I stand on the edge.

This is not good for a person with my balance. The drop is far, but my heightened sense of perception, my fear of falling, my adrenaline distorts the distance. It’s not really as far as it seems. It may not even matter, but that’s not what my mind tells me. My mind screams. My mind makes me shaky. My mind makes my toes curl around the edge of the ledge. My mind is freaking out.

I shut my eyes. Also something not good for a person with my balance and a person in my current mental state. It is dark. The wind is cool. What do I see? It’s just a decision. Just a do or don’t. Why am I so scared? Why can’t I? Why won’t I? What do I have to lose? A strong gust of wind blows in my face as if to say, I dare you. I back up, frightened. I give it one last look before turning around away from the ledge. Not today.

I have been here for months. I am not going to slip and fall. I am not going to be pushed. I need to say yes, but I can’t. Instead I say no, by saying nothing at all. I return the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that.

I go find my bed. It has been made, but I still lie in it.

Look back with no remorse

In a dream I was a werewolf
My soul was filled with crystal light
Lavender ribbons of rain sang
Ridding my heart of mortal fight

Broken sundown fatherless showdown
Gun hip swollen lip bottle sip yeah I suck dick
Lose grip on gravity falls sky blinding crumbling walls
River sweep away my memories of
Children’s things a young mother’s love
Before the yearning song of flesh on flesh
Young hearts burst open wounds bleed fresh
A young brother skinny and tall my older walks
Oceanward and somber, slumber sleeping
Flowers in the water,
But I’m just his daughter
Walking down an icy grave
leading to my Schizophrenic father.
Weeping willow won’t you wallow louder
Searching for my father’s power

I’ma shake you off though
Get up on that horse and
Ride into the sunset
Look back with no remorse

He’s a black magic wielder some say a witch
Wielded darkness when he was wilein’ on his mom’s
And born child and he was the bastard that broke
Up the marriage evil doer doing evil from a baby carriage
And he was born with the same blue eyes
Crystal ships dripping with ice, diamonds coruscate
In the night fireworks electric bright
And now he’s got his own two sons
Tried to hide his tearz in a world of fun
But loveless bedrooms filled with doom
Bring silent heartache July to June
Swoon over new young hot flame
Mourn the memories later
Laugh now alligator

Oh in a dream
My father came to me
And made me swear that I’d keep
What sacred to me
And if I get the choice
To live in his name
I pray my way through the Rain
Singing Oh happy day

I don’t mean to close the door
But for the record my heart is sore
You blew through me like bullet holes
Left stained on my sheets and stains
On my soul
You left me broke down beggin for change
Had to catch a ride with a man who’s deranged
He had your hands and my father’s face
Another western vampire different time same place
I had dreams that brings me sadness
Pain much deep that a river
Sorrow flow through me in tiny waves of shivers
Corny movies make me reminisce
Break me down easy on this generic love shit
First kiss frog and princess

Thank you, Cocorosie.

Imagine: moneyless, desperate, alone, expecting. Would you be able to do this?

Click.

After reading this article, it sounds alarmingly exciting. Why does the thought of death amuse me?

John Currin, Old Couple

I hope to one day find someone who will love me like this.


Today is not the day.

American Chronicles: The Art of Norman Rockwell

As I child, I remember walking into my grandmothers brick ranch, the indescribable smell invading my nostrils, filtering in between the strands of my hair and encapsulating me. I would glide my socked feet across the kitchen floorboards and plop down on the brown shag carpet of the sunken living room. It smelled like years of use. It smelled of my father’s childhood, the way I imagine it. It smelled of must. It smelled of the seventies. It smelled of dirt. It smelled of encapsulation.

During the cold months, I would warm myself by the fire, real logs at first, later replaced by gas logs after my grandpa’s death. I would sip bubbly cokes poured over ice out of real glass bottles, a treat, and stair mesmerizingly at the antiqued Saturday Evening Post script and Norman Rockwell’s images on the cups. The images portrayed little boys and girls embodied in childhood innocence emitting images of American life. The life in which my grandfather became a man and went to war, or vice versa. The life where my grandmother painted her legs with iodine and worked in the shipyard, got married, had a miscarriage and then gave birth to three other children. The life where dinner was an every night event, little boys played with pop guns and puppy dogs, girls played with baby dolls, and fathers read the Saturday Evening Post and didn’t have to worry about retirement.

The North Carolina Museum of Art will be displaying these images in an exhibit entitled American Chronicles: The Art of Norman Rockwell. I imagine strolling down the halls, peering at Rockwell’s original paintings, holding onto my grandmother’s warm hand, as she slowly steps back into the past. At one point, I look at the palms of her hands as if I was a fortune teller. The left shows the past. The right shows the future. Both appear wrinkly, warm, old. I have no idea what I am looking at.

All of this is only a dream. My grandmother will never see his exhibit. She is past the point where she would enjoy it. Now it only becomes a tiring chore for her, like so many other things. I see her seldom, but when I see her next I will scour her cupboards. I will search for memories. I won’t find the cups. They are gone. Along with the ranch house my father grew up in. Along with her youth. Along with my grandfather. Along with Rockwell’s American life. Along with it all.

Goodbye October, goodbye Halloween. Hello November, hello election day 2010.

To help get all you voters in the mood, follow the link.