Prone To It
"I wonder how many passwords I may be able to guess with personal answers," I wondered aloud.
"...Now why even say that? I'm paranoid about anything I've ever posted online whenever you talk like that." Her unnecessary reply cut me.
"No, no, no - not like that. In the... I wonder how much of people, are people, online. You know?" I waved my hand in dismissal at the miscommunication.
[You always switch styles so fast. How did we go from hacking to how comfortable people are to be themselves in spaces you know relatively little about?]
Her blank face, like many, mirrors my confusion - or, highlights the difference between dismay at missed connections and dismissal of miscommunications. Let me try again.
"I'm not being... I mean, I'm not trying to be confusing. What I'm saying is, I just wonder which places and who feel comfortable enough, in today's day and age, to be really vulnerable. Like, in a safe way. When I say safe, I mean they won't become like, dangerously viral or have to join one of those support groups for people who have become viral. I mean, everyone we know in real life is naturally so interesting. I can't imagine they're hard to find online." Over animatedly, I wave my hands along with my speech in hopes I bridge the gap better with more body language. Layering!
[You love layers in fashion. Is that manly? Is that masculine, or feminine, or do you, 'not care'? I know you don't care, but others do. I would pay that some thought.]
"Yeahhh, I still feel like you hit the blunt and it hit you way too hard back." She smiles at me and leans in to me. "It's nice to be with a himbo sometimes, I love the way you look when you talk like that. I just wish it wasn't on such bizarre things sometimes. But that's what makes you, you, and I love you for it, too." Wrapping her arms around me, she squeezes me tight.
"I am not a himbo - I am a lady," I retort, in my black beater tank, farm-grade men's jeans, name brand (discount store) boxers... and sports bra, and ladies' socks, and women's glasses. Rule of three, babes. "I just performed a mental check. I am wearing at least three articles of women's clothing. I do not understand how that does not translate to you."
[You are so artistic!]
"Oh. Can a lady only describe herself in extremely convoluted, irritating, nonsensical, illogical, 'all looks like a scene from her life exactly', 'always comes off like a stream of conscious attempt at being deep', way, and come off Patrick Bateman in real life?" Her tone shifts to harsh from the previous soothing lilt.
"Yeah, babes. Prone to it. I also do not know if that aspect of me is changeable. I do not enjoy it myself, remember that." Mean tone, flat voiced reply.
"Like if I interviewed the American Psycho, you'd hit every mark except for you're like..." She gestures strangely with her hands. Not one to be gesticulative, I pay closer attention to what she says next. It will matter, I know that much. "...like... kind've - well, not in a rude way? But also like, the stereotypical snowflake. I have never met someone so sensitive yet so insensitive to how sensitive they are as you, while also being so vain the main way you chose to convey yourself was in a sort've interview structure. With two of yourselves."
[You are ill with many things.]
"...Okay. Anyways, want to take guesses on when the world figures out it needs an AI-backed translator for different communication styles? I really do feel that would be the single greatest shift in communications globally."
"No. Wanna hit this?" She leans up with the blunt.
"We'll do both," Is this the part of my personality that people tell me is 'steam rolling'? "Or - no, you're right. Lemme hit that. Fuck, I love a good legal state."
[You'll love feeling anxious afterwards. You wish it was lavender so bad.]
"Wait - no, I'll just get anxious." I pass the blunt back to her, unhit. "I've had enough already,"
"You had a puff that I don't know you even held long enough to get anything from." She stares at me deadpan.
"Okay - sure. Okay, yeah, you're right." Getting my gumption up, I grab the blunt back, and puff away at it.
[Too wishy-washy to not annoy her, too cowardly to admit I just don't want to. Malleable. Is sloth not a sin?]
"Does this count as sloth, babes?"
"Now how are we talking about sloths?" She caresses my face.
"Oooh... I don't know, now I see I'd rather speak about the beautiful woman in front of me." Tender Aphrodite... release me...
[What was your first thought, again? Where did we start?]
(Oh shit, haha, I stone you too when I get stoned?)
[Shister, shpace, please.]
(Are we not irritating?)
[We is only spoken as misery loves company. I am not irritating. I can see you irritating most of the world, though, sonny girl.]
(Sonny girl? Did you mean sunny girl?)
[Girl. Look how you are dressed. I said sonny instead of sunny for a reason. You also can't hear the difference when those words are spoken - you always make your own joke openings without realizing how they fall back on you. Given that, I still said what I said.]
(Alright. So. Back to reality. Let's work on making me less paranoid, right?)
[ ]
(Et tu, Brutus?)
[ ]
"Want to watch that one space time movie? Or, any move about time and space? Any sci-fi movies you like?" I ask her in a daze, her sweet, sweet arms around me sedating me.
"Um, not really."
The Four People
That raised me.
A shitty spring, to a farmer that wants to sell manure is a wonderful crick in words. Rough and tumble, unpredictable, late, early, she comes when she wants. A perfect woman shoehorned out of womanhood. She'd tell me if she wanted me to say more about her - be careful, she may be just around the corner. Or, acres down the way, she runs on her own time.
A blazing summer to a farmer that wants to grow pot is a catch-22. The heat laze combined with the green haze combined with the warmth of summer days means the advertising of summer activities is misleading; summer is for resting. A lazy, perfect woman, allowed womanhood on a technicality. What a lovely time and way of life, to toast everybody to perfection, hold them, warm them, love them gently.
Autumn after summer - I don't have a sibling born in fall, only one who was almost namesake'd the season. Mysterious woman - allowed as the blueprint. Nobody knows what she should have been, and in that, her personality blooms. Shhh - let her be silently unknown and known. It's what she wants. Start layering and covering up for the next, trial your fashions before the next season.
Winter. My best friend. A love hate relationship, as -22 can bite - the real activity season. Despite being ineffable during the entire rest of the year, we all love her for the contrast in temperature. Layers, hot chocolate, wasn't Christmas made to celebrate each other? Would you be more comfortable opening gifts with sweat dripping from your nose? A woman made by comparison - this one's the goat. She doesn't care for the scorn three fourths out of the year. She's only cold to drive people together. A sweet, shy, beautiful old woman who's more than happy to wait her turn.
I think of my late Grandma
Who, for whatever reason, shared her weed with my younger sister and I as she was fighting cancer. My sister started to have a panic attack from smoking too much. My Grandma said she had something for her.
...then she pretended to whip out an assault weapon and shoot her with it.
It's things like that that make life living. The, "Why...? ...? Wtf?" moments. I just love them.
Constant Beating
Of gentle hearts, turned to gentle fists, then turned gentle.
One womb, ten sets of ears. Five separate beating drums, to ten separate ear drums.
The whoosh of fluid, the beating of familiar hearts - what do quintuplets think the world will be like? Do they think they'd always hear the heartbeats of their womb mates? Imagine their trauma of being born.
All the whooshing and beating suddenly changes in an instant. For intervals with undetermined amounts of time between them, the beating of the other hearts isn't yet translated to surprised screaming - for a moment.
Being the first is the worst. The amount of loneliness felt in what could realistically only be a few minutes between births would be an agony usually only found far later in life. Loneliness, until placed on the sixth heartbeat for peace.
Further away than the siblings, the parental sixth heartbeat enters the auditory plane once again. What could potentially have faded into a background heartbeat is called forward, a comforting sound to ease the pain of not hearing one's siblings.
Siblings may not always share the same womb, and the relationships of siblings are varied in both intensity and structure; but the common theme across all familial relationships?
"Your heart tells you who your family is."
You do not get to decide if or when you hear heartbeats.
Dear Mom,
I hope you know I wanted to visit to show you how hard I was working on becoming nice. I'm so sorry I didn't make it before the cancer got you, and I'm more sorry the cancer got you at all.
Now you twinkle, twinkle, little star.
Aww, how I wonder what you are, now.
Lovingly and positively,
- Your Flamboyant, Disorganized Child
Slipping Positively
What can I say? Children come and go. Mother, I am not, but my experience mothering almost nullifies the statement.
"Auntuncle Zee?" Baboon asks, somehow standing taller than me. She somehow still looks up to me.
"Yeah, honey girl?" I respond, not used to the passage of time. No amount of time can get you used to the unknowns of growing.
"Did the job call you back?" She asks innocently enough.
"Yes, honey girl. Do not fret about Auntuncle, some things never change." I state back.
"Grandpa was talking about how you're already supposed to have a job, though," Another excellent innocent statement. An astute observation.
"I have a job right now." I love this game.
"What job? Since when?" Her sweet little face frinkles in confusion.
"Auntuncle. Full time, since... when was your oldest sister born?"
"Jordan, I think he means a real job. You haven't even met Cassandra, so she wouldn't count."
"Am I not adding value and depth to your life through lessons, child? Whom else has a dearest Auntuncle?" My query is perfectly valid. To answer a question with a question is uncouth, and yet - the situation called for a question.
It's how I teach.
"Um... I guess you are, I don't think any other people have an Auntuncle," Her disappointed face is painful to me. Pivot, support the child, the next generation.
"Yeah... you definitely don't have four sisters who share the same Auntuncle." My quip, borne as natural as it's materialistic equipment.
"I fo- I was just asking if you got a job because Grandpa told me to bother you about it, and ask if you needed help looking," The frustration grows on sweet Baboon's face. I love this game.
"Niecey, didst thou not just forget four blood siblings? Methinks thou may require work on your presence of mind. Your presents are your siblings - mightst thou find them, as opposed to helping Auntuncle find a job? Find the siblings, find the power to help Auntuncle. Yeah?"
"I'm really not understanding you right now, Zee." Her face is perfectly confused.
"Yeah. That is the full-time job of an Auntuncle, honey girl. To be confusing."
I can't explain to her how I am even more confused than she is. My confusion starts at the sight of her. She used to be a third of my height. I used to carry her on my shoulders. I used to ask her if she needed help. I'm so proud of her for growing.
Children have such a bizarre hate for reminders that they are loved. Who is confusing who? Is this job not mutually symbiotic?
They tickle my brain and demolish my heart, daily, to make space for more love.
What is confusing about that? Let my brain slip into the fast-paced reality of life. Blink once, miss a school play.
Blink twice, miss an entire life.
Blink three times, Dorothy, and you'll always end up back home.
I'm confused how that cycle could ever be seen as a negative backslide.
Is that not life?
"I'm going to go outside and do some work, then, I guess...?" Her small voice cuts through my thoughts, I must have spaced out.
"Yes! Auntuncle lesson. Go enjoy your slice of life on our shared plot of land, child!" I boom out from my heart and soul to her.
"Um. Okay. I'm gonna have Grandpa spend time with you for... to... I think Grandpa was going to hang out with you anyways," Walking away, I see her slipping out of my life just as easily as before. We're all only a move away from a negative slip.
How positive, life can be what we make of it.
How I wish my wonderful family could understand the vision I try to share!
Him
Her, her, her, her
It's only Monday, Mr. Mom
I wanna talk about me
I wanna talk about I
Separated, but I could hear her calling
Goodbye forever, never see you again
Trying hard now
It's so hard now
If only you loved me like you loved getting high
Tell me how the Hell could you talk?
How could you talk?
Two birds
On a wire
Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend
I hope nobody catch us
But I kinda hope they catch us, anyway
Oh girl this boat is sinking
There's no sea left for me
In my silver ship I sail
A dream that ended too soon
["Her", Megan Thee Stallion; "Mr. Mom", Lonestar; "I Wanna Talk About Me", Toby Keith; "The End: Budo Remix", Macklemore; "Gonna Fly Now", Bill Conti; "I'd Rather Overdose", honestav and Z; "Til It Happens to You", Lady Gaga; "Two Birds", Regina Spektor; "How to Save a Life", The Fray; "Les", Childish Gambino; "Otherside (feat. Fences), Macklemore and Ryan Lewis; "I Will Go Sailing No More", Randy Newman)]
@AJAY9979
She’s All That
"I'm supposed to be the man," the narrow minded thought can't help but emerge. I mean - I did say that, once or twice? As a joke. Regardless, the thought persists. The smile on my face grows. It's so funny.
I snap my sports bra to remind myself it's there and real. So, how did I fail?
Outdone?
Outdone?
OUTDONE?
OUTDONE WITH NO QUESTION!?
Oh, how refreshing. The reality settling in tethers me to reality, as a gentle warm breeze says hi to my face. I smile hi right back at it, begrudgingly. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Just on the resume, man.
All to be outdone. Flawless social skills, pleasantries, perfect resume appearance, outdone for a less qualified, 'better team fit'.
The humor in the fact I over-qualified myself for 'entry-level' but 'under-qualified' without 'entry-level', supposedly...? Appears to me as plainly as the stench of the mass amount of rotting apples around me hits my nostrils. Yup. I always forget how the trees grossly overproduce, the excess fruits dying off en masse, those highest apples spoiled, naturally, as a part of their individual life cycle. The proof is in the proverbial pudding, as well as the sad attempt my feet have of avoiding street-style applesauce.
"Maybe life is more like a cartoon,"
If I'm ugly or something... I guess, would someone tell me?
"Would I be an ugly cartoon? Oh, some sort of offensive caricature, of sorts?"
As I near the end of the mystical, mythical orchard, I see the white and blue top of the bus stop sign in the distance.
"And this morning, in the mirror, I saw an offensive stereotypical caricature staring back at me," Oh, what an insidious mind, inside what is apparently sometimes a lady killer body. As I stroll past the equally rotting field, placed perfectly along a growing zone and city limit, isn't that an offensive stereotypical caricature? The forgotten corn field parallels an equally forgotten soybean field.
"All that food, gone to waste - I would've eaten it if I had known I was allowed to," The sweet release of an innocent thought reminds me to again, ground myself in my own reality.
Ahh... unemployment. More like, "Isn't this supposed to be funemployment, amirite, ladies!?"
I force my hands into my pockets to feel my empty wallet. Oops. That is not fun or funny.
...But really, to some, it is. As the blue and white top transforms to a full sign, and joins the grey steel pole to the ground, I see him. Oh, joyous day!
It's the homeless man who calls himself God but is the nicest sweetest guy ever - like to the point you kinda... he... excuse me, He. Let's all respect my view of God in this poetic... probably... I mean. If God says He takes many forms - anyways, how lovely the sight of H-him is!
Looking at the flaking, cracking leaves of the decaying yet standing stalks, the deep yellow ochre shades, the black mold shades, the baby yellow hues, the big orange patches scattered throughout... how grounding and mentally stimulating.
"Hey, God!" I call out to Him. [Thou shalt bear no false idols, in sincerity.]
"Ah, my Child!" He calls right back as He rears up from what I had assumed a sitting position, reaching his natural seven foot tall height.
"God, your Earth is surely, naturally, Created - Glorious and beautiful!" I need a really good windup for this one.
"Child of Mine, you are Blessed with the Gift of Plain Sight," Throwing His arms out to welcome me into the final stretches of reaching the city limits bus stop, He booms His support of me.
"Yes; But Father, mine cup runneth dry."
"Surely - You Jest, Child!"
"Father, I solemnly swear this is no jest - I was out-butched in a job interview. I don't even know if you know what that is? But you call me She, I assume you can see how that may not be the easiest thing in a man's world."
"...Surely. You Jest, Child."
"Father, I really need the regular ribbing right now, no jest, I am still unemployed."
"Child."
"Yes, Father?"
"Surely, I Solemnly Swear, Ye Was Out-Butched Two Times Today - In Quick Succession, As Well. Your Father is Your Mother."
Attention To Tea
Nobody tells you how to go about, 'seeing through it all.' Nobody around me seems to see it the same way I, and maybe we, see it. Nobody could help if they wanted to.
"Can you be more specific?" She looks at me with that look.
I don't know how to respond. Maybe we.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was speaking. I meant to be thinking to myself."
"On every point, honey. I'm just trying to understand." She still has that look, and the bridge between us splinters from more constant communication of not understanding.
"I'm just - I'm lost on where exactly you're lost,"
I can tell by the look on her face, it's spread to me. The bug, that bleeding, smearing bug of unintentional ignorance.
"I went voluntarily to the doctor because I knew I needed help, and I brought my relevant medical history. That was not considered because I - I don't know. They kept implying it was because of my disorganized speech, but my medicine manages my disorganized speech. Do you see why that would be scary to me?"
Please, please, please, please, please, don't misunderstand.
"I... I understand your feelings are valid, I just still don't understand why you choose to be so negative and mistrusting. Why would the doctors be out to get you?" She puts the question to me so gently, and yet it hurts so bad. Oh, honey. You strike me with the sharp end of the blade.
I'll try again.
"I'm not saying anybody is out to get me, I don't think I'm relevant socially enough for that. That's - that's not what I mean, that - no, I mean, I just am floored they didn't know how to, or couldn't, support me at the mental hospital. That's where anybody goes to get extreme help and support, right?"
"Well, yes," she sighs. Straightening up how she always does to show she needs me to consider what she says next, my honey strikes me yet again with the sharp end of her verbal blade. "I'm going to ask you a question because I'm still just so lost, and I think you're lost, too. Doctors have gone to years and years of medical school, doctors are always trying to improve and nobody wants to be liable, especially on hot button issues." Meeting my gaze straight, she delivers the final blow.
"Have you considered if they're right? I'm not saying they are..." And off we go to the beginning.
I physically feel my ears ring before I hear it. Imagine, the love of your life. Or, who you thought was. To titter between two equally abysmally stigmatized labels, within my own forcibly labeled body, daily, debating if you are a person beneath the words and the more you use, the less people understand.
Stress can induce disordered speech, too. So can mood disorders. So can settings, or substances.
I remember where I've felt this feeling before. Very few times has it ever broken through to my heart - this time, it was guided as if an expert sharpshooter had lined up the shot.
True fear.
"Fear can produce disordered speech," I say with tears in my eyes. I don't know when my eyes noticed my petition papers had been slightly mussed with, but they did. I know that is the heart of the issue. "Please," I may not be able to read a room, but I can read text from a distance. Years of bad vision without glasses refined this talent of mine.
Report if Suspected Danger to Self or Symptoms Resurface
"I just - I don't get you right now. It's like how people treat gay people. You know how that manifests, right? So... think like that. Why didn't I just get my regular medicine...? Why was that ignored?" I'm pleading. I can't deny I didn't ask to be monitored like this.
"I'm so sorry, honey," She's crying. I know I've lost. Oh, I don't want to go - don't - how many strikes against me? Is this the third time, or fourth? She wouldn't strike me with a proverbial blade like this on purpose, right? "But the papers ended up in the back seat of the car, right? So, did you really bring them in? Hallucinations on everyday tasks and activities are common, did you read up on it for yourself?"
"Yes - listen, if I imagined it, how come someone else can verify they saw me drop the papers off?"
"But can they verify they were the right papers?" She knows that's a point I can't ignore.
Why can't I be supported... outside of the hospital? Why does everybody want me sent back once I start to feel real...? Who plans to pay for this? How can I work to pay off my own bills, if I'm held against my will in yet another place that's going to stick me with both needles and worse, more bills?
"I don't have the means to help you as much as you need, I'm sorry, honey, I try, and try, and try - I just... I don't understand you, or what you want,"
How? When? Did I say that out loud?
How does she not get it?