Water galloping sea horse (sorrow) finally found
a coral reef of
grief to float within.
Tears taste like the concentrated ocean.
I called his phone; it’s in a crashed car
but still working 8 days (chanukah starts tomorrow) later . . .
I just wanted to hear his voice
because he’s silenced, and now even his eyes
are laid over with a strip of gauze.
Are others as weepful as I —
I can’t know, for I am not measuring this
except for hours.
Volume can not be counted,
and if they told me they took 4 or 40 liters of fluid from
you, I would believe it.
I lost my cousin a year ago, and an uncle this summer,
and then a friend to-more-be this summer in the desert.
2014 is not doing well.
Bird friends died;
the cat is irritating and lives on.
I got to talk to your brother more than
since ever then and 20 years ago.
So, a few good things, deep, good things —
but this price is not fair.
Not until you can talk and complain,
walk and feel pain (sorry),
I won’t be happy to be again.
Curb Girl: what an urban-based accidental journalist accidentally thinks when she's falling face-first on figurative pavement
Monday, December 15, 2014
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Then there was December 7
Becoming infamous again.
A Sunday drive for a Christmas tree
Turned into -- is it too dramatic a word?
A tragedy.
In part at least, and how far, still unknown.
Positive things to count,
Ornaments on the darkness:
No limbs lost,
No heads split wide open;
Death, specter hovering dressed in
Blood, over and over turned away.
So far.
And.
Sad.
Me.
For us.
For her.
For us.
Her.
Us.
Her.
Sad.
Hope continues to be a thing with feathers.
No one lets you bring birds or dogs (or cats, but) into the ICU.
It's scientific and clean
But it's not completely humane.
A Sunday drive for a Christmas tree
Turned into -- is it too dramatic a word?
A tragedy.
In part at least, and how far, still unknown.
Positive things to count,
Ornaments on the darkness:
No limbs lost,
No heads split wide open;
Death, specter hovering dressed in
Blood, over and over turned away.
So far.
And.
Sad.
Me.
For us.
For her.
For us.
Her.
Us.
Her.
Sad.
Hope continues to be a thing with feathers.
No one lets you bring birds or dogs (or cats, but) into the ICU.
It's scientific and clean
But it's not completely humane.
Saturday, December 06, 2014
The social life of my anxiety
It doesn't have any friends to call to go along to a music event where my husband and people who are genuine and nice (and don't all happen to be the same race, Imagine That) and who he's known for ages will be for the next four hours.
It keeps pushing little panic attacks, out of nowhere, up into the worry-receptor of my brain, the deep, sharp kind of panics that don't feel like, "Oh, God, a shark is coming at me with its mouth open!" but more like toe aches, heart flutters, dark smudges across mind fields. As if I were the loneliest person in the world, stuck forever, immobilized in my own head.
It, ma vie, and it, myself overall, appear to me, observing from within, better off than the person I was when I wrote 2014's other posts. That person seems more lost than I feel. Maybe because I'm aware of certain things I need to do -- and have actually done part-way by now. Well begun is half done, etc.
The dress I wanted to wear doesn't fit anymore.
It is enough to drive me from the burden of going somewhere people who love me are. I'm not so much afraid of hugs as of having nothing to say. And why love someone who can't fit into a dress she wore last winter?
The music is loud; I wouldn't have to talk. But you can't not say anything, and that shouting thing wears me down.
Where was the last place I was where there were just too many people, and all the interesting conversations I had imagined having (imagined in order to paint the social obligation attractive, not just an obligation, attractive so I could feel positive about going), were washed out in the din of 100-plus people without enough room to move around and who ended up having to shout at each other across round, 8-top tables . . . and then there were long speeches, long enough to last several innings of a World Series game some of us were compelled to watch . . . I didn't get to talk well with anyone I wanted to interact with. No space, no time. What was the point of being there?
That was my company's 50th anniversary dinner party. Informal enough, but terribly unsatisfying. And it was a Friday and we didn't get there until 10 minutes before buffet dinner was served due to the fact that my husband had to work late . . . and so he was exhausted and un-social himself.
I guess the only thing good is that he doesn't care that I'm not there tonight.
He went early with a co-planner/friend, who picked him up at 6:30. When I told him about the dress, he said, "Oh, you're going?" Surprised in a good way, but is not going to be surprised at all if I don't show up.
"Well [the car will be here so], at least you have the option." In a positive tone.
The both of us are really too good at not going to things. Not complementary. Rarely, even if we plan it, we both still Feel Like Going when the event comes up. Maybe plays -- theatre, opera, ballet or something that requires only observation, mental engagement, nothing "social."
So I tried all day to stay "up" and open to going out. I don't even feel as "unwanting" as I know I so often can.
But I have the option not to go. And I'm stressed out about being With People.
I've been reading blogs all day, getting into people's narratives.
And his birthday is Monday.
You would think that would make me go. Be supportive. Get over the fact that there are a couple of people there I don't like and have had real issues with. Get inspired to see a few people whom I only ever see on Facebook.
You would think.
I do like the music.
It keeps pushing little panic attacks, out of nowhere, up into the worry-receptor of my brain, the deep, sharp kind of panics that don't feel like, "Oh, God, a shark is coming at me with its mouth open!" but more like toe aches, heart flutters, dark smudges across mind fields. As if I were the loneliest person in the world, stuck forever, immobilized in my own head.
It, ma vie, and it, myself overall, appear to me, observing from within, better off than the person I was when I wrote 2014's other posts. That person seems more lost than I feel. Maybe because I'm aware of certain things I need to do -- and have actually done part-way by now. Well begun is half done, etc.
The dress I wanted to wear doesn't fit anymore.
It is enough to drive me from the burden of going somewhere people who love me are. I'm not so much afraid of hugs as of having nothing to say. And why love someone who can't fit into a dress she wore last winter?
The music is loud; I wouldn't have to talk. But you can't not say anything, and that shouting thing wears me down.
Where was the last place I was where there were just too many people, and all the interesting conversations I had imagined having (imagined in order to paint the social obligation attractive, not just an obligation, attractive so I could feel positive about going), were washed out in the din of 100-plus people without enough room to move around and who ended up having to shout at each other across round, 8-top tables . . . and then there were long speeches, long enough to last several innings of a World Series game some of us were compelled to watch . . . I didn't get to talk well with anyone I wanted to interact with. No space, no time. What was the point of being there?
That was my company's 50th anniversary dinner party. Informal enough, but terribly unsatisfying. And it was a Friday and we didn't get there until 10 minutes before buffet dinner was served due to the fact that my husband had to work late . . . and so he was exhausted and un-social himself.
I guess the only thing good is that he doesn't care that I'm not there tonight.
He went early with a co-planner/friend, who picked him up at 6:30. When I told him about the dress, he said, "Oh, you're going?" Surprised in a good way, but is not going to be surprised at all if I don't show up.
"Well [the car will be here so], at least you have the option." In a positive tone.
The both of us are really too good at not going to things. Not complementary. Rarely, even if we plan it, we both still Feel Like Going when the event comes up. Maybe plays -- theatre, opera, ballet or something that requires only observation, mental engagement, nothing "social."
So I tried all day to stay "up" and open to going out. I don't even feel as "unwanting" as I know I so often can.
But I have the option not to go. And I'm stressed out about being With People.
I've been reading blogs all day, getting into people's narratives.
And his birthday is Monday.
You would think that would make me go. Be supportive. Get over the fact that there are a couple of people there I don't like and have had real issues with. Get inspired to see a few people whom I only ever see on Facebook.
You would think.
I do like the music.
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