scent

The car beneath me is grumbling about the abuse of a 12 hour drive, and I am of a mind with it. So ready to get out of here. My two brothers and sister are probably the most annoying people on Earth, and by now my dad is so grouchy that everyone is silent for fear that he’ll decide to just turn around and drive back home. It’s happened before. We don’t want another 12 hours, so we stick to glaring and making mean hand signals. I pull out my portable CD player, possibly my most precious possession at 14. I flip through my CD’s, even though I already know what I’m going to pick. Two weeks before, for my birthday, I received a couple of fantastic presents. One was a large tube of Cucumber-Melon lotion, my favorite scent, and I wear it constantly. The second was a CD. The Madding Crowd by Nine Days. Not only am I completely in love with the CD itself, but I am even more in love with the boy who gave it to me. You see, it’s his fault that I nearly failed Algebra this past school year. All the note-passing and back-of-the-head staring. He was, and is still, very distracting. So it goes without saying that this is my favorite CD. I have a feeling I will still love it a decade from now. I plan to spend several hours listening to this, trying to ignore my family. We’re currently rolling through Southern California. We finally see Sea World on our right, and know that we’re close. We all start to get excited and happy, and my dad becomes marginally more cheerful (a very good sign), until our chatter makes him angry again. The rest of the silent ride is filled with our faces pressed to the window. We get to our beautiful beach house rental, and it is just spectacular. We run inside, and explore. After we’d settled in a bit, I peeked into the bathroom, since it wasn’t typically something one would be excited to explore. My eyes grow wide as I see the gorgeous skylight window above the toilet. I stand on the toilet and open the latch, throwing the window wide open. There is a fantastic view of the bay, the lazy sailboats, the smooth sand, and the smell…oh, the smell. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The smell of the bright, sunshiny salt air mingled with my cucumber-melon lotion is the most refreshing scent I’ve ever experienced, and I know that one smell alone will remind me of this trip my entire life.

Scent: a) the faculty or sense of smell b) perception by the senses, feeling c) the odor of an animal or man as means of pursuit by a hound; hence a track or trail as indicated by this odor d) distinctive odor. Now applied almost exclusively to agreeable odors, e.g. those of flowers e) an odoriferous liquid prepared by distillation of flowers, etc.; a perfume

I’m sitting on the floor playing with a Christmas My Little Pony. She is white with a red mane and tail, and has a candy cane on her bum. Her name is Peppermint. Or Sugar. Or Candy. Or Melanie. I can’t decide. Mommy and Oma are sitting on the couch talking, while daddy is changing Taylor’s diaper. This is Christmas morning, and we’re waiting for daddy and Taylor to come back so we can open presents. Grandpa comes into the room and I run to give him a hug. That is to say, give his knees a hug. He takes my hand and we walk to his favorite recliner chair, the one he sits and watches football in. He lifts me onto his lap. I am very happy, because I love Christmas, and especially Christmas in California, because I love Grandpa’s house and his pretty trees and his waterslide and pool and his goldfish pond and the sunshine. Daddy carries Taylor back into the living room, and everyone gets excited because it’s time to open presents! I open lots of fun toys a 4 year old would like. I open a present that is a mermaid doll. She is so pretty, with beautiful yellow hair and a bright green, glittery tail. And the package says that she changes color in water! Her hair will change to yellow with streaks of pink and her tail turns a beautiful light pink color. I love her! She is from Santa! I get a present from Grandpa. I open it up. It is a Little Mermaid beauty set. I love mermaids! I saw the movie in theaters last year, when I was just three, and now that I am older I still like them a lot! There is a pretty pink comb in the kit, and a mirror, and nail polish, and a bottle of perfume. I stared at the kit for a while, not talking. My parents looked concerned, because I never stop talking and I never stand still and I am doing both. I reverently open the package. I look at the shiny pink mirror, then put it aside. I look at the sparkly nail polish, and vow to make mommy paint my nails later. I look at the pretty pink comb, and run it through my wild hair. It gets stuck. I leave it there. I take out the beautiful perfume bottle. I’ve never had one of those before. I open it up carefully, and put it to my nose. The smell is very light. Mommy says it smells like roses. I think it is my favorite smell in the whole world, and that Ariel MUST wear it too. Mommy shows me how to apply it to my wrists and neck. I feel beautiful. Grandpa beams with joy.

Smell: a) the sense of which the nose is the organ; the faculty of smelling b) that property of things which affects the olfactory organ, whether agreeably or otherwise; odor, perfume, aroma, stench, stink (olfactory: an organ of smell, the capacity for smelling) c) a trace, suggestion, or tinge of something, the special, indefinable, or subtle character of the object, event, etc., described

I like to sit outside in Autumn. September, October, those are my favorite months. I am outside, sitting on a blanket on the grass, in the shade. My typewriter is next to me, fresh sheet prepared, my dog laying in the sun, soaking up rays of sunshine. The raw, sharp scent of Autumn always makes me feel a mix of joy and melancholy. Joy, because it’s the perfect temperature, and the air is charged, the year is winding down, and there’s always the anticipation of my favorite holiday, Halloween. Melancholy, because Autumn is so short-lived and ephemeral, and I never seem to enjoy it enough before it is already gone with the first winter snowfall. So I am sitting outside, meditating and ruminating on the questions of life. I take a deep, deep, long breath of chill, refreshing air. There is a scent of the cycle of natural life taking its course. Things dying, things hibernating, things winding down. I can smell the decay of leaves, I can see the beautiful colors that you never get any other time of year, and I can feel the world preparing for the onslaught of winter. I never get tired of this scent or this feeling. It is too fleeting.

1888

As I prowl the nights of London
the air is diffuse with
heavy despair.
The lamps flicker, casting
their muted glow on
the dirty street.
A cacophony of noise
reverberates against
the windows and boards of
dilapidated buildings,
nearly shanties.
Feline
Canine
Infant
Laughter
Anger
Clatter
Susurrus.
White Noise.
The vermilion feeling
on the brink
inside me
threatens to spill over onto
the broken cobblestones.
I need to cleanse
this city.
My disgust nearly
overwhelms me.
The papers have it
wrong.
Justified cleansing of
wrongful acts is not
‘terrorizing’.
Their own
guilt
is what makes them
afraid.

modern death ritual

I’ve always had a difficult time with funerals. I have a tendency to cry at the drop of a hat, most especially when other people are crying. Funerals are sad. I, personally, don’t think they should be, and I honestly believe that being desperately sad at a funeral is a little bit selfish. The funeral is held for the family, to express and deal with grief, though often organizing a funeral only worsens the depressing feeling of losing a loved one. It is also held to revere the memory of someone, but who is doing the remembering, and why? Why is someone sad at a funeral? Is it because this person is gone from their lives? It’s a biological certainty that we are all going to die. We, of course, don’t know for certain when or how, but it’s inevitable. The funerals that I’ve gone to have confused me. I understand the general air of grief and loneliness and loss that accompanies such an event, but when family members and friends start sobbing, I start crying too. Not necessarily because I feel sad, but it’s just my general reaction to tears streaming down another’s face. I cry at TV shows and movies. I cry at letters from my brother. I’ve even cried at a Hallmark commercial before. Maybe I’m unconsciously extremely emotional, but on the surface it doesn’t register to me. My tears are a Pavlovian reaction.

I’ve been to seven funerals in my life – at least that I can distinctly remember. The most recent of these was the funeral for my aunt Cherie. She had just finished a long battle with breast cancer. I remember going to visit her in the hospital. I watched my uncle and my dad, and the utter sorrow evident on their faces. It troubled me to see them so distraught. It was a sad situation, to be sure, and it was difficult for me to see her in that state as well. Her funeral was packed with people I’d never met. It was a nice service, and I tried to keep my sobs quiet, though focusing on that made me miss most of the service itself.

I think the strangest thing for me at these funerals, though I believe it occurs at most, was that afterward we all get together at have a big potluck meal in some church cultural hall. It seems an odd change; people are gloomy or hysterical, and then 20 minutes later smiling and laughing and eating a large meal. A very odd dynamic. But I digress.

Then there was a funeral for an acquaintance of mine, Dustin. I didn’t know him extremely well, but could see that he was a very kind hearted and caring person, as well as a wonderful musician. I believe he was in his early twenties when he passed away. I only really remember what the weather was like, that it was icy. I know that he died of an overdose, though I can’t recall whether it was drugs or alcohol, but I do know he had struggled with his problem for a long time. I didn’t think any less of him for it. His family members were surprisingly gracious and seemed at peace, like they had come to a blessed understanding of Dustin’s afterlife. I felt it was a more appropriate feeling for a funeral, to be happy that someone had lived their lives, and their time on Earth was remembered with love and warmth, rather than getting stuck in the cliché of sorrow and grief.

The funeral for one of the co-owners of the theatre that I’ve worked at for the past nine years was interesting. Anything involving actors usually is; they ‘seem’ to wear their hearts on their sleeves, and perhaps some of them do, but I remember the reactions were more melodramatic than usual. She was a wonderful, strong, kind, amazing woman, who had succumbed to cancer, but had made peace with it and was able to spend a good amount of time with her loving family. The line for her viewing was out the door, and even the LDS prophet (though not at the time) came to pay respects. It was sad, but I mostly went out of a feeling of obligation and a desire to see many of the friends I only see once in a great while.

I had the opportunity to know both my Great-Grandmother and my Great-Grandfather. They were lovely, interesting people. I was asked to sing at both of their funerals, which was nice, but difficult for me, since everyone was already crying and I had to face the entire audience and sing a somber, sorrowful melody while keeping my composure so it sounded nice and didn’t mar the memory of their lives. I think my Great-Grandfather’s funeral was more memorable for me, because he was afforded military honors from being a veteran of World War II (he was flying into Pearl Harbor in an unarmed photography plane when it was attacked). But I was at peace with their passing. They both had lived wonderful lives and left a plethora of offspring which I can call my extended family.

The summer after my Junior year of High School, I received a call from a classmate. She informed me that one of our fellow students had died. I was told that he passed away while attempting to get a high by choking himself and then releasing it before he passed out. He had a seizure, and essentially was hung by his own tool of pleasure. A horrible, horrible fate, and extremely sad and unfortunate. I was also told that myself and the other 11 girls that were in the Madrigal Choir for the next year would be performing a song at the funeral. I don’t think I would have gone otherwise. It was very odd for me to be at a funeral for a 17 year old that I had just seen a few weeks before. It was also my first time seeing a dead body, and to be honest, it was a surreal experience for me. It looked like him, but didn’t. I had a subtle tingling expectation that he would sit up, look around, get out of the coffin and leave.

The first funeral I ever went to, that I can recall, was my Grandfather’s. He was special to me, and still is. He died when I was six years old. My mother received a phone call from her sister, and immediately flew out to California to be with my Grandfather. I remember feeling anxious for my mother, and wasn’t really sure what was going on, but I was worried that everyone was so distressed. I like people to be happy (which is most likely a big reason why funerals bother me). He passed away sometime that night or morning, and the next day my father, little brother, baby sister and myself began the drive to California. We came to his funeral, and I barely remember it, except that it was vividly green and gray and sunshiny, and my mother and aunts sang tearfully under a white shade tent, while I wriggled uncomfortably on a hard folding chair, unsure of what was going on.

So there are my experiences so far with modern civilization’s death ritual, the funeral. Full of mournful hymns, potluck food, tears, flowers (OH, the flowers! So many.) impartial dead people, and confused relatives and friends, nearly all sad and in the smallest way a little bit selfish, because they don’t have that person anymore in their lives. Life goes on, ends for some, continues for others, on and on and will always continue that way until the end of the world, whether it be an implosion, explosion, fiery cleansing of sinful souls, mass alien attack and domination, widespread plague, global warming, or any other number of things.

consciousness slowed

The anticipation is tangible. The crisp, autumn air creeps in through spaces in the door and windows. She stands in her room, shivering, naked. The wretched pile of tulle and satin sits on her bed, mocking her lack of royal blood. She can only pretend. She feels bitter. Her mother's voice wafts upstairs, asking if her dress is on. She grudgingly puts one foot through the mounds of fabric, then the other. An arm goes through a gaping lavender hole. Then another. Her bare back shakes with cold. A knock at her door. Her mother enters, armed with paint, brushes, powders, and other suffocating devices. Her mother clicks her tongue and zips up the open back of the dress. She sits, while her mother arranges the ingredients for disguise. A sponge piled with tan goo comes toward her face. She closes her eyes, cringing inwardly, gulping down a whimper.

the closet

I unlock the olive green door and even more paint chips fall off as it moves. I got this rusty key by giving the greasy landlord 20 bucks. The apartment is musty and dank. It's difficult to see in here. I shine the dull beam of the flashlight ahead of me, catching the dust motes my passage has tossed into the air. I make my way to the filing cabinet I glimpsed the other night at the party he held. There is just something so...off putting about him. Why can't anyone else see it? The filing cabinet is there, in the bedroom. I creep over the rancid carpet till I'm finally there. I open the third drawer down, on a hunch, and beneath a sheaf of invoices lies the box. The box I am SURE holds the truth about him. I hear a key scraping in the lock. My heart beats like an African war chant. Closing the drawer as soundlessly as possible (which isn't much), I race to the gaping mouth of the closet. The mildewy darkness engulfs me as I shut the door. ....

secret

complex, ugly pyramid
this template of
aesthetic lies
I'm in love, a
recipe for wrong

hard to remember the
navy blue marriage
less control
everyday lives
a rigid tempo
of boredom

type type powerpoint
stolen glances
visualizations
torrents of pink/yellow seizures
sight = fire thrives
electric guitars & bagpipes
type type powerpoint

then home
clearly, legibly
dull

shakespeare's intelligence

mandatory, cordially awkward character
chopping, broken, heavily primitive

isolated skeletons pose in cupboards

sheepish gondoliers fight humanity

exaggerated actress caught on film - shock

absent, deluded frogs babble on boats

tetchy santa claus' cookies = puffing buttons

dramatic, jealous lover's poisoned consolation

queen beauty, mistaken fertility is treacherous

battles, accidents, division, slaughter - paradise?

knuckles grate against emo foreheads, teeth

a strong, drastic melody becomes fiercer in the vicinity

ceiling secretion - red; a lantern gourd

excellent fire rages, racing across the sky

unspoken riddle, mysterious world

key - rabbits

bueno.

monsoon season

the water is jumping off the sidewalk
the air is white with spray
from the drops forcing their way
to Earth
in sheets
the gutters are choking
trying to deal with
the excess of water
they weren't built for this sort of thing

spears of lightning crack the sky
into pieces
thunder resonates around the city
scaring every animal
and small child
how could something be so
loud
the very air seems heavy
and swirling dark clouds
loom

across the street the wind
carries cardboard boxes
around a white trash neighbor's lawn
though they get heavier with
each new bit of
torrential rain

lightning crosses the sky again
the puddles reflect it
distorted by ripples
shingles
roses
wind chimes
basketball hoops

drip

this is monsoon season in suburbia

windham terrace

Children are a joy; I’ve always
Loved their unabashed smiles,
Enthusiasm for life.
Honest, inquisitive, sprightly,
Refreshing.
Destiny never gave me
A child
Nor a wife.
Instead she gave me eyes
And the knowledge; wisdom
Only loneliness can bestow.

I sit here with useless, arthritic legs;
Sit here in this chair, this
Mobile substitute.
The leaves fall, the corridors
Hum with anticipation of visitors.
For others.
The first holiday comes.
Our 'home' will be visited
By a group of small children
Dressed as vampires, princesses,
And the occasional astronaut.

I hold my butterscotch candies anxiously
In my lap, mangled legs covered.
My own costume, a witch mask
With grassy hair
Sunken eyes
And a vicious, gap-toothed leer,
Wasn't my choice
Though, seems a fitting commentary.
I sit in dappled sunlight, crisp air
With the others,
butterflies pummeling my stomach.
The children never come.

hunger

He stands stark, in the corner, presence often ignored, unwanted, yet always there. An evil, bony grin lingers on his face, pressing on the olive air. His emaciated form echoes that of those he afflicts. Smudged with dirt, ragged clothing hangs in tatters off his body, but he doesn't mind. In the duty assigned to him, he excels, is well-fed in that way. He is present in endless homes, slowly leeching the life and will out of otherwise strong souls. He is happy with his results, but in the back of his mind there is a hollow space filled with doubt and regret.