Category Archives: Odes

My “Such a Dope” Poem

There’s a place inside of me where all the answers dwell.  

A place untouched by reasoned thought, in lieu of this mind of Mel.

It clarifies simplicity and sets the record straight.  That I am my own maker, it is I who can create.

To quell the froth of babble in my head that is on top, and listen to the beat of reason from the fizz of my soda pop.

Everything so simple, made hard to bear with fear.  Fear of thine own uncertainty, I drench these thoughts with beer.

I turn off the fizz and lay awake.  

Thoughts arise I cannot shake.  

Drama and fiction juice up my drive.  

I stew in the remnants of all I contrive.

I must work, I must rub.  Another old man with chub.  I set goals, answer calls, buy socks at shopping malls.  I’m okay, I still breathe – I stay afloat on my knee’s.  I beg you to pardon my

old baggy jeans.

I get up, I go out

Into town I loll about.  

Squawking and squabbling like a dunderhead clout.  

I chip away what’s most dear, my soul inside with the answers so clear.

I chisel away, no time to chastise.  The last ounce escapes, leaving me with big goofy doll eyes.

It is gone, the last shimmering wisp.  A Gust of wind taken it up and set it adrift.

 Now I am free to a life of certainty.  I can control all fears with actions derived

from the mundane human interference of controlling the tides.

Go to school, go to work

Massage the next jerk

Go home, wash the sheets

Listen to how serenely my heart does NOT leap

I lay in bed so dead

Stare at the tv screen

No new thought in my head

No need for beer when life is so stable

No need for questions as long as my body is able

To get up another day, wash the sheets, dry my hair

Done all unblinking, done all without care

I’m back in my bed

Emptiness abounds

I wonder what’s gone,

Then I hear a rapping, a tapping of sounds.

Coming from my window, I get up

Lift the blinds

Outside I see it, my soul beckons, it shines

“I need this after all, I can’t deny she’s not here.  She stands quietly gazing, this beauty of light without fear.”

I take her up in my arms and swallow her whole.  She squirms in my stomach –

it’s hard to digest,

my soul.

I keep her in place, letting her out while I write.  I repress her during most of the day and during the night.  I condense and compress, keeping her squished good and tight

into a mighty ball of fury, but she does not fight.

It’s been months and it’s been days to densen and contract, she grows heavy and sits as a pit wanting me to extract.

“Calm down in there, your day will soon come.  Stop wiggling so much, you weigh a ton.”

She flattens my lungs, crushes my heart

Something starts piercing through all my vital parts.

My spleen gets punctured, my stomach rup-tured

“Why did I swallow you again?  You’re more of a curse than my zen.”

My soul stirs and awakens – her fizz fuzzing my nose, “You suffered enough, can’t you see?  I’m all that you were and will EVER be.  You kept me here so long in your womb, you nurtured me with creative knowing but this incubator is really a tomb!  I am your prize for at the end and for the start.  Now push me out of your damned-up hymen, I am you – your polished star, I’m your diamond.”

“But how do I do it?  Won’t it hurt to try?  I never gave birth.  I don’t want to cry.”

“But that’s just what you’re doing while keeping me here.  You cry out in pain but your only reason is vain.  You choose to weaken, to play out your fears – to live by circumstance AND consume beers.” 

It’s late at night as I lay here fighting sleep.  Seven massages tomorrow steal my soul to weep.  It’s almost done, this Groupon uncharted.  I lost count of redeems, reason for my soul

departed.

My wavy scoliosis back, bloodshot eyes – like on crack.  Frayed work attire,

shoe’s that are mired.

I lay here and blink what little is left

Of my golden diamond light that I can mirror back.

I bequeath these last words 

Words of great hope

Why did I sell 606 massages?  I am such a dope.

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Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
by Dr. Seuss

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You’re on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

You’ll look up and down streets. Look ’em over with care.
About some you will say, “I don’t choose to go there.”
With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,
you’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street.

And you may not find any
you’ll want to go down.
In that case, of course,
you’ll head straight out of town.

It’s opener there
in the wide open air.

Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen,
don’t worry. Don’t stew.
Just go right along.
You’ll start happening too.

OH!
THE PLACES YOU’LL GO!

You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights.

You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed.
You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you’ll be the best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don’t
Because, sometimes, you won’t.

I’m sorry to say so
but, sadly, it’s true
and Hang-ups
can happen to you.

You can get all hung up
in a prickle-ly perch.
And your gang will fly on.
You’ll be left in a Lurch.

You’ll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you’ll be in a Slump.

And when you’re in a Slump,
you’re not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself
is not easily done.

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked.
A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?

And IF you go in, should you turn left or right…
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

You can get so confused
that you’ll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place…

…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

NO!
That’s not for you!

Somehow you’ll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You’ll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

With banner flip-flapping,
once more you’ll ride high!
Ready for anything under the sky.
Ready because you’re that kind of a guy!

Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. there are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame! You’ll be famous as famous can be,
with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don’t.
Because, sometimes, they won’t.

I’m afraid that some times
you’ll play lonely games too.
Games you can’t win
’cause you’ll play against you.

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you’ll be quite a lot.

And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance
you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike
and I know you’ll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.

You’ll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You’ll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life’s
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)

KID, YOU’LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!

So…
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea,
you’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So…get on your way!

My old substitute teacher, Mr. Thomas, knew Dr. Seuss.  They went to school together at Dartmouth and he said that Seuss carried around a wooden staff that he carved all of his funning looking cartoon characters on before they were famous.

I can picture the young creative Seuss as a college student strutting his stuff with his carved wooden staff in hand.  It paints an enchanted picture.  A freshly mowed field, shiny polished shoe’s, big white smile in springtime and Seuss humming tunes straight from the parody of everyday living.

Gotta love Seuss.

Mr. Thomas was super old, super Irish and just about the most adorable man you could ever possibly meet.  He was a character straight out of Tolkien.  Living a happy peaceful life in a big luxurious tree stump with other little hobbits.  No, kidding.  But the guy was truly magical (and tiny).

For Mr. Thomas to have known Seuss personally, makes perfect sense to me.  It’s so funny how a simple little man from high school can unwittingly add a tiny pinch of sugar that sweetens an otherwise ordinary life into something slightly more extraordinary.  Simply by being himself and being my substitute teacher for a handful of times.

I love you Mr. Thomas!  I love you Dr. Seuss!

Dr. Seuss adds his sugar simply by pouring it into his magical poetry for the world to become a better place.

I want to be brilliant someday.  Wouldn’t that be something?

I really want to write a post about creativity and how to unlock it.  I feel I’m so close to understanding how it’s done, but I never fully understand anything until I write about it.

Alas it must wait.  I have 9 days of clients left.  9 days of massaging non-stop.  A client canceled today, so I have this hour free.  Well, it’s no longer an hour, more like 20 minutes left.

I’m tired.  I need to breathe.  I stayed up late last night watching YouTube video’s of the Burning Man in Nevada.  My buddy from the Colombia retreat asked me to go.  And let me just tell you, hole-lee-shit.  It looks amazing.  Absolutely freak-tastic amazing.  I’m signing myself up, renting a car, driving across the country and popping a tent.  Honestly I’m not sure what I’m more excited for, the Burning Man or 7 weeks in Spain.

My life is starting.  Who I am is becoming….something.

Okay, need to publish and zone for five minutes before my next client gets here.  I feel stupid today.

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A Dream Within A Dream

Dream (comics)

Dream (comics) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s 3am and I’m reading poems on the internet.  I didn’t even attempt sleep.  If I were high right now, I would think I’m out of my damn mind for staying up this late for no reason.

I would be saying to myself over and over, “It doesn’t make any sense.  No sense at all.  I’m confounded that I’m writing these very words to you at this very moment.  How can this be?  Why?”

I’m starting to get into poetry.  I love and hate it.  I have to siphon out the trash before I find the treasure, and there’s a lot of trash.

But I gotta say that when treasure hits, WOW.  I mean seriously, wow.  I’m reading the poem, reflecting on it, being subjective and yet at the same time envisioning what the poet must have been feeling while writing it.  The poem drugs my brain – seriously feeling like I been drugged.  It’s like saying “Ah haa yes! I get it!”  But it’s so much more than that.

Or it can just be that it’s 3am.

Anyway, here’s the poem that did this to me:

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow–
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand–
How few! Yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

-Edger Allen Poe

 I mean wow, come on now.  Do you feel it?  The pain, the anguish, the illusion, the inability to let go?  I know I’m taking this poem to places where I can relate to it, but I see no other interpretation for it.  It’s like, yeah, that’s life man.  You got it, you really fucking got it.

Poe is the bro fo’ sho’ yo

His shit is shellacked 

it glow

While I weep

Oh while I weep!

For the loss of

tonights sleep

The grains in my palm

Just 4 or five

mean

Nothing to no one

And yet they arrive

in my palm

So subtle and small

feeling their worth by their graininess 

Barely nothing at all

Do they exist merely for me?

In this moment of time

compared to eternity?

No, this one moment,

with them in my hand

I return to the ocean,

And me,

The land

I have no idea what I just wrote…

Okay, it really is 3am., well, no.  It’s 3:14.  My eyes are completely blood shot.  It was snowing all day – I was homebound all day.  The plow truck got stuck in front of my house.

It’s not going to stop until tomorrow.  Esmeralda the Escort is outside blanketed over looking like a cozy little igloo.  Slowly shrinking as the ground rises.  I can’t recall ever seeing anything like it.

Basically what I got from the poem is this:

Our dreams are as real as those little granules of sand.  They mean nothing, and all just pretend.  They only mean something if they mean something to you.  Nothing is stopping them from returning to the ocean, only you can stop it, but why?  And should you?  They mean so little after all…And nothing is real.  It all gets washed away in the end.

 

I just flossed my teeth

For an hour

Out of my gums

Sprouts a flower

Needing and weeding

Despite the bleeding

What am I saying?

I don’t know

Over the mountain and thru the woods

It’s grandmothers house we go

Yep, definitely bed time.

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“If -“

I really like this poem.  It hits home with me.  It’s so important to me, that I’m sticking it here in my blog so I never forget it.  I should work on memorizing it.  I wish I read this at the beginning of last year, it would have made everything a bit easier.  I should keep a copy of it with me for the Camino.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling

Honestly, I can’t stress enough how everything he says is exactly what I learned this past year.  It’s amazing, really.  Every sentence resonates with my own truth.  I need to start reading more poetry.  It gives me strength to keep me on the right path.  Seriously, awesome.

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Down With The Sickness

Through the dungeons cavernous gates and past the prickly tree’s

Down into the depths of darkness into my sinus cavity’s

There awaits a sound, a splutter from organs yet besieged.

My knights in shiny cytoplasm get ready for a sneeze.

;

I’m at the mucus stage of my sickness. This is a good thing from what I hear, but not a good thing for my clients. It’s not relaxing to get a massage from someone whose nose drips on them like Chinese water torture. But leave it to this girl to find a viable solution!

I’m not going to tell you my viable solution, you’ll only judge me and find me even more unsanitary than I already make myself out to be.

Why do people call napkins sanitary when they are the most unsanitary part of your undergarments?

It feel like little green germ monsters are poking at my mucus membranes with their javelins and shooting flaming arrows right up into the deepest parts of my sinuses. Why else would it burn up there if not for flaming arrows being shot in? My next client will be here any minute.

Okay, she’s done. I just texted Amy my newest and most awesome idea yet – to be a certified hot air balloon pilot!

Okay Amy shot down my balloon idea. Whatever dude.

I am now at Amy’s house. It’s my third or fourth beer and I’ve been fed children’s tylenol to keep my fever down. Shit works.

I forgot what I was going to write. Amy is freaking distracting as hell, and dateline. Amy and Dateline are equally distracting.

;

;

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Yay six hours of blogging! Aren’t you excited to see what spews out of me?

I am such a weirdo – huge in fact.  I’m sitting in work waiting for my first client of the day to arrive, and after her, I’m not booked again until

So-called “Venus de Milo” (Aphrodite from Melo...

So-called “Venus de Milo” (Aphrodite from Melos), detail of the bust showing the difference of surface between the two arm sections: right one smooth; left one rough with a mortice. Parian marble, ca. 130-100 BC? Found in Melos in 1820. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

6pm which leaves me with 6 whole hours of me time.  And I’m actually happy over this!

I’m a weirdo in the way that I NEVER get bored.  Not ever.  I always find something to do.  I don’t know the feeling of boredom.  No, that’s not true, church is boring, school work is boring when the subject doesn’t interest me, people can be boring.  But when left to my own devices – it’s heaven!

Bored people to me, live in a box world.  They are in a box and can’t escape without the help of others.  They feel sealed in, like prisoners.  I’m a dreamer.  It’s very hard to keep a dreamer inside a box.

I base every day around fun…

My client just left.  She stayed and talked my ear off for a good 45 minutes after her massage ended.  I can’t handle people like that.  I feel bad for the lady, I really do, but she’s one of those needy types whose energy just pulls and pulls.  I feel completely drained.  I’m a spirited lass, rather pleasant to be around, but I can’t handle people like her.  Poor lady.  She’s going from one job interview to the next without any luck.  It’s because of her personality.  She sounds a bit wacky.

I don’t understand people.  If they don’t get what they want, why can’t they change themselves?  If something about them’s not working, change it!

She needs to not act like a weirdo.  That’s a really hard thing to change if you don’t have the ability to see yourself as others see you.  It’s a hard thing for a lot of people, not knowing themselves.  It’s like being tone deaf, or trying to write a song, but having it sound like shit to everyone.

I’m starting to think that creativity stems from self-awareness.  Think about it, to dance beautifully, you have to be aware of what you’re doing and what you look like. To talk affluently, you have to know yourself enough to hear your own words. You have to be aware in order to invent and create.  To create art, artists always have to erase and fix their shit to better their skills – constantly ripping down old constructs and building anew.  It’s harrowing and humbling, but what you get in return is a crystalline beauty of that which is pure conscious knowing.

When artists are satisfied with themselves and their work, progress stops and they stop learning.  That’s why the best of the best end up being depressed crazies.

Shit, I talk a lot of smack.

I’ve been writing diligently for over 15 years now and it truthfully hurts my heart whenever I read entries from at least two years ago.  Those entries are humiliating!  Writing a blog is humiliating, not just any blog, but a blog like this one here is degrading.  I’m constantly ripping down my old out-dated shitty wiring.  I’m jaded, damaged and broken, but I’m actively and intently polishing myself up.

At least I hope.

So what was I saying?

Oh right, I try to make everyday revolve around fun.  How do I do that?  It’s easy!  I love to sleep, so there’s always that.  Just laying there doing nothing – not having to talk to people or use my brain, my arms and eyes don’t have to work.  Oh how I love sleep.

Little Bo Peep

Laid down to sleep

Having no desire in counting her sheep

She laid there so tranquil

Composed and serene

Waking and dreaming

She was somewhere between

Time passed by slowly

Deliberate and wholly

Until her tummy woke her up

She wanted ravioli

Mmmm ravioli…..

So yeah, sleep is fun.  But beyond sleep lurks something much bigger.  Something uglier and greater than I can ever be.  Something I can never fully understand until years later after having time to settle.

While I was massaging my last client, all I could think about was:  “I can blog for six hours!  Six whole hours!”

To me my blog is like the Red Ryder 200 shot carbine action range model air rifle with a compass and this thing that tells time built right in the stock.

Yeah thats right, I said it.  Can you imagine having a love for something that powerful and having it available to you every single day for the rest of your life?  That’s what my blog is to me.  It has everything already built into it.  I get curiously cautious before attempting to discuss exactly what’s on my mind.  It’s like I have to walk around circling my blog a few times, poking it with a stick to see if it’s alive.

The cursor patiently blinks at me.  Awaiting it’s next order.

Blip

Blip

Blip

Like a heartbeat.  A heartbeat waiting to be told the outcome of something devastating, or spectacular – sometimes devastatingly spectacular.

Blip

Blip

Blip

What can I tell you cursor?  You’re my curse all right.   You’re the necessary ten pound shit that hurts so good coming out.  Not that I ever taken a ten pound shit before, I imagine it’s like having a baby come out your anus (hopefully not squirming or blue).

To create something from nothing is poetry.  I evolve to solve.  Honesty is modesty.  Authenticity is simplicity, synchronicity.

My blog puts me in the Hoia-baciu forest.  Time stands still when I’m here.  The world grows rigid, old, and cold while I’m still here soft, warm, pliable and protected.  The world can nail me to a cross, but as long as my story is told, it can never be for nothing.  My blog brings me meaning.  It’s everything to me.

Eh hem (clear my throat), so yeah, I like to write.  I may not be the best or most entertaining, but I’m slowly gaining awareness.  Chiseling away at my hidden Venus de Milo.  Unfortunately, the only time I ever really felt my awesomeness was under the influence of Aya.

“Wow I’m awesome!  I’m like a god or something!”

That’s actually more fortunate than unfortunate…

My mom made me turkey soup.

Jealous?

I feel like eating turkey soup than taking a nap.  Then I need  to read Rich Dad Poor Dad.  Amy would get so mad at me if she knew I was blogging and napping for six hours straight instead of setting up an LLC for my business.  She cracks me up.  She tell’s me all this stuff I should be doing, but then apologizes for being abrasive.

Amy – “I won’t read your blog anymore, that way if you want to blog about my ass, you won’t feel bad.”

Amy my dear, your ass is truly amazing, really really.

I was over her house the other day and she says to me all excitedly;

Amy – “You know what I have that’s really good?”

Me – “No, what?”

Amy – “Raisin Bran.”

Me – “Really?  Raisin Bran?  Are you seriously excited over Raisin Bran?  Isn’t that for old people?”

It’s one of my greatest pleasures making fun of her.

Me – “I’m putting that one in my blog.  Pfff, Raisin Bran….”

The only thing that could complete me right now is if I were sitting in Cheshire coffee with a latte in my hand, my electronic cigarette (fully charged of course), and Amy doing what ever it is that Amy does, sitting next to me.  That’s all I need.

No, scratch that.  You know what I want?  I want the biggest house in Cheshire – No not a house, a mansion.  And I want it all to myself.  I want to throw huge parties that never end, no one will want to leave.  I want to sit inside, staring out of my big bay window, looking down into the chaos of my backyard.  People everywhere having the most amazing time, while I sit alone quietly and watch in amusement from behind an old antique desk, writing one masterpiece after the other.

Yes, wouldn’t that be something…

Damn, it’s only 2:52.  I still have another 3 hours to go until my next client gets here.  I’m going to make my turkey soup, be right back.

Okay I’m back and the soup is eaten.  I ate it all up.

You know what would be cool?  To start a viral memetic infection.  Yes, that’s right.  It’s when people have blind faith and unswerving belief towards an idea, a belief or a religion.  It’s what happens to a person when being brainwashed.  It can cause brother fighting brother, sister fighting sister – it’s complete unwillingness to hear the other person out – complete lack of compassion, awareness and creativity.  But the fun doesn’t stop there!  The great thing about it is, it’s contagious!  It’s contagious because 90% of the world is made up of idiots.

It’s hilarious to me, seriously hilarious.  Thousands of people end up dead each year, but it’s funny….too soon?

So, I’m just going to go ahead and create my very own viral memetic infection.  A plague upon the net – a viral video, a catchy poem, it’s going to be Charlie biting my finger.  I’ll instill zest and fervor in my followers.

But what belief can I create?  Hmm…..That’s the question.

Shit, I think I bit off too much to chew for this one.  I can’t think of a damn thing.

In the words of Lennon, Jai Guru deva om, glory to the shining remover of darkness.  AKA me, Melanie the rapist monkey.

Oh Blogosphere

Oh blogosphere

I write to everyone and nobody hears

Believe I am great

Come listen

Come learn

To a girl that’s a Shirley

And not a Laverne 

(Laverne’s a dope)

Omg I have to pee.

Jeez, why do I do that to myself?  Hold it till the last minute?

Okay, I really have to settle down and read Rich Dad Poor Dad so I can acquire my mansion.  I shouldn’t write for the next few days, yes I know, it pains me too!  but I really have a lot of shit to do, like sponsor a kid from Guatamala, read about real estate investment, and pluck my cholla eyebrows.

Wow they’re gross.  It’s going to take a while.

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Oh Groupon..

Down a dark deserted hallway

There’s a small windowless room

Where Melanie the Masseuse lies encased in her tomb

Century’s passed since she last uttered a word

Era’s gone by and she has not stirred

She lies there dreaming of a life that once was

Memories are sharp

Digging around with their claws

Being cryogenically frozen in space and time

Her lips and skin blue

Hair matted down like glue

She lays there awake

Her mind never off

She see’s only the darkness behind

an old linen cloth 

The hallway outside brightens and buzzes

The flourescent lights turning on

Her ears perk up

She hushes

“What’s going on?  What’s happening out there?”

Rolling down her cheek is a lonesome frightful tear.

Someone rambles in

her chambers where she lies within

“Hello?  Is someone there?”

Her chin

Quiverin’

“It’s just me your next client.  Do not be alarmed, I’m compliant.

Your clients await you, they’re filing in by the masses.

So get up my dear friend, 

Get up and massage 400 asses.”

I’m waiting for my next client.  It’s 11:09.  She’s late.  Damn.  I hate calling people.  I’ll wait until 11:15, than I’ll call her.

I wrote that ode in the 20 minutes I’ve been sitting here waiting.

Tick tock

Tick tock

Sonuva…

It’s a dark rainy day here on October 12th

It’s payday from Groupon

Now aint that just swell – th

I like getting money instead of waiting in the dark

Being frozen in time, eating up minutes like a shark

Ahhh What am I saying?

Shit where is this lady.

It’s not a lady, it’s a man and I got his voice mail.  This is not good.  I need to be fully booked everyday 6 days a week cause you know why?  You want to know why?  Because I’m pretty much screwed in the ass otherwise.

I’m not just massaging 400 asses – it’s a lot more than that.  A shit ton more.

Groupon wanted to sell a package deal – buy 3 massages for $100.  I get $17.50 a massage plus tip, so I said sure sounds great.

Besides, most people will opt for the one hour.  Buying 3 sessions to get a rub down by someone you don’t know is highly unlikely.  Well, Groupon took it upon themselves to “sell out” of the 60 and 90 minute massage options.  How can you sell out of massages?

I found this out from two of my clients.

“Really?  I had no idea they did that.  How would I sell out of massages?”

So last night I looked online and saw how many of the package deals I sold.  I want to cry.  I want to cry, weep, wither and die.  I want to stick Groupon with a sharp pointy stick in their eye.

I sold 200 of the buy 3 deal.  200!  200 X 3 = well, you do the math.  I have to give 800 massages within the next 5 months.  Break that down day by day that’s 5 clients a day if I work 7 days a week.  5 clients a day, and then I’m getting repeat full priced clients on top of that.

I’m fuuuuuuucked.  Fucked.  Hence the poem.  I am so freaking out right now.  I’m calling Groupon, screw it.  I’m calling them right now.

Damn I’m on hold.  It’s 11:39.  Let’s see how long it takes for them to pick up.

I feel like I’m going to shit my pants.

I desperately need a desk in here.  My back doesn’t hurt after a day a massaging, it only hurts when I type in my blog.  I’m hunched over with the Mac in my lap.  Ouch.  A tv tray is no desk.  It’s not tall enough.

11:42

What song is this?  Is it supposed to keep me calm?  It’s not working.

11:48.  I just got off the phone with them.   The private sale in now turned off – thank the lord Jesus.  I only had 24 more to sell before reaching 400, but 24 x 3 = Well, you do the math.  I’m bad at it.

I’ll be okay.  Everything will be okay.  I’m making money, this is a good thing.  It’s what I wanted.  And selling on Groupon requires a huge price in advertising, so I’ll be able to deduct my losses as a business expense – I won’t have to pay much at all for taxes next year.

Instead of getting an accountant to deal with everything, I’m learning how to do it all myself.  I studied the different options, weighed the pro’s and con’s and opted for a sole proprietorship.  It’s versatile and also allows for health insurance deductions.   I won’t have to pay a dime in health insurance.  The massage association offers a plan to insured practitioners, so that’s on my to-do list.

Think about it, why pay an accountant when I can take that money and donate it to charity instead and in the process teach myself the in’s and out’s of the tax world.

I bought Turbo Tax software for sole proprietorship from Amazon for $8.  Laziness is the bane of all human existence.  I’m trying to do the opposite.

Damn I need a desk.  Shit yo.

I’m going to read a little and lay on my back on my Spoonk mat.

spoonk mat

Click on the image if you want one.

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Melanie’s late night ramblings

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie Ala Mode

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie Ala Mode (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I never fit in well with women gatherings. Last week I went to a pampered chef party / purse party / birthday party all in one at Kristie’s house. It was me and a bunch of her girlfriends. They talked about cookware, purses, recipes, buying stuff. I talked to the only guy there – a 15-year-old boy named Gabe, Kristie’s son. He seemed more fresh and awake than the others.

I never fit in with a group of girls. I especially don’t fit in without alcohol. I sit there with a hazy mist over my eyes wondering how I got there, and what I should be doing now that I’m there.

Give me something to grab onto! I don’t care about buying matching tote bags or a frying pan. I don’t care about your grandma’s recipe for rhubarb pie. I’ll cook it, eat it and nothings left but empty plates. Why don’t you make the pie for me instead of telling me an unrealized grouping of ingredients? I’m not going to group them together. I have only me to cook for, and I’m not worth the trouble.

People seem flat. Talking about the same conventional stuff. None of it really matters. They meld together into one big clump having no discernible traits. Sure there might be a fun drunk one, but she’s a commonplace drunk. Fitting in accordingly. The only way to see any of them individually would be to take a rubber scraper bought from Pampered Chef and scrape one woman away from the clump. I would scrape them all apart, like making cookies on an oiled sheet pan, separating each one to see what kind of cookie they are. They can’t possibly all be the same cookie.

Attempting to interact with a group discussing dish towels tells me nothing and leaves me dry.

My world consists only of experiences, people and learning. I’m not attached to anything material. If my tv blows out, I would say “the hell with it” and move on. If my socks don’t match, I say fuck it.

Women in group discussions such as this, communicate in parallel lines. They run side by side, never to intersect. What’s the point?

Not all women are like this. But most of them are. Especially in large groups led by Kristie.

I love Kristie, I really do. But even separated from the pack, she still runs parallel. What is it she lacks that very few other people have?

I love men because they’re similar to me. They get me. I love beer, going to dive bars not caring how I look or how the person I’m talking to looks. I love playing pool, riding motorcycles and not being committed to anyone or anything. I’m like a man in many ways. I hate talking about how I feel, or sharing my emotions because nothing ever comes of it – NOTHING. And I’m left with a bunch of dirty plates and a splattered, tattered old recipe for grouping together torment.

I love my male counterparts. I love how I can hop on the back of Dave’s bike, pop in my earbuds and tune everything out. Guys have a great ability to tune everything out that isn’t necessary to the moment. That’s why they make such good mechanics, engineers and mathematicians – they leave out the bullshit.

I can be like one of the women. I can slide right in with them, get excited over wedding dresses and cute baby clothes – I can tell myself to do anything and do it, but it’s selling out. It’s cheap and lazy and the cowards way, the defeatist’s way out.

Relinquishing yourself to religion and relying solely on God to tell you what to do is spiritually lazy. Just like relinquishing your individuality and relying solely on others to tell you who you are and what is socially acceptable and normal, is lazy. I never cared about being normal anyway.

There are two certainties in life that should unite us with individuality and love. One certainty is that each one of us, in a sliver of a moment, was the youngest person on the planet. Cold, shivering, wet and blue – we were born with the very first unique double helix sequence of DNA strands that make us individually unmatched by any other who ever existed before us and will EVER exist for all of eternity. We should embrace that we are all uncommon and solitary . The other certainty is that we are all going to die. The people living on earth at this very moment will cease to be in 80 years give or take. That means in 80 years there will be an entirely new population inhabiting the earth. And it’s not science fiction, it’s fact.

We are here at the same time. We will die at the same time. Everything in-between is either eaten away by hate, leaving nothing but empty broken dishes, or filled with a warm, lovingly made rhubarb pie from grandma. People make no sense to me. Wouldn’t they pick the pie? I see pie all around, but very few are handing out slices. People are idiots.

I drink to cope with the idiots. I drink to lose myself only to reset myself. Everything resets the next day. Too tired to do anything but sleep, letting myself sleep guilt-free. Like a newborn babe – not a care in the world. Nothing to do but recover and grow my strength back until the idiots rain down on me again, pulling the booze closer to my lips.

Boom boom POW them chickens be jacken my style, think I’ll head to the bar and get drunk for a while.

I need to chew valerian root and soak my tampon in vodka.

Man – “Excuse me ma’am but are you drunk?”

Me – “No but my vagina is. You can take it home with you and it won’t remember a thing tomorrow.”

I went to a Renaissance fair the other day. I went to see a tarot reader who said I was going into a major depression anywhere from now until six months from now. It was the moon card that came up – not a good one to draw. He also said that next year around May I’m going to have to take a lions leap into the unknown, or I can choose to stay comfortable where I am now. We shall see. I’ve always been a big supporter of comfort. Comfort always supported me.

I’m not depressed. I just want to be left alone in a warm, hazy place. I want solitude – I crave it. But I always find myself out in the world, drinking it in, running from the emptiness, draining my energy until I have no choice but to be left alone to sleep it off.

Anyone can get married, anyone can have babies, anyone can get a job that swallows time and pays so you can buy shit and buy shit to put your shit in, but not everyone can do what I do. Not everyone can stay up till 2:30AM writing random thoughts into a little nook in the world. Or can they? Yes, anyone could I ‘spose. Okay, nevermind then.

Anyone can do the things they are “supposedly” meant to do. And then they celebrate, pat themselves on their backs thinking they’re better than everyone else who still haven’t “made” it. I’ve never been jealous of anybody – I never met a person I’d rather be. We are all equal, so I have just as good a chance as all those other suckers out there waking up at 6AM, brushing their teeth and going to a job that never changes. It holds them and keeps them in place. I have no place, now that’s brave.

I pamper my courage with cobo shots and jaeger rocks.

Rolling home at 5AM

with a beer tucked in my hand,

crushed empties topple the driveway,

in a sad display.

I clamber out of my car,

luminous like a quasar.

I stumble, I swagger,

my belly getting fatter.

It’s two-thousand and twelve,

my sanity shelved.

I got nothing to lose,

my dominations in booze.

That’s why they call me a barfly.

Now slice me off a piece of your

Grandma’s rhubarb pie.

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Melanie’s Old English beer poem! Well, not really old english, but I tried

Pale Ale

I still haven’t made up with my girlfriends whom forsaken me, so I made up this beer poem. Now I must take my leave and get hammered. Cheerio.

A lithe woebegone girl drifted into a pub

She slumped down on a stool

Her cold hands did she rub

The barman bit his brazen cue

Asked the downtrodden lady

“What can I git you?”

“I’ll have my usual, Andy, old friend.

Something to dampen my heart, something for it to mend.”

Andy smiled beneath beard of scruff,

“Coming up, Mel. We’ve got the right stuff.”

Andy returns holding an ale of good blessing

Her eyes henceforth, a look of acquiescing

She raised the pint to her lips she must press

Tilted her head back, her mouth did confess

The bubbly of golden hue dons a mane of frothy tresses

One sip dost she take to numb her sodden senses

She doth not weep nor wail but sigh,

Places a hand on her one buxom thigh

“I downed this here beer and now’s left is naught. Why don’t ye be a good lad and get me another draught.”

“Beer here’s not dearth, I hath many more to quench thine thirst.”

He slides a new brew over,

Not too soon she will no

longer be sober

Who looks out those wary eyes

Whence her soul, “Whence comest thou lies?”

She peered inside her glass so barren

Empty as the tides of Charon

“Andy, my boy, my glass hath nary.

Now be a good lad and fill her up – beer me.”

drinking a pitcher of beerBarfly

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The Drunk Tree

There once lived a happy tree.  It’s fruit tasted like apple candy.  Everyone wanted a piece of this tree.  They plucked its fruit and filled their pockets greedily.  Until there was no more fruit to take.  Just barren bark and branches to break.  The face of the tree remained without hate.  It sat unflinching, watching the hounds salivate.

Having no fruit, nothing more to take, the grabbing, grasping hounds had their appetites to slake.  They found a way to fix the face of the tree, carving in their initials like they owned thee.  Her sap weeping down, her wood splintering, the hounds slaked their thirst and stopped their whimpering.

The tree needed nothing, just the sun to be kind.  It liked watching her branches rise up and intertwine.  Having nothing to give, the hounds trailing off, she was left alone with nothing but moss.  She shielded herself off in the shadows of her leaves, safe from the gluttonous hands of thieves.

Sometimes the hounds came sniveling by, smacking their chops and eating flower tops.  They would find nothing and leave, wiping their sniffling noses on their sleeves.

The tree was with her rightful brood.  A brotherhood of elms, it was beer that they brewed.

They welcomed her in, opened limbs to their heart.  They called her a “chip off the old bark.”  She was bruised and maimed, taking all of the blame, lied to and used, but the fermented ale diffused the abused.  She was now back in, with good company.  No longer feeling excluded, the elms wanted her there with them, included.

With her fruit growing back, feeling no lack, she felt she could achieve most anything.  And give back whatever the sun may bring.

weeping willow

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