Category Archives: Poetry
What and how much had I lost by trying to do only what was expected of me instead of what I myself had wished to do?
Borrowing my friend Waiting For Satan‘s blogging style, I pose to you the question: what should BA have done to work the situation to his favor?
His hand slowed its feverish massage as his laughter grew.
“What the hell are we listening to?”
I stop my humming and open my eyes, lifting my Galaxy to my face.
He shakes his head and keeps moving the mouse ball, putting the finishing touches on the design I made. A complete overhaul of my book cover. It’s beautiful.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“It’s just that when I left here, you were listening to Otep.”
I smile. “It’s my thing. Country music is where I go when I need to bring the rage down.”
He’s right. A few hours prior, I had sat at his workstation. I had Marie’s artwork framing the screen. I had a blank Photoshop layer precut to the background artwork in the center. And I had the roars of Otep, Killswitch Engage, Rammstein carrying about me, helping me bring my rage to resolve.
And from resolve begat beauty.
I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s a living fact. My online persona constantly engages in controlled folly, and much of that folly comes from my actual persona managing the ebb and flow of the disorder. I found over the last few years transforming from shadow artist to true artist, having PTSD is a gift. A strange one, in that it can be a crippling situation if not managed, but when it’s harnessed, it can become a powerful source of creativity, sometimes bucking you crazy, but at the end of the ride, you’re left with a masterpiece.
If my actual persona was not the skilled master of the ol’ Put The Stick Down, the design flaw I had to deal with yesterday would’ve sent me into a vortex of fury. I chose to convert my dark thoughts into a working plan. You know what, if you don’t like it, change it, I said to myself. I knew what I wanted to create, but I didn’t have the equipment. Made some contacts; finally, the guy who did my photo shoot not only had the full suite but he didn’t need to use it for the day.
At 2:37AM my time I sent the completed design files, the proofed manuscript, and reference files to the publisher, then I passed out. Today, whatever latent malevolent feeling I have about the ordeal is going to get exorcised out productively. I’m thinking, jog around the park with Bobby, go read my book on the pier, and listen to something that goes like this:
Folks are usually about as happy as they make their minds up to be
Basically, I have been compelled by curiosity.
NOTE: I took the challenge sicahue presented in my Ancient Astronauts post, and continued the story using the same writing prompt.
The small girl busied with twisting long braids into each other, creating one long rope down the prefect’s back. Meanwhile, another servant girl, about twelve years of age, looped a red scarf about a long, lean torso, holding it taut as it fastened right under the breasts, as she was trained. Both girls stepped back and allowed the prefect to adjust accordingly. A light nod to each of the girls’ directions caused them to smile appreciatively as they bowed. The younger girl motioned for a headdress adorned with grouse and ptarmigan feathers. The prefect lifted a hand, “Not yet,” then stepped forward and kneeled before the slate alter in the center of the room. The girls genuflected, brought their arms to cross over their chests, and entered into a chant with their master.
The room glowed brightly from behind the three. The two girls turned and squinted towards the light. The prefect, eyes still closed, drew a knowing smile across her face. The girls, recognizing the being approaching, lowered their eyes and bowed. The receiver looked astonished.
“About time my prodigal daughter came home. You’re about to miss the ceremony, girl! Come here, give me a hug.”
Key still in hand, she didn’t know what else to do other than hug this unfamiliar person.
“Master, should we fetch her garments?”
“Only if Ga wills it.”
“Hold it. My name’s Gail.”
The prefect laughed. The two girls entered into a laugh.
“Every day’s an adventure with my daughter. So I’m to call you Gael now? Well then, instead of Mother, you can call me Candy. Sweets! Marzipan! You never cease to entertain me, Ga.”
“Oh right,” the prefect lifted her chin as she stroked Gail’s face, “Ga-el.”
Gail widened her eyes and quickly scanned the room. She had gone from a simple, solid door in the middle of a plain to a large, palatial room, lit only by arched windows cut along the rock walls. The woman calling herself Mother (Marzipan?) was dressed in a long black sheath with a red waist cinch. Behind her was an alter with a large gold statue of a wide eye. The two girls assisted her with placing a large gold plate over her chest and a large headdress.
“Daughter, aren’t you going to help me with the ceremony today? Lots of babies to bless. It was an especially cold winter, remember?”
“Uh.” Gail watched as the two girls approached her, hands folded in front of them, smiling as they awaited her response.
“Uh.” She tucked the key into the satchel hanging off her waist.
The prefect adjusted her headdress in the standing mirror once more, then returned to Gail.
“I suppose your wandering today has made you tired. I’m fine to do the ceremony on my own, but, my dear starchild, if you are to advance in the priesthood, you need to spend more time amongst your charges.” Marzipan wrapped her arms around Gail in a tight embrace. The cold gold burned her cheek.