Winter Mourning

Winter Mourning

Future up ahead,
past in the rearview,
the surround-zero-sound
of morning mist, deafens.
I’m not sure where to go.

Driving towards the sun,
pink, chapped, sore skies,
speaking in future tongues,
searing as a headache;
I’m not sure what to do.

Heading eastward,
following lake-laden clouds,
heavy with contradiction,
pending, empty, who knows;
I’m not sure what’s next.

Inside my self,
grief has no color,
broken makes no sound,
tears take on unique shapes;
I know how I got here.

Beyond current concerns,
fog-lift will be forgiving,
head will mend soon enough,
heart will be slightly bruised;
I will get on with this.

That 70s Show

No answering machines. And no call waiting. No Caller ID. No compact disk recorders or laser discs or holography or cable television or MTV. No multiplex cinemas or word processors or laser printers or modems. No virtual reality. No grand unified theory or Frequent Flyer mileage or fuel injection systems or tubor or premenstrual syndrome or rehabilitation centers or Adult Children of Alcoholics. No codependency. No punk rock, or postpunk, or hardcore, or grunge. No hip-hop. No Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome or Human Immunodeficiency Virus or mysterious AIDS-like illnesses. No computer viruses. No cloning or genetic engineering or biospheres or full-color photocopying or desktop copying and especially no facsimile transmission. No perestroika. ....No Tiananmen Square.... … the Energy Crisis was getting underway. (from The Ice Storm by Rick Moody)

I came across this passage this week, and it really made me think. I had a lot of thinking time this week because my internet was wonky and would not stay connected for more than 10 seconds at a time … if I was lucky.

When I wasn’t thinking, and pacing, watching the modem to see if all the lights would ignite at once, I ate an entire box of Twinkies!!!!! Ten Twinkies over a 5-day period, and I don’t even like Twinkies!

So, yeah, there was stress, and I’m not very good when my wheels are spinning and there is stuff I would like to get done!

My nonexistent cable internet meant I couldn’t work, or not so much, or not to the level I usually would in a week’s time. I could only do work that could be done off-line, and then I hoped for a connection at the point where there was a deadline and I had to “send.”

I wasn’t up for struggling with any iffy wireless options, chasing around town with my laptop. I didn’t feel like sitting at a coffee shop or the campus library without all the “stuff” I needed in, around, under and throughout my desk.

I haven’t bought a “card” yet with the hope of a satellite connection on days when there is no cable internet, and since my cell dies out in my basement office space in the hilly glacial area where I live, that "card" would prove useless most times as well.

So I was in a fix, and getting kind of pissed.

I mostly sat and stewed and lived through “plugging and unplugging the modem” which is what the cable tech guys have you do for DAYS!

We replaced our modem, our wireless units and our splitters!!!! on one of the rare days where Mark was home and could run to Best Buy due to my suicide attempts.

On that same day, after all the replacements, a goddess on the cable company's tech support desk said to Mark, “Yeah, I can see where you modem connection has been falling off line repeatedly for a great length of time.”

Yeah, I know, for like months now!

[insert a choir of singing angels here!]

Then the sky opened up and she sent a cable man out in his huge cable truck, THE VERY ..NEXT.. ..DAY..!!!!!! and on the coldest day of the year, this man rooted around in our backyard, pulled up cables and gave me an elite connection.

Seems, at some point in the recent past, and how could I have missed this, three additional lines were hooked to our connection, all causing a drain.

The cable guy was all like, “The norm is two on a connection …” and for a moment I was all far more superior than the other three houses that were just “surfing the net."

So, I said to Mark, “You’ve got to do something!”

He told the guy, “Dude, her home office is a dead deal without a strong connection,” and the angels sang again, and the guy unhooked everybody else, bundling three of them together on a connection, and leaving ours/mine alone. Singular, elite, one mega-strong connect that will hold and hold and hold some more!

(Probably, Mark really said, “Dude, I am not going back in that house unless you get her a solid connection. She ate my Twinkies!!!!!!!”)

Either way, it was done. So it shall be written. So I can work again.Woot!

The clouds sucked the cable guy back up into the heavens, or back to Hwy 167 since he said he actually “lived close by.”

And I went back to work this weekend (starting Friday night) in order to make up for 4+ days of “disconnect.”

So .... all of this had me thinking of the 70s, when as noted above by Rick (fabulous!!!!) Moody, we had none of these things and feeling "disconnected" meant you couldn’t call your best friend in the next village because it was a long distance toll call, and on summer vacations you wrote letters to each other even though you only lived a 15-minute drive away!..

...Oh my aching … how far we have come!

We now have coffee makers with timers and all manner of other ...

Easier Said Than Done

Easier Said Than Done

Continue on,
at leveled or disheveled best,
but is it over the next hill,
or do I bypass the obvious
taking to the wood --
taxed lungs and chapped cheeks,
ascending meaning everything,
backing down not an option?
Or, is it better to trip and fall the bogs,
leading to the depths of a black forest,
my hands and face torn by nettles,
teeth clenched in firm resolve
even though I’d like to spit and quit.
I’m not sure which is best, or who decides.
There are no forks in the road,
Mr. Frost, and I can’t see beyond
the end of my nose, the hurt in my heart,
the silence killing my ears,
and all my good sense is lost.











"There’s a time that you can share, that you can hold hands and be on the same path…but there’s always a fork in the road…at some point…and sometimes you have to go on one part of the fork and they got to go on the other part of the fork…or just down the back part of the fork while you go forward, and they’re like…or they got a salad fork and you have one of the big dinner forks and you have longer to go and they’re like done…because that’s it…they’re stuck on a piece of food…or a dessert fork…or like one of those, you know, small little shrimp forks and crab forks and you’re trying to get out a crab…they’re like that and your over here jumping to the huge serving fork or something like that…or a ladle, you know…" gerhardt from the movie "28 Days"

Let it be Said

Let it be Said

At times,
shit happens,
rocks roll downhill,
things get stuck
between there
and other hard places,
yet I think, so much so,
the way things go,
and I grab the little joy
that keeps me.

Other times,
fuck despair,
I wish to share,
not my pain but
my desire to grab you,
full in the face,
as we fall forward,
tripping-near-miss-kissing,
while our hearts sing
and our teeth gnash!

Beauty Questions the Diver

I started out this week with the Mama & Papa’s song in my head, “Monday Monday, so good to me, Monday Monday, it was all I hoped it would be …” But by afternoon this had turned into, “Monday Monday, can't trust that day, Monday Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way. Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be!”

Both Ali and I had come down with some wicked stomach bug which started with dizziness, and nausea and ended us both in bed[s], aching and feverish, chilled and ditzy but unable to sleep. It was a lot like that old Nyquil jingle, we really wanted a “sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy/goofy head, fever, sleep better to feel better medicine,” except, we had no desire to take anything by mouth. Even an aromatherapy candle was beyond our olfactory consumption. ....Reading.... was impossible because our heads were aflame, and listening and/or watching TV was over-stimulating KILL US ..NOW..! But do you think we could sleep?!?!? No!

It felt like morning sickness times a train wreck, after which we were then dragged through a field of ice cube and stick pins, across a bed of hot coals, and then someone put the screws to all our joints, but the screws had dull ends and were being slammed in by an ogre using a brick, and the ogre was also screaming bloody murder inside our heads. And there was this little dog dancing around who wanted us to throw his toys for him. (Wait, that part was real!)

Yeah, so 24-36 hours later, we are fine.

Last night, however, I watched the movie, “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,” based on the true story of Jean Dominique-Bauby (1952-1997), past editor of Elle magazine. In 1995, Bauby suffered a massive stroke leaving him with “locked-in syndrome,” a condition where his mental faculties were completely intact, but his body was literally frozen. He communicated by blinking his eye, and in doing so “blinked out” his story. And this was with one eye, mind you, because his other eye was weakened by the stroke, and they sewed it shut!

You heard me, SEWED IT SHUT! And yet, he persevered and BLINKED OUT HIS STORY! With the help of a speech therapist, he learned to blink the usual once for “yes,” twice for “no,” but she took it a step further by creating a placard with the alphabet arranged in order of most common French usage. She would then read through the alphabet in quick order and he would blink when she landed on the letter he wanted. This is how he communicated one word, at a time, built one letter at a time, one blink at a time!

Later, he had a transcriptionist of sorts who helped him write/edit his book, which he had to gather in his head every morning prior to seeing her, then dictate to her, etc. etc. He edited in the same way, rapidly blinking where changes need be made, etc. Obviously, some words came rapidly as she was able to recognize them partially built, as in a game of Hangman, the Sunday Crosswords, or for you TV folk, “Wheel of Fortune.” Even so, this was a tedious undertaking for both.

I unfortunately fell asleep before the movie was over, but you can bet I’ll be watching it again. It certainly got me thinking about things, that’s for absolute sure.

While I’m kind of blotto and tired today, I only had a 24-36 hour bug. And even while I’ve experienced the freakishly hellish occurrence of a stroke, my residuals (which I sometimes complain about as “Can’t I just have my old brain (self) back?”) seem minor at this point, mere blips on an EEG, the teeniest of speed bumps.

The “locked in” feeling of my stroke lasted less than a day, due to a quick emergency room team, FlightForLife transport, etc. I was very lucky, to say the very least. I was out of intensive care and home within a week.

I was never “locked in” my head FOREVER!. My “lock in” was a slap on the wrists compared to what this man went through.

Being all Bednobby and Broomsticks-y, practically living on our pillow top mattress the last 24-36 hours, oh my aching … oh, my aching what?!?!?!? What’s to complain about? When I felt better, I got up and had full functioning and could microwave a cup of ramen noodles! All by myself!

Seeing a movie such as the one I mentioned was a humbling experience (and/or if you really want to dive into this scene, try the movie “The Sea Inside” about Javiar Bardem, another remarkable man trapped in his paralyzed body, and yes he also wrote a book!). Believe you/me, I’ve ordered both men’s books on Amazon, toot sweet!

Yeah, it only takes two seconds, and I can do it with all ten fingers on the keyboard instead of blinking my way through it, and/or using a stick held in my mouth!

When the book gets here, I can read it all by myself, propped up, lying down, on a treadmill with green eggs and ham, if I like, without the aid a nurse or personal care attendant! How lucky am I (how lucky are we) in this life?

After I'm done with the book (as if I'm ever truly "done" with any book!), I can alphabetize it, blinking or not, and place it among my other brain heroes on the shelf, May Sarton and Jimmy Breslin to name a few.

Or, will I place them haphazardly on the shelf among any one of the authors who may or may not have a dented brain or psyche.

Think about it. Whatever we are going through on any given day (given, as hello?!?!?!? it’s a gift!!!!), it starts in our head and leaks into our hearts, and also works on the reverse.

That’s my lesson on the circulatory system … brain-to-heart or heart-to-brain, full circle!

So, what I’m saying is, I hope everyone is well. I know all kinds of “bugs” are flying around this season, yeah the financial picture is bad and people are scared (but please don’t shoot yourself and/or your family), and some of us are too fat, and others of us supposedly are too thin, or … or maybe, on the inside, we’re all okay.

As Jean Dominique-Bauby tells us, pity parties have their place, but then you must “decide[d] to stop pitying myself. Other than my eye, two things aren't paralyzed, my imagination and my memory.”

Yeah, so I had a tummy ache. Big Whoop!

I now get to go back to work, with all ten fingers, sitting upright and feeling extremely grateful for my lot!

And I leave you with this poem. I wrote it years and years ago, before what happened to me, and prior to coming to know these stories, and a many others. It has whole new meaning to me now, which is another great part of living and being and persevering … if you kick around long enough, things begin to make sense again (that circle I was talking about ... heart-to-head, head-to-heart and back again!):

Beauty Questions the Diver

Is it true that beauty
is only skin deep?
I ask you, diving man,
how can this be so?

Poised and ready
staring down the wave
and swell of the ocean,
what lies beneath?

What's it like
to cut surface water
your body preforming
the switch of blade?

Does it seem to you
an assault at first,
your bubbling breath,
a festering wound?

In response, tell me
does all the ocean
heal up around you?
Does the beauty lie deep?

(Written 99 or 2000, or earlier?!?!?, later published in the Adagio Verse Quarterly in 2003 )

Keep on “kicking” everyone! A kick in the ass, can get the heart started again, and there you are back to that amazing brain-to-heart or heart-to-brain, the circle of an extraordinary life, depending on how you look at it.

Independence Day

Independence Day

Mourning, morning,
sleeping, now waking,
gaping, aching, naked,
dreamt I found you
in the night,
fell into your heart,
and left my poetry there
before I left to start the day.

Chilly July 4th,
55 degrees greets me,
pulling on cut-offs,
frayed at the edges,
tennis shoes, no socks,
ripping the worn quilt
from the bottom of the bed,
yet another, independence day.

Blanket and a 6-pack,
bungied to the bike rack,
alone again, naturally,
I plunk my worn seat
on the curb in town,
watching the pagan fleet,
tattered veterans, rusting heaps,
clowns throwing suckers.

This independent day,
I wished to wake with you,
cold summer morning,
loud any day morning,
warm morning,
trash day morning,
holiday or mundane Monday,
with or without storm warnings.

But night comes calling,
my ass is back on the quilt,
fireworks everywhere,
and my friend’s husband
tries to play footsie
while his wife and child
watch the sky
and I die inside.

Before the finale,
I rise and roll the bed
I’ve been lying in,
right my bike,
and wheel it through
a crowd to which I feel
I do not belong,
this independence day.

..this one came from somewhere, far off, that's for sure. some notes and bits, scrapped from something i intended to write. mostly, i think it's about my bike. there were a lot of years, when i was very emotionally and spiritually attached to my bike. it got me in, around, under and through a lot of bull crap-ed-ness, that’s for sure. ....

"biking in the moonlight," print by alfred gockel (allposters.com) ... and i'm telling you, there is nothing, absolutely nothing close to biking in the moonlight!

Widow's Peak

Widow’s Peak

I have known my share of widows in this life,
and I fear, although not greatly so,
the same such fate, and yet embrace it,
because oh what widows I have seen,
the lovers who have lost it true,
only to go it alone, in the long run,
in this crazy life where everyone else
hits the ground, slap-happy-silly
alongside their own misfit boy toy.
And these widows watched,
not overcome by loss,
but bathed by an unseen love,
a true and honored affection,
a respect for what was
still live in their hearts,
up and onward going,
long days into lone nights,
and I rarely saw their tears,
unless decorating the stories
of what was had and still held,
yet I wonder after them,
or am I crying out for me,
why not more time,
why close seconds,
or too late at best
why not forever?

photo:
Mrs. Gustav Mahler, Widow of Composer, Raptly Listening to His "Resurrection Symphony" ..........Artist: Alfred Eisenstaedt