THIN YELLOW LINE

A pounding fist, followed by the sound of metal thrusting, turning and twisting the tear that unlocks the door, demands my full attention. 

With a shameful, frantic stance I shout, "Do NOT come in - there is nothing for you here.  You cannot help me anymore!" 

Her mind does not register my demands as she aims her key at the horrific devastation that hides behind the door. 

Who could have guessed it would turn out this way - death by my own hand, at the age of twenty-three.  

Somehow, I went from alive to lifeless in one, fucked up flash. 

Growing up, my biggest fear was that I would let them down.  My parents, grandparents, teachers, coaches, and teammates - everyone was counting on me.  They counted on me to excel both academically and athletically.  I was multi-gifted, or so they said.  I never felt it.

Somewhere along the ride, the roller coaster stopped. I dropped out of school, twisted my lily, white-boy hair into dreadlocks and drove cross country. 

When life got too dark, I put my tail between my legs and headed home.  It was hard coming back knowing I'd accomplished nothing.  I was a far cry from the screenwriter/entrepreneur I'd set out to be.  

At twenty-one I was deflated, but I was not mad, psychotic or delusional.  I had moments of happiness mixed with hopelessness - just like anyone else.  But I never took my pain seriously.  

Yes, its true, I had some oddities - deliberate eccentricities that set me apart from the norm.  

For one, I collected things relating to the number 27. 

New York Times articles from the 27th of any given month. 

Music from artists whose untimely death came at the age of 27 - Cobain, Morrison, Joplin, Hendrix.   

The 27 Club, they call it.

For pure pleasure, I wrote chunks of poetry, with 27 words per stanza.  

The Rosin Erection 

Way down from the gullies goes the ladder

From the fallen to the rising, rosin erection

A cool moon laid on cornflakes, 

Caulked blue bottles of gin 

27

And strong goes the way of their vagabond bellies

Hungered, driven weightless and mad

Over cotton streets in dreams like children hunting morphine

The blur that binds

27

You remember the blur, 

the way it hung from the grass in little beads

And the sound it made when you rubbed its juice on your lips

27

In the morning, it seemed to shine on the sun drops

Coming out through her pink breasts,

strung out on a gypsy web

Of dawn's soft slaughter

27

I met Mary, my sons mother, on the 27th.  My high school baseball uniform number was 27.  It was the 27th of May when I ended my life. 

Had I known I was capable of taking my life, I would have had myself committed.  I knew I had an explosive temper.  A rage of pain would build inside of me - lasting for hours or sometimes even days.  

When I wasn't working or wallowing, I filled my belly with Tolstoy, Nietzsche, Thompson and Vonnegut.  

I wrote everything out in my journals.  I have hundreds of half-finished, tales stored in the trunk that was meant to accompany me to college, had I managed to follow through as intended.   

This trunk now doubles as my living room coffee table.  I used this very same table the night I ingested the sleeping pills.  I laid them all out, crushed them with my pocket knife, mixed them in a half gallon container of ice tea, and chugged it down. 

If only someone could have stopped me.  

My official cause of death, according the the medical examiner - asphyxiation, NOT suicide.  

I know my mother will blame herself.  She will remember the last words she said to me, "Get your act together," convinced it was the straw that broke my spirit.  

Her clouded, perfect image of me distorts the truth of my pain.  But I too played a major part in this ruse.  I have always known what to say to convince them I was happy.  I use to think it was one of my many "gifts" but the truth is, it was a curse.  

She does not remember our deal.  It was always understood that if she lost her mind, or became terminally incapacitated, then once again, we'd go skydiving - only this time I'd make sure her shoot did not engage. 

Just as the Eskimos set their elders on a one way sail, I would set her free.  

It's just like we talked about Ma, only the roles are reversed.  Your disappointing eyes gave me the strength to end my life, but you did not cause my pain. 

I understand she needs to be the one who finds me.  She will bare the burden of telling the world that I am dead - cold, gray dead.  My skins lack of luminosity is the first thing she sees.  It will hit her and haunt her, forever.  

You came too late. 

A long strip of caution tape frames an overcrowded crime scene, preventing my family from getting near - robbing them of their final glance, their last chance at a kiss, a hug, a stroke of my hair.  

"I killed him!!!" she cries.  

Her raw, devastating screams puncture my heart.  

A pulsating, balmy glow blinds me and I buckle in the breath of emptiness.  

I remain in a state of slumber, recoiled from the sorrow that unfolds.  

In this death, there are no long, slippery tunnels, no fluffy white clouds to ride, and to my relief, I am NOT forever damned to some hellacious cavern or fiery pit.  

I am here, with all of you, but I am no longer bound by my physical form. 

I rest in fresh shade of tall, golden stocks of smooth flowing wheat - its sway quickened by the afternoon breeze - and inhale the tilled pasture that beds me and spreads between my fingers and toes.  

Above me, a lark weaves cloud dollops into a searing blue sky.  

Here, I stay until the distance brings the ring of my mothers cry - channeling me from my demise.  

Oh let me rest, let me wallow in this nest!

Cradled over my open urn - with weighted tears that spew from her cheek into my ash - she picks a chard of bone from my remains, places it on her tongue and swallows hard.  "I need a piece of him inside me," she cries.  

She will not let me rest, will not let me wallow in my nest, and so, I move, ever so slowly, into the light. 

I am grateful to learn that the bond shared between mother and child is eternal.  

She will tell the world that I lived.  Remind them of the goodness I have inside. 

She will read my stories, poems and journal entries...out loud, bold and proud. 

She will find a way to make them listen.  She will alert, inform and educate. 

She will remember me, tenderly, each and every day of her life.

And for this, I have hope. 

In honor and in memory of my beautiful son, 

Kerry Ryan Magann

2/16/1979 to 5/27/2002 

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy 
photo's courtesy of Google Image

The Rosin Erection by Kerry R. Magann

for reading and commenting

The Men and Me

A new, fantasy blog series by Green Monkey

Because I still toy with the idea of becoming a 
Harlequin Romance Novelist


(Adult Content not suitable for some, thirst quenching for others)

Meet Fiona, the one that got a way.  A fantastic, single lady who found herself fifth in line on the Sex and the City catwalk. 

She is creative, clever, quirky and competitive.  

By trade she is a "dream home" interior designer who is well known for her eclectic, non-gender specific, euro classic flair and striking use of pallet.  Her personal care and attention to detail has earned her success and praise from a flock of high end clientele.

She will spend hours fondling fabric, ribbon, bobbles and bead - anything that combines texture and color but is not worn.  

She has a vast assortment of white shirts that she arranges according to their style and distress. 

She believes her antique jewelry collection holds memories that bleed into her daily life. 

She is 5 ft 4 but projects 5 ft 11 – in flats.   

At first sight, I expect you to loath her.  My task will be to get you to relate to her on some level.

***

In Fiona’s words:  

My number one passion is men.  

My favorite type of man is one that appears, on the outside, to be strong but, on the inside, can be molded into everything I want … today. 

I run away from anyone that looks tailor-made or, makes my palms sweat.   

I like one man on my arm and another at arms length.  

As I single woman, I firm up weekend, man-plans by Wednesday.  

I am a great date.  I will have you convinced that you are the most important person in the room before you finish your first drink.   

When I was married, I made certain I had a playmate waiting before I closed the door.   

Now that I am almost 40, with three failed marriages behind me - I divide my men into categories of: 

• Men I have been intimately involved with and remain friends
• Men I am friends with
• Men I date
• Men I fantasize about

Sometimes, the lines blur. 

I can't imagine my life without a man, but that’s not to say that they define me.   They are more like a hobby.

I enjoy torturing myself with men I can’t have. Once I get them, I am no longer interested.  

I demand respect from men.  I never have casual sex, or casual anything for that matter.  If its not all about me, I flee.   

Men have fooled me but I have learned from my mistakes. Even so, I’ve gone out of my way to punish each and every one of them, and yet, I never hold a grudge. 

When this fantasy series begins,  Fiona is focused on Bruce, aka “Beach Rat,” a toy from her 20’s that she has played with, off and on, for over 20 years.

I shop for men like most women shop for clothes.  Since my man adorns me, I’ll pick one that fits each special occasion.   

Bruce fit hazy, late night trysts and lusciously long, summer days on the beach of my youth.

He was my first, if I had allowed myself to, love. 

Bruce is married now with a brood of five, freckled, fair skinned, children all under the age of 12.  He lives behind a white picket fence in a quiet, coastal, Connecticut community.  

He tells me his wife is frigid, frumpy, frugal, and well bred.  

I know, she holds the purse strings in one hand, the scruff of their children's neck in the other, and the security that comes from having both.

He is focused on the life he lost and lives in the shadow of his offspring's, bloodline bright, future.   

He is tall, athletic, and attractive.  Still.   

If only I could forget what it felt like to wake up beside him.  To make love to him - with eyes open, lights on - my legs and arms wrapped around him while he straddles me from the side of his, extra long, twin bed.  If I could wipe his moan from my memory - his stance, the long blink of his calm blue eyes - then perhaps I would choose to peruse more attainable men.

Despite the fact that he is trapped, or maybe because of it, he cannot be manipulated, no matter how hard I try.  I am the only thing he is in charge of and still, can’t have.   

Dear Bruce,  

I want you to devour me, explore me, sleep beside me, wake with me… talk to me. I can’t do anything, especially you, lightly and I will not share you.   Therefore, it’s best you look the other way when our paths cross and I will do my best to make certain your eyes cannot escape mine.  

Love, Your Fiona

Next in line, The Senator's Son

To be continued…

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy 
photo's courtesy of Google Image

for reading and commenting

What Lurks in Paradise

Halfway into our "intimate and elegant" Grand Cayman adventure at the Turtle Nest Inn, I have nothing clever to say.

Thanks to the free roaming roosters, I am severely sleep deprived and slapstick silly.

The fowl begin warming up their vocals at 1:30 AM with a low, unassuming "cock" that steadily builds into "cock-a" - by 6:00 AM they are "cock-a-doodling" with a vengeance. 

Thanks to my feathered friends, nothing about "cock" is appealing.

It's not quite 9:00 AM.  I've read a few chapters of a best selling, highly recommended, novel that is so good I'm convinced I can't write worth a damn.

I retreat to the kitchen where I make a pot of coffee, over-boil brown eggs and hand feed myself sour grapes.

Afterward, I head to the living room, strap on my iPod and hula-hoop to a strong, Bassnectar beat.

With a sense of accomplishment, I march back up the cool tiled stairs to quietly tug on my sun-scorched husbands chest hair.  Fully aroused, he opens his eyes and smiles - his way of assuring me that I am loved.

I pester him until he packs the cooler and joins me beside the mature, wrinkled gray trunk of our favorite palm tree.  Here, I focus on a cluster of wind-ripened coconuts that dangle from the crotch of an umbrella of bopping plumes.

We are anxiously awaiting the arrival of our Island friend.  He's got enduring brown eyes, a firm, bulging belly and oh so sweet, puppy breath - a motherless, newborn stray discovered under a neighbors porch.

The French Canadian Keepers named him "Mango" but we mistakenly heard "Van Gogh."  Funny what your mind registers.   Despite the island reference, the name "Mango" conjures up Chris Kattan's character from SNL so we continue to call him "Van Gogh."

Yesterday, after a long stroll on the beach, the three of us dined on turkey breast, macaroni salad and pickles.  Somehow, word spread.  Now, whenever we open our cooler, cats appear.

In the haze of a leisurely lifestyle, I suffer a muscle strain along the right side of my lower back.  My best guess is that this is either a hula-hoop injury or the result of repeat, restless bolts from my cushioned lounge chair.

As much as I enjoy swimming along the barrier reef, I am afraid of what lurks within.  Sand sharks, moray eels, barracuda and stingray are common sightings.  If it's not included in the angel, flounder or clown family, I want no part of it.

For me, floating is effortless.  I can loiter alongside white caps for hours.  In contrast, my husband - eager to share an adventure, clutches his bright yellow life vest with both hands and frantically kicks his flippers.

We are polar opposites.  I'm quite certain that solo, we are unlikable.  On first impression I am overbearing, loud and outspoken.  He, in his aloofness, is often mistaken for being a prick.  Together, we sooth and compliment each other.

Along the shoreline, lumps of clear, green, brown and heavenly blue glass, turtle grass, plastic bags, wrappers and recyclables, intermingle with an assortment of mismatched flip-flops.

Ron, an employee of the Inn for more than 11 years, spends Monday to Saturday raking his way up and down the property line - but its like the mail, despite how much you pick up, tomorrow brings more than the day before.

Across the road, beside the Jerk chicken stand, is an abandoned house that deliberately bleeds Jimi Hendrix music into the street - all day and into the night.

Our bed is hard, the sheets are stiff, my pillow is flat.  

Our second night is marked by a murder - the fifth of the year.

Yesterday, a theft occurred in the adjacent condo while its occupants relaxed on the patio.

Last night, a fire in an adjacent bungalow persuaded us to abandon the island breeze and retreat to our air-conditioned abode where we dined on frozen pizza and watched complimentary DVD's.

Here, in your well-appointed, spacious living space, you feel trapped in your destination of choice.

As much as I try to focus on paradise, the impoverished islanders that corral us make me feel pampered, pompous and privileged; high-end characteristics I cater to when home.

The wilted, malnourished pitbull tethered to a clothesline stretched alongside our patio, feeds my tears.  She is clearly sick and depressed.  Half the time she doesn't care enough to lift her jaw heavy head from the sizzle of sun baked sand.

I sense the numbing trade winds are a welcome relief to the despair that lurks behind the boarded windows and unhinged doors of her owners shack.

My compassionate husband is focused on my sadness.  He has never been a great communicator - which at times, has added great strain on our relationship - but lately I've been able to recognize his endearing signs of committed love.

"You know, I saw Ron petting the Pit," he casually mentions.

This is worded perfectly.  Don't tell me what to do, or how to do it.  Don't steer me towards your natural course.  Love me enough to let me be me.

With that said, the current changes.

I stopped brushing the sand from my feet before entering the condo, stopped wearing my bathing suit cover up and stopped styling my hair.  I spent more time in the water and less time worrying about the negative effects of the sun.

I introduce myself to our neighbors.  I meet Marvin who, due to a birth defect, only has use of one hand.  Despite this, he digs a ditch that will support a post so that "Perla," his recently rescued pitbull, will have more space to wander.

I learned that his precious Perla is infested with heart-worms, but that her chances of surviving are good thanks to the generosity of our Inn Keepers, who make certain she is receiving the best possible care.  I know this is true because she wears a badge of honor - Blacky's tag and collar.

We read about Blacky online and in the Inn's welcoming literature.  As the official Turtle Nest mascot, this large, nappy headed stray, leisurely wandered his way into the hearts of locals and guests.  Blacky dined on left over steak, watched over swimmers and snorkelers up and down the beach, and snoozed in the shade of chaise lounge chairs until - at the age of 16, he passed on from an enlarged heart.

Thanks to Marvin, we also met Dominic and his big brother Montel.  They live down the way, by the yellow church, just beyond the cemetery.

Dominic is 8 and although he lives on an island, he does not know how to swim.  After three days in our pool, with gentle guidance and the use of our snorkeling gear, he now swims underwater.

Dominic explained to me that a "bad guy" murdered his Grandfather not too long ago, and that he caught the bad guy, tied him up with a rope, and dragged him to the police station.

I recognize a storyteller when I see one, so to encourage him to write, I suggest he and my grandson Jackson become pen pals.

Dominic does not yet know how to read or write, but Montel, does and he promises to help him. To insure that this will happen, we bait them with promises of New York Yankee's memorabilia. 

Before we leave, I introduce our neighbors to a couple who have just arrived from Montreal and are instantly comforted by a stray island cat that mysteriously snuggled its way into their room.

They were happy to carry on where we left off - to pet and sneak treats to Perla and to welcome Dominic and Montel as their guests at the pool.

My vacation began once I embraced all the Island had to offer.

My favorite moments involved time spent with our neighbors, walking Perla and Mango along the shore - watching Mango chase after Mark's shade and Perla playfully bite at the tide.

I returned home feeling warmed by one love and grateful for time spent with a man who respects and honors my need to find peace within myself.

Here's to honoring the true part in you.

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

for reading and commenting 

Special Thanks to Ron, Donna, Alain and Marleine for allowing us to be ourselves.

Bringing Home Van Gogh

Today's post is composed under palm shade on a freshly raked, Grand Cayman Island beach.

My weeks goal is to not blister, wear a bra, or comb my hair.

We arrived on a Sunday.  Everything, including liquor stores, is closed on Sunday. Luckily we brought two bottles of our favorite chardonnay, which emptied way too quickly.

I stressed for months over this vacation.  The thought of wearing a bathing suit was overwhelming.  I vowed to lose 20 lbs but ended up gaining 5.

While going through the security check point, I was pulled over and assigned a "pat down."  The female  officer was instructed to check my "mid section."  ...Yep, nothing but fat.

An inspection of my carry on bag, turned up a shiny, slender, pink object which was cause for alarm.  A dusting and dismantlement was carried out by the lead supervisor and his team of rookies, despite the fact that I did my best to quietly assure everyone it was only a vibrator. 

The day before we left, my husband turned his beard into a goatee and long, side burns.  He now looks like a pirate.  A 20 lbs thinner pirate.

Our rental car is the same size as my office desk.  The speedometer registers in kilometers and the speed limit is miles per hour.  We are driving on the left side of the road while doing math in our heads.

We are staying in a remote part of the island which is known for its snorkeling.  Neither of us snorkels. My husband, a Pisces, is uncomfortable in the water.

Our condo is so big that I feel guilty we didn't bring more people.

A patio off the living room spills directly onto the beach. There is a sign taped to the door that warns us not to leave the condo unless it is "locked down."

The patio door can only be secured from the inside so, to get to the beach, we must exit through the front door, cross the parking lot, go around the corner, down the center corridor, up the steps, cross the pool, and walk back down the steps to the beach.

Less than 8 feet from our condo lives a friendly, local island family with a shipwrecked row boat, pit bull and a collection of free roaming roosters. The pit bull is tied to a "coop" and barks constantly.  He's got a lot to say, my best guess is that he wants me to know that "life is good"  "life is good on the beach"  "I like the beach" and "you look great in your bathing suit."

When we first arrived the beach was littered with debris that I'm told washed up from Cuba.

Litter drives me insane.  Thanks to the roosters, I woke at 6:00 am this morning and hit the beach with a a hand full of garbage bag.  Half way through my second bag, an islander told me I was doing his job.  Apparently, he doesn't work on Sundays and his workday starts at 11:00 am.  He was worried he'd been fired.  I assured him I was a guest but he's still not convinced. 

We attempted to swim in the water, which is a warm, turquoise blue but covered in turtle grass and coral.  We were advised not to step on the coral and to stay out of the grass (or was it the other way around).  The current is strong but playful.  So much so that I walked out not knowing my left boob was fully exposed. 

Last night, in an effort to score more wine, husband and I "accidentally" opened a door off the main lobby that I naturally assumed would be locked and discovered a private wine cellar.  It was the most exciting thing either of us had ever seen.

We both let out a long gasp, followed by a giggle and then, fearful we had stumbled upon Pandora's box, I quickly closed the door.  ME...the thirsty clepto, closed the door!!!

All I can tell you is it felt like a trap or some sort of test.  Turned out I was right, a few moments later the "keepers" arrived.  I don't remember much after that, other than the captain, his two buddy's and his wife, all French Canadians, agreed to grant us immunity if we agreed to take home a stray puppy they had found, and named Van Gogh.

He's adorable, in a puppy sort of way.

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

photo's courtesy of Google Image

My 7 Beautiful Sins

Vanity, Gluttony, Extravagance, Sloth, Envy, Wrath, Lust

Interestingly, the Seven Beautiful Sins each played a role in today's writing challenge - to post 10 Random Honest Things about ME. 

This was spawned by "Kerri" from Kerri's Klutter, who gave me an HONEST SCRAP award for being an authentic writer.  Thank you Kerri :)

But this award came with strings.  After listing these 10 Random Honest Things, I've been instructed to pass the award onto 10 equally deserving Bloggers.

Honestly, this sounds way too much like chain mail, which I loath, so I'm abbreviating the task to ONE WELL DESERVING writer.

And the winner is.....

Christie (or so she says)


Her site is called,
Mommy
Drinks
Because 
You
Cry.


Is it me, or is that THE best Blog Title you've ever heard!!!

Check her out, she's real and refreshing.  But don't like her more than me and I'll miss you while your gone (really).

Wait....!!!  Before you go, read me (please)...

I must confess, I was not alone when I wrote today's post.  Chelsea Handler and Chuy were in bed with me.  (did I mention I have an active imagination?) Yesterday my 100th [FOLLOW] er told me that someone she knew read me and thought I was funny.   She even went as far as to compare me to Chelsea Handler.  WHAT...  I love her!

So make room Kittay, Miss Lucy, Oprah, Evander and Barack, here comes ..... Chelsea (I'm leaving Chuy on the floor).

In true, late night fashion here are...

10 Random Honest Things about Green Monkey 

(truth is way harder than fiction)

1. I like to pee in the shower.  I don't care where it goes once it leaves my drain.  It's fun to stand and pee.  
2. I care way too much about what other people think of me.  Especially when it comes to my writing. I try not to, but I do.  You like my writing, right?
3. Faking orgasms is fun!  I like orgasms more than I like faking them, but sometimes that little actress in me enjoys hearing herself moan.  (hint to husband...its not "typical" to have more than three orgasm in one romp)
4. I once had two "dates" in one day...on (not so) Good Friday... and one was Jewish. 
5. I don't stop at CROSS WALKS (its a state law in CT) if it looks as though you've got nowhere special to go, or... if you're going nowhere fast.
6. I am competitive to a fault and suffer from occasional bout of unruly jealousy (why that clever "Mommy Drinks Because you Cry" bitch, I'll get her!).
7. I once coerced a couple into NOT buy the condo beside us because "she" was Pakistani and I loath the smell of curry. (that silky hair and a fabulous ass wasn't help her one bit)
8. I don't call my mother as often as I should and I feel terrible about it. (lets see if she REALLY reads my blog)
9. If I'm lonely, I'll watch reruns of Sex and The City, drink a bottle of wine, and wash it down with a sleeve (or two) of Oreo's. 
10. I'm not loyal and have no respect for the sanctity of marriage.  The only reason I'm "in a relationship" with my husband is because I love him.  If I wasn't happy, I'd be gone.  

Okay, there.... I said it.  Forgive me readers for I have some sinful flaws.  Now, give me my pennants.  Come on, I can take it...

 

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

photo's courtesy of Google Image

for reading and commenting