Sunday, August 29, 2010

Silver Fish

(Pre-Script: This post should be read a the song, "The Chain," #54 on the playlist, plays in the background, so go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I just washed the silverfish bug-creature that was using my bathtub as a rest stop down the drain. I know that we are all supposed to co-exist peacefully with every creature we can't stand on this earth, even if we don't understand why God created them in the first place. I usually abide by this rule, I promise I do. But invading my bathtub is really crossing the line. I have a strong disregard for the rights of anyone who dares sneak into my bathtub while I am peacefully sleeping...just when I thought it was safe to step into the shower...into my own shower in my own home. I said that already, yes, but it bore repeating.
Raise your hand if you have ever washed a small critter down the drain, then wondered if it was still alive, as alive as ever, only enraged now, and focused on revenge, and determined to use the last shred of energy it can muster to climb it's way back up the drain and navigate it's way through the house until it has a feel for the layout, and can find you where you sleep in your bed at night? In the pitch dark, where no hidden camera will detect it, and no personal eye witnesses will be able to identify it later?
My hand is raised high.
I think about these things.
What if I had smashed it, and this bothered my conscience? There are few things that bother me more than a bothered conscience.
Raise your hand if you have ever suffered from smasher's remorse.
Raise your hand if you have ever salted a snail, just because you had heard rumors of what would happen if you did, and you wanted to see for yourself if it was true, even though you were usually such a good, good, calm, quiet, rule abiding girl? But no one told you that the snail would actually turn green, did they? No, no, they didn't. No one told you how MUCH WORSE that would hurt you than it ever hurt the snail, so that suddenly you knew JUST what your mother was talking about when she said "This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you" right before she lit into you, did they? No one told you that you would be forever internally labeled as a murderer of snails, that you would suddenly realize in that moment, (Too late!! Too late!! Yes, my friends, it was an epiphany realised TOO, TOO LATE!!) that life really IS precious, and that EVERY life deserves a chance, you always believed it, but had never let the thought process carry itself out all the way to the snail level of life and living in this world. AND NOW!! The poor dear has NO CHANCE at fulfilling it's intended life cycle, and it is all your very own 10 year old self's fault.
And now you have to live with yourself, with your very vile, disobedient, naughty self, forever more after, world without end, amen.
My hand may or may not be raised high.
I'm sure that was just a random "for instance," and not, I repeat NOT an actual flashback from my own life.* Hee hee. But I digress.
And I am blushing as I do so.
Where was I?
Oh yes, the silver fish.
I should have smashed the little dear.
...You see how I did that? I just eliminated all smasher's remorse because I called it a "Little Dear."


*But then again, you never can tell, can you?

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Picture of a Girl walking up a hill

(Pre-Script: The background music for this post is: "Secrets," #45 on the playlist. Before proceeding any further, please go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

The problem with my life is that I have to live it. No one can live it for me. I realize that this is a common problem.
The other day I took my 3 year old with me to the doctor. While we were waiting for the doctor, she drew a picture, held it up, and said "this is a picture of a girl walking up a hill." The doctor came in and told me that I'm going to be just fine. I was both comforted and not. I still had to walk out of that room with one foot in front of the other. I still had to blink when I opened the door and the sun struck me as too bright to deal with just at that moment.


Friday, August 6, 2010

White Walls

(Pre-Script: This poem is best read as the song, "Blackbird," #47 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)
When I look back, it seems

that I was always bumping into a white wall,

the white wall always just in front of me

and on every side,

only I could never see it-

it's very whiteness was blinding,

so instead I just felt confused

and bruised

and wondered why I wasn't moving forward

and wondered why I could not feel the sun

warm my skin, or even see

my long shadow behind or in front of me,

tall and impressive on the ground,

a dark and brooding shape always changing

so you could never be too sure from which angle

I might be coming

or going,

or who or what I was turning into.

Instead, in a white walled room, my skin looked

purple and cold,

like the bruise of me.