It’s my drug

My addiction

To be perfect

Smooth skin

Perfect features

Lips eyes hips waist

Traits shoot one after another at a million miles a second

Everything I see is just another hand hold to perfection

To the top of the tower

It’s what I think of as soon as I wake

3,500 calories in a pound

10 pounds in the next month

15 in the next month

20 in the next month

The number on the scale like a carrot in front of a starved rabbit

120

115

108

I need to be skinnier

Lower and lower or my own expectations will kill

Don’t eat

Don’t eat

3,500

One more hour

Only a couple more hours

101

96

95

It’s never enough

I shoot hunger into my veins like heroin

And when I fail

When the numbers crawl back up so does the food I have ate

It crawls from my stomach back into the sewer system

It’s not ENOUGH

I'M NOT

ENOUGH

Perfection

Perfection screams at me

No it’s not perfection screaming it’s my reflection in the mirror

The numbers crawl up

My waist isn’t small enough

Belts layered on belts around my thighs they don’t look right

Around my stomach because it’s not flat

It’s not perfect

I scream and cry as I scroll past picture after picture of edited shit

Perfection

It’s what I fall on my knees for

Perfection is what I kill for

It’s when I don’t sleep because I need to study more I need to take more notes

Over and over until I am the best

But I’m never the best

I’m never number one

And each and every time it kills me

Another failure

Another 45%

How is that possible

Why am I not perfect

I need to be better

And smarter

But it doesn’t help

I am not perfect

I am not perfect in the schools eyes

In my parents eyes

And I beg for God's eyes I plead and bleed to be the perfect daughter

But I am not perfect

I cannot sit still

And submit

Why can’t I just be perfect

I pinch my skin because that isn’t how I should act

I am not acting perfect

I

Am

Obsessed

Obsession kills

Slowly but surely it kills my imperfect soul

When I look up, I see clouds. Like so many frickin' clouds. I’m pretty sure a storm is brewing, but I don’t care enough to bother to take shelter.

I think clouds are God’s inkblot test.

Whenever you look up at the cloud, you see exactly what you want. Everything becomes so clear.

So, as I squinted into the sky, staring at the glaring sun, preparing to go blind, why can’t I see what I want? Why can’t I see beyond these stupid clouds and see your side of heaven? I don’t need God to act like my therapist and give me white fluffy bunnies, I just need you back with me.

Please come down soon. I miss you.

Terry leaned in closer. His father’s voice was faint and coarse. With all the machines plugged in it seemed as if there were tubes everywhere. Despite his condition, his father had still managed to grab Terry’s hand, even as he struggled to breathe.

Terry held what felt like bones wrapped in translucent skin and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Sorry dad I couldn’t hear that.” Terry prompted quietly ,his face right next to him.

This would be the last conversation they would ever have, so Terry choked back the tears and tried to savour the moment. His eyes locked intently on his father’s thin and withdrawn face. He could hear the effort it took for his dad to breathe, mustering the effort to speak was completely draining what was left of his energy and Terry was half wishing he would stop.

“War eye...” He repeated weakly. Terry squeezed his hand again and told him to rest.

The hospice nurse standing at the bedside was understanding and patient.

“He hasn’t got long left now I’m afraid.” She had said half an hour ago, and for the past 30 minutes his father had drifted in and out of consciousness, desperately trying to say his last words.

Terry was heartbroken. Just last week his father, 85 years and counting, was strong, steady on his feet and in full control of his faculties. He was old no doubt about it and showing all the usual health issues associated with old age, but he was still active and able-bodied, with a steely determination to keep going.

Just one fall had taken that all away.

“War eye knee.” He breathed. Then stopped. The machines beeped and screeched. Doctors rushed to the bedside and the nurse kindly ushered Terry to one side as they busied themselves tending to his father.

“Don’t worry they often speak gibberish at the end. He wasn’t really aware, and he wasn’t in any pain.” She offered kindly.

Terry was in shock. The machines flatlined out and the doctors stepped back gravely giving him some space.

“That was the first time he’d ever said that.” Terry whispered, tears welling in his eyes.

“Said what dear? War eye knee?”

Terry nodded still staring incredulously at his father.

“My dad was half Chinese.” He explained ”‘Wo ai ni’ is Mandarin for ‘I love you’.”

It was that closet. The yellow door and red accents. That's the one you locked me in.

People today say I'm weird for not being so talkative, but you would know why.

That summer with you almost killed me. You're supposed to love me...

No speaking. That was the one rule. I couldn't speak. One word and you would lock me in that closet. Dark and cold.

After that, I never went back. I tried to forget it, but now? I have fears that someone like me shouldn't have.

The dark.

Tight spaces.

Speaking too loud or too much.

So thanks for that dad.

My grandmother had music in her soul. She dreamed of singing jazz or blues in a New York City club; she settled for the shower and my wedding. In the early years, before her dream was dead and buried beneath shots of whiskey and bitterness, club owners would allow her to sit on a hard bench outside their offices and wait all day for a chance to audition that never materialized, while pretty, more acceptable girls, some with a voice, some not, came and left. Her mother belittled her, demanding she get a real job; insisting no one wanted to hear some ugly fat black girl from Harlem sing nothing no how. So, she let a man make her feel pretty and loved and special while helping to kill her dream.

My dad had music in his soul and a brain in his head. He dreamed of playing the saxophone like John Coltrane or Charlie Parker. Or even better. The grandmother who raised him told him to forget the fairytales and get a job. His mother beat the dream out of him daily for eighteen years, blaming her own failure to achieve the fame she sought on his birth. He buried his dream beneath beer and gin, but managed to live a productive life, if not a fulfilling one, working for the same company until he died of a broken soul at 47.

My mother had music in her soul and a brain in her head. She studied opera with an esteemed Austrian voice instructor who had more faith in my mother than she could summon for herself. No one wants to listen to a black opera singer she told herself. This after having attended so many job interviews with her more acceptable classmates post high school graduation, and being turned away despite her straight A grade point average from a private Catholic school. After so much, “no, you cannot apply” and “no, you’ll just not do,” she internalized the lesson for herself and did what she could to have a fulfilling life – she got married (and divorced), had a child and traveled to almost every continent. But she only sang in the privacy of her home with her not-so-appreciative child as the audience.

I have music in my soul. I studied ballet. I participated in musical theater from elementary school through college. I was a straight A student throughout my education. I spoke at my college graduation. But I never had a dream. I saw what dreaming had done to those I loved. Not worth the heartache, my very young self decided. I only wanted what was clearly attainable; what I was good at, what society would not begrudge me. I wanted to be invisible, make no waves. I didn’t want to be a doctor or lawyer that people would resent and never seek. I decided that being a teacher was a safe choice; and, most importantly for me, a mother and a wife.

Now, I push my son and my husband – my students, friends and acquaintances – to dream and to pursue those dreams. I am the cheerleader; the enthusiastic voice at your back saying: Dream! You can do this! That is my purpose: to encourage those around me to be who they dream to be. I fan the flames the dream killers try to extinguish.

Hickory dickory dock

The man looked at the clock

“When the clock strikes 12”

He thought to himself

“I will murder my wife with a rock.”

Hickory dickory deep

His wife was fast asleep

The man watched the clock

And grabbed for the rock

This secret forever he’ll keep.

Hickory dickory deeper.

His wife had been a cheater.

She really should’ve known

When she left him alone

That no one else could keep her.

Hickory dickory closer.

The deadline is almost over.

As the minute passed nine,

The man felt just fine

And thought of the ways he could pose her.

.......

Hickory dickory “Please!”

The mailman screamed for the police.

The woman was dead

With a rock in her head.

The mailman fell down on his knees.

Hickory dickory miser.

He almost didn’t recognize her.

His lover was there

Body full bare

Oh, how he had prized her.

Hickory dickory dock.

The husband now brandished a glock.

Two shots from the dark

The gun met its mark

Hickory dickory dock.

I really don’t like acrylic nails. You know the ones. They’re just so... strange, y’know? I mean like, the concept. Who ever looked at their nails and said, “Hmmmm. Yes.

E X P A N D .” Like, who does that? Why would you get acrylics? Just so you make that gross CLICK CLICK CLICK when you type on a keyboard and inflict pain upon the entire room? Fingernails don’t work like that. Fingernails don’t expand upwards. Don’t even get me started on trying to open stuff or peel things. Acrylics just render your fingers useless. Why. Why would you want to get these. What is the point of them. Why do people get them

I gaze across the universe, searching for life in the void. Life is where the art is, where I need to be. A flash of bright blue planet catches my interest. I focus my attention and am delighted to find sentience. The creatures that have evolved here are soft and tiny with few legs and little hair. My interest in the evolution of such a weak creature is peaked, but I did not come here to work. I concentrate on the planet. Earth, they call it. I arrive when there are roughly 7.53 billion beings, self-named humans, living on a dying planet still vibrant with life. But this number will fluctuate as I travel the timeline. 

Shrinking down, invisible to all but myself, I browse the creations of my creations. I don’t plan to explore long, just a century, maybe two. 

First, I find the greats. I gaze at a star filled sky as Vincent Van Gogh contemplates a night in France. I applause alongside Queen Elizabeth I during the first showing of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I soak up Freddie Mercury’s energy as he belts his soul at Live Aid. I dance in the crowd at Woodstock, enveloped by the crowd, the music, and the buzz of human experience. The 25th anniversary performance of Les Misérables, the filming of Dead Poets Society, the years it took to paint the Sistine Chapel, I explore every renown artists in Earth’s history. Then I go further.  

I discover the talents who never found fame, uncover works lost to humanity. I experience heartbreaking performances, most of which are too close to the artists heart to share with the world. I find discarded masterpieces, trashed for being too eccentric for the public’s appreciation. I laugh in delight as I watch children paint unicorns, rainbows, cupcakes and elephants. The spirit in their mistakes inspire me. Art classes, school concerts, run down galleries, small town shows, I am there for it all, filled with pride by the purity of each human’s attempt to bring more beauty and meaning to life. 

All artistic works that have and ever will exist, all the different definitions of art and forms of expression, I am there for their creation. I watch while they are performed. I laugh, cry, and brim with rage as the art intuitively requests. I see it all. I feel it all. And when I finally reach the end of my explorations, I am exhausted and changed.  

It has been said by many beings, humans included, that there is an infinite feeling that accompanies art; this indescribable understanding that art is powerful, ethereal, forever. This feeling is me in the art, experiencing a completely different form of creation, hand in hand with the creators. My energy becomes intrinsic to it, my presence forever tied to its existence.  

I’d like to claim selflessness, generosity, but I gain as much from art as it does from me.  

Satisfied, I give Earth one last glance then retreat. Having found plenty of inspiration, I get back to work. 

#art #thepowerinart #creation

Pa calls me dumber than rocks all the time, especially when he asks for my help, but also when he doesn't. He called me dumber than a rock when I was sitting at the kitchen table stirring my Ovaltine and Ma was right by us fixin' breakfast on the stove. "I didn't mean to spill it." I said, cause I didn't and then cause he made me real mad I also said, "My name is Ralph, not Dumber, not Than, and not Rocks, and then he said, "You're dumb like a fox," and Ma said afterward, patting me on the back real soft, real nice, "That means he thinks your smart, Ralph." Why doesn't he make up his mind?

Ma calls me stupid, but never to my face, only when she's on the phone with Gertie late at night and she thinks I'm fast asleep, but I'm not. Sometimes I just lay awake for no reason at all listening to night sounds, the owls hoot and the squirrels scurrying on the roof, wishing I was one of them instead of me, cause they don't use words; just screams, barks, hisses and coos, which are much easier to understand and less likely to maim.

It would make me smile if Ma could call Gertie when I do things right, like turning the compost, or stacking the wood, or shoveling the snow, but she doesn't. She only calls Gertie to tell her everything I want to forget and hearing it again makes me sad twice in one day. I didn't mean to kill Miss Sarah's kitten. I only squeezed it hard because it was the cutest thing I had ever seen I forgot for a minute how strong I am. And I didn't mean to look in Mr. & Mrs. Gimbel's bedroom window next door and see them both naked. I thought I was supposed to go help people when they moan or scream. Gertie lives so far away, I never get to see her face when Ma tells her about my mistakes. That's what she calls what I do, mistakes, and then she always says, "He's just too stupid to know better. He's really not a bad person."

So if I'm a good person, what's so bad about being stupid, or being dumb? As far as I know there are lots of really smart people, that do lots of really bad things, and not by mistake. On purpose. And as far as I know, I've never done anything bad on purpose, so why can't they just let me be just Ralph, instead of stupid Ralph or dumber than a rock Ralph. I've never met a fox, but if I do, maybe I'll ask him, "Are you really dumb or really smart, and does it matter?" Maybe he'll answer and maybe he won't.