Sunshine Pockets

A dark and dreary day she put citrine crystals in her pockets. Chase away the mighty gray with a hidden burst of sparkly orange. With any hope she had some holes in them there pockets, anything to release a few rays of glory on my dim outlook. As the phone rings I find that maybe she had a few worn seams. Sixty minutes later and I think my skin gained an unearthly glow that centered somewhere near my chest. Citrine in her pockets to ride throughout the day, shedding its spicy light affecting those in indigo crevices. How fortunate my soul to have such a chemical reaction to one who has never failed; always on my shoulder from miles and miles away. Who can believe the continuum reacts whenever my soul shudders in darkness? Yellow and gold; warmth to hot. Feeling alive with a simple gesture, words that make sense to only her and myself. Completely understand the meaning of our alien thoughts. Another planet may guide her; it bleeds to me. Citrine in her pockets

Empty Unconscious

I am frightened. It's been over a week since I've looked at my finished manuscript, and longer than that since I've written in the unfinished one. Fear stops me, or is it something else? Deep inside I feel the empty hole where once many ideas festered. Now they've vanished - died and gone to heaven where other spirits perhaps enjoy them. Way up there in the sky where all good things go. Perhaps I will have to wait until I'm reborn from the other side. The parallel universe awaits. If only I could string together accurate thoughts in order to make it matter here on the not-so-awesome side. Too many distractions; excuses I create; my muse on hiatus or gone for good. I haven't a clue where to begin, so I come to my five minute gibberish pages where my words don't matter. They don't need an audience or an arena of skeptics and critics who can't wait to devour and dissect what crawls from my brain. Entertaining myself isn't what it once was, but I pray that my fears will work for me, give me the edge necessary to move forward. Make my mark so that I don't feel as if I'm living on the moon where weightlessness doesn't matter. Nothing to tether my spirit except exasperation over words struggling to surface. Where or where has my mentality wandered off? If only I could get it back for one second or perhaps an afternoon.

Save It

I checked in with the cyber-world, and as usual, it left me feeling worse than before checking into cyber-world. Mending fences is for the open minded, kind-hearted, but unanswered wiring is cruel, obnoxious, and revealing. If grudges are meant to be, they will fester until implosion. I never meant to hurt anyone; my opinions made on a "live and let live" basis. Uncommunicative people have a way of sending the message in a cowardice sort of way. No guts, no forgiveness. But will my soul offer me a bit of luck? Change the tumblers in my favor? Will I find truth in my words, faith in others? Can anything change the fates' ideas, or are they as haphazard as me? Questions continue to torture my spirit, making me question my feelings, thoughts, choices. A dark pit burning like the last coal of yesterday's bonfire. Why can't people live, learn and offer kindness rather than march to the murderous drummer? Maybe I'm Pollyanna, but it's better to offer peace, give into what's honorable rather than hold bitter feelings as a badge of honor.

The Gloomies

There's only one true way of getting back into the swing,
grab a rope and fly.

Any string will do.
Take it with both hands and find the nearest arc
to swing from and
let go.

Fall feet first, same routine
yet different.

Alone won't work - anti-social isn't
the cure. Wallowing in self-pity brings heaps of
self-doubt.

Move forward -
one foot ahead of the other or
if in the mood,
skip along and hum a tune. Any favorite will work,

mumble the words, make up your own.

Bring on the laughs.

Only the heart muscle yearns for levity -
it has seen
enough, felt
plenty, needs
to run, skip, jump,

suck in all the oxygen allowed.

Ignore the gloomies at all costs. Read
Christopher Moore,
but more importantly, hang with people,
living human beings
lacking morals.

Poison is the cure.

A Few Grains

Look at the closet. Spring, summer, fall. Yesterday in winter, or was it six months ago? Look in the mirror. Sagging, tired, pale. Didn't I just send this sweater to the cleaners? Quilt on the bed. Fat covers. Year passed in five days and in all its cruelty doesn't make me blind to the changes. Can't lie. The one truth with no escape. Sadly I move forward feeling less alive. Each day one more step. My walk slower but days faster. Energy levels off as life continues the unsteady course. Misunderstood and less hopeful than before. Memories have their purpose, good and bad. I will bottle up the good and stack them on top of bad.

Leave

Yes, I quit. Got up, walked away and said to myself that my time is better spent honoring the muse privately and not spend precious credit hour dollars to sit among those who were fortunate enough to get it for free. A demoralized group; didn't see the forest for the trees; spoke in foreign tongues created by the great electronic highway. Vocabulary minimal. Writing nothing, ignoring the man in charge, they know more than he, after all. The arrogance overwhelmingly painting the writing on the wall. Not how I spend my precious time. Too old for the sport of putting up with disrespect. I have my own demons to burn. Yet now I'll wonder what assignments the class will not do, but act like they did, or if they'll see the light of their ways and drop the course for other reasons than mine. But they have time to explore new roads, test the waters while tainting them along the way. I do not. My time left is all I've got to prove to myself that my mark is worth leaving, not squandering.

Wild Times

Sometimes I wonder if I'm just a psychotic accident. My ideas and moods changing faster than the seasons, almost as unpredictable as the weather. They take me by surprise. And then I wonder if others view me as this wild and crazy mess who doesn't act her age. But then I really don't care what the others think. They don't live in my skin. And they haven't stepped in my footprint. Perhaps they are the crazy ones. They are in need of deep therapy. Or maybe they should try wearing their hearts in a place other than on their sleeve, a place for no one to see but to discover. What is wrong with me? I can question myself and I do so a daily basis, sometimes twenty-four hour. And just when I think I know myself I find that I never do. Is it a form of growth? Am I ever evolving and actually succumb to the wild changes tormenting my need to be normal? Admit it. Yes, we all change, but only a few recognize the beauty of the tree growing inside the leaf. Only a few can smell the rain before it arrives three days later. And only a few are like minded enough to be called trustworthy in this realm of hysteria.

Tiny Bud in Full Bloom

Call me crazy, but I still stare at her photo, change the one on my screen saver, always say hello , ask her how she is. Gone for over a year but my heart feels it as if she left yesterday. Hearing her bark between sounds in the neighborhood, wondering if she's in the breeze that took her away from me. Gentle winds blowing back her fur from that pansy-eyed stare. Seeds floating from an unseen parallel universe, bringing comfort, woe, heart ache. She's still here. Hasn't made the trek to the other side. Did she love me that much that she can't let go, or is it me? I'd give my entire shoe collection to see her once more, pat her head, give her a treat, even let her chew on a favorite pair of heels. Perhaps she'd like to see how Lola is, bark from the invisible world just to drive poor Lola that much closer to delirium. And I know she feels her, too, as she sits in the doorway and stares out, searching for her friend to waddle back home. Longing to lick her face once more, risking injury, but it'd be worth it to her. Just one more time we could cuddle her, plant a thousand kissed to her forehead and bid her goodnight.

March to Nowhere

What saddens me today? The fact that I put my opinion out there regarding something that I am passionate about, yet my usual followers stay in their camps because mine perhaps makes too much sense. It's strange what type of relationships are forged by sharing exact ideals rather than recognizing the balance. Balance. Because my thoughts don't mirror yours, it's better to ignore. Truth too hard to handle, perhaps? Or maybe my words have a tendency to make you think about things in a different way. An uncomfortable way. But I deeply think about my passions. I worry about job loss in this country. Buy American! People chant that around the states, yet they don't blink when buying into a market that can possible erase a family's income. I think of those things when I state my viewpoints. I think of everyone concerned. But a part of me becomes nervous when the majority begins following the path of the lemmings. Critical thinking lost on the parade.

Chronic Happiness

What can one say about spending fifteen years with the same person, day in and day out? Never have I done anything for that amount of time continuously. Nothing. I'm a person who lives for change - hair, clothes, wall paint - it never stays the same. So how did this one person enter my life and stay in it for so many years? Matter of trust. My life in his hands, at the end of the day he's the solid one ready with open arms and kind words. Voice explosions? Occasionally. Rarely. He bites his tongue, perhaps. But in this life it's rare to find anyone who will be there throughout my serial mood changes. Take in my child as if he's the one who birthed her. Honesty. Integrity. Days filled with laughter. He's there to wipe away tears, hold my hand, offer the best advice. Level headed. The calm to my wild surf. How often does anyone see that in one lifetime? In the disposable tendency of the current generation, he is an oddity. The perfect fit for me. How many can boast that about anything in their lives? Yet, if I only have one life, when I leave it I'm assured that regrets don't exist.

Time Travel

I can sit in the big green chair and listen to your sounds. Leaves rustling with the wind. The click-click of Daisy's paws as she races across the kitchen floor. Breath in the memories, their strong scent lingering as if I never left you.

Why the spirits anchor me here is the chronic mystery. They act like an invisible shield, keeping away strangers. Ghosts of days filled with joy and scant trepidation. Where is the time machine when I need one? Just step in once - open-ended return date. Go back to the place where the couch is my morning perch, Daisy curled behind my head in a secure and restful place. Or maybe that's somewhere in the distant future, my bed the time machine, where I lay to rest one last time and awaken here. Trees rustling with the cool pre-autumn breeze, my husband in his cave, Daisy on his lap, Lola lingering by his side.

So WHAT?

Damn the spider solitaire game! It was meant as a time-passer, but now it has become my newest enemy, taking me from the real reason I sit at my computer. But am I ranting because I haven't had the stones to return to my manuscript since releasing a few pages to unknown eyes? Fear? Me? Better I were afraid of spiders - a regular arachnophobe. Eight legs creeping up the wall; eight decks staring me in the monitor...

I need some magic powder, a bit of pixie dust or whatever crap will make my muse get over it's fuckin' self and start back to writing. The way I used to long ago when I never cared if anyone saw my pages because I never intended for anyone to SEE my pages. And then it happened, I allowed others to glimpse, and that opened the flood gates of opinion. Did said flood realize my thin skin? One can see though it to the blue veins - almost see each fiber of nerve and lack thereof.

Oh for just one day of feeling the lust for my former writer self. If only I had courage in a bottle, I'd do shooters prior to the game of what words work best in this paragraph. Must one really think before acting with a pen? Does the pen have a mind of its own? Well, it should if it doesn't because if it relies on what's stored in my skull it's in for great disappointment.

July 20, 2010 - Rest the Light Fantastic

Ashes to ashes; dust to dust. Why not consider a little cremation while entering the thralls of after-life? In my case, and I've considered this considerably, I fear a mortician won't be able to duplicate my hairstyle and they're a little heavy on the make-up, so it appears the lit way out of life is the way to go for me. No nasty metal boxes to place inside another nasty encasement of cement; green space is saved, or at least a six by four foot swath with a convenient hunk of granite lurking over head. R.I.P., not the way I'll remember life, afterlife, or great beyond. Remember me in your favorite way - literally dazzling the spectrum of this life and over the great fluffy way. Who needs the formality of boxed inspection, anyway? Not me. Let this corpse go the way it was meant to - in an incinerator, or perhaps a fanciful green funeral, toss my body in its wrapping into a big hole of dirt, and plant some lovely flowers that would always make me smile, such as some stargazer lilies or a small cactus with a bright orange flower perched in its side. A bit of a beautiful prick to carry down the river Styx toward Hades. Smile on my face, fire in my soul; eternal rest is for the weary and faint of heart.

July 17, 2010 - Peaceful Quilt

Things that give me comfort when I think death is sweeping beneath my door: Warmth and bright colors; a heart filled with love; the perfect snowfall; sting singing in my ear; fresh air after a chilling downpour; success; the feel of his hand around mine; the smell of babies; a sound so sweet that only I can hear it; my best friend running to meet me, still able to recognize me even though we've been parted for years and years.

July 2, 2010 - Invincible Throb

And there you are, returning to my unconscious state just when I believed you had vanished into unreality. Still making me wake feeling an unearthly glow, one that hangs overhead the entire day blocking the UV's from entering my soul. But how could I think you'd remember me if you saw me, or even recognize me after all those years hidden behind lead? Is your cape still all encompassing the world and making me live in its shadow? Do your eyes still sparkle with sulfuric acid? At any time did I cross your unconscious stream? Yes, that was me, that small spark igniting everything in your path so that you could only see one thing...me. Still you hide in plain sight as if that shield protects you - the one I can see if you can't. Dare I suggest you materialize in a different form so that my pulp can manage to survive beneath the black ink? Will you return in that vaporous cloud during the night, enter my muse as if she'd like you. Inspire me oh elusive one - you had a flair for it and now it seems to have withered, died, shrunken but not forgotten, arriving in my sleep like the apparition that you are - hanging with me through the waking hours - all twelve of them boiled down to four.

July 8, 2010. If Monsters Could Mash

Today I thought about Frankenstein's Monster and Mrs. Monster. What if, taking into consideration that all body parts functioned during the transformation, they had children? What do you suppose their lives would be like? I imagined they'd look normal; no stitches around their wrists or bolts sticking out of their necks. They may sport a flat top, but that'd be because they're cool and not because dad has one. But, on the other hand, maybe they'd up for a preppy cut since no one wants to replicate a parent's look, now really. Although the child might dig white stripes along their sides, perhaps little Georgie would get into that. But what sort of ridicule would the monster child endure? One can image the Big Dad showing up for the soccer games or Mrs. Monster driving a group to practice. And communication would be an issue, I'd assume. Mr. and Mrs. Monster harruph and screach at each other. And now that I think of it, perhaps there'd be no little monsters because as I recall, Miss Bride wasn't too thrilled with little Frankie now was she? She pointed at him and ran screaming. So, in a sense, Monster led a lonely life. Poor Mr. Monster.

July 7, 2010 A Little Whine With Lunch

It's happening again. My perfectionist streak reveals itself in the form of my ugly inner critic. Every word I type I scrutinize; every sentence formatted incorrectly; structure defeated by tricks of the trade. It's enough to keep me from writing, or send me off screaming to the shopping mall, where I'd spend money that I don't have, load up on credit card debt and make at least the interest hungry plastic monsters happy. Alas, I can only sit and huddle behind the monitor hoping that brilliance will outshine the perfectionist also known as the ugly inner critic. Evil thoughts hinder my production; downward slide to the slippery slope before I enter the ride. How can I finish a manuscript when all these voices chant above my subconscious plane? Where is it written that I have to be perfect? Or is it my personal misconception of how my life should be viewed? I view myself in a warped sense; nothing perfect about me, so why do I continue to thrive on nothing put perfect anal retentiveness? It's not right. It's not fair. It's a major debbie downer of my life. I am my own worst enemy. No question there. I tell myself that continually. When will I stop my personal rhetoric and just get on with the main goal? It's there for me to take. And I can achieve anything I set my mind to. Perhaps I need to set my sights on killing ugly inner critic.

July 6, 2010 - Ode to a Wholesome Beginning

My breakfast keeps me company in the early morning hours, it's subtle explosions sounding like dynamite to the flea, but gentle ooh-ahhs to the giant. A snappy way to start off my day with a crackle, if only my brain would cooperate with some pop ideas. Right now I feel sluggish, my walk a herculean task for my lungs. They aren't prepared for this southern like weather. Tis why I live in the cold north; can't imagine an entire seven months of this sort of haze. I get enough of that with the very little sleep my nights allow. Sounds of the air conditioner whirring over my head. It's enough to make even the sanest person suicidal. It's almost like attending the World Cup in my dreams - the chronic and nauseating buzz of whatever those noisemakers are. Is it any wonder why stampedes and riots break out after those games? Still, I'm here in the quiet of my office, tapping away on the keyboard while my breakfast enters a soggy rest. If only I could eat it without the milk. Sure, it's good for my bones, but I otherwise hate the taste. This coming from a farm girl raised on whole and unpasteurized milk. I can still recall the heavy cream floating on top - mom would skim it off and use it for whatever dessert she conjured up - the proper way to drink milk.

July 3, 200. Hot Fun at the Pole

Hot doesn't cover the heat I feel. A burning sensation travels across my skin, oozing from my pores and dripping from each gland. Antarctica sounds like a nice place to visit at this point and time - empty of two legged creatures with attitude - bulging with properly suited feathered populace. I'd love to spend just one day watching the black and white parade, their happy waddles as they slide into the sea, herding their little ones from hither and yon. Some ice blue coolness is what I crave, one with a sunny disk shining down on me as my mood takes flight and soars from a pole I'm no where near. Far from the hectic rat race, close to the relaxed tuxedo march. If warmth is necessary, I'll sip on my thermos of fine Earl, piping hot and laced with his friend Johnny W. What better way to wile away a hot summer day? No margaritas or people displaying rolls that need to be behind tent closures. Only furry friends who honk their greetings as I slide around and enjoy the freedom of complete and utter silence.

June 20, 2010 Heart-Bump

Today I saw your face in the clouds.

A smile blossomed in my heart.

And then the darkness
swept you away.

June 18, 2010 Start the Day With a Rant!

My mood is reaching the stage of boiling over and spilling onto the floor. Too many inept beings taking over my good mood of earlier today. Pharmacies who employ people with idiot fingers; spouses who should stay within their realm of employment, that's what's got me wishing I lived in a far away utopia where I was in charge. I get to be the know-it-all, making all the decisions and choices and not having to bend to others whims. A deserted island with only me for company. No pets, spouses or those trying to keep me well. I think I'd post a sign that said one must pass a rigorous test based on my standards alone in order to reside in peace and harmony on my turf. My terms. Not someone else in the hierarchy who gets to do the bulk of decision making based on income. I might be the little people of the planet, but I'm really hating being the little people in my realm. I could scream, throw a fit and swallow arsenic. But then who knows if the suicide after-life is as fun as I've heard? Most likely a hierarchy exists there, too, one filled with dead souls that get to make all the decisions based on the fact that they offed themselves in a much cooler way than I. Creative suicides are like novels - the more abstract the better received. Or maybe I could come up with a better way of self-kill, but nothing messy. I have no one to clean up after me.

June 17, 2010 Some People Should Just Be Locked Up

It circled the center of the parking lot like a watery milky way. Spinning its whirlpool and sucking anything within its radius down to the center of the earth. We sat huddled in the car frantic that we'd be the next ones to enter the giant suck. "Where do you suppose it's going," said I. "Maybe to China," replied Erin. "You know, I hear they like Caucasian writers with attitude." But I couldn't concur. I said, "Momma, that's the most ridiculously fucked-up thing you've ever said, except for the time you thought that crazy dude walking around in his red long-johns was hot. I don't think you could top that one." Still, we sat and watched, mesmerized by the power - the sweeping motion of turbulence, the waters rising to higher levels creating a parking lot tsunami. It was something you'd only see at Disney World, or after dropping a tab. Still, it sucked no matter how we looked at it. Carefully Erin exited the car, her last words as she leaped out, "Come get me you mother! I'm ready for China!" I watched as she crossed the watery black hole and thought, "She truly is crazier than a shit-house rat."

June 12, 2010

March away, little black bugs. Ants invade my counter tops making them look like an overhead view of Times Square during the summer rush. Where are they coming from? Why are they on my counters? No food or crumbs to entice them, I guess they must like the view. Ant traps set up but they seem to have some secret decoder that tells them to stay away - "It's a trap! Run for your lives, fellow ants!" I imagine that is what their queen tells them from somewhere high on her sandy throne. Does she send them to my counters in search of a better life away from the hill? Not much going on there, really. Only my hand slapping down on them. Have they sent the smack signal to their fellow ant population? Apparently not. They continue their march to their own tiny beat. No bagpipes or fanfare; no banners or flags flying; only ants skittering around as if they were just set free from solitary confinement. Tiny little hellions, if only they knew my next line of action comes in a spray can. Hate to utilize the big guns, but it is what it is. If they aren't going to go away peacefully, I must take the ultimate action. The atomic bomb to their tiny howitzers. Time for them to return to the hill underground where it's safe. Huddle with thy queen mighty little bugs. If you know what's good for you will run screaming for your lives. Told you so.

June 11, 2010

Practice makes perfect. Practice creates success. If I write continual nonsense will I eventually attain achievement? Scribbles of blather for my own enjoyment written without deep thought, a goal or plot in mind. I'll just let my pen go - speed its ink across the page while my fingers hold on for their life.

Scribble, scribble, scribble - or should I try listening to the story in my head? Should I glide across the line, running away screaming from the made inner critic who insists that all I write is crap?

Write, write, write, for my own glee - for my eyes only - never to be read, regurgitated or nullified by the critic-enabled masses.

Let my pen sail and sail across choppy waves - dodging white caps and whirlpools to flat as glass waters where an intricate blanket of sparkle hangs overhead. Let my ink go - leave its permanent mark on biodegradable white, so one day it becomes faded yellow, brittle to the touch. Turned to ashes by exposure.

Write as if it isn't an art form; go completely abstract to such depths that only I understand it.

Wily-nily is my pen - the guide for my imagination. The outlet for words replaying in my head - the scenes, monologues, dialogs, soliloquy.

Breaths some life into my stale spirit - find the muse and release her to the wild reams of paper awaiting a splotch or two.

Write like an MFA or at least act like one in grandiose solitude.

Try to understand the need for focus, regime and routine while free-writing the great white way.

Send the story - release it from the captive clutches of gray matter. Genius is only a notion if not released to the pages.

Write, write, write. Ignore the twisting knot in the gut - ignore, ignore, ignore. Forget the voices of the "helpful" those not understanding of your intelligence. Grasp words of those who thrilled over your prose - the great professor who gave so much hope.

Acknowledge intelligence. Find creativity. They go together - combust. Follow their kinship. Release the beast - set a pattern for success and then follow it to the letter!

Write, write, write. Over and over - practice, embrace, release.

June 3, 2010

Waiting in the lobby for sport figures isn't my thing. A groupie I'm not, but still, there I was standing around with the hubby, King of the Groupies, as I acted enthused by it all. Really? Not. If there were wet paint somewhere in hell that needed an observer, I'd volunteer for the task. But rather I did my part, feet hurting, back aching, making small talk with hubby and relatives as they (not me) waited for a Yankee to appear. Out of uniform, who'd know who they were? Not me. I barely know them in their stripes or grays. And what would I say if one walked by? "Yo, what's your face, you sucked tonight?" because truly, they sort of did.

But seriously, I'd have a rather difficult time if I were part of the Yankee Stalker Brigade. I suffer from sever shyness - some sort of social disease afflicts my tongue when face to face with a sort of famous celeb. Yes, I do believe they're better than me and would prefer not to be bothered by the likes of me. Me - older woman with sagging right side face, blind left eye and gravitationally challenged boobs and ass. But, even if I were twenty years younger, before the eye explosion, right face atrophy and gravity debacle, I still most likely would have shrunk into the wall, purple petals and all. Unless I just finished a blender of Hickey's Famous Then Margaritas. If that the case my tongue would loosen and I wouldn't feel foolish...

Until the following day when post hangover memories trickle back. Mortification sets in - I couldn't face the world - but another blenderful of HFM's would at least ease my discomfort.

Oh woe is me - subtle shrinking purple petals - wilted by years of drying life. Why must time go by and nothing ever change?

June 7, 2010

Today I said, "I don't care!" And I don't. My new attitude for writing is that if I feel the spirit then I will seek publication, but in the meantime I'll write because I just like doing it. You know, too many authors/writers sit down and gnaw their fingernails with the hope that they'll cough up a brilliant best seller. I used to think that way, too. And then it began. Insults from other writers (not meant to be, but to me they were). "Not buying that," one person said regarding my particular story line. Another said, "You're writing is very passive." Not sure if she meant passive in a grammatical sort of way, or passive as in not much happening here. But still, the point is it all affected my personal style. Soon I grasped for ideas that were new and different, ones that might sell, be numero uno on the best seller's list. No more of that complete crappy way of thinking. Counter productive. Nothing against those who write for their career, for me though it's about the art and not so much about the publishing end game. Better to write for me and remain happy than write for the masses and let suicide creep into my next piece. Killer piece of works not for me. Not so much. Beauty for me. I think I'm a great writer - maybe the greatest to ever push a pen. That's all that matters, really. The rest is just gravy, or fodder, depending on your point of view. Point of view - so subjective; so misunderstood.

June 2, 2010 II

Sometimes I think it's calling for our return. But do houses speak? Bad luck reigns over us since leaving that home; we lost our dog; Lola became gravely ill. Contracts come but fall through. It's been a year and two months since the for sale sign went up. More off a bad omen. The pictures weep with remorse, huge tears asking for our return. I still feel her spirit as I cruise through the empty rooms, can hear her feet click-clack across the kitchen floor, see her racing across the big back yard. Years of happiness filtered into a webpage, preserved and unsold, heartbreaking carelessness. I want to go back. Hard to imagine a future here - a place where nothing has gone right no matter how hard we've tried. This house seems to barf us away from loving it. Holding its cards, evil grin, waiting for us to flinch. A hex placed on our heads by some incredulous person with the goal of get-back. How often must we go through more heart ache and rejection? What sort of energy spirals us into the abyss? Not one viable offer, nor people with good standing. Just look-seers out for a glimpse of our once happy home.

June 2, 2010

A maddening discussion about the merits of Facebook and the lack thereof. Facebook. The name itself ironic considering it disposes of the usual face-to-face contact we mortals once partook at a regular rate. Meetings set up via telephone or email for the purpose of discussing and interacting face-to-face. Gone are those days a more and more stampede in large numbers to memorialize their thoughts, wishes and angst on Facebook, in totality erasing the battlefield of human discussion. Hide behind that monitor and keyboard. Insult your way into winning a discussion via hit-and-run tactics. Facebook, a place where once friends met, now a place for cowards to wage battles; their chance of feeling manly and important, as they lie about dick size and mentality. Facebook - the irony lost on those spending hours per day playing games, waging wars and nosing into others affairs. The great eraser of life in its human form, something that now resides in the vast wasteland of missed opportunity. Concerns kept veiled without human interaction.

May 27, 2010

It's suckitis day. Here I sit, my mind wanders around the room looking for words and catchy phrases, a few clues perhaps. But where is my muse? The one who guides me through the story, lets me see the characters clearly. Not here. Not here in my abyss. Somewhere between all the gray matter creative cells exist. Lately, for the last four years, they've remained mysteriously hidden. Killed off by reckless comments by meaningful "friends" who will remain anonymous. Friends who refer to themselves as writers - and yes they do write. But not in my style, so where do they come into my picture? They write without creativity. I do. My words have theme and motif...follow some sort of pattern. But I blame myself for releasing my works to the masses before they were ready - to the masses of those unprepared for my style. They only know their own, after-all. Why am I feeling such a grudge against them which drips into my work? I don't want to feel so abandoned by them, yet I do. Ramblings continue within the circuits, for no one to understand, at least no one in the realm of company I kept. Sometimes I think I need a new circle of writer-friends. Ones who get it. Ones with a small bit of degree to back up their claims of glory. Some semblance of writing balance in their curriculum vitae. I'm doing my part to add to mine - now I need friends with the same mind set. I'm sure they are out there. I just need to dig.

May 26, 2010

What can you say about a guy dressed in khaki pants, green golf shirt, has a regular hair cut, but he's wearing woman's clip-on pearl earrings? Within an hour ago I was coming out of the grocery store, basket full of grocery bags when this weird little guy approaches. "Hey," he yells. "Do you like your car?" Right away I knew a weird moment was about to unfold; the earrings my first clue. As fast as I could I tossed the grocery bags into the back seat, my heart racing with each toss. All I could think was why all the weirdos find me, because sometimes I think my skin is a natural piece of velcro. Or maybe it's my aura sending out the "weirdo-attracting" vibes. On the other hand, it could be worse. My aura used to toss out "loser-attracting" vibes. But still, why do all the weirdos of the world find me? Is it my friendly face, the way I walk or could it be my car? It's a Ford - not much going on there, but now I know why middle-aged men buy Porsches and Corvettes. Regular cars attract weirdness - hot cars bring on the babes. I get all the unapproachables, but still, weirdos are better than losers, whom in my experience all drove Porsches and Corvettes. Go figure.

May 24, 2010 (Caution: Crazy Notion Ahead)

If there were one thing I'd do to change the world, I think I'd remove all the narrow-minded thinkers. It'd be a herculean task, after all there are so many, but a genocide is in order from where I view things via the morning newspaper. Talk about who's responsible for the gushing oil well, blame put on the party seated at the table by ones who didn't have a shot in hell of ever receiving such a position. Sara Palin, need I say more? Yes, in a nutshell she's certifiably nuts, her life one cashew short of a reality series. Not that I wish her eradication from the planet, but I feel the need to slap a giant swath of duct tape across her mouth, a permanent security that would keep her worthless words at bay. Perhaps genocide of the narrow-minded is a crazy notion, but why is it that all the good people are the ones scrutinized and killed off?

May 22, 2010

Lately I've given some thought to un-facing on Facebook. A friend commented that it was becoming too much, and those who matter to her have her digits. I'm beginning to realize that the art of face to face or phone-to-phone contact has become a decreased commodity in today's culture. Face to face contact is gone, taking with it social skills and a part of life that once was an event to look forward to: going somewhere to meet with a friend - to talk about whatever pops in mind, or crosses before our faces. The sound of laughter and expression - those spur of the moment comments gone with the computer age. Cyber-space has become the twenty-first century's new suit of armor. Arguing and the chance to come to an understanding hidden behind a keyboard and monitor. It's sort of sad and crippling to society.

May 19, 2010

Today I met the killer of small crawling objects, a man known as the exterminator. Not the same as the half-robotic one played by California's governor. This was just your normal every day dude carrying in his pick-up hazardous chemicals. The master of infestation, destroyer of colonies where unsuspecting creepy-crawlies hide within crevices because they can. Exterminator man didn't wear a special suit - no armor, rubber boots or silly mask. He performed his destruction using a shiny aluminum sprayer, talking to the critters while he sprayed. "How'd you get in there?" he asked the ceiling. Bug speak comes in the form of saw-dust piles, webs and strange munching sounds. All silent to the normal human, but exterminator man understood them very well, spraying wherever they silently screamed. Usually I feel for little creatures, especially the unsuspecting ones, but in the case of ones who move silently within the walls, their only calling card a pile of sawdust, my opinion changes greatly. After all, homes are for humans. I've never desired to inhabit an ant hill, only follow my strong desire to destroy those piling between sidewalk cracks.

May 18, 2010

I went for a walk with my Monster Chihuahua. Along the way we met a cat. She wore a jeweled collar with a tiny bell attached. I imagined her owners thought it would scare away birds. Friendly soul, though. When I called her she approached - timid at first. I'm sure my vicious chihuahua was a bit frightening. You know, six pounds in comparison to what, a bird? This cat had an unusual coat - almost as if she wore another cat on her back. Legs white and face white, the rest of her gray tiger. Once she saw Monster Chihuahua not a threat, she purred and let me scratch her head. I had to wonder if she ever visited my back yard, but once I realized she was a she, I knew she wasn't responsible for the nasty pee smell I don't enjoy whenever I open windows. But I had to wonder why she wasn't scared of me. How did she know that I wasn't some crazy cat abductor? Not that I am. I don't go around stealing cats, but if the right dog wandered into my yard, I'd consider it possession - nine-tenths of the law and all that rot, after all.

May 17, 2010

I need to find a "toad crossing" sign. One I can place beyond my front step. Every time I step out this small toad hops across, either in front of my feet or behind them. My nightmare is that I won't see him hopping, and oh dear, I hate the sound of squishing flesh under my shoe. How does one remove toad guts, any way? And they have built-in disguises, so if I do happen to step on one, it's through no fault except Mother Nature. I'm sure she gave them the stealth covering to protect them from predators, but did she stop to think about my feet? I weigh approximately 126 pounds (depending on the day). I imagine toad's weight is enough to warrant a first class stamp. I hope his eyesight is better than mine. Depending from which side he hops, he's got a death wish if trekking from my left. I might devise my own sign as a reminder every time I step out. There are better things to crush, moving objects of nature not my preference. So, please little toad, beware the eight and a half. I sometimes tread lightly, but comparatively speaking, I am Godzilla in your toad-dom.

May 16, 2010

I often wonder what happened to him. Where did he go? One day on the planet, the next somewhere else. Completely disappearing as if a new form of human stealth. But even present he was absent. Cold heart soundlessly beating in his chest. Warmth only when necessary, in broad daylight. Always on the ready to slice out others hearts with one fast stroke. Bittersweet memories erased by his pain. How does one exist with such a dull spirit? Not in the dark but not in light. Somewhere in between, the limbo for lost souls on earth. Terra-firma of zero gravity. He floats within slime - perhaps that's where he is, yet still occupying the deep corner of my heart, a place he once warmed. Still wonder if he looks mad at the world as it returns his cold glare. Can't keep his own fire burning. Lost in its embers cooling beneath the shroud of unknown origins. Past regrets, he has many. But erased for self-preservation, or perhaps a warped form of posterity. His cold steel heart not stainless beneath leather wrapping.

May 15, 2010

Sometimes I wonder about where my magic pen went. It had colorful dots and moved freely across the paper, each word spectacular. I've since misplaced it, although it once came up missing, or swiped. Terrible incident at school, one day it was beside me, and then gone. I tried not to become accusatory, but I knew of a fellow student who was a self-professed klepto. I immediately wanted to shake him down, but didn't. Instead I inquired of the professor whether or not my magic pen had been turned int. He said, "Nope." And then I dropped the word that I felt that perhaps it had been stolen. "Stolen!" he said. "Not in my class. This isn't what the class is about." Well, okay. Maybe I misspoke, but the next day my pen miraculously appeared on the arm of a chair. Prof said that I probably left it there myself. But I knew better. I searched that chair when magic pen disappeared. Who was he kidding? Yes. Fact that my one eye is blind, I can see clearly with the other. Truth in that. Professor maybe was the swiper. Maybe he needed my pen's mojo. That's cool. But where is that magic pen now? I need the streamline feel of its shaft and smooth sail of its ink. For a few strokes of magic.

May 14, 2010

The curtains exhale and inhale, the wind pushing them in an effort to seduce the insiders out. I prefer to stay put for now, watching cars whiz passed and listen to bird speak. They've got it going on, conversing about last nights storm or the cat that got away. That damn cat roaming my garden leaving his scent for me to wish I owned a gun whenever I open windows. Not that I hate cats, because I don't. I just despise the smell they leave behind, as if it's some sort of alluring device to get me out of the house. That works. I go out and hunt down the damned cat, and then I spray the bushes with a neutralizer. Works, but doesn't keep him away. A bee-bee gun would, I think. Just a little sting in the tail to get my point across, or perhaps a Rottweiler would do the trick. One that can hide well inside the bushes.

May 13, 2010

I'm not sure if this is worth making an issue of. Mother's Day. I received a card from my daughter. One week prior to MD, she bought two new dresses. She lives under our roof, rent free; works full time (40 hrs. a week). I do the wash, make her bed, dinner, etc. I got a card. Hubby got me a card with $50.00 bucks in it. He made me dinner. Daughter lazed around. This disturbed me, but I don't want to make an issue, however, if the opening came, I'd say something. Last night opening rolled in. She came home carrying a shopping bag from DSW, containing two new pairs of shoes. So as she showed them to me and asked what I thought, I said, " Better than the card I got for Mother's Day." First she said, "Huh?" and then said, "I don't want to argue." All I replied was that I was merely making a point. Today I feel guilty, like a whiner. But damn, I'm her mother. Does she think that little of me? I mean, if she were unemployed and down on her luck, I'd understand it, but to show up with just a card is sort of saying that she doesn't think highly of me or appreciates me. Maybe she doesn't have to think highly of me, but at least show a little gratitude - a little more than a card that she bought five minutes before walking in the door. Seriously, where are her priorities? Why do I feel guilty for making a point?

May 12, 2010

The marvelous mucous migration, that's what I've got. From head to chest, out to my arms, down my back and wherever else it feels like roaming, mucous runs a marathon through my body. It doesn't help my schedule, forcing me to stay in bed beyond my usual wake up time. It doesn't help my writing in the sense that its sloppy goop smothers my breathing. Not that I need to breathe in order to think, or imagine, or sculpting words that make any sense. No, no. I can escape doing any of that without ills gripping my bones. Any excuse imaginable restricts my writing muscle. But, today, the mucous marathon isn't one of them. Today I'll write in the epic if it kills me. Even with Monster Chihuahua squeezed behind my back, I'll sit on chair's edge in order to stay connected to my story. It's just that sometimes the inner critic seeks its way from behind the mucous curtain, just peeking through enough to mock my words, because that's its chronic job. Part of its description to ridicule everything I've written. But on the other hand, the smothering effect of phlegm keeps ugly inner critic covered more so than usual. As disgusting at it sounds, I imagine the little critter covered in green slime. Good for it! I hope he gets this virus and it affects him one hundred times worse than it has gripped me.

May 11, 2010

The affliction of phlegm is upon me, settling in my nose, chest and throat. Its powerful slop oozing throughout every tissue, making joints ache where I didn't realize they existed. Does my trusty Monster Chihuahua realize my recent woes? Not in the least. Sniffling, sneezing and runny nose is invisible to her black and white state. Does she see that I want to sit and write, or nap. Naps. That's what I crave at the moment, but I've made this commitment to write 100 words a day. Today I'll master no more than that. 100 WORDS of gibberish in my current epic of which my inner critic has recently ignored, if only my Monster Chi would do the same. But no, she awaits no affliction. Her needs take precedence over all others. Give me a pat on the head, a treat for doing my bodily functions. That's your job, she tells me. And like a dutiful concubine, I follow her whims. It's better than clean-up. But still I must stick to my present commitment. 100 words. If only I had the thoughts to go with them, some sort of clue as to where the plot leads. Where is the plot, by the way? Be damned all those rules others speak of. Since when does art have rules? Since when have I ever tried following them? Who is that looking over my shoulder? No one. Hah! No one!

May 10, 2010

The calendar on the phone reads May 10. The temperature outside reads fifty-one. Confusion rules the realms, both external and internal. Should I write a lengthy passage in my current work, or revise what's already there? My toils of another time when I clearly saw the story. The present reveals nothing but angst and uncertainty. Where is this story going today? I need to stay connected to my characters, but today the spirit isn't moving me in that direction. Like the seasons, they aren't as they once were, my writing. The colorful scenes form, but the problem is in the performance, the execution. I should be able to spew a great yarn. The thermometer should read seventy-five. When will I ever get to put away my winter coat? The sky is clear, trees filled with lush green, yet my nose runs after returning from a small stint around the house. This is what the seasons have become. Unseasonable. This is what my writing has become. Unwritable. Somewhere in the continuum my muse resides, confused by its path, unable to