Self Analysis in the SipEasy

28 11 2010

“The roads of ‘if” litter our joy of ‘now’” said the new age counselor. Nori Pi never smiled between her sentences causing Jim to wonder about her authority on happiness.

Jim, a son of an ex-diplomat father and artist mother was disillusioned with societal expectations. His persistent search of friends and partners who questioned the world as he was not promising. While waiting for his omlet at the Sip Easy bar, a coffee stained ad from his local newspaper headlined “Connecting you to us” caught his attention.

And now, Jim was doubting– not Nori but his own choice to listen to such nonsense. As Nori continued to spout overly interpreted clichés frosted with hope, Jim sunk into a painfully penetrating self analysis.

Where was his desperation for connection originating? Perhaps a newly formed mental chemical imbalance had pushed him towards obtaining more intimacy before he reached age 30? Was his 29 years devoid of authentic relationships or were the premise of such relationships spinning away from his own authenticity? If he had been born to other parents, how would his motivations and values match those of his today? And then there were those nagging insecurities that multiplied as soon as he received a compliment…

How had his desperation for connection led him to a conference that was providing little solace? Jim decided it was a path that he’d been programmed to follow for many years and this path had created this desperate need.

The listless days since Jim’s private school education had compounded to a very bold period at the end of his summer prior to entering Davidson College. Once courses began, he became like an exclamation mark refusing to settle for textbook answers to his inquiries into the persistent injustices of the world. Soon enough, graduation was upon him and with degree in hand, Jim began to live in a short comatose consciousness that was focused on obtaining a job.

Although now with a job, Jim did not know the purpose of having one. He deeply felt making a living was not synonymous for having a job. Making a living led one to revelations, personal growth, and benefited society. In his schooling, no one ever discussed the difference between living and working. Maybe this desperation arose from this conflict.

After the conference, Jim headed towards the Sip Easy and observed the characters slipping into the bar’s darkness.

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Thankfulness and Memories and Such

28 11 2010

Thankfulness is not gratitude. Its pretext does not demand expectation of reciprocal thanks. Thankfulness is solemn and subtle like a songbird’s nest in winter.

Should one express thanks for events based on fear, abuse, and chaos? Does the birth of something beautiful from something so horrid dark and ugly owe it’s origin’s such a blessing. When we give thanks to those “uglies” whom/which may have contributed to our joys are we not empowering them?

The child/parent relationship is a perennial steaming piss of misunderstandings and misaligned needs. The daughter who sees the suffering in her mother’s face cannot soothe the two contradictory yet tumultuous seas of guilt and freedom boiling inside her. Attempting to appease a mother’s need for increased intimacy is like a dangling icicle on the back porch of the heart. Too much warmth may cause the mother or daughter to break away but greater frost may shatter the body.

Boxes lie like burnt tongues in the house’s evening shadows. Yellowed newspaper cringes as dust continues to settle on porcelain refugees and wooden prisoners. Antiques without a memory remind us. Nicks, smudges, and fingerprints breathe screams, secrets, and bruises.

Conversations, scripted words devoid of grammar, logic, or kindness. A flushed flurry of fiery words that burn the tongue and scar the ear. The heart trembles.





Being human is not enough

10 11 2010

Black shiny girls hung loosely along the pale youthful face as she stared blankly into the window. The school’s library provided her with a temporary solace from reality. Here her imagination was accepted.
The cover of Dr. Seuss’s Lorax and his little yellow mustache waved at the girl. Soon the girl was in the story and the story became her reality. The orange bird was eating the trees. The trees ate her. She ate the Lorax. How did the Lorax feel?

Rapidly her connections and personifications intensified until her face became splotched red with joy. She laughed uncontrollably for five minutes until she became bored with Dr. Seuss and moved onto Skippy John Jones who exploded after eating all the beans from the Bean Bandito. Again, the girl desired to alter the story so that she was a character with power. Consumption was always critical in obtaining her desired glory and so she began to eat the main character until she became a bean.

Later in the doctor’s room, the girl sat barely aware of her name and intensely bored. Playing a solo game of musical chairs the girl provided her own sound track of Alanis Morset and Janet Jackson between hushes from her mother and questioning looks from other parents. Her singing was sporadic like the tapping of the secretary’s pen. Both actions were temporary releases between an expanse of boredom. The waiting room and the doctor’s appointment were two different activities on her daily schedule and both contained equal unimportance. Suddenly her amusement became mundane. She began dancing and soon was crawling on the floor like a snake. Being human was simply not enough.





The School Parking Lot

3 11 2010

Candy wrappers, pennies, and broken barrettes flitter across the cold skin of the parking lot. Car tires rest on these black covers till the sleeper returns. All objects lie in this area. It’s a still concrete purgatory where parents, educators, and children pass through in order to reach their chosen heaven or hell. Morning hellos and goodbye kisses fall stale in this lot. This barren and bleak plane protects the earth from the harshness that trespasses above. The spit of the spiteful waters the darkness and reflects only clouds. The asphalt feels it breath silently sharing little of its knowledge of the horrible with the warm giving earth below. The parking lot has sacrificed any possibility of personality for the earth below.

The painted white lines linger lightly upon the ground like guiding ghosts. Possessing little physical-ness, the lines direct so much that is physical. People disobey these white lines with vigilance.





April and the Woman

3 11 2010

“Let’s go April.” said the man in a blue plaid flannel. Florescent lights illuminated the child’s face as she picked up her brown knitted scarf from the faux leather chair. Wisps of uncombed blond hair framed wide hazel eyes as she said “bye.” As the double doors closed, her tiny legs in black and white checkered pants faded into the night.

The woman watched April’s movements—jerky, child like but quite confident. The girls words contained even more self assurance. The woman met April in the lobby of the gym a few minutes before. April had asserted a question to the woman as though she was an equal—an adult. Her question concerned the woman’s purse but the woman felt the child really was inquiring about something much less physical.

April needs a brush. April wants a purse. April wears mix matched clothes. April does not care. April moves with wild abandonment. Her body of ten years weaves between rows of empty metal lockers and cheap wooden benches. Independence flies free in her wet hair till her name finds her. A loud booming voice floods into the women’s locker room as she pulls back her hair. She does not hide within herself. If her wants are not met, she continues on—skipping and jumping with only one shoe on.

The woman imagines the emergence of this child’s awareness. Perhaps it was when April was five and saw a squirrel’s persistence in burying his acorn despite the possibility of never recovering his treasure. Did the girl experience a giddy awe in understanding the patterns of nature and its attempted gratification? The woman sighs. She knows these words and thoughts are too big for April to have considered but still the woman thinks April must live with this awareness. For the girl seems satisfied in the asking. Pleasure forms in upturned crinkles around the young girl’s mouth as she begins to speak.





Pink Predictable Contradictions

20 10 2010

She with the punk pink hair types, clicks, and smiles in the dimly lit cafe. Her acceptance is complete with a smile and bubble pop of sour apple gum. A bookmark with a modern Madonna with machine guns jutting from her breasts marks the page where she finished reading about the genocide in Rwanda. On embossed stationary, she scribbles invitations to an 8th grade fundraiser for a trip to Charleston. Southern history bores her. The prospect of touring graveyards and slave markets for one sweaty week in June arouses a sigh of disgust. Privilege and predictability preside over her life like a steepled church. Such reflections and simple responsibilities cause her eyes to droop.

“Sensi should sip this tea,” whispers the cat with feathers. On a levitating ottoman, she rests like a piece of Swiss cheese. Bullet holes define her skin and within their bright darkness lie silent mouths—closed crimson lips ready to speak within the damaged body. Receiving the warm porcelain, her fingers tingle and the liquid slips within her. Hymns echo from the mouth on the tail of the cat while her mouths consume the resonating halleluiahs. “Saints do not sit,” chants the cat with feathers as he passes her by for a little black boy wearing pale pink ballet slippers. This boy clothed in chains stands listlessly looking up as the cat waters the boy’s feet.





A passing

20 10 2010

Crevassed dark chocolate skin sang stories of many laughs and tears. With broom in hand, he worked diligently under the supervision of fluorescent lights. A slight smile filled our requests and his steady hands met our needs. Was his ever met? While steering the yellow bus, did he wish to re-direct himself elsewhere? Those who serve seem to sleep in our darkness. If we do no knock out our own cobwebs, how will we ever clearly see our own impact? Our fingerprints on glass remind us we belong and have rested here before. Our marks and dust of being serve us if we recognize and claim them. However discarded such reminders leave us without responsibility. Others should not be wiping down our prints of existence.

Window wipes and dust cloths should belong to those who need to see. The segregation of task from responsibility is unethical—un-live-able.