Archives for the month of: May, 2012

In a Time that was Once, in a land up the road, there lived a little girl with a grand Shakespearean name. The little spirit that she was, she had hung around her Poppa, naked and unborn, for quite some years, indeed since he himself was a boy, determined to materialise, when time was ripe, as his own wee babe in the world. She had wished herself so ardently to human form that the simple touch of her Poppa’s lips upon her mother’s was enough to ignite the egg that was her beginning.

Just like an old wives tale.

Which of course is a bit of a porkie (pie=lie); for after all, immaculate conception is the stuff of stories—is it not? Truth is, her parents did this yumptious thing that you have to do to bake a cookie. Her mother was but a babe herself (=not legal), and she may not have wanted to spring another life so soon had not the tiny sprite (=me) spun a wishing spell to captivate her. I was born to Jeanie (16 yrs) and Jimmy (19 yrs) on April 1st 19??, and a proper little fool I was. Wise and funny, a speaker of riddles. I was Shakespeare’s invention: fool and sprite in one. A magical gift born of wonder to youthful parents into a rosy world. And I became known as Ariel.

The little girl, she was very happy because she had everything she wanted. She did not know the land of cornucopia in which she dwelt would one day be shattered. She did not know that her wishing herself into this world was the quiet beginning of a calamity. For all she was a spirited sprite, she could not divine her destiny until it was upon her. For all her clever ways, she could not realise that her very name ensnared her in a Tempest from the beginning.

Now she is all grown up and beyond, she understands she is imprisoned in a tree, which is her body, with no Prospero to free her. She lives in a world of symbols. It is the only way to keep her situation all sewn up.

She is a bunny, a pussy, Ratso Rizzo and Travis Bickle; she is a little blown up human, a walking-talking-catch-a-story living doll. Me, I am more than meets the eye, less than you could ever imagine. A red representation of woman on a euphemism door…

How is it that the people that hurt you, those self-serving snakes who used you up then chucked you raw—honest-to-goodness hurt you—how is it, these people, you miss them?

How can that be?

When it was you who ran away?

I mean—you get me?—I’m the first to say it, me, I ran fast as any bunny can. I hopped, skidded and skedaddled up hill and down dale, I scurried the gamut of adapted cliché, slalomed the poppycock of all those well-worn, old hat phrases. Yeah, I saw the writing was on the wall; I leapt out of the frying pan into the pyre; I ran with my tail between my pegs. You couldn’t see me for must.

Muddy truth be told, deep down in the mess of me—you probably realise by now—if perchance you’ve attended these pages—yep, deep down in the sticky jam of me, I miss him.

Even T.B., he who lives with me, he cannot save me from that—for all his love and devotion. Ashamed as I am to admit it, me, I look for that wolf, for that dastardly devil, I look for him in Ted. I want for Teddy to speak big bad wolf words. Because the big bad wolf, he wasn’t all bad, and he sang me many a honeyed verse. And he sure knew how to… (lowered register here)… lurve me; yeah, he sugared my cherry a treat.

This wolf in man’s clothing, he knew how to get to me—you get me?

I’ve gotta admit it, I’ve found in T.B. a creamy, fresh, wholesome version of him. See, Teddy, he’s honest. He tells me things I don’t want to hear, things that he thinks will help me. And he’s celibate these days. We share an innocence, a pure and simple version of love. While at the same time, he’s a bit of lizardy lay-about, and a bit of a puffer—like him—slow-voiced and languorous, hazed in his dooby schmooby; a thing strangely seductive, laced as it is in memory lane.

Poor T.B.

Okay, so while I’m confessing, me, for sure, I’ve been a-runnin and a-huntin some more. I’ve loitered in woods and doorways. I’ve been on the look-out for his natty wolfish form. Betraying T.B. and my own integrity. I’m a foolish tail, harmless enough, but a tail nevertheless. A haunter. And it’s all a dream, miles and miles from reality. Me, I’ve locked myself away, living my own starry fairy tale.

I locked myself in—

and I locked myself out.

Then went about losing the key. On purpose.

The key to myself. To what really happened.

I don’t want to know, I don’t want to go, into the labyrinth of who I am. Yet truly, I long to be found. I peek though the keyhole, getting but a glimpse into my own heart, a tiny keyhole-shaped view, something that shows me just a little bit, a limited aspect, that is enough and not-enough, all at once. I peep into my past—just the keyhole sized parts I can handle. I wantonly live in denial of the truth, kidding myself I’m seeking it. Or maybe, me, I am seeking truth in my own jumbled way.

I suppose I sound like a sap? Me, the maker of my own tower, the guard to my own cell, keeping myself locked out of the now, locked in to the peered-at piece of my past I dare to trace.

Through the keyhole is where I need to go. Open the lock and be free. One day. A long way away. When I can.

When I’m through getting my knickers in a twist maybe.