Wednesday, August 26, 2015

The Disappointing Pin-up Dress

I wanted to look like a sexpot pin-up girl
from the 1940s.
I ordered:
the dress in yellow,
the shoes in red and white,
the cardigan sweater in red,
the headband in red polka dots.
I looked like:
Ronald McDonald,
the mom from Christmas Story,
Flo from Mel's Diner,
somebody's mother-in-law
or grandmother,
a combination of Saturday Night Live characters,
a goddamn circus tent.
The mister says:
"Those shoes say:
There's no place like home
except the bowling alley."
Maybe he's never seen so much sexy in one place.
I've clicked my heels together a million times,
but I can't get anywhere but here.



*If you're not sure if sexpot is one word or two, DON'T google it! 

Sunday, August 23, 2015

A blog I wrote for Mother's Day (just a few months late)

For the first time in 20 years, I went to Beecher's house. Last time I went to Beecher's house, I was with Beecher. It had been a winter day, and we were high school seniors. His mom had made a stew, but Beecher and  his brother didn't like all of the ingredients, so when she fixed their bowls, she used a strainer to fish out anything they didn't like. That's love, I thought.
He was long-haired and free-spirited, loved music and playing his guitar. He smelled like cigarettes, leather, and freshly washed hair. He felt things deeply and would react rashly, but he would come back later and talk it out, apologizing if necessary.
Two years after we graduated, his life started to unravel. Problems mounted at work, school, and with his girlfriend. It got to be too much, and he made the decision to take his life. I imagine that, if it were possible, he would think it over, come back and apologize. And in some ways he has.
Beecher appeared to me in dreams multiple times. He always wanted me to check on  his mother. He would show me images and tell me things. Once he showed me a lake. She was on one side, he  on the other.
"But you are the lake," he told me.
He wanted me to call her, and I did. He would come to me several more times over the years. Then there was this final dream. I did not see him, but he was flying and carrying me. We looked down on the earth. He showed me scenes of war and destruction and then beautiful images: a single tree in  pasture with a rainbow hanging over head, the sky still mostly gray.
"There are terrible things and beautiful things, but I'm all done here," he said.  I haven't dreamt of him since.
Often I had thought about going to visit his mother, but how could I go to Beecher's house without him? We all play those games in our minds where we pretend that something is unless we go prove to ourselves that it isn't. Sure, I knew the reality of it. I had been to his grave multiple times, a pack of Marlboros and a little wilted bunch of wild flowers in my hand, and I 'd sit and chatter to him.  But I held the image of him tucked away at his house instead of in his grave, and a visit to his house would take away the security of denial.
Denial was something his mother didn't have the luxury of. She had faced a house without him every day for years and had gained a level of acceptance. Not peace and not a feeling of "getting over it" but an acceptance of what is. I'd run into her at the grocery store and promise to come over and visit, but I'd never followed through. Finally one evening she offered to come to my house, and I worked up the nerve to agree to go to hers.
I drove the three miles up the holler road. I pulled down into his driveway, walked up the steps, knocked on the familiar door, and heard his father telling me to come in.
 Beecher looked like both of his parents. He had his father's nose and mouth and his mother's golden eyes and beautiful, long, naturally curly hair. I found a little bit of him in each of them. His scent was still in the air. We all hugged, and his father asked me why I hadn't been up before. I just told him I'd been busy. I found it too difficult to explain that I was both afraid that I would find too much of Beecher there and not enough of him all at the same time.
I sat and talked with his mother for hours. Every time I held eye contact with her, there Beecher was again. Nobody else I know has eyes that color. Some of her mannerisms and the way she phrased things, gave him back to me in small doses, an IV drip to a spirit in drought. I hope I've been able to do the same for her. I can't bound up on her porch and bust through the door like I did years ago, probably excited about some concert and talking about music. All I can offer are a few scattered dreams, the reporting of visits, and a maybe a reminder of how old he'd be now.
We're hitting 40. Would he get a kick out of me turning 40 while he is eternally 19? I think so. Because that's how he is. I can almost hear it, "Fuck, Trin! You're getting old."
A fellow psychic recently told me that he still comes around me and that there are several who follow me. She said I'm a beacon, that they can see me if they can't see anything else, and so they will come. He's an enlightened one, and I feel that he has moved on. He doesn't hang out because he has to. He comes around because he wants to.
We finished our coffee. I gave her a hug and promised I'd be back, and I fully intend to visit regularly. She's one of those people that will always be "home" to me. She followed me out to the porch and watched me walk up the driveway to my car. Last time I did that, Beecher ran beside me yelling "I got shotgun."  

He always called shotgun and wanted to ride up front beside me. Even if I had a boyfriend who should've rightfully been in that spot, we always let Beech ride shotgun when he called it. I wish shotgun would've retained this innocent meaning. I wish so many things weren't so. 

Saturday, August 15, 2015

He said he wouldn't, but then he did. And, anyway, today marks that day.

Unsweetened

Things were groovy ‘til you went insane,
and I didn’t have a clue
that reality was so hard for you to maintain.
I danced in your bizarre point of view.
There’s nothing a friend can do.
I’m not the keeper of your zoo.

There’s no tour guide
on the bipolar roller coaster ride,
but Mr. Jones is by your side.
And always, always, always
you still have your pride!

I have to admit this whole relationship
is going down like a bitter tea,
especially when my mind steeps too long
in the way things used to be.

This simmers on the back-burner of my brain,
and for a while I’ll let it brew,
but I’m always startled by the sharp whistle of pain

when my thoughts decide to sip on you. 


Viewpoint of a Sociopath

I’M THE KING!
You don’t have real problems.
I’M THE KING!
None that compare to mine.
I’M THE KING!
Your biggest issue is that
I’M THE KING!
you don’t see me as divine.

I’M THE KING
Of this crumbling castle!
I’M THE KING!
There’s no kingdom in sight, but
I’M THE KING!
I have no subjects but
I’M THE KING!
I know I’m right!

I’M THE KING
Life has hardened me.
I’M THE KING
I’m not the boy you knew.
I’M THE KING!
The only promise I make is
I’M THE KING
I’ll only hurt you.

I’M THE KING!
I know how to save me.
I’M THE KING!
I don’t need your advice.
I’M THE KING!
You can never reach me.
I’M THE KING!
What will you sacrifice?

I’M THE KING!
I can’t love you.
I’M THE KING!
Love would make me weak.
I’M THE KING!
You’re ALL weak and needy.
I’M THE KING!
Wipe that tear from your cheek. 

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Walking with the Little Professor

This was a "small stone" (where you try to capture a moment of time each day and paint it with words), but it turned into a longer piece. Little goes to middle school next week. Sully is on his first camping trip with his buddies and starts 8th grade. My dear niece "Baby Sam" is preparing to leave for college. I'm struggling with it all.

Walking with the Little Professor

We step out into the humid, shady morning.
"This is good weather for the crested gecko," she says.
"We could take him walking,
if we had a tiny but really long leash."

We go to check on the chicks,
hatched only weeks ago.
We make our rounds through the
tomatoes, cantaloupes,
pumpkins, cucumbers.

Lazy butterflies float by.
The dog won't lift his head to greet us.
Leaves drop themselves into the creek to float a while.
The sun beats down.
"And now this is good weather
for the bearded dragon
because he likes the desert,
but it's too hot out here for me."

Years ago when she was about four,
she found a special rock on the playground
and held it up to me:
"Wose Quawtz," she said.
Rose Quartz.

I lost her to kindergarten round-up that year.
I'll lose her to middle school shortly.
"Four more days until school starts, Mama,"
she said out of the blue today.

"Time sure does go fast." 

(*Insert crying like Snoopy here*)