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I shall attempt writing in discipline again. Maybe I'll catch up with the month, if freight trains manage to stay out of my path. This year has made it impossible to flow with the natural time continuum. I kept slipping in and out, disturbed by disease, tripped by broken wireless devices, muffled mouth, unfinished sentences. Was the rest of the world breaking in and out of static or was it only my unhinging mind crackling at any chance of a smooth opportunity? Seems everyone has been so exhausted, overly distracted, by nothing in particular. Pop-up ads. Diarrhea. Incoming calls.
That practical, stylish, black leather handbag that was gifted to me is ready to meet its high quality maker. It wasn't a fun purse. It wasn't wild. But it matched everything and carried the most essential items that make up a woman, usually, even the spiritual components. By that I mean a Bible, yes. my beloved reliable bag. Though it didn't make a distinct and profound statement, it was the perfect accessory to my being. There are some thing that I don't mind plain. I've replaced its ecru colored vertical twin, slightly thinner and smaller. An upgrade, but still me.
Since I didn't grow up with average sized pets, every day I ascend the stairs and face off two pairs of eager eyes, I get the childhood thrills. As I make up my face or move boxes around the house, these little monsters following me around seem so foreign. I ponder on their structural nature, their possible animal thoughts, and mini adventures. They're dinosaurs who roam these carpets as their own territory as their tiny muscles are large to them, rippling about when they jump my furniture or climb dinner tables. But no, they're just mine own cats. Love them.
It's been happening a lot. I ask myself what are my dreams, hobbies, interests, and I blurt out nothing. If anything, much of my mental meanderings are merely concerns, i.e. the likes of bills, boredom, lacking. I don't know if its that my mind doesn't race the way it once did or if I'm so ill and weak that I just don't have much dialogue, or monologue for that matter, to offer. Once an overload of words, now vast silences. I'm not desperate to fill the white noise but a bit worried that I have nothing substantial to say.
To grow old is an honorable experience to some. If it comes early, then it can be very bleak, if nobody keeps your positivity levels on check. These are the days of my life, as they say, but with such low energy levels and premature joint stiffness, I have to really extract what otherwise would've been multiplied in activity, friends, newness. I'm not scared of being sick, but I'm definitely of slowing down, whether my mind or cellular degeneration. I'm terrified of already becoming bitter, especially when there's no one to blame. But I'll live. And love. Eventually, die smiling.
I used to have a myriad of partial plots waiting to be filled in by way of daydreams. I wasn't staring at the desk; it was my version of work. I knew one day a full set of characters, a chronologically accurate time line, and developing plots that climaxed about four or five times before the finale, would magically materialize. I honestly believed it would naturally play itself out. The hard way has taught me books don't write themselves, unless you're on stimulants, receive visions, or have a flood of life experience. Research, discipline, and maybe a mentor and muse.
Detox: it's not for pussies. As I insert droplets of urine-tasting herbals under my tongue, I brace myself for the release of toxins that will disperse into the bloodstream in the form of twisting pain and inflammatory torture. I'd rather not discuss the malady that overtook my body and tried to ruin my first year of marriage, but if I've not learned anything about myself in my slow acquiring of a chronic condition, its that I need to come clean, then talk it out. I'm gonna put my badass suit on, and kick this thing in the lymphatic system.
When I first became aware of male nakedness, I was five, having caught sight of the Red Hot Chili Peppers' Rolling Stone cover. Therein lay three exposed tattooed body with man parts concealed by big hands. My imagination was fueled and curiosity turned on. It wasn't carnal desire, after all I was a toddler. It birthed frustration at not being able to question what was so secret, knowing somehow it was wrong to want to see it. Later, the children's movie Labyrinth, starring David Bowie's spandex pants bulge, further enrage the mystification of what lies beneath.
...Penis on the brain.
Those bubbly lips stretch out in a pucker to reach mine, faithfully maintaining his naturally sizable pout, and they plop a moist one on my expectant lips. When these sweet kisses started happening more often, I resisted. I wanted the lustful, passionate, limb engulfing octopus-like arm wrestling make-out sessions that didn't necessarily lead to sinful behavior, but at least thoughts of it. Then I realized we have evolved into a state of tender and true love and that its not the slow fade of love that turns marriages into dull friendship expressions. I look forward to that pop!
Not gonna make it this month unless I ramble on, include prayers, copy and paste my favorite lyrics, plagiarizer my favorite books, dictate the asinine comments of unwitting co-workers verbatim, deliver my stream of conscious (which I wouldn't do that to you), list the ugliest words in the English language, vent about disease and paranoia, write unsent letters of unfinished business to past boyfriends, share my detailed scheme to take down the U.S. stock exchange, rote the Koran, pledge the Michael Jackson allegiance, describe my symptoms as if to my doctor, rant about men and their communication style.
If you're lucky (or to some, unlucky) enough to have both surviving parents, as a woman, you either become the complete opposite of your mother, or fear your inevitable transformation into a morphing image of her. Oh, how it sneaks up on you, or your hips. I know about side kicks so thankfully, no saddlebags; but as for care taking, I'm even taking on her nationality. Whereas I swore to get away from the Spanish culture that bored me, now I'm throwing down tortillas, refried beans, and avocados for breakfast. To my gringo-ass husband! Could be worse I suppose.
As working class with excessive medical bills and pressed playtime, I came to the conclusion we get stuck in a cruel cycle, limiting introductions to new playmates or what I once called besties. I figured we either must move back where we call home and continue reliving old times alongside childhood friends, do the struggle together and picnic at the pool on weekends, or make new friends. Or make no new friends. But I was wrong and I'm glad I was. Flowers were delivered by a couple we're 'courting'. If we didn't love them before, now we're dating. Love them!
I could write until my fingertips bleed and hands fall off tonight. If I didn't have financial responsibilities that start early morning, I would. I'm afraid when I stop, I won't be able to pick up at the drop of that momentum and start up again. Right now, I'm ready to talk about everything and everything. Pride, shame, success, failures, sex, love, whores, past, future, fears; all the stuff that tends to wipe out my IQ when on the spotlight. I don't want to leave this spot! It's the false sense that I'm only capable during spontaneous spurts of inspiration.
It seems the thing to do when one needs more intellectual stimulation than acquired in school, is either school more, or join and/or start a book club with other women or sensitive men, who need to opine and whine about all the unexplored hollow spaces. This is what they show in movies, no? As cliche as it seems, I've always wanted to do this. Once I tried. There was one member other to the club. The book was Pride and Prejudice; predictable and trite. They say a classic never dies. But halfway through the reading, our enthusiasm slowly expired.
In regards to love, as much as you ignore the soft side, those who are unromantic still get shot in the ass by that friggin arrow. At some point you melt into a wet pussy and sigh with overwhelming admission to being head over heels. Keeping up with that hard-ass of mine is the best work I've ever labored over and I want to run naked in the streets like a lunatic telling every my guy is tits. I refer to terms of love as vulgar body parts, trying to distract from just how mushy he makes me feel.
The parallel plots and symbolism in movies reoccurring since Hollywood was born cannot just be coincidence. The number three, the island, the enlightened elite, the working masses, corrupt authority, shadow puppet masters, mind control, sex kittens, contact with the other side. It's like they're trying to tell us something, or someone. But ooooh, conspiracy theories will not be tolerated. I'm the biggest skeptic of them all, yet I can readily admit there's funny business being dangled in front of our eyes as entertainment. I don't buy into the message, but I can't stand when I'm not in on privy information.
Being forced into a sedentary lifestyle, by health, as you can imagine, is boring. Paint-by-numbers kit: Loved it! Until the pain stung my phalanges and radiated like branches to my brain, covering all major trunk areas of the body, down to my fat toe. Yoga, hit or miss, and only for 30 minutes; swollen palms don't aid for a good downward dog. Cooking, must sit down too often for worthwhile meals; inflamed knees. The easiest, somewhat painless thing to do, is rot the mind with the tube. It's gradually becoming more of a tumor. Books! I need books!
We now posses the bells and whistles camera I've always wanted. There's more instructions than possibilities on that interchangeable lens. Now my artistic inclination can run wild in wide-angles and digital manipulation if whim calls for it. So, I step outside into a town occasionally smelling of petrol and flatulence, found littered skies of entwined power lines, explored trafficking streets, dirty ditches, self-involved merchants. My hopeful eyes faded to gray. My worst nightmare unraveled before me: to not be inspired in your own habitat. To not be able to see the faintest of glimmer in a dark city.
Whereas beauty is not physically obvious where I reside, there is plenty of warmth and comfort to be perceived. The empathy of illness from a close friend. A loving partner. The simple thrill of cheating on a diet. The purring of grateful cats. Spiritual freedom. Trust in the future. Faith in determination. The prospect of paradise. The resilient heart and mind doesn't surrender. Lifting oneself is process I have come understand and give it its due cycling. Experiencing life in subtle ways rather than always tactile sensory is just fine, because I have everything I need to survive and love.
What we have is gansta love. Big Daddy takes care of Lil Momma. We do sex, drugs, rock&roll. He got my back, I got his back. Backward caps and riding low.
Okay, it's not really street and not generally fast. I embraced domestication and that influence has rubbed onto him. But it's still long nights, hot lovin, and some Bonnie and Clyde. It's sultry passion, skillful technique, and improvisation. Short minutes seem eternal and eternity is not enough time. It's not cinematic, not poetic, not a storybook.
But I'll always be his shorty and he my BabyDaddy (sans baby).
It wasn't God's intention for meek man to be afraid to eat . Maybe poisonous berries, but food itself should not instill fear. It is our life force.
Exclusively surviving on almonds is not balanced or nutritious, but I fear the sweet potato; it has sugar. The milk; it has lactose. The tomato; it has solanine. Bread; has yeast. Wheat; contains gluten. Seaweed; monosodium glutamate. Cake; has every single one of these naturally harmful ingredients.
Thanks to the man-made toxin-accumulating foods: fish; mercury. Chicken; carcinogen. Water; flouride.
Once I delighted in dining. Now, it's disease or terror. I'm starving.
She's being fitted for a bubble. Her title is not Bubble Woman. No, much too reminiscent of a superhero. She is Bubble Girl, world's frailest human. In a plastic, translucent safety sphere, tube fed by a sterile lab-prepped IV, pumping allergen-free, life sustaining liquids, she will roam free, rolling about the streets, guarded from environmental pollution, tucked away from evil. Unconcerned outsiders peer at the creature in her confinement with occasional puzzled gaping. She has requested the bouncy container itself be tinged with a hint of pink, so that she may float around in a rose-colored atmosphere.
The top dogs exit to a luxurious lunch without acknowledging the front office secretary holding down the fort for their million dollar business. While I crunch almonds and chew on affordable greens, they chomp of grade-A steak grizzle and guzzle artery-clogging sauces, laughing about the little people they step on to climb to their heaven. This doesn't concern me, for as sickly as we, the poor, are, I can still achieve and hold sex positions of the kind they can only ogle at on their fortress security-encrypted computer screens. We all get off in different ways. Bam!
The topic was about to be about my first batch of pressure cooked black beans, more famously known as frijoles negros. Then I noticed the extended courtesy cut off date of January 16, not 13 anymore, so I won't have to rush through and do a red-eye. This however, will not derail me from pouring me a cup of hot legume and eating them as is, no accompaniments. Tomorrow I will re-fry them with oil and onions for added color and flavor. Day after, I'll blend the upgraded portion. I will say grace for my beans. Ridiculously delicious.
"Well uh... what happened was that while I was preparing the dough I was also experimenting with the lab's E.Coli..."
"... A bird. Yes! It flew right through the window and pooped on everything!"
"Have I got a spontaneous combustion story for you!"
"I'm insisting all my friends start eating cleaner."
"If Ed McMahon came to your house, you would be scrambling to find him a snack too."
"I know how you said you're chocolate intolerant..no, really?"
"That third button on your cardigan is struggling to hold on".
"Oh fuck it! I ate the damn cookies! Every last one!"
A punch in the face. That's the first thing I come up with when I think of effective sleep aids. Side effects are a painful, but more torturous is the quiet noise bouncing off the lonely walls. Better options are breathing in his t-shirt's scent or dozing off to his favorite ridiculous comedy. But thinking of where he is and how late he has to abuse his precious body is a muscle tenser, a wrinkle creator, a pace maker. Inhaling bleach, using narcotics, or taking one in the kisser would achieve the ambivalent numbness I need to dream easy.
A sacred contract bound relationship is not a leather fastened fairytale and every girl fashioning her plastic tiara should know that as she reads Cinderella. Deep down, you still keep some best selling notion. But certain chapters of your legend tell more like a Russian winter story. A consecutive tease of faux-climaxing. Anticipating the magic snowfall of December and then getting fed up with the ice on the streets and lack of bird song. Having a life-long partner doesn't mean the whole year is summery as generally depicted. It's not always beachy, light apparel, and island reggae tunes.
Being inactive and without plans on a Saturday morning is like being alone on a Friday night. My husband goes away for business more weekends than not, which lends for more sweatpants time. Not an item a woman should don more than one day a week unless she is running or perfecting her downward dog. I long for more lazy mornings of perfectly made spoons, blankets hovering over our mouths, and pointless pillow talk with croaking sleepy voices. a pair of heavy footsteps fumbling into the kitchen for soymilk straight out of the carton. I miss slowing down with him.
There are two curious felines swarming me. They encroached stealthily with a cautionary of motor purring. Their low furry little heads extending to rippling shoulder joints made investigative laps around the laptop. Soon there was a living hide of pelt wrapping around my torso and feather like tails flapping in my mouth. Tiny heads plopped on the keyboard and the running engines enhanced, likening a war craft airplane taking off. It is time to chase a virtual mouse and keep the master company they seem to say. Before you know it, their eyes are shut and I'm dying of cuteness.
To avoid the universally obvious end of year topic, I will relate my personal current reality: the damn detox. I can't think of anything other than throbbing brains and swollen ankles. Pissing, pooping, dying, and all the gross stuff that resonate with disease. How I wish my biggest concerns were social drama, a pregnancy scare, a burnt dinner; but my one track mind is inflamed with pain, discomfort, insecurity, and all that rings pitiful. Beautiful songs are screeching. Rhyme and rhythm are out of time. I can't wait until this is over and I know for sure if there's hope.
Thundering explosions outside our apartment sound off like mines setting off by crowds running across a loaded field. The booms in the sky approach our quietness. If there was talk radio on, it would sound like war. Speeding pops ensue, the unmistakable mark of fireworks. Add up the fact that it's new year's eve and the obvious conclusion is that expensive are celebrations going on, and that today is not the day our nation will battle in our homeland. As everyone drinks and parties the upcoming excitement of the next age, tonight they forget how we're in for total chaos.
The Tip Jar