Monthly Archives: February 2017

Lexie, Asleep In The Sun

28 Tuesday Feb 2017

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We started out okay, you and me.  I thought it was a good time to bring you home, a playmate for my son, and for me a little company.  We got through the little times, the whiny times, water spilling all over the floor, and my olive sandals ruined that I know I yelled at you too much for.  We figured things out together, mostly.  I could have been a better mom, but I think we did okay.

I can still feel the dome of your head in my palm. I can feel your pointy chin whiskers on my thigh, your eyebrows shifting from me to the pizza on my plate and back. I can’t maneuver my brows this way; I’ve tried.  Nothing was softer than the fur of your triangle ears that could hear Daddy’s truck coming home some half mile away.  It’s late and I can hear your story again, the one that began when the light went out for the night, the one where you’re not not sleepy at all.  A subsonic growl. And another. Cue the cello notes coming from deep in your chest, your chest curved like a bow with a white cowlick spot in the center. Musical notes rise and fall like whale-song. You were singing for love, and I leaned down out of bed to pet you some more, over and over again.

We were together a long time, until we left you alone all day. Work and school took us away. Sometimes I found you on the couch, you naughty thing, and your tail tipped and your eyes blinked in faux shame as I asked, “What are you doing up there?” It was a beautiful game our lonely dog played.

Harbor Wave

23 Thursday Feb 2017

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My ringtone sounds like a rotary phone when an incoming call arrives. It used to be “The Final Countdown” by Europe, but you know?  You have to change things up after a while.  Tonight my phone went off and it was Mike who seemed to want a voice to keep him company on the last leg of a drive home.  We talked and I paced from room to room (my apartment is two rooms)  as per my habit, which probably didn’t make my downstairs neighbor too happy, but oh well.

After a while I stepped outside and deemed the air nice enough for a walk.  I slipped my rainboots on over bare feet and walked down to the ocean, talking all the way.  My calf high boots are heavy plastic, the color of Welch’s grape juice with dark purple leopard spots.  When Mike got to where he was going, we rang off.  I tucked the phone into my back pocket and decided to stay.  Alone on the beach in the dark is my favorite place. It’s just heaven.  No wind tonight, not too cold. A good night to keep going.  I ambled east towards my favorite place, that spot where the water has a voice and character unlike any other I’ve heard around here.  The water was transitioning from low to high tide. At this moment the water was low, almost still, not interested in the toes of my boots.

I stood on the shore at the edge of the sandbar, windless, standing in puddle water when I noticed that the water started to run backward, fast,  little foam crests running back and away from the shore.  Riptide? I thought that only happened in big waves, in summer daylight, which was me just having a laugh with myself.   From a year of being here I know that boat wake happens about 10 minutes after a large vessel has gone by, but there was no vessel to be found in any direction.  Back went the water, pulling back more and more.  Okay.  I kept watching.   Then the water started to come back in, low and normal as a breath, but then a crest out of nowhere, the water raised up high from nowhere, surging up and over my rain boots, cold water washing over the tops and I stood there in disbelief that water so calm and demure one moment could rise up and paint me for a fool, breaching my boots, soaking my calves and bare feet.   This was a tidal tsunami, just a little one, and no one will believe me unless they saw it with their own eyes.  I stood in disbelief because I wanted to see if it would happen again, and it did, a few times.  Then the water calmed, no more crested waves; it had gone back to its puddling self, a bay shifting from low to high tide.

I’ve heard it said that we should never turn our back on the ocean. I’ve seen it too many times to say that’s just an old wives’ tale. She is an immortal being, and I am in awe of her. It’s good to be reminded of just how small and insignificant I am, and not waste a precious moment.

Skin Care For The Soul

20 Monday Feb 2017

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“Hey Mom?  You know my friend Nicole?  She’s been awful lately, I mean she’s really ragging on Aja about her weight. It’s getting really bad, I mean Aja’s been crying to me a lot about it. But when we’re all together and Nicole drags her, we all laugh, even Aja. Nicole says, ‘oh I’m just kidding you know we love you.”  But today Aja found pictures of dead cows in her locker, and… I just don’t know what to do.”

A)  “That’s awful!  This is the same girl who was messing with you constantly about your boyfriend and all? Well, you can talk to her and tell to knock off the shit with Aja, and see if she backs off. Or.. maybe you just need to find another friend?”

B)  “Well, Aja is overweight.  Have you ever asked her how come she eats so much? Or hinted that maybe you and her could exercise together, and she’d feel and look so much better once she loses the weight?”

******

“I don’t want to go to school because all they ever do is call me a pussy and shove me!! I hate it!!  I didn’t do anything, I never did anything, they post notes on my Facebook that I should kill myself already, the world doesn’t need pussies, and… maybe I do want to die.”

A)  “Ohhh.. Oh no.  Okay. I see how upset you are, and I know, this world is full of awful, hateful people.  It’s just words, honey, and you’ll see, once you get out of school things will be so much better. People change.  But for right now, stay off Facebook and I’ll have a talk with the principal about these bullies, okay?  Okay.”

B) “I suppose they see something in you that makes them say that?  Maybe they don’t like seeing it?  It’s how people are, sometimes. So I’ll tell you what.  Come on over here.  I’m going to show you how to fight back, and the next time one of them says it, you have my permission to put this fist in their mouth.  As for Facebook, just block the trolls and ignore the bullshit, kiddo.  It’s just words.”

********

So.  Do words matter? Does truth in all its shades matter?  And is compromise still a thing?  Is how we perceive words and truth the heart of the matter?  Should we teach our children that words can’t really harm us, that our emotions mean little, to ignore them, because nobody can hurt us without our permission?*  That truth really is arbitrary?  That we all just need to toughen up our skins so we can go placidly amid all the noise and haste?** How long before teaching our kids how to stand up to bullies it turns into “Cash me outside, how bout dat*** (I’ll smash you before you can smash me!)  Can we teach our children (and blooming adults) that refusing victimhood does not mean appeasing cruelty?  That freedom of speech can walk hand in hand with decency and everyone’s differing values?

I like to think the world is more kind and polite when we’re not hiding behind poison pens, those rare times when we come out of our holes and meet face to face, but then I remember. The world is changing rapidly. We can weed out the “weak,” the  dangerous “other” with more economy (and anonymity) than ever before.  Maybe I do need some more sandpaper to toughen up this old soul so I can have confidence in my convictions, even in the face of a hurricane.

*paraphrasing Gandhi

**paraphrasing Desiderata

***Quoting troubled, viral teenager Danielle Bregoli

Strength For My Dreamer

20 Monday Feb 2017

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It was a long night.

She was driving on the wrong side of the road in the parking lot which pissed off a lot of people. I suggested she move over, and we eventually found a place to park.  Why is it when I fly, or even dream of flying, it’s always “time time time?” Yes, I already know why. We were barely going to make our flight from Paris to Nigeria (which tells you right there this was a dream), and most of it was spent hustling.  We got inside, backpacks bouncing, passports tucked in jeans, now to find the line and get to the gate.  But the airport looked nothing like the kind you’ve ever seen.  It was like an underground parking lot, poorly lit. No signs anywhere.  Haphazard lines.  We dumped our packs on the shaky table, gave the uniformed people our papers which turned into, “I don’t speak English. Wait here. You’re in the wrong place, go there.” At which point she gave me someone else’s little backpack, leaving me to wonder how did mine get disappeared before my eyes?  I turned to find Ange, but she was gone.

The bulk of the dream was me running through this cavernous place looking for my gate, knowing I’d catch up with her.  The deeper I went in, the more dangerous the place became: large holes in the concrete that exposed the concrete floor below. I thought if I fell into that and broke my back I could sue, but in this country they would laugh and say, “It was your fault for not paying attention, why did you run into a hole?”  Crumbling concrete, metal conduit hanging down, giant wheeled machines rumbling back and forth heedless of scrambling passengers all looking for their gates.  There were doors down here, some like enormous industrial garage doors, but most, and there were so many, were closed metal doors, maroon and full of dents. The gate numbers were spray painted on, some had mailbox sticker numbers on them, crooked.  Some doors were atop a flight of stairs, some around corners. No matter how far in I went, how many flights up, corners I turned, no matter how many times I checked and re-checked my gate number, the door was not to be found.  I’m not sure if I should say, “happily” but I was not the only passenger in this situation, there were scant groups of people looking for their doors.  I finally found a uniformed person and before I could ask he said my name, and that my friend is on the plane waiting for me, the gate is just over there.  He pointed. I ran in the direction of his finger, relieved that she was on the plane and I hadn’t missed the flight.  And the numbers ran out again. I started opening every door and looking outside. No planes. Just a large, slanted lot filled with shipping containers, thick cables and cars going by in the distance.  Up every stair, opening every door, nothing nothing nothing.

Is she still down there? Is she still running up stairs, opening doors, not giving up knowing that it’s got to be here somewhere while I wash dishes and make lists?

Did You Ever

18 Saturday Feb 2017

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In the midst of all this political crap, some folks take a breath and say, “Hey. Let’s just have some fun.”  Sometimes it’s a walk up to the convenient store under a clear but distant sun, huddled in our hoodies. Maybe it’s a jaunt to the mall for a birthday gift, or a just an hour on the beach where we can vent and let the breeze take it all away.

Social media plays a part in seriousness and fun, and often comes along with a “copy paste this if you love/hate/believe” list which I ignore for the most part. Recently a co-worker posted a very basic “get to know you” questionnaire.  It was light, fun, and I decided to participate.  The responses were fascinating and thought provoking.  I notice only women answered even though the questions were gender-neutral like “Can you drive stick, how many tattoos, how many piercings, have you ever rode in an ambulance, have you seen a UFO, a ghost. Grandkids? Drive a boat? Visited Florida?” The thing I found most telling were the answers to two questions: Have you ever watched someone give birth, and have you ever watched someone die?  Everyone saw someone one dying, and no one watched someone give birth.

Wow.  Wow. What does that mean?  What does that say about us as women, as humans?  Let me go back.  The “questionnaire” was a fun, genderless piece. I only saw female responses.  And all the females saw death but not birth.  Okay, so the questionnaire was an enth, a millienth, on the scale of humans who participate on social media. Perhaps I shouldn’t read too much into it.  But perhaps I should.  Where the hell’s my paddle?!

Moderation Stole My Paddle

18 Saturday Feb 2017

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In a little boat now I can barely control.  Somebody put me here and shipped me out beyond the breakers basically saying, “Sink or swim.”  So I’m out here tryin’ not get brained by the boom, run aground, or caught in a current that takes me out to sea where I dehydrate and hallucinate mermaids, never to be heard from again.

Typical weekday while I think about things and try to learn sumthin’.

So I’m in my little boat now, fumbling for control of my course, fact- and spell-checking along the way, afraid to meet a whale. Afraid to meet a life. Myself.  There’s handbooks here, tattered, yellowed copies of basic seamanship and how to maintenance the engine, spring, summer, fall, and winter.  Hilarious. Might as well be a Yellow pages, for all that.

Abandoning ship, I decide to just fucking paddle a canoe instead. Much easier.  Still afraid of whales and meeting myself but, whatever. Back to the lesson sermon rant thing:

Tonight it’s about moderation. “All things in moderation,” one of my elders used to say. It has a different meaning for me, these days.  All things in moderation–even hate? I wish he was here for me to debate this idea. It’s one I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. Hate. Why people have it, why we do it, and can’t we just make the damn thing go away?  Wouldn’t we have stopped hating long ago, if we could?  What’s wrong with hate, anyway, full-fledged hatred for bullshit, weakness, opposition, beliefs, and race? Why can’t I hate without moderation?

And what about love? Why can’t we just off the charts love, love love love everything and everyone not in moderation but in bliss? Love of everything, everyone, a love so deep we want to eat it, wear it, sleep it, assimilate it into our bodies and souls, elevate it to the mountaintops and share the love with the whole world, even with the haters.  Love like my love for pizza and music and the ocean!  It’s free! It’s easy… wait, woah, hold on. Actually love is not always easy. Is hate easy? Why can’t I just hate? Hate the sorrow, the pain, the aggression, ignorance, intolerance, poverty, war, religion, the lack of love, I hate it all! Like I hate bananas or being cold?

All things in moderation?  I dunno.  Where’s my fuckin’ paddle?

Wild Dream, Carry Me Away

17 Friday Feb 2017

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Good morning. So I turned in early last night, another long cold night of listening to silence broken only by an occasional door slam or a little dog barking. If I listened really hard through the raining bells of tinnitus, I could hear through the wall of my neighbors, the rhythm of their talking. Real communicating about who knows what, but at least it was speech and not the chaotic sounds of television.

I woke. I sat up and looked out the window into what seemed like an enormous spotlight:  the moon!  So big and bright, could bright light be enough to wake me?  I felt a little disoriented and thirsty so I drank. I was tempted to take a picture of her, but it was cold so I curled up in soft socks, sheets, and blankets, ready to take on the remainder of the night.

The dream felt familiar. I know this one. The one where we are all running for our lives because something is coming, only this time it was not Godzilla or a tornado. This time we were running from a bomb that North Korea launched at us.  Most of the dream was running, the kind that you know you’re not going fast enough, it’s going to be a close call–if at all– no time to look back and make sure we’re all still together, the building, the concrete block of structure that offered “shelter,” would it be enough, and would it be in time?  We made it inside. We ducked and covered.  We rode out the terror of the bomb, the explosion, the world-ending noise, the vibration of the walls now falling down on us. From inside my eyes I could see the tip of the missile, its trajectory, the dull brown grass that surrounded us, soon to be obliterated. But this is how you know it was a dream, because there was no heat. No smoke. And we survived.

We dug ourselves out and left the shelter to see what was left. And it was all desert grassland, horses and cows running wild, free from perimeters.  LBFTs, and the ground opened up to a swarm of insects. They were not locusts, more like metallic black beetles of all sizes. Then it began to rain. We were running through the rain focused on our footsteps in the shaggy grassland.

Politics, Peace, and Burnout

16 Thursday Feb 2017

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Unsolicited thoughts on politics, peace, and burnout:
I’ve been voting since Reagan. I’ve been complaining and fearful since George W. Bush. I liked Obama but didn’t pay close enough attention to his administration because it seemed pretty innocuous. I didn’t get hands-on involved in politics until the Women’s March on Washington.
Now I am paying close attention to political voices, on all fronts, because I would like the world to be a better place based on facts and truth, not memes, rumors, and disinformation. The world could be a better place if I stand up for it.
I asked myself tonight where was I all these years when it mattered? Why didn’t I speak up back then instead of just whining in a journal? Myself answered, “I was busy working, being a wife, a mother, and being stressed out and not handling anything maturely.” Opinions without action are just opinions.
Today I would like to tell women and men that it’s okay we never did anything before, beyond griping at the Thanksgiving table with relatives. I’d like to recognize you, that you are going to school, or working, or taking care of yourself and maybe a family. You’ve got priorities and I respect those. Today I would like to ask women and men, if they feel passionate about something, please find a way, no matter how small, to make your voice heard. I marched for a boatload of personal reasons. Today I am asking people to look inside, find one issue that matters most to them, and speak out where they will be heard. Call, write a postcard, or visit your representatives with your concern. Believe me, it makes a difference. Please don’t lose heart and burn out because it all feels insurmountable. (I’m writing about it because I get burned out so easily.) The current president said, in his inaugural speech, “January 20th 2017, will be remembered as the day the people became the rulers of this nation again.” I would like to remind you that we, the people, have always been the rulers of this nation. This is nothing new. Your voice matters, and it will be heard. Take heart.
Find your passion. Focus your voice. Stay strong, get heard, and please do so peacefully.

Feb 14

15 Wednesday Feb 2017

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Tonight I would like to shout out to my MIL who sounds so good, who   had such interesting stories (including the psychedelia) about her surgery.  I love her,  am proud of her, and glad she’s doing so well.

Tonight I shout out to friends and neighbors who sent cards to make MIL feel good while she recovered.  The world needs more kind, loving, recuperative words.

Tonight I acknowledge the poison pen of me who wants to write angry things, things that suggest no antidote to the politics of the day.  I hear you, I write you, but I’ll not share  you just yet.  You are authentic, I stand up against you, but wait.  Wait.  Assimilate. And then let loose.

Tonight I acknowledge my wax plant who picked up where he left off and proceeds to take over the window ledge, leaves, shoots, and more leaves, more power to you! I am ecstatic that you have come back to life!

Tonight I try to assimilate a story about the 845. Their story shares the one that I live in. So many shootings, so many senseless deaths. I can choose to throw the towel in, or I can choose to fight for making the world a better place, grassroots on up. Don’t give up! I want so much to make the hurting stop, both here in VA and in NY.  I love them both.  But love seems to mean so little, my heart hurts because I can’t fix it for all of you with a flip of the switch.   Universe, please help us.

Tonight I think about the squirrel who side-eyed me face to face, he on the brick ledge and me inside.  I watched him today excavating tree limbs, hopping, resting, staring. I was so surprised when he came across my ledge while I was on the phone with MIL, but I watched him, wondering what next, fascinated.  Spring is coming.

I came here last year alone. Everything I needed at the time I unloaded from my car and slept alone, a long, body-tired sleep.  Two days later, a terrible fire rose and ate families from their homes on the coldest night of the year for this area, full of toothy wind.  Those firefighters.  Tonight I think about that small inferno, wind unrelenting, fire spreading, and what does that look like for survivors and first responders, the persons who helped people and their pets relocate? It’s been a year and it’s not all back to normal.  I think tonight about Mike who listened to me while I cowered in a freezing, dark car, afraid my apartment was next to be eaten. I had no right to ask him to be kind to me, but he was.

Feb 14 is Butch’s birthday.  Enter ghosts. Enter pleas. Enter memories.