endo

she was a good girl with a quick and genuine smile. she helped her grandmother every day in the house and then moved to her outside chores before anyone had to remind her. she was a star pupil in school, but her greatest passion was her horse. it was incidental to her that she was recognized as the top equestrian in her age group (10-12 years) in the country. it only meant that no one ever questioned why she spent every waking minute with her equine friend. she had watched him be born and the moment he came out, she knew his name was 'endo'. his dame had been a gentle, deep red belgian draft and his sire a jet black, fiery andalusian. endo's coat was a deep, liquid red like his dam, his bottle brush mane, tail and feet feathers were black as pitch like his sire. it was clear to see in his first moments that he was intelligent and sweet-spirited. from the beginning, the girl and colt were inseparable and spent every day playing together like puppies. often the girls grandfather let her spend the night in the barn after he searched the farm and found her curled up with the colt fast asleep in a deep pile of straw. her grandfather would pull one of the old wool blankets out of the tack room and cover them both.

the girl was careful to wait until the little horse's bones were strong enough to support her before she officially mounted him- but from his first day standing she had put a wool 'baby saddle' on his back and gently tugged the soft cinch strap around his ribs and told him when he was big enough they would ride. as they both grew, their play became more athletic and she would clasp her fingers behind his ears, lift her feet from the ground and endo would run as fast and far as he could around the pasture wearing her like a necklace while she squealed with delight.

endo had inherited his temperament, strength and giant stature from his dam and his agile, graceful movement from his sire. when the girl and the horse entered the ring, there was always an audible gasp because of his size, astonishing beauty and effortless agility. as the girl and horse completed their perfect course, no one knew that the bit rings on the horse's show halter were purely ornamental. endo performed dressage to please the girl and because he actually enjoyed it. he had never worn a bit or felt the bite of a spur.

oprah

i don't know why i accepted oprah's invitation to stay at her place in new york. first, i hate new york and  second, oprah was EXHAUSTING. she never really listened, she only ever waited for an opening in any conversation to hijack it with the booming sound of her own voice. to be around her for more than 5 minutes was pure torture; she was so self-centered that usually by minute 6 i found myself biting my tongue until it bled and desperately searching for an exit. it was always 'The Oprah Show' to oprah.

the cab let me off at the bottom of a vine and moss covered winding stone stair. i looked up and then back at the taxi. it was italy i was sure. the impatient driver grabbed the bills from my hand and barked, 'up da stairs!', before he sped off shaking his head in disgust. i let out the handle on my well traveled, tough little osprey and started to bang it up the steps after me. i marveled at the sun illuminating the tiny leaves that clung to the ancient stone wall. after several turns and at least 100 risers i stood before an exceptionally wide deep claret door. i lifted the massive knocker, but before it could fall onto the corresponding plate the door exploded open and revealed a grinning oprah. my hand was still frozen in the air as she took the handle of my bag and gathered me in. my head reeled as i was led deeper and deeper into the house. i tried to keep track of my path so i could bolt, but soon i was hopelessly turned around and watched as my osprey was handed off to be put in my room. i was stuck.

oprah seemed unusually happy i had to admit. as i followed her throughout the surprisingly beautiful and charming house, she introduced me to a wild assortment of people (and an astounding number of children) staying with her- most did not speak english, but all smiled genuinely. as we walked, oprah explained that the house was being restored to its 16th century splendor and she was lucky enough to have expert craftsmen from all over the world working on it. shockingly, oprah knew every one by name and very sweetly introduced me to each while carefully and respectfully explaining their particular area of expertise. this was a different oprah! i felt myself relax and the smile on my face was genuine. when oprah said, 'now let's take a ride in my 20 million dollar restored  bugatti!', my heart sank. back to oprah, i thought.

we walked out onto the stone driveway and the car looked like a creamy jewel. oprah said, 'no, look at the seats!' and we both started laughing as i realized we would be essentially fully reclined while riding in the car. 'don't worry, ' she said, 'i swear i can drive it without killing us!'. we each spider-crawled into the car laughing so hard we couldn't speak. when she turned the key, the engine roared like thunder. 'I swear we will not die today!' she promised.

we laughed for the rest of the day.

brocade

now we used colored blocks of hardwood for currency. the pieces varied in shape depending on assigned value and were generally smooth and waxy from changing so many hands. it was awkward to carry the rough cotton sacks which often grew too heavy to seem worth the effort at all. as i waited for my item, some children played nearby and commented on the sound of the blocks in my bag knocking together. when i told them about the technology of 'the old days' and how we didn't carry blocks at all but made our transactions 'through the air', they laughed and said it was a good story but impossible. they were right, it was impossible now.

i fell silent and watched them chase after each other in bare feet. their clothing was crudely made (as was all clothing) and every so often one would have to stop to retie the laces that held up their pants or kept their shirts closed. i absently lifted one of the folds of my skirt and tried to superimpose my memory of fine woven cloth over the rough interlaced fibers. i imagined a silky, intricate green brocade.

grape jelly

kady said she thought she was pregnant, so we made a doll out of cellophane that had similar proportions to her, filled its limbs with grape jelly and tried various potions on it to reverse the zygote back to a harmless single cell.

erik

ben was up to his usual tricks and it was a wonder that the current batch of underworld thugs he'd ripped off hadn't murdered him yet. he wanted to tell me the particulars, but i just waved him off. if ben wound up dead, it made no difference to me as long as i had the cash in my hand for the work i'd completed. i don't know why i took the job, i didn't really need the money- i guess greed since he'd offered me 5x my rate with no strings attached. anyway, the house was finished now and in spite of having to constantly struggle against bens' nagging bad taste- it was spectacular. the color palette was rich and sumptuous, the textiles were luxurious and tasteful, the walls glowed with painstakingly applied venetian plaster and all the architectural details had been researched and lovingly restored to their perfect art deco origins. i'd brought in some massive gears and used them as a partition in the great room to top it all off with a little bauhaus flavor. it was gorgeous and i was exhausted. ben and i ended our tour of the house in the media room and when he indicated that we should sit for a moment, i did not hesitate to rest my weary bones on the aubergine mohair chesterfield sofa i'd placed there. as we surveyed the room, ben was twitchy and looking around as though he expected someone to burst in at any moment. finally he suggested that a finishing touch would be over-sized panels between the 4 columns on the far wall, each painted with a figure. i was astonished to realize it was true. my insides churned as i knew i would never be happy unless those paintings were there. i excused myself and headed back to my studio. i toiled through the weekend but it was no use, i simply had not budgeted for the energy expenditure of four 8 foot oils. finally i called in erik. i handed him the roughed out canvases almost in tears. as usual, he smiled and said, 'don't worry, i'll make them beautiful'. 3 days later we were standing in the media room with ben watching the workmen put up his finished masterpieces.

as we walked out onto the patio, i saw that ben's house was actually attached to another and there was no wall separating the yards. ben saw me looking at the garish, cartoon palace of his neighbor and said, 'i don't want to put up a fence because it's roseanne barr. erik and i looked at each other incredulously.

i watched as ben counted out many thousands of dollars into erik's open palm. erik and i drove away laughing so hard we could not speak.

stephen merchant

we were on location in some faraway podunk town in someplace that looked like wyoming. all the teamsters had left and there was no way back until we were finished shooting. in that respect, it was like we were on an island. i felt so ill and uncomfortable that i only wanted to wear my white hawaiian sarong. susan kept saying, 'how can that be a hawaiian sarong? it's white.' i listlessly pointed out several times that it was white on white and indeed the flowers were there, but finally i just gave up because i didn't have it in me. i wandered around our rented house for awhile trying to find a place where i could get a bit more comfortable so i could just lay down and ride it out, but it was no use. after several more hours of unyielding suffering i said, 'you have to take me to the medic'. susan questioned me relentlessly, but i could only answer with excessive pre-hurl salivation and a weak arm lifted toward the general direction of the clinic. i slipped my bare feet into my beat-up cowboy boots and scuffed my way to the truck.

as we drove toward our fake town center, i rested my head on the open window frame of the pickup truck like a dog. i looked sideways at the long, flat horizon in front of us and reaffirmed my affection for saguaro cactus. even though the road was bumpy and unpaved, the warm air rushing over my face gave me some relief. when we arrived, i was surprised to see our little location clinic was full of people. i looked at susan like wtf? and she shrugged and shook her head. the whole room was filled with the families of black gang-bangers from compton. i'm thinking, these can't be locals- we're on an indian reservation. i counted the bodies in the room and realized there was no way i would be seen quickly. i walked to the desk anyway and asked who the attending physician was. it was my doctor! i asked them to tell her i was there and it was urgent i see her (i knew she'd leap frog me to the front of the que). i scuffed over to the only empty seat, sat down and draped myself over the armrest onto the little attached side table so i didn't have to use my neck muscles to support my head. soon a woman with elaborate hair, clicking plastic fingernails and a dripping, phlegm-filled toddler plopped down almost on top of me and started to talk loudly about every fluid that had projectile-d out of it the night before. the room started to spin again as she described the colors and textures of the miasma that already enveloped me. i got up and went back to the desk to inquire and they said they had not sent word to my doctor yet. i was furious but too weak to be an effective negotiator. i ended up in an endless loop of inquiry and no word was ever sent. before i left the clinic, i made my way to a bathroom to splash some water on my face. i was literally green and thought, 'well, i guess i'm dying on location then...'. i walked back outside to look for my ride. at that moment stephen merchant pulled up in another truck. he seemed relieved to see me- well, not actually me, but a familiar face. as usual, stephen was his weird, 'can't. just. freaking. be. normal.' self and babbled on completely oblivious to my obvious impending death. he pretended not to hear the part where i needed a ride back to my rented house to die in peace. i tried to get the keys to his truck, but he wanted me to follow him and so he slipped them into his pocket.

i'm sitting in a dark, abandoned saloon. stephen is sitting in the only pool of light. he is conducting an interview with a young talented local girl who was a combination of bobby gentry and june carter. she held a guitar in her hands and was responding thoughtfully and earnestly to his glib questions. it was clear to me that stephen had no frame of reference to understand that he was dealing with someone genuine and talented. he was just mining her for comedic material. as i was sitting in the dark watching this one-sided exchange, i took inventory of my body and realized i was feeling better and was probably not going to die. i did not feel disappointment or relief. stephen started to ask the girl probing questions about what 'courting' was in her world.

now i am watching the finished scene that stephen has written from his interview. stephen and a pretty blond are naked in a shower. stephen is trying to kiss her, but it is obviously the first kiss for both of them. they make repeated attempts to create a kiss worthy of this super sexy backdrop. they both keep leading with their teeth (clank) and then following with an awkward lip wrap.

it was hilarious.

croc hands

i was involved in a bitter argument surrounding the moral obscenity of several white men who had come to my village to 'harvest' a few hundred crocodile hands in order to decorate their automobile tire sidewalls (from the wrist joint, palm side up only as the scales where paler and flatter). they had no plans or use for the rest of the reptile, but argued it didn't matter if the reptiles were left to rot in the equatorial sun as we had no claim to them anyway. my anger grew as they shared more of their intention and i loudly drew my people in from their chores to understand the repercussions of the useless slaughter. in an effort to calm the situation, the white men turned their focus away from me and the other women and began to speak only to our men. they began to offer them money (a truly useless thing) claiming that all manner of tools and goods could be purchased with the colorful paper they fanned in the air. in towns only weeks away by foot, 'everything' could be purchased. i saw that the men began to respond to the thought of sharp new knives and tools and the crocodile slaughter was losing importance by comparison. my village was small and the women and i quickly came to an irrevocable agreement- if our men did not stand with us against the killing, we would abandon them all. this shared statement woke our men from the hypnotic fumes of greed and they immediately turned their heads back to right thinking. at that point, the white men understood the battle was lost and they were quite outnumbered. almost without pausing, the white men began to point up and all around to our rubber trees saying that they would be just as happy to harvest them.