The Matador

Where I come from, women are enjoyed. They work hard in their own way, but they also take great care in themselves. They are alien beings compared to us men. While we are drenched in sweat and the dust turns to mud on our skins, theirs trickles like spring water down their curves. We men dance with the bulls in a jarring, frantic jive. The women, their very walk is a dance, meant to enthrall with every twist of their hip and extension of their leg. These are the women I'm used to.
In L.A. the difference from women here compared to my women in Spain is stark. These women are a different creature. Their power is raw and young, unlike the age-old seduction game I'm used to. They work alongside men and above them. Sometimes they work back-breaking jobs, jobs that are meant for men. They don't take no for an answer and often their first response is no. They walk with purpose, like they are always late and sometimes sacrifice femininity in place of succeeding.
This was my waitress, of this breed. Her hair was frazzled at the ends, in need of a trim. She usually forgot to reapply her lipstick as needed. Her arms were muscled from busing tables and her elbows were often bruised from bumping into the counters. She was nothing I was used to.
When we met, it was at the bar across from her diner. A friend and her went out for celebratory drinks to congratulate themselves on finishing their first year of law school. In all her differences, I couldn't help feeling drawn. Her seduction was a trickle compared to a torrent. A glance, catching my eye, a slight smile that parted her lips. I played the game, learning as I went. It was more of a dance with her, like a bull. Go the wrong way and you could be speared. I learned much of her ability to reject so easily and that she could hold her own. Her moves were subtle and at times I wondered who was the matador. Part of being a matador is the thrill of dancing with such a powerful creature. With my waitress, it was much the same.

Due to Unforseen Weather Conditions...

For the last week or so, I've been feeling quite lost. Like a plane caught in bad weather and having to land in some barren field of nowhere.
Since this blog is "what's on my mind", I'm steering away from my writing exercises and hoping that my words don't begin to sink into my habitual tar-pit of depression.
Starting on a positive note, I feel like I have many options available to me. As a creature of the earth and a being of technology, I have the power to travel great distances and land in Ireland and wander for a month if I felt like it... which at times I do. Having this freedom to be able to go somewhere on a whim helps to lift the cage I keep feeling around my heart. Above all, Ireland pulls at me, and not in the usual clawing, rude manner that I'm used to of other things. I can feel it tugging at me and I feel like it might be home. I don't like saying that, because when spoken aloud, people regard it the same way as when you're sixteen and you say you don't want kids when you grow up. You don't know what you're talking about, you're too young or ignorant to understand what you're saying. Similarly, how could I know that Ireland is my home, when I've never been there? I suppose it could be true, I could step out of the airport and find myself homeless. The pull I felt could have been the pull of the full moon, or the spin of the earth. In the end, there's only one way to find out.
As much as I love this freedom to do what I want, which is a two year old's dream, I still feel the slam of doors, the shutting of windows and the duct tape over the cracks in the walls. Not everything is as easy as hopping on a plane. I have a job to consider, which would mean leaving behind thirty-eight much loved dogs. Dogs know of the present, not the future or past, although they can be shaped from the past and can look forward to dinner in the future. They would move on, but I still feel that some benefit from my presence and I suppose I have to decide whether that would be worth staying. Or if my job would be waiting for me when I get home.
Its little things, pebbles in the river, that make the bed. They add up and create conflict on the things that we want. Consequences. The choice then is whether it's worth the consequences.
Above all, I love change. Sometimes the change is bad, and I feel the weight of its heavy cloud. Although I am looking forward to that change, I can't help but feel lost this time. It's like I'm eighteen again and trying to decide what I want to be. My mind is so full that after a day of walking with the dogs, I realize that I didn't hug them as much as I wanted to and my brow hurts from squinting. At times I wish I could empty my mind, but choices have to be made. I want to change now. I'm ready for change but the change isn't ready for me. Whether it's the idea of something new or just everything happening around me, I feel my mood soaring up and down again. At moments I'm happier than Peewee Herman before he got caught and then I swoop down and fear driving in case of what I'll do. I wish there were classes for twenty-two year olds with issues like these.

In his rearview mirror, the cab driver saw a puny child, a boy, crawl into the vast back seat. Ted, the cabbie, waited while the boy settled himself, clipping his seatbelt securely over his birdcage ribs. Looking out the windshield again, Ted fiddled with the a/c, frusterated by the tickling bead of sweat on his brow. Checking the rearview mirror again he was startled to find the boy gazing at him patiently.
"To the Parliament Buildings, please."The boy's voice was smooth and strong compared to his frail body.
"Don't you have parents or something we should wait for?"
"My dad died when I was a year old and my mother died two days ago. " His eyes met Ted's, lacking tears but deep ghosts of purple hovered under them. Whether they were from grief or malnutrition, it was hard to tell.
Ted pulled his bullshark of a car into the line of moving metal monsters. Cutting up streets and around parked cars, he realized he forgot to ask the kid if he had any money.
"Hey kid,"
"Timmy."
"Timmy, how old are you?"
"Ten."
"You don't look it. Don't you ever eat?" He said this quite gruffly, slightly regretting sounding so harsh. The boy barely noticed.
"When my father died, we lost everything. My mom did what she could but she was uneducated and had a hard time finding jobs. Legal ones. And no one will hire me yet. Mom got sick, bad, and then we had no way of feeding ourselves. She's dead now."
He had repeated that last comment, like he was securing it as a fact.
His eyes followed the entrancing yellow line again. Ted's mouth flopped into a frown. Not being able to feed yourself, let alone your son, the guilt would drive you mad. He actually prayed the illness took her before she could lose her mind. Ted was often quite tactless. Used to growing up in a harsh world ; he was a blunt man. Today, around this boy, he held his tongue to all of the thoughtless questions he had. Possibly being around this frail boy or knowing of his situation subdued his harsh curiosity. Yet he couldn't hold bad some.
"Shouldn't you be at a funeral or something?" Atleast his voice had lost its gruffness.
"Couldn't afford one."
The boy sad in the back seat, hands clasped together, staring at the surrounding buildings. His eyes were black holes, sucking up the passing images yet processing nothing.
"Don't you miss her?" Ted blurted out.
" Of course!" Timmy's face finally showed something, a touch of surprise.
"Then why are you going to the Parliament Buildings? This isn't exactly the time for you to be sightseeing." Ted was also sure that Timmy was supposed to be in some sort of orphanage.
"I'm going to do what my mother should have done. Protest. My father worked hard for the government and because of some technicality, we couldn't get his life insurance. Not only that, but when she got sick, they did nothing for us." His solemnity when he spoke, the words drove them home like glass shards in the flesh.
Ted wasn't sure the boy's notions were completely accurate but he seemed to have an unreasonably bad life. He also believed that the boy and his place in life would raise a lot of stink in the media.
Ted eased the sleek road warrior up to the curb flanking the mammoth, antique buildings. Turning around in the driver seat, he faced the boy.
"Hey kid, Timmy, who's taking care of you now?"
"Some orphanage, near where you picked me up."
"Timmy's arms matched his knobby legs like birch branches. His hair flipped over one eye, the hacked ends brushing one angular cheekbone. This image burned into Ted's rough heart and he almost wished he could adopt him. Unrealistic he knew, he just barely made it himself in this rough city.
"This ride's on me, I just want you to give them a hell of a scare with your protest."
Timmy nodded, his eyes hardened to glassy black beads. He reached out to open the car door.
"I wish I could do more. Do you want my sandwich? It's not much." He felt a bit frantic, trying to find something fo make up for not being able to save the boy.
" No thank you," he replied so politely, "I'm not hungry. Not anymore."
He climbed out of the cab, closed the door and waved to Ted from the sidewalk. Ted waved back and watched the boy turn his back to him and march away on his spider-thin legs.
Ted sat there for a moment before turning his mobile beast back onto the road. He'd be making a call to a buddy he had at a local news station five minutes later.

My Old Lady

I can't say old people are for me.
Nope, the majority of the time, they down right scare me.
That proves to some extent that my sister and I differ from one another.
She loves old people without a scrap of fear. It's something I can't fathom. Not only that but she'll wipe their bums without hesitation. I might not fear that but I probably couldn't stomach it.

There is one geriatric old lady that I adore. She drools like a mad woman, has one pidgeon foot, is lumpier than an old couch and seems to believe the old adage, " a firm bed is a good bed."
At 84, I think she's doing quite well. She'll do anything for a tasty treat and she still loves her walks. Her ears even bounce when she's feeling particularly energetic.

My old lady might not be the typical geriatric but the only fear I have for her is making sure she keeps all four feet securly on the ground.

In Loving Memory of Fidelle ~ Died August 10th, 2009

I remember catching that hard-skinned, sour-fleshed Granny Smith apple. Tossing it in the air as my immaculate converse sneakers slapped the fresh floorboards in our new house.
Moms going to kill me for having my shoes on in the house. Even if they're straight from the box.
Speak of the devil, walked into the dining room after me, carrying a crucifix of all things. She eyed my sneakers that apparently weren't being sneaky enough. Turning her back to me, she hung the gory crucifix to the wall behind the king's seat. Casting an eye back at me, with its dark slash of eyebrow. She always thinks I'm up to something. Like I'm picking my nose behind her back or something. She's lucky I'm not. My mouth formed into an insolent concrete pout. Clutching the apple, I crossed the room, bashing my shoulder into a wooden oak dining chair. I heard her draw breath to reprimand m, so I hurtled out of the room.
That'll teach her for uprooting me.

WARNING! Gruesome content, might disturb some readers.

Before, walking down a dark, forlorn alley with my tall, masculine boyfriend seemed like a safe enough adventure. Six or seven strides in, still seemed safe. Step nine was a doozy. The hazy shadows crisscrossed our own and even the light beer buzz muffling my mind cleared at that sight. From the unintentional squeeze to my hand, I knew I wasn't alone in that feeling. As the front men cut us off, I looked up at my boyfriend, for hope. Seven were too many, and he knew that. I actually prayed they only wanted money but the chilling ball of ice in my abdomen said otherwise. Their hoots and whistles reminded me of a foreign tribe hunting. Their eyes, touched by moonlight were bitter and hungry. My greatest fear tore through my mind. The overpowerment, punches, blood, repeated agony, defeat and being left for dead. That was the nice version. My teeth being kicked into my ripped cheek, my head smacking wetly into the pavement, blows cracking my ribs; the degrading stream of hot piss and accompanying horks of spit, tearing of the insides, furious tearing and infinite scars.
Looking up at my boyfriends face, a face that would never do those things to me. He would fight to stop them, but I could see in his eyes what would happen. They would make him watch.
They circled us like wolves. Sick and dying elk was what they saw. Their numbers gave them confidence.
The desperation clawed from my innards, out of that ball of ice and up to my lungs. My breath came shallow and harsh in the cool air. It hurt to keep quiet and I felt a scream of anguish crawl up my throat. They only laughed harder. My boyfriend did his best but they made him pay.
The desperation was liquid ice to my veins and as the window opened, I seized my chance. The one coming towards me was a fool, shoving a loaded gun down his pants. Thinking my grab was enticing, I wrapped my hand around his heavy mound of steel.
Tables turned; the wolves were sharp and their vileness was tangible in the air. Grabbing my boyfriend by the neck, they hauled him up. Quicker than my elk eyes could follow, a glittering incisor was against his throat.
What to do.
I felt so close to the light at the end of the tunnel. I worried that fear would blind that light from my eyes. Deftly unhitching the safety with my thumb, I threw some prongs into the brick wall nearest me. Puffs of brick dust made mini mushroom bombs and the wolves leapt back. Confusion crossed their eyes but their grip on the throat they held remained fixed.
A person's will is like a golden thread, surprisingly strong yet susceptible.
At that moment, mine broke.
I did what I wanted to do most, I raised the gun to my temple, pressing firmly. It was odd to see alarm in their eyes. Quite unexpected. The light at the end of the alley was closer and washed me in the best calm I've ever felt. My body relaxed within itself and I couldn't help but smile. A minute passed, frozen, as the light grew.
" I hope you like dead meat."
They must have seen my finger lay itself upon the trigger because bodies hurtled towards me. They took forever. My boyfriend was free and he joined them.
But the lights were too close now, the most beautiful ruby and sapphire lights. They crawled up both ends of the alley. Like a perfectly laid trap, the wolves were cornered. I drew the gun away from my temple and felt the perfect circle indented there. Arms encircled me and I was asked a lot of whys. I knew if the lights hadn't saved me, there would have been more to that circle. I couldn't help but feel a deep peace in that knowledge.

I remember when the power went off; it was a cue to fulfill my task.
Oh right, my task.
The encompassing darkness crushed my body like a bear-hug from a perverted uncle. Shuffling feet and muttering came from around me and finally a trembling voice called out reassurances.
I realized I was crouched on the ground so I stood up, bumping into a lamp. Useless lamp. Striking forward, clawed hands struck at my eyes. No, not there. Back to my task.
Moving like a shark in brine, I swept slowly, back and forth through the darkness. Using people's voices as radars, spots to avoid. My slow progress was worth the effort; the voices were now looking for me. I would succeed before they found me. Giant blood-sucking bugs dove for me as I reached the entrance. A last minute crouch saved my neck and I crawled the rest of the way to my prize. Wrapping my arms carefully around it I made my way back to the entry, now the exit. I made it. I could hear the voices again, wondering where I was. One of them seemed to know, but they were too late.
Suddenly the lights flickered and came on.
There I stood, in my chinos and argyle sweater, between the living room and the bedroom, teddy bear clutched to my heart. I faced our entire regime of dinner party guests. Wide eyes and stifled laughter faced me as well as a pitying and exasperated wife.
"As I was trying to explain, my husband is afraid of the dark." she huffed, shaking her head.