For most of my life I was painted in a particular hue of jealousy, not unlike a famous Ozian. I wasn’t born that way. I wasn’t sea sick, I was totally fucking see sick. I saw happiness everywhere. I saw money everywhere. I saw laughter and I saw love, fucking everywhere. Everywhere but in the mirror. I was constantly praying to entities I didn’t believe in and consistently disappointed with my lack of success and progress. And then I turned 5 and started going to school. The hue of jealousy turned into a distinct color, an unmistakable spot on the color wheel of flesh. I wrote about it. A lot. Fate’s vengeful eye seemed to always be fixed on me. But I made it through. I didn’t have any prospects after high school, no college plans and felt like a vagabond with no direction.
I chased a dream or two but the disappointment and lack of financial means to achieve what I wanted put a stop to that. I watched a magician at work from afar, a wizard of the craft, if you will. I felt in my bones that one day it would be the wizard and I. All I needed was one short day. And wouldn’t you know, when I was at my lowest, something happened. The proverbial wizard sent for me to work on an Ozian masterpiece. I followed a road unknown to me, a road the color of champagne dreams. Along the way I passed through towns like Roswell, oh look! Aliens that wore the same skin tone I chose! I drove through territories unknown. The closer I got to my Emerald City, the smaller the minds of wanderers got too. Munchkin minded fools. But the dream, ah the dream, it grew bigger with every mile I drove and every mile I saw in the rear view.
The moment you meet the wizard, who holds the whole of your desires in those powerful palms, well, that is a moment that can define you. So how was my moment defined? It was defined in disappointment and my day in the Emerald City could not be short enough. Once you look behind the curtain, you not only see your dreams disintegrate along with your hope, but your flaws and guilt stare blatantly at you, mocking your very existence. And where does one assign the blame? I assigned it to my naivete. I kicked myself for feeding into the possibility of my own success. I had never believed in the possibilities, I wouldn’t allow it, and the one time I did, I had an abundance of confirmation that it was all in vain.
I blamed a lot of factors. The truth of the situation was that there was nobody to blame, nothing to blame. It was what it was and when I started on that brick road of champagne dreams, nothing was promised to me. It wasn’t a disappointment from the get go, which is perhaps the most frustrating thing about the whole journey. For a period, the wizard and I did great things together, we discovered things together and I was shown some truly beautiful prospects.
Art, as it were, saved me again, laughter healed me. Well, art, laughter and the cutest goddamn dog you ever did see in your life saved me. That adorable dog was in many ways, a direct reflection of me and our journeys were mirrored to perfection. The wizard saved us and showed us the way. Little Miss Daisy is the reason I survived. She survived and because she did, I knew I could too, even when I had to say goodbye. It’s true, I believed in the wizard more than anybody. And let me say this, through the disappointment behind the curtain, when the wizard was revealed to be nothing more than a facade, a mirage of a detailed life, I somehow left the Emerald City with more of a brain, a hell of a lot more courage and a heart that had grown three sizes. Unlike a girl with red, or silver depending on what you believe, shoes, though, I left without a home. I had no hot air balloon and no particular place to go. This wizard, who had appeared to become more of a sparkling good witch during our time together, was gone from my life For Good. But it is a good thing my heart had grown three sizes, because it made enough room to carry the wizard and everything she taught me, with me always. I learned that appearances mean dick. I now know that I am not an artist I just have big emotions. I can only hope that I brought laughter to the Emerald City and hopefully showed the wizard a thing or two from my perspective.
And so, after travelling around trying to find something, I put all those emotions to ink. A cricket, a daisy and a longtail boat. They each bare significant meaning to me, deeply significant. I won’t divulge in what it all means, as I would have to reveal things that I am not prepared to. What I will say, is crickets are natures musicians, and we are the music makers and we are the dreamers of dreams. Daisy was the furry savior and also a little old woman who became best friends with an unlikely Morgan Freeman, the yin and the yang. The longtail boat? Well, that’s just to show that we can all dock our boats where we choose and the choice of who we share that boat with and who we task with helping us steer our boat is entirely up to us. What will I be? The orangutan, the zebra, or the tiger? Everyone deserves a chance to fly, even me and I see that now. I put the ink on my left shoulder. Wasn’t the Emerald City just a farm as seen through the eyes of one Kansas girl? I have literally put the Emerald City on my heart yet behind me. And onward I go, as the girl she didn’t choose, sometimes by boat, plane, bubble and even a broomstick. Farewell to the person who I believed was my Galinda but was actually a wizard with a curtain.
I tweeted something that sparked an idea:
Here is what I came up with:
A woman stood at the height of a bridge. The world beneath her, so above. Beckoning to the townspeople below, to join her in marveling at the sights of heaven and hell. With a song in her heart, she chanted for help in painting her soul’s collage on the old and squeaky wood that somehow managed to call itself a bridge.
A peasant climbed to the spot of the song with rough leaves and an intention of preparing the wood. He joined in the melody and chanted for help in shaping his creation so that the woman’s soul could be free, staining the bridge and showing him his own soul.
Two maids answered the hymn by collecting berries and two buckets of water with the intention of hauling their tools to the center of the bridge, for which to paint the story of heaven and hell.
The man completed the task of composing the blank slate. The two maids pressed their berries and delicately created a mixture of colors for the woman to make her masterpiece.
After constructing a brush of twigs and the left over leaves the peasant used to smooth the bridge, they presented the instrument to the woman who took no notice as she sang louder and more agressively for help.
Feeling alone and abandoned, taking no notice of the three kind strangers who came to her aid, the woman saw not what they had done for her. In a rage of lonliness she condemned the bridge to hell for it bore not her soul’s purpose in the light of heaven or the shadows of hell.
Frantically grabbing remnants of the day’s work, she built a fire. As the kindling took to the breeze, the peasant and the two maids began shouting for help, fearful of the fathoms below. The woman quickly acknowledged the presence of the three townspeople as the fire roared with no intention.
Afraid she would be seen in the truth of the flames and accused of murder, she pushed the peasant and then one maid and then the second off of the burning bridge before the flames overtook her body.
Pieces of the bridge fell to the ground below with the woman’s body. Her soul, now free, was burnt into the earth, painting the baron land in ash.
The three townspeople survived the push they equally received. They survived, however their bodies were broken and their minds were tainted of good deeds. They moaned for help.
in a moment of realization, as the heavens shone down where the bridge had once stood, blocking the rays of above, the two maids helped the peasant and the peasant helped the maids. Broken but present they saw that help was in front of them. Help didn’t look like the prodigal assistance so often imagined. Help looked like themselves, like the equally battered soul staring across the way, in the light of the same pain.
I am reminded of a story as I try to express the experience of helping those who are not capable of seeing:
A fellow was stuck on his rooftop in a flood. He was praying to God for help.
Soon a man in a rowboat came by and the fellow shouted to the man on the roof, “Jump in, I can save you.”
The stranded fellow shouted back, “No, it’s OK, I’m praying to God and he is going to save me.”
So the rowboat went on.
Then a motorboat came by. “The fellow in the motorboat shouted, “Jump in, I can save you.”
To this the stranded man said, “No thanks, I’m praying to God and he is going to save me. I have faith.”
So the motorboat went on.
Then a helicopter came by and the pilot shouted down, “Grab this rope and I will lift you to safety.”
To this the stranded man again replied, “No thanks, I’m praying to God and he is going to save me. I have faith.”
So the helicopter reluctantly flew away.
Soon the water rose above the rooftop and the man drowned. He went to Heaven. He finally got his chance to discuss this whole situation with God, at which point he exclaimed, “I had faith in you but you didn’t save me, you let me drown. I don’t understand why!”
To this God replied, “I sent you a rowboat and a motorboat and a helicopter, what more did you expect?”
“Write down the interior monologue you experience when you sit down to write.”
When I sit down to write, my mind literally goes into hyper drive and my thoughts become sporadic and hard to contain. They are very random and have nothing to do with anything really, but I go off on tangents. I don’t know if it’s me looking for inspiration, or if it’s me procrastinating because I fear sucking so bad that I can’t live up to the things swirling around in my brain. It might look something like this:
When I stepped out into the bright sunlight, from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind, Paul Newman and a ride home.
These things are good, ice cream and cake, a ride on a Harley, seeing monkeys in the trees, the rain on my tongue, and the sun shining on my face. These things are a drag, dust in my hair, holes in my shoes, no money in my pocket, and the sun shining on my face.
I’m not the one who stabbed the captain with a
Pope Alexander. Alexander Pope.
An eye for an eye makes the world blind.
Better late than pregnant.
For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.
My cigarette burns like a flame, my lungs will never be the same. I puff, and I puff, I can’t get enough. Oh well, I’ll get cancer just the same.
Now you feel how nothing clings to you, your vast shell reaches into endless space, and there the rich thick fluids rise and flow, illuminated in your infinite peace.
Song of myself. Jenny from the L word was a cunt. Grendel’s mom was also a cunt, until Angelina Jolie played her.I liked Tombraider.
All seeing eye. The illuminati.
This ain’t the fucking Help bitch, but you will eat my shit.
Bora bora bora. I wouldn’t throw my pie for very many people. Dandelion. I want pie. You have the right to remain silent. Perhaps I should exercise that right.
Some other me is homeless, some other me is queen, some other me has seen things that no other me has seen.
Always starting over. What the fuck. 525600 minutes. How we gonna pay this year’s rent. Santa fe. Anna Gunn. I am the danger. Bitch. What would Kalinda do?
In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In NYC the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit, these are their stores. Bong Gong.
#SaveBenson. #ForgivingRollins.#NoMore. #Endthebacklog. #TheJHF.I’m still not the one who stabbed the captain with a pickle.
Poor Jodi Picoult. JK Rowling. I need just one good book. Tax man!!! I heart Emma Thompson. I liked Stranger than Fiction. I need a new watch. What the hell am I supposed to be writing about? Where was I?
Creased and stained the flame dances through the hues
Refracted sprinkles mimic the wandering mind
Figures of ghosts taunt the demonic bath
The twist and turns heat an arctic memory
The sparks of creative consciousness singe angry tatters
Have I blown off enough steam?
Exhalations and steady hands simultaneously twitch
I left my stomach in that furnaced studio
Gloved and flowing against viscous weather
Wipe your brow of traumatic moisture
Relax in the sauna of destined satisfaction
Could you soften the blow?
Rod of distortion parodies my inimical thoughts
Molded in visionary contortions and expressive ventilation
Peace of unique transparency unite with diversity
Trial and air, to air divine, can you not see beauty?
Anneal before the alter of insanity
This too shall blow over.
One of my favorite songs is “Stand Up” by God-des and She. One of my favorite lines is, “It ain’t easy, to have hope when you’re always broke…” I know I know, so often I hear, money doesn’t buy happiness blah blah blah. Even my beloved Gaga has a new lyric, “I’d rather be poor and happy than rich and alone…” I call bullshit. Pessimist, cynic, whatever that makes me I’ll take it. I know money doesn’t buy “happiness,” but it sure does buy health, and it buys necessity. I personally would rather be stable and secure financially and be alone and miserable knowing my priorities are taken care of, than poor and content with what I have, always dreaming about what I could accomplish with some money.
Those who know me, will probably tell you I don’t look like a pill seeker, because, well, what the fuck does a pill seeker look like? You, me, him, her, them? I had an incident a couple years ago and I don’t have health insurance, so I went to the ER and was seen (I still haven’t paid off that debt…fuck.) They gave me Vicodin for pain and after a few days it really wasn’t working so I called the doctor who had helped me and told him. He had me go back in, but I was obviously not worth his time, and he accused me of pill seeking. I told him I had never had Vicodin before. He sent a PA in to talk to me. The PA determined through some tests that I, for whatever reason, have a natural immunity to Vicodin. He prescribed me Percocet. Again it didn’t work and by the time all this had happened, I was tolerant to the pain. So what’s my point? Two things, one, I received good care from most in the ER, the nurse was fantastic, the PA was great, but to the doctor I was a poor kid assumed to be a junkie. Sorry I’m poor doc. The second thing, I started thinking, if I had money, man they would have written me some scripts no real questions asked, no accusatory inclinations. But wait, that’s not right either, no wonder people become dependent on prescriptions. If they can afford it, meds are pushed hard in most cases. Hmm….which is worse?
Sometimes, when I’m in a depressed sort of mood, I think, gosh, ya know, if I committed a crime, I would go to jail, I would get medical attention when needed right? Maybe not the best, probably along the lines of the worst, but I would have it. I could take some college classes right? Cuz man I have given up on going back to school, I can’t afford it and don’t qualify for much assistance…how or why I just don’t know. And let me tell you, if Piper, Alex or Nicky are in the joint, that’s reason enough for me. Red could cook for me, don’t worry, I won’t insult her food. Wait, not real life you say? Too damn bad. Maybe he is an eggplant after all.
I need a dentist, I have some teeth issues happening, long story, wisdom teeth, but it gets really painful. I have rheumatoid arthritis, so they thought the last time I was able to see a doctor, and I’ve suffered from chronic migraines since I was a wee lass. But I don’t have the luxury of going to a doctor or dentist. I work, I pay taxes, I stay out of trouble, contribute to society what and when I can. It wasn’t until recently that I realized I probably really need to see a shrink. The rapists are not something I ever considered necessity. I always associated them with wealthy folk who could afford them. But now I realize more than ever that my mental health is equally important. I’ll cross that bridge when I become crazy enough to jump off of it.
I sound like a daft asshole don’t I? I know I’m blessed in many ways and I do not make light of people who are in worse positions than me. It just bothers me that not only that doctor but other people throughout my life have viewed me as just a poor junkie. Look, drugs are expensive, obviously I can’t afford to be a junkie. Why do people assume poor equals criminal? I’m really not. On the bright side of things, I am starting a new job on Sept. 15, it’s not doing something I have passion for doing, but it pays more than I’m making now and benefits are an option from day one. Can’t complain much about that, I can actually go see a doctor and a dentist. I like my teeth in my face and not falling out of it thank you very much. So I get by. I wish I could offer my girlfriend more, a better life. Not one in which we worry week to week. She deserves better.
Such is life, check out “Stand Up” if you get a chance, I dig it.
I don’t know how many times people tell me, oh you’re so funny, oh you’re so unique, oh you’re so eclectic and interesting…and yet, they judge me for being different. I’m not white enough. I’m not hispanic enough. I’m not gay enough, I’m not straight enough. I’m not soft enough, I’m too sensitive. I’m too rebellious, I don’t stand up for myself. I’m too sweet, I’m a bitch. What the fuck is it? The worst part is this, their judgements, make me doubt every single choice I make and have made. Are they projecting? Maybe they are, but it doesn’t matter because I still doubt myself. I’m too stupid to talk myself out of it, yet smart enough to know it’s their issue not mine. Well shit, now it is my issue because it gets to me.
I’m magnetic. Have been my whole life. As a teen I was the “voice” of the group. The class clown who has always battled demons with humor. People came out to me by the dozens it seemed. I was comforting and strong, so they thought. I had a girlfriend in high school, didn’t care what anybody thought, I loved her. I was the stepping stone. Into my twenties, chances are if you were a female friend of mine, you eventually came out to me. When I had a boyfriend it wasn’t groundbreaking and the heteros didn’t need comforting. I wanted to be the cool kid in school, so instead of going to class, I ditched basically every day. I had a car, people jumped in with me, I was the rebel who was too cool for school. But at the same time, when I showed up to class, I made everybody laugh including the teachers. I am always stuck between two worlds. What the hell is that shit? Judgement has always been in my face and I have laughed at it. Problem is, I always felt alone, trust is a foreign concept that I’m not in-tune with.
And so it continued into my late twenties. I’m the “mama” in the group. Young people in my life look up to me and I appreciate it so very much, but I’m always terrified of ruining their lives. What if they take me seriously? Wait, what if they don’t take me seriously? Why waste my energy if I’m just being judged by all of them. It’s all very confusing and it makes me feel completely insane. Am I a good person? I try to be. But if I am, why have so many bad bad people been drawn in by my magnetism? Maybe it’s all just horse shit. I don’t have any funny quips or witty phrases sometimes. And then people ask why I’m sad. Is that all the fuck I am to people? The funny girl. It’s been this way my whole life.
In elementary school and middle school, I played football with the boys. I was just one of the guys, but when there happened to be a boy I liked around, boy did the judgement fly. As I reached my preteens and teens I dated many guys who we now know were gay. It was painfully obvious looking at it now, and let me tell you, judgement existed in a hostile manner when I was a kid. Nobody knew why I was the way I was. They didn’t know I was a cutter. They didn’t know I was often missing class because I was in the school counselor’s office. In high school, they didn’t know a lot of dark things about me. They didn’t know I was spending a lot of time with my english teacher, alone in her classroom during her zero hour. Shelly, I’ll call her, she had a husband, kids, the picket fence, but she put all that on the line for me, I thought I loved her. Hindsight shows how inappropriate that whole situation was, only as an adult do I grasp what was really going on. They didn’t know I was a writer. Nobody ever read my stuff, never wanted them to, what for? So they could judge me some more. And all of these things, they have come with me to adulthood and I still feel as lost as I did then. I’m still paranoid and afraid for people to read my stuff. I’m still afraid to tell people all the truths that made me the funny bitch that I am. Afraid to be judged.
Guess what, I’m judging them for judging me. A world in which judgement does not exist, is a world with no life. Animals in their carnal ways judge each other. Females judge males based on their size, color, vocal abilities you name it. She won’t sleep with the small guy, or the ugly guy. Why? To ensure the survival of the strongest possible offspring. Is that why judgement is so engrained in us? Because we are animals? Is it our paleo duty? I have judged, I am judged. That’s just the way it is. I want it to be different. Take my job for example, I judge the assholes who feel that I do not deserve equal pay, and continue paying me at least two dollars less than every other person with the exception of one. I judge child molesters, rapists, child murderers. I do. I judge them even though I am not ignorant to the the idea that their cycles have brought them there. Maybe they were abused, raped themselves. I get it. But at the same time, I know many women who have been abused in some way and did NOT become murderers. I could very easily have become a junkie or a criminal but I CHOSE different things for myself. I believe we all have the power of choice, we are in charge of our own lives even when bad things happen to us. But I still judge. Guilty.
Self esteem, that’s what it comes down to doesn’t it. Not feeling worthy. What if, I am as dumb as they say? What if I am as ugly as they say? Does that make them the swine or me? What if my insecurities are truth? What if…I don’t feel good enough about myself to fight the judgmental fucks…and I just give up? Most of the time that’s what I want to do, stop laughing and telling jokes, and just fucking give up. I don’t wanna be “mama” to everyone I meet. Even though that’s when I feel like I’m worth a damn. The truth, I’m not worth their time. I am the girl who doesn’t have a future, I did nothing with my life. I work my ass off, live check to check, and can’t do the things I daydream about. I’m not a writer. I’m not what people think, both positive and negative thoughts. I’m not anything but a hamster in a wheel. Going nowhere, so why the fuck do they judge me if I’m so insignificant?
The more and more I have thought about stuff, the more I have read various blogs and viewpoints, I just don’t need people’s shit at all. Judgement really is around every turn. My religion this because your religion that. My therapist says this because you said that. Holy balls, maybe it’s because I’m not exactly affluent, but listen, I’m tired of the bitching and moaning. I wish I could see a therapist, right, I don’t have insurance. I wish I could live a little healthier, guess what, that shit is expensive. I’m bat shit crazy but I function in the world and pay my taxes and don’t harm anybody but myself, so please please, leave me alone!
Most people do not know this about it, nor have I ever really shared it with anybody because it has not been determined as fact. But let me tell ya, Kat B gave me the balls to just come out and say, I was thought to have BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) since my childhood, however due to many reasons and circumstances I have found myself in, was never treated or fully diagnosed as it is hard to diagnose. As an adult I have wanted to see somebody and do what is necessary, but alas, no insurance means I haven’t even been to a dentist in like six years. I plan on seeing somebody as soon as I am able, what more could I possibly do?
Thank you Kat for exposing the deepest the darkest and dare I say the sickest.
People don’t understand cutting. People don’t understand why somebody would continue to live miserably in an abusive relationship. People don’t understand alcohol or addiction. People don’t understand anything. Or so I thought growing up. I grew up in a broken unstable abusive home. I grew up with an addict. I grew up with mental illness. I learned to cut. I learned to repeat the cycle. I learned how to stay in an abusive relationship for much too long. I learned everything but addiction towards hard drugs and alcohol. I guess that one can’t be taught. I am still an addict though. So what the fuck is there to understand. Psycho babble aside, its simple. If you aren’t a complete fool, pick up a goddamn book and educate yourself on shit you “don’t understand.”
I didn’t understand a lot of things when I was younger, so I read. I am self taught on every level except one. To this day I still do not fully grasp my cutting. It comes and goes in spurts.
I’m a nerd I chew gum and smoke in your face I’m absurd.
So why do I cut? Why the fuck does it make any sense on any level? I don’t know. How bout dem apples. I think I started around abouts 6th grade. I was miserable at my middle school. I was not exactly bullied. But I was humiliated. Not by students…TEACHERS. I was lost and had nobody to turn to, so it was kind of like my pubescent self was saying
Look what the fuck you make me feel!
And I got sent to the counselor’s office. She was so awesome to talk to, we spoke for hours and on a regular basis. Oh wow, to an 11 year old it was the shit, one on one with an adult who was as smart as I was, and I didn’t have to go to class. FUCK YES. How could I not be addicted. But I spiraled from there. Changed schools. Hated my ever changing self. Battled shit left and right that I can’t even get into. I am a writer, have been since the day I was born. My outlets were writing and cutting.
So what is there to understand? I’ll tell you, what there is to understand is that there is always at least one person who is or has been in your head space. There is solace in finding people who may not understand your particular situation, but that do understand what it’s like not to be understood by the fucking massholes spread about the world. And since I am in fact a writer, I dug up a poem from the period in my life when I started cutting. FYI I haven’t cut in about a year, I think. The funny (okay ironic) thing is this, the last time I cut, I reached out to KB, I didn’t even know she was a cutter at that time.
Inked and horny it’s bait and switch,
Enter a dark void, moist from nature
Porcelain encounter, feel the skin tremble
Inked and full of shit, fishing for power
No shirt on my back to give, for I am baron waste
Covet the aggression with a zipper
Hair of straw, a rat’s stomping playground
Bitten nails and coward’s punch, no damage can be reciprocated
I remember that ink, I remember it well
Each curved line that matched a crooked smile
The blackened outline that matched a set of eyes
Those flames hot as an eager breath
Why was it marked where a heart should be
Forceful asshole jerked from hell
Inked and guilty my willingness won
You earned it, as I am vacant and shelled, my basket empty
I remember your ink, I remember it in nightmares
I remember my storm, I remember the sky
I will mark my body, I too canvas my ink
You hold the pen
Nobody is following my blog yet, I created it this morning. Nonetheless let me express an idea. Katherine Brooks has started a blog for personal reasons. People who know her, know of her, know that she’s pretty fucking deep an so many times I read through her stuff and have so many comments questions etc. she is a pro at starting dialogue. However it’s impossible to engage in organic conversations via social media. It’s a one way street with her blog, she dishes, we read, we marinate, and have no outlet for a response. Well son of a bitch I decided I shall start a blog. A response blog if you will. Sure I will use this platform for my other personal reasons and writings but that is the jumping off point for said WordPress blog of mine.