Creativity and Responsibility

Aging is a process of gaining and losing.

Creativity has become

Second-in-command.

She defers to Reason and Responsibility.

Sometimes I let her come out to play. I see her

Peeking around corners

Eyes twinkling

Fingers pointing

Head beckoning me to follow.

My little artist and her creative partner in crime. 

These moments that once came so frequently and

At all hours of the day and night

Now visit me in the dead of night

In dreams

Or the moment my head touches my pillow.

Reason and responsibility insist that I count myself

Logically to sleep.

"Do not deter from your mission."

They insist.

"Be at peace. You need your sleep.

We do not know what time baby girl will wake up or

What crises may occur for which you will be

The foundation they

All cling to."

My doctor told me today that I am the heart of my home.

Not in a proverbial way but in

Truth; in practice; in "real life."

My mood, my actions set the tone

My family will follow.

I pray that I will be a good influence on my family.

That I will guide them well and

Teach them to be true.

Which truth do I teach? 

Creativity, or

Responsibility. 

I could aspire to teach them balance, but I have

So little. 

I am silent when I should speak. 

I speak when I should remain silent. 

Perhaps I'll teach them to be human. 

To leave a unique mark upon the world

No matter how great or small. 

We are infinitely insignificant as a species;

Insignificantly infinite as individuals. 

Kindreds

I used to wrap my wrists in ribbons -

Cream-colored lace with brocade patterns of

Cerulean blue fleur-de-lis and 

English ivy. 

My eyes, I outlined with bleu kohl and

Grass green shadow

My dress was vintage white meaning

Well-loved. 

My black lace-up boots were hidden by

My hem. 

I was not fashionable. 

It's hard to be unique and different.

This is cliche and seemingly pompous 

It doesn't make it any less true. 

I painted my nails black and 

Wore my father's flannel. 

I hid my face behind 

Cascades of auburn hair. 

On my 16th birthday, I received 

Two precious gifts:

A neon pleated maxi dress made of heavy linen 

Circa 1965

And a pair of braided hemp platform shoes

I'd been coveting. 

My girlfriend gave these things to me. 

We kissed only once, but it was enough. 

She knew me better than I knew myself. 

She dressed me like her doll -

I was a poor reflection in my eyes alone. 

And when she came to me crying on my couch

I knew that we were kindreds. 

What I didn't know then that I know now is that

A kindred does not last

Forever. 

Maya, Age 4

She adorns my wrist with neon plastic beads,
Wraps me in the scarves of her arms,
Dangles clip-on earrings before my eyes,
As if they were made of precious metal.

She writes a novel every day
Composed of the alphabet, numbers,
X’s and O’s,
Her name, my name, and the words
“I LOVE YOU.”

She serenades me with her high-pitched
Squeals, laughter, and “whistles” –
She spits in my direction when she’s angry,
Stamps her feet, and slaps her sides.

She curls up in my lap and demands tickles,
Buries her head in my chest when she cries,
Wipes her snot on my shirt if her nose
Decides to run.

She will not ride her tricycle; she’d rather
Drag it down the street, huffing and puffing.
She will not put on socks but doesn't need my help
Putting her shoes on the wrong feet.

She uses grown-up language to say she is
Fus-ter-ated
And baby language to indicate which foods
She absolutely will NOT try.

She composes portraits of herself with
Fields of flowers, sunshine, and grass using
Crayons, watercolors, pencils, pens, and
Anything that leaves a mark.

She is my daughter
My one and only, and
As soon as I grow accustomed to her
Preferences, ideas, vocabulary, and habits,
She grows, changes, and evolves.

So I will preserve her in my memory,
In pictures, and in words.
I will be the Museum of Maya
To remind her of how far she’s come and
How far she has left to go.

The Many Faces of Eve, or I Quit.

I have mentioned before the warring factions in my head. You may remember that I said they choose opinions at the exact opposite point of the spectrum from one another solely for the purpose of driving me mad.

And, there you have it. The quitting. The juxtaposition of truly living life and remaining indifferent to it. Insulating myself against its pains and disappointments.

When I was working - both before and after motherhood - I fantasized a number of different ways to escape my life. I dreamt of taking a sabbatical from work and checking myself into one of those facilities where your every movement is watched. Where you wake at a certain time, make your bed a certain way, share a bathroom with ten other women, attend meetings, outings, and support group counseling sessions with said women. Where you are told when you can eat, sleep, watch TV, make a phone call, have a visitor.

Sometimes, I feel so completely cut loose from myself that I crave the structure other people - professionals - can provide. Maybe it's the Girl Scout in me. Maybe the recovering drug addict.

One time, I did it, but mostly, it was just a fantasy. To take a step back and quit being crazy.

On the other side of this coin is the desire for mania. I wonder if others can comprehend that need; what it is to be driven to create madness out of nothing but thin, imagined things. To drive miles at night in familiar territory while your brain is on autopilot only to wake and realize you might have died. You might have done terrible things. And no one was with you, so how would you know?

You would not. You also would not know how to quit.

At least at first.

Here is a poem I wrote about it -

I quit.
Simple words that form a simple sentence. [Fragment.]
The sentiment is not simple. It is complex.
It’s complicated.
An overused, disabused articulation. [Fragment.]
Problematic in that, when I choose to use it
Appropriately
I am misunderstood by the majority.
And the minority is oh-so-quiet
These days.
Until they’re not.
Let’s go back to the original thought that provoked such a statement as:
I quit.
I quit my job. [Positive.]
I quit drinking. [Positive?]
I quit caring. [Negative.]
I did not quit caring. [Positive.]
I am walking a tight rope of caring and not-caring
I am in no fit condition to do so
My balance is off due to the ever increasing girth of
My middle.
My hormones are playing tricks on an already
Tricky mind.
Insomnia is not responding to my defiance.
Her scorn is bitter tannins after I imbibe.
I quit trying to defy
That which is not susceptible to insolence
And so,
I write.

Sane

2009

2010

2011

2012

Not Sane
  

2009

2010

2011

2012

2012

Undetermined....

1997?

1997?

1999? 

Baby no. 2

Women of my generation will understand what an incredible reversal in mode of thinking it is to feel happy when you don't get your period and sad if you do.

For the majority of our early sexual experiences, we take great pains to ensure we don't get pregnant. Pills before and after, condoms, spermicides...the works.

Then, one day, the opposite. A total shift in ideology and lifestyle. And we beckon it, welcome it, say thank you when we get a plus instead of a minus.

The one time we are happy to add rather than subtract. 

I have been waiting for that plus sign. Waiting for the second soul to take up residence in my body. And she (or he) is here. I am pregnant. Je suis enceinte. 

Our baby is due in January, 2014. I'm nervous about pregnancy, terrified by delivery and the pain I know I will endure, and worried about my time postpartum. 

But, mostly, I am grateful. I will endure whatever is to come, and it will all be worth it. A new life will join the human race. Maya will have a sibling. James and I will have another human bond. I will hold a tiny precious life inside and outside of me. I will help shape her destiny. She will be a beautiful person for however long she is allowed to be part of our world. 

We will be human together. 

We will be a family. 

Hair

Every friend is a 

Tragedy

Waiting to happen to you. 

The best friend who moves away and loses touch after her house burned down. 

I dye my hair red. 

The boyfriend who rapes you when you were just a virgin. 

I dye and cut my hair. 

The best friend who fell in love with you but wanted you to choose between him and her. And you could not. 

I grow my hair. 

The best friend you fell in love with while she was dating her dream man. So you fell in love with some little boy who was sweet and poetic and wanted you for one thing and one thing only. 

I cut my hair and dye it vampire red. 

The boyfriend who shares a liter of vodka with you and tries to slit his wrists in the shower in the middle of the night. You are so drunk, barely capable of wresting away the razor blades. You wake up from your stupor ready to continue, to lose yourself in the madness. To commit. But he decides not to come with you. 

I grow my hair and dye it ebony. 

The kindred spirit whose virginity you take knowing he may never recover.  The virgin who gives you one incredible moment of ecstasy before a roaring fire and you realize in that moment you could die and be perfectly content. But you do not die. You follow a separate orbit. 

I cut, dye, cut, and dye my hair. 

The older man who teaches you that there is a pain greater than rape, that wounds go deeper than any man can thrust. 

I grow and dye my hair. 

The girls who teach you how to party. How to separate your body from your soul. How to do things you find morally reprehensible. They teach you how not to care. They teach you a narcissism you never thought you were capable of. 

I cut my hair. Cut my hair. Cut my hair. 

The kindred spirit who shares your darkest secrets and you share hers as though they happened to you both simultaneously. Until the day arrives that you are torn apart by unfathomable odds. 

I grow my hair. 

The sister you unintentionally disavowed. Alone we suffered the heartbreak for years. 

I take my hair back to neutral. Back to its natural state. 

My soulmate broke my heart, so I broke his by carving it out of his chest and burying it alongside mine. 

I cut and bleach my hair. 

I return to neutral. 

I grow and dye my hair. 

I shave my head and buy some wigs. 

I grow my hair. I bleach my hair. I let it grow. 

And now the question is,

Do I let it return to neutral 

(whatever that is these days)

?

Every friendship is...

a Tragedy...

is not THE END. 

Hearts mend as they can 

Heal. 

Souls rebound as they are 

Ephemeral. 

And hair 

grows 

back. 

Juxtaposition, or Birthdays

Coming of age makes for poignant memories. While I cannot remember all of my birthdays, some images I simply cannot erase from my mind's eye...

19 years old. Spending Victorian hours with a man who will not touch me. A man whose touch I will not allow. Only touch my soul. I plead. A car explodes on fire in the dead of night. We circle it three times in awe.

20 years old. The Pyrenees mountains. A French boy's car. Curving, careening around the turns past thickets of trees in the dark of night. Headed for adventure.

21 years old. On a pay phone in a halfway house at 8:32 AM. The exact time of my delivery. A "happy birthday" from my mother. I am nothing if not unconventional.

22 years old. Sitting outside a café with a married man. He compares me to a lingerie model. A funny but deliberate joke. Our hands touch. He drinks my passion tea and threatens undying devotion.

25 years old. Poolside with my girlfriends watching a fire dancer's flames lick the nighttime sky. We drank, smoked, talked, and marveled at our youth.

30th Birthday

26 years old. Stunned with joy when the man I loved proposed on bended knee. Asked my best friend to be my bridesmaid. That was the last time I saw her or spoke to her for years. Sadly, her love was ending while mine was just beginning.

30 years old. A monstrous age to inflict on a lady. How cruel to feel so young, yet to be labeled a "grown-up."

31st Birthday

31 years old. Sushi with a side of suicide. I ate it and swallowed some pills with my wine. God help me, I don't know how to survive this birthday.

34 years old. Seaside with my family by my side. She covers him with wet sand from head to hand. Their laughter rises with the waves and falls with the setting sun. Together, we stumble over seaweed, build castles with buried treasure, and chase the dolphins in the sea. I teach my little girl how to pee on the side of the road. It is liberating. 

34th Birthday