Blog Archives

Promises

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Ashes fell on me

Creped skin

Regrets

Promises each day of a new beginning

My abused temple

Modified

Sacrificed

Ignored …

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The Birth of Debauchery Soup – and how Fate reared its head to remind me

I was wide-eyed today.

Nothing much shocks me.  Nothing much disturbs me (which is really sorta sad) , nothing much surprises me  – and I cut my eyes at anything online with a very ‘going to check Snopes’ eye.

So – I live in the desert.  That much has been offered up.  I will not share where.

But, the one time of the year that the temperature is PERFECT, we have an obscene wind.  A wind that whips through yards, blows patio furniture into pools – roof parts into neighbors yards etc.

My shed has taken this wind – and the wind has taken its toll.

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Here’s the thing.

The shed used to be full.

I told my landlady that it was being destroyed bit by bit every strong wind we had.

It got to the point that each rain, my ‘things’ were being destroyed.

Items were ruined.  Suitcases, Books (yeah, real ones, not the ones on nook – I had Lady Bird and Mr. Men books in there – 1st edition)

ANYWAY – taking the high road – and knowing these are FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS, I digress.

My landlady is sending someone out to remove the shed of death.  Because, let’s face it, one more piece flys, and someone can be decapitated or property can be MAJORLY damaged!

She will have someone come out and dismantle the ‘death shed’.

I had my family (son and fiance) put shed items on the patio today – yesterday, bless his heart, my honey emptied the shed, but we were lookin’ like the neighbors with our shite out in the yard.

Going through it, I tossed tapes, yeah, TAPES, of music that I LOVED, salvaged photos of my son that had not been water drenched.

Many cards that mean nothing to me anymore and just ‘stuff’ I can live without.

During this, I found something very meaningful.

Stay with me – I know this is long.

Debauchery Soup.

Jim.

So, guess what?

Back in the day, in Professor Mooney’s class, we had to make 20 copies of what we wrote for the creative writing class.

It was passed out, anonymously, and our fellow classmates commented on it.

After Jim and I reconnected, I searched for a long time for ‘Purple Haze’ – the piece I wrote in college that began our collaboration on a comic.

We had shared a creative writing class.

(Commented on our writing in ink.)

I still have multiple copies of other writings, with comments, in my ‘memory box’.

But, I could not, for the LIFE of me, find my piece, ‘Purple Haze’.

And, yeah, I know what you’re thinking.   But, I (sorry) had no knowledge at that time of Mr. Hendrix.

My dad went to New York on a business trip, and I asked him in my youthful ignorance, to bring me back something from ‘Bloomingdale’s’.

I got a neon phone.

And, it cast a purple haze on my room at night – it glowed pink during daytime.

It was see through – and amazing.

And inspired … ‘Purple Haze’.

Today, I came home early after collecting my prescriptions and with the need to go through, and clean out the items salvaged from the shed.

Guess what I found?

Too much foreshadowing?

lol.

Not only did I find ‘Purple Haze’.

The ONLY existing copy.

BUT.

The person who commented on it?

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Yeah …

I know that handwriting.

The ONLY existing copy of Purple Haze – the predecessor  to the Arnold art ….

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was commented on by the one and only …. Jim.  My current fiancée.

We shared that class. And the only copy has HIS handwriting on it.

Much like the picture above survived his Chicago house fire.

SO …. fate?????

And as for the blog name?

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This was the actual day that I decided on a name for a book.  After my ‘pill’ paragraph and the comment, ‘soupy’.  How many people HAVE that??  Amazing.

I love that the only copy of Purple Haze has my future husbands handwriting on it – but it has one other persons also.

He did not write ‘Soupy’.

And I’m waiting for confirmation of who did.

And if it’s who I think it is – we have a bigger story.  To be continued ….

I’ve always been a little macabre – but my handwriting got better

While cleaning like a mad woman this weekend (due to an ant invasion following one of our monsoon storms) I came across some ancient writings.  Barely legible – i decoded them.  Turns out they were mine.  I’m going to share some with you – put your decoder ring away, I’ve translated.

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 Untitled

Pressure valves and tourniquets

Defensive words and dinner plays

Gulping works with dirty water

Sweaty palms grope virgin daughter

Warnings drilled, opinions form

Cautious cold heart replaces warm

 

Another Untitled One

Nervous glances give me all I need for long due confirmation

Opening wounds containing memories of nightly degradation

Clammy hands that shake with age rest on his boney lap

Familiar hands that shook me from the safety of my nap …

 

Programmed

“A toast then, to Mrs. Maple and her generous contribution to the club!”

Lift glass – tilt glass – consume – put down glass – smile

“Her selfless sacrifice continues the tradition of commitment and giving of self”

Applaud – smile – nod in agreement

“Well then shall we retire to the lounge for the festivities?”

Get up – follow person in front – walk to room

“Everyone in?  Good.  Shut the door please.”

Find a seat – sit – smile

“Let us begin.  Mr. Maple, you may bring your wife up now.”

Turn to Mr. Maple – smile – turn attention back to speaker

“That’s it, bring her right in – over there, on the table if you don’t mind Mr. Maple.”

Observe ritual – don’t  turn away – don’t  flinch – don’t cry

 Excerpt from an untitled 8 page writing

…  yet I do enjoy the continuity of the source of my complaining.  The dependable encounters I’ve grown accustomed to.  A home of sorts with no surprises left to find, and people left on guard not willing to trust quickly or care too soon.

I’m guilty of the same crime that keeps me at arm’s length.

We allow the best of our wardrobes out and wittiest comments in discussions.  Our best touched by exploring eyes – purposely blinded to miss any deeper layers – any complex facets, faults or hidden failures.

Afterall, why expose anything more than appeasing traits …

Untitled

My eyes remained closed as my mother leaned gently over my bed and brushed a few stray hairs from my forehead.  I loved the smell of my mother when she came home from a night out.  Chanel No. 5 and fresh air mingled with her personal ‘motherly smell’.  I breathed her in as I feigned sleep.

Sharp grasses

My mind buzzes like flying things – resting in sharp grasses.

A new thought becomes a rock, tossed into my nest.

Distruption – panicked flight.

In the air and frantically assessing! 

Slowing to settle back onto ground

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Caramels

I sometimes sit and watch people and cock my head in wonder.
Other people confuse me.
I don’t understand you.
Not because I don’t care or because I’m incapable.

But because I am unlike you
and like you …
but mostly, I feel so very unlike you.

But I am empathetic.
Sympathetic.
I feel you.

If I saw a discarded sweet box in your garbage can, I would buy you caramels.

I just never quite fit in.
Or understand the rules.

I seem always to be the girl who says too much,
feels too much,
thinks too much.

I laugh too loud, emote too publicly.
I cannot hide my exuberance or my sadness.

I have a giant world in my head and heart!
Colorful, fantastic, dark and macabre
Consistent extremes
Always there – always.

I have conversations with you in my head.
“Do you want to just watch movies and eat cake?”
“Yeah! Sure!”
“Can you bring cake?”

I share some of my world with a few
On my terms
And occasionally I’m pulled from my comfort zone because i want to please you.

My special friends are always there
They don’t expect me to be like them
They embrace the parts of my world I show them

Real people tucked inside my head
Characters in my internal play
Scenarios imagined – scripts written
And we eat my caramels
and share your cake

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