Diederich's Writing: The Three Graces

Saturday, June 27, 2009

The Three Graces

Bear with me… Here I am, feeling that naughty snide personality surfacing again—but hey, I have come to the realization that I have not blogged much about the WOMEN in this area. Now, to use the term ‘woman’, well—I’m just not sure it’s appropriate—in fact I sometimes even think of them as a ‘paradox’ of womanhood, a misnomer—or some type of ‘oxymoron’ of womanhood—MINUS THE ‘Y’!

Here I am, bored, standing around talking to Hippy Bill, Cowboy B-not D, and Vinny-my-new-boyfriend. (I call him ‘my boyfriend’—that’s another blog; he reminds me so much of an old friend called ‘The Blaze’ from Long Island [not really a boyfriend either] that I almost think they are the same person!) We have been snorting with irreverent laughter, chuckling/eye-watering, non-stop giggling and Vinny has just finished licking my forearm (sorry, you HAD to be thereto understand the humor of arm-licking by a near-total, boy-friend stranger, but what the hell!)

It is hard to maintain a straight face with our joking around, but now we all just observed (shame on us) “RUBY” once again:

LITHIUM RUBY. 67 yrs. Ruby truly believes that she has boyfriends, but they do not believe this themselves. Ruby is a day late and a dollar short. Ruby has defunct time-span socialization. She may be ‘on drugs’. A space-cadet. Ruby perceives men-that-she-likes have relationships with her (even though some are married—she even invites them AND their wives over), and if she finds you sitting with them drinking coffee, her walk into the gas station slugs down like a slow-motion film. Snailpace, then Standstill. It takes many seconds of staring to see.that. Brenda. Is. Sitting. By. Gerry. Ron.is.sitting. across. From.brenda. del.is. sitting.by.ron. … Ruby likes Ron. Ruby likes Del. Finally—comprehension! Ruby now shoots dagger-eyes at Brenda and Gerry, because we obviously must be putting the moves on her imaginary boyfriends and there is no place for her to sit. Ruby now takes more shuffling steps toward the Pepsi machine. It.takes.several.seconds.to.find.a.cup. It.takes.several.seconds.to.find.a.lid. It.takes.severa.seconds.to.find.a.straw.It.takes.several.seconds.to.find.the.pop.machine.features.and it.takes.several.minutes.to.decide.which.kind.

When Ruby pulled up to the outside window, I whispered to Bill that her bra was hanging out all over the place; like her tank top was on SIDEWAYS—“Don’t look!” He says that she always drools on the countertop, but I have never seen that facial phenomenon—only the vacuous, then glaring suspicious eyes—“DROOL? No WAY!”

Bill resists the urge to tell Ruby to rearrange her tank top for better coverage (“I don’t want to see THAT!”); normally he is open to open cleavage views. She looks completely disheveled, like she’d put the moves on one of her ‘men’ in a back alley or something. Ruby finally finds enough money to pay for her pop and leaves—she looks at each coin for 5 seconds apiece, I swear!

Back to us bored Wamegoans: The awesome new chiro-doctor has told me this morning to “do nothing below the belly-button”. I am sure you can imagine the conversation that ensued… more uncontrollable giggling. Perverts.

ANGEL of The Three-Ringed Circus: I’d been thinking of “The Bearded Lady” earlier today, so I must add this now. Teg and Bail will know who I mean! Angel is a fairly young gal—around my kid’s age, but twice their size. When she walks in the door, men of all ages automatically (and subconsciously) grasp their chins or lower jaws. I have seen this experience more than once and believe me; it’s extremely hard to wipe the grin off the corners of one’s mouth while observing the blue-collar class in distress.

They are male. They are mesmerized. They are speechless. They are…………….scared.

Downright frightened.

Angel has a beard thicker than theirs. They have even whispered this in awe as they stroke their own whiskers. “My God! Is that a girl?” Yes. Yes it is. And her facial hair is at least an inch long today.

Angel has 2 special brothers and a VERY SCARY MOM. When I picked my kids up from The Kindergarten Wall many years ago, I was terrified enough to cross the street to wait. Oh, what a Blessing to our community, this family! After the daily ear-splitting scream/cuss/slap show, we all breathlessly hugged our own tiny sane children and hustled them home to safety. Shudder.

IM NOT LISA; MY NAME IS _____, or, Truly _____: Unfortunately, I must bring up my ‘oxymoron minus the y word’ once again. I’M NOT LISA has just pulled up to the pump, causing Hippy Bill to perform eye roll groans. Oh God. I was a nonbeliever until I’ve observed this with my own 2 eyes, but I’M NOT LISA is the epitome of clumsiness. A true Bull-in-the-China-Shop. PLUS Lithium! I kid you not! We have 2, 2, 2 females that so obviously take some kind of mind/time altering/time-warp-funk prescription candy they should probably be on a sci-fi movie.

I’M NOT LISA sometimes stuffs all sorts of candy bars into her purse, oblivious that everyone is watching and when confronted, her confusion is an act worthy of an Oscar. She really doesn’t know what she’s doing. She spills. She drips. She stumbles. She speaks in tongues. She argues with unknown entities. Again, she spills. Is she drunk?? Today she has opened her car door and all of her change has rolled underneath. Sadly, it is a real site to see her picking up enough to get $5.00 worth for gas.

Once inside, she has filled her giant cup with ice. It crashed to the floor. She always drops EVERYTHING! At least there was no pop in the cup today and kind soul that I am, I could NOT bring myself to help her chase her ice cubes all over the tile. Why not? Because she doesn’t wear UNDERWEAR, that’s WHY NOT! IM NOT LISA is a big lady. Quite large. She manages to find the thinnest of spaghetti straps and the shortest of terry-cloth shorts MINUS appropriate underclothing, and, frankly, I did NOT want views of her woo-hoo nor her taa-taa’s hanging out all over the place if I ingratiated myself to help. But I finally did. I felt badly.

IM NOT LISA has so kindly moved to Oztown to ‘help’ with her young relatives—Alas, she is NO help. Sadly and embarrassingly, THEY help her. Sadly and embarrassingly, I decide to help IM NOT LISA pick up part of her ice cubes, post the “CAUTION: WET FLOOR” sign, and wipe the slick spots with a towel. Why?

It seems somewhat ominous to denigrate women when I am ONE MYSELF.

Ah well.

I will burn in hell for writing this blog.

And I’ve only just begun….

3 comments:

Dan Johnson said...: Speechless..; July 2, 2009 at 6:49 AM
Alaska-womom said...: The graphics were so lovely, a stark contrast to t few of the "ladies" you described. I use the term lady loosely, no, maybe that is a title earned.
I know what you mean, whale tale and BB & B hanging out,I want to shout, "Put that away sistr, you shame the rest of us!"
Some wommin want to be fashionable, too bad they have no clue about haveng a bit of class.
Anyway, that is just me--; July 29, 2009 at 11:11 PM
Alaska-womom said...: Just stopping by to visit--waiting for your next post----What's up?; August 13, 2009 at 9:14 AM

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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

Saturday, June 27, 2009

The Three Graces

3 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