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Indigo Vales

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Indigo Vales

Tag Archives: snow

I’ll Fight For You

14 Monday Mar 2022

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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alone, childhood, cold, frostbite, mother, neighbor, safeguard, snow

I hear little voices outside,
downstairs
I look over the balcony and see them doing things in the pagoda the landlord believes is worth charging all that kinda month in rent.
I am hypersensitive to what is going on around me, I guess because I know not good things are happening
around me
So I am aware of your posture, your clothes, your glasses,
your ink and bookmarks and the times you laugh and the times you do not
Looking for trouble where no trouble is,
but trouble is, and will always be.
So when it is two in the morning and I hear things
I’m looking out for you.

I met Heather Nathan because I heard them making noise past my window
Little people! New! So I went down to see them and I was glad to see them.
I have to write down their names because I’m in that place where
stuff don’t stick
And all I could think was those days when Dad was far away
and Mom was too
and we weren’t allowed in the house without them
I guess because they thought we’d burn the whole thing down if they weren’t home,
But didn’t they know we live here too?
We froze fingers and toes after tumbling off the bus, wondering why the door wasn’t opened for us
I pissed my pants one day, frozen, hopeless, because they couldn’t trust us in the house.

This is my prayer to you, little ones who I met today while your mom is doing whatever while
you have to be outside and play in the cold
I must not swoop down and try to become some Marvel character to you,
but that does not mean I don’t see you, little ones.
I’m cold with you, I’m strong with you,
I know all your questions and I can’t answer them for you,
I’ll keep an eye out.
It’s best I can do. And I won’t sleep better for it.

May For Me

01 Friday May 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Catholic, Incomprehensible, Mary, May, mystery, ocean, Sea, snow, spring, Star of the Sea, winter

Today is the first of May. A familiar time for someone who grew up in New York disliking winter with its 10-foot piles of snow, the dirty frozen kind you fall on as you’re walking to school and cut your knees on. Come spring, save us from stiff fingers and toes while we’re locked out of the house and snow angels are for people who can breathe and laugh and run in this dry scene, not the rest of us gasping for air.

Welcome, May, a doorway to peace, winter not so far behind, a time for skin to relax and receive heat without fear. I grew up in echoey castles devoted to candles and hymns and discipline. I wanted so much to taste the beef broth that was simmering in the halls when we walked from here to there. In May we went outside and crowned a plaster statue with living flowers and prayed to her, that was somehow supposed to relieve me of the passion and suffering, the bleeding torture and death of the christ we experienced year after year?

My kindest memory of May was a prayer when someone said Mary was the Star of the Sea. I do not know why this went down into me and kept me and held me. Mostly I felt strange to honor a plaster thing in white and blue robes or nearly naked on a bloody cross. All my young being asked what exactly am I doing here and why does this feel so strange honoring a thing with things when what we are feeling is incomprehensible?

Today I recall hearing the prayer that mentions Mary Star of the Sea. I appreciate and approve that devotion though I have never been. The sea is incomprehensible, a dangerous mystery to me, and perhaps I will never comprehend. I feel closer to the mystery outside of me because moonlight and sunrise. The End.

Before The Snow Falls

06 Friday Jan 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Mike Ness, neighbor, snow, writing

Reflecting on the past few days of this early year, beginning with writing. The was-writ, crusty has-beens of journals kept in a drawer, or yellowed pages I’ve thrown into fire, pushed its charred skins around in the coals, then retrieved from the fire, burning my fingers on blue-hot pages.  This is not what he meant when he said, “Kill your darlings.”   This poem sounded good when I was 13.  This one sounded good when I was drunk.  I thought this other one sounded good after I polished and honed it to a nub, lookin’ literary, baby…. but I don’t recognize it anymore, and I forgot to save its origins, the authentic voice of me.  I’m left with a leaf but wanting a tree, all that time and material I cannot recover. I’ve learned to save documents as they come into being, not just a “finished” adult ready to get kicked out into the world, good luck honey.  I wish I’d learned that process sooner.

Three parts of my day are concerned with writing: Early in the day I write the new.  Midday I take out old pieces and try to work them into something more than a sandcastle.  Late afternoon I read other people’s writing.  Hmph. My best work seems to happen when I’m in the shower, and by the time I get out of journalling barometric pressure, the ember is too soggy to work with.  Back to square one.  Every day is square one, but I must say, sifting through leaning sandcastles looking for the right foundation is exhausting.  Well. I’ve got a nice pile of envelopes and postage. All I need is the right fire to send to the right hearth, and it will happen.

Why does your opinion of my short hair still matter to me?  What does a woman look like when she’s all growed up…and does that mean her growing is all done and it’s time to plant her, long hair and all?  Why does a woman have to look like a certain thing to be legit?

Young lady, I met you on the beach for the first time. I could see the gulls were frustrating you. I slowly walked over, trying to discreetly watch the tableau, and by the time I reached you, everything seemed to have calmed.  Young lady in hot pink head to toe, you are one smart cookie, but you don’t know it all, and I’m not going to argue with you.  I have a son who taught me not to even try to win that game, but I came here to listen more than anything. I’m not worried you’re out here alone. You know there’s a dropoff just before the breakwater which tells me you’re local.  I am sorry that when you said “Maryland” all I heard was “Merlin,” my foolish concert ears are ringing, and it’s hard for me to hear you.  And why, in all the gin mills in all the towns of the world did she have to say that name? Anyway, I look forward to meeting you again, young lady, and I wonder what you will teach me next time.

I sat with my neighbor who needed a friend last night. She is looking for focus.  Our lives intersected when I stepped outside to see if Ms. Doorslammer was coming or going (she was going), and here comes my neighbor from her day at work.  We sat in her apartment, and I loved on her sweet little hound (oh Nikki, thank you for coming into my life). We ate pizza and drank and talked about finding ways to heal our pasts. I drew a card for her, and it was “Experience.”  It’s not the one she wanted, but this is life.

I drew a happy face and a heart in the condensation that appeared on my bedroom window this morning and felt glad.  I spoke to my plants who are growing but one seems dormant. I know a snowstorm is coming and it feels like cheating because we have weather reports so we can prepare.  When I walk the beach and take note of the wind direction, the sky color, I wonder, did the indigenous before us know when a great snow was coming, long before NOAA?  I drew the death card this morning, and that’s nothing to be ignored.  I will make soup and biscuits for me and maybe a neighbor if she’s so inclined.  “Crime Don’t Pay” plays in my head. Thank you, Mike Ness, for being the band-leader in my head before the snow falls.

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