Confession #17: I Was A Poetry Douche

I was in love with a man some time ago.  I wrote poems to communicate with him about it on this fucked up site where I held a “top blogger” status. 

I found some of the poems.

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I pray your wishes

burning candles

sing you sweetly

sleep you gently

fight to keep you

from fading memory-

you alone hold close my heart.

I wait on minutes

and battle hours.

Away from you I break to pieces

with graceful smiles

and no one knows

I live in secret

hands,

exist in other world,

and love, consumed and perfect.

Yours alone.

Yours in flame.

Yours in silent spoken

name.

Turns out he was just using me for kicks.

 

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Oh! No! Where Did The Groove Go?

“The Rhythm Thief” by SPARKS. They never got any credit.

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I was a 9 year old voodoo hippie

tumblr_n2yq9r58Zb1siq42po1_500 I watched too much television.

How is it that I remember Bingo, Fleagel, Trooper and Snork, but not the capital of…anything? I can sing both theme songs to Lost in Space and four different Burger King jingles but I don’t know how to swim or play any sports beyond what the one weekly hour of gym class could teach me. The solutions to my childhood problems were found on UHF. Sometimes VHF.

And so when the problems began, I made a voodoo doll of my 3rd grade teacher Mrs. Horowitz. I didn’t like her and I knew about voodoo dolls from Gilligan’s Island and all you had to do for it to work was make it look like the person. I used a Barbie and drew heavy make up on her face and cut the hair off. I wrote “Mrs. Horowitz” on its back and would run it over with this old red tricycle we had in the basement: over and back, over and back. I beat her head on the cement floor while “Spill Wine” was playing on the radio and kept a beat for the whole song with Barbie Horowitz, slamming her voodoo head over and over trying to give her a “concussion”. I had just had one myself so I knew what they were. I didn’t know if voodoo would work in my hands but I hoped that at the very least, maybe she would fall under my control every time “Spill Wine” came on the radio. I hated her.

She wore a beehive hairdo, too much pink lipstick, powder blue eye shadow and oversized Wilma Flintstone plastic white beads around her neck. She nagged and whined and when she smiled she showed a mouthful of old piano keys. These things were enough for me to have an aversion as I was being raised with an emphasis on looks which would eventually go horribly awry what with my mass of frizzy curls in a Marcia Brady world, but it was the day she made me sing My Country Tis Of Thee in front of the whole class that pushed me over the edge.

It was a punishment because I refused to pledge the flag and I don’t know why I either, I just wouldn‘t. I probably saw hippies on the news refusing to pledge and I wanted to fall in with them. They wore bell bottoms. I had one pair of bellbottoms and wanted to wear them all the time so I could look like a hippie. I used to tie my bathrobe belt around my head like a headband, put all my Mother’s beads on and play my Dad’s Mothers of Invention records pretending I was in “San Francisco”. I didn’t know what I would be doing there, but there was a song about San Francisco and flowers in your hair so that meant hippies and I wanted to go. Hippies were cool and the girls were beautiful with long blond hair and pretty faces like the girl on the Mamas and the Papas album cover. I wanted to go where boys had long hair and suede vests like the guys in my dad’s band who I would peek at from the top of the basement stairs and sometimes ride the red tricycle around while they played really long songs without words that seemed to go nowhere and get boring. One day, because my mom dressed us like we were on acid, I went to school wearing this purple sweater with fringe hanging from it and on the square pockets, there were smaller squares stitched in. Mrs. Horowitz told me she liked my sweater – the pockets’ design of “square in a square” was the symbol for square dancing and she was a square dancer. Now this was purely a coincidence. I can say without any reservation, that my mother did not buy the sweater because she liked square dancing. I knew, however, that this was an opportunity. I don’t know how, but I knew, and said: “I love square dancing!” I didn’t even know what square dancing was. I assumed it was what people who are square did as I knew what square meant and I was positive that Horowitz was one. In my house the only dance we did was the monkey, then the funky chicken and of course later we did the Soul Train line on every holiday, but I didn’t know what square dancing was. What I did know was that it was an opportunity to ingratiate myself to her. In third grade, I knew what that was all about and I made myself the teacher’s pet for the rest of the year. I was Eddie Haskell in bellbottoms, not meaning a word of the flattery but keeping her in my square dance pocket and getting away with everything.

She would come in on Monday and tell me about her big square dance with Mr. Horowitz who I imagined looked like Mr. Kravitz from Bewitched because everyone looked like someone from some tv show on some day of the week. I was her friend now. I was special. I didn’t like her but I was special and that was somehow enough for me to overlook the rest. She had the power and I wanted to get away with stuff and be the favorite. I kept the Horowitz brown nose machine moving.

I made the mistake of telling her she should teach the class how to square dance and wouldn’t you know, she did and I had to touch Jimmy Castro’s hand which was occupied by at least two fingers that spent far too much time up his nose digging for snots. It was probably my first lesson on “less is more” but I’m sure I didn’t learn it then as I still don’t really practice it when faced with the potential for more attention. Is there anything better than attention? No. There are pills and drinks that will make you need less momentarily and of course when you are sleeping you don’t care who is paying attention to you, but that stuff made my world go around then as much as it does now. I just didn’t have much finesse about it in 19-whatever.

And so I would never have made a good hippie. Hippies didn’t care about anything but peace and love and the Grateful Dead and stuff like that. Hippies didn’t care about attention or being the best at something or having everyone like them so that maybe that way they would like themselves. They were wacky like Goldie Hawn on Laugh-In. Hippies believed in whatever they believed in and that was it. I didn’t believe in anything but being liked. I was manipulating people and selling out for attention even when I was 8 or however old I was. I could be trying to squish your voodoo head under my tricycle one day, doing an Alamande Left with you the next. I couldn’t be trusted. The hippies would have figured me out right away. Even with my bathrobe belt tied around my head and wearing my acid sweater.

I looked too eager I think.

 Photo wickedfingers tumblr

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Writing Songs

tumblr_nrrnohvUCq1r6g8zao1_1280 I started playing guitar this year.  I’ve played keyboards and bass for years, written music, written a cabaret show to go WITH that music but I could never play a 6 string guitar.  This is where the sentence “Now I can” would go in any other story but mother fucker it is hard to play a guitar. Also, I have a shitty guitar which is like a second cousin to a ukulele.  It’s a practice guitar.  The bridge is like a suspension bridge. Either that or I am just getting worse.  I can say with absolute confidence that I will never – EVER – play a bar chord.

This isn’t stopping me from writing songs or playing a coffee house – once.  It was at a battered women’s shelter.  They were all on their IPhones during my set.  How do women in shelters, on welfare, with 4 kids from 3 baby daddies afford an IPhone?  I have one of those old timey flip phones where you have to hit each key 2 or 3 to get to the letter you want for a text.  And I have my own home.  No kids.  I’m doing something wrong.  I need a boyfriend to beat me so I can get an IPhone.  Whoa – that’s in bad taste even for me.

Right now I am working on a great song.  Actually it’s done except for the verse lyrics which I am winging right now but they always end up as Bowie”s  “We Are The Dead”.

What’s weird is that when I am driving my car I ROCK the guitar.  I hit every cord easily and make bored alternative guitar faces.  I play superfast like Johnny Ramone and I stand like Dee Dee.  But when I get of the car and pick up an actual guitar it’s a totally different story.  How am I ever going to be a cool chick who smashes her guitar on stage?

More cow bell.

 

Photo:  Kim Gordon

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I Was DATINg ThiS gUy

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I was dating this guy who considered himself musically cultured.  He told me very few people understand or  appreciate his taste in music.  What a relief.

He wanted to take me to an outdoor concert.  I was thrilled, thinking it would be the Samuel Barber/Bela Bartok at Tanglewood.  He took me to the fucking Boston Pops.  I asked him if he would be interested in an upcoming program at Tanglewood to which he replied “no.  that’s not music.  that’s noise.”.  It was Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms.. Stravinsky.   The maestro.   My hero. I said I would like to take him as my guest.  He asked me why it is that I like such composers as Bartok and Stravinsky – does it have anything to do with my being bipolar?

Under that theory, his interest in banal crap like the Boston Pops could have something to do with his small cock. I hadn’t yet seen it and maybe the Pops thing was a fluke and snobs don’t like Stravinsky because you can’t count it and I already learned to overlook his pompous, entitled rich guy attitude just as I hoped he would overlook my forthcoming histrionics on the cultural relevance of The Rite of Spring at cocktail parties.  I shifted all this furniture around for one reason:  he was ridiculously hot.  Still, I lived in fear of a Kenny G concert. 

SO I took him to a pretty hip joint in town to hear some jazz:  people I knew well,  great young players from NYC including a world renowned and award winning chick who really, really plays.  She is amazing.  He thought it was tolerable, didn’t like how the music just went all o ver the place for no reason but mostly he didn’t understand her popularity.  “I don’t see why she would be invited to play at the White House.  Maybe it’s a “black thing”.  Oh if only my Jewish boyfriend had said “shvartzas”.  What a post this would be. 

I sucked my tooth back through the hole in my lip and, when we arrived at the “bistro” for fuck sake, I mean he called it a “bistro”, I was sort of mentally checking out and ready to just poke this whole thing with a stick. There were no prices on my menu so I took a stab at what would be the most expensive thing and didn’t eat it. I told him I couldn’t understand why he thought this place was 5 stars.  I would give it “one spade”.  He didn’t get my meaning.  He’s cute, Dana, hold onto that.  And well off.  And he overlooks all of your…um…quirks. As we left he told me he would educate my palate with time.  “But what about my Popeye’s chicken?  I ain’t giving that up”, said I and he laughed because he liked sarcasm when it had nothing to do with him.  

I kissed him goodnight- oh what thick hair and for his age barely any grey and he’s cute, he is cute and he dresses well and that hair….still not enough to get me into bed though.  I was on the fence!  What do you want?? I would need to be drunk for that and I have stopped drinking temporarily for physical reasons but when I start up again you can bet I’ll be guzzling Night Train out of a paper bag, dipping  McNuggets in 3 different sauces while pitching pennies against the stone wall opposite me and listening to Coltrane’s nervous breakdown solo on “Straight No Chaser”.    Even this scene, in my opinion, was more cultured than anything he could conjure.  I was one-up culturing him in my mind. For a week.

Then he took me to the Met:  Tosca. 

I only know about 5 operas enough to wield an opinion and this was one of them.  But when we stepped in and I saw the opulence of the place I felt overwhelmed with a sense of inferiority.  I walked in small steps, shoulders down.  I didn’t belong here. I started thinking about the McNuggets in the alley.

But from the orchestra’s first note, I leaned forward in awe and remained so for the entire 36 hours of the opera.  Not really.  Just 3.  I cried twice.  I didn’t look at him once.  The opera has its boring moments.  I mean imagine saying every mundane thing in a sing-song voice:  can I borrow your sunglasses?  I’ll have a Whopper with cheese no onion.  Singing dialogue is the only downside of opera but the arias are breathtaking and the entire time I was thinking that I am a part of a dying art.  Opera will be the first art form to become obsolete in our time.  It was one of those 5 sense overwhelming moments.  He smiled at me when it was over.   It meant nothing to him.  It did not move him.  The opera is a requirement of his class like getting an Italian ice on the corner is for mine.  He goes through the motions handed down to him probably wearing a butt plug. You know, to feel something like a punishment for some mistake at Yale and the word “mommy” probably works into this and I sensed then that holding off on the sex might have been wise.  Though that whole thing does sound sort of kooky and fascinating like seeing a solar eclipse, you  know because how often is THAT going to happen.   Of course there would have to be Souza marches playing the whole time because the upper class can’t function in anything but 4/4 time.  The nouveau riche go so far as 3/4 time and are consequently much better waltzers and faster at sex.  This would all be funny if it were real but it’s  nothing more than one of my run-on fantasy sentences.

When we got to the hotel I called rom service and asked in a hillbilly accent: “Do you have anything like maybe mozzarella sticks or how about hotdogs?  Do you have hotdogs?”

At last he got it.    There would be no romance.   I was too wacky and full of unexploded mines in my past and it was all he could do to keep the butt plug a secret. I would be too much for him.  And he would be a musical idiot to me and that’s usually my dealbreaker.

So, we argued over what news channel to watch before we fell asleep.  Of course, he wanted Fox News.  I let him have it.

I mean he took me to the friggin Met.

photo:  wickedfingers.tumblr

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Confession #647

i-am-fatova-mingusSometimes I feel sick.  Even a little depressed.  I think it’s because I am lonely.  I mean, I have actual physical illnesses which someone told me was “karma for trying to kill myself”.  I can’t wait until her boyfriend cheats on her so I can tell her it’s karma for telling me my physical illnesses were karma for trying to kill myself.  I think, effective immediately, I am going to use the word “karma” as a weapon.

I spend a lot of time alone.  I’ve always been like that I suppose but it’s different now because I am not mentally fucked.  I’m well now.  I’m well now.   

Sometimes I feel sick.

And I wish you would call.

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Bankrupting Jesus

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Endless love and healing.  If that wasn’t Jesus’ M.O. we would have bankrupted Him by now.  Rappers alone use His name in the same line about spraying you house and killing bitches.  I know Michael Vick gave all glory to Jesus after at least one game.  The intelligentsia and atheists deny him but seriously, hit one of them with your car and watch how fast they start calling out for Jesus.  No I mean it.  Hit one and see for yourself.  Let’s all deny Him until we need something.  Let’s all kill things then thank Him for the success of getting away with it.   Even the believers ask and ask but seldom praise Him and rarely carry His message as He ASKED US TO.

Jesus was a radical.  The Pharisees hated him because he flew in the face of uniformity in exchange for unity.  “Yeah, cool, I like that”, say most of us.  That ought to be enough to get me into heaven, you know, acknowledging Jesus and well, well that’s probably a misconception.  Look – liking your boss won’t keep you employed.  You have to do the things he/she tells you to do.   Jesus asked us to do a couple of things like help wretches, show compassion, live as He did and talk about Him.  Talk about Him to people who need help or don’t need help but either way you have a 70% chance of being dismissed because the word Jesus is uncomfortable for people.  We can talk about GOD.  God is ok.  But if you get specific…it’s all high risk.  And so most of us don’t do it.  We ask for shit, we thank Him when He answers, we call out crying when we are in pain and He comforts us though we aren’t always open to receiving it.  But we don’t carry the message He asked his disciples and, therefore, all of us to do.

If He were anyone else, any other icon or thing people worship he would, by now, be some mythical story they make documentaries about on the History Channel, drained from our endless taking, taking, taking.

But He isn’t.   He is the living Son of God.  And seeing as He already died for us it would be an enormous undertaking to kill Him again with our selfishness.  At the very least, we hurt Him.  Human beings are proficient at that.

 

 

 

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