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She entered the club and watched the world rush by in punk filled Halloween extravaganza of costumed fun. The music banged and she remembered days of long ago before parenting created a world of conformity and softness around her face. Strange that she was back in this environment arrayed in black and red velvet with the long flowing cape and silvered shards of hair masking her brownish red locks, blood dripping from her blackened lips. She laughed, talked, danced, smoked and inhaled atmosphere before going home with her priestly drummer to kiss her son's soft cheek and snuggle into sleep.
Her eyes floated faintly while screaming out in pain and fatigue, blurred and droopy, lost in oblivion. The weekend has ended and soon they must peer out at blinking screens and fluorescent hues of meeting papers and hurried work. Keyboard clicks and Monday morning's cold entry into icy flakes of sanded streets reaching out for warmth in a caffienated jolt of nicotine stained fingers. Now there is comfort to be found in a warm bed of covered quilts and the dream filled void of the night. Warm skin trickling across my smooth surface in a dripping cacophony of soundless heat.
I scream and rant and rail. I cry and blubber. I talk. You sit in stony silence. I am lost, unable to understand or comprehend what you are doing, thinking, trying to say, if anything. Do you have something to say? How do you respond to what I am feeling, to the problems I am seeing? I get back nothing. I rip open myself to share my thoughts and leave myself lost, vulnerable. For days you say nothing. I am left wondering where this leaves us. Now the problem becomes our inability to communicate beyond the rosy glow of happiness.
I sat in the warmth of my car. You with your head in the clouds backed up. A crash ensued and I am left with the damage. Your monster gas guzzling pathfinder tromped on my poor little jetta. Crushed glass, pushed in metal and ripped leather are what I am left with while you park your beast with a scratch licked off your bumper. My hood trapped in place by mashed in parts and the tears shed over my poor old grrrl who will never be the same and a cold drafty winter ahead. Oh yes you will pay dear.
She plucks and colours and pastes on masks. She dangles jewels in exotic colours. She perfumes the scent of her being. She is beautiful. Her fresh skin is unadorned. She drapes misshapen fabric around her body. Her smell is clean, her hair flies free. She is beautiful. She is comfortable with the scars and marks of childbirth. She is comfortable in the angles and lack of curves of youth. She enjoys the burgeoning expanse of skin as she ages. She is beautiful. The wrinkles mould her face. The colour streams away from her hair. She is beautiful. In his eyes.
Evening with one. The swirling pink liquid drips down her throat. The words unreadable as pen scrapes against a dead tree. Alone in her mind, conversations swirl around the corners of her mind. He arrives and the world falls away. Lunch with another. The ice clinks in the cool warmth of water and glides down her throat. Engaged in conversation in a new world of who we have become. He said she said they said we say. She is content with the world she has carved out of breath, discussion, choice and action. She has become friendly with the waitress.
Time clicks and clonks and dangles its hands. Time controls and frees and moves in and out of our languid laxness. Time dances and flies and slows down in drowsy care. Time is the movement of schedules, the flexibility of fun, the fretfulness of sleep and the pressure of deadline. When the table is set with the food before your breathe and the wait for a timeless sort disregards your clock, time ticks in angry rhythm. Every second of ever minute of every hour of every day of every month of every year is my precious gift. You have lost.
A glow is cast over marbled faces and stone like figures cling to barstool glasses of golden liquid. Flee into the warm night air to frolic in bright fluorescent colours of the convenience store. Fling yourself across a cold winded night to reach the safety of home where curtains can draw out the night and embrace the soft glow of comfort. The night brings the excitement of a four am home and the loneliness of a cold bed. The night brings the excitement of a 10 pm home and the snuggleness of a warm body. I’m glad I’ve had both.
She pushes herself mentally and cries out in frustration in the screaming agony of a dusty brain. She could sit and watch the pretty colours float across the screen of anothers thoughts of expression but instead she chooses her own. She abstracts the world around her in playful dark crayoned ways and forces herself to learn the tools of technology. They dance across her screen and pull the hairs from her head, they float across the words of books and scattered printouts around her and clutter up her hard drive. For each new program learned, there are hundreds more beckoning.
He runs and jumps and pants and wiggles. He reaches over with small chubby arms and hugs and pecks my face. He smiles and frowns in concentrated form. He lifts me up with a run and a squirm and a thoughtful word. He is a part of me yet a whole in himself. He has gold-flecked brown lion eyes which watch the world in unique ways. I am lucky to rediscover who he is over and over again in his ever-changing growing world. He will soon be taller and larger than me but I will love him all the same.
My little monkey trapped in a world of flawed expression, dancing on the inside but never on the outside. Her expression forced through facial expression and bright talkative eyes. Though always in pain, with limbs not responding and bones twisting sideways, melting across lines of strength, she was always laughing, loving and giving. In her death, I found my own pain, relief, guilt and love, patience and renewal of spirit. She will always be anchored in my soul. I will always miss the fact that I can no longer kiss her soft cheek, laugh and eye talk mind to mind.
Misty clouds of red rimmed eyes shoot out across an iced filled landscape. Colours blend and shift and move into each other and I am lost in shades of grey. Reflective glass distorts my image, making real my inner self, deformed and twisted in rays of bending light. Another day lost in the mire of papers, the bleeping of screens, the dangling of phones and the intake of caffeinated pleasure with hot sauce dipped rice. Thoughts stray to simpler times of toenail contemplation and inner reflection lost in the race to click keys and stay ahead. My childhood is gone.
They fight, they laugh, they snuggle, they love, they play, they dance, they cry, they frown, they ignore each other, they ignore others, they fuck, they make love, they fart, they giggle, they snore, they cuddle, they yawn, they walk hand in hand, they walk arm in arm, they talk, they discuss, they argue, they make faces at each other, they gaze longingly at each other, they touch each other, they stroke each other, they kiss, they lay toes touching, they clean, they sleep, they smoke, they drink, they read, they fret and worry, they relax, they are a couple.
She dances in darkness and hides from light. She is afraid of colours of the rainbow and comfortable in shadows of hidden corners. Out into the light she is forced to flea from the comforting demons of her mind, out to the clear glassed burning fires of sunlit dust, golden in movement of circling dreaming. He holds her close against him sheltering her from the stinging sun and she hides her head in his darkened chest, an escape in comfort. The shining sparkled gems on a watery flow hiding the fish beneath the crystal spark swimming between stones of shadows.
Green lined shelves of words upon words darkened the musty halls of misconception. Cobwebs created silver gossamer silk draped across a questionable truth. The walls shook in thundering waves and sadness drained from skin of regret. Where did all the monkeys go, the scampering dreams of playful laughter, the sparkled eyes of a loving touch across a coloured sky. The dancing imp scraped a ragged fingernail against a heart fallen in sorrow and drained the innocent blood from hopeful care. Where do the words go when there is no-one left to read them, wilted in damp pages across deadened minds.
The age of my days are languid and lost in memory twisted and buried in depths of today. The closer I get to yesterday the earlier today becomes and the further away tomorrow. Wandering states of past adventures leave me straggled and lost in the today that is. The future speeds by and loses its freshness as I strangle the hour that I am engrossed in right now. Adventure and excitement remembered fondly and tightly gripped in a fist of wanting as I wonder where it has all gone in the lust for tomorrow, next month, next year. This second.
Glowing eyes of the malcontent look out at me as searing images run through my mind. The knife is sharpened and my friends turn into darkness as I flee on legs that seem weighted down. The back alley of my childhood changes from the sunlit treed freedom spot to the weighted down darkness of reoccurring fear and scrambling screams amidst new character betrayal. The dreamscape of my mind becomes a horror chamber of mangled thoughts throughout my day, lost and dreary images darting in and out catching flies I cannot see until I close my eyes on my constructed self.
Keyboard clacking procrastination dangles from a ledge of too much work and knowing that once started twill will be consuming. The early bird gets the poisoned worm of stress and congestion delayed in congenial toast. If I write a hundred words rather than reading tens of hundreds of words will I feel refreshed enough to hunker down with the papers on my desk. Deadlines are looming and the flavoured thrill of getting done must become the burning desire in a hungry gut. Time to put away the desires of my choice and dance in the work ethic of my survival.
The small growing uneasiness begins in the pit of her stomach, growing louder and pushes out at her muscles. She feels trapped in discomfort and the inability to move, to do, to feel herself in action, stimulated and awake. Awareness is found in the stillness of thought and dance of action, the point of creation, and in the stimulation of doing. If she is forced into inactivity, she feels herself push out against the walls of her skin and the pain becomes unbearable in its desire. Her world must be the flying free of constraints that bind. Stagnation is death.
Softly playing jazz sounds intermingled with the blues. Colours of softness curl around in notes and hearts beat with relaxed energy. Cold nips through an open doorway and soft light flickers across your face. Laughter creeps up and the table dances in martini haze of blue, green and purple haze with a dash of orange and a bit of sunshine. Embrace the night of lightness and care filled with the energy of friendship and smile. As the cold winter dances in hearts so light, places are filled with the lightness of air and the flittering of words. A night out.
She lives in a world of comfort and warmth. She is handed life on a silver platter. She has never known the world of hunger and she has never been without. She fears herself and causes blips and blathers and nervous tension through her ever shaking hands, knotted and frayed. She takes her future and throws it into flames burnt high across a broken heart. She attempts to destroy any life hope. I don't understand and cannot help her. I watch her evaporate and cannot save her. She has no idea of where she could end up. Unfortunately, I do.
I sit alone in a dark room surrounded by people drinking, clinking, laughing, talking, and eating in a burble and gurgle of conversation. I am happy in my state of flux and wandering musings of shopping consumerism and martini smoke hazed dream. I crave the coolness of a salty breeze and the wiggle of a sandy toe. Here in the cold snowy region of winter connecting to the barren trees is a connection to the lonely side of my death. Each snowflake reflected in the eyes around the table and I am lost inside the drunkenness of my thoughts. Disconnected.
A quick cool breeze slides down her throat and she gasps in surprise and looks to the sky. A burning ember floats across her lung and her eyes widen in wonder. Her legs splay apart and frustration burns across the weight of her muscles and she tenses involuntarily. Her cries reach lone ears and her fate is not her own. She has lost the choice, is forced to endure her survival. Over and over in her head filled shock, she begs herself to get to the end so she can lick her wounds and wash away her soul. He leaves.
Soft flakes of Kleenex filled phlegm litter my desk, clutter my thoughts as cotton masks my sight. The coldness creeps up and licks my face in icy teases and I crave a hot melt in waters of relaxed joints. Wrinkles fold into each other and scars of ravaged age push up against smooth skin. A sparkled bauble aches my eyes and blackness soothes the perception of comfort. Voices rumble and are unable to focus across the foggy chambers of my head and I crave release from the dry hacking cough of a cracked and blood soaked lip. Sickness consumes me.
The lift and twist and trickle of sweat. The dance of endorphins caressing and teasing, cause a flush of sparkle. I await in anticipation the surge of energy and the brightening of minds melded yet focused inwardly. Struggling in creases of leftover loss, we dangle ourselves anew upon the precipice of life. Holding ourselves up to the criticism of others, the disappointment of loss, the celebration of the new, the melancholy of old. Tripping over thoughts of discouraged and forsaken plans to stride forward clothed in new skin and ideas. Fraught with different obstacles and I can go only forward.
She is truly and utterly insane, only focused on her little world. She seems not to care for others with inability to see anything beyond her own needs, pleasure, pain and want. She somehow believes she is the centre of the universe and trods upon the souls of those around her, feasting on their care and giving nothing back in return. She is vampiric in nature and feeds her depression and pain with her self-indulgent narcissistic tendencies. She cries out for feedback, demanding suckles seemingly unable to look outside the mirror. She is a child trapped in a woman's body.
Today is the first of many days in which the world will continue to revolve. The young and old together will die in bloodshed. A family will cry in a hospital room for the loss of their loved one. A girl and a boy will kiss for the first time. A father will cry with overwhelmed joy as he holds his baby for the first time. A girl will cry in silence as she aborts her baby for the first time. The earth will tremble. The sky will spit. A whale will move gracefully through the water. In a moment.
A sharp intake of breath and a hiccup starts and stops from deep within the bowels of the earth where she lays sleeping. A spray of salt and a ring of sunshine fall from the sky where she looks down and watches. Her long braided hair softly scented lays dormant in a basket sitting in the window unable to blow across the air. Her shadow walks across my heart when I am looking elsewhere. Her smile dances and teases across the light angled towards my eye. Eyes closed, I feel her warmth layered across my chest pushing my heart open.
The swish tangle of hair falls to the ground in a snip snap of scissors. The warm smell of product fills the air and the sway of a freshly mown lawn swings in the wind. A smile and fresh sparkle of tinsel lighten the dark heaviness of static. Change creates its own dimension in the mind and the sometimes the body follows and sometimes the will changes as the body swallows in the essence of a new look. It is trivial and wondrous the ability to change at will with the freedom of life as you want it to be.
The mass genocide of a peoples reflected in the celluloid crispness of a screen in the safety of a home heated in warmth. The lost and senseless slaughter of people slashed open in grotesqueness and we are made to feel. Wandering in a drink of red wine, like you know, she said, he said banter of the vacant. In a moment we feel the safety in the ever changing morality of our hopes and dreams. Never should we take for granted the lives that we lead for they can change in a heartbeat. Humans are grotesquely beautiful in their innocence.
The Tip Jar