The Clock

I wrote this poem, and for some reason it makes me laugh. I don't usually write in rhyme scheme or write poetry about men wanting to die. The whole concept is just bizarre. Maybe it's the "woh, woh" ending, maybe it's because it reminds me of those chain e-mails from the nineties where if you didn't send it to 10 people something terrible would happen to you, and the poems were always corny and written by a middle schooler. Regardless, I kind of like this piece because I don't typically write like this or about this subject matter, and I think it's important for artists to step outside of what they normally create. So here it is...I'd say enjoy, but that's not really the point. This is about our survival instinct, about fighting to die, and then fighting to live. This is about feeling trapped between life and death - wanting both. Being stuck in daily purgatory. Oh jeez, I'm getting dark. Just read the poem. 

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Tick tock goes the clock

He wonders when this will stop

Bang bang goes the gun

Shoot it now, shoot it son

Bullet penetrates the skin

Piercing, pulsing, blood within

Red runs down his chest and cheek

He stumbles, he slows, he feels weak

Gravel and cement becomes his bed

But now he doesn’t want to end

Frantic, pacing, adrenaline

Grabbing onto life - must win

Someone help me! Someone, please!

Save me, love me, I’m on my knees

It’s too late, the clock’s run out

His cries are unnoticed, no one hears his shout

He is gone now, from this earth

He chose to leave, he had no worth

Now

I haven’t written about you yet. I’m not sure why. I’ve written about many of them, but not you. Did you not inspire dark emotions? I thought you did. Did you not reach my core? I felt it sink. Or is it simply because I feel too much and will not allow myself to delve into the depth, as I usually do?

Let me write about you now. Let me write about your small eyes. They did not peer into my soul, but I think they yearned to. And your thin lips, which at certain angles looked plump and full and I wanted to pounce on them like pillows. I liked the way you moved your hands. Your fingers were long and thin, but strong, and your wrists held them firmly when you waved them around as you spoke. Your body - lean and fresh, tight and tasty. I liked to grab your arms and stroke your smooth skin. Did you like to touch mine? Your teeth were like tablets, straightly aligned, your nose protruding like he wanted to be heard and seen, your hair was slight and wispy, like a warm summer breeze.

Let me write about you and me now. Let me write about us. Did such a thing even exist? It feels so surreal to me. Our first kiss. When you made me laugh. When you saw the freckles in my eyes, as the sun hit them. When I cried in front of you. When you held back your own tears and my heart leapt because your emotions were dancing in front of me. When you first took my hand in yours. When we looked at art, and sat in a movie theatre, and had a picnic on the grass, and you brought me yellow roses, and I beat you in Boggle, and you beat me in cards and we wrestled like siblings. When I borrowed your clothes and wore them to work. When you lit candles. When we danced the tango, naked, in your room. When you stood behind me, your hand wandering up my dress, as I stirred brownie batter in the kitchen. When we joked about gnomes and lumps and other silly things. When we hiked to a waterfall. When you stroked my back early in the morning as I slept in my twin bed. When you forced me to eat tuna fish. When I expressed my fear and you held me. When you didn’t say anything.

Let me write about what’s left of me now. We are no longer. Just me. And you. I feel broken. I do. I feel abandoned. I feel…unhappy. Why didn’t you want to jump for me? Why did you lay in the lawn chair, sunbathing, as I was drowning in the pool? You watched my body slowly sink. You didn’t care to save me. All I wanted was to save you.

You still exist. But now you live somewhere far away. Somewhere I am not allowed to go. I have been banished, exiled from the place I called home. I don’t know if I want to go back. An evil ogre lives in that land. An ogre who told me things I didn’t want to hear, who hurt me, who didn’t listen to me, who didn’t want me. A gentle lion lives there too, one whose purr comforted me in times of sadness, whose strength made me feel safe, and who gave me great joy.

I tried to sneak back once, back into this forbidden forest. They kicked me out – the guards. They grabbed me by my frail wrists, tied them together with twine, and shipped me back to my jail cell. So here I am. Sitting, wondering – do I rot behind these bars, within these four walls? Do I try to escape once again and return home? No. I will look beyond the barriers and find myself again. 

Teddy Bear

I have a teddy bear that my mother gave me before entering college. He has scruffy golden fur, a red knitted sweater to keep him warm, a loving, moldable body, and innocent eyes. I feel very close to this teddy bear, whose name shall not be revealed for anonymity purposes (he is quite skeptical about blogs, and is in fear of attracting stalkers). Anyway, as you can tell, this teddy bear has quite the personality. Sometimes, when I make my bed, I tuck him in with the comforter and he waits patiently, alert and ready for my return. Other times, when I am in a rush, he lies, contorted and hurled across the room, sometimes on the floor, sometimes hidden under crumpled sheets. But nonetheless, he is always there. My teddy bear meets my friends, especially the special ones...you know, the ones who sleep over. He tells me which he likes the most. It is a kind of a ritual, with my special friends, to make my teddy bear dance before bed time, move his limbs around whilst listening to a random shuffle of music. It is a fun game I like to play with my pals. I like to observe how they treat my teddy bear. It says a lot about their character. Some friends are crude with teddy. They sexualize him and force him into uncomfortable and inappropriate positions, for a laugh. We don't think it's funny. Teddy and I. Well...sometimes I do. Other friends go more along with Teddy's persona, making him dance awkwardly and out of sync with the music. This is how I think my teddy bear would dance. He doesn't really have a good sense of rhythm. Sorry, Teds. But, it's true. My teddy bear is an extremely good nuzzler. NOT cuddler, but nuzzler. He fits perfectly into the neck/shoulder crevice. I like to put him there. I like to force other people to put my teddy bear into their neck/shoulder crevice and see how they respond. If they think I'm strange and refuse, that is a check minus in my book. If they oblige and find my attachment to my stuffed animal endearing, we have a winner! Once, I was lying in bed with someone, and we were playing with my teddy bear and he told me that it smelled like me. It doesn't sound romantic, but to this day, I find it one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said. Up to that point, I didn't even know I had a "smell". I do not wear perfume, nor do I shower with any fragranced body wash or shampoo. For him to recognize my smell, and then to notice it on my teddy bear was something so intimate. It meant he cared. It meant he felt close to me. Whenever I nuzzle with my teddy bear, I think about that moment. I put my nose up to his soft fur, sniffing intently, hoping to get a whiff of my "smell". But to no avail. I smell nothing. Well, not nothing, per se. But I don't smell anything distinct. I wish I could speak to that friend again, ask him what my smell reminds him of, so I would at least have some vague idea. Teddy misses him more than I do, actually. He told me so. My teddy bear has favorites, just like you and I do. That boy was his favorite. He hasn't really liked the others.

how do i feel?

a little poem from a little person on a little day...
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i feel random
i feel rickety
repugnant
resounding
resolving
resolved
grounded
disgruntled
disintegrating
denegrated
violated
vulnerable
viable
affable
laughable
lightable
lickable
loveable
listen
to
me
it's
hard
.

Words Forgotten

Words Forgotten

This poem was written using excerpts from an ongoing, organic conversation I had with a friend. I did not change much - except for the order and some pronouns. I guess we see life poetically, when we speak with one another. I find it quite beautiful. I hope you do too. The sad, or silly, thing is, if it were not for technology we might not remember the sweet words we have said to each other. So I suppose, for once, I thank my cell phone and my computer for saving my messages.

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Think

           About the ocean

                        The undulating waves

                                  It will make your heart smile

You are at the beach

            With the girl

                        She has almond eyes

                                    And an upper lip shaped like cupid's bow

You lie on your bed

            Playing with your toes

                       Watching the fan make shadows

                                   Across the ceiling

I would have enjoyed the daylight with you

            But instead I am excited

                        Excited for our friendship

                                    Maybe it will fulfill me

Our conversation was comforting and warm

            You played with my hair

                        I touched your face

                                 It was wonderful

I have the urge to say I love you

            Even though we are so far from that

                        I have so much love

                                    For you

I thought you loved me

           In our mesh, mushy bubble world

                        Of no memory

                                 You do love me

           

I have so much to say and yet

           I’m speechless

                      Let’s adventure

                                Was this morning even real?

cheeto puffs and cigarettes

Dark times inspire dark writing. I don't have much to say as a precursor, here. Just that as humans, we beat ourselves up for things, sometimes for things that weren't even our fault, or sometimes for reasons we can't quite discern. I guess life is a constant struggle to love yourself and treat yourself well and learn what you need. Some people learn from the mistakes of others, and some must learn for themselves by repeating mistakes over and over again. It's all a journey. And with every journey there are battles. I must thank a dear friend of mine for giving me the title of this piece and thus encouraging me to write the rest. You know who you are and I love you.
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cheeto puffs and cigarettes by victoria rose

Her hands smelled of cheeto puffs and cigarettes. It was a strange, repugnant combination – one of self-destruction, of sabotage. She was out to commit a crime. She was out to be an adulterer…to herself. It was her first cigarette, her first pack. She held the limp “cancer stick” up to her lips, pretending that she was Greta Garbo. She stared at her pale reflection in the car mirror as she puffed and blew the smoke out through her chapped lips. She wanted to pollute her lungs, pollute herself. But she also wanted to be romantic.

Why did she want to hurt herself, you ask? She didn’t really know. This was new to her, this form of self-mutilation, this desecration. Up to this point, punishment came in the form of casual “sexcapades” – ones that made the emptiness deeper and more tangible. She would get lonely, search through her cell phone address book, pick a number at random, invite herself over, fool around while fantasizing about the man of her dreams, and leave feeling less fulfilled and less desirable than before. Now she wanted something harsher.

An innocent, she wanted to corrupt herself with things she’d scoffed for years. She was the kind of girl that thought drinking was a conformist act, didn’t understand smoking because "it is clearly carcinogenic," and refused recreational drugs because she was hyper-sensitive– she didn’t need a chemical alteration to feel creative and found it less legitimate, and almost a form of cheating when other people did. Now, here she was, driving aimlessly around Los Angeles, at 3:30 AM, because she had nowhere to go, nowhere to turn, with a pack of cigarettes in hand, looking for a drinking buddy, and fantasizing about doing something big. She was actively searching for the big, bad, wolf instead of meandering along to her grandmother’s cottage unaware of the darkness existing within the forest.

Her home was hell, so she couldn’t go there. In fact, she felt she had no home at all. Every enclosed space bred claustrophobia, and every outdoor one made her feel small. At a loss, she parked on a random neighborhood street. She had intended to go to the beach, but realized midway through the drive that parking would be a hassle, and strange men might lurk in the shadows. While she was feeling destructive and dangerous, she didn’t have an immediate death wish.

She stood outside, leaned up against her car door, stared up at the darkened night sky and the few and far between dull, twinkling stars, and puffed on her cigarette. It wasn’t lit. She used the cheap red lighter she had bought at the Shell gas station, along with the Parliaments, and the cheeto puffs, and a pack of gum, and where she exchanged her self-worth as currency, and watched the flames burn down the paper. It looked strikingly beautiful.

She put the cigarette up to her lips, inhaled, exhaled, and felt a bit calmer. Hurting herself made her feel better. Even though it wasn’t physical pain, it was “bad,” conceptually, and for some reason that made her feel peaceful. She was so accustomed to being good. And what good had it done her?

She opened the bag of cheeto puffs, and crunched down on one, the cheese collecting in between the indentations of her molars. When did life get this convoluted? She wondered, almost aloud. It’s always been difficult, but when did it get to the point when others hurting her wasn’t enough, that now she had to resort to self-sabotage? She threw the cigarette onto the slicked pavement, channeling the femme fatales in the forties, stepped on it with the tip of her sandal, and sighed. She got back into her car and decided it was time to get wasted. No more aimless driving, no more aimless thoughts. Decisiveness. This girl will self-destruct in…3…2…1…

Blast off.

The Birthday Party

The Birthday Party

The Birthday Party was written at the Stanford Discovery Institute, the summer before my Senior year of high school. It is a vignette describing a birthday party from a third-person perspective, and then from one of the character's points of view AKA first-person narration. Strangely, later in life, this past year, I made a short film entitled: Karl's Big Day which is strikingly reminiscent of this written piece. (You can view Karl's Big Day HERE - if vimeo asks for a password, type in KARL) Anyway, I had completely forgotten about "The Birthday Party", at least consciously, when I made this film. So for some odd reason, drunken clowns, the subject matter for both, have a penchant for floating in and out of my mind and making their way into my creative works. I haven't quite delved deeply enough to figure out what this represents or why I care about this figure so much. Maybe you, Reader, will solve the mystery of my obsession with the fallen funny man. Enjoy.

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The Birthday Party: 3rd Person

Mara clenched her 5-year-old fist around the 3 apple-red balloons. Her innocent cherub face was covered with a huge grin and 2 dimples that her papa called "craters on the moon". This wasn't any ordinary sunny west coast day; it was her birthday. A day of laughter, black and white cake, and boxes wrapped in colorfully printed and checkered paper. Mara was especially excited about this particular birthday celebration and she could hardly go to sleep the night before due to the sparks and flutters in her stomach. Her papa had promised that this party would far surpass her previous ones. Not only would there be party games such as "pin the tail on the donkey or "musical chairs", but there would be a really funny clown - the clown that went to Sally McDougal's 5th birthday party and the other overly privileged, rich girls from Mara's school. Mara and George (whom Mara called Papa) lived alone and in terms of material wealth, were struggling. Their home, covered in ivy and bug spray, and reeking of an unidentified musty odor, was barely presentable. The cream-colored paint was chipping, but it had character. George worked as hard as he possibly could and wrinkles had started to form on his always-sweaty forehead. He had crow's feet around his eyes, making him appear gentle and kind. He worked at a small insurance company in Inglewood, but most of the time the clients were so impoverished and distraught that he provided service free of charge. However, no matter how kind-hearted or hard-working he was, George never felt adequate enough. He had to be the mother and the father, the provider, for his dear little Mara. George could only imagine how difficult it must be for Mara to not have the warm, soothing coo of a mother's voice or the loving, tender touch from a mother's arms. He wanted to make the world a better place for his daughter and if he hired Craig the Clown and spread a little joy and light into Mara's face for one afternoon he would feel that much closer to success. So, he had pulled together all his spare change, which he kept in a tiny glass jar under the kitchen sink. For years he had saved up: searching through dirty couch cushions, and on hot pavement, for pennies, coins that would accumulate to the grand total. And finally, they did. Unfortunately, here he was, standing on the porch, with those worried wrinkles getting deeper and more defined. It was 3:00 PM and Craig was supposed to have arrived at 1:00 PM, right after lunch. He alternated glancing at his tightly fitted black wristwatch that his father had given him and at the smiling, glowing face of Mara. He was lucky one of the mothers had taken the reigns and lead an elongated group game of hide-and-go seek. Should he tell Mara that Craig the Clown wasn't coming? No, he did not want to see the disappointment on her precious face. Should he wait longer? No, that wouldn't be fair to all the guests. The parents' backs were starting to sag and their phony smiles were starting to fade. Sighs were coming from the children who were patiently waiting on the grassy lawn, the ones who opted out of the communal game, tired of playing, wanting to see this commodity, this climax: Craig the Clown. But not little Mara, her face stayed in a permanent grin. She was hopeful, and she waited happily in anticipation for what she thought would be the greatest day of her life.

The Birthday Party: 1st Person

I really just didn't want to go to work today. I am sick and tired of driving all around town in my shitty old van. By now, I hate little kids, which I never thought was even possible. Their runny noses, the dirty diapers, the endless crying and red little faces. They really get on my last fucking nerve. I know I sound like an ass, but after 20 some odd years of going to kid's birthday parties and wearing a big-ass red ball on your nose, and huge shoes that you trip in constantly, you would feel the same way too. This morning, after swallowing some pills that are supposed to cure a hangover (that shit never works but I keep taking them any way), I put on my orange wig, and my "clown clothes", which by the way, I don't think I've washed in about 2 months now. Honestly, what's the point? I feel pathetic. I just had my own birthday a few days ago. May 8th. And I turned 40. Maybe this is my mid-life crisis or whatever Dr. Phil or those other people talk about on TV. Whatever. Even though I didn't feel like plastering on my famously happy "Craig the Clown" face, I dragged myself to the van. I sped on the freeway, driving about 80 miles per hour. At least my piece of shit van can pick up speed. I took the Rosita Street Exit that was posted on the big green sign and I turned onto the street. This was the poorest neighborhood I had ever gone to. Most people who hire me are these rich pretentious bitches who spend their husband's money. That's why I never got married. Too much responsibility, not enough time alone. I parked my van far away from the actual house, hoping that the air might clear my head. I needed to prepare myself and practice my signature "Craig the Clown" laugh. They don't pay me the big bucks for nothing. My laugh is the shit. I've worked on it for years. I've developed it, honed it. I guess I'm kind of proud of it. Wow. I really am pathetic. Anyway, I took one clunky foot step after another, I hate those fucking shoes, and stopped when I saw bunches of red balloons tied onto a fence surrounding THE crappiest house I'd ever seen. I mean, my apartment looks like a fucking mansion compared to this. I stopped behind a big oak tree in front of their house because I wanted to get the general feeling of the party, see how many people were there, see if there were any whores who might give me a blow job or something after the party. Some women are like that. You would be surprised. They get a thrill out of blowing a clown. These married women, man, I'm telling you. Pretty fucked up. I saw the little kids sitting on the lawn, the parents lined by the "refreshment table, talking "amongst" themselves (yeah I got a proper education, I know grammar), and then I noticed the dad. The parent is always the one who looks worried. I tried to find the birthday kid; I had forgotten whether it was a girl or a boy. Normally he will have a party hat on or he is extra loud and obnoxious, but I didn't see anyone that stood out. After scanning the party, I saw her. I hate to admit it but she was really cute. Smiling and everything, looking real sweet, unlike the bratty kids I usually have to deal with - you know, the ones that yank my nose off, or tie my shoelaces together; the ones that pop my balloons after I have turned them into dogs or flowers. I didn't see a mom anywhere. The mom is usually the one running around trying to set everything up, making sure everything is in order. That's when I remembered. This was the call my boss told me about, specifically. It was the little girl who lost her mom in the fire a few years ago. I felt like such an asshole. Here I was, this 40 year old clown, hiding behind a giant tree, spying on the birthday party I was supposed to be at 2 hours ago. I didn't know what to do. My head was pounding from the beer and grinding techno music from the strip club I had been to the night before. I felt like complete shit and I wanted to quit my job and stay locked up in my house watching crap TV shows like Jerry Springer or Roseanne. But here was this poor girl without a mom, waiting for ME. I didn't know what the hell to do. I could either go to the party despite my shitty mood or possibly ruin what this little girl thought would be the best day of her life.