smokin an L with Jesus

i have realized, at the ripe old age of 27, that there are a couple of versions of heaven:

1. there is the heaven for people who love harps and choir music. they bop on elevators and often wish their hair was more flowy-er. i can’t get around to aiming for this one, and it keeps me from bowing my head often enough i’m sure.

2. there is a heaven that involves one long, perfect, magic hands massage. i dare say i pray for this one daily.

3. there is a heaven in which we humans finally evolve to a place of inner and outer peace, and treat each other with respect, live in trust and freedom, and want for nothing but good work. i act like i live there and hold no small measure of pride in my surprise at proof to the contrary…

4. there is a heaven which is a beach in the marshall islands where i healed once…where the sand comes out against the ocean and in every direction, as far as the eye can see, you can look. you can watch the rains come hours away, and you can watch the far side of the sunset, and you can see the very first glimpse of the earth turning towards that same sun but we call it new and it constantly amazes, and the wind is warm and the sharks are near and when night comes, she brings a million stars to tell you her stories.

5. and then there is the one i have found on earth – a friday night, with a late night date with myself, watching science fiction shows, eating oreos, with a sip of whiskey and a bit of puff and a new red light and no clothes anywhere near me and no work and no phone ringing and nothing, absolutely nothing, in this room that i don’t want here.

6. and then there is my penultimate heaven, the one in which i get to spend a lot of time on the beach, in peace, often sitting alone to think, but sometimes getting to choose someone to sit back and smoke an L with, and ask my big questions to. my short list includes every major martyr or religious figure,  writer of perfect songs, prophet,  revolutionary and lover i’ve ever known or known of.  i would like to start with jesus, given the great obsession and oppression of my time, based on poor interpretations of his short life. and then nina simone, to ask how she was able to keep singing when some days break you of sound.  and i would probably want to sing a song with her, because i’ve lost all shame and besides, its my heaven. and then a panel of inventors, to ask what it feels like to have a completely new idea in a world that runs from change. and then i would love to sit down with the creation force, in whatever form i can handle, just to say why 50 times, for closure.

and that is my list of heavens.

i was going to write something that would be hilarious, at least to me, about men hollering at me on the street. recently i have gotten the following commentary:

"mami, why you even trying to lose weight? if i was your man i would appreciate all of that, every inch."
"yo ma you beautiful, really."
"ah pretty xtra large, i like that."
"can i suck your titties, please, just once?"
"do you have the time? no, not that time – the time to talk to me?"
"i have a car, i have a job, and now i need you."
"i’m older than i look, i could do it right."

unfortunately these men have holla’d at me in the context of the bob dylan song i can’t stop repeating on my ipod, which i think might be the only fresh game that could ever be kicked to me on the street (sexy people who carry around guitars take note):

Tell me, I’ve got to know.
Tell me, tell me before I go.
Does that flame still burn? Does that fire still glow?
Or has it died out and melted like the snow.
Tell me.
Tell me.

Tell me, what are you focused upon?
Tell me what I’ll know better when you’re gone.
Tell me quick with a glance on the side.
Shall I hold you close?
Or Shall I let you go by?
Tell me.
Tell me.

Are you looking at me and thinking of somebody else?
Can you feel the heat and the beat of my pulse?
Do you have any secrets that will come out in time?
Do you lie in bed and stare at the stars?
Is your main friend an acquaintance of ours?
Tell me.
Tell me.

Tell me, are those rock and roll dreams in your eyes?
Tell me, behind what door your treasure lies.
Ever gone broke in a big way?
Ever done the opposite of what the experts say?
Tell me.
Tell me.

Is it some kind of game that you’re playin’ with me.
Am I imagining something that never can be?
Do you have any morals?
Do you have any point of view?
Do you long to ride on that old ship of Zion?
What means more to you, a lap dog or a dead lion?
Tell me.
Tell me.

Tell me, is my name in your book?
Tell me, should I come back and take another look?
Tell me the truth, tell me no lies.
Are you someone, anyone?
Tell me.
Tell me.

My favorite of these lines are those about having morals and a point of view. This is the answer that cannot be attained by any amount of focus on my ass or eyes, any brief and offensive designs on my breasts. The statistics are stacked so deeply against you kind sirs. Resist. The. Urge.

Yesterday was National Make Adrienne Think Of Babies day. Besides the dream, which I will not recount, and before my visit with the graceful and divine Mia Herndon, who awaits a February child, I had
brunch with this cool woman Ilene who used to run progressive salons in ny, and
now does fertility awareness classes that teach women how to track their times
of fertility so they aren’t slaves to the pill. www.fertaware.com. If anyone can help her with the website, she’s looking for help so holla.

Now, I’ve managed to stay off the
pill thus far in life, but have watched many friends go through the crazy ups
and downs of it. Interesting evolution to consider – the body does tell you so
much. Today my body told me unequivocally that I am not pregnant. And I was glad 🙂

Tonight I had dinner with my doppelganger, Alea Woodlee. Everyone who has met us both swears we look alike, and it’s true. Sitting at dinner with her I couldn’t help watching to see what I might appear like to others, since I have long held the theory that I have a non-sensical appearance. But she looks great. I’m taller! She’s also a military brat, an organizer, a singer, a communicator, we could speak each other’s sentences. It’s uncanny. And she’s great, which in a not too odd way makes me feel good too.

Now, for those who need someone to love, to care for, and find no one willing to take this sweet burden on, here’s a little blast from closet animal lover Yahonnes Cleary, my friend:

West Jersey (




) Animal Shelter is closing at the end of
month. There are currently 31 dogs and 5 cats on the premises that are in
desperate need of adoption. The West Jersey Animal Shelter is open for
adoptions Monday through Friday from 11 a.m. until 4 p.m. and from 11 a.m.
until 5 p.m. on Saturdays and Sundays. Phone (856) 486-2180.

Tomorrow I’ll be at this popular education conference at Hunter all day. Roll through if you’re in NY.