The ‘Deposition of Carcass’ Form

‘Just tell ’em that an old drunk at the bar wanted to give you his skull…’

So, my buddy Craig at the bar is around 60, and he is dying of lung cancer, as he has informed me that it doesn’t matter much to him. He never thought he’d live past 30. Sometimes, when he laughs too hard, he pulls his right arm in to the side of his rib in order to jostle his stomach back into place, because one lung is already gone, and sometimes he just needs to shift his organs around in order to get a bit more comfortable. Occasionally, when I see him pulling that arm in, and adjusting his internal organs, I ask him if he’s ok. And he always says, ‘Of course I’m ok. I just gotta shift things around a bit’.
Craig has become my favorite person at the bar. He can spot a Talking Heads song on the jukebox within the first subtle note of the song, but you’d never see it coming. And he laughs about death, always. While he’s pushing his stomach back to the right position, while the beer’s bubbles shift his stomach back into the not-quite-so-right position. He just laughs, and keeps reminding me: He never thought he’d live past 30.
One day, he casually mentioned that he has a perfectly round hole in his skull. He let me feel it, but warned me not to push too hard, because that hole led straight to his brain…and he’d rather not have me poking on his bare brain. Fair enough…
But he went on to tell me that the hole in his skull is just the exact perfect size for a fancy taper candle. And once he dies, he’d like nothing more than to give his skull to a friend so that they might turn it into a lovely, and perfectly fitting candle-holder.
(Now, in case you are wondering…the origin of the perfect candle-hole in his skull is up for debate. He thinks it was from running into a pipe whilst doing construction when he was 17, but a doctor told him it’s genetic…either way, he does indeed have a perfectly round hole in his skull…)
In any case, Craig wants his skull to live on as a very fancy candleholder. I told him that I would love to have that honor. Apparently, I was the first person who thought that it was a grand idea! So, after many unresearched conversations and ponderings and freaking outs on both out parts, we decided to research the feasibility of this actual gift.
First, I told him that I surely didn’t just want his head itself, and definitely didn’t want to have to bid my farewell to his face while I dropped him into a pot to boil off all of the tissue, muscles, and brain matter…I very much don’t want to ‘Dahmer’ him…nor do I want to have a heart-to-heart with his disembodied head about how much I’ll miss him, as well as the other parts that used to be attached…yeah…anyway…
Then he mentioned being put into the cremator oven, and once his head’s tissue had been burned off sufficiently, somebody could just yank his skull out at the exact, precise moment when all I’d have to do is give it a good pressure wash (with tiny polished glass balls, he informed me…). But that didn’t sound quite above-board either…
So…then Craig really looked into it, especially after I suggested that this all might be illegal..
And alas, no! It is perfectly legal. There is simply a ‘Deposition of Carcass’ form that needs to be filled out prior to death, being duly signed by both parties and notarized. Apparently, this form usually pertains to hunting Wild Boar, but it may also apply to circumstances when your good bar buddy might be a person who can carry out their wish to make their skull a very decorative candle holder.
So we talk about it all the time now. The legal form might take $375 to be fully executed by a lawyer, as well as notarized. And again, it must be completed before his death, with both of our signatures. And he is able to stipulate that I only use pink, rose-scented candles in his skull-hole, which is fine with me, because I love the smell of roses.
Finally, he came up with quite a great idea. Being a big fan of Pee-Wee’s Playhouse, he always loved Jombie (sp?), the green-faced genie in the box who always gave the day’s magic word. So, he wants to have a good woodworking friend of his make a Jombie box that can be opened to visit him. I’m thinking that green lightbulbs pointing at him will really sell the whole deal.
And now that I know that he is serious about this whole endeavor, I wonder if I will get sad, or scared of mortality once I receive it…I might find myself looking at his skull and remembering all the laughs we had, and how we got ourselves to this point, his skull and I.
But then I think about how this is what he wants. As morbid as some people might view it, it IS truly what he wants. And the fact that I really liked the idea has made us better friends. We talk about all manner of things now- not just polite bar chatter anymore… He has found a person who will finally agree to do one wacky, dying wish for him. A person he never thought he’d find to do that last ‘HAHAHAHAH! Fuck it ALL, let’s have some fun with this bullshit!’
And I, in turn feel quite stoked and honored that he’d give me his skull. And I imagine myself looking over at him when I’m down and feeling maudlin and dramatic, and Craig’s skull will just be looking right back at me, saying, ‘Aw, shut up, girl. Just laugh at all this crap! You have a friggin rose candle in my skull! It’s all gonna be ok, and none of it matters…’
Yeah, I know that this sounds crazy to most people, but I’d be honored to have your skull, Craig. You’re always a constant reminder to just enjoy and have fun, regardless of the petty bullshit that tries to take over. I will proudly put a rose-scented candle in that weird hole in your head, and FUCK what anyone else has to say about it. Except Jombie, because he’ll need to give us the Word of the Day…
(Just stick around a bit longer, ok? We have more laughs to be had…)

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Shanda

(This first draft short story is based on a writing prompt from the website http://www.hitrecord.org, where the prompt was to write a short story based on the drawing below.  The prompt asked us to write about the girl in the drawing, but I took it in a slightly different direction.  Also, be kind…I wrote this using the keypad on my iPhone…)
writing prompt 2

(pasted from the website hitrecord.org

So…this is my best friend, Shanda. Her real name is Colleen, but she decided one day that she needed something more exotic, so she pulled friggin’ ‘Shanda’  out of some Bonobo monkey’s butthole on a whim, so now here she is:  Shanda! (enthusiasm and jazz hands mandatory).

As you can see, she’s a great artist, and the likeness of her is quite uncanny (she has always been quite lovely).  As well, her propensity for sketching all variety of wild animals is indeed impressive and rather skillful.

However, as her best friend, I do often grow tired of these ‘Shanda-centric’ sketches.  It’s as if she truly does see herself as the sun, as the rest of us just float past her like entertaining cloud-animals.

Get this!  Just last week we all went bowling- Steve, Lisa, the rest of the gang…you know, as we do…Well, Coll- erm, ‘Shanda’ rolled a gutter ball on her first go, and henceforth tossed off her rental shoes and pouted her way back to her sad little chair.  She then spent the next hour pestering us to ‘leave this stupid and stinky place’.

Well guess what!? Come Monday morning, Shanda walks into class with a brand new drawing.  And wouldn’t you know it?  There she is, drawn right smack dab in the middle, looking poised and confident, with an elaborate frame around her face, adorned with miniature roses!  And swirling around her is a surreal, strangely suburban-themed vortex of bowling balls, bowling pins, random musical notes, bowling socks, one martini glass, a billiard cue and 8-ball, and some bowling shoes. Scattered in there I could see hasty sketches of the rest of our group’s faces…but we seemed to register slightly less than the bowling socks, if I were to judge based on the detail given in the representation.

With this drawing, it had somehow become ‘her night’, wherein she played the starring role, while the rest of us- her friends- were relegated to the status of ‘pool cue’ and ‘hand towel’, swirling into the magnetic eddy that is her ‘Amazing Charm and Charisma’.

Ugh, I know I shouldn’t behave this way…and I know I sound petty…

But goddamn!  Ever since 3rd grade I’ve had to view, awe, and fawn over these (yes, admittedly well-drawn) Shanda-centric and frankly unsettling sketches day after day, until I even begin to see her dainty smug face at the bottom of my toilet bowl as my flushed shit swirls around her perfectly coiffed head.  She’s like the Teletubbies baby in the sky, but even more trauma-inducing and jarring.

Finally, I’d had enough.  Once she started sketching a rare species of Rhino from her trip to Africa (her family briefly stopped in Giza to hastily take some required photos as they passed through Egypt), I finally lost it.

I angrily grabbed a stack of construction paper, and I started with Egypt: I drew 3 triangles and a cat, and taped it over her rare and imaginary rhino.  I drew an angry stick-figure girl tossing bowling shoes into the air, and taped it over that gem of a drawing.  The sketch of Shanda and Beyoncé?  It was now Shanda and Cathy from the comic strip, both weighted down by overflowing inboxes and shitty boyfriends.  Shanda doing yoga on a beach at sunset was now a snapshot of Shanda picking at her toenails next to the community pool.

And after I had finished desecrating all of her precious artwork, and I finally felt righteous and triumphant, fists on my spread legged hips like a satisfied superhero smugly surveying all of the wrongs that had been righted…

I looked around, and nobody was there.  They had left the classroom long ago, off to baseball practice or makeup shopping, or to text that cute boy or girl who liked them.  And I was still standing here, alone in the middle of an empty room, surrounded by shitty stick figure drawings of my own angry self, raging indignantly at a girl who had the infuriating nerve to place herself at the center of her own story.

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Suburban High School, Northern California, USA

By the time I hit my Senior year of high school, I just used the classroom as a means to check out, using my desk as my pillow.  

At one point, I had loved taking French class.  I really did want to learn all of the nuances of a different language.  Plus, my mom spoke French, and I was looking forward to having secret conversations with her.  

However, at some point, in early September of 1993, fresh into my Senior year, the skeleton bones of the school administration announced, unceremoniously, that we would no longer be referred to as ‘students’.  We would now be known as ‘warm bodies’. This was around the time that the cyclone fence went up around the school.

At that time, I was working at Tower Records.  It was quickly known that I was the first person that location had ever hired who was younger than 18.  I was 16 when I was hired. Even being a retail slave, I had a liberating amount of autonomy. I could dress any way that I wanted, I could be as odd as I was, and I got to take a smoke break every two hours.  When lunchtime came around on my shift, I could go and eat whatever I wanted. I worked 5 days a week, usually after school,2pm-10pm, and then on Saturday, 9am-6pm. Sunday was my day off. I spent my work days filing CDs onto CD racks, practicing my 10-key ability, managing credits and collections for the Video Rental portion of Tower, being Accessories Buyer (CD racks and Cassette storage, then incense and CK1), and alphabetizing the porn videos when my boss was particularly irritated with me.  Most of my co-workers were in their late 19s to early 20s, with a few man-children thrown in because they simply loved the music.

Again, this was 1993.  Grunge was in full swing.  And we had a Bass/Ticketmaster kiosk in our store, where I often spent my days selling ‘Phantom’ tickets to picky old ladies who couldn’t decide upon right or left mezzanine.  But we also had first pick on tickets. While the fans camped out overnight outside, waiting for first pick on Lollapalooza tickets (which, admittedly, is how I got the job in the first place), we waited an extra two minutes before unlocking the door so that we could have first dibs on any soon-to-be-sold-out tickets.  That was how we all ended up seeing Pearl Jam and Rollins Band at the Warfield. And Nirvana at the Cow Palace. And White Zombie and Pantera. But I digress.

Somehow making $4.25 per hour at the time was worth it, because I had autonomy.  I had freedom. I could be exactly who I needed to be, whilst making sticky labels for the Lazerdisk section of the store.  

But then, there was school, where I was merely a ‘warm body’ to the faculty, and a ‘fucking freak slut’ to the student body.  When bullies attacked a vulnerable kid, the teachers just looked the other way and pretended it wasn’t happening. When my boyfriend, in 9th grade, started slapping, berating, and punching me in the middle of the quad, the only person who came to help was a little, short, friend of mine, who came up and bravely told the dude to ‘stop fucking with his friend’.  By the time he came up and confronted my boyfriend, dozens of students had come out of their classrooms to see what was going down. Not a single adult intervened.

And then there was English class.  I’ve been writing since I could put a pencil to paper.  Suddenly I’m stuck for an hour each day in a fucking freezing Portable, while the English teacher/track coach, assigns us to read a fucking CHAPTER of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn over the next TWO WEEKS.  What better way can you ruin Mark Twain than by this method? I’ll tell you how. After two weeks, wherein I had completely forgotten the chapter I had read two weeks ago, we all had another grueling week to go over the chapter, line by fucking line, until the brilliance of Mark Twain was whitewashed in the gray water of generic bleach and suburban complacency.  

Then there was psychology class, wherein I tried to merely doze on the table, rather than having a full nod-off, because the subject interested me.  I would lay my head down on my folded arms, and then simply fling my arm into the air when an interesting question would come up. But that was rare- not for lack of trying on the teacher’s part, I’ll admit.  On one occasion, the teacher was talking about mind-body connection, and my attention was piqued because I had just read an article about cancer patients having a better prognosis if they have a more positive attitude and outlook.  But then, one particularly insightful student chimed in: ‘Oh yeah, my leg is broken…Oh wait, no it’s not!’ I gave up on the argument and promptly went back to a deep and restful sleep before my work shift at 2:00 pm.

It felt as if the Northern California Suburban Public School System had zero interest in actual education.  It was simply made up of a bunch of tired, old non-persons who had finally given up on life and had decided that putting up with bratty teenagers for half a day was worth the paycheck, as long as they could sleep through summer.  This fact was made even more crystal clear when one day, I walked into my psychology class to find that my teacher had come down with a serious illness, and our substitute teacher was actually one of my more inept supervisors at…yes…Tower Fucking Records.

So I spent part of a semester listening to this douchebag struggling with the basics of Freud, calling him ‘Mr. Garminder’, and having to ask permission to go pee.  And then, at 2:00 pm, he was ‘Craig’ again, and I was saying, ‘Dude, I need a fucking cigarette’ back at the job.

 

There was a point when I left that suburban teenage wasteland.  While signing me out with my well-deserved D+, my newly ambulatory and actual psychology teacher told me, ‘One day, I know I’ll see your name in lights.’  And while taking a break from mauling what was left of Mark Twain on the linoleum floor of that warm-body-ridden school, my English teacher said, ‘You were not meant for the public school system.  I wish you the best.’

 

And when I left and finished off my high-school career at the esteemed Martinez Adult School, I finally felt the freedom to learn.  And I read the first curriculum-required book that ever nudged an inspiration and passion in me. The Grapes of Wrath by Steinbeck. I could read it at my own pace, and I loved reading every word of it.  I got straight A’s that final semester at Martinez Adult School. And when I graduated, the administrative staff gave me a big hug, and there was a picture of me on the bulletin board for a few years after.  
On the day of my graduation, I remember my father rolling his eyes and saying, ‘I can’t believe you’re graduating in a Multi-Use Room.’  But I paid no mind.  I wasn’t merely a ‘warm body’, and nobody there would ever allow abuse upon my body, and I was able to really, truly, and fully absorb and enjoy The Grapes of Wrath.  And I’ll never forget it.

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2019 midlife

I first wrote the bio for this blog in 2010.  I had no idea what my late 30s and early 40s would hold for me.  I had a plan for this blog, but it got sidetracked along the way.  My initial intention was to simply try to write again and connect with other people.  But then, at some point, (roughly April 14 of 2010; 2:37am), a rug was pulled out from beneath me.  Everything I thought I knew and understood was gone.  I was 33, and I thought I had all of my version of Adulting figured out.  I was so wrong.  This blog has become my journey through this mess of realizing that we never, ever have it figured out.  And that Socrates was right:  I am wisest when I know that I know nothing.  I have been a drunk, and I have been a fool.  I have been a slut, and I have found the Marianis trench where depression can sink us deeper still.  I used to liken panic and depression to a slick and muddy pit.  So slick that when you try to climb out, and almost reach the precipice, one wrong foothold pulls you back down into the muddy and sickly bottom.  The past ten years have only solidified that metaphor in me.  I am a contradiction in terms:  I am a broken mess, and I am whole and unshakable.  I am a dirty slut, and I am pure and innocent.  I am cruel, and I am kind.  I love you, and I might hate you as well.  I am shattered, yet some strange glue put me back together, stronger than before.  I am a lazy slob, who hates to see dust on the wainscoting.  I am a poet who needs to see numbers reconcile to the penny.  I reject the conventional lives of those who marry, breed, find joy in visiting Costco on a Sunday…yet there is a tiny part of me, in the pit of my stomach that aches for simple…comfort, reliability, a chance to exhale.  I hate the poetry of Robert Frost, but alas, at some point, two roads diverged in a wood.  And I-

I took the road less traveled by,

and that has made all the difference.

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Torqued Hard

A poet once told my mother

that I am ‘torqued hard’

that I will need to write

or I will die.

As if these words

are aspirin

or insulin.

And maybe they are;

maybe I need to find my way

back home

and shoot myself up

with a warming cool injection

of words

to release that tightly wound

and torqued pull

deep inside

this burning hole.

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Freedoms in the Abyss

I am Bukowski

I am the inconvenient ail you feel

I am the need to ‘handle’, or don’t.

I am the drunk.

The Black Sheep.

I am the part of you that you don’t want to face.

I am the brilliance you could have realized

and the failure you always feared.

I am every extreme you dreamed of:

The exquisite and euphoric high,

and the diminishing and catastrophic low.

I am Plato in the cave,

Rilke in his quietest and secret moments,

Camus with the flash of a knife on the beach;

Orwell hiding in a corner where the cameras won’t see,

scratching the ulcers on his infected leg,

Bukowski finding magic in the sway

of a woman’s hips;

Hemingway catching the impossible marlin;

and Huck Finn finding the irreplaceable feeling

of being young, free, and screaming down a wild river,

not knowing what will come, but being ready

for whatever storm is thrown at him,

as long as he is free.

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When I fall back asleep

My brain’s Witching Hour seems to be between 6:00 and 9:00am.  This is when I have already woken up, decided I am still tired, and I go back to bed for just a little nap before I need to face the work day.  This is when the morning cold sweats come out, when the vivid dreams come crashing into my brain, when I wake up shaking from a trauma I can’t quite put my finger on, until the dreams come flooding back to me, and it feels so completely real again.

Last night (this morning), I dreamed that I was staying at a guest house somewhere up in Montana or Canada, far from home.  I was sleeping in a guest room on an air mattress next to the master bedroom, where there was a computer with internet access.  My friend Selena was sleeping in the master bedroom, and the owners of the house had graciously offered us these two rooms to sleep in.

A friend of the owners, a man in his late 40s with short gray hair, a polo shirt and smart slacks, came through to use the computer in the master bedroom for some business matter.  He didn’t disturb Selena as she slept in the master bed.  But once he was done, he came back through to the room I was sleeping in, and he crawled on top of me.

He held my arms down and forcefully tried to rape me.  It felt so real.  I remember his weight upon me- roughly 165 pounds of polo shirt and khaki pants with the fly undone and his drunken penis trying to escape its way out of it.  I screamed, ‘NO! NO! NO! Stop this! SAFE WORD! NO! NO!’, but he kept going, trying to make himself hard with his hand until he was ready to penetrate.

He wouldn’t hear any word I said.  His weight upon me was almost suffocating.  I knew that he was stronger than me, and that there was nothing I could do to stop his assault.  I kept screaming, and nobody could hear me.  He was hurting me, and I knew that he was about to hurt me more; more than I have ever experienced.  I longed for Selena to wake up, for someone to hear me, for someone to pull him off me.  I felt completely powerless, and the worst case I could imagine seemed inevitable.

In this dream, I had fallen asleep in a skirt, and for some reason wasn’t wearing any underwear.  And as this man kept trying to get his dick hard to rape me, I felt so vulnerable and angry at myself that I had somehow allowed myself to go to bed with no underwear on.  I screamed and cried and begged for somebody to hear me, but nobody came.

Finally, I struggled my way off the bed, with him still on top of me, trying to enter.  I could feel the tip of it threatening to push in.  I found something sharp on the ground by the bed, and somehow I managed to reach behind me and slice off his nasty and intrusive dick.  It flopped down onto the floor like a sad little slug, and he stopped, as if all of the rapey energy had been suddenly drained from him.  And he just looked at that sad little slug of a penis on the shag carpet before him, and seemed to reflect on the fact that he had maybe made a bad decision.  I then picked up that poor little nugget off the floor, wrapped it in a paper towel and handed it to him.

Then I said, ‘You should put this on ice.  And you might want to head to the ER.’

He took it from me as if it was some foreign object he had never seen before, and didn’t know how to handle.  He just held it in his hands and stared at it, without making a move.  As if I had handed him some strange and discolored spider from the Amazon, or a slice of some exotic meat he had never tasted.

I told him again, ‘You might want this later.  I think you need to head to a hospital.’

He walked away confused, holding his sad little shriveled dick in a paper towel in his hand, and I almost felt bad for him.

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