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is there a future?

9/14/2020

i want to feel normal
slash
good
but then i wonder
do i have any sort of right
to feel normal
slash
good
when the world is on fire
unjust
dying
i think
maybe i should start working out
eating healthier
i wonder
what's the point?
what exactly are we doing here?
i dream of a future that excites me
and want to make plans
but wonder
what's the chance that there even
is a future
i feel restless
i sleep in bursts
10 minutes, 20, 30
then awake
i have vivid dreams
it's like i'm a deep sea diver
i sleep with intensity
i'm a sprinter on the track
and then suddenly i'm
out of air
and i come back
to reality
gasping
i could remove the constant reminders
of the ways humanity is lashing out at each other
failing at empathy
being controlled by systems we have built
and then lost control of
i could get offline
but wouldn't that just be burying my head in the sand
it doesn't stop the problem does it?
i am depressed
in a brand new way
i know i am not alone
it is not that kind of depression (where you feel all alone)
it is a global depression
a feeling of hopelessness in our collective ability
to work together to build a future
i feel despondent
and, as a dreamer, it is getting harder and harder to dream
good things
instead, i dream nightmare scenarios
that each day feel closer and closer to the truth
but still
i am an optimist
i don't like to dwell on the negative
if i can at all help it
so i try
i try to find the good
i look for beauty
i create
i indulge in the creations of others
i attempt to give love
attempt to receive it back
and i live
each day
wondering if there is progress to be made
and if i am stalled
or if progress as a whole has been paused
waiting to see if we can hit "restart" on our own
i want to dream about marriage
and babies
houses and homes
adventure and travel
growing as a human
but to dream of these things
i must believe there will be a world
that can support these things
not invalidate these things
i have to believe i can marry the woman
of my dreams
i have to believe i can adopt the children i want
i have to believe there will be a livable future for these children
i have to believe i can afford to provide for them
i want to know there is more good than bad in the world
and that feels increasingly impossible
i have a business i need to grow
i should grow
but again
is there a world for that growth
who cares for fun photoshoots of happy, pretty images
when the world is burning, unjust, dying
when leaders are so busy lying
no one know what's true any more
i know how i sound
but don’t worry, i'm here
and i intend to stay
even hard, i like living
and like i said, i'm an optimist
even when my brain can’t figure out why
i believe things will get better
i believe it even though i don't feel it
i believe it even though i can't see how it's possible
i believe it because... to believe otherwise
i could not go on
and i want to go on
and i guess, in that, i hope you do too
and i hope you find optimism too
and collectively we find a way to dream
and believe
and love
and grow
i don't know how
i don't know how
i don't know how
i know some days i have nothing left in me for this
i have only enough to sit in silence
i have no words
i have no actions
i have no sleep
all i can do is exist
and wait
and hope
where do we go from here?
someday we'll know
but for today
i try to love
and to get by
i try to dream
and speak those dreams into the world
for others to hear
so they can dream too
so we can create a collective dream
to dream together
of a future
of a future
just that
of a future
together
somehow

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We All Draw

9/9/2020

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This is the 3rd writing prompt story I wrote (see last two posts for the first two) from the virtual writing group I'm apart of. The prompt for this one was to "Write a short story 500 words or more, based on this phrase: “We all draw the curtains closed at night and never leave the house until dawn. We don’t know why, it’s just always been that way” OR! “The ice cream man is hiding a secret.” I decided to use both prompts in various ways.

W e never really felt safe at Mamas, the five of us kids, all piled onto a single mattress at night every time we stayed there. The window was perpetually stuck in the open position with a torn screen that let bugs fly in and out on a whim. The curtains consisted of an old, stained, twin-sized bed sheet affixed to the wall by two rusty thumb tacks. Mariah, the baby, would always scream whenever there was a gust of wind that blew the sheet; in the dark, that white sheet was easy to mistake for a ghostly spirit, the moonlight making it glow as it flapped overhead. Mama wasn't exactly a motherly figure. We never really knew what she did for work exactly, but we knew she would disappear around 5:30pm every night and not come back until late morning--except for the few occasions when she did come back, and then, she always had the most curious of company.

A l l throughout my childhood I had many reoccurring dreams, but by far the most frequent involved me going outside of Mama's house in the morning, grabbing onto a huge collection of balloons and floating up into the sky until I disappeared to the tune of the ice cream man's truck. It's not hard to decipher my desire to escape from the chaos and filth of my waking reality. As the oldest child, I was responsible for watching my sibling and making them food with whatever I could pull together. One day I found some cash stashed under the couch cushions, so when the ice cream truck came around at 6, I ran out and splurged on cones for each of us. The ice cream man was in his 40's with a bulging tummy and skinny limbs. He dressed like his Mom picked out his clothes for his 4th grade school photos. He would never smile or look you in the eyes, but always asked for your name and once you told him, he never forgot it. "Jimmy," he would say, "What can I get you?" Then, he would look toward the house as my siblings came running and he'd shout, "Hurry up Cynthia, Muppet, Sonny, and Mariah!" I was amazed. I never could recall his name.

D r a w ing came naturally to me as a child. In 3rd grade I was asked to submit my drawing titled, "The ice cream man is hiding a secret" to a competition. The drawing depicted our ice cream man hiding a puppy who would sneak licks of the ice cream cone before he handed them to the kids. I didn't win and was so heartbroken I vowed never to draw again, but then, couldn't seem to keep myself from doodling anyway. Whenever my Mom asked to see what I was drawing, I would tell her I wasn't drawing, I was writing in code and one day my code would be deciphered and the whole world would know all the awful things she had done. She just stared at me with genuine fear for a few seconds and then started laughing.

T h e only thing you really need to know about me is that I’m 27 years old now and I don't know how to function. So if you could help me with that, I would like it. Also,

C u r t a i n s still make Mariah scream and she's 17 years old now. If you fix me, I’ll send her to you next. So, what do you think, Doc? Is this going to be an easy open and

C l o s e d case or am I just fucked for life?

A t some point last year I realized I couldn't keep going like this and I couldn't get past my fucked up past by myself, so I needed to get some help. I've been to 12 different people since then, and none of them worked out for one reason or another, so I guess you could say you're my last hope.

N i g h t time appointments are hard, I know, but I’ve learned that doing my therapy at night confronts the issues best. The trauma just hits different in the dark, ya know?

A n d ...No, that's it. You go, you talk now. Uh, please. Paul? Dr. Paul?

N e v e r underestimate how insulting it is to have your therapist fall asleep on you. I mean, I know it's late and everything, but damn. Fine. I'll just

L e a v e.

T h e

H o u s e will be quiet, cold and dark when I get back home. It's just Mariah and I left. Mom died two years ago... On purpose or accidentally they don't know. Anyway, she left the house to me. I was always so harsh, judging my Mom when I was kid because we didn't have a clean house or normal furniture like other families. But now the house is my responsibility and I don't think I’m doing any better than she did--I mean, maybe a little better... But fuck. I don't know how to make a house a home, how to keep up a household. I bought a nice, new couch--when I was working full time plus lots of overtime--the couch cost $500. I had to sell it not a month later when I got laid off and needed the money. I never bought another piece of fancy furniture. It's all just cobbled together leftovers from thrift stores. I did get Mariah her own bed and myself by own bed and I replace the bed sheet on the window with actual curtains. But by then, the damage was done I guess. Mariah still screams

U n t i l I go hold her. I thought she would outgrow it by now, but the fact is she hasn't really developmentally progressed since she was about 5. She probably should have had some medical care and therapy from the time she was a child to now, but what are ya gonna do, ya know? I was just a kid and Mom wasn't ever really there. So, she's just my kid now and forever probably. I usually get her up at

D a w n and give her a bowl of cereal. She likes lucky charms. I know, it's a lot of sugar. I'm not perfect. I'm 27 but I still feel like a kid too. You know, I never learned how to cook or do money planning... And this economy? It's been rough. I'm grateful Cynthia, Muppet and Sonny have been able to fly the coup and get some kind of job. Cyn's a housekeeper for a motel... She's probably gonna be promoted soon and be in charge of all the housekeepers. I'm so proud of her.

W e don't stay in touch with Muppet much--all us kids--he kind of resents all of us for not giving him a better life, never mind that we all come from the same circumstances... But anyway, he left and hitchhiked to Los Angeles and does background acting in the movies. I saw him walking down the street in Fast & Furious 6. It was cool, but also made me sad. I miss that kid.

D o n t worry, Doc, I’m leaving. I know we only have 5 minutes left. Let me just finish up. I wanna get my money's worth. So, then there's Sonny. She lives a few blocks away, works at McDonalds. She's gay now--or I guess always was. She's getting married to this chick Stacy who has 3 kids. That scares me. Sonny is still so young and immature--like me--I don't think she's ready for all that responsibility. I keep telling them all we've gotta learn to re-parent ourselves before we start parenting the next generation--we gotta heal our shit so it doesn't get passed down, ya

K n o w? I got that from therapist #5--she was my favorite, but she killed herself after our 4th session. Guess she was good at talking the talk, but walking the walk? Not so much.

W h y do I keep coming back to therapists as if they have the answer or some secret that's gonna magically transform my past into something beneficial?

I t ' s not working. This isn't gonna work out for me, Doc. I

J u s t don't think it's a fit. I always sort of wanted an awake therapist. But thanks for your time and I wish you all the best. And I wish me all the best. Heck, I guess this was it. The last try.

A l w a y s thought I’d get somewhere but---Doctor Paul?

"Jenny? Oh--"

"It’s Jimmy actually."

"Jimmy, sorry. The dress threw me. What brings you here today?"

"I actually just finished telling you."

"Oh? Oh dear. Ops!" *laughter*

"Yeah, so it's

B e e n real. And I hope you had a good nap. I'll just see myself out."

T h a t was a waste of time. But the good news is that now I don't have to keep trying. I can just accept that, in the words of Popeye, "I yam what I yam."

W a y to go, Jimmy. You gave it your best shot and that's all you can do.

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Satin Doll

9/3/2020

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Duke Ellington's "Satin Doll" is playing as I walk into the dimly lit, eccentrically decorated hotel bar on West Main Street in downtown Louisville. As it so happens, I'm wearing a red satin dress. I take this as a nod of approval from the universe that what I'm about to do is harmony with what is fated.

Twenty-five years ago I was crying in my broken down car in the parking lot of a gas station in my small Missouri home town. I was about $10,000 in debt and barely (sometimes not) paying my bills, even though I was working 40 hours a week as a secretary for an Investment Firm where my boss lived in a small mansion, bringing in over half a million a year. I didn't know what to do. The gas station attendant offered to call a tow truck, and when I refused because I couldn't spare the cost, he had all but insisted because I was “taking up space from paying customers.” I told him (in my most confident--or to hear him tell it "bitchiest" voice) that I would get it fixed and off the property within 2 hours, and that seemed to satisfy him even though I had no idea what I was doing or how I would manage such a feat short of calling in a Criss Angel type magician to make my car simply "disappear."

So, I'm crying, right? And I guess because of that, I'm putting out that whole "damsel-in-distress" vibe that really gets certain boners going. One such boner comes up to me and starts straight off with that condescending, old-fashioned misogynistic, "Oh, sweety" this and "Baby" that and I'm getting real claustrophobic just being in my skin in the vicinity of him. In my most assertive voice I tell him to, "Back off. Thanks, but I've got it handled. Just leave me be." Well, that sets him off and he starts going off on what a bitch I am for declining his offer to help me and because I was raised the way I was raised in the community I was raised in, I start to wonder if maybe I am being a bitch for following my instincts to decline his offer to help. I'm on the verge of apologizing when this other guy, maybe early thirty's, brown wavy hair, the type to wear khaki's and a white polo shirt comes up and says, "Hey, Caroline! So sorry I'm late." And just stares at the first guy until he backs off. I look at him, my insides still shaking from the extra adrenaline, and say, "Thanks." He says, "You good here?" I say, "Yes" so fast that I immediately regret it and, still feeling guilty for potentially having been rushing a judgement on the previous guy, I say, "Actually, maybe not." He slides his khaki's across the passenger seat and reaches toward me, suddenly my hand, holding the coffee I bought inside to try to get the gas station guy off my ass, is being flung on him--like my arm is possessed. I apologize profusely. Khaki pants just looks shocked and amused, but not annoyed. "It's alright," he says. "I was just trying to use your phone. May I?" "Sure," I say handing it over to him.

Now I start getting all self-conscious that the only reason I'm letting khaki pants help me as opposed to the other guy is because this guy looks more trustworthy (his clothes are cleaner--sans the coffee I just threw on him--and he reminds me of my brother) and he doesn't speak using overly familiar "sweetheart" nicknames. I start thinking about how we're all just acting in the ways we're taught to act and I'm debating if my instincts are real or just discriminatory. Basically, I'm doing the mental gymnastics of being a woman--don't be too nice, you'll lead them on, don't be too mean, you'll get murdered, don't be judgmental and generalize that all men either want to rape or murder you, and don't flatter yourself that you think a man would even want to rape or murder you (you're not. that. special!).

I must have done a really long gymnastic routine, because by the time I come back to reality, a tow truck is pulling up next to us and khaki pants is giving them his credit card number. "No, wait!" I say jumping out of the car. In a hushed and anxious tone, I whisper to khaki pants that I can't afford to pay him back for this. He just smiles and says it's fine and not to worry about that right now. I thank him profusely and accept his offer to drive me home. As I'm getting out of his car he tells me that he put his number in my phone under "White Knight" as a joke, but that his real name is Robert. "Call anytime," he says. I say I will. I say I owe him dinner. I tell him I'll call, and I mean it.

But then, you know, life. And I'm trying to get enough money to get my car fixed. And then my cat dies. I get behind on my rent and my landlord evicts me. I stay with my 2nd cousin, Polly, for a few months even though she hates me being there--and I can't blame her--it's tight in her studio apartment with two dogs! I apologize daily for my existence. I try to keep it tidy, to help out. I promise I'll be out of her hair soon. In just two more months I'll have enough saved for a deposit on my own place.

I'm at work. It's a Tuesday afternoon and I'm bent down in the lobby cleaning up some kind of mess--I don't know why I can't remember what kind of mess it was or what happened to cause it.... maybe animal poop? The dirt of an office plant knocked over? Who knows. I'm bent down dusting it up when I feel someone kneel down beside me, I glance up and it's him. Khaki pants aka White Knight aka Robert. I smile in shock. He doesn't looks so happy. My smile fades just as he pops a smile on and jests, "Hey, you were gonna call me." "Yeah, about that... sorry." "That tow wasn't cheap you know! You owe me dinner, don't you?" His tone is a mix of joking and not-at-all-fucking joking. I'm not sure how to respond, so I just say, "I do," as I continue to sweep up the brown matter on the floor. He takes out his phone, still kneeling beside me and presses a button. The phone at the front desk rings and Samantha, my co-worker, grabs it for me, "Fidelity. This is Sam." "Hey, Sam. This is Robert. I'd like to make an appointment with..." he puts is hand over the phone, "You never did tell me your name." "Juniper," I say. He cackles softly, "Seriously?" He unclasps his hand from the phone, "I'd like to make a lunch meeting with Juniper for tomorrow at noon. At Raphael's. Her treat." I go to protest--say it's too expensive--say I'm busy, but he puts his hand up. The nerve! I'm thinking. I can't tell if I'm completely repulsed or semi-flattered, but I'm leaning toward repulsed. Sam, observing this, stutters, "Uh, we don't really make appointments for secretaries... I mean, we don't really make personal lunch meetings or you know... that's really up to her." He hangs up as if he's accomplished his goal and stands, "I'll see you tomorrow. Noon. Raphael's!" He walks off, shaking his head, giggling, "Juniper."

My name's not Juniper. But he already knew this. He knew this because after I didn't call him, he went back to my house and went through the mail in my mailbox. He knew my name was Cait Lois Hopper. And because he also stole some of my mail, he knew where I worked, how much I made, my ATT account number, and that I, at one time (in a more financially stable place), donated to ACLU. I'd always wanted to change my name to Juniper when I was kid, I guess that's why it came out; also, because the unpredictable energy he was exuding was making me nervous in that same old claustrophobic way. The next day, when I failed to show up at Raphael's, I expected some kind of... something to happen. I watched the door like a hawk... is this the start of something awful? I would think. But nothing happened. I mean, there were more phone calls at work than usual and a lot of the time no one would be on the line--it would just be silent, but I didn't think anything of it at the time. It had happened less frequently, but still quite a bit, before so it didn't seem that unusual and certainly didn't feel connected.

What I didn't know then was that I was being surveilled 24/7. At home, at work, awake, asleep, online, and in person. What I didn't know then, was that my White Knight was stalking me and was determined to make me his, in the most possessive of terms. It was the start of something awful and that something awful lasted 25 years. 25 years of almost deadly encounters, and job losses after he started doing more than just calling and sitting silently on the line, but started harassing everyone I worked with and spreading lies about me, and waking up in the middle of the night because I felt his presence in the room only to not find him but then in the morning find a note he left behind. I moved dozens of times. I went to the police even more. I got a restraining order but could never PROVE he broke it. I tried to date, but when a boyfriend ended up waking up to his house on fire... I stopped trying. My life had been a living nightmare. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't be around family or friends, couldn't hold down a job, couldn't live like this anymore.

Three months earlier, I had managed to somehow successfully seem to go under his radar. I changed my identity and had moved for the umpteenth time. I don't know how it worked but it did. I felt, briefly, free. But I knew... he was coming. And suddenly, not knowing when or where or how he would emerge was worse than when I knew he was there every day. My anxiety spiked so high I ended up hospitalized for a heart attack. That's the night I decided enough was enough. It was me or him and I wasn't willing to sacrifice any more of myself for him. It had been 25 years.

I bought a gun. I stalked him. I found him. I drove to Louisville. I got a hotel room at the hotel where he was staying. I went to the bar and waited. Just after midnight we locked eyes across the room while the bartender yelled for last call.

"Hi, Robert." I said, sliding into his booth. "I hear you've been looking for me."

Robert, speechless, just stared as if I had walked into the room straight from his dreams.

"So, here's what we're going to do. You're going to take me up to your room, yes? And I'm going to order you that dinner you deserve. So sorry to have been so long in getting back to you. You know how life is. Tragic. And then, we're going to be done with all this, yes? Yes. And you're going to move on."

"Of... of course." Robert said, smiling uneasily. "You... you look just great. Red satin. Great."

Robert and I exited the booth. I held my arms open, "After you, Robert." He stared back at me, unsure, but then proceeded.

"I'm caught, uh, a little of guard here. I didn't know you were coming, so, so, so you'll have to excuse the mess. If you could just give me minute to tidy up..." Robert stuttered as we neared his door.

"Oh, I don't mind a little mess, Bobby! I thought you knew that about me." I smiled coyly as he slowly put the card key in the door, but then paused short of turning the handle.

"I really wish you would let me go in and tidy up, Cait. This is very embarrassing for me."

"Why? Do you have company?" I ask.

"No. Not, not exactly, but..."

"Well, go on then!" I say, flashing my gun.

Robert's eyes suddenly flare as if there's been an explosion. "Oh. Oh!" He turns around in place and then just stands and stares at me. "No." He says defiantly. "No."

"Really? But I wanna..." I say slowly. "Lemme see." The key still in lock, I turn the handle and kick the door open. "After you."

Robert walks backward into the room and sits in the chair. The wall behind him covered in surveillance photos of me from 5 months earlier.

I lick my lips, in dehydrated, anxious, anticipation, my heart beating so fast I'm begging it to slow down. "So, you're not going to stop, are you? Ever? And that's not okay. I can't live like this anymore, Robert. And I think you know that, don't you? You've put me through hell and so now it's time for you to go."

Robert starts to speak and I cannot let him leak one more word into my life, I shoot him in the head. Red everywhere. I'm disgusted. I scream. I'm in shock.

"Well," I say to no one.

"That's done," I say to no one.

I look down at my blood stained everything and leave the gun on the floor. I walk to the door, down the hall, and to the lobby. People stare. I go to reception. The man behind the desk is on the phone but he stops speaking when he sees me.

"Yes, hi. I'd like to report a murder. You should probably call the police. Also, I did it, but don't worry, please. I left the gun in the room and I have no intention of hurting anyone else. I'll just wait over here until they come, okay? So sorry for... all this. It must be terribly scary for you."

Duke Ellington's "Satin Doll" plays again--must be a playlist on repeat. The blood of Robert mixing with the red satin of my dress. I sit on the cozy lounge chair, even though I know I shouldn't--the mess and all. Very rude of me. But I think... it may be the last time I get to sit in a truly comfortable chair. And who knows how long the police will take--and suddenly sirens. Not long at all I suppose. They never were that quick in getting to me, ah well...

"Ah, well," I say to no one. "Done, now. Now I can sleep.”

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is there a future?

We All Draw

Satin Doll

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