FUCK YOU, TAIWAN…by Natasha Gornik 7/5/12

we get lost. at least it is beautiful and the light dapples on the trees and it reminds me a bit of India which makes me afraid but i get through it and then we are really lost and come upon abandoned homes painted pastel rust colors and everything has a layer of metaphorical cobweb on it and then we see a home with a tv playing from inside the large windows and knock on the door and minutes go by before we hear a voice and i can’t tell where it is coming from. a man with white hair and glasses and no shirt on, grey chest hair melting on reddish flesh appears and we exchange directions and a touch of pleasantries and then i notice the shot gun in his hand as he tells me not to worry about the shotgun in his hand. i am in a Rob Zombie movie and he laughs and five minutes later he is teaching me the ways of country driving, specifically backing up.

we have a shot and some pizza and forget about the drive. Mona’s boy brought tomahawks and blowdarts and knives to play with. we talk about how alligators will do anything for marshmallows and someone tells a story about shoving marbles up a guy’s ass and whipping them out and how he ended up at the proctologist the next day and they found one single grey marble jammed up there. it reminds me how i once made a series where i shoved different objects into my vagina and took self portraits. candy canes and candles and lollipops and sparklers and such. i kept finding things lodged up there over those few weeks. condoms and tissue paper and such. i didn’t share this memory but i should have and someone chimes in with a story about her friend Pepper who ran with Cuban strippers in Florida and Mona yells out”there must a candle in this mothafuckin house” and we continue to nourish ourselves with all sorts of cabin rental decadence. later someone finds snake skins and we figure out margaritas and math don’t mix and get acquainted with our topsheets for the evening.
Sade and Mona are laying an old hammock net onto a teepee of sticks that they just set up. the creek is as beautiful as i remember. each time i have been here i am in the throws of soul searching. this time it seems more serious or real. i’m more aware that change is challenging in this layered onion peel way i keep peeling back these layers or skins and its more intense more pungent each time usually when one finishes peeling or gets to the center of the onion, the flavor and oder are so extreme that one starts to tear up which could also be called crying. they threw whips in the bag mix next to the bugspray and turkey sandwiches. bodies over logs and lashings and squirting over flowers. i can’t actuallly visualize the onion, i don’t know if its red or yellow or white i can only inhale what was left of that last peel and i would like to her peel my skirt down and then use her foot to softly break my stance and push me down onto the log. the Talking Heads play and it matches the intensity of the sun. after cigarettes and peanut butter jelly sandwiches i think about the Earl of Sandwich and how epic his idea has become. last night i couldn’t stop eating Sun Chips and cookies. it was utter devastation on their part.i’m not sorry for them. Ryan lights the firepit with his cigarette and we lay under the sky and trees right above the creek’s fast waters and brownies and spliffs and lazy i stare up at the branches swaying above me and can’t help but close my eyes for a little while. everyone goes silent and listens to the music and the fire crackling and the marshmallows from the smores melt and thick white onto the firey wood. stories of colonoscopies and endoscopies ensue and i light another cigarette, promising myself i will quit tomorrow. everyone agrees it’s a sex in the woods kind of place.

i have a cigarette with my morning coffee and watch Axe rub body butter all over her back and her ass cheeks. the others have left now and she flips over she’s topless and spreads her legs and i look down between them to golden sparkly fabric that fits snug around her lips and the trees and the wind and silence again. we spend the day at an antique store and i talk to the shop keeper as she buys a new box to store memories from the past few days in. he is from South Africa an older man with matching breath that added a nice touch to his character which i don’t seem to mind at all. his voice is soothing and he rolls his r’s in a way that makes me scratch the back of my head and arms i could have listened to it for days on end. he invites us over for coffee and to see his box collection. his husband stands by quietly and the serenity of the situation takes me places. later, telescopes and Flash Gordon and firehouses happen and we spend the rest of the night horny and hungry for banana pudding on vanilla wafers. i stand in the kitchen and look at the four or five boxes of pudding mix and think to myself “there’s no way we’re going to get around to all this pudding” and Dear Prudence plays in a way that i have never heard it before.

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