Wanda Phipps


an excerpt from a journal of emotional sensation

Monday, December 31, 2001

New Year's Eve--Lower East Side bar--too early--lights slowly darken--then lighten--nagging ache on the left side of my neck and left shoulder--radiating from behind my left ear drum downward. Dreamt of Jeff last night--we were hanging out after one of his gigs--we were walking around the Lower East Side--he yelled at a guy who didn't say hello to him--we went back to my place--I lived alone--I didn't recognize the apartment but it was mine--we were laughing and talking and got hungry--I said "I don't cook. So we have two options: go out or stay in and order take out." We decided to stay in and I gave him a mountain of take out menus to choose from. He told me a story about a French guy who told him once after a gig that he should "play something orange" and Jeff asked "How do you play orange?" And the guy took Jeff's guitar and demonstrated--sounded like a speeded up Led Zeppelin.

Tuesday, January 1, 2002

New Year's Day--throat hoarse from the smoky C-Note last night--traveling dreams--nicely floating--view of speeding trees--landscape from a car window and then a cave sprouting light from the opening--getting closer and clearer. Content--in love with the asinine world.

Friday, January 4, 2002

I am waiting--waiting in a waiting room--body light--all muscles released from exhaustion--all tension gone--I wait--head a calm cloud--cloudy calm and soft receptivity--perhaps my face is an open hand--strangers and babies seem attracted to it--my cloudy calm open handed face or maybe thereís a dull fire somewhere deep radiating outward--an electrical buzzing--no one knows the...

First Indian music--sarangi with guitar and now the sound of kissing--explain away this: calm abiding

Monday, January 7, 2002

Sex when I'm sick like fucking in another language--familiar act made unfamiliar. Last night Rebecca and her monster band--"Trumpets of your soul will sound, even though you're in the ground." Jeff's sensitive Piaf coming through in her simple peace song--the merry-go-round-carnival sound--"If a song was meant to be, it will come again someday. Like you." I guess I have very little faith in continuity. In a "post-modern pillow book" consistency drinks up moment after moment of impermanence--wet boots--sore shoulder--kiss the new year--marimba positioned--hides the pianist--kinnari in my head--keep surprising me--I'm ready.

Look for me number 41 under "honey"--hot hot cinnamon apple spice--make me a list of happinnesses--wet snow--draft--jotting down the hours--resting my raw throat--reading through the shaman ritual--breaths are slow--my soul not quite "knocked out of my body"--kept by a delicate thread through Astral Weeks and sounds of Fatback Taffy--eyes following the shadow of the steam from my teacup as it floats across the lines on the empty page.