Rancho Tarzanadu: "Godforsaken!"

    Typically, all four dogs at Rancho Tarzanadu would roam about the backyard freely, but on this rare front-of-the-house- expedition, one of Miss Linda’s housemates, Gracon (the film editor Miss Linda regularly calls Garcon) was walking one of the German Dog Trainer’s dogs in front of the house while she was at work, due to the house-painter (the mysteriously wise and kindly Mr. On) working in the backyard.

     One of Miss Linda’s neighbors, Mrs. Dwight (the Republican) came barreling toward Gracon, who held up one hand and shouted, “Don’t approach me!” as the extraordinarily handsome dog barked his freaking head off while the determined Mrs. Dwight continued to storm full speed ahead.

     “What is wrong with you?” Gracon shouted.

     “Can you puh-lease not have your dog pee in my yard?” Mrs. Dwight insisted. “It stains my grass!” This was literally the first time Mrs. Dwight had ever said one word to anyone at Rancho Tarzanadu since they had all moved in…several years ago! (The Dwights, by the way, watered their grass every single day in the middle of a Los Angeles drought; they felt the water-restrictions did not apply to them, as they applied to everyone else, because they were somehow elevated in status in their own minds.)

     “Okay, okay!” Gracon exclaimed, backing away from her and turning to high-tail it back to safe ground; he was not fond of ranting pear-shaped women with helmet-hairdos on a good day.

     “Oh, and another thing – that color is Godforsaken!” Mrs. Dwight retorted, referring to Miss Linda’s house.

     “Super!” Gracon yelled (he had never used that word before in his life, but Mrs. Dwight inspired it). “Take it up with Miss Linda!”

     Now we all know that Mrs. Dwight didn’t want to take anything up with Miss Linda, so she walked briskly away in a huff.

     Garcon told Miss Linda about the exchange soon afterward, and Miss Linda was furious at first, at the gall, at the nerve, at the pettiness, at the Busy-body-ness, at the rudeness of proclaiming the color of Rancho Tarzanadu Godforsaken! How dare she!

     Miss Linda had dreamed of painting her house this color combo for years, and at just the right time, Mr. On showed up out of the blue and offered her a price she couldn’t refuse. He set to work immediately, painting the body of the house “Mid-century Gem” (aquamarine green), the majority of the trim white, and the piece-de-resistance: the shutters “Sangria” (which, let’s face it – is magenta). People had strong reactions, one way or another, except for the German Dog Trainer, Astrid, who didn’t react at all, which made Miss Linda think that she may be hiding something.

     Most of the residents at Rancho Tarzanadu liked it, with compliments like, “It’s really bright! I can easily find my way home now!” and “It reminds me of Miami…gaudy like that!” and “It looks like a giant birthday cake!” and the Amazon delivery man said, “Cool house! It looks very 1970s!”. Miss Linda soon realized that Mrs. Dwight’s bland taste was all in her mouth, and set about plans for a drought-resistant blooming garden consisting of bright pink, red, and purple flowers bursting from all the window-boxes and the front yard. She carefully placed a sign that read “For Wonder” as a centerpiece, that one of her friends had brought back from Burning Man.

     Mrs. Dwight responded in kind, and placed not one, but two signs in her yard (she had her maid construct them); one read: “Dwight Lives Matter!” and the other, “Dwight Power!” (with a sketched upraised fist). The surrounding neighbors gradually became much more skeptical of the Dwights’ signs than Miss Linda’s wonder-inspiring one, and people also took note that the Dwight’s were always complaining…about everything!

     Miss Linda longed to plant high hedges between their houses, to block out their negative energy, but that would be expensive, and she had just shelled-out for painting the house. Manuel was the one who suggested (the only words he had spoken since returning from Guantanamo Bay: “Add more color.”

     Miss Linda contemplated this…more color?

     She decided to add a Malibu light collection, in varying shades of purple, red, and green, and also added some Christmas lights that would never come down; Garcon did the stringing and setting up.

     Soon afterward, Miss Linda awoke one rainy Sunday morning to the Dwight’s gardeners feverishly planting fairly large hedge-trees in a tight row that would soon block all view and any unwanted eye contact or communication from either party. Miss Linda sighed with relief, and gave the hard-working gardeners a thumbs-up from her alcove window.

     Manuel silently calculated with pencil and paper the cost of the tree-shrubs, and Miss Linda’s relative savings in choosing such vibrant paint colors: thousands of dollars!

     Mr. On walked by them as they sipped coffee in the garden and said, “You know…at first I wasn’t sure about these colors, but you have a good eye for color, Miss Linda! It blends in with all the nature.” He swooped his hand around the beautiful, freshly-painted paradise of Rancho Tarzanadu, and said with wonder, “It is a beautiful place, here…so secluded and peaceful.”

     Miss Linda thanked him, and also agreed that it blended well with “all the nature”, especially with the magenta Bougainvillea…and what was “Godforsaken” about that? And now, with the energy shield of the free hedge-trees, it would be even more beautiful, peaceful and private, with the Dwights’ negativity enveloped by the force of Nature.

"Godforsaken" (or "The Busybody's Lament"); Red Felt Heart Song Lyrics

Don’t approach me, Karen;

your energy is wearing!

Your beige and grays are barren;

what is wrong with you, Karen?

 

Do my colors bother you, Karen?

All my greens and sparkly blues — like a Harem!

All my pink-magenta hues — blaring!

Do my colors bother you, Karen?

 

Your house is brown and beige and gray, resembling doggie poo;

and it contains an even beige-er person — you!

Your taste is bland and limp and dry, like that of a rotting root;

and if you charge at me again, you’ll get my boot!

 

I’m casting spells...

Godforsaken spells;

they’re heading at you, now...

you better watch the f*ck out!

 

I’m casting spells...

Godforsaken spells;

my glaring colors shining bright,

throughout the pitch-black dead of night.

 

Don’t approach me, Karen;

your energy is wearing!

Your beige and grays are barren;

what is wrong with you, Karen?

 

Do my colors bother you, Karen?

All my greens and sparkly blues — like a Harem!

All my pink-magenta hues — blaring!

Do my colors bother you, Karen?

 

Your house is brown and beige and gray, resembling doggie poo;

and it contains an even beige-er person — you!

Your taste is bland and limp and dry, like that of a rotting root;

and if you charge at me again, you’ll get my boot!

 

I’m casting spells...

Godforsaken spells;

sidewinding toward you, now —

fluorescent-green snakes with pink eyes.

 

I’m casting spells...

Godforsaken spells;

so scurry back to your gray house,

you little busybody mouse!

Esme Hadn't Been Outdoors in a Long Time

     Esme hadn’t been outdoors in a long time; she had been trapped inside her own head, cooped-up in her designer-bohemian garret, eating from silver serving trays and having afternoon tea at precisely 4:00 PM every day for what seemed an eternity.

     She was so bored!

     She ventured out one day due to unmitigated boredom, and randomly picked up the gleaming gardening shears abandoned on the grass (the gardener was taking an afternoon nap).

     She noticed that a section of topiary was not completely aligned and immediately began chopping and shaping.

     She worked all afternoon, into the twilight hours, and dismissed the confused but grateful gardener for the remainder of the season (with pay).

     She had finally discovered her true calling, after decades of ennui.

     She became fixated and laser-focused in her work (some might say obsessed) — no one in her sphere understood, but that was nothing new.

     She held the entire shape of the world in her fingertips, in the sharpness of her blade, which spread out enticingly before her; green, verdant, and endless.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Dollhouse"

     Miss Linda was informed today that Manual was finally being sent home from Guantanamo Bay. She felt overjoyed, and also overwhelmed…he had been gone for so long, and been through so much, she felt certain that he must be a completely different person. When she was notified of his arrival, it was also revealed that he was now a “little person”. She inquired: “What do you mean…’little person’?”

     It appeared that Manual (along with several of his guards and their commanding officers) had somehow been transformed into a doll, also – even smaller than Miss Linda herself. She was curious to find out how this had come about, but she didn’t want to overwhelm him with questions immediately (like she normally would have). She set about getting her old Victorian Dollhouse out of the garage, and with the help of her gardener she had it placed in a safe-ish place in the backyard after the spiderwebs were blown out with the leaf-blower, situated next to the pool, overlooking the golf course. She imagined that Manual would want his privacy in order to…recover.

     Miss Linda took a step back and examined the state of her Dollhouse; it needed many repairs but it would have to do temporarily, as she wasn’t expecting anyone physically living inside of it. It needed a new roof, and new bannisters, and definitely a paint job, but at least it would house Manual safe-ishly, and might actually look pretty good after residing at Guantanamo Bay for so long.

     Fortunately the blistering heatwave inspired by Hurricane Kay was subsiding, and the end of Summer was approaching. As much as she loved Rancho Tarzanadu, she was growing more concerned about the effects of climate change on her beautiful California state. She was worn down from the constant fires, and the insistent news updates, and other people’s opinions and expectations and wants and desires, and her own opinions and expectations and wants and desires. Life seemed to be a spinning Ferris Wheel of perpetual details and minutiae, and up-keep, and feeding times, and cat-poop-scooping, and raised temperatures, and emails that needed responding to, and advertisements, and products, and deliveries, and bills to be paid, and Politicians, and Dentist appointments, and recycling that wasn’t really recycling but just gave the impression of recycling, and water restrictions, and fines, and looming drought, and energy-control, and black and white, and red and blue, and deadlines, and paperwork, and corruption, and criminals, and judges and juries, and jury duty, truth and lies, money, money, money, and on and on and on.

     Miss Linda attempted to relax in the pool the way her therapist advised her, floating on a raft while listening to guided meditations on her AirPods, but her mind was continually racing from one thing to another which she blamed on her consumer-driven-instant-gratification culture. She made a note to herself to look into Psilocybin Mushroom Therapy as she drifted off to sleep on her gently bouncing raft, and dreamed. When she woke up, she scribbled in her Dream Journal:

     I dreamed that I was in a small rowboat with myself (my “higher self”?).

     I was telling myself that the only way back to dry land was by making art (we were in the middle of the ocean).

     We were working on little miniature paintings that were detailed and pretty, and myself told me to keep at it, and it would lead me where I needed to be.

     I didn’t quite understand, but it also made perfect sense to me.

     When I realized it made sense, I woke up.

     Miss Linda stared in the direction of the swollen setting sun, and watched it drop down behind the hills; it was exhausted too.

Buried Alive

You asked me:

“How can you live like this?”

 

with piles upon piles

of stuff

 

that I have to step over,

trip over,

 

climb over,

growing exponentially:

 

The Blob,

expanding and mutating of its own accord.

 

I responded:

“I don’t have time.”

 

which is a lie,

because time is all I’ve got.

 

The truth

is:

 

the piles contain my heart,

swollen, bruised and buried;

 

broken

for years;

 

useless,

unreachable.

 

The excavation,

the landslide would bring me down.

 

So I avoid, pretend,

and step over;

 

if I don’t unearth it

I can imagine

 

it’s not so bad –

my broken heart

 

is just a heart,

beneath…down deep;

 

not so bad.

Not so bad.

 

If you try to find me

I disappear,

 

slip under,

out of sight,

 

like I never existed

in the first place;

 

nothing to find,

nothing to fix,

 

nothing to love,

nothing lost.

 

Just piles

upon piles;

 

a richness,

a bounty.

 

Remains

of a life

 

I once lived,

that now lives me.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Witch Academy?"

     After graduating, Miss Linda floated in the pool exactly one time – there was so much going on in the world that there didn’t seem like enough time to float in the pool. Her online meditation instructor would say that that was the exact reason why she should be floating in the pool with ear buds in, listening to Chakra-healing meditations and micro-dosing psychedelic mushrooms.

     She thought about what her “Nation and Empire, Law and Government”  Professor had asked her at graduation: “What are you going to do now?”

     She had recently been unpacking the last of her mother’s things, brought home from her 94-year-old boyfriend’s house; very personal items like journals and small paintings and notes, leaving Miss Linda’s heart swollen like a gigantic purple cabbage, effectively temporarily immobilizing her. She wandered through the house like a ghost herself, feeling melancholy more often than not, and caught herself sighing loudly. She didn’t want to drive off the tenants who survived the Pandemic with her – the Mime (hardly anyone noticed he was still there), the German Dog-Trainer (whose pack of dogs made up for the Mime’s muteness), and the computer-graphics editor (no one really knew what he did for certain), so she knew she needed to snap out of her ennui. She incorporated deep breathing techniques, creative expression, and more exercise as remedies.

     The Pandemic had scattered people far and wide, blown them across the states and the world as if transported by a raging tornado, and the emotional gaps and chasms left in its wake felt ocean-sized sometimes; she was also searching for a remedy for that, and wished she could conjure a potion of “Emotional-Gaps-and-Chasms-Elixir”.

     Her diagnosis of Stargardt Eye Disease left her with a monthly government stipend, and miraculously free health care (something everyone should have). She actually had time now to change the world for the better – although she had gotten a pesky call from the government that morning (she let it go to voicemail), reminding her that they could still find work for her, no matter her disability, which made her feel immediately nauseous, envisioning herself working inside a sooty factory, or a coal-mine, or breaking rocks apart with a sledgehammer while wearing iron ankle shackles, getting paid with a small pouch of coins and some cold porridge.  

     There had to be a better way!

     She had been writing protest songs on the piano, and was learning how to record them, although it was a slow process considering not only her eyesight issue, but the fact that she was still a doll (which she had actually gotten used to by now).

     She had also been writing tragic Sylvia Plath-inspired poetry, and working on a magical-realism novel, but she doubted that the Government would view either of those pursuits as “valid” work.

     The world was spiraling voraciously around her, eating up women’s rights, gnawing on them and spitting them back out, while “religious” zealots ruled the Supreme Court, and a criminal ex-President was throwing plates of Ketchup at walls, smashing dishes, and attempting to strangle Secret Service agents, while truck-loads of people were dying from heat-stroke trying to cross the border, the war in Ukraine roared on, the pandemic continued, the lunatic white nationalists stocked up on even more guns, and the emotional gaps and chasms were far and wide, all around, even between people living in the same cities. On top of all of that, the government was now hinting that they wanted her to work in a coal-mine in spite of her disability and get paid in cold porridge?

     Miss Linda had to say, “No thank you…I’d rather remain a State-sponsored Artist.”

     Although she had to admit that even though writing protest songs and tragic poetry felt really good and filled some of the emotional gaps and chasms, she wondered if she should be doing something more – like fighting in the Resistance or volunteering for the Progressive “agenda”. One of her friends (the Psychic Cloud-Reader) had decided to open her home to wayward girls and women whose bodies were so tightly regulated by their states that they had to seek refuge in California for certain matters.

     The Supreme Court had just ruled that private religious schools could get funding by the State, so now might be the perfect time to open a Witch Academy; she might get even more funding because of her impaired vision…maybe she could get a grant for a non-profit organization? Maybe that Master’s degree in Humanities would come in handy after all?

     Miss Linda wondered if the State funds for religious schools only went towards certain religions, or to only one religion?  

     Because “Freedom of Religion” sounded like it would apply to all religions, but she also knew that not everything is always what it appears to be, and that words can be twisted to confuse the average citizen – hence the need for a good lawyer at certain times.

     Something to meditate on…maybe while floating in the pool with a Bloody Mary, while there was still enough water in the City of Angels to keep it filled.  

Rancho Tarzanadu: "With Distinction"

     Miss Linda graduated “with distinction” from her Humanities MA program, and noticed that it irritated some people around her in mysterious ways. She did her best not to brag about it too much, but she was honestly really proud of herself for accomplishing it, especially considering her rocky academic past, when she was running around Los Angeles ditching High School, smoking pot, having sex, and singing in Motley Crue cover bands. To be honest, she felt it was worth it to postpone her academic career, considering the life experience she gained while not in school. But some people don’t necessarily like it when other people do things in a manner they are not “supposed” to do them in.

     Some of Miss Linda’s friends and family had snarky comments about her educational goals later in life, like: “What do ya wanna do that for?!” and: “What’s the point?!” One friend literally said: “School? You’re too old for school!” (and that was when she was still in Community College!). Some family members ignored her graduation completely, as if it was non-existent. Some thought it was the “Devil’s Work” and that she was being indoctrinated into the Elite Intellectual Globalist Cabal attempting to create the New World Order. Some said “Congratulations” through gritted teeth, as if saying the words made them feel sick to their stomachs.

     Of course, many more supported her endeavors than not, but she found the silent and begrudging ones especially interesting, and liked to dissect their motives and emotional states late into the night when the world was still and silent; she thought she might be able to use them as characters for something later on. So many characters. She also wondered if they thought she wouldn’t notice their pronounced silence or snarkiness? (Miss Linda noticed everything; hence her high GPA.)

     She was also baffled by the fact that not one of her professors (all of whom possessed PhDs) had noticed that she was a doll throughout the entire program! These were people who were supposed to be smart! She realized that she probably got away without being noticed because the classes were done on Zoom, but even when the cohort met in person for their convocation, no one mentioned it. Maybe they were trying to be more “inclusive”? She herself was surprised at how short one of her classmates was in person, when she had expected this person to be much taller, and was impressed with the height of one her professors, as she had expected him to be much shorter (he was also handsome and charming…and married). But to not notice she was a doll…that was stretching things a little far.

     But maybe they were just doing the same thing some of her friends and family had done regarding her graduation – not mentioning it because it made them feel…uncomfortable? Sick to their stomachs? Angry? Resentful? Dismissive? Maybe they were shocked that a doll could actually earn a Master’s Degree (even though it was “only at a State college, and not even the best of State colleges” as her faux step-sister reminded her, sneering). Her professors may have thought, “If a doll with a hereditary eye disease can get an overall 4.0 and graduate “with distinction”, how valid is this degree, anyway? How valid are any of my degrees?”

     Everyone kept asking her: “What are you going to do now?” She told her tall, handsome professor that she was going to get stoned and float in the pool all day, like in The Graduate, but he didn’t like that answer, and kept pressing her. She told him she was going “to write poetry, record songs, and make art” (after all, that’s why she got this degree in the first place – to “validate” her artistic pursuits), but he seemed a little on the skeptical side about that answer too, even though she was dead serious.

     “What are you going to do now?”

     “What are you going to do now?”

     “What are you going to do now?”

     She knew that everyone wanted to hear something practical, but how practical did they expect her to be, getting a Master’s Degree in Humanities in the first place?

     One of her professors spoke at her Hooding ceremony, and said that this was probably the only Master’s program that left students with more questions after graduating than any other program (except maybe for philosophy). Miss Linda certainly had lots of questions, and wondered about all kinds of things: the different ways humans interact, the way they can support each other or tear each other down, the way love can be given generously or withheld for various reasons, the way money rules the world, and the idea that getting an education for the sake of expanding oneself can be viewed as a complete waste of time by some, the way some people stumble through life never contemplating anything, while taking comfort in their smug “superior” position, only seeing things through their own myopic lens, and judging others harshly for doing things “differently” without ever walking in their shoes.

     Miss Linda knew what she was going to do right now: decorate a frame to hold her freshly-delivered diploma; probably something in pink and green, adorned with flowers, glitter, and bluebirds (the echoes of her faux step-sister hissing “Princess!” fading into the ether). Then she was going to smoke a big fattie, and smell the actual roses on this glorious June day, which was mild with cool breezes and little puffy clouds in the blue-blue sky. She was going to enjoy the fruits of her labor, and pursue her creative endeavors, even though to some, she would always be “just a doll”.

     Doll or not, Miss Linda knew who she was.

     She wondered if some others knew who they were?

Queen of the Mundane

 

You

crave control like an addict.

 

You

know-it-all-nothing.

 

You:

Ego fragile as tissue paper.

 

I see you

(even with my blind eyes).

 

I see right through you;

my Third Eye developed over time.

 

I stared at people as a baby; I read their minds...

they all ran away screaming.

 

I only smiled for my mother

(which secretly pleased her).

 

Now I bite my own tongue –

otherwise all Hell would break loose;

 

black bats and ravens

would darken the sky.

 

Sometimes

I even scare me, myself, and I.

 

Witch.

 

You

wouldn’t know what hit you.

 

You

wouldn’t even see it coming

 

until it was too late;

my words would eviscerate –

 

it’s in everyone’s best interest

that I bite down (hard) on my tongue,

 

feed on my own blood

(loose lips sink ships);

 

remain, not only blind,

but mute as well.

 

You

think you know me.

 

You

haven’t a clue.

 

You – fixated

on controlling the mundane.

 

Bitch,

it’s better for both of us

that way.