Graphic Language: Safe for Work

After an injury left me unable to walk at will for over a year (first I broke the foot then the nerve grew around the artery), I became a vicariously alive person because I lived on Facebook. It became my window to the outside world. I commonly spent 8-10 hours a day more or less monitoring the lives my friends with greater mobility were experiencing. I watched, commented, thought, read, and digested their lives like a good bowl of popcorn with occasional seeds to be discarded. As time passed, I noticed patterns.

I noticed the trending topics by the shared news stories, quizzes, videos, and other miscellaneous clutter. For clarity, I do visit traditional news sites, but honestly world news is hard to witness without me feeling bad about my first world problems and shame that I find them so important when I’m not on day 15 without food or fresh water.

Doctor Who and the T.A.R.D.I.S.

Doctor Who and the T.A.R.D.I.S.

I check about once a day on the world news and I subscribe to a local news site for more immediate happenings. The patterns, because I’ve been watching for over a year are pretty obvious to me. For example: Normally, if there is a death of a beloved public figure, how long they remain in my feed is usually an indication of how widespread their actions are revered. Maya Angelou stayed in my feed consistently for nearly two weeks before the fervor died down. That dude from the Fast and the Furious…Paul Walker, stayed up for about a day, minus one of my friends who is a dedicated fan of the F&F franchise. Trends, although sometimes disturbing, helped me to gauge topics of conversation when I did get to go out in public.

One of my primary complaints against Facebook are quizzes. Quizzes are popular because most people that take them religiously are usually working on who they are, who they want to be, and in order to do that, they need definitions of their starting point. I won’t sit here and shallowly say that I don’t take those ridiculous quizzes that were probably written by junior high school students (Yes, I’m mocking myself here), but they aren’t psychological evaluations. There is no reason on this earth I need to know what type of cheese I’ve been in a past life according to my aura color that I learned by discovering which animal I was murdered by when I was a fish.

Another strike against Facebook are the graphics (that I also shamelessly share). If I feel they apply, I normally don’t even think about why, I just share. It started me thinking how I really see myself. If I strip away my bravado, my superhero cape, my wild clothing, my humor, and my (I hope it is) clever writing, who am I? How would I be described if I dropped off the face of the earth tomorrow? What will be my legacy?

My Mama says I am

My Mama says I am

I remember in a writing class I took where it was drilled into our heads: Show don’t tell. Over and over I’d get papers handed back to me with red marks screaming that insult at me. I hated that teacher with the keen passion that only a young student can despise said instructor. But those words held far more wisdom that the murdered works of my lame attempts at writing in junior high school.

Those words have become more of a life lesson for me. I can tell you all day long who I want you to see me be. I can wave my fancy feathered fan in front of my naked body allowing you glimpses of who I really am. I could rip off my spiritual bindings while groaning with effort and continued fear that I’ll not be seen as I wish but through someone’s eyes that perhaps doesn’t see me in as kind of a light as I shine on myself.
Show me who you are. Don’t just tell me with cutesy graphics and clever slogans because those are the thoughts of someone else. Using them to describe who you are limits a person to mediocrity, labels, and acceptance of someone else’s beliefs. Quotes help us to understand how things work to some extent but that’s accepting that the author thinks like each of us does. One thought may match but that doesn’t mean it’s the very definition of who you are.

I don’t want to be remembered with someone else’s words on my lips (ironic, isn’t it?) but with my own actions a reflection of my spirit. I do not intentionally set out to change the world, it just happens because my intent is to be like a firefighter, fully engaged in whatever I’m doing. I require blazes of activity to spark up via conversations, actions, laughter, outrage towards injustice, or by committing random acts of kindness (again with the irony!) I want to be remembered as someone who mattered to someone else as much as I matter to me.

Wave it and bring it

Wave it and bring it!

I’d like for someone to make a graphic about me that reads, “Man, if only you’d known her. She was a fireball like none other. She’d crack jokes so fast you’d swear she Googled the answers then turn around and poke your conscience into action regarding a noticed injustice. And even though she gave up a lot, she wasn’t a quitter. She’d fight to the bitter end if she believed in it and without even realizing it, you’d be right there with her not questioning because she was trustworthy in action and word.”

P.S. I just posted another graphic I identify with and just completed a quiz about how bitchy I am. My intentions are good, I swear!

The Coffee Hours Symphony

Our personal music composed itself
on the breezy breaths of our being.
Our eyes blinked in metronome
as we witnessed our lives quietly,
the creak of a knee as it’s repositioned for comfort,
the crumpling of the cushion’s fabric
the way the richly creamed coffee we share
is sipped and swallowed with sensational delight
eliciting murmurs of approval.
You spoke truthfully to me with words
that had no letters, no order, no punctuation,
But every meaning I needed was there.
I heard you. I understood.
You are not alone.
I let out a deep sigh.
Your eyebrow quirked upwards
making a question mark of your eyes.
I smiled half way lost in our song
because it has been sung so often
brought up familiarly during times of great loss
And yet this symphony remains blank of content
consolation filled with the tunes we know by heart.
You place your mug on the table with a wobbly balance
reaching out your hand to hold mine.
Your eyes remove the question reassure me the answer,
that you’re with me; I am not alone.

Deepest loss

In my experience there has not been a greater loss felt than that of a child.

In my experience there has not been a greater loss felt than that of a child.

I’ve loved you since before you were born
When I saw your face pressed
Like a violet captured
In an ultrasound I no longer have
But cherish as a vivid revered memory
As in fairy tales of old
Many lies were told
And you were stolen and kept far from your home,
from my active loving heart.
And I wept.

I’ve loved you since the papers crumpled
Unused, only to be recycled,
When the death of hope is heard
In the confetti shaped heart
That is irreparable, devoid of cohesion
Bleeding the tears of mourning
That burn with the lies told
The familial curse stood as firmly as a parapet.
And still I wept.

I’ve loved you since I witnessed your slavery
Removed with greed, falsehoods,
Shifting legends of half-truths expressed
Under the guise of protection
Under the threat of theft called the improper noun
Rebuked with abandonment
Suffered the neglect of compassion
A soul reviled, refused encouragement
Violated in every way possible.
I still wept.

I’ve loved you since before I strapped on my armor
To storm the cotton fields wrought with personal terror
With machete drawn high in the air,
Shackles of truth for the liars to wear
Jangling on my hip with keys nowhere to be found.
The hovel proclaimed as his kingdom rotted
From the inside out with starving zombies
Clawing at the doors and windows trying to escape
I saw your fetal position and spirited you away
And we wept.

I’ve loved you since I became your Harriet Tubman,
Your underground railroad to freedom
I sheltered you in loving arms with my heart repaired
Embracing the Old to reject the new wave
At the same time embracing the New and rejecting the old
Hearing your pain mocked, examining trauma
After trauma after trauma after trauma after trauma
And feeling the rebuke of your fears whipped at me
The refusal of your champion for lack of worth
The loss of faith in hope and healing
And I weep.

I loved who I became because of your life
My superhero cape dancing in the wind
As I advocated for the better world that you deserve
As I championed a life with choices once denied you
As I believed in your potential, indulgent of possibilities
Lifting your chin so your eyes could see success
Found with the wings of encouragement
With every required tool available
At the beckoning of your unwilling fingers,
Your imprisoned mind,
Your blinded foresight,
Your despised, abused, and hated body.
You have removed my necessity, discarded my gifts
Refused your glory for the sake of self-loathing
And I weep, but always I will love you.

I’m getting a divorce

http://fav-store.info/blog.wp/tear-the-nicotine-shackles/ http://fav-store.info/blog.wp/tear-the-nicotine-shackles/

I met ‘em when I was 18 years old. I was in the backseat of Paul’s car laughing and drinking Jack Daniels chased by Southern Comfort. When you were offered to me, it just felt like the right thing to do. I mean, my friends and I were all sharing while singing out loud to songs promised at the concert we were heading down to Kalamazoo to witness up close and personal. I thought, “What the heck?”

I didn’t like you much, to be honest, but you kept pushing towards me with a tenacity that only lover’s know. I embraced you and for a while, we loved each other passionately, fully, and without remorse or thought of consequence.

We’ve been together for over half of my life. Twenty-eight years collectively where you have stood beside me as my pal, my buddy, my emotional rock, my shame and guilt. For twenty-eight years I’ve allowed myself to return to you time and again despite your abuse. Despite the way you take my breath away, and I don’t mean in a good way. I cling to you as a drowning man to a life raft. I run to you, no matter the occasion.

I know exactly how you’ll touch my body, move my emotions, and comfort me when I’m upset. I am hyper-aware of your indifference to my wandering eye because you know you’re my Master. You know I’m your slave. You know that I will give up everything I have if it meant being in your presence for just a little bit longer.

When we are in the honeymoon phase of our relationship, I can enjoy your company like an old friend being reunited with me. We laugh and joke. We carry on stories of “Do you remember when…?” And I love you for those. My emotional attachment to you soothes my body and my brain. You tell me everything is going to be all right as long as you’re with me. I let you stay far too long because I depend on your gratuitous being to cope with daily life.

But we have a problem. I’m no longer in love with you. I’m embarrassed that you show up at social events. I’m embarrassed that you dominate me into humiliating positions where I have to hide my shameful love/hate for you in public. I find myself apologizing for you before we’re even together.

We’ve been married longer than all four of my recognized wedded times. I realize, however, that perhaps, it’s time for us to go our separate ways for good. You see, I’m stealing love from my life with our relationship. My loving husband said, “I wish there was something I could say that would make you give up this relationship like there was when I asked you to wear your seat belt. I’m getting robbed of time with you because of that.” He’s right and I feel ashamed.

My husband sees me cheat on him every day and because of my long-term relationship with you, I’ve not had an interest in changing anything. Which isn’t entirely true, I’m a slave to a master that calls me when I’m uncomfortable, bored, upset, or need a break. But my love for my legally wedded husband is stronger than my relationship with you.

I want a divorce. I want you to leave and never return. You are not valued, you devalue. You are not comfort, you are shame. You are not a stress reliever, you’re an abuser, like me. You are not special, you’re the butt of every joke. You’re not welcome any more to go with me to restaurants, clubs, cars, homes, or anywhere else. You’re just not okay and I am not going to give in to the lies you tell me about how much you love me. You hurt me and I let you. You control me and I don’t like that. I don’t want you ruining any more of my life than I’ve allowed you to already.

I’m not 18 or immortal anymore and you need to understand that. I can’t even begin to imagine the amount of damage I’ve allowed you to do to me. I, truthfully, hope the only thing you leave with me is the memory of my own allowed self-inflicted version of a slow suicide that I’m aware of in my life.

I am sending you packing, cigarettes. Butt out of my life. You can’t blow your smoke screen around me anymore. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust get ye out of my life you must! You must!

P.S. June 7th is the birthday of the friend that introduced me to my own self destruction. I was no coerced, but it seems poetic to choose that day as the day I officially divorce myself from that habit.

The Mute Woman

How to make a daisy crown

How to make a daisy crown

I made daisy crowns and dandelion necklaces.

I climbed trees with my knees scraping bark

to see what was on the other side of my neighbor’s fence

or down the hill, or off in the distance on a sea of treetops.

I drank water from the dog bowl to see if it tasted different.

I tried cat food to see if they liked things the same as me.

I wove elaborate stories, like plays,

that I repeated until I had them memorized

then performed them to blank-faced audiences of dolls.

I became a mosquito scratching relative legs until they sprayed me away.

I watched from my window, every day through winter to see the first robin of Spring.

I dashed wildly, madly through the scented Autumn leaves.

I splashed loudly in puddles

when I didn’t have on rain boots and when I did.

I drove a pedal car up and down the sidewalk in front of my home;

Mine was green, my brother’s blue.

I rode my bike as fast as the wind

skinning the ends from my toes for riding barefoot.

My baby doll became a real child needing care

right down to being walked in a baby buggy, pampered and cuddled.

I sang songs when there were people around

and when there wasn’t.

I wore the brightest clothes I owned with pride

but refused to wiggle my fanny at school for embarrassment’s sake

foregoing the envied bunny tail.

I dreamed of long hair like my favorite Aunts

but my hair was wild, unruly, and never behaved appropriately.

I played race car with the electric socket and a key

learning just how many people I could scare at one time.

I saw my world as beautiful, wondrous, and awe-inspiring.

My memories have not been muted, although faded a bit,

Dog-eared around the edges, notated and rewritten with crayons

reversed into a parking spot reserved for each one.

I take them out and drive them around adult conversations

but they get dismissed as comical fancies

disapproved of as childish rubbish.

But they’re wrong.

My childhood held many terrifying horrors.

I don’t think these wonders I hold in my memories are comical or rubbish.

They represented my soul unfurled like a battle-worn banner

proclaiming my liberty from my aggressive oppressors.

They were a time of exploration, learning, and comprehension.

They were and are my life boiled down to the simple things

that so many struggle toward, but I hold dear to my heart.

These Are My People: Diane Rutherford

http://hipish.free.fr/graphics/feelings/sadness/?id=149

A poem for Indi and Diane

I heard you crying

There are no words for their deepened grief that can make it any less.
There are no words for their bereavement that can make end time regress.
They understand that their valediction can bring the nethermost sadness.
The tenderest of beings and the sweetest of souls, finds rare solace.

They do it anyway because the honor of the hard won trust
moves gently around their spirits like precious diamond dust
They give their love with wild abandon from one soul to another
with unwavering faith and elation, like a good child to their mother.

The tenderest of beings, the sweetest of souls, find rare solace;
steadfast between these kindred hearts this their solemn promise
Until the last star vanishes, until the sun goes dark,
there will always be a place, within each others hearts.

Well then, here we are

Last Friday I had surgery on my ankle to fix chronic pain that I incurred when my body decided it would be a great idea to not only enlarge my foot nerve, but attach it to the major artery running through said foot. So whenever I would step, extend, or use my foot, I was in constant pain. However, after the surgery, I feel so much better that I’ve been tempted to overdo it a bit because I can’t believe how much better I feel. Although I have irritation from the surgery site and some pretty impressive stitches, the pain level is more at a pinch instead of a cut-my-foot-off-for-the-love-of-Pete!

But I’m back and rolling again.

My friend posed the question: What if someone said “I love you” and you never heard it? It inspired the following poem entitled Rejected Love.

desertoasis

I’ve been told “I love you” in a million different ways

By thousands of different mouths promising devotion

In actions and in words designed to set my heart ablaze

With alchemic bumbling, “Drink this Number 9 potion.”

But the spells they cast upon my heart break up before they land

Their intentions not as holy as the unguarded that you proffered

In the secret place you’ve discovered, my oasis in the sand

While you accepted my treasure trove, they could not be bothered.