Buried

We traveled by car.  My grandparents left upstate New York and drove the eleven hours to my home in Virginia, where I waited, impatient and seven years old, for them to pick me up and continue the drive to Florida, to Disney World.

I spent the entire journey reading, so immersed in words already that I often didn’t hear my grandmother, grandfather or aunt try to break through with their comments on scenery or questions about hunger or bathroom breaks.

In northern Florida, at least, that’s where I think we were, we stopped to visit some family and attend a reunion of sorts. My seven year old self, anyway, believes this is what it was. Cousins, second cousins, my mother’s aunts – it all dissolved in a haze, much as it does even now at these functions.  A confusion of blood, like a flock of birds or a herd of cows.

But there was another young girl there, maybe related to me in some way. She pointed out a bushy, palm-like plant, whose name I still haven’t learned, and warned me away from them, telling me, in her small, six-year-old way, that they would cut me, slice into my flesh and leave welts like paper cuts, stinging and colorless. And she told me her mother was dead.

I had no context yet for this thing, “dead.” We played with her delicate rag doll, sitting by the pebbles that surrounded the landscaping plants in this jungle, this foreign clime. We dug a hole and sang and said childish prayers, before we lay the doll in the sandy earth and covered her with rocks to weigh her down, keep her here for a time, anyway.

This reenactment haunted me. I was already a sensitive child, attracting tragedy like other children collect grass stains and mud. Perhaps I read too much. But I’ve imagined this event many times over the years, pulling it apart for meaning and sense, pictured other children performing the ritual of death with dolls, cars, even the hollow bodies of found insects. I wish I could remember what it meant to me at the time.

Now, of course, having come so close to that place just a year ago, I imagine my own children, their miniature hands placing beloved toys in the dirt and burying them, submerging them in the earth. Singing songs of mourning with no words, praying over a dead mother.

And I fill with something like hope.

Tags: death, depression, loss, Motherhood, suicide

What’s Thicker Than Blood?

I hide behind beautiful words. I hide truths that are more difficult to wrangle with than even I know, and though I like to think I’m facing things, I know there will be more, more and more things, stacked like cordwood, like bodies, just waiting for me to face them, that is, to put faces on them.

I will be the object of disappointment, confusion, for adding a friend on Facebook today. There, doesn’t that sound junior high? Doesn’t it sound so…what is the generation called these days? I’m an X. What comes twenty years later than that?

I lack the courage to give detail to the drama. I fear offending, defending myself, abandonment at its heart.

Here are the truths I know:

Families are a confusion to me. They lack a sense of immediate connection, whether by my nature or my upbringing, I have yet to figure out. And yet, and yet…who knows me? Maybe only someone who’s witnessed it, or pieces of it at least. Someone who can pick apart the betrayals, the hurts and the charade to get at the things that make up the whole me.

And also, we will be dust. This I know, and so why not make amends, why not get the explanations I need, why not tell how it hurts?

I’m not good at this thing, and sometimes I’m grateful for the shortness of it, the fleetingness of human life.

Other times, I wish for forever, to learn all there is that makes up a heart.

Tags: family, loss, love

Flesh

I used to own this body, like a pair of shoes, like a yo-yo, swung comfortable (falsely) in this flesh, walked with purpose with flair with con-fi-dence.  In my bones I knew myself desirable, though my eyes refused to see it, my mouth to voice it.  Thigh-high boots, short skirts, leather, zippers, spikes, flowery dresses and combat boots, chains, chains – a slave to an appearance I thought wasn’t pleasing but knew was the subject of want.

Now the flesh hangs off, is places I didn’t expect it to be, product of depression, of building infant bodies, construction, demolition, scars, I’ve made the outside match. It matches now, the complete and utter despair that is in it.

These Are Things

These are the things no one tells you:

The birthing is easy. It brings you to your knees, of course, if you do it right, and I don’t mean without meds because by god – it’s still a rending. It’s a splitting open, a metamorphosis, leaving the shell of your old self behind. You crawl out and view the devastation, but you can’t find what’s missing yet. You count it all as whole – fingers, toes, perfectly blue eyes in vernix covered skin.

No, that’s not the hard thing. And for a few days, maybe a couple of weeks if you’re lucky, they bring food. At evening meal time comes hot bread and casseroles, sometimes a salad mixed right there in front of you as you watch, dumbfounded and silent with awkward, weepy gratitude.

Those meals fill you, fill all of you, with contact, with continuity and grace, and give you the idea that you are special. When can you be waited on so well, so perfectly without the guilt of the undeserving? You have just made a human being – and you are still overflowing with emotion and amazement no matter how many times you’ve done it. You are a creator, or at the least, a catalyst. You’ve become holy.

And people bring meals that are complete, separate courses – no one cooks like this at home, but for the miracle of birth there is fresh bread and dessert, even. “You need this,”  every plate cries.

But then, and here is the thing, the meals stop and you are expected to go on. You are left floundering and impotent with a baby, a small person to nurture for weeks, months, years on end and no one brings you meals when you are facing the imperfect, the flaws of children, the foibles of mankind. There is no sign-up at the church for “Mary has a child who bites her, leaving bloody holes, and she’s afraid she might run away from home.” There is no Hallmark card that says “Sorry to hear you live in a house with a stranger and a potential serial killer,” and I’m not even saying who is which, because a change of wind could force it in any direction.

These are what no one speaks of, because there are no words that form themselves completely around the things, no idea that can cause you to own it, this embracing of failure again and again.

Tread cautiously, and gird yourself well for the journey. Here there be tygers.

Tags: Motherhood, parenting

Anon

It’s strange to walk into a place and see someone whose words you know, whom you follow in a strictly world 2.0 way.

It makes you hesitant.

Then you consider all the things you put out there, all the soul-emptying smudge of language on the pristine pixels, the things you would never, ever say to someone in a voice out loud that makes it too real, too immediate, the vibration of timbre in the bones of the ear that are like drumming words, marking them forever in a direct connection to the brain.

No. You would never let someone see this part of you that you don’t look like at all, this person you are inside. You would remain a persona forever, rather than a person.

But…there he is. And here I am. And it’s nod, avert eyes, and pretend we are anonymous still.

Tags: anonymity, intertubes

Fettered

It could be in

the name…orderly…

tidy beds no

decorative pillows

drapes blinds ties

that could bind.

Every day the trays

come

at the same time.

Droning television mutes

the hum of voices real

and imagined.

There is no one

to care for but myself

so I do -

make bedbrush teethwash hair

every day, even.

What else is there

to do?

Outside

the mind must hold

tenuously

grip the edge hold up the

buttress

of Important Things.

Inside

we’re

Free.

Tags: mental illness

How I Knew Le Figaro’s

I still have the postcard, buried somewhere in a keepsake box beneath wedding photos, the abstract finger paintings of my children, photographs, ephemera.

On it, a friend’s scribbled writing dashed off hurriedly; I was grateful to receive anything at all from him on this journey across country with his family.

He told me of New York, the Village, the little places and colorful people, and the corner cafe that had the best open-faced grilled cheese sandwich he’d ever had, not least, I now imagine, because he knew Kerouac or Dylan might have tried it.

The first time I visited New York, I insisted we go there, my unsure companions agreeing warily.  I had the thing, and it was ordinary.

But I never let it stay that way, instead giving it the proportions of art,  of gravity, of the Sistine Chapel, a Bohr model.  It came with sprouts and chick peas, and it was the best thing I’ve ever had.

Because by then, he was gone.

And now it’s been twenty years and it seems impossible that someone I knew so well could be absent so long, could stay forever a boy on the precipice of manhood, the cliff so very high, so far down we insignificant humans.

I still went there at least every few visits to the city.  I still drank espresso and thought about him, and had other adventures there in that tiny, dark bathroom.  But now I won’t, and the postcard fades, his voice gone from memory, and he is in the ground.  I am heading that way myself, these days.

I learned, upon beginning this post, that Le Figaro Cafe closed in the summer of 2008.  My heart breaks, and we move through space. It’s all the same.

Tags: Le Figaro Cafe, mourning, Phillip

Post Holiday Damage Control: Organizing and Cleaning Tips for Real People

A rerun from last year. Because it’s my favorite.

Ladies, this is the most glorious time of year, the time when you are blessed with a multitude of lovely new sets of pajamas and slippers and wonderfully useful household tools (like, say, a pizza cutter that looks like a shark and a brand new mop head), and the air is filled with the scent of your new perfume/bubble bath/shower gel/powder/lotion set in Trashy Pop Star Delight from your dear, sweet children.  You know who you are.

What better time than this to make a fresh start and kick the new year off right with a house-wide cleaning spree.  Here are just the tips you need to carry it off without a hitch, all while feeding the hungry, clothing the poor, recycling, and lessening your carbon footprint.

1.  In the Kitchen

When you open your refrigerator, you want to see a gleaming, white interior, cheerily lit by your compact fluorescent, energy-saving bulb.  If instead, you see half a cheese ball exposed to the air by its barely-hanging-on-to-life aluminum foil, a zip-loc bag of cookies you stole from the office party last month, and the half gallon of buttermilk you bought to make those great Martha Stewart biscuits you never got around to, and it is all lit by a yellow, flickering bulb covered with what you think, but can’t swear to, is margarita mix – fear not.

First, gather together a large, heavy duty trash bag, a sponge,  and a bucket of hot soapy water.  Sit in a chair in front of the fridge with your feet soaking in the bucket.  Eat the cookies.  Throw away the light bulb, but not before licking it clean, because for all you know alcohol doesn’t really evaporate.  Reshape the cheese ball into a…well, ball, and wrap it better, because aluminum foil ain’t cheap, gals.  You can bring it to the office tart’s  baby shower that you are invited to next week.  Buttermilk lasts for weeks after its expiration date – you can make biscuits for Valentine’s Day.  Throw away anything you cannot identify within thirty seconds.  If you can name it within fifteen seconds, you can safely feed it to your husband and teenagers.  Within five seconds, it goes to the dog.  After your feet feel soft and you are relaxed, use the sponge to wipe off any visible surfaces in the refrigerator.  Install CFL by screwing bulb into socket (lefty loosey, righty tighty).  There, perfect.

2.  The Living Room

This is the real kicker post-holiday:  the tree, the gifts strewn everywhere, the wrapping paper, not to mention the decorations.  First, you will need a trash bag.  Black, to hide the contents from prying eyes.  If possible, use the same one you used for the refrigerator.  The odor will motivate you to actually put the bag in the trash bin immediately instead of leaving it in the hallway (not that I’m implying I, or anyone else,  would actually do this, of course).

First, dig through the toys, including the ones that are still under the couch from Christmas Day 2007.  Toss them, along with those too large to keep in a box smaller than a milk crate, and anything that requires an engineering degree to assemble.  Randomly choose half of the remaining toys.  Auction them off on ebay, but be sure to divide the loss equally among your children, to avoid unfair distribution of sacrifice.  Tell the kids the toys had lead paint on them, and why can’t they just play with the wooden sticks and hoops you bought from that nice lady at the farmer’s market?

Use the auction money to pay for their therapy.

The tree is the easy part.  Tell the children that you have a giant chocolate bar, and whoever puts away the most ornaments gets to eat it.  You do not necessarily have to be able to “find” the chocolate after the decorations are all safely away.

After two weeks with no water, the tree should be dessicated enough that if it hasn’t already spontaneously burst into flames, you can carry it with minimal effort to the curb. Leave the lights on it.  They are cheap, and you’ll never get them untangled next year anyway.  Sweep up the fallen needles and place in crystal bowls.  Call it potpourri.

The wrapping paper is a vast natural resource that is sadly overlooked.  Here are some wonderful recycling ideas for the acres of virgin forest mashed into pulp and made into garishly colored paper intended to perpetuate the myth that your children do not know that you bought the gifts, and that they do not already know what the gifts are.

1.  Send the paper through the shredder to make packing material for when you ship toys to the winning bidders.

2.  Use the paper to clean the window that your neighbor puked on after a few too many glasses of your best cabernet.  Vinegar is a great solution to use for this, although nothing will ever get that stain off the drapes.

3.  Cut any unwrinkled paper into pieces to use as scraps for notes to school.  Nothing says “perfect family” more than pictures of the Virgin Mary on the back of the note excusing your daughter from gym class because of morning sickness.

4.  Use the paper as mulch in your vegetable garden plot.  The toy auction money will not be enough to cover produce for the coming year, even if you do buy local.

As for the rest of the living room: put a large box behind the sofa and throw everything into it.  Out of sight, out of mind.  And feng shui, and empty room head and all that other stuff.

3.  The Bedrooms

This is the easiest area of the home to tidy up.  Once you’ve made room, throwing everything from the floor into the closet will be a breeze.  The following items should go into a bag or box and be donated to your local thrift store:

*The Christmas pajamas (last year’s; you got new ones, remember?)

*Any jeans that show rear end cleavage.  By which I mean, any jeans bought after 1998.

*T-shirts from bands.  All of them.  (Yes, even the ones from  Summer Dead Tour ‘87)

*Shoes you still own from high school, even though you are thirty-eight.

*Anything with a western theme or embroidery of any kind.

*Fakenstocks (if you have them, you know it)

*The rest of your clothing, with the exception of one pair of jeans you bought because Zafu said they would fit (they do).  Because really, you never go anywhere since you can’t afford a sitter, and no one will come to your house because of that whole overblown botulism incident.  It’s easier to breastfeed when you’re topless anyway.

Make sure you don’t forget to donate your cashmere sweaters.  Because I poor people like nice things, too.

Tags: clean up, cleaning, getting organized, holidays, humor, parent bloggers network, recycling

Mango Tale of New York

You might, one night, find yourself buying a mango outside a bodega in the West Village after a long night spent listening to music with a pianist, in the basement of a bring-your-own bottle jazz club.

Perhaps it is almost dawn, and your favorite food in the world is a mango, and the pianist has never had one.

You stand over the bin outside the door and you can smell them, these yellow ones come from Haiti and they are the sweetest, best mangoes you will ever taste but you don’t know that yet.

You buy one then, and when he asks you how you’ll eat it, you pull a Swiss Army knife out of your pocket, because that is the kind of girl you are.

The flesh feels like flesh under your fingers, like intimate flesh. This is no platonic fruit, this is Eve’s temptation, Snow White’s little death.

You are both all slippery fingers and mouths now, and there is no difference between kissing and not kissing,

when everything tastes like mango.

Tags: jazz, mangoes, nyc, prose poem, summer

If I Could Only Keep This Up

I’ve decided to post a tiny excerpt from the story I attempted to write for National Novel Writing Month.  I made it to the half-way point at about 25,000 words, but realized my characters and story needed more work, and I needed to step away from them. Frankly, they were irritating me even more than actual people do.

But I like my beginning, so here it is, completely unedited. Did you hear that? Completely unedited. There are bits of prose that might be familiar, since a couple of ideas have come from poetry I’ve written here. But it’s still a mess and will require many hours more of work.

Shared History

I used to remember every moment of my life in correct chronological order. Or, rather, I thought I did. I would periodically review my life year by year, month by month even, to reassure myself that each memory was where I’d placed it. There was the bike wreck that happened in New York while visiting Grandma, the childhood friend I kissed on the cheek while standing in my kitchen. There, tucked neatly inside my brain’s grey matter, was first love.

I am packing now to move back where I came from, a sprawling mid-size city that nonetheless manages to maintain its small town feel and even smaller mindedness. On any given day, I will be able to walk out my front door and within half an hour see the following things:

The house where I grew up, the Chinese garden in the park where I used to meet my friend when we skipped school, the first place I caught a ride hitchhiking, the field where my heart was first broken, the place I used to perform in a ballet company, the last place I caught a ride hitchhiking, the creek where I swam with my friends before my heart had been broken, the blank, empty lot that’s left from the house where I conceived my daughter, and many of the people that were there to witness it all.  This place is a fractal. You grow up here and raise your children here, you can be certain they will find themselves drinking on the same dead ends and finding lovers who remind you of your own. They might even go places you went, and then you are involved in the sort of time conundrum that can cripple a person.

Tags: fiction, NaNoWriMo, rough rough rough draft, story