Tuesday, November 10, 2009

the afterward.

I am marked with ink stains and curiosity and a dirty tongue that hides behind a smile that won't let you down.

It's like that rush of ambivalence that comes from accidentally letting go of your birthday balloon and watching it roam freely through the transparent blue expanse of our atmosphere. A balloon disintegrating into space into nothing.

Illusion! I know it floats on, where it ends I will never know. Just because layers of depth have clouded it from view doesn't mean it is not still going. Just because I can't see you doesn't mean you aren't there waiting.

Waiting beneath my bed till night falls and you rise, like Queens of the Night. From ghost to flesh, I felt you're flesh, tore you flesh, and watched it slip like water through my finger spaces. You fold up like paper when the sun hits your body, leaving me with nothing but wet hands to remember.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

A farewell.

She sees a ghost wandering the forests of her mind. It passes through dead trees and she feels the subtle tingles of nerves dancing within her. They howl joyously to the beat of the transformation from it's flesh to a memory to a something that isn't really there, soon to vanish into the closing of a time no longer ticking.

Sunday, September 27, 2009


Come on, let's go down to the river where the water flows. Then into the trees, where the caterpillars hide on the underside of the leaves. You can whistle with the birds as I run away screaming, into fields with butterfly wings catching the sunlight, gleaming. I'll grab a stick and draw you a picture. You can laugh at me as I start to vanish. Beneath the water's surface I'll swim deeper and deeper. I'll grow gills and you'll grow impatient. Over the waterfall I'll have went by the time you've given up searching. I'll send you a letter from Atlantis, tied to a gulls leg. Oh leg, legs! My legs are now one, a giant fishes tail. I am one with the sea, will you sail? Sail the great ocean to one day find me?

Wednesday, March 18, 2009


At 10:37a.m. on March 11th 2009 I was traveling at a speed of 492 mph, 37,502 feet above Georgia. 

March 10th, 2009

Billy's Bakery - There is a horseshoe hanging above the doorway, and I can't take my eyes off it. Mint tea, buttercream cupcakes. A man is sitting in a window seat at his table singing an 80's song playing above us all. He has his knee up, holding his iPhone. A much younger man of asian decent is seated next to him. Are they dating perhaps? There is an elderly man at the other end of the table.

The window seat man, in his 50's from the looks of it, is wearing a brown fedora with a matching brown strip of ribbon with off-white piping lining it's brim. 

He changed position and is now leaning all up in the window. 

The asian and I just made eye contact. 

They are both leaving now.
"It sounds like that is even a stretch for me" says the older man as he leaves the table. I could not make out the asian man's response as they exit. 

Here I tune into the friends that accompany me at my table. They are discussing how specificity has been the word of the month. 

Out beyond the doorway there is a red van that reads "Doro's Annex, Inc." parked on the street. A man entering Billy's Bakery just blocked my view and I shift my eyes to the elderly man who remained at the table as the brown fedora window seat man and his asian friend got up and left. He was not a friend of theirs. 

The old man is reading. A 400 page book by the looks of it, about a hundred pages left. He just lifted a chunk of his red velvet cupcake into his mouth with a metal fork. He has yet to take his eyes off the book. 

I can't help but take notice that his head bobs. I am not sure why this happens to certain elderly persons. I decided their neck muscles are straining greatly to support their head, these muscles are weak, deteriorating due to the process of aging and having gone through so much. These muscles, now so close to the end. I've heard the human head weighs 7-8 pounds. 

My attention returns to the book he is staring down at. The napkin holders on our table are blocking my full view of the book. He is using his hand to support his forehead as he is lost in the pages of his mysterious reading material. 

He just started a new chapter. I can tell because of the formatting of the text on the left page he is currently reading as I peer over the napkin holders praying my spying goes undetected. 

He is gone now. He flipped through his index and got up, pushing his chair in. I missed the scene of his exiting through the doorway out onto the street. I was distracted by a conversation I over heard my three fellow friends were engaged in. 

It is so sweet smelling in here I could throw up.

March 18th, 2009

"Neurosis is always a substitute for legitimate suffering." -Carl Jung

Dominique Nahas has very distinct hands and forearms. These pairs are so delicate, their gestures so whimsical? Pristine? Dainty? You get what I'm getting at. His voice is almost just as gentle. His collared button up long-sleeved tinted blue shirt is too large for him. I know this because of that seam that connects the arm of the shirt to the shoulder part, that seam that makes a band around the end of the shirts arm and dives into and back out of the armpit area, you know the one... anyway this seam should lie just on the angle created by the meeting of the shoulder to the upper arm. Instead, if the shirt is too large, the seam falls somewhere too low, resting on the upper arm and not up at the shoulder where it should be. Larger men and women often wear shirts in this fashion. I never find it benefiting to their appearance. It only emphasizes the fact that you are large. I wish he'd wear the correct size shirt. Perhaps he usually does. The only other time I have seen him was in Florida giving a lecture, wearing a suit jacket that could have been hiding the same problem. I'll never know.

I am still entranced by the femininity of his hands and arms. Unlike his reddened face, the skin tone of these parts is fresh and glowing, completely flawless. There are no signs of immense amounts of dark hairs spread across his arms. In fact from where I am seated maybe 4 feet away, I notice no arm hair at all. There is so much youth captured in those hands and arms that is lost in his grayed diminishing hair and the wrinkles that branch out from beneath his eyes. Eyes magnified by the sharp rectangular lenses of his dark brown frames, a combination of metal and plastic supporting glass. 

"If artwork isn't pulsing with vitality, it isn't art. In fact it is dead." -Dominique Nahas

The Inanimate Object.

I was at work. One of the duties on the list we follow to close up the store each night is to restock the spoons. I grabbed the bucket used to hold the spoons, the same bucket that was once used for our famous "Vermonster Sundae". We don't make those at this store anymore, thank god. Scooping 20 scoops of ice cream for one group of costumers while I've got a line out the door is wretched, so to avoid this scenario we retired the Vermonster. I've never made one.

I stared down at the layers of upright spoons crammed into the half full bucket and on this night, at this moment I became intensely concerned with the ones I could make out at the very bottom. They never get used. Will they ever get used? A spoon's purpose is after all to aid in the process of eating food. Will these spoons ever be paired up with any consumers? Feelings of sorrow and depression overcame me, and then an uneasiness towards these feelings. How odd was it that I would be showing sympathy for a non-living man made object. They were nothing more than plastic eating utensils. Disposable ones, to make it even more ridiculous. No! But the spoons at the bottom will always be buried each night over and over by new spoons! Spoons that I am responsible for placing over the old ones. How long have they been down there!? I mean the spoons are restocked every night by an employee. I have never seen the half full bucket below half full, before being filled tot he top with more spoons.

Then one night not too long ago, it happened. I actually witnessed the spoons dwindling. One by one they were snatched up by costumers and stuck into a serving of freezing cold ice cream. The supply truck hadn't come in yet, and when I searched the cabinets looking for the box of new spoons I was informed we were out of them. There was a box coming in the next morning.

I surprised myself in recalling the night I felt emotional over the spoons eternally resting in the bottom of the bucket, and was now overjoyed. I felt rather childish and silly, but the very thought of even a few of those spoons finally leaving the dark confinements of that bucket was too good. Come on, those spoons I had been feeling sorry for were finally meeting their match in the line of costumers who grabbed at them in need of a plastic disposable spoon to cut out bite size portions of their purchased ice cream. 

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Exercise 5:

Exercise 5: Write about a time you felt trapped. Feel free to fictionalize or keep it real. This can be interpreted either literally or metaphorically.

My appointment was at 10a.m. It is now 10:45. I have yet to understand how the appointment system works with doctors. This is probably the only time I hope the nurse never comes into the waiting room with the clipboard, looks down and reads aloud, "Moira Langston!" I'd rather keep waiting, forever maybe, or at least until I realize this is all a mistake.

There are several other girls in the waiting room. I keep looking them each over, questioning why they are here. HIV tests? The “morning after” pill? An unusual rash, downstairs... I'll never know. It could be simple reasons, like getting a pap smear or a birth control prescription. I do know that not one of them could possibly be here for the same reason I am. The amount of fear in my eyes is reflected in none of their glossy corneas. No one is squeezing the edge of the chair, everyone is breathing calmly. I feel as though I should refrain from breathing. My chest, so tight, so heavy, as if to say "Drop dead! There's no more room in here for that air intake!" I almost am wishing right now I could comply with that demand. However, suffocating myself in Planned Parenthood is not my preferred way to exit this world.

God. The door handle is turning... There she is! The dreaded nurse, holding the clipboard, looking down at it. Right as she entered the waiting room I suddenly began to race forward into an imagined scene of my flinging myself out from the chair and sprinting out the door, running full force down the hallway of the building until I come to a glass door that says PUSH across the handle and a big red EXIT sign above it. I throw my body into the door, and as it opens I burst out into the street. I find the sidewalk and catch my breath. My car is parked across the road. I walk over to it, get inside, start her up and begin the fifteen minute drive back home. All I feel is complete freedom, and am overjoyed with accomplishment, proud of my courageous escape. Five minutes from home, it dawns on me he is inside waiting for my return, there for support. He expects that I will come home and say "I did it." and then burst into hysterics. Instead, I walk in and look him straight in the eye and say "I'm sorry.", and he will instantly know I backed out. I can't imagine what would happen after that...

"Moira Langston!" the nurse yells out, looking around at our faces expecting someone to arise.

Shit. This is the part where the imagine scene above should now start becoming a reality. I knew it down inside, my gut was screaming for me to run. I get up and slowly walk towards the nurse. I am weak, a sucker for love, and a complete fool. It was being proven to me as I followed her back to the yet another room where you have to wait, this time for the doctor. I have the biggest urge to throw up right now. This is fucking insane. My mind is so clogged with thoughts, racing in all directions crashing violently into one another causing my head to throb. "I need some fucking Valium." I whispered to myself. I need something to suppress my nerves as I am about to face an hour of complete hell. I would have taken several before I arrived but the procedure will not be carried out if the patient is under the influence of any drugs when they arrive to the appointment. It was in the papers I signed.

The nurse is back. "Please remove your clothes and put this on. Then just open the door so we know when you're ready and the doctor will be right with you". She exits, and I grab the gown off the chair. Its foundation is so weak. The fabric, so thin from wear and washings, it must have been washed more times in the last month than my shirt has been in a year. I truly hate these gowns. It's bad enough being here, now I have to freeze my naked little ass off while I await impending doom. The tile is bitterly cold against my bear feet as I walk over to open up the door a little. "It's just a cold world", I think to myself.

This is the most agonizing part. The silence of the room reverberates within my ears, and all I can do now is listen to my thoughts, which are too loud to drown out. Once again I begin to consider another daring escape. Who cares if I stumble out into the street completely nude underneath a hospital gown? Fuck it. I would much rather endure a few minutes of embarrassment and humiliation than have to live with this awful, wretched, immoral decision that will humiliate me for the rest of my life.

Yet again, there is no dashing for the door. I just patiently wait, completely immobilized by fear and anxiety. I am obligated to go through with this. I agreed that I would, and I love him. He told me I'd ruin his life if I didn't do this, that he just couldn't handle it. Now it is here, in this room waiting for the doctor that I finally realize that it is my life I am going to ruin instead, all because of my love for Ian. How fucking stupid...

The doctor enters, and stares at me as he takes a seat. He rustles through a bunch of forms and then looks up at me. "How are we today?" he asks. For a minute I say nothing, because I can't conjure up an answer. I hear "Not well" leave my lips, with complete sarcasm, followed by a nervous chuckle, then a deep sigh. Things get serious. Here he goes, beginning to explain that although I have already spoken with a counselor and the nurse about the decision and think this is what's best for me, if I am having even the slightest of second thoughts or a change of heart I am not to feel forced into anything. "If this is how you're feeling I'd recommend taking a little more time to think things over." I could feel the tears, already there screaming and beating at the backs of my eyes vigorously fighting to break through and make a run for it down my cheeks. Words all of a sudden felt like huge chunks of vomit in my throat, begging to be released. I swallowed deeply, stuffing down all the urges to purge my raging emotions. "It has to be done, I have made my decision." I replied, shaking my head and giving a little shrug to my shoulders. I wondered if he noticed these signs of doubt, but he made no effort to read too far into my response. He handed me a disposable Dixie cup and I was given Misoprostol, informed it would aid in dilating the cervix.

After that, everything happened very quickly. It had been explained to me over the phone prior to my arrival that if a driver wasn't present to take me home, I would not be allowed any sedation. The nurse suggested that I call someone to pick me up. I thought about calling him for a second, and then declined the offer. I deserved to endure the horrors of the procedure to the fullest, and this was my mental justification for opting out of taking any sedatives. The doctor now extended the offer once more and I declined once again. I’d hear every noise, feel everything enter and exit, and experience every ounce of pain and discomfort. Pinching and pulling, pressure, scraping. Muscles relaxing and tensing…

It only took ten to fifteen minutes. That’s what it said in the handout. Within this time span I was placed on the examining table, the one you lay on at any other gynecologist’s office. That annoying paper that crinkles loudly (it always reminds me of the disposable toilet seat covers in public restrooms), wrinkling beneath me. I can feel it touching the bare parts of my bottom in places where my gown has risen up as I’d laid back. “You need to bring your bottom all the way to the edge, and place your feet in the stirrups” a new nurse told me. She kept telling me to “just relax”.

My breathing became rapid, and my heart beat with such force I thought it might burst through my rib cage, tearing itself free from connected veins and arteries, and spill out onto the floor. The nurse sat next to me and went to grab my hand, but I calmly rejected by pulling it away and placing it on my chest. I wasn’t relaxing my clenched hand under any circumstances. Within my fist, squeezed by the folds of my palm was a tiny green charm in the shape of a four-leaf clover. He gave it to me last week “for good luck”. I’d kept in my pocket every day since then, and when I was told to remove my clothes and put the gown on I took it out and have since been clenching it in my fist. It was the closest I could get to have him be there with me, but I knew he wasn’t there and knew he should have been. If it had been him offering to hold my hand, I’d be clenching that instead, not a silly little plastic charm that came with one of his shirts. I chose to go alone, and therefore was not angry or blaming him for his absence. I still don’t fully understand what I was thinking in showing up here with nothing but that charm.

Something cold and metal entered my vagina. I recognized it’s shape and feel from the usual trips to the gyno. “You’re going to feel some pressure as I open this up. I’m just going to numb your cervix. You’ll feel a little pinch” the doctor explained while inserting a syringe into my canal. Fucking little pinch? That was the worst shot I’d ever been given. It felt nothing like a shot in the arm. Holy fuck. My face tensed with pain. I began to cry. Tears streamed down the sides of my face and ventured through my hairs, pooling in my ears. Never had I felt so trapped. There was no turning back. I could here myself screaming inside “this is unfair” and “I can’t believe I’m doing this!” over and over and over again. I knew right then and there this really was not what I wanted at all. Ulmer Ian Peirce! I hate myself for loving you. This was now solely your decision, not mine and yet who has to pay the consequences? Me, asshole.

Rods were inserted, cone shaped things, opening me up in preparation for the long plastic tube that was inserted next. I lifted my head a little in curiosity and was told to “sit back honey” by the nurse, who still sat at my side. The tube went farther inside me than any foreign object ever had before. I heard the suctioning begin. Like a vacuum it did it’s job, sucking out all that resided in my uterus like you suck out all the dirt that lies within your carpet, scrambling it up just to be thrown away.

This part of the procedure took the longest. It felt endless, yet it took just a few minutes. Still, the seemingly eternal event was pure torture. I cried harder than before, and the nurse extended her hand and this time placed it on my arm. If there had ever been a time I wished murder upon myself, it was here and now. I wished to be murdered in the most vulgar, brutal way possible. I am after all now a murderer. What gave me the right to live and strip this life, a life that I created, of the same right? Nothing, that’s what.

It was over. I was helped down off the table. The doctor had left the room, and the nurse stayed and quickly embraced me as I continued to cry. She gripped my shoulders and brought me away from her to look into my eyes. “Everything is fine. You did the right thing” she told me. Fuck you. It’s all I could think but could not say.

After I had collected myself and calmed down, they gave me permission to drive home. I walked out through the waiting room and avoided making eye contact as I opened the door, exited the office and entered the hallway. I could see down to the end, the glass door with the PUSH handle was right there. I walked up to it and pushed it open and found myself out on the sidewalk. The world had never looked this vile, and never felt this forbidding in all my life.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Just a quote I liked...

WOODY ALLEN: That's quite a lovely Jackson Pollock, isn't it?

GIRL IN MUSEUM: Yes it is.

WOODY ALLEN: What does it say to you?

GIRL IN MUSEUM: It restates the negativeness of the universe, the hideous lonely emptiness of existence, nothingness, the predicament of man forced to live in a barren, godless eternity, like a tiny flame flickering in an immense void, with nothing but waste, horror, and degradation, forming a useless bleak straightjacket in a black absurd cosmos.

WOODY ALLEN: What are you doing Saturday night?

GIRL IN MUSEUM: Committing suicide.

WOODY ALLEN: What about Friday night?

GIRL IN MUSEUM: [leaves silently]

Friday, February 13, 2009

Friday the 13th!

Exercise 3
was to write about an accident that you'd had, as though you were telling someone about it over coffee...

It was eighth grade. I was assigned a project in my "Florida Choices and Challenges" class, which from what I recall was some sort of history/geography class. As for the project guidelines, I have no recollection.

I decided to go all out for this project, and make a documentary about the Civil War in Florida. My partner, Sydney Millet and I organized a weekend trip with my mother to St. Augustine, and to the battle field of Olustee which is right around Jacksonville. There was a small museum on the grounds, privately owned I'm assuming, as the museum was a converted old house.

Out on the actual battlefield there were canons used in the war. I only remember the one that was the cause of my accident. Sydney and I, being 13 and adventurous, decided to use the canon as a see-saw. This made for a great photo opp. As my mother stood around taking photos, I straddled the barrel of the canon and placing my hands underneath, pulling my self towards Sydney so my weight would cause the canon to go from up to down. Well it went down alright...

My hands were right in the gears of the huge machine, and as my end went down and Sydney's end went up both my hands were crushed between the barrel and it's gears and supports. Completely stuck. Apparently there were nails protruding somewhere in the mess, because one of my hands received a pretty bad puncture wound. Both were damaged. One with two fractures, the other broken completely in 3 places. There was severe nerve and muscle tissue damage as well. I was rushed to the nearest hospital which was too far away from what I remember, which is where the truth of my injuries was revealed. All I remember is the doctor recommending I have surgery done on the hand with breaks. Three pins set in the bone. It was my right hand. My mother refused, as she thought this might effect my abilities to draw. Seeing as I was on my way to high school for the visual arts, she felt justified in her decision. I am thankful for her choice that day to refuse the operation, because my hand healed just fine with a cast on for a few months.

Other writings from today:
My mom called. Apparently our kitten back at home broke it's tail. When a cat breaks it's tail, the tail will just hang down instead of being up and will not move. Nothing can be done due to the location of her break, so for a month she will have to deal with the pain. If after a month or so the tail is still down, this means that when the bone was broken the main nerve was also severed, the tail will have to be amputated. The tail is dead.

I just finished up my 2rd Nat Sherman. I've been putting them out on the underside of the armrest of the patio chair I moved into the center of the backyard. It's a perfect day in the eyes of Mother Nature. Mid seventies, mid afternoon. 4pm. Maybe that's late afternoon. I never know the cut off. I've been sitting here for a little over a half an hour. About to light up my 3rd cigarette. Been watching the planes take off. They can be seen from here. The airport is just a few blocks away. There goes the fourth! I had no idea they took off so often until now. Maybe I don't notice the sound as easily from inside the house, or have adjusted to it in the 2 months I've lived in this house by the SRQ airport.

There are so many noises out here, animals moving about. Yet for me it seems very still and quiet. The only intense physical element is the sun beating down on my right side. It feels amazing. It's so bright. Everything out here is so bright. The grass is vivid green, the trees are lush in colour, the oranges a vibrant yellow-orange. Sky is brilliant blue, and all the clouds are absent. Sometimes I forget the blank white colour of my legs until the sunlight hits them.

I just took notice of a light breeze that tickled the back of my arms and neck. Then there's the occasional wind that brushes over the front of me threatening to turn the pages of my notebook.

Another plane just took off! I looked up to catch a glimpse of it as it passed over head. The small little jets always pass quickly, and much more quietly than the big commercial airliners.

Time for that 3rd Nat Sherman I still haven't lit up. After this smoke I'm heading inside. Two small dogs in neighboring yards have begun violently barking at one another and the sprinkler system next door has started going off. These new noises I find to be extreme annoyances...

"Writing is an active occupation, not a passive one...waiting for inspiration is like waiting for friends. If you sit around the house and don't go out and meet them, they will never come. You have to make things happen" -Judy Delton

Here I go...

Exercise 1
Finish the sentence: The day after my eighth birthday....
The day after my eighth birthday, my father told me how sorry he was that he had forgotten about my birthday yesterday.

I forgot to brush my teeth this morning. After my bowl of cereal and the cigarette I am about to be finished with, my mouth feels disgusting. Well, I guess not too disgusting, but the sound of the above statement, and the more I run my tongue over my front teeth the more aware I am of the gross state of my mouth.

I just put the cigarette out on the concrete, and am watching to see if the few ants that are lingering around will investigate it. They seem uninterested. Whatever mission they are on must not leave time for distractions, or maybe... they truly just don't care.

I'm looking down on them from a bench I'm sitting on. A very blue bench, secluded, and perfect for a very blue girl to sit and dwell on what she is about to do.

This bench is on my college campus. The college I am about to unenroll myself from, once my academic advisor gets back from her lunch break at 1:30. It's now 1:04.

I'm squeazing a note in my hand as I wait. It's been folded a few times so I could fit it in my back pocket. The bottom half has been wrinkled and dented, most likely from where I must have rolled over on it in my sleep. For when I wrote it last night it was in perfect condition.

I hope when he get's it his response to my lunch proposal will be "What are you in the mood for?", or something along those lines...