Saturday, August 15, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Waking Up Alone
It's been awhile since I've had a dream like this. A dream so real that the world I wake to feels like the dream instead. A dream with smells and tastes and a touch that still vibrates my skin long after the dream fades away. This dream made me cry, reach out to empty air, trying to pull the peace I felt back into me. Failing.
I should say that I am not generally lonely. I do have moments in which I feel lonely, in which I long to be touched -- warm arms around me, a sweet caress on my face, the comforting weight of a strong hand on my back. But most of the time I am too busy living my life to be lonely. I have so many loving friends and family members around me all the time that it's hard to feel alone. I am making plans and carrying them out, communing with my pets, my inner child, my sense of self, and I don't feel lonely at all. But every once in a great while, an intangible sadness hits me hard, leaves me breathless almost, and I have to fight to remind myself that I am complete.
But it's always worse when I don't see it coming. When I go to weddings, when I spend too much time with loving couples, when my Azure Anniversary comes around (in June, and in January), I expect to feel the wave of loneliness sweep over me in mild, fleeting waves. I face it, and ride it out, and it passes, quickly and gently, leaving me to enjoy the sweet curves and corners of this path of sometime-solitude I have found myself walking. When I expect it, I can ride above it, like floating in a tide pool.
But unexpected loneliness hits like a tidal wave and can almost drag me under. I woke up this morning, almost drowned in the sadness that hit me like a hard wall of water, choking the breath of a sweet, peaceful morning from my lungs.
The dream:
I see him standing in line at a grocery store. I don't notice him at first, walk right past with my ten items or less, but he calls my name, twice, and I finally turn to look. He stands head and shoulders taller than the women in line in front of him, and is as handsome as the day I fell in love with him. The slight gap in his front teeth, the only thing between him and model-esque perfection, shows in his smile when I meet his eyes. It disappears again as I turn to walk away without a word.
"Wait! Don't go!" I hear that same tenor voice that once kept me up for hours on the phone. "Wait! I need to talk to you!" I turn back, ready to unleash the full fury of nine years of wondering how he could have hurt me the way he did, of the insecurity of wondering what was wrong with me, the frustration of being lonely without him while he was not lonely without me.
"I need to tell you I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I know I did, and I'm so sorry...I love you." Nine years of fantasizing the moment when I finally get to see him beg for my forgiveness, of planning fancy speeches that eloquently demonstrate at once my deep hurt and benevolent forgiveness, and the only thing that comes out of my mouth is, "You broke my heart." He still has the upper hand, after all this time.
"I know I did, and I was so wrong. I was stupid. I could never get you out of my head after you left. I dream about you still. I dream about the way your cheeks flush when you're mad, or excited. About the way your small hands felt holding mine, the way you used to kiss each one of my fingers. I miss you so much."
"I don't know what to say. I can't say I don't miss you, but what am I supposed to do, just fall into your arms? You tore my heart out and I never put it back together. What am I supposed to do?" I sound more desperate than benevolent.
"I just want to hold you. Please?"
And there it is, that look, the one that melted my resolve every time. The one that turned the steel in my backbone to molten lava, made my knees quiver, my skin tingle. Nine years, and its power hasn't diminished even a tiny little bit. I stand frozen, unable to deny him, unsure if I want to, and he takes my silence as an invitation to move closer. So close now I can feel the heat of his body on mine, heat in familiar but long-dormant places in my own body, my own heart, my own mind. He touches my cheek, one gentle finger up the side like he used to do, and I melt into him.
He pulls me close, wraps his strong, so-strong arms around me, holding me as tight as the day our baby died inside me. I tuck my head into his shoulder; it fits perfectly, as if we were designed to fit together. Maybe we were, I think. We stand in endless time, locked together as if the past nine years could dissolve between us into nothing. Me feeling as if they had already begun to.
Suddenly, we are not in the store. We are on a bed, in a dark room, moonlight spilling across our bodies. There is no sex; maybe there was, or will be, I don’t know, but this moment is all about tender touch. I trace the lines of his back with my finger, kissing his shoulder when I get to the top. He lays back, and I run both hands down his chest, down his hips, over the tops of his thighs, all the way down to his feet. They are as groomed as they ever were; short, clean nails, even, straight toes, nothing out of order. My hands slide lightly back up his legs again, palms only, reveling in the coarseness of his hair. Up, up, up my hands slide, finally coming to rest on his chest, as I settle into his side, where I always rested so peacefully before.
A wave of anxiety hits me; I become terrified that I will wake up and find it has been just a cruel dream. But his hand captures mine and holds it to his heart, and I relax. It couldn’t be a dream; I can feel his heartbeat, and the tiny calluses on his thumbs.
We both lay still, breathing evenly, in sync, and I trace swirl patterns on his chest, examining the texture of his skin with my fingertips, my eyes, my heart. He doesn’t say anything, just wears that slight, crooked smile that always made my pulse race. We lay there for minutes, hours, centuries, just us, our peace, skin on skin, warmth and love. The peace stretches out past forever, all hurt forgotten. I sigh and relax into his side, drifting off to sleep…
I wake up shivering in my own bed. I pull the covers over me, but the cold is deeper than the goose-bumps on my legs. The tidal wave hits; I feel tears well up, a sharp pain in my chest. Something like desperation. “God,” I pray, “I need to be touched. I was not made to be alone.”
I lay quietly for several minutes, trying to pull my longing back into me, to crush it back down to a manageable size. I curse the recent romantic comedy I watched, the last wedding I went to, my own stupid, silly feminine heart. I slowly, slowly get a grip.
I know why I dream about him. He is the only person whose heart I have felt beating in time with mine, the only person whose entire length of skin has laid against mine. His shoulder is the only one I have rested my head on to fall asleep, his arms the only ones which have anchored me to my dreams. The pragmatic girl who worked it out and moved on, who knows how ridiculous the idea of us being anything more than a story in time, that knows that the me I am would not recognize, or even want, the him that he is now – that smart, together girl doesn’t dream. The me of dreams is the silly teenager who fell in love with the spontaneous, romantic boy who wasn’t ready to love anyone yet, even himself. She doesn’t know about letting go, moving on, about deserving better or being complete on her own. She longs for the comfort of his tender arms, how he used to hold her and tell her she was beautiful. She doesn’t know that when she dreams of him, I will be the one who wakes up alone
I should say that I am not generally lonely. I do have moments in which I feel lonely, in which I long to be touched -- warm arms around me, a sweet caress on my face, the comforting weight of a strong hand on my back. But most of the time I am too busy living my life to be lonely. I have so many loving friends and family members around me all the time that it's hard to feel alone. I am making plans and carrying them out, communing with my pets, my inner child, my sense of self, and I don't feel lonely at all. But every once in a great while, an intangible sadness hits me hard, leaves me breathless almost, and I have to fight to remind myself that I am complete.
But it's always worse when I don't see it coming. When I go to weddings, when I spend too much time with loving couples, when my Azure Anniversary comes around (in June, and in January), I expect to feel the wave of loneliness sweep over me in mild, fleeting waves. I face it, and ride it out, and it passes, quickly and gently, leaving me to enjoy the sweet curves and corners of this path of sometime-solitude I have found myself walking. When I expect it, I can ride above it, like floating in a tide pool.
But unexpected loneliness hits like a tidal wave and can almost drag me under. I woke up this morning, almost drowned in the sadness that hit me like a hard wall of water, choking the breath of a sweet, peaceful morning from my lungs.
The dream:
I see him standing in line at a grocery store. I don't notice him at first, walk right past with my ten items or less, but he calls my name, twice, and I finally turn to look. He stands head and shoulders taller than the women in line in front of him, and is as handsome as the day I fell in love with him. The slight gap in his front teeth, the only thing between him and model-esque perfection, shows in his smile when I meet his eyes. It disappears again as I turn to walk away without a word.
"Wait! Don't go!" I hear that same tenor voice that once kept me up for hours on the phone. "Wait! I need to talk to you!" I turn back, ready to unleash the full fury of nine years of wondering how he could have hurt me the way he did, of the insecurity of wondering what was wrong with me, the frustration of being lonely without him while he was not lonely without me.
"I need to tell you I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I know I did, and I'm so sorry...I love you." Nine years of fantasizing the moment when I finally get to see him beg for my forgiveness, of planning fancy speeches that eloquently demonstrate at once my deep hurt and benevolent forgiveness, and the only thing that comes out of my mouth is, "You broke my heart." He still has the upper hand, after all this time.
"I know I did, and I was so wrong. I was stupid. I could never get you out of my head after you left. I dream about you still. I dream about the way your cheeks flush when you're mad, or excited. About the way your small hands felt holding mine, the way you used to kiss each one of my fingers. I miss you so much."
"I don't know what to say. I can't say I don't miss you, but what am I supposed to do, just fall into your arms? You tore my heart out and I never put it back together. What am I supposed to do?" I sound more desperate than benevolent.
"I just want to hold you. Please?"
And there it is, that look, the one that melted my resolve every time. The one that turned the steel in my backbone to molten lava, made my knees quiver, my skin tingle. Nine years, and its power hasn't diminished even a tiny little bit. I stand frozen, unable to deny him, unsure if I want to, and he takes my silence as an invitation to move closer. So close now I can feel the heat of his body on mine, heat in familiar but long-dormant places in my own body, my own heart, my own mind. He touches my cheek, one gentle finger up the side like he used to do, and I melt into him.
He pulls me close, wraps his strong, so-strong arms around me, holding me as tight as the day our baby died inside me. I tuck my head into his shoulder; it fits perfectly, as if we were designed to fit together. Maybe we were, I think. We stand in endless time, locked together as if the past nine years could dissolve between us into nothing. Me feeling as if they had already begun to.
Suddenly, we are not in the store. We are on a bed, in a dark room, moonlight spilling across our bodies. There is no sex; maybe there was, or will be, I don’t know, but this moment is all about tender touch. I trace the lines of his back with my finger, kissing his shoulder when I get to the top. He lays back, and I run both hands down his chest, down his hips, over the tops of his thighs, all the way down to his feet. They are as groomed as they ever were; short, clean nails, even, straight toes, nothing out of order. My hands slide lightly back up his legs again, palms only, reveling in the coarseness of his hair. Up, up, up my hands slide, finally coming to rest on his chest, as I settle into his side, where I always rested so peacefully before.
A wave of anxiety hits me; I become terrified that I will wake up and find it has been just a cruel dream. But his hand captures mine and holds it to his heart, and I relax. It couldn’t be a dream; I can feel his heartbeat, and the tiny calluses on his thumbs.
We both lay still, breathing evenly, in sync, and I trace swirl patterns on his chest, examining the texture of his skin with my fingertips, my eyes, my heart. He doesn’t say anything, just wears that slight, crooked smile that always made my pulse race. We lay there for minutes, hours, centuries, just us, our peace, skin on skin, warmth and love. The peace stretches out past forever, all hurt forgotten. I sigh and relax into his side, drifting off to sleep…
I wake up shivering in my own bed. I pull the covers over me, but the cold is deeper than the goose-bumps on my legs. The tidal wave hits; I feel tears well up, a sharp pain in my chest. Something like desperation. “God,” I pray, “I need to be touched. I was not made to be alone.”
I lay quietly for several minutes, trying to pull my longing back into me, to crush it back down to a manageable size. I curse the recent romantic comedy I watched, the last wedding I went to, my own stupid, silly feminine heart. I slowly, slowly get a grip.
I know why I dream about him. He is the only person whose heart I have felt beating in time with mine, the only person whose entire length of skin has laid against mine. His shoulder is the only one I have rested my head on to fall asleep, his arms the only ones which have anchored me to my dreams. The pragmatic girl who worked it out and moved on, who knows how ridiculous the idea of us being anything more than a story in time, that knows that the me I am would not recognize, or even want, the him that he is now – that smart, together girl doesn’t dream. The me of dreams is the silly teenager who fell in love with the spontaneous, romantic boy who wasn’t ready to love anyone yet, even himself. She doesn’t know about letting go, moving on, about deserving better or being complete on her own. She longs for the comfort of his tender arms, how he used to hold her and tell her she was beautiful. She doesn’t know that when she dreams of him, I will be the one who wakes up alone
Water Toxic: Pastiche of Body Toxic
Here are the sounds: the smack of children's barefeet on the red dust, inebriated adult chattering in English or Diné, the sounds of twilight exuberance. There might be a radio blasting in the kitchen, and if so, it blares unattended.
Odors: four walls of stale Arizona desert. Around the back on the bottle-littered rectangle invisible to the dirt road that passes the shack an unsealed plastic drum of well water stagnates, peppered with dead and dying flies and gnats, beetles, waterbugs in the summer, thrashing and struggling for a clawhold on the slick plastic barrel sides. The yard's red crusted-over clay and dog deposits in the corners. Beer, stale frybread, diapers, too many people.
In 1979 (July) near Church Rock, New Mexico, on the Navajo Nation reservation, a hundred miles or so from my cousins' rez, a dam leading into the Rio Puerco River burst. 1,100 tons of uranium mining wastes -- radioactive sludge -- gushed through the mud-packed dam. 100 million gallons of radioactive water gushed through the dam before the crack was repaired. The expelled waste flooded into the tributary, propelled downstream all the way from New Mexico through Arizona and into Nevada. Contamination seeped into the reservation groundwater in three states. Five years later (1985), the United Nuclear Metals Co. hurriedly shut down its last mining operation on the reservation, as the business had become unprofitable; uranium particles and tainted tools were hastily buried at the site and left to bleed radiation into the earth. Despite calls for protection on the part of the Navajos who drink the water, to date no substantial effort has been put forth on the part of either the US government or UNMCo to clear up the contamination.
The Breakfast Club was released the year the mining company closed -- my mom and older relatives went to see it. The previews had featured Judd Nelson and Molly Ringwald, and, especially, Molly Ringwald's tube of lipstick tucked into her pert cleavage, a symbol of the idle restlessness that plagues high schools everywhere. Everyone identified with that movie on some level. My mom spent weeks afterward bemoaning her miserable high school career. John Hughes had made a moderately amusing, mildly touching drama about the social pecking-order and how in the end we're all just as wounded as the next kid; my mom missed the point completely, obsessing over visions of Molly Ringwald's shiny red hair, peachy complexion, and firm-breasted perfection.
I ask my relatives if they remember UNMCo closing or the dam bursting and they don't. I ask them if they remember The Breakfast Club and they do.
"That red-haired what's-her-name was such a bitch," says my mom, who hates redheads.
__________________Shadow_________________
I am a shadow.
I glide over bedroom walls,
replaying memories of the girl I once was.
I haunt every bathroom where rituals unfold,
withered women purging deep-fried expectations.
The emptiness clings, even when they gorge it.
They kneel and beat upon their ribs,
violently denounce the coiled serpent,
but it cannot be cast out.
They bow before me
in mass exodus.
A suggestion of who they could be
plays upon my lips, but
nothing
has ever been allowed
to pass these gates.
I don't speak.
I simply watch them bow,
and become, each one, a shadow,
like me.
Metropolis
Steel claws scrape the sky
and paned eyes stare from cinder-block faces
as homosapien drones dash through the day.
The frenzied tide s w e l l s within its concrete cage:
to buzz is to be.
Love Child
Lithe body slides over satin sheets
smooth as lies, eyes closed
legs wrapped tight around the secret.
Rhythm carries ecstasy
just beyond my reach;
teach me how to spin such tales.
I take it in, inch by slippery inch,
stretch to make room. Full, not sated,
hating who I shouldn't be.
Time scrubs away at ignorance:
planted seed growing, knowing
birth is imminent.
Silence sits swollen:
guilty contractions open my eyes,
reluctant to bear the burden of truth.
Prepare a cradle for knowledge,
delivered in agony to an anxious heart...
stillborn hope wrapped in thoughtless cotton.
Peace on Earth
Lines rehearsed, yet still unspoken.
Spirit crushed, but never broken,
you lay your life down as a token –
serve your country proud.
Eyes squeezed shut amidst the violence,
mouths that curve in sorrowed silence –
no one bothers with the why since
towers crumbled in a cloud.
Charred devotion masquerading,
empty praise while truth debating;
serve your idols, vain and hating –
we practice idle worship, too.
Send your armies in to maim us,
guilty, too, for what you blame us –
infidels, outright, and shameless,
but what must god perceive in you?
Look beyond mere bricks and mortar,
manmade lines, unnatural borders,
see creation without order,
not as God intended.
Neglected hearts have cracked and crumbled,
godless men their masses stumbled,
hearts have hardened, few are humble,
war and chaos they’ve befriended.
Loveless lives and reckless living,
pay a priest, confess, keep giving
(shallow faith is unforgiving),
light a candle, watch it burn.
Wicked hearts that feed on power,
bleed the land, collapse the tower.
You kill to make your brother cower;
will you ever learn?
While nations battle, hope is dying,
children murdered, mothers crying,
none on hope or faith relying
all the world around.
Victory cannot bring us peace,
war will not provide release:
death toll rising will not cease
until we lay our weapons down.
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