~Sappy Daze~ Day 17

From A Poor Secret Admirer Probably 

I’m determined to become rich 
with loving memories of you and I.

Unlike money, love can’t be measured, 
so prove you love me 
with a savings account 
of romantic adventures:

Front-row seats to a symphony 
of your snores and whispers. 

A limited edition perfume 
of your morning breath. 

A proposal so sweet 
it’s topped off with a ring pop. 

A honeymoon lavishly decorated 
with your goofy smile.

Yes, I confess I’m a gold digger. 
I’m greedy to live a broke life with unbroken love.

If you’re okay with that, 
won’t you be my lover, 
my clearance aisle breadwinner?

- Sappy

Critter Comic Week Eleven!

Text: “I need help!! Are you busy?–“

“Very.”

Sorry for being a little late on this one!! 

When me and my brother were kids, we LOVED Oreos. I liked the cream parts and he liked the biscuits, so I would just throw my parts to him. Now that I’ve moved out though,  I don’t know what to do with the biscuits, so I stack them until I can figure it out. 

Witness the Small Life – Dirty Laundry

Life is a never ending cycle of soiled clothing. Rinse and repeat, dry on medium. I’ve felt this feeling times one hundred these last couple of days and the dirty clothes pile only gets higher and higher.

My visit to the laundromat this past weekend (huzzah to the broken washer) reminded me of the simple pleasures of waiting around. As soon as my roommate and I stepped into the jewel blue toned room lined with walls of washing machines I felt an air of productive stagnancy. There were people mingling about, caring for their jeans or tossing their clothes into the next cycle, and also people perched in various chairs of various types silent but patient. Crosswords and movies and games and naps were all around us as the sounds of tumble cycles created an atmospheric ambience. As soon as I deposited my handful of quarters and heard the water rush into the machine, I felt the room bring me to a lull. Although I had yet a hundred more things to do that day, there was a peace brought over me that I couldn’t quite shake. The very act of doing chores is a necessary nuisance, as we all know, and there’s something about the shared time taken with everyone at the laundromat that makes doing laundry feel a little less lonesome. People coming in with their hampers and baskets all come for different reasons, carrying different things. And yet we all spend the same time waiting around for the machine to release our socks and sheets until we come back to do it all again. There’s a comfort in sharing uneventful time with strangers that feels right in the laundromat.

To take into our next week:

Ins: Pomegranate tea, trout, violins, of Montreal (always), semisweet chocolate chips, goofy looking shoes, texting people about little things, chicken salad with grapes, wrist stretches.

Outs: Forgotten leftovers, not taking responsibility for your actions, forehead pimples, rooms that smell like feet, not turning off the lights behind you, frost in the morning, soggy noodles.

To everyone out there hoarding your quarters for the laundry fund: I understand. I hope for even more quarters to come your way, and for everyone else who is lucky enough to have an accessible (and functional) washing machine I hope you’re able to relish every quarter you receive. If you’re able to, take the time to sit around while you do your laundry. Find a friend. Share a story. Do a crossword. Count every quarter you have and do some math. There’s joy in mundanity and the laundromat is the perfect place for it.

~Sappy Daze~ Day 16

From Your Secret Admirer Probably

I like your smile:
the way it crinkles your eyes at the end
like an elderly person’s 
despite your youthful face. 

It makes me dream 
we’ll grow old together,
like your overworn white tee 
that I wore too:
I liked how the shirt smelled of you.

Your scent makes me hungry.

I can keep my hunger at bay by listening 
to my favorite piece on repeat: 
a cacophony of a symphony 
performed by our starving bodies. 
The melody of our groans and 
the rich vibrato of our stomachs
harmonize beautifully. Our laughter: 
the percussive and catchy beat.

I think we should become music majors. 

That way our starvation for 
one another will forever 
play in a cannon 
more famous than D.

- Sappy

Crooked Fool: Are you angry yet?

Witness.

I was young, crooked femme, buzzing with energy, a nova of anger that was pathologized, bad-ified, otherized, punished…

A performer adapting to the endless energy and life force late-stage capitalist performing arts charge as the price of admission to a club that will blacklist without hesitation. I was easy to work with. Disciplined. Energized regardless of fatigue, a vessel down to my fingertips, twisted body best when unnoticed and unclaimed.

I am a rebel in circus garb, prepared for the tower to fall, knowing my role when it happens.

A clown questioning the colonized, controlling, punishing logics of the state, somehow more threatening in a red nose, but not always thought of as such.

Arlecchino, Brighella, Colombina, Pierrot surviving, working, playing my way through a system designed to keep me wanting, needing.

The crooked, hunchbacked witch who served literal communion to an actual demon in the scariest place there was. The gods rewarded me with a red nose and a spine full of titanium so that eyes, breath, spine will forever be grounded and protected in the act of cursing systems that need to crack, crumble, re-puzzle.  

But remember, it’s just a show…

I am the deformed artist who was told by a psychic that I mastered dark magick in a past life and by a spiritualist reverend that even the darkest creature goes to the light.

I am the one who spent years seeing THIS quilted together in dreams, and now feeling the living, pounding, vital force in those hazy green, buzzing and burning images come to life.

I dance in darkness, a ghost in the making, a demon falling madly in love with my mangled form, the footsteps in the night, screaming the angry children out of sleep because they are the ones who know that something is not right, and that something is not them.

I am, apparently, The Bad, so why not play games with the worst of the worst, week after week?

And why not argue where I can? When nice accomplishes nothing, I can at least still play the game – wrong if I choose.

As an annoying clown once said to me, and as I once said to someone who talked down to me like I was a noisy 27-year-old child, cheating is a mode of play.

Apparently, there are those who genuinely hate crooked, hunchbacked witch clowns. And they’ll dress up their deep, burning hate like light, saying I’m sick, unfriendly, whatever, because they know they can’t say Bad.

Except now they probably can.

I will play the game with all the Bad ones, overdressing, playing ferociously, cheating if I have to. If they want a demon, I know a few. If they try to cut off my rough edges, I’ll crack their rigid walls and dance on the rubble, and everyone loves to dance. Eventually they’ll join.

Slainte to the Bad ones. When this ending happens and this tower crumbles, we will dance in the flames and build with our disfigured, tired bodies in our own image. The vengeful gods will die. And there will the demons be, in the light, turning to ghost with Mad, irrational love and screaming into the dark in joy and rage as our dance party goes on atop the elements that once made us. Who’s the demon now?

Are you angry yet?

You should be.