de die in diem

If we've recently friended each other, please let me direct you to The Official Introduction To All Things Kizzy. And, as always, feel free to ask me/let me clarify anything. Thanks!

On that particular cold, dank afternoon she looked out the window and noticed how the plow had shoved messy chunks of slush and snow into the driveway. The sidewalk was icy. In the next room doughnut-shaped dogs snoozed on either end of the couch. Upstairs her husband tap-tapped on the keyboard.

She pulled on her boots, yanked on her size-too-small yellow slicker, grabbed the good shovel, and pushed open the door.

Shallow slush, the kind made to push. She scraped it off the stoop, then plowed a path with the shovel, making graceful dips and swirls between the house and the cars as she made her way down the driveway. When she reached the front of the Jeep she carefully slid into position, hunched over, shovel neatly slicing underneath the slush. Carefully she pushed a slush chunk over to the fence, making a path. She turned and repeated, this time over to the edge of the front yard. Turn and repeat. Repeat. Groan. Sigh. Repeat.

The driveway dipped at its lip, making a pond of grayish brown grungy sludge. She stood there for a second, considering. She threw the shovel into the snowbank, picked up the biggest slush chunk, and heaved it over the shovel. It made a leaden plop as it hit crust, making a crater. She grinned as she took the shovel and eased it underneath another chunk.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

She jerked. “What does it look like I'm doing? It's getting cold out.”

“I wasn't ready to do this just yet.”

He grabbed the shovel and started chopping at a chunk, muttering.

“Well, just don't stand there. Go get the broom and brush off the car.”

“Excuse me?”

He grunted, heaving a chunk onto the snowbank. He straightened up. They looked at each other.

“Thank you for making me feel like a lard-ass.”

“WHAT?!”

“I know I should've done this earlier, but I was working on my spec for the client. I don't appreciate you making me feel like a lard-ass, you know.”

“Who said anything about you being a lard-ass?”

“Why do you do these things? I don't want you doing stuff like this.”

She started to gasp and took a deep breath. Never mind that she was now standing in a puddle and the water crept up her toes.

“This isn't about you being a lard-ass. I knew you were busy. It's getting cold out. It'll be hell trying to drive out of here when all this crap freezes over.”

“You shouldn't be doing this kind of work! I don't want you getting hurt!” He stabbed another chunk with the shovel.

She shook her head. “Hello, who does stock work in a freezer three days a week? Look, I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm OK. If I thought I couldn't do it, I wouldn't, OK?”

He shook his head. “You ALWAYS do this. Why can't you do something quiet like...oh, I don't know, read or something?” He paused. “OK, I take that back. You probably think you need the exercise. But so do I!”

She shook her head as she meandered back toward the door. She turned and watched him as he jammed the shovel into a slush slab, grinding it toward the snowbank. She suddenly remembered that the not-so-good shovel was at the bottom of the basement stairs. She banged open the door.

“Now what are you doing?”

“Clearing the stairs. What does it look like?”

“What the fuck?” He shook his head.

“Go back to your spec,” she said. “I'll finish this.”

“THAT'S NOT THE POINT!”

He flung the good shovel in her direction and stomped past her, the slush splashing grayish blobs into the snow. He slammed the door.

She stood there, mouth slightly open. She finished clearing the step and went inside, not quite knowing what to think.

They're shadows.

They stare at me the minute the alarm chirps.

They pad after my footsteps down the stairs and into the kitchen.

They linger at my side while I'm sipping coffee and reading LJ. They like to remind me that they're there. A pull on my leg. A soft, questioning whelp. A heavy sigh if I twirl around in my chair to watch the film clip on the news.

Sometimes they get a piece of bagel smeared with strawberry jam.

The little girl shadow is on my feet, hunkered under the desk. I can't see her because she blends in so well with the dark and dust bunnies and whatever else lurks there. Sometimes she leans into my toes. Sometimes I boop her. I reach underneath, fingers grasping air, murmuring apologies.

The big boy shadow plunks in front of the door the minute I reach for my coat. I cajole. I tell him he would love to be where I'm going because there's an area there full of bones and beef and chunks of fat, but there are laws against it. He wedges itself between the doorknob and me. I tell him to be good and take care of everybody. He looks up at me, sighs, wedging himself tighter. I ask if he wants a carrot. He leaps past me, skitters across the floor and lands in front of the refrigerator.

They leave pieces of themselves on my work apron. On my hat. I carefully pluck a tendril of white tipped with black from a piece of bread dough. Baby strands of light brown tinged with caramel and cream feather the hem of my black pants. I rub them with a damp paper towel, but they remain, damp, clinging.

I hear their cries before I open the door. I linger before turning the knob, waiting, listening. The girl shadow's cries crescendo into sustained whimpers as the boy shadow's booming warble punctuates it.. I creep into the mud room and softly scratch the closed door. Frantic scratching answers. I open the door a crack. The little shadow's nose pokes through, pink tongue brushing my face. I bend down, murmuring, scritching. Her tail whirls like a propeller, thwacking the big shadow looming behind her. He gives me his face. I kiss his nose.

Both pad after me as I go from upstairs to down, to the basement and kitchen. They station themselves on either side of me on the couch. The big shadow sits and watches as I do laundry, cocking his head as I explain why I layer the clothes the way I do. Little shadow tags at my heels as I move from computer to sink, television to bedroom.

At one point, though, they disappear.

They always do.

I creep downstairs and peek around the corner.
They both sit in front of the back closet door. The big shadow looks up at the leashes, wagging, panting, while little shadow gazes at me.

I ask them why they sit there.

Big shadow paws the door.

Little shadow bounces over to my feet. She yawns, sits and stretches, putting her paws on my legs.

I make my eyes big and wide and point at the hook. As I step closer, they surround me, leaning hard against my legs, slinking and nudging, howling and warbling. I sink down, scritching, nuzzling, my face dissolving in flurries of fur and kisses.



_{They're very nutty. This is a still from a video I made of them play fighting one evening. Trust me, they're nowhere near as ferocious as they look!}

This week the 10 with the lowest number of votes will be eliminated.

Please show your support by reading and voting here. Too many excellent entries to count. The talent this season leaves me speechless much of the time. I seriously mean that.

Oh, and if you've got a thing for purple pens, be sure to check out this entry ;)

Many thanks! Stay warm!

The love affair started back in high school when lined paper in a riot of colors became the rage. I didn't like the pastels because they were too girly, too sissy. Screaming yellow? Florescent orange? Hot pink? I couldn't decide if I liked them or the lime green better. Especially if you wrote on them with a black Flair pen. I used black Flairs until colored Paper Mate pens came out. Purple! Turquoise! Green! I'd spend study halls doodling on my note pads, trying to decide which color ink matched best with which paper. You couldn't do a monochrome effect. Red was too harsh, green was sometimes difficult to read (ditto turquoise)...but purple, ah, PURPLE, dark like black and blue, but different. Funky. It caught your eye. Not that I needed to catch eyes or impress a teacher, but my papers didn't look like everyone else's. They could keep the boring white lined paper and smeary blue or black ink. Me? I'm a Purple Girl. With some calligraphy-enhanced penmanship thrown in for good measure. I stopped when Mrs. Bernen, my favorite English teacher, gently told me that reading purple handwriting on hot pink paper gave her headaches. Besides, aren't you getting a little old for this? You're the only student I know who still uses colored paper and colored pens. Ohh, I'm sorry. Really, I am. I can write it over if you want. Grrr. Well, OKAY THEN, I'll rewrite that stupid paper on BORING white lined paper with a BORING blue pen so I can be just like everyone else in this stupid school. The Purple Pen followed me from high school to college, where I perfected my note-taking on not-so-screaming yellow legal paper so I didn't have to keep flipping pages during lectures. I supplemented it with purple Flairs and Sharpies, sometimes with another color thrown in because other colors should not be ignored. On occasion, though, I had no choice but to use blue or black. Sigh. Smear. Student teaching. In the cavernous building with the creaky floorboards where Latin was a required class. The Purple Pen looked strange in a sea of red x's on tattered lined papers. Purple comments littered margins, sometimes with a flourished arrow leading up to the other side. Words and phrases bracketed – sometimes circled in purple Flair. Sometimes smiley faces grinned next to As or Bs. They'll never take you seriously if you don't use red pen. You're very thoughtful with your comments. But really, you don't need all those arrows, all those underlines. They should know all of that by now or else they wouldn't be here. Smiley faces don't belong on schoolwork, especially not on a weekly graded in-class composition – and especially NOT from a teacher. They're not in grade school anymore. I chewed on The Purple Pen. Considered. “Let's take a poll. I'm really curious about this. If a teacher is correcting your paper, what color would you like to see the corrections in?” “Doesn't matter.” “Red, I guess.” “Gold glitter!” “I never thought about it.” “I like your purple pen, Ms. Kizzy. I've never seen a teacher use one before.” I never said anything about the poll, but word got around. Hand me your pen. You know which one. What? You know exactly what I'm talking about. If you wish to continue your practicum here, you WILL use a red pen when correcting papers. We have standards to maintain. Standards. Smear. I handed over The Purple Pen. Later that day I nipped into a store and bought a package of red Bics. The papers blared red comments, brackets, and circles. But sometimes, if you turned one over and squinted at the very edge of a corner, you'd find a scrawl. In purple. VI Readers: There are two photos included in this piece. The first one, which heads the first paragraph, is a photo of an assortment of colored pens in a cup, the purple pen in front. The second photo, heading the student teaching paragraph, is a photo of a list written in purple on lined paper with the pen crossing the paper at a slight angle.

I wonder if she ever felt this way, the blank feeling when you're not intentionally staring off into space or daydreaming of something more exciting, more intellectual, while your hands and fingers duplicate particular actions over and over.

Somewhere in the back of your conscious mind you know what's there. You can see it, but not really. You need Cher to scream “SNAP OUT OF IT!” to your Nicholas Cage lassitude, a lassitude you never realized that lurked just under the surface, its hulking form just there, dead weight.

What if you can't respond to a “SNAP OUT OF IT!”? That was later on, though, before the Geri-Chair and the babble and smears on the sweatshirt. Before that she'd strike out, hands in fists, flailing, screaming, threatening to call the police to so they could get you out of HER house because you dared, you challenged, you wouldn't just let her be.

She didn't remember how to use the telephone.

Or the time during a snowstorm down at the local restaurant where you took her every afternoon, cajoling, wanting someone, something – anything – to help her so you wouldn't have to keep entertaining her enough so she wouldn't fall asleep or stare at the back paneled wall, not quite realizing that the scraping tone near the top was the TV with the bad reception. Maybe she snapped out of it long enough challenge you. Maybe she took what you said the wrong way. She toddled outside and started down the street. You jumped in the car and followed. You caught her at a crosswalk. She gazed at you. “What are you doing here?”

You randomly think of these incidents when you do snap yourself out of it. It's distressing, particularly at work, because your eyes begin to sting and you have to stare at something – anything – to realign your neurons. Brain circuitry is a delicate matter. Yours are working fine.

Or so they say.

Hers did, too, when she was your age. You were young then, too young to detect nuances. You only knew of the temper, the hypersensitivity to loud noises, the patterns. You had no idea what set her off. If you asked, you automatically became the blame. You became very good at making your physical self scarce.

You're beginning to notice things, though. You have a hypersensitivity to loud noises. Your patience frays. You're more prone to sudden outbursts not having anything to do with the matter at hand.

You know how to control them, though.

Or perhaps you think you do.

You wake up in a different bed but on the same side in a similar position. You hand touches her tableside lamp, her nightstand. You haven't brought yourself to clean out the top drawer because it's filled with kleenex and plastic silverware, napkins and hardened, sticky bits of peppermint candy, all from the hoarding phase.

Did she ever think she would save that? Her big things were office supplies and sewing notions, some of which she wound into a knotted ball with her necklaces at one point.

You think of all your kitchen gadgets downstairs safely tucked away in a drawer.

She forgot she had made the quilts, painted the upstairs hallway, the tax books littering the den, notes in her perfectly capitalized printing.

What would you forget? No, wait, scratch that. YOU WILL NOT FORGET. You will be as spry as the 87-year old woman across the street who still drives, volunteers at the hospital three days a week, and, during warmer weather, walks 3 miles daily and maintains her yard.

You know where everything is. You have a sense of direction. You have a physically active job. You are not burdened with the familial high blood pressure and high cholesterol.

So what if you loll in the living room chair exactly the same way she did? So what if you intonate certain phrases, cook certain ingredients, possess the same brand of stubbornness that you know must be genetic?

“You're your own person,” she once said.

None of this ever occurs to you, though, when you're momentarily blank.

Let's face it: I'm a wimp. Especially when it comes to driving in snow.

You'd think by now that, after 30 years of driving and living in a northern area of the country where snow happens to fall, I'd be used to it.

Flurries are OK. A couple of inches? No problem. The snow doesn't stick.

Anything over than that? My husband drives me to work because there's no way I will, even with the 4-wheel drive and following the interstate all the way. My breath sharpens as I grip my seat for dear life while he slowly glides into the lane, braking lightly to avoid spin outs and near rear-end crumples. Red lights suddenly flash before us. I gaze at the snow swirling silently around us and marvel how lights illuminate each flake. He points to a car up ahead trying to cut off a pickup. “What a fucking fool,” he murmurs. “I'm waiting for him to jackknife himself into the snowbank up by the exit ramp.”

I nod and squeak.

The days I dread the most are when I drive myself to work, thinking I'll make it home before a storm hits. The laws of averages are never with me. I punch out, adjust my earmuffs, pray that the parking lot has already been plowed, take a deep breath, and huddle into myself as I stumble to the car.

It's just me, the whup-whup of wipers, defroster humming with NPR, and snow sticking to my side window as I slowly make my way to the main road, holding my breath with foot hovering the brake. I bite my lower lip and I turn into the road – WHEW! -- then take a couple of deep breaths as I approach the entrance ramp to the interstate. The snow suddenly gusts and whips, making the windows and wiper blades shudder on the upswing. I crank the defroster to high. The road is white, empty.

Slowly and oh-so-carefully I inch onto the interstate and suddenly wonder if I should attempt to move toward the middle just in case I fishtail or spin into the breakdown lane and into the bank of ghostly dark trees on my right. No...the plows always stay in the right lane, so maybe I should stay there too...WHERE ARE THE PLOWS? Snowflakes dip and whirl around my headlights as I shift into a lower gear because this is the area I hate, where the asphalt is slick black in the rain and ice when it's cold, and even though I've never spun out or skidded here you won't, you won't, oh please god, tell me I won't I grasp the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles cramp. A truck suddenly whooshes past me, spraying ice and slush against the door. I strain to watch his tail lights disappear into the frosty gray as I feel the back wheels shudder and shift. I gasp and quickly turn the steering wheel to catch it. I whimper.

I try not to watch signs because I'll really start whimpering.

I'm no longer thinking. I have no idea what NPR is saying. I hit the defroster again because frost begins to inch along the windshield. I somehow catch up to a backup of cars three lanes deep where the interstate forks into the highway heading toward the city. I notice flickering gold lights ahead There they are! and let myself sigh every so faintly because the exit ahead – my exit – is downhill with a sharp turn where, if you're not careful, you're liable to land head first into bushes next to the gas station.

Two stop lights and another turn. I grit my teeth as I pull into my street because there are no ruts in the road and although it looks pretty and smooth, there's probably ice lurking underneath and one fishtail could whap me into that utility pole...or the stop sign...or Ethan's house on the corner if I don't watch my speed...

Pull into driveway. Fling open door, stomp feet on mat, jacket on hook.

Kitchen. A little brown dog rushes at my feet, whimpering and violently wagging her tail.

Slowly unclench hands and jaw. Gasp. Crumple down to the little brown dog's head and sob, covering her head with kisses.

The only reason why I went to dinner with him was because he dared me:

“Yeah, go ahead, say no. That's what all the girls say.”

“I'm not just any girl.”

It certainly wasn't his looks. Not that he was bad-looking – average, actually, with steel blue eyes that seemed to burn holes through yours – but there was something compelling about him I couldn't place. Maybe it was his posture. Maybe it was because everything he uttered had An Emphasis to it.

I restrained myself from cringing when he smiled at the waitress. “Excuse me? I'm sorry, I know you're busy, but we're on a break here and I can't understand why you cannot give us separate checks. All you have to do give me my total and give her hers. We both had the same thing. That's not so difficult, is it?”

I paid the check because the waitress turned red and dashed into the back room.

We started dating, I don't know. He didn't have a car, so I offered to drive us to a local movie. He stood next to the driver's side. “Aren't you getting in?” I asked.

“As soon as you move over. I saw the way you took that corner back there.”

“What corner?”

“See? Oh, maybe I should say, you obviously don't see. Move over.”

My car spent more time in his driveway than mine.

We went to a holiday party given by one of his coworkers at his day job. He pressed a drink into my hand. He introduced me to a woman. We chatted. A pause. I looked around. He wasn't there. Nobody knew where he went.

I found him and another man hunched over a woman. The smell. I nearly slipped on the vomit. He wanted to call an ambulance. “For barfing?” I said. He pushed me aside. “She had a reaction to her medication. She should know better. He'll hold her while I call.” He took out a pad of paper and pen from his jacket pocket. “Time...check. Last thing she ate? Uh-huh...” He made a few scratches, flew past me and upstairs. I heard his voice echo through the floorboards. “I am going to call the ambulance.”

Another time at his parents' house. Dinner. How it started, I don't remember. Animated discussion. He challenged his father. His father kept telling him to keep his voice down. “DON'T YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT I CAN DO AND CANNOT DO! I AM SMARTER THAN YOU!” I kept my eyes focused on my fork. His mother and I eventually retreated to the backyard. We saw them in the pool of light by the window, younger towering over older, finger pointing, emphasis on each personal pronoun. “I'm sorry,” his mother kept murmuring. “I'm sorry.”

He knew I wanted to go down the Cape for a long weekend.

We went up to Vermont instead. He insisted.

Ditto birthday and Christmas presents. He knew my passion for cooking, artwork, anything silly and glittery. He gave me a wool jacket the color of mud. “You look better in brown. I know these things.”

It added up after awhile

I shrank. Oh, I played those games in my head. Games where you try to smooth over the latest barb with any excuse you can dream. Maybe I didn't make it clear to him. Maybe he's stressed out about something. Maybe I did something he didn't like and this is his way of “punishing” me. Maybe...maybe...

One night I wrote a letter. I didn't know how else to do it. I gave him the letter after we kissed goodnight. “Read this later. I don't want to discuss it right now.”

He took the letter without saying a word.

In the interim his mother invited me to dinner. She obviously didn't know, I didn't want to break it to her, so I went.

Right before dessert he stood up. “I just want everyone to know that I broke up with Kizzy the other night. I think it's for the best because she no longer appreciates me.”

He turned toward me.

And smirked.

Piles of papers at my side. Some of them flutter to the floor as I shuffle through them. Glance at boldface numbers. Look up at screen.

The account is minus X dollars.

In red.

I scream.

I scream because this is not supposed to happen.

Not to me. Me, with the good credit and money in the bank. Me, who always pays on time and receives calls from credit card companies asking if there's anything wrong because I missed a payment by one day. Me, who has minuscule interest and talent in math but was raised by two numerically and fiscally talented people.

Not. Me.

One could point fingers, I suppose. Point fingers at me for living in the family home in the first place all these years and was never responsible for the big bills like taxes or heat or water or insurance. Point fingers at my parents who never made me responsible because I was their only child and, in their psyches, still 12 years old. Point fingers at me for not contributing more than I did when my mother started financially struggling and her not wanting to take one dime from me because looking after the house was HER job, not mine, don't you ever forget it.

Point fingers at me because I saved all those years. Point fingers at me for having a nice chunk of money socked away for my old age that was never, ever, to be touched unless absolutely necessary, and then, only in small amounts at a time.

A disease took away my mother's mind and most of her money.

A layoff took away my husband's primary source of income. A disease that took away my mother's mind also took away any chance of my husband earning an income during those years he took care of her, both depending on my income for survival.

Maybe I should have majored in something practical in college so I could earn a good salary. I scoffed when my mother begged me to take business courses, take economics, be an English major but for god's sake, consider law school! The military would teach you a skill! I love the arts as much as you do, but chances are you won't earn a living from it!

And I scoffed, drifting from one minimum-wage job to another, punctuated by trying this career or that, none lasting very long. Because, you see, I live at home. I pay room and board and my own bills. That's all I'm responsible for. Nothing else.

My savings has dwindled because I can't save enough to pay the property tax, not with everything else being paid out of the account. Utilities. Insurance. Medical bills. A car payment. Credit card balances which swell every month because I can no longer pay them off with a single check.

There are holes and bulges in the plaster. The boiler chatters, belching smoke. Loose tiles in the shower. There's a leak in the upstairs hallway ceiling coming from, I think, the chimney. A cracked basement window. Roof shingles bulge and flap.

And now my account is in the red.

And I scream.

Goddam *$^#@%#!#! hospital! How DARE they bill me almost $1000 for pathology services where they probably only gave my thyroid a curious glance before pitching it into the incinerator! Not to mention goddam *$^$#^#%! INSURANCE for saying blah-blah-blah-YOU-NEED-PRIOR-AUTHORIZATION before we'll pay and hello, EXCUSE ME, how the hell was I supposed to get prior authorization WHEN I WAS UNDER ANESTHESIA? You think they were going to yank it out while I was conscious? I ALREADY OWE THEM ANOTHER THOUSAND FOR MY PORTION OF THE INSURANCE! HELLO?!?

Almost two months ago I had a thyroidecotomy. It was inevitable, according to Endo Doc. My goiter, almost 20 years in the making, was a misshapen barbell, the nodule-ridden bulbous side leaning against both my trachea and esophagus. The less swollen, nodule-ridden side -- the side that had picked up the slack after the bulbous side decided to call it quits -- was sputtering. That still didn't explain why all my TSH [thyroid stimulating hormone] levels were still sky-high.

I educated myself, spending evenings researching online and days off at the library. I not only learned the mysterious meanings behind all the levels of TSH but the differences between T3 and T4 and why you shouldn't trust the overall TSH level. How thyroid issues can gradually change one's normally mild-mannered demeanor because, after all, the thyroid is the nerve center of one's entire endocrine system, and if one gland goes out of whack, the others follow suit like an intricate web of collapsing dominoes. I learned the operation is relatively simple, not very bloody, and that I would have to take synthethic hormones afterward for the rest of my life.

And, yes, I would tire quite easily.

WHAT A LOAD OF BULL! Tire "QUITE EASILY"? Do you call WANTING TO COLLAPSE EVERY SECOND YOU'RE STANDING TIRING QUITE EASILY? NEVER MIND THAT, YOU CAN'T EVEN THINK STRAIGHT! JUST SPEAKING TAXES YOU!

Like many people, I run around a lot in my everyday life. I have a physically demanding job. I take care of a house and lovable goofy canines. I have a husband. I have personal issues, stress triggers, bills to pay, food to cook, Idol entries to write, people to see, and bookstores to investigate.

In my entire life I have NEVER been literally driven to my knees.I'm not just tired. It's bone-crushing utter exhaustion. You know how lethargic you are when you've got a bad cold and all you want to do is sleep? That possibly the only thing you can muster is to put the tea kettle on and perhaps check your e-mail until your chest feels tight, your head whirls, and a mere tap of the finger can make you keel over?

Take away the congestion and the head whirl.

Multiply the lethargy times 10. No, make it 50. (If it were 100 I wouldn't be writing this.)

Add to that the physically demanding job at 40 hours weekly because if you work anything less you won't be able to pay those goddam ($^@#&%^@# hospital bills on top of everything else.

Nobody EVER told me this. Oh, sure, a waitress showed me her scar and chirped, "I was tired for a couple of weeks and then I was all better!" Endo Doc mentioned that once I stabilized everything would be better. Goiter Surgeon briefly mentioned fatigue in passing. The father of an ex-boyfriend, on the other hand, was shuttled in and out of the hospital FOR A YEAR AFTERWARD but then again hormone levels affect males differently, so I only half-listened.

The Kidz only get the shortened regular walk now because I'm liable to crumple the longer they run around and snuffle.

Standing makes me brace myself against any inanimate object, hoping my knees won't buckle. Um, no, they're not thrilled about that at work. It takes every ounce of energy and sheer willpower to 1) not to fall asleep during lunch, and 2) actually prying myself from my seat. Never mind that whatever I bought to eat is still mostly uneaten. I can stare at food for hours. Picking up the bagel with my fingers and bringing it to my mouth takes too much effort. Ditto for the iced tea.

I fight fluttering eyelids when I drive. Or when I watch a favorite TV show. Reading a book. Or -- horrors! -- when I'm online.

Just thinking of what to make for dinner elicits a deep sigh.

As does my usual knee-jerk angry responses to any of my triggers.

Hell, even thinking.

I'm going to lie on the couch now. I'm tired from sitting upright and typing.


ARGH.

The pristine long pad of yellow lined paper with a double red margin running down the left side.
The black fine-line felt tip pen.
A bold dividing line.

It is easy to fill in one column.

Pen cap tapping paper. Why make two columns? The jumble of the filled column says it all.

Or does it?

There are always two sides.

There are those who don't consider two sides. How lucky they must be going on their gut instinct, taking no prisoners, having no questions, the effect of their actions not even a blip on their internal radar.

Those who consider both sides are sucked into the relentless quagmire of questioning. What is the benefit? What will happen? What are the consequences if X is put into place? Or Y? Z? What if one works out? What if all three? What if none do? Then what?

Nibbled pen cap. Tap, tap. Sketchy 3-D boxes fill the margined area. Faceless figures en arabesque, ronde de jambe. A detailed single eye watches, waits.

Squashed, flattened script fills the top margin. What happened wasn't supposed to happen because there were two columns back then and the interpretation ignored. About how illness affects decisions. The safety of one's cradling arms and soothing murmurs to keep the nightmares at bay. How a burgeoning lifestyle crumbled from prior histories and personal differences. Thoughts never uttered because to utter them meant further decay.

What does it mean to fill the empty column?

Gnawing, wilful fear. It seeps into the subconscious making colorless dreams. It is the tone of one voice eroding another. Detritus of one life crowded by another. The voice becomes smaller and exhausted with every word until it curls itself up in the throat, silent, choking.

A ring.
A vow.
A wish that two columns didn't exist.

A hope that two columns point to an answer.

This week's LJ Idol poll is up!

This week's topic? Ghosts.

If you liked my entry about ghostly contemplations about my mother, I would greatly appreciate your vote. After a reshuffling, I'm now in Tribe spydielives. Or Tribe Spydie, as I like to call it. Maybe The Spydie Tribe?

Anyone can vote.
Voting goes from now until Monday at 1PM EST.

Thank you, and, as always, I appreciate your support!

Maybe she doesn't come around because we rearranged some of the furniture the night before the funeral. Between you and me, though, I think that's a long shot – I mean, nothing around here has changed for ages, so it's not like she wouldn't be discombobulated floating from one room to another. She'd probably wonder about my husband's clutter cluttering her clutter, though. Oh wait, their stuff co-mingled long before the nursing home, like when we discovered she'd hung a few power strips and USB cables on the clothesline downstairs. Or when Christmas ornaments, dusty and chipped, bedecked the kitchen fan and the light in the dining room. Or scattered pieces of his paperwork with her handwriting repeating her misspelled name. In another life I can see her peering at that future self and chuckling, “Oh ho ho, no, I'm too smart to lose my mind.”

I'm sorry, Mama. But you did.

Maybe she doesn't come around here because she's too busy with Daddy and her family and his family and the cousins and aunts and uncles she'd known and whom I never knew. I'm willing to bet she's met Bogie, Clark Gable, Robert Taylor (her first love after Lew Ayres) – the whole MGM cavalcade -- already, clutching her old Photoplay magazines, asking for autographs. She probably muscled out everyone in the receiving line when Paul Newman arrived because she always loved him and dammit, if she loves someone nothing will stop her, even if she has to step on a few toes or holler for everyone to get out of the way. In another life she chuckled, “Oh, I can't wait! Can you imagine it? Would they be lined up? Will I just happen to run into them? I hope it's the latter because then I could really talk with them.”

You have, Mama. I KNOW you have.

Maybe she doesn't come around here because she's mad at me for that nameless something that's still following her. I still don't know what it is after all these years, but I still flinch remembering how dark and lined her face became and how her voice rose as it punctuated ever single syllable of every single word. She'd laugh at my cowering, my pleading as to what was it that I did or said to make her feel that way. In another life she admitted, “I know you were scared of me and I could never understand why you were. Then it dawned on me a many years ago – I kept expecting you to act like an adult, but you were just a child. I'm sorry.”

I'm sorry too, Mama. I forgive you.

Maybe she doesn't come around here because she trusts me to live my life without her. This scares me more than anything because, after living together for nearly most of my life, you think she wouldn't just get up and leave. I never did, even during those post-collegiate years when I wanted to but couldn't reconcile the fact that we'd both become even lonelier. In another life she explained, “I'm sorry I held you back from living your life. I was selfish. I was lonely. I had nobody but you. Someday you'll understand.”

I do understand, Mama. We still live together, from the wallpaper gently unfurling in the bathroom to the dented metal mixing bowls, from your sewing supplies to the crucifix on the bedroom wall, the furniture, TV, the gardening tools, the desk bulging with paperwork, the hair dryer. I have your robe. It still faintly holds your scent. I bristle when my husband uses your glass coffee mug because I'm not sure how you'd react. But, you see, they're just things, things you told me to never attach myself to, and I probably wouldn't except that you used them, touched them. You did the same thing when Grandma passed, except that she used to stand by your side of the bed.

I stay awake every night in your room, watching, waiting.

Then I remember how you would console me after the Daddy nightmares, the ones where I'd run into your room in the middle of the night because I'd hear a creak or the wind moaning through the eaves and was utterly convinced that it was him trying to come through the attic door. You'd hold me until I stopped trembling, both of us wide-eyed and teary, listening to the wind and the creaks and watching random car lights making streaks through the window shades.

I stay awake, watching, waiting.

I do understand, Mama. I do.

I first noticed him while he sketched a cartoon image of the woman sitting before him in the motel lobby. The image was one of those heavy-charcoal lined types where the enormous head perches atop a stick body, the person depicted posed in a way that would make most people turn their heads in embarrassment. In this older woman's case, it was her in a skimpy frilly number that bared the edge of her nipples as she coyly emerged from a darkened bed.

I pretended to look at the tourist pamphlets next to the front desk.

“HOW DARE YOU! YOU'RE NOT GETTING ONE CENT FROM ME!”

“But but – look at the work! That's art! I captured your image perfectly!”

“THAT'S DISGUSTING! DO THEY KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING HERE?”

“Ma'am, please, I'm sure we could work something out --”

The manager's office door slammed open. Words. Accusations. Yelling. The woman spoke to the manager, who, in turn, told him to pack up his easel. “I gave you a second chance and you blew it. That's it! GET OUT OF HERE!”

*****

He looked much older from the front. I figured he was bald on top from the way he'd cocked his cap at an angle so that he squinted. The edges of his lips curved into a pout.

And what lips. Large, round messy lips tinted dark-pink-to-red.

“You like hanging around back parking lots?” He looked up at me, squinting.

“Um, well...I can't smoke in front of my mother, so I came out here.”

He pulled out a lighter. I leaned in. We glanced at each other.

“You want me to draw you?” he asked. “All my stuff is right here. Fucking bastards. They don't know an artist when they see one.”

“I like your drawing,” I said. “Except maybe the subject matter...I don't know, I can see why that woman was offended.”

“What was so offensive about it? You tell me because I certainly don't see what the hell was wrong with it other than she didn't give me any fucking money.”

“You drew her in a negligee. They were showing! She was older than my mother!”

He pursed his lips. He rooted around in his bag and pulled out a bottle of beer. I watched his long, tapering fingers gently ease off the cap. It clattered on the pavement. Looking at me, he took a swig, then let his tongue run ever so slowly around his lips.

“What was showing? Ohhh, I get it. You can't say the word.”

“Um...uh...”

“You tell me. What's so bad about showing what you've got? The female body has been a work of art since the beginning to time. So you tell me.”

He took another swig and slowly licked his lips again.

“Uh, well...uh, maybe she's uncomfortable with it.”

“Why?” His eyes opened wider. He held out the bottle toward me. “I think you need a drink so you can tell me why you're uncomfortable with it.”

I took the bottle and pretended to take a sip.

He watched me, the tip of his tongue gently stippling his bottom lip

I felt myself squirm.

“So, tell me about being uncomfortable. You're young. I bet you're nice and taut in all the right places.”

“Look, I really, really have to go.”

“Suit yourself. I'm sure I'll be seeing you.”

*****

I didn't tell my mother about any of this because she was just leaving the room to look for me when I came up the walkway over by the pool. I knew she could smell the cigarette on my breath, but neither of us mentioned it. "I just went for a walk around the motel, Ma! That's it! That's all I did!"

Besides, she wouldn't understand anything about his lips, not the way I imagined they'd graze mine and the small of my neck, trailing ever-so-slowly downward. Before the bathroom mirror getting ready for dinner, I could see him standing behind me gently lifting my hair, his lips brushing against the soft indents right behind my ears. He'd slowly work his way down to my shoulders, maybe pausing to trace his fingers along my sides and down to my thighs as our breaths softly quickened. Maybe he would reach around and gently cup my chin in his palm as he'd tilt my head close to his, my lips grazing his. He wouldn't slobber like my prom date from last spring. He's older. He'd know just what to do...

“Open up! Aren't you dressed yet?”

I glanced down at myself.

He was right.

I am a work of art.

*****

Back parking lot. I take a drag from the cigarette and watch the smoke curve and curl into the darkness.

“I drew a picture of you.”

I gasped and turned around. He stood close to me.

“You did?”

“I think you'd like to see it.” He took my hand. “Let's go.”

“Where to?”

He placed his hands on my shoulders and took a step back, gazing at me. “You're beautiful. Do you know that?” He picked up my hand again. “Such small, soft hands.”

“Um, where is this picture -- “

“Shh. Follow me.”

We made our way down one of the outer walkways and around the corner toward the opposite end of the courtyard. I held onto his hand. We stopped in front of a door.

He turned and gently kissed my cheek. Exactly just as I thought.

I shuddered.

“You're beautiful. And you ARE a work of art. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.”

He held the door open.

I peered into the dark. The lights from the pool made a streak across the bed, the covers already turned down.

I shook my head. “I really should be going --”

He gently pressed me against the door frame and kissed me with an open mouth, his lips strong and soft against mine. I felt myself flinch as he hovered against me, his hand lightly stroking my cheek as he braced himself over my head with his other. I tried moving my head, but his hand guided me back.

“You are beautiful. You are so beautiful.”

“Um...”

We broke apart, faces almost touching, his lips slightly open.

“I – no, I can't,” I breathed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don't want you to.” His hand brushed my cheek again. “But you are a work of art. I want you to remember that.”

*****

I never told my mother about the package the desk clerk gave to me the morning we checked out. I hid it in my carry-on and didn't open it until after we'd arrived home and unpacked. In my bedroom I carefully cut open the taped ends and unfolded the paper-bag wrapping on my bed.

There is my face in a three-quarter pose, staring at something over the viewer's left shoulder.

I wear a black gown with a slit all the way up one thigh. Both hands are on my other thigh as I lean, exposing the leg and making the fabric drape into a puddle. My chest is exposed in a deep V-neck with the barest shadowing of inner curves.

He didn't sign the drawing, but in the lower right corner, in a charcoal-smeared scrawl:

You are a work of art. Always remember that XO.

I folded the paper back around it and gingerly placed it on the top shelf of my closet.

I wonder...hmm...could I really get away with it? It's not like I'm going to cause trouble. It's all too easy, really, if you think about it. It reminds me back in college when I'd go through periods where I wanted to be somebody else, like what's-her-name who wore black eyeliner every day or Suzanne with the patchouli wafting down the hallway every time she opened her door or Debbie who only dressed in LL Bean. What would it be like to be like them?

The best part is, I don't have to show my face. Nobody would ever know.

It was silly, really. I'd been part of this particular forum for just over a year and already had an established presence, thanks to glittery goofy-eyed signatures I'd change at every whim. I made friends with people as close as 10 miles away and as far as New Zealand. I met up with one woman – my first face-to-face in the internet world –during a trip to Texas. I was happy because she was who she posted as – loving if a bit curmudgeonly, with six cats, one screaming cocaktoo, a family of hamsters, and three dogs.. Her house smelled exactly as I'd imagined it.

First, the persona. I had to be as different from me as possible. I had to be somebody I could reasonably pull off, and just from looking around other forums on the network, that excluded a lot:

Cross off wiccan.
Cross off hardcore New Age.
Cross off politico.
Cross off “alternative lifestyle”.

Her name is Cerys, the C with a hard K sound. It's Welsh for “beloved one” and sounds just patchouli-scented enough, just mysterious enough, and just strong enough so that she would be A Presence. No silly signatures for her. Her prose will ooze eloquence with each word precisely chosen and parsed. More serious than amusing, her philosophy deep as the Mariana Trench, embracing all without judgment. Love her or hate her, but she will leave everyone in awe.

She left a brief note in the introduction thread.
People, including myself, welcomed her.
She replied to each one, including myself, with “Thank you. You are very kind. I hope we will become better acquainted”.

She skirted the “fluff” threads where I generally hung out. I led her to the seldom-used area the moderator called “Your Life”. Gemini64 and her DH are going on a Carribbean cruise! BabyJane's daughter gave birth! Rykard and Wyllow are moving!

*******************
To: ALL
From: Cerys

Again I thank all of you for your kindness in welcoming me to your lovely forum. Have any of you heard of Rumi? I have only recently begun studying his work. He was a Sufi, a 12-century Persian poet who spoke of love and forebearance. He believed the path in transcending one's self in union with The One was through art, music, and dance. I firmly believe that all that is artistic is a divine conversation. What do you think?
*******************

Nobody responded.

A few days later, Cerys gingerly entered one of the more popular word game threads. Somebody would name somebody famous. The next person responded with another famous person, but the person's first name had to begin with the last letter of the previous person's surname. She has to know some sort of celebrity, doesn't she?

She let seven or eight pass her. Then she spotted the last post. The surname ended with R.

Rumi.

********************
To: Cerys
From: MODERATOR

I really don't think this is the forum for you.
********************
To: MODERATOR
From: Cerys
Why do you say that? Please tell me that there is more substance to you and your friends than what you let on.
********************

Cerys, bless her,tried explaining herself. Some – like BabyJane or FloridaSue – listened to her (I knew they would), but wouldn't back her up when the accusations flew.

We're here just for fun. Stop taking yourself so seriously.
I think you need a reality check, Miss Hippie Chick.
Who the hell do you think you are?
Did you know that you have a stick up your goddam ass? Your shit smells just like mine. Get over yourself.

I cringed at the words. I cringed at those who posted them.
Laugh-a-minute DorisDay?
Astarte, giver of free virtual hugs?
My word game buddy Dianne thinks Cerys has a goddam stick up her ass? Not Dianne. I have an open invitation to visit her at any time! I told her stuff I've never told anyone in real life! We've called each other!

A goddam stick up her ass?

I never came to Cerys' rescue. Cerys, in turn, never posted again.

A few weeks later in another thread somebody mentioned her. There were the usual “she was strange” responses. On with the game.

I stopped posting soon after. Besides, I didn't feel like playing anymore.

If I take a running start from the decorator's bench to where we keep the bread bags, I can usually slide into a Tom-Cruise-Risky-Business stance by the time I reach my bench. Most of the time I have enough leverage between the grout in the floor and my boots so I don't just go skidding into oblivion and smack head first into the proofer. Granted, I'm not in my underwear (ack!) or wearing Ray-Bans, but I sure as hell can finesse, giving a twirly-toe spin as I pick up a tray of croissants and jerk open the oven door.

“Won't go to hear them play a tango
I'd rather hear some blues or funky old soul...”

“There's only one way for this rack to roll,” My legs be-bop in time as I yank open the door all the way and slide the croissants right below the danish. I twirl around and slam the door closed, jerking the handle shut. A thread of steam rises from the bottom lip.

There's a breathless suspension of time between when the night crew leaves and when the 6AM people arrive. It begins when Billy, the crew leader, shuts off the ear-splitting blasts of our local classic rock station. It's the perfect music to nod to when you're wired from caffeine while trying hard as hell not to collapse. You can perhaps do a tripped-out rendition of Robert Plant or croon “Carry On Wayward Son” for the thousandth time, but it only takes you so far. Bass rhythms can stick in your throat and make your heart uncomfortably flutter.

When the lights flicker to full power, scratchy static echoes overhead as I'm glazing donuts. By now I've got the playlist down pat:

If it's Sunday, I'll gently sway on the offbeat to what I call soft jazz. Tuesdays and Thursdays it's junior high bubble gum pop – Pilot, Paper Lace, perhaps “Brother Louie” which makes me melodramatically howl “Louie Louie Louie Louieeeeeeeeeeeee Louie Louie Louie Louowwwwwwwwwwwww” as I momentarily slink against the edge of the bulk case as I load the last tray of bagels and give the peppers across the way in Produce a wounded look. Wednesdays I practice The Hustle and try to remember what to which side I'm supposed to step as I tally up how many blueberry muffins are left from the previous day. Fridays it's the Electric Slide. I have to drop everything for that – it's somewhat difficult to bounce and two-step in all directions before jumping left to repeat the sequence while you're trying to balance a couple of trays or attempting not to dribble icing down your apron.

Mondays? I can't depend on Mondays. Sometimes I screw up my face toward the ceiling and wail “And I'm hungry like the wolf” as I shift myself from side to side and roll my shoulders without moving my legs (comes in handy if you're maneuvering a reluctant rack from the proofer). Other times it's a breathless countrified melody where I'll close my eyes and pretend I have long curly hair and wear light pink lip gloss. A pseudo bad-ass song has me slapping the bench while I make dramatic poses and glare at the bread display.

On Saturdays I straighten myself up because my coworkers stagger in starting at 5AM , rubbing their eyes. complaining of weariness and lack of caffeine. I nod politely and make small talk, but I'm itching because Steve Tyler's talking about his rag doll and I can't lodge my years-old complaint of his persona's view of women because now X is counting the stales and Y is starting the cake orders. I can't slink around during “Need You Tonight”. I can't pretend I'm pining for Glory Days or be enthralled by a Magic Man or perfect my Pat Benatar-esque pout.

But I can lightly shuffle and make up steps to “Miss You” when nobody's looking ;)

This week's LJ Idol Poll is up and running!

As per last week, you do not need to be a member of the community to vote.

My entry is here. If you enjoyed it and would like to see me write more, please vote.

Thanks!

I don't know what you want from me.
I don't know why you keep coming after me.
How many times do I have to tell you?

I've tried being civil. Really, I have. You can't deny that. I can count on all my fingers how many times I've sat here bobble-headed, a big grin plastered on my face, just listening to you. I'm at the point where I could probably parrot your words. Do you realize that? Parrot your words. I don't know about you, but if somebody said that to me, it'd make me think TWICE about what I was saying and TO WHOM I was speaking.

No, don't turn away from me like that. SIT HERE AND LISTEN. Because that's what I've been doing with you. Fair is fair.

I know you're pissed off. Now, maybe if I were the fly-off-the-handle sort I'd be blustering FUCK THIS or FUCK THAT or screaming about everything. But I'm not. I'm not going to pretend to be someone I'm not.

And yeah, that really pisses you off, doesn't it? Oh, why doesn't she scream? Why doesn't she bang her head against the wall? Why isn't she as upset as I am?

I'll tell you why.

Because it doesn't matter to me.

There. I've said it.

I DON'T FUCKING CARE.

Oh, sure, NOW you're going to stand up and approach me with your mouth open, words of wisdom ready to spit forth. I know exactly what you're going to say.

No, let me say it. Because I KNOW.

You're going to say, "Someday you'll understand why this is so important. This will affect your future far more than you now realize. Blah blah blah."

Oh please. That's what you were going to say. That's what you ALWAYS say.

I don't give two shits about this so-called future right now.

Want to know why? BECAUSE IT'S IN THE FUTURE.

Why should I give a shit about the future? IT'S NOT NOW! NOW IS WHAT I GIVE A SHIT ABOUT! NOT TOMORROW, NOT THE NEXT DAY, NOT NEXT WEEK, NOT SIX MONTHS FROM NOW! I GIVE A SHIT ABOUT WHAT'S IN FRONT OF ME RIGHT NOW!

You want to know something?

If it falls directly in my lap, then I'll care.

If it strikes me in the face like a tire iron, then I'll care.

If it directly affects someone I care about, then I'll care.

Other than that, I DON'T GIVE A SHIT.

Because, you see, it doesn't directly affect me.

WHY CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?

In the still harsh light of the slick-floored hallway I hear her sobs coming from two doors down from my room. They roused me from my half-sleep; I spit tendrils of hair from my mouth as I pad toward her door, making sure to stay in the middle of the hallway just in case somebody sees me.

I don't know if she can see me or not as I approach her half-open door. I flicker a glance, noticing her form huddled on her bed. Her head is under the blankets. She takes a deep teary breath and muffles another sob.

She is hooked to an IV pole. She is also attached to a machine on the nightstand that blinks a small red light. There's a johnny balled and thrown on the chair at the foot of the bed.

I don't come closer because I'm suddenly tongue-tied. Do I break the unspoken code that patients not visit each other, especially in the middle of the night? What if a nurse sees me?

She muffles another sob. I bite my lip. Maybe she'll sense somebody's here.

She never peeks from the blankets. The red light stops blinking and a two-tone chime echoes from the machine. I hear a chair scraping over at the nurse's station, so I turn back toward my room, my eyes noticing the ever-so-slight scratchy pattern on the linoleum.

***

There are people surrounding her come morning. An older couple. A younger man, perhaps college-age. A middle-aged woman who spends most of the time pacing by the window whispering on a cell phone. My nurse, as well as several other nurses, bustle in and out.

As I wander from room to kitchenette to solarium and back I notice the door has been pushed back. The girl now lies on her back, her long taffy-colored hair fanned across the pillows. She is very pale and doesn't utter a sound. When the chimes go off a nurse goes in with a small tray of different sized pills. Around lunchtime white-clad residents enter and leave.

The younger man comes into the solarium some time later. He is very tall and thin with that rumply boyish look that makes you think more of brother than boyfriend. We glance at each other.

"Are you watching that?" he asks, motioning to the TV.

I shake my head. "You can change it if you want."

He doesn't reply. Instead he wanders toward the far window and gazes out past the parking garage to the street beyond.

"Is she OK?" I whisper.

He looks at me, then down at the floor, then over toward the room.

***

I see my door automatically shutting as I look up from my magazine a couple of hours later. I leap from the chair and try to pull it back open, bracing its corner with first my knee, then my leg.

It's silly, of course. All the doors are recessed enough so that you can't just peek around the corner -- you have to actually step out, then peek around. Which is what I do, while holding the door open with my outstretched foot.

All the other doors are closed.

The family huddles in the hallway, the young man towering over them. His back is turned from me. The older man speaks to the distinguished-looking doctor who conducts grand rounds. The doctor leads them away from the room out toward the elevators.

As soon as they round the corner two nurses come from the nurses' station. One of them spots me and waves me back into my room.

Oh.

OHHHHHH.

***

I didn't ask about her later. None of the nurses said anything, but I expected that.

That night I couldn't sleep because I could still hear her sobbing.

KIZZY (a female online name): the dizzying maelstrom of a LJ personage and Idol veteran who inundates her FL whenever she's off from work while trying to be amusing at the same time. She's sweet, silly, and sometimes quite perceptive. Plus you'll never starve in her presence.

She is a proud native of Red Sox Nation but will acknowledge the Yankees with grimacing grace because her father was from NY.

She is The Queen Of Weird Body Quirks. No, everyday sniffles and injuries are too pedestrian -- if and when she does fall ill, it's always from the Huh?!? Realm (e.g., see "thyroid complication - Kizzy")

She has a penchant for colored pens, glittery nail polish on her toes, changing her LJ layout on a whim, bad puns, and making strange faces when concentrating.

Her ongoing sagas include grieving her mother's death, the trials and joys of marriage, and answering to the two canine familiaris residing on her bed.

Kizzy answers to the artistic. Light, color, sounds, and words flow through her being at all hours of the day. Sometimes they make sense. Other times she'll just lean back and enjoy the ride.

A baker by profession, Kizzy also suffers from chronic sleeplessness and a hardcore chocolate addiction.

This is by no means an exhaustive definition. To learn more, you must stay tuned...