As we gird for the coming summer of discontent The air hangs heavy – thick with want Carrying the stench of need Up and over the fences of the comfortable Everybody feels it – even if they don’t know what it is
Tensions are high among a new group of the populous And they are turning to those who have been edging defeat operating deep inside existential chaos for decades And asking “how do you live like this”
…. Live like this?
We don’t live like this We struggle like this Lest we die like this
We scape by We skip breakfast We abuse substance
There is a storm coming One that’s hard to predict with any accuracy Because there are thousands of pressure points Weighing on millions of unique psyches With diminishing patience And increasing rage
Our Melting Pot has been spiked with lies, hatred and greed Being stirred by a crooked, wicked hand Over the white hot flame of our desire to be truly free
Do you spend more time thinking about the future or the past? Why?
Thinking on the past and future are different activities so it’s hard to compare them in this way. The past is content. The past is fixed events to review and draw conclusions from. The future is fantasy – it doesn’t exist.
So do I spend more time reminiscing/regretting or planning/wishing? I’d like to say I keep a healthy balance of remembering to hope, regretting to avoid, and studying to plan.
But I think I spend the bulk of my time with my mind dreaming. Some dreams are tangible, others are for entertainment purposes only. I imagine myself in situations I’ve never shown the resolve it would take to be in.
I imagine myself thinner. I imagine myself more confident and patient. I have complete conversations with the men I’ve loved where things go… differently. I imagine my writing is discovered on a poorly maintained, low-traffic blog and I’m approached by Netflix for their next blockbuster rom-com.
I imagine red carpet walks with my best friend at the premiere of my latest movie. I imagine boldly representing myself in the office of some Hollywood hot-shot over royalties and my expectations and how I won’t take a penny less than some exorbitant amount of money for my masterpiece.
The things that I imagine typically lead to me remembering why those things are so out of reach. I remember that I don’t communicate well verbally until I’m yelling and crying. That I stutter and shake until I break down. I remember that I push most men away because I don’t want things to get good enough to hurt when it’s over.
I remember that I’m too scared to publish my poetry traditionally so I’ve only pushed small-batch, self-published projects that fall short because I can’t market myself because on most days I don’t know my worth.
I remember that I haven’t been able to finish a book or a screenplay because I’m terrified of submitting it and being rejected.
Then I regret that I let any of those things stop me.
Then I hope I can turn it around with my plans and resolutions. I start setting lofty goals to “write something every day” or “be more active” and I’m so excited that I wear myself out and I need a nap.
So, I guess what I’m saying is I don’t know. I do know for sure that I spend way more time thinking than doing.
This is a cumbersome question. I enjoy giving gifts but I’m weird about receiving them. I don’t like event or holiday gifts.
My first thoughts were material, but I couldn’t think of anything readily enough to be the greatest. Then I got corny – requited unconditional love and such.
But what quantifies greatness in a gift?
Is it the needing or the wanting? The novelty or the significance? The surprise or the anticipation? The pomp or the circumstance? Maybe all of these.
I imagine I wouldn’t be able to say before receiving it. If I had to say, it would need to evoke emotion. Possibly bring me joy.
Then my logic steps in and requests that it be a practical size for storage or safe keeping. Is it consumable or flammable? Did you include batteries?
A keepsake maybe? No. A memory.
A joyful core memory. Doesn’t matter what it is as long as I can turn to it and revisit the rush of serotonin. Some are epic while some are just so silly. But they all count the same.
The greatest gift someone could give me will probably be a knock knock joke I’ll overhear from the next table at a restaurant. Or the time my then 1 year old son threw up after I farted. There were real tears.
Make me laugh, make me cry – make me angry – just make it count.
There wasn’t enough time. I didn’t have enough time. Even if our time was longer, I wouldn’t know how to prepare for it. So I shut down.
It feels like a design flaw in the blueprints of life – that the people we need and love SO much – people you know will be whoever, wherever,whenever you need them to be – can be gone in an instant.
I’ve heard people describe it a multitude of times – using the same words I do now – and assumed it would prepare me for it when the time came. I’ve lost family and mourned in my own ways.
But losing a parent is HARD. The spirit of the nuclear family is unique. That “I’m on my way, no matter what – even though I told you this was a bad idea but we can talk about that later” essence is a heartstring with exposed nerve endings. And it can just be ripped away.
No one on this earth can convince me that consciousness isn’t tangible. That we aren’t bound by extrasensory tendrils that keep us safe and calm. And I know none of this is new. But at the same time ALL of this is new. Loss is new every time.
I’ve never felt loss like I did with my dad. I don’t understand how touch the place where it hurts. The left and right sides of my brain are still trying and failing to make sense of it 8 months later, so I don’t think I’ve even come to terms with it.
All of this amplified by the fact that he didn’t have to be anybody to me. He accepted me. I have so many vestiges of fear-filled memories and all I ever felt is safe and understood. He was brilliant and jolly and he liked to take stuff apart and I was there for all of it. Mom says that somehow I was his child.
Then it hit me that I gotta do it again. I don’t know when, but I do know that the logical me and the emotional me are both trying to be practical about an impractical situation neither of them has any experience in.
I’ve been trying to communicate more freely and address issues as they come up so I spend as little time as possible sour, or frustrated or angry with her. I was at the nursing home the day before he lost consciousness and I was so annoyed that I had to take time out of my packed day of doing NOT SHIT to bring him something he needed. That’s the energy I left him with.
I said all of that to say that I’m petrified that before I learn how to navigate this treacherous and magical world, she’ll be gone too.
And I can’t let Avery go through this. The tingling in my joints. The laundry lists of diagnoses and medications. The fatigue. The fat. It’s all got to go. I need to be around long enough for him to be able to mourn properly. Once I know how to mourn properly.
I just couldn’t watch them bury my dad.
I went to the hospital and held his hand. I sat at hospice and talked to him.
I wasn’t there when he stopped breathing. I didn’t view his body at the service. I laughed with family. I smiled and hugged. Then I went back home.
I did everything I felt I had to to protect my state of mind.
I’ve no doubt my heart will heal beat then skip and love again the shame of it all will relent my spirit, slightly tamer, will surrender caution to the wind However deeply dug the trench
Just as one wound starts to seal Another tries to saunter in In time enough that I forget The markers of a shaky wheel I’ll take no heed and bare my skin And trust & lust enough to let
And bury risk beneath the appeal Of a love that might be worth a spin For every journey’s end begets Am I a survivor of the ordeal Or a fool for what the wind blew in On the bound to more regret
I hope your days are blessed with beauty, bounty and belief And everything that you hold dear brings solace to your grief I hope you find just enough joy in every place you seek Find faith in strength and clarity – a friend in destiny
I wish for you the brightest days and even brighter nights May any battle’s gotten gains be worthy of the fight Wish you health and wealth and wisdom in all your coming years And any goal you set yourself out-might your hidden fears
But, just a little nugget of advice before you go And take with you whatever happiness I thought we’d know Make no mistake – I’m not gon’ trip – but listen carefully I very highly suggest you not say shit else to me
The bitch you thought I might have been can’t hold a wet match to The wrath that’s waiting for whatever foolishness in queue The bigger man you think you are to turn on me today Better have a backup plan, or reinforcements on the way
A child is many things many more things than offsprings progenies of flights & failures not yet known regardless of whether you know it or not you are perpetually always ever pouring yourself into your young, so…
Somehow
I was under the impression
that if I came up with all this clever shit to say
on somebody’s stage somewhere
You’d suddenly wake up from your deep-seated denial
And realize what you been missin’
Like
You’d sense my sensibility and come runnin’
Like
You don’t mean it when you say
“the wireless caller you are trying to reach
has a voice mail box that has not been set up…”
…you don’t mean that…
Like
If I say it clearly enough
With enough emphasis
If I enunciate in front of enough people who are not you
Eventually my words would start to glow in the moonlight
And you’d manifest
No longer able to resist the pull
Of my awesomeness
But — recently
With all this free time I have
I’ve been reading through all the fantastic sap
I’ve bestowed upon you over the years
As diligently as prayers
And it occurred to me
I needed to pump the breaks
Pulled back
Took the next left
And parked it at epiphany
Got out and looked back that what carried me to this pitiful place
My jolly rancher green jalopy – runnin’ on fumes
My sweet chariot to a place called clarity
Where I’ve taken up residence
Until I can find a ride back to good
But nothing in this life is free
And rent is due tonight
And these are the last of my words I can afford to give you
So listen carefully
I
Am not a fool
I get it
because
I
Am an appropriately educated
Level headed
Resourceful
Sane-ish
Beautiful young woman
I’m good at what I do
I enjoy it
And if left to my own devices
Dammit I’m happy
I can be flighty
Moody
And quite silly at times
But I am not a fool
Early on in the whisper-soft, underhanded attack that doubt declares on allegory Do the weary start to sway ‘neath the gusts of tribulation ‘til that final blow – however slight – sends the soul on a fall Into sorrow And out of faith in the Lord…
When, though once the deafening din of those hallowed horns come ripping through the universe Do the wretched start to buckle ‘neath the bounty titanic in size sonorous in title in refusal of any name other than the blessing that is salvation Give the kneel a try And believe?
spirit@peace&joy@hand 