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.