TITLED THREE TILTED REALITIES

Outside you see my smiling waxed lip smile, my perfectly straight freshly whitened teeth, my blemish free makeup spackled skin and my hair cemented into perfection.

Outside you see me picking up the trash, pulling the weeds out of the sidewalk cracks, hosing off the concrete driveway and nary breaking a sweat.

Outside you will hear me laugh expressively (but not too loudly) as my eyes twinkle with delight and I pose for the imaginary paparazzi (satellites and google earth might catch me on film).

Inside, my lips are smudged across my face and into my ear, my coffee/tea/wine stained teeth reflect the ease of my choices, I itch and scratch my face uncontrollably until I break open the sores and stare blankly at my own reflection in the oven door.

Inside I am wading ankle deep through piles of dirty laundry, marveling at how industrious and committed ants are, and wondering when I last hosed myself off in the shower.

Inside I cry without tears, scream until I have no voice left to scream with, close my eyes as I insert my head into the oven door, light the match and wait for the flash. 

On this cold and rainy day, I sit listening to the sound of emptiness that accompanies the sporadic rhythms played out upon my roof and pinging off the gutters in no particular order.

I ask myself, is it order that is missing from this day? It could be. I did not want to stop dreaming and rise to meet this empty day. I wanted to stay inside of myself, inside of the cocoon I had spun around me with warm blankets, inside of that place of no expectations...

Once I did pour myself out of bed, I emptied an overly full bladder, brushed my teeth, washed my face and headed out to the kitchen to turn the coffee-maker on. I don’t know why. I didn’t want coffee, I wanted to return to lands beyond this one, where there were adventures and love stories to be played out in a colorful array of details that make it all the more real than what I was looking out my window and seeing.

I do love a rainy day when nothing is expected and I can slip away into reveries or stay awake and create stories for you to read. In many ways, they are one and the same - yet, so distant from each other in space and time.

Space. I take up such a small amount of space; so infinitesimal that if you were unaware and not expecting me to be here, I would totally go unnoticed. On days like today, I want to be as small as I can possibly be so that time cannot find me.

Time. Therein lies the problem. If I do nothing all day, I am wasting time. If I get busy and work all day, time slips away from me. This elusive and ethereal notion of time. It holds no place in reality. It is not made up of mass yet is possesses volume in our lives. Our delicate balance of a life that rests upon the head of a pin, while we move about like bulls in china closets trying to get to the next project or to run away from all responsibility expected of us.

A delicate balance; space and time. Neither truly exists. We barely exist. Between the drops of rain that ping off the gutters and the sudden downpours that never frighten us, but rather, they draw us under... in between the drops of rain and under the deluge, on a cold rainy day where the only thing to do is wrap myself back up in that cocoon and remain motionless as I drift away into worlds of magic.

I do not exist. (The only thing that tells me different is a full bladder.)

The hours have no respect for my life anymore.

They do not toll the time of my day and tell me what I am suppose to do and when, how to feel and why...

The sun and moon are playing tricks with my mind. I no longer understand the setting of the one or the rise of the other...

The day is tilted.

What day is it?

Could it be yesterday still?

Or maybe tomorrow has begun without me... I have a keen understanding that I am no long standing in today.

Let the dark remain dark, lest I see my own misery. Pull the shades and turn off the lights. I am better at feeling my way.

When the moon is black against the evening sky, I will run wild and free... no one will know, no one will see... least of all, me.

My color today - is blue-green, the texture is like the rough fur on a Terrier, I smell like freshly turned soil and sound like thunder rumbling in the distance. 

My sense is that something is about to happen that is beyond my control - not necessarily to me personally - but to a large group of people somewhere... else. 

I would paint it as disbelief. 

I would sing it like a mother searching for her child.

All of these vignettes (and more... later) are inspired by those who orbit around me, as if I were the sun and held them within my gravitational pull.

I have no such power. Each of you, the true inspiration for my vignettes and short stories here, are my sun, and I orbit around you far out in the cosmos of non-existence where you are unaware that you are the storyteller and I am listening intently to every word you utter.

Thank you for giving me such a gift. You do matter and you are worthy of so much more than you know. You have given a voice to those who remain silenced. Keep talking.

M TERESA CLAYTON

FAILURE TO THRIVE

She sits in her room, the fan humming as it turns back and forth as if trying to locate the source of her anguish and extinguish it before it consumes her.

A dark, darker, darkening room where she hides her face, the one that reveals the truth, beneath the blankets in the empty bed where she lays her burdens down so she can lift up her cries for understanding… a little bit of compassion from the other side… tiny prayers swallowed hard as her chest heaves unevenly with the sobs that overcome her and choke her into silence.  


Silence.

She opens the drawer on her bedside table and takes out the only comfort she can count on and places the pill into her mouth and swallows. Soon, the night will give her what she needs – safety from the reality of her days, solace against the insult of indifference, and a world where she can be free of pain.

Morning comes too soon. The day takes over and she obeys the order of the habits that keep her calm and give her the sense of security she so desperately needs.


She feeds the cats crying at her feet, lets the dog out to pee, starts the coffee brewing and stops to remind herself that this is Tuesday… or is it Wednesday?...  It becomes her focus as she fumbles through the piles of paper, empty glasses, unopened mail, keys, receipts, half-eaten bowl of cereal from the previous morning… there; she spots her calendar and opens it to July. 

To her horror, she realizes that she hasn’t opened this calendar in over two months and there is nothing written inside, no X’s in the squares that number each day of the week, nothing to give her the answer to what most would know instinctively – what fucking day is this?

She hurriedly prepares her cup of coffee and turns the television on – Ah; there it is – Wednesday, July 18^th.  


It will be another record hot day in the region (hell, for the entire country) and again, she will be held captive inside these four walls for another day trying to survive what threatens her out there as well as what threatens inside.

Absentmindedly, she rubs her tongue over the front of her teeth – the taste of something offensive has been building inside her mouth for days and now she thinks she can feel the buildup… it is rough and feels like it is covered in thick mucus.  When was the last time she brushed her teeth?  Or taken a shower? Washed her hair?

Staring out the window by the sink she realizes that it has been over a week now, but can’t say exactly how many days it has been for sure… it’s Wednesday, isn’t it?

She sips her coffee and the hot fluid immediately cleanses the grime from her teeth and tongue and carries it all conveniently down her throat… down there where she choked on her prayers the night before.

What will she do today? It’s just another day, no different than yesterday and nothing anticipated for tomorrow… She should clean something, get active and do something constructive. 


So she sets about moving the mess from one end of the dining room table to the other and wiping off the surface.  Now, instead of piles of junk – everything is stacked up nicely on the other end of the table as if waiting to be dispatched to their proper places… maybe tomorrow.

The question that perplexes her most is whether or not to even get dressed. She is more comfortable in her jammies, no bra, nowhere to go, no one to see, no one who cares one way or another – so she decides to stay in her jammies.

The news is going on about two boys shot behind a bar on North Street, it looked like an execution-style hit.

Politicians are playing their games, the name calling, but no one really ever says what they intend to do about those like her who do not go out of their house, have forgotten how to socialize in the world today, are afraid of what they might find beyond their front doors.  No, she will stay safe inside today, maybe she will go out tomorrow, she’ll see how it goes…

The phone begins its daily succession of calls from bill collectors, sales people, people with questions about how she feels today and if she needs anything…  She tells herself that she will someday make up a list so she has it available for such questions in the future.

I need someone to help me make repairs around the house.

I need assistance with carrying my groceries in.

I need to talk to someone about the thoughts I am having.

I need to find a way back in time, to a place where my family was all together and we laughed and played.

I need to go back and visit those days when I was not in constant pain and I could breathe!

I need to go to that place where I once kissed my children’s eyes asleep at night and then kissed them awake each morning.  Where have my children gone?

I need my husband to make the hurt all go away and come home to me and stay.

What would they say if she gave this list to them – her needs?  Simple needs.

She walks over to the cabinet to retrieve her meds already placed in their appropriate and corresponding days of the week container and takes out her Wednesday pills.  She takes a glass of water and flushes them down in one take.

Now she performs her daily dance, up to clean a bit, sit down to rest and listen to the television a bit, then back up to clean a bit, then to lie down to recover (but not for too long or the pain will freeze her limbs) – up, down and dancing around because she cannot be in any one position too long or the pain will overcome her and she will lose another day… and there aren’t many more available, certainly none she can afford to lose.

Maybe a shower and I’ll brush my teeth. She gathers her things, a towel and washcloth, and steps under the warm spray and feels instant relief.  Why doesn’t she do this every day?  She washes her hair, her face, and scrubs the dirt from the rest of her body and then reaches for the toothbrush and paste – when she is finished she is squeaky clean and her mouth feels fresh and bright again.

She puts on a new pair of jammies and climbs into her bed and decides to communicate with the outside world via the internet.  The house is silent except for the droning of the fan.  She finds hours of distraction and is thankful she does not have to think.  Her daughters call and ask her how she is doing, what she is doing – the answer is always the same – nothing and I am in pain. As if the words fell hard to the ground before their ears heard the response – the conversation continues about what they are doing and, well, just checking in.  Maybe she should start making notations in the calendar where nothing is ever written… keep track of the lives being lived…. Out there.

She doesn’t eat much anymore, no need, no hunger – she tries to keep up with her water intake to keep herself hydrated. They tell her she is losing too much weight – too much?  She giggled when they told her how tiny she was at the doctor’s office one day. It should have made her feel better but she was indifferent – feeling old now, broken down and a little bit insane –but she is a tiny little thing… there is something wrong with the timing perhaps.

You have the most beautiful skin. Another compliment that is out of its time.

Confused, she is both flattered and happy about it but a bit perplexed as to how this will change anything.

So she returns home from a hard day at the doctor’s office and the tests (always tests). Exhausted and beaten she looks at the clock and it is only 5:00 PM.  Two more hours and she will lock up the doors, turn off the lights, reach for her special pill beside her bed and pray for a speedy delivery into her reveries.

It might be a week or more before she showers and/or brushes her teeth again – she is now posting notes all over the bathroom to try to motivate and remind her to do it.

No one knows how long the little mounds of messes will lie about waiting to be put away in their rightful places.

What we do know is that when she wakes in the morning it begins again – sometime around the point where she makes the coffee she may ask “what day is this” and the panic sets in again.

You don’t know this woman, she rarely comes out of her house and when she does she often remains elusive and quiet – trying not to draw much attention to herself.

I know this woman, she is slowly dying from  "Failure to Thrive: We do not thrive without human touch. One could absolutely die from lack of touch/eye contact, which could lead to loss of appetite, failure to thrive and death." 

Hugs are a commodity, there is no one to lie down with and cuddle close, no one to hold her hand, to look her in the eye and pay close attention to the brilliance that exudes from every pore in her body. She no longer feels important, vital, dignified or glorified.   

She is older now, not very valuable, can’t really offer anything of substance to the whole, except to show up at dinners and be the old woman everyone calls grandma – she is taken out of the closet on special occasions and then forgotten until the next one.  

No one is interested in what she has to say – and she knows so much – she has studied her whole life and is still a student of living. 

Her art goes unnoticed – her writings even less.  She is loved by her many followers but her own family doesn’t see her, even when she is standing in the room where they are.  How can this be?

She once said to me:  When I die, I want my family to know who I was.  I don’t want there to be any surprises – I don’t want them to go through my things and say “Hey, I didn’t know she won this, had that, or was such a bloody success! She didn’t tell anyone!” 

She did tell you, over and over again.  You didn’t bother to ask so it only goes to reason that the information, unsolicited, never made it to your ears – you were not interested.

I did watch her, day in and day out, create beautiful works of art, write with such aplomb, and she had more fans and followers than many musicians out there. People paid attention. To many who don’t know her – she is EVERYTHING.  

Ironic.

She is now asleep in her dark, darker, darkest room with the fan blowing to and fro. Her pale white skin glows in the sliver of light that peeks in from the hallway – she is deep within her dreams and lays her head on her pillow like the goddess she is.

She is the single most beautiful woman I have ever known and yet she possesses a magic that draws others to her.

She is breaking into pieces before my eyes, yet they continue to call upon her for her words of wisdom.  It’s the only thing that feeds her soul… She’ll be okay as long as there are those questions.

I watch as one of her cats knowingly gets up and gently moves toward her face and places what looks to be a kitten kiss over both her eyes and then curls up next to her, content to lay there until morning.  Looking out over the bed… all the cats are with her.  

No harm will come to her this night or any other – her familiars will protect her as she sleeps. The dog is settled and sleeping upon his bed on the floor at the foot of the bed. They know her in all of her incarnations – and they love and adore her.

Good night your grace.

M TERESA CLAYTON

all rights reserved, published 2015