Oldies but Goodies

I found my old profile(s) on fictionpress.com, and wow…there are some gems, but mostly it’s all just good old fashioned teenage angst posted there. But I kind of like it. It tells a story. So I’m going to share it all here — the good, bad and ugly. Whenever I’m feeling guilty for not posting anything in a while, or that writer’s block will be the end of me, I’ll just post some oldies but goodies.

Here’s a favorite…

Melancholy

She was always thinking of that limit in the sky
Wondering why the one who set it only dared to go that high
She wondered if a human soul can outgrow its mortal shape
As she outgrew the threadbare life all others hoped to make
How relentless were these hungry thoughts chewing on her mind
Evolving into ardent dreams that consumed her every night
She dreamt the clouds were packaging and the world was a box
And heaven was a blanket that lay across the top
She dreamt she had the strength to break out of her confines
But as she opened up the box the blanket fell aside
And there was another limit at the edge of heaven lay
Beyond that there was nothing but hills of empty space
The starred pattern on the blanket said she could finally rest
That the warmth and bliss of heaven would end her daunting quest
Instead of lying down to sleep the dream ended and she woke
She raised her head up high and to God in heaven spoke
“The happiness of heaven may be more than I have known
But how can you offer paradise that’s less than what I own?”
Dejectedly she decided that her dreaming days were through
Not knowing that God in heaven was once a dreamer too

This is really about me wanting to be a Sailor Senshi or another such superhero…which at the time was the only way I thought my life would have meaning. I thought there had to be a bigger picture and that I should be an essential piece. I was also struggling with whether or not there is a God, or heaven and hell. I submitted this poem for competition in college and got an honorable mention, I think. It’s cute and I like it, even if it is a little “melancholy.”

And for fun, here’s a really corny, bad poem that I remember being better than it is.

Written

There’s a sentence on her countenance that remains incomplete
While dressed in that pretty paperback hiding a novel underneath
With a scant summary printed in the perfume on her wrists
The grammar is in her smile, the words glitter on her lips
Spelled by hands in conversation, then published in her eyes
In a lovely cursive hand still wet with ink of light
At night I duly worship the author of her skin
And ugly bookmark reaching for every secret there within
And the hours I’ve spent plagiarizing to honor her in rhyme
Compared with such perfect sources seems hardly worth the time

I really wanted someone to write a romantic poem for me, so I just up and did it myself. Think I could have beat the horse any deader with the metaphors? Jeez…

One more — an angry open letter.

Garbage

There are some things that were meant to be
And I guess this isn’t it
How could it take me all these years
To get sick of all  your shit?
Too bad your IQ could not keep up
With all your fucking lies
So here’s the end
Fuck you then
I’m done wasting all my time
I can’t help you one bit if you don’t want to help yourself
And why should I try for you if you won’t try for me?
Having friends should never have been hazardous to my health
And this, the poem I wrote for you, is the one you’ll never read
Too much of my life has been thrown away for you
I hope you know the rest of the world is sick of your garbage too
I pray someday you’ll finally catch a fucking clue
But who knows? You’re pretty thick
It still hasn’t clicked that I’m fucking pissed at you

HAHAHA! I love this. It’s so basic and fun. I don’t even remember who it was about. I guess that goes to show you that the small things really are just small things…

That’s all for now, folks!

 

 

Besides which you see…

I don’t know whether things have been busy or if I have just been uninspired, but the result is the same…no art, no writing, no blogging. And yet I have been in a good place. Money stinks, but my happiness is invaluable…and through the wonders of modern medicine and my loving husband’s support, I feel like I’ve become a happy, well-adjusted adult capable of participating in society. (Knock on wood.)

Anyway, you may remember me bitching and complaining about not being a part of a local theater production of The Sound of Music. True to life and the phrase “you can’t always get what you want (you get what you need),” I was cast in another production that I’ve become exceedingly excited about…Kiss me Kate! So I’m not sure as to my free time in the upcoming weeks. Thankfully I don’t run a popular blog… ^_~

In this particular production I get to star opposite said loving husband, which is about the coolest thing in the world. Stage magic is the best, and being able to share that with the person you love is really special…as well as stressful. Our lives have been consumed with lines, music, blocking and choreography. I wake up at night with songs stuck in my head, and at any given moment I am muttering my character’s dialogue. My commuting concerts in the car have turned into mini rehearsals.
But I am not complaining. Like I said, it’s the coolest thing in the world. But I am struggling with confidence. Confidence is this sexy, desirable trait…so naturally it’s one that I find elusive. Can obsessive compulsive and awkward be the new confident in 2017, please? Or do I really have to make a resolution to be more confident…? Is such a thing possible?

My Favorite Things

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This doodle might grow up and be a painting, but we can’t really know for sure until it does evolve (ha, Pokemon joke!) And it’s a selfish, completely ME sort of work…

No really, it’s a few of my favorite things.

This has been a shitty year. Right now I am literally dealing with a post surgery wound, a still fresh mental diagnosis, a bite plate (see also: giant hunk of plastic in one’s face), 40 extra pounds, a creativity crisis AND I’m going to turn 30 any day now (see also: April 10th). There’s also a rash somewhere we won’t talk about. All this coming off the heels of leaving a really glamorous, high paying job to a safe, Anne Hathaway at the start of Devil Wears Prada sort of position that I love but doesn’t pay my exuberant credit card bills. And then I find out the local theater is doing my favorite musical and due to all this and more (see also: not skinny or blonde or young enough), I won’t be a part of it.

It’s the Sound of freaking Music. And as I was stewing in all this, wondering why I like the simple, outdated, cliche…totally nostalgic, heartfelt show so much, dwelling on how I can’t be a part of it and that sucks, blah blah blah and it occurs to me… There’s a song in there that I know SO well…and duh. This is exactly what it’s for. (Cue corny musical chord.) Now I don’t know about schnitzel with noodles, but I do know that owls and watermelon and mushrooms and wine and Jason and nail polish and Pikachu and so on are my favorite things.

So the plan is to paint this, maybe in a classier color scheme and certainly with more saturation. If I can’t sing it I’ll paint it and… And then I (hopefully) don’t feel so bad.

some kind of madness

Dear Coleymojo,

I’m sorry it has taken me 20 years to write you…but I only just now realized. Today is the worst day of your life. I don’t know how to sugarcoat it for you…but think of it this way. It’s over. You did it. And I can promise you that you live to be 29 at least (I know how much you worry about dying), so there’s that. Unfortunately a lot of bad things will continue to happen to you, and all around you, and you will have many, many more bad days. But this is the very most anyone or anything can ever hurt you again. It will take you 20 years to heal from it, and the scar may be there forever. But it’s true what they say. In time, it will get better.

So here’s the hard part. No, she doesn’t love you like you love her. No, you won’t be together forever. And all of the dreams that you two shared, yes, she took them with her. Neither of you will end up where you expect, but she will come close. Closer than you. But I’m not telling you any of this to hurt you — no one knows better than I do just how much hearing that hurts. But it’s true. And you know what?

It’s okay.

Reread that a thousand times if you need to, because it’s 100% true. You two always had different paths and this was the first big step in your new direction. So you have a choice. You can watch her and hers every step of the way and get jealous, bitter, and resentful…from now until whenever it takes you to stop caring — and it WILL happen, so discreetly one day that you won’t even be able to pinpoint when. Or you can believe me right now when I say that you, Coleymojo…you. are. amazing. all on your own and you don’t need her. You don’t need to care one little bit about what she’s doing, who she’s doing it with, where she goes, what she does…nothing. What you two had and shared was very special, and everyone knew it. But YOU were exactly 1/2 of what made that relationship so special. It wasn’t just Ranma.

Look, you two may have a lot in common, but that doesn’t make you the same. Don’t think for one more day that you have to be like her, or anyone else for that matter. And when it seems like things are so much easier for her and for others, know that you’re right. It is. You were dealt a rough hand, and you get through it and you make it out ahead, girl, by leaps and bounds. And your future self is so loved and admired by so many people. But you won’t believe any of them if you can’t let her go.

I know you’re lonely — but there are people you haven’t met yet who will fill your heart up again. I know you’re afraid that you will never be able to do the things you girls planned together on your own. Well, you could if you wanted to, but you will change your mind a million times about just what you want to do in life and at some point you will realize what I’m beginning to…that life isn’t really about those big, important moments that are awarded trophies and accolades and applause. It’s a lot of quiet, private things that will make you happy one day…just like you had with her, but bigger and better and for REAL.

For real, for real. I know how you need to hear that.

I love you. A lot of people do. More and more will come to you when others leave. Sometimes you will leave them. But right now you are learning how the process works for the first time, and you won’t like to hear this, but you don’t know everything. Listen to them.

Listen to me.

XOXO

Coleymojo 2.0

 

Where Did All the Flowers Go?

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1970 Poplar Drive. 3 Bedroom, 2 bath, fenced back yard.

My childhood home was available for rent. As soon as I saw the listing, I immediately fell in love with the idea of moving in. It was just the kind of quirky thing you’d see in a Netflix original series (starring Zooey Deschanel, of course). I could already see myself painting the walls that I scribbled on with crayon over 20 years earlier. I would be able to climb the same steps up to the roof to watch fireworks, and now I wouldn’t need to wait for Mom or Dad to supervise my ascent. I thought of the marathon showers I took listening to Celine Dion’s “It’s All Coming Back to Me” on Repeat. Each cupboard that I stuffed myself into playing hide-and-seek with my brother and sister. The front window with the reflective glass that birds would fly into and die…just like so many of my own hopes and dreams as I waited for familiar cars to appear on the road heading toward our driveway…

Bittersweet. But as my husband and I (drunkenly) agreed just a few nights ago, melancholy doesn’t have to be sad experience. There’s awe and wonder in even the darkest parts of our lives, and I felt it all as I read and reread 1970 Poplar Drive. Nineteen Seventy Poplar Drive. It has a nice cadence to it that my mom would chant rhythmically so as small children we knew our address like a song.

That was it. I simply HAD to call and schedule a walk through. I didn’t even discuss it with aformentioned husband first. Hell, we hadn’t talked about moving with any kind of seriousness either. You see, I’m always looking at ads for things, measuring the possibilities — mostly just daydreaming. But I couldn’t let this pass me by. It seemed like a sign. Providence. Divine Intervention. Something bigger than me that I had to trust and follow through. I’ve felt this way before, and I would venture to guess that we all have.

I also remember the first time I ever felt it…at 1970 Poplar Drive.

Now, I’m not the kind of person who can perfectly recall a memory and write a detailed, accurate memoir. I tend to remember feelings more vividly than the circumstances surrounding them. So unfortunately I can’t tell you how old I was, what I was wearing, or what I had done that day…but I do know that it was dusk. I know it  because I loved that time of day: a sky full of color, cool air and long, interesting shadows to explore. I spent a lot of time outside by myself at whatever age this was, revelling in the magic all around me. I loved running on the funny green rocks we had. You don’t find too many lawns in this part of Arizona, only landscapes with rocks of specific sizes and coordinating colors…but our painted green rocks were unusual. They were also glued down or something (don’t ask me, I really couldn’t explain), so they felt more like a paved path than a yard full of gravel. I liked that. It was my own yellow brick road but my favorite color instead, and it led wherever I wanted it to go…

Most fascinating of all was the tree. Google tells me that it was probably an Acacia tree, but this was in early 1990-somethings, so there was no Google at that time to give me the first clue about it. Then again, I didn’t much care about it’s name or where it came from. To me it was one of a kind; and the weird, fuzzy, yellow balls that it grew and shed were the greatest toys (and friends) I could have ever asked for. I gathered them, rolled them around in my fingers and smelled their fresh perfume until that delicate yellow fur wilted…then I’d squish them and rub the debris into my skin like lotion. Sometimes I tore the ball off of the little cherry-like stem and played with them like marbles, or put on real-life Pacman reenactments. Other times I would just toss them around the yard like Johnny Appleseed or something. They didn’t last long, being so light and delicate. And often they weren’t around at all because the fickle, prickly tree wouldn’t bloom on anyone’s schedule but it’s own. When they were out though, it was either the wind or little Coleymojo devouring them.

Those strange flowers were my favorite fucking thing in the whole wide world. I can still feel love for them inside of me as I write this.

Well, it was on this nonspecific day that I chose to gather quite the load of perfect yellow flowers. It took a lot of discipline not to pop off the stems or squish the balls to get to the pulp inside, harder even than not eating all of my Halloween candy in one sitting. But I did it, because for once there was no wind in our perpetually windy town and I thought it might be exciting to see such a big pile of my little friends all in one place. And it was! I built the most glorious pyramid right in the middle of our driveway, right up until the moment that my mom decided it was getting too dark for me to stay outside…

Then I panicked. What the heck was I supposed to do with them now? Today I guess a kid would snap a picture with their phone and call it good, but I had no such opportunity. I couldn’t bring them inside with me because my parents wouldn’t appreciate it, and they were no fun after they dried up anyway… All I could think was that I couldn’t just abandon them there because my dad might run them over on his way to work the next morning. For whatever reason that thought devastated me. (Nevermind that I myself squashed them to smithereens with immense satisfaction on a regular basis…)

I suddenly decided to give them to God. I want to tell you that the idea came from some deeply loving, charitable place inside of me that was awakened after a Sunday School lesson. But no, I haven’t any clue where I came up with it. And I wasn’t a particularly giving child — if my brother came out wanting those flowers I would have lost my shit on him. I do remember that it was the fatherly, white robed, long haired, smiling God that perhaps all children think of that I was talking to when I said, “God, these are for you.” And I scooped them all up and put them on top of my dad’s pickip truck. It was as close as I could get them to where I supposed that God lived: in the sky. And why not? It’s the biggest, most beautiful thing that most of us ever get to see. If I was God, that’s where I would live.

I was pretty satisfied with my solution, which is why when I got to the door I wanted to look back at my handiwork. And when I did, they were gone. Had the wind picked back up, I wondered? I ran around the truck, searching for my treasures… Nothing. I looked all over the green paths of the front yard, up and down the street and even back to the tree itself, hunting for some sign of them.

They were GONE. It was one of the most special, miraculous things that has ever happened to me. I recognize that only now, because back then I was so certain about things like God and magic and kingdoms in the sky that my only surprise was that it happened so fast. I was thinking that, like the tooth fairy and Santa Claus, the exchange would occur overnight once I was sleeping. But it was so easy for me to believe that God reached out and took my gift, and that perhaps with him they would stay yellow and fluffy forever. It was such a simple, obvious thing that I didn’t tell anyone about it until much later in life, and never with as much thought and attention as I am writing now.

When my husband and I pulled up to 1970 Poplar Drive, it was understandably changed. There were no green rocks. That would be an eyesore to potential tenants. There was no tree. It probably died as fauna tends to out here in our 120 degree summers. The bathrooms were too small and dated. The dining room wall had been painted the most awful shade of red, like cheap lipstick on a pale face. And so on and so forth. I mean, I found some joy in the nostalgia and seeing all the old nooks and crannies, of course. But I think that I was looking for magic…and, just like those yellow flowers, it was gone. Maybe it left years ago when we moved out. Or maybe it was inside of ME the entire time, not the house or the yard or the tree.

I don’t know. I paid $30 for a rental application that I never turned in because I realized I didn’t want to be Zooey Deschanel and rent my childhood home. The whole impromptu adventure was just a familiar question reaching out to me in a new, interesting way. A question that I had lost the answer to…

Where did all the flowers go?

I ask it every time it gets difficult to believe in God, or magic, or love. I ask it anytime I feel lost and afraid. Mind you, I’ve scrutinized the memory with the critical mind of an adult who knows that memories are slippery, wispy things that can change and fade and disappear without any documentation, evidence, or sign that they ever existed in the first place. And so I can’t tell you or even myself where the flowers went, whether to God or a neighbor’s yard or outer space, because I can’t go back and send the FBI out to search Poplar Drive or Mariposa Drive or the whole of Lake Havasu City, Arizona. And it wouldn’t matter anyway, because the important thing is and always was that little however-old Coleymojo believed with her whole heart that a Heavenly Father accepted her gift and would keep the flowers safe. The question of where they went wasn’t created until the world taught me that I should wonder and be skeptical.

So this is the part where I give you my grand epiphany. And I’m sorry to disappoint us both, but there isn’t one. All I’ve got is this… Once upon a time there was a little girl who gave flowers to God, and to the best of her knowledge He accepted them. And I can ask a hundred people, including myself, whether or not God really has them and where else they might have went. But if I were to ask the one person who was there? The one person who I already told you knew for absolute certain?

That’s as good and complete of an answer as anyone could ever give me.