Bridges

     He was a streamer. The whole thing started as a parlor trick; though he never performed for free. He was fairly sure that his discreet glances at her weren't noticed their fellow party goers, or by her. It was something of a joke, and she was supposed to bear the brunt of it. He had seen it in her, the lifetime of bearing up. She hadn't been born to the this position, but raised into it and left abandoned so that the others could have a bit of entertainment with an outsider. He could see in her that any life was better than death and the potential for changing her mind about that idea. And so for those reasons, he agreed to be the party's entertainment, collected his fee, and turned his attention to her in full.
     She was someone different. She had never been important enough to meet a streamer though she saw them across the room at all the parties. She had never really desired a meeting; streamers walked a path so different from everyone else. She suspected that these others should be afraid of the streamers and their strange power but knew they were too convinced of their own standings to feel threatened. She submitted to the stream because she knew that her participation had been requested and her position didn't allow refusal. Having seen things unthinkable she entered every situation cautious, carefully controlling her fear.
     He spoke to her gently. She had no expectations and found no relief; sometimes the most gentle beginning came a violent end. Her iron control kept her body still as he began his work.
He had hoped to reassure her, that she would understand his agreement was born of his own desire to see her and not at all a desire to entertain. As he began, he admired the iron strength within her. He began to build.
     Every streamer has a different, unique gateway. They are quite varied. The best paid streamers required a gateway that suggested perversion; nude full body contact was too often used to hide a much more innocent gateway just to increase the fee. He wasn't one of the best paid, which is why the party goers assumed he would preform for them. He knew he would never rise above his current rank but he didn't care, the work sustained him.  Streaming was his gift and his drug; without it he would waste away.
     He knew that his gateway wasn't all that impressive and he ignored the impatient whispers of his clients. She didn't know anything about him or even much about gateways and so maintained her air of indifference.
     And still he was building.
     The burst color pattern of her shirt was a perfect complement to her hair and skin. He didn't need to touch her physically but make a connection and so he began to assemble objects along the pattern. Small stones and beads in a wide variety of color; the party host had obviously been prepared for this event in advance of the participants. He didn't care where the objects had come from, it was a thought he had learned to ignore. He focused on the pattern of her, bringing everything together, loosely held, as he prepared the both of them for his work.
     Her iron control presented a problem that was offset by her complete submission. It made him work more carefully that usual, seeing the delicate nature of her being.
     She was mesmerizing.
     He knew the risks. He wasn't in the first line of streamers in part because he refused to do everything that was asked of him. He and his mentor alone knew how hypnotized he could become, seeing the fractures. He knew he should have refused this stream; he could see her beauty from across the party and feel it calling to him. The circumstances were less than ideal all the way around and a part of him, the quiet detached part, reminded him this was why he needed a keeper. All of this quickly faded under the strength of his build. The gateway was ready.
     She felt heavy and tired. Her control slipped and she yearned to give in and close her eyes. Instead she looked at him. What kind of man walks in the soul of another human being? How much was it going to hurt? She knew of women like her, elevated but not equal, who had been damaged. A streamer could do more damage than anyone else - he was viewing the only thing she had for herself. Her body was just a broken  housing for her soul. At this moment, she knew she would rather die than have him expose her this way. She tried to get up from the couch, take a mad run for the balcony before the stream came together. But she had waited too long and he had gathered too much of her to him, they were tied now.
     Her life became a dream. She couldn't say what she dreamed, exactly. She began to know the beauty of appreciation,  understanding, value. All knowledge of the present escaped her as she was moved through her past. But tied to him she saw things from outside without reliving the torments or cruelties of her life.
He knew how to hold her and keep his audience. Through him, his clients could see into this woman's soul. Her beauty was breathtaking. He had to fight to keep himself in both worlds as he tenderly traced her soul's fractures. His gentleness brought a healing. He didn't wish for it, knowing that she wouldn't be served by it when she was released from him, but he couldn't stop himself. She was so much more than he ever expected. He found himself becoming lost in this woman's soul.
     As he continued the stream, the audience became bored. They were accustomed to far more shocking revelations. While he tried to anchor his soul where it belonged the clients drifted away. They were disappointed but not outraged, they knew his reputation as a second rate streamer and assumed he had failed. They saw more promise in the musicians' ability to entertain them.
     He fought with himself.
     She felt free. Knowing another human being could understand her brought a comfort she had never experienced. She knew that luxury could be lost and so she didn't covet it but just relaxed into it. Let the cost come later. He moved so tenderly through her it brought tears to her eyes and beauty to her heart.
     Finally, calling on every bit of his training, he gathered himself where he belonged and began to let go of her.
     She felt his loss keenly.
     As he separated himself from her they both realized how thoroughly they were entwined.
     He left part of the gateway.
     With his eyes and his soul he told her what it was. He told her how to find him. He asked her to endure, just a little bit longer, to give him time to take her from this place.
     She asked him to stay.
     When he left her side, giving an elegant shrug to his party host and beginning to make excuses to leave, he left a part of himself tied to her. Like a life saving blanket in winter, or rain in the midst of a drought, but simply hope in the darkness.

words...

Growing

I'm expanding my efforts to become invisible.
This sort of process is very frightening, however, and so
I'm dropping little bits of myself behind as I go
A shimmering trail of breadcrumbs I hope the birds will make disappear.

I can't remember your name anymore. I almost wish I could
The almost hurts more than it should.
Some details are important but my perspective is gone.

I still breathe in and out deliberately.
I still think irrationally helplessly.
I still long for breathtaking creation.
I still need as much as ever.

I'm giving up all these things that are bad for me.
Or, at least, I'm trying with every bit of will power I have
Admitting a significant weakness.
So instead I'm making those things invisible along with me
Hoping to make it go away with a graceful gesture.

I can't remember your voice anymore. I almost wish I could
The almost hurts more than it should.
The details are important but my perspective is gone.

I don't bleed the way I used too, bright red.
I don't beg for release violently.
I don't believe in my own romanticism.
I still need as much as ever.

Dreaming Something Else

I often dream of the end of the world.
Sometimes it's the whole world as we know it. I lose the people I love,
The conveniences of life, the casual acceptance of existence.
Natural disasters, military armaments, leadership failures - dreams are haunted with such things at the end of the world.

Sometimes it's just my own world that I know. The losses are the same.
The people I love. The convenience of life, the acceptance of my existence.
My mind implodes. I give in to the drop off the edge. I let go.

I've embraced a lifestyle of practicality while seeking a romantic dream. The convoluted and comprehensive ties between the two keep me engaged.
I think I'd rather be a romantic in everything I do, but I suspect I couldn't let go of the tragedy.

About (and to) my brother, who is out there somewhere

I realized today that it's been almost seven months since the last time I heard from my brother. The last phone call I received lasted for 30 seconds - long enough for him to ask something of me and for me to say no. I haven't had an actual conversation with him for over 9 months. I don't know where he his, how he is, what he's doing. This is the way he wants it to be.

It's an incredibly weird thing. Our relationship was always oddly complicated by the parenting role I was forced into with him. I'm not his mom but I'm more than his sister. I was forced to lead him but not empowered to teach him. I did a very poor job of the whole thing and it's a great example of how teenagers struggle to be good parents without help from more mature people. All of which is neither here nor there, sort of, but goes a long way to hint at my complicated connection to my brother.

 And now he's gone.

 Some days, I want to whine about the whole thing. I'm supposed to just keep going as if nothing has really changed. He removed himself from my life voluntarily and (I assume) is moving along in his own journey. He didn't tragically disappear and there's always the lingering possibility that one day he'll call me up to say hello. Having lost my mom I do understand what that possibility can mean, what hope it carries. But the circumstances regarding his absence don't really make everything all OK. I've lost something, and it's pretty big.

 A part of me is so very angry with him for creating this division. I think that it wouldn't be so hard for him to email me sometimes, just to let me know he's alive. But that probably wouldn't be enough either.

I'm trying to mourn my brother, knowing he's out there somewhere. It's surreal and confusing. A part of me needs to grieve for the loss of him but the rest of me sees that need as self-indulgent. After all, I say, he's not really gone. I can't help but wonder how many times I'll think that and for how long before I'll cry.

If all this sounds like going around in circles, it's because that's where I'm stuck. Circling the absence of a person who meant so much to me. A person who's gone but isn't, a grief that's real but denied.

After being gone for a week, it's only natural that everyone is going to ask me how the vacation went. The problem I'm having is trying to concisely answer the question while still being authentic. It's harder than you'd think.

We were gone to Cornerstone Festival, an annual event I've attended for the last 12 years. Marc has been to 27 fests. My children have gone every year of their lives. We mark our year with the fest - is it pre-fest, or post-fest? When Marc would interview for a new job, he'd tell them the week of July 4th was required time off, or no deal. This is the extent to which attending the festival was part of our lives.

This year was the last one.

It's hard for me to tell you why attending the fest was so important to us. We each had a different reason and each year surprised us anyway. Yes, it was a christian festival, but it wasn't always about religion. Some years I learned a lot about myself. Other years about other people. Some years I spent a lot of time feeding my academic yearnings, other years just hanging out enjoying the sound. Cornerstone was like a detox for our lives. No cell phone reception. No television. No school work or house repairs. As a music festival, it was also about the bands. But frankly, you can catch concerts throughout the year (and we do). If it were only about the sound, we wouldn't have made this an annual trek. At the heart of it,Cornerstone was about relationships. Connecting with another person, in person and personally.

This years festival was organized and billed as a final goodbye. And if something has to end, it's always easier (a little) with a good party as a send off. We've been watching Cornerstone struggle. Blame other festivals. Blame the aging loyal attendees. Blame the economy. Blame the 'success' of 'mainstream' Christianity. Throw out a wide blanket of blame and I'm sure you'll come up with something reasonable. The blame is irrelevant, though, to the consequence. Fewer folks buying festival tickets. Fewer bands able to afford the stop. A smaller festival. Debt to deal with. Weariness. We knew the end was nigh, and I'm grateful for the chance to say farewell.

So, how was my vacation? It was hot. Temperatures in the 100s with no rain, no clouds, no a/c, no relief. More trips to town just for the a/c of the car and a chance to actually eat something without feeling ill. I've rarely sweated that profusely. The last trip to the lake wasn't even cooling, the water was so warmed by the sun. No rain means so much dust I'll be coughing it up for a week. And I know you're wondering about the facilities. The heat means each porta-potty was like it's own solar oven and practically unbearable during the day. Which, honestly? Didn't matter much because no matter how fast or much I drank I just sweated it all out. We spent more money on cold drinks and lunch in town than usual, cutting into our music budget. After being home for a day I'm so tired just the thought of carrying up the laundry to fold is doing me in. My vacation was a ton of work and in many ways completely miserable.

And then. There's always something else to the story. It's not really about trying to find a silver lining. But I'm smart enough to know that there were fantastic things about this trip.

The lack of rain led to clear, bright skies at night. The stars were enormous in the sky. I spent one concert laying on a blanket next to Oliver (2yrs old) and "catching" the stars from the sky with our bare hands, then throwing them back to see how magically they landed in the right places. The Milky Way was breathtaking and I stood in a field with Arianna (9yrs old) admiring it at 2AM. The moon was huge and yellow when low in the sky and as it rose the craters were so clear. It reminded me of last year's festival, laying on the blanket, a tangle of arms and legs as all three kids slept around me and listening to one of my favorite bands while staring at the stars.

We've had 9 festivals full of children sleeping under the stars while taking in some amazing sounds.

We did go to the lake hoping for a bit of relief. I may have not appreciated it, but the boys had a blast. They built an island on shore, flooding the waterways with the plastic wagon, and creating a whole new place. They ran into the water laughing hysterically, feeling so confident and daring. Oliver would throw himself in, then set off paddling along. Xavier (4yrs old) is normally very insecure about water but the gentle slope helped him find a large play area shallow enough for him to walk around. The water wasn't cool, but it was a ton of fun to hang out in.

I met new people and got to think about how I've ended up here and saw all the good things. I talked with old friends and could see the struggles as part of a bigger picture. I sat under the sky and remembered to be poetic. I fell in love with my family again.

And then the end came. We said goodbye. We cried. We drove away from the festival at 2 in the morning and arrived home as dawn came across the sky. This year, it's not just about the end of a festival but about mourning.

How was my vacation? It was a lifetime. It was a way of life.

The. End.

Microfiction Monologue

    Sometimes, I wake up and think "Wow, that dream would be an awesome short horror story." Today was a day like that. This time, I actually wrote it all down. I'm calling it Microfiction Monologue, because I don't do dialogue well.

Caught

       The apocalypse started with a fire. Not a meteor shower, nuclear disaster, or volcanic eruption. A six story office building downtown started burning, filling the sky with an acrid smoke. It was Luke’s office building towering over the block so we identified ourselves as gawkers and took off for the best spot we could find around the perimeter. That was weeks and weeks ago. Before the end of our world came the authorities would have assigned fire investigators to the disaster and sought a cause.  A task force would have been created to study the malfunction of the bridge, which prevented fire fighters and the curious alike from crossing the river into downtown. Now, though, there are bigger fish to fry.

The last time I walked through the office I stopped to admire the new shelves displaying company alcohol. Spirits, liqueurs and mixers all paid for by the boss man to help smooth over those fried employees. When I close my eyes to sleep, I see those bottles. First, their contents are lit seductively by the surrounding flames. Then labels start to peel and char in the heat. Finally, the plastic slumps over softly while the glass shatters and booze runs until it hits the flames and is set on fire, too. It’s a beautiful scene of death in the midst of our horror, and the waste of it makes me want to cry.

How things went from an office building fire and misbehaving bridge to military law and a broken civilization I can’t say.  If I were clever, could blithely throw out some excuse for my lack of memory but cleverness isn’t a valuable skill right now so I’ve given it up.  Every ounce of energy I have goes into surviving this place, if only so that I can drag my husband and remaining children into survival with me. Trying to recall the crisis that brought us here only fills my head with screaming - my own screaming, as it turns out, from those frantic moments when my son’s hand slipped out of mine and he was swept away by the indifferent mob. My voice has gone back to it’s normal volume but I’ll scream for him forever. I suppose the end of my civilization happened when I lost my grip.

Life, now, has been taken over. It never was my own and now even less so. We’ve been assigned to the wild predator unit, tracking down animals that managed to slip away during the crisis.  Luke has some tracking skills leftover from boyhood outdoor experiences but I’m just a weight he carries. There’s no reason to this assignment, the animals are best left to scrounge what they may while we worry about clean water and corrupt unit managers. I wasn’t consulted on any of this, however, so I do my best to learn about prints and scat during the daylight. Surviving doesn’t really require success at our assignment so I set it aside with the sun to work on teaching Luke and our children how to navigate this stinking social system ruling our lives.

The four of us come together every night and hang on to each other, each ready to throw the hook and line to reel another back into our tight fold. Temptation runs rampant here; there are so many ways to leave and none of them beautiful.  I only sleep after checking and rechecking that our lines are woven together and anchored properly.  When I dream, there are five of us standing on the bridge watching the office burn.

A Love Story

The moment lasted for so long that I had enough time to count all the perforations in your summer leather jacket.
I diligently studied the collar, noting how it creases after years of you stealing a quick stretch of chin forward.
The collar used to have more stars sewn along it, but the one in the back is missing, leaving just the holes from the stitching and the slightly whiter leather underneath hinting at it's existence.
I wonder if you know that it's gone.
The details come in and out of range as the streetlights move across the sky but I can safely ignore the frantic pace set by highway speeds because I know, in this space, the moment will just keeping holding still for me.
I started counting but quickly lost myself the pattern.
This jacket says it all but does so quietly, assured of it's proper place in the scheme of this thing.
I think of you, the day that you flew through the air and broke the zipper on the arm and I'm vaguely jealous of that brief freedom, even knowing that your freedom was probably infused with trepidation - or even fear.
Even knowing I would never be brave enough to take it if it were offered.
Still it sits there, that jealous piece, and all I can do is touch your shoulder and share it in some physical way I don't fully understand.
If I put my mind to the task, though, I know the understanding will come to me - I have so much time.
My heart wants to tell you to keep going. Find the road along the wall of bluffs, where my left side is cooler than my right and I can hear the water.
Find the curve with the perfect apex and no one in our way.
Find the moment with me and hold it gently.
And in the world of imperfection that we struggle through I'm so deeply sorry for all the wounds that still bleed;
I can begin counting the scars healed over and I'm sad for those, too, in a regretful way.
Suddenly the moment changes and becomes something different, something faintly crazed
And then I go back to my usual state of being, turning in time with everyone else.

Some things I just don't do very often.

Sometimes I think the only time I come here is to whine. Then I think: So be it.

It's another one of those mom things. And food things. And life things. This is procrastination. I'm afraid to start because I don't know where it's going and am not sure I have the resources for a wild ride.

I've been married for 12 years. My oldest child is nearing 9yrs old now. Add in the next two and we've got a similar set up to the kind of family unit I grew up in. I'd like to think I've made some improvements.
I tell them I love them everyday.
I've learned how to listen to other people.
The dog sleeps on the couch.
I'm trying to embrace generosity.

I know there are things that I fail in, things I see as problems and am working towards improving but aren't quite there.
I yell too much.
I rush to judge.
I lack consistency.
I'm easily overwhelmed.

One of the biggest changes in my adult life from childhood is my diet. I cook healthier food than we usually ate when I was a kid. Look around, I've written on this before. Food came from a can, and a lot of it was fried. Starches filled the plate. Fresh fruit was a rare portion of my daily intake. Now, I work hard to serve a dinner with one protein, one vegetable, and one fruit. I actively attempt to educate my children about healthy choices. If it weren't for the produce market nearby, I'd be broke funding their fresh fruit or veggie habit. This. This is Good.

These changes mean that much of what I cook as an adult is not the food I ate as a child. Also, I learned to cook after leaving home. I have tons of memories related to eating with my family, but unless is was Christmas cookie season, we didn't help much in the kitchen. Mom did her thing. We ate dinner. I don't even remember who did the dishes, but I bet it was her. My sisters probably know. The point is, I didn't leave home with culinary skills - I learned those on the fly from a Betty Crocker ring bound cookbook.

A few years ago, my sister gave me the new updated version of that cookbook. My copy was pretty battered, with food stains on the pages and the rings no longer closing properly. But the old one still hangs out in the closet. I just wasn't ready to let it go.

How I digress.

One big exception to the "no cooking with Mom" generality: chicken and dumplings. Mom would put the chicken in a pressure cooker. Can you hear it? The chi chi chi chi chi.... woooooooosh.... Then she'd mix up the dough for the dumplings. She made a flat dumpling, dropped in the pot like a big noodle. She'd roll it all out then cut it with a dull knife (ragged edges are better!). Then my sisters and I would take turns dropping the noodles into the pot of boiling broth while Mom turned her hands red stripping the hot meat from bone to throw it all back together. Then - like magic - hot dumplings, chunks of chicken all in your bowl.

We made this today. Stood in the kitchen, I rolled out the dumplings. I watched the kids joyfully dropping them in the pot. Ari said "I've never had these before!" Because in all these (almost) 9 years of her life, 12 years I've been married, (almost) 15 years since Mom died I've only made chicken and dumplings once before. And this time, just like that one time before, I can't actually eat it. The kids say it was great. And it smells so good. But with a bowl in front of me, I have no appetite. There's a stone in the middle of me and no room for dumplings.

I had a salad.

I hate to leave it here. Something else wants to be said but I don't know what. Something that takes the edge of hard, bitter grief. Something that transitions a little towards melancholy, giving you a hint of a romantic heart. Because some days I do have that. It isn't always a stone dragging me down. Sometimes its also a hint of a smile, standing in the kitchen, watching the kids have a good time.

Logjam

Words are freeing and captivating and disappointing and defining and more thing than I can truly understand. When they're all jammed up inside my head it makes me feel lonely, alone. They can drown out everything else, screaming at me but without sense.

It's a love/hate thing between me and words. It's why I refuse to have a 'word a day' calendar, that much new vocabulary would overwhelm any love I felt and leave me with hate. That would be a dark day.

I caught sight of myself today, looking fairly normal but feeling so disconnected. Trying to connect just left me feeling like a failure. I care about all of you but I can't bear to say your names. It makes me feel crazy.

In ten years from now I want to be a little less crazy and far more connected. I want the love of words to smother the hate. I want to rejoice over all of you and pour this love from my soul to my life. I want to look fairly normal and feel that way, too.

Somewhere, deeply masked by all this rambling is something a little poetic. If you find it, let me know. I've been looking for it.

Song? Why yes.

I have some very talented friends. One of them took an old poem and made into this awesome music. You can hear it http://www.reverbnation.com/play_now/song_11963608

Scars

I've cleaned myself up. I sparkle, almost, and it hurts to look at my reflection too closely.
It seems I don't bleed for anything anymore and I miss it in a visceral way, I resent myself for taking it away.
No matter how many times I say enough or how much effort I make to clear the atmosphere it's always lurking and always waiting and I hate it as much as I ever did;
I just don't cut it out anymore.
I've locked the poison away somewhere and convinced myself it isn't there;
I've given back to myself the gift of believing my own lies because it seems the only way to stay sane while
I maintain the basic truth that love is a light in my soul, untarnished, unfettered, unquenched.
I want to take all these scars and make something beautiful out of them but I'm so fettered by the hopelessness they carry;
I am left to override and create something better instead
And I cry a little for the lack.
I used to think an ocean of tears couldn't wash away anything. Stripped of all other defenses, I'm beginning to wonder if the tears are an offense
The offense I've been needing all along.
Weeping strikes me as romantically beautiful while honorably vulnerable,
In truth my face turns red and the sounds I make will never be music but
Love is a light in my soul, untarnished, unfettered, unquenched.