CLINICAL

The thing is, the thing about this thing is, it doesn't care. It doesn't care if it's sunny or if you're in love or in like or in a place where all roads lead to happy, it creeps. It creeps in and you're crying on the 101 listening to a song about being in somewhere in London. And you don't know why, and you cry because you don't. And you cry because it's coming back, and you cry because you are so mad at yourself for crying. Scared. And yes there's the pills and the therapist but that makes it official. That's opening the doors inviting it in, saying sit on my chest and my heart and just creep on in. And it doesn't care that you've been fine you are fine, that this timing is off. Is it ever on? And you phone a friend and pretend, and you ask about the weather because it's all too hard to explain. And in these moments you think happiness is not a choice, cause I'm choosing so hard, I want for everything I have to choose so hard. That if only I could make up my mind, but it doesn't care, if you could and should be happy. it just creeps.

last production

LINDA, 56
When I die. I think I’m going to ask for ridiculous things. You know at my funeral. Because they have to do it. Just want to see how far they go. So what so I want Cher’s ‘Turn Back Time’ played as men in assless chaps and a teddy bear costume dance capoeira. ‘ I never knew Linda was into mixed martial arts’ they’ll say. And I don’t want flowers they die and are depressing and they’ll probably just get roses which are the most f’ing thoughtless flower known to man. No no I’m going to ask that in lieu of flowers sanitary napkins are sent to local women’s shelters. And I hope my brother has to go out and buy a crap ton on tampons. And it’s a win win cause no one thinks of homeless women on their rag. And clowns, not sad clowns but happy clowns, but not in little cars cause that’s just awkward but I want a clown there one that makes balloon animals. And a pony, ponyrides for the kids right next to the open casket. This of course is after the duet between Liza Minelli and Peebo Bryson to the Indigo Girl’s ‘Least Complicated’. Cause the thing is I mean about funerals? Who’s it for? I don’t care what they wear and what they say about me and who comes and who doesn’t. Because I’m not going to be there. And I don’t want them to have that satisfaction, of making up some story or saying what I was or wasn’t. Cause the truth is, the truth is I was someone who got pushed around, who did what I was told, what I thought was expected of me, who watched, who didn’t rock the boat too much. I never wanted to be noticed, never wanted to ask for anything from anyone. But not on this, not on this.

if

If I gave my words to you, gave my doubts and my scars, and my bruises and the chicken pock square in the center of my forehead, and the flecks in my fingernails, and stretchmarks, and freckles on my face, and lines on my breasts, would you put them in a mason jar, an envelope tucked under your pillow? a folded note in your breast pocket? Or would you post them on the internet?

AFraid of

i am afraid of:
that moment where limbs fall asleep, that they might not wake.
stretch marks, the hiding that causes and leaves them.
being alone,
with the wrong person.
not working hard enough, not enjoying enough.
unlocked bathroom doors.
mornings after.
ignorance, and how general that term is.
owning a cat.
sleeping while awake and dreaming too much.
scars.
closed minded people of 'faith'.
broken mirrors.
holding too tight, walking with closed fists.
backne.
aardvarks.
animals in people.
unwanted advances.
empty family.
mimes who write haiku.
bedbugs.
greed, guilt, regret.
the future of reality tv.
Global Warming.
using too few words, and too many.

joe, 23 (in a bar)

Shit fuck nah. I don’t want to believe in something. I did that, it hurt. Maybe cause it was another person it was contingent on another person. You can believe in objects and ideas and concepts and hopes as long as the aren’t attached to people. Cause people fuck up, People change their minds, people change their feelings. Don;t don’t don’t fucking look at me like that. ‘ye of little faith or whatever’ Hope hope hope. People fuck up don;t attach your hope on people. Don’t attach your hope on me. And i tell you this i will tell you this from day one now now now is day one see. I am going to fuck up. I am going to let you down I am going to hurt you, might not intend to but will. So yeah we cool? Good. No building shit. Here. Okay? Good. Now what's your number?

Melvin,58

why? why why? why do we do anything? we want a response. I'm talkin, talking to you for a response. Pardon my french, but I fuck up, i do good I do whatever for a response, sor attention. And not in that lil kid I need attention, attention is a bad thing kinda way. It's human to want attention. It's human nature. And that lady that lady talkin to herself complainin bout her bag on Atlantic Avenue, does she want attention> Does she want a response? Maybe she wants a response from herself you know, from her own head, or maybe she want a response from you, so she can mumble 'crazy bitch; under her breath. Cause you know she will. She will. and if you don't respond to that she be mad too. Cause she's mad at the world she just responding to the world. And that's life. Things happen something else happens. He does this she does this they do that. and maybe i know the response I want, maybe I'm just talkin to talk. But I want something, it's not specific or anything but its someting. And it's not to be alone. Hell I like being alone. Grew up with 6 brothers and sisters never did get to be alone, used to lock the bathroom door and sit. But that's another story for another time. But why i tell those stories, a response. Response that this whole damn thing worth it.

those shoes

I want to tell her that it was okay that she wore those shoes, the too tall ones that her heels slid off of. 2 years later she’ll carry flats. That it was okay that she lived there. That it was okay that she was cocky, and thin and pretending to be sure on the outside. That her key would fit, that friends would disappear, that weight would be gained, alcohol drank, stomach cramps had, and late nights weeping without cause, and these things were okay and they would stop, not all of them but some. And there was no going back, to the too high heels and the blue dress and the long walk. That her stomach ached for a reason, or maybe it didn’t. maybe there is no reason. 2 years later I don’t know the reason, I now parts of it, pieces. How this proved my thesis, a thesis she never thought she had, was fed. Swallowed.
I remember my pet guinea pig. She had babies, two boys. And one of the boys hopped the tank, and she got pregnant. And she miscarried, and she died. And I remember my mother holding her shaking, and the small red furry blob in the cedar, and I remember thinking how could a son do this to his mother, how could he not know. What could be so strong that he could forget, that he could hurt her. Lose control. And maybe that’s when I stopped trusting, trusting that things were rational, that urges made sense. That any of it made sense.
I want to tell her things don’t make sense, And that it was okay she wore those shoes.