You are currently browsing the monthly archive for June 2009.

 Once again, I’ve asked a fantabulous writer and blogger some questions for those of us who are not “in the know” but would like to be.

1. Do you ever take a handful of raisins and eat them quickly because you suspect if you took time to really think about them, you might actually hate raisins?

I savour my raisins. I do, however, swallow my deep fried hedgehogs whole as a result of an unfortunate accident as a child.

2. How the heck does one pronounce “gingatao”? I am at a loss and no medication seems to help me figure it out.

‘ginga’ is Portugese. The first ‘g’ is soft and long and sexy, almost like ‘shh’, and the ‘inga’ is like a German lady. Tao should be pronounced as though it was Dow. Strangely, I have only ever heard one other person say it out loud.

3. How is it you became a writer, dearest?

When I was seventeen I felt far too ugly and ungainly to become an actor so I chose the other career in which one never has to be oneself.

4. How do you get out of a writer’s rut?

Alcohol. (or reading the great writers of the past.)

5-ish. Do Australians really say “crikey”? Also, do you all wrestle alligators? Is it true Australians are zany? Do you think I would fit in in Australia? Do you were funny hats? What is Australia’s stance on clogs? Do you call flip-flops “flip-flops” or “thongs”?

No Australians say Crikey anymore. Many of the old Austalianisms have died out. Noone refers to ladies as ‘sheilas’ anymore. Interestingly the Prime Minister is copping some stick at the moment for using blokey language like ‘fair suck of the sausage, mate.’ Australia also has the highest rate of indigenous language loss of any country. There were thousands of indigenous languages and now there are only handful still in active use, which is a tragedy.

I hope we are not zany, a word I use interchangeably with stupid.

Everyone fits in in Australia, it is one of the most tolerant and multicultural countries anywhere. Like the rest of the world though, we have developed a deep suspicion of Americans which you would have to overcome.

I wear funny hats. At the moment I am wearing a green felt hat.

Our stance on clogs is neutral, our stance in clogs is a little crooked.

We call thongs thongs and the other thongs g-strings.

Thank you for your questions, M’Lady.

I’m sorry my answers weren’t as clever or as funny as Bryan’s but I just woke up on a Monday morning. Have a fantabulous day full of tiny miracles like unexpected flowers blooming,

Paul.

Paul–these answers are not to be compared with Bryan’s. These were YOUR questions to answer and I think you did a mighty fine job, kind sir.

  • If you have to use Aspercreme on sore muscles, wash and rewash your hands. Once or twice is not good enough, because should the icy-hot fire somehow get around your what-not area, it will burn for hours and you will be miserable.
  • If you haven’t already done so, just get on with it.
  • Eat chips and chocolate.
  • Drink regular Coke and Pepsi.
  • Go to your bathroom stall at work and take out the book you’ve been trying to finish for weeks and go ahead and read a couple of pages per trip. You can make special trips. This will make you especially happy with feelings that you have duped everyone.
  • Don’t hesitate to sleep. Defend your sleep privileges to the death. If you have to tell the Gays they are too stressful to be around right now, so be it. You’re their Princess; they will surely forgive you.
  • Lay out.
  • Jump in random pools. Or at least imagine jumping in pools irrationally over a period of no less than 5 hours of constant “I should jump in a pool” loops running in your head.
  • Find an Air Force John. He will not have the energy to blow you off. He will want to cuddle with you. Except that maybe he only responded because he’s intoxicated and watching “WifeSwap” when he’s a 26-year-old military man. Anyhow, he will respond if prompted and offer distraction, if not frustration and perplexation.
  • Never mind if “perplexation” is a word. It should be. Own it.
  • Even if you know you will have to write about it again sometime, keep your darkness at bay. It’s the only way to keep from crying racking sobs every day.
  • Do not think about your dead aunt.
  • Do not think about your impending summer program.
  • Do not worry about tan lines.
  • Recognize raisins are good for you.
  • Stay conscious for only mere minutes of time until drifting off into something as close to peace as you get.

Oh, Air Force John.

How you’ve helped me this week.

My time of need and all.

You have provided ample distraction from real-life tragedy.

Your silence is better than your hi’s or highs.

Perhaps I would have liked to consider you a distraction in the flesh but no matter.

 

Oh, Air Force John.

For you, I’d avoid eating Doritos two hours before seeing you.

For you, I’d not resent leaving a third of my peppermint mints at your abode, not to mention two of my bobby pins.

For you, I’d diet.

For you, I’d murder Bryan’s murderous interpretation of me as sad.

 

Oh, Air Force John.

We have something oh so special.

I do not have your cell phone number or your email address anymore.

I knew what would happen.

But oh, Air Force John, to say, hi again.

Sobbing is never, ever attractive. It makes people uncomfortable.

Sobbing induces other people’s sobbing. It makes the one who started the sobbing feel a little guilty, but not really.

Sobbing is best suppressed after two minutes. One can continue to sob inwardly, but it’s best to be polite about it and shut up.

Sobbing causes mothers and fathers to cry, especially if it’s their daughter who’s sobbing the loudest or the only one who’s sobbing.

Sobbing is a sign of suffering. What can one do?

Sobbing as a memory induces sobbing in the here and now.

 

Sobbing is best left to the experts. Do not try this at home.

Consider it written in stone. The stone at the head of a non-descript grave at a non-descript cemetery on the outskirts of some field in the middle of nowhere. Here she lies.

This is how it will go. Tomorrow, there will be tears. Tomorrow, there will be a long, sad drive home and an even longer, sadder drive back to the place I live.

It’s hard to say how many people will be there. It’s summer, you know, and there will be no church service. I imagine only family and one or two friends will come.

The family will hug me. They will tell me how thankful they are that I went to see her when she was so ill and no one else was able to visit. Able. Inwardly, I will cringe at this word. Inwardly, I will feel hate and spite.

The family will tell me they love me after they’ve told me and each other what a big “help” I was, as if I’d gone to pick up their prescriptions downtown and not sat beside her for hours while she cried because she was in pain and no one else would come see her. They’ll say they don’t know what they would have done without me. Some of them will list all the reasons why they couldn’t come to visit her when it mattered. I will make a parallel list of all the reasons they should have come. My list will be longer and more substantial.

They did not kill her, but they did break her heart. My tears will be for her and for the injustice of it all. Their tears will force me to forgive them, to stifle the outrage I feel, because I, of all people, know guilt and grief.

I wanted her dead and now she is.

Neither of us will go quietly.

That was obvious from the first.

Her moans and denials and fight are only restrained by the liquid morphine that courses through her veins.

She will not go quietly.

 

On the way to see her.

On the way to see her for the last time.

I did not go quietly.

The sounds of the engine and the radio could not be heard over my shrieks and sobs.

 

When the end comes

neither of us will go quietly

even if we don’t make a sound.

The last words I’ll ever hear her speak are, “I’ve still got fight left in me.” Or maybe, “I don’t have no fight left in me.” I distinctly heard “fight left in me.”

I asked her how she was.  Dry: “I’m great.” Floated back into her morphine dreams or nightmares.

Later, when I was alone with her for a few moments, both of her hands in mine, I called her name. “Tywanua.” She opened her eyes. “Tywanua, I love you.” She was coherent enough to recognize me. “I love you, too.  I wish I could sit up a little more…but I’m just glad you’re here.”

 Atrocities of June 8, 2009

  • My aunt, who has terminal cancer, starts to rapidly decline as her body shuts down. There is concern she won’t make it through the night but the extra morphine improves her breathing and makes her more comfortable.
  • I see this otherworldly tumor on the side of her neck that makes me cringe and I’m glad my aunt is sleeping mostly. Not to be funny, but to give a visual: familiar with Coneheads on SNL? It’s like one of those heads is trying to grow out of the side of her neck. Ball your fists up, press them against the left side of your neck, and you can see how big that thing is. It’s like from a horror movie. Where the skin has been stretched to the limit and has cracked, she has bled. The whole top part has dark purple scabs and I’m sure some of that skin is black because it’s dead.
  • My family aren’t much of hand holders, but I know she likes to have her hand held so I try to model it for my family so that they can see the comfort it can give. Now, she’s hearing that she is loved and that’s all she (or any of us) has ever wanted.
  • My piece-of-the-most-unholiest-shit ex-uncle is a jealous, selfish coward. An obnoxious alcoholic, he keeps yelling at her, “you want something to eat, you want something eat?” I want to scream: She’s a little too busy with the business of breathing to eat. Besides, food will only prolong it now. Also, he apparently tries to have sex with her, while another aunt is in the same room, trying to sleep.
  • There’s too many people all around, wanting to desperately help her or those around her. The weariness of us all is heavy on the heart, and it’s the kind of heaviness that one can’t lose by going on a diet. It’s there for good.
  • I say goodbye to her and leave without a sob.
  • If not today,  June 9 or June 10, 2009 will be the day she dies. Maybe planning a death really is like planning a marriage. You concern yourself with the flowers and the weather.
  • Past and present tenses. She will die, but after that?  Will I say I had an aunt who died?  That tends to be the traditional form of reference. Or I have an aunt who died? Because is she still my aunt once she’s dead?  Will I ever be able to say I  lost an aunt or will it always be I am losing an aunt? I can’t go find her at the lost and found; she’s not a lost item or a lost person. Losing is active and implies infinity.
  1. Do you think it’s wrong to text message a suitor twice in a row? If he doesn’t respond to the second one, does that mean has thrown you away?
  2. If you just met someone and they say they are having a bad day but give few details and you don’t really know them well enough to know what to say, do you say anything? Do you say, oh, sorry to hear that? Do you say, care to tell me what’s up? Or do you think this would annoy the suitor?
  3. Do you know where my berry-flavored lip gloss is?
  4. Can anyone confirm or deny the value of herbal supplements (beyond say a daily multi-vitamin)? Do they mess you up? Are there goods one for any particular ailments?
  5. How do you get your eyeliner and mascara not to run or smudge after a while? After a few hours, I have raccoon eyes and am tired of it.

Believe it or not, people don’t think of me as particularly brash.

Perhaps pessimistic but I’ve been called many a time “happy go lucky,” which is ironic and sad because I am not happy or lucky and I don’t like to go anywhere.

Or as Bryan would say, I’m only happy when I’m in my dark place. If I’m not in my dark place, Bryan says I’m manic. When I’m convinced I want a dog as big as me, Bryan says I’m manic…but encourages me just the same (fodder for his good time, you know). When I tell Bryan I have a new boyfriend after one date, he says, “of course you do, Manic One.” When I don’t stay in bed all day, Bryan says I’m manic.

I do not feel manic. I feel tremors. I’ve grown weary of roller coasters. I’d prefer a flat-line (except of course when I’m flat-lined, I hate it).

The first draft is the only one that matters

Raw is reality

Refined is bullshit

Or so I say

At times when I am being difficult.

 

At times when I am being difficult

I say

Refined is bullshit

Raw is reality

The first draft is the only one that matters.

SOB with me

Blog Stats

  • 32,433 hits

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 49 other followers

EMAIL ME

at MedicatedLady@yahoo.com, loria29@gmail.com Or Facebook Me: www.facebook.com/loriataylor3

CopyScape

Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape
%d bloggers like this: