It's All Over But The Crying - Garbage

My most triumphant return

Hello sportsfans!

I have finally arisen from the ashes of no internet land! Which means life can go on as scheduled. MY photo works have been given over and edited them. The family who received them seems truly happy with them. I only wish I could have gotten them to them sooner but it is what it is and I can only make so many miracles happen in one sitting and I’m guessing getting a company out to a place on time isn’t one of them. I’m attempting to figure out what to write so I’m just going to snow ball it and then watch another movie or something.

I have a new job and it seems to be ok but it’s factory work. The one thing I really like about factory work is the ability to be a social hermit and focus on my work without interruption. It’s kinda awesome if it wasn’t so exhausting. Going to bed early would be easier if I didn’t live above a recording studio that includes several versions of unholy hell including barbershop music, drum solos, and an infinite amount of bass lines. I was actually trying to sneak in some sleep earlier but was woken up at 8:00pm by the droning sounds of a kick drum and bass.

 Forty five minutes later, the music got louder and started vibrating the floor. I considered politely texting again but since I don’t have to be to work until Thursday, I figure I’ll just let it go.  Hell, if I had more money I’d just buy him some super awesome head phones that he could mix with and he could enjoy. But since I am but a humbly broke writer, I’ll just exercise my exuberant patience and maybe turn on a horror movie. Or make another home video of lightweight marbles shaking across my table. It reminds me of living in Toronto all over again. So I suppose in that sense it could be border line comforting. The music finally drifted away and I am silently praying that there is no one or two clock encores.

During my hiatus from internet land, I worked on my second novel and read books to my heart’s content. I also learned how to knit using a loom. Which is good thing and a bad thing. The up side is I have a literal pile. The downside is that I can’t finish off the scarf ends. So I have a load of these scarves that aren’t really finished because I have no way to finish them without them looking like they fell out of  craftwrecks.com. I shut my eyes and rub them for a moment as another bar of music drifts through the floors. I giggle a little at the fact that I was grumpy about not being able to go to bed before 10 pm and on New Year’s Eve no less.

But tomorrow is another year. All and all I’m completely content with spending time alone with my books. I don’t need to get out and drink only to watch my friends or acquaintances get into some petty argument that could be easily solved over a cigarette and stuff drink. I once had a friend accuse me of martyring myself and I honestly have no defense to that one. Think of it as my own personal form of nicotine. It’s like a built in genetic defect that causes me to break up fights and calm people down. Not it is works by any means because it doesn’t. I’m just thankful that this year that I don’t have to worry about the ugly side of festivities. Which means I’m at home listening to music I don’t like that get louder and louder. Oh well, at least it isn’t barbershop quartet music. I mean that’s a good thing right?

Unpretty

                There is something inside of me that makes me feel every different ugly. The words that people call me or say to me and sometimes the pedicel that they put me make me feel ugly.  I know people find me pretty or even beautiful but deep down inside there is something that feels disgusted in the idea of anyone finding me attractive. I accept their compliments with my oh-so typical half smile. After a while if they keep repeating it, I get the feeling they are building me on a marble platform that rises with each compliments  and the discomfort settles in. For the simple fact of the higher the climb the steeper the fall. There are so few people that I believe or trust in those words.

                Someone special (DKTR) had started complimented me and all I felt was ugly in side. I felt that no one saw me for who I really was. A fear that they would see the beast inside of me and run away. I’ve settled being on my own but the heart break of having someone think you are the world only to rip their carefully lain pedicel out from underneath. I would fall on my face only to be heavily criticized by my once beloved (friend or family).

                After DKTR had complimented me, I denied and gave myself my very own special dose of emotional abuse. Yes, I know how unhealthy habit to have but I’m working on it.  There was something so special that came from DKTR. “I know you have flaws but you’re still a beautiful person.” It was in that moment that I came to feel truly and wholly accepted by someone. The words are so simple but so pleasurably reassuring.  For once, someone understands that I am only human. For some reason DKTR says not necessarily the things that I want to hear the truth as they see it. To them, I am beautiful because I am me and no one in the world can be me.

                For the first time in years, I looked in the mirror and didn’t see some twisted monster for the world of H.P Lovecraft but a pretty girl who hasn’t slept. This started a chain reaction in my life. People are always going to desire someone to be their hero or someone to look up to. They want someone who is perfect. Believe me when I muffle my snickering laughter toward these people that I understand the human condition. Well, I understand it as well as anyone else these days.

                It’s not ideals that create the perfection that someone needs so desperately.  It is the ability to let go of these narcotic aspirations and accept the folly of the mortal coil. I really know anything about. It makes no sense to me to start making assumptions about people to whom I know nothing about. However I am still an ear. A distracted ear but an ear none the less. I am my own person and follow up with that, I can unapologetically live a life where I answer to no one.  There is some freedom in that knowledge I can be myself.

Goth Chick Appreciation Day Special (HD) Foamy The Squirrel

Back to blue:

                If I had my way, I wouldn’t be staring down the mouth of the porcelain goddess in a blind sense of pain filled disarray and yet, here I am. I hadn’t been eating, sleeping or seeing anyone. Depression was a harsh mistress.  I knew starring at the floating reminisces of my plain bagel that I was reliving a part of my nightmare. Reliving a world I wish I had left behind. The migraine was searing and clinging to my head like a thick viscous fluid. In my delirium, I sought wisdom that somewhere in my pain, there was something logical. Something I could cling to.

                A thick darkness invaded my mind before I made a single phone call. I knew that there was one thing that was mine and mine alone.  That was until the darkness captured the last part of me. The darkness ate and enraptured that last part of my mind and therefore the last of my existence. I saw bits and pieces that were left of that night and as I rose the next morning I was still gone.

                Everyone around was a swallowed part of the background. I didn’t understand, I didn’t know, I couldn’t remember. I knew somewhere beneath my soul I knew where I was but I couldn’t understand. I remembered crying about it starting again. Within seconds I was transferred to five years earlier staring up at the ceiling of the ER waiting for the MRI technician to prep the room.  They already knew I had cancer and yet it was just a matter of time before it ate me whole.  Those moments intertwined with one another, R was there or was he? I remember gazing over at him wondering who he was and where he had come from. For that matter who was I?

                I remember, “Glutus Maximus, Glutus miniumus ” and as the nurse corrected me at the time of injection. “Glutus Ventrical.” I repeated over and over again in some attempt to washout the thudding roar of pain. In my slurred breath, I made it smaller “Maximus, minimus, ventrical.” Everything blurred away like the blue ink. A few days later I still feel like a blue smear water down by something that was less than myself.  Everything can be taken away from you.

19 Pound Bunnyzilla!

A single drop

It started with a rain drop. It’s a simple figment of water crashing down from a growing angry sea that would drown out the words, “it’s okay, I forgive you.”  As the words echoed and crashed down with each drop. It looked silver dragging across black velvet leaving nothing behind but a harsh knowledge of what was once there. It was the crumbling city of my soul. The curtain of hope, sense of destiny and a childlike acceptance of my soul became torn away like the last veil from a belly dance. I stared blankly at it because that’s all I could do.

I had been wishing for the rain. I even prayed for it.  A little bit of rain to release the tension in the air. A little bit of water to calm the waters of the soul. There had been so much fire and so much wreckage in my soul that I wounded if the fires would ever stop burning, if the sky would ever be anything more than ash but most importantly would the trees ever grow again? Grisly metal jagged chunks plastered to the edges of the sky line like silicon splatters. I could hear the crushing of ash and sunder of what exactly, I can’t say. I figured if I looked down and saw the suspiciously familiar crunch that lay beneath my Mary Jane’s.  I knew that if I looked down I would be afraid of what I would see.

I wanted to have that undeniable faith that something-anything would grow and nature would take away the devastation. The sky hung low weight that only a cloud can carry. I sat down on something that once looked like the front porch of the many places I had lived. But this had been the longest place I ever lived. The beige paint pealed back leaving crooked smiles gaping at an unknown source. The screen door is crooked and delicately heaving with the gentle breeze made abrasive the smells it carried. “It’s okay, I forgive you.” The wind echoed laboriously.

I wanted to say that everything that had caused the damage. It was like a hail storm. There is nothing you could really do to stop one but to take cover. I laugh to myself that somehow I can fight back, yell or push back at the forces of nature. But let’s face it; some things are completely out of our control.  Mother Nature will move in her mysterious ways and we will all obey accordingly. But this prayer for rain is more than a plea or desire. It’s the need for change. It’s about the need for growth and the hope that the world as a whole can regenerate itself.  That there is something I can regenerate some part of the broken edges of my soul. The past can be as fleeting as the fire that burns before me. It was something I desperately wanted. The rain.

That single drop of hope.

The chance to start over.

The rain.

Random illusion

 I had had this dream last night I thought I would give you readers a chance to weigh in. It was me chained to the computer while writing some of the strangest thing that went through my head. I’d like to present to you…..

Militaristic Cardinal:

          I had this rage sing aside for the parades or persons passing through my life. I felt hung up in a sense of the waking coma. Yet, am still or moving. Is it my body and soul? Do they see the needs in us all? They must for they are living glass balls. They watched as if it is daytime television had it outs.

            The corruption of the walls burning around me my eyes bore into something that I so desperately wanted. The vial that could make me in to a normal person or better yet- the person they felt I needed to be.

I recall my night this week. Bruises all over my body; coloring me into different shades of a coming autumn. I suppose that was my breaking point.  I want my life back but what part of it will I get back? I think as I stare at the vial for  what seems like hours. Tipping point.

Finding Wisteria

I didn’t realize that my words had such an impact on those around me. So allow me a moment to clear a few things up. I am at a literal crossroads with my life. I have a unique job opportunity that could prove to be highly lucrative but I’d have to leave a job in which I love the people I work with. I need a clean break to discover my full potential and be able to explore the states and maybe even the rest of the world but there has been someone who refuses to let me go. I fear that I will lose his friendship and a part of my life that was very developmental to me. I want happiness and success for everyone including this friend but I don’t feel that he or I will ever achieve that if I’m never allowed to leave my glided cage.

I want change, in fact I need it.  Whether it is for the best or not, maybe it’s time to quit always trying to “do the right thing” and live life as a normal human being. I can make myself more than a number or a dusty file. I have to break the mold and leave the pieces as they lie.  So what if my life isn’t absolutely perfect and I don’t have to leave things in order. What I do need to do is tell the people around me how precious they are to me and why. The small things become bigger and bigger with each post.

Even if it is something as small as a facebook post saying they had a great day. Life isn’t perfect and maybe I need to come to the realization that I could trail blaze the rest of my life or make mistakes and not take it to heart.

I spend my nights pouring over dusty medical textbooks and informational guides accompanied by the presence of water and maybe some static noise. Is this the way I want to live the rest of my life? Or is it time to break the cycle and step out of my graveyard decorated with Spanish moss?

Maybe it’s time to stop thinking of it as a graveyard of failures and think of it as a monument of a life well lived. The sunlight makes the moss seem like an ethereal gift from the angels above. Is this a sign to change in my life is coming ? That an expanded life is possible?  A life that would have many flaws that make it beautiful, a life that is still growing like weeping wisteria over a hidden doorway. I can reach my hand out and twist that gnarled doorknob. I can choose bravery over cowardice. After all, doesn’t fortune favor the bold? Or do they only reward gold shiny stars for trying?

Spainish Moss

I tasted the last tender bits of summer on my tongue today and came to the realization that changes, true change had begun to flourish in the shifting winds of the season. I have come to a cross roads as it is. Things in my life have to change. The old have become septic, infectious and a growing from of emotional gangrene.  I remember listening to music and literally feeling the essence of fire and truth beaming in every word. I never thought that I would lose my fire, my strength or my confidence to emotional staph infection and yet here I find myself writing about the state my emotional life which appears to be dwarfing all areas of my life.

How did I let it get this far? 

I was never so detached from reason that I could not see the power of my mental companies. Yet, now I am frozen in time. An apparition doomed to dance the dance macabre in a crooked fashion outside of the lithe fashioning’s of Spanish moss that hangs in the bitter tendrils of my mind.  How do I get things to change without the challenge of causing pain to all those around me? Do I run to another area to rebuild my life a new or do I stay in this area wading my way through the moss and music attempting to salvage the parts of my life that are still livable.

Or do I resurrect monuments to the failed exploits of my life thus far but life is for the living and monuments are for the dead. If that is true, how do I stop my life from becoming a graveyard of losses? This graveyard seems as if it is like an endless swirls of praying angels and tilted towers of ill spent pride.

To freeze? To fight? Or to take flight? 

Shadow boxing

Long time no post. Yeah, I tend to get into these funks where I just don’t talk or type or do anything  in the means of communication.  I just got back from yet another doctor’s appointment and I took my sweet time driving home.  I’ve been sitting back in the corner of my couch staring out of my window at stars that I can’t see and a world that I feel detached from.  I purchased a pack of cigarettes my first pack since I quit over almost three months ago. I didn’t intend to smoke the cigarettes as much as light them and watch them burn.

Something about the comforting dancing smoke in the air became comforting to me. I twisted it in my fingers lightly as the sunset over oblong clouds. I realized that I was truly alone in the universe. I’m not at the moment going to disclose what has happened over the last few weeks but it’s been enough where I have gone back to hiding to the corner of my couch.  My lap top had been untouched for days and my art had been collecting dust. Maybe because everything I saw in my writing, my photography, and even my painting- seemed to be shitty. I stare at the pieces for days at a time and all I see was shit.

As for my writing, well, even though I’ve recovered all that I thought was lost I can’t but to feel as if those pieces are slipping away. My life’s calling or so I thought seems like an unreachable dream.  If I actually had writer’s support or even a writer’s group maybe there was a way that I could keep my neurotic tendencies in check.

Artistically, I feel as if I am shadow boxing myself. Trying to move faster and become quicker than my normal self. That in itself is ironic due to the fact that considering I threw out my back and I can’t get back into my kick boxing regimen until the doctor clears me to go. I was excited to start jogging and kick boxing again until a subtle crunch in my back rendered me as helpless as a worm on the sidewalk after the rain. Even in this Quasimodo stance I tried to think of all the people I could call in case of an emergency and I began to laugh. MY laugh quickly squelched by the appearance of a doctor who asked me if there was anyone I could call and I laughed at him as if it were a joke. And then when I was in my car thinking about the prior appointment and I shook my head. I wanted to cry, yet I couldn’t. I’m finding myself unable to cry.

I’m shadow boxing my art

I’m shadow boxing my emotions

I’m shadow boxing well me.

I wonder how quickly I can keep moving before my shadow stops and start to shake its head at me. Until then, I’m going to keep trying to move one step ahead of the shadow inside.

Grimm Love: A love story?

I was at home in broad daylight when I saw it. A raw and unapologetic act of human savagery. I wanted to stop watching but I couldn’t. a sense of multi-dimensional horror filled me as I came to the realization that this could happen at anywhere or time. The names had been changed to protect the people involved but the factor of the student and her personal perception is what made it more frightening than I ever thought it would be. I wanted to see how far she would go. I knew the story. I mean who hasn’t? This story is about a cannibal looking for a perfect victim and more importantly, a voluntary one. The movie “Grimm Love” was essentially about this man and victim. The names had been changed of course but with Google around who needs to sleuth for answers.

His is Armin Meiwes and on March 9th 2001 Meiwes committed his crime. His victim, Bernd Jürgen Armando Brandes was all to eager to participate. Meiwes had even prepared a “Slaughter Room” for the insidious act. There are so many questions in regards to this case. The who, what, where, and when are easy enough to figure out but the complexities of why? Armin posted on a message board called “The Cannibal Cafe” looking for someone who would readily give themselves for Meiwes to consume. Apparently, several people prior to Brandes answered the message posting and all of which backed out at the last second.
Brandes was a unique case in itself. A man desiring to be consumed and be able to see it. According to the video ( yes there is a video)Brandes desired to have his penis bitten off. This was attempted by Armin but instead he had to cut it off. Then together they had tried to eat the raw penis but Brandes claimed that his penis was too “chewy.” In an attempt to make this part of the night just right, Meiwes fried the penis and seasoned but it was useless and he had burnt it. Armin fed the burnt penis to his dog then gathered Brandes (who had lost a signifagant amount of blood) and left him to drain in a bath tub. However, Brandes had still been alive when the butchering had begun. Meiwes gently kissed Brandes but stabbing him in the throat to finish the job and consume him.


In total, Meiwes had 44 pounds worth of flesh and ate it over the period of 10 months. It came as quite the debate of ethics. Is it murder if someone wants to be murdered? This had a massive impact on the world, inspiring several artists of the time. It was no wonder that a movie would eventually be made. Keri Russell plays a grad student doing her research on cannibals. She became emotionally and mentally involved with a twisted sense of romanticism that haunts the events.

It comes down to the need to be consumed to sate a lifelong guilt. The main character hypothesizes, from Brandes’s stand point to ultimately become one or whole with another who understands your pain. She begins to romanticize the idea of not only giving herself as a whole to another as a way to cope with her unending loneliness and realizes as she spirals downward, the need to feel like a whole person by consuming another human being.

What makes this tale of a grad student researching the trail of possibly one of the most bizarre instances in this modern and so called sophisticated society? We are all hungry in one way or another. We hunger for joy, success, happiness and in some cases even acceptance. Was it acceptance in one way or another, that Meiwes and Brandes desired so deeply? Or was it just simply hunger for the unusual satisfaction that was never attained in real life. One has to wonder, as Meiwes sits in his cell at this very moment, does he still hunger? Does he or has he ever felt completely whole after the incidence?

Russell’s character begins this spiral out of control and as I was watching her growing obsession, I wanted to reach through the screen and stop her. She was treading a dangerous path and so close to closing over into a world she would never be able to return from. Eventually, it was the first step on the last step in the wrong direction. She contacts a chat room (the very same one that Meiwes used earlier) and sends a mass message out asking for the cassette that captured that enrapturing moment. Russell’s character seems to need it, to understand not only their point of view but connecting with her own sense crushing loneliness.

Within moments the tape is delivered and Russell’s long lost search had come true. She could finally see for herself what had been studying and theorizing about. With a lust gleam in her eyes, she injects the VHS (If that doesn’t date it all, right?) and eagerly awaits the brutal and romantic actions that she had studied so closely.

It took moments for the absolute horror and brutality to in. There was no romance, no understanding, just Meiwes literally slaughtering Brandes as if he were an oversized pig. Within moments Russell’s character’s illusions came to a screeching halt as the romantic shroud was ripped asunder to reveal the true brutality of it all. It was just simply, a person eating another person. Whether or not it was willing, someone should have stepped in to see the mental mess that was driving these cannibalistic factors.

But then again I can’t help but to bring up the ideas or other sorts of cannibalism which are deemed acceptable in today’s society. For example, society cannibalism is where we eat people alive until they are nothing. Some victims desire it, whilst others are more or less victims that take more drastic measures in order to ensure a form of vengeance. We pick each other part to fill another part of ourselves. Perhaps it is the same part of our selves that another person had taken. In the same sense a daily dose of emotional cannibalism is taken place where reciprocation is not a part of the relationship.

But to us, what is cannibalism? Is it the need for release? Redemption ? An act of desperation ? Or is it something only deemed socially acceptable if it doesn’t have to dismembering a body? Does the horror only come into play when it is physical or is the idea alone that is uncomfortable to society?
Regardless of the answers, Russell destroys the tape with inexplicable rage, never to touch it again. For this topic in itself never should happen let alone hunted down for the why factor. It is that and that alone is a reason that drives us mad. Who dive into this can dive too deep and never resurface again.

My most triumphant return

Hello sportsfans,

            Sorry for the long absence from my incessant blogging but so much has happened. Firstly, my beau made a triumphant return to my home during his leave. Everything has been filling with chaos. I found out that my student loans are too high for me to finish my whole year left to my degree and to my surprise I wasn’t as disappointed about it as I thought I would be. I wanted to be better than what I was and maybe I would find some sort of validation but it the validation I crave isn’t one that can be bought by a degree.

              I might not have a degree but it doesn’t stop me from picking up a book or taking a few online courses. I might be knocked down for the moment but things are going to change. So I guess I’m semi stuck but I’m still making head way. In the meantime a small yet bizarre circumstance has left me wondering. I’ve lived in this small little burg for going on almost ten years now. Outside of my city living way I moved to the seemingly calm and quiet Boonies.  Literally, actually. I really hadn’t thought anything about the quiet demeanor of the town or the occasional degrading elite attitude. Every place tends to have one of those.  Or a lot of those but regardless I came to love the little town. It had everything I needed. Peace, quiet and amenity.

              It was something I thought I needed in my life. I had thought if I left the place where all my problems were located, then my problems would dissipate. I wish I had the wisdom to realize that no matter where you went, your problems would follow you not because you wanted them to but because they are a part of you.  They always will be. As I see it, everyone gets cut and everyone can heal. The difference is how deep you allow those scars to get.  I wasn’t aware enough to see how deep my scars were or even why they were so deep but isolation was the key to my sense of heaven and hell.

             Along my path of healing I’d heard a number of different urban legends involving this small town. Underground tunnels, mines equipped with mole people, something called the devil’s cables and shanty towns around the area. I’d written them off. Honestly, with standing the possibility of underground tunnels the myth I had heard were pretty much laughable. Laughable- up until last week that is .When longtime residents and law enforcement started talking about the dank under belly of Boone my ears peaked.

              This was new. The tunnels connecting the buildings had eventually been walled up. How did I know that? I’d seen the bricked up exits. In not just one building but two others with in the same vicinity.  Another fact is that they could be exits for the businesses below.  The former buildings are also marked by bricked up features. I had always wondered. Why where they bricked up? What businesses were there and why? But as usual, life gets in the way and those questions are quickly dropped in the junk drawer to deal with the next impending disaster.

               I tend to focus on the weirdest things. Typically having to do with paranormal. I enjoy being able to rip a myth and find its roots. Why do we mystify the strangest things? I’d like to think that every myth, legend and  paranormal experience has roots in actual events. Or in the roots of events long since passed.

I was sitting on a plain picnic table swirling a mixture of hot chocolate mix and Folgers coffee. I’ve never been a morning person so my coffee was important. Did I care about the brand, nah. Did I care about strength and quantity? Yup. And this place had plenty. A quick movement of my hand and my cigarette became lit and the day became suddenly better. “The residents” (or shall I name them) became engrossed in the topics of the under belly of Boone. I typically tend to brood over a book and my writing projects. More recently, it is putting together stories about life. But lately, I’ve been haunted by a sense of writer’s block and self-consciousness that only seems to bother me on occasion. I guess I lose my balls or something. I took a swig and picked a word out of the conversation, Devil’s Cables.

                According to resident one, the Devil’s Cables are located next to a very large cemetery where a biking trail now resides. A trail that I had walked many times to get my stressed worked out. I had seen this mysterious bridge well over a hundred times (pictures to be posted) and had never understood why there was a bridge with no pathway above it or near it. There had even been a few points where I sat down and I had reflected there. I had considered that maybe the bridge there for aesthetic value but at the same time I had questions. However there had been a large part of me that had always wondered. Regardless, it too landed on the back burner.

               But recording to my sources that place had host to various activities involving ritualistic murders, KKK meetings and other strange happenings. But all the residents kept digging deeper. Typically I’d dismiss that idea that anything that was going on right beneath my nose. But let’s face facts shall we? Stranger things have happened to me. As I took a long sip of my coffee, they continued and my interested . I had to know more about everything. It was like it took hold of me. I took a deep haul off of my cigarette and began to ask questions. It was your typical, who, what when and when. As my break turned toward the end, it left me with more questions than answers.

             I’d started reflecting. I knew this had to be research and now I am the journey to find information.

Duality

                I remember the car ride to Iowa very well. I was smelly after 16 plus hours but so many valuable things happened along the trip. This made 16 plus hours bearable in the eve of the December months. I can be impulsive and my heart is wild to the core. I didn’t bat much of an eye lash for moving to another country. My hidden family credo had been: “Home comes from within.” Home wasn’t in the money that was recklessly dumped into furniture or the four walls of a shambled home on the out skirts of a blossoming inner city. No, home came from within.
                 I lived a dual life. One half of me wanted to run wild in the wood like a time honored priestess paying homage to her bygone god. While the other half thrived in the masses of the concrete jungles like a bohemian artist living off the cultural prison of their own design. The only way I could find true release was to keep at least one of them well fed and catered to. But everything comes with a price. Cities are great preying ground for social predators and as the numbing news came to show, it was.

                For those of your out there that don’t understand what I’m talking about let me just fill you the same way my abnormal psych teacher informed me. Your brain can only take so much. After prolonged exposure to stressful stimuli, your brain eventually becomes numb to it. Every day there would be talk of stabbing, murders and hold ups. My brain grew its buffer like an unnoticed callus. It’s tough to feed your inner wild child with a buffer in place. Through a series of long winded events I came to live in America’s best kept secret, Iowa.

                Sure it had its down side. But don’t all laid plans of mice and men? Here I found the solitude I craved so deeply. The dualities of personality were coming to a revolt. Here, there was no concrete jungle to feed my inner Bohemian artist or place that was safe enough for me to howl at the moon. What was a girl to do?

                In the lonely, cold nights, I would look outside and I would feel comfortable. It had been noticed once that when anyone put me outside I could calm down easier. Only a few weeks had passed and I was beginning to feel “unconformable” in my new “home.” I worked hard to make sure that nothing where I was staying changed. I didn’t know how long I was going to be there but none the less I kept my bags packed. For months, I kept my things in a grab and go order. It was easier that way.

                I yearned for my concrete jungle, the subway systems, and the loud and rowdy restaurant that only authentic Greek restaurants could acquire. But here I was in the opposite of what I had grown to know. It was the fresh start that I had always yearned for and now that I had found it or rather attained it, something in the heart of my soul felt disconnected. Everything external seemed disposable and I couldn’t identify anything I could connect to. The revolution inside seemed to rage louder every day. My inner self was growing more discontent with the day.

                But that is when the strangest thing happened, I simply looked outside. It came to me in a gnarled fog like haze. It twisted arms reached toward heaven like demons homesick for the loving grace of god. Weathered indented inlay of bark wrapped itself around the contorted figure like finely fitted latex boots. They stood centennial over the land in a fashion that the British guard could only envy. The revolution quieted and stilled itself. I didn’t to touch them or get in touch with them.  To view them for the art that they are gave me a sense of piece. It fed both side of my personalities somehow. The trouble inside quieted. It was outside each day that I woke and everywhere I sent.  But I didn’t just look outside, I became the outside. Where were answers to my sorrow? Would I ever be able to sate both demons inside? Whatever the answers, I know they are in the trees. 

Just another day at the hospital:

                It’d been four days since the pain in my uterus had started. But hell, who doesn’t have a bad bout of PMS. I went to work in a great mood and couldn’t wait to start the day.  Shit happens and I leaned over to my coworker and said, “This maybe TMI but I’m having some lady issues” he smiled at me. Told me that everything was ok.  An hour into my shift before I feel a crunching. I take a moment to sit down in private. Nothing an anti-inflammatory, I went to stand and I doubled me over.

                Hot waves and sweat began to pour over my face. I got up from my seat, took a step and literally hit a wall. I rubbed the side of my head and took a deep breath. I felt shaky waves of dizziness rattle my bones.   I can do this, it’s nothing. Been through worse.   I got back to my work area and I stopped.  The world warbled into the bipolar radio sounds of light 104.5, the only station we could manage to gain. MY co worker stopped his work and asked if I was okay.  I gave my typical crooked smile and told him I was alright. He was not buying the bullshit that I was selling. He says that I was paler or paler than usual. On a weird side note I was wearing more makeup than usual. I had laughed that maybe I needed to change brand in bronzer but then again everything seemed a little bit funny.

                MY training kicked in and I started to take a mental list of the symptoms. Logic would dictate that medical attention was necessary. No, I can make it. This is something I could fight. Another the cramp followed the hot, panting nausea doubled me over once more.  I needed to get to a doctor. My kind hearted co worker offered to drive me.  No, I can at least do this.  I left and sat in my car for a moment and fell asleep for a moment. I jerked awake and called the office and yet, no doctor as avail. I started driving slowly to the ER. But the dizziness got the better of me and I took a curb on the way. I parked the car and fell asleep in the car. When I came to, I continued to the hospital.

                I walked through the door and gingerly made my way to the desk were a warm personality of a cheery ER attendant. She worked on keeping me distracted but not enough that the intervals of symptoms were lost on me. With a heart of gold she assured me that the doctor would assist me soon.  Within moments a nurse was in attendance and to be honest it was a first. There was a time when I was literally bleeding out in the waiting room for well over 2 hours.  

                It was an awful realization when the questions started. How’s your employment, I gave a sad laugh.  Are you married? I laughed harder and my eyes began to well with tears.  Thankfully she understood having been the particular situation, my tears didn’t fall. It seemed to me it was yet another memory revealing itself in the most inappropriate way. While sitting there talking with the nurse, I find out that a system glitch had a occurred yet again, my files were wiped clean during a system switch over. I knew that behind those doors, I had been held down. I knew that behind those doors, the cancer treatments and possible tumor discovery were haunting me like ghosts in a dank hall. Do you have any family? She inquired and a numbness took over with the answer of “No.” There is no one. Once again, I was alone but thankfully she understood and no one more questions were asked.

                I have the unfortunate problem with reading medical dictionaries and journals. Maybe monitoring condition isn’t the best idea I had ever had but to me, the devil is in the details.  A half hour later a jovial doctor joins me in the thinly veiled room and asked me what the problem was. In waves of even worse pain I had explained the chain of events and with a sense of condensing manner.  He brushed me off as if, it was no big deal. He said to me, “What do YOU think it is.” I looked him into the eye and said, “It is not situations of what is wrong but that the combined symptoms and how rapid they have come on.” He gave me a smirk and left the room. I stayed curled up on the hospital bed for well over an hour. I heard whispered hushes from the doctor’s and nurse’s mouth. I’m in pain, not def. eventually the sweet numbness set in. After a while, if I’m in pain for too long my body goes numb and thankfully as does my mind.

                The doctor came back in with a solemn sense and confirmed that something had been wrong not  only wrong but moving to my kidneys and diagnosed me with vertigo. Kidney pain, I could handle but vertigo? What the fuck. However, I was blessed with the epsilon salt fairy and cheap meds are putting back on track. I really want a cheese burger right now, with fried and cheese. DAMN you burger king! Damn you Arby’s for not being closer! But don’t worry,
I’m a fighter and damn it. I got too much shit to do for this! I’ve officially become too tired to write any more. Good night sportsfans and as always. I’ll be back.

Building Jacob’s ladder:

I looked off into the cloudy night’s sky as the moon light dwindled through like unsung melodies made soundless by man. It was an interesting sight to see. We three huddled underneath highly strung tarp while the dangers of lightening danced in into the far distance that faded into the nearby town. I had never really been the religious type but given the recent situation and the ebbing of reemerging pain, I began to wonder about building a latter to heaven.

Could it be done if heaven was a place at all? There was a part of me that wished that heaven was a place but even more than that, a home. I can never remember home as being a physical thing. Growing up we rarely stayed in a place longer than a year. For a time we bounced from place to place running from the people who were ripped from the pages of Anne Rule’s greatest works.  Home was not a place of walls or with obscure pieces of furniture. No, it was a smell. Small, simple and possibly strange in the eyes of some but to me home could always be near if I could smell home.

Home could be my own sense of heaven if I wanted it to be. It is, as of current, my temple. A sanctuary of peace and relief. It is hallowed area that is a shelter against the pain and bewilderment that the world seemed to carry lately. Yet, the eyes, it was just another place filled with stuff. I made a mix of different scents and became successful in my pursuit.

Lavender, vanilla, linen with a hint of greenery. I had my scent. I had created my ladder to heaven.  However, gazing at the forlorn moon through its cloud ridden bars I realized that there was a ladder to heaven and it was built bar by bar. Anyone could climb it but the location was tricky. We are our own ladders. Think of it like this: we all care divinity and therefore a piece of the hereafter with ourselves. Thus, we can always find heaven if we are willing in to look within. Hell can be the opposite.  By not honoring the divinity that is within yourself, you are not honoring your creators (which ever your belief system) and therefore creating your own hell. Even worse is that those around you can  By allowing those of untrue hearts to wound you it is a causing dishonor to not only yourself but the earth energies that walk with you.

I know where heaven is and it is within myself. Building the ladder to match the goal might be another story.

By the way, have I plugged my book yet? No? here it is again!

http://www.amazon.com/Reciprocity-Trinity-Smith-E-Hinrichs/dp/1484875532/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1369704567&sr=1-2&keywords=reciprocity

She who runs with wolves:

We were all an untamed being.  The women in our family have a sense of never ending enchantment of ones who live by the beat of their own drum. That drum beat hard through our veins in an undeniable lustful thrum. It’s hard to live with this wild streak with its tendencies to push us toward the fringes of isolation that create an environment to grow even more exotic habits.  We were women who thrived in darkness and lived to fight another day. Like cats, we fell on our feet and are quick to run. We run with the wolves because they are strong like us, misunderstood like us and everlastingly loyal. We run with them not because we are like them but because we want to be them.

I have long forced tameness into my life. I tried the straightest route. Get married and be the perfect wife. Go to school and get a career. Be successful.  That was the key wasn’t it? I wanted to take myself away from the safety of the wolves and turn to the staunch, white collar life of the straights. I could do it right? If I just did what I was told, I could make it and have a normal life. But the more I tried to sleep a full eight hours and color within the lines, the drumming in my heart got louder.  In the dark of the night, the drums sounded louder. It forced me awake at 3 am, every night for the last 10 years.  No matter where I am in the world, 3 am will grow to haunt me. I feel the pull of the drum and at 3 am instead of exorcising the demons of the drum, I cope with writing.

It’s my pack of cigarettes. While married I would stare at the ceiling thinking. I thought about running in the woods. All I could think about was running through those blessed woods, bare footed and jumping over obstacles while rushing my way through the sweet freedom of a moonlit night. There were no walls, no constrictions, just me and the moonlight. 

I recently published my novel (Reciprocity By E.C. Hinrichs, Now available on Amazon.com). A link will be provided below.  All I want to do is run with my wolves; exorcise my demons in the most unconventional of ways. To put it simply, to celebrate I want to drink, smoke, do unspeakable deeds for hours at a time and then when exhausted I want to strap a lap top to my person and then pass out from exhaustion. Keeping my demons well sated is a part of my process. If my wolves aren’t happy, I can’t write. Thus, I am currently searching for a way for me to exorcise those wolves in a tasteful and yet tactful sense while silencing their enthralling lull.

How do I accomplish this?

http://www.amazon.com/Reciprocity-Trinity-Smith-E-Hinrichs/dp/1484875532/ref=sr_1_7?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1368582703&sr=1-7&keywords=reciprocity

Writer's block? NO!

            I sat in front of computer. It had been about ten years, I thought to myself and yet I find myself working a temporary job in some temporary place. They call me a “permanent temp.” I mean what the hell is that supposed to mean? It means I work there with no chance for advancement. So, I’m fighting some new form of the black plague working on my second week in this brand new job when I discover- I hate it.

            Like I have hated my temp job before that one. It was in a sand paper factory working non-stop over time with endless weeks. I also hated the job before that one working at a successful chain of liquor stores for over six years. Before that it was a pizza place and then it was cell phone joint. All of them filled my life with the phase of “just for now.” That in itself ten years later seemed like some epic joke. Eighteen year old me would have pictured my elder self-living in a four bedroomed house with kids and a career.

            However life has led me another way. First off the person who said, “High school will prepare you for the real world” should be hit by a giant anvil and then run over by a train.  Because that line is a total load. If anything, it just made me more depressed about the real world and disenchanted me to harsh realities that already resided deep inside my bones. For the most part my life was as “real” as it could get. When you are in high school, hell even in grade school they discount your opinion as having no idea about life.

            The fact of the matter is life is as “real” as you make it. There is no enchanted moment when life changes and becomes actualized. Nothing really changes the stakes just get higher and you become a layered individual based on the outcome of various situations related to said stakes. I attempted the tried and true method of getting married going to school. The ended as most educations, tragically.

            I tried working myself to the top and ended up face butting a glass ceiling. The corporate factors tend to act diplomatically like ice skating glass dolls hocking rocks at one another.

            So, here I am back at the only place I will ever find as my true home and calling. Writing. My book, Reciprocity is due to drop any day now. And I can’t wait to finish my next book. I’m worried it might not be enough. But it  is the step in the right direction….. I hope.

Time to play catch up!

 Hey sports fans!

So much has happened since I last talked to you. Or rather a lack of something. I had been waiting on a job offer I had been very lucky in the sense that I am blessed with great people. My land lord for one, my current boyfriend’s mother (good old fashion pep talk goes miles), my ex, a great support group of friends, and my mom.  I’ve been sick and truly depressed.  A special person has helped keep me on the level by the nick name of Dr. Pretorius.  Thank god for small blessings.

The truth is I’m a wee bit lost on the road map to life and people have been more than understanding. It helps. So going down the list of what happened to me over the last time I posted.  Went to countless interviews, posted my resume on site, surfed craigslist, I’m even in a temping company.  So for a while (a lot longer than while) for me come up with another assignment and recently have been found employment through the company and I am currently a “Laboratory sanitation technician.” It’s fancy title for one who wash dishes but then again I am getting a head of myself. During this time off I tore through the rewrites for my novel to put it in my rear view and start moving forward to move forward in my reading. Despite my once urgent efforts to get published through a reputable publishing house (and therefore gain a contract) it has yet have materialized.

It’s not that I have given up chasing my dream of being a writer. No, I’ve decided to self-publish my novel through amazon. Is this the world wide success of a New York best seller list? Possibly not. But if one person, just one person purchases my novel then to me I can consider myself a successful in my writing career. Because I got paid for my work, even if I only get a penny. But there is another reason as well. The book ,though fiction, has many of my own demons in it. I put the devil in the details to exorcise my pain and free myself from the pain and acrid memories.

I poured every ounce I could into it but over the last two years I put the book away. Lost my fever and pushed it away. Maybe, I was trying to hold on to things I wanted so desperately need to let go of.  So, I figured that amazon’s create space would be a perfect  venue for my novel. I’m letting it go. I have another project in the works that I want to publish called “Duly noted.” It’s a collection of blogs, poetry and my thoughts about all my life. Things I have done and I’m going to sketch up cartoons with it. Then I am publish it in Amazon. I’ve led an interesting life and I get a weird laugh out of myself, why shouldn’t  everyone else?

The future is brightening up and I know good things are going to happen to me . So much so it will even start happening from the second I post this.  So consider this a random post.

This is the face of the author who is going to make a top ten list!