Streaming Ties That Bind: ‘She never laughed anymore. Nothing was fun; life was not a game.’

© Laslo Luca Gerta

She disappeared inside the land of make-believe, filled with Crayola crayons so bright she wore tinted sunglasses

I always thought true love was equivalent to good poetry

dying today, today, today

I‘ve learned how to sleep alone with my dreams

A young girl fell in love with art, without perhaps ever knowing his  name

                                             beautiful emotional mess

Taste the warm rain possibility

New Orleans, swamp and rust hinges                          Bayou                                            the blues brings me up

I’ll take off-centered any day

She never laughed anymore. Nothing was fun; life was not a game

       Opal. Solid, American name, meaning: Jewel. precious gem                 call me Seven

Migrant Mother

mullet, dope, acid drop, LSD

roadkill triage wipeout

WORDS WORDS WORDS                   mayIhavethisdance            PENSIVE  

flashpanmoments

Prose mistress

By the beautiful grace of God and my conviction and glory in the simplest things, I give away all my dreams

                                 YOU’RE SKINNY, YOU DON’T HAVE ANY PROBLEMS 

Sweet Georgia Pine always yearning for something better

Sisterlove, GINGER BLOND BRUNETTE delicious

                      spirit guide whispers secrets to a child

CRYSTALLINE DELICIOUS

    indigo sky lanterns, hotdogs, hamburgers, corn, green beans, sweet tea and lemonade

Adelaide laughs through tear drops, opens the box, sets Pretty free

See you soon, daddy  Positively, positive       Harry was eagerly waiting, anxious to be reunited with her love

linear thoughts become stories

stories become tangible                        Paperbacks                    gatekeeper

                The Vast Landscape                                                            Georgia Pine

                    WRITE IT.    

whatyouknow           whatyouhaveseen          whatyouhavefelt  

words by Jacqueline Cioffa

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H3P51LS

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00T270L88

@makeupmodelciti

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Things That Go Missing

Yes, Mother

This morning I told my mother to fuk off. I did not mean it, not exactly. Living here, where I don’t want to be, being sick, bad genes, I blame her. I can’t help it, I do. As I watch her walk to the car, a fragile, old woman it’s too much. She gave me her whole life, I can give her a fraction of mine. She knows I don’t mean it when the venom spews, before I can retract. I was her precious baby, happy girl, her funny, fearless child. I wonder how she felt, when I became a brat. The loud, mouth teenager, forever unhappy. She couldn’t fix me, Lord knows she tried. I called her, every night from NY pursuing my dreams, crying and alone. “You can always come home.” That’s what a good mother does, a mother like mine. She knew I wouldn’t give up, even before I did. Keep at it, she taught me persistence. She was my first call when I booked a modeling job for $12,000. That was a boatload of money, she was proud. I could tell. She has one tone, but a thousand different voices. One for every mood, situation, emotion. That’s what a good mother does. When my glorious, faulty wired mind went missing, I didn’t understand. She listened as I sobbed hysterically, for hours and hours, months on end. She never hung up the line. “You’re coming home, that’s it.” I believed her when she said I’d be ok, that’s what a good mother does. She was right, on Lithium my mind got better. I mustered the courage to go back to NY. She promised everything would work out. I called her, just to check in. She was my lifeline, to sanity. Everything was fine, until it wasn’t. I had seven years in New York, working, living without one psychotic episode. She listened when I was incoherent. That’s what a good mother does. “I wanna come home,” I cried, scared out of mind, seeing dead people. I could not find my way back. Out of the pain, the indescribable fear, the black hole. She came to get me. My seventy year old mother came, to bring her broken, adult daughter home. “Everything will be fine.” She lied, it won’t. On the days I hate her, because there is no one else around she takes it, silently. On the days I hate this place, this house, this illness and exhaustion, it’s mostly because I hate myself. I want to die, I don’t. I vacuum my frustrations, do the heavy lifting for her because she can’t. Because, that’s what a good daughter does.

Chic Vacuuming

Heirloom Trinkets

I write stories, about mother-daughter relationships, that are only partially untrue.

GEORGIA PINE. – excerpt

Addie stressed over the twins, checked on them two or three times a night. She couldn’t breathe, scared they might break. “Comb your hair, brush your teeth. Chop-chop.” Adelaide was never so grateful to see her mother. That was a great day. Harry did that, she could take your worse days and throw them in your face. Make you face your fears, move on.

Mirror, Mirror
a mother’s bedroom

In Transit

Handwriting on the wall aka fridge

 

My mama always said, a hand-written note is the politest, most personal form of communication. I tend to agree. By post, the modern-day luxury. 

In transit.

Say it with LoVe.

You NOOKer’s

You NOOKer’s.

You NOOKer’s

For all you NOOKers’, The Vast Landscape is available at Barnes and Noble.com.

Lonely in Paris

Life. Family. Forever friends. Journey. Escape. Home. Full Circle.

The raw, honest, sweet and sour, never give up on love story.

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-vast-landscape-jacqueline-cioffa/1118427721?ean=2940148152170

Three Part

today is a three-part kind of day

I know.

I used to see Phillip Seymour Hoffman in the Village, head-down, unassuming posture. The year was 1995, I was studying acting and a mega fan. My brother saw him on the subway, asked for his autograph for me. He graciously signed a pack of matches, he was kind. Addiction, Mental Illness are merely misfirings, faulty wiring in the brain, that cannot be fixed with duct tape. People judge, self-involved, some do anyway on any given Sunday. He didn’t judge, why should you?

I know – part 2

I look nothing like I felt yesterday. I have two friends who knew me when, and still like me now. I might be peculiar, have you looked in a mirror lately? Be prepared if you get around to The Vast Landscape, just sayin.’ I don’t feel like playing nice, I’m a grown-up shouldn’t have to. I try, was brought up with manners of a sort. I’m stuck in a place I don’t belong, temperatures below freezing. The agoraphobiac, surroundings don’t matter much. State of mind is the devil’s business.

I knew.

I knew from the age of five, I was different. My father remains alive in my heart, my most favorite person. He draped me with love and kindness. I was rich, well rich enough, spent time in exotic places. I rarely said, “sorry.” Thought thousand dollar bags, shoes would make me happy. They never fit, are of little use now. I had ‘fancy friends’ who stopped coming by, when I started seeing visions. My family didn’t understand, yet hung around. Obligation or not. I was skinny, young and less sad, some time ago.

I hope.

God’s listening to the internal discourse going on in my head. Maybe he can show me a future, one with me in it. Give me a reason to choose hope, not hell. I best get back to the  make-believe world of Georgia Pine. I’m so enjoying the bayou, lingering spirits, the deep south. Three stories intertwined gets complicated, direct descendants, sisters and friends of Harrison. The character I adore, who doesn’t exist in real-time. She shines bright and  vivid in my imagination. I dare, hope.

To carry on this one piece of madness I love.

Put a Sock In It

I watched On the Road this week-end, and wanted to pack a bag, just go. I felt the itch crawling up and down my spine. Creative freedom at its maximum. Those boys drove sex, drugs and beats into the cemented streets, like hot gum melted in tar. I did not realize the  date, 1950. Artistic exploration came early. I recognized a small piece of me on-screen. The struggle to break free, societal tradition I have no use for. I long to grow,  experience, to see. Take to the open road to discover all the things I cannot know. The curious fever, planted perhaps before conception. Drawn west, the beat boys only reinforce the pull. The 90’s were my pinnacle, the height of exploration. Music dominated my world, words, places I’d visit, which stories were told. Long before my existence, there was longing. Long after, the insatiable search for truth will remain. I’ll go west someday, before I leave this place. Stopping from time to time, to take in earth’s majestic beauty, refuel and recover. The spirit tells me don’t give in, never stop, ask the questions, challenge the beliefs, embedded. Freedom, the truest form of self-love. On the road, there is much to know.

freedom road