Many Bloodsucking Creatures

Yesterday was a fun-filled day of pokes, prods, and pre-surgical testing.  Attempting to draw me out of my latest mini-mental-breakdown (brought on by its main culprit as of late: a blood test), my dad filled me in on the latest political news. Glenn Beck was having a rally at the Lincoln Memorial on the revered anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech.
Nice.
With a last sniffle and a "Ugh. I hate Glenn Beck.", I slipped onto the exam chair and allowed to the nurse to take what I was sure to be yet another donation to the Edward Cullens fund. My dad is a wizard.

I decided to do some follow-up on this precious display, and have a few thoughts on the matter:

- Beck has masterfully created a brand new sentence filler. Gone are the days of "um" and "like" - if you want to roll tea party style, start using "God" instead.

- Of course he was well aware of the potential controversy of the Martin Luther King speech anniversary - he was banking on it. One person's irreverent is another person's "maverick". One might infer that he hopes to have comparative statements about the impact or importance in later years. Perhaps even with quotations! He has engineered his role as leader of some sort of movement he hopes to be comparative to civil rights(of course, not the "progressive" aspects of it. just magnitude.) Beck's dreams involve textbook references with side-by-side photographs, SAT essay questions of compare and contrast. Go big or go home, I guess. And when you need to make a plate of BS big enough to feed Mama Grizzlies, such ingredients are needed.

- It's not that I feel his message is entirely worthy of ridicule. I was once an attendee of church picnic-like affairs. I can appreciate the strength of a sermon. The concept of "restoring honor" sounds as soothing to me as the next person. I just don't equate that with pro-life or pro-"marriage"(please note use of quotation marks) ideology.

-  And it's not that I don't appreciate a conservative message. When it comes to the trivialities of politics(better phrased as "things that are trivial, like politics"), my loyalty shifts based on who has the better deal.  Often enough, the Democratic party's keg is kicked and one has venture down to elephant town to get drunk. Sometimes they ID you and you have to drag your sorry ass back and hope someone makes a liquor run (though it might take a few years).

So that's it for my diatribe. Stay tuned for mosque talk, "reasons why my pediatrician sucked" and other bitterness!

Conversation Starters

I lied to two people today.

Well, technically three. But the two main victims were told directly to their faces, which I imagine is supposed to make the crime more...repugnant.

The victims? A dentist and a hair dresser.  Didn't know what hit 'em.

The aforementioned are the types of occupations in which rapport is awarded - or rather, considered part of the job. Despite hundreds of nameless mouths or heads of hair they shift and shape in a year, they are expected to maintain some sort of memory, in order to maintain the almost-ease of conversation with the annual patients whose intricacies, while inconsequential, allow them to feel more relaxed when remembered.(Though I don't imagine anyone ever feels relaxed enough for those horrid cleanings. Shudder.)

Yet, the same conversations remain in their repertoire. Targeted by age and gender, the questions are meant to elicit the small talk that creates the comfortable environment that is sought.

So, why make things uncomfortable?

When the mother hen-like dentist asks about the bandage or hospital bracelet, there is no point in mentioning the "c" word. Quite the conversation killer.

Or not so much killer, but monster-steroid enhancer. Adult sympathy, unlike it's adolescent counterpart, is experienced, hard-hitting, and often...hysterical. It asks the real questions. It has real-life comparison points and the worst: recommendations.

As much as I would love to foster intimacy with individuals who will as soon forget my teeth or hair specifications as they put away the file(or hair dryer), I feel it unnecessary. Excessive, if you will.

Why ruin their day with the knowledge that they're touching a (c word) patient?

The whole thing just seems silly to me.

So, if our encounter only merits a short or sporadic conversation, you will be told I had a minor  operation. And that I'm going back to school in week. And that everything is swell.

Preset answers for preset questions.

You Gotta Have Heart

"She is our flower! She is in the flower of her youth!"

rosary beads, WHY YOU!, repeat repeat repeat

she's little, but she's a heavyweight.

grandmothers are good for things like that.

Euphemisms that turn into THE words, 

circle talk and praise of good veins

We-will-fix-you's

curative, chemical, giveeeeememorepilllllls!

it's an air mask for a jet pilot. Maverick!

hospital staff is good for things like that

i got a team of people on prayers, a team of people on treatment, a team of people on fattening me up with the most delicious things possible, a team of people on sanity and awkward jokes(cuing laughter for mine). And a team of people on acting as my mouth, arms, and legs when they slack(they're called parents and they are quite the asset, let me tell you).  All of whom are on the all-star team of keeping me alive. I'm confident about my odds.

I'm ready to fight, mothafuckaaaaa!

The Stage

Headphones in a glass room. The casual ignorance of the lack of soundproof walls and tinted glass. Performance value.

There is always a song to be sung, a dance to begin at the most basic tapping of finger tips. I see figures floating across a stage in perfectly coordinated movements - swaying(or popping) to the rhythm of a sultry love song, or rapid pant of a heart-pounding club beat. The first jazz dance of Gershwin in a sequin top hat(glitter was an eye hazard) and the last twirl-and-dip on the sticky local bar floor are not to be forgotten.

Tap dancing with mirrors to match movement to tap dancing across a heart with no recollection of its happening. I miss the time step.

 

Sometimes the best expression of style occurs alone in carpeted bedroom. Doors closed, with only the mirrors to judge what is exposed. A song echoing off the basement walls - with only the pitter patter of miniscule paws to keep time. An existence in the partial secrecy the moon affords you.

 

The daily journey home involving a walk-in-the-park and a game. How close can a person get before they hear the words sailing off one's lips?

Better to be suspended above the viewers of the art, the recitation of words and movement. Blinding bright lights obscure the view of filled seats. No eye contact. Center stage squint. 

Hidden in the limelight for too long, it is time to return. 

Palm Reading

Patches, Trax, and Cupcake draped their lethargy-pumped bodies around a wooden table obscured from view of other patrons. It was humid inside the private alcove; but the importance of privacy far outstripped the inconvenience of a sweaty brow.

They nursed their drinks, musing over past days. With markings on the tops of their hands, silvery declarations of title, they were distinctive from the others. Atop the table, among the varied condense-tipped glasses, was a book.

"Put one palm on top and stroke the pages with the other. Think about your question until it feels...right. Then open to the page you touch."

Questions were asked and answered. Though many of the cryptic messages required the combined interpretations of hope and cynicism, often enough the text spoke loudly and clearly.

"Am I good in bed?"
"Don't be ridiculous."

Ouch. That's gotta burn.

The book was then unceremoniously tossed, to be replaced by another round.

Priorities.

How Stella Got Her Groove Back

I mentioned earlier how I was having some difficulty for a few weeks writing poetry. I had lost my groove. Very concerned that this was a permanent groove loss, I sought help. And then fortuitously the blog-stalking that I so oft have to do for work led me to Hannah Miet, who is a fucking g. After some feedback on the male point-of-view poem, one comment in particular: "It sounds like an Asian preteen male wrote it", I decided I should probably revamp. Or grow a penis. Those were the options provided to me. But before my sex-change in the name of poetry, I want to take another swing at it. The new version, alternatively title "the frat boy"(I'M SORRY IT WAS TOO EASY.), explores the internal monologue of a guy at the bar with drunk girl. I was told this was more accurate(feedback: "it sounds like a dyke wrote it"), so it appears I am on the right track. So once I start demanding anal sex, I think I will finally have hit it on the head. Thoughts?

And as always, feel free to stalk me if you want to read it. And by stalk, I mean email. That would be uh, cool. Thanks.

Though I'm a bit scared to post my wittle poems on the big, bad web(outside of the confines of my 15-person facebook list for all my notes), I don't really have an excuse given that I've been published a few times. And it's only fair to post in the blogoverse what I gained from the blogoverse(stab me for the use of the term blogoverse). So, here ya go. Judge away fine fellows.

Hannah Miet is my New Muse
You're fickle and volatile
you are the pinpricks of tics
which switch my desire for
a cubicle fuck to a
toss off floor 6.
I've thought of you before.
before the daydream that fades to soft tinges
that make me drowsy at desk
touch the keys as they bend
to whatever curve my mind's run down next
Useful as a post-it note without stick,
your words fall like drip drip
of a leaky faucet
I long to express
the feeling you've never felt
except when reflecting off
conquers
you dispel all cause for concern
with a look and a wink and a
left-hand turn
look away, for I'm through with the
swerve of a crash-and-burn
learn to put out your cigarettes
on someone else's arm.

Taming of the Shrew

Hannah Miet is my new muse. I thought for a time why the poetry wasn't coming, why the words remained stagnant. Or worse, neatly tucked into approved-sentence structure with properly placed punctuation AND capitalized words. The horror. the horror. I decided that my creativity had been drained from this blog business or simply leaking out of my cublicle chair(along with my will to live). I needed some help.

First, I was assisted by the-guy-with-a-gift who gave me a magical assignment: write from a male point-of-a-view. Specifically, "no feminist sarcasm". I was worried, to be sure, that some might accidently spurt out(it wells about the throat, waiting). I can't help that vast majority of men and their behavior give me ageda on a regular basis. Maybe I should hop out of the frat scene for awhile and linger among the engineers. They at least inspire some faith.

When the assignment piqued immediate interest, I realized that my writer's block may have been simply been caused by having nothing to write about. To be fair, this is a positive in real-world terms, as almost all of it is angsty in some way. Or simply angry(comedy comes from anger, according to something I read somewhere...therefore it must be true.) Or sad(read: pathetic. No one gets to read those though. Sorry, schaudenfreude fans). So, sadly for my creativity, I haven't had to bitch anyone out via free-form in awhile. Poo.

Back to the assignment, I began with the internal monologue of a guy about to approach a girl in a bar. Then realizing how risky that would be(breaking the constraints of the assignment waaaay too easy), I decided to try a different tactic. Channeling my knowledge of all that is idealistic, rom-com, wishywashy, and generally unrealistic, I wrote the internal monologue of a type b guy comforting a friend, whom he secretly loves. Mhmhm mush.  I think I successfully made males come off non-scummy, but that's probably because, as my friend aptly put, "I don't think it's male enough".

Can't win 'em all, I guess.



p.s. If you want to read the poem(or any of my other pieces), just give me a shout. I'm a bit overprotective.