Teaching My Dog to Walk
My dog is an asshole. I love the little guy, but he is THEE asshole. He just refuses to do anything but pull when on a walk. I'm stubborn and dead set on teaching him, so our walks consist of about a five foot radius death match of will power. He pulls. I stop. He stops, and I pet him and walk about 3 steps before stopping again. Repeat cycle. Until I get truly annoyed and call him a dick tickler or something. He wags his tail because apparently he's proud of himself or some shit. End walk. So I'm sitting outside with a smoke and a beer contemplating it. It's like teaching a toddler. But that's a bit fucked. I wonder how much of my framework is based on a similar manipulation. How much of me is the product of conditioning? How many times did I wag my metaphorical tale because I inadvertently bent to the will of another? I doubt any one of us want to know the actual answer to that question. End of the week thoughts I suppose. More terrifying still, is how many times have I been guilty of such a thing? How many stones lie within the foundational concrete of hearts and souls, placed there by my own hands without knowing the ripple affect of my actions? A laugh too fake. An expression that got away like a blade and cut more than realized. A generic answer that made someone feel small. Or spacing out and not catching or appreciating the gravity of the moment. Nothing terrifies me more than knowing how many scars my fingerprints have framed. All because my dog is an asshole.
Scars and Bruises
I hide them. Under a sleeve or skirt.
Scratches that I have earned over years.
They burn and bleed.
They pull and tear.
I spend extra time every day trying to hide.
I don't want to show my bruises and scars.
Most people show them in pride of the battles they've won.
Yet I don't, I'm shy.
A scar down my heart. A bruise that I've brandished.
I trust nothing, it turns into hurt.
My face blushes when I look for a second to long.
Scared to meet other eyes that bore.
Maybe they wonder whats underneath the long robes.
Sometimes I wonder to. Only for a second.
They told me when I was young that I'm ugly.
One said that only scars could ruin the only beauty I have left.
So they hide. Under fabric, under a mask, under make up.
It's all a fake reality. One meant to hide the pain.
To hide the tears behind a smile.
But it never quite reaches the eyes.
You would know its fake if you look closer.
Only problem is, nobody does.
Nobody confronts the truth. They don't look at details.
They marvel at beauty as a whole.
Not beauty in one place.
I never knew, but that's why I'm ugly.
They never cared to look at tiny details.
Only the whole picture at once.
If they had looked at details they would have noticed.
My thick lashes, the way my lips curve in a smile.
He said that the curl at the end of my hair was beautiful.
He said that my eyes were enhancing.
He said never to fear the scars.
They just show that you survived, they show the battles.
A scar shows that you beat what tried to kill you.
So world, here are my brandished scars. And there meant for you to see.
I'm not hiding anymore, nothing is going behind the scenes.
Real beauty comes from what is there. Not what you are putting up.
Not the make up reality that you have.
You don't need to wonder what 's underneath now. Because here it is.
Off
Choose a path. If wrong it's okay.
It'll meet up to the true path again.
If I doesn't somebody you love will shove you to it.
Whether there are brambles or thickets. They help you through.
You may be discoursed but you'll get back.
Every time you fall over somebody's going to help.
Only if they don't have other motives.
People who love you help you.
So when you get discoursed you get two things out of it.
You find who loves you, and who doesn't.
Then you find the right path.
Blushed
My eyes divert from what's in front of me.
Years of offering what I want to others takes it's toll.
My cheeks turn red.
I've never wanted something so bad.
That's why I turn away.
I know it will hurt some how.
After time if something goes wrong it will burn.
Not wanting to get hurt is the way I've lived.
Never reckless and uncontrollable.
But those people stop caring after awhile.
They've got better coping skills than me.
My shield and armor are weaker.
And so here I stand, uncertain.
Double Scoop
Have you ever received so much ice cream that you had to change your clothes? Because I have.
One sweltering summer day, I decided as any other lower middle class American with minimal disposable income would to beat the heat with a frozen treat. I got my shoes on and off I went to my local ice cream vendor. It was just half a mile away, most of which was on a biking/pedestrian path, so I decided to walk. The smothering intensity of the heat became apparent as soon as I stepped out of my building. The sun beat down and seemed to stay there with no clouds to offer any relief. All I needed was some sour cream and chives and I would have known exactly how it felt to be a baked potato. What I didn't notice at that time was just how windy it was that day.
When I made it to the ice cream place I encountered the next dilemma of the day: what flavor to get. There were about fifteen to choose from all with unique zany names that sounded more like cocktails and didn't really tell you anything about the flavor, forcing you to read the descriptions of each one before you could make a selection.
Midnight Sunrise? That doesn't even make sense.
Snoopy's Day Off? How is that ice cream?
I decided to get a cup with half strawberry cheesecake and half zanzibar chocolate. I ordered a single serving and expected to get two half-size scoops in a single scoop cup. What I was given was two colossal scoops in a single cup. I had also grossly overestimated the size of a single scoop cup. The disproportionality in the sizes between the amount of ice cream and the cup it was crammed in could be visualized by imagining what it might look like if you tried to give a St. Bernard a bath in the kitchen sink.
My original plan was to get the ice cream and walk home as fast as I could to limit the melting and enjoy it in the comfort of my apartment while watching a movie. I intended to stick to that plan. After grabbing three napkins as a precaution I started my return journey. I'm not sure if the cup was even visible to other passersby; they may have thought I was bare-handing the ice cream like some kind of maniac.
My hopes to avoid excessive melting proved to be foolishly ambitious. The sun went to work immediately and droplets of chocolate ice cream were soon running down my fingers. I had no choice but to start frantically licking the sides while I walked, otherwise the comically large pile of ice cream might just slide off and splat on the sidewalk.
To add to the issue, I was walking directly into the wind, which caused the drops of melting ice cream to be blown onto me and splatter on my clothes. The coordination of the sun and wind's efforts made it feel like I was getting picked on by two schoolyard bullies. It was mother nature's version of "why are you hitting yourself?" The result was that I experienced the highest level of frustration that one could reach while holding an enormous stack of ice cream.
By the time I made it home my hands were covered in chocolate drippings and my clothes looked I had been standing behind a revving dirt bike in a patch of mud. It took me a couple minutes to turn the doorknob and get inside because my hands kept slipping, but when I finally did I rushed the remaining soupy ice cream into the freezer. Then, I changed my clothes.
Hug on a plate
“I’m sorry… I messed up. Again.”
He glared at me through the food portal and said something rapid in his native tongue that made the younger cook laugh and shake his head. Some sentiments need no translation to be understood.
I hadn’t been working at the restaurant for very long. The old cook was irritated with me and my wrong orders. My face at the food portal was the harbinger of extra work. Months passed. I got the hang of my job as a server, eventually. I also learned some colorful words in a new language.
One afternoon there was a rare lull. As I waited for customers, the cook gruffly motioned me to the kitchen. I immediately felt defensive, given our past. As I rounded the corner, he greeted me with a plate of pancakes. There was a fork stabbed right in the middle. I was confused.
“Eat.” He demanded, pushing the plate toward me.
I shook my head.
“No good,” he motioned my thin frame up and down. In a more gentle tone, he repeated, “Eat.”
I took the plate from him but looked around. Occasionally, an order was made in error or a pancake was too misshapen to plate. Food that was considered unsuitable to serve was thrown out. Company rules forbade employees from partaking in any.
He saw my gears turning and gestured to himself, using my old line, “I messed up.” With a wink and a shrug, he walked back to the grill.
I sat at a small table in the makeshift break room. Beneath a bulletin board plastered with safety data sheets, I pondered life of late. School almost completed, I was now in the midst of my internship at the hospital. Long hours there, followed by work here, I was on my feet for most of the day. I tend to lose my appetite when I’m stressed or busy, and I knew it was starting to show.
That first bite was a soft, pillowy piece of heaven. The pancakes were soaked in whipped butter and enveloped in thick maple syrup. I wasn’t quite sure pancakes had ever tasted this good. Perhaps I had just forgotten how good food could taste.
I fought back tears as I savored the entire short stack. The kindness of the old cook had taken me by surprise. He saw my need and met it the best way he knew how. The food was warm and sweet and tasted like a hug felt: wonderful.
From that day on, I made the effort to eat more regularly and to eat better quality foods. No more skipped meals. No more junk food swallowed hastily in my car as I was driving from one commitment to the next. My health and well-being became a priority again.
And at work, the old cook would tilt his head and shake his spatula at me with faux sternness, as to query if I was eating. However, this was always done with kindness in his eyes. I would smile and give him a thumbs-up. I was good.
Two for the Price of One
I turn inside myself to seek comfort and guidance. Longing for peace and solitude in an environment that is mind numbingly loud. I match the volume of the noise around me. Learning as I go that the loudest and the largest in the room get their needs met. I step out and project my voice, knowing I will never be the largest in the room. Compensating, I match the tone set by others before me. Appearing to be charismatic, thick skinned and personable. Wearing a smile on my face that says, "I want to be here." While I strangle the life inside me that is still seeking solace from within.
Are we born one way or the other? Is it nature or nurture that sets our distinct characteristics that deem us introverted or extroverted? As humans we are social creatures, pack animals that long and thrive from social interaction. Each requiring different relationships to support our journey through life. Some more discreet while others boast loudly together, all meeting their needs of companionship.
One might see me as an extrovert. Willing to engage in small talk and group discussions. Leading with thunderous directives from the pedestal of confidence. When in fact I have learned these traits for survival. My defense system setup against the pack that howls together in victory at the expense of the silent.
I have something to gain from socializing as we all do. But there are few who actually get the real me. The inner introvert that internalizes every move made and feels deeper than the well of my soul that I retreat to, when I am allowed the privilege to withdraw from the crowds.
An introvert disguised as an extrovert all in the search of self-preservation.
The Cost of Success
On top he stands, but did anyone think to ask who was underneath him?
Six feet down the bodies that will never tell their side of the story lay silently.
Just like a victor needs to claim all the glory.
How would you ever know the truth if those who were there would never speak again?
Their bodies like pillars used as steps, propelling him onto a throne of lies and deceit. Survival of the fittest, spoken as a compliment.
Even though the only reason he appeared so strong was by stealing the strength he sucked from their very souls.
Feeding like a vampire at the necks of those who paved his way to success.
You will never know their names.
He made sure of that.
Eliminating the competition while promoting himself along the way.
A victim he proclaims, one survivor remains.