Dear people of the internets,
I quit this blog today. A new one is up and running.
Cheers,
Shari
23 February 2007
Friday's Article
I found this today.
I disagree with the last line.
"... is definitely an indoor sport."
Indoor sport? Seriously dudes, where's the fun in that?
I disagree with the last line.
"... is definitely an indoor sport."
Indoor sport? Seriously dudes, where's the fun in that?
14 February 2007
Bump in the night, ghost in the closet.
Have you ever...
Watched a movie, heard a song, saw a painting that got you on a level stronger than empathy? In such a way that it is nearly indescribable? Something more than feeling it in your heart of hearts. Something more than identification. Something more than torture and loss.
It's a situation, or a feeling that you can't place upon yourself, yet through some godlike force you feel it. You know it. Perhaps some sort of de ja vu, some psychic premonition except you won't ever experience it, but you feel it as they are. As if you've been there and done that, even though you never have and never will. It's so outlandish for your being that empathy need not apply. You can't fathom it.
And yet, there it is. Screaming in your ears, shaking your limbs, tearing in your eyes. It cannot be denied because it has claimed you. Not only in that moment, but for all the visions yet to come in your life... and all those that will never show.
You sit and bask in this, because the emotions are so strong they have paralyzed you. Like a euphoric night terror... but in an almost pleasant sort of way. It could be the most human you'd ever feel.
Your mind, it will be blown. You can't process anything because there is no actual physical data. You can't word it to another because nothing holds stock to it.
Have you ever been awed?
Watched a movie, heard a song, saw a painting that got you on a level stronger than empathy? In such a way that it is nearly indescribable? Something more than feeling it in your heart of hearts. Something more than identification. Something more than torture and loss.
It's a situation, or a feeling that you can't place upon yourself, yet through some godlike force you feel it. You know it. Perhaps some sort of de ja vu, some psychic premonition except you won't ever experience it, but you feel it as they are. As if you've been there and done that, even though you never have and never will. It's so outlandish for your being that empathy need not apply. You can't fathom it.
And yet, there it is. Screaming in your ears, shaking your limbs, tearing in your eyes. It cannot be denied because it has claimed you. Not only in that moment, but for all the visions yet to come in your life... and all those that will never show.
You sit and bask in this, because the emotions are so strong they have paralyzed you. Like a euphoric night terror... but in an almost pleasant sort of way. It could be the most human you'd ever feel.
Your mind, it will be blown. You can't process anything because there is no actual physical data. You can't word it to another because nothing holds stock to it.
Have you ever been awed?
12 February 2007
How to feed a cat.
I've told you about J---. He's my crotchety old man customer with a heart of gold...
He came in about an hour ago and he wasn't looking good. Not to mention when he walked in the door he didn't call me one racial slur or another. Something was up. I questioned him about it. There were a couple of customers sitting on the couch and he looked at them, grabbed my elbow, yanked me near him and whispered in my ear, "Go grab your cigarettes and meet me out front."
I did as I was told. I head outside and I light a cigarette for him, and one for me. I ask him what the hell is wrong. He tells me that the last few days he hasn't felt right. He's worried that his cancer is back. And if it isn't the cancer it's the thirteen other things that he listed off. I yell at him, tell him give me his doctor's number and I'll schedule the appointment and get Angie in here and I'll take him up there myself.
His response: "Shari, I can't do that. What about my fuckin' cat? Who will feed my fuckin' cat? And it's 3 o'clock in the afternoon. I can't get in this late. And if I go to the hospital I'll have to worry about my cat not eating for days."
Naturally, I yelled at him. Told him I'd take care of everything and that he needs to get his ass to the doctor now. I told him he wasn't going to die this way (because he kept stating that he was), and surely not in a blizzard. I fixed him some tea, told him to go home and schedule an appointment as soon as he could. I said I'd drive through the snow (in his car) and make sure everything at his house was taken care of. Told him that there was no need for excuses, that he just had to do the scheduling.
He looked at me then, and I swear I almost saw a tear. He shook his head and said, "You know, it's just hard when the only family you've got is a couple of states away." I put my arm on his shoulder and told him that I knew it was hard and that's why he's lucky to have us. That we take care of our own.
Promptly after all that emotional stuff I shoved him into his car and said he'd see the wrath of an Italian woman if he didn't do as he was told.
He called ten minutes ago and said he had an appointment for tomorrow at 11.
He came in about an hour ago and he wasn't looking good. Not to mention when he walked in the door he didn't call me one racial slur or another. Something was up. I questioned him about it. There were a couple of customers sitting on the couch and he looked at them, grabbed my elbow, yanked me near him and whispered in my ear, "Go grab your cigarettes and meet me out front."
I did as I was told. I head outside and I light a cigarette for him, and one for me. I ask him what the hell is wrong. He tells me that the last few days he hasn't felt right. He's worried that his cancer is back. And if it isn't the cancer it's the thirteen other things that he listed off. I yell at him, tell him give me his doctor's number and I'll schedule the appointment and get Angie in here and I'll take him up there myself.
His response: "Shari, I can't do that. What about my fuckin' cat? Who will feed my fuckin' cat? And it's 3 o'clock in the afternoon. I can't get in this late. And if I go to the hospital I'll have to worry about my cat not eating for days."
Naturally, I yelled at him. Told him I'd take care of everything and that he needs to get his ass to the doctor now. I told him he wasn't going to die this way (because he kept stating that he was), and surely not in a blizzard. I fixed him some tea, told him to go home and schedule an appointment as soon as he could. I said I'd drive through the snow (in his car) and make sure everything at his house was taken care of. Told him that there was no need for excuses, that he just had to do the scheduling.
He looked at me then, and I swear I almost saw a tear. He shook his head and said, "You know, it's just hard when the only family you've got is a couple of states away." I put my arm on his shoulder and told him that I knew it was hard and that's why he's lucky to have us. That we take care of our own.
Promptly after all that emotional stuff I shoved him into his car and said he'd see the wrath of an Italian woman if he didn't do as he was told.
He called ten minutes ago and said he had an appointment for tomorrow at 11.
09 February 2007
Sprouting bridges.
Those who are in constant transition are the most exhausted of species. You have to maintain constant connections and the ability to build something with nothing. You must know how to connect and build two passages together with a blink of an eye. Those who have been at this for a long time are amazingly audacious with absolutely no trace of insolence.
By the end of your year, your wanderings, your life, you'll have such an amalgam that you can do nothing but speak in vowels and sit back and stare.
By the end of your year, your wanderings, your life, you'll have such an amalgam that you can do nothing but speak in vowels and sit back and stare.
05 February 2007
Be my wake up.
I wake promptly at 6 am without alarm on a day off. After previous days of a sickly stomach, things feel back to normal within my body. The Celebes Kalossi brews strongly in a coffee maker that is not my own.
I notice a hush, a hush that is uncustomary for a Monday morning in our community. I climb on counter tops to see out of windows and check for new snow. There is none, which leaves me with no explanation for this silence.
I pour the coffee and pace the house, 6 am on a day off. I walk into the dining room and notice her leaning up against the dark wooded buffet. She's slanted from Tuesday afternoon. Slanted from new tunes.
I look to the ceiling, as if I have x-ray vision, hoping for there to not be signs of life up there.
I unzip her, softly, as if not to wake. I find this funny with what's to come. I don't want the zipper to be loud, but her strings could wake the block.
And away we go, 6 am on a day off.
It's amazing what happens internally through this process. How I feel I'm able to speak. A dream from the night before pops into my head as I strain my fingers. Of meeting my third (newest) instructor. The previous two I couldn't properly tell what I wanted from this instrument. They didn't understand my language and filtered their incorrect one in instead. I left them, the tryst terminated, feeling defiled.
But in this dream the old man (new instructor) sat on a spinning stool older than him. It reminded me of the one in my grandfather's den. How I used to brace myself with one hand and use the other to push myself in circles. My long, long hair leaving tracers behind me. My grandfather would always catch me as I was about to teeter off. His deep chuckle a warm vibration. I knew that the man now perched on the old wooden spinning stool would be the one. If I can connect you to my grandfather there is no greater glory.
He asked me, "What do you want to learn?" A question that I've come accustomed to since the beginning of my education of this instrument. I felt that nervousness wash over me again. I know I'm going to say the wrong words and not convey my thoughts and ideals accurately. I looked down to my shoes and took a deep breath. Before I knew it the perfect words came out and his eyes twinkled.
"Yes. I see. We will do this."
I felt so warm and I knew that this man and I would be friends for the rest of his life.
I woke with the perfectly constructed sentences still swimming in my head. I repeated them again and again hoping I would not forget.
At 6 am, on a day off, this is what goes through my head.
It's funny that some of my warmest and most favorite memories all have a deep vibration. One that matches she who slants into my heart.
Of course, I think. Of course.
It took long enough to figure out.
I notice a hush, a hush that is uncustomary for a Monday morning in our community. I climb on counter tops to see out of windows and check for new snow. There is none, which leaves me with no explanation for this silence.
I pour the coffee and pace the house, 6 am on a day off. I walk into the dining room and notice her leaning up against the dark wooded buffet. She's slanted from Tuesday afternoon. Slanted from new tunes.
I look to the ceiling, as if I have x-ray vision, hoping for there to not be signs of life up there.
I unzip her, softly, as if not to wake. I find this funny with what's to come. I don't want the zipper to be loud, but her strings could wake the block.
And away we go, 6 am on a day off.
It's amazing what happens internally through this process. How I feel I'm able to speak. A dream from the night before pops into my head as I strain my fingers. Of meeting my third (newest) instructor. The previous two I couldn't properly tell what I wanted from this instrument. They didn't understand my language and filtered their incorrect one in instead. I left them, the tryst terminated, feeling defiled.
But in this dream the old man (new instructor) sat on a spinning stool older than him. It reminded me of the one in my grandfather's den. How I used to brace myself with one hand and use the other to push myself in circles. My long, long hair leaving tracers behind me. My grandfather would always catch me as I was about to teeter off. His deep chuckle a warm vibration. I knew that the man now perched on the old wooden spinning stool would be the one. If I can connect you to my grandfather there is no greater glory.
He asked me, "What do you want to learn?" A question that I've come accustomed to since the beginning of my education of this instrument. I felt that nervousness wash over me again. I know I'm going to say the wrong words and not convey my thoughts and ideals accurately. I looked down to my shoes and took a deep breath. Before I knew it the perfect words came out and his eyes twinkled.
"Yes. I see. We will do this."
I felt so warm and I knew that this man and I would be friends for the rest of his life.
I woke with the perfectly constructed sentences still swimming in my head. I repeated them again and again hoping I would not forget.
At 6 am, on a day off, this is what goes through my head.
It's funny that some of my warmest and most favorite memories all have a deep vibration. One that matches she who slants into my heart.
Of course, I think. Of course.
It took long enough to figure out.
01 February 2007
Broken pens.
I'd imagine that changing identities sounds a lot like Dante's prayer.
With a new name comes a new eraser, yet to be used on a shiny yellow #2 pencil.
No more paranoia. No more men following me with winking eyes that recognized me from different cities, different darkened alleys. No more looking over the shoulders and back to the wall. No more corners. No more screams to scare them away.
But a new name has a new face. You can try to keep the old, but the psychology of the new will warp it. Like a candle melting. It's still the same but with time things melt and new shapes form.
This puddle on the counter... it's you today. Get used to it.
Perhaps I didn't start out the correct way. The proper way to begin is to finish what is being done. I have a fear of finishing tasks, a fear of praise, a fear of accomplishment. My life has been a series of positions that require as little responsibility as possible.
But a new name has a new face.
I hear footsteps in my headphones and it's beckoning for me to begin again. To begin for real-real not for play-play.
A snake molts. Babies bones harden. A movie climaxes. This is the way of the world and you are soon to be a new citizen.
Does starting off on the wrong foot mean that the rest of this lifes name is doomed? Or have I just seen too many Woody Allen movies?
This confusion is why people find god, why people turn into alcoholics, why people can't have solid relationships.
The Inuits believe that there is no separation of body, mind and spirit. They live lives of fear due to their arctic conditions. Kadlu presides over thunder, and soon those three spirits will be forever placed on my body in shades of dusty blues and dried reds. Feet and sternum connected.
A new name has a new face.
I have a new secret, one that is worth protecting. One that will be worth all the wait. One that I chose to have. We can only live in spirals for so long. We can't always be equations that lack in sound.
This leitmotiv is ending.
With a new name comes a new eraser, yet to be used on a shiny yellow #2 pencil.
No more paranoia. No more men following me with winking eyes that recognized me from different cities, different darkened alleys. No more looking over the shoulders and back to the wall. No more corners. No more screams to scare them away.
But a new name has a new face. You can try to keep the old, but the psychology of the new will warp it. Like a candle melting. It's still the same but with time things melt and new shapes form.
This puddle on the counter... it's you today. Get used to it.
Perhaps I didn't start out the correct way. The proper way to begin is to finish what is being done. I have a fear of finishing tasks, a fear of praise, a fear of accomplishment. My life has been a series of positions that require as little responsibility as possible.
But a new name has a new face.
I hear footsteps in my headphones and it's beckoning for me to begin again. To begin for real-real not for play-play.
A snake molts. Babies bones harden. A movie climaxes. This is the way of the world and you are soon to be a new citizen.
Does starting off on the wrong foot mean that the rest of this lifes name is doomed? Or have I just seen too many Woody Allen movies?
This confusion is why people find god, why people turn into alcoholics, why people can't have solid relationships.
The Inuits believe that there is no separation of body, mind and spirit. They live lives of fear due to their arctic conditions. Kadlu presides over thunder, and soon those three spirits will be forever placed on my body in shades of dusty blues and dried reds. Feet and sternum connected.
A new name has a new face.
I have a new secret, one that is worth protecting. One that will be worth all the wait. One that I chose to have. We can only live in spirals for so long. We can't always be equations that lack in sound.
This leitmotiv is ending.
19 January 2007
Circles and squares.
People who know me well see more of my downfalls than anything else. Most of the time, this is intentional.
I tend to be very snobby which makes me strongly opinionated. I'm dry and brash which makes me coldly direct. I'm thoughtlessly impulsive which makes me easily viewed as selfish. I am very vague which makes it too possible for me to be deceitful. I am unwilling to let go of the past and this makes it hard for me to not hold grudges. I'm domineering which allows me to get on power trips.
These things, amongst many others, are those things that I prefer to show first. I wear my badness on my sleeve, like some badge of honor to be reckoned with. I know that I, like most, am damaged goods. Somewhat broken, but still able to live a functioning life.
Over the last few months my self deprecation has started to fade a bit. I've stopped picking at the scab, and now the scar is able to form.
When I state my downfalls, I'm not looking for confirmation of my good traits. Generally, when people do this the ones that love them are quick to protect and nurture. They will point out their sellable points. They will flatter with warm compliments. They will love you.
But, as for me, when I say something bad about myself, it's mostly true. I don't lie about the worst traits of who I am. All I want from this is for someone to hear those words and say, "Yeah, that's true." From that point, we can both move on with this clear knowledge.
This post may seem oddly random. I was told the other night that a person can never see how my brain works. That the thought processes make no sense when you are on the outside looking in. I told them that that was intentional. That I couldn't have anyone reading me. But, in my randomness there is a chaotic path that one can recognize through history.
The segue that led into this post happened moments ago.
I hung up the phone with someone that I greatly admire and respect. I stood out on the back porch reflecting, coffee and cigarette in hand, and Lucy trying to escape my line of vision. All of a sudden I thought to myself, what do they see when they look at me? Do they see the damage, or the goods? Do they have a balanced view? Is it objective, or biased?
Really, it matters not. It just happened to be what popped up.
Perhaps this is why I admire and respect that person so. They allow me to question everything... In that good and inquisitive way.
And really, if there is someone that can see through all of the bullshit, it doesn't matter what good or bad your person is. Even if the seeing isn't in a positive light, the fact that people exist who can do this make everything worth something.
I tend to be very snobby which makes me strongly opinionated. I'm dry and brash which makes me coldly direct. I'm thoughtlessly impulsive which makes me easily viewed as selfish. I am very vague which makes it too possible for me to be deceitful. I am unwilling to let go of the past and this makes it hard for me to not hold grudges. I'm domineering which allows me to get on power trips.
These things, amongst many others, are those things that I prefer to show first. I wear my badness on my sleeve, like some badge of honor to be reckoned with. I know that I, like most, am damaged goods. Somewhat broken, but still able to live a functioning life.
Over the last few months my self deprecation has started to fade a bit. I've stopped picking at the scab, and now the scar is able to form.
When I state my downfalls, I'm not looking for confirmation of my good traits. Generally, when people do this the ones that love them are quick to protect and nurture. They will point out their sellable points. They will flatter with warm compliments. They will love you.
But, as for me, when I say something bad about myself, it's mostly true. I don't lie about the worst traits of who I am. All I want from this is for someone to hear those words and say, "Yeah, that's true." From that point, we can both move on with this clear knowledge.
This post may seem oddly random. I was told the other night that a person can never see how my brain works. That the thought processes make no sense when you are on the outside looking in. I told them that that was intentional. That I couldn't have anyone reading me. But, in my randomness there is a chaotic path that one can recognize through history.
The segue that led into this post happened moments ago.
I hung up the phone with someone that I greatly admire and respect. I stood out on the back porch reflecting, coffee and cigarette in hand, and Lucy trying to escape my line of vision. All of a sudden I thought to myself, what do they see when they look at me? Do they see the damage, or the goods? Do they have a balanced view? Is it objective, or biased?
Really, it matters not. It just happened to be what popped up.
Perhaps this is why I admire and respect that person so. They allow me to question everything... In that good and inquisitive way.
And really, if there is someone that can see through all of the bullshit, it doesn't matter what good or bad your person is. Even if the seeing isn't in a positive light, the fact that people exist who can do this make everything worth something.
17 January 2007
This is why I've been gone.
16 January 2007
09 January 2007
Work realization #712
Last night I went into work to see Angie. We'd been playing phone tag throughout the day so I decided to give up and just go in.
We're hanging out in the back catching each other up on the lost week and the door censor goes off. I help her make a couple of drinks and then Frank traps us behind the bar.
I forget exactly what was said (I'm sure it was the usual banter) but Angie grabbed the knife off of the espresso machine and held it near Frank and probably said something threatening. (Which if you hang out in this place long enough, you learn it's completely customary and it's how we crazy three show our affections.)
Instantly I thought to myself, "Shit, I need my lighter if she's going to be Stabby today. I guess I'll be Burny."
Later we talk over a couple of pints and it occurred to me that instead of worrying about who was going to play Burny, Stabby, or Spazzy I should have been worried about a co-worker pulling a knife on a customer.
It's an odd world that we keep inside of that place.
We're hanging out in the back catching each other up on the lost week and the door censor goes off. I help her make a couple of drinks and then Frank traps us behind the bar.
I forget exactly what was said (I'm sure it was the usual banter) but Angie grabbed the knife off of the espresso machine and held it near Frank and probably said something threatening. (Which if you hang out in this place long enough, you learn it's completely customary and it's how we crazy three show our affections.)
Instantly I thought to myself, "Shit, I need my lighter if she's going to be Stabby today. I guess I'll be Burny."
Later we talk over a couple of pints and it occurred to me that instead of worrying about who was going to play Burny, Stabby, or Spazzy I should have been worried about a co-worker pulling a knife on a customer.
It's an odd world that we keep inside of that place.
08 January 2007
Also,
Searches while I was gone:
Clips formed by the water.
The coming home process is always rough, whether it's from a trip, work, or the grocery store. Sometimes you feel relieved to set foot into your personal domain. Sometimes you wish you were still at your previous destination.
My trip home from Florida was something I hadn't really experienced before. It was almost as if I had no opinion. I didn't care where I landed, as long as my feet touched the ground.
The following goes through the motions. They are in no particular order, because certain things must be left out.
---
I'm not sure what triggered the emotions...
Most of the drive home I spent choking back tears and trying to swallow that ice cube that was lodged in my throat.
I don't know if I was missing home or if it was not wanting to return from vacation. This whole trip was an emotional contradiction. I was very confused, yet it was deeply understood and accepted.
While on the I-75 I kept my eyes to the left, trying to fully process the scenery as we quickly passed by. I focused on a marsh that was surrounded by huge Bucida trees and palms. There was one barren Bucida in particular that caught my fancy. I'm sure it had died long ago. I felt like I was watching it in slow motion. After all the high speeds, when that tree came into view the whole world just barely moved.
The brownish greens mixing with deep greys. How the Spanish moss seemed to hold on for dear life, terrified to fall. It just stood there, strong in its final death. As if it was still fighting for a humble cause. But it was so alone, out of place next to the bright greens. The breath of the living trees surrounding, eroding the last trace of its complete existence.
I felt a warm respect for him, and I cried... nose pressed against the window, hands pushed against the glass on either side of my head.
---
This is going to be one of those hurting palms kind of days.
I hate when I feel out of control. Like a freight train with no breaks. It's always over random things. Wanting to get a hold of a certain person. Needing to hear a certain album. Hoping to read a certain book. It's always about something that fits into the puzzle of nostalgia.
---
Yesterday, on the way to lunch, I look to my right while stopped at a traffic light. There is a well dressed, nice looking man in his forties, sitting in a tan SUV. He is picking the crap out of his nose. Hardcore. I'm talking finger up the nostril to the knuckle. He's really going to town. Occasionally he stops to inspect his index finger before quickly, and almost ferociously, inserting it back into the nasal cavity. He saw me watching him once, but continued on his digging quest anyway.
I assumed he had a bad marriage that was was too controlling and a job that never listens to him.
As we drove away I rolled down my window and waved at him like a mad person. My smile taking up my entire fucking face.
That guy was my hero.
---
A small boy bounces silently over the bricked paths surrounding the lagoon. I happily watch him from my lounge chair. He made my heart swell and I wanted to step inside his body for an instant to see what jubilation he was feeling that kept him lifted from the ground.
I bet he's created a song in his head about it. Kids always have a tune.
"Bouncing, bouncing, bouncing. Keep bouncing, bouncing, bouncing. Shhh, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing."
God, what I'd give to hear his delicate melody.
---
Early morning sun catches in the dew drops, shimmering like millions of diamonds.
(I take this as a good omen.)
Rays heal tired bodies, I enjoy letting self roast.
I've learned to turn short sentences into weapons.
I'll sear through your flesh.
A perfect laceration.
Blood filling the length.
It knows only one path.
This hurts me more than it hurts you.
I know how to cause the pain, because I know the suffering.
---
Behind the screens of this perfect patio, I watch a trio golf.
Out of the corner of my right eye I see the woman swinging. It seems to be a natural grace, most likely learned at a young age. You can see years of strained practice in her strokes.
I turn my head to fully focus and she begins to falter.
Even though the trio cannot see me, I can't help but think that she feels my eyes burning in on her game, like the sun that pounds on her shoulders.
You can see a nervousness now, utterly visible. She must feel that unwelcomed pressure of perfection that comes with one being viewed. Perhaps she thinks of oral reports and how she hated public speaking in school.
I should stop so she can relax, but this is meanly funny to me.
Raw human entertainment.
---
This place feels like Louisville did the two weeks before Mama died. That severe relaxation and manic laughter. The soft warmth of old memories. The constant margaritas that Deep kept filling for us. The slightly humid mornings with the sun appeasing you and staying behind the clouds for a little while. Those two weeks there with Kamah playing mother hen felt mostly like Thursdays sewn together. She took care of Mama so Mama had strength to take care of me. So she could prep me for her death.
I once wrote that Louisville was my serendipitous home (written after a concussion), but this place may trump it.
---
Rosemary, a friend of the family, once told me that the idle time is what counts. It's the glue that holds memorable moments together. That the anticipation and nervousness of what's to come puts an activated brain into overdrive. She says that is when amazing happens.
Perhaps this is why I fill notebooks when on vacation.
---
Bad dreams flooded my head last night. Its been over a decade since I've had a nightmare.
I was stuck in this loop of anger and confusion. The only words I remember screaming were, "Fuck off!" Anytime I tried to offer an explanation my tongue twisted and a foreign language seeped out, unrecognized.
Glass was shattering, porcelain busting, fist thrown, and doors locked in the nick of time. Familiar faces were littered through these outraged visions. Not one of them brought their usual comfort, it was replaced with horror.
As I was dreaming I kept yelling inside my head to wake up. I would jut up from the bed, but the images were still there. Still playing. I'd fall back asleep to get rid of them, but they continued on. I must have done this four times before recognizing that sleep was too exhausting.
It must be this villa with its unbelievably soft beds. Sleep in these places are not yours, but the sleep of all the others that previously slumbered here.
It is borrowed time. It is used time.
---
On the way down to Florida, as the sun was rising, I started to notice the Spanish moss in the trees. I let myself slip into my fantasy world, convincing self that it flew in from Savannah to put me at ease.
And now, on the way home, we drive through Macon, Georgia and my jaw tightens with the thinking, knowing that soon I'll see signs that point the way for Mistress Savannah.
I wish I could jump into the drivers seat and take myself back into that world. I could live with no responsibility for a long while on my savings.
But I didn't and more importantly, couldn't.
This is when I realized that I truly have grown up. And it seems like such a negative thing.
---
It's early in the morning and the coffee has already brewed.
I see myself out to the patio, cup in hand, ready to wake up. The seagulls bellow over the Haitian music that the pool boys play. The dew, heavy on manicured grass, falls into sand traps and I swear I can almost hear its descent.
As the sun begins to burn I wonder just how many people take this life of luxury for granted.
I get the impression that the money here is new, ready to be shown off, assuming it will never run out.
I sit on 2,000+ acres of resort clad with dozens of golf courses, soft as beds. Pools and cabanas as far as the eye can see. Restaurants, bars, spas, and dance clubs. Tennis and basketball courts. Places for boating, skiing, hang gliding and diving.
But I haven't found one hammock; only lounge chairs for miles in perfect repetition. As if it's saying, "Here, be comfortable, just don't relax."
The Haitian boys now turn on Elvis. They dance around as they do their daily chores.
I bounce around in my chair, yards away, with them.
Perhaps this is the life.
---
Lip gloss on crystal glasses.
Remembering to be a lady.
Knees together, legs crossed at the ankle.
Palms resting in the lap.
Don't fidget, keep your hair in place.
Silk scarf wrapped 'round the head.
Just like Grace Kelly.
Immaculate manicures and delicate writing.
A respected woman wears white.
Keep the eyes kind, but stand strong.
Apply lipstick like Grandmother taught you.
Never take a pill in public.
When you see your reflection wink and say,
"God you're gorgeous."
You are a perfect exit.
My trip home from Florida was something I hadn't really experienced before. It was almost as if I had no opinion. I didn't care where I landed, as long as my feet touched the ground.
The following goes through the motions. They are in no particular order, because certain things must be left out.
---
I'm not sure what triggered the emotions...
Most of the drive home I spent choking back tears and trying to swallow that ice cube that was lodged in my throat.
I don't know if I was missing home or if it was not wanting to return from vacation. This whole trip was an emotional contradiction. I was very confused, yet it was deeply understood and accepted.
While on the I-75 I kept my eyes to the left, trying to fully process the scenery as we quickly passed by. I focused on a marsh that was surrounded by huge Bucida trees and palms. There was one barren Bucida in particular that caught my fancy. I'm sure it had died long ago. I felt like I was watching it in slow motion. After all the high speeds, when that tree came into view the whole world just barely moved.
The brownish greens mixing with deep greys. How the Spanish moss seemed to hold on for dear life, terrified to fall. It just stood there, strong in its final death. As if it was still fighting for a humble cause. But it was so alone, out of place next to the bright greens. The breath of the living trees surrounding, eroding the last trace of its complete existence.
I felt a warm respect for him, and I cried... nose pressed against the window, hands pushed against the glass on either side of my head.
---
This is going to be one of those hurting palms kind of days.
I hate when I feel out of control. Like a freight train with no breaks. It's always over random things. Wanting to get a hold of a certain person. Needing to hear a certain album. Hoping to read a certain book. It's always about something that fits into the puzzle of nostalgia.
---
Yesterday, on the way to lunch, I look to my right while stopped at a traffic light. There is a well dressed, nice looking man in his forties, sitting in a tan SUV. He is picking the crap out of his nose. Hardcore. I'm talking finger up the nostril to the knuckle. He's really going to town. Occasionally he stops to inspect his index finger before quickly, and almost ferociously, inserting it back into the nasal cavity. He saw me watching him once, but continued on his digging quest anyway.
I assumed he had a bad marriage that was was too controlling and a job that never listens to him.
As we drove away I rolled down my window and waved at him like a mad person. My smile taking up my entire fucking face.
That guy was my hero.
---
A small boy bounces silently over the bricked paths surrounding the lagoon. I happily watch him from my lounge chair. He made my heart swell and I wanted to step inside his body for an instant to see what jubilation he was feeling that kept him lifted from the ground.
I bet he's created a song in his head about it. Kids always have a tune.
"Bouncing, bouncing, bouncing. Keep bouncing, bouncing, bouncing. Shhh, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing."
God, what I'd give to hear his delicate melody.
---
Early morning sun catches in the dew drops, shimmering like millions of diamonds.
(I take this as a good omen.)
Rays heal tired bodies, I enjoy letting self roast.
I've learned to turn short sentences into weapons.
I'll sear through your flesh.
A perfect laceration.
Blood filling the length.
It knows only one path.
This hurts me more than it hurts you.
I know how to cause the pain, because I know the suffering.
---
Behind the screens of this perfect patio, I watch a trio golf.
Out of the corner of my right eye I see the woman swinging. It seems to be a natural grace, most likely learned at a young age. You can see years of strained practice in her strokes.
I turn my head to fully focus and she begins to falter.
Even though the trio cannot see me, I can't help but think that she feels my eyes burning in on her game, like the sun that pounds on her shoulders.
You can see a nervousness now, utterly visible. She must feel that unwelcomed pressure of perfection that comes with one being viewed. Perhaps she thinks of oral reports and how she hated public speaking in school.
I should stop so she can relax, but this is meanly funny to me.
Raw human entertainment.
---
This place feels like Louisville did the two weeks before Mama died. That severe relaxation and manic laughter. The soft warmth of old memories. The constant margaritas that Deep kept filling for us. The slightly humid mornings with the sun appeasing you and staying behind the clouds for a little while. Those two weeks there with Kamah playing mother hen felt mostly like Thursdays sewn together. She took care of Mama so Mama had strength to take care of me. So she could prep me for her death.
I once wrote that Louisville was my serendipitous home (written after a concussion), but this place may trump it.
---
Rosemary, a friend of the family, once told me that the idle time is what counts. It's the glue that holds memorable moments together. That the anticipation and nervousness of what's to come puts an activated brain into overdrive. She says that is when amazing happens.
Perhaps this is why I fill notebooks when on vacation.
---
Bad dreams flooded my head last night. Its been over a decade since I've had a nightmare.
I was stuck in this loop of anger and confusion. The only words I remember screaming were, "Fuck off!" Anytime I tried to offer an explanation my tongue twisted and a foreign language seeped out, unrecognized.
Glass was shattering, porcelain busting, fist thrown, and doors locked in the nick of time. Familiar faces were littered through these outraged visions. Not one of them brought their usual comfort, it was replaced with horror.
As I was dreaming I kept yelling inside my head to wake up. I would jut up from the bed, but the images were still there. Still playing. I'd fall back asleep to get rid of them, but they continued on. I must have done this four times before recognizing that sleep was too exhausting.
It must be this villa with its unbelievably soft beds. Sleep in these places are not yours, but the sleep of all the others that previously slumbered here.
It is borrowed time. It is used time.
---
On the way down to Florida, as the sun was rising, I started to notice the Spanish moss in the trees. I let myself slip into my fantasy world, convincing self that it flew in from Savannah to put me at ease.
And now, on the way home, we drive through Macon, Georgia and my jaw tightens with the thinking, knowing that soon I'll see signs that point the way for Mistress Savannah.
I wish I could jump into the drivers seat and take myself back into that world. I could live with no responsibility for a long while on my savings.
But I didn't and more importantly, couldn't.
This is when I realized that I truly have grown up. And it seems like such a negative thing.
---
It's early in the morning and the coffee has already brewed.
I see myself out to the patio, cup in hand, ready to wake up. The seagulls bellow over the Haitian music that the pool boys play. The dew, heavy on manicured grass, falls into sand traps and I swear I can almost hear its descent.
As the sun begins to burn I wonder just how many people take this life of luxury for granted.
I get the impression that the money here is new, ready to be shown off, assuming it will never run out.
I sit on 2,000+ acres of resort clad with dozens of golf courses, soft as beds. Pools and cabanas as far as the eye can see. Restaurants, bars, spas, and dance clubs. Tennis and basketball courts. Places for boating, skiing, hang gliding and diving.
But I haven't found one hammock; only lounge chairs for miles in perfect repetition. As if it's saying, "Here, be comfortable, just don't relax."
The Haitian boys now turn on Elvis. They dance around as they do their daily chores.
I bounce around in my chair, yards away, with them.
Perhaps this is the life.
---
Lip gloss on crystal glasses.
Remembering to be a lady.
Knees together, legs crossed at the ankle.
Palms resting in the lap.
Don't fidget, keep your hair in place.
Silk scarf wrapped 'round the head.
Just like Grace Kelly.
Immaculate manicures and delicate writing.
A respected woman wears white.
Keep the eyes kind, but stand strong.
Apply lipstick like Grandmother taught you.
Never take a pill in public.
When you see your reflection wink and say,
"God you're gorgeous."
You are a perfect exit.
29 December 2006
New year delights.
My wonderful realtors are probably the most amazing people that exist. They are a gay couple that have been together for ten years...
On Christmas G--- bought R--- a beautiful 1920's art deco ring with the original box. It is absolutely gorgeous and delicate. Along with the ring he gave R--- papers that allow him to change his last name to G---'s. (Since gay marriage is illegal here.) When G--- told me the plan my eyes teared. It was the sweetest thing.
There are six families that aren't so fortunate that go to school with their son. They donated 500$ in gift cards to each family so they could have a nice Christmas. They bought 2,000$ worth of clothes and toys to give to The Guardian's Home because the nameless, faceless kids broke their hearts.
They are the most jubilant people I know and they want everyone to be just as joyous as they are. They live large for the right reasons and are quick to grab your hand so you may join. When you see them, warmth flows over you. They are teddy bears that you never want to part with. They are the reason why the word good was invented.
Within the second week of knowing them, as I stood in the middle of the two, one wrapped their arm around my shoulders, the other grabbed my hand and R--- said, "You're family now, honey. We are family. We've got to take care of each other." That made my being swell.
So they help me buy a house. They go out of their way to make sure everything is perfect and I'm taken care of . They surprise me with wonderful housewarming things. They give me the perfect 24% lead crystal martini glass and shaker set. We fill up on great pasta and gossip about the locals. Everything in the last few months has been just filled, stuffed, and warm.
These boys gave me a sense of peace that I didn't know I could have. I didn't realize how similar all of us were and how much we struggled to get the same things. Since they saw the fruits of their labors first they helped me find mine because they already knew the path.
On Christmas day they knew I'd be home drinking wine and watching movies with my puppy. They stopped by and dumped platefuls of food off for me and informed me that I was going with them to Florida to their resort.
"Girl, you have to come. It's like 5 stars. We're going to go out dancing and drinking. Bring your hoochie gear and G--- will do your make up Florida hussy style. You have to come. You need a break. Say you'll come. I'm so excited! Oh girl, it will be perfect. Cocktails by the pool, sizing up men, being the sexiest damn bitches you can find."
"How much will it cost?"
(Insert crazy laughter.)
"You're not paying."
"Yes I am."
"No you're not, and we're not arguing about this because a gay man always wins the fight. Honey, I'm more catty than you. You're our family and we have to stick together and mock the freaks in Florida."
"Okay, I'm in."
There was a lot of shrieking and jumping after that. Saturday we leave to stay here and we'll return on January 7.
Happy new year indeed.
On Christmas G--- bought R--- a beautiful 1920's art deco ring with the original box. It is absolutely gorgeous and delicate. Along with the ring he gave R--- papers that allow him to change his last name to G---'s. (Since gay marriage is illegal here.) When G--- told me the plan my eyes teared. It was the sweetest thing.
There are six families that aren't so fortunate that go to school with their son. They donated 500$ in gift cards to each family so they could have a nice Christmas. They bought 2,000$ worth of clothes and toys to give to The Guardian's Home because the nameless, faceless kids broke their hearts.
They are the most jubilant people I know and they want everyone to be just as joyous as they are. They live large for the right reasons and are quick to grab your hand so you may join. When you see them, warmth flows over you. They are teddy bears that you never want to part with. They are the reason why the word good was invented.
Within the second week of knowing them, as I stood in the middle of the two, one wrapped their arm around my shoulders, the other grabbed my hand and R--- said, "You're family now, honey. We are family. We've got to take care of each other." That made my being swell.
So they help me buy a house. They go out of their way to make sure everything is perfect and I'm taken care of . They surprise me with wonderful housewarming things. They give me the perfect 24% lead crystal martini glass and shaker set. We fill up on great pasta and gossip about the locals. Everything in the last few months has been just filled, stuffed, and warm.
These boys gave me a sense of peace that I didn't know I could have. I didn't realize how similar all of us were and how much we struggled to get the same things. Since they saw the fruits of their labors first they helped me find mine because they already knew the path.
On Christmas day they knew I'd be home drinking wine and watching movies with my puppy. They stopped by and dumped platefuls of food off for me and informed me that I was going with them to Florida to their resort.
"Girl, you have to come. It's like 5 stars. We're going to go out dancing and drinking. Bring your hoochie gear and G--- will do your make up Florida hussy style. You have to come. You need a break. Say you'll come. I'm so excited! Oh girl, it will be perfect. Cocktails by the pool, sizing up men, being the sexiest damn bitches you can find."
"How much will it cost?"
(Insert crazy laughter.)
"You're not paying."
"Yes I am."
"No you're not, and we're not arguing about this because a gay man always wins the fight. Honey, I'm more catty than you. You're our family and we have to stick together and mock the freaks in Florida."
"Okay, I'm in."
There was a lot of shrieking and jumping after that. Saturday we leave to stay here and we'll return on January 7.
Happy new year indeed.
27 December 2006
Kid with a vision.
At approximately 2:21 am my little cousin Michael calls.
I miss the call.
At 2:34 I return the call. Ask him what he wants. Said he slipped up and called the wrong number by mistake. An hour and a half later, we hang up.
This kid, he astounds me. He's my baby. He's the one who got himself into worlds of trouble and everyone gave up. Naturally, I can empathize with that. So I made him a deal. If he cleans his act up, finishes school, applies to college, and stays off of drugs I'll take him with me to Brazil for a month. Told him I'd pay for everything and we'd do nothing but dance and drink to King Momo's delight.
This kid, he's mostly brilliant. Despite his lethal tendencies to push everything as far as it will go, he's solid. He talks like an old man... Opening lines, "Hey honey, saw you called. Everything okay?" There's a pause and I swear I heard him reclining in a leather chair and then the strike of a match lighting a cigarette. "Shari, things are swell. Just swell."
"Swell? Dude, seriously, what's wrong?"
"What? Can a 17 year old boys life not be swell?"
"No, no it can not. 17 year old boys don't utter words like swell."
"God damn it, I'm fucking swell and Aunt Kathy thinks I'm conceited."
"Well you are. Sexy bitches are often conceited. Did you inform her of this?"
"Yeah, she said that was swell."
I haven't talked directly to him (mostly been updated through his probation officer weekly) in a couple of months. We play the game of catch up and his life seems better and he's just as hilarious as ever. I told him about my new house and he had a master plan all prepared. Said he was bringing a bottle of Johnny and two cases of beer. Said we would drink until the sun came up and then he'd vomit all over the new porch. Apparently his vomit is laced with some ultra shiny protection and safety makers. He said that if he christened my new porch that nothing bad would ever happen to me. But then he said he was going to live in the worst ghetto in the states and try out this method.
I asked about his women, he asked about my men. I hadn't planned on being so open with him, but I told the details. His words of wisdom, "Well I say if he's got teeth, he ain't half bad."
The conversation ended with a proposal.
"Shari, how do you feel about the White House?"
"I prefer to not have an opinion on said things."
"Yes, excellent. This will work... See I have a theory."
"Christ, does it involve kiwi's, a guitar, and dynamite again? Because I couldn't get that shit out of my hair for three days."
"Nah, this is more thoughtful. It could provoke awe."
"Fuck."
"Know how your mom had a ton of conspiracy theories?"
"Yeah, my favorite was the one about the fluoride and modern day Hitler."
"Well she wasn't half wrong, but she was mostly wrong."
"What about Hitler? That guy was just a bad dude. Haven't you learned about him in History yet?"
"Focus... I'm not talking about Hitler, I'm talking about The White House."
"Right. The plan."
"So I think that your mom was partially right. The government is involved in a lot of conspiracy theories, but not in the way you'd think. See, I think they made conspiracy theories to cover up the real conspiracy theories. It's conspiracy of a conspiracy and I know how to solve it."
"Should I be drinking?"
"Yes, but then no."
"Okay, so are you going to pull out the big guns or what?"
"No, bulldozers."
"Ahh, I like how you think. I like wrecking stuff up."
"I know. That's why you have to be my partner."
"Dude, this is a suicide mission... eh, I've had a good run. Are we sharing a bulldozer? I just don't think that truly screams terrorism. Unless we paint a different country's flag on it."
"You'll have your own. I don't have all the details yet. But basically, we wreck shit up, but I get to be the one who plows through the gate. We'll start on opposite ends of the house and meet in the middle. There will be such things as flame resistant clothes, bulletproof glass, rocket launchers, glow in the dark tunnels, confetti, and snacks. And a kick ass note."
"What kind of snacks?"
"I don't know, cheese?"
"How about some fruit, fruit pumps me up."
"Anyhow, the note will say this. It's deep, man. Real deep. It'll say Shimammered."
"How's Tuesday?"
I miss the call.
At 2:34 I return the call. Ask him what he wants. Said he slipped up and called the wrong number by mistake. An hour and a half later, we hang up.
This kid, he astounds me. He's my baby. He's the one who got himself into worlds of trouble and everyone gave up. Naturally, I can empathize with that. So I made him a deal. If he cleans his act up, finishes school, applies to college, and stays off of drugs I'll take him with me to Brazil for a month. Told him I'd pay for everything and we'd do nothing but dance and drink to King Momo's delight.
This kid, he's mostly brilliant. Despite his lethal tendencies to push everything as far as it will go, he's solid. He talks like an old man... Opening lines, "Hey honey, saw you called. Everything okay?" There's a pause and I swear I heard him reclining in a leather chair and then the strike of a match lighting a cigarette. "Shari, things are swell. Just swell."
"Swell? Dude, seriously, what's wrong?"
"What? Can a 17 year old boys life not be swell?"
"No, no it can not. 17 year old boys don't utter words like swell."
"God damn it, I'm fucking swell and Aunt Kathy thinks I'm conceited."
"Well you are. Sexy bitches are often conceited. Did you inform her of this?"
"Yeah, she said that was swell."
I haven't talked directly to him (mostly been updated through his probation officer weekly) in a couple of months. We play the game of catch up and his life seems better and he's just as hilarious as ever. I told him about my new house and he had a master plan all prepared. Said he was bringing a bottle of Johnny and two cases of beer. Said we would drink until the sun came up and then he'd vomit all over the new porch. Apparently his vomit is laced with some ultra shiny protection and safety makers. He said that if he christened my new porch that nothing bad would ever happen to me. But then he said he was going to live in the worst ghetto in the states and try out this method.
I asked about his women, he asked about my men. I hadn't planned on being so open with him, but I told the details. His words of wisdom, "Well I say if he's got teeth, he ain't half bad."
The conversation ended with a proposal.
"Shari, how do you feel about the White House?"
"I prefer to not have an opinion on said things."
"Yes, excellent. This will work... See I have a theory."
"Christ, does it involve kiwi's, a guitar, and dynamite again? Because I couldn't get that shit out of my hair for three days."
"Nah, this is more thoughtful. It could provoke awe."
"Fuck."
"Know how your mom had a ton of conspiracy theories?"
"Yeah, my favorite was the one about the fluoride and modern day Hitler."
"Well she wasn't half wrong, but she was mostly wrong."
"What about Hitler? That guy was just a bad dude. Haven't you learned about him in History yet?"
"Focus... I'm not talking about Hitler, I'm talking about The White House."
"Right. The plan."
"So I think that your mom was partially right. The government is involved in a lot of conspiracy theories, but not in the way you'd think. See, I think they made conspiracy theories to cover up the real conspiracy theories. It's conspiracy of a conspiracy and I know how to solve it."
"Should I be drinking?"
"Yes, but then no."
"Okay, so are you going to pull out the big guns or what?"
"No, bulldozers."
"Ahh, I like how you think. I like wrecking stuff up."
"I know. That's why you have to be my partner."
"Dude, this is a suicide mission... eh, I've had a good run. Are we sharing a bulldozer? I just don't think that truly screams terrorism. Unless we paint a different country's flag on it."
"You'll have your own. I don't have all the details yet. But basically, we wreck shit up, but I get to be the one who plows through the gate. We'll start on opposite ends of the house and meet in the middle. There will be such things as flame resistant clothes, bulletproof glass, rocket launchers, glow in the dark tunnels, confetti, and snacks. And a kick ass note."
"What kind of snacks?"
"I don't know, cheese?"
"How about some fruit, fruit pumps me up."
"Anyhow, the note will say this. It's deep, man. Real deep. It'll say Shimammered."
"How's Tuesday?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
