"Ka-blam, elimination! Lack of education!" - Big Mama, The Fox and the Hound, 1981
She's heard the term, "a child going older," but she never realized that most were applying it to her. A false halo filled with the pride of a false independence hung gently and comfortingly over her head. She'd only paid rent at one place in her entire life, and that was at a discounted rate a brother had secured for her. Her first time away from home ended in disaster. Her second time, too. Still, she tried everything to fake growing up and out. After all, living off of parents is the only thing that signifies remaining a child, right? Living with a grandparent, a sister, a boyfriend, a co-worker, and a husband of convenience was simply part of the plan to make independence less expensive.
When your dirty clothes are piled to the ceiling is not the time to learn how to do laundry. When your footprints let you know where you've tread is not the time to learn how to use the vacuum. That your hand was held so tightly is only killing you now. That your eyes only ever looked to the shadows of your parents is why the world seems so strange. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to knowledge, but you revel in your ignorance and call it innocence.
She's loathe to accept cautions for what they are, preferring instead to interpret them as criticisms, never stopping to realize that people are trying to help. False halos from those who do not believe in her god will not affect her, regardless of their benevolence. Her Tower of Babylon is already built and those who love her watch in futility as she tumbles down its steps. She adores the descent, though, ignoring the bruises and convincing herself that no flight is accomplished without pain. Without the stern prodding of a parent toward the edge of the nest, she remains afraid to truly fly. Adults only learn to glide on the wind by flapping their wings and this one refuses to flap.
When you finally hit the ground, expect no womb to return to. When you finally accept that your wings are too old to learn to fly, expect no sympathy. Convince yourself that your god fated this life for you as wonder why happiness is so elusive. Convince yourself that independent thought is dependent on constellations and Tarot cards. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to wisdom, but you revel in your eradication and call it experience.
Showing posts with label non-fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label non-fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Nostalgia
*Readers (who actually read) and have good memories might remember some of these lines from an earlier piece (Calm; Stay). Much of what I knock out starts in multiple forms and I wanted to see how different I could make something that previously turned into something else.
She's mostly a silhouette as she enters the bookstore, blinding sunlight behind her. That he can barely see her, knowing she can clearly see him, makes it difficult to maintain any pretense of nonchalance. He wants to wait for her to come to him, but anxiety overcomes and he moves to meet her halfway. His steps are soft, confident, deliberate in their attempt to give nothing away.
A heartbeat tries desperately to chase the presence of a first impression long forgotten, but the embrace happens before it can remember. A dying memory brought to life by something new: touch. And the subtle scent of skin moistened from a now-welcomed humidity. There's the taste of coffee, too, but only because he's been drinking some.
The embrace breaks and there's hope that she notices only a nervous smile. He's afraid she can hear the nervous heartbeats overwhelming a mind moving too slowly to comprehend, but she says nothing as she returns the smile. Never was an instant more exhilarating.
***
Arms touch in the movie theater and each pretends not to notice. There will be no kiss in this facade of a reunion between long-lost friends, but she makes sure to leave enough residual lipstick on the straw of his drink she casually takes a sip from.
***
Alcohol overtakes conversation in a near-abandoned Cuban restaurant. He wanted her years ago and is in awe of the serendipity that has reunited them 14 years after and 2500 miles away from where they first met. Until now, the only time they've met.
It seems, though, that the reunion is to be short-lived. Life journeys, started in the same place, are traveling opposite directions and passing at a random point in time. He is leaving for another place and another life. She is leaving for another place and the life he had just left. He, unhappy where he's been, longs to return somewhere he can smile about. She, unhappy where she's been, has never found that place. Hints of sadness reveal themselves in the admission of being lost in a sense of nostalgia. Longings for paths not taken.
"And I'm the nostalgia," she says. It is a statement as perceptive as it is sad.
He doesn't believe it matters, though, for everyone carries their past wherever they may go. But he'll not see her much longer, of that he's certain. This time, the divergence of their paths is to be permanent. She's to be so much more than nostalgia.
She's mostly a silhouette as she enters the bookstore, blinding sunlight behind her. That he can barely see her, knowing she can clearly see him, makes it difficult to maintain any pretense of nonchalance. He wants to wait for her to come to him, but anxiety overcomes and he moves to meet her halfway. His steps are soft, confident, deliberate in their attempt to give nothing away.
A heartbeat tries desperately to chase the presence of a first impression long forgotten, but the embrace happens before it can remember. A dying memory brought to life by something new: touch. And the subtle scent of skin moistened from a now-welcomed humidity. There's the taste of coffee, too, but only because he's been drinking some.
The embrace breaks and there's hope that she notices only a nervous smile. He's afraid she can hear the nervous heartbeats overwhelming a mind moving too slowly to comprehend, but she says nothing as she returns the smile. Never was an instant more exhilarating.
***
Arms touch in the movie theater and each pretends not to notice. There will be no kiss in this facade of a reunion between long-lost friends, but she makes sure to leave enough residual lipstick on the straw of his drink she casually takes a sip from.
***
Alcohol overtakes conversation in a near-abandoned Cuban restaurant. He wanted her years ago and is in awe of the serendipity that has reunited them 14 years after and 2500 miles away from where they first met. Until now, the only time they've met.
It seems, though, that the reunion is to be short-lived. Life journeys, started in the same place, are traveling opposite directions and passing at a random point in time. He is leaving for another place and another life. She is leaving for another place and the life he had just left. He, unhappy where he's been, longs to return somewhere he can smile about. She, unhappy where she's been, has never found that place. Hints of sadness reveal themselves in the admission of being lost in a sense of nostalgia. Longings for paths not taken.
"And I'm the nostalgia," she says. It is a statement as perceptive as it is sad.
He doesn't believe it matters, though, for everyone carries their past wherever they may go. But he'll not see her much longer, of that he's certain. This time, the divergence of their paths is to be permanent. She's to be so much more than nostalgia.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Sagremor
He was born sometime in the latter half of 2004, shortly after the first time I moved to Wilmington, North Carolina. It was August, I think... September at the latest. I can't recall exactly, but I do have the date written down somewhere. I watched him come out of his mother, Guinevere, along with his two twin brothers - Arthur and Kay - and his twin sister, Isolde. Yes, he was part of my Cats of the Round Table, and while I fear the worst, I hope that he still is.
But he's probably dead. Being abandoned in a place where coyotes and hawks hunt freely tends to lead to that.
Sagremor wasn't always the friendliest cat, at least not as I remember. He wasn't my favorite - Guinevere and Arthur were - though my ex-girlfriend claims that he was hers (along with Tristan, from Gwen's first litter). As such, the first year-and-a-half of his life is lost on me. Upon preparing the leave Wilmington in early 2006, my ex and I made the decision to give up two of our cats. We had six, and trying to move nine animals (counting the three dogs) from North Carolina to California didn't seem like an ideal situation. So, using a strange method of determination, Kay and Sagremor were selected to be given to my ex's mother.
Now, as I implied, I didn't spend a lot of one-on-one time with Sagremor and even though I wasn't giving him up lightly, I felt that it was something that wouldn't keep me up at night. The day before he and Kay were supposed to go to their home, that all changed. For whatever reason - be it animal instinct or some other paranormal observation - both of those cats knew something was up. One at a time, they came up to me as I watched television, climbed into my lap, and pulled a cute act... cuddling at purring as if begging to stay. Obviously, given my attachment to my pets (and animals in general), they were loaded into the back of the truck with the other seven four-pawed members of my family.
Once in the West, misfortune forced all of us to settle in a small desert town in Northern Nevada. It was there that four of the cats - Isolde, Guinevere, Arthur, and Tristan - disappeared (I later saw Isolde and Guinevere hunting together in the middle of the desert a few miles away, but that's another story). Sagremor and Kay, however, stuck around as if to emphasize their loyalty to me for making the choice to remain loyal to them. I miss the others, sure, and often dream of them, but Sagremor and Kay became my favorites... and not just by default of them being the only ones left.
Sagremor was, by all accounts, a cuddling cat. He liked to hunt, loved the outdoors, but he always came back within a few hours to use the bathroom and take advantage of a free hand for a petting. He had an obnoxiously loud meow, but it was an effective tool to let one know that he wanted inside (or outside, depending). He loved being picked up, held upside like a baby, and having his stomach rubbed. And he had ridiculously long teeth... so long that I often called him "Vampire Cat." He also had a recurring problem with his wrists and could often be seen limping, particularly after attempting too high a jump (usually from the top of a refrigerator).
Like all cats, he hated traveling by car, but he tolerated it as we returned to Wilmington in the summer of 2007, settled in a sub-let, then settled again in our own place (barely 15 minutes from where he was born), then left again in October of 2009. He tolerated living in a garage outside of Fort Bragg while I tried to tie as many loose ends as I could before returning to the West.
Upon our return, I knew that I would need to place him temporarily with someone while I yet again found us a home. So I left him with my sister, thinking he would be well-taken care of and babied as much as he was used to. While I stayed with her, she let him (and Kay) in the house, got familiar enough with him so he'd sleep on her lap, and everything appeared to be going according to plan. But, on Wednesday, May 12, I left for Seattle to take care of some things. I last saw him cleaning his brother's forehead in my sister's living room. He looked happy.
She kicked him out of the house while I was away. In my head, I know what happened, because I know Sagremor very well. No doubt from his "let-me-in" meows being ignored, he took off in search of friendlier pastures... pastures that were never meant for him to find. I've been scouring the desert, all through the night for the past two days, in an attempt to bring him home.
There's a chance this eulogy is false, rash, and the result of too pessimistic an imagination, and I hope this to be the case. But in that there are no signs of him, combined with the strange behavior of his brother - behavior I saw in Tristan when Isolde disappeared - he's probably dead. And I will lose sleep over it.
*Serendipity smiles upon me... within 20 minutes of this post going up, the chubby bastard came home. He'd been gone for almost 8 days. I'll admit, I overreacted. But I'm happy and don't care if you sneer, roll your eyes, or laugh. And neither does his brother, who seems happier than I am.
But he's probably dead. Being abandoned in a place where coyotes and hawks hunt freely tends to lead to that.
Sagremor wasn't always the friendliest cat, at least not as I remember. He wasn't my favorite - Guinevere and Arthur were - though my ex-girlfriend claims that he was hers (along with Tristan, from Gwen's first litter). As such, the first year-and-a-half of his life is lost on me. Upon preparing the leave Wilmington in early 2006, my ex and I made the decision to give up two of our cats. We had six, and trying to move nine animals (counting the three dogs) from North Carolina to California didn't seem like an ideal situation. So, using a strange method of determination, Kay and Sagremor were selected to be given to my ex's mother.
Now, as I implied, I didn't spend a lot of one-on-one time with Sagremor and even though I wasn't giving him up lightly, I felt that it was something that wouldn't keep me up at night. The day before he and Kay were supposed to go to their home, that all changed. For whatever reason - be it animal instinct or some other paranormal observation - both of those cats knew something was up. One at a time, they came up to me as I watched television, climbed into my lap, and pulled a cute act... cuddling at purring as if begging to stay. Obviously, given my attachment to my pets (and animals in general), they were loaded into the back of the truck with the other seven four-pawed members of my family.
Once in the West, misfortune forced all of us to settle in a small desert town in Northern Nevada. It was there that four of the cats - Isolde, Guinevere, Arthur, and Tristan - disappeared (I later saw Isolde and Guinevere hunting together in the middle of the desert a few miles away, but that's another story). Sagremor and Kay, however, stuck around as if to emphasize their loyalty to me for making the choice to remain loyal to them. I miss the others, sure, and often dream of them, but Sagremor and Kay became my favorites... and not just by default of them being the only ones left.
Sagremor was, by all accounts, a cuddling cat. He liked to hunt, loved the outdoors, but he always came back within a few hours to use the bathroom and take advantage of a free hand for a petting. He had an obnoxiously loud meow, but it was an effective tool to let one know that he wanted inside (or outside, depending). He loved being picked up, held upside like a baby, and having his stomach rubbed. And he had ridiculously long teeth... so long that I often called him "Vampire Cat." He also had a recurring problem with his wrists and could often be seen limping, particularly after attempting too high a jump (usually from the top of a refrigerator).
Like all cats, he hated traveling by car, but he tolerated it as we returned to Wilmington in the summer of 2007, settled in a sub-let, then settled again in our own place (barely 15 minutes from where he was born), then left again in October of 2009. He tolerated living in a garage outside of Fort Bragg while I tried to tie as many loose ends as I could before returning to the West.
Upon our return, I knew that I would need to place him temporarily with someone while I yet again found us a home. So I left him with my sister, thinking he would be well-taken care of and babied as much as he was used to. While I stayed with her, she let him (and Kay) in the house, got familiar enough with him so he'd sleep on her lap, and everything appeared to be going according to plan. But, on Wednesday, May 12, I left for Seattle to take care of some things. I last saw him cleaning his brother's forehead in my sister's living room. He looked happy.
She kicked him out of the house while I was away. In my head, I know what happened, because I know Sagremor very well. No doubt from his "let-me-in" meows being ignored, he took off in search of friendlier pastures... pastures that were never meant for him to find. I've been scouring the desert, all through the night for the past two days, in an attempt to bring him home.
There's a chance this eulogy is false, rash, and the result of too pessimistic an imagination, and I hope this to be the case. But in that there are no signs of him, combined with the strange behavior of his brother - behavior I saw in Tristan when Isolde disappeared - he's probably dead. And I will lose sleep over it.
*Serendipity smiles upon me... within 20 minutes of this post going up, the chubby bastard came home. He'd been gone for almost 8 days. I'll admit, I overreacted. But I'm happy and don't care if you sneer, roll your eyes, or laugh. And neither does his brother, who seems happier than I am.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Lost In Transcription, Part II - Running Away
*Lost In Transcription, Part I - Returning Home
Well, what a year this is. Not two months ago, I had come to the conclusion that I was meant for a life of solitude. I probably still am, mind you, but at least I'm finally aware that "she" really is out there. Long-time readers might roll their eyes at seeing that old use of quotations, but those in the know are aware that the previous use was simply an attempt to hurt someone else... a fool's errand from a childish state of mind.
There have been more than a handful of significant women in my life, and all have made indelible impact. Most negative, naturally, but positive as well. Mistakes were made, huge mistakes, that will undoubtedly never be made again... at least not by me. Earlier this year (last month, actually), I finally pushed through the single greatest obstacle I've ever had to push through in my entire life. No, I didn't make it to the other side unscathed... rather scarred, actually... but I am finally on the other side. And unequivocally so.
My closest friends will describe each of my relationships as unusual, and unusual is as accurate a word as there is. Then again, I'm not exactly usual fare. I've known, without doubt, the kind of woman I've wanted since high school. That may read like melodramatic nonsense, but I've known it to be true for a very long time. Anyone who's been around for the end of one my relationships probably couldn't pinpoint exactly why most of the relationships failed, save for that by the end of them, I wasn't really trying.
Indeed, even with the seven-year travesty that came to close recently, I knew within the first year that I had made a serious mistake. It was only ill-timed travel and reluctant financial interdependence that kept that soap opera on the air six-years too long. I had my sights set on a goal and a dream, and I had been willing to run over everyone and everything to get to it... even my own sanity.
Clearly, such an attitude doesn't work. People need to be accounted for, and I failed to do that. No, I'll be honest, I just didn't want to account for anyone else. And while I don't feel I have much to apologize for, I do apologize for that.
But I don't regret the lessons learned. Every mistake I've ever made brought me to the point I'm standing at now, and I must admit, I rather like the view.
Again, those who know me and know my writing the best already know what, and who, I'm heavily implying here. After all, they've all had to listen to my stories about how we first met years ago, and have all noticed a refreshed attitude and an ultimate desire sneaking its way into my writing, all the way back to "Just Scream." And as I am unabashedly blunt, I don't even care that everyone can see my cards on the table. Life's too short for things to be left unsaid.
Put simply, she was my motivation to break through that obstacle and is my motivation to get the Hell out of stagnant waters. Unfortunately, I've been around the block enough times to know that here is likely where our lives will once again diverge, and my only fear is that I'll never see her again. She's too smart and valuable to share such fear, but then, I doubt I ever crossed her mind as much as she crossed mine over the past 14 years. C'est la vie, and my karma isn't exactly deserving of something so wonderful at this moment in time.
She would say I'm being far too melodramatic, and perhaps I am, but I would warn her not to mistake me for my writing. I am subconsciously aware that she'll be breathing a sigh of relief once I ride off into the sunset again (though she's far too polite to say so), and I've been convinced for some time that a day on the beach was the end of any time together, but none of that really matters.
I got to see her again. Fuel enough for an everlasting smile.
"And the morning would be so cruel when it came,
with sunshine and warmth to blame,
for announcing the end of my sweet dream." - Greg Laswell
Well, what a year this is. Not two months ago, I had come to the conclusion that I was meant for a life of solitude. I probably still am, mind you, but at least I'm finally aware that "she" really is out there. Long-time readers might roll their eyes at seeing that old use of quotations, but those in the know are aware that the previous use was simply an attempt to hurt someone else... a fool's errand from a childish state of mind.
There have been more than a handful of significant women in my life, and all have made indelible impact. Most negative, naturally, but positive as well. Mistakes were made, huge mistakes, that will undoubtedly never be made again... at least not by me. Earlier this year (last month, actually), I finally pushed through the single greatest obstacle I've ever had to push through in my entire life. No, I didn't make it to the other side unscathed... rather scarred, actually... but I am finally on the other side. And unequivocally so.
My closest friends will describe each of my relationships as unusual, and unusual is as accurate a word as there is. Then again, I'm not exactly usual fare. I've known, without doubt, the kind of woman I've wanted since high school. That may read like melodramatic nonsense, but I've known it to be true for a very long time. Anyone who's been around for the end of one my relationships probably couldn't pinpoint exactly why most of the relationships failed, save for that by the end of them, I wasn't really trying.
Indeed, even with the seven-year travesty that came to close recently, I knew within the first year that I had made a serious mistake. It was only ill-timed travel and reluctant financial interdependence that kept that soap opera on the air six-years too long. I had my sights set on a goal and a dream, and I had been willing to run over everyone and everything to get to it... even my own sanity.
Clearly, such an attitude doesn't work. People need to be accounted for, and I failed to do that. No, I'll be honest, I just didn't want to account for anyone else. And while I don't feel I have much to apologize for, I do apologize for that.
But I don't regret the lessons learned. Every mistake I've ever made brought me to the point I'm standing at now, and I must admit, I rather like the view.
Again, those who know me and know my writing the best already know what, and who, I'm heavily implying here. After all, they've all had to listen to my stories about how we first met years ago, and have all noticed a refreshed attitude and an ultimate desire sneaking its way into my writing, all the way back to "Just Scream." And as I am unabashedly blunt, I don't even care that everyone can see my cards on the table. Life's too short for things to be left unsaid.
Put simply, she was my motivation to break through that obstacle and is my motivation to get the Hell out of stagnant waters. Unfortunately, I've been around the block enough times to know that here is likely where our lives will once again diverge, and my only fear is that I'll never see her again. She's too smart and valuable to share such fear, but then, I doubt I ever crossed her mind as much as she crossed mine over the past 14 years. C'est la vie, and my karma isn't exactly deserving of something so wonderful at this moment in time.
She would say I'm being far too melodramatic, and perhaps I am, but I would warn her not to mistake me for my writing. I am subconsciously aware that she'll be breathing a sigh of relief once I ride off into the sunset again (though she's far too polite to say so), and I've been convinced for some time that a day on the beach was the end of any time together, but none of that really matters.
I got to see her again. Fuel enough for an everlasting smile.
"And the morning would be so cruel when it came,
with sunshine and warmth to blame,
for announcing the end of my sweet dream." - Greg Laswell
Lost In Transcription, Part I - Returning Home
Well, what a year this is. Not two months ago, I expressed the following sentiment: "Don't see myself going active ever again, however, as I really enjoy not wearing a uniform every day. Funerals got a bit too much to handle, too. No more combat arms for me." Funny, then, that I'm now in the process of going back in.
Lying to oneself is a familiar game, I suppose, and nobody who really knows me is surprised at all by the revelation. One of my closest friends likes to point out that I never should have gotten out, since my conscience doesn't handle "not being there" very well. But, seriously, how the Hell was I supposed to know that at the time? It's not like I had a wealth of experience to draw from prior to the first time I joined the military... which was pretty much straight out of high school.
I'm fairly amused by the reactions of friends and family alike. Many former Army supervisors and subordinates responded to the news with unexpected encouragement. I hesitate to claim that I was usually among the best at my job, but quite a few will claim that for me despite my personal misgivings. Still, I wasn't the best soldier as far as adhering to the system goes, and even I'm not so blasé as to not feel a bit flattered by the response.
Naturally, my film/TV industry buddies are against the idea, as are many of my writers. There are a few with the misconception that I'm some artistic talent going to waste, but, let's be real... have I really written or produced anything worth a shit? As far as my writers, yes, there has been quite a bit headway in getting them published, but I'm pretty sure their fear in my returning to uniform lies in the idea that I won't be able to edit and distribute their writing. Sure, I won't be doing it 24 hours a day, but I'll still be around. Red pen and harsh criticism shall be standing by, I assure you.
All that stated, even I'm a big flabbergasted by the relative abandon with which I'm once again pursuing a military career. I'm doing everything I can to clear waivers (I need one for my age... go figure... and one for my oft-broken foot) and am trying to shed as many emotional attachments to my civilian existence as possible. One thing I did know when I got out the Army the first time was that I don't suffer deployment well if my mind is elsewhere.
And therein exists the problem. I have five wonderful pets, and leaving them (even if temporarily) is going to suck. But some things must be done, however undesirable.
There I go again... lying to myself. I'll be able to handle the pets; I've done that before. It's the woman I've been waiting for my entire life that's fucking things up.
Lying to oneself is a familiar game, I suppose, and nobody who really knows me is surprised at all by the revelation. One of my closest friends likes to point out that I never should have gotten out, since my conscience doesn't handle "not being there" very well. But, seriously, how the Hell was I supposed to know that at the time? It's not like I had a wealth of experience to draw from prior to the first time I joined the military... which was pretty much straight out of high school.
I'm fairly amused by the reactions of friends and family alike. Many former Army supervisors and subordinates responded to the news with unexpected encouragement. I hesitate to claim that I was usually among the best at my job, but quite a few will claim that for me despite my personal misgivings. Still, I wasn't the best soldier as far as adhering to the system goes, and even I'm not so blasé as to not feel a bit flattered by the response.
Naturally, my film/TV industry buddies are against the idea, as are many of my writers. There are a few with the misconception that I'm some artistic talent going to waste, but, let's be real... have I really written or produced anything worth a shit? As far as my writers, yes, there has been quite a bit headway in getting them published, but I'm pretty sure their fear in my returning to uniform lies in the idea that I won't be able to edit and distribute their writing. Sure, I won't be doing it 24 hours a day, but I'll still be around. Red pen and harsh criticism shall be standing by, I assure you.
All that stated, even I'm a big flabbergasted by the relative abandon with which I'm once again pursuing a military career. I'm doing everything I can to clear waivers (I need one for my age... go figure... and one for my oft-broken foot) and am trying to shed as many emotional attachments to my civilian existence as possible. One thing I did know when I got out the Army the first time was that I don't suffer deployment well if my mind is elsewhere.
And therein exists the problem. I have five wonderful pets, and leaving them (even if temporarily) is going to suck. But some things must be done, however undesirable.
There I go again... lying to myself. I'll be able to handle the pets; I've done that before. It's the woman I've been waiting for my entire life that's fucking things up.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Other People's Fires
Life is a dance, a game, a fucking tragedy to laugh, a comedy to cry, an out of control fire waiting for a single drop of rain. Losing is part of living, so elbow it in the neck when someone else does a better rumba. The music hasn't stopped, it's just that the bridge sucks... don't fret, the refrain is coming soon. It takes two to tango; grab your enemy, spin them around. Chances are, they're going to smile, too. Grins make it easier to knock out teeth.
Move your piece. Wait for the counter-move. If you don't want to play your past, don't wonder if your future is cheating. Relax. Don't be judgmental, she's seen it all before and just needs to get away for a while. Life's been rough, and you're not the first person she's seen freak out over a bad batch of drugs. Losing it on purpose is sometimes the best strategy. So what if Boardwalk is out of reach... you have Park Place. Let the asshole come and get it. He'll just wind up thrown into a table.
Cancer's a blow to behold, but life ain't over yet. Your brother's brothers are with you. There's a joke hidden in there somewhere, but who cares where? Six-feet under? We'll all be there eventually, and many are already. You'll never see them again, but memory works in wonderful ways. White trucks are always on the road and this eclipse is temporary. The choreographed motion of body will make you remember a friend long gone. Be brave for the both of you. Ever play chicken with a coward? The look on his face is priceless as you drive safely by.
Solve the problem of getting laid off by getting laid. Your clutch exploded on the way south, but at least you can kick it. Someone's lying on her back, unable to move, but she's going to be fine. The husband can't hang on to you and probably doesn't want to, so what? It was all too stifling anyway. Go find some room to breathe. The mountains offer fresh air, even if your criminal record just got a bit dirtier. Clean the wound in your knee and know you've made someone smile. Smirk at the liar hiding behind a woman because he's afraid and unaware that you've no problem with taking them both down.
Are you going to do something, or are you going to watch it burn? Going solo makes it harder to turn the water on. Take it from someone whose castle is already cinders, things can be great without. Plenty of fish in the sea, and if you don't like the ocean, move to another. Throw your hands up and scream at the storm. Shed the tears; no one can see them out here. You're all wet, but so is everybody else... we're waiting to help put out the fire.
Ask, and we're there. Always.
Move your piece. Wait for the counter-move. If you don't want to play your past, don't wonder if your future is cheating. Relax. Don't be judgmental, she's seen it all before and just needs to get away for a while. Life's been rough, and you're not the first person she's seen freak out over a bad batch of drugs. Losing it on purpose is sometimes the best strategy. So what if Boardwalk is out of reach... you have Park Place. Let the asshole come and get it. He'll just wind up thrown into a table.
Cancer's a blow to behold, but life ain't over yet. Your brother's brothers are with you. There's a joke hidden in there somewhere, but who cares where? Six-feet under? We'll all be there eventually, and many are already. You'll never see them again, but memory works in wonderful ways. White trucks are always on the road and this eclipse is temporary. The choreographed motion of body will make you remember a friend long gone. Be brave for the both of you. Ever play chicken with a coward? The look on his face is priceless as you drive safely by.
Solve the problem of getting laid off by getting laid. Your clutch exploded on the way south, but at least you can kick it. Someone's lying on her back, unable to move, but she's going to be fine. The husband can't hang on to you and probably doesn't want to, so what? It was all too stifling anyway. Go find some room to breathe. The mountains offer fresh air, even if your criminal record just got a bit dirtier. Clean the wound in your knee and know you've made someone smile. Smirk at the liar hiding behind a woman because he's afraid and unaware that you've no problem with taking them both down.
Are you going to do something, or are you going to watch it burn? Going solo makes it harder to turn the water on. Take it from someone whose castle is already cinders, things can be great without. Plenty of fish in the sea, and if you don't like the ocean, move to another. Throw your hands up and scream at the storm. Shed the tears; no one can see them out here. You're all wet, but so is everybody else... we're waiting to help put out the fire.
Ask, and we're there. Always.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The King of the World
The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.
She was, for better or worse, the largest part of my life since November of 2002. Not straight through, mind you, for there were plenty of hiccups, breakups, and throw ups in the span of time from then until now. Tumultuous does not begin to describe our relationship. Tumultuous might just describe a typical Wednesday, never mind the other six days of the week. She wasn't the type of person to let someone completely into her life, and I was the type of person who wanted to know everything. Needless to say, we were star-crossed from the start.
I can't remember exactly when I proposed to her, but it was fairly early in 2003. It was one of those cute proposals that young and dumb people like to do. I had shown her a candy ring, then made her close her eyes and slipped on the real one. The candy ring was less than a dollar... I can't remember how much I paid for the real ring, though she recently informed me that she had it appraised for almost $8,000. I guess she thought it was fake and had to be sure.
She was always testing me to see if I were real or fake, and I guess I must've failed her so-called tests most of the time. She was into such silly games when we were first got together. She even had a set of those "things you can never do to me" rules... there were five of them, and I had broken all of them within the first six months. At least I think so... I can't really remember what any of the rules were, save for "don't ever call me a bitch." And I wouldn't have, but she often was, and I like to call things as I see them.
Like I said... star-crossed from the start. She believes in Jesus and the Bible. I don't. Not even a little. She thinks Scarlet O'Hara defines a woman coming of age. I see Scarlet O'Hara as a brat getting worse. And Scarlet is obviously where she learned her philosophy of who owes who what in life. Which is, to say, she owes nobody anything, despite the fact that everything she has is due to the generosity of others.
I've been a complete and utter piece of shit during our relationship. Can't lie. I should've been arrested dozens of times. I've ripped clothes off of her, I've destroyed her furniture, I've kicked out the windows of her car. Of course, I did a fair bit of damage to my own property, as well. And she's certainly not guilt-free in that department. I seem to recall a hammer flying through the kitchen door's window, but maybe I'm mistaken. One thing's for sure... we were as destructive as anything the Earth has ever seen. Just ask our unborn child.
Star-crossed, remember?
Yes, there were a few attempts to be with other women along the way. She always suspected as much, but she never successfully pointed out who the culprits were. In fact, she still believes in a handful of women that I've never even been interested in. And there's the little fact she likes to omit when she tells these stories that we were always technically broken up at those times. But, whatever... I'm not the one who married someone else in order to teach the other a lesson.
Don't blink... you read that right.
At any rate, I tried to make it work. In October of 2008, I suddenly felt the same inexplicable euphoria over her that I had felt for her when we first met. Naturally, she refused to believe me... I guess by then it was "too little, too late," which explains her marriage to someone else in January of 2009, even before her mother died. And, oddly, the month of my birthday. I didn't learn about the marriage until April 3, by which point she and I had wound up having sex every weekend. I should've known something was going on. But it took kicking the guy's ass in a Mexican restaurant and a cop showing up to discover the truth. The queen was, indisputably, a born liar. Married, apparently, to another born liar (this particular schmuck walks around telling people he was in Delta Force).
There's more to this story, but I'm currently tiring of telling it. Almost as tired as I am of living it. Perhaps I'll finish it over a beer in some lonely bar in the future. If you're interested, look me up... I should be easy to find. After all, I'm the King of the World.
She was, for better or worse, the largest part of my life since November of 2002. Not straight through, mind you, for there were plenty of hiccups, breakups, and throw ups in the span of time from then until now. Tumultuous does not begin to describe our relationship. Tumultuous might just describe a typical Wednesday, never mind the other six days of the week. She wasn't the type of person to let someone completely into her life, and I was the type of person who wanted to know everything. Needless to say, we were star-crossed from the start.
I can't remember exactly when I proposed to her, but it was fairly early in 2003. It was one of those cute proposals that young and dumb people like to do. I had shown her a candy ring, then made her close her eyes and slipped on the real one. The candy ring was less than a dollar... I can't remember how much I paid for the real ring, though she recently informed me that she had it appraised for almost $8,000. I guess she thought it was fake and had to be sure.
She was always testing me to see if I were real or fake, and I guess I must've failed her so-called tests most of the time. She was into such silly games when we were first got together. She even had a set of those "things you can never do to me" rules... there were five of them, and I had broken all of them within the first six months. At least I think so... I can't really remember what any of the rules were, save for "don't ever call me a bitch." And I wouldn't have, but she often was, and I like to call things as I see them.
Like I said... star-crossed from the start. She believes in Jesus and the Bible. I don't. Not even a little. She thinks Scarlet O'Hara defines a woman coming of age. I see Scarlet O'Hara as a brat getting worse. And Scarlet is obviously where she learned her philosophy of who owes who what in life. Which is, to say, she owes nobody anything, despite the fact that everything she has is due to the generosity of others.
I've been a complete and utter piece of shit during our relationship. Can't lie. I should've been arrested dozens of times. I've ripped clothes off of her, I've destroyed her furniture, I've kicked out the windows of her car. Of course, I did a fair bit of damage to my own property, as well. And she's certainly not guilt-free in that department. I seem to recall a hammer flying through the kitchen door's window, but maybe I'm mistaken. One thing's for sure... we were as destructive as anything the Earth has ever seen. Just ask our unborn child.
Star-crossed, remember?
Yes, there were a few attempts to be with other women along the way. She always suspected as much, but she never successfully pointed out who the culprits were. In fact, she still believes in a handful of women that I've never even been interested in. And there's the little fact she likes to omit when she tells these stories that we were always technically broken up at those times. But, whatever... I'm not the one who married someone else in order to teach the other a lesson.
Don't blink... you read that right.
At any rate, I tried to make it work. In October of 2008, I suddenly felt the same inexplicable euphoria over her that I had felt for her when we first met. Naturally, she refused to believe me... I guess by then it was "too little, too late," which explains her marriage to someone else in January of 2009, even before her mother died. And, oddly, the month of my birthday. I didn't learn about the marriage until April 3, by which point she and I had wound up having sex every weekend. I should've known something was going on. But it took kicking the guy's ass in a Mexican restaurant and a cop showing up to discover the truth. The queen was, indisputably, a born liar. Married, apparently, to another born liar (this particular schmuck walks around telling people he was in Delta Force).
There's more to this story, but I'm currently tiring of telling it. Almost as tired as I am of living it. Perhaps I'll finish it over a beer in some lonely bar in the future. If you're interested, look me up... I should be easy to find. After all, I'm the King of the World.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tales from the Airborne I: You Gotta Go When You Gotta Go
Imagine yourself a paratrooper. Strapped in on a C-130, 141, or 17, wearing a heavy parachute, an ill-placed reserve parachute, your rucksack across your thighs, your weapon under your left armpit, and your NVGs uncomfortably around your neck. The paratrooper to your left and right are seated next to you so tightly, you can tell if they have a tattoo on their shoulder just from the friction. All of this, and there's no bathroom.
Well, I take that back... there's a bathroom for the air crew.
When flying tactically, you're usually at Nap of the Earth, the air conditioning is off (purportedly to save power), and everybody needs to puke, much less take a piss. And, to make matters worse, I tend to overhydrate in order to avoid leg cramps. Which means I've got to go... and badly. It's going to be okay, I think, it's almost time to jump. I can piss when I hit the dropzone.
The command to stand up. Yes! The command to hook up. Yes! Check static line. Yes, yes! Check equipment. Oh, fuck yeah. Stand by for equipment check. Still with ya! Sound off for equipment check. Okay, okay, okay! All jumpers okay, jumpmaster! Door jumper, stand in the door! HURRY THE FUCK UP!
And then we wait.
And then I just decide to let it all go and piss down my leg. Pulling my pant leg out of my boot, I enjoy the sense of relief as it trickles to the floor.
Now, were the jump safety familiar with me, he wouldn't have said anything, but he wasn't, so he calmly walked up to me and asked if I was okay, and how many jumps I had. I replied, "Plenty. I just had to piss."
He nodded and smiled. We both sort of glanced at the Air Force loadmaster who was going to have to mop my fluids up later. Unspoken joke, as it were. Fuck the Air Force, right?
The safety went back to his position, the green light came on, and out my chalk went.
Lucky for me, the prop blast tends to dry one off real quick.
Well, I take that back... there's a bathroom for the air crew.
When flying tactically, you're usually at Nap of the Earth, the air conditioning is off (purportedly to save power), and everybody needs to puke, much less take a piss. And, to make matters worse, I tend to overhydrate in order to avoid leg cramps. Which means I've got to go... and badly. It's going to be okay, I think, it's almost time to jump. I can piss when I hit the dropzone.
The command to stand up. Yes! The command to hook up. Yes! Check static line. Yes, yes! Check equipment. Oh, fuck yeah. Stand by for equipment check. Still with ya! Sound off for equipment check. Okay, okay, okay! All jumpers okay, jumpmaster! Door jumper, stand in the door! HURRY THE FUCK UP!
And then we wait.
And then I just decide to let it all go and piss down my leg. Pulling my pant leg out of my boot, I enjoy the sense of relief as it trickles to the floor.
Now, were the jump safety familiar with me, he wouldn't have said anything, but he wasn't, so he calmly walked up to me and asked if I was okay, and how many jumps I had. I replied, "Plenty. I just had to piss."
He nodded and smiled. We both sort of glanced at the Air Force loadmaster who was going to have to mop my fluids up later. Unspoken joke, as it were. Fuck the Air Force, right?
The safety went back to his position, the green light came on, and out my chalk went.
Lucky for me, the prop blast tends to dry one off real quick.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Blue Wings
Irony, this one. Named after an airplane, she had never been on one until just after her 24th birthday. It wasn't that she didn't want to ride in one, it was just that she never had a realistic opportunity. Well, maybe there was a bit of fear involved. After all, two of her favorite celebrities, John Denver and JFK, Jr., met their demise due to airplanes. Then again, she wasn't planning on piloting an aircraft anytime soon. At any rate, she experienced her first flight, literally and, perhaps, figuratively.
He had discovered her in college. She was beautiful, quiet, with a smile that knew no equal. He was leaving the area soon, however, and saw no future with her. But, somehow, the winds of fate blew the way they always blew... unpredictably... and they wound up in the arms of each other.
He was alarmed a bit that she had never been on an aircraft. He had been flying since before he could speak, and the very thought of never having been in the air was alien to him. To her, the very thought of riding in the sky was equally alien. But, perhaps fearing his disapproval, she accompanied him on an airplane to Dallas, and she never looked back.
Also alarming was the fact that she seemed to be floating along in life, unsure of what she wanted to do, unsure of where she wanted to live, and nearly oblivious to the world outside of her circle. He had never lived in a proper circle, and the concept of being in one was yet another alien in the sky. To her credit, she accompanied him on her first extended voyage away from her home, and though she did often look back this time, it would ultimately be with a different set of eyes.
New places, new worlds, and a new sense of awareness became her. Suddenly, life at home revealed itself to be what it always ways... a dead end. Her wings, dormant for what seemed to be decades, finally started to sprout. Her career choices changed, and already the first in her family to graduate from a four-year college, she became the first in her family with a Master's degree. But her hunger didn't stop there... she earned a second Master's within a year of her first.
The little girl from the little town became a model, an actress, a marketer, an insurance rep, a college professor, a magazine columnist, and every door she opened merely led the way to more doors. Life, to be sure, is hers for the taking.
Her wings are full-grown now, and she no longer needs the nest she came from, nor the nest she lives in. Her sky, many shades of blue, is her new home... and, despite her accomplishments, despite the envy felt by nearly everyone who knows her, she has yet to stop flying. And likely never will.
He only hopes that she nevers flies away from him.
He had discovered her in college. She was beautiful, quiet, with a smile that knew no equal. He was leaving the area soon, however, and saw no future with her. But, somehow, the winds of fate blew the way they always blew... unpredictably... and they wound up in the arms of each other.
He was alarmed a bit that she had never been on an aircraft. He had been flying since before he could speak, and the very thought of never having been in the air was alien to him. To her, the very thought of riding in the sky was equally alien. But, perhaps fearing his disapproval, she accompanied him on an airplane to Dallas, and she never looked back.
Also alarming was the fact that she seemed to be floating along in life, unsure of what she wanted to do, unsure of where she wanted to live, and nearly oblivious to the world outside of her circle. He had never lived in a proper circle, and the concept of being in one was yet another alien in the sky. To her credit, she accompanied him on her first extended voyage away from her home, and though she did often look back this time, it would ultimately be with a different set of eyes.
New places, new worlds, and a new sense of awareness became her. Suddenly, life at home revealed itself to be what it always ways... a dead end. Her wings, dormant for what seemed to be decades, finally started to sprout. Her career choices changed, and already the first in her family to graduate from a four-year college, she became the first in her family with a Master's degree. But her hunger didn't stop there... she earned a second Master's within a year of her first.
The little girl from the little town became a model, an actress, a marketer, an insurance rep, a college professor, a magazine columnist, and every door she opened merely led the way to more doors. Life, to be sure, is hers for the taking.
Her wings are full-grown now, and she no longer needs the nest she came from, nor the nest she lives in. Her sky, many shades of blue, is her new home... and, despite her accomplishments, despite the envy felt by nearly everyone who knows her, she has yet to stop flying. And likely never will.
He only hopes that she nevers flies away from him.
Friday, December 7, 2007
The Anniversary
It was a cool Texas night. Autumn was fading into winter. But she did not know it. Had she thought of it, she might have had some poetic inkling concerning the weather or the changing of the seasons, but her mind was elsewhere. Hundreds of feet up in the air, protected by the shatterproof windows of her hotel room, the temperature and time of day were far away from the landscape of her mind.
Love was in the air, as is often the case during and after a wedding. Lust, too, was present that night. Two emotional warmths amid the chill the wind had brought from distant deserts and shores. She was drunk, to be sure, but the clarity of the sensation shined through the haze of the alcohol clouding her mind. He was on top of her, inside of her, and she could do nothing about it, even if she had wanted to.
Caught between impulses to resist and the desire to wait for what came next, her mind continued to wander. Neither here, nor there, she felt what was happening. A part of her trapped in a moment unexpected, one she did not want to end. Another part of her freed in a surge of emotion, watching herself watching herself. And it was magic.
Her hands caressed and attacked her lover. His body was still strange to her, and this was a new that she would never get used to. He did not seem to mind. He understood her confusion, her unbearable pleasure. He just smiled and kissed her. For, that night, she was loved.
And still is.
Love was in the air, as is often the case during and after a wedding. Lust, too, was present that night. Two emotional warmths amid the chill the wind had brought from distant deserts and shores. She was drunk, to be sure, but the clarity of the sensation shined through the haze of the alcohol clouding her mind. He was on top of her, inside of her, and she could do nothing about it, even if she had wanted to.
Caught between impulses to resist and the desire to wait for what came next, her mind continued to wander. Neither here, nor there, she felt what was happening. A part of her trapped in a moment unexpected, one she did not want to end. Another part of her freed in a surge of emotion, watching herself watching herself. And it was magic.
Her hands caressed and attacked her lover. His body was still strange to her, and this was a new that she would never get used to. He did not seem to mind. He understood her confusion, her unbearable pleasure. He just smiled and kissed her. For, that night, she was loved.
And still is.
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