I did this.
Hell’s Library
by Susan L. York
3678 words
There’s an old story I used to know
The memory of which was recently awakened
A tune, a scene, a fragrance maybe, reminding
A fragrance, a smell, an aroma
An essence
Pages and pages, dampened and stained from years of turning
Tear moistened fingertips, seasoning paper and soul
Whispers, glances, hushes
Mysteries and stories, capturing
Upsetting my apple cart and setting free
I remember now, here among the rows
Racks of stories and mysteries
This tale brings itself back
It was in The Library, someone said
They witnessed Ten, quarreling with a beautiful lady
Those were the first words, I ever wrote, with the pen. Ink on paper, pouring forth without consent or even consideration of me. The pen compelled my hands, both of them. Sometimes the pen would force the left hand, to write mirror script. Sometimes the right hand became numb, from hours of compulsive writing. It was hand carved wood, with brass fittings. Darkened from finger indentations and teeth marks, signs of love and frustration, its body was marred. Not particularly beautiful or valuable, the pen is a servant, an object of passion, with no choice and no voice. Or is it a co-conspirator? The tools of the tortured artist are complicit in his death. What other words had the pen compelled? I regretted stealing the pen.
Everyone steals ink pens. Usually it’s an accident and it equals out in the end. You drive off with the bank pen, only to accidentally leave it at your hair dresser’s. In modern society, pens are a dime a dozen. We don’t keep them long enough to care if they get lost. Seldom have I kept one, long enough for the ink to run out. I took pens for granted and so dear reader, have you.
Library, libation, liberation
Books, booze, brains
Sunshine, fierce fire
Moonshine, heart’s desire
Thorns and Roses
Going to Hell’s Library, seeking libations
My pen won’t quit, they heard him say
I find myself in a terrible way
The poet in me has become a novelist
Double bourbon, hold the rocks
This is a saloon, not a study hall
Where do you think you are, after all?
Drink all you want and wax philosophic
You’re here for eternity, just look around
Only unfulfilled authors were found
Hell’s Library, where defeated writers go. Many of whom died of broken hearts or broken bottles. “I’m no poet!” I yelled and dropped the pen. Writers write! It seemed to say back to me. Write for the sake of writing, it coaxed. If I can’t write, I don’t want to live. The pen had chosen me, now I knew. It was writing an unfinished story and was determined to use me to live it out.
I’m no poet and I don’t drink bourbon neat. At least not until I took the pen. I liked it at first; my guilty pleasure at having something that had belonged to someone famous, especially a writer. It was lying there in the open, next to a leather bound journal. I’m surprised someone else hadn’t snatched it already. Just an old fountain pen with the lid stuck tight and clip slightly bent, the brass tarnished, the wood dirty from finger grime. I wanted it and it wanted me. I couldn’t resist it.
Home alone in private, I straightened the clip and pried off the lid. I tested the nib on a scrap of paper. With minimal effort, my signature appeared in shiny blue ink. It was as if the pen had been filled and used only the day before. Embarrassed by my misappropriation, I put it in the drawer next to my bed. I’m no thief, I thought. Why had I been so driven to take the damn thing? Nothing was ever the same after that. The pen knew my name. My hands were restless now, my thoughts always turning to poetry and the pen.
I began carrying the pen in a little pouch in my satchel, keeping it near me like a precious treasure. Really, I was afraid of someone else getting hold of it. I also began carrying a flask of bourbon. It calmed me and steadied my writing hand. The poem said going to Hell’s Library for libations. With every pull of whiskey and line of poetry, I believed in Hell’s Library, the place designed for broken writers. The novelist in me, was becoming a poet and an alcoholic.
While the bourbon had to be refilled, the ink never did. The enchanted pen, like the widows oil jar, would never run dry. Who is the beautiful lady from the poem? Were she and Ten quarreling over the pen? Why did I get myself involved in this epic tragedy? I couldn’t go back to the house on Duncan Street. The caretaker or the woman I assumed was the caretaker, would know I had stolen it. I could be prosecuted, humiliated and that’s what I deserve. At this point, I couldn’t take the pen back anyway; it wouldn’t let me. I can only hope, to learn to control it.
The house on Duncan Street, on Duncan Street
Where I take my sweetie pie, sweetie pie
One more whiskey and a couple pills
You let Mama take my brains
Rose’s thorns
Schizo sister
Needs a mister
A gentleman caller on Von Phister
If he shows up, I’ll wear my best
Then show him to the door
Nearby, a one man band sings, “Ooooh oooooh, I got you where I want you, got you where I want you, ooooh ooooh…” What the fuck is going on? Too much bourbon, obviously. Thorns and Roses, Rose’s thorns. For heaven’s sake, I’ve lost it. Only in Key West. You can say that again. You can say that again.
Mile zero
Local hero
Key Lime pie
Lose my mind
Writer’s plight, hold on tight
Sell your stuff, keep the dog, live on an island. I once saw that, printed on a tee shirt. I took it literally. It was easy, you see. I was in love. This was before the pen and before the bourbon. That’s why I moved to the Keys, a man, my dream man. We fell in love on the dance floor. I sold everything I owned and flew with my little dog to Paradise, to be with my knight in shining armor. He’s my angel. He even likes my poetry.
On a whim one day, he took me to the old Tennessee Williams house on Duncan Street and asked the lady if we could look around. It wasn’t open to the public but we had to ask. There were workers about the property; it was low season. He explained to her, that I’m a big fan of Mr. Williams work, and it would be an honor for me to see his home. We wouldn’t stay long, if she allowed us in. He promised we wouldn’t disturb anything and looked from me to her, as if vouching for me. I nodded in agreement, having every intention of keeping his word. We smiled our brightest smiles; she smiled in return and invited us in by gesturing with open arms, telling us to make ourselves at home.
Not every room was fully furnished; some were off limits, doors locked. The pool was a mess, foliage overgrown, fallen leaves littering the landscape. Still I was thrilled to be in the very space, where the genius had worked, lived and loved. I didn’t know much about Tennessee William’s writing and even less about his personal life. My first encounter with him, had been a high school production of Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, where I volunteered to help tear down the stage on closing night. I showed up just in time to see the actors exit left, come back out for one ovation and then exit again. If only I had known the juicy storyline, I may have volunteered for a different post. Later I saw a film production of The Glass Menagerie, another story of a broken family.
The caretaker told us about Ten’s sister Rose, who had been lobotomized in her twenties, at their mothers’ behest. Ten bore the guilt to his death. His life and writings were riddled with pain involving his beloved sister, the enduring queen of all things. Poor Rose, I thought and was reminded of my inability to protect my own sisters. She told us about numerous other writers with Key West ties. The island is a siren for artists, a succubus for some. The caretaker sensed my discomfort and walked us back toward the living room. Seeking fresh air, I walked ahead of my companions. That’s when I saw the pen.
I heard him thank her for the tour and her time. She graciously accepted, saying it was always nice to meet a fan of Tennessee. The leather journal was open to a blank page, the pen was lying close by. My back to the room, I looked around to make sure I wasn’t being watched. My hand reached forward and touched the paper; it had more tooth than I expected. It reminded me of watercolor paper. Was this a journal, a guest book? My fingers moved to the pen and before I knew it, with no thought of consequence, I slipped it into my pocket.
As I opened the door to leave, the caretaker touched my elbow. Startled, I overreacted. I gasped and jumped. She laughed nervously and apologized for sneaking up on me. She only wanted to shake my hand and bid me farewell. Her hand was cold as ice. Jokingly she said, “They say this place is haunted.” My sweetheart’s expression was one of amusement and confusion. He thanked her again and led the way to our bicycles near the curb. Pedaling down Duval Street, passing bar after bar, a strong craving set in. The pen had begun it’s work on me.
Rose resonates
Can I get a witness
Witness please
Witness pleas
All a day’s work, in Hell’s Library
Family is a most reliable muse; ask Jesus or Zeus
I have a crazy sister or two
Also, I may be a crazy sister
You should ask our mother
She’s a crazy sister too
The sense, shaken out of us
Our brains like beaten eggs
Bruises on my butt and legs
The eldest always gets the brunt
Worse yet, the regret
For months, this went on. My angel noticed the changes in me, even the dog kept her distance. Bottle after bottle of bourbon down my gullet and nothing I had written, was worth keeping. Waste baskets overflowing with crumpled or shredded pages, plagued my days. If I was lucky enough to sleep, I had nightmares of being held down while my head was sawn open and picked apart, without the benefit of anesthesia. Most mornings I awoke with a headache, which could only be alleviated by a swig of amber colored, liquid, fire.
In an effort to regain some control, I placed the pen back in the bedside table and laid the flask beside it, then set out for a picnic on the ocean. We made it past the reef to the big water. Determined to reach 100 foot water, we braved rough seas and were rewarded with a short race with a porpoise and a glimpse of a giant turtle. We threw out our hooks and set adrift. The water is rough that far out, in a small craft, on a breezy day. The current drags us back toward the shallows and calmer water, where we ate sandwiches and sweet pickles.
“Reel ‘em in.” He said after a while. “Let’s head to our spot.”
Just off Little Palm Island, there is a honey hole. The fishing is good and the view ain’t bad. We anchored there and fished our hearts out. I stayed on the shady side, he always chooses the sun. We caught 76 fish and fed them to the pelicans. A dozen birds, ate like kings and we laughed at the scene. On the Atlantic Ocean, we may as well be in a teacup, amusing ourselves with nature and not a single fish, big enough to keep.
I tire of it, before he does. It’s winter in paradise, I’m under the umbrella, sketching a back lit scene of the island. Palm trees, tiki huts, a dog, tail wagging and more pelicans, dot the seascape. A couple walks hand in hand on the sandbar. I imagine they’re looking for coral fragments, shaped like unicorns. Ocean noises comforting, calming… Near sundown, gently rocking on the wakes of passersby, glints of silver catch my eyes, on the sunny side.
He is watching me now. He mouths, let’s go home and winks playfully. On the drive home, he shows me the ropes; I try my hands at the wheel. His strong arms encircle me from behind, showing the way, making corrections as needed. Back at the marina, we toast with champagne in paper cups, to a grand sea adventure, sip, the sunset, sip, and true love, sip; we mean every word. I raise a cup to my old man and the sea and he pulls me in. We kiss and hold each other in the moonlight. How will I explain, the pen?
I soaked it in whiskey and set it afire. When the flames died out, I did it again. The pen didn’t burn. It punished me with sleepless nights of scrawled gibberish. I threw it in the sea and it floated back to shore, only to be discovered by my darling and returned to me. Sheets and sheets of left handed prose, smeared ink and tears, retribution for attempted abandonment.
I am yours and you are mine
Won’t you be my Valentine
Island life will drive you crazy
Make you fat, complacent and lazy
Keys Disease, I think I’ve got it
I’ve got you, under my skin
You’re so deep in my heart
You’re really a part of me…
Then I woke up with a tattoo of a red Rose, on my chest. Not the flower, but a perfect likeness of the blank faced old woman, I had seen in a photograph at the house on Duncan Street. A framed newspaper clipping about Rose’s death at age 86, sat on the desk where the pen had been. A one time resident of Key West, she was well known as the handicapped, older sister of Tennessee. He provided for her home and care, for the rest of her life. Rose’s eyes in the photo, pierced my soul. She looked as if she were missing part of her brain. I dreamt of her.
I had to confess. I told the story from start to finish. He listened, nodding occasionally. I didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face. Would he even believe me? It sounds like a big fish story; if only I had the convenience of exaggeration, the luxury of hyperbole. I’m possessed by a writing pen, my life is in disarray. This isn’t what he had in mind for a relationship.
We went back to the house on Duncan Street, to return the goddamn pen; make penance for mendacity. I would apologize and beg forgiveness, do community service if necessary. The caretaker would be gracious, she would help me. This side of disappointment doesn’t feel like I thought it would. I try not to be in a position to beg. Now I’m the offender, the thief, the liar, the drunk. Key West, in Hell’s Library, taking shots with the ghosts of broken writers. A pen in my pocket, seducing the poet in me. A flask in the other pocket.
She welcomed me with open arms, just like before. It had been months, maybe a year since my transgression. At first, no words were spoken, no eye contact made. I went to the journal intending to return the pen. I stopped short when I saw an exact replica. Another old fountain pen with a bent clip and teeth marks, the same fingerings. The journal was closed, the pen lying on top. In a delicate script, engraved into the moleskin, was a monogram, RWI and under that, Keep Out. It was too late for me to keep out, I was in deep. I moved the imposter pen aside and began reading the entries from other people like me.
You get what you get
You deserve all of it
Just another nobody stealing our mojo
We are real people, not a freak show
If you’re looking for inspiration, go home
If you’re looking for redemption
Join the rest
Search your soul
Take the test
Another possessed poet, had drawn a self portrait of himself sitting at a desk, an open window behind him. The pen was held in his teeth, his right hand supporting his chin, his eyes were as far away as Rose’s. It could have been me. I had sat like that for hours at a time, empty headed, staring into space. Art imitates life or vice versa. Truth is stranger than fiction, or something like that. Had these people stolen the pen too? I read on. I hadn’t been the only one to fall prey. Some entries were initialed, most were not. None of the entries were dated.
I read every poem, mea culpa, hate letter, and prayer. The pen had ruined lives, taught lessons and driven people mad. I began to think of what the pen would have me write, when I came to a blank sheet. I would write, I will not steal, a hundred thousand times, to be rid of this burden. I’ve gotten pretty good at mirror script. Maybe I would write a haiku, backwards. I had the pen poised when she appeared beside me.
She looked at me with those gray-green blank eyes and laughed. She laughed and laughed and laughed. She laughed until she cried, throwing her head back and cackling. I began to laugh too. We laughed like lunatics, holding our sides and crossing our legs. No words were spoken as I pulled my shirt aside and revealed the stigmata. She saw herself and abruptly stopped laughing.
“Where did you get this?” She asked with an attitude of admiration and irritation. “Don’t tell me.” She insisted, raising her hands and looking away. “Tattoos and Scars, Scars and Tattoos, or whatever they’re calling themselves these days?” She turned on her heel and retrieved the other pen.
She straightened the clip and pried the lid off with her teeth. I stood speechless, as she put the tip to her mouth as if to wet it, then she stabbed the sharp nib into her tongue. She sucked and licked the pen, then tried it on the rough paper. She stabbed herself again and tested the page. The faintest pink appeared; she threw the pen to the floor.She pulled another pen from a drawer, and another. Three more pens, underwent the same ritual, before she found the shade, of which she was searching.
With the singleminded intention of an artist, she turned on me. Making corrections to my tattoo, occasionally dipping the pen into her preferred inkwell. It hurt. She laughed and chewed the pen’s cap. When it was finished, she replaced the lid, twisting it tight, the clip, bent yet again. She grabbed the journal and pressed the blank page, hard to my wound. Her image, in blood, stained the page.
I don’t remember getting a tattoo. I remember the beginning of the night. We were out with friends, dancing. He had beer, I was drinking chardonnay. We danced every dance, fast ones and slow ones. He lead me all over the dance floor, sometimes forward, sometimes backward. All I could do is look up, quit thinking, and smile. Twirling around, with him in control, is freedom. Its love.
Love, look what you’ve done to me
Looking for love
In all the wrong places
Dancing, Prancing
Romancing
Then I started drinking double bourbon, hold the rocks. One more drink and a couple pills. That’s what they say happened. I’m told, I begged, pleaded, ranted, raved and threatened murder. I’m told, I made a general ass of myself, embarrassed my dearest and all our friends. I threw my empty flask at a bartender and got walked out of Cowboy Bill’s. I’m told, I sketched this creepy old lady on a bar napkin and decided to have it inked on my chest. They say, I wanted a blue Rose. I insisted on a blue Rose, but the artist refused and said only a red Rose, with thorns. They watched while the work was done, listened to my ramblings, and paid. Chalking it all up to, Why The Fuck Not? That was a few days ago.
When my lover found me, I was on my knees near the desk, intermittently laughing and crying. I was alone. The journal was opened to a blank page, my pen still in my hands, other pens strewn about the floor. I tried to explain, but I couldn’t stop laughing and I laughed until it became sad and I cried again. He picked me up and carried me out the door through the back yard. It was pristine with palm trees, bougainvillea, plumeria and lush grasses. Rose bushes of every color imaginable, hung heavy with blooms. He carried me all the way to the beach and then into the ocean, he walked in up to his waist and just held me there. All night, we cried and then we laughed, then cried our hearts out.
I saved him; he saved me
We saved each other, in the sea
This tattoo is a souvenir
A lasting reminder
Thou shalt not steal
If you’re seeking absolution
Get rid of the thing as soon as you can
Do not give it to any man
It will poison the mind
Take you on a bend
Take the prize from your purse
It is nothing but a curse
Put the hearse in reverse
Stripped down to your soul
You’re better without it.
Sly
Babs- Living the Dream
/in Book Stuff, This & ThatBABS
Living The Dream
(an excerpt from a new novel)
Babs is a 16-year-old Pug/Dachshund mix. She’s my road dog, one tough old girl. We have been through a lot together. She flew with me here to the Keys. Her full name was Babushka Adeline Lane Sue Horton. She will answer to Babs, Babsy, BooBoo, Boozy, Boozer, Boobs, Mema, Obama, Piglet, Pugly, and of late, Pickle Face. BABs stands for Bad Ass Bitch, she doesn’t play well with others. That’s what I tell people when they meet her. It has been quite convenient during Covid. People don’t understand 6 feet away if they see a pet. Kids are the worst; they will run up to any pet they see and try to touch it. Back up booger picker. I don’t want your germs on the dog who’s going to be on my bed later.
Sister girl doesn’t like most people, especially kids. She doesn’t like other animals, not dogs, cats, squirrels, iguanas, birds, crabs, or lizards. She is aggressive and will almost always assert her short fat personality. Old dogs and puppies alike have felt her snap, if they get too close. Out of an abundance of caution on walks and outings, we always keep her on a leash and do our best to keep her away from others. There are always those who have no regard for rules and allow their dogs and kids to run wild. I don’t have that luxury. My bitch bites.
Some people or their pets are determined to make friends. Babs will gladly take a treat from you, but that doesn’t change her feelings about your animal. If you have a treat in your hand, she is your best friend. If you don’t have a treat, she couldn’t care less. If she likes you, she will show her sweet side: you will fall in love with her. Unless there is food involved, for food, Boozy will sit, shake, dance, sit pretty, jump, or whatever trick it takes. Her super special treats are peanut butter, cat food, and frozen broccoli. She has us well trained too; we jump at her every whim, especially Pete. You should hear them argue.
Babs barking and whining while dancing by the front door. Her bark is piercing, annoying.
“I just took you out,” Pete tells her. “Stop it.” He whines back at her.
More barking and jumping and a sideways look toward the door.
“Noooo, you just went out.” He tells her.
She runs to the kitchen and barks at the treat jar. She jumps and barks.
“You’re going to time out if you keep that up.” He says as he reaches for a treat to snap in half. Balancing on her haunches in full on begging mode, she accepts the biscuit like a proper lady.
I roll my eyes.
Babs and I found each other, Easter weekend 2009. I drove my daughter Margot and her best friend Kate, to southeastern Oklahoma, to celebrate Easter and Margot’s 14th birthday. I had just been back home in January of that year, for Mema’s funeral. Mema, my maternal grandmother passed away at age 87 from complications of old age. I am her firstborn grandchild, the daughter of Mema’s youngest daughter Sue. My mom was 17 when I was born, Mema was 48. It was Mema, who I most loved and trusted. It was Mema, who protected us from Mom. Now Mema is gone. Now I don’t need protection from Mom, or anyone else.
Mema kept her original teeth, snaggled as they were. She refused to get dentures, saying, these are all I got left after the bastards got done with me. She had taken beatings from her mother, for being her dad’s favorite and for her smart mouth, but my great grandmother avoided her face, so her husband wouldn’t see what she had done. It was Mema’s first husband, my mother’s father, who broke her teeth with his fists. That’s why my mom beat us, below the shoulders and above the knees. Mema told me all this and more, on her death bed.
At her funeral, the preacher said, Velma was the best cook he ever knew, and if she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t douse your burning body. We all laughed because it was true. She was fiesty to say the least and a damn good cook to boot. Mema was the heart of our family. Her life was filled with friends and family, she went through pots of coffee and a dozen chocolate chip cookies each day entertaining visitors. She prearranged her funeral service down to the last detail. She paid on it for years, wanting to leave her family no burdens. The family respected most of her wishes however they vetoed her red satin pajamas, fearing she would look like a whore in the coffin. People of all ages came to pay their respects, it turns out that everyone loved her as much as I did. Everyone thought they were her favorite. I know I was.
After a four hour drive with two 14-year-old girls, I pull into the long driveway of my cousin’s home and cutting-horse enterprise, Double Diamond Ranch. A quarter-mile of red dirt, leads to a double-wide mobile-home and a couple of barns, sitting on forty or so acres. Surrounding the house are pastures and training pins filled with horses at varying stages of breaking and skill. Kids of all ages running around the dirt yard, chasing chickens, hooting and hollering. Tormented birds, squawking in protest, running for their lives. The family mutt, named Chicken, ran toward us barking and howling, announcing the arrival. Nearby there are a half dozen or so men, training young coon dogs. The noise is ungodly.
Stepping from my Maxima into this scene, was like going back in time and place. The rules are different down here. On the drive, I told the girls stories from my childhood. Margot warned her friend, that she would probably hear the N-word, the R-word, and who knows what else. Kate was intrigued to meet the country cousins. She herself, was what my kinfolks refer to as a city slicker. Country folks don’t trust city slickers. For Kate, this was a foreign culture, completely unknown to her. She was on safari, taking in every word, sight, and sound. Unbeknownst to me, Margot was in crisis.
As a teenager, I had escaped to the city, to live with my dad and stepmom. It was marginally better. At nineteen, I married Margot’s dad and escaped again. Margot hadn’t grown up around my family. Only recently, when Mema got sick, did I start going back home at all. The last time I saw these people, we were all dressed up and crying over her dead body. Mom took care of Mema for the last several years of her life. It was Mom, who Mema called out for when she was scared. She hadn’t been a great mother, but she was a good daughter to Mema when it mattered. That redeemed Mom for me. I told her so and we held each other and cried for the most significant loss either of us has ever had.
The kids, chickens, and horses are all welcome sights and sounds. The baying dogs and screeching raccoon overwhelmed me. Upon further investigation, I found a caged raccoon surrounded by a half dozen or so dogs, snarling, biting, attacking. The poor thing was fighting for its life, scratching, hissing, biting. The men were laughing, goading, proud. Margot and Kate were horrified. Bubba D., my only cousin on Mom’s side explained, this is the way you train a coon dog. Now they know what they’re after. They got the scent and their blood is hot for it. It’s cruel, the girls cried. What’s going to happen to it? Watch and see, Bubba D. suggested. He never explained “why” you want to hunt raccoons.
Women, young and old began pouring out of the house, to greet us. Someone yelled at the kids, to quit making so much racket, and leave the damn chickens alone. Bubba D.’s wife Lisa, gave us hugs and showed us where to put our bags. Margot and Kate distracted a couple of would-be dog trainers and they disappeared on four-wheelers. I was always nervous about bringing her to back home. Bad things happen down there. I told her some of the things, just enough to put caution in her. Don’t be alone with anyone, was the mantra.
Before long I noticed a small black animal, hiding under a pickup truck. It looked like an otter or a baby razor-back pig. Bubba D said “that’s Obama, it came up yesterday.” They weren’t happy about the election, to say the least. I called Obama over and she instantly laid on her back wanting a belly rub. She followed me around all day. I asked, what would happen if someone doesn’t claim her. Bubba D said he would shoot her, it’s the humane thing to do. He gets strays all the time and can’t afford to feed them all, he told us. Again the girls were horrified.
Late that night a terrible storm blew in. Thunder, lightning, rain, and hail battered the metal house. A terrifled Obama cried at the door for an hour and Lisa finally let her in. Wet and filthy, smelling like something dead she slept quiet and still in the crook of my arm for the rest of the night. Almost from the beginning, I felt she was Mema reincarnated. They have the same personality, snaggled teeth, she’s afraid of storms, loves me fiercely and it was Easter. Resurrection was in the air.
“We’re taking her home,” I announced. Margot was mortified by the ugly little dog and didn’t want to keep her. Kate fell in love with her and suggested we rename her Babushka, a Russian word for grandma. Kate had seen and heard things in those three days that she couldn’t unsee or unhear. Babs would be a constant reminder for all of us.
Three flea and tick baths and two worm treatments later, she was clean enough for the car ride home. On the way back to the city, Babs laid perfectly still on her blanket in the back seat, next to Kate. Margot was nervous about how Elsie would receive Babs. She is a much smaller dog and an interloper. The Reverend Elsie Faye Horton was our sweet, beautiful, American Pitt Bull Terrier. She had been a birthday gift for my second husband Jim after he had three separate “visions” that God wanted him to have a pitt bull. In the ’90s, I had her ordained online to prove a point. We even received an ordination certificate. Her green eyes were like nonother; her soft brown and white coat, like Elsie, the Borden cow. She was an angel and loved by all who knew her.
Jim and Margot agreed about Babs. He was pissed because he had told me no. He didn’t often tell me no. The girls and I hatched a scheme to introduce the dogs. Margot and Kate would go in and greet Elsie, let her get Babs’ scent; then I would go in and greet Elsie. After that, Margot would bring Babs, wrapped in a blanket, and give her to Elsie, as her baby. This all made perfect sense to us. Babs wasn’t excited about the arrangement when she got a look at her new sister, but they were fast friends and a funny-looking pair. Elsie wore her out, and she would hide under Jim’s chair to rest. Quickly he was won over by her personality and let her on his lap. Those were good times. Sadly Elsie passed a few years ago, at the age of fifteen. She died at our home of old age, Babs was there. We said our goodbyes together and buried The Reverend in the back yard, marking the spot with a large handmade cross.
Now here we are in paradise with the man of our dreams, about to go on a luxury vacation. Mema would have loved Pete, hell everyone loves Pete. He’s smart, handsome, kind, a great dancer, what’s not to love??? He is adventurous, generous, amorous, hard-working, and he’s taking me on a cruise! Poor Babs will have to stay in “puppy jail.” Sorry, not sorry.
Then, the last walk of the night, Babs got into a fight with another dog. This is the first time she wasn’t the aggressor. Our neighbors have two old dogs about the same size and Babs. She growls every time she sees them. This time the girl dog lunged away from her owner and attacked Babs. It was comical. I pulled away, but the little shits were tenacious. Maria-the-attack-dog’s owners rush toward us and picked up the beast. They apologized, I apologized, we scolded our own dogs, and went different directions. Later Babs jumped up on the bed and laid close to me all night, without moving a muscle. I felt like she knew something was up, that we were leaving her.
One day before the cruise, the day we drive up US 1 through the Keys to Miami. We will meet up with Leanne and Nick and stay in a hotel tonight. In the morning we will take advantage of a complimentary breakfast and head to the cruise terminal. Only one problem, Babs woke up with a hurt leg; she wouldn’t jump off the bed or walk up or down the stairs. Pete had discovered the issue, on their early morning walk. He had carried her down two flights of stairs then back up one, he tearfully informed me when I woke up. He felt even more guilty for having to leave her with strangers.
Usually, Babs is spry as a cat; she can jump onto a stool, chair, table, bar top, and back down in seconds. It’s as if she was trained by a circus. This morning I tried to get her to take the stairs and she just looked at me like girl, please. She wouldn’t budge. I figured she was sore from the scuffle with Maria-the-attack-dog. Carrying her downstairs, I loved on her, telling her I’m sorry for not protecting her. Also, she probably had it coming. Pete babied her even more, telling her he was sorry Mama was putting her in puppy jail. I knew it was the best place for her to recuperate, they have no stairs and she will have staff at her beck and call. For her comfort, we took her bed, hoodie that goes in the bed, a toy, food and water bowls, a chewy, her food, and treats. Sherry, the kennel mom, came out and we explained the altercation from the previous night. She made fast friends with Babs, encouraging us to call anytime to check on her. It was hard leaving her, but we were eager to set out on our adventure.
Babs
That’s one of the stories Mama likes to tell about me. Why do I call her Mama? Everyone calls her mama. She’s always so bossy but takes care of us with all her might. I have stories too, you know. My name was Obama; can you believe that shit? Now that I’m black, my people are being ugly to me. I was so excited to see my family again, I expected them to greet me with open arms. Nope. And Gawd, that poor raccoon screeching its head off, made me want to kill it myself. I like killing things, I like bitings things too, especially kids and puppies. Everyone else loves them; I just want to bite em.
Do you want to hear a story about me biting a fat guy on the ass? Of course, you do. Once upon a time, there was a fat guy making a terrible racket in our living room. It scared me! Sooo, I launched myself at him and sunk my teeth into his derrière. I understand he was doing his job, but I don’t regret biting him. It made him stop making that noise. Also, I don’t regret biting Peggy, a family friend, who did nothing to deserve it. She was afraid for no reason, I gave her a reason. The end.
I narrowly missed a guy’s balls once, but his inner thigh showed teeth marks for a month. He got too close to Mama. I warned him with a snarl, just as I lunged. LMTO you should have seen his stupid face. I wonder what his wife thought about his new beauty marks? I’ve had to bite a few people who got too close to my Mama. I peed on at least two of them and shit in one guy’s shoe. I protect her. She’s the Mama. She’s little and cute; people always want to touch her. It’s as if they think some of her magic will rub off on them. Truth is, it does kind of rub off. When you’re around goodness, you feel it.
Mama isn’t perfect, but she is good. The jar of marbles is mostly full, Brene’ Brown would say. Mama’s biggest problem is her mouth; she doesn’t have much of a filter. I have heard her say some embarrassing inappropriate things that make people think badly of her. Of course she’s the “writer” so maybe she won’t tell things about herself, about the relationships that were damaged or ruined because of her words and actions; but I was there. I know what she’s capable of. I love her anyway; she’s my mama.
You’re not going to believe what’s she’s gotten us into now; we are living the dream. We live in a swank island community, right on the ocean, complete with swimming pools, boat docks, private beaches, a gym, kayaks, boardwalks, and a bar within walking distance. There are lots of other dogs here. I hate them all, especially the puppies. I hate the boats, the water, the iguanas, lizards, sharks, octopuses, jellyfish, key deer, military planes, and the brats.
I hate the cats, I know there are cats in the neighborhood, I can smell them. They wreak to high heaven and their owners are weird. I’ve seen at least two cats on fucking leashes. LMTO, I hate cats more than puppies and kids and water, but not as much as I hate thunder, fireworks, or someone knocking on the door. I tolerate it all, because Mama is happy and because I like Pete. He feeds me all the time and he’s good to us. He makes us smile all the time. Pete is our boyfriend, he lets me sleep on his feet. He loves us; he tells us so.
Sometimes we lay together on the floor and he tells me how smart I am and that I’m the best girl ever. He rubs my head and tummy and gives me treats. That’s my top priority, I’m a slut for food. Hot dogs, ice cream cones, peanut butter, lamb chops, french fries, icy Coke, thick shake, sundae, and apple pie.
As she said, I’m a dog, half Pug-half Dachshund. I know I’m ugly and mean and I don’t give af. Don’t get it twisted; I don’t want to be a better “person.” As if I want to be a person at all. Dog spelled backward is God. People worship and adore us. Just accept our superiority and we will all be happier. Dog is mans’ best friend. We live for you! The lucky ones of us are housed, fed, and adored. I am one lucky dog.
I am her Mema reincarnated, come back to life to save her. We keep rescuing each other. She is my soul mate, my person, my sister. I’m her grandmother and friend. I was there the day she was born. I carried her inside of me, as an egg inside her mother. She is my very heart; my firstborn grandchild. That’s why I protect her so fiercely. We were together in the beginning and we will be together in the end. It’s complicated; it’s deep.
While I’m laying some dog knowledge on you, dogs don’t go to heaven, we come from heaven. We are like angels on earth here to bless you, work for you, protect you. All we want in return is food, shelter, love, and affection. Maybe pets are like the souls of your loved ones, come back to take care of you. Being the pet of a loved one is the highest level you can reach, it’s the ultimate life. So being her Mema is my greatest pleasure. You know the poem by Paul C. Dahm, The Rainbow Bridge, where pets are waiting to escort loved ones into heaven? What if that’s where butterflies come from. What if butterflies are the souls of pets who have passed over the Rainbow Bridge. Maybe that’s why butterflies only live a couple of weeks. If all of them lived at once, their wings could lift us out of this solar system.
That all sounds great but I don’t really believe that crap. I don’t think dogs believe in God. We believe we are gods. Incidentally, we think cats are the Devil and squirrels are demons. We find humans endlessly fascinating. It’s in our very makeup, to protect and please you. If we didn’t tear stuff up and piss on the carpet, we would be the perfect companions. I myself haven’t torn up anything in a long time, but if someone leaves a bag of trash within my reach, I will happily and without remorse, rip it open and peruse the contents. I will eat every rotten disgusting thing in there, scatter it all over the house, hide some for later, and be shocked that you’re mad at me. I’m a dog.
Just like humans, all dogs are unique. Everyone has their own personality, stomach issues, sleep habits, favorite shitting spots, what have you. I don’t speak for all dogs, just myself. I don’t even like other dogs or most people for that matter. I’m only interested in Mama, Pete, a few friends, and FOOD. Now I’m getting old, but I’m still quick on the draw. They say 16 by human years, however much that is. I still wanna chase lizards and bite kids and I’m having the time of my life with Mama and Pete in Paradise. I’m told, I’m cuter now with my white face and white paws. I have some highlights in my black hair. Pretty fly for an old chick.
Admittedly when I was young, when Mama and I first found each other again, when the raccoons were screaming, and the kids were chasing and kicking me, I looked like hell. I had worms, I had fleas, I smelled like death. Because I had just come back from the dead. I had been rolling in cow shit and dead animals. There’s nothing I love better than a good old role on a dead animal. Oh, happy day! Lately, I’ve been finding fish heads and shrimp tails on the docks. Last night we were walking on the dock and saw five huge sharks. I can see them up close through the boards. Two of them had to be at least 8 feet long. Mama had me on a short leash as if one of them would jump up snatch me out of thin air. She wouldn’t let me shit on the beach, which is my favorite shitting spot. I love walking down the docks smelling all the smells along the way. If I’m lucky, I find bait and gobble it up before Mama or Pete can yank me away.
Mama yanks harder than Pete. He sort of coaxes and suggests. She gently tugs a couple of times, then pulls me away by force if I refuse to come. So when I find dried up jellyfish on the beach and try to eat it, I usually get a hard yank. The frigging leash is a pain. I’d run free as the wind if I got the chance, but they never give me the chance. When we’re outdoors, I’m tethered to them at all times. Something about someone getting bitten or hit by a car. At night when the big sharks aren’t underfoot, we take long walks on the beach. I get right up to the edge of the water; not close enough to get my feet wet, look out over the ocean, and shit. It’s glorious.
Sometimes I can’t make it to the beach and have to crap in the grass. Not my fave, but what’s a girl to do when you’ve been locked up all day and fed copious treats. That’s one of my favorite things about Pete; he feeds me everything he eats. Just little bites here and there. Mostly we eat meat, potatoes, and bread, sometimes ice cream too. Mama finally gave up, saying me and Pete are old so we should have some fun.
He’s a real sweetheart, Pete is. Best boyfriend I ever had. When Mama is away doing whatever she does, he talks to me, he pets me, he tries to hold me, I don’t like being held unless it’s my idea. I like to lay next to him on the couch or the floor by his feet and listen to his constant chatter. Sometimes he lays next to me on the floor and we touch noses. I give him a big wet kiss and he likes it. He tells me I’m a good dog, the best dog ever; but mostly we talk about Mama. He tells me she’s beautiful and kind and she’s the best thing that has ever happened to him. He worries about her when she’s driving; she’s a good driver, but the highway is narrow and there are crazy people to watch out for. It’s our job to worry about her at all times. When Pete is on watch, I can relax a little. We both know she is special, she’s our girl.
Pete and I are happiest when Mama is home. We know she’s safe and she cooks for us and loves on us. She stays busy, rarely sits down; always arting, cooking, swimming, or biking. Pete works outside raking the beaches or fixing things, but he’s always nearby. Mama is in her art studio and I’m sunning myself on the balcony. It’s pretty sweet. They leave the door to the balconies open so I can keep a lookout for dogs I like to bark at. They tell me to hush, then when we’re out of earshot they say good girl Babsy.
Pete was appalled when she started calling me Pickle Face. He said sympathetically, “She’s no Pickle Face.” They laughed, but a week later, he was calling me Pickle Face too. It’s just catchy I guess. Now the damn neighbors are calling me Pickle Face. Call me whatever you want, just remember to give me treats.
Hell’s Library
/in Book Stuff, Poetry, This & ThatI did this.
Hell’s Library
by Susan L. York
3678 words
There’s an old story I used to know
The memory of which was recently awakened
A tune, a scene, a fragrance maybe, reminding
A fragrance, a smell, an aroma
An essence
Pages and pages, dampened and stained from years of turning
Tear moistened fingertips, seasoning paper and soul
Whispers, glances, hushes
Mysteries and stories, capturing
Upsetting my apple cart and setting free
I remember now, here among the rows
Racks of stories and mysteries
This tale brings itself back
It was in The Library, someone said
They witnessed Ten, quarreling with a beautiful lady
Those were the first words, I ever wrote, with the pen. Ink on paper, pouring forth without consent or even consideration of me. The pen compelled my hands, both of them. Sometimes the pen would force the left hand, to write mirror script. Sometimes the right hand became numb, from hours of compulsive writing. It was hand carved wood, with brass fittings. Darkened from finger indentations and teeth marks, signs of love and frustration, its body was marred. Not particularly beautiful or valuable, the pen is a servant, an object of passion, with no choice and no voice. Or is it a co-conspirator? The tools of the tortured artist are complicit in his death. What other words had the pen compelled? I regretted stealing the pen.
Everyone steals ink pens. Usually it’s an accident and it equals out in the end. You drive off with the bank pen, only to accidentally leave it at your hair dresser’s. In modern society, pens are a dime a dozen. We don’t keep them long enough to care if they get lost. Seldom have I kept one, long enough for the ink to run out. I took pens for granted and so dear reader, have you.
Library, libation, liberation
Books, booze, brains
Sunshine, fierce fire
Moonshine, heart’s desire
Thorns and Roses
Going to Hell’s Library, seeking libations
My pen won’t quit, they heard him say
I find myself in a terrible way
The poet in me has become a novelist
Double bourbon, hold the rocks
This is a saloon, not a study hall
Where do you think you are, after all?
Drink all you want and wax philosophic
You’re here for eternity, just look around
Only unfulfilled authors were found
Hell’s Library, where defeated writers go. Many of whom died of broken hearts or broken bottles. “I’m no poet!” I yelled and dropped the pen. Writers write! It seemed to say back to me. Write for the sake of writing, it coaxed. If I can’t write, I don’t want to live. The pen had chosen me, now I knew. It was writing an unfinished story and was determined to use me to live it out.
I’m no poet and I don’t drink bourbon neat. At least not until I took the pen. I liked it at first; my guilty pleasure at having something that had belonged to someone famous, especially a writer. It was lying there in the open, next to a leather bound journal. I’m surprised someone else hadn’t snatched it already. Just an old fountain pen with the lid stuck tight and clip slightly bent, the brass tarnished, the wood dirty from finger grime. I wanted it and it wanted me. I couldn’t resist it.
Home alone in private, I straightened the clip and pried off the lid. I tested the nib on a scrap of paper. With minimal effort, my signature appeared in shiny blue ink. It was as if the pen had been filled and used only the day before. Embarrassed by my misappropriation, I put it in the drawer next to my bed. I’m no thief, I thought. Why had I been so driven to take the damn thing? Nothing was ever the same after that. The pen knew my name. My hands were restless now, my thoughts always turning to poetry and the pen.
I began carrying the pen in a little pouch in my satchel, keeping it near me like a precious treasure. Really, I was afraid of someone else getting hold of it. I also began carrying a flask of bourbon. It calmed me and steadied my writing hand. The poem said going to Hell’s Library for libations. With every pull of whiskey and line of poetry, I believed in Hell’s Library, the place designed for broken writers. The novelist in me, was becoming a poet and an alcoholic.
While the bourbon had to be refilled, the ink never did. The enchanted pen, like the widows oil jar, would never run dry. Who is the beautiful lady from the poem? Were she and Ten quarreling over the pen? Why did I get myself involved in this epic tragedy? I couldn’t go back to the house on Duncan Street. The caretaker or the woman I assumed was the caretaker, would know I had stolen it. I could be prosecuted, humiliated and that’s what I deserve. At this point, I couldn’t take the pen back anyway; it wouldn’t let me. I can only hope, to learn to control it.
The house on Duncan Street, on Duncan Street
Where I take my sweetie pie, sweetie pie
One more whiskey and a couple pills
You let Mama take my brains
Rose’s thorns
Schizo sister
Needs a mister
A gentleman caller on Von Phister
If he shows up, I’ll wear my best
Then show him to the door
Nearby, a one man band sings, “Ooooh oooooh, I got you where I want you, got you where I want you, ooooh ooooh…” What the fuck is going on? Too much bourbon, obviously. Thorns and Roses, Rose’s thorns. For heaven’s sake, I’ve lost it. Only in Key West. You can say that again. You can say that again.
Mile zero
Local hero
Key Lime pie
Lose my mind
Writer’s plight, hold on tight
Sell your stuff, keep the dog, live on an island. I once saw that, printed on a tee shirt. I took it literally. It was easy, you see. I was in love. This was before the pen and before the bourbon. That’s why I moved to the Keys, a man, my dream man. We fell in love on the dance floor. I sold everything I owned and flew with my little dog to Paradise, to be with my knight in shining armor. He’s my angel. He even likes my poetry.
On a whim one day, he took me to the old Tennessee Williams house on Duncan Street and asked the lady if we could look around. It wasn’t open to the public but we had to ask. There were workers about the property; it was low season. He explained to her, that I’m a big fan of Mr. Williams work, and it would be an honor for me to see his home. We wouldn’t stay long, if she allowed us in. He promised we wouldn’t disturb anything and looked from me to her, as if vouching for me. I nodded in agreement, having every intention of keeping his word. We smiled our brightest smiles; she smiled in return and invited us in by gesturing with open arms, telling us to make ourselves at home.
Not every room was fully furnished; some were off limits, doors locked. The pool was a mess, foliage overgrown, fallen leaves littering the landscape. Still I was thrilled to be in the very space, where the genius had worked, lived and loved. I didn’t know much about Tennessee William’s writing and even less about his personal life. My first encounter with him, had been a high school production of Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, where I volunteered to help tear down the stage on closing night. I showed up just in time to see the actors exit left, come back out for one ovation and then exit again. If only I had known the juicy storyline, I may have volunteered for a different post. Later I saw a film production of The Glass Menagerie, another story of a broken family.
The caretaker told us about Ten’s sister Rose, who had been lobotomized in her twenties, at their mothers’ behest. Ten bore the guilt to his death. His life and writings were riddled with pain involving his beloved sister, the enduring queen of all things. Poor Rose, I thought and was reminded of my inability to protect my own sisters. She told us about numerous other writers with Key West ties. The island is a siren for artists, a succubus for some. The caretaker sensed my discomfort and walked us back toward the living room. Seeking fresh air, I walked ahead of my companions. That’s when I saw the pen.
I heard him thank her for the tour and her time. She graciously accepted, saying it was always nice to meet a fan of Tennessee. The leather journal was open to a blank page, the pen was lying close by. My back to the room, I looked around to make sure I wasn’t being watched. My hand reached forward and touched the paper; it had more tooth than I expected. It reminded me of watercolor paper. Was this a journal, a guest book? My fingers moved to the pen and before I knew it, with no thought of consequence, I slipped it into my pocket.
As I opened the door to leave, the caretaker touched my elbow. Startled, I overreacted. I gasped and jumped. She laughed nervously and apologized for sneaking up on me. She only wanted to shake my hand and bid me farewell. Her hand was cold as ice. Jokingly she said, “They say this place is haunted.” My sweetheart’s expression was one of amusement and confusion. He thanked her again and led the way to our bicycles near the curb. Pedaling down Duval Street, passing bar after bar, a strong craving set in. The pen had begun it’s work on me.
Rose resonates
Can I get a witness
Witness please
Witness pleas
All a day’s work, in Hell’s Library
Family is a most reliable muse; ask Jesus or Zeus
I have a crazy sister or two
Also, I may be a crazy sister
You should ask our mother
She’s a crazy sister too
The sense, shaken out of us
Our brains like beaten eggs
Bruises on my butt and legs
The eldest always gets the brunt
Worse yet, the regret
For months, this went on. My angel noticed the changes in me, even the dog kept her distance. Bottle after bottle of bourbon down my gullet and nothing I had written, was worth keeping. Waste baskets overflowing with crumpled or shredded pages, plagued my days. If I was lucky enough to sleep, I had nightmares of being held down while my head was sawn open and picked apart, without the benefit of anesthesia. Most mornings I awoke with a headache, which could only be alleviated by a swig of amber colored, liquid, fire.
In an effort to regain some control, I placed the pen back in the bedside table and laid the flask beside it, then set out for a picnic on the ocean. We made it past the reef to the big water. Determined to reach 100 foot water, we braved rough seas and were rewarded with a short race with a porpoise and a glimpse of a giant turtle. We threw out our hooks and set adrift. The water is rough that far out, in a small craft, on a breezy day. The current drags us back toward the shallows and calmer water, where we ate sandwiches and sweet pickles.
“Reel ‘em in.” He said after a while. “Let’s head to our spot.”
Just off Little Palm Island, there is a honey hole. The fishing is good and the view ain’t bad. We anchored there and fished our hearts out. I stayed on the shady side, he always chooses the sun. We caught 76 fish and fed them to the pelicans. A dozen birds, ate like kings and we laughed at the scene. On the Atlantic Ocean, we may as well be in a teacup, amusing ourselves with nature and not a single fish, big enough to keep.
I tire of it, before he does. It’s winter in paradise, I’m under the umbrella, sketching a back lit scene of the island. Palm trees, tiki huts, a dog, tail wagging and more pelicans, dot the seascape. A couple walks hand in hand on the sandbar. I imagine they’re looking for coral fragments, shaped like unicorns. Ocean noises comforting, calming… Near sundown, gently rocking on the wakes of passersby, glints of silver catch my eyes, on the sunny side.
He is watching me now. He mouths, let’s go home and winks playfully. On the drive home, he shows me the ropes; I try my hands at the wheel. His strong arms encircle me from behind, showing the way, making corrections as needed. Back at the marina, we toast with champagne in paper cups, to a grand sea adventure, sip, the sunset, sip, and true love, sip; we mean every word. I raise a cup to my old man and the sea and he pulls me in. We kiss and hold each other in the moonlight. How will I explain, the pen?
I soaked it in whiskey and set it afire. When the flames died out, I did it again. The pen didn’t burn. It punished me with sleepless nights of scrawled gibberish. I threw it in the sea and it floated back to shore, only to be discovered by my darling and returned to me. Sheets and sheets of left handed prose, smeared ink and tears, retribution for attempted abandonment.
I am yours and you are mine
Won’t you be my Valentine
Island life will drive you crazy
Make you fat, complacent and lazy
Keys Disease, I think I’ve got it
I’ve got you, under my skin
You’re so deep in my heart
You’re really a part of me…
Then I woke up with a tattoo of a red Rose, on my chest. Not the flower, but a perfect likeness of the blank faced old woman, I had seen in a photograph at the house on Duncan Street. A framed newspaper clipping about Rose’s death at age 86, sat on the desk where the pen had been. A one time resident of Key West, she was well known as the handicapped, older sister of Tennessee. He provided for her home and care, for the rest of her life. Rose’s eyes in the photo, pierced my soul. She looked as if she were missing part of her brain. I dreamt of her.
I had to confess. I told the story from start to finish. He listened, nodding occasionally. I didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face. Would he even believe me? It sounds like a big fish story; if only I had the convenience of exaggeration, the luxury of hyperbole. I’m possessed by a writing pen, my life is in disarray. This isn’t what he had in mind for a relationship.
We went back to the house on Duncan Street, to return the goddamn pen; make penance for mendacity. I would apologize and beg forgiveness, do community service if necessary. The caretaker would be gracious, she would help me. This side of disappointment doesn’t feel like I thought it would. I try not to be in a position to beg. Now I’m the offender, the thief, the liar, the drunk. Key West, in Hell’s Library, taking shots with the ghosts of broken writers. A pen in my pocket, seducing the poet in me. A flask in the other pocket.
She welcomed me with open arms, just like before. It had been months, maybe a year since my transgression. At first, no words were spoken, no eye contact made. I went to the journal intending to return the pen. I stopped short when I saw an exact replica. Another old fountain pen with a bent clip and teeth marks, the same fingerings. The journal was closed, the pen lying on top. In a delicate script, engraved into the moleskin, was a monogram, RWI and under that, Keep Out. It was too late for me to keep out, I was in deep. I moved the imposter pen aside and began reading the entries from other people like me.
You get what you get
You deserve all of it
Just another nobody stealing our mojo
We are real people, not a freak show
If you’re looking for inspiration, go home
If you’re looking for redemption
Join the rest
Search your soul
Take the test
Another possessed poet, had drawn a self portrait of himself sitting at a desk, an open window behind him. The pen was held in his teeth, his right hand supporting his chin, his eyes were as far away as Rose’s. It could have been me. I had sat like that for hours at a time, empty headed, staring into space. Art imitates life or vice versa. Truth is stranger than fiction, or something like that. Had these people stolen the pen too? I read on. I hadn’t been the only one to fall prey. Some entries were initialed, most were not. None of the entries were dated.
I read every poem, mea culpa, hate letter, and prayer. The pen had ruined lives, taught lessons and driven people mad. I began to think of what the pen would have me write, when I came to a blank sheet. I would write, I will not steal, a hundred thousand times, to be rid of this burden. I’ve gotten pretty good at mirror script. Maybe I would write a haiku, backwards. I had the pen poised when she appeared beside me.
She looked at me with those gray-green blank eyes and laughed. She laughed and laughed and laughed. She laughed until she cried, throwing her head back and cackling. I began to laugh too. We laughed like lunatics, holding our sides and crossing our legs. No words were spoken as I pulled my shirt aside and revealed the stigmata. She saw herself and abruptly stopped laughing.
“Where did you get this?” She asked with an attitude of admiration and irritation. “Don’t tell me.” She insisted, raising her hands and looking away. “Tattoos and Scars, Scars and Tattoos, or whatever they’re calling themselves these days?” She turned on her heel and retrieved the other pen.
She straightened the clip and pried the lid off with her teeth. I stood speechless, as she put the tip to her mouth as if to wet it, then she stabbed the sharp nib into her tongue. She sucked and licked the pen, then tried it on the rough paper. She stabbed herself again and tested the page. The faintest pink appeared; she threw the pen to the floor.She pulled another pen from a drawer, and another. Three more pens, underwent the same ritual, before she found the shade, of which she was searching.
With the singleminded intention of an artist, she turned on me. Making corrections to my tattoo, occasionally dipping the pen into her preferred inkwell. It hurt. She laughed and chewed the pen’s cap. When it was finished, she replaced the lid, twisting it tight, the clip, bent yet again. She grabbed the journal and pressed the blank page, hard to my wound. Her image, in blood, stained the page.
I don’t remember getting a tattoo. I remember the beginning of the night. We were out with friends, dancing. He had beer, I was drinking chardonnay. We danced every dance, fast ones and slow ones. He lead me all over the dance floor, sometimes forward, sometimes backward. All I could do is look up, quit thinking, and smile. Twirling around, with him in control, is freedom. Its love.
Love, look what you’ve done to me
Looking for love
In all the wrong places
Dancing, Prancing
Romancing
Then I started drinking double bourbon, hold the rocks. One more drink and a couple pills. That’s what they say happened. I’m told, I begged, pleaded, ranted, raved and threatened murder. I’m told, I made a general ass of myself, embarrassed my dearest and all our friends. I threw my empty flask at a bartender and got walked out of Cowboy Bill’s. I’m told, I sketched this creepy old lady on a bar napkin and decided to have it inked on my chest. They say, I wanted a blue Rose. I insisted on a blue Rose, but the artist refused and said only a red Rose, with thorns. They watched while the work was done, listened to my ramblings, and paid. Chalking it all up to, Why The Fuck Not? That was a few days ago.
When my lover found me, I was on my knees near the desk, intermittently laughing and crying. I was alone. The journal was opened to a blank page, my pen still in my hands, other pens strewn about the floor. I tried to explain, but I couldn’t stop laughing and I laughed until it became sad and I cried again. He picked me up and carried me out the door through the back yard. It was pristine with palm trees, bougainvillea, plumeria and lush grasses. Rose bushes of every color imaginable, hung heavy with blooms. He carried me all the way to the beach and then into the ocean, he walked in up to his waist and just held me there. All night, we cried and then we laughed, then cried our hearts out.
I saved him; he saved me
We saved each other, in the sea
This tattoo is a souvenir
A lasting reminder
Thou shalt not steal
If you’re seeking absolution
Get rid of the thing as soon as you can
Do not give it to any man
It will poison the mind
Take you on a bend
Take the prize from your purse
It is nothing but a curse
Put the hearse in reverse
Stripped down to your soul
You’re better without it.
Sly
LOL Comedy Show Fundraiser
/in ComedyJune 10
Sunday Afternoon Poem
/in Poetry, This & ThatWe live in a time of awareness. Becoming aware of how the others live and what their struggles are. How do I help the person with special needs or mental illness? What can we do for the addict or the poor? What do we do about crime, hate, injustice? What if the best we can do is offer a kind word, a hug or a meal? What if the addict or person with mental illness is me or a friend or family member? What if? What’s next? If not me then who? Easy questions to ask but what about the actions involved? It’s altogether different getting up and making a difference. If there is only one thing I can do, at least I can be kind. I can not judge other’s choices. I can smile and give encouragement. If that’s the only thing we can do, that’s enough.
The pursuit of happiness is an American right, but is it possible to achieve? If not, maybe we should check our idea of what happiness looks like. Houses are just sticks and stones, diamonds aren’t rare. Don’t fall for it. Happiness is a gentle breeze and a cup of coffee, my child’s laughter. It’s health and mental wellness. It’s love and lovemaking, it’s caring for someone and being cared for. It is creating something good.
Maybe I think too much but I can’t help it. When I sit down to write I want to write smart, interesting, profound thoughts but just the act of writing is profound. Are we looking to someone else for our own personal happiness? True happiness comes from within, learning every day how to live simply and recognize simplistic joy.
What do I need every day? A little food, a lot of water, music, art, my girl. Sunshine, windchimes, Gerbera daisies, little backyard treats. Honeysuckle, peonies, butterfly bush, bees, butterflies, the smell of bacon. Herbs, greens, weeds growing up from beneath us, living only for our enjoyment and nourishment. For that I am grateful. I’m ever more thankful for the simple and complex nature of nature. To whom or what do we give thanks?
Turns out, after close examination, roses and honeysuckle and butterflies need our praise and care. The symbiosis of species, basic breathing dynamics, good in–bad out. Waste your breath on flora and receive from her all the delights she has to offer. Thank you rose for your beauty and fragrance and essential oxygen. Honeysuckle, I love you! Take all the CO2 from my dirty lungs. Gerberas, I can’t get enough of you.
It works for people too. Babs, you are the best one! Yes, you are! KLMc, I’m beyond thankful for and to you. KDC, thank you for everything, most of all for being a good man. N, you continue to amaze us with the depths of your abilities and generosity, I’m so glad our souls found each other. Wasting time and breath on truth and beauty are the basics of a life well lived. Thank yourself and be grateful every moment for something, anything.
Freedom rings in my ears, singing a sweet song. Birds singing love songs on a perfect breeze, that’s what freedom sounds like to me. Quiet time, listening, hearing, learning, knowing. Knowing freedom comes with responsibilities and yet this time, the risk is worth the reward. Next time we may not be so lucky. Next time.
Keeping freedom, being free is hard-won on the backs of those souls who were and are humane, kind and useful. I’m in charge of my freedom. I choose my reactions and responses to life’s valleys and mountains.
Staying free depends on my reactions, responses, and responsibilities. We only have ourselves to depend on, if we are truly free. Resourcefulness helps and relationships too; healthy relationships with other free people.
Perpetuate freedom, teach people to be free. Encourage, support and participate with someone who is less free than you, party with someone who is freer. Be thankful for the freedom and courage it takes to pursue happiness.
Words, Words, Words
/in This & ThatWords, Words, Words
Get words on the page. That’s the goal. Just write something, anything. A poem maybe, or a song, it doesn’t have to rhyme. Eyes closed, hear thunder and soft rain. Sitting in the rain sounds nice. Do you ever do that? Not in a long time; now you have sense enough to come in out of the rain. Or maybe you stand in the rain when no one is around. Do you hear the distant rumble? It sounds like an ancient song, to which you never learned the words. You sing your own words and make up new ones. In this realm, mistakes do not exist. Imaginations run free in the endless possibilities. Blue, hue, few, new, true, eyes still closed. Loud, proud, cloud, shroud; just keep writing. Sad, mad, glad, fad, plaid; words words words. With no intentions, just put words on the page. Write, think, open mind to create. Stringing words together to make sense of something or nonsense. Keep writing, words come intermittently. Dream, scheme, team, steam, nonsense. Write, kite, fight, sight, light, contrite. Who cares anyway? Rain sounds gentle on the roof, the air conditioner is loud with no music playing. The mechanical hum permeating the rooms, muffling the nature sounds. Sitting still feels lazy, even though I’m working. Working, smirking, lurking, twerking in a lazy circle. Fingers moving slowly, keep going. Meditate, roller skate, intubate, conjugate. Art, smart, tart, heart, start. Words, words, words.