When Human is Not Enough

by A.E. Bayne

I am an average human being, but I couldn’t always admit this to myself. While in grade school and middle school I strove to be more than human, wishing for heroic recognition and powers to annihilate my enemies. I would dream about this constantly in the miserable stew that was my pre-teen and early adolescent hormonal smorgasbord. Here’s how it would go down:

Cue sweeping 80’s metal band anthem, something along the lines of Metallica’s “Master of Puppets”, or Guns & Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle.”

The setting: Our Lady of Good Counsel Catholic School, the playground (though most people call the asphalt space with lines painted on it a parking lot).

The situation: Preppy bop-girl terrorists have hijacked the school. They have used their evil mind control device to turn everyone into sheepish followers who love listening to Madonna and Huey Lewis and the News. The student body is being brainwashed, and I am the only one who can save them from these bitches and their diabolical plan to rule the school.



Pan cameras (there were always cameras in my dreams) over the top of the school and focus on a black helicopter moving in from a distance in slow motion.

Zoom in toward a lone figure, riding astride the landing gear of the copter and holding onto the doorframe with one hand. The original Lara Croft, that’s me, decked out in warrior regalia – camouflage fatigues; insanely long wavy hair flying; combat boots reflecting a patent sheen; machine gun belts crossed over my chest, showcasing my buxom figure, with the gun held at a perfect 45 degree angle in one hand, because I am that strong. Fucking badass!

I jump from the helicopter which is hovering some 20 feet above the ground. Metal music is blaring, hair bows and friendship bracelets are flying, and I’m kicking some girlie-girl ass.

Fade out.

That was always the end of the fantasy. Considering the enormous hormonal imbalance I was experiencing, it’s surprising that the school was not obliterated by the sheer psychic vehemence of my daydream. I never could imagine actually killing anyone; but damn, they got the scare of their lives. I mean peeing in their pink and yellow flowered cotton panties scared. And wasn’t I the hero in that story! They noticed me then, for sure.

The daydreaming continued into my young adulthood, and I tended to live simultaneously in a world where I felt invisible and one where I made all the rules. Boys weren’t noticing me in the real world; no problem. In my dream world I could be any kind of mystical princess/warrior/sick skater chic/rock star/actor that I could imagine; and every one of those characters could snatch a guy within her reach (and chew them up and spit them out if she wished). No one would vote for me for student council; screw ‘em. In my fantasy I was President of the world – no, the UNIVERSE – and you better believe that it was not a democracy. Didn’t make the school play, or passed over for the solo in the choir recital; whatever. In my mind I was a multi-platinum recording artist with a lucrative contract – no school for me! With dreams like these, who needed reality?



A time came though, after my first year in high school, when my dreams began to change. Instead of feeling invincible, I just felt pathetic. My dreams continued to be based on a familiar storyline, recognition and fame; but now they became morose and masochistic. Perhaps I would never be a famous person who was loved by many. Perhaps the only way to get noticed was through pain and showing people that I was hurting. These dreams were wrought of guilt with a touch of self-deprecation and loathing. Death appeared and disappeared as a constant theme for two full years during my early high school days.

Alas, none of the dreams were true, and reality prevailed. I have fully grown into an average human female, 35 years old with one fantastic son. I have a solid job with good benefits, and I pay taxes. I tinker with writing and do the things that I enjoy to keep life interesting. I’m not a world traveler, or a famous novelist, or a poet laureate. I’m not stunningly gorgeous or vivacious. I’m simply a good person. Pragmatic. Average. And that’s okay.

So when I read a recent Washington Post article about
people who believe that they are vampires, these thoughts and memories flooded through my mind. I was like that once. I understand what these people are feeling. It’s not easy being normal. You wake up one day from the haze of adolescence and all of the promises of youth have been for naught, and it’s damn hard to face yourself in the mirror and hold your real life up to those lofty expectations. Real life cannot compare, because the tangible is often too solid in light of those warm hopeful dreams imagined under the blankets in the safety of your parents’ home, where they paid the taxes and worried about the bills. Some day the vampires will come down to earth with all the rest of us, mundane and human though we may be. They will find the extraordinary in the ordinary, and I promise the pain will be short and sweet. Here’s wishing a safe and easy landing to all.

Gratitude Adjustment

by A.E. Bayne

G is for the grenadine in my lime juice,
R for relatives sleeping on the floor.
A is all the attitude flying ‘round the living room, and
T for little Tommy flicking boogers at Aunt Lenore.
I will always love you, though you’re heinous,
T orturous and monstrous at best.
U ndoubtedly, we’ll make amends, long before
D inner begins, and
E veryone gets seconds on the white meat turkey breast, because

… that is gratitude!

(Big finale now)
YES, THAT…IS…GRAT…I…TUDE!


Click here for more GRATITUDE!

Everything Wrong is Right Again

by A.E. Bayne

I was prompted to consider my father’s faith last night while watching a television show about the history of gravitational theory. According to modern physicists, Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity shook the faith of many in the scientific world because it disproved a portion of Newton’s Universal Law of Gravitation. Einstein found that once an object is in motion, say the apple falling from the tree, Newton’s law holds up; however, if an object is sedentary, then a secondary force is needed to set that object into motion. He postulated that space itself pushes down on objects, unlike Newton’s law which suggests that gravity exerts a force that pulls things toward the most massive object in their vicinity. Einstein’s colleagues balked at his theory, as their faith was staunchly rooted in Newtonian physics. His answer to the disparity between the laws was to prove his own by providing tangible proof that space bends around massive objects. He did this by showing how light bends around the sides of the sun from the stars behind during a solar eclipse. With empirical data on his side, Einstein shifted the faith of an entire community of believers.

Like Einstein, my father was a mathematician with the keen mind of a practical observer; but he had no experiential data to prove the existence of God, a quandary that Einstein also faced in his life. My father once said that faith is the true contradiction of the universe. I came to understand that he meant that faith was part of the basic thread that made up his nature; yet it was ultimately intangible and illogical to his highly pragmatic mind. He could not tell me why he had faith, only that he did. Without proof, he could speak of the God of his faith; but he could not say unequivocally that such a God existed. He never espoused me to his faith, but I knew that he was knitted and bound by it. Nor did he ever proselytize, which made it even more of a mystery since I was being raised in my mother’s religion, Catholicism. Subsequently, he never forced me to acknowledge God or religion, but rather allowed me to experience spirituality within the realm of my Catholic upbringing. He never called his brand of teaching religion, but I realize now that what he believed was a much stronger variety of spiritual faith than that which I was being taught at school. My father and I spoke lengthily about God and faith; I just did’t realize it at the time.

It is difficult to explain how my father did end up providing me with details of his belief in the existence of God and the mystery of faith. Initially, he related the simple versions taught through bible stories and the Ten Commandments. I don’t think he wanted to contradict what I was learning of faith and God in school, and I know he didn’t want to confuse me. However, he would talk to me about ethical decisions, right and wrong, and I remember that he always asked me if I thought I was making the right decision when I was faced with a moral dilemma. I’ll admit that often I went with my desires rather than my gut instinct and got into trouble; and I can say for sure that part of that was because he didn’t stop me from making those mistakes. I do know that he had faith that I would eventually make the right decisions, just as he had faith that the universe has an ordered sequence and some reason to it.

As I grew to adulthood and my father was nearing the end of his life, he did question me about my own beliefs and the faith that I chose for myself and my son. His idea of faith was bound by the model of his youth. He had a difficult time understanding my wider view of faith, but he never told me I was wrong or degenerative for basing my faith on a variety of sources. Like the Newtonian physicists, he simply asked how my theological beliefs could be true. If I had faith, then how was it that I did not believe in the God with whom I had been raised? If a, then b must be true. Like Einstein, I attempted to show him how my faith was simply an extension of the one in which he had allowed me to be raised. If a, then b, but taking into account the added variable c. I bent the light for him, and once he understood he left me with one last phrase to guide me, “Do you think you are making the right decision?” He had faith that I was.

Long, Lean, and Sexy?

I find it ironic that Xaviar has been playing “Lady Madonna” incessantly for the past two days. The lyrics are certainly fitting for the times. Perhaps these long, lean months come to help us understand why people make certain choices. “Lady Madonna” indeed. Wouldn't it be so easy to fall into that noble protagonist's role? I can't say that I haven't had passing thoughts about it. Xaviar, you are too perceptive for your own good!

Kite Poetry

I am this kite, the only focused object in the frame.
I am this shape in sharp relief.
I bear this hue; I clip this air;
Yet, you move me handily.

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

How could you know?
We have not truly spoken in years,
though we share this landscape,
the air,
the solid cornflower expanse of sky.
Here we are, you facing me on the barren
remains of the winter wheat field.
I madly toss a message upon the cloudless dome
and hold tight to the string,
willing you to glance up
and look beyond the rippling cloth and sticks;
daring you to see me.

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

A kite and a hopelss gesture,
too many trees to win today,
and no wind to carry the message.

****************************************
To the gods of their design


The lofty saints drift high
above a tortured sea
As mortals grasp a lowly raft
tossed most vehemently.
Above, no saint, and yet,
unlikely messengers
to cock a wink,
such saturated semphores.

Kites

I picked up a used photo-book about kites today from Riverby Books. It grabbed my attention when I noticed it on the table. The publication date is from 1977, the year when I was just four years old and I remember flying kites in school fields with my parents. I immediatly started writing lines of poetry in my head. Look for kite-writing in the near future.