Dear Susan,
My heart is heavy and my thoughts are clouded with doubt. I feel like I'm stuck inside a toy zeppelin leaking air. I keep running around as the plastic implodes upon itself. My body is molded in rubber: I can't seem to move. I'm dead. All I see is red! Tears stream down my face, paving new gullies for upcoming storms. Will I weather this one, can I tie myself tight enough to the mast as the wet winds whip and hammer at me, smashing my tiny boat into sky-scraping swells? I know I'll drown if I go under; I can't swim. I need help. Where is the coast guard? The life guards? Oh, God, please help me. I'll try to keep my head above water as long as I can, but I grow tired. My arms and legs are heavy. Your Friend, Jack Monroe
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Now, there's a title! There are so many ways to continue this phrase, Once upon a time in a wee little forest there were three bears, cha, cha, cha. One was a Papa Bear and one was a Mama Bear and one was a Wee Bear, cha, cha. One day they went walking in the wee woods a talkin and along, along, along came a little girl with gold hair and her name was Goldie Locks, and up upon the door she knocks, but no one was there, yes, no one was there. So, she walked right in and sat right down, she didn't care, no she didn't care. And when she got tired she went upstairs. Home, home, home came the three bears. "Someone's been eating my porridge," said the Papa Bear, "Someone's been eating my porridge," said the Mama Bear. "Hey, bobaree bear," said the little Wee Bear, "someone has broken my chair." Crash! Just them Goldie Locks woke up, broke up the story and beat it out of there. Good-bye, bye, bye said the Papa Bear, good-bye, bye, bye said the Mama Bear. "Hey bobaree bear," said the little Wee Wear. So ends the story of the three little bears!
And there you have it! Once upon a time! Have you ever woken up craving a chocolate bar? Can taste that sweet cocoa treat on the tip of you tongue as memories of creamy candies float in your sleep coated brain. Nuts, caramel, raspberries, fill some, while others tease with light, dark, milk chocolate squares. Almond Joy, now doesn't that sound good. When you think about it, there are health benefits. You have almonds, which are really good for you, coconut is too, and the anti-oxidants in the chocolate are a benefit. The sugar, not so much. But hey, if we weren't supposed to eat the white gold, (which it was considered during the depression) then why is it produced for consumption? We all know the affects sugar has on the body, but if a person eats too much of anything it'll have an adverse effect on the body, and it's system. I'm not here to preach, this is what came out when I woke up craving a chocolate bar. To each their own, is one of my mantras! Have an over-easy day, yolks!
When I was in high school I wrote for the school newspaper. I had three responsibilities. I covered sports, was the photographer, and had my own column called Ambrosia. It was just a free flowing piece where I would talk about anything that came to my mind right then and there as I typed on the old Corolla. At least that's what I believe it was called. I wonder if there's a way I can get copies of those newspapers today. I gather not. Anyway, what fun that was. What a simpler time. I recall my parents and aunts and uncles always coining that phrase about easier times when they were younger too. I look around, because in actuality I have nothing better to do, and see how technology has really changed our lives on every level. Does it really make our lives better, or have we just been, once again, brainwashed. No-wonder the brain is considered comparable to a sponge. It absorbs anything and everything put into it. Well, for the most part. Think about it, how many original thoughts are produced these days. Even when it comes to the arts, things seem to be redone, a different rendition to a song, a new but same old movie made to meet the times. That's why I'm glad I'm a writer, I don't fear someone rewriting my work. Just like Joni Mitchell says, a painting is only painted once, those aren't her exact words, but I'm sure you get my jest. Anyway, enough babbling. So all in all, I do think technology can be a good thing, but we can't let the sponges get too dry.
Forty-two seconds and fifteen minutes before the beginning I'm running for the door. It's locked, the key setting on the sill. I didn't notice, I hadn't realized.
Seventy-eight hours with the forty-two seconds gone, I gaze into the mirror. It's empty. The chill wind of the north races through my soul. I look about. No window. No sun. One hundred and forty-nine days with thousands to follow, I walk to the wall. Round it is, not square like the others. Funny I think. I fall to the floor and mold myself to the rounded baseboard. Content in my being, I rest. I awake in the midst of a lilac bush with the scent lingering throughout the air. "Ah!" I say. To the side of me I see The One, standing. The one my dreams have been haunted with. There, bright as ever, keener than the wit should allow. Now is the time, the moment of truth, the extinguishing of the fire. I stride closer, till our breaths are the same, our thoughts one. I gather my guts, bend my head, and kiss. Not once, but twice. Nothing! Forty-two seconds and fifteen minutes before the beginning, I am running for the door. I want to feel.
I'm tired of being stone cold, brazen hard. My body feels like one big aching lump, my heart, even less. I no longer care, hope, wish to live this way, without love, affection, desire. I want to drink, drown, die, then do it again, knowing before hand I wouldn't succeed, as in love. So off I go, and off I went, without thinking, only feeling this stone, cold, brazen, hardness. Has anyone seen, Please? You know, to please or not to please, that is the question. Whether it is pleasurable to please, or polite to say please, is becoming a mystery to people, or at least that's what is seems to me as I pace through this unconscious society. Just another word that's lost it's meaning, and status in our vocabulary. I can still hear Mom saying, "What's the magic word?" Or maybe that's what the techno world is turning humans into. Rude, insensitive, self-motivated individuals, who think that because they have the world at their fingertips and don't have to respond in a human fashion as they thumb their smart phones, suddenly come back to their reality, where all manners are dissolved. Trust me, these ill-fated barbarians who have misplaced all sense of politeness, need to wake up, People complain left and right how awful the state of our existence is in, and yet who can say that they make a conscious effort to be nice to people? Not many, I believe. So, please, I implore you, practice a little magic today, and say the word, please!
PLEASE-To afford or give pleasure or satisfaction. Like, wish. To have the kindness. According to Webster's. So, let's go out and show some simple kindness and see how we can change the world. PLEASE! Throw me on a grill and let me sizzle,
outside slight signs of haze and drizzle. Bikes lined up evenly in three, leaves above me empty on the Cyprus tree. Flip me just once and let me simmer, as August days turn from bright to dimmer. Birds chirp above me in quiet dusk like songs, as distant church bells strike six vibrant gongs. Cheese me cheddar, jack, or the tangy Swiss Miss, touching my lips like a soft delicate kiss. You melt and coat the four corners of my world, my earth went spinning, whipping in a whirl. Slide me on dark bread with caramelized onion, as I watch the fading summer sun slowly descend. The doubts and the fears of the day I felt, have all disappeared as I eat my Patty Melt. Throw me on a grill and let me sizzle, outside slight signs of haze and drizzle. Bikes lined up evenly in three, leaves above me empty on the Cypress tree. Dear Susan,
I have nothing against suicide. I just hope it's for the right reasons. There's been no word from you since my arrival here in Santa Fe, and I'm wondering how you are. As you know, I came to the Southwest to try to talk you out of going through with your plans--per your request--and I'd hoped to have seen you by now. I understand, though. Your life is in an upheaval, and I'm sure you don't know which way is up or down, and believe me, sister, I know what you're going through. I wouldn't be here right now had it not been for the saving grace of something unknown. Anywho, I won't get into that right now! I don't know how you can stand this dry, hot air. I can barely breathe, and every time I do, I inhale dust. My tongue is all white and cracked, like dried curdled milk. Give me a stale Oreo, and I'd have a snack. And the architecture. What's with the mud huts? I don't get it. Personally, I'll take the dusty, crime filled streets of Detroit; at least there's some action there. Maybe that's part of the problem. You need a change of venue. A new environment. A place where your blood can start flowing again, and you can take in some oxygen. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not suggesting you move back to Michigan. I'm just saying maybe your senses need a different scene. Guess I'm not giving Santa Fe a fair chance; I've only been in this town a few days. Maybe the right vibe just has to set in. After all, some locals say this place is magical, that there's a huge crystal right below the foundation of the city. from way back when, guess it began right after all the volcanoes blew up. Believe what you must! I think with the two of us working on this problem, we can brainstorm and figure out what you should do with your life. Then you can decide if you want to end it. Believe me Susan, as I said before, since I opened my business, Suicide Letters by Jack Monroe, I've lost no clients; few there were. Plus, you have to remember it was you who contacted me; so deep down, in some hidden way, you must want my help. I'm roasting as the hot Southwest sun rises over my shoulder, streaming into the side of my eye. The brightness blinds me for a moment. I see silver sparkles dancing against a black setting, kind of like a bad reel-to-reel, flickering like a strobe light. I glimpse pictures of myself as a child, young and fearful. Wondering about the moment death gives birth to finality. Did I know then what I don't know now? Maybe! Your Friend, Jack Monroe |
AuthorMary Maurice wrote her first poem when she was in the ninth grade, and hasn't stopped writing since. Catching the fire at an early age, she continues to dedicate her time to the craft. Archives
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