fact #27

i look up to note 9 years have elapsed and realize, inexplicably, i've somehow grown accustomed enough to the fact of my mother's death during the almost-decade long reality of her loss to have reverted back to my previous inability to believe in the actuality of my own mortality.

i'm back to being invincible.

despite the iffy disk in my back. despite the collapsing arches of my feet. despite the sadness that will sneak up on me and twist my spirit, like a bully pinning my arm behind my back, until i SAY IT! SAY IT, LOSER! i'm worthless and i wish i were dead.

is this de-evolution?


i return today, like a child, to being utterly convinced that death is for other people and has absolutely nothing to do with me.  i'm going to go on living forever, youthful and vibrant.  or at least until the ripe-old age of 100.  and i'm going to look and feel beautiful for the vast majority of my entire century.  and never shit my pants and never go blind and definitely never lose my mind.

this, despite having numerous, actual examples in my life everywhere to the contrary. in fact, i can pretty well expect all three of those unwanted circumstances to come for me, repeatedly, if not chronically.


my inability to accept myself as a mortal being is perhaps a signifier of youth. and at 39 years old, i'm not mad at believing and feeling myself to still be young.  i tend to welcome most moments of being told i'm young and that i don't know shit. at least insofar as philosophy and spirituality are concerned.  because it is the case that i'm old enough to hear things like that and understand that it's true. 

a place in the middle, then, i guess;  my youth, a slippery, slipping thing.

this is both good and bad.

"good" insofar as this reversion to believing myself invincible denotes a hard-won acceptance and level of healing in regard to my mother's early death. i spent quite a number of years reeling from the shock-wave of her passing, not realizing in any meaningful way at the time that i was exploding/imploding/collapsing/all of the above, spending too much time swiveling on bar-stools ordering yet another tequila neat (another and another), feigning bravery and fooling a lot of people that i was Tough Stuff when, really, i just wanted to curl up on the floor of the shower and melt down the drain along with the tears said tequila was (at that time) holding back.

it is "bad" in that i am acutely aware of the increasing need to take the passage of time a bit more seriously yet in many ways i don't.  there are moments throughout any given week in which i behave with the same capriciousness and laziness as a child. and as i've just noted, my moments of recklessness have been more about achieving oblivion (escapism) than relishing in the curiosities of the world, celebrating, or seeking adventure.

i wonder, though, if this reversion to disbelief might not somehow be a necessary, or at least helpful,  ingredient to being truly adventurous? and in a more wholesome and whole-hearted way than my "adventurousness" has previously displayed itself? the belief that i've got time is a realistic show of hope and a normal mode of faith in the ongoingness of my present-day living situations. the abandonment of fear of death, in any overt way, seems necessary if one is to maintain enthusiasm for walking into certain battles or when confronting certain challenges. it is exactly my belief that there will be a tomorrow that lets me not feel as if i've mis-spent my time today by practicing guitar or reading a book or by having given myself the slow hours in which to write these very words.

i say that as if these things are only ever a retreat into the warm folds of pleasure.

i have languished over these words, returning again and again throughout the day to polish and trim, cut and paste, tweak and massage and otherwise wrangle my vocabulary, taking care to say what i think i mean and figuring out how to say it well. it isn't necessarily only pleasure i am feeling and it certainly isn't leisure. writing requires a dedication and focus that can only really be summed up as "work." the fact that i love this type of work does not disturb its identity as work.

similarly, learning is not always a pleasure and growth is often painful. building a new skill takes dedication regardless of desire.  the requirement of repetition is often arduous, not to mention totally fucking boring at times. but because i believe time to (still) be on my side, i pursue my own growth and development, trusting i will be granted a new day, somewhere down the line, in the far-off future, to relish in the fruits of skills i do not yet possess.

while writing these lines, i stop to read. i reach for my mentors and muses instinctively. i learn as i go. the words pile up; some fast, some slow.

this is not to say that i do not fear squandering time. i do. very much. in fact, i'd say i have a massive fear of squandering time. and opportunity. and ability. and talent. and youth. and energy. etc. etc. etc. and due to the (sometimes) overwhelming weight of these fears, i have spent many years either placating them with half-hearted and feeble efforts in an attempt to seem productive or just as often straight-up running the fuck away from these fears by hopping from bar-stool to bar-stool to sickbed.

occasionally, i have faced up to my fears by simply acknowledging they exist and actually focusing my time and attention on the things i truly love. lately i've been getting better and better at doing just that despite the arduousness of re-defining the word "productive." i've become slowly convinced by the culture at large that so many of the things i love are a waste of time. art, music, cuddling, to name a few. re-defining productivity requires self examination and questioning: which actions/activities fall within the scope of productivity? as someone who cares very much about literature (the reading and writing of, and the general goodness it accomplishes in the world), how is it possible that i've second-guessed the productivity of spending an entire day reading a book? especially when i remember the fact that, historically-speaking, it hasn't been all that long since teaching a female child to read became remotely socially acceptable? and especially when considering the fact that there are actually, today, a pretty large handful of places around the globe where it still isn't?

but today is my first of two days off. i move back and forth from bed to kitchen to bed, making coffee and reading further into the two books on my nightstand. i while away this first day of my weekend between pages of printed words and sips of warm, sweet, creamy liquid, quietly chiding myself for being "lazy," "selfish," "unproductive," and even "childish." shouldn't i have at least put the laundry away first? talk about having no belief in my own mortality. who the fuck prioritizes putting the laundry away when confronting the irrefutable knowledge of the inevitability of their own demise? an asshole, that's who.

so here i am, coming back around to how my unbelievable disbelief is a good thing: because an adult person who never succeeds in putting their laundry away is an asshole, too. i'm not advocating never putting ones laundry away. there's a necessary balance that i'm hopeful i can strike. with another free day coming on the heels of this one, and with every reason to believe i will see it,  my laundry can wait in the name of all things creative and wonderful and joyful.

then suddenly, there it is:

the shudder.

that horrible, grinding, glittering fear that there will never be enough time...

not enough time to read all the books i am so easily and gladly lured to.  not enough time to scribble the morning away, cataloguing my own roving thoughts and hopes. not enough time to learn to play harmonica.  not enough time to get better at having sex during day-light hours a bigger priority AND still get the fucking laundry put away.


if something's gotta give, it's gonna be my socks and underwear. 

fact #26

it is a good idea
to greet everyone
as if they are
an orphan.

note to self / permission slip

it's 7:30 in the evening and i'm making myself a cup of coffee.  i mean, fuck it, i want it. i want this cup of coffee more than i want pretty much anything else right this second and since i do not have to wake up early tomorrow for any reason, i am going to have it and i am going to enjoy it.

i have showered today and i have read.  i have written in my diary and i have typed a bit into two separate documents that may or may not end up congealing into a single piece.  i have no clue, really, but i keep returning, faithfully and dreamily, to this set of black keys, trusting that if i just keep letting the words line up, one after another, some sort of sense or direction will show itself.  at very least, memories i've not tapped into for years are surfacing.  wholly unexpected, sometimes painful, valuable and necessary; my life story comes back to me in bits and pieces, feathers and dust motes,  the glaze of smudges and greasy fingerprints.

my coffee is now ready and i will consume it with pleasure.


i keep telling myself to get dressed and start the day but i am still in my robe, no underwear below, an old-ladyish pair of red, fluffy slippers on my feet.  what do i mean "start the day?"  the day was begun a long time ago at 11am.  i've been writing or reading ever since so i guess what i mean is that i'm feeling guilty about these facts.  which is total bullshit.  what i've done today is what i want to do with my entire rest of my life so feeling guilty about it is non-sense.  it's my american blood pumping through my brain and whining its obnoxious screech of "but does it make money???" and i swear to God i am BEYOND sick of that refrain.  the fact that i didn't make money today goes in the WINNING column.  i'm fucking glad i wasn't part of the machine in that way today.  in addition to not making any money, i also haven't spent any which might be the most powerful move i've made yet and will more than likely remain the most powerful thing i can do in the future as well. staying home in my robe, writing and reading the day away, purchasing nothing... i am stacking up hours spent outside of commerce. i am claiming time for myself.  i am declaring that the thoughts that careen around inside my mind have value, that my memories and anecdotes have value, that the story of my life is worth thinking about and worth writing down, worth making time for, and might even be worth someone else's time to read. i mean, isn't that what this blog is?  a declaration that my life - the space i take up - isn't something i have to earn.  i already have it.  i'm already here.  and i don't need to shop or work every single day of my life in order to feel like i am worthy of the air i breathe.

i'm going to get back in bed with my cup of coffee and a book.  i'm going to curl up under my blankets and stick my nose between the book's covers.  i really like cuddling with my lit.   :)  and i'll keep telling myself as many times as i need to today and tomorrow and the next that reading and writing are not things to ever spend one second feeling guilty for engaging in.  i am lucky that i was taught to read and write.  i am lucky that i have learned how to follow my instincts when it comes to books and that, now, i find texts which reflect my loves and hopes so easily. also the nightmares of the past that still cause me pain and need to be corralled.  it wasn't always so. 

last week, Alex and i were up late talking about how when we were kids and teenagers neither one of us actually read very much.  this sad fact was pretty much exclusively due to the fact that our teachers gave us such horrible shit to read.  relatively nothing that is on the approved reading lists in California public schools was captivating or rewarding for me and i was glad that Alex and i could commiserate on this dismal aspect of our separate pasts.  still, i loved the idea of being literary.  i loved being around books.  i wanted to develop a love of reading and inexplicably kept trying to make it happen. i loved the way books smelled and the way they felt and the way they looked.  i also loved the way they seemed... that they were a portal or key or doorway out.  every now and then, i'd stumble across a book that substantiated this hunch and i was given a fresh reason to keep up my search for writers who i felt some sort of kinship with or admiration for.  Alex and i laughed when we realized that, as young teenagers, the first book to supply actual pleasure through the act of reading was "Go Ask Alice." i noticed it the other day in one of the many used bookstores i frequent and i smiled, as much at IT as to myself, a nod to an old friend. 

but at this point, the pleasure of reading is something that i avail myself of daily and nightly.  i've developed an incredible and voracious stamina and can read for hours on end without getting tired.  it's like when you start doing sit-ups again after a long time of not doing any and you can only do a few before your muscles fail.  but you keep at it and you stack up the days and just stop thinking about it.  you make it a part of your day, just another regular thing, and then out of nowhere you become cognizant of the your progress and ability.  my brain has become so fucking buff!  haha! but the most comforting, rewarding, encouraging aspect of it is having learned how to summon the weird magic that leads me from one book to another.  it's a mode of self-trust, i suppose, and i grow more and more grateful for that trust with each book or article i consume.  i am a lucky, lucky lady.  lucky to have the time to cultivate this trust and this pleasure, lucky to be able to make a cup of coffee at 7:30 in the evening and not have to worry that it will keep me up because, through tomorrow,  i am lucky that i won't have to punch a clock again just yet. 



last night when i got off the bus that brought me home from work, i still had an 8 minute walk from the bus-stop to my front door.  the reprieve that sitting on the bus provided after a long weekend of waiting tables was long enough that when i stood up from my seat and walked to the accordion doors, each step felt like the arches of my feet were falling.  and they may very well be.  i have been waiting tables long enough that it is a definite possibility.  and in Converse more than i should, and more than i should admit. i hobbled home, made some mint tea, and lay down in bed in all my clothes. when Brian arrived home 20 minutes later, he took of his work clothes, put on pajamas, laid upside down in our bed, put my foot nearest to him on his chest and rubbed.  i closed my eyes,  allowing the book i was reading to rest on my stomach.  a few minutes later, i sighed, "this is the life..."

fact #25

for some,

it takes longer 

to learn to speak

fact #24

in the alternate universe, the two lovers are dancing

fact #23

how nice it must be

to be a beautiful girl

aloof and crying for understanding

before a ready audience

of eager erections

insolence

somehow suddenly

a need for silence. i close

my mouth against my previous

song and refuse

even to hum. my tongue,

an anchor rather than wing. i hold

my self still beneath

my deep white

blanket of insolence.

i have nothing to say

to people who've already been told

everything already

yet say they've not heard a thing.