Lonely Lucinda

Lonely Lucinda
(c) @aladreth 2007-2012
previously published January 1, 2007

"The gods make this a happy day" Soldier: Antony and Cleopatra, IV, v.

Lucinda had a story.

Quite a story, really.

I'm sure I'll be writing her story many times throughout my lifetime because it's one you can make so much out of.  There's lots of lessons to learn from Lucinda's story. There are times to laugh and times to cry.

Today, I will tell you her "New Year" story, because quite appropriately it is New Year's Day.

Lucinda had a good childhood.  There was nothing crazy or abusive in her childhood.

However, Lucinda's childhood stories sort of reminded me of how my dentist will talk about his very happy life as a child when he's working on my teeth.

He'll tell cute jokes and lament we should listen to Christmas music every day because it makes people happy.  He says the world would be a peace filled happy place if we all listened to Christmas music every day.

And maybe he's right.  There is documented proof, you know that Germans and English stopped fighting because of the song, "Silent Night."

Oh, my dentist, he'll be telling me great stories about his childhood and I'll make a sound like a knowing laugh in my throat with my mouth wide open, but I wonder.  He says he had such a good life but he has a horrible deep scar on one side of his cheek.

Oh, don't get me wrong, he's a lovely man and one I wouldn't mind bedding down a time or two, but it does make you wonder how he got so messed up if it wasn't in his childhood.

Lucinda's story is like that as well.

Her father died when she was young and that could scar someone, but it didn't seem to affect her much.  She continued having her teenage friends over all the time, except the one who believed the house to be haunted with her father's spirit.
See?  What did I tell you?  Another story!

All in all, Lucinda had plenty of teenage friends, parties and adventures that were positive.

She learned to drive a car, she even learned how to drive a car across country and pass the truckers on the interstate without looking at them, because if you look at them, you will veer in to their lane.  She learned that much.

She learned to drive through big rain storms and the scary Tulare, California fog, which rises off the water instead of coming out of the clouds.

She learned quite appropriately when to pretend you were dumb and when to show everyone how smart you really were.

There were rumours Lucinda's mother had slept with Lucinda's first two boyfriends after Lucinda's father was buried and gone.

The first boyfriend, Lucinda considered her first love and her mother made her get rid of him.  Her mother even helped her type an eleven page letter dumping him, but in a nice way, of course, telling him all the reasons why it was not healthy he keep pursuing her. You know, things like they had a lifetime to catch up with other people and hardly ever did first romances turn out.

The second boyfriend, Lucinda wanted to have sex with.  She wanted to lose her virginity, so they did it one night after months of doing everything but actual intercourse.  They did it the night he promised to be with her forever and promised they would have a beautiful two story house with a cute white picket fence, a station wagon, a shaggy dog, and 2.3 kids.

Well, you know the story, it didn't work out that way, and it probably was for the best because Lucinda realized years later she really didn't think that boy was "the one" for her.

Lucinda's mother got in a big ol' mess over that second boyfriend and I think we'll leave it for another story, but it wasn't at all  pleasant and Lucinda kept thinking about it and while it wasn't something her mother and her discussed, sometimes old friends who knew her, who had been around at the time, said things like, "You know your mother slept with him, right?" and stuff like that.

But, you know, at the end of the day, Lucinda only had her mother and her cousin.  She had other family but they weren't really interested in her.

Lucinda had good things going for her at different stages in her life and any of her family could brag about her, "Oh, my niece, Lucinda owns a business!" or, "Cousin Lucinda wrote a book!" or, "My half-sister, Lucinda really turned out great!"

But, this never happened to her knowledge.

Her mother loved her and her cousin loved her and her Aunt would send Christmas cards with her name spelled incorrectly, but all the same, she stayed in touch for Christmas.

Another cousin would write her once a year and another cousin would invite her to dinner once a year.

It wasn't their fault, of course, people get busy and you have your favourites in families, anyway.  So, Lucinda just marked herself as a person who wasn't a familia orientated type of gal.

She had two abortions.  She told me it was because she was fearful and selfish.  The first baby was conceived from a very abusive man and she refused to have him around any longer.  She felt the best way to get rid of him was to 'lose' his child she was carrying, and it worked.  Oh, he called her a few names none too nice, but he left.

She also couldn't imagine carrying a child out of wedlock if she  managed to get rid of him some other way.  It was against her religion to have an abortion, but it was also against her religion to be single and pregnant.

The second pregnancy, she was just too scared to go through with it. She was too fearful of all the doctor visits and hospitals and pain, and yes, she liked her life without children.  She could go and do whatever she wanted, not that she ended up doing so much, but that's where she brought in the 'selfish' bit to me, to tell me she wished she hadn't been so selfish, so fearful, so worried about what other people would think.

"So" is a powerful word.

We put it in front of everything to show it's over the top, more, better, worse, and "so" can get you in trouble more often than not.

Today, Lucinda's kids would be nearly grown, had she not had the abortions, and maybe Lucinda wouldn't be so lonely.  I mean, a kid can nearly kill you as they are growing up and all the stress they cause you, but she would have had some help around the house, she would have had someone who was part of her and had to love her in some way or other - even if they left her, they still had to say they had a mother, right? Everyone has a mother.  Even if you don't want to acknowledge her, she's there.

Mothers.  And hell, even daughters.  That definitely will be another story.  There is this official quote about how the mother and the daughter are together forever even if they do not want to be and  they hate it sometimes, but they realize it is something they could not give up.  That connection.  That link.  It's a powerful one and many men have caused themselves serious grief trying to break it apart or separate it.  I suppose the quote is right, there is nothing that can destroy it - no matter how horrible or sad the relationship might be.

Anyway, this is a New Year's story, so let's get to it.

A few years ago, Lucinda finally fell in love for the first time in her life.

Amazing, isn't it, we can go through a life experience with our family, a life with our teenage romances, a life with our good friends in college, a life with our spouse, and never really fall "in" love until we are in our 30's or 40's.

I suppose it happens more often than not and it's something to analyze, I guess.

In Lucinda's case, it was a serious deep love and obsession.  She felt it had to be real because everything revolved around this man she had fallen for.  She would give up everything for him, she would die for him and according to her religion, that was the one mark and sign of true love.  Lest a man is willing to give up his life for another, then he does not know real love.

She was willing to give up everything.  Her nice home, her nice marriage, her nice church, her nice animals, her nice cars, her nice clothes.

Lucinda had a lot of nice things and she was willing to give them all up for this man.  So, she knew it had to be real and that even brought her more determination they would be together.

She put his name in her Last Will and Testament.  She had a few things she knew he would want if something happened to her.

She put his face on her desktop.  Every time she turned on her computer, it was there.

She put his voice on her CD player.  Every time she got in the car, she could hear him.

She put his picture on the table by her bed.  Every time she went to sleep she would dream of him.

Oh, don't get me wrong here, Lucinda wasn't a total sap.  She had reason to fall for the man. He was charming.  He was intelligent and manipulative.  He made her fall.  He was a svengali of the truest sort.  Maybe he even hypnotized her or something, but I'll never believe Lucinda was playing this game with one participant.  No, honey, it takes two to tango.

Then as things go in these horrible unrequited love stories, Lucinda was miserable because well, her love was unrequited.

Totally unrequited, even when her love was of the most purest types - the ones the church would look upon as giving and humble and unselfish.

She was like the Mother Mary.  He was like the Christ Child she needed.  It was as if she had given birth to a new son and for him she would do anything - but her 'son' had no religion and had no real belief in soul mates or in anything long lasting or forever and anyway, it's hard to love someone who loves you with such complete love when you know you are unlovable.  And, I think he really didn't think he deserved it.

It's hard to believe in God.  It's hard to believe in Goddess.  It's hard to believe in Angels, especially if you don't think you deserve any of the deity's attention.

And, not to make Lucinda a true goddess of our time, but she was nearly perfect in her love for the 'son.'

But, eventually we can't handle loneliness or unrequited love because we are creatures who need something.

Something, anything, some spark to make us hold on.  We can only live in the past dreams for so long.  When someone stops their greetings of sweet nothings or when someone stops saying you are the one for them, it's hard to hold on.  We are not Saints.  We are mere mortals who need each other.

Yet, we must be true to ourselves, must we not?

So, Lucinda left one day without saying goodbye.

In reality, it wasn't like the man would miss her, right?

But, let me tell you, it was hard for Lucinda, it was like God turning His back on His very Flesh as He was dying.

Lucinda drove for an entire day in silence to get to Mexico.  She sat on the border of Arizona and Mexico in this park where the orange leaves were falling.  It was the end of December. It was right before the New Year and it was something like an October Autumn in Mexico.  She wore a purple sweater and jeans and she sat on the cool ground.

She became "one with nature" for the very first time in her life.  Oh, everyone thinks they can commune with nature when they are hiking a mountain or rafting a white river, but really to sit and listen for the answer from the Great Mother, as we call Her, it's hard to do. There are so many distractions in our life.  There are so many times we cannot be at peace with ourselves.  We long for distractions to keep us from seeing the truth.  Seldom do we sit at peace and wait for an answer.

But, that is just what Lucinda did.

Later that day, Lucinda ended up in a family restaurant where there was a large manger scene sitting out.  They didn't care Lucinda was there.  They didn't need to be 'politically correct' in front of her.  It was a celebration time for the family.  Lucinda sat in the midst of this happy family.

They sang:

"Jesús en pesebre, sin cuna, nació; 
Su tierna cabeza en heno durmió. 
Los astros, brillando, prestaban su luz 
al niño dormido, pequeño Jesús. 
Los bueyes bramaron y Él despertó, 
mas Cristo fue bueno y nunca lloró. 
Te amo, oh Cristo, y mírame, sí, 
aquí en mi cuna, pensando en ti.
Te pido, Jesús, que me guardes a mí, 
amándome siempre, como te amo a ti. 
A todos los niños da tu bendición, 
y haznos más dignos de tu gran mansión."

The restaurant served the best tacos in the world, Lucinda thought.

She felt very comfortable with herself for the first time in months.

She realized she could be happy without the man she loved so much.

Oh, she would always love him.

But, she could be alone.  She was totally alone there in Mexico.  She didn't know the language.

She just knew how she felt and that was the day she decided to leave the one true love of her life.

Oh, it took a few months after that.  Things are never so cut and dry or black and white, are they?

But, that was the day.

That was the day her New Year began.

Our Smart

Our Smart

"sure ya said you loved me, but you still called the cops on me" - paraphrased - marvin gaye

©aladreth
(previously published)

Pigs are very intelligent creatures, you know.  You may think wallowing in mud is stupid, but if it keeps you cool and keeps people at their distance, then what?  Sign me up.  Pigs are smart.

They even sell cute little statues of pigs sitting on their plump bottoms, head cocked to one side, like they are taking in every conversation.

Remember this as I tell you my story, it may apply, and it may not. I just like to share these tidbits of trivia with you.

I'm going to start at the beginning.  People say they start there, but normally they don't.

Usually they leave out the disgusting, filthy, dirty parts.

Not me.  You know me by now.

I should have known it wasn't going to work because the way it started was me flat on my back and him straddled over me with his 'you know what' deep down my throat.

Now, I'm not saying I haven't done such things in the past, but for many years now, I've been a card carrying member of a select Female Supremacy group and we made pacts about sticking filthy things to our goddess-lips, and well, we just don't do it.

My lips, for sure, are about the cleanest thing you would ever come across in this town.

People lie, though.  Even big time movie stars and film directors.  They told me an old gal I knew died from a heart attack and then I went to "The Smoking Gun" and found out different.

Seems she had hired two sober folks to guard her to keep her off drugs.  Isn't it weird how nowadays you can hire someone to guard you from yourself?

This is good information for many of you who are going to hell in a hand basket.

Anyway, back to the gal.  She died from a drug overdose.

I suppose that would cause a heart attack.  So, at the end of the day, there's a bit of truth in every lie.  And vice versa.  Don't forget about the vice versa.  A lie in every truth.  You wouldn't think so, but yes, it is there like the proverbial sore thumb.

That cock sucking predicament aforementioned, well, that's Elliot I'm talking about here, in case you want to know.

Professor Elliot, who is exactly 13 years older than me.  That's bad luck, in case you want to know.  The bad luck number in America, anyway.  It's different numbers in different countries but 13 being bad luck comes from the times in Old England when folks would cross their fingers when passing a suspected witch on the road.  You can't be too sneaky with witches.  You wouldn't want to make a full sign of the cross in front of them for fear of being hexed, so a quick cross of two fingers would be fine enough.

I could have this wrong.  I may be getting all my superstitions mixed up, but, 13 is definitely the number of the devil.

So, I went to dinner with the devil.  Or do you say, "The devil took me to dinner?"  I recall a lovely painting and verse about how you must bring a big fork if you decide to dine with the Prince of Darkness.

No kidding.

After dinner Elliot took me back to his flat. Well, Elliot and Rena's flat.  Yes, Elliot was not only wrong for me in 262 ways, he was also married.

Make that 263 ways.

Rena was away.  She was probably spending the night somewhere else or maybe she was in London like she would be every few months.

Rena didn't care, so I forgot about caring too.

When we walked through the door, there were a dozen or so of Elliot's students from the University sitting around drinking healthy fizzy drinks with milk thistle and blessed thistle and every other kind of thistle.

They were drawing on recycled paper, reading poetry from used books and just looking somewhat younger than any of us reading this.

"Elliot!"

"What?  I thought you might like a surprise!  I wanted you to meet some of my students!"

"I don't like surprises!"  I stomped off to Elliot and Rena's bedroom and slammed the door and left Elliot and his students in the living room.

Now would be a good time to snoop on Rena.  Would she be as vegetarian-new-age-healthy-open-minded-share-her-husband-peace-goodwill-to-all-men as Elliot said?

Their master bathroom would tell me.  I flew open the door hand carved wooden doors to reveal the walk in shower and toilet.

Yes, the soap would tell me.  I figured she would probably be hiding her sins in the soap.  Animal by-products, oil from some evil connection, unnatural scents, and bunny eyes bleeding everywhere.

Nope, the soap was good, looked so healthy and earth friendly it could have been from the sandstone and dirt in the back yard.  Stacked in two stacks of three.  Six big brown ugly soaps.

Six, the number of man, the number of the beast.  I surmised, Rena was like her husband, heathen to the end.  So frustrating.  Can't I get a break here?

I returned to the bedroom and sneaked a peek in the bed side table drawer on the right side.  The right side must be Rena's side I thought.

I was right.  Dildos of all colours and sizes.  Yeah, those are landfill-friendly.  No one ever throws away a dildo.

It made sense there would be so many.  Elliot said they only had sex three times in the last year.

Elliot and I had sex 158 times in the last year.  In my ego maniac fantasies, I dreamed he had a diary some where he would put a star next to the days we did it.

Maybe he would put plus signs if it was good.

One plus sign for normal good sex.

Two plus signs for better than you could have with anyone else.

Three plus signs for knock your socks off, Holy Spirit filled tongue talking sex.

Hey.  Maybe I would find that diary when I was snooping some day.  But, that night I was just so upset Elliot felt he had to be in control and invited all those people over without telling me.

I fell on the right side of the bed on my tummy and grabbed the novel off his bed side table.  It was the novel he and I were reading together.  Well, I wasn't reading it as fast as him.  He's smarter than me, okay?  I can't get past the fact "Dry Beaver Creek" here in town has water in it, let alone, read too many pages at once in 'our' book.

I like the idea of reading the same book with Elliot.  At times I think of him intelligently naked under the covers and with his reading glasses on.  He looks sexy in his dark reading glasses and his dark hair.  Which I know he dyes but he won't admit it to anyone.  Maybe even Rena doesn't know.  But, I doubt it.  She's quite clever, Elliot's wife, Rena.

I am not sure how anyone can look intelligently naked, but Elliot pulls it off.  Like he's shy and reserved with everyone else, but with me, I bring something out in him that makes him know I accept him just the way he is, so he feels better about himself.

Hell, he's just cocky about himself with me; confident, somewhat bossy and intelligently naked.

I know I could reduce him to tears, but I just won't.

He trusts me, even when I don't trust myself.

As I was reading on the bed, my skirt was up and let my thighs show.

I heard the bedroom door open.

I wanted Elliot to come in and put his hands on my back and put his face between my legs and talk to me.

I kept waiting.

Then I wondered if he had invited one of his students in to look at his pouting old girlfriend.  I thought they might be standing in the doorway watching, laying there on my stomach, my lower lip stuck out to Mexico, my skirt up like a school girl.

I imagined him saying, "See, here, she's pouting 'cause she didn't know you all would be here.  Maybe we'll show her what for, you and me."

It was so quiet.

I thought it might be that Elliot was mad and was going to punish me.  Not speaking to me was punishment.  He knew I would throw a fit.

I could wait.

I was ready at a moment's notice to throw my fit.

All women can kill you.  This is something all women should know.  Maybe we should tell the men too.

Was he watching me?  Was it even him at the door?

I shouldn't turn over and look because then I let Elliot or the stranger at the door have control.  If I kept acting like I didn't care they could see my thighs and if I didn't care they were watching me read, then I was still in control.

So, I kept reading.

Damn.  I just couldn't hold on and glanced over my shoulder to see Elliot standing there his one leg crossed to make a triangle in the doorway.  He had taken his shoes and socks off.  He had ran his hands through his hair and it was messy.

He looked pissed.

Pissed as in angry, maybe even pissed as in a few drinks past his limit.

"You are laying on my side."

"That is your surprise," I said with emphasis on the 'surprise' bit as I was still so angry.

"Why do you have to be so difficult?"  He took his belt out of his pants.

I knew he wasn't going to do anything, though.

He knew better.

He came in to the bedroom, leaving the door open, carrying his belt toward the bed, smacking it together as your daddy would before giving you a right spanking.

"You better not, Elliot!" I turned sideways and managed to kick at him.

"What's this about 'gangster sex' ?" He asked sitting on the edge of the bed.

"It was just a scene in a movie." I said tossing my hair pretending to be aloof.

"You want to re-enact the scene?  Slap me."  He dared me with his teeth showing.

"Your damn students are out there, Elliot, and you're such a stupid fuck leaving the door open even."

"You shit.  You talk to me with no respect."

"I don't have any, and the belt, the belt, is going to get in our way." I tried to grab for the belt as he pulled it away.

 "You are laying on my side."

Lá Bealtaine

Lá Bealtaine
@aladreth
copyright 2007-2012



She said,
"Marry me
this May"

he said,
"Let's try
it out first,"

they had a
broom-stick wedding,
pledged their love
for one year

She wore a red dress
for fertility
they clipped their hair
and buried
it in a silver box
under a Willow tree
where the creek ran

She kept her home
She was no property
of a male,
no, she would stay independent

if they had a child
during that first year
he would raise it
She would be free
from that worry

She brought a box of salt
and a head of garlic
to the door
Goddess Aine blessed
their union

Sister Rowan
danced around the maypole
She tied tight
the phallic symbol
with her colourful ribbons
flowing and flying
around
and around

Flora brought
Nosegays & Tussie Mussies
their buds knotted
and tucked in
baskets and thrown
over the well
and in to the springs

It was a lovely day,
It was a lovely union.

***

What really happened:

She got fat, he left
his dirty underwear
all over the floor,

the hot water tank leaked
consistently enough
to bring them madness,

the mother-in-law
called her a bitch
and said, "Oh, I didn't
mean a bitch-bitch,
I meant she was
like a female dog."

he had his nose in
another girl's fanny,

she joined a sewing circle,
learned how to properly cast
a spell that would make him choke
on pears

which he never ate anyway
so what good was it.

Three Days Minus Jena

Three Days Minus Jena


(previously published)
copyright @aladreth antionette brown



He was beautiful.  Ted Danson beautiful.


Well, okay, Ted isn't totally beautiful, but I'm sure his wife, Mary Steenburgen, thinks he's just fine. 


I bet Flagstaff, Arizona thinks he's beautiful, as he was raised near there and they love their 'boy-made-good.'


I bet all those environmental places he works with loves him and finds great beauty in his little white toothed soul.


God, what am I doing defending Ted's beauty and getting off the story? 


Let's just say this man was far too beautiful for me and my granny panties, as Oprah likes to call them. 


The beautiful man, as he was over me, pulling my jeans off of me, got me to thinking.  I kept worrying he would be judging those too normal and nice peach cotton panties, so I slipped them off as quickly as possible.


He wasn't judging, though, he was looking straight in my eyes.  I thought it quite gentlemanly of him.


Or perhaps the straight-in-the-eye thing was animal like two alpha wolves mating, teasing, taunting each other.  I remember how we were tugging and yanking and ripping at each others clothes.  One of the buttons on his lovely dark purple dress shirt hit me in the lip. 


No biggie.  I survived. 


Yes, I survived to tell another to tale. 


Oh, the songs that were playing in my head that night he showed me how to spit Brandy right out of the bottle in to the sea. 


It was like I was spitting right smack dab in my mother's face, you know. 


I imagined her like one of the Titanic survivors in a life boat half filled on the black water.  Unsinkable Molly Brown meets naughty night time daughter.


Then my beauteous Ted look-a-like, he'd put a lit flame from a gold 70's half naked woman lighter in the stream of my Brandy and fire would come forth just like I was Goddess Gaia spewing the earth in to existence.


This motel was on the ocean.  Yes, salt and sea.  Right there.


A cheeky sign on the door leading to the dock read, "Caution to all drunks or dizzy people, this door opens directly to THE OCEAN.  Be careful to not fall in.  No lifeguards or night watchmen on duty."


And it shook and swayed, just like any dock would do, but with the door open from our room, I was shy and embarrassed all over again.


"Can we shut the door, Ken?" I asked.


See, his name was short one syllable like, "Ted," but it was, "Ken."


"Who is going to be walking on the dock at one o'clock in the morning?" he wanted me to explain.


"I don't know, darling, but I'm sure we aren't the only ones awake and while I doubt anyone would be too frightened to see your old arse twisting above me, I seriously doubt they'd want to see my fat bod'."


Ah, he argued.  Said something about how he adored my body and loved me too. 


He finally gave in to me, though, and pushed the door, throwing his leg off the bed and hitting it with the back of his heel, but not too hard, he left it open a crack and coaxed me to 'be loud.'


"You don't want them to see you, but who cares if they *hear* you?" 


Where, oh where had that girl gone, the one, who less than ten years ago didn't care what anyone thought of her looks and never cared if she ever saw Ken, Ted, John, Bob, or whatever their names were again? 


Oh, all the time during her demise, there were signs.


Signs. 


Yes, no one can stay at the top.  All these men telling me I was the best at whatever it was they would be talking about at the time.  The funniest, the best voice, the best writer, the most beautifully decorated home, the fanciest car. 


How did I turn out to be such a sorry sack then?


One said I was the best dominatrix he had ever submitted to.  One said the sex he had with me was the best he had ever had.  He even went as far to say it was better than anything he had ever done in his life, including the most expensive drugs.  One man said I was his drug. 


One said I was beautiful. 


Not just cute, mind you, but the big word.  The one word hardly no woman believes.


But, I don't know where those men are now. 


Ken, who didn't even care about my granny panties, received a telephone call that night.  It was the front desk telling him his credit card wouldn't take another night. 


I mean, to give him the benefit of the doubt, the place was quite expensive.  You can't stay right on the ocean and not expect to pay a hefty fee for powerfully awesome God enriched scenery. 


As I lay next to him running my fingers down his chest while he talked with the front desk clerk, I thought of how much I had available on that one pretty credit card, the platinum one with red roses.  Even my credit cards were romantic sunsets and flowers.  I wanted at least one more day and night with drunk Ken.  I could tell myself later the only reason he was with me was because of the Brandy.


Well, now, it had come to this.  I had to pay for the room and I was in quite a stressful rush around to get out before check out, which was 11am the next morning.  I didn't want to pay for another night. 


At the end of the day, sex with Ken wasn't worth it.  Sex with anyone wasn't worth paying so dearly for it.


I had a short moment of sanity. 


Maybe this is why I decided to take a sabbatical with the nuns.  I mean, "The Nons." That's what they called themselves.  They were witches, I suppose. We called each other Sister This and Sister That. 


Women are so different from men.  Women you can talk to and they will give you advice.  They give such wonderful advice that they even preface it with, "Well, I can't tell you what to do." Dot, dot, dot. "But, here's what I think you should do."


Oh, yes, women.  Quite frankly, they will try to heal you and Lord knows I need healed. 


Men, they make me laugh and they can be so romantic.  I love those two things about men.


Women are more straight forward.  I came right out and told Jena I was a sex fiend and I told her how I couldn't live for a month without it.  No matter how pretty The Nons Sanctuary was.  No matter how many Swedish massages they offered and no matter how many little mystical spells they cast on me. 


Jena was a future teller.  I hate to say she was a fortune teller because seldom did she inform you money would be coming your way.


Jena was the one who told me Ken or someone like Ken was going to kill me.  She came right out with it.  She didn't pull punches one bit.  She said things were so attached with men's egos and one day I was going to break one or make him jealous or say the wrong thing and he was going to just do me in.  Jena sounded almost like my dad, for a second there.  He was always warning me that one day, yes, one day, my smart mouth was going to get me in trouble.


I suppose everyone can predict a little bit of the future.  Like I can tell you with eighty percent accuracy when the phone rings who is going to be on the other end. 


Our government uses remote viewers and from what I understand they are only accurate forty-eight percent of the time. 


This means I can see the future better than government employees can.


I'm proud of that fact. 


So, there.


Ain't no shame in my game, you know, and all that.


Well, a few times, I suppose, I have prophesied what is going to happen in someones life. 


Maybe it's my greatest fantasy to be a prophet. 


Jena said I could be a prophet at The Nons, if only I devoted myself to a month in their service. 


"But can I get fucked?"  That was my greatest concern.


"You're the prophet," she said with a slightly upturned lip.  The clever bitch.


I can tell you when it will rain by looking at the moon and I sometimes dream of fatal transportation crashes before they happen and trips before I make them, but I didn't know for sure what would happen at The Nons.


It wasn't until recent I found out not everyone dreamed of airplanes crashing.  I thought everyone dreamed those dreams.  I was at a steak house with a lot of my family and friends when I found I was the only one. 


I quickly asked mother to defend me, "Oh, mom with all those nightmares you say you have, tell me, you got to dream about airplane crashes, don't you?" 


No, she said she hadn't had occasion to dream of airplane crashes and gave me that look like, "Did I give birth to this girl?" 


So, I shut up.


One time I gave some money to a lady in a card anonymously.  I gave it to a guy and told him a story about when I sat down, I found it in my seat but it was addressed to the lady.  He took it to her.


When I wrote the card out, I don't know what I said exactly but I remembered it had come from God or an angel and that was enough for me.  It's like the old saying, "When E.F. Hutton speaks, I listen."  


I just wrote and wrote.  I didn't question what I was writing about. Even when I was going on and on about gas.  I thought I was just giving a lady some money for some petrol so she could get around. 


In a couple of days, however, she was standing outside her trailer smoking a cigarette, when she heard a noise.  The first thing that came to her mind was the anonymous ranting and raving in the card and she put out her cigarette and ran, as the place was exploding from a gas leak. 


Who cared about the money I gave her.  Hallelujah, her life was  saved because of my card.


At least that is the story she told.  She didn't know who had sent the card but she made sure to tell everyone that whoever had sent it was a, "Prophet of God." 


I liked the way that sounded and repeated it whenever I would get the date right it was going to rain or when I knew who was going to be the next to go off "Survivor." 


So, at The Nons, I became known as Sister Rachel, Prophet of God, recovering sex addict.


It was only a bunch of middle aged, overweight women but they sure and hell knew how to practice magic. 


What a September that was. The first I enjoyed in a very long time.


Before then, the month of September was like a bag of shite, sans bag.


September was when my dad died, you know and September was when two planes flew in to the buildings across from my old work place.


September was when my matriarchal kitty cat died and September was when my sister died and September was the month of the fires. 


September was the month I found a lump in my breast, September was when I was so sick I thought I might die.  Hell, I wanted to hit myself right in the area of the pain, so hard, to make me feel something different.  I might have even, for a second there, thought death would be a relief.


September, oh, yes, that was when years before more grief and sorrow happened I had prophesied it with one of those remote viewing drawings.  Well, that's what they called it, but I just think it was a coincidence.  Maybe I just expected bad things to happen in the month of September and that they did. 


But, I never expected my father or sister to die.  No.  Dad even said he'd be back as he kissed my cheek when I was all bundled up in an afghan on the couch and I believed him because big strong guys don't die.


And my sister?  Oh, my.  Well, we had just got back from a trip up north, and sure, she seemed to have some trouble breathing in the high altitude, but I never, for a second, thought anything was wrong with her.  Two days after our return, she was dying.  Her face was in my lap, drooling, laboring to live and me wailing and denying the entire thing. 


"This can't be!!! Not her!!!"


She had her band.   We were her band members.


We never sang together after she died.


Truth be told, we never sang at all after that.


Ah, fuck the memories. 


The Nons promised me a lot of things. 


Jena promised me more.


"Do you want to get healed?"


"Yes."


"Then you need to do what you have never done before."


"Well, I've never bit anyones nipples so hard they bled."


That was me thinking I could 'get over' once again with my sex-talk and my fantastical thinking.  All witches, I mean nuns, should be nymphos.  Easy peasy score, I thought.  Seriously, that was my idea.


"I meant like running and eating raw berries and seeds," She casually said back.


"Don't tell me no one has sex up here in the mountains, all the trees, all the ropes," I protested, "And, I don't run.  My tits are too big and I'm too fat. I will certainly die if I put myself in that much motion."


"Sounds like you have discovered what you must do then."


"I thought I only needed to give up Ken 'cause you think he's going to kill me, and men in general?"


"That too."


Running and no cock. 


It was to be a long month.

my heart

“Yet I was a fool to fancy for a moment that she valued Edgar Linton's attachment more than mine -- If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years, as I could in a day. And Catherine has a heart as deep as I have; the sea could be as readily contained in that horse-trough, as her whole affection be monopolized by him -- Tush! He is scarcely a degree dearer to her than her dog, or her horse -- It is not in him to be loved like me, how can she love in him what he has not?”  - Heathcliff - Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte



my heart
by @aladreth antoinette brown
copyright 2012


mankind, when he is losing...
grasps
the balloons the man lover
tie to the bar on the back
of his truck
(three blow to the sky,
signaling becky's death again)
gold, pink, white...
some anniversary I am sure,
he's grasping

I'm grasping - I should
surrender,
Lord.

My heart -

deep inside,
below mounds of breast
with blue lines - milk from
Esdras vision -
under all -

My heart -

it bleeds - hodgepodge
balls on my ovaries and feet,
a goddess smiles ...
whispers ...
where?

oh, on a dock
under a warm sun ...
or floating with a bird on
a marshmallow cloud
Rising.

you gave up
for me -
let me reward you
somehow ...
pay you ... for your kindness,
perhaps kiss the tip
of your beautiful cock.

Let me tell you of my
bibliomancy -
you begin to play, to give in ...
to my silliness, my genre
of earth magic ...
(you do your own, you know)
then ... you see ...
it's real
and I must remember
a prayer of Christ,
an admonition to Martha,
imaginary play of
Ann of Green Gables,
and of course, dreams.

but more ...
than anything
I must remember
my heart,
my heart is weak and foolish
and caring -

God never let me lose
the heart of an artist,
an empath,
a half crazed obsessed lover ...

fixed within my mind
are only ticks, tricks, trickles
from my heart - like electrical shocks -

dear, I fear -
(in my best catherine voice)
oh, I knew I would die
from some heart related
illness - now i'm grasping to live, love
... let go
... surrender

for my heart tells me -
I am not the sum
of 24 hours of labor,
I am not the sum
of marions and fishwives,
cunts or pain

I am the sum of that
beautiful heart -
my life
encompasses
wearing it
on my sleeve,
letting it rule me ...
feeling every single
breath of sorrow and joy

I should delve past
that mound of breast milk
laden flesh
-- down
deeper
to expose
my greatest asset;
yes, yes, yes ...
that silly bitch of a heart

(maybe dye my hair red as well,
a good dye job fixes a lot)

but, oh,
where are my words, my
paints, my feelings?
They are there ...

In my heart.

***

12.05.12
dedicated to the man who listens to me cry ...
(and laugh)
- stephen shaw

You Can Write

"Writing is like getting married.  One should never commit oneself
until one is amazed at one's luck." - Iris Murdoch

You Can Write
copyright @aladreth

You can write whatever you like ...
You can write what loves you,
what presents your dizziness
          and naivete,
your agora knowledge of erotic prison beds

You can write come late afternoon
church bells, jam jars and wild cherry bush,
flickering bees in limousines

You can write naked up against the alley wall
green glitter nail polish
and open cuts

You can write a prescription
for almond flavoured arsenic mixed well in Mint Julep
and grilled nopales in New Mexico
in a nearly full moon with power tools
          and motion sensors

You can write a paradise's morning fog,
disobedient slipping floorboards
and Vanitas, baby, Vanitas.

You can write a wink, a singing flood,
the first bird in to the world,
All your charms and wits tiptoeing by

You can write the last falling jewelry piece
in a Zen built house with brass telescope
You can write curiosity shoppes and red carpets,
Columbines, Stamens, boxes of babies, poet sculptures

You can write one more tequila,
tossed pair of panties,
an opening within an opening,
four pink bunnies riding shot gun in a
Big Rig with vibrating plaid thermos mugs

You can write a Woman in
           to a tree,
You can write Bob Dylan songs,
You can write me ...

Michael Jackson Should Live In The Heart Of Everyone

Michael Jackson Should Live In The Heart Of Everyone

© @aladreth antoinette brown - previously published



Michael Jackson should live in the heart of everyone. Yes. Like Jesus.

In a Greek tragedy I recall, Orpheus looks back for one final glance at the ghost of his lover.

I can't tell you how we met, but I can tell you that we slept together.

A day comes and goes and within it there are moments we clearly detail in our mind. As we age, receptors in our brain click quickly during the strangest times to remind us to remember a vivid colour, a street alley, a community involvement. There are different legacies. Sometimes we are the tragedy. Sometimes we are the buffoon. More than likely we succumb to some type of self-preservation by making ourselves in to a hero instead of a crazy person. How sad we cannot be honest. I want to be honest, however things flash in and out.   I can't remember every single detail.

I do remember the exact moment, the first thrust, when I cheated on everyone else in my life and I said in my head, "I can never go back." I cried in the bathtub that lonely night. Part of me was trying to hold on to the innocence I had before. Part of me was trying to keep this new and exciting life I was involved in.

I could not go back but I could not keep up the intensity. When you are touched by a genius, a beautiful soul, a true artist, there are no words to describe the feelings. There is a plant in the desert that only blooms once every 100 years. There are souls who pass through us who will never pass through us but once. They don't come around once a year or once in a lifetime. They come around but once.

I'm not sure too many young people will understand this, but as you age, you begin to see the old soul in yourself and others. Some folks go in to orbit and others burn up on the ground. Things happen to people. Things wear you down.

First off, everything goes fine. Your childhood is great. You get through high school without getting your ass kicked once. You might even graduate from college and then some medical issue takes over your life or your parents get sick and sort of insane and you have to witness their decline. People die. People get accused of things they didn't do. People get fucked over all around you and little by little it tears your skin off.

You judge from a different perspective when you get older. You either become a nasty old bitch or you realize if it were only public opinion that convicted you, we would all be in the hoosegow.

I have changed my mind a lot of times in the last two decades. I'm only adamant on a few things. One being there is a lot of grey. The eye can see sixteen different shades of grey.

There is much, much grey.

Now, in a one-two punch of catastrophic proportions, the earth groans with rude ass cunts, two real gang members, matriarch bones and knife cut dance moves.

Of course, this will involve a silly story. What else would you expect? There are not enough of the near billion stories of normalcy and charity. No. It's easier to speak of plastic, high speed car chases, lions, tigers and bears.

Three water tanks were on the right side of us. They provided water very high in nitrates to the town that was below us. We were on the top of the canyon, totally naked on a quilt, smack dab right in the middle of a deserted county road.

Helicopters were in the distance.

"Are they here for us?" I asked, worried about my exposed body.

"They belong to us," Not too truthfully he replied. They belonged to him.

Nothing belonged to me except a beautiful pair of earrings with my birthstone amethyst and diamonds. No doubt, they are still the most expensive item I have but I can't worship them in public. I can only be my sensitive self in private.

In our decrepit nakedness in the great outdoors, I still thought of us as those little doll cartoon pictures from the 70's.

"Why don't I have one of those?"

"Do you water the garden with that?"

"So, what is THAT for?"

Those doll cartoon pictures from the 70's had the weirdest belly buttons.

The military were performing their exercises in the clear blue sky. Pretty white planes so far up in the sky and I was ashamed of my nakedness. I think I have great breasts and cute feet, but other than that, I'm not happy with anything else. I was afraid but I wanted to be free and open that day. To prove something.

We were in the middle of very passionate things and he would quote Plato, "Come then, and let us pass a leisure hour in storytelling, and our story shall be the education of our heroes," and I would laugh.

We went naked sky diving. Yes, naked sky diving. I don't expect you to believe any of this. I would be happier if you did not.

We landed hard. I was terrified of landing on a snake. He assured me I wouldn't. I thought I saw my first boyfriend in an astronaut suit behind us but it was just a stunt double practicing in the jet pack.

We got dressed after landing on the desert floor. A car was waiting. We went to a place called "Three Arrows." There were three arrows sticking right up out of the ground there. No one was around except the wife managing the store, the husband fixing the fence and a half black lab dog rummaging the aisles. A body guard stood outside of the store and we bought a lot of things inside. Things we didn't need. One thing I wanted, though, was a small wooden box with a piece of turquoise layered on the top. There was a native drawing and some type of story inside. I think it talked about putting things in the box and leaving them there. Like a God Can. Every culture has a twelve step programme and every culture has a bible. He bought it for me.

I petted the dog and played with his dirty bandanna, twisting it around and around to figure out which way it would look the best. And watched the genius touch things gently with his fingertips as he walked the cement floors of the store. He touched them as he was sucking in their elements to his body. He touched them with love and admiration and half confusion as he had never seen the things before.

Some do not believe me and I don't want to argue about things I know to be true. I don't want to argue about things I know to be false. Hell, at this point, I don't want to argue about things I don't even know anything about. I used to date a gun dealer and shoot machine guns. I dated a Nobel Prize recipient. He had a car that would detect skunks in the area and roll your windows up for you.

I'm too boring now for anyone to imagine I used to be free and thin and lovely.

Throughout the years, I saw myself again many times.

I was the black cat on the piano of the girlboy, the half-mass rock, hot wax relinquished hands of the loneliest child heart.

I was the skeleton sob, God, a wail, zipper on whacked niceness, pillows to fuck the press, to be married to blackness and all signed up for a doctor of divinity.

I was the scream off the wrist, "Love me! Love me!" I was the perfectly formed 'O' mouth.

I was polite, gentle and shy. But, I'm going to get right fucking awful now.


The worse thing, the worse thing has happened; no chance to redeem.

No chance to redeem.

I Was Your Free

I Was Your Free
copyright @aladreth antoinette brown


It was a Gold Box Meditation Weekend,
and like homeless outsiders
we packed one wine,
three sparkling ciders
(for the AA members),
one black leather bag,
massage bars in silver tins,
poppers, a book of secret history,
and our Words on Words.


For fifteen minutes we compared
descendants of malcontents,
morality's brew,
Daedalus and zip,zip,zip.


We were clearly at stake,
on the gender front;
exciting, angry, edgy,
suspicious of all beauty.


But, Listen ...
to what two say,
they are strangely disturbed - but
perfect in their own way ...


Eastern boy, jazz page-shell shocked-mother lover
with his blistering chaos,
swaggering bluster and
Western Woman, unstable
as the Earth's shaking axis, preaching
her ridiculous,
"Class For Girls."


They know ...
Our world is bigger,
more interesting,
with LED lights, door pulls,
and Astroturf.


They love Cardinals who confess
their sins to Call Girls,
Bahaman Broke Bound Babes,
and Halloween's foreclosed flashing eye rings,


There's no theories here ... nothing
tremendous at stake.


We are our art.


"What a kid I was," She said,
And he replied, "I was your free."

The Brothers

The Brothers

The Brothers was previously published by aladreth antionette brown under her other name :)
copyright  2009,2010,2011,2012



Jim and Elaine lived in a nice small house with their two dogs. The house was surrounded by beautiful pine trees and it hung over a ledge. The ledge over looked the Pacific Ocean.

Northern California was their home and they loved everything about it. The beach was deserted most times of the year. Every so often there would be drifters walking on the beach and at least twice a week her husband's brothers would bring their girlfriends over to the beach for amorous adventures.

Elaine loved her binoculars.

The brothers didn't know she was watching them through her binoculars. She would go out on the back redwood deck with a tall glass of orange juice, sit in the lounge chair, and quite enjoy herself when the brothers were around.

Jim was far better in the romance department than both of the brothers put together. She could just tell. But, that didn't stop her from watching the brothers through her binoculars.

Tim was the younger brother in his late 20's. He was very tall and sinewy. Tommy was the middle brother in his late 30's. He was cute and sweet and helpful. She liked him. Elaine's husband, Jim, was in his 50's.

Jim was just perfect for Elaine. They had met at her office twenty years ago. She was barely 22. It felt as if he had scooped her up and solved all her problems. For one, she didn't have to work any longer. Secondly, she had a nice home and it was paid for. Her friends, twenty years later were still struggling to get a nice home, let alone one that didn't have a mortgage.

She sort of watched the brothers grow up. They were both younger than her and it was interesting to watch them with their lovers.

Tim had his own style with the ladies. Through the binoculars she could tell he would push them down fully clothed on the sand and then undress in front of them. He would stand stark naked towering over them. Elaine couldn't hear him above the wind and ocean waves but she had learned to read his lips. He would say, "Do you want some of this?" and then he'd pull up their skirts and pull aside their panties and just go at it. All of the women Tim brought to the beach would be fully dressed on the sand and he would be totally nude. Elaine watched him do this so many times she knew when to slip her hand down her jeans or pull her own panties to the side. When he asked, "Do you want some of this?" She'd respond from her redwood deck perched way up on the side of the hill, "Oh, yes, Tim, I do!" and "Yes! Yes! Give it to me, Tim!"

When Elaine was finished, she would leave the binoculars on the side table and just relax. She would sip her orange juice and breath deeply the air from the pine trees and the salty ocean and sometimes even her own sated desire, the glutted smell of satisfaction. She would think. Sometimes she would bring a book out to read and would giggle to herself that she was right above the lovers and she had already completed the task they were still bumbling along to finish.

Tommy was different with his women. Elaine would get a slight sunburn watching Tommy through the binoculars. It was a good pain, though. Tommy was sweet. He would always bring a blanket from the truck. He would sit with the women on the blanket. They both would be full dressed to begin with and he would whisper in her ear and stroke her hair and run his hands over her neck. Sometimes Elaine would see him running his fingers in circles over the inside of the ladies wrists or he would feed them fruit from baskets with red checker print lining. Elaine enjoyed watching Tommy. He was serious about foreplay. She would mimic his hands. His hands would become her hands and she would do exactly to herself what he was doing to his lady. She had dreams of what words he might be saying to the women. She could tell the women were happy as they would lean back their heads and laugh or toss their hair over their shoulders and smile.

Elaine loved her binoculars.

Then, one day, the most horrible thing happened.

The worse thing ever happened.

Jim died.

It wasn't exactly unexpected. Elaine had rehearsed his death in her mind a thousand times.

Somewhere she had read if you think of the most awful thing and worry about it it would be easier for you to handle when it actually did happen, so that's just what she did.

Jim was twelve years older than her so it was inevitable. Women live longer than men as well.

Every time Jim was late from work she would concoct all sorts of scenarios. Maybe there was a gas explosion, a drive by shooting, a 24 car pile up.

When Jim's early demise occurred it was the number one killer of men. Heart disease. Nearly silent. Jim was doing yard work and just dropped dead.

Elaine found him and none of her dress rehearsals for death prepared her for the reality. He was cold and that was not Jim. Jim was the warmest man alive, the dearest and best guy ever. He was funny and so alive - but not that late summer day. He was cold. He was dead.

Suddenly, the world as she knew it no longer cooperated with her. The world was working against her. Literally plotting. Out to get her. All the people she met were total cunts. They weren't worth the time of day. They were rude-ass cunts. How dare they go on with their lives when Jim's was over?

Elaine stopped eating. Why should she get to eat when Jim could not? He was rotting away, food for the worm. Why should she enjoy even a morsel of yeast free flat bread let alone a scrumptious cream cake? She lost 60 pounds almost immediately. It could have been marketed as the greatest weight lost secret. The grief diet. Wasting Away with Grief 101. Class in Room 1240. 450pm. Tuesday.

The dogs were grieving too. She didn't know how to help them so most days they would all three just lay around moping.

Other days she would sit and cry holding on to Jim's pictures and the last shirt he wore. She would carefully wrap and unwrap the items in his pants pocket when she found him.

She had wrapped the contents in one of his handkerchiefs. It was like a penny and a quarter were pure gold. Like a feather and rock with flecks of turquoise were the most special treasure in the world. She knew he would have shown them to her that evening and would have said, "Look what I found while I was digging in the back yard!" But, Jim was silent. Jim never said anything ever again.

There was no such thing as ghosts because if there were Jim would have come back to her. So fuck John Edwards, International Psychic Medium. Just fuck him. Fuck Demi Moore and her pottery scene. Fuck Patrick Swayze in the alley. Fuck them all.

Tim and Tommy would come around and they would help her. They told her, "We won't let this place fall down around you just because you want it to."

So, they would nail up things, dig things out, install things, hang things up, change light bulbs, screw things in, screw things out, move things around, plug things in, unplug things.

This grief predicament carried on for a great long while. Her tears were like a hurricane lurking off the Gulf Coast. It was coming, oh, yes, it was coming, just how severe it would be when it barraged couldn't be determined. But, yes, it would strike. Her sorrow much like the Bermuda Triangle, you knew you would disappear but just didn't know when. So, people stopped coming around. Who wants to be sucked in to the Bermuda Triangle of Sorrow? You have to be brave to like Hurricanes and you have to be adventurous to want to visit the Triangle. Let's face it. How many truly brave and adventurous souls are left?

Oh, "The Brothers" would still come around but they didn't like to talk about Jim or even allow her to. The thought of her breaking down in front of them was too much and besides they already knew she was falling apart at the seams.

Try as she could to suppress it, she still wanted to use her binoculars. Part of her mind would say, "You were cheating on Jim when you would do those nasty things on the deck!" And part of her mind was begging for some release.

Elaine started to wish she was living in bible times when the brothers always married the widow.

"Widow."

That word.

She changed her name on "Chat" on the computer to "Widow." She didn't really care what type of man she would attract. It was her "brand" now. At the end of the day, what did it matter? She had been tattooed with "Widow." all over.

No man in his right mind would ever want to compete with Jim, who after his death had become a Saint to the Nth Power.

The only close comparison were "The Brothers." They had the same blood as Jim and anyway, she was horny. Yeah, it sounded crass but primal instincts do not die and she found herself back on the redwood deck watching for the brothers on the beach.

They didn't come.

She thought about it, "I suppose they are feeling it almost sacrilegious to have sex on their dead brother's beach!"

She started wearing nothing but her robe when Tommy would stop by and sometimes she would unbutton the last two or three buttons and cross and uncross her legs in front of him.

One day in particular, she gave him a full frontal shot. As he was getting out of his truck, she met him on the porch outside.

He looked.

Damn straight he looked.

Elaine took her time buttoning the robe back up and didn't even apologize. "Write it off to the crazy crackpot kooky widow," she said to herself.

One day, Tommy asked her what she missed most about Jim. She answered without thinking about it, "His full body massages and pedicures."

Tommy just looked at her.

Tommy could fix the lights in the kitchen. He could nail up the bits of awning on the front porch that were coming loose.

The full body massage, the pedicures? Out of his league. This was Elaine. This was his sister-in-law. His 'big sis.'

So, days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months. Tommy came by for coffee most mornings. He told her there was a lot of work to do around her place. It was going to keep him busy for awhile he said.

So, he worked around her house.

She wasn't about to charm him or flirt with him. She would give him a peek beneath her robe as she had done before, hoping he'd get a hint but she was just too damn tired to be pretty and lovely. She wasn't about to lean her head back and laugh at his jokes or flip her hair over her shoulder like the girls he had brought to the beach.

She was still grieving Jim and the days of the binocular obviously were gone. She still checked the beach every so often but it must have been a dry spell for the brothers because no girlfriends were ever mentioned, let alone brought to frolic in the sand.

One morning she overslept the alarm. She laid flat on her tummy, almost dead herself. Almost dead to the world.

She felt hands on her feet. In an almost dream like state she thought, "It's Tommy, oh my God, it's Tommy!"

Her satin robe was pulled up to expose her calves, the back of her knees, then her thighs. Hands coarsely ran up her legs.

She slipped one hand under her. She sighed in to her pillow, "Finally."

She was startled to hear, "Do you want some of this?"

It wasn't Tommy! It was Tim!

She tensed up. She was apprehensive.

Then she felt a soft breath near her neck and hands stroking her hair. She turned her head to see Tommy kneeling beside her bed.

He continued to stroke her hair, "I called my brother, Elaine," he said.

"Yes, he did," Tim commented.

Tommy leaned in closer and breathed deeply in Elaine's ear, "I told him we have a lot of work to do here."