Oz was Lovely

Sunny Sunday, the day after the storms

It's Wednesday night/Thursday morning. I haven't been online in three whole days. Five since I last posted. Tornadoes, right? Well, thankfully that didn't quite happen. We had a few rough storms Saturday night. Wind, lightening, and extremely heavy rain, but nothing worth staying up for. I went onto bed and slept til morning. Cleaned house all day. Got drunk Sunday night. Worked on a short story. Read two blogs and wrote three pieces. Finally passed out for a few hours.

Woke up Monday and worked: I don't remember it though. I love to be hungover on Mondays! It makes it all the more forgettable. Though I do remember one thing from Monday...I finished the short story!! Out of the ten I was to write, only two were fiction, and one was actually already done from the summer: it just desperately needed a rewrite. So yes. The BIG fictional short story, the one I started from scratch is finished, and I'm happy with it. I really am. I think I'll let it "breathe" a bit, then edit, fluff, revise it. But once I'm finished-finished, and have received permission from the two fellow Bloggers I used as characters, I think I'll post it. Or try to have it published. Sure...why not. I've got to start sometime.

Monday night, after getting Baby Girl to bed, I celebrated the finishing of the big short-story by finishing off the big bottle of rum. Yes, got drunk again. Watched Bridget Jones Diary again. Stripped down to my underwear and stretched out on the couch. Wrote a bit of drunken nonsense by hand.

I went to bed and passed out til Tuesday. Had a nightmare. Woke up smiling. Decided to turn my nightmare into my next short story. I think I'll keep going, one after another, til November comes. That's the trick, right? You finish one. You get high off your own achievement. Action leads to inspiration; inspiration rarely leads to action (tis a famous quote, I think). Had busy days both Tuesday and Wednesday. Slept inbetween.

I stayed up last night (a few hours ago) taking pictures and watching Sabrina. Took a shower. Washed my hair. Felt restless for the lack of writing. Thought I'd come in here, and settle in with some hot coffee and prose. Wanted to check my email first. Post a piece or two, maybe some pictures. Of course read blogs and see friends and say hi. (I'll have to wait til Friday or the weekend, though: I'm about to fall asleep and I wish I wasn't. I miss people.)

But no, not a single tornado. Life is actually all right. Been taking long walks every day, as always, but the air is so much nicer now. Thinner. Less steam makes it easier to breathe. Less humidity. I'm loving the cool breeze. The dandelion seeds all dancing on the wind, falling like snow. The trees getting ready to change colors. It's all so romantic. I feel so creative! If only I had more time...October's almost here, and I'll be twenty-three. I want to find some balance before starting my new year.

Last night with Bogart

I'll be here writing, and hopefully all caught up within a few days to come. I hope everyone in the world is sleeping, having sweet dreams. Or nightmares, should they inspire you.

I hope September has a happy ending after all.

Poetry Thursday: Ash can't read good

Three Year Old Me with "Soft dog" and ugly shoes

I'm starting to think I'm not exactly cut out for this Poetry Thursday crowd.

This week, they’re writing something about, um, "synaesthesia"? I can't pronounce that. Can't read it or spell it. I can't for the life of me figure out what the hell it is! "Synaesthesia." Sounds made-up to me...

Something about a feast, or a dinner party? As if I go to dinner parties...I eat dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets with a two year old! I'm lucky if I have a bit of conversation in the process. Usually something along the lines of, Don't throw your corndog on the floor. Yes, you can have the rest of mommy's mayonnaise sandwich. No, I don't want to "blah blah" my plate. (Sigh)

I'll make something else up, though, just for the sake of continued participation. God knows I'm not doing too well with the whole Sunday Scribblings thing. I've been writing for 'em, just not posting. No time for editing these days, but Poetry and editing don't mix anyway, so here goes nothing.

For the kids who can't read good...

Almost October

I walk into a life
Where I'm not wanted
She's not ready
For another child
I'm supposed to be a boy
That's what they told her
And here I am
Another daughter
For a father
Who's never home

I'll be the son I was meant to
Where blue carpet fills my room
Blue curtains
I'll go shirtless
And fishing
Take long rides in his GTO
I'll never be the girl they never wanted
The boy
The son
The disappointment of October

I'll keep going til they're happy I was born

Out of Season

Several tornadoes touched down here in Arkansas yesterday.

Baby Girl and I went out walking, and the wind just wouldn't let go. It's all I could hear. That, and Baby Girl's cries. The wind was so fast, it scared her.

She pushed me down in the middle of the road, all dirty with bits of gravel stuck to my skin. And although I had spent much of the day crying myself, so worried of the oncoming storms and the mistakes that I have made here lately, I smiled, and held her close. It's exactly what we needed...

Each other.

I hugged her, and told her Baby, it's okay.

I patted her back, and played with her hair, and grabbed her little hands and danced her on my tummy.

She smiled, and the wind blew something fierce, howling down our dirtroad, through our trees and the flowers growing all along side of where we walk with blue skies, massive white clouds and a heartless white sun above us.

She climbed from my tummy. Crawled to my feet. Took off my shoes, and beat me with 'em.

I laughed, and she laughed, and finally put 'em back.

She helped me find my feet.

...

It stormed something horrible after we got home, though lucky for us, not down here. It stayed up in the Northern counties. Warning after warning, moved through the same exact region. Eight tornadoes in all, though I think only four touched down. Causing massive amounts of damage, and one person lost their life.

I'm surprised I didn't stay up to watch the sky. To make sure it stayed up north, though tonight looks to be our night. And seeing this, I decided, Best to sleep while you can, and stay up all night tomorrow...which, of course, is now tonight. So I'll be here. And that'll be fun. I'll write and write, and hopefully evict Fiction from my mind. Get those stories wrapped up, and ready to post.

I'm ready to get back into my nonfiction side. Do whatever I can to make things right, for all the mistakes that I have made.

My child, I've got to keep smiling..I try so hard to bring her comfort in such scary times, though I am scared myself.

I called my mother last night. Invited her to come play with Baby Girl. I get too distracted by the weather. I zone out and pray and cry and think, and plan our possible escape, while Baby Girl's playing, and Oops! she's falling. Crying. Ash, God! you stupid jackass, why weren't you watching her?!

Sometimes it's too much for me to handle alone.

Seeking shelter from this storm, and the wind that blows where nobody knows, I lose sleep and composure, and I can't be weak...I don't know what this day and night might bring. Hopefully just the writing, the eviction, time by my side, happy people smiling, and no tornadoes for any counties of any state, for the comfort of a scared mommy who can't stop watching.

For the child who's watching me.

...

Friday in Photos:

Baby Girl, flying her "grass kite".

Baby Girl and I hugging in the middle of the road. And no, I don't normally take photographical advantage of our special little moments, but this one lasted so long, I thought Well, why not. Maybe it's during those special moments I should take advantage...

Baby Girl, after puttting my shoes back on me: laughing, happy. Thank God.

Poetry Thursday: The Real Me, If I Could Make a Killing...

Tis Friday now, but being late is nothing new for me and you, and how are you? Great, I hope! I'm at an all time low. That's to be expected when you invite an unruly guest into your house. You wanted him there, and he's sleeping on the sofa, eating all your food, blowing out the breakers (oh wait, that was me and the lightening) and generally just making a mess of everything.

His name is Fiction. And while he's tearing apart things in my mind, crashing my nonfiction side, he's still welcomed in my head, though I have a feeling he's about to outstay that welcome.

I know all about that: I constantly outstay my welcomes, and generally make a mess of everything.

Speaking of me...

I'm supposed to be the real me this week for Poetry Thursday. Not Bogart, or McCourt, or anyone inbetween. But I don't like the real me. I don't think she's very smart. Compulsively honest and open to a loathsome degree. She has a dark side she's numb to. She rhymes. She writes bad poetry...

I wrote this on July 12th while heavily listening to Neutral Milk Hotel's The Aeroplane Over the Sea, watching lots of CNN, and contemplating the sad state of everyone inbetween.

Green Ground

We meet on the field where bombs surround
Shining silver
Breaks the green ground

The people are toppled
The ever shrinking crowd
Of eyes, waiting, watching
Cowering down

We make love on the field where bombs surround
Sole survivors
Man the green ground

The people are sleeping
The now silenced crowd
Of fully clothed corpses
Cowering down

We come on the field where bombs surround
Screaming soldiers
Ignite the green ground

The people are burning
As we sigh soft sounds
Of two lovers dieing
Cowering down

Clap Your Hands Say Anything...

Think happy thoughts of Ash sitting at her desk, in a green silk nightgown, drinking rum, coffee, water, yes all three, listening to something loud and fast, dancing in her seat while a storm rages out yonder window.

My power went out earlier, due to the lightning, thunder, and ridiculous amount of rain, but I shall be here all night, writing and blogging on and on until I'm A) sleepy, B) sober, C) no longer wild and wired like a seven year old child who just raided the sugar bowl for their dinner AND dessert.

News.

I have some good news, some cute news, and some very great news! Then I'll be on my merry little way, to write and read and possibly sleep, though the seven year old in me highly doubts it.

Number One) Whatever the hell was wrong with me last week, I'm finally over it. YES. Over it times a million plus oceans and exclamation points infinity.

I'm sorry I got so down.

It happens.

I'm not made of stone. Not a man. Certainly not Bogart.

I'm a girl. And a bit of a silly one at that.

Number Two) Cute news: I bought Baby Girl’s Halloween costume!

She shall be...(drumroll please)...Tinkerbell this year!!


Yay. I absolutely love Halloween! It's my most favorite holiday, except for the Jesus ones...I'm forced to love them more.

But candy and costumes...I've bought mine as well.

It's a pair of fish-net thigh-highs I shall be wearing beneath a pair of blue jeans, with my three-inch black high-heels.

I'm going as a closet sex-kitten. A domestic daydreamer.

And nobody will know it but me...

And you! And yes, I'll take pictures of me and little Tink, and no, probably not in the same shot (wink-wink), and then after she's tucked into bed and I've raided her bucket o' treats, I'll turn back into a pumpkin...

Number Three) The Great News: I'm gearing up for another round of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) which begins November First at midnight.

I'm excited. Hell, I'm ecstatic! I'm already plottin' and plannin'...though in a very simplistic way. I'm only giving myself the title and the main metaphor.

No character names. No starting lines. No ending scenes.

I'm going to do this one right, by God. Do it from my heart if I have one.

Number Four) The News I forgot to mention, which is actually the most relevant at this time:

I'm currently in the midst of writing ten short stories.

Yes...Ten. And it feels wonderful!

The only catch of course is I'll have to continue being selfish AKA a bad friend for the next two weeks until I have my birthday and get depressed for feeling old and tired and be way too sad to write much of anything at all.

Then I'll be a wonderful friend! Blogging again.

Not that I'm going away or anything.

It just might mean a little less posting, a lot more writing. But a lot more writing leads to a lot more posting. It just takes a bit longer for me to do those short stories than it does to write a blog piece.

I'm feeling all antsy just sitting here talking about 'em, and not actually working on 'em, so why don't I change that?

Off to be creative, and silly, and only slightly drunk while sporadically checking the weather report.

Happy Monday times a million plus oceans infinity.

The House of Death Floats By

I need a second to catch my breath.

I came in early this morning to write about the most gorgeous dream I've had in years, if not the most gorgeous of my whole entire life. It was Heaven. Where I'd like to be forever and ever.

There's a clock ticking here in my ear. An antique clock my sister gave me, or maybe it's not antique, just looks antique. Fake-antique. Tick-tocking. It counts the seconds, and it's rattling through my office, with, each, and, every, single, word, little, tick, tocks...typing, ticking, tocking!

Driving me insane!!

I've been reading all morning, listening to something other than the clock; something else my sister gave me: a mix-tape AKA burnt CD she made just for me. It's full of sad bastard goodness.

She really gets me.

I can't get away from this tick-tocking, now tossed beneath my desk.

I have another full day today. Mind-numbing, lonely, busy.

I was reading...

I came to my friend Fil's blog, and he shook me up real good with his latest post, It's all Transitional.

Isn't it though.

I broke down in tears.

He's an amazing writer.

After that, I found some good news, but nothing's sinking in just yet. It hadn't rightly sunk in, the bad news, that is, and now all the news, good bad and inbetween, is just piling up on me...

I can't breathe.

I wanted to spend the rest of my morning writing letters. They're pilled up too because I'm a horrible friend. Extremely selfish. I want to be in touch and stay in touch with people who shouldn't like me.

Instead I posted photos...only to find that my photoblog had crashed, and it was the last straw to break my tired back, so I pulled out my copy of Huck Finn and read. Thanks to Fil for reminding me of rafts and rivers, all the greatness that Mark Twain gave us, and the dream:

"Oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does tire a body like everything sometimes. But this one was a staying dream;"

..."we would pull through and get out of the fog and into the big clear river..."

That's what I want.

A clear river.

A staying dream.

I'm off to be busy, lonely, numb, and far from this emotion-driven piece of writing that is a waste of both our time. I thought it would cheer me up, be a release, but it's not and it didn't.

Let's forget it.

I'm throwing the clock downstream.

September Field

I dreamt I went walking through a field where the grass was tall, though not overgrown. The sky was blue, not light blue or dark blue, but pure blue and warm. The sun looked like a giant gold coin. Orange, and covered in tin foil. Full of chocolate, ready to melt to make night's darkness. I sat on the grass as the sun was setting and as it got lower in the sky, I thought I could touch it. I rose and walked towards it through the field. Wanting it so much. To unwrap it. To have it. It got hot though as I got closer. A fence running along all sides kept me from it, blocking me in, though I didn't want to leave. A wooden fence, unpainted, forming a square around the field, though I couldn't tell where the fence ended or began. Where the gate was. I wasn't looking for it though. I was fixated on that shining orange sun. Perfectly round, with rays stretched out into arms reaching for the clouds. Me reaching for it. The green reaching for blue. We were all reaching and shining 'til I fell in the grass and gave up. The grass bent down. The sun went down. The clouds stayed, floating above the fence. It kept on standing as the stars came out. One by one. Little lightening bugs flew around. Off and on. Flickering, though silent. The only sounds were those of crickets chirping and frogs croaking and locus humming in the trees. I didn't want to move. A cool breeze was exactly what I needed after the sun nearly burnt me, and never melted. Never gave way to the sweetness inside. I didn't mind. I simply remember the dream being peaceful, and beautiful, and so calm and natural as if it wasn't a dream at all. As if I went walking outside and got lost in the sky. The sun going away, again to rise, over and over, though the Moon shines too, and I forget that sometimes. I dreamt it, lying in bed, in the field, among tall grass, though not overgrown. I awoke with a smile. Thinking of clouds jumping fences, like little sheep I’m meant to count.

Poetry Thursday: I am not Myself

Yes, I'm late again on this. I had company on Thursday, and all was busy, albeit fun, in the little world of Ash and Baby Girl.

This week's theme at Poetry Thursday is to write a poem as if you were not yourself. Somebody else. Who am I? Who do I want to be?? It's all pretty obvious...I've had the same man in my head for a long time now, and it's about time I crawled into his.

What Dreams are Made Of
by H. D. Bogart

Tease me with the blonde whore
The money making machine
Throw me in another
Hard boiled mystery

They’d rather have James Cagney

I’m tired of being lonely
A drunken wife
To go home to
Not lights camera action

Behind the silver screen

It’s fading and I’m dieing
One last picture?
Sure why not
Filler up and play it, Sam
This may be it!
My Oscar

Nah, they'll snub me

I don't care
Give me gin
A pretty young thing
To tease me, test me
Keep me on my toes
And knock me off my feet

She’ll whistle in my ear

Read over scripts
Make films
A dream team on the screen
Coming true
Between the sheets

Or would she rather have James Cagney?

Put it in Writing

I made a promise once, to a friend, that I would write him a letter and pour my heart out.

I never did.

I wanted to, and there have been so many letters since, from people other than him...letters I received and never responded to...letters written by friends who were simply reaching out to me, being nice to me, warm to me, human.

I felt their touch and took their hand...only to let go.

I get scared.

I'm about the most scared little girl who isn't a little girl at all that you will ever meet, or not meet.

I'm real and I'm here...sure. We're all very aware of that fact. And it may seem so incredibly insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But who gives a good God damn about the grand scheme of things, for it is only a scheme.

I am more interested in dreams...

The grand dream of things.

What's real, and what isn't, and the line that divides...who can see it, but who wants to see it? It’s there. It's real and it's there. And Thank God, or thank no one...you don't have to be thankful at all, cause it won't go away. It's eternal. And ever-lasting. And just try to erase it! You'll fail.

That line is there for a reason.

It has to be divided, though not clearly, for reality and the dream life need to overflow into each other. It makes reality more bearable, more enjoyable, and our dreams more real.

I'm being awful lofty this morning...that's fine. My horoscope told me that my schedule has become busier than normal and to use the time I don't have wisely. That "if you allow yourself the luxury to explore your own feelings, then you can enrich the quality of your life. It's not that your job can't bring you satisfaction; it's just that by the end of the day, you may want to hide. Give yourself permission to do whatever suits your fancy."

Whatever suits my little fancy...do not hide...allow myself the luxury. The luxury of writing. Living.

Could this be any more perfect a horoscope?? It fits me exactly! And yes, I understand horoscopes are considered a bit kooky these days, but that's all right: I'm a bit kooky these days.

I'm allowing myself that luxury.

And for the life of me, I'm going to write.

I'm going to write, and write, and write. And yes, I want to hide...I want to die. I thought of ripping the cord just yesterday. But after hearing of the death of yet another friend. After reading the final words of the man I never wrote (he's been dead for some time, though only this morning, while checking old links, did I see his final words...and they shook me). And after the return of my wonderful friend Heidi. A woman who has stood by me since we lived in Stuckeyville...though won't we always live in Stuckeyville? Kooky, yes...or so it sounds...but she knows and I know...it's more than what it seems...and she's stood by me even though I've been a fair-weather friend, so distant for so long...I get scared. Adult relationships and friendships, I always think I'm not good enough. I don't know what that means exactly, but writing it down makes me feel better, and if reading it up can make you feel anything...well then my job here is done.

Though it's not done. I'm going to make a promise now.

I'm putting it in writing to make it official, for myself, and for you who care:

I, Ashley Brooke Chairiet, will not kill myself, online or off, ever again. I will not avoid my writing just because I don't like it. Just because it flips my tummy, and causes me such nervousness and anxiety...and when I get nervous and anxious, I will not tell myself, Oh Ashley, you selfish jackass, it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things...you don't matter! NO. I will never ever tell myself that again. I write. That's what I love, and why I'm here. And I'm not great at it, but I'm not horrible. Sometimes I might even be good. Most times I'm merely okay. And that's fine with me. I'm twenty-two, almost twenty-three: I've got time. Hopefully. And what else is there but hope? Hope and time and lives to lead. I'm going to lead it, and I'm going to spend the time living and then writing...I get to live it twice: once in reality, and again in the dream, on paper. Here's hoping I'll improve.

Putting it in writing...

This blog, Ash BC, will be here until I am thirty-seven years old...which...someone add this up for me? Is [Ashley biting her lip, trying desperately to do math, which she cannot do: she's honest-to-God numerically dyslexic. Tis why she loves words even more so: they never fail her. Numbers betray her] fourteen years! In a few weeks, I'll be twenty-three, and fourteen years later, when I turn thirty-seven, I'm going to start planning my great escape: once Baby Girl graduates, I'm going to sell everything and give her some money, and kiss her goodbye, and then I'm leaving...

I'm going to start all over. A whole new life! And I'll be whoever I want to be, and do whatever I want to do wherever I want to do it with whomever I choose.

Just try and stop me.

Or please don't.

I'll be here until then. I'm all yours if you want me. Me and Baby Girl. So many of you have become like godparents to her. You're helping me raise her, or, at least watching her grow up...she's yours too if you want her. You can have us both!

Until we start anew...but that’s not for fourteen years.

I promise to not kill myself, online or off.
I promise to quit hiding when I'm depressed.
I promise to write.
Whatever I want to write.
Whenever I want to write it.
And try my hardest not to hate it, or myself.
Please don't hate me either. That's my biggest fear.
I promise to quit being so scared.
I promise to keep these promises, and never let this blog die.

I choose life.

...

End Note: This was somewhat inspired by recent events (for those who know...or just in case you're wondering)...five friends dieing. And yes, just this very morning, I read one of those friend’s final words. He mentioned a post I did about final words*...

It touched me that he remembered. And the fact that I could go back to a blog that is supposed to be dead, but to me at least, still feels warm, and read and be touched by his words touching me about my words touching him...the words he read that are still written on my deadblog that also still feels warm.

That's what it means to be real and here:

We're in this together. Both online and off.

...

*Shelf-life


"It's in the post."

9/11: Sunrise

Barely started reading the blogs of others when sleepiness found me...I'm struggling to keep my eyes on the screen.

I'm off to catch a short nap before my child wakes up, and then it'll be cold water on my face and a nice big cup of coffee for Mommy. A day of playtime. Today and tomorrow, my schedule is clear. No work...I was supposed to be driving northward to Nashville for the Sufjan Stevens concert tonight, but that fell through, and yes, I'm severely depressed over it. [See? Sufjan is too.]

Full story on that later this week, along with the epiphany, some great news, a fun night, and a few bad nights too.

I'm sorry I've been so out of touch here recently. I was really busy last week. Barely got online. And tonight and this morning, I REALLY felt like writing, so yes, I've been totally selfish again. I just can't balance my time. Please hate me. I hate myself.

But I do like you, and miss you, so I'll try hard to catch up and soon. I'm sorry I haven't been a very good friend. Please kiss me goodnight now, though: I'm off to bed. To sleep quickly and dream of Sufjan who will have to somehow go on stage without me staring up at him, smiling, wishing to God he'd take me backstage and let me hold his banjo...

I hope we all have a great day!

9/11: Morning

After writing my make-up pieces for Thursday and Sunday, I put on some loud music and danced around the office here in a blue silk dress while posting photos of roses, standing up. My legs hurt from sitting all night, and the dancing and standing helped.

But then my eyes hurt, too, so I wandered into the living room to stretch out on the buttery goodness that is my fake-suede couch.

I watched part of a movie on Cinamax.

Around five, I wandered back.

Dug through the office closet for an old suitcase full of diaries, and found this:

9-11-01
10:27 pm

I'm really scared. America was attacked today...this morning, two planes crashed into the World Trade Center and another into the Pentagon. Whether it was just terrorism, or if it is the end of the world or the beginning of a war...I'm truly scared. I don't know what to think or feel. This is my generation's wake-up call...our great historical moment. I need to get my stuff together, as far as religion goes...you never know.

"We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; struck down, but not destroyed...so we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."

~ 2 Corinthians 4

Love Always,
Ashley

Followed by little curvy lines and hearts and other sickening decorations found most often in a seventeen year old's diary. But there you go. Piece of writing from that day itself. Five years ago today. It seems like longer, yet it seems like yesterday. I don’t want to put any more emphasis on it though. I realize the world is currently, still, and always, being ripped apart at the seams.

9/11: Midnight

I did this once (or many times, in secret) at the deadblog, and it was a lot of fun: staying up all night, blogging off and on. Really helped me feel less alone. Less worried and less sad. Not at all concerned for the fact of how little to no sleep may affect me negatively...hell, there's no tomorrow when you’re scared at twelve-thirty in the morning, somewhere in the dark between Sunday and Monday. September tenth and September eleventh.

Has it really been five years??

I was a senior in high school. Seventeen years old. Sitting in the back of history class next to my ex-boyfriend, A, who was in love with my best friend, M. We got along great, though, his best friend, C, was my other ex-boyfriend who had also dated my best friend, M, the year I dated A. (And if you followed all that...here's a cookie.)

We're acting silly, gossiping, our usual routine, when a few of our classmates walk in looking scared.

What's wrong? I ask E, the short guy who sits on the front row, makes bad grades, smokes weed.

He shakes his head, and says, Man, I can't believe it.

We have no idea what he's talking about. Then others come in, some crying, the teacher is running around looking for the TV. Where's the TV?! he says. Over and over. Someone points to the back of the room where a dust covered TV is waiting on a cart in the corner. He climbs over the desk and pushes it to the front of the room. Plugs it in. Adjusting the rabbit ears, he says he can't believe it.

We're still laughing, still in the dark. What can't ya'll believe? I ask E.

Those planes crashing through those towers, he says.

I have no idea...and then I see it. The TV. The news. The smoke rising and buildings falling. People talking. You never see the anchors looking as scared as the people watching, but we're all scared now: the anchors on the news, and the kids in my class, and the teacher standing there, frozen.

I whisper, What is that??

E says, Those twin towers.

We all get quiet. The bell rings. The teacher just turns and makes sure we're sitting, and goes right back to watching TV. We sit there the entire second period just watching it...we had no idea in first period; we sat and typed fake documents in the computer lab. But the people in Physics, they knew. Our science teacher keeps his TV and computer on at all times, and I was in Physics but quit. It was too hard, too much math. I don't know how E's passing it: he's an idiot. An idiot with all the answers...

When did this start??

Right after eight.

Who's doing it??

We don't know.

Those poor people...

For real.

The bell rings and we all walk through the hallway in a daze. Everyone's talking about it. Planes, crashes, war, death. We watch TV all day. We can't keep our eyes off it.

At the end of the last class, I walk to my car and light a cigarette, and no I don't care if any teacher sees me. If anyone sees me! I need it. I breathe it in and put it out before I ever start my car. I sit and watch the buses leave. I let everyone else go ahead of me. I light another and wait.

I drive to the cemetery. It's all I can think of...people resting in the ground, completely unaware of what's going on up here.

I walk through the headstones envious. I go to his grave and sit down and say Hi. The boy I sat next to in one of my classes. I had the biggest crush on him, and he died in a car crash. I saw his body lying on the side of the road. I was completely unreachable for days.

I lay upon his grave and stare at the sky. There's no planes, and thank God for that. Just quiet and blue. Such a pretty day for such an ugly thing. A horrible thing! Those poor people, in the buildings, on the planes. In the graves beneath me. I feel trapped now. If I don't rise from this grave and get back to my car, I might miss something. What's going on in the world?? I need a TV. Someone living to tell me. I need to stay up and keep watch.

Never Say Never

"What is it that you never ever thought you would write?"

That's the Sunday Scribblings theme o' the week, and no, it's not Sunday. It's Monday, September Eleventh. But for the sake of my newfound want and/or need to "take to the woods and live deliberately", I'm gonna write it now while eating a bowl of Cookie Crisp with a white plastic spoon. Yummy.

What I Thought I Would Never Write
by A. B. Chairiet

(See? Now it's official...Let‘s do this train of thought style, shall we? Yes, she says, as the soy-milk runs down her chin.)

I never thought I would be one of them. One of those internet geeks. People who spend so much time online, and for what? For the connection? The chat rooms? The pornography??

I never thought I'd be one of them, staying up all night, instant messaging total strangers at the age of fifteen, talking to men God-knows-what-age, and they're asking me to do what to my where with a hairbrush?? What now?! You've got to be kidding me!!

I was completely blown away at how perverse it all was. At how bazaar.

Yet how delightful it was to sit at a desk and type and say Yes, I'm doing that, though actually I wasn't. I was sitting with my girlfriends, and we're laughing at him, this pathetic stranger and why is he online??

Why are any of us online??

I'm glad I'm past the days of men asking me to stick certain things in certain places. The internet isn't a place for young girls. The older you get, though, the less and less men bug you. The more they actually want to talk to you. Connect with you. Write letters. Be involved.

Though eventually the sex comes back into play, and that's all well and good. I'm not anti-sex. The internet is here for millions of people for millions of reasons, and if you want to have a bit of fun while you're at it, then go right ahead. Just don't ask some fifteen year old to do dirty things to herself for your own personal entertainment. That's illegal, bad, and wrong.

I did the chat-rooms. I "faked" cyber-sex. Listened to free music via Napster. Talked to boys I actually knew via ICQ. I wrote emails. I shopped.

Years passed, and once I graduated from high school, I left the internet behind for a while. Until the age of twenty-two, I was almost completely offline.

In the beginning of 2005, I returned to the internet to find it in much better shape. Many changes took place: I used Google instead of AltaVista. I didn't do the chatrooms or ICQ at all. Nor did I go back to Napster. It wasn't free anymore. Where was I to get music? Make connections??

I never found a place for free music (not until recently, that is), though I did find the connection...in a little place called Stuckeyville. An online town, a fan-site if you will, for a television show I was obsessed with: Ed.

I needed that show and my obsession to distract me from my postpartum depression. And because of that need, because of my mind being so fixated in that place...that Ed-like place where it was all so nice and squeaky clean versus my reality that was full of the cries of a colicky baby...what happened next was inevitable:

I began writing again.

I wrote what I never thought I would write. What I didn't even know existed. A blog! My God, a blog. Yes!! What a wonderful idea...I'll write pieces, cover the show, tie in the events of my own life, and there you have it:

A blogger was born.

I never thought I would write a blog, be one of them, but I was and I did. Night after night, for five months, I wrote that blog 'til I finally felt the need to break away from the show and only write about myself. Tis the deadblog: the place where I truly learned how to write. And I had been writing since the age of four, though I quit when I got pregnant. I was too depressed. And it's funny how that's what lead me back.

I'm still writing.

I'm writing here now. The deadblog died, and then I killed it, though not for the lack of loving it, or all that came with it...

Inbetween the starting of the Stuckey-blog and the deadblog, and the ending of the deadblog and the starting of this one, I've met so many great people, and read so many great things, and wrote so many pieces and letters, that it makes my head spin just thinking of it all. I'm grateful. It's a once in an online-lifetime experience I'd never take back or trade for anything. It's taught me so much not only about writing, but about myself.

Who I really am.

I never thought I'd be one of them, those internet geeks who are here for what reason, we'll never know for sure, but it isn't all hairbrushes and sad lonely men. It's real people, really living and writing and connecting. I'm glad I wrote what I never thought I'd write:

This blog.

Poetry Thursday: Am I Blue

It's not actually Poetry Thursday at all. It's Monday, September Eleventh. So I'm just now posting this...I was too busy, and not online.

The theme for this/that week is/was to write about the color blue.

To let it inspire you...

I'm actually much more inspired by the color green, but for the sake and spirit of Poetry Thursday, I closed my eyes, and saw fiction. Bad fiction, but here it is:

Baby Blue

You wake me in morning
running your hand
along the painted wall
made of wooden planks
each touched by the sun
shining through the open window
a cool breeze blowing past us
with light bathing the soft blue gloss
to shine like a front porch on the seaside
where lovers swing

Outside the window
the ocean sings to me
a sad song to amplify my memories
I rise from the bed
tied up in a gown of our green sheet
you smile at me
and take a step further
through the shadows near the baseboards
tip-toeing on hardwood floors
where footsteps once pitter-pattered

They faded so suddenly
the accident
our child running to the door
tearing the screen
to the beach, he walked
to find blue-green
the frame opening, slamming
thanks to the wind
screaming, "You’re child is gone!"
where forever, he’ll swim

The waves wash the sand
and it never gets cleaner, but it never stops trying
You place your hands on my cheek
To stop me from crying
to wipe away pain
you laugh at me
for ending up here again
here in his room, in his tiny bed
all surrounded by blue
where the sunlight creeps in

Labor of Love Day

I had an epiphany of brilliant proportions last night!

I'll share it later...

Just saying Happy Holiday. No matter how fake it is, I do hope you enjoy it.

I've been here for a few hours now. Been writing and reading constantly.

I miss people!

I've been so God damn selfish here lately....

I’m over it now though: my little "Summer of noveling" and “Return to blogging" selfish phases.

Please forgive me.

I'm going to write AND read AND be a better friend (or whatever you want from me) soon and ever after.

Real writing will commence...letters too.

Baby Girl's going to the others today, so I think I'll take a drive and take pictures and do nothing for no one but myself. One last day of selfishness. It’s finally cooling down outside. A nice constant breeze: I want to walk in it alone. I want to sing aloud with the radio, and forget all about my fussy child. My recent lack of prose. I need to push myself harder, and I will.

As soon as labor day is gone.

What my Fortune Cookie Says...

So you've cracked me open and pulled out my insides. Good job, right from the start. Maybe you're not so stupid after all.

I suppose you're going to want to eat me after this? May I recommend that you don't. I was made in a warehouse full of germs and filthy hands, stuffed with this message written by a man in touch with the great beyond. It was dictated to him by some unseen power while he sipped coffee, smoked cigarette after cigarette, never once stopping to realize that this dictation was even taking place. But it did: he wrote the message, sent it to the warehouse. They printed it on the tiny white paper you're holding here now in your own filthy hands, along with me, or what remains, to soon be eaten, germs and all.

Did you enjoy your meal, by the way??

I'd hate to know what animal you just ate. I guess I'll find out soon. I'll ask while I'm down there. Hey General Tso, Who are you really, and what were you before? What did you do and what did you think?

Ha! You like Bogart? He's a big hit up there in the great beyond. They all get drunk and dictate messages to hack writers so people like you can have a smile at the end of their questionable meal.

You are going to read it now, aren't you? You want me to read it? Do you even know how to read??

Blink twice if you do, or how 'bout I just save you the energy: eating a pile of over-sauced "chicken" must have been so exhausting for you.

Let's get this over with...

Beneath men, you light fires that burn out and leave ash.

Try staying on top, instead.

I wish I had an English Accent

I've been talking too much about myself here lately. Thursday morning, the last time I was here, I went on and on and on about myself, and now I feel like a self-centered jackass.

I really hate myself. Feel free to hate me too.

"I know you don't love me. And that's fine."

Ha...I'm quoting myself now. Tis from my fiction.

Mmmm...Fiction.

My current story is about me and Jesus lounging and drinking on the beach.

Is that blasphemous, you think?

I hope not. I try to keep my religion out of my writing. But I do keep myself in my writing, and religion is a part of me.

I think I've used the word "myself" one too many times...

Wow. Five times.

That's five times too many, Ash, you self-centered Jackass! And you are sick, aren't you?? What the hell are you doing here, anyway?!

I'm feeling a million times better already, self-conscious. The prescription was sent to the pharmacy Thursday morning (more on that later, once I'm in the mood to "prose it up a bit" and McCourt it).

Speaking of moods, I've got an idea for a series here...something totally silly and frivolous for when Sex-kitten Ash gets lonely this Fall and Winter.

I'm quite lonely now...

I watched Bridget Jones’s Diary last night, so all I can think of is Hugh Grant and Colin Firth, running through snow-covered streets in my underwear, smoking, drinking, and Renee Zellweger in that adorable black bunny suit.


God, I love Colin Firth. I'm so glad the film ended the way it did. I cried, and pretended it was me he was kissing and not that squinty-eyed Zellweger (no matter how cute she looked in the aforementioned bunny suit).

I have a bunny suit too, Mr. Firth. Come see it sometime, won't you?