From now on

Allegedly, I drove through a few yellow lights as they were turning red. Don't jump to conclusions, I'm not a complete scofflaw. I would never intentionally speed through a red light. But yellow lights are a gamble and sometimes you lose.

The obvious consequence of losing is the associated fines. But is the extra aggravation, albeit free, necessary? I needed the citation numbers in order to pay the fines. I didn't have the citations, so I called for assistance and reached "Phyllis", an amalgamation of a dismissive government employee, and a prim Sunday school teacher, all judgment and dry manners.

The last thing I needed was Phyllys' lecture. Numerous notices were sent out regarding the violations. So what? I didn't have them. Moreover, if I cared about it eighteen months ago, I wouldn't have waited until today to call. Quite honestly, I still didn't care but I was compelled to pay in order to renew my tags.

I wanted to give Phyl a little lecture of my own. It would go something like this:

"Look here Phyl, ExX-CUSE me if I don't come to a screeching halt on yellow. Sorry if I tried to shave a few minutes off of my two hour commute by trying to make a yellow light or two. I ain't having a good week, month, or to be honest, a good freaking year. So wrap up the soliloquy, and give me the damn citation numbers." ( I hope my use of a familiar diminutive, and bad grammar indicates that I mean business).

I think I know how to manage my life (just trust me on this point) and regardless of my circumstances, paying extortionate fines is NEVER going to be a priority. On the bright side, I learned an important driving lesson. I am a financially conscientious woman, so no more casually driving through yellow lights. From now on, I will be driving through yellow lights much faster.

Gone

The problem with fireworks is that eventually they fizzle and fade. Washington is a small city, so it isn't surprising to run into the same strangers, and bump into the occasional tangential friends. I saw a stranger last night that used to be quite dear to me. It was a decade ago, pre-law school, pre-motherhood, pre-everything that's important to me now. I adored him. Last night there were no fireworks, which is good because he's now a married man and a father, and not the boy who had scratched my heart. It was supposed to be a minor wound, but it had taken years to heal. Maybe because I kept picking at the scab, finding excuses to make it bleed.

Though our embrace had been warm and genuine, the experience had been anti-climatic. I no longer thought of him, but for some reason I had thought of him recently. Randomly, I had a vision of a night, years ago, that I spent in his company. As usual, his behaviour had frustrated and confused me. Back then, he had been possessive yet unavailable. He owned me, enjoyed the power, but offered no reciprocity.

Last night, things were different. He no longer had a claim on me. He teased me about the absence of a wedding ring on my finger: "Come on man, what you waiting on?"

Eight years ago, he would not have asked me this question because we both knew that the answer would have been : "Come on man, I'm waiting on you."

We parted with a hug and the contact left me empty. Don't get me wrong, I am happy for him. More importantly, I am happy that there was no ambiguity. We no longer have a conflict as I could no longer offer adoration. Gone was the tension that had created the magical tendrils of fireworks.

I sipped my drink and thought about the burden of his former rejection and the inexplicable heaviness of it's absence. His behavior had been appropriate and respectful, but it bothered me that he still seemed physically attracted to me. Why had that aspect endured, while the others had faded?

Then I met a likable stranger who offered to buy me ice cream. I accepted. Admittedly, I am easily distracted. Furthermore, crushes come and go but I will always love ice cream.

What you see

I submitted the exactingly short story below to a website called Six Sentence Story. Turn six sentences into a story... My contribution is called "Painting Moments".

"Even pain can be pretty if applied properly with smooth, efficient strokes. Sitting on a magenta towel to protect the floor from possible stains, I wondered why I still cared about maintaining order, when it was obvious that my attempts were futile. The weight of the week's rejections had buoyed slightly as I glimpsed the glint of the small bottle at the bottom of my densely packed closet. Once again, I hadn't gotten the job, and once again, the man was ignoring me. My obligatory morning meditation had revealed nothing worthwhile, so I decided to act quickly before my mind changed. The first stroke brought crisp glossy red relief, and with eager hands, I painted my way from that less than perfect moment."

Flash fiction seemed to suit my impulsive nature. I desperately needed to write and it needed to be done quickly. So it was done. The response to my entry was equally swift. At first it was complimentary (I'll spare you the details).

Then someone commented:

"Oooo. I never understood cutting. I hope this is fiction."

Followed by:

"I share your disappointments, as I share them. Mostly, I hope your are Ok."

Then:

"I know two young ladies who did this. No matter how much comfort I gave them, they only concentrated on how they perceived the world."

My response:

"... I [am] astonished to see that I had been diagnosed a cutter. Perhaps it's my fault. I wanted to convey a sense of discontent and borderline dysfunction. But although the blood imagery was intentional it was not at all literal. I thought it was socially acceptable to bleed through writing."

The lady doth protest too much. I didn't owe any of these people an apology or explanation for writing a story about nail polish. Ironically, I had editted the story so that it would be obvious that I was talking about red nail polish. The original version was more ambiguously suggestive of cutting. Editting was a waste of time since the original tone remained. Somehow I thought I could sneak it in without anyone noticing. It was immensely satisfying to paint the picture but not at the cost of triggering a damn intervention. I just needed to let some things out with a few strokes.

Okay, I know that sometimes I creep some people out. My dark place shines brightly within me. I wander there often but it isn't on purpose. For me, it's peaceful there, dimly lit and sobering like a graveyard. I don't know how to be any other way and editting doesn't work. You see what you see. So let me bleed ( figuratively at least). If it bothers you, look away.

Flashy

In Reverie

Lost in a trance, isolated moments hold me together. I write in fragments, obscuring subjects, emphasizing actions, resenting adjectives and articles too. “Bird flew home.” Don’t care if you know the color, size, texture, variety. Just know it flew on its own volition. That’s the only thing that seems true.

Fifteen Minutes

Strolling, felt Jasmine, soft and brightly lit. Not to be confused with the muffled waves of lavender lurking hours behind it. It was too early for a celestial lavender mood. Steps preceding glances, the movement of strangers parting. No one is immune to the energy of the mid-day sun, straining to be noticed in the fragrant day.

Eventually

I’ll tear it off eventually. Although it is mine, I feel no allegiance to it; I honor no misplaced alliances. Technically, it’s the outsider not a part of me. On it's own, it changes, grows thicker, thinner. Conspicuously on the outside, it is merely a casing for a mangled sausage of blood and bones. The glossy cover on a poorly organized book of stories, nothing about it intimates the bizarre anthology within.

Of my father

Of my father, who passed away two years ago, I remember very little in regards to his physical attributes. My older brother is a very close mirror image, and my son's curly hair is a vague reminder. Of my father, I mostly remember temperaments, and moods; a lack of temper and mood is probably more accurate. Can't recall a raised voice, or a moment where his words were tinged with a negative infliction. His lack of excitability made him seem perpetually aloof. Overall, I enjoyed his company. As a loquacious child, I liked not having to compete for air-space. Our dealings were simple. I prattled, and he listened patiently, without interruptions.

He seemed to accept that I was going to do what I wanted to do. Not in disobedient way, but still in my own way. Whether that meant that he got barrettes in his hair, or that he would be eating flowers for dinner, it didn't matter. There was a level of acceptance in our relationship that I am just starting to appreciate 20 plus years later. My mother alternated between being a doting playmate, indulging my every whim and a petty dictator, who would not accept even the appearance of defiance. She had been blessed with a formidable will of her own. But still, she owned my heart. I adored her. Though unpredictable, she was beautiful, and vibrant, and the strong, silent type of a man just couldn't compete with that. No one could.

While I appreciated that my father let me eat ice cream for dinner, his smooth, melodic sense of unwavering sameness did not interest me. For the the last two years, I have been joking about developing daddy issues to commiserate his untimely passing, but it seems I've always had them. I'm starting to realize to the women in my life are my emotional anchors and that my emotional veneer is hard and macho despite the frou-frou shell. It's as though I'm an emotional drag queen, acting the part of "woman". It's convincing in the right light but some times my cues are off; especially when dealing with the opposite sex.

After I left Jamaica, my father and I rarely spoke. There was no animosity or malice, just a general air of indifference. I simply didn't think about him, and assumed that with him the sentiment was the same. After his death, I learned differently. Now, I suspect that he had remained distant because he had been hurt that my mother had taken me away. When we had waved goodbye at the airport twenty years ago, I had asked him not to leave until my flight took off. Despite the four hour delay, he had waited patiently in terminal, where I could see him through huge glass window.

I don't remember whether he said I love you that day. But now his actions ring loudly in my ears. Which makes me rethink my approach to loving, and acceptance. Or maybe my approach to accepting love.

Universal Discrepancies

I gave up coffee for lent in a characteristic fit of self-denial. In return, I had hoped for a surge of positive energy, a karmic pat on the back for a job well done. Instead, I got bronchitis, had a severe asthma flare up for the first time in seven years, followed by the flu and strep throat; it would have been a nice time to have health insurance. Since I hadn't been seriously ill in almost two years, I accepted that I had some of that coming.

But the spell of unemployment coupled with the foreboding letter from the IRS complaining that they found a discrepancy in my 2008 return? By time I found out that I had an even larger tax liability for 2009 (since apparently I'm required to report ALL the money I earned), I didn't really care about my rent increase, my malfunctioning computer or the engine light situation in my ride. I had already reached my overkill threshold and was still reasonable calm. Yeah, yeah, whatever, life is hard, gotcha. *wink* But then a family member had a potentially fatal medical emergency, and my control faltered. I began fantasizing about flipping the bird to the universe and many of its inhabitants.

It was like my friend's complaint about the movie "Precious". It simply was just too much. I just wanted tune it all out, which led to my spending a lot of time watching Looney Tunes, bonding with my kindred loser Wile E. Coyote.

I admit that I have no "middle". These circumstances reminded me that there is seldom balance in my life. My cup runneth over or I choketh on a cupful of dust. All the same, even with the delayed karmic gratification, I am apt to believe that small acts of self-denial are good for for me, good for everyone in general. Suffering is an inevitable part of life, so maybe if you pick your torment it is easier to bare than the pain inflicted on you by the unseen hand. But the hand is essentially the house in Vegas. It sees all, it knows all, and no matter how clever or lucky you think you are, it usually wins.

PBS ran a documentary on the life of Buddha last week. I have a philosophical crush of Buddhism; I associate it with a yummy, free-spirited, almost bohemian form of self-denial. Then the specter of "moderation" crept into the program, one of Siddhartha's first lessons learned during his six year long journey towards enlightenment. The universe seems really hung up on this principle, so begrudgingly, I embrace this assignment.

Still I wonder, what will I do with balance if I actually bother to find it? And where will I even put it? Perhaps on the mantle of a consistently organized, productive, and fulfilling life. BlaHhh! I'd rather choketh on dust.

Kindreds

My German shepherd Venus had been the smartest dog I had ever known. Though they shared the same parents, her sister Jamaica was only slightly smarter than a very stupid chew toy. Jamaica's bark was literally an inaudible "woof". Often when the other dogs barked ferociously at strangers, she would be turned in the wrong direction woofing unconvincingly at something random and wagging her tail. She was more of a gatherer than a hunter, and spent a prodigious amount of time collecting pebbles and leaves.

The Shepherds were funny, but our Rottweiler Black had been my favorite. My step dad brought him home, hidden in his jacket during a snow storm. The black fluffy mass of puppy couldn't walk so he scooted around like a baby learning to crawl. We adored him.

Then he grew bigger. Some would say he grew big and menacing. People were terrified of him. They noticed his huge head, and powerful jaw but no one took notice of his beautiful eyes or his gentle soul. He weighed more than I did by the time he was 9 months old but to me he was still the amorphous puppy ball. We wrestled (he held me down and chewed playfully on my shins), we danced to Wu tang Clan(he wiggled his body and shook his stump) and we talked.

Mostly I talked and he listened. Occasionally, I apologized for his stump and chastised him for trying to kill the trampy cat my mother had taken in. I disliked her as much as Black did, but mauling was not the solution. The mauling only made her look like a sympathetic victim, and she wasn't; she was a bully and she started the fight.

It was my first year at the prissy girls high school and things were changing. He listened, and knitted his brows, and he seemed to understand. We were kindred in an inexplicable way. He was the kindest soul I had ever met and by some perversion he trapped in a huge, scary body, and armed with formidable teeth. Back then, I was a ball of caustic sarcasm and angst trapped in a small, scowling body prepared to bare fangs. In retrospect, I was the one they should have found menacing.