WIG

April 6, 2018


Red--
        ish.

Unnatural. Tangled. Worn. Abused. 
Peeking in and out between leaves dry, supple, old and new. Weeds and grasses.
Brown and green.

It begs the question...


Circa 2017

She stares out west, and a fire glow sunset is reflected in her cold green eyes. The sigh that escapes her, whistling past her chapped lips (swollen on one side as they are) is a rattle. Whisper soft rattle.

It should've been different. Her entire life should've been different, could've been different. Though she had no control over some events, she had always accepted responsibility for her own stupid actions-- at least, after a certain point in her life. She did resent the hell out of her formative years. The years in which adults failed her, taught her shitty ideals by example (or no ideals at all). That should be a crime, she thinks. Leaving a child blank. Unknowing. Unguided.

That was it. She wasn't abused. Her familial units hadn't drilled nonsense into her head, not by force or lecture, they hadn't warped and twisted her into something most of society shunned. Decent society. It had taken her up until this very moment, standing on the balcony, to have this epiphany. This lightning strike of acceptance.

She hadn't had a terrible childhood, not in the classic sense, and so had never felt that she could speak of her troubles. Her thoughts. So many had had it worse, still had it worse, so very many. 

People would scoff at her. They'd ask her what right she had to be so distressed, so bitter, why complain? She, with her mansion, provided by a husband richer than most, a man who appeared to dote on her. What the fuck did she have to complain about, with her comfortable childhood, parents not quite as rich, but certainly not poor.  What the fuck did this beautiful woman with everything, have to complain about?

How about being ignored? No, her husband wasn't cruel. Distant, yes. Like her parents. It's what she knew. Distance. But cold cash didn't replace a warm smile. Touch. Encouraging words.

No, he was not cruel. He was sweet-- when he was around. He was usually unavailable. It felt like his gifts were meant to compensate. Or that they were gifts that signified his guilt. Probably both.  

She lived in a guilt house. Wore guilt clothing and jewelry. The empty house that absence built. Bereft of laughter. Stories. Feeling.

Connection.

She missed the way they met...or was that a fiction she'd made up, read in one of her thousands of books? He loved her. She loved him.  That is, if either knew what it really meant.

She missed connection. She wondered if she knew feeling, what it really was. So she tried to find it elsewhere. Some spark of...anything. The poor artists were best. At first, anyway. Desire and passion, for everything. 

Eventually, they resented her money. Or...wanted it.

She sighs again.

Money doesn't buy happiness, they say. She agreed. People without it, think this is bullshit. That only those with money can say this. But they weren't looking beyond necessities. They weren't looking deeper. Not that she blamed them. She understood. She'd probably hate someone like her, too, were it the other way around. Envy them. Think they were full of shit.

She didn't care about money. She gave it away often enough. Those artists would take it, or be offended by it and throw it in her face. Tell her how easy it was for someone like her, in her guilt cage. They often seemed to resent that she wouldn't run off with her, give up everything. Why not, they'd say. Isn't that why you're slumming? 

As if they could fix what ailed her...when she hadn't always known what ailed her.

Still, she didn't wish this discovery about happiness, on anyone. Sometimes people needed their fantasies, their anger.

In a languid movement, she reaches up and pulls the wig from her head, letting the perfectly maintained (some five hundred dollars worth, last time) natural tresses, free.

This cheap, reddish wig, which she now holds over the railing of her bedroom balcony, the wig she lets slip from her hand, and it falls, somewhere in a valley below.

She does this approximately twenty-two minutes and twelve seconds before eating a bullet from the gun purchased explicitly for this occasion, and for approximately nine seconds, she feels. 


2018

It begs the question to the observer, where did this wig come from, and how did it end up here? She snaps a picture on her phone, and chuckles as she walks away, a bad joke forming in her head.


 

Plan B

December 22, 2017


She doesn't like it. Nope. 
As she watches the death throes of the creature by her left boot, her brain festers with all the rotten ideas she has for revenge.

Crunch, snap, pop pop, crackle, smush.
Silence. And good riddance, stupid thing. Too stupid to live. Just like him.

She folds her arms, still rocking her left heel. 
He isn't stupid. That the's problem A problem that puts a hitch in her many plans. That he isn't stupid is also a reason she fell for him.

Son of a bitch.
Smoosh. Smear. 

Twisting ...

Continue reading...
 

twenty minutes...

December 12, 2017


He didn't understand. Ten minutes had passed. Ten minutes since the incident. The incident that caused him to push the button. A button he had not wanted to press, but it was protocol. He'd been well trained in protocol. He'd been programmed. Brain washed. He had to be,otherwise he'd never have pressed the damned button. The scariest button he had ever encountered, and ever would. 

Only a brainwashed human would press THE BUTTON.
 
Twelve minutes. Twelve minutes and still nothing. This was entir...

Continue reading...
 

current mood-- of the top of my head

November 16, 2017


I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m doing

I know what I want, want

But I don’t know what I’m doing, doing

I can’t have what I want, want

One moment swept up in sheer bliss

The next in crippling doubt

A moment, a respite, of heavens of laughter

A lifetime of crippling doubt

 

I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m doing

I found what I want, want

I can’t seem to have it, have it

I can’t ever have what I want, want

One day, just one day of no worries, no fears

Just one day, one day I do...


Continue reading...
 

it isn't a place

August 11, 2017



Wisps of clouds streaking the blue I gaze upon. Sun’s reflection on the water.
It’s yellow diamond.
Sail boats skim by in many directions and gulls whine. Swallows chatter while liquid laps at rocks, docks and shore.
A dog sets a ball at my feet. I throw it. He is happy. I smile.
Children laugh in the distance.
There are scents; some are salt, smoke, dirt, air and food. People.

Yet I am removed from it all, even as I spy couples talking and holding hands.

A trip through a residential ...

Continue reading...
 

listen to...

January 19, 2017


There's a lot of advice out there about a lot of different things. And here I go, adding to te plethora of pages. However, I believe I'm about to tell you to ignore all of that advice-- at least on a particular subject-- and this isn't the same ole advice, because I can sum it up by saying, quite simply:

Listen to your own gut and heart.

When to give up, when to dig in. Relationships, jobs, blah blah. What makes those advice givers any more correct on the situation than the person experiencing ...

Continue reading...
 

guardian at the gate

January 10, 2017


My trips south into the Oregon coast always, without fail, have one thing in common.

I must stop at North Head lighthouse, even if only for five minutes, before crossing into Oregon.

It's become a symbol. A ritual. A superstition. I must pay my respects to the keeper of the gate -- the lighthouse that is the guardian of my portal into another realm. My happy happy place, my therapy. My rejuvenation. My ZEN. 

I'm certain it began to stick in my head originally, as it was the first bonafide on-a-c...

Continue reading...
 

loving fiercely

January 3, 2017


-blows off dust-

Love fiercely.
LOVE.
FIERCELY.

It's scary. It's difficult, because your brain gets in the way with all of those "what ifs." It signals a certain loss of control, at least in bursts.

You do it for fandoms, without thought. Why not people? Life?

Some won't understand you. They'll call it obsession. Is that so--

You know, I was about to write how obsession isn't what I'm talking about, but fuck that. Be obsessed with life. A thing. A person. A color. Whatever.

Sometimes it hurts. Often,...

Continue reading...
 

Feeling the Bern, Seattle

March 21, 2016



First day of Spring, 2016. Bernie Sanders came to the Key arena. I had to work, but left a bit early to see what I could see.

I had never been to a political rally, for various reasons. But I like this man. He feels like one of us. Put aside your political leanings if you must, and please read on. This is a reaction not to policy, but something else. Something universal.

I am so glad I took the chance and drove over. They say over 30,000 people showed up. Double what the venue would hold. So no...

Continue reading...
 

Goals aka The Run

March 17, 2016



Went for a run just now. Third day in a row, after having run once a week for the last three weeks. I thought to myself, self? Just an easy run today. Right calf is a bit stiff, you will be lucky to make two miles. But two miles is good, and it's better than no miles.

So I'm out doing my thing. It's a lovely, sunny day. I'm sore, but not enough to allow myself to stop. I say to self, self? Get that first mile. Okay, got it. Surely we can get that second. Sure...okay. Let's do it.

So I did it, a...
Continue reading...
 

WIG

Posted by Sherry Roit on Friday, April 6, 2018


Red--
        ish.

Unnatural. Tangled. Worn. Abused. 
Peeking in and out between leaves dry, supple, old and new. Weeds and grasses.
Brown and green.

It begs the question...


Circa 2017

She stares out west, and a fire glow sunset is reflected in her cold green eyes. The sigh that escapes her, whistling past her chapped lips (swollen on one side as they are) is a rattle. Whisper soft rattle.

It should've been different. Her entire life should've been different, could've been different. Though she had n...

Continue reading...
 

Plan B

Posted by Sherry Roit on Friday, December 22, 2017


She doesn't like it. Nope. 
As she watches the death throes of the creature by her left boot, her brain festers with all the rotten ideas she has for revenge.

Crunch, snap, pop pop, crackle, smush.
Silence. And good riddance, stupid thing. Too stupid to live. Just like him.

She folds her arms, still rocking her left heel. 
He isn't stupid. That the's problem A problem that puts a hitch in her many plans. That he isn't stupid is also a reason she fell for him.

Son of a bitch.
Smoosh. Smear. 

Twisting ...

Continue reading...
 

twenty minutes...

Posted by Sherry Roit on Tuesday, December 12, 2017


He didn't understand. Ten minutes had passed. Ten minutes since the incident. The incident that caused him to push the button. A button he had not wanted to press, but it was protocol. He'd been well trained in protocol. He'd been programmed. Brain washed. He had to be,otherwise he'd never have pressed the damned button. The scariest button he had ever encountered, and ever would. 

Only a brainwashed human would press THE BUTTON.
 
Twelve minutes. Twelve minutes and still nothing. This was entir...

Continue reading...
 

current mood-- of the top of my head

Posted by Sherry Roit on Thursday, November 16, 2017 In : Writing 


I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m doing

I know what I want, want

But I don’t know what I’m doing, doing

I can’t have what I want, want

One moment swept up in sheer bliss

The next in crippling doubt

A moment, a respite, of heavens of laughter

A lifetime of crippling doubt

 

I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m doing

I found what I want, want

I can’t seem to have it, have it

I can’t ever have what I want, want

One day, just one day of no worries, no fears

Just one day, one day I do...


Continue reading...
 

it isn't a place

Posted by Sherry Roit on Friday, August 11, 2017 In : Writing 



Wisps of clouds streaking the blue I gaze upon. Sun’s reflection on the water.
It’s yellow diamond.
Sail boats skim by in many directions and gulls whine. Swallows chatter while liquid laps at rocks, docks and shore.
A dog sets a ball at my feet. I throw it. He is happy. I smile.
Children laugh in the distance.
There are scents; some are salt, smoke, dirt, air and food. People.

Yet I am removed from it all, even as I spy couples talking and holding hands.

A trip through a residential ...

Continue reading...
 
 

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