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.