Today's Departure

With every mile I got away from the town that housed my demise; my heart rate slowed, my breathing mellowed, my fingers loosened on the wheel, and the music began to penetrate my ears and thoughts again. By mile 20 of my escape, I began to feel real again.

The Wall That Sees What I Write

Components: a painting by my dear friend Marissa, a page of how to build a character in fiction, a list of names that I made when I wrote the first short story I was not ashamed of, my favorite picture of Elton John that I printed out 5 years ago, and have put on the wall in every new place I've moved, a picture of Lincoln from Marika and her son duct taped below the most recent picture of the boy, a framed picture from a Ricky Gervais cd collection from Sean. The love put into each piece always remind me how lucky I am. Thanks dudes.

When The Contempt Creeps In

He laid there mothbreathing next me. My alarm, set for 5:00 am had yet to sound, but I was, emphatically, awake and staring at his gaping maw. The sound from my childhood of my aunt saying "Close your mouth, or something will get in, or come out, that you don't want." was playing on loop in my mind. I had turned the light stand light on to get a better view, it seemed, of the face that I woke to despise. The film, on his teeth, the pale gray color of his dehydrated tongue, the way his chin had weakly succumbed to his neck, and the smell. The smell. I could move back, or turn away, but instead I sat with my body turned towards him and my face close to his. My alarm found its voice. Dean Martin Goodmorning Life became the only non-silent partner in this exchange. One tear escaped my left eye and drizzled unchallenged down my cheek. I pulled myself out of the covers and slumped into the bathroom. "It should have been Ain't That a Kick to the Head."

I began taking showers nearly hot enough to scald. My body would be raging red in streaks when I was finished. I had had him turn the water heater up twice in as many months. The last time he came in from the garage he said with all the disdain he could keep behind his teeth "There. Are you happy now?". I didn't respond. I barely looked up from my book, but in my head I was screaming "NO!". These showers were the only way I could feel clean of him. Even if he hadn't touched me; just being in the same room as him made me want to instantly wash it away. Every interaction had become an opportunity to place blame. We started talking in phrases like "Your dog..." "Your son..." "Your Mother/Sister/Father/Friend..." Everything and everyone was put in place.

I sat down on the floor of the bathtub letting the water fall harder on my back, I couldn't see myself getting up, yet. I sat for a long while over-thinking the tear that I had let fall upon my departure of the conjugal bed.

I had gotten off early from work, gone to the store, with a specific list, only enough for one meal. I found everything easily and before the baby started to fuss. He didn't like fluorescent lights or intercom systems, in fact, he still doesn't.

Upon getting home, I went straight to work building the meal I had been planning for weeks. It was his birthday. For the previous five years of my life that meant that I would spend dinner at the (god DAMN) Olive Garden. He loved their chicken scampi. A chicken scampi that I thought was a tasteless pile of vomit--much like most everything on the menu. I had attempted a scampi at home to ignite his palette before, but was always met with a-- less than enthusiastic response. This time I did my homework. I even bought a bottle of Oliver Garden salad dressing! I couldn't stand another dinner at that shit hole full of uncultured swine and cheap wine. Also, I wanted him to love my scampi. At this point, it would maybe mean he still loved something about me. He was still under the impression that the Olive Garden party was still on, but instead all of the friends and family were coming over to share our table. I breaded and fried tha chicken to the O.G. recipe. The sauce was simple and I made sure to mind the amount of garlic because, inevitably, if more than a slight tickle of it passed into his mouth he would push the plate away with a mumble an retreat into his office. I had everything prepared and warming when he came home.

"Happy Birthday Baby!! I made your favorite-- and you don't have to settle for a Coors Light to accompany!" He remained, as ever, blank. "Okay." I kept smiling. I felt like I was still sort of happy in the moment. Maybe he would snap. "Everyone's on their way." I pushed myself into him. His arms didn't leave his sides, so i squirmed mine through. I pushed myself in and up to ty and kiss him, but he was too tall. He slowly tilted his head toward mind and paused. "Did you have garlic?" Ain't that a kick in the head.

Cripple Creek Ferry

The time wasted was insignificant when put against the unreckonable amount of energy wasted, and the misery it created. My sub conscience had even joined in the assault. My dreams were plagued with memory and fantasy of him. I would wake sure that it had happened; then find that it hadn't. A cruel joke had been played. Then I would wonder if he was aware of what transpired in my twilight sub conscience. Being plagued by a memory was like being plagued by a ghost that knew everything about you. It knew what it was to you and every thought you attached to it. The mind is a wicked, vile, tormentor when it's not getting what it wants. Now, every interaction was an offense to the ego, a blow to the heart, a stab to the soul.

Ringing All The Bells

Fall is when we fell, apart. The season held a lot of me. The turning of the leaves like the change of heart. Leaving naked trees like my soul laid bare, and everything that we had grown being stripped away. Piece by piece. leaf by leaf. I have re-built some, and fertilized my newly laid soil in preparation for more growth. Still, I can't help but let the memories of the barren times fill the front of my thoughts.

The Boy With a Thorn in His Side

The eyes were still his, but the light behind them had gone out. I didn't know if I could replace the bulb, or how. He spoke in sickening circles and dialects that he absorbed from t.v., movies, and whatever was left of his imagination. I didn't know how long I could continue to do it alone. I also couldn't fathom how anyone else ever had. There was something more than wrong with being alone in this leg of the race. He was alone and fighting a battle that only he could fight and I was alone with what felt like death gripping my chest as I watched.

At times even hearing your own name can make no sense.

Indeed

Okay, okay, I get it. Sort of.

I have never really taken much interest in sports. I've even had a hard time respecting that they exist and people put so much stock in them. The last few years I've starting peaking around at them, again. Giving things a try, an'that. I've learned these things: I like basketball. I like soccer. I like Tennis. And I like the food at baseball games. I also enjoy the hell out of watching Oliver try something physically demanding, and nailing it. Here are some pictures of him from this weekend. In the first few my friend Christen is showing him how to shoot a basketball and the last is of him playing dodge-ball (DODGEBALL!) with about 70 adults and holding his own. When I looked over and saw him in the ring my first thought was ohshitohshitohshit. smear the queer. he's fucked. and I ran over and told him to hide behind a pole until everyone was out. I mean, I've got a lot riding on this kid. He did awesome, though, and played until 10:30 at night. He was really proud of himself. Which is a big step for the boy with the thorn in his side.

Putting it all Away

I shuffled around the living room. Remembering a bulk of every minute from the last four days. I always made myself put the pieces of him away. Into closets, bins, onto shelves, but this time I was putting them in boxes. I left the tops open. I couldn't shake the feeling that they were breathing.

Space and Change

He had at least always been sweet and dear, to me. Even when he couldn't manage it for anyone else. Even through the times of absolute dispair that he had, unfortunately, experienced that took him to the edge of his will, I remained in his favor. This was the first time when he was cold, and even mean to me. I had to internalize all of the feeligs this ripped into me. I knew I was doing the right thing, for him, and for me, and that his reaction was probably a good sign, it just hurt. A different hurt.I had been left behind and pushed away a lot and I knew how to handle it when it was someone else, anyone else. Now it was was coming at me from two sides. Two sides that are connected. They were running into eachother and onto emotional ground that I had a hard time protecting in myself. Enduring them together was a definite challange. A heartbreakng chore. I wanted to push all of my reaction to both of them on the one that I could react to. Which wasn't fair. The only thing I could do with both of them is what I was doing. Giving them what they needed from me. Space, and change.

Boom Boom B-Awwww...

To celebrate Independence day, or "Independins" day which is what Oliver wished someone via text message-- Yes, he text messages- a lot (ulot), we joined a gaggle of friends and strangers in Lynwood who were celebrating America, sort of, but mostly they were convening for my dear Tim's birthday. Tim being my mainest gay and dearest friend and also Oliver's big gay uncle buying his way into O's heart with piles of G.I. Joes, we couldn't miss it.

Some things I would have liked to miss:

1. This conversation:

* squeaky firework *

Oliver: “That one sounds like a wet fart.”

Tommy: “A FOOP!”

Stranger: “What’s a foop?”

Oliver: *pensive-thoughtful pause* “A fart with a re-fill”

Me: *die*die*die*die*

2. Fireworks. They are fucking scary.

4. My ass in the mirror when I walked by in my swim suit.

Some things I was supremely happy to be a part of and see:

1. My bestie having a great birthday. However drunk and messy he gets, he's still one of my favorite things on this planet. And he smells wicked nice. Always.

2. The FOOD! Tables and tables of goodies. Sweet and savory. Hot and cold. CUP-CAKES!

3.Oliver being accepted and encouraged by a group of adults not accustomed to kids. I was really touched by them and so proud of him. He's the light of my life and it is rare for me to see people respond to the light he brings into theirs in such a positive way.

I'm sure pictures of the event will surface soon. I really can wait.

Sons of The Silent Age

I'm haunted by his ghost even when he is in the flesh before me. I put my arms around him and he is stiff. I can't comfort or take the pain away. I try to look in his eyes and he won't focus on mine. I try to hear him speak and his voice is wrong, and cold. I can't shake the gripping fear that I am losing him which smashes into the fact that that is not an option, for me. Knowing the source, or at least having an idea of it, is maddening. Being so close after so long makes every victory seem like a hindrance. I almost have gotten us out but I feel like I'm dragging my wounded fellow soldier across the line and he's almost bleeding out. I don't know if the best course is to stop and manage the bleeding or if I should be running faster to safety.

An Optimist's Descent to Elsewhere

--The strife and pain that happens, and continues to happen, to you [me] is either a lie or beyond my scope of care, right now.-- This idea, followed close behind, by a doctor offering bad news (again) closing with a non-reverent "You saw the new penny, right? Got one today."

Not Moving on, but Still Moving. Up, Hopefully.

Reading about the fictional desperation of others dulled the sting of mine. Babies dying, whores hooking, deranged druggies making their way to another shore of their mind-- all this would fill the minutes of my nights with a, sort of, comfort. The idea being that if I could keep on I eventually would survive and be. Be present. Be important. Not defined by the past and what happened, but rather, build on what is there. Build the greatness that I [we] deserve.

Pillows

Does it count as a stain if it never dries?

785

Seeing the images sharing, for the first time, a single screen was altering, to say the least. They could no longer be separated by date, or idea. They were part of a whole. They needed to be dealt with as such. Maybe this notion had been the right one for some time, but I was just now seeing it.

A sobering shower to wash away the emotional drunk sickness of the moment. That was built of many other moments passed.

If He Weren't Oliver...

He would have been one of the following:


Charles (Nixed because Chuck is unforgivable)
Agnus (Nixed because everyone else on the planet sucks.)
Kingsley (Front runner, nixed because, I guess, It wasn't completely my decision.)
Tavi
Lincoln
Harry
Gus
Adison
Oakes
Philip
Roth (Shut up, I was wicked hormonal)
Reeve
Leonard (NOT Leo)
Andy
Dickens (I couldn't do it to him: Dickie)


This was the short list. You don't want to see the long.

My Refrigerator.

Contents (Pictured):
Apple Sauce
Mayo (light)
Rice (jasmine)
V8
Pickled Asparagus
Pickles
Orange Tea
Rooster Sauce
Two types of Balogna. TWO!
Two types of cheddar
Half an apple
Leftover bacon
Bread
Hummus
Weird German wine
Eggs

Not Pictured:

3 types of mustard
2 lbs of butter
Blackberry Jam
Straws (I like them cold)


For your information.

Dude, Where's the Storm?

In a forgotten corner of a familiar room I sat. Trying to find a new perspective on the day. Today. A rare day. In that it was quiet. It had no new adversities injected into it. It was what a day should be. I wanted to find comfort in it. I wanted to not worry about the next step, the next problem, the next something. The feeling of calm had become uncomfortable.

Common People

A large portion of my time is spent away from people that I fully understand. That is to say that a good amount of my time is spent observing, at least audibly, strangers. So whatever I hear fall from their face is subject to nothing except my experience with that combination of those words. I wonder a lot about where they are coming from, but find only where I am.

Nothing Isn't

Things I've had to argue/reconsider today:

That newspaper blowing in the wind is not weather.

That recycling is not just clean garbage.

That asteroids are not planets.

That all clear things are not primarily composed of water(this one got deep!).

That sugar is not just sweet salt.

That pink is a color and doesn't really sound like anything.

That last names aren't really that random.

What air tastes like.

That all dogs are NOT cute.

and, last but not least, cable T.V.


Now we are six, indeed.

Getting Away

Having just surmounted another of the many, thought unsurmountable, emotional mountains, I sat listless and nearly breathless behind the wheel. My breathing was shallow and forced. My mind was so full it felt empty. I literally couldn't pull a thought from it. I wanted to reach out. I needed someone to know. I made a call. I really just wanted to say out-loud “I did it. This part's done.” to a face or, in an ear, to somebody, but I was greeted with voice mail; which is always difficult for me. I said part of it, most of it, I think, It's hard to remember. I hung up and started the car. After a few minutes I could get it moving. With every inch I got away from the building that housed 5 hours of my most recent, and acute, misery I could breathe deeper. I could calm. I was doing more than just making it, and keeping it together. I was accomplished and I felt virile. Knowing it would be short lived, when I hit the freeway I put down the windows, turned up the tunes and hit the gas. The rest of reality showed back up when the car slowed and then stopped in my parking spot, but the reprieve was nice.

Alone in a Crowd

Being in public is often this way for me. It happened when I needed to be alone but also needed to be around people. Not bothered, though. Or even noticed. There were around 5 or so places that I could, comfortably, go when I needed people, at least in my peripheral. It was almost like all I needed was the knowledge that they were still there. I needed the energy of their beating hearts, and the heat of their blood. It worked to remind me that I was still living. I had a heart, it was beating. I had blood, and it was flowing. Our propinquity was enough of a connection for now.

I huddled over a notebook in a darkened corner of a large room. I was getting chafed by the fact (or feeling) that every time I finished a page there was just another blank one needing for me to fill it.

“Please please please please let me get what I want , this time.”

It came over the speakers and wrapped itself around me. The song was as familiar as a lover to me. But what do I want?

SERIOUSLY, look!

Puh-Puh is BEGGING. Reflective eye begging.

To make me cry AND give you money...

just have half a dog's face in the picture of the kitchen in the house you are trying to rent. I will pay first, last, pet, and double deposit to stop this emoting.

My Dirty Laundry

In lieu of recent, retardedly large, expenses I decided it would be a good idea, and maybe even fun, to cut corners here and there to expedite the replenishing process for my comfort money cushion. I canceled a magazine subscription, I can just read it on-line anyway right? Did not renew my Celine Dion fan club membership. I mean, I'm not going to go see her in Vegas AGAIN, right? (this one kind of hurt, a little. okay, a lot). Started packing lunches and bringing them to work. I would allow 3 work induced stress meals a week, because, like, I know my limits! AND I would start doing my own laundry, instead of dropping it off at the Fluff N' Folders, or EffinEffers as I liked to call them . The breakdown:
Magazine: $26.00/Year
Team Celine Membership: $55.00/year.
Lunches: $30.00/week
Laundry: $12.00/ week

I felt good about this. I felt proactive! I felt in control. I even made up a little graph and spreadsheet to monitor my progress.

Today was the first day of doing my own laundry in over a year. I had let it pile up to where I was on my last pair of underwear and on about the 6th run of each pair of pants. Not pretty, I know,but being someone who really doesn't like change, and who has a pretty severe case of social anxiety made it a bit difficult to talk myself through that laundromat door. I have had the clothes separated into colors/whites/delicates/ and perm press for weeks. Literally weeks. I wrestle the overflowing bags and baskets into the car, take a deep breath and climb in the driver's seat. I do a mental checklist of supplies. Laundry? Duh. Detergent? Yep. OxyClean? Yes. Fabric softener? Check. Quarters? $20.00 worth. Okay. I drive the few blocks to the mat and psych myself up on the way. This is going to be a good change. Bree, you can do this. Everyone you know does this. I find close parking. See, already blessed. Maybe it was the pennies that Oliver had left in my shoes, I think. He had heard somewhere that it was good luck to put pennies in your shoes. Now all of my shoes (and his) had pennies flopping around in them, but I felt bad taking them out. ANWYWAY, close spot, good, I've got a lot to pull inside. I drag one of the biggest bags with me to the door. I look through the glass, not too packed, good. A well mannered gay man opened the door for me. WOW, I think, nothing to be nervous about. They're normal and nice. I realize then that he has a peg leg. Still, pretty normal, I guess, and still definitely nice. I walk to a back corner where there are 5 machines together that are open and I fill 'em up. I picked these five because there was little chance anyone would come around. There were 5 washers and 5 dryers all together, and away from the rest. I get the last garment into its respective tub and I look to the next step. “Okaayyyy. Now to get these puppies purring.” I mumble to myself. (Puppies purring?! Seriously. WTF.) I don't catch myself because before I'm done saying/ it I realize that I have nearly no idea how to start these damn things. There are coin slots, rubber flaps, levers, buttons, and yet the display screen is only big enough to display the cost per load or the number of minutes remaining in your wash. I take a guess at where and when to throw the soap in after I pay the $2.00 per load (Where do they get OFF?). Water comes shooting out of the hole the second I lift the flap. Apparently I got the timing wrong. The attendant (the man who opened the door) sees my trouble and comes over. He tells me I should have put the detergent in BEFORE starting it and that it is on the instructions (located on the far wall!!) I no longer think him nice. Well, there. The clothes were washing. Which is what I need. I have 35 minutes to wait before tackling how in the hell to use those dryers. I sit down on a piece of plastic lawn furniture that they have so thoughtfully set out and open my book. I look up nearly every minute to make sure something isn't blinking, or beeping, or shooting, or burning. I feel like I've done it all wrong and Peggy is going to have my ass. About 15 minutes in, and after reading the same paragraph about as many times, I put the book away. I turn my attention to my fellow launderers. I notice in the other far off corner there is a man, i guess he is probably homeless, it's bordering on a hope, sitting in not much more than an A shirt and boxer briefs. And by not much more, i mean, he was also wearing a big necklace and a pair of flip flops. Hmm, I think. I guess that makes sense. There is a little boy who is running the length of the mat with a bag of cheetos and a full pepsi can. It was getting less full by the second because he was spilling with every stride. I then notice just how FILTHY this place is. There are dirty bandaids on the floor, toilet paper in the corners, Lint stuck everywhere and to everything, Ehhhhlllll. I came HERE to clean something. My CLOTHING. Christ. I am regretting this idea. I'm pulled from this thought by a beeping sound coming from one of my ephemeral washing machines; I look and the screen is blinking a 1. I jump up thinking that means it's either done or about to explode. I run over and I open the top, my clothes are still in a high speed spin. The Peg-gay(yeah I said it, well thought it.) comes over, faster than I would suspect him to move, and says “Don't open the washers during a SPIN!!!” “But It was beeping and blinking!, I thought that meant it was done!” “No, SU-GAR, it is just telling you there is a minute left!” “Oh, well, wouldn't just the 1 on the screen tell me the same thing?” He lets out a sigh of obvious irritation and walks back behind his perch. Hrumph. Blerg. OKAY! Moving on. I need to dry this shit. The dryers seem much easier. There are just buttons and slots, SWEET! I Transfer the loads, pay, guess at the appropriate cycles and stand there for, probably a couple of minutes just watching the clothes circle themselves, waiting for something to go awry. All seems well so I start nervously pacing around a bit. You know, just passing the time. I check each dryer every 5 minutes or so to monitor progress (Why?? Fuck if I know). I spend the next 45 minutes checking and pulling garments out that seem done. Adding more quarters, and with them, 9 minute increments of hot air and folding. The homeless man moves closer when he sees me pull out clothes, I realize, because he wants to watch me fold my underwear. Yes, I fold my underwear. When they are as cumbersome as mine, you simply must. I start blocking his view with my body, which feels wrong because now my back is to the creep who is trying to see my underwear. GOD THIS IS SO STRESSFUL! I make it through secretively folding all of mine and Oliver's clothes and I fit them back into the totes and baskets. I start walking out the door and Peg-gay grabs it for me, just like old, and better times, and I walk to the car.

The Last Thanksgiving

I had spent the day bitterly cooking in the kitchen of our fractured home. It was one of my favorite holidays (because it was all about food, duh) but I had barely kept from crying in the mashed potatoes. My best friends were here, they lived with us, in fact. But I was feeling outrageously alone. Finally, we all sat down for dinner. I felt like it was an outrageous accomplishment for us all. When I assed the overly tall chair and pulled myself into the table I let a sigh escape. "Ahhhhhhh...!" It sounded a bit more desperate than I had intended. I hoped no one noticed. The meal started off fine, great, even. Everyones plates were filled. The wine glasses were too. The conversation started off effortlessly, it seemed, and bounced around the table. A table surrounded by people familiar to each other, having familiar conversation, and familiar enough to take ticklish jabs at one another. There were laughs and frowns, but the frowns hadn't lasted. Around about the last few bites on everyone's plate a conversational wrecking ball came barreling through the dining room. My dearest friend piped up with a feigned loud laughter dropped his fists with silverware to the table and said "OOOH-KAY! When are you two crazy kids going to throw in the fucking towel? Because THIS is outrageous to watch and I imagine fucking miserable to keep up." Some more feigned laughter and he looked back down at his plate. Obviously wishing he could be as gone as the green beans.

Nerves

I hung up the phone and that familiar feeling crept in. Shame. I thought back over the last few minutes and wondered if anyone had been able to over hear the conversation I had just scaled. I hoped they hadn't, but I somewhere very close to the surface wished someone had, and would offer a shoulder or a smile. Even just an acknowledgment of “Yeah, that was probably pretty tough, man.”

This was a step that needed to happen. It needed to happen years ago. Still its impending approach was activating every ounce of nervous energy I could produce. I tried not to leave myself to it. I had read more, moved more, and thought more in the past few weeks than ever before. It was all still barely enclosed in my skin. I felt like I was exuding it like a foul oder.

Fer-reals.

On Sunday I took Oliver to Value Village. To spite his father, and also to look for a soccer ball. Oliver went to leave his scooter outside the door, as is usually appropriate scooter etiquette, FYI, when the security guard who works in Value Village came out and informed him that he "better not leave that bike out there. Some asshole will steal it." (bike. ASSHOLE.) Oliver had a moment of panic thinking of what to do and the guard offered to keep an eye on it for him. Oliver introduced himself (good boy) and asked his name. Darrell. Yes, Darrell. This is only the second time I have been in this Value Village and I already couldn't wait to be done. Oliver sees it as a treasure grove full of wonder. I just saw smelly junk. I took him over to the toy section, which is where I figured a ball to be. He runs over and almost INSTANTLY finds a pink stick thing with bells on it. Which he has since named "a jingle tap stick". It is PINK. Covered in JINGLE BELLS, and has light and dark pink ribbons wrapped around it. I'm trying to talk him out of the jingle stick when he finds a felt neon pink panther with a patent. leather. collar. Collectively, the two items cost less than a dollar, and he knew that, so I really have no ammo. I pull him away from the wall of misfit gay toys and downstairs in search for a soccer ball. A basketball. ANY ball. On the way towards the steps I see a polka-dotted purse that looks like it will fit my new laptop! I grab it without much more than a thought. We arrive at the bottom of the stairs and there is a wall of little kid backpacks and totes. Oliver spots a (godDAMN) Hannah Montana tote bag and bolts for it. I literally slap my forehead. He has a tote bag hanging from his shoulder that he drops and flings the HM one around his arm and starts with the "PleasePleasePleasePLEASE!" by some stroke of obvious genius I think to point out that there are pieces of her FACE missing. It looked like the previous possessor was a picker. He looks, judges, and puts it back. Close call. Then, on the far wall, I see it! SOCCER BALLS!　I walk directly to the first one I can reach grab it and turn back up the stairs. Leaving Ollie with not much of a choice beyond following. Upstairs, register, grab the scooter from Darrell, shake hands with Darrell(while making direct eye contact) and we are out the door and back over to the park to kick this ball. I stash the toys of queer in his old tote, hoping he will forget about theｍ（ｆａｔ　ｃｈａｎｃｅ）．He dudes out with the soccer ball for a spell. *Whew*

He gets picked up by his dad and I go about the chore of putting him away. I pick up the G.I. Joes, put away the crayons, stash the Unicorns, and I remembered the Value Village Run.Ｉpull his tote out and look at his pink collection. Then I remember my new purse! I pull it out and I start to check out the pockets to see what I can fit where and I came upon these three things, all in different pockets:

1.Tampons
2.Condom
3. Planned Parenthood appointment card

Getting There

"Did you figure it out yet?" His voice startled me and ripped me out of my thoughts.
"Oh, um, no. Let's just get a cab. Did that flight seem longer than six hours to you I'm wiped?" I said.
"Why, are you hungry again or something?" I dropped it. I moved to the part of the sidewalk set aside to hail cabs. One was almost instantly availabble to us. We climb in, unsuspecting tourists. The cab smells terrible! It's worse for me with my over sensitive pregnancy sense of smell. The music is on, too loud. The seats are sticky, and felt wet. WET. In addition to being loud, the music is bad. I have always been sensitive to noise, but in this moment it was made worse by the clammy heat, the smell, a roaring headache and sporadic nausea. I don't complain. I didn't want to seem fussy. I clearly speak the address of the hotel. The cab driver makes absolutely no acknowledgment. He just hits the gas, hard. The shock sent a shooting pain deep into my pelvis. I wrapped myself around my bulging stomach until it passed about 10 seconds later. The cab is now speeding down the road and it pushes itself between S.U.Vs and shuttles with hotel names scrawled over every inch of their exterior. It weaves around, and honks at, rental cars filled with nervous drivers. His driving gets, slightly, better as he begins talking. Though, not to us. He has a wired headset attached to his ear, and clipped to the collar of his orange stained polo shirt (seriously. Ew). He doesn't do any of us the favor of turning off, or even down, the music. Stillmatic bas Nas is playing over the speakers, half of them blown. I'm angered by his obvious lack of musical taste, by his broken English, the shirt, the headset, him in general. I look to my backseat companion to try and see if I have a companion in this feeling as well. Per the usual, he seems wholly unaffected. Genuinely unconcerned with anything that is going on. His indifference was inching up on my breaking point.

Goodbyes

Looking at him was like looking in a mirror. I didn't like identifying the parts of myself in him that I was noticing. I could see through what he was desperately trying to portray. He wasn't trying to seem rude or indifferent; he was trying to seem strong. I felt judged, if only by myself. This behavior was learned, and it was learned from me. The hyper emotional cycles. The infectious joy closely followed by sadness beyond his circumstances. Beyond what he should be able to process and comprehend. I wondered if he did fully comprehend or if he was a slave to the cycle and the feelings.


Goodbyes had always been hard for me. I didn't know how to approach them. I had developed at an early age a fear of letting people know how much I cared for them. It stemmed from a fear of embarrassment. I was terrified of someone feeling like I cared more for them than they did for me. I thought it a weak position. Also I would care deeply for people really quickly, and still do, and I felt unworthy of someone feeling the same for me. Somewhere I had learned to be a martyr. He
had begun to develop the same uncertainty and awkwardness about goodbyes.

“Okay, it's time to go.” I said. It hurt to say it. Even though it was everything I wanted at that moment. I wanted to be away from this. From what was happening. I was having sympathetic responses for the boy. My chest was as tight as I imagined his was with trying not cry. My eyes filled and burned.I saw the goodbye happen and I pulled him out the door. He made it through the door closing behind us and about a half of a block before the first tear fell. I left him to process a bit on his own (mostly, because I needed to form SOMETHING to say). I finally approached that tear about a block or so from where it fell.

Lookin P'nub

The cold breath of a city wrapped in winter danced and whirled around me as I walked alone. these late night walks did a lot to settle my mind. I could get things to seem so clear by the time I got back to the house around 3 am. All would be lost by the time I woke up in the morning.

I misread this the first time.

We built this city

the loss of an idea like a limb

The memories still hold fire and keep their own sort of promise. Even after all the time and all of the things since. I still can be gripped and then ripped apart by the memory of even one of the most benign moments. Those moments that were so common and comfortable once. They find me and make me wonder. While bringing me blinding and absolute pain. They are phantom pains like those of a lost limb. it's the loss of the idea behind those moments that still hold me. I have loved and I have lost, there is beauty in both. I'm scarred, scared and changed but where would I be--how would I be--who? Had those two not transpired against eachother. The idea of love now growing once again in my chest is testimony to my healing. Albeit unrequited, it is there, and it is real. Perhaps that is enough, for now.

Mount Plushmore

Ollie's Pict-fers

I'm not usually impressed with little kid art, mostly because it sucks, but Ollie's stuff is pretty kick ass. By that I obviously mean REALLY kick ass!

This is a t.v. watching a t.v. watching a t.v watching a t.v... with legs:

This is a jelly fish--renamed a j-ollie fish:
* The title of J-ollie fish was not actually added by Ollie. It was the brain baby of Sean The Clam.
This is a clam named Sean on a beach, spitting:

Nice.

Revoke my Freedom, Francis Baker

I had taken too much, or not enough, depending on how I looked at it. I crawled into the bathroom after a swirling moment of muscular dejection in my legs; to try and offer my body a reprieve from the battle happening inside of it. The violent vomiting seemed appropriate but did nothing to calm any of my distresses. My mind was swirled with defeat. Perverting memories inside of itself. I was villainizing my every decision. I was here, like this, alone, because I deserved it. My mind was the enemy and it was winning.

Fear in a Handful of Dust

I had fallen asleep amid a heaving, wrenching and absolute sob. Just minutes after ingesting a dubitable dose of this and that. I had sat half an hour or so staring at the the bottles; over thinking the amounts I would allow to pass through my lips. All the while nearly hyper ventilating and convulsing with the emotional agony that had given itself to physical turmoil. I didn't feel sleep coming on. It just came. It interrupted, finally. I awoke engaged in the other end of, what seemed, that same sob. I wondered if I had cried continuously in my sleep. My physical exhaustion was such that I could easily believe I had. I remembered though the slightly inflated doses of downers and sleep aids I had desperately swallowed. My despair was still raging. My ears were full of it and my eyes blinded with it. All I had in this moment, it seemed, was this severe heartbreak. It had a pulse and a fever. It was corporeal. I was wrapped in it, like the comforter that was contorted around me. I pulled myself out of bed. Knowing that I needed to step away from the pill bottles and pad of paper that were taunting me from the bedside table. I was upright, mostly, and walking, but I felt immobile. This sadness was a brick pillar built up around me and I stumbled languidly against its sides.

No Words

The Nutty Pru-fessor

What's Left to Rema

Her eyes pulled themselves apart, reluctantly, for the first time of the day. A soft coo and a tight scrunch/squint kept the bright morning light from pushing itself past her eyes. The light aided in pulling her fully out of the restless sleep that had so briefly visited. Her right hand was waking as well. Cramped and crumbled around a pen. The paper it had been wedded to had been pushed into the comforter with her sleep writhing. The tip of the gel inked utensil had laid itself directly into the flat sheet. leaving a 2 inch by 2 inch spot of dark blue ink. "FUCK! Not again!" flew out of her tired mouth. This would not be the first set of sheets to get dropped off at the fluff n' folders with this distinct affliction. She was easily shamed so actual dread formed and tightened in her chest when she thought of the interaction. She retracted the pan and sat it on her bedside table. She squirmed herself out of the blankets and reached with her legs to try and find the floor. That movement produced a sound of paper crumpling which prompted her to look for the page that she had been writing on. She found it quickly. She had made it through the piece and had succumbed to her absolute exhaustion just two letters from completing the title. It read What's Left to Rema Her chest clenched and her eyes burnt worse than from the harsh morning light when she instantly and fully remembered what the piece was about. She left the title unfinished and put herself in the shower to try and wash it off.

Doin' a Tad Bit of Livin'

Slip Sliding Away

I had been laying on the couch continuously for the better part of a week. My only gauge of time was the light shining, or not shining, on the building across the street. My curtains were half open. I could see into two windows in that building across the street. I could see people in their apartments. They were doing dishes, aimlessly wandering around in thought, talking on the phone, eating at the table. They were going about their lives, which was life enough for me.

Now We Are Six

Seriously

The Happiest of the Happy Times

Not Titler, but Close

After All, He's Just a Man

His expression would change seam-fully and awkwardly. he was always forming what to say next. Listening just enough to follow. His expression would always be of surprise when he would realize what you had said. It took him a few beats to recover and transition to a more at ease, appropriate and more fitting expression. His interactions with friends were always overly comfortable. Impenetrable. If you weren't in the circle when it began, good luck getting in. When he was happy, he was giddy. When he was sad, he was desperately so. Content was a rare pony for him ever to mount. It wasn't comfortable when he did. Always waiting for one extreme or the other to come back. His ego was profound but also was his interest and wonder about things that he felt edified his character. Everything else fell into his pit of disdain He would commonly write off and tear apart limb for limb things or ideas that he had absolutely no interaction with. There was no convincing him either. Ever. He would employ every one of his devices. Vocabulary, down tone, complete confidence in his decision, or his misconception. His fingers seemed to never touch each other. Constantly open palmed and slightly fanned. He used his hands to punctuate almost every sentence that passed through his mouth. Commas, semi-colons, periods-- the lot. All were formed into some sort of point or swooping gesture. Everything about him was exaggerated, and his hands were no exception. His walk was never hurried. He sauntered. He rode his heels hard. Always leaning far back. It seemed like it would be difficult to manage but the fact remained that he did not do anything that was difficult. When he stood he was precariously involved in a sway. He would catch himself just short of the point where you were sure he would fall. He was constantly in thought. His eyes showed it with their frequent flicker and severe depth. One obvious problem was that he didn't always think through, but he was always thinking.

Cuddly Toy

"I'm cold for goodness sakes!" he nearly yelled at the pestering youngsters. They weren't younger than him, most of them at least, but him being the tallest and largest they looked up to him. Not just literally. They were wanting him to pull them through the deepest part of the wading pool. He was the only one tall enough to crawl through on his knees. It was no easy feat. This pool was formed out of uneven pebbled concrete. It was harsh on the bottom of your feet, I gathered it wouldn't have been any easier on the knees. He had been talked into doing it once. Which he did for everyone, to be fair. Even though after the first go with the first fair weather friend the chore in this game had to have become obvious. When they asked, then begged, then downright demanded another trip across he rose his voice above the rest and said an uneasy lie. "I'm cold for goodness sakes!" They instantly grew tired of him and left. Like a puppy in the rain he sat there soaked and alone. He eventually found it in himself to slink out of the pool sad and defeated. He came and sat next to me. I could see the marks the concrete had left on his knees. I touched his knee gently and gave him a look full of every ounce of understanding I could muster. He looked up at me and calmly asked for his towel.

Watch Out Alan Light

Look at his li'l face!

Stranger the Revelator

On my walk into the office today I was offered a strange compliment (??). I was waiting for the light to change while having what can only be described as a depeche mode mo-ment (master and servant indeed). When a woman standing next to me motioned for me to remove my ear buds. I did so, timidly, and raised an eyebrow for her to go ahead. "Your hair looks so comfortable!" She spouted. My mind was turbid with confusion. Comfortable? What is comfortable hair? When is hair uncomfortable? Is she uncomfortable right now? I realized that were were still standing there in an uncomfortable proximity, for me at least, engaged in an interaction that I was unsure how to bring to a close. I took a cue from Gervais and said only "Cheers, mate." The light turned, interaction over, but I was set to wonder.

Don't Dump Your Pride

Elton, Why?

Ollie-G

This was taken this last weekend. It was Oliver's second gay camping trip. He had a really great time. I hadn't seen him be so excited and happy about anything in a long time. He was constantly laughing and nearly giddy the entire trip. He lifted all of our spirits by allowing his to be lifted.

Sweet [Facial] Freedom, Indeed.

This album came up in my Itunes just now. I don't know why I have it. I don't know why I have a lot of things. Like, the other day Leann Rimes singing Purple Rain came on. What the Huuhhggh? Which I instantly added to my running list of worst covers in the history of history. It joined the likes of Hootie and the Blowfish singing Please,Please,Please Let me Get What I Want, Celine Dion singing Here, There and Everywhere, Bono doing I am the Walrus, and yes, Celine Dion doing You Shook me All Night Long; which is somewhat officially the worst cover ever says these guys.

Wait, back to what I was originally saying; the album is reprehensibly bad, every song is a nightmare, but his facial hair is some of the most commendable I've ever seen. At lease since this. I'm just saying, I tip my proverbial hat to you Michael McDonald.

Oh and, this rules:

Facial hair is a secondary sex characteristic in human males. Directly above a picture of my dearest Abe.

It Don't Come Easy

"I love you!" She screamed. Her tone was frantic and confident. Two traits not usually present anywhere in her. Her arms were up. They hung there along with the statement. Her gaze was directly on and cut through him. Another rarity for her; eye contact. Her chest was tight and she was already beyond tears in this. "That is not my fault," His tone was flat and honest. He was not trying to be cruel, though, he knew that when she spread this story around like a secret he would be the villain. He will have done all the offense. He had an overwhelming urge to comfort her but knew that was a lot of how they found themselves here. Like this. He was always pleased with her and wanted to please her. As impossible a task as that was for both of them. He was not known for being pleasing and her not known for being pleased.

Still the Haps...

G

There are so many shades of green here that it is hard to believe that they all fall under the same color.

If a Disco Ball Falls in the Woods...

How It Goes

Just wow.

He insisted.

The We, Myself and I

Maybe it was time for a change. The thought had been playing louder and more often inside my head lately. I wasn't angry at where I was or who I had around, but I was feeling more discontented with what we, being nearly every important person in my life, were to each other and what I had become to myself. I was finding more comfort in being alone. I wanted to find something new to make me feel productive and useful. I had a sort of idealism growing in my chest. I wanted to leave a mark. Alone. Contentedly alone. It was an idea that I had discussed a couple of months back with a friend and it seemed like a distant fairy tale. A complete farce. Made up and useless. I couldn't see it ever showing up. I didn't believe when people would talk about it. I thought it was just a sign that they had given up and were talking themselves into existing empty. But here I am. Feeling it. Thinking that it's true. Maybe I gave up, but it feels pretty real to me.

Oliver Being Oll-ie Can Be

All taken by Snotty, and taken from here.

Good Things Come in Pink Boxes

Voo Doo Doughnuts-- PDX

The Final Round

I'm smiling so nicely because this was the guy taking the picture. Let's just employ the word dreamy, shall we?


Last night Michelle's dress was in the AIGA Ready to Wear
Recycled Paper Fashion Show at the Seattle Center.

a shark watches me sleep

!!!!!!

You're Something I Can't Need.

I always knew that I was on borrowed time with you. There's no need to avoid it. Let's just call it a day. I'll tell you what, I'll save you the trouble of running away. I'm already gone. Just save a moment for me when the rest fall away to remember when I was there. Remember my shoulder and remember my touch. Until then, carry on. Carry on.

You're something I can't need, and I something you don't want to.

the great debate: pirates or ninjas.

on live journal they have a button called 'writer's block' which prompts you to answer a question and post the answer. yesterday the question was "pirates or ninjas?". i composed a venn diagram to try and work it out. though, i still don't know where my pre-fer-ence lies.

How Can I be Sure of You, Anymore?

The tear pushed its way out from behind my soul. The first to fall is always falls with the greatest force. It left me feeling like I could be easily blown over with a breathe. His breathe. He saw the tear, and the ones that followed closely behind. He did his part by not breathing. His back was straight and his mind obviously racing with what to do to make it better, but still be true. A breathless silence was all that he could offer me right now. I pulled my things together. I was clumsy looking through my tears. I managed to walk out the door with my head high enough to make me seem slightly resolved. Now I wasn't breathing. As the door pulled shut behind me I lost it. All of it. I hoped that he was doing the same on the other side.

That's How People Grow Up

The file that sat between us on the desk seemed to be breathing. I could see the middle swell up and fall back into itself all with a pulsic rhythm. Its breath was making it hard for me to comprehend or even hear that this woman was so pointedly trying to convey. She would motion to the file with almost every sentence. The file whose binding was straining at the number of pages crammed into it. The edges were severely tattered, some were discolored, coffee maybe. There were all sorts of colored stickers on the end flap. Some with numbers, some with letters and one long white file label that offered his full name. I became aware of the fact, for the first time since filling out my marriage certificate, that I didn't know his middle name. Frederick. I sat with that a moment and wondered if that knowledge would ever be useful.

She pointed again at the file. Trying to add weight to her statement. I was doing a good job of seeming unaffected by her inquiries and her over interest. Inside though I was straining to keep it together. With its breathing, her pointing, my memories pounding at the front of my skull begging to be remembered, and the obvious overactive heater in this room it was creating a situation that was threatening to blow through the last of my nerve.

The heater was clicking on and off at a hyper rate. It had formed a stifling heat that hung over the cubicals. That is another thing; when dealing with matters as delicate as the one at hand, these half walls seemed inadequate if not inappropriate. ours was not the only delicate conversation going on. There were others happening on three sides of us. All of their and our words floated up over the half walls and got themselves stuck in that heat. Swirled together and messy. I fell back into myself with a start.
"Brianne? Brianne? Are you listening to me?"
I locked eyes with her, looked towards the door, stood, and left.

Let me live,
Before I die

I Look Good in Gay

Notebook Leprosy

My days were seemingly falling off of each other into an undistinguished pool. Like they were falling off of a water wheel. Once the day fell into the swirled, foamy, depths it was lost. It fell and formed into the rest. Unintelligible became one to another.

Had I done that task yesterday, or week ago? Is that asparagus a bundle bought a few days ago or is the memory i had just sporadically salvaged from 2 weeks ago.

I always had a photographic memory. There were slight glitches in its application but overall I had a good memory. With impeccable reverence to detail. Now I was having trouble being able to place anything. Time had scrambled and I was housing memories inconsecutively. I brought it up to my doctor and he blamed my recently augmented dose of daily lithium. He didn't want to change doses again. He really felt we finally had broken the code of my mental illness. His only offering to make this feel manageable was "Start carrying a notebook."
I stared at him as blankly as he was staring at me. "A notebook?" It was a question, but the tone was flat.
"Yes. Keep it with you and date the pages. Write things down."
"I should write down what days I buy asparagus?!"
"Look. Write down the things that have been bothering you not to remember. The meds are obviously helping. They just aren't perfect. As far as side effects go this is not a bad one."

He scribbled this months dose onto a prescription pad handed to to me and told me to schedule next months appointment with the receptionist. He stood. Signaling to me that our time was over.

When I entered my car i was irritated. My jaw was tight and my brow furrowed. I felt like this was now my disability. Arising out of the treatment of my other tarnishing quality. I really liked my doctor. He had helped me more than anyone I had memory of. MEMORY. MEMORY. MEMORY. The word was taunting me. Remember. Remembrance. Memories. All of them creating a circle around me in my mind. Pointing and laughing. I had really hoped he could help with this. Like he had helped before when everyone else had thrown their hands in the air in defeat. Waving a white flag to my mental illness. I'll explain. Ever since I can remember I had been subject to severe sadness and nervousness. Some of my earliest memories are of being sad. I couldn't sleep much. My mind never quit. There were times when it was less of an issue and there were times when it was all I could do to keep through the motions. The unpredictable cycles were consistently there but the diagnosis was always changing. From being just a nervous child. To hormonal depression. To bipolar. In my adult life I was able to self manage the cycle with meticulous schedule keeping. Filling every second with a task. Easily done with a young child and a husband who was unable to handle a single task beyond those that were making him money. I did have occasional breakdowns that would leave me nervously bedridden for days. In a swirling, dizzy, confused, sleep deprived and brutal depression. The breakdowns always coincided with either a breakdown in my schedule or a particularly cold interaction with my husband.

After the marriage fell apart. I fell into the longest episode I had ever experienced. It lasted 8 months. I saw 5 different doctors. Including 3 psychiatrists. They tried to stick to the Bi-polar diagnosis, but since I hadn't had a single day of manic happiness, ever. They had a hard time with it. It wasn't just depression, because even in the days that I would not leave the soft safety of my bed I wouldn't sleep more than three to five hours. The diagnosis became mixed state bipolar disorder with sever anxiety. Even after that was tentatively established I was shuffled around to different people all with different med formations they thought would "At least take the edge off." No one was ever very confident. Offering to make it all just this side of agony.

The man whose office i had just left was the first person to acknowledge that it was obviously not okay to just get me functional. I was young and needed to be able to do things with my life. He found the right combination after a few tries and no guarantees. I was feeling better than I can ever remember. Now i was having trouble remembering and all he could offer me was a patch, a cane, a crutch, an enabling object! A notebook.

Hiding from the room where my memory keeps.

This secret was strange. I didn't know who I was keeping it from. It didn't want to be with anyone else. It still acted like any other secret though and was crashing around inside my frame effectively ripping me apart from the inside out. It began at my core and was pushing outward. I couldn't think of any way to stop it. Then the physical pain began and it all started to feel equally matched, savagely balanced.

round two

swiped from everyone and anyone.

My Elusive Drug

Even though he had spent not nearly enough time, by her standards, in this place the space was drenched in him. She felt him skipping the paths he usually would travel through each room. In those lines he would tread he would leave the only joy that was left to her. Today there was only an apparition of him. And it was doing only the opposite. It was savagely pulling from her the last of her restraint, the last of her eagerness and the last of her emotional strength. She had been operating on a ballooned deficit for far too long and it felt like the debt was now about to be paid. This ghost had arrive at the time scheduled for him to show. Each minute that passed where he didn't this thing was taking more of the place she had prepared for him. It came and stayed in and on memories and over wrought feelings. So real that her eyes and ears felt absolutely tricked. She had made it to the tenth hour with no idea how to make it through.

the morning after...

i slept in those damn shoes.

Moping Skills

1. Get away from EVERYONE.

2. Clean with some ridiculous music on. Meat Loaf is the usual pick. For those of you paying attention, I DID just call Meat Loaf ridiculous. But maybe now you understand my desperate affection for him. While we are on the subject, him in the newest Cingular commercial made me want to turn my T.V. off for another year. Back to it, today I didn't want to clean, because what was left to pick up were lincoln logs, a fuzzy butterfly poster, pictures of unicorns and magnolia trees, this morning's cheerios and a pillow fort. The harsh affront of these items were threatening to bring it all crashing down even faster and with no mitigation. They will stay. Move on.

3. Eat. This one doesn't usually do a lot of good in the long run, but it can stop one of the smaller incidents in their tracks. So I pushed myself into bed and under the covers with a pumpkin bar and a bag of pretzels. Sweet or savory, you just never know. I enlisted the help of some of Madonna's lesser work. I figured a hybrid of 2 and 3 was worth a shot. It got no better and was still steadily feeling worse. My brain wasn't responding to my nearly audible "shut UP!'s" and my heart wasn't responding to the calories.

4. Run. Run until you barf, run until you fall, run until something makes you stop. I ran away from everything. I knew it would catch up, it always does, but I needed to run away from it for a while. The rain gave it self to hide from all the strangers and one friend I passed that I was actively weeping. My lungs burned before I made it even a mile. The combination of sobbing and running had run them out. I didn't care. It wasn't far enough and this wasn't done. I ran until the blisters on my feet screamed for no more friction and threatened me at the knees with a complete giveaway and only then did I turn around to run back.

I arrive home with my face soaked with tears, my jacket soaked in rain, my socks soaked in blood and my heart drenched in sorrow. This might be a big one, I admitted to myself, as I grabbed a notebook, a water bottle and a pen.

Burn Down The Mission (Statement)

"You are the sort of girl everyone wants to keep as their dirty. little. secret."

The sentence seeped from his mouth like a foul odor. It came out slow and with an an intent that shot like a dagger straight to my soul. His moustache was severe but somehow these words and their meanings passed effortlessly through and passed it.

The shrill, harsh, change in this interaction left my legs with the need to adjust themselves against the weight. I felt the all too familiar burn at the back of my eyes. The past few days had been filled beyond their brim with weeping. I wasn't about to do it again. I would not give him a single tear. He didn't deserve it. Either had the others, but I felt like I still commanded control over at least this one tear that was threatening to let out so many others. My entire idea of him had just changed. I was unable to speak in fear of letting that tear through. He sensed that I was struggling and kept on.

" You don't make sense as annnyyyyything else. You are too damn smart and too damn stubborn. And you really like that about yourself. There's not room for anything else."

Of all the people who would have an actual right to say this to me I was standing in disbelief that the one actually saying it was him. His face was morphing into all the others who had not had the guts to say this but had left the idea in their wake. He kept on, vilely.

"I woulda fucked the shit out of you, though."

My stomach turned and my mind was spinning. I was having trouble figuring how we even got here! This evening started off so well. It was supposed to be my break from these feelings. Why had they followed me here?! They seemed to perch as a sniper a top the head of every friendship. Who would be next.

I had fallen tangibly silent, and I knew he was drawing conclusion in it. I didn't know how to tell him how wrong he was about everything and how angry I was and how hurt and how disgusted. His face was still cycling through all of the others and I couldn't draw the line between him and them even though there were nearly no similarities. He just got lucky with hitting a soft spot. Why had he even been looking for one?

My lips parted to speak but i barely had breath enough to whisper. The phone rang and he answered it. He looked me in the eye and motioned for me to be quiet. As if I was able to make any utterance at all. I knew who he was talking to, but used the time to try and pull myself together enough to salvage at least my ego from him. He stayed on the phone longer than i could stand. I walked out of the room, down the stairs, through the cold kitchen with its harsh light, and out the back door. Like I had something to hide.

A slight breeze lapped itself onto me. Beginning at my fingertips and moving up my arm. I must have neglected to shut that window all the way. I softly opened one eye and i could see that i hadn't pushed it that last 1/8 of an inch. The wind was doing what wind does and it took advantage of my neglect. It thought it had found a short cut. It didn't need to go around this building, but what it found instead was a resting place. I don't think that breeze made it much farther than my body. I was lying on my stomach with my arms outstretched. My legs were straight but parted enough to command coverage of most of the bed. I hadn't always slept this way. For years I shared a bed with him. He slept more like this. I would push and pull my body to leave room for and also fit into the molded space that was left after he had taken charge of as much as he wanted of the bed. His sleeping stance was one of disregard and mine was one of desperation.

You Make Me Feel Like A Randy New Man

It's disturbing, to even me, how sexy Randy Newman's "You Can Leave Your Hat On" really, really, is.

That is not Bono

"We went over to hang out with Bree, and Oliver, her gay her dog her son. He's an adorable, spazzy blonde with a fondness for historical political figures, just like his mom.

Ollie: Who's Bono?
Me: You're dead to me.

Kids are cute. He and Oren got Whoopie cushions at Bartell's (because who doesn't like hanging at Bartell's?) and farted their way into friendship in Bree's living room."

Ollie's first blog shout out involves Bono and farting, I am discomfit.

One Day (At a Time)

In the shower I let only the hottest water escape the faucet and rip itself across my skin. I wanted the outside to hurt even half as bad as the inside. My pain needed a counterweight! Or it felt like it might rip out of me and run rampant through the town. Slaughtering lambs and babes. I wasn't only hurting because of him and them and this and that, it was everything. I wanted to run, and I wanted to stay in and never leave. I was savagely discontent, to say the least.

You love one person, so why can't you love two

The words floated up and then caught themselves in the scalding water which brought them crashing onto and into me. For random, that felt pretty specific, Ipod. The scald and humidity was doing nothing now except making my already puffy eyes and face puffier and more red. I had to get out of here.

I spent the better part of an hour trying to mitigate the damage to my eyes with make up. I never did cry well. So it seemed outrageously unfair that I fell into it so effortlessly.

Let it sing. Let it cry.

Oh for fuck's sake Ipod. What's next Hank, Kill Yourself Now Because No One Else Will Ever Love You, Williams? Here I go.

a break from the usual miserocracy...

"Oh, well don't be such a lesbian. Get on with it"

Best. Quote. EVER!

The man was no longer just another one of the men, he was my mother's husband. He was still quiet. About all things, not just his shoes. His silence made me feel uneasy most all of the time i spent with him. Which was a lot. We no longer lived in the seedy apartment, we had moved to a house on the beach. I not only had a room now, i had TWO! It was much quieter there at night, but my sleep pattern remained the same as before. I was a 7 year old insomniac. I didn't have any idea of that word.

In pictures I always looked a mess. Clothes looked wrinkled on my lanky frame even when they weren't. My curly locks always looked bed messed. The dark circles under my eyes were topic of daily conversation by one adult or another. I didn't have the tools of understanding yet to deduce why they were there. The most common offering was that my eyes must just be large and casting a shadow. Absurd in retrospect.

With the absence of intriguing noise at night I would fill my restlessness with reading. Anything I could find in the house. Quickly running out of the age appropriate material that littered my rooms I moved on to the magazines that the man kept in the bathroom, under the sink, beneath the extra toilet paper. Playboy. The first time I noticed it i had wondered why my parents hadn't told me about this stack of magazines about playing! Noticing that the woman on the cover was almost nude didn't register as being odd. The pictures didn't arouse any sensation at all. What did was opening its pages and seeing the amount of unread words! So my time alone was spend reading about things I probably should not have. People would audibly wonder where my cynical remarks would come from. Most were dismissed as being because I was an "old soul". That term always upset me. I didn't understand what a soul was. I also didn't see anything redeeming in it being old. When people would say it in front of my mother she would move her head and make a face that was to be taking credit for my abnormality. She would always credit herself for whatever it was that cause interest in me. Being a child nothing is ever truly your own.

Let's Face It, I'm Tired.

I really did try and sleep, but the constant outside noise was too intriguing for my forming mind to ignore. The prostitutes, the debauched, the dope sick, the quarreling lovers, the racing cars and barking dogs. How could I bare to miss one full second. A lot of what I heard, or would dare to watch, would deeply frighten and sadden me, but intrigue was the overwhelming feeling at the beginning and end of it all.

Dreams of Neverbeens

We were lying, platonically, on the bed.
"No, they wouldn't interact that way. The fertile girl will only make the effectively sterile girl feel ashamed and broken. It already feels contrived and your only 1,500 words in"
"Oh, rubbish. It's my story and I'll write my characters however I like. I really thought about these ones. They are going to be my first dynamic females. I didn't show you this to glean your input. Besides, what would you know of any of this?"
"More than you care to know."

good times for a change

Oh, I am so sickened now

Though they were not even in the same room, the distance between them seemed not nearly large enough. The city blocks seemed like a babies steps. At this one moment she wanted to be miles and miles away from him. She had done nothing wrong but was left feeling naked and emberassed. His wholely empty idea of her had begun to feel true.

the gettysburg undress

A List of my Childhood Crushes (pre age 10)

Pete Townshend
Ringo
Randy Travis
Paul Simon
Huey Lewis
John Anderson

There was an affection with Bowie; though not an outright crush. That showed later.