Just | Breathe

 Just | Breathe

Let words fall far from Grace now,

In sorrow from on high.

Let silence reign kinetically,

Til the whispers pass us by.

Hold me in your quietude,

Within your perfect eyes.

Curled lashes-so divine

I choke on swallowed sighs.

I find I cannot breathe now!

Rescusitate me please!

Press your lips against me,

Give me breath lest I should cease!

From Waters Deep I felt you,

Like a restless evening gale,

I''d do it all again to gain,

Your breath, my lungs inhale.

Breathing in and breathing out,

You're born, you live, you die.

To and fro and to and fro,

The Waters Deep shall cry,

Until at last they claim your Soul,

And Spirit by and by. ---Christine Stevick

Party | Lines

Party | Lines

I made the rounds like a good girl, playing the gracious hostess to highly educated pigs, such as my husband's friends were.  Not a single soul there possessed a single iota of humility. None of them possessed any sobriety, either, and I was well on my way to complete inebriation myself.  I stopped in front of a full length mirror and tugged my dress hem down a bit. I loved the thing to death but it sure did cling to my slip and nylons. I ran my fingers over the obnoxiously huge sapphire necklace my husband had bought for my wedding gift.  It had a matching bracelet which I wore over long, white gloves, and matching earrings. I admired the square neckline of the royal blue dress he’d given me earlier this evening. It went well with the emerald cut sapphires and diamonds. I glanced at his reflection and caught him trying to extract himself from a conversation with a man who never shut up and who couldn’t take a hint.  My hair was fine but I patted the springy, brown waves anyhow. I discreetly freshened my lipstick and tucked it away in my handbag.

There were beautiful women and ugly women.  There were handsome, good looking men and ugly men. In my prejudiced opinion, I thought my husband was the most handsome man there-or just about anywhere we went.  His charismatic presence set the tone of any room he graced. I’ll just never mind about his compliments regarding me for now. They’re not relevant to this explanation-by-way-of-story anyhow.  Let’s just say that the feelings and thoughts were mutual in spite of all our post-party fights. It was either drinking (We tried to control each others’ consumption) or else the predictable arguments over his social circles.

    “Make friends with some of the wives. I’m sure some of them get as lonely as you do.” he once suggested.

    “You know that saying about making a silk purse out of sows ear?” I’d asked him.

    “Yes.” He folded his arms.

    “Well none of these women would even make a decent sow purse from a sows ear.” I told him.

Boy did that piss him off!  I don’t know why he got so defensive about it-he knew they were a bunch of phonies just like I did.  As a matter of fact, he complained about them as much as I did.

I sighed and swapped my empty wine glass for a fresh one when a maid passed by.  I so badly didn’t want to finish making rounds to ingratiate these people toward me anymore than they wanted the ‘odd duck’ redneck with no social standing playing hostess to them.  Each time I approached a group (usually oiled up with 2 or 3 glasses of wine) they would shift their stance from merely snobbish to unbearably snobbish. Then they’d launch into discussions about people I’ve never heard of, books I’ve never read, authors I’d never heard of, and countries I’d never visited.  To make matters worse, they’d ask my humble opinion when they knew damn well I had none to give, and why the hell I didn’t.

I looked up and noticed that my husband had finally succeeded.  I turned around only to see him in a worse predicament. Teena (Teeeena, with two ‘e’s ) had her arm neatly tucked around his.  Bitch. She flirted with everyone’s husband and probably slept with half of them. If she didn’t watch herself, I’d drop-kick her right out the door.  I walked toward them, weaving my way through the various groups, trying to appear casual to the other guests. She was pulling him into a well known venus’s fly trap: the always romantic balcony.  I wondered how romantic she’d find it if she was pushed over the railing and falling 12 floors. I could hear the hushed and intimate tone of her voice as she spoke to my husband, “….ability to see beauty.  Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.” she said. Bitch, please. I approached to ruin her little attempted seduction.

    “So...what are we talking about?” I asked.  I was a bit testy because I had no idea whether she was being a literary snob or trying a pickup line on my husband...or both.

    “Oh, it’s just a quote from Franz Kafka.” she said.  “Are you familiar with him?”

    She knew damn well I was uneducated.  Well, I wouldn’t disappoint her. “Sadly, no.  I’ve never met the man. I only know Kefka from Final Fantasy VI.” I smiled and smacked my lips silently.

    “You really should get out more, dear.” she told me.

    “Maybe you need to stay in more.” I told told her right back.  “I think about 100 percent of the women here would appreciate not having to worry about keeping their husbands out of your cross-hairs.  Or should I say short-hairs?” I laughed. That was pretty low brow, but I enjoyed it immensely. Besides that, no one would expect anything less from a bumpkin like me.  I could see my poor husband cringing and dying a little before my eyes. Why did all this inconsequential bullshit have to mean so much to him? And furthermore, why did we end up being the ones who usually ended up hosting these  things? I walked away before the bitch could corner me with more of her boorish snobbery, and the wine was pushing me to that fine edge where I could easily lose my temper.

I suddenly felt the tears come out of nowhere.  One minute I was just angry, and the next minute I was welling up.  I refused to blink. If the guests saw mascara stained tears running down my face, they’d probably make snide little remarks just barely within my earshot, but not close enough for me to call them out.  There had to be just that little space for doubt so they could easily lie and say they had no idea what I was talking about and that their conversation had nothing to do with me. Of course the unspoken words that hung in the air were that I was a craaaazy lady.  Well, I wasn’t going to feed their craving for dramatics, so I made a quick beeline for my room at the first opportunity and sat on my bed. I cried so hard that my shoulders shook, but I made no sound. My mascara was probably a frightful mess.

I could feel his presence before looking up so I didn’t bother.  I did manage to get my crying under control at least.

    “What is wrong with you?” he asked.  And there it was: the unspoken implication that I was a ‘craaaazy lady.’ “You can’t just walk out on our guests like that; it’s really bad form.” he tossed in.

    “Bad form?  Are you serious?” I laughed.  “You can’t just say ‘it’s rude?’ It has to be ‘bad form?’  And apparently I can leave the guests alone because I just did and the stock market is surely still intact.  I highly doubt if anyone noticed me slip off. There’s all too busy trying to out-do each other with their mad literary skills to notice my absence.  Don’t you realize things like that?  No one notices things like this because they’re too busy thinking about what witty thing to say next...I doubt even half of them bother paying attention.” I said.  

    “Oh, so it’s that again.” he slipped in. “Once again,  it’s my social circle at fault.”

    “ I...hate hosing your parties.  And I don’t care too much for your so-called friends, yes. Most of them wouldn’t even piss on you if you were on fire.”  I said.

    “Oh! What a picturesque visual! Your Southern roots are showing, love.” he said. “And you're going to let your lack of a formal education steer you from enjoying a perfectly peachy party just because you can’t keep up?”

    I wanted to slap that smug look right off his face.  “Yes, if you must know, you have no idea how awkward and stupid I feel standing around with a drink in my hand while I turn my head back and forth while they play verbal tennis with ‘let’s see who’s smarter' games. I do my best to look informed and interested, but it’s damn near impossible to keep up when your friends chuck names like Kafka and Kierkergaard around like a football.” I said. "It’s like trying to to understand a conversation that’s half Greek and remaining composed at the same time.  I hate it! I’m sorry, but I had to take a step back from it all.”

    “How about this?  Why not actually try reading them instead of being intimidated by them?” he suggested.  I was beginning to lose ground and felt shoved up against the invisible wall.

    “Why? So I can become one with the rest of the Yankee New York snob set?” I said.

    “Dear, your Cleghorn blood is rising.” he smirked bitterly.

    “Now who’s throwing cheap shots?” I replied. “I have no particular desire to study them, and certainly not for the purpose of impressing some phonies.  And I have no desire to turn into...that.” I thumbed at the door, accusing his guests.

    “Or maybe you’re just too scared and lazy to learn.”  A slap on the face couldn’t have stung more.

    “Or maybe you should just toss me a maids uniform and let me serve drinks.” I said. “At least that way I could retain some semblance of dignity.  You know, I’m sorry sometimes that our wedding was so public: ‘famous writer marries quaint, back woods redneck, high school drop out.’ If no one knew what I looked like, I could serve drinks in a uniform and no one would be the wiser. Jesus! Why did you marry me?  Just to have someone stupid around to make you look look good?”  A slap on the face couldn’t have stung him more. “Oh God. I am so sorry.  Why do we do this?”

    “I don’t know,” he looked weary. “…..Your mascara’s a mess.”  

He shook out a handkerchief and dabbed at my face.  He picked up my hand and kissed it. His eyes were full of tender affection, but also haunted by hurt, worried feelings. “I’m sorry.  I’m educated. My friends are educated. I’m sorry we bore you.”

    “Why can’t you guys discuss things other than literature, like a football game or something? I don’t know.  Even that’s a mystery to me but at least it’s a little more ‘down home’ if you get my meaning.”

He looked at his feet, bent over in weary defeat.  “Do you want a divorce?” he almost whispered. When I didn’t answer immediately, he jerked his head up as if I were actually considering it.

    “Well, we’re a piss-poor match, that’s for sure.” I said. I sort of danced around committing to a sure yes or no for the nonce.

    “Must you say things like piss-poor?” he sighed.

    “Why the  hell not? You’re the only one in the room with me.  How can you be embarrassed if there’s no one here to witness my ‘quaint Southern talk?’”

    “I just think you’d feel better about yourself if you tried a little harder.” he said. “Look...go clean up your make up and come back out.  Just fake it for the rest of the night and we’ll discuss this later.'

    “Okay.”

He got up and left, but not before tossing a worried look over his shoulder.  I felt a perverse sense of satisfaction from this. It was almost disturbing. Almost. “That’s right.  You just stew in that awhile.” I thought.  

I was unthrilled at the prospect of going back out there as I listlessly fixed up my messy face.  God, but I hated his friends! But hated them!  Jesus, I was thinking in uptown New Yorkese now!  I sighed and wondered if I’d missed my calling as a farmers wife.  It weren’t as if there’d been a shortage of would-be suitors. But no, I had to go and let myself get swept off my feet by the famous ‘Joe Blow’ passing through New Orleans.  He’d visited the bar I worked at and the rest was history. Him and all his writerly ways. I was starry-eyed and flustered when a well-known, famous writer cast a favorable look my way.  I’d always wanted to be a writer myself, and I was hoping some of that native talent would rub off on me, but I was too busy feeling out of of my element as I lost myself in the world of him and his circles.  “Why did he marry me?” I wondered.

At any rate, it was promising to turn into one of ‘those nights’ again.  I had no plans to moderate my alcohol intake once I stepped out of this room.  I meant to get good and tight and then whatever happened, happened.

I walked out of my room and greeted my guests with the brightest of smiles as I came downstairs. “The  show must go on, Linny.” I thought as I picked up a glass of wine from a passing maids tray. I downed it in a single long gulp and picked up a fresh glass, feeling like chum, and stepped into the sea of literary sharks.

Ghost | Writer

I stare at the white page blankly. It peers back expectantly. "So, write, then." it seems to accuse. 

But what to say? It's so clean and its blue lines shy between the bleached wool clouds like summer strips of sky. My mind is too cluttered and dirty to do justice to such a noble creature. How could I possibly assert my thoughts upon something as pristine as this virgin sheet?

The dry air crackles silently, raising my hairs to vigilance. My skin stands at attention; uneven rows of pink soldiers.  I feel his breath on my neck, warm and sensual as a sun-filled room where dust motes play in the beams, whispering softly before swirling away when I turnmy head.

I can almost feel his hand cover my own. I know it is fine, well-shaped, and manicured. His shirtsleeves are rolled halfway to his elbows. I look and see nothing but I know his hairs are soft and black.  How could I possibly be expected to write well or even poorly with such a sweet distraction radiating behind me.  This is no help at all and yet here I am, writing.

     "Very good. Keep going."

     "What? Who said?..."

Oh Dear God!

Re-reading my last entry reminded me, yet again, of two things:

1. Don't blog when I'm sleep deprived,
2. Don't blog when you're hypomanic
3. (Staying away from Facebook is also a great idea under such circumstances.)

I realized after I re-read my blog post just how puerile it all sounded. Upon further reading I realized it only got worse. I reminded myself way too much like Sarah from Labyrinth. Whiney...always thinking in circular patterns (in my own defense, bipolar people do this in general). So I'm skipping most of it and just either:

1. Sharing only the nuggets(no nugs though. Sorry hippie friends, I has no nugs, lol!)

2. Keeping my own council as Stephen King's Dark Tower Roland would say.

The second journal was far more mature, but still a tad immature for my peer group. A warning here folks! Heavy drinkers and druggers will come to a.screeching halt in emotional growth. Especially for those with mental health issues.

In the meantime, I'm just journaling...with actual paper joirnals and pencils and pens. Same for my stories. No more of this hacking mess if it's hard copy. Then they can deal with my meat space virus program.

Civilization: Selling the Lie

Civilization: Selling the Lie
Monday, August 20, 2012
12:06 AM

Sometimes I lose it.

Sometimes the ‘blameless dove’ in me gives way to the ‘cautious serpent’. Except in my case, when you poke the snake hard enough, he throws caution to the wind and becomes wrathful and destructive.

The part of me that’s attuned to logic and reason understands that few people have ever done anything to me that could possibly be deserving of such a spiteful, vindictive and vicious attitude toward them. That's civilization. The other part-the shadow part of emotions, lusts, passions, and anger-doesn't give a flying rats ass about that. Reason has nothing to do with it. It's the instinctive animal part of the human psyche that thinks with a one-way intelligence: This person is a threat and a danger to me. This person is taking something that should be mine. We hates them, precious. We hates them forever.

No reason, rationality, or logic is involved or required from this Gollum-like part of the human psyche, which EVERY human being has. The suppression of that part, the refusal to even admit that it exists is called 'civilization'. It's called diplomacy. For diplomacy to be effective, lies must be prevalent. Part of the lies are goodwill, forbearance, forgiveness, long suffering-basically, personal sacrifice above and beyond what any human should be expected to give-and other things like it, that make a society run smoothly. That’s not to say these qualities or virtues are outright lies all the time, or ingenuous, but there’s a threshold where it can turn into that. That threshold is when the person has crossed over into “Enough is enough and too much is too much” without realizing, all too often, until it’s too late.

Truth in civilization has manifested as passive aggression, subterfuge, intrigue, blame. For civilization to exist and run smoothly, the lie-which is the denial of expression of the animal self,-has to be the ‘truth.’ It doesn’t exist. Period. War is peace. Ignorance is strength. Freedom is slavery. Black is white. Unfortunately, this gives rise to neurosis, paranoia, schizophrenia, manic depression, borderline, depression, anxiety, denial, self hatred, suspicion, and a host of other 'social ills.' Civilization as we know it has taken the stance that people with these so-called social ills, and even those who function properly in society; those who know the difference between chicken shit and chicken salad, can’t be left to run around liberating others! Hence: Normal is sick “Let’s medicate them and make sure all the ‘sheep’ think the ones who can see are the one’s who are ‘not right.’ Goddammit, we have shit to sell! We’re running a business here! How can we sell toothpaste and deodorant if people realize that body odor is human? Or that body hair is something that grows on the human body and therefore is normal? We can’t sell lies if people run around telling the truth!

Someone might make the argument, “Well, why don’t they sell something that’s helpful and beneficial to mankind?” Answer: There’s not much profit in it; or at least not much easily gained profit in it. All the best things in life are free. You can brush your teeth just fine with water and maybe a little baking soda. Horses are cheaper than cars and people never needed to be in such a hurry to get places to begin with. We’ve cured childhood diseases, developed vaccines and other medicine so that people can live longer and healthier lives. Now what? What do they have to sell now? “Oh, hey! Let’s sell sickness! Let’s treat symptoms. Let’s sell convenience! Let’s develop medicines that make you piss less, make you have an erection for hours on end!. Lets invent something that makes people with thin lashes grow thicker ones! Never mind the side affects of high blood pressure, heart problems, possible death, increased vulnerability to infection for diabetics. Dammit we’re selling confidence here! We’ve delivered optimism!”

And boy how the money rolls in

All of this because there’s nothing new under the sun. There are no frontiers. Holy crap! We’re all out of hemispheres! And now they want our internet freedom. The internet, which globally connects people and has been making us wake up and see. Two hemispheres weren’t enough for them to hoard. They require sleepy, sluggish, obedient slaves to do the work so that they can be the ones free and rich enough to indulge their own animal lusts, consequence free. Everyone else has to behave nicely and civilization must run in a smooth and orderly fastion so they have an unlimited pass to their own animal selves. In order to accomplish that end, they must deceive everyone else. And money is the currency used, the biggest civilized lie of all, to fool people into buying into what they have decided is ‘truth’ The man with the gold makes the rules.

Copyright Rosemary C. Stevick, 2012-2018

Camping!

I went camping from last Thursday til yesterday.  It wasn't RV style-we roughed it.  The fanciest things we had were the fold down back seat of the van to sleep on and a small, portable, Coleman stove.  There were no porta potties and no trash receptacles, we had to use trash bags to dispose of our trash.  It was pretty primitive as far as camping goes.  But aside from several backpackers on Saturday, it was nearly silent.  I would sit or lie and listen for the different bird calls.  There's a pair of crows that bicker back and forth and several I couldn't identify.  Truth be told, the crows were the only ones I identified.  Oh! And I saw a pair of small falcons too!

A short ways from the campsite is a beautiful creek going under a bridge and coming out of the other side to flow over huge stones that have been eroded for who knows how many thousands of years.  The erosion looks like tiny steps on the rocks slanted at an angle.  We played a game called stick races: you place a stick or leaf in a spot on the creek where it cannot be immediately swept away but which can eventually be swept into the stream.  I found myself mesmerized as I followed the progress of my little twig hoping it would get swept into the stream before my ex's did.  If it gets stuck for too long or permanently stuck... disqualified! 

And a little sunburn and a lot of bugs!  There were mosquitoes, small black ants, large black ants, noseeums, fireflies and bees of various sorts.  There was even a beetle with a metallic outer wing in orangish pinkish greenish blue.  Yeah, like that made sense.  I got bit up by bugs in spite of using skin so soft, or else the sun gave me a rash (like my ex claims), or both.  I think it's a mixture of bug bites and maybe contact dermatitis from a plant.  At least it didn't get on my butt!

There were short walks.  My ex knows those woods like the back of his hand so he took me into the woods to see where the small stream that comes out of the mountain meets up with the main creek.  Always always take a walking stick with you!  My ex has navigated steep inclines using two sticks (two-stickin it he says) like they were two extra legs.  I tried it once but you really have to have some strength anyhow.

Anyhow, we had a great time and it was so peaceful.  As long as it remains a little known secret, it will stay that way.

A Walled In Sim

NoFor those not familiar with the series, there's a game called The Sims.  There's four versions now.  In this game, you create a digital person; you determine their looks, give them a wardrobe, assign traits and a life goal, and then you plop them on a starter lot to live out their little lives.  It's really fun.

As the game progresses, they have wishes you can either help fulfill or you can ignore them.  They have careers, fall in love, fight, fish, and fuck.  They even have some free will thrown in for good measure, so you may occasionally find them chatting up a stranger rather than doing the shopping you sent them out to do.

There can be dark elements to this game.  Let me explain.  The first edition I played was a console version called Sims: Bustin Out.  Or something like that.  I let my sim flirt with one of the pre-made Sims.  They fell in love.  I had mine propose only to find out she was already married.  Bummer.  So... I went into buy/build mode and built four walls around the competition then unpaused from build mode.  This is called walling in a sim.  Over time the little sim starves to death and dies because it has no door to walk through and no way to get to food. 

So I played and watched and waited for this sim to die so that mine might marry the girl he wanted.  The thing is, is that these little digital creatures turn around and look at you.  They point at their mouths to let you know they're hungry.  They get lonely and cry.  They lose control of their bladders and end up wallowing in a puddle of their own piss.  I could only take this for so long before I was bawling my eyes out and going into build mode to tear the walls down.  He ate, cleaned up, peed and socialized and slept.  All was made right at last.

"So where are you going with this?" you may be asking by now.

I'm talking about a human being as a walled in sim.  I am a walled in sim.  That is to say, I feel trapped in my home and sometimes unable to perform even the simplest of duties like bathing or washing my hair.  Sometimes the terror I experience just thinking of leaving my house is intolerable.  And I don't feel like I'm in control of any of this.  I feel programmed to be this way to the point that I sabotage my efforts to lose weight (my programming seems to dictate that I can't drop below 205 pounds.) When I apply myself with determination to get even one pound below 200 just to prove I can, the programming kicks in followed by weight loss fail, or even a rapid gain to punish me for my audacity.

However, food must be bought and dishes must be washed so I can cook a meal so whatever evil hand hovering over that big mouse in the sky finally puts me in build mode (which I must not be conscious of)and builds a door or window of time, I can temporarily get a few things done.  I don't fool myself into thinking this is free will anymore.  It's all fear driven.  As soon as I get home I feel relieved and just want to slunk down the front door. 

Whatever hand hovers over the mouse in the sky must be owned by something that really hates me and enjoys tormenting me.  I see people who's lives seem to be lived in the sun and their sim angel or whatever, loves them and blesses them.  Mine just likes to get my hope up and then snatch my hope away.  Any time something starts looking promising, I wait for the other shoe to drop.  Most of the time I don't even look any more.  I'm just waiting for my sim angel to grow bored enough to delete my file. Hey, rearrange the letters in file and you get life!

In Heathen beliefs it could be said that I was born under the dubious auspices of an ill willing Norn.  Perhaps I was an assignment someone didn't want so I get tormented.  Who can say?

Not me.

I don't know if I really believe any of this or not, it sort of smacks of The Matrix, but it's the best analogy I have to describe my frustration.