Honoring and remembering those who are gone makes me want to gather up those I love who are still on this plane. What the hell are my siblings and I fighting about, anyway? If they've been horrid, does that mean I have to reciprocate, and stew about it, too?
Are we stuck with that?
What if I just love you, sister and brother mine? Whether or not you want it or not, "deserve" it, how about if I treat you, hold you, with love?
I'm changing, now, so much and so fast I can feel it happening every day. Where are these changes taking me?
And I'm watching you change. Who and what will you become, before my eyes?
Today I see tragedy in the distance between us, the prickly mistrust we have unfortunately earned. I wish we could start over. I wish I had understood from the beginning that we are each other's hidden weapon and secret wealth.
Or - we could be.
Everyone in this family, too bright, too loud, too needy, too lusty, too much. Pushing and ricocheting off of each other and the walls and furniture, all of us living too hard.
And at the same time, each and all know well the call of retreat. As if none of us possess the necessary protection from noise and light and beauty.
Hurts. It hurts.
Then, for a span, I labored
to contribute, from myself. I
wanted to lay out what was in ME,
what I thought
and felt and
wanted. I broke
my sealed silence
and expressed. Writing, painting,
sketching and cutting and pasting. What I sought
was to be understood.
I wanted someone to take ME in.
Everything coming in,
everything going out
sounds of crinkly static, and it
at all understandable,
I know people get dyspeptic when Christmas is mentioned before Thanksgiving is past, and I know our culture's runaway consumerism is inescapable at this party.
And I am so glad there is a yearly reason for me to give gifts. It's great fun to theorize what this friend or that relative might enjoy. The long anticipation of wrapped gifts hanging around awaiting Christmas day is sweet.
I like Christmas. It's sparkly and shiny and happy, and I get to show people that I like them, and wish them fun and pleasure, too.
I am so fortunate. Thank you, Goddess.
I'm not talking about suicide, not even thinking about suicide, which is a small, stunning miracle. I don't mean I want to stop breathing.
I'm just tired of the shit. Nightmares, panic, obfuscation, confusion, exhaustion, getting smacked around any time I'm fool enough to trust someone with the crucial stuff.
I'd like is to look up into the sky and soar. Joy, and laughter: that's what I want. I want to stop feeling guilty I won't fulfill the promise of prodigy, I want to stop yearning toward other people to help me be whole.
I want to not care. I want it to not matter that an ally - a trusted confidante - has just cut me off at the knees without a backward glance.
Ow. Dammit, ow!
Ironically, this same person once said to me that if I chose safety over everything else, that's all I would have: safety. It sounded ominous, put that way. It's damned attractive now.
This lovely city is resplendent with autumn color. I've never seen such a beautiful November; usually by now the leaves have been stripped from the trees by the relentless rain. Today was the first day of rain. It made the trees and flowers shine like jewels.
A slip in my mailbox said I had a parcel. The security guard had stepped away from his desk.
I went outside. It was dusk, the last of an orange sunset fading behind the trees in the west.
I couldn't breathe. Of course I was breathing. My heart raced. I glanced around. No one could tell.
I couldn't breathe. The guard returned; we fetched my parcel and I waited for the elevator.
I couldn't breathe.
And then, full-throttle panic.
I perceive a spiritual dimension to the universe. There is so much magic and miracle in every day and night, every sentient being, every scrap of beauty.
Really the only "path" that makes sense to me is trying to help a little, do what I can, where I can. Kindness. It's not religion, but it's what I have.
Well and all. I think my mother is unreliable (though predictable), willingly and willfully gullible, deaf and blind to any inconvenient facts that might require her to re-evaluate. Callous to the point of cruelty, and invariable in her self-satisfaction.
That's what we really think. Love? Yes. We also love.
I have no poetry,
no essential truth or revelation to give, nothing
gained from my aching hours.
I wish I did.
I wish I could give you poetry.
All I have, instead,
is the insistent crack
of stone on stone,
my inability to quit
until something breaks,
even the wide world,
or one pebble of it.
Aren't you the expert? Aren't you the one most likely to willingly spend the time it takes to get to know you in any meaningful way?
I think you are, and I think you're too smart to believe other people hold the key to your identity. You feel it moving in you, don't you? There, then. That's it. You're you. Congratulations.
There's your trouble. A gilt-edged you, in the same old world.
First Fed Ex "delivered" two packages, including my card blanks, to oblivion, and that all has to be untangled and re-done. I brainlessly ordered the ring for a loved one a full size too large and need to exchange it. And something supposedly in stock and ready to ship disappeared from a warehouse and will be *cough* delayed.
Yup. I'm SO psychic.
I don't miss enduring the tauntings of removed cousins over my choice not to eat animals. I don't miss feeling at sea amongst all that extended family. I don't miss being a kid, that's for damned sure.
In fact, I'll start my list of thankfulness with those absences.
I miss my grandma, though. I miss my grandma a lot.
Mother was the Grinch. Cranky and snarly from trying to make everything good for her family with so little cash, competing with her mother, who went all out for her only grandchildren at Christmas - and snubbed every specially-chosen gift from mom - all her life.
Poor mom. Poor Grandma. And poor kids, caught up in all that backstory without a clue.
But now - now maybe all our hearts don't feel "quite so tight." Here's hoping.
we are standing in a summer day,
we are singing the birthday song
(I can't remember your birthday anymore, grandma)
and I turn to her,
I love birthdays (and a beat)
It was long ago.
She teased me about that for years,
and she was dead when I was sixteen.
I'm sorry, grandma,
I avoided the nursing home.
I was selfish,
and the strokes and your leave-taking frightened me,
and I'm sorry.
Where are you now,
But then, I have the dead and maimed friends, and my own experiences with the Great Revolution, to put the lie to the whole business, and I'm twenty years in Dr Andreasen's future (as it were).
Still. A scream-worthy read. And so much gloom about the sad futures of the psychiatrically interesting. Horrifying and insidious. A secret voice whispers, will *I* get worse and worse?
Thank you, that the harried clerks and floor managers at the store today knew where things were and were willing to help me out when my last nerve was shot.
Thank you for the snow, and thank you for the snow not sticking, and stopping before the traffic got crazy.
Thank you for colored lights, for shiny ornaments, for tinsel. Thank you for this oasis of light in the dark of the year.
Thank you for this life.