Anima Bloccata
(Blocked Soul)
Copyright © 2016, 49 Savoy St
by Melissa D. DeLuca Providence, RI 02906
10/1/2015 (617) 840-4340
–In sixth grade enough courage was built to ask out a little white person. They responded, “But You’re Black”. It was at this moment “I” brought her to the place where the Sun became Silent. “I” became a Voice and I am her Virgil…
Part One:
Is it Live or…
Fade into HER mind…
SHE’s stranded. It’s desolate, decrepit, changed- yet a familiar city with the added sounds of booms and gunfire that echoes through the sky. SHE’s being chased by the smallest demonized figures up a narrow ramp that eventually hovers above a highway heading north towards Boston. The highway is rotted with corpses of luxurious cars that once flaunted pride. SHE’s running and comes to a dead stop followed by bewilderment as SHE notices children standing in a fenced position in front of HER. One of them picks up an A & W root-beer bottle, which slowly begins to drip its past remains of liquid life to the ground. This child has the full intentions of practicing his best version of Roger Clemens and SHE can tell he’s envisioning HER head as a home plate, but there is hesitation and his small hand goes limp and the bottle drops. The child’s demonic frown turns upside down towards the heavens and he displays an innocent smile with chiseled sharp teeth. He innocently reports that he and his friends have found semi- automatic weapons behind a stairwell and asks HER if he and his comrades can shoot off a couple rounds. “Absolutely not” SHE scolds, stay right here and don’t move!” They don’t comply. SHE spots a policewoman in her peripheral vison a few feet away and sprints towards the delusion of safety only to come a complete halt as the officer’s hand quickly surges in the air. The officer is clearly uncomfortable with the infringement of her personal space becoming violated by a crazed woman yelling at the top of her lungs and a crowd of rowdy teens. The policewoman’s right hand makes way to her protector of life strapped on the side of her hip. She tears away a custom made Walther P99 from the holster with the same historical urgency exhibited by King Arthur as he ripped Excalibur from the sacred stone. She is clearly on edge and anticipating the notion that anything is possible in this new chaotic world around her- outlandish violent occurrences have become part of her daily beat.
She points the gun at the motley crew of teens who are compliantly resonating with James Hetfield’s mellow yellow bellow of Metallica’s song “One”, and moves through the crowd with an uncanny speed and by the time the kids have registered her uniform and badge she fires two shots in the air. The music from the boom box abruptly silences and the singing stops. She spews in an authoritative command, “Everyone give me a show of hands in the air NOW! It’s not the time to fuck around folks… I want to see everyone’s ten digits!” Wide eyes are displayed and one of the bedazzled teens yells innocently, “I lost two of my digits in a wood chipper… I only have eight digits will that be ok? Please don’t shoot!” Everyone catapults what digits they do have high in the air.
In the near distance multiple shots accompanied by the sounds of panicked screams are heard. Everyone whips their heads around and the synchronized motion of their bodies plummet to the ground for cover. SHE hones- in on an idled school bus filled with high school football fans doomed to meet their fate as the magic bus is being showered with broken glass and its bright orange metal shell tattooed with holes by bullets. SHE gets up and dashes towards a security booth to plea for assistance as bullets with no direction recklessly navigate through the air. Others who follow HER lead aren’t so lucky and start to marinate in the deep color of darkish red as their lifeless bodies drop to the ground. SHE dives with hands out in front and the skin of HER palms and forehead silently curse due to this new form of the micro-abrasion treatment provided on the pavement. As SHE plummets to the ground, SHE tells HERSELF a good strategy will be to pretend that SHE’s dead because it has worked in some of the movies seen. The sounds of mixed voices approach this developed scene of carnage and HER eardrums start to amplify the heart as it beats faster and faster due to fear. SHE tries to control the breathing and realizes that the breathing techniques learned in yoga aren’t worth diddlysquat under this extreme stress that will most likely saturate HER with a bad case of PTSD if SHE survives. (I will need remind HER to demand a refund from the Yoga studio and think, “Namaste and FUCK ya all!”)
As SHE tries to concentrate, -in through mouth and out through the nose- SHE starts to recollect the tranquility of this foreign practice from a long time ago, SHE’s praying, (because ultimately there will be something waiting at the end of ‘HER’ tunnel that resembles E.T.). SHE hopes the perpetrators don’t notice HER body cavity slowly rising and falling. There is a hard kick to HER right leg and all of a sudden GOD becomes a best friend and a sentence begins to repeat itself in HER head, “Please let this not be my time to go”. SHE senses the figure hovering and SHE desperately tries to find HER chi as the heat of the semi-automatic zeros in and touches the temple of HER forehead. The trigger is pulled…BULLS EYES! HER eyes dart open and the breath is in marathon mode. It’s 3:50 A.M. in this neck of the woods. SHE stares at the ceiling and thinks for a while about the dream and its meaning. Resistant heavy eyes start to close, and the last conscience thought I remind her of is to remember to take OUR psych meds when we arise.
Part 2:
…Or Memorex
Awake to a New Day in the Year of 2211 A.D.
It’s 6:50 a.m. and OUR eyes dart open to the iPhone alarm yelling, “GOOOOOOD Morning Vietnam!” set to a continuous loop until WE hit the stop button. Vietnam, a war long lost and forgotten by the newer generations. Wars are faux pas in this day of age.
I somehow managed to keep HER eyes shut last night for 3 of the 8 hours recommended for a substantial night’s sleep. SHE swings legs over the edge of bed onto the heated mahogany planked floor and is encouraged that it’s a new day by the amplified sounds of peacocks mimicking cat cries that leak through the bedroom skylights. The house emanates the fine smells of chemistry offered by the mixtures of pine sole and Murphy’s oil, SHE is neurotically obsessed with cleanliness. WE shimmy over to the bathroom and stand in front of the Hollywood recessed mirrored medication cabinet that has been custom made to stand 12 feet from floor to ceiling and is framed in dark walnut wood with built in speakers. The first acknowledgment begrudgingly staring back at US is that OUR face is Black. The cabinet doors creeks open to reveal eight shelves three of which are dedicated to perfectly aligned putrid brown orange medication bottles. HER brow furrows and the pondering as to why these containers are referred to as bottles begins, “They aren’t bottles at all, they’re all cylinders for fucks sake”, SHE says out loud in a matter of fact annoyed tone. I tell HER to “Let it go” and “Relax”, and the dumping of three 2mg Lorazepams, (over the recommended dose at one time) and other pretty colored pills from each putrid cylinder commence into OUR mouth followed by swigs of a psychedelic grayish milky substance in a glass stationed on the sinks corner. Some of the pills WE take give instant gratification within ten to fifteen minutes relieving HER perpetual state of anxiety. SHE always embraces this entrance into the fake comforts of joy that the liquid and pills provide, SHE feels they keep OUR minds less than sane thoughts in order, because let’s face it; “A mind is a terrible thing to waste”. The cabinet is closed and WE stare into the mirror. The pills begin to work in overtime and I try to hold on to present time the best I can but the sound of screeching train wheels begin as they pull away from a railway station and melodic sound Annie Lenox’s voice begins through the speakers, “I can hear the sounds of the underground trains, but they feel like distant thunder”, and the drift begins…
A blurred woman’s image appears in the reflection of the oversized mirror and she is intently staring down at US. She transitions into focus. She stands about 8”2, naked, and is painted half black and white vertically from head to toe. Her only garb is a brilliant orange tie riddled in the shape of a large question mark that streams down perfectly between her supple breasts. The tie stops directly above The Star of David tattooed perfectly around her naval. Her eyes are green with brilliant tints of yellow with extenuated jet-black eyelashes and she elegantly sports a Mohawk. A boxing ring fades into the scene and a microphone lowers slowly to the level of her head which she gently cups in her left hand as her lips part to produce a Aramaic accent. She elegantly turns her head to a corner with the grace of Audrey Hepburn and speaks. “In the right corner concealing its funky fresh powder of fun we have Duloxetine, a.k.a Cymbaltaaaa and as she exaggerates the ‘A’ the noises of cheers in OUR mind arise. She lightly hovers her fingers across her lips to shush the crowd and continues with a gradual tone of sexy sass, “It’s this year’s champion of putting a smile on your face regardless of your underlying issues. Stop it abruptly without your doctor’s consent, (who’s met with you for a total of 15 minutes to assess your life’s worth of issues), and your skin will feel like it’s crawling with bugs and the tactile experience will leave you, (she pounds her chest), breathless!”
“In the same corner wearing all white and ready to assist is WELLLLLLburtin XL, (XL stands for EXTRA LARGE amounts of Bollocks). With its daily dose of 450 Milligrams it’s true, you may eventually smile or stop smoking cigarettes, (who knows perhaps both) and you may experience weight loss, which will be fan-fucking-tastic for all you folks who had or are still struggling with an eating disorder!”
The statuesque woman’s voice changes from sexy sass to authoritative with a hint of sarcasm, “And pleaaaaase remember to keep this happy pill away from children due to the increased high -risk of suicide. There we have it folks, today’s champions, the SSRI’s, (A.K.A Shit Show Reoccurring Indefinitely) and dopamine supply.”
All of a sudden, the beady- eyed image of George Orwell’s Pig Snowball fades into OUR vision and hovers over the announcer’s shoulder and squeals while they both stare back US through the mirror,” Two pills Gooooood, No pills Baaaaaddd” and the pig fades away. WE have an exaggerated blink and take another swig of the grayish milky substance vacationing in the glass and we methodically throw one more pill in OUR mouth and say out loud, “Down the hatch”, as they say. We think to OURSELVES who, (“The fuck are THEY?”)
The figure winks coyly at US while throwing her left hand over to the opposite corner of the champion pills and continue “. Annnnd in the left corner we have the lovable and well-intentioned Antiiiiiiii-Pssssychotic defending its honor and ready to let you know that you need them as much as they need you! Introducing…. 50 mgs of Risperdal Constaaaaaa, which bypasses the recommended dose of 25 or even 37.5 so your psychotic ass is going to get a stable kicking around today!” Snowball the pig appears once again and squeals, “This pill GOOOOOOD!” She continues, “Alright let’s work together and when I say break that means one of you go back to your corner and we’re going to introduce another partner”. The crowd begins to cheer again as their excited for the spectacle to begin and the woman turns and leads Snowball away on a leash. WE watch them both disappear into the mirror that never seems to end. WE fade back into present time that has inevitably begun. Turning away from the mirror WE walk into the day’s abyss of the unknown. Annie’s voice is still singing, “There are so many people living in this house and I don’t even know their names”.
-Dis-so-ci-a-tion: A disconnection between a person’s thoughts, memories, feelings, actions or a sense of who he or she is. –‘American Psychiatric ASSOCIATION, PSYCHIARTY.ORG’
Creativity
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“One of them picks up an A & W root-beer bottle, which slowly begins to drip its past remains of liquid life to the ground.” – I really enjoy this line. What a great image!
How do folks see the edited version that came back.?
How do folks see the edited version that came back?