Category Archives: creative writing

By Name.

People might ask how it is that I never believe what others say, about somebody, until I’ve either heard or spoken with that person.

I think it’s because of 1999.

Don’t worry; that story is already chronicled, in a piece called No Excuse. Yes; after seven years of continuous avocational compulsion To Write, although this may be the first week I’ve actually listened to my Christopher Parkening duo CD all the way through, in print we’ve reached the blog recycle stage.

It takes having been the subject of public slander.

Once you realize that entire chunks of multiple demographics believe you to be the aggressive perpetrator of your own fleshly failings, you discover that what people say about anybody is forever tainted.

Tainted, by rumor, innuendo, the men who manage and their ladies who lunch about the lives of those to whom they only aspire.

Once you endure, first acutely and then forever, false characterization of your very self by remote strangers, you learn. You learn an even stranger magnanimity, a broadly stroking latitude, a prisoner’s forgiving heart.

And again, even this will be subject to the panel of self-assigned scrutinizers, those who remember or think they do, as if your very act of acceptance is an indictment.

To the world, your judgment is warped, your worth relegated, your life to know its place.

This is how, therefore, I came to actually hear Pierre Kory, MD speak about his bedside Emergency Room treatment of actively infected covid patients. To most paying him any attention at all, he’s right up there with RFK Jr on the list of those condemned to the social trash heap. But, I’ve been listening to him talk every week for several months, live online, along with his colleagues in the fight. And, just yesterday, he replied to my direct email. If we met in an airport, we could say Hello like old college buddies.

I listen to Richard Fleming, too. And, Dr. Mobeen Syed. And, Suzanne Somers.

If you don’t hear people, first hand, you won’t get their testimonies. And, personal testimony isn’t reserved for court. It’s what we are.

Anymore, the personal testimony of those who really do have our health and vitality at heart, while they still breathe air, are waiting to be heard.

Go, find them, and sit at their feet. It’s the way Jesus’ disciples learned the Gospel. They didn’t wait for somebody else to tell it to them. Granted, that Gospel has endured endless iteration, but we wouldn’t have the Good News at all were it not for those who listened, first hand.

Thanks to the wonder of audio technology, Christopher Parkening repeats his Recuerdos de la Alhambra as many times as I request him. I wasn’t there when he first recorded the piece, circa 1993; but, returning to a time when who I was had not yet been defined by those who still don’t know, I meet and revisit him, through his music.

People might say I know him, by name.

.

.

.

.

Copyright 8/22/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name is real and appears above this line. No copying, translating, or quoting without sharing the blog link, directly. Thank you for your first hand attention.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Mood Mole.

Pappy, Mammy, and Exhibit A.

.

.

.

CHAPTER 47.

She was never big on beauty marks.

Born with a large, round, dark nevus covering the base of her right thumb (the offender having been xrayed away before she could walk), she was subliminally repelled by them. Add her mother’s life curtailing melanoma to that mix, and you had a recipe for acute trauma at sight.

His was flesh colored until, the blood running during elevated pressure or arousal, it morphed black.

They’d not yet met. He’d found her on LinkedIn, the safe social space for working professionals. Rapid fire texting between two profile pics led to two hour plus phone convos, each voice pouring forth an obvious need to feed from the other’s fierce intellectual curiosity and creative drive. Apparently they had everything practical in common, as well; he played hockey, she played soccer and, furthermore, each had a passion for aquatic life. His, deep sea and hers, tropical fish; no matter. They’d work it out.

Box checking was the deceit.

She listened, pacing the house with her cell phone. He talked. He talked far more than most men she’d known. Her preference for the silent type taking a backseat to recognition, this was a man after her own heart.

And, he was polite, empathetic, saying Thank you and How’s your day? and, promising to review selected videos or articles on every topic which she shared of interest to them both.

Finally, after adapting to a lifetime of social expectation, she’d found her kin. That last, neglected hormone wide awake, she was back in college, throbbing with thought and theory deep into the night. There was reason to thrive alive, again.

It was during one of his newsbyte reels that she spied it.

Just below the right cheekbone, raised, inherited, a proud moniker. Infused with color in the midst of play, for her a persisting distraction.

Six weeks had already transpired. Pandemic induced isolation protracting the phone phase, now he insisted he was “interested” and also “hurt.” Why had she not yet come to any of his games?

They met.

He arrived at her place, for a light supper and live conversation. Big, sweaty, and exhausted; the schedule’d been relentless, he said. Assuredly, she understood. The mood mole was pale, smaller in person, and asleep. Should she make a move?

After about an hour of platonic exchange off he went, again thanking her for an enjoyable time and good food.

The next day: silence.

She fretted. Was the absence of under eye concealer and lipstick to blame? Had she fussed, over the meal? Expectations, not realized?

Vowing to rectify all these perceived disappointments, and tenacious to the bone, she confronted the situation. His response was startling. They’d grown close, to be sure, but were just “too different”. She should…[ insert: a litany of instructions from a seasoned mansplainer, backpedaling furiously, evoking the image of ET’s bicycle ascending the starry night. ] Should she scream, or call his mother?

Instead: Hair. Makeup. Smart outfit, dress boots. She showed up. At half time, they spoke. His smile was bright. His pupils were dilated. The mood mole was black as pitch.

Why the small talk now, when he hated it, he’d said? Why the suggestion that she paint the town? And, two days later, why the same sing-song about just who was so different from whom? Now, skipping texts, or reading only the first line, missing the point…

Nothing was computing. None of it.

He could sing or say what he will, protestations be damned. She was calling out third party interference. Time to fire the self-appointed director of this production.

Nobody would beat the power of blood flow.

There was beauty in that mark.

.

.

.

Copyright 8/1/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the sole author of this piece, whose name appears above this line. Plagiarists be condemned to the fiery pit.

littlebarefeetblog.com

.

The Amnesiac.

Foreboding sounds, weaving movements, fueling explosive force. Being too close, too near the source.

My body, splitting in half – one part feigning calm, the other fortifying for the fight.

Setting my sight on the escape plan, relief in knowing there’s always someplace else to go.

The aftermath. Indigestion, and stark recognition that only I would ever know.

*************

Alcoholic amnesia is real.

Scientific studies: done. Papers: published – in peer reviewed journals. Conclusions: reached.

Drunks.

Don’t.

REMEMBER.

Some have multiple identities, early childhood trauma causing their brains to diverge until personality becomes an adaptation instead of what the rest of us would learn to call our selves.

Those who pile on other agents – hallucinogens, opiates, stimulants……the brain responds. The save file sorts. The neurons, hormones, proteins…..all converge to devise a plan to find homeostasis, to maintain balance.

https://www.alcohol.org/comorbid/amnestic/

And, at what cost?

It’s hard for the rest of us self righteous slobs to imagine losing most of the hours in a day or days to a black out of time. It’s harder yet to endure when somebody we love is missing them, particularly at our expense. Soiled underwear; dishware and glass, smashed; random condoms and strange clothing; interiors, trashed. And, all the protestations, escalating to fever pitch. I DIDN’T DO IT. IT WASN’T ME. I WASN’T THERE.

What about these convicts who don’t remember brutal murders?

How far does temporary insanity stretch?

What’s the ratio of impulse to conscience? When does the brain flip the switch?

And, is there a drug to produce total recall?

Talk about an assault to the senses. How would one live through that scenario?

From this range, seems like an even trade.

.

.

.

© 5/7/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. No copying in whole or part, including translation, and sharing permitted by direct blog link exclusively – no RSSING. Thank you for the respect.

littlebarefeetblog.com