lines
How long does it take to love someone?
How long does it take for it to hurt when they leave?
How long should I wait before I dream?
How long should I wait before my expectations bleed?
You cared so quick, you cared so much.
I threw up walls, I couldn't trust.
But I still hoped every text was you.
I gave my all.
I let you through.
But now I'm waiting by the phone.
My text, last sent, and yours: unknown.
Is there a difference between this and friends?
Where one line begins and the other ends?
Squeaky Hinges
I want to laugh at her. I want to be able to say something condescending and horrible and shrug this all off. But in that moment, sitting there almost nervous and embarrassed, telling me I was the first person to ever share the night with her and have the privilege of sharing her morning too, I could feel my heart clenching so violently I could almost mistake it for love.
She tells me this over coffee- stale and tasting of the burnt bottom of the kettle and soake up by store bought shortbread I scrounged out from the back of the cupboard. I wince at the charred flavour from one morning that she had sleepily brewed it twice. She scowls as she listens to the cupboard squeak shut from when I never oiled the hinges.
Yes, I could almost mistake it for love.
But that would mean it had ever left. That it hadn't left an indent around my bones and organs. The velvet carress of petals where the many vices of thorns had left me scarred over the years. Where my words were washed and pressed and folded until they lifted.
God if I couldn't feel it thundering in my chest and pounding in my head like it wanted so desperately to be released from my throat and whispered in that bitch's ear.
But that's just the dose of her poison, isn't it? I am soothed by the blanket of A4 paper and the familiar clack of well worn but long neglected keys. Weren't things that were loved meant to change? To be supported? To squeak from time, like old bones?
The vulnerability that my bastard ex-wife had been trying so desperately to feign was displayed in cracked paint held in the body of metal on my desk, and the feeling of purging my words without judgement let me know I wasn't alone in whatever we were connected by.
My ex told me she didn't like my laugh- how it squeaked and how the box springs on my side were too loud. My typewriter never says such things, kissing my fingertips and begging for more and more and-
Well, my mother in law believes there's another woman.
We are inextricably interlinked; despite how resolute I've been told to act like we aren't.
Crater
Kill me slowly with your kisses sweet like antifreeze. Poison me, drown me, watch me suffer as I die but be the one holding me under and dosing my drinks.
I can't say the words, not when I've just accepted the size and shape of Love in its many forms so personally that giving it the use of my own vocal chords to sing the sorts of praises that would make even Tennyson squirm is simply unacceptable.
Her Love is an anvil, heavy and solid and made to be built upon. My Love is a hydrogen bomb, disastrous ruination meant to end life and crater the earth. But maybe, my love will simper. be something she could cradle in her hands and not burn from the intensity of it. Maybe, in another life. Another time.
Anytime, really.
What People Don’t See
I recently submitted a rather distasteful story to the manuscripts section. Various responses were received; some puzzled, some troubled, but some understood the message behind the story, which was authentic and recalled vividly in the harshest of terms.
Don't let my grandmotherly smile fool you. My memory is a stinker. It recalls all the dirty details of my life in living color, and I, as the truth-teller of my family, must share every bit of minutiae. I have always been like this. It's a sickness, according to my mother, who prefers to let pain and embarrassing family history get moldy in the basement. Writing these events is not necessarily soul-cleansing and healing. Sometimes, it hurts to dredge these things up.
The healing comes when another abuse survivor says, "I thought I was the only one," and you both become a bit stronger.
My story described being dragged to an orgy by an abusive boyfriend. I was twenty and he was thirty-three at the time. He had total control over me. Over my body, my travel, my money, and my contact with friends and family. I remained steadfastly snarky and belligerent because that was the only freedom I had. I could go along quietly or go along with blackened eyes. I always chose the latter.
The irony of this story was that my abuser warned me not to embarrass him at the orgy because he knew the people who would be there. This would have been hysterical if it was fictional. We were going to an orgy to have unprotected sex and do drugs with perverts, but he was in fear of me saying something to embarrass him. What? How bad does someone have to be to embarrass you at an orgy?
I was not a drug taker, so, when urged to take a puff of marijuana, it hit me hard. I remember standing in the bathroom of the home we were at, thinking it was the next day, and it was all over. The rest of the evening was a blur of being passed around, like that joint, and finally, coming to with my boyfriend dragging me off the husband of his girlfriend, who accidentally ended up at the same orgy.
He wanted to humiliate me by showing me who he was cheating with. I was horrified by my first sight of female genitalia in action and repulsed when he tried to force me to join him with her. He did nothing to me at the time. But for months afterward, I was frequently reminded that I had let him down, and that was why he had to have other women.
Every time he wanted to have other women, he would first beat me so that I’d run out of the apartment to escape his fists. Then, he would be free to bring these women into our bed. I had asked for refuge from so many people in our apartment complex that, eventually, they stopped allowing me to stay with them. I was on my own with whatever I was wearing when he began hitting me — usually in the dead of Winter.
People could see the bruises and cuts. What they could not see was the constant state of anxiety I lived in. Would I have to run away tonight? Tomorrow? The night after? If I ran to a neighbor and banged on their door, would they ignore me or let me in? Not only do abused partners live with constant fight-or-flight anxiety. They live with shame. A deep, intense, burning shame that only abuse survivors understand. I spent years being ashamed of what someone else had done to me.
Friends, family, bystanders, and strangers always commented, “Why don’t you just leave?” They could never understand how completely he owned my life. I had no vehicle. I had no money, as he would scoop up my pay every night I worked. I had no friends who would take me in. No access to help, except when police were called. Then, even the police would tell me I probably wouldn’t stay away, so all they did was postpone another beating. No one ever referred me to a women’s shelter or any other kind of help.
When I attempted suicide to escape, the hospital would send me home with my abuser and enough drugs to kill a herd of elephants, which he would steal and sell. If I ever managed to escape, he promised to find me and kill me or kill my pets. He made good on that promise by running over my dog, Gus, to repay me for running for my life once when I was sure he was going to kill me.
When someone beats you regularly and saps the life out of you, you do what you’re told. If they threaten to kill you when you escape, you believe them. I’m seventy years old and still find myself getting hostile when my actions are questioned, or someone tries to prevent me from going where I’d like to go or doing what I want. Not just a little hostile, but angry, furious. Which is funny to watch, I suppose, because I’m about 4'10" tall. It's sort of like watching an angry munchkin on steroids. And, God help you if you laugh at me.
The anxiety never really goes away completely. The shame, lack of trust, and fury remain with us forever as well. These are the unseen bruises of abuse.
Turn it Up
… turn it up!
Those quietly spoken words follow Ed King’s first, meticulous little guitar riff in the original recording of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.”
I clearly remember riding with my father in his pickup truck back when I was in the fourth or fifth grade (which, by the way, was a long, long time ago). It was the first time I remember hearing the song. Ronnie Van Zant’s words, “turn it up,” rattled in to us from the WANV radio station where my mother worked through the truck’s static-y, AM speakers. I remember watching in awe as my father’s hand subconsciously reached for the volume button. The singer of the song had asked my dad to “turn it up,” and the old man was actually doing it? It was both a mystery, and a revelation at once. My father liked to make it known that he had no use for what he called “hippie music,” yet here he was, “turning it up“ on command. Furthermore, as he was “turning it up” with the one hand his other one was tapping out the beat atop the steering wheel. And even more uncharacteristically yet, Pop was singing along with the chorus!
”Sweet home Alabama
where the skies are so blue.
Sweet home Alabama,
Lord I’m coming’ home to you.”
My father wasn’t big on singing, though he liked music well enough, Hee-Haw mostly, yet he somehow recognized this song well enough that he could sing along in parts. I’d only ever heard my dad attempt to sing a few times, and then he was more likely to be singing along with The Statler Brothers, or maybe The Temptations, some of his favorites. What can I say? The old man was partial to harmonies. At least I come by that right.
Yea, Pop!… turn it up!
I would learn later in life that while recording the song, what Ronnie was actually doing was asking the song’s producer to give him more sound in his headset before he started singing. “I need more volume,” he was telling Al Kooper. Upon hearing the recorded playback Al wanted to edit the words out, but Ronnie stopped him. Ronnie knew he had a great song, and he knew that kids listening in their cars would do exactly what he’d just been telling Al Kooper to do, and conversely what my father had done. Those kids would “turn it up!” And, as usual, Ronnie Van Zant’s instincts were spot on.
Speaking of instincts, less than a week before that recording session Ronnie had called Al up in the middle of the night. “I need some studio time,” he’d told Al. “We’ve got this song, and it’s perfect right now. If we wait the song is gonna change. They always do. We need to record it right now.” So The Lynyrd Skynyrd Band took the long bus ride to Doraville, Georgia, where they laid out their soon-to-be rock and roll classic nearly a full year before the rest of the album was cut. Apparently it paid to follow along with Ronnie’s instincts.
… turn it up, Al!
The funny thing about the song though is what I learned from my dad that day in his pickup truck. Sweet Home Alabama appeals to nearly everyone. While the song is unmistakably rock-n-roll, it somehow manages to take a savvy listener on a four and a half minute southern musical odyssey. The airy, initial pluckings of Ed King’s guitar have a blue-grassy sound, being almost mandolin-ish, while Gary’s country, slide guitar accompanies it. The rhythm section which follows in behind those guitars only complements that bluegrass sound with a slow, very steady, stand-up bass feeling. When Ronnie’s voice joins in it is light and articulate, coming off as being almost untrue to his redneck persona. When the Honkettes (JoJo, Leslie and Cassie) join Ronnie in the chorus their harmonies bring in an almost hymnal quality, their “ooohs and aaah’s“ raining down from the holier, upper pews. The guitar solos are steeped heavily in the Memphis blues, and the sprinkling in of boogie-woogie piano finishes it all off. The music itself is very nearly the coming together of all the great, southern musical styles into one pop-rock perfection.
And then you have the lyrics. Home is what the song is about. It tells you right there in the title. The song is about home, about wanting to be home after a long stint on the road, and about loving one’s home, warts and all. Yes, the song was inspired by Neil Young’s song “Southern Man”, and yes Ronnie takes a pretty good dig at Neil Young in the second verse, but that is all in loving one’s home, and in refusing to see it disparaged by someone who isn’t even American, much less southern. “Fix your own house before you stick your nose into mine,” Ronnie fairly enough reminds Neil Young, “A southern man don’t need you around, anyhow!” It was the early 1970’s, a time when it was already rightfully difficult being southern, but no weed-smoking, sandal-wearing Canadian had any business piling on, did he? Young had tried it twice now, beating up on southerner’s, but not again he wouldn’t. And the funniest thing about it was, Ronnie wasn’t even from Alabama. But even though he never lived there Ronnie felt a kinship to her people, people who were sharing the same struggles that his folks over in north Florida were.
“Big wheels keep on turning.
Carry me home to see my kin.
Singing songs about the southland.
I miss Alabamy once again (and I think it’s a sin, yea).”
For fifty years now I’ve rocked out to “Sweet Home Alabama.” I’ve heard it hundreds of times, maybe thousands, and I still “turn it up” every time it comes on, my toes instinctively tapping along to the radio. I heard it at the end of Forrest Gump, when Jenny and Forrest had become “like peas and carrots once again.” Reese Witherspoon made a whole movie out of “Sweet Home Alabama.“ The song has been covered by just about everyone; to include Nirvana, Rihanna, Poison, and Justin Bieber. Kidd Rock wrote a tribute song about this song that was a response to another song. I’ve heard symphony's attempt it, and marching bands, and even a bagpipe ensemble. I live in Nashville, where you cannot to this day walk down Broad Street without hearing it blare from at least one live music bar, and more often then not from two or three at once.
Oh yea. I’ve heard Neil Young do the song he inspired too (and he did it with much respect, too. Thank you for that, Friend).
Hey Neil! ... turn it up!
After much careful consideration about this prompt I have decided that “Sweet Home Alabama” has what it takes to be the “Soundtrack of my life” (which is not a mantle easily bestowed). It is not my favorite song. It is not even my favorite Lynyrd Skynyrd song, and may not even be my favorite song on its own album, Second Helping, which also boasts Curtis Loew and Swamp Music. But I am choosing it due to it’s popularity, and because the song is very nearly everything I believe I am while also managing to remain relevant for nearly as long as I have been around to hear it. The song is upbeat, straight shooting, contemplative, artistically diverse, it features a fantastic arrangement of driving guitar work, and it brings some attitude along to boot. Those are the very things I am about. That description happily meets me out there afloat somewhere on the big, slowly rolling river that is the Dixieland Twelve Bar Blues.
So take a tip from me, Ronnie, Al, Neil, and my old man. The next time you hear those light, plucky strings followed by Ronnie's suggestion that you, “turn it up,“ don’t just sit there...
Reach for the damned dial, already!
..…
I Dig a French Bikini on Hawaii Island Dolls by a Palm Tree in the Sand
I Dig a French Bikini on Hawaii Island Dolls by a Palm Tree in the Sand
She danced in the penumbra
Her shadow became as iridescent as the leaves of the trees accompanying her
I was intrigued at the spectacle
Once she turned my way
Once she lifted her head
Once she opened her eyes to make contact
I was gobsmacked
I was smitten
I was beholden to her beauty
And she knew it
She never spoke to me
At least verbally
Using her “come hither” appeal
I was unable to resist
I was unable to want such a decision
I left my drink on the table
I left my paperwork to the winds
I might have counter-offered her beck and call
I might have cured world hunger
Such were my odds to endure the inevitable
Every year, we return to that locale
Every year, she displays her growing portfolio of skills
Last year, our child arrived in situ
This year, he arrived in hand
Even at his age, he watched his mother dance
As I always will
Title: Courtesy of the Beach Boys, California Girls
Strange Times
I am told to counter the attacks on Israel with things called
drones...always wonder now do we get to see the Queen?
Is love
I am told to counter the wars in the states of Russia
and Ukraine is freshly cut flowers given to someone
I am told to counter earthquakes in New York City is the
laughter from a new born baby
I am told to counter North Korea launching rockets into
the sea of Japan is freshly baked bread
I am told to counter all the mass stabbings and shootings
is a loving look from the one you love
I am told there is nothing sacred in this world anymore that
it has all been found
I am told that it has been broken apart and examined this
sacred and put together somehow wrong
I am told these things and even after all this i still believe
in the hidden things the special things
I am told black holes are being discovered in open space
and swallowing stars
I am told all this and still believe in life.
Chapter Nineteen - Carla’s Dream
Carla needed to keep an eye on Gina. If Gina no longer trusted her, that would be a problem. She had a handle on both Toby and Mark and could control them as much as she needed to. That night Carla dreamed….
The Kingdom was at peace. Although Carla did not know it then, that peace would soon be shattered. She was a servant in the castle. She did not do things for herself, she did things for others. Her life wasn’t meant for personal satisfaction or accomplishment, it was meant to provide luxury to others. She hated it but she also knew there were worse fates. So, she had to be grateful. Every so often she would be in the presence of the princess. The princess was beautiful. Carla often thought about what it must be like to have that kind of privilege. To have people wait on you hand and foot and to never say anything that would displease you for fear of punishment.
She didn’t hate the princess, but she envied her position. This was her life day after day.
Carla had no hope of escape.
There was nothing that she could do to improve her position but sometimes fate does those things for you. Carla was in her small chamber, getting ready to rest her tired body when a man appears before her. If he meant to do her harm, he could have easily accomplished that task, and no one would have known about it, but this man presented an opportunity. The man was dressed in a cloak and was wearing a royal ring. Carla fell to her knees.
“Don’t be afraid.” The man started, “I am not here to hurt you, I’m here to offer you a way out.”
“I don’t understand.” Carla responded.
“I am the King’s magician.” The man announced, “I am a powerful wizard. I have seen into your heart. You have potential. Potential that is wasted here. How would you like to go to a place that you can live for yourself, instead of slaving for others?” Carla didn’t know what to think. Is this man really offering her freedom or is it just a trick to get her to do something.
“What must I do?” Carla asked.
“In three days, the kingdom will be attacked and overrun. Nothing can be done to prevent it. When that attack begins, I need you to lead the princess to a cavern near the sea. There I will send both you and the princess away to this place I told you about.” The wizard explains.
“The princess won’t follow me.” Carla declares.
“She will if her life depends on it. There will be chaos and she will be confused. She won’t know what to do. You show up and lead her to me.” The wizard continues.
“Did you tell the King?” Carla asks.
“The King is a fool. He deserves his fate. We can still save the princess.” The Wizard goes on.
“If everything happens as you say. I don’t want to stay here and die. I will do whatever you tell me.” Carla promises.
“Good. Once you are in this new land, the Princess will not remember who she is, but you will. You can befriend the princess and look after her. If she ever gets her memories back, she will want to try and return but if she does, she will die.” The wizard warns, “You must prevent her from doing that.”
“If you give me freedom, I promise I will do it.” Carla replies.
Carla wakes up. She can’t lose her grip on Gina. It could ruin everything. Her life here is a thousand percent better than life back in the kingdom. Carla gets to school and meets up with Toby and Mark.
“Gina doesn’t trust me.” Carla announces.
“That’s not good.” Mark remarks, “What are you gonna do about it?”
“I don’t know yet, did either of you find out anything?” Carla asks.
“I googled as many different ways as I could think of and came up with nothing.” Toby reported.
“Some nerd in the ‘Wizards and Warlocks’ club say he knows a guy that can get Gina back her memory, but it’s gonna cost me.” Mark announces.
“Okay, let me know how that turns out.” Carla orders.
Carla spent the rest of the day giving Gina some space. Toby on the other hand was done giving Gina space. Toby sees Gina walking in the courtyard and approaches her.
“Hey,” Toby starts off, “can we talk?” Gina ignores him and continues walking. Toby steps in front of her to block her path. When Gina tries to step around Toby, he refuses to let her pass.
“Okay, if you don’t want to talk, at least listen.” Toby demands. Gina stops trying to get away from Toby and just stands there with her arms folded across her chest and an irritated look on her face.
“I’m not sorry I kissed you. I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the moment I first laid eyes on you.” Toby explained, “It sucks the way Mark broke up with you, but Mark just wants you to be happy.”
“You’re not sorry?” Gina answered.
“How could I be sorry for kissing the most beautiful girl in existence?” Toby answered. Gina could feel her heart melt but only slightly, very slightly.
“It was a horrible thing to do.” Gina shot back.
“I know.” Toby affirmed,” Maybe some time you’ll let me make it up to you.”
“I have a lot to think about.” Gina said as she was leaving.
“Carla also wants you to be happy.” Toby added. Gina walked away without answering.
After school Mark meets up with the student promising magic. “Did you get the money?” The student asks.
“Did you get the potion?” Mark shoots back.
“I told my guy about your situation, and he said he wanted to meet you.” The student answered.
“Why does he want to meet me?” Mark asked.
“There aren’t a lot of people who want memory potions. So, he wants to talk to you first.” The student explained.
Mark got a lump in his throat. Anyone who could make potions could easily get rid of him if they wanted to.
“Okay, when do I get to meet this guy?” Mark asked.
“You get to meet him right now.” The student answers. The student leads Mark to a car
that is parked nearby. When Mark gets close enough, the window in the back rolls down revealing an old man’s face.
“I didn’t expect to see you again.” Mark exclaims.
Yet
I need you
like the world needs sunlight.
I need you to cover me
like a blanket in the cold, lonely night.
I need you to link minds,
connect with me,
recharge me and fill me
with passion and excitement
and energy and lust,
bring back meaning and purpose
to this broken eggshell life,
but I haven’t met you
yet.
I submit to you
all of my poems, songs, and stories,
my heartbreaks and victories,
loves and doubts,
verses like stars and rain,
infinite worlds of possibility,
times and places to fill stories,
poems and memoirs,
lyrics and music.
I need you to publish me and edit me,
give my stories out to the masses,
but I haven’t found you
yet.
I pray to you.
You are my god, my savior.
It is you who comes
when the weight is too much,
the chains are too many for me to break.
This world, this life has become gibberish
in the Tower of Babel,
but you can create a rock you are unable to lift
and then you can lift it.
You can make nonsense sensible
and make the sensible nonsense,
but you haven’t intervened
yet.
I wait for you,
any of you and all of you,
but the sands of this hourglass have fallen.
You might be my woman,
my once in a lifetime love,
my hero or my savior,
but you need to show up now
because I’m a skeleton,
bare bones shouldering the load alone,
hanging from the cliff side
by a pinkie,
but I haven’t fallen
yet.