TMI Tuesday

I haven't blogged for a while so I thought I'd try this TMI tuesday thing. Enjoy?

1. What ’80s or ’90s fashion did you love but would be embarrassed to wear today, even if it came back in style?

I doubt anything would embarrass me. Nothing I wore was trendy for my area even if it was remotely trendy at the time. My town was boots, jeans, and western shirts. I did everything from goth, punk, grunge, neo-hippie, semi-steampunk and finally settled into some sort of odd pre-raphaelite look. :)

2. What current fashion do you wear and love? Or What current fashion do you wear but probably shouldn’t?

Capes. :)

3. What was your favorite toy as a kid?

Tie between my little pony unicorns and peagus, card board boxes and dirt. Holy crap, did I ever love dirt!

4. What is your favorite “toy” today?

I have a small knitted Cthulhu toy a friend made for me.

5. Did you ever own a Sony Walkman? A boombox?

My walkman is the only reason I made it through my childhood and teens. I kept it on constantly. It drowned out my grandmother's preaching nicely. I still have a boombox, use it everyday at work. Yes workmates we have to listen to Tori Amos all day long! Repetitively, for 9 hours straight. Wonder why I have my own grooming room?

6. What’s the most played song on your mp3 player?

I don't have one. My most played song on I-tunes currently is Walk to Dublin-Tori Amos

7. Who was your best friend in elementary/primary school?

I didn't have one. I never could figure out what to do with the other kids. I had an imaginary friend that was an old english sheepdog and later as a teenager I had an imaginary grey haired warlock, I hung out with named Peter.

8. Who is your best friend now?

He lives far, far away in a magical blurry land by the ocean. I'm also pretty sure he's a spy and weirdly enough he looks like Peter. Alas, he's not a warlock.

9. Who was your favorite musical group in your early teens (age 13/14)? Post a photo.

Andrew Lloyd Webber to the extreme!!! I thought maybe adding "to the extreme" would make me sound cooler? Did it work? I remember doing the running man in my room in the whitest way possible, under my mirror ball to Starlight Express for hours. Starlight express, answer me yes, I need you to be here...." To the extreme!!!

I don't think anyone particularly wants me to post a picture of Andrew Lloyd Webber. Just a hunch.

10. Who is your favorite musical group now? Post a link to a song of theirs that you like.

Tori Amos. To the extreme!!! Still not working? Darn!

http://www.last.fm/music/Tori+Amos/_/Space+Dog

Bonus: What do you think is the secret to a good life?

Xanax

Dragons and Red Rover

It was that same feeling. I recognized it much like a friend. Cloying fear wrapped me in the morning sun. I chased it through halls of memory, finding it's place. Until I turned 5, my life had been home, a room of my own, a backyard secured by a tall wood fence and barbed wire on top and a closet. It was what I knew of the world. Suddenly things were changing without explanation. No one thought to explain to me what school was, it's purpose. I didn't understand and fear swallowed me whole. I was drug, kicking and screaming to a mysterious building. People probably stared. I didn't notice them. I was chastised in hushed angry whispers, I didn't hear. There was only fear. I threw my legs and arms open wide. I became an X, a puzzle to be forcibly folded through each door. This is how I greeted my first day of kindergarten. They didn't make me go in. Not at first. They situated a chair in front of the door in the hall. This became my spot. I looked in at a world of small creatures. I didn't understand what children were or that I too was a child. I had never seen one until that day.

I was told I could sit in the hall as long as I pleased. But, that I would soon want to join in. People were confident of that fact. The idea is that I would see what fun the others were having and I would go in willingly. It might have worked on another child. But, not me. I watched for a while disinterested. My mind wandered. I mentally re-traced the car ride in my head. It didn't seem far. I could walk it, I thought. I gathered my things and began to leave. After all, I saw no purpose in my being there. No one had bothered to explain that this predicament wasn't voluntary. The principal stopped me as I was heading out the door. Talked me into watching just a bit longer. He was tall and intimidating. I agreed and plotted. I was watched now. I eventually read a book. I could read already, something the frightened my grandmother as no one taught me. I simply figured it out. She saw it as a mark that I was a child of the devil. Devil or not I was bored, so I read and I drew.

Recess had me sitting on the sidelines. I had only played by myself. I was clueless how to interact with other children. It didn't occur to me that I should even want to. What were those things anyways? The teacher tried to include me in games with the class. I most remember, Red Rover. I was to run through the arms of those alien creatures. I told her it was pointless, we were accomplishing nothing. I had a cat to finish drawing. She was adamant. I tried to compromise, I did the running but refused to break through. I simply stopped and stared defiantly. I was prodded to continue, I refused and was met with a sigh. More games. Eventually, the teacher stopped trying.

After weeks, of sitting out in the hall in a chair I was forced through that last door this time biting and drawing blood of many. It took several people to do it. My family, teaching staff. They held me down until I was exhausted. They broke me like a horse and I joined the ranks of small creatures, defeated. I longed for my hall chair. I liked it out there. My pleas were ignored. My sanctuary was no more. I faded at the loss of it. The defiant child, became the child that never talks. My next teacher would worry incessantly about my quietness and every teacher that cared thereafter.

There's a part of me that will always be sitting in the hall watching humanity, happy to be distant and separate. The other part grows weary of the fear.

Before, my diagnosis of Asperger's, I was told as a child I was shy and that I would "outgrow it." I clung to that idea. As I aged, the consensus watched with disappointed eyes, assigned me many dance partners. A waltz with depression, and then manic depression. Schizophrenia made a bow and asked for dance card. Countless suitors wooed me, before the hammer fell and I was wed to Asperger's. The names hardly matter, in the end, my brain has always been stalked by fear.

And I know there are reasons, beyond Asperger's. I attempted Jury Duty recently and I scrawled my emotions hastily afterwards. Peeks of reason woven in my outpouring that G+ would not let me post.

"So Jury Duty lasted 2 minutes. I was very sick this morning, nauseous, diarrhea and chest pain. As soon as the door was opened to the court house I got extremely dizzy. I was in tears by the time I got to the right place. They sent me home, swiftly. :) Court rooms trigger something in me, I guess. Somethings come bubbling up whether you want them to or not. I've had to go to court twice (once for Jury duty another time because my car was stolen) and each time that feeling of being a little girl terrified of her uncle comes up. The second the doors open this suffocating fear washes over me. Memories of my grandmother swearing my uncle was a "good christian man." Trial after trial, sitting out in the car drawing while my grandmother ran to court. That feeling of hope that this time, the death penalty might save me or that they would keep him for good. I could maybe just be happy locked in the closet my grandmother locked me in when I was bad, or locked in my room when I was good. Never worrying the door would open and it would be him, with a knife, or to preach to me about God and in the same breath tell me about how he would take me on a date if only "I would lose some weight." And then there was that sinking feeling of dread knowing they were letting him out early for good behavior and he would be back again. I wanted to save some little girl from that. Do the thing no one had the balls to do for me, put someone away for life. And some kid could be happy. But, I failed her and it hurts knowing that. It makes no sense. I shake and live all this out in my head. It's so long ago and yet it crashes through my mind like a hurricane, taking over. I fled undercover of night from my family. I threw what I could in the car and left before he could get out of jail the last time, before anyone could wake. I haven't been back and I never will. Not that they want me back anyways, all but my mom has disowned me. It's safe for me to be thin, to be beautiful, but when I walk into a courthouse I'm back. Why can't it just be social anxiety, just Asperger's why does there have to be so much? Will I be like this when I'm old? Does everything have to be a fight? I'm in a better world now. The lady was nice to me. She saw my fear, my shaking and let me go. No one yelled at me. Or told me I was worthless like my family did. I will wake tomorrow and there will be a birthday party and cake. And if my boss has her way it is probably shaped like a cock. Will there ever be a day where I can just be confident? I'm so tired of this. I want to be able to do things and not throw up. Not be sick. Why can't I?"

I know shifts have been made. Even just showing up yesterday, was a feat. I heavily considered jail, community service and fines rather than jury duty. All the options seemed preferable. But, I walked in a vertigo haze though the door. I hope with each step it will get easier. The little girl in the hall has found things in this world she is finally interested in. She wants to try. But, red rover is not for her. She fights dragons instead.

Parcel

Dry as parchment, splinters torn and reborn, clawing at a self unimagined.

Paralyzed in a box. It's confines split and repaired in a cycle bridging eternity.

Beyond lies worlds of plural possibility, a singsong duality of parceled hope to contents unrepairable

Whisps of dreams are more appealing than reality.

What she can have she doesn't want.

And what she wants, can she have?

Time is nothing to her. Life is not short but an aching groan of seconds that only threaten to become hours.

Thus, she chooses life in a box, settled in a teacup, overlooking a wasteland of everything that she doesn't know how to get.

Sunshine

I have built this kitsch eyesore out of others words.

A labyrinth to clutch feigned normalcy.

Entangled in it's jagged spires, I become lost.

A fading illusion was the best I could contrive. Did you like it?

Like thorns, I bleed onto wire cutting beyond flesh, into very essence.

I could drag the shards upon your flesh, carve my screaming futility into your bones.

I could burn your pretty world. Take you down to scorch earth and ember.

As equals standing in ash, you would understand.

Or I could simply shatter, dissipate into formless void.

Vapor to reform into mass, once again excited to greet the dawn.

I can no longer mindlessly stack these shards of glass pretending this is happiness.

Nor can I eschew my originality and waltz in this vapid parade.

I crave to taste my own madness and let it warm my skin like sunshine.

Burn away all this fecund horror devouring me without joy.

And I surrender to the monster in the stairwell

no more...

Never

Never

again.

Wolf

Evolution, my dear Darwin, is more than theory. We evolved from satirical machinations of human whimsy until the only divide existed solely in the inner sanctum of our minds. A full moon is just a moon. Our beast and claws remained within. We became clandestine monsters moving amongst the masses. We watched you and observed the cloying self indulgent peril of your emotions. Incapable of such drama, your human puppet show amused us greatly. Others scoffed, but I began to see humanity as more than deluded primates over romanticizing their most base urges. In one in particular, I saw kindness and I hungered. Myth pervades that we mate for life, we are merely selective. I saw you as beautiful and worthy. Fangs concealed, I submitted to you not as omega but an alpha to it's equal. I almost believed that I could be more, beguiled by the illusion of your words. I thought could join your masquerade with your mortal hand in mine. I can almost taste your blood as I read your hastily scrawled goodbye. The cruelty of what I am claws to the surface with each pen stroke. There were times I tried to warn you, to flee from you for your own good. Daydream can't coexist with nightmare. I knew better. We fuck, we howl and we hunt. A part of me hopes, that you know how to run.

Panic Attack Poetry Theater

Something I wrote while actually having a severe panic attack. I'm amazingly functional in my almost constant state of panic.

Her brain is not rage, but a quilt made of fear.

It doesn't make sense and it does make sense.

He wants to save her.

He tries.

He picks at the stitching, makes holes for her to breathe.

It works, until she suffocates again.

One day her heart will burst and fade.

She will drown him in her soul.

A Very Zombie Valentine's Day

Acceptance, it's a hard thing to find in this world. Our friendship worked. I needed a confidant, a non judgmental companion. You needed sociopath who could rip the heart out of a zombies chest in two seconds flat. The natural attraction between male and female lingered. Yet, neither of us wanted mess up the core of our friendship despite the worlds apocalyptic state. We took up with religious nuts, new pilgrims amidst death. Not because we agreed with their cloying theology. They were simply human and that was rare. They didn't like us. But, it was hard to ignore a bitch with a Hello Kitty Ak-47 and her male sidekick. I provided protection, you came with the package. Thus, we were allowed to stay. I had hoped you could find someone to drag down into the cesspool of your desires. I hated that you were lonely, in need. I knew a killing machine could never provide the things you wanted. The pious were not so easily swayed. Machiavellian wheels turned. You teased me when I started the book club. I let you believe I had taken in interest in Oprah Winfrey's taste in literature. The fact that I had torched the zombie cunt with a flame thrower for attempting to eat Liam Neeson was somehow lost on you. I found a house with electricity and that pleased you. You knew you were receiving a gift. You were puzzled to find out the bag of Orville Redenbacher I had popped was not your intended present. This now archaic delight was mine alone. With a smirk, I revealed my book club, naked, gagged and bound. A flogger and a set of knives, was the only explanation you needed. Ak-47 in hand, I settled by the window. This Valentines was to be a special day not to be sullied by any shambling corpse. You had watched me behead, torch and obliterate hearts in a shower of bullets with quiet awe. I found your sexuality just as fascinating. I ate my popcorn and watched absorbed. When betrayed eyes met mine and a trembling ungagged voice begged to know "Why?" I felt no need to divulge the truth to these so called literates. How could I explain the importance of true friendship? Instead, I coldly backhanded her and replied "Because you made me read Tuesdays with Morrie you fucking bitch!" Sociopaths hate that touchy feely shit!