Not Seeing Red.

There were a thousand haikus sent to Mars.  It was a contest.  And humans sent in their thoughts, their pens to papers, to see it off to circle the Red Planet. 

 I have never been a master or the haiku. I think somewhere I have the one I did in fourth grade.  In my corduroy pants and polyester stripped shirt, I tried so hard. There were piles of crumpled papers everywhere before it was settled.  I transferred each word ever so carefully with my tiny hands on to cardstock. I cut the cardstock in half, after bending it to make sure the ends met exactly.  Then, I cut a piece of bright green construction paper the same way.  I used just enough Elmer's clue to put my haiku on the green, half sheet.  I carefully put a huge book on it overnight to dry, so the ends wouldn't curl up.   I hadn't even truly mastered handwriting, but somehow, I was supposed to come up with a fucking haiku. A decorative, fucking haiku, at that.  I remember doing the project begrudgingly, but I really gave it my duty-all. I turned it in, got and didn't get an A. I was mad, and I argued, with no relief - No one listens to you in the fourth grade.  And I DID NOT get an A, because the structure was incorrect.  NOT because it didn't make sense.  I got marks off for making up a word, a name for something that didn't exist. I got marks off for using my imagination. And I never did it again. That was the end of my haikuing career. 

But, to have your words put into space - just circling and circling a dry, desert, red, planet. The papers encased in metal and cold silence, held into place by forces we know of, but can't feel to the touch. I should like that.  I should admire that. But, I'm not sure if I like the idea or not.  I've been disinterested with Mars ever since we found out the Face of Mars was just a rock formation.  I think I liked it better when it was a face.  I just don't think a bunch of haikus are going to make me feel better about that loss. 

But, did I do anything better today?  I did my laundry. I did hang out my red underwear on the clothes line to dry. At the time, I did feel like I had done something brilliant, getting all the house chores done.  But, none of it will go into the history books. Of that, I am completely sure of.  

It's been quite a few long months.  And there will be a few months more, before things are settled.  I've been very quiet lately.  I think some people think it's depression.  It's not.  I'm just enjoying the quiet.  Preparing my reserves.  Enjoying the quiet. It's a little like cleaning out a dirty garage, filled with dust and clutter, and used and broken things. Old Christmas decorations, the too small and rusted bike, the cans and bottles for recycling, the tools, and smeared oil stains.  Hard work to get all that done.  But, when it's finished, I want to repaint the walls of my empty mind garage, redo the floor and the ceiling. That's what I've been doing.  I just want to sit in there, and enjoy the work done, and clean and quiet.  I know like any garage, there will be stuff, new stuff, piling up in it soon enough. It is our nature to continue to collect.  

I have been listening to music.  My favorite song of all is Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata - all three parts.  It may be, for me, the most touchingly brilliant piece of music ever.  I can listen to it over and over again, and never get tired of it.  Some day, I think that I will even have sex with someone to it.  And I would probably cry through the whole damn thing.  How could I not? But, that would be a very special person indeed.  I would never put my blessed Beethoven in harms way by attaching him to some ordinary sod.  And if I die before that happens, then so be it.  I do suspect I will die before it happens.  Hasn't happened in the first forty years, and not be super crass, but that's really going to have to be one hell of a guy and one hell of a penis. The purity of the song must remain above all. 

I had it turned way up in my headphones, so loud that my ears almost hurt. I laid next to the bed with my legs up on the edge my back on the cold floor. The floor was so nice.  My eyes closed and the dog's breath on my face.  And when it was done, I just played it again, two more times.  Beethoven is history, that will never be undone, or defeated.  All we have is his music. No one left who knew him.  But these notes, from a brain, a human brain.  He heard them in his mind - his brain.  Completely incomprehensible. We barely have any humans that reach this level of miraculous.  We barely know anything about the brain.  I hope in our studies we don't undo Beethoven like we did Mars.  

After that, I went out to hang my underwear...but, not a haiku.  

The Pending Drop of the Sootikin...and what it really means for the rest of us.

There is real magic.  I really think there is.  You can say it's shit.  But, even if you disagree with me, well, that doesn't mean that I'm wrong. Really, I don't care if people believe anything that I know to be a truth.  I'm not in the game of convincing anyone.

The word, with it's strange combinations of letters that don't seem to go together in any other word - even that demonstrates what can be seen or smelled, or touched, or imagined....all those things.  That word doesn't even seem real, like some kind of strange intangible state that we'd all like to be apart of.  Yeah, I haven't seen much of it lately.  That's really the fucking pisser in life, when you haven't been seeing any magic lately.  And I'm not talking about that fake-ass Las Vegas with Tigers and Shiny Short Dressed Ladies kind of shit.  I mean real fucking magic!

I shared a new dirty word with a friend today.  That was a little bit of magic.  Where I came to learn the word from, that was a little bit of magic?  Through oceans and lands - through cables and electronics - through brains - through me - I connected two friends with the dirty word.  Oh, we could dissect the whole thing, the whole event, right down to the God Particle...but, how shitty would that feel.   I can imagine them having a drink and laughing together.

The dirty word conversation led me to thinking.  For some reason, I remembered one summer meeting this really hot, blond guy, at the park.  He was tan, tall, hand bangs that fell in front of his eyes that I wanted so much to look into mine. It the small town I lived in, there wasn't too much to do.  So, walking to the park was an evening highlight.  I would take my Walkman, listen to The Cars, feel the heat and the wind, the full ten blocks to the park. With the lip gloss and sweat, a lot of walking and imagining there was some place else that I could be walking. I was listening to The Cars when I saw him.  Teenagers don't even have to talk. In fact, they don't just talk well. Well, unless you were a cool kid, and even then, as we all know now, that they sounded like shit, too.  With teenagers, it's all done by passing hormone beams.  Yes, special hormone beams. Me and this guy made out, that happened pretty quickly. Then on a different day, I went into his house, and his mother came home early, and I had to climb out the back window, with my bra unfastened. Like I had any boobs to hold in anyway. I loved anything that involved climbing out of something, hiding, making up an excuse for, etc. Still rather like all that stuff.  All in good fun.

Maybe I remembered because the dirty word sharing joggled the idea that I didn't used to sit on the sidelines like I have been doing.  And it's okay, really okay to share a dirty word and maybe get into something I need to climb through a back window to get out of.

Right now, I'm sitting in my dirty pj's, smoking, and drinking cold coffee.  The dog just alerted me that she needs to go outside and take a piss.  Not a great start, but maybe I'll paint my nails for the pending shots-fired at the start line.

End Transmission.

Dear Cute Guy that hit on me today.

Dear Cute Guy that Hit on Me Today,

You and I did seem like we had a lot in common.  And you were really handsome.  (Although, you could probably brush your teeth after lunch, just to heighten the effect.)  You were actually quite savvy about putting out the signals.  In fact, since I'm getting out of a huge mess of a relationship that was over a decade -shit, I almost missed them.  No fault of your own, simply my not thinking AT ALL, along those lines. Bit beat down, and out of sorts, I am.  But, you should know that when I did finally catch on, there really is a part of me that wished I were ready for that.  I think it would have been fun. You were terribly handsome, nice, intelligent.  I wouldn't wait for me though...it's going to be a long-ass while.  However, for a minute you did lift me out of my inner turmoil.   Thank you for that.

Best Wishes Cute Guy.  Best Wishes.
 

The divorce...even though we were never married. It's the longest brake up ever. And I hate it. I'm not glad you're finding yourself.

I'm sad.  Sad because I memorized you.  I let you in to make that permanent mark.  Given my understanding of humanity, those permanent marks are so few. I'm sad that we're a boring statistic....so, unbelievably sad.

I'm embarrassed. Embarrassed by the tears that just start on their own and won't stop, every single time I see you.  How many tears is one person allowed?  This is ridiculous.  The make-up that I put on just smears. Why as I putting the make-up on? Embarrassed.

I'm jealous.  I'm jealous that you are getting every thing that you want, and I have to pick up the slack, and rebuild for two.  That I have to fix everything, and make sure everything is right on track. 

I'm angry.  I'm angry that you take no responsibility for the hurt and disruption you left in your wake.  I'm angry that you see us as being friends. You actually said that.   Seriously?!?  How did you work that out in your head?  Friends?  No, not now. Couldn't be bothered to work on the love...and friends have love, too.  So, no work, no love. It will be a business.

In time it will be a business.... strictly business. 

Frustrated.  I am frustrated because this is a normal thing.  These tears and the mess are an average thing.  There are websites, and books, and groups...all about this thing...this average thing.  And I want this thing gone, I want this thing done.  But, that's not how this kind of thing works.  It sucks.  It takes time.

I thought the thing that I had memorized was better and more special than that.

Boy, was I wrong.

IKEA with the Girls - I have the smallest boobs in the whole group.

Today started off somewhat okay, just okay. I had plans with great friends. My hair still looked good and I had gotten new nail polish.  We can't share a bed, and I woke up alone, and sometimes I do notice it.   We're no longer together, I heard you,  but haven't divided up all the property.  We have to fix the house before we sell it - but we're separate even on fixing the actual house - all separate projects.  Separate and sharing space.  I'm doing what I'm supposed to with the moving on.  And sometimes I can just keep myself busy enough to keep the sadness away. But right now, I am sad. I prefer angry, which is way more productive projectwise.  I don't get to pick right now, which shows up when. But, today the great friends and I went shopping, and I saw all the things that would make our home look so nice.  Then the sting, the prick, I remembered WE no longer have a home.  We have property that needs to be fixed to sell - but not a home.

So, today I am sad.  I no longer have my love, my friend, and I am homeless.

Sometimes a blowjob is just a blowjob. (The phone conversation.)

It is Christmas Time, again.  That's a holiday that never goes away.  Oh yes, the emotions were high this year.  Nothing like a holiday already fired with everyone's weird, built up, scarred shit, and then just add the fuel.  Fanfuckingtastic.  Trying to fool yourselves that you're not leaving THAT much of a scar on the child.  (Secretly wondering if that's what everyone's parents told themselves.)

What's everyone doing for Christmas?  Shit, I don't know.  Right now, it's Christmas Eve and everyone is in separate rooms.  Does that count for closeness if we're in the same house?  That's probably as good as it's going to get. 

How are you doing?  Okay.  I'm drinking all of the whiskey in the house, listening to angry music, and some sad music, smoking, and probably not leaving any of the eggnog either.  That sounds sad and stupid.  Does it?  I'm telling you, right now, I feel so much better, way better than the whole last month.  In fact, whoever said that drinking doesn't help was lying.  It totally helps.  Okay, if you say so.  Why yes, I do say so.  I like myself, and I really super like myself when I'm drunk.

What was said?  Oh yeah, it was so confusing.  We sort of did it.  And I liked it.  But, it was super confusing for the other party.  Why?  Well, some people have resided themselves to not being happy here, and certainly not happy with me, the way I think, the way I am, the way I look, etc.  So, the act was very confusing.  And we had to have yet another talk about it. 

Seriously?  Yeah.  I'm worn out.  And how do you tell someone that a blowjob is just sometimes a blowjob...and not to read too much into it.  And that even shitty people can still have some talents. 

What about tomorrow, still going to Mass?  Probably not, I'm going to probably still be drunk.  And if I remember correctly, no one likes drunk, stinky people at church.  And you know I don't believe, but sometimes I do like the idea and the ceremony.  Maybe I'll make it later in the week. We'll just open presents and then sit there, I'm guessing....in different rooms, of course.

Coming over on New Year's?  Yeah.  Can I get drunk and just sleep over?  Yeah, you can even take naps if you want.  Thanks.  You're a good friend. 

Driving Down Memory Lane in My Green Machine

I can't seem to control my memories these days. Things that I want to immediately remember for a conversation quote seem to elude me; and other things seem to come to me for reasons unknown, triggered by the smells?, the glances?, the weather?....And for what purpose? No idea. But, today is one of those days. So, I will record the story and see if I am supposed to get anything out of it other than simply putting it to paper in solid form.

On a recent drive across the large State of Texas to visit family, I had to drive through Big Springs. I lived there briefly as a small child with my mother, in a trailer park. My mother was mentally ill and spent a great deal of my life bouncing from one State Mental Institution to another. I know the town I live in now, the place is old, and gross and scary. And I always felt a certain amount of sadness for my mother being stuck, first in her own head, and second being in that state in a place like that. It is easier for us to dismiss the mentally ill, tuck them away in jail-like quarters. We never seem to take care of those places.

The funny thing about Texas, and maybe the United States in general, is we're so quick to erase out history and develop the newer, the better, the more shiny. In the town I live in now, giant, shiny high rises have knocked down the former lives of so many. You only get to stay if you're considered famous - the building has your name on it. Never mind, that in order for you to be so famous, there were so many other lives involved in your getting there....but, those are not important...just erase them.

But, in the small towns, you can see them. Where the big money and influence hasn't reached yet. The buildings half-broken down with faded signs. But, here in the US those are also a bit funny to me. Nothing here is ancient yet. Our country is so new still. Nothing is thousands of years old. So rather than being kept up like the Seven Wonders, these buildings and spots are more like items you find in some old person's attic with years of dust and cobwebs. Yes, there were lives in those places with stories and memories. Maybe better than the famous. Yes, better.

As I drove through the town, I saw Big Springs Mental Hospital. It was a very old building, but much to my surprise is was beautifully kept. Old architecture with gardens and a beautiful lawn. I teared up a bit. Maybe this was a least one place that wasn't so horrible for my mother to be at. Maybe. There was just a tiny bit of relief there. Oh mother, was this place ok for you? Just this one time?

I didn't have that many memories of this town, just a couple. I think when we lived here, I was maybe 3 or 4 years old. I remember the trailer a bit. We shared the trailer with a male roommate. I don't remember his name. My mother and I slept on one side of the house and the man took the other side. The only things I remember about him were really snip its. I remember one time he showed me that you could eat these parts of the pine tree outside. And I did. It was sticky and very full of pine flavor. And he said that if I was ever out in the woods stuck, this would be a plant I could eat. I remember thinking that was so silly. I had never seen the woods, ever. So, how would I be stuck in them, sometime? But, still I stored the knowledge away, just in case...just in case.

I also remember that he did something my mother did not like. And she was so mad at him, and yelled at him not to do it in front of me, or he'd be sorry. I didn't know what it was, but I knew he would be in big trouble if he did it.

One day, my mother was at the store, and he told me I couldn't go outside and play yet, because he had to do something first. I was mad. I had my new Green Machine. I started for the door, but he grabbed me under the arms and took me to his room and shut and locked the door. He told me, just a minute and we can go outside. I was really mad then, I was big enough to go by myself. I didn't need him watching me and babying me.

He got something from under his bed and lit it. I heard my mother's car drive up. I knew he was doing the bad thing. And I was so mad at him, I was going to tell. See how he liked that. I turned around, unlocked the door and ran outside. Yelling, "He's doing it again!!! Mom, he's doing that bad thing!!! He's doing it!!! Right in front of me, after you told him not to!!!"

My mother went inside and put the groceries down, and started yelling. They proceeded to fight, back and forth. And I smiled and stayed outside. I had my own parking spot for my Green Machine. I wouldn't let any of the other kids play on it. I also had a plain old, Big Wheel. So, if you wanted to play with me, you could ride that one. But, not the Green Machine. I got on and went down the sidewalk. Faster and faster and faster. Sometimes, pulling the break on the side so hard I might spin around, or I might crash, either was good. But, I was forgotten for a bit and could just play by myself. It was awesome. It wouldn't be until years later that I would figure out that what the "bad thing" the man was doing was smoking pot. And, when I did it, sometimes I would hear my mother's voice yelling at that guy, and feel a tiny bit a guilt. But, not enough, I guess.

I also remembered my Bert and Ernie shoes. Man, I loved those shoes. Bert was one foot and Ernie was the other. I LOVED THOSE SHOES!!!! I wore them with everything, and never wanted to wear anything else. EVER.

One day, at the trailer, there was a knock at the door. It was the neighbor's daughters. They hadn't seen their father or heard from him in a bit and wanted to know if my mother had seen him; she hadn't. They left their contact number and were on their way.

There was a smell. It was so bad. My mother and the roommate thought we might have rats. But, the smell got worse and worse. A bunch of the neighbors could smell it. My mother was a nurse. One morning, she walked over to the old man's house. He had a bad drinking problem, I'd heard them say. I walked with her. I remember my mother gasping as she looked in the window. She bent down and took my Bert shoe off, and threw it at the window. When it broke, there was this wave of smell that hit me like a ton of bricks. I got sick, and light headed and threw up on my Ernie shoe and my other sock foot. My mother grabbed me, and ran back to the house and called the police. Turned out that the old man was dead, and had been for days. he was drunk and threw up and drowned on his own vomit. I cried and cried. And everyone thought I was so sad about the old man's death. But, I wasn't. It was the loss of my favorite shoes. I never said anything about it, but I was so mad at my mother, probably for years. They were my favorite shoes.

That's all I remember. So, now it's to paper. Yes, there were people there, not famous, but they lived, and they had stories.