The exit signs pass
In slow motion. 269, 277.
Like fudge dripping from a spoon
Slow, warm…
I drive. Invincible.
All that matters is the conversation we have
In my head
As I drive chasing the red streamers
In slow motion past the exit signs.

Accomplishment

I demolished another part of the living room wall last night. Dust from the sander covered the furniture and cats in a white coat of drywall and pushed everything out of focus for a moment. Some people have spring cleaning. I have winter reconstruction.

After lighting a fire, breaking out the tequila, and wiping down the cats, I surveyed my work. Well, one thing is true. I am certainly talented at making a mess. Muddy columns now run the length of the wall passing through two previous paint jobs and a floral band, hidden like a girdle behind brown and gold wainscoting visibly shrinking the already strangled circumference of the room. This messy transition stage is where I am most uncomfortable; especially knowing the hours of work still to do, but it is where I can see the most potential.

12/27/10

Today, I’m working in an empty building. Most of the staff are either traveling the globe to spend time with their families in places like Lebanon or Trinidad, or relaxing at home enjoying some much needed rest away from the office. I’m here because everyone else was faster in requesting time off, and other than the frightening, slippery drive into work over frozen asphalt, I’m fairly content to be here. I’ve caught up on holiday work and have roasted my toes with the desk heater. I even took lunch to hit the gym and indulge in a few home improvement shows that will inevitably convince me that my home has wasted space, and that for just a dime, I could redesign an entire bedroom in one afternoon. And when the sweat made an uncomfortable bog along my bra band and I started to regret leaving my gym clothes at home, I realized that I was content with not being brilliant or even especially accomplished today. Because with everyone gone and no one looking, today I don’t have to prove myself to anyone.

Total Lunar Eclipse

I dreamed this morning of a figure study class. Men and women standing naked while artists painted them, moved them, explained symbolism and allusion to the other students. I watched and listened then I was the figure, with everyone studying me. My left arm was bent behind my back, hand relaxed, fingers curling up over my rear, head down, my right hand touching my lips. I felt peaceful, as though I had nothing to hide. No shame. There was something important about my left hand and its placement behind me. The lights faded, and I was alone in an empty room, standing still as people left, almost in meditation. Almost a statue. I woke up tingling.

Behind the Garden Fence

When I’m cold, I remember Waterford
The icy wind racing down the road
Slicing past my coat to chap my skin
And how you smiled, crack-lipped
At the two old men walking their dog
Talking of love and flowers
Planted behind the fence. We move on
And my eyes water.

Grandmother

Two nights ago I almost had the candle stable in my mind and myself grounded when I saw my grandmother flash behind my eyes and jerked from my attempted meditations. Something wasn’t right. I lie back down and try to focus on my breathing again ignoring the fact that my grandmother is in hospice care and probably won’t make it past the holidays. This is not a normal reaction for a granddaughter. I like to say I’m indifferent, but really, if I were indifferent, I wouldn’t be writing this now while she lies on her death bed.

She is not a nice woman. Growing up, my memories are colored with uncomfortable silences, disapproval, and illogical rules – almost cruel to young children who do not know better or can’t fully comprehend. Now, as an adult, I understand, and I loathe her more for it. She frequently accused me of things that I did not do, and then never apologized when the truth was clear. The day I stopped loving my grandmother was the day I started protecting my sister. It’s silly in retrospect, but in the memories of childhood, events are bigger and mean so much more than adults can even start to remember.

My sister had opened a new coke to drink and poured it over ice. After three sips, she left it and it became watered down so much that later when forced to drink it, I gagged and vomited. My grandmother saw that my sister had ‘wasted’ half a coke and told her that if she didn’t drink all of it she would be in trouble. A dire threat to a sensitive eight year old, who had a grandmother that would follow through. Heather cried saying that it tasted horrible and that she couldn’t do it as my grandmother stood there watching silently. There was no compassion in her eyes, so when she left the room, I drank as much as I could choke down and dumped the rest as I threw up brown liquid.

A small incident to an adult or to those who have experienced far worse from family members, but it was in that moment that I realized my grandmother didn’t love me or my sister. There were other situations throughout my life that reinforced what I learned that day, such as the cabbage showdown, the smoking inquisition, and the broken ballet slippers, but this event was the beginning. Over the years, I tried to separate myself from this woman in order to avoid awkward, uncomfortable, disappointing situations where it would be proven yet again that she didn’t love us. I chose not to hug her unless forced. I chose not to stay in the same room when she visited. When I could finally drive, I rarely saw her at all. I was twenty-two when I learned more about my father’s childhood and began to hate her.
So, now I write this and think about the woman who has lost her mind and can’t remember me. I want to forgive her, but I can’t. She is a broken woman who never recovered, and I can’t think past her abandoning my aunt and her best friend on the side of the road because they were giggling too much in the back seat, or how she inadvertently forced my father to drop out of high school to join the Marines to support his brothers and sister.

Even though she wouldn’t recognize me, I’m afraid to visit her – afraid of her judgment and my inability to forgive. I’m afraid her mental illness is hiding somewhere in my genetic code waiting until my mind begins to slip. I hope her death comes painlessly. That is all the compassion I have.

Circles, Full Moons, and White Candles

I’m sore from the roots I slept on two nights ago. I think. Or I’m sore from the bone-brittle cold of camping in November. The pain in my hands and feet came close to encouraging me to find a local hotel room, which I would have hated doing because I feel I should be able to rough it like the rest of them…

It was so cold that all I could think of was fighting and arguing, and blaming other people for my frozen state. Drinking didn’t seem to help and then I became dehydrated AND cold. Friday night was a loss, which symbolically ended when Chris broke my ceramic mug.

Saturday evening saw me snuggled up and planted in front of a Bardic competition, complete with bonfire and beer. Many talented people with more bravery than I could even think about trying to squeeze past my stage fright. The moon was almost completely full and the weather was dropping, but I wasn’t cold… and I’m sure I seemed high to those around me. I was feeding off of their energies, the songs, the drum circles; I danced around the fields, found broken weapons and used them as blessing wands to encourage more good will. The stars and meteorites were amazing. The tail of the Leonides could still be seen last night.

I started to see circles and spirals last night – not only in my own life, but in the lives of my friends. I could almost visibly see the spiral cords connecting them/us, regardless of whether they were aware of it and how they felt. All I could do was step back, try not to absorb too much energy and watch the dances follow their natural progression. I feel like I’m designing my own world. Or I did last night while I was stone sober, getting high on peoples’ good moods, and song. Can you tell I’m still really tired? So…

Falling into bed. (almost face-planting the keyboard is a sure sign that one should be in bed. )

last night's dream

It started out as my normal reoccurring dream of walking in a modern village with medieval architecture. I’m enjoying the sights but looking for someone. I go to the pub, take pictures, etc. There are cars, but overall the place is one where people prefer walking. The overall feeling of the dream is pleasure, but in a general way. I enjoy being here. I can feel the notches in the stone walls, hear the leaves crackle as I walk near the cemetery, and I can breathe in the cool, damp air. It’s always early evening when I’m here. The lights are filling the side streets with warmth. I am both visitor and local. I meet the person I am supposed to meet, and we enjoy the rest of the day taking in the sights and laughing, getting high off of each other’s company.

This is where it changes.

I go into a shower room covered with sienna colored ceramic tile feeling the nervous excitement pimple my skin. I feel like shouting to relieve some pressure, but I giggle instead, my muscles clenching in response to my forced control. The room is small and warm, almost like a sauna.

There is a half length mirror to my dexter that I only notice once I start to undress. The mirror is framed by a gold braided floral wreath. I look up and see my reflection. She has darker hair and eyes and smaller breasts, but even with the changes, she is me – an alternate me. The look in her eyes makes me uncomfortable. I can’t think of the right words to describe it. There was need, control, pride, a harshness wrapped in sharp sexuality. There was nothing soft or sweet or playful looking back at me. She wasn’t a reflection of the person who entered the shower room, and she wasn’t in there waiting for me either. She appeared exactly when I looked at her. She wanted something. She didn’t scare me as much as worry me because her stare told me she could not be reasoned with or swayed. Then I woke up.

Impotence

Today I checked my facebook while a seventy-five year old woman described in detail how she was thirsty and how her dog was dying because no one cares about her. It’s the only filter I have. This disassociation when the anger at injustice is gone.

I’m instructed not to help. We don’t want to get involved…

Offering the man imprisoned in Ethiopia a list of email links and phone numbers for pro-bono lawyers makes me feel dirty and mean. How will that help his dysentery or kill the lice traveling his hair like wire walkers?

Could I fight? Yes, but I don’t have the stomach for it today. Or the time.
Perhaps it’s the weather or perhaps I’m two days away from five days of bleeding.

Whatever it is, I want to go home. I want my cats, and I want the rain.

It’s rough, sitting in anxious sweat
A thousand answers, a roll of dice
Knowing I have dropped my muchness
On the edge of a blunted knife.

The Continuous Beginning

I’ve maintained many blogs in the past, and I’ve always used them as platforms for various projects. However, they have never represented the whole me, as a woman in a world of self-sacrificing acceptance and expectation. At 31 and growing into my adulthood, I shouldn’t have to find myself, but after the changes of the last three years, I feel I owe it to myself to figure out what I am, who I am, and how that person can enjoy baking her cake (barefoot in the kitchen) and yet still experience the luxury of eating it too (for breakfast with a cup of coffee), if she wishes.