somniare.

sometimes, my head explodes

Christmas: defiled December 26, 2007

Filed under: about me,on work — somniare @ 1:49 pm

T’was the night before Christmas and I found myself forced to recall the traditions I’ve cherished for so long. My son Richard, having no part in the whole ordeal, sat downstairs playing his video games as if telling me, “You think I’m moody and self-absorbed NOW?! Just wait, as it’s only just begun!” My daughter Brooke, full of Christmas spirit insisted on reminding me each detail I had forgotten along the way.

“But Mommy! Remember last year we took the stockings down so Santa doesn’t have to jump to reach them!”

“But Mommy! We forgot to make cookies this year! Good thing Santa reeeeaaaallly likes peanut butter, we can give him the pretzels with the peanut butter in them!”

“But Mommy! What if the milk gets weak?!” I’m sure she was meaning to say “warm” but the phrasing made me think of some sort of bizarre spiked milk that would become less potent if left to sit too long. Santa could have used some spiked milk, that’s for sure.

She reminded me that we just HAD to write a letter. This year, she wanted to write a novel since her pride at being able to write it herself surpassed the desire to hurry to sleep to speed up the process. We bargained over sentences since she was going to make it sound very business-like in her gramatically correct style. “We hope you like the pretzels with peanut butter. We also hope you like the milk. We hope you bring us lots of presents…” There was just way too much hoping going on there, I was forced to conjoin sentences such as “We hope you like the pretzels with peanut butter and the milk…” Richard made a brief appearance to draw some scribbles at the end and let me hold his hand to write his name. Brooke then wanted to draw a picture for Santa. She made a family of three stick figures and all on her own wrote “THE END” over their heads. The end indeed, just the three of us.

We placed the note next to the plate of pretzel sandwiches, went downstairs to pull Richard away so that we could have our annual reading of “T’was the Night Before Christmas”. Of course, Richard wanted no part in it because it didn’t involve a video game of any sort and always meant going to bed afterward. He scurried off and I read the story to Brooke alone. A 10 minute battle of who got to sleep in what bed ensued afterward as both of them wanted to sleep in the other’s room. I put them in their proper places, gave them hugs and kisses and last glasses of water and then trudged back down the stairs to sit in silence.

Opening a beer, I found myself sitting in front of my computer… just like any other night. Hearing Richard put his winter boots over his footie pajamas and stomp to the door to sneak out, I yelled at him to get back in bed. After about 3 repetitions of this, I finally hear, “GRRRRRRR!!!!!!” Followed by the sound of his angrily flicking the light switch off and flinging himself back into bed kicking at the foot board for another 10 minutes. After this episode, all was quiet.

I traded joking text messages with my ex-husband about the antics of the evening which only succeeded in making me feel more lonely. I sat on the phone and drank beer, putting my wrapping off until about midnight. When the distraction was gone, I just cried. I cried for everything I had and lost. Years of traditions and happiness all gone. Yes, I still had my children… but no one to carefully wrap meticulously chosen gifts for in my handmade paper or fill a stocking full of completely ridiculous things I had found throughout the year. No one to lay exhausted with me on the living room floor and stare at the tree upside down in the dark. No amount of wishing could help. Nothing could fill the gaping chasm where my christmas spirit used to lay. Christmas is about family and togetherness… and all I had in that moment was myself.

Christmas morning came. Richard opened one present in his stocking, a video game which he hoarded away into the play room and refused to participate further in opening presents. Brooke raced through the opening of her gifts with super speed. Squealing with delight at how Santa knew JUST what she wanted and spraying thank you’s like a fountain between gasps of joy. It was over quickly as I couldn’t afford mountains of gifts but the elation I saw on her face made up for how quick the moment had passed. I had to wait for my ex-husband to come pick Richard up so that he could help me coerce him into opening his presents. The last thing I wanted was to battle a crying child to receive gifts! So “togetherness” even in the moment of Christmas morning was shattered. No opportunity to sit under the tree and pass presents around, opening in unison.

Dave had brought me a couple of small, yet thoughtful presents which was more painful than nice. We sat outside and had a cigarette as Richard stomped the ice in the driveway with his boots and coat over his footie pajamas. I said my goodbyes and went back inside to bide my time waiting for Ryan to come pick Brooke up. We discovered that the bulb for the TV had broken so we made hot cocoa, brought our mugs to the bedroom and cuddled in my bed to watch one of the DVDs she had gotten. Ryan arrived to pick her up, and we exchanged small presents for each other. Unlike Dave, my relationship with Ryan is a very close one and I didn’t find myself sad during this time. His gifts for me were completely random and perfectly suited for me as usual and he adored the zombie inspired meditation book I had found that just screamed for me to get for him. We said our goodbyes and I went back into the house to get ready for work.

I knew better than to deliberately switch shifts to work on the holiday. I should have known I’d find the same disenchantment there as I had at home. No one had brought food and cameras as we had in previous years. The decorations were sparse and very sad. Everyone had worn their typical scowls due to the abundance of miserable patients. Of course, I found myself with the assignment full of whiny medical patients who shouldn’t have been there in the first place and patients from the intensive care unit who never should have been transferred. I was a glorified waitress, catering to the various excessive “needs” of my medical patients and their families, “I need 3 waters, 2 jellos, and a partridge in a pear tree, thanks!” I can’t forget the guy who’s girlfriend was a bigger headcase than HE was and he had mild retardation! His girlfriend insisted on getting free food by convincing everyone that she was hypoglycemic and if she took the time to go downstairs and purchase food (or god forbid, go HOME to eat for free) she would deliberately fall over on the floor. She demanded a constant supply of ginger ale and crackers throughout her stay, threatening that she would vomit without them. I deducted she was one of those people who invents illness while around people who are ACTUALLY sick. Forget the fact that she was morbidly obese and would have probably resorted to eating the patient if we didn’t bring her food… it was the low blood sugar driving her to consume everything in sight. Yeah, that’s it.

As I’m getting ready to take my dinner, one of the nurses calls out from one of my patient’s rooms (an ICU transfer from earlier), “I need your help! He’s unresponsive!!” Let the games begin. The world’s most incompetent resident arrived to order a barrage of tests, asking me the same questions a million times because apparently memory becomes unimportant when you’re a doctor. I’m trying to do an EKG, get a blood pressure, and tell him for the millionth time the dosage of a drug that was administered. I could go on and on describing the idiocy but I’m going to spare myself from reliving that particular frustration. It was decided to move him back up to the ICU since his lungs were full of fluid and he was barely able to breathe.

After the whole ordeal was finished. I went to dinner 2 hours behind schedule and came back to request that I switch places with the person sitting with a patient on one to one observation. The patient was going through alcohol withdrawal but spent pretty much the whole time sleeping. He did wake up briefly to say, “Isn’t there anything else on besides Christmas shows?” I informed him that he’d be hard pressed to find anything else with it being Christmas and all. He then proceeded to subject me to Deal or No Deal. Horrible show. In fact anything resembling a game show is horrible. Right up there with reality TV and the women’s station dubbed “Lifetime”. Outside of that, he did also have a habit of missing the urinal and instead just pissing all over his bed then sleeping through my struggle to clean him up and change the bed underneath him. I also wonder if dental hygeine had EVER been a concern for this man since with every exhale a rank cloud was expelled from his mouth and swallowed the entire room with it’s horrid stench. From across the room, I was forced to breathe by pulling my arm halfway into my sleeve like a turtle and put my nose into the hole. If he would have fallen into a bit deeper sleep, I would have brushed his teeth while he was out cold. All in all though, it was a perfect way to conclude my Christmas day.

I stopped at the gas station on my way home, purchased a pack of cigarettes with quarters since I am just that poor, then drove the rest of the way home sullenly. I picked up the explosion of wrapping paper from the morning and put it in the garbage bin. I changed into my pajamas and laid in bed, falling asleep to a movie as usual. Just another day come and gone. Honestly, it’s hard to tell if it even happened at all.

 

my sunday best [verbal ensemble] December 24, 2007

Filed under: almost poetic — somniare @ 10:16 am

Words spilled to coat the day,
or maybe I’ll just wear them like a new outfit,
I’ll write them down to get dressed.
My analogies and imagery,
like a polka dot shirt and a plaid scarf,
worn with pleasure to abrade your senses.
My broken sentences
like a hole in one sock and the bent clasp on my bra,
irritating only after the fact
when I’ve gotten too far from home to change.
Exclamations are the tears in my jeans
so that the wind can bite at my knees
and you beg to touch my frozen skin.
Questions can be my curves beneath the chaos,
we’ll leave it at that.
Punctuate for makeup,
commas like the dripping mascara
you thumb off of my cheeks,
and ellipses like my favorite lipgloss,
gently…dab dab dab with a fingertip-
draw attention away from
quotes like spaces between teeth.
My lexicon like a costume party,
hiding flaws and gagging this useless mouth…
yet these careful hands
in the fingerless gloves,
unrestrained for later undress,
there are words that strip just as well…
but it is still morning and I’ve only just begun.

 

in my silence December 22, 2007

Filed under: almost poetic — somniare @ 8:49 am

I wake next to the unsaid words,
like my favorite aborted children
preserved lovingly in formaldehyde.
Their tiny jars tucked nicely beside me,
I rouse them with a kiss.
Good morning my darlings
let me make you some breakfast.
I gather them closely to my chest,
careful not to let one slip.
Downstairs now, I set them up respectful of their natures-
“I’m” and “not” huddle fearfully in the corner,
“just” and “like” sit quietly beside each other,
while “everyone” and “else” kick each other under the table.
My coffee, black with a touch of sweet,
lacks the bitterness I crave.
I pluck “not” from its siblings
and pour it into my cup.
The words and I finish breakfast
in our accustomed silence.
As the caffeine and toxins bubble in my veins
my children float anxiously.

 

dumping some mental sewage December 20, 2007

Filed under: hell is other people,my evolution — somniare @ 1:23 am

I have typed and deleted a total of 3 massive entries to get this anger out of my head now. All I’ve been doing is finding myself tangent ranting in bitterness when I know my words will fall only on those who have managed to not contribute to the apocalypse that results from human interaction. For you few, and you know who you are, I ask you to disregard this as it is not directed to you.

I am full of colorful analogies to depict the imagery in my head as people destroy my hope. Imagine bitterness as a plugged in toaster. Now picture someone you once trusted launching that crude weapon into your bath water. Now imagine bitterness as razor wire. Then picture the hands of a person you loved once laying it carefully in a circle around your bed while you sleep. I could go on and on. My more hopeful and peaceful emotions lately have been no more than buzzing flies around putrid, scurrilous garbage. As I find myself once again ensnared in the morbid web of bitterness, I must unleash bits and pieces before I strangle myself with them.

I have finally, after many wasted years found a path. This road is literally paved in land mines. I’ve been making huge leaps and bounds to reach what was previously thought of as unattainable. There are times I wonder if I am doomed to suffer the consequences of poor decisions and misled actions for the rest of my life. Then there are also moments I appreciate the struggle as bridges to avoid a few of the land mines I may find along the way later on. That is far too optimistic for me at this time I’m afraid. I shoulder the blame for my own circumstances as a general rule but I’m sure as hell not going to blame myself for being the victim of shameless sadism. I mean the twisted joy that people get from watching you eviscerate yourself the second you wake up in the morning, climb out of bed, and find yourself tangled in that razor wire they camouflaged so nicely.

You like my bitterness? Does it make the sun shine a bit brighter in your life to watch me die inside? Congratulations. Enjoy it while it lasts because when I take the sun out of the sky and cram it up your ass, you’re not going to have any reason to wonder why the lights went out. Eventually, after I’ve pulled my disfigured body from this wreckage, I will make you as meaningless as you would have been had your father’s seed been nothing more than a stain on your harlot mother’s sheets. I will lay here, seemingly helpless, but the second you blink your eyes, I will scrape your face from your skull with a rusty spoon.

True bitterness comes without shame. It rises to the surface like pure black oil on the toxic salt ocean Regardless of the turbulent nature of the sea and all external effects, anything haplessly falling into it will perish. Self preservation comes before all else… I’m simply feeding off of it. While the laws of this world save such flesh-wastes from my actually living out my morbid fantasies, there are many much more creative ways to lash out. No need to dedicate your life to watching me suffer because that is a lost cause. Just as I would never dedicate my life to seeking retribution. Nothing pains more than trying and failing over and over. I’m not failing, merely struggling and as I find myself with at least one tangible piece of true happiness, meanwhile those that opted to inflict their idiocy on me will be able to tally yet another fail on their prison walls.

Oh yes, there’s always hope… there’s your optimism.

 

viva verbosity December 13, 2007

Filed under: from the mute to the deaf,hell is other people,my evolution — somniare @ 1:21 pm

Why do the voices of negativity resound so much louder than the inner voices of personal drive? Is it simply because those who are incapable of accomplishing what you are become so hell-bent on bringing you down to their level that they will go to any extent? Or does it simply come down to my having an impressionable mind, easily crushed?

At the pinnacle of my writing frenzy, I was beginning to feel the twinges of insanity. Not the terrible kind where one should be instantly placed in the confines of a straitjacket and dragged off to the asylum, but more the kind where the sense of being driven by a powerful force borders on what I can only describe as a satisfying mania. The insanity I described would be better suited under the description of intensity. Everything I did, saw, felt, discussed… it all triggered my writer’s mind as potential subjects to expand upon, analyze and theorize. For the first time in a while, I was able to release all of the crushing weight of intense thought onto paper. Things which overwhelm became productive for me by immortalizing my thoughts in a tangible form.

This seems like such a positive turn of events for me. The unfortunate matter is that in the beginning stages of development, this ability is impressionable. It was said to me, “You should slow down…” Instant effect. My drive came to an abrupt halt and I’ve been unable to produce anything since. All at once, the self-doubt came flooding back in torrents. My drive found itself underwater without so much as a last breath to sustain it for a few cherished last moments. It is truly amazing how the voice of someone you trust can have such a dramatic affect.

I use writing as my window of communication to the world. I send messages out to those that matter and whether obscure or not, it’s still a matter of necessity. Whether or not interpretation gets lost or not becomes the lesser of two evils when faced with the inability to get anything out at all. Where drive and obsessive writing take the form of mild insanity, it must then be compared to the decomposition of mental health when there’s no motivation to release at all.

In the effort of looking at such a comment more objectively, I do see that the underlying message may have been one sent with my best interests in mind. As in, “Slow down before you work yourself into the ground…” or something of related sentiment. The truth of the matter is that writing be it frequently or in random bursts is part of who I am. Slowing down is not an option. If it chooses to wash over me at a given time, I’ll let it because that’s what is necessary. The quality of the deluge of words spilling forth is completely irrelevant since the birth of Masterpieces can often stem from such ramblings. I find inspiration in the ability to take my feelings and write novellas on a daily basis. These releases over time have no weight to the world, but they perpetuate my evolution as a writer and the potential to bring forth truly inspired work.

Any writer, psychoanalyst, therapist, or book on writing will tell you that writing in times when completely lacking in creative inspiration is just as important as sitting down and letting the Muse take you when it visits. I may find myself obsessively scribbling on any available surface or awake at all hours of the night unable to sleep until I’ve emptied my head in verbose and pointless blogs, but I do so for the greater good. I am here, doing this now as a very loud statement to those who can see nothing more than pointless effort in what I do. Just because you find yourself facing a wall of inadequacy and unable to superfluously dump your thoughts into digestible pieces does not give you license to inflict such deficits on the minds of others. I may be in an impressionable state, but not one lacking vision.

Just in writing this, I find rejuvenation. Even words from the most treasured acquaintances can be devalued to a level of complete uselessness or viewed as something simply misinterpreted to be more discouraging than intended. Intention is useless though as perceptions will outweigh it every time. That is a subject to be approached a bit later.

To be continued… (like it or not)

 

writing- the path to wisdom? December 8, 2007

Filed under: philosophical muse — somniare @ 8:29 pm

While in a writing frenzy about an hour ago, I had to take a random break as something I had written sparked my memory. It had been a while since I had researched the Book of Enoch so it took some major googling to figure out who it was I was thinking of that had been accredited with contributing to the fall of mankind by introducing pen and paper.

The result of my search returned exactly what I was looking for:

Pinem’e (also known as Penemu) –

Excerpt 1: “demonstrated to the children of the people the bitter and the sweet and revealed to them all the secrets of their wisdom. Furthermore he caused the people to penetrate (the secret of) writing and (the use of) ink and paper”

Excerpt 2:“…a onetime holy angel who fell from grace. He is especially vilified in the literature of Enoch, specifically the First Book of Enoch (69), because he taught humanity many terrible things, such as the secrets of wisdom and, worst of all, the use of ink and paper in writing. As a result of this ability, many humans “have erred from eternity to eternity, until this very day. For indeed human beings are not created for such purposes to take up their beliefs with pen and ink”; this may be rather stern denunciation of writing and the field of journalism. Interestingly, Penemu ( is also credited with the ability to cure stupidity.”

It’s strange how things in the back of your memory rise to the surface at such random times. The concept of writing being a contributing factor to the ultimate demise of humanity itself is enough to keep one thinking for hours. Essentially, it’s an enlightening truth. Consider how much of what is spoken escapes memory… but if it’s written down, well the chances of preservation are multiplied tenfold. What we know from lore has mostly been brought to us by an insane game of “telephone”, warped and corrupted from having been verbally transferred time and time again until someone finally wrote it down. Who knows how much of it had already turned to mere myth by then. If you examine that, you then must ponder the possibility of the truths obscured by the title “myth” attributed by man from the beginning. This train of thought could cause the mind to run in circles for hours.

Tangent aside, the spark that initiated the research to begin with were my ideas on the immortalization of thought. As our being is completely lacking in any permanence, it’s safe to assume that every individual has at least some instinctual desire to leave a part of themselves with the world when they are no longer a physical part of it. This is obvious in the drive to simply procreate though this is a baser need and not one requiring higher thought. Why do artists create, why do writer’s write? To leave a mark, immortalize themselves in a way.

I have a mind programmed to assault theory, instinct, and penetrate the surface of what we are already well aware of. As my mind ran with the idea of immortalization, it picked up the question of whether or not writing could do more harm than good. The concept of an inherent evil in the spreading of knowledge through writing almost completely eludes me. Why was it viewed as an ability that humanity should never have gained the aptitude for? Could writer’s block be a punishment from a much higher level? Minds capable of doing extraordinary things being blocked off from their ability… there are countless neuroscientific and psychological analysis regarding this issue but one can’t completely discount the possibility of some arcane force working there.

 

intro/outro

Filed under: almost poetic — somniare @ 12:21 pm

intro/outro [means to an end]

Hello conscious,
sensual and blessed
practiced in guile.
Nice to meet you, intellect.
I am judgement-
alias: intrigue.
Amalgam initiated.

Lingual melange internalized
choking on itself.
Wrapped and stunted,
diffident and affected.
We wish on stars
and convince ourselves to sleep.

The lost art of affection,
a forgotten salvation
from slipping silently unheard.
Coalesce to fill the space-
Fingers intertwined, knuckles turned white.
A gripping deliverance
from abided seclusion.

Life in paradox
out of one, two will survive.
We are not away
but hiding in corners
arms around knees,
swaying to thought rhythms-
contorted minds met of incidence.

Two little voices echoed from the edge
synchronous puerile sobs.
Tears shed in unison
pulled upward toward the sky,
then delayed descent to follow
and fall, indiscernible from the rain.
Who said one was the loneliest number.

What a statement, bringing flowers,
sending pretty packaged death.
They cry, “Join us” from their vase,
knowing we have.
As blooms curl inward
each petal letting go alone,
A fond display of fade away.