Paradise Motel

"I lived well, but life was awful." -Charles Simic

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Maybe we won’t have those times anymore

I saw a tiny sign the other day that said “it’s easier to make friends than to keep them.” The first year or two, this friend and I had crazy times. Just walking into madness. So many stories. Now we sit across from one another and wonder if the stories are over.

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Ekaterina Kashyntseva for Encens Magazine(unknown issue)

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Caligula reads the classics

I’m going out like a mad Roman emperor. Apologies to the loved ones I massacred and/or raped. Aunt Sheryl & Uncle Mort, I don’t really feel that way about you guys. You understand! It was the syphilis and wine and lead in the chalices of wine. Plus you’re such fucking teases.

What can I say? I’m sorry for massacring my family, friends and coworkers in such cruel and inspired ways. I have a gift for hatred. I tried to keep it on the down low but I knew you were all plotting against me so you could eat my flesh and become divine beings. Still, I got carried away. I regret forcing a three-way with mother and the horse while my youngest son and dead Uncle Mort watched.

For a while I said nice things and I meant them. Oh, youth. I continued to say nice things after I stopped meaning them. That was a dark time. Then I said something true by accident and the look of shock on my advisers’ faces was... I felt transported. It was the beginning of the end for me and WOW did it feel amazing.

Things look bleak now, but a new season will arrive, balmy and fresh as a poison gin and tonic. A time to fall into the apples and sleep on beaches. I keep an open mouth and the sea becomes wine! I drink too many dreams, dreams of the drowning. They taste like poetry but never end well. Lionel Richie is singing a song about me. My drink arrives and it’s a stapler out of staples. I can’t fasten documents together for the life of me, but I keep trying. Blooms of poison wrap around my neck, smothering me to sleep. I wake up, red vomit everywhere. This death can’t come fast enough.

“Get a hobby,” dead Uncle Mort says. He comes back to advise and tell stories. A quiet man in life, he will not shut the fuck up as a ghost. “Caligula had the sweetest singing voice” he tells me. “Did you ever hear him? Tears. Tears! Heavenly, rapturous tears, cascading like the notes of a  Chopin nocturne.” Somehow it comforts me, though, Caligula on a sunny day, skipping and singing till the whole world sobbed.

Tell my son, upon penalty of death: that horse was unfaithful.

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Title

The sick man is now the dead man which means he isn’t sick anymore. He can be himself in our memories, the full version. The complete man, roaming our conscious and unconscious states. We are for his wanderings.

He drives in our dreams, at the helm again where he belongs. Just another road trip. Naturally he’d be driving.  How many years did we spend in the car with him, going nowhere we know. Going to the same places over and over.

I will never know home again. The years, the moments, the places that together made up home left with him.

We will make new memories, without him, cautions the voice of reason. But not yet. We will stay inside for a year, in our memory of him.

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Sick man died. First year’s a bitch they say.

What’s there to fear when one of your all time worst nightmares comes true. Feels like you watched your sense of home crumble apart in your hands. Home wasn’t a place on the map but a place in time. People are portals to that time. They become your home and when they go, you go with them.

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Sometimes you see a sexy lady with webbed hands playing peekaboo w you

[lauranadeszhda]

Playground I, Laura Nadeszhda. 

Society6 shop • Redbubble shop • Instagram • Facebook • Pinterest • Wanelo 

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me too

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“Power is not what you have over me, I give myself freely”

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One hazard

of spending hours and hours in the hospital with a sick loved one is getting sick. This time I’m ready. The mask, hand sanitizer, vitamin C.

I cannot get sick right now.

I cannot deny I feel sick right now.

So I will have a cigarette right now

and go the fuck to bed.

-Wordsworth

Somewhat related: the hospital has a poster up about respiratory care and there was one interesting fact I’ve forgotten. I only remember the boring ones. You can live with one lung and your left lung is smaller to make room for your heart. OH! The lungs are the only organs that float. There. Phew.