappointed and disappeared into a sea of people just as a torrential rain began to hammer the city. An attractive man with dark hair and bright green eyes, in a muted-green tee-shirt looked over at me and said, “That Brillo scarf looks really nice on you.” The funny thing is I didn’t feel beautiful, in fact, just the opposite. The red n’ white silk Italian scarf around my neck was soggy, rain-soaked and heavy. We stood together on the street, my hair wild and tangled in my scarf, and stared silently at one another while he loosened the knots. In front of him, I bent down on my knees and came undone.

It's Freaky Friday, and I'm feeeling a little naughty. How about you?

The Art of Clever Response

(Disclaimer: Immaturity Abounds)

The wonderful Mz. Plain(s) Feminist has given the old, “Tag, You’re It”, so here I go.

A- Available or Single
Perpetually and irrevocably, single.

B- Best Friend
My comrades, my rocks, my fellow Civil War embalmers, my lovely ladies, my “we’ll grow old together and live in each other’s basements and fuck men because we can”, sisters.

C- Cake or Pie
Cake, specifically the mystery “pink bunny Easter coconut cake” left on my door step at 5:00 am yesterday morning, along with the flowers.

D- Drink of Choice
I like me a tall glass of man.
Actually, no, let me rephrase, I love Sake, especially of the “Mountain of Man” variety, or in a pinch, “Demon Slayer.”

E- Essential Item
A fake Russian accent at an All-American Boys hang-out.

F- Favorite Color
White, it matches my pure Christian moral upbringing. Thanks Mom & Dad!

G- Gummi Bears or Worms
Worms, all the way. Anything delectable shaped like a worm in my book is a-o-k.

H- Hometown
I’m under the spell of L.A. and I don’t wanna be here.

I- Indulgence
Travel, Useless Desire, and Cream Puffs

J- January or February
Both months represent my descent into hell (tax season). January sucks a little bit more because it’s only the beginning, baby.

K- Kids
Pardon Moi? Not in this lifetime!

L- Life is incomplete without:
Jump rope, bubble gum, and boys (the jump rope also moonlights as a whip, cat-o-nine-tails anyone?)

M- Marriage Date
About 400 B.C., isn’t that the last time marriage was even socially relevant?

N- Number of Siblings?
By marriage or blood? First marriage, second, or third? Oh hell, just throw’em all in there. Under that premise, 8.

O- Oranges or Apples?
Oranges, but only if I get to say who, where, and when damnit!

P- Phobias/Fears
That one day I might join MySpace. Eh, yeah.

Q- Favorite Quote
“Send in the clowns!”

R- Reasons to smile
1) Flashing the bartender for beer after last call and getting more, a whole pitcher in fact! (I really took one for the team!)

and

2) Hosting after-hour orgies at my house. That loud slapping noise coming from the basement can’t be good!


S- Season
Spring, all the sprightly fairies come out and bless each and every budding flower with their sweet enchanted kisses.

T- Tag Three People
Red rover, Red Rover send Cassandra Says, Sage, and My Sister over. (My sis doesn’t have a blog, but I trust that she will respond to this because I’ve included her in my will.)

U- Unknown Fact About Me
The night the lights went out in Georgia, I was the second gunman on the grassy noel.

W- Worst Habit
Speaking out of turn, interrupting others, controlling conversations, proving my endless superiority time & time again, oh, and did I mention that I’m a rude bitch?

Y- Your Favorite Foods
Mama buy your babies some papayas and sweet bananas.

Z- Zodiac

Yes, please!

Sally Sunshine’s alternate nickname: Zoodle from the Zodiac, given by sister, Detective Hoodle, witnessed by other sister, Ms. Noodle.

Little Brain Feedings

Readers, I am usually more regular with my posts. My apologies. Divine inspiration has been in short supply these days. My right brain has suffered from an incredible lack of creative motivation lately. Instead, I have immersed myself in partnership tax returns, charitable donations, stock sales, housing allowances for ministers, standard mileage rates, pre-tax health care deductions, medical expenses over 7.5% of AGI, sale of business properties, recapturing depreciation, corporate liquidations, imputing interest on shareholder loans, SEP’s, 401K’s, Traditional and Roth IRAs, and don’t forget… e-filing! Did you want to e-file your taxes this year????!!!!!

FUCK!

The mental stimulation I do get in between the hustle and bustle has consisted of the following:

Cosmos and Psyche by Richard Tarnas
(not a light read by any means, I’m still mulling over the first chapter)

Short stories about travel in the Czech Republic

A History of Budapest

The Balkan Conflict

The Kosovo War

The 1986 Chernobyl Disaster (the environmental and psychological consequences)

The Seat of the Soul (I have an affinity for cheesy new age spirituality stuff.)

There is also my third “Blessings from the Past” collection of short stories, random musings, and poems to finish.

Oh yeah, and my class. Did I forget to say I start teaching again on April 10th? My whole class needs to be gutted and re-worked for the new approach I want to implement this spring/summer.

And, yes, I did remember to mail my uncle a birthday card too.

All in a day’s work, my friend, all in a day’s work.

Other items of note: I just heard this damn catchy tune on satellite radio, and to my surprise, I haven’t heard of this artist before.

Check out Amy Winehouse here.

And lastly, to a girl who told me not to forget to:


Hey buddy, come get your shit!