Her mother and grandmother always stressed the importance of thank you notes. Any gift she was given warranted a written, stamped, snail mail paper slice of appreciation. With this in mind, at the close of the year, she sat down one night in her pajamas and wrote him the thank you she felt he deserved. And she realized as she gripped the pen in her right hand, this would be the last handwritten note he'd ever receive from her...(and he used to love her notes).
To you,
The sun is setting on this tumultuous year and I still don't know where my current world began. When I reach back into my brain, into my heart (only sometimes) and try to pinpoint your location, your birth, I really cannot find it. Perhaps it is shadowed or buried. I don't really know.
But if anything, despite the words I could select tonight (and these are the ones that explode out when no one is here to listen) I choose to write you this thank you note.
For you gave me gifts despite your ardent attempts to give nothing.
Thank you, my departed someone, for making me so much stronger - for making me the fighter I am today.
For without you, I might never have learned this incredible sensation of survival.
Lady Lunacy
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
James
She finished her paperwork and submitted it to the clerk at the front desk. Shifting her purse to the other shoulder, she turned to Dr. Heathrow and asked "Where do I meet James?"
"You'll meet him in the nursery," the doctor replied. "My guess is he's already there pruning the roses. He really likes wild roses."
Dr. Heathrow smiled to herself. She shuffled through the papers a moment and then added, "Down the hall to the right. You'll see the morning light diffusing through the dirty glass. He'll be the only one in there at this hour."
She headed toward the nursery wondering about this James. What would make him drink himself stupid and then careen through a mall? How does he deal with the guilt? Does he even feel shame or remorse for what he's done? Based upon the doctor's comments, James didn't sound all that scary, all that demented. Maybe people just misunderstood him, his intentions, just like people misunderstood her all the time. She smiled inwardly.
At the end of the hallway, she observed morning sunshine penetrating a set of opaque glass doors. Behind them she could see a figure moving about in the haze and humidity. She watched a moment, transfixed by the beauty in the grime. She could see brilliant oranges, reds, purples, yellows, pinks spilling through the glass despite the handprints and density of age. The greens played polka dots around the colors as they danced about the retro glass. It was nearly psychadelic, like a good trip. How appropriate, she thought. She pushed the doors open and walked into the early day fog.
"Good morning," she called into the mist.
No response. She could hear only the sound of a sprayer emitting soft drops.
"James?" she added.
Again nothing. At the end of a row of hyacinths and geraniums, she spotted him again showering the baby plants with a small hose.
"Are you James?" she spoke as she moved toward the man hunched over the plants.
"What? Oh hello. I wasn't paying any attention. Who are you? What are you doing here in my spot?" he asked, half casually, half accusingly.
"Dr. Heathrow sent me down here to help you. I think she wants us to talk and I think she also wants to put me to work," she said warmly hoping he'd respond favorably.
"I see, community service it is then. You can fill pots with fresh soil. I have bulbs I want to plant before the frost" he gestured outside to a small patch of barren dirt.
"I don't really see a need to talk much," he added. "I keep to myself and no, I don't want to talk about what happened at the mall. Don't even ask me."
Well this wasn't working out quite right. She squatted next to the pots and began digging out soil with a trowel she found nearby. She watched as James delicately spritzed the leaves of a ficus in the corner. It was as if they were his children, his only loves. He seemed to gaze adoringly at their leaves, their structures. He appeared to be studying them while also silently worshipping them too.
James wore what looked like an old pair of designer jeans, maybe Polo or Calvin Klein. They were frayed at the cuffs. His plaid shirt was covered by a bright orange sweater. She noticed a small hole in the back. His square glasses tipped on his nose as he leaned forward, a stray hair or two falling with them. His brown locks were near perfectly place save those few that escaped over his brow. He worked slowly and deliberately, his body knowing it had all the time in the universe with the foliage.
How beautiful it would be to have this kind of time, she thought to herself as she filled pots.
He turned to her. "You're making a mess. Look at that!"
Startled, she looked around her. She'd spilled a clump of soil on the ground. He rushed to her, grabbed a nearby hand broom and dust pan and swept it up nimbly.
"Try to keep it in the pot, okay? I don't like mess."
He frowned and went back to the ficus tree. She sat there almost hurt by the curt reprimand.
If he weren't in the crazy house, she might just feel badly about it.
As she continued to spoon soil, her mind floated upwards and out to another time when she knew a garden. Her thoughts drifted to rows of corn, sunflowers, tomatos, kalarabi, beans, carrots, and lettuces. And for a moment she wanted to shed a tear for all of the growth and memory though her heart smiled at what once was before.
"You'll meet him in the nursery," the doctor replied. "My guess is he's already there pruning the roses. He really likes wild roses."
Dr. Heathrow smiled to herself. She shuffled through the papers a moment and then added, "Down the hall to the right. You'll see the morning light diffusing through the dirty glass. He'll be the only one in there at this hour."
She headed toward the nursery wondering about this James. What would make him drink himself stupid and then careen through a mall? How does he deal with the guilt? Does he even feel shame or remorse for what he's done? Based upon the doctor's comments, James didn't sound all that scary, all that demented. Maybe people just misunderstood him, his intentions, just like people misunderstood her all the time. She smiled inwardly.
At the end of the hallway, she observed morning sunshine penetrating a set of opaque glass doors. Behind them she could see a figure moving about in the haze and humidity. She watched a moment, transfixed by the beauty in the grime. She could see brilliant oranges, reds, purples, yellows, pinks spilling through the glass despite the handprints and density of age. The greens played polka dots around the colors as they danced about the retro glass. It was nearly psychadelic, like a good trip. How appropriate, she thought. She pushed the doors open and walked into the early day fog.
"Good morning," she called into the mist.
No response. She could hear only the sound of a sprayer emitting soft drops.
"James?" she added.
Again nothing. At the end of a row of hyacinths and geraniums, she spotted him again showering the baby plants with a small hose.
"Are you James?" she spoke as she moved toward the man hunched over the plants.
"What? Oh hello. I wasn't paying any attention. Who are you? What are you doing here in my spot?" he asked, half casually, half accusingly.
"Dr. Heathrow sent me down here to help you. I think she wants us to talk and I think she also wants to put me to work," she said warmly hoping he'd respond favorably.
"I see, community service it is then. You can fill pots with fresh soil. I have bulbs I want to plant before the frost" he gestured outside to a small patch of barren dirt.
"I don't really see a need to talk much," he added. "I keep to myself and no, I don't want to talk about what happened at the mall. Don't even ask me."
Well this wasn't working out quite right. She squatted next to the pots and began digging out soil with a trowel she found nearby. She watched as James delicately spritzed the leaves of a ficus in the corner. It was as if they were his children, his only loves. He seemed to gaze adoringly at their leaves, their structures. He appeared to be studying them while also silently worshipping them too.
James wore what looked like an old pair of designer jeans, maybe Polo or Calvin Klein. They were frayed at the cuffs. His plaid shirt was covered by a bright orange sweater. She noticed a small hole in the back. His square glasses tipped on his nose as he leaned forward, a stray hair or two falling with them. His brown locks were near perfectly place save those few that escaped over his brow. He worked slowly and deliberately, his body knowing it had all the time in the universe with the foliage.
How beautiful it would be to have this kind of time, she thought to herself as she filled pots.
He turned to her. "You're making a mess. Look at that!"
Startled, she looked around her. She'd spilled a clump of soil on the ground. He rushed to her, grabbed a nearby hand broom and dust pan and swept it up nimbly.
"Try to keep it in the pot, okay? I don't like mess."
He frowned and went back to the ficus tree. She sat there almost hurt by the curt reprimand.
If he weren't in the crazy house, she might just feel badly about it.
As she continued to spoon soil, her mind floated upwards and out to another time when she knew a garden. Her thoughts drifted to rows of corn, sunflowers, tomatos, kalarabi, beans, carrots, and lettuces. And for a moment she wanted to shed a tear for all of the growth and memory though her heart smiled at what once was before.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Best Wishes...
It's December, early in the month.
We now have bitter cold and lots of snow.
And it reminds me....of that time when everything started.
You know, when the elements brought with it a new lease on life.
And you can't see it where you are.
But it's beautiful.
And I was thinking of it all this morning, because here at this hour it's so quiet.
And I wanted to share this soft moment with you.
Wishing you happiness where you are.
Because it's been an entire year.
And that what you are doing today brings you a smile.
Despite everything else, what goes on right now, I can still smile too.
We now have bitter cold and lots of snow.
And it reminds me....of that time when everything started.
You know, when the elements brought with it a new lease on life.
And you can't see it where you are.
But it's beautiful.
And I was thinking of it all this morning, because here at this hour it's so quiet.
And I wanted to share this soft moment with you.
Wishing you happiness where you are.
Because it's been an entire year.
And that what you are doing today brings you a smile.
Despite everything else, what goes on right now, I can still smile too.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
What She Tried to Say Once...But it Wouldn't Come Out
When it came right down to it, she really just wanted to find her real voice.
When the noise stopped and she was finally alone, the following poured from her lips and echoed in her room, in the hollows of the darkness. She cried as she spoke not because of her wounded heart, but because the words caught on the back of her teeth so often and were always tardy, always leaving her muted when she so desperately needed them. Anger waved through her meloncholy because she felt so PC, so numbed, so incredibly passive, when inside, she climbed the walls with fury.
And in the peaceful quiet of the 12:30 am, she said aloud, but only to herself...
Despite age and experience
I was here first.
I am here, alone, despite your crowding.
Inside me,
Are all my thoughts of you.
Everything I hide, all I conceal,
Protects you from your rage, your pain.
If you knew how strong I am,
How you truly cannot wound,
A bit of you would die inside.
I don't want you to die. Live with me.
So I shelter you from yourself, from your fear.
And this burden I bear has no words, no sounds
For it is muted against so many trivial things.
We all want so badly to be loved, don't we?
We all want to be accepted,
So damn this futility,
This wretched loathing that brings the lash, the grit.
Be quiet. Be at peace.
You cannot reach me. I am inside.
I am deep underneath, buried beneath the barbs, your hate.
My own sanctuary I created,
My own nightmare in which I only seek solace,
From you.
So say "good night" and go.
Kick tires and scream into the black.
You cannot touch. You cannot feel.
Mourn only this shade, this image.
For it is all you have.
This nightmare was but only your dream.
So wake, say "good night,"
And go.
When the noise stopped and she was finally alone, the following poured from her lips and echoed in her room, in the hollows of the darkness. She cried as she spoke not because of her wounded heart, but because the words caught on the back of her teeth so often and were always tardy, always leaving her muted when she so desperately needed them. Anger waved through her meloncholy because she felt so PC, so numbed, so incredibly passive, when inside, she climbed the walls with fury.
And in the peaceful quiet of the 12:30 am, she said aloud, but only to herself...
Despite age and experience
I was here first.
I am here, alone, despite your crowding.
Inside me,
Are all my thoughts of you.
Everything I hide, all I conceal,
Protects you from your rage, your pain.
If you knew how strong I am,
How you truly cannot wound,
A bit of you would die inside.
I don't want you to die. Live with me.
So I shelter you from yourself, from your fear.
And this burden I bear has no words, no sounds
For it is muted against so many trivial things.
We all want so badly to be loved, don't we?
We all want to be accepted,
So damn this futility,
This wretched loathing that brings the lash, the grit.
Be quiet. Be at peace.
You cannot reach me. I am inside.
I am deep underneath, buried beneath the barbs, your hate.
My own sanctuary I created,
My own nightmare in which I only seek solace,
From you.
So say "good night" and go.
Kick tires and scream into the black.
You cannot touch. You cannot feel.
Mourn only this shade, this image.
For it is all you have.
This nightmare was but only your dream.
So wake, say "good night,"
And go.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Warm Memory #6
It was amidst a cacophany of whirling traffic, slushing ice, and a flattening trumpet that she caught sight of his smile again. Wide, open and full of trickery and spice. It was as if his eyes and mouth formed a relationship existing apart from the rest of him.
This smile, this laughing, genuine grin, always took her by surprise. It was reminiscent of those days on the playground when her friends challenged her to jump from her swing as it flew higher and higher from the ground.
She always jumped. Always landed hard, but on her feet.
And it was this sparkling smile, the one that popped and fizzed when it hit her, that seemed to say "Come play with me."
She wanted to tell him how she felt about the smile, what it made her think about. But for the time being, she kept it in, enjoying it in solitude for the time being.
This smile, this laughing, genuine grin, always took her by surprise. It was reminiscent of those days on the playground when her friends challenged her to jump from her swing as it flew higher and higher from the ground.
She always jumped. Always landed hard, but on her feet.
And it was this sparkling smile, the one that popped and fizzed when it hit her, that seemed to say "Come play with me."
She wanted to tell him how she felt about the smile, what it made her think about. But for the time being, she kept it in, enjoying it in solitude for the time being.
Cold Memory #6 - Her Third Skin
When it failed the second time, it numbed her. The words "I love you" and "I want to be with you" felt hollow, like pennies thrown into the bottom of a tin bucket, not a wishing well.
The letters seemed to bounce around her arms, her ears, her shoulders, and even her legs.
She could no longer feel it in her fingertips or her toes. They seemed to rest there a moment, pooling like raindrops, but then they beaded and slipped away.
And she hated herself because she couldn't believe them, couldn't use them to insure herself through another few months. She knew too well their haste, their aftertaste. She wanted to cry selfish tears, but the skin around her eyes had grown so thick; it no longer needed the moisture.
She wanted to turn over, to go back and make it all true again, but the thought of overexposure, of more cuts, and ultimately the devastating loss of more layers petrified her to numbness. And she sat staring out the window, eyes trained on the leaves falling into the darkness. The sun was dying and soon it would be too cold to feel this.
The phone felt like lead and it drooped lazily against her as her ears took in the sounds, the confessions, the darkest of what could be real about her, could be real about him.
And she hated herself for disbelieving, but was left no option.
She could no longer be fooled in this third skin.
God just once she wants to be fooled; she wants so badly not to see it coming again.
It was only after a few weeks that he took it all back; the phone died.
And she cried only once, wishing one time she could be wrong about all of it.
But in this quiet, knowing darkness, she knew not what lay upon her horizon...knew not that it would be what could thaw everything...
The letters seemed to bounce around her arms, her ears, her shoulders, and even her legs.
She could no longer feel it in her fingertips or her toes. They seemed to rest there a moment, pooling like raindrops, but then they beaded and slipped away.
And she hated herself because she couldn't believe them, couldn't use them to insure herself through another few months. She knew too well their haste, their aftertaste. She wanted to cry selfish tears, but the skin around her eyes had grown so thick; it no longer needed the moisture.
She wanted to turn over, to go back and make it all true again, but the thought of overexposure, of more cuts, and ultimately the devastating loss of more layers petrified her to numbness. And she sat staring out the window, eyes trained on the leaves falling into the darkness. The sun was dying and soon it would be too cold to feel this.
The phone felt like lead and it drooped lazily against her as her ears took in the sounds, the confessions, the darkest of what could be real about her, could be real about him.
And she hated herself for disbelieving, but was left no option.
She could no longer be fooled in this third skin.
God just once she wants to be fooled; she wants so badly not to see it coming again.
It was only after a few weeks that he took it all back; the phone died.
And she cried only once, wishing one time she could be wrong about all of it.
But in this quiet, knowing darkness, she knew not what lay upon her horizon...knew not that it would be what could thaw everything...
Thursday, December 6, 2007
The Bottom of the Big Girl Purse
As she waits to meet James, she digs to the bottom of her enormous purse. It had been ages since she'd peered down to see what created all the weight. She really needed to lighten her load.
She found her notebook, the one with all the scratchings and observations, and inside were the poems she'd lost so many years ago...
Lullaby
Sleep soundly…
And know that I am dreaming of you
Be still…
For I am near
Close your heavy eyes…
For my arms will cradle you during your darkest storms
Sleep…sleep…
Cast your cares upon an ocean of slumber
I will protect you
Rest your weary head…
For I am beside you
No solitary moment will ever find you
Sleep…sleep…
Dream only of happiness
I will hold your burdens
In the caverns of my willing heart
Quiet…
Imagine my arms around you
For they are there to shield you
Sleep…sleep…
Do not fear
For I will always be here
In your heart’s deepest memory
This warmth will keep you safe
Until we meet once more
Sleep…
RESIST
Resist the hand that pulled you
Remember its reasons
Resist the shame, know who she is
You saw her, ahead, at the finish line
Resist the temptation to fall
It’s easier to be slower than the rest
Resist the earth who holds your feet
Your weight is already too heavy
Resist the wind. Remember his sting
He knows the desire you keep
He whispered it to you when you pushed him out of the way
Resist the game that winning is
That life is
Resist
“You are your own worst enemy.”
I AM
Among crayons, I am the white one
Among pebbles, I am the jagged stone
Among oceans, I am the quiet stream
Among cards, I am the joker
Among fruits, I am the tomato
Among friends, I am the secret
Among luxury cars, I am the Ford Pinto
Among smiles, I am the sly grin
Among birds, I am the ostrich
Among candles, I am the one you can’t blow out
Among the letters in your hand,
The one you didn’t read was mine.
And after reading those words, images created nearly ten years ago, she wondered why she would have discovered them just now. Why here? Why in this mournful and solemn place? Why admist so much pain and solitude?
She then remembered that all the beauty, all of the peace and clarity she knew so well, was that which came forth triumphantly through all the tragedy.
And she smiled openly for the first time that morning, realizing just how far she went to get back there.
She found her notebook, the one with all the scratchings and observations, and inside were the poems she'd lost so many years ago...
Lullaby
Sleep soundly…
And know that I am dreaming of you
Be still…
For I am near
Close your heavy eyes…
For my arms will cradle you during your darkest storms
Sleep…sleep…
Cast your cares upon an ocean of slumber
I will protect you
Rest your weary head…
For I am beside you
No solitary moment will ever find you
Sleep…sleep…
Dream only of happiness
I will hold your burdens
In the caverns of my willing heart
Quiet…
Imagine my arms around you
For they are there to shield you
Sleep…sleep…
Do not fear
For I will always be here
In your heart’s deepest memory
This warmth will keep you safe
Until we meet once more
Sleep…
RESIST
Resist the hand that pulled you
Remember its reasons
Resist the shame, know who she is
You saw her, ahead, at the finish line
Resist the temptation to fall
It’s easier to be slower than the rest
Resist the earth who holds your feet
Your weight is already too heavy
Resist the wind. Remember his sting
He knows the desire you keep
He whispered it to you when you pushed him out of the way
Resist the game that winning is
That life is
Resist
“You are your own worst enemy.”
I AM
Among crayons, I am the white one
Among pebbles, I am the jagged stone
Among oceans, I am the quiet stream
Among cards, I am the joker
Among fruits, I am the tomato
Among friends, I am the secret
Among luxury cars, I am the Ford Pinto
Among smiles, I am the sly grin
Among birds, I am the ostrich
Among candles, I am the one you can’t blow out
Among the letters in your hand,
The one you didn’t read was mine.
And after reading those words, images created nearly ten years ago, she wondered why she would have discovered them just now. Why here? Why in this mournful and solemn place? Why admist so much pain and solitude?
She then remembered that all the beauty, all of the peace and clarity she knew so well, was that which came forth triumphantly through all the tragedy.
And she smiled openly for the first time that morning, realizing just how far she went to get back there.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Her First Assignment...
Exiting the restroom, she searches for the main office. She scanned the muted taupe walls for signs. (Why did they always soften the colors in hospitals and clinics? Does it really decrease the amount of panic?)
Her gaze dropped on an office door which read "Dr. Henrietta Heathrow, Administrator." She knocked, the brass name plate shook, the tin echoing down the hall.
"Just a minute!" cried a voice from inside. She heard the sound of papers, ruffling angrily, followed by the click of thick heels.
"Good morning, can I help you?" a tall dark haired woman asked.
"I am here to do my community service," she replied. "Are you Dr. Heathrow?"
"Guilty," was the doctor's reply. "You're supposed to check in up front, but we'll get that taken care of. Come in. I'll brief you."
She followed the doctor into a snug office, stacks of books and papers took up much of the space. Clipboards hung loosely from a few wall hooks. As Dr. Heathrow walked behind her desk, she noticed that already before 9 am, the poor woman had a long, irritating run up her black stocking.
"So, they gave us you today, huh? Lucky for me, you're the only comm-serv today. I don't have to spend hours briefing a bunch of "I don't give a shits" on my patients nor do I have to sway more folks on the benefits of therapy." She sat down hard, her rolling chair scooting a bit off to the right.
"I'm sorry about this," she acknowledged. "It must be inconvenient."
"Bah. Nevermind that. I don't do apologies or fake sincerity. Out with it. What'd you do?"
She told the doctor her story, editing most things out for brevity and for sense of the occasion.
She closed with, "and now I'm here."
"I see," Dr. Heathrow responded, shuffling a few notepads.
It was then she detected an acrid smell, something filmy and out of the ordinary for a hospital. Smoke?
Noticing the look, Dr. Heathrow smiled. "I'm busted. I've been smoking. Care for one?" She took a cigarette out of her desk, lit it, and breathed calmly.
"Even the big dogs break rules to stay sane," she laughed.
It'd been ages since she'd smoked. So she declined.
The doctor continued, "Your first assignment is James. He's in #204. A bit of an identity crisis, honestly. Nothing too serious. However, he dealt with his bipolarism by drinking a fifth of vodka and then driving his car through the front of Washington Mall. Unfortunately, he ran over a security guard, a toy poodle and a couple ficus trees in the process."
She almost laughed. She couldn't help it.
"How long does he have to stay here?" she asked the doctor.
"Not forever, a few more weeks. Then he serves some time. The treatment is what takes forever in his mind. He's completely anti-therapy. Thinks he's fine. Denial is what makes it worse. You'll see," she responded.
She had to agree with this statement. Dr. Heathrow grabbed a chart, pulled some papers out of it and handed it to her. "You get the basics - a little history, the crime(s), and a few photos. That's it. Just enough to relate and help."
"What am I supposed to do?" she asked.
"With James? You're gardening in the greenhouse and then you meet with me again."
She tapped her foot, a bit nervous about everything all of sudden.
"What about my afternoon assignment?" she asked.
"You have Andrew," the doctor replied. "We'll discuss it later."
Dr. Heathrow grabbed her own clipboard, the back was tan, but covered with scribbles.
The doctor threw her hair back, stubbed her cigarette, and came back around the desk. "Let's get started," she said.
Later, as she filled out the introductory form, she glanced back at the scribbles on the doc's clipboard. Admist trees, moons, suns, plants, and stars were what looked like song lyrics. She narrowed her gaze to read them...
Safe inside myself
Are all my thoughts of you
All lights turned down, softened
Hiding what only I know is true
Must protect what's left within
Scar tissues only hide my sins
Through this shield,
Through my shade,
Exists all that's left
That is not yet shame.
I wanted you to have
What's left of me
Fear is what paralyzes
Desire to get down to you
Without having to tell just lies
Sense this much and be sure
Because I already taste you in my tears
You've made no departure
And that is all I fear
In my mind it is always winter
Though my body always feels your sun...
Taped to the bottom of the clipboard, beneath the words, was Katherine's business/blog business card...
Her gaze dropped on an office door which read "Dr. Henrietta Heathrow, Administrator." She knocked, the brass name plate shook, the tin echoing down the hall.
"Just a minute!" cried a voice from inside. She heard the sound of papers, ruffling angrily, followed by the click of thick heels.
"Good morning, can I help you?" a tall dark haired woman asked.
"I am here to do my community service," she replied. "Are you Dr. Heathrow?"
"Guilty," was the doctor's reply. "You're supposed to check in up front, but we'll get that taken care of. Come in. I'll brief you."
She followed the doctor into a snug office, stacks of books and papers took up much of the space. Clipboards hung loosely from a few wall hooks. As Dr. Heathrow walked behind her desk, she noticed that already before 9 am, the poor woman had a long, irritating run up her black stocking.
"So, they gave us you today, huh? Lucky for me, you're the only comm-serv today. I don't have to spend hours briefing a bunch of "I don't give a shits" on my patients nor do I have to sway more folks on the benefits of therapy." She sat down hard, her rolling chair scooting a bit off to the right.
"I'm sorry about this," she acknowledged. "It must be inconvenient."
"Bah. Nevermind that. I don't do apologies or fake sincerity. Out with it. What'd you do?"
She told the doctor her story, editing most things out for brevity and for sense of the occasion.
She closed with, "and now I'm here."
"I see," Dr. Heathrow responded, shuffling a few notepads.
It was then she detected an acrid smell, something filmy and out of the ordinary for a hospital. Smoke?
Noticing the look, Dr. Heathrow smiled. "I'm busted. I've been smoking. Care for one?" She took a cigarette out of her desk, lit it, and breathed calmly.
"Even the big dogs break rules to stay sane," she laughed.
It'd been ages since she'd smoked. So she declined.
The doctor continued, "Your first assignment is James. He's in #204. A bit of an identity crisis, honestly. Nothing too serious. However, he dealt with his bipolarism by drinking a fifth of vodka and then driving his car through the front of Washington Mall. Unfortunately, he ran over a security guard, a toy poodle and a couple ficus trees in the process."
She almost laughed. She couldn't help it.
"How long does he have to stay here?" she asked the doctor.
"Not forever, a few more weeks. Then he serves some time. The treatment is what takes forever in his mind. He's completely anti-therapy. Thinks he's fine. Denial is what makes it worse. You'll see," she responded.
She had to agree with this statement. Dr. Heathrow grabbed a chart, pulled some papers out of it and handed it to her. "You get the basics - a little history, the crime(s), and a few photos. That's it. Just enough to relate and help."
"What am I supposed to do?" she asked.
"With James? You're gardening in the greenhouse and then you meet with me again."
She tapped her foot, a bit nervous about everything all of sudden.
"What about my afternoon assignment?" she asked.
"You have Andrew," the doctor replied. "We'll discuss it later."
Dr. Heathrow grabbed her own clipboard, the back was tan, but covered with scribbles.
The doctor threw her hair back, stubbed her cigarette, and came back around the desk. "Let's get started," she said.
Later, as she filled out the introductory form, she glanced back at the scribbles on the doc's clipboard. Admist trees, moons, suns, plants, and stars were what looked like song lyrics. She narrowed her gaze to read them...
Safe inside myself
Are all my thoughts of you
All lights turned down, softened
Hiding what only I know is true
Must protect what's left within
Scar tissues only hide my sins
Through this shield,
Through my shade,
Exists all that's left
That is not yet shame.
I wanted you to have
What's left of me
Fear is what paralyzes
Desire to get down to you
Without having to tell just lies
Sense this much and be sure
Because I already taste you in my tears
You've made no departure
And that is all I fear
In my mind it is always winter
Though my body always feels your sun...
Taped to the bottom of the clipboard, beneath the words, was Katherine's business/blog business card...
Monday, December 3, 2007
Relatable Quote #3
"I don't drive. I mean, I have a license, but I really shouldn't. I have too much hostility."
Woody Allen in "Annie Hall"
Woody Allen in "Annie Hall"
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Sensation #4 - the Endorphines
One of her favorite feelings was always the adrenaline, the mood-altering kick-to-the-teeth she felt every time she got on the treadmill.
This was her high, her escape from the weight of her own private hell.
As she ran, beads of sweat matted the wispy strands that had defied her ponytail. The salt stung her eyes, made her wish that for once, she'd remember a towel.
And she smiled, knowing it was not ladylike to sweat, show the beastlike baseness that she was born with.
It made her joyful knowing that here she could be the animal she knew she was all the time.
With each hard beat of her shoe, she pumped faster, running to disappear, to escape it, to get where he'd never reach her anymore.
In her mind, she always got there.
The explosion of endorphines always left her feeling stronger, more powerful, more fight-or-flight ready. She never left the gym feeling weaker, more exposed. She departed after a 45 minute run taller, quicker, more ready to take on the next blow.
And though she kept this to herself, she knew deep down, she was stronger and could, if needed, fight and win.
This was her high. This was her warrior.
This was her confidence in the fitness room mirror, an exchange between her mind and her soul only.
A reminder that the beast still existed.
This was her high, her escape from the weight of her own private hell.
As she ran, beads of sweat matted the wispy strands that had defied her ponytail. The salt stung her eyes, made her wish that for once, she'd remember a towel.
And she smiled, knowing it was not ladylike to sweat, show the beastlike baseness that she was born with.
It made her joyful knowing that here she could be the animal she knew she was all the time.
With each hard beat of her shoe, she pumped faster, running to disappear, to escape it, to get where he'd never reach her anymore.
In her mind, she always got there.
The explosion of endorphines always left her feeling stronger, more powerful, more fight-or-flight ready. She never left the gym feeling weaker, more exposed. She departed after a 45 minute run taller, quicker, more ready to take on the next blow.
And though she kept this to herself, she knew deep down, she was stronger and could, if needed, fight and win.
This was her high. This was her warrior.
This was her confidence in the fitness room mirror, an exchange between her mind and her soul only.
A reminder that the beast still existed.
Cold Memory #5 - How she dealt with it
He had only been gone for fifteen or twenty minutes when she found the messages. Having no intention of reading his private mail, for despite all things she had respect for him, she sat down at her computer to check her own email.
For whatever reason, he had left his account up and running. Perhaps he had no idea that she ever used the computer, but she did. She had to use it when he was out or asleep. And as her eyes scanned the screen searching for the "log out" icon, her gaze rolled over a name or two she didn't recognize.
The truth always appears more violent in black and white.
Her moments at the computer that morning seemed an eternity, her eyes unable to pull back, retreat. She watched the lies and the truth spiral before her, overlapping, going up and down like a spring. She wanted to hide - wanted to scream - wanted to reach into the computer and shred the evidence so even she could never view it again.
But the truth has a damning way of staying permanent.
Numbness took her, that in and out sparkling feeling that always reminded her of her own offenses, her own Achille's heal.
In his exposure, she too felt more vulnerable, more open for wounding.
Tipping back in the chair, she allowed but one tear to escape. It seemed appropriate to let it roll all the way. She then got up, got her purse, and headed for her front door. As she reached the parking lot, she took her phone and dialed the one number she hoped he'd recognize.
Yes, it's this bad. Yes, this your one shot to make it okay.
No answer.
Just the ridiculous automated voicemail message. Nothing personal. Nothing his.
She drove off, her scar tissue thickening, knowing she had only but a few soft spots left.
For whatever reason, he had left his account up and running. Perhaps he had no idea that she ever used the computer, but she did. She had to use it when he was out or asleep. And as her eyes scanned the screen searching for the "log out" icon, her gaze rolled over a name or two she didn't recognize.
The truth always appears more violent in black and white.
Her moments at the computer that morning seemed an eternity, her eyes unable to pull back, retreat. She watched the lies and the truth spiral before her, overlapping, going up and down like a spring. She wanted to hide - wanted to scream - wanted to reach into the computer and shred the evidence so even she could never view it again.
But the truth has a damning way of staying permanent.
Numbness took her, that in and out sparkling feeling that always reminded her of her own offenses, her own Achille's heal.
In his exposure, she too felt more vulnerable, more open for wounding.
Tipping back in the chair, she allowed but one tear to escape. It seemed appropriate to let it roll all the way. She then got up, got her purse, and headed for her front door. As she reached the parking lot, she took her phone and dialed the one number she hoped he'd recognize.
Yes, it's this bad. Yes, this your one shot to make it okay.
No answer.
Just the ridiculous automated voicemail message. Nothing personal. Nothing his.
She drove off, her scar tissue thickening, knowing she had only but a few soft spots left.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Cold Memory #4 - His side
During her time of greatest need, he was buying peanut butter...
She was always sending him messages - "I love you" and "Thinking of you" and "Hope you are having a nice day." How can so much good, so much genuine kindness feel like a million knives penetrating his skin?
As he scanned the aisles of the grocery store for his favorite brand, he realized almost aloud, admidst the Saturday sounds of crying babies, squeaky wheels, and labored cell phone conversations, that he hated her.
Hate. Really and truly hated her.
The knot in his gut twisted and reared, the sensation he always got when the nightmare got ahold of him.
He hates her because he knows she knows he hates her.
And loves him anyway.
And his throat is filled with bile, the disgust rising to his lips as he reads ingredients and carb counts. He selects the one he knows she can't eat.
It doesn't matter anyway.
It was then his phone rang, beeping irritatingly against the rest of the noise in the aisle. It was her "911" ring tone. Something was horribly wrong.
But he was so angry, so annoyed, surrounded by all the din and human excessiveness, that he let the call go to voice mail.
The phone died. Finally silent.
As he got back into his car, the worst of his emotions caught up with the wretched loathing. He was always letting her down anyway and she knew enough people she could call instead.
Failure never felt so numbing.
When he got home, her car was gone.
There was no note.
There was no message.
His voice mail inbox was a loud, bottomless dial tone.
And he cried for the first time in six months.
She was always sending him messages - "I love you" and "Thinking of you" and "Hope you are having a nice day." How can so much good, so much genuine kindness feel like a million knives penetrating his skin?
As he scanned the aisles of the grocery store for his favorite brand, he realized almost aloud, admidst the Saturday sounds of crying babies, squeaky wheels, and labored cell phone conversations, that he hated her.
Hate. Really and truly hated her.
The knot in his gut twisted and reared, the sensation he always got when the nightmare got ahold of him.
He hates her because he knows she knows he hates her.
And loves him anyway.
And his throat is filled with bile, the disgust rising to his lips as he reads ingredients and carb counts. He selects the one he knows she can't eat.
It doesn't matter anyway.
It was then his phone rang, beeping irritatingly against the rest of the noise in the aisle. It was her "911" ring tone. Something was horribly wrong.
But he was so angry, so annoyed, surrounded by all the din and human excessiveness, that he let the call go to voice mail.
The phone died. Finally silent.
As he got back into his car, the worst of his emotions caught up with the wretched loathing. He was always letting her down anyway and she knew enough people she could call instead.
Failure never felt so numbing.
When he got home, her car was gone.
There was no note.
There was no message.
His voice mail inbox was a loud, bottomless dial tone.
And he cried for the first time in six months.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The Poem
She steps through the front door at St. Nick's and goes directly to the restroom in the lobby to wash her hands and get her bearings. She leans over the sink, allowing the hot water steam to flush the ice off her cheeks. When she looks into the mirror, behind her, she sees scribbling on the side of one of the bathroom stalls.
In looping, markered handwriting, is what appears to be a poem.
I lie inside this paper bag.
Breathing tepid sugared air
Through tubes of regret and morbid despair
And when the flash bulbs in my room
Spark me once more,
When my conscious dissolves and fizzes,
The world no longer tries
And I feel no more his quizzes.
In this light,
In this moment,
I submerge and give in.
Swallowing myself up and closing the sin.
Where'd you go, my refuge,
My love?
For I've never felt so alone here
Or even so alive amidst the swag,
Letting go softly, wonderously,
Gazing down this paper bag.
She heard nothing inside the bathroom, but the echo of her heart accelerating against the tin and tile. She breaths deeply and exits, the poem burning a spot inside her mind.
In looping, markered handwriting, is what appears to be a poem.
I lie inside this paper bag.
Breathing tepid sugared air
Through tubes of regret and morbid despair
And when the flash bulbs in my room
Spark me once more,
When my conscious dissolves and fizzes,
The world no longer tries
And I feel no more his quizzes.
In this light,
In this moment,
I submerge and give in.
Swallowing myself up and closing the sin.
Where'd you go, my refuge,
My love?
For I've never felt so alone here
Or even so alive amidst the swag,
Letting go softly, wonderously,
Gazing down this paper bag.
She heard nothing inside the bathroom, but the echo of her heart accelerating against the tin and tile. She breaths deeply and exits, the poem burning a spot inside her mind.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Human Conditions
It was a blurry and rainy morning when she pulled into the hospital parking lot. It was as if the elements always detected weakness and disease and brought forth the complementary precipitations. The wind blew fiercely, slapping her reddened cheeks, and the bitter rain made walking delicately a challenge.
As she approached the building, her gaze fell on an elderly man struggling with an elderly, immobalized woman in a wheelchair. His hand gripped her coat, the veins arching feebly, and as he heaved, he emitted a gut-wrenching groan. She fell helplessly back into her chair.
"Damnit woman, help me!" He cried passionately.
His face reddened and his eyes watered from agonizing strain. The woman merely sat, her gaze plastic and unmoving. The hair around her forehead matting as the rain pelted her uncovered pate.
She walked toward the couple, wondering how long this had been going on. The man lurched and pulled again - the desperate effort proving futile.
She approached, her mouth poised to offer help, when amidst the roar of wind she heard him cry,
"God, why me!? Why!?"
She stopped. Waited for the anguish to melt into the air and water.
Then,
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked.
Startled, the man looked at her, wiped his brow, and then relaxed his grip on the woman. The old woman slumped forward, began to murmur incoherently.
"No, we're fine." he answered.
And though she doubted him, she turned toward the hospital and continued walking. As she passed, she heard a triumphant "There!"
She looked back and saw him getting into the driver's side of a van, the old woman sitting in the front passenger seat.
Perhaps in times of human frailty, we need only know help exists.
As she approached the building, her gaze fell on an elderly man struggling with an elderly, immobalized woman in a wheelchair. His hand gripped her coat, the veins arching feebly, and as he heaved, he emitted a gut-wrenching groan. She fell helplessly back into her chair.
"Damnit woman, help me!" He cried passionately.
His face reddened and his eyes watered from agonizing strain. The woman merely sat, her gaze plastic and unmoving. The hair around her forehead matting as the rain pelted her uncovered pate.
She walked toward the couple, wondering how long this had been going on. The man lurched and pulled again - the desperate effort proving futile.
She approached, her mouth poised to offer help, when amidst the roar of wind she heard him cry,
"God, why me!? Why!?"
She stopped. Waited for the anguish to melt into the air and water.
Then,
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked.
Startled, the man looked at her, wiped his brow, and then relaxed his grip on the woman. The old woman slumped forward, began to murmur incoherently.
"No, we're fine." he answered.
And though she doubted him, she turned toward the hospital and continued walking. As she passed, she heard a triumphant "There!"
She looked back and saw him getting into the driver's side of a van, the old woman sitting in the front passenger seat.
Perhaps in times of human frailty, we need only know help exists.
Warm Memory #5
It was late in the morning when she first caught him looking into her eyes. What she viewed there, she'd not seen before. Not in this pleasant light.
He truly is captivating and the waves of his mind run deep.
And while the rest of her senses were distracted, this brief and soulful gaze allowed her inside for but a few moments. He showed himself, was vulnerable to her for only seconds.
And whether he intended to or not, she felt his genuine affections in that fleeting glance and felt beautiful having not ever heard it from him before.
She later wondered, if he could see her too and hoped, without her having to ever say, that he did.
He truly is captivating and the waves of his mind run deep.
And while the rest of her senses were distracted, this brief and soulful gaze allowed her inside for but a few moments. He showed himself, was vulnerable to her for only seconds.
And whether he intended to or not, she felt his genuine affections in that fleeting glance and felt beautiful having not ever heard it from him before.
She later wondered, if he could see her too and hoped, without her having to ever say, that he did.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Noodle sends a message - Her plan changes
It was a typical Monday morning in November, rain splashing haphazardly against the windshield wetting what seemed to be everything. Gloom penetrated her surroundings and she could feel winter on her immediate horizon though the temps were still above 40 degrees.
She glanced at her directions as she left the apartment complex, making certain she knew how to get to St. Nick's. She didn't want to be late for her duty there, but knew she never wanted to arrive either. What a perfect day to be serving time.
As she drove, fog smudged the windows and it would take yet another ten minutes to decide whether or not she was too warm or too cold.
"This sucks," she couldn't help muttering aloud. No one could hear her.
It was on dreary, depressing mornings like this that her old memories of him surfaced reminding her of what could have been good about all of it. She loathed these positive, heart-warming feelings because they were false. He doesn't love her. He likely never could.
And just as she was about to drift into an early morning melancholy, a message appeared in her phone - it was from Noodle.
"You - Me. Dinner. Tomorrow. Say 6 pm? My place. Emoticon Smile"
And though she was not in the mood for a chuckle or much of a smirk, a playful grin curved her face and she realized she could actually look forward to it. Noodle struck her as a sincere, personable guy. And she was craving conversation outside the ordinary - a handful of words to take her mind away from the hell pressing on her brain. The hell she had an obligation to deal with - the box, Mrs. Weedgrass, the frayed edges of an old story.
As she pulled into the drive of St. Nick's, a cliche song came on the radio, reminding her of her new goal.
"It's true," she couldn't help saying to herself, "It is too late to apologize."
And with that, she confirmed with Noodle, grabbed her purse, and prepared for her day at the loony bin.
She glanced at her directions as she left the apartment complex, making certain she knew how to get to St. Nick's. She didn't want to be late for her duty there, but knew she never wanted to arrive either. What a perfect day to be serving time.
As she drove, fog smudged the windows and it would take yet another ten minutes to decide whether or not she was too warm or too cold.
"This sucks," she couldn't help muttering aloud. No one could hear her.
It was on dreary, depressing mornings like this that her old memories of him surfaced reminding her of what could have been good about all of it. She loathed these positive, heart-warming feelings because they were false. He doesn't love her. He likely never could.
And just as she was about to drift into an early morning melancholy, a message appeared in her phone - it was from Noodle.
"You - Me. Dinner. Tomorrow. Say 6 pm? My place. Emoticon Smile"
And though she was not in the mood for a chuckle or much of a smirk, a playful grin curved her face and she realized she could actually look forward to it. Noodle struck her as a sincere, personable guy. And she was craving conversation outside the ordinary - a handful of words to take her mind away from the hell pressing on her brain. The hell she had an obligation to deal with - the box, Mrs. Weedgrass, the frayed edges of an old story.
As she pulled into the drive of St. Nick's, a cliche song came on the radio, reminding her of her new goal.
"It's true," she couldn't help saying to herself, "It is too late to apologize."
And with that, she confirmed with Noodle, grabbed her purse, and prepared for her day at the loony bin.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
In His Room...
When Mrs. Weedgrass put the box back in his room, she scanned what was left of him. On the desk were three sheets of pink paper, folded neatly. They smelled like perfume. In his haste, he must have forgotten them.
And because no one was home to stop her, she opened them and discovered the three he had left behind...
THE MISSING POEMS:
To You
From Me
Missing Part I
When my body is once again on ice
Chilling firm against 2 AM solitude
And buzzed on caffeinated dregs,
I will think upon you.
Nose to nose in little night hours
Against TV flicker and candle flame,
I will recall the soft curve of your head
And the delicate pinch of your cheek.
Remember lips together and arms enlaced,
Fingertips tracing memory lines
And crooked smiles lying face to face.
I will dream upon your night sputters,
(You spoke most, unconscious, next to me)
And I will close my eyes to hear all you’ve yet to say.
And frozen to my bed, I will reach out for one more,
Fervent argument,
Those frayed out, frenzied passion presses
That once burned me up, fired me on.
But you are gone
And I am here.
Solid cold, entombed in all I knew before,
Wishing entwined fingers and teasing toes.
Longing for your brush by and soft secrets,
(The ones I swore I’d keep if you stayed -
if you’d shared them.)
And I love you still, in my way.
I may (May I?) love you always.
For what we have was a tumbling dream,
A fanciful move made permanent,
And I lie…
Awaiting your return.
Missing Part II
Rain comes again to my eyes,
It splashes against my presence.
Day blurs into darkness shines again dims opens.
Shuts firm against a mind torn with memory
And the soft wound of a lover gone.
To be honest, he left quite suddenly -
Rather, the summer months were way too brief.
I watched him slow step into the night,
A young tear suspended in a lazy eye.
(I once wondered if it ever fell.)
My shirt on his back and my pleading in his mind,
He sliced through the night, onward into new days.
Here’s to the memories, to the future, to the now.
And I watched him go, pores shaking from grief.
With stomach clenched and wretched palsy weeping,
I think now to my injured heart’s memory
Of a man who brought both inspiration and lamentation
And led me to burn up and under despite my intuition.
Remember me, dear someone, recall the kiss against the 1 AM darkness,
The cloaked smiles and glances,
The desperate embraces,
The shudders and giggles,
The growls and sneers,
The strength of two brought full force against a challenge…
And knowing it would end.
My someone, my memory, my own,
Creation in time.
When the sun is full again, when the rain ceases to fall,
I will summon you up again.
Missing Part III
Today a pleasant memory haunts my brain.
Casts its familiar shadow,
And I mourn my vanished day;
Its death slow, slipping softly into murkiness.
Into the crypt, that unspoken place,
I drift out and then away.
Life cools and quiets,
And again, I am alone with you.
Suspended this time, I return.
At the curb, in the deepening shades of evening,
You look to me beneath the brim and I can only see your teeth,
That crooked smile line I used to gaze upon.
Wind whistles and your arms outstretch, pleading.
Your mouth dips, curls, returns again.
Faces lift, eyes pierce, searching for my surrender.
And I beam to recall, my nose against your chin, lash flutters
And the scent of dampened skin.
Silent commitment
Was it ever really so?
And I cling to you, to your specter,
As moment fades to gray.
Awakening from numbness, I gaze about for your trace.
Memory settles across my mind and I long again for your embrace.
Floating now, you glimmer then fade.
And I question my wisdom, my balance, my self.
Your outline now only what I can view in this shade.
And because no one was home to stop her, she opened them and discovered the three he had left behind...
THE MISSING POEMS:
To You
From Me
Missing Part I
When my body is once again on ice
Chilling firm against 2 AM solitude
And buzzed on caffeinated dregs,
I will think upon you.
Nose to nose in little night hours
Against TV flicker and candle flame,
I will recall the soft curve of your head
And the delicate pinch of your cheek.
Remember lips together and arms enlaced,
Fingertips tracing memory lines
And crooked smiles lying face to face.
I will dream upon your night sputters,
(You spoke most, unconscious, next to me)
And I will close my eyes to hear all you’ve yet to say.
And frozen to my bed, I will reach out for one more,
Fervent argument,
Those frayed out, frenzied passion presses
That once burned me up, fired me on.
But you are gone
And I am here.
Solid cold, entombed in all I knew before,
Wishing entwined fingers and teasing toes.
Longing for your brush by and soft secrets,
(The ones I swore I’d keep if you stayed -
if you’d shared them.)
And I love you still, in my way.
I may (May I?) love you always.
For what we have was a tumbling dream,
A fanciful move made permanent,
And I lie…
Awaiting your return.
Missing Part II
Rain comes again to my eyes,
It splashes against my presence.
Day blurs into darkness shines again dims opens.
Shuts firm against a mind torn with memory
And the soft wound of a lover gone.
To be honest, he left quite suddenly -
Rather, the summer months were way too brief.
I watched him slow step into the night,
A young tear suspended in a lazy eye.
(I once wondered if it ever fell.)
My shirt on his back and my pleading in his mind,
He sliced through the night, onward into new days.
Here’s to the memories, to the future, to the now.
And I watched him go, pores shaking from grief.
With stomach clenched and wretched palsy weeping,
I think now to my injured heart’s memory
Of a man who brought both inspiration and lamentation
And led me to burn up and under despite my intuition.
Remember me, dear someone, recall the kiss against the 1 AM darkness,
The cloaked smiles and glances,
The desperate embraces,
The shudders and giggles,
The growls and sneers,
The strength of two brought full force against a challenge…
And knowing it would end.
My someone, my memory, my own,
Creation in time.
When the sun is full again, when the rain ceases to fall,
I will summon you up again.
Missing Part III
Today a pleasant memory haunts my brain.
Casts its familiar shadow,
And I mourn my vanished day;
Its death slow, slipping softly into murkiness.
Into the crypt, that unspoken place,
I drift out and then away.
Life cools and quiets,
And again, I am alone with you.
Suspended this time, I return.
At the curb, in the deepening shades of evening,
You look to me beneath the brim and I can only see your teeth,
That crooked smile line I used to gaze upon.
Wind whistles and your arms outstretch, pleading.
Your mouth dips, curls, returns again.
Faces lift, eyes pierce, searching for my surrender.
And I beam to recall, my nose against your chin, lash flutters
And the scent of dampened skin.
Silent commitment
Was it ever really so?
And I cling to you, to your specter,
As moment fades to gray.
Awakening from numbness, I gaze about for your trace.
Memory settles across my mind and I long again for your embrace.
Floating now, you glimmer then fade.
And I question my wisdom, my balance, my self.
Your outline now only what I can view in this shade.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Rule #6
She really hates this rule, but is now forced to adhere to it as the not abiding keeps her coming back for punishments.
When it becomes evident that there exists no reciprocation, it is imperative that you decide to put yourself first. Giving unashamedly is admirable, but the heartache that ensues once it is never returned, is not worth the exhaustion of the soul. It then becomes necessary to move on and grow, knowing you gave your all.
A woman must always know when enough is enough.
When it becomes evident that there exists no reciprocation, it is imperative that you decide to put yourself first. Giving unashamedly is admirable, but the heartache that ensues once it is never returned, is not worth the exhaustion of the soul. It then becomes necessary to move on and grow, knowing you gave your all.
A woman must always know when enough is enough.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Sensation #3 - terrifying fear and anguish
There exist few emotions she knows that terrify her, make her question her ability to control what is under the surface.
Late at night, she drops the phone, hears the delicate thud as it impacts the fuzz of the floor. It sounds loud even though most of the tones muffle and are absorbed. In front of the TV, the one she just purchased, just became used to with its sharper image and better technology, she drops to her knees. She too, feels muffled, absorbed into the floor.
Her fingers grasp the flimsy carpet, claw at it as she tries to stall the spinning sensation, the weight of a feeling she's not known before. She feels like she's moving and yet she is there, anchored to the carpet by her fingertips, her nails.
Nausea bubbles in her stomach and then wrenches, opening up the heaving sobs she'd been holding in for over an hour. She falls forward, off her knees, buries her head in the dismal fabric and howls in animalistic pain. She is spinning, wailing, grasping out to each side as if continuing to fall through some imaginary hell.
Hot tears flow uncontrollably from her eyes and they burn with the knowledge that they will continue to cry for days from here on out. She is exhausted from the pain, from the horrible knowledge, from the thought of losing it, and ultimately, from knowing there is nothing, nothing in the world, she can do.
Helplessness paralyzes her and makes her scream for God. Help me, she cries internally. God, help this terrible thing.
Her hair mats to her wet face and she heaves, gasping for oxygen as she's drowning in tears and choking sobs. The sounds she emits, she has never heard before. No one will ever hear them.
She feels wounded, incapable of rising, and so she falls asleep in the floor buried under the weight of duress, under the call she knows is beckoning her to action, and yet she is flat forward. God, does she dare blow the lid off this thing?
All the hurt, all the pain...all the unfathomable torment she knew deep down was there before, but she denied hoping it was never true.
Somewhere, someone is dying and all she wants to do is save a life.
And she cries in heartbreak, not knowing how.
Late at night, she drops the phone, hears the delicate thud as it impacts the fuzz of the floor. It sounds loud even though most of the tones muffle and are absorbed. In front of the TV, the one she just purchased, just became used to with its sharper image and better technology, she drops to her knees. She too, feels muffled, absorbed into the floor.
Her fingers grasp the flimsy carpet, claw at it as she tries to stall the spinning sensation, the weight of a feeling she's not known before. She feels like she's moving and yet she is there, anchored to the carpet by her fingertips, her nails.
Nausea bubbles in her stomach and then wrenches, opening up the heaving sobs she'd been holding in for over an hour. She falls forward, off her knees, buries her head in the dismal fabric and howls in animalistic pain. She is spinning, wailing, grasping out to each side as if continuing to fall through some imaginary hell.
Hot tears flow uncontrollably from her eyes and they burn with the knowledge that they will continue to cry for days from here on out. She is exhausted from the pain, from the horrible knowledge, from the thought of losing it, and ultimately, from knowing there is nothing, nothing in the world, she can do.
Helplessness paralyzes her and makes her scream for God. Help me, she cries internally. God, help this terrible thing.
Her hair mats to her wet face and she heaves, gasping for oxygen as she's drowning in tears and choking sobs. The sounds she emits, she has never heard before. No one will ever hear them.
She feels wounded, incapable of rising, and so she falls asleep in the floor buried under the weight of duress, under the call she knows is beckoning her to action, and yet she is flat forward. God, does she dare blow the lid off this thing?
All the hurt, all the pain...all the unfathomable torment she knew deep down was there before, but she denied hoping it was never true.
Somewhere, someone is dying and all she wants to do is save a life.
And she cries in heartbreak, not knowing how.
Rule #5
Her code of ethics and propensity for genuine kindness always trump any hatred or anger she feels. And it is in this vein that she adheres relentlessly to her fifth rule.
Always forgive. This does not mean you must forget the heartaches, the pain, or even the injustices that continue to plague and haunt you. But you must forgive. Love, true friendship, and kindness are unconditional. You never know when what you do may save someone, help someone, may have an impact that brings additional good to the universe.
And even if it smarts and even if it risks your pride, your honor, and your sense of control over your emotions, do what you must when someone you care about loses touch with their world. It matters not what has happened in the past, for genuine love never judges, never operates on condition, and ultimately, never fails.
Always forgive. This does not mean you must forget the heartaches, the pain, or even the injustices that continue to plague and haunt you. But you must forgive. Love, true friendship, and kindness are unconditional. You never know when what you do may save someone, help someone, may have an impact that brings additional good to the universe.
And even if it smarts and even if it risks your pride, your honor, and your sense of control over your emotions, do what you must when someone you care about loses touch with their world. It matters not what has happened in the past, for genuine love never judges, never operates on condition, and ultimately, never fails.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Cold Memory #3
It always happened on a night when it would have meant the most. It was always when she was desperate for a reassuring embrace or a handful of comforting words.
But what really made the hell worth it were those nights when they could fall asleep together - the nights when he'd roll over and curl around her like a bookend. His head would rest between her neck and shoulder and his arm would wind deeply around her as if pulling her in as far as she could go. This, most of the time, was all she needed.
And it was the nights he refused - the nights he insisted he couldn't sleep that way - that she hurt the most. Rejection made manifest in lingerie. It seemed she always felt the coldest, the most exposed when he openly refused her. And it was on these nights, the ones that felt the bitterest and most painfully human, that she was incapable of slumber.
She lay awake most of the night, her eyes burning against the glimmer of the outdoor light slipping through the broken blinds. She'd listen to the melodic bangs of the furnace and the soft, rustling movements of the cat at the end of the bed. And she'd watch him. Watch him breathe easily, watch his body rise and fall rhythmically as if she never should have been in her own room.
And it was then she felt like an accessory - a stranger in her own home - and someone she then realized he never needed for this purpose, but for something else entirely.
But what really made the hell worth it were those nights when they could fall asleep together - the nights when he'd roll over and curl around her like a bookend. His head would rest between her neck and shoulder and his arm would wind deeply around her as if pulling her in as far as she could go. This, most of the time, was all she needed.
And it was the nights he refused - the nights he insisted he couldn't sleep that way - that she hurt the most. Rejection made manifest in lingerie. It seemed she always felt the coldest, the most exposed when he openly refused her. And it was on these nights, the ones that felt the bitterest and most painfully human, that she was incapable of slumber.
She lay awake most of the night, her eyes burning against the glimmer of the outdoor light slipping through the broken blinds. She'd listen to the melodic bangs of the furnace and the soft, rustling movements of the cat at the end of the bed. And she'd watch him. Watch him breathe easily, watch his body rise and fall rhythmically as if she never should have been in her own room.
And it was then she felt like an accessory - a stranger in her own home - and someone she then realized he never needed for this purpose, but for something else entirely.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Mrs. Weedgrass gets the package, reads the letter
When the postal service brought the crisp brown box to her door, Mrs. Weedgrass was pleased to have finally gotten some mail. No one ever sent her packages or real letters the old fashioned way. It seemed everything that came via the postal service was official, devoid of kindness in some way.
The house was quiet - no one is ever home anymore - and so she took the box to her kitchen, the walls echoing with the tiny clinks of nicknacks shaking against old paint.
When she opened it, saw the contents, read the letter with its urgent warning...her heart skipped and she clutched the edge of the countertop. A bead of perspiration formed and dripped from her white hairline. (She did not like to sweat.)
And quickly aging Mrs. Weedgrass breathed in sharply, the oxygen catching coldly against her ribs as she did. She felt her organs liquify and her teeth then come down firmly together in a way they hadn't in years. Her red-brown eyes narrowed to slits then opened in a wild, hysterical way, rolling from side to side as she steadied herself.
This was the beginning of the punishments she always knew God would bring.
The young woman knew.
"God help me," Mrs. Weedgrass muttered hotly.
She knew.
"I knew it would be her," she added softly. "It had to be her."
And she placed the box back in its rightful room and went to the den to organize her thoughts. When she sat down, she peered down into the basket where she saw her last weaving project slowly unraveling...
The house was quiet - no one is ever home anymore - and so she took the box to her kitchen, the walls echoing with the tiny clinks of nicknacks shaking against old paint.
When she opened it, saw the contents, read the letter with its urgent warning...her heart skipped and she clutched the edge of the countertop. A bead of perspiration formed and dripped from her white hairline. (She did not like to sweat.)
And quickly aging Mrs. Weedgrass breathed in sharply, the oxygen catching coldly against her ribs as she did. She felt her organs liquify and her teeth then come down firmly together in a way they hadn't in years. Her red-brown eyes narrowed to slits then opened in a wild, hysterical way, rolling from side to side as she steadied herself.
This was the beginning of the punishments she always knew God would bring.
The young woman knew.
"God help me," Mrs. Weedgrass muttered hotly.
She knew.
"I knew it would be her," she added softly. "It had to be her."
And she placed the box back in its rightful room and went to the den to organize her thoughts. When she sat down, she peered down into the basket where she saw her last weaving project slowly unraveling...
Warm Memory #5 - from way back...
Back in those days, she was always testing the limits of her youth. No one particularly knew or cared at the time and it was the indulgences she escaped with that made her life worth living, not those limiting and ordinary things she was best known for in town.
And it was before her days became gradually more complicated that she was able to experience singing along to a scratched up CD, the giggles of an awkward friend, and the vein-clearing effects of "cooking vodka" from a coffee mug.
This always brought on the sensation of novacaine and the ridiculous, private jokes that would endure a lifetime.
And it was before her days became gradually more complicated that she was able to experience singing along to a scratched up CD, the giggles of an awkward friend, and the vein-clearing effects of "cooking vodka" from a coffee mug.
This always brought on the sensation of novacaine and the ridiculous, private jokes that would endure a lifetime.
Postcard from an Old Friend
Sometimes, her more articulate friends will send postcards reminding her of the genuine hilarity of youth and the mark of seasons gone by.
In the mail was a card from Swabby, an old friend from college. He'd just begun his writing career and was sending his vibes out into the universe. The card read,
"Even though the mood was bitter, the weather rainy and strangely transcendental, moving me forward, but moving me backward quite rapidly too,...to a time when we were all younger, happier, ran around with our feet in the air...thinking next of only whose bed we'd sleep in tomorrow and laughing at the bed we woke up in that day."
And she smiled reading the passage, it's sincerity and honesty resonating like the heat of her very first and only tan line.
In the mail was a card from Swabby, an old friend from college. He'd just begun his writing career and was sending his vibes out into the universe. The card read,
"Even though the mood was bitter, the weather rainy and strangely transcendental, moving me forward, but moving me backward quite rapidly too,...to a time when we were all younger, happier, ran around with our feet in the air...thinking next of only whose bed we'd sleep in tomorrow and laughing at the bed we woke up in that day."
And she smiled reading the passage, it's sincerity and honesty resonating like the heat of her very first and only tan line.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Sunrise Salutation
Her inner Yogi
She learns the most about herself and her own personal world before the sun rises. It is only in the blue black coldness of the dark that she can truly dive deep into the heart of the matter.
It is in these quiet moments that she imagines he would learn to genuinely love her if he could.
But would she ever share this incredible silence with anyone?
She is unsure because she cherishes her daybreak moments as she does her poems.
She learns the most about herself and her own personal world before the sun rises. It is only in the blue black coldness of the dark that she can truly dive deep into the heart of the matter.
It is in these quiet moments that she imagines he would learn to genuinely love her if he could.
But would she ever share this incredible silence with anyone?
She is unsure because she cherishes her daybreak moments as she does her poems.
Scar Tissue
One morning, she realized to herself as the November sun came up, that after all of the shrapnel, all of those terrifying and violent flesh wounds...
She can no longer feel herself through the skin.
She can no longer feel herself through the skin.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Warm Memory #4
There is a special place on his body and it is only here, in this reminder, that she can fall into that deep and peaceful slumber she loves so much.
It is always in the mornings when she realizes how she has found the intense quiet of sleep. Between his shoulder blades is the smooth, concave pillow in which her weary head fits. It is only when he faces left, his right arm draped lazily backwards over her thigh. It's as if he's pulling her along with him, into his dreams and yet, she hasn't experienced them.
And when the sun comes up, she sees it rise over his right shoulder, she can't help but smile inwardly knowing she can never speak on this, that it is not a feeling forced between friends. These are the moments between only the mind the heart, maybe the liver if it could understand in that way.
The scents - the lingering soap, the muted smell of old perfume, the dry smell of an unfamiliar blanket all make the scene its warmest.
It is the taste of the cracking raw daybreak, the black sensation of frost between teeth and the fuzz in the eyes, like stale eyeliner mixed with sweat and tears.
She can feel him breathe, his chest rising predictably and his heart thumping softly, rhythmically inside, because he is far away someplace while she looks at him through her weary, broken eyes.
Though in his visible slumber, he traces her with a finger as if in his dreams, she's always been along with him.
It is always in the mornings when she realizes how she has found the intense quiet of sleep. Between his shoulder blades is the smooth, concave pillow in which her weary head fits. It is only when he faces left, his right arm draped lazily backwards over her thigh. It's as if he's pulling her along with him, into his dreams and yet, she hasn't experienced them.
And when the sun comes up, she sees it rise over his right shoulder, she can't help but smile inwardly knowing she can never speak on this, that it is not a feeling forced between friends. These are the moments between only the mind the heart, maybe the liver if it could understand in that way.
The scents - the lingering soap, the muted smell of old perfume, the dry smell of an unfamiliar blanket all make the scene its warmest.
It is the taste of the cracking raw daybreak, the black sensation of frost between teeth and the fuzz in the eyes, like stale eyeliner mixed with sweat and tears.
She can feel him breathe, his chest rising predictably and his heart thumping softly, rhythmically inside, because he is far away someplace while she looks at him through her weary, broken eyes.
Though in his visible slumber, he traces her with a finger as if in his dreams, she's always been along with him.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Two Relatable Quotes for the Now
"Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any one thing."
Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865)
"I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is to try and please everybody."
Bill Cosby (1937 - )
Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865)
"I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is to try and please everybody."
Bill Cosby (1937 - )
Rule #4
Starting over requires several changes made, but the first and easiest to accomplish is to obtain a new sense of style. As the season shifts away from the past, be sure to wear short skirts; grow your hair long; and and wear a genuine smile with laughter in it. These are sure to boost confidence and ensure the appropriate attentions. When necessary, wear glasses, but only if the lenses are completely open and clear.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
The Secret Letter
When she mailed the package that morning, she smiled thinking of the letter that was lying just underneath the first flap. When it was opened, she would read everything, and hopefully it would make a difference. Finally.
Dear Mrs. Weedgrass,
I do not know you. We may not have ever truly met in the way we could have. Having learned all about you and feeling the devastating effects of your existence on the planet, I feel it necessary to express what you inevitably must know in your cold, bitter heart.
I will put it quite simply and quite plainly so that you do not misunderstand nor have to muddle through my rhetoric.
Your bitter disappointments and hatreds, your self-loathing, and ultimately, your manic discontent and sociopathology has affected many and most definitely have created a small sphere devoid of love or ability to heal.
Find it in yourself to love. Do it openly and without shame. Apologize. Give hugs and bring warmth where it is needed so desperately. You have very little time left on this earth in which to do it.
I know this.
Don't ask me how.
I do.
And should I ever meet you on the street, so help me, you will be the one person I make pay for it though it has never been my place.
So make sure you don't know me and make sure you never meet me.
It is best this way.
Mend it. For your sake. And for the sake of those closest to you whom you have wounded so horribly.
Sincerely,
Me.
Packing up and moving on...
At home, alone late at night, she puts everything left in a box marked "Then, not Now" and prepares to have it shipped. These were the few items that she could not throw out into the street for fear he would seek revenge. Then again, she had been told he was plotting it already anyway. She was one step ahead.
She was surprised when it didn't take very long. It took a half glass of wine, a song, and a quick read to get it all done. The night was heavy with rain and the lights in her place dimmed for the occasion. As she packed each sheet of paper, each little scrap of what could be called "what's left of it," she wondered to herself if this was right? Did it really have to go like this? Did it have to be her way, or rather, her fault? She wasn't sure.
She would likely never know.
She had never purged anything in her life - had always kept some remnant, some leave-behind-item as a lasting testament to what was once so very beautiful and genuine. It scared her on this night, knowing that in the morning, there'd be nothing left. But she couldn't write like this anymore. It hurt too much. And it didn't mean anything, didn't make sense anymore. So much was so foreign and so far away.
Surely he would understand. Surely it would make sense to him when he heard it - when he saw it the way it really was. He had once told her that to truly write this poetry, to truly put herself, her soul, her whole being into it, she had to follow the path of solitude. This was her shack in the wilderness.
She placed the story she had written on top. He didn't know she wrote real fiction. He never knew she'd been writing the entire time - didn't know it had been about him when he wasn't looking. Now he would know. Now maybe he would see her, sense her, in the way he should have all along. Back then, she'd just been a student.
Smiling, she added only a few other items in hopes that he'd see her and remember only the good about writing and creating with her - a rumpled t-shirt, a card, his book, the letter she never sent, and the two photos, one of her naked body and the one she once took that he didn't know about.
And she closed the box, sealed it with tape before she could think again and then took a long drag off of her wine. She wrote no return in the corner and grabbed the dark felt marker to address it.
In the morning, she took it to the post office and handed it to the morning clerk. "Please send this express," she said coldly, the wine still in her eyes.
And she let go of the box before she could stop herself, knowing she'd addressed it to another woman instead...
She was surprised when it didn't take very long. It took a half glass of wine, a song, and a quick read to get it all done. The night was heavy with rain and the lights in her place dimmed for the occasion. As she packed each sheet of paper, each little scrap of what could be called "what's left of it," she wondered to herself if this was right? Did it really have to go like this? Did it have to be her way, or rather, her fault? She wasn't sure.
She would likely never know.
She had never purged anything in her life - had always kept some remnant, some leave-behind-item as a lasting testament to what was once so very beautiful and genuine. It scared her on this night, knowing that in the morning, there'd be nothing left. But she couldn't write like this anymore. It hurt too much. And it didn't mean anything, didn't make sense anymore. So much was so foreign and so far away.
Surely he would understand. Surely it would make sense to him when he heard it - when he saw it the way it really was. He had once told her that to truly write this poetry, to truly put herself, her soul, her whole being into it, she had to follow the path of solitude. This was her shack in the wilderness.
She placed the story she had written on top. He didn't know she wrote real fiction. He never knew she'd been writing the entire time - didn't know it had been about him when he wasn't looking. Now he would know. Now maybe he would see her, sense her, in the way he should have all along. Back then, she'd just been a student.
Smiling, she added only a few other items in hopes that he'd see her and remember only the good about writing and creating with her - a rumpled t-shirt, a card, his book, the letter she never sent, and the two photos, one of her naked body and the one she once took that he didn't know about.
And she closed the box, sealed it with tape before she could think again and then took a long drag off of her wine. She wrote no return in the corner and grabbed the dark felt marker to address it.
In the morning, she took it to the post office and handed it to the morning clerk. "Please send this express," she said coldly, the wine still in her eyes.
And she let go of the box before she could stop herself, knowing she'd addressed it to another woman instead...
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Halloween Half-Truth
Even after all the time gone by...
Dressing it up never made it less real or less like the beginning of the end. Even during the holiday season, it always felt like that - felt like a gloss-over, a deception clothed in the fanciest of colors.
She still carries that one around. Pain never came in so pretty a package.
Dressing it up never made it less real or less like the beginning of the end. Even during the holiday season, it always felt like that - felt like a gloss-over, a deception clothed in the fanciest of colors.
She still carries that one around. Pain never came in so pretty a package.
Relatable Quote #2
"It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life."
P.D. James
P.D. James
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Warm Memory #3
As the fall season deepens, she is always remembering the beautiful things about her life, even those that ended in tragic sorrow. It is so hard to be unhappy when the world outside is so incredibly striking.
When she left that morning, the world was just waking up. The blue-black was lifting softly, slowly, though the frost left its blanket over everything. In an hour, the sun would show herself.
As she descended the steps, the click of her heels made soft echoes and her heavy coat swished like it was the most natural scene in the universe. She wasn't alone and yet, she knew someplace inside, that it was only her mind that was keeping her company that day. Life would never be the same.
And the world felt electrified, fuzzed over like the natural skin of a peach or the brush of a familiar cheek. Had it really only been five hours? She could still feel the lightswitch, could still feel desperation on her lips. Had she really needed this long? Is this what made it all complete?
She was never sure. As she drove that morning, headed nowhere on a familiar road, she knew it would never be the same after that. She was turned over, her mind changed,...never to return to its original setting again.
And it was the loveliest she'd ever felt.
When she left that morning, the world was just waking up. The blue-black was lifting softly, slowly, though the frost left its blanket over everything. In an hour, the sun would show herself.
As she descended the steps, the click of her heels made soft echoes and her heavy coat swished like it was the most natural scene in the universe. She wasn't alone and yet, she knew someplace inside, that it was only her mind that was keeping her company that day. Life would never be the same.
And the world felt electrified, fuzzed over like the natural skin of a peach or the brush of a familiar cheek. Had it really only been five hours? She could still feel the lightswitch, could still feel desperation on her lips. Had she really needed this long? Is this what made it all complete?
She was never sure. As she drove that morning, headed nowhere on a familiar road, she knew it would never be the same after that. She was turned over, her mind changed,...never to return to its original setting again.
And it was the loveliest she'd ever felt.
Second Profile
Doozie McGee
Doozie is her best friend and confidante. She is the only woman in her life who knows her from beginning to end with exception of the few secrets she's never shared with anyone, but the wall.
She calls Doozie whenever the real shit hits the fan. She is her one friend she can go to without regret and without fear of rejection. She's been there from the beginning and has had both the pleasure and pain of spiraling in far enough so that she knows where she comes from.
Doozie is her soul sister, her partner in crime. She is the only person she shares a birthright and a tattoo with. And though they have discussed it many times before, that's where most of the similarity ends. They have bonded over the beauty of difference, the yin versus yang, coexisting and yet always in challenge.
She can talk to her about anything in the world, anything except him. The subject has become taboo, one she won't engage in unless she's prepared to fight Doozie, who frankly is an adversary no one wants. Doozie is strength personafied, the embodiment of resilience and confidence especially when it boils down to tough love and doing the "right thing."
She has never been good at simply "doing the right thing."
Doozie is someone she would want on her team, someone she'd go into a bar fight with, a woman she'd want to make her soup when she's sick or kick her ass when she needed it done.
She misses her terribly, every time she sends a holiday card.
Doozie is her best friend and confidante. She is the only woman in her life who knows her from beginning to end with exception of the few secrets she's never shared with anyone, but the wall.
She calls Doozie whenever the real shit hits the fan. She is her one friend she can go to without regret and without fear of rejection. She's been there from the beginning and has had both the pleasure and pain of spiraling in far enough so that she knows where she comes from.
Doozie is her soul sister, her partner in crime. She is the only person she shares a birthright and a tattoo with. And though they have discussed it many times before, that's where most of the similarity ends. They have bonded over the beauty of difference, the yin versus yang, coexisting and yet always in challenge.
She can talk to her about anything in the world, anything except him. The subject has become taboo, one she won't engage in unless she's prepared to fight Doozie, who frankly is an adversary no one wants. Doozie is strength personafied, the embodiment of resilience and confidence especially when it boils down to tough love and doing the "right thing."
She has never been good at simply "doing the right thing."
Doozie is someone she would want on her team, someone she'd go into a bar fight with, a woman she'd want to make her soup when she's sick or kick her ass when she needed it done.
She misses her terribly, every time she sends a holiday card.
Weeks later, she is at the community mailbox picking up communications she hasn't checked for in days. The weather is getting cooler outside and as she sorts, she catches sight of Noodle who is scrutinizing something he's received.
The wind was picking up, but the shelter around the mailboxes kept most of the chill at bay. She sorts through her mail pitching anything with the name "Resident" listed as the addressee. She hates to be called by the wrong name.
Bills...bills...bills...strange letter...formal looking government post...bill...holiday card...invite to a garden party (she'll never go)...invite to a baby shower (she won't be going to that either)...Self magazine (yes!)...Fitness magazine (bonus!)...bill...
"Where does all the money go?" she mumbled aloud.
The official government envelope troubled her, so she took a moment to rip through it to end the suspense. As she tore the delicate paper, catching a fingertip on the ridge (ouch! Damnit!), she notices Noodle is reading his own mail, cross-legged on the ground.
"Hey!" she greeted him. He looked kind of disappointed and troubled.
"Oh hi," he responded. He stood up, faced her.
"Get anything strange in the mail?" she asked casually, now wondering what the hell would make Noodle go bendy-legged and sad like that. He seemed like such a friendly, happy guy to her.
"Uh...just something I was expecting, but wasn't sure I'd ever really see in print," he responded. "You know how it is, you know the hammer's gonna drop down someday, but you're never quite sure when or whether or not it'll come on a good day. That make sense to you?" he asked.
"Sure does," she replied. She looked at her own open letter. Her community service assignment at St. Nick's. She had to report Monday at 8 am. Shit, that was only three days away!
"What's that?" he asked her.
"My community service detail," she said. "You know, from that mess I started awhile back. Doing it at St. Nick's and apparently will be spending quality time with two different patients."
"Wow girl," Noodle said, widening his eyes, "they hit you hard, didn't they? That's some major time spent."
"Twenty-four hours," she said.
"In an institution for, well you know," he said. "I haven't been here in town long, but I know about that place."
"I'll be fine," she responded. "I'm a big girl and can handle mine. What's going on with you? You alright?"
"Fine," he said. "But I gotta jet. You want to meet up sometime, swap stories?" he asked. "I bet you have some doozies."
She looked at Noodle. There was the smile she had seen before, big and open. It might be really fun to learn more about this character who lived not far from her. She gave him her cell phone number and told him to let her know when and where and she'd meet him.
"Great," he said. "I'm off. I'll call you."
She watched him walk away, his eyes back on the letter in his hand. It could be anything, a "Dear John" letter, a major bill, a warrant, a death certificate, anything...
She smiled, the thought of her own assignment passing from her brain. She was looking forward to seeing him again.
The wind was picking up, but the shelter around the mailboxes kept most of the chill at bay. She sorts through her mail pitching anything with the name "Resident" listed as the addressee. She hates to be called by the wrong name.
Bills...bills...bills...strange letter...formal looking government post...bill...holiday card...invite to a garden party (she'll never go)...invite to a baby shower (she won't be going to that either)...Self magazine (yes!)...Fitness magazine (bonus!)...bill...
"Where does all the money go?" she mumbled aloud.
The official government envelope troubled her, so she took a moment to rip through it to end the suspense. As she tore the delicate paper, catching a fingertip on the ridge (ouch! Damnit!), she notices Noodle is reading his own mail, cross-legged on the ground.
"Hey!" she greeted him. He looked kind of disappointed and troubled.
"Oh hi," he responded. He stood up, faced her.
"Get anything strange in the mail?" she asked casually, now wondering what the hell would make Noodle go bendy-legged and sad like that. He seemed like such a friendly, happy guy to her.
"Uh...just something I was expecting, but wasn't sure I'd ever really see in print," he responded. "You know how it is, you know the hammer's gonna drop down someday, but you're never quite sure when or whether or not it'll come on a good day. That make sense to you?" he asked.
"Sure does," she replied. She looked at her own open letter. Her community service assignment at St. Nick's. She had to report Monday at 8 am. Shit, that was only three days away!
"What's that?" he asked her.
"My community service detail," she said. "You know, from that mess I started awhile back. Doing it at St. Nick's and apparently will be spending quality time with two different patients."
"Wow girl," Noodle said, widening his eyes, "they hit you hard, didn't they? That's some major time spent."
"Twenty-four hours," she said.
"In an institution for, well you know," he said. "I haven't been here in town long, but I know about that place."
"I'll be fine," she responded. "I'm a big girl and can handle mine. What's going on with you? You alright?"
"Fine," he said. "But I gotta jet. You want to meet up sometime, swap stories?" he asked. "I bet you have some doozies."
She looked at Noodle. There was the smile she had seen before, big and open. It might be really fun to learn more about this character who lived not far from her. She gave him her cell phone number and told him to let her know when and where and she'd meet him.
"Great," he said. "I'm off. I'll call you."
She watched him walk away, his eyes back on the letter in his hand. It could be anything, a "Dear John" letter, a major bill, a warrant, a death certificate, anything...
She smiled, the thought of her own assignment passing from her brain. She was looking forward to seeing him again.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Her Brand of Poison - Introduction to the Half-truths...
No one could ever call her a liar. Prevarication and fabrication were never her drinks of choice; they were bitter and spoiled the senses. Plus, she had a bad habit of wearing the falsehood on her face - in her averted eyes, her twisty mouth, and the flush that always rose up to her fair cheeks. The physicality of the lie was her overt damnation and to cope, she became an exquisite story- teller.
"Tell the truth, but tell it slant," Emily Dickinson told her once in high school. She had been sitting in her class reading the dark poems and finally, she reached a line that lept off the page and smacked of pragmatic usefulness.
Honesty is a tricky thing, she had muttered to herself, even at that young age. She never wanted to hurt anyone; incriminate herself; bring things to light that must always stay shadowed. Truth is twisty, bendy, like a silly straw in a child's drink cup or the frayed sleeve-end on a torn up GAP sweatshirt - at the end of the swirling or ragged line is something larger indeed, substance well beyond the fray.
From that day on, she focused hard on staying true to people, making life's little wonders (both bad and good) real, but always protecting from the wicked hammer waiting in the wings to smash the rest to bits. She began to gloss over everything, injecting facts into the tale that at times, verged on exaggerated, but could still identifiably be proved.
She carried the half-truths around in her purse, sealed in a little bag she kept in the side pocket, in case she ever needed one. They were various shapes, but always small, edited, easily tucked in a pinch. To the untrained eye, they may even look like candies with their vibrant little colors and exciting forms. To be blunt, they looked like Runt candies, all shaped appropriately like hearts or bananas or grapes. And they tasted better than either the entire drought of verite serum or the lie concoction that always soaked her in punch-drunk vulnerability.
No one could call her a liar. The little reliabilities always saved her from having to admit things; having to hurt someone's feelings; hell, they made her a proverbial social martyr in that no one could ever pin a wicked snap on her. She never outted herself; never made waves; never pushed the truth out far enough to do damage.
And so she kept inventing - kept writing - kept protecting - kept nurturing.
One day, her purse got heavy. She dropped it on the floor and some of the heart shaped ones rolled out clumsily onto the floor. They looked so tiny, so vulnerable lying there on the cold stone. They tipped a bit on the ragged edges and looked so tired and wounded having been in that bag so long, denied oxygen in that zipped up pocket. They were too old to use anymore. No one believed.
And on her way out, she put the purse in the Good Will box, pocketing only three she refused to abandon yet. The rest were at least ten years old and out of style anyway.
"Tell the truth, but tell it slant," Emily Dickinson told her once in high school. She had been sitting in her class reading the dark poems and finally, she reached a line that lept off the page and smacked of pragmatic usefulness.
Honesty is a tricky thing, she had muttered to herself, even at that young age. She never wanted to hurt anyone; incriminate herself; bring things to light that must always stay shadowed. Truth is twisty, bendy, like a silly straw in a child's drink cup or the frayed sleeve-end on a torn up GAP sweatshirt - at the end of the swirling or ragged line is something larger indeed, substance well beyond the fray.
From that day on, she focused hard on staying true to people, making life's little wonders (both bad and good) real, but always protecting from the wicked hammer waiting in the wings to smash the rest to bits. She began to gloss over everything, injecting facts into the tale that at times, verged on exaggerated, but could still identifiably be proved.
She carried the half-truths around in her purse, sealed in a little bag she kept in the side pocket, in case she ever needed one. They were various shapes, but always small, edited, easily tucked in a pinch. To the untrained eye, they may even look like candies with their vibrant little colors and exciting forms. To be blunt, they looked like Runt candies, all shaped appropriately like hearts or bananas or grapes. And they tasted better than either the entire drought of verite serum or the lie concoction that always soaked her in punch-drunk vulnerability.
No one could call her a liar. The little reliabilities always saved her from having to admit things; having to hurt someone's feelings; hell, they made her a proverbial social martyr in that no one could ever pin a wicked snap on her. She never outted herself; never made waves; never pushed the truth out far enough to do damage.
And so she kept inventing - kept writing - kept protecting - kept nurturing.
One day, her purse got heavy. She dropped it on the floor and some of the heart shaped ones rolled out clumsily onto the floor. They looked so tiny, so vulnerable lying there on the cold stone. They tipped a bit on the ragged edges and looked so tired and wounded having been in that bag so long, denied oxygen in that zipped up pocket. They were too old to use anymore. No one believed.
And on her way out, she put the purse in the Good Will box, pocketing only three she refused to abandon yet. The rest were at least ten years old and out of style anyway.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Relatable Quote #1
"I was so tired that not even my fears could keep me up long."
Samuel Clemens (better known as Mark Twain)
Samuel Clemens (better known as Mark Twain)
Small Irritation #2
Most of the time, the elements outside serve as inspiration as they make the world a more interesting residence with beautiful autumn leaves, crisp snow, and powerful thunderstorms. Sometimes, the weather proves its own foul nature by throwing a wrench into the works. Friends, that wrench is known most commonly as HUMIDITY.
It always happens on a day when she feels most beautiful, most in control of her body. She's added an extra 10 minutes to the "get-your-ass-ready-for-work" routine and therefore is done up in a most confident way. Make-up is just right and not too cakey - the hair is lying flawlessly in its subtle yet somewhat mussed position - and the ensemble is appropriately pressed.
Once stepping outside, she feels instantaneous disappointment fog her as the wet swampy heat descends. It is as if a curtain of steam has enveloped her and her coif weakens, goes limp; her eyes leak; and her pants go from crisp to a crinkled heap in seconds. A glossy, moist look takes over her visage and it is as if she spent her extra 10 rolling around like a dog in the damp grass. It literally appears as if she's sponged herself over or mashed her face into the 18th green before 8 am.
These days never come when expected, as in July or August. Rather, they come on like a kamikaze attack on a random day in October or March, without so much as the comforting warning of a thunderstorm to clear the path.
And all day, the disappointment wears down her face like a soggy cotton ball and she feels strung out and wrung up like a spongy washcloth. Ultimately on these chafing days, she feels most like a woman who put herself together for work in a gas station restroom.
It always happens on a day when she feels most beautiful, most in control of her body. She's added an extra 10 minutes to the "get-your-ass-ready-for-work" routine and therefore is done up in a most confident way. Make-up is just right and not too cakey - the hair is lying flawlessly in its subtle yet somewhat mussed position - and the ensemble is appropriately pressed.
Once stepping outside, she feels instantaneous disappointment fog her as the wet swampy heat descends. It is as if a curtain of steam has enveloped her and her coif weakens, goes limp; her eyes leak; and her pants go from crisp to a crinkled heap in seconds. A glossy, moist look takes over her visage and it is as if she spent her extra 10 rolling around like a dog in the damp grass. It literally appears as if she's sponged herself over or mashed her face into the 18th green before 8 am.
These days never come when expected, as in July or August. Rather, they come on like a kamikaze attack on a random day in October or March, without so much as the comforting warning of a thunderstorm to clear the path.
And all day, the disappointment wears down her face like a soggy cotton ball and she feels strung out and wrung up like a spongy washcloth. Ultimately on these chafing days, she feels most like a woman who put herself together for work in a gas station restroom.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Sensation #2 - Loss of Control
The most terrifying sensations are those in which the body is forced into its stress mode, all neurons and electrodes firing fanatically in hopes of solving the problem at hand or ultimately avoiding impending danger...
The morning she lost her keys for the first time sent her into a "fight or flight" panic she's not experienced since that one time she never talks about with anyone. At least back then, she knew her adversary and how to find him. The keys on the other hand, were deliberately out of sight - the little bastards.
It begins with a flood, a virtual pouring of heat starting from the scalp and working down to the organs. The microfibers stand at attention and the spine snaps straight making movement stilted and exaggerated. Then the jelly begins to slide about the kneecaps and hips, making balance a challenge. The fists clench, knuckles pulsed rigid as the antique sterling digs small imprints in her flesh.
Her teeth burn away at their own enamel as she pushes them full force against each other in a lock damn near impossible to undo, even with the right tools. Her eyes water, not tears, but some panic drops, literally leaks out the sides and attempts to soften the chiseled lines caused by the fright in her face. It never helps, only makes whatever make-up placed there a glossy goo that only helps to show her age, not conceal it.
The stomach twists, like a dishrag wrung to its exhaustion and then snaps taut. She looks her thinnest, most fit, when she's prepared to fight. The nausea undulates and rises up to the back of her throat where she would allow a scream of frustration to escape if there was room.
And it is in this sensation, this feeling that overwhelms her, that she feels detached, most out of sync with her universe - out of the control she holds so dear. The violence that erupts inside leaves her woozy and grasping at whatever guise she can pull and even then,...
She no longer recognizes herself.
The morning she lost her keys for the first time sent her into a "fight or flight" panic she's not experienced since that one time she never talks about with anyone. At least back then, she knew her adversary and how to find him. The keys on the other hand, were deliberately out of sight - the little bastards.
It begins with a flood, a virtual pouring of heat starting from the scalp and working down to the organs. The microfibers stand at attention and the spine snaps straight making movement stilted and exaggerated. Then the jelly begins to slide about the kneecaps and hips, making balance a challenge. The fists clench, knuckles pulsed rigid as the antique sterling digs small imprints in her flesh.
Her teeth burn away at their own enamel as she pushes them full force against each other in a lock damn near impossible to undo, even with the right tools. Her eyes water, not tears, but some panic drops, literally leaks out the sides and attempts to soften the chiseled lines caused by the fright in her face. It never helps, only makes whatever make-up placed there a glossy goo that only helps to show her age, not conceal it.
The stomach twists, like a dishrag wrung to its exhaustion and then snaps taut. She looks her thinnest, most fit, when she's prepared to fight. The nausea undulates and rises up to the back of her throat where she would allow a scream of frustration to escape if there was room.
And it is in this sensation, this feeling that overwhelms her, that she feels detached, most out of sync with her universe - out of the control she holds so dear. The violence that erupts inside leaves her woozy and grasping at whatever guise she can pull and even then,...
She no longer recognizes herself.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Sensation #1
These are those quirky little knee-jerk, physical responses that occur whether the mind wants them to or not. Most times, these reactions follow a small action (or non-action) and can be categorized as irrational in the beginning.
No messages.
No voice mail.
No...communication...whatsoever...for...some...time...
The stomach flips over, turns in upon itself, wiggling in its own juices. Its appetite suppresses leaving it on near-full for hours at a time. While this happens, the cool tinglies dance about the surface of the arms and neck causing subtle shudders only the body can feel, not anything visible to the public. This is not necessarily an unpleasant feeling, but rather an awakening to the senses alerting the mind to be placed on its initial advisory setting.
Meanwhile, the ears tune in and the eyes focus, narrowing sharply, waiting for any pulse that would signal a communication from the outside, a blinking - on the ready - on the mark - waiting only for the "go" light.
Body movements seem exaggerated during this time and speech patterns alter causing shifty language and blubbery pauses where the articulate flow used to exist. Everything and everyone in the body's general vicinity seems pointed, more connected, and ultimately on fire.
This lasts only a short period before the mind receives the appropriate signal from the gut saying, "Girl, it's go time. Start your engine..."
No messages.
No voice mail.
No...communication...whatsoever...for...some...time...
The stomach flips over, turns in upon itself, wiggling in its own juices. Its appetite suppresses leaving it on near-full for hours at a time. While this happens, the cool tinglies dance about the surface of the arms and neck causing subtle shudders only the body can feel, not anything visible to the public. This is not necessarily an unpleasant feeling, but rather an awakening to the senses alerting the mind to be placed on its initial advisory setting.
Meanwhile, the ears tune in and the eyes focus, narrowing sharply, waiting for any pulse that would signal a communication from the outside, a blinking - on the ready - on the mark - waiting only for the "go" light.
Body movements seem exaggerated during this time and speech patterns alter causing shifty language and blubbery pauses where the articulate flow used to exist. Everything and everyone in the body's general vicinity seems pointed, more connected, and ultimately on fire.
This lasts only a short period before the mind receives the appropriate signal from the gut saying, "Girl, it's go time. Start your engine..."
Post-Sentencing...
After the verdict, she and Cordelia meet for drinks at the Rusty Rabbit to celebrate the fact that she got off with just a slap on the wrist. She and Cordelia have only been friends a short while, but have shared the same hell.
The weather had gone crisp while she had been in the courtroom. She had said a courteous farewell to Katherine who had agreed to meet her for coffee later in the month to discuss the firefly blogs. As she drove toward the pub, she twirled the idea of serving at the mental hospital for a day. Twenty-four hours could be a long time or a short while. It all depended.
Exiting the car, she pulled her jacket tightly around her thinning shoulders and headed into the Rusty Rabbit where she and Cordelia often met up to discuss life's little annoyances. Tonight they were celebrating over vegetarian pizza and microbrews.
"So, you got off, did you? You lucky bitch," Cordelia greeted her.
"Not entirely," she responded. "I have to do 24 hours of community service at St. Nick's and pay the man's med bills."
"St. Nick's? That's the..." Cordelia started.
"I know," she returned. "What was I going to do, say "Gee Judge, that place is scary and I'd rather serve at the state prison serving sloppy joes to the lifers," I don't think so!"
She looked down at the floor. St. Nick's was a little frightening in that it housed those people in the community who not only had documented mental illness - ranging from somewhat mild to the severe, but who also had committed major crimes. Typically those felons who were sentenced in conjunction with an "insanity" plea, ended up there, permanently.
"So what are you going to have to do there?" Cordelia asked, taking a sip of her beer. "You're not going to have to check in or anything, are you?"
"No," she laughed. "But it may not be a bad idea considering I'm a bit on the temperamental side."
After dinner, she bid farewell to Cordelia, with whom she promised to share her experience. As she drove home, she considered mental illness, considered what it may feel like to detach from one's sanity and let lunacy wreak havoc on society.
She came to the following conclusion, smiling as she did:
It must be the defining characteristic of being a modern woman.
Can they really lock you up for that?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Cold Memory #2
It was far easier to not know what was going on behind her back. Being intuitive and having the know-how often can become a liability. Ignorance truly is sometimes the epitome of bliss.
A bitterly chill shudder made its way down her spine the morning she found out how to check the messages. It was still incredibly warm outside, but the newest knowledge frosted over her quickly and before she could stop herself, she began to read.
She hated herself for knowing how to do this, how to keep it secret. She loathed the fact that she had one-upped him, always before feeling he was superior in knowledge. She had so desperately wanted to be dominated intellectually - wanted to be outsmarted for a change. She hated using her talents for this twisted combination of good and evil.
She never told him - always kept it in. She wanted to love him anyway, wanted to ignore what she had learned. She never called anyone, messaged anyone. She never told anyone, anything. She grew to despise her sixth sense, the one that sniffed out deception and then had the wherewithal to prove it.
Not calling him out had been a bad idea and she wonders today if it had made her weak, made her more vulnerable than she had intended. Infatuation can make women do such terrible things. Today, she knows better and can again sleep at night.
And she doesn't hate him, even today. Because it is only in knowing the darkest, vilest truths, that we fully understand and come to appreciate those elements in life that are truly beautiful.
A bitterly chill shudder made its way down her spine the morning she found out how to check the messages. It was still incredibly warm outside, but the newest knowledge frosted over her quickly and before she could stop herself, she began to read.
She hated herself for knowing how to do this, how to keep it secret. She loathed the fact that she had one-upped him, always before feeling he was superior in knowledge. She had so desperately wanted to be dominated intellectually - wanted to be outsmarted for a change. She hated using her talents for this twisted combination of good and evil.
She never told him - always kept it in. She wanted to love him anyway, wanted to ignore what she had learned. She never called anyone, messaged anyone. She never told anyone, anything. She grew to despise her sixth sense, the one that sniffed out deception and then had the wherewithal to prove it.
Not calling him out had been a bad idea and she wonders today if it had made her weak, made her more vulnerable than she had intended. Infatuation can make women do such terrible things. Today, she knows better and can again sleep at night.
And she doesn't hate him, even today. Because it is only in knowing the darkest, vilest truths, that we fully understand and come to appreciate those elements in life that are truly beautiful.
Warm Memory #2
A lot of her warmest memories come from years back, her childhood being one that was not typical, but filled with love.
Autumn always featured some of her fondest memories, a season filled with Chex Mix, hot apple cider, and the Wizard of Oz. It didn't matter that her father wasn't home, he was there in spirit. Though at the time she did not know it fully, she spent the majority of her childhood, surrounded by her two very best friends.
Fall was when all of the wet heat subsided and the world became vibrant. She turned a year every season and became more of a woman with each new sweater, new photo, and new friend. The advent of November was her springtime, and is to this day.
'Tis the season for renewal.
Autumn always featured some of her fondest memories, a season filled with Chex Mix, hot apple cider, and the Wizard of Oz. It didn't matter that her father wasn't home, he was there in spirit. Though at the time she did not know it fully, she spent the majority of her childhood, surrounded by her two very best friends.
Fall was when all of the wet heat subsided and the world became vibrant. She turned a year every season and became more of a woman with each new sweater, new photo, and new friend. The advent of November was her springtime, and is to this day.
'Tis the season for renewal.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Small Irritation #1
Pet peeves are just that, small irritations that begin on top of the skin and then spiral down to the places of memory, making them difficult to avoid. These little tests of patience always snap up suddenly forcing the body, the mind, even the spirit, to either a) react in a blatant and dramatic way or b) swallow down and die a little inside.
She almost always circles 'b'
Note - small irritations have the distinct potential for becoming either "big deals" or "enormous, freaking problems" later on.
She considers the vehicle signal an essential component for the driving experience. When following a vehicle (typically either an obnoxious luxury SUV or a barely-street-legal hoopdie) which then attempts to merge into her lane and/or turn entirely without signalling first, her fist instinctively comes down on her horn. It further peeves her when the driver ahead merges and once in the turn lane, then turns on the signal as if she did not already suspect the driver's intentions at that point.
Rather than scream obscenities, she always stamps her foot, taps her horn, and swears unashamedly above the sound coming from her radio.
Oblivious drivers are the number one cause for fatal accidents - anger building with each cell phone, sleepy nod, or Heaven forbid, a driver-reader. No respect points assigned.
She almost always circles 'b'
Note - small irritations have the distinct potential for becoming either "big deals" or "enormous, freaking problems" later on.
She considers the vehicle signal an essential component for the driving experience. When following a vehicle (typically either an obnoxious luxury SUV or a barely-street-legal hoopdie) which then attempts to merge into her lane and/or turn entirely without signalling first, her fist instinctively comes down on her horn. It further peeves her when the driver ahead merges and once in the turn lane, then turns on the signal as if she did not already suspect the driver's intentions at that point.
Rather than scream obscenities, she always stamps her foot, taps her horn, and swears unashamedly above the sound coming from her radio.
Oblivious drivers are the number one cause for fatal accidents - anger building with each cell phone, sleepy nod, or Heaven forbid, a driver-reader. No respect points assigned.
The Sentence
In the Courtroom
Katherine was able to get her out of everything, but the lawsuit. She now only has to take responsibility for that one, malicious wire hanger.
Lawyer for Cyclops: "My client suffered tremendously at the hands of this woman, your honor. Not only did he lose his right eye in a violent way, (For those of you who don't know, the defendent hurled a wire hanger in his direction, along with other blunt objects that missed his face by the Grace of God.) but the doctor replaced the missing ball with one of the wrong color. He now has one green, one brown, a most unfashionable defect causing the most pain and suffering possible.
Judge Vere: And what pain and suffering is that, I mean, aside from the obvious physical pain of losing one's eyeball?
LC: Well sir, the plaintiff here is now a legitimate lost member of society. He no longer can date - women do not find him attractive anymore. Therefore, he has lost his ability to seek balance as well as the future comfort of domestic stability and offspring.
Katherine (noticeably disgusted and snorting a bit): Are you kidding me right now? Loss of damages to include a diminished level of attractiveness? Do you have proof? Can you justify this claim that he can no longer date?
Cyclops (speaking out of turn): Women will not even give me a chance! They're vipers I tell you - always judging on looks alone!
Katherine (smoothly): I maintain your client would be able to increase his odds, for one, by narrowing his search for a mate to a school for the blind. And frankly, there are many such schools therefore increasing his chances for survival.
Judge Vere: Hmmmm.
Cyclops (again out of turn as he has no manners or sense of the occasion): But your honor, I would never, ever date a blind woman!
Judge Vere: Then sir, I believe it is you who is evidently selective and not women. Overruled.
(To Katherine and her client): However, this does not dismiss your client of the medical bills. She must be held responsible for this portion of his pain and suffering. Would you agree?
Both: We do.
Judge Vere: Then I hereby sentence this young woman to pay for the Cyclops' medical bills (including the recoloring of the one ball of his choosing) and 24 hours of community service served at Saint Nicholas' Hospital for the Criminally Insane so that she realizes the gravity her antics carry.
(strikes gavel for effect - He really likes to use his gavel.)
Case Closed.
Katherine was able to get her out of everything, but the lawsuit. She now only has to take responsibility for that one, malicious wire hanger.
Lawyer for Cyclops: "My client suffered tremendously at the hands of this woman, your honor. Not only did he lose his right eye in a violent way, (For those of you who don't know, the defendent hurled a wire hanger in his direction, along with other blunt objects that missed his face by the Grace of God.) but the doctor replaced the missing ball with one of the wrong color. He now has one green, one brown, a most unfashionable defect causing the most pain and suffering possible.
Judge Vere: And what pain and suffering is that, I mean, aside from the obvious physical pain of losing one's eyeball?
LC: Well sir, the plaintiff here is now a legitimate lost member of society. He no longer can date - women do not find him attractive anymore. Therefore, he has lost his ability to seek balance as well as the future comfort of domestic stability and offspring.
Katherine (noticeably disgusted and snorting a bit): Are you kidding me right now? Loss of damages to include a diminished level of attractiveness? Do you have proof? Can you justify this claim that he can no longer date?
Cyclops (speaking out of turn): Women will not even give me a chance! They're vipers I tell you - always judging on looks alone!
Katherine (smoothly): I maintain your client would be able to increase his odds, for one, by narrowing his search for a mate to a school for the blind. And frankly, there are many such schools therefore increasing his chances for survival.
Judge Vere: Hmmmm.
Cyclops (again out of turn as he has no manners or sense of the occasion): But your honor, I would never, ever date a blind woman!
Judge Vere: Then sir, I believe it is you who is evidently selective and not women. Overruled.
(To Katherine and her client): However, this does not dismiss your client of the medical bills. She must be held responsible for this portion of his pain and suffering. Would you agree?
Both: We do.
Judge Vere: Then I hereby sentence this young woman to pay for the Cyclops' medical bills (including the recoloring of the one ball of his choosing) and 24 hours of community service served at Saint Nicholas' Hospital for the Criminally Insane so that she realizes the gravity her antics carry.
(strikes gavel for effect - He really likes to use his gavel.)
Case Closed.
First Profile
Boris
He is a loyal and dutiful companion with a penchant for ground squirrels, fresh tap water, and designer sheets.
She has known Boris, the lovable gray tabby, for almost eight years now. She adopted him in 2000 at which time he was approximately 1 years-old. New to the world and lost in a rainstorm, she took him home.
Since then, her orphan boy, the only child she can speak to having raised, is by traditional standards, a spoiled rotten brat. He is in charge, the perpetual master-of-the-house, and is horrified when reminded that he does not pay the rent nor buy the provisions.
He is quite personable with guests, taking kindly to gentleman visitors in particular, and though thought at once to be a homosexual, he is not. Rather, he simply desires a male role model, one with whom he can commiserate with about the sub-standard accomodations in the apartment.
Boris, when he is not being bossy, or running off with make-up applicators, pens, hair ties, or other valuables, is quite adorable with his loving purr, soft kneads, and reliable comfort when the day gets to be nasty. Though he takes up the sweetest spots of the bed, he's not yet complained about the disruptions there.
She saved his life once, her million dollar baby, and for that, he will always be truly grateful and a loyal partner in crime.
He is a loyal and dutiful companion with a penchant for ground squirrels, fresh tap water, and designer sheets.
She has known Boris, the lovable gray tabby, for almost eight years now. She adopted him in 2000 at which time he was approximately 1 years-old. New to the world and lost in a rainstorm, she took him home.
Since then, her orphan boy, the only child she can speak to having raised, is by traditional standards, a spoiled rotten brat. He is in charge, the perpetual master-of-the-house, and is horrified when reminded that he does not pay the rent nor buy the provisions.
He is quite personable with guests, taking kindly to gentleman visitors in particular, and though thought at once to be a homosexual, he is not. Rather, he simply desires a male role model, one with whom he can commiserate with about the sub-standard accomodations in the apartment.
Boris, when he is not being bossy, or running off with make-up applicators, pens, hair ties, or other valuables, is quite adorable with his loving purr, soft kneads, and reliable comfort when the day gets to be nasty. Though he takes up the sweetest spots of the bed, he's not yet complained about the disruptions there.
She saved his life once, her million dollar baby, and for that, he will always be truly grateful and a loyal partner in crime.
Rule #3
Always drink decaffeinated herbal tea before bedtime. This is what keeps the creative juices flowing.
It is always the coffee dates that leave you awake at 4 am wondering if you are living the life you truly intend and you never know the actual intentions of the gentleman on the other side of that brew.
It doesn't necessarily matter how delicious the caffeine tastes.
It is always the coffee dates that leave you awake at 4 am wondering if you are living the life you truly intend and you never know the actual intentions of the gentleman on the other side of that brew.
It doesn't necessarily matter how delicious the caffeine tastes.
Cold Memory...
These kinds of memories always surface by way of an innocent mistake. These are the ones she keeps deep down, in the dark places. They come to her triggered by an honest comment, typically made by a stranger.
"Have you ever had pneumonia before?" the doctor asked. "Your lungs seem pretty strong with exception of that one spot."
It took three whole months and a week to rid herself of that infection. It plagued her, made her weak. It ruined parts of her body that would take another six months to heal. She had shivered, feverish, beneath foreign blankets, waiting for medics who never came and ultimately, was given a placebo for the pain.
She never realized how deep the infection ran, how it clouded her eyes, submerged her mind beneath a film of meloncholy and malaise. Who knew it took so long to recover?
When she learned to breathe again, she still had the scars. And now, talking to the doctor, she realizes, they only show up in X-ray. This is good.
"I've had it once before," she replied. "But it seems you can barely tell as the spot is so small on that image."
"Have you ever had pneumonia before?" the doctor asked. "Your lungs seem pretty strong with exception of that one spot."
It took three whole months and a week to rid herself of that infection. It plagued her, made her weak. It ruined parts of her body that would take another six months to heal. She had shivered, feverish, beneath foreign blankets, waiting for medics who never came and ultimately, was given a placebo for the pain.
She never realized how deep the infection ran, how it clouded her eyes, submerged her mind beneath a film of meloncholy and malaise. Who knew it took so long to recover?
When she learned to breathe again, she still had the scars. And now, talking to the doctor, she realizes, they only show up in X-ray. This is good.
"I've had it once before," she replied. "But it seems you can barely tell as the spot is so small on that image."
Coming Home...
At the end of a long day, she comes home to an empty space.
Sometimes, she doesn't mind it - no, really.
Her home always smells of fresh paint, like she never actually lived there at all. She'd been there for nearly six months and she can't get rid of the new tenant smell. When she walks in the door after a long, tiresome day, she drops her things in a heap on the floor and instantly inhales that "you don't really live here" scent. It always takes her by surprise.
No amount of aromatherapy candles can rid her of that, just as no amount of aromatherapy can erase the memories attached to this unused space. It's almost as if she's merely a phantom, wafting about the place leaving some kind of glittering ooze rather than a legitimate presence.
Sigh.
But tonight, she doesn't mind it. Fatigue has taken root after a week of late night reading and sporadic phone calls that always shocked her from her sleep like a heart patient to a defibrillator. Why is that the strangers in her life always call after 11 pm?
She ambles about the apartment, putting things away and then changing into her comfortable evening attire. She starts the herbal tea and snaps on the television which she keeps on just for noise. Boris, her gray tabby, emerges from his hiding spot and squeaks a greeting at her, then insists on a fresh bowl of water.
She takes her Celestial Seasonings, steaming and perking, to her office where she sits down before the computer to write, but before she does, she remembers to check Katherine's blog.
Sometimes, she doesn't mind it - no, really.
Her home always smells of fresh paint, like she never actually lived there at all. She'd been there for nearly six months and she can't get rid of the new tenant smell. When she walks in the door after a long, tiresome day, she drops her things in a heap on the floor and instantly inhales that "you don't really live here" scent. It always takes her by surprise.
No amount of aromatherapy candles can rid her of that, just as no amount of aromatherapy can erase the memories attached to this unused space. It's almost as if she's merely a phantom, wafting about the place leaving some kind of glittering ooze rather than a legitimate presence.
Sigh.
But tonight, she doesn't mind it. Fatigue has taken root after a week of late night reading and sporadic phone calls that always shocked her from her sleep like a heart patient to a defibrillator. Why is that the strangers in her life always call after 11 pm?
She ambles about the apartment, putting things away and then changing into her comfortable evening attire. She starts the herbal tea and snaps on the television which she keeps on just for noise. Boris, her gray tabby, emerges from his hiding spot and squeaks a greeting at her, then insists on a fresh bowl of water.
She takes her Celestial Seasonings, steaming and perking, to her office where she sits down before the computer to write, but before she does, she remembers to check Katherine's blog.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Warm Memory
The most enticing memories always surface when she is trying most diligently to forget those elements in life that make her most content. Each has its own recognizable pulse that alerts her to her past in relevance to her present.
Walking through a vacant corridor, she could feel the echo of her heels against the foreign floor stones. Next to him, she felt fuzzed over, surreal, like her life wasn't happening, but was rather a snippet from a cliche Lifetime movie.
She had never been to this restaurant before - never knew what it was famous for - only that it was "classy" and required an extra hour of prep time. For a moment, she wished she had worn a skirt. She had wanted to look beautiful, make his eyes light up the way they did when she visited. He was always lighting up and it made her insides go fluid like hot apple cider.
"Two," he had said. "We have reservations."
At the time, she hadn't any.
Walking through a vacant corridor, she could feel the echo of her heels against the foreign floor stones. Next to him, she felt fuzzed over, surreal, like her life wasn't happening, but was rather a snippet from a cliche Lifetime movie.
She had never been to this restaurant before - never knew what it was famous for - only that it was "classy" and required an extra hour of prep time. For a moment, she wished she had worn a skirt. She had wanted to look beautiful, make his eyes light up the way they did when she visited. He was always lighting up and it made her insides go fluid like hot apple cider.
"Two," he had said. "We have reservations."
At the time, she hadn't any.
Rule #2
This rule is one of the most difficult to follow, particularly during the coldest months of the year, when most women feel their thinnest and require the most protection from the wind.
If he doesn't fit quite right, do not take him home. Even after losing the twenty pounds, you will likely wish to have lost another ten, making you again, in need of another size entirely.
If he doesn't fit quite right, do not take him home. Even after losing the twenty pounds, you will likely wish to have lost another ten, making you again, in need of another size entirely.
Standard Guidelines
Rule #1
And she always tries to follow her own set of rules...
Only wear eye liner during the fall and winter months. It is only during this time of year that it is acceptable to have dark eyes.
And she always tries to follow her own set of rules...
Only wear eye liner during the fall and winter months. It is only during this time of year that it is acceptable to have dark eyes.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Two days later, she is waiting for a taxi so she can go pick up her car at the station.
As she waits next to her apartment complex, she meets a funny man who calls himself "Noodle."
As she waits next to her apartment complex, she meets a funny man who calls himself "Noodle."
She seated herself outside the office door as she waited for the cab she had called moments earlier. Time to pick up her car downtown. She ran her thumb over her cell phone, making a mental note to call Katherine to set a time to discuss her case. She imagined she'd hear from Cyclops' lawyer any day now.
She'd forgotten to view the blogs Katherine had told her about, but planned on doing so as soon as she caught a free moment.
The October sun was just peaking over the trees and she could hear the soft murmurings of cars accelerating someplace far away from where she sat. A new chill was in the air though she found a little warmth from the sunshine.
"Mind if I join you?" she heard a voice ask.
She turned to her left to see a man approaching her. He wore tight jeans that looked nearly black and a concert t-shirt. He looked, as her mom would say, "a bit rough around the edges" with an unruly beard and an earring in both ears. He had a winter sock hat that stopped just above his eyebrows. He was smiling as if some subtle frostiness had just melted from his tight frame.
"Sure," she responded. He looked very pleasant.
"Whatcha doing catching a taxi on a Monday work day?" he asked.
"My car was impounded Saturday," she replied. As she said this, she realized she had just become "that person" who gets arrested. She sighed.
"Damn girl, what'd you do? You don't look like the crack ho type nor do you look like a menace to society. You go out Saturday night and wreak some havoc on this dump of a town?" he asked with a joke in his eye.
"Something like that," she replied. "I threw some shit out onto the highway and got arrested for it. Some poor sap got his eye poked in the process. I'm about to be sued any day now. They booked me. I hung around about five hours and posted bail. I tell you, I'm too pretty to be in jail. Now I'm here with you. Who are you?"
"Name's Noodle," he said chuckling. "You don't strike me as a real threat in that designer outfit and perfect hair. I doubt you unloaded a dime bag during a high speed chase. You look too damn pure for that shit."
She shook her head. No one thought she was a threat, not even this Noodle character who she could tell was already patronizing her in his mind. Then again, he seemed almost genuine. She turned to him.
"Noodle? What kind of a name is that?" she asked, condescendingly.
At this, Noodle smiled more brightly and tapped his foot. His eyes seemed to sparkle, like he'd never had a bad day in his life. She wondered where that inner humor came from, the stuff that he was wearing over his body like a coat. He made it look so easy.
"Well sweetheart, if you can't tell, I'm your typical musician. What other kind of cat would call himself Noodle?" he said.
"I see," she replied. "No real job, just groupies, beer, and road trips?"
"Nah, that's not my style. I play drums for this local band and during the day, I sell appliances. Every once in awhile, I'll sit in on another gig to help some dudes out. I can hit the keyboards pretty well too. What's with the attitude this morning? You don't like musicians?" he asked.
At this, she reflected inwardly about all the musicians she had ever had the pleasure of knowing personally - all narcissist types with superior intelligence. Rather, that is what drew her to them. She smiled.
"I do like musicians; used to be one myself in one way or another. Just irritable over my charge and the fact that my boss is peeved that I'm coming in late today. It's not personal," she added.
As she said this, a taxi came barreling up the street and she stood up. She turned to look at Noodle who was fiddling with his belt buckle and sitting cross-legged on the stoop.
"You need a lift?" she asked him.
"Nope," he replied. "I don't have anywhere to go right now - just came over to meet you."
And with that, he abruptly jumped up, flashed his toothy smile in her direction, and bounded back toward a set of apartment buildings behind them. As he left he called over his shoulder, "Pretty sure I'll see you around here again."
And he disappeared around the corner.
She opened the door to the taxi and climbed in. At that moment, she leaned back and sighed. This was the season for holding hands and sharing cabs.
Friday, October 19, 2007
One Realization from Inside the Coffee House
She is still sitting and reflects upon one person while watching the brewing thunderstorm. Her coffee has become tepid.
Staring off into space, she contemplates one of her closest friends.
Cordelia really doesn't know her own potential, nor does she realize just how incredible she is. When a woman spends so much time forcing herself to be ugly and filled with fearful rage, she inevitably will have innocent beauty seeping out of the most unsuspecting places. This only fuels the disappointments.
One cannot behave like fire without having once been in desperate need of warmth.
Realization - people who often produce the most furious heat, often desire only a cool, satisfying drink - something to coat and sooth until the next disruption.
However, these are the people to keep close and who bring the most excitement.
Cordelia, wherever you are, the next round's on me.
Staring off into space, she contemplates one of her closest friends.
Cordelia really doesn't know her own potential, nor does she realize just how incredible she is. When a woman spends so much time forcing herself to be ugly and filled with fearful rage, she inevitably will have innocent beauty seeping out of the most unsuspecting places. This only fuels the disappointments.
One cannot behave like fire without having once been in desperate need of warmth.
Realization - people who often produce the most furious heat, often desire only a cool, satisfying drink - something to coat and sooth until the next disruption.
However, these are the people to keep close and who bring the most excitement.
Cordelia, wherever you are, the next round's on me.
A Change in the Elements
While sipping and thinking about the phone call, she is approached by a young lawyer lady with whom she establishes an incredible, yet brief, rapport.
She rarely talks to lawyers.
(It is here that she finally begins to catalog real names.)
She stared at her phone as the blackness of her drink seeped slowly down. He didn't leave a voice mail. He never does anymore. She closed her eyes a second and thought back to the last time she'd been in the Firefly. It'd been one of those brutally cold, Indiana nights and she had been near death with frost on her bones. (She was always getting ice on her bones.) She'd worn a white hat and a ski coat so that she could sit with him outside. It had been such a wonderful evening. Being frozen like that had never felt so much like flames. It's funny how easy it is to ignore the elements when the brain is tuned in at a higher temperature.
She smiled at the memory, debated on calling him at all. It'd been so long and yet there had been so many missed calls, so many unreturned emails. She wasn't sure she could call back without raising a signal in her gut. For now, she would think about it.
She put the phone away and picked up a magazine lying near her seat and started toying with the pages, not reading, just listening to the filmy papers crack against each other in the somewhat quiet room. It was then that she spotted the woman at the corner table, clackity-clacking on her laptop. Next to this woman sat a man in a hat and tweed dress coat, looking somewhat perplexed and peaceful at the same time.
She wondered about that couple – what was going on there. They weren't talking much. They were bathed only in the sounds of the rapid fire typing and the softness of the man's presence.
Just as she was toying with the idea of leaving, the young woman at the corner table caught her eye and shot a smile her direction.
"Hi," she said warmly.
The woman was wearing trendy spectacles, jeans and a sweater, and thin brace around her right wrist. She had a mess of unruly curls springing from her head, but though they looked in disarray, it appeared deliberately contained. If cleverness could be personified, this is what it would look like.
To her surprise, the woman left her laptop and sat down across the table from her.
"What are you doing?" she asked pointedly.
"I'm not quite sure," she responded.
"Well, I don't see you here much and when I'm in town, I come here all the time. Name's Katherine McDoogle, two o's, not o, then u. Law's my bag," she said pleasantly, but confidently.
"Nice to meet you," she responded. She gave her name.
"I work for Bull, Crass, and Strumpet in Indianapolis. No really, that's the same of the firm. I'm the youngest on the team – criminal law. I thought about medical or environmental once, but not in the cards. I even toyed with copyright law, but no money in that. I don't know if you know this, but I'm a pretty big deal," she said laughing. She was making an attempt to be humorous, probably guessing she was dealing with a big downer.
"Sounds wonderful," she responded. She closed the magazine. "Actually, I may need a lawyer."
"Yeah? What did you do?"
"Dumped a bunch of shit on a major thoroughfare and damn near impaled a passerby on a wire hanger – all by mistake of course," she said quickly.
"Damn. Why?" Katherine asked.
"Had to get rid of stuff, you know? I just couldn't manage it or keep it around anymore. Too big, too small, too awkward, you know - just stuff that had to be gotten rid of, but maybe donated to others who may benefit. Unfortunately, I didn't make the impact I'd intended," she said.
"I see," Katherine said slowly. "I think I get it. I'm not worried about the littering charge or the disorderly conduct. We need to worry about the poor bastard who is at risk of becoming a Cyclops. He'll likely sue."
"Wouldn't you?" she asked.
"Sure would. An eye's an eye. You lose one without taking one, well, that's a pisser." The lawyer responded.
"Can you help me? I mean, if it comes to that?" she asked. "I don't have a lawyer right now - not one like you anyway."
"Sure," no problem. I'll get you out of this. Sounds like some dramatic antics to me. Did you come from a broken home or have some major trauma that may cause emotional outbursts? You on any meds? Can we blame this on female lunacy? I'm all about that. Then again, I tend to be a bit emo and most of my angst is displayed on the page instead."
"You write?" she asked Katherine.
"All the time. It's kind of my thing. You see, I have a few hypertexts out there, with a cult following – creative fiction and non-fiction. Here's my card. The true stuff is on the back." Katherine said.
She looked at the card. The front side contained Katherine's office information. The back contained an image of a rain cloud swarmed by fireflies. Below the image was a web site address. She put the card in her pocket, making a mental note to check it out as soon as she could.
"Do you write?" the lawyer asked.
"Yes, when nothing else will do it. When I'm not writing, I throw shit out onto the highway in hopes of making people notice." She laughed.
"I get it." Katherine looked over her shoulder, back at her companion, who was now toying with the laptop with a smile on his face. He looked charming, like an old friend you could tell any secret to without fear.
"You need to get back to your friend?" she asked.
"He's not my friend," Katherine replied. "You are. He's someone else entirely. If this criminal case thing works out in your favor, I may have a chance to tell you more about it. Check out the web site. Only then, will you know and it's been nice chatting. Call my office on Monday morning. We'll set some stuff up."
With that the lawyer lady returned to her table. As she watched Katherine sit back down, she noticed that she broke into a large smile. Her arm brushed up next to her friend in that timid and electrifying way it happens on a first date. Fear seemed to flash over the confident lawyer's eyes, but it disappeared leaving her looking effervescent.
"Katherine's in love," she said to herself, smiling. It was then that she noticed that the sky had clouded over in a beautifully lavender way and thunder was rumbling gently. She thought back to her first love and remembered fondly that it had smelled like mocha and tasted like rain.
It was at that moment that lightening finally lit up the sky.
She rarely talks to lawyers.
(It is here that she finally begins to catalog real names.)
She stared at her phone as the blackness of her drink seeped slowly down. He didn't leave a voice mail. He never does anymore. She closed her eyes a second and thought back to the last time she'd been in the Firefly. It'd been one of those brutally cold, Indiana nights and she had been near death with frost on her bones. (She was always getting ice on her bones.) She'd worn a white hat and a ski coat so that she could sit with him outside. It had been such a wonderful evening. Being frozen like that had never felt so much like flames. It's funny how easy it is to ignore the elements when the brain is tuned in at a higher temperature.
She smiled at the memory, debated on calling him at all. It'd been so long and yet there had been so many missed calls, so many unreturned emails. She wasn't sure she could call back without raising a signal in her gut. For now, she would think about it.
She put the phone away and picked up a magazine lying near her seat and started toying with the pages, not reading, just listening to the filmy papers crack against each other in the somewhat quiet room. It was then that she spotted the woman at the corner table, clackity-clacking on her laptop. Next to this woman sat a man in a hat and tweed dress coat, looking somewhat perplexed and peaceful at the same time.
She wondered about that couple – what was going on there. They weren't talking much. They were bathed only in the sounds of the rapid fire typing and the softness of the man's presence.
Just as she was toying with the idea of leaving, the young woman at the corner table caught her eye and shot a smile her direction.
"Hi," she said warmly.
The woman was wearing trendy spectacles, jeans and a sweater, and thin brace around her right wrist. She had a mess of unruly curls springing from her head, but though they looked in disarray, it appeared deliberately contained. If cleverness could be personified, this is what it would look like.
To her surprise, the woman left her laptop and sat down across the table from her.
"What are you doing?" she asked pointedly.
"I'm not quite sure," she responded.
"Well, I don't see you here much and when I'm in town, I come here all the time. Name's Katherine McDoogle, two o's, not o, then u. Law's my bag," she said pleasantly, but confidently.
"Nice to meet you," she responded. She gave her name.
"I work for Bull, Crass, and Strumpet in Indianapolis. No really, that's the same of the firm. I'm the youngest on the team – criminal law. I thought about medical or environmental once, but not in the cards. I even toyed with copyright law, but no money in that. I don't know if you know this, but I'm a pretty big deal," she said laughing. She was making an attempt to be humorous, probably guessing she was dealing with a big downer.
"Sounds wonderful," she responded. She closed the magazine. "Actually, I may need a lawyer."
"Yeah? What did you do?"
"Dumped a bunch of shit on a major thoroughfare and damn near impaled a passerby on a wire hanger – all by mistake of course," she said quickly.
"Damn. Why?" Katherine asked.
"Had to get rid of stuff, you know? I just couldn't manage it or keep it around anymore. Too big, too small, too awkward, you know - just stuff that had to be gotten rid of, but maybe donated to others who may benefit. Unfortunately, I didn't make the impact I'd intended," she said.
"I see," Katherine said slowly. "I think I get it. I'm not worried about the littering charge or the disorderly conduct. We need to worry about the poor bastard who is at risk of becoming a Cyclops. He'll likely sue."
"Wouldn't you?" she asked.
"Sure would. An eye's an eye. You lose one without taking one, well, that's a pisser." The lawyer responded.
"Can you help me? I mean, if it comes to that?" she asked. "I don't have a lawyer right now - not one like you anyway."
"Sure," no problem. I'll get you out of this. Sounds like some dramatic antics to me. Did you come from a broken home or have some major trauma that may cause emotional outbursts? You on any meds? Can we blame this on female lunacy? I'm all about that. Then again, I tend to be a bit emo and most of my angst is displayed on the page instead."
"You write?" she asked Katherine.
"All the time. It's kind of my thing. You see, I have a few hypertexts out there, with a cult following – creative fiction and non-fiction. Here's my card. The true stuff is on the back." Katherine said.
She looked at the card. The front side contained Katherine's office information. The back contained an image of a rain cloud swarmed by fireflies. Below the image was a web site address. She put the card in her pocket, making a mental note to check it out as soon as she could.
"Do you write?" the lawyer asked.
"Yes, when nothing else will do it. When I'm not writing, I throw shit out onto the highway in hopes of making people notice." She laughed.
"I get it." Katherine looked over her shoulder, back at her companion, who was now toying with the laptop with a smile on his face. He looked charming, like an old friend you could tell any secret to without fear.
"You need to get back to your friend?" she asked.
"He's not my friend," Katherine replied. "You are. He's someone else entirely. If this criminal case thing works out in your favor, I may have a chance to tell you more about it. Check out the web site. Only then, will you know and it's been nice chatting. Call my office on Monday morning. We'll set some stuff up."
With that the lawyer lady returned to her table. As she watched Katherine sit back down, she noticed that she broke into a large smile. Her arm brushed up next to her friend in that timid and electrifying way it happens on a first date. Fear seemed to flash over the confident lawyer's eyes, but it disappeared leaving her looking effervescent.
"Katherine's in love," she said to herself, smiling. It was then that she noticed that the sky had clouded over in a beautifully lavender way and thunder was rumbling gently. She thought back to her first love and remembered fondly that it had smelled like mocha and tasted like rain.
It was at that moment that lightening finally lit up the sky.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)