Coming?

“So, you coming home for Christmas?”
You shake your head at me and I frown, hoping that I judged the head shake wrong.
“What the hell is that? A yes or a no?”
“That’s a negative.”
Why aren’t I surprised?
“Why not?”
“You know the reason why I am not coming home for Christmas.”
Yeah.
I know.
“That’s a silly reason not to come home.”
You remain silent.
I keep myself from ripping you a new one.
“You –know- it’s a silly reason.”
Are you even listening to me, your baby sister?
“You should come home.”
You look at me.
I know there is sadness etched in my face.
You look away.
Yeah.
Fuck you too.

Mother Dear

My dearest Mother,

It’s been a while since I talked to you, so I think now is a good time to sit down and have a chat. In the twenty-three years of my life, I never expected things to turn out this way. I always thought that you would never change, that there would never be warnings of your demise. Polar ice caps melting, the ozone layer blowing up. A lot of these things tend to set off red flags in my mind; hell it even got to the point where we as a human race have to constantly check the status of the water with a filter attached to the faucet. Who knew?

What I want more than anything, my Mother, is to be able to heal you with a single touch. A single caress that will let you know everything is going to be alright and that you no longer have to toss and turn in your sleep with worry. You would no longer have to ask yourself as you lay yourself down in the warmth of yourself, am I going to wake up tomorrow? You no longer would have to watch as the fields you worked so hard to create shrivel and pass into darkness. Yet, I can’t do that, at least not in the immediacy that I speak of.

It will take days, weeks, months and years to return everything to the way you had it. Mother dear, I will try my best to sort your house back into order. I will try my best to pick up the pieces and put them back into place, to bandage the dents and heal the harms. Alone, it will take more than a lifetime, but I think I can persuade a few friends to help me put right the wrongs we have caused.

Thanks for listening to me for a few minutes and know that I will do my best to make things good again for you. Just rest your tired feet and let me tuck you in for a change with a cup of tea and your favorite book in tow. Relax and let me handle the rest, Mother dear.

I love you.

Monday Funday

Bzzz! Bzzz! Bzzz! Brrriiinnnggggggg. Brrriiinnngggggg.
Thhp, thhp, thhp. Creeeaaak. Kshhhhhhhh.
Vwoommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Shhhh-shh-shhh-shhh. Vwahhhhhhhhh!!!

Tip, clunk. Tap tap tap tap tap tap.
Rooommmmmm. Clunk. Tip.
Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap. Jingle.
Woosh, creeeak.
Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!

Bang, bang, bang. Eek! Crash.
Oh shi--Woah!!! Bang, bang bang.
Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!
Krrrrrrrrrrrrrrkrrrrrrrrkrrrrrrr.
ba-ba. ya-ya. Aglalala.

Ka-shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Clunk.
Uh oh.
Ka-shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. ssshhhhppplllaaasshhhhh!!
Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!

Ka-shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Clunk.
Uh oh.
Ka-shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. ssshhhhppplllaaasshhhhh!!
Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!

Thunk. Bang bang bang bang.
Tip, tip, tip. Fwump, fwump, fwump.
Boom! Bang! Blam!
Jingle, jingle, jingle.

Creeeaaaakkkkkkkkkkk.
Whaaaa!! Whaaaa! Whaaaaa!
Kuhthunk, kuthunk.
Creeeeaaaakkkkkkkkk.

Woosh, creeeak.
Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap. Jingle.
Rooommmmmm. Clunk. Tip.
Tip, clunk. Tap tap tap tap tap tap.

Ahhhh.

Laughing Out Loud with Nescafe

Browsing Craig's List and drinking Nescafe coffee, I find myself laughing hysterically, well silently really, at the job offerings in Rhode Island for writers and finding myself clicking on Sex Writer's Needed.

I suppose this should tell me something about my persona.

Also, Bridget Jones' Diary; still an epic movie even on VHS.

Childhood Memories

I recently purchased Disney's Gargoyles on DvD. For a while I had season two volume one and was unable to find the first season. Today my luck proved its worth. The first season is currently playing on the DvD player in my computer as I type this and I have a need to find the rest of the series. Unfortunately, VHS proves kind of useless in a world of high tech divises.

Man, I wish I was a child again.

The Adolescent Kingdom

Teenagers have to be the most miserable creatures in the human race. From ages thirteen to nineteen, all people are stuck in a sort of limbo. The kind that has a light at the end of the tunnel but enjoys teasing you with the freedom that it promises. Trying to figure out what is wrong with them, the teenager goes through a series of trials and tribulations in which they discover where exactly it is they belong.

Now, most of the American population believes there are main categories with multiple sub-categories that filter into them. That isn’t true. There are three, yes just three, categories: The Morons, the Intellects and the Everybodies.
The Morons are the popular ones among the Teenage Kingdom. They, meaning their parents, have so much money that they do not know what to do with it. Instead of putting that cash towards something productive, it is spent on drugs. Yet, shh, mother and father don’t know that. Quite lovely.

The kicker with these folks is that they travel in packs. Sort of like a group of deranged wolves that are mostly bark with a hint of bite. For the most part, the Intellects manage to stay away from the Morons while the Everybodies continue on with their days. Yet, despite the efforts of both the Intellects and the Everybodies, the Morons seem to bristle when they pass. In the end, the Moron’s greatest threat is ‘Don’t make me kick your ass.’ Loosely translated this means, ‘If I’m not feeling lazy, I’ll get you.’ The males of the Pack in a way to display their dominance mostly use that threat.

Now the females use a different threat to keep others in line. ‘We’re gonna bury you’ translates to ‘We’re going to bury you, bitch.’ The female is the more aggressive of the Morons. Usually, if the warning has been administered, it is immediately followed up and through. The threat is given to females that pose some sort of danger to the ranking within the pack. Especially if the new female will join the pack as the Alpha male’s new mate. Once the newcomer has entered the circle, the older females will put her through various tests, and, unfortunately, unless she proves herself a vicious bitch, she will more than likely fail the trials.
Meanwhile, from the sidelines, the Intellects observe the Morons while the Everybodies quietly snicker at their displays of dominance.

We come to the Intellects now. Some are easier to spot than others due to their appearance. The common Intellect is seen to wear faded, hand me down jeans, or khakis depending, along with a black tee shirt. The standard logo on the shirt is normally a Star Wars, Star Trek or fantasy artwork of some kind.
The skin tone and the quality of the flesh itself would be considered poor. Caked with crevices and boils, most commonly known as the dreaded acne, the crowning feature seen on an Intellect is the spectacles. Not only do the glasses enable the Intellect to see their surroundings, and supply a perfect bull’s eye for the male Morons to hit, but they accent that oh so lovely Romanesque nose. Either way, the spectacles indicate the Intellect’s ranking amongst their own. The thinner the frame, the higher the ranking.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the world, these Intellects are actually the Elite among the human race. Deep within the bowels of the Tech room of the auditorium, they come together as one and converse of the greatness in which they have achieved that day. Most of the knowledge they exchange pertains to the maneuvers of the mathematical equation of the Chessboard, or the desire for a certain female that they have laid their eyes on.

Unfortunately for the Intellect, their greatness will not be seen until after their teenage years. Once they progress from the larva stage to the pupa phase of life, the Intellect will be seen as the hottest thing since sliced bread. Females will flock to them and strike up conversation as they sputter responses. Once they hit the final phase of their growth, the adult phase, the Intellect has now become the object of the female’s desire. A thing much wanted among the Elite at the larva phase. Smart, funny and charming the Intellect is now the crème de la crème of he human society. Not only would they make excellent partners, but also they would be the ones who discover how to run a computer on solar energy.

Here we come to the Everybodies. Usually of a more relaxed nature, the title Everybodies implicates exactly who they are. They are within both groups but part of none. They float between the Morons and the Intellects as if they were ocean currents, leaves on the wind or something equally spiritual. As a people, Everybodies observe the world around them with an open mind, willing to try new experiments and experiences. That, or they are content with what they are currently involved in. For the most part, the involvement is something along the artistic side of life. If one is ever looking to locate Everybodies, one need not look far. They can be found sitting on the ground reading Shakespeare, enjoying a quiet game of chess with an Intellect or even seen discussing hunting tactics with the Alpha female of the Morons.
Needless to say, the Everybodies are everywhere.
All one has to do is look in the mirror.

Naked

“I don’t know.”

Those were the last words I heard behind my sister’s closed garage door while I slipped my flip-flops on. I knew what they were talking about. She asked about the guy he was referring to. My cousin replied with an honest answer. He didn’t know. In fact, no one knows, except perhaps my mother, who uses her mother senses to figure this shit out.

There is no secrecy in a family such as mine. We are Greek, born and bred from a proud race of intellects that some how got pushed to the back burner and get scoffed at for being full blooded. That’s inbreeding. I want to ram my head through a glass door every time I hear someone say that.

Being Greek means you have to know everything. There isn’t a time when I go somewhere when my mama asks as to what I was doing or who I saw. She can never ask me, “how was your night?” and leave it at that. She has to know what I was doing, who I was doing it with and what were they wearing at the time of whatever it was we were doing to begin with. You really wore those shoes? I half expect the woman to cross herself. If you go out without saying anything to begin with…well lets just say I hope whatever god you believe in loves you. You are not getting out of this one missy.

Romance is no exception. No matter how hard you try, someone always finds out because you decided you were tired of hiding your feelings for this other person and you tell someone who swears to keep their mouth shut. If a European says that they swear to keep their mouth shut, cut out their tongue right then and there and curse them for it. Europeans cannot keep their mouths shut. It is virtually impossible. And the men? Forget it! They talk more than the women do, and I tell you this now, word gets around faster through the male population than it does through the female one.

You cannot tell a cousin or a sibling anything. Once you open your mouth, you have signed your own death warrant. Would you like a cigarette before we hang you in the gallows? No? Carry on then. I normally try to keep my life private and to keep things to myself until I am absolutely ready to explain things to someone. Even then, it falls to the wayside. They corner you. As if they were some pack of hyenas closing in on a wounded gazelle that some how managed to escape the pride of lions it was running from earlier with a minor injury. Death is inevitable and right now I am waiting for mine because of those words I heard after I left from my sister’s house.

I have been naked before, splashed with acrylic paint, sharpie and god knows what else, in front of a camera modeling for all to see. I can do that. However, I can’t deal with what will happen over the next few days, for this is how the clock will tick. My sister will talk to my mother for one reason or another and I will enter the conversation for one reason or another. Once my name is mentioned she will ask mama if I have been talking to anyone on the phone. Of course mother will say yes because of course she knows I have been talking to someone on the phone. She is my mama and she has that weird voodoo magick that all mothers possess. I think you inherit those powers as soon as you sign the marriage contract; the investigation is on going in that department. From there either my mother or my sister will question me indirectly, if not directly, about this so-called male in my life.

This is where they get me. It is here I am standing naked for all to see, bare as the day as I was born, despite the heavy sweater and jeans, squirming and twisting out some sort of response. I would rather be in front of the camera naked, than talk about my heart.

When the hyenas come cackling out of the darkness, knowing the kill is moments away, you are stripped of all your barriers and all you can do is wait for the jaws to lock around your throat and the world to go black with self doubt and loathing because all you wanted was a shred of happiness.

Brother

Dark eyes, so much like my own, gaze at me with death.
They were never like that, never so lost within themselves.
An inner turmoil, darkness overwhelming you, taking.
Such fragile chalices of deep, dark chocolate, shattering.

Your body is fragile, wasted, nothing. Long I remember
What you once were such a short time ago.
Strong, yes, unbending an adamantine rod unwilling to
Break.

Now, your soul atrophies before me, slithering silently,
Slowly to pool at your feet.
Intimidation surrounded you like miasma
Frightening me, causing awe as you passed.

A cloud has covered your entirety, Fate woven
With unknown Darkness, uncertainty.
Your sires fade into the distance
Your siblings lost to Time.

Remember us I call to you, remember.
Your back is already turned, ridged.
Remember us, I call to you, remember.
You’ve already gone away.

Dark eyes, so much like my own, gaze at me with death.
They were never like that, never so lost within themselves.
An inner turmoil, darkness overwhelming you, taking.
Such fragile chalices of deep, dark chocolate, shattering.

Of Vinci

( This was my psychology final for Psychology of Art and Creativity)

The room I stood in was carpeted and silent, books lining the walls from top to bottom. They were old books, leather-bound and I could smell the musk on them. In the center of the room were three deep, crimson, leather high-backed chairs that you would see in some sort of old home or movie. I cocked my head to the side. Rollo May, Sigmund Freud and Leonardo da Vinci sat in those chairs, quietly looking at me as if waiting for something. Alright, I thought, this has to be a dream.

‘Come and sit young lady,’ May said, pointing to another chair directly behind me. ‘We were just about to discuss with Signore Leonardo here his process behind his work.’

‘I still think that you are repressing your emotions towards your sexuality, Signore,’ Freud spoke, his accent thick. ‘I mean, look at the paintings that you have done. All of them contain a woman, either with or without a child. Not to mention the fact that the way the woman is positioned is very sexual in nature. Your childhood must have been repressed. You have a strong connection with your mother, wanting to have the comfort of the womb once more.’

Freud nodded his head as if he had just explained everything and the discussion need not happen. Both Leonardo and May stared at him, silent. May laughed first, breaking the awkward pause.

‘So, Sigmund, you think you have me all figured out, eh?’ Leonardo chuckled, shaking his old head. ‘Maybe it is that simple, maybe it isn’t. Yet, I am sure this young woman here has a few words to say.’

The three men gazed at me again and I panicked.

‘You’ve been studying psychology, yes?’

This from Freud.

‘Yes, sir,’ I felt awkward. ‘I am currently enrolled in Psychology of Art and Creativity.’

This had to be a dream. You don’t talk with three dead men, two of whom are psychologists, and not feel you’ll need to go to a therapy afterwards.

‘Well,’ May said, smirking, ‘What have you studied?’

Silence.

‘Here is an easier request then,’ Leonardo said, ‘Tell me what you know of me and use what you learned to psycho-analyze me.’

May was smirking and Freud crossed his leg, holding his knee.

‘Alright, well…Your full name is Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci and you were born April 15, 1452 and died on May 2, 1519. You were sixty-seven years of age. You were an illegitimate son of Piero and Caterina both from Vinci, I think it was said your mother was a woman of…ill-repute.’

‘You mean a whore,’ Leonardo chided.

‘To put it nicely,’ I replied.

‘You see?’ Freud barked excitedly. ‘He does have repressed feelings for his mother due to her prostitution.’

‘It isn’t a solid fact though,’ I retorted, ‘So your theory isn’t valid in this point.’

May let out a laugh as Freud huffed at me, glowering. When did psychologists huff? I snickered at my own thoughts; Freud was known to use cocaine as a prescribed drug to his patients.

‘Let the girl continue, gentlemen,’ May said.

‘Um, Leonardo was educated by Verricchio, a painter in Florence. You worked in Rome, Bologna and Venice and the
last years of your life were spent in France.’

‘Hated the weather there.’

The men laughed.

‘Right…your best known pieces are The Mona Lisa, The Last Supper, and The Vitruvian Man.’

The old Italian nodded at me, smiling.

‘Sounds about right.’

The three of them sat there in silence for another minute.

I twitched.

‘Leonardo certainly shows the Ego in his work,’ Freud nodded. ‘Take for example, The Vitruvian Man. The image shows a man with after images of his limbs about him in a circle. Now, the Ego, as you well know, is a balance between the Id and the Super –Ego. The Id being the childish portion of the psyche and the Super-Ego is the moral code of the psyche. From the image you have the sense of the impulse there from the stroke, yet, because of the tightness of the piece, the Super-Ego comes forth. Combined, the Ego balances out the image, allowing the viewer to accept the piece as it is.’

‘You make a valid point, Sigmund,’ May replied, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘But what of good old Mona Lisa? I must commend you, Leonard, for the courage that you showed the viewer in that painting.’

Leonardo waved his hand in dismissal, but May continued.

‘Honestly man. The creative courage that you show in the painting of Mona is fantastic. Take, for example, the horizon line in the painting. The right hand side is slightly higher than the left hand side. So much symbolism comes from this minute detail alone. The right hand of God, good and evil, right and wrong.’

‘Well, according to you, May, isn’t creative courage the discovering of new forms, symbols and patterns?’ I asked curiously.

‘Yes, exactly. From these new ideals a brand new society can be built and expanded.’

‘But how can a new society be built on an old painting?’

May stopped talking for a moment, Freud snickering.

‘That is the girl’s Id, my friend,’ the old Austrian said.

May snorted in annoyance but continued on.

‘Mona shows an innocence about her that causes the viewer to stop and stare. Now, Innocence is the pre-egoic part of the mind. Let us say the infant stage of the mind. The painting shows a woman, yes, but look at the way she gazes at the viewer. Her eyes are looking directly on, giving the illusion of watching the viewer as they move from side to side. The Innocence that Leonardo displays here is only what he must do. Yet, there is a will there as well, the sense of drive that the Innocence portrays at times.’

‘So,’ Leonardo said, ‘What can be told of her smile then, on a psychological stand point.’

‘Ah, the smile of a woman holds many secrets,’ May said, nodding.

‘In the case of Mona,’ Freud replied, ‘The smile can be seen as seduction. I believe Leonardo here was expressing the Life drive, or the Libido. The Libido would be survival, propagation, hunger thirst and, of course, sex.’

‘It’s always sex with you, Freud,’ I replied to him.

Leonardo and May laughed as Freud rolled his eyes and ignored me as well as them.

‘As I was saying, Mona’s smile can be seen as a seduction, which in turn can be tied in with the fact that Leonardo’s mother was a prostitute.’

‘Still yet to be proven.’

‘Hush child, let the Austrian finish.’

Freud sat for a minute, eyes closed as he pressed his fingers together, lost in thought.

‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I have lost my thought.’

A clocked chimed somewhere in the distance catching my attention. One, two, three chimes I heard.

‘Is that an a.m. chime or a p.m. chime?’

May listened for a minute and nodded.

‘That, my dear,’ he said rising, ‘Would be three a.m. Shouldn’t you be in bed?’

Leonardo stood and stretched his old bones.

‘Come along gentlemen, let us return to our bed pans,’ Freud said, catching a chuckle before turning to me. ‘Next time you come, we shall talk more about the instincts of Life and Death.’

‘Oh, don’t forget the dreams, Sigmund,’ Rollo May called from the door that I hadn’t noticed before as he escorted Leonard from the room.

‘Wait a minute,’ I said as Freud turned to leave. ‘Isn’t this a dream?’

‘Of course it is. How else would you be talking to three dead men?’

Good Rising

It clicks in deaf ears.
Hearing eyes stare at pixels
That shimmer and shine.
Rushing, rushing, rushing.
Always zipping on.

Click, click, click.
Slam. Vroom. Sssss.
Mindless chatter to pass the time.
Stars pass overhead, watching.
Waiting.

Vroom. Sssss. Slam.
Whispering softly in the darkness.
Kali Anastasi.
Shhh, no louder than the beating
Of a dove's heart.

Twilight covers sacred Byzantine icons
All holding holy breath
Watching, waiting, wondering.
Kali Anastasi.
Again, whispered in the night.

Hearts rise, souls uplifted.
A single flame appearing in
Utter darkness.
Light fills the holy house.
Filling hearts, filling minds, souls.

Kali Anastasi.
It trembles on the lips of the faithful.
Kali Anastasi.
Two words metamorphosis to a new phrase.
Christos Anesti. Alithos Anesti.

Christ is risen.
Truly he is risen.
Many times repeated in a single night.
Many lips speaking as one.
Serenity is forever.

Click, click, click.
Ssss. Slam. Vroom.
Mindless chatter to pass the time.
Hope flickering before hearing eyes.
I didn't want to leave.

Sun Shone Down Happy

What a nightmare of the past couple of weeks. Breaking up with someone you love has to be the hardest thing in the world, especially when you know that you have to do it so that you can both grow. So yes, broke up with someone I loved and still love dearly, who I think I will love for a long time.

After that, broke out into a fever of 100.6 degrees and it kept fluctuating between that and normal body temperature for a couple of days. Then, I thought I was safe. Things were going okay, happiness was going on once more and then, suddenly, my stress levels rise a bit and I have a sore throat. Well, that isnt too bad, right? Drank fluids, took vitamins, drank more fluids...wasnt really eating due to depression spells... Sore throat seemed to be getting worse, so, upon waking up last Wednesday I opened my mouth and what do I find nesting on the back of my tonsils?

WHITE SPOTS.

FUCKING SWEET.

And it wasnt just white spots, my friends. It was left hand side spotty, right hand side...looked like white picket fence with no missed spots. Right hand side was COVERED in white.

A-FUCKING-MAZING.

For those of you playing the home game, I am being facetious.

Lo and behold I contracted Strep Throat for the first time in my life. I suddenly feel like an asshole when I have to be excused from class, but got a little humor out of watching people take a GINORMOUS step back when I said "Well, I have white spots on the back of my throat, might be Strep."

A quick drive to the hospital and three antibiotics later, I am bedridden for the rest of the weekend, unable to really do anything but sleep and not talk due to severe throat pain. It was like I was hibernating for winter, I hardly left my room.

GO ME!!

Again...facetious...

After a few days of sleeping and repeating medical treatments, my wonderful friend Jamie takes a look at the back of my throat with a flashlight and says, "Well...it's not a picket fence anymore. But you have barnacles now." That's good, right? Sure Paulina... Barnacles? What am I? A fucking ship?

However, there is a happy ending. Barnacles have now faded to small spots and only a slight minor pain and I go to face my doom with teachers and hope they understand that sometimes real life gets in the way, no matter how hard you try to keep the psychotic life at bay with a locked door and a screwdriver.

I am Leaving

Monday: April 7th, 2008

I had no idea the human heart could break like this. I watched mine do that very thing today. It shattered into tiny little pieces, and, I am still picking them up. Among the shards, I am finding pieces of his. They look the same, almost; his are a little redder than mine. I wanted so badly to keep it together, to stay with him, but, in order for him to become more than what he is, I had to leave him. Being a pillar for someone, it is hard. It hurts. In the end, you crumble.

God, it hurts so fucking much.

I did the hardest thing that anyone could do in his or her lives.

I don’t know if I can survive it…

In the end, I know things will get better. The sun will shine again. Everything will be warm once more, but, for now, the clouds and pale winter fields will suite me just fine.

Lost A-Way Waves

I didn't expect it
To Hurt
This much

Something Like It

At twenty-two, you think you know everything about life. Especially love. All the twists and turns. All the circular paths that lead you right back where you started. That knowledge is right there, but, it's not true. You don't know a thing about the heart. When you lay down at night, next to the person you profess to love, questions enter the mind.

Is this right?

What if there is something better?

What happens next?

When it is over, is it really over?

A shiver runs through you and you turn over, your lover cuddling in behind you. Maybe cheating will make it easier? That way, you won't have to feed them the "It's not you it's me" line. Or you could really let them know, it IS really you. Somewhere along the way, you lost that interest. The roaring, living flame turned into smoldering coals, embers glowing to a dull dim.

Teeth bite lower lip. Even the sex isn't what it used to be. Just a repetitive action that you find yourself thinking about other things just to make the time pass a little quicker.

You turn again, restless mind reeling. You're choking back tears, knowing that you will be listening to the saddest songs on your play-list come morning. The tears stream down the side of your face, dying quietly into the pillow. The same pillow that cradled both your faces after a day of play; a day of exploring the world and each other.

You're on your back now, staring at the ceiling, deep breaths entering your chest cavity. These damn tears just won't stop. Finally, you turn one last time, facing your lover. They look so beautiful, sleeping soundly as you find yourself in a personal turmoil, knowing that giving them up would be the worst thing in the world. For the both of you.

At twenty-two, you think you know everything about life.

Especially love.

Stop kidding yourself.

In the end, all that knowledge you think you have about love and life, hardly means anything. The love dies. It all becomes a memory. Those days of joy, even hardship, drift and fade, leaving behind silken webs that flutter weakly in your mind. Until, one day, when you least expect it, you find yourself crying and you wonder why. The thing is though, you know the reason, and you regret. Your heart pains you for a time, then…nothing. The memory is gone once more lost within your mind.

Regrets

This was written for my Creative Class in the Spring of 07 and then later was published in my school's writing magazine Word/Image in 07

"Hello Paulina. You've gotten bigger since last I saw you."

I smiled at my theia, but I knew the smile didn't reach my eyes. This one time, my theia forgave me. My yaya walked into the living room. She was dressed in all black, like it had already happened. The stark white of her hair seemed unreal, whiter than I remembered, almost as if it were the dot of an exclamation point. I examined her face and was startled by all the wrinkles that made her skin sag with an unseen weight. Yaya's eyes were sunken in, black circles framing them. Even though her hair had turned a brighter shade of white, her eyes frightened me the most. Once full of life and happiness, yaya's chocolate orbs gave me a dead stare. My gaze slipped a little but she didn't notice. Yaya smiled at me, her body shifted as if it was remembering familiar motions, and her eyes were empty. I forgave her this one time.

Mama walked into the room, going straight to her mother and embracing her. I turned my head, avoiding the daughter-mother moment between the two women, and let my sight take in the surroundings. I had been in this room a hundred times before. Behind me was a couch, relatively small by American standards, with just two royal blue cushions and a deep cherry wooden frame. The fabric was thick and scratchy. Not something that you would want to sit on during the summer months but perfect for winter. There was a second one, it had three cushions, and sat along the right hand wall and in front of that was the kitchen table. Five chairs positioned themselves around the thick wooden table. Flashes of memory struck me as I thought of how we would drink fresh boiled cow's milk with cocoa when we woke up. I allowed myself a smile. I never did like the milk.

Yaya and mama were speaking in hushed tones as I walked past them into the dining room. This had to be my favorite room in the entire house. Soft turquoise painted the walls, with a pale white design all along the roof and edges. Whenever I looked up at the ceiling, my imagination made me believe that was what the sky was really like. As I looked up my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting in the room. I noticed the small cracks. They crept their way along the paint making little roads and paths to unknown places, which I couldn't see with my naked sight. One crack caught my interest. I think it was because it was so deep and traveled from one side of the room to the other. It was hollow and empty. I never remembered it ever being there. Walking over to where yaya had a display of pictures, I picked up one of the images. My fingers traced the intricate design of the wooden frame; I could feel the way the wood twisted and turned. They tiptoed their way across the edges before resting on the glass that protected the old picture. It was of my papou in his fishing gear, holding a bucket and rod in his hands while smiling at the camera. He was younger here, the image in a fading sepia tone.

I couldn't stop the chuckle that left my lips. A few years ago, papou had gone out fishing, like he always did, and he brought home a bucket full of small to large fish. Inside the bucket, buried beneath the fish was a small crab waiting for an unwary hand to snap at. Papou laughed as he scooped the crab up and out of the bucket, letting it scuttle across the porch and into my sandal. I had jumped up into my chair, shouting out in alarm. Yaya came out of the kitchen and scolded papou, who was holding his sides with laughter. There wasn't a time when he wasn't laughing.

"Paulina, we're going in to see papou. Come on now."

My baba's voice cut through the memory, waking me from my stupor. Placing the picture down, I followed my parents into my yaya's bedroom. The footfalls echoed in the hallway when they never did before. My heart pounded in my ears. Why did we have to do this? I don't want to go in, please don't make me go in. The door was pushed open and we piled into the tiny room. The window was open, emitting a small breeze that made the sheer fabric of the curtains flutter close to the bed. I stared at the metal frame of the tiny bed that was big enough to hold just two. My eyes were down, not willing to look at anything but that metal frame. Mama gave my back a small push and I stumbled over to the small stool that was next to the bed. Yaya had been using it so she could sit next to papou to keep him company. My parents' voices floated over me like the breeze at my back. They murmured my name and I had to look up. At him. My heart stopped beating.

Papou looked at me with glazed over eyes.

They were no longer brown to me but black pits.

They were empty.

He had no idea who I was.

Time stopped for me in that instance and all I could do was sit next to this dying man who had once been my papou. We sat looking at one another. His brow furrowed as he struggled to remember who I was and what I meant to him. His skin was pale yellow, lips cracking with dryness. His normally black hair was now a salt and pepper color. Even through the thin bed sheet that was covering his slight body I could make out each rib that he had in his chest. Yaya walked in at that point, drawing his attention away from me. A breath I didn't know I was holding left my lungs. Papou started to cough and yaya covered his mouth with a handkerchief, one of her own, as he struggled to catch a breath. My head was down so I never knew if there was blood on the white cloth or not. I didn't want to know either. Baba started to have a conversation with papou, no doubt to pass the time, to make him feel comfortable. Or maybe baba was trying to settle himself. His mama had suffered a similar effect when she lay dying in her bed as well. It must have been hard to see the same thing happen again.

Silence passed between all of us. I got up, the stool scraping across the linoleum floor and left the room. My feet took me back down the hall, past the dining room and back into the room with the couches. It took me a while to realize that my body sat itself onto the larger couch. My elbows rested on my knees, my head was down. The shaking took me a little faster than I expected. Tears streamed down my face. The noise of my sobs were stopped only by the tightness of my sealed lips. I didn’t want anyone to hear me cry. I didn’t want to be seen by anyone. A hand on my head startled me. I looked up and saw my theio smiling sadly down at me. I stared at him for a long while before I lowered my head once more. He walked away, his feet dragging across the wooden panels of the floor, making a soft hiss.

Breaking Up

If you've ever noticed, the best break ups happen at night, usually after a fun filled evening, and possibly a steamy hot love making. This is commonly known as a "pity fuck". Well, enjoyment is had, for at least one of the party members, normally for the unsuspecting victim there is a great deal of joy.

Now, the reason behind the break up at night is so you do not have time to wallow in self pity. The emotions that one goes through physically and mentally exhaust you to the point where your body screams "FUCK IT!!", forcing you to collapse to sleep. It is the next day that really messes you up. Between crying in the bathroom at work, talking to co-workers and more sobbing in your cubical. Of course, I am speaking from a woman's perspective. The women will call their best friends, eat ice-cream and watch chick flicks. Oh, and never forget, that steaming hot bashing that damn bastard deserves.

Now, men, on the other hand, take a different approach to things. Instead of staying in, most men will call their "boys" up and go for a beer at the local club with prospects of reigning in another filly. Also, the ever saying of "Your girlfriend was a bitch any way. Good riddance. What a Cunt."

Ah, the C-Bomb. An ever favorite word of the male gender whenever they feel it is necessary to down a woman in the worst fashion. Half the time, they never mean it. They only say it to make themselves feel better for a time. Later in the night, if they are sober enough to remember, that is, they will think back on their relationship and wonder where everything went wrong. What they had possibly done to make her doubt. C'mon, hadn't he done everything to make her happy?

Obviously not.

Men, if you are wondering what it is you did wrong, just stop. You're never going to figure it out; nor pestering your ex's friends will reveal the answers you seek. Just drop it. Move on. You'll be driven crazy if you don't and then nasty labels like, stalker, for example, will put put to use. In the end, your throbbing ass in that cold cell will make you realize your mistake.

Women, if you're wondering what it is YOU did wrong, open your legs a little wider and just lay there and say the right things. You know what they are.

Diary Fiction 1

A series of fictional diary entries:

Again, I find myself sitting in front of the mirror, gazing at that reflection. A finger trails down my cheek, watching the skin dip and then re-mold itself. My father's words, ones that I have heard countless times before, sting like salt rubbed into an open wound.

"You're getting fat."

Those three words. They have such an impact, both on the mind and the body. Sharp teeth bite down at the sound, eyes shutting, trying to blind my mind to the shape of those harsh words. At twenty two, I should already be in line to be married to a man worthy in my parents' eyes. Fingers paw at my blond hair, blue eyes swimming in tears. Damn him. Even now, those words cause me to break down, even though it is like listening to a broken record. I know the reasons to why he says it. I always have.

He will never know, never ever, that over those three simple words, I have contemplated death and what it would be like to kiss it.

Pity.

A Shattering Day

This was an email I recently wrote to my professors. I think it makes a great story.

My dearest Professors, I bid you all a Happy New Year and that all goes well over the course of the next twelve months.

Some of you may know that I have been struggling with what to do in order to fulfill my requirements and graduate Montserrat College of Art in Fall of 2008, and if you didn't know this, then I suppose you do now. I do not think I will ever forget the experience I received from applying to Fine Arts Seminar. Perhaps you will take the time to read what happened that day? I promise the point of my email will be made clear.

My idea that I presented to the panel was to write a book about my family, printing it through the letterpress, illustrate it with etchings, bind the book myself and then have it published by the end of fall 2008.

The day started out like any other I suppose. In this case, there were no clouds in that winter blue sky. As if there was no care in the world, except for the playful wind that plucked the warmth from your fingers through fleece lined gloves. I awoke before the alarm shrieked, staring at the blazing neon blue numbers for a moment, and then I rolled out of bed and began to prepare for the appointed time. It took about half an hour to finish and the alarm sounded. I had forgotten to turn it off. The noise made me jump and my boyfriend awoke with an annoyed grunt, in which I quickly silenced the alarm and kissed him to quiet. Gathering my things, I left the house, crossed the street and passed through those black doors that welcome all into the building. I felt as a specter might when crossing the river Styx for the first and last time of their afterlife, knowing that this would be the doom of my time.

The stairs were longer that day. For some reason, it felt as if time slowed down to a crawl. It was as if an hour passed when in actuality it had been five minutes and I made it to the third floor. My feet knew where to take me. Room 305. The room was devoid of life, except for two tables and a few chairs. I quickly set the room up, scrounging for chairs before turning to the empty wall and pinning my work up. I received a blister on my thumb for my effort, those walls are so hard to tack work into. Then I waited. For an hour and a half.

They all came in, one at a time. I think that if they entered the room in a single file, I would have lost my nerve right there and fled from the room. As they walked in, each panel member, well the ones who did not know me, introduced themselves cordially before sitting into the chairs, staring at me. I was naked before them. All I had to cover myself was my idea and a piece of paper. Once they settled, I was prompted to begin my proposal. My voice shook as I read. I mentally cursed myself for it. My fingers held onto that paper as if it was my only life support. They had turned cold and clammy. My heart was pounding in my chest and I tried to breath. Tried to calm down. Then it was over. I looked up. They began to question me. I was lost to the wind.

As I answered their questions, I felt like such a moron, sounding as if I had no idea what it was I was talking about, like I was a freshman. A longing to be a small child again and hide behind my mother filled me. Shoulders were shaking, but I bit my lip and squared them, trying my best to answer the panel members. The words ‘visually weak’ and ‘too ambitious’ washed over me like a sickness. They asked questions. I was being spun in a circle. I was hating myself. It was obvious what the decision was. I wanted out of the room, out of their sight, away from their cruel honesty.

Then it was over.

The Seminar Panel walked to the adjoining room to devour their next victim, and I was left in silence to gather my things and wait a few hours to meet with two of the panel committee. The walk home was harder than the walk to the Hardie building. Footsteps were heavy on the wooden floor of my home. The footfalls resounded in my ears as I shut the door of my bedroom. My boyfriend took one look at me and hugged me and I started to cry and complain and boy, howdy, cry. Retelling the experience sent a new shock wave of sobbing through me and I just wanted the day to end, but that wasn’t the case. Two hours later, I was in one of the offices on the first floor with two committee members, their paper work, my disgusted self and a partridge in a pare tree. Fun times. They handed me a paper telling me I was not accepted. Everything was blurred. I knew the decision, but seeing it on that official sheet made it more real and whatever hope I had died swiftly. We spoke briefly, and scheduled a meeting for the upcoming Monday. One member left, the other stayed and we talked more. This time, about my work for classes where I was told that some work was too similar, if not the same project. It was an accusation of ‘double-dipping’. The day was just plummeting to the core of the earth and I was on the front of it. My face went white, the blood draining to my feet and explained the misunderstanding. The committee member listened and told me that it would be talked about with the other teacher. I nodded and was given leave to go home and sweat out the weekend.

((Almost there))

Monday came and I met with the same two committee members where we sat and talked about what it is I need to do to get my idea going. They gave me names of authors I should pick up, suggested that I do a cross registration program at one of the colleges connected with Montserrat. They also suggested that I start a blog where I write shorts of experiences I had as well as come up with my own committee of people to help me get this idea out into the open. This, I guess, is where the point of the email comes to light.

I need your help.

I am stubborn and from what I hear ‘strong-willed’, so asking for help is a serious thing for me to do. I implore you to kick my ass, so to speak, when it comes to this project. Ask me questions in the hall ways, read pieces of the manuscript or manuscripts, take a look at the blog that I have set up, give me names, help me to be an artist. I’m lost and I am doubting whether Montserrat is the place for me anymore. Maybe I am just looking for a convincing conversation to get me to finish here at Montserrat in the next two semesters, or maybe I am looking for someone to say ‘Hey, it’s okay if you don’t want to continue here.’ Your opinions and suggestions mean a lot.

Thank you for taking the time to read my email and I hope that I did not bore any of you and I hope you consider my plea. If you are interested, please read my blog:

www.observations-polixeni.blogspot.com

Again, many thanks, and a Happy New Year to you all.

A Little Joy

When actor Charles Keating tells you that you that 'you certainly get the imagination going you naughty creature' you cant help but get a little joy in it. The man is a wonderful conversationalist and so knowledgeable. Much love to him.