Art > Writing

Take
One


I woke up standing again.

This fun, sassy thing I do. Where for some terror I sleep walk out of bed and stand in the middle of my room, at the ready and usually posed to fight someone.

But I’m getting older, and the last time I did this I pulled a muscle in my back, and for three days could barely sit without shooting pain.

It’s always the same area of my room, that’s the creepy part. The same place where I saw that little old mans head turn into a skull the first time you stayed the night. Sort of melted off his boney face, but his hair stayed put, white and fluffy like a Troll Doll, looked more silly than scary.

It’s also the same place I see my mom’s dead mom standing, or sometimes sitting in an old medium-plush armchair, not really doing anything, just watching. I asked her not to see her anymore, and she’s been very respectful of that request. But she’s still around.

That’s been another part of getting older, the spirits.
I remember seeing them as a kid, walking in mists and right before bed. They sort of dropped off in my late teens/early twenties, but for whatever reason I can see them pretty clearly now. Seems sort of ironic, or sardonic is maybe a better word. Reminds me I’m aging, moving toward their lifestyle.

But home for the holidays, drunk and sharing a bed with my mom in her tiny house in Portland, OR, I told her about seeing her mom. I asked loudly to not see her anymore, and for flair and specificity offered locations, not in my kitchen- between the oven and table, top of the stairs or that spot in my room. Mom said, “that seems very reasonable” and “reasonable enough!” and nodded to the corner of the room where no one was seen to be standing.

That night I woke up terribly parched from the night of drinking at Sassy’s strip club, a Portland staple. With my future ex's brother and lady friend, good ol Chris and Georgia. A kind stranger kept buying us drinks- and even gave the striper some money to play the jukebox.
Anyway- I woke up that night so thirsty, and stumbling to the kitchen for some water, in a warm windowless hall, I walked through her ghost.
Just like in the movies- a human sized block of cold air. 10 degrees colder at its core.
It didn’t scare me really, and seemed so theatrical, that it kind of made me chuckle.

And ultimately, she was being considerate not to stand over me while I slept.

Ghosts Poem
writing
ghost
2016