this popped into my head today.....
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Posted:Feb 7, 2017 1:50 pm
Last Updated:Feb 16, 2017 2:18 pm
8067 Views
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I was in hospital for a med change, to monitor for seizures, hooked up to a portable EEG machine that would click on if my brain did anything “strange”. It was a three day stay for an otherwise healthy person so I walked the halls, worked out on a bike they had for EKG testing, walked some more, read four books, watched game shows.
On the third day, my neurologist showed up to check the machinery. He found me pedaling on the bike, tut tutted me back to bed, ran me through the neuro testing and then did a breast exam. I was in the doctor patient bored place of responding with infinite patience to stupid commands when this started. It took me about 20 seconds to register what was happening before I reacted.
I pulled back. Pushed the nurse button. I watched as he skittered away like some giant cockroach. When the nurse arrived, I told her what had happened. She asked if I was sure. What? I was a 36 year old woman. I was not in a psych ward. I was here for a meds change to stop seizures. I asked to speak to the Nurse Manager.
The Nurse Manager is the person who is in charge of everything that happens on a shift. She arrived and she had been told what I had said. She sat on the bed, taking my hand. Her first words? “This will be a shit storm”. I asked how to file a formal complaint and remove him as my doctor of record, how to have another neurologist take over my care immediately. She started the process without further comment. She did her job. She was a consummate professional.
He was a very very accomplished neurologist. He was the only one that had been able to diagnose me and the only one that had been able to help with controlling my seizures. I never spoke to him again, although I did refuse his request to write about my case for the journal of medicine because he wanted access to follow up files. Seriously?
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7
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nationalism
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Posted:Feb 3, 2017 3:06 pm
Last Updated:Feb 16, 2017 2:13 pm
8916 Views
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The families on the beach were putting down their blankets, grandmothers, setting out the parameters of their space for the day. It was not an easy beach to get to, set as it was in a smallish cove, the access a brambled rock strewn path from high above, not marked. I had to drag my moped down with me, but it was my favorite beach. Not a tourist beach, no umbrellas or frosted drinks, no waiters scurrying back and forth, just locals usually, sturdy souls who wanted quiet, privacy, a nude beach where everyone felt safe.
The couple that had set up on a large flat rock were German, a couple staying in a pension in the village where I also lived.
They had already established a reputation the day before by taking a picture in front of the war memorial, commemorating the death of all the village men over 6 and under 70 when the Nazis pillaged France, killing the resistance fighters. As the couple laughed, striking poses, asking reluctant passersby to take a photo, they might have guessed at their indiscretion, but no. Later that evening at the local bar, the room stilled when they entered, the bartender attempting to shoo them out, saying the bar was closing. The man, undeterred demanded a drink. The room watched as he gulped it down, and then choked. His limonade, pernod with a touch of water must have burned. The couple stayed, determined. The room emptied, the villagers refusing their company.
The man, sat wide legged on his rock, staring at all the , leering, his hand fondling his cock. Grandmothers pulled les petites femmes closer. His wife though quite beautiful, seemed vague, not to notice, or care. He sat drinking beer after beer. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the umbrellas opened. The Mediterranean sun is a devil. Families gathered in their shade, eating, napping. The German and his bride fell asleep too sprawled naked in the sun on their flat rock. The grandmothers nodded each to each. It was as it should be. The played happily, the beach again safe.
At the time of leaving we began to pack. His tortured scream woke his bride. She gasped as well. The lobster red of his white, white skin was frightening. The pointed but were herded by their families to the path. As he attempted to stand, the bride grabbed his arm to stand as well, but fell back as he shook her off. No one reacted. The Germans did not speak French, their pleas for help, if indeed there were any, went unheeded. I had one good look at his raw penis. The honeymoon was clearly over.
As we crested the hill, I looked back. They were struggling to dress. One of the Grandmothers took my hand, gently pulling me along.
That evening, the bar was full. The story of the lobster man was told, retold by the old women who were plied with drinks. The couple had left the village in an ambulance. had run behind it, singing the national anthem. I took a picture of one small boy with a tiny flag. The bar stayed open late.
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12
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magic man
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Posted:Jan 31, 2017 3:10 pm
Last Updated:Feb 3, 2017 2:13 pm
8313 Views
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My Da was a great believer in the supernatural. He had grown up lace curtain Irish, poor, the middle of three boys and a girl who trailed along later; his father a bookie, his mother a shrew of the first water. Though they were raised in the church, like all good Irish families, they avoided it like the plague using it only for the threat of god’s wrath, eternal damnation, to keep young fearful of the dark and sex long into adulthood.
He got his first job at the age of 5, toting papers through the streets at 4 AM, seven days a week. His life was harsh, lightened only by the mystery and magic that flew on a high wind above the dirty streets, magic he sought out in all that stood apart.
The empty rocking chair in the window of the tenement building that rocked all day long, never ceasing. The room where his godfather died, the smell of oranges clinging to the walls, months after, no, years after his passing. The bed linens on the cot at his auntie’s house that would slide down off his shivering body in the middle of the night, smooth as silk off a shoulder.
It was my Da who believed in crop circles, the ring around the moon, the Ouija board.
He bought me one for Christmas but we all knew it was really for him. Mama didn’t want it in the house. She flat refused to be in the room with “the thing”. We would ask it silly things, fun things - the name of my yet to be seen first boyfriend…stuff like that.
The day it happened, my brother, Da and I were asking questions about someone we loved who had committed suicide.
I remember that it spelled out something that I thought was a mistake. But Da……he said look in the encyclopedia. I did. It was the name or I should say a name for Satan. I will not write it here. The planchette began to move again. No one was touching it. It moved faster and faster, a date. Another date. My Da tossed the board to the floor. Later that day, we watched as he burned it in a pile of leaves raked forward as a byre.
One of those dates has been realized within our family. I am like my Da, I believe in magic. it is one of his gifts to me.
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11
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tea time
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Posted:Jan 29, 2017 2:57 pm
Last Updated:Feb 3, 2017 2:13 pm
7738 Views
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The sun was starting to set. Winter took it early, lights coming on in houses where people were home, others still dark, waiting for their doors to open, breathing life back into them. The street was a quiet one, the houses set apart from each other, on large lots with enough land to give them each a sense of self, a personality all their own. The house at the far end, near the woods was smaller, more of a cottage style, well kept, a barn red color with black shutters, a breeze through connecting it to a small barn. A shallow stream caught the last rays of the sun setting, turning it silver.
The kettle screamed. He poured the steaming water into the teapot, setting it onto the tray. Carrying it carefully into the formal parlor he set it down on the table.
The woman alerted, smiled.
“Lovely”.
He nodded and took a seat across from her.
It had been a long time since they had seen each other, years if truth be told. There was familiarity but also a vague discomfort that pervaded the room.
“The house looks nice”
He nodded again. He could not fathom why she had come here after such a long absence. His mind was trying to parse her presence in his home, finding it not just unlikely but also in some way disquieting.
“Why are you here?”
“Ah, well, actually, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“A favor? Of me? I find that hard to believe.”
Her smile faded a bit, her hands reaching for her bag. She leaned forward, putting a cigarette to her lips, lit it, then leaned back.
“Well, it’s not that big a …”
He poured the tea very carefully. Not listening to a word she said, making sure that the steaming liquid covered her entire face, dousing the cigarette.
“No smoking dear, remember?”
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7
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Symposium 27 Feeding the Cat
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Posted:Jan 28, 2017 2:28 pm
Last Updated:Jan 30, 2017 2:11 pm
8694 Views
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She rose slowly from the floor, the wreckage of her body resisting. The tail swished in her face, her hand brushes the soft fur as she pushes against a chair for leverage. Her back complains bitterly, her hips too but she manages.
She moves ever so slowly to the counter, pours the kibble as the cat jumps up lithely, purring, already burying its head in the bowl. Her swollen fingers pass over and over the lean body while she leans, one leg askew, panting.
The phone is pulled from the wall. She needs to get to the den. If she passes out on the way, it could be a while before she wakes again. Pulling a chair in front of her, she pushes it, follows, pushes it follows.
Her bag is in the den, her phone in the bag. It hurts to breathe. She spits. Blood. Don’t think just do. The cat is right between her feet, twining. Licking the blood. She screams from the pain of it.
The cat shoots off, knocking the hall table, a vase breaking into pieces, shards of china. She cries NO. But to whom? For what? She is the most alone she has ever been. Why is she making noise? Nearly there, nearly there, nearly there.
Collapsing on the chair, she takes stock of the room. The bag is near the desk, a mere ten feet away. After pulling the shards from her feet, she crawls to it, reaching inside for her phone, pulling it out with a crow of triumph, hitting the buttons, speaking, holding it against her chest, a fallen warrior behind a shield. The cat warily enters the room.
She reaches out a red, broken hand. The cat, curls up beside her. Its heat, its purr the only reality left. She rides the sound, not moving until the front door is broken open. The sound of footsteps.
She screams, HE’s back.
“Ma’am, is he still in the house?”
“oh, oh.”
“ No, oh. I have a cat, please close the door.”
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11
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thoughtspeak
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Posted:Jan 25, 2017 4:08 pm
Last Updated:Jan 27, 2017 1:57 pm
8027 Views
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What was the world like before language? Was it easier, simpler, more basic, less confusing or was it just more one dimensional, less interesting, less informed, more open to misinterpretation?
I used to play a game with my on the computer when he was little, we would take a noun, an adjective and a verb and put them into the google image search….see what came up. It was, if nothing else a way to spend a rainy afternoon with an overactive 5 year old. If we could, we would act out the image.
My later told me that this became one of his buds’ weed games. I am not surprised. Although I doubt the nouns were as benign as ours had been.
In our current world, words are trapped. They last forever now. Captured by a thousand cameras, phones. Hell, a computer search can find your words in another’s words. Like Trump’s inaugural words in the words of a man spoken years before. Like Melania’s spoken first by Michelle Obama. Spew them back at you. Have we learned nothing from that?
……..so don’t tell me you didn’t say the sun came out on inauguration day while it was raining dude, because there were a whole bunch of witnesses from the CIA.. Bush had a damn piece of plastic over his head.
And the word fact….the dictionary remember that book big D? I do. Look it UP. so if you say 3-5 million votes were illegitimate, without any proof, it’s not a fact. It’s a lie.
Do NOT screw around with words like you’re some literate person. Stick to the little itty bitty ones, like your hands. Try this one … liar. My mama told me when I was little and had fudge sauce all over my face it’s hard to be a good liar because the truth will out.
It’s even harder now BigD. What with all the media and the tapes and stuff. You need a keeper, man. Cuz right now, the boat is sinkin’ faster than you can bail. And there’s a whole lot of people out here with long poles ready to push that sucker back into deep water. Just sayin’. Watch your words.
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13
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entwined
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Posted:Jan 22, 2017 2:15 pm
Last Updated:Jan 29, 2017 2:08 pm
7899 Views
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Have you ever just started crying after an orgasm? For me it happens, well not all the time, but enough so it doesn’t flip me out.
The first time it happened with this particular person, the world had been feeding me shit on a shingle for a week or so and despite my admirable gag reflexes, I was feeling 37 kinds of used up, scared, vulnerable. It was not pretty girl crying. It was snotty ugly crying. Step back darlin’, she’s gonna blow crying. I could not stop.
For a woman, some orgasms are not a simple physical release. The little ones can be, a sharp tangy clenching. But, there are others…those that crescendo. One must just let go of the earth, drift out a bit, allow the spaces in. The waves will build and spill behind each other, lifting you.
The ramping up, the convoluted, twisting path of almost. The edge always there, tempting, your breath seeking to slow as He pulls you back, not just once but again and again. The anticipation, the heavy drowning feel, the tension in itself orgasmic, yet not the endgame.
The journey one of twists and turns as you are twirled around, up and down, over and again. The pain taking me deeper, through the dark need, the ache setting my legs to tremble. No words only sounds, the smell so strong I can taste You in the air.
You took the world, covered it with molten lava, twisted it around me until I lost all sense of time, my mind flew away, I was only my body reaching, for the true meaning of woman.
No, it is not a release. It is, as the French call it, le petit mort. I was no longer here. When I returned it was with a tristesse bordering on melancholia, with a profound gratitude, an open hearted acceptance of having been used, taken, moved, uplifted, adored and yet wanting, yearning,.
Some men find this scary. Please, receive it as a gift. Pull me close, smoothe my hair, kiss the tears off my face, feed me chocolate. I am your prize.
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14
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the Stand.
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Posted:Jan 21, 2017 1:17 pm
Last Updated:Apr 8, 2017 5:42 pm
7416 Views
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in Boston, the women gathered. it was estimated a week ago that there would be 30,000. two days ago, 60,000.
the police count was over 125,000 today in Boston Common.
to let the newly sworn president know that his policies towards women, LGBT, Muslims, immigrants, the homeless, all of the people that his new America will marginalize, will NOT go quietly.
they stood in so many cities across our Country. sister cities all over this Great United States the numbers were monumental. in DC, the numbers, unlike those at the inauguration, were so vast, that the helicopters could not capture the full scope of the crowds gathered.
Not a single act of violence. brought together in hope, with hope, soaring with a sense of purpose.
yesterday, we were told we were a scrap heap. today, we saw and heard the very heartbeat of America and we are going to prove you wrong Mr. President.
may god bless America.
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13
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fence sitting
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Posted:Jan 19, 2017 1:54 pm
Last Updated:Jan 22, 2017 11:56 am
7475 Views
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“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” The first book of A Tale of Two Cities is entitled Recalled to Life.
For those of us who have read Dickens, it is both an education in storytelling and a stern reminder that a story cannot be tied up in a pretty ribbon in the last ten pages just because. I was always a bit annoyed at his handiness in tidying up. Perhaps seeing even as a that the world did not allow for such a clean sweep of the broom.
Having spent an ungodly number of hours watching the hearings for the Trump’s choices to lead our country forward, I found the first line of the book pounding in my ears. Warren, Sanders, Franken asking questions that showed intelligence, knowledge and preparation…..to know we have such people out there, willing to continue to do battle is heartening.
And yet, all of these profoundly unqualified, smiling puppets that will take up their positions in a day, begin to …what? What exactly will they do? They don’t even know what their jobs entail. What happened to getting the best and the brightest? If he’d done that, just that, MAYBE, I would not be so utterly and completely disgusted.
We have been recalled to life. We cannot accept mediocrity. Not that our soon to be President and what he represents is mediocrity. That would be a welcome bush sort of okay. This is a scary ass, omg he’s gonna get us all killed cuz he thinks he’s god shit show.
Women are marching to make it known that we are, how shall I say this? Pissed? Not taking his presidency as a fait accompli? He is not our president? He is not even a bad third choice? The facts that he keeps saying are facts are NOT facts?
Oh and btw, this is NOT 1984….so stop listening to the doublespeak. He DOES have a conflict of interest. He WILL talk business with his sons. The Russians did screw with the election. And yes, he peed on a couple of women of the evening.
…….and you’re still on the fence?
Jump already.
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14
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toes in the grass
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Posted:Jan 16, 2017 3:46 pm
Last Updated:Apr 15, 2017 5:43 pm
7587 Views
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When I was a wee one, I would wish on the first star, each and every time, for a cocker spaniel puppy. I thought then that consistency would bring results. I was wrong.
We were never to enjoy the frolicking joy of a puppy. My Da’s devotion to an unsullied lawn was too deep, too intense. As we had to play on the driveway, the soft grass a forbidden zone, used only for show. My mama would hold to the rules fearing Da would notice the bent grass; but baby sitters? Can you not see my siblings rubbing our small nefarious hands together?
One August night, my parents off to a neighbors to do adult somethings, we were left with Maryellen, the mentally challenged but gentle of the couple down the road. She collected for the church every week, often spending an hour or so watching mama iron while talking. My sainted sister suggested a game of tag. Maryellen shooed us out the back door onto the lawn. Our eyes lit up.
For an hour or more, we ran in bare feet, the soft grass under our toes. Joyous laughter, verging on the hysterical as Maryellen sought to tag one of us, all of us eluding her slightly awkward running. When she sank to the stoop, exhausted, we rolled in the pristine carpet so long denied. But then, my sister pointed. I turned to see my little brother sitting, gleefully pulling handfuls and tossing them skyward.
At first, I smiled. He looked so happy. Then, Oh shit. Now I have no idea if I thought shit then, but I know if I knew how to say shit, I would have thought oh shit. The sainted one ran and scooped the little SOB up, running into the house with Maryellen in pursuit.
A bath, story, bed……hurry, hurry. Back outside with flashlights. Picking up blades of grass that had dropped from his tiny fists. Looking for holes. Impossible to know if we had them all, we crept into our beds, exhausted, spent….
When they came home, the sainted one grabbed me by the hair. We could only hear the sound of voices but not the words. I slapped her hand away. The house settled into silence.
The next day as we left by the back door to get in the car to go to church, my Da, said nothing. On the way home, nothing. When we got out of the car, mama went in. Da put out a hand to stop us following.
My eyes could spot every stray blade of grass we’d missed collecting. The sainted one began to cry. My brother ran onto the grass, rolling over and over.
Da, hands on hips, looked down at my sister and me. His large hand swung out. I flinched. My sister ran.
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11
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laughing in church
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Posted:Jan 13, 2017 1:11 pm
Last Updated:Jan 17, 2017 12:38 pm
7406 Views
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For a while after I came back from France, I worked as a bartender at a non-profit organization that helped refugees relocate and find work. It housed a retail store of outdated clothing, a retail bakery the baking done on site by a woman named Doris who never smiled but God, the things she made would make your mouth fill with joy. The bar, well, it existed to serve the people who dined on the terrace and while it was my job, I found myself becoming the person who did a bit of everything since no one seemed to know there was a bar.
But this, this is about Mrs. Jones, a woman of significant means who came to the Window Shoppe at least three times a week to indulge. She drove an enormous dark green Cadillac, which she would park out front by banging it into whatever two cars were on either end of her desired space until it was ensconced. Enormous as her car was, Mrs. Jones dwarfed it with her own size.
She was a ship, a freighter who would clear a wake before her, ignoring all others and berth herself at a table for 4 in the shade with a resounding grunt. The small birds that frequented the terrace would take to the trees, eaves, silenced by the spectacle. Because she was wealthy and a contributor to the organization, she saw this as a right, not even a privilege. She was in a word, a bitch.
The birds were pretty chubby from eating the rich Austrian pastry crumbs that dropped to the ground, But Mrs. Jones was massive. Each visit, she ordered two pastries and two martinis….this is why I was the one who had to serve her. I hated her. Sachar torte and linzer torte. Linzer torte was my favorite which I mentioned to her when I placed in on the table and to which she replied, “Why are you speaking to me?” She was a slovenly eater, crumbs on her lips, on the table, on the ground, the birds gathered quickly.
She finished the pastries quickly, lifted the second martini to her lips, kicked out at the birds, wafting them up from the ground at her feet. Satisfied with her meanness, she gulped the martini, scraping crumbs off her plate with her finger, when the body fell directly in her lap. Her scream was strangely high and weak. I was expecting more to be frank. As she struggled to stand and swipe the dead bird from her lap, she lost balance.
It is not a funny thing. While of course the manager is no doubt thinking uhoh, the rest of us are running away, bent over in laughter trying not to be too obvious in our mutiny. Mrs. Jones, panties on display, scrabbling to right herself, dead bird now by her face, which is red/purple and still crumb covered, shrieking, the manager yelling call 911 (way before cell phones people) while no one………..no one……does anything except laugh like loons. We were all going to hell but even the other customers were laughing….I know, right?
So, she lived, not a bloody thing wrong with her. The bird was dead……heart attack? The manager whose name was Pearl tried to be stern but she was laughing too hard by then so it didn’t have much oomph to it. Mrs. Jones did not return. It was a good day.
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10
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homage to Neruda
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Posted:Jan 10, 2017 2:17 pm
Last Updated:Jan 19, 2017 3:06 pm
7529 Views
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...But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine. Pablo Neruda
When he left that morning for work, he did not kiss her goodbye nor did he say he loved her as he usually did. He left without looking back to wave, strode up the street to the corner bus stop and disappeared inside.
She watched from the window.
The table needed cleaning, there was laundry to start, the baby would wake soon but she stood at the window, hand on the glass, unable to understand how this had become her life. The quiet of the room was enormously loud as she moved to clear the dishes. The sun found entry, lighting the faucet on fire, hitting the copper bottom on the pan above the stove.
She moved more swiftly, loading laundry, wiping the counters. There was little time to waste. The first sounds came within a minute or so sending her scurrying down the hall to lift the chubby babe, cooing, feeding, settling him on a quilt in the warm den, surrounded by toys, the standing guard.
Another cup of coffee was on her mind as she returned to the kitchen. She gasped. He stood at the door, out of breath. He moved towards her without a sound, lifting her onto the counter, spreading her legs, settling himself between them, his hand fisted in her hair, pulling her mouth to his savagely.
She leaned back, hands splayed on the counter, took his weight. He bit her neck and lifted her down.
“I forgot to kiss you goodbye.”
She laughed. This was her life.
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10
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waiting
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Posted:Jan 9, 2017 1:55 pm
Last Updated:Jan 17, 2017 12:39 pm
6925 Views
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I don’t want to grow up.
I know, you’d think I would have done it already. But I haven’t. I keep thinking I have but then something happens and I realize I am still a little learning that Santa Claus isn’t real. I am utterly flabbergasted, crushed…..my world is blown apart and I question everything, all of it.
It’s not that I’m irresponsible or even naïve. It’s more like a beaten that still looks at a hand extended and sees a pat, not a swat. Not a glass half full kinda thing because that means you’re thinking about it and I don’t, nope, not a conscious thing at all. Which might make you wonder if I’m just being obtuse, stupid, or even fucking blind.
But I don’t think so because most of the time, it’s all good. I don’t mean, it’s ALL good. That’s dumb. But generally, it’s all good, nothing is slipping into the OMFG area, stuff is getting done, life is, well, life…yanno? Today I woke up crying, at the tail end of a dream that was so wretched but was also part of a dream that was so glorious that my mind got tangled up. Ever happen to you? Yeah.
In meditation, I sat with it. The koan became so real that as I sat, I felt physical pain. It began in the heart chakra and moved upward. I could feel it leave through the crown chakra, the pain that is. My body settled but there is a sense of great loss in me now.
I am waiting I suppose for the news to follow the intuition.
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7
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To link to this blog (wickedeasy) use [blog wickedeasy] in your messages.
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