Saturday, June 7, 2014


By page 22, I realize the difference, and significance, of reading authors whose writing style I share versus reading authors whose genre I share. "He writes just like me," I think to myself, already having discovered the oddness of my preference for reading nonfiction yet writing fiction years ago. In the very eye of a perfectly crafted metaphor lies the human soul and the sum total of its human experience. And that is when my epiphany runs naked through the riot. My stories are not fiction, and that is why you cannot read them. My stories are the eye of my soul- all it has seen and felt, twisted upon itself to create a world of could-have-beens and could-bes, dancing together in step with all that has already been. My name cannot be Aimee. Because I will not let you see me naked. That is why I am the deus ex machina. The god in a box I've carried with me since the day I took my first breath in this world. I am not your savior. I am not your key appearing from nowhere as if molded by the gales of Neptune and dropped in your hand by his will alone. I am my own god. My own savior. My own key.   

"He writes just like me," I think to myself. 

Sing a song of sixpence?
I think I'll hide my pie. 


Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Magic: I Shall Begin Again

I believe in magic.

The magic of evening thunder, when the world passes around you without pause or consciousness, yet your own overtakes the living thing within you and steals the breath from your lungs.

I believe in the magic of words. Words that are spoken, and those that are sung within the depth of you that only one other soul, plucked from the guf with your own, may hear.

The magic of patience in a time when patience is a lost art, lost among the heads buried inside their gadgets, only to emerge when it behooves their stomachs or wallets or aching boredom.

I believe in the magic of the storm raging outside my window. The second of the day. A voice from across the miles crying to be heard.

I believe in the lost magic of humanity, though my doubts lie in whether it can ever be recovered. Though I believe in its magic, I have lost faith in its ability to wield it.

A toe in the water. The sun on my back. The longing for a third eye of life tracing my body from across a crowded room, knowing my thoughts are echoed, the sensuality of the echo, the sexuality of the ear it captures.

I believe in the magic of my lost talent. One I have suppressed for the tedium of simplicity, the longing for mediocrity within a mind created for so much more.

I believe in the magic of the the shattered glass on which I step. For it shall not cut me, but speak to a life I’ve left untouched for far too long. I believe in the magic of that life. The magic of the voice that speaks to me in hushed tones, in a shadow world where admittance is granted only to those who speak the language of lust, pulchritude, and the simple touch of a finger as it brushes a single hair from my face.


There is magic in this world. For those who believe. For those who know they were born in the body of a woman, beneath the umbra of a commoner, yet with the ghost of a goddess who whispers the teachings of flight of soul and golden feet which never tire as they travel between the stars to find their shoes, dangling from a single finger held in wait for the thousands upon thousands of years it has taken me to learn to fly.

I’d like my shoes. I’d like to take that finger in my mouth and taste its magic within its weary callouses. I’d like to thank the face that owns it for its patience. I’d like to thank the spirit the guides it for its faith.

Have faith in me, as I know you do. Believe in the magic of the multiverse. Trust in the path of the strings we cross, and the ones that run parallel to the human lives we’re given.

We were gifted with this magic. And there are no parallel paths we cannot sway askew.

Until we meet again. 


Monday, March 3, 2014


I realize I haven't written anything here in a very long time. I'm not sure if I will for a while. I haven't written anything anywhere for a very long time. I've probably read close to 20 books this year. All of them forgotten in a matter of 3 minutes on my living room floor. 

Many things forgotten. 

A lot of aimless staring. 

A lot of disassociation. 

All psychological defense mechanisms I have spent a lifetime cultivating are gone. Not out of humility or epiphany, but because I have forgotten them. 

Not by my own choice. 

I worry a lot less. I care a lot less. 

Not by choice. 

But because "me" has been numbed. Blunted. Distorted. 

Each evening comes a new headache. 

Each night a different nightmare. But those started weeks ago. 

My blood work is normal. 

My EKG is normal. 

The swelling in my tongue has gone. 

The attempted IV sites on my hands and arms are a sickening shade of green. 

My CT scan has "no evidence of acute intracranial pathology." 

People say stress. People say medication reaction. People say adult-onset epilepsy. 

I haven't had an MRI yet. 

I don't think I'm going to. 


Friday, February 14, 2014

Just Doing What They Told Ya

I knew I was going to homeschool my kids at an age when I had already decided I'd never have any kids.
As I sat in some random classroom. Beneath the fluorescent lights. Being encouraged to memorize some useless bullshit that would be forgotten as soon as the next test was completed. 
As I sat on a wooden desk scrawling curse words into it with the razor blade I stole from biology class. The same razor blade I used to slice my calf open in my bathroom one day. Not because I wanted to die. But because I wanted to know what it felt like. The coolest thing about it was seeing how deeply a straight razor can cut when you just slice the fuck out of something. Not slowly. Not meticulously. Not surgically. Just straight out, fast, slice. And suddenly, you see this white shit beneath your flesh that you never saw when you dissected the stupid frog.  Fascinating. 
I knew children didn't belong in school when my Spanish teacher threatened to give me detention for wearing cut-off jean shorts that were a bit too short. It was, apparently, a distraction. Her calling me out of class to tell me this was the true distraction. Me wrenching my fingers on the side of the shorts and ripping them all the way up to my ass was an even better distraction. Asking her "What now, bitch?"  Was the best distraction of all. 
In-school suspension. The best joke of them all. 
Watching them try. Try and try. What will get through to her? Let's go further. Let's try something else. Let's take something else away. Let's send her to school in the summer. Let's fail her. 
When you're dealing with someone who truly cares about absolutely NOTHING within that brick facade of education, the more you take away, the more you punish, the more you "challenge," the angrier that someone becomes. You want to fuck with me? Well. Fuck you. I'm done. Goodbye. Have a nice fucking life, assholes. 
I didn't want kids then. I never did. But I knew children did not belong in school. I knew there was something detrimentally wrong with it. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but I knew it's original purpose had been lost, twisted, disfigured over years of mixing true learning in a blender with words like "curriculum" and "standards" and coming up with a thick, green, soul-killing experience that taught me the truest definition of the word hatred I have ever felt. 
I was not bullied in school. I was never abused. In fact, I had teachers who loved me. A lot. A few I actually liked. I did well in school. I had a perfectly normal (most of the time) home life. I was never relegated to the geek lunch table. I was never the girl who was ignored. The only time I ever failed any classes was when I did it on purpose. 
I hated school for a very simple, almost laughingly simple, almost indescribably simple reason. Because I was forced to go. Because there was no knowledge in it. I saw no purpose in it. The only lessons I learned during those 10 years were cultural ones, societal ones, lessons on the failure of the system, the death of learning, and that the easiest way to kill a child's love of learning is with a #2 pencil and a textbook. 
I knew then. In kindergarten. In 2nd grade. In 5th grade. In 8th grade. In 10th grade. That school, education as we know it today, in all its forms, was wrong in every single way it could possibly be wrong. Every single thing schools, the government, the faculty, the board of education did to try and fix the wrongness merely created more wrongness. And fixing it could not happen without destroying it altogether and replacing it with a form of learning that only a few brave human beings on this planet have any concept of, are willing to implement, and who know that it works.  
This is the hammer that built by soapbox today. 

The answer is so simple. 900 hours. NINE HUNDRED HOURS OF YOUR CHILD'S LIFE. Gone. Every year you pack them off to school and watch them walk through those double doors and into a building full of protocol and concepts that are not, and were never, created to teach a child to learn or to teach a child to love learning. But formed, fashioned, by hand, by purposeful thought and abstraction all in the same breath, to turn your child into another brick in the wall of a country whose walls are now crumbling around us, a country whose invisible box we cannot escape because the concept of thinking outside of it is now dead. 

Wednesday, January 8, 2014


Have you ever noticed how fascinated you become when you discover someone who is your complete opposite? 

I was going to say "polar" opposite, but the Sarge and I got to talking about it and, truly, the poles aren't that opposite. Not a whole lot different at all, really. 

Even though the word "polar" means opposite, so it would be redundant anyway, unless you're referring to a thing's capability to ionize, which I doubt is what is inferred here, but anything's possible. 

And I don't think "poloequatorially opposite" really conveys much of anything, though the idea of coining a word is quite tempting. 

Beside the point. 

Opposite. Yeah. There are a lot of people in the world who are different from me. A lot of people I have nothing in common with. So much so that I would be a foreign species to them, and them to me. 

But to be one's opposite is quite a loaded thing. I've rarely encountered it. But when I do, it fascinates me. I study them. The words they use. The music they listen to. The books they've read. The company they keep. The people they quote. Which they inevitably do because it's something I almost never do. Quote people, that is. So it would stand to reason that my opposite would do it readily. I've always figured that if I am going to use words, I am going to use my own. If I am going to make points, say something substantial or enlightening, I can say it myself. I certainly don't need to steal anyone else's words. 

Beside the point. 

Perhaps people use quotes to flaunt what they think they know? Or who they think they know? 

Beside the point. 

So, yes. A woman who is my opposite. She'd have to be.... well.... a different species entirely. 
Although, I've been told by two excellent sources (read: my kids) that I'm a different species entirely. As in, "Mom, other girls aren't EN-EE-THING like you! I'm never going to understand them!" Sigh.... I don't, either, baby. I don't, either. 

My opposite would be a true girl. Girly, pearly, swirly, twirly GIRL. She'd probably quote people like Marilyn Monroe or some other nonsense and truly believe she is an noble example for young women to follow. Because. She had hips? She fucked her way through Hollywood and swallowed a bunch of pills when shit got rough? Hell if I know. But there it is. 

My opposite would read romance novels and pine for things. I don't know what things. Whatever things girls pine for. She'd do a whole lotta pining. 

She'd have a pretty face to the world and a bitter inside face. Whereas. Well. I'm the opposite. Yes. I just said that. And it's true. Don't tell anybody. My opposite would most certainly surround herself with a gaggle of estrogen who all believe she's "just faaaabulous" when, in fact, when she's alone with herself and her misery, only she knows the truth. Her fabulous visage cracks under her superfluous pining.

My opposite would be smart with numbers, and because of that, she'd feel she has to work twice as hard to make it in a "man's world." And because of that, she would be just jaded enough to believe that her number talent translates into a general brilliance. In short, she'd be too self-absorbed to know what she doesn't know. Too busy with that glass ceiling, no doubt, to calm herself and revel in her ignorance. 

Oh, my sweet ignorance. A beautiful black pond, swimming blind while feeling your own way out. My opposite would snub that pond and walk around it. She wouldn't want to get dirty.  And plus, she might get electrocuted by her permanent hair-dryer appendage. No doubt. 

Sexually frigid, she would be. For sure. Maddeningly so. Maybe she's so disgusted by her own appearance that she is also disgusted with the idea of flaunting it. Maybe- gasp- sex does nothing for her at all. 

My opposite would be tall. Perhaps blond. Or even another race? But she'd be tall. Slim, fragile, willowy. She'd have little interest in physical strength, athleticism, or competition. She'd have a huge extended family that she can't bring herself to part with (perhaps a Momma's girl?).  She'd be busy. A full-time job that would require of her daily contact with humans who she handles with much more grace than I possess, yet enmity that seethes just beneath. Does she let that anger loose at home? Or does she let it simmer until an innocent moves her hairbrush? Yet she is angry. Her own raised voice does not deter her. The scared faces of her children do not deter her. The helplessness of her husband does not deter her. Her attempts to fashion the world around her into shadowboxed perfection are brittle, yet she patches the cracks with poorly mixed mortar and keeps going. 

Her artistic side is feeble at best, though she tries. She's smart, remember? Though not smart enough to know she's no artist. No writer. Not even much of a thinker of original thinks, but pulls them from true thinkers (or stupid ones) and scrawls her name across them. 

She's a lady and expects to be treated as such. Her puritanical mein lacks the ability to tolerate a good ribbing, and she'd never ever stand for being called bitch, slut, little whore, sweetass, cuntmuncher, et al. She has breasts, not tits, and she'd rather you not talk about them. If her frame is not slight and willowy, she wishes it was, yet abhors exercise, probably believing that "some people are just born this way" and "there's nothing I can do about it." And she just doesn't have time to work out anyway. 

She expects gifts on her birthday and Christmas. She actually likes getting flowers on her anniversary, finding beauty and society's invention of love in a dead rose in a bottle, never ever considering the possibility that no emotion backed the purchase of said flowers, just the desire to keep her happy. Because when she's not happy, she's intolerable.

And as you hear me saying these things, I am sure you hear a hint of sarcasm in my voice, yes? It's hard not to be. Because it's hard to fathom that a woman like this actually exists. Does she? I'm sure she has to. 

Because the exact opposite exists. 

But let's be fair. 

There are thousands of smart, successful, graceful, happy women out there. Wonderful mothers, wonderful wives. Their lives are organized, yet they know when to let go and breathe the fresh air once in a while. Their lives are juggled with mirth and an ass-grab between lovers is perfectly acceptable. Somehow, they find the time to fit in a good run every morning, appreciate a dizzying array of musical genres, and love a big, heavy, hardcover Tolstoy while lying on the grass on a sunny day. Because of them, their boy children treat women with respect and awe and a gentle touch. Because of them, their girl children are strong, self-aware, capable, and stylish. Because of them, their husbands live beneath a rainbow of true love with fulfilled expectations, sans bitterness, san resentment, nor tension. He plays with her hair while they lunch together. She looks to him as she would a Michaelangelo beneath a noon sun. 

Hmph. That ain't me, either. 

But it's not my opposite. 

If fact, I'd venture to guess it might just be complete fiction. 

Then who am I, you ask? Certainly, if I am so intimately aware of my opposite, I should be just as intimately aware of myself. And to a large extent, I am. 

I am not tall. Curvy, but not overweight, and certainly nowhere near willowy. A bit muscular for my taste, but I wear it proudly. It's who I am. I love knowing what my body can do, and how much farther I can push it. I. Actually. Love. To. Run. Love it. The wind. The pounding feet. The burning thighs. Straining calves. The music ringing in my ears. Love it. 

I have no talent in the math arena. Zero. Failed algebra twice in school. Finally passed it with a C in college. Proud to say I even went as far as a statistics class. Passed it. Hated it with a passion. I couldn't tell you what a logarithm is to save my life. I'm good with computers, but naturally so. It isn't something I'm passionate about, nor would I ever want to make it a career. I learned through reverse engineering and a strange ability to fearlessly crack open a laptop or a CPU with wanton recklessness. I've never destroyed a computer, but my ego did destroy an Iphone not too long ago. Note to self- The ability to change an Iphone battery does not translate into the ability to replace an Iphone screen. Lesson learned. 

I am painfully aware of all that I don't know, and that there is so much more I'll never know that I don't know. And I love it. For if I knew it, the world would hold no mystery for me. And mystery is beauty.  

I am not a feminist. Not in any capacity. I have no desire to break glass ceilings or compete in male-dominated career fields simply for the sake of doing it. I chose to stay at home with my children from the day they were born until the day I handed them their signed and notarized high school diplomas.  I don't cook worth shit, but I taught my kids to cook. So at least there's that. 

I judge rage as completely unacceptable. There is nothing. NOTHING. Nothing okay with yelling at your family. Anger is one thing. Rage is another. Screaming is another. Loosing control of one's emotions such that it affects the well-being of your family is UNFUCKINGACCEPTABLE. There is no excuse. There are no "bad days" that justify this. You fucking fix yourself or you don't deserve to be a parent. Full stop. I chose to fix myself before my children were old enough to remember my rage. Because my family deserves the best of me. Period.  Would my opposite never have had this rage to begin with? Or would she have it yet without the ability to fix herself? It's been so long. And I am so far removed from that as an inherent part of me that it is difficult for to me say. But the more I think about it, the more I am sure my opposite would never have felt this rage. She would be wholly at peace with herself and the world around her, her frustrations engendering a calm introspection rather than a lashing out.

I have zero fashion sense. I hate shopping. I don't drink wine, or drink at all really. I chain smoke like a 3-dollar whore and wear yoga pants with motorcycle boots. I run races. I pick my zits. I dye my own hair, yet I don't brush it. I don't wear makeup but brush my teeth fanatically. I read horror, nonfiction, sci-fi, and stay on the fringes of fantasy. Very few authors can play with the big dogs in the fantasy genre and most of the time, it's just painful to watch them try. So I don't. My kids have grown up hearing their parents hurl the filthiest of pet names at one another yet everyone is laughing and no feelings ever get hurt. Needless to say, their first foray into the girlfriend arena was a disaster. They have now learned that 99% of the female population will not stand for being called a "crusty old bitch with sweet titties." Fortunately, my babies learn fast. My opposite's surface aesthetics and manifest formality would crash headlong into my laissez-faire trailer park quality.

I know my physical assets and I am not ashamed of them. A nice rack of cleavage in public is perfectly acceptable, and I am 100% aware of the men who look at me. What they think when they look at me is another matter entirely. Lord only knows. And I really don't care. Sex is the most fantastic thing ever invented and there is no limit on how much is appropriate, when, where, how loud, or how destructive. Sex. Just. Is. So do it. More. And a lot. It's good for you!

I'm horribly disorganized and frequently have flight of ideas and delusions of grandeur. My attention span is on par with a 5-year-old in a pile of leaves on an Autumn day. 

I am overflowing with faults and weaknesses. I am intolerably arrogant. I am painfully honest. A narcissist to the Nth degree. But I don't lie. I don't cheat. I don't steal.  And I am totally unapologetic about who I am. I care what I think. I care what the people I love think. If others have a problem with me, they can suck start a shotgun for all I care. Troll my comments, send me hate mail. Go ahead. All it does is give me a hearty laugh. But whatever you do, please don't email me pictures of your dick. Yes, that has happened. 

My opposite. Oh, how I'd love to meet her. Share a tall glass of whatthefuck and force her to listen to Jane's Addiction blaring "Ain't No Right" while listening to my assbackward ideas of womanhood. Maybe I'd even drag her along on a run with me. Force her to go a couple days without brushing her hair. Stay barefoot for as along as possible. Wallow in the grass. Share a smoke and talk North Korean politics for an afternoon. Debate the stupidity of roses and jewelry and why the career ladder she's climbing is doing nothing but wasting perfectly good fucking time. 
Maybe I'd even get her naked and force her to stare at herself in the mirror for as long as possible. 

And then ask her how in the HELL she puts up with the dregs of humanity with such grace and a smiling face, despite her acute lack of self-esteem.

Oh, where for art thou, opposite lady? Come to me! 

We have things to discuss.