An oldie but a goodie…my contribution to the ANRF blog!
Sometimes I need the reminder:
An oldie but a goodie…my contribution to the ANRF blog!
Sometimes I need the reminder:
This piece came from a free-write exercise with the instruction to write about a “non-human watching St. Paddy’s Day.”
So of course, I just had to envision Trump as the “non-human,” so to speak! I know it’s a bit late or a bit early for this particular holiday, but maybe it’ll give a wee chuckle!
“I think that St. Paddy’s Day is ridiculous! Just ridiculous!
You have these people on the streets, no good people, drinking and yelling in green hats! Like they’re those…oh, what are they called? Lepers…leprechauns?
Yeah…and they’re out all night! Just drinking! And yelling! And they break things! They’re always breaking things…Are they even Irish?
I was telling Melania, who isn’t Irish by the way. I’m not either…what are they doing? What is the point of that? There should be a law…
And they drink all day, this green beer…I don’t drink beer, even when it’s not green! But they drink it. They seem to enjoy it. They get so drunk that they’re just all over the place…in the roads, blocking people, yelling Irish things.
And they’re not even wearing all green! Does that mean they’re Irish? I don’t know. Do you have to be Irish to celebrate St. Paddy’s Day?
I think it’s ridiculous. Just ridiculous! How they carry on…SAD!”
What other holidays might he find ridiculous?
This is the thought that flows through my head whenever it happens.
That moment stuns. Did they just…really?
They failed to excuse themselves. “Excuse me…” “Pardon me…”
None at all.
By all means, please go ahead and stick your arm in front of my face.
Or stand way too close to me. It’s a good thing that Rheumatoid Arthritis isn’t catching.
Oh yes, and nearly run me down with your cart because you can’t look both ways and yield before turning out from the side aisle into the main aisle.
I wonder how you drive…
It’s the same thing. Really wish grocery stores would install stop signs in aisles!
But then, they’ll probably just run right through them. Just like they do at the crosswalk in front of the store.
Or in your neighborhood.
But they don’t.
It seems to have worsened since 2017, hasn’t it? Hrm.
So on that note, I wrote a little ditty of frustration! Enjoy:
I hate people.
They run around.
Drive me nuts.
They don’t stop
Or signal turns.
They don’t pardon
With proper words.
I give up.
So, I see via my stats that this post is particularly popular.
Found it via Facebook, yes?
Why, you little stalker, you!
I have other posts of writings.
Please read them…
You might enjoy them.
And if you liked this little poem above, please let me know.
And use your turn signals.
A macabre little free-write to share on a rather tense day:
She was running out of room.
Where could they go?
Her skeletons were all over the house! Pushed to the back of closets. Stuffed behind the couch. Hiding under beds and behind doors.
Was there anywhere else they could go?
The cellar long ago had ceased being an option.
That’s where she buried the bodies of her ghosts.It was packed down there, stuffed to the gills.
A festering tomb to behold.
No, the skeletons simply would not fit!
The attic was out too.
That’s where the ghosts liked to roam. Up in the cobwebs, whispering from corners.
They would resent the intrusion.
So many skeletons…yet no place for them to go!
Halloween was too far away to use as decorations.
If she put them out now, there would be questions…
I like to bury things. Deep inside my head. Behind my heart. I bury the thoughts and the words, trying to stuff them down underground, to forget. Instead, they betray me by growing up and out into weeds. All hope of blossoming is choked out.
I had some hopes for this year. I attended a year-long writing workshop with monthly meetings, focused on writing that first draft. Though it started last August, I had chosen the New Year for that fresh boost to sit down and finally fully bleed onto the page. I felt ready at last.
But as I sat down on the couch for a December session with my long-time therapist, she shared that she had some news to reveal for the next year. She was ready to retire by March. She would reach her 40th year working as a social worker/therapist. It was time. I understood. But I felt my hope, my focus crumble.
Write the words to set yourself free.
Below are a couple of freewrite exercises that I recently completed while attending a local writing meetup. In other words, it was not polished prose.
The first one I felt ready to share that night. The second one, not so much. But now I share it here, in this sacred space – my altar to words.
Who am I?
I’m stuck here on this boat. Drifting on an endless sea, I suppose. It’s been raining for just over a month now in this place, a so-called haven for heaven. I’m not alone, at least. But I am crowded and I can’t take it anymore! I want to feel the sun on my face, the dirt under my toes. I want to grasp a tree branch, flush with leaves, pluck off a tiny apple and bite the wisdom of its tart flesh. Yet I’m here, lost, though they claim we are found. I’ve found only a soggy spirit adrift on a flooded world.
The one mercy of all this rain is that I feel clean and pure as the water that drenches my soul. (Ran out of time here).
I have a thing about religion…
This next freewrite was the result of the prompt: “What are you waiting for?” Others took a more fictional angle on it with characters, whereas I felt the need for a confessional about the monolith of depression that blocks my writing:
I am waiting to die. Waiting for the dreams to smother me in the night. Lost hope, lost soul. Daydreams into null. Words unspoken fade away into thoughts scattered by fear. Thoughts only tumble into nothing. Nothing, I fear. But I do. I fear my words. I fear my thoughts written, done. I fear facing those memories as they threaten to shroud me. Buried in the ground. Or I could light them up. Let them burn away. Drifting as ashes, obvious delay. Can’t write if you aren’t here. Alive, breathing, heart beating. Thoughts bleeding. Afraid to poke and prod, even to see the words of my story form into shape. Down I go and out it falls, but nowhere to find it as it flows. The ink has dried too fast. My hands hurt too much. I think I know what my story is and then I let it fade into a question of not knowing at all. So I wait. I wonder. I try. I tumble. I let the plot die as I breathe in fear…and hope falters.
My saving grace at this point in my life is the re-discovery of writing: as a gift, a blessing, my salvation instead of as a childhood school chore. It unexpectedly revealed itself over the course of the past several years, starting in 2013. My imagination flared to life from the ashes of defeat. The daydreams demanded their story to be known; make us real, from your heart and mind, as nagging as an aching joint. It’s taken this long to find the courage to acknowledge this part of myself and finally believe in it. Writing is the only way I can ever birth something from within me. A creation brought into this world from the womb of my heart and mind, to grow and flourish into hope and wonder.
I’ve always been a daydreamer. I escaped into my mind as the bully pulled my hair and pinched me from between the small space of the bus window and seat. But I never wrote the dreams down. I just played it over and over inside my head, hoping that one day, this better world could be made real somehow. Writing was just a knack I had when it came to school papers; an expectation. I’d tried to keep a diary, but I just couldn’t commit to seeing my thoughts on the page. What if someone else found it? I got in enough trouble as a child, being a stubborn bronco of a mind. Oh, and surely my older brother would have tormented me in some way as part of his sibling duty. No, the creations had to stay hidden in my mind.
After developing rheumatoid arthritis, I felt that I lacked much worth. No idea about my future, other than it being full of disease, pain, and damage. That’s it, really. I was damaged goods. How could I expect to create words, art, and any expression when it hurt too much to live, let alone use my hands? So I coped by letting that part of myself go, and slide back into the past, an artist no more. Every now and then, it would call to me though. One incident that I’ve never forgotten was back when I was in a relationship with an artist. I had a simple idea to make something amusing, just to do, fleeting really, just for kicks. And he responded with “why bother?” Why bother, indeed.
It’s the absolute worst when someone that you look up to and believe in fails to give the same support. So much trauma from those days, if only I had written it all down, blood on bone. But I felt that it was too much to put into a form where it stares right back at me as etched memories. I know now that is why I couldn’t write during the 18 month span of heart health issues. It was enough to just get through each moment of the day. Nearly dying, six week hospital stay with first open heart, trying to sort myself out, going back to school, discover another issue with heart, cardiac tests and hospital stays, 2nd open heart, and then finally being done. Finally! But “what now?” My whole life had changed again; first time being RA, with this second time of a repaired and ticking heart. The post-traumatic stress reduced me to a super anxious frantic mouse that couldn’t make sense of the maze it had found itself stuck within. And then the betrayal happened with the artist and I just couldn’t take much more. I felt so shattered. I had survived health trials that proved to me that I am strong enough to carry on, despite doubt, fear, even the odds. But there I was, shaky with ultimate doubt, feeling worthless. What I thought was real was apparently a lie. Could the same be said of all I’d just overcome, especially with that jerk by my side through it all? (Two open hearts!) What was the point of surviving if my heart was too heavy to hold hope anymore?
Thankfully, I knew enough to recognize that depression lies and obtained the mental healthcare needed for it, as well as my panic, anxiety, and PTSD issues. Now I can look back and realize that I still didn’t feel strong enough to face my fear and release all of those feelings, those thoughts, those blessings and demon onto the page. Wounds in my heart to bleed out through fingers crippled by disease. Instead, I let the words fester. How fitting that an infection destroyed my Mitral valve; a doorway in my beating heart torn apart and consumed by a festering poison. A sturdy new door was then stitched into me, with doors clicking and ticking away the moments of my life until it all winds down. I wish I had believed in myself back then beyond mere daily survival and planted the rubble of my story as I walked its path; a cobblestoned redemption. Only now am I able to put my butt in the chair, gloved hands on the keyboard, and pull out the weeds in my mind before they creep down and strangle my heart.
My partner is my husband. My best friend. The man I love.
Healthy for his whole life, his awareness changed after he met me, the woman in gloves.
He has been by my side through these years as I rise and I fall.
Rheumatoid arthritis, heart condition, infertility; arms close around me as I bawl.
He holds my hands while I wear gloves or bare and chilled to the bone.
He tells silly jokes and gets me to laugh when all I feel like doing is groan.
If I’m too tired to rise, he’s there to help me up, morning or night.
Sweet and kind enough even to help with the little things, like cracking open my Sprite.
He knows how to calm and soothe me, a most stubborn and cranky beast.
When I feel defeated, he hits me with his best shtick until my grumpy demons release.
Laughing together, he will pull me into an embrace, holding me tight and close.
He’ll take my hand to waltz around our living room, as our doggie hops all over our toes.
His smart, kind, and funny heart captured my own from ticking forever all alone.
He is my life, my love, my treasure, my true home.