the younger one.

Thursday will be a good day.

 My younger sister will come to Boston for the weekend. I have become more and more excited about her visit because after a long semester of decisions and genuinely hard work, I need family. She's a beautiful human, inside and out, struggling with her own set of decisions and difficulties. Despite our attempts to be individual and self-sufficient, we need each other. We are sisters after all, and that bond is a special one. It demands a level of understanding and support that many other relationships don't. Because you are both women, bred from the same two people, attempting to understand your place and purpose. 

We will watch the Final Four game together, joined with other Lawrencians to celebrate Kansas, win or lose. Take a trip to the Harbor Islands where the first lighthouse ever erected stands, an homage to my grandfather who lived his whole life in a landlocked state dreaming about sailboats and lighthouses. Drink more coffee than is probably healthy and eat better than I have all semester. Watch movies with Melina and peruse bookstores looking for the last Sylvia Plath book I need to complete my collection. 

It will be good, I am certain. 

"Meredith Johnson" from the show that is this blog's namesake, "A Steady Scribble" 

Out of pure luck this photograph of me ended up on my local newspaper's front page. No article, just a caption explaining that I was a photographer out shooting on the nice day. 

And then today this Letter to the Editor was published. What an absurd waste of this man's time and incredibly demeaning insult to me and my profession. 

Therefore, I sent in my own letter to the editor:

Dear Mr. Wingfield,

Thank you for taking all of a paragraph to completely generalize the world of art. Art is ultimately about thinking and it is clear you did little of that. The mannequin, you so easily tossed aside as irrelevant and absurd, symbolizes my mother. It is even more relevant because my most vivid memory of my mother involves her sewing clothes for me on a mannequin dress form. The baby dress on top of the mannequin’s “head” symbolizes me and the way my very existence can be a burden and a blinder; both financially and emotionally.

              
                So Mr. Wingfield, before you decide to attack art, me, and by extension, my family, perhaps you should do some thinking of your own. Even some abstract thinking if you’re up to it, because that is the kind we could use here in Kansas. I now live in Boston, Massachusetts, where the arts are celebrated for bringing culture and vitality to the city, not punished for being “frivolous”. Kansas is a beautiful place that I will always call home, but it is people like you and their ignorance that causes people in Boston to cast aside Kansas as easily as you casted aside my mannequin.

           


              Also, Mr. Wingfield, if you would care to take a look at the Kansas Department of Transportation’s Condition Survey Report of 2011, you will find that statewide 85.8% of Kansas roads are above performance level one and a mere 0.8% of roads are below performance level three.

I like to be informed before submitting things to the newspaper, and so should you. 

The Red Devils.

Tangled in a fury 

of thread, loose

zippers, untied knots

the epitome of all

that went wrong 

with Christmas.

Her work boots planted 

firmly before the 

glorified dirt mound

that bore his name.

The poinsettias,

oh the poinsettias

crimson seductress 

of christ's birth

marking his 

breathless corpse.

She is on her knees now

with the red devils 

thumping his chest 

attempting to resuscitate 

the lifeless giant 

who's heart was

squeezed dry by 

red thread and 

stabbed dead 

by rusty needle 

that protrudes from 

this heavy chest of man,

blessed by the martyr's tears.

A scene endlessly repeating 

resigned to the land 

that birthed her, 

that brought her

to her knees 

to be forever at daddy's feet

writhing in jealousy

cursing the ladies in red

that seductively line

his resting place. 

Drunken Clown

There is a clown

at the bar tonight

face covered in

bright reds and blues

a false smile painted

across pouting lips

he dances around

in shoes three

sizes too big

his drunken feet

trip over long laces

breaking glass and

spilling drinks in

the laps of floozies

wearing cheap dresses

and heavy makeup.

The crowd begins

to boo and the

drunken clown soaked

in beer and bleeding

from broken glass

begins to cry

one single tear

that slides through

the paint like a

knife through butter.

The one tear

becomes three and

three becomes six

until the grief

has washed away

the painted mask

and the crowd gasps

at the realization that

under the red and blue

is a little boy in

daddy’s shoes and

mamma’s dress

just trying to grow up. 

Christmas Circus

Rough version, written on Christmas.

Christmas Circus

A circus moved into
grandma's living room
this Christmas.

Around the tree
ran a monkey
and a zebra

racing in tandem
with the horses and dogs
abnormally small.

Deformed creatures
performed their dance
and broad chested

fellows preached
their speech while
pretty girls tooted

horns announcing
the ringleader's entrance
from behind a red and white
stripped curtain.

They played and played
but he did not appear
 while the crowd waited in
anticipation and watched
in horror as the
scene began to dissolve.

The monkey and zebra
fell into combat as
horses trampled dogs
too small for their
old and aging eyes.

Deformed creatures
lost entertainment's appeal
their bodies revolting

causing pretty housewives
to cover young children's eyes.

The girls playing horns
ran out of breath and
their silence left only

the chaotic sounds
of grandma's circus
going up in flames

all the while waiting for
the ringleader's appearance
to save the day and

put out the fire that
eventually consumed
his red and white stripped
curtain in a flaming
triumphant gulp.

Doppelganger

She drinks tea obsessively tonight
out of her teal mug
that is chipped at the bottom

like a gap-toothed grin
it smiles up at her as steam
rises to fog the lenses
incased in thick black frames.

Her stubby fingers gently remove
the delicate thread
from tea bag's top

a severing of umbilical chord
blood gushes from the beholder
until the pouch is deflated
and its guts lay helplessly
on the operating table.

Her thick fingers move swiftly
repacking the bag with
earth's dirt and twigs and leaves

hurriedly pining together
the self inflicted wound
sewing with rushed complacency

birthing the doppelganger
for her sweet chamomile
that her pudgy hands
drown effortlessly
in the teal mug's depths.

Distance.

The skies hold Orion

three stars of

equal distance apart

the necks bend

unnaturally

for a glimpse

moon illuminated faces

on tip toes while

he listens for breath

sure and slow

with each inhale

pulled closer

falling fast

in reckless infatuation

for she is love

held at a distance

in three glimmers of light.