Archive | January, 2008

My Francine

31 Jan
My Francine

Copyright © Girley

She was leaning against the bathroom sink when I walked in, almost as if she had been waiting for me. I wasn’t surprised to see her. The idea that I would enjoy this reunion in its entirety was hardly something I believed; at some point, I was well aware that she and I would cross paths. All the same, I was no longer a teenager. Painful, racing heartbeat or no, I was going to speak.

“Francine. How are you?” I asked lightly. “I haven’t seen you all evening.”
She appraised me openly, wearing that age-old expression of combined amusement and disdain. “I’ve been here and there.”
I thought of what next to say. “Amazing that it’s been 10 years, isn’t it?”
“No, not that amazing, actually.”
Ignore that. Move to the sink and stand right next to her. Check your make-up, yes. Act natural. “So, what have you been doing with yourself?” I asked, peering at myself in the mirror, pretending to spruce up my hair. The truth was that I was desperate to use the bathroom. However, I would do no such thing, certainly not while Francine Mission was in the same room. Perhaps the possibility that she would reenact a scene from our past (involving toilet water and my forehead) was a deterrent. Either way, I had no intention of creeping away from her like the frightened girl from long ago.
Francine continued to stare at me, her arms crossed over her chest. She hadn’t changed much. Tall and slender, biceps that could rein in a herd of buffalo. Those buffalo biceps were displayed by way of a sleeveless, mid-length black dress. Voluminous strawberry red curls framed her face and hung down her back. On the surface, she looked like a normal, well-arranged woman. If only the surface went deeper. “‘So, what have you been doing with yourself?’” she repeated, employing a high-pitched, cartoon version of my voice. “What do you think I’ve been doing, Michelle? Robbing banks? I’ve been doing what the rest of the world does every day—living my life. What an idiotic question. You, on the other hand, have been chucking those brain cells, haven’t you?”
I was instantly transported to the past, with its mocking and its visits to the chilly interiors of toilet bowls. Memories didn’t have to be this way, so angrily thrust at you like freight trains. Such attacks of memory only led to dangerous, bad things. In this case, it caused me to turn on the faucet and throw handfuls of both hot and cold water onto Francine Mission.
“Are you crazy?” she screamed over and over again.
“Don’t you ever call me an idiot,” I muttered, before stepping around her and exiting the bathroom. I took a deep breath and walked toward the hotel’s front desk. “Hi. Is there another bathroom I can use?”

The End.
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Sabbatical?

31 Jan

Nope. Nothing to write about right now.

Tomorrow is another day.

Or am I just being lazy?

The Weekender

28 Jan


It’s just another manic Monday
I wish it was Sunday
‘Cause that’s my funday
My I don’t have to runday
It’s just another manic Monday

They said it best, didn’t they?

I’ve discovered that I have a love/hate relationship with those two days called the weekend.

Love
The weekend can be lovely. Saturday allows me to take care of errands and meet with friends and go to the movies–all the things I don’t get to do during the long week. Sunday allows me to wind down a bit, relax, sit down on the couch and catch up with the latest laugh-fest on the Lifetime Movie Network. (How can one woman not realize that the villain is inside THE DARK BEDROOM? Hello?) It’s a delightful combination, those two days.

Hate
It only lasts two days. Two days. And then Monday rolls around like a typhoon, as if Saturday and Sunday never manifested themselves! It’s not right. The government needs to…they need to fix it. Just like they commandeered daylight savings time. Because they control when the sun ascends and descends. Right. Never mind.

More Hate
It’s not fair. The weekend does this thing: you’re getting into the groove, you’re taking naps, starting to love the freedom of it all–and then kaput. Over. Just like that. Biggest letdown ever.

And so it’s Monday. The week has returned and the vicious cycle begins anew. Thank goodness for carbohydrates. They never disappoint me.

For the Purposes of Poetry

27 Jan

There remains fodder about you;
simply because you,
you,
had such an impact.

Youthful wonder and exciting disbelief,
complete with (now) baseless conviction,
all because and due to you.

Such wonder has long faded away.
You became less in eyes than what
you once were perceived to be.
Now 50, formerly and wholly 100.

But for the purposes of poetry,
you live.
You live and you breathe and you exist through
and through–
curiosity and self-analysis replacing
all that thrived before:
wonder, disbelief, (now) baseless conviction.

No more resentment.
No more anger.
No more laying of fault.
That’s that.

I think of you only when words cry to
be let out, when souls demand
an explanation of that curious, curious
past.

And I am well.
Not that it matters to you.
It matters to me.
It should have always mattered to me.

Copyright © Girley

The Song Remains the Same

25 Jan

 

What is it about music that makes me so happy and contented? Or am I just a sucker for rich melodies and amazing lyrics? Whatever the case may be, music has been a mainstay in my life since I can remember. The absolute and deep love of it came right from my parents, who never held back from expressing how they felt about a good song or how that particular song made them feel. I can see my father now, describing the wonder of hearing the country group Alabama do a duet with Lionel Richie, and how that sound just thrilled him. Or how hearing Aretha Franklin’s version of “Bridge over Troubled Water” led him to play the record repeatedly until it wore itself out. There’s the memory of my mother professing her love for a tune from The Phantom of the Opera; how she refused to hide her love for disco and the songs from that time. I took all of that in–undoubtedly, that musical aspect of my upbringing is a big part of my life.
At work, while writing, at play, the rare taking of a walk–music is always with me. Undeniably, it’s a powerful, at times emotional, connection. Yes, yes, how I love it so.
This is the current song I’m listening to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXx-xxnMSoU. It’s a cover of a Carole King song by Rod Stewart. For those few eyes that visit this JournaBlog, it’s worth listening to, if only for the simple and spare beauty of the lyrics.
In other news, I was thankfully able to feed the addicition yesterday and purchase a new purse. Sigh. So shiny and new. It’s lovely. Granted, the old bag was being held together by rubber bands and paper clips. It was high time for a replacement.
And the beat goes on…

One More Thing…

24 Jan

This is certainly not the place for celebrity stuff, and it won’t be, but the whole Heath Ledger thing is pretty sad. Sad because he did have a child, and any child without his/her parent is just terrible. Sad because he didn’t seem like a member of the young druggie set (no names needed), although none of us really know the true lives of the Hollywooders. Personally, being thrust in that kind of devil-may-care environment, when you can have anything and whenever you want it, would seem to lead a person to throw caution to the wind. Whatever the case may be, death is never normal, and it is always sad.

On Stuff and Things

24 Jan

I had a fish before. She was overfed. Murdered. The investigation is still pending. Despite that particular trauma, I do think of having a pet one day. Me, in my cute apartment (decorated by someone else, because I know nothing about those things), with my medium-sized dog. Probably one that doesn’t require me to run with it, of course, because I fear public humiliation. But moderately fun, super cute, protective. I would give it a human name, like Mr. Walter Smith III. Or Charles Barker. That’s a good one!

My sis promises to help me take care of Frederick when she comes to visit. I am to bring him home for something called a “re-potting.” I think that’s what she said, anyway. The question that begs to be asked: who would give me a plant? No, I have to retract this. I was given the plant as a gift; the givers didn’t know of my ability to kill inanimate life. Sigh.
BJ & FE SCOTT

...LIVING THE BEST LIFE EVER!

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