This old house has seen it all before. The rummaging of angst…The backdoor horrors…
Three crows circling the unkempt gardens, pecking orders for the leftovers.
Descending much like beggars to pennies upon the floor.
This old house…closed for repairs…missing steps in the stairs.
Leaking self depreciating humor…encased in toxic rumor.
This old house…if only you had known sooner.
A foundation built on Christ.
Dining in prayer with the Father and a roll of the dice.
‘Come home.’
I shall tell you now.
I shall tell you now…
what all these years…
you have missed.
“Nail and frail and lying low. A legacy cast no shadow. For it must have not just shape and form, but contempt for danger…or, it only lay shallow.”
“Occasionally, we have to take care of those who once…took care of us. Often leaving, the participants, stuck between wonder-lust and antiquated mistrust.”
To be naïve is to own a bathroom without a plunger!
I ask, who really cares?
Is it the young adult who throws love around like a tit full of cellulite?
Is it the middle aged lesbian who is compulsively aware of her plight brought on by ignorance and therefore, abides by no rules?
Are people basically good?
And, what is love?
Some of the most important questions we will seek answers to…We will continue to search out…Our whole life…Only to come out emptied handed.
Driving amongst the pouring rain tonight, the moon hidden by the sick sense of astronimichumor Mother Nature bestows upon us from time to time. In the sweep of my truck tires and the sounds of Adele, a distant and somewhat comical memory came up to me and shook my hand.
My mother, bless her soul, years before the anti-smoking fashion became all the craze; had been accompanying me for a quick toke off a Marlboro Red in a vacant parking lot…one awful, over stuffed Thanksgiving.
As we coughed and spat and enjoyed our cancer stick. A car of unknown not made in America origin strolled by…on the back were these words stamped out in red, white and blue.
English: Marlboro cigarette in pack. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
MEAN PEOPLE SUCK, NICE PEOPLE SWALLOW.
Being a devout catholic who insists in finding the good in all of us, my mother stated, ‘how nice that is!’
I choked and hammered and hawed, ‘what do you mean, Ma? You mean that bumper sticker?’
She smiles from the inside out and states, ‘yes, isn’t it nice for people to promote such a thing? To get over your differences and swallow your words…I’ve always believed in that!’
At the time, back in the good old not so far from today…days, good ole Ma had an answering machine. And, I knew without posing the question what the next remark would be from my saintly mother.
‘I think I’ll use that saying for a new message on my machine!’
It was then and there that the roles reversed themselves and got twisted up in the game of life and sex and right and wrong.
Gently and with a newly lit cigarette in hand, I explained the facts of life to my mother. A situation I have been able to avoid ever since. To this day I wonder, what would Father John have said, if he called upon my mother at home to possibly come in next Sunday to hand out the sacrament and only got the answering machine? What if Sister Pat phoned and inquired about the new Bingo machine that had been on back order for months? What would her habit have thought of such a message?
Fun as it would have been in my own catholic girl’s do not start much too late, mentality. I had to burst my mother’s virginal bubble.
Tonight, though, while heading north of north. I smiled and thought, wouldn’t it be nice to feel that naivety again? To believe in the good that resides in all of us. To enjoy the love I have waiting at home with me. A partner who rises early and beds down at the crack of sundown. A lover who awaits me with open arms and a caring and comforting charm.
Thank Christ for memory it prompts the jaded edges of my composure to tread lightly when it is graced by the beautiful women in my life.
There’s only one step down from here, baby It’s called the land of permanent bliss What’s a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this ?
I went to the door today and the postman delivered a partridge in a pear tree. What a thoroughly delightful gift. I couldn’t have been more surprised.
With deepest love and devotion, Emma
On the second day of Christmas…
Miss Emma Boil
13 Annus Lane
Beaver Bush, New York
December 15, 2013
Dearest Skip:
Today the postman brought your very sweet gift.
Just imagine two turtle doves. I’m just delighted
at your very thoughtful gift. They are just
adorable.
All my love,
Emma
On the third day of Christmas…
Miss Emma Boil
13 Annus Lane
Beaver Bush, New York
December 16, 2013
Dearest Skip:
Oh! Aren’t you the extravagant one. Now I really
must protest. I don’t deserve such generosity, Three French hens. They are just darling but I must
insist, you’ve been too kind.
Love,
Emma
On the fourth day of Christmas…
Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas! (musical) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Miss Emma Boil
13 Annus Lane
Beaver Bush, New York
December 17, 2013
Dear Skip,
Today the postman delivered 4 calling birds. Now
really, they are beautiful but don’t you think
enough is enough. You’re being too romantic.
Affectionately,
Emma
On the fifth day of Christmas…
Miss Emma Boil
13 Annus Lane
Beaver Bush, New York
December 18, 2013
Dearest Skip:
What a surprise. Today the postman delivered 5
golden rings; one for every finger. You’re just
impossible, but I love it. Frankly, all those birds
squawking were beginning to get on my nerves.
All my love,
Emma
On the sixth day of Christmas…
Miss Emma Boil
13 Annus Lane
Beaver Bush, New York
December 19, 2013
Dear Skip Wad:
When I opened the door there were actually 6 geese
a-laying on my front steps. So, you’re back to
the birds again, huh? Those geese are huge. Where
will I ever keep them? The neighbors are
complaining and I can’t sleep through the racket.
Please stop.
Cordially,
Emma
On the seventh day of Christmas…
13 Annus Lane
Beaver Bush, New York
December 20, 2013
Skip:
What’s with you and those crazy birds? 7 swans
a-swimming. What kind of terrible joke is this?
There’s bird shit all over the house, and they
never stop with the racket. I can’t sleep at
night and I’m a nervous wreck. It’s not funny.
So stop sending me all these birds!
Sincerely,
Emma
On the eighth day of Christmas…
Miss Emma Boil
13 Annus Lane
Beaver Bush, New York
December 21, 2013
Pecker Head:
I think I prefer the birds. What am I going to do
with 8 maids a-milking? It’s not enough with all
those birds and 8 maids a-milking, but they had to
bring their cows! There is shit all over the lawn
and I can’t move in my own house. Just lay off me,
smart ass.
Emma
On the ninth day of Christmas…
Miss Emma Boil
13 Annus Lane
Beaver Bush, New York
December 22, 2013
Hey! Shit 4 brains,
What are you? Some kind of sadist? Now there’s 9
pipers playing. And boy, do they play. They’ve
never stopped chasing those maids since they got
here yesterday morning. They cows are getting upset,
and they’re stepping all over those screeching
birds. What am I going to do? The neighbors have
started a petition to evict me.
You’ll get yours in Hell,
Emma
On the tenth day of Christmas…
Miss Emma Boil
13 Annus Lane
Beaver Bush, New York
December 23, 2013
You Rotten Bastard,
Now there’s 10 ladies dancing. I don’t know why I
call those sluts ladies. They’ve been messing with
those pipers all night long. Now the cows can’t
sleep and they’ve got the diarrhea. My living
room is a river of shit. The Commissioner of
Buildings has subpoenaed me to give cause why this
building shouldn’t be condemned.
I’m sicking the po po on you.
From the Bitch .
On the eleventh day of Christmas…
Miss Emma Boil
13 Annus Lane
Beaver Bush, New York
December 24, 2013
Listen! Needle Dick,
What’s with the 11 lords a-leaping on those maids
and ladies. Some of those broads will never walk
again. Those pipers ran through the maids and
have been committing sodomy with the cows. All
23 of the birds are dead. They’ve been trampled
to death in the orgy. I hope you’re satisfied,
you rotten, vicious swine.
Your worse nightmare,
Emma
On the twelfth day of Christmas…
Law Offices
Boehner, Dick and Weiner
the Watergate Hotel, Room 666
Foggy Bottom, Washington D.C.
December 25, 2013
Dear Sir:
This is to acknowledge your latest gift of 12
fiddlers fiddling which you have seen fit to
inflict on our client, Miss Emma Boil.
The destruction, of course, was total. All
correspondence should come to our attention.
If you should attempt to reach Miss Boil
at the Betty Ford Clinic, the attendants have
instructions to shoot you on sight. With this
letter please find attached warrant for your
arrest.
As an aspiring alcoholic…my life’s ambition had been to drink one big ass mother fuckin’ over the top frothing at the rim beer…at the Frosty Mug, Concord New Hampshire.
I had heard stories about the ‘Frosty’. Women tough as nails and ten feet tall and bullet proof. A mean cross between Tina Turner and Louise from Thelma and Louise.
I waited and waited and waited my turn at the door. The age of twelve had gone by. I could reach the counter at the Chichester Family Store and Fish Emporium. Mouth ridden by truck driver’s past there had been no issue with my procuring a sac of Mad Dog 20/20 and a treasured pack of Camel’s non filtered…only Turkish blend. None of that domestic bullshit.
Sweet sixteen and never been kissed. Fondled, manhandled and otherwise, hitting all the bases with runners on…I took my first hit of acid whilst carry the blood of Christ to the Altar in parochial school.
Still my want. My desire to be the ‘gal you wouldn’t want to take home to meet your blind and deaf mother’ rode me hard. It kicked my wantonly zealous need for desirable trouble like the curve that took Jimmy Dean.
Seventeen came, edgy and risky and impoverished by good thoughts…I tossed my bad ass ways into the pond of ill repute to see how far I could ride the train.
The door creaked open with a noise only screaming pigeons give off…while in the middle of mating. The ‘Frosty’ had been clad in Marlboro red smoke and worn savory leather. A nod from a Hell’s Angel who had been holding up the foundation of the old building had been returned with the ever so cool nod back and ‘whas up?’
Somehow between here and there in my life of living vicariously close to the edge of death I had learned the harder you are the harder it is to fall. My chip, shoulder-high, and my ego, made of brass balls, lead me to a far end of the world seat with leftover ejaculations from the night before.
Love Thing (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Glancing about tugging on a made from the Argue’s Farmhouse Hard Apple Cider, noting the meanness in the eyes that never connected and the Patsy Cline ‘I Fall to Pieces‘ tune playing on the jukebox…I took my very first deep breath. My virgin sigh of relief, per say. I had finally found my home in the world. A notch above the shit that rides in on a cowboy’s heal after a hard night of cow tipping and just a notch below being ankle high in peanut shells and spilled comfort, Southern Comfort that is.
I fall to pieces
Each time I see you again
I fall to pieces
How can I be just your friend
You want me to act like we’ve never kissed
You want me to forget, pretend we’ve never met
And I’ve tried and I’ve tried but I haven’t yet
You walk by, and I fall to pieces
I fall to pieces
Each time someone speaks your name
I fall to pieces
Time only adds to the flame
You tell me to find someone else to love
Someone who’ll love me, too, the way you used to do
But each time I go out with someone new
You walk by and I fall to pieces
(I fall to pieces)
Each time someone speaks your name
(I fall to pieces)
Time only adds to the flame
Original cover of the 1961 studio album, Patsy Cline Showcase, which featured her hits from that year, “I Fall to Pieces” and “Crazy”. The cover (and name) were changed following Cline’s death to the more-familiar version seen today. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
You tell me to find someone else to love
Someone who’ll love me too, the way you used to do
But each time I go out with someone new
You walk by and I fall to pieces
