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.