Short story- The order of the black Dog

THE ORDER OF THE BLACK DOG

My family. Here we all are, sitting around the circular dining room table- flecked with bits of gold. Ma sits under a hanging portrait of this Christmas just gone. Three weeks ago. We are all smiling in it including Poppy. Poppy sits playing with her Annabelle doll, on my husband’s lap. Sat opposite from Ma, closest to the electric fire hearth is Gran. I find myself sitting across from Gran. An iciness breathes mist over us. It separates me from them, cloaks me in a fog. I try to swallow. The air is so thick it chokes me, I’m forced to put my hands to my throat. Nobody notices me.  Nobody notices me the way they used to. I tune in to the conversation-taking place.

‘Of course I’m not suggesting this is your fault.  I should have known. Done more…’ Nan bursts into tears. A cry out for:

 I need attention I’m suffering the most.

My skin bristles. Nan pulls her scarf tighter around her neck, and then throws out a familiar comment about it being draughty.

‘You know I could catch pneumonia with my Asthma.’ She coughs. Ma gets up to put on the electric fire.

‘I didn’t take her seriously. You know what Angie was like?’  Ma’s eyes are red as the rosary beads she is thumbing; she looks over to an unusually quiet Poppy.

‘Did she just do it to spite me?’ How could she just leave her own…?’

 My husband throws a warning look at Ma,

‘Marie, for Poppies sake.  Our Angie suffered more than she let on.’ Ma sits back down. ‘Let’s put on a cartoon, luv?’  Poppy shakes her head.

 She doesn’t look at us.  I look straight at her, willing her to leave this table. Leave this conversation. She lifts her head and looks me dead on in the eyes. I instinctively smile. Eddie and me always stood together when it came to Poppy. Her face is pale, her eyes sunken, her skin is drawn in so tight I can see cheek bones protrude. Beneath her eyes-, veiled shadows betray her youthful face. She clings onto Annabelle, still looking me dead on in the eyes.

‘When’s Mummy coming home?’

 Silence. Her words enmesh with the silence. Her question disarms me. Marks me. The arrow leaves its bow splintering my heart. I open my mouth to scream out as many words as I can. Condensation steams the air distilling me into silence. I reach my hand across the table to grab hers. She doesn’t see me. I glare at my family sitting at the round table. They say nothing. Smothering themselves in sorrow, they witheringly curl inwards. I urge to shake them, uproot them from winters glaze.

-Answer her! Answer my daughter.

Instead, Gran succumbs to a puddle of wrinkled tears, mechanically Ma gets off her chair, attempts to console Gran and naturally it’s  up to Eddie to mediate.  My calm, rational Eddie. His eyes read as vacant –his beard is wild and unkempt.  It’s impossible to read his face. He clears his throat,

‘We’re gonna see Mummy when we give her… say a proper goodbye.’

Gran flounders in her anglers net of remorse.  Great splotchy splashes of grief escape. She wails,

‘She’s with the angels –looking down at you, darling!’

 I roll my eyes. Of course I love her!  Lately, she grates my skin more frequently with her, melodramatics.

– Confess how you truly feel. Relieved!

I’m so fixated on evoking a response from Gran; unnoticed, a light flickers with an intensity to match my own.  Eddie carries Poppy over to the sofa, sits her down to watch a cartoon. He covers her with a blanket then kisses her forehead.

‘We’ll see mummy soon? To say goodbye?’

 Eddie nods his head, his voice cracks.

‘Aye, love.’

‘When will mummy come back from saying goodbye? In spring? My teacher says it’s winter – everything goes to sleep like her?’ Poppy points to ‘Sleeping Beauty’ on the television.

 Eddie focuses on the image. The Prince is just about to kiss Aurora on the lips. He turns his head away from the television before he can see Aurora wake up to her true loves kiss. He grinds down on his teeth. Poppy’s eyes remain transfixed on the television. Eddie gets up, crosses the dining room table; I’m compelled to follow him, I have to stop him. Tell him I’m still here. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve so much to tell him.

 -There is no God! We were right all along. Religion is for people who can’t think for themselves.  We were right to take the piss.  

Eddie flinches, puts his hands in his jean pockets. I follow him down Ma’s hallway and into the bathroom. He closes the door on me. It doesn’t ever close fully. I slip through the crack of the door that is always ajar.

 Head down. Still. He sits on the toilet seat.  I kneel down before him; go to lay my head on his knee. He flinches again. Hits himself in the head. Bangs his fist on the wall screams out:

‘Why? We could’ve figured it out, you fucking stubborn mare’ I bring out the best and worst in Eddie. Till death do us part. What are the chances?

He still refuses to let me go. Stubborn.

My symptoms intensify in the days leading up to the funeral. Everything‘s heightened especially emotions that seemingly walk precariously on stilts.  I can’t walk through walls or levitate. Nothing like any of the horrors Eddie and me used to watch together, on the sofa. 

Unheard, I bellow continuously,

-Just let me go!

 Every time I hear my name called reflections of nostalgia flash and beam over and around me. Prompted, I gravitate towards the source. Someone needs me.  These past three weeks, I’ve been teleported from one conversation to another. I find myself in a room; familiar or not familiar, with people I know and people I don’t know.

Today I’m summoned to the usual bickering between Ma and Gran. The familiar sound of Gran’s kettle boils in the background.

‘I want that picture of her on her graduation day and flowers- blown up .With azaleas. And roses – she loved roses- pink.’  

‘She hates that picture! And she loves- loved yellow roses…’ Ma’s wobbly voice mirrors her jelly struck legs propping her up in her work shoes. She staggers backwards. Like the black dog with a bone, Gran won’t give in,

‘No, she’s my eldest grand daughter and I know her – it is… was pink!’

 Ma sits down, doesn’t speak. I go over to her to put my arms around her then she dissolves into tears. Gran bulldozes her way over to us. Intimidated, I move out of her way. Gran holds Ma and Ma lets Gran hug her. Ma calms down, mentions something about pink and yellow roses

Vexed, I shriek

 – don’t back down Ma, I love yellow. Yellow roses. The kettle whistles for attention. My voice is lost to an object.

‘I’ll go make that cup of tea’ Nan retreats to her kitchen.

Another opportunity to get close to Ma again.   I need to hug her, give her some of my energy. As if on cue, Mum’s tear-stained face crumples just like my heart. A poking hot iron burns a hole right through it. Gran re-enters the room I scarper.

‘Here you go, love. Lost three of my own …, as you know, mind, they never got to Angie’s age. Yellow’s more of a quirky colour like our Angie… was.’     They smile at each other. I move back, the distance seems to illuminate their smiles.

Tonight, I beg for there to be a heaven. This has to be hell. The familiar, incongruous, gravitational pull lures me out of my cavernous abyss. I blink my eyes several times to focus: orientate myself. Hung up around the wall are vintage Disney posters. My eyes settle on Poppies bed. Eddie bends over Poppy and kisses her goodnight,

‘Mummy loves you just as much as I do.’ He tucks her in.

He switches off the light before walking out. I stand and watch my worn out daughter in her bed. She sings herself to sleep just as she does every night. She sings our song:  twinkle twinkle little star. With each inflection of her sweet singing voice, the words serve as a needle. Each word stipulates smelting hot ink into my flesh. My neck is ablaze.  Before closing her eyes, she whispers,

 ‘I love you mummy.’

When I reply, scorching chains wrap and lasso me around my neck. My skin swells up in blisters. The familiar sound of her breathing evaporates the pain.  I need to be close to her, I need to smell her, kiss her. Carelessly, I run over to her bed to touch her sleeping head. Startled I lunge backward as Poppy instantly wakes up screaming.

– I’m powerless

. Eddie barges into the room, throws on the light and takes Poppy into his arms. I watch her body stiffen; then relax. I watch him settle my daughter back to sleep. My hands ball into tight fists.

-She must know I’m here.

Before I can touch her face, she wakes up screaming like – like she has seen a- ghost.

-I’m that Ghost! I put my hands to my mouth in horror.

 Envy bubbles inside me as I witness Eddie consoling Poppy again. I’m half hoping he won’t succeed.

What kind of a mother am I?

I’ve been telling everyone to let me go.

Where will I go?

I can’t drive, no one can see me. There are no other lost souls wondering about telling me to join the dead community!

I won’t give up on my daughter. She needs me. I have to be here.

 The stroke of our clock announces its time; a primitive realisation slithers down my very core. Nausea spirals up into my throat. I run into our bathroom, heave over the toilet, nothing comes out. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror; I see vicious V-shaped welts where the noose of the rope has cut into my neck. This is what Eddie came home to.

The cloying black dog of depression haunted me. Its delivered dose of pain was exquisite- nothing took it away. Not drinking, overdosing, drugging myself, talking-nothing. Eventually, I told it to sit down.  I told Eddie repeatedly,

– I just want to disappear.

– How can I help you?  His eyes pleaded for an answer.  I would always lash out,

-Unless you help me disappear, you can’t!

 I remained imprisoned in our bed and he would go back to work and look after Poppy and the house. He could walk away from me. I couldn’t. I resent him for that. I can see myself now, googling the various ways people commit suicide. One article struck my eye ‘Men are more successful at committing suicide’.

  -They don’t mess about with poisoning themselves –they resort to more violent means.

That is the moment I reached out to the wrong Alpha.

The black dog and I began sleeping together. It became my obsession. Up-close, I could analyse it, experiment with it. As a couple, it didn’t take much to find that Alpha rage. One phone call from Ma,

-Just snap out of it. If you’re going to do it, get on with it.

-Fine, I will!  I hung up on her before she could hang up on me.

My impulsiveness finds me trapped within this mirror. It’s cold. Everything I read is back to front. Everything I do is back to front.  It doesn’t reflect my true intentions. When I reach out, in fact, the more I reach out the more pain I inflict. I back away from the mirror until I’m pressed up, with my back against the bathroom wall.

 What have I done? 

 What right do I have trying to tell my family how to deal with their loss?

Eddie will never know that I was messing about; I didn’t know if I could actually go through with it. From a great height in a corner of the bathroom my body feels cut loose from itself. I can see it happen in front of my eyes. Like a rerun episode, I can’t pause. The noose around my neck, in the shower. Steam shrouds the mirror, with slippery feet, I accidently knock myself off that chair and in that moment I realise,

– I don’t want to die.

I can’t scream and tell anyone. I made the decision when I decided to sleep with my enemy. I’ve interrupted the natural course of life. A lost soul in life: a lost soul in death. There are no bright lights to come with this epiphany. I exit the bathroom, stumble down the staircase, out the front door, and walk aimlessly down the street. I sense a familiar pair of eyes examining me; I look up and see the black dog in its true form. It waits for me to catch up.  We walk side by side. I don’t look back.  I am the one preventing people from moving on. I have to let go.

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Pep talk retraced

Euphoria daze

Though lightness may fade.

Forget words wasted on ill gotten behaviours.

Stuck in a quagmire?

Want to send out the vigil of hope.

It’s in me.

Buried under a thousand haunting ghosts.

Make this a cheerful post.

What is disarmingly charming in this world?

Open my eyes,

Look around!

Be interested in gazing outwards.

Look back at the words you have’ written.

Be inspired that you wrote them!

Don’t let snide comments sneakily sweep through the back door,

Prevent you from expressing your self.

Sometimes, words in simple dimples are all we need

Who are you writing for?

You have your unique style.

Don’t neglect that self respect cautiously peers out, perched atop , the rotting,

wood lice

infected staircase

In the basement.

Confidence drips tears for the days when his best foot turned all heads.

Don’t worry .

Don’t care

Don’t overthink.

When has it ever been so difficult for me to type and write and hit publish without a second glance?

Only when caught up in dusty webbed rags of self-doubt.

Shadows change according to light.

Don’t be intimated by what is a mere reflection.

Remember shadows can’t exist without a living body,

soul,

And mind.

Take the power back.

Don’t hide from those who sigh — in disproportionate contortions of their own path .

Happy lights-faeries delight.

blissful smiles stippled on faces

There can be no ulterior motive.

Agenda?

Worry about your own if you are confused about life twists and mysterious genders.

Tender

Mender

Guilt sprouts up-GMO crops

Pesticides cause all matter to infold my mind

Crucify my time?

flowers give sentiment to humans lost in nocturnal spaces

Eye sight not evolved enough to adjust to a new fate.

Decisive in what I decide will make up my next jungle adventure.

Armed with words and a benign bravado.

I don’t back down to monsters of carpathian.

Audacity and gumption are my greatest weapons.

Shout me down,

I will test that phycology straight back at ya.

Threaten me or one of my own,

I will stand up and defend my home.

Bats of fear — circulating above.

Blood, don’t clot on me now!

This is my fight — yet I won’t battle it alone.

So much I want to put down.

Not in stream of consciousness

but harsh,

plain,

cold

facts.

No more ashamed of how far down I free-fall into the squid ink mouth of the abyss.

I gripped onto natures own boulderous 😉 safety net.

Silver linings

I have.

I seek to retrace.

*Something I wrote in stream of consciousness and then decided to work on it a bit more*

* boulderous-made up word — combination of rocky and bold-

Art of Protest

I’m no academic poet.

Talk  to me about about syllables, haikus – to be honest,  I can only hear the blood rushing to my head.

I started doing stream of consciousnesss posts in 2016. I’ve received positive feedback on here, and now I want to step up my game.

Just for fun, the social aspect and it’s a different way to express myself.

So, I did what I do best.

Wing it!

I went to the  poetry workshop, everyone seemed to know what they were doing except me!

 I went with my heart, my  emotions and willingness to try out new approaches, in tackling poetry for live performance.

It was a cool workshop – delivered  by a well established,British  poet – Matt Abott –

check out his bio HERE 

A  collaboration with  DREAM TIME COLLECTIVE. 

ART OF PROTEST

We went through a series of activities with the idea to have some form of a draft by the end of the  2 hour  workshop

The theme was political poetry.

Each participant chose a theme that they felt passionately about. I chose ‘Animal rights/cruelty. ‘

I got so much out of a two hour workshop that I’m going to share what I did.

Once we had chosen our theme/subject

we had to ask ourselves three questions

  • Who does it  affect?

  • How does it affect me?

  • Why is it important to me or to the world?

A Couple of notes I made:

  • It affects animals, people, ocean, planet

  • I’m a lover of animals, I don’t believe that we need to eat meat, or wear clothes or makeup made up of animal derivatives. Because of my knowledge of what animals go through to become a consumer product. I feel it  is unethical.

  • I have my own view of animals. I admire  how they are able to evolve and adapt, in a way, that doesn’t  have a negative impact on the planet .This shows me that humans could learn something from nature, instead of destroying our home.

2. What Matt stressed is:   that if we want our poetry to make an impact writing it to perform , we need a motive, a call of action, an agenda.

  • Who am I  delivering this message to?

  • What do I want to achieve?

Examples: Do I want to shock people, encourage people to look at solutions to the problem etc..

3)

Imagine a room( keeping in mind what your subject is) and put 5 points/Images using ‘show and tell’ language to come with up with  strong words.

Example:

  • tearing of flesh

  • frothing at the mouth

  • cramped

  • squealing

  • gunshots

  • insidious laughter

4)  Objective.

Place the victim/s in that room.

What are they doing ?

How do they feel?

Example:

I had two victims. I imagined a gorilla coming round from another bout of being sedated by electrocution. He was wearing garish make up – heavily made up blue eyes and bold, blood colour red lipstick.

My other victim was human – a female who happened to be dressed up in chicken outfit or as a bird. She had a morbid fascination finding herself in this  surreal room with this clearly broken ,macabre gorilla.

Next we had place ourselves in that room -observing what was going on

Example:

Horror, what do I do? , retaliate or fight or freeze. I was frozen on the spot. Upon reflection, this  is how most of society reacts to topics that make them uncomfortable. They become apathetic.

Next, we had to place the victim outside of that situation/ROOM . Different surroundings. Aware of what they have witnessed/ or know and how they react in a different setting.

Example:

I chose the female ,costume wearing bird human and put her in a cosmetic store. The emotions that came to me were  conflicting – this victim of societies idea of attaining beauty is thinking ‘ ‘I have a choice’

The next stage was to  put these  ideas into the poetic form.

Make a poem.

 Always keeping in mind what we want the audience or how we want the audience to react.

We were directed to to start to put together a poem of no more than 50 words, or certain amount syllables. The aim was to keep it short.

Keep it punchy.

On topic.

I wrote about  100 words – possibly more.

It’s okay.

Then we had to cut those words in half – 😦

I ended up with 46 words.

This is the  end product .

Carnival time!

Gaze  in the mirror.

Blue sparkled hues 

Red paint 

Blood fondue.

Do I look pretty enough for you?

Tearing of flesh.

Bleached in acid 

Gorilla Art

Reflection never part

Do I look pretty enough for you?

The true freak in this show is 

, indeed YOU.

Daisy Willows/ Natasha Bodley

 

 

 

 

Times up. Workshop over. Get back to real life  😀

Now, I have another to approach to  poetry when  I write.

Worth it.

Go me!

Have a great weekend!

 

Always look up

Hola!

‘Always look up wherever you go – those who walk with there eyes to the floor miss out on so much of life’ 

DAISY XOXO

DAISY GOES INTO BUSINESS:

What a palaver!

I spent weeks working on trying to figure out a way to sell my products on a free WordPress template.

A lovely friend of mine suggested – Wix and e -commerce.

I was in entrepreneur, creative business utopia until I had to learn the system …

It’s been challenging. It is still a challenge but I am seeing progress and, I am getting so excited for when we finally go live.

 

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SMALL MOTIVATIONAL REMINDERS 

 

DAISY DOES HER MASTERS:

If you have followed my previous posts on from the start of doing my MA,  you will know it has been an ocean of tidal waves and tsunamis and, high tides and low tides.

These still waters of mine run deep.

My First TMA (tutor marked assignment)   Act one of a stage script about a homeless couple received a CLEAR PASS  of 62%

There were tears, miscommunication, fall outs, despair and I lost confidence in my writing abilities.

TMA 2 ( my second genre -Fiction writing)  I wrote a supernatural piece about a girl who (accidently) commits suicide.

Lat night, my tutor emailed me to say she was having an issue submitting my marks via the online system and she didn’t want me to start worrying, so, she copy and pasted all the feedback and my mark into an email.

She gave me useful and extensive advice on what I propose to write for my EMA ( end of module assignment due in May 2017)

The second act to the homeless couple script.

Eeeeek! 

I do feel more supported, understood, challenged and more confident in achieving what I want to do with my writing for this piece.

Oh, the results for my TMA 2

82%   a HIGH MERIT.

I’m back to the marks I was getting when I was doing my final year of my BA in the Art and humanities.

I need to keep this momentum going. I don’t want to find myself under merit territory again.

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I invest a lot of time in people and the things and causes I dedicate my time to.

 

DAISY DOES VOLUNTEERING:

One thing I have had to put on the back burner is helping to  co-facilitate 12 weeks of WRAP (wellness recovery action plan self-management program) with the EIP   ( early intervention prevention ) team for people diagnosed with at least one episode a psychotic episode

I’m gutted. There were many issues that led me to distance myself from this.

Two being:

Issues of funding and logistics.

I enjoyed meeting up the people I was going to work with. I loved their energy and enthusiasm.

A lot was promised and then not delivered.

 I felt the need to email my colleagues and tell them what I thought about how the course was put together- I was my usual blunt self and not very diplomatic.  Ooops…

I feel that if the NHS ( national health system) in the U.K. expects results from a new therapy or a new way of self-help/lifestyle and illness management program, then scrimping on pounds is not helping promote or inspire that WRAP works.

In the long term WRAP  (run properly) will most likely save the NHS money.

As far as I’m aware- nobody knows what is going on with this current  WRAP workshop. I haven’t fallen out with anyone. I can’t give all my energy into something if everyone doesn’t  have the same vision.

For me, it needs more planning and preparation and I’m not going to be that person who just turns up to volunteer at a workshop to go –

‘Oh look at me, I’m making a difference’ – when I know, in my heart, the results this particular workshop can have on people’s lives if  it is implemented properly.

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I’m currently putting my energy into other charities I work with to see how I can help them.

DAISY GOES TO HER FIRST SESSION AT THE  ACTING PROGRAMME WORKSHOP :

I wasn’t nervous until I got to the place. I arrived early. It was bitterly cold and I hate the cold.

It turned out to be incredible.

We did a few  Actor warm up activities such as being aware of filling the space and being aware of other Actors around us.

We did some improvisation and using our body exercises to convey emotion.  Loads of fun!

What a lovely bunch of people. I am definitely going to the next session next week. We all seem to have common goals and everyone is so unique and interesting.

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UNEXPECTED SURPRISE ALERT:

There is a possibility we may (or may not) put together a little something to perform to students at the university after the 8 weeks.  How awesome is that?

I do try and keep up with you all on here. It has been difficult but the more knowledge and confidence I gain in the above  areas of my life – the more time I will  get to have fun- one being reading blogs and blogging random stuff

DAISY LIFE UPDATE:

 It was my husbands birthday on Valentine’s day. We have a sleigh bed!

hi ho!  hi ho! it’s off to bed I go – ha ha! It’s massive – king size!

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After the mid-term school holidays in February, my Bella – my daughter will be joining Year one ( she is in reception at the moment)  for her reading and writing class.

She has two mates with her who are excelling just like her and she is a bit of a whizz kid at Maths.

DAISY’S MENTAL HEALTH UPDATE:

Long story short. Pushing other people’s buttons to get an honest answer has been difficult -emotionally- to sit with – without trying to avoid the emotions by self-medicating.

I’ve been angry at myself for nearly destroying the best thing  I have in my life- my family – because, I believed ( with help) that someone cared more about me than they actually did.I put a lot of my energy into helping a person when they had a meltdown last year. It all got thrown back in my face.

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I finally know the truth. That is all I ever wanted. Now, it’s time to let sleeping dogs lie.

That’s it – all very boring but it’s all happening

Physically. I’m eating better and I have more energy. I haven’t lost weight which is something that terrifies me equally as putting on weight does.

 

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Janus of global slang

Inspired by lyrics – it’s not exactly physics.

Big boy –

little boy – atomic bomb decoy don’t come across as coy.

Paranoia looming over -like a shadow with no owner.

Scented thoughts hanging outside on the line of laundry –  drying out, pegged up,

  sketchy – out of the ordinary.

The demise of senseless beatings – the savage frolic in secret meetings.

Can’t keep my eyes open – Mind is wired to sense alert token.

Add a word to the vocabulary list. Reading made up stories can’t get the gist.

Thinking of all the times I’ve reinvented my speech

just so folk wouldn’t turn away

mistake me for a blast of mist.

Solar plexus, libra – balances my ails,

 if vaccines worked would I even need this skeleton tail?

I’m proficient in scripted fulminate – A non- believer has to have a reason to detonate.

Terrorized by bones on hinges, pelvic oddities, a face grappling on the fringes.

Uncertainly – you can do it! Mascot duty – you blew it.

Evey day the output becomes more – input audios in a  fervescent roar.

Fading into a numb place slowed down by brain freeze swimming in a shoal  – no empty dregs to fill my soul.

Restricted by my own limitation – Hear me when  I say I’m not doing this for inspiration.

What to do in a world knocked into  askew?

Nondescript, blinkered – all-seeing eyes – know when to usher in the seasonal yule.

nonsense, no sense, prop me up – inhale oxygen and don’t give up.

Against my better judgment – I’m imploding from the inside.

I had it all figured out until I became a seeker in need of washed out make -overs from dead flotsam at low tide.

*Inspired by internal conflict and the world.* 😀 

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the You! fallacy

Just jotting my thoughts. I’ve been prompted to make a complaint.

little four eyes when you were half your current size -why did you doubt yourself so?

Looking back to a densely plotted past – hazy.

What would you have done knowing all people doubt themselves even if it means you becoming the foe?

‘Have no regrets’ – the tagline of the present.

no regrets, no regrets, no regrets.

When you are looking at granny in a catatonic state, unable to walk or talk. Fragments of images of people now gone, tell me you won’t wonder how life would have played out by taking assertive bets.

Complaints department – sizeable queue. What can we do to answer people’s feuds?

Create a passage for people to commit to taking responsibility for themselves, sign that in ink and wrangle with their own moods.

Blame everyone.

You!

You,

and you!

well…… the list unfolds until it reaches the flaws of flooring.

Finger pointing in every direction. Buckle up, prepare to look within and see how far you can go when you begin to see only you can change your state of deploring.

Control comes not from puppeteering others. Cut loose – let the strings fall.Let people walk,

hell! let them figure it out-  leave them to crawl.

Worry about how you are going to make it. What you need to do to advance in the dance – motions to elevate and bypass the savage instinct to maul.

How many complaints is your God of choice dealing with?

in Her brassic attempt to fulfill everyone’s wish

Did it ever occur to you to get off your indignant knees to check out the employment vacancies for extras needed to help your  God succeed in appetizing your particular dish?

Stop giving control to others to fix your problems. You have a brain, how much has been wasted?

Think of the energy and time used in a  futile attempt to get people to see your view,

the moment before the curtains go down you have become the finale unstitched,  obtusely basted.

What do you do to make this world a better place?

What do you do to help us people stay in the race with human grace?

Life is never going to get easy – you’re never going to be 100%  fulfilled. There will always be a doughnut sized whole to fill.

Do you even know what it is you need to fix yourself?   In monetary terms, you will have to pay for your own self- advocacy bill.

Money, time and energy well spent making you a person who can figure out how to make sense.

Dig deep and take a deep breath-  Don’t be afraid to be a master of your own success.

To run away from your potential achievement will be your greatest offense.

 

jjj-2017     THANK YOU TO  SHAN JENIAH and LINDA FOR KEEPING ME IN A WRITING HABIT.   WORD PROMPT:  COMPLAINT  CLICK HERE TO TRY IT OUT.

Necessity bares echo

It’s easy to get caught up in the negative jumble yard sale and pick up everyone’s  discarded trinkets or  junk. Gladly, I’ve handed over my money – my energy and the energy of the  remnants of the previous owner’s objects stain my fingertips.

The swirly parts on my fingertips- the ones that make me one of a kind – mutate into something I am not.

Ghost-like.

” call the Priest -exorcise this impurity.” 

How do we pick up other peoples junk that looks pretty and appealing, without losing our confidence, and faith in who we are and who we have become?

It sounds so clinical to state:

 get a pair of synthetic gloves on and retain your true essence- don’t allow the memories and beliefs of others,to  poison your very own mind.

But, isn’t that artificial ?

I pride myself in baring my soul. Telling it like I see it. Standing up for my beliefs.

I get shot down  many times-  Cry for a bit – tell the world:

“I give up! ”  

Then the boomer rang effect inevitably comes  back around – smashes me in the head with the haunting words  “I give up!” 

I hear this echo .

” Oh no, you don’t.”

 I start counseling this echo – It’s distant from  me, not me.

 I don’t  have to take my  own advice if I have released it into the universe in one exclamation of defeat.

It’s a reverse psychology technique that works its groove on me. The equivalent to some hot guy actually bumping and grinding against me and not pissing me off.

A feat that is almost impossible.

It doesn’t sound like my voice. I can  give the echo advice. I can “big it up”

I can talk to  it into standing up and fighting for its right to be heard and I tell it

“You can evolve from a mere echo – fuck narcissus literally or metaphorically and leave him to it. “

“Let him drown in his reflection – pooled – snookered. chalked – marked . boxed in.”

“Chump.”

When you challenge what others say about you , to you or what they think of you – you may come across as confrontational  and emotional -defensive even.

 Only you can allow yourself the chance to evolve from an echo that gets lost in the underwater caves – that will  die when the tide comes bubbling in.

Don’t let it die in the spindrift.

 Let it evolve into a voice.

Your voice can speak on behalf of so many who don’t even know or  even have to know what you are doing.

It’s allowing growth to occur – it’s building character.

Someone , who hasn’t found their voice yet- somewhere down the line – possibly living  the bear necessity life, will hear it.

It could come from another voice  – passed down like a traditional story  Isn’t that how stories first evolved?

Isn’t that people first learned how to take  in information that we feel is important to pass down ?

Isn’t that why we can write paint, talk, act, dance, move , protest, make peace, argue ,debate, remember,honor,  create?

It  can take one person to blow apart everything I have worked for.

 I throw out my’ I  GIVE UP’ boomerang  – it comes back  in another form

I write about it- moan , grumble, collect evidence to fight my very own standing rock.

I,  too need clean  water to live.  Pure Air to breathe.  I need passion to live.

If I allow one character to crush my passion – what then?

What was the point of  baring  my soul to the world?

Of  not being ashamed  airing all  of my experiences, who I am  and what I’ve done ?

 Hang  out my entire newly washed, passion fruit scented lingerie collection ,in the densely packed  , over populated jungle I live in . Free to be dissected, analyzed, mocked ,admired ,mimicked, ignored.

I write plagued with doubt .

 I hit publish.

I take the time to thank the people who inspire me and get me, and then all of a sudden – the world – parts of energy sense a spirit giving  out and not holding back.

These  energies group together , have a cup of herbal tea and a catch-up and then -I get an email – validating my  voice, what I do.

I get a:

” Wow thank you – I needed this – I can’t accept it in the way you want me to but I will give you this….

 compromise.

This gives me the strength to fight my wars, my battles – a new era begins tomorrow.

I’ve developed lock jaw – not letting go of this one just yet.

I want to see what doors close and what doors open

I want to see the lights illuminate the path I am on.

If only to see the shape of it;

my future.

 If I can’t see that – I have no hope.

Without hope, I have no beat-  then it is time to call in the clubs and spades.

So, give up , take a  breather , read the terms and conditions, ask for feedback from more than one source, look at those around you- those strong people who manage to carry on with a smile their on the face.

I don’t know the outcome of this particular situation or most situations I put myself in.

 I do  have a goal no matter how blurred.

I do know I have to  go  into every experience with an open mind, a solid form , confidence, boldness and the idea that:

I may be wrong,

or

I may be right.

Maybe a bit of both ?

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