The Anthropologist Formerly Known as Prince

I remember thinking once,

“I’d never want him to produce my music.”

Fool that I was.

I didn’t realize then

that the sound I had mistaken for

messiness and chaos

was actually the character of mankind

caught on tape.

It was,

truly,

anthropology at its finest.

You entangled each one of us

in the snare of your guitar strings;

furiously jotted endless lyrical notes,

and then released us back

into the wild with a song.

You were an incomparable teacher;

you taught us to Gett Off,

what doves sound like when they cry,

and that not everything that glitters is Gold.

At times,

it seemed as though you even

controlled the weather-

it rained Purple;

it snowed in April.

A lesser man would have agonized over

such a petite figure;

but you strutted yours.

Ruffled, tailored, Purpled.

You masqueraded as a sex object,

and no one ever realized you were

preaching the Gospel while you did it.

You told us of a Park

where life won’t be so bad;

it was in our hearts,

but now we can tour the frickin’ place

for a hundred bucks.

I guess it’s just a Sign O’ the Times,

isn’t it?

“The Beautiful Ones you always seem to lose.”

A Letter to Alan Rickman

My esteemed Alan,

I would have referred to you as Al in my opening, since it feels as if I’ve known you since I was a wee thing, but you are English, and are much too refined for nicknames.

I wonder if you noticed that I refer to you in the present tense, despite the bitter fact that you left us one year ago today. I do so because, to me, you are very much alive on my movie shelf. I would like to thank you for that.

It’s true that you played an angel with no private parts in the movie Dogma, (a scene which, incidentally, is the only I remember of the entire movie) and a villain on several occasions, (Die Hard and Robin Hood); however, I will remember you most fondly as Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility. It is really quite odd- the first time I watched you in that role, I despised you immensely.

I remember, I was at a friend’s for her birthday party when I was fifteen, when all of us decided to watch that film. Given my age at the time, it makes sense that I did not immediately appreciate your less-than-obvious good looks. It was a time when Freddie Prinze Jr. was a more apparent heartthrob…

It was a few years later when I again watched Sense and Sensibility when I realized how perfectly you pined for Kate Winslet’s character- I actually ended up detesting her after realizing how rude she was to Colonel Brandon. Still, I suppose I should be happy that you finally got the girl, even though I find myself a little jealous.

My jealousy of fictional characters was only compounded by your portrayal of Professor Snape in all the Harry Potter films. My hatred for Snape in the first six films was completely wiped away in the last, where you instantly forever and “always” became my favorite character. (Oh, to be loved as Lily was…)

You also happened to star in my favorite Christmas movie, Love Actually. Though I have nothing to  say about your performance because your character ended up being kind of a douche. I suppose you played the part well, since that was how we were supposed to feel about you?

I mustn’t forget your voice; that voice that resonates within my mind whenever you are mentioned- what am I supposed to do now when I finally write a screenplay that needs a man who’s voice can “talk a woman out of her knickers by just whispering her name, or scare the living shit out of children”?! Damn you and your pancreas, Alan!

I only jest, Mr. Rickman. I’m just upset that in a few short months I will be writing a similar letter to our dearly departed Prince. Although it’s nice to think that your rich, deep voice and his ridiculously high falsetto are blending in the far beyond.

Always,

Sparklebumps

Elegy for a Crayon

I saw you lying there

Used up and broken.

Your flaming shade

the color of blood-

I half-expected to see

a pool of scarlet oozing

from your stubby ends.

Your wrapper

had been peeled away

completely from one of your pieces;

the other lay in shame

very like a rape victim,

in tattered vestment.

Your identification had been

ripped away.

Only the bold letters OLA

remained.

As I cleared the table,

I placed my hand over you

quickly

To conceal your

wretched state.

I recall a time

when I had adored ones

such as you,

and would never have thought

to leave them in

such a pitiful condition.

I wonder how many more

rainbows you would have

created,

had fate not sent you such a

vicious end.

I toss your remains

into the trash,

apologetically,

and I think to myself.

Children can be so cruel.

Living Dead Girl

It started with my kidneys. One day I woke up and they just weren’t there anymore. I don’t know how I knew. I mean, it wasn’t like that urban legend where the girl wakes up in a tub of ice to find a massive gash in her lower back that’s been stitched up after someone removed her kidneys. I woke up in my own bed, not in ice, but actually with my body temperature high because of my lime-green-and-fuschia-striped comforter. I panicked, and called Riley, my boyfriend at the time, at work.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he had asked when I told him about my missing kidneys. “Are you high?”

When I said no, and tried to explain the situation, he blew up at me and told me he was busy at work, and that I needed to quit making stupid shit up. I realize now what an asshole he was, because he didn’t seem the least bit concerned that my body parts were beginning to disappear, even when he came over that night after work and saw how freaked I was. He stuck around for a few more months, but when I wouldn’t let it go, and then my pancreas disappeared, he told me he’d had enough of my shit. By that point, I wasn’t really sad to see him go.

I know, you’re wondering how my body can still function without kidneys and a pancreas. I don’t have an explanation, except to say that I’m not actually alive anymore. My shrink says I’m hallucinating; that if I take a minute and really ponder it, I might realize how silly it sounds that I’m still walking around and going about my life if I’m actually dead. My response to her was, “Why don’t you  think about how silly it sounds that a living person is functioning without the necessary body parts?”

Yeah, she didn’t like that. So she wrote me another prescription that I didn’t fill.

My sister was with me when my lungs disappeared. By then, I was pretty much resigned to the fact that I’d never be an organ donor, what with all my parts vanishing, but I let her know anyway, in case we happened to run a marathon and I came up short of breath. She knew about my other body parts, so she was sufficiently sympathetic. She offered to drive me to the clinic, and seemed relieved when they presented us with X-rays that clearly sported a healthy-looking set of lungs. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that they’d done that before- gotten my X-rays mixed up with another patient’s. I want her faith in our medical community to remain intact.

After that, I kept that fact that I dematerializing to myself. It’s bad enough that I’m dealing with the fact that I ceased to exist. I don’t need my friends and family aggravating the situation by telling me I’m more unhinged than Kanye West at an awards show. I may be missing internal organs, but my feelings are still there. I’m just hoping my heart dissolves before it gets broken, because at least that won’t hurt. I’ve always heard a broken heart is a tough thing to deal with. The real question is- can my heart still break if I’m already dead?

For Grampa

I noticed the sky this morning,

the morning you left us.

It was beautiful;

rose-colored and coral.

I thought of the old saying-

you know the one-

Red sky at morning,

sailors take warning.

And I started to cry.

It wasn’t warning sailors,

and I knew it.

It was warning us,

all of us that are left

that the world would be a little bit darker soon,

because you were going Home.

I knew;

that was why I held your hand maybe a little bit too tight

right before I had to go.

I figured it might have hurt,

but I knew you wouldn’t mind.

You would have done the same

if you’d been able to.

Now I have to figure out

how exactly my little boy is going to

grow up knowing just what a great man you were.

He’ll only see pictures of you,

the ones that prove me right-

that you were the best-dressed man that ever lived,

and so handsome.

(More handsome than all your brothers. Shhh.)

When he grows up,

he won’t get to remember what it was like

to wander through your garden with you,

admiring the stunning array of flowers

you and Gramma worked so hard on.

My son will never watch

Gramma, with the most tender of touch,

comb back the glorious strands of white and grey

from your forehead.

You know, I didn’t mind it a bit

when you missed a haircut or two.

There are far too many balding older men in the world.

It always seemed a shame to clip

the admirable abundance of hair you retained.

I’ll tell you a secret now.

Don’t be mad.

I always hated your favorite hymn.

In the Garden was never quite grandiose enough for me.

But you know I’ll play it for you anyway,

when it’s time to say goodbye.

The words, I really don’t mind, though.

And when I am digging in my own dirt,

I’ll sing them to myself

and think of you.

“I come to the garden alone,

when the dew is still on the roses…”

I maintain my opinion that

Crystal Gayle was always prettier than Loretta Lynn.

I keep saying it,

hoping you’ll come back and argue with me.

Loretta never knew what she was missing,

but all the rest of us will,

until we see you later.

 

A Farewell to Maya Angelou

My heart is breaking.

It seems silly, to say such a thing because someone you’ve never met has passed away.

But here I sit, silent tears pouring down my face. Tears for the magnificent collection of words that will no longer be sculpted and forged by your contemplative hands.

I see them, all those syllables, lying in a heap at my feet, and think that they look just a little bit forlorn, knowing they were not the chosen ones to be plucked for your masterpieces.

Of course, now that you are gone, you will be wildly popular.

It always vexes me that so many are paid attention to so greatly in death.

People will say, “Oh! Have you read all of her memoirs? She was quite a woman. Phenomenal, in fact.”

I will shake my head, not because the answer is no, but because I have known these things far longer than they, and am sorry they have lost out on all that time they too could have known your words.

You were proud, and not afraid to say so, yet you prayed for humility.

I will feed your ego now, and not fault you if you strut around arrogantly just a little bit in Heaven.

I am afraid there will never be another like you.

Someone who is so unapologetically truthful, and unconventionally beautiful.

Someone who will say words just as they are thought, but in such a way that causes a violent reaction, one of delight, or love, or anger, or wistfulness.

I will forever be sorry I never had the honor of meeting you, and hope that one day in the future, when I pass through those Pearly Gates, I might see you nod your head at me, just so I know that you know I heard you.

XOXO

From one Phenomenal Woman to Another

 

Come Back, Vince Flynn!

Listen here, Vince Flynn,

I’ve got a bone to pick with you, and you’re gonna listen to me, whether you’re actually dead or not.

It’s really not ok that you just died like that.

OK, so maybe it wasn’t really all that sudden, since you announced your ass cancer in February and all, but geez! You don’t think you coulda picked up the phone and called, huh? After all, we’re kind of neighbors. I mean, you live in Minnesota and I live in Minnesota.

I think fondly of the times when I worked at my bookstore and people were constantly coming in to look for your books. I began to wonder what all the fuss was about, and so I picked one up one day. And then it was all over.

I began to search high and low for your books in hardcover, for I knew instantly that they must be a permanent part of my ever-growing library. And the fact that I turned my well-read Auntie onto you is a fact I am quite proud of, even though she admitted that your writing style was not quite her cup of tea.

I shamedly confess that while I adore your writing (and your beautiful face that is now without life) while I own  many but not all of your books, I have yet to read more than one. After all, I have many books to read, and I can’t just be reading spy novels all the time. Anyhoo, now I will have to put aside my Memoirs of Cleopatra and take up with Mitch Rapp in your honor.

I had hoped that we, as co-Minnesota writers, might have collaborated on a story that then became wildly successful, or at least collaborated at friends over a steamy….. cup of joe in downtown St. Paul after one of your book signings. Ah C’est la vie. Or c’est la morte, rather.

I am rather upset that I’ve picked up additional shifts at work this weekend, and so I shall miss your funeral, which I’m certain shall be a sight to behold. I would send flowers, but I am poor, and well, you are dead, so you wouldn’t probably appreciate them anyway.

I mourn your passing, because you are an author, and a good one, and one I’ve had numerous conversations about with my co-worker. If at any time you feel unrest and wish to converse with someone in the real world, you have my permission to sneak your wispy ghost self into my bedroom and have a chat. Although, I must point out my world is, at times, more of an illusion than real.

Love in the Afterlife,

Sparklebumps

Death of a Follower

I was saddened to see when I logged into my account this morning that I have one less follower than I did yesterday. The only reason I can come up with is that this individual died, because why else would anyone reject me? To that person’s family, I am sorry for your loss. I am sorry for my loss too. 😦

Eulogy

Inspired by John’s post about funeral music, I thought it would be a good idea to write a eulogy for myself, on the off-chance that I decide to take a dirt nap. I have no plans of expiring any time soon, however, I am already past my Use By Date, so you never know. And as I know myself better than anyone else (because I have almost no friends and my parents are still convinced that I am not a bad seed) and as I wish to be conveyed in a proper and truthful light, it is up to me to write a eulogy that does this. I could leave it up to my Rockstar, but he is not quite as eloquent as I, and anyway, he has the spelling credentials of a 2nd grader, so no-one would even be able to read it. So here we go:

Sparklebumps was a girl who loved happiness, and felt it was her duty to bring it to others. Her ruffly skirts and glittery shirts made her feel like a movie star, and she wore her make-up as an accessory. claiming, “Look! Look at my sparkly purply eyeshadow!”, while batting her eyes at anyone who would pay attention. Her exctasy over little things like that kept her from being sent to the loony bin, I think.

As much as Sparkle enjoyed material things, (shoes, french fries, castles) she knew there was more to life than that. The best times were spent in the company of her Beloveds, even if they were just bummin’ around. To steal a line from her favorite movie, Moulin Rouge, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love, and be loved in return.” *sigh*

Yes, Sparkle was living in her own little musical. She would sporadically burst into song, just because it made her feel better. She knew the musical was all about her, (while some people claimed that was just her histrionic personality disorder) and every day she tried to be worthy of that honor. It did really upset her though, when other people refused to burst into song at their allotted times.

Sparkle loved books. She always said she would have a library, and she did. She just didn’t have a place to put it. Her love of books held no boundaries- she had fiction, how-to books, art books, self-help, bios, poetry, etc. Her thesaurus was her favorite, but sadly she misplaced it. She would leave all of these to her Rockstar and his Daughter, however- they don’t appreciate books because they are silly, so the only ones she will leave to her Rockstar is the Motley Crue trilogy.

Sparkle wanted to be an FBI agent, a writer,a mechanic,  an artist, a hairdresser, a surgeon, a lawyer, and a plethora of other things. This is the reason why she never went to school; the Libra in her was very bad at making decisions, and she would have wasted millions when she changed her mind every semester. She settled instead for the unstable life of getting whatever job would hire her. Perhaps not ideal, at the same time she met alot of people she wouldn’t have otherwise, and learned alot of stuff school never would have taught her.

Do not be sad for Sparklebumps, for she is now living in a hut in heaven. A hut? you ask? Yes, when she was younger, her father told her if she did no good deeds on earth , the only thing she will have earned when she got to Heaven was a hut. To which she replied, “Well, maybe I will only have a hut, but God taught me to be content with what I have, and anyway, everyone will want to come on over to my house, and you will be sitting in your heavenly mansion all alone, so there.”

I guess there is not much else to say, except that Sparkle was thankful for all her bloggy pals, that made her feel like her writing was worth reading. And she just wanted to love everyone in the whole world, but that would have made her a little slut. So she settled for flirting. Peace.

 

P.S. By the way, you are all invited to my funeral, (whenever it may be) but you must all wear something sparkly or bright, or they won’t let you in. Don’t worry, it will be an awesome party, with much candy. XOXO