PMS and the Holidays

My breasts are heavy and swollen, like two overripe melons sitting on what used to be a flat stomach.
It hurts to be a woman, sometimes. It hurts to have the voice in my head tell me I am ugly when I know I am not.
I just feel ugly and bloated. My body hurts. The hormones recede and all of me is left to dry out in the blistering sun of self-degradation. Why? Waiting for estrogen.
I can walk myself slowly out of this feeling, depending on what else is under the surface.
But the holidays spin big webs of confusion at times, cocoons of sentimentality burst forth and spread colorful wings. They land on the Christmas trees and turn into little third grade angels. Baby's first Christmases. Old brown couches and ancient history spools out from the photoalbums in my head. Yellowed. Echoing...
And I move slowly, burdened by my body, the heavy grey air, the lack of snow, the rich food, the cramps telling me not to worry...you are just PMS-ing.
I cried during the family viewing of "The Family Stone". And it wasn't a little bit of crying either. It was full blown holiday tears.
Tears I have hidden away and locked up.
Aches I have powered through, and dulled with whisky and adventure.
Fear and broken promises from the last time I really fell in love and got hurt.
So I made a resolution...not for the new year, but for today.
Just to be. And in that moment, to release things I have been dragging around.
And talk myself through what hurts, what is irrational, what is real, and then let it go.
I want to let down my guard. I would like to love again, starting from the inside out.

Well, well. Sweeeet Cola!

So I leave for Michigan soon...like 48 hours soon. And I am excited to be going there and chillin' in the mitten state. YEAH! I have so much to do until I leave, but oh well. I should not be procrastinating on this damn blog but ...here I am. Drinkin' a beer, typing to no one. And everyone. Sheesh.
So I did it. Went back to black hair and feel soooo much better. They call it Sweet Cola on the box. (too poor to go get it done in a salon, and I do it better anyways....) I love it. Mom's gonna bitch, but I love it. Twenty seven years old and mom cares about my hair color. Oh well. It was black when I was born....
Anyways, all I want for xmas is a new snowboard. And step ins. And boots. Shit! Throw in a new boarding jacket too. We'll see how this goes.

A bit of what's on my other side of the brain:


You.
Shift your eyes.
I walk out into the morning sun and blink as the night unravels.
It's gone, the magic is gone, we're gone.
All that is left is hollow, ringing with regret.
Not from me, but from you.
Look at me!
Just remind me why I chose to seek you,
to reveal myself, to be the fool.
How do you do this, like an amputation.
From reality.
Maybe just my reality.
I'm so fucking stupid.
I shoulda listened, but chose to believe.
The honeyed words of deep knowingness.
Why did I throw you the key?
So silly now, as you move onto the desert,
as you dry up and pull back to your mother.
As you choose to flourish under different rains.
And I didn't wholeheartedly want to be your fire...
raging until your pinecone shell tossed the seeds out.
I merely wanted to be a tear drop,
running down your face as you said goodbye.

The Return Of The Black Haired Bandita

Yes, I have been told to go back to black.
Too many friends have told me it is better than the brown.
They gave me the "intervention" today during the football game. And wings.
Shallow and trivial in the world news of today, but nevertheless....
this is my life sometimes.
So I am going to be raven haired once again. Ciao for now, babies!!!

Window To Her World

Luminescence, glowing candles of ochre and vermillion, everything clustered and dense.
Rich fabric, copious pillows, layers of smells creeping from the kitchen and making me drool.
No need for verbs, for grammar. Just poetry. Because that is what she is... living poetry.
Beautiful...too pretty for words. Graceful and down to earth and polished and real. A mixture of rustic refinement I have never seen.
And I admire her. And love her. And want to hang out in her space.
So that's all....just having fun at my big sister's house tonight. :)

Your Shore; tide is breaking upon your shore

Recede!
Heed these signs, says the starfish.
Halt! Salty sandy nighttime adventurous ones.
Heed! Turn back with your cinnamon-sugar doughnut legs!
Sticky sweet with the belief in magical gypsy love.
Spanning time, age, experience, poetry, love, defeat, love again.
LEAVE ME, AND TAKE ME I CRY!!!
Silly thing, thing thing.
Singing, thing.
Stinging, thing.
Craving, depraved and craving, lucid.
Really feeling normal.
Normal as in real. Really normal (meaning really honest).
I am spinning,
dreaming of a day.
Dreaming of letting go of ideas such as lies...linen woven lies printed with faces of our forefathers.
Faces exploited, cloth undressing some of the people most of the time,
dressing the unworthy in robes of ego and material things,
leaving me feeling heavy and vicitmized.
Freedom is like the starfish,
growing with the flow,
dying with the tide.

Karma, karma-karma-karma, karma Chameleon.....

"It comes and goes...
IT COMES AND GOOOOOOeeesoeoss."

The song blared raw and unfiltered on the radio. Yellow light filtered down from the molded plastic fixtures. Tiny holes piped in sound from a mesh screen. More tiny holes.
Why was THIS the first thing I heard when rising from death, or coma, or karma?
Fuck, karma. FUCK KARMA!!!
And now what?
Blame the morphine, blame the brain damage.
Wasn't there some kind of scapegoat? Any kind of useable entity?
Not in the eyes of the law. So now it was time to change all that bullshit. Snifffff. Snort.

Speaking of sniffing and snorting....shit man. It would be great to party this ride out. Don't wanna think. Don't wanna feel.

Pain, suddenly pain. More than two minutes ago. Have I been awake for two minutes????
And I am being pulled under again,
turned in the washing machine,
jaw locking,
brain slowing down to a static roar,
and paralysis.
Quiet. When I say it slowly in Spanish...sounds like "K-eye-ett-tay."

They came filing in, one after another, white coats gathering like a washed out photo of Stone Hendge. I am inside out. My vitals glowing on a green and black screen. Makes sense then, my world is reversed.
Muffled and inaudible voices, ear drums barely resonating, brain shutting it down. A black curtain closing in around the back of my eyes, even though I lay awake. FUCK!
"Cut it off," the white coats say in unison. "CUT IT OFFF!" they cry, and brandish their knives! "Off with his head!" screams an echo of a musty old memory cell, extinguishing itself in a futile attempt to fight. No old fairy tales now.
I twist under the heavy blanket of my flesh, dead weight, guilt, injury.
I cry out into the dark as a strange torque jerks my form. But I do not feel on a cellular level. My brain won't allow it. Something in the solar system of my atoms is splitting, somewhere in my milky way there is an atom bomb.

There has been time. And like any other unidentified element of reality, of this folded dimension upon infinity, I can't process how much of it has passed. But judging by the scar tissue and the wrinkles in my skin, it has passed. Cells don't lie. Well, normal ones won't. So where is my FUCKING LEG???? Who am I?

Karma 's A BITCH

His shoes made scraping sounds as he stumbled on the pavement and the trees loomed in black silouettes in the headlights. Blurry white lines and yellow dashes flickered in and out of focus. The air felt cool and his sweat oozed out of his pores edged with steroids and vodka. It was the drugs, he told himself. No, it was her. Stupid bitch. Screwing up his brand new car and where was that rim key? The ocean roared a distant rumble and it all seemed strange. Why did his lip hurt so much...salt surrounding his tongue? A ringing of high-pitched screams in his ears and scratch marks on his forearms. He ran his tongue over his teeth once more. Salt. It was blood. Tires flat and lifeless on his brand new car...where was that key to the rim? Wait, where was she?

His head felt heavy, soggy with the steroids and confused by the drugs and alcohol. Those fucking bitches! Leaving him at he side of the road. Wait. Did they really leave? No, he refused to get in. After he beat her up. He felt so bad and couldn't take the ride. He didn't trust himself and they surely didn't trust him. So now what? Just keep walking toward home, and figure out the rest later. The hum of rubber on pavement was bearely audible as he felt an iron wall slam into his back. Like a boomerang in the air his body arched and flew over the car, bones and cartilidge contracting and breaking against the force. Nothing seemed real, not even the searing blade of pain cutting deep into his conscious thought. And then it went dark.

Slowly his eyes opened, and everything was dim and the light was tinged with jaundice. The smell of bleach and stale piss permeated the air, and a low voice chanted a prayer. A single white square floated above his head, ringed in black. (" Last rights quote" end quote.) They were there. He wasn't sure if it was a dream or if it was death. But they were there. More importantly, she was there. Everyone was gathered around the steel rails of his sterile coffin, and he couldn't say a word. He just sucked air throught the oxygen tubes in his burning throat, and groaned. He looked up as if he were underwater gazing up at the sun and he willed his legs t move. They didn't. Everything was muted, garbled, quiet and removed. What did he do to deserve this?

She looked down at his bloody and crushed face; he had a black hole for a mouth. Who was this man who had been so beautiful and powerful? All those white square teeth were gone now. His blond thatch of hair was stained to rust. He had ruled her, dominated her, scared her, loved her, hurt her. He drove, just hours earlier and swung. That's how the whole damn thing started. His anger and the party. "Let's just go," he growled. "But baby, it's late and we're so far away!" But he wanted to drive home. So she aquiesced.

Flick of a Switch

I am not heartbroken.
I have simply chosen to feel things I had put to the side,
in the ugly plaid cat-piss infested guest room of my life.
The place where bad report cards are shoved under the bed,
the carpet has stains,
the speaker of one half of the stereo doesn't do anything but-ssssszzzzsssszzzzssstatic.
I slammed the door on my houseguests, life guests, and forgot to air it out.
So there they are, crowded in, festering and needing showers.
They didn't die, ironically.
And they look the same.
I half expected them to die.
Nope, just the same.
Lined up, ready to be graciously escorted out the front door. Or invited back in with a new place to stay. My room? My art studio? How about the backyard. That's a start.
I think most of them wanted to check out a long time ago,
but subconciously I liked having someone....anyone...in the guest room.
Not my room....
Shit, that sucker's been redone eighteen times this year.
And it still doesn't look right.

That's how I wound up peeking in here, and seeing all the storage piled up.
Swoop...I am getting it out.
Letter by letter, rant after rant, and then this happened:
I moved.
And through no fault of my own, the house burned down a day later.
Today.

Flick of a Switch

I am not heartbroken.
I have simply chosen to feel things I had put to the side,
in the ugly plaid cat-piss infested guest room of my life.
The place where bad report cards are shoved under the bed,
the carpet has stains,
the speaker of one half of the stereo doesn't do anything but-ssssszzzzsssszzzzssstatic.
I slammed the door on my houseguests, life guests, and forgot to air it out.
So there they are, crowded in, festering and needing showers.
They didn't die, ironically.
And they look the same.
I half expected them to die.
Nope, just the same.
Lined up, ready to be graciously escorted out the front door. Or invited back in with a new place to stay. My room? My art studio? How about the backyard. That's a start.
I think most of them wanted to check out a long time ago,
but subconciously I liked having someone....anyone...in the guest room.
Not my room....
Shit, that sucker's been redone eighteen times this year.
And it still doesn't look right.

That's how I wound up peeking in here, and seeing all the storage piled up.
Swoop...I am getting it out.
Letter by letter, rant after rant, and then this happened:
I moved.
And through no fault of my own, the house burned down a day later.
Today.

A beautiful thing....

Her eyes are like huge, luminous orbs...the color of the glass ornaments I am holding. She scans the room, vaulted ceilings and wooden beams adorned with garland. A fifteen foot tree. Some astronomical amount of wealth it took to do this....and a wealth of knowledge behind those eyes. Her eye for design and beauty directs us, begs us to measure up, to please her in her style. The style chosen for the house, and not our own. Just our own intuition and design eye. A razor in one hand, a handfull of wire in the other ... we make it happen. And it is not the things that make the house come together, the ten people working in unison. It is HER....her, her, the beauty comes from her. I can't take my eyes off of her every time I see her...like an angel, and the big sister I never had. And now I do. What a gift, a surprise. I want her to do my make up like hers, borrow her jewelry, work in her store, help her however I can. Squeeze her and cook dinner together and laugh. I love her, and admire her, and feel happy doing something creative and intense. I love her.

Trouble With Fiction

He screamed as a child, cross eyed and ridiculed, and he cried silently. He swallowed the screams, and they later rose into giant boils of acne. He faced the world just fine, pizza faced and silent fumes blazing. Echoing as he popped each white cap on his face, like a piece of corn shooting out. Fuck, man. But no one saw as he drove off into the wee morning hours. No one saw him pushing the truck down to the gully so the folks wouldn't hear the engine start. What did they remember about all this shit anyways? Narrow world, unhappy, fucking living at home at 20. What did they know of being born disfunctional and not good enough. Never good enough.
Told you weren't ever gonna be good enough. FUCK! Why not just date some imbecile fat chick with acne....suicidal...eating the wrapper on a fucking reeses like it was supposed to be edible...
At least he felt wanted.
At least he treated her right. So he thought. Better than she was ever treated before now...and he felt like a prince, a father. A good father. Or better yet, he felt needed and respected and worshipped. And needed. Needed was primary. To be the leader. Ahhh, leadership.
Better that than treating her wrong, even if she was all he got in life. Trailer trash suicidal bullshit needy crap.
She got a pregnancy test, and the folks found the receipt. He told everyone it was for her friend.
She got arrested for shoplifting. He told everyone if was her friend that put the stuff in her bag.

Fiction smells like bullshit, man. Fiction smells like the stories my brother tells. Is truth stranger than fiction???
I hope so.

Nocturne Under Seige!

She blasts me with her one eye wide, silver, all knowing.
Beckons me to howl, prowl, create, seize things!
She sings on a strange film of illumination...come play.
Come dance, let your eyes adjust.
And mine do, like a cat.
Her gaze casts shadows on the sleepy mountains,
dry and purple and quiet.
It roams cool and blue like the electric fields.
I commune with her, flowing tresses of milky way,
Lustrous mane of indigo and frosty midnight air.
Today in four hours I need to wake,
to work,
to slay my queen and bend to the daybreak on one knee.
I wonder will she be my Juliet, awakened when I poison myself to be with her?
Caution thrown wideon a monday morning, champagne downed with regretful glee,
Will she ever stop calling my name when the clock strikes nocturne...
nocturne.....nocturne.
So my last night before the discipline comes,
My last night before the pain of morning shakes me,
My last night before I solemnly resign to the day.

your hands

you cut off the tip of your finger last time we talked.
and look, it is growing back.
will your feelings for me grow back too?
or are they still there, under the surface.
is that why you can't stare into my eyes so easily?
you know how i feel, and you know what i want.
you don't want to be disappointed, or disappoint me.
is that it?
the hollow of your neck always smells good, and you always say you are stinky.
tonight you said you probably smelled of ketchup.
that is just so gross.
but you didn't.
and we ate late night dinner together, even though i wasn't hungry.
things were more relaxed this time, you in my furry fleece.
me, warming you up like a little kid.
we exchanged stories and hopes for the future.
then i saw your hands, weathered and scarred.
you looked and me and said they looked so old to you.
then you pulled them inside your sleeves.
i pulled one out, and held it.
they are working hands.
you told me on our first date you liked my hands because they were like yours,
accustomed to working. strong. plain. a year ago.
under the table your legs clamped around one of mine, like a hug.
you took my hand and moved it onto your face so i would pet you.
and i wanted to say too much, but held back.
i just thought it, instead. and you closed your eyes and leaned into my hand.
why is there so much affection between us?
why do i feel my cells screaming out to have your baby when i have never wanted one?
the amazing ache returns, but not so much that i can't breathe.
i will just wait on you....not push pause on my life.
i will just keep a little key under the doormat and hope you want to come into my heart sometime.
when you have enough to give.
when i can let you in.
when maybe just maybe we can love each other.
really, really love each other.
you told me you are patient and hardworking when making progress toward a goal.
you stay true to the course.
i will learn from you on this, and try to be patient with you.

I grew up in a log cabin

I had humble beginings, in a rudimentary way. Just a snug little cabin, with a big stone fireplace. And one great room with bedrooms shooting off the outskirts. A small kitchen was on one side, and it had these terrible orange countertops. This time of year mom would get out her big roll of duct tape and visqueen (sp?) and go to town. I mean she'd seal off all the windows and cracks in the walls... the old cabin was literally a shack. But in my mind's eye, and in old creaky photo albums, I see a soft glow from the outside. It's dark, and I am peeping in the window as a child, face numb from playing outside too long. Crunchy snow drifting around, forming dust on my newly shoveled hockey rink. I remember the sweaty mittens, laid on the air vent below the dinner table to dry out. My sister and I would sit down there because it was the warmest place in the house and defrost ourselves. And two warm brown eyes and a sheet of blonde hair would appear sideways, handing us some hot cocoa. My mom would be cooking chili and cornbread, with candles all over the house and Vivaldi playing on the stereo. Sometimes it would be Led Zeppelin or the Beatles, but then my papa would come home from work and it would change. Andy Williams, or oldies. The clink of ice in their manhattans would softly chime, and he'd play hide and seek with us. Of course it ended in him finding us, tickle time....turning into tickle torture... turning into the all time worst "whisker scrub" on the belly. Or if he was feeling sweet, just a belly blaster and big airborn hug. We'd squeal, mom's ambiance would break, everyone would be in trouble, and dinner would be served. It was at this juncture that Amanda and I battled for stupid things like the wire-legged stool and our favorite spoon. There was only one of each of the aforementioned, and we both knew how special it was to have these things. Sitting by the airvent, on the wire-legged stool, with the magical special spoon...THAT was living large. God, I wish it were that simple now.
I have one small wooden peg from the floor of our old cabin. I saved it as we tore the thing down. It used to smell like home, but the scent is all gone now. I keep it with me to remind myself how I would like to have a cabin one day. I'd like to be the mom cooking chili, warming up my kids, listening to Vivaldi. I don't have to raise my kids there, but it wouold be nice to have a getaway place in the woods. It's been so cold here in California (44 tonight) and of course it has me thinking of my childhood. Michigan. More simple times. I am sitting in the middle part right now, not a kid and not a mom. Still learning to take care of myself and figuring out how I want to arrive at these massive goals. I must say, that after all my bitching and psychoanalysis and interpretations of everything under the sun... my folks did an amazing job raising us. And the bar is set high for the future. It used to scare me so much and now it really just gives me hope and strength.

The Invisible Line

I crossed it.
That line we walk so carefully.
I just stomped over it and kept going, fueled by the desire to be honest.
Wretchedly and self-servingly honest.
Of course, I was given a shove.
Nobody grabs the wheel and gets away with it!
The wheel, my life, my body.
I realized something this week.
I like sleeping alone, and I want to keep on liking it.
It took so long to enjoy an empty bed with no warm spots.
I used to fall asleep on the couch to avoid it,
and now! Wah-lah!
It's like I never slept beside anyone, ever!
I cannot recall the feeling of intimacy I used to miss.
And while I still feel broken and sad on the inside,
life keeps going on the outside and I can voice my feelings.
So it's better than silently laying there, eyes open, back turned.
Waiting for sleep. Waiting for space. Waiting for strength to be honest.
Now I just take it, striding over the line.

Does this make me a happy person? No.
Do I take pleasure in breaking someone's hope? No. Never.
But I know this:
I will know it when I know it. Until then I will be on guard.