Telescope “Memories”
I have a simulatinous multiple existance. Days that were never mine come to me throughout the ordinary walk of life. In one moment, it's early am. I'm putting away piles of laundry in my 1950s wood-trimmed, needs-new-carpet humble home. The next I'm on the side of an evergreen-laden mountain in a new-age cabin with a stage, a string of lights, a handsome stranger with an accoustic guitar, his lady with a microphone, and a tipsy but intimate audience. It's dusk and dreamy. I get the feeling, I know these people well and this mountainous town is home. I'm older here, more myself here. I never left folding my family's clothes. I feel cotton and the hustle of responsibility but I'm also here in this other moment looking at it through some sort of telescope. It's illogically familiar, metaphysically real and I smile carrying it's warmth in my chest.
Later, I'm out with my son at our neighborhood's run-down park in flat middle-America at a picnic table getting feasted on by mosquitos and feeling the weight of having to work tomorrow. But I'm also not. There's a blonde blue-eyed stranger in a 50s diner with a white leather jacket staring at me. He's as equally startled and frozen by my presence as I am by his. He's sitting on the retro table, his legs spread, elbows on his knees, feet on the cushoned red barstool and facing his friends but I can't see them. Only him. He's stopped talking the moment he saw me. I get the impression he's a "bad-boy." Our connection isn't romantic but it's strong. Soul-strong and as caught-off-gaurd by how unrelatable this world is to my interests, identity, age, and way of living, I feel calm. I feel love. I'm still supervising my son and being baked by the praire sun but I smile carrying this alternate-world connection simulatniously in my current being.
And I could tell you a million more. I can't predict when the veil between my multiple existance will happen. Sometimes it's multiple times a day, sometimes it's months apart. All I know is there are without doubt worlds within worlds and I don't fight them or seek them, I let them happen and enjoy both my primary being and all it's alternates. And something else I know? It's not being highly imaginative and I'm not the only one who experiences this. I call on us to feel soft about it, to observe it and live it, to love this life and know it's quite likely more than one.
-Jasmine @bysomegirl
Memory Awake (or, the girl who fell out of heaven)
“What was it like?”
How to express it in a way they could understand? “Sunshine without fear of burning. Peace without threat of war. Absolute and unconditional love with no possibility of hatred.”
“Okay,” Jake rolled his eyes, “but you could do anything you wanted, right?”
I sighed. “There was no want. No desire. No need. No id or ego at all: Just being.”
Groans all around. “Sounds boring. My heaven has all the pie I could ever eat. And lots of mind-blowing sex with no STDs or unplanned pregnancies or broken hearts or misunderstandings.”
“Forever?”
“Oh yeah.”
I shook my head. “There’s a book, The Incredible Lightness of Being. When I first saw it, I thought I had found a kindred spirit. I was mistaken. But the title encapsulates what I remember from before: lightness. Lightness as opposed to darkness, lightness as opposed to weight, density, depth, pressure, force. Indeed, an existence quite the opposite of this…this…” I pointed to my head, “being weighed down, by this mind, this body, this world with its moon and sun and a night sky full of lights, stars, that have long since ceased to burn and a universe full of mysteries we of this world are too small to comprehend but of which I was once an infinitesimal part.” I smiled at the group. “In sum, an incredible, unfathomable, lightness of being.”
There were a few good-natured boos and hissing. We were in the tv room, but no one was watching tv. They were all sitting around me. I was the entertainment of the moment in this world of the psychologically damaged, safely removed from the world of the more sane. (I am loathe to call what lies beyond these walls sanity.) In here, not unlike some out there, we have those who hear voices that tell them to do questionable things, those with patterned scars, those who think themselves Queen Elizabeth or Jesus or God. And then there’s me. The girl who fell out of heaven – as they like to call me.
I was just like anyone else until I hit puberty. Then, for some reason, I gained the ability to remember before. My mistake was in descending into the depths of despair finding myself here and now, and then sharing why I was depressed with others.
I have lived within these walls ever since.
Would that the memories awakened in my pubescent brain were the result of some chemical imbalance treatable by pharmaceuticals and therapy. I would gladly recant my confession of prior existence and tuck it all away as a psychotic break brought on by a hormonal imbalance, parental separation, and/or abuse at the hands of a dear relative.
But, alas, it isn’t, and I cannot.
Once, I was a part of the infinite vastness of the universe. I suspect each of us was. There was no I or meor you or us or them. There was simply being. But then I was thrust into this world of finite existence. I became I and discovered a world of others, different yet the same. Equally finite, entombed as we are in sacks of flesh and blood, desperately seeking meaning, ignorant of before and always longing for some imaginary, glorious after.
And in my position of knowing, I still must wonder, will my after resemble my memories of before? Or will I remember being “I”? Will remembering this I mean an eternity of hell as I am once again a part of everything and therefore nothing yet aching with a memory of self?
Or will I be granted the bliss of oblivion? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…
Everyone I have known in this world envisions a heaven filled with pleasures of the flesh or being reunited with those they once loved (what if they loved someone else?) or meeting the Creator.
They imagine hell to be the absence of those things. Or fiery pits of damnation.
Or, perhaps, simply, being forgotten. As if one never existed. As most everyone who has lived in this world has been or will be. I have every reason to believe that the after will be a return to that state of being I remember from before. Beautiful, if one has never lived in this world.
It is a curse, this remembering.
My question is, will I be damned to remember this world for all eternity? Forever weighted by the memory of this I, no longer at one with all that is and ever will be; or will I be allowed to drift into infinite oblivion, once again a part of that incredible lightness of being?
“All right, y’all. Party’s over. Line up,” said the nighttime aide pushing the cart of meds.
I will stop writing now. The pills will do their work for a little while, and I will sleep without dreams and forget. Until tomorrow when memory awakens once again.
Galley slave sentenced to punishing obsessive compulsive behavior
and thus feels justified to thrust upon the eyes of some anonymous reader (hoop fully lovelynb among the nattering nabobs from nativity) daring her/him they/them to attempt even scant comprehension with utter gibberish that came upon the midnight blue.
The following personal account initially couched with davenports intent to wax poetic/prosaic about the bane of obsessive compulsive disorder, and the illogical mindscape housed within sixty plus shades of gray along with verity, yet I could not help myself pushing the figurative boundary of fact from fiction, and thus rambling words incorporate trademark hyperbole to enliven an otherwise mundane generic account of an ordinary event – namely the debut entrance into the webbed wide world of yet another screaming newborn, whose bland existence necessitates embellishment to receive my daily share of attaboy from a regular Joe Biden his time until the upcoming presidential election after which cataclysmic political event will resound with reverberation from one of the universe to the other..
Prior to passing thru cervix uneventfully – except for the time when I nearly came flying out clear across all the way to Compton, where people here prematurely ejaculated Leaping Lemur! - January thirteenth mcmlix buck naked bare, this grandson of Aaron, and son of Boyce, the sole heir – to inherit Harris surname (a mama's boy as shown courtesy ultrasound itty bitty teensy weensy fingers holding on to what looked like a nanobot size little apron string – donned by womb door full gourmand, who served meals on wheels hashtagged and linkedin onto umbilical cord riding ala rails to trails, how it got there only Jimmy Buffett knows), which at birth trademark insecurity idiosyncrasies vis a vis nail biting (actually gumming hand that fed me) became crystal clear, immediately pronounced and obvious an obsessive compulsive predilection accentuated easily forgettable human being as a harmless whippersnapper endearingly cute strongly resembling baby monkey possessed no cape (a bull) fear when placed on scale tried to get away, and you ought to have seen countenances of medical staff in birthing center getting a looksee at the scales tipping needled gear greater or lesser than 10 stone (minus or plus a few pebbles) with a universal mass of dreadlocked hair, otherwise a gangly sack of many lovely bones, whereat obstetricians could not help themselves but jeer, thus upon my exiting sluice after being housed in the uterus for nine months found him twirling loose kinky follicular fibers according to medical records, a combination of his being bored (with a really super strong arm penchant) to sport dreadlocks, tough as hemp cord an anomaly, which no app could compare, boot nonetheless highly adored resembling inimitable indestructible filaments, when taut could lift off the ground a board dillow, which no reference manual could address even topnotch experts queried, could not explain outrageous constituent rarely if never seen before, though still insured, a novel boot nada so critical freak of nature ma lord hirsute component part in a triple tier moored substantial pressure upon the head, entwining, looping, spilling somehow interweaving umbilical cord into a mass of whirled wide webbed wear suitable for four seasons, which bamboozled, grew like Kudzu into an immense globular mass galore ('bout the size of Rhode Island) after one year hoar more, and wove in part from stem cell threads, nor ceased proliferating after birth placenta accrued intact and immediately put in cold store room, a very peculiar by product tinged with strands of blond hair evoking how lioness would roar cocooning, contriving, and conveying this tiny timid dude.
As yours truly racked up orbitz around the sun time consuming rituals characterized obsessive compulsive disorder siphoning precious energy from each moment analogous to a beast of burden shamboling on the loose trampling (rolling stones) feeble attempts to shuck off baseless worry tethering psyche countless linkedin psychoneurotic thoughts and/or actions vacuumed up productive waking hours of mein kampf fixated courtesy bizarre untenable repetitive actions similar to religious formality to stave off ill luck.
When behavior not governed by questionable dutiful, (albeit senseless) bodily antics, the mind of yours truly aswarm with worrisome far fetched thoughts, I enumerate the following short list; jiggling door handle ad infinitum/nauseum number of times to reassure myself bolt latched and locked; water suddenly running dry while showering and richly lathering hair after washing brunette locks then afterwards applying hair dryer and fingers to tease lovely tresses apart finally shaking out mane until no more tangles; a fire or drill while above situation exists; power outage do to heavy demand for air conditioning or central heater, when the season summer or winter respectively occurs.
Aforementioned examples of physical and/or mental peculiarities witness me becoming fatigued analogous to completing a marathon eager, ready and willing to collapse these lovely bones into a heap forever resigning corporeal entity to permanent desuetude such as death.
Call it whatever you want
I want to be real right now. Past all of the jaded anger, and fear and insecurity hidden with lackluster attempts at comedy, I hate that "hope" and "peace" has become synonymous with "naive" and "absurd". I hate that we live in a world so torn apart by beliefs and ideology that we have turned ourselves against ourselves.
We have created walls and barriers to stifle and oppress ourselves, both literally and metaphorically. I hate that we blame and we fight and most of these things that we inflict on ourselves, like just another person who has cut through their own flesh in a vain attempt to free themselves from it all, are not worth the seas of blood we shed for them.
And I hate that these words and beliefs that I recite now have become so easy to ignore. So easy, because we all know them by heart. And yet, we do nothing.
We find reasons not to do what we can, and should. We find excuses, clumsy and cumbersome even to us, as to why we should continue to hate, and cheat, and kill. For what? Are we worth the air that we breathe, because I find myself wondering lately.
I hate that these words mean nothing to a people who has lost their ability to think and reason for themselves. But most of all I hate myself.
I hate myself for not being able to let go of the constant torture that is hope, even now.
That's all I've fucking got.
Crayola Bricks
"Did you know that someone wrote "Fuck you all" on that brick up there?"
The nurse followed my finger up to a shockingly high point on the brick pillar to our right, scanned the waxy scrawling, and let out a heavy sigh.
"Yeah, there's some crazy stuff up there." She pointed her pen toward the bulky brick pillars scattered through the common room. You'll see a lot of it around here. Some people even write their actual names and phone numbers."
"I did see a good joke over there." I pointed to the pillar on our left and read the words out loud. "What's the difference between a dirty bus stop and a lobster with breast implants? One's a crusty bus station and the other's a busty crustacean."
The nurse and I shared a gentle laugh and reflected on creative, damaged minds, as if we were strangers making small talk. This was just another day at the office for her. I shared a similar sentiment. She opened up a red folder and slid it across the plastic table.
"This is a copy of everything that you've signed so far and just some general information about how we do things here. There are some personal items that you weren't allowed to keep, which you'll sign off on later. We have your valuables locked in a safe in the administrative office and if you need access to your personal items, you'll have to ask one of the nurses. You're not allowed to have your phone, but you are free to write down a few numbers out of it We did have to take your bra, because of the underwire, but you can have someone bring you clothes or anything else you need starting tomorrow. "
The nurse pointed to a highlighted four digit number on one of the sheets inside the folder.
"This is your code, okay? So anyone who wants to call you here and check on you has to have this code. This is the number for the nurse's station. The phones are shut off during group and mealtimes because we want to encourage you to go. They're turned off around 9:30 at night and are turned back on at 7:30 in the morning. "
She turned her attention to the smartwatch on her wrist and then peered over my shoulder at the plexiglass encased office in the middle of the open room.
"Looks like it's time shift change. Do you have any questions for me?"
"Do you guys have snacks or something? I haven't eaten since about 10." It was 7:30 at night. Now that I'd calmed down, my appetite had returned.
"We might actually have a plate leftover from dinner. Let me check with one of the girls and see if we've got something for you. Go ahead and have a seat over here." She gestured to a a grouping of tables and chairs nestled in front of a large flat-screen TV encased in a heavy-duty plastic shell.
I struggled to pull a chair from underneath the table. The nurse said all the chairs were weighted, so that they couldn't be thrown. The first of many reminders as to where I would be for the next four days. She said goodbye, and that I would probably see her again in a couple soon. She walked away, sneakers squeaking across the grungy tile and I shifted uncomfortably in the weighted chair, exhausted and vulnerable, my armor cracking further with each passing minute.
Beyond DNA: Broke The Chains and Found Freedom
Born at Grady Memorial Hospital to a single mother already burdened with four children, my journey into the world began with a decision that would shape my understanding of what family truly means. At just three days old, I was entrusted to the care of my maternal aunt and uncle, a couple who would become my true parents in every meaningful way.
My earliest memories are filled with the warmth and security provided by my aunt and uncle. At the age of four, I started Pre-K, and each day began with my aunt gently waking me, dressing me, and walking me to the Head Start program. Those walks are etched in my memory, marked by the sight of Jerry Springer billboards promoting his show—a small yet significant detail of a time when I felt safe and loved.
However, at the age of six, my life took a dramatic turn. Driven by a custody battle initiated by my aunt, my biological mother intervened and took me away. I believed I was moving in with my mother and siblings, but instead, I found myself under the care of another aunt. This transition marked the beginning of a dark and tumultuous period.
In this new environment, my aunt's constant drinking and my mother's sporadic visits left my older brother as the primary caregiver. Initially, his care seemed like a blessing until he began to hurt me, taking me from my bed and subjecting me to abuse. Fear and isolation became my constant companions. I barely knew my mother and siblings, which left me with no one to confide in, no one to protect me.
At the age of eight, a lady name Mrs. Harty intervened who I later found out was Child Protective Services (CPS), forcing my mother to step up and assume her role. She secured a house and reunited our family, minus my older brother, who was incarcerated. For a while, it seemed like we might achieve some semblance of normalcy. My mother cooked meals and spent time with us, but the return of my brother shattered any hope of stability. His presence plunged me back into isolation and despair, unnoticed by those around me.
By the age of fifteen, I found solace and strength in a relationship with a boy. He was my first love, and for the first time, I opened up about the abuse I had endured. He encouraged me to tell my mother, believing that it would bring relief and justice. Summoning all my courage, I confided in her. Initially, it seemed she believed me, but that hope was short-lived. I overheard her telling her boyfriend that I was lying, that I had fabricated the entire story. This betrayal was a final blow, forever altering my perception of her.
At seventeen, I made the difficult but necessary decision to leave home and never look back. This decision marked the beginning of my journey towards healing and redefining what family means. My story is not one of shared DNA but of discovering true family in those who provide unconditional love, support, and safety. Leaving my biological family was the right decision. It allowed me to reclaim my life and define family on my terms. It taught me that true family is chosen, not born. Despite the hardships, I have found strength and peace in my journey.
In the end, having the same DNA doesn't make you family. My maternal aunt and uncle, who took me in as an infant and showered me with love and care, were my real family. They taught me that family is defined not by blood but by the love and security we give and receive. Despite the pain and challenges I faced, I learned the true meaning of family and found the strength to carve my own path forward.
Through these experiences, I have come to understand that family is a choice, a bond forged by love and resilience. It is about who stands by you, who cares for you, and who helps you grow. My journey, though painful, has shaped me into who I am today and has given me a deeper appreciation for the people who have been my true family. My story is a testament to the strength it takes to leave a toxic situation and the resilience required to build a new life from the ashes of the old.
At 30, my life is a vibrant canvas woven with love, resilience, and cherished bonds. Five wonderful kids fill our home with laughter, and my husband’s unwavering love anchors us. My best friend, a companion of 15 years, shares secrets and coffee with me. Sometimes, I wonder if my kids miss having a grandmother or aunts. But then I remember my own journey—the scars, the fractured ties. So, I become their everything, weaving stories and traditions. Love knows no bloodline here; we create our own family.
Scar Baby (A Cleanly Cut Stone)
Bernard exhaled a sigh of relief as he gazed out his kitchenette window, smelling the Hazelnut coffee from his French Press wafting into the devilishly flared nostrils of new morning. He was so grateful for a day off from his shit factory job at Kwimbee's making various idiotic shapes of dough. The most nefarious of the shapes was an perky elfish creature that had an overtly phallic nose that protruded upward like an obscenely erect penis. Oddly, it was Kwimbee's best seller, so Bernard had to look at the insipid smile on the elfin face day after day. His working conditions were so overheated and cramped with the feel of imminent death, that it felt like a well earned luxury being able to finally stumble around his house in an ancient ratty robe, cock out, and balls soft and sagging; absently watching his cat Yolanda lick her neglected crotch while purring in the sun that was tumbling in through the grimy kitchen windows. The plan was to rest, and exercise his wearily taxed body and really make shits bit of headway toward his ongoing attempts at Astral Projection. Bernard had picked up an intriguing New Age book from a pretentious head shop named Feu Follet that was entitled 'Astral Lovers' just for the occasion. Bernard had unflinchingly devoured the read; obsessed with the idea of meeting a eclectic woman from an alternate reality that was more spirit energy than fatally flawed human flesh. Bernard was slightly suspicious that the 'Astral Lovers' part was just accentuated to sell New Age books, so there was a reluctance to dive head first wholeheartedly. Whether or not the smoke and mirrors spiritual girlfriend entity part was true, Bernard was still very intrigued with the idea of leaving his body and inheriting the idealized gift of absolute freedom as he could dare imagine it. Almost every night he dreamt of flying above the houses of his crime ridden, yet magically impulsive and vibrant neighborhood.
Bernard was just about ready to find a comfortable supine position on his Yoga mat when he remembered he had to go to the bank. In a irritated huff, he pulled on his dirty grey work-out pants with the small tear on the left leg nearest to the knee, where his cock sometimes slipped out; cursing to no one in particular that he had to leave the comfort of his own home. Snuffing a freshly lit incense life out into it's wooden tray in a huff, Bernard was about to grab his coat off the rack when his landlord Mr. Petrov walked in to the living room with Bernard's apartment key dangling in his tightly clutched hand. He looked sweatier and more desperate that usual. His eyes were shifty and he seemed to be breathing heavy as he eyed Bernard up and down with his usual manner of disdain.
"What do you need?, " Asked Bernard, with hardly a veiled display of annoyance and disgust. This had been Mr. Petrov's third time in one month that he had let himself in to Bernard's apartment without allowance or warning, and the trend was getting real stale real quick, especially because it meant that Bernard had to make contact with his slum-lord fuck face of a landlord, when before Mr. Petrov was little more then a name on a sheet of paper that Bernard could easily separate himself from
"I need to get into the space inside your walk-in closet. I'll only be a couple minutes in there; ten minutes tops. No arguments please."
"Ok, but no funny business like last time when I found some creepy crawlies slathered all over my shoes. Do your meat slapping in your own closet like everyone else!"
Mr. Petrov rolled his eyes and shuffled away. The space that Mr. Petrov was referring to was the one and only area in the house that was sealed hermetically with a lock. Bernard always speculated over it's contents, thinking a few times of cutting the lock and perhaps restoring it with a similar looking piece of secure metal, but hadn't quite gotten to that stage Bernard did notice the bulge in Mr. Petrov's leisure suit, as he himself exited through the open window in the living room with access to the fire escape, closed it, and stood out on the damp metallic balcony that overlooked the backlot of the multi-dwelling unit (MDU). After a quick cigarette and a look-see at the beautiful sparkling city in the afternoon that lay sedated in spots under the heavy shadows and buildings; he descended down the fire escape like a careful mouse not wanting to be spied on. There was some construction going on in the downstairs of the building where all the mailboxes were situated. Bernard could more than likely navigate this noisy annoyance, but he just didn't want to communicate with anyone today; least of all his landlord. When Bernard's feet met the pavement he was back to his incognito hermetic persona again, ignoring the gaze of the others, and looking for alleyways that kept him sealed away from the daily throng as he hustled his ass down to the bank.
At the bank lobby of the 1st Westside Metropolitan Bernard was instantly greeted by the cloyingly oppressive Teller and Security Guard that played the role of Ventriloquist and Dummy with their almost menacing twin pair of crocodile smiles. Like wind-up toys they came alive as soon as he stepped in the room. The blonde security guard was seated in a chair not far from the glass enclosed checkout station, and looked as if she might have been ten years younger than the Teller, but all her mannerisms suggested she was sprung from the same womb.
Security Guard: "Hi there! Thanks for coming to see us today! My goodness, it looks like such a peach of a day out there! Hey we had a bet, and we were hoping a nice fella like you could share the deets...is it mild out there or is it a bit windy? I'm going with windy 'cuz I see the trees shaking the leaves a bit out there, so I'm leaning towards the gust."
Teller: "Now Stacy, you are always jumping the gosh-darn-don'tchya know gun! Why can't it be both? Why not mild and windy with a dash of the drearies'? (Motioning toward the guard and winking) She's a real cut-up this one! No, seriously, sir, what's the weather out there like? You can be honest, don't try and spare our feelings."
"It's a bit chilly, " Bernard moved toward the teller, emptied his wallet of his ID and credit card to make all indication that he had no time for idle chit-chat and stared blankly at the Teller.
Teller: "Any plans for this weekend?"
Her eyes were flirtatious but filed down, like a pencil that had spent too long in the cave of the sharpener, plunged in darkness amongst the blades and the gears, and rarely seeing the light of day but for to speculate from an outsiders point of view.
Security Guard: "We're heading down to HollowMan's Grove next to Bush Creek on Stapleton Drive tonight for Girl's Night! They got all night Karaoke starting at 9! Shooters all night, you know that's right! Do you like Karaoke? My go to is always Madonna's 'Like a Virgin', but sometimes I do Patti Smith's 'Because the Night' if I'm feeling lonely. Betch'ya didn't peg me for a Patti Smith fan, but I'm pretty open-minded. I listen to just to about anything except Country, Rap, and Metal."
Bernard didn't turn his head to the security guard but he could feel her smile burning into his neck hairs. The Teller was still quite lovely in her mid fifties aside for some black splotches on her neck that only accented her almost reptilian persona. Her eyes glided over him like a frog slyly sizing up a juicy water beetle.
"Oh that's great...I hope you have a fun night..."
When Bernard finally made it back to the door of his apartment he was exhausted and his cheeks ached from trying to imitate the twin simian smiles of the two glad-handing ladies back at the bank. He felt his eyeballs pried open in an unnatural way that seemed inherited from the dramatic duo. He twisted the doorknob to make sure it was latched but the door came open in his hands. Proceeding with caution, Bernhard now shuffled into the darkened room with caution. From the left and right two men pounced on him at once from opposite sides of the hollow blackness and flung him against the far left wall. One looked like a short, bald meatball with red blotchy unhealthy spots all over his ruined skin. He was raw and muscular and looked like he could do a fair amount of damage. The other was stork like in stature with a drooping rat shaped nose and a baseball hat that said the Miami Marlins. Both looked deadly serious and ready to extract some tainted information quick and painful like with their long fingers reaching out that resembled syringes in the half-light.
"Where's the goddamn money you stupid sonofabitch?"
Rat Man breathed heavy into Bernard's face, and Bernard could discern he just had a salami sandwich with day old spoiled milk and a couple of Whiskey Sours thrown in for good measure.
"I don't know you two!...How did you get in here?...What the Hell is going on?..."
For the first time Bernard noticed the crumpled heap of his landlord in the middle of the apartment living room. There were random red stains that covered the hill of his body. His head looked like it had been done in proper with a couple of calculated rough kicks. The gore on the carpet was fresh, and it had only just begun to stiffen in the more blackened areas of the floor where the blood had seeped in the most.
Meatball jammed his knee deep into Bernard's groin, and Rat Stork chopped him on the back of the head as he pitched forward in surprised pain. The darkness detonated through the tough shell of Bernard's skull like the messy ink from a squid. As Bernard collapsed downwards towards the floor, losing consciousness before his face hit the fast approaching catcher's mitt of the rug
*
Where in the devil was he? The night breeze was there at his neck, and Bernard heard night birds closing in, and bats as he dipped and swayed with the slightest of breezes that carried him so effortlessly. It took him a minute to decipher, but Bernard was flying over the sidewalk of his neighborhood! He was on a mission to find the small church on Locust street, and he was almost right above it. He had passed over two brown tiled roof tops, and then a house that was entirely covered in reflective metallic siding(though he saw no glimpse of his reflection), and then there he was! He could tell it was the church because of it's box shaped roof tops, except for one section that was spired over the front door. Bernard could see a multitude of stray cats milling around the front and the side of the church, snacking on the free cat food that was left out for them in a big ceramic blue bowl by the church's disguised side entrance that was almost entirely camouflaged by trees. Bernard could witness the snoozing birds in the branches of the tree snug in their feathers and huddled close together in their cleverly devised nests of feathers, straw and string as he slipped like a vapor, bypassing the structural limitations of the wood and slate of the church's crown. Passing through the ceiling of the church and finally landing on the floor, Bernard could see a group of people through the big glass windows, possibly of the local A.A. group that had just exited the church only moments ago. The group was individual smoking their treasured cigarettes and giving each other hugs as they slowly vanished one after another into the belly of the unknown night. Bernard wondered why he had instinctually flown over to the Locust street church at midnight. It wasn't until he thoughtlessly fumbled under the bottom of the big table, perching like a gargoyle in the middle of the room, and selected with precision a taped key beneath it which he now cradled in his left hand; that he realized that he had been Astral traveling this whole damn time! What a rush! In a total dumbstruck awe he fumbled around in the dark church and paused to touch paintings and a pencil that was resting on a podium at the far right corner of the large room populated mostly with empty wooden chairs. Now Bernard suddenly was feeling a tug that could only be his physical body calling his restless spirit body back home with an insistent sense of urgency. Bernard knew it was time to go, but wanted to make the moment last as long as humanly possible! My goodness, what a bizarre deck of cards he had been dealt today! With the key still pressed tightly in his firm grip, Bernard dashed back towards his apartment in the MDU like a skipped stone that was dancing across the surface of a fleshy lake of humanity after an expert toss by a clever and carefree child who had slipped out into the mysterious first glimmerings of a twilight's whisper.
The End?
7/1/24
Bunny Villaire
(Edit #8)
The Man
I’ve never yearned to be a man in the sense I am uncomfortable in my femininity, in my sexuality. I am happy to fret over my hair, and groan as I set off to hastily apply makeup for a last minute trip to the bar.
But in the sense of culture- I adore the old days. Most will argue against it; the conditions, the prejudice, the suffering. But the glamour? The glamour of being a man who has enough power simply because of the thing between his legs to do as he wished without threat?
To, in modern frame, dress in however they wish, to get up and not need to do their hair for it to not look horrific. To not worry about perfectly smooth legs in shorts during the summer, or be concerned how their arms look in a tank top.
To be like my brothers- able to drink a dozen pints and stumble home at day break with a clap on his back and broad, prideful smile from a neglectul father, rather then a constant little girl who cannot handle one diluted beer and needs to be conservative in appearance and soul.
To take whores to bed and be labeled a champion, rather than a scallion with the same body beneath me.
To have my body convert fat to muscle without lifting a finger, rather another joint to their lips on a day in the field because it should be fine for a male dominated field to succumb to ways of old, but never fine for a woman to wish to implement the ways of today.
I lift weights heavier than the average man at my gym. I kiss more pretty girls than them. I have more money. Yet, and yet. It is never enough.
No. I do not wish to have a man’s body, or a man’s face. I do not wish for a deep voice or his words. But I do wish I could be like a man. Just for a day.
The climb
Every day that goes by is another day I live longer than one of my best friends from middle and high school. He struggled with mental health from the age of 9. That's generally what happens when you have slight Asperger's syndrome, go to public school, are so super intelligent that some kids can't keep up with how fast you talk, you have divorced parents, two sisters to feel responsible for, and an abusive dad that you live with half of every year.
This friend was very dear to my heart, since I have siblings and family members with autism and other disorders that affect your ability to do anything having to do with other people. I would have protected him with my life had I known he was hurting so much. I'd have tracked down every bully, gotten him some much needed help to deal with his dad, anything he needed, I'd have done it.
I was his confidant. He had sworn me to secrecy, and as a person who cared about him so much, I kept my oath. He would come to school and tell me about what his dad had done this time. He'd lay his head on my shoulder, and I'd tell him I was there for him, that everything was going to be alright. I treated him like my own flesh and blood. It was almost as if he was.
I caught wind a few months before what he did that he had a crush on me. He told one of his gay friends, knowing that she would support him all the way. She accidentally let the secret out though, and he was confronted by another useless bully about how he could never have a real relationship with a girl, and, as an added bonus, made a joke about out of everyone, why her? All I focused on in his one moment of true need, was tha fact that I was also being put down. I wasn't there for him like I should have been. I didn't support him, like I always swore I would.
Then a few weeks later, schools were closed indefinitely. Everyone was told to stay home, and not to go see anyone. Seeing as it was his dad's week, he was now stuck alone with his dad in the house for weeks. I told him everything would be fine, just to try and stay calm and mind his own business, so that nothing bad would happen with his dad. God, I should have told someone. I just let him go off and be trapped with his mentally and physically abusive jack of a dad.
I didn't have a phone, so I couldn't communicate with many people back then. Just the one person I had a phone number for. I looked him up in an old fashioned phone book, trying desperately to find a way to talk to him. I went walking in his neighborhood, hoping I would happen to run into him. I never did.
Then virtual school started. He was there. And nothing looked wrong. So I though he was okay. We emailed through our school account, and talked like nothing was wrong. He would tell me about how things were, and I'd tell him the latest drama with my sister. We both enjoyed our time chatting in our free time. It became a habit.
School was partially opened back up by the winter time. We were so excited because we'd both be at school at the same time, since our last names were close together. We got to ride the bus to our fancy smart people magnet school together (he clearly belonged there, but had to help me with everything, but I was not the brightest in the room, ever. In fact, it was him. He was always the smartest).
We would sit on the bus with our masks covering most of our faces, and talk. Just like old times. And that's when he decided to tell me that it was getting bad with his dad again. He told me it had been rough, but that he was handling it. Until his dad started drinking again. Then it got much, much worse than I was ever around to hear about. I didn't know what to do. I told a friend, without using names, and asked what she thought I should do. She told me to listen to him, to keep his secret until he was ready to tell someone. I didn't want to, because I knew my friend was hurting, mentally and physically, but I listened. I told no one after that.
One day we sat on the bus talking about what we wanted to study in college, what we wanted to be when we grew up. This was a day that we had a very hard math lesson. I, of course, understood none of it, and he was acing the practice tests already. That's when he told me he wanted to be a math teacher. He wanted to teach a program like the one we were in, because our teacher inspired him. I thought he would make an amazing teacher, and I told him that. He coughed a little after telling me that, so I scooted away slightly, not in a mean way, just in a covid social distancing kind of way.
He didn't come to school the next day, so I assumed he was sick. Then the weekend went by, and he wasn't in school monday or tuesday either. I assumed he was quarantined, and that he was sleeping, so that was why I hadn't heard from him. I didn't really think too deep about it. On tuesday night, I was sitting at the table doing my homework, like a responsible high school honors student, and I get a notification on my computer. It made a loud ding, since my volume was on, so my mom heard it, being a few feet away in the kitchen.
I read the message, from one of my friends who is known for being very goofy, always cracking some joke or another, sometimes very dark humor jokes.
The message said "abby did u hear what happened to m (not full name for privacy)?
I responded "no what"
She said "he's gone abby. he committed."
At first, I didn't know what she meant. I was mostly a sheltered child, and I hadn't been getting the full high school experience thus far, so I had no idea what that meant. So I responded, "what? theft?" with a laughing emoji.
She took a long time (only a few minutes but not instantly like the other messages) to respond to that one. When she did, she said, "abby i'm going to say it like this so you understand. he died. suicude. yesterday."
I read that message over and over again, even weeks after that. In the moment, I just stared at it, not able to move. I guess my mom noticed the look on my face, because she asked me what happened. I told her I needed some air. I went outside and my dad was setting a fire to burn some wood. So I went out and sat in front of it for hours, staring at the flames, thinking about him, our last conversation, his face; hoping I'd never forget a single part of him.
All of this to say, to this day, I'm not the same person I was before he was gone, but I know now how I should go about helping someone who is struggling, or at least what not to do.
And I've blamed myself so many times in the three and a half years since he's been gone, but I've learned how to cope with that pain also.
The biggest thing I've learned through all of this is that you never know what people are going through, even if you think they're telling you. Some battles can't be fought without a little courage, and giving someone that little push or glimmer of hope can save their life.
I hope that if I come across anyone else in my lifetime who struggles with some burden or weight, that I can help them carry it, or at least unload just a fraction of the baggage to make the climb possible.
Mayank Amin
ah... methinks now is the time to wax prosaic and simulate being a writer about Mayank Amin, (a 2015 alumni of Saint Joseph's University Philadelphia College of Pharmacy, and Villanova University graduate), the owner/manager of Skippack Pharmacy, who goes out of his way far and above the call of duty to alleviate medical concerns of ordinary citizens, who courtesy word of mouth, and his public advocacy endeavors attract an ever burgeoning number of patients sustaining the once fledgling entrepreneurship (he started five years ago) regarding a thriving business, plus setting a high standard of acumen many another high achieving student might try to emulate additionally and lastly, he exudes successful attributes (such as being a gentle caregiver, loving father, respectable individual to identify a small number of laudatory attributes), not only when he or one of his staff deliver prescription medication to satisfied customers, but also confident super healing power aura, sprinkled with a healthy dosage of dogma, karma, and persona that infected me some few years ago no matter yours truly a pleased CVS customer for many years, whose support vis a vis courtesy my left or right arm (to receive beneficial vaccination/booster) unwittingly provided a golden opportunity to express positive feedback about trusting my life to a dispenser (read purveyor of valuable science based knowledge) within comments section of questionnaire regarding registering to help celebrate fifth anniversary on June twenty eighth two thousand and twenty four of said robust flourishing calling to serve the community of faithful adherents guaranteeing future praise for regular service to protect young and old people alike able, eager, ready and willing to congratulate a native son of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania necessitates lavish outpouring of storied attainment regarding one outstanding young man (at thirty six, he attained the pinnacle and well deserved unmitigated lofty written representation) underscoring, recognizing, and honoring a perfect example of dogged perseverance subsequently witnessing astounding grandiloquence bubbling forth from these fingers attempting (via feeble effort) to generate the shining exemplar videlicet stellar triumph (no matter said pharmacy located at 4118 Skippack Pike challenging for someone to access traveling west on above named thoroughfare, a heavily trafficked intersection) thru sheer indomitable dedication of brains and brawn to his studies exemplifying by a tour de force of mental, physical and spiritual endurance how ambition allowed, enabled and provided a modest good Knight North Penn High School graduate reaching unquestionable role of local fame and fortune paying due diligence and earning kudos (not just from writer of these words, but also countless lives sustained, thus collective resounding applause requisite upon the human being eliciting status of outstanding role model and hero incumbent on one beetle browed, foo fighting no nonsense wordsmith whose stream of consciousness and extemporaneous flattery communicated with sincerity toward one vibrant former wunderkind, (which presumption of mine probably not far off the mark) predicated on insight gleaned from personal scattershot interactions, and endless profuse kudos revealed after googling his name, thus only decent to acknowledge ambitious and conscientious traits emblematic of second generation Indian, whose rootedness in selflessness represents a kind of altruism of the body, mind, anad spirit triage upending the popular notion to acquire massive riches as glorification of the old mighty buck ofttimes transcending the role of virtuous noblesse oblige such as being altruistic, humanistic, idealistic analogous to acquire being fêted as a deserved unsung Ubermensch, a notion popularized by Friedrich Nietzsche – loosely, tenuously latched onto here (very flimsy linkedin association – so go ahead and rip into attempt at laughable ludicrous mishmashed nippy nap noopy offal philosophical quirkiness) in an effort to put mine cerebral cells thru rigorous torture taxing their neglected powers, but remembering from a political science class I enrolled in at Antioch College (in Yellow Springs, Ohio) then (about two score plus years ago) barely grasping abstract ideas, and falling short of fully comprehending the assigned reading material long since relegated to the dustbin of forgetfulness, a temporary lapse of reason striking and bowling over yours truly (analogous to ten pins struck down) representing an unproductive pattern matriculating for a couple semesters at countless colleges and universities – in other words remaining a perpetual student early into my third decade, when fear of taking mein kampf by the figurative “horns” found repeatedly entering and exiting the storied halls of institutions of higher learning, none of which witnessed completion with diploma in hand.