Monday, October 20, 2014

fly girl





I nearly stepped on this guy the other day when I was walking around the yard. It was just a stroll of a walk as I was looking at all the details around this shack. The first time I walked down and up the hill the kittens were with me. Lucky for this traveling homesteader they passed on the second trip around, which is when I saw him. And just look how teeny he is. My big toe alone could have smashed him. Also lucky for him that I used to try to breakdance when I was a kid. Just as my step was about to come directly down on him, my left foot paused in mid air, I was instantly thrown back into being a Fly Girl, and I went flawlessly into... something. All I'm going to say is no bones or shells were broken, so, success. 

Fly Girl

-Angie

Thursday, October 16, 2014

breathe easy



For a couple of days I've stood with my toes gripping the edge of the edge. With glares instead of glances. Exclamation points in the place of a period. Two confrontations in two days. On a roll, I am. 

One of which... I needed an answer to help my son breathe. There was something about a bill, so no, a message couldn't even be sent to a doctor. I was blocked. Sent to a billings answering machine before I could even process that I had been shifted away from help. I called back. I was angry. Incompetence. Worthless. Pitiful business of so-called doctors. I needed help. These words and others flew in a rage at some girl sitting at a desk answering calls that had, no doubt, been told how to run the business. My words didn't help. My son got better on his own. I'll find another doctor. 

The second... I needed to help find my mom's dog, Lily. A great big beautiful sweet lab of a dog. Driving up and down neighborhood streets. Calling. Whistling. Sharp eyes. I didn't see her. I met a woman jogging. I stopped and rolled down the window to ask for help. Maybe she had seen. I gave a nod and a Hey-please-wait rise of my hand. With a head shake and shoes still hitting the pavement she waved me off from over the back of her shoulder as she continued. I was stunned a little. Then angry. I snapped, something I never do, "Thanks a lot, bitch!" Lily found her way home moments later. 

Both cases were pleas for help. Both were returned with a bit of vile rejection. The more I thought about it the angrier and the more hurt I felt. The more that I realize that I don't understand the way some people are and the way some things work, both in my own instances, and in seeing daily, unfolding nightmares from all across the globe. From the small confrontations to the monumental injustices. 

I don't wear a suit of armor. I never have. My feelings, when things really matter, are very much real and open and tender. I check news links, but they bring uneasy heart beats. Most of the time I stay in my translucent bubble. I like the light in here, and I can do more good from here. It's not being ignorant. It's not unrealistic. Maybe a little it's unrealistic, but it works. For me, it is survival. Sometimes broken hearts can lead the battles and sometimes they have to be carried. Sometimes the strong ones don't feel very strong. 

It is really such a wonderful earth that we all share with really glorious people. Why can't there just be kindness? Why can't there just be love? Understanding? Compassion? Empathy? Why can't we help one another? Why can't we cherish each other? Why? I must be the most simple minded person alive, and I don't think about all of the sorrowful things all of the time, because I think I would die. But - why isn't it possible for these good things to just be? Is it really impossible?

I sit here and wonder if I should even post this bummer of a post, but I will, with my heart wrapped tightly around my throat. From my shack here, I send the loveliest of warm vibes, laced in tears, to echo out across all the corners of all the lands to mend all the broken hearts, and my hope is that anyone that reads this will join me and maybe it would actually work. Just for all broken hearts to be filled with love and peace. 
Maybe we'll all breathe easy and we'll all find our way.

-Angie

Monday, October 13, 2014

great place to hide a body



This is the view from my kitchen window. It was rainy the other day, and still, it is so gorgeous. It's so calming. I can sit and mediate through those panes of glass for a good chunk of time. If everyone had a view like this the world would be a much kinder place. 

In the last few weeks, I've seen and heard really angry drivers, foaming at the mouth, yelling at other drivers, or honking their horns. Twice it was young punks yelling at elderly people. And then that made me really angry, because this is a small town, and everybody just needs to calm down. We're not talking about highly congested traffic areas. We are talking about small neighborhoods that these guys lost their shit over what - a turn signal in a 25 mph zone? Both times these pricks cursed so loudly and threateningly and they were just stewing in their own sauce of inflamed auras, so much so that it made me livid. 

I came home and meditated on this view and thought... if everyone had this view, then maybe they wouldn't be so quick to bite. 
I came home and meditated on this view and thought... what a great place to hide a body. 

-Angie

Saturday, October 11, 2014

as real as real can be 5 - Last Birthday In the Big House

I've spent the last two out of three of my birthdays, and some days in between, in the joint. The Big House. Behind bars, locked doors, with watchful C.O.'s, and rules that change all the time. This past October 8th was the last one to be spent there. We're on a bit of a home stretch now, and it feels good. 

There's always a sense of some kind of dread in the back of my brain when I pull into the long drive to ominous buildings hugged tight in chain link fences with rolls and rolls of barbed wire blades on the tops. Guard shacks and such. Green grass and a pond and geese and deer. 

The whole thing is a bad, wrinkled and faded tan suit with shiny cuff links. Dress shoes covered in black sharpie to hide the scuffs. Greasy, slicked back hair showing beady, squinted, shady eyes. Power trips, but good guys, too. There's always a sense of anticipation in all corners of my brain when I pull into the drive to see my brother. 

This particular day there were fist fights going on in my heart and head. A funk. I want him home already. I think I hate the whole thing, and I know that I don't even know the depths of hate he has for it. I have not one shit of a clue as to what it's really like. So I tell myself to shut up and get over it. And I do. That's just some kind of self pity and I really don't like that. But I am tired of it for him. As if he needed any help. 

Here's one of those stories that I'm known to tell on myself. One that I could just keep quiet about and no one would ever be the wiser to my foolishness. But I tell these things. I just do. 

I don't think I'm a boaster of how much I know. I think I would usually be the first to admit that I really know not much about a lot of things. However, I used to think that I was pretty damn good with first impressions. However (Yes, that's a second however), I'll now be throwing that notion out the back door with the rest of the rot in the slop bucket. But in my defense, I was in a funk. Already said that. OK. 

We walk in to sign in. Regular business. New guard, though. Some guards are good. Some aren't. Me thinking I'm so good with first impressions, I sized this dirtbag up quick. He was so by-the-book, and I don't know... having me sign in things that I had never been asked to sign in, and another guard gave him a hand on a couple of things. He was stating that he had already done this and done that and, Oh, he's just SO PROUD of himself, I thought. 

We go through the process, and in a few minutes we're sitting at the table waiting for my bro to come through the door. Another guard was sitting at the desk. Inmates have to check in with that guard to let them know that, yes, this is where that inmate is supposed to be. 

Well, there was a guard change and here comes by-the-book dirtbag. 

Me - Oh, great. (Said with such sarcasm) We get this guy. 

My little sister - Why? What's wrong with this guy?

Me - He just looks like a dick. Looks like he would like to throw his weight around. Looks like he loves to vacation to destination POWER. 

My little sister - Umm... I think he was just doing his job. He didn't do anything bad. 

Me - I'm good at first impressions. Trust me. This guy?... and I just shook my head. And now my brother is going to have to check in with this guy. And I summed him up to be all,  Oh hey, I'm the guard here. Let me exercise my major use of power for checking this inmate in, who, by the way, was also already checked before he even came through that door. If it were another guard, they would just be like, Hey! With a smile. Pleasant and loose and just wave him, because, you know, he's been here a while and a lot of the guards know him. 
(He's not the typical inmate. Whatever that means. No, I'll tell you what that means, exactly. In a prison that's 98 percent gang members that barely speak gang slang, my brother speaks very good English. Always scoring well beyond the normal realm of scores. He stands out. He's a likable guy. That alone makes him atypical.) I go on...
Another guard would probably be all, Hey! Ahh.. I got you! Go on! And they would give a big wave. But not this guy. (smug as hell, I was.)

Door opens. 
My brother walks in. 
Smiles. 

The guard, this guy. - "Hey! Ahh.. I got you! Go on!" and gives a big wave. 
Verbatim. He did exactly the thing that I said he would not do.

Blew my first impression theory all to hell and back. We all laughed and kicked myself. 

Happy Last Birthday in the big house to me and my little brother. 

-Angie

as real as real can be
as real as real can be 2
as real as real can be 3
as real as real can be 4


shack saturday

Happy Saturday, Shackers! 


-Angie

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

serious biznass


Fall. The tree leaves wave their sunset colors, but the trees will eventually reach out with skeletal limbs and scratching fingertips. 

Camp fires crackle and bring warmth and gooey marshmallows, but the fire will die to ash and the mallows will grow cold and harden. 

Pumpkin spice is in every delightful candle, drink and meal, but those pumpkins you carved with an icy, stainless blade will start to rot, and those butchered grins contort to a jagged grimace.

Everything is warm. Everything is cold. 

Your loving children will sit next to you, reading, as you write. But then they'll sit across from you, in motionless silence, and wait for you to look up, and then you will look up...

And it's official... All Hallow's Eve is quickly approaching, and you've got to get your A-game on. You can never let your guard down. Because this is serious biznass. When your kid comes dragging along the floor towards you, instead of on their feet (I hate that crawling across the floor shit, and she knows it. Never show them your weakness.), lurking behind every corner, staging bloody scenes... It is on like Donkey Kong. They think it's all SO hilarious, while they rare their heads back in maniacal laughter, while you die a little more with each mini heart attack. But do you hear me? IT IS ON. 

-Angie

which side...?

On one side...

Everybody is in a hurry, and they claw and climb with raging fingertips, and sweaty, angry brows, trampling whoever may be in the way. 

Garbage is in plain site in all directions. It's in the light and it's in the shadows. It's disguised as good covering wrong. 

But it's all wrong. 

They are the teachers, preachers, doctors and cops and everyday ordinary guys.

They are supposed to be the good guys. 

All climbing on top of each other to be better than the next. 

Kicking the ones below in the head, grinding the heel of their shoe into a faceless someone to them, knocking their teeth out to fall into the eyes of the someones below them. 

Sweaty, toothless, eyeless, clawing and scratching. Climbing. Falling.

One person tries to help and pull a body out of the bottom of the human-entangled Jenga. It would collapse, but limbs are intertwined and there is no freedom to be had. They hang on with clamped jaws. 

Another person offers wisdom on how to loosen the shit pile, but no one will listen. Everyone will twist the do-gooder's words into filth and lies, turning the whole mound to scornfully blame and curse the one that had any decent, common sense. 

And they will continue until they are all gums and blind and broken. 

It's lies and hate and deceit. 

***

On the other side...

There are people in not much rush. Eloquently, carefully, thoughtfully they move. Noticing the truths that are still around. 

Light is everywhere. Even in the shadows, there is lighted hope. They are marked as bad covering good. 

But it's all good. Mostly. 

They are the teachers, preachers, doctors and cops and everyday ordinary guys. 

They are the good guys. 

Walking alongside each other. Equal. They seem few, but they are there. 

Whole and calm and peaceful. Building one another up. Soaring. 

One person tries to hurry them, yet their pace remains steady. 
Another person tries to belittle them. Their resolve unwavering. 
They can not be broken. Will not falter. 
It's healthy and honest and strong. 

Which side are we on? Which side do we want to be on? 

-Angie

Monday, October 6, 2014

truth and grit and silk



There are still moving boxes piled up here, inside and out. Pictures line the floors instead of the walls. Clothes are in baskets waiting for drawers and hangers. It's messy. Needs arranging, and still, I like it. I really, really like it. 

I lost a follower the other day with the writing gig. Gained three more in the wake of the loss. My first thought at the slamming door when they left was a quick - What the fuck? But I get it. I can be gritty sometimes, I guess, or... something. I like to call it honesty. Authenticity. Maybe it's raw. Maybe it's too raw. 

I've been told that I don't have much of a filter. I get that, too. I've been telling ridiculous, embarrassing stories on myself since pigtails and untied shoelaces, much to the horror of my brother. Why do you even tell people that stuff?? I can't say why I do. Words just fall out sometimes and really can't be stopped. 

Maybe there's a time and place for everything. Is this not my time? My place? Would it be better if I told false fairy tales instead? Some of my tales have actually been spun like silk from the fairest of fairies, it seems. I like to share those, too. Once upon a times that can start every single day, even ten times every single day, with rough middles and grand middles, and though the The Ends will come eventually, I like the growing parts of ...and they lived happily ever after. 

Life is gritty and messy and cluttered and glorious and in your face and clear - always a running tally of gains and losses. Somehow the story has found me here in this chapter. It's a good chapter; a real page turner. I'm just as excited about the unpacked boxes, bare hangers and empty drawers, and the not yet hung photos, because I'm here. I'm here in the midst of all of the truth and grit and silk. 

-Angie


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