Tuesday, September 7, 2010

How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb

There’s music that plays succinctly as a soundtrack to life, events as they happen start to finish. Or that encapsulate moments of time, to remind you how it felt or simply make you smile when heard unexpectedly. I kept returning to track 7, comforting myself with track 11 each time it made me cry. Which was every time.

Little sister don't you worry about a thing today
Take the heat from the sun


I miss being and being called a little sister. Such protection in the phrase, as if there’s a boy or a man who’ll watch over you. Not a coincidence track seven is about the mysterious distance between a man and woman, because men and women aren’t merely lovers alone, but brothers and sisters, fathers and daughters, parents. I miss those men, sometimes more than anyone could think I can feel. Because a cavalier and strong candy coating, ready smile and hearty laugh buys that shelter.

Oh you look so beautiful tonight!
In the city of blinding lights


The last time I felt the part was alongside my only older brother, arms in the air at Madison Square Garden singing along with thousands and thousands. Rejoining in a city I love but have been to just twice. I miss it. All of it.

The mosquitoes have been bad this summer and each bite leaves an angry and swollen red mark. There are several on my legs. I seem to scratch at them again and again. Again.

But you can't be numb for love
The only pain is to feel nothing at all


I used to feel something, anything by creating hurt on my body. Because when one feels nothing one creates sensation to know they’re alive. It began innocently enough; a new kitten with pinpoint sharp claws leaving tiny, stinging marks, mostly on my legs. They hurt and stung the more I scratched at them. After a time I created some myself, soaking in Epsom salt, sometimes rubbing them over with alcohol to get rid of evidence of so much unhappy. So much that was imperfect. It took months and months to heal. If any or many saw it, just one commented. A couple of years past it I told my Mom and about the song I played over and over and over as a mantra to get through, to make myself better. She went out and bought the CD. Last time I saw it at her house it was still in the cellophane wrap. Not from this album, but I love and hate it each time I make myself listen to it.

So you never knew... how low you'd stoop to make that call
And you never knew... what was on the ground until they made you crawl
So you never knew... that the heaven you keep, you stole
Please... please... please...
Get up off your knees

See, I am bigger and deeper and wider and brighter than just cheeky stories about a fat belly and male genitalia. I'm a writer after all (says so on my tax returns). No worries, wrote this a week ago and have stories to share soon about why I miss being single, boys who date plain Jane's and cunnilingus tips.

Take this soul stranded in some skin and bones
Take this soul and make it sing (sing)


It's what I do.

1 comment:

The mad woman behind the blog said...

Funny, I have white wedding playing in my head all morning...hey little sister, what have you done...

But I like this one much better. Come here Bono, let me love you up.

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