Poisoned Tea

A group of mostly latin women are preparing for battle with their men, the father of their children.
They have known, for some time now- that the men are cold and ruthless and brutal.
And although everything appears normal and cordial on the surface between the two groups, the tension has been building and the women have secretely been meeting...learning how to use clubs and other instruments.
Both men and women are in a room with a long bar...they are all about to go somewhere in a van big enough for the 35 of them and the 12 children, all who are under five.
Before they leave, the men have prepared tea, which they serve in small cups to the women, and it seems obligatory to drink. There is a signal from the head female organizer.
With her eyes, she tells the women that the tea is poisoned and to pretend to drink.
The woman walks out of the room, into the daylight- and becomes a silouette surrounded by blinding white light, spitting the tea out on the grass to her right.

Ride

I can’t believe my eyes.
The road ahead slopes steeply downward. Clearly gravity will pull us off of this outrageous road. I feel frightened but have no hope of avoiding the cataclysm.
I am in the backseat with my hazy sibling and other peers who may or may not really fit into this cab. They seem to fade out into nothing in order to defy spatial restrictions.
This is my father’s pick up truck. The detail to this aspect is very real.
I can feel the coarse tan upholstery under hand as I grip the seats in front of me to brace myself. My father is the driver.
He is in a good mood recognizable from my childhood; full of himself, opportunities knocking and everything is possible.
His passengers are scared shitless by his recklessness and he’s enjoying it.
My mother is riding shot gun, and between my parents a family friend, Maureen.
She crawls down to the floor and lays there.
We’re on our way . Amazingly we remain on the road.

The Two Birds

I rested my head on the shoulder of a chubby crone.
She was in yellow and orange hues, short blond hair.
My head slipped slowly down to her chest, i rested like a child.
She cautioned me to keep communication open, that hard tasks and challenges have only begun.
As she talked, we watched two birds a couple feet in front of us on the ground, next to a bunkbed.
The size of pigeons, but yellow, orange, and green, they walked around or over each other, trying to grab pieces of marigold and chrysanthemum flowers. One bird would take a bite, then fold in on itself, the inside becoming the out.
Like a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, with each bird movement, the scene changed/became distorted.
A graceful flow of geometric shapes...the unfolding of yellow and orange petals.

No Will Of Her Own

It is Easter.
I feel the arousing of life all around and within
me. I cross the sparkling green lawn to reach the mailbox. I
find that it is overflowing with packages wrapped in yellow
paper.
I feel a wave of anxiety. I know who they are from. I
know that they were selected and wrapped with an open heart. I
also know that trouble won’t be far behind.
The gifter is like a Trojan horse; she is sweet and sincere but has no will of her own… the demon inside has brought her back to us.
I am torn. I want to leave them where they are. I don’t want to accept them.
But my partner has decided to welcome her back. I have no say in
the matter. I begin to pull the packages out and read the gift
tags.
There is one for each of my daughters. There is one for my old roommate. Within the depths of the mailbox I can see my partner’s name on yet another. I don’t want to find the one for
me.
Then I wonder: perhaps she wont be coming after all? She
left the packages after a mercifully timed change of heart?
I feel that it has been worth while to control myself. It seems
that perhaps the danger has passed.
Our Easter will be preserved.

The Real Monster

I am an observer to this scene, standing only feet away from the others.
There is a couple, a man and woman, dressed as sexy cops, something out of a cheap Halloween costume.
The man is in a tight satin blue shirt, the woman in a mini skirt and police uniform. They are dressed for a costume party.
The friend they have come with, a nerdish-type with glasses and quite shy, usually is dressed in a monster outfit.
He has a mask made out of plastic covered in dark hair.
Steps from the doorway, the entrance to the party, the couple back out...decide not to go in.
By the look of disappointment in the guy's eyes, they have been doing this to him a lot, but he goes inside anyhow.
All the people inside are dressed as monsters and they all begin to start howling and whopping and beating their chests.
The nerdish guy is unmasked for a moment, either by his own hand or perhaps it is only me that can see the flash of horror; evident not only in his eyes, but throughout his whole face, the way his mouth opens, the color draining from his pink face...
when he realizes that at least one of the monsters (the biggest and most brutal) is not wearing a mask, he is not dressed up or pretending...
he truly is a monster.

The Great Game

The countryside is charming, seemingly touched but undisturbed.
I am very happy walking down this dirt road.
Someone in my entourage shades me from the merrily glowing sun with a parasol.
I am confused by the scene I have stumbled into. It takes me a few moments to realize I have interrupted some organized sport.
On the left side of the road are gathered an assortment of young men and boys, healthy and good natured youths, many of whom have impishly discarded their shirts. On the right side a smaller gathering of somberly and properly clad little old women have converged.
Both sides are eagerly throwing summer ripened strawberries at the opposing camp. The boys are shouting and laughing, their trouser legs are rolled up. Their zeal for the battle is equally matched to that of the old women.
This band of gray ladies is mirthful as well, although they have a more subdued way of expressing it. I am caught in the crossfire. Big juicy strawberries so ripe they explode at impact hail down on me.
There is a cease fire and the young men come into the street to check on me. They offer apologies mingled with laughter.
The delight and good will emanating from both sides is contagious. I feel very pleased by the whole affair.

Spanish Hills

There was the aura of war, the feeling of escape and preparation for another battle.
A group of people that are a hazy blur and myself have retreated into the Spanish hills, its light is yellow and the hills are covered in dead yellow grass and low-growing green shrubs.
We are camping inside and next to old ruins...Old bricks of buildings that were once glorious.
I am standing inside an old ruin we have turned into a house, I go to open the door, there are three people I recognize from our group.
Two men and a woman, a wordly young woman with long dark brown dreadlocks streaked with maroon highlights. Multiple places in her body are pierced. Her clothes are artistically tattered. She is decorated and tattooed.
I notice that she is pregnant, she only wears a bra-like shirt and her belly is exposed.
I look at her belly and see a joker's face and smile looking at me, it is the unborn baby. It is coolly detached and smiling with huge red lips.

The Evil Breed

He is a famous (or perhaps infamous) man known for his good looks, a troubled relationship and involvement in a questionable esoteric society.
He is in pain and very ill.
Outside of social conventions I touch him, help him.
He surrenders himself into my hands, completely in my care. The space is bathed in pale light. There are linens strewn everywhere.
It is unclear whether we are indoors or outdoors, perhaps something in between. Towels on a clothing line flap in a breeze like Tibetan prayer flags.
I lay my hands on his crooked back, feel him burning with fever. His eyes are strange, his face wan and clammy.
I can see how others would be frightened or disgusted by what emanates from his eyes, a peculiar breed of evil.
It only endears him to me, seals a silent understanding.
I am strong enough to lift him onto a bed of sloppily strewn multicolored blankets. My heart is brimming over with pure love as I apply myself fully to tending the fever, a strange combination of detachment and sincere caring.

Deep Waters

I am in the water, a large lake.
I can see the other side which is a place I know as home- a place that is familiar but not really filled with emotional connection or love.
I am up to my waist in the water and begin to run.
I am mad or hurt, a lover has left me.
I start to run in the direction of home and am surprised to realize I am running on top of the water. It is patchy tourquoise and emerald blue.
I see the water getting deeper because it has turned into solid dark blue and I start to dive in head first.
I move in like a mermaid with a slight arch in my back and I feel my neck as my head is pushed back from the impact of water currents with the velocity of my body.

My Arena

The floor is horribly uneven.
It slopes so that it seems probable that I could fall out of the gaping opening. I see a railing that is barely hanging on. I can imagine myself taking hold of it for support only for it to come loose and fall away into the blue with me.
The view is breath taking, a clear sky, the outlines of tall white buildings very far away: civilization.
It looks as if the whole cube -like structure may break free from the house and slide down the rural hillside. My original assessment is that it is a garage, but it is constructed entirely of plywood and I notice none of the customary garage inhabitants.
I see only the stand up arcade video games lining the back wall. I care only about the Mrs. Pac-Man machine set in the center of the row, and I care immensely.
The unstable surroundings do not deter me.
I can mother-fucking play that game.

For Toddlers

I opened the green door.
On my left, very close to the door, was an ensemble of percussion instruments.
There were five or six men all bent over and playing Fisher Price instruments.
They were all made for kids and the instruments only came to their shins. There were an assortment of plastic colors- pink, yellow, green... and types of drums.
I walked in unnoticed and sat down in the center of the room in a plastic chair, a hard type I used to sit on in high school- steel legs and light yellow plastic.
The sound of the drums was amazing and booming.
I closed my eyes and felt the life force in each boom and was amazed that the sound could come out of drums made for toddlers.

Unborn Newness

The waves are easy going, lapping dog like at the sandy beach.
It is a bland colorless moment, neither sunny nor cloudy, neither day nor night. Perhaps it is early morning, or more likely a space I have created forgetful of time.
It has that February quality, the feel of something ready to burst with life but not yet alive. An unborn newness and sweetness.
Standing with her feet in the water I see my sister, a stranger with familiar mannerisms.
Not far off, her boy friend is lifting something out of the water with a long set of tongs, the type you would use to tend a fire. It takes a moment for me to recognize his catch: a live crab.