It Might Just Be Too Late…
Reposting my original Zammie pages from Multiply.com who have suddenly gotten out of the social media business:
“Okay! Life’s gotta be better than this…Right?”
Boo, Hiss … Multiply!!
MY WRITING BLOG Here:
—TIME B4 NOW—
By Zammi Bonet
© Copyright 2008, Orlando, FL
A Red Yoyo Production
What I remember is in this Chronicle:
I AM BREATHLESSLY RELIVING MY ANXIOUS past, over and over again in my dreams. It’s not that I’m remembering it—it’s that while in my dreams, it is back then! I don’t know how to explain it. I only know that a person can’t be in two places or two separate times at all at once. It comes to me with only slight, almost un-perceivable changes, then, upon waking, it blossoms into total recall—full recollection long enough for me to get it down on touch-screen. Then others, my Tweeps, remind me of what I’ve forgotten from what we all have collectively recollected before. They are my B4 journal. My meta-bloggers. They, the facebookies and facebookettes, are all my loyal followers out there in the text-o-sphere and it is they who keep my sanity for me. They are my time machine. They write me daily and are in charge of what I said and did yesterday, and all the yesterdays that went before.
How can memories just be lost just like that? Maybe I should be one of those who have what they call Hyperthymestic syndrome. One of those strange and peculiar people who can remember every little living detail of their lives—whether they want to or not! It never used to be this way. I can’t shake it. I want to remember, but it won’t come—it can’t let go of itself unless it comes to me while I’m sleeping. It makes me think I’m already a certified nutcase. If I could just get some frickin’ sleep.
The clock in the big hall ticks at Piney Glen.
When does it tick for? Then or now?
• • •
MY NAME IS Mikii (Michaelle Lea Sperda). For some reason never quite fully explained to me by my followers, I was evidently born in the Netherlands, poor as hell;FMTYEWTK! I spent my infancy hidden inside Hadera where I’m told my parents were killed. But since, with all new parents, I’ve spent most of my life in Wilmington, DE, in these the former United States of America. It was such a great place to be.
When I dream, this is what I remember.
This is my life and time before now—and yes, it is all about me.
• • •
CHAPTER 1: The Name of the Game
WHEN THE SNOW FELL, it came plopping down to the streets in big fat clumps that stuck to the windshields and the signposts so densely that even the traffic lights couldn’t be seen. It was the dead of winter in Indianapolis, in the middle of town, and I sat at my drawing table overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue’s snow-rutted street-scape. Only the buses were running at this midnight hour and ironically the background strains of Ferrante and Teicher’s; “Midnight Cowboy”, played on the stereo, haunting our otherwise empty office spaces down the halls of the old house that had been turned into a little advertising studio called: “The Art Room”.
As the strains of that piece of haunting music reached my ears I was torn inside and yearning for something indefinable and yet elusively present in those upstairs vacant rooms.
Such heart tugs wafted around those airy spaces and circled back within themselves like the snow devils—whirling clouds of whipped up snow and powder, in miniature cyclones—spinning out on the street below.
They circled themselves and centered finally in my mind to the fond recall, that in that tenuous moment, Cade was sitting innocently at his desk, not twelve feet away, and yet, there in that otherwise empty house, there were worlds separating us and our lives. That chasm was agonizingly accentuated by the ever-present knowledge that both my husband, and his wife, were patiently waiting at home for us to arrive and lavish our post-midnight love upon them. But first we had to finish our work of the evening before we wearily descended the dark stairs down the back, where surely there had once stood a little playground for the children of the old house, to a family gone by, and who, to this day, still somehow eerily roam those halls on certain nights, when Cade and I both swore we heard their happy laughter lingering on.
The tiny space heater under my art table threatened to spit sparks and expire right then and there, as I put myself in Cade’s mind, if for only a brief moment of odd, yet delicious reverie. From his eager eyes I saw myself sitting on my overly worn work stool, seated in such a way so as to offer possibly a lusty glimpse of calf, a leg or maybe two, knowingly languishing in the warm, moist-laden heat developing between and up, the tender and unimagined suppleness of my awaiting thighs, which lay darkly inside the warmed woolen caverns of my winter skirt.
His dark, soulful eyes ate away at the one wall separation between us, willing it to diminish within the boundaries of her enticing web. His god-awful, beautiful, and wondrously woven web attaching itself to me, keeping me from leaping to the snow from my window, denying the moment of my release—yet promises stood between us in ways I could no longer completely fathom.
These then, were some of my Midnight Cow-girl, erotic sojourn hours. Those fantasy moments became principally what lured my thinning fidelity away to reside dancing around within my heated imagination, while driving myself to hormonal distraction. What I wanted most was to see his dark eyes melting to me from my own, riveted to my unspoken signal to accompany me to the big hall closet, where together we might find an end to my protracted misery in a flurry of kisses and busily moving hands, mowing our hunger down like love-soaked scythes cleaved upon the thrashing grains of my hopeless desires.
I was in…well, any number of 4-letter words one might begin to spell with an L. The brief bit of space buffering between us quickly became super-heated, a real nuclear meltdown. He came right up to me with a quizzical look on his face. Most likely he was trying to read mine as well.
Cade Roberts was there, standing in my space, in the same space where we were in the old house alone. I shared the air with someone I would quite die for.
“Mikiie, you want any more coffee?” he asked. “I’m going home soon, so I have to dump what’s in there. There’s about a cup and a half left—shouldn’t let it go to waste. I just made it ‘bout an hour ago.”
It’s the little words, it really is. All I heard was—you want?
Yes, I want,said the dialogue prompt inside my own internal, mental moviola. I woke from it, or at very least I turned it off.
“My husband’s waiting up for me.” I was actually saying this to him, shattering my delicious fantasy. “How ‘bout you?”
I heard the city bus go by outside. The truth was, my marriage right out of high school was already ending in a divorce. We lasted almost six months before an amicable separation had us staying in separate apartments on opposite sides of town. What I regret most, other than getting married at 18, was the fact that our friends became divorced from us too. We lost ourselves, and them all in one fell swoop.
“I’ll be fine.” he said. “I’ll get out of here before the snow reaches my knees. You be careful. I’ll go down with you.”
We had learned we couldn’t be too careful going down to our tiny parking lot at these late hours. After all it was the city and the city can turn nasty on a person, a woman like me, sometimes. The Indianapolis Star was full of such stories. Cade was kind to escort me down to the lot. Maybe this night would be special. He might be grateful and touch my shoulder. Touch my hand. Plant a peck on my cheek. But the wind howled, soughing past us, and Cade crunched his way through the snow, never turning back even to offer me a wave goodbye. I know he was thinking about the harrowing drive up Meridian to Broadripple in the deep snow waiting ahead—that or his kids, or his wife. He was driving her car, an Oldsmobile, dark grey, and of course it started perfectly.
I watched shivering in my own car, as Cade made his way out the long, lonely alley and onto Meridian Street towards the hospital. They laid me off the next week and I packed my bags, stuffed my divorce papers in my purse, and headed back to Wilmington, Delaware, where I grew up.
I can only wonder where Cade is today. Hell, I wonder where my ex is for that matter! It makes no difference anyway, I’d only forget again.
• • •
GUESS IT’S ALWAYS BEEN THIS WAY. I just didn’t get it before. I’m not dense, just a tough study. Out in the workaday world, there are the people. They are, in what my roommate Millie’s boyfriends at school call, the Proletariat. They are the less-than-beautiful people, the people that get things done around us, providing us with what we need. Doing things that we would otherwise not want to do ourselves. Like open hotel doors. The working class. The hoi polloi, and I guess I never gave them much thought because I like to do things for myself, rather than wait on others.
Some people, some girls not a whole lot unlike me mind you, but never the less, they don’t and won’t actually do anything. They’re used to being waited on and catered to. They might break a friggin’ nail. They get by on the generosity of…well, the Proletariat. You know the type. They use us on a regular basis. Us…the not ugly, not lovely, just pretty much plain, common garden variety types—okay, sometimes less than plain—they’re at the grocery at the hardware store, at the gas station getting it done.
The peons, they do things and make things for themselves and for us. They need a paycheck. They can’t rely on natural beauty to ease their way through the world because God obviously had other plans for them down here. Some are pie-faced, not ugly, not good-looking—not fortunate. They are the unkempt, a byproduct of both their genetics and their jobs—probably too damn tired to take care of themselves. Others still don’t take very good care of their own family. They don’t have the time. Too many babies to feed, and well—you get the picture I’m painting for you—the common folk are the underpinnings of this world. People on the street. People who wait in lines. The disenfranchised. The unwashed masses. Take them out of the equation, you got nothing on your table all of a sudden. Just hard working people vying and scrambling for a living, living from paycheck to paycheck and never seeming to get ahead.
The hoi polloi, these less-than-beautiful people are the ones who make this country great and we take them for granted all to hell and back. There’s just a whole lot of them. I should know—I count myself as one of them.
I’m not beautiful to say the least, but not horribly disfigured either, and I tend to gravitate to and prefer artistic types. Coincidentally, they’re drawn to me. I try not to be too judgmental about the world around me, but there you go. I have strong opinions and feel passionately about a lot of things. It’s hard enough to be in with the true artists and bonafide dreamers, who have stigmatized people like me with their socially obtuse leanings. I really even don’t count myself as one of their gifted numbers. For my part, I think I’ve been sociably bruised and thwarted by certain belief systems that they have rubbed off my way. Don’t exactly live beyond the pale—just flirt around the edge of it, I say!
Tommy used to call me, Plain White Wrapper.
Our paths—the ones we meet and leave behind us—cross, sometimes never to re-cross again, never knowing the significance of our encounters. It is as if we are deaf, dumb, and blind to the obscure machinations of that wondrous thing we call Kismet.
Wishing to be friends is quick work. But friendship is a slow, ripening fruit.
It’s difficult being a girl. You spend a lot of time crying nightly and keeping track of your shoes, lots of shoes, and lots of memories.
I met Tommy Grimes before we fell in love—well, I fell in love—about a year beforehand. There was no instant connection. There were no arrows pointing down out of the ceiling saying: This the one. I hardly even noticed him. Tommy was regular. One of the Proletariat. Tommy always, well usually, had dirt under his nails, which he chewed neurotically. That should’ve been one of my warning shots.
Afterward—after we slept together—I’d sit in class and scribble: Tommy Grimes, Tommy Grimes… Mikiie Grimes. It never did look right. From then on, I think I began looking for reasons to not actually become Mikiie Grimes. I would just play at it. I really didn’t want a bunch of children everyone would call the Grimes’ kids.
I wasn’t prepared for another love affair. I wasn’t even on the market for anything casual. I was just minding my own business and love came and tapped me on the shoulder in the most unusual way. I slept with Tommy out of boredom. It was okay. It wasn’t the best I’d ever had. It was adequate though and Tommy was quirky in an interesting way and he kept me on my toes with his skewed slant on things. That should’ve been my second warning shot.
Tommy was different. Too different! But Tommy was artistic in the sense that he liked to make things, work on things, mostly tearing things up, and then making little models of futuristic cities out of leftover scraps. It was if he had taken the mass-produced, commercial materials from stores like Kmart and Walmart, and ripped them apart to fashion them in such a way that the stink of the overly marketed, consumer-ized garbage that make up our manufactured society no longer lingered in the air after he was finished. I think now that Tommy was a closet anarchist. Maybe, with a little objectivity on my side, he was only a minimalist in the making.
Playing…I used to love playing with the locks of Tommy’s hair he let fall down over his face. I threatened to cut them off in his sleep and there was even a time that I thought seriously about shaving his head after getting him good and drunk and then I’d keep his hair in a scrapbook or something. Nuts, huh? But that was after the fall. You know how love always takes a fall, sooner or later.
It happened one day while I was at the beauty salon getting my bangs trimmed and my blunt-cut evened up. I have a lot of hair on the back of my neck and it drives me crazy. I let it grow out now. That’s after I learned that a man likes to make love to a woman’s neck about as much as he likes the rest of her.
So there I was, in the chair with the smock draped around me, a tray of curlers in my lap, and I looked up on the wall at a poster hung there—the kind that suggests a certain hairstyle, usually a do they cannot, in any way, shape, or form actually duplicate, and so why are they up there to begin with?—and like a bolt out of the blue, I saw Tommy’s face in the hair model’s photo and fell in love. Boom! I fell in love because I realized I missed him. It must have been one of my weaker days. I—saying this rather admittedly—am a weak person, when you get down to it.
Tommy was off up in Cleveland, gone to a wedding for a close friend of his, and I missed him terribly. I thought that I was doing okay, but I frankly had to face the fact that I needed Tommy and couldn’t do without him. Call it temporary insanity. Call it a hormonal urge. Call it whatever you want, but I couldn’t wait to get out of that chair and go call him. I showed up at the airport and when Tommy came down the ramp-way stepping off that plane, I threw rose petals at him, and the crowd around began clapping when he grabbed me up and kissed me, swinging me around. It was the Saturday Night Movie moment of our great love affair. Oh yeah, I—and I repeat I—was in love. Not just love, but l-o-o-o-v-v-e! Let me tell you, I gave him the best sex he ever had in his life that night. I needed him. That’s all there was to it.
I really hope I explained that moment sufficiently. That’s been ten-years ago now. It was a defining moment in my life. My life—yeah, boring as hell—always has been rather dull and uneventful. It’s as if I had been waiting for the “big something”, like the “me and Tommy” moment all my life. When it happened, actually happened, I was on Cloud Nine—over the friggin’ moon. Now I can see it had nothing at all to do with Tommy Grimes. It was a thing inside my own head. It was a living fantasy. It was surreal. The built up endorphins must have played a part in my drama.
Here’s a funny thing about sex. It’s all chemistry. It has very little to do with the person you are engaged in it with. For my own part, they’re just along for the ride. Because sex—it’s really all about me—you know? You know?
Tommy and I had been making love every single evening for about a month, never skipping a night, or at least we fooled around some if we didn’t get the deed actually done. All I had to do was look at Tommy and I got myself all turned on, hot to trot. Butter in his fingers. Tommy called it priming the pump. The point is, I was doing it, not Tommy—not so much! A person gets that much sex, something’s going to happen to them. The human body is used to what it’s used to. It’s pattern oriented. I doesn’t like changes in the routine of life. That’s why God invented sex to begin with. It’s a sure fire way to get yourself pregnant. Well, that’s the purpose isn’t it? Procreate the evolving multitudes? What was my uterus to think when Tommy went away? Cut me off?
There in that salon seat, waiting for my hair to get done, my uterus turned against me and frankly it deceived me about Tommy’s real role in this continuing adventure I call life. It was hungry—and don’t get all sanctimonious on me about this, sex is a need just like eating food…so why do you think we use our mouths so much during it?—it was hungry, and I was hungry for Tommy. The rose petals were just the special effects in my own private movie moment. My starved uterus was pretty damn happy when Tommy got off the plane and then got off on me later. I mean, I really needed him towant me. I wanted him to have missed me as much as I missed him. He didn’t though, not right then. As far as I know Tommy got some up north after the wedding—or before. Could have been with the bride for crying out loud—at least that’s the nasty, deviant part of the fantasy I worried about at the time.
A million thoughts about this…a million thoughts.
Loneliness is a bitch with a ten-foot Tyrolean icicle rammed up her ass.
What is the name of the game? Love? Nah, love will put you in the loony bin if you get to wanting it, get yourself all used to it, needing it too damn badly.
My best advice…here it is: when you’re between love gigs and your sheets are cold—turn off the friggin’ radio! It makes you remember things you don’t really need to remember. Life goes on. Time does cure all ills—heals everything. You just need enough of it to go by. When Tommy was gone, minutes seemed like hours, and hours like days, and days like friggin’ years! You can only hurt for so long before you go into self-destruct mode.
Believe you, me, I am—well, I can be—the all-time queen of self-destruct.
I wrote a letter once to Tommy a couple of years ago. I didn’t know where he lived, so I sent it to his mom at his old address. I knew she’d forward it. His wife probably read it first though when she took it out of the mailbox in the middle of the day. Read it line for line without understanding a damn bit of it, most likely. God knows what Tommy told her about me, if anything. Men can be brutes. I wrote that letter, a consolation essay on our late, great love affair, after I heard a sappy song on the car radio, a tune from way back about then. In the letter I sent, I forgave him for breaking my heart—and I meant it in as much as I said: “You are free of me…I don’t think of you anymore!”—in so many words. He left me hanging out to dry those many long years ago and I had a hard time getting over that. He left me for his old girlfriend, you see. One of the Proletariat. I guess at the end of the day I was too high maintenance—too needy all the time. Too emotionally unstable—my call on that one.
I had other issues—lots of them—me, who never a day in her life ever suffered the Pretty Girl Syndrome. But I clean-up okay when I put my mind to it.
Tommy eventually wrote me back. Took him almost a year to get his courage up. Wifey most likely had a hand in it from what I could tell at the time. Never mentioned the forgiveness part at all or anything concerning his share of the damn guilt. He sent me a picture of him and his two little girls—Abby and…hell, I can’t remember the other one’s name. It was plain though. Just…plain.
The last time I looked at Tommy’s picture—and that was minutes just before I tore it up and put it in a shoebox along with a nice big rock and threw it into the bay—I really noticed for the first time in a long time, that he was rather plain. No wonder he had plain looking kids. But I smile now, because really, it’s not like that at all. Love doesn’t recognize beauty or plainness. Love only sees hope and possibilities. It only recognizes that magical moment your beloved falls upon your eyes for he first time…those eyes of love that see everything through rose-colored glasses. I have to mention here that Tommy was no great prize, no-no, not in the least! He just had all the right skills and necessary tools to complete the job I needed done. But you see, Tommy was the one thing that I couldn’t do for myself—well, not adequately speaking. Now I think that that little tidbit alone makes me just like all the other do-this-and-that-for-me bitches on this sorry-ass place we call planet Earth.
Do yourself a favor. Burn your CD’s—no, I mean burn them!—and throw away your radio, iPod, your MP3 player…whatever! Get yourself laid and do it on a good bottle of wine. I like L’Ecole No. 41. It’s a Cabernet Sauvignon red, blended out of Walla Walla, and 2000 was a good year. Your Cabernet Craziness or your Merlot Madness will dull the memory of who or whomever you just slept with, and there’s no lingering hangover.
Tommy Grimes was a damn fool for dumping my ass. WTF!—I was the best thing that ever happened to that asinine loser! No idea…totally no idea, what he lost that day! Eat dirt, Tommy Grimes!
Yeah—some heavy, heavy stuff goin’ down!
No regrets though—yeah! No, I mean it, no freakin’ regrets. Not a one!
• • •
Ciao, for now…