December Fog

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I heard rain was coming this week.  I was so excited. I love rain when it comes here, particularly the pounding rain on the roof I can barely hear because the building is built well and my ears don’t hear so well, but there’s just this something that tells me it’s rain and I run outside 20 times a day to see it hurling down and dripping from long, green pine needles.   

I waited up stayed up wanting to hear the rain and all we got was less than what I wanted, a fuzzy drifting wet, tiny things you couldn’t even call drops, more like midges circling the lamp post jostling for the best mate, only a little damper.  That was no rain.  

But fog did come.  When I finally caved in to the tired I stripped and rolled in and watched the orange sky (the weather sky, the one that tells me we’ve got weather, otherwise the sky is mediocre blue) but heard no beating rain. The trees beyond the window didn’t seem all that wet, but the one significant sound was white fog and one calling horn.  The foghorns did not sound all day, it was more like off and on, and mostly they horns are loud from the back bay, not the ones in the channel who tag team “horn” and “horn,” the lowing that I love.  

I slept eventually and the sun rose and moved but you wouldn’t believe it because the sky was white, mother of pearl white, drifting from north, damp, feigning rain, cloaking the sun but the horn keeps calling from the back bay. 

I am in love.  But the persons who pilot ships would not speak so honorific of the white gray mother of pearl steel fog I uplift and watch drift for I have no reason to care. 

A Hymn for You.

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No one was looking for you, but I guess I was meant to find you. 
It happens sometimes when you’re adventurous, curious, 
spelunking in roadside limestone caves or shuttered buildings
nobody has any business being in, but we go. 
Dare, we go. 

I want to believe that if I sprinkled water onto your bloodstain
shadow on the cement floor I could reconstitute you,
I could bring you back to us so I could know your name. 

No one was looking for you, but I guess I was meant to find you. 
Somebody’s daughter. Maybe somebody’s mama caught up in 
the life. They brung her down here for trade, 
you can tell because the torn condom wrappers say “ribbed for her pleasure.” 

The reconstituted you tells me you don’t know why things went wrong,
it was supposed to be a simple cop, but it turned into
something else she hardly cared about,
it would be over soon
and there was no reason to bring out the knife
she assures me. She was only fake fighting back, after all. 

She slides back down into her bloodstain 
her body taken wherever they took, quiet again. 
She bears no wounds of the holy martyr, pierced in the side by 
fated centurion, followers capturing the flood in a cup
prepared to write hymns for her future. 
She was only ribbed for your pleasure. 

I gathered wildflowers whose names I do not know. 
I knelt in a field and…
Maybe I’ll let you know when I’m ready to let them go. 

Backspace Delete

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After much thought and personal debate because it’s been a long year of night I have decided to give thanks.  Everyone is giving thanks for something right around this day, right up until they pass the gravy. How could I resist thought, debate, and gravy? 

The “winner” of my thanks is three-fold:  The backspace bar, ctrl+backspace bar, and the delete button.  (Note the Oxford comma there?) 

This year (and I am not kidding) I am grateful for the ability to backspace or delete.  I would rather remain on a blank page with a blinking cursor tempting me to “go on… go on… you know you want to say it!” than saying it, the satanic cursor that wants me to puke out every last thing I think or feel and make it public with the push of a button! “Go on… do it… it’ll feel so good, it’ll be okay….”  So I took up the keyboard and wrote terrible things, damning things on long pages of Word documents or little tweets or other social media platforms that zoom past where we are always in danger of being pushed off into an oncoming train. I wrote missives and critiques and opinions no one asked for while dabbing lukewarm coffee I spilled on the tablecloth or sucking Chinese food sauce from my fingers and (allegedly) from the keyboard from which I write this thing, the letters “j” and “g” are sticking…. 

I am grateful to be able to scream to the holy high heavens that everything sucks and I hate everything, that I am a miserable piece of shit and nothing matters, but the backspace button gives me space to take it all back before you see it. It allows me to wail and whine and cuss and be so damnably politically incorrect. I get to be petulant, pedantic, sexist, racist, ageist, uniformed, uneducated, illiterate and worse–boring! 

You don’t get to see that I still hit the @ key when I meant !  and that’s because the blessed backspace button exists. You don’t get to see my exposed private parts that disclose rage and horror in favor of vanilla and pablum.  (Somebody who reads this might know where that came from.)  

So, thank you, backspace and delete for allowing me to tailor my thoughts and words to be delicate, kind, favorable always.  I guess it’s what I believe everyone needs.  Thank you for giving me space to scream and throw things and give you a piece of my mind and then deleting it all because the world doesn’t need another angry woman. How could that be helpful in any way? Thank you for helping me sort out tornado thoughts from surgical words and maybe that’s not the right thing after all, but today is a day for grateful, for sharing, for embracing those we love who we haven’t seen in a long time where we keep our real words in purses on the floor in the bedroom and we don’t open them until we get home and we weep.  

Thank you, backspace delete for helping me figure out why.  

Morning Was

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4am. Cold floor. Warm baja shirt and a little jaunt to see if the raccoon’s tail was still hanging out of the tree. Nope. He’s on his way. I wonder if I’ll see him again?  A neighbor walks past my window and tips his hat hello to me because he knows I’m up at all night. He’s on his way to the Navy base. I watch more Navy people leave their homes and head out and they do not allow the door to the parking lot slam, and I want so much to thank them for not letting the door slam. 
Purple. Blue.
Balcony rail heavy wet with dew.
A container ship passes through the channel, moving like a small city or an island, one wonders how any of them fit through. I can hear its engines, or maybe just the throbbing of, as it obeys the nautical speed limit.
Sky pale purple like a pen running out of ink. 
The maintenance guy’s cat saunters and I pssst she wanders over and I stroke her back, tentative, because she’s not for sale, she is marshmallow white, toasted, burnt, tail flags straight because she wants some and I give her some, and I walk back upstairs while she stands guard over sand sculptures. 
I watered my plants and observe they are overtaking the windows. I will need to move soon because there will be no room left for me. I thought it was funny but my brother doesn’t think much of it at all. 
A person, hooded, walks on the sand as if she is avoiding landmines, careful, careful, step here don’t step there. I wonder contemplate her posture this close to land. 

Hallows Eve 2018

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It is said that today, this evening is when the veil between the worlds is thinnest, those who have passed may walk among us.

Today I think about the recent talk I had with my son in the waxing hours of night. We talked long about my Dad–his grandfather–who we both love and miss. He had questions and worries and pain and I answered best I could, and those answers said aloud reaffirmed my beliefs. It all felt right.  Perhaps he went back to sleep, but I stayed awake then slept in the middle of the day, my heart ringing with memory.

This morning I close my eyes and remember Halloween of the past, when me and my brother were kids. Mom got us our costumes at the store, but I do not remember which one. The cellophane came unglued from the cardboard boxes they were packed in by the time we got home.  I am 100% sure I tried mine on and played with it before Halloween and got yelled at.  We lived in a large development, apartments galore, and you would think we would come home king and queen of Halloween candy, but no. You would be wrong.  Mom told us every year we could pick one. ONE. apartment house outside our own to trick or treat and that would be it for the day. Oh? Did you not know that we only trick or treated during the day? Yep. Too dangerous at night we were told. So we donned our paper-thin costumes, slipped on our masks, and knocked on our first door.  It was exciting! Neighbors answered and tucked candy into our plastic pumpkins, a ritual that was wonderful outside the usual nod as we passed each other on the stairs, and I got to peep inside where they lived!   One year I was Lady Liberty, another Cinderella, and my brother was a Firefighter and Chewbacca, if memory serves. Most neighbors gave us a good haul, and some slipped us pennies instead of candy. Our marauding ended at the kitchen table where Mom let all the air out of our tires: She picked through every piece of candy and threw out just about half of it because she said it didn’t look right.  In those days there was fear of razors in candy apples and LSD on paper candy, so anything that looked open she tossed, no negotiating, THAT was the real horror!  We clanked the pennies into our matching glass piggy banks which have gone I don’t know where…  I used to eat candy corns color by color, first the tip, then the orange, then the base, one small bite at a time, because I’m really not sure why.  And once we used to have a contest to see who could make their candy last the longest, and I think we both hit the “Thanksgiving” target.

One thing we don’t remember is Dad being with us.  It was always Mom shuffling behind us down echoey dark hallways with us.  I’m pretty sure it’s because Dad was working, or he was sleeping because his shift was in the middle of the night.

Dad moved us from the city filled with apartment complexes where Halloween candy and pennies and neighbors and friends were abundant to a field in the middle of nowhere, darker than hell and nobody around.  Trick or treating became dead to us because there was no way Mom and Dad was going to pile us into the car and take us into “town” where the rest of the kids were trick or treating. Halloween died when we moved upstate.

When I became a Mom we used to keep a bowl of chocolate treats for kids who might come to visit us on a route that is used for fast-moving traffic. One kid came. Probably the best part of Halloween was Mike making elaborate costumes for the kid–he was Halloween king of the cul-de-sac!  Okay, maybe the giant tarantula the guys stuck up on the roof was pretty cool, too. Cool but icky as it bobbed in the breeze.  But that’s Halloween, eh?

Last year I had a bowl of candy ready but no one comes to this apartment complex. Nobody came so I gave it all to the realty office across the way.  This year I have nothing to offer but hope and protection for anyone who comes by.

My how the times change.

Thoughts of Laquan

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One

  Two

Three

Four   Five  Six

                      Seven

Eight

Nine
Ten.    Ten.   Ten.

   Eleven

                      Twelve

             Thirteen 

                Fourteen                                         Fifteen 

Sixteen. 

 

I’ll bet you’ve had sixteen kisses planted on your face when you were in the middle of something by a little kid who loves you, rapid pace, out of the blue, the moment when your child’s cup overflows and they must kiss and love the joy is so much and you might have been annoyed for breaking into your busyness, but sixteen pecks on your face. Pixels cannot hold that moment but a heart can.

The number means something different to me today. It means less because I am not his mother, I am not from his community. I don’t know what she knows. But still, I think about him today, and yesterday.

I don’t know what 16 bullet holes looks like in my son’s flesh, or even my own.  I could draw little dots on my body to see how it looks but that’s dots and this is flesh that will write junk today and junk tomorrow. I just need someone to know that I won’t forget. That her son matters. Justice matters. And I don’t want to play this numbers game anymore.

A Daughter Floats Away

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My eyes open in my dark room. Moon white through window blind slats illuminates the garnet underleaves of the prayer plant. Breathing the last dream I had.

A small girl wears great, wide, long sails of black velvet. Asian flower blooms edged in gold float on her capes that she wears on her tiny shoulders. She is to be my daughter soon. Everywhere we walk there is wind, no, strong breezes, the kind to fly kites in that won’t be pulled out of your hands. She spends all her time trimming and gathering her “sails” so her capes will flow out beautifully, so the flowers can all be seen and be pretty.

We are in a small room, antique, ornate, silent. The room is crammed with mirrored shelves with cups and plates on display, cups and plates edged in Asian flower blooms and gold. The room is difficult to walk in, there is little room to move about without bumping into a display, and there is a woman in here now. She is the girl’s cruel mother, and she won’t give her to me.

Some Thoughts On Kavanaugh v Ford, though it could be more but you ain’t got time.

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Mom handed me a small hardcover book one day. I can’t remember what year it was, or what room I was in.  I think I was in apartment 3F. She asked me to read these pages, which I did, and she said ask me any questions, which I didn’t, and the whole thing was done.  That’s how I learned about how men get on top of women and they gently rub against one another and some things are exchanged and a baby grows in the woman.  I remember, after reading, feeling kind of weird. Like, the book being presented to me came out of nowhere. I recall feeling like, “Okay….” but not much more.
Probably when Mom presented me with this book when I was in the 5th grade, still in Catholic school, and I can still remember having the best make-outs with someone whose name I shall not say.  Wow.  Maybe Mom knew I was growing and having feelings and probably making out with somebody and thought the birds and the bees talk was appropriate.  I had no idea what to do with his incredible kissing, I had no idea that it can sometimes lead to sex which leads to babies. I had no idea that I was valued and important. All I knew in those 5th grade days was that I had to go to school, that I was picked on for having ugly shoes, socks, and haircut, that I was punished, humiliated in the halls for failing math, and yeah, we had some good times with our friends playing in the courtyard in the back.

Mom sat me at the table one day. It was daylight and we were 60 miles north of the place we used to live, far from the old bullies, but other battles were raging.  I don’t recall how the conversation began but she told me that if I ever got in a situation, I shouldn’t scream “rape” because no one would help. She said I should scream “fire” because everyone would react.  She said if I got in a situation I should say I have some kind of disease and not to do this so you don’t get that disease too, or I have my period.   I don’t remember what year it was or what lead up to that. I guess she figured since I was dating she assumed that heavy petting would be involved which of course leads to sex.  She also told me if I come home pregnant she would break both my legs.  So.  My sexual education wasn’t great. It left me to my own devices, and I made a lot of mistakes. I will never forget the humiliation of my parents reading my diary from when I was in college that detailed beautiful lovemaking with my boyfriend at the time.

Questions. Statements. Humiliation.  Does this sound familiar to you, woman and man? Did your parents leave you to your own devices to figure out the sex thing? Who taught you who to say no or yes about sex? About pubic hair and periods and condoms and consent?

At 1:30EST there will be a vote in the Senate to confirm Brett Kavanaugh as the next Supreme Court Judge.  I’ve followed everything the Trump administration does and his nomination is no exception.  Judge Brett did not impress me because he did not say he would uphold Roe v Wade. He’s been demure about his Bush years. Dr. Ford’s testimony didn’t help much, either.

What this brings to these morning thoughts are more questions than answers.  Is this the sea change we needed to help women stop staying silent and speak out against their assaulters and abusers?  Are more men willing to listen and believe a women when she says she was assaulted?  Will more women come forward and report their rapes and abuse and their testimony be taken seriously? Will families take this moment and use it as an example to teach their boys not to grope and seek gratification and laugh at a person who can’t say no?  Will families take this moment, no matter how embarrassing, to tell their boys don’t force, grope, assault, abuse women, and tell their girls you are loved and you matter and I believe you?  Will we tell our girls you don’t have to kiss that boy or put your hands in his pants or let him do what he wants because it affirms you.  Is this the moment where we tell our children that it’s natural to be attracted and to want, but forcing ourselves on each other is inexcusable?   Will this be a sea change?   I don’t know.  Dr. Ford was assaulted. Judge Kavenaugh says it wasn’t him. Their testimonies were emotional and believable.  This is a teaching moment for all of us and we should take advantage of it.  Teach our daughters their worth, that they won’t be abandoned if they have sex or, worse, raped. Teach them, your face to his face and her face, not in some book the facts of the human body, natural attraction, but to reject force, and to support our girls if peer pressure led them to sexual acts they weren’t ready for and regret, and reinforce our boys the difference between want–attraction–and force, assault.

Support your children with facts. Support your children with the law. Support your children with love.  If you only give them a teaspoon of each, they’ll wind up in a dark hallway giving handjobs because it affirmed them or on their backs because  privilege says this is not a crime.

My mom didn’t know how to do this and I’m betting neither did hers.  Generations told their daughters to be ladylike and polite. Poised. Accepting.  Is this the moment when we can stop a generational fault and teach our sons that it’s not okay to grope, assault, and abuse women, to respect them as equals, and our girls that they are more than help-meets, that we are curious, intellectual, scholarly, strong, brave, and that we matter?

Universe, Fingerpaints.

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I wake up at 0400, I don’t know why.

My Hoya plant climbs and changes direction all day, pushing out leaves that start out maroon then turn green, looking for something cling to, I guess, but I don’t know how. They don’t care why.

Somebody’s gorgeous, imperfect black Mercedes 350 D sits in the parking lot, and I don’t know who it belongs to. Should I do penance for coveting?

I had a dream and you were in it and I was awful to you. Should I apologize?

My son shivers under a pile of covers every few weeks and nobody knows how to fix him. When will we find the answer?

Who will tend our nerves and muscle, spine and hips, and tell them stand down, the money has come, go and get well, healthcare has come?

What does an unaching body feel like?

Where does music come from?

Why are those finger-sized fishes jumping out of the bay into the air?

Where did my pouch of flash drives go?

What will my next best writing look like, and who will tell me “Yes, we want this.”

Are you the one tapping on my window at night when it rains, sounding like somebody is dropping berries onto my windowsill from the roof in the middle of the night?

Who’s going to put all this stuff away, and wash laundry, and take the garbage out, and pay bills, and wash the car?

Does anyone else hate the fact that Greenie’s is gone and wonder what will replace that beach bar that the mayor said yeah that was nice but it’s time to move on?

How many children are still without their parents at the border and will they ever see them again?

Peace in our time?

Are aliens shunning us?

Who made the first fishing net?

I dunno.   It’s all just Universe painting, I guess.  Meanwhile….who can think with all this going on…  20180926_070410