On 'Just Gone.'

This is such a difficult grab into my heart... You're a part of my memory.
-Bushwalla, "1982 Blues"

You're gone, just a memory now. I think of the people I've known and loved who have made their exits from my life and I want them back. I can't burn bridges- I want to love a person wholly while I can, not a needless memory.





I. Aftermath

He hadn't been himself for the past few months. Sick already, the struggle handed to him proved too much. He simply lost the fight. I catch myself imagining over and over the scene that must have played out that night. The worst part is when it's over and there is no rewind.

I've been in town less than an hour and the gossip is already more than I can bear. Why isn't the rest of the world shattering with me? A dark cloud hangs over us yet the highway moves at the same pace and business is being done as usual. I watch a man saunter across Don's parking lot and climb into his truck. He chews on a toothpick, content from lunch.
I think, 'This could be you, but it's not. You're not experiencing anything… You’re gone.'
I'm frightened by how easily it could be me missing from this busy world. Instead it's the man that baptized me, watched me "blossom" into who I am today.


II. Funeral Home

I step inside a room full of people laughing and joking, with two lines snaking together towards the casket. I follow my group towards the register, sign my name, and glance at the wall. Framed are the words 'In loving memory of Kenny Ray Smith, 1963-2009'.
I begin to shake and cry instantly. I clutch my purse, gather my resolve, and join the line leading to a grieving Louann and cold, ashen Kenny. My tears seem out-of-place, so I bury my face into Brian's shoulder until I've stopped crying. I avoid looking at the casket for as long as possible, till I’m at the end and I’m forced to see the strange look on his face. He doesn’t look at all like the person I knew. Seeing our pictures beside him clouds my vision with tears and I have to leave.
Several people fill my ears with their negative speculation on my way out and I wonder, 'Why can't we just let each other grieve?'


III. The Funeral Service

Traveling down one country road after another, I pass the cemetery where he's to be buried. Several men are there with a tractor digging a grave. I pretend not to notice. At 11:06 I’m sitting in my car gathering courage. I can hear the sound of Aaron Neville’s music coming from inside the church. I have to brace myself to keep from crying. That was our song for years. Several men that Kenny knew and loved spoke about how strongly he stood beside the people everyone else hated. That was him exactly- strong, loving, honest. His hands were always warm, his words exactly what you needed to hear.
When it’s time to walk past him my body starts shaking so much that I’m afraid to stand. He seems gray and fake and not at all like the charismatic person that would call out “Hey Girl” and kiss my cheek. I leave the church asking the same question Tuesday night’s phone call left me obsessed over. ‘Why?’

A Confirmation Scene.

Yeah, my title has nothing to do with anything. I'm currently reading 'Life in the Middle Ages', an arousing tome, and it has the greatest little phrases and chapter titles.

Anyways, I never update my blogspot. You should totally just add me on myspace. myspace.com/dayofamalia
Tons of my verse (shitty and not-so-shitty) is on there!

Playground Ponderings

From birth our children have an amazing ability to feel. Anger, joy, love, hatred- they aptly feel it all. As they grow older they use this ability to form a 'worldview' that directly reflects those of the adults around them. We don't teach them to weigh and decide for themselves, only what 'is' and what is acceptable according to society. Our preconceptions, prejudices, irrational judgments are all passed down to children who are taught to just know.

A few weeks ago while my class was playing outside, my cute four yr olds decided to hunt for worms. The hunt was well underway when I noticed some of the children in a heated discussion. (They're adorably earnest at this age…J) One of the boys with a stick for digging had just found a worm under the mulch and dirt and wanted to spear the little thing; a few of the other kids didn't want the worm to die. I asked the boy why he wanted to kill something that had done nothing to harm him or his friends. To this he replied,
"Well, what do worms do for us?"

Is harmony such an out-of-date idea??

In another instance, my attention was drawn by a fellow teacher on the smaller playground next to me. She was chasing the two-year-olds around with a towel on her head, fashioned into a turban. When I asked what she was doing, (amused at her silliness), she simply stated,
"I'm pretending to be a dirty Arab."

No fucking joke, man.

Confession 8: the words of a pagan

When I grow up I want to be A bird. A beach bum. porn star. nun/monk. poet. mad scientist. madame in mexico. sleeping beauty. mother. mermaid. moonshiner. evil genius. the virgin mary.
secluded.
happy.
FREE... real.
Sated.

Hallelujah.

Amanda is...

Amanda is...


A list. Because I love lists.

Amanda is...

Irritated.
Because? I don't want them, I want you. And what you want makes me want to scream.

Flattered.
Here's the line: "you're not like other girls. you're better." If only.... *sigh*

Lucid.
Why is this notable? Because I would rather NOT be lucid. I'd rather be drunk as fuck in some stranger's bathtub.

Dirty.
So, so dirty. Unfortunately, I'm not sharing the details. I'm tired of sharing. Fuck sharing.

The End.

Oh yeah.

Call if... a) you're the stranger with the alcohol and bathtub b) you'd like to fuck sharing with me, or... c) you've found my lost imagination.

Crash

The open space rushes around us
And I'm wide for you
Sitting under a tree like gypsies
Our souls increasing pressure
For that moment when our starved bodies collide
Like two blazing lights
Releasing an explosion of sensation
Light, fire, pain, oblivion are all one
The joining men pay whores to forget
Culminating into one crash

Love

I'm magnificently aware of the sun on my face, warming my legs, caressing every inch I give up

My hair is free and dancing for the breeze, every movement a show of submission

My skirt creeps farther up my thighs, acquiescing for the sun, inviting the breeze to whisper against the bare skin

My lovers are discovering my hidden birthmark, urging the wetness with a kiss from the sun, a touch from the wind

An oak tree towers over me, embracing me beneath the sky