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To feel everything so deeply.
The baby's newborn cry that wales in the freshly birthed night, still damp from its mother's womb. The stranger that shivers on the streets of despair from bad choices, hushed voices cast out because they dare not cry out loud. The young kid who stares out the bedroom window feeling alone while the parents downstairs scream and throw punches and pain at each other. The whisp of a spirit welcoming a brother, a son, a daughter, a sister, father, mother...a friend. The void that is left for the rest. Accomplishments and pride of finally learning to balance and ride on two wheels. The freedom of running through a newly mowed field... kite tails flapping in the cool, crisp wind. The mend of friendships and broken dreams... and what it means to really love without measure. To feel everything so deeply is life's wealthiest treasure. It is our blessing, if we choose to embrace it.
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Boxes.
That is all that we own. Boxes. That is all that we fit into. Boxes spin the Earth on her axis. Boxes are for asses hats and crayons. Mahogany red never looked so dead until it lined a casket. Boxes. It is what we fit into. I didn't know him well.
He was a Chiropractor on Seventh Street, and he made his rounds, around the olde town. He always had a story to tell, and good bits of knowledge dripped from his mouth, if your ears had the time. He had been around the world and back, and he enjoyed art in all of its forms. He commissioned a painting from me once. It was his idea for the Smiling Buddha... the cherry blossoms lining the sides was my gift to him. He grinned from ear to ear when we unveiled it. Hung it on his wall and lit it up. As the days passed, I would run into him on Seventh Street, he always bought me a drink and we would talk about life, about Palmer, and future projects. Colorful is a word that suits ole Doc... And we will miss seeing him walk his rounds about town. He was a Doc of the people. He would take a twenty, a chicken, or a beer for payment, and leave you well adjusted. Doc didn't have many judgements because he understood shit. He knew folks struggled, and that they weren't all bad. Doc Ducey was a good friend to have. He will be missed. Plucked from the falling stars,
she rose above heaven. She rose beyond what is real on the Earth. She was able to see with her own eyes all of the deceit given to her by friendly foes, and all of the discrepancies her loved ones were born with. She chose to love them anyway. Maybe they could appreciate her friendship, her beauty, her artistry, if she chose the road that rose in altitude. Ah, but the air it thinned, Ah, her bleeding heart they skinned, and tossed her out to feel the bitterness of a cold deceptive hand. She felt it. Over and over again... and still chose the road that rose in altitude. They came at her like a swarm.
What was meant to be warm and fuzzy wasn't. Disjointed apparitions that shadowed her every step. Tugging her denim pant legs, tugging. Whispering tattered white lace lies. Filigree of smoke and mirrors and she knew it. But no one else did. She could only watch as the others followed the breadcrumbs of dust and speckled light. Gone off into the forest at night. The swarm followed. Sometimes,
legs hold the faces of friends. It hurts when their feet carry your friends away. Sometimes, the bodies should stay when it matters. A show of support, a splattering of acknowledging your dreams. But the legs carry on without thought... weightless beings carrying the faces of friends.. and it hurts. Sweat dribbled down his disoriented head. It was scorching hot in the mid-day sun. At least, he thought it was mid-day, it was hard to tell. His eyes were still finding it hard to adjust to the vibrant and blinding light of day. How long had it been? He remembered counting the shadows as they played around the door jamb of that dank, dark room he had been in, and he tried to count the passing days, but the man never let him see any windows. The sweat stung his squinting eyes.
He had no idea where he was. He felt the grass under his boney feet and that in and of itself brought some relief to his panic. He tried to run, but the atrophy in his muscles, and the loss of weight made him stumble. Smashing his hands down hard on the ground, he let out a muffled cry. He needed to get away, but he needed help and attention too. He didn’t want that man to hear him cry, or groan, or say anything. He didn’t want to make a sound, and yet he had to. As he lifted his head from the disjointed fall, the clouds cast over the sun and shed some relief on his still focusing eyeballs. As he scrambled for strength to get up, he could just make out a line of parked cars; he was in the city. He was near public buildings, and across the way, he saw what appeared to be a telephone booth. He had never used a pay phone, and he hoped that the one coin he carried in his ripped up pants would be enough. It had to be enough. I drove with her in the trunk for some time. It felt like days, but they tell me it was merely hours. I remember the snow in the ditches as I drove, and how they cascaded and morphed their shape into white misty dunes. I thought about driving into them, but I didn’t want to die that way. I never wanted to freeze to death, I hate the damn winter. Why I chose north as my direction, I do not know. I remember it was so frigid outside, I could hear the snow squeak under the car tires as I pulled into that abandoned cul-de-sac. There was a small gulley between some heavy pine trees off to the side, and it looked so peaceful. I thought that would be a good place for her. When I stepped out of the car, the air was so sharp it made me cough and lose my breath. The snot in my nose froze instantly, making my sinuses sting. I didn’t think to bring any gloves, so I pulled my shirt sleeves down around my hands. It didn’t do much good cause the air still hurt my fingers. Maybe it took me awhile, because I didn’t want to look at her body, but I had to open that trunk. There she was, stiff and blue. Her head was tilted back so I couldn’t see her eyes at first; they were staring up at the white sky, but I had to pick her up. Her body was heavier than before, and I had to use her blanket to hoist her out of the trunk. My nose was burning, and my hands hurt as I drug her from the car to that gulley between the tall snowy pines. It was freezing, and I wasn’t dressed for it. Damn northern winter. The snow was too deep and I kept falling. Once, I fell on top of her and had to look at her glazed eyes. It was the snow’s fault. She expected everything.
All things consumable, gifted upon silver platters. Nothing else mattered you see, except around, and exactly where she be. It was her spot of Rome. It was her comfort zone. No support would be given outside of her smudgy lines that begrudgingly striped those walls. This man, that man, those people... She took their time and pocketed what she needed. A well oiled vacuum. Sucking ferociously. Ah, there was only room for one. Her feet sat prim and proper as her judgments flung themselves on the floor. "It's my age that will show you to the door" she'd say. No one dared ruffle her feathers. Those freshly shined, pointy-shoed feet never stepped outside of her comfort zone. Knock em dead.
Discuss the shit they dread. Use words that facilitate. Underline and appreciate. Don't sugar coat. Sugar creates cavities. Cavities are holes that weaken our enamel. Be the beautiful jackal that feeds upon the morsels left behind. Speak your mind. My Version
When I am old, I shall paint with a spatula, and a barbeque brush, and I will use my curtains as canvases. When I am old, I shall wear Spandex while I paint- to keep my creativity from overflowing. When I am old, I will keep my skin glowing with mayonnaise and cucumber slime For all I will have is time to fancy myself any way I see fit. When I am old, I will spit while I can and drive over the speed limit. I shall wear Spanx around my sagging breasts and Spandex on my wrinkled ass if only to perk me up. When I am old, I shall dress like I am twelve and do the Hula in my yard every Saturday morning while I screech church hymnals at the top of my old lady lungs. When I am old, I shall paint with a spatula and a barbeque brush. I will use toilet seats as canvases and put them up for sale in my yard… if only to drive the neighbors nuts. Divided,
like a graded rift in the ocean floor. They didn't know each other anymore. Swimming through life, fluid in their movements but broken in their feelings... allowing the depth and meaning to swift away in the currents. What was it? What was the adhesive that connected soulful fibers together? Was it too far gone? Washed away and eroded in the flooded gravel road of life? Two jobs, no job, husband, kids and wife... torn in half. Divided like an ocean rift. The migraine maniac
muscled in on me. That asshole took my evening away. Strong armed into unconsciousness. Nightmares of people in white marching on the neighborhood. It wasn't good. They stole my van, and left an old man yodeling The Gambler on my lawn with my children. My garage furniture tumbled in to the alley and was smashed to bits by an old lady riding a piano. Poor tables, desks and dressers never asked for such punishment. The fireman showed up and took my stolen vehicle report. There is irony in that. My kids were chased by a litter of black striped cats and old Kenny Rogers outstayed his welcome. Curse you, Migraine Maniac! I love you all.
This is my unadulterated fault in this world. It belongs to me. My foot stamp of unknown watery depths. I love you all. With all of your unadulterated faults, your quagmires of lonely luggage lined up in the hall. With your cup that overfloweth from your brain to your mouth unfiltered in spectral colors that drip like opinionated wrinkles. Never glossed over, touched up or covered. Never pilfered from who you are. I love you all. Even with your nicks and chips, dents and scratches, pristine and gleamy, Full of Me, -never doubted you for a second- -what can I get- outlook on life. I love you all. This is my unadulterated fault in this world. No apologies given, none accepted. Part I
The drifter rumbled into town with the thunder. An oblong sack slumped over his shoulder, Just waiting to seize the moment... The moment of contact. Shuffling down the gutters, counting the open shutters and coughing up his slime along the way. Someone was going to die. There needn't be a reason why 'cept to stave off an insatiable appetite. Thunder rumbled into town with the drifter and pelted the blackened streets with sheets of an evil, melancholy rain. That oblong sack screamed of timing. It was hungry, and thunder was the perfect cover to stifle the last gasps of its prey. Part II With every soul shattering clack, the drifter clenched his sack... whispering patience as he peered in through the slats of unsuspecting panes. Months had passed from his last feeding and his nefarious urges were seething causing his fingers to clench. He had been here before, and could smell the stench of live blood in the dripping, stormy air. Finding the perfect specimen was a force to be reckoned with for sure. There could be no mistakes. In a sudden slice of 2 A.M. light his eyes lay upon the tonic; the fleshy nectar needed for his shakes. Part III Then the early morning sky cracked open and he attacked his chance to enter the home of some forgetful woman... God-fearing unbeknownst to the killer that he was. She slept with silver daggers and crosses forged from willow bark. The drifter dropped his duffel at the door, for the first time in a thousand years fear filled his cavern more than ever before... as she fooled him. She didn't forget to lock that door... she baited it, beckoning for the return of the lover that turned her away from God. She got him, oh she got him good. A severed head thudded to the floor, leaking its slime... cold, dead, dark eyes blinked one time more then turned to ashes at her scorned, forlorn feet. Her revenge of the blood-lustful drifter made her feel complete, and washed over her in sheets like the streets full of melancholy rain. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |
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