Friday, October 29, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
A Brief Lesson in Stoicism
I was reminded, just now, that I am indeed very much a practicing Stoic (Marcus Aurelius, Seneca were all famous Stoics etc.) which does not mirror the modern definition of being stoic. In a nutshell, and without reverting to a classic definition, Stoicism is about the art of living, and contemplation.
Examples – walking down the street to pick up my CSA (local farm vegetables, fruits, eggs etc.) on a weekend day, I start looking at every detail in the road, the weeds growing out of the cement, I then contemplate the particularly vivid teal blue mixing with yellow in the sky and think about how people who lived and died tens of thousands of years ago saw such a sky and how lucky I am to be alive right now.
Later, when I am talking to someone close to me, I look into their eyes and think about who they are, that mask-less, mental-less, none experienced Spirit who I share with in my life and how we found each other in whatever means we know each other and I See them, and am thankful for this, since there are those in which you never know when the last time will be (stoics call negative visualization, but its not “negative” in the way we think of that word).
Then, perhaps later on, I can’t help but feel invigorated by the colourful lights in my local pub, and appreciate that feeling of comfort, beauty and modernity they imbue to me, as I sip my Dark n' Stormy (cocktails are a very valid part of this conversation) and love every elongated second of living in ITS moment, its taste- the rum, the ginger, mixing in my mind, illuminating my heart and my belly, making me drunken and happy for that tiny fact of experience.
This is only the tip of the icebergs, but it’s a wonderful world to live enveloping. I feel lust most days, nostalgia and sadness for those lost, regrets around every corner, and have cried numerous times over so many petty, and sometimes profound things, some as a willing participant and some as a witness. I have fallen down the black hole of my own psyche, and control fetishes, and impossible dreams. But sailing around all of these awfully human experiences is this stoic idea of the moment, of appreciation of the final taste, kiss, laugh, fist fight, flight of fancy, misunderstanding or zealous exclamation, of the being in the here and now and allowing that to include the highs and lows of our humanity as we find them, surging up to our brain sensors when we hold your hand, or in the last precious drops of whiskey on our tongue, the entire of civilisation’s (and that which came before and will come again) blue sky swimming in our wake.
~ M. Lucia
Examples – walking down the street to pick up my CSA (local farm vegetables, fruits, eggs etc.) on a weekend day, I start looking at every detail in the road, the weeds growing out of the cement, I then contemplate the particularly vivid teal blue mixing with yellow in the sky and think about how people who lived and died tens of thousands of years ago saw such a sky and how lucky I am to be alive right now.
Later, when I am talking to someone close to me, I look into their eyes and think about who they are, that mask-less, mental-less, none experienced Spirit who I share with in my life and how we found each other in whatever means we know each other and I See them, and am thankful for this, since there are those in which you never know when the last time will be (stoics call negative visualization, but its not “negative” in the way we think of that word).
Then, perhaps later on, I can’t help but feel invigorated by the colourful lights in my local pub, and appreciate that feeling of comfort, beauty and modernity they imbue to me, as I sip my Dark n' Stormy (cocktails are a very valid part of this conversation) and love every elongated second of living in ITS moment, its taste- the rum, the ginger, mixing in my mind, illuminating my heart and my belly, making me drunken and happy for that tiny fact of experience.
This is only the tip of the icebergs, but it’s a wonderful world to live enveloping. I feel lust most days, nostalgia and sadness for those lost, regrets around every corner, and have cried numerous times over so many petty, and sometimes profound things, some as a willing participant and some as a witness. I have fallen down the black hole of my own psyche, and control fetishes, and impossible dreams. But sailing around all of these awfully human experiences is this stoic idea of the moment, of appreciation of the final taste, kiss, laugh, fist fight, flight of fancy, misunderstanding or zealous exclamation, of the being in the here and now and allowing that to include the highs and lows of our humanity as we find them, surging up to our brain sensors when we hold your hand, or in the last precious drops of whiskey on our tongue, the entire of civilisation’s (and that which came before and will come again) blue sky swimming in our wake.
~ M. Lucia
Afternoon in a Darkened Room
I was dead tired. The kind that couldn't be cured with coffee, tea, alcohol, walking around, daydreaming, inappropriate acts in the ladies toilet, nothing. Now I was in the land of naught, in the tiny treatment room, dressed minimally in tans and whites, like a holiday inn in Virginia, the same I once sailed through with the gypsy family, the tiny coffee maker, our sneaking the german shepherds into the room under cover of night, through the first floor (always requested) sliding glass doors. My mind couldn't fashion any more distal memories, as he put the needles in, like usual, or what I had come to expect as usual. Just as when using his elbows to break up the obsessive thoughts and lack of relief I felt in my lower back that day especially, I had breathed into it, I was a pro at wanton release. I let him separate every part of my ass that he could muster- I'm sorry. My sacrum. The place where women hide all their secrets. At least I do. I let him go to work, after which he burned me with moxa, causing my arms and hips to involuntarily twitch...I wondered if this lack of control is what my brother feels when he twitches. No wonder he got so angry all those times.
I was so tired, and couldn't wait to lie there, in that small, dark room with my body, held down as I oft enjoyed (whether needles, or the strong arms of men, or my clothes chosen for the constriction of their vintage tart appeal). I wanted to hold down my thoughts most of all. They could slap me like a whirlwind, and give me an instant hangover. The champagne the night before did me in bodily, but things in the head space are never what they should be, I've come to learn, when I awake at 3am, the witching hour, and cannot go back to sleep. It was hotter that it should have been that night, and I had felt the bubbles of the alcohol from all day brunch rising through my stomach to my head, so I had the window open again. I lived on one of the quietest streets in the one of the quietest neighborhoods in Brooklyn, but for the cacophony of school buses racing their wares all yellow and bright right after 6am or so. But it had been dark outside, and they were asleep. I had awoke and got up for water and the bathroom, and then been back in bed, my ears were working overtime. I heard everything...especially the insane cries of the many gangland birds who assaulted my eardrums and dream thoughts with their ornithological arguments, the same strangely shaped, small black birds with pointy beaks like nails on the face who wolf whistled at me sometimes on my walk to the bus, making me pull down my skirt and glare sideways at whomever was responsible. I heard their conversation in my call to fall back to sleep.
Here, back in the room, the needles were in. My head clamped down by at least five, the usual "tune up" he assigned to my arms and hands, Large Intestine 4, my personal favourite, right next to Large Intestine 5, the "Anatomical Snuff Box"...I loved saying that. It was like a copper coloured word from the turn of the century, when snuff and spitting tobacco seemed like something viable, as a past time. I guessed right at my ailments and the Doctor again said to me that I was a natural, and that when I was licensed, I could come work for him. I hoped again, in a dull, settled way that this might come true. He dimmed the lights and left the room, only returning to bring in my favourite part: the heat lamp, offering soft heat to my damp stomach, stuck with a sun and moon of needles. It's hard to keep calm when you have about twenty needles in your skin.
I, however, was aces at relaxing and emptying my mind of the worries of the weekend - his vulnerable eyes, his arguing at me about what an awful, useless person he was, those written words..."I wish you had left me to die, I have nothing to offer you...nothing to offer you..." making my chest hurt, and those wordless moments when he looked at me, after I talked his self effacing logic into another corner, and I looked at him, remembering who we once were, calfs on the way to the slaughter, at the border fence, with not the energy to re-claim our freedom and pull our heavy, lumbering limbs, sunken in the graves of our own mental making, back up into the run, into the wild spaces our brains inhabited. I suppose I had wasted a good deal of time in the dark thinking of him, of this, of the usual connections and souls that I held around me as an orbit, spinning a waltz of emotional proportion and experience.
I was still so tired, and nearly fell asleep a couple times, shades of grey, a seaside breeze, the water lapping at Bray, how every time I found myself at a beach on Long Island, I'd look out as far as I could see and hope that I could sense Ireland there, waiting for the gypsy girl to return to her drunken, sorrowful boys and their adoring, clueless ways. But here I was, lunchtime nap in needle land, my body registered with small, but sizable shocks the energy moving up my foot to my leg. The warm, orange disco ball of light on my stomach, mother to all yet no one. The session took longer than I was used to, and I kept drifting in and out, trying not to control the situation which was stuck on the fence post in my head. I heard the tiny voices from the other rooms, and yet none too clear in mine. A field of war, the past never had enough of to be satisfied, and my absolute joy at this and every moment. Deity, climax, death chamber and leaves blowing in trees all my children in each second passing, muscles relaxing, brain re-organizing, love reborn, dying and coming and blowing kisses into the next millennium, as I would meet it completely, as I am, as myself. Capital M. In the hiding place of my little heated table.
Finally, after more tastes ran their liquids up my spine - whiskey, wine, the fucking glory of a rum at Christmastime, and the thoughts sought to work themselves out, I gave in, further again, you know, when you can hear your hips un-click and you let someone into you, wrap your mind, legs, godhead around them. It was happening, it could be felt the world over...the door opened slowly and without much sound. It was a woman- tiny, Asian, of course, in blue scrubs. The doctor I deduced from all the voices during my time "asleep" was overly busy today. She took out the needles, after turning up the lights, which I was not ready for her to do. My eyes barely tried to open even when she was nearly done taking out the needles (not as adeptly and covertly as he did, by the way). I kept smiling and felt that strange heady feeling that I had experienced before - space, caught and let go, in my recesses, in my opinions, my quiet, dark escape called awake by this day time witching hour. I wondered if he would ever come out of this rabbit hole.
I remembered early on, when we first met, and he tried to decipher the dead, provincally roman (and grammatically incorrect) words on my first tattoo. He pulled my blouse over to the side, and perused, as she looked jealous, as I knew her to be. Something was mentioned about my father, and he remarked that he looked forward to meeting him...she retorted in a start, but with absolute sincerity, "you can't, he passed away a few months ago..." He had, without missing a beat, said quietly "I'm sorry to hear that". I had paid my fee, dressed and walked back out into the streets. The only thing I could think of was how, when he had said that, he seemed more genuinely disappointed at that fact that anyone I had ever met. The birds stopped screaming in my ears, and I felt a surge of atomic palpations carry me as I crossed the street, back to work.
~ M. Lucia
I was so tired, and couldn't wait to lie there, in that small, dark room with my body, held down as I oft enjoyed (whether needles, or the strong arms of men, or my clothes chosen for the constriction of their vintage tart appeal). I wanted to hold down my thoughts most of all. They could slap me like a whirlwind, and give me an instant hangover. The champagne the night before did me in bodily, but things in the head space are never what they should be, I've come to learn, when I awake at 3am, the witching hour, and cannot go back to sleep. It was hotter that it should have been that night, and I had felt the bubbles of the alcohol from all day brunch rising through my stomach to my head, so I had the window open again. I lived on one of the quietest streets in the one of the quietest neighborhoods in Brooklyn, but for the cacophony of school buses racing their wares all yellow and bright right after 6am or so. But it had been dark outside, and they were asleep. I had awoke and got up for water and the bathroom, and then been back in bed, my ears were working overtime. I heard everything...especially the insane cries of the many gangland birds who assaulted my eardrums and dream thoughts with their ornithological arguments, the same strangely shaped, small black birds with pointy beaks like nails on the face who wolf whistled at me sometimes on my walk to the bus, making me pull down my skirt and glare sideways at whomever was responsible. I heard their conversation in my call to fall back to sleep.
Here, back in the room, the needles were in. My head clamped down by at least five, the usual "tune up" he assigned to my arms and hands, Large Intestine 4, my personal favourite, right next to Large Intestine 5, the "Anatomical Snuff Box"...I loved saying that. It was like a copper coloured word from the turn of the century, when snuff and spitting tobacco seemed like something viable, as a past time. I guessed right at my ailments and the Doctor again said to me that I was a natural, and that when I was licensed, I could come work for him. I hoped again, in a dull, settled way that this might come true. He dimmed the lights and left the room, only returning to bring in my favourite part: the heat lamp, offering soft heat to my damp stomach, stuck with a sun and moon of needles. It's hard to keep calm when you have about twenty needles in your skin.
I, however, was aces at relaxing and emptying my mind of the worries of the weekend - his vulnerable eyes, his arguing at me about what an awful, useless person he was, those written words..."I wish you had left me to die, I have nothing to offer you...nothing to offer you..." making my chest hurt, and those wordless moments when he looked at me, after I talked his self effacing logic into another corner, and I looked at him, remembering who we once were, calfs on the way to the slaughter, at the border fence, with not the energy to re-claim our freedom and pull our heavy, lumbering limbs, sunken in the graves of our own mental making, back up into the run, into the wild spaces our brains inhabited. I suppose I had wasted a good deal of time in the dark thinking of him, of this, of the usual connections and souls that I held around me as an orbit, spinning a waltz of emotional proportion and experience.
I was still so tired, and nearly fell asleep a couple times, shades of grey, a seaside breeze, the water lapping at Bray, how every time I found myself at a beach on Long Island, I'd look out as far as I could see and hope that I could sense Ireland there, waiting for the gypsy girl to return to her drunken, sorrowful boys and their adoring, clueless ways. But here I was, lunchtime nap in needle land, my body registered with small, but sizable shocks the energy moving up my foot to my leg. The warm, orange disco ball of light on my stomach, mother to all yet no one. The session took longer than I was used to, and I kept drifting in and out, trying not to control the situation which was stuck on the fence post in my head. I heard the tiny voices from the other rooms, and yet none too clear in mine. A field of war, the past never had enough of to be satisfied, and my absolute joy at this and every moment. Deity, climax, death chamber and leaves blowing in trees all my children in each second passing, muscles relaxing, brain re-organizing, love reborn, dying and coming and blowing kisses into the next millennium, as I would meet it completely, as I am, as myself. Capital M. In the hiding place of my little heated table.
Finally, after more tastes ran their liquids up my spine - whiskey, wine, the fucking glory of a rum at Christmastime, and the thoughts sought to work themselves out, I gave in, further again, you know, when you can hear your hips un-click and you let someone into you, wrap your mind, legs, godhead around them. It was happening, it could be felt the world over...the door opened slowly and without much sound. It was a woman- tiny, Asian, of course, in blue scrubs. The doctor I deduced from all the voices during my time "asleep" was overly busy today. She took out the needles, after turning up the lights, which I was not ready for her to do. My eyes barely tried to open even when she was nearly done taking out the needles (not as adeptly and covertly as he did, by the way). I kept smiling and felt that strange heady feeling that I had experienced before - space, caught and let go, in my recesses, in my opinions, my quiet, dark escape called awake by this day time witching hour. I wondered if he would ever come out of this rabbit hole.
I remembered early on, when we first met, and he tried to decipher the dead, provincally roman (and grammatically incorrect) words on my first tattoo. He pulled my blouse over to the side, and perused, as she looked jealous, as I knew her to be. Something was mentioned about my father, and he remarked that he looked forward to meeting him...she retorted in a start, but with absolute sincerity, "you can't, he passed away a few months ago..." He had, without missing a beat, said quietly "I'm sorry to hear that". I had paid my fee, dressed and walked back out into the streets. The only thing I could think of was how, when he had said that, he seemed more genuinely disappointed at that fact that anyone I had ever met. The birds stopped screaming in my ears, and I felt a surge of atomic palpations carry me as I crossed the street, back to work.
~ M. Lucia
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Silly Mommy!
Dragging herself out of bed, the groggy mommy reached for her purple robe and put it on as she shuffled her way to the bathroom. After splashing cold water on her face and brushing her teeth, the somewhat revived mommy then headed for her daughters’ bedroom to wake them up. “Time to get up, Angels! Please get dressed and come up for breakfast.” Their daddy had already kissed them "good-morning" before he left for work. Pulling her robe tighter around her, she then made her way to the kitchen. It had snowed the night before, and she could feel the morning chill seep through the bottom of the doors. She put on her over-sized fuzzy slippers and got to work. First breakfast then lunches. As she busily got to it, she found herself thinking about her husband. He was always happy in the morning. Singing in the shower, smiling. She, on the other hand, had to make an effort to shrug off the temptation to crawl back into bed and go back to sleep. She was not a morning person. A bowl of cereal, toast, juice and water made up their breakfasts. “Come and get it!” Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, apples, cheese crackers, fruit juice, cupcakes and a note completed their lunches. The girls came running into the dining room, laughing and giggling. The inspired mommy set off to get dressed when she realized what time it was.
”Hurry!" prodded the now panicked mommy. "We're going to miss the school bus!" Getting the girls to the school bus on time was essential. After breakfast, it was rush rush rush with the teeth brushing and the tangled hair combing and the getting-the-shoes-on-at-the-last-minute. “Damn!” The frantic mommy had forgotten to heat up the car, and being that it was so cold out, the engine needed time to warm up. She grabbed her keys and ran outside into the crunchy snow filling her slippers with each sinking step. Cursing under her breath, the stressed out mommy attempted to open the car door when she realized it was frozen shut. “Son of a bitch!” After working it a little, she was able to open it causing an avalanche of snow to cover her shoulders as well as the front seat of the car. Not wanting to waste any time, the irritated mommy sat on the front seat, soaking her behind as she started the engine. After blasting the heat which was freezing cold, she reached for the ice scraper on the back seat which wasn't there. Now, the angry mommy was cursing expletives under breath as she made her way to the windshield, using the sleeve of her robe to wipe off the snow. Her happy husband, in his cheer, forgot to put the ice scraper back into her car. Covered in snow and feeling the chill, she hurried back inside to get to her daughters. "Let's go, Ladies!" yelled the shivering mommy. The bus stop was less than a minute away. She could do this.
With numbed fingers, the frazzled mommy buckled in her little ones. She was not about to miss that bus. Getting into her seat, she tried to shut the door when she realized it wouldn't. That is, not until the car was warmed up. About to blow, but being painfully aware of her happy little angels in the back seat, the controlled mommy held the door closed with one hand while clutching the steering wheel with the other. As she made her way down the long driveway, she prayed for the ice to thaw on her windshield so she could see where she was going. The morning sun wasn’t warm enough to melt it, and the car heater hadn’t yet reached the defrosting temperature. As she entered the road, the blinding sun reflecting off the snow-covered road caused her to slow down to a snail’s pace. A quiet hysteria started to mount as she leaned toward the window, peering through peephole of visibility that was beginning to form. Finally nearing the bus stop, the adrenaline-rushed mommy felt victorious as she looked at the clock on the dashboard and noticed she was two minutes early!
Idling on the empty road, she wondered, ” Where is everybody?" She could feel the panic rise in her again. "What's going on? Did we miss the bus?! Did the bus driver come early?! Nah, he’ll be a little late because of the snow. He always is. Where the heck is he?! I don’t want to you to be late for school! I'll have to walk you in!” As she proceeded to lose her mind, the little ones in the back just waited for their mommy to return. When she did, they were finally on their way to school with the door shut, heat blasting and full visibility.
Still buzzing a little, the perturbed mommy remembered that she was in her robe and slippers, and it was obvious that she hadn’t run a brush through her hair. Imagining herself walking her kids into the school nearly put her over the edge. “Crap!” The agitated mommy drove a little faster than usual until she entered the school zone. She wasn’t in the mood to get pulled over by the Sheriff again, embarrassing herself and her children.
As they slowly approached the school, the frenzied mommy noticed it was deserted. Huh? No teachers. No buses. No morning hustle bustle of parents dropping off their children. What the…? And then it hit her – there was no school that day! It was an in-service day, and if she had bothered to read the notices brought home in the girls' backpacks...
In that moment, the incredulous mommy did what she always did - she laughed...out loud. The girls chimed in. "Silly Mommy!" You got that right. Feeling relieved, the smiling mommy turned her car around and drove into their better, calmer day.
-LD
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Lady Rant
I hate feminists. Perhaps I shouldn’t, because I know there is a reason for them. I know that these implements to our culture need existing, since I am a woman, and been a rather lucky one. Other than the usual cat calls, to which I gage energy and respond in the proper fashion – a good natured, homeless man who yells a jazz like WOW when I crossed his path, well, that’s some element of life force winking at me, and neither am I to look down on this man for being “inferior” in my mind, nor place him in the seat of the angels, where his reaction is all about my eyes. Cause I know it’s not. But I smile for him, tell him thank you, dance a ways and pretend my fake dime store ring is actually on my ring finger, and we go our separate ways. On the other hand, when the energy is bad, conniving, controlling and filled with anger, I spout my grandfather’s favourite Croatian curses, translated into English, like “I hope your mother gets raped in the ass by 1000 inmates” or some such bursting nugget of reactionary self-anger.
I know I am coming from a different place, wherein if I am to attend a “ladies” anything – brunch, meal, party, get together – I sweat a bit more, I get nervous and tongue tied, and feel…..unsafe. Women have this way of living in a duality of trust and if they sense you are taking something imagined from them, they will lash out. Or worse yet, try to slice your skin with each passing fake smile or kind word which tends to insult you at the very same time. Maybe this is a game once played in Eden, maybe it all comes from the serpent and the blame. I always preferred the story of Lilith, who had the knowledge and said “fuck you” to the voice in the trees who told her she shouldn’t and ascended to heaven, or the skies, or somewhere where she didn’t have to feel held down.
Back to this time period though – give me a film with a bunch of men in it, whether violent, or crass, silly or downright aggressive, and I love it. The action is always stronger than the word. Or the idea that an actor can produce a long and antiquated soliloquy seems outdated and less effectual than one look caught in the dreaded silence of James Dean’s eyes. Women have all these plans…ones which on their own are just fine to think about, to enact and have, but half of them live their life to this already mapped out notion in their women heads about who they are and what they need to feel like they want to feel, or who they need around them to feel that way. It’s all about control. You take that from them and they crumble to the ground, their 10 story building made of paste and flour. They aren’t all like this. Many are like me, and those women are the greatest friends and compatriots I could ever ask for. But feminism – I always took to Camille Paglia more than Gloria Steinem. True, my mother was born during WWII and went from her father’s house to my father’s / her husband’s, and was a housewife throughout my childhood. I hated it then – I wanted to be like the other kids whose mothers were out there working and making something of themselves. Boy is that idea overrated. But I understand the other side, I do. I just have this rule – any fashion, idea, pastime, or action which is mostly or solely made up of well to do white people, hipsters, the rich, those who need hobbies and activates to fill their vacant minds…those things are suspect is all I am saying.
Feminism as an idea, I know, is not cycling, or trying new restaurants like hats. But the scale of what is being fought for gets jumbled in my head. Suburban, or just generally comfortable women can get a lot done, but seems to be they’re not fighting very hard for those who are shit poor, saddled down with an army of children, and regrets, and worries that will not allow their minds to even contemplate an idea outside of that struggle. That is the true difference between the haves and have nots. The ability to dream. This is untrue, at the heart of it all. A man serving a prison sentence for life can dream and grow and change and sail his mind to anywhere possible, and it happens, but on the whole, those who are slaves to money (all are, but they actually work the fields in heat and seemingly Calvinistic destiny) are never let their heads to rise about the murky poisoned backwash that the rest have flushed their way. They can, but they forget, and then the whip comes down again and they have to worry, and strain and fight and struggle. I don’t see why women should be fighting and organizing for such immediate, easily deal able things, when there is so much MORE out there. I wouldn’t mind their workings, if they even recognized the world, as it is.
If you think about the entire histories of the cultures as they’ve existed, women were the spoils of war, like rancid meat, you conquered a country, you stole them and fucked them. You wanted a wife, you took her, probably as a child, fucked her in the body and in the head until she accepted it. In Bosnia, rape was systematically used to defeat the weaker side. Stories bouncing around my head of a woman who was raped by the soldiers, her baby put into the oven, another women received similar, only they cut her head off while her infant lay at her side. These are extremes but they have been happening all throughout the nightmare of history and are happening all around this spinning firestorm we call a planet. Women have and are being beaten, enslaved, silenced and forgotten about day after day after day, and all I can see is well dressed women in silk blouses picketing about their being offended by some character in a TV show or banding together to turn men into the grandest pussies on the planet.
This is where Camille Paglia comes in. She remarked once about real men, and what in the hell happened to them. IN women standing up for themselves mainly in the Western, modern world i.e. America, they changed the roles up, demanded more, and believe me – I know the way women’s brains can pick at men like dead weeds growing out of a swimming pool. I’ve been guilty of it – but the word nag comes to mind, I stop myself as quickly as I can. There is nothing worse than women nagging men about their very own thought process, or lack thereof. Camille talked about how her father and that generation (my father’s too) were strong, able bodied, absolute men. For better or for worse. There will always be doting, docile women who want to be given a little place to hide, and that’s just fine. There will always be curving, fire hearted ones like me who would rather Create a world in which to spar rather than tell you about my day. But, the men have changed and not for the better. They’re like puppets of whitewashed masculinity – in the place of their male egos (which have the same amount of place as ego in general but still, you have to play your part in the performance of life) is the rot of circumstance, just breeding soft, ineffectual hatreds below the surface.
As with any other ‘commentary’ on life today, I find myself outside of it, looking for the mask of eyeliner eyes, deciding that my mind cannot cease its knowledge absorption, and that the hackneyed, teetering strands of people have circled our mouse-trails too many times in this world’s civilizing for nearly anyone to really engage the Fire of what makes their hearts beat loud in their collective yearning.
~ M. Lucia
For Saint, continued
Black hole pissing down reason into his own socket-eyes. The meaning cannot be demarcated - his black sharpie needs to darken colour in his sky. Take the naught and go forward- If every day is a murk landslide, then fall through, come out dirty + live a new day, starting Now. You are a monster, yes? And we are all the saints? Normals, all on a glide? Your ever thickening self hatred rears guilt like rainwater. Yours, the only demon bound to itself, lying black and curled up, just around each final corner, in the fetal position,
-incapacitated. He wants you to light him on fire and send him up to the heavens' celestial stems, but you are afraid you won't be but hollowed out, grey ash; without a stink, or any sense of living. I don't mind that you never loved me like you did her (her strength held back a faceless wall cemented for life, mine a tidal wave behind, causing the bricks of the wall to sail past, sometimes hitting you in the face). Still, stop trying to find yourself in the heartless. I'm sorry to say, even if everything comes wrong in you, you are not one of those. In the darkness of a mountain always in shade, your story abides. You will always find my hand at your side, formulating landscapes in equations about you, since you cannot see the curtain, rise.
~ M. Lucia
-incapacitated. He wants you to light him on fire and send him up to the heavens' celestial stems, but you are afraid you won't be but hollowed out, grey ash; without a stink, or any sense of living. I don't mind that you never loved me like you did her (her strength held back a faceless wall cemented for life, mine a tidal wave behind, causing the bricks of the wall to sail past, sometimes hitting you in the face). Still, stop trying to find yourself in the heartless. I'm sorry to say, even if everything comes wrong in you, you are not one of those. In the darkness of a mountain always in shade, your story abides. You will always find my hand at your side, formulating landscapes in equations about you, since you cannot see the curtain, rise.
~ M. Lucia
Monday, October 25, 2010
EXERCISE
George Harrison, the former Beatle, awoke when the sun streamed in his bedroom window, and he immediately had the feeling that he was forgetting something. He sat up in bed and stroked his beard. The room looked different; rearranged slightly, maybe. The bed was the same, the dresser. His guitar was in the same stand, fretted for Gently Sleeps; he remembered playing that the last time he played. There was a new chair, that was what it was; a large green chair, cushioned, sitting outside the bathroom door. "When did that arrive?" he wondered to himself.
He was trying to remember now where he had been the night before. Sometimes this happened when he slept off a long stretch on the road, he would have periods of disorientation. They had gotten so severe the last time that he had finally visited the doctor and that was when they had discovered the tumor. Ironically, the tumor had nothing to do with the disorientation, the doctor had told him. It didn't present that way. The fatigue was tumor-related yes but not the weird feeling he had even in this moment of not remembering how he had gotten home the night before and where he had last been.
And someone was coming.
It wasn't someone in the house, not like that. He was fairly certain he was alone which was strange itself. He was never alone anymore. Well, honestly, he had never been alone. Not really. Not at anytime he could remember in his life. Except for now. But someone was coming. Someone from the outside was approaching the house. The footsteps were echoing unreasonably loud in the room. There was no way he should be able to hear this noise, was he dreaming, still asleep? It was then that he remembered that he had died. He was sitting up in bed now, full of energy, his body full and muscular as it had been, the headaches gone. He stood and crossed to the window to look down on the front garden. There was nothing there but the sound of boots walking on stone persisted.
The garden was bathed in unnatural sunshine--it was too bright and too yellow, and it lacked the haze that would typically accompany sunrises over the dew-damp on the flowers and grass. The light had an utter clarity, and the air was still, neither hot nor cold, just standing firm. Only the water in the pond moved; a single wave moving deliberately, too slow even.
And someone was coming.
He was trying to remember now where he had been the night before. Sometimes this happened when he slept off a long stretch on the road, he would have periods of disorientation. They had gotten so severe the last time that he had finally visited the doctor and that was when they had discovered the tumor. Ironically, the tumor had nothing to do with the disorientation, the doctor had told him. It didn't present that way. The fatigue was tumor-related yes but not the weird feeling he had even in this moment of not remembering how he had gotten home the night before and where he had last been.
And someone was coming.
It wasn't someone in the house, not like that. He was fairly certain he was alone which was strange itself. He was never alone anymore. Well, honestly, he had never been alone. Not really. Not at anytime he could remember in his life. Except for now. But someone was coming. Someone from the outside was approaching the house. The footsteps were echoing unreasonably loud in the room. There was no way he should be able to hear this noise, was he dreaming, still asleep? It was then that he remembered that he had died. He was sitting up in bed now, full of energy, his body full and muscular as it had been, the headaches gone. He stood and crossed to the window to look down on the front garden. There was nothing there but the sound of boots walking on stone persisted.
The garden was bathed in unnatural sunshine--it was too bright and too yellow, and it lacked the haze that would typically accompany sunrises over the dew-damp on the flowers and grass. The light had an utter clarity, and the air was still, neither hot nor cold, just standing firm. Only the water in the pond moved; a single wave moving deliberately, too slow even.
And someone was coming.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
I'm Done With Evil
"We didn't think she was a part of your family." White hot rage burned inside me. It was detoxifying. It was delicious. For the first time since Evil seeped into my life, poisoned my dad, and made sure she had him to herself, I was able to detach and observe as the white hot anger flashed in every cell of my body. I was done with carrying their in-accountabilities, secrets and lies. My stepsister had suffered a brain aneurysm and stroke the month previously, was in critical condition, and no one bothered to tell us. We had just seen them in June, and as usual, no matter how much time had passed, my stepsister and I were able to connect on an authentic level, sharing stories and laughing. I especially enjoyed sharing stories of our children. My children especially enjoyed the reconnection with their cousins. When I asked my dad again why they didn't contact us, he spewed out another lie. This was my chance, a magnificent opportunity to claim my power and to put an end to Evil running the show. "You know what you did, you know why you did it, and it was unkind." When I got off the phone, I was able to let all the hurt, anger, rage, and sadness bubble out of me as I paced in front of our dining room window which revealed the gorgeous autumn day, keeping me grounded. I love love. I'm done with Evil.
Evil first made her daring appearance a few days after my mother committed suicide. I answered the phone, and through the line came in that annoying, screeching, high-pitched voice, "Hi! This is Mom!" In that moment, I gave my power away and gave her excuses for behaving so inappropriately. This was the beginning of the collapse of my critical mind, leaving me unconsciously wide open for further hurts to be slung at me. This is Mom? What the...? She just died! Oh, "Mom" from the church group six years ago! "Hi", and that was the beginning of my end. Life as I knew it had already ended. I didn't think it could get worse. I was so wrong. I didn't have the strength, the courage or the wherewithal to stop Evil in her tracks. She knew I knew about her and my dad having an affair, sending letters to each other. I still see my dad telling me that he wanted me to write letters to Evil's daughter so that he could put his letters in my envelope. My stomach turned. He told me not to tell my mother, because it would upset her. "Okay." Another part of me died. A few months later, my mother was back in the mental hospital. Four months after that, she died. Three months after that, my dad took me and my siblings to Texas where Evil resided and we spent summer vacation putting up with them disappearing and French-kissing in the kitchen. Later, Evil told me that my dad grabbed her boob in the park during that trip. TMI. And oh, there was so much more to come.
I became putty in Evil's hands. She dressed me, she filled me with inappropriate sexual stories between her and what-used-to-be-my-dad, she listened in on my phone calls, she lied about me, she lied to me, she told me I had been my father's wife for years, she ignored me, she insisted I call her "Mom" and to enroll the rest of my siblings to do the same, she interfered with my siblings and my relationships, she made fun of my mother, she pitted me against my siblings, she spoke for what-used-to-be-my-dad, she made sure what-used-to-be-my-dad became her mouthpiece, she told me that when what-used-to-be-my-dad died she wouldn't tell anyone in the family...
The list goes on and on and on. My putty self was so desperate for a mother's love, I allowed the molding. Just don't leave me! Evil had me. She had her ways of letting it known that if I didn't keep her secrets, she would give me the silent treatment. I remember so many times just seeing the back of her frosted mop haircut head, always tilted to the side as she walked away. I remember the pain in my heart.
Fast forward to when I married the male version of Evil. I had learned the game of "Let's Pretend Everything Is Okay" aka "Don't Rock the Boat!", and I played it well. In fact, I became such a master at it that I attracted Male-Version-of-Evil to up the ante and threaten my well-being with all kinds of abuse. "Let's Pretend Everything's Okay", because I couldn't bear being left again. Please don't leave me@!
It wasn't until I was holding the rusty razor to my wrist that I realized that the only one leaving me was me. I knew I didn't want to die. I just didn't want to live anymore. Putting down that razor changed the trajectory of my life and opened up opportunities for me to heal. Again, life as I knew it ended. On to the next chapter.
Fast forward to when I married Love. Living in another state, reading helpful books, attending healing workshops, making great friends, and birthing two amazing human beings. Welcome to "Claim Your Power 101". This "class" would prove to be a long one but well worth it. Love and The-Two-Amazing-Human-Beings were instrumental in returning me to me. During this extraordinary adventure, I still allowed Evil to interfere, but much much less. I was on to her, and she knew it. She upped her game. She morphed into Two-Faced so skillfully that it was difficult to discern. That is, until I became conscious of her game. There was a part of me that still held onto the dream that everyone changed and healed like me and that we were all going to come together. Nope. What I learned is that there was still that pesky residual of "Please don't leave me!" weakening me and allowing Evil to still run the show.
Fast forward to the present with me in the advanced class of Claim Your Power. The-Two-Amazing-Human-Beings, along with Love, have continued to reflect back to me who-I-really-am, encouraging me to empower myself and to remember my worth. The more I awaken, the less Evil has a hold on me. And then, POOF!, there's nothing there. I remember the exact moment it happened. I was on the phone with what-used-to-be-my-dad regarding my stepsister, when I caught myself starting to say "I'll talk to you later". Halfway through saying it, I just hung up. There was nothing there. At last. I had done it. I didn't allow the fact that my stepsister was in the hospital to stop me from expressing my anger and hurt. I didn't even ask how what-used-to-be-my-dad and Evil were doing. There was nothing there. I'm done with Evil.
-LD
Evil first made her daring appearance a few days after my mother committed suicide. I answered the phone, and through the line came in that annoying, screeching, high-pitched voice, "Hi! This is Mom!" In that moment, I gave my power away and gave her excuses for behaving so inappropriately. This was the beginning of the collapse of my critical mind, leaving me unconsciously wide open for further hurts to be slung at me. This is Mom? What the...? She just died! Oh, "Mom" from the church group six years ago! "Hi", and that was the beginning of my end. Life as I knew it had already ended. I didn't think it could get worse. I was so wrong. I didn't have the strength, the courage or the wherewithal to stop Evil in her tracks. She knew I knew about her and my dad having an affair, sending letters to each other. I still see my dad telling me that he wanted me to write letters to Evil's daughter so that he could put his letters in my envelope. My stomach turned. He told me not to tell my mother, because it would upset her. "Okay." Another part of me died. A few months later, my mother was back in the mental hospital. Four months after that, she died. Three months after that, my dad took me and my siblings to Texas where Evil resided and we spent summer vacation putting up with them disappearing and French-kissing in the kitchen. Later, Evil told me that my dad grabbed her boob in the park during that trip. TMI. And oh, there was so much more to come.
I became putty in Evil's hands. She dressed me, she filled me with inappropriate sexual stories between her and what-used-to-be-my-dad, she listened in on my phone calls, she lied about me, she lied to me, she told me I had been my father's wife for years, she ignored me, she insisted I call her "Mom" and to enroll the rest of my siblings to do the same, she interfered with my siblings and my relationships, she made fun of my mother, she pitted me against my siblings, she spoke for what-used-to-be-my-dad, she made sure what-used-to-be-my-dad became her mouthpiece, she told me that when what-used-to-be-my-dad died she wouldn't tell anyone in the family...
The list goes on and on and on. My putty self was so desperate for a mother's love, I allowed the molding. Just don't leave me! Evil had me. She had her ways of letting it known that if I didn't keep her secrets, she would give me the silent treatment. I remember so many times just seeing the back of her frosted mop haircut head, always tilted to the side as she walked away. I remember the pain in my heart.
Fast forward to when I married the male version of Evil. I had learned the game of "Let's Pretend Everything Is Okay" aka "Don't Rock the Boat!", and I played it well. In fact, I became such a master at it that I attracted Male-Version-of-Evil to up the ante and threaten my well-being with all kinds of abuse. "Let's Pretend Everything's Okay", because I couldn't bear being left again. Please don't leave me@!
It wasn't until I was holding the rusty razor to my wrist that I realized that the only one leaving me was me. I knew I didn't want to die. I just didn't want to live anymore. Putting down that razor changed the trajectory of my life and opened up opportunities for me to heal. Again, life as I knew it ended. On to the next chapter.
Fast forward to when I married Love. Living in another state, reading helpful books, attending healing workshops, making great friends, and birthing two amazing human beings. Welcome to "Claim Your Power 101". This "class" would prove to be a long one but well worth it. Love and The-Two-Amazing-Human-Beings were instrumental in returning me to me. During this extraordinary adventure, I still allowed Evil to interfere, but much much less. I was on to her, and she knew it. She upped her game. She morphed into Two-Faced so skillfully that it was difficult to discern. That is, until I became conscious of her game. There was a part of me that still held onto the dream that everyone changed and healed like me and that we were all going to come together. Nope. What I learned is that there was still that pesky residual of "Please don't leave me!" weakening me and allowing Evil to still run the show.
Fast forward to the present with me in the advanced class of Claim Your Power. The-Two-Amazing-Human-Beings, along with Love, have continued to reflect back to me who-I-really-am, encouraging me to empower myself and to remember my worth. The more I awaken, the less Evil has a hold on me. And then, POOF!, there's nothing there. I remember the exact moment it happened. I was on the phone with what-used-to-be-my-dad regarding my stepsister, when I caught myself starting to say "I'll talk to you later". Halfway through saying it, I just hung up. There was nothing there. At last. I had done it. I didn't allow the fact that my stepsister was in the hospital to stop me from expressing my anger and hurt. I didn't even ask how what-used-to-be-my-dad and Evil were doing. There was nothing there. I'm done with Evil.
-LD
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
For John Michael
I can talk about fucking for days, weeks; every crease in each kiss, the maledictions of his tongue, and my so-called liberations...I can write a million treatises on throngs coming from civilizations most people's minds don't even cross anymore, or find a microcosm in a drop of whiskey, a shard of glass lodged in a spineless man's toenail, the heavens caught beneath the billows of human circumstance- all of it, anything, to not write about you, John Michael. Sadly, in some sense I feel a thousand souls and experiences removed from yours, and yet we always considered ourselves close, up to a certain point, as brother and sister. You were born when my mother was given the gas (do they even allow that anymore?), before Woodstock ever happened. I was born naturally (by proxy) after my mother confessed that she had ate some prunes (just like her to ruin my grand entrance), took an earth shattering shit after dragging herself, IV and all, to the hospital bathroom and bore me in under two hours, the very week that Patty Hearst sauntered into that bank like a rich girl, beret and machine gun and rebellion against daddy at her back. But again, my ego took charge and this was supposed to be about you. I'm sorry, I know I always do that. You once said to me that I cannot see any idea, or thought or notion without gunning it through my own experience. I always loved that about my favourite writers, but when you said it, I thought it made me selfish, without empathy, wanting. It stays with me until this day and I hope I'm not on the wrong side of that. You are I are really so different, aren't we.
You took after our mother, and I our father. Quite easily demarcated, right down the line even including shallow ends like hair (yours light brown and curly, mine dark and straight), you inheriting our maternal grandfather's stocky long shore man's frame, me taller than all the women in our family and with the long torso, peanut head and sensual mouth that had our father as the favourite to the ladies of his youth - his stories of taking British women out on the boats in the Croatian islands...I always loved the tales, but I think they left you a little bit un-included. I think you wanted to know that he would step back in his adventure, to let you be the son to lead the next and coming time, but he could not. He was marked in all ways to have a daughter, and I was, unfortunately for you, all his wanted in a son. Our mother loves you to this day though. And you are so lucky to still have your mirror living on this planet. My mirror is him, caught in my dreams, in the times when the wind blows, the witching hour arrives, and I'm not sure if I'm asleep or awake. This occurs in bed, at work, on the bus, anytime I'm feeling the lack.
You, being eight years older than me, experienced a good portion of the whole of your early childhood alone. I only met you after you had been here for that near decade, having tourette syndrome and being taught far too early that the world is a cruel and unusual place, and that our parents did what they could, but were caught unawares at the disease that plagued your young mind - taking the elements that we all struggle with: obsession, dejection, compulsion, fear and aloneness and warping them together into a cauldron of sharp tongued medicine that no little boy or adult man should have to navigate his way around. She cried to herself (she told me) when she left you at the first day of school. You grew to be so hurt, and hateful towards her, and the world, but you still cherished her and needed her more than she could handle. I have random pieces of your life in my childhood - standing in a psychologist's posh Westchester home office - his fish pond of blue, shiny synthetic rock and bubbling water keeping me company while our parents sat in front of his desk and talked about how to deal with you. Those rare but memorable bad times, when we'd come home from some shopping or outing, and you'd be in a rage - uncontrollable, crying, fighting with my father, my mother yelling and also with tears, stuck in the middle of your and his misunderstanding of each other, while I waited quietly in the garage with the german shepherds, petting them and hoping the anger and strife would subside. Someone asked me once if I had alcoholism in my family, since I was SO good at being quiet, and trying to smooth over loud, violent and uncomfortable fights. I cited this memory as an example of the reasons why that seemed to be. You made our mother cry on so many occasions in your teenage years, but then again, I think she was always pre-destined for that sort of reaction and behaviour.
I cherished the fact that my father was Always on my side, and sometimes I think I lord it over you still. You were not there when he died, clutching my hand and my mother's, a smile on his face and a tear in his eye. I was sitting with my younger boyfriend at the time, about 3 months prior, who said to me (while waiting for the train from the upper east side) that you and our father should work out your issues with each other, that he was older and sicker, and you never know when that time is gone for you. I'm sorry that you never got to say goodbye. Maybe this is why, whenever we talk on the phone, you always throw a quote of his my way, a re-enaction of a familial memory- good, bad, ugly or hilarious (usually all), putting on his accent and tone, and reliving our lives again with me, or reminding me of traits of his which I share - my flat feet, the way I point when I speak, or spit, or open my mouth far too wide when eating, or how I don't know how to say no to more...wine.
You had your darker days, when adulthood came knocking and you weren't anywhere near ready to go out to meet it in the spotlight. When we lived in Florida in the interim, you were like a vampire, awake at night baking (a side effect of the haldol you were so angry at our parents for giving you (to their credit they tried to ween you off, or lower the dosage, but those drugs have a life of their own and control you before you can say "no"), asleep all day and gaining weight from the drug, and your lack of life force. The excess wind of the tourettes blew you away from your right self, and you were angry in your teenage years. More than most anti-social boys. You had been made fun of to a point even I could not fathom and it came out in many ways - putting your fist through the master bedroom window, aiming our loaded gun at yourself, with an unsure intent, and that became adulthood for you, when you couldn't see beyond conspiracy theories, when you slowly let what the world thought of you become your name and face, when your rage and anger turned inward, and your hitting of yourself (the only one you could try to control) turned into numbing your tired mind without drugs, but with alcohol....bottles and bottles of vodka, gin, wine...watching our favourite shows, music and films and letting them touch you more than you could ever show the rest of them.
I remember the cigarette burns in the carpet of the basement you occupied, I remember watching late night comedy on cable TV in that basement: George Carlin, Richard Pryor, The Young Ones; you taught me well. I most remember when I was about 11 or 12, you were of course still living at home, and we would watch music videos together in my room. You twitched a lot, of course, and I would sort of scratch your arms, nothing intense, just up and down, back and forth, sometimes I would mimic the guitar solo of the surely late 80's hard rock video we'd be listening to, and it would calm you somehow. You twitched less, and felt more like a normal human being. Wish I could do that for you now.
The anger of those early days, the fear of a little girl wandering into your basement, on the stairs, seeing your Zeppelin and Kiss albums sticking out of the crates...the demonic Gene Simmons and his bloody tongue scaring me so much I had to run back to the light of the upper floors. We would wrestle, as wrestling was so very "in", in those early 80's days...I lost my first tooth when you rolled on top of me down our front hill (you were definitely "husky"...), and once they told you to stay in the basement for something innocuous like 20 minutes, for hitting me, and I slipped a malicious note underneath the door which said something like "I hate you, no one likes you, and you are......(insert insult here)". I could be a little bitch, that's for sure. It was a harrowing but insanely comedic moment when my mother and father opened the basement door, and you just plain leapt out of there and onto me. They pulled you off, you didn't do any harm, but still, I can't remember if they saw my note, believed you, or what the final outcome was. God, memory is funny. I speak to my mother nearly every day, and never think to ask her this. Her memory isn't as crisp as our father's was, so I'm not sure I would trust her answer.
After all those times, and the more blaring, painful ones, where so many tears and angry energies flew about our family, one to the other, until now we are three, and not the same as when our father stood at our helm, ready to defend himself against our minor insults, and comedic gestures he couldn't truly laugh at - I guess that was his fault, and being my father's daughter, sometimes mine as well. I hated to see your blatant outbursts, as dysfunctional as they could be, slowly be numbed by drinking, and then see your inner thoughts turn sour, quiet, alone - the tourettes living not only alongside you, but slowly eating off of your best selves with the very docile, but stubborn grip of a true parasite. You lost the fire of your sickness these last 10 years or so.
John Michael, you are misunderstood, bullish like our mother and grandfather, domestic and good natured, when allowed to be, lazy and fearful of all that you cannot control (who can blame you when you rarely had control over your own body and thoughts - listen, we're all in that boat. Be thankful that yours makes itself apparent to you. The rest of us have to stumble through life thinking We are in control. At least you can laugh at our ridiculous predicated notions. No one's got a name for the disease we've got). I myself had a few stressful months when I was around 12 years old, when I couldn't control my twitches. Our mom had to sit with me, and calm me down, and stroke my hair. I know it's round the bend, inside me somewhere, in the family gene. I want a son, named after our father, more than I can say. But, I'm just afraid it will happen to him. Maybe that's why you never had children either. One day maybe, I'll get the courage.
For all our troubles, we sure did have a good time at home, us and our demons, our DNA cavorting at the dance every night, our drinking and storytelling, our holidays, our alienated, silent times with each other. We always said what we felt, and what we were thinking. Crying, fighting, laughing, spitting, mooning each other, caressing each other's hard times- you never let us get away with anything less. The world to me is a different place, that I grew up seeing it sometimes, once in a awhile at least - through your eyes. I say, let the baby, the bathwater, the anger, the innocence, your memories and those you don't yet have the courage to see through to the morning with- let them all back into the party, and see where they take you at the end of the night. Your fire is worth preserving - the echo of your voice in its solitude- stabbing into the summer sky, around our pool, when you stubbed your toe on the hard cement. Follow its voice onward, and see what lies in the midst of your red, inflamed heart perimeter. Once the barnacles are told to fuck off, and go home, your journey could just be beginning, if you let it.
~ M. Lucia
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