Random Thoughts of Personal Treason

Sitting in the dark in the. Night thinking. Replaying every moment in my. Mind again. Silently I reconsider. Every second. I could have. Said something. Said something different. Instead. Paralyzed by something seemingly viral. Completely incapable of. Unable to find the appropriate. String of syllables. Again. Quiet in the. Night. Shackled in thought. Wanting something written. On a wall I once. Saw. But words remain. Elusive. Or blurred. And I cannot find my. Anything anymore. In this silent personal. Treason. Wanting to break. Glass again. Hear the crashing sound. Shattering on pitch instead of my. Own thoughts out of. Tune. Fragmented. Wanting to digest the pieces but the. Sharp edges are. Difficult to swallow.

Tongue Tied and Tangled in Turmoil

Words are. My obsession. Among. Other things. But this post is about. Words. And not other. Things. There are a great many strings of. Words that. Strike me. I am. Often captivated by. Combinations of syllables strung. Together in an inexplicable. Manner. And it is important for me to say that. There are certain strings of. Words that are more intriguing than. Those I am about to post. But as of late. Due to a. Variety of. Difficult circumstances. Bits and pieces of my. Own experiences. These words have been particularly. On my mind.


Cinder and Smoke -- Iron and Wine

Give me your hand. The dog in the garden row. is covered in mud. And dragging your mother’s clothes. Cinder and smoke. The snake in the basement found. the juniper shade. The farmhouse is burning down.

Give me your hand. And take what you will tonight. I'll give it as fast. and high as the flame will rise. Cinder and smoke. Some whispers around the trees. The juniper bends. As if you were listening.

Give me your hand. Your mother is drunk as all. the firemen shake. a photo from father’s arms. Cinder and smoke. You’ll ask me to pray for rain. With ash in your mouth. You’ll ask it to burn again.

Neither Boxed Nor Bagged in Cellophane

You explain that I am not. Starchy white bread pressed. Flat and baked with. Salt. And for the first time in. Can not remember. I am. Not searching for. Distance running records to be. Broken. Instead of marathon escape at. Lightning speed. I stand barefoot on. Wood splintered worn thin. Knowing there will always be a sliver waiting to. Stab skin and. Slide. Under the sole. Cautious but. Not paralyzed in place. Neither graceful nor. Jagged I mentally negotiate your. Security clearance.

Tied to a Traffic Light. Again.

In this moment. Everything is continuous mistake making. And every step is a stumble. Words. Once ally. Now enemy. I am simmering in a pot of. Alphabet soup reconstituted. S and U float by in the broth. And I need the. Letters to make the words that. I cannot seem to find. I am left. Holding R-N and T-A-Y. But I cannot seem to spell anything. Completely. Anymore.

Perhaps there are letters. Missing. Words not familiar to my. Limited vocabulary. Already eaten by the spoonful. Or maybe they never. Found their way into the can in that place where. Condensed soup is processed and. Packaged.

I take letters that remain. Attempt to. Form words. Discover that they betray me. Words. Once I felt secure and. Safe with them. Now my mouth opens. And they spill out. All wrong. And I am left alone with. What I really mean.

Once I was told that. I speak in. Vague tones. And I know that I. Hide behind language. Utilizing an Alice in Wonderland-esque vocabulary to. Distract you from the detour. A tour of the rabbit hole so that. You will forget or. Simply give up.

I am tied. To a traffic light. Naked and blindfolded. In downtown Seattle during. Rush hour. Alone with my. Intentions. Alone with my mind racing. Through a yellow light. I. Feel like a voyeur. Forced to see my. Self like this. Again.

Fragile. I do not want to. Admit that I am not always. Strong enough. Do not always. Know enough. Tired of this role. But I do not know any other. Way. In this. Moment everything has been. Rattled. Contents shifted. Into corners. I cannot manage to. Rid myself of. My overwhelming supply of. Styrofoam peanuts that. Remain.


** An acquaintance of mine recently wrote about himself in a very honest manner. I skimmed the words. Feeling like a voyeur. Or perhaps the feeling was not so much voyeuristic. But rather in the reading of his words I became uncomfortable. Not simply due to the personal nature of the admissions. But because I know that I am not always so honest with myself. And perhaps it is time.

This is the best I can manage in this moment. Thank you Sharp.

Fix the Fucked with a Side of Cocoa

Well fine. Let me be absolutely fucking honest. At least for a moment. Today is day two of crappiness. And I am ready for something different. And I don't mean mildly annoying experiences. Rather. I speak of full on crap.

Yesterday I felt crappy. And today I woke up with a continuation of said feelings of crappiness. So it would have been most preferable to crawl back into bed this morning. Pull the covers up to my nose. And remain there for the day.

But that did not happen. Because I am too fucking responsible. And quite frankly I am not so much the type of person who is particularly skilled at feeling sorry for herself. So. I got out of bed. And did all of the things that I do after getting out of bed in order to get my ass to the office.

So. I arrive at my office this morning. And I am fully aware of the fact that I am in a fairly unpleasant mood. However I am drinking tea. And listening to Book M. So even though I am feeling rather less than my typically cheerful self. Do not laugh. I am fucking cheerful. At least I am drinking tea and listening to SC3.

Attorney Number Two arrives at my office door some time before nine o'clock in the am. For those of you who have not memorized every word that I have written as of yet I will inform you that Attorney Number Two is the spandex and bandana wearing attorney.

He is in the aforementioned attire and asks me to make what seems to be a rather routine call to the UNNAMED COUNTY Probation Office. Of course the call turns out to be anything but routine. Let me explain.

First. No one is able to "find" our client in their "database" so I am transferred. And then transferred again. The second transfer involves speaking with CCO DOE. I have now moved up the ranks in the UNNAMED COUNTY Probation Office. So I explain the reason for my call to CCO DOE. And He begins laughing. Hysterically. In fact I am quite certain that he stopped breathing for a moment. I imagine him rolling around on the floor. In fact. I believe that he actually dropped the phone at some point during his laughing episode.

I wait. Patiently. Blink. Then blink again. We have a very blunt conversation about who fucked up and how they fucked up and why they fucked up. In fact the phrase "fucked up" was used numerous times throughout the course of this conversation. And I do not believe that I have ever used the phrase "fucked up" when speaking with anyone at the UNNAMED COUNTY Probation Office. But this guy is old school. And it seems to be expected.

So. I am patient. And insanely diplomatic. Even though I am using ridiculous amounts of profanity. And it appears that CCO DOE is going to try to help me out and give our client a break.

And all I had to do is offer the soul of my first born child. Little does CCO DOE know that I have promised said soul to many before him. He will have to wait in line. Or sue me.

So now I wait to see if CCO DOE is going to make good on his promise. Even though the insanity of the situation is not the fault of our poor little client. He could get royally fucked by said fuck up. So I had to kiss some CCO ass. I am fine with this. Because I am all about getting my way. In the end. So I wait.

But maybe I am not so much fine with this today. And perhaps it is because I am already in a rather unpleasant mood. But permit to say the following: I am sick of cleaning up every fucking mess all of the bitch ass damn time. And here is what really gets me. I must always be the fucking diplomatic one. Because that is the only way shit ever gets accomplished. And there are times when I do not want to be the diplomatic one.

There are times when I want to stab someone in the eye with a fork. But I am fully aware that I cannot simply go around stabbing everyone in the eye with a fork. Someone would eventually object.

So I tell the attorney of said fucked-up-ness. His response is for me to tell CCO DOE that he said to fuck off. Now of course I will not tell this guy that the attorney told him to fuck off. I will also not relay the string of obscenities that poured from his mouth after I explained the circumstances of said fucked-up-ness. Because this will not assist our client in what has become an enormous fucking nightmare.

However. I can not help but wonder what would happen if I did relay the string of obscenities directed at said CCO. I would only be doing as I was instructed. It could prove interesting.

Perhaps I should secure alternate employment before attempting such an action.

Now I am most certain that I will spend the overwhelming majority of the day resolving this issue. And once said issue has been resolved I will question why the fuck I cannot seem to resolve my own personal life issues as easily. However you will notice the continuing lack of question mark punctuation at the end of the previous sentence. Because in this moment I am not certain that I can handle the answer.

So I have decided something. I am going to get up from my desk. And walk out of my office. And go make some cocoa.