You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
And you'd have me climb, climb, climb.
All the mountains you'd push me to fall.
Fall.
Fall.
Isn't it funny, that final failing?
For all the fluctuating, vacillating, obliterating you're phoning them in.
Was it fun, finding that fountain of earth.
Funneling from the ground.
Reaching the sky, not really.
From a peak in your final frontier?
Fly down Fujairah.
Were you there, Jabal Fariq?
Fuck fantastic fantasy fairies for fun, and profit.
Theirs, the profit.
Were you there, Jabal Fariq?
Finding friendly females feigning for funds for a fuck?
And you were willing.
Because, we've already found.
It's all about you.
You.
You.
You.
You.
Find yourself flailing, now do you?
Find yourself failing, now you do.
Flat out for you.
It's all about you.
And you.
And you.
And you.
And you.
And the five others you found from the fuck friend channels.
Because, for the final frame, it's forever for you.
You.
You.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Long Ago - 10thDoM RoM A Legacy of Smoke and Shadow
It wasn't that long ago that I saw your face for the first time.
At least, not that long in the history of man.
And it wasn't that long ago that I wished that your eyes would see my face too.
But then I'd look away.
Pretend I didn't see you seeing me.
I would undo that first kiss, that first lisp, that first...
Well, everything.
I wished for you on stars and clouds and airplanes at night.
Because I didn't know better.
You were shadows.
I was smoky.
You said so.
And I heard you.
I was for play.
Foreplay.
Falling apart at my seams, so it seems.
And you were so good with needle and thread.
Weaving in and out of my life and even me.
At will.
Your will.
Not mine.
Don't you remember the first last time?
The first completion.
The last time.
With her listening from above and us listening from the next room.
That's our legacy.
There's always a first last time.
For you to sing that first last line.
That I never want to hear.
You're a tune I can't leave.
Stuck on repeat.
You.
Repeat.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
Me.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
It's all about you, isn't it darling?
At least, not that long in the history of man.
And it wasn't that long ago that I wished that your eyes would see my face too.
But then I'd look away.
Pretend I didn't see you seeing me.
I would undo that first kiss, that first lisp, that first...
Well, everything.
I wished for you on stars and clouds and airplanes at night.
Because I didn't know better.
You were shadows.
I was smoky.
You said so.
And I heard you.
I was for play.
Foreplay.
Falling apart at my seams, so it seems.
And you were so good with needle and thread.
Weaving in and out of my life and even me.
At will.
Your will.
Not mine.
Don't you remember the first last time?
The first completion.
The last time.
With her listening from above and us listening from the next room.
That's our legacy.
There's always a first last time.
For you to sing that first last line.
That I never want to hear.
You're a tune I can't leave.
Stuck on repeat.
You.
Repeat.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
Me.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
You.
It's all about you, isn't it darling?
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Night Swim - 10thDoM Beneath the Pools of Another Moon
It's a new year, and Jelly is back and... Well, probably not better than ever but not too much worse for the wear.
silver shine across lithe long parts
lines of luminescence linger and then fall,
but the eyes stay where the paths traced
down the gentle sways and curves
cool air smiles upon her limbs
and the favorite parts of men, obviously so,
a vision in the night, art meets reality
so easily, the eyes must stay
alabaster skin beneath ebony hair
hazel eyes aglow, reflecting your own face
gaze seized and then caught, a smirk
crawls across lightly pinked lips
fine fingers flicker cerulean strands
toes curl and massage the grit of tiny sands
sweet laughter saunters in, killing silence
and drums beat heavily inside this night
silver shine across lithe long parts
lines of luminescence linger and then fall,
but the eyes stay where the paths traced
down the gentle sways and curves
cool air smiles upon her limbs
and the favorite parts of men, obviously so,
a vision in the night, art meets reality
so easily, the eyes must stay
alabaster skin beneath ebony hair
hazel eyes aglow, reflecting your own face
gaze seized and then caught, a smirk
crawls across lightly pinked lips
fine fingers flicker cerulean strands
toes curl and massage the grit of tiny sands
sweet laughter saunters in, killing silence
and drums beat heavily inside this night
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Where's Jelly? - 10thDoM Deathbed Revenge
I'm not much for writing these days. It has been an interesting summer. Fall is now here, and I warily look forward to a more productive existence.
My body has pretty much rejected me at this point. Two things happened this summer: First, a diagnosis of Ehlers-Danlos, a genetic collagen defect that affects my ligaments and make them hyperextensive and come with lots of other fun things... Like... Easy and frequent bruising, extreme nearsightedness, strange body relative measurements (I have a wingspan of 5'10" but I am just 5'7"), the lovely early onset of normal degenerative conditions like osteoarthritis and periodontitis, chronic fatigue, GI problems (more on that in a bit), and my personal favorite, the ability to subluxate and/or dislocate certain joints easily or even at will (see left hip and left wrist!)
On the plus side, this is the answer to many, many unanswered medical questions throughout my life. Like - why do I have such low blood pressure and such a high heart rate? And why can't I see?!? And why are my kneecaps moving to the sides of my knees? And why can I jump rope through my arms? And why, oh, why was pregnancy so unbelievably painful? More importantly, why did I do it twice?!? That's the masochism, a completely unrelated condition and a blog for another day.
Probably the most interesting thing about the condition is that I've always had to have a second dose of local anesthetics and I've always been able to count down far more than I was told on general anesthetics. Nearly all painkillers are completely useless to me, and morphine, intravenous morphine has no more effect on me than saline solution.
Which leads us to the GI problems, aka the second thing that happened (because there were only two!), and where I've been all summer. On Mother's Day, I woke up with the most horrid vertigo. I thought I had some sort of hangover. I don't really get hangovers though - a little upset tummy but never a headache or the like. I'm no lightweight, but I attributed it to breaking my cardinal rule of drinking: Don't mix alcohols. And I'd imbibed on a couple of glasses of wine fairly early in the evening and then a couple of shots of good ol' Jack Daniels straight from the bottle later. Waking up with vertigo was just proof that my rule, which had never before been tested, was right on target.
That vertigo lasted a week. Shortly thereafter, I was getting sick every time I ate. I gained 20 pounds, had a voracious appetite, horrid acid reflux, intense bloating and pain, felt like I had the flu, had achy femurs, ZERO energy, was dehydrated, nauseated, and my ankles were swelling. And no, I was not pregnant! If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that, I would have a LOT of nickels! Anyhow after having ultrasounds on my gallbladder to check for gallstones, pelvis to check for cysts and cancer, and an upper GI endoscopy to check for Celiac sprue, all of which came back relatively clear, it was determined that I have IBS (yes, I know, lovely) and some sort of wheat/gluten allergy or intolerance.
If I had known all I had to do was not eat gluten! Argh! I had multiple times that my boss wanted to send me home from work because, despite the weight gain and the fact that it was summer, I looked gaunt and pale. And there were times my friends wanted to call an ambulance because I looked so disgustingly horrid. No, life this summer was not fun, folks!
So, in case you were wondering, that's where I have been. I also now have a happier yet much busier life. Playing euphonium in a brass band and a wind ensemble, singing in choir, riding bikes and training to ride across Iowa next summer, teaching lots, taxiing kids, hanging out with great friends, and embarking on a new incarnation of an old relationship. Despite the sickness, I had a much happier summer than I have in years. I have a difficult time writing in my happier times. The muse just seems to hibernate. The goal, then, would be to try to write while I'm happy and see what comes out.
Anyhow, despite the revenge that my deathbed is attempting to exact on me far too early in life, I'm intermittently back and happier for it.
My body has pretty much rejected me at this point. Two things happened this summer: First, a diagnosis of Ehlers-Danlos, a genetic collagen defect that affects my ligaments and make them hyperextensive and come with lots of other fun things... Like... Easy and frequent bruising, extreme nearsightedness, strange body relative measurements (I have a wingspan of 5'10" but I am just 5'7"), the lovely early onset of normal degenerative conditions like osteoarthritis and periodontitis, chronic fatigue, GI problems (more on that in a bit), and my personal favorite, the ability to subluxate and/or dislocate certain joints easily or even at will (see left hip and left wrist!)
On the plus side, this is the answer to many, many unanswered medical questions throughout my life. Like - why do I have such low blood pressure and such a high heart rate? And why can't I see?!? And why are my kneecaps moving to the sides of my knees? And why can I jump rope through my arms? And why, oh, why was pregnancy so unbelievably painful? More importantly, why did I do it twice?!? That's the masochism, a completely unrelated condition and a blog for another day.
Probably the most interesting thing about the condition is that I've always had to have a second dose of local anesthetics and I've always been able to count down far more than I was told on general anesthetics. Nearly all painkillers are completely useless to me, and morphine, intravenous morphine has no more effect on me than saline solution.
Which leads us to the GI problems, aka the second thing that happened (because there were only two!), and where I've been all summer. On Mother's Day, I woke up with the most horrid vertigo. I thought I had some sort of hangover. I don't really get hangovers though - a little upset tummy but never a headache or the like. I'm no lightweight, but I attributed it to breaking my cardinal rule of drinking: Don't mix alcohols. And I'd imbibed on a couple of glasses of wine fairly early in the evening and then a couple of shots of good ol' Jack Daniels straight from the bottle later. Waking up with vertigo was just proof that my rule, which had never before been tested, was right on target.
That vertigo lasted a week. Shortly thereafter, I was getting sick every time I ate. I gained 20 pounds, had a voracious appetite, horrid acid reflux, intense bloating and pain, felt like I had the flu, had achy femurs, ZERO energy, was dehydrated, nauseated, and my ankles were swelling. And no, I was not pregnant! If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that, I would have a LOT of nickels! Anyhow after having ultrasounds on my gallbladder to check for gallstones, pelvis to check for cysts and cancer, and an upper GI endoscopy to check for Celiac sprue, all of which came back relatively clear, it was determined that I have IBS (yes, I know, lovely) and some sort of wheat/gluten allergy or intolerance.
If I had known all I had to do was not eat gluten! Argh! I had multiple times that my boss wanted to send me home from work because, despite the weight gain and the fact that it was summer, I looked gaunt and pale. And there were times my friends wanted to call an ambulance because I looked so disgustingly horrid. No, life this summer was not fun, folks!
So, in case you were wondering, that's where I have been. I also now have a happier yet much busier life. Playing euphonium in a brass band and a wind ensemble, singing in choir, riding bikes and training to ride across Iowa next summer, teaching lots, taxiing kids, hanging out with great friends, and embarking on a new incarnation of an old relationship. Despite the sickness, I had a much happier summer than I have in years. I have a difficult time writing in my happier times. The muse just seems to hibernate. The goal, then, would be to try to write while I'm happy and see what comes out.
Anyhow, despite the revenge that my deathbed is attempting to exact on me far too early in life, I'm intermittently back and happier for it.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Chokehold - 10thDoM A Better Ending
You are my weakness, my failing wings. I fly low without you, high with, and am devastated by the space between. There are songs for us, and they are deeply disturbing. I am your tornado, and you, my volcano. The pleasure I imagine in your eyes at my pain is only paralleled by the glitter in them as you explode in me. As I wreak havoc on your life, your home, your white marbled body of stone, I spit upon the other subtle breezes you've let come wafting by. I can't imagine my life without you although I should, and I should be happy in it, but you are the intensity, the destruction, the drug I need to be able to feel... Anything. That you could be kind, I could not fathom, and that you were has taken my breath. The cruelty thereafter is just part of the process of how I process and keep you in my chaotic little categorical boxes of my mind. Believe me when I say that you are the malignant poison that I willingly love and loathe and drink from any time your cup is offered to my parched and pursed lips. I live for your nonexistent love to flow from your sad slateblue eyes and halfquirked mouth threaded into a deviant smile, through your light flutterby kisses and the choking hold of your concrete strong hands around my throat. And all I can think as the pressure on my chest causes my mind to blank and the sparkling euphoria to break through is how this way the end is so much better even if you break my heart every time I leave.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Porch Sitting - 10thDoM Two Over Easy and a Nice Chardonnay
Two souls merge as one
Twice it were, now simply done
Sun down, chardonnay
Twice it were, now simply done
Sun down, chardonnay
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Moma - 10thDoM Mother Dearest
This blog is not fiction. It is not even creative non-fiction. It is non-fiction with the occasional humorous sidenote.
It's a running joke. The "Desiree" coming out. I'm gonna have to go "Desiree" on your ass is a common saying in my family... I'm the only one who has ever come close, and I was completely sober. That fact is an unnervingly terrifying thought.
My favorite stories to tell of my mom are not the positive ones. She was beautiful. Raquel Welch, many compared her to. She had the kind of nose that people have surgery to get, a smile that could brighten any room, hair to make Farrah Fawcett jealous, and a drug habit that would make Anna Nicole Smith a Narc-Anon success. She was your best friend the moment you met her. You could never forget her, and you liked her even though she was a bipolar sociopath who, at some point in your friendship with her, probably lied to your face, stole something you loved, and threatened to kill you or have you killed.
In the end, she went out with a whimper. It wasn't a death befitting the life but deserved by the life. Was the Xanax, the Valium, the OxyContin, the Somas, the Lortabs or Lorcets, Percocets, or something else? Who knows? Who cares? In the end, she simply OD'd at a friend's house. She was there under the guise of helping to take care of a diabetic friend who'd had her food amputated. Instead of helping, she stole the friend's meds and died on her guest bed. The friend didn't even show for the funeral.
When a recently jail-released friend died on my moma's guest bed for doing nearly the exact same thing, at least she showed her face at the funeral. As a side note, this is a perfect example of "some people never learn." I mean, really, if someone OD's on your guest bed after stealing your meds, would you steal someone else's meds and lay on their guest bed?
By the time I was 12, I could tell you the street value far too many prescription narcotics, and I could tell you all moma's friends' favorites... By the time the pill craze began in small town, USA, my mom had already been addicted to and rehabbed from cocaine, both snorting and selling. In fact, my uncle, two great-aunts, and one great uncle had all gone to jail for being one of the largest drug dealing operations in our little region of the world. Yes, I take a little pride in that. All moma's "friends" were really clients, and I learned quickly after getting my driver's license to "just say no" when she or my step-dad wanted me to drive them somewhere.
I have vivid memories of nothing in the fridge except cheap deli meat, beer, and icee popsicles. We'd have to wait around til usually sometime after two o'clock, when moma and my step-dad awoke from their alcohol and cocaine induced freight train symphony of sleep to get fed. I should mention now that I have and always have had an incredible internal clock that awakens me sometime in the vicinity of 6:30 am every day. Even on days when I don't get to sleep til 5 am. But that's another blog.
I also have vivid memories of moma standing up in a Soma-jerked stupor and doing a faceplant right in front of one of my very straight-laced boyfriends. He was frightened. I laughed and told her to get up. Once, I really needed her to wake up and pinched her arm repeatedly and quite roughly. The next day, there was a huge bruise that covered nearly her entire forearm, and she couldn't figure out where she'd gotten it. I didn't tell her til a few years later.
I remember the Friday afternoons of her custodial weekends when she'd call and tell me she was on her way. I'd rush excitedly to pack my bag and sit on the porch swing to wait for her to drive the one and a half miles (or less) from her house to my dad's to pick me up. She showed less than half the time.
I'll never forget my 15th birthday. It was on this glorious occasion that she begged me all day to come and spend time with her, and when I finally got there, she was drunk. Anger ensued, and by the end of the night, I was pinned to the floor and she was choking me all while informing me that she brought me into this world, and she would take me out. It is the only time I ever called my dad to come and get me from her house. After all that, her favorite thing to tell me was that she was a "good moma."
Happy memories with her are hard to find, no matter how deep I delve into my psyche. My memory is excellent when there is emotion attached. Once, when I was, I believe, eleven, my mom was very poor, having just gotten out of rehab and no longer selling drugs but also without a "real" job, had a completely sober Christmas. All she got me was a Caboodle, a cheap Barbie, and a tiny gold "nugget" ring. It was, by and large, the best Christmas of my life.
That's probably my favorite story about my mom even though it lacks the unbelievable sensationalism of the others.
I won't bore you with the multitude of times that my ex-Uncle Car-El got drunk enough to think it would be a good idea to give Moma tequila. I will bore you with the fact that every time he did, I would get a phone call asking me to help calm her. I'm not the one stupid enough to give her tequila. You deserve the holes in your wall, the bruises on your face, the dents in your cars, the neighbors calling the cops, and the terroristic threats. Hello. Do. Not. Give. Desiree. Tequila. It should have only taken ONE time to learn that lesson.
The one time I pulled a true "Desiree" I was stone-cold sober. There's too much backstory, but the short version is this... My aunt laments all the time about how great "my sister" was and how her life ended when "my sister" died and how "my sister" took care of me. On one such occasion, when my cousin was having a very difficult time in life, my aunt started going on and on and on about how her life had ended when my mom died - right in front of her own daughter. Then, she started lamenting about how my cousin's (soon-to-be-ex) husband would never hurt her or their son despite the fact that we were over at my aunt's because my cousin had left after a violent outburst. It was too much. I was in her face and felt myself desirous of violence toward her. It was amazing. I still cannot believe it happened, but the combination of those two things is some sort of trigger in me and I nearly did it again on another similar occasion a few weeks later. It was amazing and scary and reassuring all at the same time. I'm glad I have some of my mom in me because I know now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I can become fierce if needed. That is good knowledge to have.
My mom was terribly fun to be around when she was sober, and she'd give you the shirt off her back, or, at least, she would steal you one off someone else's and pass it off as her own.
She was the one person I could call who would be on my side no matter what even when I was wrong. I miss that. I wish that I could be that; I wish that I could have her charisma. But alas, my brain is too far in tact from lack of abusing drugs and alcohol my whole life, and I still remember, in awe, the admirable traits of my mom.
I miss her dearly even though my life became more breathable when she passed. It's been more than seven years. She was just forty-six when she died, followed by my step-dad a couple months later. I predicted he'd last three months without her. He lasted four. And then, because my family will never learn, my uncle OD'd as well just a couple of years later.
I love my mom. I miss my mom. She was a terrible mom but a hell of an interesting to know and have as a part of me.
It's a running joke. The "Desiree" coming out. I'm gonna have to go "Desiree" on your ass is a common saying in my family... I'm the only one who has ever come close, and I was completely sober. That fact is an unnervingly terrifying thought.
My favorite stories to tell of my mom are not the positive ones. She was beautiful. Raquel Welch, many compared her to. She had the kind of nose that people have surgery to get, a smile that could brighten any room, hair to make Farrah Fawcett jealous, and a drug habit that would make Anna Nicole Smith a Narc-Anon success. She was your best friend the moment you met her. You could never forget her, and you liked her even though she was a bipolar sociopath who, at some point in your friendship with her, probably lied to your face, stole something you loved, and threatened to kill you or have you killed.
In the end, she went out with a whimper. It wasn't a death befitting the life but deserved by the life. Was the Xanax, the Valium, the OxyContin, the Somas, the Lortabs or Lorcets, Percocets, or something else? Who knows? Who cares? In the end, she simply OD'd at a friend's house. She was there under the guise of helping to take care of a diabetic friend who'd had her food amputated. Instead of helping, she stole the friend's meds and died on her guest bed. The friend didn't even show for the funeral.
When a recently jail-released friend died on my moma's guest bed for doing nearly the exact same thing, at least she showed her face at the funeral. As a side note, this is a perfect example of "some people never learn." I mean, really, if someone OD's on your guest bed after stealing your meds, would you steal someone else's meds and lay on their guest bed?
By the time I was 12, I could tell you the street value far too many prescription narcotics, and I could tell you all moma's friends' favorites... By the time the pill craze began in small town, USA, my mom had already been addicted to and rehabbed from cocaine, both snorting and selling. In fact, my uncle, two great-aunts, and one great uncle had all gone to jail for being one of the largest drug dealing operations in our little region of the world. Yes, I take a little pride in that. All moma's "friends" were really clients, and I learned quickly after getting my driver's license to "just say no" when she or my step-dad wanted me to drive them somewhere.
I have vivid memories of nothing in the fridge except cheap deli meat, beer, and icee popsicles. We'd have to wait around til usually sometime after two o'clock, when moma and my step-dad awoke from their alcohol and cocaine induced freight train symphony of sleep to get fed. I should mention now that I have and always have had an incredible internal clock that awakens me sometime in the vicinity of 6:30 am every day. Even on days when I don't get to sleep til 5 am. But that's another blog.
I also have vivid memories of moma standing up in a Soma-jerked stupor and doing a faceplant right in front of one of my very straight-laced boyfriends. He was frightened. I laughed and told her to get up. Once, I really needed her to wake up and pinched her arm repeatedly and quite roughly. The next day, there was a huge bruise that covered nearly her entire forearm, and she couldn't figure out where she'd gotten it. I didn't tell her til a few years later.
I remember the Friday afternoons of her custodial weekends when she'd call and tell me she was on her way. I'd rush excitedly to pack my bag and sit on the porch swing to wait for her to drive the one and a half miles (or less) from her house to my dad's to pick me up. She showed less than half the time.
I'll never forget my 15th birthday. It was on this glorious occasion that she begged me all day to come and spend time with her, and when I finally got there, she was drunk. Anger ensued, and by the end of the night, I was pinned to the floor and she was choking me all while informing me that she brought me into this world, and she would take me out. It is the only time I ever called my dad to come and get me from her house. After all that, her favorite thing to tell me was that she was a "good moma."
Happy memories with her are hard to find, no matter how deep I delve into my psyche. My memory is excellent when there is emotion attached. Once, when I was, I believe, eleven, my mom was very poor, having just gotten out of rehab and no longer selling drugs but also without a "real" job, had a completely sober Christmas. All she got me was a Caboodle, a cheap Barbie, and a tiny gold "nugget" ring. It was, by and large, the best Christmas of my life.
That's probably my favorite story about my mom even though it lacks the unbelievable sensationalism of the others.
I won't bore you with the multitude of times that my ex-Uncle Car-El got drunk enough to think it would be a good idea to give Moma tequila. I will bore you with the fact that every time he did, I would get a phone call asking me to help calm her. I'm not the one stupid enough to give her tequila. You deserve the holes in your wall, the bruises on your face, the dents in your cars, the neighbors calling the cops, and the terroristic threats. Hello. Do. Not. Give. Desiree. Tequila. It should have only taken ONE time to learn that lesson.
The one time I pulled a true "Desiree" I was stone-cold sober. There's too much backstory, but the short version is this... My aunt laments all the time about how great "my sister" was and how her life ended when "my sister" died and how "my sister" took care of me. On one such occasion, when my cousin was having a very difficult time in life, my aunt started going on and on and on about how her life had ended when my mom died - right in front of her own daughter. Then, she started lamenting about how my cousin's (soon-to-be-ex) husband would never hurt her or their son despite the fact that we were over at my aunt's because my cousin had left after a violent outburst. It was too much. I was in her face and felt myself desirous of violence toward her. It was amazing. I still cannot believe it happened, but the combination of those two things is some sort of trigger in me and I nearly did it again on another similar occasion a few weeks later. It was amazing and scary and reassuring all at the same time. I'm glad I have some of my mom in me because I know now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I can become fierce if needed. That is good knowledge to have.
My mom was terribly fun to be around when she was sober, and she'd give you the shirt off her back, or, at least, she would steal you one off someone else's and pass it off as her own.
She was the one person I could call who would be on my side no matter what even when I was wrong. I miss that. I wish that I could be that; I wish that I could have her charisma. But alas, my brain is too far in tact from lack of abusing drugs and alcohol my whole life, and I still remember, in awe, the admirable traits of my mom.
I miss her dearly even though my life became more breathable when she passed. It's been more than seven years. She was just forty-six when she died, followed by my step-dad a couple months later. I predicted he'd last three months without her. He lasted four. And then, because my family will never learn, my uncle OD'd as well just a couple of years later.
I love my mom. I miss my mom. She was a terrible mom but a hell of an interesting to know and have as a part of me.
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