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|Thursday, September 14th, 2006|
Why yes, I am trying to actually write at least one piece per week.
So, new word:
And while it may seem silly to look up the definition of this word, I thought it might help inspire you if you read this.
|Friday, September 8th, 2006|
|Monday, October 10th, 2005|
The foggy morning fills me with confusion and denial. The vague puzzle pieces scattered throughout my mind, and each time I find two pieces that fit together, the memories of the night before come trickling back. I wince at the things I had said, the staggering and slurring, the vomiting. I thought everything I said was funny.
My head pounds, but not half as hard as my heart. My nervousness amplifies with each fragmented memory, and each time I ask myself "why?"
Why did I do it? I don't even enjoy drinking that much. Do I have a problem?
Fortunately I have never been stupid enough to drive when I'm drinking. I never had that sort of thing to worry about. But my mouth... Boy, was it flappin, and I can't believe no one got mad... and I can't believe my friends still talk to me. Shit, I sure thought I was God's gift to the world last night. I made sure the whole bar saw ME in all my glory. What glory it was. I was loud, I cracked jokes, I was dramatic. This morning, while suffering from utter humiliation, I vow not to call the unfortunate friends from last night.... for at least a week or two.
I feel haunted. Haunted by my memories of my behavior. I mean, am I really like that? Am I an awful person? I sure acted like one, at least in my opinion. I never would act that free, or that uninhibited. I would never make jokes like that. I'd be too afraid.
They always used to say, "A drunken man's words are a sober man's thoughts". If so, I am definitely a jerk. But maybe that's not so true. I've never lost a friend over one of my nights of being 'in rare form'. Of course, what did I say that was so bad? I can't really remember. Oh, maybe it was just that I thought I was so right. And so smart. And so cute. Maybe I didn't say anything at all. Maybe I just thought I did. Or maybe I just let go, and wasn't my normal uptight, tightly wound self and that is horrifying.
Maybe everyone else was just as wasted, and didn't notice me. Maybe I'm being to hard on myself. You know, I do have that complex about drinking being wrong because of my father.... Maybe it's not such a big deal. People get drunk nightly and don't seem to care the next day. I only do it every few months, and man do I feel like an ass...
I chug down a bottle of water and some aspirin, along with 4 tums. I curl up in bed, and pull the comforter around me. I sigh, utterly depressed and in pain. Of course the hangover is more of a mental hangup than a physical hangover. I could deal with the headache, but how do I deal with the self administered mental beatings I will be getting today? "Drinking alcohol is wrong!" my brain screams at me. It doesn't matter if everyone else does it!!!! I choke back the lump in my throat and close my eyes. For the last time, I vow never to do this again.
|Monday, August 29th, 2005|
vocaballIf this is not allowed, please forgive me and feel free to delete this post. Thank you. =D
|Thursday, March 31st, 2005|
|Monday, March 28th, 2005|
Settles into the walls of my soul like a mold stain in a room. Yet, rather than deal with the guilt, I apply the wall paper of denial over it. And all is good until the stain seeps through again. And so I apply a heavy primer and paint over the walls with a fresh coat of innocent white. And still, after time, the stain seeps through, each time having grown larger.
So I cover the stain with a wall-hanging, perhaps a tapestry, something, anything, to hide the blot and then I rearrange the furniture so My back is to that wall and I pretend it has gone away. Yes, property can be bought cheap on DeNial but the taxes can kill. And I ignore it while the stain grows, inching outwards in area, digging deeper into the walls, a horrid mixture of green and black that putrifies until all the fresh cut flowers and store-bought deodorizers fail to make dent in the stench and, in a fit of desperation, the room is emptied and the tapestry burned, the stained wall ripped apart to find the source of the guilt and, more importantly, the atonement which will remove it from the room entirely.
A task so long delayed is, perforce, more expensive and harder to perform and yet, once the stain is removed and I am back and snug in my room, I wonder if I will let my next act of guilt fester so long.
Out, damned spot! out, I say!--One: two: why, Current Mood: guilty
then, 'tis time to do't.--Hell is murky!--Fie, my
lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we
fear who knows it, when none can call our power to
account?--Yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him.
Lady MacBeth, Act V, Scene i
|Sunday, March 27th, 2005|
Someone walks loudly outside thier room. The honking of horns stuck in freeway holiday traffic create a low hum that penetrates the walls and her brain.
The smell of sex drifts into her nose. The heat of his body warms her front while her left uncovered leg freezes as it bounces in the over air-conditioned room.
A sigh escapes her mouth but the words do not come. The words she wants to say seem trapped in her head where images of the black cloud that have settled over her are flashing through her mind.
Again a sigh, in the form of his name hisses past her lips. His groans sounding in her ear in answer to her sighs a signal he is almost spent.
She feels a quivering between her legs and a turning in her stomach.
He whispers words in her ear.
She smiles with her eyes closed, turns her back to him and curls into a ball.
The air conditioning blasts her face and bare front. She feels a shiver crawl up her back and sighs again.
Rolling back into his arms she whispers "Thank you." and attempts to quiet the words she knows she should speak.
|Monday, March 7th, 2005|
The Clay County Courthouse stands majestically in the middle of a perfect square, formed by four brick streets. Back again in my home town, I look around, and nothing has changed. Lining the other side of the streets are little shops with old fashioned facades: a pharmacy, a soda shop, an antique store, a shoe cobbler, a flower shop and a cafe. The city has grown all around and has managed to become a respectable size, full of suburban paradises like WalMart, Target, McDonalds and Home Depot, with traffic jams and construction, strip malls and sports bars. But still juxtaposed neatly in the center of the modern suburb is the old town center from the late 1800's which we so lovingly refer to as "The Square."
The square has the look and feel of a sincere little town, and when you sit at the sidewalk cafe sipping coffee, you can imagine that time stands still... that nothing has changed since the days that the courthouse was first built. The place has an eerie, otherworldly quality to it and resembles a movie set more than a real place. If you spend to much time reflecting on this fact, it can become haunting, as if the ghosts of a hundred souls are still lingering in this very calm and simple place, wondering when the horse & carriages were replaced by Fords and Chevys.
And obviously I wasn't the only one who felt this way. It was here that Stephen King had chosen to film "Sometimes They Come Back". Although it wasn't a good movie, it was our movie, and the town remembered the excitement of it all. It would become another of the towns confessions, part of it's saga to be romanticized and retold over and over, like Jesse James robbing the bank, or Joseph Smith being imprisoned in the jail before the Mormons were run out of town. It all happened here, on this very square. Yes, this is a historic place, and a special place.
It is here that the townsfolk to gather three times a year for celebrations. Festivals to commemorate the town's past, and to build it's future. The streets are blocked off to become a bustling marketplace of craftsmen, bootleggers and honest farmers, selling their wares off of card tables and under tents. The smell of funnel cakes, barbecue and kettle corn are enough to make us dizzy, and the anxious vendors take advantage, haggling until they succeeded in winning our money. The city parking lot has been transformed into a carnival with teacup rides and skee ball, and children walk with their oversized cotton candies and flavored shaved ice, stumbling along as they look around in amazement.
Teenagers hide behind buildings, sharing drags off of a single cigarette, taking swigs from a bottle of cactus juice, and stealing kisses when the adults weren't looking. Some sneek off behind the bushes to smoke weed while others go to the plaza area by the fountain to see their friends' band perform Fugazi covers at the talent show.
In the late afternoon, in front of the Jesse James bank, the past and present collide when Jesse James and his gang rob the bank again, in broad daylight, horses running and shots being fired. They get away with the loot, triumphing once again. The crowd cheers and applauds and I smile thinking of the sense of pride we have over a criminal act.
And as the day winds down into evening, and as darkness begins to blanket the streets, the townsfolk begin moving towards the college, careful not to trip in the ruts left on campus by the Civil War. Once across campus, everyone sits at the football field and watches fireworks overhead. Children grasp at their mothers hands while their fathers point, boys slip their arms around girls, and the world focuses their faces to the sky. As I watch the brilliance overhead, I realize something. Beyond the history, beyond the people, beyond the festivals and activities, there is something magical here... Something that brings everyone together and turns a town into a community. No other place I've lived has had this feeling about it. It's what makes my heart ache when I'm away, it's something I cannot find elsewhere, and cannot replace. There is no place in LA like this, or any other place I've been to for that matter. Then I hear the words loud in my head, "This town has a heart, and it's in the shape of a square"... and I know it's true.
X posted to my journal
Current Mood: nostalgic
|Friday, January 21st, 2005|
He watched the dice roll. They were much more rounded than others he had played with. They appeared to have been used for many years. Their sides were no longer regular squares.
The dice rolled further. In his mind images raced, images of previous conversations, meetings, faces of people.
Suddenly, the dice stood still on a rounded corner and lay to the next side.
The squares that were face-up summed up 7. People wondered why he just turned his back and walked away, the money he had just won left behind.
|Wednesday, October 6th, 2004|
The fake grass rug had shifted a little on the ply-boards. One corner was bare of it's coat of fake spring. She could see where the boards were creating an illusion of straight lines.
The hole had been dug by a local man with a backhoe. He did not have the expertise in grave digging that would render a hole that had angles that were square.
It was odd how there could be patches of snow that were still so white and clean surrounded by gray masses and slush.
She sat down on one of the fold-out chairs that had been placed around the grave on 3 sides. A breeze blew over her legs.
She had helped make arrangements for the reception, she wasn't sure that was what you called them but that is what it felt like. That was the way things were done where she was from. There were certain things you did before a funeral and after one.
Before, there were rosaries and following the hearse as the body was driven from funeral home to the church and then to the grave.
After, people gathered for food and talking.
She had helped with the arrangements.
Sometimes they showed graves on television. They were perfect rectangles, clean lines surrounded by grass any golf course would be proud of. She wondered what they used to make all the lines square.
|Monday, September 27th, 2004|
She could hear the wind moving the branches of trees outside the window. One would brush the roof over her office every so often.
Looking up from her computer screen outside the window she could see the change of seasons beginning.
There was a time she loved the coming of fall. The slight nip that would come to morning air. The look of leaves on trees as they started to lose their green and burn brightly before falling to the ground.
She sighed and the trees moved again as if they could feel the pain that she tried to breath out.
She flexed her fingers and glanced at the piles of papers she had surrounded herself with. Crisp clean white papers in uneven piles. Small edges poking out of the sides. Papers had somehow turned. Once there might have been clean unbroken lines of paper.
She ran her finger down one side of a pile. Feeling the roughness of so many edges of paper.When she reached the bottom she scratched her nail slightly across the surface of the table.
She reached the edge and her hand dropped onto her lap like a dead weight.
She felt heavy.
So tired and heavy.
Her shoulders slumped slightly forward and she tried to breath and as she struggled her eyes slid to the side of the window. To her calendar.
She had know it was coming, she always did.
Her eyes focused through the tears that were gathering. She took another breath, and the trees trembled as did her shoulders.
Her mouth suddenly dry as she stared at the paper on the wall.
This one had a pictures of wildlife. She bought it thinking it might help. The the sight of so much beauty would somehow counteract everything else.
Last year it had been kittens.
The first year she refused to buy a calender believing that if she did not acknowledge it then it would not come and time would not pass and her world would be fine and she would not hate September for all that it had brought her and all that it had taken from her.
The room was white, she had wanted it to be yellow. She always liked yellow.
The picture was of an elk. He stood at the edge of some trees. His nose turned as if he smelled something. He looked immovable, strong and wild.
Her eyes locked onto the one eye that seemed to be looking directly at her. The huge brown eye framed with lashes. Beautiful long lashes. The pupil was large and black and drew her in. She stared and held her breath for a moment. As she exhaled eyes blurred and her breath caught in her throat. Shivers ran down her back to settle in her hand that ached.
She rolled her wrist and looked back at her screen.
The wind died down. Every so often a branch would brush against the roof.
|Tuesday, August 31st, 2004|
Shadows on the wall
He was sprawled on this motel bed, his eyes wide open, trying to get used to the darkness.
The window shutters were open, but there was no moonlight coming in. Occasionally some car lights would urge the items on the shelves to cast shadows on the wall.
As his eyes got used to this dim countryside night light, he stretched his hand and grasped the correspondence paper and a pencil from the bedside table. He wrote without the need to see what he was writing:
"I'm lying here, in this motel. The bed is for two, but you are not here to share it with me. The years and years of use has made two hollows in each side of the bed. But now, one of them is empty and cold. But if I touch that side and try hard, I can feel a warmth. Your warmth.
I am wearing the shirt you gave me for our anniversary. It's smooth touch upon my skin reminds me of your silky fingers caressing my body. It makes me feel closer to you. When will this journey ever end?"
He stood up. He took off his shirt. No car was passing then, he worked his way in the dark.
After a minute or so, a car passed. Its lights cast shadows on wall in the motel room. A swaying body, hanging from the ceiling. He had hanged his shirt from the ceiling, tied the sleeves into a strong knot and died - as he imagined - in the arms of the one he once loved, her hands caressing his neck.
|Saturday, August 14th, 2004|
The walls were pink she thought, well more fuchsia or some weird combination of both. A giant psychotic pepto bismol bottle two years too old had thrown up it's contents onto these walls.
They had a texture as well.
Her fingers ran through the grooves in the textures as she stared up at the ceiling which was also the same vile color as the walls.
The air was hot and felt like it was filled with powder.
The air had grit to it.
She could feel the air passing, settling around her and on her. She tried to ignore it. It was hard to do so, but she was trying.
The old smells wafted by again, as if there was some breeze between these walls, which there wasn't. There they were again, a combination of urine, eggy water and fizzy denture cleaner.
Her eyes ran along the length of the ceiling, jumping over the extension cords that ran around the ceiling and down a couple of walls. The cords were plugged into outlets that were brown. The brown was very similar in color to the brown used on the baseboards, the ones you could see at least. The ones that were not blocked by furniture. Big hulking pieces of furniture.
There was a bed. An old bed. She knew what that bed felt like in the middle of the night. It was soft. It was lumpy. It creaked with every move. The blankets on that bed weighed enough to make someone sleeping under them feel as if they were slowly being weighted down by lead.
She kicked the bed slightly. It creaked. It was almost as if she could feel its weight again.
The pictures on the walls looked back at her. Noted her impatience. Her discomfort. Her longing to escape. She stared at them a moment. Pretending as if she did not search them for one of herself.
Her finger moved again and again in the grooves of the wall.
|Tuesday, July 13th, 2004|
I wandered through her apartment tonight. Looked at all the memories long since forgotten. Touched the dust covered trinkets one by one. It smelled of heat, and mildew, and a slightly sweet tinge of perfume from years ago.
She lived there over 40 years. So much had happened here over the years. There was a family raised here. That family hasn't been back in close to twenty years. It was sad really, wandering through this woman's life. A woman i hardly knew. A woman i would probably never know beyond the trinkets and cloth left behind from her seamstress days. The old photos and portraits on the walls and covering her dressing table. The antique furniture and costume jewelry.
I was in the bedroom. Not the one she spent the past few years in, but the spare room. It had years before become a catch all room. Old antiques and trunks full of scraps of old lace and deteriorating cloth. dusty old trinkets from far away places. Little ivory buddhas from her years over seas with her husband,who passed away many years ago.
She was alone in this apartment. Just her and her memories. I opened a beautiful old antique armoir in the spare room. I was hesitant to start opening things, too many scary movies i've seen over the years i suppose. But, as the door creaked slowly open, i saw a row of beautiful old fur coats and Chanel suits. This was a classy woman. I noticed some old books, long out of print, on the top shelf, covered in dust. The hat box caught my eye. Saks Fifth Avenue. I pulled it carefully down and eased off the lid. my eyes lit up at what i found.
Wrapped in nearly dissolved tissue paper were perfectly preserved letters. i would say there were more than sixty or so in the box. Wrapped in the tissue and a heavily faded ribbon. It may have been pink ages ago. I gingerly slid the top letter out of the ribbon.
"My Darling Kathrine" it began. I skimmed it as the words were fading and hard to read. But i pieced it together as best as i could. It was from the thirties. Kathrine was very much in love with this young soldier and he was very much in love with her. His words moved me to tears. As i sat on the floor, reading letters from a man that died before i was born, written to a woman i barely knew, i cried. The paper was so fragile. I could feel it crinkling under my touch.
Afraid i would ruin something, i dried my tears on my sleeve and slipped the letter back into it's protection from the outside world. It was as if i had stepped into a movie. People never find things like that in real life. But i had. I am so blessed, to be touched by someone, so deeply, by words alone. Current Mood: grateful
|Tuesday, July 6th, 2004|
overflowing, overpowering me..
I feel drawn thin. Like I've been stretched too far and when found lacking, balled up and tossed back in the jar.
I promise, I'll be human again soon. Soon...
Not mine but I do like it.
|Tuesday, June 29th, 2004|
Hope mentioned to me that the prompt on wordware was Word. So I thought about words and I thought about a little essay I once wrote about the act of trying to find the right words and struggling with their content. At the time I was feeling rather ... spiritually debased.
And so I thought then about that essay, about the angry prayer that it was and of a few of the other little poems I penned to whomever is out there. Then I considered the concept of worship in general and I wondered for a while why I have so much difficulty with worship. The conclusion that I came to is that until one is afforded real respect, until one is honestly in possession of some well earned status, until one is thrilled to be in one’s own skin, you have no idea how to worship. Because you cannot worship yourself, you cannot really conceive of how to notice largess around you. So I offer these little works penned around 2000 with a request:
I know this is uber personal, but I would love to see other people’s words of worship. Words from those times when you screamed yourself hoarse at the sky for the loss of a loved one. Words from when you turned around and looked over your shoulder and said, "what is it you are trying to tell me?" And even better, words when you have achieved worship. Words that came when at one of those perfect moments. Moments that just seemed to prove the benevolent pattern of things.
Caliban( Read more...Collapse )