Interpretation of the handsome husband's likely inner dialogue whenever I've launched passionately into a new project: nice ta-ta's, man, really nice, can't stop looking - but are they worth the Mr. Toad's Wild Ride I endure every time she opens her mouth?
Just saying... it totally explains that dazed look, the glazed over eyes and the faint furrow of his brow... like he just can't seem to make sense of the incongruity of it all.
4.23.2008
3.30.2008
Irony
Painted neatly on a 4 inch square canvas, it made a profound statement. In the center sat the universe, painted as though one was looking at it from above. It was surrounded by the female symbol in gold and at the top off to a jaunty angle was a large diamond in a solitaire setting. It gave the appearance of having three layers but seamlessly being one unified symbol. Plain flat gray surrounded the image. So telling. I burst out laughing. First at the truth and wisdom of it's message, and second at it's creator in the midst of mad wedding planning.
And I wonder to myself: just how many woman have their entire universe defined by their marriage?
And then I wonder to myself: how many of 'those' women know that wedding rings were once a symbol of ownership. Yes ownership. Wow.
And I wonder to myself: just how many woman have their entire universe defined by their marriage?
And then I wonder to myself: how many of 'those' women know that wedding rings were once a symbol of ownership. Yes ownership. Wow.
2.27.2008
Super Sonic Evening
It's late evening yesterday and my love texts me his desire for the juicy goodness that is a supersonic cheeseburger, tater tots and a cherry vanilla dr. pepper. The flu crap has gotten the better of him and he feels like death. Only this combination that he clearly is not supposed to be eating will make it better.
I drive into the little stall, briefly peruse the menu to see if they've added anything relatively healthy and/or anything new that sounds better than a cheeseburger. Alas they have not. And there is no mention of the macaroni and cheese bites that the wee one has fallen head over heels in love with.
I order the Wacky pack chicken strips and tots for the kiddo, the cheese burger combos for my love and myself and then I inquire politely about the missing mac and cheese bites. They no longer serve them, but the order boy with his deep voice and deceptively mature sound introduces me to his utter lust for their new cinnabites. As he describes them as soft, warm, puffy bites of cinnamon and frosting, I see in my head the white dribbles of sweet frosting dripping from his mouth and fingers as he smiles and reaches up to lick his fingers rather than reach for a napkin. WTF? (me thinks I need to stop dreaming about it and start getting laid more often!)
I giggle and say no thanks. He repeats back the order to make sure he has it correct and I'm wondering what a man who has such a great voice and a fine attention to detail is doing working here. He should be working for me. He asks me how I 'll be paying for my meal and though I'm tempted to say something very different, I palm my visa and tell him I'll slide my card at the order station. He tells me it'll be out in a moment and that's when things get interesting... to say the least.
Order boy: Well... you have yourself a super sonic evening.
SD: Thank you, you do the same.
Order boy: I will...(hesitation) well... at least I'll try.... if you will
SD: Ok then... I'll try too, really.
Order boy: (soft laughter) wow... guess we're in for a great night.
SD: I certainly hope so. (cue more soft laughter)
Order boy: me too.
I sit in the darkened car waiting a moment listening to The Fray's "Over your head" and that makes me giggle. Order boy personally brings dinner to my car and the first thing I notice is that he's fucking hot. Dark tanned in the middle of winter always does it for me, that 5 o'clock shadow is sexy and those eyes... deep pools of shimmering chocolate. And he's about 15 years younger than I am. And he doesn't seem to care, as I'm juggling cups of soda and he's towering above me looking down at me, down my shirt, and then he's offering to take my empty starbucks cup to the trash. And I think I see a wink, as I tip him nicely and he thanks me and once again tells me in that low slow drawl to have a super sonic nite. You betcha boy... anytime.
Next you know I'll be turning forty and trolling cougar websites looking for boys half my age.
I drive into the little stall, briefly peruse the menu to see if they've added anything relatively healthy and/or anything new that sounds better than a cheeseburger. Alas they have not. And there is no mention of the macaroni and cheese bites that the wee one has fallen head over heels in love with.
I order the Wacky pack chicken strips and tots for the kiddo, the cheese burger combos for my love and myself and then I inquire politely about the missing mac and cheese bites. They no longer serve them, but the order boy with his deep voice and deceptively mature sound introduces me to his utter lust for their new cinnabites. As he describes them as soft, warm, puffy bites of cinnamon and frosting, I see in my head the white dribbles of sweet frosting dripping from his mouth and fingers as he smiles and reaches up to lick his fingers rather than reach for a napkin. WTF? (me thinks I need to stop dreaming about it and start getting laid more often!)
I giggle and say no thanks. He repeats back the order to make sure he has it correct and I'm wondering what a man who has such a great voice and a fine attention to detail is doing working here. He should be working for me. He asks me how I 'll be paying for my meal and though I'm tempted to say something very different, I palm my visa and tell him I'll slide my card at the order station. He tells me it'll be out in a moment and that's when things get interesting... to say the least.
Order boy: Well... you have yourself a super sonic evening.
SD: Thank you, you do the same.
Order boy: I will...(hesitation) well... at least I'll try.... if you will
SD: Ok then... I'll try too, really.
Order boy: (soft laughter) wow... guess we're in for a great night.
SD: I certainly hope so. (cue more soft laughter)
Order boy: me too.
I sit in the darkened car waiting a moment listening to The Fray's "Over your head" and that makes me giggle. Order boy personally brings dinner to my car and the first thing I notice is that he's fucking hot. Dark tanned in the middle of winter always does it for me, that 5 o'clock shadow is sexy and those eyes... deep pools of shimmering chocolate. And he's about 15 years younger than I am. And he doesn't seem to care, as I'm juggling cups of soda and he's towering above me looking down at me, down my shirt, and then he's offering to take my empty starbucks cup to the trash. And I think I see a wink, as I tip him nicely and he thanks me and once again tells me in that low slow drawl to have a super sonic nite. You betcha boy... anytime.
Next you know I'll be turning forty and trolling cougar websites looking for boys half my age.
2.01.2008
50 Words - Accessorize
She exited the bedroom in a shimmering cocktail mini-dress replete with twinkling rhinestones and shiny spangles, which caught the light of the nearest chandelier, blinding her waiting date. Without thinking, he asked if she planned to accessorize with a lamppost and public defender. She introduced him to the door.
1.16.2008
50 Words - Advice to a son
Affairs without longevity still have purpose, he said,
smiling down at his young son. Test drive long distance
love for experience points and frequent-flier miles, or
date a reckless redhead just to taste the sweet
heartache and fat-lip she'll inflict upon you.
Don't believe me? Go ask your mother.
smiling down at his young son. Test drive long distance
love for experience points and frequent-flier miles, or
date a reckless redhead just to taste the sweet
heartache and fat-lip she'll inflict upon you.
Don't believe me? Go ask your mother.
1.14.2008
50 Words - Reassurance
Once in a while, in the middle of the night, I wake in a cold sweat after another dream of doom and gloom. A hand snakes the width of the bed, under blankets and through body pillows until I feel that familiar warmth; reassured again that he is still here.
11.21.2007
New Light
"I haven't seen you in like, forever, where have you been?" He said to me last evening, late, thus opening the door to the inevitable banter about this, that, the weather, how long it's taking summer to get the hint and scram, you know... the predictable chatter between a man and a woman who have just a casual work related interest in one another. I answered, the usual, training, writing, moving, vacations not spent in the pursuit of all things happiness. He knew already, everyone does. "And your husband?" Three words, braced with the hint of danger.
"He's good... now." Standard reply, but this man knows me better than that. A raised eyebrow, a twitch of facial muscles, "Now?" I begin to explain the tedium and complexity of the numerous trips to the hospital, the surgeries, the pain, the recovery, the dreaded superbug, it's aftermath and finally the long, slow, painful and yet delightful and lovely road to recovery. He nods appreciatively throughout and I see something in him that has gone lacking in others. An understanding? A flicker of self discovery perhaps? It seems I've never really given this man credit for the depth that I've only now discovered. I wonder why I didn't see it before.
This man and the handsome husband are roughly the same age - give or take a couple months, they served the Army at the same time, same function and same base, they each have brothers, they almost look like they could be brothers, they have wives and each has a daughter. Both know how it feels to be separated from that female offspring for a period of time. Yes, there is understanding, there is the what-if-it-were-me thoughts, there is compassion and I'm left seeing this man, who typically gives out nicknames and makes a thousand cute jokes as he breezes past, in a completely different light now. And I find myself thinking that it's good, very good, once in a while to discover someone with such a special soul still exists in the universe.
"He's good... now." Standard reply, but this man knows me better than that. A raised eyebrow, a twitch of facial muscles, "Now?" I begin to explain the tedium and complexity of the numerous trips to the hospital, the surgeries, the pain, the recovery, the dreaded superbug, it's aftermath and finally the long, slow, painful and yet delightful and lovely road to recovery. He nods appreciatively throughout and I see something in him that has gone lacking in others. An understanding? A flicker of self discovery perhaps? It seems I've never really given this man credit for the depth that I've only now discovered. I wonder why I didn't see it before.
This man and the handsome husband are roughly the same age - give or take a couple months, they served the Army at the same time, same function and same base, they each have brothers, they almost look like they could be brothers, they have wives and each has a daughter. Both know how it feels to be separated from that female offspring for a period of time. Yes, there is understanding, there is the what-if-it-were-me thoughts, there is compassion and I'm left seeing this man, who typically gives out nicknames and makes a thousand cute jokes as he breezes past, in a completely different light now. And I find myself thinking that it's good, very good, once in a while to discover someone with such a special soul still exists in the universe.
11.07.2007
50 Words - The Voices
The true casualties in this business are the voices that never leave my head. Years pass, memories fade, the sharpness of their realities dulls my brain, but each of their voices remain strong, clear, and daunting, whispering their sad tale, crying out their pain, lamenting their fate, each one unique and distinct.
10.26.2007
Molasses
I found a jar of molasses on sale at the store tonight as I wandered about with my basket half full and my mind half empty of ideas for dinner. I love dark, robust black-strap molasses. Especially on cornbread. Some people use honey, butter, jam, whatever, just not me. My Dad always taught us to save our square of cornbread until we had finished the rest of our meal, usually Mom's fabulous chili and salad. And then he showed us how to lay it out in two perfect half slabs in the middle of the round dinner plate, dab on a smear of soft butter, and drizzle the thick, dark, rich syrup over it until it began to sink into the spongy square and puddle on the plate. I fondly recall the gooey forkfuls of contrasting textures and tastes. The slight crunch and blandness of the bread, the pungent, spicy almost dangerous tang of that mysterious liquid. It was always such a satisfying end to a delicious meal. Memory upon memory raised to greet me and I realized I was still standing in the middle of the baking isle holding this hefty jar of precious nectar. I love the jars, either green or yellow labels depending on variety. Robust or black-strap. I love them both equally, one's just a tad more complex and mysterious than the other. So I tossed it casually into my basket and bought it even though we already had part of a jar at home. Impulsive? Perhaps so. But oddly satisfying nonetheless. The jar at home was larger, mostly empty I reasoned, plastic and with a screw top that never stuck. I hate jars that stick and hurt my hands to open them. When I got home I opened the new jar and poured its contents into the one I already had, the jar that pleased my hands. It's a quirk of mine... an odd one I know. But I have to have things organized and in order. Two partial jars of anything... and that's what would have happened eventually when I could no longer resist the pull and the whisper of the new jar, would drive me insane. So when it was full and the new one empty, I went to screw the lid on the empty and toss it in the trash. The smell... that wonderful, spicy, rich and deep smell that I love assaulted my senses. And that's when it hit me. You remind me of molasses. After all these years... who knew?
50 words - Unsex
"So long." I lamented the length of time it's been since I've made love, "We're talking years now... plural." Disgust. Anger. Emotions long denied come flooding forth. "Self love, that's what it's all about." Laughter. A blend of feminine and masculine. "Who are you trying to convince... me or yourself?"
10.20.2007
Hit Upon
Eastbound on the title street of my city, in rush hour traffic, sitting oddly still at a green light at the corner of 56th Ave, enjoying a catchy tune on the radio and the warmth of the early fall sun, on my cell catching up the days events with my bff, I look to my left and see a small silver car. It's westbound, but the streets in the midst of downtown are narrow and as we are both occupying the inside lane, it's occupant and I are but arms length apart. We could indeed reach out and touch one another, and I do believe that is his intention. The driver, obviously is male, and cute too. I recall a polo shirt, a glimpse of denim, close cropped blond hair, a slim face, bright white smile and blue eyes. He smiles. I smile back, I think. I am wearing dark glasses and an oversize peach t-shirt so I know he can't see me... at least not much of me. He scribbles something on a business card and hold it up. I can't see all of it, but I'm sure it is a phone number. He nods. I raise my eyebrows, mildly amused, and I tell my bff what is happening. We enjoy a chuckle which this man takes as my interest in his antics. He motions for me to roll down the window and holds the card out for me to take. I decline politely with a flash of wedding rings and drive on. A first for me I think... being hit upon in rush hour traffic on a Friday afternoon.
10.17.2007
50 Words - Answers (a deux)
The simple questions she can answer without thinking will never be as important as those things which only one can learn by mistake. That's the crux of it really. It's what I meant when I said you cannot compare shallow textbook learning and memorization to the depths of my experience.
For along with those experiences come a mryiad of memories, indescribably joys, sheer pain, unthinkable losses, relentless grief, and ocassionally rage. Through the haze of disorganization, confusion and anguish comes speed, agility, ability and attitude; all things you know nothing of. When you begin to develop those, we'll talk.
For along with those experiences come a mryiad of memories, indescribably joys, sheer pain, unthinkable losses, relentless grief, and ocassionally rage. Through the haze of disorganization, confusion and anguish comes speed, agility, ability and attitude; all things you know nothing of. When you begin to develop those, we'll talk.
9.30.2007
50 Words - Velveteen Rabbit
Abandoned on a high shelf like an out of favor toy. Mostly forgotten, largely discarded, lonely and alone. Remembered once in a blue moon, when the urge strikes out of the blue. Hope springs, a smile graces my face, only to be dashed as you return me to my place.
9.21.2007
50 Words - Sit Still Please
"Stop it! Let me go!" Punctuated pointedly, heatedly as she pries her tiny arm from my grasp. I glance around the waiting room. "Help me!" She shrieks, eyes flashing, darting, searching for a sympathetic soul to rescue her from this distress. My daughter is a two-year-old drama queen.
9.05.2007
50 Words - Rembrandt's Light
"You've an old soul, where have you been?"
Face to face with her for the first time,
sizing each other up, I see us both in a new
light. It's the sunset's shadow, our history
together in this brief eternity. She's
Rembrandt's light, his lost love, his wife.
She is me.
9.03.2007
50 Words - Art Of Good Phone
"Perv." Softly, she chuckled into the phone.
"You're as bad as I." He countered, the smile on his face evident despite the miles separating them.
"And you love it." She stretched, yawned, righted herself in the middle of her big brass bed pulling the linens with her.
"Indeed I do."
"You're as bad as I." He countered, the smile on his face evident despite the miles separating them.
"And you love it." She stretched, yawned, righted herself in the middle of her big brass bed pulling the linens with her.
"Indeed I do."
8.31.2007
50 Words - Go Away
Eyes darting. Lips quivering. Sniffle. Pout. "Go away?" she asks solemnly - wide eyed. I point out the fish, ferrets, cats, humans; all still here. "Where Daddy?" whispered from the verge of tears. "Daddy go away." Hugs and tears all around. "I go away too?" Oh no my pet, never that.
6.05.2007
50 Words - Everyone Has Secrets
With a distinctly feminine flair, scrawled in fat black ink, down low and at an angle, on the right wall of a bathroom stall, in a Goodwill store in Sun City, Arizona, on a totally random early Thursday evening: "After 40 years, I still love him and it kills me. "
5.15.2007
75 Words - Chaos Theory
TV blaring. Street noise. Children screaming. Horns honking. Freight train rumbles past. Phone ringing. "You've got mail" shrieked from a far. Blackberry beeps and vibrates. I pay them no mind. Somewhere a stereo set too loud shorts out, "In my daughter's eyes I am a hero. I am strong and wise and I know no fear. But the truth is plain to see. She was sent to rescue me." And yes, I am deeply grateful.
5.08.2007
Tell me no lies.
I read a blog post recently about what won't ever happen between a woman and her lover. She seemed to be almost mourning all those routine and mundane things - waking up together, having breakfast, discussing your day, chores, kid raising, falling asleep intertwined and generally falling in love.
I think she missed the spiel in life that says there's a difference between taking a lover and falling in love - one is about you and the other about someone else entirely. And the distinction is an important one. It's what keeps you sane in the face of sheer and overwhelming madness. It's the hesitation that keeps you from jumping off the cliff with both feet when you haven't considered how much damage the landing will do. It's what keeps you realistic when your heart rushes off on some wild impulse to see how green the grass is in the neighbor's yard. And most days I think the yard next door only looks so damn fabulous because I don't have to tend it. My yard? Hmm... it has some rough spots, some weeds, it constantly needs attention and watering, but the point is... it's mine and I chose it for reasons that don't have to make sens to anyone else. It brings me comfort, it treats me with kindness, affection and care. Most days it is exactly what I need whether or not I wish to admit it.
There's no saying that your lover can't or won't ultimately become the love of your life... it happens, but if you've already found the great love of your life, wouldn't you want to keep your carefully chosen lover in a whole separate place in your heart? And if you've found a great playmate and they occupy a wonderful place in your life and your heart, then why spoil it by taken them down off their pedestal and making them routine?
I think she also missed the notion that life is about possibilities and given time anything is possible too. It's not the point here.. the point was that she's bitching about having been given a rare opportunity to share a part of her that most people have no notions of. Why complain about being fortunate? Why whine because you can have both sides of the isle? But if she really wants a lifetime and not just the here and now I suppose it could ultimately be possible. And people always amaze me when they dismiss something simply because they never took the time to think it through. Would it be difficult and possibly painful all around? Sure. Would it be worth it to her? Perhaps. Not for me to decide. But impossible? Certainly not.
And yes... I'm the girl who asks why not, when being told no. So the simple answer to that is... just don't tell me no. It'll shut me up as sure as sliced bread is supposed to be the best thing since... hmm... I wonder what?
I think she missed the spiel in life that says there's a difference between taking a lover and falling in love - one is about you and the other about someone else entirely. And the distinction is an important one. It's what keeps you sane in the face of sheer and overwhelming madness. It's the hesitation that keeps you from jumping off the cliff with both feet when you haven't considered how much damage the landing will do. It's what keeps you realistic when your heart rushes off on some wild impulse to see how green the grass is in the neighbor's yard. And most days I think the yard next door only looks so damn fabulous because I don't have to tend it. My yard? Hmm... it has some rough spots, some weeds, it constantly needs attention and watering, but the point is... it's mine and I chose it for reasons that don't have to make sens to anyone else. It brings me comfort, it treats me with kindness, affection and care. Most days it is exactly what I need whether or not I wish to admit it.
There's no saying that your lover can't or won't ultimately become the love of your life... it happens, but if you've already found the great love of your life, wouldn't you want to keep your carefully chosen lover in a whole separate place in your heart? And if you've found a great playmate and they occupy a wonderful place in your life and your heart, then why spoil it by taken them down off their pedestal and making them routine?
I think she also missed the notion that life is about possibilities and given time anything is possible too. It's not the point here.. the point was that she's bitching about having been given a rare opportunity to share a part of her that most people have no notions of. Why complain about being fortunate? Why whine because you can have both sides of the isle? But if she really wants a lifetime and not just the here and now I suppose it could ultimately be possible. And people always amaze me when they dismiss something simply because they never took the time to think it through. Would it be difficult and possibly painful all around? Sure. Would it be worth it to her? Perhaps. Not for me to decide. But impossible? Certainly not.
And yes... I'm the girl who asks why not, when being told no. So the simple answer to that is... just don't tell me no. It'll shut me up as sure as sliced bread is supposed to be the best thing since... hmm... I wonder what?
3.09.2007
Normal
Besides the quip that goes 'normal is that half way point between what you want and what you're going to get' just what is normal? And why do the masses confuse normal with the statistically typical?My mom started this you know.... when she said, if everyone else was jumping off a bridge would you do it to? No mom, of course not. But then again, now that I'm officially grown up, she says to me... by your age everyone has their career in hand, so it's time you had children, bought a home and settled down. Everyone??? or just because it's the statistically typical thing to do, I should be doing it? Yeah... that I think.
So here I am, stepping of that bridge... had the kid, managing the career and now... yeah, venturing forth into the dreaded process of buying a home. Yikes!
There's even a website now... for those of us normally challenged folks... www.isitnormal.com So you can indeed ask the question if something in your life is normal and get a pat answer. Ugh.
2.06.2007
Fifty Words - Hope (Twice)
I heard her say it: When hope is all you have left, all you really have is hope. So said the woman who'd never been there, never lived perched precariously on the edge of that cliff. The truth is, when hope is all you have left, you really have nothing.
Continuing on...
Once you reach the point where hope remains the one constant in your existance, the commodity quickly becomes more than you can afford. Like the grand house on the hill, the dream car, the luxe furnishings: you can reach out blindly, stretch beyond your limits, but you'll never quite reach.
2.02.2007
First Kiss
I get lost in the innocence of a first kiss.Sometimes the most random of lines in a simple song are enough. I found myself lost deep in thought at the red light of a freeway on ramp. A horn honk from the frustrated man behind me in the shiny silver suv brought me back to reality. But I can't stop thinking about the spell that first kiss casts over a relationship. A man once said to me, "there's no second chance at a first kiss." Words so powerful I remember them, cling to them, allow them to wrap me tightly and take me away, all these years later. It was low, husky, matter-of-fact and it was intense.
And the moment? That not-totally unexpected, do you want me as much as I want you, first kiss? On a warm spring mid-day, in the midst of a tranquil field, sitting on a picnic bench watching the world go by and thinking of nothing but the sun on your shoulders and the splendor of the impending moment. Lips soft and gentle, yet a little demanding. Mine yielding and soft. The thoroughly masculine scent of soap and aftershave. Feeling the softness of a cotton tee shirt tight across his chest and bulging biceps as I run my fingertips lightly across him. Listening to the low slow moans of pleasure derived from finally breaking the anticipation to taste someone new, someone different. And when it was over and we could both step back and blink, breathe and think... he said to me, "such a nice mouth, I knew it would be." And I was lost once more in that moment.
12.17.2006
Divorce
Finishing a good book is like a divorce, albiet an amicable one. Finishing writing one is exactly the same. Once it's over there is just no going back. You just have to jump head first back into the dating pool. Oh you could go back, do the friends with benefits same old sad song thing again, but why? You already know what each brings to the party and somehow I find that I'm wanting something new and exciting, fresh and invigorating... not the comfortable old slippers that I've always had.
But there is one thing, as old lovers always leave behind some small token of their affection for one another, collections of words do the same for me. I'll always feel great affection toward the characters I brought to life, to the words I brought to the page. They will always be a part of me, a part of what makes me whole.
So yes... after more than two years, a dozen working titles, more than a few tears shed and greater than 120,000 words, I am done. And I am glad to be so.
But there is one thing, as old lovers always leave behind some small token of their affection for one another, collections of words do the same for me. I'll always feel great affection toward the characters I brought to life, to the words I brought to the page. They will always be a part of me, a part of what makes me whole.
So yes... after more than two years, a dozen working titles, more than a few tears shed and greater than 120,000 words, I am done. And I am glad to be so.
11.15.2006
9.22.2006
Violated
...asked for advice from a genie in a bottle of jim beam and she lied to you.
I heard it today in the midst of an otherwise incredibly hickish whiny country song. But it made me smile. What did you expect? Ask the wrong person, get the wrong answer. Fairly simple stuff, no?
So watching tv tonight, the theme repeats itself as a young couple obviously together, yet obviously so not together walk into a bar and onto the dance floor. She is older, presumably the wiser of the two. And yet not so much. I was distracted by John Mayer on stage. Boy needs a hair cut and he's still hotter than pavement on bare feet in the summer. He sang my favorite new song, Waiting On The World To Change. Warms my heart and makes me feel not so much the freak I usually do. Anyway, I digress, the couple dances to the song and then she moves to the bar for a drink as the other half finds someone else to amuse himself with. The bartender signals her that someone at the end of the bar wants to buy her a drink. She says no thank you with a flip of her hair, a smile and runs her finger over her mouth. Is it really no? Or is it tease, flirt, coy dip of the head, and maybe later? When does no really mean no? When it's whispered in the dark after the clothes come off? When she refuses the drink the first time? When the tears begin to fall? When it's screamed in terror and pain? Come on... we all do it? We don't really say what we mean any more than we ask for what we really want or need. How's a man supposed to know? Or is that just a huge cop out and I'm a big sucker?
She picks up a drink. Supposedly the one she bought herself although its merely implied. Her vision begins to blur and the room begins to spin. I'm left thinking that someone slipped her drugs rather than she's had too much to drink. No overt signs of more than one drink anyway. But I'm paranoid about that kind of thing, so I never know when to trust what I'm sensing. And it's not that I hate men or don't trust them... well I don't and with good reason, it's more the bar scene that creeps me out. Then the show cuts away to something else and for a moment her impending moment of peril is lost to me.
I next get a good look at her naked back and GBF hair in some generic hotel room in Vegas. The only problem is the burgundy satin sheets. Not something one would see in a cheap motel is it? Anyway, she's alone - waking slowly and obviously has no idea where she is. It's clear she's been raped. Not from the bruises - there aren't any. Not from the scratches or scrapes - none of those either. It's the look on her face when she realizes that some man she can't remember, doesn't know, and didn't ask nicely, did god only know's what with her unfortunately willing body. Yeah, let's get that one straight. Drugs and or alcohol have a way of making a woman's body compliant where her mind never would.
Like we all haven't been there before? Finding ourselves disappointed for one reason or another. Deciding that the best remedy for our current state of loneliness is a warm shoulder, a cold bottle or both. Preferably both. Like we haven't all woken up once or twice wondering where we were, why we were there, what we had done and with whom? It's the why am I naked, sore and hmm... who does that delicious chest belong to? And do I really have the guts to look at his face before I bolt outta here? Sometimes it just works out better if you don't know. But for most of us, we've a least had the hazy alcoholic fog lift a bit and the puzzle pieces fall closer into place and it becomes somewhat clear just how stupid we've been. Or if you're very lucky, how good it was. She doesn't have that luxury. She doesn't remember. She never will. She didn't have a choice.
As I watch the room come info focus and see her face, a voice in my head is screaming - grab the fucking cell phone and dial 9-1-1. And the cynical side of me is saying - why the fuck bother? They won't believe her and won't even try to find him and it's not like I ever did the right thing so why should she? And when she steps into the shower and hot water rains down over her body washing away any potential evidence of the crime, I want to cry for her, cry right along with her. The law enforcement side of me cries "no" realizing that there no longer will ever be a chance in hell of making him responsible for his crimes. And the woman in me understands just how many scortching hot showers it will take to feel clean again. A lifetime. More than that. Maybe never. I'm still waiting.
Incidentially the show is "to be continued..." like I don't already have some idea of how next week will go? She won't tell anyone. It'll eat away at her like cancer until she can't stand it any longer. She'll try to exact her own cheap brand of revenge, not realizing that even if she gets what she thinks she wants it'll never be enough to make up for what he took from her. And then she'll be back to asking a genie in a bottle for advice that won't help her anyway.
Bitter? Maybe a little... but the fact that I can watch it and even reflect a bit without completely loosing it... is a Martha Stewart Good Thing.
I heard it today in the midst of an otherwise incredibly hickish whiny country song. But it made me smile. What did you expect? Ask the wrong person, get the wrong answer. Fairly simple stuff, no?
So watching tv tonight, the theme repeats itself as a young couple obviously together, yet obviously so not together walk into a bar and onto the dance floor. She is older, presumably the wiser of the two. And yet not so much. I was distracted by John Mayer on stage. Boy needs a hair cut and he's still hotter than pavement on bare feet in the summer. He sang my favorite new song, Waiting On The World To Change. Warms my heart and makes me feel not so much the freak I usually do. Anyway, I digress, the couple dances to the song and then she moves to the bar for a drink as the other half finds someone else to amuse himself with. The bartender signals her that someone at the end of the bar wants to buy her a drink. She says no thank you with a flip of her hair, a smile and runs her finger over her mouth. Is it really no? Or is it tease, flirt, coy dip of the head, and maybe later? When does no really mean no? When it's whispered in the dark after the clothes come off? When she refuses the drink the first time? When the tears begin to fall? When it's screamed in terror and pain? Come on... we all do it? We don't really say what we mean any more than we ask for what we really want or need. How's a man supposed to know? Or is that just a huge cop out and I'm a big sucker?
She picks up a drink. Supposedly the one she bought herself although its merely implied. Her vision begins to blur and the room begins to spin. I'm left thinking that someone slipped her drugs rather than she's had too much to drink. No overt signs of more than one drink anyway. But I'm paranoid about that kind of thing, so I never know when to trust what I'm sensing. And it's not that I hate men or don't trust them... well I don't and with good reason, it's more the bar scene that creeps me out. Then the show cuts away to something else and for a moment her impending moment of peril is lost to me.
I next get a good look at her naked back and GBF hair in some generic hotel room in Vegas. The only problem is the burgundy satin sheets. Not something one would see in a cheap motel is it? Anyway, she's alone - waking slowly and obviously has no idea where she is. It's clear she's been raped. Not from the bruises - there aren't any. Not from the scratches or scrapes - none of those either. It's the look on her face when she realizes that some man she can't remember, doesn't know, and didn't ask nicely, did god only know's what with her unfortunately willing body. Yeah, let's get that one straight. Drugs and or alcohol have a way of making a woman's body compliant where her mind never would.
Like we all haven't been there before? Finding ourselves disappointed for one reason or another. Deciding that the best remedy for our current state of loneliness is a warm shoulder, a cold bottle or both. Preferably both. Like we haven't all woken up once or twice wondering where we were, why we were there, what we had done and with whom? It's the why am I naked, sore and hmm... who does that delicious chest belong to? And do I really have the guts to look at his face before I bolt outta here? Sometimes it just works out better if you don't know. But for most of us, we've a least had the hazy alcoholic fog lift a bit and the puzzle pieces fall closer into place and it becomes somewhat clear just how stupid we've been. Or if you're very lucky, how good it was. She doesn't have that luxury. She doesn't remember. She never will. She didn't have a choice.
As I watch the room come info focus and see her face, a voice in my head is screaming - grab the fucking cell phone and dial 9-1-1. And the cynical side of me is saying - why the fuck bother? They won't believe her and won't even try to find him and it's not like I ever did the right thing so why should she? And when she steps into the shower and hot water rains down over her body washing away any potential evidence of the crime, I want to cry for her, cry right along with her. The law enforcement side of me cries "no" realizing that there no longer will ever be a chance in hell of making him responsible for his crimes. And the woman in me understands just how many scortching hot showers it will take to feel clean again. A lifetime. More than that. Maybe never. I'm still waiting.
Incidentially the show is "to be continued..." like I don't already have some idea of how next week will go? She won't tell anyone. It'll eat away at her like cancer until she can't stand it any longer. She'll try to exact her own cheap brand of revenge, not realizing that even if she gets what she thinks she wants it'll never be enough to make up for what he took from her. And then she'll be back to asking a genie in a bottle for advice that won't help her anyway.
Bitter? Maybe a little... but the fact that I can watch it and even reflect a bit without completely loosing it... is a Martha Stewart Good Thing.
8.29.2006
Field of dreams
I stood there quietly, humbled, in front of him. Eyes closed, head down, ashamed of myself, terrorized nightly about what had transpired. Snapshots in my brain of a tiny curious hand curled tightly around menacing black steel. Images of her smile, now with a hint of pearly white baby teeth. Sounds of her sweet giggles. Such contrasts, those images that wake me drenched in a cold sweat.
"Well," He said to me, "it's a place of lost innocence, of broken dreams. No matter what the situation is, it boils down to somebody's world being shattered."
I looked down at the markers, the ribbons and flowers, the stuffed animals and toys that decorated the rows of tiny rows of flat granite plaques nestled neatly in the well manicured lawn.
After he said that, I felt like I could relax a little. Yes, my dreams of safety and security were crushed but my baby was alive and I learned a valuable lesson. The innocence lost was mine, not hers, and I didn't have much left anyway.
What are dreams anyway? They're the plates you can afford to hurl against the wall as long as the important things escape unscathed.
"Well," He said to me, "it's a place of lost innocence, of broken dreams. No matter what the situation is, it boils down to somebody's world being shattered."
I looked down at the markers, the ribbons and flowers, the stuffed animals and toys that decorated the rows of tiny rows of flat granite plaques nestled neatly in the well manicured lawn.
After he said that, I felt like I could relax a little. Yes, my dreams of safety and security were crushed but my baby was alive and I learned a valuable lesson. The innocence lost was mine, not hers, and I didn't have much left anyway.
What are dreams anyway? They're the plates you can afford to hurl against the wall as long as the important things escape unscathed.
8.27.2006
Truly Madly Deeply
I'll be your dream
I'll be your wish
I'll be your fantasy
Thank you Savage Garden... no one could have said it any better. That's just what I was thinking.
I'll be your wish
I'll be your fantasy
Thank you Savage Garden... no one could have said it any better. That's just what I was thinking.
8.22.2006
Harmful Events
It started with a piece of metal. Small, twisted, heavy... a piece of discarded road debris. The flotsam of the highways. Inocuous, deceptively innocent and often overlooked miscelani. In the heat and traffic of the late afternoon the first harmful event occurred. The casualty? One radiator. One missed day of work. One little silver car. The fate of the metal? A little more twisted, bounced a little farther down the highway, became airborne, sailed through the air toward the second most harmful event. The casualty? Physically... one more car, 75 feet of fencing, a lot of sweat, some time. In reality and in more human terms? A life as we know it.
Things get hazy at this point. A lot of suppositions, drawn conclusions and educated guesses. At what point did the twisted hunk of metal crash through the windshield? At what point did it impact the driver's face? How did he manage to travel through the median that many hundreds of yards without going into oncoming traffic? Why didn't he brake before vaulting over that embankment to the roadway 25 feet below? Did the car roll or just slam unimpeeded into the asphault? Does any of it really matter?
I stood at the top of the embankment watching a purple rope stretch to the breaking point as it was tied quickly to a bumper and used to rapel down to the car. I knew I'd never make it down that way. I waited. The sun was hot on my bare arms and sweat was already started to bead up. It was quiet despite the roar of the passing traffic and the whine of the engine still left running. The quiet is a mental thing. A way to stop thinking about the horrific Mr. Toadesque wild ride this must have been.
The blaring of sirens and foghorns breaks the revere as a sleek yellow firetruck screams toward the scene, quickly followed by a more traditional red firetruck. Ketchup and mustard strike me and my stomach growls. How can I be hungry while I'm watching fire and ems personel extricate this person and work him. Five minutes of watching turn into ten, turn into twenty as a yellow helicopter approaches hurridly from the east, sets down on the closed roadway. Twenty minutes turn into thirty as the blades stop spinning and the number of people grows around the victim in the middle of the closed roadway. They work him for forty minutes solid. Establish airway and control bleeding. He is combative. As he fights the pool of blood underneath him grows and spreads. Firemen in turn out gear move away from him to let helicopter crew get closer. The pool of blood spreads in an oval now... away from the victim. He fights as they try to stabalize his neck. More blood spreads as a hand moves away from his neck and relieves pressure on his severed corrated artery. Spatter and spray are everywhere. The oval pool of darkening, thicking blood is massive, larger than a manhole cover. It is ominious, sickening and it's beginning to smell of copper and rotten fruit.
The helicopter takes off finally... some forty minutes later with patient on board. I move back to the car to get some water and cool myself. The stereo is still on. The song? Another one bites the dust. And I think to myself of a hundred sick jokes. I keep it to myself. For now. It's the nature of the work. It sickens me to think that I no longer have the capicity to care. Maybe it's just that there's so much to care about that I have a hard time picking what to focus my short attention span on.
Later, after I've made my way down to the scene, I take in my surroundings. I'm standing in the middle of a two lane road, deserted because it's closed on both ends not far from here. The detrius of human existance is everywhere. Empty cigarette packs, crushed plastic soda bottles, a pair of abandoned sunglasses, papers, a starbucks bottle with the label faded into oblivion. I know what it is based on the familiar shape and my frequent consumption of tasty bottled frappucinos. Actually I despise the bottled ones, think they have a nasty aftertaste, but I would mainline caffine if I could.. and if you drink them quickly they're not so bad. That's how far I have sunk in my caffine addiction. But I digress. For once this is not really about me.
These items existed before this latest harmful event. I look across the road to the car I've so far avoided staring at. It's some random metalic color, not silver. Not quite sure what. I think it was a four door. Not anymore. It's scrap now. The back window is gone. The windshield is a mass of greenish safety glass smashed into a million little pieces. It is liberally sprayed with quickly darkening and drying blood. The doors are twisted, the axles bent and broken. The back bumper is forelornly gazing upon us from 25 feet away. The roof is caved in on one side, lending some creedence to the idea that it may have indeed rolled. The trunk is open and smashed and it's contents are spilled across the roadway . It looks like what my living room looks like on any given day after P is done emptying her toy box all over the floor. The medics have bundled all of their spent supplies into a bag and tossed it casually into the back seat. Like anyone really wants to see that later on. An ID is extracted from the car. It took has blood all over it and we have no real concrete idea if that is the driver. No one could get a good look at what was left of his face. We think it's him.
On the ground before me are broken golf clubs, gym clothes half out of their bag, the odd athletic shoe, paperwork, a green towel, cds which have escaped their holder and a backpack. The sun is glinting off the backs of the cds which are all I can see. I wonder about the kind of music he listens to but I cannot turn them over. I spot one that is face up in the mud. It is handmade, perhaps by the vicim. Someone with masculine handwriting anyway. Dashboard Confessional. The irony doesn't escape me, but it fails to amuse me.
The firemen are preparing to leave, gathering equipment and turning on the water supply from their truck to scub away the dirt and the blood that coats them despite wearing gloves. There is literally blood everywhere. They are nice enough to wash down the oval pool of blood in the middle of the closed roadway that we all know is still there. We've all been deftly avoiding it like the plague. The water washes away most of the evidence. Not all. We all still know it was there and avoid it like the plague. Like someone elses's blood is a bad omen or something. It's like not stepping on cracks because you are superstitious. Pssst... don't step where the blood used to be... it's bad karma dude.
The witnesses come and go with the fire people. We are left alone, just the five of us, to measure and diagram and work the scene. 25 feet from the top of the highway to the bottom of the street below. Tape measures survive the fall better than the car did. From fog line to right of way, telephone pole to canal, we plot out the scene, measure everything and fill two pages with numbers I hope will be helpful later. I am both amazed and impressed with the precision and the effort being put into the task at hand. We teach them well and let them lead the way. Their spirit of teamwork is inspiring.
I've been watching the sky off to the north for a while. Dark clouds have formed and the dust is beginning to roll in. We need to finish quickly before it hits. And in an instant the wall of dust is upon us. And as the skys darken we all reach for of all things sunglasses - anything - in an effort to protect our eyes from the swirling dirt particles. Our scene is being scattered and removed from us as is the top layer of our skin. I try to hold a clipboard up in front of my face to keep the dust at bay. My lips are chapped. My skin is pink and raw. My clothes are filthy and my hair has escaped the pony tail I put it up in. The wind is so fierce it's about to knock us over. There is no cover, no place to escape this torture. I can still taste the dirt in my mouth hours later. And as the dust slowly passes and we hurridly finish up, the rain comes.
The rain smells clean as it hits the desert floor. It is cleansing and I raise my head toward the sky, jut my chin out and let the drops fall upon my face. They are cool and I am hot. They are fresh and I am jaded. They were unexpected and I've become predictibly numb. They are a welcome change for with them they bring thunder and lightening which distract me from my wonder about our victim. I feel the calm come over me and I ask for what seems most pressing. Be with this young man and do what's best for him. A rumble of thunder and a jaged light slicing though the dark sky. They hear. They are there.
And then we are gone. We get back in the car as the rain begins to sheet and visibility falls to zero. All evidence has been removed quietly and efficiently as though nothing ever happened. Three orange barricades neatly placed in the median next to the downed fence are the only hint that anything was ever amiss.
Shows over folks, nothing more to see here.
Things get hazy at this point. A lot of suppositions, drawn conclusions and educated guesses. At what point did the twisted hunk of metal crash through the windshield? At what point did it impact the driver's face? How did he manage to travel through the median that many hundreds of yards without going into oncoming traffic? Why didn't he brake before vaulting over that embankment to the roadway 25 feet below? Did the car roll or just slam unimpeeded into the asphault? Does any of it really matter?
I stood at the top of the embankment watching a purple rope stretch to the breaking point as it was tied quickly to a bumper and used to rapel down to the car. I knew I'd never make it down that way. I waited. The sun was hot on my bare arms and sweat was already started to bead up. It was quiet despite the roar of the passing traffic and the whine of the engine still left running. The quiet is a mental thing. A way to stop thinking about the horrific Mr. Toadesque wild ride this must have been.
The blaring of sirens and foghorns breaks the revere as a sleek yellow firetruck screams toward the scene, quickly followed by a more traditional red firetruck. Ketchup and mustard strike me and my stomach growls. How can I be hungry while I'm watching fire and ems personel extricate this person and work him. Five minutes of watching turn into ten, turn into twenty as a yellow helicopter approaches hurridly from the east, sets down on the closed roadway. Twenty minutes turn into thirty as the blades stop spinning and the number of people grows around the victim in the middle of the closed roadway. They work him for forty minutes solid. Establish airway and control bleeding. He is combative. As he fights the pool of blood underneath him grows and spreads. Firemen in turn out gear move away from him to let helicopter crew get closer. The pool of blood spreads in an oval now... away from the victim. He fights as they try to stabalize his neck. More blood spreads as a hand moves away from his neck and relieves pressure on his severed corrated artery. Spatter and spray are everywhere. The oval pool of darkening, thicking blood is massive, larger than a manhole cover. It is ominious, sickening and it's beginning to smell of copper and rotten fruit.
The helicopter takes off finally... some forty minutes later with patient on board. I move back to the car to get some water and cool myself. The stereo is still on. The song? Another one bites the dust. And I think to myself of a hundred sick jokes. I keep it to myself. For now. It's the nature of the work. It sickens me to think that I no longer have the capicity to care. Maybe it's just that there's so much to care about that I have a hard time picking what to focus my short attention span on.
Later, after I've made my way down to the scene, I take in my surroundings. I'm standing in the middle of a two lane road, deserted because it's closed on both ends not far from here. The detrius of human existance is everywhere. Empty cigarette packs, crushed plastic soda bottles, a pair of abandoned sunglasses, papers, a starbucks bottle with the label faded into oblivion. I know what it is based on the familiar shape and my frequent consumption of tasty bottled frappucinos. Actually I despise the bottled ones, think they have a nasty aftertaste, but I would mainline caffine if I could.. and if you drink them quickly they're not so bad. That's how far I have sunk in my caffine addiction. But I digress. For once this is not really about me.
These items existed before this latest harmful event. I look across the road to the car I've so far avoided staring at. It's some random metalic color, not silver. Not quite sure what. I think it was a four door. Not anymore. It's scrap now. The back window is gone. The windshield is a mass of greenish safety glass smashed into a million little pieces. It is liberally sprayed with quickly darkening and drying blood. The doors are twisted, the axles bent and broken. The back bumper is forelornly gazing upon us from 25 feet away. The roof is caved in on one side, lending some creedence to the idea that it may have indeed rolled. The trunk is open and smashed and it's contents are spilled across the roadway . It looks like what my living room looks like on any given day after P is done emptying her toy box all over the floor. The medics have bundled all of their spent supplies into a bag and tossed it casually into the back seat. Like anyone really wants to see that later on. An ID is extracted from the car. It took has blood all over it and we have no real concrete idea if that is the driver. No one could get a good look at what was left of his face. We think it's him.
On the ground before me are broken golf clubs, gym clothes half out of their bag, the odd athletic shoe, paperwork, a green towel, cds which have escaped their holder and a backpack. The sun is glinting off the backs of the cds which are all I can see. I wonder about the kind of music he listens to but I cannot turn them over. I spot one that is face up in the mud. It is handmade, perhaps by the vicim. Someone with masculine handwriting anyway. Dashboard Confessional. The irony doesn't escape me, but it fails to amuse me.
The firemen are preparing to leave, gathering equipment and turning on the water supply from their truck to scub away the dirt and the blood that coats them despite wearing gloves. There is literally blood everywhere. They are nice enough to wash down the oval pool of blood in the middle of the closed roadway that we all know is still there. We've all been deftly avoiding it like the plague. The water washes away most of the evidence. Not all. We all still know it was there and avoid it like the plague. Like someone elses's blood is a bad omen or something. It's like not stepping on cracks because you are superstitious. Pssst... don't step where the blood used to be... it's bad karma dude.
The witnesses come and go with the fire people. We are left alone, just the five of us, to measure and diagram and work the scene. 25 feet from the top of the highway to the bottom of the street below. Tape measures survive the fall better than the car did. From fog line to right of way, telephone pole to canal, we plot out the scene, measure everything and fill two pages with numbers I hope will be helpful later. I am both amazed and impressed with the precision and the effort being put into the task at hand. We teach them well and let them lead the way. Their spirit of teamwork is inspiring.
I've been watching the sky off to the north for a while. Dark clouds have formed and the dust is beginning to roll in. We need to finish quickly before it hits. And in an instant the wall of dust is upon us. And as the skys darken we all reach for of all things sunglasses - anything - in an effort to protect our eyes from the swirling dirt particles. Our scene is being scattered and removed from us as is the top layer of our skin. I try to hold a clipboard up in front of my face to keep the dust at bay. My lips are chapped. My skin is pink and raw. My clothes are filthy and my hair has escaped the pony tail I put it up in. The wind is so fierce it's about to knock us over. There is no cover, no place to escape this torture. I can still taste the dirt in my mouth hours later. And as the dust slowly passes and we hurridly finish up, the rain comes.
The rain smells clean as it hits the desert floor. It is cleansing and I raise my head toward the sky, jut my chin out and let the drops fall upon my face. They are cool and I am hot. They are fresh and I am jaded. They were unexpected and I've become predictibly numb. They are a welcome change for with them they bring thunder and lightening which distract me from my wonder about our victim. I feel the calm come over me and I ask for what seems most pressing. Be with this young man and do what's best for him. A rumble of thunder and a jaged light slicing though the dark sky. They hear. They are there.
And then we are gone. We get back in the car as the rain begins to sheet and visibility falls to zero. All evidence has been removed quietly and efficiently as though nothing ever happened. Three orange barricades neatly placed in the median next to the downed fence are the only hint that anything was ever amiss.
Shows over folks, nothing more to see here.
7.03.2006
50 Words - Falling In Love
She said it tonight and I beamed a radiant smile from ear to ear. "Mama." Plain as day. Loud and as clear as possible on a cell-speaker-phone in her little girl, whiskey-husky-smoke filled room voice that she got from me. I fell in love again today.
6.28.2006
50 Words - Sunshine
Last night while lying in bed with the peanut between the handsome husband and myself I discovered just how blessed I am. Her laughter inspires me. His laughter excites me. Between the two of them my world has light, hope, laughter, sunshine and wonder like none I've ever known before.
4.12.2006
Burnt Out Torchlight Along The Pathway.
"I see myself as a huge fiery comet, a shooting star. Everyone stops, points up and gasps 'Oh look at that!' Then - whoosh, and I'm gone... and they'll never see anything like it ever again, and they won't be able to forget me - ever."
It's an old Jim Morrison quote. It was how a young, energetic, delightfully charming young man described himself on more than one occasion. He could recite that quote verbatim. It meant that much to him. It was prophetic, just a little. Oddly disturbing to be reading it tonight in light of what has happened. From the fiery died red hair to the crooked smile, to the intensity with which he approached his short life, there was nothing about him that ever said inconsequential. There are a thousand 22 year old boys who are interchangably typical and completely forgettable.
Why take away a man who had so much more to live and so much to give? Why? Just to make the world a darker place, to extinguish a light that we enjoyed decorating our world. That makes no sense. A reality check perhaps? To show us how perishable we really are? To make us feel unsafe and to remind us once more that everything in life is temporary and leave me feeling again that everyone leaves my life before I'm ever ready to let them go? It's the bitterness and the hours talking. It's the anger beginning to set in. Logically I know all that.
I remember the last time I saw his face. I was slow dancing barefoot around the livingroom, the only music in my head, my beloved peanut tucked up under my chin. It's the sweet spot... the one that makes me feel whole and brings me peace, much the same way his mother must have once upon a time felt about him. He was watching us. Not staring, just taking it all in. I wonder now what he must have been thinking in that nearly 23 year old brain of his.
I think sometimes that he was considering his future. The one he had planned with the wonderful young woman who loved him dearly and deeply. The one he hopefully someday would learn to love just as much. I know he had that in him. It's just sometimes slower coming in men than young women. I know they dreamed together of their future. She would tell me once in a while of lying in bed next to him, feeling whole, wishing, hoping, planning, scheming and dreaming of the next right thing for them. They loved each other now.... and she always expected to love him 20, 30 years from now. She's gonna make it... he never will.
I said to him as we shared a moment before leaving "be safe." He looked at me with his head tipped sideways and that impossibly crazy hair hanging in his face. I ran a finger down the side of his face, took his chin in my hand and kissed his forhead. He ducked his head a little. It wasn't his time to be thinking about growing up, acting with a little healthy caution. Timing is such a personal thing. It's everything. I know it sounded odd coming from me but we talked for a moment. He listened earnestly, intently... but in the end it didn't matter. I keep seeing things. Little snatches of little scenes over and over in my head. All of them dark. None of them positive. Just really an impression of something unsettled and negative around him, of some impending pain I wished I could spare him. And nothing concrete that would satisfy him or me for that matter. I wish I could have explained it better to him, but I don't really understand it myself. It's not like there is evil music playing as the woman creeps down the stairs to the cellar in a bad horror flick and everyone in the theater is yelling at her not to go down into the cellar. I wish it were that simple.
It happens sometimes. An impression or an image that comes along at the worst possible time when I have no time to think or analyze it. And I hate that I get a little bit here and there and no good idea of what it is that I'm really sensing. I feel cheated that I could not see enough to tell him to stop, sit back and watch from the sidelines for a while.
With him I chalked it up to the craziness that is being 22 and living on your own, making sometimes poor choices and behaving like a kid. But honestly no more so than any other young man his age, living with his talant and his gifts. When I saw him perform on stage I was captivated by his presense and his ability to hold the room. It was raw talent, a little rough around the edges and in need of refinement, but clearly the gift was there. He was a good kid. Really. Seriously. He worked hard, had good relationships with his parents and loved his girl. And he was like a hummingbird in some ways. The way Nathanial Hawthorne described one anyway. If you sat still long enough and watched, he just might alight upon you. And you were in for a treat when he did.
And then one Sunday he made the worst possible decision of his short life, experimented one too many times with stuff better left to the street junkies and wound up dead at the bottom of an apartment complex swimming pool. Quietly, effortlessly and unintentionally dead. What he left behind is far more complex and painful than I'm sure he ever thought it would be. And no one can explain to me why or why not one of us who loved him had the power to stop it.
What good is a gift if you're only allowed the part of it that frustrates the hell out of you and not enough to do anyone any good?
3.23.2006
42.
We spent the end of his 42nd birthday laying in bed eating ice cream. I could tell you it was good. Good in a way ben and jerry only understand. Pfish food good. We did a complete post-mortem on the doctor's appointment that I didn't get to go to. White count at 170,000 is not good. We knew that. The tests start Monday and don't stop. It's like a carousel at a carnival. The one that scares the littles with it's music and constant revolutions. He's going to have some hard choices to make once they tell him what his options are. I already know what he will chose. And I know I won't like it. I told him that whatever we find out next week I'll support his decisions. It's not easy to let someone you love go, ya know. But I can't force him deeper into hell because I'm selfish. The truth is I'm not ready to let him go. I doubt I'll ever be. But it's time to grow up and see that it's not about me anymore. It never really was. Maybe it is the way it was always supposed to be.
2.17.2006
Living
He knew as well as anyone who had been diagnosed with a disease such as his that it changed your life. Permanently. But it was still his life. The only one he knew for sure he had. And it was a good life to boot. He had stopped asking why eons ago. Fate? Kismet? In the end he supposed the why of it wouldn't really make much difference. In fact on some level he didn't want to know if this was his karmic bitch-slap for something he had done. Or for that matter, payback for something he hadn't done that he should have. It just mattered that it was destined to be this way. It dawned on him one particularly cold and lonely night in the dead of a long harsh winter that occasionally ignorance truly is blissful. There just might be circumstances where not knowing what he knew could be infinitely preferable to those things which he knew for certain.
Learning to make more than the best of it was his latest quest. Living as gracefully and as unapologetically as possible in a world where society expected him to disappear into the shadows like some sort of thief who steals away into the night is one tall order. The initial spikes of anger that had coursed through his veins had mellowed like fine red wine into a more subtle shade of bitterness. It was counterproductive to his cause to dwell outwardly on emotions that were unquestionably costly to his sanity. Bitterness was almost as expensive as the hope he could no longer afford either. He kept it to himself. Successfully most of the time too. There was no more looking backwards at where he'd been. No more hoping, wishing, waiting for the doctors to tell him they'd made a mistake. Gotten it all wrong. No more sitting idle strumming his fingers on the arm of the easy chair. If he was going to leave this life any time soon, he needed to go out on the highest of all high-notes, after having lived a life free of regrets.
The act of trying to stay positive was about channeling absolute fear into something more. Something tangible. Something of substance. Something that had a lasting effect on humanity when it seemed his time to make a difference was running a little short. Somdays it was liberating really, knowing what he knew. No need to worry about famine, plagues or pestilence. No fear of natural disasters or overindulging in an illicit vice or two, now and then. No apologizing to a seemingly perfect world for making them uncomfortable in the face of his stark and frank imperfections. He knew his death. He had looked it square in the eye and defiantely shaken it's cold hand. He refused to be intimidated by it's presence in his life. Before long he and the bastard were on a first name basis.
1.31.2006
Solace
Two cars parked on a deserted side street devoid of lights. One masculine black work truck and one flirty dark sports car... a low to the ground racing model. Two bodies silhouetted in the scant moonlight, their faces obscured... their intentions not so much. She leaned on the hood of the second car, between the cars really, with her head tilted back and looking up at him. Her dark hair cascaded down around her shoulders, her tight sweater and dark jeans showing off her ample curves. He stood in front of her looking down, dark jeans hugging his hips, tee shirt and overshirt untucked, unbuttoned and a little askew. He leaned in toward her and she lifted a protective hand to his chest. There was a familiarity between them that was unmistakable. Friends? Perhaps. Lovers? Yes. Oh yes. Their voices low, carrying on a conversation meant for their ears only. Intensely treasuring their stolen moments together. The sound of low laughter, of contentment and sincerity would have given them away had anyone been paying attention. Just two random lovers, neither where they should have been on a late weekday evening, out with someone they never ever thought they'd cross paths with, on a desolate street in the dark center of any big city on any given day.
He caught me watching them. I should have looked away. Embarassed. He assumed I would. Without flinching or blinking I stared back, enjoying him enjoying my voyerism.
1.25.2006
The Phoenix
broken
bitter
jaded
cynical
drifting
lost
alone
hurting
in pain
weary
at war
exhausted
surrendered
humbled
ready
longing
wanting
aching
surrounded
passionate
inspired
desired
awed
ravenous
renewed
afire
loved
confident
strong
aware
at peace
alive
At least I'm working on the parts I cannot yet find my way to feel.
1.18.2006
He said, She said
He said he knew what she had been thinking.
She said that left her feeling unnerved,
quite.
He said he read all that she wrote.
As safe as she felt,
she still said it made her nervous
He said that as good as he was,
She was far better.
He said he was in awe,
and he didn't say it lightly.
She said thank you.
She was left feeling that it was
by far,
the greatest compliment anyone
had ever given her.
1.12.2006
Dandelions
Perhaps it would be easier if the footsteps were four rather than two, but nothing's worth doing if you can't do it by yourself, if only to prove that you still have the ability, the knowledge. You can always rediscover what you thought you'd missed out on. You can never live the same moment twice, but a moment never dies and it's always ready to be born. Hold too tightly and it'll all slip through slender fingers that strain to reach truth but fall short and land on passion instead. Truth, that elusive beast, cannot be tamed. It cannot be caged. It cannot be owned. But it certainly can be felt.
You can push your body to the point of exhaustion, to the point of breakdown, to the point of pure and utter destruction. The soul will live on for as long as it pleases, regardless of you. Perhaps it's better to house it as it sees fit. That is if you believe you have a soul.
There's more to living than merely surviving, existing. There's more to happiness than the letters which comprise the word. There's always more to something than just the sum of its parts. That is if you believe you have a soul.
I have a soul. I've felt it in orgasmic moments of passion and erotic moments of bliss. I've heard it speak softly to me in the night as I lay on my side of the bed, the other occupied by a human form, and filled with the soul of a ghost which doesn't haunt me but rather comprises that which I long for. Not because I cannot live without it, but because I've lived it already, long ago, and desperately want it back. I am living in the now because that's all I'm allowed. Everything is temporary and while I know that... I don't relish it like I once did. I want to go beyond keeping it to myself.
Have I been selfish for far to long to learn how to live with what it looks that I cannot have? Am I beyond ever learning how to accept those things I cannot change? Certainly not. Sometimes in the night, I curl up in the laughter of love and in those moments, I can still see so clearly. A moment within a moment. Is that possible? Am i insane? To be touched by the sound of laughter in this way goes beyond any physical contact. To feel golden embers of splattered life transcending the physical and conquering the metaphysical to a point of joy. These moments are what life is made of.
For a moment I think I wouldn't change a thing. Gleaning from a stream of consciousness, I realized that dandelions are yellow. And, it's the yellow of friendship whose tune fills my mind and vibrates out through my smile. Can there be hope in the tattered ruins of a tortured empire? Nietzsche would say hope in reality is the worse of all evils because it prolongs the torment of man. Maybe he is right. Or maybe the reality is that the empire isn't so tattered. Maybe the reality is that there is hope. Is hope in hope a bad thing? A good thing? Shall we get beyond good and evil? Is indifference the best of all states because one is simply beyond?
No talk of indifference today. I am not indifferent. I care not to be indifferent with such matters of the heart. Because you can starve a body and you can starve a soul and you can starve a heart, but in the end the fate is far worse than not having hope. Or having hope if you have nothing with which to at least choose to have or to have not. I ask again do we have a soul? Is it a part of us, an extension of us, is it us? Is it whole? Are there soul mates and body mates? Do some people choose their physical mate and never get beyond the mundane while some pick their soul mate and transcend it all? Do some people have a soul mate and a wholly separate body mate?
I have a soul. I have hope. The truth is I know. What did i say about the truth? What did Nietzsche say about hope? What does strangelove say? Feel. Being numb only ends in a whole lot of pain. There's more to life than floating through...but one can truly float when one truly lives.
1.08.2006
As Good As It Gets
As good as Friday was... and it truly was. The park, the grocery store we almost got ourselves thrown out of, the pharmacy and starbucks. Laughter and giggles... that's how we spent the day and I loved it... that someone would try that hard for me.
I digress... as good as Friday was... Saturday was equally if not more so, worse. Who knew one could pull a muscle on the top of their thigh.. and not have anything momentous to remember it by. Who knew that sliding while bowling could cause a knee to hurt a week later. Who knew that I could go from happy to pissy and bitchy in 6.3 seconds.
But as bad as it was... I did have some moments that weren't all that. Taking P to see her Grandma always warms my heart. When you set aside the idea that maybe I don't burp her enough, I'm evil enough to allow her to suck her thumb and think it's cute, I did infact purchase a pacifier for her (I refuse to call it a binky) and... she just might... horror of all horrors.. be a lefty, my mother in law is only trying to be helpful and she loves her granddaugher almost as much as I love her son. My heart is even thawing a little towards the dogs. Baby, who is anthing but, is cute and sweet and friendly. The other one is afraid of everything and keeps her distance. I'm all good with that.
What I cannot handle and we've deftly avoided lately... until last night is the step-father. I took a good hard look at him last night for the first time in perhaps a year or more. He is dying. He is not aware. Sitting at the table hunched over he appears 85 rather than 65. Still working, going through the motions on broken sleep, confused thoughts, wildly imagined stories and the haze of alcohol. My mother in law says to me that milk puts him out like a light... so he drinks milk before bed. Milk and the three shots of cheap vodka that not so discretely went into the generic glass tumbler along with the ice when he assumed no one was looking. I outted him just to see if she knew. She does and is powerless to put a stop to it. Or she does not want to, I don't know. Four hours until he is supposed to leave for work and he's downing enough to get my whole household feeling pretty damn fine. I'd be out like a light for the entire night. He only makes it an hour, before he's back up and at it again.
A single this time... again with the milk. I have to ask about the grapefruit juice in the fridge before I have any... to make sure no one tampered with it. No, I'm assured he did not. He tired of juice weeks ago and has moved onto the milk. There's a cycle here... V8, grapefruit, milk. All things that go well with the booze. Nice. He sits at the table, randomly changing the channel on the tv and messing with the volume at whim. Then he asks what we're watching and who turned off his favorite show. I busy myself with the baby and dinner.
He is a small man, made smaller by his broken-down appearance. Dressed in dark boxers and a tattered wife-beater, I can't remember the last time I saw him fully or appropriately dressed. Barefoot too, not that it matters much. His skin is still dark, not from time in the sun, but from his herritage - whatever that is. He has taken on a sallow and chalky appearance. His feet and ankles are swollen terrible, not that he seems to care. He has a bruise the size of a footlong overstuff sub sandwich on the back of one leg. It's been there a long time and it's black, not that he seems to notice. He is dying and he does not feel it.
His arms that once were intimidating and powerful are now shrunken and battle scarred. The tatoos that once proclaimed his love for parrots and for Joyce, in that order, are as faded and blurred as the memories they embraced. His children want nothing to do with him. They are embarassed by him and probably a little saddened to see how far he has sunk. The mind that was once agile and strong is gone. He wouldn't remember if they came to visit and while they were in attendance he would do everything in his power to humiliate and alienate them.
His face is concave, sallow, wrinkled and weary. He cannot form a sentence of coherant thought to save his soul. Does he even still have a soul? His hair stands up from his head like troll doll who met a blonde bottle and lost the good fight. His hair would surly be grey if only he would let it. It's his one last stand at vanity. That along with the dentures he rarely wears and nightly dousing with cheap cologne before work. He sits now at the kitchen table demanding whatever his foggy mind decides he must have next and usually it's nonsensical. He mutters whatever is on his mind without regard to the setting or the appropriateness of his verbage. He is like a dog with a bone when he gets going. Spewing forth filth, ugliness, hate, racism, whatever crosses his mind. It's like a giant word association riddle that's unsolvable to the rest of us.
His mind plays tricks on him, his imagination conjuring up wild stories that on their face are impossible. Two guys tried to carjack him in downtown and he had to shoot them both. Yet here he is... no police intervention, nothing on the news... didn't hear about it at the time it supposedly happened. Hmm... me thinks not. He supposedly fell off machinery at work, 50 feet and nearly died. Was unconscious for 45 minutes... they all thought he was dead. Yet there was no trip to the hospital, no workman's comp claim, no osha investigation, he simply up and drove him. Likely not.
It dawns on me as I watch him attempt with shaking hands to down the hot wings that came with the pizza, that in 12 years I have never seen him sober. I honestly think it's too late for that. He is dying and it's only a matter of time.
I digress... as good as Friday was... Saturday was equally if not more so, worse. Who knew one could pull a muscle on the top of their thigh.. and not have anything momentous to remember it by. Who knew that sliding while bowling could cause a knee to hurt a week later. Who knew that I could go from happy to pissy and bitchy in 6.3 seconds.
But as bad as it was... I did have some moments that weren't all that. Taking P to see her Grandma always warms my heart. When you set aside the idea that maybe I don't burp her enough, I'm evil enough to allow her to suck her thumb and think it's cute, I did infact purchase a pacifier for her (I refuse to call it a binky) and... she just might... horror of all horrors.. be a lefty, my mother in law is only trying to be helpful and she loves her granddaugher almost as much as I love her son. My heart is even thawing a little towards the dogs. Baby, who is anthing but, is cute and sweet and friendly. The other one is afraid of everything and keeps her distance. I'm all good with that.
What I cannot handle and we've deftly avoided lately... until last night is the step-father. I took a good hard look at him last night for the first time in perhaps a year or more. He is dying. He is not aware. Sitting at the table hunched over he appears 85 rather than 65. Still working, going through the motions on broken sleep, confused thoughts, wildly imagined stories and the haze of alcohol. My mother in law says to me that milk puts him out like a light... so he drinks milk before bed. Milk and the three shots of cheap vodka that not so discretely went into the generic glass tumbler along with the ice when he assumed no one was looking. I outted him just to see if she knew. She does and is powerless to put a stop to it. Or she does not want to, I don't know. Four hours until he is supposed to leave for work and he's downing enough to get my whole household feeling pretty damn fine. I'd be out like a light for the entire night. He only makes it an hour, before he's back up and at it again.
A single this time... again with the milk. I have to ask about the grapefruit juice in the fridge before I have any... to make sure no one tampered with it. No, I'm assured he did not. He tired of juice weeks ago and has moved onto the milk. There's a cycle here... V8, grapefruit, milk. All things that go well with the booze. Nice. He sits at the table, randomly changing the channel on the tv and messing with the volume at whim. Then he asks what we're watching and who turned off his favorite show. I busy myself with the baby and dinner.
He is a small man, made smaller by his broken-down appearance. Dressed in dark boxers and a tattered wife-beater, I can't remember the last time I saw him fully or appropriately dressed. Barefoot too, not that it matters much. His skin is still dark, not from time in the sun, but from his herritage - whatever that is. He has taken on a sallow and chalky appearance. His feet and ankles are swollen terrible, not that he seems to care. He has a bruise the size of a footlong overstuff sub sandwich on the back of one leg. It's been there a long time and it's black, not that he seems to notice. He is dying and he does not feel it.
His arms that once were intimidating and powerful are now shrunken and battle scarred. The tatoos that once proclaimed his love for parrots and for Joyce, in that order, are as faded and blurred as the memories they embraced. His children want nothing to do with him. They are embarassed by him and probably a little saddened to see how far he has sunk. The mind that was once agile and strong is gone. He wouldn't remember if they came to visit and while they were in attendance he would do everything in his power to humiliate and alienate them.
His face is concave, sallow, wrinkled and weary. He cannot form a sentence of coherant thought to save his soul. Does he even still have a soul? His hair stands up from his head like troll doll who met a blonde bottle and lost the good fight. His hair would surly be grey if only he would let it. It's his one last stand at vanity. That along with the dentures he rarely wears and nightly dousing with cheap cologne before work. He sits now at the kitchen table demanding whatever his foggy mind decides he must have next and usually it's nonsensical. He mutters whatever is on his mind without regard to the setting or the appropriateness of his verbage. He is like a dog with a bone when he gets going. Spewing forth filth, ugliness, hate, racism, whatever crosses his mind. It's like a giant word association riddle that's unsolvable to the rest of us.
His mind plays tricks on him, his imagination conjuring up wild stories that on their face are impossible. Two guys tried to carjack him in downtown and he had to shoot them both. Yet here he is... no police intervention, nothing on the news... didn't hear about it at the time it supposedly happened. Hmm... me thinks not. He supposedly fell off machinery at work, 50 feet and nearly died. Was unconscious for 45 minutes... they all thought he was dead. Yet there was no trip to the hospital, no workman's comp claim, no osha investigation, he simply up and drove him. Likely not.
It dawns on me as I watch him attempt with shaking hands to down the hot wings that came with the pizza, that in 12 years I have never seen him sober. I honestly think it's too late for that. He is dying and it's only a matter of time.
11.01.2005
Did it really hurt that bad?
He said it to me over lunch. The answers should be obvious. Hell yes it did. Why else would anyone make such a big deal of pain, tragedy, grief etc. It hurts. Now wait... he says to me. Maybe it was just me making a much bigger deal out of something that it deserved. Somehow the idea of disproportionate response to a painful stimuli takes root. And at first it offends me that anyone could suggest minimizing their own or someone else's emotional response to a given set of facts. But on the flip side we do it all the time. At least to other people... rarely for any self analytical purpose. What we are quick to judge in another we are often sluggish to see in ourselves.
We shake our heads in wonder when grieving families create shrines to dead children. We wonder why they can't move on. People make mention of mental status when someone can't focus beyond their own immediate distress and find ways to cope. We're not seeing the reason for all the drama... why do you?
And then we - the oh so superior crowd - go about medicating ourselves with alcohol, memories, and stories and sometimes just plain mindnumbing silence that serve only to kill our pain and at the same time recapture a little of what we feel we have lost. We spend quality time we can't afford to waste on diversionary tactics that hopefully no one else notices. A hand carefully placed to cover up a scar in public, a move to a
So you tell me... do we all just hide away the parts of us we need most to protect, or do we react to our own grief in ways that are disproportionate to the situation in the first place?
And yes baby... it did hurt that much.
10.31.2005
Memories Shouldn't Be Painful
And children shouldn't bear adult responsibilities simply because their parents are either ill-equiped, too shallow, selfish or too clueless to protect them and nuture them away from things they are too young for and from things that are none of their business.
I couldn't get comfortable last night and I couldn't sleep. The mp3 player ran out of batteries and I was too lazy to get up and replace them. The lights came on, the husband came to the rescue and the flick of a zippo meant we were going to be here for at least a little while. I struggled to sit up and tried to lean back against the pillows. No easy task when your stomach sticks out three feet. He moved away from the bedroom and stood in the bathroom doorway. An interesting naked sillohuette in the moonlight. One that is uniquely his and will really never change. The broad shoulders, narrow hips and long muscular legs that I have grown so fond of over these years serve to comfort me simply because they are familiar and in a sense, mine.
It began with the story of Buttons the dog. It does not have a happy ending to say the least. It made me want to cry buckets. And I did. And he was upset for making me cry. What he does not seem to understand is that I always tear up at stories of his childhood because even the happiest of memories come with that but... and at the end there is always some awful twist that forever corrupts and ruins anything positive that could possibly have come from it. It saddens me that a young boy sees it as a personal failure that something tragic happened to a dog that his parents didn't properly care for. It was not his responsibility or his fault. The mere fact that it has the power to haunt him after 25 years is a testament to how poorly planned and organized his childhood really was.
To be tasked with caring for two small children when you yourself are a troubled child in need of help is probably more than anyone could be successful at. And looking back at all the little failures that resulted, it appears to have been a setup in that regard. Not a purposeful one, but none the less, set up to fail because he was never given the tools to be successful.
I wiped the tears from my eyes several times and just listened. To the horror stories of the arguing and the daily fights and the being blamed for everything three little rambuncious boys got into. The awesome responsibility of being someone's punching bag - both verbally and physically until one was physically large enough to hit back and stop the nightmare. And I cannot get my head around how someone could do those things to a child and not see that they are destroying the precious delicate fabric of a human being who shares their specific genetic code. Is there no sense of bonding? Is there no sense of family? of community? or right and wrong?
And then I began to speak... of two little red-headed girls who had matching little half tops that tied in the back and at the neck. The material was brightly colored with tiny apples on it. Some of the apples had faces. The ties were bright yellow and for a two and a six year old we were hot stuff. Mom made them just for us.
I remember a particular wooden candy dish that Mom kept in the dining room closet on a semi high shelf. It wasn't quite round... more of a fluted look to it and it was very dark wod. After halloween she would put our candy in it and if we were good after dinner we could each go select one piece. If I recall correctly the chocolate always seemed to disappear at a far greater rate than anything else. Me thinks Mom's chocolate addition was quickly depleating our stash!
I remember Mom teaching us how to play simple things on the family piano and I remember begging for lessons at about 5. She laughed and said I would have to wait just a little while. My fingers were too small for much playing and I could't reach from the bench to the piano without her holding me.
I went back and forth from the puppet show the neighbor kids did for me when I had the chicken pox, to the beautiful yellow bedroom with the butterfly curtains to the mural Mom painted on the livingroom wall. All of those memories and there is not one but... Not one horrible memory attached to all of those probably typical childhood events. I was a happy child with typically happy memories.
Sure I remember being upset at moving when I was 9, I remember hurting after being hit by a car at 8 - it was minor, and I remember bumping into Dad's cigarette once in a while and noting it was quite hot against my tender little skin. But I also remember some incredible feelings of love and caring despite having minorly disappointed my parents, or having done something stupid.
And then we talked about the fights. The fights that I cannot fathom and will never understand why parents expose their children to. They are too horrific to even try writing about... and they are not my story to tell. The first time I can recall my parents being upset with one another was on Mother's Day when I was 10. We were in the car and Dad wanted Mom to pick out where we were going for dinner. She was crying and upset because as she put it, she made the decisions about what to have for dinner every night and couldn't he for once, just take it in hand and make a decision. I think he was dumbfounded and more than a little confused by all of that. Karen and I sat in the back seat, quietly squirming and silently thinking that this was just horrible. Divorce court was likely to commence tomorrow. It's funny to look back on it now, for the absurdity of it all. But Mom was right. It was her special day and wanting Dad to make the plans was not at all unreasonable.
I'm sure they had their arguments and their disagreements. They were just wise enough to keep them away from us. Children should not be exposed to things they cannot possibly understand. I firmly believe in age appropriate behavior, toys and exposure. No child should be burdened with the sadness and dispair that the husband was. Imagine thinking at four that you wish you had never been born. Those thoughts should be so far removed from a toddler's consciousness that they aren't even remotely possible. Imagine Mom taking you to a shink at 4 because you don't speak. When you know if you heart that you don't speak because you are afraid to. Imagine having your first ulcer before kingergarden. Imagine being forced to drink orange juice and tomatoes anyway, even though they make you worse and cause you pain.
It shouldn't hurt to be a child.
8.28.2005
Hurricane Katrina
Began as a pesky tropical storm.
Upgraded to hurricane status.
Doesn't that figure?
Fickle female changes her mind.
Threating to wreak havoc.
Hasn't she done that already?
The heartache and heartbreak
of picking up the pieces,
of painfully starting over,
of learning to trust,
to do more than just exist.
Now a catagory four.
Making landfall early,
creeping in and stealing what
is not hers to take.
Toto.... we're not in
anymore... and she's not
talking about the weather.
Why does a simple name
seem like a slap in the face?
Do I have a right to be this
much of a bitch?
7.29.2005
Now there's a thought
If your god does not dance,
slay him with laughter.
If not laughter,
then destroy him by treachery
and take his place.
This worlds holds no peace
for the powerless among you,
and compassion is reserved only
for those strong enough to afford it.
12.10.2004
Random Haiku
Infidelity
07:24
your darkened conscience
discrete infidelity
my illusions' real
What's a girl to do...
romantic dinner
lascivious minded
husband does not hear
Sunset
sunset fire
dreams are made there
in the heart
Privacy
privacy
the moon behind the sun
slips away
The Dandelion
sowing seeds of life
my hand brushes
the dandelion
Noise
chatter from all sides
mixing together as one
means nothing to me
Silent Cries
my soul knew
my heart wouldn’t listen
my mind cried out
Busy Day
twenty-two hundred
the day has sped away fast
thirty minutes gone
10.19.2004
Unfinished - Bluff of Dreams
So there I was, standing at the edge of my life, peering cautiously into the great unknown that is adulthood. I glanced for a moment behind me into that vast valley that I was to leave behind. Lots of skeletons there, embarrassing moments, disappointments of every shape and size, the pain and anguish of my teen years. It was, in essence, where I had come from, the stuff of which I was made. It stretched on for miles, a veritable wasteland, an absolute pit of despair.
It was time. Time to look beyond the ruins, the memories, the nameless graves, the lost loves, the piles of rubbish, the remnants of the past. Time to blow the dust off the bottle, sift through the ashes, wander the rubble and shove aside the skeletons. It was time to shed the veil of youth and innocence and venture forth into the great unknown.
I had, through all of those intensely painful growing years, looked forward with unabashed glee to the day I could proclaim myself an adult. I so wanted to be that sophisticated, wise, confident and strong woman I had envisioned in my daydreams. I desperately longed to erase my painful, clumsy, awkward youth and be reborn into this new person, this "adult."
This "adult" status was somehow supposed to protect me from all of those old hurts. The band aids would come off, the wounds would be healed and forgotten and the dreams I had spent a lifetime weaving were about to be mine. Finally. It was a fairy tale of grandiose and epic proportions.
And still I stood there, teetering on the bluff of dreams, surveying the vast and sudden emptiness of the future and I began to doubt. Where were the feelings of empowerment? Where was the bright future I had been promised? Where was my prince charming? And most importantly, who was this half child, half woman and why was she standing on a cliff with her feet shaking and her hands trembling and her heart filled with both trepidation and yearning?
Is that really me? Am I really the person they said I was? Does my existence have purpose? Am I doomed to the
While I ponder my place in this world, time continued to march on at the same pace it always has. The minutes, the hours and finally the days, slipped quietly and quickly away and before I realized it, time had gotten away from me like a run-away freight train. It didn't go unnoticed that I'd only accomplished a tiny fraction of what I always intended. The realization hit me, that this new person I became, this adulthood I achieved isn't at all what I expected.
7.27.2003
A Prayer For The Parched
The monsoon has arrived.. or has it? Each day as dusk approaches the sky darkens to a rich velvety hue, the sunset glows deep oranges and reds, the wind picks up a bit and the walls of dust creep in from the east. And the valley waits and collectively holds it’s breath and watches as the lightening strikes dance across the horizon, and the thunder cracks like the beat of a drum at a tribal rain dance.
And so it goes… evenings are planned around the impending storms and there’s talk of easing the multi-year drought. We ponder the wildfires and comment on the rain that will put them out, never once acknowledging that the torrent of new lightening strikes will surely start new fires. The tales of violent storms past are told and there's a nodding thought to the possibility of much worse. Everyone, it seems, is dressed and ready for the ball.
And so it goes… all dressed up, with no where to go. For the humidity that makes us miserable – sticky, sweating and sweltered, and the dust that invades like ants at a family picnic, are alone in their onslaught. For there is no rain, no dance partner, no watershed, no easing of the drought, and no quenching of our parched land. We are left tasting dust in our mouths and the lonely feeling of having been stood up, yet again.
And so it goes… day after relentless day of heat, humidity, dust and thunderstorms. It comes and teases us like a lover would. Smiling down upon us, not with the rain we so desperately seek, but with a stunning show of Mother Nature’s finest work.
As Mother Nature continues her striptease and the fireworks dazzle us with their brilliance, the anticipation grows and we wait with baited breath for the rain that surely must be about to fall.
And so it goes… another day spent on our knees, with our heads bend in silent prayer for the rain we so desperately need.
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