create your own visited country map
8/12/2004
8/11/2004
His idea of foreplay
She was usually attentive, observant, unobtrusive and silent. But when provoked, the rage flew through her teeth like tiny shards of glass. The following was rage:
She could talk music for hours the same way men yammered off the records of pro-football players or baseball big-leaguers. It was a comfort for her; one of the few things that made complete sense. She was never one to remember a joke--or would fumble through it and with the build-up would forget the punchline.
The talk of music began in the car headed home from a local bar. Her body was tense but her tongue loose from the booze; regardless, he made her uncomfortable. She felt a bit of control driving her car. He often pushed her buttons until she went to the edge. Today was no exception. Accusing her of being a music snob, she exploded in a fit of rage. She stopped the car in the middle of a highly-traveled two way street in town.
"Get out of my car, GET OUT!" She narrowed her eyes as if to see him through a filter. Had she a pistol in the glove compartment, it would be out like a shot. Through the rear view she could see an on-coming car. She waived it through.
"No! Drive! Drive the fucking car! Drive!"
He tried to reach across the wheel and she slapped his hands away. She knew he was much stronger and with the liquor he had a tendency to be rough with her. She hated him.
"Get out of my fucking car!" She repeated. She remembered a time coming home in a cab with him when she jumped from the passenger side while it was still moving to escape his threats. There was hell to pay later that night. She knew it would be the same tonight if she wasn't careful.
Knowing that it was a battle of wills at this point she would not back down. Her voice was shrill and the anger seeped out of her. The pile-up of cars behind forced her to pull off onto the shoulder where the argument continued.
"We're going to have this out now," he threatened, "now drive home!"
"You are mean! You are just like your father--just like you said you never would be!" He blurted as if scoring a point. He was on a roll to break her,
"You hate people. You are mean to your daughter, to everyone. No wonder you have no friends!"
The words were cruel; he knew they would cut to her soul. She used to cry--but there was no emotion anymore--no tears. She knew exactly what he was doing. She stood silent, arms crossed over her breasts, defensive. She was already gone.
"You are going to give her a complex! Just like you!"
Images of Mommy Dearest flashed through her mind. The year before a colleague was poking fun at her by dressing up as Mommy for Halloween. Metal hanger in tow. She heard about it the next week at work from someone who attended the party. Her life was a broken record.
Her defense mechanism, a complete disconnection, was triggered. She learned this early on--first at home with her father and then later with most of men in her life. They never fought fair. As his rant continued she went deep inside herself to escape even if only for a moment. She used to sing songs to herself while the tirades went on. She remembered a first argument with a man she was in love with screamed at her when she asked him why he put empty ice cube trays back in the freezer.
She came to when he lumbered past her to the kitchen. He pulled another beer from her icebox and gyrated his groin in front of her like some primitive animal. She was repulsed.
"So...do you wanna have sex with me?" he slurred.
You have got to be kidding.
You have got to be kidding me.
She could talk music for hours the same way men yammered off the records of pro-football players or baseball big-leaguers. It was a comfort for her; one of the few things that made complete sense. She was never one to remember a joke--or would fumble through it and with the build-up would forget the punchline.
The talk of music began in the car headed home from a local bar. Her body was tense but her tongue loose from the booze; regardless, he made her uncomfortable. She felt a bit of control driving her car. He often pushed her buttons until she went to the edge. Today was no exception. Accusing her of being a music snob, she exploded in a fit of rage. She stopped the car in the middle of a highly-traveled two way street in town.
"Get out of my car, GET OUT!" She narrowed her eyes as if to see him through a filter. Had she a pistol in the glove compartment, it would be out like a shot. Through the rear view she could see an on-coming car. She waived it through.
"No! Drive! Drive the fucking car! Drive!"
He tried to reach across the wheel and she slapped his hands away. She knew he was much stronger and with the liquor he had a tendency to be rough with her. She hated him.
"Get out of my fucking car!" She repeated. She remembered a time coming home in a cab with him when she jumped from the passenger side while it was still moving to escape his threats. There was hell to pay later that night. She knew it would be the same tonight if she wasn't careful.
Knowing that it was a battle of wills at this point she would not back down. Her voice was shrill and the anger seeped out of her. The pile-up of cars behind forced her to pull off onto the shoulder where the argument continued.
"We're going to have this out now," he threatened, "now drive home!"
"You are mean! You are just like your father--just like you said you never would be!" He blurted as if scoring a point. He was on a roll to break her,
"You hate people. You are mean to your daughter, to everyone. No wonder you have no friends!"
The words were cruel; he knew they would cut to her soul. She used to cry--but there was no emotion anymore--no tears. She knew exactly what he was doing. She stood silent, arms crossed over her breasts, defensive. She was already gone.
"You are going to give her a complex! Just like you!"
Images of Mommy Dearest flashed through her mind. The year before a colleague was poking fun at her by dressing up as Mommy for Halloween. Metal hanger in tow. She heard about it the next week at work from someone who attended the party. Her life was a broken record.
Her defense mechanism, a complete disconnection, was triggered. She learned this early on--first at home with her father and then later with most of men in her life. They never fought fair. As his rant continued she went deep inside herself to escape even if only for a moment. She used to sing songs to herself while the tirades went on. She remembered a first argument with a man she was in love with screamed at her when she asked him why he put empty ice cube trays back in the freezer.
She came to when he lumbered past her to the kitchen. He pulled another beer from her icebox and gyrated his groin in front of her like some primitive animal. She was repulsed.
"So...do you wanna have sex with me?" he slurred.
You have got to be kidding.
You have got to be kidding me.
8/08/2004
Sea air influence
The sea tide rolling in is a deep, dark blue--the same as the rims lining the inside of my eyes. Above, the sky mirroring my own, I see the center of my iris. If you would fly straight up thousands of miles and look down, it would be as if you were looking right through me.
I stepped out onto the sand--cool, soft, white dry. A few steps more and I met the hard, wet, putty that pains the arches like the wounds of an old lover.
Been reading Greene's Heart of the Matter and feel the sweet voice of him in the text...finding friendship, then love which always turns to pity. It's a cold, heartless pattern. As I pass the toule covered cottages of the newly wed couples I want to cry out to them; to tell them what is in store. Ah, but they are different. Their love will last forever. Is it love or duty? I quote Greene, "If you are happy darling, I am happy."
I follow the trace of a stranger's prints along the beach, measuring mine in his. It is quite a bit longer, slender with an elvish big toe--pointy at the tip.
His stride is smaller than mine--then I look to my right and find another set of tracks--a female. Her foot, again a bit larger but more petite than his. the stride matches his.
I follow in her footsteps until we reach the well-manacured grass of the estate property. I feel my mind switch from the turbulent, unpredicitible sand and sea to the well-kept grass, the order of the trimmed bushes and putting greens.
I stepped out onto the sand--cool, soft, white dry. A few steps more and I met the hard, wet, putty that pains the arches like the wounds of an old lover.
Been reading Greene's Heart of the Matter and feel the sweet voice of him in the text...finding friendship, then love which always turns to pity. It's a cold, heartless pattern. As I pass the toule covered cottages of the newly wed couples I want to cry out to them; to tell them what is in store. Ah, but they are different. Their love will last forever. Is it love or duty? I quote Greene, "If you are happy darling, I am happy."
I follow the trace of a stranger's prints along the beach, measuring mine in his. It is quite a bit longer, slender with an elvish big toe--pointy at the tip.
His stride is smaller than mine--then I look to my right and find another set of tracks--a female. Her foot, again a bit larger but more petite than his. the stride matches his.
I follow in her footsteps until we reach the well-manacured grass of the estate property. I feel my mind switch from the turbulent, unpredicitible sand and sea to the well-kept grass, the order of the trimmed bushes and putting greens.
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