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The older couple on the other side of the gas pump have been arguing for the last few minutes, both pressing buttons at the same time and confusing the debit machine. I might help them as soon as I'm done with my own purchase. A man approaches. I avoid eye contact. I see blue jeans, a medical bracelet and a wad of cotton held on with medical tape.
"Sir", he approached the befuddled couple.
"Sir!? I don't need this right now. Now, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" the old man screamed.
Still avoiding eye contact I finish filling up and return the nozzle to its cradle. A swift glance around and I saw retreating flip flops, shoulder length brown hair...come to think of it, I think that was Jesus.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Steven Tyler and Michael Jackson walk into a...
Is there nothing sacred anymore? I pondered this question as deeply as the haze of anesthesia would allow me, given that I was draped in blue paper and strapped down to a cold black operating table.
Below, my swollen belly was being prepped like a melon before the knife. Above, the anesthesiologist casually chatted with his assistant about his new Rolex. I could hear it jangling on his wrist as he turned it this way and that, apparently the fit was a little loose. My teeth chattered uncontrollably, interesting how the chemicals in your blood turn to ice. Over the radio a DJ announced the next song by Michael Jackson. Just think, my precious son was brought into this world and the first sound to hit his ears was the 'ooohing' and 'eeeing' of MJ.
The doctor had trouble loosening the baby from his nest and several people stood over me pressing down with their hands just below my rib cage. It was all so mechanical, I felt like a car suspended in a repair shop. Just when I thought my lungs would collapse from the pressure there was the unequivocal feeling of release. Tears, joy, pain, fear, wailing, first kisses. And then he was whisked away.
Once the umbilical cord is cut the heavy duty meds are funneled in. The family members stand noses pressed to the nursery window while the doctor rolls up her sleeves to begin the task of trying to put back together two halves of a body. I drifted on a morphine cloud.
"Say Doc, why not throw in a tummy tuck while you're at it."
"Say Doc, why not throw in a tummy tuck while you're at it."
I am certain I must have said it more than twice. A polite nurse assured me that Doc was doing an excellent job. The song on the radio changed and this time it drummed out an Aerosmith classic.
"I had pizza with Steven Tyler."
Doc laughed and the anesthesiologist snickered, suddenly distracted from his watch.
"No, really. I drove horse carriages on the island you see..."
...
What's that? You haven't heard my Steven Tyler story? Well, all you need do is ask!
Below, my swollen belly was being prepped like a melon before the knife. Above, the anesthesiologist casually chatted with his assistant about his new Rolex. I could hear it jangling on his wrist as he turned it this way and that, apparently the fit was a little loose. My teeth chattered uncontrollably, interesting how the chemicals in your blood turn to ice. Over the radio a DJ announced the next song by Michael Jackson. Just think, my precious son was brought into this world and the first sound to hit his ears was the 'ooohing' and 'eeeing' of MJ.
The doctor had trouble loosening the baby from his nest and several people stood over me pressing down with their hands just below my rib cage. It was all so mechanical, I felt like a car suspended in a repair shop. Just when I thought my lungs would collapse from the pressure there was the unequivocal feeling of release. Tears, joy, pain, fear, wailing, first kisses. And then he was whisked away.
Once the umbilical cord is cut the heavy duty meds are funneled in. The family members stand noses pressed to the nursery window while the doctor rolls up her sleeves to begin the task of trying to put back together two halves of a body. I drifted on a morphine cloud.
"Say Doc, why not throw in a tummy tuck while you're at it."
"Say Doc, why not throw in a tummy tuck while you're at it."
I am certain I must have said it more than twice. A polite nurse assured me that Doc was doing an excellent job. The song on the radio changed and this time it drummed out an Aerosmith classic.
"I had pizza with Steven Tyler."
Doc laughed and the anesthesiologist snickered, suddenly distracted from his watch.
"No, really. I drove horse carriages on the island you see..."
...
What's that? You haven't heard my Steven Tyler story? Well, all you need do is ask!
Monday, November 16, 2009
(nothing new)
I died last night by my own hand and not a soul answered the phone.
I died last night because the voices were real, regardless of what I’ve been told.
I laid my head in the tangle of roots at the feet of the great trees. My father, mother stepmother and past friends, all bid welcome to me.
I died last night by my own hand and now I’m beginning to tremble. From between the trees footsteps approach, steps unlike any other. My sins began to boil under my flesh as the white Light stepped out from the forest. The Light came near and bled out my sins, black like tar and smelling of sulfur. I died last night by my own hand, but no sin is greater than another.
I died last night because the voices were real, regardless of what I’ve been told.
I laid my head in the tangle of roots at the feet of the great trees. My father, mother stepmother and past friends, all bid welcome to me.
I died last night by my own hand and now I’m beginning to tremble. From between the trees footsteps approach, steps unlike any other. My sins began to boil under my flesh as the white Light stepped out from the forest. The Light came near and bled out my sins, black like tar and smelling of sulfur. I died last night by my own hand, but no sin is greater than another.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Here's Your Sign
Before losing, by death, someone close to me I was sure that there would be communication across the veil dividing the living and the dead. Surely there would be signs and feelings at the very least, if not communication and conversation. It was very disappointing after the first few fruitless trips to the cemetery. As I stood in my backyard telling someone over the phone that I had rethought my theory on our abilities to communicate with the dead and that it was impossible, a brilliant cardinal flitted over my head and landed in a nearby tree. This had been my uncle's favorite bird, I was standing in what had been his yard, was this a sign?
Several years have passed and although I have experienced what would seem like break through moments in dreams, there has been no hard evidence of an actual connection with anyone who is lost to me. No paranormal activity, certainly, no cold draft, no whiff of perfume, no hint of their voice through a crowd, no touch on my shoulder, no shudder of certainty at what otherwise would be happenstance. That must be a good thing. Their souls are at rest and at peace. They see nothing in my life that needs their attention. Whatever they have found on the other side has captivated them so that nothing here is worthy of their bother. Or quite possibly, those demons that pose as lost loves have steered clear of me.
Certain recent actions I have taken have caused that old cliche to play over in my mind; "I'll bet they're rolling in their graves." I didn't expect to literally find them on the other side of the cemetery when I took out the fall flowers yesterday, but I arrived with some reticence. I lingered at our family bench under the oak tree and fussed over the flowers there. Then made my approach to the two gaves just over the hill, in the "Hybiscus I" section.
They were silent. Stiff-lipped would describe them better. Dad avoided eye contact, although he acknowleged the fresh flowers and agreed that we would leave the water collected in the bottom of the vase for the frog that lives there. Mom couldn't stay silent when gifted with flowers, she thanked me..."but as for that other business...".
"Well, I haven't done it to spite either of you. I understand what you did to protect me. But, maybe you will have to accept that you were, in some respects, wrong."
"We will not."
"That's just fine...I will be back very soon with the christmas flowers and maybe you will feel differently then. Time is, as you taught me, the great healer."
With the bit of confidence this gave me my mind grew silent. I shifted my weight slightly to one side and suddenly my ankle twisted under me and I struggled ungracefully to keep from falling in a heap on Dad's grave.
"Well, now." I thought. "That was uncalled for."
Several years have passed and although I have experienced what would seem like break through moments in dreams, there has been no hard evidence of an actual connection with anyone who is lost to me. No paranormal activity, certainly, no cold draft, no whiff of perfume, no hint of their voice through a crowd, no touch on my shoulder, no shudder of certainty at what otherwise would be happenstance. That must be a good thing. Their souls are at rest and at peace. They see nothing in my life that needs their attention. Whatever they have found on the other side has captivated them so that nothing here is worthy of their bother. Or quite possibly, those demons that pose as lost loves have steered clear of me.
Certain recent actions I have taken have caused that old cliche to play over in my mind; "I'll bet they're rolling in their graves." I didn't expect to literally find them on the other side of the cemetery when I took out the fall flowers yesterday, but I arrived with some reticence. I lingered at our family bench under the oak tree and fussed over the flowers there. Then made my approach to the two gaves just over the hill, in the "Hybiscus I" section.
They were silent. Stiff-lipped would describe them better. Dad avoided eye contact, although he acknowleged the fresh flowers and agreed that we would leave the water collected in the bottom of the vase for the frog that lives there. Mom couldn't stay silent when gifted with flowers, she thanked me..."but as for that other business...".
"Well, I haven't done it to spite either of you. I understand what you did to protect me. But, maybe you will have to accept that you were, in some respects, wrong."
"We will not."
"That's just fine...I will be back very soon with the christmas flowers and maybe you will feel differently then. Time is, as you taught me, the great healer."
With the bit of confidence this gave me my mind grew silent. I shifted my weight slightly to one side and suddenly my ankle twisted under me and I struggled ungracefully to keep from falling in a heap on Dad's grave.
"Well, now." I thought. "That was uncalled for."
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Change?
I found this one undated among some of my older drivel. I place it at around 1994, so pardon the language of that 18 year old. Has there been much change in the last fifteen years?
Our little Liberty has become a fucking tramp, and Lady Justice lost it long ago.
Their half-wit wards have learned, too late, of the twisted games they play.
The slower minds, easily fooled, fit perfectly into the scheme of things.
They take in the tired, the poor, the hungry...those are the easiest prey.
With a light in their eyes, little children look up at these gods of society.
If only once they would catch one licking its ass like the dogs they have become.
I'd like to hide, or run away...or maybe stand and fight and teach them a thing, or two.
I would teach them about the daisies and the butterflies.
Though once a thing like virginity is lost it can never be regained.
Our little Liberty has become a fucking tramp, and Lady Justice lost it long ago.
Their half-wit wards have learned, too late, of the twisted games they play.
The slower minds, easily fooled, fit perfectly into the scheme of things.
They take in the tired, the poor, the hungry...those are the easiest prey.
With a light in their eyes, little children look up at these gods of society.
If only once they would catch one licking its ass like the dogs they have become.
I'd like to hide, or run away...or maybe stand and fight and teach them a thing, or two.
I would teach them about the daisies and the butterflies.
Though once a thing like virginity is lost it can never be regained.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The Fine Art Of Faux Pas
We mother’s would like to think that our children have been well prepared for most any occasion that could come up in the social world. We’ve encouraged them to think before they speak. We’ve taught political correctness, to a degree. By this point they should be fairly dripping with social graces. Ha! I have two boys. What follows shall be Deux Faux Pas.
Scene One: The Island hosted a festival over the weekend. Tents were stretched across a couple blocks and were filled with food vendors, beer vendors, arts, crafts, trinkets and bobbles of all shapes and size. We had wandered about one beer deep into the place and passed a tent that was peddling temporary tattoos and face painting. You wouldn’t think that a line from one of your favorite comedians could spring forth from the mind of your child so quickly, but do not underestimate them!
The pseudo-tattooist tempted our boys with glittery face paint, “Everybody wants a glittered fish or skull and crossbones today!”
Without a breath of hesitation my oldest clearly and distinctly quoted Demitri Martin, “Glitter is the herpes of arts & crafts.”
Six…count them…Six mouths dropped wide open. Four of which were quickly capped with a hand to stifle peals of laughter while the astonished glitterer and her partner sat slack jawed trying to decipher what they had just heard. Apparently, what my son had said offended her on some level and so she prepared a quick and harsh retort.
“Well, do you have any idea how much money my herpes has made me today?”
Had I been sampling some festival food I would have surely choked to death right then and there on the sidewalk. Thankfully the shade of night allowed us to gently and anonymously withdraw from the circle of light under her tent.
Scene Two: We found ourselves in the northern parts of the county on Sunday afternoon. As we were riding along US 41 we passed a decrepit but bustling rural flea market. Deciding that it could amuse us for an hour or so we pulled off the shoulder of the road and made our way through the gates. Each of our boys were given a small amount of money with which to bargain, but while passing them the bills they were quietly warned to keep their money out of site. They decided it was best to keep it in a fist then shoved in a pocket. Good thinking.
Surveying the crowd we found ourselves the minority in unfamiliar territory. Stay close, keep your heads up and eyes moving. My youngest made his first purchase, a necklace of a gold like substance with an eagle pendant dangling from it. Once home I explained to him that he shouldn’t wear it in the shower or to bed and that despite this care, his neck would most likely turn green at some point.
Not dissuaded, he had the eagle proudly displayed outside his jacket early Monday morning. I gently explained to him that we wouldn’t want people to think we were going overboard on the “bling” and that tucking the pendant inside his shirt would be a nice way to hide…er…wear the jewelry.
After school I anxiously asked what the reactions of his classmates were to his new purchase. He cheerfully said that he kept it inside his shirt, as suggested and only took it out when asked to show it by one of his friends.
“They all wanted to know where I got it and so I told them ‘at the Mexican flea market’.”
Scene One: The Island hosted a festival over the weekend. Tents were stretched across a couple blocks and were filled with food vendors, beer vendors, arts, crafts, trinkets and bobbles of all shapes and size. We had wandered about one beer deep into the place and passed a tent that was peddling temporary tattoos and face painting. You wouldn’t think that a line from one of your favorite comedians could spring forth from the mind of your child so quickly, but do not underestimate them!
The pseudo-tattooist tempted our boys with glittery face paint, “Everybody wants a glittered fish or skull and crossbones today!”
Without a breath of hesitation my oldest clearly and distinctly quoted Demitri Martin, “Glitter is the herpes of arts & crafts.”
Six…count them…Six mouths dropped wide open. Four of which were quickly capped with a hand to stifle peals of laughter while the astonished glitterer and her partner sat slack jawed trying to decipher what they had just heard. Apparently, what my son had said offended her on some level and so she prepared a quick and harsh retort.
“Well, do you have any idea how much money my herpes has made me today?”
Had I been sampling some festival food I would have surely choked to death right then and there on the sidewalk. Thankfully the shade of night allowed us to gently and anonymously withdraw from the circle of light under her tent.
Scene Two: We found ourselves in the northern parts of the county on Sunday afternoon. As we were riding along US 41 we passed a decrepit but bustling rural flea market. Deciding that it could amuse us for an hour or so we pulled off the shoulder of the road and made our way through the gates. Each of our boys were given a small amount of money with which to bargain, but while passing them the bills they were quietly warned to keep their money out of site. They decided it was best to keep it in a fist then shoved in a pocket. Good thinking.
Surveying the crowd we found ourselves the minority in unfamiliar territory. Stay close, keep your heads up and eyes moving. My youngest made his first purchase, a necklace of a gold like substance with an eagle pendant dangling from it. Once home I explained to him that he shouldn’t wear it in the shower or to bed and that despite this care, his neck would most likely turn green at some point.
Not dissuaded, he had the eagle proudly displayed outside his jacket early Monday morning. I gently explained to him that we wouldn’t want people to think we were going overboard on the “bling” and that tucking the pendant inside his shirt would be a nice way to hide…er…wear the jewelry.
After school I anxiously asked what the reactions of his classmates were to his new purchase. He cheerfully said that he kept it inside his shirt, as suggested and only took it out when asked to show it by one of his friends.
“They all wanted to know where I got it and so I told them ‘at the Mexican flea market’.”
Friday, October 2, 2009
Neglect
The summer months always seem to drain the very last of my creative juices. Today, though, I can feel a change in the weather. Fall is coming and with it I hope my inspiration returns. I thought that maybe if I just opened this page and began typing that my fingers might just take on a life of their own and begin spinning words. (great pause) Well then. I'll try closing my eyes and digging up a memory...
Isaac and I were tucked comfortably in my bed watching Emeril Live the other night while Andy helped Jared finish his math homework. Frog legs were on the menu and we cringed and gagged as a batch sizzled in the skillet. Isaac was quite adamant that humans should not eat frogs. I launched into a discussion of how if we were accustomed to eating them we wouldn't think twice about it. And besides, they probably taste like chicken! His reasoning was boring deeper. He said that frogs are good for the Ecosystem because they eat bugs. "What did chickens ever do for the earth?" he asked. So, I proposed a frog farm concept. The frogs have a very good life eating bugs and then at some point...they become the gum in the gumbo. He wanted to know why we had to kill them. Why couldn't we just wait until they died of natural causes? "Well, you remember what happened to your fish when he got old?" I asked. "Disease set in and his last few weeks weren't the best of his life. In addition, eating something old and diseased isn't good for our quality of life!" Through this we continued into the concept of Euthanasia. Treacherous waters with a ten year old, but he held his own quite well. We consider it humane to put an animal out of its misery, yet inhumane to allow a human that same decency. He cried deeply and quietly, and I allowed him that time. After a few minutes I asked if he was alright and he said yes, but "life sucks!" "True," I agreed. "However. This life isn't all there is. Before we were born we came from somewhere, we just can't remember it. After we die we will return. The whole point of this life in between is to make the most out of our experience here so that when we return we can take what we have learned from our mistakes here to make that place a perfect world." He curled up in the blankets and rested his head on my stomach. Hot tears soaked through my nightgown as I gently tickled his back. "Where will you go?" he asked. "Back where I came from." I replied. "But, what am I supposed to do then!" I thought for a moment, "Well, sometimes life sucks! It will seem that life has stopped and there is nothing but pain for awhile. And then, slowly, the world will begin to revolve again and remnants of life will start to take the place of your pain, although it will never erase it completely. Then someday, it will be your turn. And you will join me in that perfect place. The place with no tears or worry, no hate and no fear."
Isaac and I were tucked comfortably in my bed watching Emeril Live the other night while Andy helped Jared finish his math homework. Frog legs were on the menu and we cringed and gagged as a batch sizzled in the skillet. Isaac was quite adamant that humans should not eat frogs. I launched into a discussion of how if we were accustomed to eating them we wouldn't think twice about it. And besides, they probably taste like chicken! His reasoning was boring deeper. He said that frogs are good for the Ecosystem because they eat bugs. "What did chickens ever do for the earth?" he asked. So, I proposed a frog farm concept. The frogs have a very good life eating bugs and then at some point...they become the gum in the gumbo. He wanted to know why we had to kill them. Why couldn't we just wait until they died of natural causes? "Well, you remember what happened to your fish when he got old?" I asked. "Disease set in and his last few weeks weren't the best of his life. In addition, eating something old and diseased isn't good for our quality of life!" Through this we continued into the concept of Euthanasia. Treacherous waters with a ten year old, but he held his own quite well. We consider it humane to put an animal out of its misery, yet inhumane to allow a human that same decency. He cried deeply and quietly, and I allowed him that time. After a few minutes I asked if he was alright and he said yes, but "life sucks!" "True," I agreed. "However. This life isn't all there is. Before we were born we came from somewhere, we just can't remember it. After we die we will return. The whole point of this life in between is to make the most out of our experience here so that when we return we can take what we have learned from our mistakes here to make that place a perfect world." He curled up in the blankets and rested his head on my stomach. Hot tears soaked through my nightgown as I gently tickled his back. "Where will you go?" he asked. "Back where I came from." I replied. "But, what am I supposed to do then!" I thought for a moment, "Well, sometimes life sucks! It will seem that life has stopped and there is nothing but pain for awhile. And then, slowly, the world will begin to revolve again and remnants of life will start to take the place of your pain, although it will never erase it completely. Then someday, it will be your turn. And you will join me in that perfect place. The place with no tears or worry, no hate and no fear."
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