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Monthly Archives: November 2016

Disarming and Sorting Dream

30 Wednesday Nov 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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dream, fight, my power, power, sorting

I am in charge of guarding an entryway. My clothes are plain, not in uniform. I am carrying a heavy staff the color of yellow lines on a newly asphalted road driving in the dark. I am serious but not zealous or afraid.  Another guard comes to meet me at the entryway. I know him (both in the dream and in the waking.)  He also carries the staff. He challenges me, and I cannot understand why, but I disarm him without hesitation, without asking why, in three movements. His staff is on the ground.  He picks it up and walks back the way he came, and we’ve exchanged no words.  Some time later he comes back and challenges me, and once again I disarm him, staff on the ground, only this time our leader sees it.  There are quiet words among the three of us.  I drop my staff to the ground, the other guard picks it up and walks away. He does not speak or look back, eyes ahead, on task.  I am shown where to go and what to do.

I am inside the building now.  Industrial. Dimly lit. Quiet.  Rows and rows of metal racks with all manner of objects on them, those nearest me are covered in folded clothes. Someone had tipped over a machine that leaked diesel all over the rack and clothes. I right the machine and begin cleaning up the mess.  I separate the soiled clothes from the clean ones, but the leader comes back and says it’s not necessary, do not sort them, leave them as they are, the smell and the flammability will evaporate on its own.  I am appalled that we would try and give these clothes covered in diesel to others who need them.  I keep sorting the clothes in secret, and while I do, I look at stained sweaters and shirts that are nailed to the gray cement walls.    ###

This dream is clear for me, and I will share it :  Do not surrender your power to anyone.  Do not surrender yourself to yourself when you are weak.  Keep sorting what shall be kept from what needs to be put away, what is ready to be put away, what shall be put away.

Rescue

29 Tuesday Nov 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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poem

 

Hey Romeo with your ball cap on,

So you got me and unwound the filament wrapped in the teeth of my jaws

Now I can speak.

You got a little of my heart blood on your sleeve

I make a little boat wake when I leave

You can go on now, paddle back to shore

Keep the tale in your pocket.

My jaw is still sore.

Treasures

29 Tuesday Nov 2016

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Mako, military, ocean, respect

I awoke to multiple bright flashings behind my closed eyes. This usually precedes a thunderclap that shakes the building, and with the steel sky beyond the window I thought for sure, “Here it comes,” but all was silent. Adrenaline rush kicked me out of bed, I dressed quickly and went down to the beach and had a good walk with the neighbors. “Reveille” was heard coming from the loudspeakers across the bay, first call to let all on base know they’ve got five minutes to be ready.  Last night at sundown, same scenario, but the men I was with removed their hats, placed them to heart, and stood still while the loudspeakers played the National Anthem. I stood behind these men, each from a different branch of military, thinking about their service. How it was different for the generations in front of me. The parts of the world they’d seen, what they learned, friends they made, how it changed them for better or worse. And hats still to the heart.  It was a moment I wish my mother could have seen.

This morning’s walk started out later than yesterday’s. We were well past reveille and surprise! We managed to walk through Werner’s property without getting wet.  Mike found a green piece of sea glass and a gorgeously striated rock with seaweed and gave them to me. He knows I’ve not had much luck finding green or blue glass. I shall put the rock next to the one I found at the bottom of Arizona, equally gorgeously patterned.  Yesterday’s walk brought so many treasures, though some might wonder how horseshoe crab moultings, spider crab abdomens, and a coconut count as treasure.  Trust me, they do. I realized Mako’s pawprints are already gone, wind blown or washed away, and that set off a day’s worth of writing.

We had the pleasure of seeing the USS New York, San Antonio-class, 21, heading out to sea. If you don’t know why she’s important, please look her up.  We’ll be walking in her boat wake soon, and I’m sure the black ducks will enjoy bobbing.

The weather will be warmer by tomorrow, and I intend to take another whale watch before the air turns truly wintry. More treasures, not just careless high waves but the creatures that feast among them, and I record them here this morning alternating between feeling super-humbled, stupefied, grateful, and happy to be able to receive them.

Life Is Noisy. Don’t Be Afraid.

26 Saturday Nov 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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apartment dwelling, evolving, fear, life, responsible

pm_339_2

I’m a mixed breed of city kid/country kid I recall as I sit down here behind Chesapeake Bay winds to write.  I’m not from here and neither are many of the people who have lived here for decades. Now I’m a beach kid, and although I do miss the neon flow of energy called Manhattan and all its venues, and the mountains and rivers of the Hudson Valley, they’re not going anywhere, I’ll see them again.

My mixed breed status starts in Electchester, Queens, New York.  The place has an interesting history. I mean, who ever heard of an electricians’ union building co-ops so electricians could have first dibs on a place to live? The name says it all, and it became a really big community, even providing land to build the public school where we all went. One cornerstone of my life was spent on the 3rd floor of the building shown in that picture.  If you walked down the sidewalk you’d come into a large parking lot where Dad kept his Beetle, a grassy courtyard with a Whomping Willow, thorn trees that I’ve never seen anywhere else, and a cement playground consisting of one basketball hoop (no net), one metal monkey bars, and one metal slide that burned in summertime. Home.  As a city kid I learned a few things, or at least as much as was allowed to permeate. Today I’m thinking about how she taught us to make ourselves as non-existent in the apartment as possible, to dissolve like sugar in water. Mom taught us the “apartment walk,” something my brother remembers today yet doesn’t remember what our Thanksgivings were like there. Living on the top floor, center, you are surrounded on almost every side by other people’s walls, you are their ceiling, and it was imperative, Mom taught us, to walk as silent as cats, always. And always whisper in the hall for the acoustics will multiply our voices and disturb the neighbors. (When I hear angel wings or demonspeak in scary movies, it reminds me of how our voices sounded in the halls when we whispered. Feathery and scary like church.)  Too bad our neighbors did not have this same inclination towards courtesy, shown by their terrifying fights during dinner with things banging against the wall and all the shouting. We ate through the noise and it stopped, eventually. One thing you learn early is to mind your business, don’t make eye contact and don’t get involved, for your own sake. I think our elder neighbors liked me and my brother because we were naturally polite, and our parents taught us to “be seen and not heard” and enforced it.  Sometimes, though, being an invisible, nonexistent person goes too far, and it takes a lifetime to shed.  How is it we come to believe other people’s happiness (quiet, comfort) is more important than our own, and we must remain silent and non-existent for the greater good?  The wind blows the answer into my dreams.

So here I am in a little apartment complex converted from a hotel back in ’81.  I’m on the top floor surrounded on most sides by other people’s walls and I am their ceiling. It wasn’t hard to slip back into the old ways of “apartment walking.” The only thing that gives me away is one spot of creaky floor. This morning ALL my neighbors have been unusually bang-y with their doors, and a fight next door that isn’t typical.  You know, in all the years of living next to that violent couple in the city, I wonder if my parents ever called the police?  Prolly not. Who wants to get involved and have them all mad at you, too?  God, it’s taken me so long to learn that it’s not okay to turn a blind eye to everything and everyone for fear of getting involved.  Tell me again how that was the “Christian” thing to do, Mom?

I am choosing to do my catwalk over the creaky floors at night without apology because I go about the normal activities of my daily life. I will close my door quietly and not let the outer door slam on the way out because it matters to me. I will learn to let go of the annoyance at others who are okay with slamming doors.  And I am going to remember all the good times I had playing with my brother on our bedroom floor, where the loudest sounds we made was dumping legos and wooden blocks and lincoln logs back into the toy box at day’s end.  We hollered outside chasing our friends around playing Star Wars, held onto our Big Wheels for dear life careening at godawful speeds down the basement ramp and into the damp, dark hallways full of echoes and light waiting for us around the corner and laughter. Skateboards and bikes and pizza from Regina’s that you can’t get anywhere else in the world. I got to dance with my cousin at the disco.  Life was good, and it still is. Door slammers and all.

Gifts From Pain

26 Saturday Nov 2016

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death, dog, pain, rain, sorting

Somewhere out there a red doberman’s bones rest in the deep woods. He lies beneath the mouldy-scented earth made from ancient maples, oaks, and silt from the overflowing creek.  His master put a bullet in his brain and buried him there. Last night I wondered if he leashed him to a tree to do the deed?  I wondered why he taught his dogs to taunt and terrify a caged raccoon, how could this sport be justified?  My father held me while I cried so hard. And then I wondered why he came to my father’s funeral when he assured us he would not because he does not attend those kinds of things. Yet in he walked with them, the aged Con-Ed gang, fugitives from a ghost gallery, clinging together, this group of men whose names I heard all my life. I wonder if he remembers his dog in the middle of the night.

The whales came early and the wind has returned. Ten knots and rising.  The rain is apparent on the roof. Sunrise two hours ahead.  I played with a black doberman and his buddy the red on the beach today, then I lay in bed for hours tonight curled in a ball waiting for the pain to stop, then suddenly asked myself what kind of dignified woman just lies there and takes it? How is lying there hoping the pain will stop anytime now wise or mature, like it’s my job and responsibility to suffer? Or all those nights I couldn’t breathe, stubborn in the belief that me and my clogged bronchi would fight through it without need of a chemical and everything would be just fine. I mean, oxygen isn’t that important for good sleep, am I right?  I have a right to breathe, and I have a right to sleep without pain. (Oh, and the list doesn’t end there.)  Tonight I couldn’t sleep thinking about dignity, the first time I heard that word and what it means to me now. It’s hard to sleep when the walls are breaking, when the past is shedding, flowing away into a cold, rainy, beautiful night, so I got up to write.

Somewhere out there a broken bone is mending, the body sleeps in a cozy and needed bed of opiate. I asked him to feed his mind/body/soul with all good things for healing. He hears me in a fuzzy kind of way, and I know the rest is up to him. I wonder when he will hear the word dignity and truly heed its meaning and make it his own.  It’s not a despairing kind of wonder, because I know it will fall on him the way things fall on me in the middle of the night. So. I will take two Tylenol, my own advice, then see what kind of day I will make for me. Damn that wind is high.

Twas The Day Before The Turkey Thing

23 Wednesday Nov 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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apartment dwelling, memory, tradition

Oh no. Not another grateful Thanksgiving post….  Nah.  This will be the selfish woman living alone on Thanksgiving post. Get your forks out.

Somebody was up late last night making sausage, peppers, onions, sun dried tomatoes, and linguine sauteed in the fry pan, then frozen for dinner somewhere down the road. Insomnia equals cooking, I guess.  I hope the neighbor didn’t hear me chopping olives too loudly. She’ll be leaving for work soon, and I will know for sure because she will slam her door hard enough to tilt the sun, that lil darlin….

The kitchen is small and I ran out of room to put non-perishables, so there’s bags strewn on the living room floor. There was a moment when I was tempted to not even get involved in the whole tradition thing, but then it struck me:  there are some neighbors who won’t be seeing family or dining out this year, so eh, what the hell, cook some slop and dump it on their doorsteps.  Nobody doesn’t like sweet potatoes, right?

So, the inevitable ghosts of Turkeys Past arrive, and they’re welcome memories. Probably the best part of this tradition when I was a kid was Aunt Ruthie coming to visit and having foods in the house we only saw that time of year like cashews, olives, and pastel mints that always went into the milk glass candy dish.  (Had we dined at Aunt Mary’s there would have been heavenly ziti, homemade meatballs, crusty bread and butter, and you’d better believe the boisterous boys would be watching the game!)  This year I’m going to roast a chicken because fuck turkey.  This year I will do my best with cooking harvest jewels the earth hatched for us.  I will cry when chopping onions and try not to eat the raw stuffing. None of my teams are playing tomorrow, and maybe that’s for the best.  This year I’m sad not to bring a pan of whisky bread pudding to Mom in Laws, and I’ll be thinking of all those guys a lot.

Tiny kitchens, vegetable peelings, hour-long hors d’oeuvres prep sucked down in five minutes, armchair footballing, long-distance or down the street travel, sinks overflowing with dishes stuck with bits of gravy and mushrooms that Aunt Barbara hates, the food coma where we become snakes on a rock, digesting, and handmade desserts made just for you and you. Good times.

Losfer Words (big ‘orra)

22 Tuesday Nov 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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dream, Godzilla, Iron Maiden

Not sure why I am writing this today.  Perhaps when we are in the most turmoil, our moment of hair-thin breaking weakness, we need to speak the most?  Or bury it.  Either way…  When I look back on this post I say, oh boo hoo, poor baby, did we have a wittle bad dweam?  Think about how others are suffering, their hearts and homes broken, and all you’ve got is this?  Well, yes. I try to keep the whining in perspective, and as far as I know, this is my page to rant or whine, rage, suppose, imply, and wonder at will, never forgetting those who have gone before us in these days.

So I can’t breathe lately.  I think it’s because of the cat I was sitting for a week and all the things that come along with her like fur, dander, and her dusty litter box.  There was a lot of extra hand-washing this week because not handling her would have been cruel: it’s the reason her mom asked me to watch her in my apartment, because she’s so needy for love and company.  Of COURSE I petted her while I was on the toilet, she wouldn’t have it any other way!   I have limits to how much my feline affection will go, especially if you try to scale my bookcase and knock over some super-precious figurines.  But she’s home now, and all that’s left is cramped lungs and sleepless nights trying to breathe.

I woke on the cusp of dawn in terror.  I did not recognize where I was. I was propped up by many pillows on my pretty twin bed, the room looked sterilized white, I did not recognize the doorways, I thought I was in my father’s room the day he took his last breath.  I was the one in that bed. This is my final resting place.  Then I remembered the dream, the dream that never stopped.  Godzilla was coming for me, and I don’t know why. (I never know why.) I offended him somehow, and there was no chance to repay him but in death.  And I remembered seeing myself get out of this bed, go through that doorway, seeing male twins sitting at my card table, oblivious to the destruction going on outside the window.  I opened the door and watched the crowd in the dark street, their faces and bodies reacting to the horror happening in the window upstairs from me.  I was holding a large knife, like a bowie knife, only made of crystal, and apparently I wasn’t supposed to have it, but I refused to give it up.  I ran and ran and hid, climbed, crouched, did everything I could to keep myself and the knife away from the monster, but it never ever failed to find me.  I awoke in my bedroom disoriented, I didn’t recognize where I was and my heart raced, adrenaline rushed, I was so scared because I lost all my bearings.  I studied the door frames trying to make sense of it all, wondering why I was in the hospice room soon to die.  The room became lit with pale orange and I coughed a lot and realized it was a dream, and it was time to stand up.  I haven’t been that afraid since I don’t know when.  I write here today to try and understand it all.

My Change Wolves Are Roaming

21 Monday Nov 2016

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evolving, season, wolves, woman

Last night as I lay on my side looking at the silhouette of my windowsill plants, a voice told me I need moon plants.  Gotcha.  Nearly a week ago, through silent pictures of my dreaming mind, a voice said I am working on transition, there is change coming and there is yet more change needed.  Will do.  Last night I held a a six month old who’d been stuck in a car seat for 12 hours, his parents unpacking and taking a few much-needed breaths of silent, babyless, cold air, and I had hoped to hang on to the little guy for a long while.  But he is teething, and his moaning shifted to tragedy quickly, his baby pain full bore.  I didn’t want to drag his mom back here, knowing her own nerves were raw and exhausted, but a woman knows when a baby needs mom more than auntie crazy lady down the hall.  (Must say he did pause at the little brass bells that tinkled on my   )0(  symbol hanging from the ceiling fan.)  I surrendered him and paced my suddenly-silent apartment for awhile.  No longer cat sitting or holding a suffering little one, I could hear the condensation dripping down metal-framed windows. The wheel turns.

I’d been having a competition with myself to see how long I could keep the thermostat off.  I don’t recall freezing in the apartments as a city kid, but I do recall ice caking on the inside of the windows of that other house where I lived as a teen.  I discovered the short-lived joys of the thermostat, able to run around the house in shorts all winter long, that is until my dad took out the thermostats, leaaving little round holes in the wall where the wires stuck out. I guess he’d had enough of telling us not to turn up the heat.  God damn it got cold in my bedroom.  The house I lived while raising our family had warm hearts, like the living room, but really cold edges. Only way to keep the kitchen warm was to cook in it!  ‘Magine that. And now the father’s “doom,” that one day I’d have my own place and have to pay for heat, see how I like it THEN!  Well wunt he just too right?  Almost made it to Thanksgiving, which was my goal. Maybe next year. The wheel turns.

All this leads to transition, change, and the need for more change.  Time to return all my precious shells, rocks, and candles back to their ledges now that the cat is gone. Time to remember how it felt to hold my son when he was a happy little guy, vibrating with words and curiousity. I want to clean the house top to bottom and be ready for solstice, but that’s getting ahead of things.  First I want to finish an essay, and prepare for a bus trip to DC to stand up for women on inauguration day. God damn I hate being cold, but you know?  Every Body counts.  Keep the wheels turning.

Mako and Sunrise

19 Saturday Nov 2016

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death, dog, Mako, sunrise

Time changes definitely influence my get out of bed schedule.  I sleep on my side, look out the window, see the subtle notes in the sky which you cannot ignore that says night is done and dawn approaches. It’s all over, whether you slept or not, here it comes.  Because of the “pruning” efforts of our realtor, there are fewer birds here who herald the dawn.  I recall hearing early peepings last year and asked why why why.   I miss them now.  With the time change the sun dips its morning hand into my room earlier and stirs me over like an ingredient in an orange glass bowl:  Get turned over whether you like it or not, this is where you’re headed.  I am headed into the sunrise bowl now made of soft blue, lavender, pale gold.  I put on a couple of layers and walk down to the beach, hoping the cat I babysit  won’t wreck the house while I’m gone.   I walk past bunches of umber seaweed that are unbeautiful knowing if it were July they’d already be shriveled, buried in the sand and blown away by now. It’s been a low tide morning each day with the moon behind me, her light as conversational as it is in my 3 AM bedroom.  The low tide leavings show me little stones that look like walnut meats, something  you could put in a brownie batter.   I stopped my walk short because B was there.  I am not comfortable seeing him right now and maybe he feels the same way, shown by the way he exited to the path back to his apartment as I approached that little bit of beach.

B is a fixture here, morning and night. His life is storied and fascinating, but one that I am not at liberty to share here. One thing I can tell you is that his best friend and brother was Mako, his Bernese mountain dog.  Mako was the mayor of Willoughby Spit. Mako left us earlier this week, and  I can still feel his heavy body laying on my legs, rolled over, wanting love and a treat.  Who doesn’t remember seeing Mike and Mako walking the Spit those early mornings, looking for sea glass?   Everybody knows Mako and B in their own way.  He was the benevolent mayor of the Spit, and his loss is ours, this gentle giant.  I walked the Spit this morning and saw B alone and wondered what he was thinking, how he was feeling. It’s not much of a stretch.  I don’t want to project how he feels right now because it’s not my place to suppose how a man feels when his best friend is gone, but I have a good idea that it’s as raw and wounded as the day I had to put my Lexie down. Perhaps he feels relief that his companion is no longer suffering and knows he will always be at his side when he walks down the dune trail to our bay.   My prayers and hopes are with B and Mako, and everyone whose life they touched.  Mahalo, and sunrise.

Nov 16 dream

17 Thursday Nov 2016

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buildings, bus, dream, naked, streets, wolves

The dream began in an industrial building, many floors, everyone uses the center of the building as a “thruway” between one street and another.  The building is dark, dusty, fairly empty, and the only light comes from outside.  I am naked. I am trying to cover myself with my hands as I run or sneak through this building, trying to get to another part of the street. There is something on the other side I have to accomplish maybe, but I am not sure what.  I am outside on the street now. Old bricks, rounded, cobbles, low light, couples or groups everywhere laughing and enjoying themselves.  It feels like a movie set I might have seen at Orlando Studios where real life blends with the movies.  It adds to the unreality of the dream.  I stumble and sneak through a building that is a multi-level bar and hotel. Despite my urgency and situation, I notice how beautiful the rooms are, the low lighting, decorations.   People are watching TV screens and drinking, totally unaware I am among them naked, and I am relieved.  I pass through the building, come out the other side.  There is what looks like a Halloween scene that young people would pass through for fun, where manikins and papier mache decorations shaped like green glow in the dark demons, skeletons, and large-bodied creatures like hippos rise up out of the mud, slowly, jerky, and I have to walk through their mud and on top of their bodies to get away, to get to this place I need to be, and I do so without hesitation but I am afraid because it all feels too real.   They rise up silently, muddy, scary, and I see a discarded blanket of some sort against a wall, a kind of basic quilted blanket a mover would use to cover furniture. It is old and muddy, but I take it and wrap myself in it, and now I move faster through this graveyard of fake creatures that still frighten me.  Damp side streets, glistening, I look at the skyline, trying to find the building I was once in, trying to make my way back to it so I could cross through again, but it’s nowhere to be found.  Now there are two giant wolves following me. The black one is at my right side and he bites my right hand and wrist, biting, gnawing, and I try to shoo him away but he will not let go.  There is a white wolf just behind my right leg and she is along for the ride, not interested in me but just accompanying the black.  He keeps biting me and I keep half-running down the streets trying to find my way back.

At last I find buses that are lined up waiting to take people wherever.  The wolves are gone.  I get on a bus, noting they have the flat-faced windshield, headlights, and front of the buses I used to ride when I grew up in the city.  I climbed on. The driver was a very young man in a pressed white shirt, bow-tie, and slacks. He was way too enthusiastic talking about the ride to wherever, then he took his seat.  The bus began to move and two people took the front stage of the bus.  (The bus had a few seats, and most of the front was reserved for the performers platform up front.)  The man was elderly, dirty, and began to whittle a 3-foot log.  The woman next to him was elderly, overweight, wearing a dirty tank top and shorts, no shoes, and did not care that her saucer-sized nipples were on full view to the whole world. She lifted up a fiddle and began to play while her compatriot whittled and I wondered where this bus would take me.  It drove on modern highways with modern signs, and that was the end of the dream.

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