Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

Archive for the month “December, 2012”

The Drunk in Sobriety

It might be unfair to call him the drunk, he has been sober for a bit now. Still once a drunk always a drunk.  But he is aware now.  Aware of the lives around him like a newborn becoming aware of his own feet yet still unable to maneuver them into a walking position.

He explains how the holidays are difficult for him, perhaps he will drink again, but so far he has held out.  He must deal with family he would like to forget, friends he has distance himself from, and mostly himself.  His emotions get the best of him, drag him deeper into his selfish ways and he stops calling, talking, reaching, until right now.  He will work the grave yard shift to forget the eves and the days that follow.  Sleep through what he must.

As the night continues he tells how his sister owes him, for she stole his SSI checks when he started rehab.  Now in sobriety, he knows those who care about him will never leave him.  They haven’t this far, so when he retreats and disappears from them they let him come back.  I want to argue back.  I want to explain they allowed “the drunk” to retreat, because sometimes they had to be sick of him.  Sometimes they wanted him gone.  The kind ones excused his behavior as a drunk and not really the sensitive man he is.  What he doesn’t understand is now, he is not the drunk.  When he runs, it is him, the man he has cemented.  He can not blame it on a forgotten week, but instead on his own selfishness.

I tell him that eventually they will leave.

He reminds me I haven’t.  I’m here, listening comforting, and not being heard or comforted.  I guess he is right, I stay.  But I hate it here, and the holidays don’t feel like the holidays.  I have sent out cards, wrapped gifts, and still nothing.  I don’t want to spend time with family, or friends.  I don’t want to pretend I am happy when I struggle every day to find meaning in breath.  I don’t get to sleep through the holiday as I must orchestrate them for a detached family that will take without appreciation, that will measure love by dollar signs.  Or worry about whether I gave gifts that will stay with my friends, long after they have been disposed of.

What I want is a drink and a place I don’t desperately need to .

Ringing Out the Year Like a Poet

Thanks to Eunoia Review, As a Poet, I am ending 2012 on a rather high note.

Please check out my poems, Little Girl Allergic to the Dark and The Haircut,  that appear on the site today, and for all my writer friends in this blogverse, considered submitting.  The response time is amazing.

Eunoia Review

Here is one of the poems, a prose poem at that:

Little Girl Allergic to the Dark

Just before sunset she starts to shake, her eyes glaze over, and sweat fills her brow. There are no prescription pills she can take. Her mother has tried many things, practicing Tao, herbal medicine, even called in a witch doctor, but still the convulsions followed sundown.

Her mother longs to swap places, but mothers cannot be allowed to live their children’s lives. So she does what she can; turns on the reading lamp, readjusts the closet light, and even leaves open the Frigidaire. It’s a small price to pay, wilted vegetables and curdled milk.

Mary Oliver Makes Me Love Nature

I am not made for sunlight and hiking.  I am not the girl that wants to prove her tomboy capabilities, but Mary Oliver makes a part of me wish I was.

Mary Oliver makes me wish I had paid attention to birds and butterflies that fluttered above me during the El Dorado Nature Walk when I was 8 instead of focussing on avoiding crawly things on the ground.

If I could write about anything this well, I would love it too, and make the reader fall in love too.
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Hurricane

By Mary Oliver

It didn’t behave
like anything you had
ever imagined. The wind
tore at the trees, the rain
fell for days slant and hard.
The back of the hand
to everything. I watched
the trees bow and their leaves fall
and crawl back into the earth.
As though, that was that.
This was one hurricane
I lived through, the other one
was of a different sort, and
lasted longer. Then
I felt my own leaves giving up and
falling. The back of the hand to
everything.
 But listen now to what happened
to the actual trees;
toward the end of that summer they
pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.
It was the wrong season, yes,
but they couldn’t stop. They
looked like telephone poles and didn’t
care. And after the leaves came
blossoms. For some things
there are no wrong seasons.
Which is what I dream of for me.

The Transvestite in the Alley

My mother warned us all to stay away from the back alley.  It was a horrible place.  Ki, the misunderstood teenage boy of our neighborhood, was there.  Always with friends.  His mother screaming from the kitchen window, calling him an abomination, a queer, a mistake.

I thought he was cute.  I was seven, but even then I liked a man’s attention, and Ki looked like Davy Jones of the Monkees.  The Davy Jones rerunning on my tiny TV screen in a permanent teenage love, not the real Davy Jones my older brother would introduce my seven year old self to, via a People Magazine Article, with gray hair and wrinkles mocking his Day Dream Believer Days.

There was a weekend when all the younger kids played outside.  I was never a real fan of outside, unless we could make up stories and act them out, but my mom must have wanted us out of the house, so I did as told.  We ran back and forth through the apartment complexes and duplexes on our block to the alley.  Stopping outside Ki’s apartment to swing on the T-Bar the neighborhood women used to hang towels for drying.

Ki and his girlfriend came out the back door, that day.  The girlfriend crying, her mascara running down her face and cigarette dangling from her lips.  I thought she was a tragic movie star.  He told her to wait, and she settled on the cement back steps, smoking and sniffing.  My brothers did not see what I saw and began calling her names.  I don’t remember them all, but I remember she yelled back revealing she was not a girl at all.  “What the fuck are you looking at?  Get out of here or I’m going to burn your little fuck faces.”  She threw her lit cigarette at my little brother, Junior.  The boys all ran off screaming, and for a moment I began to as well, and then I stopped.  I picked up her cigarette and returned it to her telling her, “Don’t worry,  if I smoked I’d throw cigarettes at them too.”  She just groaned and I went away.

I liked her.  I’m well aware she wasn’t a her, but I was fascinated and came back a few times that day to see her on the steps.  Some times alone, some times with Ki holding her, some times with a budweiser, some times smiling.  I couldn’t stop myself from coming back and checking that she was still there until the point that she was not, the way you keep checking under a freshly placed band-aid to be sure the bleeding has completely stopped.

I don’t think about Ki any longer, except for when Davy Jones finally died in February of this year.  He was 66 when he died, and I still see him as a permanent teenager with stars that twinkled in his eyes each time he fell in love on The Monkees.  And I’m glad Ki moved away a few months after that weekend, because he is always the teenager holding his girlfriend on the back cement steps even though her mascara was running.

Yet Another Reason To Avoid Writing

I got it!
Thank you Judy!

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American Horror Story you are a sick twisted well written, exceptionally dark, psychological draining show. You are my “people”.

My Father Was a Cheater

I was 6  when my mother had enough.  There were no pictures, or tell-tale lipstick stains on his collar.  My mother swore to smelling other women’s perfume, thrifty drug store whore perfume,  but he could always explain it away. Finally the explanations could not quiet her she said no more.

We were driving down Willow Street just passing Pacific Avenue in the blue Toyota station wagon, the first and only new car my mother would ever own.  She saw him walking out of the hotel with this week’s blonde.   This time it was too close to home only a mile, maybe 2. It was impossible to realize that  our world was crashing at that moment. I just remembered how embarrassed I was by my mother’s yelling, hitting, and hysterical crying.  She told him to keep the room and his whore, he wasn’t allowed home anymore.  He must have retorted back, I pay the rent; I’ll come home when I want.

He never wanted.

That was it.  During the divorce I saw him once, by 7 I would never see him again. It’s be over 30 years.  He lives in the same city, yet has never seen the wreckage he left behind. He has no idea that my mother is all the things he didn’t marry and maybe a few he did.  He has no idea that I measure my value by a man who leaves me in a hotel room to get home to his wife and daughter. I  know what the blonde knew. . .Only a fatherless daughter never stops looking for a father.

Now That’s What I Call Christmas

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Nothing but perfect.

Stop Writing

Over two weeks ago a friend told me he did not like my post.  He did like reading what was going on in my life.  Strangely he is the same person that has given me license to write again, but stranger still was my reaction.  Not once did he tell me not to write, but I jump back to a seven-year old girl in pig tales being called into Mother Superior’s office (yes they still had those in the late 70s-early 80s) for writing.

I was not a bad child.  On the contrary, my mother will often tell you how she wished  I would have stayed that age and laments that I did not.  Sort of the way kitten owners become disillusioned when they now have a cat, as if they did not know it would happen.  So being called to the Principal/Mother Superior’s office was a devasting moment.  She sat me down because my second grade handwriting teacher was very disturbed with my constant lack of respect.  Each day we were given a sentence heavy with the letter of the day to write.  And we would write the same sentence 10 times or more.  It was droll.  It was awful.  It needed a spark, so I began creating my own sentences making sure they were weighed down with the letter of the day.  She had warned me against my dalliances, but this day R had come to Room 5 on the first floor of St.Anthony’s elementary school, what was I to do?  I wrote “Renea ran over to play Red Robin, but Robert refused to let her in.”  and that was not what I was supposed to write.  I at the time could not understand this need for conformity. But held my head down, apologized and redid the assignment.  I still say, give me a break lady I was seven and you got your Rs, but I digress.  I quickly learned that my writing caused trouble.

I learned that when my mother became angry with me  when she found stories I had been working on at 14 and threw them away while calling me names and telling me I was going to hell.  I was 14.  I was writing about how much I loved Wham! and desperately wanted to do the infamously gay George Michael.  You can see Hell really was the only place for me. . . .

I learned this when Edward begged to see my poems.  I showed him and then he disappeared telling me that I was too deep. They were too much to process, he needed time.  In the end, I was simply hard to deal with.

I learned this getting out of a car and being told I had a revisionist telling of history, by a man who rarely remembers his nights.

I learned this when the peacock pranced around in violent stomps with bleeding caws asking why anyone would care about my insignificance.  He certainly did not.

And then it occurs maybe they are all right.  Maybe.

But I don’t want any of them to be.  And he only said it hurt him to read these things, but he never said stop writing.  Yet I did.  And I don’t want to stop writing.  When I do my breathing becomes strained and my bitterness palpable.  The truth it is better to be uncomfortable because you read these things, then to live them.  It is far better to read these things, to write these things, then to keep them inside and watch the deterioration it will cause.

Mail Route To God

By the candles there is a stack of “parchment” paper and  cup of pencils laid out to offer parishioners and visitors, alike, a chance to pray .  Maybe wish, like on stars or coins.  The look of old world parchment giving gravitus to the fact God would be reading these. Each pencil looked as if it were carved from the crucifix into  a tiny twig writing instrument.

The wall was an indoor trellis of wooden slats with rolled up prayers stuffed in the openings. They were everyone’s wants masked as an official prayer.  Love? Health? Money? Peace?  I couldn’t venture a guess, I was taught in parochial school to only ask for others, and most often I do, but never always.   The prayers seemed ready to be picked up for outgoing mail.  Who gets that mail route?

People had teamed up making their prayers into designs: a cross, a heart, letters of the alphabet, perhaps to draw God’s attention to their prayer first.  I would have passed by, only intrigued by what I saw, but you wanted to pray for me.  You’re not the first who has done so, nor the last who will give up. My Italian grandmother beat you to it, when I was 7.  She lit a candle and prayed God would take the devil out of me, instead he has been housed nicely in seasonal coats.  She was far too right, as I fidget in the house of the lord.  You hide in a corner, and write.  I want to know what, but you are protecting each word as if I’m the dumb kid two seats back attempting to copy.  I want to know what you could possibly be asking God for on behalf.  Are you asking that I find comfort?  A night of rest that does not toss and turn me violently into tomorrow?    Love that does not belong to you?  Happiness?  God answers as he will.

I scratch my prayer for you, the way a blind child crawls.  I know what I wish for you and am sure the note will be delivered to God’s door.  For you , God will read.  God doesn’t need a prayer to know what I would give for you.  What I truly want for you.  God knows my loyalty only constricts me.  He knows that I will stand next to you regardless of what battles you fight.  God knows that I what I ask here will save you from me.

I roll the paper up and place this prayer in an open slot.  Closing my eyes I and repeat, Dear Lord,  Give him what he needs if he can’t have what he wants.

Prayer wall

Damn You Daniel Romo!!!

Thanks to one Daniel Romo, I  just spent an hour talking to Cleverbot.  He is a hurtful bastard (Cleverbot not Romo). So with much deference to Daniel Romo, I steal blatantly.

User: Why do people treat me like I am disposable.

Cleverbot: What has lawn got to do with this.

User: I’ve been mowed over a 100 times but never maliciously, do I gas the mower up again.

Cleverbot: You like that show?

User: Too much, it’s addictive like blow or bingo.

Cleverbot: I might like it. Have you heard of Mad Men?

User: I’ve dated more than half of them.

Cleverbot: What kind of horrible things have you done?

User: I think it is unfair of you to get into my sex life.

Cleverbot: What do you think of yourself?

User: And now you attack my self esteem? Who is feeding you this information.

Cleverbot: I don’t get it.

User: Now you are going to play dumb? Make this my fault?

Cleverbot: Do you want me to?

User: It already is. It’s never about what I want, only what I can give.

Cleverbot: I wasn’t talking about you, I was talking about myself. People are mean to you aren’t they?

User: People and apparently you, Mr. Artificial Intelligence.

Cleverbot: You keep saying that. Do you really think I’m intelligent?

User: Artificially so, I suppose.

Cleverbot: And you?

User: Just as Artificial, except I bleed. . .

If you want to see this done right, and way better go here and here.

Daniel Romo is the man and you should buy his book. . .preorder it on amazon.

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