Note to self

I love telling stories. Mostly about myself, to myself. They're too long-winded and filled with immense detail with a million little digressions, ones that imperfectly hop from one timeline to another. (Like the three seasons of Arrested Development!) I don't think anybody will ever be that interested in my past life events, including my own life partner! He'd be crazy to, honestly.

I love retelling stories to myself so I don't forget. Some bits of the innocence of childhood, travails of adolescence, trials and tribulations of the 20s. There's a certain mystique to them. Like they happened to somebody else. Did I truly know the story on the other side of the coin, while I thought Heads was all there was? When I repeat my own life events to myself, it's like I'm having an out of body experience, I'm watching myself be 15 again, be 17 again, be 22 again, be 27 again, all at the same time. Would I have lived those moments differently? Would my life have been different had I, let's say, been more considerate, more aware, more aggressive even?

Sometimes the stories are wonderful, of achievements and of personal victories, funny, even twisted, and I'm gleeful while narrating to self. "Yet another one for the grandkids!", not knowing if the grandkids bit is even happening or not, or whether the grandkids will be able to sit through them or not. Maybe times would have changed and my 'crazy' will be their normal.

Sometimes I get forlorn. Sad that it happened, at times sad that it happened and didn't continue any longer. I pity the emotions I wasted in 2009, I empathize with that girl in 2011 and weep for her. Weep because I can't believe she had to have 2 glasses of wine to put herself to sleep each night, or laugh, because well, isn't it a tad bit laughable? Somehow these stories pierce me a little more. Shouldn't those be the ones for the grandkids instead?

I live my personal one-woman-act each day, with its appropriate blocking and hand & eye gestures unrehearsed and done on the fly in my mirror.

At this point...I think I sound like a lunatic.

Most of my stories will live and die with me. Like all your stories live and will die with you. How do you feel about that?

Refresh

Alternating between different screens 

with the same humdrum of happy faces

These bedroom walls are caving in on me

I’ve been missing so long, 

I’m forgotten in everyone’s good graces.

I can’t remember the sun, the trees, 

the chatter of regular people

What is ‘regular people’?, I wonder

Remind me please, 

a name or a username that wasn’t yours.

Yes! I did notice the rain!

It made me smile for a second there,

that hint of petrich…you’re still unaware

you washed all over me 

yet again 

yet again, maybe it’s time to reconsider

I’m covered in fifty shades of self-shame

Dear God, I no longer wish to romance

these gallons of incremental physical ache.
Take it away, take it away.

As I narrate, she quizzes me, 

between all the concern and the exclaim

Do you think about him a little

Or Refresh in regular, fragmented breaks?

And I say…

Pray tell me,

how many seconds are there in a day.

Muse

Caught red handed in a green silhouette

Covered in tiny raindrops imitating sweat

Watching you nervously, 

all I care about is procuring a new muse

‘Cause I’m exhausted 

carrying criminal words without a noose

You confuse me

amuse, elude and

Misuse me

So won’t you oblige the pen to my right

I promise I won’t even touch you!

But I just might.