Devilish Tricks The Weather Will Play

Although the sun is on my face, trying to infuse its rays into my skin, underneath all I feel is the rain.

It’s permeating my senses until I can taste the clouds that hover over my consciousness.

 Behind the bright and cheery looms a gloomy aftertaste of dreams I have long forgotten, and burned charred remains float around me like the ashes of the things I have left behind.

 Am I living this life or is it living me?

 I ponder on that as the chilly drops of rain trail down to the bottom of the world where they become forever lost and out of sight.

 The heat of the bulb burning so fiercely in the sky battles the soaking cold of my thoughts and I can close my eyes and almost see the steam created from polar opposites

Both vying for my attention as the realness of the world and my pensive state argue over whether we should be running away or staying to fight this war.

But isn’t it the same fight that has been playing on repeat as though the record of life is stuck?

The needle keeps scratching over the same part of the record until the repetitive sound is ready to claw apart my mind and cause the kind of madness that will rip into your soul and paint it the abstract colors of what we might have been.

Then I opened my eyes and realized it’s not really sunny at all.

 The rain is pounding onto the pavement like the soles of our shoes each time we venture into the world to complete our useless and meaningful little missions fraught with peril, until we can return to our havens and rest once more.

 Just to get up the next day, as though our lives are nothing more than an endless cycle of rinse and repeat.

Can’t Stop.

http://amzn.com/B00RG5ZHUK

It’s been 4 months since I self-published my first novel and it’s been weird, to say the least.  I received my first terrible review this last weekend and of course I did what every writer does: “Gee, someone hates it.  They probably hate me and I should just quit.”  Don’t lie, you’ve done it too about whatever it is you bled for.  The difference is that I let myself think these thoughts for about 5 minutes before I went back and read the glowing reviews.

I love great book reviews.  Your feathers puff up and you prance around peacock style because there are complete strangers in the world who read your words and want to read more.  That’s a great feeling; euphoric, really.  However, now I have this intense pressure to churn out another one like I’m a Kardashian needing to cash in on this cow before the milk goes sour.  Fuck that.  I laugh in the face of deadlines and writing is a labor of love considering writers don’t make money.  If I’m going to sweat and bleed and lose sleep during editing, it’s going to be on my terms, damnit.

Besides, what’s the point in writing just to finish the story?  If you’re going to rid yourself of the word poisons, you must bleed it slow to avoid compromising the integrity.  There will be more.  I just can’t tell the story until it’s ready to be told.

On a side note, to the reviewer who says, “When will writers learn we don’t want to read about graphic rape?” Well sir, art imitates life.  Also, the bad review that had me questioning my entire purpose in life for a few minutes?  Have you created anything you put before the world, baring your delicate flesh for their criticism and scarring blows?  No? Then sit down. I’ve had fans track me down on social media just to tell me how much they loved it, (Shout out to Sarah and her mom) which only makes me want to lose even more sleep and slip farther into the seedy underbelly of the human condition on my fool’s quest for truth.

In other news, if you haven’t checked out my book yet, maybe it’s time.  40 out of 41 reviewers can’t all be wrong, right?  Whatever you choose to read, read it like you mean it because somewhere the person who wrote it sure did. Happy reading.

The Landfills We Leave Behind.

Sunlight is the inevitable thing that will creep into every good awful mood and try to soak up the soothing poison.

I’m not even sure how I got here and I’m not sure I want to go back.

The road behind is supposed to be rose colored with soft focus lenses and a cloying sweetness that I’m required to long for and I guess on some level,

I do.

This isn’t where I wanted to be,

But when I think of some of the places I’ve been;

It really is better this way.

Of course the 5 minutes of happiness that fell on me

Were almost worth the misery it left in the sticky coat of honey it left on my skin.  There’s always a price and I guess this is mine.

For as miserable as those eyes made me,

They still wrought more chaotic beauty then the melancholy gray I’d settled myself into.

I guess I should find a way to let it go and leave it behind

But this might be more durable than industrial tape

And all I can manage to do is take another hit while it tightens around my windpipe,

Bringing tears to my eyes and fire to my lungs.

Although the smoke filtering out is a dead giveaway that maybe I should grab the fire extinguisher,

I can’t seem to pull myself out of this adhesive so determined to hold me under the tar of my own bitterness.

It’s the 2:34 am thoughts that wait in the wings of my consciousness with bated breath at their chance to further add to all the other voices moshing around the pit of my mind.

The band plays on,

Some terrible thrash metal better left out of the speakers and in the hearts of musicians so true

They can’t wash their socks as it might throw off their rhythm.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

I’m clinging like the sheets you wrapped around yourself when you rolled away from me

And there really isn’t any good explanation;

No good reason for the nitpicky voice inside trying to tell the rest of us it was you, and you all along.

We don’t believe that one; you aren’t just the underdog,

In no sensible universe are you even a player in the game of organs.

It’s just another thing to do when I’m bored and turning to you is like falling in love with a broken heart and when it’s done…it’s done.

Perhaps this is where I am supposed to stand,

Your back to me and a pen in my hand scribbling angry words like they have the power to affect the outcome.

They can’t, can they?

No, they do nothing but give voice to the melody

You carved into my flesh and all I’m doing is immortalizing their meaningless.

I know you didn’t mean it,

You never mean to leave the bruises I wear like the California girls wear the sun.

Go ahead, pull the trigger and finish the job, man!

Dinner’s not over until everyone gets their fortune cookie.

Running from Knives.

There was once a girl, and she was so smart.

Standing there lost in the dusty reflections of

All the things she was missing

Hazy violet woe wrapped around her

Damp from salt and bitterness.

Red snaking lines trailing around lips cracked

From another lesson learned

Mascara smeared circles telling tales of 2am.

Pulling the strings tighter,

It’s never sealed tight enough and

She never could entirely prevent the things that

Skitter in to take another chunk out.

Mouth turning up at the sight of blue eyes

From over her shoulder; laughter rolls out

With sticky life

From cool steel breaking through the barrier.

Dropping the strings that were cut,

It’s not her fault, not really.

She tried to keep it out;

Always hiding and protecting it as best as she could;

Starving it for fear of overindulgence.

It wasn’t his fault, not really.

There once was a girl, and she was so smart.

Not enough.

She still tripped over the boy who never saw she was there

Least Likely to Survive

Amazon.com

Well I did it.  I published a book on Amazon.com (http://amzn.com/B00RG5ZHUK ) I spent months looking into agents and weighing the pros and cons of the traditional route versus self-publishing and decided that the latter was the way to go for me right now.

It’s a big decision, and while most of us harbor secret fantasies of bestsellers and movie deals and all-around Rowlingness, I wanted to be a bit more realistic.  Sure, I want to make money off what I love doing just as much as the next guy, but I figure I would rather have an audience, even if it means I keep the day job.  That, and you can’t make money off something no one buys, so it works either way.

“But Lisa, why not just get an agent and let them find you a book deal?” You might say.  Well, as it turns out, that’s really hard to do these days.  I don’t disrespect the long running tradition of hoping one person, we’ll call them “The Gatekeeper” (for theatrical effect) will deem your work suitable for the masses, but what if they hate it, but someone else wouldn’t?  Sure, the ‘old ways’ have their merits, but shouldn’t the public decide what they want to read?

Besides, you have to start somewhere, and mostly I just want feedback on my work.  I spent over a year on the damn thing and although bad reviews might kill me, they also might make me a better writer, and isn’t that what we’re all aiming for anyway?

So please, go to http://amzn.com/B00RG5ZHUK and download Least Likely to Survive.  It’s only $.99, ( I assure you, I’m not making any money here) and maybe you’ll hate it, but maybe you’ll love it.  Either way, leave me a review, regardless of whether it’s glowing or you’re figuratively hurling rotten fruit at me with your words, I will still grow as a person.  I might even go on to write something better.

The Ugly Side of Love.

This is the part I hate the most.

This is the part where I can feel

Who I am being ripped into pieces

That don’t fit together anymore

And I have to find a way to put them back together

When the instructions are in another language and there is always a piece left over;

I’ll never understand where it was meant to go.

I never planned for this to happen.

Didn’t know it would be you,

Never thought we would be standing here like this

And I would be left with nothing to say although

The words are still on suicide mission through my mind and trying to claw their way out

Of lips sealed tight against the onslaught.

Like an old movie set to replay casting exposure damaged images across the walls,

All I can do is watch the scene unfold for the thousandth time,

Knowing exactly how it ends yet still helpless to stop it.

This is where I panic in the face of what I know to be true,

What I know I should do but can’t bring myself out of the nightmare.

For John.

If you were here,

Would you smile and say hello,

Eyes lighting up at the joy of friends long lost?

We might sit and share our travels over coffee;

You’d regale me with the hilarity of your adventures

And I’d share the mess I’d made of mine.

You’d touch my hand and tell me how proud you were

That I’d turned it around and I’d smile and tell you

How happy I was that we’d run into each other.

If you were here,

Would you still be quick with a joke,

Just to hear someone laugh, reveling in their ease?

No one could walk into a room and leave the newfound

Friend of all its occupants quite like you could.

Would you tell me of your big plans while I tell you mine,

As we relive the camaraderie that only those who’ve

Grown up in a small town can?

If you were here,

I would put aside the pettiness that drove me away

Just for the chance to hear you laugh one more time.

I would tell you about the day you saw me crying and put my

Binder in your pocket.

You told me it was to see if it fit,

But I knew it was to see me smile.

I would remind you of the time you squeezed into that pencil skirt

And we all laughed so hard we cried.

If you were here, I would say hello before you said goodbye.

Comfort Zones Are For The Birds.

en.wikipedia.com

Being a white, feminine looking female, I don’t encounter obvious discrimination very often. However, I don’t let that stop me from putting myself out of my comfort zone for the people I care about.  So why is it so hard for so many of us to step out of our comfort zones and why must we seek praise for doing so?

I don’t like straight bars. Not that I have a problem with straight people, but sometimes men can be creepy and that makes me uncomfortable.  Plus I have a lot of “butch” friends and going into public in general can be difficult due to the raging homophobia that still exists. That doesn’t stop me from going out dancing with my girls wherever they want because I love them and the willingness to experience new things is what keeps me growing as a person.

We don’t talk about it much because of “political correctness” and all, but we all know that we purposely segregate ourselves based on our individual comfort and what environment we were raised in. I think that’s ok to some extent; lions hang out with lions, bears hang out with bears, etc.  However, sometimes we make a friend from a different culture, which is awesome, and are faced with the decision on how much emersion we are comfortable with.

That’s the part I have a problem with; evaluating how “OK” we are with who they are. If you’re going to develop a friendship with a person and care about them, dive the Hell in!  Learn about their culture, meet their family, eat their food, and go dancing to their music at their clubs! That’s what makes it acceptance; seeing the difference between you and another human being and experiencing their world anyway.

Being white and having a black friend doesn’t automatically mean you’re not a racist.

Being black and having a white friend doesn’t automatically mean you’re not a racist.

Being straight and having a gay friend doesn’t automatically mean you’re not homophobic.

Being gay and having a straight friend doesn’t automatically mean you’re not heterophobic.

The list can go on forever if we throw in all races, sexuality, religion, where we grew up… The point is if you decide to accept someone, accept them. Don’t treat their lifestyle and their world as ‘A Walk on the Wild Side’; it’s condescending at best. Instead be willing to embrace that difference like a pink flamingo in a flock of doves because that is the only real way to close the gaps.

mentalfloss.com                                                  Or be this guy. Always be this guy.

Beautifully Broken.

“How can we know we’ve lived until after we’re already dead?” she said,

Drawing lazy circles in the sand with her stark white toes.

I watched the way her hair drifted and shined under the moonlight and a blanket of pale white stars;

Still those little toes tipped in sparkly red continued to weave stories washed out to sea before they’d even began.

A light breeze rustled that raggedy old sundress she loved so much even though the hem had started to fall and threads had started to hang about her knees.

She smiled at me then, and for a moment my breath caught

Watching moonbeams create patterns across her alabaster skin.

There was never a time when I wasn’t mesmerized by her;

Even the circles around her eyes only emphasized the madness in their inky depths;

Paint brush firm between her teeth as fingers told her secrets in halting lines and dizzying shapes across the canvas.

She didn’t just paint, this dark beauty, she danced and sang entire operas in the key of darkest blue.

I couldn’t stop her; perhaps I didn’t want to.

I could only guess at the severity of the cracks within her that had gotten so deep, nothing would ever see the bottom.

And when she smiled at me as she swallowed that handful of tiny pink pills I loved her even more.

The sun filtered through brown leaves still clinging to the last vestige of summer; long after the grass had shriveled from cold as they lowered her into the ground.

She had never looked lovelier in that tattered old dress, as her busy fingers were finally stilled and the madness that sang from her coal black eyes could be seen no more.

Succeed At Your Own Risk.

Ralph Steadman Art

I’ve never been out of the country. I’ve never had a sister; never been married, never had kids, never been to a graduation ceremony for myself.  I am completely common and unexceptional in my mediocrity.  If you met me on the street, you’d struggle to remember my name 5 minutes later.  But those aren’t the things I sweat over in the dead of night when the day is over and all I want is the release of sleep where dreams take over and make up for how incredibly average I am.

No, the things that truly disturb me are the many things I have done and make up the sum of who I am. The only comforting part of that is I suspect it’s the same for many of us; we make lists of the things we’re proud of and the things we aren’t and the list of cons easily doubles the pros.  The focus is on what we haven’t done, and wished we hadn’t and we could lament on that until our eyes close for the last time.

I suspect that may actually be the driving force behind what it means to be alive. If we were to ever be truly at peace with ourselves and our lives, what would be there to keep us going?  If we were all amazing and exceptional, it would throw the whole system off balance and the bar of mediocrity would have to rise.  On the other hand, if we were to accept things as they are, no one would ever have the drive to climb to the top.  It’s a crap shoot either way.

The worst part is our accomplishments are generally measured by the overall consensus of others; letting them decide if we’ve risen above the status quo or if we are destined to be forgotten faster than the last kitten meme we barely glanced at in our news feed. Yet if we step in and tell ourselves how amazing we are so that we’re properly motivated to keep trying, we will still be criticized for arrogance and labeled comically delusional. If by some twist of fate we were to be deemed “exceptional” by the masses, the critics will be foaming at the mouth to discredit us out of whatever motive the latest medical study says causes douchebaggery.

So we can try, and maybe we might succeed, only to lose our compassion and humanity in defense of achievement, or we can be judged lazy for not trying at all while clinging to humility. There is no such thing as a completely happy ending, there is only which downside is more tolerable.  That’s the real accomplishment and anyone who sees the consequences for both the win and the fail but tries anyway, well, that’s the real praiseworthy act.