Shock Wave

Lighting up the horizon

It’s incoming, now

The warmth, then devastation

You’re flat on your back

Clawing dirt, gasping for air

You’re stuck, overwhelmed

Then movement, it’s possible

Just don’t run, don’t flee

Please don’t dare try to escape

Be still, believe it

Don’t be alone in your end.


For the Love of Fridays

The alarm clock buzzed in my ear, over and over and over. Snooze was both my best friend and worst enemy. But still, I hurried to be on time, despite the fact that no one ever is on Fridays. Except me.

Coffee made, coffee poured, coffee cold.

The project – it started out so well. I was so fresh, so sharp, so ready, this morning. I opened that folder and boom. Typing, imagining, planning, producing at lightning speed, laser focused.  I was happy to throw myself into anything anyone asked, because it’s Friday. Last day of the week, first day of the weekend.

Unless you count Thursday nights, which I did last night. Oh, that bottle of red. Mmhm. Delicious and gone.

The project – it ended so poorly. The words and images, the URLs and prompts, all jumbled together. They made one big blobby mess, before drifting apart. They drifted out of my head, off my computer screen, across my office, past the cubicles, and left the building. They’re probably already at the bar gearing up for Friday Fun Lunch.

The stone, cold wall I hit really hurt my head. I couldn’t comprehend how I let that happen. I forgot that it’s Friday. My brain is missing, my sleep deprived.

Time to shut her down and walk away. It’s Friday.

My Only Sunshine

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, You make me happy when life is grey, You’ll never know dear, how much I love you, please don’t take my sunshine away.

The other night dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms. But when I awoke dear, I was mistaken, so I hung my head and cried.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, You make me happy when life is grey, You’ll never know dear, how much I love you, please don’t take my sunshine away.

Your smiling eyes, dear, they make me happy. They are with me as I dream. But you are not, love, so I must find you, I need you safe where you sleep.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, You make me happy when life is grey, You’ll never know dear, how much I love you, please don’t take my sunshine away.

I’ll always love you and make you happy, you are my treasure for all life. But if you leave me and love another, you’ll shatter my entire heart.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, You make me happy when life is grey, You’ll never know dear, how much I love you, please don’t take my sunshine away.

**These are lyrics to My Only Sunshine by Johnny Cash. I reworked a couple of lines to make it personal.

The Solitaire, Blue Hour

I can hear myself snoring, but I don’t force myself to fully wake yet, I’m grateful the lights are still off. But then, like clockwork, she flicks that switch, the first noise of the morning. It always sounds incredibly high pitched; it hurts my ears. My eyelids disobey my inner protest and lift, exposing my pupils. The light flashes on, I’m blinded.

She shuffles around, turning on her laptop, turning on the TV. She drinks her coffee, offers me none. Her phone rings, she sighs, mutters something about it being too early, too soon. I agree! But, she ignores me, so I start contemplating the perfect hiding place. As devoted as I am to her, she’s never been one to give me a soft, loving, gentle wake up. I’m tired of it.

As she speaks, her tone is very patient, but she rolls her eyes, closes them, and sips her coffee. Steam rises off the top, the smell fills my nostrils. Enjoying this lone, accidental pleasantry, I close my eyes to give them a post-wake up rest. Mornings with her are always jarring.

I hear a swishing noise and know exactly what she’s done without looking. I know her better than I know myself, we’ve been together for years. She has run her fingers through her hair and flicked that thick mane over her shoulder. That’s what she does when she’s annoyed. Followed by a deep, slow breath.

Suddenly, I realize her hair was shining and straight. She’s been up a while, early enough to wash, dry and straighten. I didn’t notice if she had on eyeliner, or how much. That’s how I can gauge whether she’s half-cocked. If she’s actually wearing lipstick, it’s definitely all over for me. She’s heading into battle. I need assume she’s ready to go, despite her mutterings.

I’ve thought about doing it, constantly, but I haven’t had the guts to jump yet. This time it’s different. For a while now, it’s been cold outside, far below freezing. The heater broke and the repairman had to wait on a part, so she decided to take advantage and visit her sister. It made for long, quiet, lonely days and nights that I’d finally adjusted to when she returned. Full speed ahead.

She ruffles through papers, she is fishing for something. If she doesn’t find it, she’ll turn to me, such is her routine. Where to hide, where to hide? I question. And then, boom. I’ve got it. I force my eyes open once again, decidedly unwilling to rock with her one final time. So, I roll.

I shake my body until I start to move. Then, with a little huffing and puffing, I sway side to side, attempting to build enough momentum to scoot quickly. I feel my body waking, heating itself. Satisfied that I’m ready, I hurl myself over the edge and barrel toward the ground. I hit it running and fly, fast. Desperation has overcome me, I must escape. She flinches, but can’t engage the pursuit because she’s still on her call. A lucky break, no doubt, but regardless, my adrenaline rises, and I start to sweat. Sweat is nothing new, but mine leaves a trail.

I keep moving, racing around corners, dodging obstacles, until my secret hiding place is in sight. I hear her hang up the phone and lurch out of her chair. Now she’s hot on my heels. Only a couple more feet. She closes in, but she’s too late. I reach my hiding place and tuck myself away. Shocked that I made it, I need to pause, so I take in my new surroundings.

To my surprise, I immediately discover I’m not alone. I’m in the company of friends, some old, some new, each one she assumed lost. They greet me warmly for a second, then frantically hush. My friend who worked a Breast Cancer Awareness conference, takes hold of me, tugging me farther into our hiding place. Stupidly unaware of what is causing their sudden fear, I become alarmed, confused. I want to ask questions, but they keep me silent. I thought I was home-free.

Then I hear it. Her fingers, clawing at the only opening. The tips appear, I notice she got a manicure this weekend, light grey. She tries to force them in, but her fingers, that I always considered thin and elegant, are too fat for this tiny crack.

“Damn it,” she mutters, giving up. Her fingers disappear. Soon I can hear them punching the keys on her phone.

“Marjie,” she says. “It happened again. When you have a chance, will you please – wait, what? I’m really sorry but they keep rolling under my desk, must be these damn earthquakes. It’s bolted to the ground. I’d hate to call maintenance to retrieve pens. Please just order me more. Thank you.”

At least her hands were always warm and soft, I think.

Lost and Found

Per BU’s First Post, this is my introduction, my hello and, man, did I get stuck. So, I decided to answer the suggested questions. And very, very honestly. Eek.

Why are you blogging publicly instead of keeping a diary?

Love this question. Writing is cathartic for me, and typically, I have some sort of technology in my hand or nearby at any given moment, so an online blog seemed simple enough. But I have never been good at maintaining a diary. I have, however, always been very good at isolating myself. So while I reconnect with me, blogging publicly is an experiment in making myself vulnerable.

What topics do you think you’ll write about?

The life that happens after the wedding happens, both good and bad. The way I saw things then, the way I see them now. Lightning up, having a laugh, my mental escapades, and the tears that sometimes follow. Fun, right now, is important for me to seek out. I tend to write with bit of personification and fiction because I express myself better in those ways. I think.

Who would you love to connect with via your blog?

Um…myself, mostly. Not the PC answer, right? I am intentionally being very selfish and self centered with this blog. I’ve been holding many peoples hands for a long time now and putting my needs on the back burner. I was on that burner so long, it charred my insides. They probably taste better than blackened chicken right now. That’s ok, I’m not close to the first or last. I’m just looking over my shoulder wondering where the time went and what just happened. Where did I go?

I wish I could say my goal was something profound like saving humanity, world peace, putting a little good back into the universe, but I’m not a doctor, a teacher or a wizard. I’m not a guru in helping and healing. Hell, I was a terrible yoga instructor. It would be arrogant to claim I possess wisdom and insight of an expert. If you’ve searched “HELP”, “SOS”, or “AAAAAH” like me, then maybe I can give you a laugh, but, I’m also not a comedian. I am, however, hospitable, and second to connecting with myself,  I hope to connect with everyone who takes the time to read my nonsense. Welcome. It is so nice to have you.

If you blog successfully throughout the next year, what do you hope to accomplish?

Hide and Seek Champion 2017 (see above). Seriously though, success manifests itself in different ways for everyone – money, followers, awards. Those are great, but are not my goals this next year. My success will be in being consistent and finding courage, while easing the pressure I put on myself. Balance. Consistency looks like blogging literally everyday. Easing the pressure looks like taking a break if I’m sick (extremely sick) or all technology is broken. I need to find the courage to make myself known. It seems easier to do this with strangers, rather than my loved ones.  Currently, my name is not involved, my personal social media is not involved, and there are no photos of me. So what will opening up beyond story telling look like?


Dumpster Diving Martyr

He was coming out as I was coming in. He carried a bag of trash, made his way for the trash can. He smiled and greeted me, but he didn’t mean it. He wishes he could throw me away, like the trash. But I’d like to stay, like it’s stench.

My heart finally died to logic and I hopped in the trash can. He said thank you, smashed me down so the bag would fit. He closed the lid and wheeled me to the curb. Walking away, he was suddenly taller. It’s always so easy for him.

All night, I shivered in the cold, smelling just like the week’s trash. The following morning, the garbage truck arrived and lifted me in, crushing me against the blackened banana peels and skunked beer.

I curled into a ball, my head in my hands, desperate to hide from my new surroundings. But there was no discriminating between me and all the city’s maggots. The diamonds in my ring, covered with rotten meat, still able to slice my cheek.

He will be happy, he will be happy. He will be happy, this will not be for nothing. I’ve failed as a wife; Dear God I hope I don’t fail as a martyr. He will be happy, I’ll love him forever.


Buried Underneath a Pile of Turnips

It’s like I was taking a drive along a winding mountain road on a clear skied, sunny day, the ocean to my left, top down on my convertible. I was smiling, laughing, singing to the song of the moment (singing beautifully, of course). Maybe I was even wearing a floppy hat. Why not?

Then I rounded a corner and found myself behind a turnip truck. I thought Oh, what a cute, little turnip truck, with it’s cute wooden trailer. And such pretty colors, too. And I blissfully followed the turnip truck down the road, focused on its simple attraction, the day’s perfect temperature, and the sun dancing through the trees.

Until a turnip fell out of the trailer and the cute, little turnip truck slammed on its brakes. Unfortunately, I couldn’t brake in time. In slow motion, I saw the wooden trailer grow larger and larger as my convertible skidded closer and closer. Unable to to veer right or left, I smashed directly into the back of the trailer and found myself buried under a pile of turnips.

At first I was stunned, but once I gathered myself I thought it would be no problem to climb out. Turnips aren’t heavy, their tiny little things. No problem. One by one, I tried to pick my way out from underneath the pile of turnips, but as I pushed each aside, another would bonk me on my head. Obnoxious little devils.

It took several thuds to my noggin, but finally, I realized I wasn’t going to pick my way out of the pile on my own. The driver wasn’t going to help me. He was too concerned with the turnip that got away, his truck, his remaining turnips, and scolding me (loudly) for everything I did wrong. Which really was everything.  From driving a car to breathing – everything. For a second, I thought about staying under the pile of turnips, they were muffling his rants, after all.

But then I thought, that’s no way to live life, hiding underneath a pile of turnips, and they were starting to smell. So I concentrated real hard and like magic, an S.O.S. sign appeared in my hand. I forced that sign through the turnips until it appeared at the top of the pile. Surely someone would help me climb out. Surely this day could have a happy ending. It started out so well, didn’t it?