He laughs easily at naysayers
plodding in his cornfield of life
is never concerned with
small-town gossip
brilliantly focuses on
smiling
life
into
submission
eats collards on Sunday
sees green as green
and red as red
knows his grand-children's
favorite ice cream and
biggest wishes
for Christmas and birthdays
finds pleasure in a green bean
a five-and-dime harmonica
and in helping his wife
hang
the
laundry
Monday, September 29, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
tummy
I look at my tummy in the mirror
push it out - suck it in
it's not concave like
the corners of
that thin like wings
fragile girl
my belly is convex but
not
pregnant-
full of possibility
ripe watermelon
poking
outie belly button
pushing
I want to be
heavy with child
expectant
expecting
knocked up Nelly
fertile Myrtle
I feel empty
and I cry
because
I'm only full
of pizza
push it out - suck it in
it's not concave like
the corners of
that thin like wings
fragile girl
my belly is convex but
not
pregnant-
full of possibility
ripe watermelon
poking
outie belly button
pushing
I want to be
heavy with child
expectant
expecting
knocked up Nelly
fertile Myrtle
I feel empty
and I cry
because
I'm only full
of pizza
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
the nature of the mind and body
the majesty of a forest floor hovers
in the brain, thick with vines and fever
bursting from
poison ivy, curling leaves emerge
from the dark breast of loam, while
hallucinations of squirrels and sparrows
push through the unconscious,
scampering, flitting, floating
in the wind of uncertainty
pantomime the words of nature
in an unending song of flailing arms
finger-puppet plays, and toe-sock dances
thrust the body into the motion of a river
splashing foolishly for meaning
moist limbs move slowly
forgetting that they ever fought
for air
This is from the readwritepoem (link to the right) "word fishing" prompt.
It turned out kinda weird, but fun!
Thanks guys!
in the brain, thick with vines and fever
bursting from
poison ivy, curling leaves emerge
from the dark breast of loam, while
hallucinations of squirrels and sparrows
push through the unconscious,
scampering, flitting, floating
in the wind of uncertainty
pantomime the words of nature
in an unending song of flailing arms
finger-puppet plays, and toe-sock dances
thrust the body into the motion of a river
splashing foolishly for meaning
moist limbs move slowly
forgetting that they ever fought
for air
This is from the readwritepoem (link to the right) "word fishing" prompt.
It turned out kinda weird, but fun!
Thanks guys!
Sunday, September 21, 2008
soma
My body becomes heavier and heavier
after the 6th nap of the weekend.
My organs push into one another
eyeballs into skull
tongue dead in my mouth.
My intestines heavy rope
sink into the ground of my
mercurial stomach.
I have dirty dishes and unfolded
laundry making my head so
my weak neck won't hold it up.
after the 6th nap of the weekend.
My organs push into one another
eyeballs into skull
tongue dead in my mouth.
My intestines heavy rope
sink into the ground of my
mercurial stomach.
I have dirty dishes and unfolded
laundry making my head so
my weak neck won't hold it up.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
someone new already leaving
I woke up in darkness
same as when we went to sleep
looked at you, realized how much
you looked like David Byrne in his
Talking Heads days.
I felt your callused hands,
said in my sleepy voice,
"That must be from plumbing."
Between discussions of Brat Pack
movies and "being in our 30's" stories
we slept, but I kept waking.
I heard your teeth grinding,
something you said you didn't know you did.
Had no one ever slept
that close to your mouth?
When light came, I giggled
told you how you smelled of beer
reminded you, "We were trying to remember
Anthony Michael Hall's name last night."
You said, "It's easy now isn't it?"
I looked at your paintings, stacked
against the bedroom wall, waiting to be packed
in the U-Haul in the front yard,
said,"the depth, the color...I want to
climb inside that one."
A plumber and a painter, I suggested you do
pipe art. You said,
"I was never good at 3-D."
same as when we went to sleep
looked at you, realized how much
you looked like David Byrne in his
Talking Heads days.
I felt your callused hands,
said in my sleepy voice,
"That must be from plumbing."
Between discussions of Brat Pack
movies and "being in our 30's" stories
we slept, but I kept waking.
I heard your teeth grinding,
something you said you didn't know you did.
Had no one ever slept
that close to your mouth?
When light came, I giggled
told you how you smelled of beer
reminded you, "We were trying to remember
Anthony Michael Hall's name last night."
You said, "It's easy now isn't it?"
I looked at your paintings, stacked
against the bedroom wall, waiting to be packed
in the U-Haul in the front yard,
said,"the depth, the color...I want to
climb inside that one."
A plumber and a painter, I suggested you do
pipe art. You said,
"I was never good at 3-D."
Friday, September 19, 2008
grace
Grace eludes us, often hiding
behind the chair of resentment
or under the bed of frets.
She's plain as day, fluttering
wings of light, but plain as day
sometimes seems too bright.
And by the time we realize
we're just ignoring her
she has already given us
her wings.
Thank you, as always, Easystreet, for the inspiration.
behind the chair of resentment
or under the bed of frets.
She's plain as day, fluttering
wings of light, but plain as day
sometimes seems too bright.
And by the time we realize
we're just ignoring her
she has already given us
her wings.
Thank you, as always, Easystreet, for the inspiration.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Cento from the good ole poetry collaborative
I talk about them like I've always contributed to their site, :) which is here:
thepoetrycollaborative
This is a cento, based off of some American Sentences from the above site. They have some wonderful, fabulous, amazing contributors to their site! CK it out, yo.
Sunburnt bliss
a swift fall from the center of the
tallest sunflower
how many ways can my body go wrong
—extract my bones to find out
light is different today, eyes
squint at a sun split
and spilt like fruit
a single noose of unopened morning
glories calls to the mother
behind the dying daisies a survivor
of childbirth picks weeds
cruel fall steals light
from the sunflower, goads hungry birds
to peck its face
midges cloud my head like
thoughts, my hand swats,
sending them spinning away
When I wake up, I will either be myself or someone different.
thepoetrycollaborative
This is a cento, based off of some American Sentences from the above site. They have some wonderful, fabulous, amazing contributors to their site! CK it out, yo.
Sunburnt bliss
a swift fall from the center of the
tallest sunflower
how many ways can my body go wrong
—extract my bones to find out
light is different today, eyes
squint at a sun split
and spilt like fruit
a single noose of unopened morning
glories calls to the mother
behind the dying daisies a survivor
of childbirth picks weeds
cruel fall steals light
from the sunflower, goads hungry birds
to peck its face
midges cloud my head like
thoughts, my hand swats,
sending them spinning away
When I wake up, I will either be myself or someone different.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
grading
papers shuffle themselves
typed words fumble their fingers
leave strange phrases
pens bow their tips to the page
reverent vessels leaking ink
edges tear from notebooks
right along the dotted line
(neatly neatly)
staples remove themselves
freed from the fold
typewriters click jokes into the air
laughing at themselves
word processors choose their own font
something stylish, they say
typed words fumble their fingers
leave strange phrases
pens bow their tips to the page
reverent vessels leaking ink
edges tear from notebooks
right along the dotted line
(neatly neatly)
staples remove themselves
freed from the fold
typewriters click jokes into the air
laughing at themselves
word processors choose their own font
something stylish, they say
Sunday, September 14, 2008
for Misty
she finds spiders and birds
in the folds of her heart
waiting for her to pluck them
give them life
she looks into the mirror
sees the eyes of her ancestors
in each pupil, each iris
each flower in her eye
she puts her name in a teapot
letting it steam until
just right for steeping
she finds butterflies behind her
ears, moths in her hair
they wait for her to discover them
living
in the mason jar of her mind
(holes in the top for air)
where creatures live a happy
existence
never waiting for anything
again
in the folds of her heart
waiting for her to pluck them
give them life
she looks into the mirror
sees the eyes of her ancestors
in each pupil, each iris
each flower in her eye
she puts her name in a teapot
letting it steam until
just right for steeping
she finds butterflies behind her
ears, moths in her hair
they wait for her to discover them
living
in the mason jar of her mind
(holes in the top for air)
where creatures live a happy
existence
never waiting for anything
again
on a full moon
1.
i can see your face more clearly
the parts i don't want to see
that make this hole, the size of the
full moon
even more obvious
2.
in my yellow room, paper lanterns
on the floor
my chest toward the full moon
i open my ribs to let my heart
out
3.
i was hoping my heart would
leave
merge with the full moon
make it
new
i can see your face more clearly
the parts i don't want to see
that make this hole, the size of the
full moon
even more obvious
2.
in my yellow room, paper lanterns
on the floor
my chest toward the full moon
i open my ribs to let my heart
out
3.
i was hoping my heart would
leave
merge with the full moon
make it
new
Thursday, September 11, 2008
awkward angel
she walks on her too long dress
that pristine white turned brown
by her dirty bare heels
she reads paperbacks alone in her room
tears out the parts she likes
doesn't need to dog-ear
she plays her flute out of tune
peeks from the balcony to watch
the choir and gasps in fear of the
height (though she has wings)
she flies, only half-aware of where she is
or where she is going, stumbles through
clouds, gets soaking wet in them
shaking her drenched head
when she comes out again water
up her nose, rubbing her eyes
she watches me from her rickety bicycle
in the sky, turning the wrong way
at the light at the end of the tunnel
going down a one-way street
and simply smiles
that pristine white turned brown
by her dirty bare heels
she reads paperbacks alone in her room
tears out the parts she likes
doesn't need to dog-ear
she plays her flute out of tune
peeks from the balcony to watch
the choir and gasps in fear of the
height (though she has wings)
she flies, only half-aware of where she is
or where she is going, stumbles through
clouds, gets soaking wet in them
shaking her drenched head
when she comes out again water
up her nose, rubbing her eyes
she watches me from her rickety bicycle
in the sky, turning the wrong way
at the light at the end of the tunnel
going down a one-way street
and simply smiles
the belly
when we find a piece of our belly
left out in the rain
(the core of a crooked tree
cut through to count the rings)
we look for signs of luck in it
(clovers) and scrub it
with cleaning fluid so it won't
seem as dirty as when we found
it on the sidewalk or
caught that stomach flu from the
laundromat (the place for watching
the tumbling-what it feels like
when we eat our crow)
good acid and good bacteria
churn there
but we want the proper mixture
left out in the rain
(the core of a crooked tree
cut through to count the rings)
we look for signs of luck in it
(clovers) and scrub it
with cleaning fluid so it won't
seem as dirty as when we found
it on the sidewalk or
caught that stomach flu from the
laundromat (the place for watching
the tumbling-what it feels like
when we eat our crow)
good acid and good bacteria
churn there
but we want the proper mixture
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
American Sentences, try #2
I am smoldering in your coals, but I don't aim to be re-lit.
He is the vulture, standing over my corpse, picking me with his beak.
The heroine, not dressed in heels, or ready for her role, gnashes them.
Revolution takes wings, balls, hands- climb up the flagpole, rip custom down.
Scotch on his breath, he remembers, laughs at his ugly workday.
This cubicle reeks of burned popcorn, lunch not supposed to be blackened.
Baby blue dress, pantyline showing, I stand in front of the class, aware.
He is the vulture, standing over my corpse, picking me with his beak.
The heroine, not dressed in heels, or ready for her role, gnashes them.
Revolution takes wings, balls, hands- climb up the flagpole, rip custom down.
Scotch on his breath, he remembers, laughs at his ugly workday.
This cubicle reeks of burned popcorn, lunch not supposed to be blackened.
Baby blue dress, pantyline showing, I stand in front of the class, aware.
Monday, September 8, 2008
this train
sixty kilometers/hour
I ride this iron, these
silvery tracks that span a continent
electric wires, a swift noise,
whir, click, relax
I hover low in a sleeper car
tucked on the bottom bunk
places I have never been
places with red roofs,
broken castles
and pointed-arch cathedrals
mountains jut into the stars
the canals stink of waste
and I watch you out the
window
this tiny glassed-in room
in a high-backed,
padded seat, waiting for the trainman
to open the door
and stamp my passport
I watch you in your room,
snorting coke like you used to do
I see us in your bed
tangled
turning
I keep riding, through every country, every moment
The trainman turns to leave,
and I have to shut the
curtains just to see my way back into the hour.
I ride this iron, these
silvery tracks that span a continent
electric wires, a swift noise,
whir, click, relax
I hover low in a sleeper car
tucked on the bottom bunk
places I have never been
places with red roofs,
broken castles
and pointed-arch cathedrals
mountains jut into the stars
the canals stink of waste
and I watch you out the
window
this tiny glassed-in room
in a high-backed,
padded seat, waiting for the trainman
to open the door
and stamp my passport
I watch you in your room,
snorting coke like you used to do
I see us in your bed
tangled
turning
I keep riding, through every country, every moment
The trainman turns to leave,
and I have to shut the
curtains just to see my way back into the hour.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
"Greggypoo"
don't act like you don't like that nickname
Helter Skelter and Carl Jung, you understand
there's something about the way you say "Helllo!"
a high-pitched first syllable, low on the "o"
watching the sunset next to your apartment
you give a goat some of your "Granny's"
chocolate chip cookies through the fence
a chef, but you thrive on mac and cheese
Beanie Weenies and milk, always milk
milk with spaghetti, milk with Wendy's food
your lungs grow tight
but the river, gallons of fresh water
flowing through you
makes polished glass and smooth stones
out of your jagged organs,
and no matter how much we joke
you are not emotionally butterfingered
Helter Skelter and Carl Jung, you understand
there's something about the way you say "Helllo!"
a high-pitched first syllable, low on the "o"
watching the sunset next to your apartment
you give a goat some of your "Granny's"
chocolate chip cookies through the fence
a chef, but you thrive on mac and cheese
Beanie Weenies and milk, always milk
milk with spaghetti, milk with Wendy's food
your lungs grow tight
but the river, gallons of fresh water
flowing through you
makes polished glass and smooth stones
out of your jagged organs,
and no matter how much we joke
you are not emotionally butterfingered
Saturday, September 6, 2008
70
and you are beginning to forget things.
You call Mom at work, "Where are you?"
She says you always had selective memory, and hearing.
I think this is different.
The financial cement of our family, you still hold us up.
I got a check in the mail with a note: "Doll, we love you."
Light catches the bridge of your porous nose
long gray hairs growing from the outside, the inside.
Purple veins, age spots are on the tops of your hands.
Deep wrinkles are in your loose flesh, but
your eyes are still the same, bright and brown,
and as long as you've lived,
you are still the worrier
the provider, the man of the house
caught between fixing the TV and
sleeping in the LaZBoy
still telling the same jokes,
that still make me giggle:
"Does my hair look pretty?"
I put sunscreen on your bald head,
rub your sore gout-puffy feet.
You get lost, driving in circles,
not remembering where you were 5 minutes ago,
drunken-walk (but you don't drink).
FUCK
I can't help but think of the bedpan,
you losing lots of weight, like Uncle Brer,
how you might not remember me (the caregiver).
Now, you argue when you forget things
get angry when you can't stand up as quickly,
knees locking:
"Damn, I can't even get up off the floor anymore."
These are the consequences of aging.
You are still here at 70, despite 3 heart attacks.
I'm not ready to trade places.
You call Mom at work, "Where are you?"
She says you always had selective memory, and hearing.
I think this is different.
The financial cement of our family, you still hold us up.
I got a check in the mail with a note: "Doll, we love you."
Light catches the bridge of your porous nose
long gray hairs growing from the outside, the inside.
Purple veins, age spots are on the tops of your hands.
Deep wrinkles are in your loose flesh, but
your eyes are still the same, bright and brown,
and as long as you've lived,
you are still the worrier
the provider, the man of the house
caught between fixing the TV and
sleeping in the LaZBoy
still telling the same jokes,
that still make me giggle:
"Does my hair look pretty?"
I put sunscreen on your bald head,
rub your sore gout-puffy feet.
You get lost, driving in circles,
not remembering where you were 5 minutes ago,
drunken-walk (but you don't drink).
FUCK
I can't help but think of the bedpan,
you losing lots of weight, like Uncle Brer,
how you might not remember me (the caregiver).
Now, you argue when you forget things
get angry when you can't stand up as quickly,
knees locking:
"Damn, I can't even get up off the floor anymore."
These are the consequences of aging.
You are still here at 70, despite 3 heart attacks.
I'm not ready to trade places.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
American Sentences-my first try...
A praying mantis crooks his arms, a tiny rosary in his claws.
The fan keeps time with the fridge, and I can't help but snooze.
I watch the lamps, myself, the dog, reflections in my broken TV.
Poofs of dog hair blow on the wooden floor, but I don't feel like sweeping.
A basket labeled "Misc." holds paper pictures...almost obsolete.
Whistle a little ditty while you drive me to the airport.
Hoschton, GA made the Guinness Record for the most scarecrows this year.
A boy ten years my junior tells me Footloose is "gay"--arrgh!
When I hang upside down, the world seems right side up.
The fan keeps time with the fridge, and I can't help but snooze.
I watch the lamps, myself, the dog, reflections in my broken TV.
Poofs of dog hair blow on the wooden floor, but I don't feel like sweeping.
A basket labeled "Misc." holds paper pictures...almost obsolete.
Whistle a little ditty while you drive me to the airport.
Hoschton, GA made the Guinness Record for the most scarecrows this year.
A boy ten years my junior tells me Footloose is "gay"--arrgh!
When I hang upside down, the world seems right side up.
strength is a cloud
she holds thousands of gallons of water,
rain ready to
burst
forth
strength
she allows weather to emerge
(only when she is ready)
she changes
from wispy and light, transparent
(sometimes we can see inside her)
to opaque, buxom,
ample, heavy,
thick with life
to impenetrable, dark,
esoteric
(she can hide the stars)
she is daring, bold, even
pretentious
in the sky
she is gliding, sexy in her
movements
her trans ~ for / ma ) tions `'
and still, she often goes
unnoticed
rain ready to
burst
forth
strength
she allows weather to emerge
(only when she is ready)
she changes
from wispy and light, transparent
(sometimes we can see inside her)
to opaque, buxom,
ample, heavy,
thick with life
to impenetrable, dark,
esoteric
(she can hide the stars)
she is daring, bold, even
pretentious
in the sky
she is gliding, sexy in her
movements
her trans ~ for / ma ) tions `'
and still, she often goes
unnoticed
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Nanny
she shells peas every morning after breakfast
they fall in buckets and blue and white bowls
that are cracking from age but the sweet bright peas
yellow-green as those frogs in the south pond
don't care if she drops one or misses her pill
or if she rolls her stockings down around her ankles
or takes them off altogether
because the sound they make as they roll around the bowl
is as old and comforting as she feels at that moment
the same moment every morning
simply shelling peas
they fall in buckets and blue and white bowls
that are cracking from age but the sweet bright peas
yellow-green as those frogs in the south pond
don't care if she drops one or misses her pill
or if she rolls her stockings down around her ankles
or takes them off altogether
because the sound they make as they roll around the bowl
is as old and comforting as she feels at that moment
the same moment every morning
simply shelling peas
Althea
This does not seem to let me indent. Anyone know how to do that on blogger?
I'd like to know how for my poems too.
This is for my 1101 students:
Althea is my alter ego. She doesn't come out very often, but when she does, she rages. I have always been sort of afraid of anger (even my own), and usually just cry when I'm mad. I never liked violence, and curled my lip in disgust at the kids in high school who got in fights in the hallway, and the guy at a bar, when I was in college, who pulled out a knife on us because we were rooting for a different football team than he was. They were "lame, petty, stupid." Funny, sometimes judgments come back like our own feet kicking us in our own butts.
As a 35-year-old, I feel I've gotten past a lot of the "immature stuff," but that evening, I was humbled at my lack of maturity when I became angry. At around nine p.m. on a Friday night, I had gone with my friend Anna to see a band we knew. This was the first time I'd been back to North Carolina since I'd moved. We were hanging out on the sidewalk (my friend Anna smoking) near a bench, waiting for the band to play. We petted my dog, Ophelia, who was tied to the bench. I had brought her along on the trip. (Ophelia goes everywhere with me.) As we enjoyed visiting with old friends (Anna too was visiting), we joked about how we were glad we didn't live in that small town anymore.
Anna muttered under her breath,"Wow, these people are drunk. Do they need to be this drunk to have a good time?"
"Shit," I said, "They see the same people every night."
We giggled stealthily, and I looked around. I noticed a young guy, skinny with dark brown hair, standing on the sidewalk holding a can of PBR. I thought, that's not from the bar. He had that "I'm a cute boy and I know it" kind of look--arrogant dark eyes, smurky grin, well-groomed, and on top of that with two model-pretty blonds, one on each arm, literally. He was certainly young, no more than maybe 21, if that. They were, all three, blisteringly drunk, one of the blonds swaying on her 3-inch stilettos and standing directly in front of my dog.
These three were in their own world; that's all I knew. The stiletto blond kept teetering and stepping back, closer and closer to Ophelia. I kept watching, hoping she would take notice, trying to be polite and not interrupt whatever very important conversation they must have been having. Then the blond, laughing loudly, stepped on Ophelia, and she yelped. The blond kept swaying, teetering, laughing. I tapped her on the shoulder, still quite myself at this point, and said, "Hey, would you mind being careful? My dog is behind you. You stepped on her." Well, all hell broke loose after that.
"I didn't step on your fucking dog! She shouldn't be out here anyway!" This language along with a lot of head slinging and arm flailing went on for at least two or three minutes, and even when she sat down on a step to smoke a cigarette, she kept going. I was in awe. I didn't know what to do. There were a lot of people crowded on this sidewalk waiting for the band. They just watched. I could feel myself becoming angry, and all the heat in my body rising to my face. I watched her as she kept going. Finally, I broke.
"All you had to say was, I'm sorry, and leave it at that. I don't know what all this other shit is about." Well, I'm sure she didn't like me speaking to her that way, so she started in again. There were so many expletives, I can't begin to quote them all. Then, to my chagrin, her young guy friend joined in the fun.
He kept saying, "Your fucking dog shouldn't be out here,"and said very ugly things about my dog, as if she had any fault in it at all. He began moving closer and closer to my face. I could see his yellowed teeth from smoking, his hand gripping ever tighter to this aluminum PBR can. He rose at least a foot over me (I'm only 5'1"), and kept moving closer and yelling louder.
I tried to reason with, "My dog has just as much right to be here as you do, and you shouldn't have that beer can out here. I could call the police." Reasoning is not something one should try to do with an inebriated belligerent. A friend stepped in who happened to know this guy. He said, "Mark (or it could have been Ron or Bill, or John...I don't remember to this day), you're being an asshole, man. Chill out."
At this, Mark (or whatever his name was), pushed my friend onto the sidewalk, saying, "What did you call me?" Here is where Althea entered.
She began to curse this guy up and down Main Street, even push him, as he still inched closer. Her face became distorted, unrecognizable to her friends (or so they told her later). Althea kept pushing, and what's-his-name kept insulting her, and her dog.
His last statement was, "and you need to go to Weight-Watchers." Althea, or rather I, have been through a lot when it comes to weight: bulimia, terrible self-esteem, depression. That was it. That was it. There was nothing of me after that, or maybe it was the real me. Sometimes I still wonder.
Althea punched old what's-his-name square in the jaw, a whole foot above her. It wasn't a pretty punch, as forceful or as perfect as she wanted it to be, but it was a punch. The people around her (mostly all friends) stared in disbelief, and one random guy pushed them (us) apart.
Then Althea said through her teeth, "If you say anything else, I'm gonna kick you in the balls." She realized at this point (in a millisecond's worth of time) that she did not have on ball-kicking shoes, but little soft ballet slippers. He said something else. She went for the alternative...grabbing and twisting.
More yelling commenced, but he would not shut up, and she (actually I went back to myself after a few minutes) had to walk away. In the end, I was crying, not proud or feeling bold, but feeling actually, quite weak. My friend Anna comforted me as we walked to the car.
Althea taught me something that day. Friends who have judged me in one way or another for doing what I did that night have their right to do so, absolutely. I was the eldest; I was the mature one; I was the college professor, for God's sake, but even I (someone who is oh-so peace loving) have my limits. When it came right down to it, when I was pushed to a certain point, I lost all sense of good judgment. It happens.
I'd like to know how for my poems too.
This is for my 1101 students:
Althea is my alter ego. She doesn't come out very often, but when she does, she rages. I have always been sort of afraid of anger (even my own), and usually just cry when I'm mad. I never liked violence, and curled my lip in disgust at the kids in high school who got in fights in the hallway, and the guy at a bar, when I was in college, who pulled out a knife on us because we were rooting for a different football team than he was. They were "lame, petty, stupid." Funny, sometimes judgments come back like our own feet kicking us in our own butts.
As a 35-year-old, I feel I've gotten past a lot of the "immature stuff," but that evening, I was humbled at my lack of maturity when I became angry. At around nine p.m. on a Friday night, I had gone with my friend Anna to see a band we knew. This was the first time I'd been back to North Carolina since I'd moved. We were hanging out on the sidewalk (my friend Anna smoking) near a bench, waiting for the band to play. We petted my dog, Ophelia, who was tied to the bench. I had brought her along on the trip. (Ophelia goes everywhere with me.) As we enjoyed visiting with old friends (Anna too was visiting), we joked about how we were glad we didn't live in that small town anymore.
Anna muttered under her breath,"Wow, these people are drunk. Do they need to be this drunk to have a good time?"
"Shit," I said, "They see the same people every night."
We giggled stealthily, and I looked around. I noticed a young guy, skinny with dark brown hair, standing on the sidewalk holding a can of PBR. I thought, that's not from the bar. He had that "I'm a cute boy and I know it" kind of look--arrogant dark eyes, smurky grin, well-groomed, and on top of that with two model-pretty blonds, one on each arm, literally. He was certainly young, no more than maybe 21, if that. They were, all three, blisteringly drunk, one of the blonds swaying on her 3-inch stilettos and standing directly in front of my dog.
These three were in their own world; that's all I knew. The stiletto blond kept teetering and stepping back, closer and closer to Ophelia. I kept watching, hoping she would take notice, trying to be polite and not interrupt whatever very important conversation they must have been having. Then the blond, laughing loudly, stepped on Ophelia, and she yelped. The blond kept swaying, teetering, laughing. I tapped her on the shoulder, still quite myself at this point, and said, "Hey, would you mind being careful? My dog is behind you. You stepped on her." Well, all hell broke loose after that.
"I didn't step on your fucking dog! She shouldn't be out here anyway!" This language along with a lot of head slinging and arm flailing went on for at least two or three minutes, and even when she sat down on a step to smoke a cigarette, she kept going. I was in awe. I didn't know what to do. There were a lot of people crowded on this sidewalk waiting for the band. They just watched. I could feel myself becoming angry, and all the heat in my body rising to my face. I watched her as she kept going. Finally, I broke.
"All you had to say was, I'm sorry, and leave it at that. I don't know what all this other shit is about." Well, I'm sure she didn't like me speaking to her that way, so she started in again. There were so many expletives, I can't begin to quote them all. Then, to my chagrin, her young guy friend joined in the fun.
He kept saying, "Your fucking dog shouldn't be out here,"and said very ugly things about my dog, as if she had any fault in it at all. He began moving closer and closer to my face. I could see his yellowed teeth from smoking, his hand gripping ever tighter to this aluminum PBR can. He rose at least a foot over me (I'm only 5'1"), and kept moving closer and yelling louder.
I tried to reason with, "My dog has just as much right to be here as you do, and you shouldn't have that beer can out here. I could call the police." Reasoning is not something one should try to do with an inebriated belligerent. A friend stepped in who happened to know this guy. He said, "Mark (or it could have been Ron or Bill, or John...I don't remember to this day), you're being an asshole, man. Chill out."
At this, Mark (or whatever his name was), pushed my friend onto the sidewalk, saying, "What did you call me?" Here is where Althea entered.
She began to curse this guy up and down Main Street, even push him, as he still inched closer. Her face became distorted, unrecognizable to her friends (or so they told her later). Althea kept pushing, and what's-his-name kept insulting her, and her dog.
His last statement was, "and you need to go to Weight-Watchers." Althea, or rather I, have been through a lot when it comes to weight: bulimia, terrible self-esteem, depression. That was it. That was it. There was nothing of me after that, or maybe it was the real me. Sometimes I still wonder.
Althea punched old what's-his-name square in the jaw, a whole foot above her. It wasn't a pretty punch, as forceful or as perfect as she wanted it to be, but it was a punch. The people around her (mostly all friends) stared in disbelief, and one random guy pushed them (us) apart.
Then Althea said through her teeth, "If you say anything else, I'm gonna kick you in the balls." She realized at this point (in a millisecond's worth of time) that she did not have on ball-kicking shoes, but little soft ballet slippers. He said something else. She went for the alternative...grabbing and twisting.
More yelling commenced, but he would not shut up, and she (actually I went back to myself after a few minutes) had to walk away. In the end, I was crying, not proud or feeling bold, but feeling actually, quite weak. My friend Anna comforted me as we walked to the car.
Althea taught me something that day. Friends who have judged me in one way or another for doing what I did that night have their right to do so, absolutely. I was the eldest; I was the mature one; I was the college professor, for God's sake, but even I (someone who is oh-so peace loving) have my limits. When it came right down to it, when I was pushed to a certain point, I lost all sense of good judgment. It happens.
Monday, September 1, 2008
"door number three, open"
crisis center
a girl pukes after a meal
"bathroom number three, closed"
"door number two, open"
we rinse hands in dirty
water
I dream a green tornado tries to eat my
family
"door number five, closed"
same dream- I fall off a cliff over
and over, surprised at the huge hand
catching me
anti-tornado tablet
anti-falling pill
"door number four, open"
we paint water
colors on pads of thick paper,
can only watch PG movies (we laugh)
"door number eight, closed"
watch people go through dt's-
paranoia locked in a bathroom
with him (and those sounds)
pace the hallway, green
carpet, locked doors
"bathroom number six, open"
announced loudly
every time we leave a room,
enter one,
take a piss, a shower
meds twice daily
unfortunately, fluorescents just aren't the same kind of light
a girl pukes after a meal
"bathroom number three, closed"
"door number two, open"
we rinse hands in dirty
water
I dream a green tornado tries to eat my
family
"door number five, closed"
same dream- I fall off a cliff over
and over, surprised at the huge hand
catching me
anti-tornado tablet
anti-falling pill
"door number four, open"
we paint water
colors on pads of thick paper,
can only watch PG movies (we laugh)
"door number eight, closed"
watch people go through dt's-
paranoia locked in a bathroom
with him (and those sounds)
pace the hallway, green
carpet, locked doors
"bathroom number six, open"
announced loudly
every time we leave a room,
enter one,
take a piss, a shower
meds twice daily
unfortunately, fluorescents just aren't the same kind of light
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