Emotion Is Truth

Sunday, July 12, 2009

This Moment

Drink wine.
This is life eternal.
This, all that youth will give to you.
It is the season for wine, roses, and drunken friends.
Be happy for this moment —
This moment is your life.

From 'The Ruba'iyat' by Omar
Khayyam. Translated by Edward
Fitzgerald (1809-1883).

Currently reading:
Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters
By Anne Sexton

Posted at Sunday, July 12, 2009 by TinyDancer120
(1) got emotional. Permalink

Sunday, May 31, 2009

"Fusion"

Fusion

It's been thirty-six years.
I've tried to divorce myself for twenty-five.
No alimony or wishes monetary,
Simply oblivion in a haunting cemetery.
Blankness in the Bedlam of my brain,
That place which every few years goes insane.
Life is assassin-angry,
A first-class trip to Hell.
But there will be relief in the mourning bell.
Perhaps someone will even be my Boswell.

It began with you, O Mother mine.
You began at seven with your morning wine.
By noon, you were always flying keen,
Thanks to your friend Jim, who made you Beam.
I remember trying to win your favor
As you reached for your vodka, which you always savored.
In the summertime, your eyes were winter-bright
As you would sit on me and fill me with fright;
With strong hands at my throat,
My head slammed on the floor, choke-choked.
You'd been kissing Jim,
Could smell him on your breath.
You were the one who made me crave death.

Deliverance eludes me;
None of God's angels have come to me during this furor.
Any time now, it will be my curtain call.
My last turn as a pretending giggle-girl soubrette,
Spreading lusty laughter to all.

This new play needs great planning
With the Happy Mask abandoned.
I've been wearing it for years,
Since I was eleven.
Two faces fused, becoming one;
But now, finally,
Look, Mom! —
I'm done.

©Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Currently listening to:
Abnormally Attracted to Sin
By Tori Amos

Posted at Sunday, May 31, 2009 by TinyDancer120
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Monday, May 25, 2009

Stories

So Many Stories

The house, once so pleased
with the love lingering in corners,
laughter in the nursery,
the big, bubbling babbling of babes,
and
parents doing what they do after "I do"
is now lugubrious.
Sorrow hides in its cobwebs
while the paint of pain cracks
and creaks in the eaves.
The walls wither while awaiting wet tears,
silent shame, and
Exhaustion!
Exhaustion!
Exhaustion!
The exhaustion of expectations embryonic;
parents depleted of post-pollination dreams,
doors crying and cringing when opened,
knowing emptiness waits on both sides with
blank men,
erased women,
alone-born child.
Only the attic content,
full of box after box after box
of broken heart after broken heart
after broken lives.
Waiting for more boxes, still.

©Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Currently listening to:
The Velvet Underground & Nico
By The Velvet Underground

Posted at Monday, May 25, 2009 by TinyDancer120
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Saturday, May 23, 2009

God - Deaf

Father, Unstained

When I talk to God,
Damned unanswering eggs of innocence
Crack and burst forth unto to me
Like shells of Godwin's Oath,
Naked platitudes unable to be
Intercepted,
Deaf to all else,
Unhearing

While God's mistress eavesdrops
On His wife's painted birth-givings
As I cower in the cluttered corner,
Knowing not when I may also begin living.
He is pleased to collect His shiny new untruths —
More joy-sucking, carnivorous,
Immaculate charlatans
Giving us struggle and scourge.
This is what You believe we deserve.
©Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Currently listening to:
Magic
By Bruce Springsteen

Posted at Saturday, May 23, 2009 by TinyDancer120
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Monday, May 04, 2009

Untitled

Untitled

Heart beaten as an egg!
Dancing, spinning, salacious
Dizziness and scrambled.
Kiss my filthy boots, you fly-blown bastard —
I will have my stillness.

©Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Currently listening to:
Disintegration
By The Cure

Posted at Monday, May 04, 2009 by TinyDancer120
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Tuesday, April 28, 2009

History

History

Your slightest smile
Brings me to my weakened knees.
You are all the Mayans built,
Stone by stone,
With strong shoulders,
Callused hands.

This lifts me up; your glances,
Your blue eyes,
The color of windblown cornflower,
Cause me to lie in the warm sand, surrender,
Watch as you hover over me,
Shoulders strong from holding me.

Hands callused from touching me.
Everywhere I look, something about you reminds me of
The stories, the poetry, the love,
The faith that came before us.
Our sanctity, strength and surrender
Are our own history, waiting to be recalled.

©Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Currently listening to:
Early Recordings
By Joan Osborne

Posted at Tuesday, April 28, 2009 by TinyDancer120
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Thursday, April 23, 2009

My novel

I had thought about publishing the pages of my new book as I went along, but have decided not to. For starters, the entry below is just. Bad. Writing. I've reworked it, and it's much better now, but I don't want to be criticized - or critiqued - during my writing process. I have a fair number of poems in me that I plan on publishing, and some plain old fun stuff, too, but for now, no updates on my book.

Posted at Thursday, April 23, 2009 by TinyDancer120
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Tuesday, November 04, 2008

My newest shot at creativity!

The Beginning of My Newest Book
Hi, all. I'm starting my new book, and I wanted to introduce the first page of it to you. I'm tentatively calling it "Headlines," but we'll see how that works out. You're invited to join the journey that Abby and I are going to take!

Headlines

As the rain from the thunderstorm pummeled the grass and the azalea bush outside Abby's apartment, she lay in her plush bed and sighed unhappily, even though she loved rain and how it cleared the air and, sometimes, her mind. The bed was a college graduation gift from her grandmother. She couldn't figure out if her grandmother had given her the bed because she expected Abby to sleep, English-degree-jobless, on a continuous basis, or if her grandmother just wanted her to have a place to burrow when she actually had time to sleep. The rest of the furniture in her apartment was spare, shabby, old, and included a television set built in the 1980s that she had grabbed from a thrift store for six bucks. She didn't even have a couch.

She knew that she was going to be late for her shift at the Every-Mart, a grocery store across town from her apartment. The store attracted mainly Rastafarians, barefoot women on WIC, and teenaged boys who were members of various gangs. They usually took in her long, flaxen hair, eyed her ample breasts, and asked her, "What up?," but it was generally a rhetorical question. So this is the kind of job an English degree gets me, she thought miserably as she gave the snooze button on her dusty alarm clock one final tap and threw her legs over the side of the bed, stretching her back as she did so. She hated the one-to-eleven shift that she was frequently scheduled to work. That was what she was scheduled for today. She usually began to tire around eight o' clock, and at that point, smiling at customers and bagging their selections of rosemary, popcorn, deodorant, and frozen pizzas caused her great displeasure. She wondered what people who checked out did with some of their items. For instance, what was the shrunken, elderly man (whose name was Perry, he had once told her as he had come through her line with a loaf of French bread as his purchase), going to do with yogurt and condoms? She had tried not to think about that one. He would always eye her as if she were a crossword puzzle and he was illiterate. Actually, she bore a striking resemblance to Gwyneth Paltrow, despite the breast-size issue.

She stepped into her mildewed shower and made the water as cold as she could stand. She was by no means awake, even though she was up and moving. She shampooed her hair with a fifteen-dollar bottle of shampoo which she knew she couldn't afford, but when she had had her hair trimmed at her favorite salon two weeks before, she had let her stylist talk her into the purchase. "It has jojoba in it," Gia had said. "It's also great for thickening the diameter of your hair." Count me in, Abby thought, knowing that that single bottle of jojoba and its hair-thickening properties would be paid for with two hours worth of work at the grocery store.

Posted at Tuesday, November 04, 2008 by TinyDancer120
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Sunday, November 02, 2008

A Visit to the Shallow End

Shallow Dish

Creeks aren't all in this world that are shallow.

For example, some women proudly self-polish their size-seven Manolos, have great big diamond rings, 2.3 kids, 4.6 nannies, handsome husbands who should have 'cheater' tattooed on their various appendages, and the luxury of staying home during the day in their McHouses while deciding if their cleaning women need to work on the invisible dust bunnies in the living room or the pictures drawn on the walls by the 2.3 kids.

I, conversely, have the luxury of an adoring and adorable husband, a beautiful wedding ring, one child, and the luxury of writing from home. I like my son's creativity being part of our decor (it can always be painted over when he's older). And dust bunnies? Hell, yeah, we've got those too. AND?

Now, to the point:

On a particularly beautiful February day (read: 65°), I picked my son up from his elementary school and decided we could both use the fresh air of one of the parks in our college town. Winter had been as stuffy as a Republican, and we needed something new to do. So off we went to the park. He and I had both slipped and fallen in the little creek there last year, so a reunion with said park was due. With hopefully no slippage this time.

I found a bench on which to settle myself while still being able to watch Dylan do headstands and hang upside-down from monkey bars underneath the perfect, brilliant, Carolina-blue sky. Dylan is 4'1" and five years old. Imagining grounding him when he's twelve frightens me. I'll never be able to get him into his room: "I'm BIGGER than you, Mom!!" But I digress.

He was playing happily and made a new friend, whose name was also Dylan. The Dylans had mud on their jeans, grass in their hair, and toothy grins. They came. They saw. They chased. They acted five years old.

Meanwhile, a woman sat down next to me on the creaky bench without so much as saying, "Hello," which, I suppose, was fine, because we were complete strangers. She then proceeded to take out her cell phone and have an animated coversation on it with someone about why her Pampered Chef party had been rescheduled and how dreadful it was that it was going to interfere with her scrapbooking conference. What a conflict. I remained silent, eyes trained on the Dylans. I couldn't tell which child was Pampered's, but I had a feeling it was the blond boy in the school uniform who boasted a blindingly white polo-style shirt. The boy, who appeared six-ish, seemed afraid to swing, much less jump into the sandbox. I shrugged and fingered the peace-sign pendant I was wearing. Soaking up the sun hadn't felt this good in years; it was like grace. My Dylan and the other Dylan had, meanwhile, found sticks that they were using as Power Ranger Megazords (play-weapons). "Ka-Pow! Gotcha!" And then they chased each other around in pursuit of eternal Power Ranger glory.

Pampered was still on her phone, grousing about not having a good tan yet (Hello? It's, um, FEBRUARY.), and how her last pedicure had gone all wrong and she had refused to pay the salon for it. "I, like, asked for MAUVE, not PINK! They told me I still had to pay! Can you beLIEVE IT?"

I wanted to offer her a can of Tab. Like, totally.

The Dylans were getting dangerously close to the creek (I still couldn't tell if Dylan No. 2 had a parent present), so I asked Pampered to hold my spot on the bench for me. She was still dishing to her friend on the phone about the injustices of life, but motioned that she'd hold my spot. I got the boys away from the creek, returned to my sunny spot on the bench, and found Pampered to be off the phone. About ten minutes later, a woman our age, if not a few years younger, and about as big around as a grasshopper's leg, saw Pampered. "OH! MY! GAWD!" both squealed. Hugs between the two were exchanged. Grasshopper dumped all of her stuff on the bench (I was beginning to get shoved off, and was not the least bit OK with it, because I'd been there before either of them) and then went reluctantly after her two children. An aside: How can people who are empty inside lug around Louis Vuitton bags literally overflowing with ... nothing? It's a mystery.

Grasshopper: "Don't you HATE it when you get BOTH of them out and they, like, go in opposite directions (Yeah, lady. They're doing it simply to annoy you.)?"

Pampered: "I KNOW! It's such a PAIN."

Grasshopper: "Hey, what's with the two dirty boys up on the top of the jungle gym with the big sticks?"

Pampered: "I don't know, but I hope they don't hurt anyone."

Me: *GRIMACE*

Grasshopper: "I HATE parents who don't pay attention to their kids. Kids like that are the kind that end up shooting up schools. I swear ..."

Me (unable to be silent anymore): "ExCUSE me?"

Grasshopper (disdainfully, because her ring was an eighth of a carat bigger than mine): "I was just telling her that kids who wave sticks like that around and pretend to shoot are just asking to become psychopaths. Parents of kids like that should do something before it's too late!"

Pampered: "I agree."

Me: "What if they're just playing 'Power Rangers?'"

Grasshopper: "You can't know that that's all they're doing. Just watch. When they grow up, they'll take out a whole school!"

Me: "See the strawberry-blond boy?"

Grasshopper: "Oh, yeah, the more aggressive one? Do you know anything about him?"

Me: "He's my child. My son. He's five. He's on the Principal's Honor Roll. And he's playing Megazord with his friend."

Pampered: *grandmotherly tone* "Remind him that he's only playing; not really shooting anyone."

Me: "Do YOU see a round of ammo around here anywhere?!" I was really wishing I had that can of Tab to hand her. Or dump on her.

Grasshopper: "But they're all dirty and muddy and nasty!"

Me: "There's mud on the ground, which I let my child - who's a BOY - play in. Kids are washable. I promise. Let them be boys. And if they didn't get dirty, there wouldn't be anything for you to gripe about cleaning up."

Grasshopper: "Harumph."

Pampered: "Uh-oh, here comes Jared."

Jared: *in tears* "Mommy! I'm sooooo, soooooo sorry! I fell from the bars into the sandbox!"

Pampered (who's going all drill sergeant): "Young man, this means I'm going to have to BLEACH that shirt tonight. Do you understand? When I tell you that you can't get in the dirt, I MEAN it. Do NOT do this again."

Jared (tearfully): "OK, Mommy. I'm really sorry. Can I climb the jungle gym?

Pampered (scans jungle gym for the Dylans): "Yes, but only if you're the only one up there. And do NOT fall again."

And women like this think MY child is going to inflict damage on others? Why can't children be children anymore? Why do they have to speak three languages, be part of every play group in every school zone, and memorize all presidents' names before age 4? Why do shallow, self-centered mothers reproduce multiple times when they clearly cannot stand to care for their first offspring (I had to have surgery, and if I hadn't, I'd have at least three children now)? These kids'll be introducing their nannies as Mom and their moms by their first names at high school graduation.

I let Dylan bring his 'Megazord' home. He and his puppy had a great time playing tug-of-war with it in the backyard. Until Dylan slipped and fell in dog poop. But after I put him in the washing machine and his clothes in the tub, all was fine ...

Currently listening to:
Gold Mother
By James

Posted at Sunday, November 02, 2008 by TinyDancer120
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Thursday, October 30, 2008

Weighty Issues

My seven-year-old son yesterday: "Mommy, you're pretty all the time no matter what, even when you're mad at me." OK. As they say, "Out of the mouths of babes." Until my son said that to me, I had almost decided to lipo every single part of my body because working out didn't seem to be doing it. Face? Just a bit of a lift under the chin. Arms? Suck some of the crap out from under the upper arm. Legs? Well, honestly, I've always liked my legs. I used to be a runner, and somehow, my legs have remained pretty much unblemished, but my butt could use a visit to the Hoover shop. It's all about my lack of self-acceptance. I look in the mirror, don't see the anorexic girl of my teens, and say to myself, "FAT COW!!!!!!!!" Mind you, I'm 35, but I know a lot of Nautilized married women with more than one child who are size fours and can slink around in Victoria's Secret's latest thongs with great senses of pride. I'm the type of person I would have looked at in junior high and gone, "She's like, TOTALLY fat." Any size above a 12 meant certain death of self-esteem. I kissed self-esteem goodbye a few miles ago. But, let's review: I exercise. I work hard and play even harder. I had major surgeries beginning in my late twenties, and ending the day before my birthday in 2005. Each one meant tons of bed rest, lots and lots of weight-inducing meds, killer hormone therapy, no movement from my bed, and no activity, save the ton of writing I did in my journal. There's much room to grow, but I'm not going to, since my body has decided to settle on this one weight and hasn't budged in over a year, no matter what I do. I've been through hell, physically. I'm pretty damned lucky that my body is in the shape it's in, after all the horrific things that have been done to it. Besides, no matter how big the bags under my eyes get from writing all night, no matter how smeared my mascara gets from grieving the deaths of those close to me, and no matter how mad I get at myself for making bad coffee, my son still approves. And I have other things going for me. I think. Herewith: Green, big eyes. A good smile. High cheekbones. A chest the poor, late Anna Nicole never could have bought (which is often a blessing AND a curse. If anyone out there wants a transplant, let me know). Naturally strawberry-blonde hair. A particular combination of eclectic, spicy personality traits that no one else could possibly have. Really good skin, thanks in part to genes, and Estee Lauder gets some credit, too. And - oh, yeah - a heart the size of China. And I didn't list the most important thing in the world going for me: my son. After all, he's the best parts of my husband and me put together. And nothing could be better than that. And I have never loved anything or anyone as much as I love him. He's my greatest achievement. And I didn't go wrong there. In fact, I'm sure I prayed hard enough that he was sent from the angels straight to me. So, heavier, thinner, whatever. It's all the story of my life. And it's still being written, even if the book is getting kind of big.

Posted at Thursday, October 30, 2008 by TinyDancer120
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