Oh, It’s Been One of Those Weeks

Aside from starting my training for LBBC’s HMV or hear my voice patient advocacy program, I’ve also literally gone crazy around the house. We’ve been doing all kinds of projects that seem to be taking way too long. We have had a people parade for Craig’s birthday including my two stepsons over the course of a week. I swear I just recalled it’s Saturday night and still not posted to my labor of love – my blog.

Well, there was an attempt to write a post so this is not entirely true. The new editors is giving me a stomach ache. I attempted to post a completely written and edited piece and went to quickly search the web to grab a link and the post vanished. Frustrating. But what’s the point of crying over spilled words. This transpired while I was trying to beat the 3 am or so deadline before Marie Ennis O’Connor does her weekly breast cancer blog roundup in which I like to get my posts included. First, I use it to deliver a post a week ant being included is an honor and a reward. I am slightly Pavlovian what can I say. It also bullhorns my words to people who may not have read it, which hopefully improves any impact it may on breast cancer awareness.

But this hasn’t been an easy week. I’m finding it incredibly difficult to let my heart open up at all. But doing nothing isn’t on the metastatic agenda. Though trying to heal in every way requires rest. And that basically requires doing nothing. That’s just not something that makes me comfortable. Doing nothing or not thinking about anything. Except when I meditate. There’s a witness meditation I recommend that helps to push thoughts aside and remind the meditator that they’re not their thoughts and are not defined by them. It also requires a great deal of concentration.

Drawing on the creative mind Learning a new trick I am drawing on a pretty regular basis which helps to clear my mind. Since I was very young I’ve written poetry. Those two creative endeavors seem like cheating since I’ve started the blog, but in many ways each is more work. My drawing has only recently begun to take shape and poetry requires an eloquence and a frugality of words. Not all poems need many rounds of editing although most do. Some of the poems just flow onto the page – the gifts from the synchronistic universal mind delivered right into my own and written with ease. Some poems have a wider breadth of ideas that take time, take many many edits, and some may even take years. Then there are good ideas that don’t make good poetry and never turn out quite right. But we wait for those magic moments. I think all writers do no matter what format they choose.

What’s really bothering me this week is that with all the things going on in this insane world, those people who are senseless and incredibly violent. They’re the ones who use ignorant dialectics and who take their positions in this world so seriously that they use their hands their minds as their weapons to harm others not to protect them as they were sworn to do. I’m not going to string together a long commentary on racism. Racism is ignorance. Racism is something that is taught. Racism is something that I deplore. I could go on for pages but it won’t help. Just know that it hurts and I find it hard to write on anything else. I loved this definition of dialectics from Wikipedia because it fully describes what my point is getting at:

Dialectic or dialectics (Greek: διαλεκτική, dialektikḗ; related to dialogue), also known as the dialectical method, is at base a discourse between two or more people holding different points of view about a subject but wishing to establish the truth through reasoned methods of argumentation. Dialectic resembles debate, but the concept excludes subjective elements such as emotional appeal and the modern pejorative sense of rhetoric.[1][2] Dialectic may thus be contrasted with both the eristic, which refers to argument that aims to successfully dispute another’s argument (rather than searching for truth), or the didactic method, wherein one side of the conversation teaches the other. Dialectic is alternatively known as minor logic, as opposed to major logic or critique. – Wikipedia

But it’s hard to forgive those using power as a kind of moral viagra. I try not to look at the news more than three or four times a week or I get really angry and my anger tends to make my language snarky. These are seriously strange times beyond my vocabulary and my gut just says “fuck.”

Not very eloquent but it’s the only word that’s a noun, verb, exclamation, adjective, and proper noun all in one four letter word. The rest aren’t strong enough. Fuck it. I say fuck you to the murderers in Minnesota who take life and amid all this tragedy add racially fueled killing to more of the ugly side of our species ability to create situations and think about consequences.

The consequences are as far reaching as the illness that caused the curfews that caused the tensions, caused the Anonymous videos to vanish, that caused a 10 minute hide out by an unglued insane global ruler, that caused us to watch a man murdered for his race by those sworn to protect and serve not hate and kill because they’re drunk on power, that caused more fear in a world verging on economic collapse while everyone closed their eyes as the crooked at the top begin taking the pie away and sending us all to either riot or demonstrate, causing us to lay face down so we cannot see what’s crushing our necks so we cannot breathe.

There’s a very ugly parallel between the murder of a man and the the killing of thousands by a virus most likely unleashed by a lack of social control. The man was already sick with a congenital heart condition so he was already in a situation that put his life in danger. That’s true for Covid and those with weak immune systems. There’s no cure for the men who killed him. No riot, no peaceful demonstrations can change his death. No time and no medicine can bring back the dead. No one was really watching the people meant to protect us who killed a man who did not resist arrest. There’s objective video proof. There’s proof that the powers who pose as protectors knew about the virus well before it became news and before elderly people died alone without anyone to help them to the light of the spirit world. And if there is one I pray they’re given special treatment as the man who was killed in cold blood by those who were supposed to protect him. We won’t know the true severity of the outcomes of either event for years to come, and we won’t really ever know the truth.

Racism is real and it’s shocking and it’s plain stupid. But remember the average IQ is 100 – there’s 49% of the population on the short bus. And then there’s are those who are smart enough to know better. And then there are victims dying on a planet covered with clouds of sadness crying polluted tears. We can trust no one in power to help. We can believe nothing broadcast to us because it’s all like wartime propaganda – and nothing seems quite right. There’s 5G towers going up and fuck if I know if it’ll help deliver messages of hatred and open our immunity to Covid? Do you hand out hope amid a global economic depression of proportions we’ve not seen in history -ever?

Seriously I know you are thinking, “she’s finally lost it, get out the straight jacket.” I feel like going to sleep on the sofa. While editing my post the commentary of my beloved can’t have been much worse. It’s 5:30 am. Having been writing since after dinner and not moved since, he says, “I’m upset with you.” Why? He’s not saying. I can’t think beyond the weight of life and he just can’t fathom my intensity.

What can I control? There’s resilience that metastatic cancer has taught us to reach into our viscera, pull out our strength, and know exactly what to do next. Myself. Lead by example and don’t fall prey to the bullshit yet don’t remain silent out of fear. We’ve faced our mortality already. We’ve nothing to lose. So even if you don’t agree with me it’s perfectly okay. But doing the right thing means deploying a well tuned moral compass and exhibiting love where hate can go metastatic in a heartbeat.

Here’s a poem I have done at least 50 drafts of including a total rewrite on the premise alone. I was going to turn over the one that came out in a moment as it was intended on my part. Those are from god if there’s a god. A gift. A piece of our souls. No, I didn’t give that one away yet to time and to beckon critique. I’m giving you the hard one. The turgidity was painful getting it out. It’s still not quite right but oh so apropos.

Remember I love you all by the way. There’s not enough being shared but a dearth of it to cover and protect every single living creature. I’m sincere – you have someone who loves you as long as I breathe. And life is all you need so live it knowing you are loved.

Victim
Dark blue night wings overhead
Snuffing out the last of the day.
If memory serves,
Against curtains of magenta
Birds with flaming wings
Burned the scene into the scene –
The stripes earned by stones
Over years of echoes
Outside the river banks
Snake the eon twisted canyons
How stubbornly the water flows.
For a life as long as a blink the same Picture on every postcard.
Markers of a trip out west
We lower ourselves and continue to Take frozen photos to describe
By the end of the poem
A couplet of a sunset
Sinks below the canyons, finding us
Buried with sky writers of yesterday.

Let’s go kill this scene off
Erase the canyons from the
Bucket list. I bristle at the very idea And insisting angry I hear myself Echoing across the painted walls –
Kicking a bucket is no better revenge
Of a life well lived.
A container cannot defend itself –
It stores pictures without words.
Believing in emptiness
We never fill up our containers
And rename our dreams to fit
Infinite, empty, and black as ink.

Cat’s Cradle

Pink cheeky girls woke up
Hearing my screams in the dank alleyway.
Just a caterwauling stray, they yawn,
Slipping into their pretty dreams
In between rose covered sheets —
Lining the inside of a restful box.

Curled up like kittens having tea
Painted into black flocked drops
Still life frozen stiff.
Another innocent mother
Wasting her love
Couldn’t know what to do:
Crying deeper than an orphan
With a never ending need
Of a basic meal and the itch unscratched it’s Mottled by parasites.

With her tongue like a steak knife
She cuts the fleas
From their bare coats.
Nearing silence finally in hearing Satisfaction in their innocent mews, Rewarded by the razor sharp claws Ripping, scratching, pushing for more. Without a sound she moves away as
They watch her slowly
Slip and back away. A last sound
Like an old door shutting she closes Herself from their endless hunger.

Finding parts everywhere,
Slashed and scattered, she collects herself
From the pavement glass and stones
Hearts and bones under a red porch.
Food and water sometimes appear
Bowing into the dish and darting
Up for air and reassurance no one’s there.
In a crisis of conscience
One rarely finds relief or the space To eat for food for thought.

I press against a window, yet at night When it’s light inside you see only a Reflection of the night.
Seeing her own green eyes in the glass Afraid of her own image – is that what I am?
Running faster and passing the pink girls who turned in,
Between Egyptian cotton sheets of papyrus,
She never once let a word out again – The litter stole everything
Including her tongue.

They sleep and wait for her,
But wake to find me instead. The frightened babes, bottle fed and unnaturally fat.
It’s true that all of us may never find home
And the coats we wear
Are the coats of the pick pocketed and the poor: all of us victims
Crying for our mothers.

Sharing responses to the prompt, What do you see; Jen- “Whispers” ©J.E.Goldie – What do you see # 30 – 18 May 2020, Christine Bialczak- What do you …

I wait for her to enter sleep, the door left open to my world. I hear her cries and let wind blow her tears from her dreams into a sudden sun shower. Hope beckons her near me. I’m no longer in her room, her mentor. The light burned too brightly and my time came to follow it up the tunnel to the great unknown. She’s not ready for so much tragedy. Fires swept her away yet she grew back stronger with each spark that exchanged green for black.

This night she came to me as I stood by the white horse fence. I emerged from a barn to see her standing bewildered on the far side of a pond that appeared from nowhere but these things magically transpire like my face, beautiful and young on thus side of the light.

Standing next to her just by thinking it so, she felt my touch and let out the music of pure joy and of the deepest pain at once. Taking her hand I tell her it’s her time to fly and mine had passed away. Then we walked in Dreamtime for hours but minutes later it was done.

I kissed her cheek and told her a secret she won’t recall in words. But she feels it – I can know only that much. It’s all I’m allowed. Of course I left her a piece of silk – the colors of sunsets and sunrises at once. The scarf she lost as a young girl. 16 with nowhere to go but to a home lined with men but not love. She found a way to paint the sky with her heart song, to which I taught her the worlds so long ago.

The scarf blew into her bedroom window, now hanging in the room where she learned to heal those who could not recover but only find comfort in the laying of hands. In laying my hand in hers that night, she was able to wake up and lose her pain so she could continue what began the day she learned the words to the song of her heart.

I whispered,”sing.” And like a phoenix she let me go to be reborn- she fell from the dream like a baby bird from a nest and with the sky colored scarf in her talons she painted the sunrise all on her own.

https://lifeafter50forwomen.com/2020/05/18/what-do-you-see-30-18-may-2020/ (For the visually challenged reader, the image shows a young girl standing…

Sharing responses to the prompt, What do you see; Jen- “Whispers” ©J.E.Goldie – What do you see # 30 – 18 May 2020, Christine Bialczak- What do you …

Look at me

#keepitalive #poetry

I’m in the stacks high as a half floor of the classics held between the pages and wands and cups. Looking deeper your eyes burn holes with the investment of tonight or a lifetime.

Emma or Juliet or Madam Bovary protect the faces prettier than hers in the quadrant always mowed in rows – cut grass rusted between the notes.

Spiraling and bound there’s no word for the sound a girl makes when all the nexts and fortunes and eventides behold a barely audible thing. Listen to it boil from my throat.

Women fainting in the humid doorless rooms inadequately chaired. Sit there behind Heathcliff and expose those white thighs to Flaubert and smell those Madeline-scented clavicles, songs wafted up from hot pipes. B sharp A minor chord comes to warn us all to keep our distance.

That very day I left the mold blooms and heard the copilots speech, balloons began rising ever so slowly. I learnt that heat rises and a cold sinks like a feeling of mediocrity.

Not the virgin she’s reborn a little girl. Not a diving bell. Not an oven door to a living hell. Not the clamber of a piano on the short seashore with the conch shells and their perverse Fibonacci shapes sequencing his final thought.

She’s guarding my life with the covers of a book forgotten, in return naughty but respectfully right, on the shelf – so you reach her cheek in your dreams.

Fingers part my lines, as the stuff of your words open my mouth like a cannon. A Captain, a whale, and the man whose name you’d never know sat between us.

You still call him Ishmael. We all find out what his name means as one of the dead. That very second we pull ourselves out of this fictional life.

I died to finally read the last sentence, the words no one knows.

Flattening the curve of the earth, weakened at the knees, her neck craned around to notice he’d gone.

Pleased to return Dentistry in Suburban Phuket, forevermore out of print, it once ran cyan, magenta, yellow, and black.

Printed on my imagination the greatest achievement of self discovery.

I thought you’d finally agonize for me.