introspective

Hive – NapoWriMo Day 4

Hive

Find an outside open space,
and let the sun warm your face.
Or, feel your skin embibe the rain
that whispers through trees and must explain
Arcane knowledge, secrets of old.
Be filled up by the stories told as
Fingers of wind run through your hair,
Combing doubts that linger there
Releasing knots of tangled cares.
Now racing pulse and rushing blood,
Let the distant, dormant memories flood
And the deeper thoughts linger, flutter, hum
Swirling, dancing to the drum.
Wings aflutter, they buzz inside –
Exhale the bees, expel the hive
They swarm and swirl, they land, collide
Their sting – it is the poem.

ATM 4/4/2022

https://www.napowrimo.net/day-two-9/
http://www.napowrimo.net

The Last Moments of Hospice -NaPoWriMo Day 3

The Last Moments of Hospice

Deep in the night
I sleep erect, but awake when
Inches from my face, a stranger tells me
He is gone.
And he is, the father that existed
No longer resides in the bed
Only a hollow human carapace
That once held a soul.
Over him, they drape a flag
Pulled all the way up
And what is left
Is barely there
Since day after day,
breath by breath, he has dissipated
Into the ether
Solid becoming gas
And however slight his form
The weight of it
Crushes me.

ATM – 4/3/2022

https://www.napowrimo.net/day-two-9/

Author’s Note:

I did not follow the prompt today, folks. I took a walk on a quite beautiful (if not pollen filled) day and listened to last week’s This American Life, which featured a piece on Hospice nurses. It’s quite powerful, but took me back to my father’s passing, and ignited grief and pain. I used NaPoWriMo to try to help alleviate some of it.


Prey -NaPoWriMoDay 27

Today’s Prompt was ot come from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. What a collection of melancoly!!! I chose nighthawk.

Prey

The night has a rhythm:
The steady, neverending ticking of the clock
(because time never stops.)
The leaky faucet that plinks plinks plinks
On the inside of my eyelids.
The beating wings of the nighthawk;
It glides, soars through the the infinity of night
between consciousness and sleep.

The night has a buzz:
The overhead fan slowly spinning.
The old refrigerator motor struggles.
The distant, slow moving train stops and starts, stops and starts
The thoughts inside my brain
The nighthawk circles, loops,
Swoops to prey upon my insomnolence.

There is no escape.

4/28/2021

https://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/post/54040771701/nighthawk
https://www.napowrimo.net/

Day In, Day Out – NaPoWriMo Day 21

Day in, Day Out, I toil away

Begin, then end – another day.

Day In, day I sow my seeds

Taking care of everyone else’s needs

Day In, Day Out, I tire so

And don’t display the tears that flow.

Day In, Day out, all days the same

Both ends my candle burns with flame

Day in, Day out Day out, Day In

I wait for this pattern to rescind.

4/26/21

http://www.napowrimo.net

Author’s Note:

I am very far behind on the #napowrimo challenge. It has been a trying week running our business and I have just had no energy to think when I have been home. That being said, I am trying to fill in a few back days! I want to thank whoever out there is reading…and I am grateful for the community that is supporting this challenge!

Reflection- NaPoWriMo-Day 15

I don’ sleep much and I find myself

Wide awake in the middle of the night.

I chew antacids. I chew aspirin.,

and I pace the floor, chain-smoking cigarettes

(But I do not smell like smoke at all.)

I catch my profile in a darkened window;

My reflection is

A Female version of you.

I sing out loud in public places

Loudly and often,

And forget people’s names

Awkwardly, and often

And judge

(But I don’t judge at all)

Their music (Noise!)

Their clothing (that’s in style again?)

I dance in the kitchen

And complain

Loudly and often

( But I don’t mean it)

And when I hear you, I hear myself

My voice is

A female version of you.

4/15/21

Stuck

So, KG and I were stranded at Lakewood Amphitheater, and were taking a break from the music to brainstorm on our predicament.  We sat in front of the bathrooms, since there are only one set of bathrooms there, anyone we might have known who happened to be there might just pass right by, and we would hitch a ride back to my Ford Tempo where it was parked along side of Interstate 85.

The year was 1996, way back before  Uber, Facebook messenger, or texts.  Cell phones were super expensive then…too expensive for me to afford, that’s for sure!  And this was Atlanta in the 90s, so cabs weren’t that common, especially on the south side of town.  We had been lucky to get to the venue, since after an hour on the road from Alpharetta my tiny car had began to smoke from the June heat and sputtered to a stop in the emergency lane.  Traffic crept along beside us as KG and I debated on what to do.

Should we walk?

 Do you know how far it is?

I can’t make it far in these shoes…

We are going to miss the show!  

I spent a lot of money on those tickets to miss that show!

Our lamenting was interrupted by a head darkening my window.  A dread locked girl with kohl rimmed, blood shot eyes was inches away from my face at my open window.  Her arms crossed akimbo in my window frame, she smiled and chirped, “Are y’all headed to see the Cure?”

“Yes!  Yes we are!”  KG and I were practically in unison, in our words and in our desperation.

“Wanna bum a ride with us?”  With a side nod of her head and a swish of dreadlocks, she gestured to a Volkswagon Bug that was idling in front of my car. We hadn’t noticed the vehicle pull in front of us, being so intent in our conversation.

We locked up the ‘Go-Cart’ (yes, that was the car’s name…) and jumped in the VW.  I was all a twitter with thoughts of being kidnapped or robbed, but was eased by seeing the presence of only 20 something girls like KG and I.  “Hey man,”  I muttered.  “Thanks!  We really appreciate this.”

“Not a problem!” the girl chirped.  The engine cranked into life, and Lenny Kravitz blasted through the car, telling us us to Spread a little love and get high.  The girl in the back took his suggestion and fired up a pinner, which we passed around until 10 minutes later, when we arrived at the venue.

We raced inside and up into the lawn.  Our heads were blurry and buzzy in the best way, and  we danced and sung and spun.

“Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick
The one that makes me scream, she said
The one that makes me laugh, she said
And threw her arms around my neck….”

We enjoyed the music and environment until I could not quiet the ever growing paranoia about the impending end of the concert and our lack of transportation once that moment came. 

So, there we were, halfway through the concert, sitting in front of the bathrooms, missing the band that we overheated and abandoned my car to watch, and searched the crowd for any familiar face. 

And, there he was.

I had not seen Miles in about 2 years.  He was my first love, and long time friend.  We had met my senior year in high school when I worked at a popular music store.  We dated that year, and he took me to my prom. Although we broke up (code for he dumped me) before I left for college in 1993, we remained friends, although it often broke my heart.  In 1995 after I had left university, we worked together again at a restaurant and hung out constantly.  There was many a drunken night where we would….. relive old times.  Despite those nights, he was always on the lookout for the BBD. (Bigger Better Deal…the prettier, smarter, easier girl Etc.) One night we had together I called him on it….and he had never returned a phone call since.

And now, here he was.

He strolled out of the men’s, accompanied by a couple of his friends and ex roommates and stopped.  My heart leapt. Could I ASK for a better answer to my problem?  Here was my friend.  Here was a safe ride. Here was a chance to reconnect to someone who (at the time) I thought was my great white whale.

A leggy blonde exited the ladies restroom, and skipped to him.   She grabbed his hand, gazed up at him and smiled widely. He smiled back.  My poor heart sank. It sank fast.

But I couldn’t lose the ride home.

“Miles!” I yelled, waving wildly. KG groaned.  She had spent the last 3 years hearing me blather on about him and was not happy about his sudden appearance back into my life, knowing her conversations with me would, once again, be ruminating over the relationship with Miles …or the lack thereof.

Miles’ head jerked away from the blonde’s gaze and towards us.  The smile fell from his face and his eyes widened.  The  expression on his face changed quickly from bewilderment to guilt. He immediately dropped the blonde’s hand. Then he grinned and corralled his friend group toward us.  He enveloped me in a warm, sweaty hug.

I did not ask why he hadn’t called.  I didn’t where he had been, or how he could just ghost me as a friend.

I hugged him back. I explained our predicament, and I asked for a ride to my car.  There was no way Miles or his crew were going to leave us stranded at Lakewood Amphitheater.  We would meet in front of the restrooms after the concert.  We all piled back into the lawn to watch the reminder of the show.

I sat, and spun. So relieved. So sad.  How can one feel all this at once?  Robert Smith sung to me, and me alone. An ache bloomed in the pit of my stomach and my eyes welled with tears. I let go. I let the tears stream down my face. I  let the music wash over me.

“.….And every time I try to pick it up like falling sand
As fast as I pick it up
It runs away through my clutching hands
But there’s nothing else I can really do
There’s nothing else I can really do
There’s nothing else I can really do at all….”

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Gen X childhood

Honestly, what I remember most from my childhood is being alone.

I actually haven’t considered  it much as an adult until my sister brought it up after her recent injury.  Suffering from a quite severe break to her humerus, my sister needed a lot of help adjusting to her temporary one-armed life after her injury.  My mom, who was living across the parking lot from her, seemed to be the most convenient, and – one would think – compassionate of helpers during this time.

Now – sidebar- my sis is not an amiable patient. Nor a patient patient. (I love those two words together!)  She is demanding, ornery (on an everyday basis, before any injury is involved) and her behavior is often pejorative.

I called my sister to check on her a few days post surgery.  Her response was, per the usual, to complain. “Mom is NOT a good caregiver.  I’d have been better off hiring someone!  It makes me try to remember: what was she like when we were young?”

At first, it seemed ridiculous to even entertain. After several reports/bitch-fests from my sister, I did start to ponder it.  What are my memories from childhood, and what do they contain?  They contain me.  They contain Eric Best, the kid up the street, who taught me how to ride my bike.  They entail a tape recorder and a hideaway in a coat closet where I would hide away and record my lonely thoughts.

Not that my childhood was horrible- it wasn’t.  I don’t have horrible memories.  However, my memories, when I recollect, include very little of my family.

I was a latchkey kid at 8 years old.  My sister was in middle school, and both my parents worked in the school system.  I recollect that the bus dropped me off around 2:45pm, and my sister didn’t get home till around 5:30. I would get off of the bus, and walk around to the back door (because somehow this made me look  conspicuously less alone) and I let myself in by the key I wore around my neck.  I would spend the next 2 hours cowered in the kitchen or the den until my sister got off of the middle school bus, where she would immediately lock herself in her room and talk on the phone.

My mom and my stepdad worked, and then went out to dinner  with each other.  I remember my kid-made dinners as Lebanon bologna sammies, fried bologna with BBQ sauce or frozen dinners.  That being said, my mom had actually stopped cooking 2 years prior. A family dinner ended abruptly when my sister and I had asked my dad if the side dish was any good (since we were being forced to eat it. )  My dad said. “NO.”

By the time I was 13, I was in a competition cheer squad, and heavily involved in the youth group of a church of two of my cheer team mates. I was dropped off at home my other people parents, and I was picked up for church services by older kids.

At 14, I was dating a guy 6 years older than me, and hanging out with his friends.  As a side note, I speak with my 14 year old niece and think…what the hell were my parents thinking?? I DID meet the guy in church and the relationship remined somewhat chaste, but if had been any other guy, the story could be different.

But that’s just it –  it’s not a different story. It almost sounds like a Stephen King story where the child characters in a Stephen King novel  seem to live in a bubble and have absent parents, bullies,

Gen Xers out there – what was your childhood like?  Were your parents front and enter or orbitig in the background?

A Miner for A Heart Of Gold

In 2004, I went through an incredibly difficult breakup.  I had to move out of the house I had helped my boyfriend buy, and left all the furniture behind as well.  (He walked in the day after he dumped me, tossed 800 dollars in my lap and said “I’m keeping all the furniture.” ) Also, He and I were working  at the same Dive bar at the time. I had been laid off of my software job a few months previous, and I had gone back to slinging drinks at our local watering hole to pay the bills. I had to quit.  I couldn’t work there – I couldn’t look at him.  I couldn’t NOT bring my personal BS into work because it stared me in the face every shift.

So – no furniture.  No house (it was in his name)  and no job.  

I was 29, and it was like God had shook out my rug, scattered everything to the heavens and had left me, alone, in a cloud of dust.

I had already known Dave for a couple of years,  The ex and I  had met him at an open mic night that the ex hosted.  He was an odd bird, and was ok with being a loner.  He would sit in the back, in a booth by himself, and drink beer or Diet Coke and lime and watch until it came his time to play.  He was a consummate musician, and loved Neil Young and James Taylor.  His originals were folky and funny, and drew me to invading his booth many a night to talk to him.  He might have been odd, but he was interesting as hell and had lived a hundred lifetimes in his almost 50 years.  

When he heard of our breakup, he called me, offered an ear or a shoulder – I took both.  Dave was the friend who always listened.  He never told me to change the subject, he never judged my desperation, my anger, or my tears.  He stayed up late nights with me, kept me away from my darker thoughts and drank, played music, sang with me, and listened.

He told me I’d be good at “livin’ mercenary” and taking jobs as they came, that I had to put myself out there.  I called a few people.  I  got a few private bartending shifts and became on-call for a private caterer in town.  I picked up a couple of shifts at a Buckhead club for lunches. I paid my bills,

Dave was a private investigator, and taught the certification course for P.I. certification.   He suggested that if I got licensed as a P.I. myself that could compile that with my I.T. degree to pursue a new enhanced IT career in computer forensics.  He was my teacher and mentor there as well – and I got to see a completely different side of him as he taught, and dove into the darkness of the things he had seen and done as well.

I asked him, after a class once, if he had nightmares.  If he had regrets.  His answer?  “What for?  It was what it was.  I learned from it, I move on. You gotta let that shit go or it’ll eat you up.”

Two months after the breakup, when some “friend” gleefully called me to let me know my Ex was already engaged, Dave was the one who threw me a “pity party”, and took me out to get soundly and publicly drunk.  And the next day, as he drove me back to my car, he told me, “Dear, we celebrated a turning point last night, for him and for you. He’s moved on.  You need to start doing that too.  You gotta let that shit go, or it’ll eat you up.”

Keep in mind he also told me that same morning that morning that, although I was a beautiful woman, that I looked like ever-loving shit.  HA!  Thank for those tequila shots, Dave!  😀

Still, as months progressed, as I progressed,  he always listened, never judged.  When he gave advice, it was sound and thoughtful because he listened so intently.  Granted, at the time, there were no smart phones, but as time went on and they because common, he still wouldn’t buy one. When he was with you, he was with you.

Some of the best advice he told me was to keep some of me for myself.  

“Darlin’, you give 150% of yourself to whoever you are in a relationship with.  No one on earth deserves that.  You should give 100% of 80% of you.  You always reserve your energy for you.  That way, you always have the strength and the wherewithal to carry on, and make good decisions when things go south.”

I guess he was telling me to be selfish with myself. 😀

I lost my friend Dave on January 20th of 2017 to bone cancer.  Losing hime felt incredibly cruel to me, who had just lost a father, and incredibly cruel to his wife, who had already been widowed once to the big C.  I miss him everyday.  I can still hear his voice.

I try not to be sad – because, hell, darlins… You gotta let that shit go, or it will eat you up.

I Love Finding Poems like this!

Life Story by Tennessee Williams

After you’ve been to bed together for the first time,
without the advantage or disadvantage of any prior acquaintance,
the other party very often says to you,
Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you,
what’s your story? And you think maybe they really and truly do

sincerely want to know your life story, and so you light up
a cigarette and begin to tell it to them, the two of you
lying together in completely relaxed positions
like a pair of rag dolls a bored child dropped on a bed.

You tell them your story, or as much of your story
as time or a fair degree of prudence allows, and they say,
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,
each time a little more faintly, until the oh
is just an audible breath, and then of course

there’s some interruption. Slow room service comes up
with a bowl of melting ice cubes, or one of you rises to pee
and gaze at himself with mild astonishment in the bathroom mirror.
And then, the first thing you know, before you’ve had time
to pick up where you left off with your enthralling life story,
they’re telling you their life story, exactly as they’d intended to all
along,

and you’re saying, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,
each time a little more faintly, the vowel at last becoming
no more than an audible sigh,
as the elevator, halfway down the corridor and a turn to the left,
draws one last, long, deep breath of exhaustion
and stops breathing forever. Then?

Well, one of you falls asleep
and the other one does likewise with a lighted cigarette in his mouth,
and that’s how people burn to death in hotel rooms