Don McQuixote OR Celtic at its worst
by Jill C.
I really do tilt at windmills. Often. Usually with National Geographic in my hand. While listening to Celtic folk music. The windmills are directly linked to the bagpipe solos. They grow taller and more ferocious as the music swells faster and faster and louder and louder. My feet leave the ground. My heels meet in midair. My arms and magazine flap. The coffee cup is luckily stationary on the table, for if it was in my hand as well, the contents would surely be flung across the room. The cat gives me one bewildered look, then leaves the scene. He is certainly embarrassed to see me like this.
I dance like a drunk old man. Proudly. Alone. The truth is that I'm not any better than that. My days of contemporary willow swaying ended at age thirteen. I have never mastered ballroom in the slightest. I have not the skill to honor Celtic Woman through anything but meditation and sleeping on an airplane. High Kings deserve a crowd of hundreds on a cobblestone street breaking into a spontaneous, yet perfectly choreographed folk dance involving many changes of partners and spins-without-stepping-on-feet.
And then there are the Humors of Piping. And they are meant to be just that: Humors. Fun and joy and heartfelt dance without rules. Tilting at windmills is just fine. Improvisation is such a part of folk music. The true folk music that is played with friends for fun, not for an audience. The kind where mistakes make the music more perfect. The kind where coffee is spilled on the cover of National Geographic, and it's not a tragedy, but a joyous memory. The kind where old men kick up their heels in pubs. They may be drunk on ale, but they are also drunk on music, happiness, experience, love...
The crusade for a healthy and modern world is trying to pull this image out of being, like a tablecloth from under a feast. Celtic at its worst, that must be replaced by beautiful women singing Billy Joel songs in perfect harmony. But Don McQuixote is pure joy. Tilting at windmills brings a smile to my lips. Even when I fall on my arse, I'm still laughing in the end.
*****************************************************
16 December, 2010
04 December, 2010
Confessions 1: Polar Espresso
Polar Espresso: Confessions of a hypoglycemic, body image concerned coffee addict
By Jill C.
Flying Star is Heaven on Earth. Not just because it's called 'Flying Star', which makes it seem celestial in every sense, but because of what is inside. Coffee. Not just coffee. Real coffee. Rich, dark, steaming coffee which is strong, but not overwhelming. The mere aroma is enough to send me to bliss and back again. Real coffee, a full wall of magazines, and a roaring fire. Heaven.
Decaf. About 96% as tasty as full caffeine. It brings up more clear condensation around the inner ring of the mug. The decanter is orange instead of beautiful espresso brown, as if to scream, "THIS IDIOT IS DRINKING DECAF!!!" But I do drink decaf. And I'm not an elderly person with plastic rimmed glasses and trembling fingers that have never seen a computer keyboard. No, hypoglycemia is the reason. Chronic low blood sugar. And the adrenal glands activated by caffeine cause a surge of insulin that sap my strength even more. But decaf isn't quite enough. It still contains the caffeine of a glass of iced tea. And the solution to that? Eat something caloric.
Now there's an enigma if I've ever seen one. Don't eat sweets, they make you crash. Don't eat things high in fat, they don't digest well. Don't eat empty carbs, they're just like sugar. No chips, no cereal, no candy, no potatoes, no...cheesecake? You should eat something like cheesecake with coffee because it counteracts the adrenaline...A balance of fat and sugar with protein. Exactly what the 'Prevention' magazine on the table beside me advises against. Unless it's made from the recipe in 'The Biggest Loser Dessert Cookbook' where cottage cheese and agave syrup are used, and the deluxe New York cheesecake at the Flying Star certainly isn't, then I have a pretty good idea of how many grams of fat are in a single serving. And that beautiful multi grain bagel...is cardboard without the cream cheese...that the barista applies to the bread WITH A ICE CREAM SCOOP! That amount of fat in one sitting is hands down unhealthy, no matter who is eating it.
But, it's okay every once in a while, isn't it? Well, sure. But not when it's lined up next to last night's Chinese take out swimming in oil, the fully hydrogenated cool whip in the fridge, the deliciously buttery cookies on the kitchen counter... Christmas kills me. I can't think about this anymore. I need a cup of coffee.
***********************************************************
Hi all--
It's been a rough few weeks since the last post; sorry for the huge delay. This is the first in a new series, confessions. I'm taking things from my life, exaggerating them a little, and writing character sketches. Think 'Confessions of a Shopaholic' style.
By Jill C.
Flying Star is Heaven on Earth. Not just because it's called 'Flying Star', which makes it seem celestial in every sense, but because of what is inside. Coffee. Not just coffee. Real coffee. Rich, dark, steaming coffee which is strong, but not overwhelming. The mere aroma is enough to send me to bliss and back again. Real coffee, a full wall of magazines, and a roaring fire. Heaven.
Decaf. About 96% as tasty as full caffeine. It brings up more clear condensation around the inner ring of the mug. The decanter is orange instead of beautiful espresso brown, as if to scream, "THIS IDIOT IS DRINKING DECAF!!!" But I do drink decaf. And I'm not an elderly person with plastic rimmed glasses and trembling fingers that have never seen a computer keyboard. No, hypoglycemia is the reason. Chronic low blood sugar. And the adrenal glands activated by caffeine cause a surge of insulin that sap my strength even more. But decaf isn't quite enough. It still contains the caffeine of a glass of iced tea. And the solution to that? Eat something caloric.
Now there's an enigma if I've ever seen one. Don't eat sweets, they make you crash. Don't eat things high in fat, they don't digest well. Don't eat empty carbs, they're just like sugar. No chips, no cereal, no candy, no potatoes, no...cheesecake? You should eat something like cheesecake with coffee because it counteracts the adrenaline...A balance of fat and sugar with protein. Exactly what the 'Prevention' magazine on the table beside me advises against. Unless it's made from the recipe in 'The Biggest Loser Dessert Cookbook' where cottage cheese and agave syrup are used, and the deluxe New York cheesecake at the Flying Star certainly isn't, then I have a pretty good idea of how many grams of fat are in a single serving. And that beautiful multi grain bagel...is cardboard without the cream cheese...that the barista applies to the bread WITH A ICE CREAM SCOOP! That amount of fat in one sitting is hands down unhealthy, no matter who is eating it.
But, it's okay every once in a while, isn't it? Well, sure. But not when it's lined up next to last night's Chinese take out swimming in oil, the fully hydrogenated cool whip in the fridge, the deliciously buttery cookies on the kitchen counter... Christmas kills me. I can't think about this anymore. I need a cup of coffee.
***********************************************************
Hi all--
It's been a rough few weeks since the last post; sorry for the huge delay. This is the first in a new series, confessions. I'm taking things from my life, exaggerating them a little, and writing character sketches. Think 'Confessions of a Shopaholic' style.
27 October, 2010
Spectrum
Spectrum
by Jill C.
Class has just started. Teacher closes the door and walks toward the front of the classroom. Shoes make soft squeaks on the dirty/cracked-yet-polished linoleum. Greyish brown linoleum with greyish brown flecks. So no one can really see the dirt until a paper or pen is dropped and comes back up covered in grainy dust.
Teacher closes the door and walks to the front of the classroom. Red converse tennis shoes squeaking across the floor. Red converse tennis shoes that are supposed to be fun, like "I know you; I empathize with you." Red converse tennis shoes that I want to look at instead of your face.
Walks to the front of the classroom. Uncaps the green marker. It smells like a green marker. I know it's a green marker because it smells like a green marker, not because I'm looking because I'm looking at your SHOES, which are RED, and red and green don't go because they mean CHRISTMAS, and it can't be Christmas because right now it's OCTOBER.
The marker squeaks like your shoes. But it can't be like your shoes because they're RED and the marker is GREEN and it's OCTOBER. You're writing. You're writing the lesson to which no one will pay attention. It's about grammar. I know how to use proper grammar already. THEY don't. THEY are going to text on their phones during class. When THEY text, THEY don't use proper grammar. THEY press numbers and letters and abbreviate words that can't technically be abbreviated. When THEY text, each key THEY press makes a different click, and all I hear all class is clickclickclickclickclick because I'm not paying attention to the lesson. I should be paying attention to the lesson, because then I'd be the only one paying attention to the lesson, because sure as hell THEY're not paying attention to the lesson.
Am I bad that I'm not paying attention and THEY're not paying attention because that makes me like THEM and THEY're bad? If a=b and b=c then a=c NO that's MATH, this is ENGLISH. But I'm not paying attention to ENGLISH because I already know ENGLISH. I already know math too. I know everything. I know everything, and THEY don't know anything. I don't know how to text, but that doesn't count as anything because it's stupid and they're stupid and its all stupidstupidstupidstupid and AGAINST THE RULES for class, so NO ONE should be doing it anyway.
I want to go home. You sitting next to me, you smell like eggs which makes me want to puke, for which the proper medical term is emesis. I want to go home. I want to leave. I want to grab your phone and throw it against the wall. I want to yell out your name and tell you that you're BREAKING THE RULES, but my doing that would be breaking the other rules, but that's NOT COOL because I should be able to do whatever I want, especially when it comes to enforcing the first rules and keeping my environment free from scum like you that should be scooped up in a pool net and thrown over the wall into the ditch to dry up and be eaten by birds.
I finally look up at the board and the green marker, then back to the red shoes. GRAMMAR, it says. I already know how to use proper grammar. Birds should eat the scum like you after it is scooped up in a pool net and thrown over the wall into the ditch. Gotta keep that passive voice in check.
*******************************************
by Jill C.
Class has just started. Teacher closes the door and walks toward the front of the classroom. Shoes make soft squeaks on the dirty/cracked-yet-polished linoleum. Greyish brown linoleum with greyish brown flecks. So no one can really see the dirt until a paper or pen is dropped and comes back up covered in grainy dust.
Teacher closes the door and walks to the front of the classroom. Red converse tennis shoes squeaking across the floor. Red converse tennis shoes that are supposed to be fun, like "I know you; I empathize with you." Red converse tennis shoes that I want to look at instead of your face.
Walks to the front of the classroom. Uncaps the green marker. It smells like a green marker. I know it's a green marker because it smells like a green marker, not because I'm looking because I'm looking at your SHOES, which are RED, and red and green don't go because they mean CHRISTMAS, and it can't be Christmas because right now it's OCTOBER.
The marker squeaks like your shoes. But it can't be like your shoes because they're RED and the marker is GREEN and it's OCTOBER. You're writing. You're writing the lesson to which no one will pay attention. It's about grammar. I know how to use proper grammar already. THEY don't. THEY are going to text on their phones during class. When THEY text, THEY don't use proper grammar. THEY press numbers and letters and abbreviate words that can't technically be abbreviated. When THEY text, each key THEY press makes a different click, and all I hear all class is clickclickclickclickclick because I'm not paying attention to the lesson. I should be paying attention to the lesson, because then I'd be the only one paying attention to the lesson, because sure as hell THEY're not paying attention to the lesson.
Am I bad that I'm not paying attention and THEY're not paying attention because that makes me like THEM and THEY're bad? If a=b and b=c then a=c NO that's MATH, this is ENGLISH. But I'm not paying attention to ENGLISH because I already know ENGLISH. I already know math too. I know everything. I know everything, and THEY don't know anything. I don't know how to text, but that doesn't count as anything because it's stupid and they're stupid and its all stupidstupidstupidstupid and AGAINST THE RULES for class, so NO ONE should be doing it anyway.
I want to go home. You sitting next to me, you smell like eggs which makes me want to puke, for which the proper medical term is emesis. I want to go home. I want to leave. I want to grab your phone and throw it against the wall. I want to yell out your name and tell you that you're BREAKING THE RULES, but my doing that would be breaking the other rules, but that's NOT COOL because I should be able to do whatever I want, especially when it comes to enforcing the first rules and keeping my environment free from scum like you that should be scooped up in a pool net and thrown over the wall into the ditch to dry up and be eaten by birds.
I finally look up at the board and the green marker, then back to the red shoes. GRAMMAR, it says. I already know how to use proper grammar. Birds should eat the scum like you after it is scooped up in a pool net and thrown over the wall into the ditch. Gotta keep that passive voice in check.
*******************************************
03 October, 2010
Did You Know? (A special one for Balloon Fiesta)
You've all probably eaten or at least seen a loaf of wonder bread. The thin slices of white bread are so polluted with preservatives and white sugar that you may as well have been eating pop tarts on either side of your turkey and cheese. What is so remarkable about this spongy stuff that it is called "wonder"?
The answer lies in the packaging. Large dots in primary colors overlap slightly to decorate the white plastic un-biodegradable bag. Not too remarkable, eh? Hold that design next to the one for Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta: now do you see some similarities?
The story goes something like this: A man invented a new kind of bread. He didn't have a name for it yet. One day, he saw a cluster of hot air balloons in the sky, and he was filled with wonder at the beauty and strangeness of the experience. He knew at once that he had found a name for his bread.
It may sound bizarre, but it is true. In my opinion, though, it's more of a wonder that people continue to buy and eat such a horrible excuse for bread...
The answer lies in the packaging. Large dots in primary colors overlap slightly to decorate the white plastic un-biodegradable bag. Not too remarkable, eh? Hold that design next to the one for Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta: now do you see some similarities?
The story goes something like this: A man invented a new kind of bread. He didn't have a name for it yet. One day, he saw a cluster of hot air balloons in the sky, and he was filled with wonder at the beauty and strangeness of the experience. He knew at once that he had found a name for his bread.
It may sound bizarre, but it is true. In my opinion, though, it's more of a wonder that people continue to buy and eat such a horrible excuse for bread...
14 September, 2010
This is a college essay? Seriously?
Tell about a personal habit. That was the prompt. Here's my answer...
When I press the button for the pedestrian crossing signal on a busy street, I always press it multiple times. Once just isn't enough. If I press it only once, I don't think the circuit within the metal pole will recognize that a 5'3"girl wants to cross the street. Two is a good number, however the machine still forgets that I am there, and it needs to be pressed a third time. Sometimes a fourth is necessary, especially if another person wants to cross the street, and I can tell that he is mentally debating whether to push the button or just assume that I already have. In that case, it is best if I press the button again. If I need to press the button a fifth time, then I worry that I have overloaded the circuit and the pedestrian crossing signal will never flash. What if I broke it by pressing it too many times? Does that mean that there will be a gaggle of men in orange vests tearing up the street tomorrow morning to fix the damage that I have done? Will there be an awful traffic jam that will make me late for school? Will I just stand here for years and years and never make it across the street, never graduate from college, just turn into a little old lady crumpled with age clinging to a metal button that won't make the signal light up? Will I die there, on the corner of University and Martin Luther King? Because I stupidly pushed the button one time too many? Will I-- no, the light just changed. That moonbeam of a man is prancing beneath the traffic signal across the street from where I stand. I take a deep breath, walk across the street, and continue on my way. With my day, with my life.
When I press the button for the pedestrian crossing signal on a busy street, I always press it multiple times. Once just isn't enough. If I press it only once, I don't think the circuit within the metal pole will recognize that a 5'3"girl wants to cross the street. Two is a good number, however the machine still forgets that I am there, and it needs to be pressed a third time. Sometimes a fourth is necessary, especially if another person wants to cross the street, and I can tell that he is mentally debating whether to push the button or just assume that I already have. In that case, it is best if I press the button again. If I need to press the button a fifth time, then I worry that I have overloaded the circuit and the pedestrian crossing signal will never flash. What if I broke it by pressing it too many times? Does that mean that there will be a gaggle of men in orange vests tearing up the street tomorrow morning to fix the damage that I have done? Will there be an awful traffic jam that will make me late for school? Will I just stand here for years and years and never make it across the street, never graduate from college, just turn into a little old lady crumpled with age clinging to a metal button that won't make the signal light up? Will I die there, on the corner of University and Martin Luther King? Because I stupidly pushed the button one time too many? Will I-- no, the light just changed. That moonbeam of a man is prancing beneath the traffic signal across the street from where I stand. I take a deep breath, walk across the street, and continue on my way. With my day, with my life.
06 September, 2010
Barefoot down Central Avenue
WARNING: do not attempt to go barefoot down central ave. It's very dangerous for your feet.
Barefoot down Central Avenue
by Jill C.
Stuck to a lamp post:
Hello My Name Is (indistinguishable gang sign)
Lost Dog, $50 reward
The Death Book of My Life--on sale now
Help Wanted: University Bookstore
if anyone has time to pay attention as they walk down Central Avenue,
there is a lot of reading material available to the open mind
The hungry mind
aching for Latin
Sociology
Engineering
McDonald's
Ravishing young women...
Laden with book bags
laptops
briefcases
stolen shopping carts
filled with a bedroll
a boom box
Look straight ahead
walk with a purpose
wear nondescript clothes
get in the car immediately
then lock the doors
Don't talk to strangers
or run out in traffic
or give money to the drunk man on the corner
It's like walking barefoot down Central Avenue
A stupid vulnerability
staples and broken glass attacking soft pads of flesh
A high price for the freedom of naked feet
But everyone feels the pain sometimes
Kick ourselves for stupidity
Bring the wrong portfolio on the day it's due
And learn
Sometimes we all walk barefoot down Central Avenue
but when we do, we have time to read the lamp posts
****************************************************
Yes, I have been walking downtown much more often than usual.
You know the signs that say "no shirt, no shoes, no service"? Does that mean that no pants is okay?
Barefoot down Central Avenue
by Jill C.
Stuck to a lamp post:
Hello My Name Is (indistinguishable gang sign)
Lost Dog, $50 reward
The Death Book of My Life--on sale now
Help Wanted: University Bookstore
if anyone has time to pay attention as they walk down Central Avenue,
there is a lot of reading material available to the open mind
The hungry mind
aching for Latin
Sociology
Engineering
McDonald's
Ravishing young women...
Laden with book bags
laptops
briefcases
stolen shopping carts
filled with a bedroll
a boom box
Look straight ahead
walk with a purpose
wear nondescript clothes
get in the car immediately
then lock the doors
Don't talk to strangers
or run out in traffic
or give money to the drunk man on the corner
It's like walking barefoot down Central Avenue
A stupid vulnerability
staples and broken glass attacking soft pads of flesh
A high price for the freedom of naked feet
But everyone feels the pain sometimes
Kick ourselves for stupidity
Bring the wrong portfolio on the day it's due
And learn
Sometimes we all walk barefoot down Central Avenue
but when we do, we have time to read the lamp posts
****************************************************
Yes, I have been walking downtown much more often than usual.
You know the signs that say "no shirt, no shoes, no service"? Does that mean that no pants is okay?
19 August, 2010
Anita Rose, Part III
I know, finally!
Anita Rose, part III
by Jill C.
My throat is sore, and I would like to go back to sleep. But no, I have to sit on a hard folding chair and stare around the circle of girls, waiting for someone to say something. That someone will not be me.
My throat hurts with every breath and swallow. I can still feel the feeding tube taped to my cheek and forced into my nasal cavity before snaking down my throat. I can still feel it, even though it got taken out yesterday. They made my throat hurt, and now they want me to eat. And talk.
I sit curled on the plasticky fake leather of the chair beside my bed. The tape on my cheek has left an angry red mark, and I push my face hard into the cool upholstery. I want it to make the redness go away, but I know that it will only make it worse.
Tennis shoes are tapping down the hall outside my room. Quick, purposeful taps of lithe, fit nurses, not the measured sounds, usually accompanied by humming, that meant that Momma Betty was making her way down the hall. I want to be home. Not here. Anywhere but here.
Someone knocks on the door. "Anita," a muffled female voice says before the door is pushed open.
"Anita," the pale brunette nurse says again. I look up at her; she is doubly blurry because of my lack of glasses and the fact that my eyes were recently shoved into my knees. "Time for group, sweetie." She looks around my room, taking in the mess of clothes strewn across the bed. "Did the dresser spit them all back out?" she asks, trying to amuse me. I just shake my head.
She looks at me again, this time seeing that I'm still wearing pajamas. "Come on, let's get dressed," she says. She tosses me a pair of jeans and a soft yellow sweatshirt. She turns away and begins to fold my clothes as I dress. When I finish, she is holding my hairbrush. "Here, let me fix your hair." I take a step toward her, and she immediately repositions herself behind me. She tugs softly on my coarse black curls. A moment later, my hair is neatly gathered in a loose braid down my back. Then she hands me my glasses. This nurse who knows me only as fifteen, female, anorexic has fixed my hair for me. Momma Betty, my foster mother, never did as much.
The nurse leads me down the hall to the sitting room where a few other too-thin girls are gathered on their hard folding chairs. I take my seat and look down at the scraped linoleum floor. I don't want to see them, and I don't want them to see me. I don't want to be involved in this fake family that will dissipate as soon as I'm "cured".
I think back to my own family. Dylan said he would call me, said he would call every day. Nothing. No calls for me. No calls from anyone. Cleavland probably didn't know that I was gone. Rosie probably doesn't either; she was still laying on the kitchen floor when Momma Betty drove me to the hospital. I wonder if anyone really misses me.
Here I get offered ice cream with every meal. I am told that it's okay if I don't want to talk during therapy, that I can draw a picture instead. I get my hair fixed by a strange nurse. But I'm here because I'm bad. And I want to go home.
One of the doctors comes into the sitting room. Everyone sits up a little straighter, waiting to be asked to speak. I slump down further. I would rather go back to bed.
"Good morning," the short haired, blond doctor says. She has a bit of an accent. German, maybe? Or Russian? I like to listen to this doctor talk. She sounds very happy all the time. The muddled "Good morning" echoes back from the other girls, all of them sounding sad and wistful.
A tall, black nurse that looks like a basketball player enters the sitting room. "'Scuse me, doc," she says before looking at me, "Anita, sweetheart? You've got a phone call."
I stand up, knowing that all eyes are on me. I don't want to see it, so I push my glasses up on top of my head. I follow the nurse to a small office where the phone sits on the table next to the receiver. "I'll wait right outside," she says, smiling. Then she shuts me in.
I tentatively reach for the phone. "Hello," I say roughly. My throat is still sore, and I haven't used my voice much in the four days that I've been here.
"'Nita?" It's Dylan. He's finally called.
"Hi, Dylan."
"'Nita, are you okay?" His voice sounds strained. Like he's been crying.
"I'm okay."
"That's good." He sniffs loudly.
"What's up?" I ask, trying to keep my voice from sounding too gravely.
"'Nita," he starts, "'Nita, Rosie... Rosie's dead."
"What?" I gasp, my heart in my painful throat.
Dylan's voice breaks into sobs. "She's dead. The ambulance just took her away and she was dead."
"What happened?" I whisper.
"They said she...she just...didn't breathe. When she was sleeping. She just...stopped breathing...because she's...she's so... And didn't wake up." The last sentence is a wail.
"Who said--" I start, but I can't finish.
"The ambulance people," Dylan answers, "They were here for a long time. And the Social Workers. The police, too. To make sure Momma Betty didn't do it." Sobs fill my ear again.
"Dylan, where are you right now?" I ask, now aware of the full situation.
"At Bob and Kathy's," he says, naming our next door neighbors.
"And Sam and Jared too?"
"Yeah."
"Dylan, I'm gonna be home real soon, okay?"
"Okay. Bye, 'Nita." He hangs up.
I put the phone back on the receiver. Then I bury my face in my hands. I know what had gone unsaid. Sleep apnea had claimed Rosie because of her obesity. Something so easily reversed, yet something that she was powerless to stop. Like me. Just like me.
I push open the office door. The black nurse is gone, the brunette who fixed my hair in her place. "When can I go home?" I ask. It's the first full sentence I've spoken to the people here.
"That's up to you," she says, "Are you going to get better?"
I start to nod, but I change my mind. "Yes," I say, "I am."
**************************************************************
And.......Done! I think I have a bit of an obsession with irony.
Anita Rose, part III
by Jill C.
My throat is sore, and I would like to go back to sleep. But no, I have to sit on a hard folding chair and stare around the circle of girls, waiting for someone to say something. That someone will not be me.
My throat hurts with every breath and swallow. I can still feel the feeding tube taped to my cheek and forced into my nasal cavity before snaking down my throat. I can still feel it, even though it got taken out yesterday. They made my throat hurt, and now they want me to eat. And talk.
I sit curled on the plasticky fake leather of the chair beside my bed. The tape on my cheek has left an angry red mark, and I push my face hard into the cool upholstery. I want it to make the redness go away, but I know that it will only make it worse.
Tennis shoes are tapping down the hall outside my room. Quick, purposeful taps of lithe, fit nurses, not the measured sounds, usually accompanied by humming, that meant that Momma Betty was making her way down the hall. I want to be home. Not here. Anywhere but here.
Someone knocks on the door. "Anita," a muffled female voice says before the door is pushed open.
"Anita," the pale brunette nurse says again. I look up at her; she is doubly blurry because of my lack of glasses and the fact that my eyes were recently shoved into my knees. "Time for group, sweetie." She looks around my room, taking in the mess of clothes strewn across the bed. "Did the dresser spit them all back out?" she asks, trying to amuse me. I just shake my head.
She looks at me again, this time seeing that I'm still wearing pajamas. "Come on, let's get dressed," she says. She tosses me a pair of jeans and a soft yellow sweatshirt. She turns away and begins to fold my clothes as I dress. When I finish, she is holding my hairbrush. "Here, let me fix your hair." I take a step toward her, and she immediately repositions herself behind me. She tugs softly on my coarse black curls. A moment later, my hair is neatly gathered in a loose braid down my back. Then she hands me my glasses. This nurse who knows me only as fifteen, female, anorexic has fixed my hair for me. Momma Betty, my foster mother, never did as much.
The nurse leads me down the hall to the sitting room where a few other too-thin girls are gathered on their hard folding chairs. I take my seat and look down at the scraped linoleum floor. I don't want to see them, and I don't want them to see me. I don't want to be involved in this fake family that will dissipate as soon as I'm "cured".
I think back to my own family. Dylan said he would call me, said he would call every day. Nothing. No calls for me. No calls from anyone. Cleavland probably didn't know that I was gone. Rosie probably doesn't either; she was still laying on the kitchen floor when Momma Betty drove me to the hospital. I wonder if anyone really misses me.
Here I get offered ice cream with every meal. I am told that it's okay if I don't want to talk during therapy, that I can draw a picture instead. I get my hair fixed by a strange nurse. But I'm here because I'm bad. And I want to go home.
One of the doctors comes into the sitting room. Everyone sits up a little straighter, waiting to be asked to speak. I slump down further. I would rather go back to bed.
"Good morning," the short haired, blond doctor says. She has a bit of an accent. German, maybe? Or Russian? I like to listen to this doctor talk. She sounds very happy all the time. The muddled "Good morning" echoes back from the other girls, all of them sounding sad and wistful.
A tall, black nurse that looks like a basketball player enters the sitting room. "'Scuse me, doc," she says before looking at me, "Anita, sweetheart? You've got a phone call."
I stand up, knowing that all eyes are on me. I don't want to see it, so I push my glasses up on top of my head. I follow the nurse to a small office where the phone sits on the table next to the receiver. "I'll wait right outside," she says, smiling. Then she shuts me in.
I tentatively reach for the phone. "Hello," I say roughly. My throat is still sore, and I haven't used my voice much in the four days that I've been here.
"'Nita?" It's Dylan. He's finally called.
"Hi, Dylan."
"'Nita, are you okay?" His voice sounds strained. Like he's been crying.
"I'm okay."
"That's good." He sniffs loudly.
"What's up?" I ask, trying to keep my voice from sounding too gravely.
"'Nita," he starts, "'Nita, Rosie... Rosie's dead."
"What?" I gasp, my heart in my painful throat.
Dylan's voice breaks into sobs. "She's dead. The ambulance just took her away and she was dead."
"What happened?" I whisper.
"They said she...she just...didn't breathe. When she was sleeping. She just...stopped breathing...because she's...she's so... And didn't wake up." The last sentence is a wail.
"Who said--" I start, but I can't finish.
"The ambulance people," Dylan answers, "They were here for a long time. And the Social Workers. The police, too. To make sure Momma Betty didn't do it." Sobs fill my ear again.
"Dylan, where are you right now?" I ask, now aware of the full situation.
"At Bob and Kathy's," he says, naming our next door neighbors.
"And Sam and Jared too?"
"Yeah."
"Dylan, I'm gonna be home real soon, okay?"
"Okay. Bye, 'Nita." He hangs up.
I put the phone back on the receiver. Then I bury my face in my hands. I know what had gone unsaid. Sleep apnea had claimed Rosie because of her obesity. Something so easily reversed, yet something that she was powerless to stop. Like me. Just like me.
I push open the office door. The black nurse is gone, the brunette who fixed my hair in her place. "When can I go home?" I ask. It's the first full sentence I've spoken to the people here.
"That's up to you," she says, "Are you going to get better?"
I start to nod, but I change my mind. "Yes," I say, "I am."
**************************************************************
And.......Done! I think I have a bit of an obsession with irony.
04 August, 2010
Artwork (really?)
I very rarely draw, but I was messing around with gel pens a few days ago and came out with this. Ten bonus points if you can identify the subject. (Athatra, my love, you're disqualified because I already told you). :)02 August, 2010
Anita Rose: Part II
Anita Rose
by Jill C.
I can't sleep. I rarely can sleep. It's been this way all my life. I used to have nightmares about when I lived with my real mother, but they've mostly gone away. I don't think about her hitting me anymore. I think mostly about myself.
I can't sleep. I run the fingers of my right hand down the long scar on my left forearm. I put it there two years ago. I had been grasping for control, of myself, of anything. The pain had been too much; I could never have done it again. My excuse to Momma Betty about shaving the coarse black hair off my arms was only good once as well.
I really can't sleep. I lay flat on my back, the tattered shorts of my pajamas sit on my skeletal hip bones, the waistband stretched taught a full inch from the skin of my stomach. I slide my hand into the gap and pinch just below my navel. Skin stretches up between my fingers easily. Fat. Yuck.
I push myself out of bed and look in the mirror. In the dark and without my glasses, it looks like my pale blue pajamas are floating on their own; my dark tan skin has completely disappeared into the gloom. The image is disconcerting, and the dizziness that came on when I got out of bed suddenly takes hold. I stumble and hold my abdomen, nauseous and seeing stars. God, I'm hungry. I had a few bites of meatloaf at dinner, that should have held me over through the night. Momma Betty had sighed when she saw my nearly full plate next to the sink, but she didn't say anything. She knew meatloaf was my least favorite meal.
The thought of dinner brought something else to my mind. Momma Betty had been standing at the sink, washing dishes, when Rosie had wrapped her pudgy arms around Momma's legs.
"Sweet girl," Momma Betty had said. Rosie beamed, and gave her another squeeze, bumping into the garbage can on the other side of Momma's knees. When Rosie relinquished her grip, her fat fist was stuffed with the meatloaf Momma Betty had scraped from my plate into the garbage just a moment before.
My stomach twists, and sick hunger fills me again. I ease to my bedroom door and peer down the dark hall. No lights, not even streaming from under Momma Betty's bedroom door. Everyone is asleep. I begin to walk down the pitch black hall towards the kitchen, when suddenly there is the sound of a seal being broken and light floods the hall. I squint, and make out the silhouette of Rosie's fat body in front of the open refrigerator.
She turns her head owlishly to look at me, not moving her body at all. She clutches at a large blue sausage shaped thing. I take a step closer, and I can make out the image of the Pillsbury dough boy on the roll of pre-made cookie dough.
"What're you doing," Rosie says in her bland voice. She's been living her for almost a week and I still haven't gotten used to her disconcerting way of talking.
"I'm hungry," I reply.
"You're never hungry." This is true, or at least what I tell everyone. Rosie lets the refrigerator door close, then brings the tube of dough to her mouth. She bites off the sealed end, then squeezes the sweet goo into her mouth. She offers the tube to me. I take it, but don't eat.
"Why do you do that?" I ask. We have all so far avoided saying anything about Rosie's obvious obesity, but I am suddenly too curious to be polite. "You're already so-- I mean..." I trail off.
Rosie smacks the food around her wet, fat mouth. "I know," she says thickly, "I know I'm fat. I just can't help it." Tears well around her deep set eyes. "I never have enough. I want more. I can't sleep, and I want more." Rosie's nose and eyes are streaming.
I look down at the cookie dough in my hands. Thick drops of saliva cling to the blue plastic from where Rosie's mouth touched it. I clamp my mouth around the tube and use my teeth to force the dough up into my mouth. I swallow immediately, and I feel chocolate chips scraping my throat on the way down. I squeeze more dough into my mouth, then shove the tube back into Rosie's eager hands. Tears fill my eyes as well.
We are opposites, yet the same. We both want, crave, but not the thing. The control. The power. We take turns shoving the raw dough down our throats until it is gone. Then we cry. We sit on the kitchen floor and let tears stream down our cheeks, weeping for what we've done, what we want, what is.
Rosie finally falls asleep, curled on the rug in front of the refrigerator. I think of putting her back in her improvised sun porch of a bedroom, but I can't move her bulk. So I leave her and head back to my own room. The faint tinge of dawn glows behind the blinds on my window. Cleavland will be home soon, and Momma Betty will be up to make breakfast. I laugh a little when I think of Momma finding Rosie sleeping in the kitchen.
The laugh hurts my stomach; it's so full, and stretched tighter than it has been in years. Disgust grips me. How could I have done that? How stupid! You're stupid. You're fat...
And then I'm in the bathroom kneeling in front of the toilet, so sickened by what I've done that I don't even have to stick my finger down my throat to purge myself. I'm ill again and again, until I begin to see stars. I lay my head on the edge of the toilet seat and close my eyes.
Tennis shoes are clapping down the wood floor of the hallway. The bathroom door is pushed open, and it collides with my leg. I groan in pain, but whether it's from my leg or my stomach, I can't tell. I see Momma Betty's long red bathrobe out of the corner of my eye. I hear her sigh, then feel a gentle hand on my back.
"Oh, 'Nita, baby, I don't know if I can take this anymore."
*******************************************************
by Jill C.
I can't sleep. I rarely can sleep. It's been this way all my life. I used to have nightmares about when I lived with my real mother, but they've mostly gone away. I don't think about her hitting me anymore. I think mostly about myself.
I can't sleep. I run the fingers of my right hand down the long scar on my left forearm. I put it there two years ago. I had been grasping for control, of myself, of anything. The pain had been too much; I could never have done it again. My excuse to Momma Betty about shaving the coarse black hair off my arms was only good once as well.
I really can't sleep. I lay flat on my back, the tattered shorts of my pajamas sit on my skeletal hip bones, the waistband stretched taught a full inch from the skin of my stomach. I slide my hand into the gap and pinch just below my navel. Skin stretches up between my fingers easily. Fat. Yuck.
I push myself out of bed and look in the mirror. In the dark and without my glasses, it looks like my pale blue pajamas are floating on their own; my dark tan skin has completely disappeared into the gloom. The image is disconcerting, and the dizziness that came on when I got out of bed suddenly takes hold. I stumble and hold my abdomen, nauseous and seeing stars. God, I'm hungry. I had a few bites of meatloaf at dinner, that should have held me over through the night. Momma Betty had sighed when she saw my nearly full plate next to the sink, but she didn't say anything. She knew meatloaf was my least favorite meal.
The thought of dinner brought something else to my mind. Momma Betty had been standing at the sink, washing dishes, when Rosie had wrapped her pudgy arms around Momma's legs.
"Sweet girl," Momma Betty had said. Rosie beamed, and gave her another squeeze, bumping into the garbage can on the other side of Momma's knees. When Rosie relinquished her grip, her fat fist was stuffed with the meatloaf Momma Betty had scraped from my plate into the garbage just a moment before.
My stomach twists, and sick hunger fills me again. I ease to my bedroom door and peer down the dark hall. No lights, not even streaming from under Momma Betty's bedroom door. Everyone is asleep. I begin to walk down the pitch black hall towards the kitchen, when suddenly there is the sound of a seal being broken and light floods the hall. I squint, and make out the silhouette of Rosie's fat body in front of the open refrigerator.
She turns her head owlishly to look at me, not moving her body at all. She clutches at a large blue sausage shaped thing. I take a step closer, and I can make out the image of the Pillsbury dough boy on the roll of pre-made cookie dough.
"What're you doing," Rosie says in her bland voice. She's been living her for almost a week and I still haven't gotten used to her disconcerting way of talking.
"I'm hungry," I reply.
"You're never hungry." This is true, or at least what I tell everyone. Rosie lets the refrigerator door close, then brings the tube of dough to her mouth. She bites off the sealed end, then squeezes the sweet goo into her mouth. She offers the tube to me. I take it, but don't eat.
"Why do you do that?" I ask. We have all so far avoided saying anything about Rosie's obvious obesity, but I am suddenly too curious to be polite. "You're already so-- I mean..." I trail off.
Rosie smacks the food around her wet, fat mouth. "I know," she says thickly, "I know I'm fat. I just can't help it." Tears well around her deep set eyes. "I never have enough. I want more. I can't sleep, and I want more." Rosie's nose and eyes are streaming.
I look down at the cookie dough in my hands. Thick drops of saliva cling to the blue plastic from where Rosie's mouth touched it. I clamp my mouth around the tube and use my teeth to force the dough up into my mouth. I swallow immediately, and I feel chocolate chips scraping my throat on the way down. I squeeze more dough into my mouth, then shove the tube back into Rosie's eager hands. Tears fill my eyes as well.
We are opposites, yet the same. We both want, crave, but not the thing. The control. The power. We take turns shoving the raw dough down our throats until it is gone. Then we cry. We sit on the kitchen floor and let tears stream down our cheeks, weeping for what we've done, what we want, what is.
Rosie finally falls asleep, curled on the rug in front of the refrigerator. I think of putting her back in her improvised sun porch of a bedroom, but I can't move her bulk. So I leave her and head back to my own room. The faint tinge of dawn glows behind the blinds on my window. Cleavland will be home soon, and Momma Betty will be up to make breakfast. I laugh a little when I think of Momma finding Rosie sleeping in the kitchen.
The laugh hurts my stomach; it's so full, and stretched tighter than it has been in years. Disgust grips me. How could I have done that? How stupid! You're stupid. You're fat...
And then I'm in the bathroom kneeling in front of the toilet, so sickened by what I've done that I don't even have to stick my finger down my throat to purge myself. I'm ill again and again, until I begin to see stars. I lay my head on the edge of the toilet seat and close my eyes.
Tennis shoes are clapping down the wood floor of the hallway. The bathroom door is pushed open, and it collides with my leg. I groan in pain, but whether it's from my leg or my stomach, I can't tell. I see Momma Betty's long red bathrobe out of the corner of my eye. I hear her sigh, then feel a gentle hand on my back.
"Oh, 'Nita, baby, I don't know if I can take this anymore."
*******************************************************
28 July, 2010
Anita Rose, Part I
I anticipate this being a three-part story, but that very well may change as the ideas come. Enjoy. :)
Anita Rose
by Jill C.
I am fifteen, and I don't like to wear glasses. I don't like them to be over my eyes. They work much better as a headband to keep my coarse black curls away from my face. Momma Betty says that after she paid for those lovely glasses to be made, I may as well wear them and be able to see. The truth is that she didn't pay for them. The government did. And the glasses aren't lovely. I had only three choices of black wire frames from the medicaid collection.
I don't like to wear glasses. I like to see everything through blurred eyes. Because then I don't have to see myself. Nothing I do will ever be enough. I will always find a new flaw to obsess over. When my thighs stopped jiggling when I walked, I had moved on to hating my upper arms. When they flattened down to bone, I had decided that my sternum was not prominent enough on my exposed chest. At least without my glasses, it was all the same. My body looked like a tan blur; all detail gone.
I don't like wearing my glasses when I look at other people. If we all exist in blurs, then I don't feel as compelled to compare myself to them.
The door slammed behind me and I heard bare feet scrambling down the porch steps.
"Anita, here," a reflective brown object grasped in a pale hand appeared an inch from my nose. I looked up into the blurry white face to which the hand belonged. Dylan, of course. I could recognize that shock of red hair anywhere.
"Take it, 'Nita," he prompted, shoving what I now recognized as a Twix bar further into my face. I took the candy from his clammy grip, and he took it as a cue to sit down beside me. "Momma Betty said she's coming, remember?" Dylan went on, not stopping for breath, "And she got lots of candies and stuff, you know, to celebrate."
Dylan began tearing at his own candy wrapper with his teeth. He took an enormous bite of the chocolate, then continued around the wad of food, "Are you excited to have a sister, finally? I'm not, but Momma Betty said you probably would. I don't know why she thinks girls want to hang out with girls; you do just fine with all of us."
I remained silent. That wasn't entirely true. I suppose on the outside I got along well enough with my foster brothers, but I was so rooted in myself, in my obsession, that I was usually the only thing I could see.
Dylan chattered on and on. I took my glasses off my head and polished them on my shirt before replacing them on top of my rough curls. The screen door slammed against the frame again and Momma Betty's heavy sneaker-clad footsteps eased up behind us, followed by the quiet patter of Jared and Sam.
Dylan turned immediately to his brothers, were carrying the unmistakable crunch of a bag of chips. I turned to watch their wavy outlines as the three nine year olds squatted around the bag, trying to divide their spoils evenly. They were like triplets, yet so different. One black, one blond, and one freckly redhead joined in brotherhood. They'd all been with Momma Betty so long that they had probably forgotten that they were fosters and not real brothers.
"You want some, 'Nita?" Sam called out to me. I smiled as he tossed his too-long blond hair out of his dark eyes. I shook my head. Momma Betty eased her bulk onto the wooden step next to me. I slid my glasses down onto my nose, but I didn't look at her. I knew what was coming.
"You gotta eat, Anita baby," Momma Betty crooned as she took the Twix out of my lap, "It's gonna be all melted if you don't eat it now." She peeled back the shiny brown plastic around the chocolate and wrapped my hand around it, like she was giving a toddler a banana. I looked down at the chocolate in my hand. There were indentations all down the bar where Dylan's hands had squished it. It was revolting. I couldn't eat this, even if had wanted to.
A shrill ring sounded through the screen door. "God, what now?" Momma Betty muttered as she heaved her large self off the step. The door slammed, and the phone continued to ring. I stared back down at the candy in my hand as Momma Betty's muffled conversation floated out the door and down the steps to my ears.
Suddenly, Momma Betty was yelling, "Cleavland! Get up!" Groans and mumbles came from inside the house. "Turn off that Goddamn television; she's gonna be here in five minutes. Get out on that porch with your children to wait." The couch springs groaned as Cleavland stood up. "Don't you take that beer can with you!" Momma Betty shrieked. A loud clunk as the can was tossed into the sink, and then the screen door opened and Cleavland came out.
Cleavland smelled bad. Like cigarettes and beer, with a hint of sweat behind it all. He worked nights at the frozen food warehouse, and he only slept and watched television when he was home. He never would have said it out loud, but it was clear that he felt that the foster children were his wife's idea and therefore his wife's job.
Momma Betty reappeared on the porch, wiping her hands on the rear of her long yellow skirt. "Aren't you excited, Cleavland?" she asked, "you're going to have another daughter in,"--she checked her watch--,"three minutes."
"Mmmm," Cleavland said.
We sat in anticipation. The boys, having finished their snack, were now wiping their Dorito covered fingers on each other's clothes. I wanted to take off my glasses, but Momma Betty was watching, so I just closed my eyes.
Then the sound of a diesel truck rounding the corner roused us all from our daydreaming. The familiar white pickup that had delivered all of us from the children's home to Momma Betty's pulled up into our gravely driveway. The roar of the engine stopped, and the polished blond social worker got out of the driver's seat. Her hair was so gelled to perfection that it didn't bounce when she walked. Momma Betty hugged her, then followed the social worker to the door to the backseat of the car. The boys and Cleavland dutifully followed a few feet behind the women. Only I stayed put. I shoved my glasses up onto my head. I didn't want to see this. I didn't need a little perfect pink girl with a perfect pink body in my life.
The car door slammed, and the chattering crowd of my family passed me as they trooped up the steps into the house. With everyone talking at once, I heard nothing comprehensible except for, "Rosie." That must be her. She even had a perfect pink name. I shut my eyes again, trying to get one more layer of separation between me and Rosie.
"Who're you." It wasn't even a question. No raised melodic note at the end to show for it. The voice was high, but hard, as if daring me to answer.
I opened my eyes. An enormous blob stood in front of me. I blinked, and the fuzzy outline of a face materialized. I reached for my glasses, hardly believing what was happening. Momma Betty had said that she was six years old. I had imagined a little thing with toothpick legs and unisex children's shorts sliding down a flat behind. But the person--the thing--in front of me clutching the pink plastic backpack had to weigh over a hundred pounds.
The white polo shirt stretched over the bulbous stomach made it--her--look like a beach ball. I forced myself to look into her face, to find familiarity there. But even her dull grey eyes seemed sunken behind the fat of her cheeks. Only the long dirty blond hair falling down her back made her seem human.
She knew I was staring. She was staring back, her eyes lingering on the protuberance of my collar bone. Then her gaze fell on the melting candy in my hand. A glint formed in her eyes.
"Are you going to eat that." Still not a question. I shook my head.
***************************************************************
FYI, even though I've had experience with much of what I write about, eating disorders are NOT something that I've seen firsthand. I am enjoying sourdough pretzels as I write this...
Anita Rose
by Jill C.
I am fifteen, and I don't like to wear glasses. I don't like them to be over my eyes. They work much better as a headband to keep my coarse black curls away from my face. Momma Betty says that after she paid for those lovely glasses to be made, I may as well wear them and be able to see. The truth is that she didn't pay for them. The government did. And the glasses aren't lovely. I had only three choices of black wire frames from the medicaid collection.
I don't like to wear glasses. I like to see everything through blurred eyes. Because then I don't have to see myself. Nothing I do will ever be enough. I will always find a new flaw to obsess over. When my thighs stopped jiggling when I walked, I had moved on to hating my upper arms. When they flattened down to bone, I had decided that my sternum was not prominent enough on my exposed chest. At least without my glasses, it was all the same. My body looked like a tan blur; all detail gone.
I don't like wearing my glasses when I look at other people. If we all exist in blurs, then I don't feel as compelled to compare myself to them.
The door slammed behind me and I heard bare feet scrambling down the porch steps.
"Anita, here," a reflective brown object grasped in a pale hand appeared an inch from my nose. I looked up into the blurry white face to which the hand belonged. Dylan, of course. I could recognize that shock of red hair anywhere.
"Take it, 'Nita," he prompted, shoving what I now recognized as a Twix bar further into my face. I took the candy from his clammy grip, and he took it as a cue to sit down beside me. "Momma Betty said she's coming, remember?" Dylan went on, not stopping for breath, "And she got lots of candies and stuff, you know, to celebrate."
Dylan began tearing at his own candy wrapper with his teeth. He took an enormous bite of the chocolate, then continued around the wad of food, "Are you excited to have a sister, finally? I'm not, but Momma Betty said you probably would. I don't know why she thinks girls want to hang out with girls; you do just fine with all of us."
I remained silent. That wasn't entirely true. I suppose on the outside I got along well enough with my foster brothers, but I was so rooted in myself, in my obsession, that I was usually the only thing I could see.
Dylan chattered on and on. I took my glasses off my head and polished them on my shirt before replacing them on top of my rough curls. The screen door slammed against the frame again and Momma Betty's heavy sneaker-clad footsteps eased up behind us, followed by the quiet patter of Jared and Sam.
Dylan turned immediately to his brothers, were carrying the unmistakable crunch of a bag of chips. I turned to watch their wavy outlines as the three nine year olds squatted around the bag, trying to divide their spoils evenly. They were like triplets, yet so different. One black, one blond, and one freckly redhead joined in brotherhood. They'd all been with Momma Betty so long that they had probably forgotten that they were fosters and not real brothers.
"You want some, 'Nita?" Sam called out to me. I smiled as he tossed his too-long blond hair out of his dark eyes. I shook my head. Momma Betty eased her bulk onto the wooden step next to me. I slid my glasses down onto my nose, but I didn't look at her. I knew what was coming.
"You gotta eat, Anita baby," Momma Betty crooned as she took the Twix out of my lap, "It's gonna be all melted if you don't eat it now." She peeled back the shiny brown plastic around the chocolate and wrapped my hand around it, like she was giving a toddler a banana. I looked down at the chocolate in my hand. There were indentations all down the bar where Dylan's hands had squished it. It was revolting. I couldn't eat this, even if had wanted to.
A shrill ring sounded through the screen door. "God, what now?" Momma Betty muttered as she heaved her large self off the step. The door slammed, and the phone continued to ring. I stared back down at the candy in my hand as Momma Betty's muffled conversation floated out the door and down the steps to my ears.
Suddenly, Momma Betty was yelling, "Cleavland! Get up!" Groans and mumbles came from inside the house. "Turn off that Goddamn television; she's gonna be here in five minutes. Get out on that porch with your children to wait." The couch springs groaned as Cleavland stood up. "Don't you take that beer can with you!" Momma Betty shrieked. A loud clunk as the can was tossed into the sink, and then the screen door opened and Cleavland came out.
Cleavland smelled bad. Like cigarettes and beer, with a hint of sweat behind it all. He worked nights at the frozen food warehouse, and he only slept and watched television when he was home. He never would have said it out loud, but it was clear that he felt that the foster children were his wife's idea and therefore his wife's job.
Momma Betty reappeared on the porch, wiping her hands on the rear of her long yellow skirt. "Aren't you excited, Cleavland?" she asked, "you're going to have another daughter in,"--she checked her watch--,"three minutes."
"Mmmm," Cleavland said.
We sat in anticipation. The boys, having finished their snack, were now wiping their Dorito covered fingers on each other's clothes. I wanted to take off my glasses, but Momma Betty was watching, so I just closed my eyes.
Then the sound of a diesel truck rounding the corner roused us all from our daydreaming. The familiar white pickup that had delivered all of us from the children's home to Momma Betty's pulled up into our gravely driveway. The roar of the engine stopped, and the polished blond social worker got out of the driver's seat. Her hair was so gelled to perfection that it didn't bounce when she walked. Momma Betty hugged her, then followed the social worker to the door to the backseat of the car. The boys and Cleavland dutifully followed a few feet behind the women. Only I stayed put. I shoved my glasses up onto my head. I didn't want to see this. I didn't need a little perfect pink girl with a perfect pink body in my life.
The car door slammed, and the chattering crowd of my family passed me as they trooped up the steps into the house. With everyone talking at once, I heard nothing comprehensible except for, "Rosie." That must be her. She even had a perfect pink name. I shut my eyes again, trying to get one more layer of separation between me and Rosie.
"Who're you." It wasn't even a question. No raised melodic note at the end to show for it. The voice was high, but hard, as if daring me to answer.
I opened my eyes. An enormous blob stood in front of me. I blinked, and the fuzzy outline of a face materialized. I reached for my glasses, hardly believing what was happening. Momma Betty had said that she was six years old. I had imagined a little thing with toothpick legs and unisex children's shorts sliding down a flat behind. But the person--the thing--in front of me clutching the pink plastic backpack had to weigh over a hundred pounds.
The white polo shirt stretched over the bulbous stomach made it--her--look like a beach ball. I forced myself to look into her face, to find familiarity there. But even her dull grey eyes seemed sunken behind the fat of her cheeks. Only the long dirty blond hair falling down her back made her seem human.
She knew I was staring. She was staring back, her eyes lingering on the protuberance of my collar bone. Then her gaze fell on the melting candy in my hand. A glint formed in her eyes.
"Are you going to eat that." Still not a question. I shook my head.
***************************************************************
FYI, even though I've had experience with much of what I write about, eating disorders are NOT something that I've seen firsthand. I am enjoying sourdough pretzels as I write this...
02 July, 2010
Phonographics (that is to say, sound)
Phonographics
by Jill C.
I take the proffered goblet
raise it to my lips
inhale deeply, the scent more pervasive than the taste
A miniscule sip enters my pursed lips
Not the blood of Christ, by any means
Not pure, not sweet
Earthy
spicy
dusty with emulsified age
repugnant
Not actually repugnant
repugnant
it tastes like the word repugnant
magestic
raisained
weathered
Lips pursed to utter the re
then puffed into a kiss for pug
tongue quietly clicking around the flavor for nant
I drive past the overflowing parking lot
a flash of bright yellow catches my eye
Subway hotrod
not actually a hotrod
an old pickup truck
with bulbous fenders
and invasive side mirrors
the name of the sandwich shop emblazened on the side
Subway hotrod
the almost-rhyme of the second term
embodies the frivolity of the stoic vehicle
like a drag queen
sticking out like none other
but proud to be
Subway hotrod
The sound doesn't always have to be the meaning
The words don't have to be read
Just spoken
Just heard
and misunderstood
to the point that repugnant means a taste
hotrod a concept
and Cellar Door beauty
The Phonographics are individual
ecstatic, yet elastic
made to be played with
to represent anything
in the eye
or ear
of anyone
********************************************
Ten bonus points if you can catch the Donnie Darko reference. :)
by Jill C.
I take the proffered goblet
raise it to my lips
inhale deeply, the scent more pervasive than the taste
A miniscule sip enters my pursed lips
Not the blood of Christ, by any means
Not pure, not sweet
Earthy
spicy
dusty with emulsified age
repugnant
Not actually repugnant
repugnant
it tastes like the word repugnant
magestic
raisained
weathered
Lips pursed to utter the re
then puffed into a kiss for pug
tongue quietly clicking around the flavor for nant
I drive past the overflowing parking lot
a flash of bright yellow catches my eye
Subway hotrod
not actually a hotrod
an old pickup truck
with bulbous fenders
and invasive side mirrors
the name of the sandwich shop emblazened on the side
Subway hotrod
the almost-rhyme of the second term
embodies the frivolity of the stoic vehicle
like a drag queen
sticking out like none other
but proud to be
Subway hotrod
The sound doesn't always have to be the meaning
The words don't have to be read
Just spoken
Just heard
and misunderstood
to the point that repugnant means a taste
hotrod a concept
and Cellar Door beauty
The Phonographics are individual
ecstatic, yet elastic
made to be played with
to represent anything
in the eye
or ear
of anyone
********************************************
Ten bonus points if you can catch the Donnie Darko reference. :)
20 June, 2010
I Dreamed a Dream
Sorry, that's the second title I've borrowed (stolen) from Les Miserables. This one is, however, actually adapted from a dream I had when I was sleeping in front of the TV yesterday.
I Dreamed a Dream
by Jill C.
I don't know wheather to leave or not. He said it was all done, and I should just go home until tomorrow. Something keeps me there, though. He's tired of looking after me. He's left and gone into the office. No doubt to help another paying customer. Or to eat a doughnut. It's such a morbid business, though, that it doesn't matter. It fills him up either way. With flour and sugar or with cash.
He's left me in order to go back to work. That bothers me. Hers is not the only one in the frigid room. That bothers me too. It's so impersonal. He sees it so often that he won't or can't or maybe isn't capable of getting involved. It feels wrong. Who ever turned it into a line of work, anyway? Why can't we go back to the olden days when the famailies dug the graves themselves, behind the barns on their farmsteads? Who ever wanted to be a mortition? That's not what they call them anymore. It's not glamorous enough. Who ever wanted to be a funeral services director? A memorial councelor? A damned cold hearted idiot who can rattle off the names of every wood in the forest without the slightest inflection in his voice that would make me understand that he's talking about coffins rather than trees?
Hers looks like a treasure chest. I imagine grave robbers as pirates, hoisting her in the air with joyous yells and carrying her back to their ship. She probably would have liked that.
I lay my hand on the polished mahogony, fighting with myself inside. I want to see her. So badly. Just one more time. One more time, before... I don't want to see her like this. In that dress he chose from the rack of random, cheaply made garnments that were meant to look fancy. With her hair curled. Sprayed with so much rosy perfume to keep the smell of death away. Except it wasn't the smell of death, but the stench of chemicals. Anything to keep her "pretty" for one more day.
She is to be viewed tomorrow. So hers isn't locked. She isn't yet beyond reach. I can't help myself. I slowly raise her lid.
Pale, and small. Too pale. Too small. Her chubby face is gone, the skin retracting toward the bone. She looks like a sick child. Like she had progeria, or some other disfiguring disease. But she didn't. She was just a normal little girl. And now she's gone. And this... this is here in her place.
I can see the powder of hair spray on her dark ringlets. She looks more like a doll. I imagine one of the plastic babies she used to play with. The kind with eyes that opened and closed. I raise her shoulders up. Click. The eyes open. Back down. Click. They close.
Her mouth opens in a tiny gasp. Some broken sound, unintelligible to me, yet the most beautiful sound in the world comes from between her dry, pale lips. It floats to my ears as tears fal from my eyes. Then she is gone. Again.
I clutch myself around the middle, pinching into the baby weight that I still have not managed to lose after four years. I wish those final moments would fly away, leave me be. I want the happy memories, not those. Not of her leaving me.
I brush my fingers on her tender eyelids, then make the sign of the cross on her forehead. Then I close her up, and turn around. I leave. I don't want to be there any longer. Not with them. Not with her.
It's not her that's there. She's already blown away. Why am I expected to hang on to that sick doll? It's not her. It's all wrong.
My little Ana, who wore a ponytail, and read fairytales and books about pirates. Who prefered green cotton shorts, even in winter. That's what I want to hold on to. What I want to remember.
I want to remember the cherry popsicle all over the back seat of my car. The wall at home with badly disgiused crayon drawings. The dirty old football we'd played with in the neighbor's yard.
I want to remember that, not her last breaths leaving her lungs. Not the tears in her eyes as he, he who I dared ever call my husband, hit the life out of her. Not the cops dragging him off to jail. Or the EMT dragging her out in a body bag.
Those memories need to go, to fly away. But they need to go in the opposite direction of Ana's soul.
*******************************************************
I didn't realize how morbid that was until after I wrote it out. In my dream, it was more like a bad horror movie, but I thought it would make better use as a public service announcement about domestic violence and child abuse in New Mexico.
I Dreamed a Dream
by Jill C.
I don't know wheather to leave or not. He said it was all done, and I should just go home until tomorrow. Something keeps me there, though. He's tired of looking after me. He's left and gone into the office. No doubt to help another paying customer. Or to eat a doughnut. It's such a morbid business, though, that it doesn't matter. It fills him up either way. With flour and sugar or with cash.
He's left me in order to go back to work. That bothers me. Hers is not the only one in the frigid room. That bothers me too. It's so impersonal. He sees it so often that he won't or can't or maybe isn't capable of getting involved. It feels wrong. Who ever turned it into a line of work, anyway? Why can't we go back to the olden days when the famailies dug the graves themselves, behind the barns on their farmsteads? Who ever wanted to be a mortition? That's not what they call them anymore. It's not glamorous enough. Who ever wanted to be a funeral services director? A memorial councelor? A damned cold hearted idiot who can rattle off the names of every wood in the forest without the slightest inflection in his voice that would make me understand that he's talking about coffins rather than trees?
Hers looks like a treasure chest. I imagine grave robbers as pirates, hoisting her in the air with joyous yells and carrying her back to their ship. She probably would have liked that.
I lay my hand on the polished mahogony, fighting with myself inside. I want to see her. So badly. Just one more time. One more time, before... I don't want to see her like this. In that dress he chose from the rack of random, cheaply made garnments that were meant to look fancy. With her hair curled. Sprayed with so much rosy perfume to keep the smell of death away. Except it wasn't the smell of death, but the stench of chemicals. Anything to keep her "pretty" for one more day.
She is to be viewed tomorrow. So hers isn't locked. She isn't yet beyond reach. I can't help myself. I slowly raise her lid.
Pale, and small. Too pale. Too small. Her chubby face is gone, the skin retracting toward the bone. She looks like a sick child. Like she had progeria, or some other disfiguring disease. But she didn't. She was just a normal little girl. And now she's gone. And this... this is here in her place.
I can see the powder of hair spray on her dark ringlets. She looks more like a doll. I imagine one of the plastic babies she used to play with. The kind with eyes that opened and closed. I raise her shoulders up. Click. The eyes open. Back down. Click. They close.
Her mouth opens in a tiny gasp. Some broken sound, unintelligible to me, yet the most beautiful sound in the world comes from between her dry, pale lips. It floats to my ears as tears fal from my eyes. Then she is gone. Again.
I clutch myself around the middle, pinching into the baby weight that I still have not managed to lose after four years. I wish those final moments would fly away, leave me be. I want the happy memories, not those. Not of her leaving me.
I brush my fingers on her tender eyelids, then make the sign of the cross on her forehead. Then I close her up, and turn around. I leave. I don't want to be there any longer. Not with them. Not with her.
It's not her that's there. She's already blown away. Why am I expected to hang on to that sick doll? It's not her. It's all wrong.
My little Ana, who wore a ponytail, and read fairytales and books about pirates. Who prefered green cotton shorts, even in winter. That's what I want to hold on to. What I want to remember.
I want to remember the cherry popsicle all over the back seat of my car. The wall at home with badly disgiused crayon drawings. The dirty old football we'd played with in the neighbor's yard.
I want to remember that, not her last breaths leaving her lungs. Not the tears in her eyes as he, he who I dared ever call my husband, hit the life out of her. Not the cops dragging him off to jail. Or the EMT dragging her out in a body bag.
Those memories need to go, to fly away. But they need to go in the opposite direction of Ana's soul.
*******************************************************
I didn't realize how morbid that was until after I wrote it out. In my dream, it was more like a bad horror movie, but I thought it would make better use as a public service announcement about domestic violence and child abuse in New Mexico.
04 June, 2010
Leona
Based off of yesterday's Smuckers 100+ birthdays on the Today show, this one was just begging to be embellished.
Leona
by Jill C.
Leona sat with her legs crossed Indian style, enjoying the coolness of the grass through her cotton skirt. She ran her wizened hand through the dewy forest of turf in front of her, fervently wishing that the magic worked on ugly protruding veins as well as longevity. Pushing her glasses farther up her nose, Leona brought a quivering sprig on greenery up to her face. Sighing, she nestled it back into the mass of leaves before her. Three leaves, precisely like it should have.
Leona sighed again and dipped her hand into the pocket of her grey wool sweater. Her shaky fingers met with a spread of crackles as they came in contact with the dried remains of findings over the past year. Even old and dry, they were still lucky, like she was.
Taking a brief rest to look up at the sky, Leona reveled in the season. Glorious spring. Birds fluttered overhead, dancing and singing in their mating rituals. It reminded Leona of a musical. Everything rehearsed to be executed at exactly the right time, and then passed on and on through the generations, without regard to the time that passed.
Leona wished that she could disregard the time that passed. It didn't matter to her, so long as it continued to pass. But the little nurses in their pinstriped uniforms who seemed to be getting younger and younger and dumber and dumber constantly reminded Leona of her age and the complications that went along with it.
As they believed, one could not reach one hundred and nine years of age without having some sort of debilitation, like memory loss. The nurses constantly felt the need to remind Leona of the day's schedule, as if she could not remember it herself. In truth, Leona knew the schedule better than the nurses, as she often wrote it herself.
Leona returned to combing the patch of leaves and flowers in front of her. The clover blossoms, like miniature golf balls, tickled her fingers as she passed over their sweet-smelling heads. The flowers were sweet, but the real treasure lay beneath. Leona bent further, bringing her face even closer to the soft ground cover. Her fingers closed gently around a bunch of leaves, and she swiftly plucked them from the ground.
A smile spread across Leona's face when she saw the fruit of her search. Sitting in her palm was a little four-leaf clover. It was slightly lopsided, but it was still a lucky sign. Leona brought it to her lips and gave it a brief kiss, then slipped it into her pocket.
A few more months, at least. Then she would be back looking for more. The nurses felt the necessity to remind Leona that healthy eating and exercise lead to longevity, not luck. But Leona knew better. Or perhaps she just had more fun believing in a little magic.
************************************************************
Leona
by Jill C.
Leona sat with her legs crossed Indian style, enjoying the coolness of the grass through her cotton skirt. She ran her wizened hand through the dewy forest of turf in front of her, fervently wishing that the magic worked on ugly protruding veins as well as longevity. Pushing her glasses farther up her nose, Leona brought a quivering sprig on greenery up to her face. Sighing, she nestled it back into the mass of leaves before her. Three leaves, precisely like it should have.
Leona sighed again and dipped her hand into the pocket of her grey wool sweater. Her shaky fingers met with a spread of crackles as they came in contact with the dried remains of findings over the past year. Even old and dry, they were still lucky, like she was.
Taking a brief rest to look up at the sky, Leona reveled in the season. Glorious spring. Birds fluttered overhead, dancing and singing in their mating rituals. It reminded Leona of a musical. Everything rehearsed to be executed at exactly the right time, and then passed on and on through the generations, without regard to the time that passed.
Leona wished that she could disregard the time that passed. It didn't matter to her, so long as it continued to pass. But the little nurses in their pinstriped uniforms who seemed to be getting younger and younger and dumber and dumber constantly reminded Leona of her age and the complications that went along with it.
As they believed, one could not reach one hundred and nine years of age without having some sort of debilitation, like memory loss. The nurses constantly felt the need to remind Leona of the day's schedule, as if she could not remember it herself. In truth, Leona knew the schedule better than the nurses, as she often wrote it herself.
Leona returned to combing the patch of leaves and flowers in front of her. The clover blossoms, like miniature golf balls, tickled her fingers as she passed over their sweet-smelling heads. The flowers were sweet, but the real treasure lay beneath. Leona bent further, bringing her face even closer to the soft ground cover. Her fingers closed gently around a bunch of leaves, and she swiftly plucked them from the ground.
A smile spread across Leona's face when she saw the fruit of her search. Sitting in her palm was a little four-leaf clover. It was slightly lopsided, but it was still a lucky sign. Leona brought it to her lips and gave it a brief kiss, then slipped it into her pocket.
A few more months, at least. Then she would be back looking for more. The nurses felt the necessity to remind Leona that healthy eating and exercise lead to longevity, not luck. But Leona knew better. Or perhaps she just had more fun believing in a little magic.
************************************************************
17 May, 2010
Blue Demon Love Song
Read White Demon and Black Demon first if you haven't already!!
Blue Demon Love Song
by Jill C.
"Here," James says, shoving the greasy paper bag at me. "Mason, here."
I look up from the chafed ring around my wrist. "What?" I ask.
"Mason, take the bag." I take it, feeling the greasy steam of the fast food flowing through the pores of the bag.
"Your car's gonna smell like fries," I say.
"Uh, yeah," James replies distractedly. He hasn't shaved for days and his short black hair is standing on end. He doesn't usually look this messy. Maybe he doesn't want me?
Where are we going? We should have stopped and eaten at the restaurant rather than taking it to go. But then I remember that I didn't want to. I remember that I don't really want the hamburger and fries in the paper bag in my lap. I remember that I don't really want to go home. But I really don't want to go back.
James turns the battered honda onto a gravel road. I hate that road. It makes me sick. It has since we drove it with the grandfather in the old truck. But it means that we are going there.
James pulls up into the improvised parking on the shoulder of the road. "Ready to walk?" he asks. I nod and get out of the car. "Bring the food, damn it!" James says.
"But I don't want it."
"Mason, you've lost ten pounds in a week. You have to eat."
Anger surges a little. I expect him to tell me to hit, to hurt. But he is gone. I have no feeling. I don't know what to do. My actions have never been my own.
I turn from James and dash down the hill toward the lighthouse. Its whiteness makes it look like an extension of the clouds against the massive blue sea and sky.
"Mason! Hey!" I hear James yelling after me. He is swishing down the reedy hill behind me. I am ahead, though. Racing through the air, through life, through time.
Two little copper skinned boys running into the ocean, the grandmother setting up a picnic blanket on the shore behind them. They splash into the frothy waves. I splash. I fall on my face. The grandmother's voice sounds.
"Careful!" she calls with a laugh. The boys push eachother and splash. A wave crashes down on their heads, and they come up spluttering and laughing. My head surfaces, my too-long hair dripping.
I reach down and come up with a handful of sand. I rub it over the welt on my wrist. Dry skin flakes away. The salt and sand sting, but it is the sting of healing. The hospital bracelet is gone. Now all of its traces will leave too.
"God, Mason," James gasps, coming up beside me, "One day you're going to end up dead doing that." He wrenches my sand filled hand off of my wrist and begins to pull me back up the shore.
I sit wrapped in blanket in the passenger seat of James's car, eating the now tempid fries from the greasy bag. James stops the car in the driveway of the tiny house that the grandmother left behind. He turns to me and sighs.
"You're home," he says.
"I didn't mean to," I reply.
"You didn't mean to what?"
"Get...all wet."
I didn't know how to say it. But I needed James to know that he was gone. I needed James to know that I wanted to do what I wanted. But that I didn't know how. So the past burst out of me. In the early, disconected memories of when I did act for myself. I needed James to know that I was ready to return to that.
"I want it to be like that," I say, "I'm ready."
"You know, Mason," James replies, "You might be starting to make sense again. But get out of my car before it starts to smell like seawater."
****************************************************************
Blue Demon Love Song
by Jill C.
"Here," James says, shoving the greasy paper bag at me. "Mason, here."
I look up from the chafed ring around my wrist. "What?" I ask.
"Mason, take the bag." I take it, feeling the greasy steam of the fast food flowing through the pores of the bag.
"Your car's gonna smell like fries," I say.
"Uh, yeah," James replies distractedly. He hasn't shaved for days and his short black hair is standing on end. He doesn't usually look this messy. Maybe he doesn't want me?
Where are we going? We should have stopped and eaten at the restaurant rather than taking it to go. But then I remember that I didn't want to. I remember that I don't really want the hamburger and fries in the paper bag in my lap. I remember that I don't really want to go home. But I really don't want to go back.
James turns the battered honda onto a gravel road. I hate that road. It makes me sick. It has since we drove it with the grandfather in the old truck. But it means that we are going there.
James pulls up into the improvised parking on the shoulder of the road. "Ready to walk?" he asks. I nod and get out of the car. "Bring the food, damn it!" James says.
"But I don't want it."
"Mason, you've lost ten pounds in a week. You have to eat."
Anger surges a little. I expect him to tell me to hit, to hurt. But he is gone. I have no feeling. I don't know what to do. My actions have never been my own.
I turn from James and dash down the hill toward the lighthouse. Its whiteness makes it look like an extension of the clouds against the massive blue sea and sky.
"Mason! Hey!" I hear James yelling after me. He is swishing down the reedy hill behind me. I am ahead, though. Racing through the air, through life, through time.
Two little copper skinned boys running into the ocean, the grandmother setting up a picnic blanket on the shore behind them. They splash into the frothy waves. I splash. I fall on my face. The grandmother's voice sounds.
"Careful!" she calls with a laugh. The boys push eachother and splash. A wave crashes down on their heads, and they come up spluttering and laughing. My head surfaces, my too-long hair dripping.
I reach down and come up with a handful of sand. I rub it over the welt on my wrist. Dry skin flakes away. The salt and sand sting, but it is the sting of healing. The hospital bracelet is gone. Now all of its traces will leave too.
"God, Mason," James gasps, coming up beside me, "One day you're going to end up dead doing that." He wrenches my sand filled hand off of my wrist and begins to pull me back up the shore.
I sit wrapped in blanket in the passenger seat of James's car, eating the now tempid fries from the greasy bag. James stops the car in the driveway of the tiny house that the grandmother left behind. He turns to me and sighs.
"You're home," he says.
"I didn't mean to," I reply.
"You didn't mean to what?"
"Get...all wet."
I didn't know how to say it. But I needed James to know that he was gone. I needed James to know that I wanted to do what I wanted. But that I didn't know how. So the past burst out of me. In the early, disconected memories of when I did act for myself. I needed James to know that I was ready to return to that.
"I want it to be like that," I say, "I'm ready."
"You know, Mason," James replies, "You might be starting to make sense again. But get out of my car before it starts to smell like seawater."
****************************************************************
27 April, 2010
Black Demon Love Song
I feel a series coming...
Black Demon Love Song
by Jill C.
Black Demon Love Song
by Jill C.
It's dark. All I can see is dark. It must be night. I feel awake, though. Awake, but tired. My stomach is sick. My head hurts. But I am awake.
James left a long time ago. It feels like forever. Like I hven't seen him in years. Or minutes. It's all the same here.
Here. In the place. I can't bring myself to say it. Hos... Hosp... If I say it, he will be angry.
He has become very strange since James left. Or since I took the little white pill. I don't really know what affects him more. He says strange things. Just words. Just things.
I lay on my stomach on the cot. It smells like laundry soap. Like trying too hard. It's unnatural.
Cold. Dark.
I try to remember what the doc... The man in the white coat said. He said just to stay for a little while. Until I feel better. Until he goes away. Then James can come back.
I close my eyes. Try to sleep. I am a little afraid. Without James to keep the terrors away, I don't know what will happen. I try to focus on James. Only James. Only.
Two little boys squatting on the beach. Poking at a beached starfish with slender driftwood sticks. Dark hair glistening under the late summer sun. Copper skin glowing under a coating of sand and salt.
Riding in an old pickup truck with the windows down. James riding shotgun. Mason behind him. Both put their heads out of the window. They turn and grin at one another. Brothers-not-by-blood. No closer bond.
The grandmother ladeling beans into a huge bowl before the church picnic. James and Mason running around the house. The grandfather loading blankets and folding chairs into the truckbed.
A long time ago...
I turn over onto my side. I am hot and cold and uncomfortable. Whether I have slept or not I can't tell.
James.
He's helping me. I turn my mind back to James. To when we were older. After the grandfather died.
Mason is shivering in bed. James's quiet breathing beside him. Mason pushes against James, hoping to borrow his warmth. James groans in his sleep and wraps his arms around me. Safe. Warm. Protected. Always.
Even when he takes over. Even when Mason is bad. When Mason struck the grandmother. When Mason can't see straight. James is there. James is warm. James is safe.
Tired. Sleep.
A dim grey glow surrounds the door. It must be tomorrow...today. And James is still in yesterday.
********************************************************************************
I was kind of thinking of The Outsiders when I was writing Mason and James's relationship. Like how Darry, Soda, and Ponyboy all care for one another because they no longer have parents. Like how Ponyboy and Soda sleep in the same bed to keep the nightmares away.
26 April, 2010
White Demon Love Song
Actually that is the title of the song to which I am currently listening.... Doesn't really have much to do with the story, but it is still fitting.
White Demon Love Song
by Jill C.
The chair is not comfortable. It's upholstered with beige faux leather that feels more like plastic. It is a horrible color. It looks like the peach crayon that's supposed to be skin -colored, but no one actually has that skin color. Except maybe people in Australia.
What are you doing here? You need to get out.
"Okay."
I stand up. The doors are changing places. The hallway door is simulatneously the door outside, the door to the office, the door to the room with the blood pressure cuff. I've forgotten what I am doing.
"Hey," James whispers next to me. He reaches up and takes my arm. "Sit," he says. I flop back down into the hideous chair. James's chair is blue. Like the choppy sea on a cloudy day. Like the view from the lighthouse at dusk. I lay my head on James's shoulder. He smells good. Like outside. Like pine trees.
You have to get out. You have to before it's too late.
"Okay."
I turn to James. "Can we go?" I ask. "He says to go."
"Shhh," James soothes. He gently presses my head back to his shoulder.
"It might be too late," I whisper. He said it, so it must be true.
"No, it's not," James murmurs into my hair. My horribly greasy too-long hair.
You love him. That's all you need. Leave now.
"Yeah , but he said no."
James knows better than to answer. He knows I'm not talking to him anymore. I wish I was, though.
James's chair is blue. Blue like the sea on a cloudy day. "Can I have the blue chair?"
James smiles a little. He's glad that he and I are seeing the same things. For a moment.
We stand up and trade seats. James's chair is warm. It feels good. It doesn't smell like him, though. It smells like plastic. Like new shoes. I like old shoes better. James has tons of old shoes.
A young woman in scrubs walks past.
She's on their side. She needs to be taken out.
You could do it. You could do it now.
Wrap your hands around her neck. She wouldn't have a chance.
"Are they all bad?"
Yes.
"They'll hurt me?"
Yes.
"No," James says at the same time.
"What to do?"
Wait till you have a chance then squeeze the life out of her./"Wait here with me until they call your name."
His and James's responses get jumbled up, so I can't really hear either one. The only thing I hear is "wait".
"Why," I ask no one.
She'll hurt you. She thinks you're bad. She's writing every bad thing you do in her notebook./"Because you have to wait until the doctor's ready."
"I can't understand when you both talk at the same time."
James does it again. He knows it doesn't work, but he does it again. "Mason," he says, looking directly into my eyes,"It's just me. Just you and me. There is no one else. It's not real."
No, he's wrong. Kill her. Get away. Too late.
"Shut the hell up!" I yell.
"Mason," James soothes, placing a hand on either side of my face,"Mason, calm down."
I try. I honestly do. But a shock runs through my body. My fist flails and catches James on the jaw. His head snaps back and I jump up.
Kill her. Kill her now.
I walk towards her. She is behind the counter now. Writing in her notebook.
Every bad thing you do. She writes it down. She'll use it against you.
I slam my hand down on her notebook. I catch a glimpse of what she wrote. 9:30 appointment: drug consult and therapy Mason is bad he hit James he changed seats he is bad he is bad he is bad heisbadheisbadheisbad...
I touch her arm. Her skin is pale and smooth.
Do it now. No more time. Now.
"I don't want to, damn it!" I yell. But I have already taken hold of her arm.
James's arms are suddenly around my waist. Then we're on the floor. For a second I am dazed and looking at only scuff marks on the grey linoleum. James's gaze catches mine. My eyes pool with tears and I bury my head in his chest. I think of only him. Of his smell. Of his clothes. Of his breath when he sleeps. I clutch him for dear life, not caring that we are lying on the floor. On the floor of the waiting room. The waiting room of the doctor's office. The doctor that finds out if things are wrong with your brain.
They'll tell you your brain is broken. They'll try to control you. You'll be their little robot.
"Shut up."
James pulls me into a sitting position. A group of people enter the room from the door that used to be the outside. Guards, maybe? The pale nurse is standing at the back of the group. I realize that I am in trouble.
Too late now.
"No."
An elderly man kneels next to us.
"Mason?" he asks kindly. He has on a white coat. White like the clouds on a summer day.
James answers for me. I don't really feel up to talking.
"Why don't we take a walk outside and have a smoke," the man in the white coat says, "Then maybe we can talk a little."
James pulls me up to my feet. He keeps a hand on my shoulder as we walk out the door to outside that used to be to the hallway.
I try very hard to sort out what has happened. I can't remember where we are or why we are there. But the pale hand under mine stands out.
"Did I hurt her?" I ask James.
"No," he answers.
"Was I going to?"
"Were you?" he questions softly.
I feel sick. James is supporting me. He holds my shoulders until I can become fully upright again.
We walk to a bench and sit down. The bench is wooden and sunbleached. Just like it should be. James lights a cigarette and hands it to me. I inhale deeply, already beginning to calm down. The plastic wrap is falling away and I can see what is really happening, if only for a moment. I need help. I need this doctor. This kind, elderly doctor sitting on the other side of James. I need him because my brain is broken.
I need to know something else, though.
"Did I hurt you?" I ask tentitavely.
"No. Nothing you do could ever hurt me," James replies.
"Why? I hurt everyone."
"But, no matter what happens, I love you."
*************************************************************
Diagnosis will be paranoid schizophrenia, in case you want to know.
Kinda Donnie Darko, isnt it?
White Demon Love Song
by Jill C.
The chair is not comfortable. It's upholstered with beige faux leather that feels more like plastic. It is a horrible color. It looks like the peach crayon that's supposed to be skin -colored, but no one actually has that skin color. Except maybe people in Australia.
What are you doing here? You need to get out.
"Okay."
I stand up. The doors are changing places. The hallway door is simulatneously the door outside, the door to the office, the door to the room with the blood pressure cuff. I've forgotten what I am doing.
"Hey," James whispers next to me. He reaches up and takes my arm. "Sit," he says. I flop back down into the hideous chair. James's chair is blue. Like the choppy sea on a cloudy day. Like the view from the lighthouse at dusk. I lay my head on James's shoulder. He smells good. Like outside. Like pine trees.
You have to get out. You have to before it's too late.
"Okay."
I turn to James. "Can we go?" I ask. "He says to go."
"Shhh," James soothes. He gently presses my head back to his shoulder.
"It might be too late," I whisper. He said it, so it must be true.
"No, it's not," James murmurs into my hair. My horribly greasy too-long hair.
You love him. That's all you need. Leave now.
"Yeah , but he said no."
James knows better than to answer. He knows I'm not talking to him anymore. I wish I was, though.
James's chair is blue. Blue like the sea on a cloudy day. "Can I have the blue chair?"
James smiles a little. He's glad that he and I are seeing the same things. For a moment.
We stand up and trade seats. James's chair is warm. It feels good. It doesn't smell like him, though. It smells like plastic. Like new shoes. I like old shoes better. James has tons of old shoes.
A young woman in scrubs walks past.
She's on their side. She needs to be taken out.
You could do it. You could do it now.
Wrap your hands around her neck. She wouldn't have a chance.
"Are they all bad?"
Yes.
"They'll hurt me?"
Yes.
"No," James says at the same time.
"What to do?"
Wait till you have a chance then squeeze the life out of her./"Wait here with me until they call your name."
His and James's responses get jumbled up, so I can't really hear either one. The only thing I hear is "wait".
"Why," I ask no one.
She'll hurt you. She thinks you're bad. She's writing every bad thing you do in her notebook./"Because you have to wait until the doctor's ready."
"I can't understand when you both talk at the same time."
James does it again. He knows it doesn't work, but he does it again. "Mason," he says, looking directly into my eyes,"It's just me. Just you and me. There is no one else. It's not real."
No, he's wrong. Kill her. Get away. Too late.
"Shut the hell up!" I yell.
"Mason," James soothes, placing a hand on either side of my face,"Mason, calm down."
I try. I honestly do. But a shock runs through my body. My fist flails and catches James on the jaw. His head snaps back and I jump up.
Kill her. Kill her now.
I walk towards her. She is behind the counter now. Writing in her notebook.
Every bad thing you do. She writes it down. She'll use it against you.
I slam my hand down on her notebook. I catch a glimpse of what she wrote. 9:30 appointment: drug consult and therapy Mason is bad he hit James he changed seats he is bad he is bad he is bad heisbadheisbadheisbad...
I touch her arm. Her skin is pale and smooth.
Do it now. No more time. Now.
"I don't want to, damn it!" I yell. But I have already taken hold of her arm.
James's arms are suddenly around my waist. Then we're on the floor. For a second I am dazed and looking at only scuff marks on the grey linoleum. James's gaze catches mine. My eyes pool with tears and I bury my head in his chest. I think of only him. Of his smell. Of his clothes. Of his breath when he sleeps. I clutch him for dear life, not caring that we are lying on the floor. On the floor of the waiting room. The waiting room of the doctor's office. The doctor that finds out if things are wrong with your brain.
They'll tell you your brain is broken. They'll try to control you. You'll be their little robot.
"Shut up."
James pulls me into a sitting position. A group of people enter the room from the door that used to be the outside. Guards, maybe? The pale nurse is standing at the back of the group. I realize that I am in trouble.
Too late now.
"No."
An elderly man kneels next to us.
"Mason?" he asks kindly. He has on a white coat. White like the clouds on a summer day.
James answers for me. I don't really feel up to talking.
"Why don't we take a walk outside and have a smoke," the man in the white coat says, "Then maybe we can talk a little."
James pulls me up to my feet. He keeps a hand on my shoulder as we walk out the door to outside that used to be to the hallway.
I try very hard to sort out what has happened. I can't remember where we are or why we are there. But the pale hand under mine stands out.
"Did I hurt her?" I ask James.
"No," he answers.
"Was I going to?"
"Were you?" he questions softly.
I feel sick. James is supporting me. He holds my shoulders until I can become fully upright again.
We walk to a bench and sit down. The bench is wooden and sunbleached. Just like it should be. James lights a cigarette and hands it to me. I inhale deeply, already beginning to calm down. The plastic wrap is falling away and I can see what is really happening, if only for a moment. I need help. I need this doctor. This kind, elderly doctor sitting on the other side of James. I need him because my brain is broken.
I need to know something else, though.
"Did I hurt you?" I ask tentitavely.
"No. Nothing you do could ever hurt me," James replies.
"Why? I hurt everyone."
"But, no matter what happens, I love you."
*************************************************************
Diagnosis will be paranoid schizophrenia, in case you want to know.
Kinda Donnie Darko, isnt it?
07 April, 2010
On My Own
Is it still a songfic if it's not fanfiction???
On My Own
by Jill C.
On my own
pretending he's beside me
all alone
I walk with him till morning
without him
I feel his arms around me
and all I see is him and me
forever and forever
--from Les Miserables
On my own. I had been my whole life. Marrying Anthony was supposed to make me feel less alone. But now I was more alone than ever.
I sat on the bench at the bus stop and clutched my churning stomach. I was more emotional than sick now, but the terrible feeling was the same.
Dusk was falling. The street lamp to my left flickered on and cast its shuddering glow over the deserted street. A moment later, the hospital's emergency sign lit itself, casting angry crimson across the cityscape. Even though the hospital was a full block away, I felt like its light was swallowing me. As the building's interior had already swallowed me.
Anthony had wanted to marry me. And I had wanted him even more. He was the sort of man I had always dreamed of, the sort of man that would sweep me up and carry me away. And he had carried me away. Away from life. And prejudice. And loudly protesting parents.
"You cannot marry him!" my mother had shouted at me. "He is not Japanese; he is not Buddhist!"
I could almost hear Anthony's obstacles as they were shouted out. "She's not Catholic! She's a Heathen!"
Nothing could stop our love, though. Early one Saturday, Tony showed up on my doorstep, slid a ring onto my finger, and drove me downtown to our new apartment.
I pulled my arms tighter around my aching stomach, hoping for, then against the arrival of the bus. I wanted to go home after sitting in the emergency room for so long. I twisted my right hand in the fabric of my blouse and felt again the pang of no ring twisting around my finger.
He took it away. He took it all away. His shallowness, his misunderstanding, had taken it all away. It started the day I woke up sick. I hadn't been feeling well for a while, but I had attributed it to the stress of leaving my parents. I sat on the bathroom floor retching, waiting for Tony to come help me, for him to comfort me. I was sick again and again, and I waited for him to come.
I pulled my knees to my chest and curled into a ball on the bench. I imagined Anthony's arms around my shoulders, his warm breath murmuring my name into my hair.
"Keiko," he would whisper. Then he would go on in his broken Japanese, sighing, "I love you, I love you forever," over and over.
When Anthony finally came, he was angry. I stood hunched over the sink swilling out my mouth. He came over and wrapped his arms around my waist. I thought he was comforting, but then he laid his hands on my lightly puffy stomach and growled, "You're pregnant."
"No," I choked. I was a virgin. Tony and I hadn't been together yet. He was a devout enough Catholic to insist on waiting.
"You little slut," he hissed, "No wonder you wanted to get married; you wanted me to cover up your little mistake, huh?"
"No, Tony, no," I gasped, "no."
"Such a slut," he spat. Anthony left the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
I pressed my forehead harder into my knees as the tears began to leak from the corners of my eyes. My imagined Tony began to dissolve, the warmth of his arms slowly fading from around my trembling shoulders.
"No, Tony, please, no," I whimpered. I wasn't sure if I was still trying to prove him wrong or if I was asking him to stay.
Anthony left. He pulled the ring off of my finger and left. The phone rang off the hook. My parents yelling at me, Tony's parents yelling at him. My head was too foggy to care. I was even sicker now. I had been steadily gaining weight before, but now my stomach pulled inwards, going from slightly convex to quite concave in just a few days. Bruises bloomed on my arms, and I could hardly keep any food down. I was desperate and alone.
The bus finally arrived, casting its grainy headlight glow over my pitiful form. I struggled to my feet and climbed the few steps to the bus's interior. I took the first empty seat and leaned my slightly clammy forehead against the window.
Leukemia. The tests had said leukemia. I needed medicine. And surgery. And money. And a home. With a family. But I was on my own.
On My Own
by Jill C.
On my own
pretending he's beside me
all alone
I walk with him till morning
without him
I feel his arms around me
and all I see is him and me
forever and forever
--from Les Miserables
On my own. I had been my whole life. Marrying Anthony was supposed to make me feel less alone. But now I was more alone than ever.
I sat on the bench at the bus stop and clutched my churning stomach. I was more emotional than sick now, but the terrible feeling was the same.
Dusk was falling. The street lamp to my left flickered on and cast its shuddering glow over the deserted street. A moment later, the hospital's emergency sign lit itself, casting angry crimson across the cityscape. Even though the hospital was a full block away, I felt like its light was swallowing me. As the building's interior had already swallowed me.
Anthony had wanted to marry me. And I had wanted him even more. He was the sort of man I had always dreamed of, the sort of man that would sweep me up and carry me away. And he had carried me away. Away from life. And prejudice. And loudly protesting parents.
"You cannot marry him!" my mother had shouted at me. "He is not Japanese; he is not Buddhist!"
I could almost hear Anthony's obstacles as they were shouted out. "She's not Catholic! She's a Heathen!"
Nothing could stop our love, though. Early one Saturday, Tony showed up on my doorstep, slid a ring onto my finger, and drove me downtown to our new apartment.
I pulled my arms tighter around my aching stomach, hoping for, then against the arrival of the bus. I wanted to go home after sitting in the emergency room for so long. I twisted my right hand in the fabric of my blouse and felt again the pang of no ring twisting around my finger.
He took it away. He took it all away. His shallowness, his misunderstanding, had taken it all away. It started the day I woke up sick. I hadn't been feeling well for a while, but I had attributed it to the stress of leaving my parents. I sat on the bathroom floor retching, waiting for Tony to come help me, for him to comfort me. I was sick again and again, and I waited for him to come.
I pulled my knees to my chest and curled into a ball on the bench. I imagined Anthony's arms around my shoulders, his warm breath murmuring my name into my hair.
"Keiko," he would whisper. Then he would go on in his broken Japanese, sighing, "I love you, I love you forever," over and over.
When Anthony finally came, he was angry. I stood hunched over the sink swilling out my mouth. He came over and wrapped his arms around my waist. I thought he was comforting, but then he laid his hands on my lightly puffy stomach and growled, "You're pregnant."
"No," I choked. I was a virgin. Tony and I hadn't been together yet. He was a devout enough Catholic to insist on waiting.
"You little slut," he hissed, "No wonder you wanted to get married; you wanted me to cover up your little mistake, huh?"
"No, Tony, no," I gasped, "no."
"Such a slut," he spat. Anthony left the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
I pressed my forehead harder into my knees as the tears began to leak from the corners of my eyes. My imagined Tony began to dissolve, the warmth of his arms slowly fading from around my trembling shoulders.
"No, Tony, please, no," I whimpered. I wasn't sure if I was still trying to prove him wrong or if I was asking him to stay.
Anthony left. He pulled the ring off of my finger and left. The phone rang off the hook. My parents yelling at me, Tony's parents yelling at him. My head was too foggy to care. I was even sicker now. I had been steadily gaining weight before, but now my stomach pulled inwards, going from slightly convex to quite concave in just a few days. Bruises bloomed on my arms, and I could hardly keep any food down. I was desperate and alone.
The bus finally arrived, casting its grainy headlight glow over my pitiful form. I struggled to my feet and climbed the few steps to the bus's interior. I took the first empty seat and leaned my slightly clammy forehead against the window.
Leukemia. The tests had said leukemia. I needed medicine. And surgery. And money. And a home. With a family. But I was on my own.
****************************************
And that's that!! I think it's a little on the cliche side, but I suppose it works. Opinions, please?
15 March, 2010
A Glimpse at Me
Here's a short character sketch of me skiing last weekend.
Winter Bright
by Jill C.
It is as if one of God's angels has slashed a goose down pillow, a beanbag chair, and a bag of ice and is shaking them all over my head. A nice day for skiing, sure. But not a nice day.
I am ready to go down the hill. I pause for a moment and consider what it took to get up the hill. All my breath, half my strength, ten minutes of strenuously v-stepping up at a hundred-and-twenty degree angle. I turn my face to the sky and let the mixed shaved ice collect on my goggles. I take a deep breath, bend my knees, and begin to slide down the hill.
The wind bites my cheeks and frozen pellets hit like pinpricks. The horizon has vanished; white ground and white sky combine into an endless expanse of bright nothingness. I reach the bottom of the hill and let out my breath, but the ground is suddenly gone from under me. I am hurtling downward at a thousand miles an hour. I try to remain stable, but to no avail. I am on my back, snow sliding between my jacket and shirt to form a cold, wet splotch. I skid to a stop, my eyes fixed on the sky. I push to my side, and see my poles stuck in the snow at the top of the second hill. I realize that I will now have to climb back up the hill that stole my strength-- with no poles. I flop back onto my back and begin to laugh.
Winter Bright
by Jill C.
It is as if one of God's angels has slashed a goose down pillow, a beanbag chair, and a bag of ice and is shaking them all over my head. A nice day for skiing, sure. But not a nice day.
I am ready to go down the hill. I pause for a moment and consider what it took to get up the hill. All my breath, half my strength, ten minutes of strenuously v-stepping up at a hundred-and-twenty degree angle. I turn my face to the sky and let the mixed shaved ice collect on my goggles. I take a deep breath, bend my knees, and begin to slide down the hill.
The wind bites my cheeks and frozen pellets hit like pinpricks. The horizon has vanished; white ground and white sky combine into an endless expanse of bright nothingness. I reach the bottom of the hill and let out my breath, but the ground is suddenly gone from under me. I am hurtling downward at a thousand miles an hour. I try to remain stable, but to no avail. I am on my back, snow sliding between my jacket and shirt to form a cold, wet splotch. I skid to a stop, my eyes fixed on the sky. I push to my side, and see my poles stuck in the snow at the top of the second hill. I realize that I will now have to climb back up the hill that stole my strength-- with no poles. I flop back onto my back and begin to laugh.
*****
Three projects currently in the works, none of which are very happy.
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