Sunday Scribblings #111 – Prompt: Soar/Sore

 

 

Time was speeding, snowballing, she noticed.  She noticed the thick black eyeliner was getting thicker and blacker, the beehive bigger and taller, the tattoos bolder in their statements, to compensate in some connected but disconnected way that felt like the brink of rehab, too on-a-roll to control.  She slid a peachy-beige matte finish onto her lips and tossed the lipstick and liner into the black makeup bag into the black suitcase to be tossed into the bleak world.  9:06am.  She was late for the airport, late for life.  She pushed her boobs up, grabbed her purse, sunglasses, keys, laptop case, fought the suitcase handle to get it up, to roll the case down the hall with everything else banging against her or threatening to fall, out the door, down the staircase to the breezeway to the back of her car.  Gravity sucked down the lot of it, rolled a pen out of her tipped purse.  She snatched up the pen, the keys, opened the trunk, irritated.  The atmosphere was loaded with the meaty chop of a military helicopter lumbering somewhere above, as if the air were thicker like water.  The thought of invading its space for another round of airlines roulette, for another trade show, begged another Jack and Coke.  She rolled her eyes, heaved the bags into the trunk and slammed it shut, juggled purse and planner, keys between her teeth dangling over peachy-beige, one hand tugging at her mini dress alternately left side right side, around the back of the car to the driver’s door.  She opened it, swung her purse and planner over the console and onto the passenger seat, then plopped down, annoyed through and through, into the driver’s seat, into a mental checklist, check, check, shit!  Her iPod.  Forget about it.  This can’t happen again, says the boss, the parents, the sensible people and part of her.  It’s not a critical item, just a really desired one that could critically alter her already hosed schedule.  Fuck it.  Every moment is roulette.  And darkness was pulling to win, in a flash, she could see that, could feel its pull out of the car, up the stairs, back into the apartment, to the iPOd, to the Jack Daniels, and there was a sense, in this rebellion, of being only another of its pathetic black pawns.

 

She tore into the airport long-term parking lot, pulled into the first spot available, spilled out of the car, gave the guy in the adjacent spot a look up her dress when she reached back into the car for purse and planner, then out, keys in teeth, peachy-beige, one hand, dress tug left right, trunk open, heave ho, suitcase handle fight, bags, balance, roll, out of control, 46 minutes to takeoff.  She hustled all spindly in heels, across the parking lot, up the stairs, sun beating down, sunglasses falling down her nose, a bead of sweat on her perfect brow attracting a strand of ace-black hair to stick to it, through the parking garage, across the road, into the terminal, up against an infinite waiting line, into bitch mode.  She thickened her New York City accent, sharpened her nasal tone, mouth moving, free arm lassoing the air above her head, pushing, demanding, boarding pass, baggage, all the way through security and to the gate just in time to see the USAir rep shut the jetway door.  Damn it.  Some seconds, lifetimes, eons, into the rash of shit she was giving the rep, she saw the 747 pull away from the jetway with her job, with her old destiny.  There were no more decent indecent words, words at all.  Everything stopped.  She could see herself split off, one of her soaring in the 747, sipping a Jack and Coke, laptop open, preparing for the Chicago show, the other of her walking away sore, pissed…  This is where it stopped, what she could see, imagine.  Walking away sore, pissed, to what, to where, to how?  To the bar?  Back to the car?  She had no idea.  But there was a sense that she’d made this choice already, when she went back for the iPod.

 

 

PHOTO CREDITS

 

 

Amy Winehouse photo snagged from Random Citations blog http://fisherwy.blogspot.com/

Back space key from stock.xchg http://www.sxc.hu/

 

 

Click here for more on prompt “#111 – Soar/Sore” from other Sunday Scribblings participants. 

 

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17 responses to “Sunday Scribblings #111 – Prompt: Soar/Sore

  1. I love the hectic pace, repetitive phrases, staccato beat of this piece. It is such a skillful evocation of her frantic, fruitless race against time and her own ineptitude.

  2. Hi Granny! I’m an admirer from afar, have been off and on with Sunday Scribblings, haven’t commented much anywhere… Your name caught my eye, your savvy, your spunk, your skill, and more, it all amazes me… I’m honored that you visited! Thank you : )

  3. phew…i started and just couldn’t stop. i’m amazed at how you have brought about the heady rush through words. awesome, missalister!

  4. Aw Bum, you are the best! Thanks for that. I posted this mess as is against the better judgment of three people, one of which was me, but there was something I fell in love with in the miserable thing, so like a shark that has a worthy purpose in its realm, I let it live.
    Most of all, thank you so much for coming by. I’m just breaking loose myself so I’ll be over to your place soon as I can. <3

  5. hahah I loved it! It made me laugh because I could picture Amy and how difficult it must be for her to walk around, with her “accessories” …and her life. Oof.
    It got me thinking how when you look at certain people, celebrities in general, the way they carry themselves seems to easy, the seem to float and you want to be in their shoes, even if they’re sky-high because they seem to be able to walk in them and, as they always smile, they seem comfortable.
    If we were on their skin we’d know that clothes, shoes, hair-dos and purses and bags…they are as tough to carry as our own, right? lol
    But with Amy it’s different. I look at her and I imagine I’d be uncomfortable under the bee-hive hair, or being so thin, or being all bruised…

  6. Whew! I couldn’t stop! But I knew she went back for the iPod. Just gotta do it. This is amazing writing with repetition that really works! peachy-beigh, helicopter chops, decent indecent words …
    Thanks for stopping by my blog, your kind words but most of all, I would have possibly missed your talent, at least for this week anyway.

  7. Devil Mood: yeah, the actors/actresses especially make it look easy…maybe because their art is presenting a defined role or an image? because so many musicians make living look too difficult to live through (Kurt Cobain, Douglas Hopkins, et. al.)! Maybe because their art, the ways they can go about expressing it, are more loosely defined? No, because writers kill themselves off epidemically (Virginia Woolf, Ernest Hemingway, et. al.) and their craft, like that of dancers, has definite guidelines… Well we’re back to one of my favorite topics to write about : what’s behind that kind of creative mind and the link between mental issues and brilliance… What’d I just do? Complete another of my mind circles? Anyway…
    Amy Winehouse seems to be another one with crazy in her DNA, and I have a soft spot for those types. Ever since I saw a picture of Amy Winehouse snapped in all her supreme skinniness just walking down the street with her big long black hair and awesome eyeliner, ever since I heard about her bad girl antics, I’ve been mesmerized. I’ve sorted through enough stuff on the internet to know she’s an unenviable mess, and although I probably wouldn’t last a month in her skin, there’s some part of me that loves her through and through exactly as she is :-)

    Bass: LOL! No, I don’t have an iPod but that’s my airport prep norm minus the looks, the clothes, the alcohol, the badass mouth and attitude and the NY accent :-D

    Imelda: thank you! I’m going to savor your compliment even though you now know capturing Frantic was easy because it’s me getting ready to go to the airport or anywhere I’m not 100% enthused about going! Write what you know “they” say! ;-)

    Nonizamboni: welcome times ten thousand! I’m so glad you stopped by and found a few succulent words as did I in your Soul in the updraft. I’m missing talent, too, I see as I’m now no longer waiting for but making more time to check out other Sunday Scribblers’ sites! I’ve just now added you to my feeds list so I won’t miss any more of your good stuff :-)

  8. a messy post. a percussive write up at 180bpm. a rush of blood to the head. words churned, ingested – even memorised at the speed of sound. the iPods on shuffle, at top gear, shifting through genres and phases with a casual, practised arrogance.

    you words are on speed. and they correspond to the velocity of your mind. this one does. hoo – i am gonna read this again. my high for the day. no, week.

  9. Phish:
    Yeah! messy like an accident, like life, and I’m not cleanin’ it up! ;-)

    Phish? You’re one of the most brilliant wordsmiths I’ve ever known

    So you do it! You clean it up

    While I go next door for whatever murighonto is left after the RSS feeds

    I’m starving!

  10. Excuse me while I take a breath. Phew. That’s one intense mouthful of words–figuratively speaking, of course. But maybe not, I think I mouthed off every word, lost in the story, imaginining exactly who you wanted me to, how you wanted me to.

    My birthday cake (as envisioned by my friends) was a glass of JD, on the rocks, with two candles on either side, one shaped as a 2, the other as a 5. So maybe I wouldn’t have gone back for the iPod. But I’ll understand she did, if you insist.

  11. Void: oh you’re so obedi…I mean accepting, yes so accepting… Your midlife enlightenment must’ve happened already! ;-) Yes, I insist that you note the subtlety of the subconscious choices we make, like our character’s choice to go back into her apartment and get the iPod and a drink (maybe it was her 2JD5 birthday, too) because she, in her language, didn’t give a fuck, was flirting with disaster, as Molly Hatchet puts it. In reality, her choice to get the iPod, although not directly a choice to lose her job, was a choice to lose her job. We make those kinds of choices all the time, which is scary, so I’m trying to cut down on that, you know, be more aware of what’s lurking in the cobwebby corners of my head! Oh! And I also insist you also take note that the ending does not disallow a positive next move…which, perhaps, she also has already priorly chosen ;-)
    Hey, thanks for stopping by—I’ve missed you over here!

  12. Did I say “wonderful” writing instead of sublimely vertiginous? Damn, girl. How did I not comment on this before now? (That’s right. When I first met you, I wuz busy with end of skool.) Like a damn bandalero belt’s worth of genius ratatattatting all over the place, take your pick: “She hustled all spindly in heels”: just a simple touch like that, jeez, write on, write on. I came to Ms Amy via the needlepoint jealousies of Lily Allen, whose bacchanalia I wuz falling for at the time: LA was afraid that AW was beginning to hog the show. I took one “look” at AW and said not a chance, then hit the play button and got blasted by skinny white (Brit, no less) girl’s out-Nyro-ing Nyro when going for Stax/Chess Irma Thomas/Etta James all rolled into one. Bless the chile, let’s hope she see’s her way through. Poses again your Neurotic Poets quandary, though: cleaned up girl gonna have anything left?

    Apropos of nada, I lived in the same dorm with Anne Sexton’s daughter and saw the diva herself in “consort” at Harvard’s Sanders Theater. Young Mississippi high school grad boy didn’t know what hit him.

  13. Paschal: I’m flattered, no rattled. Flattered is too intact a word to describe the feeling of having received compliments from not you, necessarily, but from who you are. Despite my blonde moments I can surprise especially myself with some good words and some fairly good breadcrumb-following. And I followed, picked up, and ate all the ones that spun off your head-on approach to Quitting. OK let me try and shake that off… Let’s talk about Lily.
    OOoooo, I like her voice, so little girl dreamy, and I like her stories happilyish told bouncing matteroffactly, happenstancely on musical notes with a cockney lack of flair that somehow adds flair. Why would she be jealous of our Miss AW??? They both have a great place in the world. Hmph, Lily must be a fierce little kitty. AW is aw-some, aw they’re all awesome, you name bomb dropper you…Irma, Etta, and be still my heart Anne Sexton. I bet your graduate self was at a Mrs. Robinson kind of loss! ;-)

  14. I’m quite accepting, yes. And I meant, “I wouldn’t have gone back for the iPod.” Seriously though, I get what you’re saying. There’s a power in our ‘Consciousness’ that we haven’t tapped yet. I suppose that’s what that ‘Secret’ book was about, right? Have you read Scott Adams’s books? There was one, the Dilbert Future, which had a little chapter on something similar to the Secret at the end of it. Check it out if you get the chance. It’s an exercise in getting what you want. I tried it properly once, got what I wanted. Haven’t tried it since. But I mean to, just to know how powerful my belief is.

  15. Void: ah, I see! I wouldn’t have gone back for it either.
    About The Secret, you could definitely put it that way. Just like you and The Dilbert Future, I got a goal, too, keeping focused on what I learned. I’m working on another goal, but I have to say it ain’t easy, especially because it’s not at all second nature to me. I have to keep reminding myself to keep missile lock on the goal, focus, focus… Geez. Anyway, I will definitely put The Dilbert Future on my list of books to read. I love Dilbert (from the American corporate zone, anyway, I can tell you it’s scary-close to being spot on!) and I’m intrigued by Scott Adams’ success story! Thanks Void! As always :-)

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