Diederich's Writing: Es tut mir leid...

Sunday, May 4, 2008

Es tut mir leid...

Bailey is flying to Los Angeles soon for company meetings...I informed her that not only did the cat approach the porch today, it let me pull off one if its hideous hunks of fur. Not that I wanted to; gag. The poor creature. But if I'd of been using my head, I would have written the sign auf Deutsch--not only can it read, but is it bilingual?! This may become a running joke, as she thought I should now try leaving it some messages around the yard...

I think I may have to make yet another blog--for family items, as I am getting all jumbly again and this page is becoming more diary-like, instead of pathetiprofessional. New word for a pathetic attempt to write like I might know sumpthin.

I have a cop friend that called this afternoon wanting to know if I'd written anymore bizarre stories this year or if I had suffered any freaky experiences for 'new influences'. Unfortunately no. I mean fortunately no! Stalkerman moved (had to move) out of the neighborhood; messiah man hasn't been kneeling in my house; "Why, I should just write about the whacked-out woman YOU had last year", I told him. Then he tells me he met a new gal last week and she turned out to be a total nut-job. Can't wait to hear more about that!
I'm beginning to wonder...is that all that's out there? I know it isn't so; those of us that are mostly normal must have a teensy part of us that remains frozen in relationship fear...
Tired and sunburnt. Going to bed.

2 comments:

Dan Johnson said...: Pathetiprofessional? I'm right there with you but don't be so hard on yourself, your writing is is good and you know sumpthin (and you have great punktchooayshun, spelling and you use your upper case...awesome). Children of Bodom? I'm with you, one song like that is enough, I could never listen to a whole album of it. I think that's what hurt the music business... too many albums with too many songs and only one or two of them are any any good. Thank you iTunes, I can buy one or two songs of an album and leave the rest. I do like Alice in Chains but I know that "grating" feeling.

B. Diederich, there are a lot of nut jobs out there, I've gone out with a few of them. I really haven't dated anybody in 5 years, I got tired and couldn't do it anymore. I wasn't prepared for what happened next though (maybe it's because my eyes were finally opened) but I just stopped meeting anybody. I used to meet woman through baseball or friends or people trying to "set me up" (like that's ever worked) but all those avenues seemed exhausted (like me). Maybe as much as I think I'm open to it I could be frozen in relationship fear. I have quite a few female friends and sometimes I joke that I have to do all the "boyfriend work" without any of the "sweet stuff" haha. And while I'm on a roll, who are these people that always seem to have a new boy or girlfriend? Are they just settling? Does the spark of love dry up as we get older? I've dated and had girlfriends over the years/tears but I haven't been "in love" in almost twenty years... but it sure wasn't for lack of trying. Here's to hoping but I've heard that a little hope can be a dangerous thing...; May 5, 2008 at 8:27 AM
B. Diederich said...: Sometimes I wonder about the whole 'in love' thing because maybe I never really knew WHAT if felt like to be in love. Perhaps I was, but that was so long ago I've forgotten? Probably what I thought was love, or what I wanted to BE love. was simply good old-fashioned infatuation--if so, what a thrilling sorrowful ride.
I'd read something before that endorphins produced by 'infatuations' are like a fix, thus even though deep down you know better, the intense want and need for that person drives away all sensible reason. You're compelled to have more!
Given the fact that my first love?/infatuation? was so entrancing and so damn believable; well that's probably the reason that I just cannot believe a word that comes out of any body's mouth. No matter how truthful or sincere a guy seems, there is a qualm that resides within me that 'it's all just a big lie' or soon will be. (#1 pet peeve: Liars.)
I guess I've heard so much bull... that inside, I shoot the person down before they say a word, while outwardly I just smile and nod complacently...(reflecting on this: I don't think I lead people on but perhaps to them my politeness appears to be interest....)Wait. Sometimes it only takes a 1/2-friendly smile to encourage the WRONG person... ....beginning to ramble... brain melt.....; May 5, 2008 at 8:29 PM

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AGGIEVILLE BAR ENTOMOLOGY

My daughter fell in love with her boyfriend
over jewelry.
Not the amazingly brilliant diamond
or the classical high school ring.
She's still tickled to tell her story--
about the perfect college snobs
seated at the bar,
vying for that dreamy dude's attention.
She sat quietly
with those large brown eyes
in her muddy work jeans
and torn tee.
He came close, wiping a glass,
glancing at the bead about her throat--
his face split into a grin:
"Hemiptera?"
She grinned too...
"No, Coleoptera. I made it last night."
They discussed the art of making fine jewelry
and he fingered the necklace:
fishing line and tackle box paraphernalia.
The jealous ones didn't understand
the language of love,
not even its simplified version
of "dung beetle" tossed in their direction.
It aggravated them to ask;
then flounced out with noses in the air.
"You know...
a round ball of cow shit!"

CHOKING

I abhor a shirt with a collar.
I've an aversion to them;
can't wear them;
can't stand to feel them behind my neck.
I don't know if it’s the extra thickness-
a minute pressure
that rides on the skin too deep.
I find I cannot take it.

It's not that they're tight
like hands around your throat
or thumbs pressing on your windpipe;
even unbuttoned,
its still an unbearable weight.

Like that guy that rested his arm
across the back of my neck
just to 'say hi'.
It feels like that:
Unwanted.
Subversive.
Additional.

Unnecessary.

A tee shirt fits just fine--
there's no constraints;
whether loose or close
you don't have to make decisions.

Men wear them. But I prefer tees.
Precisional, perfectional dress shirts
just seem like undue grief.
It’s hard to talk to one of them
with their collars.
Taut buttoned,
impressing about their throats,
like some perfect picture.
Tight.
Confining.
They all make me choke.

GLOOM Oct 2007

I watched the moon.
I thought I watched the moon.

I was vaguely aware that it had risen and although I seemed mesmerized by its holy whiteness and stared unblinking at it's superior roundness it did not dawn on me for many hours that it's orb had varnished my body with a pallid glow, nor realized that it's indifferent brightness had sapped my soul and gradually crushed my size
to that
of a crumb
or less...

I am no one.
The moon knows this.

The moon observes my inadequacies and waits.
The moon does not care.
Human-like in its countenance the moon glows callous like all others.
I know this.

I am no one.
I am always no one.

(The beginning of a short story. Shall I continue with this depressing servitudal self-pity??? I think that sentence is in error!)

SHIIMMER and SPARKS

Once upon a time there lived in the deep wood a most beautiful child, with radiant pale skin, lovely pink rose petal lips, and hair long and sleek as a raven’s wing. Her eyes whispered dark as smoking coals and her disposition was so sweet and enthralling that even the smallest creature was immediately enraptured by her very look and gentle voice.

Shimmer, she was called, because although she lived very poorly, the animals and insects of the forests took it upon themselves to transform her meek garments into things of exquisite beauty. Her tiny white frocks were trimmed in gossamer laces, intricately woven, a gift from the forest spiders, and each gown gleamed and shone like glitter in the dappling sunlight, for every butterfly would swoop down and gently wipe his wing upon the cloth, leaving behind an everlasting sparkling gift. Shimmer, she was called, and she shimmered as she lit from flower to flower, playing and transforming her marvelous forest garden.

Now, deep within this woods, a quaint and lovely stone cottage had been occupied for many a year by Shimmer’s grandmother, a wizened white-haired old woman who took it upon herself to raise her infant granddaughter there and teach her all she knew of the ways of the forest. She was wise and nearly magical [mysterious/mystical] with her lore of plants and as Shimmer grew, flitting from one garden blossom to another, the grandmother was aware that her granddaughter too had inherited that special gift, and even more so. For not only was Shimmer gifted with plants, she could engage and tame [hear? understand?] the animals in a nearly magical fashion. [with her gentle touch and charming smile. ?]

Shimmer’s grandmother had labored nearly a lifetime around the mossy-thatched cottage, cajoling brambles of tremendous white roses to climb as high as the eaves. [clamber higher than the eaves]. Shimmer learned to trim and train their boughs too as she grew, but never did their thorny branches pierce her delicate skin. Luscious fruit trees filled the garden with ripening scent as sweet as honey and great bowers and clusters of vines and petals wove their way about other paths in the garden and in between the smoothly worn stepping stones; the pair nurtured beds of delicate lettuces, crisp vegetables, and many fragrant spices and herbs. But it was the gorgeously scented roses that were their favorite; every evening Shimmer would cut a single blossom to place within a bowl upon the hearth [mantle/old wooden table?] where its sweetness would fill the house and lull them to sleep amidst a gentle breeze.

Occupied with her little garden and beguiled by the beauty of nature, Shimmer passed nearly all the hours of her days [her waking hours?] outdoors happily completing the many tasks set out for her by her grandmother….plucking sticky ripening cherries and plums and rich berries from lowered branches, arranging jewel-toned flowers along the garden paths, digging into the dark rich loam to set forth great fat bulbs and coax delightful bouquets of blooms into fragrant displays; why, no one could be richer than they. Yet it was Shimmer’s skillful gardening that helped the grandmother produce what meager income they had—quite often a crone from the distant village would journey into the deep woods to purchase a small handful of one such healing herb or another, or a dried root, or to taste [sample] a tiny pot of fresh fruited jam or marmalade.

Such were the days that passed and as Shimmer grew more and more into a lovely young maid with alabaster skin and a delicate flushed cheek, so did the white roses begin to change…slowly at first, unnoticeable, until one day they perceived a faint pink hue had lit upon all the petals. [as subtle as…?]

It was then that the grandmother began to feel slight trepidation, a vague [stirring?] uneasiness that caused her to be sharper in tone and more watchful [hawk-eyed?] as the weeks passed by, and as the roses maintained their slight pink tinge, she called Shimmer into the cottage slightly before dusk now, sending her not quite as far a field when in search for a particular rare root or leaf. Whereas their evenings had previously consisted of an amusing animal story or occasional folklore tale, now the old woman hovered closer, gruffly mumbling warnings and parables [accounts] of a creature she called ‘man’.

Shimmer perceived that her grandmother’s worries had something to do with the odd white [oddly colored] roses and easing her mind, would nod her head in agreement that these creatures should be avoided, even though she knew not what they were…She listened carefully to the joyous singing of the birds and the bright humming insects and the tiny squeaks of the sweet grey mice and knew there was no danger about. She doted on her grandmother, soothing her anxious headaches with cool berry-scented water and honeyed teas and attributed the old woman’s tales to the older crones’ neighborly gossip.

However, despite the love Shimmer had for the chattering and songs of her dear forest friends there were times when she felt slightly apart, for although they chirped and twittered with her daily, she was not really like them at all…

Subjugation

Leroy Raugowitz was slapped hard across the cheek and chained to a bed when he was of the age of four.

This was a normal household routine and substantiated by the hunger, sarcasm, and gross ill will that comes to all bad boys that are born poor and undesired. All his life Leroy would remember his first meal at an all-night diner that served the finest fried chicken and smoothest mashed potatoes he had ever seen and then the night spent on a soft bed tucked between clean white sheets.

He would always remember the night he left his meager life as a child of chains, to a glorious two-day escapade of real food, fairy-tale freedom, on to a new unknown eternity of chance—one consisting of criticism and doom. It would be hard to determine which life was worst.

The midnight Leroy awoke in snowy sheets remained crisp in his mind forever—his legs were free to move about, unrestrained; he could stretch and wiggle and dig his toes into their starchiness. And with a belly full and taut, his eyes wide, he glanced about at cleanliness for the first time in his existence. A brief smile fluttered on his lips before he let the enveloping softness carry him back to sleep. It was heaven.

It didn’t last long.

For two days, ever since the nice men in blue uniforms with shiny gold buttons had taken pictures and broken through the heavy hasp, and the mustached man in the white coat had stroked his chin, peering into the black bag, peering at his raw ankle, and the matronly dark-haired women, Leda, methodically wrote notes with a sharpened pencil while shaking her head and staring about the room, well, Leroy got to see how a real boy lived.

For two days, he was treated like a real boy, in a real home, with a real life. It remained with him eternally.

He was scooped gently over the shoulder of one the blue-clad officers and placed in an automobile to be driven to a stoic, dull brown-brick building used for Official Purposes. He answered to what questions he was capable, then again placed in the automobile, where, after his chicken and mashed potato supper, he was served his first dessert. It was a magnificent creation; a piece of real cherry pie in a golden sugary crust and running with sweet red juices, topped with a scoop of ice cream. He saw this jewel pass before his widened eyes on its way to another customer, which made Leda nearly smile—she immediately called to the waitress, who brought one right over. Of course, he couldn’t finish it, which made him afraid, but it was apparent that his matronly caregiver was in a hurry and soon they were driving to a new location, a few meager cherries left drowning in a sea of pink.

He lived the life of what he determined must be ‘royalty’ for two days; his first experience being that of a warm bath; an immersion into a frothy warm mass of fragrant bubbles. Someone, a lavender-scented woman with short blond waves, bathed him, fawning over and delicately rubbing and rinsing him from head to toe. He was petted and dried and enveloped between layers of a thick creamy towel, so warm and soothing he nearly dozed.

He saw new clothing laid out on a dresser before him: light blue flannel pajamas with clouds and red bi-planes, new pants and a tiny striped tee, all complete with stickered prices still attached. While his ankle was delicately re-bandaged, he ogled the clothing and smiled to himself again: these would be the first new clothes he had ever had.

The pajamas were divine.

(More later. Much Later.)

Diederich's Writing

Sunday, May 4, 2008

Es tut mir leid...

2 comments:

Art, Trash, and My Own Personal Wasteland: Check out all my sites for random art!

AGGIEVILLE BAR ENTOMOLOGY

Jooble Read my Blog, thus this link!

Sad

My Favorite Drawing

CHOKING

GLOOM Oct 2007

Rats.

Blog Archive

About Me

Torpedo Tire Bomb w Architeuthis

SHIIMMER and SPARKS

Not really sure what to call this drawing...

Subjugation

Displaced Cosmonaut

2 drawings hanging on my wall