Monthly Archives: January 2013

Poetry Corner – “Goodbye, January”

Posted by Denise on

Tired of looking back
The past is burned in my memory
I focus my attention
On the step in front of me
Four weeks cushion the turn
Of the time we had and the time we’re getting
No turning around
To redo from what we should have learned

I wanna feel the smooth stride
Without novelty acting in spite
On a path of where we do not know the end
Goodbye, January–goodbye

Spring inches near
Waves of verdant fields
We wonder  if that herald will promise mercy
On our winter-suffering skin
We button our coats, dreaming
Of the scent of bloom in the air
Every beginning has an end

I wanna feel the sun
Without the wind coming back to bite
Late in the evening when I have time to breathe
Goodbye, January–goodbye

Poetry Corner & The Payback List – “Man Candy”

Posted by Denise on

“Man Candy”
(for Della, Margo, Emily, Michelle, and Monique)*

Don’t tug on heart strings
You make my —– sing

You wanna unwrap his sugarcane
See what’s under the cellophane
On display in the sweet shop
You want a taste of his lollipop
And all before prudence says stop
The sweet’s driven you insane

Ain’t no silly love song
So get your purple thong
And sing along

He’s nice and handy
When you need
Some man candy
He’s wicked randy
When you need
Some man candy

He comes in a variety of flavors
With so many textures to savor
You can find one to suit your need
To fit what the craving might be
They promise satisfaction guaranteed
With your desired party favor

Ain’t no silly dedication
So get your purple thong
And sing along

He’s nice and handy
When you need
Some man candy
He’s wicked randy
When you need
Some man candy

Don’t tug on heart strings
You make my —– sing

Sometimes it’s necessary
But the pleasure’s temporary
You can want it later
But it never lasts
You want missionary?
He gives it in the —

Sometimes it’s necessary
But the pleasure’s temporary
You can wish for longevity
But it never comes
Once he’s at his end
The fun is all done

*From Part I of the Payback List:

“As for his looks, I have to say, Adam is fairly good-looking. Sigh. All right fine—if you can overlook his personality, he is one fine piece of man candy. (Wait…but then again, he is merely man candy because of his personality…aw hell, I’ll let Margo and Michelle tell you properly. They coined the phrase and predictably will have a portion of this tale to tell.) He possesses that tall, toned stature of an athlete with dark hair threaded with random strands of gray. Apparently it runs in the family and he will be completely silver haired by thirty-five. Emily gushes that her favorite feature are his eyes, which are a lovely (ech) cornflower blue.

“I had a cat with gray eyes once. Beautiful kitty Oscar was—but you didn’t see me turning a blind eye when Ozzy pissed on my favorite boots now did you? Just saying.”

-Della Henderson

Inner Bitch Moment – “Never Born”

Posted by Denise on

Ah, you’ve been in a corner long enough Inner Bitch. Attack!

“Never Born”

(for Mags, Aurora, and Sam)

Charm
You’ve plenty of it
When you swagger in my direction
Your smile is large
Like you can make promises
To induce my persuasion
But I’ll tell you, love
I’m not easily swayed

I don’t play games
I’ll work you till you’re worn
Make you wish you were never born

The other girls may
Fall to your feet begging for more
And other girls may
Hang on your every single word
Like you were sent from the sky
But in my honest opinion
You’re not worth the strain

I won’t be easy
You gotta put on a better show
I’ll make you wish you were never born

It’s a shame
A losing game if you were taking score
I’ll make you wish you were never born

Before you tell me
I’m only bitter, I’ll be all alone
Paying vigil to my telephone
I regret to say
You’re the last to hear the news
You’re the last one I would ever choose

If you’re scorned
Then take it with outside the door
Hope I’ve made you wish you were never born

Poetry Corner – “Walkaway”

Posted by Denise on

“Walkaway”

You were the one I was waiting for
Survived the frogs to have Prince Charming at my door
You braved the storm to get to my core
And if there was a moment I ever felt low,
You helped me let go

The sun needs the moon
Like I need you
You tear me in two
When you walk away

You treated me like a rarity
Like a mermaid lost at sea without her feet
If I needed someone to put me at ease
Needed someone to cease the fear of being
You were always there for me

A cold hand needs a glove
Like I need your love
You have me sinking under
When you walk away

I try my best to be strong
I had a life before you came along
But what’s the use of making believe
That to me you meant nothing?
It’s all just a lie that covers the truth
How I can live now that you’re gone?

Poetry Corner – “Battle Cry”

Posted by Denise on

“Battle Cry”

It’s primal
The sensation of rising
The longer I wait
The more I’m finding

I was born
With my heartbeat 
Heavy in my throat
Thudding in my ears

Addictive
The taste of fury
Thick on my tongue
Bold like a sharp point
It can’t be stopped, can’t be changed, can’t be cut off

So I yell
Here I come

The air thrums
With the energy
That spills
Directly from me

The chains break
Like brittle glass
Freedom flows
Like sweat down my  back

The weaponry fits
like an extra limb
With the grace
Of a wing
It can’t be stopped, can’t be stopped, can’t be cut off

So I yell
Here I come

I am tired  of being civilized
When you see the whites
Of my wild eyes, realize
You’re too close to be saved

Let the battle begin

Poetry Corner – “Living in Your Head”

Posted by Denise on

“Living in Your Head”

Chillin on Sunday with shades drawn
World turns but you’re hiding out
Saturday’s whirly mirth is gone
In worship of self you’re the most devout
No visitor is quite worthy
Reaching out will break the spell

Do you bump into yourself everywhere or do you let someone in?
When you’re living in your head, do you remember where you’ve been?

Paranoia missed you at the bar
Holding ya seat, asking, “How ya been?”
He swipes the keys to the car
Steering like you’re old friends
But he imbibed too long
Didn’t notice the obstacle

Do you  try to ignore but  the deduction is too adamant?
When you’re living in your head, who gets blamed for the accident?

Holed up  in your armored fortress
Peeking through the Lego block
All attempts will fail the test
When you leave  the entrance locked
Participation will be thin
If we’re on the outside looking in

Do you have to war or are you always free?
When you’re living in your head, who gets to possess the key?

Midnight Moon – “Blockhead” Part I

Posted by Denise on

“Blockhead”

Music: “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge, “Bad Reputation” by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, “Cherry Bomb” by the Runaways, “Knock on Wood” by Eddie Floyd

Birth
Sunday, January 28, 1979

Rebecca Thomas Dunne was in a decidedly bad mood.

She’d had a backache the entire week previous, and her husband Griffin had been a total asshole about everything. What she truly wanted was an ice pack and a foot rub. Instead, what she received was reproach in the name of breakfast–poached eggs to be precise. Rebecca just could not get them right this morning. Griffin was unhappy, as he had been for the past six months.

“Para el Amor del Dios,” Rebecca muttered in her native language as Griffin stormed the kitchen petulantly.

“Dammit, Rebecca,” Griffin griped. “It’s the only thing I ask—that you give me fairly adequate meals.” He shoved his plate aside. “As it is, I’m late for my tennis match. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Too tired to argue, Rebecca sighed and muttered something about making him something different. He huffed and refused her offer, leaving without his coveted breakfast.

The door slammed, shaking the house. She was left with Sister Sledge singing their sibling empowerment anthem on the LP and a growing sense of ineffectuality. She had never felt so low in her life.

Then, without any warning, she found herself standing in a puddle of liquid.

“Shit,” Rebecca found herself saying. Then, mortified that she had sworn so viciously, she covered her face. “Did I just say that?” Another contraction buckled her and her focus was shifted as she clutched her belly. “Oh wow. I’ve gotta call Irene.” Not once did she think about calling Griffin. This labor business had already started off badly.

She hoped the child came out all right or she would never forgive herself.

—

Of course, several hours later, the child dubbed Samantha Brittany came out angrily–and when she was cradled in her father’s dubious arms (Elizabeth and Irene suspected he was merely there because the tennis courts didn’t have reliable lighting at night and he had nothing else better to do), she screeched like a wild monkey trapped in gilt.

That probably should have been a warning. Oh well.

Childhood
1987

Being Jennifer’s big sister dominated Samantha’s early years. Jennifer had come along a little less than eighteen months after Samantha, and she was softer, kinder, and gentler than her predecessor. At first, she followed Samantha like a shadow, mimicking anything she did. It was empowering to have a permanent copycat, and thus was the state to which Samantha had become accustomed. However, as Jennifer grew up, and the sisters started socializing outward (particularly with their cousins—Irene’s daughters), she had begun to change. She preferred Barbies and My Little Pony to the jungle gym. She took pride in her E-Z-Bake and her gang of Cabbage Patch dolls.

To Samantha, that posed a bit of a problem.

Samantha, perhaps molded by those early moments in her mother’s womb, hated anything frilly or domestic. She had more scabs and scars than hair bows. And the word dress made her break out into hives all over. Nowadays Jennifer wore them all the time!

Ack! Gag her with a spoon! She couldn’t stand it.

It was a rainy Saturday morning, and Rebecca was depositing Samantha and Jennifer with her older sister so that she could take care of some important business. Samantha and Jennifer were too young to understand what was going on, and Rebecca didn’t have the heart to tell them about the impending breakup of their parents. If she had been more frank, she would have found that her girls would have been more acceptant of the severance.

Samantha used to enjoy being at her Aunt Irene’s house. She was a fan of the bigger space and of the camaraderie she shared with her female cousins, particularly Jessica and to a lesser degree her little sisters. Well, except one.

Irene had set the girls up in the living room while she did some work on a criminal case in the other room. The girls (their brother Eric was over a friend’s house for the weekend) were fairly self-sufficient, especially with Jessica supervising. Jessica was not a pushover, but she was hardly a tyrant either. Samantha admired her older cousin and hope that she grew up exuding that same amount of power.

It was nearing nine that morning. Irene had produced a sizable amount of pancakes, eggs, and bacon for the girls to consume, and then let them loose to watch some TV. Jessica had originally wanted to watch the VHS of Wildcats (Irene knew nothing of this, however) and no one had openly protested.

That is, until someone had turned it on Muppet Babies, and Samantha felt her heart sink.

Jessica, not quite eleven, sighed in exasperation as she tucked her legs under her on the couch. “Muppet Babies? Really?” She looked over the rumpled masses like an irritated general. “All right, pipsqueaks—who turned it on the Muppet Babies?”

There was a chorus of juvenile denials. Jessica groaned and waved a hand. The voices stopped.

Suddenly, the tallest of Jessica’s little sisters stood and spoke.

“I turned it on Muppet Babies,” announced Daniella Thomas defiantly.

Samantha rolled her eyes. She didn’t like her cousin Danie, with her hair flips and bright nail polish and fluorescent hair scrunchies that somehow ended up at the Dunne house and in her way. But even more—and she would not understand this until she was much older—she didn’t like Danie because she was stealing her baby sister away.

Jessica’s reaction was much like Samantha’s would have been. “You little brat! No one wants to watch that.”

Jennifer fidgeted. “Actually, I—”

“Maybe we should pick something that everyone can enjoy,” Moira-Selene offered, being the eternal peacemaker.

“I think everyone would enjoy the Muppet Babies!” Danie countered.

“I personally wanted to watch PBS,” nine-year-old Claudia-Michelle revealed, flipping through her music maestro book.

Danie rolled her eyes. “You’re such a bore, Claudia-Michelle.”

“Better than being an idiot,” Claudia-Michelle shot back. Danie’s eyes widened then narrowed. Samantha snickered. Claudia-Michelle, even though she was a bit too prim (especially in her lace-trimmed pajamas), had some redeeming moments as well.

“Hey!” Jessica exclaimed. Everyone went quiet again. “We’re gonna watch the movie. Anyone who doesn’t want to watch can go play somewhere else.”

Danie gave a defiant hair toss. “Well I am playing somewhere else. I have a makeup session with Barbie. Anyone else want to come be beautiful with me?”

“Go away, Danie,” Samantha snapped. “You’re just being a show-off. No one wants to play with your stupid girly toy.”

In her French braid and long-sleeved PJs barely hiding her surgery scar, Moira-Selene sighed. “Danie… Sam…”

“You don’t want to play with it,” Danie said, “but Jennifer does.” With smugness in her eyes, she turned to look at Jennifer, who fidgeted in her place as if she had shot J.R.

Samantha gazed at her little sister, cornflower blue stare intense. “Well? What are you gonna do?”

Pause. “I want to play with the makeup,” Jennifer said softly. The smug satisfaction on Danie’s face was enough to turn Samantha’s stomach. Guiltily, Jennifer bit her lip and followed Danie out of the room.

As Samantha watched the opening credits of Wildcats, fuming, little Gretchen Thomas plopped down next to her.

Gretchen was the youngest of her cousins. She had been attached to Jessica much like Jennifer had been attached to her. Jessica, however, was six years older than Gretchen, so the attachment was slightly awkward and short-lived. Jessica had found better entertainment than hanging out with her four-year-old sister.

“You know,” Gretchen began, pigtails swinging, “she is my sister but I really don’t like her.”

Samantha, a little surprised, looked at the little girl sidelong. Gretchen, big green eyes filled with boldness, stared back. After a moment, she leaned as if sharing a secret.

“I know where Eric keeps his spiders,” Gretchen whispered, eyes twinkling with evil. “We could put one in her bed.”

She was small, but she had spunk.

Samantha’s mouth twisted into a grin. She would do. Yeah, she would definitely do.

Midnight Moon – “The Middle” Part I

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“The Middle”

Do you believe in miracles? I do.

I entered the world small and barely breathing during an early September afternoon. And with a companion, too: my twin sister, triumphant and vibrant with life.

So happy my parents were with their bounty: a set of twins! However, Fortune frowned upon them and rendered me deformed. No, not in a way that made people stare shamelessly. No—this dysfunction was steeped in subtlety. It existed inside of me.

I nearly died numerous times before my first birthday. The left ventricle of my heart never formed correctly—a condition called hypoplastic left heart syndrome; infants endure procedure after procedure before they can lift their heads, aided by the oracle of technology. Back then, such boons were not available, and the news descended from doctors’ mouths like an atom bomb.

When I flash back to the moment the stalwart Dr. Gregory Armstrong stood wearily before my shaken parents, surgical cap in his hands, my parents’ solidarity jumps out at me. Hands are linked, bodies are close. You would never know that two years later, my father would have resumed the affair that spawned three children with another woman. Thinking of that makes me wistful.

“If she doesn’t have surgery,” Dr. Armstrong informed them, “she will die. Her heart is severely malformed, and it will be a miracle if she lives past a month of age without swift action.”

My mother attempted to swallow her tears but could not. She broke down into heart-aching sobs. The thought of her precious daughter dying…inconceivable. My father nodded resolutely and told Dr. Armstrong to do everything in his power to save me.

* * *

I stand in the gallery of Audbone Heights Medical Center while a long-haired (in a surgical cap, mind you) and focused Gregory Armstrong amends my inauspicious heart with the Norwood procedure, which, at the time was fairly new. My father, versed in the discipline but sobered by the sight of his own child under the knife, observes. My little body appears blue and pitiful under the illumination. I cannot watch for long.

Later on, I hover a moment over myself in recovery. I brush a finger over my newborn fist, wishing I could feel my own skin. As a rule, I never get to touch my past, just to observe.

* * *

The plate flies over my head and shatters against a wall. Luckily I am a mere shade in this scene so the possibility of getting maimed remains low.

It is 1988. My mother carries my little sister Gretchen on her hip to her seat while the rest of us cower at the dinner table, listening to my parents argue. I didn’t know then what the pictures in my head meant, only that they scared me. My mind foretold my hospitalization, but how could I verbalize this? Outside of the family, others believed I was odd, despite Jessica and Claudia-Michelle’s fervent defense.

“I know you’ve been with her, Robert!” my mother exclaimed, banging a pot of pasta. “I can smell her on your breath.”

“How dare you accuse me of being unfaithful without any proof, Irene?” my father demanded. “It’s not my fault if you’re feeling insecure.”

At the sound of metal hitting metal, six-year-old Gretchen jumped. Danie frowned into her spaghetti. Jessica tried to calm her, bolstering the rest of us. Eric sat red-faced, inwardly cursing his parents for not being nice to one another.

But Claudia-Michelle. She’s staring at me.

With the dubious pleasure of hindsight, I now understand not only the development of myself but also that of my sisters and brother. Jessica formed into the tough tomboy because she had a great deal to protect and Eric felt, being the only boy, he had to be as tough as she was; Claudia-Michelle, gentle and sophisticated (and fierce when circumstance allowed), learned to appreciate the brief beauty of things in life and the care and respect they required. Danie refused to be lumped with her sickly twin and flourished with her vitality. Gretchen struggled with the awkwardness the inattention brought. My life impacted all of theirs; many a night there were with them bouncing around in a waiting room for me.

My seven-year-old face hurts to take in; inside of me, my heart fought to pump as infection started to overtake it. My glassy eyes fluttered with the effort to stay conscious.

Claudia-Michelle rose to her feet. “Mama!” she yelled, voice hoarse with fear and urgency.

The scene blurs; Mama rushed into the room just as my seven-year-old self collapsed into Claudia-Michelle’s arms. I can barely see past the tears before I close my eyes and move on.

* * *

Later on, Dr. Armstrong faced my parents (less than united) about my newest problem. I had an infection of my heart, and the shunt was becoming ineffective. There existed two options: transplant or death.

My father threw his hands up in frustration. I press my lips together, trying not to be angry when he suggested that the transplant is too much of a long shot. He worked in the profession, watching as hope failed for transplant patients and they died without a new organ. His assertion is steeped in reason, in logic.

“No,” Mama disagreed, eyes damp but voice firm. “We will manage. Get m’ija a new heart, Greg. She hasn’t come this far to fail now.”

Dr. Armstrong, that bullish giant with the gentle hands, nodded. He wasn’t merely interested in the positive stats and the good press; he genuinely wanted me to pull through. I believe if my parents had disagreed with the transplant option he would’ve placed me on the list himself.

“I am glad we both agree,” Dr. Armstrong said quietly. However, there resonated a bit of reproach for my father. A little amusing from this end.

* * *

Oh yes. I can’t leave out the heart. It has a story of its own.

The donor had been a vibrant ten-year-old girl who had died in a tragic car accident while visiting family in New York. Her name was Ella, and she lived in a suburb in Pittsburgh with her two sisters, mother and father. She played softball and loved Mark-Paul Gosselaar. Her health was exquisite, and her blood type matched mine. And the heart? The atria and ventricles were perfect, like they had been carved by gods while the embryo flourished inside of her mother.

I’ve visited Ella several times. She was lovely, a precocious redhead that reminds me of Jessica. She had freckles that she hated and blue eyes inherited from her mother. I am not so egotistical that I believe I deserved her heart. Every time, whether she’s sighing over Zack Morris’s smile on the TV screen, catching her breath after clearing home plate, or fighting for her life in an ambulance going at light speed, I thank her for the gift. She will not be disappointed.

The Month of Cake

Posted by Denise on

I apologize for my lack of updates this week. It’s been a little bit stressful at work. To have gainful employment I am convinced is assured hair-pulling. But oh well. Thankful for the work, always! I am also dealing with the birthdays of three members of my five-member family. Well, eight members technically when you add in fictive kin. So January I have dubbed the Month of Cake, though this year so far I have not bought a cake yet. But the month is still young!

Here’s to birthdays! Today’s my older sister’s, and she’s…what? Did you think I was going to tell you? 😉