The A's of Kristen
Apples and Ants
As a child I use to attend a daycare, but truly is was merely the house of my best friend who's mother was an official baby sitter of sorts. In the back yard, near the wire fence and damp sandbox with rotting wood and bright red buckets- sheltering a play house was a small apple tree; a tire swing swinging from a bare branch. It was never large, even in my tiniest of stages. One could climb the play house by opening the door, being careful not to fall through the rotting roof and stand almost as high as the tree.
The apples were dwarfed, never red and prime like one finds in the grocery store. In fact, they were usually red and green, spotted brown and thoroughly squishy. They weren't ones you would take a bite of- but were surely editable. We use to pick them, and chuck them at each other, creating an even more delicious bruise.
Or we would gather them, cutting them up for our mud pies. Even more so, the sandbox next to them was the apple disposal box. After storms, the sand was too itchy and very unappealing even to the youngest of children, but the ants found it to be perfect habitat. Catheryn and I loved crickets, and for some reason thought that ants were the worst of enemies.
I believe we saw on t.v one day how they devoured crickets- ants that is. So one day, after lifting up all the buckets we found a bounty of crickets and potatoes bugs, as well as a horde of ants. We took the colorful shovels and caved in their mounds, squishing as many as we could as we lifted the crickets to safety.
Somehow I don't think it was fair-Ants do more than crickets. Though, the cricket from Mulan had thoroughly corrupted our minds.
Later, however, I remember a strawberry push pop. I never cared much for the things. They were good for the first good licks or sucks then they became too sticky, causing a mess and clinging to your hands. I left the push pop next to the sandbox when I had had enough. The next day, Catheryn and I had checked- and it turns out are extermination wasn't as thorough as we had first thought. The army of black had collected to the sweetness I had left.
I imagine I was a goddess in their eyes. After killing so many, we fed the next generation.
I think that push pop is like most men, good for the first licks and sucks until it gets messy and they cling to you… Leave 'em to the ants I say.
The B's of Kristen
Bee's and Band aids
I use to live on the shore of the Chesapeake. The large wire fence was coated in green rubber so us children wouldn't cut our hands when we had a temper tantrum about not being able to go onto the pier. The fence wrapped all the way around to the sides of the house, a gate I could never unlock by myself. I think I was always just a little too short, or just a little too stupid. Whatever the case it was thoroughly frustrating.
Each gate lead to a hazard anyway, at least to a barefoot child. The type of child that falls, looks around to see if anyone had seen- and then cried when she had an audience. The left lead to a rocky driveway, hard to maneuver around, the right past a sticky tree. I never knew what kind it was, but it had red berries and prickly green leaves that stuck to your feet. I don't care to know either, I loathed that tree.
My only memories of that house are in the summer. Where the dandelions popped up, along with the bee's. My mother use to work in the strawberry garden next to the old tin shed that was rusting. I never saw the inside of it. I use to run around that yard for hours, for no apparently reason; at least not for a reason that I can remember.
But, DAMN! If I didn't find every single yellow jacket that landed on a flower just under my pudgy foot. The bugs even haunted me, chasing me as I flew across the yard in panic with tears. It was the worst kind of pain a child like me could suffer, panic stricken and in the mind of dying I'd lay upon the grass, clutching at my foot, begging my mother to just cut it off. Then I'd have no feet to sting.
Though, like the good mother she was, she'd give me a kiss, and laugh at my tears, carrying me into the house. (No matter how fat and heavy I became.) I'd cry, or at least draw it out, long after the pain had ended till she sat me onto the porcelain of the sink. Reaching into the cabinet above me she'd pull out plain Band Aids, since that's all we could afford. Placing it on my foot, that wasn't even bleeding- she'd set me down on the floor, asking what color popsicle I wanted.
I always chose cherry.
Though, these sweet pleasures fade now, even that small pain. Popsicles are unhealthy, and band aids solve nothing. You pray that a bee will be your only small wound in life. But, even if it is I some how, still find myself sprinting around like a crazed chicken hoping I don't get stung. Mommy can't make it better anymore; pains that are suffered when you get older.
But, yet I think, if stings from bee's brought such love and care then stings in life can always bring love. Those band aids that serve no use, are just for security, to make it look better; much like a smile can be fixed in place. As for the popsicle-I’d still choose Cherry.
The C's of Kristen
Clowns and Cupcakes
I've never been very fond of clowns. For some reason I developed a down right fear of them. I remember crying every time one came near me, even if he was handing me candy. Clowns were probably made by the government to prevent girls from wearing too much make up, an example of how silly one would look. That, and the crazy folk who always smile too damn much, or are sad too much. Clowns always have that angry happy smile, or perhaps it's an angry happy smile only because us less prettified are jealous that we can't be as happy, so we translate it to be a displaceable happiness. Clowns I think, are the real emos. If you don't toot their horn just right, or accept their big feet and awkward waddle they begin to cry and put on darker eyeliner.
Clowns, however are always present at parties. In first grade I have one memory, that of a party involving a clown. It so happened it was my day for show and tell. A game where the pathetic child took something they owned to school to hide in the cubby hole only to reveal it to the masses. I remember precisely, it was a sheep dog, attached to wheels, so when you pushed it, it would make an annoying bark and lift its head. It was genius. In any case after my less than adequate show and tell it was cupcake time. There were grown ups everywhere and I don't remember having many friends at all so I sat at my desk and ate my cupcake.
The adults had ranted about a game, in which they placed a big candy in the center of one of the cupcakes. (Fantastic) Whoever bit into the cupcake and discovered this magic piece would be awarded a crown and allowed to be king or queen for a day. I don't remember being overly excited about this, in fact it wasn't even a good cupcake. I had licked all the chocolate icing off first, left with the dry vanilla bread to eat. After biting into it, I discovered to my utter horror, I was the winner, the winner of a fierce chocking experience. Through my tears the adults decided that since I choked on something, I must have won and gave me pats on the back and a paper crown.
They didn't even have drinks, even as Queen I had to get my own drink from the water fountain. I was in no disposition to rule a class room with my near death experience, but I think I chose a game to play- a game in which I didn't participate.
However, as a child- I was extensively happy with this crown. It was the paper crown, that all the children got on their birthdays in school, along with the stickers. But, you see, I was never awarded this crown, my birthday fell in July, out of school. Unfortunately for me, the oh so nice clown decided it was his job to make me a static filled balloon hat and replace my lovely red paper crown.
This is where the anger developed, for both cup cakes and clowns.
I guess everyone chokes on the rise to power. But, through this experience I've also discovered I prefer muffins.
The D's of Kristen
Dandelions and Dates
In my backyard, where it seemed to always be summer was an assortment of weeds, which as a child as well as now I still consider the most beautiful plants- next to lilies that is. I loved the dandelions, I use to gather a bunch and spin in the yard, watching the seeds drift by. I remember my mother telling me to make wishes each time I blew all the seeds off. I guess by gathering a whole bunch and spinning around until I fell over was cheating, but it got the job done.
I remember when I was of proper age, wishing for certain things that aren't credible in words; Love for instance. Every time I saw a dandelion I'd bound up and pluck it, twirling it in my fingers before blowing as hard as I could- probably spitting at the same time as well. I made wish after wish, never telling a soul; until now.
I suppose you could say, I thought it came true on many occasions. My first relationship was a cute sort, during my freshmen year. Where you never speak, but hold hands with sweaty palms and give awkward hugs. That ended, but I never remember crying. I suppose it's like dropping an empty plastic cup. If it doesn't break, and doesn't spill, you just pick it up and move on.
My second relationship I suppose, wasn't one at all, a myth really- I had known him for a year and a half, my best friend of sorts. I met him during my first relationship. Finally, I thought the investment in Dandelions had paid off, but it turns out within two weeks of an official relationship he found love in the embrace of an ex girlfriend.
My third 'relationship' was just that- a myth. For a year I was tricked into believing someone existed. I guess you couldn't technically call this a relationship, it wasn't official, but I was affectionate towards someone; I'll admit, a tad obsessed. Who was I to know, that he didn't exist and it was all a cruel joke on me? Surprise! But, suddenly someone else galloped into my life, when I was rather disheartened, but yet- completely content.
He charmed me, and soon I was enjoying the pay off of the wishes and the secrets; the words I wouldn't even write in the pages of my journals. I wonder if you could really call it love? On my part, I'm sure, but once I found him to be less than forgiving, and rather fickle with his feelings and honesty I grew a sense of hopelessness at the dream I had lost. It was fantastic really, the ideal I had that it could work. It would have, I believe, if for whatever reason he didn't turn out to be the total opposite to what I had at first believed. I don't believe I was without fault here, but at least I wasn't throwing him curve balls.
In any case, I've decided not to make any more wishes on dandelions. Either I made too many of the same wish, or you have to be extensively more specific. Now, instead- I've decided to hold my breath when I cross the iron overlapping links to the bay bridge. It seems more stable than a dandelion.
I still wish for the same thing.
Kick at the dandelions when they are in your path; it's doing me a favor.
The E's of Kristen
Eggs and Elephants
Eggs are probably one of my fondest memories, at least concerning my brother- Elephants, probably my least favorite memory. Eggs for the simple reason that my brother, Corey, use to steal eggs from nests, bring them home and hatch them without my mother's knowledge. Soon, we'd have flock of fluffy ducklings. But, these moments of getting along and playing with Quakers were fleeting. Most of the time as close siblings we squabble; I suppose you could say I was the tag along tattle tail, he the poke at dead stuff with a stick one.
I remember, on one particular nasty day, when he had entered high school he had tapped into something that annoyed me. Though, I'm extremely passive I vented my anger in a more.. Creative yet less likely way of revenge. You see, this is a story I love to tell, because it shows that fate does exist. My mother use to make a big bowl of hard boiled eggs, because for an odd reason beyond my comprehension, my brother loved them. After our fight in the kitchen I angrily placed a raw egg at the top of the pile. Satisfied and my anger thoroughly vented without much harm I accidentally forgot about my devious plot. A few days later, I went to find juice, and there he was- a bowl of eggs in his hand.
Like some silly jock he turned to me, with that utterly goofy smile of his and said in a unspecting voice, 'Hey, Kristen! Look what I can do!' and with that, he cracked the egg onto his forehead. However, lady fate stepped in and it so happened that it was the raw egg. He was furious, I could have sworn the egg became sunny side up right on that scarlet face of his. I still lie about this, but tell everyone else about it; I never confessed.
I suppose are feud started long ago. I don't remember the exact day, but I do remember pink overalls and posing for too many pictures. I looked back in the photo albums years back and found a picture of my brother and I posing on a statue of an elephant, me crying and him pulling at my pig tails and sneering with large live elephants pooping in the background and a bull exposing his manly self.
Elephants are strange creatures. My brother and I went to the zoo only a couple times after that. We went on a scorching summer day with my Aunt, but she got in a terrible fight with her boyfriend and for some reason we couldn't get into the car, she was always wearing a leather coat- odd.
We didn't get to see the penguins that day. Though, we saw the polar bears, but the smell of fish made me woozy.
But, I suppose as we got older, we became a tad closer. He still sees me as the girl with pigtails always tattling and tagging along; well I guess I still am. But, at least I'm not a sneering farter who thrusts my groin into the dog's face ranting about the goods while his friends are present and attempting to watch a horror movie.(hint)
In any case, I'd like to mention I've never been to the zoo since then- and he hasn't liked any of my boyfriends, nor have I liked any of his girlfriends. But, I guess some things never change- they just become more noticeable in different situations.
I think I tattled on him about having been drunk one night. I might have let a few secrets slip- but then so has he. Especially since he didn't like Evan at all, but that's no secret. (Evan starts with E for the record) But, at least he never rubbed it in my face, like he rubbed mud into it countless times…
What a good brother...
The F's of Kristen
Farts and Friends
Farts have always been a casual part of my family. For some reason, it's like a casual greeting, or off handed comment during dinner or a movie that no one really pays attention to, that is; unless it seriously reeks. I myself, have been graced with fantastic bowels. The flowery silent kind; I'll happily admit- but like most times they get grumpy or just like to make themselves known.
Again, with all honesty, I remember standing in the bathroom putting on mascara, Chelsea standing over me, watching as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. But, for some odd reason, as I leaned forward I let out a gentle toot; as if my bowels were saying 'Hello! How are you!? I'm here!'. It was odd, I was hoping she wouldn't notice, but she did and was looking at me funny. I suppose pretending something didn't really happen doesn't make it just go away. It's like closing your eyes and saying 'If I can't see you, You're not there, and can't see me...' So, with as much grace as I could I finished my make up and with a brave smile mentioned that I was a 'tooting train'.
I suppose it's easy to live up to the cute ones. But, the disgusting ones that you hear in the bathroom stalls next to you are never cute, and probably harder to live up to. I guess that's why there's walls... They range from the sound of dump truck breaking to a baby chocking barfing and crying at the same time. I know this, because I spent a good hour sitting next to Cassie at her computer playing with an animated fart chart.
It was funny- how many farts actual people could make. It was so disgusting, yet so funny; I was gagging and laughing at the same time, and at some point, though I enjoyed the laughter, I also didn't like my stomach detesting. I wonder if it's easier to laugh at if it isn't yours, or you can't smell it. I know I get grumpy when my mother or brother fart. It makes me think, 'God, these people actually poop? That's so gross.' I guess you shouldn't think about it on a day to day routine. But, it's hard not to when one assaults your nose.
In any case, I've decided good friends forgive you. If you can live up to a fart in their presence or spend in hour fearing in upchuck from laughter and horror with one- that's a keeper.
But, there's always different rules for lovers. My brother's told me stories of his girlfriend farting in bed then pulling the covers over his head. There's a specific name for this, but it slipped my mind. I suppose you can be playful, or apologetic- but if you become angered or embarrassed; it's usually your fault anyway.
That's how life is too, if someone is defensive, or shocked- usually they are guilty. Lessons in farts last a life time, so do friends.
The G's of Kristen
Geese and Gentlemen
Suburbia is where I live: Beautiful, quiet, boring. The type of place you could go screaming down the street and people would either rush out to see what's wrong or linger in their door way and smile saying something along the lines of, 'That silly Smith's child.' The type of place, where the worst type of vandalism is the knocking down of mail boxes. The type of people who fight back by making their mailboxes indestructible with cement, or sue for a prettier one.
However, like a plague in the fenced yards dogs appear; Cute, cuddly, obnoxious. The type of dogs who bark for no reason. I imagine they bark in the night about lost puppies, like in 101 Dalmatians- but somehow as I grew older this fantasy slipped away. So now all I can imagine is that the dogs are merely shouting ,'I'm a dog!' Over and over, till you yell obscenities to interrupt their thought process.
Unfortunately for my neighbors, who possessed these types of dogs that ran up and down along the fence snorting like a pig, my brother brought home geese; cute, fluffy, chipper. We had a six foot privacy fence so it was no problem hiding these adorable babies. Soon a pen of chicken wire had gone up, a large dog house built to protect them from the elements.
Despite their adorable nature the geese were doomed from the very beginning. You see, my brother gave me the white goose, telling me it was the female. I tried to argue, saying the white one was male, and that the brown spunky one was female. I was qualified in making this judgment because I watched the discovery channel every night at 8:00 on channel 23.
He'd hear nothing of it. I named mine Lucy, his was Squirt. Soon, as they grew they spent less time in the house and the yard and more time sitting in their pen, after all Squirt tended to poop casually as 'he' walked. I guess you could say 'he' grew into 'his' name. These geese were loud, in fact as I got off the bus one day and you could hear their honking from the road. I remember a little girl, always trying to make me watch barney with her had paused looking at me oddly and asked innocently, 'What type of dogs do you have?'
I must have replied something along the lines of, 'they aren't dogs, they are geese.' because all I can remember is a look of complete confusion crossing her features. In any case this was the fateful day of discovering the true genders of the geese.
My mother was washing dishes and you could view the pen from the kitchen window. She pointed out that oddly, Lucy was on top of Squirt. It all clicked into place; I was elated- I had finally proven my brother wrong. After I told him so he gave me a disgruntled look and said whatever, saying that now the male was named Lucky. A stab of guilt hit me, I had named a man; or rather male goose, Lucy.
After this Kaitlyn came over quiet a bit. We'd take the corn meal food and mush it together in a plate, along with the grass we plucked and made meal after meal for the geese. We'd fill the children's pool with water and swim with them. But, Kaitlyn always jumped out when squirt pooped. It wasn't the type you could just push away from you in the water. It actually dissolved into it- making it muddy. At least Squirt's name is befitting; at least I'm a lot more hygienic now.
Somehow, though I do think the name Lucy affected the goose. He died about a year before Squirt, and all the eggs that were laid were never fertilized. I wonder how they could do the dirty and not have babies; either Lucy was a Genius with contraception or he was gender confused.
In any case I believe Lucy is a true gentlemen. Through all the pain and suffering of being confused for a good portion of his life as the female; he loved me the same. Always following me around; even when I threw him up in the air trying to make him fly away when he was a domesticated goose. For the record, they can't fly. They kind of flounder like chickens.
Where did all the gentlemen go anyway? They start out nice, opening doors and paying but usually they expect something, or this changes when you get to know them better. Perhaps relationships shouldn't go past the dating stage. Keep it simple, keep it free, less stinky and less involved. I've been on a couple memorable dates, but they were all with the same person. I suppose that kind of tarnishes it, especially since it got extremely difficult and complicated after that.
On some level I believe you should break it off after the three month mark. They say that's the only good time of the relationship, when you're pointing out the likenesses instead of the faults. At least if it ended there you wouldn't hate the person or regret things that happened. You'd just wonder- then again, you wouldn't learn much either.
I guess Lucy taught me this. You have to accept life, even if it's fucked.
The H's of Kristen
Hands and Hamsters
Hands, you can tell a lot from a person's hands. I've always had a strange fascination with them. You do everything with hands, touch, feel, communicate- I'd choose touch over any of my senses. There's just something about hands; I guess it has to do with me being an artist and creating everything with my hands.
From sweet hearts holding hands to curling up a fist, they express so much. I don't think I'd be able to survive with out my hands, I respect anyone who can. My hands are small; my nails short and with the usual chipped bright nail polish. I've had nice nails once, fake of course. But, then I could never pull up my jeans without breaking one, or button anything. I couldn't even draw, the only pros of having long nails is you can scratch someone across the face, if they don't break, and tap them. Other girls tend to admire them as well, like a new hair cut.
Hands can be a danger, as we all know, I feel as if they are very sensitive… One day, my eldest brother, Conly and I went to the pet store. We bought hamsters, back then the store placed them into the cardboard boxes with the little poked air holes; the printed yellow parakeet on the side. On the drive home, my hamster- the demon bitch, started chewing her way through the box. I had to place my hand over it, but that didn't stop her. I feel as if she was one of those rats the ancients placed on peoples' stomachs in a cage, heating it up until the critters ate through the live human to survive.
As you can imagine, the tan and white hamster with red eyes and I weren't off to a good start. I forgot about this quickly, but also discovered she didn't like being picked up, she'd bite me. She didn't like being put into the ball, she'd bite me. She didn't like me staring into the cage, she'd sit there in her little nest and puff up. It was shocking, to be rejected by a hamster. However, Conly thought it'd be funny to place the male and female together.
Fifteen babies later my mother decided to feed the offspring or what was left of them after my hamster bit off their heads, to the snake Corey had found. Apparently feeder mice are expensive. She picked my favorite baby, a brown and white ball of fluff. I remember crying and attaching myself to her leg as she made her way up to the cage with my legacy. Placing the critter in the cage we watched- me through tears.
The hamster I thought was a lover not a fighter, turned out to be a fighter and a lover! He attacked the five foot snake, causing it to bleed and curl away. Any normal person would have reached in, taken the hamster out and given him his life that he had fought so bravely for. Not my mother though, she was determined he'd die. Grabbing a spatula she knocked him out, only then did the snake approach cautiously.
I had many hamsters after that.
I had a sweet brown one, who I placed in a exercise ball. I placed him on the grown outside of Catheryn's house as the rest of the day care kids and I went to swing. However, he decided to follow us, and just as he crossed the dirt path Jessica came rushing past me, her legs out stretched pumping to get higher and higher. Only, she kicked the hamster and its ball across the yard.
My next hamster was the annoying type. I had an old rusted bar cage and he'd run on the squeaking wheel in the middle of the night. I'm a grumpy sleeper and tended to get very annoyed, yelling for him to stop, only to fall half asleep before he began again. Sometime in my sleep I had thrown a pillow and when I awoke he was poked like a marshmallow on a stick upon one of the iron bars.
After a month of grieving I got a new one, placed in the same cage. This hamster had a batman complex and liked to climb the bars to the top and hang by his back feet upside down. I guess he didn't like me much, because after a week he climbed to the top, hung from his back feet and dropped- snapping his neck.
Suicide is not the answer.
I guess these were my first real lessons in life in death, or my first lessons in utter rejection. I don't think this is the reason my confidence suffered for so many years. But I do remember crying for hours, grieving- yet hamsters are easily replaced. But, then as a child I was strange. Disney movies corrupt the mind. Remember Pocahontas? She said there was a spirit in everything. I use to yell at the kids on the playground for slicing the worms apart, I remember getting so upset.
Hands bring everything, life, death, love, hate; from things as small as hamsters to everyone in the world.
The gentlest of touches can sway or kill.
But, be careful with your grip on hamsters, when their eyes start bulging out, that means it's too tight.
The I’s of Kristen
Igloos and Ice cream
On rare occasions growing up we had large snow storms, large enough to hinder schools for a week, but not enough to stop me from going to daycare. One particular snow storm created drifts four feet tall. It was any normal day at the daycare until the six of us decided to go outside and rough the elements.
After putting three or so pairs of socks on we all ventured out, unable to rest our arms comfortably at our sides; I imagine we felt very much like penguins. I was so unhappy, you see my friend Catheryn always got the best of things. She had a florescent pink snow jump suit, where as I got a hand me down. The type of jump suit that wasn’t even made for snow, but a suit passed down from my brothers; the camouflage kind.
That day, however it didn’t matter for as soon as were out we dropped to our knees and began barking and whining, pretending as if we were a pack of Artic foxes. The fluffy white kind, who don’t even travel in packs, but rather pick a life mate and raise pups. The discovery channel was a great source, but after arguing a while I decided to bend to the whims of my friends- if they wanted to be a pack then we’d be a pack.
At first we tried to make dens by rolling large balls and digging a hole into them and under the snow. An igloo of sorts. Catheryn was the first to do so, with the help of Harry. It was a little snug though, even for a fox. After crawling around a bit, and having my fingers thorough freezing I discovered a large snow drift besides the fence. Digging a tunnel down and to the fence I made myself a nice lil cubby. Only to be joined next door by Catheryn and Jessica. Soon we had a net work of fox tunnels through the snow drift. It was actually warmer inside then out, and after packing the snow carefully we had designed a little habitat for ourselves.
The game ensued and I soon found myself out on the tundra, scavenging for meat in the shape of snow balls. But, alas, we grew tired as most foxes do and retired inside for some lunch. Unfortunately when we returned the next day to our tunnels Catheryn’s older brother decided to take a seat on the outside, caving it in. What a fat ass.
At first we were all very angry, Brandon usually didn’t act on impulses like that. In fact, I rarely saw the siblings fight; not like my brother and I, of course. But, then- no one can fight like my brother and I.
Summer came faster than the melting of the snow. Soon instead of eating snow we were eating ice cream. At an early stage I discovered I wasn’t a cone type of girl. My mouth was far too small, and I hadn’t yet discovered the proper technique nor timing to keep the ice cream from melting down your hand to your elbow and the cone from becoming soggy.
I don’t think I’ll ever master this, I’m a ice cream in a cup kind of girl, which soon developed into a milkshake habit. Summer was always fun, during daycare we had no school and were forced to rise early and stay late. I remember countless times being forced out into the backyard by her mother, who expected us to be good little children and not squish ants and climb onto of the playhouse. Then again, I don’t think she paid much attention.
We would be mid swing, high in the air and we’d hear the voice calling, ‘Popsicles’ and suddenly the children would be flying through the air, sprinting across the lawn; it was every kid for their selves.
Those were the simple days. No matter how much practice I have I’ll probably never be able to lick that ice cream in the appealing sexual manner. No matter how much snow we get, I never seem to play in it anymore; I guess reality sets in and things such as imagination become worthless in the eyes of an adult. I guess sometimes you have to let the ice cream melt along with the snow and hope it comes along another year.
The J's of Kristen
The J's of Kristen
Jell-o and Jerks
I've been contemplating this for a while now; in my bath. It's really been one of those days- I had an accident the day before that threw out my back and dislocated my shoulder. It's really embarrassing, I don't want to talk about it. Though, everything aches, including my heart. I can't quiet figure out why I tremble so, after a mere message, but I decided that this is life- surprise.
So I took a bubble bath, smelling of vanilla. I swayed my head back and forth through the water, despite it being rather painful; I just enjoyed the feeling of the water stroking my hair. Soon I let the bath water rise to my eyelids and submersed myself a bit, trying to keep my mind off the pain. Sometimes a girl just needs a good cry and I did- I sobbed until I felt as if my body was falling apart. I didn't much mind the pain shooting through my back and shoulders, but it was a heavy heart that made the bath smell of salt instead of vanilla.
It's a heavy smell, salt- it brings me back to my childhood, where tears were so common, but for different reasons. But, once upon a time, when I only remembered the minor details based on smiles and happiness there was a restaurant, heavy air with a dim lighting, casting the red tiled floor orange.
My grandmother use to take Corey and I, along with my mother to this restaurant. I believe Wednesdays were buffet night. I was so short my mother had to get the heated plate for me, and even then I use to shift it uncomfortably between my hands. Back then, I was more of a picky eater than I am now. I didn't like anything, except for red jell-o cubes. My brother and I use to get plate filled with the sweet treat, and build a house at the table like they were bricks.
I remember, no matter how you shook the structures they just trembled, but never fell over. Of course, by then mom was yelling at the pair of us about not having proper food and shaking the table. I'd fill up on jell-o and glass after glass of chocolate milk, in those foggy cups, tinted red.
People were so impolite in that restaurant. There's different kinds of jerks in the worlds.
Jerks that…
Bump into you and don't apologize.
That look down upon you.
Create obstacles in day to day life.
Consider you a waste of time.
Waste your time.
Don't follow traffic laws.
Annoy the hell out of you.
Never know what they are talking about.
Criticize you for something with no relevance.
But, the worst kind of jerks are the ones that you fall in love with, who break your heart and never know how you truly are- who never gave you a chance to explain, or accept. Those that tell you one thing and expect another. The kind of jerk that continues to hook and reel, only to cast you out again into deeper water to see how well you float. The kind of people who don't expect you to fight back, and blame you when you give them a nip or two.
Jerks that…
Can't make up their mind.
Can't tell you the truth.
Pretend to be someone they aren't.
Continue to pretend to be someone they are not when you've figured it out.
Feign feelings.
Steps on your toe and never apologize.
Never open doors for you.
Laugh at you when you're hurt.
Laugh when you don't understand.
These are the people you want to do horrible things to. The people who give you the opportunity to look up torture techniques on the internet, just incase you see them again. But, these are the worst kind of jerks, because though you entertain such horrible notions, you know- that they are so shallow, that they couldn't sustain a deep wound, thus; again you're efforts would be in vain.
Besides, such anger and bitterness has no place in the heart's of the good. I've discovered that I am a lot like jell-o. Shake me, and knock me down.. I'll still retain my shape because, I'm strong and a bit jiggly. Build me up, knock me down, I'm still the same girl.
It's sad though, that jell-o only comes in cups now…
But, truly they say time heals everything. I imagine the person who events time travel will be rich on just the notion of creating a mini device to age the heart's emotion. So you can move on, and be a plate full of jell-o again, built up like a palace, with the sea's of tater tots in the distance and towers of chocolate milk.
So kiss my salty lips, and know I'll be happy- 'Cause I'm Jell-o!
-wiggle-
The K's of Kristen
Kittens and Karats
There's a fascination with diamonds. I'll never understand the worth of such trifles in life. There's a cliché to diamonds, a deep hurt of throwing wedding rings across the room; empty promises, the expense of buying love from another. Perhaps other's find this subject of affection, a way to dote on their lover.
My mother use to keep her rings in a crystal bowl by the bed. She was always working with her hands and she cherished these rings, a symbol of devotion. From her first to second marriage. I use to take them, laying on her bed and place them on my fingers. Then, I loved the shine, the way they slid down my digits; far too slender. But, soon after seeing the heartache, experiencing it myself I've come to loath diamonds, as if they are the epitome of failed love.
I hate roses, and Valentines day most of all. I was never excited about the holiday, I always spent it alone but I never despaired of it until I grew older. When people no longer put their boxes on their desk. When people no longer gave me a card; no longer gave me the memories. Valentines day has always led to a heartache for me; I'll never be excited about it, for no matter what I receive on this day, and from who the intangible memories I have now are unsurpassable.
I hate the words I love you. I use to believe these words had weight. For me, these words are heavy, they cause joy and heartache, ruin and create life. They change the world, all the while the one who pronounced it- never meant it at all. They have no grasp on these words.
These are the words that sink Titians in the water, anchor ghosts to the seas and crash stars in the sky.
I wonder, if I'm the only one in the world to see this- if this in turn curses me to be alone. I'll stubbornly place my feet on the ground and refuse to say it's merely a cloud. There's things I want, things I desire that can't be given with hands, unless by touch. There's things I want, things I desire that can't be seen with eyes, unless closed. These things can't be tasted, unless kissed. These things can't be heard, they can barely be whispered.
I want action, I want proof. I want gifts that reflect a journey, not flesh. I don't want these gifts to sparkle, gleam or shine. I don't want these gifts to cost money, credit or bribes. These gifts should be without lies and obligation. These gifts should come without holidays.
But, for now since all I have are my kittens to trust I'll return to my walls, so I can heal. I just wish when I stretched the stitches didn't loosen. I just wish people wouldn't notice this wound.. I just wish it would heal, or be tended by an even gentler hand.
I just wish I didn't have to be so strong all the time, and that I could truly lean on someone and give them everything I have to give. I just wish I never had to wish on dandelions for what I wanted in life, and that I was without want- without void or desire.
But, then who would I be? I'd be a unconditional lover, the type that purr and stroke against your leg, curling next to you while you cry. I'd be the lover who never said a word, and couldn't quench your desires because I had none of my own. I'd be an empty companion that you stroked idly. Someone to place in the hole to stop the bleeding, but not enough to repair and stop the flow.
I don't want diamonds or empty words, I don't want rings or promises. I want effort, I want everyday to be an action. In turn, I'll be someone you can miss.
The L’s of Kristen
Lilies and Lollipops
I love Lollipops. I grew up on sweets, receiving a treat for every hardship in my life. Scrape a knee; get a lollipop. Get a shot; get a lollipop. Each time an accomplishment came around I was given a lollipop.
They were sweet and made me happy, a simple taste that contented me and made me forget the everyday sufferings. I’m no longer given lollipops; they no longer give me a case of sweet amnesia.
Instead, I’ve found sweetness around me. Easter Lilies once grew wild on the side of the road. I use to pick them when I was child. I use to pick honey suckles, and catch fireflies. I use to make wishes and pretend I could fly.
The innocence of childhood is still rather intact in my life. Easter Lilies no longer grow near me, but during spring they are available in all the stores with an assortment of other flowers. I’ve thought many times that I could buy seeds and plant them in my own garden; have my own little lilies. But along the way I noticed no matter how many lilies I acquire I don’t want them for myself.
I want them as a symbol- as I grow I want the lilies to grow with me, their image changing as mine has.
They are no longer the beauty that captures the eye of a child, but the beauty of an exchange of affection.
I wonder, if once I’m given these lilies if I’ll grow them in a pot, and keep the memory with me always. If these flowers exchange from hand to hand until they are in mine they will be tamed. A single lily would mean more to me than a thousand diamonds.
I use to sit on the deck at summer, waiting for the flicker of fireflies. Racing around the yard to capture them in my palm as they glowed, alighting my clasped hands, I would stare in wonder. I still don’t know how fireflies flicker; if I did it would ruin my dream, and my wishes. I want the jar of fireflies that I made wishes on. I want the wishes in a jar that I can place on my shelf so I can have everything I wished for. I can’t tell you these wishes or what they would look like. It’s a secret as I’m still waiting for them to come true.
There was an old wooden bridge that buckled under your feet. Over the creek and along the banks, overshadowing the old planks, were two large bushes of honey suckle. I use to gather them, plucking the stems and licking the wild honey from the flower. Now honey comes in jars, but I’ve never tasted sweeter nectar than from the honey suckles that summer day, in the mid afternoon.
I’ve seen triple rainbows appear after a storm, I’ve seen things that were once lost come back again in another form, a different form. I don’t believe there’s replacement, nor getting over something- but rather, the turning of attention towards something as sweet as lollipops, that places such sorrows from the mind, until you learn the lesson again.
I want to see so much, but there’s just not enough time, and I can’t fly, thus my opportunities are limited for my memory making. But, I’m content with my lilies, and honeysuckles, fireflies and the grapes that use to grow on the wire fence in my grandmother’s yard.
One day I’ll be given a lily and I’ll have to write about it for I’m sure I wished upon this many times between bubbles, dandelions and fireflies.
The M's of Kristen
Money and Mannequins
Eight years ago I use to see my father. I was around six years old and it was the end of my parent's marriage. My mother was now working and I was kept in the company of my father when she wasn't home. At the time, I didn't understand the reason my father slept often, so deeply that no amount of effort could rouse him. He had plastered the doors so the only entrance to his room was through the garage and up the fresh wooden steps he had constructed. The house was divided by plaster and wood, separating my mother and father's quarters.
That specific day my brother's were out on the boat pulling up traps while I sat in the small living room of the master bedroom. I could hear the ice cream truck rounding the block and I became excited. Thinking only of ice cream I rushed to my father's bed side in the late afternoon and tried to wake him. I didn't realize my father was passed out, and functioning through a drunken stupor. I remember asking for a dollar, he mumbled that the wallet was on the counter. I'm unsure if he had told me to bring it to him, but I do remember that in my haste I opened it and grabbed a piece of paper that had no meaning to me. It was something I had watched my parents do numerous times, so I knew the concept just not the value.
Just as I was turning to chase the ice cream man down I bumped into my father in the door way. He grabbed my arm forcefully and before anything was said I was already crying. I already knew what was going to happen, despite not knowing the reason for it.
'Bitch,' he had said to me, 'You're just a little bitch- just like your mother.' I'll never forget how he said it, practically spitting as if his family was the very poison of his life. He told me he had a mind to call the police on me. I feared this, for we were taught in school that police had guns and that guns kill, after all the mind of a six year old is very simple.
I can remember the bruises on my arm and the way he had spanked me before my mother came home. I have flash memories of my mother standing in the kitchen arguing with him over the incident. I remember broken dishes in the night when I went downstairs for a drink of water.
I'll never forget his reaction. I've come to the conclusion that money will never mean that much to me. I'd rather live happily with nothing then live alone with everything. I don't believe I've ever asked for money after that day- even when it's offered to me I am reluctant to accept it.
Some people need the best of everything. My mother is always willing to drop $200.00's to re equip me with art products. $3.00 brushes; $24.00 model mannequins. But, the brushes get dirty like any other brush and the mannequin has never helped me with my figure drawing. Simply positioning a wooden statue with no features seems to hinder more than help me.
Sometimes the best is nothing . One who can appreciate will be happy. One who spends and never appreciates strives for more in jealousy; trying to find the life in themselves as they see in other's. It would appear that they are never content.
I know the value of a dollar, but a dollar doesn't know the value of myself. What do I want that I can't create myself? Some people are just mannequins dressed up in green- the color of jealousy and economic wealth…
One should learn from the lacking in life, not strive to fill the hole. But, instead be aware of the existance and walk around it instead of jumping in without a rope and trying to fill it in. You'll end up being burried alive.
The N's of Kristen
Nonsense and No
I can pick things up with the toes on my right foot. I can only move my big toe on my left foot. I dance in front of the microwave and sink. I love hand washing dishes. I'll walk around with a pillow case on my head for no apparent reason. Very often I replace my adjectives with sounds or squeaks, at first it's noticeable but soon it blends into the conversation and people begin tounderstand my made up language.
If I'm wearing socks I'll slide across the floor. I've walked into poles, people, walls, and water fountains. I've fallen over in the road, ditches, and puddles. I've tripped on roots, rocks, flat terrain and my own feet. I've jumped in puddles that were deeper than I thought. I use to sing the little mermaid song. I can make up songs on the piano.
Every time I take a bubble bath I put bubbles on my head. I become sad when the water becomes murky and the bubbles disappear so I slush around, hoping that will help- it never does. I have freckles in places you'll never see. I have freckles in places I can't see too well.
I use to bite my nails. I have pierced ears, but I don't wear earrings. When I do wear earrings I have to re pierce my ears myself. I don't sleep under my sheets. I can't wear heels- I don't know how to walk in them.
I have five journals from when I was eleven years old. I tore a lot of pages out. I'm amazingly forgetful about important dates or projects. I can remember the exact conversation and time I had with someone, however.
I never bend the bendy straws. It's impossible for me to lie, even if I get away with it- I come clean. I have trouble saying no. It easy to see my true intentions. I live life through feelings and instinct. I'm very logical, however, I act on impulse most times.
I tend to over think things that are redundant and can't be altered. I bite my straws when I'm nervous, but then attempt to shape it back- or flip it over. I feel guilty for wasting food. Alone, I love wearing clicking shoes- in public I'll walk on my tip toes so as not to gain attention.
I'm extremely ticklish. The corner of my lips and eyebrows twitch when I'm feeling an overwhelming emotion. Two people outside my family have seen my cry.
I smile when I'm sad, angry, annoyed. It's easy to tell the difference; lots of people think this is creepy. I hiccup when I cry, and laugh if I'm in public so as I don't look so sad.
I wake up with pillows all around me- usually hugging or straddling one. I'm the most stubborn person I know. I'm a lot stronger than people give me credit for, emotionally that is.
I try too hard to be perfect. I have a secret sketchbook. Whenever I look at a cup or bowl I ponder if I can make a better one. I'm eager to spend money on other people- but reluctant to spend money on myself.
I adore lace. I despise silk.
I get angry over the little things, and let the large things roll off my shoulders. I'm pleased by the little things, and uncomfortable in the presence of expensive things.
I have a knack to change most No's to maybes and then yes's. Yet, I can't say no myself. They are usually half hearted for I fear the rejection if I say no. I love saying yes, however I hate not being listened to when I say no. Though, sometimes my no's are an invitation…
It's easy to get to know me, if I think you are worth my time. It's easy to tell if you are…
After people get to know me and then change their mind about wanting to know me they state they never knew me well at all when I do what is expected.
People utterly frustrate me. I go on rants and tangents and sometimes I won't stop unless people fall asleep.
I hate conflict and arguing. It takes a lot for me to lose my temper. I've never yelled at someone. My voice has never been raised and I've never had a fight with my mother.
I'm too clever for my own good and while this can be entertaining it can also be a burden in a disagreement. I take words literally. What you say is what you mean.
Words should back up the actions.
No, I don't want to see you. No, I don't want to wear that. No, I don't like that. No, I don't want to go there. No, no no. I said no. No, leave me alone. No, I don't want you to think that. No, I don't care at all. No thank you. No, yes- maybe so, please? No, you don't know me very well at all. No, I refuse to see it your way if you disregard me. No, I won't give to you when you give nothing to me. No, that's not true- I give because I want to.
No, I don't know everything- but neither do you. No, I really would, actually…No, that's none of your business.
No- see? I never say these things.
The O's of Kristen
Oak and Octopi
Nestled against the wall was a small oak piano. In the dinning room, where we never ate the sun shown through the giant windows. From this small nook in the house you could stare straight out onto the bay. I use wander around from the living room, following my mother.
She would push the oak covering away from the keys and leave me room next to her on the bench. Then she would play. Every time, the same song; and every time I'd sing the same song.
There you see her
Sitting there across the way
She don't got a lot to say
But there's something about her
And you don't know why
But you're dying to try
You wanna kiss the girl
Yes, you want her
Look at her, you know you do
It's possible she wants you, too
There is one way to ask her
It don't take a word
Not a single word
Go on and kiss the girl
Sing with me now
Sha-la-la-la-la-la
My, oh, my
Look at the boy too shy
He ain't gonna kiss the girl
Sha-la-la-la-la-la
Ain't that sad
Ain't it shame, too bad
You gonna miss the girl
Now's your moment
Floating in a blue lagoon
Boy, you better do it soon
No time will be better
She don't say a word
And she won't say a word
Until you kiss the girl
Sha-la-la-la-la-la
Don't be scared
You got the mood prepared
Go on and kiss the girl
Sha-la-la-la-la-la
Don't stop now
Don't try to hide it how
You wanna kiss the girl
Sha-la-la-la-la-la
Float along
Listen to the song
The song say kiss the girl
Sha-la-la-la-la-la
Music play
Do what the music say
You wanna kiss the girl
You've got to kiss the girl
Why don't you kiss the girl
You gotta kiss the girl
Go on and kiss the girl
The little mermaid; what a wonderful love story. Different worlds, overcoming muteness and giant octopus women. So I suppose, this is where the dreams began- where the wishes began.
That's what I want- it doesn't have to be fantastic and glorified.
Ariel and Eric never fought because she couldn't talk. But, he didn't anger at her antics for not knowing- when she brushed her hair with the fork, he merely grinned and raised an eyebrow.
Brush you hair with a fork these days and the guy will go packing.
He took her dancing, and let her wander around and steal puppets off of hands without a word. He let her drive the horse, and wasn't a back seat driver. He didn't even scold her when she jumped the carriage over the cliff, he smiled and relaxed.
What do you think would happen if I did that with a date? He'd be tucking and rolling out of the carriage or stealing the reins back, calling me crazy for wanting a bit of fun. Whatever happened to playing?
He fought an octopus lady with her, even when she had a tail- harpooned the fat lady and was chased by eels and merely drowned. In fact, he wasn't much of a hero at all, he had to be saved by a fish and a lobster. But, that's what makes it wonderful- he tried, and he wouldn't leave.
But, then- Eric was never my favorite prince. I'd have to go with the Beast. He had flaws, but he was wonderful because of these flaws. He had character but was still gentle after his rage. He dealt with his shallowness and instead of wallowing in what he didn't have and what he had become but, instead he grew to love.
I liked him better as a beast than I did a prince. You know what? She came back because he had flaws.
So is it idealistic or realistic to want to fall in love with someone with flaws but that will whisk you away?
So hopefully there will be someone to want to kiss me like that- maybe not in lagoon with singing fish and dancing fireflies. But, something without words or nervousness..
Silly fairytales makes a girl expect too much and accept nothing less…
The P's of Kristen
Poetry and People
There's two types of people. Those who are starving and those who are full. Now, I don't believe there is truly anyone full in the world. Some are close, some believe they are and still, other's pretend merely because they wish not to stop at a certain restaurant.
Those people who are full and content live life sleepily; lazily, and soon the pleasure of even eating is bland. They have to build up and up, constantly trying to achieve greater things. Their goals and desires become outrageous, almost unattainable because even the full need to know the pangs of hunger otherwise there's no point in eating.
More so, these people like to pretend they are content with everything they have. Perhaps I'm naïve in thinking there is something deeper coiling beneath the façade, but I do. These people are merely afraid. They have built up before, but the higher they built the more gravity pulled at them. They expected too much, and now expect nothing in turn. They seem to think by expecting nothing they can no longer be disappointed. By desiring no food they will no longer be hungry…
Now the starving, these are the people who cherish everything. A loaf of bread is their life, and often times they are contented to settle for the smallest of morsel. When they know not of the richness of butter. These people are contended with simplicity. It would appear that starving would be the greatest position in life, but when all you expect is dirt, that's all you get.
So who am I? I'm all three. My goals and desires became outrageous, rather unattainable. When everything was going well my expectations soared and I expected more and more to step out of routine. I was a dreamer before, but when dreams come true you dream more.
Then, I became the one who pretends. 'Tell me what to expect so I'm not disappointed!' I built up and up, and soon it came crashing down upon my head. I didn't expect anything and I just glided through a couple of weeks with a smiling mask. It's a difficult façade, sometimes you even trick yourself when you look in the mirror.
But, I appreciate the little things, I cherish them. Butter doesn't mean a lot; as long as I have the bread. However, the contradiction is I expect so much more, as a dreamer. Though, I'm afraid of building up again it's a cycle that everyone goes through.
Everyone builds up, everyone falls down. But, you fall down to get back up again and you build up to fall down. If you don't fall down, how can you live walking the same way everyday with out the chance of adversity? How can you fall down and not expect to get back up again? Why just sit there? More so, who says you can just be content with crawling?
Life is like poetry. It's in stanza's and everyone writes differently. It's loving, it's sad, it's contagious and not everyone can rhyme but it still has a beat and it still needs to followed as if you're reading a sentence.
|
Submission Name: The ABC's of me
