a collection of poems and prose
a collection of poems and prose
For those who are unaware, my mother passed away earlier this month, which is why I’ve not been very present here on WordPress. Aside from posting nearly daily, I read and comment just as often, if not more often. To me, reading, commenting, and reblogging moving content is just as important as posting my own work. I value my community, and greatly appreciate the love and compassion of my friends. All of you WordPress writers are a part of my daily life…a daily life that has been put on hold while I mourn my mother, manage her affairs, plan a memorial service, etc.
I will return to full capacity, though I cannot say when, exactly. Just know that you all are not forgotten by me.
I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing most days, unless it involves the tip-tapping of keys. I’ve forgotten how to properly mingle with breathing bodies; I prefer the company of the characters who live inside my head to the people I meet when I go out with friends, on the rare occasion I go out with friends. The friends I most want to spend time with live miles and miles and miles away from my old house in this piss-ant village in Michigan. There’s one special lady who lives across the Atlantic, and I miss her. Funny how you can miss someone you’ve never beheld. Funny ho-ho, not ha-ha.
I don’t go out and paint the town puke anymore. If it weren’t for Fibromyalgia, would I still stay home on Saturday nights? Would I get all riled up when the phone rings after 7 pm? The friends I most want to spend time with would never phone me after Jeopardy has begun, and if we did go out on the weekend, they’d make sure I was home and in bed by nine o’clock. When I stay up until 5 am, it’s because I’m writing. Or binge watching Stranger Things, or True Blood.
My sister got me hooked on True Blood; Tara let me borrow her DVDs. She also has the complete set of Pretty Little Liars, but no thanks—I do have standards. I finished Stranger Things 2 this afternoon. Holy balls, what a terrific season! I do hope there is a third. It really boils my piss that Jim won’t watch Stranger Things. He also dismisses my attempts to get him to watch Black Mirror. Both shows are themes he is interested in, but for some reason, my fucking husband will not cooperate with me.
Jim works ten hours a day, and Nicole has been out on her own for over a year. I do miss my girl a lot, but being alone most of the day has its perks. For the majority of the day, I live alone. I like being alone. I don’t have to listen to the television screaming at me; I can play my music as loud as I want; I can read a book without someone interrupting me; and I can just sit quietly with my thoughts without someone asking me if I’m okay.
I like to sit in silence, preferably with Melvin in my lap. The sound of his purring is relaxing—hypnotizing. My mind wanders free, and opens up to brand new thoughts. Sitting with my kitty is my meditation. Some people in my life laugh about my relationship with Melvin. They think I’m being funny, or that I’m fucking nuts. Well, nuts to them, I say. I feel sorry for people who don’t know the special relationship between human and animal companion. For real, when my baby boy jumps into bed with me, and falls asleep on my chest, I’m overcome with the most relaxing sensation. My Melvin, he is the best therapy I could ever receive.
I’m tired enough to sleep now.
Despite the pain I live with every day, I often do forget that I’m not twenty anymore–until I hand down to my girl some vintage band tees too small for me now. Goodbye Fleetwood Mac tank top, and Rolling Stones long sleeved t-shirt. See you around, Abbey Road with the small hole in the armpit. Rick Springfield, you’re next, dude. And poor Peter Frampton, my beloved…I promise you’ll live on in the hands of Nicole. She’ll treat you right. I just can’t stretch you across my boobs anymore. Okay, so my boobs aren’t the real problem. I’ll be thirty-nine in December, and I’m a good deal heavier everywhere than I was twenty years ago.
Thank you, Fibromyalgia—you really do cramp my style, and by that I mean you’ve made me fat. My bell bottom jeans just don’t fit right anymore, and I wonder who I am when I go out in yoga pants and sweatshirts. You’ve taken my identity and my will to give a fuck. I throw my hair up in Pebbles buns now, and wear my glasses every day. I wear slip on shoes, for fuck’s sake. Granted, my shoes are colorful and cute as fuck, and I rock a messy bun, especially when I’m wearing glasses. I refuse to allow you to take away my good humor. You take away my concentration; sleep; self-esteem; sanity; appetite; motivation; and MY T-SHIRTS, among loads of other things…you can’t have my goddamned humor, too.
I thank the Universe for Nicole. My girl reminds me who I am better than anyone. I had a lovely day with her yesterday, full of laughs and stimulating conversation. So there’s another thing Fibromyalgia and my other health issues cannot take away from me—my daughter, and our beautiful relationship.
I know I’ve posted this song a million times before, but I’m posting it again. This is the song that I would play when Nicole was a baby—when she’d wake up crying in the night. I’d hold against my chest, and dance her back to sleep. My special babe. I’d be nothing good without her.
I have written and published eleventy “About Me” pages, only to go back and hit the trash a day later because each one plagued me at night; I’d wake up at bastard o’clock in the morning wondering, Am I really a cunt? All of my blasted attempts to write up a proper biography always seem to come out reading fucking cunty.
I’ve taken the Funny Lady biography for a spin or twelve. Oh, look at me! I’m a proper Kristen Wiig. More like Kristen Stewart, bitch—which leads to the I’m Awkward and Don’t Know If Anyone Really Likes Me biography. I’ve also written up the Understated Writer biography. I’m a regular Hemmingway over here. That’s a goddamned lie. My favorite was the A&E biography. Kindra was born into one of the most fuckest-uppest families in Michigan, but she never let her parents’ inability to get their shit together drag her down.
There are a few “About Me” pages on WordPress I’ve read that are poignant, genuine, and absolutely interesting. Perhaps I could employ one of these beautiful people to write my biography for me. Or visit the elementary school and get a kindergartner to do it. I actually like the latter idea better. My biography would read something like:
My name is Kindra. I wrote a book, and now I’m writing another one. I like to write for my blog on WordPress. I like my friends on WordPress. My favorite color is green. But not neon green. I don’t like neon colors. I have Fibromyalgia. Fibromyalgia sucks donkey dick. Mean people suck donkey dicks, too. I like sticking up for people who are being hurt. I make the best homemade pizza in the galaxy. I love my husband. I love my daughter. I love my cat, Melvin. I love my dad, and my mom, and my sister. My sister is having a baby girl later this month. I love babies. I visited England once, and I want to visit again. I also want to go to Scotland and see my kindred spirit, Allane. My dream car is a 1970 AMC Javelin, because unicorns aren’t real, and unicorns are not cars.
Melvin Cornelius likes when I sing to him. Today, Jim chuckled, and shook his head when I sang You Are So Beautiful to my baby boy.
I said, “You’re lucky I don’t put Melvie in clothes, put him to bed in a crib, and sit him in a highchair at meal times.”
To which Jim replied, “I’m lucky??? You’re lucky. Because I’d have to put you in a home, where you’d be hand fed by nurses. In a highchair. And straitjacket.”
I don’t know where my husband comes up with these ridiculous scenarios.
Once, I said to Nicole (when she still lived at home with us), “Wouldn’t it be creepy as fuck if one day we were minding our own business, and Melvin walked into the room on his hind legs and starting talking to us? I’ll bet he walks around in the middle of the night like a person, while we’re all asleep. He probably walks upright into your bedroom, hops up onto your bed to sleep with you, and you don’t even know it.”
The idea frightened her for some reason. She slept with her bedroom door closed for weeks. Melvin would scratch at her door, and I’d hear, “No, Melvin! Go away!”
There’s nothing diabolical about Melvin. Look at that face!
LOOK AT IT!
He’s my special guy, yes he is.
I had a nightmare recently. It was a zombie apocalypse, and I was trying to save Melvie from being caught and eaten. For some reason, Dream Kindra thought that hiding him in a cupboard was the best solution. He kept running away! And I kept putting him back in that goddamned cupboard. Seriously, I need to get my shit together. I need a solid plan. Without one, I’ll be the first to go, and it will be because of my cat. Not even (my secret boyfriend) Norman Reedus would be able to save me and Melvin.
I’m a lost fucking cause, I swear.
At 3:33 pm, on the third day of October, it is 82 degrees where I live in Michigan. The house is cool inside, too cool, so I’ve opened a window for balance–just one. The sun is a golden god today, and the trees are waving happy branches in the breeze–lots of them have managed to hold onto their spring green color. From where I’m sat at my desk in the living room, looking into the backyard, I might easily be fooled into thinking it was June.
I am peaceful this afternoon, listening to the clacking of keys as my fingers deliver my thoughts. Melvin is asleep in the window just inches away from me, and he keeps making these fat kitty errrmm sounds that melt my heart. I want to pick him up and rock him like the baby he is, but the poor guy hasn’t been feeling well, so it’s best I let him be; the sweet thing, I wonder what he dreams about, all curled up and cozy.
I’m going to prepare a chicken stew with dumplings tonight for dinner. I feel good enough to cook, so I want something special. I only wish Nicole still lived at home so I could feed her, too. Oh, my girl. I miss the smell of her shampoo permeating after her nightly shower. I miss going to bed at night, and seeing the soft light of her bedroom reaching just beyond the edge of the closed door. I miss waking up to the sound of her tea kettle. She and Isaiah have just moved into their first house, about ten miles out of the village. I still see Nicole several times a week, and we text, or speak on the phone every day.
I am peaceful this afternoon, but I really feel like I need a hug.
Braeden created a new award to show appreciation for the writers of WordPress. It’s a simple, genuine acknowledgment that speaks for itself. The only thing you have to do when presenting the Treasure Chest to a fellow blogger is write about why you love their blog. The nominee will then pass the Treasure Chest along–so on, and so forth.
Treasuring Bittersweet Lane is one of my favorite blogs to read. Braeden is an honest, multi-faceted writer, and he has a kind spirit. I’m thankful for his friendship, and the tremendous encouragement he offers me. I’m also thankful for his writing, as his work is something I look forward to reading every day. For this reason I’m going to nominate Braeden for his own award, AND pass the Treasure Chest along to Christine E. Ray at Brave and Reckless.
I love Brave and Reckless because Christine writes about the human condition with fierce courage. She is open about her truths, even when she is feeling vulnerable. Her words are uplifting, tragic, romantic, horrific, and stunningly beautiful. Christine inspires me to be my best self. I offer this award with great gratitude.
God asked a man to kill his own son on an altar. Yeah, yeah, I know the outcome. God was so fucking happy to see that Abraham was obedient that he stopped the sacrifice before Isaac’s blood was shed. And Abraham was like, “Thank you, Lord. I will serve you more fervently now, because you are good. Thanks for sparing my son.”
Excuse me??? I’m sorry not sorry that I’m about to offend: If God said, “Kindra, this is Me speaking. I want you to take Nicole up the mountain, tie her down, and cut off her fucking beautiful head.” I’d be like, “Send me straight to hell, motherfucker. And fuck you for asking me to do such a thing, you needy, sadistic bitch.”
I dare any parent to tell me they wouldn’t do what I would do. Envision your child, defenseless against you. Do it…
For real. This is the shit people defend with their lives. Abraham is the sort of man we should admire–because of his devotion. Devotion to what?
Fibromyalgia, insidious onset (yeah fucking right). Symptoms include: