Miss Magic Part II

The air smelled different. Even the clouds seemed to roll in differently. She thought to herself, what the heck am I doing here? Perhaps I have ventured out too far from the nest. She imagined slowly turning back, getting back onto the plane, and back to her childhood room. She imagined lying her head upon her mother’s chest as she cried, but then the thought repulsed her. She realized there was absolutely nothing for her there. No opportunities worth fighting for. It was a depressing, but at the same time, uplifting fact.

She wasn’t like the others. Her eyes always paid attention to her surroundings. So internally exciting by all the activity, all the faces, all the lights, and all the accents. Sometimes she would go home and practice accents, attempting to pull them off in public, and realizing someone either fell for it or might have thought she needed a 5150 (mental institution). Either way, it slowly didn’t bother her what people thought. Most of the time her brain was honestly so intrigued by the behaviors of other people, she felt like an outsider, with a non-narcissistic personality disorder unlike the rest of society. She thought to herself often I sometimes wish I had a cabin, could eat beans and rice, and be left alone to write. But it seemed like the world swarmed around her, even when she barely came out into the light, either intrigued or misunderstanding her.

Settling into seeing palm trees rather than pine trees was quite the experience for her as well. Still is. But she managed to find the redwoods, which made her feel like she was Alice Wonderland as she walked through them. She always had a way of finding a balance. To her, if something made her sad, there was something else to counteract it. Always an answer with enough research and persistence.

She spent most of her undergraduate working heavily as a server, staying up late with homework, and a pot of coffee. Lack of sleep induced psychosis happened eventually and she was forced to put the books down. She often thought, I wish there were forty eight hours in a day. Can the earth’s rotation change right now, please? It always felt like there were not enough hours in a day and coffee.

At times, even in the big city, it felt lonely. She wondered if Neil Gaiman ever felt this way? Margaret Atwood, perhaps? I think so. She’d convince herself to keep researching and writing. Keep finding inspiration as well and trying to give it back in appreciation.

The struggle was real. Like when a farmer asks you if you’d like a chicken, walks over, and cuts it’s head off, real. With no family support system nearby, working as a server, and trying to compete with those who might have had a bit more support, she felt sort of silenced at times. Money equals powers but let’s be honest, some people shouldn’t have money because they are honestly irresponsible with it. She often thought, they’re so dumb, they couldn’t even hire a decent financial adviser?  Then internally laugh, trying not to look externally crazy having deep thoughts like this at the laundromat. Until one day another quirky, eccentric, character like herself walked in to the laundromat. It was as if it was going to take a couple more run intos on Sunday evening (the weirdo avoiding time) for them to talk. But finally, she spoke:

“Uh. You dropped your underwear. Sorry I noticed.”

She looks down embarrassingly. “No. Uh. Thanks for noticing. It would have been more embarrassing if anyone else came in here.”

“No problem, girl.”

“My name’s Olivia. What’s yours?”

“Jackie. They call me jackles the crazy but I just act crazy. Please don’t tell them.” And she laughs hysterically.

It was at this point in time, Olivia knew it was like all the forces in the universe, like all the particles in the air, conjoined to form a planetary like friendship bond no other binomial nomenclature could possibly come close to. But then again, anything is possible. Olivia never rules out anything in life.

 

 

 

Wishing Well

 

Standing around the wishing well
Wishing well…
Hoping that no one can tell
I have been here for a while
With a sad smile
Climbing all the paths alone
And I don’t remember when was the last time
I sang myself a lullaby
and it made me fall asleep
All I do is weep
for all the sad souls in the world…
misunderstood like me.

So I’m just standing around the wishing well
Hoping that no one can tell
I have been here for a while
So I can remember the smell of the pines
All the good times I created and left behind
at the wishing well….

And so it feels I tread all this internally alone…
Frozen feet to the bone…
Like a martyr, always standing alone…
Like a soldier, broken down and left alone…

So I’ll be at the wishing well…
Hoping someday someone can tell
I have been here for a while…
So I can remember how it feels to be alive…
So I can dream
Then toss a coin
So I can bleed
Then toss a coin
So I can seek….
And be my own.

Michael Moore’s Misplaced Fear & the Inauguration March

He’s been around for years now. Always there to cover the latest crisis, always having an opinion full of passion, but is that always a good thing? He is quite the storyteller and pubic speaker, but is that all that matters? It shouldn’t be.

Michael Moore swoops in when fear is high in the public sphere, when people are impressionable, and points the finger at what he believes is the culprit of whatever crisis is happening. Some claim he offers great insight and analysis, but the more I observe this man, the more I see he is fueled by emotions and not logic. To truly be analytical, one must actually be able to think logically and without so much “passion” or emotion.

Those who watch him, becoming convinced of everything he says, need to ask themselves why he has this power over them. Those who follow him, think of him as a great filmmaker, writer, activist, and everything which should embody a journalist. However, he seems to only truly let’s say “activate” when a crisis is underway in the liberal or independent parties. Which has been, for quite some time now, the majority, and technically still is since Trump did win by electoral votes. But rural areas participated more this time in the polls, swinging the tide in the other direction. And what people like Michael Moore do not really dig into, is gaining an insightful analysis of why this happened. He fails to take into account the rural perspective. His influence is fueling the misinformed into a deeper pattern of misunderstandings between rural and urban citizens. It is not just a disconnection between the media and independent journalism. It goes beyond his intellect, research, experiences, and capabilities to comprehend. Take, for instance this quote below and how he offers no further insights beyond it.

Moore said, “the reason it works — to get people to hate the press that is standing there is because the press has not done the job the people expect it to do.” Although his statement is true, he seems to ignore other factors which contributed to the Donald Trump victory. This truly shows how focused he is upon finding a single root cause in order to make sense to the masses who supported Bernie, Hillary, or didn’t vote at all. He goes on to urge those to join a March on the day of the Inauguration for “women’s rights.” This will provoke all those who relate to a socialist, communist, liberal influenced agenda to feel as if they are fighting for a cause.  When in fact, they are fighting against their own people, preaching forgiveness, unity, and equal rights on streets where we have western culture already accepted.

The real threat to women’s rights lies in Europe, where some women now wear chastity belts just to take a run. And women are not just the victims, either. Men and little boys are also abused by those who believe in ideologies that do not recognize equal rights, carrying on a culture that has brought upon war and destruction for years. If twenty percent of migrants are women and children, then why must western civilizations accept men who carry an agenda unlike western civilizations? Why accept those who chose not to assimilate, provide for their children, and become productive citizens? It only hurts the working class, poor, disabled, children, mentally ill, and those who actually need a helping hand and are willing to accept western culture as a part of American/European culture.

Those who attend the march on the day of President Donald Trump’s inauguration, I want you to ask yourself why you are there? I want you to ask yourself why you shouldn’t be doing more research on what is happening to Western culture in Europe? I want you to ask yourself why you are fighting your own elected president, rather than supporting his efforts for peaceful discussions in international affairs, nationalism, economic growth, and occupational growth? Would you really like World War III instead in a day and age where we cannot even provide for our own citizens and Veterans? It is time to implement the ideologies we say Western culture and America actually stands for. There are no boarders without walls or some surveillance in the world. There is no western influenced country that does not have laws and consequences. There is no western influenced country that has not had to fight against ideologies which threaten the rights of women and children. There will always be a battle but unity will only happen of common ground can be found among st those countries with the most logic, reason, and civilized of behaviors.

Let our country not fall on false liberal “leaders” and good speakers like Michael Moore, who threaten the very strength of our country with fear of its own citizens. Fear that those who voted for Donald Trump are perhaps racist, homophobic, misogynistic, and/or misinformed citizens. Fear is distracting, unproductive, useless, depressing, and is a great source of fuel for those who threaten democracy. What is done is done. The voting process spoke and we must rebuild our country, unified, and willing to be open minded when it comes to international affairs. Our production in our own country has decreased tremendously, the Middle class has become the lower middle class, and our out of date policies no longer work with the current situation and market. We have had some of the most brilliant minds on this country appointed by Donald Trump. Let them lead, rather than follow. Listen, rather than speak. Trust, rather than doubt. Don’t let fear of the wrong things dictate this country.

 

 

The Dimensions

The curtains are stained with orange juice from the year before. The kids decided to have it in the bed one night, and well you know what happened. A fight broke out and she spent an hour cleaning it up as usual.

She wakes up and finds it strange  no one seems to be around. No yelling. She sighs with relief.

They always hang around the yard, talking about the latest football game.  She pretends she cares but she’d rather be left to do her own things. She barely even has free time to have it spent in such a boring manner, yet no one seems to ask her what she would rather be doing. But one day, she decided it was all about her from now on. Has since left the family circle, and formed her own filled with dreams.

A voice yells out to her. She runs thinking something has happened. It’s her son, wanting her to play basketball.

“Oh, John just grab one of the neighbor boys! I’m in my heels, I can’t do that right now!”

“Okay, mom.” He sighs and carries on alone.

Sure enough, five minutes pass and she hears a shriek of a child. She runs hysterically, finding John lying in front of a car. The ball across the street as if it perfectly landed there right in front of a long sidewalk. But her focus was not on the house across the street, but rather John. His limp body once full of the grace of an angel has the devils steal his light she thinks. All because I couldn’t just watch him. Tears roll down her cheeks, but as she looks up to ask God why he took her baby boy, her heart begins to race.

A house, not any normal house lies across the street. One she has never seen before. The ironwork magnificent, protective, yet graceful. A lion’s head creates the steeple and his tail wraps around the cone shaped roof as if it is protecting the house.

She realizes something is watching her threw the window. Large iron doors that look as if they cannot be opened await. She wonders if she pulls on them, if they will even open. She looks down, and John is no longer there. She thinks maybe someone poisoned her, or perhaps her medication is making her hallucinate. Panic overtakes her body.The sweat pouring out of her anxious body causes her to feel sick. Her home is no longer there either now. The only house left is the iron house.

Desperation is kicking in. No car has been in sight. She starts to believe maybe she is in some kind of simulation but the thought exits her mind quickly. Too many tv shows she thinks. After a few hours, she takes the chance.

The ball is still lying there. And as she tries to pick it up, it just keeps rolling down the sidewalk. As if it is some trick to lure her or maybe it is a joke. She has no idea what to think or who would think of this sick game. She grabs the door and it opens with barely a pull.

“Someone there?”She asks gently.

There is no answer. She walks further, slowly, calmly, but ready to defend. She hears something. Some kind of motor, a quieter one, maybe a toy?

A little boy sits in the living room, smiling at her.

“Hey!”

He doesn’t say anything. It is as if she is the first woman he has ever seen. He begins to cry. She hears feet running. It’s a man.

“Hey hunny! Why don’t you comfort him!”

“I, I, didn’t know it was my job.”she says.

“Well, that’s how it works. I pay the bills, you deal with this!”

“Okay, I get it.” She mumbles along.

He leaves. She sits down, realizing there some cigarettes. It’s weird though, they have a rather old looking package. She smells them, and they are fresh. Strange, she thinks. Lights one up. Stares at the smoke, as if she is waiting to wake up from a nightmare.

This isn’t real she thinks. But then she coughs. The taste is definitely there. She hates it.

She touches the child, and he cries. ”

He’s real. He is all real.”

Her husband walks in, “Hunny, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I think I’m just hormonal.”

“Huh? Hunny you know we do not speak of these things. I just know.”

“Okay, sorry.”

She looks at the living room again, realizing it now has a strange looking television. A box like structure of wood around it. She doesn’t get it. The furniture looks like it is art deco. She thinks maybe 50’s or 60’s era.

“Am I going backwards?”she says.

“What was that hunny!?”

“Oh nothing.”

“I’m off to work sweetheart. I’ll see you in a bit. Try to make something good for dinner.”

“Sure.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She panics as the door shuts. She is in neither heaven nor hell. She is in something but she doesn’t even know what. She thinks, okay I’ll make the most of it.

She has to make a dinner in a kitchen where she doesn’t even know. She has to act as if everything is okay or she thinks these people will definitely think I am crazy. Just hold out she thinks, maybe I am in a coma. Hmmm.

He comes home, kisses her on the cheek when she tries for the mouth.

“Geez baby!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Let’s not be that way in front of the child.”

“Okay.”

He enjoys her meal but wonders about the inspiration. It is all the sudden inventive for such a woman like her. He praises her but senses some kind of change. He doesn’t know if he will like it or not in the years to come, but he believes in fixing things forever.

She lays her head down to rest and thinks of the life she once had. Her own child. Her own husband. Tears roll down her cheeks quietly and no one knows they are even shed but herself. This pains her. She falls asleep trying to accept the reality. Trying to leave the pain behind.

 

 

Wipe the Tears Up

You better wipe those tears up

cuz when I was wakin’ up

you told me to get the fuck out of your bed

instead of actin’ like a lover

you acted like i was an intruder instead

pushed me to the ground

made me protect my head

bruises on my knees

but it could have been worse if I stayed in bed

so i say please

don’t bring me back there again

false pretenses and judgments

clouds your fucking head

What person screwed you over

to make love into lead?

what completed the cycle

was it me or you with a gun beside your bed?

Fuck your bullshit

I grew up tired and weary

my eyes hurting from crying out fury

you think that makes it ok to turn my skies dreary?

negative brings negative but you can’t even hear me…

So I quiet my voice all nice

cook you dinner more than twice

make your rum and coke

so you can sleep at night

while its your poison preventing you from flight…

I hope you crash

and burn

cuz’ it might be what it takes

you can’t introspect enough

cuz you think your fate

was fucked from the beginning

a card game with no winning

but get your head out of the past

and onto less sinning….

You better wipe your own tears up

get a fucking mop

cuz every drop brings another

and your bucket has a hole in it

it just keeps raining inside

your head is full of delusions

so you stay locked up and hide…

I feel sorry for you

but I was there before

sometimes you have no choice but to break a door

and I could have been waiting on the other side

with a mountain of pride on a distant shore

but you chose to believe your own lies

chose to watch the sunset instead of the sunrise.

Smile Without a Cause

Your eyes reminded me of someone

now changed but once an awful man

he thought he could control his woman

but tying her up with verbal commands

but that man went crazy

brought a knife to a no gun fight

layers of rope and he broke

when he saw he lost his child’s hope

tore the world open

to expose all the lies

now he cries

knowing all that is left inside

is nothing but hate…

I try to create an image to replace

the horrible fate

he even had to contemplate

like there was a decision

when innocence exists

hold your child’s hands

cuz it might bring back the hope

 

a child’s eyes are like sun

and he rolled in the clouds

since someone had sinned…

But is the anger ok?

Maybe for one day

maybe for a month

but not for a year

how many tears dropped

to get to mars?

how could you walk away

instead of get rid of the scars?

Your eyes reminded me of someone

once above them

floating above the clouds looking down

now your mind is broken

all maimed inside

you want to know pain

take a peak in my head

most people would have given up

played fucking dead…

but I stray along with a smile on my face

nothing can break me

not you

not this

it already happened twenty years ago

when the summer left

along with my false bliss

but all i ever wanted

was someone to know

they can’t break me down

when I never had anywhere to go…

so I burn like a star

still bright but scarred.

 

 

Who Told You Who I Am?

Who told you who I am?

how can they speak for me when they can’t speak like a man?

You come at me like a bull in heat

desperate for a person to complete

your next sentence like the fucking movies

but hate to break it to you this is reality…

you don’t maim who you love

you don’t break someone down

unless you want them to run off

with a better fucking clown….

I hate the way your lips move

but cannot rhyme

you have no talents

you can’t even focus on them

cuz’ you’re too blind

to your own sickness

running out of your veins

out your nose

then onto your face

teeth rotted out like they were never touched

you a man?

I think you need a toothbrush…

I can’t speak for all you men

cuz some of you have game

you can run in other people’s face

and the truth you can claim

but some of you should take the advertisement down

cuz you look like trash with that big old frown

Who told you who I am?

how can they speak for me when they can’t speak like a man?

you come at me like a pilot but without a plane

you acted all pimp without the cane

I wish I saw the stars in your eyes

were just reflections of the street lights

cuz the way you lit that cig

could make any heart stop…

Who told you who I am?

how can they speak for me when they can’t speak like a man?

How do you even know me when you were always in command?

A person ad midst a war is never able to stand.