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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.

Transition In The Key Of Me

05 Saturday Aug 2017

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The year many of our beach dogs died. The year humans reclaimed the beach from weather, tacking on 20 feet and taking away sandbars. The year of travel. Of making friends. Reclaiming silence, peace, writing, reading. Self.

September is coming. It begins my season of change. The world celebrates New Year’s as the new, like one big, happy, unbloody period, but September always felt like the real chapter for me. I feel September coming as I sort the ingredients of last year. So many sleepless nights. So many sunrise and sunsets. Countless wave sounds to catalog with mere words. Empty shells and sea glass have become homes for hermit crabs and the sea glass is rarer now. Great herds of seaweed would beach themselves and reek on the shore until they dried out to become part of the sand, but not now.  I know the wind now. I understand the lightning a little more. I am free with the truth because I have nothing to lose.  I write. I will always write. I have a vision to build a body of work so that I can publish something with some meat on the bones, something people will like at least, or remember, at most.

I think back on those times I left home to see Iron Maiden and friends for a few days. There was a plan for a meetup. A hotel. Sightseeing for a little while. A tavern for dinner, a hole in the wall for the tribute band to play the night before. Attending the concert which was a holy thing. Hugs and love and the return home. I always felt like I needed to straighten up the house before I left. I guess I felt like if I left things in disarray while I was out having a good time it would weigh on me.  And now, as I approach September, I see I’ve done it again: my home is in top shape. I gathered books, CDs, clothes for donating. I trashed things that I was holding on to that was time to let go. Hand-washed a pile of delicate blouses. Everything in its place, keeping only those things that matter, shedding all the rest because I have to prepare for the next chapter.

My neighbor is distraught that I am seeking employment. She appreciates my presence and likes that if she asks I will go with her to grab coffee or new lawn chairs or simply listen whenever she needs. I reassured her that I’ll still be around, but I felt the seismic shift in her when I said I’m going back to work. That’s all right. She will figure things out and get used to it, just like I’ll have to get used to wearing bras and socks and shoes again.

These next two days will be interesting. I wonder what I will do with my silence, my time. All I know is that my house smells like coconut, courtesy of the wax burner. Neighbors are chatting, coffee mugs in hand, fluffy white dogs in laps in the the newly-constructed bench in the courtyard. That wasn’t there last year, m’dear. I will contemplate a wasp sting, a child’s graduating, a man’s love, another man’s spirit, books that make me breathless and books that make me wonder how did this get published, sniffing out the trail of a new tattoo, and reorganizing my energy for a new path, the next path.

Jeans, Knits, Delicates

06 Monday Mar 2017

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You know it has to be a dream when I’m dragging two bags of laundry to the laundry room downstairs in the dark in 30 degree weather.  And so it goes…

Dark but for the mango glow of courtyard lights. Silent. Cold. I introduce my sorted laundry into four washing machines, and a great deal of the dream pays attention to which clothes are going into each machine, and the fact that I have the right amount of quarters, and the machine accepts each plunge of the quarter tab and starts running immediately, something that doesn’t seem to happen in waking life.  And the room start filling with people, my neighbors, two strangers, and a kid I went to college with.  Now they all want to do their laundry and I’m hogging up most of the machines, and I’m feeling a twinge of guilt for using so many machines, but dag, I got here first!   One guy left his stuff in the dryer, but the dryer broke and his boxers were ruined. He and the neighbors were quite annoyed.

I felt intruded upon in this dream, and that tells me a lot.  There are remnants of another dream, something earlier.  Mom and Dad are alive, I remember them as they were in my teens.  Something about me taking a car, something vintage with white bucket seats and and a Mustang dashboard, driving up a tall, grassy hill.

Some might say it’s a boring laundry dream.  I see a little more here.  But really, I do have a pile of laundry I’ve been resisting for awhile, and here’s some motivation to get things done.

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?

Disarming and Sorting Dream

30 Wednesday Nov 2016

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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.

Gifts From Pain

26 Saturday Nov 2016

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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.