SPOKEN SCRAWLS

Betwixt and Between

2011-06-11T11:23:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is gay-pride day here in Philadelphia. I won't be going. I can't make that statement without feeling a twinge of guilt and loss. Four years ago, I was still in a long-term relationship with a woman, one that lasted eight, almost nine years. Everyone knew about my "partner;" I made sense to people back then. Maybe in some way it simplified my understanding of myself. It made explanation unnecessary.

I am single now, and people are confused. They don't know "what" I am. My former partner wonders about my attachment to a man. Men I meet wonder what it means that I "go both ways." Of course, I come across the ones that think it means you want to have a threesome.

Tomorrow my "community" will march in a parade and celebrate being "gay." Yeah, there is a bisexual group with which I could align. I don't want to be shoved into a box. Tired of boxes.

So, tomorrow I will remember the love and attraction I had with my partner, her curly hair, and gregarious, loving heart. And, I will sort through my attractions to men. I will remember my marriage, and the nonjudgmental, forgiving man that was my husband. Tomorrow, I won't step into "community," but will be an intricate part of more than one, by default.

Speaking Up!

2010-11-08T05:43:00.000-08:00

"A diagnosis is burden enough without being burdened by secrecy and shame."
Jane Pauley

I was accepted as a "candidate" for the Veteran's Administration position. The job would mean better benefits, more security, more pay, challenging work. Now begins the "boarding process," they tell me. I don't know what this means, but it makes me nervous. The thought that they are digging into who I am and what I have done, makes me anxious and fearful.

Why? I have a graduate degree from one of the best graduate schools in the country. I have 16 years post-masters experience; I look forward to learning more about working with veterans. I have worked hard, damn hard, for little money compared to what I have been asked to do.

The other day, I was at a training and the woman next to me spoke up with 50 fellow professionals there and shared that she had an eating disorder,in remission, and was in aftercare treatment for this. She was sitting next to me, so I thanked her for having the guts to share this information in a professional setting. I wondered what it would take me to have such bravery.

Why? Because I have not "come out" about my mood disorder. I hide it, like a shameful, embarrassing relative. I push it into the background, while I secretly take medications throughout the day, practice self-care and work on my thinking and mindfulness. I try to surround myself with things and people that give me the fuel needed to sustain this forward movement.

So, there it is. Genetics and environment have handed to me bipolar disorder. It comes and wreaks havoc in my world, and I pick up the pieces again and again. But, I am living well with it right now, whatever the hell that means. It means at worst that we are at an impasse; at best it has left my life through that back door. The truth is I am symptom free because I have worked hard and with the help of my doctor, friends, creativity, family, pets and work. I am well today. Today, beautiful today.

Some would say not to post this because "they" might read it. Even if there is a chance that someone from the VA would read it, I say ok. This is the truth. I am well. strong. ready to take on new responsibilities. This is who I am. I am not my illness: I am a strong person who has accomplished a great deal, living with my illness. And maybe this illness has given me empathy and wisdom that I can share

So be it. If I were a cancer survivor, I would be wearing a wristband.

improvisation

2010-09-18T15:29:00.000-07:00

The rhythm of my life suddenly seems to sound itself out in the repetitious remnants of my neighbor's music, pounding it's way through my ceiling and running down the back of my mind.

I walked today, slow, mindful steps, step, step, step into Old City. It was a beautiful day, crisp, cool. The day I wished for on all those 110 degree days.

But, there was a strange monotonous feel to my stride. So, then, here is "regular life," where there is seemingly little improvisation. Yet, there is that slow, steady beat that says, "I am alive, here on this beautiful day. I am alive. I am alive. And well. And happy."

Never at peace, it seems. But, perhaps peace is overrated.

The truth is...this steady path announces health and regularity. God knows, I have had little of these in my life at times. So, I should be thankful...thankful for the sure visceral pumping of my heart.

Cause I am well and happy and as far as I can tell so are those around me. Maybe this is peace.

Maybe tomorrow is a day to extemporize.

Wait Right Here

2010-07-29T08:41:00.001-07:00

I will be posting soon...

Move Along

2010-07-13T13:33:00.000-07:00

I have been sick since Friday night when I returned from work at 10 PM. It is Tuesday late afternoon now. I feel somewhat better, but still weak and sick to my stomach. I have spent 4 days with primarily the only company being my pets. I drove all the way into work today, only to discover that I was way too ill to be there and had to turn around and drive the forty minutes back to Philly in torrential rains.

Illness, the short kind from which you recover in a matter of days, is a good reminder of how good things really are. I have had the long-term, life threatening,invasive procedure, lose your job, your apartment and your sanity kind of illness. In contrast, I can be grateful, for this one will surely pass, spending a bit longer than I thought, but moving on...

That said, sometimes my mind wants to burrow into that rodent's nest...all of those irrational, hopeless thoughts that scurry across the background of my mind. I am getting skilled at catching them, trapping them, and releasing them elsewhere. Most of the time, I'm good at that. Then, there is that one thought that gnaws on the corner of my psyche, the "what if," "what if," "what if" rodent that wants to shred my newly built foundation, that wants to eat away at my newly dug posts.

Nope. Sorry. Move along. I will feel better tomorrow or the next day. Just Move along.

Beyond Tired

2010-07-08T19:38:00.000-07:00

The woman who sits on the stoop out front of our building is tired. Her body is tired, it doesn't even sit up straight. Her voice is tired; it strains to form sentences. Her soul is tired, she leans away from connections.

My neighbor sounds irritable when I greet her and after a few encounters, I found myself judging her and beginning to dislike her. I changed my perspective, perhaps the only thing we really own, and viewed her fatigue, her anguish, and my compassion took root. I found myself wondering what this woman had lived through, gone through, to be so very tired.

Our buildings are tired, here at this co-op. They are in need of care that not one of us alone seems to be able to give. But when you get past the tiredness and the protectiveness, there is a vitality, a connection to each other. I needed help last night with a problem, a BIG problem, and one of the other cooperators, as we are called, rushed to assist despite the exhausting heat.

There is a community here, underneath the sagging exterior. And I am thankful. More importantly, my perspective has shifted. I am getting skilled at owning my view, my interpretations. It is the only thing I have, really. So I look behind the peeling paint and I see the history of centuries. These buildings we call home are CENTURIES old. Sure, they sag and wrinkle, they lean when they should stand upright. But, I see history here, people living together, different races, religions, ethnicities have lived here long before "desegregation" was even a word.

So, I walk slowly at night, following a long day at work, and I will continue to stop to talk to my tired neighbor. A bond will form, sure it will. It's all in our perspective. And, that is wide open.

The Maybe Islands

2010-07-03T19:06:00.000-07:00

"The truth is that I’ve spent all my life with my binoculars trained on the Maybe Islands, a pristine place of fantasy that is really no better than the razor-rocks of misery.

...maybe if I could have lived more peaceably… maybe if I’d met the right person years ago, maybe if I hadn’t done this, or that or, its cousin, the other. Maybe, baby, the promised land was there and I missed it.

Look at it glittering in the light. But the truth is I am inventing the maybe. I can only make the choices I make, so why torture myself with what I might have done, when all I can handle is what I have done. The Maybe Islands are hostile to human life."
— Jeanette Winterson (The Stone Gods)

It Takes Two

2010-06-27T14:32:00.001-07:00

It truly takes two to complete many regular tasks in life...like putting in an air conditioner, putting the heavy wooden top on a dining table, drilling through plaster, while balancing on an unsteady ladder.

This world is really made for couples. I don't say this in a bitter, "I'm single," kinda way. It is just the truth. You don't notice until you don't have that other person.

I moved about four months ago and I can't tell you the number of arduous undertakings I have had to do alone, spending much more time on every one than I would have with another person to help.

Ah well, I guess that is why people have friends...if you can catch one, like I did today, you get an air conditioner. If not, you're hot.

Such is life.

LEFT THE BUILDING

2010-06-25T19:44:00.000-07:00

NOTHING IN THE WORLD IS MORE COMMON THAN UNSUCCESSFUL PEOPLE WITH TALENT, LEAVE THE HOUSE BEFORE YOU FIND SOMETHING WORTH STAYING IN FOR. BANKSY

I HAVE LEFT THE BUILDING. WILL RETURN SOMETIME. MARIE

Glare

2010-06-18T08:16:00.000-07:00

The other night,
I pulled up behind my racism
on a one-way North Philadelphia street
I tried to dodge this force,
I tried to go around it,
idle next to it
I crashed right into my racism
on a one-way street in North Philadelphia
the sound like crashing metal and glass,
the solid materials of my fear.

Not sure how I ended up there,
in it's clutches
lost. exposed. off track.
at the mercy of this pull
My racism is a force,
I can't deny it. cover it.
It pulled up there,
surprised by itself.

no road-side assistance
gonna fix this one.
fight or flight,
I wanted to escape the pressure
I pulled into a one-way street,
found myself blocked by my racism,
and ran over it.
Two African American men approached
me,
I was left with no denial
just glare.

The Once Raging Fire

2010-06-13T14:04:00.000-07:00

I am sitting here waiting for the weather to change, so I can take the dog out. It has been looking like it is going to storm for hours. I just read something from a good friend of mine, who referenced the "once raging fire within" being reduced to "embers." And then quickly added, as he in his wisdom does regularly, that this would most certainly change. That change is certainity. That certainity is change. He is always astute at reflecting the impermanence of things, all things.

I am cursed, or perhaps blessed, with moods that rage with joy and anger, depression, anxiety, and then are reduced to embers. It is a very painful and very frightening condition. I have been faced with a mild recurrence of this in the last couple of weeks, mainly triggered by stress at work. What if I understand this through the lense of change. That these feeling states, too, are impermanent. That impermanence in my moods is certain. What if I separate these states from compartmentalization into "good" and "bad," and just see them as so. Just so. What if I just observe, like a participant-observer visiting a strange culture from far away?

Observation would require detachment from the pain. It would also require detachment from the pleasure. Ah, there is the tricky part. This process would ask me to be present and accepting of a fear of aloneness, that most difficult of existential battles. Even more intricate...

Still waiting on the weather to leave my apartment. I am just going to venture out, the weather is bound to change.

GONE TO LUNCH, BACK IN AN HOUR...

2010-06-12T13:16:00.001-07:00

Writing in Secret

2010-06-06T07:52:00.000-07:00

This blinking cursor, that broken pen...obstacles to my Writing. Yeah, right, just Write. Write. Do it.

Do I really need a MFA in Creative Writing? No matter how "low barrier?"
I need to just write. To Write.

I keep my writing in the top drawer of the mahogany bureau in my bedroom. Not literally. There are no pages there, no words. But, somehow my writing is stored there. Far enough away, secret, safe.

I need to stop this kind of writing. And just WRITE. OUT LOUD. This isn't some secret addiction, this writing. Writing is a cupboard full of food stuffs, necessary to keep on going. Writing is my nutrition, my expedition, my coming to fruition. At least a completion. Right?

I have a million beginnings and middles. no ends. not yet.

Write. Write. Just write already.

The Space Between

2010-06-04T17:05:00.000-07:00

"I live in the space between chaos and shape. I walk the line that continually threatens to lose its tautness under me, dropping me into the dark pit where there is no meaning. At other times the line is so wired that it lights up the soles of my feet, gradually my whole body, until I am my own beacon, and I see then the beauty of newly created worlds, a form that is not random. A new beginning."

— Jeanette Winterson The World and Other Places: Stories

Coffee with Virginia Satir

2010-06-03T05:49:00.000-07:00

Taped to my mirror is a quote from Virginia Satir,the renowned family therapist, "life is not the way it's supposed to be. It is the way it is. The way you cope with it is what makes the difference."

So much of my suffering and anxiety comes from rebelling against life the way it is. I know I am in trouble when my mind starts saying "that's unfair," "i don't want it to be this way; I dread this." I am training my mind to respond: "it is what it is." From this vantage point, I can see what I need to do to either accept it or change circumstances. Mostly this allows me to stop holding on with all my strength to the view of something the way I want it, and instead, to see it as it is.
This is a work in progress.

Radical acceptance, that deep acceptance of what is in the moment, does not imply that I must like what is happening. I am present with whatever emotions, thoughts, reactions come from seeing life in it's nakedness. This is not a passive approach to living. Actually it calls for mindful living, moment by moment.

This Being Human Is A Guest House

2010-06-02T03:42:00.000-07:00

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honourably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Rumi

My Dad: One Veteran of Many

2010-05-31T06:52:00.000-07:00

My dad was a WWII veteran. He served for two years on the USS Pasadena in the Pacific. My dad passed away when I was 26. I never had the chance to mature enough to respect what my father did during his Naval Service. Instead we would debate the merits of bombing innnocent people to end a war. I was young and a very black and white thinker. I thought I knew it all. I had no idea.

My dad volunteered for WWII when he was 17 years old. When I was 17 years old, my biggest decision was which friend to hang out with and where.
Still decidedly a pacifist, I am cynical enough to know that war is inevitable.
It sounds cliche, but what would have happened if Germany and Japan had won the war? We have no idea the ways our lives would have changed. And because of my father, and people like him, we never have to know.

My dad seldom spoke of the war and he never talked about the difficulties. Instead, he told stories of the barber on board that would cut his hair, the small village that existed on board the USS Pasadena. PTSD was unnamed then, "shell shock" was just vague enough to never get talked about.

So, I am remembering you today, dad. You come into my mind frequently, but today I remember you for what you did for your country in World War II, and as an Naval engineer for 40 years. Rest in Peace, dad, know that you are loved and respected for your service. I wish I could have told you that.

and more gratitude

2010-05-30T07:52:00.000-07:00

i thank you God for most this amazing...
e.e. cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Abundance and Gratitude

2010-05-30T06:31:00.000-07:00

I am resting this weekend. I was to have participated in a weekend long mosaic mural workshop, which I was looking forward to for a long time. Because of my shoulder and exhaustion, I postponed it until June.

What has become clear is that my perspective has shifted. I can rest and still feel creative and full. Filled, in fact, with awareness and gratitude. They have positioned themselves as concrete supports in my newly laid foundation.

I am mindful and present a good amount of the time. I am present with positive feelings and thoughts and mindful, without avoidance, with painful states.
My creativity is feeding my life and opportunities continue to present themselves.
On this Memorial day weekend, I am thankful. I don't have to be afraid to say that; like in the past, fearful that if I admitted to this abundance, things would go quickly downhill.

So, I am grateful for so many things. Among my list of gratitudes, is the wonderful position of words in my life. Words are like different colored paints; there is no limit to how I can use them.

Early inspiration...

2010-05-28T20:02:00.000-07:00

Survival
the struggle is really simple
i was born
i was taught how to behave
i was shown how to accommodate-
i resist being humanized
into feelings not my own-
the struggle is really simple
i will be born
i will not be taught how to behave
i will not make my muscles vestigial
i will not digest myself

From 'Mongo Affair,' Miguel Algarin

Rhythm II.

2010-05-25T11:40:00.000-07:00

I listen here.
By the gold dome,
on this blessed,
cracked, trashed,
overgrown pavement.
I listen here
to the solitary beat,
the beat, beat
how is this possible,
I ask myself.
How is this probable
that there would be one
discernable beat.
it grounds me. in this moment.
it's where I need to be.
I need to be here, here,
right here, I
tell myself.
I no longer listen here
for your footstep.
I am present.

Really?

2010-05-25T07:40:00.000-07:00

I never reported it. Everyone I talk to says, "REALLY??! YOU NEED TO REPORT IT." "WHAT IF HE DOES IT AGAIN?"
I am left with a residue of shame: why didn't I report it? The attack. Because that's what it was an attack. It took the caring voice of reason of the medical assistant at my doctor's office to drive this point home. And when she shared her own story of being attacked, it made me finally cry about mine.
I respect the police. And I dread contact with that monotone, "well, ma'am, why didn't you report it on Saturday?"
Why? Why, indeed.
At work, if this happened to a client, I would quickly respond: report it, right now; I will help you. If a friend told me this, I would say report it. report it now.
So, I learn. That just because "things like this happen." Just because "he was mentally ill." "Just because it's life in the city." I deserve to tell someone.
Really.

Scents

2010-05-24T19:36:00.000-07:00

I can't scrape these rhymes off the pavement.
I'm covered in cravings too thick to breathe through
At the sound of your voice in a text message.
I can't lose that scent
the smell of you. close.
wrap around, wrap around
these memories, these senses
overwhelm me.
And you're nowhere.
At least as far as I can see.
You're nowhere.
Not really.
Just an act, like
those plays you see
to seem erudite, uptight, in right.
You're nowhere.
As far as I can see.

of beauty

2010-05-23T13:35:00.000-07:00

"On the girl's brown legs there were many small white scars. I was thinking, Do those scars cover the whole of you, like the stars and the moons on your dress? I thought it would be pretty too, and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I SURVIVED." Little Bee, Chris Cleave

Pushed Down

2010-05-22T19:25:00.000-07:00

I was reminded today, loudly reminded. This city I love has a bitterness that sometimes follows right after a delicious swallow of energy and creativity. Walking with my iPod narrating my way through crowds of people in Center City, I meandered through Independence Mall, dodging the folks trying to give me tourist brochures.
I love this city with all it's sharp edges, it's trash, it's rudeness. These are like wrinkles and scars on a wise, wise old woman, who fills me with colorful stories and culture; who brings me back in time, centuries in a moment. I love this city, even, maybe because of, it's wrinkles and callouses. This is why I made a grave mistake today and put my guard down.
I walked through a door, after purchasing bus tokens at the subway station. The man on the other side had pressed the automatic button to open the doors, so I took advantage and skirted through on one side. I found myself painfully and suddenly knocked to the ground. Looking up, feeling a sharp pain in my neck, I witnessed what I had missed. Unkempt, talking angrily and violently to himself and me, was a man I should have noticed. I realized I should have had my guard up. I missed the signs.
I love this city. This beautiful, alive, creative artist of a city. And, I am reminded. I need to use all my senses when I make my way through it.

Burning

2010-05-22T19:15:00.000-07:00

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time. The ones who never yawn or a say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles. Jack Kerouac

climbing chain link fences...

2010-05-22T18:42:00.000-07:00

one poem, a string of words, a war of sorts, a feast for the gods, a long, long walk forward.