In Which I Move…

My husband lost his job and our friend wrecked our car in the same day, pretty much at the same time. We had been discussing moving back to Albuquerque anyway so we figured we’d just pack up the car (after it was repaired), store what we could, get rid of the rest and just go. So about a week and a half after we decided to move, we were heading out. It was liberating to just get up and go, leaving the unnecessary junk behind. Even comforting, in a way.

I moved a lot as a child, I was always quite proud of my “worldliness” and would recite our moves with enthusiasm whenever the subject came up. (Born in Arkansas, moved to Texas, moved to Connecticut, back to Texas, Alabama, Tennessee, Indiana, back to Tennessee, back to Indiana, Minnesota, back to Indiana, Kentucky, New Mexico, back to Kentucky, back to New Mexico, back to Indiana, back to New Mexico, back to Indiana, and now, once more, back to New Mexico.) Those are just the states I’ve moved between, the cities and towns are blurs in my memory, we went through them so fast rarely staying in one place, one house, for more than a year. (With 2 exceptions.) I remember being called out of school (3rd, or 4th, grade?) during the middle of the day and when I got to the car it was loaded up and my mom and my brother were waiting, ready to go. Where? I had no idea, but I was excited. School was boring, spontaneously taking off for an unknown destination? That was where I belonged, on the road.

So now, Albuquerque. We’re staying in a spare bedroom trying to get things worked out so we can get our own place, our own space, and it’s wearing on me. It hasn’t even been a week! Everything is fine. There’s nothing I have to complain about, but I have issues. I was going to elaborate but I just keep arguing with myself about how they’re “nonissues” and things could be worse, and I know that, thanks self! But I can’t help the pent up/ trapped/ suffocating feelings, even if they aren’t rational.

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In Which I Post This Before I Change My Mind…

I hate apologizing and tend to avoid doing so. As a kid I was forced to apologize when I didn’t feel that I did anything wrong. I was forced to accept an apology when I was still upset and accepting the apology meant accepting whatever had been done or said and “letting it go” when I wasn’t ready to.

When I’m upset I tend to say things I don’t mean. Terrible things, deliberate things meant to hurt because I can be a vindictive bitch. If I’m hurt I want to hurt the people who hurt me. If I’m miserable, I want them to be miserable too.  I’m not as bad now as I was when I was a mess of puberty and emotions but occasionally I lose it and I use my gift with words to hurt people I care about.

Often there are outside forces at play. Bed-bug induced insomnia, hormones, feeling valued relationships threatened by things beyond my control… The problem I find when I try to apologize is that every reason that contributed to my freak-out is genuine, to me, but I worry it will sound like an excuse. (Another thing drilled into me during childhood. What’s the difference between a “reason” and an “excuse”? If it’s what your parents/teachers/friends want to hear, If THEY think it’s a viable reason, or not.)

So, I accept the consequences of my words and I try to be more careful of what I say in the future. I can’t take back the things I’ve said and, to be honest, I’m so lost in the turmoil of my emotions that I don’t even recall what I’ve said, just hours later, but words have power. Words can wound, especially when flung with vindictive deliberation, but words can also heal.

Is “I’m sorry.” a healing phrase? A balm that will make everything better? I don’t think so, I’ve heard too many hollow apologies spoken just so the person can move past it without dealing with the consequences of their actions, of their words. “I said “I’m sorry.” what more do you want?” But saying you’re sorry and being sorry are completely different.

For what it’s worth, I am sorry. I just don’t often say so. I don’t do empty apologies, but having grown up with so many I find the words “I’m sorry.” just sound superficial and hollow. I’m not sorry, I’m remorseful.
How do you say that to someone when “sorry” isn’t enough?

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In Which I Bitch About Senate Bill 101 (as I understand it.)

From the Indianapolis Star: “Senate Bill 101 would prohibit state or local governments from substantially burdening a person’s ability to exercise their religion — unless the government can show that it has a compelling interest and that the action is the least-restrictive means of achieving that interest.”

First Amendment: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

People are all ready free to “exercise” their religion, what they really want is the “right” to impede other people’s rights.

There is a fear that this bill will allow businesses, people, to openly discriminate against the LGTB communities and I keep seeing people using the wedding cake thing as an example.

If you’re a baker and a gay couple comes to you for a wedding cake, what the fuck do you care that they’re gay? The only thing that should matter is that they are a couple…just a COUPLE who want to pay you MONEY to make a fucking cake.

It’s none of your business what they’re using the cake for. I could come in and say “I want a wedding cake.” Am I getting married?  No. What do I plan to do with it? It’s none of your business. Your business is A business and a business is not a place for your to “exercise” your religion. A business is not a place for you to discriminate. If they have the fucking money then you make the fucking cake. I don’t understand why this is so difficult a concept for people to understand.

You don’t have to agree with people.
People don’t have to agree with you.

But we do NOT have the right to punish each other for our differences.

And if you do think that then I think you should go fuck yourself.

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My Mother’s Revenge

One of my flash stories published awhile ago. Read for free at Carnage Conservatory!

The Carnage Conservatory

mother

“He was a terrible husband,” my mother said, “but he makes a wonderful zombie!” There must have been something of our uncertainty showing on our faces because she rushed to add, “Don’t worry children he is very much the same.” She turned her attention back toward the husk that had been my father. “Mindless, save for the pursuit of his own selfish needs.” That day my father became more like a family pet. My older brother was responsible for feeding him; the stench of raw meat was ever present in our house. Mother’s favorite admonishment became, “Behave! Or I’ll feed you to your father!” and we never doubted she would.
It was three years before I realized how crazy she was. I just turned eleven and stayed up late reading my new comic books when I heard a muffled scream. Concerned for my mother, and still devoted to her as…

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In Which I Consider Why My Blogging Sucks…(or, “In Which I Don’t Say Much Of Anything”)

I don’t have anything to say.

I don’t have anything of interest to say.

I don’t have anything of interest (to anyone else) to say.

I’m not very good at talking to myself and my imaginary friends prefer that I keep our conversations private.

I save my good writing for my stories. Yep, that’s what I’m going with.

Well, this is going to be a short blog post.

But, here. Have the worst line from one of my random “Word Wars” writing things.

“The sleeping figure was sleeping.”

Maybe next time I’ll give you the best line! If I’ve written it by then.

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Weird Review: Journals of Horror: Found Fiction, Edited by Terry M. West

Unspeakable Gibberer

23124134Title: Journals of Horror: Found Fiction

Editor: Terry M. West

Publisher: Pleasant Storm Entertainment, Inc.

Number of Pages: 297

Format: Print (Electronic)

Rating: 3 out of 5 stars aligned

Sating that appetite for the weird while supplementing the idea of found footage, Terry M. West and Pleasant Strom Entertainment, Inc. have manifested from dark vaults, Journals of Horror: Found Fiction. 29 uncomforting tales of delusion and terror that will have you locking your doors, checking your phone settings and finding your journal so you can chronicle the onset of madness that may inevitably take hold. 29 authors who were fortunate enough to be released from their own straightjackets to pen some disturbing literature, instead of screaming their tales or spelling them out in missives with their medication. Oh, but enough with the Crypt Keeper treatment, lets open up this dark tome.

Anything from sensationalized pulp, to eloquent horror will be found…

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In Which I Write A Poem of Questionable Quality. (Also, it’s sad.)

Have I mourned enough to fill this void with tears?
I haven’t cried much so I don’t think so.
Have I honored your memory like you’d want me to?
I’ve stopped thinking, so no.
Did I acknowledge the anniversary of your death?
I’ve blocked all thoughts of you so I don’t think so.
Have I continued my work to make you proud?
The words won’t flow, so no.
I can’t write. (I try.)
Writing opens wounds I’d rather keep closed.
I can’t cry. (I don’t try.)
I need to keep it closed.
I can’t indulge in sorrow, that’s a door I’d rather keep closed.
(If I don’t knock there’s still a chance you’ll answer, as long as the door stays closed.)
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