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Posts Tagged ‘trailing blood in the water’

|| September 25, 2000 || 10:09 am || Comments (0) ||

Oh oh deep water / Black and cold like the night / I stand with arms wide open / I’ve run a twisted line / I’m a stranger in the eyes of the Maker

I could not see for the fog in my eyes / I could not feel for the fear in my life / And from across the great divide

In the distance I saw a light / Jean Baptiste walking to me with the Maker

My body is bent and broken / By long and dangerous sleep / I can’t work the fields of Abraham / And turn my head away / I’m not a stranger in the hands of the Maker

Brother John, can you seen the hopeless daughters / Standing there with broken wings / I have seen flaming swords there over east of Eden

Burning in the eyes of the Maker / Burning in the eyes of the Maker / Burning in the eyes of the Maker

Oh river rise / From your sleep

// Daniel Lanois, “The Maker

|| September 17, 2000 || 9:54 am || Comments (0) ||

I woke up and all was well. I got into the shower and all was well. I got out of the shower and somewhere in the process of toweling off and brushing my teeth, the day just took a slide. Happens every so often. I eschewed the family outing to go shopping Huntsville, something that I never do. I don’t really know why this day turned ass-up; I am usually on such an even keel emotionally. The only thing I can figure is that it is about time for my muse (Delores?) to visit and I am gearing up for the creative whirlwind that is about to sweep in by downshifting.

I went to mass. I’m not even Catholic and I went to mass. I pulled on some Levi’s and a Mets cap and a loud orange t-shirt with long sleeves. I ate Doritos and listened to Ned’s Atomic Dustbin on the way there. I think God likes Doritos and Ned’s Atomic Dustbin; how do you think that he feels about the Mets?

|| September 1, 2000 || 12:14 pm || Comments (0) ||

All week I have had some great ponderings to post on this here blog. I have.

All week I have been insanely busy and preoccupied with life in realtime and have not had the energy or spare moments to boot up and scribble on the webwall. Or maybe I have been avoiding it; out of nowhere I am experiencing a sort of spiritual exhaustion and all of my energies and time the past few days have been channelled (sp? fuck) toward getting as much done as possible in the 24 hours that I have been allotted per day. ~I am gassed up on only about 3.5 hours’ worth of snooze each night as of late.~

In the past few weeks I have watched and listened impotently as the following people weathered losses:

+Christie (mentioned in past post) buried her father after a recent sudden job loss and bore all the emotional and financial weight accompanying it
+Louise (nice, boisterous older lady from next door…pseudo gramma to our family) had a handsome late-40’s son who died a mere 2 weeks before his only grandchild was born
+My mom-in-law (ROCK ON, beautiful free spirit) saw two very good friends die in a car accident
+Donald and Vicki (two nicer, more genuine people could not be hand-picked from gazillions) buried their dad and may have to do the same with their brother.

*sigh* *SIGH* Perhaps this was a preparation for me; a ripening of my emotions so that they were ready to ooze thickly, cloying and sweet.So anyway, my mom calls me 2 days ago and tells me that one of my favorite aunts has cancer and her doctor in his infinite wisdom and sophisticated medicalese told her, “It looks really, really bad.” There you have it. Right there.

Now, I know (and I am hoping that you do as well) that docs normally do not leave room in the equation for the human spirit and its’ boundless power, so I usually say “BAH” and eschew the doomsday/naysayer’s point of view in cases like this. This is different. My aunt has had a series of things happen in the past 2 years that have seriously compromised her immunity and she may well die. ‘Die’ is such a succinct word, huh?

When mom told me, I was fairly non-reactive but now it has started to settle. I slipped today into reclusive cyberescape mode and was twiddling around when I clicked through to a site that I normally enjoy immensely. The author apparently has a friend afflicted with the dreaded BIG C and is doing her part to help. As I read along, outta nowhere the tears started to roll and here I am, typing and bawling and backspacing and fixing typos that my tear-induced blurry vision has prompted. Fuck.

All of this putrid softy behaviour is only culminating now; it started last night about 9 p.m. and I felt a need to phone my mom to talk. What’d we converse about?? You see, it boils down to this: I feel that this is a beginning. My parents each have several siblings (mom has 7 and dad has 6). While I feel that I am still way too young to be losing any of them, odds are that it will undoubtedly start happening soon. I, in my profound wisdom, deem this as ‘fucked up’.

As I explained it to my mother, without caring one iota how fucking selfish that it may have sounded, when my family starts dying off, I fear that I will start dying off as well. I was raised in a close-knit familial environment and I am grounded in that, no matter how the miles may separate me from them. A big part of me is defined within and by my family and when they start pushing daisies an important part of me will be gone. I expressed this huge, HUGE thing to my mother and she said, “Oh, my beautiful baby, you don’t have to worry…something else always moves in and takes that place.”

I don’t fucking want it to. I don’t. And don’t tell me I am being unreasonable, damn you. I have never feared death, ever, but now I am coming to the rather fierce revelation that I DO fear its’ aftermath. I have questions that only certain people can answer. Who do I turn to for wisdom and knowledge when they are gone? Not even 2 months ago I made the six-hour drive to visit my aunt and spend a few days with her. She has always been a creative person and we sat on the back patio for hours during that trip, sparking ideas off of each other and firing new ones based on the last one. She spoiled my children and we laughed together at their antics and she marveled at how much like my mother that I had become. We had grown-up conversation; something that I never would have imagined when I was 9 and running through her sprinklers in the yard or pleading for her to buy my favorite popsicles at the grocery. It’s now something that I look forward to with my own nieces and nephews…..

So I get off the phone and call my father. In preparation for that call, I tuck my sorrow and shakiness away neatly, so that he doesn’t think that my calling him is to pirate him emotionally. We just haven’t talked in so long and I want nothing to sully it. Something does anyway. He is himself.

As well-off as I would like to be (hell, merely financially stable would be GREAT), I realize that money doesn’t buy everything. Here is an open question to him that he will never see: When are you gonna wise up, old man? Is it gonna be before or after I am as unavailable to you??? You see, I have wants, but I truly want for nothing. I wish you understood just what you were/are passing up.

And by the way, I have standards of my OWN and in a pure sense they are FAR SUPERIOR to YOURS.

|| August 24, 2000 || 4:14 pm || Comments (0) ||

When the dark wood fell before me

And all the paths were overgrown

When the priests of pride say there is no other way

I tilled the sorrows of stone

I did not believe because I could not see

Though you came to me in the night

When the dawn seemed forever lost

You showed me your love in the light of the stars

Cast your eyes on the ocean

Cast your soul to the sea

When the dark night seems endless

Please remember me

Then the mountain rose before me

By the deep well of desire

From the fountain of forgiveness

Beyond the ice and fire

Cast your eyes on the ocean

Cast your soul to the sea

When the dark night seems endless

Please remember me

Though we share this humble path, alone

How fragile is the heart

Oh give these clay feet wings to fly

To touch the face of the stars

Breathe life into this feeble heart

Lift this mortal veil of fear

Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears

We’ll rise above these earthly cares

Cast your eyes on the ocean

Cast your soul to the sea

When the dark night seems endless

Please remember me

Please remember me

//Loreena McKennit, “Dante’s Prayer

|| August 15, 2000 || 9:05 am || Comments (0) ||

Are you mired down in everyday-ness, or do you let your mind wander? Do you wonder about things way out or wise? Just asking…

|| August 5, 2000 || 12:33 am || Comments (0) ||

I have a wicked ugly cut on my left thumb. It starts around the inside, in the base area, and winds up top, over the knuckle. OWOWOW. It seems to have gotten infected (we played frisbee with the dog today) and is showing signs of conscientious objector status. It is gaping open slightly and –goshdarnit!– has the telltale appearance of “One Who Would be A Scar”.

How’d I get said cut (I thought you’d never ask, dearie!)? I was messing around on the guitar, humming nonsense to meself, when my subconscious snagged on a thought.

“Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses”….yeah, I’ll have a go at that one. This guy I cared for deeply at one time told me the song reminded him of me:

(U2, ya damned dummies) You’re dangerous ’cause you’re honest /
You’re dangerous, you don’t know what you want / Well you left my heart empty as a vacant lot / For any spirit to haunt / Hey hey sha la la / Hey hey / You’re an accident waiting to happen / You’re a piece of glass left there on the beach / Well you tell me things / I know you’re not supposed to / Then you leave me just out of reach / Hey hey sha la la / Hey hey sha la la / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna drown in your blue sea / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna fall at the foot of thee / Well you stole it ’cause I needed the cash / And you killed it ’cause I wanted revenge / Well you lied to me ’cause I asked you to / Baby, can we still be friends / Hey hey sha la la / Hey hey sha la la / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna drown in your blue sea / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna fall at the foot of thee / Oh, the deeper I spin / Oh, the hunter will sin for your ivory skin / Took a drive in the dirty rain / To a place where the wind calls your name / Under the trees the river laughing at you and me / Hallelujah, heavens white rose / The doors you open / I just can’t close / Don’t turn around, don’t turn around again / Don’t turn around, your gypsy heart / Don’t turn around, don’t turn around again / Don’t turn around, and don’t look back / Come on now love, don’t you look back / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna drown in your blue sea / Who’s gonna taste your salt water kisses / Who’s gonna take the place of me / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna tame the heart of thee

So I went to tune up and, tear-r-r-r-r-r, I clumsily got caught on the end of a guitar string. Not so much painful as startling.

That’s what I get.

That’s what I damned well get for reminiscing on a boy that’s ages gone, seemingly.

I wish you endless inspiration, a good roof and a full refrigerator, Cris. I hope you are well.

|| July 22, 2000 || 1:12 pm || Comments (0) ||

Feeling very squishy and femme today. On days like this I sort of have a “What the hell is going on here?” bewildered demeanor.

Don’t get me wrong…I very much like being a female. We hold strange and mysterious powers –ask any man who’s honest and he will agree– that we as girls and women don’t always or fully understand; we are simply acquainted with the fact that they can be really advantageous, in more than one sense (TO more than one sense?). I LOVE lipstick. I like heels. I dig frilly undies, even if my clothes sometimes belie that. My femininity doesn’t define me, however, but maybe in the larger picture that is what makes me even more feminine.

So I got out of bed this morning all sappy and sentimental and painted my toenails navy blue. After my shave-them-legs-floss-them-teeth (fortunately not vice-versa) routine in the shower, I pulled on a straight-to-the-ankles flowy dress (move over, Ms. Nicks) and mixed up some French clay and peppermint oil and slathered it on my face. I leisurely munched on fruit cocktail while I watched this new program I flipped past on VH1 (LOOK, taking in ONE program in no way makes me the Mtv Networks’ token bitch, okay?). It was called ’soundAffects’ and it made me cry.

YES, ladies and gents, the stone princess cries. Not often, mind you….just often enough to remind me that I am human and vulnerable and reachable by SOMEONE/THING.

Maybe it was just the premise of the show, which I found wonderful and inventive—why they didn’t do it ten years ago during the peak of their lameness, I dunno. Individuals are filmed discussing (and are subsequently spliced with) music that touched or moved or soothed or inflamed them at a pivotal or memorable point in their lives. So I cried, because some of the stuff that they shared was so raw and undiluted. I cried because I empathize and sympathize and I know the magnitude of meaning behind a song to its’ creator. It may not intrinsically mean what the listener has extracted from it, but there is even more glory in that. The words and musical phrases generated by someone/a group of someones, relevant to one circumstance, have touched a whole other part of someone else in regard to another circumstance. That transcendence evokes awe in me. It always has. A vicious, gorgeous power that one is. Seductive, raw and poisonous.

Blah, blah, blah, this doesn’t feel meaty, it smacks of verbose. Clean it up, child. Clean it up.

My grandfather and I had nothing in common, or so I thought until my mid-twenties. Hell, he and I didn’t even have a civil multisyllabic conversation until I was 20 years old. Even then, we were just being snide about someone else, but it was something, you know? He had 38 grandkids and 18 great-grandchildren; at the time I was carrying what would be the 19th before he died. Out of all of those, I was his least favorite (or running a real close second) and one of my sisters was his favorite. I didn’t really care, I don’t guess. Life has a way of evening things out in other areas.

BUT, I remember being astonished at our similarities after his death, both physical and spiritual. We share these traits: a disdain of people with a love of being in their midst, tall stature, fierce determination to meet our ends with purpose, a love of the prosaic, a hearty distemperate strong will, pure voices and an unfailing love of song. Especially the latter.

I used to curl up at his feet on the battered front porch when I was little and listen to him rock and sing for hours upon hours. I would watch his demeanor, my pigtailed head upturned, and I would bask in the depth of his rich bass voice. Sometimes the hand holding the hymnal would shake with the vigor of restraining his sound within the subtle pianissimos and the farm-sharpened tendons in them would leap out as he soared loudly largo, bent on holding the phrase. In retrospect, he was larger-than-life and I loved him immensely. I finally realized that it was not my father that had shaped my misguided image of what a man should be, as much as I adored my dad. Daddy is crisp and clean and cool, the most even person I know. Papaw was loud and gruff and passive-aggressive to a fault. I pursued his likeness in ill-natured relationships for the longest before I finally got it: Not everyone with whom you would fall in love is the person you were meant to be with.

So there you have it, I am the girliest of girls today and I am reflective to boot. Days like these the world should be put on hold. Days like these should be reserved for long, indulgent love-making and lemonade drinking and lying under rustly trees with an old gospel song running a loop through the brain.