Tuesday, July 20, 2010
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.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
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.
Monday, July 12, 2010
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.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
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.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
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.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
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.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
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.