On the right side of the Queen

Oh dear. It's been almost a week and I've nothing to write about. Or rather-nothing I wish to write about . . . oh my. Life is a conundrum, an experience, an exchange of ideas and tolerances and expectations and beliefs and . . . it's life. Let's see . . . never one to want to disappoint, let's come up with a story.

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in a forest. This was an ordinary forest except for one thing . . . there were no trees. This forest was full. It was hard to navigate and explore, so dense and full of objects and obstacles it was. But instead of chipmunks, and trees, and salamanders and wood-nymphs, there were only ideas, beliefs and philosophies. And there were paths . . . many . . . to choose.

One day, this forest-princess set out on a journey to become what she should be, and instead, discovered a path of who what she could be, if only she were to open her mind and heart and close her pre-conceptions of the world in front of her and what is was she thought it expected of her and would praise.

And she woke up one morning, her heart light and full of hope and peace, and discovered that she had not felt hopeless about herself, as much as hopeless about that idea. Of life empty of the love of one, who although would never seat her at the right side of the Queen, would seat her at the right side of herself. A life of love, and tenderness, and her heart's beauty . . . none of which had been witnessed in quite that way before.

And it was a splendid thing.

Ravenous Rippet' Snippet'

Sooooo, I mentioned before that I might occasionally post up little bits of what I am writing. The great thing about awful things happening to you is that it gives you something to write about. Keep in mind, this little snippet is part of a bigger, overall picture and story, and is not so depressing as it sounds. Just getting it out with words you know?

I have become acutely aware of our separation. I hover on the outside, looking into two worlds. Not belonging to the groovy, hip has-not’s, and not wanted or accepted with the ones who “have”, I now struggle to find my place in between those worlds. Where once was only the “idea” that we were different- a vaguely held concept that those kind of people believed they were above me-there was now hard fact. And learning this, and knowing this, and understanding this . . . shook me to my core.

I had always wanted to believe these feelings and ideas were in my head. Just a symptom of growing up poor-ish, or at least in less than ideal circumstances. A life lived with that deeply ingrained understanding of your place in the world. I never sat down to define myself. I never intentionally put myself into a category or tried to compartmentalize my life-it was just one of those things that was understood. You grow up “knowing” where you fit in. You go to work “knowing” the kinds of jobs you will have. And you love certain kinds of people “knowing” they are like you . . . and brave are the ones who push hard enough, and take the risk to redefine themselves, because they will always be resisting those who want to push them back into their place so they can be the king of their hill.

It is the way of all species.

Only we humans do it with forethought, and consciousness, and often sometimes cold cruelty, in the desire to make more room for ourselves, so we can open our feathers wider, drop our seeds into more fertile ground, and so our egos have more room to grow like over-fertilized chia-pets, and we often don’t care who we cast into the shade, to wither and die without the sun.

I do it too.

Marcoi' and The Princess

So . . . the deal with my last post "Fallen Bird", and this little

number, is basically that the guy I was recently dating told me that he would be embarrassed to tell his friends and family what I do for a living . . . that I am a cook. I'll spare you all the details except I severely misjudged his character. I've been treated badly many times, and put up with way too much crap before, but never have I had someone tell me that I was not good enough for them to be proud to be with me. Pat myself on the back though-I left.

Marcoi': "My name is Marcoi' . . . I look noting like dis in real life . . . dis is just your fantasy of how you wish I looked . . . actually. . . I look like a republican . . . with a right-side part."

Princess: "Aahh . . ."

Marcoi': "I am highly succesful business man . . . I travel far and wide . . . you can use my frequent flyer miles . . . I will take you . . . ANYWHERE."

Princess: "Gasp! How could I be so lucky!"

Marcoi': "Did you buy that dress to impress me today?"

Princess: "Of course . . . I never owned a single nice thing before I met you . . . I never had any reason to look good before I met you. You have saved me from my raggy, peasant life."

Marcoi': "What is it you do Maiden, to earn your keep?"

Princess: "I . . . er . . . mmm . . . eh . . . eee . . . cook?"

Family and Friends: "Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! he! he! he! he! . . . ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! . . . Loser! . . . How embarrassing! . . . She's a what?!?"

Marcoi': "You shame me."

Princess: "Pompous, self-righteous, smug, shallow, hypocritical, judgmental, arrogant, small, small, small, small boy-man . . . If you were not the self-important, "successful" white-collar person you are . . . I, would be out of YOUR league. Get it? Good."

Fallen Bird

Once upon a time there was a tiny little hummingbird. The hummingbird moved very, very fast-as you would expect a hummingbird to do, and given the nature of a hummingbird, moving fast was no miraculous feat. The miracle of this hummingbird, or rather, the most unusual thing, was that it believed it could fly.

Born and raised with other birds like itself, the little bird knew nothing else than being the bird it was. It watched the other birds buzz their wings, and it buzzed inside itself in the places that would move it’s wings too. It felt the buzz in its’ back, the tickle in its very fast heart and because of the way it felt these things, it always assumed it could fly.

So one day, the little bird saw another bird-a different kind of bird, one that had grown up in a different kind of nest all together. A nest made of tinsel, and gold, and very soft things, and the little bird walked to the edge of its own nest, a nest made of twigs, and grass and pokey things and string, and stepped off, believing it would fly to the other bird.

However, as soon as the bird stepped off it’s nest, it fell quickly to the ground. It did not fly at all-it only fell-the way it was always afraid it would. And though it flapped it’s wings, and felt the buzz, and tried so very hard to reach the other bird, it fell straight down and landed underneath it’s nest.

“I don’t understand”, the bird thought to itself. “I don’t understand!” the little bird shouted to the other bird on the ground. “Where are my wings?” it asked, and turned to look at it’s reflection in a pool of water on the ground.

The little bird flexed the muscles on it’s back. It shrugged it’s shoulders and stretched its neck, and puffed out its back, and behind its’ head, the most glorious of wings unfolded; wings three times the size of the other birds. The little bird stretched it’s wings out as far as it could, and they reached over the ground, and across the grass, all the way to the other bird; pulsing with life, and beauty and untaken flight. It wrapped its’ wings around the other bird, and caressed its cheek with its feathered tip.

“Oh bird,” the little bird said to the other one. “I believed I could fly to you,” “but instead, I only fell to the ground.” And the other bird said to the little fallen bird, “I’m sorry little bird, I did not know". "I never have to leave the sky."

Free

This is another little ditty I wrote down one day. It is not entirely memorable or notable, just a freewrite I did to come up with some ideas for songs. I'm kinda busy so haven't had time to post and thought I might put something up. Looks longer than it is . . .

Free

I keep looking back

for what you said I lacked

And I see you and me

and the space between

trying to fill a dream

and this is the place I’m at

trying to see the sky as blue

instead of black and

pull this weight off my back and

if love is my religion

does that mean that I am an atheist

or a realist

and do I have to go to war to fight

for my right

to keep them from pounding on my door

because I bought some Nyquil or Anbesol

or some other shit they say

I can get high from

and I’m standing there and I can barely breathe

and they say they want to look around

and I’m like: “this is America man” . . .

And they say: “exactly”.

And so I do a little pirouette and I say:

"How’s that for a look around?"

and they are not amused

And I’m surprised because

usually I think I’m a pretty funny girl

Or a woman,

I haven’t made up my mind yet

and I can see he’s got his hand on his trigger

and I’m like Man, I am not interested

and he says I can see

you’re not going down without a fight

and I’m like: “Baby . . . I can be your worst nightmare . . .

. . . or your best bad dream”.

And It’s like I’m an invincible wall of

fire

and I’m shooting out one tiny hole of light

but it’s a blinding ray

and so I spend a lot of my time wondering

if I should be dimmer . . .

and if you had a pull chain on your neck

I would think that it was kinda strange

and yet . . . strangely convenient

On - Off

On - Off

Off - off - off.

And now all I have left is god and me

when he’s not too busy answering prayers and

being a poster-child for the latest conflict

in the name of his almighty saving grace

and everyone is just praying and praying

Should I take this job?

Should I buy this TV?

Should I drop this bomb?

And God is just yelling:

“Think! Think!”

He’s a busy guy

Or gal, or woman

I don’t know, I haven’t decided yet

And I’m not sure I want to

Before It Eats Me . . .

Hunger

This is another story I wrote in college. Bon appetite.

HUNGER

I met Mary at the deli on Third Street. She was buying hot dogs. I was buying ham. She looked at me and asked me which were the ones I would buy; the ones with skins or the ones without. Before I could tell her I didn’t really care, she asked me about the cheese and pickled eggs, and told me about her tomatoes that she grew in the sun. She told me these things the way you would tell a friend. I listened while I thought of other things, watching her reflection in the glass that covered the meats and cheeses, the roundness of the glass elongating her neck like a gazelles. She talked to me about her tomatoes, and I wondered if a neck could work like that. In line to pay she came up behind me. “I got the one’s with the skins” she said. “Oh”, I said. What else could I say?

Sometimes I saw her other places. She would ask me things like: what do they do for fun around here? I told her I had never really noticed. She wanted to know where a good place was for her to take her car. I didn’t have one. How would I know a thing like that? Once at the Cafe she asked me what time it was. I looked down at my bare wrist. All I could think to say was that if I wore a watch, I’d always be reminded of where it was I’d rather be.

The Soap Bubble was the last place I saw her alive. She was eating crackers. She sat there, breaking them into tiny pieces, and putting the crumbs on her tongue where they lay like dry, brown snowflakes. She sat there with her tongue sticking out like that, just staring at her clothes. Once in a while she pulled her tongue back in and the snowflake would disappear. I watched her do this for a while, swallowing each piece like it was wet sandpaper. It made me hungry.

I asked her if I could have a cracker and she gave me the whole box. I took them and pushed them into my mouth, two, three at a time. She kept staring straight ahead while I chewed and swallowed. I stared at the box, trying to think of something to say. I reached my hand into the box and circled my fingers around a broken piece rocking it back and forth between my fingers and looked at her again. I wished I could climb inside with the socks and underwear that tumbled around inside. I wished I was under her car’s tires outside the front door, a sort of second page story in tomorrow’s news. I wished it were that easy. Instead I said, “good crackers”, and stuffed another one in my mouth as proof. I crushed it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth and waited. She didn't speak and so I said, “I hope your clothes come out really clean,” and left. I left her sitting on the table like that, watching her things, turning in circles.

The last time I saw her was in the paper. She was dead. The paper had a little picture of her and so I knew who it was; it was a good picture. A couple days later I went to her wake. I took my place in line with the all the others-waiting my turn to grieve. I nodded solemnly and listened to things like: such a loss . . . she was so young . . . such a tragic thing. I took it all in, saving those words for times when words would fail me. Finally it was my turn. I thought she looked just fine. Her hair was shiny, her clothes were clean, her cheeks were pink and full of cotton. She looked like she’d just been born. I touched her arm, the silk fabric of her blouse sliding over her cool skin. I wrapped my hand around her wrist and shook it gently. Wake up I whispered. I took her other hand in mine and shook her again. Wake up I said.

Objectified

When did hello become: "You have a great body". When did: "Hi, can I buy you a

drink?" turn to: "I think you're sexy". When did it become okay to greet me with: "I like

your build". And what makes you think you can ask if you can touch me, (as you reach

your arm out towards me, your index finger erect, as if you were poking a piece of

cooking meat to test and see if it is "done".

You think these things represent me? You think I find this endearing? You think I am my

arms, my ass and my little titties which you can't take your eyes off of as I speak? You

think you make my heart skip it’s lonely beat or thaw the frost that builds thicker and

thicker inside, until it's walls close in, and there isn’t any more

room left inside for your meat?

It makes my tight firm skin crawl. It makes me want to fold in on myself, until there’s

nothing left for you to see but what’s inside. It makes me want to eat Twinkies and

Doritos and Chunky bars until my cheeks bloat out, my walk slows, and my flesh jiggles.

What will you think of me then? And will you say hello? Or nothing at all.