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Damned if it isn't late again. And here I sit with my brain fried. Hey, it's dark outside and it's dark inside too. It's fucking night. I'm tired of playing shooting games with my grandson. I'm tired of having a cold, a scratchy throat, a stuffy nose. My nose is sore and the tissues aren't soft enough. I'm tired of sneezing. It's been a long day.
It will not be a long enough night. And when I wake up it will still be raining outside.
Oh shit. It was April Fools Day, and I didn't remember to play a joke.
The denim blue nail polish was fun for a day or two. Matched my faded jeans. Now my jeans are dirty and the polish is wearing off at the tips. My grand daughter changes nail colors every time she changes shirts. I find this astounding.
The sixties were timed just right for me. Bras and make-up were OUT. Natural and casual was IN. The perfect cover story for a born Tomboy. I never liked playing with the girls. I ran with the boys right up until they started fighting over me. Boy was that ever a rude awakening!
All visions are soul visions. Only the soul sees beyond the five senses and what's in front of our noses. The soul not only sees, it also speaks. And it hears. It is the source and agent of all metaphysical knowing. Yet the majority of people do not notice that their soul is even there. It must be quite a shock when they die. All at once, there is nothing BUT the soul. It is where we are. My soul is the seat of my consciousness. From there, my identity is the illusion. My soul is not afraid to love.
Absolutely. There is orgasm in the spirit world. It lacks the sweaty muscularity, the grunting and groaning and grinding, the effort and expelling of force of physical sex. But there is definitely orgasm, the envelopment of being in ecstasy, the moment of blissful surrender. Think of the sex scene in the pool in the movie "Cocoon." The alien, who is a being of pure light, simply touches the human and he is overcome with bliss. There are no barriers, no inhibitions that get in the way of merging in love. Greater freedom of expression, minus the hot gasping for breath.
The word for today is BATH. It's almost dinner time and we are still trying to get it together to take our baths. First we slept in, and then we made coffee and read the Sunday paper in bed. And then we got frisky, and the hours passed. The Big O. The Big MO. Then the period of quiet contemplation about how really good life can be. And still no bath. We haven't eaten, we haven't washed. We haven't cleaned the house, or done our taxes as we had planned. No indeed. A bathrobe day. A day of rest.
What is the deal with us not cleaning our house? I mean, we have nothing else to do. We're retired for fuck's sake. The house ought to be spotless, immaculate, eat off the floor spic and span impeccable neat as a pin goddamned spotless. Instead, I am looking at this very moment at a cobweb on the wall behind the TV, which as usual is on. And not only is it on, at least one of us is looking at it. The other one of us is looking at this screen and rattling on about how dirty the house is.
This is the most amazing fucking bullshit ever. And most of the time I just put up with it. I'm a total pussy. Where did I get the idea that I need to be a "good mother?" And what the fuck does that mean, anyway? Somewhere along the line, I decided that being a good mother means I am ALWAYS there for my kid. It means I don't say NO. It means I don't piss her off, I try to see her point of view, I agree if there is any way. The problem is, it is all ONE FUCKING WAY.
What would it be like if I had never had a kid? First of all, I'd have money. I wouldn't be struggling among the great moneyless masses. Second, I would have a better golf game. Third, I would have a fucking condo in Key West, or maybe Maui. Fourth, I would have a better body. Fifth, my stress level would be a lot lower. Sixth, I wouldn't spend half my fucking time babysitting. Seventh, I wouldn't be worried about what a fucking piss poor job my kid is doing at parenting. What was I thinking when I wanted a kid?
People who don't have kids think they are missing out on something. That has got to be the chemicals talking. Nothing but the goddamned hormones, coursing through your brain, stimulating this idiotic thinking. Kids are the greatest curse in life. The ungrateful little bastards do nothing but take, take, take. Then they become teenagers, and they hate, hate, hate. Then they grow up, in spite of themselves and they have kids of their own. And who do they get to raise them? You, you, you. My kid is probably the single worst thing that has ever happened to me. Period.
Driving in the light of a full moon, I took off my glasses. Everything seemed to clear up. In the black and white landscape, I could clearly make out every tree along the highway. The road like a piece of shiny satin ribbon, silver. Not gray. Not asphalt. Even the road rumble seemed to fade away. The moon lit up a cloud. It glowed along the edge. The sky behind it softened into velvet. Here and there a star like a sequin.
It all felt so easy. I turned off the lights. The dashboard blinked out. I was flying.
This day is known as Holy Saturday. The day when Jesus was actually dead, in the grave, buried. The night before he rolled back the stone. Oh what a night. My mother would cook and cook. Veal scallopine, breaded artichoke hearts. We ate and ate. The whole neighborhood would come in and visit at our table. And everybody went to midnight Mass. For Easter we bought new outfits. Colored eggs that my father would hide in plain sight. We'd get up in the morning and hunt. But we never found them all. He'd sit there and grin. One more.
"Roll away the stone."
"Did you hear that?"
"That voice. Did you hear it?"
"I'm tellin' ya, I heard a voice. It was right over here."
"Over here?! It came from this rock?"
"Well...kind of. Maybe behind it."
"Behind it? Hey wait a minute. This is a grave!"
"Oh my God."
"Are you sure it came from BEHIND the rock?"
"Yeah, I really think so."
"Whoa. What if somebody is trapped inside of there?"
"Oh God, do you think?"
"Do you think we could move it?"
"Man, I don't know. It's huge. That would take a miracle!"
We drove to the airport in the snow in the dark. In traffic at six a.m. Parked the car in the long-term lot and dragged the luggage through the snow and wind. It was colder than it should have been because we left our heavy coats at home. Don't want to drag them around in the heat after all. Practically ran into the terminal. Then a line and another line and another line. By the time we got to the gate there wasn't much time to waste. The sun was coming up outside while the plane de-iced its wings.
Stayed up until midnight last night, mostly listening to Richard and Gary catching up. Thinking that the people in the next room might not be as amused as we were. Or as loud. Well that's for sure. Sometimes I feel invisible. But most of the time, I don't really want to talk enough to get much attention. I listen and I watch. And anyway, what would I say? That I don't agree? That I do agree? What difference would it make? But if I listen, maybe I'll understand. Would that make a difference? And would it matter if it did?
This morning I submitted six short plays to a contest in London. This is, in and of itself, an amazing thing. A triumph of sorts. A victory over the voice inside my head; the one that says I have no imagination. What is it with that voice, anyway? And why do I listen?
Stumbled upon the "Tea Party" in San Antonio today. Signs, homemade and otherwise, saying Texas should secede and be independent again, that Obama is destroying our country, that Americans are gun-toting idiots, as far as I could see. It was fascinating and disturbing. I should have worn my "Women For Obama" t-shirt today. Bring it on, assholes.
I didn't think it was too much to ask. I made the mistake of thinking I could have a boundary, that I could have some privacy, some private space. They say you should never discuss religion or politics. Because people have strong opinions and judgments about those things. So I thought you should leave it up to me to discuss my spirituality with others. It should be up to me to decide who I shared that with or who I didn't. But you can't shut your mouth long enough to even remember you gave your word to me. How rude!
You can please some of the people all of the time and all of the people some of the time, but you can't please all of the people all of the time. Therefore, you may as well do as you please. They won't like you anyway. And as they say in New York, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."
If only that little tirade was a hundred words, I could wrap this up, curl up with the game on my phone, and begin the luxurious process of zoning out for the night. If only, if only. Alas, alas.
East Texas is an affair of rolling hills, very gentle, very gradual. The trees are mainly deciduous, and right now full of new green leaves and bundles that are trying to become flowers. Pollen is everywhere. The air is full of birdsong. The grass is up in that new green shade that doesn't last into summer. But right now it's all new, all new green too. We rolled over the low sloping hillsides to Bryan, and found our way out of town to "The Glory Inn," where the family reunion was being held this year. On Still Creek Ranch. Amen
All day I practiced being grateful, especially when I was feeling annoyed. I should say "potentially annoyed" since that's as far as that got today. At the first sign, my higher self got my attention with a gentle reminder of the commitment I made to find something to be grateful for in every situation no matter what. The more you do it, the easier it becomes. The serenity you gain is well worth the effort in and of itself. But there are greater benefits to be enjoyed, as the vibrations increase in frequency and duration. I felt my soul alive.
"What would it be like to be happy?"
"Happy as that pup. Chewing on that bone."
"Yeah, he looks happy alright."
"Anything in your life work that way for you?"
"Well. I'm not complicated. I get up in the morning and brew a cup of strong coffee, and I sit down and drink it before I do anything else. I sit right over there in that oversize chair and look out that big window."
"Does that make you happy?"
"I believe it does."
"As happy as that pup?"
"Not sure. But it does make me happy."
Visiting San Antonio this week, we were spending most of our time on the north side of town. Until today, we've been spending all our time among the "have's", and had seen almost nothing of the "have not's". Then we decided to go look at the old missions, which took us to the older south side. Here garbage is piled high in the streets, paving is iffy, houses poor, people destitute, graffiti everywhere. It's all very broken down and haphazard. Then we came back to the north side again, where the yards are landscaped and the rock walls are intact.
Why is it every time we travel we change temperatures by 50 degrees? It was 90 in San Antonio when we left. Ninety and humid, or as Richard likes to say, "The humidities were out!" We landed in Spokane and it was raining. Temps in the 30's. Blustery is the nice word for it. We got home and found that our fish had all died. Well that's a fine hello and welcome back from out of town. But the bed was comfy, and that little indentation where I lay was still there. Like it was waiting for me. Ahhh yes.
The writing assignment was to write about "the empty chair." I thought of the electric chair, in the front of a room full of viewers, people who came to see the spectacle. I pretended I was a reporter, leaning against the wall. The creepiness of a silent crowd, all focussed on something terrible that was about to happen in the front of the room. The guards come in. The Chaplain comes in. Then they bring in the man of the hour. They have to drag him in. He looks up at us with wild eyes. I think about my life.
Imagine a little boy who gets molested by his mother's friend when she is giving him a bath. It happens several times and makes him very uncomfortable. He tries to tell him mother, but she looks at him like he is the one with the dirty mind. He feels ashamed and gives up telling her. So he keeps it to himself. After a time, the friend gets married and moves away to another city, and the little boy grows up and starts school. And then his Mom gets pregnant again, and right before the baby is born his father dies.
An eight year old boy has a baby brother and his father is dead. He feels like he is the man of the house, and is very protective of his little brother. When his little brother is two years old, his mother's friend comes back to the town after her marriage breaks up. His mother invites her to stay with them. The boy comes home from school and finds his mother's friend with his little brother. He panics. He has to do something to protect his brother from being molested like he was. He doesn't know what to do. Crisis.
The boy stays close to his brother, but somehow it turns out that the mother's friend is giving the little brother a bath. He has a flashback to what happened to him. She was giving him a bath, and she made a big deal about cleaning his penis. It was more than that. She was fondling it, then she put it in her mouth and licked it all over. She said it was to make sure it was clean, that there was no soap left on it. He felt embarrassed because his penis got erect. And it just didn't feel right.
Remembering what happened to him, he bursts into the bathroom where his mother's friend is giving his little brother a bath. He doesn't know what to do or say, so he just says, "I can do it." He basically pushes her out of the way. He can tell from how she is acting that nothing has happened yet. When she molested him years before, she would get very excited and her face would get flushed. She isn't flushed now. He looks at his little brother, playing innocently in the bathtub with his plastic boats and ducks. Nothing has happened.
Our boy has made a scene, and his mother isn't happy. What is wrong with you, young man, she wants to know? What is your problem? How can you be so disrespectful of my friend?
Our boy is in trouble when he goes to bed that night. He can't sleep. He sits beside his brother's bed. He is on watch, on guard, protecting. He realizes he can't protect his brother when he goes to school in the morning.
He packs some clothes in a backpack and a duffle bag, wakes his brother up in the middle of the night. Shhh.
I am really getting tired of listening to the hysterical over-reactions of the right wing in this country. President Obama has these people quaking in their boots. Why it should frighten anybody that the president would bow politely to another world leader is just beyond my comprehension. It seems that no matter what he does, there is a segment of our country that find fault with it. I think he could heal the sick and raise the dead, and they'd still find fault with it! Maybe they are right: their way of life is coming to an end. Good!
My best friend found a lump in her breast. Today she found out it's cancer. She has two lumps, and it's spread to at least one lymph node.
Some people say we have no say about what happens to us. Other people say we have all the say. Somehow, neither of these absolute views sounds right to me. I think it goes like this:
We choose to live, here in this crazy, mixed-up place. Where things break, break down, break up. Every move we make, our every thought, contributes to the story. But it always ends the same way.
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