When David’s friend, Jack, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer we knew he was going to die. There is no cure and the longest one can expect to live is a year.
David’s first response was to pull away. Jack had been his best friend since he was a teen just starting out at the phone company. They worked together for years and socialized regularly even after David moved to other jobs. Leaning over a pool table they vented to each other all the things you can’t say to your wife or workmates. Their lives were separate, and at one point separated by miles when Jack moved to Texas, but they knew that with just a phone call they would have an ear with no judgment; a friend to laugh with and remind you what is really important in life. In Jack, David had a friend that knew who he was - so he could relax and be who he is. So, his first response to the thought of losing his friend was to pull away. Avoid the pain, but the trade off would have been the loss of the short time left with his friend.
After Jack died, we sat against each other in the house we had visited often in that year, drawing on each others strength. Remembering the trip to Vegas in the spring, the many games of pool played at the nearby pub, introducing him to our new born son, the time spent taking him to that place in his mind where there is no pain, just memories of life. We wrapped ourselves in our own thoughts of loss and what we will miss, the weight of Jacks life heavy without him to carry it.
When his wife came into the room with his pool case, the one he carried all the time, that he’d owned for the fifteen years I’d known him, made of soft beige leather with tiny Indian beading near the top; - it was like Jack had just stepped into the room. For just one brief elating moment he was there with us. It was just seconds. The weight lifted, hovered above us, and then more gently covered us again, like a fresh sheet on the bed.
His cue and case were buried with him the next day, placed in the casket with his empty body. We already had what we could keep of Jack.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
My Moon
Tell me to go jump in a lake somewhere off Iceland. I’ m not the beat around the bush kind of person. Just the facts. Do you hear me? You’re the anchor that gives me heading; keeping my mind in this world of deeper understanding. Giving perspective to the images that float at the edge of my mind, turning them into something other than ghosts to be shoved down; into stories. Stories that can end, change, be different, not me.
Where are you? Do I need you? Do I want you? Want what I can’t have. Have what I can’t have.
You don’t want depth. Light meaningless interaction that never gets messy. I understand so very very much. Calm, ordinary, untroubled existence, a placid sea, or a clear sky. To bad the world is so bumpy, a geode of people and places that goes on forever in endless laps. So the world is messy and so the mind is the world within. Just as messy with its wounded pieces clinging to the edges looking for someone to hang on to. Wanting to trust enough to let go, knowing the empty space is so deep and so hard to climb out of.
Hanging on and pushing away are so close.
Standing at the edge the water is black, a tremor ripples the memories. The shore slips toward the frigid glass shattering calm. Descending into numb thoughts, cold fog clings to the edge, wounded pieces looking for someone to hang on to, waiting to let go, knowing the depth. Smooth walls of water pull into the black depths, movement, life below the surface, surviving unknown, silent, surface eddies from far beneath. Panic, thrashing, searching,
Where are you? Do I need you? Do I want you? Want what I can’t have. Have what I can’t have.
The sea holds tight what it wants, weight crushing pressure squeeze, collapses the last bit, orbs of life showing the way. Eyes follow. Stars float with the waves, the moon reaches out to touch the surface smooth again, spreading his palm flat, calming the waves. Floating on the surface listening to the deep, reaching for the moon, a drop falls a slow decent past closed eyes kissing the moons radiant face, Tears fall, wind whispers
Where are you? Do I need you? Do I want you? Want what I can’t have. Have what I can’t have.
You don’t want depth. Light meaningless interaction that never gets messy. I understand so very very much. Calm, ordinary, untroubled existence, a placid sea, or a clear sky. To bad the world is so bumpy, a geode of people and places that goes on forever in endless laps. So the world is messy and so the mind is the world within. Just as messy with its wounded pieces clinging to the edges looking for someone to hang on to. Wanting to trust enough to let go, knowing the empty space is so deep and so hard to climb out of.
Hanging on and pushing away are so close.
Standing at the edge the water is black, a tremor ripples the memories. The shore slips toward the frigid glass shattering calm. Descending into numb thoughts, cold fog clings to the edge, wounded pieces looking for someone to hang on to, waiting to let go, knowing the depth. Smooth walls of water pull into the black depths, movement, life below the surface, surviving unknown, silent, surface eddies from far beneath. Panic, thrashing, searching,
Where are you? Do I need you? Do I want you? Want what I can’t have. Have what I can’t have.
The sea holds tight what it wants, weight crushing pressure squeeze, collapses the last bit, orbs of life showing the way. Eyes follow. Stars float with the waves, the moon reaches out to touch the surface smooth again, spreading his palm flat, calming the waves. Floating on the surface listening to the deep, reaching for the moon, a drop falls a slow decent past closed eyes kissing the moons radiant face, Tears fall, wind whispers
Friday, July 20, 2007
Wicked Cook
My mother fancied herself as a good cook. Her specialty was goulash; all the leftover’s from the frig added to the same pot, seasoned with apathy and poverty, heated to a temperature that was certain to kill off any bacteria that may have started to multiply, served in a heaping pile in bowls or on plates, depending on what was clean, while her and dad ate fluffy white rice with their steaks and canned peas; mothers favorite that turned to mush in my mouth.
Dreaming of government cheese,
large ample hunks of salty fulfillment
eaten with bread and milk
while running up mountains with Hiedi
to golden green meadows,
delicate and colorful wild flowers brushing through my fingers,
scattering micro insects
threshing through waist high grasses,
surrounded by hillside after hillside and endless blue sky,
rocky outcrops, high waist dresses, goats for company
and the breeze for a best friend.
We lived in a complex once designed for family living. Fresh idea when built fifty years before my life but run down with neglect and poverty living for me. All the units faced a large central yard with four massive trees, eons old, that reached past the roof tops and kept the ground level apartments and the yard cool. Those trees were an oasis in the Mojave Desert; step outside the shade of the yard and, golden velvet hills rolled on forever ringing the flat hot desert of sage brush and jackrabbits. Depending on the time of year the wind would turn us into a ghost town of tumble weeds and blowing sand storms that hazed out the sun. In the spring, the only time anything felt new, there was this small yellow flower that grew close to the ground. It had the most intoxicating fragrance I’d ever smelled or since. Like perfume. I’d pick fists full to take home to my mothers allergies and complaints of “are you trying to kill me?” to have them thrown out.
The sun turned my skin dark brown and my black hair into a helmet of fire.
The neighbors next door had two daughters, my playmates. I used to sit in their mothers kitchen and watch. It was a small kitchen with a small four chair table pushed up to the wall so only three could sit. The stove was always hot even in this thousand degree desert heat, pots of rice and beans cooked all day, ready for any hunger that might come home. The back door was always open begging for a breeze, glowing daylight. Never any fat lazy flies hovering around, her pots were always covered and the dishes clean and in cupboards waiting for eaters. She didn’t talk much just the musical sounds of her voice telling her girls things I didn’t understand, her soft gentle directions and the girls’ compliant responses. She combed oil into their hair, first coating her hands and smoothing them through then combing sleek shining lengths down there backs, and braiding them into ropes of perfect. Those same hands made tortillas all day long every day. Fresh and soft, she’d feed them to me with beans I watched her cook, poured whole from one boiling pot into the hot sizzle of oil in the black frying pan that always sat on the stove after a good wipe. When the men came home they would pat the girls on the tops of gleaming heads turned up with smiles and arms ready for hugs. The table pulled out from the wall surrounded by men laughing loud and eating the menudo, beans and rice with those fresh tortillas she had cooked all day. They all were like mirrors of me, Alice and wonderland mirrors, I could only watch. Before dark, I would run home, to a box of mac and cheese and a can of peas, never asked where I’d been.
Dreaming of government cheese,
large ample hunks of salty fulfillment
eaten with bread and milk
while running up mountains with Hiedi
to golden green meadows,
delicate and colorful wild flowers brushing through my fingers,
scattering micro insects
threshing through waist high grasses,
surrounded by hillside after hillside and endless blue sky,
rocky outcrops, high waist dresses, goats for company
and the breeze for a best friend.
We lived in a complex once designed for family living. Fresh idea when built fifty years before my life but run down with neglect and poverty living for me. All the units faced a large central yard with four massive trees, eons old, that reached past the roof tops and kept the ground level apartments and the yard cool. Those trees were an oasis in the Mojave Desert; step outside the shade of the yard and, golden velvet hills rolled on forever ringing the flat hot desert of sage brush and jackrabbits. Depending on the time of year the wind would turn us into a ghost town of tumble weeds and blowing sand storms that hazed out the sun. In the spring, the only time anything felt new, there was this small yellow flower that grew close to the ground. It had the most intoxicating fragrance I’d ever smelled or since. Like perfume. I’d pick fists full to take home to my mothers allergies and complaints of “are you trying to kill me?” to have them thrown out.
The sun turned my skin dark brown and my black hair into a helmet of fire.
The neighbors next door had two daughters, my playmates. I used to sit in their mothers kitchen and watch. It was a small kitchen with a small four chair table pushed up to the wall so only three could sit. The stove was always hot even in this thousand degree desert heat, pots of rice and beans cooked all day, ready for any hunger that might come home. The back door was always open begging for a breeze, glowing daylight. Never any fat lazy flies hovering around, her pots were always covered and the dishes clean and in cupboards waiting for eaters. She didn’t talk much just the musical sounds of her voice telling her girls things I didn’t understand, her soft gentle directions and the girls’ compliant responses. She combed oil into their hair, first coating her hands and smoothing them through then combing sleek shining lengths down there backs, and braiding them into ropes of perfect. Those same hands made tortillas all day long every day. Fresh and soft, she’d feed them to me with beans I watched her cook, poured whole from one boiling pot into the hot sizzle of oil in the black frying pan that always sat on the stove after a good wipe. When the men came home they would pat the girls on the tops of gleaming heads turned up with smiles and arms ready for hugs. The table pulled out from the wall surrounded by men laughing loud and eating the menudo, beans and rice with those fresh tortillas she had cooked all day. They all were like mirrors of me, Alice and wonderland mirrors, I could only watch. Before dark, I would run home, to a box of mac and cheese and a can of peas, never asked where I’d been.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Fishing
One distant lonely sailboat on placid waters,
heat waves flutter the sails.
star dazed eyes against the deep blue.
Constellations of thought,
mind adrift, slave to wind and water.
Faint breezy whispers - - so hard to hear,
me: It must be a bore always having to placate this silly woman.
I’m baiting you, please don’t agree.
you: I love you.
Why do you hide behind those words?
me: I love you too.
The thin line struggles in its battle
with the depths; pole bent,
smooth water barely stirred by the line.
What will break the surface; Gaping mouth
of a smooth gray bass, tender white flesh;
rainbows of trout, sweet flavor;
toss back too small?
hairy black catfish with lungs that never die,
instincts to live that walks it back to water.
Dads bucket full fills the sink.
Tip toes peer in at dark bodies
sucking air with sharp gills,
vacant black eyes staring at moms back,
hammer high, crack, crack, crack! I hate
these fucking prehistoric beasts!!
To no one.
Red gore, and still – movement,
gills and eyes, never die.
I hold sunlight in my palm,
penetrating warmth. Just air. –
Thinking of holding your hand,
reassuring warmth of flesh, presence.
Do you care?
heat waves flutter the sails.
star dazed eyes against the deep blue.
Constellations of thought,
mind adrift, slave to wind and water.
Faint breezy whispers - - so hard to hear,
me: It must be a bore always having to placate this silly woman.
I’m baiting you, please don’t agree.
you: I love you.
Why do you hide behind those words?
me: I love you too.
The thin line struggles in its battle
with the depths; pole bent,
smooth water barely stirred by the line.
What will break the surface; Gaping mouth
of a smooth gray bass, tender white flesh;
rainbows of trout, sweet flavor;
toss back too small?
hairy black catfish with lungs that never die,
instincts to live that walks it back to water.
Dads bucket full fills the sink.
Tip toes peer in at dark bodies
sucking air with sharp gills,
vacant black eyes staring at moms back,
hammer high, crack, crack, crack! I hate
these fucking prehistoric beasts!!
To no one.
Red gore, and still – movement,
gills and eyes, never die.
I hold sunlight in my palm,
penetrating warmth. Just air. –
Thinking of holding your hand,
reassuring warmth of flesh, presence.
Do you care?
The swelling of summer.
Lengthening days of bright summer heat.
Tight buds to flowers
The fullness of trees;
leaves, nuts, fruit, birds and song.
Long as the winters night,
lovers wrapped in the others
sweet warmth.
Whispers of dark wind stir bare branches,
dance moonlit shadows on the walls, winds
breathy moans of delight.
Beautiful round bellies, full blown flowers
Proud, confident, assured. Three
Each their own direction, cross
From their own corner.
Not the same lover, but the same love,
To warm their winter nights.
Tight buds to flowers
The fullness of trees;
leaves, nuts, fruit, birds and song.
Long as the winters night,
lovers wrapped in the others
sweet warmth.
Whispers of dark wind stir bare branches,
dance moonlit shadows on the walls, winds
breathy moans of delight.
Beautiful round bellies, full blown flowers
Proud, confident, assured. Three
Each their own direction, cross
From their own corner.
Not the same lover, but the same love,
To warm their winter nights.
They tell you in those birthing classes to breathe.
Relax and breathe,
deep cleansing breath,
slow in and out deep,
relax.
Focus your mind
on something pleasant,
loving and calm;
music, husband, childhood toy
you’ll pass to her.
Precious gem, child of your love,
small perfect hands
with the circles of her life
already imprinted in the tips
when she takes her first breath.
Remember
deep cleansing breath,
slow in and out deep,
relax.
Focus your mind
on something pleasant,
loving and calm;
music, husband, childhood toy
you’ll pass to her.
Precious gem, child of your love,
small perfect hands
with the circles of her life
already imprinted in the tips
when she takes her first breath.
Remember
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Two worlds, inside and out.
Bach plays background
for Shakespeare’s mid summers night and last nights movie.
He says “Ok, so you get to pick the movies more often”.
Chosen for a story of inspiration;
How one artist may have been inspired.
No guns or violence; fuel scented,
metal twisting, broken body bloody,
fiery crashes,
just a maybe story of what could have happened
in one woman’s journey within
to find her talent, her unedited self.
Those that take the journey
see it for what it is; a waking dream,
a wandering through dim rooms,
when something opens a door or window;
illumination, awakening, inspiration, a muse.
That piece is born real out of clouds.
Transformed from wisps of fleeting thoughts
so hard to hold made solid by pen, paper, paint, canvas.
Music for eyes, ears, mind;
fuel for the outside world.
I feel so dizzy,
an ache at the temples and down the jaw.
Waiting for a call or visit to define my worth at work.
Listening to Bach to relax and inspirer.
A conduit of learning ,
develop those synapses that reach
into the folds of my storehouse
to deposit more or extract some.
Reviewing algebra,
preparing for a crushing crash of calculus,
10 weeks of Hell crammed into 4.
What have I done?!
Thinking of Shakespeare,
dreaming of a mid summers night – Wanting to get lost in it.
Writing instead.
for Shakespeare’s mid summers night and last nights movie.
He says “Ok, so you get to pick the movies more often”.
Chosen for a story of inspiration;
How one artist may have been inspired.
No guns or violence; fuel scented,
metal twisting, broken body bloody,
fiery crashes,
just a maybe story of what could have happened
in one woman’s journey within
to find her talent, her unedited self.
Those that take the journey
see it for what it is; a waking dream,
a wandering through dim rooms,
when something opens a door or window;
illumination, awakening, inspiration, a muse.
That piece is born real out of clouds.
Transformed from wisps of fleeting thoughts
so hard to hold made solid by pen, paper, paint, canvas.
Music for eyes, ears, mind;
fuel for the outside world.
I feel so dizzy,
an ache at the temples and down the jaw.
Waiting for a call or visit to define my worth at work.
Listening to Bach to relax and inspirer.
A conduit of learning ,
develop those synapses that reach
into the folds of my storehouse
to deposit more or extract some.
Reviewing algebra,
preparing for a crushing crash of calculus,
10 weeks of Hell crammed into 4.
What have I done?!
Thinking of Shakespeare,
dreaming of a mid summers night – Wanting to get lost in it.
Writing instead.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Monday, July 9, 2007
Mostly Tiana.
This is the first time in days I’ve been able to stop and write. Today a friend broke up with her boyfriend, David and I talked about whether the kids are ready for squirt guns, and the big picture affects of not letting the kids watch Mr. Rogers. We took a drive that started Friday at noon and didn’t end until Saturday at 11pm. We visited family, friends, and the ocean view, dreamed of a farm of our own (the romantic type) and did what little we could for friends with so little.
About eleven years ago a little girl came into my life. She of course brought her mother with her, but for all intents she was mine. I ran a registered family childcare group; fancy way of saying I took care of kids that were not my own and the state approved. Little Tiana was just two years old. This was 1996 and my own boys were 1 and 3. Her mother was interviewing for a childcare provider and brought this lovely little angel into my life. She had beautiful brown eyes and deep brown ringlet curls down her back. That day she wore a sweet little white cotton dress with matching sandals. My own boys ran the house in diapers and nothing more.
Now the living room of my home was right next to the playroom, a converted dinning room, decorated with alphabet letters, plastic play structures for both preschool age and toddlers. Books and toys littered the room and the air was fragrant with muffins. My goal in life has always been to be kid friendly with the décor, and to this day nothing fragile is placed under 4’.
Mom and I sat on the sofa and talked. We were getting along so well that she didn’t notice Tiana had left her lap and gone off to the playroom. An ear splitting squeal stopped all conversation as panicked mother jumped to investigate. Tiana, Sam, and Thomas beamed giant smiles as they ran around the playroom like found siblings. Tiana had torn off her dress and matched the boys. Since then she has been part of the family. My four sons call her sister and we always get those quizzical looks that wonder if I had been married before.
Every summer since then she has come to stay with us usually for a month, only less with a protest, and sometimes more if I can sneak the time, and since her mothers’ marriage, we now get her older sister and younger brother. So now my house swells from 4 to 7 kids that sleep in 3 bedrooms and cram my mini van beyond legal limits, and I love it!
This family has fallen on hard times. They lost their home to a crooked mortgage broker that didn’t explain anything about the loan they signed for, and threatened them with a law suit at closing if they didn’t sign. No one was looking out for them and they didn’t call. I cry inside when I think of the suffering. A broken man unable to provide, a mother trying to keep her kids safe, and kids doing what they do best, rolling with it. They have no power and no water. That means drinking water bottles and soda, eating out of the same cans that stored the food because no water to wash anything and never being home because it isn’t home anymore, just a place to sleep.
He starts working again this week and they’ll find somewhere to live after his first paycheck. Until then, they will just squat in the home that was their dream, and wait for someone to tell them to leave. I’ll get the kids after the hay harvest, the end of July, and keep them until school starts.
What a fucked up summer!
About eleven years ago a little girl came into my life. She of course brought her mother with her, but for all intents she was mine. I ran a registered family childcare group; fancy way of saying I took care of kids that were not my own and the state approved. Little Tiana was just two years old. This was 1996 and my own boys were 1 and 3. Her mother was interviewing for a childcare provider and brought this lovely little angel into my life. She had beautiful brown eyes and deep brown ringlet curls down her back. That day she wore a sweet little white cotton dress with matching sandals. My own boys ran the house in diapers and nothing more.
Now the living room of my home was right next to the playroom, a converted dinning room, decorated with alphabet letters, plastic play structures for both preschool age and toddlers. Books and toys littered the room and the air was fragrant with muffins. My goal in life has always been to be kid friendly with the décor, and to this day nothing fragile is placed under 4’.
Mom and I sat on the sofa and talked. We were getting along so well that she didn’t notice Tiana had left her lap and gone off to the playroom. An ear splitting squeal stopped all conversation as panicked mother jumped to investigate. Tiana, Sam, and Thomas beamed giant smiles as they ran around the playroom like found siblings. Tiana had torn off her dress and matched the boys. Since then she has been part of the family. My four sons call her sister and we always get those quizzical looks that wonder if I had been married before.
Every summer since then she has come to stay with us usually for a month, only less with a protest, and sometimes more if I can sneak the time, and since her mothers’ marriage, we now get her older sister and younger brother. So now my house swells from 4 to 7 kids that sleep in 3 bedrooms and cram my mini van beyond legal limits, and I love it!
This family has fallen on hard times. They lost their home to a crooked mortgage broker that didn’t explain anything about the loan they signed for, and threatened them with a law suit at closing if they didn’t sign. No one was looking out for them and they didn’t call. I cry inside when I think of the suffering. A broken man unable to provide, a mother trying to keep her kids safe, and kids doing what they do best, rolling with it. They have no power and no water. That means drinking water bottles and soda, eating out of the same cans that stored the food because no water to wash anything and never being home because it isn’t home anymore, just a place to sleep.
He starts working again this week and they’ll find somewhere to live after his first paycheck. Until then, they will just squat in the home that was their dream, and wait for someone to tell them to leave. I’ll get the kids after the hay harvest, the end of July, and keep them until school starts.
What a fucked up summer!
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Could I?
Sometimes,
I just want to write down the eroticisms
that I feel.
Tame them to paper, bound by that white sheet.
Out of me.
If we meet on the street,
Could I hug you,
feel your arms surround
me, the brief press of
exhilarating warmth?
In France a kiss
to each cheek is very ordinary.
Could I kiss you,
leisurely; one for each lip?
In business, a hand
shake seals the deal.
Could I trace the lines of your hand,
breathe in your palm,
let your fingers trace down my neck?
When children tell each other secrets,
they hold their heads close and whisper.
Could I feel the tickle
of your whiskers against
my cheek and whisper my secrets
soft breath in your ear?
A friends’ comforting arm
feels reassuring across the shoulders.
Could I run my hands
along your shoulders,
feel the tightening tautness and
rest there?
Flowers have beauty
but we always lean
in to take in their fragrance.
Could I lean in, head to chest,
take in your scent and
dream?
When I walk through a garden I
close my eyes and feel
the leaves and flowers soft
sensuous textures.
Could I close my eyes and explore?
I just want to write down the eroticisms
that I feel.
Tame them to paper, bound by that white sheet.
Out of me.
If we meet on the street,
Could I hug you,
feel your arms surround
me, the brief press of
exhilarating warmth?
In France a kiss
to each cheek is very ordinary.
Could I kiss you,
leisurely; one for each lip?
In business, a hand
shake seals the deal.
Could I trace the lines of your hand,
breathe in your palm,
let your fingers trace down my neck?
When children tell each other secrets,
they hold their heads close and whisper.
Could I feel the tickle
of your whiskers against
my cheek and whisper my secrets
soft breath in your ear?
A friends’ comforting arm
feels reassuring across the shoulders.
Could I run my hands
along your shoulders,
feel the tightening tautness and
rest there?
Flowers have beauty
but we always lean
in to take in their fragrance.
Could I lean in, head to chest,
take in your scent and
dream?
When I walk through a garden I
close my eyes and feel
the leaves and flowers soft
sensuous textures.
Could I close my eyes and explore?
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