Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
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And She Was

And she was lying in the grass And she could hear the highway breathing And she could see a nearby factory Shes making sure she is not dreaming See the lights of a neighbors house Now shes starting to rise Take a minute to concentrate And she opens up her eyes

I've spent a significant amount of time lately contemplating the hideous humanity on this here earth and then heaping ugly accusations upon myself for being such an asshole when nothing bad ever happened to me. Not terribly bad, anyway. Nothing worse than happens in the course of a normally fucked up lifetime, whatever normal means.

The world was moving and she was right there with it (and she was)
The world was moving she was floating above it (and she was) and she was

Today I was walking Max past the house on the corner. It's a questionable homestead. A home in disrepair. Once red bricks shedding pink flakes, decomposing like sun-bleached bones, crumbling into dust. Weeds. All manner of items crowded onto a cement porch that is sagging into a gentle smile. An old-school mop, the business end comprised of gray, tangled medusa-hair cloth scraps. An orange and cream plaid recliner that, like Captain and Tennille, is just a bad, will-never-be-retro, leftover from the seventies. An ancient, plastic rocking horse, chipped in unfortunate places like the spot where an eye used to be so you can look through its head into its hollow insides, the overall effect inspiring fear and not pleasant childhood reminiscence.

Last week I noted someone inside, painting. The next day a lone flower pot appeared on the porch. The flower, a pink soldier waging a valiant war in a battlefield littered with the corpses of beer cans and old candy bar wrappers. Then a wheelchair appeared on the porch. An old one. The kind of shitty wheelchair airlines provide under the guise of service but really so airport employees and flight attendants don't have to attend to the toddling elderly and can zoom them hither and thither in rolling chairs instead.

Over the weekend I noticed a kid, well, not so much a kid as an underweight young man, sitting in the chair. Sitting is a charitable term. He did not sit as much as he sagged into the black chair as if it had become a part of his body, melded to his backside, a cyborg of human and wheelchair. He did not have control of his faculties and would yelp periodically. Still, despite his wagging head I knew he was looking at me and smiled a smile I hoped seemed genuine.

And she was drifting through the backyard And she was taking off her dress And she was moving very slowly

Yesterday the boy in the wheelchair was not outside. In his place was an angry-faced young man. He smoked and stared. I assume the home has been appropriated as some kind of house for those that no one wants. Nobody wants a troubled youth or a mentally disabled young man hanging around and ruining the good times, I guess, except the girls I see who are obviously paid to wipe drool off the chin of the latter and are probably secretly fucking the former.

Rising up above the earth Moving into the universe Drifting this way and that Not touching ground at all Up above the yard

The kid in the wheelchair likes heavy metal. As Max and I walked by today he seemed to be head banging to Anthrax, Suicidal Tendencies or something similar. I mean, he head bangs anyway, but this had rhythm, his head wags more calculated than his usual spasms. It makes me sad to walk past this house, not because I pity the young men who call it home but because I hate myself for being so often dissatisfied with my life, feeling disrespectful to those who have it worse.

She was glad about it... no doubt about it She isnt sure where shes gone No time to think about what to tell them No time to think about what shes done And she was

A childhood friend was killed last week in a chopper crash. I wrote it as breaking news in our newscast, not knowing who I was writing about until the next day. He was in the National Guard. An Apache helicopter pilot who served in Afghanistan. Husband to a seven months pregnant wife and father of three. Friend to Andy Farrer, my first best boy friend. Not boyfriend. Boy friend. A boy who will always look like a boy to me despite the fact he has become a man.

She isnt sure where shes gone No time to think about what to tell them No time to think about what shes done And she was

The flags shall be flown at half-staff on all state facilities from sunrise to sunset in honor of Chief Warrant Officer Clayton S. Barnes. CW2 Barnes died on August 20, 2007, after his AH-64 Apache helicopter crashed near Fairfield, Utah, while on a training flight.

And she was looking at herself And things were looking like a movie She had a pleasant elevation Shes moving out in all directions