Covet

I saw her again today at the bus stop. We commiserated about the face shearing cold. Her voice has a Spanish lilt. I sat behind her on the bus and stared so hard I got dizzy. She is the woman with

THE HAIR I COVET.

It's a kinky, curly mane, like mine, with a few different textures. She has a few blond highlights among deeper honey tones. She wears it all one length and it reaches the bottom of her shoulder blades. She never wears a hat. It's long enough that the weight of it elongates the kinks but there are shorter, curlier bits around her face. It has life. It lifts. It moves. It is a crowning glory.

I don't covet the color. Been there, bleached that. I want the length, the weight, the feel of it brushing my back and shoulders. I want the "mane-y-ness" of it. Derek, my rock-n-roll hair dude has similar hair that he wears in a plaited rope down his back. When released, it crackles with life. Boing. I want the boing.

It's like a diet, ain't it, growing out your hair? Fits and starts. Those horrible "Krusty the Clown" periods. The lure of gorgeous short cuts. The Freedom of the Bald--how I loved being closely cropped. I'm currently struggling with wicked hat head--the longer curly hair needs to be watered-down each morning, a miniscule bit of product applied, and then the battle between keeping the ears and head warm and the hair style intact begins. The headband and the right wind produce an instant mohawk. A full hat, a kind of Lucy Ricardo roll, like a shubbery around the head.

I can't actually believe I have had the patience, or perhaps it's just bone idleness, to let it grow so that I can have a little afro-tail when necessary and it does seem like a bit of a pipe dream to have the mane I covet. Maybe I'll tie it in with my new food plan--become a Samson(ia), losing weight, gaining strength, growing healthy hair, knocking down temple columns. Grrrr.

(Then botox, a few bits and pieces lifted, some foot scraping and I'll be good as new.)

Here's to our lovely, vain dreams.

crankypants

I know this will be hard for you to believe, but I'm a little moody at the best of times. For the past two days I've been taking what will be a 10-day regimen of progesterone to jump start my menstrual cycle. I've happily not had a period in 6 months which is damn fine with me. But the endocrinologist (you know, that one) tells me that I'm not in perimenopause, even after all the steroids and chemotherapy, and that it's wise to stimulate a period to get all that stuff out of there. So I'm taking the damn medicine.

For the past ten years or so I've had a couple of days of PMS where I'd swing from weeping on the bus to coming close to homicide. Girls, you got to know what I mean. So it was with some trepidation that I began this drug regimen.

And today, PMS Jo appeared. Headachy, nauseous, and ready for bear. Grrrrr. But because I'm so well trained, I cover this monster with a veneer of politeness, sometimes icy, but never rude.

So a woman pushed past me to get on the bus. I gave her back my peel back the eyeballs glare (which is based on my mother's "horse eyes" expression which has been known to intimidate the most thuggish urban teenager). Then the impossibly jaunty pharmacist told me my anti-depressants are going to cost $97. "You don't want to pay $97, do you?" he said, jauntily, as he checked the price on the computer.

"Not today!" I responded jauntily, as the ogress inside roared, "I will tear your jaunty head from your jaunty neck, tie your jaunty Santa tie around it and use it like a yo-yo, you jaunty S-O-B!"

"Oh, it's a mistake. It's just $10!" jaunty boy skipped happily back to the counter. "Aren't you glad?"

Ogress: "I'm glad I don't have to make your jaunty wife a widow!"

Me. "Good news! Early Christmas present!" I reply.

Girrrrrrlllllll...

It was snow-raining at the bus stop and some teenage boys were acting up, spitting and talking loud. One of them spit particularly close to my boot. I let a little ogress out and he blushed to the roots of his hair. Why all the spitting? Do they have all have emphysema? Grrrrrr!

As I got on the bus, the same lady pushed tried to push past me again. "Oh, excuse me," I said, "You go ahead..."

Ogress: "...since you in such a damn hurry to get on an empty bus that you have to push me out the way, Witch!"

"Oh, sorry, sorry," she replied and coughed, a wet one, full in my face.

"Oh, sorry, sorry."

"That's okay," I said, wiping my face with my scarf.

Ogress: "...disgusting swine-flu spreadin', halitosis havin', guttersnipe!"

It's the duality that many of us live with, isn't it? The calm, cool, happening, stylish exterior, can handle anything, is calmer as pressure mounts, smiles at the most callous behavior, gives to charities, counsels friends VS.

FASTER PUSSY CAT KILL KILL!!

I hate hormones.

What I learned about love

Love ain't got nothin' to do with money. Is that why you give me money? To insure that I'll stay engaged? To buy my compliance with your bad behavior? To make sure I'll call? Is it payment for my services as a therapist as you trash the rest of the family? (Then it ain't enough. I'll send you an invoice). Is it a stipend for enduring your cruelty, viciousness, passive-aggressiveness, your terrible insistence that I don't love you, that nobody does? Are you paying me to be your punching bag? (If so, I need a raise).

Poor, poor bastard.

I am blessed with help from many people and their help comes with no strings. Just sayin'.

It took me a while to realize it but I love you. It doesn't matter what you do or say, money or no, cruelty or not, silly, silly bullshit or no, I love you. I can see through all of that crusty old crap. I understand that you hate yourself, that you can't feel the love that flows toward you from many friends and your children. I'm afraid and pretty certain that you will be this way until you die which will be relatively soon and I am and will be very, very sad about that but I won't be guilty. Because I am and will always be the loving daughter I know I should be. And there really isn't any "should" about it. I love you. I admire your achievements, I adore your sense of humor (which I see less and less of, but no matter) and I hate your behavior. And I love and understand the caring impulse underneath all of that fear and horror that sends the check every month that helps me stay as independent as possible despite ill health. You love me, too.

And thanks to several brilliant therapists, family and a loving, wonderful family of friends, I will not be anything like you. Thank the Goddess that none of this stuff is inherited and can be unlearned.

Lawd, growing up is hard and I wish you could do it, even at this late date. Wishin' won't make it so, but isn't it ironic how hard work, and determination, brings me back to that moment that you held me in one hand a few days after you adopted me? What an enormous act of love.

And I'll always remember that that man who held a baby in his hand who wasn't his by blood, who pledged to take care of that baby out of sheer love, is still there, in there, somewhere, and he hasn't forgotten, either.

Precious

Whoooooooaaaaaaa lawd.

I had to see "Precious." Tyler Perry, one of the executive producers, wrote a moving blog about how seeing the movie led him to face his childhood of abuse, but that's not why I knew I had to see it. I had to see it because everyone needs to see it, especially those who don't understand institutionalize racism, who say things like "let those people pull themselves up by their own bootstraps", people who don't get that so many of us are walking around with trauma histories, our bodies and our self-esteem in recovery, and that those of us who have "healed" and "moved on" cannot forget those who still suffer--we must remember to remain human.

"Precious" may not be the movie to see for someone with a trauma history. It might make those who are depressed even more so. But what is special about this movie is that it doesn't offer any easy solutions, or have some great white savior come out of the mists to save everyone or even a Black one. Despite what the extraordinarily resilient Precious has been through, she, in fits and starts, begins to save herself-but you don't even know, even at the end of the film, if she is out of trouble. And what really touched me was that she is ensconced in so much fat that it's hard for you to understand her facial expressions, much less what she is saying. Fat is a great defense against the world--I've used it to remain removed from the world, my feelings, touch, etc. Precious' first words are "I want a light skinned boyfriend with good hair." There are many such references to the aparthied that continues in this country--what we consider beautiful and valuable and how we fool ourselves into thinking otherwise at PC moments. How we judge by very narrow standards, outward appearances, silliness, greed.

Gracious...Monique as Precious' mother Mary. "Mother" isn't the word for this person. I wondered briefly what happened to her but her brutality is so horrific that you lose any compassion you might have. At least I did. A masterful performance.

There are also great performances by a makeup less Mariah Carey and Paula Patton as Precious' teacher but what is so moving and heartbreaking and reviving is Precious herself--I don't think the actress who plays her has more than 50 words of dialogue--but she manages to show us a seismic shift with baby steps through a system that is still solidly weighted against any forward movement.

And that's why we have to see Precious. To remind ourselves that the stuff still ain't working. To remember all that we are fighting for. And to remember how lucky we are.

Sometimes I feel discouraged
And think my work's in vain
But then the holy spirit
revives my soul again...

From "A Balm in Gilead"

Rockettes

Would you agree that the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is getting more canned by the year? I can see Meredith Viera's teeth rotting from reading all that treacle. I did enjoy seeing fellow Mystic Trish Schilling's daughter, Taylor, who's the star of the best show you ain't watching called "Mercy", Wednesdays at 8p on NBC. Shameless plug.

And the Rockettes--what a complete waste of time and money except for leg fetishists. Yes, there is something to be said for tradition, but what is the real entertainment value?

I do love the Sesame Street Float, especially seeing my favorite cynic, Oscar, in his trashcan. And there was a Chinese dance troupe from Delaware--pretty cool. More multiculturalism, Macys!

It's that strange juxtaposition--our tendency to homogenize to make things more "palatable", which makes them inherently less interesting, at least to me.

I do love how thrilled the high school marching bands from places like Adair, Kentucky and Missoula, Montana must be to be participating, having raised the money to come themselves.

Seeing the little kids on the parade route out of their minds with excitement (instead of sugar) is quite nice, too.

And so on this gray, New Englandy Thanksgiving, I'm feeling very blessed to be relaxing on my sofa with a warm roof over my head, delicious food to eat, family and friends to love, and a computer on which to write parade critiques.

(Alan Cumming lip synching "That's Life" on an M&M float ?? Cyndy Lauper on some kind of Disney princess float singing "Girls Just want To Have Fun"?? Bee-zar.)

Have a happy and thank goodness for you.

leaks

I have a leaky heart. When I was born it had a hole in it. The hole eventually closed by the time I was nine, but now a damaged valve allows blood to leak back into the chamber from whence it came.

It's a broken heart. I ain't trying to be a martyr or nothin', but some of us were born sensitive. I care what other people think. I care what happens in the world. Cruelties hurt. Discord and disunion and people treating each other, themselves, and animals like shit bruise and stain. And I learned cruelty from a master, and can wield it with precision and have stabbed at that sensitive red muscle many times, slashing, poking. Y'all that share this sensitivity, like me, have been told, "You're too sensitive," or "you're too thin skinned." But it's not a choice.

I've tried to grow scabs, to heal them, to wear masks, to be someone else, haven't you? But it all comes back, like backed up sewage, the more I try to stuff it down. And now it's busted a leak.

Don't think that the psychic illnesses don't manifest themselves in the physical. I actually consider myself lucky to have had them manifest so physically in mid-life so that I could know I have to work on them, have time to work on them, or at least admit them to the air where they will hopefully shrivel and die instead of killing me before my time, killing what is real for me and in me.

We have to live our truths, even if we don't yet know what they are. It's so funny to me that an enlarged heart is a sign of illness, that my heart is having to work harder because of some condition or another because it needs to be big to hold all of you and all of everything I care about. Which is just about every freakin' thing.

I'm never, ever going to give up. Ever. I might take a rest now and then, but even a minute of truth is worth all the struggle.

So tomorrow morning, at the butt crack of dawn, I'm gonna find out how leaky the old pump is and what, if anything, should be done about it. Then one of you dear one's is going to bring me home and then I'm going to take a nap with Dolce cat and then one of you dear one's is going to fetch me so we can go sing to our own beat--bump-da-bump swishy swishy.

xo

the comfort of ritual

I've had occasion recently to use a beautiful hospital chapel as a place of repose and meditation. This particular chapel is full of light and modern wood and air with gorgeous renderings of Madonna and Child in different media. Tall pedestals hold glorious flowers--a bouquet of long stem roses were so lusciously red that I thought they were fake--and vases of wildflowers and branches that reach up to the sky lights.

The first time I walked in, Mass was just ending. Hospital employees were scattered throughout the chairs and the man behind me, 60ish, tall and with a sonorous voice, held a worn ivory rosary that he pressed into my hand as we shook wishing each other peace. The African minister spoke the familiar words in a lovely, musical cadence. And I was surprised at how comforting I found it, having been in rebellion against organized religion and it's restricting and outdated mores for as long as I've been conscious.

I began to sit in the chapel for the 15 minutes after mass, using it to sharpen my meditation against the people who would come in and make noise, the nasally chaplain squawking into his phone, the man with the bicycle and rustling papers, the nuns grouped in whispered conversation at the back. The intent of quiet, the hush of the large space, began to prevail upon me and I felt calmer, breathed a little more deeply, digested my hospital salmon a little better. I found the time I spent sitting alone and the time I spent sitting with the Mass goers peaceful, a natural way to lessen my anxiety.

What I've been focusing on, lately, in my recovery from depression and dysfunction, is modifying black and white thinking to take in and accept the gray areas, to use what's available instead of being in constant rebellion and judgment, to explore the giant well of compassion that one needs to navigate relationships, spirituality, life and this world in the way that I want to. Taking what works from rituals, taking comfort and strength from oft-told stories and liturgies, exploring the depth of quiet, of silence, of whispering nuns I think, will lead to a better understanding and compassion for myself and for others. This doesn't make me a true believer, but it makes for a much better practice toward becoming healthy. I like to think that that's what those who understand essential spirituality developed these rituals for.

When I was a teenager, my BFF, Edie, invited me to First Seder, the meal that begins Passover. We all read from the book, speaking the ancient words, eating the prescribed foods, grinning at each other through the candlelight. Her parents and her sister would pause and explain parts of the ritual that I didn't understand and I realized that sharing this practice was essential to their tradition. I've never forgotten the magic of it, how captivated I was by this living story.

I watched Ted Kennedy's memorial service yesterday in the Mission Church which sits so poignantly in the middle of a ghetto. The high and the low were on hand. Two Black women from Dorchester stood out in the rain for hours to pay their respects. Jesse Jackson let his hair get wet waiting for the hearse. Michelle O seemed to doze, momentarily, in the closeness of the non air conditioned church. And all those Kennedy children. I think all of us probably have some issues with the modern Catholic church, but you couldn't beat the spirituality and comfort of the Catholic liturgy to the family and friends gathered there--the inspired words of our Obama, Teddy's children and grandchildren, his priest, and the words of the Gospel intoned, speaking of what life exists after our time here on earth. It's really interesting to me that Ted was a devout Catholic but still espoused many positions that they opposed. Even one of his grandchildren lead a prayer for people, gay or straight.


So, maybe I'll go sit in a pew or two, breathe in the wood polish and whisper of incense, or turn my face to the multi-colored light refracted through the stained glass or listen to a cantor, or chant and meditate with Buddhists. Maybe I'll take that feeling with me when I contemplate sea and sky. Maybe quiet contemplation, through practice, will become something I can do in the midst of chaos. I'm hopeful things will change, and that I will grow into a more expansive spirit.

brain

So, my way to deal with anxiety, deep dark feelings, sadness, depression and almost anything that could be distressing is to gather information, and oh, ain't the interweb a boon in this regard. Any unexplained crying jag can be successfully interrupted by searching for depression websites, unrelenting blues can be nipped by a youtube video of a visualized meditation, and getting help when I've exhausted my intellectualism is just a depression group listing away. So I went to my psycopharmacologist today with a list of depression groups and day programs and anti-depressants that I haven't tried yet and website printouts and a stubborn idea of how I came to be in this hole again and how to fix it. Like a tire. Or a cavity.

And she made me cry.

Well not really. She just suggested that maybe all that research and technology and intellectualization might be getting in the way of handling overwhelming feelings. Of acknowledging the pain. Well, fuck, no d'uh but I think what really gets me is the sameness of it all. I want a new spark, a new discovery...why it's the hypothalmus! or an excess of progesterone, or that sweet roll you ate last week! Or that giant hump on your back secreting seretonin inhibiting goop--your dowager hump is causing your depression! Huzzah! Let's remove it, get me some spanx, and I'll be all set.

Oy. the gospel of depression. "You have no reason to be depressed." "Depression is just an indication that something is wrong." "Depression is selfish." "Just pull yourself up by your own bootstraps." "I'd never take medication." "I don't want to be involved with someone who has to take pills to feel good." "You're just lazy." "You wouldn't be depressed if you'd just lose weight--got married--had a baby--got your toes done once a week." "You just can't handle life." Darn tootin'. I can't handle it when my emotional barriers fall and the angst comes pouring in sticking to everything and ruining the carpet. I can't handle it when my prism of perception is so off-kilter that I think my cat hates me. I have trouble when my self-conciousness is so profound that I feel invisible, not important enough to take up space. Waste of flesh.

And it's very, very, very tiring. All those commercials about how depression takes a physical toll are true at least in that regard. Don't you love those ads where a person in sweat clothes with limp hair lies on a couch--all this filmed through a grey filter--while their significant other, or child, or dog, sits nearby looking quizzical and lost--in one the husband is sitting at the kitchen table and you can see the lady on the couch in the foreground. (Hey hubby, get up and fix this woman a chocolate cake). And then, in one fell swoop, the filter lifts, the depressive swallows a pill (must be the size of a horse) and eureka! They are out in the technicolor world playing with their ecstatic child (on ritilan) and their dog (on canine prozac) or reaching across the table to hold thier husband's hand (because he's baked a chocolate cake!) And it's just that instant unless you have the eyes of a leopard and can read the tiny print that runs in the last nanosecond the commercial that says, "this shit may kill you or cause the contents of your ass to fall out and it'll definitely be a few more pain filled weeks on the couch until it works but we can't tell you that until you take it for a while, you human guinea pig."

I now have this cocoon of a cubical at work (temporarily while the annual cube shuffle takes place) and I had the lighting crew take out the flourescent, so it's now a dimly lit den, the computer screen casting blue shadows on my face, and sometimes around 2p in the afternoon, digesting an inadequate and acid inducing lunch, working on a spreadsheet for the nth time, fielding calls that should go to subscriptions, I could swear that I actually disappear. Poof. All that's left is are my glasses and a little pile of dust. Gassy dust.

how

How do you mark the day when you realize that you'll probably never really be happy or even reasonably content, that some trick of fate or life, some confluence of genetics, conditioning, a soupcon of abuse and sensitivity have pooled to insure that your life will be a muddy pool, ranging from a clinging, lite sadness to a black and sludgy depression that immobilizes you for days and weeks at a time? Is it freeing to accept that the medication gets you to a baseline that's better than what was, but is still a dip below strength of mind, requiring richer experiences and more colorful adventures to illicit even a soupcon of joy, mostly fleeting and translucent. Is it a disservice to those who love you to gradually stop talking about it, complaining about the funk, is it an acceptance not to flail against it, to keep fighting a fight that seems more and more like a waste of energy and time and resources. We Americans, we fighters of impossible fights, we're supposed to batter away at walls of granite or titanium, surmount them, blast through them with sheer will, with faith in demigods, with science, and clever language, with our last breath. People sometimes think it's melodramatic to say that one can't move one more step, one can't take one more shot or pill or therapy session because it just doesn't work all the way, it just isn't helping at all. Sure, you've been worse, you've been suicidal and it's true to say that you aren't now, that you are maintaining that baseline, that you are able to feed and clothe yourself, that you are able to brush your teeth--that was always a sign that things had gone too far, when you couldn't brush your teeth--that you are able to go to work, go through the motions, and maybe your chatter is a little more nervous and maybe your judgments aren't as sharp and sure, maybe you forget what 8x7 is, but there are calculators, reminders, spell checkers, family members who help you out financially, friends who are always willing to listen, but, damn, you just don't feel like wasting one more minute of your life, sad though it may be, talking about this shit. You are tired of it like a coal miner is tired of dust, exhausted by the very thought of another depression group, there is always somebody much worse off and you are supposed to compare your situation and feel better in comparison, but that never works because you feel so bad for the person, that one strategy never works for you, sorry doctor/therapist/parent/friend.

You hope you are being enough for the people in your life but you know you aren't, but this is all you have to give. They slowly, sadly accept this or go away because they can't face the sadness of what you've become or what your friendship is not or the reflected blackness. Your laughter rings hollow, you don't write, you don't call, you listen, but you listen for the disappointment and not the message. The disappointment is what hurts the most, not your own disappointment, but the disappointment of those you love, those who had hopes for you, those who want your ear, your input, your friendship, your guidance, your heart. But you don't know how. Connection is not innate with you, or the fear of it has been blocked like a leaf choked sewer because past connections have been so painful.

So you stumble along, and try to remember to brush your teeth.

Let's get it straight

Let's get it straight, now. Let's be real.

Skip Gates, Harvard professor, gentleman, was accosted inside his house by white Cambridge cops who demanded to see his identification. IN HIS HOUSE. He in turn asked for their badge numbers and protested when they arrested him. The DA dropped the charges and said both sides were wrong. I beg to differ and so does Skip Gates. The woman who called the police called them because she saw Skip and his Black friend dealing with the stuck front door. The cops came into the house and demanded identification because Skip is Black. They arrested him because he is Black. There was no other reason. The DA dropped the charges, I suspect, because, if he hadn't, there would be a lot of protest.

Racial profiling is really, really simple. People of color, especially Black men, will always be suspect, no matter what. If you are naive enough to think we live in a "post racial" world because President Obama is in the White House, look at all of the racially insensitive things the Right Wing is saying. And look out in the street and notice the Black boys walking by. Does your pulse quicken? Do you wonder what they are doing in your neighborhood? Are you afraid? Do you think about what that means? Of course we've all been conditioned to be fearful, but I've met more nasty white teenagers since I've been in Arlington than Black teenagers I've encountered in a lifetime.

Once, not so long ago a Hispanic security guard followed me around in Walgreens. I finally turned around and said, "Are you following me?" He blushed to the roots of his hair and mumbled something. I forgave him, though, because if he'd been out of uniform somebody would be following him.

I've had friends who say, "Oh, you're just paranoid," etc. etc. Of course these have been white friends. I know we all wish this shit were over but it's not and until it's not (not in our lifetimes), there will be a need for affirmative action, there will be a need for peaceful protest, and we're all going to have keep thinking about it and discussing it and worrying at it like the social hangnail that it is.

Think how mad you get when someone makes an assumption about you based on something you can't help. Think of the injustice of it. Now think of it happening every time you walk out in the street. I can't even discuss it fully, because the accident of my birth is that I'm biracial and light skinned. But I can tell you about the pain of it, the anger of it, the complete idiocy of being judged by an accident of genetics.

And think of this man, Skip Gates, an unbelievably distinguished man who's fought all his life for everyone to have a decent education, a very nice gentleman, a quite famous person, someone who's been taking on this bullshit all his life to be arrested in his own house because some ignay cop with a chip on his shoulder doesn't like some darkie asking for his badge number. We've got to keep on fighting.

P.S. President Obama said in his press conference tonight, "The Cambridge police acted stupidly."

Spike and Tyler

Spike Lee made some pointed remarks, recently, about Tyler Perry's movies perpetuating stereotypes and buffoonery. I just saw an American Experience on Chinese American filmmakers and entertainers and their sense of "otherness" and not having a place to belong. Marginalize, marginalize, is that all this American society does?

There is a post up now on Huffingtonpost.com about people of "mixed race" being the fastest growing group in America--with an accompanying picture of Tiger Woods and President Obama. I've been corresponding for years with a group of "mixed race" bloggers who are still trying to figure out what the hell it means, especially if you have the darker skin or broader features or almond eyes of a "recognizable" minority and get labelled as such. I used to get so angry when people, and they would, would ask me what my ethnic background was. I could easily have answered "white" or "mind your own business" (which was the more frequent reply), but what was the point? No body knows what these labels mean. I got a little bit of a sense of it on the day President Obama was elected, in that a continually marginalized group of people felt a pride and a wonder quite rare in their experience these days. But even he calls himself a "mutt."

And then there are the sub-groups--people with depression, people with chronic illness, people with frizzy hair, people who love cats. I used to sit in those depression groups and especially the early chronic illness groups and listen to the moaning and complaining and wonder where the "people who are depressed but truly hope not to be forever, dayum" or "people with chronic illness who want to know how to deal with this shit on a daily basis so they can live full and exciting lives"... Damnit. And we're all, no matter what color or ethnicity or gender or sexual orientation or where we fall on the spectrum of feline love, trying to figure this bitch out. And I want to wring life like an orange to get all of juice, don't you?

So, back to Tyler Perry--he doesn't need to apologize for his broad portrayals of Black life. Sure, his writing still ain't the greatest and there is definitely an air of buffoonary about some of the characters, but his stories, plays and movies are ALWAYS about redemption. About working through some stuff to progress to the other side. I LOVE the character of Medea, first because it's obvious he has such fun portraying her, second, because she is so herself and wouldn't be any other way and third because the wisdom she spouts is in my bone marrow from all the women I'm descended from, even the Irish, and Scottish and German ones.

I think it's just that we don't have the practice implementing our own integration--I don't know what the hell it means to be mixed race, if anything at all beyond the rich cultural nature of all of the places I'm supposed to come from. Still stereotyping myself as a "Black" woman, still talking that talk and feeling the marginalization, not having learned how to make it not matter.

MOVe

I want out of here. I want to get on a plane and go someplace foreign and delightful and I want out of my brain, out of this malfunctioning body. I want to spend a fortnight or two in the body of Usain Bolt or LeBron James or yoga master Baron Baptiste. I want to feel a heart that beats regularly, even if I stretch my long legs into a run, to be able to raise my arms above my head and bend my back and open my hips. I want a day without headaches, knee creaks, shoulder whinging and winter winds. I want to cuddle my cat without sneezing. I want to get on a plane without a giant zip lock bag full of pills. I want to make a plan for next week, next month, next year, and be able to keep it. I want to go to Italy, eat robustly, drink red wine, jog along the arno, take a dance class with my friend Giulia, and still have breath to dance.

who sleeps?

Who sleeps? It's 4 a.m. and there are finally good programs on PBS after days full of endless Celtic women, Doo-Wop reunions and Laurence Welk retrospectives. I think, why am I up now, and maybe it's to watch the American Masters show on Sweet Honey in the Rock, to remember the earth, and sistah hood, and to sing to my slumbering kitty. I am drenched in sweat and shivering from a fever break, dizzy from the drug I just took, the one I hate to take to sleep because it robs me of more hours than it grants.

My friend told me she got rid of her tv today, her nighttime companion. I admire her greatly for this, ruled as we are by info, and analysis, the comfort of the noise of the thing in an empty apartment and blah-di-blah-di-blah fuckin' blah. The time, the precious minutes, for poetry and reflection and feet pampering and dreaming, and listening to a rock-n-roll version of Madame Butterfly. When I'm not paying attention those endless commercials for dental assisting schools and hair colleges can make me feel inadequate--"Get off the couch and become a pastry chef right now!" The commercials for hair straighteners, discount furniture, amazing space aged products that can shave your moustache and caulk your bathtub, singing pancakes...I saw one tonight about a penis pump--ouch!--are incredibly insulting to the most mediocre adult. "You ugly, hairy, stinky, fat, undereducated, bald, depressed, financially ignorant, fillet-o-fish lovin', saggy faced, tiny dicked, underinformed, Shamwow needing, limp haired, wrinkly, lumpy, person. What you need is a Dyson power vac, next-day-installation carpeting, and an exciting career as a medical assistant!"

Especially at 4 a.m.

I always feel like I should be doing something productive, like planting potatoes, or cleaning some part of my house with a children's toothbrush. I hear the roar of the early morning trucks and buses, entering a new workday. Even when I'm really sick and it hurts too much to move...I should be whittling down my pen collection or defrosting the fridge. After all these years, the compulsion is still there and maybe that's why the illness continues. The struggle is still against instead of through.

I just finished a book about an Irish forensic pathologist named Quirke and his morose and lyrical adventures in 1950's Dublin. Oy, the drear, and yet it was so wonderfully written I couldn't put it down. Maybe all of this early morning reflection will result in me being able to write about difficulties in such a winsome manner without having to result to Bombeckianisms and the occassional cuss word.

So, I'm awake. The kitty snores. Maddening.

Pissoir

another holiday season over. do I just resolve that they will always be painful? I saw a movie tonight about a French family--the dialogue is more lyrical but very familiar--cruelty, depression, love that doesn't see faults or indulges them, coldness, ruin from generation to generation, frosty blame -- cancers that eat from within and without. Some people just stand in place with their fingers in their ears, humming as loud as they can.

My kitten washes his ears with both paws.