The Hawk in the Woods

Surreal. Let’s talk about that.

My life was surreal until about five years ago when I finally met someone on the same frequency as me in any aspect of my thinking. Is there anything more refreshing than meeting someone who ‘gets us’ in any way? I don’t think so.

 

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Image: Pixabay

 

Back to my story.

2007 was coming to a close and I had recently started my new job. Money was tight and like an elf without toy making tools, I was worried about Christmas. To be blunt, I needed money. And I had an idea on how to get it: win it in a radio contest.

All I had to do was submit my name and a time and the radio station would do the rest. I just had to listen for my name to float across the airwaves in the DJ’s voice, call up, say I was me and voila… a guaranteed $100 with the potential for $500.

I walked in the park a lot on my lunch and this one day was no different, except that, I had a feeling. Sometimes when I get feelings, I talk to animals. And sometimes they talk back. I never told people this because people tend to not accept anything further than their own reality.

In essence, people would call me batshit crazy. But I do get feelings and for some reason, even to this day, ignore them. Nothing ever goes well when I ignore my feelings – intuition I guess it is.

I was walking in the park and thinking about that money and how much it would help me. As I walked I saw something pretty fascinating.

I saw a red tail hawk in a tree. Not ON a tree where they often are. But in a tree on a midlevel branch. Winter approached and most of the leaves were dead on the ground much like I felt my life was at that moment.

I looked at that hawk. He looked at me. I thought, ‘They’re going to call my name, aren’t they?” A voice said, “Yes.” I thought, “I’m not going to hear it am I?” A voice said, “No.”

If you’re still reading, this is an insane exchange to the average person. Who the hell talks to hawks, and more importantly when the hell would a hawk ever talk to a human? That is another story for another time. I am deeply connected with nature, and particularly hawks. I walked for another ten minutes or so, and when I came back by the tree where the hawk was, it was empty. No hawk.

After my gathering with nature, I went back to work and as I did my tasks, listened to the great classic rock tunes pouring out of my internet radio. And then, the DJ said,

“Time to announce another name for the radio station payroll of one hundred dollars an hour! And that name is________________” 

Wait. What? I freaked. The station decided to buffer and cut out just as they said the name! They couldn’t have called me right? I mean that would be nuts. I even called the radio station and was going to ask if they called my name but when the DJ picked up, I chickened out and hung up the phone.

I kept listening (now that the radio station didn’t cut out magically) and the DJ said:
“Well, looks like Joe Smith is still on the payroll because Darlene Steelman didn’t report for work.”

WHAT?!?!?! The hawk was right?!

Oh. My. Freaking. Gawd.

I was devastated. Partly because I didn’t win money that could have helped me but more so because that was not the first time (nor would it be the last) in my life I didn’t listen to that voice. That voice has spoken to me over the years in various ways taking on various forms and that has only happened to me since I had my accident in 1996 when I lost oxygen and was dead for a good half hour. That’s a whole other story.

Oh, and by the way… that weekend I went and got a radio for the office because no way in hell was my opportunity to win money going to solely rest on the flakiness of internet radio and a message from a woodland raptor!

Have you ever second guess yourself and wish that you hadn’t?

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/surreal/

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Inhabit The Mind

 

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Image: MysticArtDesign – Pixabay

So, I have always been an overthinker. Even when I was about six or seven and attended the awful Sullivan elementary school in Philadelphia (a lot of schools in Philly look more like prisons) confined to gloomy hallways and blinding classrooms, my mind was racing. It was dark and freaking gruesome like some medieval castle from a Dracula movie. All the kids were brats, the teachers were mean and that one time I threw up my recess Original Flavor Slim Jim in my favorite phonics book just about did it for me.

And let’s not forget about the clown pajamas Halloween costume.

Somewhere along the way, I started to fret about this crap. Like, weird thoughts would just get in my mind and then they’d kind of just hang around like vagrant inhabitants of an abandoned building. There was a time when I thought if I dropped the milk cap on the floor that it was better for it to land open side down so dust wouldn’t get in the inside. You know, because mounds of dust fall from the air in split seconds just to cake the inside of milk caps.

I felt like a weirdo since I was small but since it was the ’70s, there was nothing that could or would be done about it. We weren’t rich, we didn’t live in New York City and mostly, no one noticed that I was weird. I just felt weird.

That is probably the number one reason I started writing… to get rid of the weirdness. Despite all my writing over the years (I once locked myself inside my apartment for a weekend with cigarettes, liquor, and a computer to write out one hundred and thirty poems in less than 48 hours) I have only been officially published once – one stinking poem. All my stuff gets rejected. Maybe it isn’t good enough, maybe it is too weird, maybe it just ‘isn’t a good fit.’

I don’t know.

Then, like yesterday into today, I get down on myself when those icky, negative thoughts of self-doubt inhabit my mind. Ugh. I cry and yell at myself. “Why am I wasting my time? I am just not good enough.”

I submitted a piece for an anthology about shame and it got rejected. Everything I submit gets rejected. Do I need to add a whole bunch of fluffy bullshit to my prose to get people interested? Do I need to be fake? I don’t want to be fake… being fake led me down a drunken path and I’m not doing it.

Anyway, since it was rejected, I will submit it somewhere else and see where it goes. And if it goes nowhere a couple more times, I’ll just post it here and let you all read it. I also submitted a query for the novel so I am waiting on word from that publisher.

Happy Friday everyone! Today is your day to shine.

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/inhabit/

Pluck the Pansies

 

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Image: Pixabay

 

When I was little, I was a kid. And when I was a kid, I did things because I wanted to do them. I had no insurgent idea about right and wrong or good and bad.

I just was.

Others instilled inside of me the fears, doubts, hopes, dreams, love, hate, good and bad that leaked inside me and I carried this into society as I grew.

That’s how it goes.

One day, I was standing in my grandmother’s yard, awed by the beauty of flowers by the front step. Their bright petals with the dark colored faces stunned my thoughts as I stood motionless; the beauty captivated my little mind and I needed to be closer.

I bent down and smelled the brilliant blooms and just like that, I plucked the delicate flower from its bed.

I plucked it for my own selfish needs – for no other reason. I just wanted it.

I stole its little life.

I skipped away with my new trophy.

I would steal flower lives intermittently as my life swirled and changed. They were so pretty, so magical.

I wanted to be like the flowers I picked.

Then one day long after that day…

It didn’t matter how many flowers I picked.

They would always die. And so would my happiness.

 

Later, after many withered flower carcasses…

I let the flowers just be – as I just was – and I would visit them.

And their enchanting beauty would be there.

Just as I was.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/pluck/

Abuse: A Personal Essay

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Life was ironing out when I met him. I was fourteen, a sophomore in high school (I was one of those lucky kids born in January) and excited about this new chapter in my life. Adjusting to high school was awkward, but I made a couple friends.

Gym class though… ugh.

My parents were fighting a lot because my father was trying to get sober and not having a good go at it. Life was getting uncomfortable which is why when I got to high school, temptation got the best of me.

There were difficult roads I could have traveled to make life easier, but I chose painful roads that made life difficult.

I met a guy who was way too old for me but that’s what I thought I needed – an older boy with a car, who smoked and had a regular job.

A boy who could get me out of my home life of hell.

And he did.

He was a boy who I fell for blindly; the outside cool and handsome, the inside black and miserable.

He scraped me off one level of hell and dropped me in a deeper one.

First it started with my clothes.

Then it was my make up.

After that it was my friends.

Who is he?

Why is he standing so close to you? I saw you touching him.

Why do you smell like sex?

Ridiculous.

Then it got worse.

I wished for a pair of horse blinders to wear.

We were at a red light in his pick up truck one afternoon and there was a guy on the corner. Waiting for the bus I guess?

I made the mistake of looking to my right and as fast as I saw him, I turned away.

Suddenly, the right side of my face was kissing the passenger side glass.

There was a sharp pain in the left side of my head.

“What are you looking at? Do you wanna fuck that guy? Huh? You think he’s cute?”

What?

I was only looking out the window.

I didn’t mean it.

I’m sorry.

He got out of the truck and approached the man. “You like my girl, huh?”

The man seemed confused.

Suddenly, the man was on the ground being pummeled.

These idiots on the street, walking around minding their own business. Didn’t they know what would happen if I looked at them? If they looked at me?

After that, I scanned the roads as far as I could see, looking for people so I could look away when we got close.

They didn’t know, but I knew. I knew the danger we would be in if I looked at you and you looked at me.

The beatings depended on his mood.

I did my best to make sure he was always happy.

The Daily Prompt: Blindly

 

Mind Control

via Daily Prompt: Control

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How much control do I really have?

The only thing I can control is my mind.

So when I get that urge to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night, and slink down to the bad part of town I avoid like the plague, I have to beat those thoughts back with common sense. I have to control them.

It’s not easy.

I blame so many people, places and things when the battle becomes exhausting in this never ending war on my sanity – my life.

I haven’t been to that place, that hell, that devil’s den of bad choices in almost eleven years.

Those thoughts blossom in my mind when I get comfortable and complacent. They sprout like sick weeds in a garden of naive flowers.

No matter how many weeds I pull or kill, new ones grow and wait, searching for that weak crack in my foundation.

Control? I have enough to keep me alive.