Monday, January 30, 2012

Ever So

(Originally written in 2008)

I should have been born with my own soundtrack
theme song
signature onomatopoeias as I step
Because the Earth moves ever so each time you breathe
times every other bone cage

We will all breathe and the Earth will move ever so.
We breathe, we walk, we pick things up off the shelf to inspect its quality, necessity, desirability.
Must it find a place in our home? On a table? On a shelf?
No, put it down.  Walk away.

We are walking, we play, we drive our cars, we stomp and dance, and run.
Imagine all the ever-so’s,
ever so, ever so, little by little, tremble again, scream "we are here. we are here."
Feel us inside you moving like electrons, protons, neutrons
move move move.
Earth moves ever so.

We love, we fight, we strut with importance,
faux confidence of being
to our next appointment.
Earth moves ever so.

We stuff it all under the bed at times for release of inhibition.
Find that release. The one who catches your eye in the moment.
Release me and I will release into you.
Touch me and I will feel you.
Want me and I will need you.
Fantasize and pull me in.
I will stay long, leave fast, rouse deep, hit hard.
End nothing.  Start something.
I will play your hand, save my hand until I pay.
Our Earth moves ever so.

Shine on when the lights go out.
Read on when the words disappear.
Move on when the crowd forgets.
Hold on when our hands are wet.
Breathe on when you only have the smell of her body to remember.
Ever so, we move.
Wake of energy when eyes meet.
Vibe on.  And Earth moves ever so.


Monday, January 23, 2012

Frick and Frack!

I'm "facebook friends" with my son's girlfriend, apparently.  I cannot see how anything good can possibly come from this.  On the one hand.

On the other hand, my son's girlfriend wants to be "facebook friends" with me.  It kinda makes me feel honored, yes?  She likes me! She really likes me!

On the other hand, my son's girlfriend wants to be "facebook friends" with me.  It makes me feel like my 16-year-old son is WAY THE FUCK TOO CLOSE to this girl if she is already "friending" her boyfriend's mother.

On the other hand, she's a precious little thing.  Truly a sweet girl.  That I am aware of.  I know what "sweet girls" do behind closed doors, though.  Hmph.  Here's a visual just so you know what I'm dealing with here: 

And yes, she has told Jake that she is scared of me. ME?? Little ole me? I'm harmless!

You know what's funny?  She lives in our neighborhood.  You know what's funnier?  My son asked if he could stay home by himself for the weekend when we go to Myrtle Beach next month.  Hang on a minute while I bust my appendix from laughing my ass off.......

.........Whew.  That was close.  Sigh.....

Oh, and now he just asked me what I would do if he kissed her in front of me. So. I responded that I thought kissing was a perfectly age-appropriate thing for 16 year olds and as long as he wasn't sucking her face in front of me, I would probably be cool with it. Am I right? No? Yes? Oh good gawd.... this is going to be the death of me....


Friday, January 13, 2012

Folie a Deux

Stroke her easy
bonny baby
on your tongue she steps by two
chasing sprats, those little crumbles
Pretty people shaped like you
Ante zed, you fine machine
I'll see and raise you hot
token prancer
riddle dancer
She was all
and you were not.


Wednesday, January 4, 2012

Hot Cognition

Oh, trouble, trouble
This fizzy little thing.
It ain’t me!
Says the book in the box.
or mother may I?
Says the book in the box.
Momma gone try.
She gone try to be smooth in her way.
Smooth and cool
‘bout as queer as a chandelier
when that engine gets crunk.
I know the way
that drops the fool on his knees
that flips him side-down-up.
Racing the chalk lines,
chasing the kickers and pickers
til their bellies go pop.
Ain’t no time!
Never no time for the mindgears’ roll
Damn the repose
of the cold clunkin' thinker.
No shy, no sigh, all spades in my deck.
It ain’t me
Says the book in the box.
It ain’t me!


For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Hannah Pratt challenged me with "I read it in a book. It's real. I didn't make the theory up." and I challenged trencher with "If passion were a palpable thing, what would it feel like?".


Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Cake and Dura Mater

Do you have a command voice? An “I am HERE, I EXIST, and THIS IS WHAT I NEED” voice? Not everyone does. For those of us who have one, sometimes we forget this. And even for those of us who have one, we sometimes forget how to use it.

My youngest baby had a birthday yesterday. He turned 15. Fifteen years old. He’s a truly brilliant child. A deeply sensitive kid. He feels the world in ways most people never have and never will. Sound waves, the passage of light, the forces of movement, thought rumbles, the growling of hate and the sighs of love. This kid feels it all. Feels it in ways I cannot understand. If I believed in the concept of an “Indigo Child,” (which I steadfastly DO NOT) he would be one. The kid taught himself Danish for fuck’s sake. Which I originally thought was Norwegian thanks to Google Translate, but he quickly corrected me by pointing out that although they are both North Germanic languages and intersect each other with regional dialects, there is apparently a difference between Norwegian and Danish.  Oh my. 

My Andrew. Such a baby in so many ways. When he was younger, the realities of the world would overwhelm him sometimes. I’d catch him in his bedroom with his head buried in a pillow crying. I would ask him what was wrong. And he would respond, “Sometimes, I think about you dying and it just hurts so much. What will I do if you die?” Wow. How do you respond to that?

I did it factually. I laid out the plan. Showed him my will and his dad’s will. Our life insurance. Reassured him that he has grandparents and aunts and uncles who will love him just as much as me and Dad. He would seem okay with that for a while. For a while.

He hasn’t done that in a couple years. At least, not that I have seen or heard.

But back to my original point. See, Andrew doesn’t have a command voice. Not like me, or his dad, or even his older brother. I think of it now and realize it must be a bit overwhelming to live in a house with such loud, forceful personalities when he is the only quiet one. And he is quiet. Sometimes, I feel as though he is allowing himself to fade into the background. But I don’t think that is truly the case. Andrew is a thinker. He thinks about everything. Swirls it about in his head. Looks at all sides, inspects, digests, works it out. I’ve sorta come to believe that he is so quiet because he is too busy thinking to remember to speak.

And that brings me back around to his birthday.

I have a problem with birthdays. And Christmas. And holidays in general. I hate them. And I am unmercifully selfish in that regard. Meaning, I completely forget that not everyone hates them. Including my kids. And my husband. Which means, I am the only one in the whole house who hates them. Yet, I take it upon myself to completely fucking ignore them, and ignore the fact that everyone wishes I would not ignore them. Holy fucking meatwad! I am a selfish, self-centered, callous, heartless whore in a bitch’s clothing! That is really the first time I have organized those words into a complete thought, and reading it now kind of makes me feel like shit. Damn it.

Of course, he got a birthday present, his iPod Touch. But apparently, Andrew really wanted a birthday cake.

He woke up this morning, the day after his birthday, almost in tears. No. He was in tears. My 15-year-old son was in tears because he didn’t get a birthday cake. He says he asked for one. As a matter of fact, he says that he even offered to buy it himself if someone would just take him to the store.

FUCKING SHIT, this makes me want to cry just writing it!

Neither his dad nor I remember hearing him say this. And I told him as much. Had Chris or I heard him say ANYTHING like that, either one of us would have been the first one in the car.

Needless to say, we got him a birthday cake today. Two of them, actually. Did I completely indulge my child out of a heartbreaking sense of guilt?

Fuck yes, I did.

Are there parents in the world who would have used this as a lesson on having thicker skin and building a bit of toughness?

Fuck yes, there are.

Instead, I used it as an opportunity to have a conversation with my brilliant child about having a command voice. About sticking up for himself. About realizing that he is important enough to have wants and needs. And he is important enough to verbalize them. He counts. He is here. He exists. And he matters.

A command voice. It isn’t about begging or being selfish or demanding things you don’t deserve. And it’s certainly not a guarantee that you will always get what you’re asking for. It’s about self-confidence. It’s about knowing yourself. It’s about actively going after the things you want, instead of passively floating through life hoping the things you want will find you.

And truly, I am a punk ass bitch.

I’m working on it.