So it’s true;
love is never unconditional…
just like the terms of one parole-
There is always a catch:
Expectations, both unspoken and timed.
Goals that must be timely met,
all the while you’re reminded to….
BEWARE! the many dancing swords above your Damaclean head.
it’s always the “no, but…” that fucks up the flow.
Stability is a temporary experience,
And never, a given.
I thought of something nice to say at my mother’s funeral.
Spoiler alert:
She’s not dying (no quicker than you or I technically am…)
But my dad is…
So I was thinking about all of the things that I would say about him at his funeral;
and that made me sad. So to cope, I decided to try and think of something nice to say…at my mother’s.
I know, I know… BUT!
I thought that would make me mad-
You know:
when I couldn’t find one (but knowingly looked)?
And…
Well then I found one; which in turn… made me mad.
Huzzah!
Isn’t it exquisite-
how my broken and gold;
They fuse together in kintsugi rhythm?
Knowing both paths to the desired result- consciously mitigated and yet…
Gestures vaguely at everything,
and nothing.
I’ve already began the process
Of grieving the products of my own imagination.
Recently implemented new rules of engagement;
Limiting all talks with friends,
all of them.
To under 5 minute long interactions.
Unless they’re my exes…
I figure I’ve dibs.
(I know! I knoooow.)
I know it makes me selfish;
Realizing more each day-
I want to be “chosen”
I NEED to be “chosen”
whatever that means…
I think I always have.
Reflecting on all the times
Situations…
I felt I needed to be…
Should have been…
Chosen…
by anyone-
Chosen…
over others;
over addictions
Chosen for me
Who I am
Not what I could be.
Not what I could provide.
Services I could render.
What I could become.
Just the real and authentic me.
Most only saw the mes
making the choices…
To leave
To make them
Sooner…
Later…
My choice.
I’ve recently found,
I stay more comfortable.
I’m leaving all of the inside doors, open.
Closing the vents,
to unused rooms…
worked only in proximity.
Closing the doors,
to forgotten rooms;
created cold spots.
So I started a fire,
opened all vents… doors;
warmed from within.
I found myself there-
In that place, once again.
The cavernous mermaid lagoon;
a familiar yet frightening place; bound.
It was curious really-
Realizing where I’d arrived.
When by consciously avoiding-
My unintentional destination found.
Only for a brief moment yielding-
Like Yeats’ siren:
In cruel happiness I’d forgotten-
That even lovers drown.
Used to be…
I’d come across them-
Confetti strewn caches-
drawers of forgotten notes…
I felt sad, and missed them.
Question everything.
Then it changed…
I’d find them and realize-
I don’t know the writer-
Ghostwritten manifestos of complacency…
I’d feel disgust, and miss me.
Question everything.
Today I found more…
I read them and noted-
It really was a version of me-
Just a me adapted to them…
I feel nothing, and am missing nothing.
Question everything.
Have you ever written out timelines of your own life?
First by years then by months-
Sometimes even “best guessed weeks”?
Did the subcategories become laborious and deserving of a separate time line?
No?
I met someone who had lived in the same house,
Their entire lives.
From birth.
I bet they never put something in their bedroom…
Then later have to recall which bedroom…
Then tear apart another room to find it,
swearing it was there, once.
Hmmm.
Did you live in the same house for years?
Have you lived in less than 5?
What’s your memory like?
Is it chronologically fractured?
Do you use music or scent or season to place you; or
What you were wearing-
because somehow that is easier to recall?
When you think back over your life, is it like a whole movie?
Or is it like thousands of movie scenes squished into a 27 x 40 poster?
Do you have to cross reference your life against journals?
Poetry books?
Partners?
Jobs?
PASSWORDS?
No?
Huh.
Do you spend time analyzing, retroactively, like a cold case detective…
Maybe leaning a little tinfoil hat looking for “the conspiracy root?”
Yeah, that would be crazy. Whoa.
Ok ok- what about looking, in hindsight for curiosity sake;
for the things you missed, you know, back then?
No?
What about considering other timelines- multiverses and sequels-
A director’s cut or potential alternate endings?
Still no?
Huh.
Me either.
It’s funny
“The shift”
The shift from thinking anyone older
Just looked like an old person.
You see pictures of them young..
Can see it if you look for it-
But as you get get older-
Know more people, longer, older…
Should start with our family-
some fairy glamour prevents it.
It’s when you see someone age,
Someone you’ve known; intimately-
their younger selves-
And perhaps- you do not see again
until you are both- old…older.
*that’s the shift.
Unfamiliar briefly-
Then you see them.
Not them with wrinkles, more skin, less hair…
but just…
them.
In a worn vehicle…
“There you are Peter!”
Now- you’ve leveled up.
At the shift.
Maybe it’s my Aquarius-Pisces cusp
But… I am a fickle bitch.
I want my cake and to eat it too-
But only when I order it
And have it delivered
To my door.
I love being alone
Resent a constant presence
Reductively- I’m an Introvert playing house
With myself- I wanna be mama
I wanna be daddy
I wanna be cool aunt Jackie
Dependent on no one
Ish
And still…
I hate playing house
I don’t wanna be home
I want to travel
Explore
Create
All the things others have already done
I live it through word
See it on film
Feel it in song
Saved and trapped in my own mind
And so it goes-
Filling in the grooves
Forty years worth of trail
Diverting energy into other paths
Finding comfort…
And yet-
Still aching for the familiar
Just like any addiction
Trying to recognize triggers
Slippery slopes
Of thoughts
And experience
Both imagined and endured-
Blowing up my siblings’ phones
To discuss a season’s tears
Lament each other’s losses
Never sharing joy
Leaning towards each other
Each other’s external hard drives
Fact checking my memories
Offering observed insight
Spoiler alerts.
I hate the unknowing.
I Google you.
I Google me.
I Google what season do they die?
I like to test myself
Create:
challenges to survive;
Patterns to predict;
Chances to trust myself
And fail
But in ways most cannot see.
It’s funny to me.
All things I want(ed) to be-
A singer
A plumber
A poet
A mom
A lawyer
A wife
A woman
An archaeologist
A detective…
And here I am.
Alone- but not really.
Just…
Mercurially Me.
I’m still waiting to not miss you-
It’s been months since you’ve been gone
(…Maybe even years)
I don’t miss the days of silence-
It’s so quiet and still, less alone
(… Much less frequent tears)
You’re still in nearly all my dreams-
You’ve become some sort of archetype
(… Mostly for my fears)
You cross my mind I feel gut punched-
You affect me still in this way
(… Memories trigger gears)
I haven’t even had a kiss-
I try to put myself out there
(… Move away when it nears)
Did I dream or did I wake-
Daily wake up in a foggy panic
(… Mad at me when it clears)
And yet- I’m waiting to not miss you-
Sorghum sadness
Artax-ia let’s say…
breathing in heavy yet noble, gases-
The vapors…
Tinkerbell feelings that expand
And dissipate in a few moments-
Except!
Except-
A certain adhesive melancholia
Sticky clouds…
Like a snare…
It’s a trap.
I can go months-
Years without a cigarette.
Until I get a certain sad that only smoking (thus far) relieves… maladaptive or not…
it’s a coping skill too…
Said certain sadness passes…
Cue subsequent guilt for even purchasing…
Then! (as if to punish myself for it)
I am compelled to finish the pack.
Oy.
We’re never really finished, I guess.
Surrounded by the ever present Spectre of death…
Mortality itself has haunted since the 11th year-
Family & friends dying like the Hemingways and Fondas having a competition…
Addictions and violence permeate a life… a society… a culture.
Supporting those you love,
Facing my own fears;
Tasked with aiding those in grief…
A lifetime of training?
They don’t tell you the right things to say…
Or even the wrong things to say.
“It will always come in waves… they just get further between…”
Weak tea for the knock kneed.
God
Life
Energy
Grief
Stages
Birth to death and all between;
Beautiful acceptance to righteous anger-
Fuck this mortal coil.
I’ve subdued my urges-
As often as I can…
Quieting the undesired parts of self.
But still… it’s not enough-
Now, inactions aren’t enough…
Words now forbidden-chastised-shamed-
Acutely.
What next?
Thoughts?
From one Pisces fish to you.... 