hello smog!

So, i won’t be around much as i’ll be on my way to SoCal for my Mom’s Birthday, visiting my sisters and participating in some good old fashioned tomfoolery.  i’m looking forward to it, though i will miss R terribly!  And i am getting anxious about the bus and the train the girls and i have to take to get to K’s house.  (K is my other best friend, beside R, and youngest sister.)  She lives the closest so we will be bussing it/AmTrakking it to her, then driving down the rest of the way.

Last year on the train was horrible.  We were seated on the upper level and it felt like the train was going to topple over.  A small bottle of orange juice cost me $3.50!  And don’t even get me started on those awful, awful bathrooms!   Then, the girls had to sit together in front of me.  We traveled at night.  i couldn’t sleep for fear of perverts and mashers getting to them so by the time we arrived at K-loc’s i was mean and grouchy and sore.

Then on the way back, we were delayed in Davis for two hours.  Just sitting on the tracks.  There were no details about why either.  i.  Was.  Pissed.  R was wild with worry at the station for there, an announcement was made.  That there’d been a train accident.

Only it wasn’t our train.  But the announcement did not specify which train it was.  We finally were reunited, tears and fierce hugging ensued.  When we got home, i checked online and found out that a woman had decided to commit suicide on the tracks.  Passenger trains yield to freight and it was a freight train that struck and killed her.  Her and her nine year-old daughter. 

Awful.

Also, we had the pleasure of watching a drunk couple get kicked off the train.  i don’t like to get happy over things of this sort but i totally was that time.  She was dancing in the aisle, falling on people and acting stupid.  He was yelling and cussing at her.  They were drunk.  And funky, like he had his shirt tucked into his shorts and she had on acid-washed jeans.  Like that.  They were just being obnoxious so i was glad when they were ejected.  Passengers clapped.

i clapped inside.

So, yeah!  Theme Friday is still a go, so please, feel free to stop by and check it out.  Mi casa es su casa.

Hopefully when i return, i will’ve written many wonderful sister/smog/noisy/good things.  Hopefully!

Until then, my friends…

~c

fear

i have many fears:

falling backward, flying, wasps and winding up in a rest home with caregivers who don’t give a crap about me, losing my writing mojo (which seems to’ve been happening, incrementally, for the past few weeks), feet, guns and people that carry them around.

Bears, too.  And raccoons.

But mostly, i fear the packaging of ready-to-bake biscuits.

::shivers:: i'm skerd of those tubes!

Because, you have to peel a piece of the outside wrapper off until the thing POPS!  i am so afraid of that pop.  Things run through my mind, crazy things.  Like the little aluminum lid will explode off and blind someone.  Or that the dough will splat all over.  Or that the pop will be so loud, we’ll all go deaf.

It doesn’t help that R is also not very fond of opening these possible weapons of mass destruction.  Or that when growing up my mom, sisters and i would fight over whose turn it was to open them.  So i stare and stare at these packages, trying to reassure myself.  Reminding myself that none of those things’ve happened to me in the past.  And i’ve never heard of anything happening to anyone else in the entire history of this kind of packaging. 

At least not thus far. 

But you never know.  Maybe the story just hasn’t made it to me yet!

Anyway, there has to be a better way, a safer quieter way to package these deals.

And this is the very dumbest post i’ve posted since i began posting stuff on the internets.

(copyright 2008)  c A Hughes
08.17.08

low self esteem

i want you to like me.  It’d be nice.  Please like me. 

pieces of my life- $5.00 O.B.O.

There are books and books and books.  It hurts as i put them out, tall stacks, price them by marking their inner covers.  A quarter for hours of my life, being affected, my thoughts.  Twenty-five cents.  There i lean the light and purple vacuum for bare floors, R’s drill with charger here, some movies and old toys next to it.  But the books hurt most because they were mine and no one will love them like me, i just know it…

It is hot.  Cloudy.  Airless.  It starts slow.  The neighbors have tables and tables of stuff- tools, clothes, puzzles, cutlery, costume jewelry, dishes, stuffed animals of every species, every thing that anyone could possibly need or want for cheap.  They’re professionals.  Like a flea market stall- all the items baring round price stickers and spread out.  They have change ready.  They have smiles.  They’ve bottled water for sale. 

A few of these early shoppers wander over to my little black table piled with books, an espresso maker with an iffy milk steamer attachment- so temperamental, a small color tv and from my porch awning hangs a, our, red Chinese lantern i loved before we moved here and redecorated our room in the French Country style.  The red lantern that created a smoothness to my skin, an intensity to our movements, contented depth to our sleeping sounds.

Five dollars please? 

They come, looking over my modest inventory quickly.  Too quickly, i think.  These are bits of my time, life, understanding.  i read that book out on our balcony, shaded by a huge birch.  Those fat little meadow larks would land on the wooden railing and just stare and stare.  i chain-smoked out there in my long hooded sweater.  That one took me three days it was that good!  That one there, one sitting!  And that one, a week, but it was deep.

i feel a few more moments are needed, would persuade them.  i am a good person!  i’m smart, funny, thoughtful.

i am! 

Vultures!  Buzzards!  They walk away like it’s nothing, i’m nothing.  It hurts.

i can’t explain it- this feeling of inadequacy that folks won’t pay even a quarter for these books.  i’m only sacrificing them for gas money, cigarette money…

i sell the drill- $5.00.
Two Scooby-Doo puzzles for 50 cents.
I Love You Like A Tomato for 50 cents, even though it’s worth so much more than that!

“Help me price these, please?  What d’you think?  A dollar a piece?”

“You’re too sentimental.  A person will pay a quarter, I think.  You’re going on what they’re worth to you instead of what someone will pay at a yard sale.”

“Well, not twenty-five cents!  How about fifty?  Fifty cents at least…”

It gets hotter.  Clouds come.  My arms feel moist.  Wasps are buzzing about noisily and a little too close.  People don’t buy much.  They come up to the table then walk away, hot and sweaty and grumpy.  They don’t like my lack of shade, my books, my non-necessities.  They don’t like me.  i keep thinking about the book that sold.  It was a good book.  i loved the title so!  That’s why i bought it, without reading the back cover.  “I Love You Like A Tomato”.  Come on!  i read it in two days.  Good as its name.

i feel judged.  Am i snooty with all these books for sale?  Books and a season of The Simpson’s?  A coffee maker?

At least the lantern didn’t sell.  i’d panicked, hearing a couple at the neighbors’ tables nearby remarking how cool it’d look in their bedroom.  

But it’s ours! 

And i will be doing this again tomorrow.

(copyright 2008 )  c A Hughes
08.17.08

Theme Fridays: you

THEME FRIDAYS

Okay, so i’m a mo-mo.  i picked this week’s theme which is you.  My post, however, is not about you, but about you.  i hope that you can find yourself in it.  Being arrogant when i chose this theme, i thought this would be a snap, but you are not easily defined or confined- at least not by me.  i don’t care what your mama said, this time it’s all about…

you

i’m glad you made it.  i’m glad you’re here.  And you, and you.  Thank you for coming.  Thank you for being here, friend/stranger/reader…

i am here with you.  i am in the roundness of the O.  i am the line that crosses the tees, the squiggle of an S.  And you’ve come to look me over.  It’s okay.  It’s what i am for.  That’s why we’re here.  My mind within these words, and you inside your eyes.  This is where we meet through those things that are between us.  Things like miles or friendship, clothes, heat.  Confusion or boredom.  All that falls away right here, right now.

So we are here, and i want to show you me, my thoughts, feelings, ideas, life in a string of symbols.  Through these symbols- letters put together as words.  These words’re put together to convey my mind.  Your eyes analyze these letters, decipher their meaning in relation to your experience apart from me, in relation to what you believe about me, in relation to what you must guess rather than know.  You wonder about me, judge me, grasp me, question me, hate me, like me.  Understand… 

And in that moment, this moment, when your mind, gut, heart or whatever in you tells you what you think is right, that you actually do know.  You know my thoughts.  They come into to you and become a part of you.  For a moment, we are together…  In the truest way.  We are touching.  My words to your eyes, an embrace in comfort or joy in meeting, a slap in anger, a brush of palm against palm. Fingers trace the paths of tears, of smile lines.

Our spirits, at this very second, are meeting together.  Between words and eye.  You. Me.

Then comes the *Holy Moment…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And for this second we rest in the other’s presence.  You are holy.  i am holy.  We don’t normally realize this.  Now you do and it’s strange.  It- your holiness is the clean space within the O, blankness between words, between lines, images and sound.  It is you- it is yours- in the pause.

Then phone rings or your microwave beeps.  You realize what’s going on and we are pulled apart, mortal again, sullied by and tethered to, the world.  Ripped out of this invisible, sacred togetherness and put back in our places.  The holiness is shattered and gone.  The story ends and you are there, i am here.

Apart.

*Source 

Here’s J’s thoughts on You.
You have been on Annie’s mind as well. 

(copyright 2008 ) c A Hughes
08.15.08

idle hands are the devil’s workshop

When i am bored, i do stupid things. Like eat Cocoa Pebbles at one in the morning, lay around, say stupid crap or write stuff like this.

i am often bored and do the above more often than i care to admit. Just lately, i’ve been between blah and ick. Sleeping a lot. The next time i go to the doctor, in fact, i am going to ask about possibly having narcolepsy. i’m very serious. i have auditory hallucinations and i’m not even drunk or loaded. At night, i am awakened by muscle spasms. My body goes rigid for about, i don’t know, fifteen seconds. Then i can’t move for a few moments afterward. And i can sleep! Boy can i sleep. And anywhere, anytime. On the floor, the ground, toilet, in the shower. i can sleep for seven hours at night, get up and do housework for two hours, take a three hour nap, make lunch, take another two hour nap, make dinner then sleep for seven hours again at night.

Then there’s aplastia anemia. i actually have an enlarged spleen which is one of the symptoms. When i was a kid, doctors thought i might’ve had lukemia. i wrote a post about it but i’m too lazy to look for it and link it but basically it’s me and my Dad, a doctor brandishing a huge ass needle on my five year-old thigh talking about “This’ll only take a second.”

Perhaps, i just need some iron. Who knows?

No, i’m not a hypochondriac. i hate being sick and would honestly need to be suffering a severed limb before going to the hospital. Even then, i’m sure i could sew or staple gun it back on.

i just feel like talking, but i’ve nothing to talk about- that’d interest others anyway. i should read a book or clean out the junk drawer in the kitchen. There’s so much to ward off the devil and his workshopping. Why don’t i do those things?

Who knows?

Writer’s block is hell. Also the devil’s workshop…

(copyright 2008 ) c A Hughes
08.13.08

i love

A few weeks ago R brought home a box of Cocoa Pebbles.  Now, you should know that we do not eat sugary cereals.  The girls’ll eat yogurt and fruit and granola.  i often make oatmeal for breakfeast, or Cream of Wheat, pancakes or French toast with turkey bacon.  Once in a while, i’ll scramble some eggs, which i don’t personally eat because they make my stomach feel like it’s digesting glass.  As far as cold cereal, i buy Corn Flakes, Rice Crispies or Kix.  The sweetest we get is Frosted Shredded Mini-Wheat. 

The point is, we rarely buy sugary cereals.

i’m also not much for eating breakfast.  Eating in the morning makes my stomach hurt.  Even though i really like breakfast foods, i only eat them when i make brinner for my boo.

You should know, as well, that for the first ten years of my life, the only sweet cereal i ate was Rice Crispies with a little sugar sprinkled on top.  My mom used to put wheat germ on our oatmeal so after one bite, our stomachs were distended from all the healthiness.  i never drank soda, Kool-Aid, punch of any kind.  We had candy maybe once a month, though my mom baked cookies every week for our lunches.  i dreamt of store-bought Oreos or Chips Ahoy.  We did not ever eat sugary cereals.

So like i was saying, R brought home a box of Cocoa Pebbles and, well, it was the first time i ever tried them.  i poured a little into a bowl, barely moistened them with milk because i am lactose intolerant (my stomach hates me on so many levels…) and tasted this cereal for the first time in my 35 years alive here on earth.

mmmmmmmmmm...

i.  am.  In love. 

i could live on them for the rest of my life, no joke.  When i think of them, i could weep for all the years i’ve lived without them.  It was scarcely a life at all!  And i ate the entire box myself. 

i didn’t mean to, but i ate bowls of them- for lunch, for snack, after dinner and late at night while surfing the web.  In fact, i just finished a bowl of these heavenly bits of chocolate flavored unhealthiness just before writing this post.  It’s 12:14 in the morning.  i think they put a little crack in the box, shower them with a little Satisfaction before sealing the plastic.  i’m considering another bowl right now.

Which is very, very bad.  Very bad.  Bad for my stomach, bad for my thigh meats, my flabdominals and cinnamon rolls.  (i like it, don’t hate.)  But i’d like to stay where i am which is average looking, though a little soft- in a sensual way- yet healthy.  (My doctor told me i can eat all the red meat i want!  Only, it hurts my stomach the damned thing!)  i don’t want to be gluttonous or unhealthy and i can’t imagine filling the bowl i use to mix cornbread in with Cocoa Pebbles and wolfing it down in the middle of the night is good for me.  But i want to sooooo baaaad!

And that just makes me sad to my addictive soul.  i love you, Cocoa Pebbles.  i do.  You’re totally my boyfriend.

(copyright 2008 )  c A Hughes
08.11.08