Neptune’s Bed
Creative writing, prose on Neptune, the Neptunian quality of dreams, ruler of the seas; piscean effect on every day life.
Disillusion
Written prose on family, nostalgia, polaroid moments, getting real, what never was, what didn’t come.
Autumn shades
You’re dissolving, an invisible flame burns the pages quietly in the stillness of your study. Ashen skies glow softly, cradling the twilight sun; soft autumn light drizzles between branches, beyond the sliding window of your routine. You’re are fading, while scribbling the usual, at your desk. My body only wants a moment, this very one, no past or future, no history to tell, no projections for tomorrow. In this way I will disappear too, and though you’ll remember I was dear to you, though you might keep the tenderness, the vague tune that was me, you’ll find we cannot precisely repeat the tones anymore. And somehow, the song does live. We have been, back when the game seemed so real, and I made myself believe the tattered reality, sewn together by familial duties, but no, nothing comes now, I’ve got no product to show, I never could stitch like that, like you do. This is my new direction, it breaks off under that archway of trees, at the fork where we’re heading. All the while you believe you can still hear the discards of autumn crunching under our steps. Now you must keep me as that song you can’t really remember. It keeps lingering on the tip of your tongue, between a memory and certainty. Soft as the pale January light, distant as a busy butterfly, ashen as the last of the shrivelled pages, ashes wafting in the study, before final disintegration. Know I tried my best, I played the role just for you.
Crying Inside/ Familiy Allergies
I heard about it, you’re crying inside. You won’t let it out so your body does it for you, brings forth the symptoms, and all of us bystanders seem unable recognize the obvious. Your sneezes, the watery eyes from seasonal hay fever, pollens give you a reason, you are permitted to cry. Tests say its allergy to mites; gluten got a high probability, but no one knows for sure and probably never will. The specialist assures the shots may do it, for a while at least. But can you quiet the reality of a sobbing bout that’s been building up steadily, for ages? Here goes again, the stuffy nose, red as a cherry popsicle, as if you’d been crying for days, decades. No, you won’t breathe tonight unless you take that pill, and push back the crippled grief, stuck inside the delicate tear of your long gone infancy. Tears travel in waves of past tenses, and stopped up noses. You carry others loss up to the present, their need of truer love, heartache, the feeling of a virus passing, scathed skin under a touch, an earache developing. Now, take a capsule a day, like most people do on this grieving planet. Or, you could cry for a week. I’ll wait here, won’t ask why. That would be a fine opening of the dam, main gates grinding apart, entire families weeping, up to the present, and soon maybe, allergy free.
The Amber Pearl
She lay alone again, thought she might cease to be, in the disarray of the unsupported mattress, the humid night, her newness to love. But someone was there, even greater than herself, a pearl, sleeping in a cold river, reflecting amber light back into her head. She knew she’d lost, and back then believed it was everything. But one night, when summer began to dwindle, she realized she remained, above herself, as varnish sometimes does, even over worn out wood. Next day she declared she’d be up soon, tomorrow in fact, back in that game, even if no one else followed her way. Didn’t doubt her wandering footsteps, the coming of mornings, autumn and winter. The young woman thought that was all of it, when life pinned her down hard, just beside the heart, but she never left her. Summer nights were turning amber. A graceful hand had held on gently, just below the river’s surface, stars looking down upon it. And when it opened, the amber pearl kept steady, her space in the current so young and fleeting. She knows, always, how not to get carried astray.
Soothe
CHAPTER 5 ¿Who Will help Sonia? “Sonia is such a chubba”, said Dany, Rhaya’s middle daughter, “like it was already after twelve, and we were in bed, and she said —I need more ice cream, let’s go downstairs— and I was like ¡no way! You already had one whole pint of cookie dough. I was like LOL” Dany smiled fondly. She could see it. Sonia had a problem with food, but found it endearing nonetheless. “But its not like anyone can can stop her”, she added, exiting the kitchen, carrying a tall glass of cool lemonade in her hand, ready for bed. Dany and her two other sisters had just been at Sonia’s for a sleepover. It had become tradition with the cousins, the PJ Homey Party. Sonia would write up a list of items for each of them to contribute, junk food being the main protagonist. Lots of it. But Rhaya never bought more than one item per daughter. A large bag of basic potato chips, nothing fancy. A pint of a very basic flavor of ice cream, such as vanilla or strawberry; once in a while cookies and cream or maybe rocky road. Her daughters needn’t take more, Sonia kept a considerable stash at home. She always charmed her Mom into getting her all kinds of goodies for that specific night: cheddar puffs, assorted gummies, bite size chocolate candies, ice cream, the works. A couple of PJ Homey Parties had been enough for Rhaya to learn. Sonia couldn’t be trusted around junk food. Dany and Nicole, the youngest daughter, didn’t touch anything edible for more than 24 hours after their first sleepover at Sonia’s. They got sick at the sight of food. The girls weren’t used to gorging. They’d been imbued with a clear idea. Some pleasures had natural limits set for their own good. It was almost a question of charm, good manners, practicing the art of limitation. Not Sonia though, she fully belonged to the age of consumerism, food as entertainment and a coping mechanism for restlessness. Years before, when the Rhaya’s daughters began kindergarten, she noticed adults insisted on using the allure of candy for every occasion. Her own past had lacked clear limits in that department. Before Loud Thought appeared, she had been free to gorge down cookies and pudding pops to her hearts content, at Grandma Claire’s. Pigging out on junk was seen as normal, a given that came along with summer vacation and being a grandchild. Not her mom or any other adult ever said “That’s enough!” or “You’ll make yourself sick”; “You’ve already eaten your share” or “No eating between meals and dirtying up the kitchen again” or “You’re washing each and every thing you dirty up!” Laxity had given her a potbelly. Odious lingering baby fat made her insecure. A preteen Rhaya had wanted to look older so bad. She had yearned for defined cheekbones, a sharp jaw, like the more beautiful girls at school, the ones who had that special allure that captured desire. By the middle of ninth grade she became utterly exhausted. Loud Thought demanded such extreme discipline (clear broths to begin every lunch; zero calorie Jello was the only allowed dessert) she was beyond overwhelm. Also, a fresh infatuation arose at school. A young man of dark hair with a reddish sheen. His framed eyes exuded confidence, when he gazed at the groups of school girls passing by. His hands were undeniably masculine, his dark hair slightly messy, like a poet’s. It got very difficult to hear Loud Thought’s instructions. Her gut became an emotional disaster zone. The same bland, fatless foods, could not appease anxiety. Her belly seemed to acquire a life of its own. It needed soothing, pampering, reassurance that she could survive unrequited love, because it was very clear. He called to lovely Lory every time she walked by. He has spotted her (and who wouldn’t). Cute lanky, gray eyed Lory, with her hair in a bob. Rhaya sunk her teeth into vanilla twinkies while doing homework, sugar coated doughnuts, generous scoops of vanilla ice cream drizzled with false chocolate syrup. There was no other way. Her belly could not conceive any more bitterness from greens and other fibrous vegetables. It was enough that he didn’t know of her existence. She needed intensity to explode in her mouth, invade her fully, to the brim. Saltiness collided into sweet; crunch gave into soft and moist; heaviness settled in the emptiness inside. It was the only way not to go crazy, in a world with him in it, and her unrelenting self awareness. In this lonely place called first love, hours passed slowly. Rhaya fantasized. Him, calling out of the blue. Someone gave him her phone number. He had noticed her, she was special, they should see each other, ¿how about a movie? Then Lory’s long legs cut in, carrying her forth like a model. The bob bounced, glistening with liveliness. “She’s so lucky. Damnit, I look like a stump beside Lory. ¡And then this!” she clasped a chunk of cheek. “It’s fatter than yesterday, I’m sure of it”. Rhaya told herself. “Not good, no good bone structure” commented Loud Thought. “He’s right, of course, I‘m coursed” she pronounced, in the privacy of her bedroom. Tears rolled down quietly. They did almost every day in those weeks. It took her a while to accept that love was unfair, just as body shapes were. By the time Rhaya was out of Jr. high and off to high school, she was still quite thin, though not as bony as before. She still kept up with aerobics, jazzercise, the new low impact workouts, every Monday and Saturday. Still drank diet soda and canned shakes as meal substitutes. *** On Christmas of her second year in high school, while visiting Grandma Henrrieta , uncle Art gifted Rhaya with an Italian, hand made journal. He’d just returned from Europe and, as usual, brought with him all sorts of exotic
Bodies and Gurus continued
Rhaya got on with the program a week later. The lanky exercise lady’s book never returned to its place in the shelf, she kept it close by, on her nightstand. Now she had all the tools needed to keep herself in check, using the book as reference material. An extreme urge pressed on her to do it flawlessly, with total concentration. All other aspects of her life would have to wait, like cleaning her room; talking to Gaby, her best friend; thinking about ways to talk to the cute, next door neighbor. Everyday activities gradually merged to a blur in the background. There was still school though. The young lady had to get homework done every afternoon, the grind she had come to hate, with capital letters. She had painting class on Thursdays, after school, the only outside activity she didn’t loathe. Rhaya loved the aroma of paint at her teacher’s studio; the large sheets of vellum paper they used for tracing; fooling around with acrylics, thinner and oils. Academics on the other hand were a bottomless pit of compost. School didn’t agree with her. Real life was somewhere else, a place apart inside, and now even more, since her mission was set and clear. To change her body. She continually stopped at the rectangular mirror of her dressing table, and observed the bump of her lower abdomen. “Must be flat” would say Loud Thought ” is not usual”. He did had a peculiar way of speaking, like a strict, sour instructor of some kind. I could see his shadow as if in a snowy mist. “¿Not usual? you mean unusual…” Rhaya told it. “Look to others” said the Loud Thought. “¿Other tummys?” She asked, wanting further clarification, but Loud Thought did’t add to. It was pretty obvious to me. Rhaya was that kind of person anyway. The type to observe and listen to stuff that no one payed much attention to. Like how the teacher kept repeating a certain phrase, while the students manage to ignore completely, every single day. How some girls at school managed to look perfectly neat and groomed, while others seemed unable to achieve the look. The fact that some of them talked nonstop, chirping amongst themselves, laughing at nothing, never leaving any space for an awkward silence. Stuff like that. So, Rhaya took up noticing other people’s abdomens. That kept her focused, and practice made her realise Loud Thought was spot on, he knew what he was talking about. Her species of potbelly turned out to be not so common as Rhaya had believed. Almost all the girls at school had smooth abdomens, except for those with fuller figures that Loud Thought stated as being “not right”. Even some of the plumper young ladies at the all-girls school had smoother bellies, their skirts rested flatter on that area. By Christmas recital, when students were getting ready to go onstage, Rhaya’s heart and mind were far away. She dodged boredom by noticing bodies and all their peculiar differences. Loud Thought was a good spotter also, he pitched in. “Look her body. Is thick, strong, no good for graceful woman” “Look there, she well balance, face also”. “Yeah” thought Rhaya. “She’s so lucky” she told herself “she’ll never have to worry, ¡about anything!” Lucky girls would go on with her lives, unconcerned if the clothes they liked fit them well or not. They’d be able to wear the jeans. Rhaya dreamed of getting into the high waisted, fitted style. Already she had trouble in that department, even before Loud Thought got on her case. She couldn’t use tucked shirts because they made her feel chunky. My assigned girl never wore layered clothes, even though she longed to wear a nice preppy shirt under a standard V-neck sweater, very Academia. “Oh no way, no way” she would tell herself in front of the fitting room mirror, and that was the end of it. But Loud Thought flowed more words to her mind, once he took a hold. “I look so chubby, so not feminine at all” she told herself again and again. But it didn’t take long before Rhaya began loosing pounds, it was noticeable in her whole body. The Potbelly also got smaller but fought steadfastly to stay put. But it wasn’t just that anymore. Now she knew more about flaws in bodies. Hers had many. “My top should be lighter than my bottom.” she thought, while hunting for some visible progress in her reflection on the mirror. It naturally tended to be more towards the heavy side, though not as extreme as Grandma Henrietta’s and Great Grandma Mariah, who, by the way, never had a problem with their thick waists. But The Exercise Lady insisted it could be done. She transformed her own barrel like body to swan grace. Loud Thought got particularly insistent on the necessity of having slender arms. “No, no, too thick” it said one day, as Rhaya looked at her figure, reflected on the elevator mirror, while going up to the dentist’s office. “Yeah, I think I know where I got them from. Moms’ arms look sort of like sausages, and all that side of the family too” she rationalized in silence. As Rhaya got thiner, she felt hungry and cold most of the time. Low fat and multi grain didn’t seem to create that much energy. She believed those sensations would fade away after getting used to the regime, but they didn’t, it got harder and harder. “Its silly to be so hungry” she told herself. “Im having lots of veggies, fruits, beans and rice. It’s supposed to fill you up”. Loud Thought didn’t comment, but I was sure he heard that, he was keeping a close eye on her attitude. “I must be tough, I must be strong” Rhaya repeated during the day. Heavy exercise was also part her mission of transformation. Aerobics class every day, as her exercise Guru recommended. One hour of Gina’s class, the toughest
Bodies and Gurus
Chapter 4 from ¿Who Will Help Sonia? Rhaya began her mission to eliminate the potbelly. A new impulse drove her away from daydreaming about her next-door neighbour, the beautiful boy with honey coloured hair and large hands. A fresh drive towards research had emerged. She’d find a strategy to loose the pot belly nuisance. Her parents library was sure to have a book that could provide a sure shot solution. Of not so, ¿why did they keep so many different books? There were two heavy book cases, almost full, from floor to ceiling. She found three blue hard covers on Executive Fitness. She pulled out the first of the trilogy, and flipped the pages informally, just to see what jumped out. She glanced at the subject index for a while, and then decided to get comfortable. It was summer anyway, ¿what better time to take the time? Rhaya settled down on her Dads revolving executive chair, just by the large windowpanes, looking to the fresh cut lawn. She began with the first f the Executive Fitness series. The reader was presented with all kinds of tables, so many it soon got overwhelming. Calories vs. portions, ounces vs. pieces, age vs. inches, minutes vs. miles run, activity vs. calories burned, it was all in there, no doubt about it. Rhaya was perplexed. ¿How could scientists get so precise with those things, so many numbers, so many quantities. “I guess they have ways to find all that out” she thought. The teenager skimmed through all three volumes during the rest of the week. She made sure to fold the top corner of various pages, where the tables she was sure to need were located, like the one on snacks under 100 calories, or the one with allowed portions for carbs, like bread and pasta. The fats section depressed her a bit, she loved butter and bacon so, so very much. In truth, Rhaya had never thought about calories before. She had heard them mentioned plenty though. T.V. ads seemed obsessed with them, but the reason had been unclear. Like most all of life’s peculiar details, calories seemed to repeat themselves again and again, as if wanting to be noticed, one way or the other. Now a day, all foods had the low calorie version. ¿Was it then to be inferred these things in excess could cause problems, such as potbellies, or worse? Also, people in the ads jumped around in shiny leotards, drinking sparkling soda under the Sun, zipping up fashion jeans easily, free of worry, so calories probably were a thing. She then turned to a heavier book, an edition by a lanky exercise lady in shiny tights, big hair, and a colorful headband. The author stood proud on the glistening cover-paper. She read the blurb on the back. The lanky lady had been on some kind of important journey, that later turned out to be her life’s mission, or so she stated. Rhaya was intrigued, the book referred to the author as an Exercise Guru. Glancing through the pages it soon became clear the Guru was telling a story, a very familiar one. She too became aware of her unacceptable potbelly, and plenty of other body parts too, like her roundish face, and her heavy thighs. Each part had been clinically scrutinized, each a separate entity. There were even pictures to prove the points. There she was, in black and white, a plump teenager in awkward shorts that fit too tight. A close up of her acne prone baby face. As she read, Rhaya touched her cheeks. “I may be on the plump side, my jaw is not so defined” —she thought to herself. —At that time in my life I was nothing but a fat klutz, and nobody was giving me the tools I needed to transform myself —read Rhaya. “Harsh!” —she said out loud “Truth” —replied Loud Thought. It felt like too much, but agreement forced its way in her head. Then more pictures of the lady Guru exercising, lifting weights, and eating huge bowls of cooked pasta with no fat added and bowls of tossed salads. “Seems dumb, its nerdy” —she mumbled to herself. Never had she imagined finding stuff like that in a book. Lady Guru had pictures of herself weighing food portions, as if a major life event. In one particular image, she was eating a bowl full of steamed rice inside a bathtub. “She does correct” said the Loud Thought. “Well, I guess” —Rhaya agreed, but not in earnest. Yet a part of her needed to please the thought’s voice. It had an omnipresent authority about it. Later in the book, after establishing her faulty condition, the Guru went on to condemn excessive eating of fats and sugary drinks as the culprits. She emphasised the low calorie approach, the trimming of fat from almost anything, including milk, and doing lots of aerobicize. She further proved the point in the after pictures. Long, lean, arms and legs, and the very evident protuberances on both sides of her pelvis. She wore dancer’s leg warmers over shimmery tights, and cute belts around her minute waist. No bra apparently, as she didn’t have much of a chest left. Rhaya was taken aback by the degree of transformation. “She looks like a whole different person” —the girl thought to herself. Lady Guru smiled a lot in the after pictures, she gave off intense, sexy gazes, at different angles, like a movie star. “She really did it, she turned into somebody else, a different girl” —Rhaya observed in her head. “So, ¿what you wait for?” —posed the Loud Thought.
Dual
He’s hellish haven That won’t stay still And I know damn well Not one to balance. His lunacy The sane one Discerns the complexities While the other side retorts in haste Laconic disregard of our bond. Soon, Rudeness spills from his sly grimace In the hopes I won’t be able to tell If he hides Or if it’s just those damaged goods. He’s karmic A jailer A jail Too potent for my taste bud But I’m addicted nonetheless To the ride that goes nowhere. I’ll tell him on it and And he’ll have to admit While his twin self says no In supposed secrecy. He’s accompanied By one I condemn For having thrown the towel too soon For not finding the meaning A sloth in thought A poor seeker Not of my clan. But how it heals when tidal heat Exudes energy that boils perpetual In his natural hormonal body Could this lover side save the other? Can the evil twin sustain a clear direction A ball of fire in his hands Stable purpose worth my admiration? Can his flame burn in good rhythm Or will it go out in a pathetic flare?
Unanswered
Who are they? And where from? Old lovers, friends, sons, fathers, brothers Those who helped, guided, worried, cared Same ones who left, changed me for, walked away from, grew to hate My lost men. Who are they? Jitters arise for their attention I long for their excitement Mourning when they find another better Satisfied when they laugh it out Inevitably expecting A reaction. Why them? Why me? Who were we until now? Old flames in transformation Merge and part And we haven’t stopped yet Something reaches Lights our wick Impregnates our feeling Since long ago. They invade routine and fantasy alike I make believe they listen That they are here Drawn to me and I to them While they’re at work Away And I ask again Who were we until now? But no one’s answering.