FUCK THIS SHIT

A small gift.

Tobin.

Sharing.

A small gift. 

Did he know?

Discipline…what part does it have in freedom? Are they both necessary? Can one exist without the other or do we then cross the line into chaos?

Evolutionary arc is transformation at a cellular level. 

Blood

Today I traveled to Daughters of Charity for my second Hepatitis Shot. Apparently Georgia thinks that coming from Louisiana I may be ridden with every possible disease known to man.

For all I know they have it right. Walking barefoot down canal at 3 am on a Saturday night, contracting cuts on the bottom of my feet that turn into large purple welts that don't heal for weeks, probably constitutes a real reason for inoculation.

I spent twenty minutes waiting on a nurse to decide that what I told her was right. Too tired to describe the whole issue here but when I got home my pants were covered in blood. So I suppose everyone in the waiting room and everyone anywhere saw that. And I wasn't even embarrassed. That may be a luxury I miss when I leave New Orleans. The "no one gives a fuck" luxury.

I came home and thought about all the things I have to do this month. Decide if I want to pay rent. Decide when to move with no money. Decide what to do with my things. I'm of the opinion someone can have most of everything. It's not worth the hassle.

My boss is fazing me out of my job. It's just as well...she's toxic. I wonder how I got to this point, at 32 years old, where moving with no money to a town with no home from a job that is toxic to a possible homeless state seems is a decision I have made. I wonder that others don't live this matter-of-factly with as little panic about such a state as I live in. I see others my age on my Facebook with careers and families and mortgages and it doesn't faze me that I'm not at that point. I just wonder in an objective sort of way, looking into my life, that I don't panic more. I wonder if I'm completely sane. The answer is obvious though, I wouldn't know anyway so why worry about it.

Hey Dilek

Dear Dilek,

 You had me in turning chairs made of fake leather and unknown cloth, for the first time in my life having my "hair done" before work for five dollars, a ridiculous amount. But life was a fashion show there and I remember fighting myself when I told you "I don't want to meet any one else." "He likes American girls" was your answer and as if that was enough of an explanation I agreed, because I truly was in love with you, and being in love means saying yes. One love isn't enough to foster another, I learned.

But part of the show was dying my hair blonde, because yellow was an extraordinary color there. And sitting in the bar where I pretended I belonged, only because it was vaguely familiar when the Turks would nod in my direction, not enough to acknowledge I belonged (because I didn't) but enough to let me pretend, for which I was grateful. Because belonging there was something I never mastered.

So I sat, and I waited, and he came.

And if he liked American girls, it was something I never experienced. But he wore sweaters that fit him with no holes, and that was something I've never dated...I came from a world of torn shirt boys and loose fitting jeans and guitars that played Alice in Chains and late night fishing for change for a bottle of whiskey from Rouse's.

I was impressed by his jeans that were dark and perfectly cut above the brown striped shoes, and his hair that was washed on a regular basis.

Was a ridiculous thing to send late night texts (or sexts) that ended in our marriage. And it was the best sex I ever had. I've heard worse reasons for marriage.

And I still don't know if he married me for the move to America, or because of love, or maybe it was the sex...but that's beyond his ability for honesty.. if asked he'll say he loved me and it was a noble move on his part, full of pride and other emotions that help develop a persona of respect. And that's why it ended in divorce...he could never be honest. Or maybe he was, and I just could never accept his answer.

And today he says I'm part of his past and he can't go there again.

And I accept because it's what I do.

And it's probably bullshit on my part that I still feel so used.

Before there was that there were

                        Lights

                                    Kisses

                                                Thunder and rain.

I wondered at the fact that such a small child could know. “Please stop” she said to me, “you’re hurting me.”

            “What’s that?” I asked.

“The world, it’s painful.”

The rain fell down tumbling in torrents upon my windshield, the tightened shut windows and the roof. There was such a small space between us and no air, and that made it worse.

“Please stop.” She held still, and quiet. I couldn’t feel her breathe.

“Wasn’t there a time that I knew love?” she asked.

“Don’t you remember?”

There was only silence in the car.

So I told her a story. It started with a boy who never wanted to go to school. He never wanted to be anything but a writer. And so he lied where he could to write and he lied where he could so the world wouldn’t hurt. And so he never worked because working wasn’t writing and he never saw anyone who didn’t help him. And he never sent out his words because he didn’t want to hear such words like “no”. And so he sat at home and ate sandwiches when he could buy them and ate nothing when he could not. And after some time he said out loud to his lamps and his table and his carpet and his couch that he was a writer, because no one else ever did.

I asked her what she thought.

She sat for a while while the rain held its ground and we lost.

Then after a while she said, “didn’t he have any friends?”

And I said no, because people didn’t like him. Or he thought so, because life told him so, or so he thought.

“That’s sad” she said. A tear dropped from her eye and she reached out for my hand.

I held it in my palm and it was so small and tiny. There were bits of green and blue and gold, like a river holding slight treasure.

“It is sad.” I said, “and that’s also true.”

“Was it painful for him?” she wanted to know. “Like us?” she asked.

“Just like us.” I told her. “Just like us.”

“Why don’t we give up?” she asked me.

“For what?” I replied

And her body became light and her outline began to shine and fade and travel onto mine. She was next to me then onto me then we snapped together like pieces of a puzzle and I heard her voice inside me.

“Before there was this there were lights, kisses, thunder and rain” she shook my bones in remembrance. “Don’t you recall?” She pleaded. There was a flash of bright light and for a moment I thought—but it was gone.

“Yes--” I whispered, alone in the car, the dark everywhere and the rain. “--And now there’s this.”

            

A Katrina Story

A Katrina Story

Black wallpaper with a single red rose print unfolded slowly as the water rose and devoured. She watched it drown from the window of the old Holmes building. And the water rose. And she watched. And she thought it was time to go.

Five days passed as she waded from the building to her business and back again. The water was up to her waist. Still it didn’t bother her but the idea of not leaving (death) not escaping (death) did.  Her family was long gone in Houston now her two sons-and she with no working phone. Her white van was crushed under the roof of the Hilton hotel. That was two days gone and now she must go or something bad may happen. Something bad already had she said to herself out loud and giggled. Her giggle rose along with--

--with a gun her gun she grabbed she grabbed her gun.  She grabbed her backpack and she left with her accountant. A tough man, she thought before; one to have in a tight place she thought before: an ex cop. An ex cop and she was dragging him now through the street he was crumbling along with the buildings and cars and walls and everything was falling but her. It’s just another time she thought, like the time in Mexico when she was strong and the time she was living in the abandoned warehouse with her boys she was strong and it’s just another time she was strong. It’s just another unfolding.

She and he both had guns. “You can’t cross here” the cops said to them as they shrunk into the crowd of people, two streaks of wet white among a blanket of dark night, but it was day. “You can’t cross here” the cops said with their guns and their guns wanted to speak louder than they could.  There was a van a cargo load of dark eyed passengers and they jumped into a nook and sped across the bridge. You can cross if you can hide.

The van kept moving forward and now there were bushes and grass and woods. And woods and more woods and she didn’t know where the woods came from. She had lived her life not far and now there were woods from nowhere. She couldn’t think but:  “stop the van” she announced to the driver and instead he drove faster.  More woods and now panic and only two streaks of wet white among the dark. Now panic and she pulled out her gun and pointed it at the driver. “Stop the van now” she announced again and he slowed, but didn’t stop.

How slow does it have to be to jump and will I hit the truck and be run over by the wheels or will I hit a bush and tumble and she kept the gun on the driver and now “stop the van” and it slowed a bit and she jumped. 

“Jump down!” she calls to the unfolded man; the tough man the ex cop who is broken. “I’ll shoot any of you that follow” she calls to the dark eyed passengers and none do. The man jumps but leaves her backpack. Nothing can be done and now they are in the woods, unknown. They watch the van head down the dirt path and turn. Nothing can be done and they follow. It’s slow but they have their guns and she is not broken.

Everything is broken the houses the street—she crawls over downed electric lines and under caved roofs and torn tarps—she sits on the stoop of a dirty Fourplex. It, unlike them, is still standing. The woman inside accepts her twenty dollars to use her phone. One call to her boys in Houston. She is ok. She is also stuck, but not broken. 

“Is that Ms. Brooks?” She hears a voice say and yes it’s me. It’s me. She knows (me) the husband of the wife who leant her the phone; he’s an old employee and she has four hundred dollars. She has four hundred dollars and two twin sons in Houston. The old employee has a van and he earns the four hundred dollars over 400 miles, driving in stolen sunglasses with the stickers still on and stolen sneakers he took from the mall. And why not? Everything is broken and everyone and everything. But not her.  She isn’t unfolded just the world when the water rose.  Just the world when the water rose.

i should have died when i had the chance.

And there weren’t enough trees that night

And there were

Then there weren’t

And when I was ready there was nothing to crash into

              Only sky

And some would say it was your gift to me

But I say you weren’t there and if you were you would have brought more trees.

a love poem

I wanted to write you a love poem

            But I spend too much time surviving. Surviving isn’t living she said.

And I wanted to tell you about the softness of her round face, pressed against the glass looking at nothing at something making sounds like coo and goo and ah and oh. And how I couldn’t quite make out her mouth through the silk and chiffon.

 (she could have been our baby oh)

I wanted to drive a hundred miles to see you read this love poem

But instead I was old, a visitor in my life

And I saw you with your wife, and your son and daughter and you were all in a fucking prius.

I was there, behind the cold metal bench pressed hard against my loss with a grin wide and leering at the l o v e.

Fuck

I forget wh.y I'm like this. Every day I had someone who loved me beyond anything, beyond love even. Every day he was there and all I had to do was reach out to him, not even, because he would reach out to me. Every day for 14 years, If I need him he was there. Every day that we spoke was like the fucking sun shining through some dense ass clouds, warming my skin no matter how much rain had fallen.

And now I don't have that and haven't had it in years. And there is no one who can ever give that to me. I don't believe it. I can't. Shit like that doesn't happen twice.

I forget that that's why I'm like this. Because the fucking universe took the one person in my life who made me feel real, who made me feel loved, beautiful, creative, amazing. The one person who really saw me.


There was the possibility of another at one time but that will never come to pass and can't. He chose his life.

So now I'm fucking alone and always will be and I'll never have that sun shining on me again like it did. My fucking heart and soul was torn out. I should have just driven into the trees that night like I almost did. Occupational hazard of soulmates is that one is no good without the other.

This is where

I have suicidal thoughts frequently. It's just a part of my thought process. I have a degree in Psychology and I know the line is that if you have suicidal thoughts it's not considered natural. I think that's a crock of bullshit.

Anyway, I won't act on them because I care about my family and it would ruin their lives, especially my mother, who is already a depressed person naturally.

I've been thinking though. I've never felt like I belonged anywhere. At the core of my being I'm scared all the time because I don't have a home. I have a temporary, physical home, and I have my mother's home, which also seems temporary because they don't own their house. 

It started when my parents divorced the same year my grandmother died and all my uncles decided to sell the house. We moved with my mother to another house, then another, then another, then another, then another. They owned the last another then lost it to forclosure. So we moved to another then another, they are there now. I moved next door.

I've never felt like anyplace was home and I experienced a few times what it's like to have to move in 24 hours. The result of all this is that as a 31 year old woman I never feel safe, and I never feel settled, and I never feel anything permanent. It's a bit scary.

I also don't feel like I belong with my family. I love them dearly, and when I'm with them I have a natural place and role. But when I'm away I'm alone and I don't feel like they are a stable group that I belong to. I also don't feel like I belong with my friends. I have one very good friend who I love..doesn't even begin to describe how I feel about her. But I can't be with her always and we both need to be alone and I don't feel like I belong with her either. She's looking for a mate and that's natural too.

I feel like a visitor in my life. I move forward because days move forward and that's the natural thing to do. I work because it's good for my mental state but it isn't a permanent state. I may go to grad school because it's the next thing in my life and I'm moving forward. But I don't think I'll belong there either.

I sometimes wonder if I will belong anywhere and I don't think I will. 

I may be wrong, though.

I'm thinking of joining the Peace Corps because if I don't want my life, which I don't anymore, then I may as well give it to someone. I recognize that I have talents that could benefit someone else and if not, I have hands that can build. Since I can't die (on purpose) then someone should benefit from my life. 

My message to humanity

My message  to humanity:

It’s the idea of separation that kills us,

As if someone who isn't exactly like you could be wrong, could be worse, could be less,

As if not being you is a crime in itself.

The blame makes us blind,

And I watch you point with poisoned fingers,

In any direction, even at your own heart,

pointing with fingers that were made to hold your neighbor’s hand,

blind to the hurt you are causing yourself most all.

(There is nothing you can do that is wrong, except hate another)

I wonder if I’m the only one who knows forgiveness,

Who knows love:

Who knows that strength comes from surrender;

Affection;

Forgiveness;

Have you forgotten?

God made you in love.

The only thing you have to do is love.    Just love.

Love when it’s the hardest to love.

Then you will know what it truly is to be free.

That isn't her name, did you know?

                                                           

I looked for you on S K Y P E

I was supposed to show you my apartment.

A long time ago, remember when there was a promise

Of you and I, naked, in the sea. “I swim every morning and night,” you said.

The thought of you, in the sea, morning and night, felt like freedom.

And yet I knew

If I waited long enough

There would be no you, no I, no sea:

So when I saw her name, and your name,

Her and your name(s)

Listed next to each other

“probably not active” they said

What they meant was “probably not active” with me--

 “completely active” with each other--

I looked for you on S K Y P E

But you were not there

You were locked in limbs and breasts and lips

Pixels that look just like you

And I only was thankful

That touch cannot reach through a screen.

Well, I've decided to leave.

Fuck this shit, mostly.

Applying to West Georgia University for my grad degree. They have this awesome specialty in transpersonal and humanistic psychology. Gonna rock it.

Bought a car; a volkswagen cabrio convertible. Working on some stories. Making friends, making old friends come alive. It's not hard when you stop caring.