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no time to scan tuesday may 17th

monday's placeholder

may 16th

stroking out in the dark

doubling up on the double dare as per my rest o' the weekend plan ... a piece of writing overlaid on a piece of collage, moving toward the continued work on the rest of my stroke/survival story. this poem was written also the summer of my stroke recovery after many attempts at biking to the lake and swimming at sunset, and trying to feel like myself again. part of the reason that i'd swim at sunset was that i'd bike there after working, have to lay in the sun (vitamin D) and rest, would swim till the sun dipped into the lake, then bike home and sleep for 8 solid hours under the electric blanket on high.

i was severely anemic that summer, but didn't know it. i quit biking after the 4th of july. beyond that point, i'd lay in the sun in the back yard after work every day, which i'm sure helped, and the fact that i wasn't exercising any longer didn't hurt either since i couldn't maintain my weight any longer. i was too pooped to do anything else.

i wrote this poem late summer/early fall after i FINALLY went to my family doctor and asked for help (not my strong point), admitted i no longer felt like myself inside or out. this was after a dizzy spell or two, and this is when i found out about the anemia and some other things a person finds out about the aftermath of a stroke, followup and recovery even if they think they're one of the "lucky ones" who made it through without a hitch.

THE WRITING AND THE ART (and this puts me well into this double-dare writing and art-farting every day process!):

the poem also in text since this is an 8 x 10 collage but may not be read-able in this format on scan over:

stroking out in the dark

because of you
i augmented my
lifestyle to half light
and then no light at all
afraid to make a move
or you would find me again,
stop me, dead in my tracks,
paralyzing my movements,
wickedly twisting my words.

i am living,
and yet not,
along the post-traumatic
jaded, off-avenue side streets,
afraid of my own shadow
petrified i'll be chosen
for a repeat performance,
a victim of the statistics,
unable to say my name.

in defiance to you
i fight to regain strength
the ability to face sunlight
with an upturned face,
running as the day streams,
screaming through the locks,
unleashing every dawn,
having rested in the dark,
no more night swimming.

-late summer/early fall '02

blame it on depeche mode

I fully intend to return to the "Face of Stroke" story and tell the flipside of what I, the survivor, of my story looks like, but it will have to be later in this writing process since building the pre- story took time, and I don’t really have time this weekend to build stories.

I was in fact working on my collage tonight, hurriedly, while Mark was getting his popcorn ready for our Netflix launch. Ironically I was working on much the same theme. Another moleskin (another Mark, my first husband, another time, and another bowl of popcorn). I was working on using a piece of writing and some images (all in one) to save time on the dare (writing and art smoooshed together to save time this weekend and yet still meet the double dare).

The moleskin above is from 1996. The ribbon is tied tight because 1996 was the last year of my second marriage. Marriages are sacred whether they continue or whether they end. What's between those pages, and what didn’t make the cut since pages are small (and time is tight in a marriage), is not for public consumption.

This marriage ended on a summer day at the ten-year point, though we struggled during a long separation and divorce process for another three years, the marriage officially ending, ironically, one day prior to our 13th anniversary.

The marriage ending, public record, yes, the rest no one’s business, and I intend to keep it that way. I will say this, and this is also public record, I'm considered the one who ENDED THE MARRIAGE because alone in counseling (he, a state away), I (on the advice of my heart and my therapist) had to cut bait. A three-year separation is a long time to not have made any progress, emotionally, financially or otherwise. I will also say, these things are never easy, the tying of the ribbon tourniquet, right before they cut off the limb. The phantom pains never go away.

That being said, I’m sure I’ve lived it out, learned it out and written about it in many other ways, including the above poem, which I wrote the summer of ’97, the first summer I ever spent without my three children in the house. Unreal, surreal in all regards. Alice (4)toddler) was in Minneapolis with her father. Carol and Rebekah (14 &13) were old enough at this point, finally, to take a plane ride to Wyoming to visit their dad and his family instead of his long trips here to see him for only a few hours, or a day at a time.

I never entered into either marriage or either stint of parenthood thinking, “Woo-hoo, I hope some day I’ll get a break and a whole summer to myself, so it was an odd bit of time for me,” I have to say. I never planned any of this … such is life.

This poem came about when I realized partway through the summer that there were no dishes in the rack, only glasses, and that I wasn’t using any silverware. I was eating mostly raw vegetables after biking late at night, or the occasional veggie sub, wine and popcorn. Free time, after work was endless, whether this was the beginning or the end of a day, depending on my work schedule.

I didn’t, understand what “free time” was, or how one used it, or what would happen if you got caught having it. I questioned everything I did as if the “what do you do when you are alone, and is this weird?” police were watching me. Like, can a person get arrested if they have wine and popcorn for dinner three nights in a row? What if I sleep in my clothes, on the couch, and wear the same clothes tomorrow, go biking and don’t shower? Who will find out?

As summer progressed, I realized the answer was, no one finds out. My thoughts on that? This is insane? Or was it?!?! I drew the insane line in the sand every morning, and then every morning I crossed it to see what would happen. This included adopting two stray kittens, by summer’s end (to suprise the girls), and a whole lot of other stuff that’s probably in another moleskin with super tight ribbon around it and a padlock, and a tag that says SUPER-SONIC GROWTH.

You live you learn.

By Accident or by Some Strange Anne Design

In the photos above, one of my favorite moleskins, crammed to full, beyond full to bursting. I grabbed it off the shelf today on a trip downstairs to my office, thinking I'll use it in the coming weeks, in therapy, for the writing prompts and for various other reasons, maybe to squash that first summer fly or to steady an unstable table leg. You just never know.

I grabbed it today, however, to work on a piece that grew from yesterday's piece, which maybe will mutate further into tomorrow's piece, which was the hope of all this 30 days of writing and artwork crapola. So it appears to be working, this habitual bitching and moaning on paper, and then the art stuff and such.

A piece about my stroke and the "before" me versus the "after" me came about yesterday. Because I've been struggling with my version of what I call a migraine and some other head-related head case things this week, it seemed like it might be fairly therapeutic to continue in that vein. It’s also National Stroke Awareness Month, so why not jump on board with that too, right?

The website www.stroke.org has a “Faces of Stroke” campaign going on right now, where stroke victims of all faces and places, shapes, sizes and scenarios tell their stories after pasting up their pictures. It’s a humbling feed. No two stories are alike, but if you read enough of the stories you see the common thread.

You read too many of the stories and it takes you a whole other direction and you might get angry and not want to be part of the group, so you have to be careful. You have to take it, yourself, your own story, a shot glass, and ... just kidding ... okay, maybe I'm not kidding. It's hard facing and telling your own stories sometimes. Some says you can own it, walk it, talk it, be empowered, want to empower others, and the next day you don't want to deal with it, AT ALL, are sick to death that it lives inside of you.

For my part, in case you haven’t already noticed, when it comes to any of my parts, I use sarcasm and some sugar-coating when I tell a story. Same goes for my stroke, but today, I’m adding a picture and I'm trying to keep it serious. This is the Face of [my] Stroke, age just turned 40, no real good reason for it, healthy, not overweight, no high blood pressure, no high cholesterol, no risk factors other than possibly heredity, history of “very iffy headaches and migraine activity since early teens,” head injuries x several, no clotting disorders, heart problems, mostly just luck of the bloody head draw:
(This picture is, in fact, still on our fridge in a magnetic frame, a constant reminder of my/our good luck. It's me and baby Ruth, taken the day I returned home from the hospital. )

I’ve been trying for YEARS to make sense of my own story and my own head (emotionally and physically) since then. I’ve also spent many years DENYING my own story and my own head (emotionally and physically) since then, as the journal entry below proves.

After my stroke, I waited a solid month and then opened my moleskin (a page prior to the one shown below) and attempted (and failed!!!!) to chronologically rebuild the five days of the stroke activities (the day of, the flight-for-life to the hospital, the time in the ICU, on the ward, etc. and my eventual and lucky-duck trip back home to my family, basically unscathed and yet changed forever.)

Up until then, I had just come home, embraced the kids, went right back to work and acted like it was no big deal. I had in fact not even told the people I was working for that I had had a stroke. Since I worked from home that part was easy. Who knew?!?!? Who needed to know?!?!? It was nobody's business! The only people that really knew were my family, my very immediate family, which meant the girls and very few others and a few close friends (very few).

I kept telling everyone that, yes, I was lucky because I had no “residuals,” because I didn’t drag a leg, have a weak arm, drool or require help breathing, swallowing or chewing my food. To the casual onlooker, I was perfectly, dandily fine except for the easy-bruising from the precautionary blood thinners, my incredible-no-matter-the-edibles Twiggy-like weight loss, etc. etc. I was alive and well and lived to tell the sarcastic humorous stories about how I had almost died and orphaned my children.

This is what the Face of Stroke looked like for me by the end of the summer, however:

It had taken its toll. I was melting down and I was melting away. I was not myself. I was literally disappearing, mentally and physically. At 5 feet, 11 inches tall, I weighed ... well, that's something the girls and I don't talk about. It was a scary summer for all of us.

I came home perfectly well, or so we thought, saved, a miracle, but I was not their regular mother. I hadn't come back whole. That transition for me has taken a lot of work, and it's something I still feel a lot of shame, anger and sadness about. I feel like they got robbed, especially Ali since she's the youngest. I feel like she had a different Mom than Carol and Bekah (and Sara) had. Sometimes, I wish they all could have their old mother back the way she was instead of the rebuilt, goofed-ditzed version, the one I have to wake up every morning and wind up like a toy whose gears are still, at best, still a wee bit "off."

My poetry that summer (below) sounds suicidal at best, but it's more the deep sadness over the loss of certain parts of myself that used to be there, but had taken on new form. Every physical and mental thing I loved to do seemed to be taken away from me all at once and sent back with reversed instructions. I was lost in wrappings and trappings and trip wires.

Physically, things like biking, hiking and swimming had to end because of the insane weight loss. Until that was figured out, I had to remain still. I was even losing weight in my sleep. Not biking, that loss, that release, so many things, it got to be a lot and not enough all at once. Imagine a 40-year-old woman shivering under an electric blanket in August, waking up with her stomach growling. I felt like my head and heart were eating me alive.

There was no real rest, and once awake I was easily overwhelmed, depressed or manic, though in stroke vocab they have other words for it, which I might use tomorrow in my happy ending/new beginning story. I, and my stroke face have come quite a long way :)

THE POEMS FROM THAT SUMMER:

prognosis guarded
morning broken
kicked bird
crest-fallen
visibly shaken
vultures watching
death's dance
near complete

Already Drowned
I cry, in want, longing,
craving the freedom,
sans clothes, bare skin,
to run wild the dunes,
diving deep the wake,
but pointless effort,
lying, as I do, forever,
beneath sand and time,
beyond ten feet under,
past all seeing levels,
sub the pebbled flooring,
rocked at very bottom,
far below the water deep,
back stroke no match,
for Earth's thick core,
mottled, impenetrable,
now my strong hold,
tearing hair, loose my scalp,
busting tooth, tying tongue,
breaking bone, splintering nail;
can't swim for the life of me,
no longer is freedom an option ...
... already drowned.

This Side of Thin
Angry bones,
snarled and ropey,
unraveling from the inside-out.

Sharp angles,
puncturing the skin,
skeletal dust motes take flight.

... forgot milk.

TODAY'S COLLAGE PIECE/FIVE OF THIRTY:

Walking for Cover (and really, there are no places to hide from your true self ... fancy that!)

OF NOTE: POST FOR May 12-2011 when Blogger was down for Maintenance. Still part of my 30 days/30 pieces of Writing and Artwork). I have not started Kiteley's book, The 3 A.M. Epiphany as of yet, but I also have not pitched it off my back deck into the woods. The book is rather intensive, and not something that I can just open up and randomly choose a prompt, so I intend to start it page one and work it through, perhaps the start of next week, or third week into this.


In it's stead, I found an interesting scrap of writing from 2001, way beginning of December, just two months after 9/11 and very less than six months before my stroke. It's ironic because it also speaks about "the manuscript," and the piece also has a bit of a different "voice" that I have now, something I struggle with now because since the stroke I've always felt that there's a "before" and "after" me. It's something I've only just begun to talk about in my therapy sessions, and it's something I'm quite possibly still very angry about. And, yet, when I read this piece I still heard little snippets of the "me" that I think is still "there."

The other fun part is that "all my girls" are featured in the piece, and Carol was the only one who was adult and moved out of the house at the time, and Ruth was a newborn. Rebekah and Sara were still living at home. Alice was in elementary school. If one also reads very delicately between the lines there is also the essence of a relationship I'm trying on for size but I already know it's ultimately not going to work out. So interesting to see it all captured right there. And also what's captured is my stoic, stubborn solitude-inal isolating nature of my beastliness (so busted! ... the part of "me" that has not changed one bit!).

[photo credit: also 2001- me and mrs. beasley back in the day, when nearly 40 was the new practically 8 years old at best).

THE WRITING:

Random Journaling Crapola from early Decemberish 2001 a.k.a "oh what one can find on a hard drive."

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT THE WEATHER?

.....it's fucking cold, hardly past ten degrees.
Pretty much keeps me off the walking path. No good
can come from walking when it's this cold, expanding
the lungs, for what???? to be cryo'd in the process.

I DON'T FUCKING THINK SO! Time to check out gym
membership, exercise within four walls, four different walls, anyways.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT MY WORK?

I can't seem to start the day without finishing off
the previous night's "incoming!" emergency room
trauma notes, whether I'm scheduled to work or not!

Waiting for me at the moment is a 22-year-old woman with
"right upper quadrant pain" ... a very common ailment,
sending millions to the emergency room.

Isn't "right upper quadrant pain" a heartache? Oops, wait, the
heart is leftward or more towards middle, stands
like a fist, pounds like one too.

I know, because I have one ... a heart ... and that same dull ache,
like I swallowed a bolus of food, but forgot to chew it first.

Love the ER, gotta love the ER. It's as if the
trauma notes are mine, all mine!!! and I want the stories
before anyone else gets to them. Greedy me.

My line count mounts to the ceiling. I forget some days I'm
getting paid for listening to all this fun, which
I'm in my "groove" and glad of that.

However, burnout is sure to follow, as is per the usual
in the medical crazy-ass game.

I haven't been this hard-wired into work since September 11th
when freaks bombed the world and half of our staff went
motionless in response, clinging to CNN while medical
their desks because they couldn’t see their TVs.
For my part, I worked endless-endless-endless shifts
until my eyes, ears and brain bled.

I am never in the "red" and never get the
reminder-get-off-your-ass emails from supervisors or
account managers. I couldn't take one of those.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT THE GIRLS?

Ali is still gone for a few days yet. She sounded happy
when last we chatted, slight stressed, questions about home.
Has seen some movies, but not "The Majestic," so we can
see it together when she gets home.

Carol is stressing a bit, living their place, and the
hospital (couldn't pump milk yesterday, very
frustrated) trying to thrive in Milwaukee with
James. I WILL see them tomorrow. They are celebrating
their one-year anniversary today, one year of knowing
each other (can they really “know each other”).

And what has transpired in just this one
year... meeting last year ever so briefly at Xmas,
making a connection, then running their relationship,
long distance (wyoming to Wisconsin), by phone and letter
until April of this past year, then a few dates
proper, but not until Carol turned 18 in May, then
moving in and making Baby Ruth. What was their
hurry to be so grown up so fast? Mom at 19.

Grand Baby Ruth breathes on her own, mostly, but still
sets off the alarms sometimes during feedings. I will get
action shots tomorrow as Mommy Carol is allowed to
pull that baby out of her glass bed whenever she
wishes. The nurses love the princess baby.

Bekah and Sara are just now stirring, time soon to
pack up and get the hell out of Dodge. They are
making toast and peanut butter now. I think that's
the first time anyone has used the kitchen in days.
Last night I froze the rest of the spiraled ham and
some other stuff. Will make soup later. I ate some
fritos and went to bed. The house continues to empty out.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT BOOKS?

I wrote one, a novella. This year I'll write
another, perhaps larger, will go beyond the first person and
stretch my abilities to capture life to the page and
yet allow it to live and breathe there. I'll send
the existing novella packing to whoever wants to look at
it, and force it down the throats of a few others
who think they don't. At this point, it's a game of
chance and postage.

But this afternoon I'm dusting the books I own and
putting them back to their rightly shelved manors,
to mind their manners. There was a method once to my book
madness. I am very nearly there again. The front room/library/office
echoes a bit. When Sara and Beks got home last night,
they were mad at first at the downsizing, and Sara actually
thought I had moved a wall. Maybe I did ... so to speak.

There's another book, duly written, inscribed in my
heart, the story of two people, and I will laboriously
move each chapter of it to disk this week, back it up,
steel copies here and there and everywhere, bury one
in the yard, plant a tree atop it, tape one to my
chest, etc. etc., swallow another whole, insert
another to the back of my skull, my own hard drive.
Beyond that, I don’t’ think it’s going to work.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT POETRY?

I love it to death. I haven't counted lately, maybe
my poetry now numbers beyond 200. I passed 100 a
long while back. A wicked verse is building in my head
right now ... it has the word "hymen" and "cerclage"
in it. I'm not sure yet if it will work out. We'll
see. Right now it's tight to my brain and I'm
trying to work it loose. It's virginal, stubborn, like a
Catholic girl, but I intend to rip it loose and
destroy it to the page, make it bleed.

I know, doesn't make sense, or only to me. But this
year, these words are going to take me somewhere, by
scholarship, by hook or crook, east coast conference
or southwest, mark my words ... or I am nothing but
a sinner against my true self, and that I cannot be.
My soul cries freedom, and someone out there waits to
hear from me, can help, can further my cause. I
have only to find them or want to be found in return.

NOW ... SHALL WE TALK ABOUT ME?

Who am I, I alone, wandering the planet, but not
wandering, not really, because it's too fucking cold
and that leaves me "grounded," but I'm not idle as I
work this delicious bit at the desk, and then ready
a paper trail to go build a fire, then shop
a food order keeping in mind everyone's pending trips
away from home this week. Then I'll go eat dinner
with friends and their kids with real live lasagna,
"Eat Anne EAT!, a real meal, come on!" ...
Okay, I will. "Stay and watch a movie!
Come on, what else do you have to do?"

“Okay,no I don't feel like it, well maybe, not sure ...”
but more than likely I'll go home again, home again,
this dark cold house, sooner rather than later. The
windows will have frosted in my absence and it will be
like unlocking the door to a cave, this my safe
haven.

I am here alone, and perhaps some late night
emergency room notes will keep me busy, pad the
lines/invoicing/pay further for heading into
holiday weeks, then workout, CD supreme/noise,
warm the bed, sleep on my stupid little bone-weary or
lonely?!?! head, miss something, or stubbornly miss nothing
and nobody or body, and try to understand this life
I live so farremoved, moonlight spilling into the room
and lyrics dancing madness in my head, Soma and
melatonin whisking me away to the land of spine realignment.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT TOMORROW?
What’s next.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT THE NEW YEAR? … (or not ...)



Walking for Cover

Moon glow, nearly full, brimming, spilling over, providing a warm wash this frigid, crisp night, yet mocking me, taunting, the world a double bed.

I walk alone, treading the marshlands yet another twilight hour, bent marsh grass underfoot, felled to side-lying, woven under a thick white blanket.

I feel the urge to jump, bouncing on this straw mattress, tall but small, unbundled, I fall onto the dry grass cot, under the winter sky and rest. (poetry also from dec 2001)

THE FOURTH PIECE OF ART OUT OF THIRTY:

Shoot the Moon!

Day three into the 30 days of writing/art, still determined to solidify this habit, though it was a bit of a struggle today. A migraine had started late last night and hung on with vigor throughout the day, threatening to thwart my efforts at this uphill climb towards truth versus dare me to shut up forever!

I rallied, however, surprised that any potential slips on the old Freudian rug became turn of phrase instead, or mixed themselves up with metaphors. Around and 'round it went and gradually some torn bits of paper got involved. The final collage piece, I dedicated to my daughter as it so OUT-LOUD spoke to a recent personal triumph she’s had, mind over heartfelt matters.

With some cavorting and word sorting, I was able to drag some old words from the depths of 2005 in almost the same subject matter as the art, to compare and contrast and rework for the day’s writing portion of the blog. Overall, not a bad morning’s work for a gal whose head consisted of vinegar and brown paper mulch, I have to say.

So, first the words, then the collage, followed by my plan of attack for the remaining 30 days and beyond.

THE WORDS:

… It’s like trying to kill the beast when I’m feeling so beastly, like the beast is me. I don’t know how to get rid of the “beast” and keep the “ly,” a befitting suffix for far better words like lovely, creatively, joyfully and happily ever-after-ishly.

At times, I feel like the wicked queen because I want some one else’s heart in a box, so I can have mine back, wholly sound.

Everyone should suffer and no one should suffer, but there was suffering. I’ve been pissed off since the very beginning, but that never mattered, and that still hurts, rubs my insides out. I’ve hidden that pain away, but it threatens now, an aching breaking Pandora’s box. If it ever flies open, the knives will fly everywhere. I will bleed from the inside out. Then what?!?!?

But, I can’t think of that just now. ‘Going to do laundry, drive the car, get the groceries, worry about bills and dinner, spend time with the girls, the trusting dog and purring cats, look over my freshly shampooed carpets, make another pot of coffee, look forward to/not through my upcoming work pile/deadlines, sleep again in the pink light of yet another snowfall, wake, watch the moon leave the morning sky, try again tomorrow.

Love my self through this.

THE COLLAGE: (dedicated to my daugther, Alice)


THE PLAN:
For future blogs I'll be using the following book for my writing prompt-ish portions.

The 3A.M. EPIPHANY Uncommon Writing Exercises That Transform Your Fiction By Brian Kiteley

--- I'm not sure if I'm going to do the prompts in order (there are at least 200 of them in the book), or if I'll open the book and choose one daily by random. --And there is always the chance that I'll get up tomorrow, still with a headache, feel really pressured about this 30-day double dare blog crap, throw my lap top, my glue stick and Brian Kiteley's book off the back deck into the woods and call it quits ... I mean, life does have that prognosis is so fucking guarded quality to it. However, it's my ongoing hope that I'll shoot the moon!