Advancing years had Sheila waking up in need of make up, especially under
the eyes. Efficiency was not her main concern this morning as she looked in
the mirror and studied the face she had seen for 49 years. But this morning
was different as she shoved her flattened brows to a standing position and
thought of the people at work. Nice, crazy, smart, urgent people. But personally
what did she care except that she earned money, wasn't bored and actually liked
being there. But no energy, nothing special went into her morning routine. How
could she put some snap back into her life? How could she cultivate the aura of
energy that draws people to her, makes them desire to be around her?
She decided she would imagine she was dressing for a date with George Clooney.
So with George in mind she applied her make up with more care, blew her hair
straighter to accentuate the blonde highlights and donned her great jeans, gray
long sleeve sweater with the one inch collar, the body of which cut off at her waist
and a a white shirt that hung out a little at the edge of the sweater. Her brown boots
completed the outfit.
Pleased, she drove to work.
Her attitude was confident. They gave her compliments on her sweater and to her
delight noticed her hair appeared more blonde.
"Did you use a new shampoo?" the 24 year old that sat next to her asked.
"I dressed like I had a date with George Clooney", she confided to the young
woman.
"You are such a freak" the young girl laughed.
"I know, isn't it fun!"
The 24 year old smiled the kind of smile that agrees, even envies the older
woman's ability to not only come up with this game, but to play it successfully
and then reveal her secret.
The next day several women showed up looking noticeably smart in their
carefully pulled together outfits. And the next, and the next.
That Sheila was dressing for imaginary men was never openly discussed again
but by week's end a new energy had taken over the office, and one man was seen
coming back from lunch with a retail bag on his arm.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
PARIS
A broken heart does not Paris mend. She tried to imagine scenarios
to match the uninhabited mansion meant now only for show and focused
on the ungroomed back corner of a small garden, the part of the over all
that was ignored and invisible, much like herself.
Scratching out her pain on an odd-sized tablet with a pen purchased
in the 16th Arrondismeau near her school, she sat on a wooden chair
near the pond in Luxembourg Gardens. It was July and hot and her heart
heavy. The little French boy and girl with their pet duck swimming,
the relaxed couples lounging, enjoying the beauty around them.
She tossed off these images with a shake of her head and noted Central
Castings eagerness to accommodate all but her.
So not like Hemingway she thought and decided Hem only loved Paris in
retrospection, his dislike for the things he professed to later love would
dominate. Was she less than human in her disdain for this city? It was
not in the actual living but the Proustian idea of the remembrance of
things past that scared the hell out of her. What if the real joy of living
was felt only in one's memory? The pain of life certainly was.
With half her money gone and two-thirds of her stay remaining she made
her way to the McDonalds across from the Pantheon and bought a burger
and fries, a sure cure for the broke and broken.
She stuffed her parisian fast food into her purse and waited with the
others for the Pantheon to open. It struck her as odd something that old
would have hours.
And waiting to see dead people. Not a festive thought, but she was
here and so were they.
Inside the cold, dim rooms she wondered how many men it took to
slide the tomb covers off the thick stone slabs encasing the remains.
Sections of the Pantheon were crumbling, large pieces dropping from
the beautifully painted ceiling in areas where visitors were cordoned off.
A narrow casing of steps wound up to an open rooftop patio where
the view on this clear day, spectacular. Above her to the left, the
Pantheon dome. She climbed up the curved smooth surface, above the
ordinary tourists, and ate her burger and fries. Paris spread out below,
a cream colored, two-storied city with flashes of interest populating its
sprawl. The Sacre Coeur church, the ferris wheel at the Tulleries, the Eiffel
Tower and Notre Dam.
Crumbling her wrappers she lay back against the warm surface of the
dome. Arms spread as though on a cross, she lay open to the sun and
imagined, as she had one month ago on a beach in the Hamptons, the
healing properties of light filtering through the universe, that beating
down upon her would some how cleanse her soul and destroy all the
darkness and pain within.
to match the uninhabited mansion meant now only for show and focused
on the ungroomed back corner of a small garden, the part of the over all
that was ignored and invisible, much like herself.
Scratching out her pain on an odd-sized tablet with a pen purchased
in the 16th Arrondismeau near her school, she sat on a wooden chair
near the pond in Luxembourg Gardens. It was July and hot and her heart
heavy. The little French boy and girl with their pet duck swimming,
the relaxed couples lounging, enjoying the beauty around them.
She tossed off these images with a shake of her head and noted Central
Castings eagerness to accommodate all but her.
So not like Hemingway she thought and decided Hem only loved Paris in
retrospection, his dislike for the things he professed to later love would
dominate. Was she less than human in her disdain for this city? It was
not in the actual living but the Proustian idea of the remembrance of
things past that scared the hell out of her. What if the real joy of living
was felt only in one's memory? The pain of life certainly was.
With half her money gone and two-thirds of her stay remaining she made
her way to the McDonalds across from the Pantheon and bought a burger
and fries, a sure cure for the broke and broken.
She stuffed her parisian fast food into her purse and waited with the
others for the Pantheon to open. It struck her as odd something that old
would have hours.
And waiting to see dead people. Not a festive thought, but she was
here and so were they.
Inside the cold, dim rooms she wondered how many men it took to
slide the tomb covers off the thick stone slabs encasing the remains.
Sections of the Pantheon were crumbling, large pieces dropping from
the beautifully painted ceiling in areas where visitors were cordoned off.
A narrow casing of steps wound up to an open rooftop patio where
the view on this clear day, spectacular. Above her to the left, the
Pantheon dome. She climbed up the curved smooth surface, above the
ordinary tourists, and ate her burger and fries. Paris spread out below,
a cream colored, two-storied city with flashes of interest populating its
sprawl. The Sacre Coeur church, the ferris wheel at the Tulleries, the Eiffel
Tower and Notre Dam.
Crumbling her wrappers she lay back against the warm surface of the
dome. Arms spread as though on a cross, she lay open to the sun and
imagined, as she had one month ago on a beach in the Hamptons, the
healing properties of light filtering through the universe, that beating
down upon her would some how cleanse her soul and destroy all the
darkness and pain within.
MUSIC
She turned her cream colored Dodge down her north Dallas
suburban street right into a wall of music. Not odd, considering
32 kids lived in this neighborhood block.
Five houses down on the left she pulls into the only red brick
home with a circle drive in the front, the music so loud now even
the voices of her own thoughts beaten silent.
All doors and windows of the surrounding homes were closed to
keep the simmering Texas sun out and the air conditioning in.
But she had convinced herself it was to repeal the assault.
Entering the front door the music grew inconceivably louder.
Not the sound of Bread or Kiss or Boston or the Stones. A rhythmic
marching beat. Cosack-like. Germans, Russians, and the US military
marching. An entire orchestra sending troops to war.
And the marching. Pounding of boots, not on gravel but linoleum.
Now hardwood, now across entryway tiles her father's stern, energized
steps . Left, right, left.
A can of Pearl beer in his left hand, a lit cigarette in his right. Marching.
Marching. Her escape down the hallway coincides with the arrival of
his military might.
"Hi Dad," Over-powering and without as much as a glance or a nod, nay
without acknowledgment of any kind, this army of one stomps past
muttering orders to his troops, not understandable but spoken in that
"I'm talking to myself don't interrupt" ind of way while simultaneously
flattening his daughter against the hall wall in his wake.
He proceeds to the end of the hallway and with a drag from his cigarette
and a gulp of his Pearl beer, he reverses direction though not labeled
retreat in his mind.
suburban street right into a wall of music. Not odd, considering
32 kids lived in this neighborhood block.
Five houses down on the left she pulls into the only red brick
home with a circle drive in the front, the music so loud now even
the voices of her own thoughts beaten silent.
All doors and windows of the surrounding homes were closed to
keep the simmering Texas sun out and the air conditioning in.
But she had convinced herself it was to repeal the assault.
Entering the front door the music grew inconceivably louder.
Not the sound of Bread or Kiss or Boston or the Stones. A rhythmic
marching beat. Cosack-like. Germans, Russians, and the US military
marching. An entire orchestra sending troops to war.
And the marching. Pounding of boots, not on gravel but linoleum.
Now hardwood, now across entryway tiles her father's stern, energized
steps . Left, right, left.
A can of Pearl beer in his left hand, a lit cigarette in his right. Marching.
Marching. Her escape down the hallway coincides with the arrival of
his military might.
"Hi Dad," Over-powering and without as much as a glance or a nod, nay
without acknowledgment of any kind, this army of one stomps past
muttering orders to his troops, not understandable but spoken in that
"I'm talking to myself don't interrupt" ind of way while simultaneously
flattening his daughter against the hall wall in his wake.
He proceeds to the end of the hallway and with a drag from his cigarette
and a gulp of his Pearl beer, he reverses direction though not labeled
retreat in his mind.
Moving Home
"You can always move home," her mother's voice sincere, not angry, even hopeful
"But will we have to speak?"
"What?" her word more spit out than released.
"Will we always have to talk?"
Mom's happy, hopeful smile now screws in a tight twist across her face.
"No, not always, but mute co-existence will be uncomfortable."
"But each time we pass in the hallway I don't want to have to feel like
I always have to say hi."
Her mother's expression that of a woman whose daughter suddenly sprouted
two additional heads. "I don't understand what you mean."
"I mean, if I'm watching TV and go down the hallway during a commercial
and you or dad approach from the opposite direction, we're close enough to touch.
Do we pass by like the other isn't there, or do we smile, nod and say hello
because all this acknowledging could get old."
With a dismissive shake of her head Mom tidies up the kitchen. I" don't see it
being a problem. One hi a day is fine, two max.
She wanted to believe her mom but lingering doubts were bolstered by the
thought that living life as a permanent greeter at some social function was
cause for concern.
That she felt a stranger in her own home escaped them both.
"But will we have to speak?"
"What?" her word more spit out than released.
"Will we always have to talk?"
Mom's happy, hopeful smile now screws in a tight twist across her face.
"No, not always, but mute co-existence will be uncomfortable."
"But each time we pass in the hallway I don't want to have to feel like
I always have to say hi."
Her mother's expression that of a woman whose daughter suddenly sprouted
two additional heads. "I don't understand what you mean."
"I mean, if I'm watching TV and go down the hallway during a commercial
and you or dad approach from the opposite direction, we're close enough to touch.
Do we pass by like the other isn't there, or do we smile, nod and say hello
because all this acknowledging could get old."
With a dismissive shake of her head Mom tidies up the kitchen. I" don't see it
being a problem. One hi a day is fine, two max.
She wanted to believe her mom but lingering doubts were bolstered by the
thought that living life as a permanent greeter at some social function was
cause for concern.
That she felt a stranger in her own home escaped them both.
Monday, December 22, 2008
More About Me
My feelings surround me like a blanket
Smothering me with their weight
Unseen monsters claw at my mind
Cutting a hole through my imagined prison
Provides escape for tormentts that haunt me
They are free to go but they go naught
Like glue they stay, sinking deeper
Where is the release?
Where do I find the peace I seek?
Dropping to the floor my acid tears melt
The carpet in patterns of confusion
The glaze across my eyes turns a candle flame
Into a burning star gliding though space
Could I hitch a ride?
Is that star my ship through the universe?
I pray it comes for me
Stopping at the door of my mind.
Here it is.
It has come.
Can my mind carry me past my tears?
The flames dim to reveal steps from the star
Unfolding to my mind
One step at a time I climb
Closer and closer to reality
A reality as God and the universe see me
Happy, healthy, with the peace of mind I long for
Reaching the top, one foot in the star
I look back at the false world behind
It will and will not be missed
As I fully enter, the starship flames melt
My protective covering
Bleak, despairing thoughts vaporize to
Nothingness, warmth and peace
My Heart full of hope
We sail off exploring new universes
New worlds, new thoughts and joys
Until we are but a glimmer of light
In the distant galaxies
My eyes now open
These new feelings still within
Thought I've never left the floor
Tearful patterns of confusion once known
Now gone
This universal journey I am on
A product of my mind
Is my mind
And the disappearing starship
Merely a candle flame burning low
Smothering me with their weight
Unseen monsters claw at my mind
Cutting a hole through my imagined prison
Provides escape for tormentts that haunt me
They are free to go but they go naught
Like glue they stay, sinking deeper
Where is the release?
Where do I find the peace I seek?
Dropping to the floor my acid tears melt
The carpet in patterns of confusion
The glaze across my eyes turns a candle flame
Into a burning star gliding though space
Could I hitch a ride?
Is that star my ship through the universe?
I pray it comes for me
Stopping at the door of my mind.
Here it is.
It has come.
Can my mind carry me past my tears?
The flames dim to reveal steps from the star
Unfolding to my mind
One step at a time I climb
Closer and closer to reality
A reality as God and the universe see me
Happy, healthy, with the peace of mind I long for
Reaching the top, one foot in the star
I look back at the false world behind
It will and will not be missed
As I fully enter, the starship flames melt
My protective covering
Bleak, despairing thoughts vaporize to
Nothingness, warmth and peace
My Heart full of hope
We sail off exploring new universes
New worlds, new thoughts and joys
Until we are but a glimmer of light
In the distant galaxies
My eyes now open
These new feelings still within
Thought I've never left the floor
Tearful patterns of confusion once known
Now gone
This universal journey I am on
A product of my mind
Is my mind
And the disappearing starship
Merely a candle flame burning low
Sunday, December 21, 2008
The Bomb
I wonder what it takes to go back out that door
Comfortable nightmares seem tame after living in reality
I hear the sounds of cars speeding past me
And know it's my mind racing away away from the truth
That master of decit, my mind.
It chooses at will the visions which support my ego's plans
I feel trapped in a body, held prisoner by them both
Neither of which has shape or form.
They push me around, fueled by thoughts of fear
Felt only by something or someone perilously close to self-destruction
To what length would you go to stay alive?
To that extent and further yet will my mind and ego fight.
War's destruction all around us
But the battlefield of my mind
Rages with terror.
As I walk down the street
I am certain people hear
The bombs going off inside
And with each explosion
My head jerks imperceptibly.
My soul, the part of me held captive
Silently Screams
The "why" questions I promised never again to ask
Come thrashing out
And with every question asked
Comes no response.
I feel a drop of sweat running down my face
Confusion and chaos ignite within me
A gasp for air shrieks out of my lungs
And now I know
The drops of sweat are really tears
Tears for the sadness I feel
Tears for my fear of never escaping
The bondage I am in
All wrapped up in one
I am sinner, convict, judge, and jury.
The battle between good and evil
Commander of the warring factions
And yet a prisoner of the war
I feel I am everything and nothing
Between my allness and my nothingness
I wait to disintegrate
Comfortable nightmares seem tame after living in reality
I hear the sounds of cars speeding past me
And know it's my mind racing away away from the truth
That master of decit, my mind.
It chooses at will the visions which support my ego's plans
I feel trapped in a body, held prisoner by them both
Neither of which has shape or form.
They push me around, fueled by thoughts of fear
Felt only by something or someone perilously close to self-destruction
To what length would you go to stay alive?
To that extent and further yet will my mind and ego fight.
War's destruction all around us
But the battlefield of my mind
Rages with terror.
As I walk down the street
I am certain people hear
The bombs going off inside
And with each explosion
My head jerks imperceptibly.
My soul, the part of me held captive
Silently Screams
The "why" questions I promised never again to ask
Come thrashing out
And with every question asked
Comes no response.
I feel a drop of sweat running down my face
Confusion and chaos ignite within me
A gasp for air shrieks out of my lungs
And now I know
The drops of sweat are really tears
Tears for the sadness I feel
Tears for my fear of never escaping
The bondage I am in
All wrapped up in one
I am sinner, convict, judge, and jury.
The battle between good and evil
Commander of the warring factions
And yet a prisoner of the war
I feel I am everything and nothing
Between my allness and my nothingness
I wait to disintegrate
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