Thursday, November 25, 2010

deep fried desires

On the day my father died a poem came pouring out of me.  When I shared it at his funeral – and I never read my stuff to anyone – a friend of my mother’s came to me and said I need to share my writing with others.  Those little words, at such a time, well they sat with me.  It’s been about 6 years and I’m ready.

It's Thanksgiving 2010, and what I aim to do here is to simply share my words, both old and new.  I plan to put them in some sort of order- these random thoughts.  It's a new nakedness, this sharing, but I'm spreading my thoughts as I'd be spreading butter or my legs or any of these other human things we do.  This, to me, is the epitome of vulnerability.  

Second helpings to myself:  This is the great round two.  The great educator of tomorrow.  And hopefully something to learn by regurgitating the past.  

There's no place for anyone but yourself and your ego- this is what you realize on some subconscious level.  And ego's not a bad word, it's just the autopilot, the kamikaze.  And I want to wrangle my ego in, look at it face to face, bulging eyeball to bulging eyeball, until our curves can compliment each other, know one is separate from the other, and what purpose the ego serves in my life.  Big lessons learned and you say your fine, with smiles.  And you remember:  Love doesn’t ever go so far away that you forget it’s there.  I slept right through this love, saving my half of heart.

My deep-fried desires, so unhealthy, so crunchy, so intense.  I try to avoid them, stave them off.  They might make me bulge like my ego's eye.

In the sleeping gardens
Wakes the paralyzed and the lost
To go nowhere
To do nothing
In the static of frost

Who shall lead the way
With not much to say
Past dormant violets
In their centered cross

I sometimes think of that guy in the supermarket a few years back, but I told him I was getting married, and it was the truth.  He seemed so nice, so worth knowing, genuine and soft.  Good looking with dark hair, tall and normal.  I think of him now as I was in my striped shirt then, younger, a little less confident, a little shier, but of The Knowledge.  I was relatively the same.

Then I move from the Los Gatos Safeway to a market on rue Clignancourt.  His look was like that of someone who caught the flu.  It seemed like love, the way he looked at me.  Embarrassed, I couldn’t return the sincerety, and I had to leave the store quickly.  If he was just a perv, looking, I wouldn’t have even remembered.  But this French one stands out.  His eyes hurt.

Oh.  I'd love to be looked at that way again.  And I will.  I have to believe I will.

Close-ups of Perfection

Inside of your smiley-faced grocery bags you’re carrying a war
A war you don’t understand
Labels you don’t understand
And when I say you
I mean me too

Versions of You

Egos floating heartlessly, soullessly,
transpiring through their cause.
A sunny hate
For those who love in the dark
Who give without pause.

Let’s hang them, the lonely ones
The lovely ones
Who give and give and give and give

The morning opens like a tulip, orange on the outside
Protecting the dark that is about to come
In the grace of secrets that are not really secrets
In the turn of what exists to what will become

I keep touching her by accident, this invisible fruit
The fleshy morning of promise went inside me
Like breathing clouds inside my room
Inside my heart, a soft pounce of eternity

Six petals deep she holds the dark inside
Opening just enough to remind
Of limited life, limited light, limited mind
And the useless barriers in the slip of time

Waking, I’m ready for the black night
To tell me the almighty truth, to just tell me
Because really, I see the game in the world given
Everyday keeping, everyday losing a bit of me

Everyday I write
Everyday I sleep
Everyday I love
Everyday I eat

The little drawer from the nightstand.

Pepe started drinking from my water glass about 2 years ago.  It was the funniest thing, because after 13 years of Pepe’s company, she spontaneously decided she’d help herself to my glass on the night stand.  Well, I tried covering it- that didn’t work- books, coasters, she’d push them out of the way, sometimes in doing so, the glass would fall- never broke, but there’d be collateral damage- wet books, wet sheets, wet papers.  I then gave in.  She had her glass, I had mine- covered.  I’d fill her glass fresh every day.  Now that she’s in her final time, and I’ve moved back to Paris House, we’re in old patterns and places- but the night stand is too tall for her delicate body to perch.  So I pull out the little cube drawer from the stand- just enough to fit her glass at her level.  It’s her spot. 

She’s fallen out of the bed a few times.  It makes me upset, and I wake up and pick her up and put her back on the bed.  She’s so fragile, still so beautiful, my little jet black girl of all girls.  I wish she wouldn’t sleep so close to the edge of the bed.  I also had to put on the red bed cover, the one with the beige flowers and stripes, because I noticed the white one was getting yellowy marks.  I then realized they were from Miss Pepe and her new old cat practice of peeing on the floor.  She pees in the hallway on the hardwood floor- on the way to the bathroom.  She rarely uses her box- as clean and as close as it is.  In doing so, she gets her bottom and feet yellowed by her business.  And the soft white cotton isn’t so white anymore.  I clean her with a washcloth, and brush her and kiss her.  She purrs more than she’s ever purred, each caress, each stroke, brings on the surge of loudest purrs.  The little Pep knows.  It’s close to time.

She pulled up to her spot to take a drink, decided not to and walked away.  A few minutes later she returned, and came to the glass in the drawer getting her chin unusually wet- this is another new thing- the very wet chin from submerging while drinking.  The past few days she’s stopped jumping on the radiator to get to the sink.  She knows.  I felt her underbelly on my hand as she drank from the drawer, and I started to well up with sadness, knowing.  I also know.

My dearest girl, my friend of 15 years, I’m so used to her little body always following me.  I couldn’t have asked for a sweeter girl.  I just want to remember the little moment of the drawer and her warm belly, shaved from the ultrasound, touching my left hand.  She reminds me of dad in his last days, where the effort put forth in a task became a meaningful task, of greatest importance- in an emergency sort of way that nothing else mattered, don’t stand in my way, I am weak, but I am determined, and don’t try to stop me from drinking my water.  I love her I love her I love her, as she sleeps, as she’s alive, as she will be departing, I love her I love her I love her.

Two weeks later, on March 14 at midnight, Pepe died in my arms.  There was a thunderstorm outside.  I stayed inside with her all day, holding her, loving her.  I was in denial the entire time, or maybe I went into survival mode by pretending all was ok, speaking positive to her all day so she would feel comfort and not my fear.  I put on my bravest fake face and feelings.  I went into a depression.  Went to France for a month.  I'll share that later, and how I found a purpose in my shadows.

Pepe in Shelter Island

I’m a decapitated lazy head that keeps talking and talking and nobody can shut me up.  I can be vain or modest but I am none of these things.  I have Visitor stamped on my forehead and I don’t know how they let me in here.  Perhaps I rolled in without anyone noticing.

One day I may have tubes placed inside me, as I lay restless, unmoving.  And I may be laying in my grey bed looking at my life, the use I had or didn’t have, thinking of my time before the flash, unfinished words, as tart as tangerines, laughter turned to tears, tears turned to deeper tears, drowning in sun filled bubbles, to the back seat of bus F, running away to abandoned houses and stealing the skeleton key, running in circles in my Donald Duck sneakers on such a severe angle that I thought they were magic keeping me from falling, sitting in the tiny wooden ring under the dining table where it was safe and only I could fit, being changed, being beat, being ordered, disconnecting from the world, smoking in my 8 x 8 pink room, thinking of the ranch, my tight face, Pepe, family alive and dead, close calls, pageants of secrets, my endurance, my reach.  Thinking of the afterlife and idiots I’d place my hand in a tomorrow I’d never see, wanting to protect the future children, wishing they could have a life as easy as mine, if I could smuggle to my grave the awful things they hadn’t yet learned, if I could spare them the hate, I’d be of use.  I’d wrap it up in a napkin and shove it in my purse when no one was looking and bury it with me.  Thinking of dad’s lost posture, reminding me of my own, the skeleton key would fall from my purse first.  My embarrassment would take me nowhere, knowing I could no longer curse when I have no hands.

Any Belgian cook will tell you the secret to French fries is to cook them twice.  Same with love.  If you break your nose, break it again, if you break your heart, break it again and you’ll realize your healing.  A reckless love is a valid love and worth every inch of the pain.  Double broil it, double deep fry it, double do it- it’s always better.  Don't be afraid to just feel it- and really feel it.

1 comment:

  1. Sylvie, thoroughly enjoyed your words. They hold such depth and ferocity of emotion. What you say is felt on a level So sadly absent in our day to day phony lives. Your courage inspires!!!


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