Sick, Selfish Ash

It's almost seven, and I'm still here, through with my coffee and now chewing on ice-cold spaghetti.

God, my tooth hurts. I'm starving, and it just kills me to eat this. I should have made soup instead, but day-old spaghetti sounded better. I made it yesterday for lunch during a good hour when I wasn't lying on the couch in pain. Poor Baby Girl at my makeshift-bedside. Every time I cried, she cried and rubbed her little hand on my cheek, which hurts like hell, but I let her do it for the thought that she was comforting me. I feel guilty for spending so much time on the couch. It's becoming my new home. I can't work. Just watch TV with her, and halfway play with the toys she piles on top of me.

I haven't been online much either...off for days, and then on too long at one time.

Saturday night, I couldn't sleep. I got scared while taking my shower. Kept hearing noises. I didn't want to go to bed 'til I was sure I would fall asleep almost immediately. I came in here to pass the time, and stayed until sunrise. Silly me.

Sunday: After a short nap, I spent the day with Baby Girl. Watched part of two movies. Wrote a piece of fiction by hand.

After that, I went into the kitchen to fix lunch. Was cutting up some cheddar cheese when the blade flew into the upside of my left hand. I hit the floor, threw the knife, dropped my pen. Screaming, crying, bleeding. Baby Girl rushed in and laughed at me. I had to laugh too, for her sake, and doctored myself while nearly throwing up and passing out.

I spent most of that day on the couch too. I took her for a walk though. We ran about the front yard barefoot...until I stepped into an anthill and was bit at least twenty times.

I slept all night that (Sunday) night, and Monday, I spent the whole day working. Went to Wal-Mart. Took Baby Girl for another walk, though avoided the front yard entirely.

Visited the neighbors: Baby Girl's Aunt and her daughter. The Uncle's now living in Texas, going to college. The daughter's a sophomore in high school. The wife is a blonde thirty-something who is thin, pretty, tan, but all wrinkled from smoking. We sat in the kitchen floor and talked about men. Baby Girl played and ate Cheetos. I don't buy Cheetos, or any chips of any kind, so you can imagine how happy she was to inhale them.

The Aunt gave me a bottle of rum. I told her how I had finished mine off Friday night while watching the Jimmy Stewart Marathon Day on TCM.

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington...

I love it! Jimmy Stewart: Good Lord, he's amazing. Hot! Love his voice, and his height and his hair. At the end I cried like a baby when he hit that floor. Such honesty and conviction in his beliefs. The mixture of innocence and madness in his eyes.

That night, Monday night, I couldn't sleep again. I was too angry, too sad, and nervous, and upset altogether over what, I'm not sure. Just not well. And restless. I came here till Tuesday began, and that's when I apologized for the lack of writing I now feel well (or sick and medicated) enough to remedy.

About that: let's get to that, so I can go get dressed and find a dentist who will be so kind as to see me today, for God knows I can't take pain killers all day, everyday, straight to October.

Tuesday: I took a nap, and spent the day doing what? I don't remember. I was hungover and sad.

Went to bed that night and woke up Wednesday morning in the God awful pain. The same pain I awoke to months ago once my tooth was broken and had become infected.

It's obviously infected again. I'm lucky I made it this long without a relapse.

Remember, I'm waiting till my insurance kicks in before having the operation, and everything's been fine up until Wednesday...the dentist said if it became infected again, he'd just put me back on those antibiotics that made me a human zombie for two weeks. Then I'll be cured, and back on my way to waiting.

So yes. I'll call him shortly. Probably have to go in and have him look me over. He'll tell me it's infected, and I'll say, Yes I'm aware of that. Then spend the rest of the day in a drugged out haze.

I'm here now because I suffered through Wednesday, like an idiot, never calling the dentist. I went to bed around ten-thirty, and woke up at twelve fifteen, crying into my pillow on account of the throbbing pain in my head, my eye, my ear. All sound is amplified, bright lights leave me aching, my mind feels heavy, and my tooth: it's killing me.

I got up and took some pills and a shower. Went to the couch, ate cereal, drank coffee. Watched Futurama, then Funny Face. I absolutely love it too. Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire, dancing, climbing stairs to balconies, singing...

You fill the air with smiles, for miles and miles and miles. I love your sunny, funny face.

Dancing in the kitchen, my eyes filled with happy tears, my mind finally ready to write, I couldn't help but hope that's how real love will feel...two people dancing near a river in France on green grass, near trees, beneath blue skies with swans and ducks and white birds of all kinds with a little stone chapel in the background, all soft and out of focus, like a water-color painting in a silent museum.

Poetry Thursday: Carry it with You

This week's Poetry Thursday seems to be entirely optional. Up to me. Though something was mentioned of carrying a poem with you. Write it down, put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day, or Thursday. Whichever comes sooner...

It's rained here all week. Long gray days full of pain and a fussy child, I'm not sure I wrote an ounce of poetry, let alone carried any with me. Maybe a bit of Byron. She walks in beauty like the night...a friend reminded me of Dead Poets Society. Standing on a desk, ripping out pages...let's do that, and Oh Captain, My Captain, she says in a breathless Bacall-esque tone. I'll purr in your ear, and yes, poetry: I nearly forgot. How could I?

Poetry Thursday, August 31st.

Only yesterday did I realize that August even had thirty one days. I thought it was over. September. Ready to be officially alive, and say goodbye to another friend.

My poem for today was written by hand on an August afternoon, so hence the first line. It’s true...most of it. Though I was obviously just writing and not doing what the poem implies.

In honor of August, and the thoughts I carried with me throughout this long hot summer, here it is, Oh reader, my friend:

Quietly

On an August Afternoon
In a sunlit room
With the ceiling fan on high, overhead

I am calm beneath the covers
Above me, warm air hovers
Where golden light and white walls are softly wed

I rub cool bare-feet
On sweat-soaked sheets
Up and down my own shaved legs

Hands beneath the quilt
I smile, and feel no guilt
For the places my mind has lead

My fingers soon to find
A tie that tightly binds
The thin blue dress I long to shed

Unzipping, and its slowing...
Arch my back until I'm glowing
And the sun outside my blinds burns bright red

I feel the heat through the glass
As this moment comes to pass
My naked shadow cast

So quietly in bed

To Begin, Again

It's four am, and I'm awake. Pain radiating through me. I'm on drugs, and restless, with coffee to keep me from falling asleep.

If I were to sleep, I'd miss a dose and awake in even more pain. Brutal, ungodly amounts of it.

I can barely see straight.

I just took another dose, and if I were sleeping I'd have missed it. Be lost and alone in fever's sweat-soaked sheets, thrashing about, crying, screaming, mentally distraught and physically unwell to such an extent I would consider a shotgun to the temple a more pleasant alternative, and viable option. Suicide always is. Though writing keeps the carpet clean. And Baby Girl sleeping. If I pulled the trigger, she'd awake, and who would be here to comfort her? Who would find me? I'd rot on the bloodstained carpet with a hole in my head to match the one in my tooth: the one causing me all this pain.

I'm in a lofty, dark mood. Silly though. And desperate to ease my clouded mind.

I need to write...and since I am here for the rest of the night/morning, inbetween time, I think I will write and let the physical pain take a backseat in the black cab of my life. I'll ride shotgun to my writerly side; let him or her drive.

We'll drive all night, Writerly Mind! And regret it come morning.

It is morning...Thursday. The last day of August. It's dieing, and taking summer with it.

Let's drive to the countryside and run through fields and make love beneath the stars and the Moon that makes the ocean move.

(Sigh)

I think my Writerly Mind is lonely.

I think I'm lonely, too, despite the massive amount of pain I will further explain, as this day continues.

[Update, three hours later] I didn't want to mar my happy little ending on the actual story post...despite my pain and bad luck, I'm actually in a lovely, romantic mood; I'll put it here:

I called the dentist, and he's out of town working at another clinic about two hours south of here. I'm willing to drive. But I might not have to. The nurse said she'd talk to him, and see if he'd just call-in my prescription to the local pharmacy.

Yes. That would be nice. But they're supposed to call me and let me know, so I need to stay offline, which isn't nice; I didn't get a chance to read anything, write anyone, or respond to any comments. I'm so sorry. I'll catch up as soon as I'm back from my little world of pain and daydreams.

I'm Sorry

I'm really not happy with myself right now.

I hate my writing, and nothing seems good enough.

I stabbed myself in the hand Sunday afternoon (cooking; twas an accident), and that's got me in a lot of pain.

Stayed up all night last night. I couldn't sleep again.

I'm too angry. Upset. Scared.

I'm really sorry for the lack of writing on a blog that isn't supposed to be dead.

I hope I can work it out.

It's raining so softly right now.

I think I’ll spend the day in bed.

The Monster in the Mirror

Black high heels hit the blue carpet of the Austin Hotel. Down the hallway to her room, each step in perfect line with the one before it, and after, again and again. It's music to his ears as he follows close behind...

She opens the door and pulls him into a room full of friends. Boys, girls, all stretched out onto two made beds, in the floor, at the table and chairs near the window. She walks over to it, says, Anyone want to flash? Two other girls stand up, and they take off their tops. Press against the glass. The guys run over to check the reflections. She laughs and rebuttons. Crosses the room, one heel, then the other, perfect click-clacking as the eyes move with her. She gives ‘em the half-smile.

She grabs him by his arm. Breathes in his ear. Leads him to the bathroom, slams the door, locks it. Hops onto the counter.

F' me, she says, and laughs because she knows he's never had sex.

His blue eyes get wide, but her brown eyes are wider. Her lip bit. Her legs spread.

F' me, she says, though this time, she's not smiling or laughing. She's daring him.

You're drunk, he says.

And she grabs him by the shirt, reels him in.

I don't care, she says. And kisses him while their friends wait outside.

She loses all track of time. Her shirt. She feels the mirror on her skin. Her back. She turns and sees herself, sitting in that bathroom sink, drunk off her ass, literally; falling from the counter as he unzips his pants.

She reaches out, and misses. Tells him, I'm sorry, and passes out.

Waking up in a bed beside a stranger...another girl. She crawls from the sheets, and crawls to the bathroom, the floor she knelt on, only briefly. She throws up in the tub. Drinks scalding hot coffee. Tries to remember anything or anyone, but all she can hear are the words F' me, and see his blue eyes...

He tells her he didn't do it. No, not him: the perfect gentleman. He tells all the boys he did and they believe him because she's the one who paraded through the hotel room smiling.

It was only a half-smile, she says, laughing, reminding, but no one can hear her over the sound of her own heels...screaming F' me, reaching out, missing, again and again, with every step through the hotel lobby.

It's music to her ears.

Poetry Thursday: On Time

I've seen other writers taking part in a Blogger-based program known as Poetry Thursday.

My lovely friends JVS and BB both do so, and I've always been quite jealous of them. They're amazing writers, and I'm so very glad they're here.

I want to join in. I think one of the most important parts of blogging, if not the most important part for the writerly crowd, is the feeling of mutual respect, support, and understanding you can and will hopefully receive from fellow writers.

It's a community. A writer's community, sans the hippies, and cabins, and taking to the woods ala Walden. It's more modern. And simple, in the best possible sense. It's strictly about writing, and writers, and all those pretty words...

Poetry. Yes, yes.

I wrote about that yesterday...I'm not sure why. Just trying to find some reason, I guess. Reason to be here...why am I here?? Why do I write? What do I write? How, and is it good, bad, or ugly? Do I want to share it?? Is poetry enough?

It goes on and on. Questions without answers.

I'm one of those girls who has to ask the questions, regardless of the answers, or the lack thereof.

I need to know where I stand with not only myself, but every thing and everyone. I'm a bit of a control freak. Not for the sake of being in control...just for the sake of not being out of control.

I get scared.

And that bit of childishness brings me to my very first poem o' participation in Poetry Thursday, and its lovely community of poets. (Hi!)

This week's theme is Time.

I've spent all summer writing about time. It's been a very special word since May.

I don't actually have time now, though, to write a decent poem...

But, in honor of time, and the past...I'm going to share the one single poem I ever had published. I was ten. It's called Time.

Time
Time is ticking fast away
Tomorrow, today will be yesterday
Where it goes, I cannot say
Time is ticking fast away

Ha. Not exactly genius, but it is kind of cute. Very close to my heart, at least.

So, congratulations, ten year old Ash! You got published, and I haven't. I do like your idea of time, though...

Where it goes, I still can't say.

Time is ticking fast away.

The Sun Always Rises

My sad bastard/suicidal/silly mood continues...I wrote this earlier today in honor of officially ending the deadblog, and in loving memory of it.

I will never forget you, deadblog. Pluck your daisies, and float down stream...


I step out the door, and the sun isn't rising. It's black. And dark. The air is still. The grass wet. I hear nothing, but nothing is nice for a change. The still, quiet air...the moments between night and morning...yesterday and today. I'm smoking in a tight pink trench coat. Hat lowered, blocking my eyes, not from my own sight...I see just fine, but from the sight of others...I'm shaded.

I'm lighting my cigarette and walking into the nonexistent sunrise.

I stop on the bottom step of the deck and pluck a daisy for my Baby Girl. Shame to kill something living, and something so pretty...and surely she'll rip it to pieces. If it makes her happy, though, I don't mind.

I put the flower on the dash, and start the car...I'm backing out into the muddy driveway. Rain the day before...and dark clouds looming now where the sun goes. I roll down my window and blow smoke. I turn up the radio.

I'm singing loud, and smiling. When there's no one in the passenger seat, you can sing as loud as you want. You can block your eyes from the others sight, and keep hidden as long you like.

I drive to the highway. I watch cars passing, both coming and going, in all directions. People in cars singing and smiling, and they don't know I'm watching, and some of 'em do. They wave. They smile...what is she singing? Where is he going?? Strangers passing, but on the same road.

We're all going somewhere...and I'm far from home. I'm almost there...I begin to slow. And park to the side of a grassy curb. There's a break in these trees I've been wanting to capture...when the sun finally rises, I'll see it here perfectly.

The treeline. The skyline. The powerlines. It's all in sight as I toss my hat aside, and there's my eyes, all smiling, joyous at the thought of what I'll save from this day, and show to those who are searching for something...the peace of knowing that others are here. That somewhere, in the deep south, there's a girl who watches the sunrise...she waits for it, and waits for it. Day after day. And she never stops waiting for it, though she wants to at times. She walks on decks, and pretends she's smoking, blowing her breath in front of her, the cold. She pretends to wear hats like Bogart. And she never much wanted Bogart, as much as she wanted to be him.

The tough guy. The detective. The man no one can love.

I steady my hands, and I'm waiting...

The sunrise. It's coming. High above the green.

It's been hiding, but there it is, bright and shining. Warmth and rebirth, and it'll try, this time, to stay above the treeline...the powerlines. It wants to be seen. No more dark clouds for taking cover...the excuses for the gray days, and the rain that is needed, lest nothing grows. Too much rain, though, brings flooding, and a flood can wash it away...into ditches, rivers, and manmade holes.

I see no clouds, no rain. Just wet grass reflecting the sunlight that breaks through the blue skyline, rising, climbing...I feel the heat on my cheeks and I'm smiling. I'm glowing. It's a new day of another day, another week, another month...and the years pass as I click away, taking pictures to prove it. Writing stories to share.

It's real and it's here.

Briefly shaded, but again alive.

Waking the dead

I’m in quite a mood. One has to be to blog, to write, to allow herself to wake up at four o’clock in the morning, and say, Yes, today’s the day, I’ll go back with my tale between my legs and write it and post it, and if people read it, they read it, and if they don’t, I just might cry long hours in the latest hours of night with nothing but my rum to comfort me.

I have a story to tell you. Story after story. I always do. I’m good at keeping track; remembering, then recalling.

Or I keep telling myself that because God knows I need the confidence boost.

I need to know in my own mind, that I can remember not only what to write, but HOW to write it. That my writing isn’t bad. Though I don’t think it good. And what, really, does writing have to do with it, anyway? I was talking about the stories: what it’s all about. The details. The beginning, middle, and ends. Not how it’s written. How well or how poor it’s written. Sometimes it’s just IF it gets written. And you can always shape it up later.

I need to write something. I haven’t written in weeks. Except poetry, but poetry isn’t fulfilling to me. It’s foreplay. It just gets me going...I need the sex. The big time. The consummation of real life and words, and put ‘em together, and what do ya got?

Stories. Blog entries. Something of coherence.

And preferably doesn't rhyme.

Though I’m not trying to downplay or badmouth poetry, mind you. Tis my roots. My fallback. It has its place in the grand scheme of creativity.

Poetry, fiction, and song lyrics: they group together off to one side; the dimly-lit room in the house of writing. The artistic side, where sad people can find other sad people, and be inspired by the sadness, and who can cry loudest, or maybe softest. Prettiest. It’s all very nice. [Talent required]

The other side, you'll find the nonfiction writers, the general blog writers ("Today I did this..."), the journalists, the wannabes.

And finally, somewhere inbetween, you'll find me. Self-loathing member of the McCourtin’ Memoiric crowd. The "I lived it, and made a gigantic mental note of it, but instead of writing it, I spent all summer sleepwalking through life, just being quiet, sometimes talking too much, jumping from one project to another without ever finishing. Falling in love with men who don’t love me. Or can’t love me. Or won't. Getting drunk, and reading blogs, and not writing the emails I wanted to write. Having no time for the people who deserve the time, and plenty of time for a few that did, and quite a few who probably didn’t. And all the while, remembering the stories. The days I lived. The mornings I awoke after all. And thought, Yes, today’s the day. I’ll get out of bed. I have reason to. I have a child to love and stories to write. Though I didn’t write the stories...I made the mental notes: giant post-it’s all stuck about my brain. And it’s time. Time to shut my eyes, and let the notes and the blank page consummate, and at the end of the day, I’ll say, I'm not sure I want to be alive, but I'm tired of trying to die."

So much for not rhyming...

I have a lot to live for, and relearn.

Photos w/ Beta

Curious as to how photos look on a beta blog...if they upload any quicker.

I use Picasa for my photoblog, but apparently I can't upload from there to here. Surely there's a way around that...posting from my gmail instead of using the Blogger button.

Anyway.

I took these last night...Plucking roses. All lost in summery love.

The Beta Club

My real self, A. B. Chairiet, was delighted to see the Switch to Beta Version info box on my Blogger Dashboard yesterday.

I wanted to convert immediately. But, was busy...and now here I am: drinking coffee at five am. A bit apprehensive about making the ol' switch.

I tried to do so with a fake self I keep on the side...used only for testing out/building templates, and other such geeky hobbies I keep in secret from the readers and onlookers of my writing and photo blogs.

I was sad to find that my fake-plastic secret geek-self was unable to convert her blog to Beta...she was not invited. I'm not worthy...

I guess she simply hasn't been around long enough. Or didn't have an actual blog as of yesterday. (I delete it, rebuild it...etc.)

But yes, A. B. Chairiet...she was worthy. Had the prestigious option of switching all her many dead blogs and one single active blog over to beta...and she thought about it I assure you.

I was scared.

Didn't want to upset the deadblogs, or especially the living one.

I, instead, used my gmail account to start an all new blog.

And yes, invitation/prior-and-worthy existence or not, anyone, apparently, can go to beta.blogger.com and start anew. A new account, a new profile, a new name and beta blog.

How fun.