Wild Thing Muzzled

Junk

2006-04-06T15:49:00.000-05:00

Lovers find a way, as addicts do
Huddled in dark corners, tapping up clean blood
Whispering secrets in lunatic voices
Rambling of their joy and the moment

They grow bold and grab a fix
In a car
In a parking lot
And when caught with hands full of dirt
They sneer
At angels with fresh faces

Me, I blow my crime away on the wind.
From a car,
In a parking lot.

Sudden Move

2006-03-28T08:59:00.000-06:00

I wanted to write something fictional, but I suppose I should bring things to reality first. I'm sitting on the floor of my apartment right now. It's empty except for me, the computer, the vacuum, the broom, and my painting. I finished it the day before we emptied the place, and am experiencing a rare warm glow from actually liking my work. I have no camera so no pictures, yet. Aric's family came through and with eight pairs of hands we stripped the place like a tornado locked in a box. All our things have been packed into storage, and I can see the indents in the carpet where the fish tank used to be.

Last Wednesday morning, at about seven o'clock, Aric came home from work with his paycheck. He's installing cable, subcontracting through a company I won't name. Several weeks earlier, and something which I had completely forgotten about, he had accidentally put his foot through a woman's ceiling while in her attic. Shit happens. So the company tells him they'll have it fixed and charge him, and it'll probably end up being a couple hundred bucks. No big deal. He never heard about it again, until the paycheck, where it showed them charging him ten times that. Having worked construction since he was a kid, Aric knows what it takes to replace a piece of sheetrock the size of a foot. So we decided, fuck it, we'll move to Austin. And we did. Or are. If everything goes to plan. Which for us, it never ever ever does.

There was the time when he went to Louisiana to put blue tarps on roofs. He never got paid. That time he went to install locks in hotels we ended up in the most desolate street of Oklahoma I can picture, with nowhere to go on a cold grey morning, and no work. Now Aric's in Austin, staying in the little blue caravan.

He had a job lined up by Wednesday afternoon, and with the rumors of money to be made and good work, we were thrilled. I've been wanting to leave Houston since I stepped off the plane nearly nine years ago, a sixteen year old girl with a shaved head and a fucked up accent. I still can't believe I've been here this long. Never thought it would happen to me. I thought the three year average would hold up for life. I would naturally just migrate around the globe and never ask questions. We just got stuck. Trying to get money. Not a lot of money. Just enough to get by. So that we can paint, and one day design and make furniture. Raise our son, write a little. But it seems the only way to get by these days is the twelve hour days, and six day work weeks.

Right now, John-Malachy and I are staying with Aric's family, in one of the coolest and most bizarre houses in Texas City. There's no internet though, and that's why I'm curled up like a snail on the apartment floor, and leaning on my elbows to type. My lease is up in three days, so I might have the chance to get back online, but who knows. I really should clean up. Sweep the kitchen, vacuum and all. I don't know. It's quite comfy here. And so quiet. There are two adults, four teenagers, three kids, a toddler, and a dog at the house. Maybe I'll take a nap.

"What are you smiling at?"

2006-03-18T20:50:00.000-06:00

The poorer you are, the less noise you can make in your house. Sleeping spots are crawled into at dark, from the outer edges of the room inwards. In the morning a woman will wake and creak as she stretches her spine, wetting her face from the fractured bowl beside her. She takes four weary steps, and can't open the stove for heat without waking the baby that sleeps beside it. When the baby cries the children whine, fighting waking. Some poke each other and pull at shirt sleeves, fighting for a matted teddy bear. She will try to hush them up, but the man's already awake, on his back on the floor in the shadow, watching the dust swirl in the bright white morning light of the window above. She sees his face, catches the expression, and asks him.

2006-03-09T18:26:00.000-06:00

The deal is this:

I have one 8x4 foot canvas to paint, and can't make up my mind. My original plan was this:

and then I sat down and worked some things out and decided I quite liked this:

and after that I combined the two and came up with this:

Now I don't know which one looks better, especially considering it's gigantic propotions. I don't know if it'll show up in the pictures here, but the top and bottom of each one has a half foot white border. Anything white in this painting is going to be clean canvas, untouched. Also, there are no curves. Only straight lines and angles. That was the assignment (I gave...myself. Is there something wrong with me, I wonder). Any votes?

High School, but I don't know why

2006-03-03T13:33:00.000-06:00

It seems like everyone lives at a different level of anger. Mine has always been disproportionate to my life and my likings, whichever way you look at it. I wanted to be angry enough for Biohazard, but at age ten could only muster up the rage for Cypress Hill. I played that tape until it warped. At twelve I discovered a Bob Marley cd and gave in. I wanted to be hard and mean, but I wasn't. I pretended, and eventually convinced myself I was bad, and my life was tough. I tried to hate, creating a ball of chaos and screams in my belly, but couldn't force it out. It simmered and festered and burnt the backs of my eyeballs. I was mean because there was no reason to be angry. I was given a life of good fortune. I knew no dead people, besides the ones I'd never known. Every couple years we had a new kid and a bigger house in a nicer area. We took plane trips and rode horses. We had the only pool in town. We were always foreigners, and people find those interesting. My parents were together. None of my sisters had ever gotten sick, or even wore glasses. My flat feet were the biggest problem for a while, until Sam came along with her asthma, and the short lived drama of Katie's enlarged liver. Every couple years, nicer cars, softer furniture, thicker carpets. New school, new country sometimes. With nothing to hate I was forced to make up reasons, but I couldn't make them stick. I wanted to be miserable, but legitimately. If only we could lose everything. Go back to Dublin and live on the wrong side of the river. Pick up the street dialect and fit in. If someone would beat me on a regular basis at least that would give me some credibility. I tried to run away but it didn't work. I just felt like a fool. With nothing to be angry about I was doomed. All the greats at everything had had hard lives, and I'd be destined for the mediocrity of those that live on pillows. There's no great story here. There never was. But I wanted there to be. And in my head I would one day have no home. That would give me reasons. But the five bedrooms with the formals and the hot tub and the giant fridge with an ice maker right there on the door, they pissed me off. I was miserable. Finally truely miserable.

How embarrassing.

Infestation

2006-02-20T23:18:00.000-06:00

Dead roach corpses are almost as common these days, as live ones that crawl. I open the cupboards and they fall on my head and my arms from the ledge and you know what? I don't even flinch, I don't even care. I'm the coolest chick on the block.
Laying on the floor under the coffee table, a little drunk, watching dead television, one in a hurry distracts my eye, and one that's done obstructs the corner of my view.
Nuclear holocaust will fry us all. But not the roaches. You can't kill them. I've tried. Everything. If only I could get the smell of money in here. The only way to get rid of them. I've given up.
When they die its like their insides evaporate. All you find is the exoskeleton. What's so interesting about that?

And there's a man asleep on my couch. His spine and his shoulder blades are wrapped around the couch back. Every night by ten. By five in the morning he'll be missing from my bed. Eighty hours a week on the job. It's a killer. There's little left inside him. What's so interesting about that?

Tools

2006-02-04T14:32:00.000-06:00

There’s something about a shell that makes me think of the inside of the earth. Pooped out, and slipped to the top of the pile, like a ceiling tile. We’re roof dwellers, scourging the surface for roots. Kicking our toes into the mud and digging with our fingers, ripping plants from the soil and disturbing just the thinnest slip of the outer crust. One of our first discovered the shell, and found it made a shovel. Now we dig faster, and keep our hands clean. We work and eat and kill that way. Only love is dirty.

A Life

2006-02-01T12:34:00.000-06:00

It’s freeing to find it’s OK to have a favourite form of punctuation, and to worry about the time between exclamations. To realize most live between them, in commas and disorderly paragraphs, and long run-on sentences, is harder to accept. There are no editors to criticize the climax, dramatize the build up, and pick apart the pacing. An end doesn’t always wrap it up neatly, bound and categorized. It is what it is and it flows and stammers, according to no rule. A biography is not a life. It is not a thought, and it is not a swallow. It doesn’t recognize the itch or the midnight craving, or the pretended aggravation at the phone again ringing, the silent disappointment when it’s a wrong number. A life is so much better, and so much worse.

The Tube

2005-12-05T22:54:00.001-06:00

I love Lucy but there's a hole in the wall
Turns out Fred and Ethel aren't voyeurs at all
Never wanted to know Ricky's dick was so small
There's a culprit among us about three feet tall
Little Ricky behave or you'll stunt that eyeball

Shades of grey

2005-12-04T01:08:00.000-06:00

Tell or make a fortune
It makes no difference
We're all dead

No sacrifice no story
Pale and white and dusty
In an ashen box

It's all pretend
And overacted
Reacted
Impacted
For a short while

No history no glory
Statues and memorials
They're all dead

Ebony and ivory
Hard as rocks both

The Moon and me

2005-11-18T14:03:00.000-06:00

Tree in Night Sky
Originally uploaded by Alcatone.

A Creative Conspiracy

2005-11-13T05:34:00.000-06:00

VoxTonic is a blog started by my lovely and talented friend Kerry, and I'm thrilled to have made my first contribution. The idea is that every two weeks a new theme is introduced, and we post our impressions through words and images. See for yourself.

360° Decisions

2005-11-08T11:59:00.000-06:00

There's a place between good and bad, where the tide turns.
It is the centre of the oceans, and every wave that licks the sand and cools your feet is born there.

It is the entrance to Earth's womb, from where we all came.
We rode out on our choices and scattered up onto land, aiming for the mountains as we died in the trenches.

Just Now

2005-11-04T13:43:00.000-06:00

I half expect the phone to ring, but it never really does. A horn beeps outside, or a car pulls up and I check. It's the neighbours, or whoever's sleeping on their couch. They're always coming and going down there. I enjoy the quiet, though. The light through open windows and white curtains. The sound of the cars can easily be just like the sea, coming by in waves.

Leaves keep falling on my porch, and staying for a while. They hang around me and it turns them sour, and dry. But there's more up there, swaying the ocean mist for me. They come down when they're bitter (I've wasted their lives), like retired performers to mope on my couch.

Another failed Janey Mac

2005-11-04T01:08:00.000-06:00

Another failed Janey Mac, originally uploaded by Alcatone.

Something's wrong with this, once again. And I'm so tunnel visioned on the little details, that I can't tell what it is, once again. Are the eyes pointing in the wrong direction, or too far apart maybe? Ignore the simple textures and colours. That's fun for later.

And why does it keep trying to get all up in my sidebar? I don't know that either.

Creep

2005-10-31T20:43:00.000-06:00

There's a spot between my toes, where wild greens grow
And crawl up round my ankle to flower
At my knees
Yellow petals stretch along my skin and
Vines tickle as they advance upon
My thighs and rising still
Strong flexible limbs veiling
My fingers, wrist, to shoulder
Twining and tightening
Across my abdomen and around my lungs
Shrouding my chest and up my back
Entangling itself into a braid
A snare to clutch my neck.

Logic takes vacations

2005-10-30T09:30:00.000-06:00

Britney Spears won a Grammy, and David Hasselhoff is Guinness World Records' "most watched TV star." He has also made at least 12 albums. Rosie O'Donnell had a talkshow, and Goodfellas lost an Oscar to Dances With Wolves. Robert Van Winkle scored with Madonna, and Tom Cruise procreated. Michael Jackson was the King of Pop, and Anna Nicole Smith is still alive.

Survival of the fittest, right? Sure, but sometimes the lame get lucky. For those of us that dwell in between, there is hope yet.

Gypsy wears no leash. I yell a lot.

2005-10-26T10:06:00.000-05:00

Imagine if humans had the same hygiene routine as dogs. You'd be strolling down the street with your buddy, chatting and sniffing and then,

"Whoa, hold on a sec. I gotta pee on this."

It would probably be more casual than that though, since humans aren't often attached to leashes. A leash is the only thing that stops a dog from huffing the history of every patch of grass and crack in the concrete, and all that grows out of them. Yank.

"I talked to Bob the other day," aim, tinkle tinkle, catch up.
"He got that promotion he was looking for."

"Oh yeah?" tinkle, shake, "Good man."

There'd be no more need for pants.

Play

2005-10-25T11:55:00.000-05:00

I have a feeling I should understand, but really I don't understand
When do we bow and cross the wood floor out the door and laughing
at our pantomime pedantics when all that would be over
and there's a party up the street?

Side B

2005-10-24T11:11:00.000-05:00

Our truck's 37 years old. It's body has taken minor reckless beatings but it's made of solid steel, I think. It gives up every now and then, but always ends up running better than before, somehow.
The coffee table and entertainment centre in our livingroom are innovative and smooth, and illusions in design. I saw them come from scraps, somehow.
We have illegal cable. It's a great bartering tool with the neighbours. I try to walk a seven foot radius around the television, though. We always end up with it, somehow.
I have an apple, I have a child, I have an aquarium on the second floor.

Out of the Blue

2005-10-18T22:05:00.000-05:00

The old man spoke slowly now. He sat on the brim of a hill, a little boy by his side. The dipping sun warmed their backs. "They say it's been this way for well over a hundred years. The only thing that's changed is the weapons." The boy looked curiously into the wrinkled face, and kept quiet as they watched the scene below. A bamboo box the size of a house, with no windows and only one door, half hid under the palms. It was guarded by a pack of soldiers, circling like armored dogs, whose black semi-automatic rifles were fed by chains and chains of ammo.

"Tell me what you know about Kili Waro," he requested of the boy, who turned to face the sun, and pointed with his whole arm. Rising from the horizon, a dark silhouette amid coral blue, was another island.

"It's over there," he said.

"And what else?"

"They're horrible, and killers, and they're our enemies. And if you see one you should run away, quickly. But you never see one," he added, relieved, and looked back at the little fortress. "And that right there's where we keep all the guns and stuff. That protect us. From the Waros."

"Haven't you ever wondered how all this started? Because it wasn't always like this, you know."

The boy thought about it, and realized he really didn't have an answer. "It wasn't?"

"No." He shook his head. "Before the time that Ulukala was chief, we were the best of friends. We traded, and celebrated together, and made alliances. Our sons and daughters married their sons and daughters. The ocean between us was an open road." The old man straightened his leg and took out a knife, with which he sliced the mango that sat in his large palm. The juice ran down his hand, and he shook it off.

"So, what happened then?"

"Well, let's see. Ulukala was a fat man, with a love of all things excessive and unnecessary. When a white man landed on our beach one day, Ulukala was seduced by his loud, heavy musket. He had to have it for himself, so he traded for it. Showing off it's powers became his new favorite game. It wasn't long before he had a collection of them, and put them in the hands of the strongest men on the island. He instructed them on his front lawn, applying whatever he could from western books concerning armies and warfare. They marched like a pack of rats back then. Ulukala must have felt very brave, with all that gunpowder under his backside, for he soon wanted to try out his new weapons." He handed the boy a dripping yellow-orange hunk of fruit.

"What did he do?" asked the boy eagerly, licking between his fingers.

"Let me see if I remember," he said, looking at the boy, whose bright, excited eyes spurred him on. "One night a man and his wife came to Ulukala for help. Their daughter had run away to Kili Waro, with a man they had not approved of. Normally, such things would have been resolved with a meeting and some agreement. You know, a compromise, with a peaceful solution. This time, though, Ulukala jumped up and ordered his army to bring the girl back. They landed on the beach and stormed houses in the night. They yelled of kidnapping and shot their rifles at the stars. The Waros were terrified, and the island turned into a screaming chaos." They turned back to the west, and looked out at the silent, dark figure, now blocking the sun. The boy imagined the explosions of muskets lighting up the night sky.

"The young couple, fearing for their lives, tried to escape, but one of the soldiers spotted them. He panicked, as they ran faster than he could with his heavy rifle, and shot at them, once. They fell to the ground right there and then, both dead from the same bullet."

"Dead?" The boy's eyes popped open.

"Dead as can be. Ulukala's ragged army was as scared as everyone else, and they cowered home. The Kili Waros buried the young man, sent the girl's body home to her parents, and proceeded to stockpile every weapon they could lay their hands on. The ones Ulukala didn't get first, that is. We've been enemies ever since. As leadership of the islands has been passed from son to son, so has this war. We have such fantastical weapons now," he pointed down, towards the enormous safe, "that there aren't even any battles anymore. We'd all be blown to pieces. Some say that, in the beginning, we swam up onto shore and grew legs. We're still no wiser for it."

The boy thought for a while. "You mean they're just like us then?"

"Who?"

"The Waros. They're people like us, and not like monsters at all?"

"They're just the same as you and me. I bet there's a tired old man over there, telling this very story, probably to someone like you. Only they have a better sunset."

Curdled and Unheard

2005-10-13T23:51:00.000-05:00

There's a space between my eyes, where everything swells and melts, dripping down my face with the arrogance of ice cream over the cone. Flavored milk too proud for plain wafer, it rolls away to waste. The sweetest suicide. I hold it there in sleep, but sunlight wakens clarity, and I can not fight with truth. It's heavy and it's cruel and it churns the stomach, like sour milk.

I can't quite hold a tune, with the way the bit keeps catching me, stretching my smile back all the way to my wisdom teeth. Spit catches and I swim in words, let them dribble down my chin, gurgles unheard.

CG

2005-10-11T15:51:00.000-05:00

Everything's still being worked on, but here it is rendered without a "shader". Which one's better? I personally prefer the other one.

New, but improved?

2005-10-10T23:50:00.000-05:00

My character study has led me down a completely different path today, after two days of frustration. I wanted to try something a bit fresher, so here we are. Is this perhaps a better look for Janey Mac?

Her name is Janey Mac, but is this her face?

2005-10-05T02:33:00.000-05:00

I haven't been around much lately, as I have been working on something. I need your opinion. I've had this project in my head for a long time, and it involves creating a cute little girl character in LightWave. The problem is that, when you work for a long time creating the little details, it's so difficult to see the overall picture. I've rendered a couple images, but please pay no attention to surface and lighting qualities. She obviously has no ears or eyebrows yet, and her hair will probably change drastically. I just need to know if she's scary or cute. I can't tell anymore, since for some reason every face I make in LighWave looks like this, and it's freaking me out a bit. Help me out, wouldya? I'd ask Aric, but he's putting blue tarps on roofs in Louisiana for a while.

Highway 71, at night

2005-09-27T20:19:00.000-05:00

Just thinking
About the matter of things when
In the corner of my vision a red bar glows
"Chocolate covered" scrolls by
Two foot block letters floating through
The dark.
I had to look away.
It broke everything, but I couldn't help myself.
"Vine Ripe Tomatoes."

The others are ahead.
Our cabin moves smooth and heavy
Silent but for the melancholy music
That rides true with me,
As does the warm and cooling breeze
Through reaching windows.

And then it all picks up speed.

Mass Exodus

2005-09-27T19:13:00.000-05:00

We're back and we're fine. By fine I mean we've gone through 360 degrees of hell and are back where we started. The trip to Austin, which usually takes 3 hours, took us almost 12. We were lucky, though. Those traveling at the same time as us were stuck on the roads for 20 hours and more. It was pure chaos.

Our three vehicle, two trailer caravan navigated one-lane country roads for the first six hours, to avoid the evacuation routes. It seems every human in the Houston area does as they are told, and so they all piled onto the four designated freeways. Road blocks and state troopers tried to force us that way too, but that was out of the question. Traffic along these roads was almost at a stand still for hundreds of miles, and we would certainly have ended up stranded on the side of the road with an overheated truck.

We hit I-10 in Sealy and got a taste of what the poor souls around us had had to endure for many, many hours. Temperatures were at record highs, and the dust of the dry land was kicked up by the type of driving I never expected to see. Cars shot down lanes in the wrong direction, and those fed up enough forged their own lanes. Gas stations were parking lots, littered with trash, and lines moved frantically to guzzle the last drops of fuel. Abandoned vehicles and belongings were left like they suddenly had no value. We saw what the apocalypse will look like. Shame it was a false alarm. Can you tell I've never suffered?

Here I am, four or five days later (I've lost track of time), with my head screwed on backwards. Excuse my lack of editing and effort.

Evacuation Wednesday

2005-09-20T23:49:00.000-05:00

The strange thing, as Hurricane Rita barrels towards us, is sitting here in our apartment, calmly planning for a potential natural disaster. Two days ago, and probably even yesterday, I had plans to float down a river somewhere in Austin. I pictured rocks sliding past below me, trailing one hand and holding a bottomless drink in the other.

I'm still going to Austin. But I'll be bringing the husband and kid, the dog and our possessions. The ones that we can fit in the back of the truck, that is. According to the forecast it's not even threatening to rain until Friday, so what's the rush? Schools closed today. Gas stations are running out of fuel. Grocery store shelves are emptying fast. Can't we find a middle ground here, people?

I will be spending my birthday with Aric and John-Malachy, Jordi, her roommate, her brother, and her granny. My presents will be spending their day on the golf course with my dad in Washington. Nice going, Rita. You bitch.

By My Calculations

2005-09-19T12:17:00.000-05:00

I turn 24 on Thursday and things'll be better then, because 24 is an even number. Uneven numbers don't suit me and frankly, they make me a little uncomfortable. I can see their purpose, and even at times the aesthetics of their off-ness, but it's a balance I can't rest with. My eyes don't like the composition.
I'm partial, obviously, to the number 2, and when one of my sisters (bloody Katie again) tried to claim it as a favourite, years and years ago, I defended my territory like it meant something. In the end, I had to give up and accept the fact that I will never own the number 2.
As you haven't been bothered to figure out Thursday's date, I'll just go ahead and tell you. September 22nd. I always knew my 22nd year was destined for something. That's the year John-Malachy was born. 23 was payment, and a lesson in perseverance. There's got to be a pattern here somewhere.

Tank Invasion

2005-09-18T15:33:00.000-05:00

Tank Invasion, originally uploaded by Alcatone.

Consolidating

2005-09-17T12:15:00.000-05:00

I changed my username again and I know what you're thinking. Pick a lane, bitch!

Let me explain. I started this blog with my real name, and at some point felt the need for anonymity, and switched to "SemiTone." This is something my friend Martin started calling me, after a music lesson that involved repeating the words tone, tone, semitone. He broke his heart laughing at me. Martin is a six and a half foot Norwegian who used to smother me from head to toe in his jacket. I'm a wee Irish thing that barely makes it to his ribcage. He's one of my best friends still, though we rarely talk and live on different continents.

Anonymity failed. My youngest sister Katie Scheetie (That'd be Katie Fartface, or something like that, in English. In Dutch it rhymes, and sounds like you're regurgitating something up through your throat.) began calling me Alcatone for a laugh years ago. I'm still not sure whether it's referring to my Gangsta-ness, or my impending alcoholism, but it's been my messenger screen name for as long as I've had one. So now I'm consolidating. Drugs past and present (don't worry kids, I'm not having too much fun these days) make it a necessity. If I don't streamline things I'll forget something somewhere.

One Day When I Die

2005-09-14T12:28:00.000-05:00

This is the way of the People
This is the way of the Spirits

Pick one

I did a little bit of LSD once, with Aric in the sailboat. It wasn't very much. Just enough for us to enjoy one of the most beautiful days of summer. For a while we laid on our backs, looking up at the blue sky through the open hatch. We imagined that our boat was a spaceship and we were seeing Earth from far above. The feeling of orbiting the planet, and floating backwards without gravity, was sensational.
That's what springs to mind when I wish I knew the truths and secrets of the Universe. (More corn. Bite me.) The two of us out there in space, passing a collapsible telescope back and forth, watching, following every action from start to consequence. Learning the inner workings of every tiny human and their impact on our view.

I'm going to have to accept that I'll never know everything in this life, so I pick the challenge. That way there's still a chance.

Neurotic Thought Coma

2005-09-12T11:12:00.000-05:00

For the most part, I've been trying to keep myself out of this blog, besides some of my most personal thoughts and memories phrased in such a way that no one can understand them. Breadcrumbs dropped, the type of dirty low-down everyone wants to know. Morbid curiosity material, hidden like puzzle pieces. If you could decipher them you'd know me. The trick is, you would have to know me better than I do myself to find the clues to solve the puzzle.

It's impossible for me to be firm in my view, because it's easily swayed, and I'd rather leave no impression than a bad one. I don't go to the bathroom in public. The thing is, I'm spineless. At least that's what I'm told. I think it's just a lack of personality. Before two opposing sentences have even settled in a room I find one in the middle that forms a bridge. Everybody's right, everybody's wrong. Everybody's the same. Just like this paragraph and the next one contradict each other, I will try to smooth that over in a way in which each paragraph retains it's dignity without even noticing. When I was a small child I lined up all my stuffed animals so that they all had equal parts blanket to distance from me ratio.

I believe that there is a balance in everything in existence. But I probably wouldn't say that out loud because there are things that just sound corny that I can't handle. You'd have to know me. Poems about the heart that don't talk of the bloody muscle in your right chest cavity, that sort of thing. In fact, the things that may repulse me based on their level of allowed corn are unpredictable. It can be a haircut, or an attempt at human behavior through which the reality of the situation shines cringingly. But that's way off topic. The balance.

People are a balance. For example, I mentioned that I'm a peacekeeper/mediator type, but also that I'm a slithering, spineless git. There's something explosive and exciting about the bold, outspoken warriors of this world, but they sure can be obnoxious. Any argument from me simmers out at the sight of their axes, their gnashing teeth. So I keep plenty of them in my corner. I need the back-up, and every now and then, they need a negotiator.

You may notice, if you've read this, that things tend to jump around. It's a faze I'm going through. Lately the thought of writing smooth, cohesive sentences that flow together the way they're intended to makes me nauseous. It's been done, and everything about that including this sentence is corny, and there's got to be a better word for it. You may also notice that I started out talking about the absence of myself in my writing here, and then I went and buried you under a pile of me. I am thinking about the delicacy of the balance, and am trying to knock Earth off it's axis.

Sweet Child

2005-09-08T20:17:00.000-05:00

When he's whispering from behind his little round fist, wide excited eyes darting between me and the direction in which his tiny finger's pointing, I know we're in his imagination. His face comes alive, looking startled then suspicious, and he tells me the whole story, in syllables that lilt and wave, touching nothing English. We exchange vowels and gasps and big funny faces, and crawl into his tale, until he decides it's over. I switch on the light, and he throws wild hugs around my neck, pressing his cool cheek to mine. Not quite so hard, and then I feel him smiling against the side of my face. A peach. Now I know he's scared of the closet, when it's dark.

Anubis

2005-09-06T10:47:00.000-05:00

I'm a jackal trying to escape
My hide
Tearing at the flea eggs
Buried
Snapping ant bites off
My heels

I might've stood a chance if it wasn't for
The shadow
Circling
Wings slowing, beating the air above
Like a magnet to
My heart
I give up my will, my hope with each passing
Exhale them on my breath as
Strength to my enemies.

Elements

2005-09-04T12:40:00.000-05:00

2005-09-02T14:11:00.000-05:00

There's nothing right now

The Universe's Kitchen Sink

2005-08-29T00:13:00.000-05:00

The gypsies have the street market cornered
And Wall Street owns Main Street.
The rest of us are sticky-fingered cockroaches
Waiting for our day.
Basement or penthouse, we all scatter
When the red and blue lights flash
Reflected like a hall of mirrors
Off the merchants' backs.

Our Street

2005-08-27T23:17:00.000-05:00

I've driven these streets for eight years and never thought about this day. The time Paul and I followed Jeff and Steven to the gas station for some pot I passed my home. The one I live in today with Aric and John-Malachy. The one I wake up in, and settle with John-Malachy into our day, our place. I've passed the spots my foot touches, when we wander to the grocery store, a thousand times and never knew. That I'd be there today, in this life. I've traveled so many streets in towns and cities in countries, and wonder where I'll tread next. Will I have had a life there once before?

What the hell is going on with all the "word verification" in the comments? And why are they always wavy?

2005-08-27T14:48:00.000-05:00

Eight and a Half

2005-08-25T14:13:00.000-05:00

months, that is. That's how pregnant I was when I painted this. Sitting on the floor behind my belly.

In the Fabric

2005-08-25T09:19:00.000-05:00

The night was lost
We slid along slick cobblestones and found
A bright little room with blankets in which to hide
Our innocence and clumsy bodies,
Neither yet our own,
To polish them some grace
Until the dark refused to keep us
And gave us to the dawn

We Did Live in San Leon for a While

2005-08-23T12:49:00.000-05:00

I have a mess that's grown on my porch. It looks like this

When Aric complains about it I show him his mess by the front door.

There are tool boxes, tool bags, tool belts, quite a few tools, electrical cords, a computer, and two large speakers. As you can see, the pile is as tall as John-Malachy sitting down.

Fragments

2005-08-19T13:13:00.000-05:00

Surrounded by parts
In the parking lot
Parts of you and parts of your car
Bits of your talk
Inhaled in starts
A flash of a shoulder, a sheet of metal
A rearview mirror, the corner of your eye.
The sky and the trees set in concrete
And when I look up
Your words are the city
That has me blocked in too.

2005-08-16T19:43:00.000-05:00

Bergen

I Want to go Home

2005-08-12T12:15:00.000-05:00

They made a train you drive your car into that went under the sea,
And the ferry cost a pound for a while.
It was in the news.
They drove their vans to France and filled them up.
With beer, and wine.
My Dad would drive to Belgium, and fill up.
With beer, and wine.
Crates filled with bottles I looked at for hours.
Pink elephants on the "Delirium Tremens."
Monks on the ones named after saints.
I weighed and turned and counted the bottles
Out in the barn with the smell and warmth of the horses.
Dreaming of growing up

2005-08-12T11:23:00.000-05:00

A blind contour developed, from about six years ago. I obviously don't take very good care of my work. It's actually a miracle this thing still exists.

2%

2005-08-11T13:52:00.000-05:00

Part Three

In the end it took them nearly nine months. The debt was due to be repaid by the sixth month, and Tweeter couldn't handle the pressure. He flew out to Bangladesh, and the mail would have to wait. The day before they left there was a huge party, and all four were shattered with hangovers the whole trip home, and almost permanently sunburned.
It would take them almost two months, opening envelopes, entering names and addresses into computers, and filing checks to get to the bottom of the bags. They had accounts at every bank in the city. They were almost finished, sitting around the Ikea table with their laptops, opening envelopes, pecking away at the keyboards.
Stewie snickered "These poor fools need to go at the top of the list, you know that?"
"There is no top of the list. It's in alphabetic order, like the phone book."
"I know, but think about it. They get this letter saying they've won the lottery, and, like any normal person, figure it's most likely a con. But they hold onto it, and then rush out past the deadline with a $20 check."
"They're not going to get their own section at the top of the list just because their timing's shit. Everyone in this database is going to be equally gullible, and equally valuable."
They all laughed. "We really are going to be rich, fellas. Every crook, politian and salesman is going to want to get their hands on this list."
Pinky pulled an envelope out of the small pile that was different from the last 50,000. The address to the P.O Box was handwritten perfectly. He opened it. "It's from Rashid." He pulled out a notecard and a photograph of the four of them from the night of the party, surronded by smiling Bakraatis.
"Biscuit, you plonker" Stewie laughed, looking at Pinky's pose. "Why do you always do that in pictures?"
Pinky threw the notecard into the middle of the table and looked at the ceiling. Then he burst out laughing.

Greetings,

We wish to thank you heartily for your business. Our small town has much improved, and I see many more happy faces. There are now so many cars we have traffic problems! We are forever grateful.
I would also like to say that I understand the delicate nature of your business, and the privacy also. I am willing to sign any contract you wish, to ensure this remains so. My fee will be $8,461,395. Once again, it's a pleasure to do business.

Your Friend
Rashid

The End

2%

2005-08-09T22:47:00.000-05:00

Part Two

It might seem that Tweeter had the easy job, holing up in Omaha waiting for the checks to pour in, but that wasn't exactly the case. Michael's creditors turned out to be of the impatient variety, and between the phone calls and the e-mails Tweeter was a wreck, watching his back constantly. He pictured big shoulders and black overcoats, not realizing that he was dealing with a shrimpy accountant with a side bet on.
"Get your ass back here! They're after my balls for chrise sakes!"
Michael was somewhere between annoyed and amused. "Get a fuckin' grip, wouldya Tweet. Bloody hell. You sound like a helium junkie."
"That's easy for you to say. You're in the countryside of Bangla-frigging-desh. It's me they want now." His voice broke. "Oh, God."
"Jaysus, will you relax. Listen, I'll call your man first thing in the morning. You just keep your eyes on that P.O. Box. Good man." He hung up and rejoined the party.
"Fucking Tweeter. He doesn't know his arse from his elbow. You have to feel sorry for him though, you know?" He sat back down and picked up the unlabeled bottle of moonshine. "You're sure now this stuff's safe?" he asked the young Bengali man on his right, who smiled and laughed, not understanding a word. From the other side of the building, where Rashid taught English classes, came the echo of a hundred voices chanting in syllables. Ar-tic-u-lay-ting.

It looked as though the plan was going even more smoothly than expected. Posters advertising 200 jobs, $5000 for 3 months work, had been plastered all over town and on application day they hired the first 200 through the door. That took less than an hour, with Rashid dividing them into two shifts and instructing them.
Michael arranged the shifts this way to keep business confidential. As long as no one person had all the information, he figured, no one would see the whole picture. What he had not considered was that almost everybody in Bakraat was related, in one form or another, and the rest of the town got their gossip from the grocer.

So the place ran like a factory. By collaborating several cheap databases Pinky had compiled one large one, listing the names and addresses of five million people, and all five million would, within the next three months, receive a letter. A letter folded, slid into an envelope and licked shut by a Bakraati with $5000 on their mind. A letter celebrating the recipient's win of $8,461,395 in the Opportunity Sweepstakes!, and requesting a $20 processing fee. Many of them would call the 1-800 number with questions, and they would be answered to the best of the abilities of a Bakraati with three months experience in the language, and a script. It was ideal.
Most of the win announcements, of course, went straight into the garbage. It was junk mail of the lowest order. The boys had anticipated this. According to Stewie's background in advertising and marketing, and a couple of his independent studies, there was always a certain percentage of people that could be roped into such an obvious scam. Two percent is what he calculated for this one. Two percent of five million, at $20 a check, makes $2,000,000. Half to pay the Bakraatis, and the other half for the printing, sending, rent, and any other expenses. Everyone working for them would make out very nicely, and the boys would break even.

2%

2005-08-07T22:04:00.000-05:00

Part One

"We need a game plan here, fellas, so stop arsing around.
1. First thing is the location. Somewhere no one's going to notice us, right?
2. Once we're there, we've got to create an entire workforce. Hire 200 people for two different shifts. They all have to be available for work six months from the date we hire them, and in the meantime we have to teach them English.
3. Crap. Hire an English teacher. Maybe someone local? OK, switch 2. and 3.
4. We then have to accumulate the electronics for the job. What we're basically looking at here is 200 plus personal communication set-ups. Switchboard phones, computers, the works. A step up from DOS could work. All it'll need to do is take data, nothing fancy. And the printing, folding, enveloping and sending. Put that down as 5. Any thoughts on cheap phone service?"
"Yeah, it should be number 6."
"6. Get 204 landline connections, and two 1-800 numbers that'll work out in wherever the hell we're going. Someone look into that. Stewie, look into that. You're good at useless shit."
And so it started. The four of them around a pine Ikea table, Michael in charge as usual.

They followed up on a small ad on some obscure foreign trading website, and came upon Rashid's place, in Baakrat, Bangladesh. It was further away from the airport than it'd looked on the map, and not a luxury in the world was available to soften the blow of the trip.
As he showed them around the building Rashid chattered away, noting on important matters whenever he felt necessary.
"So wonderful to see such young businessmen like yourselves," he told Michael, appearing not to notice the actual state they arrived in. They looked like four young Wall Street contenders, washed up on a desert island, briefcases in hand.
"I tell my son all the time "behave like a man, you will take over family business one day." My wife, she argues me. She says "But he is just a boy." At 16 a boy should think like a man." His emphasis was all over the place. "You know what, when I was 16 I had my own cart. I made all the deliveries of Baakrat. Everyone wanted Rashid. Because I do good business, no?"
Michael smiled, nodded pretty vigorously, and looked around the building. It was dark, dusty, and needed ventilation. Maybe some AC. But the price was right and the connection to the Omaha P.O. Box easy to hide.
"Can I get you boys some refreshment? A beverage, perhaps?" Rashid turned two murky glasses and released the faucet, smiling.
"No thank you," said Tweeter, so called for his high and pitchy vocals. Or maybe because his ears stuck out a bit, which made him look like a musical instrument. Michael had ducked out. Tweeter was generally nervous, but it seemed he was a little lost in Bangladesh. The others sauntered over. "Could you tell me though, where's a good restaurant?"
"I can do better! I will take you there myself. In my car."

Rashid got in the driver side, Michael in the front next to him, and the other three punched their way into the back, squeezing in until their shoulders touched, propped up like cartoons.
"Roll down the windows!" yelled Stewie from the middle, sweat dripping from under his glasses, rolling down his face, and onto his new pin-stripe shirt.
The car stopped at a building alongside a hectic market square, and Rashid helped them all out, running around the car to make sure nothing had been left behind. They were going to discuss things, and let him know after lunch whether they wanted to rent the place or not. Rashid approved, with very vigorous handshakes.

"What is this?" Stewie asked, face screwed up, looking down at his plate.
"Stop being such a fuckin' baby for a change, wouldya?"
"I'm not eating this," he said, poking at the grey meat.
"I don't care if you don't eat for the next three days and don't shit for a week."
"I'd rather not shit for a week than do nothing but shit for a week. If you lot are eating this, I'm taking the window seat on the way home."
"Alright, you gobshites, let's just hear it. What are we doing here?" asked Michael.
Tweeter went first. "Seems alright. Couple window units, some cleaning."
"It's a bit fucking depressing, isn't it?" said Pinky. Pete Pinkers was sometimes also known as Biscuit, a name acquired raiding his three little brothers' lunchboxes for his entire school career. It wasn't until he had graduated high school that the boys found out they had been robbed of two biscuits each, every weekday for ten years.
"What do you want, a bleedin' carnival? I tell you what, you can be in charge of decorating the place, yeah? Any theme you want, my friend. How about "Under the Sea," or a tropical luau, with grass skirts and all. Would that be more to your liking? Ya bleedin' eejit ya."
"Flower necklaces instead of ties," Stewie was brainstorming the idea.
"We could roast a pig in a pit out the back," added Tweeter.
"I'm just saying. At least two of us are going to be stuck in this place for three months, or more. If it's going to be me I'd at least like a little sunshine. Vitamin D and all that. We're in fucking Bangladesh, you know."
"Exactly, Pinks. We're in fucking Bangladesh. Do you want to fly all the way bloody home, to see if there's a better view somewhere in effing Thailand?" Pinky conceded the point. "You're forgetting the purpose here," Michael continued, looking at the three faces around the table. "This is temporary. We're just doing a bit of dirty work right now, so that we can be filthy rich a little later." They toasted with their beer glasses.
"We've been underestimated all our lives, boys. Not anymore. Not anymore."

Just To Hold You Over

2005-08-07T21:47:00.000-05:00

When I do the dishes, for instance, I always leave one or two cups around the edge of the sink. The ones my eyes pretend aren't there. Turns out I've been doing that all my life.

Women are the people I talk to about my unfrilly knickers.

There's no such thing as one beer, and someone that downs one in order to enter the public pool area probably has five more in the car.

Is It Just Me?

2005-08-05T01:21:00.000-05:00

I occasionally go to the gym with my sister Sam, because I apparently like to try to kill myself. Sitting on a bench in the changing room waiting for Sam, having completed the first half of my death mission, I started watching a movie on TV. It was some medieval castles, crowns and tapestries affair, and I was sucked in by the dramatic dialogue of a romantic scene, and the loss of blood to my brain. The television screen was my world there for a second.
Less than a minute later Sam was back, so we headed back out to the stark reality only possible with mega-voltage fluorescence. Just as I turned away the rugged, be-robed prince figure said angrily "If you want to be with me, choose not to be the queen!" to the breathless, bejeweled princess. It instantly summed up the entire realm of the story for me. No need to watch it now, their formula was exposed. This bothered me quite a bit and so I put the movie, whatever it's called, in that lump in my brain made of crap just like it. It's like a package of Starburst all blended up and rolled into a ball in there.
I was aggrevated, because they just handed us the dilemma, like it was no big thing. The blood shot back up to my head. In life, every choice has 5,000 options, and various degrees of intensity and longevity of consequences, and the actual problem is wrapped up and often lost in many side-track problems. The pros and cons all have to be weighed up and balanced, and there should be plenty of anxiety attacks, denial, and regret involved. In that case, getting to the aorta of a problem would mean tackling it like you would the deepest, darkest jungle. That's a lot more exercise than I was prepared for.
That's what I was thinking.
When I snapped back to reality we were standing like a couple of turds in the middle of the gym, trying to decide which machine to use.

Bold

2005-08-02T11:31:00.000-05:00

Memory fades so quickly when the tantrums rise in frequency, and decibel level. Eighteen months later he charges around the livingroom, holding anything that remotely resembles the shape of a pistol. "PeehPeehPeeow!" My son is such a boy. His father's tools are creations of a magical mystery land, and we've narrowly avoided

hammer holes in the walls. He has, however, hit them up with pencils and fantastic scribbles, swift and stealthy like the wind. One of my favourite things is the expression of wonder on his little face, which opens up at the mouth and the eyes when he smiles. He becomes luminous and bright, and the rows of little pearly teeth are the exclamation marks to his surprise. As the days pass he's becoming naughtier and naughtier, laughing and running away as he knocks over my clean and folded laundry, giggling as his food flies across the kitchen, and holding my gaze, eyes wide and tentative, as he dances on the coffee table. But then, at night, after bathing and playing and tickling and belly-blowing and struggling into pyjamas, I lay him down and he tries to imitate me. A kiss with his lips pursed tightly and "uh wuv oo." Then I can relax.

2005-08-01T12:25:00.000-05:00

There's a line you cross on the way to nowhere
That's clearly marked by no one
Everything dropped, piece by piece, leaving the weight of nothing

Closing Time

2005-07-29T13:06:00.000-05:00

Goodbye house. Goodbye Sam, Goodbye Katie, Goodbye Mom, goodbye Dad. Danny, Killian, and Jordi, you left a long time ago and I miss you still.

Today is closing day on my parents' house down the street. Their worldly belongings are packed tightly into a huge, metal ocean-going container, after weeks of chaos and hard work. There will be no more Christmases or Sunday dinners in that livingroom, that kitchen. No more conversations, be they sarcastic or riddled with tears, over wine at their dinner table. The blue leather couch, whose left side has been graced with the presence of my mom's ass almost every night for eight years, now sits in my livingroom with just two cigarette burns as her legacy. By the end of August only the three of us, my own little family, will be left in this awful town on the edge of this giant, sweltering city.

I refuse to lose my emotions to this. Not yet. Not again.

I wish I could dream about the parties instead

2005-07-27T10:38:00.000-05:00

When I lived in Holland I went to the international school of Rotterdam, the Wolfert van Borselen. We were a patchwork of less than a hundred students from all over the world within a large dutch school, and had our own system and teachers. One of these teachers was Eleanor Ewings, an Irish woman from Belfast who taught English. She was crazy in the most brilliant, jolly way, and had a head full of white-blonde ringlets. Her best friend was Mary Fitzpatrick, also from Belfast and also one of my English Lit teachers, and also the headmistress. Incidentally, both Ms. Ewings and Mrs. Fitzpatrick became very good friends and very good drinking buddies with my parents. These two women have influenced me more than any others, besides my mother and sisters.
For the last couple months I've been having this recurring dream. I'm back at the Wolfert and finals are coming up. Suddenly I realize I haven't attended Ms. Ewings's english class for five months, and a panic sets in. I did often find myself in sticky situations when I was in school (not doing the homework, never studying for the tests, late to every class, you know the drill) but always managed to wrangle myself into an A, so the feeling's familiar. In the dreams, however, as much as I scour my brain for a solution I can't see one, and the thought of blemishing my perfect record, taking a test I don't know the answers to, and having to face Ms. Ewings is too much for me and I wake up in a cold sweat. The panic sometimes lingers with me throughout the day, and any thought of going back to finish my degree is replaced with a relieved exhale that I'm not there now.

Clean

2005-07-24T21:30:00.000-05:00

I was looking for a skank boy and I found one. His squalor matched my heart. Surrounded by pillows on my feather-top queen size I craved his floor space: that strip of stained carpet between the piss jug and the mouldy closet. I wanted rats to wake me and drugs to put me out. Dust in my nose and a drip in my throat. Brown and grey and dirty. His mildew musk inspired me moist, blind to his shame, so I took his struggle. I took his seed, his son, and we invented immaculance.

2005-07-21T12:56:00.000-05:00

"Then she stopped staring at the green chairs, at the delivery truck; she went to the movies instead. There in the dark her memory was refreshed, and she succumbed to her earlier dreams. Along with the idea of romantic love, she was introduced to another--physical beauty. Probably the most destructive ideas in the history of human thought."

From Toni Morrison's "The Bluest Eye"

My Phone's Broken

2005-07-21T12:25:00.000-05:00

The phone keeps ringing, but I tune it out. I know who it is. The answering machine sometimes doesn't hang up. "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again," and then the shrill shrieking of the line, over the speaker until I turn the cordless on. Then I hear it softened and down by my hip, in my hand, until I turn it off completely. That sound, that crow's caw repeating in triple time, I'd rather listen to it. Life is petty, but I don't want to go there. When things move along like friction, like fingernails tearing into wallpaper all the way down, I seem to have good grip. Feed it to the sharks slowly, piece by piece. It's hard to give up in one decision, and let everything go at once. When I was a kid I always saved my thimble-full of luke-warm Coke 'till everyone else was finished, and ate the Yorkshire Pudding last.

Vacuum

2005-07-19T14:10:00.000-05:00

You're stellar, my friend
Won't you come back down?
The more fiercely you blaze, the colder it gets
And I'm shivering.
Your satellites are comets
They come fast and hard and
Combust
Into fragments that cinder in orbit

My Spit's Like Acid

2005-07-18T11:34:00.000-05:00

Lately I've been feeling a more and more prevalent urge to pounce on somebody's shoulders and rip their face off. There is one in particular that makes the skin under my fingernails itch. It's mouth opens and out come words. Endless, pointless words, each one a stitch in the chain to getting laid. Though I'm not at all a violent person.

And when I'm alone and it's quiet I always feel like the baby's going to cry soon. Even when he's not here. If anything ever happened to that little man that sense would never leave, so that eventually I could just say it was his ghost. I am labouring to learn the hearts of mothers, through fear, and although I aim to be as empathetic as a human can be, I hope to never have to experience some of the trauma others have wrestled. Brutal, incomprehensible things happen in this world, and there's no mercy for the children.

There's a battle going on. It's between God and the Devil, and it's inside of me. So I'm weighing up my options.

2005-07-06T13:58:00.000-05:00

Some things I like or Pictures stolen from the internet

2005-06-15T12:13:00.000-05:00

My parents have flown on a few airplanes and stayed in a few hotels of late. They have also just sold their house in Texas to take up residence in Bergen, Norway, on a semi-permanent basis.

Stepping Out

2005-06-14T11:59:00.000-05:00

At times I Face the World
From the shadows
Sitting in dark corners
Watching your colours go by.
It's cool and breathable,
and I can rest.

Until inevitably I'm ushered,
Like a child encouraged,
To stop thinking.

Life's warmer that way.

Sorry

2005-06-05T14:22:00.000-05:00

I'm just not up for it right now. Haven't been for weeks. I'm going back to the couch to lay in a puddle of my own drool now, and watch more daytime TV. I hate daytime TV.

2005-05-19T14:04:00.000-05:00

John-Malachy

Maybe next week

2005-05-19T01:34:00.000-05:00

I know honorable men
I come from a long line of them
Polishing shoes every Saturday
And furniture on Sunday

But small dogs barking at big game
That's another story

I actually have something to do

2005-05-16T09:46:00.000-05:00

This past week has been a little bit eventful for me, compared to all the other weeks of the last two years or so. For one, we celebrated our fourth anniversary on Saturday (although Thursday was the actual day), and just to clarify, I am 23 years old. I may have to tell that story one of these days, as I wasn't your average "crawl out of mom's trailer and into my boyfriend's with a baby in my belly" child bride. But then again that's just my opinion. There may be those who'd say differently. The one thing I will say is that I never saw it coming. Not that I was kidnapped and tricked into signing the paperwork, but if you'd told me growing up that I'd be married at nineteen I would have laughed scornfully in your face, until you cried.
In any case, Saturday night was the bomb-ass-shit, as they say, filled with loads of excellent music, atmosphere, food and drinks. As Katie put it, we hit up four different places downtown, and had a blast at all. As a side note (I think this post may well be littered with them) one of the amazing and unexpected consequences for me of having a baby is the pretty much total loss of all that shyness and natural inhibition. I used to care if I made a complete arse of myself, but those shackles hold me down no more, because as long as my kid's alright, nothing else matters. It's so much more fun. I met and re-met loads of people, danced all night, and no hangover in the morning. Drunkenness was kept to a minimum, and I have to admit I liked it.
The purpose of this post was actually to explain the lack of other posts, though, and that news is even more exciting (to me) than my antics On The Outside. I have started to write a story for school-aged children. The details came to me at the beginning of the week, and everything's falling into place in my head. When that happens I can barely contain my excitement, because it's rare. And then I start telling people and then it all goes wrong and I never finish it. So I've just screwed myself. The story's big enough for a book, and I'm going to try to stick it out until the end this time. Those that know me, though, are giggling to themselves and thinking "yeah, right, Toni" and just to quote my mom "I'll believe it when I see it." Well, you're a bunch of bollixes for that, so I'm going to show you, ya wankers. And now I've really done it, because that's always my last thought before that story decides my motivation's all wrong and it doesn't want to live with me anymore and runs away from home to get married and live in a boat. So, no more about the story and if I start telling you about it (I need feedback, people, feedback. I have to threaten Aric with our fifth anniversary just to make him read it. He is a useless critic.), do the "shush" motion, finger on your lips and all that. And I'm only going to write it when I'm wearing my lucky knickers, the sun's shining in at a 45, and that one song's playing, because that worked pretty well the other day.

The River Pity

2005-05-09T11:02:00.000-05:00

Who can live by Pity's side?
Her well-water is lukewarm
Trickling through the slimy sediment
Which perculates its crushed velvet edges
Of next generation's permanents,
And shoots into the swamp.

Those that settle in her marshes
And slurp their sustenance from and exist on her
Bathe in her and fish in her,
Their stomachs cramp into tight knots
With a microbial scattering settling
Building a swelling lining
Past which it shoots into the swamp.

Temperate Climates

2005-05-01T21:07:00.000-05:00

The day after we arrived in Pennsylvania (at 5 in the morning, but of which day?) Aric's dad took all of us to Panther's Caves. It was a beautiful day out, but we all brought warm clothing, just in case. In fact, before we left the grandmother pulled out a box of hats and mittens and scarves and encouraged the kids to bring some along, just in case. And packed the big cooler full of sandwiches and snacks and bottles of water, just in case.

It was about 75 degrees when we got there, and a cloud never crossed the sky, but Aric's dad made the four kids wear their jackets, and Morea refused to leave her purse. Taking my example from the experienced parent, I left John-Malachy's on him, and brought the diaper bag. We set out walking and after following a dirt path downwards, we reached the edge of a cliff. There were tall pine type trees all around, growing on and between the giant sandy coloured boulders. We followed a path down through the rocks, into the cool shade, until the walls on each side towered over, and found caves and crawl spaces tucked away in corners and crevices. We read graffiti, both in spray paint and carved out of the stone with a chisel, dating back to the late 1800's. "Bertie was here, 1904" in perfect tombstone letters. The kids were lowered from plateau to plateau, until we broke out into the forest.
The next stretch sloped sideways down the mountain, and this is where the jackets came off. By now it was warmer still, and the sun overhead was bright even through the trees. We stuffed a couple into the diaper bag, and slung some over Morea's purse, which was by now being passed from bearer to bearer. We were in search of the waterfall, and not long after finding a trail I could hear the water down below, and it sounded like listening to the ocean in a conch. It flowed down into the valley, over natural dams made of boulders and tree trunks covered in green moss, into deep and shallow pools where it slowed until it poured over the next one. Even John-Malachy sat quietly in Aric's lap for a while in awe. While I baked myself on a large, flat rock in the warm air at the edge of one of the pools I thought about Glendalough, and wondered if I was letting down a part of me by admiring a scene as plush and green and sparkling as this outside of Ireland.

Glendalough is in Wicklow, north of Dublin, and taking me here is one of the nicest things a person can do for me. Maybe that's why I'm so partial to my Aunty Eileen and Uncle Tony, who used to bring us there to climb the mountain on our yearly visit. I remember discovering trickling waterfalls, appreciating beauty in every direction, and crossing paths with small herds of sheep at high altitudes, and being determined to make it. And then making it and looking back on the monstrous wave of tree covered mountains all around, and being worried that there might be no way, even when I grew up, that I could ever touch every inch of that green earth.
The last time I went was the day of the second worst hangover of our vacation, which also happened to fall on my twentieth birthday. Aric and I were staying with my cousin Lewis, who I grew up with since we're very close in age. His parents took us to Glenndaloch for my birthday, and the trip up was pure torture. I prayed not to vomit, and I could see by Lewis' colour and concentrated expression that he was as bad off as me. We made it intact, but the only way to kill the shakes in the end was to drink the beers Lewis had somehow concealed in his pockets, so we strayed away from Pauline and Martin, who had their hands full with Lewis' little girl. On our way towards the mountain, we encountered the waterfall. The big one. The one with warning signs and a name plaque. The one Aric and Lewis decided they should climb. They maneuvered up the first steep, slippery incline, and got stuck. There was no way up, they'd never make it across the fall to the side, and down was reasonably far, with bone-breaking rocks to catch them. I was still quite amused, watching from the side and trying to strategize their escape, but they were panicking. I think the thought of an embarrassing public rescue with helicopters and people in uniforms forced them both to try their luck going down the way they came up. Inch by inch they shuffled along the shiny wet rock, depending with their lives on the soles of their shoes. Dickheads.

There was a lot about Pennsylvania that reminded me of Ireland. The pavement in a nearby town had me sitting on my Nanny's doorstep in Cabra. The clear night sky put me in Leitrim, traipsing back from the pub beside my Dad, along deserted country roads, as he pointed out the stars and named them, and told me about his days at sea.

In Transit

2005-04-29T11:29:00.000-05:00

The trip to Pennsylvania. What to say about that? It seems so long ago now, but there are certain parts that stick in my mind, and since 5 days out of 8 were spent in a big white van, most of them took place there.

We had been driving for a day and a half, and I was sitting on the third row with Rockne and Morea, aged five and seven, behind John-Malachy and Gemma and Petr, about nine and twelve. We were all a bit wired, me from lack of sleep and excess of sugar, and they from lack of sugar and excess of sleep. Rockne and Morea were being punished for being Wild Things, and had been cut off from the sweet nectar of candy. Four hours before our ETA Rockne whipped out this Now and Later wrapper whose purpose was probably to keep the dirt in his pocket off the green goop wrapped up inside. Petr informed me that Gemma gave them one previously chewed piece of candy from her stash, to share. This had me in fits of laughter. Rockne kept bringing the ball of rubbery sweetness to within millimeters of his tongue, and letting it linger under his nostrils. Then he wrapped it around his thumb. Petr asked him if he was planning to wear it like that all the way home, which was the plan, apparently. Morea then suggested they cut in half, turned around, and pulled a turkey bone in the shape of a hatchet out of her purse (oh, this girl and her purses). When she tried to cut the Now and Later as it sat on Rockne's thumb, the stem of her miniature axe broke. Trying to piece it back together she asked me if I thought we could tape it. We weighed up our options and she decided she'd ask her dad to silicone it for her, because she wanted to give it to her brother Eben for his 20th birthday.

When I looked back at Rockne the green glob was gone. Temptation is just too much sometimes.

Aric's dad and I came up with a television series for kids that's going to make us all rich. And also discussed the entire state of the world from about the Ottoman Empire through to the future of China, and all implied tangents that come with discussions of that nature. We concluded by patting ourselves on the backs for being such exceptionally bright and even brilliant individuals with sharp minds and all-seeing wisdom.

With all that going on inside the van, outside landcape I've never seen for myself rolled by. I'm very grateful now about that ticket Aric's dad got in Kentucky on his last trip, because avoiding that state led us right through the Virginias. We drove through the Appalachian Mountains in the snow, and it was unbelievable. The flakes came shooting from a place in the sky I couldn't see, and then at the last minute slowed and flung themselves at the windshield as if magnetized. The mountains bloomed with spring, all greens and a little purple.

Cars get abandoned along the side of the highway everywhere. Especially Birmingham, Alabama.

2005-04-27T10:11:00.000-05:00

All the way to Canada

The Best Laid Plans

2005-04-26T20:17:00.000-05:00

We ended up in the countryside of Pennsylvania for a week and I feel like I've become unglued from something. My back was stuck to a wall like an insect in drying paint. Sluggish. And now I've remembered life and being in it a bit. Movement, probably like the kind that massages atrophied muscles. There's a lot of air up there. And things of green. Breathing things that are green.

We left just after dark on Monday night, for a couple of Motels in Oklahoma City. I don't know whose bright idea this was, because obviously we were going to arrive at 4:30 in the morning, and that wasn't thought through all the way to the end. The thing was, we were on a tight schedule. The plan was: Oklahoma to drop off Aric, Pennsylvania to drop off his four youngest brothers and sisters, ten tons of their belongings, and show off John-Malachy and his dancing, and then back to Oklahoma so that Aric's dad could work also.

Aric and I were the only ones awake when we finally pulled off the highway, in a very dark night of a very quiet city. He drove and I navigated. It works better that way, since he couldn't find his leg to pee on it if it was on fire. Both "hotels" were seething with sleaze and history. I was relieved when we saw the first one, since we weren't actually going to be staying there. We were just scoping out the location for the morning. I did, however, have one great moment there. On our way back towards the freeway I saw a woman walking along the side of the street, towards the curb, and it was suddenly obvious to me that she was a street-walker (yeah, that's the word that actually came into my head). I'd always seen people pick them out, or arrest them, on movies and television, or been with friends that knew when we passed women on the street, but I could never tell. And now, finally, after years of keeping my eyes peeled so that I might be able to identify a prostitute when I see one, I know with certainty that I was right at least this once. She wasn't all "Pretty Woman" or skanked either. Jeans, jacket, tennis shoes. It was the way that she was cruising slowly down the wide back street, turning her head a bit to look more intently into the van. I realized almost immediately that, if I was on that street at that time, I would be making damn sure to avoid eye contact with passing vehicles. I contemplated the thing for the next thirty miles or so, until we reached the other place.

At five in the morning you can't get a room at the Great Western (although we weren't really sure that's what it was since the big sign had been pulled and all they were advertising was a row of broken fluorescent bulbs) in Shawnee, Oklahoma. That's when the night worker sleeps on the couch next to the desk. You can watch her through the glass door while you bang on it. When we pulled up John-Malachy woke up, alive and kicking, and wanted out of the carseat NOW. I felt hungover and jetlagged, and all the eight of us could do was curl up in the van, and those of us awake laughed at ourselves. The town was forgotten and it's roads are left to crumble, but somehow they have the nicest McDonald's I've ever been in. Aric and I laughed until we cried there, while John-Malachy ran around without pants on, three kids between the ages of 7 and 12 on his heels.

We went back at a more conceivable hour and Aric arranged his room and everything changed. The doors were metal, not wood, and the place hadn't ordered the right parts. Job over. He quit on the spot, because it was suddenly clear that everyone was trying to screw each other, and he was the intermediary. He was being put in a position where he wasn't always guaranteed a paycheck, and the company he was working for didn't back him up. What's the point of travelling 400 miles or more if there's a chance there's no work at the other end?

So we all went to Pennsylvania on vacation instead. I'll tell you about that later.

Roadtrip

2005-04-18T18:54:00.000-05:00

Must hurry. Five minutes until someone's head blows up. I found out this morning we're going on a road trip tomorrow. For possibly a month or so. Oklahoma, then Kansas, and Kentucky. I found out this afternoon we're leaving tonight. OK then. So I've packed for the whole family ("Pack light! Pack light!" Some people are so naive.). Three quarters of the bulk of belongings are John-Malachy's. Every time we travel it amazes me how much material it takes to sustain a child. First come the basic needs: clothes (hot and cold weather, because who the hell knows), pajamas, enough diapers to stop a bursting dam should we encounter one and need to save a desperate town, wet wipes to cleanse the sweat and durt encrusted foreheads of the townspeople after two days of carrying sand bags through mud and lashing rain, toys for the short attention span, books for the intellect ("Feel up the Puppy" for example), sippy cups, shoes, bum medicine tooth medicine, stroller, porta-crib, all divided into long term, short term, and very short term. Holy Mother, what did I start here?
To make things that little bit more complicated, Aric's dad is going to be working with him. Oh, Aric's working putting in locks in sleazy motels, in case I forgot to mention that, and this is the original purpose of the trip. My father-in-law is grand. He has seven kids still at home, and they were informed several days ago that they have to move out of their place within thirty days. That's another side track upon which I will not take you besides to mention that they are innocent. So he's taking the three youngest to Pennsylvania, to the grandparents, while the older four stay to take care of business. We all thought it would be a good idea for John-Malachy to go also, as that has been a long overdue trip and JM's over a year old and it's about bloody time, right? Party time, people. Party time. That's all I have to say. So, long story short, we're dropping Aric off in Oklahoma, then heading to Pennsylvania, back to Oklahoma to work, then Kansas, and finally (God please) Kentucky.
I'm looking forward to watching the scenery change outside my window. That's what I loved about the trip to California, and the one to Florida, and those are the only places in America I've travelled to (besides Padre, but that's still Texas so it doesn't count). It's time to find out something I don't know about somewhere I've never been. It was time five years ago, but that's beside the point. The biggest problem I'm foreseeing is the internet death. My virtual suicide. But that will be replaced by an old concept: the book. I'm being shoved out the door now, so I will update whenever possible. I'll miss you. And I don't even have time to read this before I post it, so excuse any drivel, please.

John-Malachy Saves the Day, Once Again

2005-04-16T00:51:00.000-05:00

65 pages
37000 lines of GW Basics
8 forms
1205 opportunities to practice cross-referencing
a logical witness
that makes no sense at all
to prove that I,
I am a tax filing genius
10 minutes before midnight

Should I let him play with his pee-pee?

2005-04-13T14:11:00.000-05:00

Now that I have a toddler there are a couple of things I need to either figure out or remember.

First of all, what is the standard elephant noise? I could have sworn there was a general, accepted across-the-board, sound when I was a kid, but what the hell was it? I mime the trunk with my arm alright, but my kid deserves better than that.

Was there a tune to "Jack and Jill"? I realize now that in the original version no one came down the hill pregnant, but I don't remember it being quite so monotone.

What level of grazed bloodiness calls for antiseptic and a plaster? John-Malachy went for a stroll in the park with my sister Sam yesterday, and came back with an owie, or a boo-boo (I haven't figured out what to call it yet, which is part b of this query). When I asked her if he'd cried she said he stopped as soon as she kissed it better. Since this has never happened before, I wonder how he knew that that was his cue. I tried to play it off as the calm and laid-back mother (eventhough there were little dried blood droplets on his little shorts and his knee was actually grazed. With blood on it.) and resisted the urge to sweep him up and rinse his leg with a bottle of Dettol. I have been told too many times I'm a neurotic hypochondriac when it comes to my baby. By my mother. The same woman who had the Neosporin and the Pikachu plaster ready before we even reached the kitchen (yet more proof of her super-sonic hearing). So now I'm confused. There must be a very fine line between being neurotic and neglectful.
Incidentally, we have been taking turns kissing the wound all better most of the morning in the privacy of our own home.

At what stage of boredom does "how about we read another book now?" become a legitimate request?

And finally, how does one begin to teach a toddler about facial features without being continually poked in the eye? I guess the obvious answer is to blink, but sometimes you think they're going for the nose and you just don't see it coming.

2005-04-11T19:50:00.000-05:00

A glorious night all to myself! I called to invite you over, but no one was home. Bummer. You could have helped me open this bottle of wine. Don't even ask about the cork.

2005-04-10T20:48:00.000-05:00

My oldest sister Danny and her crazy gorgeous daughter Killian went "op bezoek" last week, to Bergen, Norway, where my youngest sister Katie lives. There she found a wall painted with amazing murals and sent me these photos.

2005-04-10T20:38:00.000-05:00

Bergen

2005-04-10T20:37:00.000-05:00

Bergen

Space Mountain

2005-04-06T00:52:00.000-05:00

Life is like a rollercoaster ride, they say. They are spouting pure bollocks. Sure, the motion on a graph may look the same, but the human response is definitely not. We rejoice and throw our hands up to the sky when we're headed up, not down. OK, we enjoy the view from the top, but not in eager anticipation of speeding towards the next rut. What the hell is so fun about a trip towards depression, boredom, and financial crisis that's so fast it defies gravity? I will agree, though, that you get there a lot faster than you reach that golden summit, with it's whispy, thin air, and unobstructed sunshine. The climb takes a lifetime it seems, every single time. It's hard work. The mechanics of the thing huffing and puffing, click after click. Click. Click. Click.

And then the phone rang. I stopped writing.

Aric had been to a job interview, and I had been expecting the call. He had challenged the truck to the hour's drive, to another corner of Houston, because the money seemed good. The catch, as it turned out, was that the job required him to travel across the country continuously, from hotel to hotel, installing locks in doors. He would make in a day what it takes us a week to scrape together. But he would never ever be home, starting tomorrow, at which time he would be expected in College Station and onwards and upwards from there. We were confused, and I didn't know what to say, besides pointing out the glaringly obvious pros and cons. We mulled it over, and eventually decided he should just come home where we could talk the thing to death, and bury it somewhere like a bone. Back to worrying about the rollercoaster, and whether it had been tuned for the 350 pound guy at the head of the line. My perspective has been from far below the valley for months. People don't look like ants from here, nor do they look like midgets. They don't look like short people or even regular ones. I've been surrounded by giants and I'm wondering if I should tie their shoelaces while I'm here.

And then the phone rang. I stopped thinking.

"I took the job," he said. That propelled me to the top like a rocket. It was so much like the man I missed. So little like the man trodden under foot by giants. The future was totally unsure in one moment, and it felt unbelievably good. I had to catch my breath. He doesn't want to be without us, he told me, so after this first job John-Malachy and I will be going with him, if all obstacles can be overcome. And the obstacles are big and small, but I'm over the moon, so I plan on sailing right over the top of them. When we found out I was pregnant with John-Malachy (long before he had his name, which is another story) we were less than a week away from heading to California in our little trailer, with no work waiting patiently for our arrival. Now we get to try again, in style, and go faster and further, tackling mountainous landscapes, three to a wagon, until WE decide the ride is over.

Check out the new link!

2005-04-01T00:03:00.000-06:00

I added a new link in the sidebar, and everyone needs to check it out right now. Jordi's one of my younger sisters, and she's studying photography in Austin. She's unbelievably talented, as it turns out (we didn't know!), and designed and built the site herself also. She hasn't entirely finished yet (two more galleries to upload, and more video) but that just means you get to go back another time to see some more. I am really proud of her, not only for the work, but for sticking to her guns in the face of much opposition. She's the middle kid, and will be the first one to actually make it through college and get a degree. There is a photograph of Jordi as a flower girl from when we were little, and in it she's all smiles, oblivious to the fact that one of her eyes is sort of turning around sideways towards the inside of her head. It must have been a freak shot, because normally she's not even cross-eyed, but I think some of us were convinced her eyesight was forever doomed. We were wrong, because look at what that crazy eye can do and see.

My Oven is Electric

2005-03-29T21:40:00.000-06:00

The jammy bastard's left his lights on
At two cents a minute
That's my breakfast

I lunch on bean burritos while he watches Big Macs
Saunter by in pairs

Just blink, asshole, and save me a dime
For down-payment on your dinner

Keep buying steaks on credit
And we'll end up disconnected

We Can't All Be Missionaries To Africa

2005-03-26T23:05:00.000-06:00

Babies should drop down to Earth
With a piece of white paper pinned to their bellies.
On that paper should be scrawled
Their ultimate purpose in life
"Policeman"
"Plumber"
"Painter of abstracts in oils and acrylics"
Over here
We're sick of not knowing which road to take
What to leave behind and what to press
And dry-clean for the journey
Will it be pants or shorts weather?
I'm considering investing in a cravat and sensible shoes
So that I'll be equipped for old age
Eccentric or otherwise.

It's infuriating

2005-03-22T16:44:00.000-06:00

to move, and have the DSL company COMPLETELY screw up your transfer order FOUR TIMES. And what makes it worse is leaving people with some awful photograph of yourself as your legacy. I am physically alive, but still have no internet, which I suppose makes me cyber dead. My kid keeps screaming. THESE TOYS ARE NOT ENOUGH, AND THIS ROOM IS NOT THE RIGHT ONE. I can't type on this crappy qwerty keyboard, since it's been Dvorak at my house since the invention of the mainframe. I've missed so much good reading, and it's going to take the rest of my life to catch up, but Jaysus Mary and Joseph I swear I'll do it. If they ever hook up my internet correctly that is. Typing this has taken me damn near close to an hour.

2005-02-28T22:36:00.000-06:00

Riding Bitch

2005-02-27T00:59:00.000-06:00

Shorties

she's sticking with the lady in the miner's hat who tickled her legs

2005-02-25T00:02:00.000-06:00

Tonight my sister Jordi told me about her first visit to the gynecologist's office. All you ladies out there, if you remember this experience, you can imagine that she was feeling pretty tense and probably a little uncomfortable. If you don't remember, you've simply blocked it out of your mind. It was an upscale place, she told me. The kind with nice furniture in the waiting room and good magazines. Probably no photo-copied signs about canceling appointments taped to the sliding glass window either. She meets her doctor and can't help but notice the massive crucifix she's wearing, over her clothes. This made me think of the nun in "Oz," but apparently she wasn't that cool. They start the small-talk, and the doctor asks Jordi which school she's attending, to which she replies "St. Ed's." "Oh, fantastic, so you're Catholic," says she. Well, Jordi's definitely not Catholic, even if she once was, before she had a choice in the matter. So she answers honestly, which doesn't seem to leave a great impression with the doc, who dives into Jordi's chart.
"I see you're here for birth control," says the doctor.
"Yes," says Jordi, all business I would imagine.
"But, it says here you're not married."

The examination is underway. As Jordi tells it, the doctor has all kinds of tools up her "hooha" and is performing a breast exam, when she goes,
"So, have you or any of your friends seen 'The Passion of The Christ' yet?"
"..... Uhmm, no..."
"You are going to be tested for STDs today, aren't you?"
"..... Uhmm, no....."
" You do realize you're not married, right?"

As the prescription is written, and being handed over, it stalls in the pass. Jordi's holding it, and the doctor won't let go. "You really should see 'The Passion of The Christ.' It's a gem. And after you do, you won't need these anymore. Just stop taking them whenever you're ready." Transaction complete. "You can have this filled at the pharmacy at your school. Oh no, not your school."

Hindsight

2005-02-19T11:11:00.000-06:00

When you're watching your back
Your blindspot ranges
300 degrees
And all you can see
Is the tension
Build
From fertile field to concrete foundation
The skyscrapers just keep coming,
Each shoulder blade a high-rise now
Business parks establish themselves
in the muscles
Your vertebrae are gravestones.
With time they shift
And settle into barren
rock hard landscapes
But you never see that coming.

Happy Times?

2005-02-18T20:30:00.000-06:00

First thing Monday morning my computer was whisked out the door, right before my very eyes. As I was not about to run naked and groggy out the door after it, I was totally helpless. It has been sitting on a dusty shelf in an over-sized computer fixer place all week. Until now. What happened was that, several weeks ago, we had a problem that we now know is called "The Blue Screen of Death." Our main harddrive has been inaccessible ever since, which means the last three months of our lives are trapped inside the confines of its metals, screaming at me in my dreams to be released. Sadly, the computer fixer guys couldn't fix her either. I'd had enough, and ordered Aric to bring my baby home.
The worst part about it is that, while the computer was gone, I felt like I had so many things to talk about. Interesting posts, you know? Now that it's back, nada. Well, that's not entirely true, because there is a short piece my mind has been mulling over, but it's not yet ready. And with all the catching up I have to do (do you realize that five days in the blog world feels like five months in real-life time?) it's probably not going to be finished tonight. I guess that all depends on how deep this one bottle of Merlot really is and where it takes me.

I Have Links!

2005-02-12T01:29:00.000-06:00

Thank you, Veda, for showing me how. I am evolving out of primate state little tiny step by little tiny step. And man does it feel good for my amoeba self to flick my slimy tail from side to side.

Till Death Do Us Part/Simon Says

2005-02-10T11:34:00.000-06:00

Stand up straight
And spread your legs,
Put your arms at your sides,
Now raise them to shoulder height.
Look.
You're a star.
I reached for you from darkness.

Stay where you are
And bring your legs back together,
That's right, so your ankles touch.
See what you are now?
You're a cross.
I'll bear you 'till the end.

Fuck Anything Halo Related Right Now!!!!

2005-02-08T22:37:00.000-06:00

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

I installed Haloscan to avoid that whole thing where non-Blogger users can only comment as Anonymous, and because I was really bored while Aric played Halo2. It was really simple and all, but what they didn't tell me was that ALL MY OLD COMMENTS WOULD BE LOST. This totally blows massive chunks, because some of those comments happened to be a great source of hope for me, and just generally made me feel that there can be some point to life outside the walls of my apartment, where my thoughts just seem to be bouncing off the walls back at me most of the time, and I really don't care that this sentence is way too long. Now I am more pissed off than imaginable, and there is no way to fix this. My great day, thanks ironically to some very encouraging comments, is now shot to Hell, and why does shit like this always have to happen eventually anyway? Sorry I lost your comments. I'm very sad now.

Update: I was able to copy and paste all comments still in my inbox, so things are looking that little bit better now. Thank God I'm too lazy to organize my e-mails.

Tame

2005-02-08T01:16:00.000-06:00

Yesterday we fought
And made up

You tried to quiet me for both

Hotblooded Hotheaded

My tangled hair in your watch strap
And the stinging swell
That reminds me of
Adolescence
Riding horses bareback
Fast through long grass
Sweeping my heels,

And catching my breath,

And second-hand bicycles
With metal frames so cold in winter
Losing my breath in puffs
To frigid air and a hot saddle

Today we cruise
Into late afternoon

Inside out

2005-02-03T15:40:00.000-06:00

Mother tell me please,
What makes a man?

Should he have big muscles
And a beard
Like my Daddy?

Is it the dirt under his nails
And his big hairy hands?

If he pees standing up
And scratches himself sitting down
Do I know?

If he can pin me to the floor
Should I love him?

The House Inside My House

2005-01-27T16:13:00.000-06:00

Tidying up John-Malachy's play area today, I found two odd socks, a spoon on the floor under the coffee table, and one in the Duplo box. He loves spoons more than anything, except for the food that came on them. Getting around to The Toy, my arms filled with various sized plush and plastic mini toys, I realized I had forgotten to turn her on this morning. When I remember to I like to switch her off after he goes to bed, so that we don't end up in a "the batteries have run out" crisis. And these are those big mothers. The kind you go especially to Wal-Mart for. Only the rich buy batteries this size at the grocery store. When it hit me that he had been playing all morning and The Toy had been out of commission, I was terrified. What if he had been opening her big plastic door, and lifting her window, and dropping balls down her drainpipe, and she never spoke to him? I pictured a confused and disapointed little boy, pleading with me to explain this, and my complete lack of comprehension. (I didn't understand you, John-Malachy, when you were telling me "maaammmaa, she won't sing! maammmaaaa, I want Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Please, mamma, make her do it now" so if I told you were a Great Boy, and were you going for a walk, I'm sorry.) And what if now he would never play with her again, because she let him down, the bitch, and I would have to replace the entertainment she provided. I don't think I could handle it. She's inexhaustable. Except for the battery issue.

Camouflage

2005-01-15T14:13:00.000-06:00

Battle calls me
Yellow

From top to bottom
With patches of Blue

But they're new
So they're fresh and they're bold
And they're crisp and
Green

They have lost upon appearance
But are not yet aware
Of their
Retreat

Fall back into Yellow

2005-01-15T10:54:00.000-06:00

Sweet moments

2005-01-10T15:05:00.000-06:00

Four moods in Four Minutes

Instinctually Trapped

2005-01-10T13:44:00.000-06:00

Light sparkles across his scales
Refracted by the glass
As he turns the bend continuously
And continuously

Everything comes around

I once saw a shadow boxer in the dark
Do the same,
Spine bent

Until he accepted
And rested

And never moved again