Attention Lesbians

This is Kelly here, telling you that you really need to get on the Gossip Girl Band Wagon. If only to be mezmorized by the amazing Blake Livley. Have you ever had one of those cruses where you know if the woman was in the same room as you that you would turn entirely stupid? Were I to be left in a room with Blake I would forget how to speak!

I’ve always said that I’m not a fan of blonde’s but there are exceptions to ever rule. AND I don’t even feel all dirty about the fact that she’s 8 years younger than me which is normally a big issue for me. (Nothing wrong with it, I just have a cradle robber issue)

Treading Water

I’m a woman who has always wanted to be saved
It’s the little girl in me
The small piece of innocence that pretends to twinkle in my eye
Selfishness
To think that she could save me
The truth so clean and pure in front of us both
That I am here for only her
A lost mind attempting to tread water
Tired
Sick of going back and forth between smiles and tears
She is the most like me
Out of all the world she is the woman that understands me without words

She writes me secret notes
They read like puzzles and Hallmark cards pressed into one
I dip the pen in the blood of my wrist and write back
Praying that I had the correct cypher
Hoping that the words I hand over are the ones she needed to hear
To tread another day
To smile just a little longer.
I owe her this
I own her more all the while I grow fonder

Were an alter ego of myself to exist it would be her
So brave so strong and so weak
So weak so scared and so brave
We are each other
We are a kaleidoscope of one another’s best parts
And it takes all I have to hold on
It takes all my will not to let her drown in the chaos of her world
A world I dream of
A world she loves to hate

I’ll save her
I know I will
Because it’s the only way to save myself

It’s good to dream…

It’s better to be crazy…

One thousandth of a percent of the population believes that they can fly. 3.7 percent of the population believe that they possess some kind of psychic power.

11043 days alive and counting

To my amazement I keep on waking up alive. This realization may sound odd to some, but not to someone who falls asleep every night positive that she will not wake to see another morning. To that person, it’s just another day. Tis the Brain Clouds. Tis the death that surrounds me. Tis my genetic disposition to catastrophes. You pick, I’m too tired.

I need a vice. I’m no Gia, so heroine’s out of the question. I’m not a pussy, so buying a twelve dollar bottle of wine I can’t pronounce and drinking it down as I pretend I’m the adult I never became will not suffice. I’ve been thinking about writing a children’s book with my favorite homo as the illustrator. The main characters would be a hippo and a snake. If you know he and I, you then know how fitting those animals are. And no, I’m not the snake!

 It’s just that this thinking about dying all damn day bullshit is getting old. Which says to me that I’m board. Board out of my fucking mind and I need to do something to correct that. And so the quest for a new vice begins. I think I already have an idea of where I’m headed.

If a man comes to the door of poetry untouched by the madness of the Muses, believing that technique alone will make him a good poet, he and his sane compositions never reach perfection, but are utterly eclipsed by the performances of the inspired madman. - PLATO (428/427 BC- 348/347BC)

She reminded me of wings on a butterfly
Beautiful
Yet too soft to touch
Even with the most delicate embrace my fingers would break her

Her soul
Her strength
Her willingness to trust
These things and more I would take from her

I have mastered the art of sucking the life from my muses
Building their confidence with words
Words being my version of smoke and mirrors
Even the true magicians have nothing on me

It is the innocence that I can’t get enough of
A soul untouched by the evils of life
A heart with the capacity to fall in love
A mind that won’t stop it’s heart

A villain disguised as a hero
A trashy novel posing as contemporary prose
I am the face of who they wish for me to be
The answers to the questions that no one has yet been able to answer for them

I have taken from too many
Kept promises to fewer still
Today I’ve come to terms with this side of me
But I refuse to blame it on anything but free will

My Own Personal Grey Gardens

I have always been of the opinion that those deemed crazy know a bit more about the secrets of life than those that take pride in their normalcy. We can all fall in love, buy a home, have kids, and retire to Naples. It’s the people who spend their lives in institutions that have always intrigued me. The people far enough from reality that the laws of the world simply don’t seem to matter anymore.  Many times these people are artists, homeless vagabonds, or left to live life with only the voices in their heads as true companionship. I would love to sit with all of them if I could, learning their stories and baring witness to their versions of life.

A friend of mine recently introduced me to the movie Grey Gardens. She told me it was about this crazy mother and daughter duo who happened to be Jakie Onassis’s Aunt and first cousin. Amazon describes the movie as follows: Although it’s typically described as a cult phenomenon, Grey Gardens is something more than that by now. The 1975 documentary by brothers Albert and David Maysles (who filmed the proceedings and co-directed with Muffie Meyer and Ellen Hovde) has been turned into a hit Broadway show, with plans for a feature film in the offing; it’s also the title of a song by Rufus Wainwright, and has been referenced on TV shows like The Gilmore Girls, The L Word, and even Rugrats. In the process, Grey Gardens has become part of the cultural zeitgeist, at least in the gay community, a circumstance that no doubt had some influence on the decision to package it with The Beales of Grey Gardens, a 90-minute assemblage of outtakes and other unused material from the original film supervised by Albert Maysles and released in 2006.

I was hesitant at first. I figured it was going to be some campy cult film that I would have to be far too stoned to even attempt to watch. I did the Rocky Horror Picture Show in my teens and was not about to throw toast at anyone again. From the moment the film began to play I was absolutely enthralled. I was hypnotized by these amazing women. I felt like I was witnessing what happens when someones last nerve finally gives out and they give in to insanity. Little Edie sees the world through special glasses. Glasses that many wish they had a chance to try on themselves.

I can’t say that I envy the insane, but I do find the definition an interesting point to ponder. Was Big Edie crazy for letting the cats piss all over, or is Mrs. Jones crazy for doing all she can to keep up with her neighbors? Were the outfits that Little Edie came up with so out of the norm, or do we worry about fitting in so bad that we all wear the same thing?

I am in love with this film and recommend it to all. I believe it will be a love or hate thing for most. I also believe that it’s definitely a film that needs to be watched more than one time. Over the years we have called the smartest people of our time insane.  I find them the most amazing. This movie only further my s-t-a-u-n-c-h stand on the matter.

“I went to two cocktail parties [in East Hampton] to stop the gossip about my being a recluse.  Most of them looked at me like I was from Mars.  I shouldn’t have gone; I don’t drink.  If you don’t do what everybody else does out there, if you don’t go to the Maidstone Club or join the Garden Club, you’re written off as crazy.” - Little Edie

Thank You

It was interesting to see your true colors, even if it was odd to read words from you that I never thought would be said. You have always towered over me, represented the dark in me. Even when we first met we could see each other in the others eyes. You yearned for my kindness while I couldn’t stop practicing your abrasive approach. You read some of my fiction. You said the main character reminded you of yourself. I fessed up and told you I wrote that character via my alter ego. The woman I am in my mind. I had your attention via the reflection our souls made together. I was holding you still, while so many would find it easier to chase you. My secret was that I simply had no chase left.

I still come to you. Even after all this time and all the different faces we have smiled at. I come to you because I’ve found in you something I have yet to find in anyone else. It’s an understanding, a balance, a secret society were you and I are the only residing members. I look to you for reassurance. Reassurance that I’m not as insane or as far gone as I sometimes allow myself to believe. You always deliver, even if your response is only a sentence long.

Your last recommendation was that I needed to get out of the way of myself. What a brilliant assumption. What a beautiful way to say “stop being such a selfish, depressed, unalive fuck!” I love you for that. I love you for being honest. For not bullshitting me into believe everything will be okay. Laying it out there for me. Telling me in no uncertain terms that if I don’t make changes nothing will change. So walk taller, pull every ounce of confidence you have to the surface, and be the woman you are in your mind. I will never stop loving you for showing me that ones life is connected to ones love. If you don’t love yourself the progression of life simply stops. I am where I was 10 years ago. I am there because since then I have hated myself. Since then I have been searching for a fairy tale that I can only find once I’ve written it.

You reminded me that my romantic notions were simply an excuse to not move on. “She isn’t half as amazing as you have created her to be.” You would say with a fitting amount of sarcasm in your voice. Oh, how we both love our ‘I told you so’ moments. I just needed to thank you in a public sort of setting. I needed to let you know that your words, however small or limited, have not gone unheard. I am well aware of the work ahead of me. I am well aware that I have to figure out how to love someone that I have hated for so long. It is with your soft touch and guidance that I will so become a version of me that I can love. For that, I will never be able to thank you enough.

Death Wants More Death by Charles Bukowski

death wants more death, and its webs are full:
I remember my father’s garage, how child-like
I would brush the corpses of flies
from the windows they thought were escape-
their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies
shouting like dumb crazy dogs against the glass
only to spin and flit
in that second larger than hell or heaven
onto the edge of the ledge,
and then the spider from his dank hole
nervous and exposed
the puff of body swelling
hanging there
not really quite knowing,
and then knowing-
something sending it down its string,
the wet web,
toward the weak shield of buzzing,
the pulsing;
a last desperate moving hair-leg
there against the glass
there alive in the sun,
spun in white;
and almost like love:
the closing over,
the first hushed spider-sucking:
filling its sack
upon this thing that lived;
crouching there upon its back
drawing its certain blood
as the world goes by outside
and my temples scream
and I hurl the broom against them:
the spider dull with spider-anger
still thinking of its prey
and waving an amazed broken leg;
the fly very still,
a dirty speck stranded to straw;
I shake the killer loose
and he walks lame and peeved
towards some dark corner
but I intercept his dawdling
his crawling like some broken hero,
and the straws smash his legs
now waving
above his head
and looking
looking for the enemy
and somewhat valiant,
dying without apparent pain
simply crawling backward
piece by piece
leaving nothing there
until at last the red gut sack
splashes
its secrets,
and I run child-like
with God’s anger a step behind,
back to simple sunlight,
wondering
as the world goes by
with curled smile
if anyone else
saw or sensed my crime

I found this poem today. I found it while making the selfish attempt to find rhyme or reason to my life. It was an interesting search. Then I found this poem and things that didn’t make sense before seemed to come to light. It may not be what it is to me to you, but that is the beauty of poetry.

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The research begins today

I’m terrified of death. I’m terrified of all the things that are associated with death. Car accidents, cancer, hospitals, just to name a few of the thousands. There are many therapists out there that will tell you that to conquer your fear you need to face it, submerge yourself in it.

I have attended 7 funerals in 13 months. This past January I went to the ER, found out I had a kidney stone, and had to have two procedures to get it taken care of. The third and final of which will take place March 20th. And let me just tell you that having a sent in your kidney and bladder is not at all a romp in a park full of wild flowers.

I even went so far as to go to the doctors and got put on a new brain medication to stop the constant panic. Before my doctor came in I was visited by a doctor in training. Her name was Laurie and she was far too hot for me. In the medical field I prefer my woman ugly, fat, and wouldn’t mind a wart or two on her face. I haven’t quite figured this out, but the hot ones tend to make me nervous.

So there I was, unloading on her while doing my best to avoid starring at her cleavage. But come on now, a thin black v-neck sweater cover by a white doctors coat and a stethoscope. I didn’t have a dicks chance in a room full of lesbians. She asked me about my history of panic attacks. I told her how my version of panic is not so much an attack as it is a way of life. I told her that at least 70% of my day is consumed with thinking about death or some illness that I have that will eventually kill me. She laughed (even her laugh was gorgeous) and told me I should write a book and she would totally read it.

Needless to say the brain clouds are still hovering. I’ve been trying to talk about it less. Understanding that most people don’t understand. When my doctor finally came in I missed Laurie. I wanted to talk to her more because it seemed like she was honestly listening. Instead I just reiterated how I have tried therapy three times and the doctor told me he would like to put me on different meds.

Yesterday I went to a funeral. Just like the 6 before it I didn’t feel much. Sometimes I wonder which is better. The numbness that the pills give me, or the terror from not taking them. There is not submerging myself into the fear of death because it’s unknown. I don’t have blind faith, but I do have a want to finally understand why I am the way that I am. The research begins today.