Rolling My Eyes

We watch the news and she laughs about the wars. They ways by which we legally and morally kill each other Everyday. Cleverly, she says inappropriate things to catch me off-guard. She likes to watch the shock on my face; I know it, but it comes out anyway. I gape. And then she'll laugh at me, and I know she does not really mean it-but sometimes I am certain she's evil. She goes to work early just to brew a fresh pot of coffee for the early newspaper readers. There is only 6 of them these days. All of them are older than 50. This should make her sad, but the younger people come in during the evenings to sit with the 6 computers. As she wonders around her library, she sees them studying. They add her to Facebook. Two or three, sometimes ten, one time 300, each month. People she doesn't know. She adds the tally up inside her head. 1029, 1030, 1031. Sometimes she looks at their profile. Sometimes she thinks she would like some of these people; she thinks about adding the...

There just wasn't any reason to hold him longer, so Tommy was released from the jail two days short from the end of October. The skies threatened rain, but the sun, a bright orb, was up for the battle against the steely grey. Tommy was waiting outside of the gates smoking the cigarette the lady guard, Bonnie, had palmed him on his way out. 'Fuck, kid, calm down. Most kids are excited to be leaving here.' She shook her head at him. Poor fucking kid. Tommy didn't really want to leave the jail. He liked it there. At least better than home. In jail, he had food every day and his body felt good. There was lots of time to think in jail and that was good too. He wanted a different future, one that didn't include Momma. "Thanks for coming to get me, Momma", he still said, When she pulled herself out of the backseat of the taxi. She fussed with her hair; a brighter blonde than he had seen on her before. "What a bunch of bastards, Tommy," she decla...

She doesn't know what to do. She doesn't expect this at all. She wants to cry out, instead she chokes on the heart in her throat. The very worst and the best in her life have always happened together. She remembers it all. The fear. The anxiety. Wanting to vomit from something she could not yet describe, and from the snot. And then there is Johnny at her window. He would have been 13 years old then, and she had to have been just turning four, her birthday in late spring and she is wearing her Tuesday panties and she is warm; she remembers her hair slicked to her forehead. Sweat. Or maybe it is more blood. God is punishing her for being disrepectful to thou parents. Because she dropped her glass and broke it. Because she told her mother what to do. 'Stop yelling at me!'. And as she cried, she wondered why Mother was not going to bed right now too. And she knows god wants you to cause no one harm. And Samatha's mother had throw the butterknife at her and t...

It would be me who cannot follow the simple Blogger templates and screw it all up, despite the fact they practically do everything for you. I fixed the white links by repeatedly copying and pasting and retyping the very basic html code I learned years ago. From a boy. Who used to fix shit like this. And when I look over on his site, I see he is under construction and having issues with blogrolls too. The difference is that his template is so much more advanced than mine (not that I want mine to look advanced; I like it plain), but I know he will fully fix his someday--he is smart like that (despite the fact he is American). Me: Well, I will just keep banging my head and trying to steal design off blogs I like and never get it right. And when I am fully sick and tired of doing that, maybe I will post something worthwhile.

Why are some of my links along my sidebar in f-ing white? Sigh. This makes me unhappy. I am going to bed.

Have you ever had that feeling, the one where you tell everyone that your real ambition is to write, when really all you do is read what other people write?

It was her first day in town. Chewing on a fresh stick of gum, she was looking up and down the street; eyes sliding over the bustle of sweat and sin. 'Little girl lost?' I asked. And she sighed. I would say to her over and over again on that first day,'Laugh with me, Jenny," And sometimes she would. Especially when I made my funny faces at her. She would try not to; she would just roll her eyes at me, but that smile would come. White teeth and soft lips. And then she would laugh and laugh and laugh, until her body shook and her hair was covered her eyes. And I would want to kiss her and kiss her and kiss her... But I dared not try. I took her to see the kittens down at Paul's pet store. She held them close to her, rubbing them with her face, but she fancied the talking bird more. He said, "Hi, beautiful," when he saw her. Really, to any woman walking by, but she did not know. I took her down to see Bruno and his lunch-time sound; strumming his guitar an...

Perhaps I will just ignore my Dashboard for awhile longer. Blat on about my days or nights. I used to do that here too. Get used to the feel of the keyboard under my fingers again. You know, write more than the 140 character twit. It's not that I am empty. Just dissatisfied. And then, not even with everything. There is joy in my life. And it is springtime in Canada. Always a good time for new beginnings.

It's rarely quiet in my home these days. Even now as 2 am closes in around me the television blats in the background; more of William and Kate. I should be in bed. Children always wake early on a Sunday. Why is that? I remember sunny days and being out the door by 7 o'clock myself. The new dew soaking my sneakers, the cool breeze of early light. Life used to be more than about the Everyday. More than going through the motions of the mudane tasks. It used to be about more than just breathing. It was just a few years ago when the police officer pulled over Charlie and I on one of our middle of the night drives thinking he was a dirty old man with a teenager in the car. Now I look in the mirror of my 33 year old self knowing rationally that I am not all that old, but I can see the subtle changes in my features. I am aging. Somedays it consumes me. Enough Somedays that it is becoming the mundane too. I used to think I could live on into the immortal with my words. One ...

I have no idea what this blog will be turned into over the next little while. No idea if I can go back to creating the worlds of long ago. Or if I am capable of creating new ones. Sometimes life happens and you forget.

Mother complained, “When are you coming home?” And Father complained too. “The only part of Canada without decent skiing. Your mother is driving me nuts.” “My parents are dead,” she told him, serenely, as though thanking God. He constantly wanted to brush her hair out of her face, but she would fuss, even swear at him when he tried. “Please, don’t.” “Will you fucking stop?” But he would forget so easily, maybe on purpose, he was always just wishing to see her face, to see her burning eyes staring back into his. She found it rude to stare. She told him so. She liked to sneak glances at people who were unaware of her. Or at least unaware of her eyes on them, her hanging limp hair serving a purpose. He was in love with her. He told her all the time. But she saw it in his eyes, his movements, heard it in his voice and his everyday words, felt his actions, those of concern and care. She could see and recognize and accept his feelings. She could not be sure she felt the same. Of...

"I have let down the blood in several places, and applied the dressings to the wounds. Keep them in place for an hour. He will be comfortable now, but he will not last the night." He touched her shoulder briefly, as he continued shuffling down the great hall, letting himself out. She rushed to the windows and looked into the early evening light. Something was so good about these lands. Something so good, it overwhelmed her sometimes. Made her sick to her stomach. And they are to be mine now.... . She didn't want them. Of course she didn’t. She was only seventeen, and she had never left the walls of Caerleon. She wanted to rebel, to be free. She had wept on her father's chest for the last three nights in a row, but not for his coming death. "Find a husband," he had croaked out his solution, while he smoothed her hair away from her face. She had almost left Caerleon once. When the dark-haired stranger had shown up in town. He had slept with the horses l...

If she wanted it that way, then it was going to be that way. It had to be that way. There was no other way. Everything was black and white. Even if others did not want to admit it. Did it mean she felt an overall bleakness towards the foibles of humanity--no. Did it mean she escaped overwhelming emptiness sometimes--no. She was twenty-three years old when she left her hometown. She would not return. She knew she looked at everyone differently; she saw the things others did not, chose not. She knew their truths better than they did and they could read it on her face; she could hurt them with it. Sometimes, she did. She did not want to be cruel anymore. She left for somewhere new. Things would be better. And they were. In Los Angeles. That's where she went. Some nights she would dance in her living room to ZZ Top or paint pictures of fairies and Snow White on the cardboard of cereal and Hamburger Helper boxes. When it rained, she would put on blue jeans and her favorite sw...

For the rest of the week, Edward Julian Watson did not take phone calls from Amy, and Becki did not make phone calls to him. Edward Julian Watson avoided as many phone calls as he could from his mother. But he knew he could not let that go on forever. He would have to call her tomorrow. Or his mother might get back on the plane. And then get to his apartment and have the landlord let her inside. "Well, I see you're not dead!" she had accused him. And then she had stayed with him for the next three days and nights and had slept in his bed. And he knew he would have to get a new one after she left or he knew he would never be able to have sex in his room again. When his mother was back home, Edward Julian Watson decided to switch bedrooms too. Just in case. He did not want to go through that again. He did not feel like moving entirely. Yes, Edward Julian Watson would call his mother tomorrow. But today he was going to call Amy. "I was back home at my mothe...

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. When Daddy came home drunk again on Friday night, she waited in the kitchen playing Solitaire, until she could hear him snoring. Creeping through the house and then into her parent's bedroom, Minnie knew she would find her father's pants on the floor beside the bed. The glow from the hallway bathroom provided the light for seeing into her his wallet. Shit. There were no tens. Oh, well. She took a twenty. When Tommy saw Minnie on the other side of the glass, his heart leapt into his throat and he was so happy he wanted to cry. He put his hand on the glass and waited for her to put her hand up against his, and when she did not, he sat down. He picked-up the phone and said to her, "Why haven't you come? Have you been getting my letters?" She shrugged. Brushed her hair from her eyes and for the first time really looked into his. "Oh, Minnie. I'm so glad you're here..."...

Punks Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. But stoned or not; even asleep, Tommy's words would come back to haunt her. Dear Minnie, How could you leave me here to rot? How could you not come see me? You must think I did it too. Well, fuck you, Minnie. FUCK YOU!!!!!! Tommy She cried and cried everytime she read the letter; and she could do almost nothing else but. She wanted to go see him, but she was too scared. Climbing through her bedroom window late, Minnie walked the all-night over and over again. And waited for the next visit from Officer Rialian. He stopped by every other day. She did not go to school. She stayed in her room and her mother never came down the stairs to notice. She erased the school's messages from the answering machine every day, before her father came home, until the one day, Daddy stayed home and Minnie had to go prentend going to class. And when she came home Daddy was waiting for her, with an envelope in hi...

Dear Minnie, You didn't come. I wonder why. Maybe because you thought I was going to get out on Tuesday anyway. Is your Mom sick again? I guess by now you know I didn't get out. The judge did't show-up for court and the other one was on vacation or something. My lawyer was freaking mad. He was jumping up and down and stuff. He said "We'll get those fuckers! We're gonna fucking sue!" He's a crazy guy. He gets so excited I swear he is gonna have a heart attack. But he also says for sure I will get out for Monday. They only have proof I was drunk. I want you to come see me on Saturday even though I am getting out on Monday--no matter what. Promise? The guys are cool here and all but I really want to see someone from home. I want to see you. Did you go to the funeral? Love, Tommy

And now it's thirty years later; she's almost 40 and she is lonely and sometimes she shakes her head and she wonders, Why, why, why am I so lonely? And then she remembers why. It's Daddy. She buried him five years a go. And good. She showed-up early in the morning and asked the diggers, if she could help. And they let her. She took off her heels and shoveled dirt till the end. Back when the summer shone everyday, she would run around or ride her bike, or swim in the lake with her friends, or run into the bush and meet up with Tyler Johnson and she would let him kiss her and she would let his tongue slide around all inside her mouth, or sometimes, she would just hang-out with her brother. However, he was mean, as brothers can be, and he would do mean things to her- like hold her head under the lake’s water too long or practice his karate moves on her-and she would cry to her Mom, "Make him stop." But she never would. No one ever listened to her. That's wha...

Thursday Afternoon Dear Minnie, I have been here for three full days now. The lawyer says he’ll get me out Monday. He’s a pretty cool guy. He goes on about how the cops are the real rats and they’re all corrupt and he tells me we will nail those bastards to the wall. He makes me laugh. It's fucking great. Most of the time I spend playing cards with some of the guys or drawing tats in my cell here. I have given some of my flash to some of the guys here. A few already have some tattoos. Mostly stuff they have done to themselves here. Mostly without color. Mostly terrible. But that's okay. A whole bunch of the them said they would come see me to have them covered up when I set up shop. If they all show-up, I have figured out I’ll make 6000 dollars so far. That's fucking awesome. I can't wait until I am old enough to apprentice. Birdie says she'll teach me, but she doesn't think I will want to do it for very long. Says I will probably give up. Don't you...

Edward Julian Watson felt numb, his whole body tingled with it. It had been a long, rainy drive home from his mother's house, but he had to get out of there and took the first chance he could. The woman wouldn't shut-up. He knew she was right, this would be in the Monday's afternoon paper. And in Tuesday's too because the did not call his case until the last possible moment the judge was willing to work. Sunday night had been long, lying awake, in his old bedroom with its yellow walls. He had not eaten anything, since shoving his face full of Double Big Macs from McDonalds the evening before, an hour after getting out of jail. And now it was evening again. He made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, and tried to warm the cold numbness of his body. Becki was feeling rather numb too. It was not her mother's mention, during dinner, of, "You look pale tonight, dear. Are you coming down with something?" that made her aware of the numbness she wa...

Daryl wanted to touch Marissa's boobs. “I am gonna have to let him soon,” she told Miguel. “I have been his girlfriend for 2 months now.” Miguel told her, “I think that’s gross.” But Marissa did not care much about what Miguel thought. She stuffed her training bra with socks and she made him lay down on the bed beside her anyway. And he obeyed his older sister because knew she could kick the shit outta him and no one was home to save him. “Touch my boobs,” she demanded. And when he did, his sister started making low moaning sounds. Miguel did not know why she was doing that, but it made his penis hard, and although his penis had been hard lots of times before, this was infinitely more exciting. After that, whenever the parents were not home, it would always be time to ‘practice’. It was not long before Marissa was making him touch and lick her real boobies. It felt good to press himself against her body, while she was writhed her own beneath him. It lasted for half a year, but the...

Sitting in the back of the car, Tommy was sad Barbara would not allow him to get a dog. He had wanted one so bad. For so many years. The world rolled by fast, as Dave drove down country back roads and the fields of corn sure were boring for Tommy. So he asked, "Why are all of us dressed in white?" "It's Sunday; it’s God's Day. White represents the cleanliness that He wants us to live our lives with." "Oh," said Tommy. "And white clothes also keep us cool on terrible days such as today," she continued, and then to her husband, Dave, "If we put the top up, we can put on the air." Dave laughed and reached over to pat her leg, but otherwise, ignored her. "What does the color green mean, Barbara?" Tommy had picked his nose and was looking at a booger. It was too hot in the church, so some of the boys had brought the long wooden pews outside and set them up along the side of the church. Most churches Tommy had been to we...