And I am a writer, writer of fictions / I am the heart that you call home / And I've written pages upon pages / Trying to rid you from my bones / My bones/ My bones / And if you don't love me let me go / And if you don't love me let me go
My skirt has poop on it. I mean, I washed it but the point still remains that my skirt has poop on it. I guess I could look at it as some kind of auspicious omen but really it just means a tiny human pooped on me.
Sometimes, I feel like the only thing I'll ever do is stare out someone else's (much nicer than mine) kitchen window, watching the world pass me by. When will it be my turn? My constant cry is as plaintive and annoying as any of my Tiny Charges. My gods and spirits answer with the same distracted answer I always give, Soon!
Soon. Whatever that means to a bunch of beings who can dilate time enough to make Dr. Who shudder.
My house is clean, I have a new oven, I can pay all my bills, my living family and friends are all in good health. Shouldn't that be enough? I wish I could say that it is. But it's not. Not lately, so close to achieving All of the Things and yet none of them achieved in their entirety. The wanting comes in waves and sometimes I'm gliding on the crest like an otter and sometimes I'm just drowning in it.
Right now, I simply wait to see what the universe's next trick is. Will I shoot the moon or get just close enough to lose completely? So many possibilities that I've been working so hard to achieve are building together into a rolling, graceful breaker. Will I dive into the gate or be washed ashore? Time will tell and the universe has nothing but time.
I don't.
II.
It was late one night /I was awoken by the telephone/ I heard a strangled cry on the end of the line / Purloined in Petrograd / They were suspicious of where your loyalties lay / So I paid off a bureaucrat / To convince your captors they're to secret you away /And at the gate of the embassy /Our hands met through the bars /As your whisper stilled my heart / No, they'll never catch me now/ It was ten years on / When you resurfaced in a motorcar / With the wave of an arm/ You were there and gone
My circle sister has the Southern drawl of someone from a Tennessee Williams play if the heroine swore a lot. She gave up cooking with her first marriage, she's a round dancer and secret Dancing With the Stars aficionado, she spent her professional life as a social worker (in the HIV/AIDS department before she retired) and she's been raising hell in the name of the sisterhood, LBGT rights and Paganism for quite some time. She never seems to get too discouraged to continue the battle for equal rights for everyone, a trait I find incredibly admirable as I often feel too beaten down to continue the struggle.
She was also a spy for the feminist revolution. It was something I was sworn to secrecy for quite some time but it's now been written about in a compilation book of feminist icons.
It was late one night and we were drinking coffee. I was drinking decaf espresso and poking at it doubtfully since I still hadn't gotten the hang of drinking espresso yet and I didn't think vanilla soy milk would improve it, no matter how hard she insisted it would. I loved being in her house, it's a gorgeous mid century full of tomes about feminist theory, Goddess art work and elemental shrines everywhere that wasn't covered in saucy Pagan/Feminist pins. It felt like a perfect snapshot in time of Second Wave Feminism. My circle sisters call it The [Her Name] Museum.
I don't remember what we were talking about, when she decided to tell me about it. I remember staring at her blankly, thinking how could that even be possible?
Decades ago, she took on considerable risk to join a radical group of conservatives who were bombing clinics and killing doctors and made them think she was one of them. Part of what made her so believable was her very conservative upbringing.
She went to their retreats and events, dressed conservatively, with a tiny goddess hidden in her bra. She was often far from home and surrounded by people expressing views that made her feel sick inside. At some events, her hotel room had obviously been searched. She worried what would happen if they found out who she really was. Would she be beaten? Would she be raped? Could she even be killed? She didn't know. But she believed so strongly in her cause that she was willing to face any of these terrible outcomes. Luckily, she was never discovered.
After these events, she would pass on information to her feminist organization to try to help keep more people safe and to keep events where both groups would be present from getting out of hand.
It would be easy to call her fearless. But she wasn't. She was sick with fear. Even sicker with fear was her eventually-to-be second husband. But he never told her how afraid he was for her because he knew that it would distract her from her mission and he believed in her cause as strongly as she did as he was a feminist as well. I know I could be brave like my sister was, I don't know if I could be brave like her husband was. I can't imagine what it would feel like to send a lover into (necessary) imminent danger and put a good face on about it. Bravery has two sides; the side that will do whatever it takes for what you believe in and the side that holds a rock solid quiet conviction.
They would see each other at clinics from opposite sides. He said later that he almost wouldn't recognize her, she seemed so different from her energy to her clothes to mannerisms. Even when they would see each other, they would have to pretend they didn't know each other. Her believability to the radical conservative organization depended on that.
My circle sister is a feminist icon, but to me she'll always be my other mother.
III.
From ore I labored you /From cancer I cradled you/ And now: this is how I am repaid?/ This is how I am repaid?/ Remember when I found you/ The miseries that hounded you/ And I gave you motion/ Anointed with lotions/ And now: this is how I am repaid?/ This is how I am repaid?
You have brief moments of spark, where I almost believe that you could set the world on fire. Where I almost believe that you will do everything that makes you feel afraid. That spark, that glamour where you could convince anyone to do anything. And I think, yes! Yes! It's finally happening! We're finally getting somewhere!
But then you that spark to get into a meaningless nothing fight with your husband and slump over the couch watching reruns of court procedurals (a habit that I find disgusting, along with your PEH, for the record). You eat the same things you always eat, you do the same things you've always done and you expect . . .what? Not to get the same things you've always gotten? Oh child. You would be hilarious if it was intentional. But it's not, so it's just sad.
I feel you hovering in that place where you think giving up is an option because you don't see your world forming in the way that you expected it to. You cling like the ghost you will be someday to the things that are familiar. Why would you ever think that success would look like anything you wanted it to look like? Why would you think that I would ever look or act like anything you expected?
You think that success will somehow keep you safe and that it will give you all the things you want so desperately; security, calm, good health, Enough of Everything, a map of promises that you can refer to whenever things get difficult, love, approval, attention.
You were never built for those things, it's why you want them so desperately. You will never have those things in large enough quantities to satisfy you unless you are willing to give up everything that makes you you. You pretend for moments that you could, to jostle me, to make sure I'm still awake. You resentfully list all of the accomplishments of your peers and bitterly covet everything that is not your own. As if other people's accomplishments were ever yours to take! As if you are anything but an adjacent planet in the same solar system! You don't even share a sun or a moon but you expect your path to be the same as theirs.
You make yourself small when you resolve to keep your eyes on your own paper. You need to be more than a school girl at a cramped desk. You are a globe, my tiny insignificant charge. A world that only you can circumnavigate. Full of your own flora and fauna, full of your own air and stars. Let yourself quicken to riotous bloom. You will never be able to anticipate everything I will bring to your little planet, so stop attempting to understand the inner workings of my far more complicated mind and instead tell me the world I long to hear. Just say yes. Just say yes. Just say yes.
To everything. Until you don't know where you are anymore and you no longer care. The best maps are the ones that were never written.
IV.
But O Valencia/ With your blood still warm on the ground/ O Valencia/ And I'll burn this whole city down/ O Valencia/ With your blood getting cold on the ground/ O Valencia/ And I swear to the stars/ I'll burn this whole city down
V.
Perhaps I am a miscreation/ No one knows the truth there is no future here/ And you're the DJ speaks to my insomnia/ And laughs at all I have to fear/ Laughs at all I have to fear/ You always play the madmen poets/ Vinyl vision grungy bands/ You never know who's still awake/ You never know who understands and/ Are you out there, can you hear this?/ Jimmy Olson, Johnny Memphis,/ I was out here listening all the time/ And though the static walls surround me/ You were out there and you found me/ I was out here listening all the time