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The Irony of Loveless

I thought I told you not to ask me twice, because I blush when I can’t recall your birthday, or to ask about how your knee is feeling today, or if you worked out your most recent car issue…
It doesn’t stick and I have never known myself to be less invested in  someone I do care for, and it frightens me about myself- making me like you less.
I can sense your hands extending my way even when they are busy making lumps of your pockets, or interlocked, white-knuckled, behind you. I can feel the buzz of your questions, when your mouth forms a perfect, airtight  line. Your eyes- a welcoming brown and asking of me things that I can’t & won’t promise.

You ask me to be honest so I do and I am, but keep digging you do. You forget my humanity, in beta, treating me as though I tuck a cape secretly into my dresses; forgetting that I can only love you when you are happy in full & not look to me to fulfill this unspoken, expected duty to make flush your holes- pocked with insecurity. You forget how hard it must be for me to tell you constant disheartments, lest you never remembered- let alone realized.

Hurting the kindest person in the room. A bee stinging a bee. Squash blossom strains cross pollinating: creating a mealy, deceptive, lackluster hybrid. A dog, a tail: perpetual circling.

Your accolades stroke me, cocoon me, croon to me, make me sweet on you when you are not light enough to blow off the tower in response to my altered breathing. Your enviable sincerity. In my mirrored comparable to you this would equate to ghost netting/ nothing to show.

But love is it’s own world that hasn’t handle bars; and to grip and grasp- a fruitless way to hang on. Because it all boils down to feeling. Feeling with out the illusion of urgency. Feeling and truth commingling. And the foresight to not fear your intuition.

I disappoint myself in light of you. In your shadow I cannot commit and reciprocate. It’s tragicomedy. To want love so bad/ and be incapable of return. I do love you, but not how I would if I could.

glow hand

Did it!

So here you are. You picked up and you moved. Finally. You finally moved- (Good job.)
Something you’ve been talking about for a thank-goodness-noone’s-counting long of time. Three years? Four? Enough time for change to brew to the point of the bubble over. So you ride out in the cascade, thinking of the times where you were so detached from holds and your spirit was far freer, though before you left, feeling tied-down you did not. You just felt… cozy. Comfy. Copacetic. And it’s those C words that can be dangerous.
Because that’s no place to stand.
So you took off in the name of new C words, like new conquests. Like crazy. Like can’t stop won’t stop. And it can all just be so fun. If only you let it. And if only you can conceive of it. Or perhaps just let. it. go.
So you done gave it all up. The pretty house. The fun & loving social circle. The sweet man. The main income sources. In the name of…?
And you’re not quite sure, when people ask you this every-day-question, of quite how to respond to it. The answer varying, dependent on mood, on weather, on wind velocity, or based upon the most recent strangers’ interaction. All in all it is hardly surmisable.
It is the untouchable. And it takes focus to remember that not all is to come with a black and white outline. And it is to show that sometimes you gotta pull that thread from the old sweater. Perhaps those tired sleeves’ll fall off. Or it’ll just keep going until your left with a new ball of yarn. And you can be kind and donate it to the kitten company, bringing them a smile to wiggle their whiskers. Or you can go yarn-bomb the town.
And that’s California, man. The land of possibility.
The golden state, for it’s expanse, and so-many-subcultures, museums & eateries, everywhere art & art galleries & feral or lawful graffiti, mania, excitement; native pride & alcatraz take over; animal parades & freaky carnivals, pop-up-shows, seedy establishments, fresh-fortune cookies, raw struggle & swollen riches, lawlessness, confusion, and contagion, and on on on.
And ocean.
And green; for dripping night-blooming-datura plants; massive, shedding, fragrant eucalyptus, girthy taproot, secure base; established, luscious thick, envious jades; swishy, flirting-with-blocking-the-moon-palms; nooks and crannies: a dream for sleepy monkeys if only one would escape it’s captivity, or the ideal habitat for weary squatter and mangey pooch.
And brown; for trash upon trash in the city parks, don’t-drop-your-keys-in-the-gutter-because-how-dirty-streets; filthy, creepy alleyways where you must pretend not to have a smart phone or sucker you might be; curbside furniture left for days, covered in soot; mysterious weaves on the ground; white bums with black hands.
You might not have realized how grimy it could be. And how distracting, to boot.
But that’s ok- it’s your renaissance.
On your time. And you made it.
You are in charge of celebrations.

Viva su revolucion!

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instagram.com/mermada_en_piephoto 3photo 5

 

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The more practiced at life you get, the better you know yourself. You know your limits. You know things to do that could make you feel better (nibbling chocolate), good (sipping whiskey), and even great (submitting and going for a run), and conversely you know how to get your panties easily twisted, freak yourself out, and how to board a quick train to Bumsville…. Right? Aka: what to avoid.
For me, I know better than to listen to frightening stories at night, or watch the news too late, or  involve myself in basically anything that is fear based or anxiety inducing. I’ll clench my jaw all night long and wake up nervous, intermittently. I need a fine buffer of sunshine coupled with a generous amount of well-lit hours to help process the shitty feelings, evening them out by when darkness falls. Like a cow with four stomachs, digestion needs its time.

Last night a wonderful terrible thing was brought to my attention. This wonderful terrible thing involves, I warn you: laughing at the expense of others while simultaneously likely losing hope for a significant portion of the American population.
I know- heavy!
This wonderful terrible thing is the stink-fruits of labor of a person from internet-land who compiled an entire tumblr site dedicated to collecting OK Cupid profiles of Juggalos. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term Juggalo, you can go ahead and click on the word and take a trip to the wikipedia link that I provided because I’m fancy, or you can sit tight for my half-assed understanding while I work it out for ya.
My disclaimer before I launch into a description of this underground phenomenot is that I have never been to a Juggalo’s festival, seen the Insane Clown Posse, nor have I ever even met a Juggalo. HOWEVER I am fascinated by all walks of life and such a distinct subculture definitely merits attention. Basically a Juggalo is a dude who paints his face like a scary clown in black and white, listens to the group mentioned above primarily, is generally overweight and dismissive of a healthy life style, generally tattooed, generally white (trash), (just insert generally for the rest of what I say) poor, uneducated, and drinks a lot of Faygo- the band’s brand of soda. Apparently they spray it on their fans during concerts. A Jugalette is a lady Juggalo, also known as a Neden. At the Juggalo gatherings, an annual occurrence, many people trade in their names for their true calling of Juggalo names. For real. They have a lot of their own ((cough cough) mind control) lingo. They say “Woop Woop!” and this often causes girls to show their ninnies. “But Juggalettes ain’t no hoes.” I’m not one to judge someone one their sexual proclivities, that was just a direct quote and I loved it for some reason.

Here are a song for ya. It’s really hard to stop doing the Dougie after. Am I right? Guys?

You can see where that came from in their promo video posted below for their gathering this summer. I really recommend watching it. In spurts.

Learning of the tumblr site spiraled me off into the outer lands of information gathering in order to present a fair piece to you here. I scoured the website of ICP (Insane Clown Posse), as well as tons of splintered youtube footage to learn more of the Jugallo lifestyle and ethos.
The FBI designated Juggalos as “a loosely affiliated, hybrid gang in 2011″. Watching the videos and listening to the rhetoric I would move to say that it’s as much a gang as it could be seen as a cult following situation. After all, the two leaders of ICP are business men, appealing to an under represented drove of people in the Midwest. It promotes violence, drug use, and blatant disrespect towards woman, calling us “bitches” & “hoes” and the usual misogynistic baloney, and as far as I can see- the only positive message that it stands to offer is that they are all one family. The narrative repeated is that they are do-gooders when they are Juggalos and Jugallettes and they are all friends and fam.And it feels nice to fit into something larger. Seriously, I know this. I looked at enough videos now to where I’m no longer the same person from when I started. Eesh. There are all these other bands that have come out like little minions of them, promoting the same speak as their predecessors. Like worker ants. Little followers spreading their scary, misspelled gospel.
Anyway, it calls to the lonely who work minimum wage jobs and live in towns where there’s nothing going on.
I am now extra grateful for where I grew up.

Looking at the OKC pics made me wonder if people dumb themselves down for this. Truly. It didn’t seem cool to spell things correctly, way beyond cheeky abreves. Down with the man and educational pursuits? And it seemed cool to not give a *$^% about your appearance; teeth, weight…
Are all these people really excepted? All I need is a little face paint and a wet T-shirt to find some lovin’?? Well haaay. Maybe it’s not so bad? My yoga membership is expensive!

okcjug1

Imagine if my article helps these angels get laid. I wouldn’t be mad about that. I mean, I still want people to be happy. And use a rubber. Oh God use a rubber.

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Read this article, enjoy it. Watch the videos! It’s a trip. Just don’t do it before bed. Our natural levels of cortisone are down at night and things hurt more.
My mistake.

http://okcupidjuggalos.tumblr.com/

p.s. Gilbert Gottfried will be among their featured comedians at this year’s  gathering.

 

A Good Pour

The kind of rain that made everything a deeper shade of green. A jungle catalyst.

The kind the seemed to pour right directly onto my heart and please my head just so.

On the contrary, the sky had seemed nauseous, welling up and vomiting it’s contents in taunting fits and starts, but my skin- my gracious, valiant, outer layer must’ve been in it’s best filtration mood, because by the time it reached my innards- it was the most beautiful thing. Simply put. And everything glowed.

rainbow

Can I ask you some questions? Would you be so kind as to take a moment to reflect for me? It’s about you. It’s for me… well, for now. But I have ideas OF COURSE. So if you prefer, you can answer anonymously. You can even have my personal email: thelighteningcan@gmail.com and I will respect your privacy when I reiterate. Though, I don’t think you’ll be feeling too exposed when you get right down to it.
I want to know 3 things.

  1. What makes you unique?
  2. What makes you special?
  3. What makes you fortunate?

I have answered these questions with my own brain to provide a template of depth I hope to find, verses some topical answer. Answer in one part, two parts, three parts… whatever. Get loose with it!

Baby L (me)

  1. What makes you unique?

a. Often- I’ll see people that seemed deeply embroiled in a heavy make out session, all intertwined and public. Then upon further inspection it turns out that it is in fact just one, solitary obese person.
b. A new vocabulary word that I have never used before will be on the tip of my brain upon wake, awaiting its debut in my conversations perhaps.
c. I dream about water bodies in some capacity every night.

  1. What makes you special?

I care deeply for justice and work towards it in some way almost every day. I have wired my life around it.

  1. What makes you fortunate?

a. I am fortunate because I have creative, tireless brain that when on the right trajectory has the capacity to produce beeeaaauuuty! And crazy drive. I am constantly getting new, cool ideas for art on a larger scale. I’ve always been dipped in some form of self-expression.
b. Also, I have parents that have been supportive of my zany ways that differ so strongly from their approach at life. We love each other.
c. I have a beautiful house and beautiful friends.
d. I’ve been granted with an overall positive disposition.
e. I consider myself pretty self-aware and am always striving to be my best self.
f. I got rhythm for days and I ain’t afraid of no dancefloor!

So there it is. Spice it up/ break it down. I’m listening. Sock it to me (((please!!)))!

play this

Boom Trigger Lady

Her favorite name for candy was Starburst.

Her favorite name for a recycling company that she had recently taken notice of was Cloudburst.

These expulsions. They could almost bring her to her knees. Drive away the demons. These slightest of suggestions.

Those were the days where everything had meaning. Lights turning green were indicative. If a dog barked twice. For a tangerine peel to come off, maintained in one connected piece without coming undone beneath her fingers. If the penny tossed while feeding the meter turned up on tails. Everything told something.

Everyday she wore items that fit the same description. Khaki shorts, tie died shirt of some sort, gauzy white scarf. A purposeful precaution should she turn up missing, she’d be easy to describe. Her fears over-arching, ever present. That head of hers; full of responsibility. Filled with thoughts in shapes of slippery cold poles so hard to hold with a brain like greased palms. Thin veil between psychedelic induced psychosis and one perhaps slipped into her drink. So suspicious. She could be found on the beach, laying in a tangle, trying to distinguish between which kind.

Luckily there were the calming elements. It could be sourced from a passing truck with the simplest of messages. Or the cold awake wide open feel of ocean. Ocean. Ocean. It’s own sentence. Paragraph. Novel. Her biggest self. It tousled and it soothed. And snails. How she loved them. The time they took. The swirl continuum. The iridescent remnants. Did they have a destination, or did they just go for it? A model, indeed. Be more like the snail- she would breathe this into the bottom of her belly. Someone had to own the mantra. Be more like the snail. Time is on my side. Even if this was said in rushed fashion it provided a balloon’s weight of worth off her back. She had these things. Palms unneeded. It could be nice.

This woman was the first person to be recognizable in containing a purposeful aimlessness. What an achievement. Her town’s people thought she a gentle kook. All weary smiles. She knew they knew of the springboard that lay within. Of this she was sure. Unhingable at any moment sans notice.
But what are their skeletons? She wondered often.
A good question, though not everyone’s dance like hers.

A doe-eyed doctor once told her to give up the sauce. She had taken to drinking spirits because of the name implication. The potentiality of unknown company. Another soother. Absinthe was a no-go, of course. Too close. Too witchy. She knew the limits. But challenge herself she did, and lessen her mania she had, when it came to cutting back on such a vice. Good job good job, said the voices from her sidelines, despite her bag being no stranger to a buttery cognac. Remy Martin just sounded like such a protector.

The sound of things. Eyes being the first line of defense, only once approved would her mouth take it on.  No sense in tempting fate.
Explosions always on the horizon, lest they be unuttered and ignored.
Only a sunburst could make way.

bernal

Tell for Today

I like the stories that tell of cotton trees. With free balloons’ held temporarily in branches. Where a kid cries below because their favorite yellow floated off too far. Where the breeze smells like a feeling. And feelings trigger childhood memories and swampy geese that push through thick algae, and fat locusts that blindly buzz. Where little boys did unspeakable things to lightening bugs and little girls protested. Where the lightening bugs were a plenty. Where lightening bugs called in the dusk. Where the dusk was met by the tippiest-tips of the willow trees, tickling the new-now shade sky.

I like the stories where strangers stand pigeon toed, unaware of spectators. Where their petticoats carry a mystery-feather from someone else’s journey. Where their shoes aren’t as shiny as they imagined them to be. Where they are perfectly imperfect. Where they can be used as innocent templates to ad-lib, never knowing their role in a passerbye’s made-up-tale.

The stories where markers squeak across train cars windows and lovers names are written up and crossed out with dizzying repetition, and for-a-good-times’ are scrolled liberally. Where teens smoke angel dust between the cabooses and get hyped on the Beasties. Get hyped on tunnel wonderment. Get hyped on honeys’ hi-tops.

I like stories where people make metaphors out of toast, or the common area, time travel, violins, or maybe the color grey. Stories full of description dripping. The ones bordering tangibility. Where the writer held nothing back. Where transparency is the best; the only choice.

The stories where I am surprise-kissed in the rain, in the middle of some city park while we casually walk through.

The stories that spark late night scramble drawings. Where palms get inky and paper, promised to words. Tattooed to its’ truth.

Can I ask for your allness? Is too soon such a thing? If I died tomorrow it would be a shame. So speak please, like wild horses. Free. Like a passing condor. With white magic. Not like a stegosaurus. No. Don’t be too late.

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