p e r s p e c t i v e

When you’re sitting down there on the floor, all cried out and delirious, eyes red and swollen, flicking the lamp switch back and forth, mascara smudged all over your face and you just can’t see that it doesn’t matter if he has her or she has him…

You can’t see because right now you’re just deep in it, you’re thinking about boiling bunnies and you are still turning the goddamn lights on and off while blasting Madame Butterfly through the speakers and wearing his cologne because he shattered your heart…

You were Alex for him, a damn good Alex too, until he decided Alex wasn’t what he wanted and all the things that made you exciting and intriguing now make you a human land mine and he’s afraid of taking another step…

I want you to know that it doesn’t matter if he lied or broke your heart or used you or made you feel cheap, that he spat out beautiful bullshit with a Cheshire grin, it won’t matter after this momentary break or in any other instant after…

It won’t matter because you’re not Alex. Alex was never who you really are, only a part you played once, someone who fit his mold and expectations, who made him feel important, a woman who thrilled and intimidated him, a woman he callously dismissed and discarded…

It won’t matter because the truth is evident now, you can see it and taste it and feel it, that fire burning in your gut, that voice that tells you you’re stronger without him and you were made to handle tough things, the one that dares you to prove it to yourself…

It won’t matter because – plot twist – you’re Glenn Fucking Close and when this moment is over you’re going to stand up, put your pants on, take a long drag off a longer cigarette and go eat some over-seasoned salmon on the balcony of a hotel where the sheets cost more than most people’s dignity and you will never shed a tear over him again…

And that, my dear, is perspective.

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Misdiagnosed- A Memory

This picture (below) was taken a little over a year ago at Children’s Hospital of Atlanta. We had taken Wy to our local ER and that visit quickly turned traumatic, as we were told he (95% likelihood) had leukemia.

Leukemia. Cancer. The ER doctor said words like “morbidity” and “prognosis”. I didn’t cry. I remember clearly that I, quite uncharacteristically, did not dissolve into a heap of tears. I was angry. Indignant. I came here expecting to hear he has the flu, and now you’re spouting life-expectancy statistics? I was mad. At who? I don’t know. Everyone?

It was close to midnight. I called my dad. We drove home, left our older son with family, packed a bag and traveled to Atlanta to be seen immediately (around 3 am) by an Oncologist. It was a quiet car ride. I texted my Doctor friend and my Mom (who is an RN) the entire time.

In my stomach I felt sure the doctor was wrong. I don’t know how, I just knew he was. Wyatt had fought through so much just to be born. Just to be our son. He can’t have gone through that kind of hell in order to live, just to die two years later. It wasn’t possible. I believed he was well. Sitting in the back seat of my father’s sedan, I felt an overwhelming peace. Wyatt was ok. My job was to be calm for him and to gather information, so that’s what I would do.

Still, it was a tough couple of days. Blood tests, screaming, scouring Google, waiting. Sitting in the Oncologist’s office a few days later we waited to find out the lab results. Wyatt gave in to his exhaustion and fell asleep on the palm of my hand. I was exhausted too. I started giggling. I think it was that nervous kind, like when you laugh at a funeral. None of us had really slept in days.

Thankfully, Wyatt was cleared as quickly as he had been diagnosed. We weren’t given much of an explanation, and frankly I didn’t care for one. I wasn’t mad at the ER doctor and I wasn’t upset at what my family had just been through.

I remember this string of days with enormous gratitude. So much gratitude, it probably seeped from my pores. My big little guy was healthy, and all was right with the world.

This whole fiasco is on my heart today as Wyatt has been very difficult this weekend. I am reminded of how much I cherish him, and how quickly things can change. I take a deep breath, regain composure, and hug him tight. I’ll take a temper tantrum over a night in the ER every day of the week.

Wyatt and his beloved Doggy

contrarywise

Sometimes time runs backwards

And sometimes beggars do choose

Sometimes silence is deafening

And sometimes to win is to lose.

Rainbows aren’t always colorful

Stars don’t always shine

Sometimes lies are the only truth

The sourest grapes make the sweetest wine.

Sometimes the day feels like night time,

And sometimes we sow what we reap

Sometimes the hymn is not sung in church

Sometimes the wolf is a sheep.

Sometimes insanity grounds us

And sometimes darkness is light

Sometimes love doesn’t conquer all

Our blindness allows us clear sight.

 

 

 

artist’s dilemma

it’s tough to write about things i don’t know about,

and i do it with some amount of humility

careful not to overstep or offend

which usually results in rubbish

it’s tougher to write about personal things,

but much more real, raw, accurate

which usually results in spectacular prose

not everything here is autobiographical

(except my disdain for uppercase, that’s all me)

writing a book right now – a novel – a fiction

it’s hilarious how much of it is drawn from real life

and how much of it is drawn from this other life,

one i’ve imagined a million times but never visited

and how authentic they both feel to me.

it’s not that one is real and one is imaginary

both are real, to me. both are me. both are.

i want to present a story that is gripping, heart-wrenching,

imaginative, amusing, compelling, magic.

to do that i have to tell my readers things i’ve never told anyone

admit to things, examine them, lay them bare

i’m mostly ok with that, except

judgement, of myself and of my work – that is myself

i think all writers feel this way, or at least

the good ones do.

Running Down a Dream

I’ve been visited by dead people before.  It’s pretty common for me.  When someone I love dies, they will visit me in a dream. We may chat, or have a picnic, or cry together.  It’s a sweet way to get closure, and I can always tell when a dream is not just a dream, but a visit.  I’m grateful for whatever part of me is open enough to let them through.  Sometimes other people’s loved ones come to me in dreams, too, and ask me to relay messages, which I do.  I know there are plenty of people out there who don’t believe in this sort of thing, to which I’ll now respond with my favorite Nicolas Cage quote (from City of Angels) – “Some things are true whether you believe in them or not.”

 

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This is my Sincere Face.

Last night, I had a dream that was a visitation.  It was about Tom Petty.  Yes, the celebrity/singer/songwriter/cowboy/Traveling Wilbury.  That one.   I have always felt a special connection to Tom’s music, since I was a kid I’ve loved his songs and identified with his lyrics. I was sad, as a lot of people were, to hear of his passing and disappointed that I’d never been to see him in concert.  It wasn’t something I dwelled on, though, and as life does, mine moved on.

So the last few nights I have had some strange and colorful dreams.  I attribute it to the full moon + partial lunar eclipse in Capricorn (don’t get me started on Capricorn).  Last night’s dream was colorful and lively, but different. If you’ve had visitations you know what I’m talking about.  It’s almost like lucid dreaming, in that you’re aware something is different and this moment should be cherished, you try to look around and remember things because you know it will be over soon and you don’t want it to be.  At the same time you’re trying to listen and pay attention to whatever wisdom the visitor is there to impart.

I won’t detail the whole dream, but I will say that the part that felt most important had to do with my boots (navy blue Doc Martens with a zipper on the heel) and his boots (unknown brand).  We compared boots.  Tom Petty gave me some tips on how to care for mine, and how to make the leather feel smooth and buttery like his.  (Yes, I felt Tom Petty’s boots, and yes, they were as soft and luxurious as you might imagine.)

The other important part had to do with him having daughters.  One a brunette, she had a little chubby-cheek face and a dress on and she was precocious and chatty.  I mark this as important because it wasn’t something I knew about him.  I didn’t know TP had children at all, and I had to look it up on the internet to confirm it.  Two daughters, according to Google, and according to Dream Tom.  That, for me, is a confirmation.

All of this has left me with a sincere curiosity, and a hope that maybe the great Tom Petty is one of my spirit guides.   He’s not the first person to visit me after passing, but he is one of the most interesting and I hope we get to chat again.

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Damn the Torpedoes. My guides are cooler than yours.

A couple important notes about dream visitations: Our loved ones, guides, anyone on that plane can take on any form.  My grandfather sometimes visits as the “him” I remember, and sometimes as his younger self.  Tom Petty went back and forth between young and old, seeming equally comfortable with all of his different human “selves”.  Also, visitations are not usually romantic in nature (unless the person was a romantic partner, and even then it’s not likely.)  If you dream about making out with Steve McQueen in the back of a limo it is probably a wish-fulfillment dream courtesy of your own subconscious, and not an actual visit.

No.

I have had my ass grabbed in meetings.

My breasts the subject of conference calls.

I have been shushed, interrupted, and disrespected.

Twice I have been assaulted.

Both were men I trusted.

And yes, my scars run deep and no, it’s no excuse.

It is, though, the truth.

So when a man I love tells me to trust him

I’m already a little bit wary

Stepping out on to the ledge, will you really carry

Me

Or will I fall again, break apart, hold my own heart?

What you can’t understand is how hard I’ve fought

Just to be treated as a person, an equal.

But we are not colleagues, roomies, friends.

There is no equal, that’s all just pretend.

We are simply beguiling predator and his hapless prey.

So please, stay away.

I can assemble my life without this kind of help.

Kindly walk yourself to the door and out

Keep your hands off my ass and

My name out of your mouth

And just

Leave.

 

 

 

In Response to a Letter I Shouldn’t Have Read

The Popliteal Fossa

Some guys say knee pit

What the back of the knee’s called.

[Also, I hate you.]

Which is to say, I don’t hate you at all.

(m)USED

Three people this month.

Three people took my ideas.  Plagiarized. Pilfered. Stole.

Three people who consider themselves upstanding citizens

Who use words like “Never” and “Always”.

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,

I am sincerely, offensively, flattered.

What can I do?  Is it my fault?

I am continuously moving forward,

Working on boundaries and my own dreams,

Not talking to anyone or sharing anything

Can’t risk it. Everything I give gets taken.

I don’t want to be your muse.

I don’t want to be used anymore.

siren [poem draft]

My hips move like ocean waves

Pulsing, crashing, gyrating

To some ancient rhythm only I can hear

Smooth, inviting, life-giving and

Life-sustaining

I could kill you if I wanted to.

 

My song calls you out into the depths

Curious, enchanted, beguiled.

Wading in my waters and forgetting yourself

Fluid, calming, immense and

Passionate

Abandon hope, all who enter.

 

Cling to me, swim away from shore

Dance with me on the ocean floor

 

I want to drown you

I want to drown you

I want to drown you.

 

thank you note

Thank you for being the one,

For illuminating the dark places

Inside me

And for showing me

I deserve more.

Thank you for being the one,

For opening my eyes to truth

About myself

And for pushing me

To grow.

Thank you for being the one

Who shone brighter than the north star

In my nights

And for showing me

What love is.