Sue Baiman's Blog, page 11

Blue

Down

Sad

Meditative

Contemplative

The kind of music

Where pain is a virtue

Where heartache is the chorus

And love is painful

Sad and lost

Blue is unfulfilled desire

It is the color of the sky

When it doesn’t match the mood

When you’re feeling blue

The sky is a pale lifeless grey

It’s regal and royalty

Pomp and circumstance

It’s electric irises

When I’ve been crying

It’s sadness so prolonged

And profound

That it borders on purple

It’s midnight when you’re all alone

But sometimes

We read too much into things

And blue is just a color

Just a choice on the color wheel

Between red and yellow

Not a voice crying out

For the touch of your fingers

Slowly trailing down my side

Or the sound of your sighs

Sometimes sadness is green

And the walls of my emotional prison

Are bubblegum pink instead.

No, today blue is just a color

And I’m fine.

Flying

She tips her face up

Breathing up into the flaring nostrils

Of the beast tasting her scent

As it chuffs and snorts

A halo of steam

Frames her angelic head

She reaches a small hand up

Dwarfed by the creature

Yet her touch is sure

She conveys so much

To one so large

With just her hand

The beast is mesmerized by

Idolizes the small human

He has known his entire life

This quiet girl

Is his whole world

She needs no halter, no lead

To convey her desires

To her mighty steed

She provides for his every need

In return he answers her dreams

She dreams of flying

Of leaping and soaring

Of being borne into the sky

She’s read of Pegasus

And knows he is no myth

Every time she asks him to fly

She floats on his back

As he dances on air

If his movement is art

She is the artist

Painting lines with his body

Holding strings to his heart

They dance together

Swirling pirouettes

To the beat of his hooves

Leaping into the sky

Suspended in time

Defying gravity

Each time they fly

What’s Your Sign?

You can tell me your name,

What you do for a living,

Who your momma and daddy are;

But that doesn’t tell me much

Of anything about who

You really are.

I want to know what makes you tick.

What things you like, sure;

But more what you can’t do without.

What do you need like it’s a fix?

What or whom do you hate so much

It makes you sick?

What are the things

That are your heaven and your hell?

What distance is covered

By the ground between?

Who or what would you go to

The ends of the earth to save?

Who would you help

Put in their grave?

I know you’ve loved some in your life.

You might even have a wife;

But if today were your last on earth

Whose name would you call out?

Whose face can’t you forget?

Who did you love or lose that you still regret?

When your siren calls you

What language does she speak?

Is it music? Is it words? Or pictures

You feel the need to create?

What medium makes you weak?

You must have thought

About these things.

You must know

What makes your heart sing,

Your pulse pound.

Who or what is your everything?

Those basic things about who you are

And where you came from

Don’t mean anything to me.

I care about what makes you tick;

Are the edges of your pieces

Straight or curved,

And do your pieces click

Into place with mine?

Some day if I’m lucky

I’ll find the person

Who thinks I’m worth

Going to the ends of the earth.

The person whose baggage

I’d gladly carry because their issues

Are the same as mine.

The person who is my drug;

Whose touch and the sound of their voice,

Is my fix and I theirs.

The person who understands

This burning desire to create,

To produce,

To consume but to be more

Than just a consumer.

That there is a scale

And the only way to balance it

Is to create things out of nothing

And lay them against what we take.

Someone who understands

That nothing is ever perfect;

But there is perfection

All around us in these imperfect forms.

That truth and beauty and love

Vary according to our perspective;

And that each new day

Gives me a new reason to love,

To seek,

And to one day find

The imagination of that person

Whose weight lifts me up.

Until then I’ll keep searching

Looking for the one who will be mine.

Asking silly questions

Like, “What’s the weight of imagination?”.

Or, “What’s your sign?”.

On Writing With Vertigo and Fuck You I’ll Still Get My Words In

Writing words writing words

Writing writing writing

Stops

Checks word count

Grumbles and groans

Goes back to writing

Words words words

Writing words writhed

Typos

Writing wings

Flying things

Getting within an approximation

Of where the keys should be brings

Writhing words and flying things

With wings

These words

Words I’m writing

Writing words

Stop

Hammer time

Time to check the words

Sixty three.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Just sixty three?

Space between a and d removed

Turned into and

As it should be

Fixing typos cost words dammit

Back to writing writing writing

Words words words

With swords

And stones

Monsters

And bones

Writing words writing words writing words

Head is spinning

Closes eyes

Writes words blind

Words words words

Breaks to lower my hands

Put down the device

Come out with your hands up

Nonsensical stream of consciousness words

Brain is broken

Gravity is an evil bitch

My gyroscope has flipped a switch

Words on words

Spinning like my brain

Water down the drain

Wet words whirlpool words

Written in blood and years

No tears

Years are full of tears

But not full of blood

These words I’m writing

Stop for word count

Are we there yet?

Are we there yet?

Are we there yet?

Don’t make me pull this keyboard over

Two hundred and fifteen

Almost there kids

Now just sit down and be quiet

Look out the windows

While I’m writing writing writing

Words words words

Oh my fucking god this hurts

But I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna write my words

Just because my ear and brain

Don’t know which way is up

Fuck it, I’ll show them

I’ll show them all

I can write laying down

Writing words words words

Wounded words

That wobble on the page

Just like the rage in my

Inner ear

My inner me says

Ha! See that?

I wrote extra.

Collapses into a heap

Of words words words

While my fingers keep

Right on writing

Angry Teapot

Angry teapot shrieking

Column of steam

Rising from her belly

As she yells

For me to pour

She is a bitchy shrew

Reminding me

How I do prefer the silence

Of a quiet house

Yet I rely on her assistance

My ceramic spouse

She reminds me

How I can’t seem

To take a full breath

Whenever anyone else

Is around

How even the trees

Rustling their leaves

Is often too much noise

For me to bear

When they beat against the pane

Oh, the pain

The pain of the noise

Of the pitter-pat of the aging cat

Making her nightly rounds

How infinitesimal sounds

Are like a jackhammer

Against my skull

Bits and pieces of grey matter

Flying about scattered

Chipped away

Like dust and decay

Or so much rubble

Oh it’s no trouble I say

When people invade

My private domain

My sanctum of silence

Defile by their presence

The sound of their breathing

Almost too much to bear

I try to hide the pain

I lie in an act of decorum

There is no appropriate forum

To admit that the sound

Of their voices

Is an intrusion

No way to say

That my own thoughts

Crash like symbols

Or that being alone

Means one too many

So I invite them in

And offer cake and tea

Grinding my teeth

Until they leave

Full Moon

Golden orb

Rising high over the hills

Over the city

Over the night

Dripping light

Onto your shoulders

Your face

Silk satin lips

Softer than tiptoed footsteps

Silent like a breath

Escaping your lips

Escaping the light

Memories

Of other moons

Other kisses

Days before I knew you

Days when my heart

Was my own

Before the memories

Of your passion

Became my reality

Before I knew the touch of you

The sight of you

In the moonlight

Its light

The sight

Of you

Of us

Burned into my soul

That moonlight caressing

A physical thing

That light and its touch

Eternal

No moon

Will ever shine so brightly

Now that you are gone

My Voice

Sometimes I think

Compared to real poets

My voice is so small

Then I remember

That until fairly recently

I had no voice at all

My voice is at times timid

When I let my shyness

Get the best of me

But I’m learning to be bold

To speak up

And set my voice free

I want to tell stories

And sing love songs

To turn words into art

Swirling colors

Sounds and emotions

Wrapped around your heart

I want to tell you

That you’re not alone

No matter how lonely you get

That your pain will not kill you

I’m living proof

It hasn’t stopped me yet

That if you look

There is beauty all around

Just look in the mirror

Your imperfections

Your faults and lapses

Are nothing to fear

Or are they?

I suppose that depends on

Who you believe

The voices of haters

Of bullies of doubters

Or me

The solitary figure

With a voice that’s still small

Teaching herself to shout

I’ve been through pain

And while I’m not there yet

I have figured out

Who and what I can be

And she is beautiful

As are you

When you listen

To your inner voice

And speak your words loud and true

Sometimes I think

That my voice is just right

And perfectly me

Even as I and it

Grow into all

We were meant to be

Roses

Long ago memories

Of a full bouquet of yellow

Long stems graceful

Ballerinas twirling

Baby’s breath

Mine held

Gift of thankfulness

Of friendship

Pink petals gradually falling

To the tabletop below

Beauty fading

Soft scent lingering

In the air

Sweet memory

Of an unexpected gift

On a Tuesday

Playful combinations

Pink and peach

Orange and yellow

Miniature sunsets

In each perfect bud

Sparks of red and white

Bursting in air

Fireworks of color

Climbing the backyard fence

To celebrate births

Each summer

These flowers mark my memories

Colors coupled with

Silk petals

Forever entwined

With feelings

With specific moments

Moments of love

Moments of joy

And yet the flowers never given

The colors never shared

Will be the ones most remembered

Their absence exceptional

Red blossoms

Never crushed

Petals never scattered

What I would have given

For such a wanton display

Of heady desire

To roll amidst the death

Mixing the scents

Of sex and florals

To know the flower’s perfection

Was if only for a brief moment

Overshadowed by my own

To have been thought worthy

Of spilling

It’s blood red life

Crushed underneath

The weight of our love

Delicate pristine white

Shrouding all memories

Will be my gift to you

The pale perfection

I could never be

Laid gently on top of you

For all to see

Thorns that would otherwise

Mar their well groomed existence

Removed so that no blood

Will be shed

And when I give you white

I will keep the red for myself

Greedy in my love

Celebrating life and lust

Soiling the petals

With my selfishness

With my pleasure

While you and your perfection

Grow cold together

Sex Matters

I’m not sure why sex matters

I mean the sex of a person

Not the act or more correctly acts themselves

Those matter the way oxygen matters

No, I mean how a person

Thinks of themself

Or which equipment

Their physical body is currently outfitted with

Or which model came off

The assembly line

When their soul was originally established

In that particular model

Sex the act is an expression

Of love and lust

Of joy and enjoyment

It’s touching and fucking

Teasing and squeezing

It may be holding

Or scolding

It’s orgasms

And ecstasy

It’s anything to me

That gives me pleasure

And if I’m not alone

In this endeavor

It’s what pleases my partner

Or partners

It’s between two or more souls

Trapped in physical form

And so long as the participants

Are of legal age

And consenting

It should not matter

To the rest of us

Who these people are

Or what type of things

They do with each other

Or to each other

When they have sex

Provided they both live

To enjoy the afterglow

But when it comes to a person

And their individual self

Unless you are having sex with someone

What difference does how they view themself

Make to anyone else?

We are each born into

A physical space

A container of race

And chromosomal gender

That says if we are him or her

But often the universe

Gets it wrong

And we’re born with an X

When the soul inside

Knows that they were meant to be a Y

Or a Y instead of an X

It’s a horrible mess

But a fixable one

If society would stop caring

What shoes or what clothes

A person wears each day

Or whether someone identifies

As a woman or man

Why if they aren’t your sexual partner

Does anyone even care?

Is it fair to dictate

What makes someone masculine?

Or feminine?

And insist we all conform?

And who gets to make up these rules?

Are high heels and makeup feminine?

Is playing football masculine?

None of that should matter

What sex a person calls themself

And how they chose

To clothe or decorate

The body they use

Should not matter

That a person is healthy and happy

That they discover their talents

And use them to improve this place

Help the human race

To give in some measure

And yes, experience pleasure

Those things should matter

How many bigger things

Could the human race achieve

If people believed

That we are all simply people?

If color and sex

Were not seen as anything more

Than container descriptions

For the soul inside?

Because each is of equal import

And it’s pointless to judge

Based on the outside

Car Shopping

Yesterday started with taking my 2003 Ford Taurus to the garage to diagnose why the engine was running hot yet it had no heat. The estimate came to $800-$900 to repair an engine coolant leak, replace the heater coil, and replace the thermostat. Knowing the suspension needed multiple things like struts and a ball joint in order to pass inspection this spring, it was time to put her down. So J and I went to Freedom Toyota. Honestly, I have no idea why I went there other than I hear their advertising every day.

 

The very nice and charming salesman showed me a very nice Hyundai Sonata. Took it for a test drive. Loved it. It was a 2008, low mileage, we worked up a deal. He got the payment close to my limit. Then he started pushing me. Subtly. But still pushing. I don’t like that. In fact, that’s the biggest thing I hate about car shopping. Never mind that it’s a huge financial transaction and picking the wrong car could mean countless headaches, agrevation, and expenses in the future. He finally talked me into driving it off the lot when I went home to get Max and my title. It was almost a done deal. But when I went to start it again, it wouldn’t start. The starter clicked but nothing. The universe was screaming at me to take my old car and get out of there.

 

Came home and started looking on line. I’d bought my previous two cars (before this Taurus which was a gift) from Sutliff Chevy. Found some good potentials on their site and J, Max, and I went there. If I’d been thinking, I would have also looked online at the car I was thinking about getting from Freedom (which was now fine as the wires to the battery apparently hadn’t been tightened).

 

While i was there, we pulled up the carfax for cars I was considering plus the Sonata. Turns out the 2008 Sonata had had four owners, had an outstanding recall item, they offered me $300 less for my Taurus than Sutliff did, and the guy from Freedom was trying to sell the Sonata to me for $1,000 more than they were listing it for on their website.

 

In the end, I got a 2011 Ford Focus that had just one owner for a payment that was lower than the Sonata yet the car cost almost $2,000 more. (Same number of months financing). And, it also turned out that due to my prior patronage, I had almost $500 in accrued rewards dollars that I had forgotten about that came right off the top.

 

So I got a newer, higher priced car, with better gas mileage and more features for a lower monthly payment. But more importantly, I never felt pressured. I wish I’d trusted my gut and gone to Sutliff in the first place. I won’t ever make that mistake again. The entire experience was great. (If you’re in the Harrisburg area and need a quality used car at a fair price without the pressure, go to Sutliff and ask for Dan)