Wordlust : Paperfetish

Stranger In Moscow

2009-07-05T13:34:00.000-07:00

Well, Michael Jackson wasn't supposed to die. Not until we'd all had our way with him, anyway.
And cardiac arrest? Is that the best he could manage in all of his creative genius and tragic strangeness-- a heart attack? It's so ordinary and normal and bloodless. A heart attack? That isn't very...sordid.

My first thought when I heard the news, was that it wasn't true. My second thought was, that as weird as he is, living in a reality entirely of his and his pharmacist's making, I wondered if he even knew he was dead.

I don't believe it. Really, I don't believe it. Too young, too much unfinished business, too many songs left to write, too many people left behind to pick up the pieces--his kids, his family, his fans.

How does someone who has been so obsessively committed to eternal youth die of cardiac arrest? Old people keel over from cardiac arrest, not Michael Jackson.

I know, I know. Athletes in their prime, even teenagers with congenital heart conditions can succumb to such an thing. But those people aren't Michael Jackson.

I've never been among Jackson's rabid fans, but I appreciate brilliance when I hear and see it, and none of us could escape his fame. Everyone knew who he was, whether we wanted to or not. We've all been in awe, enraptured, disgusted, and confounded by this mysterious being. He was an enigmatic creature who's celebrity surpassed what we understand as the normal and expected confines and privilege of fame. He existed in a realm not unlike royalty--cloistered, guarded, and at the same time relentlessly scrutinized and exposed. It was a vicious circle, the more we wanted to know about him the more secretive he became, and that made us ravenous. All of us. The media, the fans, the haters, the detectives. Every one of us.

So I feel guilty. Not that the hounding and the voyeurism killed the man outright. But that he didn't have a moment's peace and couldn't enjoy a little normalcy, and that's all he wanted, ironically. He just wanted to be normal. All of his cosmetic surgery, his creation of Neverland, his mail-order family, these were how he tried to fabricate a normal life. But to Jackson, the difference between perfection and normalcy was not so clearly defined.

I feel bad that he didn't live long enough to resolve issues with his dad. I feel bad that he didn't live long enough to be absolutely vindicated of the sex abuse charges if he was truly innocent, or that he wasn't brought to justice if the accusations were based in fact. Yeah, he had his day in court, and the not guilty verdict is record now, but the question looms: Was an innocent man blackmailed, his reputation forever sullied, or was a family compensated for their silence?

I feel bad that I ridiculed him for being so sensitive and weird. In spite of all the crap he got for being grotesque after numerous surgeries, the flack about his dubious sexuality, and everything else over the years, he had remained an infinitely loving soul.

And genius or not, in fame or obscurity, black or white, that's all that has ever mattered. For any of us.

RIP

Cindy

Forgotten, But Not Gone

2007-03-15T19:05:00.000-07:00

...entirely.

I'm just popping in to let the two of you still reading WLPF that I have a third blog--heretofore published anonymously. It's not the snarky, sarcastic commentary you're used to reading here. It's very introspective, a little churchy, and probably not palatable to anyone but me. I just needed a place to dump all my journal entries from the last two or three years, and WordPress was there.

So you're cordially invited to check out Moving Forward In a Circle, and I'm prepared for the copious eye-rolling the posts there will provoke. Oh well. I've undergone some spiritual opening over the last year, and the non-writing and new blog is the culmination of those processes. My writing is my church and my math: It's where I go to ask my questions and how I sort out this mess of a life.

Make no mistake, though, I still have chronic and inflamed road rage and continue to drive better than everyone else.

From the nunnery,

Cindy

How Have You Been?

2006-09-14T21:34:00.000-07:00

I've been exhausted, bored, busy, disinterested.

Tonight I'm a little tipsy. It was a good day. I'm listnening to Live's Songs from Black Mountain. If you knew how many times I had to type this over to get it right you'd be glad I'm not driving anywhere. I'm lit fucking up.

Also listening to The Mars Volta. Fantastic.

God bless the people that entertain me.

Boozily,

Cindy

Rites Of Passage

2006-09-02T11:38:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to my brother Joe and my new sister-in-law Mary, on their recent nuptials.
I hope you're both having a blast in Cancun.

Cindy

Take That, British Empire!

2006-06-30T18:20:00.000-07:00

Happy Friday, cruel world.

I get a four-day weekend and there's nothing you can do about it. I'm going to sit on my fat, dimpled ass and play one game of Free Cell after another. I'm going to use my time off to hang out with my cat George. By hang out, I mean ignoring her cries for attention within the 1,400 square feet of my home, instead of all the way from work.

I'm going to turn my alarm off and sleep long enough to get bedsores by the time Tuesday rolls around. That's the mark of a good vacation in my book. Though I'm not a proponent of multitasking--and certainly not during the course of precious time off, I plan to bust out a few bedsores AND grow a beard. That's what people do on vacation, isn't it?

Avoiding: Blues Festivals, Fireworks, Crowds, Yardwork, Telephones.

Happy In Depends Day!

The Weekly Poetaster Report

2006-06-23T18:12:00.000-07:00

...as this is turning out to be, anymore.

What exactly is that annoying inflection with which poets read? It's not decidedly upward, as it doesn't gain or reach for anything, and it resolves in a downward tone only sporadically. It's an inflection peculiar to poets, seeming to bend just enough to almost be a whine in reverse. It vibrates between bitchiness and pretentiousness--perhaps it intones bitchtentiousness.

It's made worse with a slam attitude and /or rap hands. Or singing. The poet's inflection is a voice that seems to have wearied from it's own sound, it's own thoughts. It's a lilt that professes boredom and disinterest while at the same time smacks of arrogance in its self-consciousness.

I worry that I may be missing good poetry because I can't stand to listen to the awful reading of it. I'm almost tempted to ask for copies of the readers poems so that I can take in the work objectively without the irritating rendering of the pieces.

Once again, I'm smiling outwardly, feigning interest, but inside I'm praying to any deity within earshot to strike me dead before I have to clap for yet another bad reading of bad poetry.

How does one respond to a person who doesn't know how to read or write their own poetry?

An enthusiastic"Wow, you should really workshop that," is the best I can do, still looking them straight in the eye. Delivered with a tone of voice sounding complimentary, it's really a suggestion to get a second opinion before calling the piece finished.

Whateverishly,

Cindy

Never Mind The Poetry

2006-06-15T23:36:00.000-07:00

I meant to post this Tuesday night, but I just don't know where to start. As you may or may not know, or care, I occasionally attend Alberta Street Pub's Broken Word poety reading on Tuesdays. Sometimes I read, sometimes I just sit and suffer. This last week's revue was particulary awful--except for the main event, which was the release of a collaborative work called Dipshit Love.

You'll never guess who sidled up to me at my table. Yup. The crazy bag lady who has it in for David Lerner. She set her Screwdriver down on the table, asked nicely if she could sit with me, I obliged, and she started through her bag of poems, looking for the perfect selections to read for the evening. I couldn't believe it. Alice Olds-Ellingson was sitting at my table. The heckled and the heckler, rubbing elbows, breaking bread, making nice. OK, we never did any of those things. We never spoke to one another except for "Can I sit here?" and "Of course. Please..."

That doesn't mean she didn't talk. The whole night.

There was the assorted commentary, usually supportive and congratulatory of the other readers. And of course, there was the crazy banter, those things that only meant something to Alice.

Particularly, when one woman gave some background to the poem she was about to read, she said something that sounded like " eat Demerol.." A fellow in the audience shouted, "Eat Demerol?" The reader responded with the correct phrase, which I can't remember--because of the commentary soon to follow...

"Yeah, Eat Demerol," joked the poet on stage, and Alice immediately added, "At Dennys."

I don't remember anything else. I laughed to myself the rest of the evening.

You gottt love crazy people. Unarmed crazies, anyway.

At Denny's...ha ha .

Cindy

Sleepless In Seattle

2006-06-11T01:40:00.000-07:00

Hi.

I've had a bout of insomnia for the last week or so. I'm in Seattle--at the DoubleTree at SeaTac, actually, sitting in my room after 2 (shared) bottles of wine and a Kettle One martini. Didn't sleep last night, not ready to hit the sack just yet, in spite of ongoing and cumulative exhaustion.

In th Emerald City for a software seminar. Can you believe that? I'm not here for a concert, or to buy drugs, or to sign books, but to sit in a stuffy,windowless room learning the finer points of a medical office software program. I'm such a fucking sell-out.

At least I'm drunk. And awake.

Drunk, awake in Seattle,

Cindy

There Are Some Things Soy Sauce Just Can't Make Delicious

2006-05-30T22:43:00.000-07:00

There is one word which must never appear on a menu--at least in English, and that word is rectum. I don't mind seeing dishes described as having kidneys or heads or feet, or even intestines, but if a restaurant offers such a--um--delicacy-- as pig's rectum, let's pretty up the name on the menu. Or else the birthday party of nine-year-olds will all want to try it.

I have no problem with pork butt, however.

Cindy

Haven't Heard The Word "Destiny" Once

2006-05-28T13:40:00.000-07:00

Because I'm listening without really listening.

Lacuna Coil have outdone themselves with their latest CD, Karmacode. It's hard, it's dark, it's melodic, it's perfect.

I've learned to not listen closely to the lyrics, as the Italian idioms tend to translate stupidly into English, killing the mood, so to speak. But the music is sublime-- driving, throbbing, with plenty of middle eastern scales and runs to satisfy my exotic-seeking ears. They even cover Depeche Mode's "Enjoy The Silence."

Very, very cool.

Rockin' out,

Cindy

Watch For Me On A Future Season Of The Surreal Life

2006-05-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

..I made the Blogebrity C list. Whohoo!

Drunk with power,

Cindy

Letter To An Old Poet

2006-05-16T21:53:00.000-07:00

Dear Old Poet,

Only 15 poets can read tonight, four minutes each. You know that. So what do you do? You shuffle up to the front of the room, with a bag of something, manuscript? Props? I don't know. But you start in, a tirade of some sort about a guy named David Lerner. You stand there, bow-legged and hunched, spewing and swearing and going on and on about all manner of things no one in the audience can make any sense of. The MC politely asks you to wrap it up after about , oh, I don't know, about ten minutes of your ranting.

So you keep talking. You're not reading anything, or reciting. You dropped your bag about five minutes ago, so why are you still up there? I start clapping, hoping others will join in and you'll get the point, that you're done. So very done. You call me a bitch, and I clap and yell louder, and finally, FINALLY-- you leave.

Look you crazy old bat, if you're not even going to read bad poetry, don't sign up. If all you're going to do is have an unmedicated or an overmedicated psychotic episode, please do it downtown with the other bag ladies instead of taking precious time away from people who at least think they're reading poetry.

Get off the fucking stage.

Pissed the fuck off,

Cindy

Introducing The New 29 Hour Day

2006-05-15T22:02:00.000-07:00

Life is busy and work is stressful and I'm overwhelmed and I wish I could find the PAUSE button or were at least brave enough to make the jump from this charging train.

Peter Murphy still rules.

Cindy

Peter Murphy Rules

2006-05-08T11:25:00.000-07:00

Things to Remember:

The power of poetry comes from the ability to defy logic.
Defy logic often.

-----

The other thing is the ability to be remembered:
Love anything.
Love anything.

--Peter Murphy

Hostess of the Lostest

2006-05-05T20:07:00.000-07:00

I'm at work, and we're getting a little sauced waiting for passers by to stop in and oogle the art displayed at the clinic for the neighborhood's First Friday exhibition.

There are fiveof us here, eating the food, dancing to New Age Techno, wantonly spritzing ourselves with a Flower Essence concoction, formulated to unblock creativity.

Now a couple of the gals are headed over the the Dermalogica display to play with the face goop, one of them accosting me with Vitamin C cream. It's not the kegger party of my youth, but this is as close to partying as I get these days.

Happy Friday,

Cindy

Yes, I Need Attention And Validation

2006-05-02T22:00:00.000-07:00

Tonight's Broken Word poetry reading went alright. Kat came to support me. Glad she was there. I read just one poem, since there was a four minute limit. I brought "safe" poems to read--poems that had generated positive feedback, and one "riskky" piece, that had not received any feedback. Kat snuck a peek at the risky poem and liked it, said it was different, which is why I liked it. It was the poem I initially planned to read, but had wavered, not knowing how people may react. I read "Egyptians," the long, untested poem for Alberta Street Pub's audience tonight, and got through it. All 75 lines--mostly from memory.

I'll return next Tuesday to read some more of my poetry. It's the only way I can sit through other people's poetry, like an instant karmic payback. If I have to sit through yours, you'll sit through mine. All 75 lines.

Gloating,

Cindy

Cindy S. St. OngeWriter & Pilgrim

2006-04-26T23:03:00.000-07:00

Do any of us know anything about ourselves that we weren't told by other people?

I made a fuss months ago when my boss printed business cards for me. I'm the receptionist, I told him, what do I need cards for? He couldn't understand, I mean really couldn't understand my hangup with wasting paper and ink for business cards for the receptionist. I told him that everyone's cards have my number on them. Do clients need my card to call me in order to make an appointment with me so that they can then schedule an appointment with a practitioner? How fucking roundabout is that?

Besides the redunancy and uselessness of my card--and what I didn't tell him, was that business cards are like little headstones, tiny gravemarkers we give away to strangers and new acquaintences in a gesture which says, "I want you to remember me this way." A thick stock retangle that sums our lives up to that moment. An embossed snapshot of accomplishment and accreditation.

I'm not a receptionist. It's what I do, not who I am.

Back in the day, when one had to hire out the design and printing of business cards, it was a big deal to have them. And believe you me, receptionists and their ilk didn't have them. Calling cards were proof of prestige, position, bearing the names, titles, and numbers of people with careers, not the peasantry who were just holding down jobs. Now, in this age of desktop publishing, calling cards have achieved a fecund ordinariness, like driver's licences and social security numbers.

But at the end of the day, they're still little tombstones, summing us up and declaring our own separate plots in this world.

Claiming the sweet spot under the giant oak,

Cindy

What's Worse Than Jesus Marts?

2006-04-25T21:35:00.000-07:00

...local poetry readings.

I hate crappy poets. I hate crappy poetry, being read by crappy poets crappily.

They're awful. Horrible. Pornographic. Indulgent...and not even two glasses of wine can make these fucking poetasters tolerable.

You wouldn't believe what I had to sit through tonight. Swearing isn't poetry--that's blogging. Using words like pussy and dick--not poetry. Ending every line in a pretentious upward inflection-- still not poetry. Singing your fucking lame verse out of tune--still not anywhere close to poetry.

People, if you're not going to write about death or god, or at least write about sex using clever metaphors, then don't bother writing poems. Just don't.

Of course, I'll be signing up next week for Alberta Street Pub's Broken Word poetry reading. Somebody's got to raise the standard. Yes, I'm arrogant, but I'm good enough of a poet to be arrogant.

So. Tuesday at 7:30 sharp for you hecklers, and those of you interested in knowing the difference between what is and what isn't poetry.

Disgusted,

Cindy

Hard As Nails

2006-04-16T15:17:00.000-07:00

My brother and his fiancee invited me to Easter service this morning. A sucker for entertainment--any kind of entertainment, even saturated with religiosity, I accepted the invitation. Joe and his girlfriend are members of one of those big Foursquare Jesus Marts. And it was in one of these arena-sized arenas I witnessed this year's Resurrection Weekend production,

Glossy, slick, dripping with melodrama, this year's show dramatized a modern death row story, the set looking curiously like Jail House Rock. Replete with appropriate measures of guilt, angst, redemption, and a fog machine, the miracle of the resurrection played out in Jesus Marts all over the land this morning--the off, off Broadway extravaganza for the faith ridden.

And speaking of miracles--the fellow portraying the risen Lord at East Hill wasn't of the blond, blown-dry, blue-eyed variety, but a darker, more authentic representation of the Hebrew messiah.

Yeah, I shed tears. I always cry at the theater. But I regained my composure well before the pastor invited any and all souls moved to open their hearts to Jesus and raise their hands. I steeled myself--hard as nails, in my seat, journaling throughout. The broken were asked to raise their hands in a show of capitulation of reason and self-sovereignty. This would be the worst possible time for my head to itch, so of course it did. I resisted, keeping my hand down, and would eventually exit the arena just as I enetered--agnostic and rightfully superior. I did, howver, put two bucks in the offering basket.

"You're tithing?" Joe asked, surprised.

"Nope. I'm tipping.

Happy Easter,

Cindy

A Work In Progress

2006-04-11T23:32:00.000-07:00

...is better than no work or no progress.

Waxing poetic and wanting tweezers,

Cindy

Untitled

This is Winter,
my uninterrupted dream.
Black on silver,
a bladelike season
poised to drain
my very life if
I even for a moment
drowse.

Should Spring call
before I wake--
her lovely daffodils-
their dragon heads atrumpeting,
rouse me from these leafless trees
into that greener, gilded morning.

Happy Birthday To Wordlust : Paperfetish!

2006-04-06T00:11:00.000-07:00

One year ago today I posted my first entry onto WLPF, and I must say it's been one of the most rewarding ventures I've ever undertaken.

Thank you to Joe, Kathleen, Betty, Heidi, Rock, Brad, Aunt B, Princess Cranky Pants, Hannah, Vince, Annush, Nanilator, A Mere Mortal, Rhein, Kris, and all the lurkers--both the twisted and the random clickers, for visiting my blog and enabling my self-indulgence. Thank you for reading, for commenting, and for entertaining me in turn with your own posts. Also, a big thank you to Jade Smith for the glowing review of WLPF at The Weblog Review.

With no further ado, let's eat some of that cake.

Celebratorily & wearing a pointy paper hat,

Cindy

If I Had Your Number

2006-04-03T20:40:00.000-07:00

...I'd be drunk dialing.

I enjoyed two glasses of a Willamette Valley Vineyards pinot noir called "Chainsaw." As the lovely waitress at Springwater Grill tells it, the wine got its name from the grafting process involving a chainsaw. She coyly left out the part about the teenagers who's van ran out of gas.
What van? What teenagers?

I didn't press; just enjoyed my dinner and drink.

I miss writing. Not enough to actually write anything, but just enough to feel sorry for myself and my bygone talent. Ambition; who has energy and time to see this thing through? Not me. Not these days.

Wanna know what's in my day planner? I'm going to tell you anyway. I've jotted all the TV shows I watch on their respective days. The Apprentice on Mondays, American Idol on Tuesdays, American Idol and America's Next Top Model on Wednesdays, My Name is Earl and The Office on Thursdays. I don't have to write Cops on my Saturday page, because the 8:00 timeslot has been engrained in my brain since the show's pilot a decade or more ago.

Gotta go--The Apprentice is on in 6 minutes.

Chainsaw buzzed,

Cindy

Effing Perverts

2006-03-31T14:03:00.000-08:00

I get my share of depraved visitors who've googled things like viscera, blood, agonal breathing, air hunger, etc. But my last post has drawn the very dregs of society, who have bounced on and off of WLPF searching for "dead girls" and "cute little girls".

So, to all you child-raping perverts, disappointed that there's no trapped prey here, you are so fucking busted.

Disgusted,

Cindy

There Are Cute Little Dead Girls...

2006-03-27T21:29:00.000-08:00

...and there are cute little dead girls. Lenore is the cutest of all.

I've finally found the animated strips of Roman Dirge's Lenore: The Cute Little Dead Girl, which used to be linked to his sight, but were lost in cyber limbo the last two years. They've been restored at a Nightrose sight--the link located in my Worthy Blogs list for your convenience. My favorite strips are Li'l Ballerina, Bloaty the Frog, Ragamuffin, And The Taxidermy.
Morbid, funny, cute, and creepy digital music. Check it out folks.

Gleefully,

Cindy

Grieving the Ephemeral; Celebrating the Tangible

2006-03-23T20:39:00.000-08:00

A very good friend of mine is mourning the death of someone very close to her today. My friend is smart, evolved, enlightened, and psychic. And for all her enmeshment in spirit, she is devasated by the loss of her beloved friend. My friend lost someone who had been both a mother figure and a best friend, and was an enlightened soul herself. But her death, the utter stopping and stilling of her physical and finite body has my friend beside herself with grief.

Of course.

Funny. This imperfect shell, this pocked and puffy suit, flawed and blemished and clumsy--this is what our loved ones will miss. They will grieve this body in its dumb and wooden state, no matter that we didn't lose that 10 pounds, or 30. No matter that our skin wasn't creamy soft. No matter that we couldn't run a 3 minute mile.

And our loved ones will miss us--for we will all be missed eventually. They will grieve the stilled body, not because of the body itself, but because of the spirit which imbued it. This is how every one of us matters to everyone else in the end. This is how we are loved, and how we love others.

If we could grieve our own bodies, understanding what truly endears us to other souls, would we ever hold anything back?

Somberly,

Cindy

Johnny Freakin' Depp

2006-03-22T20:02:00.000-08:00

"Do you like me now?" asks the Earl of Rochester, John Wilmot, Johnny Depp's debauched character in The Libertine.

Yes, Johnny, I like you now. There isn't a makeup artist skilled enough to make me not like you. I liked you, depraved and wicked and brilliant all the same in your character's prettier days, and I liked you still, repentant and rotting on your deathbed as the Earl. I liked your accent better in Pirates of the Caribbean, but you rocked the 17th century Brian May/Kevin DuBrow wig, dude.

I really liked your androgynous Willy Wonka, and your innocent Neverland character. I even like you in stuff I've never seen you in, because I'm sure your lips and eyes were great in those flicks too.

I didn't care for you in 21 Jump Street--just wasn't my cup of tea.

But I really do like you--pirate, writer, asshole, writer, chocolatier--whatever you wanna be, baby.

Breathily,

Cindy

A Rational Mind In An Irrational World

2006-03-17T14:01:00.000-08:00

Of course I'm not superstitious. It's bad luck to be superstitious.

Briefly,

Cindy

Crawling Back Into My Cave

2006-03-16T10:27:00.000-08:00

A moment of silence please. Or a month of it.

Shhhhh...

Cindy

It's Alive! It's Alive!

2006-03-12T17:27:00.000-08:00

I've posted two new poems on my Blood Blog.

Later Dudes,

Cindy

Taking a Break Folks

2006-03-07T10:33:00.000-08:00

Hi all. I'm taking some time off of writing and blogging, so please entertain yourselves with my archives, and visit the Worthy Blogs listed to your right. Just feelilng a little exhausted these days. I'll return in a couple of weeks, unless I get a hair up my butt and just have to tell you about it.

All used up,

Cindy

Essays From the Slush Pile

2006-02-26T20:08:00.000-08:00

Here's another piece you won't find in the Atlantic Monthly. Laugh and learn, everybody.

Cindy

The Best of Both Worlds:
An Argument for Hypocrisy

Once upon a time, as I chomped down on a gooey maple bar in the lunchroom, a coworker shuffled in for a snack. My mouth happily collapsed around the pastry, I glanced up, noticing that the center of her face seemed to cave and pucker, like a drawstring in her head were pulled tight. So she says “You know how bad that stuff is for you, don’t you?”

Well, of course I knew how bad it was. I had told her the very same thing a not a week before. Oh yeah, I went on and on about the evils of dairy, caffeine and sugar. I threw out words like ‘mucous’ and ‘heart attack’ and there was even mention of intestinal parasites. Now, caught with the goods—or rather the bads, I cowered in my tall mint mocha, unable to respond. Red faced, and red handed, I felt guilty and hypocritical. But it got me thinking. Yeah, I’m a hypocrite. So What? Why is that so horrible? I’m not a bad person, I just hold two opposing views simultaneously. From that juncture of logic, I set out to prove that hypocrisy wasn’t so much a character flaw, as it was a wrongfully maligned coping mechanism, essential—yes I did say essential, to one’s mental health.

Nobody wants to be thought of hypocritical. We do our best to pick a stance and stay with it, striving for consistency in everything we do and say, but occasionally we fall short. Sometimes, unwittingly, other times deliberately, we interrupt that steady-as-she-goes, uniformity of principle, walking-the-talk-integrity. If we’re caught, the ensuing self-reproach infects the psyche, allowing guilt to fester there, unnecessarily.

Mr. Webster believes a hypocrite to be a charlatan or fraud; one who practices deception. When I told my coworker the skull and crossbones facts about sugar, caffeine, etc., I wasn’t in any way trying to deceive her. I believed then and do now that those and a host of other additives are toxic ka ka. I had eliminated these very poisons from my diet for a whole year and felt terrific. Then Halloween came around. I stocked up on fun-size everything like the end of the world was coming. Realizing at one point that I had eaten nothing but sugar and caffeine for an entire week, I thought that because sugar is burned for fuel and caffeine is a stimulant, as long as I consume them, I can’t die. I would have continued in this fashion, but my teeth started to hurt.

My point being that one can believe and practice two opposing ideas. Characterizing my actions as hypocritical was incorrect. A more fitting word would be paradoxical, which Webster defines as inconsistent behavior; contradictory, ironic. So call the behavior what it is, folks: Paradoxical. I rather like the sound of that. I’ve gone from social pariah to ironic in one brilliant word.

Some may insist that paradoxicallity is a personality detriment. I’d call it an ability, a gift.* Life has much to experience, so many things to like and dislike. So many roses to smell and desserts to savor. There are concepts and edicts galore to hold or refute, to scoff or defend, to ignore or to canonize. Because we don’t have a lot of time to do it all in, paradoxicalists have evolved with the capacity to see not just one side of an issue, but all sides, and adherence to a number of views is normal—commendable even. We are capable of being multi-factioned due to our extraordinary broad vision and wide open emotional capacity. Unfortunately because of a misnomer, we’ve been persecuted for this exceptional trait. Why pick just one side of an issue and have a flimsy 50/50 chance of being right? You know what that is folks? It’s gambling. And where I come from, gambling is a vice.

Many of us exhibit ‘hypocrisy’ to some extent. Let me help you down off your high horse with a demonstration. Not all pedestrians are drivers, but all drivers are pedestrians on occasion. How many times have you—the driver, been waiting to make a turn, while a pedestrian dawdles across the road with the leisure of molasses? “Hurry up you bloody so and so!” Shouting seems to make them walk even slower. You’re thinking “If only there were a thirty second time limit, no—make that twenty seconds, that would permit me to make the turn, lawfully rendering the slowpoke into a speed bump if necessary after they’d timed out.” Sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?

OK. You’ve parked your car and need to cross the street. The blue “WALK” sign bids you step into the road. You’re about halfway across when some jerk almost takes you out in the middle of a sloppy left turn. He is so close, you could see which radio station he’s tuned to. “Where did you learn to drive? You f****n JERK! Oh yeah, you’re in such a BIG Hurry! What a self-important big shot you are!”

See what I mean? Not five minutes ago, you were ready to write your congressman about the “fifteen-second rule.” Now it seems that you’ve exceeded your 45 seconds in the crosswalk. This is an instance where you have to have it both ways, otherwise you’d combust under the pressure of lopsided reasoning.

Hypocrites! Paradoxicalists! Come out of your closets and be proud of who you are! Because, you can have your cake and eat it too, even if you say that you don’t like cake to begin with.

* It is my hope that I can use my paradoxicallity for the good of all. In the event I cannot locate all, I shall use it for my own benefit.

I'll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours

2006-02-21T10:00:00.000-08:00

Across the street from Stickers and Springwater grill in Sellwood are a number of antique shops and boutiques, divey bars, and more antique purveyors. An office building is nestled between these businesses, with foot-high gold lettering advertising the name of the building, which is
C. A. Butt.

Yep. That's what it says. For reals.

Hallelujah, It's Raining Air!

2006-02-15T14:06:00.000-08:00

It is so freakin' beautiful today I can hardly stand it. Just went for a walk and the air smells fantastic!

I ran into a woman this morning I had met some months ago. She is the most delightful, optomistic, sunny creature I've ever encountered, and she suffers from dementia. Well, I shouldn't say she 'suffers', she seems to be pleased about most things, most days.

She's always astounded to find herself at appointments or shoppping for groceries or whatever she's doing at the time, and accepts everything as happening in its perfect time and place. She can't remember what she said to you just a moment ago, but she lives in the present because she can't dwell on the past even if she wanted to. And when her friends see her out and about and come up to her, greeting her with wide smiles and jubilant salutations--people who call her by name though she can't remember them for the life of her-- I imagine she must feel a little famous.

Every second is a miracle to her, again and again and again.

Delighted,

Cindy

Borrowed From A Missive

2006-02-12T22:04:00.000-08:00

This is from an email exchange from last year, at about this time. Today feels just this way:

What a beautiful day today. I went for a walk, and
didn't get rained on. My neighbor discovered violets
in her lawn. Spring can't wait to get here. It wants
to surprise us, trying to psyche us into thinking winter's
here to stay, but its green and budding joy is leaking
in little smirks. By the time it's ready to jump from
behind a bush, throwing lilac confetti at us, its
secret will have already seeped out in daffodil
blooms. Sneaky Spring. I'll act surprised if you will.

--Cindy

It's Called Western Civilization For A Reason

2006-02-06T20:33:00.000-08:00

This is why people hailing from or living in arid regions should NEVER, EVER, for any reason, make policy of any kind. That means no creating of dogma, dreaming up new religions, writing legislation, or uttering any manner of decree. Leave these things to the more level-headed, frontal-lobe-using inhabitants of northern, cooler climes, who don't wipe their asses with their bare hands.

It's a FUCKING CARTOON, for crying out loud. Get OVER it!

Cindy

If Spring Could Defrost In A Microwave...

2006-02-05T10:23:00.000-08:00

It would be just about ready.

What a gorgeous day; where are my sunglasses? Today is my only day off, and as good luck would have it, it' stupendous: Sunny, mild, dry. My temperment should aspire to such conditions, not to mention my swampy girl parts.

About to breathe in the newly greening world,

Cindy

To All You Superstitious Folks--

2006-02-02T12:15:00.000-08:00

Happy Groundhog Day.

Choosing to leave hibernating animals alone,

Cindy

If George Bush Can Be President...

2006-01-31T09:37:00.000-08:00

...anyone can.

Aspirants to political careers worry about exposing skeletons in their closets. I can't imagine there are very many who may actually have literal skeletons-- in their closets, basements, and god fobid anyone should ask about the juice boxes labeled "Type O".

This guy doesn't have a past to cover up, but a present to, well--explain. Like many conservatives in this country, Sharkey wants to return to a simpler time with traditional values, and old world mores. He'd like to go back to an era not so very rife with political correctness, cell phones, or indoor plumbing. And, working within the system--if he would become president--would revert to its orignal intent and meaning. Working within the system would take only a few days--for the the sharpened stick on which one was impaled to work its way up from your bowels through your heart or neck or mouth.

This news article may look bad in anyone else's political career. I don't think it'll matter much to Sharkey's demographic. God help us all if he has a demographic.

Read My Blog, Love My Blog, Rave To All Your Friends

2006-01-26T13:57:00.000-08:00

I'm at work, killing time during lunch. What are you doing? Waiting for a punchline? I thought as much. Sorry. This is the writing equivalent of mumbling. You might as well tune me out.

Oh, I just want to say, George, if you're reading this, mommy loves you and misses you and I'll be home tonight. And don't drink out of the toilet or scoot your poopy butt on the furniture. I know you're going to do it anyway. Damn cat.

Hugs and Head-Pattins,

Mamma Kitty

The American Taliban's Fatwa Against Uteruses Begins

2006-01-23T10:03:00.000-08:00

Scary news out of South Dakota today, folks. Gals, prepare to remove your uteruses and courier them to the President, for that is to whom they now belong.

Wishing my privacy and physical autonomy well in their new home,

Cindy

Stop Whatever You're Doing Right This Minute...

2006-01-21T22:38:00.000-08:00

Because my Blood Blog has a new look. Kind of.

OK. Now you can go back to whatever you were doing before reading my shrill and alarming headline.

Spastically,

Cindy

A Phase of Aphasia

2006-01-18T16:28:00.000-08:00

Thank you everyone for checking in here at WLPF. Not feeling very talkative these days. I feel as if I've used up all my words. Sorry, I've nothing left to say. For now.

Mutely,

Cindy

Read English, Avoid Tragedy

2006-01-11T10:49:00.000-08:00

I rode the train and bus into Vancouver B.C. a few years ago, my first trip to Canada. At the border, I stood in line to present my passport and submit to the scrutiny of customs officials. As I kicked my luggage along when the line moved forward, I read all the signs, with their instructions both in English and in French. Everything was in English and in French, except one black, stenciled message on the luggage carousel which said, "KEEP OFF."

I can take a hint.

Apparently only an American would be stupid enough to take a ride on the luggage-go-round, and only the Canadians would point this out with government sanctioned bold lettering.

If only they could vote in our elections. Or at least post signs, in block-lettered English, in voting booths demanding common sense.

Staying off the luggage carosels in the Great White North,

Cindy

Much Too Young

2006-01-07T19:39:00.000-08:00

I'd like to extend heartfelt condolences to Art Bell, whose wife Ramona succumbed suddenly to an asthma attack yesterday, at the age of 47.

I was shocked to read the sad news on Coast to Coast A.M.'s website last night. The Bells were as tight as a couple could be, in love, inseperabe, for the last 15 or so years. I can only imagine how devasted Mr. Bell must be at the sudden loss of his best friend.

I hope, that in time, he will be comforted by all he has learned from the many experts he's interviewed over the years, who've answered his questions about life after death. To grieve is the hardest way to explore the topic, but the surest route to the truth without dying oneself.

Sympathetically,

Cindy

Moving Right Along

2006-01-03T21:58:00.000-08:00

I'm posting for no other reason than I'm sick of seeing the lists.

Oh--by the way, Happy New Year.

Cindy

The Best of the So-So and the Mediocre--Revised

2005-12-28T11:11:00.000-08:00

It's list season. Christmas lists, New Year's resolution lists, and best and worst lists. Because Wordlust : Paperfetish is by me, for me, and largely about me, so are my lists--with a couple of new categories since posting earlier today.

Here are my vainglorious calculations:

Worst Name for a Blog that I Hate Trying to Explain to People:
Wordlust : Paperfetish

Best Name for a Blog that I Wish I'd Thought of:
I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet A Wino

Best WLPF Title:
Wait--Come Back! The Bible--It's a COOKBOOK!

Best WLPF Title NOT Ripped Off of Anyone Else:
I Just Assumed You Wanted Me to Make An Ass Out of You

Post Most Likely to Provoke Litigation:
Letter To A Disgruntled Client

Post Most Likely to Convince Readers of my Dubious Sexuality:
Boyfriends Are For Women Who Can't Keep Their Cats Happy

Lamest Post Recieving Many Comments:
Brains...Must...Eat...Brains! (6 comments)

SuperCool New Yorker-Worthy Post--Ignored By The Masses:
A Bitch By Any Other Name

Why Jesus Has Spray-Painted and Broken Out the Windows in the House My Father Hath Prepared For Me:
Tie: Life On Earth: A Consumer's Report
Jesus Loves Me, This I Know

Why He'll Be Repainting My Heavenly Abode and Installing French Windows and Begging My Forgiveness:
Based On A True Story

Though It Was Hard To Choose, This Year's Best Post at WLPF:
Where There Are Lips...

Merry Christmas

2005-12-25T12:18:00.000-08:00

To each and every one of you. Light is returning to the northern hemisphere as I write this.

Take your list of resolutions you determined to accomplish at the beginning of the year. Can you cross any of them off? Did you discover something about yourself this year? Maybe you didn't get close to any of those tasks of evolution, but you understand that the difficulty in the growth you so want must start deeper. Add this to last year's list and to every year to come: I will have at least one epiphany this year.

May the new year bring many revelations to all of us.

Cindy

Bah Hum Bitch

2005-12-23T14:41:00.000-08:00

Crispy Bangs woke me up this morning at 5:30. She is a loud beast thing who stomps her way through the house, clamoring utensils in the kitchen as if it weren't the crack of fucking dawn.

She constantly hawks loogies into her throat, because she smokes, and because she is made up of little scraps of white trash like some papier mache creature. She has so much shit over here, this house looks likes it's packed up to go somewhere, and I finally threw out the crap she and my brother have had in the fridge over the last year. I'm afraid she's going to camp out here all fucking goddamn weekend and ruin what's left of my Christmas vacation. Goddamn motherfucking grifter cunt.

She uses my towels, and she's crusted over with god knows how many fungal infections. She brays like a jackass when she laughs and she's stupid. The combined intellect of she and my brother--a pairing I refer to as two wrongs don't make a couple, would total one retard. My brother's obnoxious lummoxing is bad enough, but when they get together it's an intolerable crash of 400 decibel stupidity.

I hate her. I just fucking hate her.

Seething,

Cindy

OK, Nevermind About the White Christmas

2005-12-22T16:06:00.000-08:00

I should have known better--living in Portland my whole life. White Christmas. Ha!

Too broke and overwhelmed to shop this season. Everyone on my list was just a few dollars away from each getting a Fandango puppet. Or lottery scratch offs. Or baking. And even that requires nothing short of heroic life saving measures to get my adrenals and nervous system functioning.

Last night our clinic celebrated the season at Natasha's house, gnoshing on healthy dishes and lots of wine. Then we sat down to participate in our White Elephant exchange.

Funny. A room full of alternative philosophied-buddhist-pagan leaning lefties all wanted the same gift: A Jesus action figure--with glow-in-the-dark hands. Everyone kept stealing it. I was the last to pick, and I ended up with it, until it was snatched from my hands by a giftless gamer.

I ended up with a backpack containing a Beastie Boys CD, a Luna bar, and a headband flashlight.
They'll come in handy, I suppose. But they won't ever be a posable plastic messiah. Damn it.

Scroogiciously,

Cindy

Weather Girl

2005-12-18T16:37:00.000-08:00

It's snowing here in Portland. Twenty-eight degrees, east wind ablowin', and frosted flakes stinging exposed cheeks and nostrils around town.

An annual Christmas outing enjoyed by two of my best friends and myself was cut short this afternoon when tiny pellets of freezing rain teased from the sky--a sky that only minutes before was clear and blue.

"We gotta go now. I don't drive in ice or snow," said one of my friends. By the time she and I reached the east side of town, and our other friend was negotiating curves along Sylvan, the city had become blanketed in white. We arrived at our respective homes just in time.

Whew!

This may be the year--the one year--that Portland gets a White Christmas.

Keep warm everyone, and get your cats and dogs in out of the storm.

If only real blizzards came in flavors,

Cindy

In Some Other Time/Space Continuum

2005-12-11T20:07:00.000-08:00

...it's Friday. So, honoring diverse dimensions and realities, I'm posting poetry today for those inhabitants of the Twilight Zone and the Outer Limits.

Quantam Physically,

Cindy

Poems from The Grotto

(At Taize)

Maybe this time is just for me
to sing my pain, to hear its sweetness.

I am transformed here,
and stripped bare.
My ego dies to my purpose here,
and I participate in poetry.

And when I think
of all the red inside me,
I understand, at last, that
I don’t bleed; I burn.

(In the Peace Garden)

Found: A lush, green and
sun-dappled world.
Her trees exude a perfume of
spice and loam; it’s in my hair
and I am among the growing
things here, rooted in basalt
and stretching to heaven--
dancing with the stream
and becoming water.

(In the Meditation Chapel)

Here is the bud
closed upon itself
believing that it is darkness.
In time, each petal leans toward
a white sun, peeling away the lie
exposing a buttery stamen at the
very moment of discovery.

"I am a skirt; I am a wheel and a sun
and I am a universe!" says the bloom,
splayed and spinning in exquisite realization

until another season comes to take
both the closing and the opening,
stripping every rooted creature of both
its dream and its awakening
leaving behind just a green
stem to shiver in the dirt, still
growing out of God.

--Cindy St. Onge
2005

Stop Crapping All Over My Holiday Depression, I Mean Season

2005-12-07T11:35:00.000-08:00

Like a lot of people--perhaps an increasing number of people, I find the holidays depressing. Certainly, there are as many reasons to be bummed out this time of year as there are needles on a Christmas tree: The emphasis on family closeness abrades like sand paper on people coming from dysfunctional homes. The in-your-face, government-sanctioned Christian taintings of what was once a pagan winter solstice celebration insults non-Christians. The anti-Christian protests against those traditional taintings--like the word "Christmas" itself, cause the faithful to be on guard during every one of the final 30 or so shopping days.

Enough already. This world is full of monstrosities and injustices more worthy of disparaging. Sulk in private, stew in silence, or air your grievances around the Festivus Pole, but stop taking shots at a holiday that at its worst exploits commercialism, and at its best promotes good will.

People who fuck with Christmas are cowards who won't venture near real issues, are people who don't have a solid cause the rest of the year, are people who think they're taking a stand because they declare their hatred of seasonal music. Get over it.

Dysfunction was rife in the St. Onge household, but we were close and loving, and my childhood memories of Christmastime are rich with the magic, expectation, and the sensory feast of the season: the tastes and smells of gingerbread and spritz, egg nog and cocoa, the fascination of blinking lights, spicy odors of cedar and pine, the silver bite of snow, red and green and gold packages and paper. These are the things that get me through the bleak months.

Winter equals death in my family. My dad died five days before Christmas in 1978. I was 14, my brother, 12. Our mother died five days after the new year, 2001. My mother's mother died in November of 1955. I've mentioned before that the onset of winter triggered grief in my mother. Like her, this is the time of year when Joe and I can only think of all we've lost.

With just the two of us left, and my nephew who splits Christmas between two families, the effort to celebrate dissipates a little more every year. We always say, "No Christmas this year; don't feel up to it." Then about a week before December 25, we get a tree, trim it, and bask in the magic and the memories of happier Christmases.

We play carols, drive around the neighborhood admiring lights and decorations, and at the last minute our spirits are lifted. Joe and I realize that our innocence, our family as an intact unit, live on in the songs, the lights, the smells and colors, seeing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman, and The Little Drummer Boy for the zillionth time.

We talk about how Mom and Dad used to lock us in the bedroom to watch A Christmas Carol while they "secretly" wrapped presents on Christmas Eve. We remember favorite presents, and grieve our old, red and green stockings our Aunt Mary made that haven't hung on the mantle in twenty years. Then we vow to celebrate with vigor and earlier preparation the next year, but those intentions drown under seasonal grief and the everyday worries and frustrations that tax us.

You may hate Christmas, and maybe you have a legitimate reason. But all the things you hate--the music, the hype, nativity scenes and paper snowflakes--whatever, those are the things that resonate with a small part of me that hasn't become hardened and jaded. My childhood and the people I love and have lost are ghosts in candycanes and red ribbons, in blinking lights and Santa dolls, in verses of O Holy Night and Silver Bells.

And despite the sorrow their absence causes, I just can't hate them.

Adipocere Is One Of My Favorite Words

2005-12-02T20:19:00.000-08:00

And saponify has a kind of sing-songy, ghetto-vernacular melody about it. One of these Fridays, you'll see both of those words in a poem right here.

Because it is still Friday, I'm not late with this week's poem, technically. I wrote the following ditty, oh, about 6 or 7 years ago I suppose. It has something for both ornithologists and seekers of lust mord alike.

All things to some people,

Cindy

ALARM

Two starlings at my window sill,
Tapping at the glass—
To announce today that Death had come.
I looked away at once.

They tapped again, louder still
As if I didn’t hear
Their awful news, delivered prompt
When they first appeared.

I heeded them
And thought I must
Promptly call on those
Dear to me, to see, alas,
Who, from me had gone.

Their message borne,
Their task complete—
The birds were free to go.
One flew away;
One stayed behind—
Oh, My God! What now?

I let him in,
He perched awhile;
I waited for a sign.
When he felt
The time was right,
He asked me for my soul.

I told him I
Was still alive,
My soul was mine to keep.
He asked again,
I told him no—
This went on and on.

I went about
My daily tasks
As if he wasn’t there.
I offered every now and then,
The door for him to leave.

He refused, then nighttime fell,
I asked if he’d be missed.
He said “By whom?”
--The other bird…
the one I saw you with.

He waited there quite patiently.
I, more restless grew.
The dreaded fate
Of which he spoke
Encroached upon me now.

My vision became cloudy,
I tired so at once.
My body became burdensome—
A thousand moments passed.

A transformation came about—
Then I stirred anew.
I felt so much lighter now,
As if I were a bird.

Be it bird or angel,
This guardian of mine:
That stubborn thing
Who waited ‘til
Deliverance had come.

And now that task
At last fulfilled,
We prepared to fly.
He went on, ahead of me
And opened up the door.

Another Masterpiece Deemed Unfit To Print

2005-11-29T21:22:00.000-08:00

...by everyone but me, that is.
I think this is a good essay, even if it's shuffled from one slush pile to another.
People accuse me of having delusions of grandeur, but that isn't so.

They're predictions.

Preening from my perch,

Cindy

To Serve Man: A Very Fancy Feast

Cats: Nature’s serial killers. They’re our beloved fur-trimmed Ginsu collections, and we proudly bear the tell-tale scars, pilled slacks and sweaters, and of course, our very own protective layer of shed fur, apparently meant to ward off dogs and boyfriends. Cat fanciers the world round know that at the end of the day, there’s nothing more satisfying than coming home to a fuzzy, wide-eyed feline, who immediately showers its human with unconditional hunger.

Perhaps I’ve watched too many documentaries on Animal Planet, because the more I learn about cats, the more I find the symbiosis between them and us to be a tad suspect. After paying careful attention to my fifteen-year-old gray tabby, Nikki, examining our relationship with all its degrees of give and take, I’ve decided that I need her more than she needs me, and I’m beginning to wonder about her agenda.

I know I’m not the only one who feels unnerved upon glancing up from a newspaper to find Kitty staring at me.. There she sits—sphinx-like, in a trance so resolute, that if it weren’t for the twitching tail she could easily pass for one of my marble-eyed Garfield slippers. The experts say that direct eye contact is an aggressive posture. Then why is my lovable, cuddly tabby staring at me? Is she trying to pick a fight? Maybe she’s confused and thinks I’m prey…is that it? If I’m to believe the learned authorities on feline behavior, then my muffin-headed snuggle monster isn’t confused at all. I am prey.

Fastidious note taker that she is, she’s updating my dossier. Checking for a limp or cough, sniffing out attrition, waiting for her chance to usurp control of our household. I’ve caught her on more than one occasion, stalking me. Silent, wraith-like, she slinks just mere paces behind me, before I turn to discover her in mid-step, head lowered and eyes fixed. She brings all fours together and licks her lips, never diverting her gaze. Her expression is smug. “What? I wasn’t doing anything,” she seems to say. I pivot, giving my back to her and take a few more steps before turning again to catch her following, her eyes glowering with predation.

Isn’t that cute? She’s jumped up on my lap, kneading me with that push-pull manipulation kitties are famous for. I grit my teeth to better tolerate the thorny prickling of Nikki’s love gouges. “She thinks I’m her mommy,” I coo-- before it occurs to me that she might just be checking to see if I’ve lost weight. Maybe she wants to know if she can take me all by herself, or if Plan Tag Team is warranted. The next time you see Kitty eyeballing you with her cold, yellow stare, consider that she may in fact be field dressing you with her eyes. You must be vigilant for the six or eight minutes she’s awake out of each hour, or else.

Perhaps I wax paranoid, but what if they are smarter than we are, or at least smarter than we think they are? What if Orwell’s Animal Farm isn’t just allegory, but an eventuality? Humans like having the upper hand, and as long as we can foster dependency from other creatures we’ll maintain that notion. All sorts of domesticated animals, from cattle and horses to birds and trophy wives, have had their natural instincts toward self-sufficiency bred out of them, and now depend on people for sustenance and designer down bedding. Cats, on the other hand, don’t depend on us as much as they demand things from us.

Ever see cat people picking out food for their charges? Notice the furrowed brows and faces cloaked in panic. Listen to their self-talk: No, she won’t eat that anymore. I remember the look she gave me when I tried to feed her the Chicken and Tuna combo. Won’t try that again. They handle one flavor, then another, shaking their heads before placing it back on the shelf. Professional bomb diffusers don’t sweat this much. Here comes Dog’s Best Friend, wearing his “I’m with Fido” T-shirt, slapping Alpo cans indiscriminately into his basket. He’s even knocked a couple of Fancy Feast tins in by accident. No matter. Fido won’t turn his wet little nose up at anything. He’ll even chew on the can for an encore.

As for the cats that hunt their own food, they are one of the most streamlined and strategic predators on earth. They are cunning opportunists endowed with stoic patience and the inventiveness to master more efficient, less labor intensive methods of acquiring food. In other words, they’re lazy. When food supply allows, even breeds given to solitude will hunt in groups, utilizing a type of relay system to bring down big game, conserving energy and assuring success.
It seems that one lion in Kenya tackles prey only to bring a few of them back to her den for some good old fashioned feline mothering. Kamuniak, a lioness at the Samburu Game Park has on four separate occasions fostered young Oryx elk in a manner most tender and nurturing, after kidnapping them from their mothers. Park officials, astounded by this aberration of carnivore protocol, have rescued three of the four elk, returning them to their anxious mothers. Sadly, one calf perished at the jaws of a hungry male lion while out of Kamuniak’s sight.

Samburu Park officials and others interested in the lioness, marvel at this peculiar display of motherhood. I suspect this big cat’s designs are more sinister. I think she’s farming.
Cats copy observed behavior. Perhaps Kamuniak gleaned the notion after watching shepherds tending a herd of goats or cattle. Looking on from a secluded perch in a leafy eucalyptus, she may have followed the movements of a man wielding a staff, corralling a great number of beasts into a confined area. Maybe the epiphany occurred organically, maybe not, either way it’s possible that Kamuniak is leading her kind up another rung of the evolutionary ladder, etching claw marks close to the notched block letters declaring “Man was here” and “Scorpions Rule!” Or maybe, just maybe, cats have been farming us all along.

It’s only a matter of time before they are truly able to assert dominion over us. The day they become employable is the day the scales of power tip in their favor. It isn’t so far fetched to imagine their eventual infiltration into the workplace. They’ve got skills. They’re quick learners. They excel at delegating. They’re middle management’s worst nightmare.

I suspect that canneries and charnel houses would attract a large number of work- minded kitties, but the voracious seekers of knowledge they are, quite a few would likely find careers as professionals. Their desire to know what makes lesser creatures tick will land some psychiatric practices, and others will use their love of puzzle solving as engineers, but the majority, I think, will follow their true calling as food critics.

Clever, playful, comical. We’re all these things and more to our feline captors. Desperate for their approval, we overlook the once fringeless couch that’s leaking stuffing, and the litter grains on the linoleum. We carpet our floors in brown and orange hues that won’t clash with pulpy patches of regurgitated Friskies. The book or newspaper can wait until later if Kitty wants to lounge on our lap right now. We have been tamed, certain to never bite the paw that kneads us.

I still give in to Nikki when she wants attention. She seduces me every time, lying on her back, white bunny feet sticking up in the air, paws drawn so innocently up against her chest. Her plush gray and white belly exposed, she knows she’s irresistible. “C’mon, go ahead! I won’t scratch you this time” she promises, her eyes blinking slowly before resting at half mast. I place my hand on her stomach, and in a split second Nikki’s whole body is wrapped around my hand, tooth and talon betraying me once again. “Nikki, Mommy can’t play right now. I have to apply direct pressure for a few minutes.”

Whether cats are actually farming us or just squatting on loosely defended territory, I’ve decided to cooperate fully, as I’m continually letting my guard down anyway. I think they’ll be good to us, imparting values and customs they’ve practiced for countless generations, such as patience, the luxuriousness of physical contact, and the art of unspoken communication. I’m not looking forward to whatever they’ll decide to feed us, but the power naps will make it all worthwhile.

It Occurs to Me...

2005-11-27T15:05:00.000-08:00

...as I overhear cell phone conversations in public--you know--people yelling into their ever-smallening harmonica-like gadgets that digitally photograph and film, play digitally recorded music, email and organize, that technology has made the cell phone capable of everything except tranmitting verbal communication.

Telecommunications has been set back 150 years, when one had to shout into a cup-on-a-string to be heard and had to ask their caller repeatedly to repeat him or herself. Progress my ass; just listen to yourselves.

It also occurs to me, after purchasing snuggly new gloves, hat and scarf, that if God was truly the comforting, enveloping force the near-dead have claimed, then rather than being a shrill, bright light, he or she would be made out of fleece. Out of respect to other cultures, God may also be perceived as a force of cashmere, chenielle, or really, really good leather.

Satan, of course, is made of silk and Vodka.

All of this makes me wonder about our eventual wireless connection to the divine. I hope that we're evolving toward an acceptance that we don't need dogma or ritual or intercession or Comcast to download Divinity. The signal is everywhere.

You'll still need a router. But it won't matter which kind, as they tend not to be jealous or avenging.

From the Ponderosa,

Cindy

Happy Thanksgiving

2005-11-24T14:30:00.000-08:00

I'm posting from a cute, cozy, cottage at Seaside. I'm thankful to live an hour away from many of Oregon's beautiful beaches.

I'm thankful for my brother and his unflagging encouragment and good humor.
I'm thankful for my friends, for the same reason.
I'm thankful for my cat, George, and her snuggly ways.
I'm thankful for my job. I'm thankful no one else hired me; this is the best gig ever.
I'm thankful for each of the nurturing, supportive souls I work with. Every single day I'm fortified with hugs and "I love you!"
I'm thankful for my readers. I get tremendous validation from your comments and just your presence. Thank you for checking in. It means the world to me.

Have a truly wonderful Thanksgiving,

Cindy

Incendiary Feminist Propoganda

2005-11-21T20:33:00.000-08:00

Just because it's been awhile. The following essay is still in revision, but I hope you'll forgive its unpolished form and enjoy it anyway.

Dizzy on my soapbox,

Cindy

Waiting for a Sign
By Cindy S. St. Onge

Yes, Virginia, there is such a thing as bad publicity. And thanks to the same PR firm responsible for pile-driving Tonya Harding’s career to the molten center of the earth, the fair sex has been unduly represented as passive, receptive, servile, feeble of both mind and might. And like heirloom poster beds and grandmother clocks, we are useful only as homebound fixtures.

Attempts to emboss female brand recognition among the masses have resulted in some pretty sorry campaigns over the ages, the worst being the Venus symbol.

Originating in ancient Egypt as the androgynous Anhk, Venus has supposedly represented everything from a hand mirror-- symbolizing woman’s vanity, to the integration of spirit and matter, heaven and earth, a place in or out of time, where God and Human intersect.

I can’t remember when or where, but many years ago I learned that the Mars sigil—the canon-like drawing of an arrow pointing about 45 degrees heavenward, symbolizes an erect penis. As part of the unfair sex’s publicity campaign, Mars is the planet of war, and its symbol moonlights as iron’s symbol on the periodic table of elements. Saluting the cosmos in all of its two-dimensional glory, it is the icon of power, virility, action. This is manhood, ready for anything, throbbing its way to fulfillment.

I, for one, am not fooled by the symbolic boner, which would have the world believing men are innate go-getters and self-starters. Oh no. They are quite happy among the mold and lichen, among the fungi and vermin, among weeks of dirty dishes and decomposing laundry. They are recreating a warmer, plumbed and wired wilderness, as they feel more comfortable surrounded by dirt and growing things. So why doesn’t man have a symbol which reflects his true nature? Something porcine or cloven-footed? Something that burrows or wallows, or at least itches?

The Venus sigil—flag of female, is comprised of a circle atop a cross. Venus shows up on the periodic chart representing the soft, malleable metal, copper. I had always believed that woman’s symbol depicted a circle of regeneration connected to a cross—which to me, growing up Christian, symbolized godly sacrifice. I gloated in what I believed to be an exalted representation of my sex, and its close association with the divine. Then I discovered who was really getting nailed.

Venus turns out to be a rotated, phallic Mars penetrating a small horizontal line. It doesn’t depict woman’s alliance with God, after all. It is a headboard view of sexual congress, coital engagement, coupling, intercourse, doing it. I was horrified to learn that the female part of the sign—in total—is the receptive little crossbar. That’s it.

I mentally erased the downward thrusting arrow, leaving just the horizontal line. Here was the representation of my sex: a line, a dash, a blip, the penned equivalent of ‘um’— a mark made while waiting for a real thought worth recording. All notions of sacred circles and womby rondure—demolished. Besides feeling insulted, I couldn’t rally around an emblem reverent of egg or breast. No circle of regeneration, no honoring of feminine mystery. No praise, no shrine, no laud, no appreciation, just a rudimentary sketch, eyes and a mouth away from being a Southpark character.

Men are characterized by a statement—dynamic, complete, definitive. And women are relegated to mere ornamentation, doing little more than supporting or accommodating the statement. Hey fellas, do not stick YOUR phallus in MY symbolette and tell me that’s who I am.

And why are men are represented by a symbol that is singularly masculine, but women are depicted as an insignificant, receptive line, getting screwed by big, bad Mars, the predominant portion of what is supposed to be our symbol? All these years, I thought we had the whole glyph to ourselves, that every angle and plane corresponded to feminine attributes. Surprisingly, the boys haven’t sued our PR firm for trademark infringement.

It’s hard enough to shake away generations of societal dogma which insists I’m not complete without a man, that I’m not entitled to an identity apart from being someone’s daughter or wife. But can’t I even have my own little sign—a simple geometric representation of my unique feminine essence? I’m not asking for a monument or a Christo rendering of the Grand Canyon into a set of carmine vinyled labia for crying out loud. I just want my own sign. Peace has a sign. Mercedes Benz has a sign. No Smoking has a sign. Is it too much to ask for a glyph that has not been violated by male genitalia?

Lesbians can’t be too thrilled about the Mars/Venus intersect. Emblazoned across mugs and bumper stickers, tattoos and action figures, the double woman symbol lets the world know where a gal’s affections lie. Do they realize that two guys are tagging along? And they’re not there in a supportive, ‘you go girl’ kind of way, but in a creepy, how-many-quarters-does-this-thing-take kind of way. Even when we define ourselves by our relationships with other women—represented by what we thought was double-Venus solidarity (or triple Venus for hetero feminists), some guy is always there, clearing his throat, “Uh, don’t mind me; I’m just watching.”

The time has come for a redesign. Perhaps someone could come up with something that says, Vagina: The only genital that matters. I am partial to the tattva for earth, an inverted triangle. It’s evocative of the female pubic triangle. Or what about taking back the fish symbol hijacked by Christians? Those fishers-of-men might be reminded that the fish symbol, stuck to righteous bumpers and trunks, used to be a feminine symbol. Stand that fish up on it’s tail, and voila, Vesica Pisces-- instant vulva.

Whether reclaiming an ancient feminine sign, or creating a modern archetype for woman, our symbol should be emblematic of feminine mystery and strength, instead of characterizing women as fixtures or pets. We require a symbol which inspires awe and reverence, a sign that, when mere words fail, communicates just how very special it is to be a woman. I want a sign worthy of my noble gender.

A winner may never emerge from the bilious campaign between cable and dish. But if the archetype for woman says to the world we are screwed, I’d hate to know what our secret handshake is.

1,001 Shrimp Recipes

2005-11-18T00:12:00.000-08:00

Yes, I know we haven't spoken in a week. No, nothing's bothering me. No, it wasn't something you said. No, I'm not PMSing. No, I don't hate you. Yes, I'm still reading your blogs, and no, I haven't quite rid myself of my obsession with death.

Passive-Agressively,

Cindy

Alms

How can I fear you, Death, if
you're just a thing that hungers?

Some threat indeed, you
wretched force of poverty!

How can I fault you for being desirous
when I want things too?

Poor Death;I can only pity a creature
who scavenges for discarded scraps of light,

and dread becomes compassion for one
who must anguish for every single breath.

Surely, I could--for a moment-- choke
in the airless void so that you could fill your lungs.

I can never know your awful craving--
your hands of ash cupped to receive.

But for you, sweet Death, I'd pluck my heart
still beating in its crimson bloom
in exchange for all your riches.

Veteran's Day Special: Two Poems for the Price of One!

2005-11-11T10:08:00.000-08:00

The first poem, Xenophobe, is an exercise in pretension. It's a little something I dreamed up about a decade ago, and have fiddled with it just recently.

The second offering was written as an outpouring of grief after my mom died. Today is the 50th anniversary of my grandmother's passing. And only since the death of my own mother, have I understood the anguish that would grip Mom every year at this time.

Happy Armistice Day,

Cindy

Xenophobe

I do not mean
to frighten the crow.
And am I not
as black as he?
Cloaked in grounded, woolen night
not unlike his obsidian wing,
I stand very still—
not to breathe
nor to make any sound
that would stir him into flight.

Mother

A sea of Grief
from prolific tears,
I cannot lay you to rest—
It has become
too dark and deep
you’re now too far
beyond my reach.
Memory strains
to keep your face
in its desperate grasp
until that sea
covers my head
and I’m drowned with you
at last.

Speaking of Unorthodox Medicine...

2005-11-03T20:55:00.000-08:00

The following essay chronicles my experience with self-medication a couple of years ago.

Wishing each and every one of you a Happy Cold and Flu season,

Cindy

Cherry Flavored Monkey

It was a religious experience—a transcendent moment in which I was transported to that oft rumored astral plane. I have seen things few mortals have ever dared to glimpse and witnessed visions of both great beauty and depraved monstrosity. I’ve been privy to undiscovered truths and unspoken mysteries. Over the period of four nights one July I embarked on a NyQuest.

Some have said it was the combination of medications I was on. I’ll admit it, between the allergy meds, hormone pills, diuretics, sleeping aids and occasional aspirin for the rogue migraine, I felt less like a person and more like a Pyrex beaker. So accustomed to the ritual of self-medicating was I, that occasionally I tossed small bits of food into my mouth, swallowed whole with a chug of water. Then I caught a cold. Not a bad one as colds go, but a pesky cough kept me awake nights. Hallelujah, I’d found a bottle of NyQuil in the cupboard.

Now, I’ll go a long stretch before throwing back a shot of that nasty syrup, its metallic fruit taste forever clinging to my tongue, but I had reached my breaking point—the coughing had to be quelled. So I stared at the triangular carafe, and it stared back. I hesitated. It promised all night relief. I thought of the too-sweet-too-bitter syrup coating my taste buds before dripping, languid, down my throat, and made a face at the bottle. I read the dosage and the words Poison Control jumped out at me.

Not missing a beat, the wily bottle promised that “marked drowsiness may occur” on the condition that I ingest the required 30 milliliters. It sounded like a fair compromise. So I poured my water chaser, and measured out my dose of the daiquiri-flavored lava. A cloying, hyper-cherry odor assaulted my nostrils, so I held the little plastic cup at arm’s length, breathing only through my mouth. Down the hatch it went. To my disgust, the water didn’t so much chase the residual film as reconstituted it.

Several hard swallows later, I waited for my cough to subside.

An hour ticked by. Still coughing, still miserable, and still wide awake, I fumed about swallowing that overrated, non-potable battery-acid-Robitussin-wannabe for nothing and then… I stood in a desert, red sands warmed my bare feet, woolly clouds sailed through salmon skies. Chanting and drumming piped in through the ethers—astral Musak. A Native American character appeared and the Buddhist dharma wheel was a four-ticket carnival ride. Kaleidoscopic hues flashed in and around a jumbled, chaotic dreamscape, but I slept. Hard. Like a corpse. Roused by daylight from my medicinal spell, I puzzled over its bulldozing tactics. It never suppressed my cough, but I think I was clinically dead for six or eight hours.

I didn’t hesitate the next night, and ‘accidentally’ filled the cup a little above the thirty milliliter line. If the recommended dosage could launch me to the astral plane then a smidge more just might get me a private audience with God. Loathe to divert the remedy’s mysterious vision inducing properties to such mundane symptoms as a cough, I sucked on a lozenge while I waited to flat line.

I sneezed. Great, now my allergies were riled up. I got out of bed in the middle of the night and popped a Tavist, and discovered that this particular combination made it possible to bring back messages from the dead. I had become a cross between John Edwards and Timothy Leary.

By the third night I didn’t have much of a cough anymore, but I filled my little plastic goblet with that brilliant ruby elixir anyway, running my finger along the sides, collecting every precious drop. Instead of drinking water, cough drops disguised the taste and agitated the medicinal film on my tongue, coaxing it down my gullet and into my eager bloodstream where it could work its magic. The last thing I remember thinking was I’m gonna start wanting this stuff during the day.

My dreams continued in their Technicolor splendor, but the barrier between worlds had become nothing but a swinging saloon door, unable to contain this mind expansion within the dream realm. In my waking hours, logic surged past formal boundaries when I realized that mayonnaise was a sandwich lubricant. Mayo is to sandwiches what KY jelly is to… people sandwiches.

People need to know this.

Those poor mayophobes, ignorant of the oily condiment’s necessity in preventing painful hard palate food friction. I knew the moment the epiphany occurred, that this knowledge was not of my conjuring. It had been divinely rendered. Maybe from God, or my guardian angel, I didn’t know to whom credit was due, but winked up to my unseen muse.

My sauce tangent was interrupted by an urge to psychoanalyze the Super Friends. I suspected those avengers of evil harbored childhood traumas and deeply repressed hurts. I thought Aquaman was likely a bed-wetter, and maybe a fire starter too. A youngster experimenting with the elements as he worked out his frustrations of having a controlling mother and emotionally distant father. Superman and Wonder Woman, as their pseudonyms indicate, exhibit classic narcissism. Their double lives and alternate identities indicative of multiple personality disorder as well. Why wasn’t anyone reaching out to these wounded saviors? We expect them to pluck us from the jaws of peril, but we can’t sit even one of them down and offer a sympathetic “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” It doesn’t take X-ray vision to be a good listener.

I had to cut myself off. It would just be a matter of time before people started asking questions like, “Do your pink teeth have anything to do with that cherry smell?” or “Who are you talking to?” and “Why would I want to know what my totem condiment is?” No more. My cold was gone and I’m too young to have nursing home breath. I closed the cupboard and cursed the Red Fairy, “I don’t need you.”

Ok, just one more night. My throat was a little dry and I could’ve gone into a coughing spasm at any minute. Might as well take a Tavist for that tickle in my nose too. That was definitely my last dose. Really, I promised.

It looks so unassuming on the grocery store shelf. Harmless, FDA approved, labeled attractively, this rhino-virus remedy sits benignly, its scarlet contents catch a ray of fluorescent light—glinting for your attention. The commercials flash across your mind’s 19 inch Magnavox: “the sneezing, coughing, blah, blah, blah… so you can rest medicine.”

The initiated know better. We’ve partaken of this concoction, its fabled origins steeped in voodoo, and have lived to tell about it. I‘ve kicked that cherry-flavored monkey off my back for now, but as my dreamscapes fade into muted sepia and black and white—content in their blandness and tedium, I pine for my cure, then my heart quickens when I realize that cold and flu season is just around the corner.

Test Tubular

2005-11-03T20:18:00.000-08:00

I have completed my eight-week course of urine injections, and by golly, I think the shots actually worked. I've only had to buy one box of Kleenex in a month, I sneeze once or twice a day, as opposed to fifteen or twenty times. I don't have to sleep wearing a filter mask, and I can breathe deeply through my nose without it tickling.

Incredible. My doctor says the next test is to take a break from my allergen-infested environment for a few days, perhaps get away to the beach or mountains, or a sparkling clean hotel, then come home and bury my face in George's fur and see what happens.

I'm really blown away at the improvement I've noticed. Amazing, pee shots really work.

My next holistic adventure: Therapeutic IV. I'm not as squeamish about needles after inoculating myself for two months, so I'll let my phlebotomist brother draw blood and run it in his lab then subject myself to intraveinous vitamin B.

Although I'm consenting to all of these experimental treatments, I half expect the Animal Liberation Front to show up at my clinic during my IV session.

Guinea piggishly,

Cindy

Based On A True Story

2005-10-28T00:12:00.000-07:00

As promised, a story plumbed from my deepest, darkest fears. You may want to huddle together for warmth and safety as you read this, and a round or two of the Lord's Prayer wouldn't be a bad idea either.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow
me all the days of my life: and I will dwell
in the house of the Lord for ever.
--Psalm 23:6

Beyond the Valley of the Shadow of Death

Please, somebody--wake me up!

Where's that alarm clock when you really need one? It should have come for me hours ago. Maybe there really was a storm, and the electricity is out. Can you hear me? Anybody? Someone really needs to come and get me out of this awful nightmare--it's gone on quite long enough.

The storm. That really happened, I'm sure. Everything seemed so ordinary this afternoon. The air was the same air and the sky the same sky and it was your garden variety Friday. An overcast sky darkened to charcoal, so suddenly that I looked up to see what had blotted out the sun. Like hot coals, a red glow cast an eerie and unnatual sheen to the sooty heavens; this wasn't like any thunderstorm I'd ever seen.

A wind came through the gorge, screeching, furious, and reeking of sulfur. "Something's on fire," a man walking his dog observed. "By the look of those clouds," I said, "I think everything is on fire."

My eyes stung from these rogue siroccos, so I ran into a cafe for cover. Others, in the middle of errands or late afternoon strolls ran in behind me. I watched the tempest from inside the crowded coffee shop, transfixed by the airborn debris and redding sky, until a clap of thunder startled me out of my trance. A woman standing near me thought a bomb had exploded--and cowered under a table, shaking, repeating, "We're all going to die."

" It's just thunder," someone said. "It'll blow over in a few minutes. You know how the weather changes so quickly here." The woman under the table drew herself into a little ball; she wouldn't be consoled.

Windows rattled and the floor vibrated under our feet. Is this an earthquake? A hurricane? What the hell is happening?

And then, I stood outside my house, as if I had never been in the cafe. Standing on my front porch, I watched my mother being loaded into an ambulance, reliving the last time I saw her alive. But now, she didn't seem to be so sick, or weak. Watching her from the porch one minute then standing next to her gurney a moment later, as she yelled at me for letting her die, but not letting her die soon enough. There would be no way to make her happy. I didn't speak to her, I didn't defend my actions. I just let her vent, and then the paramedics lifted her into the ambulance.

The storm whirred outside my dream bubble, and I didn't think to question any of these strange events. I watched the sky hemorrage, never questioning the atmosphere becoming freakish, and I watched--unfazed, as my already dead mother roll away again to her death. Maybe I could have woke myself up right then if I'd been struck by the absurdity of it all. But I didn't.

The world seemed to split apart like an egg. Deep fissures opened, swallowing terrified people, cars, and structures. Only the thunder drowned out the screaming, and noise of metal crushing and glass shattering. And maybe it was the thunder that drowned out the sound of my alarm clock trying to rescue me from this disater.

Trees uprooted and crashed to the earth, everything seemed to have been rended, dissolved, obliterated in the space of just a few minutes.

Suddenly I'm at Mall 205. There's linoleum under my feet, and I'm waiting for an elevator with a crowd of people that seemed to have just picked me up with their movement. None of them are screaming. The mall must be like a shelter, I thought. We could camp out here for a while.

The elevator seemed to take forever to land. My brother stood next to me. "I can get you in," he said. "We'll be OK. I can take one person with me." A golden glint of something caught my eye.
A necklace with a cross. I noticed a lot of them in the crowd. And fish earings, and WWJD bracelets. "Where's the elevator going?" I asked my brother.

"Heaven."

I just looked at him, remembering all of my nightmares about the end of the world. All those dreams where I'd be running, looking for safety, searching for a place that would shelter me from God. And here I am, my born-again brother's plus one.

For an instant, I felt relieved, and safe. And smug. Then the elevator door opened, and again I was pushed forward by the movement of the crowd. The elevator doors closed, and I looked at Joe, his countenance serene and lucid as ever and an awful realization came over me.

I knew, as the elevator reached for the temperate climes of heaven, that I'd dwell forever in the hell of "I told you so."

Please, let this be a dream.

Old Goths Never Die

2005-10-24T20:50:00.000-07:00

But they never stop thinking about it.

I am an old Goth. And never have I felt older, than in the midst of the blaclk-garbed youngsters at last night's Bauhaus concert at Portland's Roseland theater.

I was about 19 or 20 when I heard Bela Lugosi's Dead for the first time, the Bauhaus song made famous by the movie The Hunger. Bela was on a tape made by a friend, and accompanied other songs by Goth bands like Christian Death and Birthday Party, Nick Cave's band. If my Catholic, crucifix-obsessed, cemetery-visiting, horror-movie-addicted father had been alive in 1983, I could have said to him, "Dad, there are other people just like us. They're called Goth Punks." The closest thing to a tribe I've ever experienced were my friends who wore black, listened to Bauhaus, Gene Loves Jezebel, Siouxie and the Banshees, and who dared to look Death in the face constantly, as they got their eyeliner just right in the mirror.

Last night, I was surrounded by people who were my age when Bauhaus broke up. They were babies when Peter Murphy, Daniel Ash, David J, and Kevin Haskins went their separate ways. They were just tots when Rozz Williams fronted Christian Death, and still snotty-nosed kids when a world-weary Rozz hanged himself in 1998.

All of my goth friends were there, I'm certain. None of us recognized each other, so none of us spoke. But each of us knew that we were all there last night. Carrie and Ken, Keith and Craig, Glynis, and of course, Nick, my best friend at the time who introduced me to every cool band I've ever liked. OK, Keith got me hooked on GLJ, but Nick gets credit for introducing me to Keith.

I missed those days, being unemployed but beautiful, conversations revolving around bands and death, for hours. I missed the MDA and acid, drinking two bottles of wine in a sitting, and getting made up and going out.

I showed up last night in glasses--not contacts, no makeup, not a stitch of black, and in my comfy, elastic waistband 'fat pants.' I just didn't give a crap about how I looked. That wouldn't have happened 20 years ago. Or even 10. I realized last night, as I sat among the cellophaned and spiked locks, the flounce and lace, the velvet Edwardian frocks and ivory complected wenches, that I had turned into my dad.

The concert? My favorite parts were the beginning, David J's bass throbbing from the floor to the rafters as the band took their places on stage, and the encores, during which Peter Murphy honored his musical heritage of being the lovechild of Neil Diamond and David Bowie, with a perfect rendition of Ziggy Stardust, and the grand finale, Bela Lugosi's Dead.

The lowpoints--Daniel Ash blowing a sax. Maybe he actually plays the sax. I think he found the instrument backtage, left behind by another band. A goth gutairist honking the life out of a tenor sax--it was, well, upsetting. I remember seeing Love and Rockets play at the Pine Street Theater (when it was still the Pine Street Theater). Great band, but underwhelming live. Jane's Addiction opened that night. That was the nightI became a Jane's Addiction fan. I don't remember much of L & R's performance, except for the Bubblemen's comic relief.

Maybe Bauhaus just aren't a compelling live band. They still look good though--having the best cheek bones, jawlines and eyebrows in the business. Murphy isn't as imposing as I thought, but he vogues really, really well.

My last impression of the evening, as we all filed out of the venue slowly, funerarily, and spilled out the front doors onto 6th Avenue, I revisted my youth again, recalling the crappy, studio apartments I lived in, remembering how my punk friends would crash on the murphy bed, in the bathtub, on the floor. I exited the club into a squirming sea of black, and remembered the cockroaches of my youth. On their ways to parties and cemeteries, Portland's goths loped into the night oblivious to their conventional futures as soccer moms and computer programmers, and fading from black corsets to stretch pants and fleece jackets.

They'll learn to like khaki. I did.

Morosely,

Cindy

Fresh Meat

2005-10-21T08:56:00.000-07:00

No ghost story this week. I've selected a poem by the great master of creepiness, Charles Baudelaire. The poem I've selected is from Richard Howard's award winning translation of Baudelaire's Les Fleurs Du Mal (The Flowers of Evil). It's one of my all-time favorite poems, and should I remarry, Carrion will be worked into the vows somehow. After all, it is a love poem.

I'll finish the month next week with a very special scary story.

Happy Snails to You,

Cindy

Carrion

Remember, my soul, the thing we saw
that lovely summer day?
On a pile of stones where the path turned off,
the hideous carrion--

legs in the air, like a whore--displayed,
indifferent to the last,
a belly slick with lethal sweat
and swollen foul with gas.

The sun lit up that rottenness
as though to roast it through,
restoring to Nature a hundredfold
what she had here made one.

And heaven watched the splendid corpse
like a flower open wide--
you nearly fainted dead away
at the perfume it gave off.

Flies kept humming over the guts
from which a gleaming clot
of maggots poured to finish off
what scraps of flesh remained.

The tide of trembling vermin sank,
then bubbled up afresh
as if the carcass, drawing breath,
by their lives lived again.

and made a curious music there--
like running water, or wind,
or the rattle of chaff the winnower
loosens in his fan.

Shapeless--nothing was left but a dream
the artist had sketched in,
forgotten, and only later on
finished from memory.

Behind the rocks an anxious bitch
eyed us reproachfully,
waiting for the chance to resume
her interrupted feast.

Yet you will come to this offense,
this horrible decay,
you, the light of my life, the sun
and moon and stars of my love!

Yes, you will come to this, my queen,
after the sacraments,
when you rot underground among
the bones already there.

But as their kisses eat you up,
my Beauty, tell the worms
I've kept the sacred essence, saved
the form of my rotted loves!

Charles Baudelaire

Scary Is As Scary Does

2005-10-14T00:09:00.000-07:00

I missed Survivor and The Apprentice to write this. What am I afraid of? Dead lines.

Candy-Corny,

Cindy

Driving in the Dead Lane

Carmel had never seen a dead body before today. In all of her 23 years, she had never stumbled over any missing joggers or attended an open casket funeral. This morning, she said goodbye to her favorite Aunt Shirl during the viewing at Reeses' Memorial Chapel.

Tossing, fitful, Carmel couldn't get the stiff and waxen visage of her aunt out of her mind. It was a mistake, she thought, to study every detail of the woman laying in her silk-lined coffin. Although it seemed like a good idea at the time, an attempt to preserve one last mental portrait of the woman who snuck Carmel into Meier and Frank to get her ears pierced against her mother's strict instruction, of the woman who always seemed more like a sidekick, a big sister than an aunt, the images twisted and taunted the grieving niece.

Carmel didn't want to let her closest friend and confidant go, and if she imprinted Shirl's expression--a mouth that wanted to smirk in spite of staples, her hair--combed back instead of parted down the middle, exposing Shirl's high forehead, her clothes--the purple seersucker tunic over black pants that made her feel polished and sexy, the cream-colored silk pillow and lining--Carmel etched every last color, texture, nuance of her dead Aunt Shirl into her memory.

Carmel directed her thoughts from the casket to the chapel, hoping to eventually 'think' her way out of the viewing and into a pleasant dream. Her attention paused at the bier, the lattice supports and wheels. The wheels bothered Carmel, but she wasn't sure what was off about them. They gave the casket a kind of go-cart kind of look, and now she envisioned Aunt Shirl driving her coffin out of the chapel, down the steps, and into the street back to her house.

Carmel chuckled, eyes still closed, at the thought.

Dozing, finally, Carmel pulled her down comforter over her shoulder and turned onto her side, expectant of deeper sleep, ignoring the low chatter of some late-night radio show. She couldn't hear the words any longer, it was just a hum on the other side of her head.

The radio had timed out, the room, quiet, Carmel fell asleep at last. She would have stayed asleep if it hadn't been for the squeaking coming from the hallway.

Mice? she wondered. It stopped-- and started again, getting louder, the squeaking came nearer and nearer to her room, wheels? she whispered. Wheels.

Squeaking passed the threshold of her open bedroom door, a long, dark box on a gurney rolled into the room, all by itself, and stopped at the foot of Carmel's bed. She waited for it to move, to roll back out. She knew who was in it--and she wasn't afraid. Until the gurney pivoted, rolling up alongside the bed. The metal casket gave off a chill Carmel could feel without even touching it.

"Aunt Shirl--are you in there?" Carmel sat up, pulling her comforter up to her chin. The coffin didn't move for a while, and neither did Carmel. "I miss you, Shirl. I remember building that birdhouse with you just a few weeks ago. Those robins and squirrels are gonna miss you a bunch. Carmen sucked back snot, dabbing tears with her comforter. "I've always wanted to be like you--ever since I was little. You've done everything I want to do. Promise you'll never leave me. Promise you'll watch over me."

Purged of her grief, Carmel's sobs stilled, and she grew sleepy again. "Good bye Aunt Shirl. I love you." The thing started rolling again, slowed by the thick carpet, but eventually working its way out of the room, down the hall, and back to whereever it came from.

Carmel awoke the next morning, surprisingly light of mood for a niece who'd lost her best friend only a few days before. "I'm so glad I could say goodbye. I think Aunt Shirl really knows how much I love and miss her. I hope I dream about her again." Carmel stretched, swung her feet over her bed, and then grabbing her clothes from a chair she noticed a dent in the door jam, and some paint had been scraped away. Carmel stood stone still--taking it in, trying to think of how she had dented the wall--then looking down, she noticed something else.

Bending down, she examined the carpet, looking first at her feet, then down the hallway. She looked, and looked, but couldn't explain away the two furrows in her carpet leading to the front door.

Keeping Up With the Boneses: The Hottest Trends in Gravescaping

2005-10-10T12:17:00.000-07:00

Lone Fir Cemetery in Southeast Portland is the scene for local dead folk. It's the place to see and be seen for our dearly departed, and by looking at the headstones, some departed way more dearly than others.

Portland's Old Money lies side by side with with all manner of peasantry, from pioneer families to victims of gang drive-bys. Lone Fir's terrain is uneven, and the mottley assortment of headstones jutting from the ground look like mismatched place settings. Old tablet shaped tombstones are dimpled and pitted with what used to be the legible names of persons buried there. You're likely to walk right over military stones and other markers flush with the earth.

Gone are the days of leaving a grave to grow a seamless lawn. Families make better use of the soil and our temperate climate by planting shrubbery and flowers over the grave. Newer graves are decorated with tradtitional sprays and vases of lilies, but agreived relations are pouring their hearts out in poetry and letters, cards and photos, leaving plastic-covered mementos at the site. One of the more heartbreaking displays I came across was a newly buried infant. A tiny, beaded baby charm bracelt draped off of a wire stand gushing "Welcome!" in a happy font.

Recently folks have taken to beautifying gravesites with marble chips, small statuary, stuffed animals, Mardi Gras beads, and garden doo-dads like wire bumble bees, humming birds, and dragonflies.

Traditionally, markers have been inscribed with bible verses, poetry, a short quote from the deceased, or a poignant line quantifying this particular loss, like "Taken too early," or "At rest with God, " or, as in the case of married couples, and some parents and children, a determination that they "will meet again." One cleverly worded headstone, a flat, gray granite marker, denoted the birth date as "Sunrise" and the death date as "Sunset."

Portraits of the deceased are popular now, many of these are Ukranian and russian individuals. Either engraved into the stone or airbrushed onto smooth, black, granite, phantom heads float above a grave garden, keeping a watchful eye on visitors making the rounds.

Leaving trinkets and toys and the acoutrements of the living at a grave is practiced in many cultures, and some gifts are sweet, and others are just, weird. I get the football jersey, but the Oregon Driver's Manual--not sure if that was garbage blown over the fresh mound, or left at this teen's grave as a reminder of what he had yet to look forward to. A fellow known as "Bubba Big Daddy" to his kin really loved to drink Corona, so much so that a replica of a Coronoa bottle has been engraved on his headstone, and his friends stack empties on his grave, arranging the gold caps along the cross erected by his headstone. I thought it garrish and tasteless, but this is how his friends and family pay tribute. Memorials are becoming as individual as, well, individuals.

Unfortunately this is the time of year vandals make gravel of old headstones, and Lone Fir is a favorite haunt of teenage miscreants. I walked the grounds yesterday under the watchful eye of a policeman in a patrol car. Apparently he wasnt' there during the week, as I came across several stones that had been overturned, sledgehammered, and defaced. It just made me sick.
The dead can't be insulted, but the living have invested money, time, and countless tears into their loved ones' final resting places. Maybe we're burying the wrong people.

Arresting in Peace,

Cindy

Just in Time For Weekend Slumber Parties

2005-10-07T00:12:00.000-07:00

As promised, here is the first installment of Ghost Story Friday here at WLPF. Fiction isn't my forte, but then again, who's saying any of this is fiction?

Booooo--tyliciously,

Cindy

Static Thing

Rex Stephens had let too many grand ideas and seed sentences get steamrolled under grocery lists and interruptions. Although he knew better, he’d concentrate hard on a good line or a vivid scene, thinking, “This is so great, I can remember it without writing it down.” But he always forgot. By now, he’d forgotten a novel’s worth of dialogue, story titles, character names, and setting details. Rex bought a voice-activated hand-held recorder, vowing to never again to squander little gems gifted to him by his muse.

His new toy became a battery powered appendage—Rex never went anywhere without it. He even considered buying a second recorder to leave in his car, but decided that a second recorder—an upgraded model—would be a reward for selling some of his writing. He wanted the first gadget to pay off.

Rex’s best ideas usually rained down on him early in the morning, or sometimes late at night.
Inserting a fresh microcasette into the deck, he’d try leaving it on overnight, next to his pillow, to capture impressions from dreams or maybe some brilliant Cayce-like sleep-talking.

“Batteries…check. Tape inserted-side A up…check, Record ,play on…check. Testing one, two, three.”

Rex rewound and listened to his muffled voice talk back. Other than the volume needing turning up a notch or two, “all systems were go,” Rex declared.

Over a late breakfast the next morning, Rex discovered that he snores. That’s all he got—intermittent snoring, and then his radio alarm clock. He’d try again.

Waking with a start, the writer glanced at the glowing orange numbers on his digital radio alarm clock. “2:30. It’s two-frickin’-thirty. What the hell was I dreaming about?” Rex couldn’t remember the particulars, but it felt like he had been running from somebody or something.

He grabbed the recorder. “Just woke up from a bad dream…all I remember is being afraid, being chased, some horrible thing breathing down on my neck. Even though I’m awake now, I keep looking over my shoulder. I can’t seem to shake the sensation of being pursued.”

Rex sighed, collapsed back into his pillow, and fell asleep.

“This is incredible!” Staccato keyboard clicking punctuated by occasional sighs, swearing, and sipping hot, black coffee. “It’s violent, and heartbreaking, and even sickening. I think I can sell this.” Rex was onto something, something big:

Everyone got out of the house except 15-year-old Peter. Too infirm to race down two flights of stairs, Peter leaned out of his window, coughing, waving to the neighbors to send help. Flames dissolved the old Victorian home, beam by beam, room by room, gaining on young Peter. Jumping was the only way out, but his fear of heights paralyzed the doomed teenager, who’s bed clothes blackened with soot and smoke.

Rex’s fingers could barely keep up with his racing heart as Peter’s tragedy took shape on the monitor.
“Yeah, they’re going to eat this shit up.” Control, Save. Rex bounded to the kitchen for a coffee refill. He didn’t sleep that night, but managed to pry himself away from the computer to sit in the living room, filling both sides of a cassette with scenes and background for his conflagration piece.

“Why didn’t anyone help him? Why didn't his mother and father, knowing they’re son was too sick to escape the fire, make any attempt to get him down the stairs?” The more Rex wondered about Peter’s family, the more agitated he became. Hours later, Rex wilted from adrenal burn out, falling asleep on the sofa.

Listening to his fiction-incited tirade from the night before, Rex stopped the recorder, rewound a short space, pressed play, and held the speaker close to his ear. “I don’t believe it.” He played it again, turning the volume up. “What is that?” His eyes narrowed, his focus, acute. His tape played back static, snoring, and what sounded like carpet muffled footsteps, light percussive steps increasing in volume as they seemed to get closer to the microphone. Then for not more than two seconds, something sibilant rose above the static, a whispering sound, smirking, then footsteps walking away.

“Holy Shit. No more coffee after 4;00 in the afternoon.” Rex thought he may have picked up a TV or radio broadcast. And when the same whispering and smirking turned up night after night, Rex thought he needed a better brand of cassette tape. Satisfied that the gold brand was better than the red brand, Rex pulled his covers over him, placing his recorder away from his pillow and comforter—careful not to pick up any rustling.

Checking off the list in his head—doors locked, windows shut, bedroom door booby trapped with tinkly chimes—he could close his eyes, and fall into the land of Nod.

A chill roused Rex from a sound sleep—white curtains billowed like sails over a black ocean. He froze—not breathing, not moving, retracing each step of his nighttime routine—certainly, of all the windows in the house, he didn’t forget to close his bedroom window. His eyes still adjusting to the dark, a faint tinkling sound startled Rex, making the room a little colder.
“Who’s there?” Rex’s voice quivered. “Wh—who’s there?”

“OK, there’s nothing here. I just forgot to close the window.” Rex reached up from his bed and slammed the window shut, then rubbed his arms to get warm. “Hell, I can’t go to sleep now.” He should be working on his story, but thought it better to soothe his nerves with some Bukowski instead.

Several pages into Last Night of the Earth Poems, Rex, emboldened by a brightly lit room and the uneventful minutes since waking, palmed the little silver machine and pressed play. Rustling covers and throat clearing punctuated long spells of static. Turning the volume up, the tape caught the tinkling chimes…Rex stopped the playback.

Then started it again. Chimes clanged against the door, and footsteps shuffled into the room. Rex turned the recorder off again, and looked at his bedroom window to make sure it was closed. He got up and pressed it down, to make doubly sure. “There’s nothing on the tape. There’s nothing in this room. There’s nothing in this house.” He pressed play again.

Rex heard whispering as the tape resumed. It sounded like a Sha, or Cha, or Jzha. “That sounds like a word…” Rewound, he listened closely…” Sha, sha, Ja, Ja. He couldn’t make it out, so he let the tape play on. Jaaa… Jaaaa. Jaaaa…the sound became clearer, more distinct. “Jaa, Johnny?” Rex wondered, playing word games in his head. “Jolly, Jackie, Jaaa, what?”

The tape rolled on, capturing the footsteps departing the room, then the tape ran out, clicked loudly startling Rex, and in that instant the lights went out, his window flew open and a loud voice behind him screamed, “JUMP!”

Something Wicked This Way Comes...

2005-10-01T10:58:00.000-07:00

The air has changed, Autumn's breath is chilled, and soured with rotting leaves; its hair is gilded, its skin, ruddy. Halloween is just weeks away.

Fall is my favorite season, and Halloween, my favorite holiday. For the month of October, every Friday will be Ghost Story Friday, instead of Morbid Poetry Friday. Get that old flashlight out the drawer, make sure the batteries work, draw your cloak tight around you, fondle the crucifix around your neck if it'll make you feel better, and prepare to have the living daylights scared out of you.

If you'll excuse me, I must depart to that very dark place inside, tiptoeing around my fears, lurking where they lurk, breathing what they breathe, dreaming what they dream, studying them as they sleep, taking great care not to stir them.

Night night.
Sleep tight.
Don't let the begbugs or the vampires bite.

Trepidatiously,

Cindy

Uhh...Umm

2005-09-30T10:58:00.000-07:00

Hi. I've run out of poetry, and don't feel like writing any. So, if you're in the mood, you can read my poetry at the Blood Blog, and we'll call it good. I'll even make some suggestions: I like Egyptians, The Bells, Flood, Death Clerk, Archeology of the Self, Sea Worthy, The Worry Noise, Three Seasons, and Bottom Note.

Some of the Blood Blog poems have already appeared here at WLPF, some haven't.

Enjoy the rain. I am.

Lacsidaisically,

Cindy

Urine for a Surprise

2005-09-27T19:42:00.000-07:00

I haven't sneezed at all today. I don't have kleenex peeking out of the waistband of my pocketless pants, for once. It occurred to me as my nose started to run from the spicy Mexican dinner I enjoyed this evening, that I hadn't had to blow my nose today. Not once.

I don't want to jinx whatever it is that might be working. I don't want to be presumptuous. Mostly, I don't want to be wrong--again, but I think the auto inoculation is working.

Also, I felt better today than I have in ages. Lots of energy--all day long, but that could be from the crack-spiked mocha from Starbucks.

I'm breathing in through my nose--and no tickle. How about that? I'm doing it again...still no tickle, no sneeze, no irritation, and I'm in my dustbin of a house, mecca of all allergens.

MMmmmaaaaaah. It's really nice to breathe like a normal person again.

Cindy

Good Morning

2005-09-22T10:36:00.000-07:00

I'm taking the day off.

I felt sick yesterday, and tired. Didn't take my Vitamin B in the morning, and boy did I feel it. My whole day drug by in slow motion. I was foggy, groggy, and by the end of the day, headachey and photo-sensitive for some reason.

My hip is back to it's normal, pasty color, though, and there's not a speck of necroitizing fasciaitis.

I'll have a late breakfast at Old Wive's Tales, then enjoy a leisurely walk through the Grotto.

Ahhh, possibilities.

Cindy

The Cesspool that is My Bloodstream

2005-09-20T19:48:00.000-07:00

I administered my first urine inoculation Sunday. Everything went smoothly, and the whole affair was as easy as pie, a sharp, pointy pie. Except for one thing: I forgot to use the filter.

I wasn't too concerned, I'm pretty indestructible as microbes and foreign bodies go. But Sunday night, I tossed and turned all night, feverish and achy. Monday came around--much too soon after what I thought was a night of hot flashes, and I started coughing. All day long, I had a constant, dry cough. Just a cough, nothing else, except a sore, 5'' by 2'' pink oval where I had given myself the shot.

Dr. Ada was back in the office this morning, so as I was opening up the place I stopped into her office to say good morning, and to let her know I gave myself the inoculation, mentioning, as if it were no big deal, that I had forgotten to attach the filter to the syringe. She made a bad face. A scary, bad face.

I now understand that the filter removes bacteria, microbes, and other weird shit that isn't necessarily beneficial when reintroduced back into the bloodstream. D'oh!
Urine is sterile--in the bladder. It picks up all manner of crud on the way out of the body.

"Let me see the area around the needle puncture." Still pink like rare New York strip. "You need to see me later this morning after my phone consult." She was freaked out, REALLY freaked out. My cough had gone, and so had my fever, the aches, and the crying jag. But she was nearly ready to amputate.

So an hour goes by, I'm doing my thing at the front desk, and Dr. Ada comes up with an arm full of supplements and tinctures. "Is that for your phone consult?" I asked. "You're so cute," she said, amused at my oblivityness. "These are for you."

"For me? What on earth do I need to take all these for?"
"To fight off infection."
"But I feel--"
"This is serious" she interjected. So Dr. Ada gave me three homepathic remedies, a bottle of Bereberis, which is an herbal antibiotic made from Oregon grape, and enzyme pills that will dissolve any infection if I take them without food.

I'm being a good patient, and have followed Dr. Ada's instructions to the letter. But honestly, I don't feel sick. I think that whatever made me sick Sunday and Monday has worked its way out of my system, or just gave up after having to stand in line behind all the other bodily afflictions that were there first.

I'm on more pills than a 75-year-old Medicaid grandma.

But I still have only one cat.

Pill-poppingly,

Cindy

I Really Need Some New Material

2005-09-16T12:00:00.000-07:00

I bought a red pen during the summer of 1994. I like pens and paper; I really do have a paper fetish. I could spend hours in the office supplies aisle. Don't ask me why. My dad used to indulge this prediliction by bringing letterhead, forms, and different colored pens home from the hospital warehouse he worked in.

Anyway, back to the summer of '94. It was a prolific poetry season for me, and while doodling with my new red pen, a poem appeared. It started very nonsensically, and only as a means to admire pretty, red words, but I rather liked the finished product, which as my poetry goes, was a rare bit of fun.

Whimsically,

Cindy

The Red Poem

This is my red poem:
Bright as a cherry and
tacky as lipstick--
shocking little attention-getter--
it certainly is a red poem!

It'll make no reference
to that oft' mentioned
body fluid--
(too obvious and overdone).
But it might go on and on
about strawberries and tulips.
Yes, they can be in my red poem.

Oh, the apple's tempting crunch
and those rosy puckered lips,
a firecracker sunrise--
all lend themselves nicely
to this vision in red verses
which speak of patent leather pumps
on that smartly dressed woman
commanding the obligatory 'once-over'
like a corvette at a stop light.

Ah, these crimson-lettered stanzas
now less vivid, alas, they're fading.
My pen's final strokes,
as its scarlet life is waning.

Should the ink run dry
before my thoughts grow dim,
I fear that this poem
may never be completely
read.

Hey--I spelled Burgeoning Right!

2005-09-14T21:48:00.000-07:00

I'm finally addressing an increasing energy deficit and the allergies that have bothered me for the last few years. And I'm doing it naturopathically.

My chart is burgeoning, with tabs separating each of the modalities I've experienced these last three months: "Acupuncture," "Massage," "Naturopathy," "Esthetics," "Chiropractic." Except for the chiropractic adjustment, my chart is a log of wellness services had just for the pleasure and pamering of it all. Now I'm really sick, and have visions of my chart thickening into a record of my being an abyss of of lack and need.

I sat down with Dr. Ada this afternoon, seeking help for debilitating fatigue, among other things. I had complained earlier this morning to a co-worker that I thought I may have Lupus, allowing myself a little melodrama. I'm learning that in a clinical environment, I can't just blurt out symptoms for the sheer joy of complaining. I can't make a passing comment about an ache or cough or light hemorraging without being triaged by any practitioner within earshot. I received a dose of Bi Yan Pian (Chinese herbs) straight away from Natasha, my acupuncturist before Doxie (the other office admin) urged me to see one of our doctors.

So Dr. Ada started me on Auto-Inoculation for two months. I am to regularly inject myself with my own urine. Had my first shot in her office. I'm also trying a nightly castor-oil pack, vitamin B supplements, and increasing my water intake. Interestingly, I'm taking giving myself a pee shot in stride, but balking at having to drink more water.

I did feel good enough after my shot to actually have dinner tonight. Haven't felt like eating much the last few days, so this is an immediate improvement. I'm hoping that my health improves steadily in the days to come, and that my replenished energy will fuel more writing, and more frequent posts here at WLPF.

Not feeling terribly clever at the moment,

Cindy

Ode to a Houseguest

2005-09-09T12:01:00.000-07:00

Some people have a way of growing on you, endearing themselves to you no matter how intent you are on despising them.

Crispy Bangs, my brother's girlfriend, camped out at our house this last winter, trying my patience, getting on my last nerve, and testing my very tentative belief in the sanctity of human life. It was a stressful time for me. But a tiny shred of compassion allowed me to see how difficult was for her as well. She was homeless, unemployed, battling addiction, trying to keep a new relationship together, and tripping over eggshells as an unwelcome guest in my home.

She couldn't make herself unobtrusive, so she made herself useful. Cooking, cleaning, folding laundry, pulling weeds-- the kid is a hard worker. She's also a compulsive hoarder, saving plastic yogurt containers, and packing the fridge with souvenirs from yesterday's lunch at Red Robin or dinner at Original Taco House-- leftover cheese, olives, and soy sauce, whatever. Yet, in the midst of incredible hardship, insanity, and cramped living quarters, she managed to inspire this week's poem, written in March of this year.

By the way, if you hate waiting until Friday to have whatever good taste you've cultivated assaulted by my meandering bombast, head over to my Blood Blog

Remember those “magic paintings” that revealed a 3-D picture if you stared at them, letting your eyes go out of focus and blur? My poetry is best appreciated after a drink, and accompanied by dirgy, minor key music, like say, Lisa Gerrard or Gorecki, or the soundtrack to Black Hawk Down. This is the surest way to lose yourself in the benign, gray glyphs of text, before awakening suddenly in an iambic spiritual wasteland.

Both Concedingly & Promotionally,

Cindy

St. Mary

Mary, Our Lady of the Appliances.
She imbues the long cold coils
with heat and light, committing
herself to caring, from the hard
beginning of sustenance.

Mary, Our Lady of the Groceries.
She is the ever flowing fount
of produce; from her bosom pours
the stuff of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
She feeds the hungry, and fattens
scavenging kittens with a harvest
blooming from cornucopia hands.

Mary, Our Lady of Merciful Gathering.
She collects every plastic little thing,
understanding the value of that
which contains. Every vacant bowl
is a womb, and every orphaned
space will be renewed its purpose.

Mary, Our Lady of Tornadoes,
this tiny whirlwind of spoons
and sauces. It must distract her,
the spinning, the constant movement,
weaving herself out of task
and into chore—it must
put from her mind the memory
of storms much bigger than she.

Mary, Our Lady of the Eternal Washing.
There are always things in need
of cleaning, and those things
have a way of not staying clean.
In her fastidious mission, even
the smallest speck is doomed.

How does a force
of wind and water and
perpetual industry move
through a small house, leaving
it vastly improved?

This is the might and the mystery
of our blessed St. Mary.

Yet, I Have All My TeethAnd Indoor Plumbing

2005-09-04T21:20:00.000-07:00

I make fun of stupid people. They are legitimate targets of ridicule. And the crazys too. And anyone who I think is too big for his or her britches. I call people out for being ignorant and illiterate. I roll my eyes at poorly spoken or written English, and am a self-professed language snob.

I also can't stand people who can't see themselves, who seem to be the only ones oblivious to their own shortcomings. I refuse to be one of those people.

My project for the long weekend has been to transfer all my blog posts to Word files, because blog sites have been known to vanish into thin air. In doing so, my misspelled words glared back at me. I don't have spell check on the page I write my posts on, so I don't catch all the typos and misspellings. Holy crap, there are a lot of them.

So, it's time for reck...(r e c k...yeah--that's right)oning. I'm owning up to my own idiocy, and here for your literary enjoyment, so that you may bask in your acedemic superiority, are the words I've misspelled over the last six months.

I found the occasional receive written in flagrant disregard of the i before e... rule. And, of course, there were those words where I had either omitted a double consonant, occurred showed up with both Cs but only one R. Or I had padded a word with an extra letter. Occasion is a word I will never spell correctly. I've practiced. Still, it comes out with an extra S.

I realize now that therapeutic has the same tricky eu thing that pharmaceutical has. And that both disastrous and wondrous have dropped the e before the r. Millennia has two ns and preferably doesn't need the extra r. Withdrawal is a form of birth control, and someone describing, in broken English, how Southeners speak, says withdrawl. The word is traipsing, not trapesing.

Guatemalan, ethereal, ideology, vengeance, and dominatrix--I can say these words just fine. But I can't spell them to save my life. Of the lexicon I have butchered to date, I couldn't believe I fucked up cemetery, and for some reason made want a contraction. I added a silent e to smooth, and what I did to conniption, is just unforgivable.

What I couldn't believe as I began to catalogue my many faux mots, were the words I got right. Nihilist, Caesar, unprecipitated, and cannulae, among them. How on earth does cannulae appear effortlessly and perfectly, every letter matching Webster's version, but I insist on placing an apostrophe in want? I don't understand. Oh well. My conscience is clean now. Oafish, but clean.

Bless your hearts, every one of you, who never said a word, but treated me like the intelligent sophisticate I've pretended to be. I have seen the error of my ways, and I encourage you to gloat.

I would.

Making more of an effort to look it up when in doubt,

Cindy

To Sleep the Sleep of the Dead

2005-09-01T00:12:00.000-07:00

No more alarm clocks. I can't take one more buzzing, screeching, obnoxious, early morning traffic report or commentary about last night's basketball game. If you're going to jar me from a hard-earned dream, or even a nightmare, it better be because the world is ending and martial law is in effect.

I don't want to be bothered for anything less than Armageddon. Or a snow day.

Wearily,

Cindy

Marathon

Sleep eludes me
two, three nights now.
Across my bed—
I stretch diagonal.
Not a solid line
but a series of dashes—
itching, aching, but
never connecting.

Not in repose but posed,
I’m sketched by some
over-caffeinated Bohemian.
His pencil scratches—
flick, flick, flick—drawing
spokes in my irises.
Around and around,
he rings my eyes,
engraving, rasping—his
strokes are furious—darker, he says,
they must be darker!
He stops—short of shredding paper,
getting them just right.

These damned eyes—
sore, darting, afflicted beyond
seeing and anguished for their
dreams—glisten from livid
sockets like the hint of water
in a well.

I can’t remember
how tired feels, that
gift of weariness.
I can’t fabricate the drowse
and the want of eye-closing.
I can’t recall the way
wakefulness sinks
like sediment into the pillow.

Parched for the cool liquor
of mind-quenching laze, starved
for the nourishment of dreams.
I beg—two, three nights now,
for the heaviness of blessed slumber—
the sinking and drifting,
the careful folding and
putting away of the mind.

Happy Birthday Diamanda

2005-08-29T10:42:00.000-07:00

Fifty years ago today, a sweet, dark-haired girl became the newest member of the Galas family in San Diego. Who would have known that this precious little bundle would grow up to be a meth whore research scientist opera singer AIDS activist piano virtuoso ultra-mega-overthe-top fag hag, and just plain brilliant.

Some people really are all things to all people.

Happy Birthday to Diamanda Galas.

Gushingly,

Cindy

Stomp Once if You Have a History Of Heart Disease

2005-08-27T10:31:00.000-07:00

...and swing your head in a circle if you want a sugar cube.

A whiner came in this morning.

Who wouldn't expect to complete paperwork as a new client?

"All these forms for a massage?"

Yes, as a matter of fact. If we haven't seen you before, it's standard practice to fill out paperwork.

"For a massage? I've never had to fill out this much stuff for a massage."

My guess is you never have to do much of anything because you whine and kvetch your way out of normal, everyday inconveniences that the rest of us put up with.

You know what this woman said? She said that the prospect of taking 15 minutes at most, to complete 10 pages of standard new patient intake forms was "stress inducing." Stress inducing! Lady, you're getting a massage for crying out loud. I work here and I have to complete paperwork if I'm new to a particular modality. With all that's really wrong in this world, I can't get over how much energy people waste complaining about checking a box here and there, jotting down a few words, signing their names and dating the form. Until it occurred to me that maybe they can't read or write.

I think that's why the thought of having to write her name and address, etc. sent today's freakshow into a panic one might expect of someone sitting down to an SAT test. Whatever.

So I had her sign and date the informed consent pages, and told her she could send us the rest of the forms, which she claimed she had completed, but "left them at home." Uh huh.

I hate complainers. I really do. I'm a big fan of repression and the stiff upper lip and all that. I agree with Nike's slogan: Just Do It. And even with my own mental and emotional deficits , I'm still able to deal with the little things, and even some of the bigger crises without having a conniption

And more than anything else, I hate people who expect to get something for nothing. Lazy, self-centered, narcissistic, bloodsucking black holes of need. Those noisy, insatiable abysses of lack and human retardation. Those meal-ticket scrounging bottom-feeding vultures. They should be publicly humiliated and made to suffer the ultimate fate of parasites.

Fumigation.

Co-Independently,

Cindy

Morbidly Obtuse

2005-08-26T12:21:00.000-07:00

"Words of Welcome" was originally the introduction in my 2004 chapbook, Ars Moriendi. It has since shape-shifted it into this week's poem. Really, I think it was a poem all along, just squarer than most.

Do we really need one more metaphor for life and death? No. But I'll never stop thinking of them.

Not quite finished beating that dead horse,

Cindy

Words of Welcome

Dear Guests,
Welcome to this rite where
we’ve gathered to pay our
last respects to that denser stuff.

Today, we bury impermanence:
the withering of flesh and grass
and mortal stone.
Let us give thanks to the body—the clay
that is every bit as fragile as it is tensile.

We trudge the earth, more
sluggish in this meat suit,
until time, attrition, or violence
allows us to at last uncloak.
Bless that glorious atrophy
and its gift of deliverance.

Mastery of this life requires
us to deftly maneuver in and
out of its thickness and tedium,
only to unlearn everything when
the memory of who we really are
comes flooding soulward.

So, my most august sisters
and brothers, make the most of
your expedition to this heavy place, because
minutes are dying into hours, themselves
shall wane to death.
For all things once manifest, must
sleep, end, combust.

Got Crack?Hug a Chiropractor.

2005-08-22T18:56:00.000-07:00

Have you ever wanted to wrap your hands around someone's neck and squeeze with so much force that you could feel the person's life breeze past your fingers? Have you ever thought your chiropractor might have those Boston Strangler leanings?

I'm glad Alice is a peace-lovin' gal, because she has one hell of a Half-Nelson--a grip that could bring a Yellow Stone Grizzly down. Her power?

"It's all in the set up," she says.

By set up, she means lulling you into a false sense of safety with muscle-melting massage and manipulation. Then in mid-sentence---CCCCCRAAACK!

Mercifully cradling my stunned little head for a minute before moving down to the next set of vertebrae, "Wiggle your left toe," she says. I was still trying to figure out which toe was my left one when a shorter, deeper crunch took me by surprise."

"The oldest trick in the book." Oh Alice, you're such a kidder.

She is sneaky, but she gets results, and that's all I cared about. She came to my rescue Friday after I arrived at work with a neck so stiff I had to turn my whole body around to talk to her--I felt positively mocked by Linda Blair and owls everywhere.

She assesed my nerves and joints and muscles, schmushing my cranium and rolling a sadistic little pinwheel thingy up and down my arms and hands, testing for sensation variations. Once she decided where the problem lay rooted, it was time to get cracking.

Alice is an authority on microcurrent application, which was first on the menu. She snapped on latex gloves to prevent the charge from completing in either of her hands, then donned black dominatrix-looking leathery gloves. I told her if I see a leather mask and a rubber ball, I'm so outta there. Not because I'm afraid of pain, but I understand those kinds of treatments cost extra, and I have a budget.

Anyway. She explained how the microcurrent works as she massaged my neck and shoulders, the current passing from the Mistress Alice gloves into my muscles. I was ready for a zap, but felt only her kneading fingers. The current passing through the gloves is the same ampage or frequency in a person's body. Each organ has its own frequency, and microcurrent treatments assist in resetting the charge, stimulating blood flow to the treated area, allowing muscles to relax and expidite healing. My neck was softening, and my range of movement expanding as she worked.

Off with the kid gloves; now she was all business. Talking, palpating, talking, palpat--CRUNCH. She worked down my spine, then I turned over onto my stomach and she adjusted my pelvis and tailbone, palpating then pushing, pressing, then pressing harder, and snap, crackle, pop--I'm a new woman.

Just when I was getting used to it. Just when I was ready, willing, and able to say "screw the budget, what else do have in your bag of tricks, Lady?" I could move my head from side to side again. All good things must come to an end.

CRUNCH!

Ha ha! You didn't see that coming, did you? Just a little something I learned from Alice.

Recovering nicely,

Cindy

Does This Necklace Make My Aura Look Fat?

2005-08-21T19:17:00.000-07:00

Hi.

I guess we have some catching up to do.

Here's the deal. I've joined the religious order of Gemisphere, whose adherents manipulate their auras with the energy of therapeutic quality gemstones. These aren't the sparkly doodads you'll pick up at your local new age book store. One must arrange for a private showing, during which a variety of stones and strands are brought into the room, lain on a white cotton cloth for the client to inspect and fondle. These are hardcore rocks.

How did I fall under their spell? Our new naturopath, Ada, is a consultant for Gemisphere. So I've been seeing "gemstone consult" on the schedule for weeks wondering what the hell was going on in her office and why hadn't anyone told me about this and was Gemisphere a cult or something?

I looked over their website last weekend and decided I needed a necklace from every category:

Physical Healing & Purification
Emotional Healing & Upliftment
Karmic Healing & Resolution
Mental Clarity & Expansion
Higher Consciousness & Spiritual Awakening
Masculine and Feminine Healing & Empowerment
and Healing and Nourishing with Earth Energies

I wanted every last one of them, and some of the gems glimmered into my dreamscapes over the weekend--especially Aquamarine--the gem of illumination, said to spark creativity among other things.

I scheduled a consult with Ada and was more than a little surprised when she brought my chart in. Yes my chart--as in medical history etc. "You really need my chart? For a gemstone consult? Isn't this like a candle party or a Tupperware affair?"

Like I said, this stuff is hardcore, and Ada, a Cornell and Yale graduate, was serious in her approach as a healer--not a dealer. We talked about issues I wished to address: My overriding fear of everything, my overly critical attitude--especially about myself. We talked about my parents and the few physical ailments bothering me.

She wrote me a prescription. For jewelry.

Then she administered gemstone therapy. She would apply the Lavender Spinal Mat to align my spine, and to facilitate alignment of the subtle bodies as well, which use the spine as a freeway system for transporting lifeforce and information.

Lying on my stomach atop the massage table, I listened as she prepared, slipping a CD of ambient piano music into the CD player, and then retrieving strands of gems which clinked softly, the way smooth stones do. She placed the Lavender Spinal Mat along my spine, arranging it from the bottom of my skull to my tailbone. She also placed a citrine strand on my head, as close to my crown chakra as she could lay it without it falling off.

As all this was going on, my breath rate had accelerated noticieably. Usually my breathing slows way down when I'm lying in this position, but for some reason it had sped up. I'm not sure if it was the weight of the mat, or the introduction of additional energy into my aura. Oh god, did I just write that?

Once the gems were in place, she massaged around my vertebrae using a technique called Bowen massage. I have no idea what it is, but boy, it sure felt good. It seemed similar to VitaFlex, the technique used in my Raindrop Therapy. She pressed gently on one side, then lifted off with a sweeping motion.

An aside, what I didn't realize at the time, is that Ada is famous. She's been interviewed on 20/20, has been a gemstone consultant to Hollywood A-listers, and attended the People's Choice Awards. OK, back to my treatment.

After the massage, the good doctor had me lean against the table, standing, placing equal weight and pressure on each foot. "You'll need to stand up, just like this--with equal pressure on each foot every 30 minutes today." She explained that I didn't need to stand for any length of time, I just needed to stand up for a second or two if I'd been sitting for a half hour.

Walking felt good, really good. I felt straighter, sturdier, and ok, I'll say it--a little bouncy. Later that day I made an appointment at Gemisphere headquarters--they are based in Portland--for a private gemstone showing. I ended up getting Aquamarine for creativity, Mother of Pearl to soften my self-criticism, Opalight to help me sleep, and a Malachite sphere for meditation.
I've since acquired an Onyx necklace for grounding and focus.

The jury is still out on the overall efficacy of the stones--except for the Opalight. It makes me as sleepy as diphenhydramine does--but in about 15 minutes. The first night I wore the Opalight, I wasn't sleepy when I put it on. About ten minutes later, I had to stop whatever I was doing and hit the hay.

Be All You Can Be: The Aquamarines.

Cindy

Note: Opalight and Lavender Spinal Mat are trademarked terms. Tupperware too.

Phoning This In

2005-08-19T22:33:00.000-07:00

Because I'm too tired to be original. No poem today, and I don't even care. Please, let me direct your attention to my archives, and to my other blog, The Sight of Blood.

Thanks for reading; don't stop 'til ya get enough.

Cindy

How Stupid Are They?

2005-08-16T13:53:00.000-07:00

It's official. Oregon, hands down, has the stupidest, most ineffective legislature in the union. Governor Kulongoski signed into law a bill requiring a prescription for cold medicine. Go ahead. Read it again to make sure you read it right. In Oregon, law abiding citizens must drag their runny nosed-asses to their doctors before they can get relief for their colds or allergies.

Meanwhile, the meth dealers are getting their psuedophedrine out of state. I guess those of us in Portland without insurance will be driving to Vancouver for an 8 dollar box of Sudafed.

Or I could just use my sleeve.

Pretend I'm Your Montessori Blogger

2005-08-12T00:10:00.000-07:00

...indulge me. Allow me to express myself, even if it irritates the hell out of you. Let me be your precocious, feral, little brat. Just for one day.

From right smack in the center of the universe,

Cindy

PS: Hey! Look what I can do:

Bottom Note

You’re sick
and I can taste it.
Your decay, the slow retreat,
the inevitable stopping—
it’s all pouring down my throat
in layers bitter and bile.

Eyes still flicker, lit and lambent
and your heart churns yet,
but already there is a funeral
thickening your breath.

Suffering exudes
this rare attar, a fragrant
seal—distinctly yours.
I follow the custom
of intimate horses,
inhaling your memory
as fast as I can.

No Holy Water for Me, Thank You

2005-08-11T13:34:00.000-07:00

...it burns a little.

Since this is a journal of sorts, I'm posting my actual journal entries from my visit to The Grotto this morning.

*Are you judging me? Stop looking at me like that. No, I'm not Catholic. I'm a generic, all-purpose pilgrim. Go away Father.
Maybe I shouldn't be so defensive. He only said "Good morning."

*I don't necessarily need divine intervention, or intercession. I just want to understand the forces at work. I could accept a whole lot more of the pain, the slights, so many more of the difficult circumstances if only I understood them.

*Dad was Catholic. I wonder if he prayed to St. Peregrine when he was dying. I didn't pray to anyone to save him. If I had lit a candle at Peregrine's shrine, or expressed even an iota of concern to God, could I have saved my dad? I never gave his dying a second thought until it was too late. For years after, I prayed hard to God to return him to me. Timing is everything. And mine usually sucks.

*God, who encourages you? Who offers to lighten your burden? Has any one of us prayed, "Don't worry about me today--I know how busy you are. I can handle this one small life on my own."
Who tells you what a good job you're doing? And not for the favors you grant them, but for the assistance your giving everyone?
I know I'm supposing that you have limitations like my own, butI'm hoping, really hoping you don't.
With all you have to do, you still make sure that the sun is shining over a green garden somewhere. And you do keep this planet tidy and hospitable, picking up after our messes constantly. You somehow manage to be a doctor, confidant, parent, gardener, savior--you're so many things to so many people who expect you to give, and give, and give. Surely you're a woman.

*In the bible, Lord is the translation of Adonai. A closer translation is beloved. Is love characterized differently in the Hebrew tradition? "Love your neighbor." "Love your God." I'm not sure this is love the way the west understands it. I think the sentiment is closer to fidelity, loyalty, fealty. There's a sense of duty--detached though it is--in these commandments. I didn't understand it when I was a kid in Sunday school, and I don't understand it now. I just can't love a force I don't understand.

But I've always wanted a reason to.

*Would Jesus really give a shit about the rosary and making the sign of the cross and all this crap? As I see it, after everything he's been through, as long as you didn't want to kill him, you'd be in like Flynn.

*I could never be Catholic. I just don't have the knees.

You're Getting Very Sleepy-er

2005-08-10T16:15:00.000-07:00

Speaking of stupors...

I've just returned from my first hypnotherapy session with Nila. I sat in a big, maroon, BarcaLounger, certain that I' d be fully alert and condescending the whole time. I'm much too guarded, my original brain having been replaced with a racoon's (which explains my atrocious table manners) at a young age, and my default, relaxed mode is nervous and fidgety. C'mon--relax? In public? With people around? I won't let myself be that vulnerable.

I took Nila up on her gracious offer to meet with me for a 90 minute session. Nila is easy to talk to. She has a good 'mommy' energy about her, and laughs easily. She also speaks in a calming, alto-ranged voice, so very condusive to relaxing anyone within earshot. As a matter of fact, she related a couple of days earlier that while she was speaking with someone--I don't remember if it was at the bank or the car dealer or mechanic--but she noticed a familar glaze cloud over the person's eyes. "He was going into trance." She immediately changed her speaking pattern.

Now I know why. Not working. Not working. Wide awake... What happened? Where'd she go?

I followed her--lucid, alert--fully awake; then I could hear her talking--but couldn't focus on what she was saying. I was somewhere else. So of course, during a brief lucid moment, I clung to everything she was saying with my rabid little racoon brain, all achatter.

Until, that is, I once again fell off of her words and the images in my head, into the atmospherics of activity in other rooms, the whir of air conditioning, and buoyed by just the pitch of Nila's voice itself. She led me through seven doors, each opening to a room decked out in it's own slice of the color spectrum: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and finally violet.

Before the actual hypnosis, Nila spoke with me about my childhood, my dreams, and any psychic experiences I've had. We talked about my family, fears and blockages I have now that were seeded in childhood, and possibly from previous lifetimes. I got to lay a lot of stuff out in plain sight, and Nila's wheels were turning with various approaches to my issues.

She introduced me to a tool for relasing emotional blockages called Emotional Freedom Technique. EFT consists of rubbing the sore spot called the Psychological Reversal or PR spot on either side of your chest, below the collar bone, repeating an affirmation to release the blockage or to acknowledge the hindrance while loving and accepting yourself completly in spite of it. This is followed by tapping seven different areas on the face, chest and hands, repeating a key word or reminder of the affirmation.

Nipple rubbing is not allowed, so knock it off perverts.

Anyway, we completed three or four repititions of the excercise in Nila's office, and I've gone through the sequence twice since I got home. She recommends practicing EFT several times a day to effectively reverse negative thinking. I'll keep you all updated on my progress. I'm trying to release fear and unblock creativity, in case you were wondering.

Interestingly, the angel card I picked before my session:

Surrender

Thank you Nila, for giving me a safe space to surrender.

Cindys are complicated things to engineer. The blueprint is screwy and the design seems too outlandish and far-fetched to bring to life. But ground has been broken and there's no going back. It seems to be taking a village, or at least a whole clinic (and then some) to raise me into whomever I'm going to become.

Hard hats are emphatically recommended.

From somewhere under the scaffolding,

Cindy

I Could Post Another Poem

2005-08-09T19:18:00.000-07:00

...but once a week is punishment enough.

I want to thank MSSunderstood for his concern about my silence these last few days. I'll post again in earnest soon; tomorrow is my day off.

I still hate everybody, but I'm too tired to kill anyone.

Stuporiously,

Cindy

Eyes Glazing Over Starts....

2005-08-05T00:12:00.000-07:00

...Now.

Good morning boys and girls. Does anyone know what today is? Friday; that's absolutely correct! And do you remember what's so special about Friday?

"Beer:30!"

No...

"It's the one day of the week you don't have to drink alone."

Well, that's true. But there's another reason why Fridays are special here at WLPF. Does anyone else want to take a guess? No?
Friday is Morbid Poetry Day at Wordlust : Paperfetish.

Hey, who likes to play dress up and pretend? All of you? Wow--me too!

Now, who knows who Emily Dickinson was? Well, I like to pretend I'm Emily Dickinson from time to time. Even though I'm all grown up, I indulge in a little harmless disassociative episode when I can't stand being myself for one more second. When I come to, I'm always relieved to not have to scrape a kid off of my tires, but sometimes there's a poem stuck to my shoe.

Spinsterly,

Cindy

Stranded

The morning found me
still as stone,
and cold as river clay.
I lay there long, motionless,
for near eternity.

The night had stiffened
up my bones
so thorough that it seemed
movement was not agony,
but impossibility.

I wondered long,
and tried so hard
to get up from my bed.
It’s just a simple thing, I said.
I did this yesterday!

My eyes, still shut,
could not behold
the brand new light of day.
No hope or force immutable
could pry them from their dreams.

To beg was useless:
Whom to entreat?
I agonized alone.
Rage and rancor, impotent
to let my soul back in.

Laid down my head
the night before,
when the mystery of sleep
came to take my supple life
and left this empty shell,
that dawn would find
still as stone-
to ponder mornings breached.

Don't Stop Me IfYou've Heard This One Before

2005-08-04T09:39:00.000-07:00

Here's a little somethin' somethin' I wrote a couple of years ago. And as with every other humilating, over-exposed piece of writing I offer, this really happened.

Process of Illumination

ER had just started—a new episode. The ice storm that had kept Joe and I homebound all week was on the thaw, slow but sure. Just when we thought we might get through the whole mess unscathed, but for a mild case of cabin fever, the electricity went out. Flashlight in hand, I scrounged through drawers and cupboards looking for the zillions of votives and tapers I had collected over the last decade.

Candles! I grinned, my thumb already puckered from repeatedly flicking my Bic. Starting in the living room, I trimmed wicks, peeling away curled, deformed edges before lighting the dusty, wax pillars. Finished, I admired my little paraffin lanterns flickering on shelves, the piano, the fireplace mantle, the kitchen counter, the bathroom, and my bedroom. The house illumined like a cathedral at vespers.

Rooms bathed in odors of spiced apple and mulberry, nag champa and pear, while I relaxed on my bed, cocooned under blankets and a comforter. In lieu of my missed ER episode, I squinted through deliciously graphic pages of Body Trauma: A writer’s guide to wounds and injuries.

Every few minutes, my concentration stuttered when sheets of ice crackled at the insistence of climbing temperatures—sliding off the roof when gorge winds gusted from the east. Ah, how rustic. How Little House on the Prairie. How quiet, the solitude and darkness of a winter’s night. How gray, the snow and icescaped street— its slick surface no longer agleam under great orange gas lamps. How long until I can turn on the heat? The TV? How long until I can watch the rerun of the ER episode I'm missing?

Joe interrupted my pessimistic spiral by yelling from the living room “What is this thing you have about candles?”

I didn’t have a ready answer. Candles are such a “chick thing,” but I’m not typically into chick things. I can’t say it’s the mood lighting that appeals to me—the dancing shadows are unnerving, and it’s already hard enough to see what I’m doing. Is it the fragrance? Some candles smell ok, but most of them burn my allergen-hating nostrils, the synthetic, spicy ones especially. And once they’re extinguished, smoke and carbon monoxide adhere to lungs like black wallpaper.

Maybe I liked the hypnotic pulse of the teardrop-tapered flame, and how it lulled me into a monk-like trance.. Years ago, after converting to Buddhism, I was so excited about putting together an altar. It would have two milky tapers on either side of a gold casket in which incense would be burned.

The butsudan was the coolest piece of furniture I had ever owned— exotic, holy, monolithic. My room became a temple. Lighting candles and incense before my daily recitation made me feel downright papal. Certainly, I must harbor some spiritual affinity to candles—those blue and orange lights licking heavenward. I gazed into the yellow flame of a tinned candle I read by. Nah, that wasn’t it either.

I’ve made my own candles on a few occasions. I helped my neighbor, Maxine, pour Kool-Aid colored liquid into Folgers cans one Christmas season. I’ve made herb and oil infused candles as a project with my old coven, the Martha Stewart Witches (we put the craft back into witchcraft).

In hindsight, furniture refinishing is something we should have put on our project list, because I’ve ruined all manner of wood finishes from molten wax overflow (Oh, so that’s what they mean by never leave candle unattended). There’s all that scraping, remelting, chipping of wood, and wedging who knows what under your fingernails. So what does one do with the blighted tabletop? Why, put another candle over the tell-tale scratch or smudge, of course.

I still didn’t have an answer for Joe. Maybe I didn’t like candles after all. Is it possible that I’ve succumbed all these years to peer pressure just to blend in with the bath salts and candle crowd?. Perhaps I went along with this particular girly thing to offset my disdain for romantic comedies and the absence of glitter body lotion from my collection of self-esteem remedies. Maybe candles were my concession to the list of Things Chicks Dig so that I wouldn’t have to fake a cloying affection for stuffed animals.

Who am I kidding? I’ve never felt pressured to fake anything. So what, , if I’m a Billy Ray Cyrus mullet away from lesbianism? I refuse inclusion in that whole salad-eating, self-loathing, scale-fearing, yogurt-sucking, Trading Spaces-watching club. So, what is it with the candles?

Aha!

No electricity yet, but the 60 watt clap-on bulb in my head still worked. Finally, the process of elimination— every bit as agonizing as it was efficient, brought me to my answer. There was a genuine appeal, a real desire behind all those glowing, dripping, marbled, scented, occasionally attended lights. I snapped my book closed and called back to Joe.

“I like to start fires.”

I've Been Clean for 30 years. Go Ahead, Smell My Breath

2005-08-03T10:53:00.000-07:00

It started so innocently. I just wanted Snoopy to eat some of the brown x’s in her cat dish. I was nine years old and responsible for feeding my next-door neighbor’s Siamese cat while she was a away on vacation, for about a week. I took the task seriously and sat down next to Snoop on the green linoleum floor. We looked at each other, then at her lemon yellow bowl of kibble.

“It’s good Snoop. C’mon, eat some of the yummy food” I coaxed. She blinked her swimming-pool blue eyes at me, then bent down to sniff her food before walking away. I approached Snoopy’s feeding with the same dogmatic zeal Mom and Dad expressed when my finicky little brother wouldn’t eat any green matter on his plate. Without being harsh or demanding, I determined to get her to eat. So, like my parents, I set an example. I picked up one of the crunchy x’s, and bit down on it.

“See, it’s good, Snoopy! Don’t you want some? Mmmm. It’s so tasty!”

She slinked back toward me and I thrilled at the breakthrough. Picking up another kibble, crunching down on it, I discovered that they were in fact, every bit as tasty as I had told her they were. I thought my example had worked, as Snoopy crouched beside her dish and partook of the Chow. I learned years later that cats are communal eaters, and are more apt to eat if they have a companion joining them. I thought she just needed reassurance that the food was OK, so I continued dining with her.

In the days that followed, I couldn’t decide whether the cat chow tasted better from her dish, or right out of the bag. After a while, it didn’t matter. Instead of nibbling on one or two kitty biscuits at a time, I grabbed handfuls from the bag, secreting myself away somewhere to munch on these delectable meat-byproduct crackers.

I suspect my neighbor had discovered my habit, and it was she who suggested to my parents that we get a cat of our own, because as an elderly woman on a fixed income, it was too expensive for her to feed both Snoopy and me. So, on my tenth birthday, Peewee (Yes, I named him. I was ten, ok?), a fluffy gray and white kitten became my new charge. We played together, slept together, and ate together.

I picked the Purina Cat Chow brand of food, under the auspices that “that’s what cat’s like best.” Mom didn’t know it was my kibble of choice. We tried Friskies at some point, which were starchier, less salty, and I didn’t like them as well. The Cat Chow was crispier, sort of like a pretzel, and well, I had just become accustomed to them.

Not a finicky eater by any means, I good-naturedly sampled everything my mother brought home: Friskies, Meow Mix, and the tantalizing special treats that came in a foil packet. These little fish shaped bits resembled chewable vitamins, were textured like clay, and tasted sort of like fishy Playdoh. I didn’t care for them, and never encouraged Peewee to go out of his way to earn them.

Most of the cartoons I watched shared the theme of food acquisition. Sylvester ate birds, Elmer Fudd had a hankering for rabbit, Popeye never went anywhere without his spinach, and there was that fellow who wanted a hamburger now, but would pay for it Tuesday. Yogi and Boo Boo salivated at the thought of what might be in those pic-a-nic baskets.

Everybody wanted food, so I did too. By the time the commercials came on for potato chips, candy bars, soft drinks, TV dinners and, yes, even pet food, I could hardly stand it. I never had an inclination to eat the stinky, pate-like wet food, but honestly, those Gravy Train commercials made my mouth water. I imagined the smell of my mother’s roast beef gravy steaming from the dish, and all I would have to do is add water to biscuits. I loved gravy, I loved kibble. Mom—can I have a dog?

I eventually gave up a shiny coat in favor of French fries and pizza induced acne. But there are moments—brief though they are—when I pick up a bag or box of one formula or another in the cat food aisle—reading the labels, trying to figure out my age in cat years.

Meow, meow, meow, meow,

Cindy

Braains...Must...Eat...Brains

2005-08-01T20:20:00.000-07:00

So. What's on TV tonight?

It's My Birthday

2005-07-30T14:39:00.000-07:00

...and I'll blog if I want to.

This is the eve of my 41st birthday, and the wonder, the impossibility of any of us getting born in the first place, then thriving all these years is on my mind. And I'm thinking of milestones.

My mother had been told by three doctors that she'd never have children. Her uterus was deformed, they said. So she and my father were a year into their loveless and violent marriage when her period stopped. She was 38, and certain that menopause had come to call. Her own mother had completed menopause in her thirties, so this wasn't terribly alarming to my mother.

The doctor had surprising news. Certainly, the tests had to be wrong, my mother and her doctor agreed. Another test was ordered. And another.

After three positive results, she figured it was safe to tell my dad she was pregnant. No use in getting him excited about a baby unless she was really preggers.
He could not have been more thrilled. He loved kids. He was a kid.I would be his portal into the childhood he would have created for himself. I would be his second chance to experience that happy and innocent time.

I don't think Mom was as pleased. She, being more practical than Dad, worried about having another mouth to feed. This was 1963-64, and she couldn't work pregnant and/or married. There goes her independence. It also meant she was stuck in an abusive marriage.

So Mom was stuck with--in all, three kids including Dad. I grew into a daddy's girl, and she could only watch, an outsider, as I enjoyed the close relationship with my dad that she could never have imagined with her own drunk and violent father. Everybody was getting something from this whole 'coming into the world' thing except her. Even so, every year on my birthday, no matter where I was, no matter where she was, she'd call at exactly 10:30 a.m. to wish me a happy birthday saying, "20 years ago, or 35 years ago today, at this very moment, you came into this world..."

I've passed 39, my mom's age was when I was born. That was a weird birthday. Mom had died by then, and 10:30 a.m. had come around, but there would be no phone call. So I ran through her spiel myself. "39 years ago, blah blah blah..." She'd go through the whole bit about the awful labor, kidding me of course. There were too many things to absorb that year. Tomorrow, I'll be the same age as Mom when she had my little brother. And in a few years, I'll be as old as my dad was when I was born.

And before too long, I'll be as old as my mom was when Dad died, then as old as Dad when he died. And as hard as it is to imagine--I might make it to the age Mom was when she died.

That's too much to think about. I won't be 41 for a few more hours yet.

La Poeme Du Jour

2005-07-29T07:37:00.000-07:00

My path and my process are darker than most. But they're not entirely devoid of illumination.

Cindy

A Religious Experience

This house no longer hums
with the sound of chanting.
The drone of prayer—
long since stilled.
And faith, once a fortress,
has gone through windows
open and unguarded,
residing perhaps with younger,
greener pilgrims now.

Salvation holds no promise
for a soul, hope-wearied
and withered. Yet
one truth has stained me
declaring that I am
the Architect of my destiny.
I alone am to blame
should the structure bear
either crack or criticism.

The scheme—if flawed
won’t be fixed
with the noise of dogma.
If I distrust the Doctor,
and can’t stomach the Placebo,
then all I have faith in—
is the disease.

Raindrops Keep Falling On Scarborough Fair

2005-07-28T16:49:00.000-07:00

Basil, Cypress, Wintergreen and Thyme...

These are four of the nine essential oils used in a type of massage called Raindrop Therapy. Carol is an LMT at my clinic who specializes in the use of essential oils and aromatherapy, and is responsible for the delicious and intoxicating odors wafting through the hallways upstairs.

I heard about Raindrop Therapy a few years ago from my colonic hygenist. Yes, I had a colonic hygenist. She told me about the nine different oils and the delivery, drop by drop, along the length of the spine, and the method intrigued me.

Carol explained that the oils used in this massage have powerful antibacterial, antimicrobial properties that when absorbed into the skin, eliminate viruses and germs that have nestled along the spinal column. There is research, she says, that has linked these viruses to scoliosis and other disorders of the spine, and these studies have demonstrated success using the Raindrop method to not only correct curvature of the spine, but boost immune system function as well.

Raindrop therapy starts at the feet. Carol massaged a fragrant blend into my feet, her hands pleasantly warm, her touch was gentle but deliberate. She held the bottle under my nose for a few seconds so I could breathe in the woody, spicy aroma. "This is Valor. It balances energies." I've learned that Valor is used as a grounding blend, and imparts relaxation, balances and aligns the body, and most importantly for a Raindrop massage, acts as a conduit for high frequency oils in healing and energy work.

Which is another point that makes this massage unique. It's all about energy. Dropping the oil from a height of about five or six inches is thought to charge the oil. All living things have an electromagnetic field--herbs, flowers, and their essences and tinctures--have an EMF. Letting the oil pass through the EMF of the recipient charges the oil in a way that is believed to be beneficial, optimizing its healing and energetic properties.

Carol applied one layer at a time, massaging the oil into my shoulders and spine, down to my sacrum, gliding with her palms, then using a manipulation called Vita-Flex along each vertebra. After placing a hot towel on my back to expidite absorption, she held the oil she used for that layer under my nose to breathe in. Oregano, Thyme, Marjoram, Basil, Wintergreen, Cypress, a blend called Aroma Siez, and finally, Peppermint.

In between applications, Carol massaged every quadrant of my body--using gentle lifting and turning movements of my hands, shoulders, ankles, legs and hips. The dropping of the oils wasn't only theraputic and sensually delightful, it drew the massage out in a deliciously gradual progression. I'm getting sleepy just remembering it.

After removing the last hot towel from the Peppermint layer, exposure to air punctuated the eye-watering menthol, causing a lovely cool breeze to seem to radiate from my back.

And I smelled like a four-course Italian dinner trying to hide under an Altoid.

Carol advised me that effects from the massage may manifest in a few days. A straighter posture and more energy might come about. Or not. It doesn't matter to me. The massage itself was wondrous, and Carol a gracious and attentive therapist.

Maybe I'll stand up straighter in a few days. Or maybe I'll plant an herb garden instead. Parsely, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme.

And Now for SomethingNot So Completely Different

2005-07-28T16:13:00.000-07:00

I know there are some of you who look forward to the Friday poem because there will be no mention of massages or any other theraputic carnal extravagances. Anybody can get a massage or a facial or acupuncture or whatever. But I'm writing about my treatments because each of them is a first in some way for me. And it's my way of proving that the universe is at least taking care of me, even when I swear up and down that She's about as nurturing and attentive as a post-partum Christian zealot mother in Texas. I know better.

And so I share. It sounds like bragging at times, but really, I'm sharing. Let me reiterate for the greener visitors to WLPF what the deal is. I took employment as a receptionist with a naturopathic clinic the end of May, and one of the perks of the job is that I get to try all of the modalities the clinic offers. That way, I can speak knowledgably to potential clients about the particular discipline they're inquiring about.

My clinic employs four naturopaths, two acupuncturists, one esthetician, one chiropracter, six LMTs, and a spiritual counselor/sound healer/vocal coach. Our resident hypnotherapist/NLP practitioner rents space in the building now rather than being on the payroll. There are other holistic health practioners who rent space as well. Many of the practitioners are disciplined and licensed in more than one modality, or are in school to expand their healing skills. I'm surrounded by healers, real healers. People who practice medicine not because it's the family business, or because there's money in it--there isn't, or because there is prestige.

They care about people, they care about the whole person they're treating, and many clients/patients who come to the clinic have exhausted traditional avenues of medicine, and have only found relief with the treatment they've received at my clinic. Some of them travel great distances to see our practitioners.

I work with gifted healers who are nurturing and giving souls, and they've generously extended their talents and energies to me, and I'm deeply, deeply grateful for that gift.

I get a discount on products too. Now I'm bragging.

And Now For Something Completely Different

2005-07-27T19:32:00.000-07:00

My face still feels smooth and dewy from my facial this morning. Even after sweating in 400 degree heat all day, my skin still has a velvety texture.
It's been a few years since I had a facial, and I've never had a spa facial before. I felt like royalty soaking my feet in a hot lavender flecked basin, grazing my feet over smooth stones at the bottom.

Today's spa treatment wasn't about fixing sluggish skin or normalizing a t-zone. It wasn't about turning back the clock on sun-damage or lightening freckles or erasing fine lines. As my feet softened in the water, lavender flowers collecting around my ankles and between my toes, Megan explained that within the experience of this facial and the space of the room, I was welcome to let go of burdens, and to welcome something new.

With this encouragment, and in a fragrant room she had prepared and imbued with the same care with which a priestess would cast a sacred circle, I thought of the foot bath as a symbolic threshold, and stepped out of the bowl and onto the table cum altar.

Sheila Chandra sang in the background, over sitar drones and syncopated tabla talas. Megan cleansed my face with something light, bright, and minty, moving her fingers in circles over my cheeks and forehead, tracing concentric circles over my third eye, then sweeping down the bridge of my nose, around my mouth and along my jaw, applying the cleanser in upward strokes over my neck.

We chatted about this and that as she worked, chimes hung over a lamp in the corner behind us tinkled softly. Megan removed the cleanser with a hot towel, swaddling my face, gently pressing on it before lifting it off, using the corners to wipe residue from the sides of my nose, hairline, chin.

The hot towel felt so good, I told her I wanted to wear one all the time, I don't care how stupid it looks. After every layer of the facial, she'd wrap my face up in the towel like a mummy, then when she removed it, my skin felt like it was being exposed to air for the very first time.

She massaged my hands and arms, feet and legs, and exfoliated my skin with an Alpha Hydroxy lotion using gentle circular manipulations. Then she gently pressed an essential oil blend with soothing properties into my face using the palms of her hands. I breathed deeply the heady lavender-comfrey scented concotion. Every cream, lotion, and gel she applied smelled exceedingly delicious. The multi-vitamin mask smelled of bananas--like the baby food--delectible.

While the dual-purpose masks (she applied a soothing mask underneath the multivitamin one) did their jobs, she massaged my neck and shoulders. Heavenly; just heavenly. I could feel my skin softening with each layer, and wanted to reach up and touch, but I resisted the urge.

The last towel--cold, and infused with sage, refreshed and renewed this sleepy girl. After my pores tightened under the cool wrap, Megan spritzed my face, neck and shoulders with a cucumbery-mint toner, then sealed the deal with a light moisturizer mixed with sunblock.

I'm still glowing. The whole experience--from the moment I stepped into the foot bath, was sensuous and bewitching.

Before I left the clinic, I picked an angel card from the bowl at the front desk: Clarity

Thanks to Megan's expertly administered facial, my skin, at the very least is clearer.

Those angel cards spook the hell out of me sometimes.

Why is Everybody Crazy but Me?

2005-07-27T10:03:00.000-07:00

By Ms. Anne Thrope

Can someone please tell me if I have a sign on my back that says I Brake for Psychological Case Studies?

I am a magnet for high-maintenance, opportunistic, and often financially challenged persons. I, apparently, am the Statue of Enabling. Give me your narcissists, emotional vampires, your sex addicts and the issue-laden. Give me your whiners, your tweakers, and heavens, don’t forget to give me those who are considered a danger to themselves and to others. Please, make sure I get those.

Failing to sever ties, I’ve considered moving in the middle of the night to an unspecified location under an assumed identity. No forwarding address, no good-bye note, no sign of a struggle. But then I’d have to pack, which means I’d have to clean, and that will look suspicious. I have even tried pretending that I didn’t know some of my friends, uncreating them in the hermetic safety of my mind. No acknowledgement, no eye contact or head-nodding. I left them to their conversation as I would strangers.

That was the longest drive to Lincoln City ever.

An assertive person would have torched these bridges long ago, the very moment scarlet flags could be seen whipping in the tempest. A less than assertive, yet lucid person would have run at the first sight of flashing Danger! signs. A co-dependent follower—the one trying to keep up with the minions—with only trace amounts of common sense, would have finally heeded the sirens. Not metaphorical sirens. Real sirens; the kind that precede Miranda rights. Or the sirens which reassure that someone will be along shortly to apply direct pressure. I can’t say I haven’t been warned. Over and over. And over.

So I’m not assertive. I hate confrontation and I’d have to answer the inevitable question about the sign on my back. And, if my friends knew how I really felt about them, they’d be pissed. My problem is that I care too much about what they think; for that, I blame my parents. Undoing years of socialization—decades of learning to play nice and to share my toys—is easier said than done. Believe me, I’m trying. My bathroom mirror is covered with self-asserting mantras: I’m number one. Just say ‘No.’ This is my personal space. No solicitors. And still, there’s that sign on my back.

Some of my friends aren’t wholly rotten; they’re just really, really irritating. Like Darla, for instance, whose superhero name is the Human Valium. I met Darla at work some years ago. A gentle spirit—as smart as she is sweet—Darla is a selfless people-pleaser, with a pathological need for structure, and desperate for a continuous amphetamine drip.

She had been in a cult before finding salvation in Amway. Then she joined another cult, before coming to her senses in the soul-vacuum that is corporate America. I don’t fault her for any of that. Haven’t we all been in a cult at one time or another? It’s one of those boundary-testing things people do. Two-year-olds put everything in their mouths. Teenagers smoke pot. Disillusioned twenty-somethings learn to play the tambourine. But Darla misses The Collective, and has attempted starting her own cult at work, basing her various groups around self-help books, email affirmations, and the weekly lotto.

Her time spent in the Kool-Aid Corps was not without its benefits. Darla learned to meditate, and the discipline keeps her grounded and focused. The down side is that she moves at a speed of about negative five miles per hour. She approaches every activity with a methodical, plodding anti-action. Walking, typing, talking—all movement—OK movement is perhaps too strong a word—this coagulation is carried out with the leisure of molasses.

I watched her fold letters and place them in envelopes once. She aligned the edges, and realigned them. Then she creased the folds with such grave focus you’d think she were about to invent origami. Darla is thoughtful. Darla is kind. But she and deadlines don’t see eye to eye. If you stand close enough to her, time actually seems to move backwards. She is the only known foe to the law of inertia, but she has a soul, unlike my friend Ted.

Psychiatrists say that everyone knows at least one sociopath. It wasn’t hard to pick the psycho out of my group. He’s neither homicidal, nor a loner, but he is a master manipulator with a predatory bent. And because there isn’t a caring, sensitive bone in his tin can body, his mean streak has room to spread out. Nice guy until you’ve found out he’s set you up—having fed you information which led you to take certain actions that backfired, leaving you sooty and tattered with humiliation. Did he have a score to settle? Nope. Was he in a bad mood? Nah. He did it solely to amuse himself; don’t take it personally. He’s great for drinks and conversation, but he just can’t help himself. He is a sociopath.

Funny, out of all my friends, it’s Ted’s company I enjoy the most. He never burdens me with his problems because he’s too busy figuring out how to set me up for failure. He doesn’t litter conversation with his feelings, because he doesn’t have any. I love that about him. And I’m thankful that he doesn’t have rage issues, like my roommate, Johnny.

Heeere’s Johnny, the control freak. Delusional, psychotic, paranoid, obsessive. These are the mantras on his bathroom mirror. I could write a whole book about him, but Stephen King beat me to it – perhaps you’ve read The Shining?

We’re all against Johnny. We made his hair fall out, and turned his girlfriend against him using witchcraft. We scrutinize his every foible and flaw, celebrating one defeat after another. I’ve tried to tell him we haven’t done any of that. Ted probably did, but the rest of us have our own problems. Yet he insists; bellowing accusations, vowing to kill us in our sleep, he invokes Jesus’ name, because the crucified tend to stick together, and because all work and no eggshells make Jack a perpetual victim.

I try to keep my own annoying tendencies in check, and in doing so, have unwittingly endeared myself to the primary group I chum around with. It’s no wonder these people want to be around me. I’m an oasis of sanity in their desert of neuroses. I’m the voice of reason breaking through the din of cackling demons. Chum. That’s what I am. The rotting kind, in a frenzied throng of social piranhas. That is, until I can get that damn sign off my back.

As of this writing, these characters and others are still in my phone book, on my birthday calendar, and marginally, in my good graces. Because I am the only one in this heap of damaged goods capable of introspection, I’m not worried that anyone in my social circle will recognize him or herself, but I have changed the names and disguised identities as a matter of literary etiquette.

To my critics, be warned. This is an example of how I treat people I actually care about. And for those who have escaped my poison pen, I can always make this longer.

The Love of Religion

2005-07-26T21:01:00.000-07:00

...is the root of all sanctimoniousness.

Jesus: "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone."

Me: "Hey--you, rabbinical dude--I need you to move to the left a little so I don't accidentally hit you."

Too many people, not enough big rocks.

Jesus: "Need some more rocks?"

Me: "Yeah! That'd be grea-- OUCH! What the fuck did you do that for?"

Karmically Indebted,

Cindy

How Scary Can a Poetaster Be?

2005-07-26T19:28:00.000-07:00

If English is your second language, please use your first language to write lyrics. If you write crappy poetry in your native language--don't think that translating it into English makes it better. It only seems better to you now because of your vague understanding of the Berlitz Italian to English poem or lyric you just composed.

For example, Lacuna Coil, an Italian doom/death/synth metal group writes compelling songs musically. But their lyrics stink. If you're dead set against making any sense, refusing to follow something resembling linear thought, a la Bjork, then you must follow through with the abstraction, somehow creating a Picaso like story using your Word-A-Day calendar.

If you don't really care about the quality of the lyric, then sing in your native tongue. Because if I can't understand you, then I won't care either. If you're a death/doom/synth metal band, loping and swaggering, acrunch with leather and studs, gesturing all macho-like, then you mustn't ever sing a lyric like, "Destiny can't replace my life. Scary shadows of my past are alive."

Never, ever use the word scary. Because English speaking listeners won't be scared. And I know that's what you're trying to do. If you're going for bombast, at least use a more literary term.

LC also begins every verse with the word Destiny, apparently unaware what the word means:

Destiny flying high above...

Destiny who cares....

Destiny can't replace...

And what the hell does this mean? Destiny who cares
as it turns around
and I know that it descends
with a smile

The video is cool though. I just have to listen without listening. If you're writing to make me think, but you're making me laugh and roll my eyes instead, you're not trying hard enough to be pretentious.

Judgementally,

Cindy