Turn My Body Loose

Abbott Birth by Victor Garcia. Used with permission.

A poetic rant

We, women . . . we cling to our bodies
our sense of self wrapped up in them
and warped to nothingness by the
White men who use their minds to
belittle and belie our truths at every
corner — at every junction. 
How are we to live in a nation
full of vultures?

How are we to cope?

A balking group of people has
made it their life’s work to
strip the woman of the one
thing we had total control over — the body.
And what next? What will they 
search and seize and lasso into
their slimy possession that 
belongs to us?

We are yclept weaker or lesser 
yet they use laws to silence us — to push
us into the closets of their making.
Is it fear? Is it egotistical? Is it bullying?
What can we say about the men 
who have no desire to protect us?
What can we say about the women
who support them?

Turn my body loose. You have
no reign here — it is mine. I carry it,
I nurture it — grow it into the massive
mountain you wish you could climb.
Tread lightly, though, I can shake it
and rattle you at my will. 
I can crush you if ever I feel the need to.

Were these your reasons? Is this your why?

Could you no longer take the 
strength and representation within
something built of atoms and flesh and blood
that is not solely yours?
It boggles my mind how senseless
human beings have become 
but even more so, how drunk with 
power many men are.

If it were up to me, I’d rally
the world around us to bury
your tongues in the potholes meant 
for them and turn the sun’s rays
up higher — burn, motherfucker, burn.
We’d stand by, fan the flames, and 
call Lucifer to your collective side.

We’d let him have his way with you,
just as you’ve had yours with us.


Originally published in my new publication, soliloque, via Medium.

Brought Back to Life (Revised)

Microfiction

Photo by Rahul Pandit via Pexels

Sold into flames, fiery pits sing of the determination of willful souls who know only the battles of their homeland.

Dead then alive, then dead again, human resurrection; phoenixes rising up, resisting the shackles weighing them down. We move to get away from ourselves. We seek peace in other lands — eager to take over other worlds. Will our legs carry us to places unknown?
 
Temptation comes in two forms; young or old. We crave them both. Is this life’s crown? Are we waiting to be brought back to life while we struggle to live? 
 
Are we?


Revised version originally published in soliloque via Medium.

Nine Perfect Strangers: We Could All Use a Bit of Tranquillum

Musical Selection: Blue Magic|Sideshow

Or could we?

Photo by Hudon Hintze via Unsplash

The world in which we live is crumbling — bursting at its seams. I can only speak for myself, but I know I am not alone in feeling this . . . in feeling the dark pain that lingers without relent. I believe it is common for human beings to want to flee the bad parts of life — to shut ourselves up and lock ourselves out of the realness of the world when it weighs heavily on our shoulders.

Shouldn’t we want relief? Shouldn’t we strive for it? And with our world spinning and crashing the way it has for decades, do you ever wonder when will it all end?

I saw the trailer for Nine Perfect Strangers multiple times and told myself after The Handmaid’s Tale, I couldn’t take another dramatic/dystopian/climactic series. But, with each view of the trailer, my curiosity had been heightened. I adore Melissa McCarthy and have always had a slight crush on Nicole Kidman, so I told myself, “It’ll either be really good or really bad. What do you have to lose?”

Shouldn’t we want relief? Shouldn’t we strive for it?


The Pull of the Series.

Before I knew it, I’d launched myself into the first episode (Random Acts of Mayhem) and had watched the next three without stopping. And now, having watched the fifth one (Sweet Surrender), I want more.

Based on The New York Times best-selling book by author Liane Moriarty, “Nine Perfect Strangers” takes place at a boutique health-and-wellness resort that promises healing and transformation as nine stressed city dwellers try to get on a path to a better way of living. Watching over them during this 10-day retreat is the resort’s director, Masha, a woman on a mission to reinvigorate their tired minds and bodies. However, these nine “perfect” strangers have no idea what is about to hit them.

Having read the above synopsis, wouldn’t you want to dive right in as well? Nine Perfect Strangers, for me, started off strong from the very beginning. I had been pulled into these characters’ lives — it made me seek what they sought — to learn what they were drawn to learn. I could not pull my eyes away from each instance as every character plays a major part. Each one of them has his or her own share of chaotic behavior to lend to the series.

With everything that had been pummeling them, drowning them, beating them senseless, Tranquillum House was — is supposed to be their escape. It is supposed to be their leap into peace.

With every episode, I found myself pulled into the strength and presence of Nicole Kidman’s character, Masha. Does she have a God complex or is she truly trying to help the souls she claims to want to save? What’s the bigger picture? What is her ultimate goal?

I see a bit of myself in Regina Hall’s character, Carmel. Two people had hurt me to almost the point of being broken, yet I was not married to either of the two. But, I need to “dissociate myself” from each of them. I need to find peace with being single again. I had it a few years ago, but for some reason, it has fled the scene — no calls, no letters . . . nothing.

I also see myself in Tiffany Boone’s character, Delilah (Dee). I am struggling to save my sanity in a world designed for me to lose it. I have watched someone I love cling to another, yet knew I did not have it in me to give them what they needed. And throughout that time, I still had to wear the mask in public — be professional, carry on with life — act like shit really did not hit the fan.

Tranquillum House was — is supposed to be their escape. It is supposed to be their leap into peace.

The perfectly handsome yet misleading Yao, played by Manny Jacinto, had me burning with intense anger in certain scenes and I became an even bigger fan of Delilah. His intelligence, love of nature, charm, and calm demeanor are all captivating qualities, but his demons aren’t subdued for long. They are revealed and they stir up havoc.


What is Going to Happen?

Everyone in Nine Perfect Strangers has lost something or some things, whether they are physical or emotional — they all share the presence of loss. Tranquillum House, the savior space, headed by Masha and her helpers, reeled them in and is taking them on the most unpredictable ride of their lives.

From casual lies to micro-dosing the nine with psychedelics to playing on their emotions for personal gain or perhaps understanding of herself, Masha is a character you’re going to either love or hate. And I am still on the fence about where I stand with her. Maybe love. Maybe hate. I think the next episode will break the ambivalence for me.

Has Masha found her calling in life — trying to fix the lives of others while purposely ignoring her own trauma, her own impending demise? She coordinated an intact (on the outside) house of healing, yet everyone seems to be breaking down.


Tranquillum — not for me, maybe . . .

At first glance, Tranquillum House seems like one I would pay thousands of dollars for which to retreat, but after pulling back its layers — maybe, just maybe, I better stick to writing and therapy. The foundation and walls probably aren’t the source of my skepticism — I’m certain it is the actions that go on behind those walls. Would I even survive it? Would you?

The sixth episode airs on Hulu on Wednesday, September 08, 2021, and I intend to be watching everything as it unfolds.


YouTube

Originally published in my new publication, soliloque, via Medium.

I Have Been Meaning to Burn Your Letter

But it’s really all I have left of you

I have been meaning to burn your letter. Not letters, no . . . I’d written you hundreds, maybe thousands, over the years, yet I received one in return. One . . . I’ve kept that letter for nearly eighteen years. I move. It moves with me. It knows every space in which I’ve dwelled. It has its own personality, still reeking of you. Still holding you within its lines.

I thumbed over it the other day as I was going through my file, discarding decades-old greeting cards and tossing meaningless utterances from my gullible years. I almost threw it away. I looked at it and instantly, the pain that comes with having that letter slapped me hard on my face.

I should have listened to the harder me negotiating the benefits of letting it go. But I didn’t. And now, I am debating on if I want to waste lighter fluid and purified water on words that have lost their meaning.

I move. It moves with me.

Have they lost their meaning, though?

If I were to send a quick text message to you and inquired about the beats of your heart whenever I was around, would it be accurate in its detail? Were you always nervous — butterfly-bellied? Did I really . . . really make you feel alive? More alive than he did?

It doesn’t matter anymore, right? What is past is the past. But I go dumpster-diving into my past every so often and I meet you there. We fool around with our garbage — failing to clean it up.

I told one of my best friends I finally deleted your phone number — removed your photos from my bookshelf, stashed that stuffed frog somewhere I can’t find it, and she said, “Oh, really? Now, that is something I never thought would happen. How do you feel about all this?”

Were you always nervous — butterfly-bellied? Did I really . . . really make you feel alive?

I couldn’t answer her then and I cannot answer her now. I don’t know how I feel. At first, I felt relief. It was refreshing to take back my heart — my life. It seemed gratifying.

Now, I just . . . I am not numb. It is not the proper word. I am desensitized, maybe? I am no longer taken with you, but I still want to hold on to you. Does that make sense? And since I can’t have you — something from you, something genuine from you, will do.

I am stuck in this maze. I know the way out. I’ve been here before. You are always at the exit and I stall on getting there — knowing the toll I’ll have to pay will cost me everything.

You blew me away. I was dust. Mere particles for you to dispose of and dispose of, you did. Yet here I am, coming across an old letter that ruminated for nearly two decades and it’s still intact. What would love analysts say? Would they dissect this instance and talk about it during their “You Must Move On” podcasts or prime-time television shows? Are these still relevant nowadays?

I am stuck in this maze. I know the way out. I’ve been here before.

My mind tells me I shouldn’t harbor something that has so much of you in it. I shouldn’t. I said you would remain in these walls — I wouldn’t take you with me, not again. But this letter . . .

It’s really all I have left of you, and I’m not ready to let it go.

Not yet.


*Upon discarding some old things, and trying to declutter for the upcoming move, I came across a letter from someone I truly loved (still love) and one I struggle sometimes, to forget. In a way, I’d forgotten about it because it was hidden. It sparked this piece. Thank you for reading.



Originally published via Medium.

a loss of hope

A Tricube

loss of hope
almost there
pain is deep

alive now
I am blessed
no illness

thousands die
on each day
no savior


*I first learned about Tricubes from David at The Skeptic’s Kaddish. It’s a lovely form and I am glad I stumbled across it. This is my first one I am sharing via WordPress.

Tricube rules:

  • Each line contains three syllables.
  • Each stanza contains three lines.
  • Each poem contains three stanzas.