greasy eggs

there was a man at the car rental place who looked like he had been forced out of his messy bed which was probably laden with a 20 something Italian whore wearing far too much make up, perfume, and week old underwear. I can see her as he left begging him to fuck her once more, like a good dirty italian girl. Even through his hair that was teeming with a lifetimes work of olive oil, rental car exhaust  and enough really trashy cologne to kill a small child he was nice enough. He forced buisness laughter at my aging fathers jokes and looked at me several times. He looked at my lush overgrown chest-while licking his lips strained red from last nights debauchery- through his nervous cackle-not like he wanted to or would rape me but more like he was going to eat me. Like my breasts were made of fine whipped cream, the kind you can eat without hope agenda or hesitation for breakfast lunch and dinner.

I think I looked like a diner to him, a little disheveled, pudgy around the edges but just welcoming enough- knowing that inside is goodness, greasy home cooked frozen food, pre packaged and fried up with enough anger and heat- and, if your really lucky, a suprisingly long and entertaining stay.  My womb was serving breakfast, dead wasted runny dirty, swimming in butter, kinda burnt, just american enough eggs that otherwise would have been gone bad. He could have had his regular breakfast from his whore in italy but lets face it here she is 6 to 1.

flight

Lunacy. My pearl in the sky brings wild excite. A sun is setting somewhere, or might be about to rise on those who dye their eyes when desire tries. With this night sky sweetly kissed orange by lovers and children, I sit silent while smiles drive my cheeks live. This wind is laced with salted sea water and swirls through the city up to the mountains. She brings back fresh springs and flowers mad with beauty- a madness to real for most- they must live in forests, atop mountains to keep from being ruined. And there is a blue man and a green woman staring at me from the insides of an abode I do not know, and suspect I cannot understand their trials. Perhaps. It's of things I have thought lately- somewhere tucked inside my rolling mind- recognizing lips chapped and chewed raw by cold winters past- tucked between cracks of what has been left of moist flesh and dead skin lies the drought of a loveless life. That's where the chill of past snows just bare of a memory are now. Like the seats that surround this table- empty- or occupied by thoughts that teem from my mind- ride the rising pulse perpetuating my existence and excitement. From my minds eye, I always am sitting on wings of magic I do not care to comprehend. Some magic is meant to be eaten, M&M's are meant for this fait. All good things are circles and in the chaotic mess this world has become -undulating like a cat stretching paws forward through tail taught- I organize M&M's into revolving color systems, each orb purely made only of emotion intentionally costumed as childlike chocolate toys meant for the indulgence of anything. I pop a yellow one and I am lucid like a langostein linking ligaments to sea floor. And I see colors where they should not be. Is it because I have gone through space and time nourished only by the beating wings of flighted dragons fried in brown rivers of stars? That can't be so- there is only adventure in the movement of minutia, the stagnence of stoic-how doors are contrived because they live inside and close curious paths of energy that could leap from the depths of the earth to infinitiy - if only doors never closed. If doors never closed they would never open I suppose. Thats why I sit outside, my side, with my ears occupied- with melodies to match emotion and sunset.. prepare for moons shine. What happens next is no quiet matter. Like that child wailing- filled with confusion and misplacement- how brash and obnoxious it would be to lurk in silence in the magesty that is this moment. " This IS terrifying, little one." I say inside. They were here first, before, again. And they have taken over insensitivity and still life. But mine, my life is alive. And, in tandem, the suns warmth and moons calm take ME in. I know where I've been all this time. I make up my minds side, but I'd lie to say my heart isn't my true guide. Lift, look at the way you turn my night to day. And I smile, had I not followed my mind after desperatley following my heart- I would have been upside down right now. My heart harnessing the chaos that is how dark leads to light, how love leads to heart halted for it has nowhere to go but where it cant. This beast that bears me at least lets me write tonight through cold foggy fingers and makes me know I will go to where I know I'll be, slip sliding down the rays of a blistering sun to wherever I am needed most. At this, and every moment we move towards up. He showed me that. There is no end to up- there are only heights so great they give way to the fear of depths. Im swinging out my open window on the wings of today- thinking how I am living in someone else's yesterday and that there are those living in my tomorrows. That version of me who lives in yesterday is on her way somewhere, and I too. There are endless versions of the self I suppose- of the paths carved, of mountaintops explored. Im fighting with the sun, that inferno of energy that gives me vitamins from the air- Its not cheap that it gives me heat to run wildly towards her seems like the only rational thing to do. And I rock with that, and it makes me speed and jump into the air as though I can fly straight up towards that bitch of the sun and crash into her and assume her awesomeness in its entirity. But I for sake of life- I will consume an orange M&M in her stead. I will hold it up in front of her light too bright and pretend I am eating her baby. And on my way back down I will fly with a spoon extended so I can taste sky, medium to rare, or drink in dusty clouds and drown my belly in the sanity that is chaos. And by the time I hit ground I will be midst stars I can see whom have already died. So I will soar on sleep and land on one leg more balanced than I was on two, stand sturdy with my arms outstretched to catch gusts of wind gone gravely mad over lights on night under the nights of light, no sleep this night- to much fright of delight. Calm with so much to smile about I have one corner of my mouth lifted by this adventure and the other is held high pulled round the world- which makes my smile absurd- but he holds it tight, especially this night- until he can touch the smile he gives me with his, we hold onto the smiles we have found dancing as midgets lifted between and by the moons great shine.

of mosaic, babies, and

At 5:45pm in one day and one weeks time, an airplane will depart Newark international and bounce from the dawn in Dublin to the beach in Barcelona. At around 11am in two days and one weeks time, I will be handed a set of keys to a foreign abode, shown to a room, meet three strangers from all corners of the earth and unpack. But right now, I am sick with a terribly runny nose- a sickening cough- mild headache- and a dull mucus muted voice. I have spent the past 3 days almost in their entirety in cobwebbed corners of a dark bar either throwing caution to the wind and breaking mirrors on purpose, or hunched over trying to decide what shape of broken blue glass plate would best fit in the river of negative space I am consumed by. I will tell you more about mosaics and what I have learned from them soon but at present I have an hour or two gifted to me by myself for a shower and a pensive session of letter writing to my only pen pall, and at present favorite friend. I wonder sometimes where the time goes. In awe of how I grew to be and adult woman, emotionally stable, from the stems of a depressed caustic teenage pot-head- How I am able, willing, and excited to move across the world by myself and feel no fear in any nook or cranny of my core-How someone who lacked confidence, drive, and battled laziness has become a hip hoppity scribbler of prose, figurative sculptress, artist in residence extraordinaire, mosaic maker, song writing, painting making machine. I wonder how this summer passed, how so much changed, without me being aware of the passing time or changes until I was deeply involved in their existence.

Yesterday I went and saw my cousin, his wife, and their INCREDIBLE son. I do not get to see them enough and I believe it has much to do with the feeling I get from my elder cousin that he is unhappy with the way his life has turned out. Do not get me wrong, he loves his wife very much and his child lights up his eyes to the point I can see the happiness he is missing. He was the acid dropping, grateful dead hippie of his Jewish upper-middle class suburbia. And somehow, he ended up a financial consultant working for Bloomberg 12-15 hours a day to support his suburban household. He sat with wide eyes and berated me with excited questions and jealous oohhhs and awes of my impending adventure, and my supposed ability to jump freely to or from any and every avenue my being wants to explore. It's sad to me that he isn't happy- that somehow he entered a life he never intended- I think he had no clue what he wanted so he went through the motions and now he is 32 and miserable and bleak. I cannot say I feel entirely badly for him though. His child is the light of the world. There is an indescribable love that emanates from this infinitesimal being. I sat with him to give him his bottle while his parents cleaned the table after a rushed dinner. And the most extraordinary thing happened. He, to my left, reached, without looking, for my right hand that was at his belly, and grabbed my thumb. He laid his hand gently on top of mine and began with his minute pointer finger to softly and calmly caress my hand. I can safely say that it was the singularly sweetest moment of my life. When my cousin returned I was near tears and he just laughed- boisterous and bold- at my awe. He said he did that to everyone he crosses, little children he shares the playground with, his two aging grandfathers, his mother... I think this little monster was made to share love. He has bright eyes and a giggle so sweet. He loves to laugh and be tickled and when I stopped tickling him he looked at me sternly, trying to hide his humored grin and said, "more tickles!". When we were building with his blocks, he stopped me when I made an arch with three sticks of different colors and softly, awesomely muttered, "rainbow.".

I left so happy to have held him and had his tiny little hand hold mine. What a world we live in. Instances like that are what we are put here for.

I imagine such a moment will be next week when my boss, and friend Francis returns from vacation and heads to the bar on Monday night to grab a drink with one of his long time bartenders who is leaving for Spain for a year. He will see me, and the new bar manager, one of my friends, sitting at the bar tables in the front of the bar. First he will notice that the front of the establishment has been thoroughly cleaned and properly painted a fresh coat of off-white. When he sits with us, there will be a beer waiting for him atop white tablecloths. When he picks up the beer, the bottom of which will be glued to said table cloths, he will unveil the beautiful labyrinth of broken blue glass and mirror encased in resin that I have been slave to these past couple of days. The best part of it all is that he has NO idea. I cannot wait to see the look on his face. That moment, like when I held Jonah and he held me, I anticipate utter happiness to permeate my shell from another being. Any pains or loss of time this project has caused me, that will be worth it.

But now, it's that bewitching three hours after the night turns to day and I have just returned home from the ale house I used to frequent, and later work tirelessly at. I would sling warm beer, fill dirty glasses with libations so pungent I do believe even the ice could become intoxicated. I would often be given a sad story or two, but mostly I would listen to women garishly gossip- in age playground chatter has a new home. But tonight was not for money makin'. Tonight was not for indulging in the nagging end of an empty glass. Tonight- I was on that heartfelt artistic mission. And in the end, as we always are, after putting in the extra 900 hours, through sickness and loss of wealth at the growing cost of the project- I was rewarded with the completion of a vision. I must tell you- I learned a thing or two about mosaics tonight. First, mosaics are not easy to make. Their chaos is only a product of order. Seeing as I have never made or thought about making one- naturally I assumed it would be a task laden with ease. NOT SO. There is much technical minutia that has to be first addressed and no matter what project I attempt that is always my last thought. But what was more astounding to me was the concentration and diligence it took to arrange pieces of broken glass. It is strange to me in my mind too, that a mosaic is restructured brokenness. I took plates in paper bags and heaved a heavy hammer upon their delicacy with whatever rage lingers in my content. I challenged the presence of superstition and broke mirrors purposefully. And once all pf these things were broke down, I had to build them again. Chaos is not a sufficient answer I found and makes for sloppy aesthetic that is confusing, distracting, and well, ugly. It took me laborious hours to find the right pattern for each individual table and than to fill in the void spaces. Its a meditative tedium that results in incredible beauty. Its a cool process and one I think I might like to explore as a business at some point in my life. I could call it, Ordering chaos.

On age

I realized some things last night over tables dressed in spotless linen, under cast spells of candle light. Sitting across from my sister, my difficult, brilliant sister, the closest being to me in flesh and mind- I realized that I am a young woman. I do not think I had fully understood the magnificent power of being a woman- tall and confident- smart and strong. I saw my sister be poised, concerned, intrigued, supportive, loving, and amazed by me. Its not only me as her little sister, it is us- grown up. I mean not to sound arrogant- but my beauty astounded even me in the night past. I saw people look at me, wide eyed with any entrance I took. I have never felt that or that I was a very beautiful, aesthetically, person until very recently. I would look in the mirror, search for any sign of maturity or elegance and come up short only able to recognize my slightly crooked lip, enlarged from an incident of a childhood lived rough. Perhaps it is how we care for ourselves that makes it possible- perhaps it is feeling an intense beauty from within, the potential for love, or perhaps just with age...

Nonetheless, now, my sister and I, accompanied by her husband, we are all adult, weather we like to face it or not. The responsibility that comes with that is not only material but emotional. Adult is being cautious to keep things full of love to their utmost potential. We sat facing mirrors of each other doubts, hopes and fears. We can be toxic or charming but are always intense. We deftly explore each crevice of hidden thoughts, seemingly only we can extricate from each other.

We dined last night like debutant's. It was her 8 and me 4 again in our basement wonderland of imagination costumed by mothers fancy cast off cloths. In formal attire, lovingly touched with expensive perfumes- with great posture and stance- we sat for four hours over courses of gourmet delicacy. They wanted to take me before I left, for a dinner to celebrate the birthday and holidays we will miss due to my absence. Throughout our night of opulence- with, I hope, maturity and tact- we accessed dark parts of our sometimes tumultuous relationship, and evaluated concerns we have for each others well being and well development. We dissected and discussed to refigure them with great care. By evenings end, light lucidity fueled by the deep juice of aging zinfandel grapes walked with stretched skin, full bellies, warm hearts and tickled minds through the quiet of an elderly august night.

It was charming and sweet.

But it did make me think of time spent- how the hours are occupied, how they will be. And to be strong and appreciative is something to grasp! It used to be a terrifying thought to me that I am growing older and have to take care for myself. It seemed (as most things do to an extremist) that this occurrence would be overwhelmingly abrupt, and rob my soul of some innocence or possibility. I learn now that it is a slow strange processed littered with complication and doubt. But veiled behind weighted conversation were lingering pleasantries that surround all this growing up stuff. It reminded me of the fun that we have had, of how Emily is, and will always be to me, the one who drew pictures of forbidden things on the chalkboard in our basement to explain words and phrases I should not have known. The one who begrudgingly had me tag along like an orphaned puppy to play with her and her friends- although the game became a toy story of sorts, my role to be a lifeless doll when in the same room; The one who cut out chunks of my hair, ripped holes in my jeans and threw curses through thick oak doors. Emily, more intense than you could imagine- pinned me down at one point of my youth and cracked all my knuckles because its what she liked to do. Oh and than there were times we would make silly videos, and make fun of our mom- or drive her to the ends of insanity- jumping out of moving cars- drive her to madness that shattered glass tables in kitchens in houses we ripped apart. We shared rooms and shared lives in several abodes, amidst constant construction, disaster, and strife, we were given the chance to fancifully decorate however we choose. We stole weed from our parents when I was a snoop- snuck into the garage and without knowledge of proportion smoked an entire 8th together for both our first experience of getting high. Promptly of course, we crushed gallons of ice cream while held captive by each others oddities. She has held me so tight, and been by my side, when times were just terrible and I wanted to die. Her and her husband have crept into Murphy beds that contained a hysterical hopeless version of myself and not left until my eyes ran dry. They have reminded me of why it is funny when an old lady falls down in the street. And she got me drunk the first time- hiding vodka in the depths of a sacrine cherry Slurpee disguised as a gift. Oh days I could go on of how silly and strange a sister can be, how silly and strange it is to be a sister. But it always comes down to the best little tale- which defines me and Emily down to the skeleton of our relationship. We fought about nothing on hot summers eve- slowly escalating the level of voice- surely adding condescension and cutting words- to the point of insanity. I was shaken with rage- an anger I did not know lived inside of me- and I grabbed my knees close to my chest and rocked back and forth to get out of the space in which that hate existed. For a short while there was quiet. But of course, an ever impatient Emily, concerned only with going to sleep angry at the possibility wake would never reach to resolve animosity and restate love, minutes later spoke with a quiet quivering voice. She lovingly and a bit pathetically said through the wall that separated our teenage rooms, "Doonie.... I think your a beautiful person." and not that it wasn't heartfelt, I know that she meant it with every ounce of her heart, but we both started laughing so hard that we cried, and we slept in the same bed at each others side. Its now but one bullet loaded in the revolver of quips and vignettes of shared lives lived that her husband and I shoot in jest at her fragile spirit. 'I think your a beautiful person.' In retrospect it seems much like something my mother would say now. However it came to be, it is what states our bond best- so that at her wedding, as maid of honor I ended with re-telling them both I thought they were beautiful people. The random chuckles around the room of people who know the story was all i wanted. It was neat.

to articulate the beauty of a soft soul. emma.

There is no sister
like a friend-like you.

once we were too young
too foolish
too fat

we were awkward
and hopeless
and weird.

Once we gained pleasure
through crisp pints
of cream iced.

We stole-
hours inappropriate for our youth,
forbidden sticks of smoke,
money from the wallets of our wealthy mothers.

We claimed copious amounts of clothing
free of charge with startling candor and grace.

Under desks strewn lazy with papers
inked rainbow from distratcting doodles
and quips-
we passed notes littered with sharp insults.

Oh once when we were too young,
we made mistakes, ireversable decisions
about the way we looked
or the way we behaved.

We were unaware of the choices we could have had-
and unprepared for the choices we would have to make-

But now, something round 15 years past-
we are still too young-
and still gain pleasure through crisp pints
and old stolen hours,

We have leapt over caution
and walk blind,
and walk confident,
in this moment of exploration and justification,
and we turn
still to each other.

Us, still too young and too void of definites
exhaustingly disect the minutia of circumstance
and balance of love.

Over beers luke warm, under discussion and portrait,
through eyes solum and sunken-
like the abandoned memory of a ship
drowned in the dried resevior of your salt water tears-

I take care to notice the striking nonchelance of your excellence.
Genuine-Generous-Giving,
Intruiged-intruiging-

intelligent,
Sassy-sarcastic-superb,
Loyal-loving-lucid,
Petite-peturbed-pensive,
hopeful-hillarious-human.

Your lifting spirit resides in the balls of the feet of all passersby-
and effortlessly lends bounce to legs and spirits left dragging.

Constantly I am left in calm contemplation of the
Unparalled, unconditional, uncontrollable loyalty and love
you gift to me.

Forever open and always apreciative,
tactful yet spontaneous-
the inexorable depth of the light that lives
amidst so much confusion in your tiny body,
has the striking ability, or perhaps purpose
to pull a smile out of any tough situation.

You, emma,
are strong, caustic and full of class.

I cannot believe my eyes when I see how little you are!
My friend, the pixie with the best, loudest laugh.

And I would like to make sure you are aware
of your wide eyed heartwarming smile,
that teems with love,
and tirelessly radiates energy, humor and honestly.

Emma your presence and friendship is a gift.

Those who happen upon you
you jovial nymph-
will involuntarily be driven to smile brighter,
laugh harder,
love longer
and love more.

You are a refreshing spirit who acts and stands on mutual respect and laughter.

Your lust for like minded poeple-
your goodness and laugh-
your friendship and love-
have the power to shake earth.

from in between the insides of my head and the rest of civilization- much love and warmth to you on this lovely thursday morning.

Unpredictable, at times abrasive, over enthused, emotionally explosive, with the capability, will and act of accessing myriad outlets of expression- the childlike behavior of the weather this odd august day lends itself well to the events and emotions presented to me. From the itching winds of twilight interrupting my much needed sleep, through the unbearable weight of a humid summer noon resting heavily on my heart, straight to the angry bite of a sporadic storm littered with electricity shooting shards of sharp nothing at my lifted spirit; Much, like an anxious drunk fingering the moist neck of bottle too close to completion, yearning for more yet knowing the intoxication is fleeting, demanding and disrespectful, I have at every corner of the day been blessed by words spoken, heard and imagined. The power of prose is intimidating. Daunting is the gift to think lyrically at times for its consuming presence creates confusion in the working mind! It can become a nearly impossible feat to find the time between witnessed or experienced beauty in which to cleverly organize the arsenal of words aimed at justly describing feeling. I don't know which way to go, which avenue to start explaining the immense happiness that is growing from the cockles of my soul. I have found happy, found love and worth within myself. This is a feeling I have not had or felt to this extreme ever. And I am beautiful for it. I feel it. I feel beautiful- from the inside out. I feel so radiant- so pregnant with gratitude and appreciation that it bursts from every sacred chakra within my body, even ones I did not know existed. Oh to be loving life! To being that ball of energy and light- to share that positivity with praise and generosity-To be loving love so much that whatever form it chooses to take is an instant, unforgiving, eternal, hopeful, wildly exciting feeling. And to further control and harness that love to use its awesome power constructively, responsibly, and with respect is earth shattering. I am filled with perception to the point I feel loose and overwhelmed with the unbearably simple duty to communicate the beauty and divinity that resides within everything.

To best break it down, I must start with our epic conversation.

Your words stole my day. Your conversation coolly charged with both humor and sincerity arrested my concern for the minutia that was to make up this afternoon. Much like the hot hot heat that is impossible to ignore, your stories and laughter were a soft avalanche making it harder to breath through the humidity, harder to ignore its brooding beautiful presence. Hastily I hurried home after my phone lost its charge, cut you off. I had no other concern or want but to continue to speak with you. While speaking or listening or writing or reading, you, and you, and you and you help me to see things new, by seeing them with me, I am able to see in an old light with a new intensity.
I see the clouded fire in the faces of passersby.
I nod, while the corners of my mouth sneak a smile, at a woman aggravated by her canine companions flagrant excitement at the sight of an aloof bird.
I absorb joy from from pigeons that pick at parched grass.

It's the little things that never cease raping my mind. Playful words lick quiet moments. At one instance a rogue hair resting unnoticed on a broken square of cement can run around the cavernous jetty of my hungry mind.

An old woman rich in her wrinkled complexion that mirrors the aging wood of an ancient tree.
A stick, lazily unaware of his importance in the path where he sits.
The madness of thick drops of rain jumping from the clouds under sunny skies in the least expected of moments.

However, it is also the immense tragedies and sickening realities that shape us or color our judgment and ability to comprehend and relate.

The love in my heart, the love that I own, my love, the love that cradles my heart and holds my souls outstretched hands was angrily challenged during the second half of my day.

Life is layered and Toxic. Moreover it is fragile and at times presents impossible situations, unsolvable riddles of relation and emotion. As my parents and I looked at our lives lived in albums filled with frozen moments-In the early moments of late evening an unannounced hail and electrical storm violently labored through the quiet summer streets of the town in which I now live. The storm was fast but angry- acting as quickly as possible to exert its rage in the most welcoming of environments. I was the catalyst for reverie, the reason we danced together through past generations of changed existence. And we started with our nuclear story, and went back to the lives they led before they met and lingered on the lives they led when they were where I am now. It was beautiful to see the things that made my parents who they were as individuals. And it was beautiful to see them before they met and who made them, and who made them that way, and moreover, who they helped each other to become. But it was most interesting to me to see the life they shared before children entered their lives, before we stole the attention. I was filled with awe to see them as socially flamboyant- to see the crowd they drew and surrounded themselves by. I wanted to feel that minute of their life together, I wanted to know the people they knew- I wanted to know them than- i wanted to be there when they were at their most hopeful, when they believed they harbored the most potential. More specifically, my ulterior motives were to obtain pictures of people from that time who's souls I am told lovingly lurk at my side. I have not met two of these people for they died before I was born. I am told, time and time again, that I harbor the best of them both and this makes my heart feel light and safe for I know they were both amazing people who's lives were cut short due to mental and physical disease. Mostly I am blessed to be the namesake for two individuals that touched the hearts of so many, and I feel proud to invoke their goodness and I feel safe in the watchful gaze of their respective lingering energies. I made mention of one these men, Lawrence, for whom I am named Lauren. He was my fathers best friend and they saw each other through the depths of existence. Larry left behind a widow- a woman I call aunt sometimes, mother at other instances, savior when I'm in a real bind and embarrassed to ask my parents for help. And on this night, before the reverie and restoration of balance to the love in my heart, Norma and I went to dine, discuss and enjoy each others company over cool glasses of white wine. Norma was irreparably hurt by the loss of Larry, particularly because she cannot come to terms with the circumstances of his death. This most amazing man who loved so deeply ended his own life. He was unparalleled in looks and compassion but was brought up surrounded by pain in an extremely unhealthy environment. He was molested by several people and ultimately could not reconcile these invasive instances of his early childhood- mainly because when he did choose to deal with it, he remained connected to the same therapist for something like 10 years. Clearly this time spent together created a bond between the two and both grew involved in an increasingly inappropriate way. After Thirty-Six years of trying to deal, understand and come to terms with the workings of his own brain- Larry turned in his hope and will for knowledge of how to make his mind a safe place one that could maintain the fleeting moments of intense euphoria he no doubt had experienced. Many times, my father told me, when Larry was living with my parents he begged them both to help him end his life. Clearly, at the end of a road, Larry could not look back. He could no longer attempt to tackle the complex sadness his brain and heart could not expel. I can imagine the story as it has been told to me. Larry, purposefully poised and ever intent, entering a vapid lot, sturdily, with purpose, holding a gun loaded with defeated relief. He stopped, cold and shaking, I imagine, to pin the note to his chest that in words, runny from salty tears, written by a nervous hand said 'Call Rex Shaw, he will know what to do.' And with a bustling breath, the trigger was pulled and the bullet released into his head.

I do not understand how my father dealt with this- and to this day it is the only thing that is sure to pull emotion from behind his rough guard. However, he recognizes the lost love and learned something from it. Norma, his estranged wife at the time, unable to help him, unable to deal with his depression, madly in love and in lust- well her life ended the minute his did. Her livelihood took a shattering blow that she has never fully recovered from. Their souls connected, hers must have felt the warmth and pain in tandem with his body. His material being gone, soul released from this chapter of his existence, but hers kept captive- bruised and battered from the self-serving loss of the man she existed for. I shared with her tonight that I was told, and I believe that Larry's soul is watching mine or an integral part of it. My new found knowledge of my fleet of guardian souls was meant to caress a tender corner of her heart, however, I may have missed the right spot. There were things Norma shared with me, information I was not privy to that informs her upset at this news. She shared with me that her and Larry had gotten pregnant some years before he died and the name they had chosen for the child was Lauren. During her pregnancy, Norma miscarried and the child was lost. They lost their child, she lost her love and hope at a biological legacy of their love. Being that Larry dies a year before I was born, and him being so close to my parents, it was a natural choice for me to be named Lauren. Of course they asked for Norma's blessing and she gave it enthusiastically. Oddly, or not so strange at all, Norma and I have been unusually close my whole life. But when I told her he was present in my life to make sure I wouldn't make the same mistakes he did, that he is present in my life to make sure I will be able to work through the complexity in my tendency to lapse into maddening depressions- her eyes lost a bit of light. Perhaps I explained with too much enthusiasm my excitement and gratitude for the strength, love, and resolve he is soulfully monitoring and providing for me in my times of need- things he could not give himself- I missed what really killed her. What he did ended their time together. Yes she is always Aunt Norma and a mainstay of my emotional harness but what he took from her when he took his own life was the possibility of them having a child like me, or a life together like my parents have made. It is true she could have moved on in some way, to some capacity forged a life different from the one she thought she had or deserved- but she did not. That that tender spot in her heart for him was caressed to the point of aggravation or perhaps her heart has not healed and any love that tried to enter has been expelled, leaving her to internalize a growing sadness that has consumed most of her adult life. It was my love for Norma, this important figure in my life, that was strained when we disagreed. It was pushed when I saw that her heart was closed, and angry and unforgiving, and moreover, that she made that choice to keep it closed. Well the sadness that brought me almost erupted as anger, much like the lightening that tore apart this evenings sky, or, like the tiny cannon balls of hail, of furry that shot from the dark clouds- tickled with confusion.

Killing a bug

If you have ever killed a bug larger than your average bee or horsefly than you know the smell that they emit when their fragile bodies are crushed by the weight of the nearest book or helpful flip-flop. I must say (and I do not believe this fits with my general character) that I am absolutely terrified of flying bugs, particularly bees or wasps or bumbles. It might be the waning memory of my innocent sweet young left leg being stung by a nest mad with revenge for me killing one of their own, mad with desire for the syrup sliding down my calf, manuvering the canals between the baby soft hair that lived on my leg. Or maybe it is the maddening incessant hum of their busy wings- or the carefree innate allusive navigation they posses. Perhaps it is the way a flighted insect cuts through the air and owns all space it occupies- for you see they can stand, crawl and of course fly and of course dance threateningly at my fear, moving closer claiming mutual domain as their own territory. How brash! Such a small being believing it can challenge me, knowing it can evoke fear so much so it would make my body, infinitely bigger than its tiny form, flail and cower.

After an odd evening spent in pensive poise and reflection, after I climbed the spiral staircase to my attic room, while juggling a laptop, three notebooks and a glass of wine-To my absolute horror I heard that gnarly buzz of insect wings lurking in the dark corner where my bed lives. It was a beetle like one I had never seen before and although my viceral reaction was to kill fast and without caution I still felt bad. Nonetheless, after about ten minutes of me hiding like a four year old behind a bookcase and attempting to lure the creature away from the light, I was successful in cornering the ancient beast and squashing it with an old spiral notebook from my first year of college. The whole time I maintained a look of disgust, he did nothing to me, he just was and that was enough.


And now I am only left with the sweet smell of insect death to caress my nostrils as I lean towards sleep.