texting.
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Posted:May 18, 2017 2:26 pm
Last Updated:May 22, 2017 1:15 pm
12596 Views
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She sat at the table, listening to him explain exactly what would happen next. Her hands clasped, unclasped in her lap, her posture was straight, her eyes never leaving his face as he told her how the world had just exploded, that everything she had believed in was not true, that despite all of her faith, all of her belief, there was nothing for her to do, say, that would change a single thing.
“Do you understand?”
She nodded.
Holding her hand up like a school , for permission, she rose, leaving the table, the room, trembling, she lit a cigarette, sank to the ground, sucking greedily. Not a thought came to her, nothing. It was as if the world had already stopped. She was in a silence that stung like angry bees, her skin on fire, her face in rictus, her eyes clamped shut. If she didn’t move, if she didn’t move…..
The hand on her shoulder was heavy, real, she looked up into the eyes of herex-husband, eyes she loved, filled with what? He pulled her up, His arms holding her until her legs found purchase. Patting him, they moved together slowly, pushing the Man out of the door into a day so bright that they all three turned their heads towards the ground.
The Man left. Her husband left. She walked the dog.
A text from her lover…she lifted the phone, desperate.
She typed in…………I can’t breathe.
She waited for the phone to ring.
he texted…..he had errands.
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7
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Jambalaya
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Posted:May 14, 2017 3:13 pm
Last Updated:Jun 6, 2017 12:07 pm
14491 Views
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If she had this baby, she would call her Jambalaya. She could still hear her mother’s voice singing that old song when she was little, jambalay’, craw fish pie and a fillet gumbo, wiggle in her walk, giggle in her talk, cara mio……at least she thinks those are the words she remembers. The sound of her voice so deep, crackly, the smell of cigarettes, the motion as she bounced along with her quick steps, each step giving her a peek of the road, her small hands clutching the long thick braid like a lifeline.
By the time she was old enough to write words, she existed in a house with many , tended by sisters who swept the floor even if their feet were right there, broom bristles scratching them as if they didn’t exist. Just something else to be pushed out the door into the dirt they called a yard.
If she had this baby, she would run.
In the middle of the town was a fountain without water. There had been no water in the fountain that she could remember. It was the deep cobalt blue tiles that drew her, the dream of water, the color of her eyes. Unlike all the other girls with deep brown eyes like the earth in the rain. One of the older girls stole her shoes, the little ones fled from her like shadows. Her days were lonely, her nights long.
As she stood by the fountain chipping a corner of a tile, a tiny boy ran past her, gleeful, only to fall on the uneven ground, his knee beginning to bleed. She ran to help him, pulling him into her lap, wiping his knee gently with her skirt, while he pulled on her long braid. She softly hummed as she wet her skirt in the flowing fountain, cleaning his cut. He sighed, leaning back into her belly.
Suddenly, smiling broadly, he yelled “PAPA”.
A man with a cane limped toward the two of them. He sat, breathless on the edge of the fountain, gasping. His eyes filled with love for the boy, as he shook his head, wetting his bandana, wiping his neck.
“Do not run from me, you know I cannot follow.”
“Si Papa. But she fixed me, see?” holding up his leg, waggling it. The small cut was clean, already closing.
The man frowned, turning about but seeing no one. He picked up a small piece of cobalt blue tile from beside the boy, thought again of his ’s mother, slipping it in his pocket.
“Come Jamba. Time for us to go, eh?”
“Si Papa.”
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14
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my neighbors, the pooper scoopers
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Posted:May 9, 2017 2:49 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2017 2:57 pm
14692 Views
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right this second as i sit at my computer, i am watching the three year old across the street. he has pulled down his pants and is pooping on his front lawn.
usually his gramma or grampa are with him. i think he escaped. he seems very proud of himself.
oops, here comes gramma.
NOT HAPPY.
one armed lift. ouch.
here comes grampa........clearly he has clean up duty...doody?
here comes big brother to watch. lots of pointing and laughing. Grampa is holding his nose. OMG. he just slipped the bag into the neighbor's trash can. that is so not acceptable...snork. now all the are out front, discussing.
suburbia. you take your excitement where you can get it
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18
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What's your signature move? prove?
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Posted:May 7, 2017 3:10 pm
Last Updated:May 8, 2017 2:12 pm
15509 Views
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They say that everyone’s signature is utterly their own. that if an analyst were to look at your signature they would be able to tell a lot about your personality, about your strengths, weaknesses, whether you are male or female (yeah I know but just saying, some signatures you can’t even see a name rely). My signature you can sort of read as a name. When I look back to my signature before I became a person who had to sign stuff all the time it was much more legible. Now it’s loops and a tail. It’s said to show an openness and a willingness to learn as well as a discerning eye.
.
But here’s what I really want to know. What’s your signature move? I know you have one. We all do. If you are over 35, you probably have more than one. I will tell you a few and you can tell me whether you have used it…..if it’s your signature move, maybe it’s also out there being done by at least one other dude I know in the biblical sense.
The infinity. You know the infinity sign? The figure eight lying on its side? Well I’m enjoying some lovely rough sex years ago and suddenly D starts this motion. While watching me like a hawk, I might add. It was good. At the midpoint it hit the G spot perfectly. Then went out to the walls sweeping back, G spot, out to the other side…..not bad at all. I was moving up to climax when he said, 'that’s my signature move, infinity'.
Who names these things? I felt the explanation was at best redundant, pulled his hips in tighter and prayed for silence.
The wheelbarrow. Self-evident, no? And to be honest should only be done if you’re really stoned because it’s hilarious. Although if done straight, I tell you, the man can get very pissed off if you start giggling. If THIS is your signature move, change it. Seriously, dude.
So, for the yoga freaks, underline freaks. I had this dude who used those big balls all the time, he even sat on them while using his computer, eating, yada yada. Got an idea where this is going? The apartment is very yoga-y. Nice wood floors, not a lot of furniture, smells like patchouli. We’d had some kind of grain crap for dinner but at least there’d been wine. Lots of touching, lots of oil. Nice cock. He’s sitting on the ball, pulls me on top and says, "this is my signature move". We begin to bounce.
All I can think is this is one very lazy mofo cuz, I’m getting next to nothing. , Well, maybe a little nauseous. But remember the oil? As we bounce, his slippery ass starts to slide and as he adjusts (did I mention my legs were wrapped around him?) physics reared its sane science head.
I called the ambulance because even agile yoga men can break a wrist when trying to throw 150 pounds of woman off their cock as they fall backwards. No idea if he still uses that move.
But I am interested in yours. Do tell.
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16
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Posted:May 5, 2017 12:51 pm
Last Updated:May 11, 2017 3:01 pm
15458 Views
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You had to walk through a long tunnel held up by lichened rock, the air so damp it smelled like rain on fresh turned soil, deep, rich, alive. At the end, you pushed upward into a room of plank wood cut three foot wide, the floor only held five of the planks. If you stood more than 6 foot, the need to stoop was in your bones, though you would have cleared the ceiling, albeit not by much. Four lines of benches. A wooden cross inlaid into a simple altar of rosewood canted vaguely to the left.
To walk the tunnel took faith. One did it in silence, sat in silence, in darkness until the heavy wooden door was pulled closed. Candles were lit then, the room filled with voices, hands touching other hands, assurances given, babies passed one to the next. Voices ricocheting, leaping, trapped as they were. The Lean man stood, smiling, his hands clasped tightly, his eyes searching the room until at last they came to rest on his feet.
The woman in the front handed her to her man, stood, turned, notes of rich beauty flew from her, like a breeze, lifting the hair from your neck, the song lifted the notes from the breasts of the people gathered, until the room disappeared from under the tent feet of dirt that covered it, the people from the darkness of the days they endured, the men from the burden of not being able to protect their families, the women from the pain of their men.
For the next hour, in this place, these people were together. When the young people left with the mother who had sung, the elders stayed on. With only 90 minutes until curfew, they fought time, laid out the maps, lists, voted. Only three of them would know all of it. They all agreed that it was better that way. Straws were drawn. It was not perfect. Two more meetings.
They left in knots of two and three. The Lean Man sat alone in the deafening quiet. His heart beat strong and steady. He no longer prayed. He did what he had to. He wondered if he was insane.
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8
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#30 Symposium Dreams
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Posted:Apr 30, 2017 1:39 pm
Last Updated:May 3, 2017 3:06 pm
14880 Views
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The room was dark, a light from the window in a far room cast a shadow of the door on the wall. A woman in a single bed, twisted to the side, a sharp intake of breath bringing her upright. Her eyes were wide, wild, her hands flying, batting at the empty space before her. A sound, something between a sob and a groan, low guttural, not strident, two notes. A deeper sound like an oboe.
She swung her legs to the side, feeling for slippers, grabbing the robe hanging on the knob of the headboard. Covered, she slid silently into the hall. Her right hand tapped automatically, one two three four. It slowed her heartbeat. Silently moving through the halls, she passed door after door, turning left at the end into the open room.
Her fingers dampened, she repeated the four taps, her mind pleading for release. The only light from candles, so few these days, but now in the dark they seemed enough. She moved slowly up the center aisle.
Her heart quieted, her tears drying.
She stopped where she always stopped knowing if she waited long enough, the sun would light the window, day would find her. She prostrated herself on the cold floor, arms spread to the side, feet crossed over each other. The cold on her heated cheek was a relief. Finally able to settle, allow thought to enter, her breathing slowed.
Hours later, as the sun began to rise, he found her as he had so many times before. He knelt to speak to her. One touch sat him back. The light through the glass, hit her. He closed her eyes, wondering if peace comes for those who have the courage to seek it, nearly tripping on his cassock as he rose.
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10
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D.I.V.O.R.C.E.
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Posted:Apr 28, 2017 1:42 pm
Last Updated:Apr 30, 2017 9:58 am
15651 Views
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My Da was a fisherman. I think he craved the solitude. He had been a soldier and it hurt him deep so something about fishing helped to calm him. Opening day was always a big deal. Didn’t matter what else was happening, he was going fishing. He had a small boat with a little puttputt motor. He had waders. He had a hat where he hooked his home made flies. He had a pipe and his tobacco. ( sic. I have a picture of him on my bedroom wall at sunup on opening day, a tall lean man in waders, standing in a pond about knee deep………to me, it is the epitome of elegance. )
I was the second and not afraid of worms or flopping fish. On vacations, I would climb into the boat, sit quietly bait hooks, wait for a bite, inhaling the sweet cherry scent of my Da’s tobacco. My long frizzy hair becoming a tangles mass, I’d strip off my shirt (hey, I was three), sit back, revel in the first rays of the sun, unhook a catch, grinning widely at a beautiful rainbow trout before letting them flop back into the water.
No one in my family ate fish so we just let them all go. All those beautiful fish we caught, mama’d make us fishsticks. I never ate fish until I was out of the house. Da didn’t seem to mind much. He’d hold them low over the side and watch them go free, smile back at me, tell me to keep count so we could brag on it.
Then, as luck would have it, Da met Johnny. Johnny wanted to learn to fish or maybe he just wanted to get away like Da. Doesn’t matter. Da had a fishing buddy, I was kicked to the curb. It about broke my heart until I discovered boys. Johnny was a good guy though. He always made us laugh but his wife was sort of like sucking on a lemon. As much as Da liked Johnny, that’s how much mama didn’t take to Joan. In those days, couples had couple friends. Da and Johnny would have to sneak out fishing…. Mama called them thieves.
It would have all been just fine but for the fact Johnny couldn’t catch fish but Da could so when Johnny started bringing home fish, Joan got suspicious. Seems to me she should have just been happy. Mama said it wasn’t in her. Anyway, one Saturday, she called. I picked up the phone, said Da was out fishing.
Mama snatched the phone from my hand. Joan said, well Peg since both our men are gone, let’s go shopping but mama said she couldn’t as she had no one to watch the ….. an hour later, guess who arrives, pulls all the way in the driveway, like she’s there for the week.
Two hours later, the dads pull up out front. They come down the drive, stinking of fish, Johnny all smiles, slapping my Da on the back, until he sees Joan sitting with mama, watching us in a wading pool.
My Da says…”looks like something fishy is going on here”. I know, right? My mama shoots him the stink eye cuz she just had to spend two hours with someone she can’t stand. Johnny says “well, there you are, I’ve been looking all over for you.” Mama laughed at that.
Long story short, Da and Johnny continued to fish together forever. Joan left. Johnny married someone mama liked who liked mama and Johnny. They had a , called Bruce. I never did care for that name.
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12
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the dinner party
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Posted:Apr 25, 2017 3:35 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2017 1:40 pm
15203 Views
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She had a list of words lingering in her mind, holding spaces open for ideas to form around them. They made her head pound, the empty spots. The places waiting to fill up, like relentless petty hitting cacophonous tin toys, wide eyed, staring, mouths agape, not domesticated, feral.
Dreams would tease her, tumultuous images bleeding into incandescent colors, drenching her sheets as if with passion, waking her chagrined, lost, timidity causing her to pull the covers tight to her chin, to cover her nakedness. She, alone, “marrying the bed”.
Days wandering wondering lost found, alone.
The night of the dinner party, she had the table set by 3:00. As she showered, carefully lifting her pendulous breast, sponging underneath, it occurred to her that if no one came, tonight she would kill herself. The stillness of the thought calmed her.
As people arrived, one handed her a bottle of absinthe. She hunted for the tiny glasses wrapped in velvet her had given her years ago. She placed them on the table for later. Words were flying, dancing, cavorting, playing games. She sat watching the chicanery, her hand lifting the cigarette to her lips, nodding, smiling. It seemed to take forever, this dinner, this evening.
Subliminally, she knew the words were rubbing up against each other.
Would they never leave?
The spaces were filling up.
Whatever had she been thinking when she’d made desert?
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12
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.....men.....
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Posted:Apr 23, 2017 3:08 pm
Last Updated:Sep 6, 2017 9:51 am
14503 Views
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In the distance you could see the purple mountains as the sun moved, lit the base, struggled to rise to the skies. The saguaro had bloomed this week, pink muhly, Indian fig, agave. The land as lush as one would see it before the summer heat beat it back to dried grasses, sturdy succulents and sand. The truck pulled alongside his flatbed, He was leaning on the hood, eyes on the horizon, didn’t move, not an inch.
A so thickly furred it looked to be close to dying in this heat, tongue out, jumped from the truck and came to sit at his feet. The Man following him was tall, lean, sporting a farmer’s tan, in no hurry. Hsi hair was soaked with sweat. They took a steady account.
“You Cal’s ?”
A nod confirmed the assumption which given the fact that only two men stood within 20 miles of the spot was a safe bet.
He pulled the tarp off. The men lifted the box from one truck to the other.
“Cal was a of a bitch”
A nod sufficed.
The jumped up with the box, settled. The men drove off in different directions.
By the time the truck crossed state lines, the sun was down, the air had cooled. The Mountain Man opened the basket she had packed for him and the dog. They sat under a tree that had branches not needles, the man’s hand in the dog’s ruff, the steady and calm. Another day, they’d be home.
This time when they loaded, the rode shotgun, his face out the window, drinking in the wind. They stopped to kip for some hours but both wanted home. It was past witching hour when they saw the lights. The pushed out the window, running the mile or so left, his legs needing to move, his bark giving voice to their return. By the time the truck caught up, she stood on the porch, her hair undone, with hot coffee in her hand.
His body unwound. His mind let it all go. He stepped up in two, found his hands sifting curls, coffee forgotten.
“Well?”
He just looked at her, no idea what she meant.
“What was it?”
“Oh, a box”
“A box?”
“Yup”
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t open it.”
She laughed, pulling him inside….
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13
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dining with Rilke
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Posted:Apr 19, 2017 4:13 pm
Last Updated:Apr 23, 2017 1:29 pm
14893 Views
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I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.
I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everyday jug,
like my mother’s face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm. Rilke
Honestly I didn’t know what to say when he asked me if I was all right. It’s the kind of question people ask but rarely want an honest answer to, usually preferring I’m fine, being released from the need for further discussion. But in some moments, the question really needs to be answered more fully and if it isn’t you lose your chance (forever I think). The ship sails, waters calm, and the expectation of real truth anywhere in the future dims a bit more until finally the light just goes out.
Of course I didn’t want to sound petulant or demanding. I wasn’t feeling either really. I was feeling if truth be told like a fox with one leg in a trap, deciding whether I would prefer to be a three legged fox. One who’d quietly wait until everyone was gone to chew off my foot so I could escape relatively unharmed, rather than speak up and see what unholy chaos that caused.
Women are so often told that they are being dramatic, demanding, critical of the smallest things. And we are. Eh, someone has to consider the grand picture, the longer story, implications for the epilogue….
The issue becomes the time invested, the emotional connection. Is this a man that I consider, as Elaine would have put it, sponge worthy? Is there a reason for me to think that he would be a ship for me through a deadly storm? Or even that he would know the things about me I consider necessary to understand my train of thought? Perhaps it’s too early to know, too early to answer or is too late to prevaricate.
The hesitation has already made a point of the moment. He waits for something but I find myself lost in indecision. the relationship hanging in the balance when just moments before we were talking about Guerilla and Singleton. He tilts his head, raises his beer to his lips, sips, and waits. He gives no quarter. I find this attractive. It appeals to me that he has not repeated the question.
“I was thinking of my ” my heart pounds as these words come out of my mouth.
He sits quietly, waiting.
As I talk, he asks questions softly. The sounds from the room filter back in. He fills my glass.
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10
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Shame
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Posted:Apr 13, 2017 4:34 pm
Last Updated:Apr 19, 2017 2:14 pm
16067 Views
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When you’re young, you are so full of yourself. I remember this particular day, this particular dress. It was long, olive green, a tee shirty thing with a scoop neck front, long to the floor. I was very slender and had very small breasts so did not wear a bra with, and it made me feel grand. It was a hot day, my skin was deeply tanned, my hair frizzy and wild from the humidity as I left the house to meet a friend for a drink.
The sidewalks were filled with girls in halter tops, cut off daisy dukes. Men shirtless in shorts. The sun relentless. I was happy, flipflopping my way through the crowds, pausing to look at the stuff the street vendors had out, eager to see the person waiting for me.
A hand on my arm, pulled me to a halt, the flow of the walkers balking. A woman of about 40, with two others of similar age, tightened around me. I smiled helpfully, thinking them in need of directions.
“Put on some clothes” she hissed.
She tossed my arm down as if it were infected. The three marched off, erect, disdainful.
I stood there, unable to move. People who had heard, seen scurried off. A young man, tried to say something but left, lowering his head. The sidewalk began to move again. I was buffeted by people wondering why I stood so still, there, in the middle. I turned, let the flow of the bodies move me along until I came to the cross street that led me to the side street, to the turn, another turn, to home.
I slipped off the dress, it fell to the floor.
I stood in the shower, the water beating a steady rhythm, in time my heartbeat slowed to match.
It is not easy to like yourself. A woman stole from me this time.
ground, time. me
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12
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rambling of a disjointed mind
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Posted:Apr 12, 2017 2:57 pm
Last Updated:Apr 19, 2017 2:11 pm
16380 Views
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Willow weep for me
This phrase was on my lips this morning. I often wake trailing a line from a song. My room was too warm, covers kicked off.
The willows are showing the first shimmer of green, the first trees to promise winter is over. the sky is still light at 7PM, flying down the hill on bicycles in t shirts.
Less than 10 days ago the streets were covered with a piles of snow. Dark would have fallen by now. I live where I live for this. To see the world come alive, grow, wither every year. To remind me of what’s possible, that nothing is forever. that the hardest things we have to do, endure, witness are finite.
I think of my . His life is played out in minutes. the minutes become hours, become days, become weeks. the most awful thing to bear, if you bear it for five minutes, you can bear it for five more minutes. And then another five. That’s just the truth of it.
Time is altered only by your use of it
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When I was learning to meditate, the hour given to its practice seemed endlessly long, almost a torture. Now I can sit for hours in meditation without feeling the passage of time, refreshed instead of creaky. A weekend retreat passes in the blink of an eye. Like being lost in a book, if you can remember how that felt as a …it’s never felt quite the same since.
You know the world Louis Armstrong sang into being… lord he had the saddest eyes, praying for a world that didn’t exist to exist….how many years ago? I ask myself, did I do anything, anything at all other than bide my time?
Weeping willow tree
Weep in sympathy
Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me
When the shadows fall, hear me willow and weep for me
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11
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To link to this blog (wickedeasy) use [blog wickedeasy] in your messages.
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