Glitter Girl's Ghost

can't rain all the time

2010-04-04T19:49:00.000-07:00

The frogs are happy. There is one small spot of pink in the mess of climbing roses that I can see from my bedroom door. The world is grey. I remember a time when the world was grey all the time. I liked it. Ignorance being bliss. I miss bliss. Not a shred of innocence left in me. My insides have been spoiled. I can feel the rot from the inside slowly spreading throughout my body with every pump of my heart. At least it's beating. Little victories. Small wonders. Just enough to keep plugging on. It's better when I don't slow down. Don't look around too much. Too many details are just distraction. I forget my purpose. I miss it. That is all. Missing. The smell of salt. The ocean. How one feels so small when standing next to the ocean. Ears full of the roar of something older than all this superficial bullshit. Wiser, too. So much time wasted missing out on what it feels like to be comfortable in this skin, without apology for being, with pride. So much time wasted looking for something "out there" when the answer has always been so close. It was inside all the time. So close as to be invisible. Lurking in a blind spot. Silent. Watching. Waiting. Hoping.

social bar beating, a mother's reaction.

2010-03-13T09:53:00.000-08:00

This story really bothered me yesterday...

Talk about entitlement. How is it that a man thinks he is entitled to another human being? Because that's what it is, right? She didn't give him what he thought he was due so he taught her a lesson. I wonder if he felt like a bigger man after he broke her face and left her lying unconscious on the bathroom floor. Was it his first time doing this? Will it be his last?

Why does this story bug me so much? I have two little girls. Sometimes it feels like I'm raising them in a war zone. How do I avoid this paranoid feeling? I have to not read the news too much. I will not watch televised news at all. I pick and choose and read what people forward to me. As a mother I literally can't take in every child that goes missing, every child that is abused, the scenes of destruction and violence that certain children have to witness or be a part of. What's more, the female targeted crimes, they just hit closer to home, being a woman and having to raise woman. It's tiring. And it's not just the kidnapped and/or raped/molested children. It's the stories of the women made to be victims because there is no human decency or respect. The stalked, the raped, the harassed. A man takes over a school at gun point and chooses only the girls to hold hostage and execute. A man fights with a woman at her place of work and goes so far as to kill her and himself in the elevator. A man places a Craigslist post for a rape fantasy to get even with an ex girlfriend. A man takes a young woman from the sidewalk/the bus stop/her driveway/the schoolyard/her bedroom and keeps her locked up for years doing with her what he will. I'm not even going to bring up the sexual slavery, Juarez or places in Mississippi where many black women go missing and no one cares.

So what do I do? I have to make my girls feel safe and secure but at the same time aware enough to defend themselves. I want them to have a good childhood as long as possible; loss of innocence happens fast enough in our society as it is. So I do the worrying where they can't hear or see, after they go to sleep, when they aren't with me. Having children is like ripping out a small, warm, vital part of you from deep inside and letting it loose on the world, naked and fragile. It's amazing how you feel when your children are threatened. I never cared about someone outside myself until they came along. There is a fierceness inside me now, thanks to them. They make me want to keep fighting. If I was on my own I would consider the option of giving up. With no responsibilities it's easier to check out. One can look at the world and feel so overwhelmed and just be okay with saying, "fuck it."

Can you believe the Dalai Lama is twittering? His last two tweets have been one my mind.

The first is this, "Love and kindness are the very basis of society. If we lose these feelings, society will face tremendous difficulties." Pretty self explanatory, right? Sounds simple enough. Riiight...

The second, "To meet the challenge of this century, human beings will have to develop a greater sense of universal responsibility." Now this one sounds a little more tricky to me.

Universal responsibility. WTF? The majority of people cant even take responsibility for themselves. They are so busy telling other people what they can or cannot do all the while neglecting their own responsibilities. Imagine a world where everyone focused on making themselves better and leaving the word a better place than when they found it. What a concept! In this day and age it seems more peopele are more concerned with being he with the most toys. Does no one think of the butterfly anymore? We are all connected. Any seemingly insignificant little event changes the picture as a whole. Is everyone here so very near sighted that they are incapable of seeing past themselves?

I'm beating a dead horse here.

Go out and practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty.

old school hard

2010-03-12T19:32:00.000-08:00

She writes another letter anyway. Against her better judgement.

She hopes it's simple. The letter. She thinks of the word "minimalist" and is surprised by the wave of resentment that floods over her. She hates him. No, she usually hates him. That would be the usual response for these kind of circumstances, right? The usual, the knee jerk reflex. She thinks of how many times they have done this, this dance, this back and forth exchange. She realizes she has lost count and there is something shameful in that. It's almost pathetic. If she hadn't believed for so long that it was something beautiful and rare and twisted and romantic maybe she wouldn't feel so stupid.

california dreaming

2010-02-20T20:41:00.000-08:00

I had this dream once.

I was struck by lightening. I thought it was a fairy. The little ball of light. I was standing out back of my parents old house. The one I grew up in. I saw it out in the horizon while I was thinking of him. Always him. Always scanning the horizon as if he would come back. So I made a wish. I thought the little fairy was there to grant me my wish. For a split second I believed it would come true because everything felt prickly, like static. I heard a noise like sizzling. I smelled death and my insides positively boiled. I came. I tried to scream, I knew my body wouldn't be able to hold it all. I imploded.

I woke up tangled in soaked sheets, the scream a cold stone in my mouth.

Since then I can't tell where the dream ends and reality begins.

time time time

2010-02-18T09:44:00.001-08:00

I really need to blog more. My excuse is time. Not having enough of it.
Than I loose track of it. I miss it. I kick myself for not paying closer attention to it.
He would have been 71 years old today.
I still miss him. I still look for him in all the familiar places. I can even smell him if I close my eyes...
Time is a lot heavier than she looks....

My Secret Garden Gnome

2010-01-26T21:05:00.000-08:00

Tending to the flowers
I found a little man.
He was sitting on a mushroom
Soaking up a tan.
So I crept a little closer
To get a better look.
I thought he wouldn’t see me,
His nose was in a book.
Suddenly he turned his grinning face
To give me a smile and a wink!
“Hey there sweet lady,
I like the smell of your pink.”
Then he laughed
A most creepy little sound
And when I looked down
My hands and feet were bound.
“It took you long enough to find me.
I’ve been waiting quite a while.
You’re lips have that sweet pout,
You’re hips a wicked style.
I’ve come to take you away from here
To a place you’ve only dreamt.
I heard your calls over hill and dale,
Your wishes have been spent.
Your desire I will care for,
Your hopes and fears put to rest.
Don’t take offense to how I look,
As far as lovers go I’m the best!”
There was a sound like bells
And the next thing I knew,
Either I got smaller
Or he grew.
He flung me over his shoulder
And trudged on through the grass.
He laughed his creepy laugh
As he patted my ass.
He took me to his little home
In the trunk of a gnarled old tree.
He cooked us a sweet dinner
And let my hands and feet free.
The funny thing was
I no longer wanted to run.
I was giddy on his honey.
I was having fun.
I thanked him for his hospitality
Then begged him for more
Because as far as lovers went
This little man was not a bore.
He knew exactly what I needed,
He knew every secret place,
He knew the tricks to make me scream,
He drove my heart to race.
But when I woke up,
He was no more.
I was left alone and ravished,
Another common whore.

For Choice

2010-01-23T14:28:00.000-08:00

I had no time to sit and blog yesterday... life happened... as it does for a mother of two young children. But I didn't forget the significance of the day... I thought about it every time I was in the car driving between destinations throughout the day.

Yesterday, was the anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision and in commemoration NARAL Pro-Choice America posed a theme for Blog for Choice Day that honors murdered provider Dr. George Tiller, who reportedly often wore a button that simply read, “Trust Women."

What does "Trust Women" mean to me?

In my mind it's a given. I'm a woman. I believe I'm trustworthy enough to make my own decisions in my own life. I trust other women to make their own decisions in their own lives. Why? Because it's none of my business - my only business is my own. How hard a concept is that? I'm not going to judge another woman because they have more or less than myself. I don't know her story and she owes no one the telling of it. It really doesn't matter if I think they aren't making the best choice because who the hell am I to make that call for someone else - shit, I'm lucky if I can make my own good choices. But I take the responsibility. I'm certainly not going to impose my beliefs on someone else because my way is the right way. Aren't all children taught to not bully, not force themselves, their desires, their beliefs in any way on another, to allow people to make their own choices because we wouldn't want someone forcing us into something we didn't want to do? Isn't this basic stuff? I mean, this is the stuff I'm basically trying to teach my children. Someone doesn't want to play with you? That's their choice, you walk away without hurtful words, manipulations or fisticuffs. Someone doesn't believe in Santa? Walk away - don't argue, you can't fight stupid or faith. Someone doesn't want a hug? Walk away, you don't have the right to impose yourself, good intentions or not. Consent. Respect. The good choice.

Trust women. Trust the individual woman to make her own choices for the individual situation. She owes no one a justification. It's her right as a human being.

This post put it best: this bitch isn't asking.

Trust women.

indigo

2010-01-18T20:00:00.000-08:00

XM's station "The Coffee House" plays a lot of Indigo Girls. I mean, A LOT... it seems like I hear them once every forty minutes or less. I'm not complaining. I love them. I miss them. Every time I hear them I feel a kick to the gut. They remind me of a more idyllic time in my life when the horizon was more limitless than it is now. Now, that same horizon looks more like the finish line. Ah youth...

Morbid.

I know, in theory, that I should be more upbeat. I have a pretty good life. I mean, I'm no where near "well off" but I'm no where near destitute either. I have plenty to be grateful for and happy about. I am grateful. I am happy about it. Maybe I'm just not one of those celebritory people, the ones that see life as a big party. I see those people and I admit I feel pretty jealous. They are all about the "count your blessings" or "celebrate something every day." They never complain. I mean, like, never. To complain or sound slightly negative would be admitting weakness and no way, no how are they going to do that. That would screw with their mojo, they would loose an edge, slip...

How do they do that? What's the secret? Surround yourself with other like-minded bubble wrapped people who wear those expensive rose colored glasses that breath in rainbows and shit gold? I mean, wow. Jealous.

Me? I'm not emo like I was in high school. I wish I could say I'm not angry anymore because I have to admit I have flare ups. I read just enough news to get really pissed off at least once a day. How do I celebrate feeling helpless when I see suffering? How do I count my blessings when I see so much bigotry? Don't even let me get started on how frustrating religion and mysogny make me every day. Every. Damn. Day.

Sometimes I think I would never have gotten here if I hadn't had daughters. If I was just trying to take care of me in this crazy world maybe I could have been fearless enough to bounce around in my own little bubble without a care in the world for anyone or anything. Now I've screwed myself by taking on this thing called "motherhood." Now I'm tied to the earth, grounded. Now I find I'm fighting more for different things, things that are of consequence, things that matter and for a very good reason: love.

Someday I hope to find nirvana... right now I'd settle for eventual contentness. Until then I will fight the good fight.

the scream

2010-01-16T23:18:00.000-08:00

This one is different... in response to some writing prompt about using so many words from your first sentence in the next, and the next, and the one after that until a story unfolds for itself. I had this dream years ago when I found myself on my own for the first time and coping with being a girl in this glittering world....

The scream came from all over, enveloping, surrounding, amplifying, throbbing its unyielding note from the base of my spine out through my fingertips and toes, shaking up my insides, stirring up all the hidden things so that all I could do was hang on to him for dear life before realizing the spread of heat beneath me, pouring out from inside me, was not me, but him. He too, unyielding, his fingers grasping, digging into the flesh of my hips as if holding on would staunch the flow, his eyes staring at me unbelieving, the heat beneath us spreading, surrounding, all encompassing. Neither one of us able to grasp what was happening, the screaming, the heat, the sticky wetness pouring out from inside of me onto his skin, into his lap, overflowing, unyielding, spreading beneath us, the once white bed sheets awash in a crimson tide. In horror I realize too late something has become unhinged, something has been broken, something long hidden inside has woken, it too, unyielding and without mercy. I struggle to push away as it is his turn to hold on to me for dear life, his scream yet unbroken, the sound past enveloping, now bordering on something unhinged. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stops, no sound save the ringing in my ears, my whole body shaking, outside and in, as his hold is loosened and I fall back. I push backwards, pressing my back against the headboard, my hands and legs slick with blood, a scream lodged in my throat as I see the gaping hole between his legs, his life unstaunched, flowing freely, his weapon of choice disarmed, the sound of teeth snapping behind nether lips, my scream unhinged, released from my mouth.

Moontime

2010-01-16T23:14:00.000-08:00

This is what happens when I'm forced to write on the worse day of my period...

The night is so cold and still she considers going back, but going back would kill the dramatic effect of her point, her point being that she is the master of her fate, that she knows best how to lead her own life, that she is not the weak, stupid child everyone insists on treating her as, that she is a grown woman, a woman capable of using her wits and in possession of the courage to carry out whatever is needed when it is needed. Clarissa is a woman with a mission, although whether the object of said mission is to prove to her parents or to herself that she is who she thinks she is, is yet unclear to her.
Walk. Do not turn back now, she tells herself. She has no specific destination besides out. When her parents asked her where she was going her refusal to answer was more out of not having anywhere to go than simply to infuriate. They told her not to go. Not on a night like this. Her mother had said the full moon would curb most. Most, but not her. She had to prove she was made of more grit than the rest of them. She had to prove she wasn’t a little girl any longer.
Being young and bold, it did not cross her mind to grab her red hooded jacket hung near the door on her way out, nor did it not cross her mind that her moon time was in synch with the swollen moon in the sky.

It did, however, cross his mind, in fact, it did more than simply cross his mind, it sent his mind into a spin. Her smell alone drove him, the smell of fear and blood. Luck or fate had led him to be in just the right place at just the right time. His ears picked up when he heard the slam of a door and the steady beat of her quick footsteps on concrete as she walked into the night alone. He ducked behind an Oleander bush as she passed, so close he could feel the heat of her rage; see the flush of it on her exposed skin. The smell of her blood was intoxicating. She was just what he sought tonight; prey.
He would have her and it would be soon. This find was too good to be true, too good to let go. Her smell was so strong and sweet and the pain in his gut so strong, his desire could not be ignored, let alone denied. This was the way the world worked, the natural cycle of life, predator and prey. Fairy tales give a false sense of security to little girls weaned on them, for in the tales it is possible for a girl to win over the big bad wolf, but this was no fairy tale.
He followed her on silent feet. The way her hips moved only fueled his desire. Twice she stopped to listen and look behind her and both times he was quicker, darting into the shadows, patiently waiting for his time to strike. He did not want to be interrupted with this one. He needed her to take him some place special, some place hidden and quiet, a place no one would hear her scream and if they did no one would care to help.
He caught up to her in a dead end alley way, between two large, crumbling, brick buildings. The night held still, there were no sounds except the sound of their breathing, hers fast and furious while his kept even and slow. The only light came from the moon itself, high in the night sky. He shook with anticipation of this moment. It had been so long since he enjoyed something this sweet. Seeing the flush on her throat began a frenzy from which there was no return.
She faced him, her back against the wall, no tears, no words. Most girls would be begging for mercy by now, the sight of him usually bringing at least tears to their eyes. But this one, not so much as a quivering lip. It was no matter to him. The only thing that mattered was the smell of her blood overwhelming him in her trapped space. His senses all but left him as he focused on the pulse at her neck. No, he would not be able to take his time with her after all. This time he had no choice; rational thought had left him completely.
He leapt.
There was a flurry of movement, flesh and blood, a sudden flash of something hard and silver and sharp. He was right about one thing, it was quick. So quick, that he heard the wet sound of a knife slicing through flesh before he could feel his insides spill out onto the cold alley floor. The last thing he saw, her standing over him, watching him bleed, a flick of her dainty wrist and the blade was gone.

No one was near to witness what went down in that lone, dark alley, save the moon herself. No one was witness to just the kind of grit Clarissa was made of. It was just as well. A girl has to keep her own tricks up her sleeve.

Agreed

2010-01-16T23:12:00.000-08:00

This is my response to an assignment entitled: Interior Landscape of Your Characters: The Power of “Seemed” and “Probably.”

The day starts out with a perfectly overcast sky. He is sipping his second cup of black coffee by the time he notices the autumn colors of the trees on the gray of the sky are excuse enough to get his camera and get outside. He is finishing his third cup by the time he decides that sort of effort would be too much for him in his current state of mind.

He is thinking about his fourth cup of coffee when he notices the pile of papers and envelopes strewn on the countertop. A brown envelope sticks out from within the pile and his skin prickles. From where he stands he can see his last name on the address and he knows the handwriting in an instant. He would know that handwriting anywhere.

He stands for a moment longer, probably for dramatic effect or because he suddenly thinks maybe he doesn’t really want what he has asked for. He doesn’t know the exact contents of the envelope yet but he knows it contains what he has asked her for because she said she would send it. He asked for it. She agreed.

He puts down his empty coffee cup before reaching for the envelope. The rest of the mail just falls away. A few even spill to the floor but he doesn’t notice. He notices the stiffness of the brown paper in his hands. He notices how light the envelope feels. He notices how his heart beats a little faster whenever he sees her handwriting, especially when she writes his name.

He tears open the envelope and finds two smaller, pink envelopes inside. They smell of lavender. They smell of her. His nose begins to tingle the way it does before emotion overcomes him. He rips open the pink envelope labeled, “What you asked for,” and finds a steel navel ring with a moon charm hanging from it. His eyes begin to burn. He rips open the one labeled, “What I want to leave you with,” and finds a silver thimble. He feels the sting, not just in his eyes that are spilling over but on the inside where it counts.

This is how I ease my own sting. He asked for it. I agreed.

Merriam-Webster Online Defines...

2010-01-16T23:09:00.000-08:00

... defines the word gravity as:

1 a: dignity or sobriety of bearing b: importance, significance; especially : seriousness c: a serious situation or problem2: weight3 a (1): the gravitational attraction of the mass of the earth, the moon, or a planet for bodies at or near its surface (2): a fundamental physical force that is responsible for interactions which occur because of mass between particles, between aggregations of matter (as stars and planets), and between particles (as photons) and aggregations of matter, that is 10-39 times the strength of the strong force, and that extends over infinite distances but is dominant over macroscopic distances especially between aggregations of matter —called also gravitation, gravitational force — compare electromagnetism 2a, strong force, weak force b: acceleration of gravity c: specific gravity

Fuck.

That's a lot to tackle for one girl.

And wouldn't it be egocentric for said girl to believe that she were the only one to suffer? As if she were the only moon circling his planet? Stupidly romantic. Another stubborn sucker. Another victim of the brainwash known as Disney. Everyone knows real fairy tales don't end happily ever after. The best a girl can hope for is a high tower all to herself as opposed to the harsh reality of Bluebeard's castle.

So... dignity or sobriety of bearing. She thinks she likes that. She likes it like she likes the sound of "unbearable lightness of being." She's a sucker for the pretty things no matter what lies beneath the surface. Fearless, careless, stupid or a fair share of it all.

It's still too heavy.

Which would account for the seriousness and weight part. And she wonders how long can someone last under all that weight? Years, apparently. And she tries to count them... the years... the moments... and she can't seem to remember the last time he laughed without that hollow sound... and she's sad again.

But what really floors her at those moments when the whole world has gone to bed and she's left all alone with her thoughts and wild imagination is this specific part of the definition:

a fundamental physical force that is responsible for interactions which occur because of mass between particles, between aggregations of matter (as stars and planets), and between particles (as photons) and aggregations of matter, that is 10-39 times the strength of the strong force, and that extends over infinite distances but is dominant over macroscopic distances especially between aggregations of matter —called also gravitation, gravitational force.

...and she can still hear him tell her that everything in between is not just so much unfinished business... that it's more than just a fairy tale... that their story is a rare story... he used the word clandestine... and she fell in love.

An Aquatic Lullaby

2010-01-16T22:51:00.000-08:00

“I can’t,” I say.

Carrick smiles, undaunted as ever.

“You won’t,” he says.

I will myself not to look away. Looking away from Carrick’s gaze would be admitting weakness and I refuse to give him anything more to use against me. The sun’s reflection dances on the water of the bay like a million tiny pixies at dawn, but that is only periphery. The focus of my reality is the blue-green depths of Carrick’s eyes. A girl could drown in those depths with bliss in her heart and a smile on her face.

“You don’t understand, Carrick, I can’t go with you today or any day,” I say.

“I understand perfectly. You think your responsibilities in this world are excuse enough to sacrifice your happiness. It’s okay to be selfish. You always take care of everyone else; let me take care of you for a change,” he says.

“You aren’t listening to me,” I say.

“Hear me out,” he says interrupting me, “It doesn’t have to be forever. I’m not asking for forever, I wouldn’t put you in that position. I wouldn’t ask that of you, to give anything up, you’ve given so much. I want to be the one to give you something back. All I’m asking for is one whole day, a day and a night. Give it a chance. Give me a chance. Give me a twenty-four hour leap of faith. At the end of said time I will return you to this very spot. No expectations. You have my word,” he says, giving his vow with a small yet noble lowering of his head.

As tempting as Carrick is, it isn’t that simple, not for me. He has nothing to lose. I have everything. Anything is possible to someone who has no one or nothing to anchor them down. That’s not who I am anymore. Carrick is oblivious of this. He refuses to see me as I am now. To him I will forever be the sweetheart I was when we were but children. In his eyes I am unchanged, just what he needs me to be, when he needs me to be it.

“You were right the first time, I won’t,” I say.

Carrick is in a good mood today, nothing I can say seems to deter him. He glides nearer and reaches out but I pull my legs up tight until my chin rests on my knees and I wrap my arms around my legs as if to shield myself better. If the water from his hand touches my skin I know it will be over. I will be pulled down into the watery abyss that is Carrick’s love. There is no coming back from something like that a second time. I was lucky once. I won’t wager what I worked so hard for on something I know will break everything about me. I can’t. It’s not about me anymore. My gesture does not go unnoticed. I can see the groove between Carrick’s eyebrows deepen as he lowers his hand beneath the water. He arches his back and floats with his face turned to the sun.

“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, Morgana,” he says still floating, “Allow yourself this one small thing. Come with me. Trust me. Forget all this for one whole day and I will remind you where you come from, who you were, who you still can be. Then I will bring you back, as promised, my word is yours. What’s mine is yours, forever,” he says.

I have to close my eyes. The motion of the water that surrounds Carrick is making me seasick. What he is offering is what I came here looking for, what I always seek when I come here looking for him: respite. A short time away from my life to be someone else for a while. I hear absence makes the heart grow fonder. It makes one appreciate what they have better. People do it all the time. Vacations. Mini-escapes. A reprieve. My need for this runs so dark and deep, it aches.

His voice is closer now. I keep my eyes closed. I try to straighten my shoulders. I know how he reads every gesture. I know he can see me weakening, he must or he wouldn’t be running his hand up my leg right now. My knees have turned to water.

“Will you come?” he asks.

I want to. I really want to. The liquefying sensation is wriggling its way from my knees up my thighs and it takes everything I have to visualize and focus my sheer force of will holding every molecule that is me together.

“No,” I say.

My eyes are wide open when I answer him. I realize I have kicked him away but I can see it’s the sting of my single word, red on his face, that hurts him more. He has pulled back his hand as if he touched something painful. His eyes blink. I want to go to him, soothe him, but I don’t.

“I see you aren’t used to not getting what you want,” I say a little too coldly. I can’t take it back now.

“Oh, Princess, you know best just how often I don’t get what I want,” he says.

It’s my turn to blink. Apparently his words can sting as well as my own.

I have nothing more to say.

Carrick continues, “Have you not been the object of my affections for an eternity, Morgana? No impossibility has defused my love for you. You run, I will find you. You go so far as to change your appearance, but I can still see you. I would know you anywhere. You can’t disappear; you can’t blend in with the likes of lesser creatures. What have you left to test the boundaries of my loyalty for you? It has always been you.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

The groove between Carrick’s eyebrows has returned deeper than before. The skies seem to have darkened some. How long have we been the only ones on the beach? This is what happens when you spend time with Carrick, things get lost, time gets wasted, so too can a girl, lost and wasted.

“I don’t want your apologies,” Carrick says.

“No, what you want is something I can no longer give. You had your chance. You made your choices. I’ve made my own. I’m not going back now. Too many things have happened in the between, things I would not change for this world or any other. I have no regrets. I wish sometimes that I could have the best of both worlds but everyone knows how that story ends,” I say.

“How?” he asks.

“You know perfectly well,” I say.

“Do I? Who says?” Carrick asks.

I throw my hands up in frustration.

“I mean it,” Carrick continues with new found enthusiasm, “Who’s to say what is right and what is wrong? Who are we giving power to? I have no care of what anyone thinks, save you, of course. So you tell me. How does the story end? I really want to know. Tell me, Morgana, how does our story end?”

He smiles at me, taunting and playful and full of defiant love. It is the smile he reserves for me alone. In the presence of Carrick I feel as though I am the only desirable girl in the world.

Sometimes that is a lonely place.

“Don’t,” I say.

He persists.

“If I can’t have the heroine of the fairy tale, can I at least have the tale?” he asks.

The silver watch on my wrist glints with the reflection of the setting sun on its abalone face. Time enough for one short story. I can’t send him away empty handed. I owe him that much. It will be the last one. I don’t really need to come here to him anymore; it’s just an old habit. This will be the last time. If I give a little of what he wants now he can leave satisfied. We can leave on good terms. No more fighting. No bad feelings. I will let him swim in my story for a small time and he will leave happy, my Peter Pan.

“Once upon a time,” I begin.

I can hear the water of the bay lapping up against the rock we occupy; it laps to the rhythm of my words. Carrick lies half in and half out of the water, the flat of his belly on the rock below me, his tail end floating just below sight.

As I spin my tale of an everyday girl with enchanted glass slippers and no feet, I can see my own spell taking hold of him, softening him. By the time I get to the part where the sea witch is taking the girl’s voice as payment for wishes granted, Carrick’s hold on me softens as well. In the story I can tell him what he wants to hear, tales of impossible love overcoming impossible obstacles, the hero getting the girl, the mermaid returning to the sea. He will only hear what he chooses to hear anyway.

When I get to the end I’ll leave out the bits of sorrow and pain; he has no use of those things where he lives. It is beyond him to understand that there are some things even bigger than the sea.

Ever After

2010-01-16T22:43:00.000-08:00

Something makes me hesitate before stepping into the shade of the crumbling stone bridge looming above me. I have been through worse things than a little darkness but I’m not feeling reassured. The sunlight on the other side of the bridge beckons me. It is so bright I can almost see beyond; almost imagine a bright future in which there is just me and the dark haired, dark eyed little girl of my dreams.

“Now is not the time for dreaming, Ever,” I say aloud.

Not yet. Now is the time for the crossing under dark bridges. Focus. It isn’t a very large or impressive bridge but more of the small, unimpressively forgotten type. It’s not the bridge that makes my skin crawl, it’s what lies beneath. I can’t see anything in the darkness of the long shadow stretched across the ground under the bridge, but I can feel it. There is something palpable about it; I can feel it like a pulse.

It is from this dark space I notice tendrils of smoke curling skyward. The smoke smells sweet, like the smoke from Mr. Kaori’s pipe. The familiar smell is comforting; enough to reassure me that the end is near. Mr. Kaori never went back on his word. He promised this would be the last. If I completed this mission I could leave this job and this life. He would let me go. No expectations, no questions asked, no pleading for me to reconsider. I would be free to write the rest of my story on my own.

A breeze lifts the hair off my shoulders and I discern the thick smell of gardenias. I think of the gardenias Mr. Kaori brought with him when he offered me the one thing he knew well I wanted but could never ask of him.

“Steal my heart, earn your freedom,” Mr. Kaori said.

“This will be the very last?” I asked.

“The very last,” he said.

I looked at him hard, as if looking hard enough would allow me to read his mind, his intentions. He did not look away. Mr. Kaori was not a man to waste words and so said nothing more. I refused to offer anything myself.

“I accept,” I say.

“My driver will take you to a wood not far from here. He will not accompany you inside. He will drop you off at the same place he will pick you up when you signal you have been successful,” he said.

“What if I’m not successful?” I asked.

“I have no doubts in your abilities, Ever” he said.

“What if I do?” I asked.

“Then you and the mission will be lost,” he said.

He told me his heart was kept locked in a wooden box in the hands of an old woman who lived in the old wood. He gave me a map, a yellowed parchment that appeared to have been burned at one edge. The red “x” marked the bridge I was to find that would provide a key to the box as well as further instructions. No other details were provided because no one had ever visited these woods and returned.

I shiver uncontrollably as I peer into the shadow of the bridge.

There is no other available option. There is only one path available and it leads directly under this bridge. I take a step into the shadows where it smells of dead things, old things, long forgotten things. I try not to breathe too deeply.

“Scrumtralescent,” a male voice says from the dark.

I can feel the hairs at the back of my neck quiver. My body goes rigid. I want to scream. A slow intake of breath at my side; it feels as if whatever lurks here has been hungry for a long time.

“I’m sorry?” I ask.

“Don’t be sorry, my dearest. Scrumtralescent is a good thing. It’s a compliment, freely given, of course. I don’t give many of those,” he says.

“I suppose I should thank you,” I say.

“Not necessary. A true gift is given without expectation. I think it horrible that people always do things to get things, even if it’s just gratitude. Besides. It’s pure selfishness on my part. The pleasure is mine. I feel I should be thanking you. I haven’t smelled anyone so good in a very long time,” he said.

I turn toward the voice but can only make out the vague shape of a man. His voice has a timelessness about it that it is impossible to tell how old he may be. I can smell him, he smells like death itself. There is evidence of life under the bridge, despite the smell. Bits if discarded candy wrappers, beer bottles, and used condoms litter the floor. There is a lonely feeling to these bits of life and I feel vulnerable.

Another intake of breath, deeper and closer. I could touch him but the thought makes my skin crawl. He’s so close I can feel him shudder. He laughs. He walks around me and his laugh comes from everywhere. I’m dizzy. Just before I think my legs are going to give he presses against me from behind. My skin wants to get away from his touch so much that it positively wriggles in his embrace. A pale, dirty hand reaches around me to rest like dry branches against the flat of my belly. I struggle and it happens quickly - the feel of dry lips against the pulse of my neck. It takes everything I have to pull out of his grasp. I turn to face him, my arms wrapped protectively around my middle. I step back.

I can see him smile; his perfect white teeth appear like a Chesire cat before me. My eyes have adjusted enough to see his hair, long and dirty, with bits of dead leaves stuck in the matted parts. He smells of things that lie beneath graveyards.

“I know what you seek,” he says.

“How?” I ask.

“I can smell everything. I can smell him, too, on you and in you. Father. Lover. Friend. Talk about putting all your eggs in one basket. You really should get out more,” he says.

“Why don’t we skip the gracious, albeit unsolicited advice, and get right to the heart of the matter. What do I need to do?” I ask.

“Don’t insult me. You’re a smart girl, Ever. You know well what I want,” he says.

“I need to hear you say it so there is no confusion,” I say.

“Very well. I want the innocence you carry inside you. Give me what I seek and I will give you what you truly want. My price is your bane,” he says.

He holds out his opened hand. In the center of his dirty palm shimmers a silver key.

So it comes to this. It feels like every job I have ever done has led me here. Of course it would have to be my choice, my sacrifice. My freedom is so close now, complete freedom to live my life on my terms. I would no longer be defined by what I did, my job. I could redefine myself, be someone else. A second chance. Everyone deserved a second chance.

I open my hands, palms up at my sides.

“Give me permission to take it,” he whispers like a lover would an endearment.

“I give you my permission,” I say and I close my eyes.

He takes my hand and pulls me to him. If he smells like the depths of a graveyard, he tastes worse. His mouth closes over mine. I smell the sweet of his pipe over something else, something dank. I feel his other hand at the back of my neck as he kisses me. He invades me so deeply I gag. I struggle at first but then focus what will I have left into yielding and I go somewhere in my head free of pain and doubt. When he releases me I fall to my knees and sob. I have never before felt so empty.

I am alone. The only evidence of his being here is the silver key he has left in my hand. My blood stains it from where I dug my fingernails in my flesh so hard that I have broken the skin.

Time passes, I can’t be sure how long exactly. I pull myself up and walk away, putting the bridge behind me. It feels as though years have been ripped away from me while I lingered in the bridge’s shadow. The sunlight is gone now. Night has fallen.

I’ve come too far now. There is a flickering light up ahead. I follow it to its source, a small clearing in the woods, at its center a campfire. Sitting before the fire is the old woman and in her hands is the box.

She doesn’t look surprised to see me and watches me as I near her. I stop before her and we appraise each other over the fire for a moment, long enough for me to see myself in her. She bids me closer, a seat next to her, and I take it.

“I won’t hurt you, my dear,” she pats my knee; “We are sisters, you and I. I will give you what you seek as you have more than earned it, but first, you have something of mine.”

I open my fist that I have kept pressed against my belly. Blood stained, the key still manages to gleam in the firelight. My throat feels full all of a sudden, I want to vomit. I gag, feeling something move up my throat and into my mouth. I open my lips as my own heart slides out into my hands. Before I can make sense of what is happening her gnarled hand closes over the mess in my hands and she drops the box in my lap. A toothless smile cracks the surface of her face.

“Did you have any idea what the price would be?” she asks.

I try to remember the face of the dark haired little girl in my dreams, but like dreams have a way of doing; it has already begun to dissipate. It’s not like I had known for very long, surely not enough time to get used to the idea.

“No.” I say.

The old woman’s toothless smile spreads further.

“I wish you only the best, sister,” she says.

The old woman leans into me and kisses me on the mouth. I stumble back to my feet. I watch in horror as she pops my heart into her mouth and swallows. A smudge of blood, my blood, stains the inside corner of her mouth. She stands with an unusual spryness and disappears into the woods. I sit and stare into the fire until morning.

I return to Mr. Kaori. The object of my mission obtained. I meet him in his sand garden. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back, making no move to take the box I offer. We regard each other for a moment that seems too long.

“You are free now to choose where your life takes you, on your terms alone,” he says.

I hear the “alone” part a little louder than the rest. The word echoes, becomes too big, but I’ve come way too far now.

He watches me. I can feel the expectation thick in the air between us. It grows thicker as he turns his back to me. It only takes me a moment to deliberate before I leave an empty box at his feet.

2009-08-30T23:19:00.000-07:00

No one had seen her in a month of Sundays; the last anyone had heard she was waiting tables in the dessert somewhere in the middle of nowhere with nothing and nobody; without a return address; under some made up name like Annie. I don’t believe she would be so obvious taking a plain orphan name like Annie Nobody to live a life of waiting in the desert for nothing in particular. She was more than nothing; she had somewhere to be, something to do - she was somebody. It could not have been easy for her, starting over, changing her name, being somebody else, and forgetting where she came from for nothing, for noody and I envy no one else more.

no apologies

2009-08-20T08:59:00.000-07:00

I think I may step this up a bit and actually just write. Use the space. Millions of other people have no problem letting go of the fear of exposure... vulnerability. Here I open myself up just enough. I am thinking of not keeping a secret journal anymore. Those things are misunderstood. Secret things are automatically considered sinister... at the very least naughty. I admit I've been to both frequently enough but I won't write about it in secret anymore. I want to be a sort of open book. I don't want to fear exposure. I don't care if I even make much sense. The fact is my fingers are moving. The words are forming and flowing through. An exercise in letting go. When I really start going I almost feel like I'm flying. A tingle happens between my shoulder blades and it almost feels as if something wants to sprout there. Wings. Freedom. I won't apologize for being who I am anymore. As I get older I find I care less and less of what other people think of me. I don't have a need to impress like I used to. I don't need to belong to a group. I have my own. It has found me. If I am comfortable and proud of who I am they will come and if they find comfort then they can stay. I will no longer allow myself to be food for the vampires who need too much. I give and am open. I am also honest. I no longer have the time to play games. I really hate games. I've wasted too much youth on games. I want reality. That's what's sexy. That's what turns me on. Truth. Being here now and just being in the moment. Feeling it. That does not mean I'm too serious. I like fun as much as the next girl but I want to laugh with my whole being. Joy. Such a simple word for something so big. So I'm not opposed to fun. Playing. Having little girls has showed me how important play is. A sense of humor. I learned that working in hospitals, too. Life is so short. Forgetting so long. Neruda. I've lost touch with poetry. It won't happen again. I found Anias Nin again and I was happy. I forgot the girl in me that used to spend hours just reading Nin... the beginnings of understanding my darker side as a young girl. It used to be so important. Now... I think it's just I've found a comfort in it. A balance. I'm accepting who I've become and who I am becoming. I don't want to waste anymore. Waste pollutes. I want to be clean. Well... as clean as a typical sinner can be anyway. It's not a purity thing. It's a clear thing. A clear conscience. The act of being responsible. Accountable. And be proud of it. Be able to hold my head up. No apologies.

top five things i hate about you you you you you

2009-06-07T18:46:00.000-07:00

5.) The way you smell.

It's primal. When you get close to me.... when you orbit my moon... your scent invades my space and I am yours. There is a physical reaction I have to you. It starts with the shakes. And if I'm not careful it ends in little deaths.

4.) The way you touch me.

It's electric. I don't even have to see you to know it's you. If I lost my sense of smell I would know your touch at the point of contact. The way you walk up quietly behind me and your hand hovers over the back of my neck and hesitates for only a moment, before extending yourself to me. Your skin on mine for as long as you can stand it before retreating into yourself again. A blue light. A crackle. The hair on the back of my neck stands erect and dances. A sharp intake of breathe. No matter how much I want you to stay you always run away leaving electrical scars on my skin.

3.) The things you say.

How you tell me it has always been and always will be me. How you try to make me feel as though I'm the reason for your misery with your witty interjections. It's like Love in the Time of Cholera... only with a lot of Wuthering Heights thrown in... just for spice. The drunken phone calls... emails... text messages... pictures... so many ways to assault the system nowadays. To get under someones skin. To let them know just how much you are on their mind. The whispers of a lover are like small hits of your favorite poison. Before you know it you're addicted. Just another junkie.

2.) The way you always leave.

I don't like to be needy. I don't need anyone. Despite that. In spite of myself... it begins slowly... unnoticed... insidious... Before I know it. Before I recognize it. I expect it. I crave it. And before I know it. I have forgotten what I knew all along. Trapped. Fallen. Prey. I am cut open at your feet. And you leave. Again.

1.) The way you always come back.

When I'm whole. When I've regained my strength and know who I am again. When I have forgotten the pain. And the blood. And the tears. When my laugh comes easier than breathing. There you are. Again. Expecting nothing. Knowing how hard it is to say no. Go. Stay away. Surely. Slowly. Unnoticed. Insidious. Bastard.

Top Five Things I Hate About Me:

5.) you
4.) you
3.) you
2.) you
1.) you

"... even though i met you only recently, i find myself falling in love with you, i don't know quite how to put this decently, but what's the chance that you can love me too? , who who who who who, has made my dreams come true? and turned my gray sky blue, why its you you you you you..."
-The 6ths

a wicked good thing: books by girls

2009-06-05T00:07:00.000-07:00

I'm part of this book club focusing on women writers. A few months ago we read and reviewed Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein." And since I'm too tired to rant on about what's bothering me now I'll share my book review here:

I read Frankenstein for the first time when I was about 19 years old (yes, a long, long time ago) during the beginning of my “female self discovery” period. I was just starting out on my own - naive and stupid at 19 years old - and here was this girl who wrote this legendary story that continues to inspire on so many levels - and she was all of 18 years old!

I loved this book the first time I read it so I was excited that it was the first book of the club. I ran to my bookshelf and was pissed to find I had lost it somewhere along the years. So I made a trip to my local Border’s to pick up another copy because I had to fill the hole in my shelf. (I’m a greedy little bitch when it comes to my bookshelf.)

I have to say I was irritated that I could not find it in the Literature section because they keep it in Horror section. ::IRRITATED:: Sure it’s a story of a horrific deed and its horrific consequences but it is so much more. (Don’t get me wrong, I can fully appreciate a good horror story as well.)

I have always been attracted to myth and the fact that Frankenstein’s subtitle is “The Modern Prometheus” made it that much more attractive to me when I first picked it up. The idea of rejecting authority, of denouncing a cruel and neglectful god was appealing to a 19 year old girl who was escaping her parents rule for the first time and openly rejecting the family religion. At that point in my life I couldn't figure out why I was supposed to worship this fucked up God that didn’t seem very loving or nice. (I was “brought up” Catholic) Why should the monster have acted any differently when he was treated so cruelly by his maker? I had no sympathy for the whiny doctor and identified with “the monster” that didn't even have a proper name. His struggles for love and acceptance in a crazy world broke my heart.

Today, as an older woman who has experienced breeding first hand, I still think the doctor is a self-centered, not to mention whiny, dick. One of my “irritations” in life is irresponsibility. Kinda like that dick doc that impregnated that crazy Octo-Mom – yeah, it’s like that. I enjoyed the fact that a young woman came up with a cautionary tale about the power of creation and the responsibility it demands in a way that both men and women of all ages can understand. It’s interesting that when she wrote the story she had already lost a child. There is something about having held a life inside you only to birth a stillborn that instills a deep sense of failure, guilt and anxiety. I felt those vibes a lot more on this second reading – as I have admitted, I am a breeder (as opposed to that 19 year old girl I used to be) and after experiencing the resentment and terror that comes with motherhood, your view changes like you wouldn’t believe. Not that, as a woman alone, you can’t imagine or empathize – nothing so insulting. It’s just that you can’t imagine crazy until you’ve visited. Feeling that sort of creation you are responsible for growing inside you can make a girl whacked for the rest of her life. Maybe that is why I enjoyed the recurring use of the birth and abortion motifs. Is it fair to say that only a woman could write so clearly of such things?

repo! the genetic opera... and why am I doing this again?

2009-06-01T19:33:00.000-07:00

I have made a deal of sorts with a friend. Apparently I agreed to give movie reviews of the stuff I actually take time out of my busy mommy schedule to see. So here goes a trial run...

Repo! The Genetic Opera

Okay. I freely admit to why I wasted my time on this movie: I have an Anthony Stewart Head fetish. I have a severe crush on Rupurt Giles. Especially when he sings.... and when he does those flirty little Taster's Choice commercials. Yum - my.

Words cannot describe...

wait... no, that's not entirely true... the words "awesome" and "terrible" sort of jump out at the same time when I try to explain it.

The idea of the first horror-sci fi-rock opera sounds a bit appealing. I enjoyed the Shakespearean-tragedy-meets -Phantom-of-the-Opera-on-acid-with-a-little-Saw-thrown-in-for-the-fun-of-it thing. It's one of those almost cult midnight movie deals - good but not great. Some details ruined it... one stain in particular being Paris Hilton who managed to suck so bad she couldn't even pull off a part seemingly made for her. The music and singing as a whole was alright. But then I could just be setting the bar of comparison a little too high from watching the Buffy Musical so much lately.

The highlights were these:

1.) Anthony Stewart Head as the Repo Man. Seeing and hearing "The Ripper" like this was astounding. The stuff dirty dreams are made of.

2.) That little girl from Spy Kids can belt it out pretty well.

3.) Sarah Brightman as Blind Meg - outstanding and terrifyingly beautiful with the voice of a mermaid.

See it if you like anchovies - it's an acquired taste.

what dreams may come

2009-05-25T20:10:00.000-07:00

I've always had dreams in which a house takes center stage. It's like it becomes its own character in my dreams. A house, some sort of structure to call home. I'm usually looking for something and it always feels as thought I have been there before. Maybe I'm just tidying up my mind as I sleep, going through room after room up there and coming up short.

Last night was no exception.

Another house. I recognized it as my home but in the waking world I know it's no house I've ever really been in. Not that I can recall anyway. The people in it were familiar. It almost felt like a school inside. I kept running into people from my old school days while I was trying to find my room. And then, as dreams do, the world switched up on me. I was in a hotel that felt like a home - like I had been there many times before. I was known there. It was so big it even had it's own mall attached to it. The staircase itself in the main lobby rivaled any southern mansion. But he hallways scared me. The doors all looked exactly the same save for the small golden numbers in them. Some doors were open, some were locked, none were mine. I kept finding people I knew but I wasn't bunking with them. I knew I had to have a single room of my own, farthest away from the mall and the crowd. I had to do something in that elusive room. Something important. Then I was drawn into one room... and was distracted by the glow coming form inside. And there he was again... not him exactly for his body was absent... but his presence... it was there. It was all over the room. I knew him. I knew him well, intimately even, though while I was going through his things and taking in his smell I couldn't see his face clearly. I just knew I was here once, with him.

And that's the kicker.

I wonder if I will always dream about him. In the waking world I know perfectly well who it is in that room. And I don't know him as well as I used to. Maybe it's a lot harder to say good bye than I thought. How long does it take to get someone out of your soul? Does it happen? Am I going about it all wrong? It was wong in the first place. Is this just guilt? Are we all as simple as that? Or would that be the blessing?