|the secret garden
||[Apr. 22nd, 2008|11:50 pm]
A Bitch-box Accompanied With Broken Thoughts.
Written on Saturday the 19th of April, 2008, after a day of too much sun and not enough flowers.
Look 'ma! No bra! wHo-ha!
Taken the night
I wrote this entry.
“How much longer can I lament?” I ask myself, pretending my words suspend in the hot air around me. All I can hear are my own thoughts, being drowned out by the usual clatter anyone in a neighborhood on a beautiful day might witness. Children are laughing, one cries in the distance, sprinklers are set at full throttle, the low rhythm of a decent bass system drones on further away, less than few cars passing by on a road that is not my own, and so on. I am Alexis, the lonely seer. Only today, of course.
Me prior 2 assault by ze sun.
Being the observer is much better than to be the observed. That is my personal opinion, anyway. I’m talking about reality in the flesh world. I do not mind the diary I keep here, which is a never-ending fountainhead filled with bitter sweet memories and what ever I felt like bitching about that day.
“And what the fuck have we here?” Again, I am asking myself questions aloud. A soap queen, for sure. Bravo, Alexis. Bravo. Here I have found a weed. A wicked little thing, peering at me as if to say, “And when you pull me out bitch, I will be back.” With a vengeance, I know all too fucking well. Yank! My anger is fleeting toward this thing that keeps coming back. Not in the same place, of course.
My lawn is a verdant one in comparison to those around her. She is small, along side the beloved area I fancy for a garden. Not much the cypress I crave. Or the fields of poppies I dream to behold [haha]! In my youth, our home possessed an enchanting grove; trees galore, their roots a happy maze beneath more adequate soil and thick, emerald-colored grass. My mother had the green thumb, as they say. I always loved flowers but swore to God [to my mother at the time] that I would never be caught dead in the dirt. So different from the girl I am today, but not totally true, as you should already know. I speak of taste.
“Love is reckless!” This is more a mumble than anything. I chase this statement down with a swig of Dr Pepper, which to my surprise has the same texture of warm wine. I’ve forgotten how long it’s been sitting there and now gage the time outside against my skin. It’s too sunny to tell but I already know: I have an unwanted tan line. So I go inside to survey the damage.
An older photo
I thought fit.
“Reckless.” Is all I can muster, while staring at my orange reflection in the mirror. Florescent lights are unforgiving, as usual. Asssss fucking usual. Anyway, I am powerless to this newfound glow, which after close inspection, I begin to like. I do not, however, go back outside without having painted myself with a thin layer of 15 proof. Given the season, it was all I had in stock.
“Chris!” My neighbor is outside smoking, as is the rule to not do so in his house. I have no more cigarettes and I am stranded. No car. No Josh. No bubbies. I’ve been sick, but I’ll go into that much later. So I tip-toe along my black mulch and land on his door-step. The first thing I eye is the nasty Sonoma in which he pollutes the air with. Not to mention his lungs. Do they not know how much they stink? Cheap cigarettes are cheap for a reason, my friends. Honestly now. Here comes my plea.
“S.O.S.!” I continue, playing the damsel in distress very well and for very stupid reason. He replies with wide eyes and seems speechless. I mean, there I stand, in a light-weight, white tube top and khaki skirt - too short for anywhere but there. This outfit suited the weather just fine, I thought. I never intended on showing off. I just wanted to garden without drenching in sweat, really. Eighty-five degrees and rising.
After I tell Chris of my predicament, and give him some cash out of my reserve, he departs for the PX. I am thrilled. This guy is no threat to any man. He is strange, as is his wife, and they are spoken of in the most ill of manners behind closed doors. I know that a lot of the rumors to be like most usually are: a load of steaming bullshit. A load probably as large, if not bigger, than the one being feasted upon by the fiendish wives and whiney folk around here in regard to me and my own.
The group of photos below, which include my beautiful sons, were taken in March.
While he is gone, I think of my boys and what they are doing. Today they have gone to the zoo. I am worrying about the heat. Are they hot? Do they miss me? Of course they miss me. I am mommy. The supreme being in their big, jade eyes! God, how I adore those faces, cookie sweet and smooth like silk... ever fresh like milk. The scent of a child, your own that is, never fades. It can nearly knock you on your ass with complete and utter awareness, to be in awe I guess you could say - or it can bring you the comfort that nothing else can. Depends.
Description on foto.
das my boi, Jak.
Something else clouds my mind. I have to allow it, otherwise I’ll die for not being with them. These intrusions are never subtle. The dreams. The passions. The business of love. MY business of love. I feel mocked, after watching Atonement, and I am not sure why. I don’t even want to think of that tragic tale. I stab the earth with my spade and gaze heavenward. The sun beams wash out my face and more dreamy visions eclipse my mind’s eye.
“Always lost. Loved, loving, and lonely. Five senses and five directions. They, I, we... own them all and yet they offer me... too much or... not much at all.” These thoughts parted my lips recklessly. And then, out of no where...
Chris is standing in front of me, asking if I am reciting poetry. Or angry poetry, as he put it. I reach out for my pack of reds, thank him with a sneer for a smile and blame the wretched weather for my rambling. He’s used to it, I’ve come to find out, as he merely shrugs, says you’re welcome, and disappears inside. I swear I heard his wife bitch him out for being out at the PX for too long, but love can never come without quarrel. LOVE!? There it is again...
Taken in the same week,
as second photo posted.
“I am a Pisces! Let the ocean devour me whole!” I am in the house again, and my scream is lost to the melody of The Beatles ‘I Want You’, which emits from my computer’s not so little set of speakers.
After listening to the entire song, twice, I fall onto the couch. A big, black leather thing. Silence. No music. Just me and the world beyond. I suddenly feel like I am cradling my own heart. So inwardly quiescent about this for so long. Perhaps this is what feeds my sickness, which by the way has been nothing short of a RA flare. Nothing major but... just enough.
I want to liberate my soul. Without fear. Have I not already done this, though? With my whole heart? Broken, bruised, and always on the mend? I am my mother’s child. Suddenly, I am submissive to a rekindled fire and I hesitate to snuff out it’s desirable flame. What an aim, I am thinking. A true human, I surely am. A woman at her weakest. Remembering the cup from which I became so very drunk with ecstasy. Atom-like, but without mercy.
... and they’re home!
after-thought[s]: forth paragraph, I say, "I always loved flowers but swore to God [to my mother at the time] that I would never be caught dead in the dirt." to which I shall add, in ultimate promise, and of course to take it to the absurd level that I always seem to climb with my statements... that, despite my love for the earth, I wish to be cremated.
First photo, which as I said was taken the night I wrote this entry, is, as you'll notice, not the best of quality. It's among a group of likewise photos, save for a couple of grateful exceptions. Few, actually. I took them to record my new sun-kissed bod. You know how I do. Heh. But yeah, that fucking tube-top I wore did nothing to protect my torso, as I haven't been able to wear a bra without ample irritation since. Not that I like wearing one anymore. Sometimes the situation or occasion calls for one, as a real lady knows. Anyway... the other photos vary from pretty damn recent, to one [I refer to as Miss Scarlet], which is from late, last summer.
A favorite near and far.
Taken last month.
Last, I think, I'll mention, now that I've noticed after reading this over... is that I never concluded my status with Chris and his family. I feel badly for having described him and his wife as strange, which they are, but not to any profound level that is no greater than my own. I mean, I am an odd bird, for fucking sure. They are much like us, or who we have become over the passing year and a half; keeping to ourselves, pride and true to family, and involving no one that is not blood in our activities. This is going to change once we move off base, where military folk do not reside in such large numbers. I cannot stress to you enough how twisted some of the couples on the base can be here. But don't let ME get it twisted, as there are a few cherished people who I have met here and will never, EVER forget................................. anyway, they keep to themselves as far as other neighbors go, but do have friends over occasionally and that is where we differ because we do not. But as I said before, we hope to change this because we know that not EVERYONE in the world is out to hurt our family. It's sad though, to live like that. I blame Josh for it, mostly. When he isn't there for me, my whole world is turned upside down because it's just me... and the kids. And he doesn't see us. He just sees what is currently taking his attention off of us and not giving a fuck. BUT FUCK!!!!!!!!!!! I will not get into that. He and I have been fighting off and on for the past three weeks over the most silly white boy bullshit. Alas, I REFUSE to deal with immature man children. And the sad thing is... there are so many of them.
So, let me rewind to where I should of never strayed from... the matter of our friendship with Chris and his wife. It's kind of utilitarian for both of us. If they are out of cigarettes the first person they hit up is us, and vice versa. I think I've had Josh borrow a cup of sugar once and they just gave us the whole bag as they'd switched to raw or some shit like that ~~LOL. They've been in our house twice since we've lived here [moved in Jan. 24th of 2007]. And they are two out of eight people from Josh's work who have been here, half of which did not even step foot in the house. So I hope that gives you an even better idea of how protective I am over the stability of MY house. :] In the end they've been okay friends. A few times we've had to tell them to quiet down because our children were trying to sleep and they were outside their window, drunk and acting drunk. Aside from that and some shit that does irritate me but I don't dare share for fear of another tangent, they is/was/are/can be/maybe are/act like good people.