Rainey Daze and Crazy Nights

Poetry, Paintings, and Ponderings: Through My Eyes

Peace December 25, 2013

I know that it is difficult for many to make it through this time of year (myself included). Just know that you are not alone in your feelings, and that there is a brighter and better tomorrow. Take a deep breathe and take it one moment at a time. If being around relatives is difficult, just remember: YOU control how you feel. Do not give others that power. Do not allow yourself to fall into the trap of being reactive.

If you are alone (not by choice) try volunteering at a soup kitchen or shelter. You will be lifted by what your kindness can do for others.

I wish you all peace, love, and joy this holiday season.

 

The Waiting Room December 13, 2013

The woman appears disheveled. She sits perched on the edge of the waiting room chair, swinging her petite, pajama-clad legs back and forth nervously. She hunches into her over-sized sweatshirt and pulls the hood tighter as if she wants to disappear. Her hands are clasped over her ears to keep out the noise. Anxious eyes dart around when a man takes the seat next to her. After a moment, she walks to the front desk to ask how much longer she has to wait. She’s waited six hours already. She returns, but chooses a new seat.

~

The family comes in together. The man, who appears to be the one in charge, is dressed neatly in a Green Bay Packer’s sweatshirt and pressed jeans. The younger man wears the uniform of his youth: over-sized shirt hanging over carefully sagging jeans. A sharp pair of  Nike’s complete his look.  The older woman is obviously the matriarch. The men walk her in, flanking her sides. She walks slowly, but steadily, with their help and her head held high. Two younger women trail behind, huddled together for support. Both of their dark faces glisten with fresh tears. The family gathers together and has a quiet conversation. In moments they dissolve in tears. The men comfort the matriarch as her tears deepen into sobs. The news of an impending death of a 10 year-old family member is too much to handle.

 

~

She sits with legs splayed, filling the seat with her bulk. Her gray sweatshirt is stretched tightly across her stomach. Stains show at the armpits. Oblivious to others, she continues her phone conversation. She complains loudly about various problems in her life. An older man brings her a greasy white bag which causes her to finally end the 45 minute conversation. She thanks the man and he leaves. She unwraps the first of two tin foil packages and the smell of cooked onions fills the air. The woman eats with great enthusiasm, licking her glistening fingers after every few bites. A few minutes later she unwraps the second package and consumes the other burger. Flecks of cole slaw dot her lips when she sits back with a satisfied sigh.

~

The waiting room in a hospital emergency room gives a unique glimpse into life.

 

You November 28, 2013

Filed under: all,love,Poems,poetry,relationships — rainey46 @ 7:46 pm
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Nude art

How many hours have I wasted

dreaming of you?

How many days are lost forever

thinking of you?

How do I continue breathing

living without you?

You are the blood that runs through my veins

You are the one who  makes me insane

You are the air that touches my lips

You are the wind caressing my hips.

How many hours have I wasted

dreaming of you?

How many days are lost forever

thinking of you?

How do I continue breathing

living without you?

 

HAHAHAHA!!! November 22, 2013

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Time Will Tell November 17, 2013

I stumbled upon a Facebook page of my old high school. I live within thirty minutes of where I grew up, but high school was not a good time for me so I put that time of my life behind me- along with the people I knew then. For some reason, I scrolled through a few screens of people trying to reconnect, or announcements of class reunions, and a name suddenly jumped out at me…the name of one of the men who gang raped me when I was 16. I closed my eyes and almost didn’t look at the page. After a moment, I looked: it was his death announcement.

I followed a link to an online obituary that showed pictures of him: with his wife, then children and grandchildren. The younger pictures looked just like the man I knew: cute, almost shy smile; slightly mussed blonde hair; and clear tan skin. As he aged, he got a little heavier, but seemed to maintain his “boy-next-door” good looks.

I expected to feel rage that he lived an ordinary life when I lived so much of mine in emotional pain. I expected to feel relief that he was dead and had suffered from the ravages of cancer. But I felt neither of these emotions.

I really felt….nothing. Just a little twinge that someone I once knew was dead.

Does this mean that I’ve really finally healed? Did I take back my power after all these years?

I hope so.

Only time will tell.

 

Parts Sag and Things Hurt October 7, 2013

This weekend, I went for a trip on the motorcycle. I had a great time, but my butt hurts from riding 1,100 miles. And my back hurts from two nights on a brick-hard hotel bed.

I’m also sun burnt from an October sun that didn’t know it was October.

I woke up late this morning because I set my alarm for the wrong time. It wasn’t terribly wrong, but just enough to start my day off-kilter.

Got to work on time, but no time to spare. In fact, no time to spare all day. After my normal morning meeting, I had a meeting with the bosses to brainstorm and problem-solve. When they left, it seemed as though everyone on staff was lined up outside my door with a different problem. I guess it is good that I am needed at work.

At the end of the day, I had a nose bleed. Not bad; just a little one. I haven’t had one since I was a kid.

On the way home, my left eye started twitching. It does that some time for no apparent reason.

Sometimes, it’s a bitch getting older. Parts sag or don’t work and things hurt, but my mind doesn’t know we are getting older. It wants to go and do like we always have. I still have fun, but fun hurts more now than it did.

Did I mention that today was my birthday?

 

 

 

Embrace Your Weird September 8, 2013

We are all weird. Although we all start the same way, when Mr. Sperm meets and greets Ms. Egg, somewhere along the way we each develop in our own uniquely weird way.

As small children we have some weirdness that begins to show. Some, as toddlers, run around in full naked glory and refuse to put on clothing. Some eat weird food concoctions, or only eat one or two foods. Young children don’t mind being weird because they mostly only think of themselves. But soon, they grow up and become…TEENAGERS. Teenagers thrive on being the same as everyone else. Anything that makes them different must be hidden at all cost. Some people get stuck in this mindset and spend the rest of their lives hiding their weirdness and trying to live exactly like everyone else. They are the ones who will never fully develop their own hidden potentials because they are too busy trying to be normal.

Being weird is not a bad thing. In fact, I am here today to celebrate my own brand of weirdness. It is my weirdness that makes me who I am. My weirdness factor sets me apart from every other person living on my street or in my town. I am uniquely me, and proud of it!

Here are several weirdness factors about me:

1. When I am following directions, I visualize a birds-eye view of the area roads. I am good at finding my way around, but not good at telling someone else how to get there because no one understands my way of seeing it.

2. I hate, truly hate, shopping. I am a rare breed of woman who would never set foot in a store OF ANY KIND if I had a choice. I don’t like buying clothes, shoes, household items, gifts, groceries, or any other necessities of life. I do love online shopping for things, though. Why? Because I can find unique items that no one else will have.

3. I love singing in my car. I have a 30 minute drive to work and I spend most of the time singing at the top of my lungs. (I am not very good, but I don’t care!) I don’t look at other people or cars, so I could care less what they think. The other thing I do in my car is talk. To myself. Out loud. Sometimes very animated.

4. I am artistic just to be artistic. I create what I want to create. Most of my work is sitting in my studio in piles. I get people who ask me all the time to paint certain things, but that is not how I work. I stare at the canvas (or wood, or whatever) and let it tell me what it needs to be. Anything else is forced. The same is true of poems or stories I write. I cannot pre-plan; it becomes what it was meant to be.

5.  I count colors. When sitting in a waiting room, or standing in line, I look around and see the different colors of all the people and objects. I then count the colors that touch one another. No color can be repeated. This is a game I started as a young child when I had trouble falling asleep at night. It soothes me, even now.

These are only a few of the many, many ways I am weird. How are you weird? What makes you a wonderfully flawed and beautiful human? Embrace your own weirdness, and share with me!

 

Different Doesn’t Mean Wrong August 12, 2013

Why is there so much hatred in the world for anyone or anything “different” from the norm? Do we really want a world filled with carbon copies of bland sameness? I think fear plays a role; many fear what they don’t understand. But it goes so much deeper than that. The old “Survival of the fittest” instinct kicks in, even in this day and time. For some reason, things that make us “different” are viewed as weaknesses. In reality, it is often those differences that make a person a survivor. These differences bring us, as humans, forward as a race. Without these wonderful differences and the unique qualities of people, we would not have the scientific genius of Einstein, the artistic genius of Van Gogh, or the mental genius of Aristotle.

I remain hopeful that the internet, yes, the great World Wide Web, will help erase the stigma of different. The web allows humans to connect in ways we never imagined. It is doubtful that I could ever afford to travel to Uganda and share ideas, but here, on the ‘net, I can do that with a few strokes of my fingers. I can get the opinion of  a sassy Colombian lady who lives in Canada, or check in on life in the United Kingdom. Do these online friends have different opinions than mine? Yes, sometimes they do. Do they have different experiences, heartaches, triumphs? Certainly. I learn so much from their thoughts and adventures! I see the uniqueness of each of them and I feel blessed that they share that uniqueness with me and the rest of the world. Perhaps, one day, we can learn to celebrate those qualities that make us each uniquely human.

 

 

I Took Back My Power From the Rapist June 9, 2013

 

TRIGGER WARNING: Rape

It’s strange how J mimics my own life in some ways. I wish it wasn’t so.

She saw her rapist at the grocery store.

The same grocery store where I saw mine.

Years ago, as a very young and wild teen, I was gang raped by “friends”. Long story….I know I wrote about it already, but I don’t feel like searching for it to create a link. Maybe later.

A year later, I moved on. I made all new friends, cut my ties with that so-called group of friends (all of them, not just the ones who raped me). I literally moved on to a new boyfriend (who became my husband) in a new town. The first town is about a 35 minute drive to the town I moved to. I grew up, married, had kids, and became a teacher. My life moved forward, but my soul did not. Just as I did with the molestation I endured as a child, I covered it up and pretended it didn’t happen. If I don’t think about it, it can’t hurt me, right? Or so I thought.

One year, one of my students happened to be this weird little dude I will call Paul. I taught fourth grade, and some little boys having a crush on me was the norm; it goes with the territory. After a week or so, they usually get over it and fall for a more appropriate love interest, like the cute blonde with freckles who sits next to them in class. Paul, however, persisted to fawn over me all year. Like I said, a weird little dude. I met his mother several times during conferences and we laughed together over his strange infatuation with me.

At the end of the year we had a big awards ceremony. The day before, Paul gave me a strange smile and said,”My dad is coming to awards tomorrow.” I was slightly shocked,  as Paul’s dad had not attended any events that year. In fact, Paul NEVER talked about his dad, so I assumed he was a very un-involved parent. Then Paul said, “My dad knows you.” He giggled and ran off.

I truly didn’t think anything of it until the next day. I was standing in my classroom when Paul’s dad, my old friend and rapist, stood in my doorway. Time stood still as our eyes met. The world around me faded away and all I could see where those eyes in the darkness. I was unable to blink or breath until he smirked and turned away. He told his son he would see him at the ceremony and then he was gone. When I was able to move again, I looked at Paul, who stood there, staring at me, with that same smirk. Like he knew.

Somehow I got through that day. I pulled Paul’s records and realized I lived one street over from my former friend. We lived one street apart and I never knew until that day.

But he knew. He knew the whole time that I was Paul’s teacher.

That summer I saw him again. This time at the grocery store. I left my groceries in the cart and walked out.

It began to eat away at me. I couldn’t sleep without nightmares. I began spending most of my waking hours doing the “What If” game. What if I had pressed charges. What  if I called him out in front of his wife. What if…

Finally I realized this was very counter-productive for me. I had to take my life back. I could not run from this anymore. A few days later, in the same grocery store, I saw him. I followed him. When he saw me, the blood drained from his face. I was angry and I did not look away. I would not back down. I took back my power when I looked him in the eyes and loudly said, “Fancy meeting you here. Does you wife  know you are a rapist? Does she know how you gave an under-aged girl drugs until she passed out, so you and your sick friends could rape her?” I saw true fear in his eyes for the first time. In that moment, I got my power back. He and his fear no longer controlled me.

Life is funny. That was years ago, and I have not had a chance encounter with him since. He still lives one street away, but it no longer haunts me. In fact, I hadn’t thought about him and those events in a long time.

I wonder how long it will be until J gets her power back.

 

 

Goodness of People June 8, 2013

I have experienced my share of human cruelty in my life. I have experienced things I would not wish on my worst enemy. I’ve watched others hurt my daughter over and over again. Yet, somehow, I still believe in the basic goodness of most people. I believe that most humans just want to find love and happiness. Sometimes we make mistakes and do stupid things in the pursuit of that happiness, but ultimately humans are good.

I believe in the goodness of people, despite what I have been through.