Have you ever woken up craving a chocolate bar? Can taste that sweet cocoa treat on the tip of you tongue as memories of creamy candies float in your sleep coated brain. Nuts, caramel, raspberries, fill some, while others tease with light, dark, milk chocolate squares. Almond Joy, now doesn't that sound good. When you think about it, there are health benefits. You have almonds, which are really good for you, coconut is too, and the anti-oxidants in the chocolate are a benefit. The sugar, not so much. But hey, if we weren't supposed to eat the white gold, (which it was considered during the depression) then why is it produced for consumption? We all know the affects sugar has on the body, but if a person eats too much of anything it'll have an adverse effect on the body, and it's system. I'm not here to preach, this is what came out when I woke up craving a chocolate bar. To each their own, is one of my mantras! Have an over-easy day, yolks!
When I was in high school I wrote for the school newspaper. I had three responsibilities. I covered sports, was the photographer, and had my own column called Ambrosia. It was just a free flowing piece where I would talk about anything that came to my mind right then and there as I typed on the old Corolla. At least that's what I believe it was called. I wonder if there's a way I can get copies of those newspapers today. I gather not. Anyway, what fun that was. What a simpler time. I recall my parents and aunts and uncles always coining that phrase about easier times when they were younger too. I look around, because in actuality I have nothing better to do, and see how technology has really changed our lives on every level. Does it really make our lives better, or have we just been, once again, brainwashed. No-wonder the brain is considered comparable to a sponge. It absorbs anything and everything put into it. Well, for the most part. Think about it, how many original thoughts are produced these days. Even when it comes to the arts, things seem to be redone, a different rendition to a song, a new but same old movie made to meet the times. That's why I'm glad I'm a writer, I don't fear someone rewriting my work. Just like Joni Mitchell says, a painting is only painted once, those aren't her exact words, but I'm sure you get my jest. Anyway, enough babbling. So all in all, I do think technology can be a good thing, but we can't let the sponges get too dry.
Forty-two seconds and fifteen minutes before the beginning I'm running for the door. It's locked, the key setting on the sill. I didn't notice, I hadn't realized.
Seventy-eight hours with the forty-two seconds gone, I gaze into the mirror. It's empty. The chill wind of the north races through my soul. I look about.
One hundred and forty-nine days with thousands to follow, I walk to the wall. Round it is, not square like the others. Funny I think. I fall to the floor and mold myself to the rounded baseboard. Content in my being, I rest.
I awake in the midst of a lilac bush with the scent lingering throughout the air. "Ah!" I say. To the side of me I see The One, standing. The one my dreams have been haunted with. There, bright as ever, keener than the wit should allow.
Now is the time, the moment of truth, the extinguishing of the fire.
I stride closer, till our breaths are the same, our thoughts one. I gather my guts, bend my head, and kiss.
Forty-two seconds and fifteen minutes before the beginning, I am running for the door.
I want to feel.
I'm tired of being
My body feels like
one big aching
I no longer care,
wish to live
I want to drink,
then do it again,
knowing before hand
I wouldn't succeed,
as in love.
So off I go,
and off I went,
only feeling this
Has anyone seen, Please? You know, to please or not to please, that is the question. Whether it is pleasurable to please, or polite to say please, is becoming a mystery to people, or at least that's what is seems to me as I pace through this unconscious society. Just another word that's lost it's meaning, and status in our vocabulary. I can still hear Mom saying, "What's the magic word?" Or maybe that's what the techno world is turning humans into. Rude, insensitive, self-motivated individuals, who think that because they have the world at their fingertips and don't have to respond in a human fashion as they thumb their smart phones, suddenly come back to their reality, where all manners are dissolved. Trust me, these ill-fated barbarians who have misplaced all sense of politeness, need to wake up, People complain left and right how awful the state of our existence is in, and yet who can say that they make a conscious effort to be nice to people? Not many, I believe. So, please, I implore you, practice a little magic today, and say the word, please!
PLEASE-To afford or give pleasure or satisfaction. Like, wish. To have the kindness. According to Webster's.
So, let's go out and show some simple kindness and see how we can change the world. PLEASE!
Throw me on a grill and let me sizzle,
outside slight signs of haze and drizzle.
Bikes lined up evenly in three,
leaves above me empty on the Cyprus tree.
Flip me just once and let me simmer,
as August days turn from bright to dimmer.
Birds chirp above me in quiet dusk like songs,
as distant church bells strike six vibrant gongs.
Cheese me cheddar, jack, or the tangy Swiss Miss,
touching my lips like a soft delicate kiss.
You melt and coat the four corners of my world,
my earth went spinning, whipping in a whirl.
Slide me on dark bread with caramelized onion,
as I watch the fading summer sun slowly descend.
The doubts and the fears of the day I felt,
have all disappeared as I eat my Patty Melt.
Throw me on a grill and let me sizzle,
outside slight signs of haze and drizzle.
Bikes lined up evenly in three,
leaves above me empty on the Cypress tree.
I have nothing against suicide. I just hope it's for the right reasons.
There's been no word from you since my arrival here in Santa Fe, and I'm wondering how you are. As you know, I came to the Southwest to try to talk you out of going through with your plans--per your request--and I'd hoped to have seen you by now.
I understand, though. Your life is in an upheaval, and I'm sure you don't know which way is up or down, and believe me, sister, I know what you're going through. I wouldn't be here right now had it not been for the saving grace of something unknown.
Anywho, I won't get into that right now!
I don't know how you can stand this dry, hot air. I can barely breathe, and every time I do, I inhale dust. My tongue is all white and cracked, like dried curdled milk. Give me a stale Oreo, and I'd have a snack.
And the architecture. What's with the mud huts? I don't get it. Personally, I'll take the dusty, crime filled streets of Detroit; at least there's some action there. Maybe that's part of the problem. You need a change of venue. A new environment. A place where your blood can start flowing again, and you can take in some oxygen.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not suggesting you move back to Michigan. I'm just saying maybe your senses need a different scene.
Guess I'm not giving Santa Fe a fair chance; I've only been in this town a few days. Maybe the right vibe just has to set in. After all, some locals say this place is magical, that there's a huge crystal right below the foundation of the city. from way back when, guess it began right after all the volcanoes blew up. Believe what you must!
I think with the two of us working on this problem, we can brainstorm and figure out what you should do with your life. Then you can decide if you want to end it.
Believe me Susan, as I said before, since I opened my business, Suicide Letters by Jack Monroe, I've lost no clients; few there were. Plus, you have to remember it was you who contacted me; so deep down, in some hidden way, you must want my help.
I'm roasting as the hot Southwest sun rises over my shoulder, streaming into the side of my eye. The brightness blinds me for a moment. I see silver sparkles dancing against a black setting, kind of like a bad reel-to-reel, flickering like a strobe light. I glimpse pictures of myself as a child, young and fearful. Wondering about the moment death gives birth to finality. Did I know then what I don't know now?
Now, don't let the title fool you, and it's not as if this is what I'm experiencing, but am in a way, and in a good way. As with everything, my life evolves around my writing, and about six weeks ago I forced myself to take a break from my passion and re-energize. Allowing myself only to write blogs, greeting cards and letters. And let me tell you, I've done this in the past, and had no problems, But this time, I find myself craving the craft, almost like an addict. But I refuse to give in, trying to hold on to the amount of time I've allotted myself. It's a constant thought though, every where I go, the words, ideas, characters follow me, like a welcome spring breeze after a frigid, relentless winter. I pick up my aged thesaurus, Roget's, which I've had since age twenty. The cover is scotch taped, worn and torn with use throughout the years. A good friend, as well as my Webster's dictionary, which I received from my parent's upon my high school graduation. It too, showing the signs of constant hard work. This feels good, sitting, writing, letting my mind flow free. Doing what I should be doing all the time. And this is why I take breaks. To make me re-realize the power that flows within. I'm back! Hope you enjoy!
I dreamt I saw a lady run across Loring Park's duck pond in a tight leather mini- skirt and a red tank top barely covering her breasts. Her feet slipped into black spiked high-heels. Her hair, long and black. She walks on water.
Around her on the hills people pour down like mud after a spring thaw. They come by the hundreds. "Mistress, Mistress," they chant as though in a religious gathering. I sit in awe dispute with myself, not really being who I am. I run, while all around me people sit and chant for this woman who walks on water.
I scurry into a coat check closet filled with boxes upon boxes. A little old lady has gotten lost in there too. I tug her arm trying to hide her from sight. She is carrying a plastic bag and when I pull it tips from her hands and all of these toys go spilling to the ground. As she bends over to pick them up, a guard comes to the door and orders, "Lily, come with us." She looks at me briefly, her brown eyes filled with sorrow, and yanks herself loose from my grip. The guard never notices me.
I crawl beneath a sleeping bag draped over gymnasium folding chairs. tented away from sight of anyone, I sleep.
Waking, I find myself roaming down a rusted street. Everything around me is rust. There is a power line erected above the river, all rust. The grass is rust, the trees are rust, the water, rust. I hear stomping of feet, non-consistent, yet persistent. I clench my hands around a part of the electrical power structure, and pull myself up. I climb to the second tier and look below me. Wires of rust sway from my weight. Guards walk beneath. They never look up.
I'm in a bathroom, suddenly I am myself and sitting next to me is the person I used to be. Hearing voices on the outside of the door, we huddle in a corner. The bath is filthy. The door opens slowly, muffled voices hang in the air like humidity in July. I look at me, me at I. We look toward the door.
"I'm just going to take a shower, and then I'll be right out. Wait here." A strained voice says. No reply.
Dark, blank eyes peer around the open door, we duck down unseen. I poke my head out, the door closes. A woman stands there. Eyes brown, furious. "I know you're there, you can stop hiding." I run.
I'm walking down an alley filled with overstuffed garbage bags spilling out onto the concrete. I hear a motorcycle engine echo off the decaying walls. You drive up, a man's arms harnessed around your waist.
You smile at me, unlock his fingers and get off.
"Come, will you help me wash my hair?"
I don't answer, just follow.
We walk into a room, black in color. I look at you, you at me. You place your hands on your head and remove the blond wig you are wearing. Your hair is short dark brown.
Mary Maurice wrote her first poem when she was in the ninth grade, and hasn't stopped writing since. Catching the fire at an early age, she continues to dedicate her time to the craft.