A Dozen Irises for Lyric

Here are a couple of exerts for a book that I have begun writing, some editing is needed, let me know what you think:


I thought the therapists would be my savior. I thought that they could help me. I thought that they could give me some understanding as to why things were the way they were. I wanted to stop escaping the world by living through other people’s eyes. I wanted my perspective to take hold of the reality that was in front of me. I wanted to be free. Most importantly, I wanted them to tell me that I was crazy…to give me some reason for the disparity between me and everyone else. Diagnosis: Sane. Was I crazy or was I just a good actress?

(Add-ons) I’d rather try a band-aid
which is not made to stick forever
and was never known to heal deep wounds


It was the Autumn of o’five and I was just returning back to Carnegie Mellon University after taking a semester hiatus. I had left the spring before to supposedly get my life together and attend to foregoing health problems. Working three jobs, being an overactive student, meetin’ and greetin’ the pink and yellow people, and carrying the weight of my shaky past had started to take its toll on me. I had been exhausted. I thought the only solace I could find was to return back to Baltimore, my home in Sin City.

(Transition)

I lay on top of my light blue duck down blanket in the middle of Schenley Park letting the cool fall air whisk gently against my blank face while looking at the shapeless stars, mere dots glittering the sky. The wind made my eyes burn to tears. But the wind, like a mother’s hand, whimsically lifted my tears to be forever lost in space. I was sprawled out on the gradually sloping Flagstaff Hill like da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. I felt like I was the image on the other side of a mirror. Glazed over, magnified, and ultimately completely ass backwards. Perfectly balanced. Perfectly drunk. If I had of drank just two ounces more of Beringer Private Reserve Chardonnay I would have been quietly howling to the moon, hazily reveling in the enchantment of my insanity.

The Moon. So passive, so receptive, so hidden, yet so full knowing it held all the earth’s secrets. Emotional yet complete.

(Add-ons)

It reminded me of my first week at Carnegie. I had spent a total of two hours waiting in line to view Mars from a telescope in this very same spot. The event was sponsored by the Astronomy Association. It was the only day over a period of 60,000 years where Mars was going to be this close to the earth. I really did not care much for it, but I was dragged down to Schenley by an insistent, over-excited chic I met in my Intro to Business class. We were instant friends given the fact that we were the only graham crackers in a box of saltines. She said it was a good way to meet new people. But as I looked around at the array of faces, I could not find any connection that gave me a sense of recognition. It seemed as if I was drowning in a sea of pink and yellow, brown and teal. Were those our school colors or did everyone have the same wardrobe? There I stood, wearing a glittered maroon shirt, a short black skirt, fishnet stockings, and some knee-high boots. To them, I must have looked more like a fifty cent hooker rather than a student of universitas academia.

I felt out of my element…being surrounded by the pink people had to be a Baltimorians worse nightmare. My eyes pleaded please don't lynch me. I stood there, stiffly, thinking that if I did not move just maybe they would not see me. The ambiance felt as if it was a night on Elm Street and I was surrounded by pale white ghost. A sudden surge of homesickness raced through my heart, it went just as quickly as it came. After a minute of intake, the feeling of apprehension subsided and started to feel more like I had traveled to some foreign land and everyone innately knew to ignore the tourists.