(no subject)
the judge hopscotch files
My boyfriend-and it’s weird for me to call a significant other that because boyfriend sounds dorky as all get-out and goodness knows that I’m dorky enough on my own-is the cutest thing ever. Just when I think that I cannot possibly adore him more, he does something completely random and cute to make me even crazier than I already am for him. His old roommate calls us “retarded for each other,” and we’ve been known to make people’s eyes crinkle uncontrollably at the corners because of our antics. Sometimes, even strangers comment on our closeness, verifying that we are certifiably gaga for each other.
When we were in Tucson for the All Souls Procession, he painted his face black and dressed like a modern skeleton-king, and I wore my burnt velvet shawl like raven’s wings. I couldn’t stop looking at him and how the light sculpted his features and made an assemblage of his beauty. We were wrapped around each other almost the entire time, and I’d never felt closer to another human being as I did that night. At the end of the Procession, we watched our friends, Flam Chen, do their amazing fire performance stunts, and random people kept walking by and taking our photographs. Instead of being annoyed at the intrusion, we couldn’t stop grinning at each other. One man took extra time snapping our picture, as if we were beautiful together and he wanted us to keep being beautiful to each other. Having other people notice how much love and support we share makes what we have even more amazing.
It’s strange for me to be this way, wearing my heart so readily on my sleeve and being so brave and open when it would be easier to play games and hold back. Then again, I don’t think a person has a real relationship if she’s being deceptive or playing the games that Cosmopolitan magazine so readily espouses. This whole relationship has been a study in breaking bad habits and being as honest as I possibly can, without knowing whether there’s an immediate reward for it or not. It’s been really healing for me on so many levels and healing for him, too. We’re so much alike, but not so much that being together is like looking into twin mirrors. I’ve never known someone who had so many of my experiences.
And! We laugh! Hysterically! Often! From the belly! Like we never want to stop! A couple of weeks ago, he was really sick and I played the sexy nurse until I got sick, too. Then, we spent a few days in bed, nearly delirious. We started getting bored and doing outlandish things and coming up with harebrained schemes. One such day, I had a stroke of inspiration. “Let’s give each other new names!” My roommate Sean was laughing hysterically in the next room as he overheard us. My love’s new name? Aloysius McGuiggenheim Hopscotch. I gave him the title of Judge just to make it official. Even funnier is that my love’s family nicknamed him “The Judge” when he was a kid. My name? Petunia Goatsbottom. So if you see us, wandering the streets with our hands in each other’s hair and teeth on shoulders and earlobes, that’s Judge Hopscotch and Ms. Goatsbottom, Esquire to you.
More proof of how silly and gone we are for each other is a list that I made for him when we first started seeing each other. I was going to Portland to spirit Eva back to Arcosanti and made this list for him, to remind him of all the little things I liked about him. Before I left for the trip, I almost didn’t want to go because we had just started connecting and I was feeling like we were falling into each other and didn’t want to stop that momentum. I left on that long drive and tucked the list in his hands right before I left. I’m posting it now for posterity . . . and stuff like that. He says he still reads it all the time and that he sometimes reads it to remind himself of who he is. I can’t think of a sweeter or more fitting thing.
100 Fuckin’ Peachy Things about My Love-Raccoon-Fingers (in case you forget)
1. Smooth-hip rockabilly dance moves.
2. Gypsy-eyes.
3. Raccoon hands and dexterous fingers.
4. An inventor’s keen mind.
5. He growls at the best moments.
6. Laugh-lines like latitude lines across his cheeks and surrounding said gypsy-eyes.
7. Deep, belly-rolling laughter.
8. He is a snazzy dresser.
9. He makes swords so people can play.
10. He still knows how to play.
11. He encourages others to play, too.
12. The slight gap between his front teeth that makes him seem charmingly flawed.
13. He sings sea shanties about owls and pussycats and mermaids.
14. He sings to himself all the time-just for the pure pleasure of singing.
15. He unfolds his voice of honey and foxtails and deep log laughter to sing for others (especially jewelynx)
16. He makes these adorable pauses right before he speaks, opening his mouth, shutting his eyes, and finally, setting the words free.
17. He’s always and in love with his ideas.
18. He is not afraid (rather, unafraid) to admit when he’s scared.
19. He mentors younger folks in such subtle ways that they don’t even know he’s doing it.
20. Unexpected acts of kindness.
21. He teaches without trying.
22. His hands are always dirty from doing hard work.
23. When he frolics around in his work boots, I sometimes swear he’s got satyr hooves.
24. I bet if I gave him a pan pipe (Pan’s weapon of choice), he’d find a way to make it sing.
25. He possesses the ability to see and understand the pain in others.
26. His leopard-print pajamas.
27. He snores softly when he’s sleeping deeply and he sounds like a little gnome.
28. He tries so hard to be good.
29. He wears Hawaiian shirts and clothing other people would shun, but manages to make it look effortless and incredible.
30. He’s as hungry for etymology as I am and wonders about the roots of words and what they mean.
31. That flamin’ brilliant hair . . . that fucking hair. Editor’s note: he has a pompadour to be the king of all pompadours. Elvis, Danny Zuko, and Fonzie never knew this kind of hair.
32. When he sleeps over, the sheets and pillows smell like him-so much that I can roll around in it and remember that he’s been there.
33. Belly-hair like faun-fur.
34. He smells like metal and tears, commotion and lust-love, aged leather and something sweet and green that’s never been touched by human hands.
35. His eyes sometimes hint at prophecy.
36. He’s always scribbling things and sometimes he shares them.
37. The lift and lift of his shoulders when he laughs; it’s as if Atlas has shrugged away the weight of the world and just become free.
38. He wants to (and does) make Things.
39. He welded a giant metal ribcage with a Lazarus heart swing inside.
40. He works with metal and makes it bend with his will or waits to see what it will show him.
41. He recognises the beauty and ugliness in others and is still able to smile.
42. Dumpster driving/scavenging instincts.
43. His ability to survive and overcome many odds.
44. His mad monkey-mind.
45. The many corridors and knowledge of that monkey-mind.
46. His constant blur and motion.
47. When he’s happy, it shows in his walk.
48. Wicked sense of humour.
49. Talent for silliness and trickery.
50. He embraces the child within and lets others know that it’s okay for them to be children, too, sometimes.
51. Sometimes, he sounds just like Leonard Cohen when he laughs or sings.
52. Whiskey-low purrs that emanate from deep in his throat.
53. He is a damn sexy beast.
54. He knows how to make nifty costumes and dress for any occasion.
55. His tattered little sailor’s heart that I adore with all of mine.
56. How he knows when to lapse into companionable quiet or when to speak.
57. His chrysalis; it’s so beautiful watching him come undone and in that, free.
58. His shoulder blades that protrude like wings when he stretches; sometimes, I swear that he is a boy of an angel that is an angel of a boy, too.
59. Vertebrae like prayer beads.
60. These steep collarbones that I imagine filling with rainwater so that I can lap the water from him like a kitten.
61. He knows about stuff-big Stuff.
62. The soft, subtle moments right when he’s waking up and a smile blooms across his features.
63. He’s a road trip warrior and vagabond prophet.
64. He has ears pink and transparent as seashells.
65. He’s a little off-balance in the best of ways.
66. He is authentic and genuine.
67. He’s one of the most creative people that I’ve ever known-reminds me of Yoko so much.
68. He’s content to roll a cigarette and watch the night descend.
69. When he’s intoxicated, he’ll occasionally get this Virginia drawl to his voice.
70. Thrift store creativity. He finds all the good stuff.
71. Gentle-tongued honesty.
72. When he’s looking at me hard, I feel like he’s going right through me with his stare.
73. He can spend a day with “the chicks” and still grin.
74. He put sand in his room just because.
75. When he looks at me under his lashes, he makes me want to kiss the breath from his lips.
76. Emotional intensity and inner fortitude.
77. He has made me smile again so much that I might be sore from it.
78. Fierce loyalty and devotion to those he cares about.
79. His scientific explanations of mundane things.
80. He wears funky suits like no one’s business.
81. He lets me invade his personal space and doesn’t complain.
82. Butterfly-kisses.
83. His hands curl around my hips in the most amazing way when we make sleep-tangles.
84. He’s gentle with cats and other creatures.
85. He inspires me to make more courageous choices and risk a little more in my life.
86. Excellent taste in music-especially the Pogues and Robyn Hitchcock.
87. He tastes like forgetting and always.
88. Best nap-dater ever.
89. He keeps cool things in his pockets and kangaroo bag.
90. Gray hair at his temples.
91. That nose of his that is all regal Cherokee.
92. Activism for any bloody cause the mind can imagine.
93. His moonlight and madness.
94. His nipping teeth and smiles and sadness.
95. Brow-kisses and face-rubbing.
96. The strength he doesn’t even know he possesses.
97. Breath and blood and bone.
98. His bright mind-all of it stardust.
99. Beauty marks scattered like stars across his face and body.
100. Immunity to boredom (he’s fascinating).
101. (this is plus one to grow) He is beautiful: all cat’s paws and baby’s breath and dandelion sunrises and slumber-snuggles and wanderlust and childhood wonder and butterscotch growling.
I ended the list, saying, “Be safe and joyful, you sweet raccoon prince. When I get back, I want to fall into an otter-pile with you and say all the things we leave unsaid. Be brave. I will be here, too. I will be here.” We said all those things and more and we haven’t stopped. There is so much joy here. Tonight, I showed him the new issue of Numb, and he cracked a little smile and said, “I just had sex with the girl who interviewed Spike Lee” and we tumbled onto the bed and the laughter began anew, the way it always does with us.
Signing off,
Petunia Goatsbottom, Esquire
My boyfriend-and it’s weird for me to call a significant other that because boyfriend sounds dorky as all get-out and goodness knows that I’m dorky enough on my own-is the cutest thing ever. Just when I think that I cannot possibly adore him more, he does something completely random and cute to make me even crazier than I already am for him. His old roommate calls us “retarded for each other,” and we’ve been known to make people’s eyes crinkle uncontrollably at the corners because of our antics. Sometimes, even strangers comment on our closeness, verifying that we are certifiably gaga for each other.
When we were in Tucson for the All Souls Procession, he painted his face black and dressed like a modern skeleton-king, and I wore my burnt velvet shawl like raven’s wings. I couldn’t stop looking at him and how the light sculpted his features and made an assemblage of his beauty. We were wrapped around each other almost the entire time, and I’d never felt closer to another human being as I did that night. At the end of the Procession, we watched our friends, Flam Chen, do their amazing fire performance stunts, and random people kept walking by and taking our photographs. Instead of being annoyed at the intrusion, we couldn’t stop grinning at each other. One man took extra time snapping our picture, as if we were beautiful together and he wanted us to keep being beautiful to each other. Having other people notice how much love and support we share makes what we have even more amazing.
It’s strange for me to be this way, wearing my heart so readily on my sleeve and being so brave and open when it would be easier to play games and hold back. Then again, I don’t think a person has a real relationship if she’s being deceptive or playing the games that Cosmopolitan magazine so readily espouses. This whole relationship has been a study in breaking bad habits and being as honest as I possibly can, without knowing whether there’s an immediate reward for it or not. It’s been really healing for me on so many levels and healing for him, too. We’re so much alike, but not so much that being together is like looking into twin mirrors. I’ve never known someone who had so many of my experiences.
And! We laugh! Hysterically! Often! From the belly! Like we never want to stop! A couple of weeks ago, he was really sick and I played the sexy nurse until I got sick, too. Then, we spent a few days in bed, nearly delirious. We started getting bored and doing outlandish things and coming up with harebrained schemes. One such day, I had a stroke of inspiration. “Let’s give each other new names!” My roommate Sean was laughing hysterically in the next room as he overheard us. My love’s new name? Aloysius McGuiggenheim Hopscotch. I gave him the title of Judge just to make it official. Even funnier is that my love’s family nicknamed him “The Judge” when he was a kid. My name? Petunia Goatsbottom. So if you see us, wandering the streets with our hands in each other’s hair and teeth on shoulders and earlobes, that’s Judge Hopscotch and Ms. Goatsbottom, Esquire to you.
More proof of how silly and gone we are for each other is a list that I made for him when we first started seeing each other. I was going to Portland to spirit Eva back to Arcosanti and made this list for him, to remind him of all the little things I liked about him. Before I left for the trip, I almost didn’t want to go because we had just started connecting and I was feeling like we were falling into each other and didn’t want to stop that momentum. I left on that long drive and tucked the list in his hands right before I left. I’m posting it now for posterity . . . and stuff like that. He says he still reads it all the time and that he sometimes reads it to remind himself of who he is. I can’t think of a sweeter or more fitting thing.
100 Fuckin’ Peachy Things about My Love-Raccoon-Fingers (in case you forget)
1. Smooth-hip rockabilly dance moves.
2. Gypsy-eyes.
3. Raccoon hands and dexterous fingers.
4. An inventor’s keen mind.
5. He growls at the best moments.
6. Laugh-lines like latitude lines across his cheeks and surrounding said gypsy-eyes.
7. Deep, belly-rolling laughter.
8. He is a snazzy dresser.
9. He makes swords so people can play.
10. He still knows how to play.
11. He encourages others to play, too.
12. The slight gap between his front teeth that makes him seem charmingly flawed.
13. He sings sea shanties about owls and pussycats and mermaids.
14. He sings to himself all the time-just for the pure pleasure of singing.
15. He unfolds his voice of honey and foxtails and deep log laughter to sing for others (especially jewelynx)
16. He makes these adorable pauses right before he speaks, opening his mouth, shutting his eyes, and finally, setting the words free.
17. He’s always and in love with his ideas.
18. He is not afraid (rather, unafraid) to admit when he’s scared.
19. He mentors younger folks in such subtle ways that they don’t even know he’s doing it.
20. Unexpected acts of kindness.
21. He teaches without trying.
22. His hands are always dirty from doing hard work.
23. When he frolics around in his work boots, I sometimes swear he’s got satyr hooves.
24. I bet if I gave him a pan pipe (Pan’s weapon of choice), he’d find a way to make it sing.
25. He possesses the ability to see and understand the pain in others.
26. His leopard-print pajamas.
27. He snores softly when he’s sleeping deeply and he sounds like a little gnome.
28. He tries so hard to be good.
29. He wears Hawaiian shirts and clothing other people would shun, but manages to make it look effortless and incredible.
30. He’s as hungry for etymology as I am and wonders about the roots of words and what they mean.
31. That flamin’ brilliant hair . . . that fucking hair. Editor’s note: he has a pompadour to be the king of all pompadours. Elvis, Danny Zuko, and Fonzie never knew this kind of hair.
32. When he sleeps over, the sheets and pillows smell like him-so much that I can roll around in it and remember that he’s been there.
33. Belly-hair like faun-fur.
34. He smells like metal and tears, commotion and lust-love, aged leather and something sweet and green that’s never been touched by human hands.
35. His eyes sometimes hint at prophecy.
36. He’s always scribbling things and sometimes he shares them.
37. The lift and lift of his shoulders when he laughs; it’s as if Atlas has shrugged away the weight of the world and just become free.
38. He wants to (and does) make Things.
39. He welded a giant metal ribcage with a Lazarus heart swing inside.
40. He works with metal and makes it bend with his will or waits to see what it will show him.
41. He recognises the beauty and ugliness in others and is still able to smile.
42. Dumpster driving/scavenging instincts.
43. His ability to survive and overcome many odds.
44. His mad monkey-mind.
45. The many corridors and knowledge of that monkey-mind.
46. His constant blur and motion.
47. When he’s happy, it shows in his walk.
48. Wicked sense of humour.
49. Talent for silliness and trickery.
50. He embraces the child within and lets others know that it’s okay for them to be children, too, sometimes.
51. Sometimes, he sounds just like Leonard Cohen when he laughs or sings.
52. Whiskey-low purrs that emanate from deep in his throat.
53. He is a damn sexy beast.
54. He knows how to make nifty costumes and dress for any occasion.
55. His tattered little sailor’s heart that I adore with all of mine.
56. How he knows when to lapse into companionable quiet or when to speak.
57. His chrysalis; it’s so beautiful watching him come undone and in that, free.
58. His shoulder blades that protrude like wings when he stretches; sometimes, I swear that he is a boy of an angel that is an angel of a boy, too.
59. Vertebrae like prayer beads.
60. These steep collarbones that I imagine filling with rainwater so that I can lap the water from him like a kitten.
61. He knows about stuff-big Stuff.
62. The soft, subtle moments right when he’s waking up and a smile blooms across his features.
63. He’s a road trip warrior and vagabond prophet.
64. He has ears pink and transparent as seashells.
65. He’s a little off-balance in the best of ways.
66. He is authentic and genuine.
67. He’s one of the most creative people that I’ve ever known-reminds me of Yoko so much.
68. He’s content to roll a cigarette and watch the night descend.
69. When he’s intoxicated, he’ll occasionally get this Virginia drawl to his voice.
70. Thrift store creativity. He finds all the good stuff.
71. Gentle-tongued honesty.
72. When he’s looking at me hard, I feel like he’s going right through me with his stare.
73. He can spend a day with “the chicks” and still grin.
74. He put sand in his room just because.
75. When he looks at me under his lashes, he makes me want to kiss the breath from his lips.
76. Emotional intensity and inner fortitude.
77. He has made me smile again so much that I might be sore from it.
78. Fierce loyalty and devotion to those he cares about.
79. His scientific explanations of mundane things.
80. He wears funky suits like no one’s business.
81. He lets me invade his personal space and doesn’t complain.
82. Butterfly-kisses.
83. His hands curl around my hips in the most amazing way when we make sleep-tangles.
84. He’s gentle with cats and other creatures.
85. He inspires me to make more courageous choices and risk a little more in my life.
86. Excellent taste in music-especially the Pogues and Robyn Hitchcock.
87. He tastes like forgetting and always.
88. Best nap-dater ever.
89. He keeps cool things in his pockets and kangaroo bag.
90. Gray hair at his temples.
91. That nose of his that is all regal Cherokee.
92. Activism for any bloody cause the mind can imagine.
93. His moonlight and madness.
94. His nipping teeth and smiles and sadness.
95. Brow-kisses and face-rubbing.
96. The strength he doesn’t even know he possesses.
97. Breath and blood and bone.
98. His bright mind-all of it stardust.
99. Beauty marks scattered like stars across his face and body.
100. Immunity to boredom (he’s fascinating).
101. (this is plus one to grow) He is beautiful: all cat’s paws and baby’s breath and dandelion sunrises and slumber-snuggles and wanderlust and childhood wonder and butterscotch growling.
I ended the list, saying, “Be safe and joyful, you sweet raccoon prince. When I get back, I want to fall into an otter-pile with you and say all the things we leave unsaid. Be brave. I will be here, too. I will be here.” We said all those things and more and we haven’t stopped. There is so much joy here. Tonight, I showed him the new issue of Numb, and he cracked a little smile and said, “I just had sex with the girl who interviewed Spike Lee” and we tumbled onto the bed and the laughter began anew, the way it always does with us.
Signing off,
Petunia Goatsbottom, Esquire