SodaHead - Unmistakably Liz 's Blog

"The Monster Under the Bed" unfinished by Liz Marotti

2009-11-03T05:55:42Z

+3 raves

Http://LoversQuarrel.etsy.com Chapter 1- Mr. Wonderful If you had asked me years ago, about where I would be today, it wouldn’t be here. I mean I never expected to die this way. If you would have asked me years ago where I would be today, I would’ve told you that I would be have been in Italy, selling my art work to wealthy collectors and curators for much more than what it is worth. I was in my 20’s when Jean-Michel Basquiat was alive and banging Madonna. I was a struggling artist in NYC, standing on the street trying to make a dollar the only way I knew how: By selling my art. During the 80’s the art world was reborn, and I was watching my contemporaries make millions off of crap I could do in my sleep. I wanted a piece of that pie. I knew I was talented enough. But it was all over when the monster got me. I was in my mid-twenties when I left the city. I left to go to New Hampshire where it was quiet and I could conceive paintings and go back to New York City, once a month to sell it. I was quite content leaving the party scene in NYC; I was never much of a club kid. I smoked a little weed here and there and drank, but I never messed with needles or stuff that goes in your nose. I preferred the quiet life in New Hampshire to the bells and whistles of the big city. It was the beginning of spring when I met him; the grass between the squares of pavement began to turn green. I met him during one of my frequent visits to the city, I was standing behind my card board table smoking a joint on the corner of west fourth street and Broadway selling my work and my soul, and I noticed him right away, he was tall, blond, and sharp looking, he was the type of guy you may see in a Reagan convention not the type that hunt the streets of the east village in search of strange art and even stranger artists, therefore I could not imagine him being attracted to me at all. I usually attracted other artist types; my usual was the tragic poet in filthy clothes with disheveled hair, so when he approached my table I thought he was just another paycheck. I looked at his left ring finger and there was a golden ring, he was obviously married. He was very conservative, his hair almost plastic, he wore a suit that cost about as much as my house, perfectly tailored for his lean well kept body. His eyes were icy blue with smile lines that showed wisdom and pain he was a solid decade older than me. He was carefully fingering through canvas after canvas in my make shift gallery when he looked up at me, our eyes met and he looked at me with a childlike wonder, as if I was a god or something, “Are you the creator of all this beauty?” “Yes, sir” I responded with a nervous smile. “Please don’t call me sir. My name is Jack” “Well it is great to meet you Jack, my name is Jerome” I looked down at my table and allowed his eyes to meet mine again. “Well jack, you have beautiful eyes” He cleared his throat “Why thank you.” He grabbed a small canvas with two men in an embrace “I really love this piece. What inspired it?” I could feel my face actually heating up because of how uncomfortable his question was. I mean this obviously married man was asking me about my tribute to my own homosexuality. I began to laugh, “Well Jack, my inspiration is my gay pride.” “I envy men like you.” His eyes glassed over; obviously my art had stirred something inside of him. He took out his wallet and handed me a hundred Dollar bill. I took it graciously, and looked at his face. “That piece is only twenty dollars, do you have a smaller bill?” “No, it is worth much more than a hundred dollars to me. So keep the change. What I would like though is to out for drinks with you tonight. You seem like the kind of man I would like to sit down and speak to. Are you free?” I was so shocked he was asking me out, “Yes, I am very free!” I lied. I actually had plans to catch up with friends, but I was sure they would understand. I took out my sketchpad and scribbled my mothers’ phone number along with a quick sketch so he would remember who I was. He smiled at me and gave me his card. He was a lawyer. Jack McKarver Attorney at Law. I cancelled my plans with my friends I told them that I met a dream today and they understood, because it had been so long since I even went out on a date. They told me to try to get laid. I said I would try my earnest best. I met him for drinks in a sports bar; they had 6 big screen televisions playing games from all over the world. Jack decided to sit near the television playing professional wrestling. I was very pleased with his choice, I always liked the idea of men sweating and embracing in spandex. We talked for hours, we spoke all about my dreams and goals and hopes for the future. We spoke about how difficult it was being gay in the corporate world. He had to get married to maintain his career; he had to have an escort to dinner with clients and supervisors. He was always ashamed of his feelings towards other men. So, he married his high school sweetheart, who was so blinded by his paycheck to realize that he was more interested in her brother than her. He explained that she was blind to his sexual orientation and he preferred to keep it that way. He explained that he did love her, because she was the mother of his children, but his urges were overpowering and he had no choice then to act upon them. I told him that I understood, because I did. I knew what it was like for him. There was a time that I myself hide my homosexuality. That I was embarrassed, I even had a girlfriend in college. But overtime I became an artist, and artists are allowed to be queer. I told him about how grateful I was that I was an artist and I did not envy the choices he had to make in his life . I whispered that I would gladly keep his secret longing between him and I. We stood talking at the bar until last call. He took me early that morning to a pent house suite in the Bowery Hotel; I had never had a hotel room like this. There were mirrors everywhere, the sheets on the bed were burgundy, and felt like silk. A dozen red and white roses sat on a writing table. We got in the room and he immediately called for room service and ordered chocolate covered strawberries and cristal. I sat on the edge of the bed nervously like it was my first time not quite knowing what to expect, and not quite sure if I should initiate. I mean I wasn’t a virgin, but something about him made me feel that way. A knock at the door signaled the room service had arrived. Jack took out his wallet and casually handed the bellboy a fifty-dollar tip. He poured us both a glass of champagne. He handed me a glass of champagne and began to feed strawberries to me. He slowly put the strawberry in my mouth and I sucked the chocolate off it, then I bit down. He put his hand on the side of my face, then brought his mouth down to my neck and softly kissed my neck and licked my ear. He was driving my crazy in a good way; this wasn’t my average booty call. This man was making love to me. He kissed my mouth and I shoved my mouth on top of his a kissed him roughly. He rubbed my face and asked “Are you in a rush? Slow down. We can take all night.” I fell in love with him that evening. It was the most passionate sexual encounter I ever had. He kissed my ebony skin, and told me how beautiful I was. He took care of me like I was a child. He held my body close to his and whispered that he loved me. I was so shocked that a man who was so successful and so beautiful would want to be with a man like me who was struggling to keep afloat barely making enough bread to pay his rent. We stayed together in that hotel room the rest of the weekend. He would leave to go home to check in with his family, but he would come back at various times. I was so happy to just wait for him, to wait for his warm body and his soft kisses. He took such good care of me, he was so attentive to all my needs and wants. He instinctively knew what it was I wanted to feel as soon as he opened the door. The weekend ended as quickly as it had began, and I went back to my cabin in New Hampshire inspired to create a series of paintings reflecting my newfound love, shaking off the feeling that this weekend had been a dream and that Jack may have been a figment of my imagination created due to my lack of romance in my own lonesome existence. When I walked in the door, I could see the blinking red light on my answering machine, wishing it was him. Holding my breathe I pressed play. It was Jack “Jerome, I wanted to call you to let you know how much this weekend meant to me. I wanted to tell you that I need to see you again, you made me feel reborn. From now on call me at my office when you want to come to New York. I will arrange a chauffeur to pick you up door to door. I do not want to see you riding a bus. You are too good for that.” My heart dropped a beat. I was in love! Chapter 2 He and I quickly fell in love, and he made good on his promise. Every time I came to New York, he would send a car, book a penthouse in different hotel rooms and spend time with me, watching movies, talking, and making love. I knew he went home to his wife, I knew he had intercourse with her. But I also knew when he made love to her, he was fantasizing about me. He told me she could never make him feel the way I made him feel. She could never make him moan the way I made him moan, in pain and in ecstasy all at once. She couldn’t do that. He told me that every weekend he told her he was going out of town on business, and every weekend she believed him. Looking back on it now, I don’t think she believed him, I think that she wanted so much to believe him that she accepted it. An entire year went by in an instant, and every Friday afternoon he would send a car to my cabin in New Hampshire. Every weekend we had a secret rendezvous. Our love was explosive. Twenty-four of the 48 hours we spent together, we spent naked and tangled in each others arms. Twelve of the 48 hours we spent sleeping. The rest of our time was spent talking about our lives. He told me how stressful his career was, how blind his wife was, and how indifferent he was becoming towards her. Every weekend, he loved me, and I loved him. I stayed faithful although we were apart for five days out of the week. I loved him. I did not want other men, only him. Deep in my soul I knew he would never leave his wife for fear of losing his career. I knew this, but I did not want to believe. One Friday I sat looking out of my window waiting for the car. It never showed. This was not like Jack. I began to nervously pace my cabin. It was eight o’clock; the car was already five hours late. I had the phone number for his house. But I stood with the phone receiver in my hand for a good ten minutes before I called. “Hello?” a woman answered. “ummm…. Good evening. May I please speak to Jack?” “No, he is not feeling well.” She sounded almost angry. "Who is this?” “Ummm…. Tell him.” Click. I hung up. Okay, he was sick. That made sense. I called his office that Monday, and his secretary said he was unavailable. The following Friday, I got ready again. I waited in my window, with some luggage next to my legs. Again the car did not show. Again I tried to call his house. This time no one answered. Saturday morning I went to the bus station and bought a ticket to New York. Instead of seeing Jack I visited my mother and my friends. I knew where he lived, but I was scared to visit. My friends finally convinced me. I got to his house on Amsterdam Ave and stood in front of his door for what felt like an eternity before I rang the bell. A woman in white wearing a surgical mask came to the door. She pulled down her mask, and asked, “How may I help you?” Her tone was one of wary indifference. “Is Jack available?” I asked nervously. “Mr. McKarver is very sick, and he can not have any visitors.” “Please tell him I'm here, and I am not leaving, I have to see him. It is very important.” She looked at me like I was crazy. I couldn't blame her: A young black man standing on the steps outside a beautiful brownstone on the upper west side, insisting that he speak to her wealthy employer. I don’t know where my courage came from; I don’t know how I found myself demanding to see him. “Well, what business do you have with Mr. McKarver?” “It’s of a personal nature. Please just let….” I was stunned to see Jack standing behind her in a bathrobe. He pushed past her, weakly. “Thank you Josepha, but I do have business with this young man.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Come with me, Jerome.” He brought me to his bedroom. There was at least 50 different prescription bottles scattered over his dresser. It had been less than thirty days since I last saw him, but his face had aged at least thirty years. He crawled slowly onto his bed and his robe fell open. I saw his chest. It looked as if it were caving in and there were red blotches all over. I shook my face and wiped my moist eyes, I did not except him to look like this. How come this strong man suddenly seemed so small? What happened to this big man that used to cradle me like a baby? Was this a joke? I eventually broke the awkward silence. “Why haven’t you called?” I asked firmly. Trying to keep the tears from falling out. “I have been sick.” “You know my fucking number, sick or not it doesn’t take much energy to pick up a god damn phone and dial my number. What’s really been going on Jack? I have been going fucking crazy! How could you do that to me!” My heart was racing and the words just poured out. “I couldn’t face you. My wife left me and I was sure you would too.” He looked like a sad puppy. All the fat in his face was gone, so his eyes were bigger then ever. “What? Why did she leave?” My anger was slipping away looking into his sad sorry eyes, I just wanted to understand. I wanted to know what he was going through. “Because I got sick. I've known for many years I was sick. I knew this day was coming; the day the monster would catch me.” He kept his eyes locked at his feet. He was ashamed. I could not understand how an illness could make you feel ashamed. People get sick. “She left 'cause you got sick? What kind of selfish bitch would do that? I would never do that.” My anger quickly re-emerged. I wanted to hug this chick and choke her at the same time. It is sad that she left him, but know Jack and I could start a life together. As soon as he get’s better. “Yes you would, and you will.” “No! No I wouldn’t. I would take care of you. Don’t tell me what I would do. You haven’t got the fucking right!” “Jerome. Darling. You don’t know what you are talking about. I'm very sick right now. I'm very weak. Please forgive me.” “Forgive you? For what? For leaving me without telling me why?” His once piercing blue eyes, now dull with pain, looked down at the floor. He slowly raised his eyes to meet mine, then quickly looked away. He couldn’t face me. I didn't understand!!!!!! “No, Jerome have you ever heard of auto immune deficiency syndrome?” “No.” My heart dropped. I had never heard of that. It sounded bad. I felt my stomach churning. He whispered softly as if that would lessen the blow “Well, that is what I have. AIDS.” “Wait, wait, you have AIDS? AIDS?” I heard of AIDS. People died of that. I knew it wasn’t good. I looked at him and suddenly realized he was going to die, and he probably is taking me too, and his wife. His poor unsuspecting wife. “Yes, Jerome. I have AIDS. That is why Lorrain left.” I was hurt, I was confused, I was embarrassed. But it wasn’t because he had AIDS. I was confused because he didn’t trust me enough to tell me. I was hurt because He assumed I would leave. I was embarrassed because I did not use a condom. I loved him. I didn’t care that he had AIDS. I did not care that he probably passed it along to me. I just loved him. I loved him although he probably sentenced me to death, I still loved him. I whispered, “Jack, you could’ve told me.” I was holding back my tears. “Jerome, I am not feeling well. Can you get my nurse and leave.” I leaned down and kissed him softly on his fore head. That was the last time I saw him alive. Chapter 3 - The Death of Jack. The Birth of Jerome. After I left the house I went to a clinic. I knew I had contracted this new virus, at the time people did not know much about this monster. Some high profile people had gotten it and died already, but people still thought it was a disease that gay people and drug addicts got, it was a plague that god sent to kill the enemy. I got a blood test and I awaited the results, I knew I was going to be HIV positive. I knew that I did not like condoms and that was going to be the death of me. I was prepared for my death sentence. I knew that when I got Chlamydia a few years back I took some antibiotics and I was fixed. But this was a different monster. I did not cry when the test came back positive, when I told my mother she cried, I didn’t. I took some pamphlets from the doctor and read about it. I learned that jack knew for many years he contracted the disease, he knew he was giving it to me. When I found out Jack passed away, I prepared myself to attend his wake. I dressed in all black, I got into my car and I went. I drove fast with my radio blaring. I thought about suing his estate, he owed me. He murdered me, I deserved something. I walked into the funeral home, everyone said Jack died of a heart attack; it must have been the stress at his job. A heart attack. I saw his wife crying in the front, I saw his children; two sons they looked just like him. I wondered if they contracted the virus as well. I must have looked strange, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb. I was you young flamboyant black man among all these white conservatives. An older woman walked up to me. “Hello, young man. I am Jack’s mother? Were you one of Jack’s clients?” “Um… Yeah you could say that.” “He was such a good boy.” Her eyes were tearing “He always took on civil rights cases, he really believed in those kinds of things. He would be so happy to see you here. Did my son help you?” “Yep. He sure did help me.” “God always takes the ones who do the most good. He was only 45 years old, his heart just gave out. The doctors said they couldn’t help him.” Was this lady serious? Did she really not know? Nobody told her how her son passed? No one told her son was a closet fag? My heart was hurting for her. She seemed so sweet. “Come meet Jacky’s wife, I am sure she would love to meet you.” This old woman grabbed my arm without hesitation, and pulled me to the front of the home. “Lorraine, I want you to meet, um, son what is your name?” “Jerome” “Lorraine, Jerome I want you to meet Jerome. He was working with Jacky before he passed.” Lorraine was worn down you can see it. Her clothes hung off her frail body. The circles beneath her eyes told so many stories. Suddenly I felt sorry for her, she probably loved Jack as much as I did. But jack was incapable of really loving her; I got the best of her husband. Not to mention that more than likely she also had the germ. “Hello Jerome. So you knew my husband?” “Not well ma’am, I just wanted to come and pay my respects. I am so sorry for your loss. But I must get going I have a prior engagement.” I ran out of that funeral parlor and sat in my car in the parking lot and cried. I cried for the first time since I had seen Jack last. I rested my head against the steering wheel and felt guilty, I felt guilty for wanting to take money from his estate, and I felt guilty for having an affair with that woman’s husband and taking him from his children. I felt guilty. Then I heard a knock on the window of my car. There stood Jack’s oldest son. He was Tall and blond just like his dad. He was maybe 18 years old. He looked angry, I opened up my window and he looked at me and said, “I know who you are, and I should kill you right here. But I do not want to hurt my mother anymore. So just leave and go somewhere. But leave me and my family alone!” I did not say anything. I just left. I cried the whole way home. I decided that day to move back to New York and to live, I am going die anyway so why not have a good time living while I wait to die? Chapter 3- Living fast, for I am dying young I got myself a studio apartment in Chelsea. I did not buy any furniture; I figured I did not have much time before I got sick. AIDS is a funny disease, you don’t really feel like you have it, you know you have it but you don’t feel like you do. I’ve never been sick and not felt it. You know you get a sore throat and your throat hurts. You get a stomach virus and you get diarrhea and you vomit. AIDS doesn’t make you feel any sort of a way, you just know its their like a monster under your bed. You know it’s there, you don’t want to put your feet on the floor because your scared it will bite you it’s unavoidable. I went for regular doctor visits and every time I went they would prescribe me more medications. One medication would be harsher than the next. I would find myself feeling sicker and sicker because of these medications that were suppose to saving my life and instead they were making my life unbearable. So I simply stopped, I stopped taking the pills that were meant to prolong my life, because by prolonging my life they were destroying it. I began going out to the clubs every day I could. When the clubs were closed I went to the bars. I met all kinds of different characters, I had sex but always with protection and I always told my partners I was HIV positive. I started experimenting with all kinds of drugs, I was self medicating, and I don’t feel bad about that. At the time HIV or AIDS was a death sentence, people thought that they might have a year maybe two, not twenty. Most people who were given this diagnosis got limitless credit cards and bought all the things they could not afford before. I chose to live the life I was too scared to live before, and it felt good. I was always very conservative for a black gay artist in NYC; I dressed in jeans with a button down shirt, nothing too crazy. But now, I have been given the freedom to dress crazy, the freedom to experiment and have casual sexual encounters with men and women alike. I would swing; I would use harsh drugs like cocaine to stay awake and heroin to stop the pain, I took LSD to gain creative insight and weed to mellow out. Over time my art took a back seat to my partying. Over time I forgot why I even needed that release. Over time I forgot about my mother. Over time I forgot about my friends. Over time I forgot who Jerome used to be. All that was left was a nameless HIV patient, a nameless HIV patient who was now addicted to drugs and partying. I did not like the new Jerome. Chapter 4- Intervention One cold morning I woke up in the train station not far from my apartment. When I arose from the stairs of the subway, the early afternoon sun burned my eyes. I walked like a zombie to my apartment building, where an old woman was waiting for me. The old woman was sitting in an old car. The old woman ran to greet me. “Jerome! Baby! I have been worried about you!” Her eyes were big brown and familiar. “Jerome, where have you been? We have all been so worried.” She grabbed me and hugged me. “Jerome, do you hear me.” She furrowed her brow. “Jerome, baby? Are you ok?” Finally it registered this was my mother. My mother who I forgot about. My mother who’s heart I broke when I told her I was positive. My mother who kissed my knee when I was child. My mother who loved me before and continued to love me today. I simply broke down on the sidewalk. I fell to my knees I grabbed her thighs and held my face tightly to her body, and I cried like the little boy she knew when she was a young mother. The little boy she raised on her own. The little boy she dreamed would become a respectable man. I became that little boy again. She lifted my frail frame up from the floor. She took me by my shoulders. “Jerome, I am going to take you to home.” We got into her car, and we drove through the battery tunnel into Brooklyn. It felt strange to be awake; it felt strange to sitting next to my mother. After all I left her behind. We drove for a while before anything was said. “Jerome. I am going to cook for you when we get home. Your sister is over too.” “Really?” my voice was shaking “Yes, really. We’ve all been very worried about you. She came by just to see you.” “Oh. How did she know I was coming?” “I told her I would find you today.” “Oh.” I knew I should’ve reacted differently. But I was tired; I only woke up in the subway a half hour before. Http://LoversQuarrel.etsy.com

Liz is Silly

2009-11-01T06:10:37Z

Unmistakably Liz

+4 raves

http://LoversQuarrel.etsy.com http://LoversQuarrel.etsy.com

Lovers Convo's

2009-10-29T04:54:43Z

Unmistakably Liz

+6 raves

Http://LoversQuarrel.etsy.com Plans “So you coming by tonight?” he asked “Nah, I got plans.” She said “Really? What are you doing tonight?” He asked “Just chilling, with my friends” she said “I thought you were coming by. Um, I even went grocery shopping, I was planning on making us dinner.” He tried to tempt her “Yeah. I sorry, but I promised already. Maybe tomorrow?” she negotiated “Yeah I guess we could. It’s not like I am your boyfriend or anything.” He said expecting her to correct him. “Ok! Well I’ll see you tomorrow?” She wanted to end the conversation “Yes, I’ll see you then.” The Mirror “Will you just look in the mirror? Seriously, look in the mirror for me babe” He took her by her shoulders and stood behind her. “Look at you. Do you see how beautiful you are?” She looked away, she couldn’t bare to look. “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you see?” She stood silent. “Do you know how pathetic you look? Do you know how pathetic I look being with a girl so ignorant to her own beauty” He was getting angry. “I’m sorry” she whispered. “Please! Don’t apologize to me. With all the shit you talk and now you want to act like a little girl” He sighed heavily. “Just look in the God damn mirror, and say it. Say that you are beautiful. Just do it for me.” She didn’t look up “I’m beautiful” she mumbled. “You know you are Pathetic.” PLEASE CARE! “Admit it, already! You care about me.” He looked at her with a silly smile on his face. “Of Course I do! Would I be sitting here if I didn’t?” She responded automatically like this was 15th time she has heard the question. “You do? So what if you came to the apartment and caught me in bed with another girl? Would you care then?” He said miscieviously She chuckled “Yes I would. Why would you be inviting me to your place, if you knew you would be with a girl?” “Because you showed up unexpectedly and walked in.” He raised his eyebrows. “But that would never happen.” “It might, do you have the keys?” he puckered out his lips. “Yes, but I would never show up uninvited, and I would never use them. In fact can I give them back to you?” “No, you have not answered the question yet. Would you care?” “I did answer the question! I said I would be pissed that you had the nerve to invite me over knowing you would be with another woman!” “But that’s not my point! Why must you always be so evasive. Do you care so much that you don’t want me with other women?” “What I don’t know won’t hurt me.” “So you don’t care.” REAL THINGS REAL WANTS “I am looking for Love. Not the real thing, just something that will get me through the cold lonely nights.” He looks at me like I am crazy “What does that mean?” "I am looking for a warm embrace, whether it is empty or full of life and all it has offer. I am looking for a feeling, synthetic or real, just a feeling.” He squints his eyes “Do you even listen to your thoughts before you let them flood out of your mouth?” "I listen just fine. But that is what I want. I need that. Can I get that from you? Or do I need to attain that else where?" He sighs, “Why won’t you just let this be real?” "Because nothing is real. We live in a world full of fantasy, false promises and dreams. Let’s just call a spade a spade. You don’t love me, you don’t know me. Let’s just pretend that we love each other and call it a day." He lifts his eyes and keeps his head down. “But I am not pretending” WHAT AM I DOING HERE? He says, "You are so funny, that's why I could never stay mad at you" I think (really, why do you get mad at me in the first place?) I say, "Yep, I am going quit being an artist, and do stand up" He laughs and tells me "That's what I love about you" I think (Wow, you are fucking other chicks, and you have the nerve to use that four letter word?) I say, "I bet you do. So does 75% of the male population, and probably about 25% of the females." He says, "You are so freaking witty. See that's why I love you." I think (I bet you're waiting for me to say it back. Not going to happen. Not now, not ever) I say "Yep, Yep" He says, "You know I am beginning to think you are losing interest in me" I think (No shit Sherlock. You just caught me at a vulnerable time) I say "Why do you keep saying that shit? I am so tired of you saying that! If I wasn't interested would I be sitting here with you?" He says "Well, why do you act like that? It is really frustrating. I mean we have so much in common, it is rare that a girl can keep up with me intellectually" I think (Really? So why do you always fight with me and tell me I am wrong? The only thing we have in common is our love of each other's genitals.) I say, "Do you really need to scream at me? It worries me when you scream at me. I've been here before and I don't like it" He says, "Well, what do you want to do?" I think (Get the fuck away from you) I say, "I don't know" He says, "When you say I don't know, that makes me think you do know" I think (Your right, I do know. But I am not telling you shit. NOW STRIP) I say, "If I said I don't know. Then I don't know. Now let's change the subject." DO I KNOW YOU “You are making me lose my fucking mind! All you do is talk in circles. How many words can you possibly use to say absolutely nothing!” he says holding the sides of his head as if his head may fall apart if he lets go. Her mouth refused to make any noises. “You act like you don’t give a shit about anything. Like nothing means anything! You can’t say things and expect people not to react. Do you ever think? Who the fuck are you really? Is this you now?” She looked up at him with childish wonder. Her mouth still not working as smoothly as she would like. “I am always me.” “No, you really aren’t, you are not the girl I met. I don’t know who the fuck you are.” THAT FACE “Must you always have that face on?” he asked “What face?” she responded “The face you have on right now, the face that looks unhappy. You make me think you’re not happy with me” “Why do you always have to make it about you? Maybe I am very happy with you, maybe I am upset because of where I am” her voice cracking and heaving. “Where you are? Where you are is with me” he said sadly “You know I don’t mean it like that” she sighed “Yes you do. That is exactly how you mean it” he said angrily “No.” “I am tired of trying my best to make you happy, and never succeeding. What do you want me to do?” he said desperately “Just leave me alone” she said although she did not mean it. Http://LoversQuarrel.etsy.com

Reality Check!!!

2009-02-23T20:43:41Z

Unmistakably Liz

+3 raves

Tonight I took my grandmother to a sleep disorder center so they could monitor her sleep. She and I walked up to the building carrying her suitcase, pocket book and her oxygen, we stepped up the stair she nearly fell down the stairs. We walked into the building arm in arm and she kept pulling to the left, she could not keep her balance. It kind of spooked me. I could not help but to think about when I took my cat to put her to sleep, and I giggled an anxious uncomfortable giggle. I felt terrible for even the thought. I took her to the room which she would be spending the night, and it was really beautiful for a hospital room, I mean it looked like a hotel room. They had a big soft comforter on the bed, drapes on the windows, a big comfy chair, a big closet and a large bathroom with a medicine cabinet and a big shower. Grandma sat in the chair and began trying to open her luggage, after watching her struggle for a few minutes I opened it for her. She took out her slippers and threw them on the floor. We both looked down at the slippers and she began reaching for her shoes, and again I offered help. I knelt on the floor took off her shoes for her and slipped her feet into her slippers. The nurse came in talk to her, and the nurse spoke to my grandmother like she was a child. The scary part was that my grandmother responded like a child. I suddenly realized my grandmother was no longer the woman I knew as a child. She reverted back to a childlike existence, and she needed to be treated that way. See I always had a hero worship thing going with my grandmother. I always thought she was so smart and sophisticated, everything I am not. She had everything my mother did not. She had a superb fashion sense and a sharp wit. I could remember watching my mouth when she was around for fear of saying something incorrectly because her english was superb and my accent was always horrendous. She was always impressed by creativity when my parents were not. When I got older I was able to discuss Art history, Psychology, and Shakespeare with Grandma, no one else in my family would be able to keep up but her. But now I look at her and it really scares me, this woman that used to be so great is now a little girl again. I used to call her on the phone when was young and hear my grandfather offering her a coffee, or I used to see my grandfather washing the dishes and be in amazement at how lucky grandma was to have such a wonderful man and wonder why my dad wasn't like that. Both my grandparents are still alive, Grandma is 87 and Grandpa is 98. Grandpa is in better condition than grandma and still tells me how blessed he feels to be with such a wonderful woman. It's funny because Grandpa was a 6'2, athlete with blue eyes and back hair, actually he was extraordinarily attractive. But grandma was 5'2, dark haired, dark eyed with bottle top glasses even in her youth not much to write home about, but grandpa still doesn't know why she would choose him. Ha! He told me that he was glad she did not take the scholarship that NYU offered her when she graduated High school, because then she may have married a professor instead of him. He is so silly. AT 98 years old my grandma still bosses him around, and he seems lost when she goes anywhere. If she goes shopping, he stays by the front window and waits. Which brings me back to why i was writing this.... I have an overwhelming fear that one of them is gonna go. In reality if either one of them goes today, they would have had a good long life, but what will become of the one that is left behind? How do you leave someone that has been by your side for 70 years? That you have produced 3 generations with? How devastating! That trip to the doctor has me thinking to much.... I better just go to sleep. Love Alwayz Liz

Why can't this be real??

2009-01-13T20:12:19Z

Unmistakably Liz

+10 raves

“I am looking for Love. Not the real thing, just something that will get me through the cold lonely nights.” He looks at me like I am crazy “What does that mean?” "I am looking for a warm embrace, whether it is empty or full of life and all it has offer. I am looking for a feeling, synthetic or real, just a feeling.” He squints his eyes “Do you even listen to your thoughts before you let them flood out of your mouth?” "I listen just fine. But that is what I want. I need that. Can I get that from you? Or do I need to attain that else where?" He sighs, “Why won’t you just let this be real?” "Because nothing is real. We live in a world full of fantasy, false promises and dreams. Let’s just call a spade a spade. You don’t love me, you don’t know me. Let’s just pretend that we love each other and call it a day." He lifts his eyes and keeps his head down. “But I am not pretending” Check out http://socialbar.ning.com/ Cool new social network!

He says, I think, I say

2009-01-07T06:58:08Z

Unmistakably Liz

+5 raves

He says, “You are so funny, that’s why I could never stay mad at you” I think (really, why do you get mad at me in the first place?) I say, “Yep, I am going quit being an artist, and do stand up” He laughs and tells me “That’s what I love about you” I think (Wow, you are fucking other chicks, and you have the nerve to use that four letter word?) I say, “I bet you do. So does 75% of the male population, and probably about 25% of the females.” He says, “You are so freaking witty. See that’s why I love you.” I think (I bet you’re waiting for me to say it back. Not going to happen. Not now, not ever) I say “Yep, Yep” He says, “You know I am beginning to think you are losing interest in me” I think (No shit Sherlock. You just caught me at a vulnerable time) I say “Why do you keep saying that shit? I am so tired of you saying that! If I wasn’t interested would I be sitting here with you?” He says “Well, why do you act like that? It is really frustrating. I mean we have so much in common, it is rare that a girl can keep up with me intellectually” I think (Really? So why do you always fight with me and tell me I am wrong? The only thing we have in common is our love of each other’s genitals.) I say, “Do you really need to scream at me? It worries me when you scream at me. I’ve been here before and I don’t like it” He says, “Well, what do you want to do?” I think (Get the fuck away from you) I say, “I don’t know” He says, “When you say I don’t know, that makes me think you do know” I think (Your right, I do know. But I am not telling you shit. NOW STRIP) I say, “If I said I don’t know. Then I don’t know. Now let’s change the subject.”

My Art work

2008-08-17T16:58:27Z

Unmistakably Liz

+14 raves

Click here If you can not view- http://www.slide.com/r/iNmKMtcotz--q1gcd2zQJcpaR7aC-2sH?view=...

My latest Novella

2008-06-10T17:06:12Z

Unmistakably Liz

+5 raves

Chapter 1- An Introduction to our lovers Her Face always found that spot in his chest, where they felt like they were one for that moment. They sat happily on a shabby couch in a roach infested apartment, Although there were gunshots outside and crack heads laying in the street, that spot was their little bit of heaven. What happened on the street where they lived did not matter as long as they were together. Her paintings were hung in no frames all around the apartment adding to the atmosphere. He loved to stare into her mind through her paintings. Her paintings were morbid to say the least. They were surreal with bodies laid in reds, purples, and blues, touching and feeling each other on found objects. She painted on things he found for her. She painted on pieces of wood, on signs stores threw out. Sometimes she incorporated what the signs said into her work. Bodies hanging off of words, dying or falling and sometimes dead. She did not look like she could produce such dramatic pieces. She was quite ordinary in her appearance, fizzy brown hair, dark brown eyes, and pasty pale white skin with freckles, not much to look at. However she certainly did shine, when she spoke people listened. She was strong, even with her short stature she was bold. That was why he loved her. She lifted her head and kissed him softly on his full lips. His appearance was very much different from hers. She could stare into his dark eyes for hours. He was very tall, lean and just plain handsome with a richly mixed heritage that you can only find in places like New York or New Orleans. He probably should have been an actor or a model, but he felt he was called to be a poet, more due to his shyness than anything else, lord only knows it has never been the promise of wealth or fame for him at least. He just enjoyed the release, the way his words could form a beat and a feeling, to express his feelings in a way that was beautiful. Just like every good artist he wanted to create beauty. Most people who met him could not understand how he could create such drawn out, beautifully worded poetry, simply because he rarely spoke, he mostly listened. He was never one to start a conversation, but then again he never had to. When you are a beautiful person everyone speaks to you. He reached over and began stroking her hair. He looked around at what they made together, and he was content. Every where around their 4 room apartment were pieces of them. Photographs of their adventures, paintings, knick knacks he collected, her musical DVDs, and his gangster films every item was evidence that they existed, that this place was theirs. Although he was happy with that he knew she deserved more. He dreamed often of her having the room required to create the gigantic masterpieces he envisioned her creating, while he sat at an oak desk in the next room writing a great American novel with a candle burning next to him. He wanted to take her to all the Broadway shows that she had the albums to; he wanted to buy her fancy clothes and get her hair done. He wanted to give her the life he knew before him. Chapter 2- Love is but an illusion Love is a funny emotion, it can be perceived as a real thing as something that is tangible but its not. You can not touch it or feel it. It can not feed you, it can not clothe you. All it can do is give you a certain light headed feeling, Pot can do that too. Lovers will tell you it's real. They will tell you can see it. They will tell you that you can have it too. However, if you approach them after their lover has gone away, they will tell you that they never said that. They will be cynical and they will tell you as I tell you now. It is an illusion, a fairy tale or a Myth. They will tell you that part of their life is over and it never happened. They will tell you that their old lover was not right. That they were crazy and they were unhappy. You and I know that they did not feel that way when they were involved, but they feel that way now. When Now comes, then no longer matters, and we all live in the now and the then is a distant memory. Some Lovers become content. They become used to each other, those are the ones that get married and have babies, often not in that order. However, they lose their love over time. The stress of love gets to them. Love is no longer a high; it is something that needs to be done. They have to love each other, they have to! If they don't love each other, how can they live? How can their children be ok? So love becomes a responsibility. No! You can not run away to California to become a porn star! What will little Billy think of his old man? Not only what will he think, what will little Billy eat? His mother can not support him on her own. So no! You can not become a porn star. Nope, can't try and be an actor either. But the factory that produces staplers and other office supplies is hiring. Lawyers buy staplers from that factory. That Factory will supply your family with medical benefits and it is an honest living. Something any man can be proud of. You will make Staplers! Then if you work hard and make a million staplers, they may promote you to stapler supervisor! Then you can make enough money to send Billy to a private school, no more public schools for Billy. Billy will wear a uniform everyday and will conform to a system! Billy will learn how to be like his Dad. See Love turns from romance to a grand responsibility, something you and Billy can both be proud of! Chapter 3- Love, Chicken and Bargains "Sweetheart!" he called to her with his head in the refrigerator. "What do want for dinner?" She looked up from no parking sign that she just began painting. "I don't know, surprise me!" He continued to stick his head deeper into the fridge. "Ok, well there is not much to choose from. Chicken or beef? I will be happy to cook either for you." "I want vinegar!" and she went back to painting. He looked at the wall. He saw her painting; the painting was of a man and a woman. The woman was red; she was kissing the man on the mouth. She was crouched over and full of raw energy and emotion, the man was blue and falling on his knees as she sucked the life out of him. He looked dead, or dying. "Babe, you can not eat vinegar for dinner." He said with a little frustration in his voice. She asked "why not?" "Because it will hurt your belly." She looked at him like he was speaking Chinese "What? No it won't. I have a belly like a tank, I can handle it." He looked at her and shook his head and continued to search the fridge. He looked at her, and said "Honey, I am going to make a deal with you. I am going to make sweet and sour chicken, with rice and a salad. Sweet and sour sauce has vinegar in it, I will dress the salad with oil and vinegar and then I will give you a cup of vinegar on the side, for you to do what ever you want with. Does that sound good babe?" He felt a little annoyed with his bargain, but he loved her and wanted only to see her smile. Her face lit up and she said "That sounds perfect! I don't know how you always know what I want but you do, you do!" She grabbed him around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. He stood at the stove and prepared dinner. Then he set the table with candle light and plastic silverware. Dinner was his favorite time of the day. It was the only time he could get her to talk to him. Not that she had problems speaking to him, but her mind was always in so many places at once. Only at dinner could he get her to stay on track and pay complete attention to him. He loved the fact that she was so adventurous and scattered, he felt that she needed him, although he knew she could survive on her own. He did not like to think about that. "Darling! Dinner is prepared" He made his voice sound like a butler. She lifted her head from her painting and stumbled to the table covered in paint. "So, did you get any of the paint on the painting?" She always got paint all over her face neck and hands. She laughed at his joke and sat down. "Baby, don't you want to go to the bathroom and clean up a bit?" "No, Vincent Van Gough never had to, so why should I?" he snickered at her "Cause Vincent Van Gough also had gotten Lead poisoning and cut off a part of his ear during an epileptic seizure. Now baby, do you want that?" He always answered her even if it was a stupid question or a silly statement. He always gave her that respect. "Now, go wash up. I will help you." He took her to the bathroom and washed her face and scrubbed her hands for her. Then they sat at dinner and finally ate. "My Dad called today. He said the city is hiring meter maids, why don't we both go and take the test. I am sure that it will pay more than selling my paintings." He made a face "I mean, we can do it together. Then we can both go back to school part time and we can make good money" He did not want to work, he wanted to be a writer. "Babe, I don't want to sell out. Don't you see? We are living the dream." She looked at him and said "You're living the dream. I'm living on food stamps. We could live better than this. We can still pursue our goals. You could still write your little poems, I could still produce paintings. The only difference will be we could afford materials and not take them from out the garbage. You won't have to go to the bank just to steal a pen! Don't you want more? I do. I know we could have more" He looked at her, his eyes were glassed over. "What do you mean little poems? My poetry is the one thing that keeps me from slitting my wrists. I am sorry that you can't see that this is paradise. You and me babe. Me and you! We can take over the world. Forget we can, we will, eventually." "Eventually? Eventually is not good enough for me. Eventually will not feed me today! Look at it realistically! I am an artist, you are a poet. I am not Pablo Picasso and you are not Robert Frost. We may never get any recognition." She was angry and he was getting there. "Who cares about recognition? We have each other! We make enough to eat, and we pay our rent. What more do we need?" His eyes were beginning to tear. "What more do we need? Oh my Gosh! Aren't you tired of living like this? I want art supplies! I am tired of wearing the same jeans for years! I want to buy cigarettes! We need air conditioning! Are you not feeling this way? Are you blind?" "No, I am not blind. I love you. I know things will work themselves out. Our love is strong. Love will keep me cool. I am sorry you don't feel the same way." He stood up and cleaned the table off and blew out the candle she did not even notice he lit. He washed all the dishes and cleaned up the apartment. She just sat at the table in a daze, just staring into blankness. After he finished all of the chores he sat on the couch, he turned the TV on and faded away. She sat there thinking. Was she too hard on him? She loved the fact that he was so idealistic, but she knew that she wanted more, and he was smart enough to make good money and take care of her. She felt he was holding her back, she was probably right. However she had no right destroying his dreams, she regretted it. She walked behind the couch, and began massaging his shoulders and neck. He did not look at her, he hated that she always thought that would repair the damage. She put her lips to his neck and he continued to be evasive. She kissed along his neck and massaged him. She whispered in his ear that she was sorry. He said nothing back. She walked to the front of the couch and looked in his eyes and sat on his lap and held him. She then kissed his lips and he gave in. He hated giving in to her, he hated that she would forget everything by having sex with him. Sex was not important to him, for him Love was doing for her, not doing her. She felt that sex was her only way of showing him that she loved him. So that was why he gave in. Chapter 4- Sex as a tool Sex is a tool that makes person engaged in it believe that they re secure in the relationship a falsified sense of love. People who use sex as a tool understand that sex and love are not the same thing. Those who do not understand are used by the people who do understand. Those who believe in sex being an expression of Love are either inexperienced or slow learners. Those are our Romeo's and Juliet's. Those are the ones who commit suicide because they believed their sexual escapades were love making sessions and when it is found out otherwise their heart breaks, and no one can truly heal a broken heart, all you can do is put a band-aid on it and move on. Those who know how to use sex as a tool are the predators; they prey on those who are ignorant to the practice. Those who are ignorant, lose more than just material goods, they lose their dignity, their self respect, their innocence and in the worst case scenario their will to live. Chapter 5- Pot and Lies "Hey! Look what I got! We are going to have fun tonight!" She reached deeply into her jeans and pulled out a $20 bag of pot. "Where'd you get that?" He looked at her puzzled. "I had a good day! I sold 2 paintings, today!" "Really?" "Yes, Really!" He knew she was lying, but he could not bring himself to accuse her. He sighed and looked at the wall; he saw a painting of a man curled up in the fetal position clinging tightly to his legs, while a woman in lavenders and greens turned her back to him with her arms folded. "What are you waiting for? Roll that shit up! Here's a Dutch!" He began rolling it up and he crumbled the green leaves between his fingers. They felt warm and the aroma filled their small apartment. He looked deeply into her eyes, knowing in his mind that she did not buy that pot. His stomach was turning. "Can you roll that faster? Please?" She was clueless about his thoughts. She got up and tossed West Side Story in the VCR. "Babe, do we have to watch this again?" She was short with him "Yes!" He looked at her painting again and this time he noticed that the man could not breathe. He lit the freshly rolled blunt, he inhaled deeply it choked him. He began coughing, it tasted dirty. He passed it to her, and she fell into another world, she felt happy. "Hey, you know we should start selling." He looked at her. "Selling what, sweetheart?" "Trees" "Babe, we can not start selling pot!" "Why not? I mean Kareem sells, and he owns his own house in Brooklyn." She was getting excited over the prospect. "Do you know how much a house costs in Brooklyn? Over a million dollars! He doesn't work a nine to five either; all he does is sell Pot. We can do that too!" "No, we can't! We are not going to be drug dealers! Baby, now you are talking craziness!" "No! It's not crazy! Kareem makes doe. I want a piece of that action. We can even grow it ourselves. Listen, art is not going to get us out of the gutter. But if drugs will, I will sell drugs! We can make a mint. Everyone out here is a potential customer. Art will only take us so far, but Pot, Coke, heroin, Crack... Look around you! We can be successful!" "With dirty money? Do you really want that kind of success?" He sighed "And you consider this the gutter? You consider being with me the gutter?" "Listen, we need to become business people, that is the only way to survive out here. New York isn’t what it used to be. The rent is sky high! We can not afford it. Let's get up in the world. Just you and me. Let's go places!" He closed his eyes real tight. He saw her. He loved her, but he was disgusted, he was disgusted with her and he was disgusted with her willingness to sell out for money. He thought again about how she got that pot, about her admiration for a man who poisons his community. About how she looked up to Kareem, how she probably kissed Kareem with those lips that she was using to tell him her ideas about how those same lips will touch his lips later on in the evening. He opened his eyes to see her puffing away on that dirty blunt. He looked at her; he tried to look through her. "I am going to bed, I hope that pot was worth it, but then again you would sell out and be a drug dealer. I wonder what else you would sell. Good night." He slammed the door, and went to bed. Chapter 6- Gods gifts, the devils prey Artists by definition are illusionists. They create something where there was blankness, a gift only possessed by god and those that god deems worthy. whether they paint, sing, dance or write they are creators. They often create beauty, They often create Love. The viewer goes away feeling different for the privilege of viewing true magic. The ability to create comes with vast responsibility, for when you can create beauty, you can just as easily create ugliness. The artist can poison their own minds, for they themselves are human. They often believe their own magic and as they create the ugliness the ugliness affects them as well. So often the artist poisons their minds, for with the ability to create comes extreme emotions and belief in ones own fantasies. Chapter 7- She's gone She woke up without him next to her. The sun burned her eyes, she held them tightly shut for a moment. She smelled bacon frying, she heard the crackling of the oil and she smiled. She walked dizzily into the kitchen, to see him standing at the stove. "Good Morning, Sweet heart! I hope you slept well" He said cheerfully to her She plopped lazily on the couch. "I slept okay. I did not dream much." "It could always be worse, right? I hope you're hungry, i made a breakfast fit for a queen!" She smiled at him and turned on the TV and watched the morning talk shows. He finished cooking, and set paper plates on the table. He turned his head to call her over when his eyes caught her most recent painting. Dead bodies laid across an empty landscape. He looked closer to see one male figure still holding on to life. His hand was reaching to a shadowy figure of a woman who was standing above him with her arms folded. He caught himself day dreaming and shook his head. He called out to her. "Breakfast is ready!" She rose from the couch and the sun illuminated her figure causing her to appear as a shadow. She sat at the table and began to eat. He stared at her, he thought she was beautiful. "what are you looking at?" "You, silly girl" "Well stop it, its annoying!" "Sometimes, I wish i could convey you in a verse, but i can never quite capture your essence" "Ewwwwww! I am so sick of this crap! Day in and day out! She was frustrated "Hearing you claim you're a poet! Piles of notebooks filled with unrequited love, mushy sappy shit!" She rose from the table, he followed shocked at her response to his attempt at romancing her. She walked heavily to a bookshelf filled with his notebooks and journals. She began pulling them out one by one and throwing them. "What are you doing?" He sounded hurt more than any thing else. "What am I doing? What am I doing? Are you serious? What are you doing? And I don't mean right now. I mean what are you doing with you Life? Don't you want more? Poetry does not pay the bills. You can write all the pretty words you want, you can write about flowers and butterflies and i will still be slapping roaches off my chest as we sleep! You are a pathetic waste of a man!" He grabbed her by the shoulders and began shaking her. "A waste of a man? Pathetic? You don't appreciate anything!" He realized what his hands were doing, and he fell to his knees. He began to cry hysterically and he hugged her legs. She was shocked, he rarely raised his voice to her, let alone laid a hand on her. She shook him off her legs. Shook her head at him and headed towards the door. "I am gonna stay with my mother for a little while, i will see you later" Chapter 8- Weak Hearts Some hearts can not handle being alone. I should have known that before I left. In my heart i knew it would be okay. I planned to only go home for a little while, prepare a plan to make us work. I never understood what he saw in me, he was so beautiful. He could not have been real, no man could love me. I did not deserve him, so i needed to prove that to myself by treating him like he was worthless because i thought i was. I was just going to find a good job and collect some money so we could live the life we deserved. I thought it was the right to do. I knew he was sensitive, I knew i was cold. I know i was bad a showing him how i felt. But i did not think he would do that. Chapter 9- Where angels fear to tread When she came back to the apartment, there was police tape on the door. "Where is he?" she asked the police officer who was writing in a pad outside their apartment. The police officer did not raise his head. "He's dead, a shame. He was only 21. Took some nylons and hung himself in the shower." She collapsed. "I was coming back. Why couldn't he wait? I got a good job now. We could live decent, like everyone else!" She pushed her head on the concrete and cried.

Lets not label this yet

2008-04-24T20:40:42Z

Unmistakably Liz

+3 raves

Our bodies intertwine like ivy around an old willow, Lets not label this yet Let's live in this moment Before we choose to complicate things. Let me feel this for another minute without a thought, Let me not think about the one I love. Let me just love the man I can touch. I want to feel the coolness of your saturated body, Let me not look in your eyes. Let me just feel you inside of me. Tomorrow this will all be forgotten, Tomorrow I will forget that you made me feel like this, Tomorrow. Liz Marotti

Lets Not Label this yet

2008-04-24T20:40:02Z

Unmistakably Liz

+1 raves