Home

My name is Amy Irene White.

To heights one may never dream of, I strive to ascend… but tripping the surly bonds of earth on laughter silvered wings has such dire consequences, for alas when I fall, it’s not a stumble, but a drastic crashing of life and limb into the depths of bitter surliness that leaves me heartsore and weary.

I am a conglomerate of idiotic and idyllic idiosyncrasies, patched together like an ancient quilt, barely held together by feeble stitches in time of a long begotten hand. My vernacular is a ghost of yesteryear. My physique, I revel in it in all my narcissistic glory… yeah, I vomit my guts out and kill myself at the gym to look the way I do. This, coupled with the emancipation of disease, gives me a much longed for appearance… for strangers, who have no comprehensible understanding of the price I pay for my long lithe body.

photo Amy Irene White headshot with lily

They can’t see the death that is ever-present within my eyes, my skin color. I MUST flaunt my beauty now because I do not have long to do so. I feel the wings of my lupus butterfly tightening around me all the time, wrapping me in a golden chain of misunderstood torture, slowly choking the life out of me… a gilded dungeon in a private palace erected in my mind.

As one explores the cavernous spaces of my ponderous mental dwelling, one may encounter a room of the highest end fashion, a steady and serious expedition to stay abreast of the latest in couture. In another room, one may find Willie Nelson and the lingering aroma of marijuana whispering through in skunky sweet bliss, a bittersweet conglomeration of a honkytonk angel’s memories and wicked sweet delta nights.

Yet another chamber unveils America in her former glory… the stars and stripes of yesteryear that flew over Normandy, not the floundering fucktards we call our government these days. Within this room I fight a ceaseless tireless battle to save a country that couldn’t care less if I live or die, whose very citizens spit upon my efforts to save their very way of life.

If we wander on, we find another room is a vast library and endless collection of unprecedented eclectic literary bounty never before imagined, both real and imagined and written upon my very soul, branded within my memories. There is a room of stilettos and fishnets and low lamps and breath ratcheting in the dance as old as time, the conjecture of one’s most private sanctuaries by, strangely enough, poking parts of one’s body into another person’s. Here, in this delightfully carnal abyss, men bury themselves in the wet heat into which they delve as deep as their manhood allows, and their thoughts are lost to skitter down their spines and gather in a throbbing heartbeat within their testicles in anticipation of a volcanic eruption of wet, sticky, spurting proportions. A woman will impale herself upon the velvet iron rod and squirm until she can feel the rhythm of the womb, the throbbing, aching accumulation of spasms that leave her breathless on a floating cloud as he grunts and moans and thrusts his way to oblivion inside her very cavern of secrets and secretions while she daydreams of a wedding ring or a new designer bag or picking up her kids from school in an hour because her husband is at work.

photo Amy Irene White on HarleyThere is also a dark and scary cavern, perhaps beneath the stairwell that I trudge forth, ever upwards, day by day, like Sisyphus and his ceaseless moving of a rock up a mountain, for no more futile exertion on earth exists than fighting the same almost unbearable battle with yourself, day after day after endless fucking day. Within this cavern, I store my fears of “What if this is my last Christmas?” I store the tears of pain and the gnashing of teeth and growling in agony when tortured by the demons of ceaseless suffering. Yes, sometimes I go to this room to bathe in the salty warm tears of my sorrowful solitude, so carefully entrapped within the hidden cavern behind lock and mental key.

There is a room of art and color and beauty. I want to write every word, paint every surface on earth, drive every highway, ride every Harley, hear every song, read every book and smell every fresh wind that breathes upon my world. This is a room of hope; it is where most people like to imagine I spend most my time, a sky-lit, fresh, beautiful space within which I can conquer or create anything on earth.

There is a sanctuary, filled with the love and gifts of God, sanctified by my belief and concreted with my knowledge, bathed in the blood that dripped from Jesus’s dying hand upon a cross. I will fight to the death to defend this innermost safe room of my soul, and it is where I retreat to when the world holds too much ugly – even for me.

Sometimes my world seems vast and endless. Sometimes it’s a cramped cell that I long to break free from and flee into the freedom of never thinking again. An overactive mind is not a blessing – it is a curse; a treacherous entity that teases and taunts the intellect of the adept at the most inopportune moments. And so, feel free to enter at your own risk and join me as onward I go, chasing highways in an endless, rambling, incoherence of what exactly it is that I seek to find written between the lines of the road, and searching for the answers to the fathomless secrets of life in the swirling smoke of one more cigarette at 3 a.m.