Something Ugly, But Not Really

This is one of the rare things that gets a disclaimer from me. I ran it by beloved to see if he thought it went too far and maybe shouldn’t be published here, and after he smirked about a line or two (this is a good thing) his response was, “Um… my dad reads your blog.” He has a good point. This is not my most offensive piece, hardly the most vulgar (and just to be perfectly clear right up front, it does NOT have anything to do with me and beloved… it’s not THAT kind of post) but it’s not pleasant. It’s a little graphic, uses words that aren’t acceptable in polite company, but we’re not among polite company in this context, and the ugliness and harshness seem to be necessary. If you look past that, this ended up being (because I had no idea where this was going when I started writing it, and like everything else, it just kind of fell out of my head in about two minutes) about how we’re all, underneath our images and facades, the same. It’s a feel-good, hippie-dippie thing, really… just written, you know, by me. It has bad words. It mentions uncomfortable things. It would almost certainly, if my little blog had ten times as many readers, offend someone. That offense is not intentional, but inevitable, and my words are directed toward stereotypes, not human beings. So there, consider yourselves disclaimed… carry on, then.

we’re in this together now,
you know-
just the two of us
-whether you like it or not.

this is not the kind of love-hate relationship you dreamt about
young and foolish in your faded jeans and
edgy haircut, too much black eyeliner and
a journal full of
deep and
meaningful
thoughts
“what’s love without a little pain?”
you wrote;
“if it doesn’t hurt a little
it’s not real.”

perhaps you traced a map of scars
along your arms
covering them up in the most obvious way
striped sleeves coming down over your hands
mid-july, and you were baking
one paw curved fake-coy over your carefully pursed mouth
in every single
not-posed
meticulously orchestrated
photograph
taken by the Only Person in the World Who Understood You
at the bus stop
or mcdonald’s
or the mall.

you thought nobody noticed
the perfectly carved trails-
not too deep, you don’t really want to die
not too shallow, or the lack of blood will deem you
inauthentic
and a fraud.

the truth is
no one cared.

grown up, now
so to speak
you find yourself here
with me

perhaps instead you were
the prom queen, cheerleader
seething inside
ever so misunderstood
nobody could ever know
that all that you wanted
was fucked by your gym teacher
-disappointed afterward,
breathless and wiping his sweat and disgust
from your cheek
you realized then
you’re a dyke
junior league, fundraisers
bright whitewashed kitchen
you’ve grown bloated and sick
with suburban disease
and puking up french fries doesn’t clean out
your closet of sins
anymore

and here you are, now
dough faced and cursing the piles of stretchy
elastic-waist pants on your shelf
wishing that you were anywhere else
but here
-with me.

we’re in this together, now
the two of us
hiding out behind painted-on
plaster fake smiles
and the teeth in your vein are as crooked as mine
and your skin is as pale stretched and paper-burnt
brittle
as mine
and the punk you were
sweet hippie, flowing skirts, flower-hair, blessings and light to all,
you once said;
the football star
zipping his dick up
behind the desk
cheap suit unbuttoned, hands strategically placed
nervous cough, chin points toward the door
as you mumble what you think
might sound reassuring

you’re nowhere near
as alone
as you fancy
your poor self to be.

you are
in no way
unique on this planet
something else came before
who you are now
something else
will come out
when you’re bored
with yourself.

we are ghosts, pictures of things that we’ve done
played on a big screen
that no one is watching.

Steampunk and Space Rock and Shakespeare, Oh My.

So remember last year, when my brilliant sidekick took over George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead and, with the help of his esteemed cohorts in Silver Machine, wrote a trippy new soundtrack for it? He’s at it again, this time taking on sound design duties for a local steampunk version of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Even if you’re not big on Shakespeare, you should try and see this one. It’s not quite the long, drawn-out affair Hamlet usually is, and it feels like it goes even more quickly than it does, thanks in part to the expert acting, direction and of course, the incredible music and sound effects. Moog Music generously donated equipment to ensure that the sound for this production is top-notch, and you will not be disappointed. Anthony Dorion and Chris Tanfield are there each night, using their face-melting synth and theremin skills to add another dimension to the music that Dorion recorded and compiled for the production. Local artists Mary Sparks, Lee Stanford, Matthew Westerman and Max Melner are all featured in the score, and if you’ve heard any of these talented musicians play, you know you’re in for something beyond good. For more information or to read my thoughts about the play itself, check out the article I posted on Ask Asheville. The play runs now through Saturday, May 4.

Anthony Dorion in his downtown studio, working on sound design for Hamlet

Anthony Dorion and Chris Tanfield getting ready to work their magic before a production of Hamlet

floor.

in the dark, fumbling for the lightswitch
like a drunk still wiping whore-red lipstick
from his crotch and breathing fumes of
cigarettes and stale whiskey on the doorman as he
tries to maintain some sense of
dignity
-the light evades, exhaustion wins
the floor becomes a haven, cold and hard
unforgiving, flat black tiles cracked around the edges
pretending to give solace
in the night.

funk and photographs

A couple weeks ago, beloved and I went to see one of our favorite bands. Before the show, one of the musicians came over and introduced himself, expressed his gratitude that we came, and then told me he’s one of my biggest fans and mentioned that I hadn’t written much lately.

That was weird. Incredibly kind, and flattering, and humbling (we’re talking a Grammy Award-winning artist here, and from our occasional interaction on Facebook, I know he’s an intelligent and thoughtful human) but it was unexpected and I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t quite get why people want to read what comes out of my head, and the only answer I had for him was the truth: “I don’t have anything to say.” I haven’t for a while, and if you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you know that’s not that unusual. I get in funks, and it’s hard to say much of anything at all. Nothing comes out right. Nobody wants to hear it. And the truth is, I don’t want to say anything. I just need to be quiet. This particular funk has lasted longer than most. There are days here and there–sometimes just a few hours at a time–when I feel almost normal. I can smile and laugh at work, I can play with the kids, I’m hardly debilitated… just-depleted. Quiet.

I take a lot of pictures, though. I try to capture the happy in little snapshots, so I can hold on to it for later. Here again are a few snapshots of happy. Several of these were taken by beloved; you’ll likely be able to tell which ones they are, but I’ll note them anyway.

So anyway, I wrote a little something earlier, and maybe I’ll find more to say as the weather starts turning back toward summer, but until then, here’s a little happy I’ll share with you.

Happy little insect friend

photo by Anthony Dorion

photo by Anthony Dorion

photo by Anthony Dorion

four seventeen

i ravage his treasure
steal from the dreams he keeps locked inside
his simmering head
written out longhand, his sharp letters
a path to the stars

night, darker than the furthest corner from the sun
and i am nightmares raging, waking out of breath
unable to speak
with my own voice
unable to see
with my own eyes
i am helpless
in this grip

and before, the sun baked us warm
and whole
cooked out of us the memories
of anything gone wrong
melted hand to hand
five thousand feet in the air
we touched the clouds
cool air on our skin
terrified of the altitude
exhilarated, pale
laughing
through the fear
(he photographed me there, sitting near the edge
sky stretched out behind me
i trust him to let go
and not to let me fall)

daybreak, noon and i am
tired,
more than tired.
breathing in the scent of him, his arm draped across me
like he owns the world
-he might
if what he says is true
and from the depths of madness i reach in
extract the thing i need the most
asleep, he knows i’m there
fingers spread, he reaches
for my hand
and won’t let go.

photo by Anthony Dorion

selfish.

i said,
in my sleep,
i want
everything
whispered, face turned away
from the sleeping back beside me
i took it back almost immediately
just in case
my voice might have carried

kept inside
the selfish bits
wander loose from time to time
wanting
everything
always to be
the only thing

my system of belief is flawed and perfect
the only true religion and like any good
follower
i hear what i want to hear
and make believe the rest*

every second taken is a million years away
from where i was
every second given, crushed
and trampled
under quick-retreating feet
blue painted toenails in combat boots
i gave the world a tiny peek
i wish i’d kept it that way
always

tired, in my waking sleep i whisper
i want
everything
to be the only
thing
that ever could be
always
i want something
only mine
selfish greed, and i am
unapologetic
in my haste.

*with apologies to simon and garfunkel, whose sentiment has clearly leaked into my head today.

On English Classes, Guts and Expectations

Some of you might know that I went back to school recently. I am required, as part of the standard curriculum, to take an English class. I thought about testing out of the class, but decided to go through with it because I don’t exactly have a ton of experience writing the kind of things college professors probably want to see, and so maybe I’ll learn something about writing for that particular audience. I have to look at it the same way I looked at studying SEO and things like that. I submitted my first weeks essay notes (some of my answers were “a bit brief;” according to the professor’s feedback; he has a point, and I know now that one thing I need to work on is padding my responses), aced the grammar diagnostic (which looked frighteningly like what my kids did around grade four) and finally, this week, got around to writing the first real paper that was assigned. The instructions were to write a descriptive essay; the description could be of a person, an object, a place or an animal. I’m not sure that what I wrote is quite what the professor was looking for, but I’m still learning here. I shared it with my mother (you’ll see why) and she laughed so hard she cried, and then apologized (again, you’ll see why). I thought since she enjoyed it so much, you people might as well. Here, then, is my first official piece of college English writing.

Standoff

It sits in front of me, silent of course, and motionless, but somehow still mocking me. It knows that it has come down to me versus it, and only one of us can win. I know from experience that I will likely lose again, like I have so many times before. Still, I have to fight. I have to try.

The drab browns and greys do nothing to reduce its similarity to some fetid swamp, rank with the stench of those who came before me, tried to brave the horror here, and failed. The smell is nearly suffocating: flesh and earth and over it all, some vague smell that might have once been appetizing, in a different time, under very different circumstances. Now, it only adds a cruel layer of sweetness to the vile mess before me. Not even a strawberry muffin can overcome the travesty that is liver and Lima beans, cruelly placed before me by my mother. The bright red berry bits have been overshadowed, tainted by the ugliness beside them. What was once an eagerly anticipated treat now tastes like bribery, a pale attempt to make me think this meal might be worth eating.

“This isn’t food,” I say, indignant in the way that only nine-year-olds can be. “It’s guts.” I’m right, you know. It’s a liver, straight from the inside of a cow and cooked on the very same stove on which my mother made me pancakes that morning, back before she lost her mind and tried to poison me with the innards of some poor unfortunate bovine.

“Eat your guts,” says my father.

I ponder the wisdom of rolling my eyes or arguing, but while I may be a picky child, I am not a stupid child, and I err on the side of being allowed to watch The Cosby Show that night rather than being sent straight to bed. Instead I stomp pout-faced into the kitchen, retrieve the barbecue sauce and return to my chair. The ancient green vinyl of my padded seat seems to sigh in sympathy as I sit back down and cover the guts on my plate with a quarter-inch layer of the pungent condiment. Sauce oozes down the sides and I think, “This must have been what it looked like inside the cow.” Somehow, I manage not to vomit.

My father, unamused, offers me the bottle of ketchup he just poured onto his own Lima beans. This whole not-vomiting thing is getting harder by the second, and I squeak out a “No, thank you” before washing the bile back down my throat with a giant swig of milk.

My mother, the very woman who created this situation, glances at me. Her eyes are a lovely blue, her hair fluffy in curls around her shoulders. You’d never suspect this tiny, sweet-natured lady of making her children eat guts and beans. And yet, here is the proof: “Eat up, sweetie. Try your muffin.”

I am expected to eat this; all of it, the liver and its accompanying onions, looking like nothing more than neatly segmented parasites, translucent worms just waiting to infect me with some horrid cow disease I’m too young to know about just yet. Anthrax, maybe, or AIDS; I’m nine, I don’t know the difference. The muffin, oh, the poor abused muffin, placed there only to entice me to the table, now rendered inedible by its proximity to one bean that slid away from the rest and is now, in a vulgar display of affection, nestled next to it… this too must be eaten, along with the offending bean and its compatriots. There is no way out of this. I will sit here till the butter on the beans congeals, till my milk goes sour, till, Heaven forbid, I fall asleep face-first into the slab of worm-infested guts sitting squarely in the middle of my Strawberry Shortcake place mat.

I have no choice. The enemy has won again. Knife in one hand, fork in the other, I make the first cut. There is no going back now. Defeated, I begin to eat my dinner.

Asheville Writers in the Schools Write-A-Thon

Hi friends,

Asheville Writers in the Schools is a non-profit organization that places writers in local schools to teach kids about the joys of reading and writing. I’m participating in a “Write-A-Thon” to raise funds for the program; I’m hoping it will help inspire me, too, to complete the children’s book I’ve been promising baby girl and her brothers for years. If you’re like to contribute and help sponsor me in this, the link is below. Any little bit helps, and even if you can’t donate (believe me, I totally understand money being tight; I can’t afford to sponsor myself either) feel free to share the link. Oh, and I also have a chance to win an awesome weekend writer’s retreat here in the Blue Ridge Mountains. How awesome would that be? Thanks in advance for your support, both in this and through your continued positive feedback for the silly little things I write. You people are awesome.

Here’s the link to sponsor me in the Write-A-Thon: http://www.mountainofwords.org/adults-writers.html

2.13 in the morning, 2.13.

what if i’ve
forgotten how to sleep
and all i’ll ever do it sit here
with my eyes burnt out and my skull cracked from the pressure
of my brain trying to escape
and hide someplace warm and safe
where there aren’t any bugs
or verbs
or thoughts

what if,
for that matter,
all of the verbs just stopped
being
and there were only
adjectives
fighting for position

that’s what it’s like in here
fucking insomnia
and i can’t turn out the lights.

hibou.

i don’t know what this is-
contentment
creeping in around the corners of the bleak and
melodramatic
knowledge that i’ve carried most my life
this will be over soon, tomorrow
isn’t anything that’s real
and on waking, late, before the sun has even thought of
coming by to check in with its
ugly cheerful disposition
flower-growing hippie
bright philosophy
my eyes adjust and arms held out
i wait
but not for long and it settles over me
like a blanket knit from long-forgotten
memories of safety and security

owls can see in the dark
three hundred sixty degrees.

there is only one pulse here,
and we are spiderwebbed together
tucked inside the place that i mapped out
cartographic, unintentional
indelible, i know
where i belong.