Fractured

I thought it was just a sprain, bruised muscles, maybe a tear, but the x-ray showed the imperfect diagonal line radiating from one side of my bone to the other, a crack. The pain is low, grumbling and inconsistent, when it disappears, I often forget and use the broken to push or carry or lift and then I’m slapped, reprimanded and left with the sting. My range of motion is limited, not just by the sling, but often by hurt or the fear of being hurt, again, after the last time I tried. I’m talking about my arm but it occurs to me, I could be talking about someone’s heart, mine, your's, mine, your's, mine. . . just not today.

No Matter

I tell stories in the dark, to the shadows, and each night, they sigh as my tale begins. There is no sympathy for the poor girl of privilege. There is no tear shed for my soulless existence. There are no mothering arms to show me the feel of love, the smell of love, the touch of love. That she were as barren as my heart . . . – Me, age 16

I was a cheery child wasn’t I, full of light and effervescence, can’t you just see me skipping along holding a balloon in one hand and a candy apple in the other without a care in the world while my two adoring parents walk behind me hand in hand beaming with love and pride. No. Neither can I, I wasn’t allowed a to eat candy apples, I usually walked through the park, played in the park, laughed in the park with my father and if my parents walked hand in hand they were certainly beaming at one another, my father in worship, my mother in love.

I should say, in my defense, I wrote this after a particular cataclysm, my mother took no part in my pain, as I believe a good mother should. That’s not to say I couldn’t have produced such hopeless words or even thought such dark thoughts at any moment of my childhood, but I wasn’t a maudlin child. I’m not sure how to get to where I was going since I’ve veered so far from the original point, but my brain is addled from lack a sleep and more than sufficient quantities of vodka, sake and musical tributes to the proclaimed King of Pop – may he find peace.

As my parents age, I often wonder if they are capable of living without the other. My father without my mother would, I believe, literally fade away out of sadness and despair, he loves her most of all. My mother without my father would find herself broken, tossed back to the earthly realm subject to the rules of this world without the bubble of my father’s love, she loves him most of all. I love them both, no matter the past, the future and the present because life is truly too short.

A Cottage By The Sea

I thought my summer was planned, a little less travel than the last, a little more love, a little less going nowhere lust, a little move to the big city of my birth, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe, a little more travel, a lot more love with a helping of lust, a big move to the little city of my birthright.

In my dreams, when I run away, it is always to the same place – that green island of mountain and rock and field and flower.

In my life, when I run away, it is always to the same place – that green island of hard and forever and lush and life.

Away from that stagnant portion of my life, that albatross that keeps me nursing a hurt, tender footing my way in love long, perhaps a place of birth constant is just what I need, just what we need.

In Times of Trouble . . .

People often wonder why I keep the stories of my life, the secrets of my life so close, so guarded, so inaccessible to even those closest to me, but I don’t really, I share them here because I have a shroud, a place to unleash my demons, cry my pain and love and lust without attachment, without the expectation of more from me, more of me.

I often wonder why people believe they deserve more than I’m willing to give in a particular moment, just because I don’t tell you today doesn’t mean I won’t tell you tomorrow, it doesn’t mean I never will but maybe I won’t. I’m entitled to all of me, and love or no love, you are entitled only to the parts I’m willing to give up, give away, share, nothing more is guaranteed or granted because your feelings run deep and complete.

I think the answer is simple, in this day people feel they are entitled to the instantaneous answers, the always answers, the automatic solutions, the quick fix, unfathomable knowledge, and the unquestionable entitlement that once faded as childhood was left behind. The Internet offers us all up on a platter until we learn the art of phantom and we must, because the walls of privacy are no longer respected or even considered.

There are those with whom I would share most anything, friends who are close to my heart though far away, those whose struggles in life eclipse my own and for whom I hold nothing but the tenderest of thoughts, those people that find unmatched joy in the promise of a piano. I adore their simple joy, their want of nothing more than serenity, love, whimsy and my friendship. There are others with whom I share a cursory yet complete glance of who I am because they don’t understand the simple, they don’t understand that this world, that I, am not simply a book to be opened and closed, read and rehashed just because they want it to be.

Mining for the details of my life won’t keep you in my esteem, won’t let me trust you and in the end, it will keep me from loving you.

. . . let it be.

Ain't No Party

I don’t know how other teachers party but the staff where I teach have the market cornered on the art of extreme boredom. Tonight was our end of year party, two days before the school year ended, and it left me cold and sober.

Is it a party if no one gets drunk?

I don’t think so, maybe at Jesus Camp, but at a party with adults in varying stages of depression, alcoholism, and detached desperation there is the expectation that at least one teacher, usually the P.E. teacher or pudgy English teacher, will get off their ass drunk and dance suggestively, inappropriately and off beat while the rest of the crowd hoots and hollers like slutty virgins getting their first glimpse of a 9-inch dildo. I can say these things about teachers because I am a teacher and have at times in my working life suffered from moments of almost alcoholism and depression, not detached desperation though, I don’t do desperation but I do detached very well, also angry, pissed and vengeful.

Is it a party if I don’t experience the feeling of at least one semi-hard penis pressing against my ass through the fabric of my skirt?

The answer is usually no. I bet this even happens at Jesus Camp parties because I imagine a lot of semi-erect penises there, though the contact is probably accidental and shocking though not unpleasant, shameful, sinful and frightening but not unpleasant. The assistant principal made contact with my shoulder and my arm, neither time with his penis so I’m less convinced of his attraction than I was mere days ago. Although, he did rub my arm until I stepped back, maybe an arm rub is the junior high equivalent of an ass rub.

Is it a party if I come home alone?

Yes, if I went to the party alone, which I did. If I take someone then I usually come home with that someone, I’m not a swapper – a joiner once or twice, maybe, but never a swapper. Usually, I come home alone after being propositioned and that didn’t happen here, so though we finally achieved an affirmative this does not a party make.

No drunkenness, no drugs, no sex, no fights, no inappropriate body contact, nothing happened, nothing. It was all conversation, laughter and relief over surviving the halls of high school in the face of children more disrespectful and fearless than the year before. It was at best a backyard barbecue, though inside, for a group of boring 30-somethings that find joy in the mundane, in the everyday, I’m not there yet. I’m not sure I ever want to be, I certainly crave stillness and even stability but I also want the adventure, the uncertain, the fire – I can do without the ass fondling, propositioning and tacky boys with too much aftershave but I still want the hedonism.

Want Not, Waste Not

Most Saturday mornings I’m up with the birds, running, unless I have cramps, in which case I’m probably moaning, crying, wondering why orgasm isn’t dulling the pain anymore, considering pregnancy and trying not to let the blood run down my legs while in the fetal position. Yesterday was such a Saturday, so when the pounding unceasing knocking woke me from a light miserable sleep, I was more than pissed and ready to eat the door knocker’s throat.

It was a Jehovah’s Witness, two to be exact, all sunshine in their short sleeve dress shirts, carefully pressed khakis and smiles so bright it seemed an act of belligerence. I just stared not out of rudeness, that would come later, but out of confusion, I thought they had taken me off their list years ago when I told them I practiced witchcraft and invited them to join me one moonlight evening for nakedness and evil. I guess they thought I moved, unfortunately for all involved I hadn’t, even more unfortunate the pain coupled with the drugs left me decidedly unwitty and without verbal finesse, so I went with an oldie but goody – contrary and bitchy.

They wanted to talk to me about abortion, specifically, what God would say about abortion – you sense the danger, I knew the danger, but they guileless and joyful did not. I told them I didn’t know what God thought of abortion since he hadn’t returned my texts so I was sticking with my uncompromisingly pro-choice stance. The bespectacled man ignored this and suggested we read together from some book somewhere near the back of his Bible. I offered no objection, I also offered no encouragement so he proceeded and I can honestly say I have no idea what the fuck he said or what the hell it had to do with abortion. I said, “Wow, I’m still pro-choice but tell God I said thank you for sending you to me.”

The bespectacled man was thrown for a loop and looked to the senior until now silent member of this heavenly tag team, because obviously I needed heavy handling and guidance. The senior sir asked if they could come back next week, which prompted me to inquire why and he suggested that we could all sit and discuss God’s view on abortion. It was time for the heavy guns, I told him I wasn’t interested in God’s view on abortion as interpreted by patriarchal religions and men, I told him I wonder what Mary would have done all those years ago if she’d had a choice and finally I told them blood was about to drip down my leg so I’d have to go soon.

It wasn’t the best way to handle the situation but little sleep, lot of pain and a decided dislike for religious people coming unwelcome and uninvited to my door to spread their version of the Gospel made me angry. They left their booklet, whch I did not want, with me, not very green of them, but I took care of that by following them off my front steps to deposit the reading material into the recycling bin, they saw me and I simply said, "I bet God is green."

I hope the booklet is recycled into the paper insert of a Safe Sex DVD for school children or at least a porn magazine.

Branching Out

Today I was hit in the stomach with a tree branch by a 15-year-old high school freshman.

I pissed him off by telling him to stop choking and grabbing a classmate.

He went to the office kicking and screaming while the principal, assistant principal and physical education teacher carried him.

He’ll start summer vacation a few days early since the administration frowns upon assaulting the staff, mostly for fear that we won’t return in the fall.

The assistant principal, the one with the crush, tried to force him to apologise, he wouldn’t and I didn’t really care, because a part of me wants to hit the little shit with an even bigger branch until he cries for his mommy.

There is the other part of me that knows violence is wrong, violence against a child is horrendous and that minority part of my personality has won this particular war, but it says maybe I can accidentally on purpose step on his foot or trip him if we one day meet again.

Praying the Prey Doesn't Prey

I was darting down the hallways as silently as my stilettos would allow looking this way and that way, fearing that any moment he would find me, catch up with little effort and unleash. 

I was long ago cured of the notion that the work place is the right place for romance, months of staring at a certain him’s closed eyes while he kissed me bored and fucked me sad made me realise that I had made a most unfortunate mistake.  Luckily, he was a good man if not the right man and we remained friends, taking on the stodgy and antiquated ideas of our English department cohorts, but that was the end of dating co-workers, at least for me.

Years later I find myself doing my very best to avoid another educator in the high school halls because I recognise that certain gleam in his eye when he talks to me, that intimate way of speaking that tells me he’s building up to something, that smile that says he believes I’m in on the perceived interest and rumble of sexual longing.  He is so fucking wrong.

I just need to manage to either avoid him or never find myself alone with him for 14 more days and I’m going to do my best.  I know the suggestion of us sharing a mutual activity in the same location at the same time or what the normal amongst us call a date can’t happen until I turn in my passcard and final grades because until that moment I am his subordinate, in his employ, a teacher to his assistant principal.  

I simply can’t fail, not because I couldn’t or wouldn’t turn him down but because he is a nice man and I occasionally, often, lack the ability to say things politely in the game of sexual politics, especially when I feel hunted and cornered – once a feral child. . .

 

Kidnapping Kitty

If the title leads you believe that I’m about to give you step-by-step directions on how to woo a woman or otherwise detain her is some legal or illegal way, well you are wrong and possibly a creepy fuckface.  The title is about my nefarious activities, I say nefarious rather than criminal because I’m operating under the belief that one cannot truly own something born with free will.  Let me explain, I love animals, I love cats, I adore them and if I had to make a list of my five favorite people only two would be human, that’s just the way it is.  One of my neighbors houses the cutest little grey cat that has ever lived, a true runt, almost kitten sized with a face of pure sweetness and tiny white paws that just beg for kisses.  She spends most days outside putting her Napoleon complex to full use, cornering butterflies, pouncing on dangerous blades of grass and killing begonias.  She’s like a well honed machine, a terminator among cats and I could watch her for hours, instead I’ve decided to kidnap her, keep her inside and make her my own, but damn she’s fast.  Judge me if you must.

How Do I Live

My toothless-incontinent-elderly-illiterate gas station boyfriend has dumped me and I am saddened by the possibility of a life without his tongue wagging, hip gyrating, winking ways.  Who will I turn to when I need to hear those now famous words, "I want to fuck your face."  I am ashamed that I couldn’t continue to meet his needs, I tried to keep him satisfied yet wanting but I, in his own words, “too many clothes now.” 

What he means is that I’ve opted to clothe my body during the winter and often chilly spring months but had he waited just a few short weeks my shorty shorts and tank tops, which I wore solely for his pleasure and not the 109% humidity, would have returned.  Should I have pleaded for a reprieve, fallen to my knees and buried my face into the ever-present urine spot decorating the saggy crotch area of his jumpsuit? 

I certainly considered such, but then my dignity returned and I settled for silent prayers to the heavens above that this man, the man of my dreams not set me free.  Above all, I will miss the candy he passed to me, his hand wet with sweat or semen running suggestively across the roof of my car as he passed a multitude of Laffy Taffys my way as his tongue lapped up the goodness of his chapped lips.  

He loved me once and I lost his love, what kind of woman am I?  I think there is a chance he could be mine again because as our eyes met for what could be the last time he dared to come closer than he ever has before, only to whisper a final sweet nothing, “pretty ass, I poke hard.”  I swooned then I cried.