Possession

I had been out riding my bicycle. It was one of those days that was vibrant and electric. It had just rained, and the grass was that other-worldly green, almost alien, or like something you'd see in a magazine that had been color-enhanced. The scenery looked too perfect to be real, with a low-hanging mist blanketing the green hills and the road and the houses, enveloping them and cradling them, hugging them tightly.

My mother was with my aunt in the back garden, drinking tea and eating cucumber sandwiches. She called out to me when she heard me come in, to come and join them. I called back that I would be right there, looking forward to tea, and hoping for miniature frosted cakes as well. There was a good chance there were some of these, since my aunt was here visiting.

I walked to the fireplace mantle, and took off my gloves, and noticed that the clock had stopped ticking, which struck me as odd. I had that feeling of stepping on glass; watching myself step on it and knowing the pain and the blood would be coming soon afterward, but having already put my foot down on it there was nothing I could do but observe the outcome.

I heard a melody in the background, coming from the house itself, from inside the walls, clunking out with the gas pipes and the heating vents. I was unable to move, and was aware that I hadn't taken a breath for quite some time.

I was lifted up into the air, as if by the scruff of my neck, and saw my cat watching in horror from the corner of the room. I heard things falling, but couldn't tell which direction they were coming from, or what they were. I was hoisted, smoothly yet jerking-ly, like a ride at an amusement park from one corner of the room to the other, my face pressed up inches from the walls to view old family photos with heightened awareness and clarity, albeit in a very confused state of mind.

I was shifted from object to object, my nose almost pressed against each one that came before me, and was aware that my feet were two or three feet above the ground, dangling from my legs with no will or direction of their own.

I was herky-jerked around the room for what seemed like several minutes before I was dropped without fanfare on my tailbone, knocking the wind out of me completely.

I heard my mother's voice calling for me from the garden, and I managed to stand up and stumble outside, stunned and speechless.

My mother and aunt were laughing, and engrossed in memories and conversation, and didn't notice my eroded state; maybe they thought I was winded from being outdoors all afternoon? My mother pulled a chair out for me, while talking to my aunt, and I sat down, not knowing what else to do or say.

Seeing that there were, indeed, little frosted cakes, I said nothing, but sat and ate, while my mother and my aunt laughed and talked as if I wasn't there at all.

Cardboard Boxes

Cardboard boxes contain my past. Searching for a misplaced will which ensures my possible future as a natural gas heiress.This has somehow been misplaced.

Instead I find brochures about how to care for your newborn infant from the 1960's, old birthday cards from various relatives and friends, some handmade, dried up acrylic paint in tubes, half-drawn sketches of nature scenes, a book of modeling nudes, family photos from the 1970's, an old roll of toilet paper stained with something, Victorian cut-outs from an old calendar, my grandmother's handwriting on notes written more than forty years ago, teacups and saucers (matching sets, but dozens of different patterns), a soup tureen shaped like a duck, with a mini-duck tureen son or daughter, framed photos from the 1940's, old report cards, catalog order forms, secret thoughts of my mother written in a green spiral notebook, and countless other objects and memorabilia, moments in time, pieces of a life, pieces of a family. Small nuances that make up a greater, elusive whole.

One photographs contains four people I once knew, all of whom are dead now. But the photo still exists, in a cardboard box in my garage.

Existential Void Haiku

Existential Void
rears its ugly head again,
longing, lusting, blank.

Small

Darlene was short. 34-1/2" to be exact. Some called her a "little person", which was dully annoying to her, and at the same time mildly amusing. She was little, compared to most, and she was a person. So even she would concede that she was a little person, although it had a hint or a very large stink of condescension.

Her friend, Barbara would drive her around places and take her to lunch and shopping. Barbara told Darlene that it was because she was so extra-special to her, and Darlene knew she was; she didn't need Barbara to tell her that. She had her shortcomings, like anyone else, but overall she enjoyed her own company and had a healthy sense of who she was and what she wanted. Darlene really thought that Barbara liked to take her places because she liked all the attention that Darlene drew when she walked into a place. All heads would turn, and then slowly look away (leaving trails in the air) as if to say, "I noticed immediately that you are very small, but I'm pretending that it doesn't affect me and that I am not prejudiced against little people; I am above that sort of judgment."

But as Darlene strolled through a shop, or walked to her table at a restaurant, or climbed into her seat at a movie theater, she would see the eyes return to her again and again, sizing her up, calculating figures, and asking silent questions. It was always the same, like purgatory might be. Then if she would speak to the eyes that were glancing and darting, they would look away, or feign an exaggerated sense of casualness or ambivalence, smiling at her and being overly polite while she clenched her teeth and smiled back at them, politely, also, but with a little show of her jolly good heart and generosity of spirit; she forgave them.

Barbara would act like a mother hen, ushering her in and out of places, using her own body to block the flow of traffic and steer the ship of their adventures. This was a relief and a burden to Darlene. Sometimes she welcomed the protection and comfort of her false mother-friend, and sometimes she felt she was suffocating underneath a very large pillow and things would start to swim in front of her, and she would slide into a slippery realm of non-existence and would have to sit down for a few minutes and catch her breath and sometimes even get a cold, wet cloth to put on her forehead. Barbara thought maybe she got dizzy from looking up all the time with her head tilted and her neck craned. Barbara could be very officious, but she was also right about a lot of things a lot of the time. The compound interest of their friendship totaled up to be more equal than the sum of its parts.

They were in a little boutique one afternoon, looking at pretty things; vintage clothing and jewelry, baubles and things to make pretty ladies even prettier. Barbara tried on several items, but none of them worked for her. She left them discarded in the dressing room and wandered around the store, picking things up and putting them down.

Darlene went through the store, collecting a gold lame blouse that she would wear as a cocktail dress, several printed silk scarves, and fabric butterflies and flowers for her hair. She was impetuous and moved quickly, not wanting to try anything on, but wanting to buy something beautiful.

Barbara complimented Darlene on her taste, and her unique fashion sense, beaming and smiling proudly at her little friend, as she paid the woman behind the counter and accepted her bags, all done very officially, as if handing parcels to the Queen of England, or curtsey-ing in a school play, stiffly yet with great pomp and circumstance. Barbara opened the door for Darlene as they exited.

Later that evening, alone in her bedroom, Darlene pinned the butterflies and flowers in her hair, and put on the gold lame blouse-dress, and carried several scarves in her hands at once, and danced around her room like a faerie princess, skipping and singing to herself. Her dress was slightly smock-like, but it was the color of kings and queens, and she dreamed very large and elaborate dreams that night.

Nature Worship

Sheila couldn't begin to say when she started falling for the the petrified tree, but it had been quite some time ago.

They needed no words to communicate.

She would peel off all her clothes, and drape herself around the tree, gingerly, yet firmly caressing it and moving as slowly as sticky tree-bark molasses goo; peering into its crevices with wonder and fervor while passionately trying to wriggle in through the open spaces, or at least extend one of her own limbs inward, her fingers or toes or sometimes her tongue searching for the multi-layered 360 degree tree rings deep inside the rough exterior.

No man had ever come as close to enchanting and entrancing her as this old trunk had, with its knobby limbs, tough bark and deep, dark holes. She could see straight through the Universe and beyond when she was with her one true love, her solid constant, her mighty, awe-inspiring seductor.

She was a nature worshipper, indeed.

No Words (Like the Sea)

I'm not crazy. You're the one who's crazy. No, really. Really?!

Oh, it's too exhausting to argue with you anymore, so I will just lie down in the middle of the hardwood floor and cover my ears with both hands, and hum loud and long. I will be carried away on a flowery bed of ease...float down the L.A. river and then out to sea in the bright blue-white light, shimmering sea foam salty hissing and buoying, bouncing off the waves, but so far out it's mostly calm and quiet.

Floating in the orange-gold light with the birds soaring at sunset, and then ending up somehow in Greece, on someone's patio, a quiet acquiescing stranger who isn't present. Eating cheese and olives and red wine and chocolate (which had been laid out with the anticipation of my arrival), and sitting while candles are lit by their own inner flames and the mosquitoes and fireflies come out and I need to get a sweater then discover one on the back of my chair, and the air smells like flowers; big, heavy succulent ones, and the quietness is like a calming hand...no words, just salty and rough, ambivalent and smooth as the sea.

The Ouija Guide to Getting Everything You Want

'The Ouija Guide to Getting Everything You Want' is a mysterious little tome written by an anonymous woman sometime in the mid sixties. It seems as though it was initially a journal or diary that later became posthumously published, although it was a very small run; something like ten copies, probably published by a family member. It's possible that the author herself could have published these before her untimely death, maybe to give as gifts to only her closest friends.

The book itself is a small-ish paperback, deep purple in color, with red lettering on the front cover. There is a grainy portrait of the author, leaning against a wall and smoking a cigarette. She has short black hair, cropped in a pointed style, and large round black sunglasses. She is lithe and wearing a minidress with one large sunflower on it, and low-heeled pumps. Personally, I'm not sure if this woman could help me get 'everything I want', but I try to keep an open mind. Somehow the book ended up in my hands, which must count for something, somewhere.

There is no reference to 'Ouija boards' anywhere in the book, so how she came up with the title I will never know. Unless, possibly, I can contact her from beyond the grave through the use of an actual Ouija board. Maybe she used that word specifically so her readers could contact her if they had any questions, after she was gone. There is an undeniable mystical quality to her book, though it's hard to put my finger on. It draws me back to it again and again, and I have become intrigued with its author, almost to the point of obsession, which is somewhat embarrassing to admit. It's something I don't fully understand myself.

Her main philosophy revolves around shoes. The right shoe, she advocates, can change your entire life. This is especially important, she goes on, in the workplace. The wrong shoe can be your downfall; physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, and even affect you on a cellular level, changing the outcome of your destiny in the world as we know it. Oddly enough, the shoe she recommends is a not altogether comfortable shoe, but a raised, low-heeled pump. Not the sexy kind, but with a matronly 1-1/2" heel, and the shoe is beige in color. Not even beige, but kind of a baby puke light-brownish pink color. She advocates the use of this shoe, worn on a daily basis (no matter the event or social occasion) and only removed a few moments before falling asleep, will dramatically change a person's life (women and men) for the better. Not just for the better, but you will realize your fullest potential as a human being, and live a life of splendor, true harmony and bliss.

She goes on to describe physical sensations, bodily secretions, emotional breakthroughs, and out-of-body experiences all achieved while wearing this style of shoe that she designed herself in the late 1950's. She does not specify how many of these shoes were made, or if there were different styles or color choices, but apparently very few were produced and the few that were, were made up in her size only (size 6). She has a diagram at the very back of the book, a black and white sketch drawing of the particulars and the materials needed to build your own pair. There are three drawings, and they vary slightly in heel height, but her notes specify the 1-1/2" heel is the one to be used.

I have recently acquired the materials to build my own pair (her liner notes forbid her readers from taking her patterns to any shoe manufacturer or even a local shoe-smith), but I have not yet started the building process. Once this is completed, I will be taking daily notes and jotting down any changes that may occur in my lifestyle. My expectations are low, but I'm secretly hoping for great things. Since the shoes are so utilitarian, bland, and unattractive, it makes logical sense that they could possess an other-worldly power, which would be hidden in their mundane appearance. At least, I would hope so.

Home on the Range

Bright sunlight; I shade my eyes with one hand. I stare from my doorway at nothing, really. Or at everything all at once. I close my eyes and it's the same, a mirror image of the bright white, only deep purple, cool blue and golden flashes in my mind's eye now.

I watch the cowboys ride by, sometimes tilting their hats in my direction, sometimes so far in the distance they don't notice me at all. They ride by on their way to do some kind of business, professional-like. Men-ly type things involving cigars and money and horses and motion and time. Things of value. They move quickly; the early bird catches the worm.

I don't have any clocks in the house. Well, that's a lie; I do have one, but it's stopped telling me the time. I couldn't bear to throw it out because it's one of those brass star-shaped ones, or galaxy-shaped ones with pointed edges and planets floating around it. Hard to explain. Hard to let go of. Maybe I'll get it fixed one of these days, but probably not. It may be beyond repair. I still like looking at it, though. But I'm always conscious of the fact that it's not telling me the truth.

I've been feeling strange of late. I go to my bibles which I've kept tucked away. The are dusty now, and I'm sure they'd wonder what I want with them if they could wonder. I'm not sure exactly. Comfort. Reassurance. Meaning. The usual. They feel heavy and sit stiffly in my hands and smell musty. It makes me want to put them back and not look at them again for a while, so that's what I do.

The cats are sleeping soundly on the windowsills. Guarding the house like two obelisks. They go out prowling at night, looking for something to kill. I tried stopping them because of the coyotes, and owls, hawks and snakes, but they won't listen to reason. I've tried. I pet them and snuggle with them while they're sleeping soundly, and they leave me in the night to stalk and prey and do mysterious cat things. I curl up tightly with a pillow between my legs, and leave one candle burning.

The wolves howl, and I have fitful dreams...about wolves, and cats, and pursuit, and retreat, and feeling lost, and fires burning. Empty cars on empty highways, abandoned amusement park rides and whirling dervishes. Everything I've ever known, and things I will never know. Things I will know. My own private theater. I never realize what's playing until I've already bought my ticket. It's a crap shoot. But those are the breaks, I guess.

I dream of fast wimmin, too. In bustling red satin dresses with white petticoats underneath that they lift and swirl about me, blooming like flowers, like red roses and poppies. They are budding and fruitful, and they multiply in droves like buzzing bees. They dance and sing in a circle around me, kicking their legs up high, lifting their skirts, throwing their heads back in laughter, increasing their pace and the pitch of their song.

I awake in the desert again, with chores that need tending and more leaning to get done inside my doorway, watching the day move by.

Little Johnny's Milk

Little Johnny laughed with his glass of milk, as he toasted his own health. He was as pleased as punch with it. It was his sustenance and fortification. It calcified him. It enabled his brain to function at optimum level, and this was important to Little Johnny. This glass of milk, and all it contained, was his future, and the future of the world.

Little Johnny understood from a very early age that all life matter is enveloped and supported by the same organic materials...namely those found in his glass of milk. They don't call it 'Mother's Milk' for nothing. The 'Land of Milk and Honey'? You do the math. Little Johnny was highly skilled at mathematics, and owed this in large part to his enormous dairy consumption.

Learning that the cow is a sacred animal in India, Little Johnny traced its lineage for an extra-credit school project, and discovered his own third eye in the process. When he closed his 'normal eyes' almost fully, but left them slightly open while breathing deeply through his nostrils, he could reach a state of Nirvana while gazing into his cold glass (or warm cup, depending on the season) of milk. This would lead to a state of indescribable bliss that would last for several hours, sometimes even days.

Little Johnny eventually abandoned everything; gave up all his worldly possessions, dropped out of prep school, and moved to a sheep farm in the Appalachian mountains where he wore nothing but Long-John red underwear, alternately milking his sheep, gazing at the milk in the pails, then drinking the vitalizing live cultures, which would further him along on his new path to total freedom, unconditional love, and enlightenment.

Box

My box is almost always full, and feeling extra cumbersome lately. Sometimes when I stand up, I lose my balance and fall back down again because of the sheer weight and awkwardness.

Going up and down stairs is especially difficult, as is getting comfortable inside a bed. Getting up and down from a seated position is hard, too. I hate to be a complainer, but now that I've already started it's hard to stop.

I dress my box up with ribbons sometimes (usually blue), to distract. I'd use wrapping paper, but I'm too lazy if the truth be told, and can never get my edges folded properly. I like the curly-cue ribbons best, the kind you run a pair of scissors over and they get all bunched up. I tie a gardenia or two on there as well, and sometimes a stuffed bluebird, and the eyes start to wander and forget all about what's inside.

So much stuff! Old receipts, stale chocolates, hopes, dreams, fears, longings, browned banana peels, used-up car air-fresheners, empty lighters, half-drunk juice boxes, remnants, cracked jewels, brown crinkled-up paper lunch bags, ostrich feathers, sugar cones, half-baked ideas, old lovers, shampoo bottles, lollipops (the big round kind with different colored swirls). The list could go on and on. And does.

I've been trying to empty my box; twenty minutes twice a day. I set a timer. I twiddle my thumbs, and bite my lip. I open my eyes now and again, just to see what's going on. Twenty minutes is a long time. Or a very, very short time, depending on how full or empty my box is.

I might be scared to empty it completely, although it would be so much easier to carry around that way. So much lighter. Maybe I could down-grade to a smaller size? Maybe I could get a jewelry sized box, and keep only very small, priceless objects inside it, and chuck the rest by the side of the road, and speed away laughing, with the wind blowing through my hair and the radio on.

Lucid Dreaming

I realized I was dreaming, the same way I always do (when I'm able to, that is).

I 'woke up' in my dream and looked at the clock, which was flashing '12:00', as if there had been a power outage. That's the first sign. The next is trying to turn on my bedside lamp, or any light switch in the house, which won't turn on. That's when I know I'm in deep, and I can do whatever I want to do, if I choose to. If I'm not afraid.

Sometimes I get so freaked out by having the power to control my dream that I wake myself up. Sometimes I get freaked out, and can't wake myself up. Fighting against the present moment of a lucid state.

I've been feeling hypersensitive lately, for various reasons, and have been lucid dreaming two or three times per week, which is a perk I didn't expect, but it makes sense. If a person is feeling hypersensitive in the physical world, it seems like the nocturnal, inner world of the dream state would be affected, too. One mechanism; the body and the brain, the emotional and the physical.

In this particular dream, I made a decision to get past my fear and do what I wanted to do in the dream (fly around my backyard like a bird, dance like a ballerina in mid-air, swim in the sky). I have a balcony on the second floor of my house, and walked out onto the balcony and dove off. I tried not to over-think it, which is probably what I would do in 'real life', but walked onto the balcony and dove off like I was diving into a pool. Instead of falling, I sailed through the air. And once I was doing that, why couldn't I control my flight? Some parts were a little rocky, but I was able to manipulate my actions enough to keep from falling flat on my face. Good to know for future lucid states. Hopefully next time I will be more comfortable and confident to fly even further.

I'm sure my next flight will be even more exciting, and I'm looking forward to it! My next goal is to fly over the city of Los Angeles.

Secret messages in dreams. I am a believer.

Possession

I had been out riding my bicycle. It was one of those days that was vibrant and electric. It had just rained, and the grass was that other-worldly green, almost alien, or like something you'd see in a magazine that had been color-enhanced. The scenery looked too perfect to be real, with a low-hanging mist blanketing the green hills and the road and the houses, enveloping them and cradling them, hugging them tightly.

My mother was with my aunt in the back garden, drinking tea and eating cucumber sandwiches. She called out to me when she heard me come in, to come and join them. I called back that I would be right there, looking forward to tea, and hoping for miniature frosted cakes as well. There was a good chance there were some of these, since my aunt was here visiting.

I walked to the fireplace mantle, and took off my gloves, and noticed that the clock had stopped ticking, which struck me as odd. I had that feeling of stepping on glass; watching myself step on it and knowing the pain and the blood would be coming soon afterward, but having already put my foot down on it there was nothing I could do but observe the outcome.

I heard a melody in the background, coming from the house itself, from inside the walls, clunking out with the gas pipes and the heating vents. I was unable to move, and was aware that I hadn't taken a breath for quite some time.

I was lifted up into the air, as if by the scruff of my neck, and saw my cat watching in horror from the corner of the room. I heard things falling, but couldn't tell which direction they were coming from, or what they were. I was hoisted, smoothly yet jerking-ly, like a ride at an amusement park from one corner of the room to the other, my face pressed up inches from the walls to view old family photos with heightened awareness and clarity, albeit in a very confused state of mind.

I was shifted from object to object, my nose almost pressed against each one that came before me, and was aware that my feet were two or three feet above the ground, dangling from my legs with no will or direction of their own.

I was herky-jerked around the room for what seemed like several minutes before I was dropped without fanfare on my tailbone, knocking the wind out of me completely.

I heard my mother's voice calling for me from the garden, and I managed to stand up and stumble outside, stunned and speechless.

My mother and aunt were laughing, and engrossed in memories and conversation, and didn't notice my eroded state; maybe they thought I was winded from being outdoors all afternoon? My mother pulled a chair out for me, while talking to my aunt, and I sat down, not knowing what else to do or say.

Seeing that there were, indeed, little frosted cakes, I said nothing, but sat and ate, while my mother and my aunt laughed and talked as if I wasn't there at all.

Cardboard Boxes

Cardboard boxes contain my past. Searching for a misplaced will which ensures my possible future as a natural gas heiress.This has somehow been misplaced.

Instead I find brochures about how to care for your newborn infant from the 1960's, old birthday cards from various relatives and friends, some handmade, dried up acrylic paint in tubes, half-drawn sketches of nature scenes, a book of modeling nudes, family photos from the 1970's, an old roll of toilet paper stained with something, Victorian cut-outs from an old calendar, my grandmother's handwriting on notes written more than forty years ago, teacups and saucers (matching sets, but dozens of different patterns), a soup tureen shaped like a duck, with a mini-duck tureen son or daughter, framed photos from the 1940's, old report cards, catalog order forms, secret thoughts of my mother written in a green spiral notebook, and countless other objects and memorabilia, moments in time, pieces of a life, pieces of a family. Small nuances that make up a greater, elusive whole.

One photographs contains four people I once knew, all of whom are dead now. But the photo still exists, in a cardboard box in my garage.

Existential Void Haiku

Existential Void
rears its ugly head again,
longing, lusting, blank.