stuffandthings
Mimi tried to steady herself. Her high heels sank into the grass and she was too drunk to safely remove them without falling down. She took deep breaths in through her nose and tried to think about how to get to her car without being seen. The party had been awful. It was still awful. Still going. Inside the house and a few feet from her, in all directions, were people she did not know. She had come to meet someone after chatting with them online.  If he was at the party, he did not introduce himself. He must not have liked Mimi in person. It was probably the dress she had chosen or the size of herself. Or her eyes. Mimi had always thought her eyes were too small. Plain. Lashes too short and far apart. Or her nose. It was like her father’s nose and it suited a man more than a woman. Mimi once dreamed she cut it off and that people found her more beautiful, even with the open nasal cavity and weeping wound. Mimi had started drinking late in life. She was 24 before her first hangover. Tomorrow, at 42, she would have another one. If she could just keep herself from falling over or throwing up, or being noticed any further tonight, she would find her car and sleep in it. Mimi thought about the backseat and the sweatshirt she could use as a pillow. She told herself it was better not to drive this drunk and certainly better that she not come home tonight. Her roommates would surely have plenty to say about ‘chatting with strangers online’.  Mimi was a romantic. Or an idiot. Or.both. She swayed in the yard and watched the paper lanterns move in the wind. Maybe someday someone would be close enough to her that Mimi could confess her sadness.  #nightwalk

Mimi tried to steady herself. Her high heels sank into the grass and she was too drunk to safely remove them without falling down. She took deep breaths in through her nose and tried to think about how to get to her car without being seen. The party had been awful. It was still awful. Still going. Inside the house and a few feet from her, in all directions, were people she did not know. She had come to meet someone after chatting with them online. If he was at the party, he did not introduce himself. He must not have liked Mimi in person. It was probably the dress she had chosen or the size of herself. Or her eyes. Mimi had always thought her eyes were too small. Plain. Lashes too short and far apart. Or her nose. It was like her father’s nose and it suited a man more than a woman. Mimi once dreamed she cut it off and that people found her more beautiful, even with the open nasal cavity and weeping wound. Mimi had started drinking late in life. She was 24 before her first hangover. Tomorrow, at 42, she would have another one. If she could just keep herself from falling over or throwing up, or being noticed any further tonight, she would find her car and sleep in it. Mimi thought about the backseat and the sweatshirt she could use as a pillow. She told herself it was better not to drive this drunk and certainly better that she not come home tonight. Her roommates would surely have plenty to say about ‘chatting with strangers online’. Mimi was a romantic. Or an idiot. Or.both. She swayed in the yard and watched the paper lanterns move in the wind. Maybe someday someone would be close enough to her that Mimi could confess her sadness. #nightwalk

It was a black and white photograph of her Grandfather carrying her Mother over his shoulder when she was no more than 5 years old. Greta stared at the shape of her relatives so many years ago. Time had had its way with them and they had had quite their own way with time. Greta tried to hear the playful laughter that must have been coming from them both as the photo was taken. A backyard bbq, Greta assumed. Her Grandfather insisted on meat cooked.over a flame until the day he died. Right there.  As if  he were asleep in the plastic chair just outside the sliding glass doors. But when the neighbor spotted his skin burned pink and his position unchanged hours later, he told Greta, ‘I believe your Grandpa has decided to bbq with God from here on out.’  Greta’s Mother cried and spent hours sitting in her fathers’ closet, smelling his shirts and touching his shoes. At the funeral, there were several reporters who wanted to speak to Greta. They pointed their lenses and mics at her fragile face, and asked how it felt to have both of them buried on the same day. Greta tried not to scream at them. The image of her mother, hanging with the shirts in her grandfathers closet, pushed at her eyes. ‘They were very close’ she told the reporters. And she said it now, weeks later, to herself as she looked at the photo of them alive.  #nightwalk

It was a black and white photograph of her Grandfather carrying her Mother over his shoulder when she was no more than 5 years old. Greta stared at the shape of her relatives so many years ago. Time had had its way with them and they had had quite their own way with time. Greta tried to hear the playful laughter that must have been coming from them both as the photo was taken. A backyard bbq, Greta assumed. Her Grandfather insisted on meat cooked.over a flame until the day he died. Right there. As if he were asleep in the plastic chair just outside the sliding glass doors. But when the neighbor spotted his skin burned pink and his position unchanged hours later, he told Greta, ‘I believe your Grandpa has decided to bbq with God from here on out.’ Greta’s Mother cried and spent hours sitting in her fathers’ closet, smelling his shirts and touching his shoes. At the funeral, there were several reporters who wanted to speak to Greta. They pointed their lenses and mics at her fragile face, and asked how it felt to have both of them buried on the same day. Greta tried not to scream at them. The image of her mother, hanging with the shirts in her grandfathers closet, pushed at her eyes. ‘They were very close’ she told the reporters. And she said it now, weeks later, to herself as she looked at the photo of them alive. #nightwalk

Party at the Brothel.

Party at the Brothel.

Ed had fallen. The years had taken a toll on him in ways he did not realize, until he tried to rise again. It was a combination, to be exact. A mix of memories of being pushed to the black top in elementary school by boys larger and cooler than they thought he was. He remembered how small he felt and how far down just a few feet felt when he fell unwillingly. It did not give him wings like the diving board or his spring mattress. His stomach flipped and he hit the ground, compressed. The laughter around him like some witches’ spell that kept him up at night.  It was this memory combined with the new sensation of the struggle to rise again. His legs and back…his spine, fragile now.  The bag of groceries he had been carrying was torn open on the ground  and the contents, mostly round fruit and things in cans, had rolled away from him. A streetlamp nearby illuminated him, arched over and humiliated. Ed had seen dirty pictures once or twice in his life…and quite suddenly he felt as naked and alone as the women seemed to in the pictures. Their false smiles betrayed by eyes that asked for help and likely recalled feeling small and helpless. As humans do, Ed supposed. Ed pushed at the ground with his fingertips and toes and told himself he could cry when he was safely back in his apartment, and not a moment before then.   #nightwalk

Ed had fallen. The years had taken a toll on him in ways he did not realize, until he tried to rise again. It was a combination, to be exact. A mix of memories of being pushed to the black top in elementary school by boys larger and cooler than they thought he was. He remembered how small he felt and how far down just a few feet felt when he fell unwillingly. It did not give him wings like the diving board or his spring mattress. His stomach flipped and he hit the ground, compressed. The laughter around him like some witches’ spell that kept him up at night. It was this memory combined with the new sensation of the struggle to rise again. His legs and back…his spine, fragile now. The bag of groceries he had been carrying was torn open on the ground and the contents, mostly round fruit and things in cans, had rolled away from him. A streetlamp nearby illuminated him, arched over and humiliated. Ed had seen dirty pictures once or twice in his life…and quite suddenly he felt as naked and alone as the women seemed to in the pictures. Their false smiles betrayed by eyes that asked for help and likely recalled feeling small and helpless. As humans do, Ed supposed. Ed pushed at the ground with his fingertips and toes and told himself he could cry when he was safely back in his apartment, and not a moment before then. #nightwalk

Foreground to background:
Zeppelin, Bean, Agent Smith and “The Fishes”.

Foreground to background:
Zeppelin, Bean, Agent Smith and “The Fishes”.

It is a colorful life.

It is a colorful life.

Tuesday. #nofilter

Tuesday. #nofilter

Monday at home.

Monday at home.

Fish get it.

Fish get it.

Happy is the new black. (if I’m gonna have my back go out, im in the place to do it. )

Happy is the new black. (if I’m gonna have my back go out, im in the place to do it. )

Sarah asked Ben to tell her a secret. They were both naked and the bedroom was dark. Hot air moved too slowly in through the windows and over their skin. They were hot from their lovemaking which had been strange and beautiful. Something about how dark it was, how blind they were…each of them had seen things that were not there. The clarity of things in the dark reminded Sarah of when she was a child and her Mother read to her at night. She saw it all so clearly. She had pictured just now, several faces watching her and Ben. Not alien. Not Angels. Not Doctors or scientists. Faces.  Smart faces studying the way they moved in and out of eachother and then separated in the heat. She wanted to know what Ben had been thinking, but instead asked for a secret. Ben repeated the word, ‘secret’ and then took some moments to think. Sarah wondered if he was choosing one that would not upset her or if he was making one up. Sarah had too many fears for a girl so brave. Ben could be heard shifting his head on the pillow. He told Sarah about the first time he had seen a woman naked. He was 7 years old and had been left with a babysitter while his parents went to a party. The house down the street caught fire and a woman ran naked and screaming down his street. Ben felt himself stir inside. He marveled at the light on the woman’s breasts and her flailing arms. Ben’s secret was that he thought all women came from fire, and that all of them were pale and screaming gifts. Sarah saw it all as Ben spoke. Sarah imagined the faces again, all of them nodding like things bobbing in a boat’s wake.   #nightwalk

Sarah asked Ben to tell her a secret. They were both naked and the bedroom was dark. Hot air moved too slowly in through the windows and over their skin. They were hot from their lovemaking which had been strange and beautiful. Something about how dark it was, how blind they were…each of them had seen things that were not there. The clarity of things in the dark reminded Sarah of when she was a child and her Mother read to her at night. She saw it all so clearly. She had pictured just now, several faces watching her and Ben. Not alien. Not Angels. Not Doctors or scientists. Faces. Smart faces studying the way they moved in and out of eachother and then separated in the heat. She wanted to know what Ben had been thinking, but instead asked for a secret. Ben repeated the word, ‘secret’ and then took some moments to think. Sarah wondered if he was choosing one that would not upset her or if he was making one up. Sarah had too many fears for a girl so brave. Ben could be heard shifting his head on the pillow. He told Sarah about the first time he had seen a woman naked. He was 7 years old and had been left with a babysitter while his parents went to a party. The house down the street caught fire and a woman ran naked and screaming down his street. Ben felt himself stir inside. He marveled at the light on the woman’s breasts and her flailing arms. Ben’s secret was that he thought all women came from fire, and that all of them were pale and screaming gifts. Sarah saw it all as Ben spoke. Sarah imagined the faces again, all of them nodding like things bobbing in a boat’s wake. #nightwalk

Sometimes Larry would hear a song, or smell something cooking, or even feel a soft wind, just so… and it would be fresh in his mind again. The loss of her. The amputation of the piece of him that held him upright. The wound would be fresh and he would be reaching for help, leaking what he knew were feelings but felt so much like blood. She was gone. Cut away without warning and he teetered. He swayed. He leaned on others, but they were lesser crutches. She had been a piece of him. She belonged. Most days he did not notice the limp in his walk. Enough time had passed. It was the way of life, this thievery of things he held dear…this strange unseasonal series of gifts he found in each day.  But then it would be a song. A car’s radio as the vehicle passed, windows open and the driver unaware that his route was a blade. Or the woman cooking in a kitchen, just feeding her family. She was an unknowing blade. The wound would return, the ghost of her would appear and Larry would be reminded that he was human. He missed her. He was reminded that a piece of him moved on its own beneath the same moon. The same sun. But he and this piece no longer were one.   #nightwalk

Sometimes Larry would hear a song, or smell something cooking, or even feel a soft wind, just so… and it would be fresh in his mind again. The loss of her. The amputation of the piece of him that held him upright. The wound would be fresh and he would be reaching for help, leaking what he knew were feelings but felt so much like blood. She was gone. Cut away without warning and he teetered. He swayed. He leaned on others, but they were lesser crutches. She had been a piece of him. She belonged. Most days he did not notice the limp in his walk. Enough time had passed. It was the way of life, this thievery of things he held dear…this strange unseasonal series of gifts he found in each day. But then it would be a song. A car’s radio as the vehicle passed, windows open and the driver unaware that his route was a blade. Or the woman cooking in a kitchen, just feeding her family. She was an unknowing blade. The wound would return, the ghost of her would appear and Larry would be reminded that he was human. He missed her. He was reminded that a piece of him moved on its own beneath the same moon. The same sun. But he and this piece no longer were one. #nightwalk

Paradise is growing. #gratitude #ilovemylife

Paradise is growing. #gratitude #ilovemylife

From the kitchen window: awesome husband sighting.

From the kitchen window: awesome husband sighting.

Helen could not get the image out of her head. She had heard the screams and had followed them into the dark woods to try to help. She did not know the girl she found. Too young to be swollen with a child and too old to be unable to speak. Helen surmised she had been kept somewhere dark for too long a time and against her will: That she had been filled with the seeds of a child again and again, until finally there was a Spring in her belly. Her pale skin looked like it had taken many lashings and bore the marks of someone else’s anger and confusion. Helen had arrived too late to see the child. She saw the opening, torn and still spilling, but no infant.  The screams she had  followed changed mid way in her search, from pain to sorrow. No doubt the moment of separation. Helen found the girl, repressed  into an animal over years of deprivation. Howling for a child that had been taken moments before Helen found the open girl. Open and crying and longing in sounds that were not words but that were unmistakable expressions of loss. Helen knew what it was to lose a child. Helen knew what shape that loss made. The girl reached at the darkness but was too weak to search further than her arms’ length. Helen listened for the footsteps of the monster who had taken the baby, or for the newborns cries, but she heard only the sounds of her own grief, of this girl’s grief and the subtle thrashing of the umbilical moving about the dirt as if it wished its severed tip were an eye.  #nightwalk

Helen could not get the image out of her head. She had heard the screams and had followed them into the dark woods to try to help. She did not know the girl she found. Too young to be swollen with a child and too old to be unable to speak. Helen surmised she had been kept somewhere dark for too long a time and against her will: That she had been filled with the seeds of a child again and again, until finally there was a Spring in her belly. Her pale skin looked like it had taken many lashings and bore the marks of someone else’s anger and confusion. Helen had arrived too late to see the child. She saw the opening, torn and still spilling, but no infant. The screams she had followed changed mid way in her search, from pain to sorrow. No doubt the moment of separation. Helen found the girl, repressed into an animal over years of deprivation. Howling for a child that had been taken moments before Helen found the open girl. Open and crying and longing in sounds that were not words but that were unmistakable expressions of loss. Helen knew what it was to lose a child. Helen knew what shape that loss made. The girl reached at the darkness but was too weak to search further than her arms’ length. Helen listened for the footsteps of the monster who had taken the baby, or for the newborns cries, but she heard only the sounds of her own grief, of this girl’s grief and the subtle thrashing of the umbilical moving about the dirt as if it wished its severed tip were an eye. #nightwalk