Toxic [words on wednesdays]

My practise:

When I wake up in the morning, my eyes blink away the
toxicity of my dreams. Images of stolen adventures that are not mine, pieces
and fragments of a world I do not live in. Lifetimes of love and commitment
that do not belong to me. They are toxic if I let them seep over. So with the
sleep, I wipe them from my eyes and get out of bed.

My morning routine, who could safely call it pure? The runs
I push myself through, the scrolling and clicking as I check the blogosphere. My
green tea and my coffee – oh so important in my day -, the certain washing of
my face and application of a layer of this, a layer of that. Who so ever would
look at these and claim “egoism,” “desperation to connect with others,” “shameless
drugs,” and” vanity”, could you call them wrong? Who could look at these and
say they are any less toxic than the haunts of my dreams?

(Happy Non-Toxic New Year Suzie!)

It started with an article I read in a Magazine called
BrainCraving. There was a black and
white photo of a boy in his teens, his head bowed, his hands in fists at his
side. He was seeing a psychiatrist who
worked exclusively with people who thought about dying every day. This guy was one of them. Tortured.
It’s hard to enjoy a pizza pie with the grim reaper asking for a
bite.

The article said that what makes life livable was a person’s
ability to deny the inevitable. Start thinking about it and all is lost. Well, at least your sanity’s lost. I thought of my own father, who’d had a heart
attack just shy of fifty, and how afterward he sat in his recliner with two
fingers on the opposite wrist, checking always for a pulse, certain if he took
the pressure off he would die.

I was nineteen then. I’d think about my own body, how my cells
grew and flourished. How new cells
replaced the old, like a conga line that kept going, and how the thought of it
made me feel reborn. She still had the
skin of a toddler back then, so much hair the weight of it gave me headaches
when it grew past my shoulders.

Lately, though, I’d felt curious, not really unwell, but
different. My skin has roughened, as if
I’d spent time surfing or skiing, though, of course, I have not. And I have odd pains, like someone pinching
me inside my skull, near my left temple, and then my eyes go all twitchy and
the world blurs.

Strange, I think, for thirty-one.

And now I’m consumed with dying.
The smart people are, I decide. The delusional ones, they’re probably
too busy watching Hoarders an Honey Boo Boo, as easily distracted as a
schnauzer. So I find this psychiatrist’s
office, not far from where I live, actually, and I call.

“Yes,” I say. “I have
insurance that covers emotional and mental conditions. Yes, I checked. No, I’m not suicidal. I wouldn’t think Dr. Altman’s patients would
be, not if they were willing to pay what you charge for a visit.” I laugh then,
a high-pitched laugh that says I’m both sorry and kidding. “Thursday at nine? It’s my day off, so it’s perfect. Yes, that’s fine. I’ll bring a check for the co-pay.”

Outside, the sun is starting to fade, the sky pink in places,
and the beauty of it swells inside me.
Pink had been my favorite color, at least until the Komen Foundation slapped
it on everything associated with breast cancer: those damn ribbons, jewelry, T-shirts,
even tote bags.

I touch her right breast, which I’m certain is filled with toxic
lumps, and close her eyes, my fingers tapping like my doctor’s.

The neighbor’s boy, a white-haired first grader, got stuck last
week in his backyard after a downpour, in a spot where the grass refused to
grow. The red clay tugged at him, the
smell like mildew, and something else, something chemical. He was sucked in waist deep before his mother
saw, and then screamed, and then called the fire department.

On Thursday morning I woke up, and in the shower started singing
“American Pie,” a song my mother used to sing.
“This’ll be the day that I die,” she sang. “This’ll be the day that I die.”

The song was so long, that DJ’s used to take smoke breaks during
it, letting Don McLean go on and on.
“Helter skelter, in a summer swelter,” he sang in a voice so good you
couldn’t forget it. Who knew what it
meant. But it wasn’t good. No, it was not good.

My Taurus is parked in the drive. If I die, who would take it? I don’t have a will. Or anyone close, really. It’s paid for. Old, of course, but still.

I adjusted the rear view mirror, and slowly pulled out into the
street. It’s only seven-thirty, and Dr.
Altman is no more than fifteen minutes away.

I am suddenly hungry and so I pull into Shelby’s Bakery. The smell inside is like funnel cakes at the
state fair: sugar, oil old enough for a driver’s license, and yeast.

Diabetes, I think, as I order two donuts made with potato flour
and covered in cinnamon and sugar. The coffee is hot and unpretentious, make by
a woman whose name tag reads Lou Ray, and who wouldn’t know a barista if it bit
her in the face.

“My favorite,” Lou Ray says, “pointing to Caroline’s donut.”

“Mine too,” Caroline says, and then blush, though I couldn’t say
why.

Lou Ray’s hair is the color of the steel counters behind her,
her bosom ample, her legs surprisingly thin.

“You look nice,” she says.
“Turquoise looks good on you. Me,
I can’t wear bright colors.”

“I’m on my way to the airport,” I say, lying so easily she
wondered why she didn’t do it more often.

“Vacation?” Lou Ray asks.

“Hawaii,” I answer, the idea like ice water on and August day.

“You know what I’d do if I could fly anywhere?” Lou Ray asks. “I’d go to Oklahoma, where the wind comes whipping
down the plains,” she says, and laughs.
“And then I’d go see Will Rogers’ museum in Claremore.”

“Will Rogers died in a plane crash,” I say, and feel a kind of
panic set in.

“Damn straight,” Lou Ray says.
“In an experimental plane. In
Alaska. With his buddy. Took his typewriter and clicked out little
stories on the flight. Wouldn’t you like to read them?”

I shake my head. No, I
would not.

Lou, unfazed, continues. “And before that he was a cowboy – part
Indian – but a cowboy nonetheless. He
was in vaudeville and then the silent movies and then the talkies. And then he started writing things so smart,
about the government and what not, and folks started paying attention.”

“Never met a man I didn’t like,” I say, the only Will Rogers’
quote I remember.

“What he said,” Lou Ray counters, was ‘I joked about every
prominent man of my time, but I never met a man I didn’t like. I am so proud of that, I can hardly wait to
die so it can be carved.’

“Think of it,” she says, her hands sweeping out in front of her,
the gesture like the one Caroline had seen in a painting of Jesus biding her to
come on down. “The guy goes around the
world, what, four, five times. He comes
from nothing. Nothing. He doesn’t know how to act, but he
learns. He doesn’t have a fancy
education, but he had a head on him and a quick wit, and he takes on
politicians. He meets an Arkansas girl
and falls in love and she won’t give him the time of day, but he keeps coming
back. ‘I love you,’ he says, so many
times she starts to think she might love him too.”

“What happened to her?” I ask.

“Well, honey, he married her, made her rich, and then he whipped
through life, like a guy holding on to the tail of a tornado.”

“But he died.”

“We’re all going to die, sweetie. The question is, how are you going to live?”

The bell above the door sounds and Lou Ray ambled back behind
the counter. A harried mother with three
little boys came in. Only one had his
shoes tied. Lou Ray pulls a new sheet of
waxed paper from the box and waited for their order.

I pull a five dollar bill from my wallet and dropped it on the
table. I walk out into the sunshine of
an early fall day. The traffic has picked
up. Those late to work or school rushing
to get in place on time.

I slide in behind the wheel and watch for a while. Not one accident, not even a fender
bender. Joggers zig between the cars, as
safe as birds in a nest. A man on a
bicycle jumps his front tire up on the curb near the traffic light, and then
back down again, so that the bike looks like a giant spring bouncing.

On the radio, a country star sing about getting even, lost love,
the pain that shoots through your heart after the man you love starts loving
someone else. I haven’t had a date in
seven months, I realize, counting the months on my sugary fingers. I shake my head, amazed at this fact, and
feel my pulse, squeezing my left wrist tight with two fingers from my right
hand, a reflexive move that started three weeks ago. It is strong and steady. I pull out into the traffic, where I will not
surely die, and touch my chest, feeling the thump, thump, thump, that keeps me
planted on this great earth. The heart
is willing, I think, so I turn the radio up and head not to Dr. Altman, but
instead to the interstate that will lead to a sign that reads Northwest
Arkansas Regional Airport.

(Thanks Suzie. I love your practices.)

Caroline had read about it, a psychiatrist who worked exclusively
with people who thought about dying every day.
What makes life livable, she’d learned, was a person’s ability to deny
the inevitable.

Start thinking about it and all is lost. Well, at least your sanity’s lost. Caroline thought about her own father, who’d
had a heart attack just shy of fifty, and how afterward he sat in his recliner
with two fingers on the opposite wrist, checking always for a pulse, certain if
he took the pressure off he would die.

She was nineteen then. She’d think about her own body, how her
cells grew and flourished. How new cells
replaced the old, like a conga line that kept going, and how the thought of it
made her feel reborn. She still had the
skin of a toddler back then, so much hair it gave her headaches when it grew
past her shoulders.

Lately, though, she felt sluggish. Her skin had roughened, so that she looked as
if she spent time surfing or skiing, though, of course, she didn’t. And she felt odd pains, like someone pinching
her inside her skull, near her temple, and then her eyes would twitch and the
world would go blurry.

She was thirty-one.

Caroline picked up the phone and called the psychiatrist’s
office.

“Yes,” she said. “I have
insurance that covers emotional and mental conditions. Yes, I checked. No, I’m not suicidal. I wouldn’t think Dr. Altman’s patients would
be, not if they were willing to pay what you charge for a visit.” She laughed
then, a high-pitched laugh that said she was both sorry and kidding. “Thursday at nine? Yes, that’s fine. I’ll bring a check for the co-pay.”

Outside, the sun was starting to fade, the sky pink in places,
and the beauty of it swelled inside Caroline.
Pink had been her favorite color, at least until the Komen Foundation
slapped it on everything that was associated with breast cancer: those damn
ribbons, jewelry, T-shirts, even tote bags.

She gingerly touched her right breast, which she was certain was
filled with lumps, and closed her eyes, praying she was wrong.

The neighbor’s boy, a white-haired first grader, got stuck last
week in his backyard after a downpour, in a spot where the grass refused to
grow. The red clay tugged at him, the
smell like mildew, and something else, something chemical, possibly toxic. He was sucked in waist deep before his mother
saw, and then screamed, and then called the fire department.

On Thursday morning she woke up, and in the shower started singing
“American Pie,” a song her own mother used to sing to her. “This’ll be the day that I die,” she
sang. “This’ll be the day that I die.”

The song was so long, that DJ’s used to take smoke breaks during
it, letting Don McLean go on and on. “Helter
skelter, in a summer swelter,” he sang in a voice so good you couldn’t forget
it. Who knew what it meant. But it wasn’t good. No, it was not good.

Her Taurus was parked in the drive. If she died, who would take it? She didn’t have a will. Or anyone close, really. It was paid for. Old, of course, but still.

Caroline got in. She adjusted the rear view mirror, and slowly
pulled out into the street. It was only
seven-thirty, and Dr. Altman was no more than fifteen minutes away.

She pulled into Shelby’s Bakery.
The smell inside was like funnel cakes at the state fair: sugar, oil old
enough for a driver’s license, and yeast.

Diabetes, she thought, as she ordered a donut made with potato
flour and covered in cinnamon and sugar. The coffee was hot and unpretentious,
make by a woman named Lou Ray, who wouldn’t know a barista if it bit her in the
face.

“My favorite,” Lou Ray said, “pointing to Caroline’s donut.”

“Mine too,” Caroline said, and then blushed, though she couldn’t
say why.

Lou Ray’s hair was gray, her bosom ample, her legs surprisingly thin.

“You look nice,” she said.
“Turquoise looks good on you. Me,
I can’t wear bright colors.”

“I’m on my way to the airport,” Caroline said, lying so easily
she wondered why she didn’t do it more often.

“Vacation?” Lou Ray said.

“Hawaii,” Carolyn said, the idea like ice water on and August
day.

“You know what I’d do if I could fly anywhere?” Lou Ray asked. “I’d go to Oklahoma, where the wind comes
whipping down the plains,” she said, and laughed. “And then I’d go see Will Rogers’ museum in
Claremore.”

“Will Rogers died in a plane crash,” Caroline said, and her
pulse quickened, thinking about it.

“Damn straight,” Lou Ray said.
“In an experimental plane. In
Alaska. With his buddy. Took his typewriter and clicked out little
stories on the flight. Wouldn’t you like to read them?”

Caroline shook her head.
No, she would not.

Lou, unfazed, continued. “And before that he was a cowboy – part
Indian – but a cowboy nonetheless. He
was in vaudeville and then the silent movies and then the talkies. And then he started writing things so smart,
about the government and what not, and folks started paying attention.”

“Never met a man I didn’t like,” Caroline said, the only Will
Rogers’ quote she could remember.

“What he said,” Lou Ray countered, was ‘I joked about every
prominent man of my time, but I never met a man I didn’t like. I am so proud of that, I can hardly wait to
die so it can be carved.’”

Caroline shivered so intently she felt Lou Ray saw it. But Lou Ray just shook her head. “Think of it,” she said. “The guy goes around the world, what, four,
five times. He comes from nothing. Nothing.
He doesn’t know how to act, but he learns. He doesn’t have a fancy education, but he had
a head on him and a quick wit, and he takes on politicians. He meets an Arkansas girl and falls in love
and she won’t give him the time of day, but he keeps coming back. ‘I love you,’ he says, so many times she
starts to think she might love him too.”

“What happened to her?” Caroline asked.

“Well, honey, he married her, made her rich, and then he whipped
through life, like a guy holding on to the tail of a tornado.”

“But he died.”

“We’re all going to die, sweetie. The question is, how are you going to live?”

The bell above the door sounded and Lou Ray ambled back behind
the counter. A harried mother with three
little boys came in. Only one had his
shoes tied. Lou Ray pulled a new sheet
of waxed paper from the box and waited for their order.

Caroline rose from the table, pulled a five dollar bill from her
wallet and dropped it on her tray. She
walked out into the sunshine of an early fall day. The traffic had picked up. Those late to work or school rushed to get in
place on time.

She slid in behind the wheel and watched for a while. Not one accident, not even a fender
bender. Joggers zigged between the cars,
as safe as birds in a nest. A man on a
bicycle was jumping his front tire up on the curb near the traffic light, and
then back down again, so that the bike looked like a giant spring bouncing.

On the radio, a country star sang about getting even, lost love,
the pain that shoots through your heart after the man you love starts loving
someone else. Caroline hasn’t had a date
in seven months, she realizes, counting the months on her sugary fingers. She shakes her head, amazed at this fact, and
feels her pulse, a reflexive move that started three weeks ago. It is strong and steady. She pulls out into traffic, and certain that
her heart is willing, turns the radio up and heads for the airport.

I am more of a poet, and this is my first time participating. Here goes:

Understand this.
The level of your toxic rationale,
will do nothing to motivate, encourage
and strengthen your comrades.

To have, said, toxic mentality
is to leave one wishing that you,
fall off into the trenches that you
have seen many men die from and in.

Now, why would you want to align your
toxic mind with such visions of casualties
How, tragic.

When are you going to wake up,
understand this?

What could you possibly be gaining from
toxic sentiments on your question of
seeing another rising autumn?

The Balkan spirit wonders through,
up and under our silver medals, waiting,
planning, estimating, the moment to
sequester our perpetual optimisim

And here you are, toxic

My practice:

The green stuff oozed from underneath the principal’s office door, and a cry came from the circle of teenagers.

“What do you think it is?” Said the black-haired Myra. “Some kind of toxic goo?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Tyler tried the door handle. “It’s not locked! Let’s see what he’s been up to while we’ve been waiting out here for the past hour.”

“Do you think it’s safe?” But Lilly was too late–Tyler had already opened the door, scraping it against the thick green pool.

The sight that met their eyes was terrifying. Mr. Bertulli, collapsed in his swivel chair, phosphorescent drool crusted on his lips and a sickening dullness to his eyes. The girls screamed, Tyler took a half-step back, then slipped. The teenage boy fell smack into the goo, and immediately shrieked in pain. The toxic stuff was eating into his skin, turning it to an inflamed reddish scab, as the fabric of his hoodie disintegrated.

“Somebody call the police! There’s been an accident!” Lilly was the only one who kept her head.

That was the beginning.

Two men sat side by side in a small metal cage being rolled down a long stretch of forgotten road by a single weary horse escorted by five men in the blue doublets of the cavalry. Of the two men, one was white and the other red. Neither of which looked very friendly and only one of which was smiling.

“You know what I hate about you fucking people?” the white man said, to which the red man only smiled wider. “You’re fucking toxic.

You come down out of the hills like some horrid plague, screamin’ a’bloody murder as if you ain’t just gonna get gunned down, and then when you do, you go and say we’re the ones who took your land! Last I checked, I ain’t seen no injun with no damn deed. Maybe, just maybe, one y’all ever picked up a goddamn pen, everything you touch wouldn’t turn to shit.”

The white man ran a dirty hand back through his long brown hair. His hand away greasy and wet with sweat. He looked vengefully up at the unforgiving sun. When he returned his gaze to the red man, the tribal was still smiling.

“What in the hell are you smiling about, anyway!?”

“We’re in Pawnee territory,” the red man said.

The white man cocked an eyebrow. “And just what the fuck is a ‘Pawnee?’ ”

“I am,” the Pawnee said and behind him, the white man could see a line of warriors in battle garb appear atop the horizon.

The toxic insects had been bred to feed the world. They were a cross-breed between honey bees and dragon flies. Their abdomen wasn’t just gold in colour,
they were worth their weight in gold too. The minute the toxic beastie touched water – that of pond, river or lake – it transformed it into honey, but not just any honey. This was honey with all the ingredients to sustain life: there would be no hunger left on the planet. The trouble was that if the insect touched any surface with salt water in it, such as the sea or the ocean, then it turned it into toxic waste, an irretrievable, useless mud and that in the space of a few hours. A fantastic idea as much as a toxic one, all wrapped into one, another toxic present from a mad and egotistical scientist.