The Little Girl

I’d like to tell you a story about somebody I know. She’s only a little girl but she’s very special because she’s a lot older than she looks. She only appears to be a small child of around six years old, and she spends most of her time sitting in a dark corner, trembling with fear and quietly weeping.

Now you might be asking yourself, who is this little girl? Why is she sitting in the dark? Why is she crying?

Well, this little girl (whom as I said before is a lot older than she looks) had a very difficult childhood. I know. I know. A lot people say they had a difficult childhood, and unfortunately some of them really did, but many of them mean their parents got divorced when they were little and they had to spend their weekends at their dad’s house. Or they might mean they were bullied at school. And yes, these things are awful things for a child to go through.

However, this little girl’s childhood was a horror movie. The first act begins with the following characters:

A Little Girl with crippling anxiety and self-esteem problems, who later turns into a self-injuring teenager.

An aloof, absent, and mentally unstable Father.

A mentally manipulative and sexually abusive Stepfather.

An overwhelmed Mother who sends the Little Girl away when she is six years-old, to live with her mentally unstable Father. The Little Girl doesn’t understand that it’s only temporary.

During this first act the Little Girl’s Mother meets and and moves in with the man who eventually becomes her sexually abusive Stepfather.

When the Little Girl is about fourteen years old, her Mother decides to change careers and starts going to college. The Little Girl’s Mother often isn’t at home, and during those times, her Stepfather makes her lie down with him on the bed. He calls it snuggling, and he wraps his arms and legs around the Little Girl as they lay there together in the dark in complete silence. The Little Girl is afraid to make a sound. He lets her keep her clothes on, but she knows that this isn’t right. She doesn’t know what to do about it and therefore doesn’t say anything.

As she gets older, the snuggling eventually stops but the Stepfather asks the Little Girl almost every day if she wants to take a shower with him. At first she thinks he must be joking but he keeps asking her over and over. She always says no. Occasionally he touches her breasts and in between her legs. He makes her touch him and warns her not to tell her Mother, and she never does. She tells very few people. Only her younger brother and a few of her friends know what is happening.

Then one day, when she is eighteen years old, the Little Girl tries to run away. She is eventually found and taken home, and as soon as she arrives, her Mother and Stepfather inform her that she has to leave again, immediately. They send her to live with her biological father, with whom, up to that point, she has spent very little time.

At this point, a second act begins and other characters appear in the movie.

After a short stay with her father, the Little Girl moves in with friends from school and tries to be an adult. She is for the most part a good girl. She stays away from heavy drinking and drugs, but she develops an appetite for sex. It feels good and it makes her feel loved, and wanted, and pretty, even if it’s just a one night stand. There are a few of those until she moves in with her first real boyfriend, with whom she lives for a year and a half. Then there are couple more flings and a longer but still brief relationship.

Then the Little Girl then meets a very charming, good looking, and funny man who seems to care about her a lot. She is so desperate to be loved, and so terrified of rejection, that he soon figures out that he can say or do almost anything to her and she would never leave him. He is not a man but a Man-Child who makes the Little Girl feel smart and beautiful and important, and also he makes her feel fat and stupid and ugly and completely worthless. Soon the Little Girl’s entire life revolves around the Man-Child’s emotions and constant demands. Any questioning of his orders leads to a torrent of verbal abuse, so she learns to keep her mouth shut and always does what he says without question. The Man-Child chooses what clothes the Little Girl is allowed to wear, what hair-color she is allowed to have, what music she is allowed to listen to, what movies and television shows she is allowed to watch, what food she is allowed to eat, what activities she is allowed to do, and what people she is allowed to be friends with.

He regularly abuses her for her deviating from his expectations for her behavior and actions, but does not hold himself to the same standards. The Man-Child is allowed to be a lazy slob but the Little Girl never is. She is at this point, a very attractive woman, and her purpose is to make the Man-Child look good. She is his trophy, and any behavior he doesn’t like he sees as reflecting poorly on him. If he says something hurtful to her public, she isn’t allowed to get upset because he says people were watching and would think he had been beating her. He obsesses about what other people think of him, is convinced everyone is constantly watching him and copying him, and he cares about their collective opinions a lot more than he does about her.

But eventually the Little Girl becomes too old, too fat, and too boring for The Man-Child, and he stops caring about her, not even enough to abuse her anymore. He starts sleeping with other women when she’s at work and justifies it by saying he needs more sex than he is getting from her. He wants out of the relationship but is too afraid to tell her. The Man-Child always leaves awkward or difficult tasks to the Little Girl, and breaking up is no exception.

Then the Little Girl, now a young lady of thirty, meets another man. He is a much younger man, only nineteen years old when they first move in together. The Teenager is very different from the Man-Child. He never demands anything of her, never yells at her or belittles her or tells her what to do. For the Little Girl, to not have an insecure and judgmental Man-Child demanding constant attention is heaven. But unfortunately, the Teenager is the opposite swing of the pendulum. The Little Girl had gone from a controlling, insecure, over-emotional Man-Child obsessed with how she looks and how she behaves, to a non-emotional Teenager who doesn’t care about those things at all. And over the years, what little feelings he did have for her evaporate. The Teenager spends entire days playing video games without uttering more than a handful of words to the Little Girl. He eats the food she cooks and then goes right back to playing video games. The Little Girl goes to bed early every night because she has to be at work at eight in the morning, but the Teenager stays up playing video games until two or three in the morning. When she leaves for work a few hours later, he is fast asleep. The Teenager withdraws completely into his own little world. He stops wanting sex and and then he stops thinking about her altogether. She is simply not there anymore. She had become invisible to him.

After being in a loveless and sexless relationship for years, she ends up in bed with a Friend, someone she has known for many years, and with whom she has a very special bond. He understands her in the way that the Teenager never did.

Shortly after that, the Little Girl and The Teenager split up, but it has nothing to do with her transgression. He never finds out. Their relationship had been dying for a long time and then it simply ends. She rebounds right back into the Friend’s bed, but she knows there is no future in it. He is definitely not boyfriend material. He also has a girlfriend of his own, and although sneaking around behind her back is a lot of guilty pleasure fun, it also hurts the Little Girl’s soul. After a while she starts to develop stronger feelings for him and decides to nip that flower in the bud before it blossoms into love. They were really great friends before they started sleeping together and they are better as friends rather than lovers.

In the third act of the movie, the resolution of the plot occurs.

Finally, well into her thirties, the Little Girl meets the Man. The perfect Man. The Man who would at last make an honest Woman of her. They get married on the day before her 40th birthday.

However, that painfully insecure and anxious Little Girl never goes away. She has become a Little Demon. All the rejection and abuse and betrayal and neglect from her life before she met and married The Man is still there, embodied in that Little Demon. Most of the time she is quiet, but every so often she comes out of her cage, and the painstakingly maintained outer shell that appears happy and reassuring cracks open and peels away. The Man has a kind face and a gentle heart, but he is very strong. He uses his strong arms and shoulders to hold the Little Demon’s fists and keep her from hurting the Little Girl. He holds her tight and just lets the Little Demon scream and scream.

And then, the shell reforms and the Little Demon is once again safely back in her cage, sitting in a dark corner, trembling with fear and quietly weeping. And waiting. Always waiting for the next time something kicks her cage and lets her out again.

Waiting in the Bike Lane at an Intersection in Tacoma

If Wells Fargo were Safeway, would the money in its vaults taste like Death by Chocolate and cheap beer? Would midnight to 4 AM see an endless queue of drunk, snack-craving depositors and closing-shift employees ready to night-drop bulging till bags of Teriyaki vomit and tattered twenties?

As the ejaculating cars thrust forward, piercing the diaphragmatic intersection, the red glow of the stoplight grows old, blurred and meaningless with the wait. Peak pressure. Full aperture: green light. I remain balanced, track standing for an extra moment next to the street’s vacuous storm drain. Will it rain on Tuesday?

How long could a vulture capitalist scam like Target exist in a society that prized quality and authenticity over quantity and expedience? And, if so realized, would its people’s feet rest easier in socks from manufacturers that supported rather than preyed on the majority of citizens?

Green to yellow, it’s such a brief intercourse, and then yellow to red. I remain balanced on two wheels with two narrow tires made in some other country with softer, less healthy, manufacturing and export regulations for a company that craves a “slight” increase in profits for a slightly increased chance of success … of raises to engorge its top two percent’s cushy wealth.

If Bank of America were Defiance Bicycles on Fawcett Avenue, would its half-dead denizen debtors slowly but assuredly progress into healthier, balanced and self-empowered people on a true path to prosperity?

The red light bursts into an emerald green, blinding all eyes trapped behind windshield glass, and I push forward with a dynamite enthusiasm born on pedals and steel.


K. Shawn Edgar | Limited Edition | Tiger Lily | Mars Rover

Concrete Wonder

pic of a dream
“Only A Dream” Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2014

Concrete Wonder

Contradictions are a necessary part of reality. Their pull and push builds the bridgework, tissue, weave, and wonder. Every element of this world contradicts with some other aspect.

It’s the reason you don’t fall through the sidewalk. Or the gravel layer beneath. Or the soil beneath the gravel. And on through the Earth itself.

It’s the reason I don’t blow away in this wind. Mass and energy. And here’s the thing about it: some elements do blow in the wind.

My words slip out, blow up; they get caught up, tossed. They soar.

It’s the wind saying, This is my voice, our voices in the air, for all times. All ears.

As the concrete says, I’ll hold you up if you continue to lay me down. Spread me, groom me. Patch me when I crack, and forgive my roughness when you fall. But do not worry, you will not fall out the other side. I am concrete. I am solid. And that’s a contradiction because you made me from liquid, powder, and empty spaces.

Artistry, dedication — love and need, indifference and commerce — it’s inevitable. You will fall, that’s a given. You’ll get up, dust off, and the wind will carry your words to the sky, or around the world.

Maybe, right here, those standing closest will not be listening; they won’t hear you. But wait for the whoosh.

On the other edge of the world, the quietest breeze will whisper your best to a total stranger. Concrete. Your words whipped up by the forever wind, telling your tale to unfamiliar ears, and you might not be understood. At all.

K. Shawn Edgar | One True Cog | Bunny Metal | Lion Head

Darker the Barker

self reflection over cat
“Madrid is a Mirror” Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2015

Darker the Barker:

Or Madrid Squeals Mercurials

Dear Meridian:

M, do you remember the line of puckered spider bites along your backbone? I said they were there — four or five — touching each one with my thumb tip. You said, French Dip; and we threw on yesterday’s clothing going out the door.

In the lobby restaurant at Toby’s, we soy-sauced our sour cream apple flapjacks. You had a second breakfast of French Dip on a club roll with pickle spears, and I followed up with a French tricolor banana-split-malted milkshake.

M, do you remember our walk along the greenways after breakfast at Toby’s? Interlocked fingers, a breeze from the East, and a brief string of kisses while sitting on the bench next to the sleeping homeless man. We are and are not alone and together. One from one, out of many. More or less.

The green spaces and parks here act as lungs for an aging city; we’ve smoked too long from the broken pipeline of crude oil and coal. More parks — green, unfettered, biodiverse spaces — would mean more filtering capability. More lung power. The Boz Project for UP Tacoma is our only hope.

M, do you remember the words syncing our footfalls as we walked? More or less:

Frailty, sincerity, progressivism, inclusion, de-entanglement, farsighted sensations….

And then came the opposing cry, or barking, of the street-side cryer. It disjointed our unity with its repetitive banality. Bark, bark, bark!

The words thudding like the hammer of a sick drum: convenience, satisfaction, discounts, definitive delights. Inside, inside, inside — all the things you need, on sale! Satisfaction! Trust our representatives. They’re people just like you.

M, it seems we all need a helpfully healthy dose of helplessness… don’t we? To get us moving forward with purpose.

Our desolate Madrid is in decline. So be it, or be it so? We are at fault. The barker and the listener, alike. The fruit we poop does not simply decay and reenter the living sphere, it stains and remains. So we must be the balance. We must be the keepers of the greenways. The cleaners. For our body, for your light.

M, do you remember?

Yours truly,

K. Shawn Edgar | Nightwatchman | Howard’s End | The One True Cog

Soma Sonoma: A Letter in Beast Language

a pic of a place and time
“The Concrete Now” Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2015

Soma Sonoma

Bruce:

There are moments I can’t remember, and I wonder what they would mean in the larger resolution. Like several movies from when I was a kid, which I know I loved but can only recall shuttering glimpses of their stories. I’ve attempted to convey their plots to friends and family, only I can’t even put more than a few concrete words to the details and feelings I retain. But I know for sure these movies were not dreams because there’s a hardened texture to them that dream memories don’t usually contain. Those are more shimmering, reflective, and soft along the edges. It is the difference between touching chromoly steel and honeycomb cereal.

In the meantime, the beasts do talk. I can hear it in their eyes. Beaming the oldest nonverbal languages, energetically mingled with tonal chirps and grunts, their facial expressions are as palpable — as meaningful — as our English words. I write these words without irony. The beasts tell me to remember the basics: move, drink water, eat greens, engage light, jump, run, clean, sleep, and stretch it out.

In one movie — the older of the two — a band of fantasy characters reminiscent of classic RPGs like The Bard’s Tale III: Thief of Fate, come together on an adventure through wasted, dangerous lands in defense of an usurped king and a wronged prince. (And no, it’s not Hamlet or The Lord of The Rings.) This movie has a goofiness those works don’t — in a good way. It’s low budget, and maybe a bit campy. However, as I remember it, this movie has one of the best character-plot marriages of All Time. The characters and their actions are equally synthesized with the story’s overall world building.

It makes use of many fantasy tropes so smoothly and humorously, the story they imbue bursts out in an original way even though the themes and character types are so familiar. The archer is a thoughtful, elegant elf who can shoot like six arrows a second, and the main male character is a young, super well-trained, strong leader-to-be. There’s a beautiful, athletic woman who acts as the groups heart and compass. And, of course, a giant warrior/dwarf/half-human character who wields a massive axe. Strangely, in this moment, I am not even sure if I’m remembering this or making it up…? Bruce, what movie is this? Does it still exist somewhere?

Agonizingly, I may never remember for sure. This hell doth torment the soulless! However, on this Earth, the sudden blooming of scene clips, dialogue fragments, or plot points crystallizing in momentary sparkles is Soma to my depressed intellect. Their random occurrence calls me back to the first and only viewing of this masterpiece without a concrete name. And I feel again like the me I’ve lost since.

Is this a good thing? Or is it a bad thing? Is it momentary connection or momentary torture? I may never know for sure.

Sincerely,

K. Shawn Edgar | Fragmented Time Traveler | Elegant Elf | Wronged Prince Out of Time

Sonoma Falls: A Letter from Snake Lake

Pic of Pants
“Mr. Pants” Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2015

Sonoma Falls: A Letter from Snake Lake

Dear Homie Bruce:

It’s a thicker sock day. My head gets very cold when it’s shaved, and the thicker socks help me feel warmer. They have a reenforced heel and toe, which is a paired plus worth mentioning. I’m hatless on this April Saturday, and I’m almost sure the socks will help.

Pulling those on now. Yes, that’s better. Toasty.

FedEx is outside the window; their truck needs a tuneup. And a visit to the carwash. It’s Spring, after all… so vehicles should be washed in the Springtime. But I’m a hypocrite — I haven’t washed my car in about two years. And that number could actually be a four or a five… time is more blurry in Washington. I think it’s the bugs and dampness. That couple does a tango that can nullify the senses. And isn’t it strange, right? Because there are also a lot of birds here near the Puget Sound… so shouldn’t the birds reduce the bug population?

Tyrant Flycatchers!, why aren’t you doing your job?! Dive, Black Phoebe. Dive!

I’ve made the coffee now. Watch out. I just chased Mr. Pants around our apartment like a ten-year-old ADHD kid on the Crack. But he started our Olympic Games by sprinting from the bedroom window to the fresh-air balcony and then high-jumping the leather chair. Gold! Ancient Greeks and athletics. I should get naked. Of course, except for my thicker socks; they’ll help my chances of metaling in the long jump event. And everybody knows, the hurdles are all about a strong reenforced heel and toe.

As the Great 1990’s poet, Woodheavy Brown, once said: “Out there, somewhere, there’s a face that wants to punch your face in the face. So embrace! Yo self.”

Sincerely,

K. Shawn Edgar | Public Display Artist | Franciscan Junk | Loosely Spaced

Broken Earbud Madness

Photo without a Photographer
Photo Cred: Woodheavy Brown 2015

Broken Earbud

There’s a madness visiting my head, a bright familiarity. It always leads to this:

The decline of one weaves itself into the rough, uncomfortable tonality of all. Our loss of such close or distant companions causes the crags and blotches we can’t hide. Slowly, but faster every day, these abrasions weaken our communal unity.

The broken wire—piercing the lard that sits and swings our heart strings, too tense between—it carries the indivisible motion of sounds, sights, and cinnamon sticks—meaning sensations—because it can, because it does as developed. Not without thought, it’s forever mutable. But without a plan, it’s the thoughtlessness making the wire wired. It’s the sound making the wire dance. And at the same time, the wire is the sound—indivisible waves made of music. It always leads to this:

Folding the blue tarp
Push-broom-ing the dusty asphalt
Hard-wheel skating the rough transitions
Thomas loosens the polkadot necktie
Bonney swirls her bittersweet mocha
Eliot runs a lime-green comb through his hair
Tom Tom sleeps in Salvador’s fulsome arms
Deconstructing the tent poles
Folding the blue tarp
Breathing in the blossoming car perfume

I met a man, and we transacted bicycles. We connected through common communication, words and body language, a familiarity with bike culture. We exchanged ideas, knowledge, steel and aluminum alloy, handshakes and fist bumps, personal details and then—least importantly—money.

I’m a hat without a hatter, or I’m the airplane flight turbulence without the airplane passengers. Lifted. Neutral. Just up here dreaming, dancing, being.

I am only the words. It will fall to someone with bone in legs to walk the actions.

There’s a madness visiting my head.

K. Shawn Edgar | Hatless Madder | All City Drop Out | Bike Redistribution