The Chemicals Between Us

It’s not you, it’s me. No, really, it’s always me.

I have a mental illness and today, for a brief moment, it almost killed me.

The sun was high, hard, and hot. The good fortune my wife was eager to share with my teenaged daughter and I wasn’t appealing to me. She found a new used car that the family could afford, and she wanted me to be happy. I couldn’t even fake a smile. My crazy was kicking my happy’s ass.

I don’t have the first frigging clue what kind of tree I would be, but Edvard Munch’s Scream is the painting I’d claim relation.

The distorted view, the sky, my appearance, and how I think the world sees me is so crushing because anxiety overwhelms me. My social anxiety disorder and the panic attacks that accompany it are almost crippling. I’m paranoid that the people who say they love me, really don’t. I’ll write something, go to put it my google document for my friends to read and edit, then break down and shake with fear that they’ll hate my art, and not respect me.

Life moves fast for me. If you let me be me, I can complete a two-hundred dollar grocery store trip in less time than Domino’s can deliver  a pizza.. The main reason I like punk, power-pop, and hard rock songs so much is they rarely last longer than three minutes. The problem with being in such a hurry, and being in such a flurry, is I suck at the details of life. Have you read my writing? The ideas are there. There’s structure and style. But I can’t edit. It’s too time consuming. Hit publish and let the talent speak, my anxiety-ridden mind thinks. At least I’m honest. I’ll take crazy truth over anything.

I watched my wife experience satisfaction at being over our financial hardships of the past six months. She finally had enough money available to get a second family car that was safe to drive. My teenager was smiling and talking about being excited to drive the car, too. But I was sullen, disconnected, and anxious to be anywhere but with them. The pills weren’t working because they were new. The chemicals running through me weren’t balanced, yet. My mind was racing, my hands sweated, I couldn’t stop thinking about the writing I wasn’t getting done. I walked toward the road and thought, just for a second or two, would these beautiful women be better off without me. I found something inside of me. It was a peaceful place.  I turned, smiled at my wife and sixteen-year-old daughter and declared, “this is your new car, baby. We’ll come back tomorrow when they’re open and work out the details”. Their dirty blond manes danced around their warm, expressive faces. I leaned against a car on the lot, and muttered to myself “kiss my ass anxiety, I beat you this time.” Of course, there’s tomorrow to tackle, and that damn google document with Helene Troy’s chapters.

****blogger’s note****

This guitar riff is what my mind is like on days like today. These lyrics are pretty much what I’ve been experiencing with my family the past few days. Thank God, they love me so much. Today’s song is from Bush. Here’s The Chemicals Between Us.

Another One About A Girl

The broken street light cloaked her entrance into the Three Bears Motel. The clerk, a half-asleep dark-haired man in his early twenties, jumped to attention as a tall blonde with sexy blue eyes stood before him carrying a grey backpack and a coal-black suitcase. She gripped both like mama bear toting her cubs. She spoke in with a deep husk, either affected by sickness or bad habits.

“I need a room, smoking, and I’m paying cash, okay?”

The clerk found the proper form and punched in the number three on the key card reader. He smiled and tried to flirt.

“Wow, you’re probably the prettiest person I’ve ever seen check into this place. You must be from out-of-town.”

Her eyes stayed on the on the suitcase while her hands trembled like leaves in a March wind. The clerk, too young and clueless to see her state,  kept talking.

“So where ya from? I mean, well, I guess I could just read what you write on this paper.”

His goofy grin just pissed her off. She snapped.

“I’m paying cash, you don’t need to know anything else! Just give me the key card!”

He picked up the card and held it between his skinny fingers and snarled back at her.

“Montana state law says I must have a written record of every person staying in this hotel. So listen Goldilocks, I need this job. Make up a name. I don’t give a damn. But fill out the paperwork and go be a bitch in room three.”

She shot laser beams at ice blue hate through him. Her twitching left hand picked up a black ink pen and started writing. For that one cool, cruel night Goldilocks Jones from Las Vegas, Nevada was a guest of The Three Bears motel in Lincoln, Montana. The written record said so.

Goldilocks made her way to room three. The overwhelming odor of cigarette smoke, lysol, and despair was familiar. Two beds separated by a lamp on a nightstand populated the space. She sat her backpack on one bed and the dark suitcase on the other. Those items were more important than she was, she thought, as she sat in floor with her back to the nightstand. It felt right, whatever right was on this day.

She pulled off her dark blue hoodie, Her dirty, ripped blue jeans followed. Wearing only a faded Nirvana t-shirt and white panties she stood over the suitcase and swallowed hard.

“My whole pathetic life in one black box.”

Goldilocks opened it and tears flowed over her pale, gaunt face. Her hands shook even more as she examined its contents.

“I should’ve stayed in Vegas. This isn’t me, I’m not good girl, but I’m not a bad one, either.”

She moved over to the backpack and reached inside the front pocket. Three pill bottles were scooped up and she set them on the floor where she assumed the position of her back against the nightstand. She took a pill from each bottle. The first one was bitter, the second one was somewhat sweet, the third one had no taste, and she liked it best. Goldilocks closed her eyes and murmured.

“I need to dream something wonderful.”

The next time she opened them, three large men stood over her . Her dream was over. One of the men barked orders to the other two.

“Get the suitcase and whatever drugs she has in the backpack. I’ll take care of the Goldilocks that robbed our casino.”

Goldilocks whimpered.

“I’m sorry I stole the suitcase. I’m sorry for how I lived my life. “

The large man didn’t respond. One of the other men handed him the pill bottles. Goldilocks stared at the containers and responded.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take them all. Just let me have one more wonderful dream.”

****blogger’s note****

This is a very special Blossom err, episode of My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. Trifecta writing asked for a take on the Goldilocks and The Three Bears. I’ve been writing some noir style stuff and I thought I’d try this. http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/

I’ve used Nirvana’s About A Girl before, but it was a sweet post about my daughters. I used the electric version. This time, since this is completely different, we’ll go with the threesome of Kurt, Dave and Krist, unplugged. Here’s About A Girl.

The Talk

Hey, you got a few minutes? There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss. I think it’s important. I know you know some of what I’m about to go over. Your friends, your family, the lovely internets; they all have information. I just don’t think you’re going to hear the truth, the real hardcore, TRUTH about what drugs and alcohol are and can do to you. Most people won’t admit what they’ve done and how, if any of it, was positive.

I was young, about 15, when I first started drinking alcohol. I did it because my friends were drinking. I wanted to fit in and see if it would make me feel cool, older, even help me be comfortable around the opposite sex. You know, it did. It’s fool’s gold. What I mean is the high is temporary. When you start drinking, you have no idea what a tolerance is, so you drink too much for your body and you’ll either throw up, get sleepy, or lose your inhibitions so much you’ll do something regretful, if you remember it at all.

Don’t get me wrong, is partying fun? Yes. Blowing off steam can make great memories. The catch about doing it with alcohol or drugs, which we’ll get to in a minute, is, you don’t remember everything. There were concerts by great bands that alcohol took away my recollection of how good the show was or wasn’t. This is why, in 1994, when I saw The Rolling Stones in the Meadowlands in Jersey, I stayed sober. The show was amazing.

The only other thing I want to tell you about drinking is, if you ever consume alcohol stay out of a car. That means don’t drive one impaired and never get in one with someone who’s looped. I’ve lost several friends over the years because they made that mistake.

Drugs are a different ballgame. Most of the greatest music recorded, books written, masterpieces painted and sculpted were from artists higher than kites in March wind. But drugs are bad. I want to tell you to never do drugs but I don’t want to be pious or arrogant. Drugs can be fun. They work. Some of them work really well. But fallout from doing them is even greater than booze.

People seem to love marijuana. It chills them out. It takes away stress, even more than booze does. It never did anything for me. It makes me sleepy, hungry, and paranoid. I can be all three of those things without testing positive for on a drug test. I don’t know if the mary jane is addictive. I think chemical makeup of a person is way unstudied and definitely under discussed. Do I think an mj habit can be detrimental to ambition. Yes? The penalties for getting caught with weed are too severe for having it and trying it. I don’t recommend it, at all.

The only other drugs I’ve tried are cocaine and LSD. I’m here to tell you, they are even better than advertised. They are also really dangerous. I had good and bad experiences with both. There was a time in my life when coke dominated my days and nights. I’m ashamed of this. Cocaine caused some long term heart problems that I deal with today. It also made me dependent on bad people. I understand the allure but I’ve never seen a person who does hard drugs succeed in life, other than artists and I believe they’re the exception. Of course, most of them are dead. It’s like making a deal with the devil. You get short-term awesome, then long-term misery.

Drugs and alcohol are bad. But, like anything, moderation is a key. If you are in a controlled environment with people you trust and no automobiles to drive or police to arrest you and the amount is small, then substances can be a unique experience. But, just like eating McDonald’s everyday is bad, so are drugs and alcohol.

Just promise me you’ll come talk to me if you’re ever in a situation where you need help, advice, or a ride with no judgement til the next day.

****blogger’s note****

Yesterday my friend Scarlet, aka @Scarlet_Ibis was at a D.A.R.E lecture at her daughter’s school and she was struck by the lies and misinformation given. A year or so ago my teenage daughter was given a talk to by her mother and I about booze and dope. It was like you read above. Since my history with both is more chequered than my wife’s I got thrown under the bus and yet, no one died or hated me. In my opinion, this is the talk that needs to be given, not just say no. Feel free to agree or disagree. It’s the internets. Come at me bro.

Today’s song is what they should teach in schools. It’s Lynyrd Skynyrd, 34 years ago, giving you everything you need to know about drugs and alcohol. Here’s That Smell….

 

Better Days

Last time with Helene Troy: http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2011/12/16/bodies/

Small dark circles formed under Helene’s 24-year-old eyes. Two years and three months of living during New York nights and barely sleeping it’s days were beginning to take a physical toll. The few seconds of examination in Ramona’s bedroom vanity were distracted by the smile on Helene’s face. 

“Save a smile for me, honey.”

Ramona appeared at the bedroom doorway, arms folded, holding Helene’s backpack in her left hand. She spoke cautiously.

“I hope this is alright, Leney, but I tossed your wet clothes in my hamper. I thought maybe, we could come back here and you could get your album, then? The driver’s waiting outside. It stopped raining. I told him we’d be out any minute.”

Helene pulled a black CBGBs t-shirt over her sweat-glistened chest and stomach. She met Ramona at the threshold and smoothly kissed her mouth. Helene pulled away and tussled her long brown hair. Ramona kept her eyes closed, cooing a sigh. Helene whispered.

“Let’s go make great music.”

Helene took her backpack from Ramona and found her cell phone. There were several text messages. The important ones belonged to Darcy Bridges. A line reading “since ur ignoring me like a bitch, guess I’ll hav 2 die to get ur attention!!!”. Helene frowned. Darcy had always been troubled but rarely was she melodramatic. Helene silently wondered if Darcy was just high. She quickly typed a text to Sadie and Mara, “check on Darcy. She’s talking crazy. Will call you in a few hours. Recording.” By the time Helene hit send, she and Ramona were at the taxi.

“Everything okay, Leney?”

Helene smiled quickly, hoping to throw Ramona off of the drama. She opened her door and the two of them got in the backseat simultaneously.

“Oh yeah, Ramona. It’s just Slipper Socks Medium bullshit. We have a big show, opening for The Golden Apples on Tuesday.”

Ramona barked the address of the producer’s studio and leaned back. Helene looked at her phone and read Sadie’s response, “Mara looking for Darcy who stole drugs from boyfriend. will keep you updated. be a rockstar.” She shook her head, then felt Ramona’s left hand touch her right. Ramona smiled and spoke with authority.

“This is the first step to being Helene Troy. Don’t let the band bring you down. You’re with me tonight.”

Helene flipped the cell phone into bottom of the backpack. She stared into Ramona’s enlightened gaze and told her what she needed to hear.

“I’m with you more than just tonight.”

The taxi stopped in front of the loft. Ramona beat Helene to the driver’s side and paid him. Helene felt her phone buzz again. She read the last two texts from Darcy Bridges, “u kicked me out of the band! you ruined everythng!” “I lovd u! What happens now is ur fault!”

Helene stood in the middle of a large puddle. Water seeped over her boots. She quietly mumbled to herself, “Oh God, no, Darse. Don’t be stupid.” Ramona walked over and pulled her away from the cab and the pool of rainwater.

“You want to talk about it or keep it as band bullshit?”

Helene squeezed Ramona’s right hand.

“I made up mind on your kitchen floor, with you, Ramona. It’s time for better days.”

****blogger’s note****

This is an unprompted, straight up brand new episode of The Ballad of Helene Troy. You can find the rest of the story, so far, here: http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/the-ballad-of-helene-troy/

Today’s song is a quirky, guilty pleasure hangover type song from 1999. It’s also ironic to the foreshadowing. Here’s Citizen King’s Better Days…

Head Like A Hole

The only thing I feared was the light of day. It showed what I didn’t want anyone to see. I’d gone too far. Going to class meant sitting in the back of the room, wearing sunglasses, and wanting the night to come. I ran across campus to pay her a visit. She made me feel bulletproof.

The mirror was an enemy. I cut my hair short so I didn’t need to look. The only people I interacted with were conduits to her. It started as a Thursday night thing. That was party night at college. Months of worshiping her changed every day into Thursday night.

I tried to keep going. I woke up with her . I saw her at lunch. I didn’t go to sleep at night, with her. Finally I saw her in the light of day. I don’t remember how I opened my bloodshot eyes, but the wreck she’d made my life was obvious. I woke up on the floor of a place I didn’t know. My chest burned. My head was a hole. She didn’t care. She wanted me to want her more. The crash was sudden and it was devastating. The wreckage was my mind, my body and my soul.

I ran away. No, that’s wrong. I slinked away, like a thief, stealing my life back in shadows of the night that owned me.

She was a white demon I called snowflake. She wasn’t a woman at all. 

 

Today we’re trying a little something different. Are you ready? Your word is below. Take the next ten minutes to write about the first single memory that word calls up. Focus on the emotions and the experience, spend ten minutes really exploring that memory. Then wrap it up, publish, and come back to link up.

Today’s song is one that played a lot when I went through this time. Here’s Nine Inch Nails’ Head Like A Hole. The lyrics are perfect.

Cinnamon Girl

“Tell me about your first time?”

She looked away with sad brown eyes and examined at the door of the small office. It was locked. Her look steeled and she spoke with measured defiance.

“You can’t repeat what I to say to anyone, correct?”

He rubbed his salt and pepper beard with his left hand. With his right, he wrote, “showing off, listen cautiously” in the black leather journal laying across his Haggar slacked lap.

“Unless I think you are going to commit a crime, then no, I can not repeat your words.”

The 25-year-old memory felt fresh and vibrant. She was perversely proud. She shook her medium length brown hair and smiled into his scared blue eyes.

“My father and grandfather were brilliant chemists. “

He wrote “hero-worship, disturbed by memories of family” in the journal, then averted his eyes from hers. 

“My grandfather had Alzheimer’s disease. Five generations of people committed to cures and health enhancers, yet an insidious sickness killed a great man.”

He fidgeted in his black office chair, which caused his journal to drop. He sighed relief when it hit the floor face down. She couldn’t read his disdain and fear.

“Forgive my clumsiness.”

She stood suddenly, with intentionally bold posture. She adjusted her eggshell colored blouse and walked to the window. A ray of sunshine came through, revealing her alabaster complexion.

“I would sit with my grandfather on weekends, watching Atlanta Braves baseball games on tv. We’d drink hot chocolate, covered with light film of cinnamon that I made. He called me his cinnamon girl. I loved that. One day I showed up at the nursing home and instead of cinnamon girl he called me “nurse”.

He moved up in his chair.

“What happened next?”

She turned from the window and saw the small man cower.

“I told my father that granddad was different. My father kissed me goodnight and left his cabinet keys at the foot of my bed. I waited until my parents were asleep. I went downstairs and found the potassium cyanide. I took the necessary amount. The next weekend, I went to see my grandfather. The Braves were playing the Dodgers. He called me nurse again. I went to the pantry, made our hot chocolate, mixed his appropriately and watched him go to sleep forever. That was my first time.”

****blogger’s note****

This is some short fiction based on the conversation prompt by Write On Edge, this Friday. On Tuesday, I challenged you to write a conversation.

 Using surroundings, body language, visual cues and blocking, in addition to the spoken words, show us who they are and what their relationship is without coming out and telling us! All that, in 300 words or less.

This piece is based on something I wrote last week called Murder By Numbers, http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2011/11/02/murderbynumbers/ You figure out who is talking to whom.

Today’s song is from the great Neil Young and Crazy Horse. I like the use of this tune with this character. It’s different to say the least. Here’s Cinnamon Girl.

Murder By Numbers

I’m wearing white, because it is 24 hours past Labor Day and I could not care less. This eggshell blouse and matching skirt look good with my brown hair and eyes. This is one of my finest moments. Time for these police detectives to feel necessary, I suppose.

“Okay, Millicent Stingley interview is now being videotaped. The time is 3:03 pm, eastern standard time. The date is September 6th, 2012. The place is Copeland County, Georgia, Police Station, room 3. Present are senior detective Stu Andrews and myself, junior detective Gordon Summers.”

I’m bored already. Should I demand a lawyer or just give them a taste of the same medicine I did the others?

“Knock, it off, Gordy. We get the point. Now Ms. Stingley, you are consenting to an official police interview without the presence of counsel. We are clear about this, correct?”

I shake my head yes because I don’t want to waste valuable words on these simpletons. Oh, the younger blonde one, Gordy, is offering me a soft drink. Gordy, me showing you my new midnight mascara on these naturally long eyelashes is me denying you my DNA. Here we go, the older, bald, paunchy one is talking first.

“Millicent Stingley, you are considered a person of interest in the homicide investigation of the deaths of Britney Cole, Trever Jones, and Paul Heyward. My first question is, can you tell us where you were on the evenings of July 7th and 10th of this year?”

I can’t take any more of this. They’re not going to challenge me.

“Detective Andrews, tell me what you know about drug hybrids.”

The blank look on a man’s face is, by far, my least favorite human response. He is looking at the younger one.

“Fine, I’ll engage you, Gordy. You probably look at the internet. Do you really know what’s in your headache relief?”

Go ahead, senior detective, let the junior puppy have a bite of the bone. Gordy give it a shot.

“Well, I guess, it’s a compound of acids, and salts, and other elements.”

Yeah, this could take all night and I am hungry. I am taking over.

“Before you two brought me into this room you ran a background check on me. You also checked my website for advocating homeopathic medicine and making my own home remedies from plants and common chemicals. You have no idea how my former aquaintances died. The toxicology reports are coming back clean. There’s no physical evidence I was even around them when they died.”

Uh oh, old paunchy is getting angry. His arteries are hardening as we sit.

“We ask the questions here, Ms. Stingley! Where were you on July 7th and July 10th?”

I’m craving avocado. I should get the sandwich at Two’s Cafe instead of the salad. I deserve to cheat a little. Time to end this.

“Detectives, I’m a fifth generation apothecary. My daddy was one, and his daddy was one and so on and so on and so on. My degree is in chemistry, from Emory University. I know more about the chemical make up of your coffee that you do about police work. I make and distribute pharmecutical drug hybrids that heal and, possibly, if in the proper hands, kill. During that week in July, I was at a chemists conference in New York City. This is a card of my colleague, who will verify my attendance. So, there is my alibi. Until then, you’ll have to speak to my lawyer. Here is his card.”

I flip them both at Gordy. He and his partner are slack jawed. You would think police work would have gotten better in the 21st century. Murder certainly has improved.

“Ms. Stingley, we can’t talk to you right now, since you asked for an attorney. You can go, but count on us being in touch soon. Gordy, turn the camera off.”

Gordy is crushed. That is so cute. I like Gordy. He’s cute and married. He probably has a cute wife and cute  kids.. Paunchy is ringless and two honeybuns away from a heart attack. This room is being watched everywhere but that corner where Paunchy’s coffee cup sits. It is blinded by shadow; how perfect. I choose old, paunchy Detective Andrews. It’s only three steps until I reach his cup.

He will be victim number four.

*****blogger’s note*****

Millicent is in bold, the detectives are in regular type.

This is my response to my friend Grace’s Indie Ink Challenge http://forum.indieink.org/viewforum.php?f=8 ”The apothecary’s daughter”. Amazing Grace writes very well here: http://thegraceofpirates.blogspot.com/ . I challenged my friend Tara http://thinspiralnotebook.wordpress.com/ with “Write 500 words without using the letter E”. She is still speaking to me. Please check out IndieInk : http://forum.indieink.org/viewforum.php?f=8

Today’s song is one I didn’t think I’d use. I’m not much of a murder mystery or heartless serial kilelr writer. The Police wrote this song about crooked politicians but it’s been used to soundtrack sociopaths for 25 years. Here’s The Police’s Murder by Numbers.