white noise

For the last ten days, I’ve been gripped in the clutches of a nasty, menacing cold and now I’ve had me a sack full of it. DonedoneDONE. Time for it to pack its bags and move on. I’ve tried to be diligent about pacing and pain management, but there are just those days, like today, when it starts to catch up with me. It’s days like this when I am sorely tempted to push back, vie for control, gain a little momentum, and be merrily on my way. I know how detrimental such stubbornness can be, how easily it can zing from mild determination to driving myself into the ground, but still I find it a difficult urge to curtail. I can’t forget patience today; this above all else.

I can deal with most of my cold symptoms, but the ritual coughing fits that start right before bedtime and end around 4 a.m. have disturbed an already deranged Circadian rhythm. I’ve avoided taking Ambien in this state for fear that it will only tempt the glowing-eyed dragon visitations. Most Ambien-induced hallucinations I’ve experienced haven’t been too bad, likely because Ambien doesn’t seem to eradicate rational thought. Okokok, that’s really just the dvd player breathing fire and glowering at me. But, I’ve sat up long hours watching the walls or sofa melt, undulate, and breathe. Mostly I find the dragons emerge in the dark and from electronic components with glowing digits or knobs.

On the Fibro/CFS-side of me, if I could go to bed and make a career out of staring at blank walls, life would be complete. That’s the irritating part — that NOTHING seems to be the mode for today. Fuzzy vision, even wearing my reading glasses, bars me from reading a book; small print does all but vanish into the page. I look forward to the day when books come equipped with Ctrl +/- options.

At the moment, fear is my worst enemy; patience probably my greatest ally. I’m stuck, able only to articulate, “I feel like hell,” when it’s deeper, much deeper. I stand at the helm of a ship in ill-repair, which although it may conduct itself at my command, does so only with great concentration and effort. Everything is manual; no power steering, no power brakes, and the gears grind even though I’ve clutched.

I want to write and be creative, possibly work on a handmade journal or make embellishments from polymer clay, but it’s a strain to keep hold of a cohesive thought for long. Fatigue and the headache which resides at the base of my skull have drained the color around me. Movement is laborious, as though I’ve been suspended in ballistics gel. It seems I’m even further disconnected from reality than any heavy duty decongestant should be able to induce.

The muscles in my hands and forearms are stiff and sore, as if they’ve shrunk under my skin the way wet leather does when it has sat too long in the sun. My spine is the pike upon which some blood-thirsty barbarian has skewered my head. I loathe the “elevator sickness” that makes the ground unstable when I walk. Every step must be carefully calculated as I make my way down the stairs.

My shell, though, is cool as a cucumber. I may look a little tired, but I’m lightning fast in my turtle sort of way. I’ll move quietly most of the day, seeming little more than contemplative and possibly a little sad. Around prime-time, I’ll give up trying to be productive and plunk myself down on the sofa. For the length of a rerun of Without a Trace and an episode of Medium, I’ll let the TV curdle my brain.

If I’m lucky tonight, the coughing fit won’t come and I’ll be that much closer to the end of this cold. I’ll snuggle down with a sleepy Jon beside me and a tiger named Teddy wrapped around my neck to cradle my noggin. I will be thankful, too; stuffing tissue up my nostrils is no longer necessary.

For those young people of the White Rose Resistance, who lived and died courageously.

You sent your messages barbed —
prismatic words burrowing deep
into the hardened, winter soul.
These forbidden ideals scattered,
delivered in secrecy,
each of you toiled long,
cold hours for justice.

In January, you knew that you, too,
were just as guilty; perhaps not of
the treason that justified murdering you,
but of blindness, of resisting too late.
Thinly sliced, that romantic ideal
of perfection ill-suited you and, finally,
you glanced beyond the promise
of Total Victory, saw it for the cruel
annihilation it was:
a blue-eyed, all-white monster
with an insatiable appetite for humanity.

Your words etched the truth: a long,
fat scar across the howling monster’s jowl.
And he knew, knew you were beautiful
the moment your eyes opened and
God’s fingertip brushed your cheek.
Even while the blood clung to the tip
of the blade desperate to silence you,
you proved roses have thorns.
You resisted, owners of your lives and words,
commanders of respect. You found it even
in the eyes of God. A God who smiled wordlessly
when the last of your words
rained from Allied planes.

We would all like to have died
so young or noble
if we, too, had such a purpose.
Yet, what mark would we leave upon the world
but a scar?

No, our dreams are vivid because of you.

21 February 2006

For any one interested, April is National Poetry Month. Might I interest you in some Louise Glück, or perhaps some Rita Dove to entice and enrich your poetic minds? The Rita Dove page is especially nice; you can either read the poems yourself, or listen to them performed by Rita.

I get to visit Lone Pine this June to spend time with Laurel and Yana (YAY all three of us together in the same state for more than 10 minutes!), visit old haunts, see my family, and maybe even ride Sierra one more time. I haven’t been “home” in almost 9 years. We stopped in Olancha once to pick Chelsea up on the way to Disneyland; I think that was in 1999, but I haven’t been there since. I’ve missed the high desert terribly even though I’m happy to do without the small town living.

I’ve seen recent pictures of Lone Pine on Wikipedia … it doesn’t seem much has changed, although I noticed Mt. Whitney is no longer 14,496 feet tall. It has grown. The AM/PM Mini Market is now a Mobil gas, but the familiar landmarks — the Dow Villa, Joseph’s Bi-Rite Market, and the Merry-Go-Round — are still intact. From those pictures, too, it seems Lone Pine still has only the one stop light at Main Street and Whitney Portal Road.

How wicked nostalgia can be.

I can feel the summer heat on my arms and even hear the wind blowing across Owen’s dry lake. I remember an after school water-balloon fight we had the summer I turned 15. I begged Johnny Bartlett to let me cross the street before he launched the pumpkin-sized balloon he held aimed at me. I’d never dreamed a water-balloon could be quite that large. Johnny taunted me with it the whole time, but kept his word as I slunk by with both hands out to prove I was unarmed. The balloon sounded like a miniature tsunami when it exploded on the sidewalk and soaked my legs from knees to feet. I squealed and tried to run, but my feet squished and slid all over their flipflops, making my escape little more than comic relief.

I think Eric or Steve A. tagged me in the back as I tried to cross the next intersection.

Someone alerted the local posse. It seemed the patrons of Joseph’s and the video store didn’t appreciate our water war. I don’t recall hitting any unarmed civilians, but my aim has never been that good. It was a good battle though, before it ended. We had at least 15 participants and the sidewalks on both sides of Main Street from the high school to the park were covered for the following week in colorful bits of broken balloon to commemorate our victories and defeats. We had a food fight of equal proportions during my senior year and that time the sidewalks were stained in mustard, catsup, and blue cake frosting. Come to think of it, so was I.

I can’t imagine what visiting will be like this year. Will it be like seeing an old friend, or will I feel distant and aloof, so far removed from those days and my memories? I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that it was a good place to be young.

For my friends, Yana and Laurel, who really need to be more geek. ;)

We drank root beer all night,
sprawled like shipwrecked sailors
hoarding a last cask of rum.
Unladylike, draped over couches,
recliners, and a dusty, overstuffed chair,

we laughed ourselves purple
recalling the past – Duran Duran,
the trampling waves of Punk Rock,
leg warmers, and DayGlo pinks.
We hadn’t laughed so much
since the dawn following
our senior prom, the day
we ascended into adulthood –
A state of calamity we wouldn’t
recognize for another ten years.

This morning we pause to see
the dawn, sip herbal tea while
rubbing the mirth from our eyes,
each of us silently knowing
life is still larger, sighs deeper
when our plural becomes one.
The universe redistributes our
fragments — dove-like treasures
from a crumbled sand dollar,
pieces of eight snapped and halved
to pay local merchants,

We’re never strangers here
in the same room,
born of the same blood
when the universe we know
recreates and we begin anew.

12 March 2007

Laurel’s mom photocopied the following ad from the Inyo Register in (I think) 1996 in an effort to help me convince my step-mom she needed to re-examine her relationship with my father. At that point, I don’t think it left much of an impression, but I’ve kept the copy with me in a binder all these years. Thinking it might be worth repeating, I’m copying it here:

ARE YOU IN AN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP?

Do any of your personal relationships have any of the behavior patterns listed below? If so, you might want to consider how these patterns may be affecting yourself and your children. Remember you are not alone, nor are you to blame, and you have choices.

You are in an abusive relationship if your spouse, ex-spouse, lover or dating partner has:

Battered women share some common emotional reactions to violence in their homes. Do any of these following feelings and thoughts seem familiar to you?

Withheld approval, appreciation or affection as punishment? Continually criticized you, called you names, shouted at you? Ignored your feelings? Ridiculed, criticized or insulted your appearance, friends, most valued beliefs, your religion, race, class or sexual preference? Been very jealous, harassed you about real or imagined affairs? Manipulated you with lies and contradictions? Insisted you dress the way he/she wants? Humiliated you in private or public? Driven away your friends or family? Taken car keys or money away? Subjected you to reckless driving? Locked you out of the house? Thrown objects at you or threatened to do so? Abused or threatened to abuse your children or pets to hurt you? Punched, shoved, slapped, bit, kicked, choked, or hit you? Raped you, forced or coerced you to be sexual when you didn’t want to be? Threatened to kidnap the children if you leave? Threatened to commit suicide if you leave? Minimized the physical/emotional abuse to you?

Are you afraid of him/her? Do you worry a lot? Do you ever think of running away? Do you feel like you can’t relax? Do you always have to be on guard, watching his/her moods, being careful what you do or say? Do you doubt your own judgment and think maybe you are going crazy? Do you think it must be your fault? Do you blame yourself and think that somehow you deserve to be battered? Have you lost confidence in yourself? Do you feel confused, helpless, depressed or hopeless? Do you lack energy or have little interest left for things that you used to enjoy? Have you lost contact with other people: family members, friends, co-workers, or neighbors? Do you feel like you have no choice but to put up with it and stay? Do you feel trapped and alone? Do you find yourself doing things sexually that are painful or humiliating?

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

Don’t try to down-play or minimize the warning signs. If you believe you’re in an abusive relationship, get help and get out. This applies to men as much as it does to women.