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spirals amazing how life, life's daily events, a life's events fold back around, how if one pays attention to the shapes we can see our own change can see how each lesson hard come by and learned can will does one way or another inform the next...so I stepped in--not so much like a good girl but because fair is fair--not so much queen for a day but as one of the elders and as spokesperson; hey the baton was passed
I hadn't forgotten how much I cost but I think others had: ain't nothin' for free
one of the things for me learned and hard come by is the notion of beginnings and ends as discrete definable knowable nameable edges and/or moments, for me, mistress of process of unfolding of moving lines of que sera of adapting of care taking of ever understanding, it's been arduous to face this very real thing this very real definable quantity of able of ability that in a word I know now as limits, my limits, but once owned it has been of the most freeing the most honest the most respectful the most graceful hallmarks attributes of wisdom attained
spirals part 2
so the lesson hard won, the luxury earned and paid for is knowing what (being) done feels like; and when that is and what, for that matter, it means and somehow, ironically, I know this from surfing and knowing when I'm done...(hard-come-by rule3) when it's time to stop, stop and the elegance of that, not only of knowing, but of acting on it unequivocally believably and artfully, has before this escaped me, the clean line drawing of no big damn debate or fuss or ongoing explanations; the minus-drama of this is a wrap; I am done
big things no big damn debate or fuss or ongoing explanations, for me, queen mother by history of consensus of community of the golden thread of in relation-to and taking people by hand down the road of my figuring, big step saying my piece no chin out no tag ends no hooks no grapples but that's only the half, cause in the big debate big fuss ongoing explanation business it's still the right the task the job of others to hit the but button, the whatdoyoumean button the whatabout button the by-any-other-name ongoingengagement button as if
I couldn't be
and this time--with the finality and stylin' of walking, my tail and board behind me, out of the water and just enough slack to hoist the board atop my head and carry it back to the truck and just enough strength in my arms to pull my wetsuit off & break crack attack the damn earthquake- proof suction of my booties and wrestle them off my feet and the rest of the la-la-las of dressing down--when the ongoing engagement baton was proffered, I opened my mouth as if...I were only beached for a breather...and remembered...no fuckin' way
and dang me, if it wasn't the most persuasive argument of all, the simple weight of being done the artful unfolding of completion, the this ain't on me anymore nothing personal like I'm not even taking my ball, not even having to go home and with grace allowing that you can play with my damn ball and bring it to me when you're done but
make no mistake I've no more interest no more attachment no more offerings no more tithes
and then all of a sudden everyone had to figure for themselves what is so stinking important
out to sea
I'm way behind is one way of looking at it tucked in or tucked out as the case may have been steady as I'm going for sure but the gradient is different, not inert idle inactive or inoperative but not initiating not even so much going with the flow as in marinated california zen but bending and using the/a force already underway; again, the lesson of tumors surfing and the wind
you'd think I'd include the river here but it's in some fundamental way that I've not quite narrowed down, different–-
the wind has a difficult whimsy
morning wind clear blue yellow
noon breezes aloft skyblue
afternoon wind mauve from the east
thunder wind gray rain
spring wind green rain
tree wind no rain
storm wind violet rain
wind argument no song
wind war rain war
wind wrapped rain wrapped wind driving barging up the valley
bulls trains buffaloed
blew the trees to hell and gone
falling trees breaking hearts roofs shattering the night banging defrocking snug as a bug
all of us standing in the dark windows with our flashlights dressed again in the middle of the night with nowhere to go nowhere to flee nowhere
feight train wind dusky rain
trees cavorting in the wind
trees holding court
trees on a binge
trees with the wind at their backs
wind roaring through the trees
with not so much as an if you please
which we didn't so many are the ways we are small
scared pumped humped jumped crumped dumped speaking the language of tornadoes and earthquakes standing in the doorjambs eyeing the table the cats under the bed
knowing nothing and everything rain and wind blowing us off
used up a months worth of adrenalin in the middle of the damnnight
what the hell was I doing there I had to wonder & how was I
not good not untucked not tucked out not over the hump
used windblown windtossed smoked unreliable erratic windy sneaking...wordless shellshocked...would have been
quiet thankyou and you
but when I got there they had already planned for my not being there and I turned right back around having not one good reason the 70 miles notwithstanding to stay...being a ripple as opposed to the stone...ahh the reflections of wind
no more visible than love
a windy state of mind scattered & splintered as treetops
I'd blurted out quit trying to be so good...then you won't have to be so
-damn bad...on the heels of realizing one of my energy saving cuts had been to bypass consensus-building which translates into an economy of directness...and then Glass was doing one of her eyeballrollingdeepbreathing snits hoping I would shutupandeatmypeas and I wasn't playing as in I realized no–ding ding wrong answer and asked for timeout in her office readying a speech which turned into simply are you ok
cause bossornot, I am going to say what's on my mind honey, wherever I damn please
...funny thing is she thanked me and took more days off--the days off before not having successfully reset the mark at all--a fine reminder that the work we do is hard...ha! windmills if you will, I would, damn fine metaphor
wind bags wind sock full of wind
fall as change and change as wind
wind as got to go with wind as what comes next as what you see is what you got as the whimsy the will of the archer
tell tales ha you don't need a weatherman to tell which way the wind is blowing
out from under the weather
out of sync--out of power 8 chanukah days, lending as dear paul master of understatement said, new meaning to the the word powerless and we are some mighty power brokers me an elder him the WhiteCoatMan master of The House--and my rhythm is off consistently 125 words to start and all ofasudden I'm betting there are battery powered vibrators(!)
my sense of humor returns
ah a rhythm thing itself
...can't believe it, I stooped to whining, ah that damn valor thing again...I would so like to have power back by christmas...worked!
it was reminiscent of flood times of the house being broke of that damn snug bug defrocked of helplessness in the face of depending on others in the absence of face to face contact of being reduced to a just a one of many cipher to to either we will or won't get there today or next month or next year or who the hell knows...without malice but without regard just the same
dread worry the wrong direction spiraling into the wasteful anxiety vortex
a power suck if there ever was one
but we did play pick up sticks
I couldn't make sense of it, couldn't see it even standing in the middle of it. The chaos and destruction of what once had been familiar and home and orderly was absolute. And at some point, at some level, you knew that every damn thing would have to come out. Down to the nubbins. Even the gd nails in the subflooring, you know. In all the rooms. Nothing spared. How could you know what it would feel like to dismantle, to gut your own home? Perhaps like shooting your own dog. You shouldn't, I shouldn't have to know.
Like the stuff in itself was not so great a loss except as it represented in its order that thing that we call home...I thought of living in Spokane with Luke and how I was always amazed, when I got home, that it was still there, literally–ha more so a metaphor for the relationship–but now the loss of house and home was a thing quite real. And it, a home, is one of those things that somehow secures us, fastens us. And it is a thing not to be snatched as if it were a damned hat.
I've a new respect for the expressions God willing &the river don't rise; come hell or highwater; when it rains it pours and misery loves company. But damn if I'm going to experience PTSD everytime it rains.
Thing is, you never know until the time comes what you will or won't deal with, what you will or won't do and you damn sure don't know how durable you might be, or not.
And not being able to imagine what it's like is not the same as not being able to understand just because you haven't gone through it.
You went, into your empty house, with hoses&shovels&squeegees and you hosed the damned thing. You can't imagine how much mud there was...and sewage. The Red Cross gave out cleaning kits and hot meals. Spaghetti and bleach. Combo special! And you cleaned&cleaned&cleaned and there was and is still mud everywhere you look.
To battle the mildew, they brought blowers&suckers&foggers&dehumidifiers&desiccators&fans and they blasted the hell out of the house with disinfectant and mondo fans for days to dry out the house.
Brings up questions of electricity and water, yes. And phone connections yes and propane tanks. And mail...
And I learned more than I wanted about people...and then remember the many who had hearts and big hearts at that. Those who did lend hope along the way, and weren't in it just for the buzz and adrenalin rush. Those who knew what to do without asking, knowing that anything done, especially at the beginning was nothing but helpful. And those who along the way did their jobs with compassion and who never treated us with anything less than absolute regard and who never for a minute saw us as anything other than singular human beings.
And one remembers, and dares not forget, how thin is the line that divides us from them. And of course it's the wise ones who know that it's the self-same line that divides them from us. And so they are a little less arrogant and a whole lot less careless with their karma. And again I'm hit in the face with the realities of beholden to...goes back to those issues of pity and indebtedness.
And I think instead of goodwill and wonder where, but for the grace of one another would we all be, but condemned to hell.
of another variety; flashbacks
so it's the season of long lost friends and lovers enemies and allies co-workers and family and one revisits memories the horrors the pleasures one grimaces and blushes cries laughs runs fingers through ones hair strokes a cheek looks through photos listens to songs reads letters makes cookies pulls out old clothes and I was thinking of my first boyfriend
and in the mail was a note saying; just checking up on you, my guid wyffe hath died what does that say about this year...I think of the wanting ways we measure space and time
it sticks with me like a scent this feeling of closeness this feeling of familiarity though I've no claim to either wars marriages deaths children intervening not to mention geography values perhaps and of course time but the wash the bath of tenderness is not assauged and I feel called to him find myself thinking about him wondering imagining even dreaming about him as if–as if I were sixteen again and he'd not yet run off with the babysitter... ha! the one&only time there was a keeper in our parents absence...and he fell in love with the bitch
more part two
too funny how I catapult into the invective of jealousy, she weren't no bitch at all she just weren't me...and though by that time he and I were quite done I couldn't believe he'd gotten over me...our keeper indeed...as the politics of the war heated up and we were older and our parents under greater scrutiny...fact is marrying her protected him from the likes of me and the killing fields of vn (getting him, while the getting was still good, a draft deferment as a father) and dang--if she didn't make my wedding dress
naw see I'm back at it, can't figure out why what the hook the tendril the strand is that's caught in my heart why he found me then and why he came looking now–I wasn't good to him; didn't know how, or I wasn't there then; not with him...ahh t'is true I wasn't with him...a mine field stories untold fraught with unbridled passions so earnest so ungroomed so uncomplicated by the complexities surrounding them the war a backdrop drugssex&rock&roll the foreground...it's a bird it's a plane whew it's a man insane...dope will get you through times...
so since I've been a nurse this is only the second xmas I've not worked–an owing I've felt on many levels but starting with working on christmas feeling the need to belong the year of my divorce–stays current, is workable currency just the same, though it is now some 25 years later and we are all long past it the better off for it still in touch many cities and hospitals later both of us happily remarried
I would have had intended to, but the beds are as empty as the coffers
though t'is the season to be sad
so the season of sad won out...or maybe it's the rain and it's a week or so until checks...but like a rising tide the beds are filling...and I'm stuck still with the wanting ways we measure time and space and the ways we catalogue the artifact we call love and the distances we commute to in love and back again and how none of it is directly visible or decipherable--wow! de-cipher to render...word circles--thing is I'm between projects again, anyway my newest metaphor for love is fall and the tumult the deconstruction of...re-creation
and in the meantime I did finally get--though this year I was less impatient less distracted by it's not yet having come as a telltale of order like being home on time for supper--the yearly holdiay epistle from my first husband, which I look forward to I must say...most notable was the ps: anne schulthies said the place on the breaks (where we'd lived and had our own little firette) burned down--I took the labradorite ring off enough circle completing be in the ether in touch with everydamn thing contra-capricorn plutonian change for right now tyvm
foreign it was all very foreign we were foreign and he loved--no he talked about and the only one back then that did now that I think about it my father who had killed himself as if it were a real thing with real leftovers and as if just the same he had been a real person and that the painmessanguishdespairdesparation of it all was beyond the reach of simple judgement/understanding he got the point of view thing too, though he much more identified with my dead father... than I...not to say me...but I don't know that for sure
it's an odd confluence on but missing beats skipping syllables--I put the ring back on...she said they were talking about my poems...about the appropriateness of them...
for the children
...I have so many reactions...but mostly in thinking about it I realized my position is clear enough and I don't need to say another word and then I find my self not sure it's fair for me to be a distant/vicarious participant in the conversation at all but there it is...the decision to tell a story includes it's aftermath...
being visible is being seen and counted
the question I guess before we go ahead would have to be would this be a conversation they would have had with me or had I been present...I can imagine being there opting right away for the center, landing right in my knowing and then having the good grace to turn away...realizing even from here that the conversation was tangent & cover for subrosa texts and by god that I'd had my say...made my decision about appropriateness, made my decision about seasons and time time time and voice and opting for shamelessness...guess contra-capricorn plutonian-hooha is still up
the gray clouds are purple...
he thought I'd changed my
to a tamer version...lover of a sister seeming less troublesome than brotherlover because they knew of no sister...missing the meaning altogether; who says the kids would find my being bi-sexual more appropriate
thing is, it's my looking glass...props parading as facts
are simply tools mere conveyances and shouldn't be mistaken as familiar so howsoever you may be moved, that wonderful
is yours enjoy it covet it but when you're done with it don't pawn it off on me-- I know better
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