How is it, that an object can always seem to belong in a place, simply because it has always been there? The object, is blankly voided, thoroughly synthesised in and of itself, a segment of continuous collective reality.
Suddenly though, awareness can shift, like the cognitive rumblings of a pulp fiction detective, in his "AHA" 'Eureka' moment, where the pieces all fall into place, and he immidiately sees.
The object is abruptly thrown into the spotlight, a harsh discordant note amongst the noted harmony, and suddenly, the object is a "Cat amongst the pigeons" it does not belong there anymore.
Nothing has obviously changed, the object has not been moved, the objects around it, have not moved, but the knowledge of the thing, has changed, the conceptual lighting of it, the perception has changed and therefore everything has profoundly been altered.
This house has been our home as a couple for nine years. In weeks, I leave, when it will becomes his house and I will have my own apartment in a more genial elsewhere.
This is the displacement I feel living here, in a suburban religious habitat which was once benevolently cordial. Even in this very house the inversion has commenced, what was once seemly is simply unsettling now .
Things feel different, irrevocably. There is this pervasive sense, scent, of dislocation, of waiting... a shifting normalcy.
The impact of my personal disclosure violently jarred everybody's sense of that center beam of a balanced normalcy. It shifted friendships vastly, separating wheat from chaff most definitively. It also set collective reality teetering into an eternal percussive disquiet.
Ears are still ringing from the blow, and the community is not amused.
I need to move on, like raindrops skittering frantically along the glass windows of a car in motion, the trajectory is already in an alternate elsewhere... on the way home.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Why didn't they come?
The endless creaking of the gate... The tiny breathy hiss, the click, the zing of metal grating on metal.
Made the child I once was, lift my head with simple longing, knowing that it was probably just the wind, again, knowing it... is... just...the... wind.
One would think I would have learnt by then, again and again, that hiss, the click, the grated zing, but, no.
Again and again, as hours drag by, as the light suffusing the garden, changes from quicksilver, to iridescent yellow, to tempered gold to dark shadowy mustard and then silver, the hiss, the click, the zing, and... it is just the wind.
Watching ants filing into cracks between the cement driveway, existing in their microcosmic universe, chipper under their burdens, watching the breeze riffling through the leaves like fond hands through curly hair, watching the strangers through the gates, walking mincing dogs, heavy legged, drooling dogs.
Why didn't they come?
Hiss, click, zing.
Why?
It has been so many years, since I was that child, waiting there alone for all those hours, lost somewhere in time. The house on Honey Street, is crumbling, even in memory, forever lost in urban sprawl and solemn retrospection .
The garden, my refuge, and its metal gate have vanished into lingering shadows, yet echoes of the hiss, the click, the grated zing which cried "I made you look" in wind notes still plays on...
I know now about the wind, how it blows, how it loves to riffle locks and conform into tiny spaces, how it riffles, and teases and flusters and blusters and blows.
I even know, why they... never... came.
Hiss, click, zing.
I lift my head, listening, for an instant in time...
the breath of the open gate, the whispered grind.
I can sense the coming...
Made the child I once was, lift my head with simple longing, knowing that it was probably just the wind, again, knowing it... is... just...the... wind.
One would think I would have learnt by then, again and again, that hiss, the click, the grated zing, but, no.
Again and again, as hours drag by, as the light suffusing the garden, changes from quicksilver, to iridescent yellow, to tempered gold to dark shadowy mustard and then silver, the hiss, the click, the zing, and... it is just the wind.
Watching ants filing into cracks between the cement driveway, existing in their microcosmic universe, chipper under their burdens, watching the breeze riffling through the leaves like fond hands through curly hair, watching the strangers through the gates, walking mincing dogs, heavy legged, drooling dogs.
Why didn't they come?
Hiss, click, zing.
Why?
It has been so many years, since I was that child, waiting there alone for all those hours, lost somewhere in time. The house on Honey Street, is crumbling, even in memory, forever lost in urban sprawl and solemn retrospection .
The garden, my refuge, and its metal gate have vanished into lingering shadows, yet echoes of the hiss, the click, the grated zing which cried "I made you look" in wind notes still plays on...
I know now about the wind, how it blows, how it loves to riffle locks and conform into tiny spaces, how it riffles, and teases and flusters and blusters and blows.
I even know, why they... never... came.
Hiss, click, zing.
I lift my head, listening, for an instant in time...
the breath of the open gate, the whispered grind.
I can sense the coming...
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Tired...
Tired, oh so tired....Once in awhile, despite the love and growing support system which is as fragile and magical as newly spun cotton candy, I wonder how I can go on?
This is strictly a hypothetical idea. I know exactly why I need to go on, with my children and those I love so deeply, needing me to be there, but the constant pushing back can get so tiring, the changes, the newness, the ever expanding to-do lists and further challenges. I sometimes want to just pull the covers over my head and stay in bed all day.
I know who I am with startling clarity, the 'how' is more in question.
Self doubt creeps in and fogs things up when it comes to questions of... Can I be a decent enough single Mom to my kids? What job will I be able to do successfully? Will the book be insightful and articulate enough? Can I keep up with school properly? Can I make all the people I love happy and give them all they need? How can I be 'good enough'? How can I do this 'right'?
I don't truly know what I am doing. Everything is so new, I am just learning as I go along.
Truth is though, it is not really the day to day matters which make all of this seem so indomitable at times. It is the extra little things that loom up, icebergs on dark waters, which make matters seem somewhat treacherous.
I actually had a wonderful day today. We all went to Botanical Gardens, the sun was shining brightly, the way sun is supposed to be, its warm fingers settling on the back of my neck.
It was wonderful, beautiful, alive and vibrant with spring. Blossoms were just beginning to unfurl on trees, flowers were opening, their petals unmarred, fresh and vivid. The green grass glowed under the afternoon sunlight. The kids were happy to be outside, then again, so were we all. It was beautiful, companionable, sweet, lovely.
Usually, I am strong, calm, well at least outwardly, ready to tackle it all. Even ready to "own" it all, kick its proverbial ass. Yes it is alot to process, but heck yeah, bring it on.
but tonight, I need a break from thinking about it all.
I am so freaking tired... I need to get some sleep.
This is strictly a hypothetical idea. I know exactly why I need to go on, with my children and those I love so deeply, needing me to be there, but the constant pushing back can get so tiring, the changes, the newness, the ever expanding to-do lists and further challenges. I sometimes want to just pull the covers over my head and stay in bed all day.
I know who I am with startling clarity, the 'how' is more in question.
Self doubt creeps in and fogs things up when it comes to questions of... Can I be a decent enough single Mom to my kids? What job will I be able to do successfully? Will the book be insightful and articulate enough? Can I keep up with school properly? Can I make all the people I love happy and give them all they need? How can I be 'good enough'? How can I do this 'right'?
I don't truly know what I am doing. Everything is so new, I am just learning as I go along.
Truth is though, it is not really the day to day matters which make all of this seem so indomitable at times. It is the extra little things that loom up, icebergs on dark waters, which make matters seem somewhat treacherous.
I actually had a wonderful day today. We all went to Botanical Gardens, the sun was shining brightly, the way sun is supposed to be, its warm fingers settling on the back of my neck.
It was wonderful, beautiful, alive and vibrant with spring. Blossoms were just beginning to unfurl on trees, flowers were opening, their petals unmarred, fresh and vivid. The green grass glowed under the afternoon sunlight. The kids were happy to be outside, then again, so were we all. It was beautiful, companionable, sweet, lovely.
Usually, I am strong, calm, well at least outwardly, ready to tackle it all. Even ready to "own" it all, kick its proverbial ass. Yes it is alot to process, but heck yeah, bring it on.
but tonight, I need a break from thinking about it all.
I am so freaking tired... I need to get some sleep.
Friday, April 3, 2009
The beating heart.
I took my oldest daughter to the cardiac unit for an EKG and cardiac echo, just for a basic baseline checkup.
The nurse scandalised her by handed her a regulation blue cotton gown, and telling her "take everything off at the top, bra included, and leave it open at the front." She obeyed with a raised eyebrow, clutching it closed, as best she could. She was weighed and measured. She is just 2.5 inches shorter then me now, and gaining rapidly.
The EKG was routine. The nurse attached those sticky circles to her chest and told her to relax, which is difficult to do under the best of circumstances. Soon, it was over. Her heart rate monitored neatly like spiky stitches on graph paper.
At first, as the sonographer attached her own sticky circles, told her to relax and squirted on gel, it looked like this would be more of the same. That is, until the doppler played over her chest area and the grainy surreal image of a beating heart lit up the screen. The heart seemed to pulse with a profoundly automaton energy.
I found the cadence mesmerising, absolutely fascinating, awe inspiring even.
The sonogram image showed the entire heart, then examined each ventricle, valve and chamber, measuring each, while I watched the amazing organ at work. The blood flow influx and ouput charted in tones of red, orange and blue.
That heart, inside my daughter, its metered tempo, so wonderful, so fragile and yet so brilliantly, transcendently Godly.
It is strange, how the human heart, somehow has become the seat of passion, the seat of life, the seat of true feeling, true human experience and emotion, not of reason necessarily, but all we truly value deeply, because the heart is somehow where we source the wellspring of love.
It was eerily, completely, utterly beautiful.
and, thank God, she is just fine.
“Love is not written on paper, for paper can be erased. Nor is it etched on stone, for stone can be broken. But it is inscribed on a heart and there it shall remain forever.” Author Unknown
The less you open your heart to others, the more your heart suffers.-- Deepak Chopra
A flower without a stem, is beauty waiting to die. A heart without love, is a tear waiting to cry.-- Octavio Paz
The nurse scandalised her by handed her a regulation blue cotton gown, and telling her "take everything off at the top, bra included, and leave it open at the front." She obeyed with a raised eyebrow, clutching it closed, as best she could. She was weighed and measured. She is just 2.5 inches shorter then me now, and gaining rapidly.
The EKG was routine. The nurse attached those sticky circles to her chest and told her to relax, which is difficult to do under the best of circumstances. Soon, it was over. Her heart rate monitored neatly like spiky stitches on graph paper.
At first, as the sonographer attached her own sticky circles, told her to relax and squirted on gel, it looked like this would be more of the same. That is, until the doppler played over her chest area and the grainy surreal image of a beating heart lit up the screen. The heart seemed to pulse with a profoundly automaton energy.
I found the cadence mesmerising, absolutely fascinating, awe inspiring even.
The sonogram image showed the entire heart, then examined each ventricle, valve and chamber, measuring each, while I watched the amazing organ at work. The blood flow influx and ouput charted in tones of red, orange and blue.
That heart, inside my daughter, its metered tempo, so wonderful, so fragile and yet so brilliantly, transcendently Godly.
It is strange, how the human heart, somehow has become the seat of passion, the seat of life, the seat of true feeling, true human experience and emotion, not of reason necessarily, but all we truly value deeply, because the heart is somehow where we source the wellspring of love.
It was eerily, completely, utterly beautiful.
and, thank God, she is just fine.
“Love is not written on paper, for paper can be erased. Nor is it etched on stone, for stone can be broken. But it is inscribed on a heart and there it shall remain forever.” Author Unknown
The less you open your heart to others, the more your heart suffers.-- Deepak Chopra
A flower without a stem, is beauty waiting to die. A heart without love, is a tear waiting to cry.-- Octavio Paz
"A kind heart is a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity freshen into smiles." ~ Washington Irving (1783-1859)
Where is home? Home is where the heart can laugh without shyness. Home is where the heart's tears can dry at their own pace. -Vernon Baker.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
On music...and my minivan
I told a friend I was going to be moving soon. She said "So who will be left to drive the 'noisy van' in the school parking lot?" Hmm, so I have a name.
I have a uber-typical white minivan, but it has a seriously souped up sound system. The bass alone, transforms the entire van into a quivering island of sonic delight.
Mostly, I have gotten into the habit of listening to the "top 20", mindless dance tracks. I find it easier to think, easier to stay focused on putting one foot in front of the other, without getting absorbed by emotion, when surrounded by pounding rythm.
Why I listen to the top 20.
I seek the perfect silence of the thrumming heart of noise.
the eye of the squall
The throb and pulse, inconsequential words, affable babble really,
A cacophony of harmonious children at play.
the lull, sharp intake of drum breath, pause of rythm, catches, inhales, thumps again
beating like a heart, flutters...
contracts, sighs, expands
Music becomes chatter, becomes a coursing heavy fog, beneath which is a hush
Yielding to the muffled shadows of silence, sheltered in the linen shrouds of inner quiet.
Of course, music is viscerally important to me. I live my life to a soundtrack. I have a song for every experience, for every anguish, rage and frustration, for every longing, loneliness and love. I listen to a vast range of music, each has a very distinct place in my existence.
Music has spoken for me when I did not even have the words, to say what I was feeling, and definitely not the courage.
Here is a very intense song. It partially covers what my last few weeks were like before knowing I had to come out, because I literally could not live like that anymore. The lie had almost swallowed me whole.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L1xbpCFsYPk
My heart is beating but the soul has died
My body's breathing beneath catatonic eyes
The blood is flowing, set free for demise
I've lost my balance but god knows I tried
I don't want to be here anymore in scarlet letters
Carved into what once was me
Once was yours no more
An uphill battle I failed to cli´mb
I left it all now and I don't mind
Betrayed and broken consumed by the lies
Farewell to you all, I'll be fine. Goodbye
I don't want to be here anymore
the scarlet letter
Torn in two, a piece of me, the peace in you no more
Do you believe in loss
Do you believe in faith
Do you believe in death
Now that I´m gone
Forsaken me, ashes to dust just let me lie
Lay me to rest, I've done my best but lost my sight
Turning my back, leave me alone let spirit rise
Knives in my back, all hope is lost
Say goodbye
I don't want to be here anymore in Scarlet Letters
Got to go, what once was me, once was yours, no more
I don't want to be here anymore,
I don't want to be here anymore the scarlet letters
Carved into what once was me, once was yours no more...
credit to Mudvayne.....
I have a uber-typical white minivan, but it has a seriously souped up sound system. The bass alone, transforms the entire van into a quivering island of sonic delight.
Mostly, I have gotten into the habit of listening to the "top 20", mindless dance tracks. I find it easier to think, easier to stay focused on putting one foot in front of the other, without getting absorbed by emotion, when surrounded by pounding rythm.
Why I listen to the top 20.
I seek the perfect silence of the thrumming heart of noise.
the eye of the squall
The throb and pulse, inconsequential words, affable babble really,
A cacophony of harmonious children at play.
the lull, sharp intake of drum breath, pause of rythm, catches, inhales, thumps again
beating like a heart, flutters...
contracts, sighs, expands
Music becomes chatter, becomes a coursing heavy fog, beneath which is a hush
Yielding to the muffled shadows of silence, sheltered in the linen shrouds of inner quiet.
Of course, music is viscerally important to me. I live my life to a soundtrack. I have a song for every experience, for every anguish, rage and frustration, for every longing, loneliness and love. I listen to a vast range of music, each has a very distinct place in my existence.
Music has spoken for me when I did not even have the words, to say what I was feeling, and definitely not the courage.
Here is a very intense song. It partially covers what my last few weeks were like before knowing I had to come out, because I literally could not live like that anymore. The lie had almost swallowed me whole.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L1xbpCFsYPk
My heart is beating but the soul has died
My body's breathing beneath catatonic eyes
The blood is flowing, set free for demise
I've lost my balance but god knows I tried
I don't want to be here anymore in scarlet letters
Carved into what once was me
Once was yours no more
An uphill battle I failed to cli´mb
I left it all now and I don't mind
Betrayed and broken consumed by the lies
Farewell to you all, I'll be fine. Goodbye
I don't want to be here anymore
the scarlet letter
Torn in two, a piece of me, the peace in you no more
Do you believe in loss
Do you believe in faith
Do you believe in death
Now that I´m gone
Forsaken me, ashes to dust just let me lie
Lay me to rest, I've done my best but lost my sight
Turning my back, leave me alone let spirit rise
Knives in my back, all hope is lost
Say goodbye
I don't want to be here anymore in Scarlet Letters
Got to go, what once was me, once was yours, no more
I don't want to be here anymore,
I don't want to be here anymore the scarlet letters
Carved into what once was me, once was yours no more...
credit to Mudvayne.....
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Imagine...
All parents should be aware that when they mock or curse gay people, they may be mocking or cursing their own child. Anna Quindlen
My life was as thickly coated in lies and pretensions as pigeon spatter gleefully deposited on the bowed heads of the especially dignified statues in Central Park. I sometimes felt I deserved my own special set of avian political commentators, after all wasn’t I the quintessential charlatan?
My life was as thickly coated in lies and pretensions as pigeon spatter gleefully deposited on the bowed heads of the especially dignified statues in Central Park. I sometimes felt I deserved my own special set of avian political commentators, after all wasn’t I the quintessential charlatan?
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