Friday, May 29, 2009

The Beginning

The siren was a million days ago.
Maybe a million and one.
Her body undulating before me.
All sin and sex and pheromones.
Her long dark hair hitting her waist.
Hiding the good bits in some moments.
A smaller peep show than the one she was already doing.
She'd jump at the pole, hit the top, and spin the entire way down.
I would have given anything to talk to her before I died.
I would have given anything to still be at her feet, just watching.
But I'm here.
And I'm going to die.
Barney's hand weighed a ton, crushing my chest.
Crushing me into the bed.
I don't have a gun, Barney.
Shut up kid, he says.
Through the window, we could see the hotel desk office.
And they were there.
Just like us.
They had found us faster than I thought possible.
The shot was loud, and I saw the blood spatter hit the wall.
Then they weren't bloodiers.
God, my head was pounding.
I was almost ready to walk outside and give it all up.
But Barney held me down.
You got a plan there, Ace?
He stopped talking again.
Walked swiftly and silently across the room, gun still raised.
I couldn't move.
Fear had taken over.
I was six again.
Helpless little boy wanting his daddy.
Hating his mother for sending him away.
I just wanted to be saved, to be safe.
Get down, he says.
This will go quick, he says.
In the movies, fight scenes, gun scenes last a lifetime.
There is tumbling and fighting and people are shot so many times.
But they never die.
That ain't the real way of things.
The real way of things is a hell of a lot worse.
Within thirty seconds, the door busted in.
I stood, staring like an idiot, an outside observer.
I was a bloodier.
I didn't deal with the guns.
I wasn't prepared.
Shots rang out, and suddenly I was under water.
Two guys.
Barney hit the one on the left first.
Right between the eyes.
It was a movie shot, completely perfect.
Eyes rolling back to watch his brains exit his skull.
The right guy shot Barney in the arm.
Then turned and aimed for me.
I was dead.
This was it.
I opened my arms to receive it, almost happy.
I heard the shot.
But there was no after life.
I missed the second shot.
The bullet Barney sent flying into that guy's chest as he jumped in front of me.
He fucking saved me.
I still stood there, watching like an idiot.
And I heard the breath rattle in Barney's chest, lying on the bed.
Kid, he says.
Its barely a whisper.
I know he's dying.
Kid, he says.
Right here, Barney.
You gotta take the gun.
You gotta take my car, my baby.
There will be more coming, he says.
How do you thank someone for saving your life?
I will, Barney.
He looked old all of a sudden.
Much older.
I put his head in my lap, and a pillow pressed against his wound.
He watched me.
Words unspoken between us.
His eyes began to glaze over.
I watched the life leave him.
I'd never done that before.
Ma wouldn't let me be there for her.
My father had been knifed in a bar.
And I had no one else.
But watching the life leave Barney was so intimate.
I knew him better than anyone else in that moment.
I wrapped his bloody dead body in sheets and comforters from the hotel.
Dragged him to his baby.
Put him in the backseat.
He'd give me hell for getting blood back there.
Even if it was his blood.
Barney deserved a proper burial.
And he was going to get it.
The gun was tucked into my waistband.
I wasn't wasting the life he gave back to me.
The car started, filling the silent morning with exhaust rumbles.
It was Sunday.
And I was going home.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Not Ready At All

My dreams swirled and tumbled around me.
Mainly blackness, mists of grey and purple rolling.
I only dreamed colors and shapes.
Never people, places, things.
My subconscious hated nouns.
I could see patterns in the swirls.
And different colors meant different things to my sleeping mind.
But now... Blackness with grey and purple.
Not normal.
But nothing about this night had been normal.
Barney was still talking, somewhere far away.
About his kid.
The stuff I don't want to know about.
So I fell headlong into my dream of blackness.
And soon I couldn't hear anything at all.
The smoky remembrances of grey and purple soon became more colors.
And thicker, heavier, realer.
Blues and silvers, greens and reds.
A psychedelic trip.
I'd never used drugs before.
I bet it looked like this if I did.
The colors came in, ready to engulf me.
Then pulled back and disappeared.
One green shape kept coming back, closer and closer.
A memory.
One I had locked away years ago.
My dad.
Not a dad.
Biological father.
I don't have a dad.
But this memory was him.
Or maybe it was the him I wanted him to be.
As the green blob of my terrible father threatened to swallow me, I awoke.
Barney was hovering over me.
Shaking the bed incessantly.
Wake up, he says.
Fuck you.
The wrinkles around his mouth and eyes started to show.
I never really noticed them before.
But then I never just sat around and studied him.
The worry was in his forehead.
Lines scrunched up as if someone tried to pull all his skin into one place.
Like those stupid dogs with the rolls of skin and fur everywhere.
They look soft, but they ain't.
Rough as sand paper.
The reverse of Barney, as I was starting to see.
He had the gun pulled out.
His left hand was on my chest.
Right hand in the air, pointing towards the door.
I knew what he was going to say before he said it.
They're here, he says.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Let The Sleep Come

I didn't know nothing about Barney.
Background, family, where he lives, nothing.
That was the way the boss wanted it.
The way we wanted it.
No one wants to be traced.
No one wants to be found out.
More importantly was if you had someone out there you cared about.
You didn't want them to be found.
Or hurt.
And it has happened before.
Don't think it hasn't.
Its how they would hang on to you.
Force you to work even if you wanted out.
I didn't have no one anymore.
They could only hurt me.
I stopped caring about me a long time ago.
But Barney.
I wonder if Barney had someone.
I didn't dare ask though.
The night manager, about to go off duty, eyed us as we walked in.
One room or two?
Eyebrows raised.
One room, two beds.
I hated places like this.
Grime stuck to everything.
As if it had never been cleaned.
I doubt it had.
Stale cigarettes and booze hung heavy in the air.
He gave us the room key.
Dark Indian skin, even darker eyes.
Looked like a dressed up rhinestone cowboy from Nashville.
Obviously he didn't know nothing about the actual cowboys.
Our room was just as grimy.
But that was fine for us.
Don't need much.
Mom and I went on vacation once.
Stayed in a hotel alot like this.
I swam in their over chlorinated pool, my hair tingeing green.
I found out later it wasn't a vacation.
She was looking for my father.
Heard from some of his friends he had been two states over.
We didn't find him.
What are you talking about, he says.
I had been talking out loud without realizing it.
Nothing. Sorry.
So you ain't got a dad, he says.
Ain't got a mother either if you're keeping count.
I got a kid, he says.
Don't tell me that, Barney, I don't want to know.
Someone needs to know, he says.
In case this is it, he says.
Someone needs to know how much I love my son.
He's about six or seven and white headed.
Just like his mom.
I let her down all the time, he says.
He's talking more and more.
And I don't think I like it.
I know I don't like it.
We ain't allowed to have emotions.
But he was having plenty for both of us.
I closed my eyes, head on the thin polyester comforter.
Maybe I'd fall asleep before I learned too much.

Post #100

It needs to be as insignificant as possible.

And... done.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

If You Don't Laugh, You Cry

They had just lowered the casket.

The 21 gun salute was starting.

And little Carl was standing behind me. Four years old, in his tiny little man suit. I was crying silent tears. And angry with everyone, including God. That's when I heard Carl whisper to his mother.

"Did they shoot him? He's already dead!"

So I remember that and laugh. Instead of the alternative.

Rewind The Sunrise

I was six.
When my dad left, I mean.
I was six.
And he was in his forties.
And he left us.
My mom and me, I mean.
He left us one afternoon.
Left and didn't look back.
I don't really remember what he looked like.
Mom said he died when I was sixteen.
Ten years without him.
She walked in my bedroom.
Your dad is dead.
Knifed in a bar.
What was I supposed to say?
I didn't do anything.
She didn't say anything.
She just told me.
And I accepted it.
And i regretted not being able to confront him.
I've always felt a little bit empty.
My dad denied me.
My mom was forced to keep me.
Who else would ever want me?
And by choice no less.
Maybe that's why I was in this business.
Maybe that's why I wanted to hurt other people.
Bloodying took it out of me.
All that anger and pain.
I could smash and smash and smash into someone else's skull.
And eventually I would feel calm.
I miss that calm.
I wanted to feel that calm now.
But instead, I stared out my window, feeling my heart explode.
How many beats per minute could it take?
I don't know how long I slept.
But the lights of the hotel flashed their neon decay into my eyes.
Completely covered the sunrise.
Oh god.
What if that was my last sunrise, ever?

Friday, May 22, 2009

Just Let The Road Drive

It ain't mine, he says.
Then why the hell do you have it?
It ain't registered to me.
A dead man owns it.
Can't be traced to me, he says.
Too many questions can get you in trouble.
But I'm not too bright.
And curiosity killed the bloodier.
Do you always carry it?
Every time we've gone on a job, he says.
Barney was smart.
He looked out for himself.
I could see that now, more than ever.
Whereas I, I would go blindly wherever told to go.
I just assumed people wouldn't hurt me.
I hurt people.
I am not cynical enough for the line of work that I'm in.
So where we going to go now, Barney?
Again he was quiet.
I don't know, he says.
Right now, we're just driving.
And you're talking too much.
You are too, Barney.
He laughed.
Honest to god.
I didn't even know he could laugh.
I guess that's what it was though.
It sounded broken, raspy.
Like leaves crunching under foot in autumn.
I guess I am, he says.
I start thinking again.
Our boss wasn't it.
He had a boss, who had a boss, who had a boss.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
Soon someone would start looking for us.
And it wasn't the cops I was afraid of.
Cops I can deal with.
You can run from cops.
You can break away from cops.
But fellow bloodiers.
They ain't going to give up so easy.
And they ain't going to be so nice about bringing you in.
Or burying you, for that matter.
I bloodied for a living.
I knew what to expect.
What now?
They're coming for us already.
Maybe, he says.
That's why we're driving.
And why I'm not too focused on a destination other than here, he says.
I took that as a brilliant plan.
So we sit.
And the road takes us on.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

From Nowhere

The boss gave me the suits, he says.
We was supposed to put them on.
Go down to Angelico Street.
And wait, he says.
I'm just listening now.
These are the most words Barney has ever said to me.
Big Eddie was coming in as I was leaving, he says.
Big Eddie always had an even bigger mouth.
Claimed he had a job on Angelico Street that night.
Two stiffs in blue suits.
So I pulled out my gun, he says.
I shot Big Eddie too, he says.
The death toll rises.
What did we do to get listed?
I don't know, he says.
Except that we've been working for the boss the longest, he says.
Maybe he wanted to cut some corners.
Salvation had a cut above his left eye and bloodied for a living.
So where we going to now?
He was silent.
I didn't push.
You don't push Barney.
I missed my ma, all of a sudden.
I never even thought about her anymore.
The look of disappointment on her face.
She knew what I was doing for all that money I was throwing on her.
And she didn't approve.
And she stopped taking the money.
She was sick.
And she started getting sicker.
I kept sending money.
But it came right back to me, torn in half.
Then I read in the paper she died one night.
At the free clinic, no less.
What a shitty life.
I could have made it better.
But she was righteous.
And god loved her.
Maybe he took her away from me.
Knew I was doing a shitty job of taking care of her.
Fuck it.
I just wished she was still alive to see me get out of the business.
Or maybe I was glad she was dead.
So she couldn't see this blow up in my face.
The air in the car was getting muggy and hot.
The windows stuck, but I could still roll it down.
I loved that feeling, cold air washing over me.
Then it hit me.
Where the hell did you get a gun?

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

I Hate To Admit It...

But my OCD makes me an excellent housewife.

God. How fifties cliche.

As long as I can be a housewife with a glass of Chardonnay in my hand...


He's been trying with limited success
To get this girl to let him into her pants
But every time he thinks he's getting close
She threatens death before he gets a chance

She's been trying with limited success
To get him to turn out the lights and dance
Cause like any girl all she really wants
Is that fickle little bitch Romance
That fickle little bitch Romance

And that is why the girl is called a tease
And that is why the guy is called a sleaze
And that's why god made escort agencies
One Life To Live and mace and GHB...

Thank you Amanda Palmer...

Comprehension Don't Fit

You killed the boss?
Did I stutter when I said it, he says.
This was a loaded why.
Why did he kill the boss?
Why did he put on the blue suit?
Why did he tell me we had a job tonight?
Why did he involve me at all?
Things happen sometimes, he says.
I feel my anger seething.
But I'm not allowed to get angry.
I'm not allowed to have emotions.
I'm a worker bee.
The brains have the emotion, have the smarts.
I have muscle and intimidation.
But those don't work against another worker bee.
What the fuck I am supposed to do, Barney?
I saved you, he says.
You saved me?
By killing me?
No, he says.
Then he's quiet.
And I notice his knuckles.
They aren't white.
And his jaw is relaxed.
And for the first time ever in all the years I knowed him,
He looked at me.
In the eyes.
Not to scare, like we did to the people about to be bloodied.
That's what we called it.
When we finished, they looked painted red and black and brown.
Beautiful, if I knew what beauty was.
Each hit sent a shower of the red stuff all over you.
And then they were bloodied.
Sometimes they died. Sometimes they lived.
That wasn't my concern.
But now Barney had his eyes on me.
And I couldn't look away.
The job tonight, he says, it was for us.
It's always for us, Barney.
No, he says.
This job put us as the target, he says.
We were going to get bloodied.
We both turned our eyes back to the road.
Comprehension is a strange word.
And it don't fit here.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Get The Hell Out Of Dodge

Why the blue suit?
Different job tonight, he says.
Barney ain't a talker.
He's a glarer.
His eyes of glass stare right through you.
And suddenly you ain't a talker either.
So I wasn't asking anymore questions.
He handed me my own suit, blue.
Blue suits.
We don't wear suits, and we ain't once worn blue.
Put it on, he says, hurry it up.
I don't know nothing about the new job.
And I don't want to know, yet.
Its better not knowing most of the time.
Just get in, get something done, leave.
I came out wearing the blue suit.
Barney grunted.
It'll do, he says.
We climbed into his car.
GTO. Black. Sleek. Sexy.
But we never took this car on a job.
This car was his baby.
And our jobs weren't the atmosphere for normal babying.
I stared out the window, allowing the silence to fill.
His knuckles were white, gripping the steering wheel.
That's how he always drove.
Like he was mad at the world.
Jaw clenched, knuckles white.
All I could think of was the siren I left on the stage.
Maybe she liked blue suits.
We ain't coming back, he says.
We ain't what?
Coming back, he says. We're leaving town.
What the fuck for?
I killed the boss, he says.
He just signed my death certificate.
Let's get the hell out of dodge.


I flopped down on the couch after my run and sun bathing hour.

My dog immediately jumped up and laid on my right shoulder. Which is weird within itself. Her head is behind my neck, and her body is draped across my shoulder and shoulder blade like a living breathing stole.

But then the cat jumped up and plopped onto the dog. Right onto the dog.

Its at these moments that I would sell my right boob to have a camera anywhere near me.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Conversation With My Demon

Demon: That was a new bathing suit you were wearing in the picture you sent me.

Me: No, I had it last year, I just didn't wear it.

Demon: So everyone else gets to see you in your little swimsuits when you all go to the lake house?

Me: Yep. Oh! We're going to the lake house on Monday.

Demon: You are required to wear a burkha.

You may all read this and see crazy jealous boyfriend. I see love...
Demon, baby, you make me so happy.


He was magic.

He made the corn grow, and the chickens lay eggs, and the flowers bloom, and in the mornings he'd wash the entire acreage of farmland. Even gave it the sweetest little name of "Dew". It was a long time before I realized it wasn't him that was magic, though. He wasn't born a conjurer, seventh son of a seventh son in the moonlight on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. No. It was the buckeye in his pocket.

He found the magic buckeye on any normal afternoon when he was a boy. A young boy, no older than I was when my legs were too skinny and my feet and ears were too big for the rest of me. It lay in the dirt, directly in front of him on his way to school. Now many of you might not have ever seen one of these before. They are a dark brown color type seed, the size of a large marble that's been slightly squished, with a circle of tan. In this case, the brown side was facing up, and the dirt was powdery and a light, almost cream color. It stuck out.

Normally, he'd kick anything laying in the dirt that way. Just kick it to amuse himself on his way to school. But not this time. No, this time, something said, "Pick it up."

So he did.

He put it in his pocket and went on to school, forgetting completely.

In fact, he didn't remember about the buckeye in his pocket until he got home that night and was getting ready to eat dinner. Dinner had been the same thing every week since he was born. Mama cooked Chicken on Sunday. Then chicken soup on Monday that lasted until Friday. But usually on Friday, it wasn't so much chicken soup as it was chicken water with sparse vegetables. And today was Friday. Mama called him to the table, along with his Pa, who had been out on the farm all day long. He sat down in his chair, thinking and wishing they could afford the good stuff and his mama would walk out of the kitchen with a big plate full of meatloaf and macaroni and thick cold white milk, and felt the hard knot in the seat of his pants. He pulled out the buckeye, wondered why he had kept it, and put it by his plate.

That's when she walked in. With a casserole dish full of meatloaf. His mouth fell open.
"Wait now, there's more in the kitchen!" His mama continued coming in, platter after platter full of all kinds of food, things they had never bought before, and last but not least macaroni and cheese.

He and Pa looked at Mama with confused faces, only glee filling hers.
"Uncle Andy died last week! You know, my uncle from Oklahoma? The one with the lisp who loved Shakespeare? He could repeat it to anyone at any time, just no one could ever understand him. It seems he had a fortune built somehow, buried beneath his cellar, and he left it all to me!"

He didn't even know he had (had being the operative word) a great Uncle Andy who was a Shakespeare lover with a lisp. But he did, now he was dead, and... somehow his wish had come true...

He picked up the buckeye, stuck it carefully back into his pocket, and ate voraciously. Tomorrow he would test the validity of his suspicions...

We Don't Wear Suits

Not much else I can do now.
The siren finished her dance on stage.
She swirled her hips like no other girl I have ever seen.
I had to leave, to meet Barney.
Barney hates when I crack my knuckles.
Says it sounds like breaking fingers.
But when he breaks fingers, its ok.
Barney gives me the chills.
We always meet behind Lucky's Pool Hall.
Lucky is a friend.
Not of ours.
Of the boss's.
We aren't allowed to make friends.
I wanted to stay this time.
The siren always does a second round on Saturday nights.
But I always have to leave.
I would like to talk to her.
But I know I ain't her type.
Ugly ain't that girl's type.
So I leave.
I meet Barney.
He's wearing the blue suit.
Not black, blue.
That means tonight ain't a normal Saturday night.
Not for us.
We wear black.
And we don't wear suits.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Cheap Wine

I consider myself a connoisseur of cheap wine. When you are poor, living on a budget, sometimes you make sacrifices. In my case, that meant my high priced wine taste had to be put on hold. But I'm living with it. And actually starting to enjoy it. Once you've had a few glasses, you never even know the difference.

Yesterday, I went to eat with my new room mates, aka The Landlords, at Subway so the kitchen would be free from clutter and they could pack for their trip. They left a few minutes ago for the beach (tear...) and will not return for a week.

But anyway, back to the story...

As we sat eating, they shared the fact that they were taking wine with them on the road. I had not had wine in over a month, and suddenly I was hankering for a good and dry white. So, stopping on my way home (at Bubba's Liquor, no less), I searched for my treat. I paid a visit to my buddy's in the high priced section, lovingly stroking the bottles, picking up a few to look at the coloration of the liquid inside... I kissed them goodbye and moved to the section I can actually afford.

So, this is it. The cheap wine. And like I said, I consider myself a connoisseur. This is what I recommend.

Cheap wine can be some of the best wine out there. Not only is it cheap, but you can buy it in bulk! So, as you are purchasing it, look for the perfect mixture of low price and high volume. I myself purchased a mega ultra drunky bottle of Chardonnay for $9. (Don't worry, I only drank half of it... that was enough to have me telling my female landlord later that night as we planted flowers by the moonlight (don't ask) of my mother's involvement in witchcraft when I was younger and her pushing me into it)

Another thing - being as the wine is so cheap, you can feel free to purchase wine varietals that you have yet to enjoy. That way you'll know at least the nuiances of the flavor and pitch of that particular type. Maybe not at its best, but at least a general idea. And one day, when you are able, you can purchase the rich bitch kind!

You can also guzzle cheap wine without worrying about "enjoying" each and every sip. Like I would do with that rich bitch kind. Cheap wine is for getting drunk.

It means parties and friends.
It means spilling secrets about your childhood you didn't mean to.
It means sitting on a back porch watching the moon and the stars.
It means looking down to realize a dog has its nose shoved down in your glass.

You know what? Maybe I don't want to go back to my expensive wines when I get the chance.
I can be a cheap wine conniosseur for life.

Friday, May 15, 2009

No Funeral For Me

This is what I want done with my remains when I die.

After all my applicable organs have been donated, of course.

And I want a bench placed under a tree with my name and information written on it in the middle of the woods...

My final resting place...

Song Lyrics

Every time I hear this song, I imagine it was written specifically for me. Never has a song been so perfectly matched to myself before. So I blare it loudly out my rolled down car windows as I speed down the highway, screaming it at the top of my lungs. Somehow, still harmoniously.

Girl Anachronism
The Dresden Dolls

You can tell
From the scars on my arms
And cracks in my hips
And the dents in my car
And the blisters on my lips

That I'm not the carefullest of girls

You can tell
From the glass on the floor
And the strings that're breaking
And i keep on breaking more
and it looks like i am shaking
But it's just the temperature
And then again
If it were any colder i could disengage
If i were any older i could act my age
But i don't think that you'd believe me
It's not the way I'm meant to be

It's just the way the operation made me

And you can tell
From the state of my room
That they let me out too soon
And the pills that i ate
Came a couple years too late
And I've got some issues to work through
There i go again
Pretending to be you
That i have a soul beneath the surface
Trying to convince you

It was accidentally on purpose

I am not so serious
This passion is a plagiarism
I might join your century
But only on a rare occasion
Iwas taken out
Before the labor pains set in and now
Behold the world's worst accident

I am the girl anachronism

And you can tell
By the red in my eyes
And the bruises on my thighs
And the knots in my hair
And the bathtub full of flies
That I'm not right now at all
There I go again

Pretending that I'll fall
Don't call the doctors
Cause they've seen it all before
They'll say just
Let her crash and burn she'll learn

The attention just encourages her

And you can tell
From the full-body cast
That i'm sorry that i asked
Though you did everything you could
(Like any decent person would)
But i might be catching so don't touch
You'll start believing you're immune to gravity and stuff
Don't get me wet

Because the bandages will all come off

And you can tell
From the smoke at the stake
That the current state is critical
Well it is the little things, for instance:
In the time it takes to break it she can make up ten excuses:

Please excuse her for the day, its just the way the medication makes her...

I don't necessarily believe there is a cure for this
So i might join your century but only as a doubtful guest
I was too precarious removed as a caesarian
Behold the world's worst accident

I am the girl anachronism

If I could claim a favorite song, this would be it.

But, our song, remember our song, my Demon? Now there is a story for other people's grandkids.
Not ours. God forbid we ever reproduce.

Thursday, May 14, 2009


One of my favorite past times is changing my hair style. And i rarely ever keep a cut exactly the same for longer than six months.

So today, my pretty blonde new room mate (Oh, I also moved by the way. Just a heads up.) and I headed over to NexGen to get our hair cut.

Me, being myself, wanted something drastically different.

I told Bethany, our stylist, what I wanted, and she delivered it perfectly. I have never had a hair professional do that. Ever. They never want to go as daring as I want it.

I'm pleased with it.


I miss you.
I try not to think about it.
But every moment a reminder.
Every moment a memory.
Every moment my heart aches.
I want a home.
And you are it.

I love you.

The Narcissist Has Spoken

Forgive me...


It is Lengua. Not Linga as I so horribly misspoke before.

Is this better PJ?

Lost In Translation

PJ and I go way back. Way back. A few lifetimes back, in fact. And at one point, its possible we might have been one person... but that could just be the drugs talking. Who the fuck knows.

Yesterday, I busted him out of his solitary confinement for an evening of food (which we both have problems with), talking (which we both enjoy), and no booze (which is sad on any occasion, but especially sad for us. Although we did gaze lovingly at a couple of bottles).

As I pulled into the authentic Mexican Restaurant, where "Little Mama" would be serving us, I was greeted by Peej complete with his straw island hat, hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, and unlit cigar. You'd think he was Anthony Bourdain. And when he ordered (in perfect Spanish) for both of us - Tacos de Linga and Tripa - I thought perhaps he was schizzing out on me, thinking he was Bourdain. If you don't speak Spanish, Linga is tongue and Tripa is intestines.

But God, they were yummy.

I would try to explain our conversation here, but I doubt anyone would really follow and understand. Or find it as hilarious as we did. Two crazies sitting alone at a table, contemplating the world - yeah... it probably was a garbled mess. But it sounded fantastically brilliant at the time.

It was a wonderful evening. And I promised to come back another day for Karaoke and sushi. And next time, we swear we will have the booze.

It'll be in June, so everybody save up some bond money to bust me out of jail...

(P.S. That is actually his hat in the picture above. Its customized!)

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Blood Is Beautiful

I know you all think I am a little emo wannabe... But I don't care...

I love the way blood looks against pale skin. And I think nose bleeds look interesting.

I have only had a few myself, but I let the blood pore away with no attempt to staunch it. Until my mouth and chin and neck were covered.

Fuck Happy

Yes. Fuck happiness. Because you know what happiness does for a writer? Do you know what the absence of emotion does?

It kills your writing.

Writers (at least this little writer right here) feed off of emotion, brooding dark and deep, allowing all of their pain and hurt to spill out into their stories, making them more real and tangible.

But lately, I have been... content? Yikes... Its such a strange damn feeling...

And I have noticed my typing and penciling dwindling a bit.

So quick, someone hurt me, cause me pain!

Fuck the happiness and contentment!!!

Goosebumps and Laughter

It was this past Saturday. My family gets together once or twice a month for food and fellowship, and this time to celebrate Mother's Day. My papa passed away almost a year ago now, and it is getting easier to gather our family (minus one), but it will never be the same. And we will always be minus one (then minus 2, 3, 4, and so on. It is the nature of the beast).

I am not one to enjoy being in other people's company for long periods of time. I can for some extended moments... but at the start of the second hour, I was ready for a break.

I walked around outside in the woods behind my aunt's house, then I went to the upstairs office to work on my writing.

In that upstairs room, you can hear everything in all parts of the house, so I was very aware of the goings on of my family under my feet. After two hours of computer time (yes, our family gatherings have been known to last all day) and many muffled questions of "Where is Mandy?", I decided to trod downstairs, maybe for a game of cards.

Then I heard something that stopped me in my tracks.

I heard my papa's laugh.

I honestly could not move. For a split second I could see him with my family downstairs, but then the cold realization of his death came back to me. The hair on my neck and arms was on end. I wasn't even breathing, listening for it again.

My papa had a VERY unique laugh. And voice in general. It was deep and booming. No one else in my family has that sound. I've known these people for 24.5 years, I have their nuances memorized.

I wasn't even aware what I was doing until I was all the way downstairs and sat on the floor in the middle of the living room. Everyone was looking at me strangely.

"Mandy, why are you crying?"

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Lookin' Out My Back Door

Going home to see my parents is hard for me. We do not always get along or bring out the best in each other. There have been times when either I or they have left in tears, anger, or hate, wanting nothing more than to see the other person NEVER again. How short never is sometimes.

They are family. We are family. And somehow we always manage to make up and still love each other dearly. Even though they heavily disagree with some of my life choices, and make no small reproach about pointing that fact out to me.

I am at the old homestead this weekend. The house I was brought home to right after my delivery. The house I said my first words in, learned to walk in, met my family in. It holds many many memories of loved ones hear and loved ones past.

Walking down the hallway is enough to make me reminisce.

We got off to a bad start Friday morning, at my arrival. It was not pretty. In fact it was quite ugly. Instead of leaving, I went to my room, opened the window, and fell asleep.

A light rain came by while I was sleeping, the smell of dampness waking me up.

This is what I saw...
Waking up to see this peaceful scene, I did my best to put aside the fight from earlier. I walked out to the living room, pretending it had never happened, and they all did the same.

So far, this weekend has been better than all of my other home visits combined. I would like to keep it that way.

Happy Mother's Day, mom...

Waterfall On Roadside

I think I missed my calling in life.

I'm going to be a water nymph from now on.

Specializing in roadside waterfalls and moss covered rocks.
That is all.

Mosquito: Mid Coitus

Saturday, May 9, 2009


I played with a gun today
I fingered the chunk of metal and plastic

(Straight finger, don't fuck with the trigger)

I held it out, searching for my target
(Don't pussy grab it, make that gun your bitch)
I played with a gun today

I played with a gun today
I loaded the magazine, bullets glimmering
(Push down, then back)
I slammed it home, listening for the click
(Don't do it halfway)

I played with a gun today

I played with a gun today
Gun oil on my fingers and in my nose

(It becomes an aphrodisiac after awhile)

Practicing, practicing, practicing, practicing

(Muscle memory is better than any other)

I played with a gun today

I played with a gun today

Sliding it, hiding it, between my skin and jeans

(Look for that outline, don't show you're packing)

I was wet from the feel of cold against hot

(You're just a dirty whore, aren't you?)

I played with a gun today

I fired a gun today
I wanted it over, I wanted it to end

(You wanted to see to feel his red blood on your face)

I could still feel his dirty hands pawing to be let in
(He won't hurt another little girl ever again)

I fired a gun today

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Lack Of Communication

I am going to have to do some crazy things to get connected to the internet for the next week or so...

I don't even want to think about it.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Every Child Of Satan Needs A Cat

My Demon and I have a new kitten. Yes. You read correctly. We now have a chihuahua and a cat. They hated each other at first. But, as I sit here at the computer desk, both are in my lap and sleeping.

While he is away out of country, I will be keeping this cat on my own for a year. Joy of joys. The task seemed horrid at first, but this little ball of fur has grown on me. He perches on your shoulder like a parrot. And plays with everything. I think it helps that he is a Manx. I like deformed abnormal things.

So, without further ado, this is Reginald/Reggie/Mittens...

Don't worry. We will refrain from getting those gay "this is our family" stickers for the back of our vehicles.

Who the fuck does this?

Going Through My Old Files...

I found this...

When I was an architecture student, this was my last project. Or at least, part of it. I spent hours putting in the dimensions and measurements of Louis Kahn's Salk University on the computer so that I could pull it apart and dissect it, forming my own analysis. Then I had to design a building that somehow represented the same ideas that Kahn was attempting to put forth.

I actually enjoyed this project. Although the labor intensive hours were hard on my back, eyes, and mind.

I'm glad I still have this copy.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Mother's Day

I don't know my mother well enough to buy her a Mother's Day present. I am not sure what she would want, what she would appreciate.

I see commercials of smiling mothers, wanting anything, thankful for everything their child gives them. It reminds me of one very prominent Mother's Day when I was 6.

I had spent an entire week drawing her picture after picture after picture of anything I could think of. Pictures of us. Pictures of her and dad. Pictures of me, her, my brother. The tree outside that she loved. Rivers and oceans. Clocks. Things she loved.

I woke up early that Sunday to fix her breakfast. Dad helped me. Eggs, toast, bacon, and fruit. Coffee. Milk. Juice. Everything.

I carried it back to her room, her present tucked under my arm, expecting a happy mother pleased with my work. I loved her. And I wanted her to know.

I don't think she understood that.

First Kiss

She was beautiful. Her short brown hair curled into her blue eyes, no matter how many times she brushed it away. Her laugh infected me. It seemed to bubble up from her stomach, as she fought to keep it inside, roll around her throat, then escape from her mouth and nose. Whenever she laughed, I couldn't stop myself from doing the same. Her deep breathy voice always incited a tingle in my finger tips and toes. A tingle I could never place.

She was my best friend.

I was thirteen the first time I fell in love. Puppy love. The innocent kind that leaves a sticky sweet taste in your mouth, your heart beating faster, ready for the real thing to happen next.

I adored Hannah. She adored me. But we carefully avoided close contact, sleep overs, moments alone, because of the way we felt. In a small town, loving a girl is not a thing to talk about. Even worse would be to actually commit to it. Unspoken between us was something neither of us understood. But something that both of us wanted desperately.

We were fifteen before we finally gave in.

It was close to midnight when I heard the knock at my window. Pulling back the curtain, there was Hannah, drenched from the rain. So wet that at first I didn't even notice her crying.

"I have to leave. We're moving. Some time next week. I don't want to go." She burst into tears again, sitting on my bed. I brought her dry clothes, listening to how her father had gotten the promotion he had been vying for, how the post was two states away. That within less than a week, they would all be gone.

Before I could stop myself, I cradled her face in my hands, and I kissed her lips softly. No pressure applied. Barely even a kiss. I didn't even close my eyes. Neither did she.

It was my first kiss.

I pulled back slowly. My hands still on her face. I smoothed her hair, the curls falling into her eyes yet again, and waited for a reaction.

"I love you. And I wish things were different." With those two sentences she returned my kiss. I struggled to make this moment last, remembering every detail as her mouth opened against mine. She was soft, and I wondered if I felt just as soft to her. I could taste her, her tongue swirling against mine, and I could feel myself wanting her more and more, pulling her closer and closer, as the kiss grew more intense.

But as with all good things, the end came.

We slept that night face to face, our arms thrown over each others' waists, knowing this would be all we would ever have. I said goodbye to her the following week with the rest of our class, and we never mentioned that night.

Forty years later, I sit here, still dreaming about that moment. I have never loved another girl since. And my husband buried in the backyard, along with my three children and seven grandchildren are a testament to that.

But I still miss her. And I will always love her.

My Hannah.

Genius Idea...

I fucking love when an idea like this smacks me in the side of the head. I almost fell out of the damn computer chair.

I'm not telling here, so don't even ask. I was just excited.

I'll be busy writing for awhile now. Later, kids.

Dark Magic

I love cemeteries. Walking around, especially in the evenings with a slight drizzle of rain, I feel safe, completely covered from the outside world. Honestly, I am completely pulled in by the tombstones. I read the dates, the inscriptions, the names. Wondering about the lives that lay ended beneath my feet.

I am in middle Tennessee right now, my place of origin. Yesterday, I found myself locked out of a house for quite a while, so I went on a walk. Straight to the cemetery down the road.

This cemetery, once ancient and old, has been kept up by the wrong people. Instead of preserving the historical points, they choose to leave broken headstones, replace antique fences with chain link (ugh), and allowing moss to completely cover the beautiful inscriptions. Death used to be so romantic in the 1800s and early 1900s. People actually cared about tombstones, things of importance. They were put up immediately. Maybe even made before your death, depending on your social standing. Whereas today, my papa still does not have a tombstone because my grandmother is too cheap. If I had the money...

I did not have my real camera in my possession, but I did have my less than inferior phone with camera. There were some shots I could not pass up...

Such as this broken twisted fence. My creative imaginative mind has all sorts of dark possibilities for the twisting of a cemetery fence...

This relief on the grave of a four year old little girl depicts a tree with one live bird perched on a branch. Lying below, a dead bird on the ground. I wonder if perhaps this little girl might have had a twin. Although morbid depictions like this were very popular in the 1800s. As was keeping a lock of the deceased's hair.

This grave yard also had some intriguingly different shapes for head stones. The concrete cylinder, very similar to the test cylinders we made in my material science class to test concrete strength, and the tree stump, perched on two concrete logs. Cool, huh?

Now... this is what caught my eye from across the rows. A pentagram perched on top of a woman's grave. In a cemetery behind a church, no less. But, this was not the pentagram I was more familiar with. Next to her, her husband's stone held the symbol for the Freemason society. Since they also utilized the five pointed star as a symbol of felicity and brotherhood, I could only infer that this couple was deep into that religious, secret sect. Searching on the internet later, I found this exact star, with the inscriptions inside, on a history of the Freemasons page. So I'm assuming my assumptions were correct.

Still... it would have been cooler the other way around.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Things Are Only Things

It is amazing how much power I can give to inanimate objects. A candle, a dress, a pocket knife, a table...

These are just some of the things recently that either I cannot dispose of or that holds some deep connotation within it. I started thinking then about everything around me. And the reason for those meanings...

I honestly want to dispose of everything in my possession. I hate the feeling of being bogged down and trapped by what I own. So as I rid myself of things, some stick out and guilt prevents me from dropping them. I hold no emotion for things. Honestly, I thought I did. And I will admit, there are a few things that remind me of certain people that I will never let go of. But the table my mom and dad bought me when I moved into my first apartment? I want to sell it. Which seems to break my mother's heart. I have no use for it now, being a nomad and all. I have nowhere to store it, nor the means to rent a place to store it.

And the wedding dress. It is just a dress to me. Just a dress. I am going to sell it or donate it. But certain people want me to store it away. And I just do not see the point. Why would I need to keep something like that? Even if unforeseeably I do remarry (bah), I would not wear the same dress. And why would I want that memory taking up space in my already too small closet?

The candle. The candle now sits on my Demon's bureau. We burn it every so often. But now it is just a candle. Burnt along with other candles. It is not special. It holds no happy or sad connotations. It is just a candle.

Everything we own becomes a memory holder. But clinging to the object does not bring back that day, that moment, or that person. Nor should we want it to do that. I am thankful it doesn't.

I hold my own memories.