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I’d forgotten how hard blogs are. There’s a story to tell and I keep thinking it’s about Nepal. I should be writing about Nepal. I am supposed to be writing The Nepal Story, after all. So, why can I not write about Nepal?
Dramatic sigh.
I was once told by my mentor to trust my instincts when piecing a narrative together, meaning I shouldn’t be so arrogant as to think I can manhandle an experience if I don’t let it unfold. My story hasn’t even unfolded yet. I want to write a redemption story that hasn’t happened, so it’s no wonder I can’t write about it. Truth be told, mine is probably not a redemption story anyway. Deep down, I know Nepal as a requisite transformative experience will be dark because, when reduced to its smallest divisible parts, Nepal is all in my head.
And there’s a writer in there, too, who refuses to shut the hell up.
From a distance, a shadowed mirage is waving at me like a summer heat reflection on hot pavement and this passage comes back to me:
Despite our best intentions, we forget the dead.
Do they forget us? Jane Summer, “Erebus”
So. Leigh “Bindo” Binder*, if you refuse to die, I’ll just have to kill you off in a mediocre poem that’s an apology as much as a lament.
Sleeping Beauty
When the stem drooped and the petals died,
I slept
Sleeping beauty sleep
I awoke to gold
Light too bright
You offered me a dim corner
You and I shared caramelized melancholy
Like cotton candy
Adolescent sweetness, the things that grew in our heads
Restless dreams like your cigarette smoke
From a few thousand miles away
Choke me awake
Weighed together like stone
Bound and pull down like some English great, we weren’t built for this life
But mostly: Have we lived our eternity?
*Leigh Binder was a friend and fellow writer, who died two years ago leaving only his writing and YouTube videos (https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC-43KL2khFHhJ-LmRqA-y2A) to haunt me.
I went out with this guy once who ended up blocking me from his phone. He was very tall and good looking and ended up saying he didn’t know how to block people from his phone so it was weird that I was blocked. I just said whatev and let it go because the distance was too far anyway but he was a nice guy basically (aside from blocking me). Anyway, we’ve remained the closest of FB friends. Or at least we’re Facebook friends. Which means we acknowledge each other to some degree. This is a guy who went through a nasty divorce and he said it would be hard for him to get married again. He moved to NW Arkansas in June and had a world wind romance and next thing I know, his Facebook status is Married. I’m happy for him and terribly jealous that I myself have not had a world wind romance that resulted in a manic-induced marriage to someone I barely knew. I mean, it sounds like something that would happen to me but hasn’t. Yet. I have hope, dear readers.
The Boy and I are officially just friends now. Platonic friends. Which I think means we will never see each other again. Truthfully, I’m okay with it.
I don’t know why I feel optimistic but dammit, I feel sure I’m going to find me a good man and be in a happy relationship soon.
The long-awaited video debut of MedicatedLady and Bryan Borland – together:
*The poem read by MedicatedLady in the video is “Disappointment” by Mike Topp.
the days of his domination are over
the days of him going too far
the days of me pretending to be appalled
now he’s genuinely startled when I take him too far
he crumples as a child dropkicked on green grass in the early spring
he fetus-hugs himself
licking his wounds
the ones I’ve created
too much info
is never enough
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
If I weren’t so self-involved, I’d ask you how you were. I’d ask you how you feel about the stimulus package and Oprah and landscaping and your family. I’d remember your birthday, and I’d say, Happy Birthday. I’d recognize you as someone not to be stepped on, someone worthy of common decency.
As it is, why would I consider you? I barely noticed you were there. I didn’t realize I’d told you the same story twice, but let’s face it, you could use the repetition. Of course, I don’t think of your impressions or how you might perceive me. Does it matter? Because you need answers for your simple mind, I’ll answer: no, it does not matter.
If I weren’t so self-involved, I’d forget about you and stop boring everyone with the details. I’d look outward and be more interested in what my real friends are doing, how they are. Instead, I say, can you believe him? I say, don’t you think my response was biting? I don’t see them in front of me, and that means I am not giving them common decency and maybe I deserve what I get.
As it is, I feel guilty. Sorry, all.
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
Your Sympathies: