I spent the weekend on Hatteras Island, NC (I have friends who rented a place, otherwise my broker than broke ass would have not been there), and things got stirred . . . Here's from something new.
Don't ask me where it's going, I have no idea. And NO, I had no such bizarro fantasy while in The Banks. You've even got typos. That fresh.
Glimpses
Okcracoke Island is the typical, oft written about summer island for vacationers owning or renting houses. It’s unobstructed beaches prove fertile ground for waves catching, sunbathing, and outright lounging. It’s a small, secluded place, with just the right amount of trees and shore and people. It’s characters range from the leathery and old to the young and new with stores selling knickers and homespun purses. Tiny roads twist you around this island, and in the village even tinier roads house homes for the old and new. “For Sale” signs dot the landscape, more so than usual this year, and as we turn to the bend to head to the craft store the cutest little cottage catches my eye.
It’s faded white paint, gently chipping away, one story bungalow, almost hidden in the trees with the sand and crushed seashell drive way scream of retreat and release. The “For Sale” sign urges entry, but I already know I cannot even dream of a house right now. Yet, as we turned the corner I got a glimpse of life with Vaughn.
I saw him standing on the porch, holding a sack of groceries from the market not a mile away, I saw a black eight ball Swingline bike parked in front of the porch next to a pink one, I saw half dead orchids on a table partly obscured by the open doorway, I saw Gerber Daisies in planters under the front windows, and then I saw myself.
I came from the dim hallway, in a flowery cotton summer dress with a head rag holding back my hair. I had to have been writing as I had a pen in it, and my face had that far off look. My skin was barely tan with deep with summer, and as I looked closer at him Vaughn’s was too. How could this be? Was he here with me too? Did we live together, did we own this house? Did he own this house and I only the visitor?
He kissed me on the cheek, in that sweet and soft way of his, and the kiss was almost buttery and deep rose sweet.
“I bought the stuff for dinner. Dan and Sherry should be over the ferry anytime now.” His was still the same, his tone still captivating and soothing, sweet to only me, and recognizable in any crowd. Yet, something was different.
Playing with my hair he murmured in my ear, and I put tomatoes and corn away while giggling. The bandanna on his head covered his hair, but it was covered in paint. As I stopped to look closer at the scene Vaughn was in denim overalls with the signs of an artist’s frenzy work all over them. All I could think was please let this take me to his studio and I wonder if I sold a best seller. I must have because this place requires cash. Oh God!
…
I must have muttered “Oh God” because Cindy asked if I was all right. Rolling my shoulders back in a care free island way I told her yes that I just couldn’t get over the beauty of the place. Pfft. Really, I was shitting my pants because I didn’t know what in the hell just happened.
No sooner had I seen my life as we turned to corner and I came back to reality. Three shoeless boys peddled their bikes down the narrow cottage road balancing handle bars and ice-cream cones while we maneuvered the car to the pottery and craft shop. Shaking the glittery cobwebs of Vaughn from my mind I climbed out of the car and wandered into the shop. Nothing in the shop really struck me, and we left without buying.
The Village Peddler has rooms partly filled with trinkets and knickknacks—the kinds of things I loathe—and Indulgences made me giggle as I saw a tote with my favorite designer’s fabric. I pointed and said “Hey, that’s Amy Butler fabric!” I didn’t but because I make my own bags, and I like my constructions better. The young couple of the store had a small baby, and they were working on feeding him. As we left, a wave of incense from a nearby shop wrapped through my nostrils and Vaughn and I were in my study (I presume so with it’s Mediterranean Orange walls, rows of books, and photos in kitschy frames). Damn, I want to see his freakin’ studio, not my nasty, empty coffee cup filled office.
“I have writer’s block,” my fantasy self wined as she slunk down into a well worn leather office chair. Vaughn, still in the same over alls and bandanna, gruffed.
Rubbing her shoulders, “You always say that when you have a rough part. It’s only rough until you finish it, and then you get all giddy and drink champagne on the docks with the tourists like it’s 1999.”
“Mmmmmm,” she tries to nestle her head on her shoulder with his fingers.
“Oh shit!”
“Are you okay,” Cindy reaches down to help Piper up while rolling her eyes at me.
“Really, where the hell are you today? I realize we are on vacation, an island, and all that jazz, but I think you’ve gone on a little too far off the radar. You just tripped over nothing.”
“Ha. Ha. I’m fine . . . just making sure you’re on your toes. Though, perhaps I should rethink my plan. Bodily injury on my part is not fun.” Flexing my knee, I rolled my fat ass up and tongue flipped Cindy off.
“You are a moron.”
“And you’re a retard for hanging out with me,” at that I drug Cindy into next tourist trap shop while silently thinking I was losing my God-given mind. Though, being able to finish this fantasy might be nice. . .
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Asses and Family
Sometimes people are just asses, and sometimes no family member can be trusted.
The very short end of this story is that my father’s family disowned me a few years back, and I don’t care. They are alcoholic asses, treat me badly, and I don’t enjoy the insults. His sister is particularly awful, and I make it a point to avoid her at all costs. My father hasn’t spoken to her in two years, and he only did so when she called. He keeps the conversation short, and he cuts her off. Why is any of this important? Because whenever she is in contact with us or my former sister I get attacked. Attacked by her, other family members, and my life becomes an outright hostile zone of warfare.
Well . . . my mother asked me to show her how to set up a Facebook account so she can keep up with old friends. My mother then added the alcoholic bitch of an aunt as a friend (FYI Facebook tells everyone when you do these things). Can someone please tell me why she would do this? I saw the alert a few weeks ago, and since two cousins I used to spend my summer’s with got cold and distant. They no longer message me. I have now deleted them. And, Shawn a cousin I’ve been particularly close to blew up at me again.
He has a history of mood swings—the booze and drugs don’t help—and you should know he contacted me . . . NOT me to him. He came to see me, uninvited and unannounced two summers ago, and he tried to bully me. I was in the middle of a health crisis, cancer scare, and I didn’t need his shit. He left without saying a word. His then girlfriend has always stayed in contact with me. How sad that he can't . . .
This time . . . he caught me on Yahoo messenger and wanted to know why he hasn’t heard from me. Said he didn’t have my new cell. Kept badgering the issue and the fact that he found out I went to see his old girlfriend a few weeks ago. I ended the conversation and went to bed. Woke up to him saying “You aren’t perfect.” I forwarded him a sent email that had the number. He continued to blow. I told him to leave me be. I won’t go into the specifics right now, because I am soooooooooo mad, but I have him blocked from emails, my phone, and my life.
The point is he said that I use my brother’s death, my sister, and my health as an excuse for my behavior; that the problem is always me; that I never apologize; and that I am a spoiled brat. He called me immature, insulted my education (again), and the list goes on. I finally did it. I told him that at least I have a career and didn’t take more than a decade to get a two year degree (which he still isn’t finished with). He flat out said that he’s talked to the booze laden aunt and others about me. Bringing up my brother is out of line. More so, Yahoo messenger is going to be the death of me. Only one person can see me online now (he's fighting a war, so I chat with him on rare occasion--old, old friend).
As usual, Booze Bitch had her way. I got attacked again, and this time it is nice to know that my mother stirred the fucking drama.
The very short end of this story is that my father’s family disowned me a few years back, and I don’t care. They are alcoholic asses, treat me badly, and I don’t enjoy the insults. His sister is particularly awful, and I make it a point to avoid her at all costs. My father hasn’t spoken to her in two years, and he only did so when she called. He keeps the conversation short, and he cuts her off. Why is any of this important? Because whenever she is in contact with us or my former sister I get attacked. Attacked by her, other family members, and my life becomes an outright hostile zone of warfare.
Well . . . my mother asked me to show her how to set up a Facebook account so she can keep up with old friends. My mother then added the alcoholic bitch of an aunt as a friend (FYI Facebook tells everyone when you do these things). Can someone please tell me why she would do this? I saw the alert a few weeks ago, and since two cousins I used to spend my summer’s with got cold and distant. They no longer message me. I have now deleted them. And, Shawn a cousin I’ve been particularly close to blew up at me again.
He has a history of mood swings—the booze and drugs don’t help—and you should know he contacted me . . . NOT me to him. He came to see me, uninvited and unannounced two summers ago, and he tried to bully me. I was in the middle of a health crisis, cancer scare, and I didn’t need his shit. He left without saying a word. His then girlfriend has always stayed in contact with me. How sad that he can't . . .
This time . . . he caught me on Yahoo messenger and wanted to know why he hasn’t heard from me. Said he didn’t have my new cell. Kept badgering the issue and the fact that he found out I went to see his old girlfriend a few weeks ago. I ended the conversation and went to bed. Woke up to him saying “You aren’t perfect.” I forwarded him a sent email that had the number. He continued to blow. I told him to leave me be. I won’t go into the specifics right now, because I am soooooooooo mad, but I have him blocked from emails, my phone, and my life.
The point is he said that I use my brother’s death, my sister, and my health as an excuse for my behavior; that the problem is always me; that I never apologize; and that I am a spoiled brat. He called me immature, insulted my education (again), and the list goes on. I finally did it. I told him that at least I have a career and didn’t take more than a decade to get a two year degree (which he still isn’t finished with). He flat out said that he’s talked to the booze laden aunt and others about me. Bringing up my brother is out of line. More so, Yahoo messenger is going to be the death of me. Only one person can see me online now (he's fighting a war, so I chat with him on rare occasion--old, old friend).
As usual, Booze Bitch had her way. I got attacked again, and this time it is nice to know that my mother stirred the fucking drama.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Solider Home, Solider Gone
Sometimes days like the past few days make you fall apart and internally combust, and then the past several months shake you to your core. I still am pondering what the hell I am going to do with my career, but in the meantime . . .
I get pensive. I get thoughtful. I get humiliated. I write.
I send out short stories. I get rejections. I send out more. One day I'll break in. In the meantime, you can read pieces here. Here's a snip of one I am working on.
Solider Home, Solider Gone
He could still feel her lips on his as he boarded the plane. They had been slightly moist, tinged with coral lip gloss, and tasted like sweet rain. Her eyes . . . filled with tears, not letting him go, and he could feel them as he walked away. He knew then that he wouldn’t see her again, but she didn’t. Even if he did make it back, his heart already told him that she wouldn’t be the same. Her tenderness, her young campy nature, her gentle touch would mean nothing on his return. But, he clung to her memory anyway—not in hopes of changing his mind, but in hopes of getting him through the next twelve months. Twelve months of forced solitude with hundreds of others all clad in shades of brown. They were taking off now, and he closed his eyes, humming her favorite song, and held onto the memory of her kiss for a moment more.
***
Three months before he had received orders, calling him to leave his home and job—saying that his time had come, what he had signed up for was now here, and that his country called. Eight years ago he never thought that this would happen. Hell, most folks of his generation never thought it would happen, but now it was. He joined to pay for college—in a oft repeated statement that he had to because his dad drank away his college fund—but he never “signed up” out of some deep ingrained patriotic desire to serve his country. Nope. He was strictly for the monetary gain and free school ride. Shit, now it was all coming to an end.
Those first three years in the Army hadn’t been that bad. He was young and green, and the imposed discipline wasn’t too unnerving. It gave him a sense of purpose and direction. In the end, that was all he really needed. But then he had gotten out, earned a degree, and found a content and happy life as a computer data programmer for some company on Long Island. The pay wasn’t bad, he lumbered through his days, and once a month went and rejoined his Army days. Not that it mattered much . . . he still did the Guard out of habit and an instilled sense of devotion. But he never dreamed that he’d see and do what he did.
So everyone knows the story . . . two planes took out part of New York City, a plane took out a wing of the Pentagon, and another went down in Pennsylvania. Yeah . . . we all know, and we all know that the US military went into overdrive afterward. Men and boys volunteered, Guard units were called, and the country sang “My Country ‘Tis a Thee” in practical unison. A patriotic fervor broke over the land, uniting one and all, bringing out the “bold and the brave,” and guys like Roy quickly turned into “men.” Roy was never meant to see what he saw, do what he did, or become what he did. He was supposed to be the quiet kind gentile young man that every mother wanted her daughter to bring home for dinner. Instead, a year in Iraq turned him into a rotten son-of-a-bitch, and one that didn’t hang around long enough to hear what anyone had to say about it. Just like when he left he was gone, when he returned he was gone too.
The desert taught him solitude in numbers. It taught him multiplicity in the few. It taught him to loath himself and those around him. His bunk mate, and the guy who kept his back, was from Boston—a real ladies man so to speak.
I get pensive. I get thoughtful. I get humiliated. I write.
I send out short stories. I get rejections. I send out more. One day I'll break in. In the meantime, you can read pieces here. Here's a snip of one I am working on.
Solider Home, Solider Gone
He could still feel her lips on his as he boarded the plane. They had been slightly moist, tinged with coral lip gloss, and tasted like sweet rain. Her eyes . . . filled with tears, not letting him go, and he could feel them as he walked away. He knew then that he wouldn’t see her again, but she didn’t. Even if he did make it back, his heart already told him that she wouldn’t be the same. Her tenderness, her young campy nature, her gentle touch would mean nothing on his return. But, he clung to her memory anyway—not in hopes of changing his mind, but in hopes of getting him through the next twelve months. Twelve months of forced solitude with hundreds of others all clad in shades of brown. They were taking off now, and he closed his eyes, humming her favorite song, and held onto the memory of her kiss for a moment more.
***
Three months before he had received orders, calling him to leave his home and job—saying that his time had come, what he had signed up for was now here, and that his country called. Eight years ago he never thought that this would happen. Hell, most folks of his generation never thought it would happen, but now it was. He joined to pay for college—in a oft repeated statement that he had to because his dad drank away his college fund—but he never “signed up” out of some deep ingrained patriotic desire to serve his country. Nope. He was strictly for the monetary gain and free school ride. Shit, now it was all coming to an end.
Those first three years in the Army hadn’t been that bad. He was young and green, and the imposed discipline wasn’t too unnerving. It gave him a sense of purpose and direction. In the end, that was all he really needed. But then he had gotten out, earned a degree, and found a content and happy life as a computer data programmer for some company on Long Island. The pay wasn’t bad, he lumbered through his days, and once a month went and rejoined his Army days. Not that it mattered much . . . he still did the Guard out of habit and an instilled sense of devotion. But he never dreamed that he’d see and do what he did.
So everyone knows the story . . . two planes took out part of New York City, a plane took out a wing of the Pentagon, and another went down in Pennsylvania. Yeah . . . we all know, and we all know that the US military went into overdrive afterward. Men and boys volunteered, Guard units were called, and the country sang “My Country ‘Tis a Thee” in practical unison. A patriotic fervor broke over the land, uniting one and all, bringing out the “bold and the brave,” and guys like Roy quickly turned into “men.” Roy was never meant to see what he saw, do what he did, or become what he did. He was supposed to be the quiet kind gentile young man that every mother wanted her daughter to bring home for dinner. Instead, a year in Iraq turned him into a rotten son-of-a-bitch, and one that didn’t hang around long enough to hear what anyone had to say about it. Just like when he left he was gone, when he returned he was gone too.
The desert taught him solitude in numbers. It taught him multiplicity in the few. It taught him to loath himself and those around him. His bunk mate, and the guy who kept his back, was from Boston—a real ladies man so to speak.
Could this day . . .
Okay, so perhaps the pay issue is fixed. I should be getting half of my pay at the end of June. If that is so, I'll be okay.
But, I found out that ODU once again acted unprofessionally. So now I am filing a grievance. I can't talk about it at this point.
Now, I have a teenager sending me photos to my phone. Apparently, she thinks I am Darnell (the Dude I get wrong numbers for all the time). All I can say is at least she had on her clothes. Thought the poses and faces were not welcomed.
This has got to end.
But, I found out that ODU once again acted unprofessionally. So now I am filing a grievance. I can't talk about it at this point.
Now, I have a teenager sending me photos to my phone. Apparently, she thinks I am Darnell (the Dude I get wrong numbers for all the time). All I can say is at least she had on her clothes. Thought the poses and faces were not welcomed.
This has got to end.
Heads Up
Well, I can't fight it anymore. If I don't find an academic post by the end of August I will be leaving the profession. Unfortunately, I will most likely be waiting tables.
Moving back to Virginia was the worst decision of my life, I am belittled every day, and every day I am reminded that I am an embarrassment. I can not survive on my own, I wasted ten years and a hundred grand in student loans. The worst part: the teaching job I have lined up for the summer starts next week but doesn't pay me until 24 August. I will start selling my books and whatever else I can to cover the bills this summer. Hopefully I can unload things on ebay and Amazon.
Like I said. Heads up.
Moving back to Virginia was the worst decision of my life, I am belittled every day, and every day I am reminded that I am an embarrassment. I can not survive on my own, I wasted ten years and a hundred grand in student loans. The worst part: the teaching job I have lined up for the summer starts next week but doesn't pay me until 24 August. I will start selling my books and whatever else I can to cover the bills this summer. Hopefully I can unload things on ebay and Amazon.
Like I said. Heads up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)