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Tag Archives: fight

Dear Right Shoulder,

28 Sunday Aug 2022

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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age, exercise, fight, lament, pain, rotator cuff

We had a good run, didn’t we? Remember all the things we used to do? Climb trees in the front yard. Dance the YMCA at weddings. Lift weights with Dad. Put on a sweater….

Seems like these days things are not going so well for us. I’m not sure what started it, but I sure did notice when you were not part of the cohesive unit, battle ready, as the rest of the warrior known as “Me.”

It all seemed to happen at once, that night when I was making a pot of pierogis. I reached across the sink
and upwards to open the cabinet where I keep my seasonings, my treasure called Fox Point, and at that moment the world changed. I felt a bloom of something from you, a small bloom like a baby’s breath in your senior prom corsage. Then the bloom began to grow in heat and intensity, spreading across you dear shoulder, into my chest, my back, not throbbing, not stabbing, just a wide swath of pain. I’m not sure if I screamed, but I definitely dropped my arm and staggered a bit, and the strange new bloom ebbed and stopped hurting. What. In. The. Actual. Just. Happened. To. Me? Dear Right Shoulder, you best believe I finished cooking that pot of pierogi doused in butter and Fox Point, and my body did the thing it always does which is to forget pain and move on.

The next time you came to visit I was sitting on the couch and I felt a touch cold so I lifted the Snoopy blanket up to cover me, but some of the blanket was stuck under me so I hit the power button that tells you, my dear, to lift harder and it happened again. A small bloom that spread across the top and over my shoulder and I know this time I definitely hollered, and this time I felt a crunch.

The last time it happened, that’s when I knew I had to let the old you go. I had to install a new printer on the credenza and retrieve the wires that need to connect to it that fell on the floor. I put my awesome warrior woman body on the floor and reached back to get the wires and I heard another crunch, as if someone put my shoulder back in place and I screamed as the pain bloomed. Shoulder, you punish me for a wire?

Dear Right Shoulder, we had a good run but I’m not done with you. I’m not going to soak you in pain meds or prayer or surgery. I’m going to let the teeth grinding refusal to move because it might hurt go. I’m going to fight you with personal PT, the silly elastic strap to exercise the pain bloom out of my life so I can wash my hair, brush my hair, sleep on my right side, and put on a sweater as the goddess did intend without caution, without fear, without second thought. So help me, I will bring you back into the fold of muscles, tendons, blood, condition, and demand you do what I need you to do as my body requires. Get on board, the work is coming.

Signed
Mother Who Knows Pain And Does Not Comply


Get Ready For The Next Round

27 Monday Jun 2022

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Angry, Depression, Exhausted, fight, keep going, Roe v Wade

Last week was very difficult for me, perhaps the entire month of June has been difficult, I’ve lost track. It’s been a time of deep, dark fatigue, inability to think straight, and too many tears. Depression, in a word? Well maybe, or maybe something more. Then came the news from the Supreme Court overturning Roe, a cause I fought for for so many years, gone in an instant. Finally, on Sunday I got a glimmer of personal hope and I took on some chores I had been ignoring, basic stuff like mopping the floor and putting things away. I chose to take my life in my hands and check the mail and was glad when the mockingbirds did not attack me. I went to my car to drive to the grocery store and the battery was stone dead. Deader than dead. I was overcome with hate and rage. I wanted to murder the world and if anyone saw my face at that moment, Medusa’s curse would have come upon them. I took stock of the situation and decided to continue to be hateful and angry alone, and when I could not keep that up I chose to call for a jump start later on.

A new day, a new page. New, cleansing breaths and actively looking for the correct path, I came to sit and write about it. But I did not come with lopsided, inauthentic optimism. I’ve had time to think of what to say. Am I mentally and physically ready to take up battle again? Not quite, but I’m working on it. When you have had time to rage and hurt, when you’re spent and you feel done, I would like to remind us all that it’s a really huge setback, but there are still things we CAN do. Don’t cry to me that “We did all we could do! There’s nothing left!” I cried that, too, but come on. Here’s what is next, when you’re able:

**If you do not know who your Congressional Representatives and state Senators are, find out.
Get their phone number and office address. If they already supported Roe, CALL THEM ANYWAY and tell them you want them to keep fighting.

**We have to HOLD the Congress (House of Representatives), and we HAVE TO expand the Senate.
We MUST HAVE MORE DEMOCRATIC SENATORS in order to CODIFY Roe into LAW. That will take alot of work and sadly, alot of money. These are the facts.

**Donate to Planned Parenthood, NARAL, or any other organization that assists with crisis pregnancy.

Uphill? Yes. Miserable? Yes. But NOT impossible. Give up for a while. Catch your breath. Put your armor back on and find out what you personally can do. There are millions of women who feel the same as we do right now. Encourage each other to keep up the fight.

Pacifice et nimis incommode morior

05 Tuesday Dec 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

amwriting, Choose, fight, future, keep going, life, protest, stamina, woman

Another day of life, another day I get to choose. Hold on, let me light some sage and pace the floor and forsake the waiting page because I’m not ready yet. Willing, able, but not ready to commit words to page, creating something from nothing.

Another day of life, another day I get to choose not to hate, to clench my jaw, to think and feel and say terrible things though you surely earned it.

Another day I get to give up. To throw in the towel. To say fuck it, nothing matters. (Insert leaping rainbow dolphin meme here.)  Another day to despair and ask, “Why do I give a shit? What’s the point? I’m wasting my time and energy. A woman’s voice does not matter and will never be heard.” Another day to wallow, to feel helpless, to watch things not go my way, to watch sufferings and wrongs that cannot be curtailed by the wave of my wand that means well, but has the exact power of a mythical unicorn. Another day to spend in tears because the child hurts, the women hurt, the world hurts, and can I point to anything at all I have done or have yet to do that will make real, lasting change?

Another day to to choose hedonism in favor of being in this world because wouldn’t I rather just live on Vanuatu and never give another flying fuck about this world ever again? My tick tock clock is countdown calling, and wouldn’t it just be better to surrender to the good life, a life of living moment to moment without sadness for the past or fear of the future, just hand to mouth and embrace that dirt nap when it comes in volcanic soil, without caring that I never had a soul to begin with? It’s just easier believing we are a parasite on a rock, hakuna matata, the end.

Another day to acknowledge the pain in my bones and my skin when I hear that no one believes the women, another day to acknowledge the betrayal of all I hold sacred if I turn my back on us. Another day of life to not give up on doing what’s right. To choose action, to speak out, to make a stand, to do what’s right, parasite or no.

Men and women are different. The guys have the upper body strength, but women have the gift of stamina. We keep going. You and I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t keep up with you all those colicky nights. No matter the shit or the threats, the bruises or the cum on our dresses, our fear to speak honestly because “No,” or “I will have,” “I deserve,” “I need” equals “No one will believe you,” women find ways to keep going.  And if I curl up and say fuck it and stay in my bed and wallow and wait for the soil then how could I ever deserve to requiescat in pace? I know that right now the few are running the world for the rest of us. Lying down and letting them steamroll us hurts our daughters and sons in ways that’s hard to see when we don’t know where dinner is coming from, but we must never give up. It’s hard to see a better future when we’re unbelieved today, but we just  have to keep going.

Another day of life to choose to keep going.

Tiger Wrangling

18 Wednesday Oct 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

bearcat, dream, fight, relocating, white tigers, wild, woundings

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.

Committing The Rare Feel-Good To The World

10 Sunday Sep 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

dog, fight, grateful, happy, journal, naked, ocean, truth, writing

Writing, committing thought and wonder, questions and desire, hope, longing, confession and manifesto leaves one naked. You are naked when you write, and if you’re afraid to let the world see every lovely ugly, then the “enter” key should not be allowed. Hold fast your pen, keep your files hidden. Wait until you’re ready to slam it all down, unlock your door, let the stranger in to see you emerge from your bath, wet, bloody, home, and real.

I’m not writing so the stranger can rate me on some fixed scale like exhausted figure skaters or boxers who throw their fights walking away with millions.  I’m not writing for your approval or to raise eyebrows or cause trouble or to make history.  I am writing because, as a wise man said what seems so long ago, I can’t not write. It’s a driven and it’s a given that I will have pen juice on my fingers, that I stare long and lovingly at journals in the bookstore and have a hard time not buying binders and loose-leaf like some kind of kid going back to school. I love the smell of pen and ink and this laptop hardly creates the same kind of vibe, but that’s all right.

September has come and somebody turned the cicada’s song switch off: their voices are gone. The north wind brings a scent of flowers which I cannot explain. A hurricane comes and I am tired of figuring out which way to run. I colored my hair and bathed late, very late last night, and I wonder if my neighbors heard the water running.  My hair is clean and smooth and fragrant. I woke smelling its scent on my pillow feeling more content, happy, and pleased than I have in a long time. The moon is full and bright in my bedroom window again, which tells me what season we are in. I slept with the windows open beneath piles of covers so I can be warm and still hear the wind in the trees. I think your name and I can smile and write it in the sand, I can even allow you in my bed as I coax sleep once more, instead of fighting, fighting, fighting you, waking feeling like every little thing’s gonna be all right.

This morning’s beach is scoured clean by north/northeast winds, maybe 10 knots. Small, round rocks perfect for skimming peek out from the sand and I see no crab burrows.  A large, dead fish. It looks like something began to devour him and spat him back out, leaving his body on shore. Why?  A dead turtle, a kind I do not recognize, his small clawed limbs point southwest. I am sorry he died and hope it wasn’t because of plastic.  A black dog running wild on the beach that for some reason, no reason, for lack of anything I can explain, I do not trust him. Sea glass seems extinct since the beach restoration, but I found a little bit of blue and white ceramic that I put in my pocket.  On the final few feet back to my trail, I found a piece of shell the size of two fingers. She is deep blush-colored on the outside, and mother-of-pearl within, and she looks like how I feel when I hear his name.

I feel alive and well and ready to write. I feel grateful for everything that brought me here, what good, bad, strange, and otherwise. Time to commit the rest to paper and ink.

ID Please.

17 Wednesday May 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

conversation, fight, justice, poison, race, truth

I heard about a high-school girl who will not be allowed to attend her prom and got kicked off her athletic teams because she refuses to cut off her braid extensions.  They’re nice, neat braids that no one would give a second thought to if you saw her at the mall, but the school says her hair is in dress code violation, as would be wearing nail polish.   I reached out on twitter to offer support for the young lady, and to agree it sure looked like discrimination. Another twitter person promptly told me that white women got no skin in this game, we’re not allowed to say what’s discriminatory against blacks. Only black people can do that. Well. That sure gave me something to think about. Maybe that’s true, but I think what she really wanted was to shut down my white voice on a black situation.

Well hey, I guess that takes me off the hook now!  I don’t have to think or say or do anything for anybody–EVER– unless it relates to being a white female, gravid-1.  All right!  Think of all the conversations I will never have to participate in because I can’t relate to the others. All the books and music I won’t have to listen to or read because they weren’t written by white females who have birthed at least once.  Rock-n-roll!

I’ll never have to be concerned with or feel the need to learn more about or certainly not develop an opinion and take a stand for men’s issues, criminal justice, female genital mutilation, holocaust denial, bullfighting, white nationalism, poverty, homelessness, discrimination, police brutality, drug addiction.  Nope, never happened to me, can’t be part of the conversation, and certainly in no place to level an opinion.

You know what?  Fuck you. I will speak when and where I please, and if it pisses you off that I’m speaking to a subject I can’t possibly relate to because my ancestors were the slaveholders instead of the enslaved, or that I can’t possibly speak against animal cruelty because it’s not my culture, or FGM because that’s not my culture either,  if I can’t speak up for people (ALL people) when they’re being discriminated against, abused, and overlooked because of my age, sex, skin color, or creed,  then I got no time for you. Can you imagine me saying, “Sorry Mr. Castillo, your death is a black, male, registered gun owner problem, it would be inappropriate for me to have an opinion about it or stand up for human rights. C-ya.”

Last I looked we were all Americans, and we need to talk to each other and HEAR each other now more than ever.  Keep turning away voices that want to lend support, you’re gonna find yourselves alone. The civil wars will return and this time it’ll be men v women, race v race, religious v non.  What a heartbreaking scenario. The poison will overtake the body with such stealth that everyone will wonder how it happened at all.

addendum: I’ve never been a fan of dress codes because I hated wearing my school uniform.  I know the codes are in place to help “prevent” bullying, gang identity, and so forth, but not letting a girl wear her hair in braids just crosses a public school line for me.  

 

Disarming and Sorting Dream

30 Wednesday Nov 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

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.

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