The Battle at Marathon

The Battle at Marathon

I stumble along Pepto walls

drunken

colliding with

ambitious blue collar workers while

fluffy obstacles

protruding from a

cellar act as

magnets for the weary.

My head spins in

a maze as the trumpet

seduces

a Varsity army.

Olympic gold

I race.

Vulgar swimmers compete

along the milky way

to claim a

totipotent monarchy.

Winner take all

I lock the vault.

In three weeks you’ll

wake up with

morning sickness.

Tornadoes and Thoughts on Michael Jackson

I dreamed I was riding in my grandparents' van with my dad's mother -- you know the type I'm talking about. Those pointed nose vans that remind you of aired out metal sharks. That kind. Grandma and I aren't that close, we're just riding together in awkward silence. I sit shotgun. We're near the home I grew up in. The house I look at now and swear it should have been condemned. The creek water rises and spills into Lewis road like it does this time every year. Everything is beginning to flood and I feel as though we are in a monsoon. The day is dark. But Grandma keeps driving. Emotionless. And without speaking a word. It is when I spot a growing image in the side mirror. A black funnel follows us. Grandma pulls the van to the side of the road near some trees whose limbs are being ripped from unstable trunks. Grandma continues to look forward; everything is mechanical. Frantic, I brace myself for impact as the cyclone hurls us into the air. We spin. Spin. Spin. Spin. The van lands hard into the spewing creek. It is not until I see blood on the cracked windshield that I realize we've landed upside down and I've gashed my head. Water begins to pour into the van's chamber. I cannot swim. I'm trapped.

And then, I wake up.

Although I had this dream a couple of weeks ago, it still haunts me. Waking up this way instantly makes a person feel Freudian. I quickly look up the meanings of tornadoes in dreams. "Usually when you have a dream where a tornado swiftly overtakes you, it is the mind's way of expressing chaos in your waking life. If you are feeling overwhelmed, it will often feel like life is spinning out of control, much like a tornado. These feelings will often hide in a dream." And then of course there's this: "Tornadoes may also appear in dreams when it feels like you have no control over a certain situation. These feelings could also be influenced by someone else. For instance, if there is someone close in your life that is prone to mood swings or emotional outbursts, this could be causing you to feel like you have no control." I suppose this makes sense lately -- in fact, it is the only thing that makes sense. This sense of chaos. Because nothing makes sense anymore. Perhaps this is just me joining the real world. Aside from the chaos, nothing makes sense anymore and I go from happy to sad to "I don't give a fuck" in a matter of minutes. Physically, it's making me ill. Psychologically, it sickens me as well. I no longer know where to go.

***

On another note, I think it's safe for me to finally discuss the man whose disappearance from my life has crushed me. Michael Jackson. And it sounds silly. Upon hearing the news, I was stunned. Instantly, tears formed in my eyes like the great magician Merlin had poisoned me with mysticism. I was crushed. How could what I deem to be the greatest musician of all time, leave this world? Ever since I was a little girl, I remember Santa bringing me Michael Jackson cassettes and leaving them as stocking stuffers. My mother discussed taking me to see the great MJ perform when I was younger. I never went.

Perhaps it's the Hoosier connection, perhaps it's the music and the talent. Whatever the reason, I LOVED that man. Some people reacted to his death with jokes -- I got exceedingly offensive. Some said it was silly to mourn the loss of this man who had OBVIOUSLY been in trouble with "little boys", etc. I could have cared less. I still believed he was the most talented artist of all time.

But upon watching bits and pieces of his memorial service, something clicked. Paris, his daughter, reached the stage giving a tearful goodbye to her father. Here I am, crying over a man I never knew and this little girl has lost her father. . . I cannot begin to fathom what that must be like. And it's silly of me to feel sad over something like this. There are millions of people out there who lose loved ones everyday and those loved ones do not receive the admiration or celebrity status that Michael received. And although I know this is strictly a money matter, I also know there are millions of people in this world just as talented as MJ; they simply live in different avenues of life, do not need/want the celebrity status, or whatever his or her reason may be.

Michael, you were my favorite musician and I'm sad you're no longer with us but I'm even more sad for those around me who have lost the greatest people in their lives. People that were much bigger than Michael would have ever been. I feel ashamed for getting caught up in the things that do not really matter and apologize to all the people that do matter.

Thoughts of the Day and Dads on Cooking

There are steps one must take when avoiding losing one's mind. In the past it's been alcohol . . . for me anyway. And lately, it's been alcohol with the occasional cigarette. (I stole them from your car because I didn't think YOU needed to be smoking them) And so, I'm only slightly tipsy as I write this passage . . . with only one cigarette in my system. This past week I've been running like a crazy person. The track at Catawba has become my so called "bff" -- so when I feel insanity knocking on the gates to my mind, I take off. Sometimes I run a mile; sometimes two. and I don't give a fuck that my knee swells up to the size of a baseball. I run anyway. It clears the mind. Makes me feel strong. Sometimes the football players are there preparing for the upcoming season. Sometimes they stare at me. Perhaps that's because deep down they're making fun of the white opalescent skin tone I carry . . . but their minds find me attractive, and I know it. And what once used to flatter me no longer does. In some ways this revelation stuns me. I used to be the type of girl who could be easily flattered by fat lesbians with bad haircuts -- I was that much of an ugly duckling growing up. If someone (anyone) paid attention to me I was on cloud nine. And, as time goes on, I learn lessons. Some more painful than others . . . and as my next door neighbor tells me I look hot in my swimsuit, I could care less. I am no longer thinking with my mind but with my heart. And it's because of you. Although I may be the world's greatest "fuck up", I've learned I've found more than myself because of you. Perhaps this late lesson will be the biggest "fuck up" of my life, and that makes life the ultimate riddle.

*****

On another note, my thought for the day concerns Dads. While visiting with the mother of my roommate last evening, she questioned my first memory with my father. And while pondering this, I couldn't help but retrace a memory much later.

After my parents divorced, Mom went on her marry way continuing life the way it had always been (as she is a strong woman). She cooked, she cleaned, she took care of my brother and I while simultaneously suffering from Chron's disease.

My dad, however, could not seem to function as well. Sure, he knew about domesticity, but his chores lie in bringing in the cows from pasture or mowing the lawn. Dad was not as skilled in the ways of household tasks . . . he grew up "knowing" that such jobs belonged to the women of the household. And he was correct having grown up in the era he had grown up in. After my parents' divorce, he was forced to learn how to rear us part of the time.

His mother began teaching him the basic food groups in order to keep us alive and healthy.

It will not surprise you to know that my father put this newfound knowledge to use. Awakening one morning, I headed downstairs for breakfast only to find the so called “basic food groups” staring back at me. It was a kids' dream come true. Laying on a paper plate at my place at the table were two strips of crispy bacon, sizzled to perfection. A glass of orange juice rested to the side. And lo and behold, a large bowl nestled gently into my paper plate lay an enormous mound of fluffy Snickers ice cream.

Dad explained. I had my meat group, my fruit group and my dairy. He of course, was correct.

It makes me wonder, however . . . Most Dads are grilling experts; some of the world's greatest chefs are men. I cannot say more. And then, there's my dad. Perhaps he was a man lost in the sixties. Perhaps he just never cared to learn the true and healthy ways of cooking for his children. Whatever the reason, I applaud you, Dad. Bacon and Snickers ice cream is a memory I will always have and I love you for it. Perhaps you should stick to banking . . .