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Monday, July 29, 2013

A certain grief

"I'm not smart. I just know a lot of words," said the me in my dream. 

I come back to this quote so often. It's rare that I remember direct quotes from my dreams, but when I do, they usually stick for a while. For instance, a dream quote from a few years back that had me scared and paranoid for months. A little boy jumped on my bed in the dark [in Dream Land, of course]: "The devil will be asking for your soul soon." Whaaaaaa?! I bought my Scion a month later, so I equated this to my Toyota loan. Eek!

But when it comes to smarts and all, I agree with my unconscious admission: I'm not. Some things just don't sink in, you know? Like that paragraph I have to read three times before I get it. 

There are moments, of course, when I feel intelligent—confident about what I'm saying or doing. Mostly it's in my language or the way I can [sometimes] articulate myself. What I'm saying is: speaking/writing is the only mode in which I feel like I may have an IQ higher than 65. Real talk. 

And we can call this moment Exhibit 94, 509. This not sinking in.

As you all might know, life has the tendency—especially as of late—to shit all over me. You, like I, may be thinking: Another bad spot? Really?

I say "spot," because I hope it'll pass. I say "hope," because I'm not certain. I was certain a week and a half ago that my best friend [mother, "favorite" and soul sister] was too busy to text me. I was certain she was wrapped up in work and the everyday bustle of her world, which had become rather stressful as of late. I was certain she'd text her usual "G'nite, madam" or at least send me the Sun and Moon emoji. But she didn't. For two nights in a row. I was starting to get a little frustrated.

But then I got a call last Thursday at work, 4:12 p.m. She had a heart attack and had been unconscious since late Monday night. With her full heart, childlike curiosity and hard-assed grip on the world, I was certain she would outlive us all. I was certain that with my carelessness, my clumsiness, my incessant need for productivity and the way it outdoes my need to be healthy, my rollercoaster of melancholy and triumph, I'd be the one in the hospital bed prematurely. But it wasn't me.

After the call, I found myself in the car—rushing and crying and screaming and navigating through Pittsburgh traffic to Allegheny General Hospital. I sat on the Parkway, a standstill, sobbing to the million memories that hit me, a slideshow:

Remember the time you sat by the bay in Cape Cod and watched the sky until early morning, where you cut limes for her rum and refused her another drink at 4 a.m.

The color teal.

Standing atop Mt. Washington at sunset and dancing in the orange light, puffed up by winter coats, knitted scarves and gloves without fingers. 

Singing "You're so Vain." 

Remember the glass bottle full of tiny shells from the Dead Sea. 

Watching her watch her Koi swim below. 

The time you mocked her easy lifestyle and told her you'd come visit her even if she lived in a trailer park—even if the time you spent together was playing 500 Rum and eating Chef Boyardee. And to prove it? You brought her a can the next time you came over.

My brain gets the best of me. And since this moment, it hasn't stopped with the snapshots, the words, the smell of plastic and death in her hospital room. I smell it everywhere. I realize now, more than before, she is everywhere. Maybe it is the fear of forgetting. Like with my dad. The years have come quick and with it, the memories have faded.

For a week, everything was underwater. With the amount of crying I did [both angry-at-the-world and end-of-the-world tears], my eyes were swollen to half-visibility. I was certain I had been emptied of tears. I was certain there was nothing left. I was certain she'd wake up now that her heart was fixed. It was only a matter of time. 

For days, her family and I watched her lifeless, but warm, body. We smiled; we cried; we laughed; we prayed; we hushed her grandchildren as they ran around the ICU Waiting Room in an oblivious boredom with Twizzlers. The doctors gave terrible news. The doctors told everyone it "wasn't looking good." The doctor told me personally: "She's very sick."

So we prayed harder. I painted the picture of all the light in my body leaving mine and entering her. I was certain this would make her wake up, like in a movie.

But she was showing more signs of regression. Her pupils ceased to dilate; she stopped reacting to pain. And her brain, they said, was swelling and there was nothing they could do. She went too long without oxygen causing "irreparable damage" [a phrase I still cannot get out of my head, the way the doctor said it with brown protruding eyes, head down.] I was certain they were mistaken and that the Universe wouldn't let this happen. It couldn't. Not to any of us that stood by her bed sobbing and holding her limp hands, to the us that needed her, that could still hear her laughter ringing in our ears, could find pieces of her—like evidence—everywhere.

I picked at beige colored cafeteria food for days trying to imagine tomorrow.

Thank you for reading this. I know it's "too soon" to write about—a writing instructor would say. But I have to. I want to remember all of it. Even this fresh grief.

I don't know. I think I'm stupid, maybe. Because it's been a week since she passed and I'm still waiting to wake up. I'm still trying to bargain with the world like a trade-off. I just don't want to go on. Maybe I'm stupid. Because I still don't get it. I'm certain now that I don't want to.




Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Technology: Making it easier to break your heart

It makes sense, right? Now with the forever-reach of the interwebs, breaking your own heart is not only easier, but more efficient. 

Have you ever Internet-stalked your ex? Re-read your own blog from years ago? How about plotted horrendous events on your Facebook timeline?

Listen. I'm pretty good at snapping my black heart to bits all on my own. I don't need visuals. Or the aid of some Internet spiders spinning the web of my life into a tragedy. 

The gossip train just gained some ground. And practically everyone I know has a story about it. 

Apparently this post has no real point. Maybe a lesson somewhere. Such as: what if we extended all of our energy only on the things in our lives that give back: jobs, friends, family, hobbies. Enough with the soul-sucking white screen of the Internet. Namely, the entranced way we end up on pages and profiles we needn't be. 

Talk about epiphanies. 
mt



Thursday, May 30, 2013

Doctor's office blues

Ah. Is there anything more obnoxious than waiting in the lobby of the doc, only to be taken into a room by a nurse, cuffed up, poked at, questioned... and then left for like 20 minutes in the small, sterile, plasticky-smelling room waiting for the doctor (i.e. your fate)?

Listen. I'm not expert on home decor or medical solace, but these posters haven't changed since I was 18. There's nothing glaring at me but the see-through jar of oversized Popsicle sticks, a "Cover Your Cough" poster printed out on an 8.5 x 11 and the ugly, scribbled on "What Is Your BMI?" chart reminding me, disappointingly, that I am "overweight. 

So. With all of this in mind, by the time doc gets here, I'm ready to jump ship. Fuck. 

To add to the glamour of this visit, coming here to switch anti-depression meds, I get asked if I want my "living will." Hahaha. Talk about being faced with my own mortality. I say. Do not recessitate! 

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

How much does a hipster weigh?



Yesterday's Photo-A-Day May prompt was: Someone who inspires you...

My first reaction is always: ATWOOD! So I was creepin' (as usual) on the great interwebs and found this stellar interview with her. I like it. I like the questions and her short, quirky responses. She's loveable in most every way.

Not only was I inspired by her answers, but I was inspired by the questions, and so... like in the old days when questionnaire-type blog posts were socially acceptable, I decided to answer for myself. See what the lovely Atwood and I have in common. (:

This interview first appeared in The Guardian on October 28th, 2011. The author: Rosanna Greenstreet.

MY INTERVIEW

When were you happiest?
Who's to say? Life just keeps getting harder, and so life always seems best or happiest in the past. Maybe.

What is your greatest fear?
Losing the marbles I have left.

What is your earliest memory?
Waddling about with a cast up to my hip, trying to get on the couch.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
My restlessness. Not the productive kind, the other.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Contagious, jealousy-laden self-loathing.

What is your most treasured possession?
Just one? I suppose my jump drive (with all my writing!)

What would your super power be?
Saving all the people. Or invisibility. I'd love to watch people. Creepy.

What makes you unhappy?
Being bombarded.
http://blogs.discovery.com/.a/6a00d8341bf67c53ef0168e747a1e5970c-600wi
Image thanks to: blogs.discovery.com

What do you most dislike about your appearance?
Chubs.

If you could bring something extinct back to life, what would you choose?
Woolly Mammoth. Hell yeah.

Who would play you in the film of your life?
Someone sassy. And awkwardly cute... until she opens her mouth. Can it be a cartoon? Daria.

What is your favourite word?
"And/&"—which is oddly enough, Atwood's favorite word. CRAZY! It's nearly infinite.

What would you wear to a fancy dress party?
A tux, duh. With a bowtie. Black. 

Is it better to give or to receive?
To give. I'm bad at receiving. In all ways.

Which living person do you most despise?
I don't know, actually. I suppose I'm annoyed primarily by conservatives and their ignorant hatred. But a single person? Nah.

Who would you invite to your dream dinner party?
Shakespeare, Margaret Atwood, Tina Fey, Hilary Clinton, Maura Tierney, Tori Amos... shit, I gotta stop somewhere.


https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64zmC6rWb0o_r9CTi-oqiNYTDupp4CqpABaswid-X3DAN_o2JUBaKH0hs0hVwZWAJYuK2gT0Gz62bho2-8GzudNxy7gSb4rDTeBldvKfSkNrMg4rcI1Y3oMgSMO8u0bonFKWKo4Y147Q/s400/responsibility12(alternate).png
hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com —best EVAR!!1


Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

Um... "all the things." As in: "Yes, I do all the things." Or... "Have you cleaned all the things?" And... "I want to buy all the things!"

If you could go back in time, where would you go?
Civil War era. The Underground Railroad fascinates me. Go, Harriet!


How do you relax?
If you knew me, you'd know this is nearly impossible. But the ocean does it sometimes.

What is the closest you've come to death?
Geez, I don't know. When you're sensitive, near-death experiences are a weekly occurrence. Hm. A wheelbarrow flying at my car on a back road, 2009.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Probably becoming a professor. Mostly because I was absolutely terrified and had planned on spending my life just dreaming of teaching. Otherwise, losing 70 pounds. Maintaining a mostly healthy diet/exercise routine.

How would you like to be remembered?
Clearly I'm not famous, but I'd like to remembered for being passionate, funny, selfless and determined. That's kind of generous, huh? Ok. Someone just remember I liked ice cream.

What is the most important lesson life has taught you?
To swim. Every struggle is a wave. Just keep remembering that it'll pass. Oh, and CoCo Wheats—no matter how catchy the ditty—does not taste as amazing. Hardly. Cocoa.

Where would you most like to be right now?
Nags Head, NC. Familiar but foreign. The Atlantic always sounds good.

Tell us a joke
How much does a hipster weigh? An Instagram.

Feel free to post and respond. Would love to hear some responses!
mt

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Patience.

Sometimes it's the small victories. For sure. For me. I find it hardest to be completely calm, especially when I'm frustrated or annoyed.

I always relate myself to this one Post Secret post card. I think of it often. It's a picture of a dog, jaws nearly unhinged revealing its teeth, jumping out of the water, which dramatically splashes all around its face. The caption is something like:

I'm envious of those who can hide how they feel.

It's one of those things I've wished on stars for... since I was old enough to realize that playing the "cool" routine would keep people off my back. Still, to this day, I can't get away with much. Whether it's the tone of my voice or the wrinkling of my eyebrow, my state is hardly opaque.

Now, don't get me wrong. It makes me honest, and I've grown to be a bit more in-control than say... my 6th grade self. I've also learned to embrace it most often. Both the excitement and the stormy me.

But today! I realized how much more patient I've been. Especially over the last few months, when shit has really hit the fan. I know it's a small step, a small victory, but I'm proud of it. Even just in this moment.

Less impulsive. Less reactive. More careful.

mt


Monday, April 22, 2013

Betrayal.

Some days are more beautiful than others for having your guts ripped out. You know?

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

National Poetry Month Loser

http://i1.cpcache.com/product_zoom/602795561/zombies_honey_badgers_slacker_mug.jpg?height=160&width=160&padToSquare=true



SLACKER!

Ah, I must say, I've been slacking on keeping up with so many poems. I'd like to blame it on the barrage of death, illness and the end of the term. Also, my newly rabid ukulele addiction. Any down time seems to be devoted to strumming and singing and pretending I know what I'm doing. Still, I'm not giving up on the poems. I think this bout of "Writer's Block" has come at a lame time, but I continue to push on.

Bukowski said: "Writing about writer's block is better than not writing at all."

Not sure if I agree... but I thought in honor of the month, I'd share a poem I've written during this mission. This was Day 12: A Broken Poem.

THE BILLIONTH BREAK-UP POEM

Clicking copy/paste
back-brain replaying how
she left me, left
the zipper down on us             too much
this deep-space kind of silence. Maybe
we didn’t need the finale, or
sitcom-grief of all those years
not-saying        counts, maybe,
for something. The same curtains
hang neon in windows where we
don’t sleep now. I don’t know
why I drive by, but some nights
it’s easier than trying to get
around it.


In the meantime, my assignment to all y'all poets and writers: write a poem today. Even if you aren't doing the challenge. My prompt to you, if you care to play...

Write a sonnet, or simply a 14-line poem, with the theme of "something you love too much." We all have one of those things—whether it's a person or a video game or a imported red wine. Go!

<3 p="">mt
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