suzie's Open Salon Blog

Still Spring Cleaning from LAST year

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 21:03:17 -0400

So I was cleaning stuff up today & thought, Hey, didn't I write a post last March about cleaning up my garage & my office & the closets? And didn't this post have pictures & everything?

Sure enough, I check back & there it is, "before" photos of all the clutter & the piles of paper & photos & magazines & books & clothes & old VCR tapes & dishes & ancient games from the 80's. It turns out that I also did a Spring Cleaning post in June of the year before last.

And I would love to post some "after" pictures of my amazing progress, except it would be kind of like if I was doing Weight Watchers & posted a Before photo where I weighed like 150 & then posted an After where I weigh 200.

In other words...not much progress.

I DID manage to centralize the junk. Meaning I moved all of my daughters' old stuff (yearbooks/dried flowers/candleholders) into one particular closet, & all the clothes I don't wear plus a laundry basket of stuffed animals & a shelf of Children's books into another closet. Plus I gave away like six bags of clothes, which is weird because I basically wear the same pair of men's Levis & a t-shirt every single freaking day.

And I have tossed several oversized garbage bags of junk from the garage, but you still can't get a car in there because as fast as I toss one box, I pull another one down from the shelves. Yesterday while Griffen (my-five-year-old grandson) & I were looking for She-Ra dolls, we found a box of Barbies. Lots of Barbies. Diva Barbie & Rocker Barbie & Benetton Barbie, along with Ken who was sticky & naked. (Geo wanted to know what exactly Ken was doing in there.)

^{(Benetton Barbie waits for her ride to the Cindy Lauper concert...)}

Griffen was a little too fascinated with the naked Barbies so I put them away & we came back into the house with a She-Ra bed & a Mickey Mouse puzzle I found in a Ziploc bag.

The dishes that once covered my husband's worktable are finally out of the garage, but now they're stacked in the back of my kitchen cupboard -- you know -- just in case I need them for Thanksgiving.

I read this article where you're supposed to write down the five things you want to accomplish before you die, & you're NOT allowed to include: Cleaning all the shit out of the house. Apparently you write down these goals, & then you get rid of everything that doesn't lead to reaching these goals, or that maybe blocks you from your goals.

This makes perfect sense to me. And logically, I know I should toss my children's 30-year-old stained & threadbare baby clothes. It's not like they're ever going to wear them again, & nobody else would want them, they are so far beyond well-worn. Certainly I have many photos of Alison in her cute tie-dyed- t-shirt, or Sarah wearing the green velvet Christmas outfit her Grandma sent from Ohio.

_{(Mom...I'm 30 years old now. You can toss the freakin' hat...)}

On the other hand, it's not like we don't have lots of space out in the big-ass garage. The guy that used to live here cut down practically a forest of oak & manzanita to make space for this open garage he had built so that he could work on his classic cars.

All of my boxes have been sitting on shelves since we moved here eleven years ago, & it's not like they require feeding. God knows, they've probably sheltered adorable families of tiny mice. Yesterday, when I pulled out the Barbie box, a wasp's nest fell from the bottom & two disoriented wasps crawled from the crumbles & dragged sadly around on the floor, making me feel guilty because I'd disturbed their home where they were surely waiting out the winter. One got caught in a spider's web, so I freed it, but then it probably just died anyway, along with the poor hungry spider who probably starved to death.

As you can see, cleaning out the garage is a job fraught with anxiety & moral dilemmas.

And then there's the whole question of old love letters & journals that I probably should toss, but can't quite give up, except if I died I wouldn't want my kids to read them, except there's lots of great stuff in them about my kids, so then I think, Why didn't I just keep nice wholesome journals with cute daily stuff about the kids, instead of melodramatic angst-ridden self-pitying whine-fests sprinkled with explicit sex & random adorable baby antics. Really, what was I thinking? Why did I have to stream-of-consciousness it all together?

And then there are the piles of magazines kept in case, you know, I want to make collages. Except I did not make one collage all year. The boys DID help me cut out letters from magazines & we made a little framed Keep Calm & Carry On picture for the kitchen. Okay...so...one sort-of collage. But it's not like I would ever run out of magazines, I get like ten fresh ones every month.

The one thing that really really makes me want to tackle the mess is the memory of tackling my Mom's mess that I am still cleaing up to this day, two years after her death. I don't want to leave a big mess for my daughters to deal with, because it's hard enough dealing with death & grief without having to rent a huge dumpster, where you end up Frisbee-ing not-so-good China plates over the rim while wearing a mask to prevent mold spores from entering your lungs as you try to separate the stuff that has sentimental value from the crap that just got packed in a box during a move because you left in a hurry, & Eeeeek! What's that furry dead thing in the bottom of the box!

And poor Geo hates clutter & believes it keeps you from being calm & at peace. He does sigh an awfully lot & if I cleared out the boxes he might have a few happy last years of gazing all Buddhist monk-like at the nothingness, smiling mellow-ly & looking all beatific, rays of sunlight emanating from his head.

_{(which I imagine will be remarkably similar to look worn when offered an icy cold draft beer...)}

When we first moved into the house we had no furniture & slept on a mattress on the floor & the room was empty & it was amazingly calming. I could focus on the birds singing outside in the trees & the colors in the carpet & my own breathing.

But then the room started filling-up with stuff, & furniture arrived & the room stopped being a peaceful place to sit watching the squirrels & became more like a giant disorganized closet.

So...THIS March I am going to finally get this done. I am going to change my lifestyle habits & focus on what I want to do with the rest of my life (finish writing current novel, more Harleys rides, more hikes, more time with people I love, more creative projects tackled). Maybe next March I won't have to post my own pep talk (which clearly did not work last year or the year before -- I am thinking Surely The Third Time Is The Charm).

Maybe next year Spring will arrive with no clutter rant, just flowers & blossoms & cat photos.

_{(practicing for March 2013...)}

Seriously. I'm really going to do it this time. And lose that eight pounds that I vowed to lose last year, too, although now I'm just aiming for five pounds. I clearly set my sights way too high with that whole eight pounds thing...

Must...work...on...self-discipline.

Another 33 -- The oh-so-fun post that refuses to die

Wed, 14 Mar 2012 02:03:41 -0400

(kind of the view from "behind" -- turkey, cat, Dr. Suess tree, oaks)

(I was going to make this a picture-story kind of deal, but I have to bowl tomorrow & I should be in bed & I've already had to retype this twice because of "technical difficulties." So I am posting one token picture & heading off to bed! Still, this was fun & much easier than writing something from scratch!)

1. Your main trait: Empathy-- the kind where you worry about the wild turkeys in the yard, or whether the sticky ancient Barbies get their feelings hurt when you toss them into a garbage bag.

2. The quality you like best in a man: A sense of humor. Bonus points for crinkly lines around the eyes when he smiles.

3. The quality you like best in a woman: A kind of honest sympatico vulnerability.

4. Your main flaw: An inability to deal with things I can't control, like cats eating birds or people I love being sad.

5. Last time you cried: This morning, the sky was gorgeous with clouds & I missed my nephew. I am thinking that this is a permanent situation.

6. Ideal job: Writing bestselling novels.

7. Scent of a place: The sweet weedy fragrance of a river near sunset.

8. Beloved movie: Coal Miner's Daughter.

9. Book on nightstand: Okay, I don't actually have a nightstand, I never read in bed -- but the books next to my rocking chair are The New Biographical Dictionary of Film, The Holy Bible, Turtle Moon, Good Poems, & that Lynda Barry book about creativity.

10. First & best kiss: First was Larry Cooper in the first grade, he chased me home & kissed me & when I told my mom she got mad & my dad thought it was funny & they had an argument about it, but really, I think they were arguing about something else. The best was Geo in the rain after our first motorcycle ride together.

11. You couldn't do without: My morning tea, poetry, wine, a book of Sunday crosswords, a pen & notebook, a patch of dirt, sun on my back.

12. How you would like to die: Uh...I wouldn't.

13. Song you sing in the shower: Whatever I heard last, although usually it's something like "lalaLALAla" hum hum "lalala." Also, I talk to the soap.

14. Your deadly sin: Definitely gluttony. You should see me eviscerate a burrito.

15. Your not-so-deadly sin: I do this kind of creepy passive aggressive thing gossip-wise.

16. Your motto: "There will be years for cleaning & cooking, but children grow up while we're not looking." My mom did a needlepoint for us which still hangs on my kitchen wall. The gist of it was, screw the house, play with your kids. Mom hated cooking & cleaning so basically was giving us an excuse not to cook or clean. Thanks, Mom!

17. Ideal first date: A six-pack & a veggie pizza, sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck out in the middle of nowhere.

18. Favorite present: Sentimentally, stuff my girls made for me & poems Geo wrote for me. Practically: A very cool Canon-ette camera that my mom gave me in 1977. It was auto-focus & took awesome photos.

19. In the train: Riding with my daughters -- in coach -- & one morning I woke at daybreak & slipped down to the Club Car & got a cup of hot tea & brought it back to my seat, & my girls were sleeping all beautiful, cuddled next to each other, & outside the window a field of sunflowers glimmered in the morning's light as the train clickety-clacked down the track.

20. Something you'd change in your body: I want a firm chin even more than I want a waist, but I would trade them both to maintain my sense of smell which is sort of fading with age. (But at least now I understand why sweet old ladies wear too much perfume.)

21. Your addiction: Scented lotions & oils.

22. Now on your left: Binders holding my completely unpublishable novels -- five of them -- & essays I've written on my favorite movies, & old journals. A woodstove I never use. Armadillos. A boombox. Plastic bins full of old handwritten journals. A photo of my niece, Heather, & her meditation teacher. A framed picture of Mama Katz the cat, who disappeared one night a few years ago. An armadillo cup that shows a mass exodus of "armadillos leaving Texas for political reasons." A framed photo of Molly Ivins bald from her chemo.

23. Now on your right: The printer, more armadillos, a Buddha-cat, a ceramic angel cat, my Texas grandma's donkey pencil sharpener from the forties, a bottle of Elvis wine, bins of photographs, a scanner I still need to hook up which I've had for like a year. Three bulletin boards, one with notes on the novel I'm writing now, another with my daughters' soccer photos, & another with random cool stuff & my McGovern/Shriver '72 campaign buttons. A favorite photo of my friend Fanny flipping me off.

24. Now in front of you: a monitor, a glass of wine, a Mexican salsa dish from my brother, a flower pot my youngest daughter made in second grade that holds all my pens, a ceramic couple-on-a-Harley, a bobblehead Jason Schmidt & a bobblehead Benito Santiago & a hula dancer & a bobblehead Scottie dog & a Chinese cat & a metal cactus candleholder.

25. Now behind you: a window looking out on oaks trees & a yard & a Dr. Seuss tree & the woods. A wooden cow planter filled with notebooks. Plastic bins of photos. A case full of DVDs. A map of the USA, a poster of a lizard, a Humane Society calendar, a wonderfully-personalized cartoon from my artistic friend Robin, & a birthday essay from my niece, Corina, that I framed because she wrote such lovely things & it has a photo of the two of us together.

26. Names for your children: Alison & Sarah. Alison was named after the Elvis Costello song because my youngest brother (who has all-his-life had impeccable taste in music) used to play the Elvis Costello album all the time. I am thinking he suggested the name, & it fit perfectly! Sarah came from the Bob Dylan song-about-his-ex-wife, the one on Desire. I loved the chorus. I added an "h" because Geo's mom's middle name was Sarah with an "h." My stepdaughters are Shane & Julie. I didn't get to name them. Which is probably good, because when I was 20 I wanted to name my daughter Rebel Sedalia. Fortunately, I didn't have kids until I was 27, but my youngest still wishes I'd given her that name.

27. 3 things in your purse: I don't carry a purse, but in my backpack you will find a Slingshot Datebook, La Vanilla roll-on perfume, & a beat-up photo album holding pictures of practically everyone I love.

28. 3 places that fascinate you: The Southwest, the Deep South & San Francisco.

29. 3 people you'd like to meet: Willie Nelson, Tommy Lee Jones, & Lucinda Williams, but it has to be in Luckenbach,TX where we'll sit on a picnic bench & drink Shiner Bock & listen to the music, & if it doesn't go well -- say there are too many awkward silences -- & Willie & Tommy & Lucinda all politely take their leave -- then I will still be sitting on a picnic bench in Luckenbach, Texas, listening to a great band & drinking Shiner Bock. It's win-win all the way.

30. 3 traits you hate in people: Cruelty, intolerance, self-righteousness.

31. Values inherited from your parents: Loyalty, humor, a sense of adventure.

32. In your last life you were: My friend Mary went to this weird therapist once & the therapist led her thru a past-life-experience & it turned out that Mary used to be the madam of a whorehouse. It was clear to both of us that in my past life I worked for her & most likely died tragically in childbirth. Even in my past life, I was careless.

33. In your future life you'll be: I will be the famous "frantic, indecisive roadkill squirrel." Not a doubt in my mind.

Happy Birthday Again (Already?) Lunchlady aka Sis

Mon, 5 Mar 2012 03:03:11 -0500

Didn't we just have birthdays like a couple of months ago? If it's already March & your birthday, that means April & my birthday aren't far behind. I liked the sound of 60 well enough, but 61 sounds ancient. Lucky you, you're a mere 59. I remember the good old days when I was 59. The air smelled sweeter (because I still had a sense of smell) & the sky was clearer (what is happening to my vision?!) & I could hear a conversation without resorting to lip-reading (eh?)

I had the grandsons all day & all last night & am now in that kind of spaced-out area between deep sleep & wide awake from endless cups of caffeine-rich tea. While I was driving the boys home (to Johnny Horton singing Sink The Bismarck) I tried to think of a slightly-different-than-last-year way to commemorate (on OS) your birthday.

This is what I came up with:

I will take the first letters of your OS moniker -- Lunchlady -- & do a kind of quickie take on each letter. (Okay, maybe it's not the most original idea, but I pinkie-promised Griffen I would read him the Transformers TWICE today & nothing burns out the brain cells faster than boring stories about cars that turn into powerful robots & beat each other up.)

Sooo...we start with:

L for Liberal -- You & Paul had this really great dog named Liberal. Long-hair, black & white, good-natured. One of those dogs you always remember. This photo is kind of grainy, you can barely make out the pup & Paul; you're a little clearer. I remember that knit cap. It was probably taken with a Polaroid camera -- the kind where you had to smear the chemical on with the little stick right after it popped out of the camera. New Mexico, 1970.

U for deja vU -- the Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young album. You were 17 & doing the minimum amount of high school in Santa Fe. I rode out from California with Kini & her dog Zach in that blue Ford Econoline van she used to have -- home-built wooden passenger seat. Zach sat on my lap all the way up to Washington State & back down to New Mexico.

Before we left California, Paul stopped by to give me this album he wanted me to take to you. It might be hard for people under the age of 50 to understand the significance of a record album in 1970. We did not have Every Song In The World available on You Tube. We couldn't "download" & most of us were broke, which was okay because you could always claim to be a capitalist-hating hippie pacifist which was kind of a cool place to be.

An album was pure vinyl treasure, cool picture on the cover, songs played over & over & over, all the way through, both sides, but one side always a little more.

Paul sending you a record album was very hippie romantic, even better than an Establishment-with-all-their-bullshit-capitalism diamond ring. An album was like eight or ten songs of I Love You, & This is what I believe about Life & Truth & Reality & Dope.

When I stayed over with Kini's parents in Pullman, I listened to that album over & over & over, & to this day whenever I hear David Crosby sing Almost Cut My Hair, I think of you & Paul & Liberal & 1970.

Nubian -- Okay...maybe this alphabetical deal is a little harder than I thought it would be. I'm not sure this even IS a Nubian goat, but I really love this picture. You look just like Heidi. I think this is in Texas at Grandpa Causey's farm. When we were really little, like back in 1955, Grandpa Causey put us on the back of a cow & led us around the yard. I swear to God this is true. This photo is more like 1968 -- you & the rest of the sibs hanging out with the (possibly) nubian goats...

Corn & Cherry tomatoes & Cucumbers. Life will be happier when you can just go hang out in the garden again, growing veggies & fruits & flowers. A creative cornucopia of crunchy carrots, of chives & cherries &...uh...whatever flower starts with a "c." I remember when, for Christmas, you gave us peaches you had Canned yourself. Crazy good peaches!

And when you were 9 years old you got Cactus for your birthday. Cactus! I mean, look at you up there holding those cacti smiling! You LOVED it! I am sure you even ASKED for cactus! What nine-year-old DOES that?

Hey, Hey, We're The Monkees! -- because Davy Jones just died so I'm thinking about how you loved Peter Tork & how we used to have pictures tacked all over our room, like every single inch of the room, even the ceiling -- The Monkees, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Herman's Hermits, The Dave Clark Five, The Beach Boys (especially crazy as neither one of us was a sun-kissed blond Southern California nymphet. Okay...you were at least blond.)

We danced all the time, closed up in our room -- The Monkey, The Pony, The Swim, The Jerk. We watched Where The Action Is & American Bandstand & Lloyd Thaxton. Pam & Diana would come over &, using a hairbrush as a microphone, we would lip-synch The Supremes & Lesley Gore. It probably wasn't fair that I took Cher & made you be Sonny, but really, you have always had a deeper voice than I do, & back then Cher & I had the same nose.

Once when we visited Dad, he put on Louie, Louie & had us dance for one of his friends, which in retrospect is kind of creepy, but probably was just -- you know -- Dad.

Laughing in the face of Loss. Okay. Not always. But in the corners. We laugh darkly with our sisters & brothers. We have our own sibling language, & much of it involves laughing at things that other people might find appalling. I don't know where it comes from, but I'm grateful for it. Maybe we developed it trying to make Mom smile during the years when she had jack-shit to smile about.

Army shirts -- What was the deal with the Army shirts? I got mine from my boyfriend's pervert uncle when he came back from Vietnam. I don't know where you got yours. Army surplus, secondhand store, bitter veteran. We wore them all the time & forever. I wish I still had mine, it was a good look. Seriously, olive drab totally compliments gray hair. Not that you'd know, as your hair just looks better every year, naturally frosted & thick.

Dreams.

I (the brunette) do not look all that happy in this picture because moments earlier -- the moment we stepped out of the house in our scratchy Easter dresses -- our puppies, Nip & Tuck (named after Dad's favorite bar) got nailed by a Buick on the busy street in front of our house.

You are cheerfully smiling in the picture, no doubt after being told by Mom that the puppies were going to the doctor who would fix them up all better & then...uh...find them a good home where they wouldn't get hit by cars. At this point, I had been around Mom & Dad long enough to realize they were not always completely honest about stuff like dead puppies. Even pushing five I neurotically worried. Don't worry (said Mom), cars float on the ocean so if we fall off the bridge we'll be FINE! & yeah, a farmer is coming to our house to collect the cats we're leaving (due to eviction) & he's going to take all 25 feral cats to his farm & they'll be soooo happy! Also, Dad is going to take us to Disneyland & buy us a pony.

Even when I was like four, I barely believed a word, whereas you were like this wide-eyed believer of dreams, always trusting that the pumpkin-turned-coach would arrive at the exact right moment & take you off to dance with the Prince.

And eventually, there was a Prince or two or three, & they were all lovely for awhile, except for the Issues. Each one with serious-er issues than the last. One WTF moment after another.

The way I see it, you are overdue for some Dreams Come True. Nothing so showy as a pumpkin-turned-coach or a satin gown. Maybe a Perfect Slow Dance. Sitting by a lake with someone who is kind, who listens, who likes sunsets & ice cream. Someone who prefers Life to Numb Existence. More laughing than crying. More Yes than No. More Enjoying, as opposed to simply Enduring.

The dream that chases off the nightmares.

Don't give up on your dreams. Hey...maybe the car really WOULD have floated. I mean, airplanes fly, right? And they're way heavier than cars.

Yesterday -- was good! We met Laura & sat in a restaurant & ate really good food & hardly cried at all! We shared funny stories about Joe, & Laura brought a picture. The food was delicious, the sun was shining, we laughed so loud the girl at the next table with the Big Rock Bowl turned & stared at us like we were crazy. We need to get stared at more!

Of course, I forgot to take a picture.

Picture three women, pulling through, standing in a parking lot while the kindest spirit ever, wanting them to be happy, blesses them with the perfect amount of sunshine & easy hugs & -- maybe -- hope.

Granted, the three women all cried on their drives home because they miss The Boy, The Man, the Kindest Spirit Ever. If he'd been a jerk, they wouldn't miss him at all.

Still...Yesterday was good! One step in the journey back to life.

Happy birthday Oh-so-wonderful sister! Just like always, I love you!

3 Years on OS, Random Thoughts

Tue, 3 Jan 2012 02:01:42 -0500

(The point of the photo is this: Clearly a gravestone, sad & all, but behind it, gorgeous blue sky!)

The 4th of January will be my official 3rd year here on Open Salon. My first piece, nervously posted, was something like 25 Things About Me, & the last three were about the loss of my nephew.

When my mom was dying, I came here a lot, & I wrote my way through her death, writing in the dark, bedside on an ancient laptop, then down to the nursing home lobby in the wee hours of the morning to retype what I'd written on the also ancient donated computers.

I convinced my sister to get on here (you're welcome!) & she's found this whole community of support & friendship. My niece is on here, too, now!

A lot of wonderful writers that were here when I first signed up are no longer here, & I miss reading their stuff, & wonder where they are & what happened to them. I understand how it happens, as I've been pretty sporadic myself, especially this year. I do the same thing lots of us do -- we don't have time to read, so we don't write, because we feel guilty because we don't read.

I think writers are like totally guilt-wracked anyway. We are always supposed to be writing, but then the cat pees on the desk, or the kid needs to talk, the Old People need a visit & some donuts, a friend calls, a cake needs baking, the roll on your waist needs to come off, the sun is shining, the leaves are falling, it's snowing. We are always supposed to be writing -- we WANT to write -- but Real Life says Look At Me!

I have this ongoing list taped next to my desk with 30 major items on it. All of which absolutely have to be done. Some of the stuff has been on the list for as long as I've been on OS.

What I'm finding is, we get older & people start dying or getting really sick. They take antidepressants. Maybe their kids somehow got screwed-up. A divorce. An estrangement. The wrong job. No job.

My friend, Mary, was here this weekend & we were watching this old video from 20 years ago. I'd just turned 40, she was like 43. We were all dark-haired & slender & practically gorgeous, & everything was all hopeful! Granted, we'd both experienced some pretty shitty adversity, but we felt great, we looked good, our kids were adorable & the future seemed shiny & wonderful!

Twenty years later we are wiser & calmer & less stressed & we are just as funny & we laugh at nature's theft of our glowing-ness. We're both with men we love, we are all great friends.

But now we've watched our parents die, watched our children & nieces & nephews go thru tough times. Our sisters are both with difficult men. Some of our friends have serious health issues. Widowed friends. Friends lost to heart attacks or cancer or alcohol. Long-time marriages ending in divorce.

I have this friend & we used to race grocery carts thru Lucky's & now he's dealing with a daughter on drugs & traumatized grandsons & he doesn't laugh all the time like before. Another friend -- this amazing funny original woman -- struggles thru her husband's remarriage. Widows sit with small dogs & gaze at empty chairs. Cats are carried off by coyotes. Old dogs die.

60 year old women write depressing posts about loss.

A few days ago I gazed at the sparkly Christmas tree & burst into tears at the Roches singing "Star of Wonder." I was sad that my nephew had died. I missed the stupid cat. I missed my mom, even my lost demented mom.

But the tree still sparkled, & Christmas morning my grandsons sparkled, too, unwrapping Nerf guns & Sirius Black wands, Transformers & marbles -- even Beanie Babies (which they use for elaborate Beanie Baby vs. She-Ra battles. The Beanie Babies have swords made from ink pens, held to the Beanie Babies by rubber bands. Clearly, the Beanie Babies no longer have the valuable tags.).

And I guess what this means is, Life Goes On, & happily, the next generation is all gorgeous with hope & dreams. And we get to sit back, all comfortable with our wine & our easy joy, & remember what it felt like, & be grateful that we had that time, & be grateful for our time now & the blessing of watching it all play out.

When I was young, it seemed like Death hung out in a corner, quiet, studying his nails, napping. But lately it seems like Death is sitting with us at the table, all drunk & self-important, barreling thru our lives like he was invited or something.

I think it's time for Death to go back to his corner for awhile. I'll fix up a pillow & light a patchouli candle. (Death loves patchouli even more than I do.) I'll put on a little Townes Van Zandt, tuck a black velvet throw around Death's gnarly feet, set his scythe on top of the stereo so the cats can't pee on it. Time for a nap, Death. Take a rest, you've been working too hard.

New Year's Resolutions: Lose 5 pounds, pet the cats, hang with the dog, seriously kiss the husband, call the friends, finish the novel, read the books, get strong, toss all the crap, simplify, whine less, love more, really listen, pay attention, do yoga, ride the Harley, take lots of hikes, go all uncensored, don't bother worrying, go all corny-adoration of everyone you love. Keep laughing.

Somebody else's poem for my sister

Thu, 8 Dec 2011 01:12:54 -0500

I am an okay writer & all, but I am not a poet. Which I am cool with, as it leaves me open to love & enjoy poetry without beating myself up for not being, say, Sharon Olds, or Mary Oliver or Billy Collins or the writer of this poem -- Deborah Gordon Cooper.

I once wrote a poem about a chicken being butchered, which was totally appropriate, as I completely butchered the English language & the entire form of poetry with my effort.

So this time, to my grieving sister, I offer somebody else's words & hope they give some comfort, or some understanding, or, at the very least, a sense that someone understands the Shitty Universal Experience of Death. Which maybe isn't always shitty, maybe is sometimes lovely & spiritual & moving & enlightening. I know this to be true because other people have written about it & all, but to me...so far...People-I-love-dying: Shitty.

So I offer, with love, this Deborah Gordon Cooper poem, impressed that she is able to write of dying without once using the word "shitty," & hoping that it offers even the smallest comfort.

Visitations

On Tuesday

in the produce aisle,

choosing my oranges by feel

and by their fragrance,

I hear my father

whistling in my ear.

A Scottish lullaby.

Everything else stops.

There is a tenderness no border can contain.

A web that may be glimpsed

in certain, unexpected plays of light,

or felt

like a shawl

across one's shoulders

laid by unseen hands

There are sounds in other decibels

the heart can hear

when the wind is right

and the mind has quieted its clicking.

The border guards are sleeping

at their stations.

Spirits come and go.

The wall between the living and the dead

is as yielding as a membrane,

is as porous as a skin.

Lay your palm against it

and you can hear their voices

in your hand

and in the place where the chest opens

like a flower.

They are not far away,

no farther than the breath

and enter us as easily,

in pine and peonies,

in oranges and rain.

-- Deborah Gordon Cooper