Suggestions for books as gifts for Mother’s Day have come in. If you need to purchase one, Amazon will ship free overnight. Here are my top three favorites:
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I lived for his memory after his death. As if the consistent talk of him and stories would bring parts of him back. So intertwined with him when he died, my thoughts and emotions were desperate for a destination. A lack of destination caused by this backward, inevitable part of life. Gradual discovery of someone pales in comparison to death’s abruptness. Sudden, rude, and unwanted. Memories become the crazy relative who arrives unannounced, refusing to leave. You build a guest suite; they’ll stay with you forever. A consistent reminder of your lack of freedom. Watching a dead person in a coffin tricks you into thinking they’ll get up–that’s what you’ve known. Moving, laughing, loving. You will their movement, even with logic yelling their emptiness. No amount of talking or remembering or dreaming will bring them back. When dad died, I touched him because I knew he was waiting on this to move. He was rubbery and cold. Like your arms when they fall asleep at night and wake you up with their tingling. The tingling is the part that doesn’t come back when you die. Rubbery and cold…it’s not you, but someone else. Because he was supposed to be there, but wasn’t.
More than social status or old money. More than beauty and wealth; more than estates and vacations. More than gifts or gold. More than cars and cashmere. More than vintage books and music. More than talent and fame. More than your last name. More than skills and wit. More than education and your MBA. Make me laugh, you’ll have my heart. More than what my hands hold. More than what the wind whispers to the flowers. More than your next win or our failing economy. More than our escape to push paper at our 9-5. More than the priceless art that stays, along with the money we didn’t have, the cars we couldn’t afford, and the MACs we used as status symbols. More than my favorite party dress, the China I haven’t registered for, and the secrets I keep. I’ll take our memories along with my integrity as I never learned to lie. I’ll take my failures to prove I tried. I’ll take my disappointments because I had dreams. I’ll take my broken heart because I loved. I’ll take the funnies, I’ve had so many. I’ll take my hopes because they drive me. My desires to prove I’m human. I’ll pack my anxieties to toss out the window. My insecurities to conquer them. Immaturity because I wont grow up. I’ll pack my ambition for encouragement. My creativity in hopes of improving it. Fears because they haunt me. loyalty because I know no other. I’ll bring my shame to get healed. I’ll pack my heart because just as naturally as we once fit together, it still beats for you.
I’m in the playroom. The playroom that hosts our laundry and toys; the playroom where he broke brother’s rib. Our escape. Where I found my tumor. The tumor that would turn me in on myself, the tumor that would confirm my nightmare. Fearful of makeup, shaving, and men. Rejecting anything avowing who I was. I’m looking in the bathroom mirror; the one he used. The bathroom that’s closed in; the one we hid in for storms. I cover parts of my face piece by piece, attempting to reveal the boy who wasn’t there. Awkward, but no boy. My fantasies. Little girls dream of castles and knights, I dreamt of transparency.
I wasn’t ready for NYC heat. Toxic. My sweat glands were unemployed in Atlanta. This heat scared them into overdrive, they were eager to get paid. Their first day on the job; proving sufficient. Zero movement on the subway platform to keep them at bay, preventing a back soaking and unprompted peek-a-boo with the pedestrian behind me. 120 degrees. I chanted a rhythmic prayer to the wind gods for a breeze from a passing train. The trains were late, my glands were excited. The heat was visible. Rare heat–heat with many levels. Worse near a manhole or bus, a slight reprieve passing an open door. It gave me its definition when I walked down the subway stairs, each step provided a new adjective. Beads rolled down my back, beads rolled into my pants, beads soaked through my clothing. I never felt them overtake my underwear–I hadn’t worn them that day. Naive and ill-equipped. The train arrived too late. Sitting would bind the sweat with my pants as if resting on damp cloth. I hovered under a vent to cool–the beads stood resilient; trickling down my leg to host a party in my crotch. Swamp Ass made a room for itself in my genital area as I prayed for a water into wine moment for my privates. My body temperature continued its incline and Swamp Ass expanded its border. My crotch dark brown, my pants Khaki; wearing a quintessential diaper of sweat. I formed an ill thought out plan like I did when I wet my pants in first grade. I shuffled back to my office with a volunteer in front, and a volunteer behind, blocking both areas of saturation. The hour-long subway ride had made me late. He called me in his office for a closed-door meeting where I sat praying that some of my sweat would wear off in his visitor’s chair. My prayer was answered for the first time that day. Resilience.
You put on your best face, I’ll put on mine. Let’s meet where we know no one and order the food we can’t pronounce and the drinks that increase our carbon footprint. Let’s talk of issues we don’t understand and loudly correct grammar. Let’s name drop and casually bring up Europe last summer. Let’s mention following their music before anyone and their drummer’s first name. Let’s laugh when things are only surface funny and grimace when something alludes mainstream. Let’s hide ourselves and play roles. Roles that dominate our lives and fill our days. Let’s.
I began running at 10. My consistency. Escaping pills, broken promises, and resemblances of a father I grew up loving but am grateful is dead, averting explanation to a family that honors secrets above truth. I stapled a letter on the heart that killed him the day he was buried to guarantee our story would rest with him forever the way it would me. Deceits, deceptions, poached purity. Starting at five and ending when his guilt disclosed him. I wiped away his touch in vain. She never questioned the unbearable burn; reality would cause a relapse. I wiped until I bled to erase his pollution that still haunts me; wiped to undo his chilled touch; wiped to rid myself of his grimy hands; wiped to mask his ever-present night-shift smell. The toilet paper carried our secret. Working at night seemingly for more money; placing items into boxes on an assembly line to limit himself from putting things in me. I ran from dark. My dolls as my ally, a fortress two deep; hiding my feet–the ones he loved. The ones I kept buried until he was. A fortification of counterfeit protection; my hope. Itsy bitsy spider, full moons, night lights. I return to the Ford to hold her in the backseat as she unwittingly traced the red upholstery while she spoke, praying to move a mountain like Jesus did. The sun’s glare protecting her from the disbelieve in her mom’s eyes–for once not vacant–when she rejects truth to entertain her utopia. I hug the boy in the front seat to lift the responsibilities he was burdened with and the memories that still track him. I hug her on the couch while the fan slices the tainted memories that even it can’t handle. Brother’s playing, she’s wasting, he’s betraying. We kept the secret. I can’t bring her shame with me; her memories too concrete. Mustaches, unions, baseball bats. She ran to survive. I write to know her.
This was our delight. We were limited in our town and desperate for pastimes. We found pleasure in a warehouse each Wednesday where for two dollars we were given a lesson on Christ, some laughs with our friends, two slices of pizza, and if lucky, a chance to make eyes at Nat McClain. Some came on skateboards to awe us, most were dropped off by parents, but all of us received groundless judgment. We settled Indian style on the floor post Jesus songs, specifically after asking Pharaoh—two times weekly—to let the Hebrews go. Our angst filled our semi-circle as the lights were softened to tear us down us more easily. We contested it, but the power of the Holy Spirit would move through Him to the microphone reclining on His belly, and someone would break. The ceremony had been perfected, prayer weekly was that, “The veil of guilt not be nebulous, let the film cover them so thickly we can see it.” Curtailed shoulders, recently heat broken, sub par report card, Principal’s Office, singled out by Coach Grovenstein for not reading through his instructions before you started, and anyone not perfect were prey. He addressed purity and shamefulness throughout His thesis on sexual immorality. At no time covering His two personal shortcomings—gluttony and deception. Gluttony so His mic could relax and deception as He’s sinless from the back—posing as a classically fit pregnant woman with a handlebar mustache in charge of evoking guilt in us for our innocence. Professional Outfielders were stationed as Awareness Volunteers on the peripheral of the warehouse, anxious to mime signs of weakness so He could gracefully sway toward you like a palm tree chanting “if you have anything heavy on your heart, let it out, let it out, and let Him in, anything heavy…” We fought our chin’s quiver, urged our tears back, and rejected His rhythmic tune, but yielded. After one accepted, all of us felt convicted. Innocence meant nothing. Tears surfaced like clockwork—condemned for not feeling guilty. We were under attack to sign a slip for God, promising to keep our innocence before marriage. Professional Outfielders like bouncers at our backs—their judging eyes burning a hole through us; Him swaying and chanting over us while the pen sweats in our hands and we decide our fate in either Heaven or Hell for eternity. Each nodding acceptance at those who picked up their pen up; each shaking their heads in disdain at those who were reluctant. I had no specific plans to give myself away as I kissed my first boy in 8th grade and had a social anxiety seizure as a result. I do neither and their expressions tell me I’ll go up in flames when I leave. I don’t mind and will return for more injustice because no matter how thick the film, He always washed it clean.
It paralyzes me, but It’s indefinable. Worse than disgust or dread, It shrouds me in a timeless instant that no Psychologist can describe. In my dreams I run from It, with my legs sometimes forgetting their purpose. Triggers are sudden and sporadic. The blue I hate because this is the color I came home to. The worn beige carpet I abhor because the memories it keeps. Large boxed TVs with plywood siding propped on floors because he lived here on the recliner I detested, with his legs crossed just so. Shirtless and barefoot, watching Tombstone with analytical determination, as if watching just once more would confirm him as Wyatt Earp, a man with purpose, instead of a night-shift worker in a factory. I’m immobilized around upholstery with flowers and stark white furniture. Ducks, geese crossing signs, and bonus rooms make me wince. The death of her stagnant bedroom dominates my dreams. I’m trapped there with the ghastly pink walls and wrought iron bed. Knowing if I don’t escape, I’ll become her. Forever tortured by the pills in my bottle, my only actions being driven by the amount left. I hate true crime and paperback books with pictures. He’s at the bathroom door in my dreams, tapping his knuckle lightly to make sure I’m in the bath, where I stay until my skin becomes pruned beyond recognition and the touch of my towel makes me cringe. I escape by climbing through the bathroom window leading to the unfinished porch. The bathroom window, once painted shut, now used as a smoking station after every recovery—a silent tell-all to our neighbors that she was once again sober. I’m on the porch, the porch he threw my dog from. I can see our kitchen table, where we never had a meal. I pass the dining room with the peel on tile that I used only as a walk-through–the long way to my room but a way I took to avoid him, his continuous presence being given away by the Brave’s announcer. Listening to sports games, wooden picture frames, curios, country chotchkies, and my brothers blue bedspread with no backing—like houses bricked only for the one side that matters. I pass the kitchen with the appliances that mama spray painted blue because we couldn’t afford new ones. I see the fridge, always empty except for Cokes, and the cabinets always bare except for medicine. Saying farewell to my only childhood consistency, the sound of pills rattling in their bottles, being counted and recounted—having no concept of the hope and devastation they bring. I escape in my dreams. I won’t claim a home; the one I know I hate.
Obama speaks to a national group of CEO’s at a Business Roundtable today to describe where he stands on the fiscal cliff. Recently telling Bloomberg TV that taxes must increase for the rich not to punish success, but because he wants to give someone who’s not filthy rich a chance at joy this holiday season. Republicans remain steadfast to raise revenue only by closing loopholes and deductions, which forces either creative solutions or the bankruptcy of the middle class. GOP will host a Roundtable today as well to toss ideas, with topics to including: denying medication to the elderly and children with cancer whose parents make less than 250K, decreasing funding for disabled individuals and their programs, and putting more blacks in jail.
The White House will host the 4th Tribal Nation Summit today. Obama will drink whiskey and play slots with Native Americans. A Trading Post, sponsored by www.beertent.com, will be set up to improv his position on the budget and deficit problems. Starring John Boehner as White Man and Obama as Native American.
Chinese officials boost their economic growth predictions, resulting in the rise of European stock prices. Officials to predict lower growth tomorrow just to f with Europe.
The New Jersey evacuation zone expanded following train derailment and the elevated levels of vinyl chloride, a toxic chemical used in the production of plastics that is often transported as a liquid. Evacuation period is extended for one more day until the fumes can safely escape to a less desired area of the State. When asked for comment, the coast guard said they would only truly become concerned when the fumes reached Philadelphia, as who really cares about NJ.
Oklahoma Supreme Court tossed out two of our nations strictest abortions laws, stating these violate the State Constitution. Oklahoma Attorney General says he’ll take it to the Supreme Court since his 5 pregnancies were delivered successfully through his penis and although quite painful, he wouldn’t have it any other way. They grow up so fast.
Jack Brooks is dead at 89. Our last link to LBJ. Boo. You didn’t hear about this because sadly, no one cares.
