paperlily

patina

2009-06-25T03:20:54-04:00

  it's the grooves that hold the patina
when i cry my eyes get greener

  layer
upon
layer

someone told me
   or, sold me
on theory alone
that I don't know what love is

it's the wound that seeks its medicine
that stage of "in-my-head-again"

peeling
off
revealing

patterned inconsistancy,
   that ever-itching mystery
who-what-where-why and when again

maybe in those hollows, where ancient green collects
i'll shovel 'till i find where we might intersect

digging
dually
digging

love, being a verb.

L'ete

2009-06-05T12:54:37-04:00

summer

all of this season, for me, has its sum in the smell of central air conditioning and cut lemons, the Price-is-Right theme song and garden tomatoes for lunch. Bleached linens on clothesline. Leafy Maples. Bologna with mustard.

this day, things are good; subjectively. My altitude is interdependent with the weather; the color of the sky. I react to both cerulean and grey with equally insoluble pleasure. It's those mediocre hues that diffuse me.

and, being so "affected", an early morning rain storm dilutes my concentration and turns tree trunks a nice ebony. I want to sit on the front porch longer; soaking in the wet, black- on-green canvas.

no matter the Azure, ten integers for the equation:
1. radically study Quantum Physics this summer
2. get an orange cat
3. finish my French chateau,or...complete home decor
4. get a white laptop
5. string lights in civil war tent encampment
6. bake bread for shelter
7. take caleb fishing
8. grow strawberries
9. watch movies in backyard playhouse
10. have kids do modern acrylic (for living room)

#11...add more altruism.

until next time, loveandblessings

As Through Eyes -Scribbles 28

2009-05-13T21:25:18-04:00

I never imagined that I would end up in a situation like this ; written as if with a plum-nectar pen, was inscribed on the tissue thin first page of a fabric-bound journal that lay casually open, bisecting the narrow plane of my bedside table. Right next to the vase full of perpetually blooming lilies. The gold-leaf inscription contrasted well with the floral chintz cover and announced the owner's name in Hebrew. "Towdah".

I had been recording my thoughts regarding my arrival, here, though attempting to record is a more accurate description of those first, neophyte entries. There were so many things that my mind could not grasp, having been more intimate with the finite matters of time, then. My senses were not yet acclimated, nor anywhere near ready for the rapid-fire medley of experiences that seemed to last both seconds and centuries; ephemeral and Ionic, which occurred in steep tertiary strata, each with its own rotund pattern.

The first of these three layers that I burrowed through, vertically, contained an all-encompassing, though weightless freedom which was so oblique to my frame it caused me to feel gravity-starved. There was no sight in this layer. Neither sound. The atmosphere was either cyanotic, or I had no access to taste or smell, there. But I could feel that this area had definite borders and, like ductile tubing under torch, was being pulled thinner and thinner; narrowing into a tendril-like, red-hot apex which was struggling to hold my form. Then, as if being spit out by the catheters' peristaltic contractions, I was pushed out of the tight, terminal end. No longer being cervically squeezed, I was drawn into a relieving vacancy.

Unlike in my previous state, this second level engaged all my senses. It smelled like menthol and tasted like minty static. The air, being shallow and vacuous, was somehow sultry and became increasingly torrid upon inhalation till I had no choice but to cough it back out in pneumatic, phlegm-filled spasms. Here, there was no restricting circumference but tangible flooring for my feet; a slick, metallic looking sod . The acreage was vast and barren, though not uninhabited. I could see a gathering of beings, devoid of gender, approaching. They were nearly transparent in their paleness, with grey, cellophane-skin. The hollow men, just like T.S. Elliot wrote about, all parading about this wide, sodden chasm. With great thought, but no purpose. No light.

The lack of light was now becoming more apparent. It seemed to ebb in and out as if being covered by something; the involuntary, timed-blinking of an eyelid. Once past the pensive denizens, I was seduced by an overhead monochromatic glow, which encircled the dark inner nucleus in bright, cerulean blue. And what seemed like ancient ciphers spoked from the center like radials. The amount of light, or darkness, seemed to be affected by their activity, or lack thereof.

It was at this horizon that the third, and final, membrane was crossed which would bring me to my final destination.

As the cipher-composed tines let in more light they brought with them an influx of warm, rose-scented water; thick and syrupy. I was quietly surrounded in the gelid liquid and took to peaceful, slow-motion floating. Still in the dark, ebony center; as if in the leviathan's pupil, the anatomy before me became clear. The wet aqueous humor. The translucent lens before me. It was only at that moment of recognition- understanding that I was in the eye of God- that a strong, churning, red current swept behind to swallow me in its embrace; mechanically agitating. Massaging my soul clean.

(The are no human words, no mortal characters to adjoin; whether written in supernatural ink or not, for which to describe the sensations of utter satiation which followed and have since failed to cease in their profusion.)

In an event something like childbirth -but absent of pain, the swell finished its washing and propelled me through the elastic corneal film, rupturing the celluloid tissue. I looked back, the first and only time on this journey, to see that the fissure where I had exited from was forming a white-hot seal as if being soldered shut. I was now birthed into a volume of endless cesium brilliance. My new alabaster reality.

This is where the journal ends. Where aberdeen stains not the paper, but the current-red sanguine makes the markings vanish before they can be recorded. In eternity there is no need for history. It is beauty, inherent. It is self-defining. It is Faith, Hope, and LOVE.

...a situation I could never have imagined.

LOVEANDBLESSINGS, paperlily.

diagnosis -Scribbles 27-

2009-05-12T03:35:03-04:00

Mallory pulled at the thickly woven satin harness and clicked the chrome hasp into its familiar female counterpart, catching the fleshy part of her palm between the metal intercourse. An ampule of physical pain was instantly added to what felt like a quick-forced bolus of emotions being pushed intravenously through her sickly system. Her distress, displayed in the ever-growing tree trunk forming between her brows, had increased to asthmatic fury by the time Nate had cozily nestled his tall frame into the driver's side seat, releasing an irritating, satisfied sigh.

The day spent with Mallory's family, announcing their engagement, was made longer by the fact that she had ordered, indeed demanded, his picture-perfect behavior though he seemed to have dealt with it all in typical masculine paralysis; on the lay-z-boy, with a beer, watching the ball game. How was it that he was left uninfected by the contagion that she found spread so rampant in her gene pool?

Mother, with her annoying preening habits, always picking something off sweaters and adjusting tie knots. What did she know of fashion anyway? And why was she always trying to "fix" things anyhow? There were old wounds, deep wounds, caused by her hands, for which she was still trying to apply salve. It seemed like each time they would begin to heal she would pick the scab just so she could make them feel better again.

And her father, a perpetually disaffectionate man, drank too much of the clan's corn whiskey like all the other men in the family. While the women, severely frail in education, had no greater goal in life than to serve their food and raise their children. She wondered how she survived, and eventually escaped, their Appalachian tendencies.

Nate, noting her discomfort, offered his hand into hers, "Come on, Mall. They aren't THAT bad" he said. By
now they were far enough away from the cabin where she was both born and raised, so that her breathing
pattern started to stabilize.
"I just can't believe I finally let you meet them" she stumbled slowly across the words.
"Let me?" he countered, "you act as if they're some kind of circus freaks."

Mallory retrieved the photograph, the only one she had of her anomalous family, from an envelope her
mother had slipped into her coat pocket on the way out the door. She gazed at the disheveled trio who
stood, oddly proud, before the dilapidated shack.

"You know, Mallory, your mom gave me an envelope too" he admitted.
"H-m" she breathed, distracted. Still peering at the photo. Her mom's dry, ratted hair. Her father's dirty
overalls.
"Honey, did you hear me?" said Nate.
"Yeah, yeah, an envelope. What is it, another picture?" she guessed, sneering at the holes in her mom's
ragged dress.
No, Mall, it's not a picture. Though it might draw a different one than the one you have." he offered.
"W-hat, Nate? what are you talking about, now?"

He broke the seal on the yellow, padded-envelope and extracted a thick ---- stack of money.
"Your parents thought it was time for you to have this" said Nate. "They said they worked their whole lives
to acquire it."

By the time she had finished calculating the cash, more than $75,000, the couple had safely returned to
their upscale townhouse apartment. Mallory again picked up the portrait and indeed saw a very different
picture.

The picture became an X-ray.

a prologue to regrets; trumped

2009-04-28T08:17:45-04:00

when loud house
is quiet
and I can think,
reflecting past
off bleach-clean walls,
will I ache at corners
left vacant,
spaces gone,
devoid of occupation?

will you sit
in joyful places
recalling, replaying
pale memories
of coexistence
that cause my
far away tears to seep,
make heavy
the layers of fabrication?

the gathers that
fold and cinch my heart
in tight pleats
will pinch in the
out-grown curves
of your absence
like boxed baby clothes,
moth-eaten cotton
suffocation

would that these fibers
weakened with age
be gilded by guilt
trapped in shellac
ever preserving
the mistakes
that were made,
damages done
to five-fold creation?

but He will restore
what was consumed
in locust's green jaw
time-eater insects
cease flying
fall, fertilizing
the same land
once ravished
by infestation

future feared silence
should still have
bite
and empty rooms
where they once slept
bruise, but
wound will be
without puncture
or need for medication

when aged, matron hands
turn acid-free pages
of neglected scrapbook
Who,
but the Author,
will submit
a completed work
for edited
publication?

meta Physical check-up

2009-04-25T17:27:07-04:00

I am taking a break from the "Amnesia" series.
Its interpretive symbolism and loose associations to a once-felt reality will no doubt hastily find their way back into print in one form or another. This being due to the fact that someOne has swapped what should be a normal set of human eyes for a pair which is in constant pursuit of the ultraviolet.

It is an undercurrent, whether forceful or deceptively yielding, that nonetheless tows me through the same primitive matrix of algae, and inevitably, l arrive battered on a distant shoreline; clothed in its squalid netting.

Though it does burden, beautifully, my narrative.

But at what cost, art?

These deep seas have swallowed up greater fates than my own...
Hemingway
                ...shot himself after electroconvulsive Tx
Virginia Woolf
               ...submitted to literal drowning
and Schumann; a composer of different sorts,
              ...died in a mental institution

It was Aristotle who indoctrinated this thinking: that all substances, all things, are composites of two radically different things...
                                          One being form, and one matter.

That in every change, there is something that persists through the change

and something else that didn't exist before, but

comes into existence as the RESULT of the change.

Should I view of this hylomorphic assault as patina or shellac? When, with each crest, every flux deposits more than the swell before?

Is this why, at the center of Dante's circle, the damned remained motionless?
I don't wanna be motionless

                                      BUT

Can I be-late this "birth" for another time.

One when I'll be better suited to attain escape velocity; overcome the undertow's gravitational pull unmarred.

Then, perhaps, the contractions of creation won't be so laborious;

and the product not such fertilizer.

an' dream of sheep

2009-04-22T08:52:15-04:00

so much.
there's so much going on in my brain when the haze of slumber wanes .gotta clean, find work, make soup, call Amy, Michael needs to do computer work, gotta fix the laptop, maybe get a cell phone, unlock the side door, make some coffee, "quiet, Caleb's still sleeping", drip drip, should've planted bulbs in the Fall, write a letter to him, talk to Him, pray, Michael's pouring a loud bowl of Fruity Pebbles, wanna go on Thoughts, research that hyssop tree, "Morgan, stop plucking your violin!", coffee's ready.
stop.
but in those first few semi-conscious, children-still-sleeping moments there is a clarity of absence; a meditative vacuum where the thoughts do not flow as torrential. Where no additional requests are added to the self-imposed litany.
and.
if I could capture those brief, precious few minutes; reduce their concentration so that they could be re-hydrated throughout the ardent, confusing chaos, I could make it through the war- torn battlefield, which is my current thought process, and perhaps have some kind of legit product at the end of the day.
go.
to bed at night, fully confident that much more was accomplished outside of tail-chasing and wheel-spinning. Not fatigued from dead horse beating or exhausted from dragging the living to water they'll never drink. Let me be weak, from production, not frail from atrophy. Let me sleep, really sleep, not just stagnate. And dream of sheep.

"Little light,
shining.
Little light,
will guide them to me.
My face is all lit up
My face is all lit up

Rules of Engagement (part fourteen)

2009-04-18T01:01:57-04:00

   So Lucy idled in the driveway. Her balsam hair was blithe in a breeze-blown crevice of window tint with the crown of her head visibly active. I thought for a moment, from this lateral glimpse, that she must have been fully absorbed in some kind of pulsating electronica, but this dance was less rhythmic, more erratic and when I finally managed a frontal view I gauged the familiar cranial ritual which accompanies conversation. Her slender cell phone easily concealed beneath long layers of blond. She was engaged in terse dialogue with someone who was making a tree trunk of the space between her brows; awakening Botox paralysis.

   "Another irate client," I wagered in a whisper, my breath fogging the glass. I caught her attention as I rubbed out the mist and held up an index finger.
"Be out in a minute," I mouthed.

   I ascended the stairs to the second-floor loft where the girls played and mentally rehearsed how I'd justify their departure, each step more burdensome. I feared that their bright, beguiling eyes would seer, peerless, past my thinning facade of normalcy. They would know that something was wrong before I even spoke a word.

   I thought that they would be upset, that there would be tears. I imagined, too, that I might even confess the whole thing; tell them how I felt like something was terribly wrong and how something about that woman's face in the paper and that letter from San Diego had something to do with it all.

   But, as I reached the landing, I was greeted by those elastic smiles; the resiliency of youth, for which my swampy condemnation had discredited. They were standing there side-by-side, like Persian soldiers maximizing their width, armed with stretched grins and little, floral overnight bags. They must have overheard my call to Lucy asking her to take them for the night.

   And they must have decided, militarily, that the best defense would be to face the enemy bravely. Not to run as to be chased. Not to cower as to be found. Not to wait but to engage.

Tropic's Fallacy

2009-03-25T12:13:04-04:00

   I could feel the last bit of the sun's warm saturation fighting for space with the evening's sharp bite. It was somehow winning, for the moment, and so from the risen window I caught the sound of an SUV's tires crunching; consuming, the gravelly edge of the driveway.

"Lucy was here, already?"
"S#it"

   I hadn't even told the girls yet that their "big surprise", which was thought to be spent with me, was being re-allocated to Lucy. Not that they didn't like her, they absolutely adored her. Idolized her even.
"Mommy," they would say, "when we grow up, we're going to be 'law-ers', and wear tall shoes and sparkly rings like Aunt Lucy."
And she did have a style worth emulating. Her shoes, Jimmy Choo. Her makeup, French. And she never entered a courtroom brawl without her suit of Yves St. Laurent armor.
"You girls can be anything you want to be," I would tell them, wincing slightly that not one of three found me nearly quite as interesting or urbane. I was more tropical, I had convinced myself. Where Lucy was a patent stiletto, I was more like a pair of beach sandals. I had looked up to her as well, but somehow my early positioning as a wife and mother made me feel less elevated than the platform of the shoes she walked in. Even when she let me borrow them, though we thankfully shared the same size, they just didn't fit. I would study the foot bed and take note of the deep impressions, as if with each stride she made her presence on this earth known. Mine were barely visible. Like it made little difference where my sandy feet stepped. My imprints were quickly erased by the incoming wave.

   It was becoming increasingly difficult to navigate the mire of these thoughts, coupled with the yoke of guilt I carried for pawning them off to Lucy tonight, but I had to advance forward and get them ready. Lucy was waiting, patiently, behind the wheel of her black luxury cruiser and we still had not packed any overnight bags.

Fractures (part twelve)

2009-03-23T11:12:46-04:00

   I sat trance-like with the phone cradled in one hand, now humming a C minor monotone, and the last  swallow of lukewarm tea cupped in the other. Raising the cracked porcelain rim to the bow of my mouth, I sipped on the remnants of the fragile piece till the cup could no longer be drained of its sugary, leaf-flecked residue. It was densely sweet as it travelled; lethargic down my throat, and left a tacky coating, like cheap lip gloss, on my mouth. My tongue emerged to wet-mop the sticky circumference just as the belated gulp reached my belly.

With taste buds so glucose-engaged my other senses took reprieve, until that is, I recognized that the drone of the "phone-cello" had changed to a piercing sharp A staccato. I replaced the receiver into its wall-mounted hanger, following the prompting of the angry, robotic woman's advice- "...If you'd like to make a call, PLEASE HANG UP. If you NEED HELP, HANG UP or dial you operator..."

Help, I thought. Help was coming. Coming in the form it always came in; Lucy-shaped. Of all the friends I'd ever had and of the few who remained, her form was favored. Our affinity toward each other stretched beyond the linear confines of time. For so long nothing could separate us and when our lives took different courses, the geography between us only forged our bond stronger. Alone we would have remained a mish-mosh of alloid metals, but together our alchemy created gold.

I was the soft, malleable part.


So fragile and as finely wounded as the vestibule that previously housed my Darjeeling. And there would be Lucy, with a chunky, over sized stoneware mug, ready for the transfer when my hairline fractures gave way to the pressure; my contents leaking at the teak- stained seams.

   Why did I always gravitate toward the delicate? Or, was the delicate stuff sticking to me like doused taffeta or watered chiffon? Things seemed to break so easily around me. Had my soul followed suit to my slight frame? A tiny glass menagerie on open display, while Lucy's cathedral-soul was guarded by stone. Her breakable parts, in iron-soldered cagery, still exposed her hues, like a stained-glass window.

  I had been so dependent on Alex and the children for my identity, my "happiness", that when our marriage shattered, I fell like a crystal figurine. I stayed there, in shards on cold marble floor, for the better part of a year. It wasn't until I read that newspaper article, the one about amnesia, that I recognized my brokenness. And although Lucy was coming to the rescue, logistically to take the children off my hands, I was going to have to re-glue this statue alone.

For reasons I could not have yet understood, that night was to be the premiere evening to the rest of my life.

captain blog

2009-03-09T13:15:02-04:00

captains blog..march 9, 2009..10:45 am SET/ the hovercraft, "paperlily", who has been in safe, though unconscious, orbit for six lunar months; circling the thoughts stratosphere, is fueled for re-entry. Her ship scans the pensive perimeter and locates what appears to be a hazard-less inlet. Upon crossing the cavity's threshold, however, the sleepy vessel is met by a covert cognitive barrage. The craft is forced to utilize its last reserves of fuel as it weaves through the arteriole matrix of narrative. An assault from fable and daily chronicle damages the sensitive radar system, causing her pilot to long for the previous days' complacent, astral slumber. Though exhausted, the captain moors her ship in the craggy harbor, assisted by the locals who share a congenital urge to document. She is carted, by the thoughtful citizens, first to the village medicine woman, Dr. Roe, where her shell-shock is treated by a warm, syrupy tonic called "welcome potion;" followed by a visit from maverick muse and lithe
versed storyteller, Mr. Stick and Lady Circe, to ease her aphasia infirmity. Any partial or total loss of the ability to express ideas as a result of Cpt. Lill's hyperspace lull, progressively cured, and faculties restored in their presence. Finally, resident guide, EasytoSay, was commissioned to give the captains' tour from her perspective and kindled a quest to explore the hamlet, both valley and vista, unearthing its treasures for transcription. Should her exodus be forgiven by the tribunal; her name erased from the list of absconders, Paperlily would now humbly resubmit herself to the Typing Tribes, the Literate Legions, the deft Dialogues, and foremost Friends in this Analytic Association.

loveandblessings

Sunshift (part eleven; renamed)

2008-08-23T00:25:18-04:00

   I ambled delicately to the small kitchen table, toting the teas on a warped pine butler's tray; Elli at my heels with a box of ginger snaps. The mornings' canary sun was shifting and got caught in a tarnished orange corner of the western sky. Sliding myself into a worn chair; its thick wood made smooth by its squatters, I peered at the burnt expanse that settled in the distance. Its maple joints tensed and creaked at my presence like a braided rope bridge unsure of its ability to bear the passer's weight; as unclear as I was that I could carry the burden of the unknown, and stressed that I could not judge its mass.

   There I sat, with the plague-free crowd who were, for the most part, unaware of the shifting sun; from yellow to rust. The oxidation that was in progress. They were almost ethereal in their innocence, like they weren't even there; innocuous. Someone had injected these effervesent little girls into a stagnant pool and they didn't even know it. But, I knew better than that. I knew better than to envy them. Their feelings ran just as deep, relative to the type of reservoir; their stream lapped the river stones smooth and my ocean stirred boulders to grain. We had each suffered our own type of disintegration at the hand of some former beauty.

   I pulled myself out of myself with that observation and revived what was left of selflessness. Still, the mystery of the letter scratched sand-like at the sides of my oyster shell, but I owed it to them to at least act like a pearl for a little while. We sipped our tea and talked about the second grade, savoring the sugary time together. When the cookies reached sickening and our cups were empty, I asked the girls to collect the piles of gear left at the front door and managed a minute alone while they got lost in the task with play. With their attention off of me, I fled for the old rotary wall- phone and dialed Lucy's number; mouthing "Pick Up" after each tinny pause, fearing little ears would descend soon upon my tethered chatter.

   She answered after nearly twenty noisy rings. "Luce, whattayadoin tonight?" I asked as one word.
"Gwen, is it you? What, what do you mean" she said, " what's going on?"
"It's me, I need a huge favor, another one. I swear I'll owe you big time," I bargained, "can you take the girls tonight?"
"Take them?" she asked "where do you want me to take them, and what about the baby and Matthew?"
"Matthew's sixteen, Luce" I reminded her, " he has plans with his friends, and Riley's hardly a 'baby', he's in preschool, now."
"When you say 'now,' you mean you haven't picked him up yet?" she questioned.
"No, not yet" I said, fearing I was losing her "but, the daycare is literally on my corner. You could just get him..."
"When I pick up the girls?" she interupted.
"Lucy, if you're busy, just say no, but if you could you know I'll love you forever," I pleaded.
"Gwen, you know I love ALL of those 'babies' like my own, if I had any," she added, "I AM their favorite aunt, but you better tell me what's going on with you tomorrow!" She sounded like my mother, now.
"Oh, Luce, I will. Thank you so much, I just need some time to get some things straight, and I promised them something special for their first day of school..."
"And you forgot, since you were working so hard at the office all day, right?" she interuppted again with a benign jab, "Don't worry, Gwenny, I'll take them for pizza and rent a movie. There's one I've been wanting a good 'kid-excuse' to be caught borrowing."
"So, no date tonight, huh?" I teased, hoping to lighten any tension.
"Funny, girl, watch it now, or I'll withdraw my plea," she said in her best lawyer voice, "I'll see you in about half an hour, ok?"
"Alright, Luce, I'll have everyone ready, and Riley will have all he needs in his bag. I can't tell you what it means to have a friend like you" I said.
"Need me to take them to school in the morning?" she asked.
"Oh, Luce, could you?" I wondered.
"Have all their stuff packed," she said with the voice of an angel, and as if that weren't enough, she added, "I don't want to see you in the morning at the firm. In fact, we have nothing the next couple days, really. Take the time you need, Gwen. You've had it rough this last year. Don't worry about your paycheck, either. My gift to you," she said.
"Lucy, I could never 'out-friend' you," I said , holding back tears.
"You've done it before," she reminded me, then hung up the phone.

Alice At Tea (part 10)

2008-08-15T13:22:58-04:00

   As we entered the house, a mudslide of book bags and jackets, shoes and lunch bags slid off their carriers into one large, lumpy pile. The girls took their seats at the small kitchen table; trading the day's events, while I brought water to a boil at the stove. The ticks that exchanged gas with flint preceded the flooded sound of ignition and brought a blue flame alive. I watched as it danced; erratic, almost angry at the teapot's belly. I was straining hard to seem interested in the juvenile conversation that would sporadically make its way to my side of the room, but I was still stuck in the viscous sludge of the day's hunt; longing to barter for some solitude to continue my search.

   I tucked a box of Celestial Season's under my chin, and pulled four mismatched, vintage teacups from the cupboard as the kettle released a vaporous cacophony of hot steam. One by one, I dutifully assembled the line; dropping in teabags, covered with liquid, sugar, lemon; Mathis takes cream. I was robotic in mood and action and Elli picked up on my automation.

"Mother, is something wrong?" she startled me, having left the table to fill in for my shadow.

"Elli," I pushed her name past the heart in my throat "honey, you scared me! No, nothings wrong, what do you mean?"

   She demanded my attention by wedging herself into the small gap between me and the counter. "Lucy just called, and you didn't even hear the phone ring, and she said you didn't go to work today, and you're not talking to us, and..." her voice trailed off ahead of me. For a moment I had visions of a large knitted blanket being pulled of its pattern; just one long measure of kinked yarn remaining; and me, frantic with tin needles, trying to re-knit the piece.

"Elli," I pleaded with the miniature detective, " Everything's fine. I just needed a day off work, honey. The phone must have rang when the teapot was ready," I said, hopeful that it had.

"If you stayed home all day, how come you didn't get our presents?" Elli asked, making good sense.

"El, I just had some 'big-people' stuff on my mind" I said, remaining vague, "besides, who said I didn't get your presents," I argued, remembering that I had left that quite fuzzy as well. And then it hit me; the solution to each dilemma. It would allow for some alone time and I could fit it into the surprise category, nicely. I would have to make a few calls, after our tea party, of course.

the reasons for aloe

2008-08-11T20:24:23-04:00

as promised, an addendum detailing implied audacity...put in first person as to avoid a judgemental slant. (why, i don't know)

i am studying her skin, pitying the pain she must be in. A general appearance of lavander char with varying degrees of scarlet. in a few days it will swell into fluid-filled blisters. any contact with clothing or bed sheets will be unbearable. i hand her the sticky gel, encourage liberal self-application, upon my departure (please spare me the witness), and orate the scorched addendum...as follows...

number one: DO NOT FORCE-FEED MY CHILDREN. they are quite capable of not only fixing their own plates, but also have a canny ability to sense fullness (wherein you seem to lack this sensation). it is not only damaging to their gastric systems, but also rude to presume that teenagers should be made to sit at the heaping plates of food you dole out until they've finished every last bite; ready to puke. You are preparing a banquet for either bulimia or anorexia with this practice. they are not malnourished while in my care and, unless you are planning on eating them, do not need to be plumped for the feast.

number two: (disclaimer- any gentlemen who have stumbled on this post may want to skip this second bit) DO NOT FORCE OBJECTS INTO MY FEMALE CHILDREN'S ORIFACES: this goes the way of the food, but is absurd enough for its own category. for instance, when a fourteen year old girl does not want to insert a tampon, and you-on your BIG vacation, decide that if she doesn't it will ruin your swimming itinerary; make the sacrifice and refrain from ordering and/or performing the task at hand. if my little girls do not like the sensation or experience of vaginal penetration as of yet (sorry), let's not expedite that process, K? makes sense, huh? As well, resist your common urge to command that they swallow Motrin, Benadryl and the like. Yes, you can write "R.N." after your name, now, and will (regrettably) soon be mrs. "their last name"/rn, but this does not their prescriber make you. besides, your scope of your practice ends when you leave the hospital halls, do all of your misdiagnosing there, where you have malpractice insurance. (you did buy some, i hope?)

number three: STOP "DESCENTING" MY KIDS. i understand that you do not like the smell of cigarette smoke, though you yourself are a "puffer", just not in front of your parents (???) Come on, be a REAL hypocrite. do it right. if you're gonna hide it, hide it from everyone. and don't make my kids feel like they arrive in your pristine home transferring some kind of foreign toxin for which they require decontamination showers. i have not once heard them say that they were permitted to even begin their weekends in any way other than a full scrubbing proceeded by...

number four: PUTTING MY KIDS IN YOUR CLOTHES, and obsessive hoarding/protecting of said articles. if they lose so much as a sock from a pair of your beloved purchases, they are made to BUY the item(s) back for you. or if it's warm on friday when i send them to their dad's, and by monday morning for school, you send them coat-less when it's 50 degrees. not only this, but, their wardrobe is targeted for removal each time you threaten to "leave their father." Seeing as they aren't "allowed" to bring any of their clothes from home, lest they intermingle with your elite collection, thereby cross-contaminating the virgin group, i wonder (read wish) if you did one day make a haste exit, would you be kind enough to permit them the clothes on their backs...or would they have to change into the set from home that is kept in a sealed garbage bag out back?
*btw, i think it's cute how you match all their outfits(undergarments included) to color coordinate with yours.
i used to do that too, when i played with my Barbie dolls.
you may find, however, that when you have children more
than 10% of the month, this task will elude you,
compared to the tasks at hand, and will appear as ridiculous
to you as it actually is.

finally, number five (and i will be broad and generalized here): DON'T PUNISH/DIRECT MY CHILDREN, not for whatever it is that you don't like about me, but refuse to confront. not for their grades, nor for being late, not for forgetting to bring something back. if you take on all of these things, you'll be signing up for the confrontation you despise. STOP, right now, poking them in the heads with your pointed acrylic finger and asking them "Do you understand me?"...do you understand ME?

One day, when you have your OWN children, i believe that you will! then, we can laugh at all the times you thought you were being a good step-mother, but were actually stepping on my motherhood, badly.

Bussing Tables (part 9)

2008-08-06T15:06:09-04:00

    Elli was first to be spit from the accordion jaws of the school bus with her sisters trailing behind like well co-ordinating accessories. They looked up to her, and not just because she was the tallest of the three. She was the one who promoted unity among the trio while allowing for individuality. Where Elli had a gold-gilded tenacity, her sisters cast for themselves bronze medals for their persistence. Mathis and Olivia were not as convinced as Elli that they could do all things, but that didn't prevent them from trying their hand at everything from Fine Arts to aggressive contact sports. Olivia looked good posing on the grassy, open fields of soccer and on the basketball court's foul-line, but found her true self within the fragile confines of her delicate frame. Painting and ballet suited her well. She kept a narrow brush dipped in the soft azure and tender, pink-on-white of this pair ever since the move, as if saying she didn't have to prove anything to the male gender anymore. She was the youngest of the three. She was the one he chose to violate.

    I would rather have kept the two older girls in the light; not sharing with them the darkness that Olivia shared with me one painful morning in May, but everyone became part of the inquisition that was unleashed by authorities right there at our dining room table. The same spot that, seven days prior, had been the solid oak gradient connecting five little hearts to the acreage of a mother's love. A landscape of fine-bone china, polished silver, and Waterford crystal embellished the plane of our simple farmhouse table the way that love can make any plain thing exotic. Sitting in our chairs, we passed thick platters and exchanged sterling memories. I remember feeling such a strong bond, such a heavy pride resting in my heart as my eyes scanned the scenery of sparkling smiles. I could not have fathomed this same lean wood, a week later, would be the linear intersection for a perpendicular stream of tears.

   Elli and Mathis were counseled for a mere eight sessions to learn how to deal with their anger and shattered little hearts. It was all the insurance allowed. Olivia was still seeing the therapist weekly, with my attendance monthly. I tried to avoid treating her any different than the other children who, to the best of repeated inquiry's knowledge, had not been victim to their father's illness, but was sometimes unsuccessful. The way that a mother lioness favors and guards a lame cub; my grip was a little tighter, my hugs lingered a bit more on my injured one. This day was one of those times.

   It was their first day back to school. Summer had died when August's last sun descended and was swallowed in a horizon of ripened apples and new school supplies.The timed roar of bussing signaled fall's arrival, taking with it summer's perfume of bugspray and sunscreen. Early September always smelled like plastic and sharpened pencils, Elmer's glue and pink erasers. Until, like life for some people, it reaches its middle and the novelty is gone. The edges are cracked from overuse and all that remains of once fresh supplies are chewed graphite stubs, crusty, half-gone bottles and stabbed, grey ovals. I had hoped to spare them all of this abuse-caused cynicism, but my Olivia was already marred. Already had a weak spot at eight.

   The driver gave a soldier's salute to the three giggling girls and pulled the mouth of the marigold bus back into its pursed seal. When they spotted my position on the front porch swing, their gait accelerated to a light sprint and they charged towards me in tandem. But my eyes were on Olivia. My heart ached at the thought of her being teased or pushed around on the playground today. Maybe her teacher yelled at her for twirlling her hair; a habit she recently acquired. I caught the galloping group in a wide hug, with Liv in the middle to receive most of the tackle.

"Running from the law?" I teased "Or do you just like me that much?"
"MOM" they shouted in unison.
"Have a good time in second grade?" I queried. They answered with violent nods.
"Mother," Elli always called me that, "can we have our presents now?"
"Yeah, mom, can we, can we?" the other two petitioned.
"Ah, yes, your presents," I fumbled, realizing I had forgotten about this ritual in my new-found obsession with the rabbit hole. It was a tradition I started last year when the girls entered first grade. Milo, the eldest boy, had been slighted of this customary giving during his elementary years and, by the time it was implemented, was no longer lured by its charms. They were only small gifts, anyway. At sixteen years old, he didn't care about the practical "presents" disguised in wrapping paper and ribbon; things like colorful shoe laces and tubes of sparkled toothpaste. But I had nothing this year to give to the beckoning crowd. I would have to improvise, and stall, until I thought of something adequate, but inexpensive enough.

"Girls, let's get in the house, first. You know how it goes, you tell me all about your day over cups of tea, and THEN you get your presents." I noticed six small eyeballs rolling as we got up from the swing. "Hey, it's a small price to pay, no?" I persuaded, "Besides, I think you're really gonna like what I got you. It's something different this time."

"Mom," Mathis said in her scratchy little voice, "the presents, do they have wheels?"
"No, honey" I gulped "nothing with wheels. Get your book bag Maths, little dreamer you, and meet me at the kitchen table."

In The Surf (part 8)

2008-08-02T14:30:48-04:00

    I sped past most of page one's results, skidding on the occasional eye-catching road sign. Most were just billboards promoting "Used CL coupes for sale" or "San Diego Padres, Scoreboard Announcements." I spent a few moments debating the seemingly genuine "Charming Ladies Dating Service" ad; "...professionals visiting Southern California, need a companion? dozens of intelligent ladies are waiting for you..." There were several duplicated entries for The USS San Diego (CL-53), an Atlanta-class light cruiser, antiaircraft of the US Navy, commissioned after the entry in WWII, bristling with sixteen five-inch guns, mounted in eight double turrets.

   I resisted the urge to explore this lighter interest piece, yielding to the quest at hand. Already, I was tired of this search; weighed down by its intensity and looming threat. I felt silly for losing a day's pay to play detective. I arched my neck into the pillow's curve and silently pondered both the risks and trivialities involved in my obsessive behavior.

*here you are, Gwen, thirty-nine years old, in the process of divorcing the man you've known since high school...by small means the only man you've known, but none the less traumatic. You have been accustomed to the mundane. Made friends with it even, and now you're digging for some kind information based upon a whim!? Some "feeling" that has registered on some kind of internal compass? What are you doing?*

    What WAS I doing? Looking back, I wish I would've just bypassed that whim; endured the irritation. I should've just rode out the infernal pea that festered between box springs. But I feared that while it rested, undisturbed and feeding off my ignorance, it would sprout into a malignancy without cure. I could not stroll through my kingdom's forests in bliss anymore; could not wait at castle's walls for the attack. I had studied the rules of engagement. I would bring the fight to the enemy's turf; protecting the lush of my land.

    But it was now two o'clock. The children would be home soon. I resigned to log off for the day. I book marked the page and prepared to log off. With one last scroll of the entries I was drawn to the very last one , tucked under the heading of "San Diego Times, report; June 10th 2008," laying dormant at the bottom of page forty-eight like a spring bulb under frozen ground. I would come back to it when the season thawed; after supper and baths, while the kids were in bed. When I wasn't so vulnerable, so all alone.

Fettered Volleys (part 7)

2008-07-19T18:32:47-04:00

    I was lost in the ornamentation of his lyrical speech. His baroque plea temporarily stunned my ability to respond. Besides, I had not made advance plans of what I was going to say to whomever answered the phone. Now, I was stuck in the ornate scroll work of this distinguished gentleman's wording. Intimidated and without a formal script, I coughed out a limp reply,

          "Er, yes, I'm here sir. Sorry, we must have a bad connection."

          "No problem," he said reverting to the bland pronunciation of West Coast English, "How can I direct
your call, today, M'am?"

         "Well," I fumbled, "Maybe you could tell me what exactly IS CL Laboratories. I mean what kind of business
does your company handle?" I hoped to seem articular.

    Immediately, this Kirt Seaver character became gruff with my query and belted out crudely, "M'am, I can tell
you our company deals only with high profile clients, directly. It is apparent to me that you are not one of them...
don't waste our time!"

    With that, he abruptly hung up the phone, ending our short ball game with a mere five count volley. I sat there, on the edge of the bed admonishing my absurdity. Did I really think I could tie together this stadium-sized netting
with a five minute phone call? Instead of the imagined spike to the other teams' glossy gym floor, I watched the quilted leather ball disappear into the thick coats of lacquer on my side of the meshwork. Now what? I thought to myself. It was evident that CL Labs wasn't going to answer my questions; who were they, what was so urgent, and what did Alex have to do with it all? I certainly wasn't going to humor him with my interest, nor let on that I had intercepted his mail service. The only person they would deal with was "the client, directly" and unless I could find an Alex impersonator, my female voice was unavailing.

    I resigned the notion that I would get anywhere with this thing by telephone circuit; balanced the remainder of a half-smoked cigarette between my lips and lit its pleated end. After a theatrical drag, I angled the crumpled torch back into the white resin ash reservoir; letting the smoke rise in spires, and consulted my watch at the pull-back. Twelve forty-four. In less than two hours, my ability to scour for clues would be interrupted by the noise and demands of a small herd of hungry children needing help with Math equations.

    Two more drags and I snuffed out my smokey treat. I transferred the bed pillows to a sun-soaked spot on the window seat, grabbed the letter and my laptop from the nightstand, and settled in my niche. The midday light was glaring on the flat panel where I typed "CL Laboratories, San Diego" into the search box. When I turned back from adjusting the blinds, the monitor showed "2617 Search Results for...". I tapped my cursor back up to the search box, dragged a blue highlight across the word "Laboratories" and double- tapped my finger to delete; run a search without the broad noun included. The screen blacked out for a brief nanosecond, then jogged back with "104 Search Results for...".

Admiral Confusion (part 6)

2008-07-18T23:10:37-04:00

   By the time I finished reading, the two iron replicated arms of my timepiece were creeping towards the Roman numeral twelve on the clock face. The symbols nestled in my mind next to the spread out confusion that recently invaded my unoccupied territory. The fragmented montage of words squatted in position, ready for the attack. I could not, at that time, understand the full force of the cannons or conceive the bullets sting, but somehow I knew that once the troops broke the barrier there would be no thwarting them. The words in that letter, like the article in the paper, had crossed some kind of cranial threshold. Before I could deduce their meaning, I was bracing for the impact.

    I had no idea who Mr. Ethan Crowe was. Alex had never mentioned anyone by that first or last name. He had never talked about a CL Laboratories. I would've remembered such an odd name. Alex wasn't in medicine; he was no scientist. He was a salesman for pity's sake, and not a very good one at that. He had various affiliations with some of the hardest "sells" in the industry, peddling everything from replacement windows to vacuum cleaners and had little patience with indecisive or discriminating customers. A control freak of sorts, he frightened most of his potential clientele away with his aggressive approach. The few buyers he had were obligated to him in one form or another, his wife included. I was one of the unlucky few who witnessed the full brunt of his fury when things didn't turn out the way he expected.

    He had always been stern with the children. There was no margin for error. I tolerated this because of my own practice of leniency with the little learners. They were, after all, only kids in training. I assumed the scales would balance out with a pound of my gentle technique to counter the pressing weight of his heavy fist. It would have lasted this way for years, had he not crossed the border of our daughter's innocence, so to speak. The boundary line being drawn across the waistband of her size eight jeans.

    As if that was not trauma enough for the both of us. Now it seemed that something equally gruesome threatened any sense of the normality which I had worked so hard to promote from within the walls of our humble abode. It had been a mere six months, but my feet were beginning to sense a firm ground beneath them. An egg's crate full of hands were clutching in unison our flag, prepared to mount it on Iwo jima's hilltop. The battle was over, so who was this enemy pulling on the grip of our victory pole? I had rescued the prisoners of war; how could I feel up to my knees in sand?

    I retrieved the letter and headed to the phone on my bedside table. The school bus would be unloading it's cargo soon and I didn't want the kids to distract me from my mission. I was going to solve this enigma before they came tumbling in the side door. Fighting against the constraints of time, I dialed the number displayed on the letterhead and pressed my ear into the handset, crushing the shell-like auricle in my shoulders vice. The receiver pitched four tympanic rings into my audio tube. The sound wafted past the canal and encircled the bony labyrinth within where long hairs of a spiral organ where tickled; vibrating like the reeds of a harmonica. When the ringing ceased, the high-frequency tympani was replaced with the low impulse waves of a calm, male voice.

            "Good Morning. CL Laboratories, this is Kirt Seaver."

   I sat in silence enjoying the smoothness of his throat tones; attributing the deep notes to handsome square glasses of top shelf Scotch on-the-rocks being poured past the smooth chords of his voice box. The brassy hued fluid acting as a high-note anesthetic on the fibrous bundles while weakening the miniature tarps of the banded sound producers.

           "How may I route your call, please?" He billowed at the pause. When he spoke this time I detected the remnants of an Irish accent. It was hidden in the "R" and "L" sounds which he briefly rolled. I could tell that his tongue was working hard to avoid extended contact with the roof of his mouth. With exasperation, Kirt Seaver released his tight hold of American dialect allowing his mouth muscle full connection with his hard palate; beseeching the empty earpiece, "Hellllllo, is anyone therrrrrre?"

The Letter (part 5)

2008-07-14T14:30:05-04:00

    I slid the slender steal blade of an offset letter ripper into the narrow gap of unlinked glue and drew my sword across its saliva induced welding. A hot cauldron of anxious curiosity was being cooked in my belly, burning the layers of visceral tissue. I had received my estranged husband's mail before, typically it was the benign looking, and futile, request of a creditor. I had become quite familiar with the ploy; long business size envelope, two transparent windows for addresses, one of which would be nameless and sent from either Michigan or Texas. But this was not the usual form letter from a collection agency. Everything about it pointed otherwise.

    I stuck my good hand, the unwounded one, into the envelope's burrow, and pawed at its contents. The paper felt thick and rich, proud. Unlike a cheaply printed form letter with little identity, it had a weighted substance which begged its intenders attention. I tugged on the mid section of the folded captivator, pulling it from its cave. My lungs craved a fresh dose of oxygen. With a deep inhalation I vacuumed the available atmosphere, unfolded the letter and began to read.

                        Mr. Alexander Green,

      It has come to our attention that a problem may have occurred within the scope of our practice.
  We are diligently trying to inform all of our clients about this potential concern. However, we have
  been unable to reach you by phone. As stated in your contract with us, it is vital that we stay current
  with each other. We MUST have a better means of communication. You should recall that this was
  made very clear at our many meetings with each other.

  Please contact us as soon you review this correspondence. We have liberal openings available
  by appointment as time is of the essence in this matter. Arrangements can be made for travel
  compensation. I assume you will respond promptly, Alex, as per our initial agreement. Chance
  has it that this alert could be quite "detrimental"  if not attended to in the proper time frame.

                           Sincere regards,
                      Mr. E. Crowe/CL Laboratories Inc.

sunburn granted to future step-mom

2008-07-14T12:57:01-04:00

i exist.

neither denial, nor intimidation, nor ignorance to this fact, nothing, is going to negate my presence. this one cannot be controlled to your liking, adjusted to your temperament, rotated to fit nicely into your fairy-tale.

i have no vindictive cause here. granted, i too am guilty of being pretty much ambivalent and/or oblivious to your existence. until, that is, i am made to hear tales of how you try to force yourself into roles for which you were not assigned. for ten years, i have remained neutral and silent. i have tip-toed, unnoticed, onto the stage to change out the set decorations and adjust the backdrop scenery all in the name of peace. not for the sake of catering to the stage manager, but on the behalf of the child actors. but see, here's the thing...the tiny stars have come to the Union complaining. as the owner, i have no choice but to address these issues.

all symbolism aside- at least for now- please accept that this is in no way a personal attack. The irony in this satire is that i, too, can be a little...dare i say it, overbearing and a bit of a control freak. it should be noted, however, that we only need one character for this role, and it was filled 14 years ago.

perhaps i should blame youth or inexperience as the cause for the boundaries being so blurred. then again, i am at fault for not having said anything until now. but before you sign on next year with their personal manager, the borders should be in clear view. i wouldn't want you to have to assume any responsibilities which are not yours...after all you'll have enough on your plate.

i'll not be degrading, drawing them all out line by line. i'll trust your intellect and instinct as guide enough. and i won't do as you do, holding you up to some impossible standard where mistake or error is never allowed. naturally, there is no thing as perfection. it can't be created or cultured in the lab. the one thing i do ask is, when you have me under your microscope that you record my flaws for yourself/your friends/and family to focus upon, but refrain from sharing your analysis with my children. they'll find them enough on their own.