Monthly Archives: October 2017

a small meditation

31 Tuesday Oct 2017

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Be careful what you ask for in your summoning,

for you summon carelessly yearlong,

careful what you ask for in thinnest dark tonight.

You prepared carefully, lovingly for this night

Altar handmade and sincere, you sit and breathe

moonlight incense focused on flickering light.

Careful what you ask for in thinnest dark tonight,

ask not to see the dead, those who cannot recall their plight

those with brass buttons & purple ribbons dangling from

bones, those who carry the instrument of their death in weary hands

you didn’t mean to summon the dead, the words slipped out

and their unrest will visit you. One by one, everyone

you have forgotten about.

Be careful of your face while summoning, measure your heart’s beating

Is your brow placid as a dawn lake, your heart loose and light

Does a smile walk upon your lips, gateway for thinnest night?

Ask for spirits to come if they wish. Ask them what they need,

give them what they ask or crave

receive what they leave and let them go.

One night they will not appear because your love

set them free.

Shed the veil and set your own tears free.

Rain, Wet, Random, Writing

29 Sunday Oct 2017

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Ope! There she is. Told you she’d show up, didn’t I?  Acts like she never heard rain before. What a weirdo. 

I’m not sure what woke me. Could be heartburn, my hip smarting, or another hot flash, but I’m pretty sure it was the rain tapping gently on the leaves outside my bedroom window that I keep open just a crack so I can hear the world. I stuffed myself into yesterday’s jeans and a soft baja shirt that I’ve had forever (you know, from that time we drove home from Orlando) and walked barefoot onto the dark balcony to see the silhouette of the rain in the courtyard lights. The rain comes in waves, mostly gentle but when it comes down hard I love the sound of it on the roof, and I walk outside to witness its immanence, wishing I heard it on a tin roof, the roof we talked about, the one we wanted, the one I remembered when I was a little girl and sometimes wish for.

When we visited Mom Mom and Pop Pop, we slept upstairs in the beds their daughters slept in, brown hospital beds we approached on ancient tiles with patterns we don’t see anymore, barefoot creaky floors, we slipped beneath crisp sheets and ancient quilts, beds separated by a large window fan, the kind of fan that would kill a man if you stuck your hand too close and we learned and never forgot the sound of that fan that sounded like an airplane taking off that could take off your hand but they turned off the fan while we slept upstairs in the bed mom slept in when she was a girl.  And I heard the rain on the aluminum valances outside the windows and fell in love with the rain and the roof and the secret bed and blankets and quilts.

We moved to a new building in the middle of nowhere surrounded by low mountains that afforded views upon meadows and ponds for the wealthy. I left my cubicle seat for the low, wide windows to watch the rain pouring down in the parking lot, heavy, jumping up from the asphalt up into wheel wells, cratering the ground, the sound of the heavy rain on the roof, I could not resist, I dropped everything to go to the window or the door and watch the heavy rain fall and hear its sound on us all while everyone faced their screens and typed things that mattered in that moment. I acted like a woman who’d never seen it rain before.

When the rain comes hard I want to see. I want to hear. I don’t know why, and maybe I don’t need to know why. I just know it comforts me. It makes me feel. It stimulates “being.”

Meanwhile, since the sun has risen in soggy boots, they are emptying the crazy dog-lady’s apartment of the garbage she left behind, one box and bag at a time.  My Aunt is fighting nature’s gravity. My neighbors wonder what’s become of me. And he asked me to write a sci-fi story and I will finish it or be damned.  My plants move and redden silently, my candle burns sage while I write in darkness into overcast light.  I am a fool. I make mistakes. I am imperfect and unlearned, but I am not giving up, not as long as I wear an olive drab shirt that says “Marines” in black that tells me to fight and a leather necklace with ceramic beads sporting Victorian roses which asks me to bring peace.  I will lean into furious rain. I will learn to love and let go of hate. I will write old things, probably, and maybe somebody will like it. My world works better when I am wet.

Afraid: Sortings

24 Tuesday Oct 2017

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I’m afraid to let dust settle on my window valances, dramatic gold and maroon folds that suggest opera curtains when the night comes down, dusted by a ceiling fan that runs day long, accumulating dust that multiplies and makes heavy grey snow on everything it touches. I’m afraid to let dust touch my world.

I’m afraid to keep books that they might stack and be heavy bending shelves meant for generic flower vases and porcelain knick knacks that mean nothing to grandmother now.

I’m afraid to let sand and grit accumulate beneath my heel where I drive or pine needles and leaves beneath wiper blades.

I’m afraid to let anyone in the laundromat see bloodstains on my sheets, underwear too fancy, or that I will use two dryers instead of one, selfish white chick as usual.

I’m afraid to sleep on the beach because the homeless come down here to find respite, and I do not trust anyone who sleeps on the beach but me.

I’m afraid to wash dishes at 5 in the morning because it might disturb my neighbors.

I’m afraid to tell him how I really feel because it might vindicate him, or make him worry.

I’m afraid to let go of his little hand from mine, my empty hand, watching him cross the street by himself.

I’m afraid to step out of line because I know what happens when I step out of line, and I do not want to face those losses again.

I’m afraid that my voice, my IQ and capacity, my vigor, talent, creativity, instincts, and believability will always be worth less than a man’s.

And yet, I’m not afraid to stand up each morning and walk away from the moanings I left in my bed looking for the world to tell me a story.  I’m not afraid to be ebullient with my neighbors because who the hell needs another vanilla creature?

I’m not afraid to keep going, but sometimes it is real, real hard.

Tiger Wrangling

18 Wednesday Oct 2017

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A steep grassy hillside in daylight, a long narrow sandy area below.  I was instructed by I don’t know who to get the animals into their pens now.

I doubted that I could accomplish the task in this dream, but what I notice as I sit in waking daylight is that I wasn’t afraid or overcome with doubt. It was more like, I can probably do this, I’m not sure how, but here goes.

It’s not easy wrangling white tigers when they bury themselves in the sand, only a small part of their face showing and that’s how I found him.  It’s a dream, so who knows how they they got themselves in the sand but one sprang out at me from the sand, he was only me-sized, strong and hurtful, he toothed and clawed me, long deep wounds in my arms, but I got my hand in his collar and started dragging him towards the plane.  He turned over on his back, front and back legs up, struggling and fighting with me like a stubborn dog that did not want to go in the house but I never lost grip on his wide, old, soft leather collar.  We fought and I dragged and eventually he got to his feet and I was able to get him up and inside the DC-10. Once inside, it was well-lit and there were pens ready for the critters, small affairs made of old plywood with dubious latches.

I went back out and found another white tiger hiding in the tall grass. This one was stubborn but not fightful, dull like his blue eyes, it allowed me to drag it up into the DC-10 and shove it into a lower waiting pen.

I went back out and found a bearcat, or a binturong since this dream wants to be specific. Long and black and heavy and feisty, like carrying a 40-pound ferret that wasn’t mean or terrible, just sleek and busy, nicking me with his claws as he climbed all over me.  I tucked binturong into his pen next to the first white tiger and closed another dubious latch.

The pilot came down dressed in casual blue, long sleeves and slacks, headphones hanging around his neck and he tiredly told me I had to get in my seat we’re leaving now.  We were leaving before all the pens were filled, but I knew this was it. We were headed elsewhere, a sanctuary of some sort.

I don’t know the reason I had to uproot wild and active creatures, put them in pens, and take them somewhere else. I know I wasn’t certain I could do it, and I was bloodied in the process. I wonder if those creatures are wild and free and satisfied. Few of my dreams give me the final word.

Sexual Harassment Assault Guilt Survivor #MeToo

16 Monday Oct 2017

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Big headline. Got your attention, but I’m not sure that’s a good thing.  Maybe because I’m not sure of anything.  Anyway. It’s provocative, I chose it for a reason: to draw attention to those who have experienced and suffer, and ask what can you do to help stop this epidemic of people who think it’s okay to touch, grab, and thrust themselves into anyone they want:

Life was lived in and around a complex of brick buildings surrounded by parking lots, grocery stores, a busy highway, a few green courtyards and parks, some way cooler than others.  Ours had a giant willow in the back, a maze of sidewalks that linked building to building, and two small concrete parks. Ours had a slide, monkeybars, a basketball hoop, and a showerhead that gave water only once in a while during the summer. It was surrounded by chain link fence, concrete benches for moms to sit on, and bushes that were full green at the top but gray and naked as they disappeared into the hard-packed earth below: perfect hiding spots, forts, space commands, and anything else we needed those bushes to be.  God it was fun watching the neighbors walk past, unbeknownst to our silent, peeking eyes in the bushes.

I was in the park when he called me over. I didn’t know who he was, but I went. It was just a short hop over the chain link fence into the high dirt hill behind the hoop hidden by a bit of brush and scrub trees.  We talked for a while.  His friend sat up on the higher part of the hill.  I was maybe ten or younger.  He was maybe 18 or more.  We talked and then we kissed.  Deeply. He was lying down and then I was lying down. I liked how it felt.  His friend clapped and said some things  like wow, I can’t believe you got her to do it. They left eventually and I hopped back into the park. I never told anyone because I didn’t think it was a big deal. Weird, but not something I should tell mom.  They never came back.

I was taught to be afraid of many things in those days, like that guy over there that mom made us cross the street to avoid because she said something wasn’t right with him.  He used to talk to himself.  She warned us about another guy who liked to come around, said he was dangerous and told us to come inside if we ever saw him, but us kids liked him.  He was older than us, a teenager really, but he was always cool.  Once he lit smoke bombs in our secret bushes and it was awesome! But he never did anything to us.  Mom taught us to fear bandoliers of fireworks smushed in the mud on the path between our house and the grocery store. She said it was dangerous, never touch it, and her word about danger was gospel.  Once I scared me and my brother to death by throwing rocks at an “Amityville Horror” billboard that was on the way to our Catholic school. I can still feel our legs running down the block and up the stairs, lungs seeking to replenish the hot fearful air we’d accumulated.

Turns out, I was taught to be afraid of all the wrong things.  To be on guard for all the wrong things.  I was taught guilt and shame for the human condition, but not how to say no to people putting their hands on me, like my boss, a woman, who loved to massage all us girls in her department. I should have stood up and told her keep your hands off me, I don’t like how this feels, but I stayed quiet because she did it to all us girls.

Danger doesn’t always come with a warning label. We have to figure it out for ourselves, and it’s hard to speak out when we realize we accepted something as normal.  There are some who will say we brought it on ourselves.  I want to tell you that you didn’t ask to be cat-called, touched, groped, assaulted, raped, physically or mentally.  I want to tell you that the world is starting to hear and believe. I want to tell you that you don’t have to speak out now, right now, if you’re not ready, but there are a lot of people who will believe you and can help.   I want to thank everyone who speaks their truth, brave in the face of unbelief and shame and pain who gave us ground to grow and walk upon.

#MeToo is the hashtag on Twitter if you want to share what happened to you. I hope the conversation will help open a blind eye from the abuse.  Thank you.

You’re Not

16 Monday Oct 2017

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I’ve heard it said or implied so many times. “You’re not (this or that) so your opinion doesn’t matter,” and they try to shut down a line of communication.  The gap between listening and speaking is widening, and I wonder if it’s too far gone to mend. I hope not.

“You’re NOT….

an American citizen

a football fan

a military spouse or veteran

a black mother

the spouse of a cop killed on duty

a gun owner

unemployed

a Jew

a woman

starving

a man

uneducated

a Muslim

a terminal patient

a widow”

So, unless I am one of those, or until I become one, it’s better I don’t waste any time thinking about it? I’ll just stand here, nodding or smiling in silence, obedient, because I’ve got no skin in the game?  I may not have had your experience, I will never claim to know what you’re going through. But at least give me a chance to ask, a chance to let you explain, a chance to tell you what I think about that and see if we can make things better somehow. How else can we share this world unless we put aside our pre-existing conditions, ask a patient in, that one of another faith, sex, and skin color, say come in, come share my world. Show me yours. Let’s heal together.  And we can disagree together, too.”

I guess it’s just easier to say “You don’t know how it feels to be me,” that old Tom Petty tune, and walk away.

 

A Little Grrl’s Palette

13 Friday Oct 2017

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Color me alive.

Once upon a time if I could make everything mine it would all be colored black and silver, the colors of heavy metal, the color of swords and shields, strength and don’t fuck with me.  Then again, if I could make everything mine it would be the black and the red.  And yet, in between all those days, the little girl of me loved Victorian decor (or kitsch, if you are so inclined) pink dangling lampshade beads, floral prints, heavy dark wood, ridiculously ornate, god I was born late, how could this same girl love the Victorian and yet crave the black and the silver?

All I know is that I refuted brown. Brown was against everything I stood for. Brown was a curse word. Brown was a daily something I could not fight against.  Brown. Sepia. Diarrhea.  At least black had magic and silver had fight and red was blood and power, but brown felt useless and undignified.  My father wore brown polyester slacks every day. I don’t know how many pairs he had, same with his socks.  He wore brown velour shirts every day, too. I don’t know if he wore his brown armor under his coveralls working for the electric company, but every time I saw him at home it was brown.  His eyes were brown like the color of our Volare station wagon and the color of my eyes, the color of coffee he let me sneak from a teaspoon.  He once told me a joke when I was young: “Why are your eyes brown? Because you’re full of shit up to here,” and he pointed to his eyebrows.  Har har har.

I’ve spent many a year shunning the color brown, the color of our carpets, the couch, Dad’s recliner, later the color of the roof, the floor, more carpet, and life itself.  I sought color in a world of brown. There has to be more to life than the color of dead grass.

I have an opportunity to create my own world right now in an apartment two stones throw from the bay. The wind is high today; it creates suction and plays with my bathroom door, but I relish the fresh air and the leaves of my plants flapping. The walls are painted dead canary, or, to be more specific, pale urine.  I wanted to make this space a nautical or maritime place, but piece by piece, my world is allowing earth tones to come in.  And you know what earth tones are, don’t you?  Brown.  I hung valances today that are silky ivory, green, burgundy, so I bought a futon cover that matches, and guess what?  The panels range from grey to cranberry to brown.  I bought two chairs from a neighbor and their cushions are patterned in earth tones with brown.  My apartment is changing from rebellious empty with a few pillows with anchors on them to a user-friendly earthy vibe.  I guess it had to change because I learned that sweat and sandy feet and blood stand out on this ivory futon cushion covered in demure Victorian roses, and I am embarrassed to let anyone sit there.  I am acquiescing to earth tones that include brown, and I struggle with the brown.  And I smile sardonically.  Life is too bloody for me to have ivory sheets, it seems, but I am learning that I am not made of shit up to here.  Brown is not the enemy and never was.

Come change with me.  It feels good.

I Double Dog Dare You To Believe

11 Wednesday Oct 2017

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They claim the sun rose this morning but I didn’t see it, so I do not believe.  I stood there beneath gray cotton candy clouds, moving fast, studying the horizon, but the orb that never fails to emerge hot from the wet horizon did not appear. Science and my phone app says the sun rose 10 minute ago, but why should I believe?

A day has passed and I write this piece in the dark because I like to write by laptop light. (Yes, go ahead, sing that song, you know the one.)  I like watching the night sky change clothes.  On clear nights the sky turns black to daylight in un-nameable shades.  I arose this morning when the sky was still black, not the deep space black of the void, but the black of a world filled with light filtered through clouds. The courtyard lights bathe the world in a pale orange glow. I chose not to engage the beach this morning because heavy clouds will keep me from seeing the orb. I will have to have faith that the sun did rise though I did not see it.

And now, the courtyard lights extinguish themselves one by one, but the sky in the west remains gray.  The cat lady wins the Oscar for best Cat Lady actress once again, ostentatiously farewelling her cat, chin up, wide smile, floating down the balcony to her car, getting ready to face another day.  I suppose that means the sun rose, but I didn’t see it.

A school bus pulls out of the lot next door, its roof strobe flashing brightly in the murk telling me it’s carrying another load of angels and demons. I suppose that means the sun rose, but I’m not sure I believe it.

Faith asks a lot of me. It walks hand in hand with science and superstition. My neighbors make their way down to the parking lot, hands filled with garbage bags and pizza boxes, remains of their week.  I know what I see, or so I believe.

Feeling Cold In A Warm Sun

02 Monday Oct 2017

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The underground building and garage is labyrinthine, sharing arteries, paths, walkways like conjoined twins. Some shortcut paths we (the workers) weren’t allowed to take, those were designated for certain people only (perhaps the kind that wear heels instead black, tarry workboots.)  The building is brand new, the cement floors painted clean gray and bright yellow. It is loud and echoey in here. I’m the only woman in here, and the men aren’t nice to work with.  At my right shoulder is a man I used to work with.  He stuffed five pages of faxed copies of his records in my hand, and he’s appointed me the task to help him with pointing, grunting, and broken English.  He is Asian, his name hard to pronounce. (Mister H?)  No one wants to help him.  He follows me through the long halls that seem to lead nowhere, through bright tunnels where workers are laughing, smoking, fooling around, and definitely not helping.  He points to a name and phone number and wants me to call this man (the top man, the boss) and get Mister H help.  Most of the dream is me on a cellphone making a series of phone calls until I can get as high as “they” will let me to demand medical care for Mister H who was hurt on the job. He is out of work, no one will help him, it says he’s eligible right here on the forms, YOU signed it, what’s the problem, then?

It’s past sunrise and I awakened to a messy room.  I stand up, wobbly, because my right hip grumbles at me when my body is still for too long. I drink a cup of cold water from a Starbucks Seattle mug a friend gave me. I wonder how her night went, knowing, but still hopeful.  And then I read the news that comes from Las Vegas.

I can’t believe my eyes, and my heart cycles through broken, angry, sad, who cares, looking for fault, finding a reason, then starts all over again.  I light a sage-scented candle, something strong and clean to try and purge the sickness from my two little rooms. I’m too warm but my bare feet are cold, and it’s an October morning for sure. Another day I don’t understand and I know I’m not asking the right questions or speaking the right words. For now.  Someone posted a terrible verse from Isaiah on Twitter to the effect that god don’t care for your thoughts and prayers because your hands have blood on them.  Well okay, then.  While I wash the blood and shit and dirt from my hands, I will look for ways to be a vessel of peace, an instrument of giving, a la St. Francis.

If I close my heart, I’ve already failed.