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My nightmare

I want to make the world sweeter. Like the taste of a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade at the end of August or a slice of apple pie after Thanksgiving dinner (even though you don't even have the digestion capabilities to consume another calorie). Like when you hold the door open for an elderly woman, and she says, "Thank you, baby." (Baby!!!) Of COURSE. ANYTHING you NEED. I will give you EVERYTHING. I feel this way about most people/things/places. I want to cut out my eyes so the blind can see, rip out my hair, tape it to this lady's head, and put OUAI out of business. For every dyslexic child, I want to sit next to them and read Divergent until the narrative is glued to their mind, they will be able to read it upside-down. I want to sing and dance and bake and say I LOVE YOU. How NICE that would be, "I love you Dad", "I love you Mom", etc. etc. But I don't!!/can't(?)/won't(?). So here I am. Not writing, but drawing. With words—does that make sense? Can you understand? I need someone to understand. And I feel like time for that is running out. I am running. I am watching myself run as I twirl the arms of the clock round and round with my index finger. Duhduhduhdum. Tick tick. You won't make it. HAHAH. I yell to myself across the room, my head thrown back as the words gurgle through my hysterical laughter.

I am running to the door. So close, so close, so close to...... serenity ("I hope you find peace and serenity" echoes through the chamber—Dad? "I hope you find peace and" "I hope you find peace" "I hope you find" "I hope you" "I hope" "I" ""). That door is her my escape. She's escaping. I twirl my hands faster; the time running faster than I she ever could. My arm spins wildly, out of my control. Bent at the elbow, churning, churning, churning. My feet are planted, had I not indulged in the extra dinner rolls last night, the turbulence would be enough to propel me in the air.

I She is no longer running, she is in front of me. The clock is no longer there. There are no clock arms to twirl, just my arm, spinning, spinning, spinning. My hand outstretched; her eyes staring into mine, just half a foot away. My arm swinging. I swing and swing and with an open palm, I slap. And my arm, like the blade of the Plymouth windmills, churned, with a speed barely altered after contact with her face. She's crying, but with each slap, she turns her head back to me. Is it respect, that eye contact? Pride? She doesn't back away, she stands there and gets SLAPPED and sLAPPED and slaPPED an slapPED and slappED and slappeD and slapped. OWwwwwwwwWWWW.... Doesn't she know, near me/with me/through me/ ALL OF ME will only bring pain?

Oh, sweet child.... Wouldn't you like a moment without all this? No more hurt?

She can hear my thoughts, I am sure. I cry with her. Sobbing and screaming and slapping. There is nothing but the saltiness of my (her) tears. Nothing but the wailing of my (her) screams. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. .

Where did she go?

She left me here. I am ALONE. Gagging, I grasp my throat. Or I try to. My arms are not beside me, not where arms usually are. (Where did the air go?) I am alone, I have left myself to suffocate in the misery of my own existence.

Yes, I want to make the world sweeter. More beautiful. But to be honest, I am worried that my true ugliness will make futile any attempts. Please, do not interpret that as in the physical sense. I mean something MORE. MORE concrete than the ground I stand on, the hand I hold. (A girl, she was 3 years my junior and I was 17 at the time: "You know you could be pretty if you tried. If you put back your hair", she said scooping back my bangs and holding a heldless pony tail behind my head. "And put some mascara and some concealer here." She circled the pimples on my chin. "And stopppp looking so sad all the time, you always look like you're going to cry literally like." My shoulders involuntarily bounced as I swallowed my sobs. She let down my hair and with my bangs over my eyes, I let the tears go.) No I do not mean what I LOOK like. If that was the problem, I would be with the blind. But no, even the blind are off put by the vibrations oozing from my skin. (I have no blind friends). I suffer from an affliction more urgent and inescapable. By all accounts, deadly. It is me, in all sense of the word.

Wholly and entirely.

(This does not make much sense. But I tried to describe a nightmare I frequently have. But nightmares are too abstract for me, for most, so that is how it reads, should read.) Xx cucumberinterrupted

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2025

Happy New Year!

I have never had a 'happy' New Year (s day). Nor a happy Halloween, Thanksgiving, or even a merry Christmas. It's like I am hard-wired to be a real bitch on the holidays. I don't mean to, in fact, it is one of my most unbecoming traits. To bring down the mood on any day, let alone a holy day nonetheless? Holy Wholly sacrilegious.

I have an exciting song to share tomorrow. My friend introduced it to me yesterday, and I've been obsessed since. I might try to share it later today as it is the first, it's a relatively lowkey day. I will go for a walk, work out, attempt to establish some semblance of a routine. I've never had a real routine before. I have always flown by the zipper of my pants (?).

I want to say something, and I am only saying it because to me, this blog is like yelling into the ocean (except less scenic and further from my heart). I need to say it to get it out, but I don't need anyone to listen.

I am sad. It is a sadness so all-consuming I should be grateful I have time to be anything else. And I should be grateful, grateful for it all. Even the sadness, especially the sadness. That sadness can only exist in an atmosphere where less pressing, less life-or-death matters are absent. If I was home-less house-less, starving, abducted, there would be no time to be "sad". But I regret all such suggestions of being grateful or to look on "the bright side". When I get really bad, I workout more, I eat less, I lose weight. I look "better". My friend said "Well, at least thats something! Working out is good for you!" with a smile. No. I would give all the workout's, all the diets, I would give every bright-side to not feel this way. It is not possible for this to be an equitable deal, even a deal worth entertaining while I spit out my tooth-paste. (Sorry, I am now realizing something that discredits something I said). This is life-or-death. I am drowning on shore.

Xx. Cucumberinterrupted

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Part 1

I am grateful and humble in my return to the blog (or rather beginning, because even though a step in the right direction is great and all, if you don’t go anywhere after you are still entirely where you began). So begins the first installment of this story, it will most definitely not be well-written but I hope you will follow along and expect Part 2 tomorrow.

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My knees were starting to bruise (I was kneeling too long). My mouth filled with saliva as I glanced up. Tears welled in my eyes. I wasn’t sad, just overcome. I batted my eyelashes and bent my neck a quarter an inch back, stealing a breath of air where I could. I closed my eyes and swallowed. 

Why? I thought as my fellow-church goers exited beside me. 

I cannot do this. This cannot be my life. 

The choir had ceased to sing. The priest was outside the church. I was still there. Kneeling at the pew, praying to a God who either could not hear me or did not care to answer. 

God—if you exist at all. Help me, not be me. I begged one last time before…

I had not been a lifelong practitioner of piety. It was never my “thing.” And I know that sounds annoying (disrespectful) to say, but forgive me, I have long categorized everything in my life as “my thing” or seldom, “not my thing.” Most of these “thing”s are fleeting. I was vegan for two months; vegetarian for two years, liberal for three. I once wore eyeliner to watch reruns of Bones. At a time, I wore sunglasses in class. Who I was yesterday is almost never who I am today. But I am here, bruising my knees before they have had a chance to heal from last Sunday. 

Ok. Another wasted Sunday morning. I was no longer talking to God; every unanswered plea led me further and further from the faith of a God to even talk to. I gathered my things as the 10:30 am mass attendees began to trickle in. I was exiting the row just as someone entered. 

“Excuse me,” I said, keeping my eyes down. I turned and attempted to squeeze between the man and the pew. He was skinny and I was skinny enough for the two of us to fit without much hassle. But his hands were on my shoulders, forcing me to make eye contact and endure the ensuing hassle. 

“I’m here.” He said with a smile so big I didn’t know if he realized he was in church. 

“Enjoy mass,” I pursed my lips together in a smile, polite but without mimicking his enthusiasm or inviting further conversation. 

“No, I’m here.” He repeated, albeit with stress on the personhood this time around. I looked at him. His revelation welcoming no further questions; his revelation in of itself, both a question and an answer. He nodded his head, sensing that the revelation was washing over the crown of my head, seeping into my hair follicles, and landing softly on my brain—he seemed to be sensing wrong. 

Who is he? He is here.  

I tore my gaze away from his eyes—a beautiful shade of emerald, but overshadowed by his dilated pupils. Was he on Molly? 

“I’m here for you, Girl.” He said as he dropped back his left shoulder and popped out his hip. It was a motion that lowered my guard a bit, his own {subtle} coming out. He was Gay. Whoever he was, I didn’t have to stress about a come-on. 

I was all thoughts, no words. My jaw now divorced from my regularity. Yes, I was hungover and coming down from the coke from the night before (i.e. 5 a.m, this morning). I was by no means up to my best performance, but I hadn’t yet deviated from my average just yet. I was accustomed to long pauses and blank stares, as I waited for my voice to catch up to the genius I truly believed was asleep in my thoughts. If I cannot speak right—something charming, witty, beholden with an aptness to boost my social class, I will not speak at all. Words were my capital, yet I so often was at a loss for them. It wasn’t always like this, just recently (née the past five years of my life). 

I still didn’t say a word to the Guy—not even when he grabbed my elbow, looped his arm through mine, and guided me out of the church onto Broadway.

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All for now.

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I have been experiencing BLOGGERS BLOCK

Will push thru & post 2night.

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Blog #1: Wake Up, First Blog Up

My first post. This is wicked exciting. I will not worry too much about the theatrics, grammatrics, or axiomatics of this post. This post is to which all ladder blogs can be compared and, as such, any growth or decay reflects my ability to differ from this singular post. All so very exciting. I want to blog every day from here until my death, or as close to my expiration as possible while being realistic that a friend once told me I have a new "thing" every month. (Is CucumberInterupted my new thing? Maybe. Probably. But all the same, it doesn't matter). "This month you are studying for the LSAT. Next month you'll be on to a new thing"—this was her response when I told her I planned to go to law school. Well, isn't this all my thing then? By which I, paradoxically, mean the very switching of things is a thing in of itself. On a Sunday night nonetheless!!!

But this blog is not about me. None of my blogs are (will be) about me. Unless I have something fabulous to brag about or wisdom to introspect, I will tend to keep the focus on other artists. (Notice my use of the word 'others'—and if you didn't, I italicized it specifically for any family members who are allergic to attention to detail. I understand that this implication lends itself to the idea that I, too, am an artist, but please note, that any implication taken from my blog is not a personal assertion, and as such, I cannot be at fault for any beliefs derived from them. To conclude this tangent, if you decide to take it as an implication and then subsequent characterization that I am an artist, I take no issue (nor blame nor credit).)

All of which is to say this blog is a REVIEW of the song "Wake Up Alone" by Amy Winehouse. I attempted to link it to the post so it can play as you read, but as this is my FIRST post, I can make no promises—only attempts. I LOVE THIS SONG! Released in December of 2006, it is the eighth song on her album Back To Black. With musicians like Amy Winehouse, Lana Del Rey, Laufey, etc., I question, well, a lot. Lyricism, like all forms of artistic expression, connects with observers (listeners). But why me? Why does it connect to ME? And I single myself out for two important, albeit, arguably evident, reasons: 1. I have no understanding of music past a surface level, and by extension, I lack a total grasp of art as a whole. If I MUST, plainly: I do not have a critic's eye (but please read the review in spite). So why do I connect with some lyricism when I have no grounds for any connection? 2. I cannot perceive anything through anyone else's eye—as such, I am left with myself and my (blue) eyes.

Do I listen to Winehouse for the relatability or an escape? I contemplated as I washed my hands. I had just cracked the spine of a rotisserie chicken and was washing off the (gag) flesh from underneath my fingernails. I think I want to relate and I force myself into an avatar who can relate. This avatar, not being real, not being me, serves as an escape. Yes! He is fierce in my dreams, seizing my guts! I DO stay up, clean the house, at least I'm not drinking ! That is ME! And I say all this, ironically BTW. By which I mean (CrimeLime), I do not relate, but I can. While the song is playing, that is me. OMG—forgive me, did I write all that, simply to discover, music is a mere escape. LOL, this dance of pretend, is escape. Because that is totally what I just wrote, sure, I made it complicated and typed in a roundabout way, but the very thing I discovered, is what was born alongside the birth of Christ: music is an escape. This is NOT well at all. Terrible even, but verification of a known fact is still a commendable contribution to society. Very well, in fact, I might just spend the rest of my life verifying the accepted truths: the Atlantic is cold, keto is difficult, blonde hair looks better., etc. I just think I was not prepared for a blog post that dresses up as a music review; two new things at ONE time is a LOT on ANYONE. ESPECIALLY ME. But tune in tomorrow (or even tonight) for my next blog, when I ACTUALLY review music. And the song will be... well, to keep things interesting, I won't say (but I will say it rhymes with "Sonley Toads").

I am sorry my post was not very insightful or very much anything at all. BUT! What my blog did do, was EXIST, and that is enough for me (for today).

Please comment below a review of my review! Maybe we can be friends.

All my best, CucumberInterupted

Xoxoxoxoxoxox

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“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

— Kurt Vonnegut