Tuesday, November 8, 2011

sketchbook: groggy brain muffled in thistle

Groggy brain muffled in the thistle of the common cold. This year’s theme fogs up the wires, staves off the snot for the crash and burn course of laryngitis. I’m not there yet. It’s the weather report from folks around me. In the game of tag you’re it, I’ve been dodging this thing for weeks, watching my comrades go down one by one. My heads in a vice so I think I got tapped. I stagger back and forth in the day, consciously wondered if I should be in the public scene; today’s theme was thrift store shopping with a friend. Irony, I feel so zapped all the clutter fell away and I found 5 sweaters that really work for me. This would not have happened if I felt well. In my home now, the day settled into night moments ago, and I find my head went to bed before the rest of me did, except for this little piece of me that wants to spread the word about my groggity.

to be continued…

Thursday, September 15, 2011

lo que sucede, la vida sucede.

more foreclosures. more unemployed. trying to find the number of people on food stamps. we are limp against our own constitution that began 'all men are created equal' as long as they owned property and white. to me its an exciting time, where true equality can finally present itself. we americans are about to be given the opportunity to redefine everything and take equality out of the hands of the myopic and greedy. too bad those traits reside in every avenue of our populous. and we still desire their love.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

ramble on two lovers i know

Seasons change into autumnal gray smudged across the sky. Time spits sand in this hour glass and I temper patience against the backdrop of the wait-and-see game. I find myself etching my parents’ faces into my brain matter, never certain when the last time I can study their forms. We add my father’s heart problems to my mother’s cancer and this daughter is stunned by how human nature shakes in the uncertainty. I have no control over these days, I am simply a witness to my parents own journey. I feel no sense of injustice by G-d, though I find my words curl into prayers for more time for them, for us, for the grace of a good life. I am not ready to add their memory to the blue sky with my grandmother. Then I remind myself, we are not there yet, even if time has a way of fading the skin into wrinkles of memory aging the body. Chemo is a rough game on the body. It’s a shitty way to bargain for more time with life. It burns the body for the sake of salvation. My father’s heart is connected to my mother. I fear if his stress doesn’t decrease, he’ll not make it through these times, but how do you ask his heart to beat any different? I worry he will die of a broken heart if she dies and I am not ready for Romeo and Juliet to head out to their constellation in the sky.

I knew my parents in their 20s. I grew up in their youth. I came along 5 ½ years after they met each other. It’s weird to look at them this way. They definitely grew up while raising us kids – two lovers not only negotiating each other, but three kids who definitely demanded their time. That’s the nature of being parents. I remember their love. There is sacredness in love for me because of them. I’m not saying they were perfect. I’ll get into the other part of this story later. The two of them did have something between them that is so rare in this world. Love growing in two, shared together. They choose honesty and communication. Most people I know did not have parents who remained lovers their entire career as partners. Thirty-nine years of being lover and friends and still counting. There is a vulnerability there that forms a gem so rare, I dare say I am afraid when they go, I’ll know no one who has achieved such a grace. They taught me love is a verb with specific actions that quantify it. I have yet to find someone who understands this math. Too many people play mind games with love and wind up shitting on the concept all together, but I’ll get into that part of this story another time.

My parents were never the clichĂ© of submissive wife and player husband fucking mistresses or shit talking to their friends about the other. They had periods of drought between passion rekindled, as if they were able to keep the embers hot buried under the ashy layers of living and knowing each other for so long. They never assumed they knew everything about each other or that love was safest in the stagnant routine. Or maybe this daughter on the outside idealizes their love. I am impressed though that even today, they tell me how much they love each other. They speak of sacrifice in marriage as a byproduct of gaining something greater. I’m impressed by them.

Today, I am thinking on my parents and their love sending prayer to that ancestral sky to guide them safely. This whole cancer thing is rough. I watch two lover and friends grow weary from the experience. They are my parents which compound the feelings in it all. I know I keep joy alive, keep living life like a celebration, and avoid making G-d accountable as if that ever worked. It’s weird though to feel like an adult and a child all at the same time. Family has a way of regressing the soul and I’d give anything to transport back to four-years-old being held strong in my father’s arm late one night, feeling absolutely held and safe while my mother enters the living room saying to my father, “Chuck, you can’t watch Jaws! What if she gets nightmares?” I dreamt that night of sharks playing like dolphins commanded to do so by my Mother.

Friday, August 12, 2011

Tear Drop Flesh Holding Love Beating

I realized when my Mother calls, I hold my left breast. It’s automatic. My fingers slip into the caress of warm arm pit while palm rests on the curve of flesh right above my areola and I give a subtle squeeze. I realized it a few days ago while sitting outside lingering in the sunlight passing by when the phone rang and I answered and then began to instantly hold myself. Then yesterday I called her and did it again – fingers searching for harbor above my own heart beat while we chatted. Her left breast was removed due to “the cancer” as we have come to talk about it, joking about how she may have gotten “the cancer”, but she has never gotten “the diabetes”.

I smile at this automaton action of daughter holding her own breast. At first, I thought maybe me holding my left breast was me protecting myself. Those studies from researchers “fighting the cause” to stop this disease, tells us that it’s genetic and now I am at a higher risk when just in January I was a low risk. My statistics changed when hers did. My mother also points it out, encouraging her daughter to demand mammograms now from the doctor. She wants to protect me not from “the cancer” but from the chemo, radiation, and the body being abused for the sake of salvation, if not caught on time. Ironically, hers was caught on time, having had annual mammograms since 38 years old due to fibrous cells in her breast. From one year to the next she had nothing to then something and the doctors quickly biopsy the tiny mass. Defined malignant they scheduled the surgery and within four weeks from biopsy to surgery the mass exponentially grew. They had to remove the entire breast and lymph nodes since sentinel cells were found their too. Invasive is what they call it.

I do not live in the same town as my mother. I’m a bird who left the nest and flew away to find my own journey far from familial identity. I’ve spent my time manifesting my own destiny away from my small home town. It’s the same old story of little bird who couldn’t sing for being too different, so she went in search of a new flock that dug her tunes produced. Chirp chirp. As flight goes, no matter how far you go, until you Dorothy up and know the heart first grew in the backyard of your own history, you’re never really free to fly unfettered. The cancer has been removed and the chemo has scorched her body and daughter bird has been called to come home.

I won’t get into the details of this story home, that’s for later. For the sake of this part of the journey I will say that distance is hard when I want to be there for her. I wish I could make her shakes of wheatgrass to help the body through the bruising of treatment, rub lineament on the blistering soles of her feet; shop for beautiful silk kerchiefs to adorn her head (her preference). I wish she’d let me too, but as these stories go sometimes there are bruises that form in the umbilical chord passed from daughter to daughter to daughter until an ulcer grows and even though the chord has been cut, it leaves Momma and baby egg at an impasse to understand each others motivations, and my Mother and I still struggle to be safe in each others spaces – which brings me back to the epiphany of my story. Though this body of mine is my own story, when she calls I think I find myself holding my own breast as an act of holding her. She gave me my heart beat buried under the tear drop shaped flesh curving my precipice, our histories tethered in love beats. This is me holding her, to the best of my abilities when she calls, and I feel empowered in love for the unconscious action.

Monday, August 8, 2011

flipping the script

Late night run to wear out the body, so the mind can snuggle into sleep.
 Now I am too tired to write.
Lets do this in reverse tomorrow.

Monday, August 1, 2011

this place i know

Monday afternoon. Friends hurry away to Festival. Random texts pop up with goodbye kisses and promises to think of me on the land. I like this. I wish I could be up North this week. I feel like I’ve taken the low road while a sliver in my community took the high road. We’ll see where we’re at in the end. Big smirk, I do appreciate Michigan. Festival. Pick a word depending on locale.

I am at my keyboard, sipping coffee and slipping on my day. This GoGo is stuttering to a start today. I find myself lingering in contemplation rolling over my eyes in waves. Blinking back understanding; sometimes gasping for clarity, only to remember to keep flowing, keep breathing. I prepared myself to be away this week, getting lost in wooded reveries and fairy wonder in this movable community that centers together once a year in a great powwow. I prepared to be listening to music on three stages, fluttering my wings in greetings, maybe valley ball, to prose spun with eager lips on the café stage. Instead I am landlocked into a week in Capitol Mit, wings still buzzing for some distraction on my page.

Bummed out. I adjust my shoulder blades. Festival would have been a nice diversion while trying to place words on my life these days. My mother has the big C, though she carries it like a horseshoe anchored around the nape of her neck, a dame ready to accept her dance card in life.This case of the Cancer is rather serious at the moment. A tempered dance between the ailing in treatment and the prognoses called life. If the Cancer don’t kill you, the treatment could. Everyone has an opinion of hope and glory. I remind myself this isn’t my story, but my Mother’s, and well this is where I have some trouble because she and I never were good at the choreography between mom and daughter.

I’d rather tap out my feelings on a random sprite ready to let me read her tattoos with my fingers, or sketch a lazy day in my hammock while music rolls over my skin then think about my Mother dying or rather living through the body wearing out. There I said it. I think my mother is a beautiful woman. Her story which bore into the cellular memory in my history deserves a place in the sun. Our bond a phenomenon too common and I often wished would be undone could easily be re-spun with festi fun. What a way to honor her, daughter liberating the sun through her lens. Next year, I’ll dance for her at Fest. This year my friends are taking her name to the land and me too. I am left refocusing my energy on what feels like an impossible task. I could have used the energy on the land. In case it’s not noticed, this me is being pouty today.

I need to go home. I need to prep my head to go there. The whole world will tell me how to do this. Ah, but this place I know, this place where my heart first grew isn’t really ready to journey home. I don’t believe she ever will want to. When the big C caws though, its best to know this daughter is being called home. Ready or not. I have to admit, there is little morbidity in this thought. If my mother gave me the grace of something, it’s accepting living regardless of the circumstance. I’m simply not fond of the circumference of daughter to mother. I’m not a very good one and yet I know I am the best daughter a mother could ever have. I wish I could be better. I wish I was heading up North, getting dusty on the line and letting the energy of women unfold.  There I could find my story, understand her story, and get past this dreaded impasse where daughter wants to come home and walk with mother on her journey yet knows I usually feel swallowed up and spent. Grace tells me this is where the heart got caught up and knows it is time for her to go home and grow. Tomorrow though, today I just want to keep thinking of the land.

Monday, July 18, 2011

and now off to a meeting in this funk.

The day harbors somewhere in the subconscious, I'm worn under heat, eyes smolder with heavy beads of swizzled funk foggy up the brain cells. Its too hot to care. My mind exits 20 minutes after rising, never really coming too in the shower, it decides to head down some road where the story goes and takes me there. Task one, go let out a friend's dog, play with him - this toothy big eared pup not grown into his own frame yet. I have walked the desert by the time I arrive at the pup's home. The pirate in me appreciates the islands of shade breaking the temperature to tolerable archipelago of cool treasures on the way. Dog goes out, I drink a gallon of water, wash my face in the sink trying to revive the dying brain cells. Give dog more water. Sit in shade while dog does his business. We both agreed it was too hot to romp around in the yard, I wait at the table until he flops his way onto the patio and plops next to me in our shade. We play lazy games of paws. He's directing my hand to his mouth. Its a game of I've got you're tongue mixed with I have your whole hand in my mouth. Then we just stop, its too hot. My friend calls to check up on pup and offers her shower and futon for me to nap after I explain how lethargic we both are. I'm hesitant, instead electing to read a couple of chapters while the dog naps, but then rain drops stain my eyelids like tears and I decide the circumstances were perfect to nap anyway. 2 hours later, I have vague memories of the first few minutes of my nap when napping feels the best. The body going into lift off with each deepening breath. Then pow I am at the end already with no dream just the internal me still trying to escape to somewhere. Air conditioning feels wonderful and yet I feel trapped all at the same time. I feel like I am in a refreshing box, crisp and cool against the skin yet a closed up box all the same, so I let the pup out one more time and head onto my day. The heat tags along. My brain, still not sure we want to count this an official day, lollygagging along next to me insists tomorrow it will come to and do what we need to do to move on. Its too hot to care today.

Friday, July 8, 2011

Golden Ratio

All right you straggly followers, I am coming back to this page. Its time I began singing again anyway. There ain't nothing special about here, just a writer with words born from my world. It doesn't have bling or any resemblance to the full frontal of the American Dream, its simply one gyrl living life exactly as she is - which is the most beautiful thing I can do.

Thanks for the support and those random emails asking me where the hell I went.


Love, gg

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Five More Minutes

She lingered in bed letting the blankets gobble up her conscious thoughts that tried to escape into the growing daylight.  Fresh sprigs of memory punched holes through the darken cocoon warmly wrapped around the resisting, she didn’t want to remember she had to go to work or that she needed to call her Mother. Her body wanted to remain prostrate in the soft caresses of cotton sheltering her obligatory rise, postulating flight with wingless arms cutting the horizon in ribbons as she floated high.  The canopy tickled her feet at first until she learned to flex her toes en pointe, dancing on the tips of branches bouncing her weightless body higher until she could breathe in the clouds and exhale the smoky rings allowing her to fly on her back. There was something about playing chicken with the unflinching ground spinning like a bullet’s head inches before impact only to thrust her arms upward as if she was really diving into the deep blue sky and felt the self splash into the currents of air. This seemed more possible than the mundane trajectory of her day – thimble fingers teaching others how to sow feathers on the shoulder blades.  She clung to swaddling dreams, a renegade of reality, promising in five more minutes she might give something to the waking day.