Healing Wounds

For being no man’s land, neither Faith nor Autumn had felt pain like the magnitude of the courtroom’s fiasco. Either this wasn’t any kind of shameful sentence at all, or the instinct to survive had taken precedence over sensations like pain and suffering. It’s true, that there had not been equal parts of running away and actually dealing with the half real, half virtual reality of heartstring aftermath.

“How you doin, Girl.” She’d asked, during their rest at enough distance to place the kingdom on a sun-setting horizon line.

I didn’t know. There was no whirl of police lights at every revolting domestic run-in; there were no fragile, mislead siblings chiming in with their two cents on who I must be and what I deserved. I don’t see any custody battles – hell, I haven’t run into any children, yet. Everyone must be thinking for themselves in these parts, or agreeing to something on the whole. Because here we are, getting lost in a world full of every personal, social and political issue punishable by death back on royal grounds, and all I can think is how phenomenally quiet it is, out here.

“You can sleep in the ocean with your beautiful secret for as long as it is darker, the deeper it gets.” Two-thousand and one, to quote a line from those late nights sitting up, typing cryptic clues to the disaster beneath my skin for any person to find. By that time, I’d started to open my mouth and swallow the whole thing up; I had learned to stay alive with it in my heart and my lungs.


If I am approached tonight, snarling and flailing of arms is likely.

Tonight’s a little different from the other days this week, because today – TODAY! – the sleeping drug of choice remained behind my bedroom curtain, on the window ledge. There was no reach around for “Skip-A-Day, the easy way!” and I got through an entire case of diet pop.


I have had the worst fucking dream. I feel like saying fuck a lot, right now. I just feel like fucking putting it in there, every fucking which way. It’s as though if I keep saying it enough, the audience will be screened of all those people who like to say, “People who use profanity just do so, because they don’t have anything intelligent to say. If they were really writers or artists, they’d be able to find a better word.”

I, I, I, I, I use so many I’s when I write; does anyone ever notice that? Hate that shit. I’m like a. Proverb whore. Aren’t those proverbs? Pro..nouns. Conjunctive adjectivory paraphrashables. HAHAHA. Remember the horrors of chalkboards and those sentence parts, being underlined and some bitch standing up in front of the class, asking you to raise your hand and point out the “prepositional phrase”? Absolutely hilarious. The who-a-whatshional what! “How bout’ I tell you to get fucked” as you spun the ruler you’d walked out of math class with, around on the end of the pencil.

No, that’s not what you’d say or do. But you felt that way, if you were me.

Prepositional phrase. If I had only chosen the path of the prepositional phrase, I wouldn’t be scared to death to type out what I feel is a justly predicate of this sentence. But let’s not rush into the self-hating habit yet; I was trying to talk about my dream.

I’m asleep but dreaming that I am sleeping through the same night of the same year. (which is already a cool night trick) Although my eyes are physically closed and also closed in the dream, it’s as though a copy of me is resting in spirit, looking out. It’s like in movies where there’s a dead body and then the person’s spirit steps out of itself, only I’m not dead. So I’m asleep and I’m looking at the ceiling at the same time, thanks to the art of the dream, I think — I think the brain was functioning as a security camera, maybe.

A smoky, black figure reaches down from hovering above me and –

Immediate pain,

Only it’s not choking me with arms. It has dropped down in some unexplainable way, choking me with dread….

Absolute dread, suffocating my heart,

It feels like everyone you loved has just been murdered, and that something hates you and wants to hurt you –
Then all of the dread stops. I started to wake up from the extremity of emotion, but was still too groggy to come out of it. Quite deep in sleep, it dropped down and


INSTANT PAIN, like being strangled with terror. I’m feeling horrible. I’m feeling so sad….

Then I woke up.

There was nothing above me. Still a little afraid…pretty shaken. I closed my eyes tight and went back to sleep.

Well, last night, I had a dream that someone annoying came over and tried to wake me from my nap. He kept shoving me. He kept pushing me, to wake up. I said something like, “I know you’re there but I can’t wake up, I swallowed half a bottle of Codine-

The words came so clear, I woke myself up because I’d said “bottle of Codine” out loud.

And for a moment, my body just ached like I’d been brutally shaken.

Addictive Behavior

“Sometimes peanuts take the whole trip.” –Threebrain

Oh, where is my update? Is it choked up somewhere between valid information and Bleeding Heart: Caught On Clipboard? How individual is the typical individual? What messages do you find hidden here, beyond my general purpose to provide paradox? More importantly, why did large numbers of white suburbans ever begin listening to ghetto music, really? In this passage, it will become clear that I can only be detrimental today. Hey, I think that might have qualified as a thesis sentence. What say you, academic onlookers? … Well. You wouldn’t know a creative thesis if it dished up fresh menstrual blood and proceeded to replicate Mona Lisa on your bedroom ceiling.

Gasp! My Compaq just rebooted on me, and this introduction came right back. So much for giving me another shot; it’ll take a miracle to steer this one anywhere but down. Once the mood has been set, it’s very hard not to throw in “while I’m at it”s. Why save face when you can go head-first into the saturated levels of barrel scum, you know? Oh yeah? Well I’m the scum at the bottom of the scum they scrape off of the scum on the scum of the scum on the- Come on! Don’t just stop there. Set a record or knock it off.

One of the most painful things about sundown is the last remaining moment of self-awareness during transformation. Earlier this week, my mother baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies for a special occasion and I went from “operating well in presence of dessert/going about life normally” to “lurking in the corners/waiting for Kitchen Woman to leave baked goods unattended.” A war against resistance and desire means you have the same odds no matter which Gemini face you bet on. But when my law does fall to one side, it’s with a sad, broken grasp from the other.

“GRAB! GRAB! GRAB IT NOW OR GRAB IT NEVER! FULL HANDS!” I remember thinking, after having crept out over floorboards toe-heel so as to avoid unnecessary creaking. In the blink of an eye, paper bag was unfolded and ziplock was open. “Shit, should I close this back up?” I tried, but the paper bag was noisy and threatened to alarm. “There’s no time.” Suddenly, flashes of wall, chairs and rooms blurred past and all I could make out was the path I’ve come to know so well… I could see my bedroom up ahead….and…

over the carpet divider! Bouncing and twirling on the floor mattress, cookie crumbs flinging around. It’s all true. And I know what you’re thinking, besides, “Dear God.” You’re thinking it must have been the semi-sweet chips that made everything a surge of euphoric celebration, but you only think that because I haven’t shown you enough of the reality. I haven’t yet gotten to my actual content, because it’s so much easier to play around serious things than to address them, directly. Can’t I just kind of…hint at what I’m really feeling and let this summoner’s dance speak for itself?

Sometimes, every once in a while, the Same Sun comes shining through my windows. The Same Sun that you go walking out under when you go do all those…things. The Same Sun that triggers deep breaths and appreciation for all those bright, blue skies out there.

Perhaps my greatest possession has been the faintest clue.

Mandi wrote a blurb about the drag racing strip over on Industrial (Flint, MI) and it was sweet.
Damn. I remember that.

Death By Chocolate

The allowance of speaker output might provide occasional skips if your eyes are dancing left to right, tonight. There are several different layers spurting several different kinds of crap, and I don’t advise anyone to proceed.

Even though it’s asking for illness, I occasionally pour whole milk over fine grains of chocolate powder and gulp it down with a shameful thirst. Standing in front of magnet-stuck grocery lists on a white fridge door, I’m doomed to play back images of some rodent that approaches electrically-charged cheese and retreats from the shock. Nausea hits moments after, competing with sweet tooth satisfaction as I switch from thoughts of chunk-cheddar to thoughts of my own hand a few feet over, pressing down on an active stove burner. Immediately drawing back in pain. Reaching out again, same burner, same day, same every-fucking-thing – the parallel question, “Just how magnified is this an example that I am not very good at taking care of myself?

“Maybe that’s why I’m still here at 22. 23? No,…yeah. 22…”Set the empty glass on the counter, a little too forcefully. Wipe mouth with hand. Consider that if you did indeed have a penis, this world could sit on it for all you momentarily cared, cause your tummy hurts. Consider also, that you slammed down a cup of milk like it had been straight vodka, in other words: you’re a dork.

You’re A Dork, Autumn May = A life in the tradition of Charlie Brown titles. You Blew It, Autumn May. Way Off, Autumn May. And so on.

I’m always there, reaching out over the stove, it seems. So familiar with it, it turns me inside out more than replayed shit-singles bullying radioplay. Disgust from every side, remembering those five digits set against the round, heated coil before feeling overwhelmed by inward anger or sleep. (The two don’t know each other, but share hatred for me.)

Then wait a while. Remind me of something good that I haven’t thought about for a long time. Slip on some ice; make me laugh. I’ll be back at the starting line, happy and excited about many little things. Eyeballing that plastic gallon, unscrewing the red cap in excitement. Sprawled out moments later, churning. Confused.

I don’t get me, sometimes. This bitch really throws me for a loop.

Selected highlight/a clue from childhood that I victimized myself: I’m in the car with my babysitter while Mom has left the vehicle to drop something off at grandma’s house. (Reward tidbit for making it this far into my freewrite: same grandma’s husband died yesterday. Sad Valentine’s Day to me; both grandpas are now gone.) I hear my babysitter turn to me and say, “Shh, let’s be quiet – your baby brother fell asleep!” Something horrible begins happening to me – I’m fighting an incredible urge before surrendering to a loud outburst. It was warning, silence, scream. I could not explain myself. I stare out the window, unable to look back at the babysitter. Wishing I could turn back the hands of time and save myself from that embarrassing moment.

The babysitter never said anything. It felt like: Please let us forget that I just screamed for no reason. Now the plastic coco container sits on top of a full garbage sack and I, once again, am unable to explain myself.

You’re Doomed, Autumn May.

My little brother’s cries of thinking he has heart attacks have turned out to be more than his mental condition. Christopher’s heart is inflamed, and I could kick myself in the ass for assuming he didn’t know what he was talking about. I would listen to him tell me he was having a heart attack, or that he had cancer or that he was dying and figure, “Christopher also thinks that his Hulk Hogan action figure once parted its lips and asked him how he was doing, and that aliens walk on the roof above his room at night.” The tests also came back showing his hip cup eroding, and Walking Pnemonia. The whole situation is its own instrument for this song. It’s part of my every thought.

While I’m on the subject of music. Grandma had decided to wait until later yesterday to give Grandpa his gift, but he had passed away at the kitchen table before she got to surprise him with the stuffed animal that dances when you push his button. So she showed me instead.

“He would have loved that. Isn’t that adorable? That was our song.”

Some kind of dog or mouse or fuzzy bear moved around to a short blurb of “For Me And My Gal”, a high-pitched cover to accompany the little stuffed animal’s character. He maneuvered to the battery-charged beat, partially surrounded in the plastic sack. An envelope read “Chester, February 14th 2004” and stuck out from the side in a sad, precious way.

“The bells are ringing for me and my gal!”…

Then my dad walked in from salting her driveway, and Grandma had to tell him, activating the dancing animal again. Soon after, the phone rang and she had to play it into the receiver. By now the bells had other plans for my mental undoing. The story was losing its touch much like a copy of a copy is worse than the original… Forgetting she had already told me, I heard her make her way down the hall to where I was, the plastic sack crinkling in her arms.

I inhaled deeply, but it turned out an unnecessary brace. My smile was genuine.

I am Jack’s snakeskin boots.

The first few blood-red drops drizzling down my legs made me second-guess the quality of the razor. In no time I’m sitting over pink water. Mirror. Sink. Walls, dripping red. I have nightmares of standing in the shower and watching the color run down the drain. Every now and then, I wake up and decide that my hair isn’t red. I look in the mirror, and it’s only gold. Strawberry-blonde, at best. So I mix ammonia chemicals together and massage it in with water and shampoo before letting the saturated mop sit through other routines. This causes the dye to run down the length of me, returning me to fetus pink before the final rinse.

Shave every inch on my body until I no longer have the human characteristic of peach fuzz. Every 3 months or so, I can’t stand not being as smooth as the aliens. Plastic mouth trays molded by boiled water hold the same acidic bleach formula that I use to make dirty shoes white again. My dentist says to be careful with store-bought teeth bleach, because it’s “strong enough to burn the enamel right off”. So now we’re oozing red toxins, covered in shaving cream and foaming at the mouth. Occasional long strings of saliva/bleach drool spilling from the mouth guards if I don’t hold my chin up.

There aren’t any candles burning and our tub accumulates the rusty orange seen in the soil of old western flicks. Sorry to disappoint the imagination. It ain’t no soap-petaled bath scenario. The only luxury I try to provide is my trusty, dented ghetto-blaster. Everyone knows I’m occupying the bathroom when they see a thick, white extension chord running under the door and down the middle of the walkway. Music blaring loud enough to be heard next door is another good clue.

I perform some of my best voice recitals there.

An attempt was made to write an update earlier but the process was haulted by my own disgust after horrifying truth revealed:

“I just swallowed an entire bottle of Beano because it had a funny name and double-dared me from the kitchen counter. Now I’m left with three basic thoughts: 1) just what the hell is Beano, anyway 2) I hope it doesn’t make me drowsy, and 3) haha! Beano.

And how she lived!

Body unable to type. Shutting down now. so sleepy. have to let go for a while. always deep.

*** New Friday the 13th insert! A rambling on “IT”.

Why should anyone grow up wondering when the pumpkins in their back yard will jump up and start busting ass to produce a magnificient coach? How long will a girl or boy look down at their tattered clothing, unphotoshopped, waiting for them to transform into something worthy of being seen? Worthy of being caught on film? Why do we think this way?

You can’t zoom in with super human eyes to add drama that isn’t already there. You don’t need to, if you’ve found yourself in time well spent. You don’t always adjust your eyes’ tracking with a strong, steady hand on your heart’s desire. This is the problem I have with cameramen who try too hard. Looking at the world through such a lens…just how much was recorded, and how much did we miss out on because they squinted that other eye?

What are you hiding underneath those fancy effects that weren’t there, before?

Do you suppose it’s possible, in a life behind the camera, to forget while you’re recording everything to enjoy again some other time…that it will only actually be happening, once? And just how many more things could have been happening while you were rewinding your favorite part over and over again?

How important is that, to you? To know that there are people out there who present it the way they want without any respect for how it honestly flashed across their heart? NO I’m not talking about truth versus perspective! NO I’m not talking about my side over here or that guy’s side, over there! Fuck all of the relative, dead-end debate. Fuck defining truth; I’m talking about ACTORS AND ACTRESSES. I’m talking about pretenders among us, lying against their know-better – lying to you and me, shitting on their own senses when offending them by deception!

The challenge has never been to tell it the way you want it to sound.

The hard part has never been to tell it like it is, because this world is overloaded with opinionated preachers and their certainties. We don’t need any more know-it-alls blocking the point.

The object isn’t to do it The Best, it’s to do it Your Best.

Give what you believe, a try.

I’m not sure if this says anything.

“Who’s Everybody?”

So I told her that we all used Cameron’s hot tub. Me, Bryce, Jake, Sarah… She asked if the Green Brothers’ parents ever used it, and I said I’d never been there when they had.

I was cautioned, “Make sure you don’t find yourself in there with their step-father if their mom isn’t out there. You don’t know a lot about married women. They get jealous.”

My head was kind of cocked while the advice processed. It echoed back the moment their step-dad answered the door with no one else home. My feet on their carpet suddenly seemed questionable but I went in and used their burner for an hour or so, anyway. Only difference was being aware of the little white line I’d stepped over in the hallway.

I didn’t think to look for them. Guess a lot of voyagers who get across can really fuck everything up others have going. People who have them painted or strung, can be absolutely paranoid, etc etc etc… Anyway. It gave me more to consider, and I can usually recognize that border. I think it’s kind of a funny thing, to be conscious about.

You know? Why is it my business, to do the worrying for someone else’s marriage in proportion to my little ol’ presence?

I am reminded of this whole concept after having heard from boomer generation/mother of central clique figure Justin, that Bryce‘s parents are getting divorced. Bryce is an only child raised in the “Manhill Mansions” and basically portrays everything contradictory to the ghetto scene he tries to claim. His wife beaters have tags on them that read Structure. Daddy buys him a bike and he dreams about being a hell’s angel, kinda deal.

So Bryce’s parents are splitting up! Wow. I should probably be thinking something deeper than “Man, I hated that bitch” but I’m not. Last year, I filled a vehicle full of lilacs and went around delivering light lavendar boquets – when I got to Bryce’s house, I walked right past the mother and handed them to her husband. On purpose.

I guess a lesson told is not always a lesson followed.

In which I work a flat keyboard until admitting that I can’t even explain myself.

As pin-pointless as I prefer my written passages to be, I can’t read prissy opinions on current events and sit on my hands for very long before feeling forced to address these times. But do I feel the need to share thoughts on the democrat’s division, soldier’s deaths or local weather forecast? No; if there was a way to go online and network without being bombarded by Hollywood entertainment headlines, the brain could be spared 50-100% of the idiocy it registers daily. My latest headaches, therefore, are the aftermath bitchfests for Miss Rhythm Nation’s naked boobie. Americans are so jacked up over this; their non-stop disgust has encouraged that 50-year old balloon of flesh to begin its invasion on my life. The early morning’s generic star-frosted cereal suddenly resembles milky nipple piercings, thanks to a corrective essay-spurting public disguised as shaken innocents.

Innocents, my ass. Half of you conservatives are going to willingly let a magnified scan load in your browser. And then you’re going to sit there and have a good, long stare.

Most of us have not one, but two eyes that are both easily averted. There was nothing profoundly powerful or life threatening about Janet Jackson’s hooter. The only thing absurd was your overblown decision to get miserable and encourage others to react negatively. So if you’re going to write up your latest prediction on the end of civil living, throwing out sources from the definition of crime, you’d better include your sorry asses in the works cited section. Cause I’d be over this by now and been spared annoying backlash, had you wiped your fucking tears and moved on.

Ticketmaster just sent me an e-mail command: Don’t miss Sara McLaughlin!

**steadying grip on imaginative magnum** “I don’t intend to.”

See how swift and relieving, that was? I’m already over it. Did I take it to the Boston Globe and cross-post in every column? No. And instead of getting angry, I enjoyed myself. Cause in my head, when that sappy bitch’s brains blew out in the middle of the street, her blood splattered across several passers-by who’d bought her album and automatically blacklisted anything with a parental advisory label on it.

Remember, kids. Artist regardless. No matter how acceptable you claim an album is, someone out there thinks it sounds like shit.

We spend so much time blaming celebrities for our demise that even Britney Spears recently noticed the reaction to her marriage/split and said, “Do you realize we landed on Mars that same day? Why aren’t we talking about that?”

Another thing that burns me, literally but thrillingly, is a fresh alka seltzer tab. I’ve gotten into the habit of treating them like candy cough drops, keeping them handy and occasionally amusing myself by pressing it to my bottom lip and the tip of my tongue. In fact, this entry was stalled several times in mid-sentence so I could make out with antacid medicine and stare off at my heart’s current desire: the new 200 disc holder, full and unzipped on my bed.

I’m happy, even if the best part is over. I wasn’t going to know until I had every album I wanted, what that felt like. The persona was embarrassing, though. I’d pretend like I hadn’t even browsed their inventory aside from their want lists, and stood with my forehead against their storefront windows, grinning at the keeper who approached. Holding up a handful of titles they’d been looking for, my sickeningly cute, animated avatar insisted that I was on a quest to help them become closer to fulfillment. We’re talking “okie”s, “howdy”, “LMK!”, “thankies”…had I been slinking any lower, I wouldn’t have been sending my ends out. A feedback list toppling with “she is a total sweetheart” when all I was thinking inside… “Open. Your. Door. Let. Me. In.”

“How thoughtful. Would you mind having a look at my list and seeing if there’s anything you’d like in return?” First person to know what another one wants, has a big advantage. That’s just a generalized fact, and the kind of fucked-up belief I’ve been notorious for abusing.

Strangers hold knowledge of mine and don’t know to think much about it. People who get to know me more and more, eventually start to lose information. My life is full of people who started on opposite ends and never made it all the way across, cause of me. But the fact that I have split myself in two when it comes to give and get is neither here nor there. I’m not a mob boss with a husband and a hustler, so it doesn’t much matter, anyway. You can’t be sick if you aren’t infecting.

Or some shit like that. Maybe a better analogy. I’m typing too fast now to actually stop and end that last paragraph with a nice bullshitter that smoothes over casual insertion of my deepest concerns. Might need a backspace there. Actually. Dropping hints is so passé, and contributes to an even bigger fear… that of running out of secrets and feeling utterly conquered. Where’s Janet’s right breast when you need to be air-lifted from a sticky freewrite?

I always prided myself on the alternative of a jammed machine. That way, while everyone else is victim to the rotations and process, I’m able to get up close and figure out what we’ve got. Something troubling me? I’ve jumped right into the groove of a gear to hide, and I owed it all to the wooden pillars strategically wedged…until recently.

It seems I had the wrong idea, diary. While things looked to be preventable, they were still changing. You want to know the truth? Your cogwheels have sharpened edges, and what you thought was just my body settling at night has really been the sound of metal making its way through dogma.

You’re teething. I’m nauseous.
I’m teething. You’re nauseous.

I’m sorry.