Free Memory

I liked the room as soon as I walked in. It looked special and fancy to me, with matching woods in the tables by the sofa and in the frames on the wall. The sofa looked prissy but cozy in a regally-formed velvet way. The walls were the first I could remember that weren’t painted white. They were an oddly compelling green, like the tufted bench at the polished piano. The wooden floors looked spit-shined and were silent, no squeaks. There were crystal bowls and vases filled with colorful flowers and sparkling water. The bowl I remember most held my manna, little wrapped chocolates.

As the old lady slowly led me to the sofa, I could not help but feel I was in a dream. Certainly the home looked like a stylish ranch outside but was a veritable palace inside. What struck me most was the feeling of stepping into another world; a world of clean lines, soft cushions, sweet air, kind smiles, and chocolates. A block or so away was my house- never a home- with shabby furniture, cracked dishes, mismatched glasses, stale air, and angry, cold words.

I wished this lady would keep me longer. I wanted to hear her genteel voice tell me of the beautiful things I had read in children’s books. I was very reluctant to leave. I think she was confused by my hesitation, but she was just one of many who thought they saw my life as a pretty portrait. It’s easy to hide most hurts when people don’t want to see.

Surviving in that other house down the street was partly made possible by the brief views I had of Louise’s home. It often costs to look back but some memories are free.

September 3, 2013 0

Who’s Afraid of Five Minutes?

Can’t stop laughing. Enveloped in smoke, I maneuver through the crowd. Nourishment and refreshment are necessities if I’m to last for the long haul.

The air is rife with quips and guffaws. If I bother to pause, some of the murmuring will coalesce and become real conversation. Since I am neither a meteorologist nor a physician, I’m going to pass up the opportunity to discuss the weather or current ailments. The only observations I could offer would be banal and I have no desire to fall any lower on any social scale, if the scaling was judged by banter.

Wanting to walk with purpose toward the dizzying array of foods I can’t pronounce, I quickly feel I’m wading through a swollen river. Each step is slow. I have to struggle to keep my bearings with the wall of humanity I must pass through.

I can’t feel my feet until I register the pain of someone stepping on them. I danced too long. With abandon. Without a thought. The only truly glorious time I’ve spent tonight was dancing. If dancing is truly like sex, I’ve made love to a whole room of strangers. And at least some of us are sated.

Finally reaching the cocktail party groaning board, I help myself to some morsels and turn to survey the room. Aside from a pseudo-flashback (an instance where I didn’t experience a scene but saw it in a movie so it felt familiar) recalling a party scene in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I feel as though I’m visiting another planet. Who are most of these people? Are there occupancy laws being broken? Is the host a modern Caligula? How did I get here?

Before I start singing Talking Heads songs, I decide to try conversing with some other guests. But other than remarking on anthropological observations on the throng in front of me, I can’t think of a single subject worthy of small talk. So I smile and eat and drink some more.

Aside from some vague notion of my presence being important for business, I forget myself, as in my actual identity, for a bit and just bounce around the room like a giggling, tipsy pinball badly in need of social interaction. Part of my brain just won’t shut off and I register the fact that this night is not all meaningless; each experience outside one’s comfort zone is supposed to aid in growth of some kind. I’m just not sure how eating fancy-schmancy h’ors d’oeuvres, drinking until a future headache is assured, grinding anonymously with another body, and worst of all, enduring and perpetuating small talk- how does one learn or grow from these things? Are there lessons to be gleaned from adolescent discomfort even in adulthood?

When I look at the clock, I see that only five minutes have passed since I crossed the room. Another hour at least then, for appearances sake, and then I can retire to my own humble abode. It may be too quiet sometimes. It may lack the quality of food choices. But I make more sense to myself there. I’ll pop in a movie or maybe read a book. Anything to escape and erase this night.

Before diving back into the fray, I have the thought that I’m most likely not alone with my antisocial thoughts, even at this party. There’s no way to know for certain, but I would wager there are others as desperate as myself to get out of this stifling circus. If only there were socially appropriate signals that we could give each other. If I could come up with a solution, I’d be the pied piper of outcasts and we’d all have smoother sailing.

But then I’d have another social group to navigate. I may as well wave my silent white flag and dig in. It’s gonna be a long night.

August 11, 2013 2

Happy Friday! Read and enjoy this little story as you head into the weekend. Visit this site and find lots of other cool stuff!

http://yareah.com/1851-short-story-we-have-our-orders-by-word-rummager/

August 9, 2013 0

Please –
take a few moments,
check out my story and
also this wonderful site!

http://yareah.com/1827-kierkegaard-and-the-contortionist-by-word-rummager/

August 6, 2013 2

Breathing Deep on a High Wire

She adjusted the strap of her bodysuit. The sequins were digging into her shoulder again. She glanced down at her cleavage, making sure everything was securely tucked away into the costume with just enough of the creamy swell rising above to be enticing but not indecent. Men would inevitably take notice but children of all ages would be mesmerized as she juggled flaming batons atop the high-wire.

As she sat in front of the mirror, she looked at her overly made-up face, resplendent with hues only found in nature on the tails of peacocks. She slicked on one more dab of lip gloss and smiled; teeth were all clear. She ran her fingers down her long, dark ponytail, thankful for the return of her natural color. He had always hated her dark hair so she had bleached it for years. Funny how the light hair made her world seem dark and her dark hair was comforting and made her feel light as a feather. That feeling helped when she had to concentrate on her balance on a thin wire over 100 feet above the ground.

She checked her smartphone for the dozenth time in less than an hour. No message yet. How much longer would she have to wait? The friend that worked for the lawyer was to let her know as soon as the sentencing was handed down. It should have been over long ago. She looked at herself in the mirror again carefully. The makeup covered the smudges under her eyes that betrayed her sleepless nights. As shaky as she felt though, once she climbed that ladder and lit the batons, her nerves were always steady. She woke with a purpose each day: to hear the gasps and claps that let her know her efforts were appreciated. It was something that gave her joy.

BUZZZZ! She jumped involuntarily and checked her phone. “Jury and judge coming back now,” she read.

She closed her eyes, tried to take a deep breath but it got stuck somewhere in her throat. Her mind took her against her will, much as he had done in that cabin, to dark places in the past. Why hadn’t she fought harder or tried to get away earlier? She mentally berated herself again for blaming the wrong person. HE was the bastard who had done this to several other women before her. He had pushed her into believing all sorts of lies including how she was nothing and could never escape. But she had.

Once she had gotten away, she realized she had acquired a set of balls that he seemed to have no use for; in her mind, only an impotent eunuch preys upon those he sees as weak. She sort of laughed to herself and thought, I took his balls as he wasn’t using them, the coward. She had shown bravery as she recounted to police all the details she could recall. She had gone back to the circus as soon as her body had healed, intuitively knowing it would also help heal her soul as well.
She stood and walked to a small flap in the tent. She peeked through and saw the man with the tigers, using a whip to guide them to their spots in the cage. Like a carefully choreographed dance, the powerful yet seemingly languid beasts circled the man and took their spots atop some stacked chairs. So much strength constrained by some bars of a cage! Hopefully soon he too would be held at bay in a cage.

She glanced into the stands and noticed a group of children. A school group, by the looks of the matching bright red shirts they all wore. They were laughing. She craned her neck and saw the object of their mirth: three clowns were chasing and tripping each other in the next ring. She looked back at the children. Their faces were almost glowing. She couldn’t remember feeling a joy that could and should be taken for granted. If not for her friends, she knew she wouldn’t even have the hope of finding that joy again. But as she shed her pain and shared her trials, she connected with others and found everyone had their own tales of woe.

One of the clowns’ wives died last year after a three-year battle with cancer. An animal trainer just found out last week that her husband was leaving her for a bank teller back home. A backup dancer who needs to have knee surgery is worried about insurance. The couple who get shot out of matching cannons together just suffered a miscarriage. So trite but true, friends sharing makes burdens lighter.

Buzzz… Buzzz… She had been daydreaming about her first job as a high-wire act for the circus when her phone buzzed and vibrated on the table.

“Guilty. 99 Years. No parole. Breathe!”

Whoooosh! She could finally release the breath she had been holding. She felt so light she thought maybe she’d float to the very top of the Big Top. Two Years. Over 2,000 miles. Lots of trips up the ladder. Lots of balancing on a thin high-wire.