Ash BC

Let's get out of this country...

2007-06-18T02:56:00.000-05:00

"Tell me you love me. I'll live on it the rest of my life."

Simply making my vacation official.

Take care, and Happy Summer!

Love always,
~ Ash

From Way Up Here, The Plotholes Fill

2007-06-09T02:30:00.000-05:00

One afternoon, while driving south, I saw a black cow in the middle of the highway. I slammed on my brakes and swerved to miss it. It mooed, and galloped off on its way, completely unaffected. I caught my breath, and drove on up to the nearest driveway: a long dirt and curvy affair with a little white house to the left.

I climbed out the car, in a skirt and high heels, with a yapping dog at my feet, and an American flag all snapping in the harsh breeze. I asked the dog, Please don't bite me. And jumped from stone step to the next until I reached the glass door where the main door was open, and the lamp was on, and the TV was on, but it took a while for a woman to appear.

I told her of the cow; I know how expensive they are, and I'd hate for you to lose one, not to mention if someone were to actually hit it like I almost did.

She said she'd tell the farmer, the man in the house down the road...I thanked her, and left...down to College Town. The library on campus. On the second floor, in the alcove, I became bored with Flannery O'Conner and all the southern prose you can stomach. I went in search of less green pastures; sex, and plenty of it.

O' Henry Miller. I remember the reference in Seinfeld, and I've seen that movie, Henry and June: the first ever to be rated NC17. How delightful. I took Tropic of Capricorn back to my seat, where I draped my legs across the arms, and just-shaved knees...smooth legs rubbed together...but you can't rub your legs together, or up and under, in public. In libraries where the elevator dings, and fat girls keep walking by to use the water fountain. How I wish I had a man to lie on top of me...I keep reading. Don't sit down. Keep moving.

I just want to feel breath on my shoulder, and hands on my skin...

Down the stairs, I'm floating in a new world that's blue, and tongue in cheek, and trainofthoughtish, out of my head, into my body...all warm and flushed. Nearly sweating.

I can't swallow. I'm shaking...

Out the glass doors, I see a boy walking by. Blonde hair, and tall. I whistle. He turns around, and takes me into his arms...his t-shirt's been bleached. And he's wearing shorts. Rough legs against smooth...he looks me up and down, and asks, How long will you be in town?

Just for the afternoon.

He says he has class...climbs the stairs...and that's all this place is: glass windows and stairs and white, bleach, tile floors, air conditioners humming. And he says in one quick breath, Great to see you, be careful, I love you.

And the sight of our first kiss comes back to me as I float down the sidewalk in the ever softening breeze.

Weeks later, and I'm driving back down...seeing crosses, finding bridges; relieved that the legal troubles have ended only hours before. How strange. The two things that depressed me in April, the boy who died on Easter morning, and the cop who knocked on my door, both pulling me from my mind, and dropping me down into reality like dropping a deadman with his feet in cement down into the darkest river, at the deepest point...the tiny creatures I couldn't see gnawed at my feet for weeks until I finally swam up, and here I am, gasping for air, and dying my hair, only to re-dye it...

I wait another week, due to sickness, mine and Baby Girl's, to go out and take the pictures...to enjoy a couple of offdays...then it's off to Little Chicago to buy that box of haircolor. I'm not fit to be a blonde. I don't like the attention it's garnered...younger men, more thugs, all giggling, and I'm showing too much cleavage...it makes me look cheap, and I feel ugly. I'm not sexy. Don't sit down...

Bot climbs onto a bottom shelf, and the person who caused my legal problems...unless I caused them, though I blame the otherworldly...is walking by. Of all people! And this person speaks to Bot and me, and my God, this person doesn't realize...my locks have rendered me unrecognizable!

I feel embarrassed though...too much cleavage, and the older men aren't looking. And this person keeps showing up, on every other aisle. I devise a plan to escape this routine by backtracking two aisles, but there is this person again! Asking me, Do you know where I can find the Cheese Wiz?

I make a rush to the checkout. Gotta leave this place, and this hair, and the trouble I've been cleared of...the fall that was taken, and the cross on the pole, and the albatross of 'em both, I've cut free. I don't want to be reminded...

On the drive home, the sun has set, and the sky looks like someone's just put out a cigarette in a windowless room. The way the thick clouds loom...I feel something working it's way through my veins. It's bringing me down, as I button my shirt. My breast-implanted-esque chest, and all the trouble it brings. This hair. The child in the backseat. She'll have to do without me tomorrow...I need to rearrange.

I finally come down with it completely by Sunday. An infection... and all that I had at age fifteen...throwing up, begging Mom to help me. She says no, and tells me to clean it up. While I'm still throwing...I never had help, and I'll never have help, and it's always me. On my shoulders. Take care of yourself, and everyone else, and I feel like screaming as the days slip by me from my place on the couch.

I can't move. I'm banned from the bedroom...I'm tired of washing the sheets.

I watch TV. I'm motionless, in every sense...the box of haircolor still unused.

By Wednesday, I feel better. I write a two thousand dollar check, and all is well.

I go out by myself...my day of the week where I am free of Bot...and free of sickness, and rain: two things that have hindered my offdays for months now.

I have a wonderful time, and it's nice to think clearly, without pain, or worry.

At midnight, I start a novel.

I dig a hole to lie in, though, for someone who no longer wants to know me. And now I feel like I've grown six inches in my sleep. Nothing fits me. I'm tall, like Alice eating the Eat Me's. And I'll soon be crashing through the roof with shaking hands. The silence distracts me...its vicious plan.

I WILL write this novel. As sure as my hair is dyed bright red. Yesterday, with gloved hands...to make tropical fruit drip down my strands...the pinkish orange...I said I was bored with the black, and that's why I dyed it in the first place. So if nothing else, I'm definitely not bored now...at least it's unique.

And now it's tonight; Two AM. I'm up and wired...ready to write...wringing my hands. While walking through the living room an hour ago, I heard voices outside...I turned on the porchlight, and heard a girl say, Oh S---!

I threw open the door, and saw them duck down in the driveway. I called, Who's there? They started running...I said, Hey! What the hell are you doing?

It was the Uncle's stepdaughter. The wild sixteen year old who calls back to me some flimsy excuse, and then starts running again...down to the end where a truck flies off, and then she goes running back up...all at One AM.

I don't understand.

It's too quiet in this room...the summer's only just began. Though I can't enjoy it. Too many bees are hiding alongside the road we walk...I took Bot out, despite the ever increasing amount of bees that hover about as we swat 'em away...and the other day, there were too many. I picked Bot up and started running. They buzzed in my face, and in my ears, and all around our bodies...my pants started to fall. An old pair from high school, but too big, and no belt...I put her down and told her to run for home. As I pulled up my pants, the second it took, the second I was still, a bee landed on my wrist, and for the first time in my life, I was stung.

I cried and ran, and once inside, I fell to the ground as Bot begged for a car ride. I washed the sight of the sting, and reluctantly obliged. Since we didn't enjoy our walk, and only out for such a short time...I fastened her into her seat, and drove uptown, in the dark, my speech became slurred...past the church, past the ballgame, the lights overhead, and the boy that used to play...how I sat in the bleachers to watch him...my heart he broke, and the sounds of the game echo up as my throat gets tighter...I can't swallow...I'm sweating...under the bridge now, and through the tunnel of trees, past the train...the lightening bugs, and the animals that dare to cross in the headlights...I slam on the brakes, and Baby Girl is crying. I'm slowly deflating. Short, quick breaths...and the sting on my wrist. Am I dieing?

Driving...in the steam, in the heat. A delayed reaction to the sting...and to June. It took a while to sink in. I'm ready for something new...to not be depressed. To not be in debt. To be free of the problems, and the death...and the blonde, and the bleach. And this blog I neglect. I want to spend my energy on the novel...to write it quickly. I just want to get it out of me...post pictures in the meantime, like I did last summer. I really loved that; just doing photos instead of whole entries. The only time I can find to write them is on restless nights when I'm wired, and waiting, in the holes that I dig.

Meet Blonde Ash

2007-05-30T20:21:00.001-05:00

If blonde is peroxide orange, then yes...Blonde. Ash Blonde...Ala James Bond!

I'm highly caffeinated and home alone. Bot's with the Others and I've already went out for a while. It started storming, so I'm in the office, in my pajamas...thought I'd get online. Though getting online for the fun of it during the daytime is slightly disorienting. But really, my house is clean, I don't need to cook, I can't go for a walk. Seems like the perfect way to spend an evening!

It's my day off...Did I mention that? I always assume the insipid details of my life are made known at some point or another, and I'd hate to repeat myself. But yes. Wednesdays are usually my off day, just as soon as I finish up work in the office...

I finished up today's work in a matter of minutes...Now I'm through for the month! Can spend all day tomorrow doing whatever I want; the only difference is, Bot will be here with me, so it'll still be business as usual, sans the actual business.

Noon. I take a bubble bath, then crawl into bed naked with a cup of coffee, and Henry Miller. We read for a while.

I dress and make up, and drive into Sticksville for a trip to the Post Office, and the Dollar Store where I chat with the checkout girl. We had shop class together in high school. Though she was always sweeping the floors, or doing the lowest of the Girl Work. I did the second level of Girl Work: cutting angle iron, or sanding wood. The top level of Girl Work was welding, and only the "responsible" girls were allowed to weld...I didn't care; I didn't want to weld. Though I didn't want to cut angle iron either. I'd show up to seventh period Algebra with stained black hands, and bleeding fingers, and holes burnt in my clothes and shoes. The smell of hot metal lingering in my hair...and yes, I'm shopping alone today. Just a box of cereal for the kid who isn't with me. She's been throwing a fit for Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

I leave the store, and drive south to a place I've been dieing to go back to since last week...when I was in a hurry to get my hair dyed, and buy medicine and get back home because Bot had just came down with fever...I saw a bridge I had never noticed, because I always turn left ten minutes before it...

With the storm clouds moving in, I speed to catch the sun, but sure enough, right as I drive down the steep embankment, the sky turns gray.

The bridge is huge, though, and there's still a sliver of blue from the way I came...I hop from the car, camera in hand, and start clicking...till I smell something awful, and hit something with my foot...a fishhead! I jump towards the car, and look around, and there's eight of 'em, all covered in flies.

I walk down the dock, and there's a man walking up. He's short and chubby, with a fishing pole over his shoulder, in a button down shirt and baseball cap. Scraggly mustache.

Takin' pictures of the river? he asks.

I tell him, I was trying to take pictures of that bridge, but the sun went away, and now it don't look good...

He smiles, hitches his boat and leaves.

I see a bunch of kids on the beach about a half a mile down...I sit on the dock to watch them swim, but get my ass soaking wet in the process.

I drive north, and stop at a gas station to buy lunch: a candy bar and an energy drink.

By the time I reach my road, all the blue is gone, the clouds are black, and it pours and lightning like God's mad at me. I cant see. Steam’s rising as I finish my drink.

Inside, dry, and dressed in pajamas...That's where you came in. ;)

A few more shots:

The Blue/White Sky

My Newfound Bridge

Mayday! I'm going down...

2007-05-28T01:46:00.000-05:00

I'm semi-blonde now. I'm sick now. I should be sleeping now.

Listening to music on my headphones now. Pain in my lower back now. Need to get in the floor, and drink more water now.

I need to stop using the word now.

I'm thirsty and tired, and frustrated...

It's Memorial Day, so I guess I'll do nothing later today but sit around and think of poor dead soldiers and be depressed. And hopefully get better...

Bot was sick last week; running a high fever, and throwing up, etc.

I finally caught it Saturday night, right after she finally got rid of it.

Yesterday was hell. Trying to keep her happy while I laid on the couch...I stayed on that couch so long, I feel restless now...like I should do something with myself. Why not write a blog entry?

Yes. I could do that...

The month of May kicked my ass. A long blurry month, where I was too busy to be anything but busy; busy times a million, to the rooftops, etc.

I can't tell you half of what I did, though, 'cause I don't rightly remember. So hence the blur. Like watching a movie so long, when it's finally over, you don't know what happened at the start, or who that guy was, or what it all means, and furthermore, you don't care. It's over, and that's all you were wanting...

I do remember writing here, a couple weeks ago, on the eve of another holiday...I couldn't sleep, and went to the sale only to be called 'stupid' a million times by my mom and sister. A couple of shallow bitches who like to bully me any chance they get. I ended up crying, and leaving at eight fifteen...driving like a zombie, I hit a bird with a thud, and it went flying to the road...Poor bird. What did it do to deserve it?

Mother's Day. I sent Bot to the Others and cleaned. That afternoon, she was back home with me, and my father came to see us. He called me stupid for being upset about being called stupid. Plus fat and lazy, etc. Always treat mother's extra special...except when people forget their daughters are mothers, and you can't talk to me that way, I'm an adult now. Not a child you can bully...all because I priced my stuff so much less than theirs. I just wanted it gone...and they always say we'll give what doesn't sale to charity, but they never do...they bag it all back up, my stuff included, and haul it back out to try and sale to poor people who need cheap used stuff, and I don't care if it's never been worn, or namebrand, and how fancy it is, I'm marking it a quarter. Everything's a quarter. Welcome to Ashley's magic table, an overturned cardboard box where baby clothes are All you can grab for ten bucks! 'cause I don't need the money anymore. I'm doing fine with money...paid off another credit card. I don't want to owe anybody nothing. I want to be free of all debt so I can concentrate on saving, and building, and living in the light of no cutoff notices, creditors calling, this is your final warning, we're terminating your account. You're ruining your chances...You're late on your loans...You missed another payment...Ash Chairiet, you're worthless! You're stupid for marking your stuff for so low: if yours is that low, no one will buy ours! And I don't care: they shouldn't mark theirs so high. So proud of all their wares, as if pariahs are begging at their knees for Tommy Hilfiger sweaters, only four dollars! Well...my, that's what every tailor-occupying, welfare recipient needs: a four dollar Tommy Hilfiger sweater from 1993.

But it's Tommy Hilfiger, Ashley! It's Calvin Kline...says the bunch of greedy monsters who've never been on welfare, and they don't know what it's like...to buy groceries with government checks I used to hide when my parents came over because I never told them I was on welfare. No one in my family knows.

I hid it well...those printed out checks, the free healthcare, the hospital, the delivery. All paid for.

If people need clothes for their kids, and I have a whole pile of clothes my kid has grown out of, and I can afford to buy her new clothes without the money from the old ones...then how is it stupid to sell those clothes for as little as I can without actually shouting Free?

I don't know...May flew by, and it rained a lot, and I got my hair dyed, and someone put a cross on the pole where the boy who always smiled was thrown from the car while sleep-driving, with a thud, and what did he do to deserve it? A cross made of wood, and it made the knots in my stomach re-tie.

I went to a festival, and ate a big corndog. I went shopping, and bought a fifty dollar Bogart-esque trench coat on sale for nine.

I watched a lot of The Twilight Zone. I didn't write. Didn't blog. Didn't keep up with the new blog I started for summer, and sex, and all things Henry Miller...For the new laptop, I thought I'd be here everyday, but it hasn't been the case...I was too busy. Too blurry. Getting my ass kicked. Watching TV, and feeling sorry for myself...the family who hates me, I can never seem to shake...

I walked outside today, and saw a dead bird by the steps. With a bag of trash in my hands, I leaned over to get a better look...a nondescript, brownish gray, and ants had eaten his eyes...poor bird. How strange the noise I heard only hours before in the kitchen...the thud against the tin, and what was that? I asked Baby Girl, as if she would know. I called my sister, and we talked, though we didn't mention their attack...You're wasting our time, Ash. Why are you even here?

I ask myself that...and then I go numb. I fall into the blur like giving into the current...though every time I try to climb out and dry off and rest for a while, I can't...I gave into that current, and now it's got me. It's busy, and demanding. Run errands. Buy groceries. Do your job, and don't complain. You're a robot. Don't feel...don't cry...just WORK and PROCESS. Start over the next day. Do everything yourself. Take care of a sick baby...check her temperature and freak out when it's too high, and put her in the tub with cool water, and give her more medicine, and when she refuses to take it, when she spits it out, you fall to your knees and scream on the living room rug and the last bit of your tiny black heart breaks and falls down into the cracks of the concrete of humanity, the foundation of life and all that is beating, to the basement below us, the floor of the bottom of the lowest place no man can touch, or will touch, for who wants his hands in the darkest abyss? Where little hearts break, and plummet....till they hit and splatter with a deafening thud.

And that's why people sleep

2007-05-12T04:18:00.000-05:00

It's almost three in the morning, and I haven't slept, though not for a lack of trying. I'm supposed to be waking up in two hours to go uptown and work all morning with my mom and sister, and I don't want to, but I don't have much choice. I could say, Puck you, I'm not coming, but then they wouldn't speak to me for a month...or I could pretend to be sick...I was slightly sick yesterday. A tooth is bothering me. As much as it pains me to say it, Dr. Hottie the Dentist may be nothing more than a pretty face. He has destroyed this tooth...filled it, but it's hurting...and it has been for the past three months but I dealt with it. No need to whine about everything, Ash. You whine too much.

I'm tired. May's gotten off to a busy blur of a start. I have Jimmy to do my writerly bidding, though there hasn't been a whole lot of that...just paragraphs here, a page or two there. I keep mixing the paint, but the second I set the brush to the wall, it's too wet...never dries. All dripping to the floor, and I kneel down in some short skirt and I'm all hanging out, and pulling at my clothes, and I can't get comfortable with this computer on my lap...like having a child for the first time and you're trying to balance the paint cans...and you go for the second coat, and your wrist hits the touchpad. You long for your mouse. You try and slide the baby's mouth onto your breast, and everyone's fumbling and tripping about, slipping in the paint you spilt. I'm too tired to clean it up. Too tired to paint the wall. Too tired to sit at a desk. Too distracted to feed my child a snack before bathtime last night, and while in the tub, she says, I'm hungry, and the guilt shoots straight to my overcrowded mind and my blank heart, and my body which feels like someone's covered it in veneer. It's not breathing, this body of mine. The pores are clogged. My skin is stiff, and I can no longer bend. I can't sweat, nor can I mend when cut by toys in the floor I should have picked up, but was too busy thinking of the lack of writing...the lack of blogging, the lack of sex, the lack of longing...and wanting to win a contest I'm not good enough to win, you big ol' whiny chicken. You don't deserve a laptop for writing. And my body's so filled with water and steam, I'm at the point of bursting. On the verge of explosion. Till I learn to rest, and paint, and feed, clean, take care of everyone's needs, and still have the energy for writing, my spontaneous combustion is only a matter of time.

I complain about not writing 'cause you can't paint a wall white if the wall is black. When I haven't been writing, my wall is the darkest black your well-rested mind can imagine. Meanwhile, I pull out those paint cans, and the white is just waiting...if I have been writing, then the wall has been stripped and primed, and I can live my real life without the distraction of sporadic nagging from my mental insides..."Ash, oh Ash...what about this for a title, and this for that, and characters and metaphors...better make a note, Ash. A to-do list. Blog entries. Emails. A short story. Why don't you edit? You'll never be nothing, you're a waste, and you whine...and whine...and sleep, no don't sleep! You're tired, but the insides of the insides of your mind want to write, and you'll be uptown in a few hours with people swarming about the unpainted tables covered with clothes that smell like the insides of an unpacked suitcase from a trip you took six months ago."

I need some sleep.

I need to relax.

I’m packed! Like I've been taking trips, and trips, and once I'm home, I'm gone again...a quick nap...no time to unpack...the clothes stay in and in, and there's no room for more until I finally empty everything out onto the floor...will you help me sort through it? You well-rested, smiling faces...happy families on weekends where daddies are home and mommies are resting, and all the planned-for children are lying on bunk beds well-fed.

I smell camp. So hence the bunk beds...the suitcase brought it back. Being away for a week up north, a vacation from my loud sleepless house...a week with Jesus, and Jesus fanatics. A week with singing, and praying, and cafeteria food so lousy, we ate Chips Ahoy! in our room...on bunk beds. On sleeping bags. Musty pillows. The concrete floors...at night, we stood in long lines with our eyes closed and the people on microphones would say over and over, Let Jesus in your heart, let Him in, He wants in...like some kid locked out of the house when his parents aren't home. He sits down on the sidewalk, and he waits till they drive up from work, and his stomach is growling, and what the hell are you doing on the porch, Jesus? Why aren't you inside, in this house, in your room, all alone? You don't need anyone, Jesus...you don't need happy, restful weekends...you don't need concrete floors...you don't even need to sleep at night, don't you know that, Jesus? You're insides are black with the lack of unpacking. Knock, knock...do you hear Him? He's starving at your door.

I can't sleep anymore...or avoid my writing. I'm not sure what the hell happened with that contest...It was the first thing I wanted in so long, and I swore I'd work my ass off to get it...really write with every word as loud and bright as it could get! But no...I backed down. I got distracted...I wanted something else.

I'm running out of steam. My paintjob is flimsy. The walls look like they've been painted with milk: all thin and watery.

Every day, I plan to set aside some time for myself, but after everything else I do, I'm exhausted by the time it's night, and the baby's in bed...and I'm in my own bed, and if I sleep till she wakes up, then it's right back into where we left off...over and over and over and over, and we never unpack, it seems. Just routine, schedule, work, chores, meals, baths, sleep...no sleep. If I'm lucky, a dream.

I don't want to go tomorrow...I've been so busy, I was hoping to stay home, and rest, and spend time with my child...and then at bedtime, I'd either go to bed and wake up early and write, or stay up late and write. Then sleep in.

I'm so off balance, encased in veneer...I'm suffocating here with my unpacked mind...I fed her muffins at bedtime while I read silly stories. The delay; my head returning to its rightful place. I took my own bath, and washed my hair, put away the laundry, and crawled into bed and read to myself, and then I just laid there...a child on a bunk bed, watching the milk dry. I smell expiration...no, I smell shampoo...it isn't black, it's white, it's black. It isn't night. It's morning. Hours until I go to work for the poor who will swarm, and Jesus he's knocking at nobody's door, because Jesus is sleeping. His people are sleeping. I got veneered with open eyes. Preserved in the state of constant waking. That moment when you don’t know where you are, or how long you’ve been gone. What did you dream? Was it real, was it sweet? Your eyes blink to focus on my tired routine.

I can't help but think...

2007-05-09T07:45:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, my friend Bee nominated me for a Thinking Blogger Award.

I meant to graciously accept this nomination/award ASAP, but you know me...never here.

Nomination/award, because there's no actual voting; Bee says I write a blog that makes her think, and that's all that matters (that she says it), which is fine by me, because I wouldn't want people voting on me for anything because I'm never here so I wouldn't deserve it. I'd lose, and that would make me sadder than if I was never voted on at all. But there is no voting. It's literally an honor to be nominated. Awarded, for making Bee think...

Bee makes ME think.

I think of how funny and sweet and clever she is. How amazing her blog is! What a great writer she is.

Thank you, Bee, for thinking of me. I'm glad I make you think. Assuming I still do... ;)

And assuming my nomination is still valid...I'm supposed to nominate five blogs that make ME think, but every blog I read makes me think. Otherwise, I wouldn't read it.

But for the sake of the award...

I nominate the following;

Five Blogs that Make Me Think:

Pogo a Go-Go

Everydaibh

The Rocketteer

And Before the First Kiss

Imitation of Life

I had it narrowed down to twelve, from which I chose four based solely on who in that twelve has made me think lately.

As for the fifth: that's Jemima. If I could have only chose one, it would be her.

If these five people are interested, GO HERE to read the details, and post your own five nominations. Be proud that you're a blogger worth reading! For the thoughts you give us, and the time you spend.

I call him Jimmy Stewart

2007-04-27T10:20:00.000-05:00

After months of listening to my old desktop computer rattle about, and watching it black out for no reason whatsoever, I finally decided it was time to invest in something better. New, and more convenient.

Drum roll please...

I bought a laptop!

Hooray!! Tis an understatement. I've been wanting one for years, but obviously, was too poor, which is fine. It's fun to wait until you can afford something. Not use a credit card. I could have bought it with cash. Not that I'm bragging, of course. My bank account is now practically empty, but all my bills are paid (even the pile of hospital, doctor, and dentist bills). I used the other half of my tax refund to completely pay off one credit card, and make quadrooople-size payments on all my others.

My only problem is, I know nothing about laptops. Am I supposed to keep it plugged up all the time or do I just charge the battery and then unplug it?? I have no idea...

I took it out of the box last night, and then went to bed after cutting my finger on a shard of glass hiding beneath my desk. Was too tired. Started setting it up this morning, and got frustrated...figured I better get online for the first time in forever and start catching up with everyone before I get all lap-top-ish...blogging and writing from the comforts of anywhere! Now just work will take place here in the office. At this desk I've grown to hate.

I'm really looking at this like writerly freedom. I'm not sure I'm still entering that contest I've been blabbing about...but I do have good news...great news! More, more, more...

While offline the past week and a half (or however long it was this time), I had a brilliant idea! Novel three...now I don't have to stumble into this tiny, hot office every morning and/or night to write it! Just lie in bed or on the couch, and write, write, write till my little heart's content. Which is never. So until my little head's content...when I'm published.

(Sigh)

Too much excitement (no matter how self-absorbed) for one morning when I'm actually running a fever and feeling quite sick.

I just wanted to throw out a lifeline. I'm here and alive. Baby Girl is well. I have stories to tell, but as I mentioned, I have been offline...was giving myself time to mourn. ‘Wander the darkness', and all that sadbastard nonsense (which isn't nonsense at all). And once I felt better, my computer got all fidgety for the millionth time, and I thought, Well, it's now or never. I have the money...why not do something for myself?

Very rare and selfish moment...I hope it pays off in a few years when I'm big and famous.

(Ha)

I plan to get myself back in gear (in a healthy way, and health permitting, of course) as soon as I get the new computer figured out. Any advice is extremely welcome!

I did name him Jimmy Stewart, as I mentioned. He's pretty and shiny...my new best friend. :)

What I couldn't say.

2007-04-16T09:24:00.000-05:00

I still can't write

Someone in my real life died.

I've been wandering the darkness.

Now the sun is rising and the window's gold.

I hear a gunshot, a ceiling fan.

The coffee's cold.

I wish I blogged every day, and was warmer to my friends. More reliable. I wish I had the day to write, read, and edit short stories for the contest I will never win because you can't win a short story contest unless you're perfectly prepared.

Where have I been??

Last Saturday, I took Baby Girl out to eat.

Last Sunday was Easter.

He died that morning.

We went north to my Grandparents and spent time with family. Ate questionable food. Had a nice time visiting.

On Monday, I went slightly off the deep end. I sent Baby Girl away and cleaned.

On Tuesday, they buried him. Gray skies and soft rain. A good day for a funeral.

I wanted to clean again, but the house was spotless.

I baked instead.

The Cake of Death

Two hundred chocolate chips in forty rows of five to serve as the tombstones in snowy white frosting.

I went to bed that night, thinking everything was fine. That the soft rain would stay soft rain, but Wednesday morning, around three AM, I woke up to the loud crinkling sounds of a giant hand trying to crush my house the way you crush an empty Coke can before throwing it away. Along with hail, and a rush of rain. A tornado.

I ran into the office here, and hid beneath the desk while reaching one hand up to the mouse, I got online to check the radar; to see if the worst of the storm was coming or going. It was a few miles up the road. The power went out. My child screamed, Mommy, monsters! and slept in the bed with me for four stormy hours.

I worked most of Wednesday. Finally ran away in the late afternoon. Went back to the library in College Town. Drove past the site where he died...saw tire ruts in the mud, and for the first time on that clear and blinding day, the sun went behind a cloud, and the curve where he died was dark in shadow.

On the hill right past it, the sun returned.

I sat across from a gorgeous man in the second floor alcove, and read Everything that Rises Must Converge.

When I left, the wind was fierce, as always following a tornado, like a ghost of the horrid skies long past, and two black men walked towards me where the sidewalk intersects, and one mumbled to the other, Her skirt's gonna blow up.

I blushed and fumbled to hold down the white billowy bottom of my candy-colored outfit as they watched with a spark of anticipation.

How ya doing, one asked.

My voice broke, and squeaked, Just fine.

I went to see my sister. We talked about his death.

Driving home that night, I looked again, with all the windows rolled down. Trash in the floorboard, airborne, all floating about. The music loud. I turned it down and saw his rusted bumper lying in the grass.

I never knew a boy so sweet. So happy. Always smiling, and excited.

He had a million friends and deserved every one of them.

On Thursday, I took a two hour walk with Baby-bot. She fell and skint her knee. I carried her home half a mile with her bleeding and crying.

On Friday, she sent herself away; begging to go back to the Others. I didn't feel well, so I laid on the couch and listened to the rain and hail, and watched Match Game.

That night, it stormed again. I drank coffee and got online.

While sitting here, I wrote for hours. A big prosed-up story of what I've been up to. Then I thought I'd read everyone's writing, and write lots of email...oh the optimistic dreams of an overly-caffeinated, frustrated writer/blogger/human-being.

None of it happened.

I stumbled off to bed in tears of a sad dark reality. The quiet online existence I can't seem to remedy. And for the sake of still being afraid to sleep knowing he's in a grave, wearing what? I can't imagine. I want to pick up that bumper, bring it home and bathe it. Nail it to the side of my blue painted shed and let the sun shine off it every morning when it rises.

On Saturday, it rained. I took Baby Girl out to eat. It was prom night in Doctor/Dentist town. All the kids were sitting about in formal gowns and tuxedos, and I was jealous. My waiter was gorgeous! I felt old and tired and ugly and fat.

That night, I took dirty pictures of myself.

I felt younger and thinner, but cheap.

Eventually fell asleep, only to have nightmares.

On Sunday, we dressed up fancy and went to the grocery store. Bought lots of food, and a bouquet of red flowers.

At sunset, I took Baby Girl to Mom's house where my sister was staying. They played, while I drove out to the cemetery for my Grandmother's birthday.

I laid the red flowers on her red grave, and stuck a note inside the tombstone.

I wandered about, reading names. I saw an Annie Hall, which made me laugh, but then I felt guilty for laughing while old tired people lay sideways beneath me.

The not-so old, and his bright smiling face.

A good day is hard to find

2007-04-06T05:43:00.000-05:00

I can't write.

I hit a high point last week, and was cruising along, and then I didn't sleep, and it all went away. I got blocked.

I thought a few pictures might help...When I go away for a while, it's hard for me to start blogging again. Like sitting in a classroom, and you're quiet, then the teacher calls on you, and you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. You've been quiet too long. So you stay quiet, and think, I have too much to say. Too much to do. I'll wait till I have more time...and then it's a week and two days without saying a word. Out of practice. I want to catch up, and be close, and hopefully blogging will help the writing.

Reading.

Last Wednesday, the sleepless day, I drove down to College Town, and walked across campus to the university's library. I found the book I've been looking for, on the second floor, and read in this soft-lit alcove. It blew me away...The final line...I'll never write anything great. Though not for a lack of trying.

That night, I slept.

Nothing on Thursday.

Friday, I took Baby Girl up to the Sticksville Elementary while they were out for Spring Break.

She had a blast! All climbing and sliding and running about, spinning on the merry-go-round...

She was red in the face and crying when we left. Playground, playground! she shouted for days.

On Saturday, the power went out for five hours.

We sat at a home for a while, and listened to the lightening and rain. As soon as it stopped, we got in the car. The road was flooded, but we made it to the highway, and slowly uptown.

On the other side of the tracks, there were trees uprooted and scattered on the ground. One was lying on top of a house. One was split in two.

On Sunday, something bad happened. Even worse than a storm, or a possible tornado. Whatever uprooted those trees...this uprooted me, and left me lifeless, powerless, sobbing on the couch. A cop at the door...Tis all I can say. Distraught to the point I sent Baby Girl to the Others so I could think the bad thoughts...Alone with dark clouds, I cleaned the house til my hands bled.

On Monday, I took Baby Girl shoe shopping.

It was the first day I didn't write, or work on my project.

On Tuesday, the bad thing got better.

I still felt cranky, though...still no writing.

A storm blew through, and brought cold air.

On Wednesday, I woke up coughing and sniffling. It was the only day I could go out by myself, so despite feeling sick, I drove back down to College Town.

I bought an Easter dress. A pair of pink high heels.

I tried to write...

Yesterday, I drove Baby Girl to the gas station and bought her some candy, and me an Orange Crush. She asked the woman behind the counter, What doing? The woman said, I'm working, honey. And she handed her a gold Easter egg.

We said Thank you, and took our treats to a nearby cemetery.

We parked and ate and drank and smiled...

I wrote five pages yesterday.

There is pleasure in this life.

Easter Legs

2007-04-06T03:06:00.000-05:00

After joining Self Portrait Challenge last month, I only posted once. I was busy writing, but also, the assignment was to fiddle with your photos online, and I don't care for fiddling. I like my photos natural.

Lucky for me...

April's challenge is The Body.

Take photos of your separate pieces...Your favorites, your flaws. No pretty faces, though. Just flesh, and truth, and Ash in the nude.

I thought I'd start from the bottom up.

Standing in the bathtub with a hand on my hip...these are my feet, my legs, my worn out knees. All rough from crawling with a baby, and scarred from falling off a bike.

I like my legs. I like my feet...My knees can take a hike.

It was just a dream

2007-03-28T04:20:00.000-05:00

(Green shoes and holy jeans)

I had a strange day yesterday. I didn't feel like myself. I tried to wake up to work on my project, or at least get online, but I couldn't move an inch of my body from the fluffy white biscuit, otherwise known as my bed.

It took too long to fall asleep Monday night. I read Huck Finn, and talked to a friend, and cried to a friend. He talked about his job. I talked about the contest. We talked for hours, and I finally fell asleep. Woke up and couldn’t move. Too tired. Too mentally exhausted 'cause I actually found time to do a bit of editing on Monday, but now it's Tuesday morning...I hear Baby Girl. I sip coffee. She fusses 'cause I’m sitting on the couch with the cup of coffee instead of playing with her, or going into the office, but Mommy has no work today. We're going shopping! Baby Girl is delighted. I finish my coffee and take another bath and she stands on the tub ledge and watches.

We get dressed and dance to Belle & Sebastian till it's time to leave, to go out to eat, and stuff ourselves silly on shrimp, French fries, ketchup, and root beer from a glass bottle so sweaty it nearly slips from my hand when I pour it.

We go to Wal-Mart. I push the buggy as fast as I can, and she squeals so happy, people look at us and smile.

I buy her a couple of cheap toys. Lots of groceries.

We come home. It's raining. We put everything away and lay around till it's time for her bath. I clean up her toys and her messes in a robotic blur. Finally, she's wrapped up in blankets, and falling asleep as I sing Twinkle, twinkle walking backwards from her room.

In my own room, I take another bath. Three in twenty-four hours doesn't make you crazy; it's a delayed reaction, and your stress is bubbling over. It's making you filthy. Better scrub. Better clean. Better wash and bathe again. Better go to bed so you can wake up and write or read or do something. ANYTHING! But first you got to sleep...

I wasn't sleepy. I wandered around, and wrote for two hours.

It was midnight when I finally crawled beneath the covers. The rain had started back; off and on all day, and into the night, which was now a new day, since it was midnight. I listened as it henpecked the tin of my trailer; the walls and the roof. It dripped down from the gutters onto my window beside me. I closed my eyes, and tried not to think of anything; of writing or reading, the project, contests, deadlines, Baby, outlines, plotlines, characters, overpasses, no sex, no supper, too much bathing, cleaning, no work tomorrow either, and what will I do? I could get online, and write the millions of emails I've been meaning to write. Get in touch with people I miss, and I know they're getting tired of me, always being distant or quiet or not here at all. And the rain gets heavy, and the rain lightens up. When it's light, the gutter sounds louder, and I'm cussing myself, I hate you Ash! Shut the puck up, and go to sleep, you little God damn child, and who cares about your writing, your blog, or what you're doing tomorrow? Why don't you go to a library in another town, look for that book you want to read, and stretch out on a couch and maybe your soul mate will come along and see you on the couch, and ask you what you're up to? Why you're all stretched out? You'll tell him how it was raining, and you couldn’t sleep...I'm pulled from this almost dream by the splish-splash on the window, so loudly now, like an old man's outside, tapping the glass, Please let me come in.

I tell the old man No for fear he'll sneak into my kitchen and steal all the spoons.

I walk into the bathroom and pace about the floor, contemplating another rub of soap on my hands, and no, I'll go to the kitchen and check on the spoons. I wash my hands three or four times. Make a bowl of soup. Sit on the couch and watch American Beauty till it’s four in the morning, and I still haven’t slept.

Swings, Slides, and Freewrites

2007-03-26T08:57:00.000-05:00

Monday morning, eight am. Writing in the margins of what would be Serious Writing Day number one, but I slept too late, and if I start re-reading an entire story now (all re-reading of your own work should be done in one sitting when possible, given the length of the story, and not your ever-decreasing amount of time), Baby Girl will wake up, and that'll be it, until tonight, assuming I'd actually stay up and not stumble off to bed around ten o'clock, which I'm sure I will. So tomorrow. Tomorrow. There's always tomorrow. The sun will come out and shine on my prose, and that stack of handwritten, and hopefully crinkled up pages of ink and scribbles I haven't seen since last September, and won't that be fun? It's supposed to look foreign. As if you're reading someone else's work, then you won't mind cutting large chunks of it to let 'em lie rotting on thy office floor.

I cleaned in here yesterday. Cleaned the whole house. More preparation. Disinfecting. Dusting. I'm a germaphobic-cleanaholic. Nice to meet you. How do you do?

That was Sunday. Baby Girl was being a brat, so I sent her off to the Others. I cleaned for hours. Friday and Saturday were both great, so if they can be considered the weekend, and let Sunday be completely ignored, then Man, I had a wonderful weekend!

My state refund arrived. Two hundred and fifty dollars: I think I'll take it and go out tomorrow and buy Baby Girl a swing set.

I'm not sure if two hundred and fifty dollars will afford such a luxury, or where to go to find one, if they'll deliver it, set it up for us. I just know that I want one. I want her to have it because she wants it, and I also feel like I should provide her something nice ever so often, like all the other kids have; the ones in daycare and preschool. Plus, they have each other to play with. She has no kids to play with. Just a rusty old tractor. A little red swing, but it's a baby swing, and as much as I like to pretend otherwise, my child is no baby. She's three feet tall and thirty pounds. Will soon be surpassing me in Math, I assume. She can count to twenty in English, and to five or ten in Spanish, and God bless Dora the Explorer, despite the way it gets on my God damn nerves.

Shut the puck up, you stupid map! I know you're the map, you don't have to tell me five million times!!

I'm the map (he's the map!) I'm the map (he's the map!) I'm the map!!

I'm Ash. And if it wasn't for the news and weather, and the occasional classic film, I'd blow up my TV and not think twice about it. Unless I caught the house on fire. Then I would think twice about it...I suppose I'd have to take it outside, and then I might accidentally destroy Baby Girl's new swing set (see how I brought that back around? Clever little editor I shall become...)

She was watching Charlie and Lola the other day (a show I do approve of, and enjoy) and Lola and Charlie were playing at the park, and Baby Girl was mesmerized.

Later on, we went out to play, and while in the backyard, she looks over at the neighbor's backyard and sees a bright yellow slide, and starts screaming, Ladder!

I had no idea what she's talking about. Though soon she wasn't talking at all, just grunting and pointing and whining then crying.

Mommy, mommy, slide!

Oh, the slide...yes, they have a slide, but we have Mr. Junky, and a baby swing, the one you just started using this Spring despite my buying it for you on your first birthday, and you were always too scared of it, and how do I know if I do buy you a swing set, you won't be scared of that too? It'll just sit rusting in the yard. Why don't you play with your car, or your bucket, or your shovel, or your wheelbarrow. And soon we'll play with the hose.

Slide, slide, slide.

It's all I can hear.

I figure I'll pay off debt with the big fat federal check, and that'll allow my minimum payments to be smaller each month, so I'll have more money left over to actually re-start my savings account (the one I had to empty around the time she was born, imagine that) and after I have a nice little cushion to fall back on should I hit rock bottom again, then, and only then, will we borrow that money and build us that house.

For now though, a swing set's all we want.

I'll be sure to take her picture once we get it...in the one above: tis my sister and I, back in 1986. On our brand new swing set. I was two years and eight months old. The same exact age as Baby Girl.

I think I need a new heart

2007-03-23T07:57:00.000-05:00

It's still March, and where have I been? Not posting to my blog, or doing much of anything else online. I'm worthless. Except in reality, where I'm busy times a million.

I've been working and cooking and cleaning the house from the blades of the ceiling fans to the stained up carpet and fake hardwood floor. I've been taking care of a certain Baby Girl who was the most monstrous little hellion she's ever been for a week and a half because we weren‘t going for our daily walks. My father had insisted on going with us one night, and Baby Girl got mad. She knows the walk is our special time, and who is he to intrude? She refused to go back out, so I‘m guessing it was pent up energy and a lack of sunshine that put her in such a foul mood that I spent a lot of time trying to cure, and calm her down, and make the best of whatever loud and fussy situation we were in, but she'd yell and cry and scream NO! and hit me and kick me and throw things till I ended up on the couch sobbing in a pathetic, curled-up ball.

A few days ago, it all got better and disappeared like a thick fog had lifted, and now we're all clear. Happy. Playing outside, and balancing our time between work, cook, clean, cartoons, toys, bath and bedtime, and ah yes, my writing.

I've been writing.

So far this year I've completed three short stories. The first one in February. It took me two weeks. The second was also in February, though it only took me half an hour. Two pages. I started it last spring, and never finished it, which I regretted, so while on a writerly high from finishing that first one, I thought, Well, I could at least give an ending to those long lost sixteen pages.

I did, and I liked it.

I wrote the third short story between March 2nd and March 18th, so hence my absence here. Not counting all that other stuff I've been up to, of course; we all know I'm (mostly) capable of balancing an internet life with a real life, but the truth is, this story was so distracting, and took so much of my writerly energy, that I actually felt mentally drained by the end of each day (I write my fiction by hand while Baby Girl eats breakfast).

So yes. Fiction, and lots of it. Writing stories. Not blogging.

My grand total now is two novels, and four short stories. I plan on writing another one after the weekend, editing them, tying the five stories together, and tossing them into a writerly contest, to which the deadline is the last day of May.

I've never given much thought to writing contest. I don't mean that in a bad way; I honestly was unaware of them. Yes, I'm an idiot. Oblivious to the profession I claim to be a part of, or WANT to be a part of...

In real life news:

I did my taxes. I'm getting twenty-five hundred dollars back!

My mom and my aunt and I are going to a festival tomorrow.

I think my sister's mad at me.

I told my father how much I've been writing and how I plan to enter that contest. He got quiet, and said, Best of luck with all that. As if I had just told him I'm growing wings, wrapping my head in tin foil, and flying to the Moon.

We might build a house soon. Talk of land, and borrowing money, and selling the shoebox have been in order. The Others will gladly deed me not only what I'm sitting on now, but a fairly big portion behind it. Though my father also has land to spare, should I want out of this cult-like village and move into town next to both my parents who are neighbors.

I'm not sure I want to live that close to them. Though mostly, I don't want to leave the dirtroads, the seclusion of the backwoods, the big yard, Mr. Junky and Mr. Shed.

A real house, though. No matter where. It'll still be a while, and that's fine. I've got time. Tis only March, and I have a well-behaved child (for now; knock on desktop), a collection of short stories to send out, and a blog I hope of nursing back to health.

Self Portrait Tuesdays

2007-03-06T08:05:00.000-06:00

Since I'm through with Poetry Thursday, I thought it might be fun to join a different blogging group. I still want that nice, warm feeling of taking part in something, being amongst an artistic community, and having a weekly assignment so my blog is more than just A) long bits of writing, and B) long bouts of silence.

Introducing: Self Portrait Challenge.

It's a site dedicated to the photography of a most narcissistic kind. Which just so happens to be a favorite of mine! [Ash whispering: I'm only joking about the narcissistic part...]

I think self-portraits are hard to take, and damn brave, and if you can look your own self in the eye with a camera, and find what's in your heart and head, and think outwardly while thinking inwardly, and get more balance in your life because of it, then it's art, and not narcissistic at all.

It's life affirming.

But anyway, enough of my blabbering.

This month's assignment is Online Tools. To somehow "create or enhance your image" using different programs.

I use Picasa for all my editing, cropping, and other such pictorial needs.

The following image was brightened and shadowed a bit to help bring out my own reflection.

If I knew how, I would have also cropped out that empty bottle of Gatorade.

...

Self Portrait Challenge consists of a monthly assignment, and you post a different effort each week within that month to reflect said assignment.

The person/people who run it (I'm not acquainted with anyone just yet), pick their favorites, and in the sidebar, there's a bunch of links to everyone else.

My gorgeous friend Claire also participates.

Tis where I found out about SPC, so thank you lovely Claire. :)

Nothing you can't fix

2007-03-06T06:45:00.000-06:00

Sunday, March 4th (My Two Year Blogging Anniversary):

It's been a long bad week, and thank God it's Sunday. Thank God it's March. I love March and all things Spring, green, and Saint Patrick's Day well on its way, and I suppose I'll celebrate, not by drinking, but by building some strange and secret shrine to my beloved Frank McCourt.

I'm watching the sunrise.

Life has been reduced to cleaning, bleaching, washing, disinfecting walls, sheets, crib slats, toys, clothes full of throw-up and "yuckiness", mattresses, toilet seats. Yesterday, I walked into the bathroom armed with an industrial-strength cleanser and sprayed till my little germaphobic heart's content.

It isn't me who's sick, or was sick. In fact, I was lucky not to ever catch it.

Baby Girl, though, she was sick all week, throwing up, and running fever, getting violently ill on herself, or in the bathroom with tears of pain, and Mommy, it's hurts! Tummy hurts!! And me, sitting on the tub ledge, crying myself, feeling her forehead, contemplating a trip to the clinic or the emergency room...I usually regret the latter. It's a forty minute drive, with a two hour wait, just to have someone poke and prod my child, tell me what I already assumed, and then stick me with a nine-hundred-dollar doctor bill my insurance may or may not cover, and if they DO, I always have to remind them of that fact long after the Creditors start calling 'cause God knows the Creditors love my name and number.

And the clinic. We just went the week before, when she was sick with a cold, and fever, and I was sick also, but I don't see doctors unless I have to.

We went to a new clinic. New to us. Out of town.

As I walked through the waiting room with those damn forms to fill out, one fat woman leaned over to remark to another fat woman: Heels shouldn't be that high.

Perhaps women shouldn’t be that fat.

I sat down next to a black man who teased my child by telling her all the chairs in the room were his, and she couldn't have one. She looked at him for a second, then smiled and climbed into all the empty chairs, which were scarce, and surely covered with germs.

He told me she was cute. I agreed.

The black man nodded off to sleep, and two hours later, a skinny white nurse appeared, shouting out a name that only somewhat resembled Baby Girl's. When no one else moved, I looked at the nurse, and repeated the name. She said, I guess that's it. You should spell it with a C.

Yes. Why don't I change my two-and-a-half year old's name so incompetent illiterates can pronounce it. No thank you.

We were sent to another room with other nurses. More patients lined up on the floor in the hallway, coughing. An older blonde woman sat next to me by the scales, and was friendly. I asked her, Does it always take this long?

She said it did.

Another twenty minutes, and skinny nurse reappeared to usher us into a small room with a wooden birdhouse Baby Girl adored. House! she cried, and tried to demolish it with her sweet little fist. The doctor walked in, and my God if he wasn't gorgeous!

He apologized for the wait. Asked me what was wrong. Made a couple of stirrup jokes as Baby Girl tried to play with them. She went back to hitting the birdhouse, and he said not to worry; all kids try to break it. He checked out my cleavage at least ten times.

I tried not to blush. That's the hard part about having a big chest and the fondness for displaying your cleavage: you can't let 'em know that you know they're looking. Otherwise, they'll get embarrassed, and they'll never look again. You won't feel attractive. You won't have the confidence to wear skin tight black shirts, and skirts, and three inch high heels that rival Lauren Bacall's in The Big Sleep.

He told me there was nothing he could do for her. It looked like she was feeling better, but is she got sick again, call him. Give her the medicine I was already giving her, and make sure she drank plenty of water. Did I have any questions? Are you sure??

That was too easy, he said.

We smiled, and shook hands, as his eyes slowly drifted southward.

As for Baby Girl: She was over her cold that very day.

This past Monday is when she came down with the stomach flu. She remained sick until Saturday when she awoke screaming for Cookies.

As any mother can tell you: that's a reassuring sign.

2007-03-01T02:42:00.001-06:00

Baby Girl's really sick.

I'm exhausted.

I can't find any words to express the rest of it...I'm so tired and scared and stressed.

What Ever Happened to Poetry Thursday?

2007-02-22T09:20:00.000-06:00

Local Cemetery

They up and moved themselves to some fancy new website.

I don't care for that.

If you can't play in Bloggerville with the rest of us (or in some adjacent neighborhood, such as WordPress: the only other acceptable blogish-town, in my internet-geekish opinion) then count me out.

I don’t like it when blogs get too big for their britches, is all.

But perhaps it has something to do with 'em getting too many hits.

I wouldn’t know...I have about one-fourth the readership the deadblog got, and have a pretty good feeling that dear old deadblog shall haunt me for all eternity.

Note to fellow Bloggers: Never kill your blog. ;)

And yes, I am feeling a million times better this morning. For those of you who care. Thank you! And here's a poem for you, not in honor of Poetry Thursday, mind you, but for Poetry the Day Between Wednesday and Friday ™.

(Ash giggles, and gets quiet, serious, dare I say pretentious)

An Ode to Soup, and All Mankind

If spoons were made of cheddar cheese
I'd keep you between my knees
Where soup cans roll about the floor
To knock upon my open door

We'll eat tomatoes, crackers too
and dine upon your pining stew
For bread to break and tea to sip
Watch it now: you'll stain my slip.

Out of my misery

2007-02-21T02:45:00.000-06:00

I'm sick. Sick sick sick. Burning with fever, and exhausted from taking care of a sick little toddler. Dragging her to the doctor where we waited two whole hours with other sick people, getting even sicker.

I'm miserable. And tired. And haven't been online but once since Valentine's. That was only for a bit, and then we got sick. We've been sick. She's getting better, and I'm getting worse.

My mind is reduced to medicine and sweat.

After my bath tonight, I couldn’t sleep for all the napping I did. Now it's two in the morning and all I can say is I'm sick.

(sniffles...coughs)

I'm going back to bed.

Please send soup.

Or throw rocks at my head.

This Modern Love

2007-02-14T08:13:00.001-06:00

Yesterday was God awful, and last night was even worse, but I'm trying to enjoy the morning, so I'll cover it later.

I just wanted to wish everyone a Happy Valentine's Day!!

I have the afternoon off, and even though my plans fell through, I'm still going out, alone, in search of something good. Something happy! Or, at the very least, something to write about.

I hope you have a lovely, romantic, WONDERFUL day! :)

Where do you go to hide from yourself?

2007-02-11T08:53:00.001-06:00

Me, last Monday.

What a God awful weekend. Yesterday was horrible. Gray skies, and cold wind, and no wonder I haven't taken my child for a walk since Tuesday.

We bundled up, and ventured out, though. She discovered the rake, and I suppose I discovered it too, considering the fact I forgot we even owned one. She went to sweeping up leaves and dragging 'em around. Sticking the metal teeth into big holes all scattered about the soft yard.

Don't hurt yourself, I said a million times.

She ignored me, and said, I got it, Mommy. I can do it!

And went about her raking, as I eventually ignored her too, getting lost in my own messy head.

I wish I could shrink myself down, along with the rake, and get to work on all the papers flying around in there. I'd make a big pile for burning, though I don't suppose lighting a fire in your head would be wise, and Baby Girl would probably just tromp through it before I could get it lit.

So instead of shrinking and burning, or distracting my child from her newfound talent, I started thinking of game plans, as far as writing is concerned. It's the same battle-with-myself as it has been for nearly a year now: "I want to write a blog. No, I should write a novel. What about a short story. God knows I need to edit. Why don't I try to get published. And I need to write letters. I need to clean house. I need to pay bills..." [Giant explosion goes off in Ashley's head].

Back inside, I did all the stupid things I'm supposed to do, even on a Saturday night, and wouldn’t it be nice to actually have a date. Or do something fun. Something creative!

No, I cooked and cleaned, and put Baby Girl to bed around nine-thirty. I went to my room and ran a bubble bath, complete with music, a knife (in case someone breaks in), a notebook and an ink pen. I thought I might try writing in the tub.

I didn't work.

My notebook got wet, and then I was sadder than I was before. Sat crying in this mountain of bubbles; trying so hard to pretend someone was standing there near the counter just to cheer me up, but I couldn’t. I'm too lonely. Like getting so sleepy you can't even sleep. You pass a certain point, and then you're overtired.

I'm overlonely.

I just wish I could figure it all out, and stop being so damn childish and jealous of everyone else who has time and energy for their own wants and needs at the end of the day. Or at the beginning.

How am I supposed to get it all done, and be happy with myself?

I climbed into bed and called a close friend. I nibbled on crackers, and flipped through the channels (Yes, I finally put a TV in the bedroom, despite my better judgment). I told him how I worked all day, but didn't even come close to getting everything done, and I had to get some sleep so I could wake up and write. How my writing has turned to crap considering the fact I didn't write at all (or very little) over those stupid six weeks, and was so scared if I didn't put something decent on this blog, I'd lose all my friends because why would they want to read a poorly-written blog? I'm so scared they'll all hate me anyway.

This is when my friend started yelling at me, which I obviously deserved.

I listened, crying on my pillow, watching a Ladybug crawl up and down the wall as I interjected the occasional "Yes, I know. I'm crazy."

After he finished his rant, he became very patient again, and started listing all my faults and how to fix them.

I love friends like this. They see things I can't. Like a writer reading someone else's work. I'll catch every single mistake you make, but in my own story, I continue reading what I think I’ve written versus what is actually on the page.

He says I'm just paranoid. And nobody hates me. And if I don't have time for everything, prioritize, and don't feel guilty or selfish. And people won't quit being my friend just because my writing is bad.

Didn't they stick around while you were gone? he asked. You act like they didn't.

In my own head, I'm so scared people regret sticking around (not only here, but in my real life too) . That they should leave, and that's why I sometimes act as if they already have.

He told me to stop thinking like that, and to quit crying. Go to bed. Wake up and make some time for yourself.

Which I just did. But now I'm off to get dressed and go to Wal-Mart by myself. Thank God! I need a vacation from my child and this house, and the sun's finally out for the first time since Tuesday.

I only wish I could shake the feeling that a million other things have gone undone and unsaid, both offline and on, and how does everyone do everything for everyone? Especially themselves.

A fast glimpse of you

2007-02-10T03:52:00.001-06:00

I'm sorry for making the "I'm Back" announcement only to follow it up with absolutely nothing.

I picked a bad week to (re)start blogging.

I suppose though, it's like everything else in life: if you don't start today, you'll never start.

It seems there's a more famous way of saying that; an actual quote or something, but it's three in the morning here and I‘m tired. I couldn’t sleep due to my lack of writing. Though I did manage to write something on Thursday: a two page blog piece I have since deleted.

I was happy with it at the time, and would have posted it had Baby Girl not woken up before I finished editing. And because of that writing, I managed to sleep eleven hours Thursday night. Not getting online at all Friday, I find myself here now, desperately wanting to write something. Anything!

I guess I need to be an all or nothing type girl (as I am in so many other situations): If I don't post everything, I'll end up posting nothing. No new entries, and then I'll lose the rest of my readers and/or friends...God knows leaving for six weeks didn't exactly HELP in that department.

So what happened in the meantime? I was gone for so long, surely something happened...

We had Christmas.
Then New Years.
I lost the internet.
Lost my muse.
Didn't write.
Cut my hair.
Lost some weight.
Printed out the novel.
Went to the dentist twice.
Watched a film that changed my life.

Now I'm trying so hard to write this blog, and get back in touch with all the people I care about. Plus, Valentine's Day is coming. It's one of the only holidays I actually like.

I read the city of Verona receives a thousand letters addressed to Juliet every Valentine's Day.

I think that's the most romantic thing EVER!

I wish I was Juliet...

I'd read those letters over and over, and finally reply on perfume scented paper with a big feather pen and a lipstick kiss on every single envelope.

I find it sad, though, that no one writes to Romeo.

To hell with the blues

2007-02-05T08:35:00.001-06:00

I haven't been here in six weeks.

I was stressed out over the holidays, and busy with all that nonsense. Then I lost my internet connection due to not paying my bills.

I'm back now, though. Catching up, and trying to write, and looking forward to reading and talking to friends.

I just wanted to get this first post over with. And get on with my life. ;)

So...

Merry Christmas!!
Happy New Year!!
Happy Groundhog's Day!

I hope everyone is well.

These aren't normal times

2006-12-20T06:37:00.000-06:00

It's no good mood that brings me here this morning. It's not alcohol either, so at least there's that.

My good mood lasted all of one day. Maybe a day and a half. Come Saturday night, all was still decent, so we might as well call it two days. The two days in December Ash was happy. Oh, and the first day of December. That was nice too.

If I was happy more often, though, I wouldn't remember it. It would all just blur, and I'd be ungrateful. This way, I can keep track of it.

Again I haven't been here in a while. I feel like I should have that permanently tattooed to my sidebar...Hi, my name's Ashley Chairiet, and even though I used to be a hardcore blogger and considerate reader and friend, I now disappear often and for long stints. I have a decent enough excuse though. A few excuses. We all do this time of year, though I remember last year distinctly...sitting here at my desk, writing away, so happy to be back to blogging after writing that God awful novel, and sad over the fact that everyone else was so busy with the holidays. I was here on Christmas morning. Writing a short story.

My current writing life is unsatisfied.

The rest of my life is overran. A strange combination of inactivity, yet being ten times as busy, what with Christmas. All the shopping now complete. Though my bank account isn't too fond of me. I imagine the people who provide my utilities won't be too fond of me either, not until I pay my bills in January. Which is the breaks. If I had it my way, I'd only give Baby Girl and my parents and my sister and my grandparents a present, and just make cards, and hug and kiss everyone else. I can't afford these big stupid Christmases. I have to buy gifts for all my cousins up north. Draw names at my aunt's house, and trade presents there. And then there's the babies, which I actually don't mind buying for. I'm a sucker for the toy department. The baby aisles. All those cute and snuggly squeaky toys, with mirrors, buttons, little plastic eyes and smiling faces. Those metal keys in back you wind-up to play music. Tinkling lullabies making you cry for the lack of another child.

I feel so alone this time of year. The end of one and the beginning of another, and Christmas, stupid Christmas, for the love of Jesus, I care, and try my best to stay happy, and keep it all in focus. How it's his birthday: let's give presents, and visit. Eat good food. Look at bright lights. Stay up late watching It's a Wonderful Life after my child goes to bed, and maybe, just maybe, Jimmy Stewart will make me realize I’m lucky to be alive.

Remind me of that in January when I‘m stressed out over debt. In February, when I’m lonely on Valentines. In March, when I'm sick due to pollen. In April, when I'm drunk. In May, when I’m mad at myself for not finishing Noah (May is my make-believe deadline). June, I'll be drunk. July, I'll be crazy (July isn't kind to me. Neither is December). August, I'll decide to come back to bloggging after I surely take the summer off to revel in the aforementioned craziness. September, when I'm selfish and write a bunch of stories no one will ever read. In October, I'll be twenty-four. How depressing. In November, I'll write a third novel, and wonder if it's possible for me to write a novel without the pressure of NaNoWriMo. Finally, in December, I'll be sad again, and have nothing to save me but the sight of George Bailey. Maybe that will be enough to propel me through the next year and the next.

It's worth a try, and on my schedule. I'll squeeze it in somewhere between now and New Year's Eve.

Another reason I haven’t been here: My computer's tricky. I was here for an hour or two on Sunday morning, and for no reason at all, the damn thing crashed. I couldn’t get it to come back on. I haven't been back since. Not even to work. I have a nice pile over there, awaiting my attention, but it's better to leave it be, then possibly lose it should the damn thing go out again at an inopportune time, say while entering unsaved data (or for my own personal sake, while writing). So word of a new computer has reached me: a laptop, which delights me! I'll admit. I'm about ready to take a hammer to this one, and then I'll be set up with the freedom to work from anywhere in the house. On the couch, at the bar. In the floor. In the bed. I would write so much more if I didn’t always have to be in this office. I get so tired of sitting here in order to work, write, and socialize. With the laptop, I wouldn’t be faced with this damn uncomfortable chair. With the thought of spending one more second in this tiny room just to get online for a while. Instead, at night, I could just curl up naked and write, read, blog myself to sleep. Get up and go outside, and write my novels on the deck at sunrise. Work in whatever room my daughter wants to play in. We'd be happier. Me, more active...

Yes, computer, please die!

My internet connection has also been tricky. It takes ten minutes to connect.

I’ve spent a lot of time cleaning house. Two days shopping. Despite being sick. Cooking. Baking treats for a certain Baby Girl who is quite excited about the whole Christmas deal. She smiles and says, "Santa Clause coming! Chrisp-miss. Chrisp-miss. New toys in office!"

Tis where I keep them. The big pile of goodies here beside me.

As soon as I wrap them, and have my house in a decent state (I like to start each new year with every room cleaned, and cleaned out), I should be around a bit more often. And hopefully I’ll be all caught up on work, and then on my writing. Perhaps I’ll even be blogging from the comfort of my own bed. All warm and nestled between the sheets. I’m sure that will improve my mood. I am allowed to drink again, but for whatever reason, I don’t think I will.

Republicans Love Bic

2006-12-15T03:03:00.001-06:00

Ink pens, that is. Nothing better than a Bic Round Stic. Must be black though. I refuse to write in blue ink. Once you go black, you never go back...and no, I'm not drunk. For reasons I shant discuss, I've put the bottle aside again. I'm just in a good mood for once. I'm so sorry for all the sad bastardness I posted Wednesday, and for all the sad bastardness I just posted for Poetry Thursday.

I was thinking here lately, about blogging and such. I go through these strange little phases where I want to quit blogging, and I run away and do nothing but drink an exorbitant amount of Peppermint Schnapps and watch hours of syndicated television. I think my problem is I just get really scared sometimes. I feel like blogs are these giant windows to my life. Like anyone who reads this is a peeping Tom, but in a welcomed, wanted, non-perverse type way. You're not watching me shower. You're watching me think. You're watching me write. But when I'm really depressed, I don’t want anyone to have to read that. I feel like a burden. The dog that goes off into the woods to die so his owners won't see him. So hence the drinking (hiding from myself) and not blogging, writing, reading (hiding from everyone else).

As if I matter in the grand scheme of things.

I realize I don't.

Still, that's no reason not to blog. I just want to be happy. And writing this like a diary, the way I used to, might help. It’s worth another try.

Again, I’m sorry for being so distant, down, and generally a mess.

Now who’s up for fifty questions?

I know I am. I couldn't sleep...

1. When you looked at yourself in the mirror today, what was the first thing you thought? Your eyes are big.

2. How much cash do you have on you? Eighty bucks.

3. What’s a word that rhymes with “DOOR?” Whore.

4. Favorite planet? Pluto. The poor thing.

5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your cell phone? Cell phones are stupid and should be tossed in thy nearest gutter.

6. What is your favorite ring tone on your phone? I don't mess with ring tones.

7. What shirt are you wearing? No shirt. Shiny gold nighty thing.

8. Do you “label” yourself? Yes! Thanks to Blogger Beta. ;)

9. Name the brand of the shoes you’re currently wearing? No shoes.

10. Bright or Dark Room? Both...it's dark, but yesterday I strung up some green Christmas lights to be festive and inspire me, so now I'm in a magical little cave.

11. What do you think about the person who took this survey before you? She's great! Beautiful. Wonderful writer. Probably hates me. But I love her. She's one of those people I'll always care about, and never forget.

12. What does your watch look like? Puck watches. Who needs to know what time it is ALL THE TIME. Makes me nervous.

13. What were you doing at midnight last night? Midnight...I watched a movie, washed my hair, wrote three or four poems, and midnight was around there somewhere.

14. What did your last text message you received on your cell say? Again, I don't mess with that stuff.

15. Where is your nearest 7-11? An hour of so away.

16. What's a word that you say a lot? I cuss a lot. In a very casual, southern belle way.

17. Who told you he/she loved you last? My best friend...He thinks I'm tired of him, but I'm not.

18. Last furry thing you touched? Does Baby Girl count? I washed her hair before she went to bed.

19. How many drugs have you done in the last three days? Unless chocolate’s a drug, I've done nothing.

20. How many rolls of film do you need developed? Two.

21. Favorite age you have been so far? Sixteen and Twenty-two.

22. Your worst enemy? Me, of course.

23. What is your current desktop picture? Zach Braff, in all his Scrubalicious glory!

24. What was the last thing you said to someone? Out loud? Something about sex.

25. If you had to choose between a million bucks or to be able to fly what would it be? I'd fly. I'd come see you. We'd sit on your porch and swing, and if I get there and find you don't have one, then we'll fly till we find one. We'll fly to the ocean and to the moon! We'll fly to Pluto and tell him, It's all right. We think you're a planet. Then we'll curl up and sleep on Pluto till the sun never rises and we freeze.

26. Do you like someone? I do.

27. The last song you listened to? Brothers on a Hotel Bed.

28. What time of day were you born? Four o' one. Saturday afternoon.

29. What’s your favorite number? Numbers are stupid.

30. Where did you live in 1987? This state. This town. The other end of this very highway.

31. Are you jealous of anyone? I'm jealous of all the girls who are thin because they haven't had kids yet, or they don't eat lots of candy like I do. Or they don't drink. Or they actually work out instead of lying on their asses watching old movies on TV.

32. Is anyone jealous of you? Probably not.

33. Where were you when 9/11 happened? High school.

34. What do you do when vending machines steal your money? Cuss and hit the God damn thing for taking my God damn money, you God damn piece of pucking trash!! I hate you! Give me my Sprite!!

35. Do you consider yourself kind? Yes. I love everyone, and I think of people all the time. Of what I'd like to say to them, and what I hope for them, and wonder what they're up to, if they're doing well. But so often, my own problems get in the way of actually showing that kindness. So no. I guess I'm not.

36. If you had to get a tattoo, where would it be? No tattoos for me.

37. If you could be fluent in any other language, what would it be? French.

38. Would you move for the person you loved? If they lived somewhere nice and pretty.

39. Are you touchy feely? Not really.

40. What’s your life motto? When in doubt, say thank you.

If that doesn't work: apologize.

41. Name three things that you have on you at all times? A necklace. Freckles. Wide paranoid eyes.

42. What’s your favorite town/city? Conway.

43. What was the last thing you paid for with cash? A couple of Subway sandwiches.

44. When was the last time you wrote a letter to someone on paper and mailed it? Years ago. I've got Christmas cards going out soon though.

45. Can you change the oil on a car? Nope.

46. Your first love: what is the last thing you heard about him/her? He's in college. Still gorgeous. Still rich. Still hates me.

47. How far back do you know about your ancestry? I’m mainly French.

48. The last time you dressed fancy, what did you wear and why did you dress fancy? I dressed up last Saturday to go grocery shopping.

49. Does anything hurt on your body right now? My back from sitting.

50. Have you been burned by love? Yes. Men like to leave me.

Poetry Thursday: Welcome to my street

2006-12-15T02:37:00.000-06:00

This week's prompt is to write a poem about a street. I kept that in mind as I wrote this little piece of self-abusing poetry sometime late Wednesday night.

And to beat the bad rap of skeptic, for once I didn’t fake it.

Though perhaps I should have.

Hate Street

Nobody hates me
as much as I hate me
Please hate me
As I hate me
Hating to hate me
I hate the word hate
Hate, a thousand times more
a million times over!
I can't stop thinking, Hate
I can't stop saying
I scream it in my own head
my own ears
I hate
I make no sound at all
yet I hear it still
I see it like a blinking clock no one bothered to reset
after the power went out
a horrible storm
surge
I can't keep time
Perpetual midnight
I hate I hate I hate I hate
me
living here on Hate Street
in a three story high rise
overlooking the hate.

Ghost of Christmas in July

2006-12-13T07:55:00.000-06:00

I haven't been around in a while. Or hardly at all this month. The few times I have been here, I was drunk.

It’s been a quiet month. Lonely, and tired. I do my usual routine each day. And every night, after Baby Girl's in bed, instead of going to sleep and waking up at a decent time, say three or four am, to come in and write, read, blog, etcetera, I stay up watching hours of Scrubs, my newfound obsession. I pass out around midnight and sleep till morning. Repeat.

It's not that I'm through writing, though. In fact, I've decided I'm not even through with the novel. A few weeks of being away from it...stepping back, and seeing the forest, not the trees, I've realized that there are whole trees missing. Big gaping clearings of land where something else could grow. I think I’ll write three more parts to it. From three different points of view.

Besides, the forty-four thousand words of actual prose (I nearly killed myself writing six thousand words of filler just to win NaNoWriMo) would never be enough for an actual novel. If I add the three parts, that would make it a legitimate size and length. Worth my time to edit. Which I'll do six weeks after I finish.

So writing wise: I’m booked up well into the new year.

Life wise: I dread Christmas. I’ve been busy decorating, planning, making lists, and procrastinating on shopping. I have twenty people to buy for, and how I‘ll afford that, I’m not sure. I feel guilty every year for not having nicer gifts for everyone. Though some years, I have no gifts at all.

My online life: As I mentioned, I haven’t been around. I feel as if I’m turning into a ghost who has nothing left to say. Nothing to offer. I’m not a good friend, so why should anyone care? I would be, though, if I were ever here.

Back to real life: Baby Girl is doing fine.

I think my sister may be pregnant.

My Mom was sitting at home the other night when someone knocked on her door. As late as it was, she was scared, and leaned against it in her bathrobe, asking, Who’s there? She heard mumbling. She asked again. More mumbling. Finally, she opened the door, and there was my father, screaming, Landshark!

It warms my heart when they act silly like that, and have moments that remind them of their past.

As for me: I drove out to the cemetery yesterday and tucked a note into my Grandfather’s World War II stone. There’s a space between the top, where the writing is, and the bottom, which is essentially just a box made to look like a stone. I wrote Merry Christmas, and I love you, to them both. I folded it up and slid it in. I was surprised to see there’s still no grass on my Grandmother’s side. It won’t grow there. Still red, and muddy, what with all the recent rain. The heat. I drove home in overalls, tank top and sunglasses, pretending it was summer. Wishing I was still lost in its love.

I’m lost somewhere else now. The holidays. The rushing. The ending of a year.

It’s almost over and I’m scared. Glad. A million contradicting things in my heart and head. I wish I was George Bailey on a bridge with an angel to show me all the good parts of life. I’m tired, I’d tell him. He’d put his arms around me and walk me straight home through the snow. Inside, Baby Girl would say, Every time a bell rings, grass grows on a grave. I’d say, That’s right. That’s right. Wink at the sky, and smile.

Poetry Thursday: Is this a survey I see before me?

2006-12-07T08:00:00.000-06:00

Yummy delicious Joel McHale

This week's prompt is a poetry survey created here. We're filling it out versus writing an actual poem. I'm lazy, so that's great.

1) The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was...

Casey at the Bat. As a child, I heard this one many times, and always wanted to feel sorry for Casey, but found it hard. He was so arrogant. So sure he would succeed. I learned to keep my head down, my hopes hidden. Never expect anything.

2) I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and...

I was never forced to memorize a poem in school. I did have to recite from memory the dagger soliloquy from Macbeth.

3) I read/don’t read poetry because...

I don't read poetry because I prefer novels. Though I do occasionally check out a poetry book from the library. I stick to the classics. I don't read much poetry on blogs, because lots of 'em are pretentious, and Look at me! I'm rhyming. I'm sad. It's embarrassing. But there are some damn fine poets. Writing eloquent poetry. I'm not one of them, so yes. Novels.

4) A poem I’m likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is...

The Raven

5) I write/don’t write poetry, but...

I do write it, but not as well as I used to.

6) My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature...

In the sense that I rarely do either.

7) I find poetry...

Easy to imitate.

8) The last time I heard poetry...

Was probably in a film.

9) I think poetry is like...

Dance. The written equivalent. It's an expressive art form that can be beautiful when every thoughtful movement is well placed. Every muscle, well-trained. Though it is often cheapened by dancers who don't know how to dance, because they don't understand it. They put no thought into it. It’s just physical. Going through the motions. Attempted by clumsy wannabes, trashy girls in halter tops, those desperate for attention.

If writing a novel is more than just typing; if it is painting a picture for others to see if their heads. Then poetry is dance.

(Cough, cough) How pretentious.

The Last Day

2006-11-30T07:00:00.000-06:00

It's the end of November, and the end of NaNoWriMo.

I'm not exactly finished, as far as the contest is concerned, but as far as the novel is concerned, I am, in fact, done.

(giggling)

I wrote a novel! It's almost as fulfilling, and thrilling, and a million other bright and shiny words as lovely as giving birth, yet of course, no where close. Just in the sense that it makes me feel whole. It gives me hope.

I'm finished.

Novel number two for me, though with the first one, I had to go back a month or two later and tack on the ending. This one, though, smoothed itself right into that final chapter. Going gently into the writerly good night one hour ago.

I feel so giddy and alive now! As cheesy as that sounds. It's true. And I don't allow myself to feel such things very often. I'll blush over this later. I'm getting very shy in my old blogging age. I just don't know when to be quiet. I've been extremely quiet here lately for the sake of this contest. I'm sorry for basically being dead. For not being a good friend. It did result in a novel, though, so I guess that's understandable.

I just worry too much. And not today. I'm going to let myself be happy today. My cheeks hurt from smiling, and my hands hurt from typing, my heart and head from writing, but it's worth it. Despite the isolation, the loneliness, and having no time to play.

Today is supposed to be stormy. Ice, snow, and rain. Even a possible tornado. And watch it come barreling through here and eat my shoebox, along with my computer. I better put that novel on a disk and strap it to my side. I can't believe it's finished! I feared this year would be a wash, as far as my writing was concerned. I wasted most the summer, thinking I would write a novel, but could never get past the first few chapters on either attempt. I came back, and thought I'd get all caught up with everyone, but then an unexpected creative rush found me, and I wrote that short story I hope to get published. And now this novel. It's all falling into place. I'm ecstatic!!

I of course breathe a sigh of Ash, settle down, it probably won't happen for you, and you'll only get your hopes up, but still: it's nice to revel in my optimism. As rare as it is.

Off to win this contest...

I hope everyone is well. :)

I Come in Peace

2006-11-24T23:59:00.000-06:00

Thank God Thanksgiving is officially over. I survived. I hope you did too. Baby Girl is also fine. Sleeping as sound as most two year olds do.

Tis Friday night, a few minutes past eleven, and I'm here in my pajamas, fixed hair and full make-up. I didn't take a shower after coming home from the Others. We went down to the uncle's for a (day after) Thanksgiving dinner. She was good, I suppose. I was not so good. I opened my big mouth and offended the hostess, Baby Girl's aunt.

We were all in the kitchen, empty plates in hand, food upon the island and countertop. There were big metal trays full of meat, and I don't particularly like meat. I rarely eat it, and hardly ever cook it, save for grilled chicken or fish. I asked someone, What is all this? pointing to the trays. Whoever said, That's turkey, that's pork, that's deer, and that's dove wrapped in bacon.

I said (in reference to the dove), Wow, that seems sinful.

[Crickets chirping] Complete silence. Then someone asked, What did she say??

I repeated myself. I said that seems sinful.

Someone forced a laugh, as if I was joking, though I did say it in a joking manner. I meant no harm. Nor to preach. I merely thought it a bit much. I mean, doves are beautiful birds. They're religiously symbolic. Noah let loose the dove from the ark. Tis a symbol of hope, and new life. They’re usually released at weddings, not shot, dowsed in barbeque sauce, tossed on the grill and wrapped in dead pig.

That's sad, and disturbing, and aren't there enough animals to eat already? Domesticated animals we raise for this type of thing. Do we really need to go out into the beautiful woods and shoot beautiful white birds??

I suppose for Easter, we should deep fry blue jays. Mince up a couple of cardinals and robins for a Christmas Day feast. Have hummingbirds on crackers for a midnight snack.

I took a piece of pork just to be polite, and gave Baby Girl some turkey. We walked into the dinning room, and the hostess sat at the bar. Whispered something to the uncle about not wanting to sit in the same room...

Am I that dislikable??

I realize the vast majority of my fellow southerners live to hunt. They’re proud of their prey, and their cooking. They think I'm strange. A skinny little snob that sits on the couch and says nothing to no one cause she doesn't know what to say. They all talk about what a shame it is for the Razorbacks to lose, and I don't give a damn. They swig their beers, and get loud, and laugh over corny jokes. Talk about movies you couldn’t pay me to watch. Gossip. I stare off into space and think about my novel. My friends. My internet life. How I need to do this, and want to do that. And how I shouldn't have made that wayward comment about the dove, and should I just apologize?

Baby Girl played with the closer of the others, while the hostess stayed as far away from me as possible. Sitting in the kitchen with a bunch of her friends. Smoking, drinking. All set for a night of riding four-wheelers. And here I am, hated and ignored, back at home, with Baby Girl bathed and in bed. Me, in a desperate attempt to actually win NaNoWriMo, all set to stay up all night, and write till my little heart's content, dowsed in prose, wrapped in blog entries, and thrown upon the hot coals of those I miss.

Poetry Thursday: Blue Monday

2006-11-23T23:59:00.000-06:00

This week's prompt was to attend a poetry reading. I can't, nor won't, do that. Instead, I wrote the following this past Monday, after taking a walk at sunrise to cure my writer’s block.

Poor Man's Snow

I went walking through the frost
To pretend that it was snow
Crunching sounds of white powder
Dust
On frozen grass that doesn’t know

It’s not snow
I said, but smiled
For the earth is just as cold

Whether frost is sleeping on the ground
Or whether it is snow.

I know why the baked bird sings

2006-11-23T05:03:00.000-06:00

Thanksgiving morning, four AM, and here I sit by an open window. Yes, I'm cold, wrapped in a navy blue sheet, but it's nice to be affected by something. To be able to breathe the cold air of reality versus the synthetic air of the heater. All stuffy as it fills my tiny office. No thank you. I'd rather sit here shivering.

I have a long day ahead of me. Long days behind me. Busy and quiet, but I wanted to come home for the holiday and say hello; stick my head out like a little groundhog who sees her shadow. I get scared. Just one more week of NaNoWriMo. I hope you'll come and see my final word count next Thursday. I'm going to lose, but that's all right. If nothing else, it will affect me.

Off to write. Then it's off to get ready. Pack Baby Girl a bag of toys and snacks and drinks for the long day's road ahead. We're going up north to see my grandparents, her great grandparents, though we have to ride with my Mom on the way up there, and my sister on the way back. I dread it. I wish we could just stay home and watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I live for those things.

The best part of Thanksgiving (not including the parade) is filling both our tummies with lots of dressing, not stuffing. Down here, we don't stuff our turkeys. We bake the bird and the "stuffing" separate, therefore, it's not stuffing at all, but dressing. I love it! Wish I could eat a whole plate of it while watching the parade, then snuggle up with Baby Girl, our full tummies. Finding out she was inside me three years ago today. Celebrate the fact that we're both here; thankful for each other, and all that we have; that Mommy quit smoking. Yay for me and the last three years of being smoke free!

So yes, dressing, and two great anniversaries. I hate that we’ll miss the parade, and the potential for naps, though I may sneak one in once we’re home. To stay up all night and morning, over and over, trying so damn hard to win that NaNoWriMo! A contest that is ruining my sleep, my health, my social life. I want it though. I WANT to win. I'm lonely as hell, and sad and depressed, and a million other bad things, but it's pulling a novel out of my heart and head like a dentist pulls a tooth from your mouth.

I hope everyone I know, and everyone here, and everyone everywhere has the most wonderful, lovely, warm and safe holiday! I wish I could make the rounds and tell everyone, Happy Thanksgiving! in a more one-on-one greeting card type way but I do have that novel, and the long day and road ahead. I miss my friends, though, and will be thinking of them. I am thankful for them. I hope they know my selfishness is only for the sake of writing. Limited time. I hope to leave this cold office laughing, for the happiness of being closer to winning that contest and the pride I long for. Should I lose, I'm still grateful for the words I've got so far. For being here long enough to write anything at all.

Because I Don't Want to Write a Novel...

2006-11-19T04:34:00.000-06:00

Yay! Guess who's potty-trained!!

Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd fill in the blanks a bit; catch up on blogging, and generally procrastinate.

You know me.

{ Red }
1. Closest red thing to you? Picture on the wall I drew in red pencil.
2. Has anyone ever cheated on you in a relationship? Yes.
3. Last thing to make you angry? Being treated like a child.
4. Are you a fan of romance? Yes.
5. Have you ever been in love? One too many times.
6. Do you have a temper? Yes.

{ GREEN }
1. Closest green thing to you? My coffee mug.
2. Do you care about the environment? Yes.
3. Are you jealous of anyone right now? Everyone who's going to win NaNoWriMo. Everyone who has more words than me. All the writers who are published. The millions who are better at writing. People who are asleep.
4. Are you a lucky person? Not at all.
5. Do you always want what you can't have? I want what I don't have.
6. Are you Irish? One third, plus French and Scottish.

{ PURPLE }
1. Last purple thing you saw? The font on Jemima's page, from whence I stole this.
2. Like being treated to expensive things? No. Gifts make me feel guilty.
3. Do you like mysterious things? I like simple things. Honest things.
4. Favorite type of chocolate? Dark and cheap.
5. Ever met any royalty? Of course not.
6. Are you creative? Obviously.
7. Are you lonely? I'm desolate.

{ BLUE }
1. Closest blue thing to you? My coffee mug. Tis green and blue striped.
2. Are you good at calming people down? Just Baby Girl.
3. Do you like the ocean? I love the ocean.
4. What was the last thing that made you cry? The fear of my mom finding my blogs, now that she knows how.
5. Are you a logical thinker? Unfortunately.
6. Can you sleep easily? Not at all.
7. Do you prefer the beach or the woods? The beach, but I live in the woods.

{ YELLOW }
1. Closest yellow thing to you? The stars and moon in Van Gogh's The Starry Night.
2. The happiest time(s) of your life? I'll let you know as soon as it happens.
3. Favorite holiday? Halloween.
4. Are you a coward? Yes.
5. Do you burn or tan? I usually tan.
6. Do you want children? I've been sad lately, thinking I want another baby, but in the long run, I'm about ninety-nine percent sure I don't.
7. What makes you happy? The happiness of others.

{ PINK }
1. Closest pink thing to you? The tights I'm wearing.
2. Do you like sweet things? Yes.
3. Like play-fighting? No.
4. Are you sensitive? Yes.
5. Do you like punk music? Yes.
6. What is your favorite flower? Daffodils.
7. Does someone have a crush on you? No.

{ ORANGE }
1. Closest orange thing to you? A copy of Huck Finn.
2. Do you like to burn things? I used to.
3. Dress up for Halloween? I was going to, but fell asleep.
4. Are you usually a warm-hearted person? Towards others, when I'm not distracted by my writing, or my own sadness.
5. Do you prefer the single life or the security of a relationship? There’s good and bad in all of it. You're pretty much screwed either way.
6. What would your super power be? To touch people and make them happy. I'd fly all over the world, just touching everyone.

{ WHITE }
1. Closest white thing to you? My bra and socks.
2. Would you say you're innocent? No. I'm drenched in sin.
3. Always try to keep the peace? I try, but fail.
4. How do you imagine your wedding? Me in a Cinderella dress with flowers in my hair, a dark green ribbon around the waist, barefoot. Outside. On a beach or on a grassy hill near a little white church. A gorgeous, kind, brilliant, funny, and thoughtful, understanding man with a good job and great smile, watching me walk down the make-believe aisle, thinking, I love this girl more than anything, and will never be mean to her. Never yell at her. Never cheat on her. Or hurt her in any way. I'll treat her like a princess, and read her writing, and play with her child till the end of my days.
5. Do you like to play in the snow? I love it.
6. Are you afraid of going to the doctors or dentist? Yes.

{ BLACK }
1. Closest black thing to you? My desktop.
2. Ever enjoy hurting people? Never.
3. Are you sophisticated or silly? Mostly silly.
4. Do you have a lot of secrets? Everyone does.
5. What is(are) your favorite color(s)? Green and blue.
6. Does the color you wear affect your mood? Wearing the bright pink tights with a gold silk nightgown, I feel like the most horrible, hideous, and heartless person in the whole wide world. So no. I should probably be wearing all black.

Poetry Thursday: Liar, Liar, Tights on Fire

2006-11-16T02:50:00.000-06:00

Tis actually Sunday, November 19th. I missed Poetry Thursday due to noveling, isolation, and depression in general.

The prompt o' the week was to lie through poetry. Pick a few objects, and tell anything but the truth.

I wrote this a few days ago by hand:

Ten

Boys don't cry
Pictures never lie
God is dead
Death is the end
Life is what you make it
Birth is painless
Writing can be taught
Blogging doesn't hurt
Love is all you need
Sex can be meaningless

Okay, so it's not an actual poem, just a list. I’m busy writing. Tired. Lonely.

I feel invisible. Posting in a mere attempt to keep my foot in the door, lest it slam shut, and lock me out in the cold.

I’m so sorry I can’t be better to you.

I’m worn out, and hardly good to myself.

My heart hurts so bad for the lack of something. For the fear of a drunken December. An unfinished novel. A lost contest. Getting lost in the process.

I feel so out of balance. Overworked. Overwriting.

Selfish and guilty for all the promises I mean with all my heart, but never keep. An accidental liar.

It’s just so quiet.

I hope all is well in your life.

Mine’s a mess...

Since we're being honest. ;)

What Can't Be Seen

2006-11-15T06:46:00.000-06:00

You know it's a bad sign when you wake up sweating at three-thirty in the morning, mid-November, and run to the living room, turn on the TV, see if the Tornados have died down, stayed West. If we're still safe and sound here in the shoebox. If running the air conditioner is wise, when it's supposed to be a windy fifty degrees after sunrise. I stood there naked in the middle of the room, trying to decide: air or no air. I heard Baby Girl crying, either from the flashing light, or the heat.

I wandered back to the bedroom. Locked the door behind me. Looked at the sheets all thrown about, wanting so much to return to that little space I had created beneath the blankets. Comforting, considering the nightmare I dreamt before waking.

All my friends, mostly of the high school or online variety, were standing about, talking.

Ah yes, I remember Ashley. Car crash, right?

They walked away and left me there, though I wasn't there. I tried to call out, but couldn’t. I kept thinking, over and over, It wasn't just a car crash. I was sleepy...

And then I saw from far above a wet road with no yellow line, trees on both sides, and a green jeep coming straight for me. Hitting me head-on.

I said to another person I couldn't see, but knew was there, I don't like this. I want to change it.

They said, Too bad. You can't change it.

I saw my own grave, and woke up.

I got dressed and made coffee. Came into the office. Sat down and decided, I want to go back to the internet today. Despite not feeling well. Though it's not the same bout of sickness I had when I left. That was no sickness at all. Twas an accidental overdose.

Gives you fever, your body trying its best to reject all that medicine. I felt better, though, as the day progressed. Baby Girl and I watched hours upon hours of SpongeBob. By the time the actual movie came on, we were both so tired of that damn gay Sponge, I happily switched it to Bridget Jones Diary, as she "read" books by my side.

As planned, I spent the weekend offline. Worked on the novel and my word-count. Tis healthy now, though still way behind.

Current Wordcount: 11, 051.
Number of Significant Characters: Seven.
Number of Chapters: Seven.
Number of Deaths: Still too many. (World War III will do that)
Number of Possible Love Interest: Three. (I'm living vicariously...)

They JUST issued a Tornado Warning for one county over, where my sister lives in College Town. I was just there last night.

I took yesterday off. Left Baby Girl here with a sitter, and drove North to a government building. Downtown in a dangerous city. Me in my knee high leather boots with three inch heels. Short skirt. Low top. I rethought the whole outfit as I made the long walk from my car parked in the very back, up to the front entrance where scary looking men drove past. Though I was comforted by the fact that a well-dressed man was behind me. Cute. Mid-thirties.

I lost sight of him once inside. Handed over my purse. Walked through a metal detector for the first time in my life. Looked for the stairwell, but couldn't find it. Went to the elevator, and who do you think was waiting inside?

Cute mid-thirties Man.

Him on one side and me on the other, leaning against the wall, hardly breathing.

I hate elevators, I said.

He smiled, and asked, Are you claustrophobic, or is it the elevator itself?

I told him it was the elevator, and he assured me we were safe.

I used to climb the cables, he said. I checked 'em for a living.

I guess I looked surprised, or relieved, as I nodded and said, Wow, really? and we both smiled and blushed. The cables held.

No goodbye.

I got off on the second floor, and he went onto three.

As I left the government building, I saw his blue car parked across from mine, and thought of leaving a note on his windshield. "Thanks for riding with me," along with my phone number. I thought about it, but didn't. And thought of him all day.

I went shopping. Tried to find my sister a late birthday present. Bought a coat for Baby Girl. A few movies for myself at the video place where VHS tapes are no longer wanted on their shelves and marked down to five for ten dollars.

I drove South to my sister's, and apologized for the lack of a present. She said she didn't care; she was just happy to see me. Her husband was out with Adams, his best friend and a man I was quite smitten with. Gorgeous. Mid-twenties. He's the reason I didn't see Sufjan in concert. Being the terrible driver I am, no one would agree to keep Baby Girl while I ran off to Nashville for an overnight vacation, unless of course, someone else would take me. I fought against it. I'm an adult! I can drive. But you'd be surprised how quick those sitters gang up when they know I want to go to a big city out of state.

My sister, knowing Adams also loves Sufjan, asked him if he would just take me. Though the thought of a long car-ride, concert, and shared hotel room with a sure thing like me literally didn't interest him. Perhaps it's because he was heartbroken earlier in the year when his live-in girlfriend went back to her ex-husband and took Adam's own Baby Girl with her. That, or he just doesn’t like me.

Where do Novelist go when they die?

2006-11-10T06:35:00.000-06:00

Back to bed, tis where I'm going. I came in this morning thinking I'd blog, write thousands upon thousands of much needed words for my novel. Read. Send emails. Hopefully mend a few broken fences. Be a good friend in general. But now that I'm here, my head is aching, my mouth hurts, and I think I may have fever.

Baby Girl should be up in a few hours. I'll take some medicine and work for a bit. Spend the remainder of the day watching the SpongeBob SquarePants Marathon. Cuddle up with her on the couch for the movie tonight.

This weekend, I think I better stay offline. Work on my novel. I've missed three whole days so far this month, not including today, and my wordcount proves it. Tis far from where it should be. Though I'm not quitting, nor am I worried. I know I can do it! I simply need to concentrate. That's hard, though, when I have so many other things I'd like to be doing, need to be doing, and feel sicker with each passing minute.

I'm going back to bed now. If you don't hear from me for a while, please send help.

Best of luck to my fellow novelists. To everyone with everything.

NaNoWriMo Q and A:

Current Wordcount? 7307
Number of Significant Characters? Five.
Number of Chapters? Four.
Number of Deaths? Way too many.
Number of Possible Love Interest? Hopefully just two.

Poetry Thursday: How I wish you were here

2006-11-09T05:36:00.000-06:00

This week's prompt is to take a field trip. An artist’s day. A date with yourself, then to photograph something poetic. Draw a picture of it. Whatever melts your butter. Then write a poem. Blog it, without complaining of oral pain, how you haven't been online since Monday, and how the hell will you ever win NaNoWriMo when all you want to do is sleep, blog, and complain?

I take a field trip once a week. Unless I can't for some reason (like this week). Then I get cranky. I can't think straight. All work and no play make Ash a dull girl!

The only cure is a day at the lake.

Where the Fish Swim

I sit above them
and watch as they breathe
what chokes me
should I fall in
shining skin
of fins and scales
sunlight reflecting
golden
on each silver face

I wait
as the school grows larger
for the sunset
the heat of the water
soon to fade
bodies turning upright
floating to the surface
where the air is too thin
and the dead fish parade.

Social Engineering, and the proper use of limited time

2006-11-05T04:30:00.000-06:00

I was reading the newspaper this morning, waiting for my coffee to jumpstart my mind, when I came across an interesting article, no, not the one about how it turns out there's not plenty of fish in the sea, or the one about how Doogie Howser, M.D. is gay (which is quite surprising, though. I had a big crush on him when I was young), but THIS article here: Euthanasia for Newborns, and the Doctors and medical types who support it.

Apparently, they believe that mercy killing isn't quite popular enough in the newborn society, concerning those who are born extremely sick or disabled.

Why on earth should parents be forced to take care of these less-than-perfect bundles of bane, when obviously the cost and upset would always outweigh the possible rewards one might reap from caring for a human being that was unfortunate in being born into this world where social engineering should not necessarily be more popular, yet merely discussed more actively and openly? So says the article, not me.

Though I do think it should be discussed, perhaps not on the subject of disabled and/or severely ill newborns, those sweet helpless babies who deserve a chance to live, and if they die at young ages, well, then that's nature and/or God's way, so why should we allow them to be killed just because it takes a lot of money and/or love to keep them here and healthy and happy as HUMANLY possible, but on the subject of all society in general.

The online society, for example. How 'bout a bit of social engineering around here?? What if someone were to come along to your blog and say, Hey, Ashley Brooke Chairiet (just tossing out a name for the greater good...tis only an example...cough, cough), you are far too sick in the heart and head, and emotionally disabled, why should you be allowed to live? Why should others have to put up with you? Why should your family be forced to love you? And why don't you just quit breathing altogether, and then maybe, just maybe, the society of Bloggers would all be better off. Perfect, even, without you living amongst them. Constantly saying that you're leaving anyway, and only writing about writing, yet never actually writing, and being a bad friend, etc. We have a whole list of grievances with you, Ash Chairiet, and perhaps you should just bow out now and give us permission to mercy kill you. Think of the blogosphere, won't you? One less selfish, sad-bastard jackass spoiling the whole bunch and giving bloggers, writers, HUMAN BEINGS a bad name.

We sentence you to euthanasia!

Unless you do your part...

As a blogger: I linked the article.

As a writer: I'll say, Euthanasia is a complete delight to type as well as to say. Such a lovely word! Euthanaaaaaasia...

As a mother: I'll share the fact that I actually considered having an abortion (obviously-while-pregnant with Baby Girl). I had just turned twenty years old, and wasn't in the most ideal place to be having a child, yet I could never go through with it. I don't believe abortion is murder, and think all women should have the option, and should I become pregnant again, who knows! But with Baby Girl, I knew she was a girl, and I wanted that girl. I wanted that little human being inside me, to live, and be born, and grow up...but I always felt guilty that I even considered it. I thought God might punish me by making her come out unhealthy, or deformed, mentally impaired, in some way shape or form disabled, sick. "Imperfect."

When she was born, the doctor said It's a girl!

She's perfect.

Healthy. One hundred percent.

Though if she wasn't; if she hadn't been, and they said, Aw no, Ash Chairiet, you've given birth to an imperfect baby, in some way, shape, or form, and we'd be more than happy to dispose of this for you...

I like to think I would have said, No way in hell. Give me my child or give ME death. But no one knows for sure until they're given such a child...and should they feel euthanasia right for them, then I suppose it would be right for them.

It should at least be more actively and openly discussed.

Sufjan, the Soup's On!

2006-11-04T05:19:00.000-06:00

Despite being full of coffee, hot chocolate, multiple bottles of water, a glass of peppermint schnapps, and handful after fat compulsive handful of M&M's I keep here in a bowl on my desk, I shall now attempt going to bed.

I simply wanted to stop by one last time and share the fact that my future husband will be on TV tonight!

Austin City Limits. On PBS.

His concert will be aired along with Calexico, a wonderful band I'm also quite fond of.

Check here for your local PBS affiliate, listing, time, etc.

Also, new in the world of Sufjan is the most recent announcement of a five disk Christmas album. How delightful! I adore Christmas songs as is, but sung by Sufjan? Yes, yes.

I could eat him with a spoon. :)

Shouting your name

2006-11-03T23:55:00.001-06:00

It's Friday night, and yes, I'm technically (though probably just temporarily) dead, but I'm real lonely right now. Getting good and coffeed up for a night of noveling. Going to try to fix the massive cliché I planted at the opening of the damn thing, and also, my wordcount: it's not exactly up to par.

I missed the first day. And the third.

(Sigh)

A bit of blogging, to warm up and ease my tired mind.
...

Have You Ever ~

1. Taken a picture completely naked? Not completely naked.
2. Danced in front of a mirror naked? Yes.
3. Told a lie? Yes.
4. Had feelings for someone who didn't have them back? Almost always.
5. Been arrested? No.
6. Seen someone die? I think so.
7. Kissed a picture? Of course.
8. Slept in until 5pm? Yes.
9. Had sex at work (on the clock)? Not on the clock... ;) But yes. Had sex at the guy's work. On his desk.
10. Fallen asleep at work/school? Yes.
11. Held a snake? Yep. Wrapped a python around my neck.
12. Ran a red light? Yes.
13. Been suspended from school? No.
14. Pole danced? Yes.
15. Been fired from a job? No.
16. Sang karaoke? Yes! I kicked ass with Norah Jones's Don't Know Why.
17. Done something you told yourself you wouldn't? Definitely.
18. Laughed until something you were drinking came out your nose? Probably.
19. Laughed until you peed? No.
20. Caught a snowflake on your tongue? Yes.
21. Kissed in the rain? Yes.
22. Had sex in the rain? No.
23. Sang in the shower? Nightly.
24. Gave your private parts a nickname? Yes.
25. Ever gone to school/work without underwear? Yes.
26. Sat on a roof top? Yes.
27. Played chicken? Yes.
28. Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on? No.
29. Broken a bone? Lots.
30. Flashed someone? Possibly.
31. Mooned someone? No.
32. Shaved your head? No.
33. Slept naked? Nightly.
34. Blacked out from drinking? Just once.
35. Played a prank on someone? Yes.
36. Had a gym membership? Not yet.
37. Felt like killing someone? Yes.
38. Cried over someone you were in love with? All the time.
39. Had Mexican jumping beans for pets? No.
40. Been in a band? Yes.
41. Shot a gun? Yes.
42. Shot a bow and arrow? Yes.
43. Played strip poker? No.
44. Donated Blood? No.
45. Ever jump out of an airplane? No.
46. Been to more than 10 countries? I haven't been to ten states! Never left the country...

Poetry Thursday: Reciting Lines on a Foggy Morning

2006-11-02T08:00:00.000-06:00

A local pond, from my walk at sunrise

While dead, I can still write poetry...toss 'em like bottles filled with scrolls towards the wooden fence of home.

This week's prompt was/is My Favorite Line of Poetry. I am to reveal a line of poetry I love, whether written by me or someone better, and wrap my own poem around it.

The lines I most adore are by Robert Frost; the final stanza from Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep.

...

Mile Thick Fog

I walk into the fog of morning
wet grass
the sound of animals and birds
singing and chirping
crickets make violins of their legs

I walk into the fog of daylight
sun shining
casting its rays of gold and orange
to warm the wet grass
and the crickets that play

I walk into the fog of each new day
never knowing
if life will soon end
is this my final moment?
the birds circle overhead

I walk into the fog of evening
sun setting
animals make their bed of dry grass
the dirt where they live
till this day is dead

I walk into the fog of midnight
moon rising
shadows stretch across the land
I lose my way on this cold day
with miles to go before I rest

Halloween

2006-10-31T23:59:00.000-06:00

A long and tiring day. A storm blew in, heavy rain and hail, massive amounts of lightening. A rainbow followed, and what else makes Halloween special but a rainbow tornado?

Tis what it sounded like as I took this picture from the deck; the wind was howling through the backwoods.

Baby-bot as Tinkerbelle had a lovely time trick or treating after the storm finally passed. We went to the other's. To my mom, and my dad's. To my former church for Trunk or Treat, where church members park their cars in the parking lot and local children come and gather said treats from the trunks, and only a few shouts of Jesus loves you! could be heard amongst the sound of people laughing and talking. Quite a few compliments were graced upon my child. Aw, isn't she cute?!

She was quite charming. Smiling. Dancing around.

I had one of those moments only parents can truly understand...when your child is a few feet away from you in a parking lot and you look at her and time is suddenly frozen. You see her. She is lit up by the warm light of the streetlamp overhead. You can't help but think, my child is gorgeous and special, and my God at how old she is.

I'll never forget that moment.

Happy Halloween.

I'm Awake...

2006-10-30T08:39:00.000-06:00

In a very strange place. Life is changing, as always, of course, but something feels different. Those days when you awake with a clear head and a full heart, and you know something’s changing, though you're not sure what, but you know not to be scared. To stand still for a moment, and watch...wait...it's changing, and maybe this time, for the best.

I'm in a very strange state. My mind is racing, yet I feel I'm in slow motion. Leaves falling, and Baby Girl rushing past, yet I'm walking the dirtroad in silence. Each step is thoughtful, careful. Quiet. I smile, and my eyes fill with tears because I know something is over. A chapter of my life is closing, and as a writer, I know chapters...I know an ending when I see it.

I know it's time to write another novel. To take it seriously, and be the best damn writer I can be.

Not be distracted. Not be sad. Not be lonely, or wanting, or selfish, or needy. Not be so isolated. Yet unseen.

I'm simply stepping away, climbing over the fence, and where's Ash? someone asks. Everyone smiles and nods, and says, Ah, there she is, walking slowly now, but come November, she'll be running...full speed ahead towards the sunset, through the tall grass. I know. Said Huck Finn, I been there before.

And I miss that field. That tall grass.

Aiming for the sunset.

You've got to catch it, though, while it last. Or else you'll freeze to death.

Novel Land and the field you have to cross, the fence, to climb, the sun, to catch, it's a cold and lonely place. You can't fall. You can't stop. You can't give up at the first sign of bad prose or weak plot. There are living things that hide amongst that tall grass. They will devour you, given the chance. Those little creatures, those monsters, they spawn from our own self doubt. Waiting...watching. Destroying all dreams. Killing all writers, should we stop, or should we fall, our stories won't be told.

...

In my head: all that I just wrote; change, and the monsters in the grass. How I fear them, yet how excited I am for November, and this, my third real attempt at noveling.

In my heart: I am not well. Healing, though, I think.

In my life: I have so many stories to tell...I've been busy, though, and time must be made for telling stories. Hopefully I'll find that time, not only for me, but for others. Those moments when the monsters are sleeping, and I can stop and breathe easy for the chance to say Hi, how are you? I want and need you in my life.

...

One last story on this short and sunlit morning:

I drove out to the Lake again last Tuesday. I parked upon a steep hill to watch the sunset. The lake to one side, a green valley to the other, full of trees, their leaves beginning to change. Fall. Gold light upon their heads, and my face, through the window in the car, I said aloud everything to everyone I was thinking of. Those who find their way into my heart and into my head, and some of them I want there, all of them I need there, and after saying my thoughts aloud, I said to myself, I want to be happy. I want to live.

I want to watch the sunset over beautiful lakes. Clear water. Sitting on wooden boat docks, writing. Excited for novels, and each new day.

I don't want to fall into that valley where I'd surely break my neck. And who would find me, as I'm dieing, but the monsters in the grass.

Slowly Sinking

2006-10-27T04:56:00.001-05:00

Feeling playful, yet lonely. I haven't slept. It's been raining here since Wednesday morning. Gray. Storming.

Sorry for my lack of posting and presence in general: I haven't been online much this week. Busy. Sad. Etc.

I hope everyone else is happy and well.

Just for fun, and fluff, and Friday, I stole the following survey from my friend JVS:

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

My idea of perfect happiness is walking barefoot on a beach with blue skies, blue water, white sand, soft and smooth. Sun setting. Rising. Making love in the inbetween time. Then running home to a big warm bath, and equally warm and big bed with a skylight above me so I can see the stars. Somewhere that isn’t a trailer in tornado alley. With a man who actually loves me, for what’s in my heart if I have one.

That, and being a published writer.

What is your greatest fear?

Never being a published writer.

What is your favorite journey?

The journey from the blank page to the full page.

What do you consider the most over-rated virtue?

Love.

What virtue do you wish you had more of?

Patience.

On what occasion do you lie?

When my head and heart both agree that it’s best and basically harmless. But I don’t like to lie, and rarely do so.

Which words do you most over use?

In real life: No (to Baby Girl). I’m lonely. [Profanity]

In my writing: God Damn. Come. Inbetween. In general. Blue. Green. Sun.

What is your greatest extravagance?

Shoes.

What do you dislike about your appearance?

I’ve come to terms with my outward appearance. I think it’s all right. Not too fond of the stretch marks, though. Or my giant nose.

Which living person do you most despise?

My step-dad.

What is your greatest regret?

Not killing step-dad.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?

What, would be my writing. Who, would be Baby Girl. And in the more romantic sense: the boy who broke my heart into thousands of tiny pieces when I was sixteen.

When and where were you happiest?

In the front yard, at a party, on New Year’s Eve, 1999. I will forever live in that little moment in time when we were together, and just starting to fall in love. Thinking the world was fixing to end, I asked him to crawl into the backseat and sleep with me. When he said no, I loved him immediately.

Which talent would you most like to have?

Singing. Tis a dream of mine to star on Broadway.

What is your current state of mind?

Dark clouds, clearing? Breaking. Something new and exciting on the horizon. A chance to wander through tall grass. Run towards the sunlight. Be warm and happy in a constant state of writer’s delight. Yet my heart is aching. I am lonely. Quiet. Restless on this long and rainy night.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?

There’s no answer to this question for me. My family is a lost and broken cause.

If you could die and come back as a person or thing, what would it be?

I’d come back as a cat. Lie in bed all day. Sit on people’s laps. Rub my tiny nose against their cheeks. Be petted. Loved. Fed. Watered. Adored by my owner. Sit in the windowsill warming my sleek black fur. Stare at the sun. Chase mice. Purr while having my tummy rubbed.

What is your most treasured possession?

All my writing and photos.

What thing would you like to have, that you do not?

A real house.

What do you think is the lowest depth of misery?

The lowest depth of misery is helplessness during a time of danger. People cowering in war zones. Children being beaten in their own homes. Kids being shot at school. Families in burning buildings. People on crashing planes. Dieing in pain, with no escape.

What is the quality you most like in a man?

Intelligence. Unless he’s WAY smarter than me, and makes me feel stupid in comparison.

What physical quality do you like in a man?

I like dark hair, dark eyes, kind smiles, big noses, strong arms. Really short, or really tall. Not too thin or too fat. Middle age is nice. They know who they are, and where they’ve been. Not always where they’re going. But that’s half the fun: being with them when they figure it out.

What do you most value in friends?

Compassion.

What quality do you most dislike in a person?

Cowardice.

Who are your favorite writers?

Frank McCourt. Dr. Seuss. Shakespeare. All my blogging friends.

Who are your heroes in real life?

My heroes are Frank McCourt, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Audrey Hepburn, and Sufjan Stevens. Frank won the Pulitzer. Bogart is just flat-out fantastic. Bacall had the balls to get what she wanted, and keep Bogart on his toes. Audrey was gorgeous, and graceful, and kind. Sufjan is also gorgeous, talented, writes and sings and plays from his heart.

What are your favorite names?

Francis, Tobias, Atticus, and Benjamin, for boys.

For a girl: Juliet.

How would you like to die?

Plane crash. Drowning. Or in my sleep would be just fine.

What is your motto?

Be calm.

Be clear.

Be concise.

Poetry Thursday: Right in Front of Me

2006-10-26T23:40:00.000-05:00

This week's prompt is What’s in front of you. What inspires you. Where you go and what you see and how you feel. The words that come forth, straight from your heart and head.

In front of me, I see a bright screen. I see lights. I see boxes and blinking cursers. The proverbial blank page, just waiting to be filled. The possibility of an improvised poem. Not for what Inspires me, or what I see, but for who.

New Cart Smell

I lie in my hospital gown
in my hospital bed
in this hospital room
where the smell of blood
is looming

The day begins outside
noises in the hallway
voices over charts
hanging on the back of doors
the secrets they write

Windows open with slits of light
morning shines
I’m scared to be alive

I hear crying
footsteps
the door swings open
a nurse walks inside
pushing a cart

Four sides
a clear plastic bed
for a baby that's mine

I raise my head and smile
take her in my arms
as she waves tiny fists
with closed eyes
always missing

I kiss her

I whisper:

Welcome to your life

Who's coming with me?

2006-10-23T08:05:00.000-05:00

she asks, ala Jerry Maguire.

I've been meaning to extend a wide open invitation to everyone and anyone. Write a novel in one single month, with tons of support, in the company of fellow writers. It's fun! And hard. And truly a great way to get the first one over with if you've never written a novel before. It's goes so quickly, the self hate and doubt is postponed indefinitely! (Also known as December.)

...

Sign Up Here. Now. Please?

...

What you'll receive:

A novel.
Fifty thousand words.
In thirty days.
Endless cups of coffee.
A short break from blogging.
The love and respect of A. B. Chairiet.
A certificate, should you finish.

I'll poke you with a stick and make sure you finish!

Me and BB and JVS...we're going to light fires and write novels and get published and be famous!

Why not join us?

...

You had me at NaNoWriMo...

Chasing White

2006-10-23T07:29:00.000-05:00

Monday morning, and the heat's blowing. I'm drinking cold water. Awake for hours now. Baby Girl woke me up at One-Forty, screaming, crying. Why? I don't know. She hasn't been sleeping well. It's always too hot here, or too cold. I dress in her warm jammies, but then the heat blows, and with blankets, sheets, it's far too much. So I don't run the heat and she gets cold. I can't win. Couldn't fall back asleep. Laid in bed. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts on my lack of writing these past few days. How I've barely been online at all. Only once since Thursday, but I was drunk. Insanely drunk...

For the last time, I swear.

No drinking for NaNoWriMo.

I've settled on a title:

Noah, by A. B. Chairiet

I hope it will be publishable.

Tis my goal, Love. My big goal, like an illuminated bulls-eye, swinging and swaying on the end of a string.

I want to shoot it in its center.

Catch the white rabbit. Join him for tea. And not be beheaded by the evil queen otherwise known as writer's block, giving up, getting stuck on chapter three...

I aim. But how do I shoot the center when the circle swings and sways?

There's so much to do beforehand. So many loose ends to tie, and friends to say hello to. No goodbyes, though. I'm not leaving. I couldn't bear the loneliness now...It's getting so cold, so quiet. The hum of the fan and the lull of the heat. The sound. The warmth. I need this and you and friends.

I've been so busy in reality.

Spent the weekend with Baby Girl. Cooking, cleaning.

We went to a party on Saturday. No slipping down embankments. No happy families making me jealous, or sad. I sat in the floor of a tiny living room with lots of loud mouth fat-ass women and quiet redneck men. Obnoxious children. A baby who just turned one years old. Cake. Ice Cream. No thank you, I don't want any, and the fat women give me dirty looks.

When you get older, one says, You'll realize it doesn't matter.

And they all laugh.

I don't care how old I am, being fat and unhealthy is never wise, and when she's on her deathbed at thirty five having a triple bi-pass, maybe she'll think twice about giant slabs of cake with ice cream and cookies and Coke, and casting dirty looks, rolling her eyes, and mispronouncing my daughter's name...

Oh, she said, upon my correcting her.

That must be a family name.

No it's not a family name. It's just a God Damn Name! Now eat your puckin' cake and tell your obnoxious little monster children to shut the puck up! They’re so shrill, my head's aching.

I hate parties. I hate stupid cake and stupid people and stupid families that are boring and obnoxious and I'd rather stay home with Baby Girl and be quiet and lonely than go amongst people who are loud and ordinary.

I love when my dreams come true in a way that corrects my prior thinking.

I only hope the bulls-eye isn't really swinging or swaying.

I hope the white rabbit's in reach.

Pride and Prejudice

2006-10-21T03:57:00.000-05:00

What do you mean you don't like my mustache?!

So it's Saturday, and I couldn't sleep. I'm drinking. Listening to loud music. Dancing. Life is swell, albeit strange and busy.

Monday night, I was lying in the floor with Baby-bot, half-playing with her in her dollhouse, half-watching The Harvey Girls in my nightgown, waiting patiently for the Bolger/Garland dance number, How delightful to see them reunited! when I heard a knock at yonder door. Twas a neighbor of mine. A young mother of her own baby girl. She was married, but that didn't last...they're still married though. Southerners rarely take the time (cough, cough, the money) to receive technical, legal, oh-the-shame-of-it-all divorces, so. Yes. Married. But not for long...ran off and joined the army. Was stationed up north. Got knocked up and now she's home. Lives up the road from us. Her little darling is turning one years old, and having a party this afternoon.

We're invited. Tis why she stopped by...handed me the invitation. I immediately thought of my dream: the party full of families, and Baby Girl falling.

I should probably be sleeping now, especially not drinking, so I can keep two open eyes on her at all times later today.

...

Went for a walk Tuesday or Wednesday. Heard horrible noises out in the woods. Twas three dogs having sex, simultaneously, while another dog stood watch. His tongue hanging out. Panting. All of them howling. I laughed, and they heard me...broke it up long enough to chase me and Baby Girl, who yes, was crying. And fear of dogs or not, I kept my cool, I'm proud to say. I told Baby Girl, Don't cry, it's okay. Told the dogs, Hush up, filthy mutts! They went back to their business, not in the woods, though, but right there in the middle of the road.
...

I didn't go to that local festival. No one would go with me, and I didn't feel like taking Baby Girl alone.

...

My father came over Thursday night with a Pizza for him and Baby Girl.

They sat and ate, as he and I discussed politics and the upcoming elections. I asked for his opinions on the candidates...

Big mistake.

Dad ranted and raved about how I should vote for Asa Hutchinson, and not Mike Beebe. Unless of course I like Bill Clinton (which is a mortal sin in Dad's book) because Bill Clinton, while in office, he says, was more interested in whores than the state of our nation. You don’t support that, now do ya? Support Bill Clinton...damn, worthless...

Random mutterings, all muffled by cheese and various pizza toppings. Baby Girl's bibble-babbling. My own sighing, and crinkling of the newspaper.

I ask what makes Asa Hutchinson so great? Besides the fact that I find him more, if only somewhat, aesthetically pleasing...

Dad said, He's against those Homosexuals getting married, adopting babies.

I said, I have no problem with gay people getting married...I think all marriage should be illegal though. Tis the stupidest, most outdated institution known to modern man.

As for gay parents adopting babies: I told him there are so many sweet little babies who need homes, and who the hell can say who's fit to be a parent and who's not? I raise Baby Girl, and no, I'm not gay, just a young borderline alcoholic who's somewhat suicidal, depressed for life, and this makes me better suited to care for another human being, more so than those who prefer the same-sex while fornicating??

Please. Sexual Orientation matters not, when all kids need is love and attention. I give Baby Girl a million times the ocean! I hug and cuddle and tell her I love her.

The fact that I find women attractive is completely irrelevant when it comes to my ability to be a great parent.

My father doesn't know...doesn't care. Rants and raves. Eats. Finishes.

We moved to the living room to watch Brian Wilson in concert. Talk of who was better: The Beatles or the Rolling Stones.

He goes home to his wife, the home-wrecking dogface bitch that slept with him while he was still married to my mother, who is obviously straight as a board, and wasn’t a good parent at all. My father either. He wasn't around...not at all concerned for the state of his daughters while in office with his whore.

We thanked him for the pizza, and kissed him goodnight.

...

Friday was all right. I worked hard. Took a short nap, and then got up and took Baby Girl for a long walk. Twas cool and breezy. Nice. We talked and had fun, and she's so excited for the party. Keeps saying, Birthday party! and smiling.

Finally got her to bed around ten. Went to bed myself and laid there, staring at the ceiling. Couldn't sleep. Just laid there, and laid there...my head full, and my heart...well, I'm not sure what she's wanting, or losing, or needing, or what she says to my head when I'm not listening.

I came in here to drink.

Poetry Thursday: Avoid the Kitchen, that's where the poems are

2006-10-19T06:36:00.000-05:00

This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday is What We Avoid. As poets, writers, people in general.

I avoid myself. The sound of my own inner voice. I isolate myself for a bit of quiet, though the quiet drives me back to writing lest that pesky inner voice grow too loud. My head too full. My heart too empty.

That's where poetry comes in.

It empties my heart, like cleaning the lint trap of the clothes dryer.

While "cleaning", I try my best to avoid A) Ovary Poetry, B) Weirdo Beatnik Poetry, C) Greeting Card Poetry, and D) Refrigerator Poetry.

Example of A :

The life force of my body
Eggs
Something stupid about love and bon-bon’s
All hail womankind!

I have no idea...mush-mash and such.

Example of B :

DeaTH chAses Me
To SEe
what My EyeS hear
The Pain, the pain
OF My Father'S birtH
KillING me
My OWn two Hands
Dieing

[Ash giggling] Again, I have no idea...that one reads a bit more like a sad little gothic kid* who want to slit their wrists and wear nothing but black and eat seeds and smoke cigarettes. Constantly whining and taking up space.

*This form should also be avoided.

Example of C :

Our Love is the brightest
of all stars
in the heavens
shining for eternity
like never ending rings

Bleh.

Love is stupid and should be hated.

Example of D :

I was reading an article the other day on the low standards of the average American when it comes to entertainment. How watered-down and dumb television and film has become. Etc, etc. And came across the phrase Refrigerator Poetry. How anyone (yes, anyone) can "write" poetry with the help of those "delightful" little magnets.

I own a set of them myself. They were a gift, and I'm thankful for 'em. I smiled and thought 'em quite delightful myself. But for actual writing? Well, poetry, to me, is a bit more than magnets on a fridge...though for the sake of this (now slightly wayward) post, here's a fridge poem for you. "Written" by me between four-fifty and five-seventeen of this morning, sitting barefoot on the fake hardwood of my cold kitchen floor with a cup of coffee, my camera, and no idea whatsoever on how to go about creating something of coherence with nothing but magnets, the hum of the fridge, and my heart's inner voice still sleeping.

For the kids who can't read good:

Love Me
Save Me
Interrogate Me
Hate Me

Use Me
Fix Me

Obliterate Me

Okay, so I filled in the blanks a bit. And yes, the third magnet says Integrate, not Interrogate, but I didn't know that at the time [cough-cough, Ash can't read good either].

...

End Note: Ninety percent of this is my joking. I respect poetry, poets, and anything they say and represent (within reason).

I think the only poetry that should be avoided is dishonest poetry. As long as you're telling the truth, not Non-fiction necessarily, but the truth as your heart and head sees it, then poetry is great and should be loved. As long as writing it made the poet happy.

I'm not happy.

I'm ready for November and fictional prose.

Maybe it was Utah

2006-10-16T05:17:00.001-05:00

Monday, October 16th: the start of another week. Another morning where I sit with coffee and a keyboard, a ceiling fan above me. A clean office I spent five hours cleaning while not working over the four day weekend. Who knew I had so many things I didn't need? Whole stacks of papers, stories I wrote, and smiled over reading. How enthusiastic I used to be! How happy. How distracted by the coffee and the keyboard and the fan.

It's raining out. The constant tapping on my tin roof is making me sleepy. I didn't sleep well last night. Woke up angry. I don't remember dreaming.

I had plenty of dreams Saturday night once I finally stumbled to bed after watching documentaries on sex addicts, and students sleeping with their teachers, and no, they didn't abuse their trust, and yes, they must have sex, they're addicted. I don’t believe 'em but watched like a kid at a sideshow. People throwing knives at other people spinning on wheels, crying. Scared. I dreamt I was walking down a muddy road, alone, with snakes hiding in the puddles, rattling and slithering. Lunging at my ankles. Snakes everywhere! In the grass that grew alongside, falling from the treeline. My father stepped out into the road ahead shouting, Watch out for those snakes, Ash. Watch out for those snakes...

I went on to dream of Baby Girl and I going to a birthday party for another child. After parking longways in front of a house with children all running in the yard full of happy families with gifts in hand, new babies in their arms, smiling over everything, I climbed from the car and unfastened Baby Girl and sat her down, and she was so happy to see the other kids, to play with someone other than me, that she ran into the yard and was laughing, but I told her to stop. Wait. I have to get the gift from the passenger seat. I walked back to the car and was struggling to get the big heavy present and my purse and the keys. I wasn't watching. She was coming back to me, and slid down an embankment into a big moving stream, and I yelled at someone standing closer to reach in and grab her, but they didn't, so I jumped in, and she was fine. Thank God, she was fine! But I had to take her home and get us changed and by the time we made it back, the party was over. It was dark. The families were leaving.

The final dream was of me, walking through a door into a room where all four walls were tall clear glass. Sunlight pouring onto white wood floors. In the center was a stage, and on it, a bed, and on it, my ex best friend, M. Short, thin, green eyes and a big toothy smile like Julia Roberts. I said hi, and we hugged. It was just like old times. Lying in bed by each other's side. Staring out the windows, I asked her, Where are we? She said it was a famous building where they once shot a movie, but it was so old, she bought it for cheap, and would I like a tour? I said I did. Pulling down a folded ladder with a string. She took my hand and led me through a door in the ceiling. We climbed up and out and into the sunlight, onto a flat square with stairs, slides, and tunnels connecting hundreds of other rooftops, all of different colors and heights: the buildings, stairs, tunnels, and slides. We played like the children in the yard until I got lost, and the sky went dark. Separated, I ran, searching, through windows and doors, trying to find her loft but never could. I stood in that darkness atop a roof waiting for the sun to rise. To pass the time, I took pictures of the tunnels and slides. The flash of my camera. My only light.

I'm outside your house

2006-10-13T08:35:00.000-05:00

Looking through the window at a happy family, eating soup, or something from bowls with spoons. Steam rising making everyone's cheeks warm and pink. You and your wife and your kids, and everyone's happy, smiling. Your eyes all twinkle a bit as I lower my head. I walk away. Slowly at first, staring at my shoes making imprints in yesterday's snow. Then faster. Running down the sidewalk with one hand doing what it will, the other holding the letter, folded in an envelope.

You don't want what's inside.

And I won't bother you with it. I won't interrupt your dinner, your life. I won't ask for more than you can give me. I won't ring that doorbell and ask to come inside. Just for a moment, to warm myself by your fire, or at your soup or say nice things to your wife and kids. Oh what lovely things you have, here in this well furnished place with stairs that lead up to the bedroom where I wish you'd take me, but I know you never will.

...

I'm feeling sorry for myself this morning. Feeling sorry for the world in general.

Just felt like writing something.

It's Friday the 13th, and that's always a fun day for writing. Holidays, and other such special occasions usually inspire me. I think I might start a new short story later today. I'm not working. Didn't work yesterday. I had a hell of a day Monday, and Tuesday also, despite going to the lake: I did work until two. And then Wednesday was busy...plus I'm going to be majorly swamped next week. So, why not take off a couple days while things are light, and no one cares? Yes, I'm allowed that luxury. As long as the paperwork gets entered and filed, and as long as I meet next week's deadline, I can take off without any fuss.

I want to mention a few things, and then go back into my dark little corner where Pete Yorn is waiting to serenade me.

...

Yesterday, I wrote about buffets. Seems kind of silly out of context, but I think I can explain...

At the deadblog, for those of you who don't know or don't remember, I had a system that worked fairly well for me almost the entire time I was there: I'd sit down each morning (it was night for the Stuckeyblog, but I switched to mornings to help curb the depression and/or drinking...which yes, I need to do again. No more all and/or late night postings from me...I'm going to bed, and putting the bottle in the deep freeze...I'd sit down, though, and write for at least two hours every day I was online, and whatever came to me, that's what I posted...just a slight amount of editing, and no worries as to how unpolished it was.

I've been too concerned with "polishing." Writing pieces only to save them as drafts, print them out, edit, and deem 'em unworthy for posting. Toss 'em in the trash.

That's not helping me though.

I need to be unpolished. I need to improvise. Be extemporaneous. Less hard on myself.

So anyway...if my posting seems a bit, Why is she writing THIS? Just ignore me. I'm a sad little twenty-three year old who just desperately needs to return to her old system, lest she quit writing publicly altogether.

I sincerely hope no one will mind.

...

I'm going out tomorrow!

There's a big local festival uptown. I go every year. You may recall (again, for those of you who've been with me for a while), last year, I saw the boy I lost my virginity to, and he flat out ignored me. Which yes, hurt my heart very badly.

I'll be going with my sister, my mother, and of course, Baby Girl.

...

Speaking of her, and all that you may or may not remember...a year ago yesterday was the day when she got into my medicine and was rushed to the emergency room, where they wanted to load her up into a helicopter and fly her off to Children's Hospital in Little Rock. I said no, and here we are, one year later.

I think it's safe to say, she didn't swallow those pills after all.

...

I finally made my dentist appointment with Dr. Hottie!

Come early November, I'll get that tooth fixed, and all will be well in my mouth again.

...

And finally, I want to apologize for my whining and bitching and complaining about time, and/or the lack thereof.

It's completely and totally my fault, and I hope to God I didn’t make anyone feel uncomfortable or guilty, or a bane to me. No one is. I am the soul bane to my own little existence. I love everyone else, and sometimes don’t realize how my horrible lack of prioritizing can effect others. And really, that's all it is: I do have quite a bit on my plate (we all do), but it's not so much that I can't handle or carry it. I just lost my balance is all. And as a Libra, losing your balance is pretty much the end of the world for you. It just shuts you down...like all or nothing? It's nothing. If I have a lot to do, I end up doing nothing, and then feel guilty, and then sad, and then I get quiet and fall behind.

It's a vicious cycle.

But I'm working on that.

And I’m happy to say, after venting a bit of my sadness on the Tenth, then running off to the lake and taking off work yesterday and today, and going out with my family tomorrow, I DO feel a world lifted off my shoulders. I feel happy, almost. And relieved. That balance is finally returning to me.

It was just a blip. I blinked. A slight glitch in Ashley's mission of trying to get caught up from the summer...going away for a long time from the standard online life makes for a hard trip back into a normal schedule.

But enough of my whining. Like I said, I honestly feel like I have a handle on it this time, and before I know it, everything will be simple and breezy like it used to be: daily writing, daily reading, casual emails, and MYLO (my life online: a cute little abbreviation I found in my latest copy of GameInformer...yes, I read GameInformer) will be as warm and happy as the family eating soup on the right side of the window.

Here's looking at them...and you. Happy Friday the 13th!

Tray in hand

2006-10-12T09:30:00.000-05:00

This morning's sunrise.

Tuesday was cold, gray. The sky wept constantly. Those tiny little soft raindrops that never really stick, only create little dots on the concrete. But I have a whole story to tell about Tuesday, so I’ll wait ‘til I have a bit more time. I woke up late this morning, but early enough to come in here. Sip my coffee. Read the loving comments left by loving friends who understand. The man who gives the most helpful advice. I read his letter and smiled. Felt warm. Was so happy he asked me not to disappear, because I had thought I might, just walk slowly into that water ala Jeff Buckley, except fewer people (times a million) would care, and I'd never get famous because of it.

Poor Jeff Buckley.

While out at the lake, I was eating French Fries and thinking of how people eat in restaurants, looking out the window, and why don’t they just get their food to go? Eat outside too, but if they’ve paid for the all you can eat buffet, then no, they’re stuck at the table. And how life could be compared to lunch breaks, and all you can eat...

You pay once, and He hands you your tray. An empty plate, a cup, and small bowl. Dirty silverware wrapped in a napkin.

You carry it with wide eyes, thinking of all the wonderful things you'll find as you reach the long line of people waiting for food warmed by lights overhead, hooded and humming, the ceiling fans spinning, the smoking section filled with coffee and fog. The kids crying for soft served ice cream, with sprinkles and chocolate and cherries on top. Mommy, I want it! And Mommy says no, grabs the kids by the arm, and yanks 'em away, as Daddy stares out the window.

You finally reach the front of the line, and everything's half empty. The potatoes have lumps. The chicken's pink.

What the hell is that yellow stuff supposed to be?

You think of the germs on the handles of the spoons and giant forks as you fill up your plate with the less questionable offerings you thought would be worth the price of admission, but now you're wishing you had bought an actual meal.

The full plate on the table before you. You unwrap your silverware. You take a deep breath, and take your first bite.

It's not nearly as good as you thought it would be. And all this food? All you can eat. The promise He made, and you took it, with a heavy plate, and only an hour to eat. The lunch break, the time inbetween walking into this place and being forced to leave...He takes your tray, and says, I hope your happy with the choices you made.

You say, I'm not. I would have rather had something from the kitchen, then the same old mundane choices like potatoes and chicken. I don't want to sit and eat all I can eat with too much to eat and no time to eat it. I thought I was getting the best deal...the most I could fit on my plate would mean more life, but it only means less time and space for the more important things. Like ice cream with sprinkles and chocolates and cherries.

Sweetness with fruit, sugar, and color.

He nods, knowing you've realized living like a child will bring you happiness, for as an adult, there's no one to tell you no. No father to ignore you.

You stand up and smile, and He hands you your tray. You march to the trashcan before it's too late.

You empty that plate that was too full of things, some good and some bad, and fill up your bowl with nothing but great! Place it in the center of your tray. Balancing is easier as you make your way back to your seat.

The empty chairs remind you of those who aren't there, but of those you wish would surround you for always. The people you love and the ones you hold dear. You hope they have full lives, but light trays for the brightest of days and nights.

Ice cream for everyone!

All you can eat...

All the time.

Poetry Thursday: In the News; America! (Rebuild! Restore! Reconsider...)

2006-10-12T07:30:00.000-05:00

When you write a poem, I know the words. I know the sounds. Before you write it down.

Today's prompt for Poetry Thursday is to pick up a magazine or watch the news, and magically become inspired! by...what? I have no idea. The news depresses me, and rightly should. I'll just write a poem about something else, thank you. How about...[Ash thinking]...Sufjan! Yes, Sufjan. I'm listening to him now, and why not an ode to my future husband?

A Man to Love Me

On the lakes of Canada
you sing my name
your banjo by your side
strumming harder
faster
rowing to the borderline

Swim across Lake Michigan
where morning comes in Paradise
for those children of the dead
you stop and sing a while
to lift their weary heads!

You drive through Illinois
‘til the avalanche buries you
and all is silent as you see
you've made a lot of mistakes
to be alone with me

What did you leave?
on that beautiful lake
your banjo in its black case
sprinkled with snow
like delicate lace

You look for my face
down in Arkansas
as you fly across the land
like the Lord God bird
all delighted people raise their hands!

Swarmed by your fans
I'm pushed aside
in the airport, near the plane you'll ride
when you leave again
to the lake, to hide

You find me and smile
Oh Ashley! you sing
I ask, What took you so long?
I got buried, you say
but I thought of a song

With no banjo to play?
I hold your hand as we fly
back north to the place
where your love lies
along with your case

You take me out on the lake
and play as I row
singing, Chicago
‘til we smile and make love
beneath the Fall sun
where all things go

You had to find it
buried in snow

I'm Lost

2006-10-10T03:30:00.000-05:00

I haven't posted since my birthday, and now it's the tenth. The tenth day of the tenth month, and I'm getting drunk. It's somewhere between night and morning. I'm lonely. Sad. Feeling low for being a horrible blogger and an even worse friend.

I'm not sure where to begin...

I walked outside at two thirty am, and looked up at the sky, and there's the moon, burning slightly dim, with this perfect white ring all around. No stars or clouds, just the moon and its ring.

I can't find the time to get online anymore.

I'm so tired. Stressed out, and busy.

I miss people. But I just can't find the time...

Some of my friends have been saying goodbye to me.

I'm not leaving.

Some of my friends hate me for not being good to them.

I don't know what to do...

I've got so much I want and need to do, but I can't find the right balance. I can't write and blog, and be mommy, and worker, and woman, and friend. I'm so tired. What do I do?? How do I fix it?? How do I make everything right. Catch up and stay caught up and write and blog and work and play and cook and clean and sleep and everything to everyone all the time, consistently.

It never ends.

I'm going to bed.

Going out to the lake tomorrow to clear my heart and head.

I hope to come back, and have all the answers. Start writing and blogging again.

Be Mommy and worker and woman and friend.

Poetry Thursday: My Body, You Didn't Want

2006-10-05T08:33:00.000-05:00

It’s not really the Fifth of October. It's the Seventeenth. I was severely depressed and/or offline the Fifth, so I missed a poem.

The prompt was My Body.

Dead of Winter

You smiled at me once
I saw your teeth flash white
like the snow we walk now
our feet sinking further
with every step
into the night

The trees grow taller
ice forming on pines
their heavy branches
run needles on the ground
like the fingers of a child

We stop in a clearing
you're quiet by my side
your arms wrap around me
and you lift me up high
throwing me to the night
where the wolves wait near by
you run and hide beneath the weighed-down pines

On my back
I am crying
as the wolves find me lying
in the open
moonlight shining
on tears in my eyes
the snow in the pines
they rip my skin
limb from limb
my body, broken

I remember your smile

I put the Oh in October

2006-10-01T23:53:00.001-05:00

Today's my birthday.

Yay for childbirth and chocolate cake!

I made a wish to write a novel so great, it would have to be published.

Spent the day with my family. Getting happy. Writing. And here I am: happy and writing. Spending time with myself and my friends.

Life doesn't have to be so sad.

I can write a novel so good, it deserves to be published.

I deserve to be happy. Loved. Twenty-three with my eyes open wide. Come on, I scream across the universe, smiling, I'm ready when you are. Let's get famous! Stay happy! Eat cake! Have sweet dreams of more birthdays to come. For everyone!

October First is mine. :)

Oz was Lovely

2006-09-28T03:41:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-28T02:46:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-23T07:35:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-09-22T05:36:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-09-18T03:04:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-15T09:04:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-15T05:01:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-14T06:12:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-13T08:24:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-11T07:44:00.001-05:00

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

2006-09-11T06:25:00.001-05:00

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

2006-09-11T00:59:00.001-05:00

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

2006-09-10T03:14:00.000-05:00

"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

2006-09-07T01:45:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-04T09:38:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-09-03T06:10:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-02T03:30:00.000-05:00

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?

Sick, Selfish Ash

2006-08-31T08:02:00.000-05:00

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

2006-08-31T05:13:00.000-05:00

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

2006-08-31T04:43:00.001-05:00

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

2006-08-29T07:11:00.000-05:00

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

2006-08-27T01:11:00.000-05:00

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

2006-08-24T08:09:00.001-05:00

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

2006-08-24T07:12:00.001-05:00

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

2006-08-23T07:17:00.001-05:00

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

2006-08-17T07:38:00.000-05:00

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

2006-08-17T04:44:00.000-05:00

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.