Unchained Melody
It sits like a void in my gut - a pit that can never be filled.
I pour the next elixer from ear to ear,
yet song spurs song,
and theme spawns theme.
They govern my life and the excitement is unbearable to contain.
Overwhelmed by emotion, I escape the mundane.
I’m part of Arial’s world-
yearning for an escape from my metiphorical sea of corporate life.
Billie Joe “holds my malachite so tight”.
Ella coos and my pores prick and pale.
I yearn for an 18th century death if my soul passing were to be celebrated with Mozart’s Requiem.
The rain softly falls as Marius cradles me on the battlefield while we sing my dying ballad.
“You could be mine but you’re way out of line” blares through my car speakers. Eat my fucking dust.
Clad in a tutu dance ensemble resemblant to a harlequin I dance to dirty rock, “Mirror Mirror, am I the vulture or the dove?”
I snap back to the space within my cubicle.
They saturate me, yet I diabetically thirst for more.
What else can bring connection, hope, drama, and dispare, all in one 60 minute loop?
Myself
I had ceased to recognize this person.
The weakness and drive to appease everyone.
Since when had destroying another person’s life deem one brave?
That is what they told me and I ate that hard-nubbed raspberry candy of comfort.
It was my biggest lie and largest truth.
This is where I bled myself out, as each day my fingertips laced the pages with poison,
And they greedily lapped up this saucered-milk like a bunch of starving cats.
So I handed over my voodoo needles with the promise of no assembly necessary; this wasn’t IKEA.
Owning each and every truth.
I was humble but faking it.
No longer willing to be a doormat and forsaking social class and grace.
My blood diamond exchange.
Being considered a good listener yet only waiting for my turn to speak.
Musicians reinvent to avoid extinction,
So I sent my life up in flames.
The charred ash flaked and settled down to the earth in clumps, reminiscent of fish food that has been exposed to the droplets of tank water.
The sexual beast.
The artisan.
The good girl next door.
The country girl.
The fucking saint.
This cycle of exhaustion is the very life source that I crave.
I require it all.
It’s me.
I want to share my experiences regarding this ugly stranger.
Yet no person will ever know all of me.
They don’t want to.
They’re waiting for their turn to speak.
Diachronically
It happened gradually, in bursts and lapses of time.
She had sandy blonde curls with a purple top that ruffled into a sweetheart design.
A smile that would capture the world.
She would be a queen one day but for now, she was a fucking princess.
Within that fat city, no understanding. The world was at her disposal and magic was real. Sippy cups reappeared upon request. She squealed uninhibited with joy and delight and nobody seemed to mind.
The Jersey shore lapped up around her and sunshine highlighted her hair in a moment that would be captured as her parents favorite photo for years to come. She was ignorant of the vast ocean that could swallow her whole or the SPF 50 that decorated her still porcelain Irish baby skin.
Such a moment of delight had escalated upon a slight silver gleam upon the sand. The minnow lay motionless in such a graveyard of fish. The fleshy nubs of toddler phalanges gathered the fish as the stumpy legs trod to the nearest captured pool on the beach. Tenderly, the minnow was deposited into its much needed life force, but the fish rested in its aqueous tomb.
Years had passed along with multiple lessons regarding animal mortality. Nothing was easier, but the idea of acceptance had become a reasonable concept. She grew up slightly sheltered, yet so loved. Typically, she loved all Disney movies. However, she did not have a stereotypical mother or upbringing and a steady diet of Tim Burton originals had also been worked into her regimen from around the age of her first encounter with death that day on the beach.
Yet the judgement regarding certain cinematic creations had been entrusted to family members which were childless for many years, and the Motion Picture Association of America had not yet become a bureaucracy of pussies. "Radio Flyer" made it's debut into her impressionable seven-year-old mind. The older of the two male child characters was around her age at the time. Desperately, this boy protected his younger brother from the beatings of their raging alcoholic stepfather, who kept a fully stocked icebox of beer in the garage, unbeknownst to the mother. The images were automatically related to her own life.
Her father drank beer. She hated her father every time he put a bottle to his lips. He asked her for permission every time he wanted another. The night her parents played their annual Hearts game with friends, he didn't ask. After individually keeping tally of the six glass bottles he gathered that evening, she silently cried herself to sleep in the warmth of her Minnesota sleeping bag. She would vow to never drink alcohol once she was an adult.
As she entered high school, she still remained steadfast to her oath of never drinking. Fear, had however, been replaced by a simple lack of desire. While she dressed daily for her first experience with Catholic school, her favorite person lay dying in a bed. Her grandfather had done strange, unexplainable things years earlier, such as give away the family dog due to new housing developments in the field areas where he used to take the black lab/golden mutt for her daily walks. The thought of allowing the dog to use his yard to defecate was not even considered as an option.
Eventually he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease and she found herself in completely unfamiliar territory deeply involved for the first time with a disease of the psyche. The future actions and images would forever seat themselves into her Sophomore-year mind:
The plank of wood being smashed into the previously working lawnmower in an attempt to mend a nonexistent ailment of the poor machine. A gradual obsession with Burger King combined with many actual escapes; always as he headed for The King. The pathetic point in which he faded in and out, knowing what he had and apologizing to those he came in contact with before another episode began.
The first night he spent in a professional home where his loving family brought him pie and he asked when they were all going home. As he gradually deteriorated into a bed and wheelchair, once grabbing the chair padding and using it as a machine gun as he stated "Quick! The Bullets Are Flying!!!"
Then finally, the night he passed away remains her eeriest experience to date. The family had gathered. She was the last to enter the room. When her father whispered in his ear "she's here", her grandfather's heart-rate lurched forward.....and he was gone thirty seconds later. Then the tears came; as she desperately wanted nothing more than to escape the attempted comfort of the room; to be swallowed alive by the heinous beige walls.
It was her pivotal moment where she lost her innocence. The return to school began with a more observational outlook on life; something that would remain and develop further with every passing year.
The Catholic school had become a prison full of hypocrites. Saying the prayer before the pledge. Being required to pray before every class. The students filed off their prayer requests like they were ordering their fast food during their ciggy and lunch break. "I have two specials, 8 families, 1 friend, and 3 situations". She had never questioned her faith; the faith that her beloved grandfather helped foster for years. Now she not only questioned everything, but rejected it as well.
Faith ping-ponged around during her college years where she met her to be husband. For four years the red and green flags waived in and out of her line of sight. He wasn't a gentleman. He was honest. He was funny. He was a cheapskate. He had commitment issues. He was a genius. He was pretentious about the fact that he was a genius. He loved music. He loved the same movies. He wanted to travel. He despised plants and animals. Yet he wanted her despite these difference.
It didn't matter and her naive innocence was back in force. She was blind and already on her path to cross off her next life event.
Meet the man. Check.
Get married. Check.
Buy the house. Check.
And yet the problems grew and the fights were always the same. They slept on different levels of their house for the first time ever; counseling became a means to reach the best decision through a third party rather than reignite what was never meant to be.
From an outside perspective, there would be no reason to drop the "D" word.
No abuse.
No cheating.
Yet ultimately she destroyed a man, choosing her happiness over his own.
A little less than a year later, she began to explore for perhaps the first time. She hadn't slept around in high school; in fact, she found it painful to speak to her love interest of the opposite sex. She dated several people, all of which completely opposed her former husband. This was her 20's, except with the maturity of her 30's.
Blindfolded, gagged, and tied, he entered her again as he vaginally fucked her with the giant strap-on from behind. Right at the height of her pleasure, her blindfold and gag would be released as she dropped to her knees, hands still bound behind her back. He gave several deep-throated thrusts before removing her two senses again. She was playfully shoved downwards onto the bed as he ate out her ass. At the height of her squeal through the ball-gag, which gave a strange airy whistle through the breathing holes, she felt the depth of the strap-on enter her again. So many housewives got wet over the thought of a 50-shades-of-grey lifestyle and yet here she was. This private, new part of her life that most could never imagine. Sex with power.
Innocence was obliterated and she loved it. She loved to turn pain and turmoil into something beautiful. She was a queen.
Cat People
Last week I had the pleasure of participating in an R&D product discussion panel through the sensory lab at K-State. The subject: cat treat packaging. Our task was simple; focus on the functional aspect of the packaging specifically without notice of graphics or design.
First I would like mention that as I took my online screening survey, not once did I notice that the end result would be a discussion panel. I found it odd that it paid 100.00. Typically, I get paid about 25.00 to spend 30-60 minutes of my time sampling steak....or chicken noodle soup.....or bacon......or taking dry cat food home and recording/reporting my observations regarding how the litter box now smells either worse, the same, or miraculously like daisies. Keeping this in mind, I don't think my fellow surveyors expected the panel either. Here is where I'm going with this:
It was a room. With cat people. That were required to interact.
There are two types of cat people in the world. The first being the kind that seems to think that everything their cat does is the funniest thing in the world and that every story must be described in lengthy detail to whatever captive audience resides in the vicinity. One of the ladies in this intimate group of six would fit that profile. We'll name her 'Claudia'.
Moderator: "Claudia, what do you specifically think about the seal on this package?"
Claudia: "Well, the seal is a little difficult to handle which is tough for me because Noodles expects a treat every time he uses the scratching post, so I have to reward him immediately......and he typically uses the scratching post three times a day but now that he has discovered he gets treats, he uses it multiple times per day or as often as possible, so I need a seal that I can manipulate instantly in order to reward him."
I used to be Claudia, back in seventh grade and I didn't understand why my other acne-clad peers cared more about the latest Abercrombie and Fitch shirt than they did my cat's favorite toy. It's why I didn't have friends. Yet, I was able to recognize the reasoning back then and adjust accordingly. Now I only allow that freak flag to fly in the appropriate company and poor Claudia is still going strong: middle-aged and without a clue (or at least a care).
The other type of cat person was represented in the gentleman I happened to be seated next to, and was therefore, my partner for our preliminary introductory exercise. We'll call him 'Bob'. This consisted of learning about our partner's cats, and what treats they like. Bob was a man of few words and probably a little bit on the Autistic spectrum. Fortunately, I was able to draw on my plethora of experience from days of my now ex-husband and his awkward company gatherings. Trying to make small talk (or any talk) with a group of male software engineers who cannot even speak amongst themselves about anything besides work on their day off, and as a female outsider really is fairly similar to this form of cat person.
Me: "So Bob, how many cats do you own?"
Bob: "Two."
Me: "What are their names?"
Bob: (long pause) "Snowball and Hearny." (Note: these names are not protected).
Me: "How old are Snowball and Hearny?"
Bob: "Two and Four."
Me: "Oh, okay! What type of treats do you feed them?"
Bob: "Ones that are on sale."
Enter: long pause as Bob stares awkwardly at me then looks away as the other pairs of ladies are describing stories of their cats in lengthy detail (Claudia, I'm speaking about you).
Me: "Have you had cats your entire life?"
Bob: "No. They're my wife's cats"
.....PAUSE
Bob: "Have you had cats your whole life?"
SCORE!!!! The ice is broken.....
My reasoning for bringing up the fact that this was a panel was mainly due to Bob, of whom I'm pretty sure would have rejected the opportunity had he known we would be discussing every detail regarding the needs of cat treat packaging in our daily lives.
There were a few other entertaining moments. First, just the fact that people care so much about their cat treat packaging. "This one didn't rip across straight so now I would have to go get the scissors".
GASP! Oh no. How unfortunate for you that you now have to put down the new package of treats.....walk five feet......open a CABINET, and retrieve a pair of scissors. Then you have to cut a line.
The atrocity.
The horror.
Your day is clearly ruined because of this tragedy.
The other large observation that I couldn't help but noticing was how many treats people actually feed their animals. There are always stories about overweight animals but my God.....after hearing how many treats people feed per day (The average was around 5-8 at a time, about 3 times daily), it's a wonder that every American cat is not diabetic. Clearly I was the asshole of the bunch with my "1-2 per day, sometimes none".
I could feel the horrified eyes burn at my flesh as I announced this.
Moderator: "Why do you only feed your cats 1-2 treats per day, Bay?"
Me: "The treats for the cats are tied to my dog's poop schedule. He gets a treat only when he has pooped because he never wants to. Then the other dog also has to get a treat to be fair, and then the cats come in and expect a treat as well, so the cats only get treats when the dog has pooped."
Shit. My inner Claudia just emerged.
Misinformed
I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe my sitting....right here, right now is even possible. Can I even call it sitting? Perhaps mere existing. Yes. Existing. In this shell; part body, part corpse.
The movies were wrong. The books and television shows too. How could they know? The Walking Dead. Night of the Living Dead. 28 Days later. Even the scrubby second-hand paperback copies of Goosebumps that the acne-clad pre-teen version of myself could previously scrounge enough pocket change together to afford were a fallacy.
There's no burning coursing its way through my.....existence. No madness such as that of Old Yeller before they shot the poor bastard. The process isn't quick. How could it be? It takes a drop of blood one minute to circulate through the entire human body. I remember that from my intro to human anatomy class at UCLA. PHYSCI XL 13 to be exact. I remember lots of things.
Things like the location of all of the pen cups in the diner. One remained within the generic oak-colored hostess podium. A flake of glaze coating pierced my shaking hand as I spastically felt inside the guts of the fallen pillar.
My apron had been savagely ripped from my body along with a chunk of flesh below the lowest rib on my left side. I'm not sure how I hadn't bled out. After awaking in a pool of my own blood, I'm not entirely sure that I hadn't.
I found a crumpled signed receipt in my right pants pocket from my morning shift.
Shitty tipper.
I flipped it over to the previously unsoiled back. Holding it in place as I left a bloody left thumbprint, I began to write my story.