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This Medicated Lady is thinking irrationally again.

Irrational because.
I’ve been considering a diet consisting only of those flavored ice pops
especially the blue ones
the ones I like the least

Irrational because.
No one but me looks forward to a psychotic break

Irrational because.
It occurred to me that I’m tired of being medicated
tired of being in need of medication
tired of being in need
tired of being

Irrational because.
Right is what’s right
right as opposed to wrong
right as opposed to left
right as opposed to write
write as opposed to rite

Irrational because.
It makes sense.

Irrational because.

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it was a year ago today
since I saw him last

it was a year ago yesterday
that he told me he had no affection for me
branded it into my psyche

it was a year ago yesterday
and on this anniversary
by coincidence only
he emailed me
wondered if we were on speaking terms

it was a year ago
I would have forgotten it was our anniversary
if he hadn’t contacted me

it was a year ago
I cannot bring myself to believe
he’s been counting, too

I sometimes wonder if I’ve made an impact on any of the men’s lives I’ve dated. I don’t understand man emotions because they have never been explained to me, but I wonder if I’ve caused them pain or sadness. In such times, I take comfort in the possibility that I might have mattered in some way. Not enough to come after me. Not enough to not let me go. But maybe I mattered in some way that I’ll never understand.

But.
Then.
I remember.
Comfort is completely self-serving.

What keeps coming to mind is this guy I dated once who was really nice (I’ll call him Larry Kerry because he had a name that rhymed just like that). I liked him, but the other guy I was dating was just more exciting and I had a greater chemistry with him. The other guy, I ultimately chose, and he turned out to be an asshole of astronomical proportions.

Larry Kerry was a computer analyst and former Navy man. He tried out for the SEALS but had to drop out due to an injury. He pondered working for the FBI. He was tall, graying a little early but it was sexy. He was always so nervous around me. I felt flattered and sympathetic. He wore a little too much cologne. And he downed a glass of red wine right before we left a restaurant and I realized once I was in his car, I should’ve insisted on driving.

Still. There was nothing wrong with him. He just wasn’t an asshole or The Asshole I wanted. I let him go and do not regret it. I do not think of him with any particular fondness. I mainly feel nothing.

Which is why comfort is completely self-serving because I imagine I’m the Larry Kerry of most of the men I’ve dated.

Fall, I did today
saw the Inbox, one message
from a name of a person who’s no longer a person
hasn’t been for years
because he’s gone on, on
Billy
Billy who died of an aneurism or a catastrophic stroke
I can’t remember which
brain stem is a bad place for a bleed

Fell, he did
died instantly there in my grandmother’s living room
died instantly but was still breathing
9 siblings and child-like mother as next-of-kin
and none of them wanted to be the one to authorize the unplugging of the plug
so he didn’t die when it would have been an intimate family affair
when they were ready
he died when it was convenient
for the medical staff

silly him,
he died when it was convenient for them.

How I’d like to be a Republican
doing God’s work
fighting for the cause

in love
I’d like to be George W.
transparent intelligence
make the course, stay the course
the exit strategy is there is no exit
only submission is possible

I could be leader of the free and righteous world
Women as Christians
Men as Muslims
battling out
the war against terror conquered by tyranny
we will prevail, my sisters
come bloodshed, theirs and ours,
no matter—

the cause is just

In my continuing James Lipton-channeling interviews with fellow bloggers, I’ve had the pleasure of picking 1writegirl’s mind in typical ML seriousness/silliness. Be prepared to laugh and think, dear reader. Enjoy…and I know you will.

1. I’ve heard people say that they can’t write because they haven’t had anything terrible happen to them…or at least nothing interesting in comparison to what others deal with. (For example, someone might say that it’s silly to write a poem about split ends when there are people who could recount their death camp survival stories.) Do you find yourself needing to justify or validate the importance of your writing?

Not really. I mean I compare my work to that of other writers, I can’t help doing so, but everyone has their own story to tell, and not everyone can be a death camp survivor (Alas? Fortunately?). Granted, if all you ever wrote about was split ends, people would quickly tire of reading your stuff, but the trick is to take whatever you have to say and say it in such a way that other people find it intriguing. I think it’s true that much of the great writing in the world comes from either great despair or great joy, these are the times we are most inspired to write and as a result, produce deeper and more reflective pieces. But it can be done at any time, it just takes a bit more digging and more imagination when you aren’t being bombarded with some catastrophe or ecstasy. Look at Jane Austen. She wrote detailed novel after novel about complicated and intricate relationships between men and women, while in reality, she never experienced anything like that. Ditto with the Bronté sisters. It was strictly their imaginations that created those works that, amazingly enough, at least half the world could relate to, generation after generation. The other thing that keeps me from feeling a strong need to justify my writing is that I write first and foremost for myself, and secondarily, for others to read. Most writers I think are like this, at least those of us who don’t make a living from our writing – compelled to write, not sitting at a computer generating words because that’s our livelihood. We find time to write in spite of all else that’s going on in our lives, so naturally, what we write about is going to be important (to us, anyway.)

2. Let’s just say you are on a deserted island and there is little hope of rescue. There is, however, a broken CD player that constantly plays one song over and over and over again. Let’s also say you cannot access the CD player. It is in a tree and being guarded by a tropical raven-hawk beast, but you can choose the song. What would it be?

Ha! Okay, well, I guess I could rack my brain to come up with a song that I wouldn’t mind hearing over and over again for the rest of my life, but truth be told, there probably isn’t one. So I think I’d pick Beethoven’s Für Elise, that way I’d know the tune by heart but wouldn’t have the lyrics scrambling around in my brain interfering with all the great writing I’d be doing while stranded on this desert island.

3. How do you think blogging has influenced (your) writing?
First and foremost, it’s encouraged me to be more disciplined, writing almost daily. And secondly, it’s allowed me to experiment with other genres (like poetry) besides creative non-fiction and lengthy fiction, which is where the majority of my energies went previously. Prior to starting my blog, I wrote very little poetry. In addition, having an audience, one that gives you feedback, is conducive to improving qualities like clarity and subtle meaning you want the work to reflect. It’s harder to get these things when your work doesn’t see the light of day.

4. If you were sitting in a bar with your brain and you had a conversation, what would it be like?

Me: So, I’ve noticed you light up every time you’re in the presence of this guy, or even just thinking about him. Are you crazy-in-love with him, or what?
Brain: Most people would refer to it as being crazy-in-love. Apparently, however, I’m chemically addicted to him.
Me: I see. Is he chemically addicted to you?
Brain: I think so, but to a lesser degree.
Me: What will you do now?
Brain: I could really go for a cappuccino. Or, I could go jogging, and then get a cappuccino… I made it all the way down to Orcutt Street yesterday without stopping.
Me: Very funny. You know what I mean.
Brain: Damn, I just can’t fool you, can I? Okay, what will I do… just accept my feelings; accept his feelings. Stay unlocked (that’s brain slang for “keep an open mind.”)
Me: What’s your latest unexpected and/or random thought?
Brain: Hmmm…Well, I’ve been toying with the idea lately of joining a convent. Patience is a virtue, you know. I hear the nuns are all over it.
Me: I thought you didn’t believe in God?
Brain: Is that going to be a problem?
Me: Besides, what would you do with your son?
Brain: What, Catholics don’t like kids? That’s not what I’ve heard. But maybe you’re right. Maybe the convent isn’t the best place for someone like me. I mean, do they even serve cappuccino? And what if I want a smoke with my cappuccino? No, probably not a good fit…
Me: So, what are your plans?
Brain: What is it with plans, anyway? Does there always have to be a plan? Okay, okay…For now, work, make money… Learn to play the guitar. Learn to speak Spanish.
Me: What about long term?
Brain: Write. Travel when I can. Find joy in little pockets here and there. Live simply. And try to grasp some sort of comprehension, if possible, with regard to our existence, or lack thereof, in this universe. Then, of course, the grand finale: Die.

5. Seriously, what is your stance on black being neutral and “going with everything”?

ML, you’ll never catch me saying that black is over-rated, though neutral probably isn’t a word I’d use to describe it. Going with everything? Come now, a white cotton strappy sundress with clunky black heels? A navy blue suit with black pumps? I think not. I do love it, however; it’s the predominant color in my wardrobe. Not everyone looks good in black either. I happen to wear it well because it contrasts nicely with my blonde hair and fair skin. Or so I’ve been told. And I choose to believe it. Please don’t burst my bubble.

Check out 1writegirl’s blog at http://1writegirl.wordpress.com/.

I shelved my aunt the same day I was shelved by my lover. Admittedly, her dismissal was more traumatic of the two. Later, when I cried for myself, I cried for her, too. She’s not on my coffee table any more, at least, but she’s hovering. She’s not overbearing about it; my guilt is.

Meaning.

As far as my own shelving, I’m surprised that after the initial upset, I am feeling fine. Mind you, I still feel conflicted as it wasn’t an outright rejection but an honest sort of halfway rejection, which makes no sense but is true anyway. He’s not ready for the next step, you see. As consolation, he says he’s going to cook me dinner. He said I was beautiful when I told him I felt ugly. He said he was so sorry. He had the balls to stick around when I started crying. I’m not sure of the duration of my weeping spell, but I suppose it’s quality not quantity that matters.

Meaning.

I’ve been thinking of getting rid of my old books. It seems so blasphemous since I’m a writer. I feel as though I’m betraying some code that insists you have a responsibility to the book once you read its secrets. I feel as though if I can navigate the passage to letting go, I will have made some sort of real progress in my life.

Meaning I am tortured by meaning.

I didn’t put her away. I thought I would have. I thought I’d turned a corner.

For six weeks, an envelope with pictures of my dead aunt have been on my coffee table, waiting for me to do something with them. I have gotten teary-eyed just seeing the envelope. The last week has been especially difficult because I noticed that the pictures are halfway out of the envelope and the part I see is her exposed neck, her neck, the part that killed her. Or the cancer underneath. Whatever.

The pictures of her are when she was younger and healthier. Before she knew how she’d die or that the son (who was also in those pictures) would go before her.

I wrote her a letter before she died but didn’t get around to sending it. So I found it in my car, addressed and stamped, ready for her to read it. She’s not around to read it. She said she started a letter to me but couldn’t finish it because her hands were shaking so bad. I am sure the paper has been thrown away by now, but I’m haunted by what she may have said.

She told everyone I was her rock, but rocks don’t sob; they sit indifferent. And that I could never be.

he can’t let go
either
because he needs it as much as you do
he’s just a bigger chickenshit than you
I mean that as a compliment
we’re all chickenshits
at least you have the decency to admit it
at least you can admit it

he can’t let go
because he knows he needs you
but is not worthy
he’s a bigger asshole than he imagines you can accept
as if your tolerance of “friends” and “hanging out”
instead of “couple” and “dating”
means nothing

he can’t let go
because he’s a needy little bitch
the biggest by far
he can’t call it what it is
and you overlook it
because what else are you going to do
you can’t throw out the trash
until you are absolutely sure it’s rotting
maybe that smell is normal
considering

I still picture it in my mind
Pretending to be surprised that I see him out someplace
Me and my new man
Me and my pretty face
Me and my rockin bod
Me actually looking happy
or even
Me actually happy

Seeing him
knowing he sees me
and the highlights he wanted me to get
the ones I refused
as a passive attack against him
He had no affection for me
I had no highlights for him
It doesn’t even out but comes close
Me and his embarrassment
Me and my revenge
Me and my dogged bitterness
Me and my delusions

as if he’s the one I’m getting back at
and not myself

SOB with me

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