Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Enough is enough

I grew up in the 1950s
Plenty was wrong with society
We feared the Russians
I was not afraid to go to school  

People were armed
Handguns and sporting rifles
Not AR 15’s
Unless we were nuked
I knew I would come home from school

Corporations were not people
the NRA did not rule Congress
I went to the movies, unafraid
the streets felt safe
Our children deserve more

Quit touting the 2nd amendment
It applied to state militias
When guns were muskets
We deserve more

Enough is enough 

February 21, 2018 ©

Friday, January 12, 2018

White Dress Fever

All she wanted was the magic white dress

But the magic was her light

 there all along

© January 12, 2018, Christine Poythress

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

What I do to be kind to myself.

I have berated myself too often.  I am not skinny, smart, talented, or rich enough.  I am not accomplishing enough.  I always felt I had to be using time to create something.  I never let myself rest.  Sometimes, I still feel this way… I am a bit of a workaholic. 

So how am I kind to me?

I spend a lot of money on yoga classes.  I have let go (mostly) of the ego drive to be the best and to accomplish the pose.  After all, I am in class with 20, 30, and 40 year olds.  I really can’t compete –it would be fruitless and I would end up with injuries… and yet,  I think,  I  can’t do it yet.. but maybe.  while I enjoy the challenge of being flexible and strong, I go slower.  My favorite pose is savasana – getting my corpse on… practice for the ultimate rest.
Speaking of rest.  Now  I sleep at least 7.5 hours… a lot of times it is 9. On top of that, I am turning into my grandmother; I take naps—whenever I want.
All creativity comes out of the void and the space we give ourselves.  When I catch myself falling back –berating myself I remember everything is transitory anyway..

Even ol Tut was robbed and now parts of his stash move around the globe… 

July 26, 2017

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Such creatures of habit are we...

  I love the sound of a fan.  Window fan--oscillating fan.  It really doesn't matter.

Now, even though  I cannot stand the sound of a window air conditioner.  I guess because (as Betsy pointed out) one brings the outside in and the other shuts the outside out.

When I was a child, there was always a window fan running and the  windows wide open.   We were one with the outside world.

I like this much better.

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

My safe place

Clutching the vegetable peeler tight I crouch under the forsythia bush. Mama is calling my name.    Still as a rabbit rolled into a tight little ball, I listen and wait.  Now, I hear Ester trying to calm Mama. Kathy and Michael walk past.   I see their feet from under the canopy of yellow blossoms. My magic cape shields me.   I am in plain view but no one can find me yet.
The sun is setting. Somehow, I have to get back into the house. I am hungry and cold.  I have to pee.  I don’t want to get caught.  Mama told me I couldn’t take the apple peeler on the porch. I did it anyway. I am always doing things in spite of myself.   When I was done, I was so scared I bolted. All I could think about was Mama screaming at me and slapping me.  Would she call me a jerk this time? Why was she too busy to peel my apple?  “No, just go outside.” That’s all she said. Why did she have me if I am so much trouble? I can’t stand the screaming. I can’t stay here any longer either.  I have been here for at least a couple of hours. I will sneak in the house, pee, and then leave.
I sneak in the back door. Phew--better. Oh no, they’re coming back.  I squeeze myself behind the living room chair. Then, I see Kathy. “Here she is.” 
Mama can’t understand why I was hiding. “You wouldn’t let me take the apple peeler out.” Now she denies it and tells me to quit being silly. That’s what she said. She “just doesn’t understand me.” Well, no you don’t. You never take the time to understand.

I am not telling them where I was. I might my safe place again. 
© February 22, 2017

Sunday, February 12, 2017

How to Lose a Creepy Guy

Uh.  Three more hours till I get off.  Guess, I will go pick up trash and empties.  Jesus it’s been slow tonight. I am having a drink now… not waiting for 2. Damn cocktail waitress hours. I don’t really feel like going home.  There is no one there since Tommy the weasel dropped the “You are not the kind of girl I would marry” bomb on me at dinner. What the hell does that mean? Am I too old? His mama said “Tawmmy, she’s older than Claudia”.  Yea, I am a year older than his big sister. So what.  Am I too ambitious? Squirrely?  Not compliant and wifey enough? Who knows? I feel hollow without him. At least I have a job.
I like working at Palomino Club. You never know who is going to show up on stage or in the audience.  Last week Mick Jagger was here—that was cool.  Recently Stephen Stills showed up when Commander Cody played and I saw Emmy Lou Harris fall down on stage being silly.  What am I doing here?  Why did I drop out of school and leave singing?
What? Who the hell is this guy talking to me? How am I doing? Right. He is trying to pick me up. Just what I need—some yahoo wanting to talk.
Through the cocktail haze, I looks ok.  I hand him my number. Should I have given him my number? What’s his name?  Shit. I don’t even know his name. Am I nuts? Giving some stranger my telephone number, that’s smart. Well he’s… ahm… good looking enough. Good thing it’s a weeknight so I don’t have to worry about him lurking in the parking lot when I get off. Everyone says not to make rash choices right after a breakup. Do I listen? No.
 Why am I surprised when he calls?  This guy seems really creepy.  “No thank you.”  I hang up. Done.
Seven days later, I answer the phone and hear his voice again. I wish someone would invent a way of knowing who is calling before you answer! “No thanks.  I do not want to go out with you.”  I hang up.. Surely, this is the end of it.
Oh my god.  I need to buy one of those new answering machine things.  “Do not call again.  I don’t want to go out with you. I don’t like you. Leave me the fuck alone.”  Surely this will be the end of it.
Nope. Damn it. Here he is again.  I am over being nice—I am pissed.  “Leave me alone.  Do not call here again.  I don't like you. You annoy me. I do not want to go anywhere with you. Ever.” I feel like a fucking broken record.  Hopefully, I have insulted him enough to make him go away.
Some guys never learn.  What has it been? Two days?  I am angry enough not to have the sense to be afraid of him. What do I know? Nobody worries about stalkers. (It’ll be another year before Paramount releases Looking for Mr. Goodbar.)
Obviously, I am never going to get rid of this guy without hiring a strong man or filing some kind of civil suit.  If I don’t say yes, he isn’t going away. “Alright. Let’s go out next Saturday.  I have two tickets to a show. You buy dinner.” We have a date.  Yippee.
I do need a ride to the show as I have no car.  Who tries to exist in Southern California without a car? Me. Mind you, I had a car. I just sold it because I did not want to have to fix it. Now, I pretty much hitchhike everywhere. That’s really safe.
It’s Saturday. Downtown Los Angeles awaits our adventure. After dining at some dive, we head to the theater.  He hasn’t got a clue what’s in store for him. Even as we are riding, he doesn’t ask. I remain mute. 
At the theater, I settle into my seat to enjoy 2 hours and 45 minutes of glorious singing punctuated by two intermissions— one 30 minutes and the other 20. During his 3 and half hours of captivity, I occasionally glance at him.  He looks horribly uncomfortable and bored out of his mind.  Between the frowns and pouts, he is, apparently, not altogether thrilled. As he squirms in his seat, it’s also apparent he is experiencing some degree of digestive discomfort. I am here with him.  Isn’t this what he wants?  Poor thing, he has no idea what is happening on the stage.  It’s all in Italian. There is no translation in the program nor any subtitles. All the characters are dying off one by one. I am not sure what he thinks of the wall to wall vibrato, but, I do know it is an acquired taste.

 We sit in stony silence during the ride back to the Valley. When he drops me off, I thank him.  “Talk to you soon” I chirp.  Funny, my phone is and has been silent for weeks. Guess he was not thrilled by Tosca. Perfect way to lose a creepy guy-death by opera!

© February 12, 2017