Friday, September 26, 2014

Yesterday

I love me the Beatles. I mean, they are some classic shit. Good old Lennon, Star, McCartney, Harrison. Those guys, they made some awesome music. I sure do love their stuff. Am I a diehard fan? Ah, I suppose not…I don’t really have any of their albums…I could name all of their top forties, but nothing beyond. But, as I sit here on my living room sofa looking at the bloody knife in my hand, the words of one of those classic hits play over and over in my head….

Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away
Now it looks as though they're here to stay
oh, I believe in yesterday

Oh yesterday.  If only I could go back in time, have another grab at yesterday.  If I could, would I do it all over again… would I?

My eyes fixate on the bloody knife.  I look at my watch.  I have officially been sitting here 24 hours.  24 hours ago my sin took place.  Oh yesterday, just 24 short hours ago, my troubles, they were so far away.  Lennon was so right singing those words.  But now, I am bombarded with trouble. 

Suddenly I'm not half the man I used to be
There's a shadow hanging over me
Oh, yesterday came suddenly.

The blood on the knife has dried.  I scratch at it with the overgrown fingernail of my index finger, leaving a long strip of silver in the splotch of dried blood.  I swallow, wondering if my I can swallow away my sin, even though I know that it is not possible.  I feel the shadow Lennon talks about hanging over me, surrounding me, my sin creeping out of my pores, threatening to destroy what is left of me.  What is left of me?  Nothing, except my freedom.  That is all I can hold onto now.  Everything else is gone. 

I know that they will be here soon, and that I have to make up my mind.  I look at her slashed body sprawled on the floor, and feel my heart lurch, and my body fill with emotion.  Regret, guilt, sadness, denial.  Perhaps even excitement, and vengeance, of course.

Why she had to go?
I don't know, she wouldn't say
I said something wrong
Now I long for yesterday.

In the song, Lennon’s chick escapes her.  She leaves, and he doesn’t’ know why.  He sits there longing for yesterday.  He is weak, he is a pathetic, a lonely son-of-a-bitch.  I look at the knife and feel a slight sense of pride, mixed with sickness, as I realize that I am not that pathetic asshole.  She wasn’t going to walk out that door on me, no way.  I will not long for her, long for our yesterdays. 

Yesterday love was such an easy game to play
Now I need a place to hide away
Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Lennon says love was an easy game to play.  It’s never been for me, not yesterday, not the day before, not the day before that.  But he is right when he says he needs a place to hide away.  That’s exactly what I need.  I make my decision.  I choose freedom.  I go to the bedroom, grab my duffle bag from the closet.  I throw some clothes and shoes inside, and bury the bloody knife under them.  I walk to the front door, looking back at the mangled body, cuts and guts resting over her stillness.  I turn the knob and walk out the door.  So long yesterday. 


Monday, September 22, 2014

Book Review - Summerland by Elin Hilderbrang

                When I walk into a restaurant, and see groups of friends eating dinner with their children, I generally don’t think twice about the people in my view.  I don’t think about the relationships among the adults, if the couples are happy, if anyone is unfaithful. I surely don’t think about the children, what their interactions are like, what they might be thinking or feeling.  To me, they’re just people.  We’re constantly surrounded by others in our immense world, so we choose the easiest path:  to ignore them and focus on ourselves.  But, if we were to take a magnifying glass and look deeper into each of those dinner tables, we would see worlds of conflict, emotion, and content, similar to our own.  In her novel Summerland, Elin Hilderbrand takes out a magnifying glass to look deeper at one of those dinner tables, whilst unraveling the tragic story of a teenage girl.  

                As all of Hilderbrand’s novels do, Summerland takes place on the beautiful Massachusetts island of Nantucket.  The novel begins by describing a group of juniors in high school:  Penny and Hobby Alistair, twins, daughter and son of Zoe Alistair; Jake Randolph, son of Ava and Jacob Randolph; and Demeater Castle, daughter of Lynne and Al Castle.  With their parents’ close friendship, the four children are interconnected nearly from birth.  It is the love, hate, and indifference in the interconnected worlds of the adults and children that lead to the tragic death of Penny Alistair.

                On graduation night, the juniors decide to go to the beach to celebrate the end of the school year, and their upcoming senior year.  The four children, Penny and Jake (a couple), Hobby (twin brother of Penny), and Demeater spend the evening partying on the beach with their classmates.  All are drinking, except for Penny, who does not touch alcohol, in order to protect her greatest gift, her singing voice.  During the evening, Demeater and Penny disappear into the sand dunes to use the bathroom.  Penny returns, extremely agitated, crying and yelling, for what reason no one knows.  The four children decide to leave the beach, and Penny insists on driving her boyfriend, Jake’s, car, since everyone else has been drinking.  Penny herself is bursting with anger, yet when confronted, will not to explain what has upset her.  More importantly, when Jake tries to take the keys from her, she refuses to give them up.  All enter in the car, Penny behind the wheel.

                What ensues is a catastrophic car accident.  In her rage, Penny drives wildly, eventually speeding up and taking the car and its four passengers over a cliff.  Penny dies instantly from the crash,  and her brother, Hobby, is in a coma with sixteen broken bones. Demeater and Jake, the only two wearing seatbelts, come out unscathed.  What follows is the story of the evening, the events leading up to it, and the results of the tragic accident.  Left up in the air throughout the novel is what exactly happened between Penny and Demeater when they went to the sand dunes, why Penny became so angry, and ultimately what caused the accident.  Each chapter is told from a different point of view: one of the parents, children, or the town of Nantucket.  We learn about each person, and their relationships with the others in the group, all of which plays a part in the unfortunate accident.

                This novel had a lot going on; many character, several subplots, and abundant switches from the past to present.  Nevertheless, Elin HIlderbrand did an awesome job of putting it all together and connecting it all into one theme:  acceptance (I will refrain from elaborating, as to avoid spoilers).  The story flowed along nicely, and there was rarely a slow moment.  It was not the traditional page turner (e.g., “I must know what happens NOW!”) but I was intrigued and eager to find out what happened next.  Hilderbrand took a lot on with this novel, and her end product is a wonderful, well-executed, touching novel that both entertained me and caused me to reflect upon the characters and myself.

                With so many characters, I feel it worthwhile to mention my favorite.  By far, I found Demeater to be the most interesting.  Demeater was a seventeen-year-old overweight alcoholic, the one who provided the alcohol (a stolen bottle of Jim Beam) to the teenagers the night of the accident.  She longed to be accepted by her peers, yet existed in a world of self-hatred due to her compulsive behaviors.  Throughout the novel, in spite of the constant lies that she told, I found that Demeater was the voice of brutal honesty, both in her inner monologue and dialogue with others.  In no way was she in denial about her alcoholism, or her theft; she was boldly upfront about it. From pleasantly going to work and eating dinner with her parents while drunk, to admitting that she was “happier than ever” when intoxicated, and loved the thrill of stealing.  I also appreciated her matter-of-fact perspective on her relationship with her parents, and how she saw their ignorance and denial with regard to her faults and secrets in a clear light.  Demeater was smart, sly, and anything but likeable.  Nevertheless, I liked the edge that she gave to the story, and that with her, I could both abhor her and feel empathy for her. 

                With Summerland my joy in chick lit has been rekindled.  This book reminded me of what this genre can offer, which is so often blinded with subpar authors who turn it into contrite dialogue and silly, predictable stories (if I have to read another book about some twenty-something that works for a magazine…).  I also now have a greater appreciation for Elin Hilderbrand, whom I formally thought of as a writer for the rich stay-at-home moms (I mean, ALL of her books take place in Nantucket?), and I fully intend to devour all of her other novels.

                Would I recommend this book?  To a chick lit fan, absolutely.  As previously mentioned, it gives this genre a new-found credibility.  In addition, it is a touching story that will make you think about the people around you, and all of the unknowns and complexities that lay under our blankets of life.  

Thursday, September 18, 2014

AS GREEN AS THEY COME


I stare at the slab of green fabric facing me.  The dress is one of those “one shoulder” designs, having one strapless side, and the other with a short sleeve, barely covering my enter shoulder.  A black patent leather belt with a large green flower resembling a rose wraps around its high waist.  It is shiny, covered with glowing patches where the light hits the material.  Its knee-length pencil skirt causes my thin legs to stick out like tree branches.  I smile back at my reflection in the mirror, feeling like a green goddess. 

“Soooooooo eighties” says Bethany, as I exit the dressing room and spin around.  She is standing a few feet away, cell phone in hand, noisily gnawing on her gum.  “Whatever” I respond back, giggling.  I look at myself in the larger mirror outside the dressing room, and realize that Bethany is right; it is pure eighties, but I don’t care.  This dress, it will make me someone at prom.  I won’t just be the youngster, the joke that Billy Bradley is taking with him.  I will be that girl, the girl in that dress.

I see Bethany behind me in my reflection in the mirror, wobbling slightly in her wooden wedge heels. Her blond bangs cover her greasy, acne-covered forehead.  As she walks, she grips the ends of her white lace sundress, much too short for a girl of fourteen, and licks her fire engine red lips.  “Holy shit, Natalie, you CANNOT go in that.”  “Oh yes I can, and yes I will,” I reply back smugly.  I walk up and down the hallway of the dressing room, on tip toes, pretending I’m donning 4-inch stilettos, green to match, of course, and do a slow spin for Bethany.  She laughs, and then her laugh turns into a cough as she chokes on her saliva, revealing that she is only human, and not the body of awesomeness every girl our age imagines herself to be.  I ignore the wetness in her laugh, and say “It’s over the top, I know.  But I think it’s just what I need.  This will help me make my mark.”  Bethany and I look at each other and laugh at the ridiculousness of the green monster hanging around me.  “So you’re gonna get it then?” she asks accusingly.  “I think I just might” I retort, letting out a nervous giggle as the risk I’m taking truly hits me.

I return to the dressing room.  I unzip the dress, carefully taking it off, making sure not to cause any tears or loose threads.   I slip back on my light blue knit sweater that reveals my thin waist and flat midsection, and look at my reflection in the dressing room mirror.  I step into my white denim shorts, so short that the front pockets stick out from under them.  I smile back at myself, staring into my green eyes as I pull my light brown hair into a messy ponytail.  I admire my long legs and my thin, teenaged figure.  I am thirteen, small, scrawny, but what I see in the mirror, that is pure cool.

Bill Bradley had asked me to prom the previous week.  He knew I liked him; hell, everyone did.  I suppose I asked for it to be known, with all of my Facebook posts on his wall.  I had commented on pretty much every one of his 1,598 pictures, and left smiley face and heart emoticons under almost everything he posted.  Coyness has never been my specialty.  I guess I always figured that if I have something to say, say it; and if Facebook gives me a way to say it even more, then why not.  So, he knew I liked him, and when he and his long-term girlfriend of 11 months, Susanna, broke up just two weeks before prom, I suppose I was an easy alternative.

Before the prom invitation, I would often spend long nights on the phone with Bethany, my bff, speculating about Bill; if he and Susanna would ever break up, if he could possibly be interested in me.  I would stand in front of the mirror each morning after my shower, naked, and wonder what Bill would see if he were staring back at me.  Would he laugh at my small, still-developing breasts?  Or would he want to touch them, and touch me all over?   I would fantasize about his hands on my body, new sexuality brewing in me, and feel a tingly sensation between my legs as I pictured him touching me there.  Later, as I applied my daily makeup, I would look at my skin for blemishes, for any signs of acne, anxious at the idea of my clear, fair skin being tarnished, and if Bill would even consider dating someone with such imperfections.  I would apply foundation, eyeliner, mascara, pulling at my eyelids, hoping to find in them a beauty that could allure Bill, and make him realize that I was more than a litany of Facebook posts.

And now, as I take out my mother’s credit card to purchase the green dress, I feel my heart race a little, excitement dancing through my veins as the cashier slides the dress into the white plastic bag.  I know this dress is a risk, but I don’t care.  I have visions of people laughing, sneering at me; the junior girls whispering “What is with that dress?” and what they will write about me and it on Facebook.  My more optimistic self sees them looking at me in approval, admiring the guts of a thirteen-year-old nobody.  I picture Bill looking around at everyone, smirking, as if saying “Yeah, she is my date, and she’s got balls!” 

Bethany and I walk out of the store together.  “Starbucks?” she asks, as we walk toward the huge logo on the other side of the mall. “Um, yah!” I utter back.  We order our drinks, Bethany sipping on her Carmel Macchiato and me and my Vanilla Frappuccino.  She takes a sip, looking up at me and saying “So, are you feeling ready for tomorrow night?” I smile at her and say “Yeah, I think so…after we get the shoes, I’ll be good to go!  My mom’s set up hair and nails for tomorrow after school.  I think everything will work out just fine.” Bethany smiles at me, rolling her eyes “I meeeeean,” she says, “Are you ready to face the juniors…and Susana?”  “Oh I dunno, Bethy” I say, using her childhood nickname to reveal how unsure I feel.  “I mean, I’m hoping there will be no trouble….but I’m going in there an open target.  Especially with Susanna, I can’t imagine she’ll be happy to see me there.”  Bethany looks up from her drink with sympathetic eyes, “I know what you mean…I’d be so nervous in your shoes…I’d be seriously freaking out.”  “For sure” I say back with a sigh,” anxiety slowing settling over me.  I take a breath, throwing an imaginary blanket over my nerves, and say with as much feigned confidence as I can muster up, “But I’m going to rock it.” 

Bethany and I go to Macy’s, and I instantly find the stilettos I’d been envisioning.  After that, I head home, promising to call Bethany later.  I skip in the front door, eager to show my mom the dress.  I regale my parents with stories of my afternoon mall trip as we eat dinner.  After dinner, I go up to my room and slip on my green ensemble, shoes and all.  I carefully walk downstairs to the living room.  My mom is seated on the couch, iPad in lap, my dad motionless next to her, staring at the TV.  I yell “Ta da” as I shimmy in front of them.  I twirl around, feeling a huge grin take over my face.  The green fabric surrounds me, giving me a sense of sophistication that I’ve never felt, making me feel grown up in front of my parents.  My mother looks back at me and smiles.  The look on her face instantly reveals that she hates the dress.  My dad briefly glances up from the TV and gives me a small grin, his disinterest in me and the dress evident.  I look back at my mom and I pretend to believe her as she says “Oh sweetie, it’s gorgeous.”  I embrace her lie, allowing it to give me the confidence I need to move forward.

I call Bethany later that nights; she listens to my incessant, contradictory flow of excitement, worry, confidence, and concern, as I talk about the upcoming evening.  She addresses my doubts, telling me “You’ll be great, Bill will be so happy to have had you as his date when the night is over!”  She boosts my confidence, saying “That dress is gorgeous, you are going to knock all of those juniors dead with it, Bill especially.”  I hang up the phone saying I’ll see her tomorrow, my voice raspy from all of the chatter.  I turn off the lamp on my nightstand, pull the covers up, and rest my head on my pillow.  I snuggle into my snail-like slumber position, knowing that sleep will not come easily, as exhilaration and angst begin a tug-of-war in my mind. 

Eventually, I must fall asleep, because my alarm is going off.  I grab my cell phone, turning off the alarm, and check Facebook immediately.  There are a few comments about math homework and the big day on Bill’s wall, but other than that, nothing.  I check Susanna’s wall as well…limited access, since she has not friended me…but I can see enough.  Nothing of significance is there.  I get up, getting ready for my half day at school; I will leave early to get hair and makeup done, an afternoon of pampering to prepare me for the big evening.

The school day breezes by, as if it were any other day.  No one in my classes is going to prom, so for them, it is just any other Friday.  I listen to my classmates’ chatter of plans of the weekend, new apps coming out, funny YouTube videos.  I sit at my desk and float through the school day, counting the minutes until I can leave.

I seek Bill out between classes, eager to tell him how much I’m looking forward to the evening, how excited I am to see him, how much fun I think we’re going to have.  I see him at one point in the hall; he is chatting with one of his basketball teammates, and I feel too nervous to interrupt him.  This shyness, it is unlike me; I feel my lively, chatty personality slipping away, unease taking over me.  My green dress and its potential impact linger in my mind, dangling fire above my head.  Finally, it is noon, and I can leave.

My mother and I spend the afternoon in the salon; Bethany’s mother wouldn’t let her leave school early, as she is not going to prom, so it is just me and my mother going through the pampering festivities.  I sit at the salon, a middle-aged Korean woman scrubbing my fingernails with a foul smelling chemical, and feel completely frozen with excitement.  My mother sits by my side and tries to get me to “open up,” asking me “Natalie, are you okay?  This is a big day, and I can’t even imagine how you’re feeling.”  “I’m fine,” I retort,” although I know she will not believe me.   

I finish my preparations at the salon, and my mother and I head home.  There, she applies my makeup; I had wanted to get it done at the counter at the mall, but she insisted that this was the better choice.  My mother smiles proudly as she brushes the blush across my cheeks.   “I’m so excited for you” she says.  “Me too” I say back uncertainly. 

A half hour before I’m supposed to leave, Bethany calls me.  With her, I finally am able to speak freely.  “Naaaaty” she says, “This is it!  Are you ready?  Why haven’t you texted me a pic yet?”  I take a selfie in the mirror and send it to her quickly.  I then chatter with her briefly about the details of my hair and makeup, and then tell her I have to go get dressed, promising her to send her a pic of me in my green monster.  I glare at my green eighties ensemble, freshly pressed, hanging atop my closet door. I take it down, staring at its brightness, and feel the excitement run through my veins.  “I am going to prom” I whisper, as if speaking to my dress.  “Tonight is my night.”

At 8 o’clock, I hear Bill pulling up to my driveway.  I am downstairs, posing for pictures in front of my mom, who holds the camera like a trophy as she takes shot after shot.  I hear Bill approaching the front door, his dress shoes clattering as he gets closer.  My heart jumps as the doorbell rings, not once, but twice in a row.  My mom looks at me, and I whisper “You!” gesturing for her to answer the door.  Bill says hello to my mother, and she invites him in.  I feel self-conscious, wondering what Bill will think of me, my home, and most importantly, my dress.  He walks in, dressed in a black tuxedo which hugs his tall, bulky frame, perhaps a bit too tightly.  His brown, curly hair falls over around his face, and he pushes it back behind his ears as he enters.  Looking at Bill, I know that objectively, he is dorky as can be; but at Hickmont High, Bill represents the shit.  Bill is athletic, Bill is funny, Bill is admired by all the juniors and underclassman.  Bill stops walking when he sees me, and looks down quickly, smiling slightly.  “You look lovely,” he says quietly with a cough.  I feel redness come over me, fully aware that Bill is holding back laughter, but I choose to ignore it, patting down the creases in my dress, smiling big as I respond enthusiastically “Thanks!”

My mother proceeds to take picture after picture of Bill and me, arranging us in different poses.  He puts his arm around me awkwardly, trying not to let the skin of his hand make contact with my bare shoulder.  I brush off the awkwardness, putting on my best model face for each photo, as the discomfort hovers over Bill and me, like a rain cloud waiting to explode.

Finally, we leave.  Bill fumbles with the passenger-side door of his black Mustang, showing chivalry and clumsiness at the same time. I climb in, waving goodbye to my mother who stands next to my father, whose face is covered with an insincere look of pride, as my mother furiously waves goodbye.  We pull out of the driveway, and are on our way to the school.

I make efforts at small talk during our eight minute drive to Hickmont High.  Bill responds with short, empty answers.  When we finally arrive at the school, I comment on all of the balloons decorating the outside entrance, just for us. Bill put on a half-assed smile, muttering “Yup, they’re great…nice dress.” 

As we walk toward the entrance, I become aware of the severity of my dress choice.  What will the other girls say?  What will they think?  Will they laugh at me?  Will they dump pigs blood on me, like in that scary movie I had watched with my mom?  I reach my arm out toward Bill, attempting to link it through his, as couples do, for our big entrance, but he is walking too fast, and keeping up with him in my green giant shoes is difficult enough.  He pauses when we get to the open doors to the cafeteria, realizing he should wait for me.  I take a deep breath as I rush to be by his side, and we walk in.

The cafeteria is filled with juniors.  There must be 100 people there already. I find my head facing the floor, scared to make eye contact with anyone, as we walk to pick up our table numbers.  We find our number, 12, then walk to the table.  As we make our way through the cafeteria, I see junior girls looking up, smirking at me, whispering to each other as they make no attempt to hide their stares.  I feel myself flush, but continue to stand tall, with Bill by my side.  We arrive at our table, where three other couples are seated.  All of them are juniors, and I know none of them on a first name basis.  Bill slaps hands with each of the guys at the table, and nods at the ladies.  He then begins loudly talk about some sports game, failing to introduce me to anyone.

As the night goes on, and we receive our food, Bill continues to chatter on with the others at our table.  He addresses me periodically with a small nod or a “Good, huh?” to comment on the food, checking on me as if I were his shoes lace, and he’s making sure I’m still tied at his feet.  I attempt to make small talk with the other girls, but they want nothing to do with me.  I get up to go to the bathroom at some point, and I feel the eyes of the junior girls scrutinizing me as I walk toward the bathroom.  In the ladies room, I look in the mirror at myself in my green dress.  The bright green stares back at me.  I stand up straight, forcing myself to admire the dress.  I think of the jeers of the junior girls, and smile at myself, feeling self-importance brew inside of me at the thought of them noticing me, taking the time to talk about me.  I was someone. 

I go back to the table, and our plates are cleared.  People begin to dance, and surprisingly, Bill asks me to the dance floor.  We dance awkwardly for a few songs.  I again try to make conversation with him, but he answers me as if my comments are senseless, unnecessary, and he stares around at the other couples dancing.  At one point I feel tears brewing, a thickness in the back of my throat forming, but I push it away.  I look down at my green shoes, my feet throbbing, and continue to move my hips, dancing as if my life depended on it.

When a slow song finally comes on, Bill says he has to use the restroom, so I sit down.  I look out at all of the couples dancing, cheek to cheek, swaying along in sync with the music.  I push away the sadness and disappointment that threaten me as I sit in isolation at the dirty table, and remember how the junior girls watched me in my green dress.

What seems like hours later, the night finally comes to an end.  Bill continues to chat with his friends, making plans for an after party.  He doesn’t invite me, telling his friends that he has to drop me off, and will hook up with them later.  I stand up, green twinkle surrounding me, and Bill and I exit the cafeteria.  As we are exiting, we walk past Susanna, who touches Bill’s arm ever so slightly “See you at Charlie’s later?” she says with a smile.  “Sure will” Bill quietly says back, his words saturated with a flirtatious undertone.

We leave the school.  Bill doesn’t even bother to open the passenger door this time.  I let myself in, and we ride home in silence.  I think about the evening, about what a drag it was.  Nonetheless, I feel content, as I slide my hands over my legs hugged in green silk.  I tell Bill that I had a lovely time as he pulls into my driveway.  He looks at me incredulously, fully aware of the rudeness of his behavior, and manages a, “Yeah, me too.”  He says goodbye, not stepping out to walk me to the door, and I leave and head toward my house.

When I get in, I tell my mom that it was great, that I am tired, and will fill her in with details tomorrow.  She accepts this begrudgingly, allowing me to head upstairs to my room.  I enter my room, and am faced with myself again in my full length mirror.  My green monster, my risk, my success.  My memories of the evening do not include Bill’s shunning me, being ignored by others, disregarded like a speck of dust.  I look back at my dress, and see its beauty, its uniqueness, and what it made me.  I was noticed, I was someone.  I smiled upon remembering the girls’ whispers and stares; I was not the invisible thirteen-year-old at prom;I was significant, I was worthy of their words, I was the green sparkle in a room of darkness.

I unzip the side of the dress and pull it down over me, letting it drop to the floor.  I slip on my oversized sleeping shirt and hop into my bed.  I am too exhausted to check Facebook, although I feel a sense of jubilation as I think about the countless likes, smiley faces, and comments that my dress and I are likely receiving.  I close my eyes, letting teenage ignorance dance freely around me in the darkness, warming my soul as I fall into a soothing sleep.




Friday, August 29, 2014

My Future Self

MY FUTURE SELF

The little girl lies in bed, enveloped in her powder pink quilt. The ruffles that boarder it touch up against her face, grazing her white skin. As she sleeps, her chest crawls up and down, the depth of her natural breath allowing her to ease motionless into her dream. Her blond curls lay gently atop her white pillow case, her head tilted to the side, as if she were whispering out to someone.

I look at her, and I look at me. She is me. She is who I once was. She is young, she is pure, she is innocent.

I sit atop her windowsill, looking in at her, envying her beauty. I once was beautiful, but here I am, old, wrinkled, sitting on the doorstop of death, the inevitable slowly chasing after me. Seeing her, I try to remember all that will come, all that awaits her. I dig into my brain. I recall times with friends, laughing so hard I thought my lungs would collapse; I recall passionate moments with my husband, and other calm moments, sleeping aside him, back to back, an invisible rope of tranquil love connecting us. I recall the birth of my own daughter, and see a reflection of her in myself lying in bed. I look at my young self, and clasp my hands together, feeling the looseness of the skin around my knuckles, and the roughness that age has bestowed on me.

I sit on the windowsill and feel the night’s breeze around me. I look outside the window, realizing that this moment will end, that I will awake and no longer experience this future. I will escape from the intense melancholy wrapped around the knowledge that it will all end so soon. 

I feel the breeze slide over my face as I slowly awake. I sit up in bed and let out a gentle yawn. The softness of my mattress and the heat that resides between my body and blanket comfort me. I sit up, wiping my eyes and itching my scalp under my light blond curls. I look toward the windowsill and see where I once was. I feel my future self, all of her soon-to-be lost memories floating around her, giving her a false wisdom that will slowly fade into emptiness.

I walk toward the window, and look out at the stars. I choose one, a ball of golden sparkles, and glare as the recently-awakened-child fog loiters upon me. I close my eyes, surrounded by the darkness of nothingness, and make a wish. I then walk back to bed, and eager to return to my tender sleep.

Saturday, August 16, 2014

A Black Dot Below


A BLACK DOT BELOW






It’s a beautiful Tuesday afternoon. I’m sitting under my favorite oak tree at Thealer Park, book in hand, with a slight breeze gliding over my body. The leaves provide me with uneven patches of shade, covering some of me, leaving other parts of me exposed to the soft sun, wrapped around pieces of my wan skin.

I look up from my book to the soccer field on the other side of the park. Young boys run around kicking the ball furiously, as if all that existed in the world were them, the ball, and the goal. Looking at them, I can taste their energy as they give all they can, as they reach out for the potential success, each one visualizing making that goal. Such naivety.

I turn back to my book, bored with another mystery novel. Another day, another nothing. I loiter around, living a silence, my head empty of words. Meaninglessness surrounds me, tickling me with apathy as I drag through time. It is me, the sun, my insignificant book, and the senselessly hopeful boys that form my universe.

I hold my book loosely in my hands and take a deep breath. I hear a noise. It’s squeaky, high-pitched, irritating my ears for a brief moment. “Hey you!” it shouts. “Hey you!” I look all around me, expecting to see a deranged three-year-old alien running toward me, but I am alone under my tree. The only others in sight are the soccer players and a few picnickers at a distance.

I hear the noise again. I look down, and there is a queen ant resting in the jagged shadow of a leaf. “No,” I whisper to myself. But lo and behold, I hear it again “Yes yes yes!” says the voice back to me. And I swear to fucking God, it is coming right from the queen ant below me.

I feel my body heat up and my heart race, the panic of being utterly insane infusing me. “Yes, it’s me talking” says the shrilling voice. “No, you’re not crazy…you are just hearing me.” I look down at the ant. No, there are no lips moving (even I know that ants have no lip). But something in her body shakes, almost vibrating, as the voice comes out of her.

“I am not hearing an ant, I am not hearing an ant” I whisper to myself. I try to move, to get up, run away from this squeaky creature, from my unhinged self. But I am frozen, bolted down by my racing heart and my bewildered state.

The ant continues to speak. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m not supposed to talk to you, or to anyone really. But today, I had a realization. The average lifespan of an ant is sixty days. Barely two months, can you believe it? And here, I’ve been alive forty-five days….my time is running short, needless to say. So I want to talk, I want to be heard.”

“But don’t you talk to your other ants?” I respond. I feel the heat escaping me, a coolness taking over me as my body begins to relax. I accept my peculiar situation, and that I am speaking to an ant.

“Yes,” she replies, “But it’s always the same with them. All they talk about is food, food, food… ‘Smell out the area, grab it, and bring it home’ they tell me over and over again. When they’re not talking about food, it’s building. ‘Gather dirt, pebbles, and build, build, build.’ It’s all so necessary, yet so banal. I just want to run away sometimes, but food and building, for as much as I despise them, are all I know, all I am capable of. Kind of a catch 22 I suppose.”

I look down at the ant, her black skin glistening in the sun, her words pulsating from her body and shining like glitter in the air. “I know what you mean” I respond back to her. The ant and I sit in silence for a bit. “I feel the same way sometime, too, you know,” I tell the ant. “Like everyone around me, they inanely go through the steps of everyday, and for what? Why? What’s the point? But then I see myself going through those same steps, and realize that I’m no different from them.”

We sit in silence a bit longer. Then, I look down toward the ant, wanting to ask her her name. But she is no longer there. I look back at the soccer players, and collect my book. I lift myself up, brushing the dirt off my pants as I ready myself to head back to work, having far exceeded my lunch break once again. As I walk to my car, I see an ant hill lying in the thin, dying brown grass along the sidewalk. I feel a connection with the hill, with the perplexity of the ants inside of it, realizing that we are more united than I had ever believed. As I walk on I allow my shoe to slide over the ant hill, demolishing the home and all that reside in it. Some may say this is a heartless thing to do. But, I am a human, and to destroy those weaker than me, well, for as ugly as that is, it is part me.

Saturday, June 7, 2014

Everywhere


Everywhere 


In his classic hit, good ole’ Sting sang, “Every breath you take, every move you make, I’ll be watching you.” Now, everyone says that song is about a stalker. Me, on the other hand; I’d like to think it’s about me.

You see, I am air. That’s right, air. I am EVERYWHERE. You cannot see me, you cannot feel me most of the time (unless I get a bit frazzled, then I can really give you a chill!), and you cannot hold me. I surround you, I sustain you, I watch you 24/7. And you’ve got nothing on me.

The Ancient Greeks talk about the classical elements, those things that reflect the essential parts that create everything in existence: earth, wind, fire, and last but certainly not least, AIR. Little do they know, I am the one at the center of those elements, I am the solidifying one, the glue that holds everything together. I sustain all life, all existence. Without me, you foolish mammals, you would be empty, useless beings, all carnal, no mental. You would be vacant, lungs empty, collapsed, you in a choking haze, on your deathbed, forever gone from this world.

I am invisible, yet I see more than anyone else. I swish around the world, watching you creatures crawl about, allowing you to live so that you can wake to see another day. I am invisible and invincible, yet I, like all, have moments of weakness. When I am held back from people, I must watch their demise, and this hurts me. When Susan Smith pushed her car with her three children into that lake, I remember reaching out for them. I wanted so badly to jump into the water, to fill their lungs with life, to save them. But it was beyond me, a weakness I could not surpass. I saw them die from atop the water, sadness overwhelming me.

I am sentimental, but I can also be furious. I am no saint, after all. Hurricane Frances; my greatest shame, and my greatest mark. So many died because of my fury. Could I have controlled it? Maybe. But I was too wrapped up in my own rage to try.

Then there are the tornados. In them lies my true release. There, I dance around, a cylindrical ballerina, each turn of my pirouette creating mounds of destruction. Do I regret this? Perhaps I regret the people who die because of my demolition, or those foolish enough to chase me; but I wouldn’t give it up for the world. They allow me to float freely, a rush in a world of calm.

I have seen so many things in my existence; so much love and hate, observed quiet tears that were thought to be shed alone, seen the horrors and joys of life, and caused so much happiness and destruction. I am me, and I am here, and I will continue to thrive until our planet becomes washed away in a dark misery.

I am air, I am invisible, and I am everywhere. As I record these thoughts, I wrap myself around an autumn tree, helping its brown, crisp leaves, fall from its branches. As they descend through me, I see beauty born as the sun shines on them, revealing the life they once possessed.

Waking Up

WAKING UP




I woke up in a haze. Everything around me was blurry. I rubbed my eyes as they adjusted to the darkness. I could see through it someone standing in front of me. Tall, thin, dressed in a bright orange pencil skirt, with a silk floral blouse tucked into it. Her slim figure fit perfectly into the clothes. She wore a long gold necklace around her neck, which draped elegantly over the blouse. She was perfect.

I turned my head so it was facing the objects next to me; a red see-through blouse, hanging up. Behind it lay a series of identical red blouses, all lined up perfectly on the rack. “Where am I?” I thought. Then I remembered the events of the previous day.

I had woken up under Petersbrook Bridge, like any other morning, around 5AM. Usually I can sleep through the sounds of the cars for a little bit, but by 5 or so it’s just not possible. I picked up my sack o’ goods, consisting of a few snacks I’d scrounged up, some winter gear, and some reading material I’d acquired. On some days I’m lucky enough to wake up with some hooch left over; not that day, though.

It was spring in New York, so I left my winter gear in my bag, and went on with my usual routine. I washed my face and hands in the 7-11 bathroom down the street. As I did so, I looked at my dirty reflection in the mirror. God, I looked like crap. Then, I was on my way to make rounds.

Now, being homeless really isn’t so bad. My life actually has a lot of meaning. By meaning, I mean hooch. I ain’t no druggy. Not for lack of trying though; I just can’t afford the stuff anymore. In my prime days, I loved me some c-dust and k, but nowadays, well, my pockets are just too empty for that stuff, and so I’ve had to stick to cheaper alternatives.

So my hooch search began at about 5:30am. First and foremost, I needed money. This consisted of sitting at my favorite spot, in front of the Korean Grocery store. And there I stayed, until I had enough.

You know, sitting in front of that grocery, day in and day out, is never where I thought I would be at my age. But I made a few wrong turns, hung out with a few of the wrong people, and bam, here I am. Do I want to change my life? The truth of the matter is, I want to want to change my life; but as many wants as I add there, it just aint’ happening.

At about 8am I had enough money for a cheap bottle of vodka. So, off to my favorite corner store I went. The owner knows me well. Well, by “well” I mean, he watches me like a hawk, knowing I’m apt to steal something if given the opportunity. I get my vodka and go. I head for Central Park, where I know I can drink in peace. Under Petersbrook, well there will be too many people trying to get a piece of my goods.

After drinking my vodka and people watching, I find a nice spot under a tree where I can fall asleep into oblivion. Like every other day, a police officer wakes me up. By then it’s after 3pm, and I’m off for round 2. This time, I head for a corner store on 45th and Broadway, a new location. I sit there a couple hours with my cap held out, until the owner realizes what I’m doing and gives me the boot. I leave with my head up, try to give off the impression that I have some pride left in me.

As I walk away from the store, I look into my hat. And lo and behold, I scored a $20! I didn’t even look at it, and I’m shocked. I’m beyond shocked: I’m elated! This means I can get the real good stuff, and that I will do. And I know just where to get it from.

I head to my buddy Bill’s neck of the woods, on the outskirts of Pillborough Bridge. And there I score the good stuff. I’m in such a good mood, I even smoke Bill out; share and share alike I figure. As I inhale through Bill’s rusty pipe, I feel a sense of serenity wash over me. There are not words to explain what I feel. Ecstasy? Euphoria? Perfection? I don’t know, it’s just a feeling I would do anything to experience over and over again.

So, I’m high off my ass, and feeling a bit lonely. I ask Bill if he want to do a little window shopping with me, since that’s pretty much the only thing we can do without getting our asses into trouble. We walk down 44th and Broadway, checking out all the displays outside the shops. We walk in a few, but all of the stare, they’re just bothersome, as I’m sure you can imagine.

I don’t know how long we were traipsing around for. We sat down at one point, and with my remaining money we split a hot dog. Bill was telling me a story about how his boy shit himself at some amusement park years ago; I was laughing my ass off, not because the story was funny, but because the idea of even having a boy just made me think about who I was: a fucking druggy bum, worthless, disgusting, a real sad sack of shit. My high was completely gone at this point, and I was starting to sober up. I looked at my dirty hands as Bill continued to talk, and saw my life in them in the mud caked over them. Dark, disgusting, yet completely fixable; if only I’d find a sink to wash all of the nastiness away. But I chose to ignore each sink I walked by, and to remain in my world of nothingness.

Bill and I begged a bit at a corner gas station, until we had enough for some hooch. We each got a 40 and a small bottle of tequila to split. We drank and talked in front of the gas station, then Bill said he had some people to meet up with, and left. I sat by myself, and decided to continue window shopping, by my lonesome.

I don’t know what time it was, but I was walking past Macy’s, and though it would be fun to go in. It was pretty empty in there, and surprisingly, no one seemed to notice me. I walked around for a bit, looking the dresses and suits, picturing me in them, me dressed in a different reality, someone else, someone I could be, but I had disposed of entirely.

I suppose I must have gotten tired in my drunken stupor, and lied down for a nap. And now here I am, awake, staring at the lovely mannequin in front of me. I get up, feeling my back ache, as usual, after years of sleeping on the floor. My mouth is like cotton, which is nothing new, and my head has its habitual throbbing feeling. I walk toward the mannequin, and the top part of her blouse. I run my fingers down the front, over the buttons, feelings its smoothness. I put my hands over her hips, feeling the soft touch of the skirt, and the roundness of her hips in my palms. I take a few steps back, and look at her perfection, standing there for a few moments.

I then turn around to get my bag, and am faced with myself. I see a long mirror. All of this glamour around me, and there is me, dirt-covered, waking up in a Macy’s alone in the middle of the night. I think of all of the possibilities as I grab my bag, and hope I can figure out how to unlock the doors so that I can make my way back to my worthless existence.

Friday, May 23, 2014

Mice Escape

Mice Escape


One mouse two mouse red mouse blue mouse. They’re everywhere! Ewe ewe ewe ewe! How did this happen? What am I going to do? I look at the tipped over cage, glass shattered all over the floor. Shit!

So, I do what any other responsible 26-year-old woman would do: I walk out of the pets store, and say fuck it. I had been working at PetCenter for about two months, and quite frankly, it sucked. The place smelled like ass, non-stop chirping of birds, all sorts of poop pellets everywhere, and a jungle of cages filled with a variety of nasty animals. The place was noisy, gross, and overall a big bore.

I guess you’ve gathered that I’m not an animal lover. Then why work at a pet shop you ask? Well, I saw a help wanted sign outside the door, I needed the money, and that was that.

I’ve been job jumping since I finished college three years ago. After high school, I kept my kickass job as a server at Houlihan’s job, until they closed down back in ’09. I loved that job. Some might say waitressing is hard work: not for me. I loved putting on my sweetass fake smile, greeting tables, up-selling, getting people to buy ginormous alcoholic beverages and greasy-ass appetizers they didn’t even know they wanted.

After Houlihan’s closed down, it was like my life ended. The wait and kitchen staff, my former best friends, well, everyone just went their separate ways. No more going out for drinks after our shifts, no more sneaky cig breaks during free moments, no more anything. It’s like the people I thought were closest to me, it’s like it was all a joke. Now, they all either moved away, or they found new peeps to hang with at their new jobs. And I’m left all on my own with rabbit shit.

I tried finding other serving jobs: Chile’s, Applebee’s, Cheesecake Factory. But, honestly, none of it felt right. It just wasn’t the same. So I’d stay at those jobs a few months, and then move on. I eventually started trying other things: retail (oh, my time at the Gap was such a hoot!) and even the local movie theater. Then I decided to go back to school in 2012, thinking I’d be a nurse. And lo and behold, I actually graduated.

So why have I not moved on to changing IV bags or wiping old peoples’ asses? Well, I suppose that would be just too much reality for me. So, instead, I jump from job to job, hoping I will find my Houlihan’s fit again.

As I walk down the strip mall sidewalk, lighting up a Malboro and leaving the pet store behind, I see a former buddy of mine, a cook at Houlihan’s walking on the other side of the road. “Hey, Jim” I yell toward him. I say it a bit louder, as he hasn’t heard me “Hey, Jim, Jim, Jim!” He continues to walk down the road. I can’t be sure if he didn’t hear me, or he’s ignoring me; I suppose it’s irrelevant at this point.


Fuck him, I think to myself. I walk toward my old beat up Chevy, wondering what I will do next. I lean against the passenger side door, and take out my wallet. I have $28 cash, and a bunch of crumpled receipts. I decide to go score some weed, and that maybe in a stoned haze some reason for being will come to me.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Pointless

POINTLESS


We’re all going to die one day. So if that’s the case, then why does anything matter? What’s the point in doing anything? Why have goals, ambitions; who cares about the future? Aren’t we all just lying in a pool of insignificance?

These thoughts fly through my head as my homeroom teacher finishes the sentence she is writing across the circa 1984 green chalk board. What has she written? “Three goals I have for myself this academic year are…” The sentence is in cursive, a writing style even more antiquated than the chalkboard. Fuck her, fuck this dumb homeroom, this dumb school, fuck life. It’s all so worthless. Yet I take out a notebook, obedience ingrained in my DNA. Here goes nothing.

I think for a few minutes, chewing on my pencil eraser as I do so. I just can’t get over how dumb this is! So ridiculous. Yet I jot some things down all the same.

1. Read more books

2. Make more friends

3. Be kinder and more considerate to my classmates

There, I’ve done it. Now I can rest. I put down my pencil, sigh, and turn toward the 8am sun shining through the classroom windows. Oh, to be home in bed, cuddling my soft pink comforter, the sun glittering through my bedroom window, lost in sleep, unconsciousness protecting me from the monotony of reality, free to play in my dreams. But no - here I am, amongst these fools, in this useless endeavor we call an education.

My homeroom teacher approaches me; I’ve already forgotten her name. She reads over my goals, and smiles. She continues to circulate the room, looking over my classmates’ papers. She nods and smiles periodically, showing the same disinterest as glances over each paper. I continue to chew on my pencil, boredom seeping into me, without having even begun first period yet.

Homeroom Teacher tells everyone to stop writing. She then asks for volunteers to stand up and explain one of their goals. Naturally, not one hand goes up. She then says nervously “Kassy, why don’t we start with you?” I have no idea how she even knows my name already. Whatever. I stand up. I feel my gray linen skirt sticking to my butt, the sweat having built on my legs after sitting for some time, and clandestinely attempt to free it. I’m sure everyone’s seen me, and I begin to feel my face heat up with embarrassment. I clear my throat, and nervously turn to my paper. I read my first goal, “Read more books.” Homeroom Teacher then asks me “What is one book you would like to read?” Stupid bitch. I stare at her, and feel a gush of red infuse my forehead, cheeks, and chin. Of course, I can name no books. I am fifteen, and my summer was spent playing video games and watching reality tv. “Well then,” she retorts “What’s one book you read this summer?” I continue to stand there in silence, humiliation saturating my mind and body, wanting to squeeze myself together into a snail-like spiral and hide from the world.

Ten minutes later, the bell rings, and the students eagerly run out of the classroom. Seven hours later, school has ended. I see Mrs. Homeroom Teacher outside, getting into her car. I see her mutter something, her face forming into an expression of frustration. She closes the driver-side door and quickly walks back toward the school. I stand outside with all of the other kids, gathered to chat while waiting for parent pick-ups and buses. I walk toward Homeroom Teacher’s car, exhilaration beginning to tickle my body. As I get closer, I feel a full-on thrill rush through me, my heart beginning to race, tingles in my arms and legs, and a slight feeling of light headedness. I look around to see if anyone is near, although the truth is, I really don’t care. I take out my Swiss army knife from the front pocket of my green North Face backpack and open it up, pulling the silver, somewhat rusted, knife out. I kneel down, and forcefully thrust the blade into the tire. I then attempt to pull it out, realizing that it is pretty well wedged in. I pull harder, and it comes out, air gushing out of the tire with it, the force pushing me onto my back.


I get up, close my knife, and return it to the front pocket of my backpack. I brush off my skirt and legs, turn around, and head toward home. As I walk down the sidewalk, a feeling of calm reigns over me, as I think that perhaps today I added some meaning to the pool of insignificance we call life.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

One-way Ticket

One-way ticket



Amanda, Amanda, Amanda. What the fuck is wrong with you? What goes on in that twisted little brain of yours? The date was January 11, 2010. I was holding up my weekly Time magazine, engrossed in an article about the one and only: Ms. Amanda Knox. My hero, my nemesis, my everything.

I remember when I first heard of the story. I was perusing CNN.com, and I came across an article about my soon-to-be reason-for-being. I thought “another murder, another day.” Then, a few more articles, a few more, and the story just blew up! Everyone was talking about her. “Amanda Knox, American in Italy arrested for murder”; “Is Foxy Knoxy REALLY so innocent after all?” I could not get over how much attention the story was getting! And as I saw Amanda’s face in the news more and more, I began to feel a force pulling us together. At first, it was like a little static electricity…and quicker than I’d like to admit, I began to feel like we were two magnets being driven together. Now, it’s as if there is a gravitational force pulling me to her, and as hard as I try to jump up and out of it, to be free, I cannot leave Amanda-sphere.

I don’t know what started my obsession with Amanda. She’s cute, but let’s be honest - nothing special. She’s got a decent little bod, a bit hefty for me. And she’s a total moron…not usually what I’m attracted to. But something about her, something about her just drew me in. The thought of her wearing that sexy red G-string, purchased the day of the murder, so cute on her lying-bitch-conniving little ass.

Now, I suppose after that statement, you’ve gathered how I feel about her innocence. I shouldn’t even put the pronoun “her” and “innocence” in the same sentence, as far off as they are. But I suppose part of what attracts me to her so is that she’s a murdering little pot-smoking-whore. I have fantasies of her holding up the knife that killed Meredith, so stealthily taken from Rodolfo’s kitchen drawer, seductively licking the blade, then straddling me, placing the blade tip up to my neck, smiling that wicked little smile of hers. And I tell you, I nearly come in my pants every time.

At first, my Amanda addiction freaked me out like nothing else. I mean, what is wrong with me? Why do I care about this dumb little bitch? What is so grand about her? What makes her hotter than Miley Cyrus or Lindsay Lohan? Or the lovely Meredith Kircher for Christ’s sake? It just doesn’t make sense! The whole thing is just pretty sick, as anyone in their right mind can see.

But I love Amanda. I love her, I love her, and I want her to tie me up, do nasty things to me, I want to break her out of prison, to show her who is really in control. I want her to sing to me in Italian, to take her soccer ball she so deftly played with (those pictures of her from high school, oh boy), cover it in honey, in wax, in whatever it may be, and do wild things to it with me. My feelings, however obscene they may be, are real.

So, I started writing letters to Miss Amanda. When the case first came out, I wrote about once a week. About six months into it, twice a week. By the end of the first year, well, I’ll just say it…every day (and those are just the ones I sent). Now, we’re into year two of the trial…and let’s just say, I spend a lot of time pencil in hand (pun intended)…a mix of love, lust, and hysteria taking hold of me, as I write her letters about my day, my feelings for her, what I want to do to her (and what I want her to do to me), and hell, even some poems here and there.

Has she writing back you ask? No, not once. Over 300 letters, 0 responses. So, as I sit here at my desk in my dim bedroom, I look at my open suitcase on my bed. Clothes neatly folded inside - enough for a week or two. On top of my desk lies my one way ticket to Italy, where she is currently imprisoned. I am sick of this little cunt ignoring me, and I will not take it anymore! Amanda thinks I’m a stranger, and I do see where she is coming from. But in my reality, the reality that I hold closest to my heart, that I will never be able to let go of, she is mine. And she will be mine.


I may be a sick fuck, but I’m a sick fuck on my way to Italy – Foxy Knoxy, here I come!

Monday, April 21, 2014

Slivering along

Slivering along


Things haven’t been bad since we took over the world. I bet you’re asking yourself, “Who is this ‘we’?” Well, it’s the rattlesnakes of course!

The year is 2678. And yes, there are still humans around. But they don’t rule the roost like they used to! Now it’s us in charge. We sliver our way down the streets, hissing along the way, making sure all is safe and sound. We wouldn’t want any uprisings, after all.

Now how did this happen? I have one word for you: evolution, baby! Yes, humans were the most evolved species. They were horrified of us for centuries, knowing the danger our venom could cause them, running away from us, terrified. But little did they know what we were up to while they were pissing away with fear!

While humans left us alone, afraid to touch us, frightened of being obliterated by our poison, we were becoming bigger, stronger, and even MORE poisonous, little by little. Back in the good old twenty-first century we were about four feet long, five pounds. But in a few hundred years a lot can change…we kept hidden, which wasn’t very hard, considering how unpopular we were. And we ate and ate and ate (mmm, rats and gophers!), grew and grew and grew, and reproduced like WOAH. And soon our four feet become twenty, and five pounds became one-hundred, and our population, it sky-rocketed! And we got STRONGER, and our venom even more potent!

Then one day, the old tribe, led by Jorb and Coza, brought together the first RSU (Rattlesnakes Strong and United) army, to be followed by hundreds of armies worldwide. Did our armies have weapons? Hell no! All we needed was our size, stealth, and super poison.

We did, however, need a plan; no matter how poisonous you are, how deadly you are, you humans are still pretty darn smart. So we mapped out our strategy: We started in the US, with the good ol’ Amarillo, Texas clan making the first attack. Then each of our armies hit our appointed countries, and little by little, we were the majority! Did we kill you all? Of course not! That would be just no fun.

So, the year is 2678, and us rattlesnakes, we are in charge. As much as evolution has helped us physically, in terms of our size and poisonous capabilities, we still aren’t all that social of creatures. So we basically just sliver along, occupying our days on the hunt. And what has happened of you humans you ask?

We call them “surlaps,” which in our tongue is more or less equivalent to prisons. We make them out of leaves, vines, and sap, sort of like a combination of a bird’s nest and a spider web. And there remain the humans, all 1 billion of you or so. It’s funny, as used to us as you must be, you still cringe every time one of us approaches you. And that look of sheer terror, well it’s just such a hoot. During the weekends, our only pleasure time, we usually choose a few surlaps, take you on out, and drop you in a ditch with a few hundred of us. It’s such a darling show, so much jumping and yelping and pleading for help. Not bad entertainment, if you ask me.

So that’s life here in 2678. Taking over the world was pretty great, but life now, well it’s not all that much different than before. What the hell, who am I kidding…it’s way better than before, it is AWESOME ruling the world. As you humans know, being on the top of the totem pole is pretty grand.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Delicious, Disgusting, Decisions



Delicious, Disgusting, Decisions

Barbeque or Sour Cream and Onion. Barbeque or Sour Cream and Onion. The bags of Lays stare back at me from their spot on the shelf in the wide aisle of the supermarket. They both are pulling at me, yelling my name “Buy me, buy me” they shout. Barbeque makes an excellent case: “I’m tangy, yet sweet. I kick at your tongue as you lick your lips and feel that slight burn dance in your mouth. I am the life of the party, I will fulfill all of your needs.” Sour Cream and Onion come in with a sharp rebuttal: “I am amazingly creamy, even in my powdery form. My crunchy richness will amaze you, and then the onion will jump in to shock you, perplexing your taste buds, making you beg for more.”

This is me, at 2am, in Walmart. In my old, baggy, gray sweatpants with a hold in the left knee, my white tube socks (complements of my ex), my Nikes, and my favorite UCLA pull-over hoody. Hair matted, standing, or better yet, slouching, in front of my current best friends: chips. Chips oh chips, how I love thee. I feel my belly pinching out from my sweat pants, but choose to ignore it. My fat just needs more chips!

Now, a sane person would say, “Just get both chips.” Of course! An even saner person would say, “Go to bed, you crazy lady. You should be asleep at this hour!” An even saner person would say, “Dude, it’s pretty pathetic that you’re at Walmart in your jammies at 2am on a Saturday night.” To all of those people, I say, Fuck you (with a capital F).

I grab the barbeque, and head to the check-out line. Of course there are only two open at this hour, both with long lines. I wait, chips in hand, eager to get home let the barbeque prove itself to me. It’s finally my turn to check out. The cashier places my barbeque treasure against the scanner. Nothing. She tries again. Still nothing. Again, again, again, then again, then again. The dumb fuck really thinks this will work at some point. “Can’t you just type the code in?” I ask. She turns the bag around so the barcode faces her, as if this idea were a novel, confusing idea. She looks at it, looks back up at me, and said “No, the numbers somehow got smudged, I can’t read them. I”ll call for a price check.” “No, it’s fine,” I retort. “I’ll just get another bag.”

There I am, back at the chip aisle, once again faced with the barbeque and sour cream and onion debate. It’s as if I have to make the decision all over again. So unfair, stupid smudge. I grab the sour cream and onion this time, guessing that fate smudged the bar code, wanting me to make this choice. I take the bag, and walk back toward the check-out counter.

As I do, I catch a glimpse of him in my periphery. My ex, laughing his girly, giddy laugh, walking toward me with whom I can only presume is his new girlfriend, hand in hand. She has a huge smile across her face and giggles softly as he laughs away. Love and lust emanate from them. He looks up and sees me, and his facial expression suddenly changes from glee to utter mortification. My heart races, I look back at him. All of our moments together flash through my mind: our first kiss, late night Taco Bell runs, lounging on the couch watching movies, going from club to club dancing and kissing on our crazy nights. Then the last moment hits me: Him, over the phone, saying to me “I’m sorry, I wish I felt differently, but I just think this is the right thing for us both.” I see those moments, and they feel brand new.

I quickly leave Walmart, chips in hand, hurrying out, not caring that I didn’t pay. I find my car, and sit in the driver’s seat. I feel my bag of Lays in my lap. I open the bag, pull out a chip, and bite into it. I taste the creamy powder, feel the onion pierce into my tongue. I put chip after chip into my mouth, the flavor changing as my salty tears creep into my mouth. I continue to eat, until the bag is empty. I feel sick to my stomach. I get out of the car, empty bag in hand. I walk to the trash can. As I do, I see my ex exit the Walmart, looking around, preoccupied. Looking for me, of course, hoping he does not see me. I stand in front of the metal garbage can a few feet from my car. I throw away the empty bag of chips, once filled with such delicious delightfulness, now vacant, having left only traces of repulsion coating my insides. I turn back to the car, get in, turn on the ignition, and drive toward away.

No decision

No decision

It was sucked out of me. Just like that. Snap. So long. Bye bye. It was gone forever. I stared up at the white ceiling, and felt nothing. I heard buzzing, as the doctor held down the button next to my chair, raising me back to an upright position. He told me to remain seated for a few moments, and then I could leave. He said to call him if there were any problems.

I sat up in a daze, then closed my eyes again. I practiced my relaxation breathing, a technique taught to me a few therapists ago. In deep through the nose, feel my stomach extend as my diaphragm is pushed down, exhale slowly through the mouth. As if that made a difference.

A few minutes passed, me sitting in my paper robe, legs exposed, feeling a slight shiver run through my back as the cool air coming out of the vent above me tickled me all over. I listened to the hum of the air conditioner as the air blew over me, using the noise as my focus point, so that I could clear my head of everything else.

I opened my eyes as the door opened, the nurse coming back to check on me. She gave me instructions as to post-op care, then said I could get dressed and leave. She walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. I slowly rose from the chair, peeling my sticky skin from its plastic cover. I threw my sundress on over my head, then my cardigan sweater. I slipped my underwear over my feet, then tore open the pad lying on the counter, sticking it on. If anything remained, there it would land.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Tall, thin, long blond hair. I looked like Barbie in my powder blue sundress, with its white laced collar and lace trims along the bottom. I was Barbie to everyone around me; little did they know what I had just done.

I strolled out of the exam room, out the office door, then out the front door of the medical building. I picked up the phone, found Dylan’s name, and clicked “call.” “Hi, baby,” he said, sleepily. “Hi,” I said back. We chatted on for a few minutes; we discussed our upcoming wedding, our excitement for our honeymoon, and the life we’d have together. “I’m so excited to be married to you,” Dylan uttered. “Me too,” I uttered. And even as I felt the blood leaking from my underwear, sliding over the pad, and down my leg, I knew that I truly meant it. I walked on down the street, chatting with Dylan, feeling bliss defeat agony as the wrestling match came to an end in my heart.

The Rose




The Rose

I feel the warm water run down my body as I gently massage the shampoo suds along my scalp. As I wash myself, I hum along to the music in the background, softly singing. The music is faint, with the sound of the running water overpowering it, yet I know the words so well that I could hear them over anything. As I sing along, I absorb the powerful lyrics, and tears trickle down my face. They mix with the soapy water, and slide down my body as the music eases its way through me.


Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger an endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower and you, it's only seed

Her voice is so inspiring, her words so hopeful.  She understands love’s danger.  Yet she sees beyond it, she sees the sparkle, and all that it’s worth.  The song continues as my body tightens.    

It's the heart, afraid of breaking that never learns to dance
It's the dream, afraid of waking that never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken who cannot seem to give
And the soul, afraid of dying that never learns to live

I listen to the words, the urgent need to give it all, to let the fear be lifted from me, fading into the clouds, disappearing forever. I want to feel, experience, live. 

When the night has been too lonely and the road has been too long
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter far beneath the winter snow
Lies the seed that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes the rose

These simple words, these soft metaphors, they caress me.  I feel hope, I feel dreams, I feel life outside of the water and soap surrounding me. 
I see a rose, fragile red petals atop an arched green stem. Ominous thorns, awaiting their opportunity to prick you if you squeeze too hard.  The petals shake in the wind, daring to fall off, leaving the rose behind, all alone.  I am that rose, I am that fragility, I am those thorns. 


I hear a yelling in the background.  “Trish, hurry up, the bus will be here in less than ten minutes,” my mom shouts, as the song slowly fades out, and I am left alone with the falling water again.   I turn the water off, grab a towel, and wrap myself in its rough threads.  I head out of the bathroom, steam from the shower following behind me, along with my my tender teenaged daydreams.