Diary of a Panicky Caucasian Woman

WebMD browsing is an unfortunate pasttime of mine... It is my longtime and loathed hobby of unearthing all the mysterious diseases I must be silently and rather painlessly dying of.

So yesterday I found a new disease that I have in addition to my rheumetoid arthritis.

Lupus.

My "symptoms" match quite a few diseases to speak of, so I'm fairly certain I'm ailing from several -- Lupus is an autoimmune disorder that mostly women get. It causes joint pain (my hips hurt), unexplained hair loss (I leave an afro behind in the shower most mornings) and mouth sores (I have a small canker sore on the inside of my right cheek) -- so although I have not yet experienced the butterfly facial rash and scaly scalp issues, I must have it.

Ok, so I probably do not have Lupus....

but I might.

I suppose I feel that if I unearth the sources of these silent stealers of my health and blatant theives of my sanity via internet self-diagnosis, then all is within my realm of control and I can be at peace again...

Until of course my stomach aches for more than a couple of hours. Come to think of it, I have not been feeling right in my midsection for almost an hour now. And NO, it could not possibly be the 3 donuts I ate in rapid succession this morning. It is stomach cancer. At the very least, a bleeding ulcer.

Hmmm...

Hide and Seek

I followed a few feet behind him, my thin heels crunching amid the hardened crevices of the pavement. Maybe the noise of the streaming traffic drowned out my footsteps, or maybe he was so deep in thought that the rush of the world was all but silenced. Either way, he seemed oblivious to my presence. I caught a glimpse of my uneasy stride in a storefront window. It was a salon called “The Essence.” I paused and watched my face become almost as clear as a mirror image, the beauty stations fading into the background. I put my hand to my face and felt the blemishes scattered upon my fair skin like a variety of seeds, obvious even in my transparent reflection. A flush rose to my cheeks. I fervently dug through my purse and pulled out my bag of makeup supplies, the most prominent and oppressive item I religiously hauled around with me. I clicked open my cover-up, “Studio Fix” in a special color designed to blend into the tones that composed my face and fix it. I swept and dabbed and swept and dabbed until I was satisfied that every pronounced imperfection had been dulled into a hidden package of pressed powder.

I searched down the street ahead of me. He was long gone. Still clutching my Studio Fix, I took another step in the direction I thought he had gone. My heel seized hold of the edge of one particularly prominent rut in the concrete and the compact slipped from my fingers. It opened when it hit the ground and the packed powder cracked, split apart and lay in pieces across the sidewalk, like my very face fractured and broken on the path in front of me. I picked up the compact, now emptied of its ability to cover up. I looked at myself in the mirror inside and failed to recognize the masked woman I saw in its tiny, round picture frame. So I tossed the mirror along with my image into the street and wiped as much of the veil from my face as my hands alone were capable of. I turned on the heel that tripped me and walked away with a stride so smooth I couldn’t help but smile.

I was standing in a large Victorian house that doubled as a mental ward. I wandered from room to room, watching the "crazy people" shuffle around me, feeling waves of uneasiness synchronized with waves of complete comfort and surety.

I walked into a room with several beds, one large plush queen-sized bed that was, well, fit for a queen. It sat high on its frame and dominated the room. A young, "paranoid skitzophrenic" girl with dark, pin-straight hair peeked out from underneath the dust ruffles. Though I was not surprised by her sudden emergence from under the bed, I was alarmed by her eyes that moved around in opposite circles as she spoke to me. She spoke beautifully, though. Her voice was kind and delicate. I felt desperate to help her. I told her I would find her medication because I was certain that would cure her. I wandered off in search of the tiny processed pebbles that would ease her mind into sanity.

I looked out the window of the second story of the house and there was a giant animal resembling an oversized deer, with antlers fit for a moose, resting on its side under the window. I thought it was dead, so I spit on it to test out my theory. He jumped up and snorted at me, not unlike a raging bull. He was very angry. He rammed the window, burst through the glass and wood and plaster. I ran. I could hear the pounding hooves and heavy panting in my ear.

I woke up before he could catch me.

The Optimist

I look up

from my cross-legged position on the floor. I'm under a spotlight so I can see the work layed out before me, a mix of colors, beautiful not because I'm an extraordinary painter, but beautiful because the colors exist. He watches the evening news while I tip-toe green paint along the shore of a palm-sized lake, and I'm satisfied that the remaining trail at least remotely resembles plant life.

A newscaster blares, "California Burning: It was Arson."

I outline the shapes of a man and a woman sitting in a rowboat in the swirling blue, green, white, brown and gray waters. They are leaning towards each other and I imagine they are engrossed in playfully happy conversation. I add to their shapes in parts and pieces and pull my shoulders back to take in the big picture. Incomplete, the forms remind me of a negative photograph.

"2 dead after gun battle in police chase."

I mix a collection of off-white and tan to create a color resembling human skin. As delicately as possible, I add the color to the man's profile. It becomes clear that his gaze rests on his rowboat companion as he guides the boat with the oars in his hands.

"Woman killed after answering Craigslist nanny ad."

The young woman in the boat is wearing sunglasses. I add dark brown to my complexion palette and sweep the paint brush onto the canvas to form the strands of her hair. With my brush, her hair grows long, all the way down her back, wisps falling across and over her right shoulder.

"Offical quits over child sex charge."

"Lawyer accused of theft found dead."

"Schools consider grading parents."

"Dad dies after teens throw tent pole."

"Woman admits to QVC scam of $400K."

"Masks banned after robbery spree."

"Disabled man shoots intruder."

"Bowling ball crashes into car."

"Man gets jail for throwing pickles."

"Ashes of dozens found in storage unit."

"Bear slashes face of woman."

The paint dries like crystallized honey resting at the bottom of a plastic bear, the twosome, serene and quiet. Their clothing, hair, skin and eyes have come into soft focus.

I hear the television click off, and he is standing above me. "Your painting is beautiful. Wouldn't it be nice if we were there, if those two people were us?"

I notice the sky in my painting. I had used too much black with the blue in the left corner and I began to see it as a dark cloud in the distance. It was there, but it was still, unfocused and far away over the colorful horizon, never approaching, never to intrude upon their peacefulness. I saw the smudges where my hand failed in its steadiness. This world was imperfect and darkness stood close to them, yet they were at peace, their eyes on each other to keep the imperfection out of focus.

I nod and look up to meet his eyes. Yes, I would like to live like that.

A Sea of Faces in a Sea of Places

I was walking the crowded streets that reminded me of the nightlife near Georgetown in D.C., where I had been once, bar after bar pouring out young party goers onto the pavement.

I entered the first bar I came upon. It was filled with young twenty-somethings, a group of them sitting at a long, heavy wooden table set across the edge of the main room. The table was littered with glasses, some empty, some filled with beer or an undefinable mixed drink. Music was playing. A song with a heavy beat and a strong melody that was injecting a fervor into the room. Suddenly the power blinked off, and the music was gone. I recognized a number of familiar faces, but they rapidly faded and vanished as people filtered out of the building. I stared passively as a young blonde girl attempted to hook up her Ipod and restore the sound. She confessed she had no music on it.

I stepped outside and traveled down the street to another bar. I was looking for him. I was looking for somebody I knew. The next bar was filled with nameless faces and shortly after I entered, I was alone. I left the empty room and headed back into the ocean of strangers milling about the streets. I returned to the previous bar. Now there was a line at the door. The main room was filled with people, but silent. I found my way upstairs and whatever familiar faces I could catch sight of melted into the crowd and without warning, again, I was alone.

I walked outside and wandered a little further up the hill. I turned into a crowded alley with a long balcony set above me, the length of the buildings I was standing between. There were people pushing past me and I saw him leaning over the ledge gazing down into the crowd. I reached up and called his name. After briefly catching my eye, he moved back from the edge and faded out of view. My arm fell to my side and I stood still with my head to the sky, squinting, while the crowd rushed past me like a riptide. I paused, and then allowed the current of bodies to carry me back into the street, as crowded as I was empty.

Paint By Numbers

tonight I put on my Painting pants.

my Eyes need arithmetic to show them

where the Colors go to create

Beauty. someday

I aim to find my own Beauty

and Paint a new Song, maybe only,

with Words

Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

A coworker told me there were donuts in the downstairs kitchen. I tore out of my office and made a beeline for the stairwell. I could taste the vanilla creme with sprinkles. My steps quickened over the concrete in my professional attire, a white button-down shirt, gray slacks and black pumps... At 3 p.m. on a Friday at the office, a sugar high could not come soon enough. I frowned...there was something about the pants I was wearing that I couldn't quite recall.... Ahhh yes, how hazardous the billowing pant leg and prominent cuff could be on a clutzy fool like me, especially when paired with heels, stairs, and speed....

...A few months back on my way down my apartment building's stairs, those very slacks seriously tripped me up. I remembered having to violently fling my purse away from my body as I folded over the railing. I was able to regain my balance, but only after teetering in a poor attempt of poise-under-pressure while I observed the sound my bag made when it thudded onto the vestibule floor. These were a dangerous pair of pants I was wearing.

Maybe it was this fleeting memory that triggered today's tumble. This time, I took a few steps before my left heel tucked itself into in the cuff of my right pant leg. I lurched forward with no available feet to land on. I grabbed the railing and my feet slipped out. My body twisted into a knot from my toes to my knuckles and my fingers tied themselves into a pretty little bow around the steel handrail. It's quite possible I pulled a ligament in my right shoulder. At least I got my donut.