So happy

(it's weird, because I can see the blog stats and it's all "6 pageviews today" and I'm like... uhm by whom?  I'm thinking it must be random spammers and internet traipsers and bots and things because I don't just give this page out to people and I'm pretty sure people gave up on it when I stopped writing for a year or so.  Or really people gave up because I'm terrible haha.  Still, in a weird way, I wish I knew what or who was tripping over my blog in their cyberspace adventures.  Whatever they are, this "poem" should disappoint them mwahaha)  

So happy 

Dystopia.  
Glitter falling all around 
glistening like my smile.  
Music notes tumble, 
crashing.  
Rocking in the corner, 
sparkles stream from my eyes. 
Shirking and shrinking, 
laugh laugh laugh.  
So happy for you.  

Life Disconcerting

(Is happiness a choice?  Does it count if you are forcing yourself to be happy?  If you fake it for long enough does it become real?  How do we know who we are?  If you aren't yourself for long enough, does that actually become who you are?  You'd think eventually I'd have an answer or two, but mostly I just have more questions every day...)  


Life Disconcerting 
So zealous for this life, 
yet anxiously troubled 
as though fervent happiness 
must be quelled, 
lest it be overwhelmed by 
restless unease.  
Brimming with idealism, 
concerned by encroaching dejection -- 
life ever bemusing. 
Optimism battles the xanthous fears, 
while joyous elation concedes to 
worries, mindful of disappointment. 
Overwhelming yearning, 
kind and loving, 
resigned to a perplexed quiet. 
Silence. 

Struggle

(I used to have this rule that I couldn't write when I was super emotional because it was always just horrendous.  I'm breaking that rule right now, because I'm trying to clear my head.  I'm trying to convey something here, and perhaps next time I'll say what it is.  No one reads this blog, haha, but if someone stumbles upon it, perhaps he or she can tell me if I even remotely succeeded.  For now... more vodka.)  

Struggle 

What goes up must come down 
down down down... 
Fight it and cling, 
claw and dig deep.  
The fall is delayed, 
drags on... and on... 
Reaching up but 
it's no use.  
It never is.  
Slide down - 
scratching 
catching 
bleeding along the way.  
The bottom - disconsolate, 
bewildered.  
Shaken despairing sobs. 

Hannah -- prose

(trying to write again I guess...) 

“It was a dark and stormy night-“

“No it’s not.” 

I suppressed a sigh.  “No sweetie, in the story.” 

Hannah looked out the window and turned to me sternly.  “Lying is wrong Daddy.” 

“No Hannah-belle, telling a story isn’t lying, it’s…”  Silence.  “Uhm, it’s making up a story…” 

“Lying.” 

When I was young I had thought it would be difficult to raise a child of average intelligence, but now, arguing with and being outsmarted by my three year old, I wondered.  How was I going to explain fiction for the purpose of entertainment? 

“You know, when I read you bedtime stories?  Those aren’t true stories-“

“What?!”  Shock and outrage. 

“Baby, those are just made up tales about happy, faraway lands and-“

“You lied to me?!”  It appeared the shock and outrage would continue.  If only I hadn’t been muttering to myself as I typed.  If only Rachel were still alive to help tame our offspring.  Rachel had always been the voice of reason to my dreamer tendencies. 

“I’m sorry sweetie.  Lots of people like to… peek into other people’s imaginations when their own imaginations get tired.” 

Hannah pondered this.  She sucked on the strap of her jumper, which she’d undone again, before finally saying, “Like if I let other people talk to Mr. Bears?  And be friends with him?” 

Of course my genius toddler could put my thoughts into words better than I.  “Yes, very much like that.” 

“I have to think about this Daddy.  I’ll get back to you.”  She walked out.  Great, have your people call my people, maybe we can have teatime with Mr. Bears and philosophize. 

I turned back to the computer and stared at it.  Heaving another melodramatic sigh, I erased the intro.  It was too cliché and my life was anything but.  Rachel’s picture smiled at me just above the right corner of the monitor.  “Rach… Rach… what am I doing?” 

“Daddy…”  Hannah reappeared sounding worried and I snapped back to reality.  “Daddy there’s someone at the door.”  And the doorbell rang. 

Mildly perturbed by Hannah’s premonition, maybe she had just seen him walk up, I set her on the couch in my office and instructed, “Daddy will be right back.  Don’t move.”  Hannah gave me the annoyed look she used anytime I referred to myself in the third person but gave me a short, curt nod in assent. 

I closed the door behind me before hurrying down the stairs to the front door.  I didn’t think to look through the window before I found myself staring at an impeccably dressed man in his mid-thirties.  Perfectly sculpted blonde hair, sunglasses, a tux, and bodyguards rendered the whole moment beyond surreal and I failed to speak. 

“Mr. Lancomb?”  The blond man spoke crisply, with such a pronounced lack of accent it was startling. 

“Who’s asking?” 

“It will not do to play games with me Mr. Lancomb.  Won’t you invite us in?” 

“I’m sorry, and you are…?” 

“You need money, Mr. Lancomb.  You’re a decent writer, but you aren’t making enough to fully support your beautiful daughter.”  He paused for dramatic effect, and it worked.  “Are you?” 

“Won’t you come in?”  I don’t know what overtook me, but within moments they were seated around my dining room table sipping ice water with lemon.  Rachel would have been proud – of the lemon, not the strangers sitting in our house. 

“Mr. Lancomb,” the blonde man had removed his sunglasses to reveal eyes that seemed falsely blue.  “I am Mr. Powers.  An amusing name to be certain, but do not let humour detract from the gravity of this situation.” 

“That’s not your real name anyway.”  We all whirled around to see Hannah, lips pursed, staring down the man in the tuxedo.  She held Mr. Bears in both arms, and even he looked defiant.

“You are correct small one.  My great-great grandfather changed it when he immigrated.” 

“Define immigrated.” 

“He came to America from another country.”  Hannah debated this briefly before climbing onto a chair at the table. 

“I told you not to move,” I reproached her.  She looked at me steadily and said nothing until I felt foolish losing the argument to a toddler. 

“Mr. Lancomb, I need you to deliver something for me.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Actually it’s someone.  I need you to ensure the safe travels of my niece across the country.” 

“That’s-  I-  what?” 

“Is she nice?”  Hannah was clearly less bothered by this than I. 

“I like to think so.”  Mr. Powers nodded to one of his bodyguards, who stood and exited.  He returned momentarily with a young girl around 13 who held her arms and hummed softly.  “Olivia, please sit.” 

“Six chairs.  I-s-x a-c-h-i-r-s.  Six people.  I-s-x e-e-l-o-p-p.”  Olivia sat. 

“Olivia enjoys putting the letters of her words in order.”  Mr. Powers smiled. 

“A-i-i-l-o-v.  My name is Aiilov.”  She pronounced it like I love.

“Olivia is autistic and like many autistics, she is brilliant.  Unlike most autistics, she is also connected to important people and therein a target.  I would like you, Mr. Lancomb, to help me transport her across the country to Stanford where I am assured her safety.” 

“Why Stanford?” 

“Mr. Lancomb, I will give you 1.5 million dollars as well as setting up a trust for Hannah’s college education should you carry out this task and not ask questions.” 

“Daddy, that’s 5 zeroes and 7 figures.” 

“I know that Hannah.”

“Daddy…”  Hannah stood on her chair and put her hands on my shoulders so she could look my directly in the eyes.  “What would Mommy say?” 

And then, in front of the three powerful men, in front of the genius autistic, in front of my own daughter, I started crying. 

Hannah put Mr. Bears on my lap and wiped my eyes with her chubby hands.  “Mommy helped everyone.”  It was true.  Rachel wouldn’t even have cared about the money.  If she really thought someone was in need, she just helped them.  She had been an absolute saint during her time and who was I to deny Olivia the right to safety. 

“Alright.” 

“An excellent decision Mr. Lancomb.” 

“A-b-c … l-m-n-o.  I like his name.”  Olivia seemed genuinely thrilled by the realization of the consonant clusters.  As usual though, she spoke only to her uncle. 

Mr. Powers rose, and his goonies stood with him.  “I will send you an electronic itinerary and some notes by e-mail this evening.  Olivia will arrive promptly at 0800 Friday morning along with her belongings, money for the trip, and anything else I deem necessary.” 

“Define itin- itinerary.”  I should never have taught Hannah the word define.

“It’s a schedule Hannah-belle.”  And turning to Mr. Powers, “That’s two days from now.” 

“Very good Mr. Lancomb.” 

As I stood silently, shocked, the party made their way to the door.  Mr. Powers stood aside to allow the bodyguards to escort Olivia first, but she turned and looked directly at Hannah.  “I hope you’ll tell me what Mr. Bears said when I came in.  I think we three shall be friends.”  Then she turned around and walked out. 

Mr. Powers looked at Hannah peculiarly.  “Olivia speaks only to me.  She has addressed no one else, not even her parents, since she was born.”  He stared harder at Hannah. 

“Mr. Bears is an excellent judge of people,” Hannah replied simply, as though that explained everything. 

“I have chosen well and I am pleased you have agreed to this, Mr. Lancomb.”  And then the door was closed. 

I looked at Hannah, at Mr. Bears, at the closed door, and back to Hannah. 

“Daddy, we need to pack,” she said before I could utter a word.  With that, we went upstairs to pack.  

Curious Contentment

(curiously, someone recently suggested to me that I begin a blog. Of course, this person was likely thinking I would wax philosophical and, as such, I refrained from comment and clearly did not state, "Oh but I have one where I occasionally spew horrific nonsense that would make an actual writer and feasibly cry." In any case... this.) 

Curious Contentment (working title) 

It began so carefully, 
if unexpectedly. 
To pinpoint an origin 
impossible. 
Enshrouded in primaveral joy, 
enraptured by this new curiosity. 
All good things must end. 
Trading in the gleeful swivet, 
expecting a tumble into despondence. 
And yet… 
Comfortable resignation tinged with 
residuum of frivolity. 
Nigh confusing this 
serotinal fulfillment. 
No falderal sense of being jilted; 
rather, peculiar satisfaction in this 
contented unhappiness.

You are prohibited

(Either you understand or you don't.) 


You are prohibited


Forced denouncement
in the face of
growing affection. 
An anomaly,
this confidence
without reason.
This impediment
irrefrangible despite
endless wanting. 
To proscribe regulation –
taboo;
pressing desire.
Forcibly en regle,
straining resistance –
tensile.
Quell the flush --
coveting the verboten.
A hypnopompic state…
an anguish to relish.
Off limits –
painful brush with the
forbidden.