Pet Bereavement websites---Bobby the ferret, Merl cat, Davey dog--pictures and remembrances. The sites I've read all advise that the bereaved shouldn't mitigate their grief based on the differing reactions they get from people. "Some people won't understand the special intimacy you shared with your pet--the unconditional love your pet gave you. Your pet may have been like a child to you." I mistakenly thought I was too cool for that not so long ago, but now the site of a little furry mite tugs at my heart. Not rats, mind you. Yuck.
Listening to NPR all day today as Poopy pads across my mind, not like a wraith, but a very strong memory, or maybe a vision, a familiar orange reflection. There was a doctor on who was a pioneer in alternative healing modalities and the treatment of the whole person and not just their physical maladies. She said that those "on the edge of life" could become healers, teachers of what it is to live a full life. I realize that feeling grief is fundamentally different than depression, which is kind of an absence of feeling, or just a prevailing despair, where as grief is more a deep well of emotion, and fear, and anger, and howling--but feeling to every nerve end. There is something quite pure about it. It has a realism where depression just has masks. I feel very clear in my grieving. I know why it's happening, I know that it has to run it's course, I know that it will ebb and flow, I know that I have to be gentle with it.
So the little box came--some sort of cherry-colored wood with a little lock and key--two keys--now who would I give a key to? I can't believe that Poopy is in there. I don't have any regrets about how she died other than the fact that I wasn't there, but the fundamental question is where did "she" go? Whatever she is now? I have such a strong sense of her, so I know that that essence is still here, wherever "here" is. I have a vague belief in the spiritual, other lives, other selves, and I know she's not in the little cherry-colored box--though I like to pet it--the wood is very smooth--and I have the sense of another place. I've had this sense before--people have come to me, especially Inez, best friend of my grandmother, who approaches me in dreams just as I saw her once in the Kmart parking lot. She tells me things, helpful things, in her no-nonsense, way, with her familiar nasal voice---vivid visions. Nothing frightening to me. Maybe the key is in the listening. Maybe I'm straining with all my strength to hear Poopy, to see her, since it's so hard to take in that she ain't here anymore.
But it's more poetic, don't you think, more spiritually comforting to believe that she's walking with me now, her right paw flexed as she waits for me to catch up, "C'mon, woman," she seems to be saying.
My hilarious Momm said that she doesn't want any urns with "cremains" around because she'd be too curious, wanting to open them up to see the contents. Unto dust, eh? I have no such compunction.
One day I'll pick up her toys, and her waterfall water bowl, and her food bowl and her brush and all the cans of cat food, and her toothbrush and her blanket and her heating pad, and her glamour-puss kitty carrier, and her high blood pressure pills, and her catnip and her scratch pad and her litter box, and her nail clippers, and the beige jacket she liked to lie on, and the stash of q-tips she collected in the moving box she liked to hide in, and the moving box, and I'll throw them away. I'll keep one of the fake mice, one of the ones that still has ears and a tail, to keep with the cherry-colored box. I'll ask some of my friends to come by and do a ritual, a little remembering.
but not today or tomorrow or
this week or
next.
Stuff--what?
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
sun
Spoke with a duck today. We were sharing the pool. He was eider and grape, with a curly feather on his hind end. I was Boston winter white, in a cheap blue bathing suit that bunches around the bum. He was surprised that I was in the water as most of the other spa denizens lay shivering in the mid-Winter desert sunshine, but the water was heated and I'd sat in the sun's heat, reading Newsweek which is enough to raise a penguin's temperature, all that pandering and balderdash. "Are you Poopy?" I asked him. He deigned to answer, which would be just like Poopy, but he did shake his wing at me before settling on the rough, red paving stones next to the pool steps. Perhaps a "friend of Poopy".
He watched me inch my way into the deeper water, waist, breasts, neck, and, finally, the plunge and the glory of weightlessness, that faint memory of returning to the womb. I swam toward the pounding waterfall, drizzly drops pelting my face. My avian friend quacked, just once. A duck of few words.
This morning I sat on the balcony of our room, and a tiny, fat bird flew from the nearest palm tree to the balcony's railing, holding a juicy berry in it's beak. "Are you Poopy?" I asked him, and he gulped his berry down, just like Poopy would attack a mound of Fancy Feast Seafood delight. He regarded me with his tiny beady eye, cocking his head this way and that.
Perhaps Poopy is now everywhere, in every creature, on every breeze (though hopefully not with post-Fancy Feast Seafood delight breath). Poopy as a state of mind.
There is wonder in the rawness of loss. This is hope in despair.
Just remind me of this later, when everything is more real, and the world isn't filled with talking ducks and sunshine.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Poopy died today
of course I can't believe she's gone
maybe if I had seen her enormous spirit rise from her tiny body
maybe if I'd been able to bury my face in her soft, warm fur once more
maybe if I'd seen her in the incubator, trying to breathe and waiting for my plane to land
or maybe it's just the normal shock when someone you love leaves this particular stage for another
So surreal
here in the land of the desert moon
flat vistas and clear sunlight
I think of how she'd think of all this sand as a giant litter box
I think of our last day together when she lay at my side, pressing her cold nose to my forehead and smelling my hair
I think of how she settled herself on my thigh as I slept, stretching out to her full length which could seem so long, her purr a little motor of contentment
I think of how she chased her little fake mouse down the stairs just this past Wednesday
How she mewed and stamped her front paws for her supper
how she settled herself across my laptop keyboard, never mind what I was doing
pet me
love me
stroke me
tickle me
scratch my chin, damnit
how a little being 1/40th my size
could fill my heart and always will reside there.
All the sadness could drive you mad.
but then...there's the Happy Acres Pet Cemetery
for some reason, speaking with the Happy Acres representative, her voice soft and respectful about the disposition of the "cremains"...seemed comical...maybe the surreal became absurd
I pictured her little orange body laid out in a tiny coffin with tufted satin inside the lid, perhaps a picture of the blessed virgin embossed on the material
Her little paws pressed together
And a barrel-chested preacher who never knew her intoning her feline virtues...
"She was a faithful cat. A loving cat. The kind of pet that everyone wishes for but few are fortunate enough to encounter..."
My friends file past, paying their respects, and wondering if I've finally lost my cookies having a full blown funeral for a cat.
Instead
I will receive a small wooden box with a lock and a tiny key
via UPS Ground.
maybe if I had seen her enormous spirit rise from her tiny body
maybe if I'd been able to bury my face in her soft, warm fur once more
maybe if I'd seen her in the incubator, trying to breathe and waiting for my plane to land
or maybe it's just the normal shock when someone you love leaves this particular stage for another
So surreal
here in the land of the desert moon
flat vistas and clear sunlight
I think of how she'd think of all this sand as a giant litter box
I think of our last day together when she lay at my side, pressing her cold nose to my forehead and smelling my hair
I think of how she settled herself on my thigh as I slept, stretching out to her full length which could seem so long, her purr a little motor of contentment
I think of how she chased her little fake mouse down the stairs just this past Wednesday
How she mewed and stamped her front paws for her supper
how she settled herself across my laptop keyboard, never mind what I was doing
pet me
love me
stroke me
tickle me
scratch my chin, damnit
how a little being 1/40th my size
could fill my heart and always will reside there.
All the sadness could drive you mad.
but then...there's the Happy Acres Pet Cemetery
for some reason, speaking with the Happy Acres representative, her voice soft and respectful about the disposition of the "cremains"...seemed comical...maybe the surreal became absurd
I pictured her little orange body laid out in a tiny coffin with tufted satin inside the lid, perhaps a picture of the blessed virgin embossed on the material
Her little paws pressed together
And a barrel-chested preacher who never knew her intoning her feline virtues...
"She was a faithful cat. A loving cat. The kind of pet that everyone wishes for but few are fortunate enough to encounter..."
My friends file past, paying their respects, and wondering if I've finally lost my cookies having a full blown funeral for a cat.
Instead
I will receive a small wooden box with a lock and a tiny key
via UPS Ground.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Roll on, church
"The conservative Diocese of San Joaquin (CA) voted Saturday to split from the liberal-leaning Episcopal Church, becoming the first full diocese to secede from the denomination in the debate over the Bible and homosexuality." - CNN
Do you ever feel like the world is spinning backward--evolution, the progress of human thought and achievement seems to not only to have stopped, but to have regressed--and a church body, supposedly a symbol of "good" and "love" can vote such a pronouncement--can say, effectively, that a group of people are "wrong" because of who they are. I realize the naivete of this statement--history is stuffed with such pronouncements, so many behaviors based on hate, fear, but how can we credit it? This God that so many sects and factions claim to know, claim to represent, profess to know the meaning of, who is supposed to be about love, has compelled a group of Episcopalians in the San Joaquin valley to denounce a group of people because of their sexual preference. In 2007. Just the sheer inhumanity of it, the blatant UNLOVE this kind of action belies, screams of the demonic, the evil, the discord and woe that sparks war, poverty, famine, and that dearth of spirit that keeps us apart as people, as cultures, as nations--the evil these very San Joaquin Episcopalians claim to fight against.
I think I'm finally understanding now why some members of the choral community to which I belong have had such visceral reactions to one of the venues in which we sing where a church also has services, a church aligned with groups that abhor homosexuality, that publish doctrines of exclusion--I understood the basic argument, that we as a group that believes in inclusion, in fact, a community that comes together exclusively for the love of singing no matter what the singer's belief system, shouldn't perform in a place where this kind of hatred is professed, but I thought that our very presence, like those of the brave Black students who sat at segregated lunch counters in the '50's and '60's would make a difference. The fact that we sing with respect, songs from many cultures, would obliterate, for the brief moments our voices rose high into the rafters, the stink of this kind of evil.
But, damn, I feel the despair. The sapping of energy from having too many fights to fight. The wisdom of choosing battles. The great cry from a suffering world that is too loveless, too afraid, too at odds with its own humanity.
The eternal question.
I read a beautiful article about a famous author who dealt with crippling depression for the last half of his life. He, of course, wrote some of his best work during this time and this idea has spurred me on to write more even in the black pit I now find myself, struggling with the notion that depression is a biological disease and not a character flaw, a chemical imbalance and not the result of not "applying" myself enough in therapy, or of eating too much sugar, or of not having a significant other. To tease out these distinctions is, I think, essential to healing, and of course very very very difficult.
Someone sent me a book by an author who thinks that all disease is brought on by inner turmoil and can, therefore, be cured by resolving that turmoil. Before I was sick, I leaned toward this notion, but now I think there are some diseases that happen through a cascade of factors now of which have anything to do with anything currently measurable, and certainly can't be attributed to personal problems or failures. Depression, though often brought on by circumstances, is, at its root, a brain malfunction. What's really interesting is that I have been able to impact my brain chemistry, not just with medication, but with the concious effort to manage negative, habitual thoughts and by building up pleasurable experiences, kind of an engineering of joy, through a lot of practice and skills training.
And so, though I am low today, blue, blue, blue, for many reasons--and though, due to physical illness, I don't have the energy and wherewithal to practice my skills today, I endure. I survive. It ain't pretty, it's very painful, it's quite raw and it IS NO FUN. But it is a progress of its own.
Do you ever feel like the world is spinning backward--evolution, the progress of human thought and achievement seems to not only to have stopped, but to have regressed--and a church body, supposedly a symbol of "good" and "love" can vote such a pronouncement--can say, effectively, that a group of people are "wrong" because of who they are. I realize the naivete of this statement--history is stuffed with such pronouncements, so many behaviors based on hate, fear, but how can we credit it? This God that so many sects and factions claim to know, claim to represent, profess to know the meaning of, who is supposed to be about love, has compelled a group of Episcopalians in the San Joaquin valley to denounce a group of people because of their sexual preference. In 2007. Just the sheer inhumanity of it, the blatant UNLOVE this kind of action belies, screams of the demonic, the evil, the discord and woe that sparks war, poverty, famine, and that dearth of spirit that keeps us apart as people, as cultures, as nations--the evil these very San Joaquin Episcopalians claim to fight against.
I think I'm finally understanding now why some members of the choral community to which I belong have had such visceral reactions to one of the venues in which we sing where a church also has services, a church aligned with groups that abhor homosexuality, that publish doctrines of exclusion--I understood the basic argument, that we as a group that believes in inclusion, in fact, a community that comes together exclusively for the love of singing no matter what the singer's belief system, shouldn't perform in a place where this kind of hatred is professed, but I thought that our very presence, like those of the brave Black students who sat at segregated lunch counters in the '50's and '60's would make a difference. The fact that we sing with respect, songs from many cultures, would obliterate, for the brief moments our voices rose high into the rafters, the stink of this kind of evil.
But, damn, I feel the despair. The sapping of energy from having too many fights to fight. The wisdom of choosing battles. The great cry from a suffering world that is too loveless, too afraid, too at odds with its own humanity.
The eternal question.
I read a beautiful article about a famous author who dealt with crippling depression for the last half of his life. He, of course, wrote some of his best work during this time and this idea has spurred me on to write more even in the black pit I now find myself, struggling with the notion that depression is a biological disease and not a character flaw, a chemical imbalance and not the result of not "applying" myself enough in therapy, or of eating too much sugar, or of not having a significant other. To tease out these distinctions is, I think, essential to healing, and of course very very very difficult.
Someone sent me a book by an author who thinks that all disease is brought on by inner turmoil and can, therefore, be cured by resolving that turmoil. Before I was sick, I leaned toward this notion, but now I think there are some diseases that happen through a cascade of factors now of which have anything to do with anything currently measurable, and certainly can't be attributed to personal problems or failures. Depression, though often brought on by circumstances, is, at its root, a brain malfunction. What's really interesting is that I have been able to impact my brain chemistry, not just with medication, but with the concious effort to manage negative, habitual thoughts and by building up pleasurable experiences, kind of an engineering of joy, through a lot of practice and skills training.
And so, though I am low today, blue, blue, blue, for many reasons--and though, due to physical illness, I don't have the energy and wherewithal to practice my skills today, I endure. I survive. It ain't pretty, it's very painful, it's quite raw and it IS NO FUN. But it is a progress of its own.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
BLASE BLASE BLASE
Be quiet, Bush family
Be still, Chavez
Yap shut, Bill O'Reilly
Tais toi, Perez
Quit talkin', candidates presidential and local
Hey you, Rev. Sharpton, stop being so vocal
Heather Mills and Rosie O'Donnell
Keep it to yourselves, please
We don't want to hear every fart and sneeze.
Be still, Chavez
Yap shut, Bill O'Reilly
Tais toi, Perez
Quit talkin', candidates presidential and local
Hey you, Rev. Sharpton, stop being so vocal
Heather Mills and Rosie O'Donnell
Keep it to yourselves, please
We don't want to hear every fart and sneeze.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Blessed Be
Wandering around, using the word "beee zar".
Yesterday at the vets, all the techs were wearing homemade, knitted kitty ears. Miss Poopy, my feline companion of many years, is in slow kidney failure and spent her day enthroned on heating pads being pumped full of kidney cleaning fluids and getting more attention than she has in years. When I went to pick her up last night, I met a friend there who's little man, Boots, 14 years old, can't poop. Previews of our own old age, eh? Meeting at the geriatricians in 30 years time, techs wearing rabbit ears for Halloween, both of us cranky and dressed in hideous caftanallia, discussing our maladies over Sanka and dietetic pastries. (Except, by then, I plan to be carrying a hip flax full of my favorite cocktail, have a chin like Kirk Douglas in "Spartacus", and smoke the legal, synthetic derivative of whatever Mary Jane induces the strongest giggles in a long, glamorous ivory holder).
Yesterday at Starsux, I drowned my kitty sorrows in a low-fat, decaf, soy latte (what's the point?) and the barrrrrristas were wearing little devil ears. One of them, a surly, rotund girl who sports a soft, down moustache on most days had drawn in a fu-manchu complete with beard and was wearing a hideous tie as big as a surf board in front of her Starsux regulation Seattle blue grass green apron. I had to snicker at the irony. "Snicker."
On CNN's website there was an article about certain celebrities favorite Halloween candy. One of the guys from "The Office" enjoys candy corn, eating it colored section by section. Some starlet who I'm sure never consumes more than 6 crackers and a carrot a day says she likes mini Hershey bars--in her dreams, or perhaps as an annual treat after a high colonic. Of course I'd be really interested in anything Morgan Freeman enjoys consuming or, say, what Michelle Obama considers a light repast. I'll have a Barack with cheese, please, light on the rhetoric.
Yesterday, plodding through the Center, I noticed a young lad with an axe buried in his head, 3 teenage dudes dressed up as the "Scream" killer and a tiny, raven haired toddler dribbling ice cream down the front of her bulbous pumpkin costume, complete with tiny, elfin green shoes with curled toes. "I don't understand Halloween," Sweetie, my favorite CVS lady, said to me. "If you want to eat candy, eat candy. Ruin your teeth any day you choose." She comes from a land where the traditions and rituals are thousands of years old and don't involve threats to your neighbors involving rotten eggs and toilet tissue.
I remember loving All Hallows Eve--stomping through the neighborhood, trampling bushes with my brother as we ran from house to house in the crisp autumn night, knowing who was liberal with the handfuls of Sugar Daddy's and Clark Bars and who was giving out apples and raisins, blech--Moms was a genius with the costumes--I have a great picture of my baby bro' as a pirate complete with curly moustache, sabre, and black tri-corner hat--and it was the '70's so my gypsy costume is festooned with a lot of great, clunky jewellery. The last time I dressed up, at a chorus rehearsal a few years ago, I was a washed up, peri-menopausal opera star and got cheap boa feathers all over the rehearsal hall. Some of that a little too closed to the truth for comfort.
Ms. Poopy has a catheter inserted into her left front leg which restricts her movement--just like a peg-legged pirate. Perhaps I'll fashion her a little eye patch and teach her to purr "rrrrrrgh, Matey. Some kibble, and be quick about it."
Yesterday at the vets, all the techs were wearing homemade, knitted kitty ears. Miss Poopy, my feline companion of many years, is in slow kidney failure and spent her day enthroned on heating pads being pumped full of kidney cleaning fluids and getting more attention than she has in years. When I went to pick her up last night, I met a friend there who's little man, Boots, 14 years old, can't poop. Previews of our own old age, eh? Meeting at the geriatricians in 30 years time, techs wearing rabbit ears for Halloween, both of us cranky and dressed in hideous caftanallia, discussing our maladies over Sanka and dietetic pastries. (Except, by then, I plan to be carrying a hip flax full of my favorite cocktail, have a chin like Kirk Douglas in "Spartacus", and smoke the legal, synthetic derivative of whatever Mary Jane induces the strongest giggles in a long, glamorous ivory holder).
Yesterday at Starsux, I drowned my kitty sorrows in a low-fat, decaf, soy latte (what's the point?) and the barrrrrristas were wearing little devil ears. One of them, a surly, rotund girl who sports a soft, down moustache on most days had drawn in a fu-manchu complete with beard and was wearing a hideous tie as big as a surf board in front of her Starsux regulation Seattle blue grass green apron. I had to snicker at the irony. "Snicker."
On CNN's website there was an article about certain celebrities favorite Halloween candy. One of the guys from "The Office" enjoys candy corn, eating it colored section by section. Some starlet who I'm sure never consumes more than 6 crackers and a carrot a day says she likes mini Hershey bars--in her dreams, or perhaps as an annual treat after a high colonic. Of course I'd be really interested in anything Morgan Freeman enjoys consuming or, say, what Michelle Obama considers a light repast. I'll have a Barack with cheese, please, light on the rhetoric.
Yesterday, plodding through the Center, I noticed a young lad with an axe buried in his head, 3 teenage dudes dressed up as the "Scream" killer and a tiny, raven haired toddler dribbling ice cream down the front of her bulbous pumpkin costume, complete with tiny, elfin green shoes with curled toes. "I don't understand Halloween," Sweetie, my favorite CVS lady, said to me. "If you want to eat candy, eat candy. Ruin your teeth any day you choose." She comes from a land where the traditions and rituals are thousands of years old and don't involve threats to your neighbors involving rotten eggs and toilet tissue.
I remember loving All Hallows Eve--stomping through the neighborhood, trampling bushes with my brother as we ran from house to house in the crisp autumn night, knowing who was liberal with the handfuls of Sugar Daddy's and Clark Bars and who was giving out apples and raisins, blech--Moms was a genius with the costumes--I have a great picture of my baby bro' as a pirate complete with curly moustache, sabre, and black tri-corner hat--and it was the '70's so my gypsy costume is festooned with a lot of great, clunky jewellery. The last time I dressed up, at a chorus rehearsal a few years ago, I was a washed up, peri-menopausal opera star and got cheap boa feathers all over the rehearsal hall. Some of that a little too closed to the truth for comfort.
Ms. Poopy has a catheter inserted into her left front leg which restricts her movement--just like a peg-legged pirate. Perhaps I'll fashion her a little eye patch and teach her to purr "rrrrrrgh, Matey. Some kibble, and be quick about it."
Sunday, October 21, 2007
things just ain't ready to change yet
so you go to the familiar confluence of river and sea
and sit
with the friend you wouldn't have had the sense to appreciate a few scant years ago
before all this happened
and you were changed.
The river's course changes
over eons
it took humankind an age to learn to walk upright
and you're just trying to learn to love in this tiny lifetime
so you sit
with your friend
and let the ocean wind clear your mind
and let the sun kiss your cheeks with autumn warmth
and let a black dog sniff your shoes
as you stroke his sleek coat
To see the progress
To note the change
you sometimes have to look back
You see how blind you were
You know how mute you sat
You never went to the place where the river meets the sea
You didn't show your face, free of fraud, to a friend
The moon was black
the sun, a burnt out light bulb
You groped along in the reeds
and fell on your face in the mud.
And even now, when you can see the path in front of you
You only see a hint of open water
You get a brief whiff of salty air.
so you go to the familiar confluence of river and sea
and sit
with the friend you wouldn't have had the sense to appreciate a few scant years ago
before all this happened
and you were changed.
The river's course changes
over eons
it took humankind an age to learn to walk upright
and you're just trying to learn to love in this tiny lifetime
so you sit
with your friend
and let the ocean wind clear your mind
and let the sun kiss your cheeks with autumn warmth
and let a black dog sniff your shoes
as you stroke his sleek coat
To see the progress
To note the change
you sometimes have to look back
You see how blind you were
You know how mute you sat
You never went to the place where the river meets the sea
You didn't show your face, free of fraud, to a friend
The moon was black
the sun, a burnt out light bulb
You groped along in the reeds
and fell on your face in the mud.
And even now, when you can see the path in front of you
You only see a hint of open water
You get a brief whiff of salty air.
Monday, October 15, 2007
truth
I watched Dr. Phil tonight, trying to forget a headache--his subject was O.J.'s new book, which I call confession. I remember an article in "Esquire" soon after he was acquitted where the author says, "Eventually, he will confess." And so he does, in this book. Dr. Phil spoke with his ghostwriter, Pablo, and Pablo believes that details are revealed in this book that only someone who was there would know. It's no surprise, really. The Goldmans were on, too, talking about why they took over publishing the book so that O.J. wouldn't profit from it. People don't understand why he was acquitted, but I do--because the jury was predominately Black and because they have seen the kind of police brutality and racism that was alleged during the case--it was a reaction to two hundred years of history, not a reaction to his fame, and not reflective of the prosecution's case, though I think the defense did a great job of creating reasonable doubt.
I used to work with this accountant, Barry, who thought I was an expert on all the things that he didn't understand about being Black. We stopped working at the same company and lost touch, but, a couple of weeks after the OJ verdict, he called and asked me out to dinner. We sat down, and he began quizzing me about why this jury had acquitted someone who was plainly so guilty. I, naively, tried to explain it, but there is no explaining something like this to a narrow-minded jerk from the 'burbs who thinks that the only Black person he knows (from the 'burbs) represents an entire race of people and their collective opinion, if there is one. Besides, he took me to a bad restaurant where there were peanuts on the floor. Cheap bastid.
Psychopathology is psychopathology. O.J. wrote (or had ghost-written) what he knows. So, in a twisted way, this has brought something into my awareness--I've struggled to write about different eras of time, different parts of the country, totally different people, but maybe what I should be writing about is what I know. And, of course, those are the scariest things to write about, and certainly what I've been doing in this blog. There is research, of course--there is metaphor, and method, certainly--but the stories that live in me are about relationship, shame, madness, elation, giggling about body emissions in church, loss, sadness, abandonment, a sprinkle of paranoia, the agony of word choice, finding something fashionable to wear in the array of tent-like clothes offered in my size, finding a way out of no way, climbing over walls when you barely have the strength to stand up, failed friendships, mis-communication, late blooming, fear, compassion, loving in the face of neglect and indifference, laughing at funerals, pushing limits, inanity and emotional arrest and lust, damnit, lust. A love of chocolate that borders on the pathological. Almost daily headaches that make me want to de-brain myself with a spoon. Occasional thoughts about the bliss of not being in this life anymore. What if heaven is just one giant shoe sale? Yum yum.
And the fact that we live with un-punished killers among us. Vice-presidents, sports heroes, our own cars and consumptions. Make sense of that shit.
And Condelezza Rice. In the mid-East. Do the Israelis and Palestinians give a damn about what she thinks should happen? I wonder what goes on in her big ole brain. Does she lay awake at night, after G. W. has been and gone, straightened hair a fright wig on the silk pillows, thinking about all of the youngsters she's consigned to the human slag heap? Trotting along obediently behind men who wouldn't notice her twice if it wasn't so politically incorrect? Giving her life over to chaos and destruction? I want to see Condi's MRI, please. I'd like to see that area of her cerebral cortex that belongs to Evil.
And so we come back to O.J. A man so out-of-touch with reality that he thinks it's ok to slaughter and rob people and get away with it--oh, wait! That's what we're doing in Iraq, and Dafur, and Roxbury. He and Dick-less Cheney should hang out, maybe shoot each other in the face. Can you dig it?
Dick: Uh...er...welcome to Texas, O.J. You like huntin'?
O.J.: I'm familiar with it. The car chase, you know.
Dick: Heh heh heh. Gun or knife?
O.J: I'll try the gun. I'm sick of knives.
Dick: (shots ring out) Whoops! Sorry. Had a slight heart attack. You okay?
O.J.: Damn, man, you shot me in my pretty face! I'll kill you, mother******!
Dick: Here, let me hold your gun while you staunch the bleeding.
O.J: Hold on! You think you can take my ****?! This ain't Vegas, mother******!
Dick: Just calm down, Mandingo. Think how much sympathy you'll get with a face full of buckshot. (snaps open cell phone). Hello, Condi? Got a situation at the ranch...one of your people. Yeah, the Simpson fellow. Get him a book deal, will ya? That'll calm him down. (closes cell phone). Hey, O.J., how about $600,000 and a fake Rolex?
O.J: I'll take it!
Fin
I used to work with this accountant, Barry, who thought I was an expert on all the things that he didn't understand about being Black. We stopped working at the same company and lost touch, but, a couple of weeks after the OJ verdict, he called and asked me out to dinner. We sat down, and he began quizzing me about why this jury had acquitted someone who was plainly so guilty. I, naively, tried to explain it, but there is no explaining something like this to a narrow-minded jerk from the 'burbs who thinks that the only Black person he knows (from the 'burbs) represents an entire race of people and their collective opinion, if there is one. Besides, he took me to a bad restaurant where there were peanuts on the floor. Cheap bastid.
Psychopathology is psychopathology. O.J. wrote (or had ghost-written) what he knows. So, in a twisted way, this has brought something into my awareness--I've struggled to write about different eras of time, different parts of the country, totally different people, but maybe what I should be writing about is what I know. And, of course, those are the scariest things to write about, and certainly what I've been doing in this blog. There is research, of course--there is metaphor, and method, certainly--but the stories that live in me are about relationship, shame, madness, elation, giggling about body emissions in church, loss, sadness, abandonment, a sprinkle of paranoia, the agony of word choice, finding something fashionable to wear in the array of tent-like clothes offered in my size, finding a way out of no way, climbing over walls when you barely have the strength to stand up, failed friendships, mis-communication, late blooming, fear, compassion, loving in the face of neglect and indifference, laughing at funerals, pushing limits, inanity and emotional arrest and lust, damnit, lust. A love of chocolate that borders on the pathological. Almost daily headaches that make me want to de-brain myself with a spoon. Occasional thoughts about the bliss of not being in this life anymore. What if heaven is just one giant shoe sale? Yum yum.
And the fact that we live with un-punished killers among us. Vice-presidents, sports heroes, our own cars and consumptions. Make sense of that shit.
And Condelezza Rice. In the mid-East. Do the Israelis and Palestinians give a damn about what she thinks should happen? I wonder what goes on in her big ole brain. Does she lay awake at night, after G. W. has been and gone, straightened hair a fright wig on the silk pillows, thinking about all of the youngsters she's consigned to the human slag heap? Trotting along obediently behind men who wouldn't notice her twice if it wasn't so politically incorrect? Giving her life over to chaos and destruction? I want to see Condi's MRI, please. I'd like to see that area of her cerebral cortex that belongs to Evil.
And so we come back to O.J. A man so out-of-touch with reality that he thinks it's ok to slaughter and rob people and get away with it--oh, wait! That's what we're doing in Iraq, and Dafur, and Roxbury. He and Dick-less Cheney should hang out, maybe shoot each other in the face. Can you dig it?
Dick: Uh...er...welcome to Texas, O.J. You like huntin'?
O.J.: I'm familiar with it. The car chase, you know.
Dick: Heh heh heh. Gun or knife?
O.J: I'll try the gun. I'm sick of knives.
Dick: (shots ring out) Whoops! Sorry. Had a slight heart attack. You okay?
O.J.: Damn, man, you shot me in my pretty face! I'll kill you, mother******!
Dick: Here, let me hold your gun while you staunch the bleeding.
O.J: Hold on! You think you can take my ****?! This ain't Vegas, mother******!
Dick: Just calm down, Mandingo. Think how much sympathy you'll get with a face full of buckshot. (snaps open cell phone). Hello, Condi? Got a situation at the ranch...one of your people. Yeah, the Simpson fellow. Get him a book deal, will ya? That'll calm him down. (closes cell phone). Hey, O.J., how about $600,000 and a fake Rolex?
O.J: I'll take it!
Fin
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Caged bird sings
I watch and absorb
Maya Angelou
on a giant video screen
in a room full to bursting
with women, with hope, alive with goodness (and gas from the bacon)
I am in the same room
as Maya
breathing the same rarified air
as the woman who made me know to write
who's writing made me love Black, southern, and erudite
tall, majestic, and elegant
Dr. Angelou of the 60 honorary doctorates,
and one incredible inagural poem "on the post of morning"
and my favorite poem "Phenomenal Woman"* (below)
(and my favorite line from "And Still I Rise"..."does it come as a surprise that I dance like I've got diamond at the meeting of my thighs?")
Yes Lord. I was in a room today
with Maya Angelou
I listened without effort
Her words, her wisdom, her wit poured into me
Her presence honed me to a new shine
Her wizened face, deep honey colored, heavy African features, salt and pepper curls,
her lavender dress and her double string of pearls
she said that we were all rainbows in the clouds of someone's life
we'd all helped someone, known or unknown, through our volunteer efforts
through our smiles at strangers
through our being as women
through our continuing to make a way out of no way
in that way women can and do
through our faith, intuition, grief, struggle, and, most importantly, laughter.
I sat, in that massive ballroom, with Ms. Maya, entering her 80th year
I floated in the clouds and flew around rainbows
My dear friend, Rainbow Ruby, brought me to sit in a room with Maya Angelou, knowing how much it would mean to me
She turned to me and said, "I'm so glad I'm here with you."
Me too, my Jewel.
I sat
on the bus
on the way home
knowing how magic can make the mundane so sweet
thinking of you
my rainbow in the clouds.
You.
Do something for me, men and women. Look at yourself, for at least a minute today, or for as long as you can stand it and think of the blessing you are to somebody in your life, to people you haven't met but have touched, to the strangers you smile at as you walk down the street. Hold that joy for a moment. Let it wash and fill you. Let it embrace you as I would do if I were with you now.
Maya Angelou
on a giant video screen
in a room full to bursting
with women, with hope, alive with goodness (and gas from the bacon)
I am in the same room
as Maya
breathing the same rarified air
as the woman who made me know to write
who's writing made me love Black, southern, and erudite
tall, majestic, and elegant
Dr. Angelou of the 60 honorary doctorates,
and one incredible inagural poem "on the post of morning"
and my favorite poem "Phenomenal Woman"* (below)
(and my favorite line from "And Still I Rise"..."does it come as a surprise that I dance like I've got diamond at the meeting of my thighs?")
Yes Lord. I was in a room today
with Maya Angelou
I listened without effort
Her words, her wisdom, her wit poured into me
Her presence honed me to a new shine
Her wizened face, deep honey colored, heavy African features, salt and pepper curls,
her lavender dress and her double string of pearls
she said that we were all rainbows in the clouds of someone's life
we'd all helped someone, known or unknown, through our volunteer efforts
through our smiles at strangers
through our being as women
through our continuing to make a way out of no way
in that way women can and do
through our faith, intuition, grief, struggle, and, most importantly, laughter.
I sat, in that massive ballroom, with Ms. Maya, entering her 80th year
I floated in the clouds and flew around rainbows
My dear friend, Rainbow Ruby, brought me to sit in a room with Maya Angelou, knowing how much it would mean to me
She turned to me and said, "I'm so glad I'm here with you."
Me too, my Jewel.
I sat
on the bus
on the way home
knowing how magic can make the mundane so sweet
thinking of you
my rainbow in the clouds.
You.
Do something for me, men and women. Look at yourself, for at least a minute today, or for as long as you can stand it and think of the blessing you are to somebody in your life, to people you haven't met but have touched, to the strangers you smile at as you walk down the street. Hold that joy for a moment. Let it wash and fill you. Let it embrace you as I would do if I were with you now.
PHENOMENAL WOMAN
by Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And to a man
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
I say
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth
The swing of my waist
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breasts
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It's in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
ass face
I don't like getting that angry. I pretend that I do in the re-telling, but it's so stressful, makes things so meaningless, lessens my ability to communicate effectively. Why did I have to yell to make myself heard? Grounding out the words through clenched teeth, tethering the curses that naturally sprang to mind...but you, you monosyllabic cretins...did any of you say, "What do you need?" No. You each acted as though you were doing me a favor. I pay through the pores for your services, and you are doing me a favor. So, after 45 minutes of ridiculousness I got loud. Did you hear me? Probably not. Did you get me what I wanted? Yes, you did.
Impotent rage. So unfashionable, so unacceptable, and yet, how can the modern being (and HMO patient) endure without feeling it? How can one ride public transportation, watch dozens of people picking their noses and not offering their seats to the elderly, or hear local teenagers abusing each other and anyone who is different outside the CVS not feel the rise of a palpable ire? How can we hear that one C. Thomas, the original "long John Dong," has written a tome full of allegations of his own victimization and not experience that rush of adrenaline that precedes a spot of bitterness and bile? How can we hear about Buddhist monks being beaten and imprisoned and not raise a fist at the sky and do some primal screaming?
Impotent rage. So unfashionable, so unacceptable, and yet, how can the modern being (and HMO patient) endure without feeling it? How can one ride public transportation, watch dozens of people picking their noses and not offering their seats to the elderly, or hear local teenagers abusing each other and anyone who is different outside the CVS not feel the rise of a palpable ire? How can we hear that one C. Thomas, the original "long John Dong," has written a tome full of allegations of his own victimization and not experience that rush of adrenaline that precedes a spot of bitterness and bile? How can we hear about Buddhist monks being beaten and imprisoned and not raise a fist at the sky and do some primal screaming?
Saturday, September 15, 2007
circles and circles and circles and circles and circles...
look down a long table
seated around it are the beings that make your life
the first mouth that kissed you
your father, the rare hugger, stiff proud provider of shoes
and love (disguised as criticism)
your brother/sister who kicked your ass so much that the callus remains that makes you tough and strong and teflon
the family acquaintance that went too far
the family acquaintance that once told you you'd never be a writer (he's there in the worse seat, the one right by the kitchen, being made to read this blog 15 times before he gets served any dinner)
Your wise, loving auntie with the "bosom of comfort", who's refrain is "C'mere, baby."
Your friends, the fabric of your present
seated around it are the beings that make your life
the first mouth that kissed you
your father, the rare hugger, stiff proud provider of shoes
and love (disguised as criticism)
your brother/sister who kicked your ass so much that the callus remains that makes you tough and strong and teflon
the family acquaintance that went too far
the family acquaintance that once told you you'd never be a writer (he's there in the worse seat, the one right by the kitchen, being made to read this blog 15 times before he gets served any dinner)
Your wise, loving auntie with the "bosom of comfort", who's refrain is "C'mere, baby."
Your friends, the fabric of your present
Saturday, September 8, 2007
rat's behind
warning, Momm! Foul language!
There are some days, shimmering heat days, sleepy, headachy, pain-filled days, when I leave the house without the proper foundation garments. I usually wear a thicker t-shirt or a dress of such fabric as to not expose my drooping tee-tahs to the world. Some of my acquaintance have deemed my roundness unattractive, even downright ugly, but on such days I give thanks for the kind of body that allows me to hide my nipples under my meaty upper arms, so I will not appear slatternly to all and sundry of the neighborhood.
Don't give a fuck, in other words.
And so today I sallied forth to make such purchases as were required to enjoy some time away from the bathroom and to meet a dear friend in an air-conditioned venue for a healthy repast. After we ate and witticised, I stopped by my favorite neighborhood giftie store to soak up the creative, wacky energy of the proprietress, a delightful, soulful woman with a love of toys, gew gaws, and those awful quilted floral bags everyone seems to like. We chattered in air conditioned comfort as I gadded about sampling her wares until I came upon a jasmine hand cream sample called "Oolong." Such were my transports of ecstasy that my hostess came to my side to show me other ungents and potions with this delightful scent. I am, even now, pressing my nostrils to the frangrant flesh of my forearm to enjoy the freshly exotic scent.
As she bent to the drawer beneath the display to check on stock, I noticed that she shared with me the same sort of "dishabille", in that she was wearing a white dress that, in a certain light, was quite sheer, and so, I was presented with quite a show when she stood up. Let's just say that meaty forearms were no where in appearance, and that I did struggle not to stare.
Guess she didn't give a fuck today, either.
Her gifts, I must say, far surpassed mine, in firmness and aspect.
My Oolong hand creme is on back-order, as is a new push up brassiere.
And we, the women of the world, owe ourselves at least one trip per lifetime, a Hajj, as it were, to some warm and vibrant place near the bluest ocean, preferably a tropical clime, where we can dispense with foundation garments--indeed with any garments at all--and revel in the beauty and perfection with which we were created in infinite variety, and in infinite grace.
There are some days, shimmering heat days, sleepy, headachy, pain-filled days, when I leave the house without the proper foundation garments. I usually wear a thicker t-shirt or a dress of such fabric as to not expose my drooping tee-tahs to the world. Some of my acquaintance have deemed my roundness unattractive, even downright ugly, but on such days I give thanks for the kind of body that allows me to hide my nipples under my meaty upper arms, so I will not appear slatternly to all and sundry of the neighborhood.
Don't give a fuck, in other words.
And so today I sallied forth to make such purchases as were required to enjoy some time away from the bathroom and to meet a dear friend in an air-conditioned venue for a healthy repast. After we ate and witticised, I stopped by my favorite neighborhood giftie store to soak up the creative, wacky energy of the proprietress, a delightful, soulful woman with a love of toys, gew gaws, and those awful quilted floral bags everyone seems to like. We chattered in air conditioned comfort as I gadded about sampling her wares until I came upon a jasmine hand cream sample called "Oolong." Such were my transports of ecstasy that my hostess came to my side to show me other ungents and potions with this delightful scent. I am, even now, pressing my nostrils to the frangrant flesh of my forearm to enjoy the freshly exotic scent.
As she bent to the drawer beneath the display to check on stock, I noticed that she shared with me the same sort of "dishabille", in that she was wearing a white dress that, in a certain light, was quite sheer, and so, I was presented with quite a show when she stood up. Let's just say that meaty forearms were no where in appearance, and that I did struggle not to stare.
Guess she didn't give a fuck today, either.
Her gifts, I must say, far surpassed mine, in firmness and aspect.
My Oolong hand creme is on back-order, as is a new push up brassiere.
And we, the women of the world, owe ourselves at least one trip per lifetime, a Hajj, as it were, to some warm and vibrant place near the bluest ocean, preferably a tropical clime, where we can dispense with foundation garments--indeed with any garments at all--and revel in the beauty and perfection with which we were created in infinite variety, and in infinite grace.
Friday, August 24, 2007
adventures in ci home edition
conversation between me and my stomach this afternoon.
s: i hate you.
j: but why?
s: it's nothing personal, I just do.
j: (nauseous moan)...but I've been doing the BRAT diet -(banana, rice, applesauce, toast...)
s: BRAT DIET my asss(cids). No one should eat as much ice cream as you have.
j: But that was years ago...
s: (Greasy fried) chicken's coming home to roost.
j: Uhnnnnn.
s: Trying to suck me in...don't think that Tums will help you now, beotch.
j: Blah.
s: Was it the asperatime of this afternoon's Coke Zero? Or the recent incursion into
yogurt? did you think I wouldn't notice? When I said "no diary" I meant 'NO DAIRY."
J: UGGGGHHHH.
s: Or it could just be out of whack immune system K cells having a little disco time down
here. You'll never know.
j: I will Sierra Mist you. Don't think I won't.
s: And don't think I won't send that shit back to where it came from! And did you really
think you'd get away with those organic cherry tomatoes??
j: But there were so fresh and so cute. And it was the farmer's market.
s: "organic's" just another word for "nothing left to lose" ...or "questionably fertilized."
j: You are so unforgiving lately. Like the last 5 years.
s: Not my fault you ate enough Whoppers to support an entire Burger King franchise.
j: But that was 10 years ago!
s: I remember EVERYTHING.
fin
s: i hate you.
j: but why?
s: it's nothing personal, I just do.
j: (nauseous moan)...but I've been doing the BRAT diet -(banana, rice, applesauce, toast...)
s: BRAT DIET my asss(cids). No one should eat as much ice cream as you have.
j: But that was years ago...
s: (Greasy fried) chicken's coming home to roost.
j: Uhnnnnn.
s: Trying to suck me in...don't think that Tums will help you now, beotch.
j: Blah.
s: Was it the asperatime of this afternoon's Coke Zero? Or the recent incursion into
yogurt? did you think I wouldn't notice? When I said "no diary" I meant 'NO DAIRY."
J: UGGGGHHHH.
s: Or it could just be out of whack immune system K cells having a little disco time down
here. You'll never know.
j: I will Sierra Mist you. Don't think I won't.
s: And don't think I won't send that shit back to where it came from! And did you really
think you'd get away with those organic cherry tomatoes??
j: But there were so fresh and so cute. And it was the farmer's market.
s: "organic's" just another word for "nothing left to lose" ...or "questionably fertilized."
j: You are so unforgiving lately. Like the last 5 years.
s: Not my fault you ate enough Whoppers to support an entire Burger King franchise.
j: But that was 10 years ago!
s: I remember EVERYTHING.
fin
Home boy
I watched my favorite comforter go round and round, a fuchsia highway. The laundromat was all heat and humidity being stirred lazily by ceiling fans. This particular unmanned establishment fascinated me--no one ever came to service the place when I was there and the machines--laundry, change, vending--always seemed to work. Who would I go to if the change machine ate my $5 bill? Such things plague tiny minds.
I was staring at this particular dryer load because I'd noticed something in the second or third revolution--there was something small and brown in the drum, something small, plump and brown...with a tail. "Oh christ on a crackpipe," I thought, imagining my cat, Poopy, wallowing around in the laundry basket. "She's left me a present."
Geeeeeroooooossss! I squeaked, involuntarily. Suddenly, the other occupant of the laundromat, a slightly greasy man with gray hair, leather vest, and bright white shirt and squeakers was at my side.
"Smatter?"
His breath was ripe and I squinted and blinked.
'Um...it looks like there's a mouse in there." I poked at the thick plastic of the dryer door.
He peered through his bottle bottom glasses. "Yeah?" He sounded excited.
It hit me all at once. It was one of Poopy's play mice. If it'd been real, she would have left it in a place of prominence for me to step on or trip over.
"Heh..heheheh...it's a fake mouse," I said, using the excuse to move away from his slight odor de must.
"Oh...heheheh. Uhm huh." He then peered at me, puzzled. Or at least I think he was puzzled because his florid forehead sprouted several wrinkles.
"I have a cat, see."
"Oh...OHHHHHH. Oh. hehehheh."
Then he said, "I'm Jarhead." At this point you probably want to tell me my business---you probably want to tell me I misheard him--he said "Gerard" or had a French accent or something. The man said "I'm Jarhead.'
I was tempted to say "I'm Pot au Feu," but the situation was bizarre enough already.
"Well, ok." Eloquent to the last, I opened the dryer door and he stepped back. I reached in to pull out the fake mouse who, in the melee, lost his tail. His fur was fluffy and light and his little pink felt ears were shiny. He reeked of Bounce and dryer burn. I slipped him in my pocket.
"Uhhhh." said my companion, and walked over to the washing machine that was shaking itself silly, slamming against the wall in an effort to get his clothing clean.
How to reply? I pulled the comforter out of the dryer, stuffed it in a trash bag, and left the place with a very false sounding "have a nice day!"
Poopy, when presented with her now tail-less but exquisitely clean mouse, trapped it under her paw, smelled it, and promptly dropped it in her food dish.
There are the scary and the musty and slightly puzzled in the world and there is at least one "Jarhead." Though I don't particularly want to encounter him again, I appreciate his consideration.
I was staring at this particular dryer load because I'd noticed something in the second or third revolution--there was something small and brown in the drum, something small, plump and brown...with a tail. "Oh christ on a crackpipe," I thought, imagining my cat, Poopy, wallowing around in the laundry basket. "She's left me a present."
Geeeeeroooooossss! I squeaked, involuntarily. Suddenly, the other occupant of the laundromat, a slightly greasy man with gray hair, leather vest, and bright white shirt and squeakers was at my side.
"Smatter?"
His breath was ripe and I squinted and blinked.
'Um...it looks like there's a mouse in there." I poked at the thick plastic of the dryer door.
He peered through his bottle bottom glasses. "Yeah?" He sounded excited.
It hit me all at once. It was one of Poopy's play mice. If it'd been real, she would have left it in a place of prominence for me to step on or trip over.
"Heh..heheheh...it's a fake mouse," I said, using the excuse to move away from his slight odor de must.
"Oh...heheheh. Uhm huh." He then peered at me, puzzled. Or at least I think he was puzzled because his florid forehead sprouted several wrinkles.
"I have a cat, see."
"Oh...OHHHHHH. Oh. hehehheh."
Then he said, "I'm Jarhead." At this point you probably want to tell me my business---you probably want to tell me I misheard him--he said "Gerard" or had a French accent or something. The man said "I'm Jarhead.'
I was tempted to say "I'm Pot au Feu," but the situation was bizarre enough already.
"Well, ok." Eloquent to the last, I opened the dryer door and he stepped back. I reached in to pull out the fake mouse who, in the melee, lost his tail. His fur was fluffy and light and his little pink felt ears were shiny. He reeked of Bounce and dryer burn. I slipped him in my pocket.
"Uhhhh." said my companion, and walked over to the washing machine that was shaking itself silly, slamming against the wall in an effort to get his clothing clean.
How to reply? I pulled the comforter out of the dryer, stuffed it in a trash bag, and left the place with a very false sounding "have a nice day!"
Poopy, when presented with her now tail-less but exquisitely clean mouse, trapped it under her paw, smelled it, and promptly dropped it in her food dish.
There are the scary and the musty and slightly puzzled in the world and there is at least one "Jarhead." Though I don't particularly want to encounter him again, I appreciate his consideration.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
inches
She wonders why friends don't have time anymore. She's asked them,
but there weren't any real answers. Just a gradual tapering off of time spent together.
She knows she tends to feel abandoned so she mitigates their silence by trying to suck up the hurt into a gift wrapped package with a big read denial bow. Denial bows are always red, you know.
But truth is just too fragrant a scent, a spice, a honeysuckle dream, to resist for long, and mendacity is too putrid to her now, a decayed, malicious thing, a darkness detrimental to life.
So she tries to understand their fear. It's fear, fear of pain, fear of anger, fear of truth that make people turn away from each other. It's terror in the face of the unknown.
She sees it's too plain for most, but not poetic enough to describe the deep, abiding darkness of not knowing. She lives in that ebony unfolding, that constant pain, that forced smile, that sense of always falling.
Some can't face the pain in her face, the edge in her voice, the stumble in her step, the scalp showing through the falling fur, the body bursting with it's own malice, dis ease. The now constant throb behind the eyes. It's hard for them to watch her have to reach deeper into a darkened trough to find the sprigs of delight that make life worth continuing to live.
So they turn away--a gradual lessening. The everyday shrinks to now and again and then to not at all.
She has her bouts of doubts--is it too much to ask, is it too much to bear, is it too much to face, is is too much to not know--but, really, she doesn't have a choice and envies them theirs.
but there weren't any real answers. Just a gradual tapering off of time spent together.
She knows she tends to feel abandoned so she mitigates their silence by trying to suck up the hurt into a gift wrapped package with a big read denial bow. Denial bows are always red, you know.
But truth is just too fragrant a scent, a spice, a honeysuckle dream, to resist for long, and mendacity is too putrid to her now, a decayed, malicious thing, a darkness detrimental to life.
So she tries to understand their fear. It's fear, fear of pain, fear of anger, fear of truth that make people turn away from each other. It's terror in the face of the unknown.
She sees it's too plain for most, but not poetic enough to describe the deep, abiding darkness of not knowing. She lives in that ebony unfolding, that constant pain, that forced smile, that sense of always falling.
Some can't face the pain in her face, the edge in her voice, the stumble in her step, the scalp showing through the falling fur, the body bursting with it's own malice, dis ease. The now constant throb behind the eyes. It's hard for them to watch her have to reach deeper into a darkened trough to find the sprigs of delight that make life worth continuing to live.
So they turn away--a gradual lessening. The everyday shrinks to now and again and then to not at all.
She has her bouts of doubts--is it too much to ask, is it too much to bear, is it too much to face, is is too much to not know--but, really, she doesn't have a choice and envies them theirs.
Monday, August 20, 2007
WHEN
you don't think about it much
when you're sitting by the pond
watching a filthy white mutt
joyously swim, chasing ducks
it doesn't cross your mind
but once a day
as you putter away at your desk
in your cube
in the office
at the hall
you don't contemplate it thoroughly
on the human-filled bus
or at the beach
walking in circles over the breakers
or bending to watch a clam burrow in the sand
it doesn't hit you when you're shopping for oregano
or lipstick or queen size panty hose
or shoes that fit
pushing you body up and through material made half a world away
it comes sneakily through the night
like the whisper of a sea mist
like the dew you don't see falling
like the African dusk
lonely
you are alone
you are empty
as though what you are is scooped out
with a melon baller
there's no sound where your heart should be
there's no share
and no give
there is no answering breath
across the bedroom
and no
common bond
across the miles
there is nothing
only nothing
no thing
not
when you're sitting by the pond
watching a filthy white mutt
joyously swim, chasing ducks
it doesn't cross your mind
but once a day
as you putter away at your desk
in your cube
in the office
at the hall
you don't contemplate it thoroughly
on the human-filled bus
or at the beach
walking in circles over the breakers
or bending to watch a clam burrow in the sand
it doesn't hit you when you're shopping for oregano
or lipstick or queen size panty hose
or shoes that fit
pushing you body up and through material made half a world away
it comes sneakily through the night
like the whisper of a sea mist
like the dew you don't see falling
like the African dusk
lonely
you are alone
you are empty
as though what you are is scooped out
with a melon baller
there's no sound where your heart should be
there's no share
and no give
there is no answering breath
across the bedroom
and no
common bond
across the miles
there is nothing
only nothing
no thing
not
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Our Town
"It's like that race in France, ain't it?" he snuffled as Saturday bike riders whizzed around us, cutting through the town center intersection to join the other side of the bike trail. He trundled off the median and into the street crossing through the oncoming traffic, the dry cleaning bag he was carrying billowing out like a sail behind him. I noticed the bag contained khaki short pants identical to the ones he was wearing, and imagined row upon row of identical pair in the bedroom closet of his neatly appointed three room flat in the Blissful Bounty Retirement Residence.
"Your hair gone!" she bellowed, waving her hands above her head. I nodded. "You sick again? I make you soup." She pushed through the swing door that separated the restaurant from it's kitchen and screamed into the cacophony of pots and pans. She screamed in Chinese and at her husband the cook, in tones so vitriolic that it could have only been like: "Wonton soup and white rice right now! And no msg, you monkey's behind! It's the sick Negress from next door! Her hair fell out, probably from eating your horrible food, you son of a swine!"
Sweetie and Sugah toil at the drug store. Sugah is from India and speaks in horror of Phoenix where her daughter lives. "It's so hot it makes me feel dead," she intones, her doe-brown eyes gone wide. "No, I'm serious, honey. These are two-for-one, dear." I am non-plussed, until she tells me "Go! Go! Go get the other bottle!..." of spring water, buy one get one free. We discuss our diabetes. "I am hungry all the time," she says, munching Kashi go lean from the box. I tell her of my appetite suppressing nausea and she says "I wish," and we giggle.
Sweetie comes in on the weekends to run the register. She is from an African country, so beautiful and deep that it shows in her face, a smooth ebony with the glow of the sun. "I must learn to drive," she tells me. "My sister is volunteering at the library. FOR NO MONEY. Will you look at my resume, sometime? I want to work with children, not in this place all my life." She caught a drunken man trying to steal a bottle of Purell hand sanitizer. She marched him back to the register, wordlessly paid for the bottle herself, and handed it back to him. "He stank," she explained to me as he furtively exited the store. Later I saw him in the alley, giving himself a dry Purell bath.
I glide into my favorite giftie store, borne upon a wave of softly undulating new age music which covers up the squeak of my movements across the old wood floors. All of the women who work here seem so effervescent, mellow, and friendly---perhaps they smoke pot in the basement. I waft among the treasures there, the one-of-a-kind earrings, the saying stones, the purses modeled after samurai pouches, the vibrant whisper soft scarves, the ArtGirlz pins that say "imagine" and "lust."
The Slovenly Guy sits at one of the outdoor tables in front of Starbucks, nursing a cup of coffee, chain smoking and making off-color remarks to passers-by. He said something insulting to two women who passed by holding hands, and one of them got right in his face and said "fuck you," with accompanying hand gesture. He shrank to half his size and mumbled "I was only tryin' to be friendly," to their retreating backs.
I give the new Yoga center a wide berth during my perambulations. Strange, culty vibes. There's always a minion at the front desk staring out into the street as though to compel the masses to join..."if you'll only cross our threshold, you will experience healing beyond measure, all for 1/2 your life savings. In the tiny rooms behind me, meet your destiny, stretch your body like a pretzel and participate in creepy...ahem!...life-affirming group hugs with people you hardly know."
My neighbor S and his wife, D, are from Nepal. S has high blood pressure and OCD and writes beautiful love songs in Sanskrit that he sings on Saturday mornings, strumming his guitar. Their apartment is so clean you could eat off the floor and the delicious saffron and onion smells from their kitchen make me happy. I pass by their windows on the way to my stairs. "We're having Thai, tonight!" S shouts joyously, a short, broad, brown man with a shock of strong black hair, his bare feet rooted to the earth half a planet away from his homeland.
She drives a red neon and works at the 1/2 price bookstore, a place so sacred to me that I can hardly believe it exists just outside my door. "The new Donna Leon came in," she nasally intones, her head just at my shoulder. The store is air conditioned to a slight frost, and the smell of old pages and dusty prose intoxicates. She putters behind me and speaks of her cats, Neon and Astra, the new Harry Potter midnight promotion, how the insurance company screwed her when she retired. She brings the step stool so I can sit and peruse the lower reaches of the mystery section. "We have magazines, now," she says, her contempt obvious. I gaze over the mag selection and agree. There is no "New Yorker."
Yadda lives at the end of the building and spends summer days roasting herself to a crisp in a beach chair set out on our tar paper roof. "How a-uuuuuu!" she sings as I pass by, her hair a beacon of white, her skin the color of wheat toast. She always knows the forecast and advises me on umbrella usage and suitable outerwear for the work day.
The waiters from the Indian restaurant play soccer in the alley. A truck bound for the highway rumbles by, it's horn sounding like a ship's blare. Poopy the cat screams at the birds who nest in the waving branches outside the bedroom window. The bell player practices at the Catholic Church, sometimes stumbling over what I swear sounds like the Stones "you can't always get what you want."
Ahhhhhh....Home.
"Your hair gone!" she bellowed, waving her hands above her head. I nodded. "You sick again? I make you soup." She pushed through the swing door that separated the restaurant from it's kitchen and screamed into the cacophony of pots and pans. She screamed in Chinese and at her husband the cook, in tones so vitriolic that it could have only been like: "Wonton soup and white rice right now! And no msg, you monkey's behind! It's the sick Negress from next door! Her hair fell out, probably from eating your horrible food, you son of a swine!"
Sweetie and Sugah toil at the drug store. Sugah is from India and speaks in horror of Phoenix where her daughter lives. "It's so hot it makes me feel dead," she intones, her doe-brown eyes gone wide. "No, I'm serious, honey. These are two-for-one, dear." I am non-plussed, until she tells me "Go! Go! Go get the other bottle!..." of spring water, buy one get one free. We discuss our diabetes. "I am hungry all the time," she says, munching Kashi go lean from the box. I tell her of my appetite suppressing nausea and she says "I wish," and we giggle.
Sweetie comes in on the weekends to run the register. She is from an African country, so beautiful and deep that it shows in her face, a smooth ebony with the glow of the sun. "I must learn to drive," she tells me. "My sister is volunteering at the library. FOR NO MONEY. Will you look at my resume, sometime? I want to work with children, not in this place all my life." She caught a drunken man trying to steal a bottle of Purell hand sanitizer. She marched him back to the register, wordlessly paid for the bottle herself, and handed it back to him. "He stank," she explained to me as he furtively exited the store. Later I saw him in the alley, giving himself a dry Purell bath.
I glide into my favorite giftie store, borne upon a wave of softly undulating new age music which covers up the squeak of my movements across the old wood floors. All of the women who work here seem so effervescent, mellow, and friendly---perhaps they smoke pot in the basement. I waft among the treasures there, the one-of-a-kind earrings, the saying stones, the purses modeled after samurai pouches, the vibrant whisper soft scarves, the ArtGirlz pins that say "imagine" and "lust."
The Slovenly Guy sits at one of the outdoor tables in front of Starbucks, nursing a cup of coffee, chain smoking and making off-color remarks to passers-by. He said something insulting to two women who passed by holding hands, and one of them got right in his face and said "fuck you," with accompanying hand gesture. He shrank to half his size and mumbled "I was only tryin' to be friendly," to their retreating backs.
I give the new Yoga center a wide berth during my perambulations. Strange, culty vibes. There's always a minion at the front desk staring out into the street as though to compel the masses to join..."if you'll only cross our threshold, you will experience healing beyond measure, all for 1/2 your life savings. In the tiny rooms behind me, meet your destiny, stretch your body like a pretzel and participate in creepy...ahem!...life-affirming group hugs with people you hardly know."
My neighbor S and his wife, D, are from Nepal. S has high blood pressure and OCD and writes beautiful love songs in Sanskrit that he sings on Saturday mornings, strumming his guitar. Their apartment is so clean you could eat off the floor and the delicious saffron and onion smells from their kitchen make me happy. I pass by their windows on the way to my stairs. "We're having Thai, tonight!" S shouts joyously, a short, broad, brown man with a shock of strong black hair, his bare feet rooted to the earth half a planet away from his homeland.
She drives a red neon and works at the 1/2 price bookstore, a place so sacred to me that I can hardly believe it exists just outside my door. "The new Donna Leon came in," she nasally intones, her head just at my shoulder. The store is air conditioned to a slight frost, and the smell of old pages and dusty prose intoxicates. She putters behind me and speaks of her cats, Neon and Astra, the new Harry Potter midnight promotion, how the insurance company screwed her when she retired. She brings the step stool so I can sit and peruse the lower reaches of the mystery section. "We have magazines, now," she says, her contempt obvious. I gaze over the mag selection and agree. There is no "New Yorker."
Yadda lives at the end of the building and spends summer days roasting herself to a crisp in a beach chair set out on our tar paper roof. "How a-uuuuuu!" she sings as I pass by, her hair a beacon of white, her skin the color of wheat toast. She always knows the forecast and advises me on umbrella usage and suitable outerwear for the work day.
The waiters from the Indian restaurant play soccer in the alley. A truck bound for the highway rumbles by, it's horn sounding like a ship's blare. Poopy the cat screams at the birds who nest in the waving branches outside the bedroom window. The bell player practices at the Catholic Church, sometimes stumbling over what I swear sounds like the Stones "you can't always get what you want."
Ahhhhhh....Home.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Adventures in Chronic Illness - glib, glum gastro
Glib, glum, Gastro
She strides into the exam room, flipping back her mane of chestnut hair. I have googled her and know that she was initially trained in a Soviet bloc country, which brings to mind big rubber hosing and distended bellies full of homemade potato vodka and thin, gruely soup made with old vegetables. She asks a few brief questions..."how long hav you had this probleem?" (And with this problem, it can seem like forever, baby,) and then advises me to "stripe" so that she can give the offending orifice a closer inspection.
(When you have a few chronic illnesses, ill-defined (ha!) by the American medical establishment, this bit currently incurable but responsive to toxic drugs that cause early menopause, dowager humps, and "Big Ben's pendulum" mood swings, that bit poorly understood by anyone in the 50 contiguous states and seemingly triggered by wind, rain, full moon, wheat toast, tuneless whistling, high heeled shoes, extreme liberalism and french fries, you are poked, prodded, manipulated, lightly mawled, slightly violated, probed, lifted, shifted, rolled, oiled, gelled, smashed, injected, ejected, subjected, projected, mushed, exacted, pricked, stuck, plucked, siphoned, inflated, kneaded to the point where nothing seems inviolate anymore. "Sure, stick that banana in my ear, if you think it'll help.")
You get the picture. Moon over Quincy Center. A few Jackie Gleason like expressions on my face and it's over.
"Test. We must do." She proceeds to her desk in the corner and writes for ten minutes. I'm not kidding. I sat there in the tiny paper robe and read an entire "People" magazine.
Viva le deluge.
Fasting tests. Resting tests. Rubber hose tests (I'm only guessing--I was asleep). Tests on every human effluent imaginable. And, after six months, the call that all of us sickies long for: THE DIAGNOSIS. "Doctor wants you to come in," says Nurse. I, dutiful Patient, take an Immodium and board the Red Line train, face aglow with hope.
And...
it isn't
this
or that
and there's no evidence of this
or these
or scurvy, Ebola, diphtheria, mange, ringworm, accidentally ingested hula hoops, drug muling, voodoo, no missing parts, and no
it isn't "all eeen your mind, Ms. Claig."
So, I murmur, what in the sam hell is it?
and there is no answer
to this day.
I've got a few words, a phrase that the gastros use for this kind of thing. But nobody really knows.
Food diaries
allergy testing
home mold testing
Reiki
Psychy
Howlin' at the moon
(Howlin' at my moon)
So it's just one more question on the long list of questions I have when I go before God. This week, let's call him Irving.
"So Irving, why are there poor people, and why is there David Hasselhoff...what's with Disney, Dafur, does anyone love bats? Who is Oprah, really, where are our gurus, our leaders? Is Aerosmith being the guest band for the Boston Pops 2006 4th of July celebration a sign of the Apocalypse? And Irv, exactly WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY ASS?!"
She strides into the exam room, flipping back her mane of chestnut hair. I have googled her and know that she was initially trained in a Soviet bloc country, which brings to mind big rubber hosing and distended bellies full of homemade potato vodka and thin, gruely soup made with old vegetables. She asks a few brief questions..."how long hav you had this probleem?" (And with this problem, it can seem like forever, baby,) and then advises me to "stripe" so that she can give the offending orifice a closer inspection.
(When you have a few chronic illnesses, ill-defined (ha!) by the American medical establishment, this bit currently incurable but responsive to toxic drugs that cause early menopause, dowager humps, and "Big Ben's pendulum" mood swings, that bit poorly understood by anyone in the 50 contiguous states and seemingly triggered by wind, rain, full moon, wheat toast, tuneless whistling, high heeled shoes, extreme liberalism and french fries, you are poked, prodded, manipulated, lightly mawled, slightly violated, probed, lifted, shifted, rolled, oiled, gelled, smashed, injected, ejected, subjected, projected, mushed, exacted, pricked, stuck, plucked, siphoned, inflated, kneaded to the point where nothing seems inviolate anymore. "Sure, stick that banana in my ear, if you think it'll help.")
You get the picture. Moon over Quincy Center. A few Jackie Gleason like expressions on my face and it's over.
"Test. We must do." She proceeds to her desk in the corner and writes for ten minutes. I'm not kidding. I sat there in the tiny paper robe and read an entire "People" magazine.
Viva le deluge.
Fasting tests. Resting tests. Rubber hose tests (I'm only guessing--I was asleep). Tests on every human effluent imaginable. And, after six months, the call that all of us sickies long for: THE DIAGNOSIS. "Doctor wants you to come in," says Nurse. I, dutiful Patient, take an Immodium and board the Red Line train, face aglow with hope.
And...
it isn't
this
or that
and there's no evidence of this
or these
or scurvy, Ebola, diphtheria, mange, ringworm, accidentally ingested hula hoops, drug muling, voodoo, no missing parts, and no
it isn't "all eeen your mind, Ms. Claig."
So, I murmur, what in the sam hell is it?
and there is no answer
to this day.
I've got a few words, a phrase that the gastros use for this kind of thing. But nobody really knows.
Food diaries
allergy testing
home mold testing
Reiki
Psychy
Howlin' at the moon
(Howlin' at my moon)
So it's just one more question on the long list of questions I have when I go before God. This week, let's call him Irving.
"So Irving, why are there poor people, and why is there David Hasselhoff...what's with Disney, Dafur, does anyone love bats? Who is Oprah, really, where are our gurus, our leaders? Is Aerosmith being the guest band for the Boston Pops 2006 4th of July celebration a sign of the Apocalypse? And Irv, exactly WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY ASS?!"
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Devilcheney
What a country!
You can now make lots of money stepping on the dead backs of the young and poor
Shoot your good friend in the face
Ask your slavishly devoted employee, (another devil worshipper), to do something illegal, cover it up, and then take the fall
cuz you know your doofus boss will let him off.
What a clever demon's seed you are. How else to keep your minion quiet? How else to keep him happy? I bet Scooter has some Haliburton stock, a lovely summer home in Kennebunk, and an ass full of buckshot...and he says, "Thank you sir! Can I have another?"
You can now make lots of money stepping on the dead backs of the young and poor
Shoot your good friend in the face
Ask your slavishly devoted employee, (another devil worshipper), to do something illegal, cover it up, and then take the fall
cuz you know your doofus boss will let him off.
What a clever demon's seed you are. How else to keep your minion quiet? How else to keep him happy? I bet Scooter has some Haliburton stock, a lovely summer home in Kennebunk, and an ass full of buckshot...and he says, "Thank you sir! Can I have another?"
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
legs
I waited for the spider to get close to the bed
I killed him with a Vanity Fair-the one with Barack on the cover
Then I went downstairs, for what my legs hoped was the last time tonight,
and saw another one, one inch legs, creeping behind the tv
bashed that one with a New Yorker--(perhaps he was the more literate arachnid)
tried to push down the panic of being swarmed by their orphaned children in the night
thought fleetingly of pulling out all of the furniture from the walls to inspect, spray, and pillage whatever little village they are trying to set up in my home
but flesh said "nay"
the powerlessness and anger swept through me
leaving me panting on the stairs
I killed him with a Vanity Fair-the one with Barack on the cover
Then I went downstairs, for what my legs hoped was the last time tonight,
and saw another one, one inch legs, creeping behind the tv
bashed that one with a New Yorker--(perhaps he was the more literate arachnid)
tried to push down the panic of being swarmed by their orphaned children in the night
thought fleetingly of pulling out all of the furniture from the walls to inspect, spray, and pillage whatever little village they are trying to set up in my home
but flesh said "nay"
the powerlessness and anger swept through me
leaving me panting on the stairs
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Adventures in chronic illness
Yesterday was bad and I kept pushing and pushing until I got to Harvard Square. I was nauseous from the bus ride and so I said screw it and caught a cab, got home, took my pills, drank a bunch of water and went into a coma from which only a very full bladder awakened me. Thought I might vomit a few times in the night but it didn't happen. The diarrhea started this morning and in between bouts I've been comatose.
Now I'm eating some bread, enjoying the breeze and sunshine from my tiny garret window, thinking about maybe this is how you feel when you are dying--as a writer, metaphor is my game. I feel poisoned sometimes, like there is something running through my body that is the antithesis of life who's sole reason for being is to pillage and destroy my normal life processes and I think this in a very non-melodramatic way as yesterday wore on and I'd gone through my checklist of medications, ungents, potions, reasons, drinking tons of water and taking the least stomach busting ibuprofen, and only half the diabetes medication because a whole one will make me sick on an empty stomach, and trying to remember if I'd eaten something that would result in feeling this way, and then giving a complex presentation on gift processing, and then leaning against me boss's doorway and looking so bad that she looked up and made me sit down, and she said " go home," but we had our first team lunch and I thought maybe it's just that I haven't eaten so we went to lunch after I've used my glucose meter just to check and see if its abnormally high blood sugar that was making me feel so crappy, but it was actually low--if I'm a diabetic it should be about 100 when I haven't eaten and 130 when I have but it was 70, in the normal range, so I ordered fish and vegetables--I love vegetables, I have such hope when I eat them that they will stay in and will distribute their nutritional value--but of course an hour after lunch they galloped through me like a heard of buffalo across the open plain, no natural obstacle, like small intestine cilli, in their path, so ok it was 3p and I was going home but there was a guy to interview and if I'd gone home he'd have to come in a 3rd time which seems ridiculous as I was already there so I sucked it up, always suckin' it up, good for the soul they say and did the interview--hire him immediately! I say--and then it was 5p and the nausea begins in earnest, but it's more than that, it is a deep malaise that makes my legs shake, it's the throbbing headache that seems like my brain is halving itself, blinking as it were, it's the vertigo that keeps my eyes slap dab on the horizon as the bus sways and the smells of a dozen people who wear cheap perfume with an alcohol base or aren't acquainted with soap or modern hygiene or who have had something so noxious for lunch that it's seeping out of their pores and wafting into my too sensitive smeller along with the usual odors of not-oft-cleaned public transportation and a city that sometimes seems as if it were busting at it's seams with human detrius and pigeon droppings...so withdrew a 1/3rd of what I have in the bank, got into the cab, strategically placed myself far away from the cab driver, who was doused in Drakkar Noir and garlic, kept my gaze on the horizon and prayed for newer shock absorbers and not too much traffic, Haitian radio, or false conversation. Of course there was 3 out of 4 but I'm grateful that the radio was off.
What is Goddess trying to tell me these days? I pushed through last weekend, which had so much magic, humanity, friendship and love about it that it was worth it. I pushed through yesterday and probably cost myself a few days of conciousness. One of things that I work hard on in therapy is my black and white thinking which is in direct contrast to my sense of magic, intuition, spirituality and intellect, but which seems to prevade, especially when I'm too spent to fight it. Cause and effect. This must be happening for a reason. Sometimes I think She is giving me this time so that I can write, and write with the biggest sense of appreciation for the human condition. Sometimes I think She's giving me this time because I lived so hard, so destructively, so self-hatingly for so long that She needs me to have black and white experiences, the highs and lows that happen simultaneously or in quick succession. I'm thinking particularly of last week's concert--I had to sit out the dress rehearsal because I was feeling so lousy but here we were in a church where Nelson Mandela came to speak, where we were recognizing people, very young people, who literally gave their lives in the fight against hatred, and seeing that anal, bitchy, white girl try to do that dance and then Nick very gently telling her "thanks for trying"...I just got up and danced. Like "David up and danced...David danced before the Lord...he danced before the Lord with all his might." That's what I did. And somewhere from the deep recesses, or maybe from that part of my brain that is crazy, or that reserve of some of the strongest and most well-survived ancestry, or just from the power of the moment, and the energy my friends were sending me, I stood up for the first time in a long time, for a whole concert, and when the moment came again, I danced before the Lord with all my might.
And maybe that was worth today's suffering.
And maybe one day soon I'll be able to parse it in much deeper and more sophisticated feelings than that.
And wouldn't I give quite a lot to be able to eat a green bean and dance the night away with the only negative repercussion being a lovely sheen of sweat and slightly sore gams the next day.
But maybe being able to dance when you really think you can't is the freakin' point already.
Now I'm eating some bread, enjoying the breeze and sunshine from my tiny garret window, thinking about maybe this is how you feel when you are dying--as a writer, metaphor is my game. I feel poisoned sometimes, like there is something running through my body that is the antithesis of life who's sole reason for being is to pillage and destroy my normal life processes and I think this in a very non-melodramatic way as yesterday wore on and I'd gone through my checklist of medications, ungents, potions, reasons, drinking tons of water and taking the least stomach busting ibuprofen, and only half the diabetes medication because a whole one will make me sick on an empty stomach, and trying to remember if I'd eaten something that would result in feeling this way, and then giving a complex presentation on gift processing, and then leaning against me boss's doorway and looking so bad that she looked up and made me sit down, and she said " go home," but we had our first team lunch and I thought maybe it's just that I haven't eaten so we went to lunch after I've used my glucose meter just to check and see if its abnormally high blood sugar that was making me feel so crappy, but it was actually low--if I'm a diabetic it should be about 100 when I haven't eaten and 130 when I have but it was 70, in the normal range, so I ordered fish and vegetables--I love vegetables, I have such hope when I eat them that they will stay in and will distribute their nutritional value--but of course an hour after lunch they galloped through me like a heard of buffalo across the open plain, no natural obstacle, like small intestine cilli, in their path, so ok it was 3p and I was going home but there was a guy to interview and if I'd gone home he'd have to come in a 3rd time which seems ridiculous as I was already there so I sucked it up, always suckin' it up, good for the soul they say and did the interview--hire him immediately! I say--and then it was 5p and the nausea begins in earnest, but it's more than that, it is a deep malaise that makes my legs shake, it's the throbbing headache that seems like my brain is halving itself, blinking as it were, it's the vertigo that keeps my eyes slap dab on the horizon as the bus sways and the smells of a dozen people who wear cheap perfume with an alcohol base or aren't acquainted with soap or modern hygiene or who have had something so noxious for lunch that it's seeping out of their pores and wafting into my too sensitive smeller along with the usual odors of not-oft-cleaned public transportation and a city that sometimes seems as if it were busting at it's seams with human detrius and pigeon droppings...so withdrew a 1/3rd of what I have in the bank, got into the cab, strategically placed myself far away from the cab driver, who was doused in Drakkar Noir and garlic, kept my gaze on the horizon and prayed for newer shock absorbers and not too much traffic, Haitian radio, or false conversation. Of course there was 3 out of 4 but I'm grateful that the radio was off.
What is Goddess trying to tell me these days? I pushed through last weekend, which had so much magic, humanity, friendship and love about it that it was worth it. I pushed through yesterday and probably cost myself a few days of conciousness. One of things that I work hard on in therapy is my black and white thinking which is in direct contrast to my sense of magic, intuition, spirituality and intellect, but which seems to prevade, especially when I'm too spent to fight it. Cause and effect. This must be happening for a reason. Sometimes I think She is giving me this time so that I can write, and write with the biggest sense of appreciation for the human condition. Sometimes I think She's giving me this time because I lived so hard, so destructively, so self-hatingly for so long that She needs me to have black and white experiences, the highs and lows that happen simultaneously or in quick succession. I'm thinking particularly of last week's concert--I had to sit out the dress rehearsal because I was feeling so lousy but here we were in a church where Nelson Mandela came to speak, where we were recognizing people, very young people, who literally gave their lives in the fight against hatred, and seeing that anal, bitchy, white girl try to do that dance and then Nick very gently telling her "thanks for trying"...I just got up and danced. Like "David up and danced...David danced before the Lord...he danced before the Lord with all his might." That's what I did. And somewhere from the deep recesses, or maybe from that part of my brain that is crazy, or that reserve of some of the strongest and most well-survived ancestry, or just from the power of the moment, and the energy my friends were sending me, I stood up for the first time in a long time, for a whole concert, and when the moment came again, I danced before the Lord with all my might.
And maybe that was worth today's suffering.
And maybe one day soon I'll be able to parse it in much deeper and more sophisticated feelings than that.
And wouldn't I give quite a lot to be able to eat a green bean and dance the night away with the only negative repercussion being a lovely sheen of sweat and slightly sore gams the next day.
But maybe being able to dance when you really think you can't is the freakin' point already.
Monday, May 28, 2007
harvest moon
Strollin' home
Neath the harvest moon
full of fine food and loving sistah hood
the midnight streets so silent and safe
I hear some gentle snoring through an open window
and see Peg the one-legged pigeon pecking particles drowsily
in front of CVS.
Neath the harvest moon
full of fine food and loving sistah hood
the midnight streets so silent and safe
I hear some gentle snoring through an open window
and see Peg the one-legged pigeon pecking particles drowsily
in front of CVS.
Monday, May 14, 2007
43 year old teeth
I'm 43
2 score and 3
older than a breadbox
two words: SEXUAL PRIME
squeezin my head like a pimple looking for some meaning to ooooze out
this year I'm going to
see how much chocolate I can eat without gaining weight
learn to swim the butterfly
kiss a handsome fellow or 10
spend time with all of my nieces
show everyone how much I love them.
except Denzel
(he already knows).
2 score and 3
older than a breadbox
two words: SEXUAL PRIME
squeezin my head like a pimple looking for some meaning to ooooze out
this year I'm going to
see how much chocolate I can eat without gaining weight
learn to swim the butterfly
kiss a handsome fellow or 10
spend time with all of my nieces
show everyone how much I love them.
except Denzel
(he already knows).
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