About Me

I find it hard to describe myself using more than a few words, a few drops of ink spilled on the page that waste little and leave enough blank space for more important endeavors.  I guess this tells you I’m poetic, because we’re only one paragraph in and I’ve already personified myself.

I call myself ink, yet I’m more like paper: faceless, malleable, and ruined by mistakes.  My creases will never smooth, and tape will only close the millions of tiny rips scattered along my edges.  The fibers of my skin will never reconnect entirely.

Thank goodness you have the power to paint me, to bury those flaws under any color you please.  I prefer blue and purple, myself, but I cannot let you know that.  What if your favorite color is green?  I guess this means I’m insecure, as well.  I’m so sorry.

I also enjoy painting and drawing.  I look for excuses to stick my brushes in ink.  I sometimes paint upon myself, but only when you can’t see.  I wouldn’t want you to think I’m improper or indecent.  I know how indecent I can be, which I why I only paint myself behind closed doors.  I don’t want to show myself as anything less than your favorite color.

I stick to my word.  I never break a promise, and I hardly ever lie.  I stick to my word because you write it, along with my promises.  It would be a lie to say I don’t have trouble remaining smooth and white after you have taken your pen to me.  Sometimes, you press down too hard and it hurts.

I should stop personifying, now.  I can tell you find this senseless creativity obnoxious, and would rather I get to the point:

I live to please others.  I used to do things to please myself, and I became a monster.  Now, I am honest, punctual, and as perfect as I can be.  I believe that the best way to correct oneself is through punishment, meted by a set of strict guidelines.

I follow my guidelines to a T.

I think I like bizarre things.  I am somehow drawn to the macabre and the surreal, the things that keep most children awake at night.  The creatures in my head come out in my drawings, and in the way I dance.  Feel free to question these interests, for they could be my narcissism begging for attention.

I think I’m politically liberal, because my thoughts run more closely to that platform when I am left to think alone.  Maybe propaganda has taken over my brain.

I think I have a sense of wit that some would find humorous, but when I try to tell a joke, blank stares and quizzical expressions meet me.  I cannot laugh at the jokes of others – insulting others and mimicking bodily functions is not funny, at least not to me.

Excess Calories disturb me, in both diet and in word.  I don’t think I enjoy sugar-coated tales.  If anything, I don’t like stories that make people feel better about themselves for no reason.  I apply the same philosophy to myself, for I, too, am human:

  • Those people are not teasing me out of jealousy. They truly hate me.
  • My own incapacity caused me not to get the job.  The employer saw right through my façade.
  • Yes, others do care if my thighs touch, if I have stretch marks, and if my breasts are too large. It’s evolution.  It’s science.  I am disgusting.
  • It’s no secret people watch me when I eat. I know they think I shouldn’t eat so much: it will ruin me.

I wish I could say more, but I don’t know what else to write.  I am too preoccupied with all I have wasted: Your time, your space, your ink.

 

 

 

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The Carousel

I am three years old

And the carousel makes its rounds:

This horse is white,

That horse is brown.

How do they gallop?  I ask my father.

They are alive, he says.  It’s magic.

I am ten years old

And the carousel makes its rounds:

This horse is wood,

That horse is bound.

How do they gallop?  I ask my father.

They are alive, he says.  It’s the machine.

I am seventeen years old

And the carousel makes its rounds:

This horse in tears,

That horse creaks under

Too many pounds.

How do they gallop?  I ask my father.

They are alive, he says.  That’s how I imagine it.

(Like last week, you can frighten your foes with the original version.)

We Will Deliver

A bus wanders down the lonely highway, its dirty sides reflecting with the late afternoon sun.  Behind its black-tinted windows are tomorrow’s engineers and doctors, social workers and educators; but one would not think this if they saw them now.  The eyes of these brilliant souls are glassy, their arms stiff and sore.  They are clad in thick coats and wooly socks, mother’s scarves and grandma’s hats.  At this hour, they are children seeking home.

The bus turns from the main road to a path that is far too old to withstand its modern girth.  Still, it squeezes itself onto the gravelly funnel and rolls forth with unbending confidence.  No one else has dared to venture out, today: the ground is covered in a thick blanket of snow, and all else is tucked beneath a sheet of ice.  Nothing moves while the hulking product of will and industry makes its mighty journey.  Its movement in this time-capsule corner of the country evokes from its inhabitants a passive sense of trust.

Even the trains are frozen still, taking shelter beneath sturdy pines and tall maple skeletons.  Their skins are scarred with stripes of precipitation, and their iron hearts are colder than the air itself.  As the bus charges past their mummified faces, they make a silent promise.

We Will Deliver, they say.

Will they?

Haikus, I

20/12/2014

The airport is glass

And children are specimens.

Cameras watch, above.

21/12/2014

Relatives gather

Around an exotic center.

It scares them, they leave.

22/12/2014

Pills make her vomit

Or almost, in the steel sink.

Is this sadness’ cure?

23/12/2014

Scissors near the face

And is that light really green?

The world is panic.

24/12/2014

The bread has been burnt.

A blackened external crust.

Butter saves this loaf.

25/12/2014

Gathering again

In a claustrophobic room.

Of course, politics.

26/12/2014

 Nearly eleven

Things are lonely already.

“Kids need both parents.”

The Magic of Monsieur Maurais

Imagine the claustrophobic confines of a church basement.  Fluorescent lights beam their yellowish rays onto every shining surface.  Squeaky, beaten tables are unfolded upon the tan, linoleum-tiled floor, bordered by chilly chairs that welcome all who qualify to communion. Long coats, older than the church itself, hang limp from a line of unfinished wooden hooks on icy brick walls.  The dusty, faded-pink face of the Virgin gazes into the sea of people who are herding into her domain.

I was one of those people, age twelve, wrapped in velvety red and crisp gold.  My black shoes glimmered into my black eyes, and my black hair was burnt into black curls.  I tapped along the tan, linoleum-tiled floors, following the motions of all the pious before me.  I did not know that, in that church basement, I would be ironically introduced to what the holy call “sin.”

Ghyslain Maurais is a world-renowned chocolatier, having found his love for food while working to fund his education in architecture.  He has earned delegations in both New York and London, and is a household name in both the Midwest and his native Québec.  His boutiques are frequent stomping grounds for holiday shoppers and curious tourists, as well as for children who desire something more than the typical Hershey’s fare.  If one were to look at a picture of Ghyslain Maurais, one would see a middle-aged man with an unmarked, smiling face.  He almost always wears a white suit, which has been starched and steamed to perfection.

Hardly anyone would believe he would deign to spend his evening encased in a cold, white, tiled basement, glowing beyond the hardened gazes of the godly gathering and my twelve-year-old self.

Nonetheless, there he was: jovially out-of-place and surrounded by his vibrant holiday collection.  Mousse-filled hills of sky-blue snow rose toward Heaven. Flamboyant berries brushed in crimson, veined leaves touched with piney green, and golden Christmas bells swung and sang on the branches of delicious, flour-covered logs.  Maple-speckled deer peered beyond their wooden barrier, timid toward the crowd whose sole mission was to consume. Ghyslain Maurier had done more than make chocolate.  He had created a world within which stories could be written.  He had created a work of art.

One by one, the critical audience made their circle around the basement banquet, which was more than dessert.  White bread and bland crackers swore their innocence, cracking their leathery skins to reveal the purity within.   Yellow-marbled cubes of cheese putridly proclaimed the sins of their fruity companions, whose ripened pink flesh was too much like the face of the Virgin.  Eyeless fishes glared jealously at the salamis, which were lounging languidly in the unspoken protection of Lent.  Foam plates provided percussion for the silent procession, crinkling and cracking under the pressure of nervous thumbs and fickle plastic ware.  My own dish creaked under the weight of a bronzy chocolate bell and, in accordance with my mother’s orders, several small shrimp.

I gobbled my fishy feast in greedy anticipation.  The chocolate bell tinkled as I dug my teeth into the cold, soft flesh of my meal.  Thin bones were torn away from icy meat, clattering on my plate while I slid each headless corpse into my acid-ocean stomach.  The ringing persisted in crescendo as bony tails were ripped from bodies, bringing me closer to the rich tones of finale.

The silence around me was as deafening as a symphony.  One glance bounced off of another, creating clashing notes of small talk and judgment.  Toddlers gummed their white, buttered bread and looked to their mothers for attention they would not receive.  Elderly couples sat stolidly with their cheeses, commenting on how those school girls should have left their wine-purple dresses at home.  I sat at the table my family had reserved months in advance, absorbing the scene beneath blinding fluorescent lights.  Ghyslain Maurais’ bell tolled thunderous temptation into my ear.

I silenced the earsplitting peals with a bite.  Immediately, my mouth was overcome with the complex melody of dark chocolate.  Caramel, subtle and rich, comprised the humming harmony. My taste buds rang in ecstasy.  I was tasting the design of Ghyslain   Maurais.  This was the work as well as the canvas: smooth, velvety, and temporary.  I savored it. It was the first time I had seen, let alone tasted, something so small that was so carefully crafted, yet so demonstrative of its creator’s heart and soul.

I have made many a return to the boutique of Ghyslain Maurais, however I will never forget that quiet night in the cold basement where, below a church void of music, the flavors of chocolate provided the organ’s final rumbling chord.

+++

I highly suggest you visit Mr. Maurais’ Website, and buy a bell of your own.

 

 

 

 

A Carol

Hodie the child rolls from its cocoon, slimy with its mother’s insides.  They dunk it in water and determine its gender.

Hodie it shrieks a morpheme.  Its teachers snap to attention with their pens gripped between their bony fingers.  They cannot miss the wealth of information that is pouring from its tongue.

Hodie it holds onto something and uses that as a crutch for the rest of the day.  They stick mattresses under it so it won’t be broken.

Hodie she sings for the first time.  She’s sharp; but she feels so wonderful in her new, pink dress.  It is better than shrieking.

Hodie she learns that lines are dangerous.  She makes her own maps.

Hodie she doesn’t understand why what supports her feet is of so much concern to them.  They send her away because educating to the tune of questions is too much work.

Hodie her skin falls away and she grows a new one.  It isn’t horribly comfortable, but she will have to deal with it if she wants to make friends.

Hodie reality is no longer acceptable to it.  It makes do with the poetry of the pencil and the secret language of Poe.

Hodie she bathes herself in icy blue to dull the sting of the outside.

Hodie she buries herself in layers of armor and they roll her over in her sleep.  A beetle, defeated.

Hodie numbers are what she must avoid, for the lock her in the present.  If days were gifts, they must have come from a dumpster.

Hodie she leaps onto the palate and chooses a color.  She paints herself from head to toe.  This is what she is.

Hodie lines are all there are.  She dares not cross those lines.

Hodie her mouth opens, but nothing useful comes out.  Questions shouldn’t be asked, she knows, and no proper comment can she make.

Hodie she sings and it is perfect.  Her dress shrieks around her, squeezing her arms with its itchy elastic and suffocating her legs with every step.

Hodie the television-tray stands permanently in the living room.  She folds with it when they aren’t looking.

Hodie she holds onto something and makes it her own.  They wrestle her to the ground: “That thing could snap your bones in half.”

Hodie its words are quiet and controlled.  Its teachers ignore it and know it will do well, regardless of whether or not it seems intelligent.

Hodie it rolls from its bed, slimy with sweat and nightmare and drool.  It dunks itself in water and determines its gender.

The Death of Thanksgiving

November 25th, 20– was the death of Thanksgiving.  That meal has remained as leftovers, though; its salted gravies and withered green beans mold and congeal in the refrigerator of my memory.  Luckily, it does not smell, so I leave it where it is.  I will scrape it from its Tupperware™ containers, one of these days.

My father was never much of a cook; and by that, I mean he never cooked.  There was a period during which he tried, serving half-done hamburger buried in powdery milk, however he abandoned his efforts when my sister and I failed to praise his creations.  We ate them, yes, however they were not conducive to awe or amazement.  They were of swallowing quality, and that was all.

His attempts to get us to the table were equally abortive.  His mouth was quick to spew hate, thus our meals were typically taken in silence.  Tension would vibrate between our foreheads like a deep-bellied cello.

No one was surprised when he decided to order take-out on Thanksgiving.

It came in plastic boxes, each which protective seals.

     Rip.  Eight drying slices of turkey.

            Rip.  A greasy garden of bacon-boiled beans.

            Rip.  Four sticky spoonfuls of stuffing (or dressing).

            Rip.  Four igloos of mashed potatoes.

            Rip.  Eight hunks of nondescript bread.

A cello bowed, and we were asked (ordered) to get our plates and sit down.  We complied, stalking into our rock-hard chairs like anxious boards.  I sat on the edge of my seat, a silent choir member, while my sister craned her neck over the wooden ledge of the table.  She was short, then.

Knives and forks made unappetizing, screeching clinks upon my father’s plates.  This was one of the only times we had been allowed to use anything but paper.  He didn’t want us dirtying things that could be used “for guests;” but the only other life we ever saw were the half-dead dust-bugs that crawled upon their once-glossy concave surfaces.  I wondered if he ever did have anyone over, to use the mugs that held well in my hands and the silverware that hadn’t been swiped from the convenience counter of restaurants.

I spooned some cranberry sauce on my plate, and no one said anything.  The cello was rather quiet, however still humming behind my ear.  I sighed.

Eventually, everyone left the table.