Archive for the ‘hope’ Category

addendum

Posted: September 24, 2012 in alone, clarity, confusion, destiny, facts, hope, lonliness, love, me, poetry, repetition

don’t hold my hand, i don’t want it to mean something

don’t kiss my lips, i don’t want it to mean something

don’t press your bare skin up against mine, i don’t want it to mean something

don’t tell me i’m beautiful

don’t tell me i’m smart

or witty

or charming

or full of insight

or moxy

i don’t want it to mean something

don’t come swooping into my life

consuming me

wrapping my wholeness in glitter and glitz

and warmth and optimism

and titillating promises of futures

i don’t want it to mean something

don’t insult me

don’t neglect me

don’t take me for granted

don’t stop seeing who i AM

don’t make me leave with less than i came in with

i don’t want it to mean something

10k

Posted: August 27, 2012 in alone, clarity, confusion, destiny, hope, lonliness, love, me, poetry, repetition

evicted and evacuated

panic my companion and leader

traversing the same road

blindfolded by the thickness

attempting escape of the round rubber room

i fall and fail

staying down hopes for dissipation

breathing

fearing

resting

centered

standing

walking

forward

modified

Posted: July 23, 2012 in alone, clarity, destiny, hope, lonliness, love, me, poetry, repetition

casual words scarify the now dead dream with permanence

sharing sleep doesn’t mean you share dreams

neither does love

or love

have i lost myself again?

me contingent on you

you defining me

me nameless, tasteless, and out of touch

like a dream of naked high school hallways

i resume the traveless walk

or the journey to your destination

blinded to the forks, splits and reality

i look to my empty hand and trace the shallow lines

with my own fingers

mapping the life ive been missing

again

unsurprised

unrelenting

irony

born to die alone

ever surrounded by the untouchable

skin

 

 

Have you ever wondered about the origin of words? We can research their evolution, but not the human element of choice in their inception. Imagine I hand you a fork as a child and teach you that it’s a “gun.” Something so simple would turn tales of family dinners into something unimaginable. And spectacular.

This makes me consider a word that, in its intention seems benign, I believe cannot be taught. Cannot be defined. Cannot mean in adulthood what it meant to us as children. “FAMILY.” This isn’t where I insert my recollections of creepy uncles and dark familial betrayal. I’m instead weighing my vocabulary against my sensibilities.

Your “mother.” In a dictionary we’re told it is a female parent, the woman who birthed us, or raised us. Your “father” is the male counterpart, sans birthing. Your “family” is the coupling of mother, father, their offspring and extended relatives. Sounds simple enough, but it isn’t.

Many times in my life, I’ve felt alien, neglected, misunderstood, abandoned and look upon with incredulous horror by those people. Granted, a majority of my Freudian damage is very First World and influenced by childhood perception, but to me those feelings and memories are real. They sometimes have weight, substance, texture, color, odors and temperature. Under oath, the defendants of my self-indulgence would enter my plea of insanity on my behalf.

My childhood trek and often dastardly adulthood have given cause to these questions and skewed redefinitions. I look back to kind hands of a friends mother when I suffered scrapes more heartfelt than knee-felt. A father of my boyfriend who ALWAYS laughed at my jokes, told me I was beautiful and had endless rolls of film on those days. The coworkers who appreciated my development and constantly reassured me that I was real, valid and worthwhile. The boyfriend’s mother who housed, fed & clothed me in the weeks before beauty school in exchange for pouring her single glass of wine at dinner.

My memory bank is full of far more recollections of my Mom and Dad. Events very often more significant. But in my lowest times, my personal victories, and most importantly, the transitional valleys, there were “others.” These “others” were the glue that kept me together when I felt shattered by “family.” These “others” taught me that I can take all the splintery shards bequeathed to me by “family”, and fashion a mirror that reflects the human being I am. I was. That is the obvious destiny.

In the past I may have lacked gratitude for my family. In the past I neglected to realize my misunderstandings that lead to me abandoning my family like aliens with incredulous horror. In the past, others from outside my family taught me gratitude for them by showing me that regardless of their intentions, my family molded a person who was witty, intelligent, creative, cultured, open minded and open hearted that’s well worth more than “A DAMN.” So as I prodigly return home, time and time again…”Home.” Home. Yes, home. That word has always been accurate.

Studies of our prehistoric ancestors have shown that art, music, religion, dance, and even language itself, was a way to pass down our history, our traditions, our memories. In my lifetime, I remember reel to reel home movies. Slide projectors. Audio recordings. VHS tapes and BetaMax. And 76 pound photo albums. I have learned to do my own shitty attempt at a polka. I have ran my thumbs and index fingers across the patches of quilts made by great great grandmothers. I have slipped into the dress my grandmother wore on her wedding day. I have sat for hours upon hours watching my grandmother patch clothing while she told me stories of her childhood. I have sang and hopped in afternoons full of double dutch. I have prayed to a blue-eyed Jesus, well, in a church that was built before my grandparents were born, gazing at placards of devotion in memorium of people who died from diseases that have since been eradicated. This has spanned less than four decades. A blip in the inhale exhale of man.

As I ironically sit at a laptop typing to invisible eyes, I miss nostalgia. In the day of blogs, facebook, twitter, Pinterest and Instagram, I wonder, who are we compiling these memories for? When scrapbooking came back en vogue, I scoffed at it visibly, ever jealous that I knew I lacked such focus and dedication and follow through. It was time sucking, overly involved and  a cosumerist industry I had no time or desire for. After all, I had to go to work to pay for my wifi so I could spend my work day telling complete strangers what I ate for lunch.

Even at 38 years old, I adore a good scar story. I spend dreamy hours in vintage shops. I prefer clothing worn previously by a friend or stranger. I secretly pine for the day I get my grandmother’s dishes “over my mom’s dead body.” But what do I do with all this information, experience, and memory? Do I sit my niece down and try to explain the discomfort of shoulder pads in the 80s? Do I show her how we used to entertain ourselves…*gasp* OUTSIDE with only rocks, bugs and each other? Do I teach her how to roll biscuits and make frosting from scratch while I teach her the Polish word for “butt”? I’d like to say I do, but more often that not, I log her onto my Facebook. Within an hour of seeing each other, she’ll unfailingly ask if I have any new kitty pictures or videos or to show her my friend’s kids’ pictures ONLINE.

Though I’m not a mother, as an inhabitant of Earth, aren’t I obligated to pass the past the way our ancestors did? Word, written or ideally, spoken. Songs from my grandmother reminiscent of Sweden, my childhood church hyms declaring the joy joy down in my heart, and double dutch marches giving nods to jeans that we couldn’t afford but everybody wanted. My haphazard version of the Polka. My 76 pound photobox.  My ability to make and color play clay from scratch. Are these things still valuable if their not POSTED? Are we LIVING the experiences we share with anonymous masses via social networking? When you finish a collection on Pinterest or Instagram or WordPress, will you print them out and tangibly share them with our little people? Or will we, our collections, memories and existence all fade into the virtual nothingness that calls us “friend” or even worse, “follower?”

To this day, I’ve never known what I’ve wanted to be when I grew up. Sure, I can drop some wonderful answer or answers that make me sound driven and focused, but those answers are just like my mind, dreamy. I have babysat children until they no longer needed supervision. At the movies, I was your ticket girl. Copy, collate, bind, laminate and things of these ilk saw me from Illinois to North Carolina. I’ve convinced you of how great you looked in over priced and under styled clothing. My day was filled with checking yourself and your mistress, dealer, gay lover or lonely soul into hotel rooms, no questions asked. Drink mixer, personal counselor, girl with the rack and bitch for hire blanketed my eyes for a few years from the giving end of the bar. I’ve help children stand straight, walk correctly, recover from injuries and colic as your friendly desk girl at your Chiropractor. None of these things, are who I am.

Before an age even the most egregious sweat shop would hire me, I have written. I have sang. I have crafted. I have loved clothing. I have gazed into distinctive windows of kitschy houses. I have strained my neck grasping for glimpses of the apex of sky scrapers. I have instinctively changed diapers, fed soft milky lips and patted soft spined backs. Is this who I am? My bank account would argue that, “No ma’am all evidence states to the contrary.” It kinda feels like me, left to my own inner thoughts, but does that matter?

Ever since I was a little girl I never understood why I felt directed to be something other than what I felt. I should want dolls, not Han Solos. My toys should reflect a future dictated by television reruns from a past that truly never existed. Likewise, so should my career and self-image. Wouldn’t it be great to be a teacher? Or a nurse? Or a softball player? Or thinner? Or have a bigger ass? Or the girl who makes boys fight for her affections? Or drunk? Or high? Or miserable to the point of being incapacitated for days? Wouldn’t it be grand? Think of the possibilities! And when you find yourself legally adulted, you’ll have no idea who you were, are, and will be. Instead, you’ll have a carpet bag of failures, diagnoses and vertigo. My name is Jennifer, and I am a…an uncertainty.

The funny thing is, if I look back, I can be resentful and angry and enraged that I was passed along from one person’s ideal to another. The momentum started before I realized my voice, opinion or self-knowledge had merit. Yet here I am, fine. Not “fine” in the teeth clenched, white knuckled grip of adult denial, fine like okay. I made it through all that topsy turvy undirected, yet pushed and pulled life. I’m not angry. I’m not sad. I have no regrets. I do have something all that made me aware of. I have a survival instinct that should instill fear in the black soul of my oppressors. Inside of me, there is a voice that will stay quiet as I bumble through life gathering lessons and scars and debt and vices, until it is time to go. And when that time arrives, I am a force of reckoning. There will be no discussion. I will not issue you a receipt. Exit stage left.

Rest, recovery time, reconstruction, reparations will follow, some times quickly, some times slow and laboriously. Then I stand. I resume my universal walk about. Looking back is only to recall the origin of my acute  inconvenient pains and use those memories positively, usually to make you laugh at my jokes or wallow in my poetry. With my constantly evolving and patched up soul, I glide through my days gazing into distinctive windows of kitschy houses, strain my neck grasping for glimpses of the apex of sky scrapers, I  instinctively change diapers, feed soft milky lips and pat soft spined backs. Then I write it all down, in some way shape or form. As only a person who has lived is capable of.

itd be a lie to say i never lie
i lie to myself
i lie with men who lie to me
my heart upon a shelf

i yearn for the honesty
though it scares my soul to death
unsure id even handle it
and manage the management of breath

seems odd to brace off truth
seems odd to run from fact
but run i have and run i will
never looking back

true truth is self created
self truths the elusive dream
unfrequented often foreign
uncomfortably tearing seems

can i fault you for who you are
can i ever trust your word
lies from self & others
the only things ive heard

tenuous tedious time tried & tired
i haven’t seen the mountain top
i’ve just heard it exists
slippery sliding stranded & sucked dry
crying out to the echoes & the ether
looking for a new path in my old grooved & worn road
eyes dry distracted divided & dumb
resistance is as futile as lies
heart educated by repetitive madness
crushed cracked crazy & checked out
no longer tethered by hopes stone
the little red balloon departs my heart
exhaustion of excuses explanations & eternity
i float in the linear streams of truth
sinking, all the while strapped to your back

reward

Posted: May 19, 2012 in destiny, hope, James, love, me, poetry

unity’s return
sealed by a goodnight kiss
our hearts return home

uncharted 2.0

Posted: May 13, 2012 in clarity, destiny, facts, hope, James, karma, lonliness, love, me

Since the day I wrote this, a lot has happened. But nothing has changed. It was a hard day today indeed, but sometimes love is hard. I’ve still never been mad at you or hurt by you. I love you MORE today.  Because… you’re still the easiest thing I’ve ever done. I’m still here baby. I’m just waiting for you. Hurry, okay? I miss you… and we have plans.

I promise:

Not to make my bad day more important than your good one. Or your ordinary one, for that matter.

To never fill in the blanks. I will ask. You will answer. Honesty. Faith. Trust.

I will always say thank you. Even if it’s just your way, I will be grateful.

When I say I love you, or I’m sorry, I’ll mean it. And I’ll never treat either as a polite or expected retort.

To shed my cuts, scrapes, bruises and scars. I have no choice. I’m safe now.

I’ll always evolve, change, hope, dream, have goals, and look to the future. But never at the cost of our moments, experiences or days.

To stay me. If you like it, I can’t help but love it.

To let you be you… amazing YOU.

Be kind, understanding, a quiet listener, a vocal expressor, patient, loving and consistent. And all the mixed up blends and proportional balances.

I’ll hold your hand when it’s cold. And/or wrinkled.

To deserve you.

yang

Posted: May 11, 2012 in destiny, facts, hope, karma, love, me, poetry

breath sucked from chest and lung
time merely a parable of love actually
blood circulating the grand design
that this is the spot futures sprout
a moment one moment the next moment
all there is, is this
salty sweety buttery melted skin
halos caronas and flitting wings
my earth my heaven my center
axis at the turning point of my life
i began for you
i died for you
i took your breath
you gave me life
and a strong warm hand
that simply dangled patient for the bravery

terminus

Posted: May 9, 2012 in clarity, destiny, hope, karma, love, me, poetry

billowy pillowy inhaled fuming love
new acquaintance
old soul hand hold
buried in the past of futures
untold memories laying lifeless
looks locked leering lustfully
muffled i loves you
telling their secret fears and fames
ethereal endless effervescent
everythings emulated enumerated
eternities ever entering my heart
i love as he was, is, and shall be
never anticipating
expectations eradicated
he is he who is
rolling and roiling
deepest depths of determination
destined dusty duly doubted
damn near destroyed
in my palm heart and mouth
forgiving forgetting forging
my forever love
my daily reflection and reminder
love exists
love lulling in tired ears
promising tomorrow will come
and so it will go
just as it came
innocently dedicated
the manifested promise
never spoken
simply understood

   I’m often told I look about 10 years younger than I am. With the life I’ve experienced, genetics have been my preservative and the bane of my existence. I can offer no explanation for my youthful looks and disposition aside from that reason coupled with insane and inexplicable optimism.

  My non-matching appearance and age, along with the Cougar Phenomenon, have changed the demographics of my dating life. I attract youngsters. To no avail, I disclose my age as a deterrent, yet find myself twisted up with younger guys. The late 30s sex drive, not having children and my high energy level make these matches fairly logical and comfortable. But I’m still floored these guys seem to pursue me harder when they’re informed of my age.

  I have a theory. It’s my opinion, that the Cougar trend comes from these guys being the first generation of men who were raised my mothers who worked full time. “Mommy Issues” are the new “Daddy Issues.” While little Madison has gold poles and red shag carpet waiting with her name on it, little Cody doesn’t. Well, not usually.

  I’ve written a lot of Cougar jokes. “I’m so dedicated to being a Cougar, I only fuck guys with a dead parent and have mastered the chocolate chip cookie.” Funny? Maybe. But, really, these guys need a hug! They go from momma love anorexia to girlfriends and wives who will never ever be enough. In adulthood, they are still maintaining the child’s ignorant hope that mommy will put them on the tit and apologize for all the pumping and formula. Since mothers are people of the guilty cloth, I’ve become certain they don’t really know how neglected their own son felt and feels.

  These are the same mothers perplexed by the mistreatment of their sons in a sad, steady, predictable beat. Doing too much for them in adulthood to make up for childhood conditions these boys are going from affection starvation to being over-loved. So in turn, these poor souls accept their girlfriends being detached, unappreciative, and failing to reciprocate.

   These are the same girls whose mothers left them for work too. Their model is a frustrated, exhausted, either independent or codependent, emotionally tapped woman who is usually doing the best she can or at least thinks she is. They’re also, more often than not, single. The frosting on this cake of disaster is the complete ignorance of a relationship that runs on something other than dysfunction.

   While my boyfriends have been running around serial dating and attempting the Houdini-esque Build a Bear: Family Edition, I was  giving up on finding my dad in others and hopes for any semblance of family, let alone a healthy one. The natural course of action on my part, you’d assume would be to mother my boyfriend. And there in lies the ruinous rub. I’m not going to. Unless it came from my uterus, an expensive purchase of a human or an animal rescue, I’m not raising anything.

  It may seem cold to think such a fragile man, void of maternity and often paternity, is capable of matching me in an adult-like manner, but society dictates my unrealistic expectations. My absentee father was at work or in our basement, not across town with a new family. My mom only worked out of absolute necessity or to busy herself. She was present, involved and supported by a guy whose mom stayed home and raised him.

  The dynamic in my relationships end up being a sort of Frankenstinian hybrid or a mutated abomination. Neither of us know our role. The pendulum swings from societal feminism to societal masculinity, inside of both of us. Oedipus would drop his jaw and wonder the whereabouts of the humanity in the situation.

  The only hope we have as a pair, is to define for ourselves, the meaning of heterosexual coupling. This often means I kill spiders, help switch out an alternator and take my place as big spoon while he listens to Adele, uses cucumber melon bath wash, and runs to the store to get my tampons. My lovely, energetic, chivalrous young man is often the sensitive cherry in my shit sundae day. I am often his grounding point and welcoming bosom.

  I read things online, hear on the news and eaves drop conversations about gay marriage, interracial relationships and divorce rates. Constant debate, stigmas, and busy body government have smashed any hope of the world loving love. If anyone deserves to be jaded, it’s me. If anyone qualifies to judge, it isn’t me. Besides, I’m too busy being in love. Yes he’s younger. Yes we’re both damaged by the destruction of families, Nosey Nellies, and the search for the key to life and loves codex. Yet here we are. Man and woman. Unified. Whatever that means. To US.

Have you ever felt compelled to thank somebody for loving you? A secret, dark part of me always felt that everyone should just DO that love me thing. Yet, somewhere deeper and even darker, I’ve always felt that no one has.

These aren’t the inner pinings of a narcissistic teen, twenty-something or a panicked thirty-something making a last futile attempt at figuring out who she wants to be when she grows up. It’s a desire older than baby teeth and the capability to physically produce the sound of simple phonics.

I can remember the void left “where love goes” far more easily than my first memory or experience of love. The fact remains, as a child, despite my best efforts to turn off the plain, obvious, total envelopment of love my life was, I passed it by or tuned it out like an Autistic Vulcan.

In aging, developing and coming into my own, my life’s trail is paved with the carcasses of self- inflicted denial, rejection and failure in the implementation of love. Like an amoeba, designed to live off as little as possible in the temporal world’s physical chaos, I existed and flapped my arms, at best.

Now here I am, ravaged, compromised, contused and stripped bare, and somebody loves me. Whether or not I was the heiress of a loving culture, family and inner worth, I now am left feeling begat of love, born of love and clueless. There’s another living, breathing, thinking, human being who voluntarily loves me. And, I’m more than okay with that.

My past inclinations to run, sabotage, victimized myself or manipulate have disappeared from my bag of tricks. I don’t even WANT him to love me. I simply have to accept it. Raw, simple, genuine, uncontingent, not even offered, just there for the taking, LOVE. And somehow, I’m functioning, in the stillness of it all.

In the wee hours of the night, I dissect it, carving it into tiny, emotionless, lifeless pieces of things “not-me.” Every morning, I wake to it fully assembled, fully functioning, smiling at me and reminding me it loves me. And, though I think it would look fetching in a straight jacket, it’s there. It’s real. And smiling.

Whether my thirty-something years of loveless childhood are fancied or real doesn’t matter. The reality I live in, this state of lovedom is thick, warm, and as safe as the womb, legend has it, I once escaped from. How in the world am I expected to handle that?! It appears, by just being what I was designed for: love. Much to my scowling chagrin, all the accoutrements of my survival are blessed little attributes. So, I give up. He wins. I guess that means I win too. Hopefully he’ll help me figure it all out, or  remind me I don’t have to.

assent

Posted: April 28, 2012 in alone, clarity, destiny, facts, hope, karma, me, poetry

morning goodness
deep in love’s blind
invisible to everything
even the eyes of god

i search the print
wandering through ornate words
steadily fumbling through the extraneous
skating digits, volleying eyes

sight failing the lowly earthing
hushed audible ephifanies
her carapase ignites & dissapates
tastes of electrified spirit

fed &impregnated
the purpose of the day initiated
centered in the nothingness
her life inserted & propelled

without fear
without anticipation
void of apprehension
only certainty & sure footedness

no fact
no interrelation
only her universality
carried by the breath of a thousand dying suns