Tagged: what in the f*** are we doing here

Lipstick

lipstick pig

Comedy film. A bumbling dad-type slips on a banana peel, falls onto a skateboard which sends him careening downhill. The skateboard hits a rock, sending him flying in the air, arms pinwheeling. He flies straight into the red mouth of an active volcano, screaming his cartoonish, wacky scream all the while. The volcano emits a plume of smoke and a burp. This is where you’re supposed to laugh.

I hate that cartoonish, wacky screaming.

Same goes for laugh tracks, and dramatic music that tells you how to feel.

Advertising campaigns that use bright colors and catchy jingles to get you in the door.

Salesmen with plastic smiles, slick hair, and flowery well-practiced pitches.

Cheap gimmicks whose sole purpose is to delude you into believing the narrative is worth listening to, laughing at, buying. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge.

I’m disgusted by it all.

If your movie sucks, don’t try to convince me it’s funny. If you can’t let the facts speak for themselves without wiggling your eyebrows and forcing a pained, constipated smile, then you’re selling snake oil. I’m not in the market to buy things I don’t need.

The more razzle-dazzle there is, the more suspicious I find it.

 

And yet…

I stew in the hot shame of my own hypocrisy. I’ve made shitty jokes to try and lighten the atmosphere. I’ve laughed harder than necessary at stupidity, ringing hollow in my ears. I’ve made desperate attempts at humor to disguise burning insecurity. I’m only human, fumbling along with the same transparent bravado of a 19-year-old strolling into a liquor store, pretending I belong here. All to cover up my “gee-golly-gosh” bashfulness. To disguise the fact that, really, I just want to rip my skin off and dance alone, howling at the moon.

I’ve smiled and listened to the sales pitches, annoyed at the fact that I do indeed need to buy what this clown is selling.

There will always be pigs: stinky, dirty, naked, ugly truths we’ve got to deal with. I want to see the pig as it is, in all its offensive, unruly stinkiness, front and center. No ruses, no cover-ups. But out there, in the world, sometimes you have to make an effort. Some people prefer their pigs to wear lipstick. It gussies up the boorishness, makes it more presentable. Some smear the lipstick on unconsciously and automatically. And sometimes, the pig is easier to deal with that way.

And if I have to follow suit and smear on the rouge to get through the day, then so be it. But for the record: I wish I didn’t have to.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a few kicking, screaming swine here that need tending to.

In/coherent

oilspill

oilspill

 

Seemingly opposing variables get muddied together, but I want them to stand alone, distinct, clear.

I’m getting vertigo, trying to make sense of incoherencies, those things that are intangibly mutating. I’m repulsed, alarmed by that which is illogical.

It’s unsettling to admit that I only know what feels good, and what doesn’t.


 

I’m walking downtown, foggy-headed, untethered.

 

Busy-minded people blur by. I look down at the ground as I walk. I can’t bear to meet people’s eyes, to see the endless parade of the same vacant gaze.

The ground is littered with their filth. Cigarette butts tossed away and stomped underfoot, like all our dirty secrets. Forgotten scraps of paper, napkins kissed with lipstick. Styrofoam pellets that will outlive us all.

Just ahead, a parked motorbike jumps to life, revving its ugly whine. After it pulls away, I pause in front of its former resting place. Spilled oil is smeared all over the sidewalk, from it and many others like it.

I’m surprised to find it beautiful.

Variables align into one clear moment that pierces through the blur.

This feels good.


Through the fog, brilliant moments still make their way in.

They always do.

 

Parachute

What would it be like to peel each of these layers off?
Give form to that which is heavy and intangible.
Pull apart the seams, fashion each piece into a parachute.
Hold on tight and jump off that cliff
That’s always been in my periphery
Impartial, mysterious, seductive.

If I choose to jump and be reborn, then will I be free?

Snapshot: Interrupted

Rumbling vibrato in my throat is my beat in the morning cloud of traffic, audible only to me.  I’m having a grand ol’ time, heels clicking in time with my funky vocal stylings.  I’m killing it.

“Left a good job in the city…Working for the man every night and day…”

I’m groovin’ now, get a little shoulder action in there.

“Big wheels keep on turning–“

Screeching wheels, screaming horn, urgent dinging explode behind me.  A tram is gliding on a collision course with a pedestrian.

The man is a zombie with earphones, gliding coolly in the spotlight of the tram’s headlights.  The tram is still moving, and he isn’t reacting.

I shriek an expletive over my shoulder and recoil, convinced this is the Nightmare Moment.  Morbid curiosity holds my gaze to the scene.

The tram’s nose has halted, narrowly missing the zombie’s legs.  No reaction whatever; he has no idea that he almost met his maker.

Passersby look askance at me for standing in the sidewalk, taking up space.  I’m part of the morning pedestrian traffic flow, how dare I deviate?

My boots click more irregularly now, and my voice is caught in the hollow of my throat.    False notes squeak out:  “Proud Mary keep on burnin’…”

And then there is no more music.  I’ve been smacked back into reality.  My eyes start burning, and I am silent the rest of the way to work.

What the hell is wrong with us?

 

Daydream

ink daydream

Question, Answer
Automatic response.
Eyes closed, breathe deep
Feigned nonchalance.

Ashamed confusion, deflect
Look askance instead.
Self-absolved, no duty to try
Intellectual curiosity is dead.

Autopilot, flapping jaw
Blabbing to a wall
Deaf ears, blind eyes
Why am I here at all?

Absent reciprocity
Wasted creativity
Disinterest plus passivity
Birth of escape fantasy

69 Thunderbird
Hubby at the wheel
Elope to the absurd
To where words pay for meals.

Release

This piece is my follow-up to “Under Pressure,” featured as a guest post on J.A. Allen’s fabulous blog.


 

A very efficient woman buzzes around me, her motherly gray bangs swaying with every maneuver. “Considering your age, we’re going to perform the scan, as well as an ultrasound.” You’d think she was twittering around the kitchen, baking cookies for her grandkids. Instead, she’s buffing the space-age machine that towers imposingly over us. High technology that cows me into submission. My kaleidoscopic internal world is irrelevant in this sterile, colorless examination room.

I’m standing topless, hands behind my back. A mannequin with foldable, poseable limbs. Expert hands guide the lead apron across my lower body. She manipulates me, tucking my breasts between the plates. The top plate is transparent, and she sends it down with a tap of her foot. My glands, impossibly flat.

No joy, sensuality, life. Still youthful and pert, they haven’t yet known the searching mouth of a suckling baby. They’ve never produced milk, never given life. Under this fluorescent light, they’re no longer fleshly beautiful symbols of my femininity or fertility.  Here, they’re just a piece of meat, in a clinical setting. Like a sample in a petri dish, ready for fastidious, detached scientific observation.

Next room, another machine. Doctor enters. Arms up, supine. The ultrasound wand glides over my sore mountains. He stares at the screen, and I twist my neck up to watch along. He pauses at the sight of each furry black cloud. Two clicks measure them. Glide, click-click.

“You have benign cysts. It’s common, one in three women has them. They may get inflamed and sore, so we’ll keep an eye on them. There is nothing cancerous here.”

He wishes me a good-day, and doesn’t even shake my hand. I suppose it’s not medical protocol to shake a patient’s hand after you’ve prodded about and scrutinized the ins and outs of her funbags.

White coattails flap crisply out the door. I scrape the viscous gel off my chest and dress myself. Strange. Just beyond that door, I’m expected to observe a modicum of physical modesty, yet my rainbow voice can come back. Here, I am reticent in my nudity.

Back into the clean, fluorescent lobby, where I melt into a bucket chair. Vacant. Depleted.

The secretary mispronounces my name, and I answer anyway.

I take my charts, and the smile I give her feels awkwardly distorted.

I step out of the cool white clinic and back into the searing, chartreuse summer air. Breathe deep, hiccup. Sweet tears of relief. My weak protest mantra “I’m too young for this” that had marched so defiantly through my head has dissolved, overtaken by my mother’s insistent wisdom: “Check yourself regularly!”

I’m glad I listened.

Like Them

Just me and F, cruising down the highway. Car full of music, snacks, and overnight bags; my socked feet rest on the dashboard.

I’m spying on the families in neighboring cars, making fun of them all.

Identical families in identical vehicles running off to identical rental properties to have identical vacations. Dads with polo shirts and reflective sunglasses driving the family vehicle, while Mom rides shotgun, staring hypnotically ahead at the infinite road stripes. Uninterested kids melting from boredom in the backseat. An occasional disgruntled mother-in-law is sandwiched between her mouthbreathing grandkids in the backseat, boring a hole into the back of her disappointment of a son-in-law’s skull with her iron gaze. A family’s worth of bicycles jimmy-rigged to the back of the vehicle, impeding their rear view.

Cutting off drivers on the highway to hurry to some banal destination, just to eat overpriced rubbery seafood and subpar waffles, and sit on a lackluster beach while your kids lament about missing their carbon-copy friends. Take a few washed-out, blurry photos that end up sitting in a shoebox to collect dust until after the funeral.

In other words, livin’ the middle class dream.

I wonder.

“Are we gonna be like that someday?”

His right hand moves from the wheel to my knee and tenderly squeezes, eyes straight ahead. “Maybe.” Suddenly, a clueless errant driver weaves into our lane. F’s face hardens as he grips the wheel and hits the brakes to avoid them, all while muttering uncouth things in French. (Roughly translated, it’d be something like: “These unfortunate gentlemen are ill-informed about the art of driving; ’tis an act better left to those more capable of doing it.”)

I make a silly face at the driver as we pass them by, and I burst into laughter at their confused expression.

No, we’ll never be like them…

+

We arrive at Scampi, our friends’ home near the beach. When we pull up to the house, we’re greeted by Mama and Papa, holding bright-eyed Baby 3. Babies 1 and 2 run outside to greet us, in a dust storm of blonde hair, blue eyes, joyous shrieks, and general excitement at receiving visitors. Papa is happy to see F, to increase the testosterone-to-estrogen ratio in the house, and Mama is happy to chitchat with me in English. Fresh beverages fizz and glasses clink to herald our arrival. We catch up with our friends while Baby 3 coos and giggles, and Babies 1 and 2 twitter about in a show-and-tell flurry of sparkly princess stickers and bold finger paintings.

Dinnertime approaches, and our tummies growl. The men stride into the backyard to start the fire for our barbecue.

I hold a hand to my empty stomach and look out at F.

Someday, we know there’ll be something more in here.