A Random Image

Archive for January, 2004

Dedicated to Adequate Girl’s superhero partner, who was the first to note in print how much I scare myself.

I’ve such trouble with the explaining sometimes, with the telling of the breadth and scope that my emotions occupy: Touching the dark places, conveying the echo of the conveniently empty ones, the fervency of the faith in Everything Will Be Okay, the corny-grody hug I have for the world in the moments of innocence that I should no longer possess, but still amazingly do. My horror is a thick, sucking sluice of a thing, my happy is spun of the sweetest pale yellow and bigger than the world, my sorrow is black cherry Jell-O, sweet and mock-dense and makeshift-cushiony. I make no sense sometimes, least of all to myownself, but still I try.

“Okay, this is something I’ve never really framed up in words for anyone,” I told a friend some two weeks ago (because I’ve a tendency further toward the grandiose with each sip of booze I draw into me), “but I feel like I’m standing and looking to some far-off place, and I’m straining for it, and I can so clearly see it, but I’m not there. That in and of itself is frustrating, not in a depressing manner, but in a ‘whyohwhy can’t I be there now‘ sort of fashion.

“…but that’s not even the crux of the issue, really. The meat of it is this:

” I want to point and shout excitedly; I want others to see it, and they just simply can’t or don’t and it makes me so infernally sad.”

I remember cleanly one other time, speaking to someone who’d never been truly, truly hurt, talking about someone who liked to stab with words mounted to a hilt of feelings (his and mine, melded there together, encrusted with stones of red rage and green envy, of hard white calculation and black, glittering distrust, stones of deeply purple guilt and muddy yellow shame) and then grind the barbed blade into the deepest parts of my emotional well-being.

“And you know, I would have begged to be struck, to be mowed down under his fists, had I been able to recoup my lost and failing breath….not because I am a masochist or was devoid of pride, but because I’ve experienced that and can grow new skin, voila!, but I cannot grow a new chunks of psyche where the originals have been ripped out.” She looked at me as if that were the most ludicrously insane thing she’d ever played witness to, like I’d suddenly smeared feces all over my belly and hopped up and down hollering OOgaBOOga at her.

So be it, I remember thinking as the realization of the look on her face settled into me, I’ll play Crazygirl to your Straightlace Goody-Goody. You and all the rest of ‘em. I’m okay with that, really.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

I just kind of started laughing to myself a long time ago. It was merely an occasional chuckle at first, brought on by things that aren’t supposed to amount to anything, really: My favorite horse sold after my parents’ divorce, wearing the perfect skirt in fifth grade only to be mocked. There were weeks of hunger to move the chuckle to a giggle, there was my mother torn down and ragged with work (nineteen hours a day-worth) and worry (twenty-five hours).

Things like a remarkably vicious addiction to chemicals (“Can I just float? CAN I??”) at the doorway to puberty, a friend hanging from the rafters not long after, and more twisted loves than I care to count immersing me in clutching, tear-falling, full-on laughter, towing me toward self-preservation and –so much more importantly– steel-bellied perserverance.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

I wrote something one time –supposedly for a grade, but for something more profound than that, really– and handed it to someone, only to be asked once, twice, thrice (and the cock crowwwwwed, motherfucker), “Did this happen? Did you really see this?” Yes, this is my experience, I answered patiently. Yes and Yes and Yes some more. It’s okay if you don’t live in that, because I live in it enough for both of us, and maybe then some. And there they were, hovering on the precipice between doubt and belief, waiting on me to give them the push into the latter while I had no interest whatsoever in doing so. Not having the need to fulfill a need is a wonderful thing in certain situations.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

When I was married to the person who assuaged his Philanderer’s Guilt by turning angry, then turning vicious on me, I used to comfort myself safely and successfully. I had my love for us –the mystical ‘we’– first and foremost. When that began to reveal itself as Not Studied Enough To Doctor, I needed to revert back to a lifelong practice. When he receded to the bedroom, when the pounding of his fists abated and there was only the pounding of my heart and the pounding of blood rushing to my skin’s surface, I would sit quietly in a corner, elbows on knees, and sing to myself. It was the one thing…well, it was the certainty in a world of variables. I’d always sung, at church and school and in competitions. If an emotion was worthy of having, then it could be expressed in song. Only natural, then, to make it a coping mechanism.

I sang when my father left us high and dry, I sang when my stomach felt like it was eating itself, when I was misunderstood and lonely. I sang on the float up (or the ‘windup’, depending on what version of The Blasted Sacrament was on the menu for the day) that grew less satisfying and through the indubitable crashes that grew more frequent. I sang to my tenebrous, itchy self from the part that was sane and still and waiting, assured, for trouble to turn from me. I sang reckless, irresponsible, incongruous and I sang reverent, earnest, flowing.

And so it would go, that after the person I loved more than any other in the world would take a swipe or eleven in my direction and wander away, I could be heard salving my own heart and doing a pretty okay job of it in more than one respect. So, as you were foolishly thinking I’d already told you the unfair part, I should get to it so that you’ll know the worst of it by far: There came a time when even the self-healing ritual drew his GuiltFuryGuilt eye and transformed it to GuiltFuryGuiltFury and I was silenced with more blows when I wouldn’t ’shut the fuck up with that fucking singing’. This, from the man who said, “The only things I want for our wedding one of those fuzzy feather pens and for you to sing to me, sweet girl.” in the once upon a time before you took his name. He was too young and he didn’t realize what he so carelessly held, and that is my excuse for him because I know pity where he is concerned.

He stilled my singing: I am always profoundly amazed at this, even now.

He stilled my singing.

One questioned my sanity, one doubted my experience, one stilled my singing, and they are all guilty. When I say it that way, it sounds as if I dismiss my own part in each; I don’t. Sometimes my lack of discretion curls my toes, it is so embarrassing.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

So I look tonight, in need of something to laugh at, and see a referral for the mechanics of spinning a top and I’m left feeling deflated, thinking, Oh. Oh my.

You can’t imagine how this impacts me, how it moves me: There is someone looking on the internet, trying to find practical advice on how to set a top in motion….and perhaps keep it that way as long as humanly possible.

These are the people that I wish would find this place and stay awhile for a little assiness and brevity and maybe even long enough for us to start a discourse; a conversation initiated so that I might ask them why on Earth they would think the answer to a spinning top would be two-dimensional and analytical.

“Why would you think it a hands-off experience?” I’d ask, blinking.

“Spinning a top is a little skill, a little hope, a little faith, a little will, a little recklessness, a little mirth and some hand-eye coordination all mashed up together, lumpy and fresh.” Spinning a top is an experience, not a clinical impression, and why would you try to pan for it in such a bland manner? Find a top. Find a flat surface. Give it all you’ve got. Get up, get up, getupgetupgetUP and do your bydamnedest to get that sucker skimming the concrete. If you just cannot set the thing on its end, despite your keenest efforts, then find someone with hands and mouth and presence to show you how.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

You don’t have to understand. You’re not expected to…but you know, the next time someone tells you something about their spirit that you just can’t fathom from a practical standpoint, don’t look at them like their clothes just caught on fire and they are offering you a cuddly bear hug. Just spare them that.

Don’t you ever, ever take someone’s voice from them.

(music instead of lyrics this time)

“Hmmm. Twelve hours ago I was getting laid. Now I’m getting fucked.”

That’s what I was saying at two o’clock this afternoon as I stood in the (insipidly long, long, soooo long) line at the campus bookstore, tabulating my impending purchases in my head.

My God, how I love the bookstore, even if it does mean that an assraping of the highest order will occur when I finally triumph over the evil, snaking line and make it to the checkout counter.


:: my bookbag hanging in a bathroom stall, sweetly devoid of noxious, overpriced product ::

Look, I know that texts are (sometimes) necessary, but if I’m gonna pay a hunnert-fifty bucks for a book, I expect that it should have nigh on six-hunnert pages and feel like something a brickmaker has had a hand in crafting. And gilt on the cover. There should be some gilting, damnit!

There is a bit of a deficit in the amount I will need for books (like a fifty percent one) so I’ve considered two things:

1) selling one of the Superior children into servitude (look, I’m waaaaay fertile; I can make more)

2) busking on the sidewalks outside of the student center. I’m thinking free-form poetry, most likely dirty limericks. Or moody haiku, which is in many ways more offensive.

Okay, back to the drawing board, although I may just do the busking thing for kicks. I’m fuckin’ wacky like that, yo.

Furthermore, I know I should care but I just don’t.

I can’t get my shit together today.

And school starts again tomorrow.

JOY!

/sarcastic fury

 

Open letter to a specific quasi-celebrity, oh yeah.

Dearest Ryan Dunn~

Would you mind terribly if I sat on your lap?

Facing you?

Whilst eating a lime popsicle?

Just thought I’d ask, thanks.

Fondly yours,

Jett “For Some Odd Reason You Stir My Naughty Bits” Superior

pee ess: melly says she’ll put out for Bam if he and Jenn ever split, ‘kay?

peepee ess (for my readers, really, but you can check it out too, hunky Ryan):

You like it fast and strong and you drink for one reason: to get piss-ass drunk!
Congratulations!! You’re a shot of some good old
hard liquor!

What Drink Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Really now, are any of us surprised?

 
|| January 5, 2004 || 11:13 am || Comments (9) ||

Stick with me, kid; I’ll learn ya.

[ed. note: This plan can only be executed flawlessly if you do indeed wear corrective lenses; if you don't, and try to fake off some Officer Ub Da Law and are subsequently beaten, arrested and imprisoned for Faking Off An Officer Ub Da Law, well...you're on your own, kid. And don't say the editor didn't warn you. Thanks.]

Being blind has its advantages.

Say for instance that Johnny Law is bearing down on you hardcore with his blue lights rotatin’ and his sy-reen a-screamin’. Have your driver’s license ready, whip out a contact lens and say brightly when he gets to your rolled-down window, “Whatever I did, officer, I’m sorry. My contact fell out and I’se rasslin’ with it.”

He will then most likely take your license, advise you to roll up your window so that your pretty coat won’t get rained on (assuming, of course, you even have a pretty coat and that it is in fact raining) and go run a check on your license, which has been free and clear of any (known) speeding and just General Bad Behavior Issues for nigh on three years now.

Then he will return to your window, hand you your license back, and bid you a good day fondly.

As you might imagine, this really and truly happened to me just this morning and I am gifting you with this knowledge because I care about your welfare and well-being and ability to not just survive in this world of ours, but to overcome and soar over petty obstacles like traffic citations and, for that matter, pleece officers.

Okay, so I finally went to see ‘Return/King’ (I’m not linking it. If you people don’t know what the fuck of which I speak, then so be it; either you’re a fan or you ain’t) last night. If you are a regular reader, then you know that the Stone Princess typically only cries at movies, not bothering to waste her tears on anyone that isn’t made up or represented in celluloid (in other words, the truly deserving). Well, of course I would cry at that particular movie, e’en though I’ve read the books fifty-elebem times and know exactly what is going to happen to whom and pretty much when. [ed. note: I will be so farging amaaaaazed if Billy Boyd doesn't scoop up an Oscar for this one. For real.]

Welp. I cried, and a fair amount, too (but only at appropriate moments…let’s just get that straight). And what happens when I cry?

I get protein deposits on my two-week-but-I-really-wear-them-for-five-in-some-insane-attempt-at-thrift disposable lenses, rendering them useless. They have a tendency to be on the dry side, as well. When your contacts acquire protein deposits and/or dryness, they are uncomfortable, inciting all manner of rubbing and blinking. This, in turn, causes them to re-seat themselves in pesky places like, oh I dunno, behind your eyeball or crunched up in the corner of your eye. Neither option is optimal for either vision or comfort, I assure you.

So, being the hopeful sort that I am, I didn’t remove my contacts after the movie last night. I quite naively assumed that Everything Will Be Okay. On my way back from the bank this morning, I apparently blinked all wrong (oh yessss, my lovelies, there is such a thing as ‘blinking all wrong’, even though it should be against all laws of nature to screw up something so fucking easy and autonomic as a fucking blink, for shitsakes) and one of my lenses –my left, to be exact, and quite coincidentally the eye that I’m legally blind in sans correction– decided to curl up and take a nap. I drove with it this way for a few blocks before my brain declared “Oh, HELL no.” at the discomfort of having a wad of plastic gobbed up in the far corner of mine eye and at the notion of having to travel another half-mile without matching stereo vision.

Sometimes it’s difficult to be me, no matter how easy I make it look.

So, I’m puttering along, trying to re-seat the errant lens across my cornea when that fucker popped right on out and into my (always-eager and) waiting lap. I scooped it up and went to fiddling with it, conveniently dismissing (code for not noticing) a stop sign and the peace officer idling just to the right of it.

That’s when I found out that wearing contacts and having one of them make a bold attempt at fleeing your eyeball is a solid escape from a moving-violations ticket. You’re welcome.

pee ess….moody’s gonna have a baby, and I’m betting on today, y’all. Late today, but today nonetheless.

Hey Corporal Vranich (my dear repeat bodyguard), I saw a popsicle truck today; you were the best time I ever had while getting sunburned; I hope you are well.

She.

He.

She, she had a fine nose and pouty lips and intelligent big blue eyes that probed. She was all of eighteen, vigorous and funny and challenging.

He was a teddy bear sort–sincere and lovable and caring with lit-up eyes, a mischievous smile and capable of wonderful hugs. He was a Marine five years her senior–as big as the world and timid like a lamb.

They had known one another for two months now, and had been inseparable. They laughed and joked and shared ideas on the philosophies of life as only the young and yet-unhampered can.

Still a fresh bride, she spoke of her One True Love to him, and he told her of his Bride-To-Be. What a pair they were, these two: Silly with life, and full of the very same. They told corny jokes, ate from one another’s plates, talked long past last call about Those Important Things and about their plans for the Promising Future.

What brought them here this particular evening was her car. That silly, stubborn, tired little blue car of hers.

“Wait here.” her mother told her, “Your brother and I will go to the auto parts store.” And turning to him, she asked, “Would you please wait with her? This place is pretty deserted.”

Ever respectful, he replied, “Yes ma’am; sure I will!” Mother and brother drove off and that was that.

Once they were left alone, he mentioned the need to study for tomorrow’s exam while escorting her to his own car. As she slid behind the wheel, offering to assist him in his studies, he politely closed the door that he had opened for her.

After seating himself on the passenger side, he fiddled with the knobs on his radio before giving up to slide a tape in. Fifties music–their favorite to share. Many an afternoon had been passed tearing down back roads in this very car, doo-wop music blaring, as they squawked (or crooned, depending on the tempo of the particular song) out the tunes along with the “oldies but goodies”. She believed a jarhead with a muscle car and a fanatical love of song to be a fine, fine thing.

They talked and joked a bit, hearing the mosquitoes buzz and crickets wail, before he pulled out his manual and she began to quiz him.

It was a summer night –the sun was taking its leisurely time setting– and the air was heavy and sweet, perhaps heavy enough to slow the brain and hamper thinking. As he was taking a long pause between her question and his answer, she caught herself scrutinizing his profile–that strong brow creased into a concentrated furrow, those full soft lips that were compelling her to lean in closer and bask in his heat, the strong muscles of his legs as they occasionally twitched and beckoned her to just touch–just lightly run her fingertips over them and…..

“Oh!” she exclaimed softly –too soft for his ears to catch– and cleared her throat. She was quite sure she was blushing. She never blushed. He startled out of his concentrated stare and offered an answer. As she proclaimed it correct, he beamed her that huge little boy grin that always elicited in her the want to give him a great big hug. She laughed and began searching for a new question with which to puzzle him.

As she leaned forward to begin the search, the second button of her denim shirt escaped its buttonhole and he found himself glimpsing what was there. He saw the stark white line of her bra against that tan flesh and caught the swell and inner curve of her left breast as it fell up and down with her soft breathing. He looked at the gentle way her neck curved with her head tilted forward this way, then noticed how a few wispy hairs had escaped her blonde ponytail and lay against the curve. The humidity caused them to curl into tiny ringlets and had lain a light sheen of perspiration along her neck and breast. As the first strains of “Earth Angel” began, he suddenly had an overwhelming desire to touch her–to cup her breast in his left hand and slip the other around the nape of her neck and just bury, bury, bury himself in the aroma of her sweet, sensuous body and never…..

She interrupted this chain of thought with a question about thrust ratio and a helicopter and he suddenly felt awkward with her. She felt it too as their eyes met, and it was a strange and difficult moment for the both of them. They had never been this way with one another before.

“Man, the mosquitoes sure are getting bad in here! Hold on, I think I’ve got a blanket in the trunk.”

He jumped out, and he did have a blanket. It was big and robin’s-egg blue and THICK. He got back into the passenger seat and began to tuck it around her quickly; her mind cried out in a little child’s voice.

But it’s hot and I’m sweaty and he’s the one bothered by the mosquitoes, so why do I need to be covered???” But she knew why and the protest didn’t escape her lips.

And she waited.

And he waited.

They each had their own powerful thoughts about different things, and they sat there listening to the old slow classics, stared out the windshield at the desolate industrial park –empty train tracks running into the dipping sun alongside it– and waited.

Occasionally one stole a clandestine glance at the other. Mostly, though, they just stayed buried in their thinking and waiting.

And eventually mother and brother returned.

::: :: ::: :: :::

she’d fix me a dinner of sunflower seeds / and ready-whipped topping inhalers / and take me down South with Hall and Oats in her mouth / my first love my Joan Jett of Arc

my black heart was heavy / but her mom’s Cougar was fast / as little pink houses were whistled / and it was all you can eat at the Sizzler that night / my steak burnin’ Joan Jett of Arc / my steak burnin’ Joan Jett of Arc

and the shopping malls and roller rinks / all dimmed their lights / cicadas and crickets were silent / and the train tracks
like stitches skidding bicycle tires / as I slipped in my Joan Jett of Arc …

as I slipped in my Joan Jett of Arc

as I slipped in my Joan Jett of Arc

as I slipped in my Joan Jett of Arc

and the birds that were crushed / once had air in their bones / as oil was refined in her honor

// Clem Snide, ‘Joan Jett of Arc’

 

I rang in the New Year by commencing my menses.

This does not bode well for the lot of you.

UPDATE, two pee emm: You know, now that I think about it, I don’t believe I imbibed enough last night. I still feel perky(ish) after only four-and-a-half hours of sleep and in spite of being on my period.

I believe I’ll take advantage of the ThreePack’s continued absence and start whirlin’ up the tequila and ‘rita mix RIGHT…NOW.

Then I believe I’ll get out the lovely and empowering (yet somehow quite feminine) sander I got for Christmas (HOOFUCKINGRAY FOR POWER TOOLS!) and commence to strippin’.

A drunk woman somewhat competently refinishing an antique dresser. You cain’t tell me you know anything sexier than that.