Tag Archives: compassion

Eleven Random Questions, and please submit your own answers as replies!

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ELEVEN RANDOM QUESTIONS

What do you think of keeping a journal?

The real issue here is not that of how journal writing affects all the other forms of writing.  There is much to be said about journal writing, both positively and negatively, and probably all of it is true at one time or another for all writers who face changing circumstances over the course of their writing lives.  Sometimes journals can help our other projects, sometimes they can’t.  Each person’s situation is best handled by themselves.  The real issue here, the issue that has people so stirred up, and rightly so, is the fundamental arrogance displayed in both the “writer” Jimmy V.’s original essay condemning journaling out of hand, and his later condemning replies to any and all responses proffered to him.  Arrogance of the intensity he displays has always been a substitute for actual wisdom.  This truth is one of the fundamental truths of human nature, and I am not the only person to realize it.  “The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, but wiser people so full of doubts.”  (Bertrand Russell)  That, little Jimmy V., spoiled rotten “writer,” is the central issue you should concern yourself with.

 

Which celebrity would you like to bitch slap?

Dr. Laura wins by a light-year.  I only slap those who’ve been guilty of slapping others.  She’s angry and cruel and gives just plain bad advice to her callers.  I listen to her all the time to remind myself how wise and kind I am by comparison.  King Solomon, she isn’t.  She’s a one-note piano with a bent wire.  She sounds like she needs heavy meds, and pronto!  Wouldn’t we all just leap at the chance to come back as her husband or son?  I’d rather be eaten alive by a swarm of rats.

 

Do you remember your dreams?

I remember my dreams often, but not every single night.  My dreams run the gamut of emotional response — from terror to euphoria.  I write down most of the dreams I remember.  They are usually very long & complicated & sometimes make perfect sense but sometimes don’t contain the slightest thread of logic.  My favorite dreams are the ones I call “therapy dreams.”  Often, when I’m upset or angry with someone, I’ll dream about that person & act out my feelings in the dream & achieve some sort of resolution which flows over into waking life & is vastly superior to any traditional therapy I’ve tried.  I’ve done everything in my dreams — flown without mechanical aids, been wonderfully fluent in foreign languages, had phenomenal sex with friends & strangers & celebrities, lived as a member of the opposite sex, written best sellers, killed people… my dreams are in many ways the best part of my life because they’re absolutely limitless in scope & action & intensity.  Sometimes dreams are a lot more “real” than real life & more enjoyable.  Surrealist dreams are the most interesting — upon waking I always try to puzzle out what was the link between seemingly unrelated events or objects.  I’ve even accurately prophesied the future in dreams.  I tend to think it’s because the subconscious is free to express itself rather than any supernatural explanation.  We’re just that smart when we’re not weighed down with all our conscious baggage.  Thanks for asking about dreams!

 

What’s your Wu-Tang name?

Contagious Specialist

 

What’s the deal with long hair?

You’re right, it is 40.  Not 30.  Sometimes long hair can make the face look thin & drawn, but that’s also true for teenagers.  Some of them shouldn’t have long hair.  On the other hand, I’ve seen old ladies in wheelchairs with long fluffy white hair & it can be quite charming.  I think if you look good with it, who cares what the rules are?

 

What are five good things about springtime?

1.  Getting the taxes filed & out of the way

2. Wanderlust & regular lust & spring fever

3. Plants waking up & showing off & intoxicated

4. Putting the hand lotion away till next year

5. Birds, bees, butterflies & bikini underwear

 

What are your irrational annoyances?

Noise, noise & noise.  Ungrateful children who view me as their maid.  Children who, rather than empty the trash, stuff the can so full you can’t get the bag out.  Children who leave dirty dishes & empty snack containers scattered around the house.  Children who are, currently either at the movies or sleeping.  Thank you, God.

 

Does springtime make you horny?

Nope.  For me the season of lust is definitely winter.  But then, I live in Florida.

 

Why do you love your pets?

I love my pets because they’re far less demanding than my children.

 

What do you think of the name game?

I have a former sister-in-law who collects unusual names.  A couple of her favorites are Shithead (pronounced Shi-THEED) and Lemonjello (pronounced Le-MON-jello). Also PsalmCIV (pronounced PIZUM-siv).  These are actual legal names, no joke.

 

What do you think of magazines with articles titled “Ten Steps to a Killer Orgasm!”?

I used to read Seventeen as a child… then read Glamour as a young woman… then read Mirabella as a grown-up.  It figures Mirabella went bust, it was the most intelligent in a sea of dreck.  Redbook was pretty good until they quit publishing short fiction. Jane’s okay, but too young for me.  I hate Martha Stewart but her magazine’s got the best art direction, I think.  And I like when she runs those articles about 27 varieties of tomatoes, or whatever, with a poster illustration.  Gourmet is an old classic, still living up to its past.  Vanity Fair has great writing & an eclectic subject matter.  Rolling Stone & Sports Illustrated also win for good writing that crosses subject lines.  I find I don’t have enough time to read all the magazines I subscribe to — they languish in piles.  W is nice just for the outsized format but their writing is negligible.

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Please Speak Well of Me When I’m Gone, a 397 word short story

illustration please speak well of me when i'm gone

Please Speak Well of Me When I’m Gone, a 397 word short story

October 11, 2012

5:00 a.m.

I had the strangest dream, where I was back together with K!!! We were together in this hotel room, packing our stuff, which was a lot, and getting ready to ride on a plane somewhere (what else does he do these days, but ride on planes!). It was as though we were back together, after all these years, something had happened; our subsequent, real-life remarriages were never mentioned. Clearly, we knew it was awkward that we hadn’t been together in so long — but there it was, we were going to try it. We didn’t have sex in the dream, although it was clear both of us were sort of thinking about the concept. But we weren’t anywhere near ready for that! And when I awoke, I started thinking about how sometimes I get confused about my life, about the sharp turns, the complete disconnections from my entire past life, etc., and how sometimes I don’t recognize the current terrain.

And why have I been thinking so much about K. these days, like that song by the Weepies, “Speak Well of Me When I’m Gone?” The one that has made me cry so many times? “I’ve been away, a year and a day….” That’s true of so many people in my life, isn’t it? Only they’ve been gone far longer than that: some have been gone for 35 years. How young, and blind, and ignorant, and how many horrendous mistakes it’s possible to make, etc.

“Looking back now, I only wish I had been kinder.” It’s the truth — some part of me has never stopped loving K. “And when I’m gone, please speak well of me.” Some part of me wishes we had worked out, because he was the first truly committed relationship I had, the first husband, the father to my first child, so many firsts. I met him when I was 22. He was 27.

Wouldn’t it have been sweet, had it worked out? Almost like high school sweethearts. Young — I was so young, so inexperienced. God! And I would apologize to him on my knees, if it would do any good. He wouldn’t, I don’t think, be able to hear me. The way I would want it to be heard. Still, I could try, couldn’t I?

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The Way Love Is Supposed To Be, a very, very short story

illustration the way love is supposed to be

I wanted to run upon the moors with tears streaming down my face.

She treated him as if he were a rajah, wearing a satin robe and slippers.

Don’t ever marry an accountant.

You’ll laugh, but I cried.

Her radar had failed her over and over again.

Men were tricky.

She danced the samba, then the tango, in the arms of a smelly Russian with piercing blue eyes who fancied himself a ladies’ man.

I would never marry someone who ogles women right in front of me. At least, not until I’ve started ogling them, too.

My Mama loved mohair; I loved angora. We were opposites.

Move your ass and don’t take a year.

I felt at sea for most of my thirties. The forties couldn’t be any worse, I thought. Wrong, wrong, and wrong!

I plodded, envying the agility of those around me with obviously higher serotonin levels. When I studied those brain chemicals in college, I didn’t know they’d turn out to be so important.

Redial that oily odor; a ray of water consoles the jilted; all beds of roses rot eventually; be brave and rest; the noose leads to the abyss; don’t gouge the luge, egad! Lazy seared meat; too addled to ladle. Baba rhum; Joanne Arel/Aral; raison d’etre; brave agar; the smell of water; conic Eros; seed the boo-boo, Sergeant. I came, I saw, I conquered; day-O, me say day-ay-ay-O; I say, Merv, that canary sure can sing!

Canary Conn? Transsexual on Merv Griffin. Breathtakingly beautiful, not a man in drag.

At this rate, we’ll never get there. Or perhaps, we are already there and are too stupid to know it! Dogs vs. cats… different, not better or worse. Different is GOOD.

No one’s a fool.  At least, not forever.

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Trying To Explain, a poem

illustration trying to explain

Trying to Explain, a poem

How do you explain to outsiders what was bad about the marriage?

Take them down the aisle with you, make them wear the white satin dress so stiff and heavy, embroidered with pearls, it left deep red welts for 24 hours.

Was your first inkling when, on the way to the honeymoon bed, he had to stop to get the car washed?  Next, take them with you to the hotel room where there was nothing, absolutely nothing left to talk about.  Put on the black nightgown he requested and hunger for food if nothing else, order room service, you wanted a juicy cheeseburger, he even found fault in that.  He had steak, rare.  It was his wedding night, after all.

Don’t forget how his education was far superior to yours, he had worked harder for everything he possessed, including you.  His mental health put you to shame.  You were so tired from getting married you fell asleep before having sex.  Next morning it occurred to you it wasn’t too late, you could still get out on a technicality.  Mistakes get made, are remedied 9 years later.

In between the first day and the last, hordes of memories press between the sheets.  Detritus from a dying institution.  Tell them about your body, how it remained cold, so cold even the touch of a well-educated fool couldn’t wake it.  Give examples:  he called you a bitch 78 times, neurotic, 207 times, a whining baby, 134 times… tell me, how many times was too many?

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Why I Hate You, a poem

illustration why i hate you

Why I Hate You

You know why I hate you?  You’re a weak vine, needing to be propped up, needing more comfort than a baby.  You imagine bugs, crawling up the walls, down your hair.  Their wings whir in the night like soft sobs.

I hate you because you’re ugly — a slob, a slut, a sucker.  Because you saw your mother passed out on the carpet in front of the television, one too many times, but you didn’t kill her the way she wanted to be killed.  You didn’t help when she needed you.  Because you let yourself be unimportant for so many years and did nothing to help yourself until it was too late, until you’d already lost the war.  Peace came on unfavorable terms, the enemy couldn’t be placated.

I hate you because you’re afraid of the dark.  When you’re with a man, you lean on the solidity of his body, the real beat of his heart, you listen to his rhythmic breathing, and you’re not afraid anymore, but you start to get antsy.  His body sounds so much stronger than yours.  They don’t cry the way you do.  Does that mean they don’t feel?  Why do they want to be with the likes of you?  You don’t have the slightest idea what you want from them.  Late at night is the worst.  The stars unfold ahead of you, and you can’t find your way to the future, stupid bitch.

That’s when I hate you the most.  You’re utterly without honor.  You imagine your ex-husband, fat and happy in his bed, eating candy.  He doesn’t suffer like you do, he has already forgotten why he married you in the first place.  He is perfect.  He is way above you in the cosmos, he is light, reason.  Your life is insignificant, ignorant and small, and won’t leave a shadow.

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Jihad and the Mother: Further Profile Pic Reflections

Yes!

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Heavenly Dances, Heavenly Intimacies, a short story

illustration heavenly dances heavenly intimacies

Heavenly Dances, Heavenly Intimacies, a short story

“Isn’t there any heaven where old beautiful dances, old beautiful intimacies prolong themselves?”

Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier

How can I be “dead” to any of the men I once loved?  They are not “dead” to me.  Not even H.  How can I be “dead” to H.?  They — even H. — are each as alive as when I was with them; as alive as the first time they touched me, whether tentatively or with confidence; whether softly or roughly; whether with passion or mere lust.  It is shocking and appalling how H. lurched so radically to the right after 9/11.  He began that journey to the Tea-Party-Mad-Hatter-Neocon-Bill-Buckley-Wall-Street-Apologist-Fringe-Brainless-Faux-News-Right when Ronald Reagan was shot; I was with him the very night it happened.  We had a short affair, right then, because we started thinking the end of the world had arrived and we decided, like the crazy college students we were, to get married to celebrate our courage in the face of chaos!  I realized very early on (but still way too late!) I was embarrassed to be seen in public with him.  Did you ever start seeing, and marry someone whom you later realized you were embarrassed to be seen with?  Perhaps the person in question was “dorky,” “geeky,” dressed “badly,” or had questionable “taste.”  H. readily admits he was a “dork” in high school.  He was on the debate team; need I say more?  When you can’t bear to be seen in your lover’s/spouse’s/significant other’s/partner’s company, things usually don’t work out.

Still, I put in ten dutiful years, trying to make amends for my mistake in marrying H.  The second he started making the big bucks, he dumped me.  He left me for my best friend!  I guess I deserved it, not taking control of my own life & filing for divorce two weeks after we married.  And I guess I deserved how my ex-best-friend S. ruined me, as she subsequently did.  She was in charge of the whole group we had socialized with:  dictating how everyone in our “circle” should think, speak, act, or react.  H. was dead wrong about most everything, but, to his credit, he was dead right about her.  At the time I thought him merely woman-hating, but I see now, even though he did hate women, there was something more than simply being a “woman” he hated about her.  He was covering up the fact he loved her by pretending to hate her.  Now, I have no desire to see her, not ever again.  She is definitely “dead” to me.  Yes, I understand intellectually, a living death (call it shunning) can happen to anyone.

The upshot of all this boring history?  I’ve been waiting for something a long time.  I can’t blame anyone but myself for my unhappiness, not anymore.  There is something dispirited inside me, something empty, drained, and beaten — something sick, something tired, something that has surrendered.  I gave up, when?  When my first ex-husband arbitrarily said no to children, breaking his solemn vow.  When I realized I couldn’t find happiness outside myself — not with an old love, not with a new love, not with any of my subsequent husbands, my friends, my eventual children, or my family.  Yes, to casual acquaintances and virtual strangers I am “happy, happier than I’ve ever been.”  And it’s true!  I’ve never been this happy, this contented, in my life.  Yes, there are still problems.  My oldest son is still half the world away, fighting an endless war on behalf of my “country.”  My youngest son still has an ignorant, racist, rabidly conservative father.  I am getting old.  My face is melting.  My neck is turning into a wattle.  I am drooping.

Still, I cannot imagine any of them, the men I have loved or made love to, being dead to me the way my former best friend, S., is dead to me.  Yet that is how they must feel about me, the way I feel about her.  Wanting her removed from my memories.  Wanting never to have met her.  Not missing anything about her.  She wants to see me, I heard from a mutual friend I still speak to.  I don’t want to see her, or even see the mutual friend.  I don’t even want to get as close as that!  Because of reasons.  Top secret, NSA, DOD, CIA, FBI, SEC, IRS, FDLE, GPD, ACSO reasons!  No further comment!

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Baby Chicks and Free Speech, a short story

illustration baby chicks and free speech free_speech

Baby Chicks and Free Speech, a short story

Here I am, sitting on the long, narrow side patio of “Ye Olde Neighborhood Coffee Parlor” listening to yet another, tiresome & self-aggrandizing, homeless guy tell some adoring young female his “war stories.” So this one night, under this bridge… they usually begin, as does this one.

And then they arrive as quickly as possible (as does this one) at the “no one dares to call the police on me anymore,” stage, or is it no one dares call the state troopers, or the FBI, or the CIA, or the NSA? Whatever. Boils down to the fact that some dangerous, or just plain, old, drug-addled sociopath, is trying to pick up a drunk, defenseless-seeming chick (and I do mean chick – even her hair is fluffy like a newly hatched & dried chicken’s) on the side porch at “Ye Olde Neighborhood Coffee Parlor.” Then I hear the magic words: crazy bitch! Bingo!

So, to cut a long, boring, pointless ordeal short, I let him have it in the face with both barrels. Told him from where I sat, not even lifting my head to look, or my pencil from page of the blank composition book I was writing in, that if he could call someone a “crazy bitch” loud enough for me to hear him all the way at the opposite end of the uncovered concrete patio, then I could call him a “stupid, fucking sociopathic, prick asshole” as loud as I wanted to, from my end of the patio.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s your right of free speech.” And then he went inside to have the management call the cops on me. Ooh, he just trotted back out to tell me he works at the College of Law — he’s real important!

The poor, homeless chick I was afraid was going to end up as a body dumped by him somewhere along the nearest exit of the nearest interstate is not going with him now, she’s clutching her head and moaning how she was “just on my way to the lake, man!” She sounds like Janis Joplin after a shot of heroin and half a bottle of whiskey. I just kept telling her I loved her, over and over and over. And that he most definitely did NOT love her. Or have her best interests at heart.

I gave him a fucking piece of my mind. Maybe I didn’t save her life, but I definitely saved her poor, little, skinny ass from a predatory, muscle-bound hunk of steroidal ego-maniac-ism. With a tanning booth tan, or maybe it’s a spray tan, who gives a fuck. I think the other patrons inside this place just told him to get the hell out of here. We’re all here, some of us twice a day, almost like clockwork – since this is the first time I’ve ever seen him, I doubt he is a “regular.”

Oh, but the poor, unjustly accused, wee man-child protests plaintively he was “just trying to do somebody a favor, buying a homeless person a cup of coffee.” The “crazy bitch” he referred to outside on the patio was, drum roll please… his mother! Wow, there’s a shocker. What sociopath/serial killer/manipulator/user/con man/misogynist/racist/violent/physically or emotionally or financially abusive A-hole doesn’t blame their “crazy bitch” of a mother for everything they’ve brought on to themselves!

I told him she must really love him, his mom, especially when he calls her “crazy bitch” to her face on Mother’s Day! I thought his head would explode right there, all over the rusty, rickety, nasty tables the owner is too cheap to replace. Why I keep coming back here, I’ll never know. My nephew says it’s haunted… maybe the spirits are trying to get me here so they can tell me something I desperately need to know. What if I don’t want to listen to them? And I don’t! Not the bad ones, anyway. So I generally try to ignore them all, altogether, because trying to sort the good spirits from the bad spirits seems like tempting fate.

Miss “Chicken Little/Little Chicken/My Little Chickadee” would have paid handsomely for that “free” iced coffee drink with a priceless piece of her tiny, bony ass. Look on the bright side: maybe she would have left him with a little something infectious and/or potentially itchy to remember her by. Of course, if she had gotten pregnant, he would have denied everything, including ever having met her. And pity the poor child born of such a freak-o-zoid union!

Now the musclebound sociopath is gone, back on his expensive racing bike, continuing on his way to the neighborhood weightlifting “meat market” joint three blocks down the road, where he can peacock his spray-tanned asshole-ry around for all the other macho/macha bodybuilders. College of Law employee? We’ll just see about that. Yeah, that’s what I thought… nobody on the staff possesses his distinctive face. How considerate of the College of Law to have its own mini-facebook thing! Legal Sociopath Dude vacated the premises, and quickly. Thank you, all good spirits haunting “Ye Olde Neighborhood Coffee Parlor!”

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The lawyer said.

The lawyer said..

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People Like You, a poem

illustration people like you

People Like You

I’ve known a lot of people over the years, hundreds

in fact, and I’ve made it my serious business to know them

extremely well, both inside and out; it’s what I do,

it’s what I like to do, quite possibly it’s what I do best —

but in all this time, I’ve only stumbled across two people

like you in my entire life, there’s just you and him,

two truly dangerous human beings, two walking disasters,

two men obviously wounded so deep inside

that even after it was over, even after

examining all the mixed-up feelings I’d coaxed

out of us both; shoveling and pouring them

into the leaky jar formed from all our human needs;

even after the feelings had settled into pretty layers

of sand and sediment organized by density;

even after I poured over that the shimmering crystal

water of my tears, (not just the real ones I cried,

but the ghost ones you always wished you were able to shed)

I did not hold you responsible for your actions.

Not a bit.  I had my eyes open from the very first

moment I heard your voice.  I freely allowed you

to hurt me, I asked for the pain to be given to me,

then I made excuses, I made allowances, I forgave you,

and I am not very often a forgiving person.

Ask anyone who knows me well.  Rather, I hold a grudge;

it is how women are as a race, I am told;

and I am told I am a woman.  Do you think I am a woman?

Do I look like one?  The private physics of our bodies

differs — does that create a real disparity in power

or just a real disparity in perception?  You point always

to the internal risk of damage women carry within them.

You say, men do not have to fear women the same way

women have to fear men.  With good reason, you have helped me

to learn this — now there is nothing left to do but file

your memory away forever, attach the bright red warning

stickers that proclaim for all to see: hey, wake up,

look twice, look close, look long, we all know

people like this exist, they exist for a reason.

Do you mind if I ask again, if I pry one last time

where I am not wanted?  Oh, dear heart, what is your reason,

your sweet reason, your sweet reason for existing?

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