skeletons

I do not understand how to overcome the intense sense of sadness and guilt.

How anyone, when cleaning out closets that are chock full of memories past, can justly decide to toss or tether the notes that once skipped across rows of desks behind the teachers back. How to eliminate or illuminate the trigger to that one memory that floods in at first sight, but mostly just sits back and patiently waits in the filing room til the next spring cleaning frenzy.

Do I disregard the names that do not conjure up a countenance or, in the name of posterity, should I tuck them away for a later date when, by chance, that wrinkle in my brain decides to share it's secrets?

The recognition of a person's essence is immediate upon glancing at the handwriting on an envelope; the bittersweet scenes of times past are often too heartbreakingly sweet that I leave the cards in their covers.

Next time, maybe, when I have more to add and more to forget.

my best friend the zombie

This Friday 

in the old Helm's building 

on the corner of 

Columbia, Tennessee's 

historic downtown

(cue drumroll)

Local artists will 

be displaying their works!

(applause)

From 5:00 - 9:00 pm

please join us for a 

casual exhibition and

wine and snacks!

Help us prove that Columbia

does not die at sundown.

flashbacks

Like depicted in movies and on television, tunnel vision and hearing loss set in without warning as I fleetingly relive a moment from my childhood.   I relish these trips down memory lane that are most often triggered by the olfactory glands.
One of the most distinct and frequent memories that I recall is of taking baths at my grandparents' house in Oklahoma.  The undercurrent of well water is lacking, but every time I use Noxema face wash I revert back to that mini-me with my cheeks and chin lathered up just right; Papa's Colgate shaving cream and his old, razor-less Bic poised for action.
There are two perfumes that have the power to spike my senses and send me sniffing around like the best of hounds.  To be honest, though, I have no idea which specific scents they are; I only know my history with the women who wore them.
There are moments when I am back in the house from my McDowell Elementary School days.  The perfume my mom would don before going to a show in Nashville with dad or before her Thursday bunko nights was a spicy floral and I am almost certain it came in a delicate bottle with a tiny golden lid.  The closest I have come to finding a similar scent, that doesn't come in a ninety-nine cent aerosol bottle with a name resembling that of a romance novel, is one from Tokyo Milk.  Of course I don't recall the name of that flavor, either.
Sometimes I stop and look around to make sure my babysitter from preschool days isn't standing next to me. Naturally, she isn't, but once I accidentally smelled a woman onto the next aisle because I wanted to have Miss Tammy around just a little bit longer. Iced, sprinkled, strawberry Pop Tarts and Full House jump into my mind when I smell her perfume.  I think of teddy bears and my first roommate in college, too.
I believe that our lives flash before our very eyes daily.  More often, if we are lucky.  I know my eyes remain open and my motor skills haven't failed me, yet.  When it happens in the car, I keep driving but I confess what I see is not the scene I am passing. What I see is being projected onto that part just behind my eyebrows and forehead. That part of the skull seems to be where I look, as if staring at a movie screen.  Don't judge, everyone has been driving along and then suddenly wondered how they arrived at their destination.
Memory is the trickiest of characters.  I lose my keys within moments of entering the house but, when a waft from back in time drifts up my nose and into my memory files, I am suddenly eleven years and singing, word for word, Juliana Hatfield's Spin the Bottle while wearing my best friend's Flapdoodles.

next stop hope

Among other things Spanish, pig feet and words like membrillo not included, I miss the public transportation.  I accomplished so much while being zoomed back and forth on the high-speed trains or while being mushed against strangers in the metro underneath Madrid.  Books were read, scarves were knitted and naps were taken.  I was in good company.

Through the cloud of sleep I loved when I heard Proxima estacion: Esperanza. Next stop: Hope.  What a great name for a metro stop. Mexico and Manu Chao first introduced me to the comforting, prerecorded voice promising hope and peace.

Somehow, while napping on the transfers between point A (usually Atocha) and point B (usually Barajas), I always seemed to wake up just as the doors were opening. I muddled along, becoming one with the river of pushy commuters and confused American tourists to the next train or up to the surface, exiting the underworld of green florescence that did nothing to hide the greasy dark circles under everyone's eyes. Returning to reality, climbing the sticky stairs and being blinded by the rejuvenating sunshine, was usually accompanied by a deep breath of the stale air being propelled upward through the vents of the departing train that had delivered me so safely at the destination promised.
Sometimes, I am not so sure of my own abilities behind the wheel of a car to complete that task and wish that I could have an hour to read my pile of books instead of bobbing and weaving to avoid all of the speed racers on the interstate. And a nap is never counterproductive... especially in Spain.

It's a good thing I don't live in Mario's world

Because if I did, I would have rammed my awesome Volvo wagon, Lori, into someone long ago. 

Namely those someones who speed up West 7th Street 15 miles over the speed limit, switch in and out of lanes without blinking and have ignorant bumper stickers on their cars publicizing their intolerance:

Terrifying. 

It hurts to see intelligent people, or so I once regarded them, refuse to allow another person to be who they were born to be. Life is hard enough as it is, why the attempts to degrade and humiliate another human being who had just as little choice in how they were formed as the next? No one wants to live in fear but that is where the choice lies. 

The refusal to accept and learn about any lifestyle that is distinct from the hater's own stems, I believe, from fear. Fear of the unknown, the forbidden... but I also believe that those people who are so adamant in their stance against different cultures and lifestyles are so because of a deep fear of themselves.  Whether it be sex, marijuana, alcohol, immigrants or homosexuality... the barrier put up is because of a fear instilled in them at a young age by biased institutions that tend to cultivate doubt in the individuals that are born, without choice, into said surroundings.

Allowing men to marry men or women to marry women does not signify that it is mandatory for everyone to do so. It does not mean that same-sex marriages will taint those of heterosexuals.  But the fear of the unknown and the desire to squelch any alternative way of thinking continues to be bred across the world. 

I don't understand.

How futile it seems to try and push love and tolerance on people... how confusing.  Should that not be our prime goal? As fellow human beings? To love and be loved?

When tsunamis and earthquakes hit everyone is moved to do their part... but at a safe distance and through a text message donation. Give someone the opportunity to have a home and a family? No... of course not. Not if they are gay.  How close-minded!

Call me a hypocrite, but I would much rather be intolerant of hate than try to prevent another's happiness.

It's a good think I don't like guns, either...