Lit blog

[WickedEve]

Why do I gather dead turtles and still wings? This was my dark summer and it was okay that the tortoise's head fell off. I found him on his back, dried him in the sun, left him beside the azaleas in my garden.

"Oh, that's creepy."

My children wanted to see him even more once his head went missing. We blamed the cat.

I photographed a dying butterfly, dropped to his level--his brown grassy level--for a macro shot. I wanted so much to gather him, to collect him, to keep him near the hard shell that was gradually hollowing.

I am trying to analyze this, all of this, but I've reached no conclusion, no understanding. Perhaps I'm dying and I need someone to gather me and save me.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I will not do that blog entry tonight, because I will not curse anyone with my grief. Instead I will say this.

Tonight there were strangers, of a sort, at the bar. The regulars were there, but there were two hippies out on the smoking porch. They're locals. I recognized one of them; he's a street musician here. Does stoned rock n roll, mostly, on a corner on the main street.

I went out onto the smoking porch looking for a change. I was going to tell the bar's resident Wife of Bath about my recent experience with a really exotic toy; she is someone I can confide in. When we got out there, these two hippies were there - the companion was a very quiet young man. He was dressed raggedly and obviously very bright. He laughed at every joke, quietly.

The street musician was pretty drunk, and very mellow. He was singing some Hendrix under his breath, playing air guitar, obviously hearing the song in his head like I do.

I told my grrrl the story, and then I sat back to listen. He was good; he was hearing it, and his voice wasn't bad. He was short, wearing dirty black jeans and a dirty black Guinness shirt and a dirty black leather vest with an american flag on the back. When he finished singing, my grrrl had already gone back inside, bored, wanting to keep tabs on her fucktoy of the week. I listened. At the end he looked up, apologised. Sorry, just get carried away. I said, no, it's cool. It's way cool. I was gonna ask you to do Little Wing next.

He actually looked at me then.

He looked at me, and he started to sing. He has an auditory memory like mine; I started the song in my head, and he started it too. He sang this, and I heard it, the whole thing, along with him, as he ran the track through his mind. This. He and I listened to it together. We sang along.

When he was done he looked at me and he said, Can I sing another one?

I said, by all means. By all means.

Then he sang this. For me.

People came out on the smoking porch while he was singing, but there were only two, and they know me. They had questions for me, but I held up my finger. Wait, I said. He's singing this for me.

They waited. He and I listened to this song together. He sang along.

It sounded just like that. Just just just like that. And it was exactly what I needed.

 

[vampiredust]

I seem to be drinking more lately. For years I was repulsed by the taste of alcohol, given the fact that my Father was an abusive alcoholic.

Even in my teens I was hesistant about participating in the usual rites of initiation involving cans of Stella.

But now, it all feels nice. I can't explain it. I look forward to drinking each and every day. I like continental lager - Becks, Peroni and Stella Artois - occasionally having a cool cider now and again. I don't care how much I drink or how much it costs, either.

Maybe it's life getting to me, I don't know why this change is happening. University is pretty stressfull and I don't have any friends there. If it wasn't for my girlfriend and my mother, I would have killed myself properly - once and for all - right now. Sometimes I often think how easy it would be to do that.

Just go to a few chemists and pick up enough pills. Then think about everything dark and miserable and turn off the light.

 

[Angeline]

I seem to be drinking more lately. For years I was repulsed by the taste of alcohol, given the fact that my Father was an abusive alcoholic.

Even in my teens I was hesistant about participating in the usual rites of initiation involving cans of Stella.

But now, it all feels nice. I can't explain it. I look forward to drinking each and every day. I like continental lager - Becks, Peroni and Stella Artois - occasionally having a cool cider now and again. I don't care how much I drink or how much it costs, either.

Maybe it's life getting to me, I don't know why this change is happening. University is pretty stressfull and I don't have any friends there. If it wasn't for my girlfriend and my mother, I would have killed myself properly - once and for all - right now. Sometimes I often think how easy it would be to do that.

Just go to a few chemists and pick up enough pills. Then think about everything dark and miserable and turn off the light.

Don't go there Chris! Don't go there if for no other reason that my therapist swears people who kill themselves have awareness of deep regret in the afterlife. And your mum and girlfriend obviously love you very much and you them, too much to hurt them that way.

And you know writing poetry is even better than, well, drinking. Even drinking Peroni, which I agree is delicious. Anyway, I live with a (totally sober) third-generation alcoholic who understands that he can't have even a little, even a sip because the ultimate danger of benders and misery are too great. And fortunately for him, he lives with a woman who doesn't care if she ever has another drink in her life. (We're a match made in heaven.)

Take care of yourself, please.

 

[ghost_girl]

Chris, oh honey, you are so loved by so many people. I reiterate what Angeline said.

My dad was a drinker and he loved his herb, ( I take after him in that respect and I am NOT ashamed to be a midnight toker). But the pills and alcohol can hurt you in a way that would make what ever hurts so bad now, seem wonderful. I am speaking of liver toxicity. I also have gone through rehab several times and my absolute no-nos are known as Benzodiazepines ( xanax is the one that screwed my head up, I was taking between 10 and 30 "bars" a day before hubby had me committed. I call them " benzo-crack"

Please don't go there. If you like, I will call you. If you need to talk.

Now I am wondering, what is it with writers, poets, artists that we all are deemed and doomed to suffer through our lives. It just isn't fair. My oldest daughter showed me a survey done by the Academy of Psychiatry a few years ago and did you guys know that writers, specifically poets are something like 30 times more likely to commit suicide ( than the average population)?

Please dont be a statistic, sweet Chris. Too many people love you, it would be such a waste. I just know you have a zillion more poems to write and you havent written one for me yet. And I am holding you to that.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

There was a time a while back when I really saw no point in staying here any longer. I believe I have already been as happy as i'm ever going to be; i will never experience that level of joy again. two things keep me here, and i think they could be useful to you also:

1. my suicide would make people who love me hurt, and i will not put them through that.
2. I believe there are ways in which i can still be Of Use to the world. If there ever comes a point when i can no longer raise any money for charity, no longer help anyone with anything, that will change, i suppose, but even then i will still have reason #1. seriously, doing fundraising has been a real help because i know i can still make a difference. That's a reason to stay.

keep the faith, baby.

bijou

 

[champagne1982]

I think the autumnal equinox and harvest moon simply shine a sort of light that slowly shadows our hearts. It's a hard time of year, this welcoming death season, and we need to avoid looking straight at it. Just turn and sneak glimpses of the darkling shade that lurks through October until November sees the end and snow gives us something new to look at.

I love the gold that comes with frost. I welcome the chill on my skin. I will concede that the rains of fall are harder to regard than any blizzard in winter, but oh, when the clouds part and reveal that deep blue sky, I realize how blessed life really is.

I hope things change for you. Hang out at book shops that sponsor poetry readings. You'll find a niche and university will be a kinder place.

 

[The_Fool]

I'm watching a couple, a little bit older than me, try to put their life back together. You see their son, a little bit younger than my two, decided he had done enough life, had enough pain, even though most of it was in mind. In his dark place, he said. Just knew that the girl he loved would leave him, even though they had gone shopping for rings, had made some plans. She loved him. She needed him. He didn't realize the impact. He didn't realize the pain. He knew his parents would care. Maybe a few more. But pain begets pain and sorrow thrives on grief. Tears become a river when enough people cry.

The Mom looks to God because she cannot take the pain alone. The Dad, for all intents, is also dead. Shuffling through a life bereft of joy in a daze. A man of 50 should not have such stooped shoulders, should not have to shuffle his feet from one place to another.

I can't fault the boy. I just feel the sadness, share the grief.

 

[ghost_girl]

I'm watching a couple, a little bit older than me, try to put their life back together. You see their son, a little bit younger than my two, decided he had done enough life, had enough pain, even though most of it was in mind. In his dark place, he said. Just knew that the girl he loved would leave him, even though they had gone shopping for rings, had made some plans. She loved him. She needed him. He didn't realize the impact. He didn't realize the pain. He knew his parents would care. Maybe a few more. But pain begets pain and sorrow thrives on grief. Tears become a river when enough people cry.

The Mom looks to God because she cannot take the pain alone. The Dad, for all intents, is also dead. Shuffling through a life bereft of joy in a daze. A man of 50 should not have such stooped shoulders, should not have to shuffle his feet from one place to another.

I can't fault the boy. I just feel the sadness, share the grief.

dear sweet Fool, I sent you an email, did you get it?

 

[normal jean]

,,,,,,,,,,,,

 

[WickedEve]

Deep in a glass of Green Dinosaur and in the vortex of good music (before the karaoke began) I felt myself falling in twisted love. In the middle of a Long Island Iced Tea and a pair of lips getting kissed my shade of shimmer pink, two hearts--one black, one earth tones, whatever that means--became one, like a glorious, horrific mutation. I wondered if Wicked Eve had stepped into my body, skinning the Donna from me, sucking out my Donna soul.

There were stars, hot engine hood, an orange glow and ashes... the ashes, and none of this I can really speak of to anyone.

With wrists and ankles cuffed close, Eve stitched together skin and blew the soul back in. Donna looked into his eyes, as he pressed his skin to hers, pushed his soul inside and let the less wicked one also say the dreaded word.



Damn the Green Dinosaur.

 

[Tathagata]

.



Damn the Green Dinosaur.

where I grew up there was a mini golf place along Route 1

We had an orange dinosaur

just imagine what could have happened there...

 

[WickedEve]

where I grew up there was a mini golf place along Route 1

We had an orange dinosaur

just imagine what could have happened there...

The green dino was tasty.

 

[Tathagata]

The green dino was tasty.

we had no taste in Saugus

 

[unpredictablebijou]

pecked out laboriously, 3 am

this storm, as it blows in late, reminds me.

I went to visit my father during the summers. I was eleven, that year, just barely, the year he lived near the lake. I was rail-thin and taller than everyone in my class. I was awkward, all legs and eyes and clumsy long fingers. I was shy, nervous and spoke in a whisper. I never did anything wrong. I never got in Trouble.

The lake was shallow, small, and only about a three minute walk from dad's house. It was a quiet, wealthy neighborhood, proud of their prosperous isolation, of the dirt roads that led to each immaculately paved black driveway, to the round promenades that curved past two-story porches, back in the trees. I'd walk past the immense houses in the afternoon, to the little lake, and I'd stand in the water up to my knees and feel around for clams with my toes in the thick soft sand. I'd take them home as pets overnight, set them in a pie pan of lake water on my dresser, and take them back to the lake in the morning. I loved the way they'd spit a stream of water whenever I waved my hand too close to them. How could they tell I was there? What did they see with?

Late that summer I went to stay for two weeks. It rained a lot. Something in me was hungry and I didn't know what for. To be touched more often, to awaken, to feel something new, to understand what burned around my belly, what kept me awake and pacing late into the night, looking for something but not knowing what it was. I was waking up, and I was all alone, most of the time, mostly at night, when everyone was asleep but me.

Storms would come up, small ones, late, after the hot days had mixed with the cool humid air of evening. I'd sit and listen at my window, and watch the warm rain run down the screen.

One night I realized that the screen could come out. I took it out and held my hands out into the falling rain. My arms, my face, my chest. I climbed out into the yard. It was simple. Just a doorway into the garden. Suddenly, without really realizing it, I was outside. My nightgown was getting wet. Fat raindrops fell on my shoulders and the top of my head.

This was wrong. I could get in Trouble. This was wrong. But something overtook me. I hardly knew what I was doing, but it was Correct to go back inside and put on, for some reason, a black leotard, Correct to climb silently back out the window and into the warm rain. It was Correct, hypnotically so, to begin walking down the back driveway to the dirt road, past the huge mansions set back behind the trees, to trot, invisible, along the tree line to the lake, in amazing velvety darkness. The stones hurt my feet, but I noticed only distantly. I didn't feel human anymore; I was a cat, a wild thing, a creature made of trees and rain and darkness. Breathless, I raced to the water, though I didn't know why I was running. The rain beat down on me as I ran.

I ran all the way to the lake, and didn't even slow down until I was thigh-deep in the water. The raindrops pockmarked the surface of the lake, but there was no wind at all, just the hiss of the drops falling through the branches of the trees. I could see only dimly, by the houselights of the homes on the edge of the lake, off at a distance. Flickers of yellow and white from back porch lights studded the water with diamonds, far away. All around me was rain, darkness; the water surrounded me, overtook me. I was made of water. I was nothing but water. My legs disappeared into the lake, my head, my arms, became nothing but rain and sky. I could not see my hands, or my feet. There was no me anymore; I was huge, I had ceased to have skin, I had melted into the lapping water and the black night.

Something in me swelled, became huge, bursting out of me. I exploded into stars, into raindrops. I may have been crying, or singing. Sound surrounded me, a solid, endless music of rain and water and dark. I sank down, all the way to my neck, and then under, under water where everything was black and the sound muffled and changed and infused me. I came up when I couldn't hold my breath any longer, and floated there, for hours, for an eternity.

When the rain lessened, just a little bit, I heard the shift in the sound and it reminded me where I was, Who I was. Fear came then – what had I done, what was I doing? If my absence were noticed, there would be hell to pay. I tore myself away from the water, leaving the lake as if I were ripping away half of my body. I ran all the way back home, climbed into the window, replaced the screen, breathlessly tore off the leotard and dropped the nightgown back over my shoulders. I hung the leotard behind my dresser so that it would dry without anyone noticing it. I climbed back onto the bed and put my face against the screen. Eventually, as the rain faded, I fell asleep.

The next night, I went back. And the night after that. There was no rain then, and the stars glittered down onto the water, and the slice of moon turned my skin blue. I spent the days waiting, hungry and restless, eager for everyone to fall asleep. Each night I would be paralyzed with fear that I'd be caught, and each night the hunger would overtake me and I'd go.

At the end of that visit I couldn't acknowledge the parting. I didn't say goodbye, at the end of that last night. I couldn't think about it at all. Time didn't exist, when I was there; there were no days or nights, no beginnings or endings.

My father moved that winter, to Boston. I have never been back to the lake.

 

[champagne1982]

I have always lived within 20 minutes of a lake. Even in Germany, not so much a lake though, as a quarry, filled in with car carcasses and dead trees; flooded with the ever-near-to-the-surface ground water that comes from living so close to the Rhine. The water in the Bager See was clean enough, though, the cars and tires had been there forever, overgrown with weeds and covered with silt washed off the fertile fields in this valley.

The lake here, I remember hearing that it was fed through an underground river, flowing north and east to Hudson Bay and the Artic Ocean. It's really cold and if it were deeper, I'd be willing to bet that there would be pockets of bottom ice that never thawed. Imagine what could be trapped inside; creatures of the first sea that covered this part of the continent.

I shudder to imagine the ressurection of ancient trogolytes and worms. No, I'm glad the lake isn't deeper.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I have always lived within 20 minutes of a lake. Even in Germany, not so much a lake though, as a quarry, filled in with car carcasses and dead trees; flooded with the ever-near-to-the-surface ground water that comes from living so close to the Rhine. The water in the Bager See was clean enough, though, the cars and tires had been there forever, overgrown with weeds and covered with silt washed off the fertile fields in this valley.

The lake here, I remember hearing that it was fed through an underground river, flowing north and east to Hudson Bay and the Artic Ocean. It's really cold and if it were deeper, I'd be willing to bet that there would be pockets of bottom ice that never thawed. Imagine what could be trapped inside; creatures of the first sea that covered this part of the continent.

I shudder to imagine the ressurection of ancient trogolytes and worms. No, I'm glad the lake isn't deeper.

MONSTERS! Monsters from the ID! (from Forbidden Planet, the Greatest Movie of All Time)

 

[Tzara]

MONSTERS! Monsters from the ID! (from Forbidden Planet, the Greatest Movie of All Time)

I don't know about that Greatest Movie of All Time stuff, but I might nominate one or another of those Anne Francis frocks as "Greatest Costume Design of All Time."

But then my brain has been fried by the Krell. Sorry.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I don't know about that Greatest Movie of All Time stuff, but I might nominate one or another of those Anne Francis frocks as "Greatest Costume Design of All Time."

But then my brain has been fried by the Krell. Sorry.

Man does not look into the face of the Gorgon and live. You shoulda listened to Morbius.

you rock. particularly the sig line.

Here's my favorite from her:

"I'm sure that must have been terribly clever but I don't seem to understand it."

or maybe,

"What's a bathing suit?"

bj

 

[Tzara]

"What's a bathing suit?"

I dunno,

something like this?

 

[WickedEve]

I thought breaking up with you would bring on a typhoon, at least a twister. Surely the sun would dim, stars would fall and stick in the ground and backs of cows.

Nothing major happened. I cried, we both felt sad, somewhere it rained.

I need a little earthquake--some jarring, natural disaster to shake me. Breaking up with you didn't crumble and collapse me.

Why?

 

[WickedEve]

Hugo vacuumed the dog off his carpet and moved necessary junk that must have been necessary to keep it for so long. He found wool pants underneath the massage table. His ex shrunk them, left them there in March, and now he finds them.

What kind of influence can a woman have over a man, even one who is not really trying to influence him?

Is he a better man because he cleaned his room and bought DSL, instead of swiping it out of the air? He'd probably still get pussy even with a dog-fur carpet and "borrowed" DSL, but I'm not going to tell him that.

 

[Tzara]

After a idly pleasant evening watching Cleveland drive a sharpened Louisville Slugger through the wheezing vampire's heart (I find it satisfying that, quite beside the taunt, the Yankees really do suck), I got up at 3:30 AM to catch a 6AM flight to LA.

Frequent traveler advisory note: The security lines are actually worse at 4:45 AM than they are later in the morning, despite the relatively small number of passengers, because the TSA maintains a skeleton staff that early in the marnin'. Take a later flight. Just saying.

Slept all the way to LAX, as you might expect.

After picking up my rental car, I stopped by a fast food place near the Hertz lot for some coffee. As I was walking up to the entrance, I "noticed" a hole in the wall the size of an automobile, that opened onto one of the rest rooms. A workman was clearing away debris from the opening.

That's interesting, I thought, Did somebody drive a car through the wall or has BK Corporate decided to one-up McDonald's by putting French doors on the Ladies' Room?

Let me tell ya, the money would be better spent on brewing better coffee.

 

[normal jean]

My youngest daughter turns 19 today. My oldest will be 25 in March. I am only 44. Damn, time is catching up faster than I expected. It seemed to drag by when I had to worry about school fees and whether or not some insensitive boy would hurt one of my little girls, or not. So far, so good. They are both in college and I have yet to bail either of them out of jail for anything.

I guess we did a good job, hubby and I. Although, I suspect, if I had a son, things would have been awful. Drunkenness runs on both sides of my kids' families, and it seems to strike the males with a fury. I don't drink because it makes my blood pressure soar, but never really liked it when it didn't make me sick.

19! I was with my hubby from 17 1/2 and on. I still worry about the young one, she feels alone and unloved at times, she hasn't found the "right guy" yet and I hope she finishes her degree before he comes along. But I still wish for her that someone to hold her hand and tell her she is beautiful. It doesn't mean the same coming from a mom. I know it doesn't. Hell, I still wish that for ME! Hubby tells me but it is tainted. Tainted with bruises and spit, scuff marks and pulled hair. and evil words.

That is why it is so important to me that people are real and upfront. I do not have to welcome into my fold, people whom I consider traitorous or deceitful, who have their own agenda at the cost of others. I am not in need of friends so badly that I would allow one person to dictate how I should feel about others here. I get screwed over by a person ONE time and they don't get a second chance.

For bj-

you know whatcha did. and you ain't worth the time. my ignore buttons work, just fine.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Jean:

please tell me how exactly I "betrayed" you. As far as I know, we have had no actual interaction. Go public, by all means.

namaste,
bijou