If I could call the rain to dance I’d ask only for one violent and passionate tango;
the black/blue sky would be shot through with
lightening & the drum of thunder would rock
the earth and I, I would court it and hold its hand.
Dance with me. Dance with me. Shake me and wake me.
And when it was over I wouldn’t mind falling to
the ground ,the wet grass, the wet dirt,
and catching up with my breath.
If I could ask the sun to be mine at night, to
come to me at the hour that he retires and slips
behind that mountain we both love, I would. I’d
invite him to tea and we’d get drunk on
laughter and lazy on words. Talk to me and I
will listen. Make me laugh. Make me cry. Stir
me with your story. Shake me and wake me.
And when he left late in the night/early in the
morning I wouldn’t mind lying there by myself
feeling empty except for the words he’d placed
into my soul.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
My Roommate The Black Slug Who Oozed Self Loathing...
My roommate the black slug who oozed self loathing…
Be wary. Be cautious. Craigslist can be deadly. It can promise you gold and rainbows and beautiful things. It can (and oh! It does) reach its gentle hand forward, it’s palm overfilling with magic—“Look,” it says, “ I have ALL of this!” and you buy it, you open up both of your hands to catch some of its goodness but with a flick of the wrist, the magic is tucked back up its sleeve. It’s put away for some other naive and hopeful idiot. Craigslist hands over sticky filth.
I met her one summer day. She came skipping down the street as I dragged my laundry past the Trannie Prostitute (out for her afternoon stroll) and up my steep tiled stairs. Her hair was blond and streaked with pink. She was an artist and loved the beach. She giggled like a five year old. Perfect! Not only roommates, thought I, we could—just possibly—be great friends.
A handwritten contract was signed as we discussed how lovely life would be; we would convert the garage into a studio, we would drink wine, we would get gussied up and hit the town. Oh! The possibilities!
The following week, her father drove down to move her in. Her furniture was pink and cheap and she sat at the bottom of the stairs as I helped her dad and uncle carry it all up into my beautiful little apartment. I told myself that it didn’t’ mean anything. I told myself that I could live with the giant sea foam green hutch she dropped down next to my lime green living room wall. Relax, Aubrey. Don’t be a bitch, Aubrey.
And then a giant bomb was dropped: “ I am just coming from an in-house clinic. I have been battling an eating disorder since I was eleven.”
Translation: “I hate myself and am terribly needy.”
I don’t mean to be crass. I sympathize. There is not a single girl who hasn't had the thought of "What would it be like if I could just expell from my body that giant feast that I just rushed down my gullet."I just didn’t mean to sign up as a half way house. I didn’t want to wake up and find my full gallon of Rocky Road ice cream gone. I didn’t want to have to take down the sign I’d made and posted inside of the fridge that said ‘When you think about eating, think about sex instead.’ I didn’t want to have to clean vomit out of the toilet bowl.
At first, I remained hopeful. I didn't judge. I threw those worrisome signs out of the window. I helped her unpack and clung to the thought that this was going to be a good situation--perhaps not perfect, but good was good enough. I suggested movie nights. I invited her to hikes. Sometimes, in those brief moments, things were as I had envisioned them. We were on the verge of forming a friendship. But then she would slink back into her room; the door eternally closed.
And then a scent began to crawl from out under the eternally closed door. And then, all of the sudden, my beautiful little apartment began to be home not just to the two of us, but to a family of ants. And then cockroaches. And then that deep dark hole of negative self-loathing. Her energy invaded the house and flooded everything in my life. I stayed away. What could I do? She had no intention of getting better. This was her card and she intended to carry it with her so long as she could.
"I couldn't go pay the electric bill all week, because I'm sick and my heart may fail. No, I didn't think to tell you that you should go pay it..."
"I can't take the trash out even once, else I may end up in the hospital again."
"I can't wash my dishes...you know, I'm sick, right?" And so her dishes (my dishes, mind you) piled up in her not-yet-unpacked room, one on top of the other; old food crusted onto them. When all of my 16 bowls had vanished, I braved opening the eternally closed door to reclaim them. Every surface of dresser, bedside table, clean spot on floor, was littered with food remains...some crawling with little bugs. My blanket that I had been missing was crumpled up on the foot of her bed, my movies strung across her bedroom floor.
Later that evening, when I knew what I must do, I told her what I had found. She claimed that I had no right to go into her room to capture my things. I told her that she had the right to move on and find a new house to infect.
Life is short. She has since moved out.
Be wary. Be cautious. Craigslist can be deadly. It can promise you gold and rainbows and beautiful things. It can (and oh! It does) reach its gentle hand forward, it’s palm overfilling with magic—“Look,” it says, “ I have ALL of this!” and you buy it, you open up both of your hands to catch some of its goodness but with a flick of the wrist, the magic is tucked back up its sleeve. It’s put away for some other naive and hopeful idiot. Craigslist hands over sticky filth.
I met her one summer day. She came skipping down the street as I dragged my laundry past the Trannie Prostitute (out for her afternoon stroll) and up my steep tiled stairs. Her hair was blond and streaked with pink. She was an artist and loved the beach. She giggled like a five year old. Perfect! Not only roommates, thought I, we could—just possibly—be great friends.
A handwritten contract was signed as we discussed how lovely life would be; we would convert the garage into a studio, we would drink wine, we would get gussied up and hit the town. Oh! The possibilities!
The following week, her father drove down to move her in. Her furniture was pink and cheap and she sat at the bottom of the stairs as I helped her dad and uncle carry it all up into my beautiful little apartment. I told myself that it didn’t’ mean anything. I told myself that I could live with the giant sea foam green hutch she dropped down next to my lime green living room wall. Relax, Aubrey. Don’t be a bitch, Aubrey.
And then a giant bomb was dropped: “ I am just coming from an in-house clinic. I have been battling an eating disorder since I was eleven.”
Translation: “I hate myself and am terribly needy.”
I don’t mean to be crass. I sympathize. There is not a single girl who hasn't had the thought of "What would it be like if I could just expell from my body that giant feast that I just rushed down my gullet."I just didn’t mean to sign up as a half way house. I didn’t want to wake up and find my full gallon of Rocky Road ice cream gone. I didn’t want to have to take down the sign I’d made and posted inside of the fridge that said ‘When you think about eating, think about sex instead.’ I didn’t want to have to clean vomit out of the toilet bowl.
At first, I remained hopeful. I didn't judge. I threw those worrisome signs out of the window. I helped her unpack and clung to the thought that this was going to be a good situation--perhaps not perfect, but good was good enough. I suggested movie nights. I invited her to hikes. Sometimes, in those brief moments, things were as I had envisioned them. We were on the verge of forming a friendship. But then she would slink back into her room; the door eternally closed.
And then a scent began to crawl from out under the eternally closed door. And then, all of the sudden, my beautiful little apartment began to be home not just to the two of us, but to a family of ants. And then cockroaches. And then that deep dark hole of negative self-loathing. Her energy invaded the house and flooded everything in my life. I stayed away. What could I do? She had no intention of getting better. This was her card and she intended to carry it with her so long as she could.
"I couldn't go pay the electric bill all week, because I'm sick and my heart may fail. No, I didn't think to tell you that you should go pay it..."
"I can't take the trash out even once, else I may end up in the hospital again."
"I can't wash my dishes...you know, I'm sick, right?" And so her dishes (my dishes, mind you) piled up in her not-yet-unpacked room, one on top of the other; old food crusted onto them. When all of my 16 bowls had vanished, I braved opening the eternally closed door to reclaim them. Every surface of dresser, bedside table, clean spot on floor, was littered with food remains...some crawling with little bugs. My blanket that I had been missing was crumpled up on the foot of her bed, my movies strung across her bedroom floor.
Later that evening, when I knew what I must do, I told her what I had found. She claimed that I had no right to go into her room to capture my things. I told her that she had the right to move on and find a new house to infect.
Life is short. She has since moved out.
Monday, January 4, 2010
A Love Poem
I want to wrap you in stars and whisper kisses into your ears, onto your beautiful mouth.
I want to throw you into the wind so that I may watch you dance, this way, that way, your skin barely grazing my arm, my leg; warm.
Today marks the day of a new decade and all that I can think is that I want to spend it with you. All that I can see is your smile.
I didn’t know that we could ever love so strongly.
So strangely. So beautiful.
I want to swim in the thought of you—where all those brilliant fishes survive—and catch my toes on seaweed and dig my fingers into the sand.
I want to throw you into the wind so that I may watch you dance, this way, that way, your skin barely grazing my arm, my leg; warm.
Today marks the day of a new decade and all that I can think is that I want to spend it with you. All that I can see is your smile.
I didn’t know that we could ever love so strongly.
So strangely. So beautiful.
I want to swim in the thought of you—where all those brilliant fishes survive—and catch my toes on seaweed and dig my fingers into the sand.
Friday, December 18, 2009
December 18th
He might come with the wind
He might tap on your window
and breeze through your door
he might walk in and spill his secrets all over you
like blood
on white carpet.
He might push his lips too close to your ear
And maybe run his hand too far up your leg.
He might come in like an earthquake
And shake you up
And break you down
And shatter the perfect house that you’ve built for yourself.
And at last you’d say
“Finally, I am awake,
Finally, I am alive!”
He might tap on your window
and breeze through your door
he might walk in and spill his secrets all over you
like blood
on white carpet.
He might push his lips too close to your ear
And maybe run his hand too far up your leg.
He might come in like an earthquake
And shake you up
And break you down
And shatter the perfect house that you’ve built for yourself.
And at last you’d say
“Finally, I am awake,
Finally, I am alive!”
Take Me Home, Mr. Officer
I’d never sat in a police car before which is really rather shocking counting how many times I’d been caught drinking quite heavily before my twenty-first year. At any rate, I was finally invited into the back seat of a black and white. The door was opened and I gracefully slid in, hiccupping and talking too loudly about the sheer lack of comfort that the plastic seat failed to provide.
I was home from Los Angeles for a quick two week vacation—a retrieval of my mind and heart, the rebirth of my laughter. Also, my sister was due to pop with her little bastard. It was an emotional week that I was ready to spoon up and devour; I opened my mouth and invited every flavor in. And so, Saturday night rolled into sight and plans were made to take First Street.
First Street is quite an event…rather like walking back into high school and telling everyone to “Fuck off! You got Fat!” “Fuck off! You are still here!” And to the boy that I wasted four years of eye goggling at: “Fuck off! Can’t have me now!” All of this shouting while I flounce around in my cute little dress throwing hugs out like candy on Halloween. We girls are really such catty bitches but hey, it makes me feel good and I know I’m not alone because every time I fly home my dear cousin is sure to drive up and meet me in our hometown so we can do First Street together. We become a chorus line of Fuck Offs!
The Night had gone quite well, I can’t count how many “Fuck Offs! “ I had gotten to throw around that night but I know that my self esteem was soaring. Drinks had been bought, dances had been given, and last call had been called. Amos Otis (my darling cousin) and I stumbled into the night at which point things get hazy. An officer drove us home and let us pose against his car like pinup models of long ago. All this why he flashed his guns and his pearly whites. Only in Snohomish.
A week later, My mother and I found ourselves in the courtyard over a fire and under blooming clematis (which we are ought to do in the summer) and we were apparently playing our music a little too loudly (brought on by one too many glasses of red wine) and the old ears and old spirits of an unknown neighbor called us in. Noise Complaint. And guess who shows up to registrar said complaint; a blushing officer of the law.
I was home from Los Angeles for a quick two week vacation—a retrieval of my mind and heart, the rebirth of my laughter. Also, my sister was due to pop with her little bastard. It was an emotional week that I was ready to spoon up and devour; I opened my mouth and invited every flavor in. And so, Saturday night rolled into sight and plans were made to take First Street.
First Street is quite an event…rather like walking back into high school and telling everyone to “Fuck off! You got Fat!” “Fuck off! You are still here!” And to the boy that I wasted four years of eye goggling at: “Fuck off! Can’t have me now!” All of this shouting while I flounce around in my cute little dress throwing hugs out like candy on Halloween. We girls are really such catty bitches but hey, it makes me feel good and I know I’m not alone because every time I fly home my dear cousin is sure to drive up and meet me in our hometown so we can do First Street together. We become a chorus line of Fuck Offs!
The Night had gone quite well, I can’t count how many “Fuck Offs! “ I had gotten to throw around that night but I know that my self esteem was soaring. Drinks had been bought, dances had been given, and last call had been called. Amos Otis (my darling cousin) and I stumbled into the night at which point things get hazy. An officer drove us home and let us pose against his car like pinup models of long ago. All this why he flashed his guns and his pearly whites. Only in Snohomish.
A week later, My mother and I found ourselves in the courtyard over a fire and under blooming clematis (which we are ought to do in the summer) and we were apparently playing our music a little too loudly (brought on by one too many glasses of red wine) and the old ears and old spirits of an unknown neighbor called us in. Noise Complaint. And guess who shows up to registrar said complaint; a blushing officer of the law.
The Introduction Of Ted
Ted lives in our cellar…
Wait, that is not a proper beginning.
Ted was born the year we moved to Snohomish. I had just entered second grade and was the new kid for the first time and there was no fitting in gracefully; I was a spot of red on a white wall. At my old school I was beloved and celebrated and when I announced that I’d be moving with my family to the next town over tears were shed and a giant party of showering gifts was given. I’ll admit that I was sad at my departure but mostly I was excited; these people knew me and they loved me this much, imagine being the new kid; everyone would want to be my friend. Naive little idiot.
I was Wednesday Adams dropped down into a Thomas Kinkaid painting. All the other eight year olds looked at me and knew right away that I wasn’t of the same cloth. “You’re not from around here, are you?” Brittany asked me one day. Maybe it was my cutoffs and flannels verses their pink stretchy leggings and Beauty and the Beast sweatshirts. Maybe because I never wore pigtails in my hair. Maybe because my mom dropped me off to school in our 74’ Volkswagen bus blasting the likes of Nirvana. It probably didn’t help that we moved into the towns infamous haunted house that sat perched on top of an overgrown hill. And then there came Ted.
For a week the local police who had very little to do took turns watching our house. 7am or 9 pm it didn’t matter one of their bejeweled white cars would be parked across the street with two sets of eyes pointed our way. Was he real? Were these people serious? Obviously they don’t belong here…general consensus around town. They almost seemed disappointed when fake cobwebs were stretched across our deck and pumpkins were carved and placed down our stairs. Okay, he’s fake but still it’s weird.
Ted looked much like the locals dressed in beat up denim and red plaid buttoned up to his chin. He was given shaggy untrimmed dirty blonde hair and his face wasn’t all that bad that first year. He even wore shoes which were hard to attach. And when he was stuffed full of the leaves that my mother had made us rake into giant piles he was splattered with blood and hung up high in a tree. Yes, it was weird.
The school bus crawled past our house every morning and every afternoon and it wasn’t long before it started to spread that we hung dead bodies. And then my mom was a witch and we were quite abnormal children. Everybody soon wanted the token freak as their friend. If I disappointed them by being a giggling eight year old like the rest of them they never told me besides, the sleepovers at my house were the best…we had a ghost that lived in the bell-tower.
October came and went and Ted was unstrung and packed up with the rest of the Halloween decorations and stuffed into our cellar where real spiders would make home inside of him. Between now and then his face would rot a little and the leaves that filled out his pants would dry and crumble and Ted would shrink into an emancipated corpse…no longer fresh.
Year two we were still given the eye but by the third Halloween the ceremonial hanging became quite expected. People asked for Ted. It was quite an honor to be invited over to rebuild Ted’s face or re-stuff Ted’s legs…forget hanging him…that was my brother’s job.
Time has lapsed and Ted has been refigured and rebuilt. He has had several different faces and worn multiple shirts. He has lost nearly all of his hair and in general looks much older. Sad how that happens to us…and I too have grown and changed. I live some 2000 miles away and my mother just called; Ted has been hung. The season has officially begun.
Wait, that is not a proper beginning.
Ted was born the year we moved to Snohomish. I had just entered second grade and was the new kid for the first time and there was no fitting in gracefully; I was a spot of red on a white wall. At my old school I was beloved and celebrated and when I announced that I’d be moving with my family to the next town over tears were shed and a giant party of showering gifts was given. I’ll admit that I was sad at my departure but mostly I was excited; these people knew me and they loved me this much, imagine being the new kid; everyone would want to be my friend. Naive little idiot.
I was Wednesday Adams dropped down into a Thomas Kinkaid painting. All the other eight year olds looked at me and knew right away that I wasn’t of the same cloth. “You’re not from around here, are you?” Brittany asked me one day. Maybe it was my cutoffs and flannels verses their pink stretchy leggings and Beauty and the Beast sweatshirts. Maybe because I never wore pigtails in my hair. Maybe because my mom dropped me off to school in our 74’ Volkswagen bus blasting the likes of Nirvana. It probably didn’t help that we moved into the towns infamous haunted house that sat perched on top of an overgrown hill. And then there came Ted.
For a week the local police who had very little to do took turns watching our house. 7am or 9 pm it didn’t matter one of their bejeweled white cars would be parked across the street with two sets of eyes pointed our way. Was he real? Were these people serious? Obviously they don’t belong here…general consensus around town. They almost seemed disappointed when fake cobwebs were stretched across our deck and pumpkins were carved and placed down our stairs. Okay, he’s fake but still it’s weird.
Ted looked much like the locals dressed in beat up denim and red plaid buttoned up to his chin. He was given shaggy untrimmed dirty blonde hair and his face wasn’t all that bad that first year. He even wore shoes which were hard to attach. And when he was stuffed full of the leaves that my mother had made us rake into giant piles he was splattered with blood and hung up high in a tree. Yes, it was weird.
The school bus crawled past our house every morning and every afternoon and it wasn’t long before it started to spread that we hung dead bodies. And then my mom was a witch and we were quite abnormal children. Everybody soon wanted the token freak as their friend. If I disappointed them by being a giggling eight year old like the rest of them they never told me besides, the sleepovers at my house were the best…we had a ghost that lived in the bell-tower.
October came and went and Ted was unstrung and packed up with the rest of the Halloween decorations and stuffed into our cellar where real spiders would make home inside of him. Between now and then his face would rot a little and the leaves that filled out his pants would dry and crumble and Ted would shrink into an emancipated corpse…no longer fresh.
Year two we were still given the eye but by the third Halloween the ceremonial hanging became quite expected. People asked for Ted. It was quite an honor to be invited over to rebuild Ted’s face or re-stuff Ted’s legs…forget hanging him…that was my brother’s job.
Time has lapsed and Ted has been refigured and rebuilt. He has had several different faces and worn multiple shirts. He has lost nearly all of his hair and in general looks much older. Sad how that happens to us…and I too have grown and changed. I live some 2000 miles away and my mother just called; Ted has been hung. The season has officially begun.
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