cloudsgrey/bipolr:short story; one

Slander. Murmur. Decay. The flowers try hard to be pretty and succeed well providing, happiness, smiles, and tears for the grave. The grave goes deep within, and down, then later with you, and now with a loved one. Down, down, it eases the hurt before the rot. In silent pity, not at all pity when the people down under begin their talk. Don’t want to fade away, be transparent, or otherwise after death, after the leaping demise. Shallow earth is life force and the force forever after. German shepherds ground junction nowhere it matters.
Cloud-gazing. Time spacing out. Zenith. Counting down not. Starving for nothing. Starving for attention. Loving to be lonely. Loving the unhappiness. Time exists only in the clouds passing. Mind is not racing. More or less. Stimulants. Injections. An inner lower vexed conversation. Back and forth denying source of relaxation. Her wellness wasn’t well at all. Her thoughts were contrived with her wellness being unwell. A pity which fell. A self pity of having never been fixed. Being fixed was her only wish, but then, she had been the only one existing. Though there were other things, but they were just other things. Walking alone. Always. It Never mattered. Never did. Walking alone does. Crowded. Catching the flu. And alone still it goes, catching the flu.
Granting the the frantic manic panic attacks -so the earth is good at what is does. Two things together are one. Doesn’t matter -doesn’t it matter? It doesn’t matter. Never contriving wanting knowing. The earth is only still once in time before you start going at it, at arms’ up. In womb -in mother, before you start to die.
There was a time one Holiday in Muskegon. Car ride. Compass center windshield. Pallet pouring a rain pour. Highway overpass’s. No center dividers. Sideway highway trees there for adoption. Grandma, in passenger seat Grandpa driving. Back seat, first big brother left seat. Second big brother right side. Little girl in the middle. Answer. Answer. You don’t answer. They talk. You wont talk. It is o.k. They will know another day.. Your forward is not their forward. Walking. They walk. It is all the same. Decreasing energy is not an answer. Increasing energy is not an answer. Nothing is an answer. It is all the same. It is all the same energy going forward motion.
Sky fade to black. Specks of hungry light unite intent tree tops bending minds. Staple tree. Ti tree. Falling from the sky . Trip to hospital but no ambulance. Doctors stitch the forehead. Blow up surgical glove to make lips smirk a hint of non fear. But fear. Pain. Fear. Iniquity. Blood. What happen? Nurse really is comforting. Bless this nurse what is her name. She speaks of friends, Like the one she asked about, Carrie. Soothing, leading, courting young motivational motion.
In Grammar school she was uncomfortable to look at her own cloths. Disheveled leaves align the floor ground . And unable to count. Only small counts until she hits the number Twelve. Twelve-teen. Thirteen-teen. Fifteen. Four teen-teen. On the swing. On and on she goes. Six-ix-ix-teen, seven-ixteen… Back and forth. Up and down. High equilibrium to the earths ground then up high again. Up level up. Come down go to school.
Then at night, later evening. A natural sleep over with Jaci, went out for a bowl of ice cream, then heard the kitten, stolen, screaming. Kitty. Kitty. Stupid cat. Orange tabby stick its head trough the open hole in the door of the closet. Take the door off the roll track. Dad called home to saw a slit for the nose. Kitty rescued. Orange tabby intoxicated by poison one day, one bad day. People fucked up. Exterminators. She happened ignorant. Happen. Happened.
Another one vacation, lot’s of vacations, parent never selfish. Yawing dust. Exhausting dusky City streets. Pick-up-truck. Cabin. Stuck. Unstuck in a world. Weird -weird -world. What is this place? Exhaled exhausted over and over again, doesn’t’ matter, what ever, why oh why does it go like this? What is this? Venting coast to the East. Heading North. Bean bags. First bean bag, big brother Red, his favorite color. Second bean bag, big brother Blue, his favorite color. Third bean bag, little sister Yellow, her favorite color, before she realizes her insides are black. The Blue truck’s navigator is Mom . Blue truck’s driver is Dad. Children bundled loose in the blue trucks’ cabin.
She said words. . The words she wanted to use. She said them to her friend of 13 years, which were now dying years. Friend never, never, came back. Happens, always when most likely needing her. Happens, when most always wanting her. Starving for attention. But She goes away healthy in a swagger. Steady. No pain. But hurt. Taking on the world. Melodramatic as always. Facing the truth. But not facing the truth. Swagger, distance tells all. Dancing like a muppet. Not what they say, or see. What the muppet’s do. How she moves, walks, talks, drives, and of corse dances. That’s how she does it daily to keep going. Surviving. If only the saddened people. Friends saddened. Whomever, who knew nothing, knew this, If only. And no day will come! You can keep talking. No day of happy people dancing away from a battle. Tenacious satisfaction. Abbreviated madness. habitual.
She sets astride in her cloudscape car…Photographer, at heart, and to show off especially to her family. –Camera shot. Blood shot. Song on repeat. No hesitation. Snap-shot, flip-flop, Pan-in, pan-out. Done, good. It’s good, it’s good, do it over. Stretch it out this time. Wait. Hesitate. Pan it out in script. Do it well, you see it well, what you want to see. Thousand hours couldn’t hold you in. A thousand hours couldn’t hold you still. Couldn’t put you deep beneath it’s skin. Take it well. Take it. Sustain your being. Simpleton. Newly new to this, beyond reasons she knew not to rely on herself, -didn’t do well -last long -was o.k..
Going at it day to day, -picking them off. But the Clouds couldn’t pull her through. Parallel. The river fell. The damn broke. Parallel. Broken note. She turns around. Agnostic. Atheist. Nothing. Internally everything. Danger provoked. Natural fear. Natural instinct. Nowhere is god but inside the face of every mirror. Where did she begin? Not from the beginning, but the pinpoint of learning. Where was it. And it doesn’t matter. And does it? It doesn’t at all in the slightest. The least bit.
The first day at school when wearing all black… fixth grade. Hair blown up in Aqua net. Nested knotted like Robert Smith. Eyeliner. Kids take her out back. To the field. To the tree. Their hang out. Her friends. Birthday party friends. Said what the hell are you doing! Tore the knots pelted her feet. Pushed her to the ground, left the field. Then Donna. Sweet dark smoking Donna.. We think alike… Vernacular. Can’t get around it. Passionate. Romantic. Increased emotion you can not get around it.. It is increased, they do that to you. People show fast emotions across their face, they do not blink, its not in their blink, not their look, or whatever… but a good-bye, or a good-night, and see you tomorrow. A ferruled, imprint, an increased heart-rate, forever, your thoughts forever, ever, where ever they are….An instant, fatal.
She listens intently with different instructions facing the wall with no instructions. Denying the world one too many times. Facing the world one too many times. going at it again. Doing this again. But then again it is different isn’t it. Straight she walks the path it is not. It is frantic, and going at it steady. Hands in coat pocket, hearing her heart beat steady, and calling. The future is a future. The mind is dark, but not darker. Clearing out now. Clearing out. Passing. Not sleeping anymore. Done. Then Donna, she, leaves up north.
Melodrama. Nothing is better and is more satisfying. Day after day it is satisfying. Will never get along without it. Bipolar. Forever and after. Where was the time. It was in denial. These short bursts of paragraphs, sentences all matter and match up and picked. Sculpted. For you. We are everywhere, all of us combined we all say the same shit, don’t lie. Count the times. You have maybe lied. No, lied. That is what we all do together, intertwined.
Bricks line everything. Even the sky. When you lie in bed at night and it is dark outside. Maybe you read your samuel Beckett book before bed, maybe this is something he might have said. But he didn’t. The horizon isn’t horizontal, it is parallel, and in fours, in the corners of your bedroom. She can do it better she says. Her ego may be bigger perhaps, but different. Lady, woman. Not man. Her ego bigger. Ha. He’s the man..

At break time from the coffee shop, she sits at the same bench sipping her coffee from her mug, studying the crows, doing their rounds at the traffic stop. …Hop, hop, hopping. The crows hop, along across the street. Drop. Drop. Dropping walnuts up five feet high from the sky down onto the street onto falling traffic then smashed by tires. She can watch the display all day long. Listen to the sounds of clicks and clacks from their throats. Watch them happy galloping, and giddy, in a team rooting for one another. And the cloudsgrey… Overcast, not flat grey, but rolling layers. Silver, Neutral, hints of blue, with no rain. The still air trapped, in the atmosphere. Her atmosphere, Joined along with the murder of crows. Murder of crows. As the saying is. So silly a saying, and where did it come from? So random. So dumb kind of. Alfred Hitchok comes to mind always first. The strange man.. The great man. Whom can direct an actor like no other man can. Set a scene, use black and white photography, like no other man can. Stand weird and stout, triangular, like no other man can. Ah the nineteen fifties. The suits, The woman, The fidelio, the veiled hats. The beauty and mystery. She never was there. Wished and fantasized, for her past. -But it doesn’t matter, thanks to film and photography, and the men and women who still tell there stories…
She use to be solitude type of girl. And a love for solitude it there for was. A bed full body solitude. -A bird yelling and punching with it’s beak at the cage solitude. A way of thinking she would do better in life. But it was a lethargic solitude. A false going on every day she’d do the same. The burning forward burning for reasons to sit her down. Lethargy is the devil. Lethargy… Something she lived through her whole existence, from birth, she guess’s from the beginning. A normalcy. Everyone was the same. They had to be. Until now. It is so different. Where did all the time go, manifested in anger, and adrenalin, here she is. She could park her car anywhere, she had her favorite spots. But growing up never gets better/but better,-more respected. She could sit there in her car forever and ever.
Friday is the weekend. Two days coming. The relaxing notion of freedom with children is the most blessing feeling. Then monday. Five days coming. Dogs. All week long. Walking. She Does it. Loves it. And still gets irate in life, frustrated. Life. Sadness. Depressed. Everything. Just like everybody. But intense. Manic. Racing. Suicidal. Compressed. So…On her bike, riding down the street, bopping her pig tails back and forth like Red Fragglerock, pig-tailed girl muppet. Traveling fast, flying, floating, feeling a levitation, hearing the music sound bouncing back and forth in her head, ear-buds opposite faced, with the motion of her pig tails, sloppily she thrashes around, rides like a drunk, in dreamland. Just like New Order says, “It’s never enough until your heart stops beating”… And the dancing, -singing guitars also saying something. ” There is no end to this”… And the singing bass guitars, rocking… And she is slapping the bass, air guitar-ing.. “There is no end to this”… “Remember life is stranger, life gets stranger every day”… She loves it, feels the music, all of it together a whole as one… Everything is perfect. Everything gets stranger… More.
Coffee. Coffee. Cigarettes. More cigarettes. Smoking. Alone. Talking. Nowhere goes randomness anymore, everything is justified. Stamped. Torpedo looks. Hot flashes. She hate this. Outside better. Black clothing intimidating to unsocalized people. Whatever. Use to it. Just the rude demeanor. Rude rude people out there. Somewhere everyday.
The sun goes down the way it should, but it puts a pull on her when it does late at night. It makes her wish nothing mattered. And wishing the pills were fresh across her face and not inside the bottle. Poor her. She bores a galore of despair on the floor, no more, wake up. Nothing like a panic attack. Resist it. Breath and drool. Breath in and out the drool. breath from your teeth deep and Moan. Smoke a bowl. Get it out. She does. Rewind.
Evil and good. What’s the difference They do what they can . But it isn’t enough. And the ones that stare, they don’t do anything at all. The gloating. The ugly ones, the ones with their mouths open when they eat. Which she could denounce them all. And who wouldn’t. Is that evil? No. Compare the bee that doesn’t do it’s work, communicate, keep up. it dies. What does the pain matter? Sooth the soul with dirt and rocks, make it last until the end. Take the buildings they’ve built, and make them your own, live in them.
When she is driving, she feels the car flying, like through space, especially at night on the freeway with the headlight traffic blowing toward her… Her favorite thing ever, space-mountain, at the front, with her arms out extended, what a thrill, and! ugh. Driving… All she does is hear voices. Not manic, but sometimes. Not telling her what to do really, sort of, but quiet. Dark for sure, sometimes hopeful, motivating, sometimes singing, playing notes, motivating, funny. Still saying though, one day it could all go a way of schizophrenia . In any case it does run in the family…
Wicked feelings of demise, and hurt maybe. No, not hurt. Pain. No one . Alone. Flying. No one, but you. More stilettos of every length and width. Fast forward. Fast forward the every emotion inside and out. She thinks to herself, screams out loud, sings out loud, “One day, when I am rich and famous, I will fuck you all in the ass! You rich fucks. You rich bitch. Done! I can drive faster than anyone on this freeway. I am done! I win!” , the exhilaration of telling the bitch off earlier in the parking lot, that woman, that ugly of a woman, the thicket of her face, what was she doing? telling strangers what to do, weird. Not stuck anymore. Push it open, move that door. Shove it with the left boot, there she goes. Ugh. Car.
Humanize her. Put her in a movie. Dehumanize her. Put her in a movie. Heading home. Alone. They were lame. She knew it. Didn’t want to go. Canvas waiting. Prepped. Ready to go. Cloudless yet cloudy. Burnt umber at the moon, wanting, waiting to turn rusty. Clear gaps awaiting her time.
A sculpture just like the one in the mirror if you would look up. It is cold. It is silent. It was never anything else, nor had she ever so slightly struck a curiosity. Time was present with experience with one eye clenched opposite a fist. One day. One day. The freeway will one day go forward forever toward her destiny.
It’s hard to do anything when she is stuttering and listening to Joy division. Completely complicated fractions. .. Sipping her wine, warm down her spine. Feels so good in the soul, feels go good in her frown. Write it all down. Ink trail bleed after brown ink on the paper. Can’t see well without her glasses. She remembers faces are not the same anymore anywhere, hearing voices in the walls, whispering hollow echos down the hall through the door, all up to her now. Get up, get out the door, walk the streets, to the liquor store.
She walks in slow motion. Slow-motion girl, where has all the time gone? Didn’t you know there is no such thing as time-travel. Except way back in memory. The graves, they own your name from the beginning Stone etched in your birth’s certificate. Obituary written daily. Watch the earth rotate. Watch the sun and moons’ power force the tides over her emotionally. Clamp her hands like lobster claws tight, no leverage. Tingle all over her deathly satisfying. Slow-motion where are you, Slow down more even so, No keep going. The ocean may be too rough for you, but the rogue waves are really nothing.
Shallow graves are nonexistent unless unfortunately death demise murder, suicide, and or, missing, or you’ve got another terrible story. He was found a few days later fortunate, at the transient trail, next the canal all wet, lying there three days in the rain, maybe longer, five days with out a word. There is nothing missing anymore. Everything is at her disposal.. Who knows what, but it doesn’t matter. It is all coming together, into place, once and for all. What a interesting intense destructive feeling a purpose can give you. A whole new high, grieving. Let the light in, but shit, a kind of thrill that seeks her. A kind of storm she wont wait for. Let a light hit. A bind in the brain that beats the head hard. Nothing is complicated anymore. Seeing in color. Seeing in color. Existential. Where is the black, hit the light, The light shit’s on her.
As a child, she’d been down this street so many times before. Smelling the cigar smoke, illuminating from the same cookie-cutter house from the middle of the block, resinating the area everywhere, the sweet smell, the sweet old nameless man. The smoke rust stops the sun, flips the street lamps on. Children start their hunt, romp, hide and seek fun. Hide in trees, Under hoses, taking stances, run for cover, count down their chances. Forward. following their footsteps, always following footstep, across the sidewalk count the steps, count the single squares in the cement. twenty Seven. Step on a crack, you what’s next…. No one, no mother, after dark, no one awake.
Starts her period thirteen years old, bloodied. There is a thing. Then at fifteen. he persisted, it was high school, they were freshmen’s. She had a little strength, if any. None in the the end. By thirty one, for sure. Her first hard core relationship. Anything you can compare to an adult relationship. It was love, but dumb, young love. Love, hard core love. It lasted, for the five summer’s. Then on and off and on and off. Still quaintness, maybe, a call on her birthday, valentines day, who could forget that? Mixed up after everything. After everything, after that. So many of them, and this and that, is that. Now, on four hand’s still cant count the weight of men.The the p.t.s.d she did it to herself. She still doesn’t know. And it all makes sense in it all now in a every which way. Vexed from the start like the beginning of the story says. Living. It just happens. Happens to everyone. She copes with pictures turned into dreams as memories. A stranger world of existence. -Thick pumping. -Thick pumping. Hard, fast pumping. In and out. Dick not what is thought. -Fast pumping. -Thick pumping. . It doesn’t stop. Harder still. End it will not. A stranger world exists inside her mind… Like cat skeletons stabbing her vagina in and out from the inside. Like bird beaks protruding her in the torso. Fix her bra, pull up her stockings, go out the door, run past the bathroom. Did she ever say no? Does she even remember? Demise it… Think when you enjoyed him…But FUCK that.. She can’t take it. Demise it and the shadow that haunts her.. She needs no sympathy, no. Just a fuck you fuck that. Not about to suffer again…. For anyone…..If the pills work, take them.
Get up, get up, again, what is she doing! Pain in the neck! Pain. Forgetting. . Agin, again… Dig around for it.. again. Find it. sit down.. Need something.. Get up.. Where did it go. She throws shit… Where is is.. Irate again. Found it, dug around. Go back, sit down. Go at it again… Can’t. Stuck. Easy isn’t it. No.
For shoulders, four arms. twenty fingers. , four hands. two bodies. four eyes. two mouths. two people. two people talking. Talking scribble scrabble, blah, blah, blah. Stories of the past. Good time’s, bad times, and they are none the less. Can’t go on like this, caring so much. No. NO. Not. But that’s what they say. “Calm down!” Always everyday the same. The people, shooting at her, laser pointer pointing directly at her head. Hollow body, hollow head, they don’t know she is ready more than ever right now. Facing nothing. But wait. No, She hides. Don’t relax it, resist it. Face it. They are not right, calm yourself. Worry no more about yourself, the contrive in yourself. She listens to the voices… She leaves it open, unable to care, the door ajar, far away forever, in day, in dark, wherever. The for whomever.
The cat walks across the floor, four feet along with beat, amazing. Her calico cat matches every room in the house. Any room. Any piece of furniture, any wall, anywhere. Her dog is a Shiba Inu. Orange and brilliant. Fox-faced. Matching the couch and walls in the living room, if she had to say. A glass of wine, home alone. Friday Her demise kicks in.
What’s so great about the living, Think if you don’t enjoy anything, If you overshot everything. The wind is howling, blowing over her.. The wind is everything. The wind is everything. And howling over her. Crooked steps down from here, slippery and old, holding the rail. The wind is everywhere, but she can’t see anything, the silence is howling through everything but her, a vast heart, in-between a cruel distance between the beginning and the end. Every step forward is a strain of what love is. So She paints to see inside herself. She can’t deny she’s dark inside, but too many colors out the outside world. Deep. Too deep they hit her hard. She paints to see inside herself. She gets it out stroke by stroke. Mixture by mix. If any pain, it can be fixed. She gets a dirty mess she loves. Gets deep into it. Her hand’s camouflaged in the landscape sun. Her head clears up, brush down and up the panel down and up the panel. Up.



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