Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Denial and the College Road Trip

I took that picture on a road trip last weekend in Washington and Colorado where I was visiting colleges with Henry.

Did ya'll know that my boy is graduating from high school next month?

I'm blocking it out and will say no more.

Here we are in Spokane, Washington, on the campus of Gonzaga University.

We might have a basketball rivalry thing going on next year.

Hmmmmm. Just saying.

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Identity is Fluid

So, this is a picture of me and newborn Sophie in March of 1995. I found it this morning when I was rummaging around in a drawer on my desk. It was precisely twenty-two years ago and less than three months from the day that life as I knew it would begin to unravel. As a friend put it: BTSHTF.*

When I see these old photos of The Time Before, I can't help but peer at them in a sort of writerly self-absorbed searching for the meaning of the whole clusterfu**k that we call life kind of way. I'm constantly wrestling with identity --what it is, exactly, that makes us who we were, who we are, what makes us human. I can remember who that young woman in the picture was if I think hard enough, and lately my life's strange and beautiful circumstances have reminded me of her, too --  but I believe we hold some kind of essence that is constant even in inconstancy, if that makes sense. I will go out on the proverbial limb here to include Sophie as well. That baby I'm holding was very different from the baby that was diagnosed with infantile spasms a couple of months later. I remember thinking in the months that followed that I'd been given a new baby, so violent were the expectations up-ended. Bless my sweet heart. I don't remember when I realized that Sophie's essence was intact, but today, twenty-two years later, I'm thinking about how identity is fluid, and it leaks out of the eyes and down the face from some kind of deep dark well.

 I toured a facility for developmentally disabled adults this afternoon. The place was a sort of Bleak House and fulfilled my expectations for such a place, even if I entered it with the usual dumb hope whose source shares room with fathomless sorrow. I was going to write a quasi-bitter post about the sheer physical ugliness of the facility, how many adults were crammed into tiny rooms with no windows or decoration or flooring or soft surfaces, how we determined that Sophie's toileting needs could not be accommodated as there was no changing table in the restroom, and how when I voiced my objections to that, I was reminded that perhaps the Senior Care facility down the road was a better fit for my daughter. How old are the people in that facility? I asked. Around 45-80 years, but we have some younger ones, the director told me with a straight face, even as she took the machete hanging on the stucco wall and slashed my chest. Reader, these people were kind and industrious, I swear.

Identity, you remember, can be fluid.

At worst, the seventeen minutes I spent at the facility was a kind of Monty Python scene of absurdity with tinges of Ingmar Bergman and the careening humanity of Fellini. Know that places like this are where WE AS A CULTURE HAVE CONSIGNED OUR FELLOW HUMANS WITH DEVELOPMENTAL DISABILITIES, at least those who aren't from wealthy families (and I mean wealthy, as in rich as shit). These are the places that WE AS A CULTURE LEAVE TO POLITICIANS TO FUND, TO HACK AWAY AND MARGINALIZE. At best, visiting Bleak House was the sort of experience that has helped to define me as a person and a writer, however self-absorbed.

I lifted my head from the steering wheel after crying there for a moment or two and realized that it'd be interesting to take a photo twenty-two years ATSHTF.** If identity is fluid, it is here, leaking out of the eyes and down the face from some kind of deep dark well.

Identity is fluid. Essence is intact.

  *Before The Shit Hit The Fan
**After The Shit Hit The Fan

Sunday, April 16, 2017

What I did past midnight tonight

I certainly didn't sleep. I was just closing my eyes, though, lying on my side, like I do, when I heard her beginning to seize in her room down the hall. I say down the hall, but it's only a few feet. I can hear her, even when she takes that first breath or perhaps it's an exhale because it becomes a groan, but first it's just a breath and I hear it, even when I am just there, falling to sleep. Falling. We fall into sleep and we fall over. Onto the ground. We fall under a spell and out of a trap, away from harm and backward in shock. We fall in love and also out of. I have fallen in and never out -- of love. I am in love right now. Can't you see it? Sophie has fallen, over and over, fallen under a spell while falling into sleep. Seizures often happen at the threshold of sleep, the place where eyes are closed and the thoughts are threads, a fish tail flicks. The liminal. The measure of my hatred for them is their resistance to falling victim to -- what? Anything. They've fallen victim to nothing so my hatred is everything. I know, even so, that I've fallen for it, delusion, illusion, maya. Things have long since fallen out of place. I have no control. I sat on her bed and wiped her hair away where it had fallen into her face. I wiped her palms, the drops of sweat, the drool, fallen away from her mouth. I told her it was okay. I wanted her to fall back to sleep. I wanted it to all fall away.

Things fall apart.

Nonetheless, there were no more diapers in Sophie's closet, and after a seizure, she needs a change. The case is outside at the back of the yard in the shed.

That's what I did past midnight tonight. I wore my long black nightgown and swung my phone's beam of light, let it fall right then left. Please, no creatures, I whispered. I walked down the steps from my bedroom and fell into night. Feet on gravel, a distant siren. I reached for the box, let it fall off the shelf, paid no mind to the corners there in the dark where the light fell away and I walked back to the house with the box up on my bare shoulder, the lace of a spider-web fell and caught on the lace of my gown.

We are brave people. We are strong.

Saturday, April 8, 2017

Active Empathy and Some Prom Photos

Have I told ya'll about our Indivisible group called Active Empathy? Indivisible is the national group that is resisting Trump's agenda in a methodical way. Active Empathy is what our local group is called, and a small group of us, including the four gorgeous founders, meet weekly to plan the BIG meeting which happens to be this afternoon. It's our second one, and we hope to galvanize people to really participate in the resistance. If you're local, please come or stay involved by getting our weekly emails. We have a facebook page and a website that are works in progress.


Yours truly is heading up the Healthcare/Disability Rights working group. I'm using today's meeting to encourage people to be educated about healthcare law as it now exists, to know what Medicaid is, what block grants are, what single-payer insurance is, etc. etc. Education is everything, isn't it? It's everything, and we live under a regime that is not only ignorant but actively promotes ignorance. We're also, as working group heads, going to give our groups at least one ACTION item to complete this week. I know from the years of advocacy work that I did in disability and special needs healthcare, that doing one thing, however small, is essential and that this one thing should be done within days of getting all charged up and excited. One small thing.

So that's what's happening around these parts today.

On another note, I don't think I showed you these photos of my gorgeous son and his date from the prom last weekend. They appeared on Instagram and Facebook, but most of you who read the old blog are sane avoiders of social media, so here's my pride and joy, the light of my life, the little boy turned to man:

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Pirouexiting IEPs

I want to tell ya'll about the day I had up on a bluff at Point Dume in Malibu, but first I want to tell you about the funniest question I was asked by one of Sophie's teachers yesterday. It was Monday morning, about 8:30, and I was doing the usual morning thing with Sophie at home which calls for a combination of the physical strength of an elephant, the body dexterity of a circus performer and the patience of a -- let's see -- praying mantis. I'm not going to give you anymore of a description than that, so let your imagination take flight, especially those of you who've been reading the exact same shit for the nearly nine years I've been writing the old blog.


The teacher* called me to ask why I wasn't at Sophie's "Exit IEP," and I said, What Exit IEP? and he said, Didn't you sign the paper letting you know the date of the Exit IEP was April the 3rd at 8:00 am? and I said, Um, no, I never received a notice about an Exit IEP and actually thought this would be the first year in two decades that I actually wouldn't have to perform my high-wire act at the IEP! (actually I didn't say that last part but I thought it with my tiny little mother mind™because you know -- really? an EXIT IEP?**) -- and he said, The form should have been in her backpack a couple of weeks ago, and I said, Well, I never received a form, and thought to myself with my tiny little mother mind™that it was weird they hadn't called me if they never received the signed form but remember I was busy with my own circus act at home which involved the elephants, the trapeze artist and the praying mantis, so I just said hmmm and nooo, and contemplated a pirouette (muscle memory every time I hear the acronym IEP), and then he said what is probably the greatest thing that I have ever heard uttered in the nineteen year history of the Sophie Girl IEP (and oh, lord, there have been some doozies), and perhaps the greatest thing ever uttered to my Caregiver Self and that was this:

Maybe one of your household staff removed it from her backpack?

Reader, need I say more?

I think not and will tell you about Point Dume and the whales and the flowers and the turquoise water and the television series being shot on the beach below which included airplane crash wreckage and actor/survivors and then later the Topanga Ranch Motel pictured above (which subs in for my "estate") at a later date.

*For the record, I love and admire Sophie's teacher, and he will be sorely missed when we are hurled off the cliff in May or shot out of the circus cannon and over the Pacific.

** For the record, I told him FOR THE FIRST TIME IN NINETEEN YEARS to just do what he had to do for the Exit IEP and send me the paper to sign. I have always wanted to check that box on the IEP notice that my household staff neglected to give me that says, "I am unable to be at the Individualized Education Meeting but hold the meeting without me anyway," because -- well -- really, what difference would it have made if I hadn't brought in those doughnuts every year, wore that pale rose-colored leotard and chalked my hands before doing the most perfect pirouettes on the wire above the earnest heads of the Powers That Be?

Sunday, April 2, 2017

How We Do It, Part ?

Girl in wheelchair in sunlight, bookshelves, a wide ocean-green tile table with a pitcher of lilacs

I'm reading Molly McCully Brown's new book of poetry. It's called The Virginia State Colony for Epileptics and Feeble-Minded, and I'm waiting to spoon oatmeal into Sophie's mouth as she seizes in the sun. We're in our dining room, and everything is beautiful. These are partial seizures. Her eyes are wide open with a look of surprise. Her arms fly out every ten seconds or so, her hands cupped. Her hum is a beat longer right before the spasm. I am patient, reading and glancing, glancing and reading. I look into her eyes in between glances. They are glassy, my own (eyes and glasses) stare out, not her. I tell her it's okay.

The Central Virginia Training Center
formerly The Virginia State Colony for Epileptics and Feebleminded

Whatever it is—
home or hospital,
graveyard or asylum,
government facility or great
tract of land slowly ceding
itself back to dust—

its church is a low-slung brick box
with a single window,
a white piece of plywood
labeled chapel, and a locked door.

Whatever it is,
my mother and I ride along
its red roads in February
with the windows down:
this place looks lived in,
that one has stiff, gray curtains
in the window, a roof caving in.

We see a small group moving
in the channel between one building
and the next, bowing in an absent wind.

He is in a wheelchair, she is stumbling,
pushing a pram from decades ago,
coal black and wrong. There is no way
it holds a baby. Behind them,
a few more shuffling bodies in coats

I am my own kind of damaged there,
looking out the right-hand window.
Spastic, palsied and off-balance,
I'm taking crooked notes about this place.

It is the land where he is buried, the place
she spent her whole life, the room
where they made it impossible
for her to have children.

It is the colony where he did not learn to read,
but did paint every single slat of fence
you see that shade of yellow.

The place she didn't want to leave
when she finally could,
because she'd lived there fifty years,
and couldn't drive a car, or remember
the outside, or trust anyone
to touch her gently.

And, by some accident of luck or grace,
some window less than half a century wide,
it is my backyard but not what happened
to my body—

Some of you will think, why would you read such a book? Sophie is seizing in the sun as I read. As she seizes in the sun, her eyes glassy, I know she has visions. There is an angel in the tree just outside the window and in her eyes, some bit of glitter. The word glint.  I know she sees something more than I, I who see only purple lilacs in her eyes. In some far-off time or long ago, she might be have been a saint. She might have had visions, cured the sick, seen Mary in the garden, been Joan of Arc leading men into right. If she'd been allowed to be an epileptic, if there had been no fixing. No drugs. She might have lived not terribly but terrible (formidable in nature). She might have been burned, though, alive. We've had advancements, they say. There have been great advancements in the field of neurology, a medical paper insists. The word insist. I think of those saints with their hands held up and toward the sky. Appeal or protest or insist. Mary's hands lie crossed over her stomach when the Angel Gabriel visits, as he tells her the terrible news. Formidable in nature.

These are the thoughts that come to me as I sit waiting for Sophie to stop seizing. I am reading this book of poems about a terrible place where epileptics and the feeble-minded (Sophie) were locked up and hidden away, sterilized. This happened even into the late twentieth century. The Virginia State Colony for Epileptics and Feebleminded. Sophie's spasms stop with a sigh and release. If she had wings, they would rustle as she settled. I can feed her the oatmeal now.

You see where I'm going. Instead of terror, dyskinesia, paranoid delusions, suffering, it is visions, divinity, miracle, the heady scent of lilacs.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

The Awareness of Birds

Toes of sneakers on a dirty sidewalk with a silhouette of a crow blacked into the concrete.*

I think I told ya'll about my new gig, over at Cerebral Palsy Foundation. I will be writing, I think, monthly about various topics related to disability. CPF consults with the television show Speechless, a hilarious sit-com that very accurately portrays a family who lives with disability. The show features a terrific actor, Micah Fowler, who actually has cerebral palsy. Minnie Driver plays the mother, and I have to say that if it weren't for her being incredibly thin and glamorous with a British accent, the part could be mine.

In any case, this writing gig is awesome, and my first short piece is up on their blog. It's called The Awareness of Birds. March was Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month, so the topic for the month was "awareness."

Check out the Cerebral Palsy Foundation website, too. Poke around, donate, increase your awareness.

The Awareness of Birds

*I'm learning about how to caption photos for the vision-impaired. I'm bummed that I haven't been doing this all along, but I guess that means that even the most aware of us need to constantly improve and learn and listen.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

The Broken Record of THC, Baby

I think ya'll are in need of a Sophalofa update,  no? Let's all knock on wood three times, on the ceiling like you mean it. We've gotten through another minuscule wean of the benzo, and Sophie is sitting up, eating and drinking and walking and humming and not-sleeping and not-seizing like a champ. The THC is helping her.

The benzo, legally prescribed and given to her over much of her twenty-two years on the planet, damaging her brain and causing Benzo Withdrawal Syndrome does not work. It harms her.

The THC and CBD are helping her.

Let me type that again: The THC is helping her. 

Did you hear that Jim Sessions, Tom Price and all the rest of you goons on the cabinet and in the legislature of the Disunited States of Amerikkka, Inc.? Canada is moving right along with federal policy. You can read about that here. If the country didn't discriminate against those with disabilities immigrating there, I'd be putting on my tiny mother mind™ thinking hat right over that pink pussy one that I'd need anyway given Canada's chilly climate.


THC, baby. CBD. Whole plant cannabis medicine.


Did you read this?

A pharma company that spent $500,000 trying to keep pot illegal just got DEA approval for synthetic marijuana

Don't peel yourself off the floor or anything. You've heard it all right here for years. I've walked by Insys' tables at epilepsy conventions and "brain" summits, walked by their smiling reps and picked up and perused their glossy brochures. I have probably benefitted from their underwriting of epilepsy projects. In the words of Ron Woodroof in Dallas Buyers Club (watch the whole thing, please, because his final line is what I'm saying):

This has been a Public Service Announcement.

If you want to learn more about cannabis medicine, I highly recommend you purchase Dr. Bonni Goldstein's book Cannabis Revealed. I helped her to tell the stories of many people who are seeing amazing results for various diseases and conditions, and you can read about them as well as learn about the history of the plant, how it works, what the latest research tells us, how to dose and other invaluable information. Because of my contributions, I do make a small amount for every copy sold, so this is also my disclosure, but even if I didn't, I'd tout the book as it's the best one out there about a subject that we still, evidently, can't convince the Powers That Be to get their heads out of their fannies, look past the cold, hard cash and start helping people like Sophie with it. Send a copy to Sessions et al, if you're so inclined, to help their view. It's dark and stinks up there.

Cannabis Revealed

Saturday, March 25, 2017

How to Parent, No. 659

A typical day in The Brother's bedroom

First of all, don't worry about it if things go awry.

Secondly, don't pat yourself on the back if your children are fantastic.

That's it. *

* You can very possibly bear two sons two and a half years apart who then live in the same bedroom their entire lives and are raised in pretty much the same way for nearly sixteen and nineteen years (obviously birth order is something to reckon with, but for our simple parenting advice purposes, don't worry about it), yet are so profoundly different from one another that you might question whether you did indeed bear them. One of them can be exquisitely neat and profoundly perceptive with an invisible antennae sprouting from his head,  yet drive you to distraction with questions and the pursuit of material objects, as well as constant existential anguish from the age of two onward. One of them can be a preternaturally confident and cheerful soul who charmed the ladies when he was literally two years old with his easygoing manner, yet drive you to distraction as an outrageous slob who has a floordrobe despite laundry baskets two steps away and as one of those men who leaves a cereal bowl with a film of congealed milk on his bedside table for weeks.

Here we go:

Don't let the neatness fool you. The person who maintains that level of clean has other issues, including a propensity as a young boy to say I hate everything and everybody.

Don't let the mess fool you. The person who maintains that level of slobbery is also one of the more relaxed and good-natured kids on the planet.

As a parent, my best advice is to not congratulate yourself for the good stuff or berate yourself for the bad.

It's out of your hands, and you have absolutely nothing to do with either.

You can marvel, though, that they both emerged from your aching, enormous body, bloody, stunned and screaming yet intensely beautiful (that'd be them and you).

I had some big baby boys

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Conservator - A Thinly Veiled Horror Story

  1. a person responsible for the repair and preservation of works of art, buildings, or other things of cultural or environmental interest.
    • US
      a guardian or protector.

      "the court does not need to appoint a conservator to handle an incapacitated person's affairs"

I am Sophie's conservator. Every two years, the government checks in on our relationship, which is as it should be, I guess, although the whole process is akin, figuratively, to getting stabbed in the heart. It's the same feeling as listening to the robo calls from Sophie's LAUSD high school that describe the various senior year festivities and activities. Sophie has been a "senior" for over three years, yet she won't be going to college day or career day or military sign-up day or cap and gown ordering day or prom day or -- you understand the drill. If my imagination were a work of art, I'd say that as its conservator, I let things roll, I elaborate, I preserve --

It is what it is, as they say.

Yesterday, a worker from the city came to our house to interview Sophie to make sure that she still needed a conservator.  She was terrified of our dog Valentine, the goofiest poodle on the planet but otherwise a mild enough sort who immediately greeted Sophie. The dog greeted her and the worker greeted Sophie, that is. After she finished asking me a bunch of questions about Sophie's needs and medications and doctors and health history and educational status, she told me that she needed to ask Sophie some questions. I raised my eyebrows. I had kept Sophie home from school for the meeting, and she was sitting in her wheelchair humming. If you're a new reader to the blog, Sophie doesn't hum songs. She makes a steady monotonous sound through closed lips that is at once an expression of agitation (meaning she wants to get up and out of the chair and go outside), of discomfort (of what I have no idea) or perhaps just of a self-stimulating nature that feels good. Depending on my mood or where I am in the caregiver cycle, the sound can make me feel alert to alleviating her discomfort, amused (I have my tolerant side), agitated (okay, CRAZY) or indifferent. Yesterday, I felt amused by Sophie's insistent hum yet my heart throbbed from the ax that the worker had metaphorically thrust into it.

I'm a conservator, a person who guards and protects my adult daughter. I'm also responsible for the repair and preservation of a work of art -- my imagination, I think. A thing of cultural interest.  My writer mind. I listened with amusement to the questions so earnestly asked by this cheerful, bland woman.

Sophie, do you know who you are?

Silence. Hum.

Sophie, do you need an attorney?

Silence. Hum.

Sophie, would you like to vote?

Silence. (I might have interjected here over the hum with my own answer which would be Yes! And hopefully get the asshole and his band of billionaires out of the government!)

We tolerate these things, we conservators.

The worker turned to me, still earnest yet apologetic. We have to ask these questions because there are those who would take advantage of people's disabilities. I told her how much I appreciated that care and attention. I meant it. She stood up, and I stood up and she handed me the paperwork and I put one hand on Sophie's head as the worker said good-bye. Then she said, Plus, you never know! Sophie might wake up one morning and start talking and recover!

Reader, it was then that I removed the ax from my own heart and brought it over the worker's head, cleaving it in two. 

Valentine sniffed around a bit and smiled and Sophie hummed.

Monday, March 20, 2017

March Madness

The Department of Motor Vehicles, Los Angeles. CA 2017

My understanding of what's going on in this country is shrinking, and I find myself opening up articles, reading a few sentences and then sighing in exasperation or grimacing in disgust or taking in breaths to allay anxiety or rolling my eyes heaven-ward in bewilderment.

Are we supposed to understand what's going on?

I hate to say it, but I rely almost exclusively now on acronyms to express myself in this area. WTF?

I remember this quote by the great 18th century satirist, Jonathan Swift:
It is useless to attempt to reason a man out of a thing he was never reasoned into.
I never wonder to see men wicked, but I often wonder to see them not ashamed. 
We're all Gullivers here, methinks.

Sophie went back to school today for the first time in weeks, other than the day I brought her in for her birthday. I don't feel like going over what's been going on because, frankly, I'm so tired of the whole shebang, and I imagine you are, too. Suffice it to say that she's trending better even as we slowly wean her from the hideous benzodiazepine and supplement more aggressively with THC. I'm trending better right along with her because you know where she stops, I begin or where I stop, she begins and it's a fine, fine line. I also got acupuncture from our beloved Dr. Jin.

Yes. THC, baby. The psychoactive stuff that I myself have not partaken of since the halcyon days of college at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. If I'd had any idea that I'd be administering a pale green gold oily version of it to my seizing and drug-addled daughter thirty-plus years later, I would have smoked more and studied less. Hell, I would have joined in with something more than tolerance when my boyfriend and his housemates watched the Tar Heels play basketball with the sound turned down and the bootleg Grateful Dead tapes turned up.


If you hear Old Racist Alabama Elf-Man Sessions or Old Up Big Pharma's Ass Georgia Cracker Price make any cracks about medical marijuana being a joke, tell them I'm going to beat the crap out of them in my mind. My tiny little mother mind™ knows few boundaries, is exasperated, disgusted, anxious and bewildered and would love a good red neck upon which to project its conflicts. Just a little March Madness.

Speaking of conflicts and the Tar Heels, did ya'll watch that game yesterday? It was a nail-biter that I watched with my sons and Sophie. March Madness for sure. This is a picture of when we had fallen behind Arizona after an early 17-point lead. I have quite effectively brainwashed my sons to be ardent Carolina basketball fans, and they were nervous wrecks.

Here's a video of the action when things got really tense at the end, right before I began to fold the boys' clean socks into balls, a task that I turned over to them when they were about five and seven years old. So many boring white socks I thought I'd go mad, wrote Virginia Woolf. I thought I was going to have a stroke or a heart attack watching the last few minutes of the game and even folded The Brother's laundry and smoked a few cigarettes in between bong hits.*

Between the not smoking too much THC in college, giving Sophie enough THC to help her brain today and parenting my boys to cheer ardently for a team that I love despite not knowing a damn thing about the sport -- well -- I'm going to humble brag here about my parenting skills. I am bewildered, to say the least.

* Just kidding. Virginia Woolf did not write that.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

R Egret

 I went to the most beautiful park in Orange County yesterday, walked around and took bunches of photos. Oliver rode his bike on the trails, disappearing into the grasses. The rain we had last month has turned everything green, and even the weeds and grasses were chest high. I watched that egret above stalk a lizard for a few minutes, its neck swaying in anticipation. I'm not sure it ever got it. R egret is what I felt. For all the moments gone, unaware.

Hawks were screaming in some kind of mating ritual, and a bunch of men on the other side of middle age were flying remote-controlled airplanes in an empty field. Men and their toys, is what I thought.  I prefer the hawk.

I was texting with a couple of friends today and all agreed that our general Sunday blues were even bluer. One friend suggested that it was the change in the weather, the weird onset of spring. Maybe it's the death of Chuck Berry, another friend suggested. Maybe it's just life in general these days, I think we all agreed.  I remembered the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem that I trundle out every April because it speaks so directly to the feeling, particularly that last line. I think I'll post it a little earlier in honor of climate change.

I do love my dark blue friends.


To what purpose, April, do you return again? 
Beauty is not enough. 
You can no longer quiet me with the redness 
Of little leaves opening stickily. 
I know what I know. 
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe 
The spikes of the crocus. 
The smell of the earth is good. 
It is apparent that there is no death. 
But what does that signify? 
Not only under ground are the brains of men 
Eaten by maggots. 
Life in itself 
Is nothing, 
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. 
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, 
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Saturday, March 18, 2017

The Measure of Our Desperation

We've got two choices: resist or cut and run.

Cutting and running is the choice of the privileged and the desperate, so maybe it's more about the measure of our desperation.

Here's a poem:


In our teens we all bought girdles
with rubber knobs to hold up our stockings.
We wiggled into them, our “foundations.”
So many things look absurd from a distance
that people still take seriously,
like whether there's a Heaven for pets.

What ever happened to my girdle?
One day I peeled it off for the last time
and all hell broke loose.

Connie Wanek, from Rival Gardens

I cut and pasted the poem here from The Writer's Almanac this morning after reading someone's post on Facebook. 

I bought a copy of Wanek's book and hope she doesn't mind that I've put her poem on my blog. Maybe you'll buy a copy of her book, too. 

So many people are throwing around their desire to flee the Disunited States of Amerikkka, Inc., and I get it. I'm a person who rarely feels sick to her stomach in the literal sense of the word and have probably actually vomited only about five times in my entire life, but I've felt more nauseous and fearful over the last few months than I have in the 53 years previous that I've lived on the planet. I wouldn't mind living in a small space along the coast of Costa Rica despite the bugs. I'd move to New Zealand, but traveling that far in a plane with Sophie might be worse than taking the fallout of a nuclear bomb from North Korea. 

You'll have to forgive my dark, tasteless humor if you're new here. 


The thing is, I can't shake my privilege. What about all those who won't be able to cut and run? Are we as desperate as those people who travel thousands of miles through deserts and over barbed wire with only the clothes they're wearing? I'm not. This is as much our country as the fuckers who are ruling it right now. I'm going to have to remain fierce and resist the bullshit, even if the resistance amounts to nothing. If I take the measure of my desperation, I immediately plunge back into the many moments of watching Sophie seize and suffer, of watching my sense of control slip away, vomited up in some intense instant and then flushed down with water, my own face clammy against the cool of the bathroom floor. And still. Do you understand what I'm saying? I'm going to have to remain fierce and resist the bullshit. In this moment, this now, that ends the moments before and begins the moments after and on. 

It all sounds dramatic, maybe too dramatic. Peeling it off and letting all hell break loose sounds better.


*For those who are new, I hate this word and use it sparingly and in jest.

Thursday, March 16, 2017


The birds are singing me back this morning to last year and an apartment filled with slanted light, their song on air through plastic blinds, the drift, a breeze and quiet. I found a Buddha necklace curled in a little box on my dresser, pulled it out and remembered it falling apart, worn by water and too many knots, but I loved it so. The chain is fabric and beaded and fell apart in my hands even now, leaving the medal with its tiny notched saint sitting cross-legged in my palm. I threaded a pink ribbon through it and tied it around my neck. He (she) sits slant in the shallow hollow between clavicles, the suprasternal notch. That sounds like the moon or a star, a hand at my throat, smooth dark places that take touch. I sing words, let go notch. Aster a flower, the n celestial, something with wings, sound in body, shadow and light.


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