Backstory: A Memoir

For Vicki

By AT

5

While I was downstairs, folding laundry in the basement, I heard my sister Vicki stomping upstairs to the room that used to be mine, slamming the door, and locking it shut.

I was a ****** older brother. And Vicki learned that action from me.
Then, I heard more footsteps. Louder stomping. And I knew, with certainty, it was Mom coming after her.

I'm not an omniscient narrator, so I don't know what Vicki does when the door is locked.

But I do imagine she is reading. Vicki’s been using her Kindle that Mom got her for Christmas. She adores Gillian Flynn and Suzanne Collins. She's starting to get into Philip Pullman which is swagger. I remember reading His Dark Materials when I was in elementary school.

The Golden Compass ***** you into that world, like during June when you're hitting a bowl for the first time and you're 17, late at night on Bethany beach with your childhood best friend, and the surf is curling against your toes, and the smoke is trailing away from the cherry, and you begin to realize that life isn't all about living in NOVA forever, because the world is more than NOVA, because life is bigger than this hole, that to some people believe is whole, and that's fine, that's fine because many of our parents came here from other small towns, and they wanted to do what we wanted to do, which is to pack up our stuff into the trunk of our presumably Asian branded car, and drive, drive, until they reach a destination that doesn't remind them of the good memories and the bad memories, until memory is mixed in with nostalgia, and nostalgia is mixed in with the past.

Maybe I'm dwelling on backstory, maybe you don't need to hear the backstory.

But I think you do.

Life isn't an eternity,
what I'm telling you is already known, known since there was a spider crawling up the staircase and your dad took the heel of his black dress shoe and dug his heel into that bug. And maybe I'm buggin’, but that bugged me, and now I'm trying to be healthier eating carrots like Bugs. Kale, red onions, and quinoa, as well. Because I want to be there for my sister, Vicki my sister. All we got is a wrapped up box made from God, Mohammad, and Buddha.

Soon, I heard Vicki’s door handle being cranked down and up, up and down.

Mom raised her voice from a quiet storm to a deafening concerto.  
Then, there was silence, followed by a door slamming shut.

Welcome to our life.
Later on that night, Vicki sped out of our cul-de-sac in her silver Honda Accord—a gift from Mom to keep her rooted in Nova—and even from the front porch of my house, I felt a distance from her that was deep and immovable.

I sank deeper into my lawn chair and lit a jack, but instead of inhaling like I usually did, I held it out in front of me and watched the smoke billow out from the cherry.

I always smoked jacks when she was not there, because I didn’t want her to see me knowingly do this to myself, even as I was making huge changes to my life. It’s the one vice I have left, and it’s terrible for me, but I don’t know if she understands that I know both things. Maybe instead of caring about what jacks do to my body, I should care about what she thinks about what I’m doing to myself. This should be obvious to me, but sometimes things aren’t that obvious.

4

As we grew older Vicki and I forged a dialogue, an understanding. She confided in me and I confided in her, sharing secrets, details about our lives that were personal and private, as if we were two CIA agents working together to defeat a totalitarian government—our tiger mom.

But seriously our mom was and still is swagger as ****—rocks Michael Kors and flannel Pajama pants (If I told you that last article of clothing she'd probably pinch my cheek and call me a chipmunk. Don't worry I'm fine with a moderation of self-deprecation).

The other day Mom talked to me about Vicki and explained that she was upset and irritated with Vicki because of her attitude. I thought that was interesting, because I used to have the same exact attitude when I was my sister’s age and I got away with a lot more ****, being that I'm a guy and the first-born. I understood why she would shut the front door, exit our red brick bungalow, and speed away in her Honda Accord, going towards Clarendon, or Adams Morgan, spending her time with her extensive circle of friends on the weekdays and weekends.

Because being inside our house, life could get suffocating and depressing.
Our Grandparents live with us. Grandpa had a stroke and is trying to recover. Grandma has Alzheimer’s and agitates my mom for rides to a Vietnamese Church. Besides the caretakers, Mom, Dad, Vicki, and I are the only ones taking care of my grandparents.

Mom told me that she believes that Vicki uses the house as a hotel. Mom didn't remind me of a landlord, and I believe that Vicki doesn’t see her as that either.

I didn't believe Vicki was doing anything necessarily wrong.

She had her own life.

I had my own life.

Dad had his own life.

Mom had her own life.

I understood why she wanted to go out and party and hang out with her friends. Maybe she was like me when I was 21 and perceived living at home as a prison, wanting to have autonomy and freedom from Mom because she was attempting to make me conform to her controlled system with restraints. But as Vicki and I both grow older I believe that we see Mom not as an authority figure; but, just as Mom.

Vicky and Mom clash and clash and clash with each other, more than the Archer Queens of The Hero Troops clash with the witches of the Dark Elixir Troops.

They act like they were from different clans, but they're both on the same side in reality.

The apple does not fall far from the tree. And in this case the tree wants to hang onto the apple on the tip of its rough, and yet leafy bough.
Because the tree is rooted in experience and has been around for much longer than the apple.

But the apple is looking for more water than the tree can give it. So the apple dreams about a summer rain-shower that will give it a chance to have its own experience. A similar, but different one, to the darker apple that hangs from a higher bough, an apple that has been spoiled from having too much sun and water.

3

During Winter Break, Vicki scored me tickets to a game between the Wizards and the Bucks. From court side to the nosebleeds, the audience at the Verizon Center was chanting in cacophony and in tempo. Wall was injured. But Gortat crashed the boards, Nene' drained mid-range shots, and Beal drove up the lane like Ginsberg reading Howl.

Vicki and I both tried to talk to each other as much as we could; unfortunately, Voldemort—my ex-gf—sat in between us and was gossiping about the latest scoop with the Kardashians.

Nevertheless, Vicki and I still managed to drink and have an outstanding time. But I should have given her more attention and spent less time on my smartphone. I was spending bread on Papa John's Pizza and chain-smoking jacks during half-time, and even when there were time outs. When I would come back and sink into my plastic chair, I'd feel bloated and dizzy.
And I'd look over at Vicki and either she was talking to Voldemort, or typing away on her smartphone. I didn't mind it at the time, but now I wished I had been less of a concessions barbarian/used-car salesman chain-smoker, and more of an older brother. I should have asked her about her day and her friends and her interests.

But I didn't.

Because I was so concerned about indulging in my vices like eating slices of pepperoni pizza and drinking overpriced beer. There's nothing wrong with pizza or beer. But as we all know the old saying goes, everything is about moderation.

Vicki scrunched her nose and squinted her eyes when I would lean forward and try to maneuver around Voldemort, trying to talk to her about the game and the players in it. I imagine that when she smelled the cigarette smoke leaking away from my lips, that she believed I was inconsiderate and not self-aware.

After the game, we went to a bar across the street from the Verizon Center, and bought mixed drinks. Voldemort was D.D., so Vicki and I drank until our Asian faces got redder than women and men who go up on stage for public speaking for the first time.

I remember this older Asian guy was trying to hit on her.
I took in short breaths. Inhaled. Exhaled. I cracked my shoulder blades to push my chest forward.  

And then, I patted him on the back and grinned. The Asian guy got the message. You don’t **** with the bodyguard.

Vicki had and still has a great boyfriend named Matt.

I guided Vicki back to our table and laughed about the awkward situation with her.

The Asian guy craned his head toward me and did a short wave. And then he bought us coronas. Either, you’re still hitting on my sister, or it’s a kind gesture. She and I better not get... Or am I overthinking it?

But seriously, I wished I had been the one to spend money on her first—she had bought the first round of drinks. Because at the time, my job was challenging and low-paying. Or maybe I just wasn't being frugal enough and partying way too often.

I still remember the picture that a cool rando took of us, drinking the Coronas, and how I was happy to be a part of her life again. Our eyes were so Asian. I had my lanky arm around her small shoulders, like a proud Father. She had her cheek propped up by her fist, her smile, gigantic and beaming, as though she had just won Wimbledon for the first time.
I was wearing a white and blue Oxford shirt that she had gotten me for Christmas with a D.C. Rising hat. She had on a cotton scarf that resembles a tan striped tail of a powerful cat.

My face was chubby from the pizza. Her face was just right like the one house in Goldilocks. The limes in the Coronas were sitting just below the throat of the bottles, like old memories resurfacing the brain, to make the self recall, to make the self remember how to treat his family.
Or maybe this is just a brand new Corona ad geared towards the rising second-generation Asian American demographic? I'm playing around.
But end of commercial break.

Vicki pats me on the back and we clink bottles together. Voldemort is lurking in the background, as if she's about to photobomb the next picture. Sometimes I don't know if there's going to be a next picture.
Either we live in these moments, or make memories of them with our phones. And like sheep following an untrustworthy shepherd, we went back to our phones. She made emails and texts. I went on twitter in search of the latest news story.

2

Before Vicki and I opened each other's presents, I remember I blew up at Mom and Dad, and criticized everyone in the family room including Vicki. It was over something stupid and trivial, but it was also something that made me feel insecure and small. I was the black sheep and she was the sheep-dog.

I screamed. Vicki took in a deep breath and looked away from my glare, looked away to a spot on the hardwood floor that was filled with a fine blanket of dust and lint. I chattered. She rubbed her fingers around the lens of her black camera and shook her head in a manner that suggested annoyance and disappointment. I scoffed. She set the camera down on the coffee table and pressed the flat of her hand against her cheek, and glanced out the window into the backyard that was blanketed with slush and snow.
Drops of snow were plunging from the branches of the evergreen trees and plopping onto the patches of the ground, plunging, as though they were little toddlers cannonballing off of a high-dive.

She turned back and looked at me straight in the eye, so straight I thought she was searching for the answer to my own stupidity.

I cleared my throat and said, “I need a breath of fresh air.”

Vicki bit her bottom lip, sat down, and put her arms on her knees, a deep, contemplative look appearing on her face.

I stormed into the narrow hallway, slammed the front door back against its rusty hinges, and trundled down my front driveway, the cold from the ice and the snow dampening the soles of my tarnished boots. I lit a jack at the far end of the cul-de-sac and counted to ten. I watched the cigarette smoke rise, as the ashes fell on the snow, blemishing its purity and calmness. I inhaled. I exhaled. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach that Vicki knew I was having a jack to reduce my stress, stress that I had cause all by myself. I ground the jack against the snowy concrete, feeling the cold begin to numb my fingers that were shaking from the nicotine, shaking from the winter that had wrapped itself around me and my sister.

When I came back inside of the house, I told Mom and Dad I was being an idiot and that I didn’t mean to be such an *******. I turned to Vicki and put my hand on her shoulder, squeezed it, and smiled weakly, telling her that I didn’t mean to upset her.

She nodded and said, “It’s okay bro.”

But her soft and icy tone made me feel skeptical; she didn’t believe me. I didn’t know if I believed my apology. Minutes later, I gave my present to her.

Her face brightened up with a smile. It was a gradual and cautious smile, a little too gradual and a little too cautious. She hugged me tightly, as though my earlier outburst hadn’t happened.

She opened the bank envelope and inside was a fat stack of cleanly, pressed bills that totaled a hundred. Being an arrogant, noob car salesman at the time, I thought it was going to be a pretty clever present. I could have given her a Benjamin, but I thought this would make her happier, because it showed my creative side in a different form.

I remember seeing her spread the dollar bills out, as if the bills were a Japanese Paper fan. Vicki told me not to post the picture I had taken on insta or Facebook. I smiled faintly and nodded, stuffing my smartphone back into my sweatpants pocket. I understood what she wanted, and I listened to her, respecting her wishes. But I also wasn't sure if she was embarrassed and ashamed of me. And maybe I was overthinking it. But again, maybe I wasn’t overthinking it. Social Media, whether we like it or not, is a part of life. And in that moment, I actually wanted social media to display this a single story in our lives. I wanted to show people that Vicki was the most important person—besides my parents—in my life. Because I was so concerned with how people viewed me and because I lacked confidence, lacked security, and lacked respect for myself

Vicki's present to me was a sleek and blue tie, a box set of mini colognes, and refreezable-ice-cubes. I think she called it the car salesperson kit. But I knew and still know she was trying to turn me into an honest and non-sketchy car salesman. And you know what, I was genuine, but I also couldn't retain any information about the cars features—to reiterate my Grandma has Alzheimer's, my mom writes down constant notes to remember everything, and I forget my journal almost every time I leave the house.

After Christmas I wore the tie to work a few times, but the mini colognes and ice-cubes never got used by me. They stayed in the trunk of my Toyota Avalon. I should have used the colognes and the ice-cubes, but I was too careless, too self-involved, and too ungrateful.

1

Back in the 90’s, when we were around 3 and 6 years old, Vicki and I shared the same room on the far left end of the hallway in our house. She had a small bed, and I had a bigger bed, obviously, because at 6 foot 1, I was a genetic freak for a Vietnamese guy. I read Harry Potter and Redwall like crazy growing up, and I would try to invent my own stories to entertain her. Every night she would listen to me tell my yarn, and it made me feel that my voice was significant and strong, even though many times I felt my voice was weak and soft, lacking in inflection, or intonation.

I had a speech impediment and I had to take classes at Canterbury Woods to fix my perceived problem. I wanted to fit in, blend in, and have friends.
Back then Vicki was not only my sister, but my best friend. She used to have short, black bangs; chubby cheeks, and a dot-sized nose—don't worry she didn't get ****** into the grocery tabloids and get rhinoplasty. She wore her red pajamas with a tank top over it, so she looked like a mini-red ranger, and her slippers

I once met a suit salesperson on the street. He approached me and said "My hands craft magic, do you want to buy a suit?"

I asked, "how much for it? And size?"

He replied, " one grand. And don't worry it contains magical elements, the size doesn't matter".

I gave him the money and he asks me "you ready?"

I nodded my head to indicate yes.

He handed me a deck of cards and said "you now have a full suit".

Worst one grand I have ever spent ever.

What I’ve Learned as a Writer
By Leo Babauta

I’ve been a professional writer since I was 17: so nearly 24 years now. I’ve made my living with words, and have written a lot of them — more than 10 million (though many of them were duplicates).

That means I’ve made a ton of errors. Lots of typos. Lots of bad writing.

Being a writer means I’ve failed a lot, and learned a few things in the process.

Now, some of you may be aspiring writers (or writers looking for inspiration from a colleague). Others might not ever want to be a writer, but you should still care about writing. I’ll tell you why: it’s an incredible tool for learning about yourself. And if you’re an effective writer, you’re an effective communicator, thinker, salesperson, businessperson, persuader.

So for anyone interested in writing, I’d love to share what I’ve learned so far.

    Write every **** day. Yes, even weekends. Yes, even when you’re busy with other crap. Each day I write a blog post, an article for Sea Change, part of my new book, or perhaps part of a novel. If I don’t have enough to write every day, I start a new writing project. I write at least 1,000 words a day, but you don’t have to write that much. Writing daily makes it a routine thing, so you never have to think about it. You just do it. It gets much easier, less intimidating. You get better at it. It’s like talking with a friend: just how you express yourself.
    Create a blog if you don’t have one. Whether or not you’re a writer, you should have a blog. Why? Because it’s a great way to reach an audience, to practice writing on a daily basis, to reflect on what you’ve been learning, to share that with others so they might benefit, to engage in a wider conversation, to learn about yourself. Anyone who wants to learn about themselves should have a blog. (Protip: Try Sett to start a blog — it’s a great way to grow an audience and community.)
    Write plainly. I think this is from Strunk & White, but it works well for me. I write in plain language, leaving the flowery stuff for others. Academic writing is the worst — it’s so stilted no one wants to read it unless they want to show others how smart they are. Technical jargon, business-speak, pretentious vocabulary, insider acronyms … none of them have any place in communicating with your fellow human beings. Only use those things if you want to hide the fact that you don’t know what you’re talking about.
    Don’t write just to hear yourself talk. Lots of people like to go on and on about themselves and their lives, but readers don’t come for that. Readers come for their own purposes. You’re reading this to get ideas for yourself as a writer, not to hear the life story of Leo the amazing writer in technicolor detail. Now, you can tell stories about yourself if they’re vividly entertaining or inspirational or really instructive. But have a purpose, and be sure you’re meeting that purpose. Don’t just ramble.
    Nearly everything can be shortened. Including this post, of course. I could probably cut 25% of this post and get away with it (I’ve already cut 25%). Go through your sentences and ask: is this necessary? What purpose does it serve? How would this read without it? And if you can, drop it. It makes your work more readable, clearer.
    Fear stops most potential writers. Most people don’t write (publicly at least) because they’re afraid their writing will ****. Well, it will. Everyone ***** at first. You don’t get better at something by sitting on your hands. **** it up, put yourself out there. You won’t have many readers at first, when you ****, but as your audience grows so will your skills.
    Read regularly for inspiration. I might write more than 1,000 words a day, but I read 10 times that. I read books and (online) magazines and blogs and more. Reading gives me ideas, shows me better ways to write, gives me access to the best teachers in my craft (amazing writers).
    Procrastination is your friend. Every writer lives daily with procrastination. If you allow yourself to feel guilty about that, then you’ll feel bad about yourself as a writer. Instead, embrace your procrastination as a friend, enjoy it … and then ask the friend to leave for awhile so you can get your work done. No friend should monopolize all your time. Get your writing done, then invite the friend back when you have free time.
    Have people expect your writing. This is another reason blogs are fantastic: if you build up an audience, you feel the pressure of their expectations. This pressure is a good thing — it keeps procrastination from taking over your life. You know the audience expects you to write, so you get off your **** and you do it. Before I had a blog, my editors were the people expecting my writing.
    Email is an excuse. We often go to check email because it feels productive (and it can be), but it’s easy to use that as a way to put off the writing. Honestly, if you close your email for a couple hours, nothing bad will happen. Close it, close everything else, and get to writing. Your email will be waiting for you when you’re done.
    Writing tools don’t matter. Most people tinker with their writing tools, trying to find the perfect system. ***** that. You can write with anything, as long as you have a keyboard. Yes, I much prefer typing to writing by hand, because I’m much faster at typing. I can get the words out closer to the speed of my thinking. But what writing program I use is irrelevant: I write in TextEdit, Sublime Text, Ommwriter, Byword, Notational Velocity, in the WordPress or Sett editor in the browser, in Google Docs. Just open up a new document and start writing.
    Jealousy is idiotic. Writers can often be insecure types — perhaps it’s a byproduct of putting your soul out in the world for all to criticize. So they’re often jealous of the success of other writers. That’s a complete waste of time and energy. It does you no good as a writer. Instead, learn from the success of others, see what’s good about you, and merge the two. Be happy for people. It’ll make you happier too.
    Writing can change lives. When I publish a post, I hope it’ll be of use to someone. But the responses I get are often incredible — people tell me how much a post or my blog in general has changed their lives. I’m blown away by this. When you put something with good intention out in the world, you have no idea what kind of impact it might have on others. It might do nothing, but it could have a profound effect on someone’s life. That’s truly powerful. That’s truly a reason to get up and write.

And one thing I’ve learned, above all, is this: the life that my writing has changed more than any other is my own. Writing for you has changed me, in ways I am only beginning to grasp. In wonderful, crazy, lift-you-off-the-ground kind of ways. And that makes me want to do it forever.

It's hard to understand

A Rockstar with a drug problem

A Literary type with wine tasting ability

A business man keen on social sense

A Lover craving spiritual connection and growth

Layers of fallen leaves in autumn
Piles of gold and red and orange

Football fan with a blue jersey

Homeless but with a vigil eye
For those who try to hard

An addict to anyone who loves
Caring to much to touch
Love that comes unbound
All too quick and all too much

I am all I write above
Some of it lies....  to myself

A dove with a heavy heart
singing in my mind
Flying for a shelter of like-minded doves.

But who am I this time?
Rockstar, Lush,  Lover, Addict, Salesperson

I am a writer, or so I think...

Especially when I drink

I am all those things
I am assertion
Of life with many layers

Like other living beings
Like tree rings
Something you don't see
till lacerations
Cut the skin, cut the bark

Personality bleeds out
That's why I run to the closest person
Not the best
And I doubt it'll work out

She doesn't understand
I'm a Rockstar, Lush, Lover, Addict, Salesperson

Consumerist soul raging against itself
Artist running faucets of stealth
Hiding behind words
And guitar chords

She doesn't understand what I am.

A dove with a heavy heart
singing in my mind
Flying for a shelter of like-minded doves.

An addict to anyone who loves
Caring to much to touch
Love that comes unbound
All too quick and all too much

I watch Laura through our adjoining office window
and pray to any god that will listen that she won't pick up the receiver.

I hope my glare burns the cord that...
******.

  Good morning, Mr. Prater.  My names is Laura and I'm calling from Vector Supplies.
    How are you doing today?

Her screech of a voice causes the hair on my arms to stand up.
Her laugh should be one of the layers of hell.

  Hello?  Mr. Prater?

Another customer dropped the call.
If someone with that voice called my home I would demand the manager
and accuse the caller of huffing helium, trying to get high.

She's the worst salesperson in this office.
Frankly, no one is great here.
At least we're better than the northern branch.

The boss, Mr. Leckman, opens the door and slithers into her office.

  Laura, I saw that another customer hung up.

  I'm sorry, Mr. Leckman.  I promise I'm trying.

  Try being more perky like I know you can.

Oh ****.  Don't encourage her you *****.

  And Laura, you can call me Ted, remember?

  Yes, Mr. Leckman.  I mean Ted.

Her giggle almost broke the glass of our window,
and if it had, I would have slit my wrists with the shards.
No hesitation.

I'm still watching the horror show,
and that's when I saw it:

He winked.

That *****.  I knew she was ******* him.
That's the only reason why she's still here.

Sadly, I was interrupted mid-strangle fantasy when Mr. Leckman,
or Ted, barged in.

  Ms. Dunn, get back to work.

  Sorry, Ted--uh, Mr. Leckman.

He had shut the door before I could correct myself.
Great.  I'm sure I'll get fired by the end of this week.
I need this ****-up of a job.  
It's one of the few places that doesn't make you
**** in a cup before you sell your soul.

Maybe I should bend over more often.

There’s a salesperson at the door
someone said
and so you went to the door
and there was the young salesman

with a book in his hand
and in a sharp grey suit
and hair neat and short cut
yes?

you said
I represent Carson’s stores
and it has been brought
to my notice

that you are behind
with your payments
is that so?
you said

yes
the young guy said
three months behind
and if you don’t pay today

the item you have chosen to buy
will be removed
is that so?
you said

the young guy looked
into his book of figures
and script
so you called out

Dolly there’s a young guy here
who says we owe him money
you both waited
while Dolly came to the door

what do we owe?
she asked
money
the young guy said

what for?
Dolly said
a vacuum cleaner
the young guy said

you are three months behind
now if you do not pay up today
it will be removed
Dolly raised her eyebrows

and put on her
don’t mess with me face
and went off
the young guy

and you looked
at each other in silence
after a few minutes
Dolly returned

carrying the vacuum cleaner
here
she said
here’s your **** Hoover

take the thing
and go stick it
where the sun
don’t shine

and so the young man
held up the vacuum cleaner
and looked at you
and Dolly

and said
right don’t come back
to the store
because you won’t

be served again
and off he went
out along the road
in the falling black rain.

1
when first I heard the radio
when I was just about four
in a tiny village in India
I thought I was hearing things
but mom said:
'Don’t worry, rasa -
it’s just the radio…'


2
when first I heard
the voice on the other side of the line
I nearly jumped out of my skin
but the salesperson said:
'Don’t worry;
that’s not the devil
that’s just the marvel of the telephone'


3
when now I hear voices
when I’m in my shower
and I ask my wife and children:
'Did you guys want to talk to me?'
they answer:
'Why would we?
You’d better wash your ears;
You’re hearing things…'

The salesperson, the global sociopath, the way to consumer heaven and consumer paradise.

~A Moment of Happiness​~
It started out as an ordinary day,
Any ordinary day in one’s life.
We had probably been out the night before,
This memory escapes me now.
We woke to coffee and cigarettes
As we usually did.

You were on the Gucci site
Showing me the style of suit you had wanted.
We decided to hit Gucci on 5th Avenue.
Parenthetically, if you remember,
I wore sweats and a T-shirt, and you,
You wore your father’s old suit which kept it’s wear.
Here we were, walking toward Gucci,
Debating on whether I should visit Iceland on holiday.

Outside the store,
We were one of the anonymous,
But inside, we stepped into another world,
One of the rich, on 5th Avenue in New York City
Where price tags do not exist.
I remember the elevator ride and our conversation.
Stepping out to be greeted by a salesperson,
Whom I ordered around and kept on his toes due to his thirst for a sale.

A vision of you,
Standing there in the suit chalked up by the tailor.
I handed you a wine glass filled with Pelligrino,
To wash down the Xanax forced into your mouth.
When all was done, we were outside again,
Amongst the anonymous.

Later that night, we sat at the Whiskey Bar celebrating our day.
I remember hearing glimpses of U2’s “Beautiful Day”
In the background and thinking how appropriate.
I thought this was the beginning of happiness,
And there would always be more.
It was happiness, the moment.
All our feelings, yours and mine, all mixed up.
The madness of it all.
You see I wanted to give you it all, the world if possible.
To make you happy, in every viable platform.
I know now you didn’t feel the same.
Left with everything unsaid and undone between us.

Having that one day with you was my moment of happiness.
You have given all you had to offer for me.
For us.
I am here and you are there,
A huge distance between us.
Know, even though we have not spoken,
I am here,
For the conversation, the friendship, the silence.
Remember always what I said to you before I fled to England,
The night we walked the promenade;
Love doesn’t end just because we don’t see one another.
No matter how you look at it,
It’s only Love after all.

Walking into a store can be dazzling
and distracting,
accepting the culture to embezzle,
anything to lure the customer
and make a consumer.

But walk in, and find
the salesperson to ruin the image:
"hello, can I help you? What are you looking for?"

(not your help, thanks)

Similarly, self-promotional smucks
give me the same feeling.

I'm not going to check out your mixtape, I'm not going to check out
your youtube, I refuse to be bought, just because you asked nicely.

A Story of Scientology and the Mental Health System Connection

SEEKER

Now I can hear you saying to yourselves,
"So. You said you were smart. Why did you get involved with a crazy cult like Scientology?"* Well. Two reasons. 1) I was raised an atheist (Humanist), but had a seeker's soul. I became very spiritual, like I said. I also had a desire to HELP people. Humanity. I still do. But because I had a godless upbringing I was left open to deception. And 2) I found a boyfriend. Or, I should say, he found me. One of Scientology's tried and true methods of recruitment.

I had another friend, a ***** Jewish scientologist (yes, there can be that sort of thing, as you can be "any faith" and still be a scientologist... hmph!). She introduced us. I was impressed by two things. He was an instructor at the "Mission". And he could tell you things that seemed psychic. One of the procedures for impressing people to sign up for classes and "processing" was this. Doug would position you in a certain part of the room. He'd have his back to you. Then he'd tell you to walk away from him... then stop abruptly.
He'd be able to tell you when you stopped! And he could do it every time! This really impressed me. Until I found out he looked into the reflective surface of a large glass covered poster that was on the wall! Lol! What a con artistic magician HE was! HA!

I was totally gone over by the registrar (salesperson). She stuck to me like glue until she FINALLY figured out, Yes! I had NO MONEY! So I didn't get any training or processing. Which was a BIG part of why I stuck around. I didn't even read "Dianetics" by L Ron Hubbard. Doug told me a little about it. But most of his energy was expended trying to get in my pants... a fruitless endeavor to say the least!

He was instrumental in getting me up to Phoenix for the fateful "Flag Orientation Tour". The recruitment campaign which would change my life forever...

*Where I signed my life over to Scientology's Sea Organization for the next BILLION YEARS.

I CALCULATIONS

A bird from the window
Pecked at my papers
Lined with my scores.

Now trees are dead,
And papers are gone.
This is the computer age.

I will break it down for you.
I even made a list,
Would you like to count?

II THE LIST

1.This is the computer age              
    Of digitized proofs
       And

2.Authority attested identies,
     With participants' certificates.

3.Our own words have lost meaning

4.We are now vessels                     
With our definition stapled on screens
      And

5.Meagre salaries    
    Tagged on our foreheads.

6.We are our grades.

7.The given guidelines,
      Projects we finished overnight.
         We are the cheated test scores,

8.The printed marksheets
       From the renowned buildings.

9.We are a bunch of degrees.
      
10.We are a box of experience
     With a reciept of coffees we bought,
         We are a cv of what we did.

11.We are the said lies
        And

12.The stress calmed by mummbled slurs.

13.We are the second employee
        Shouted at.
          And

14.We are the hundredth consumer
       With company approved needs.

15.We are the salesperson with quotas to meet.

16.We are the owners
       Of a dying business,
         A pending debt.

17.We are the numerous people
        Of covered faces on the streets

18.And exposed bodies in the world wide web.

19.We are the constructed
         Digital photographs
            With deconstructed heads.
        

20.We are a bunch of numbers

21.We are a bunch of numbers

22.We are a bunch of numbers,

23.When did we become
      
24. A 0 or a 1?

People shouldn't even fit in a whole encyclopedia

And yet here,
Are you looking for a number 25?


III RESULT

Well I gave the papers to the bird,
She put it in her nest
And made it warmer.

You call me crazy
But I will always
Call myself a free bird.

I heard you say you are an expert at selling anything
Even your body?

I am not a shirt you try on,
and put back because you don’t think
it will work.

I am not a car you take on a test drive,
and leave with the dealer because you don’t like
how you look with me.

I am not a food sample at the food court that you take
to make the poor salesperson happy,
but spit me out later because my taste didn't suit you.

I am not an object,
not something you can spit out or put back.
I am a human being.

the salesperson
pointed me towards
the petite section
told me
'oh the women's section
isn't for you'

made me realize
how much
i've shrunk

don't get me
wrong
i'm still 5'2 (& a half)
still weigh
somewhere near 120
but
i have bent and burnt
into
the corners

i have
shrunk

it's a slow process
you don't
even realize that it is
happening
until you find yourself
smaller than ever
and you
wonder
how could a personality
as big as mine
become
as small as this

perhaps it first began
when i
learnt to
stay quiet
when
i really
wanted to say
no
or
yes
or
maybe
or
i believe
or i don't think so

but instead

i looked down
kept
my lips
sealed
and my
eyes closed
blinking
only to
feel my eyelashes
against
my cheeks

i once
had a boy
tell me
he fell in love
first with my voice
then
with me

he tried to solve
me
like a puzzle
putting back the bits and pieces
to create something
whole
but in the process
the pieces got
jumbled up
into something new
and the
voice
i had
that captured
his soul
slipped
away

i started shrinking
when
i lost my voice
and now
i think i've lost
my heart too
my
passion doesn't
flow so
loudly in
my veins and
every now and then
it does
scream
but i silence it
be good,
little girl,
be silent

and to
the girls who
are walking on
glass made
of unwanted opinions
and voices
which are far louder than
theirs,
i say,
remember.

remember who you are
remember what
you are worth.
and remember
that not the father
nor the son
can take from you
the fire
that burns
brighter than the
sun above.
my daughter,
i say,
let your voice
be heard and
let your freedom
burn
and
if
there is a day
when a man
comes and tells you
that he
will replace
the vocal
chords into
something
softer
you
open your hands
offer him peace
and if he rejects
use your freedom
to send
him
far
far
away.

One-click shopping,
instant payment –  
so convenient;
so ******* easy
to cross over
from being a shopper
to a low-key hoarder.

I don’t buy expensive stuff.
No, nothing excessive.

Just read about a new book,
must-read of the season,
rave reviews on Goodreads.
Available on Amazon?
Yes, it also has a Kindle version.
(See,
even though there is no comparison
between the warmth of a paperback
and the cool efficiency of e-books,
I prefer my Kindle simply because  
it’s easier to carry multiple books.)
So I click – buy – get it.
Now it sits
in merry company  
of all the books I bought
so ******* conveniently
while I keep rereading the books
I’ve already read.  

Don’t get me started  
on my obsession with stationery.
Is there any feeling better
than writing on blank paper?
Seeing your busy thoughts
fall in neat lines,
march in formation,
until they reveal the idea underneath.
I keep browsing through the section
of notebooks, journals, diaries,
pencils, pens – oh, there are so many kinds!
I click – buy – get it.
A moment of ecstasy
when the I get the delivery
even though I mostly jot down
any sudden flash of inspiration  
on my phone because it’s always handy.

Getting bigger?  
Get larger jeans.
No need to stand trial  
before judgemental eyes
of the “helpful” salesperson.
Sidestep the self-esteem crisis,
just click – buy – get it.
Easy return policy;
quick refund if it does not fit.

Idly scrolling on social media
and I’m bombarded
with some choice targeted marketing.
How can I refuse
such a customised bait?
Hook, line, click on the link –
there – it’s not that expensive,
nothing too excessive.
I’ll buy that yellow dress,
those cute strappy sandals,
the quirky socks,
ooh a new mascara!
Wear the dress once and chuck it aside,
then go back to cycle the same five outfits.
Put on the mascara,
bat my eyes in jubilation,
then banish it to the drawer
because it gets on my contacts
and causes irritation.

I can go on and on and wax poetic
about the wonders of window-shopping
from the comfort of my couch.
I swear it’s such a great feeling
coming home to find my package waiting.

it's gone way past the late 1980s concern for the typewriter...
like russell crowe in fathers & daughters...
i could say: luckily i'm a man,
but then i have to have this phobia
of "being" prone to enforced castration...
or however that theory goes...
      and however much i look at
free-expression outlets,
   i just see more and more of the cartesian
libra weighed down
(way   ga ga d, ed, edited... sure
english is complex weight sounds nothing like
weighed, to say, down boy! down!) -
there's more of the "i am" than
there is of the "i think"...
like walking to a speed-dating event
and having the label: hi, my name is Fred...
so whereas the one ascribed to history looked
like this:
                                           i am

                           Δ

i think

the modern day picture looks like:

i think

                          Δ

                                             i am...

and then apply copernicus to it...
left? right? left of right? right of left?
               that's just pointing at the world and saying:
i had so much narrative potential in me
that i actually liked the mundane aspects of it being there,
but then "i think" outweighed the stressors
for an "i am"... we live in a predominantly "i am"
culture... beginning with atheism...
    atheism is predominantly an "i am" base
for the cartesian seesaw... that noun alone does it for me:
present-past... 1945 evidently had to happen,
and since western society is quick to slurp
that magic juice so quickly it gives them a brain-freeze
is all the more evident...
        great cultural impetus though...
i mean, i could listen to certain music all day
and feel nothing related to the obnoxious sound
of knocking on a door...
     like: knock knock... who who? bye.
the best "christmas" present i ever received was
by going into a music store back in the 1990s...
          and buying a movie soundtrack for mortal
kombat... because that game tells you:
from the game? a great movie... and music esp.,
street fighter? what, jean claude van damme?
stroll through the kew gardens...
       or trying to catch a mosquito's testicles wearing
boxing gloves...
                  but back in the day when Ilford shopping
mall had an ourprice (that ***** of a daughter of
****** megastores)...
        this one salesperson asked me why i wanted
the classical score to batman forever,
rather than the movie soundtrack with
u2's hold me, thrill me, kiss me, **** me...
      and i was certain: i need to play with my G.I. Joes...
the 20th century... looks funny now,
how we played with those pieces of plastic...
   living in the aura of both the Chernobyll
aftermath, and the Chinese State one child policy...
oh i wouldn't dare to call my life fascinating,
thought provoking or in need of a book...
but then i also think that the biography of
Don Giovanni is a bit stupid... with a life like that?
please... why write a book?
  such are the times, the concerns for "i think"
are out... outdated... never to be seen ever again...
thinking has become less of an identity basis
for modern man... than what concerns "needing"
to stress the "i am"... of that cartesian seesaw...
i am: blah trans blah cis blah atheist blah blah, blah...
me? i'm working on surds...
try to catch me talking into the internet...
last time i was using this medium i was wondering
why a website doesn't have ctrl + c block parameters
to enforce, even by moderate hopes, a case
for ©...
              and why _ and the * could collide
when writing ex_machina...
                     or that chestnut of deus ex machina:
now is the time more than ever:
   we made it, we can state a **** ex machina
arguments given we have such technological
advances... oh look... hello woman in tokyo!
i'll probably see more of you than my neighbour...
one word why i chose the classical score
for batman forever over u2...
      fledermausmarschmusik:
what's that? fleeing mouse-march music...
    or marching mouse music, if you're going to
chop the hyphen off and rewrite german, in english
like you're write it from left to right (in grammatical
terms), rather than right to left;
yet this is precisely the point,
  the serious stuff goes into the music,
even if the project can only be seen as a cover
that's the basis for infantalism...
  ah... that word always gets me "dyslexic"...
infantilism... t tee tea?
       english for you, king crimson and
in the court of the crimson king... dance of
the vowels... ******* demonic entities, wry from
the divorce of the grapheme adam & eve (æ):
which is hardly an æsc / ash, given it could
just be given a treatment of -esque...
    surgeon! es kay? risky! ah.... ha ha ha ha!
so using this medium like i might use
hairs off a horse's mane to play the violin once
stretched and kept keen in a bow...
    and paper comes from trees and glass from sand:
the mad ingenuity that could ever be exploited...
which means this really isn't much:
i spent the past hour watching a double rainbow
appear, and then disappear...
come sunset i was trying to figure out what to
call the colour of clouds that allowed the rainbow to
appear... is that plums... or bruises?
then you open a monday newspaper and read the headlines
that the internet is making...
  and thinking... Alan Turing? they really shouldn't
have ****** with you;
unlike some of us, who thank you for creating a world
where capitalism stands on its head and
some of us don't care for provocation or
book-deals... and... well... just find the whole
endeavour into writing to be relaxing...
       given that talking was never really on the cards,
or needed; so yes, thank you for provoding
the skrót.

The lie is in the mirror and on our screen.
That like button lies to you
Social media is a salesperson
Each photo uploaded is expired meat
Sold as butchers choice.
We are all tagged and complacent on the block
Glee to be valued and chopped.

Every like charges dopamine into a dope-fiends melancholy viens.
I'm high and heart-liked, thus beautiful.

Where's the button to scream?

Politicians are at the top
of language, salesperson
and lawyer in one they
compress the voters' words
with lobbyists and preachers
along the line, it's all

about bluff and the art
of getting stuck every now and then
so that a competitor has to come
and help and inconspicuously
pushed on previous promises
crashes, chokes on them

or at least tears
himself inside
on their blade
You too, Brutus?
It is a full moon
The people are cheering

At a Candy Shop
****
Needed a smart salesperson,
Good pay,
From:9:00am to2:00pm
            3:00pm to6:00 pm
Should be DIABETIC.

To be the best

My husband is Europe's best salesman
she said proudly.
What does he sell? Things, she said.
What things? Well, many different things.
Putin is a good seller of hopes, I said.
Who is Putin? A man who sell dreams
and other things, I have never heard of
him does he sell houses too.
Reflecting upon “things” Brexit came
to mine, people didn't want to buy it
founds “things” a burden importing stuff
they could produce themselves.
“Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,” she did
And found it had many rotten teeth
needed a dentist to extract them.
I like fish& chips a man chimed in and for French
Cheese! I never bought one, what's wrong with
Gouda?  (Geography not his strong suit) and for
wine, I rather have a pint of lager.
So it is settled then (never mind the street talks)
we are half out but also half in.
Can we say Theresa May is a great salesperson?

walking seems to
   only become relaxing
after having...
drank three bottles
of beer
            and having walked
about 5 miles...

i never understood jogging...

i just never felt
it necessary to do something,
that might make
your brain: custard...
sure, all the necessary
work,
        as associated
with industrial roofing...
  but...
              
       at least walking
allows you some sort of sanity...
you begin to wonder:

(a) ***** envy?
      what's that?
   i remember *** with a *******
who...
         had an ******...
  and... she said:
   'that's only the second
time it has happened to me'...
so i kissed her hands
and she replied
with a subtle version
of ouch...

thank **** i'm on the fringes
of society...
  anything beyond
a blank canvas would
                             **** me...

(b) why is memory....
so... fickle?
     and why is the modern
education system
such an erosion
       of this mental faculty?
yet memory...
  it's such a fickle component
of thinking, dreaming
and imagining...

          and yet...
there's dementia...
   imagination is unaffected...
demented people
imagine all sort of things,
as do schizophrenics...
  but memory,
what a fickle ontological
faculty...
      i can't remember what
i wish i could,
and remember
          something as basic
as 2 + 2 = 4...
    o r    t h e
                 f o l l o w i n g
set of spelling...
              my grandfather
is demented
   and he asks me
                 the same question...
fickle memory...
       erosive memory...
     and strain...
  from the days of school...
returning
            to templar chants...

less the sought after fame,
and more...
                   curiosity...

after 5 miles...
   you sometimes catch yourself
looking at your feet,
as if implying: robot...

          and all the otherwise
familiar junk...
    but...
    the cultural export
of h'america has...
                     subsided...
i can't remember the last
time i heard something
worthwhile
from that nuanced
continent...

                         it's not like
i can experience
     a seattle band anymore...
and all the current
banning of a "persona non grata"...
like me, circa 2015 on wattpad,
at this point...

                 the futility
of a gensis of the original
                  endeavour...

days when
nihilism has become replaced
            with fatalism...
     nihilism is dead...
   it's whatever is
to be made subject
to the already persisting norm...
         fatalism?
                  i'm too drunk,
and too overpowered
by having walked 5 miles...
to entertain countering
    the free will of "the other"...
which is the standard mentality
of someone:
   not born in a role
              of salesperson...

low blood sugar level...
and... this is crap?
so all that cushioned
tabloid journalism...
                                   isn't?

what about the
beta male column
     by robert crampton...
        what's that?
that.... that's                vork?
well, sure,
that's cool...
              i'll just fill
in this blank...
  and i'll also call it:
               vork...
          and not...
   stratum of suspension...

            better get the whip
out on me,
to get me moving...
   or...
          ****...
    you whip me,
i might even begin to enjoy it...

conundrum.

I desperately clutched
(the Peanuts stuffed animal) Woodstock
to help me absorb shock.

What invisible agent
provocateur née ghost in the machine
sinister force hell bent
to rob me of every red cent,
whereby checking account
incurred major dent
(albeit figurative) required
yearly vehicular ownership event.

Unavoidable collision course
with money woes does frankly zap
proud owner of car will soon
find her/himself on penniless track
after salesperson (usually a man)
intones memorized commercial spiel,
and won't shut her/his yap
until quota of cars sold
guaranteeing bear hug wrap
courtesy company president
gifted bonus and vacation to escape,
(albeit temporarily) rat race trap.

Yours truly crafts (courtesy poetic license)
mine trademark prevaricated write
crowing, invoking, and lamenting malfunction
advertises, enunciates,
and intones game over
(by Tracy Lauren Marrow,
otherwise known as Iced-Tea),
whose claim to fame 1. rapper round rhymes;
2. fleet (truckload) of motorized
hot wheels (burning rubber)
quite a fiery sight;
3. check engine light advertisement
especially fluorescent hubcaps
that glows (like the
pulsating nose of Rudolph) at night.

Most recent experience (mine)
dealing with problematic
"check engine light" tsuris,
taught me helpful object lesson
after bringing our 2009 Hyundai Sonata
to Norm's Save Station
(earlier today 8/24th, 2021)
551 Gravel Pike, Collegeville, PA 19426,
which mechanic on duty
informed me that within Pennsylvania
said mechanical setback NEED NOT
be troubleshot if car driven less than
5000 miles per year.