Postmodern Prometheus

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

2012-02-04T15:03:00.001-08:00

The Good: I'm in a good place, emotionally. Even though life is a cactus, and it's full of pricks. But if I stay small as an ant, I can safely maneuver my way around.

A couple days ago, I saw Jamie in a dream. She suddenly burst through the door with a big smile on her face. "Chiri!" she greeted me. Sage was right behind her. "Hi," she said, with a lovely smile lighting her face. I hope someday to see them again. I have really missed Jamie. And Sage.

Shortly before ending my talks with Allison, I told her a bit about Jamie, about what an extraordinary poet she is, how much I admire her because she's so incredibly articulate. I said I missed her. Then Allison, damn stupid bitch, says, "Oh, maybe we'll work on that. We'll..."

"NO!" I said, cutting her off.

"We can..."

"No! No! No!" I cut in again. Then she assumed I felt that I wasn't good enough. "No," I tried explaining to that stupid, presumptuous asshole, "it isn't that. She's on her road, and I'm on mine. If someday our paths cross again, that would be great. But, no, I'm not going to try and contact her."

"Why not?" she says, as if I had some unconscious resistance. "There's no reason to," I told her. Fucking, condescending asshole. Geezus, I tried leaving on a good note, but she had to fucking blow it with her condescending and insulting assumptions. I'm left with this bad feeling toward her. It didn't have to be like this. Well, I suppose it was meant to be, since it is. On my way to beading class recently, I was waiting for the elevator, and when the doors opened, Allison stepped out. She smiled her lame, Pollyanna smile. In the last three or so times I met with her, she was not smiling. I got accusatory looks, suspicious looks. I realized she had no more to offer me. I was in a better place than she assumed me to be. If a little, old lady doesn't want help crossing the street, it's because she doesn't want to cross the fucking street! Allison was trying to force me across the street. I wasn't headed in that direction. As she steps out the elevator, she says, "Hi!" Not before I notice the slightest hesitation. If I feel like this, surely that bitch is covering her sense of how things really are between us. I nonchalantly said, "Hi," and kept moving.

The Bad: Morning Star. If that goddamn bitch didn't fucking call me at 3:30 in the goddamn morning Friday! My ringing phone startled me awake. I looked to see what number showed. I presumed it was a wrong number, and it just pissed me off to see her number. Where the hell does she get off calling me at that hour? It isn't as if we hang out, or have even talked on the phone more than three times. But that was back in May. I only know her from Talking Circle and beading class. I didn't answer. I didn't return her call, nor will I. A couple weeks ago she called, said she was ordering magnifiers for the beading class and if I gave her $30 dollars she'd order one for me too. I didn't say, "Fuck you." I told her I'd give it some thought. Then she started talking about Larry. What a good husband he'd make someone. "Oh, maybe he can't read, but he's very clean and neat," she said. She went on about how his family takes advantage of him, what a nice guy he is, and this, that, and the other. Then she asked me what I thought about him. I'm thinking, "Awe, no! If this bitch isn't fucking trying to pimp this poor sap off on me." I had a feeling the dude was there with Morning Star, so I said, diplomatically, "Well, he's got a certain charm."

Poor guy. It isn't as if I didn't notice he is interested in me. But, puh leeze, he's a toothless, illiterate former pimp who spent most his life in prison until the mid-nineties! He shows up at the beading class as well as Talking Circle. Indeed, he does have a certain innocent charm, but in a sad, ignorant, uneducated manner. At Talking Circle, Dawn hands out slips of paper which we draw from her hand. We are, if we wish, to read the quote before or after we speak. (I fucking hate platitudes, but out of respect, I go along with it.) This poor sap, Larry, can't read his, and someone has to help him. He's at about a third grade level. I feel sorry for the guy. He's actually very childlike. I'm cordial toward him, friendly, but I keep a distance. I don't want the guy to have any inclination that I might be interested! Eew, what a gross thought! Maybe it means I'm shallow, and if it does, well, then I am.

Morning Star claims she taught at UC Berkeley. No way in hell! The way she mangles language, she reminds me of Archie Bunker. Do people really believe her? Even the retired professor speaks with her as if she doesn't notice she's a fucking dumb ass. Does she notice and is simply being non-judgmental and/or diplomatic? I really don't know.

Danny called me Wednesday evening. I couldn't believe it. He actually got himself a phone. Initially, he balked at the idea. "I might lose it again," he had told me. I mentally checked the "not interested" side of the tally. He started out by first apologizing because he hadn't called. He said he had wanted to call, but decided to wait until he got a phone. (As opposed to borrowing one.) He was excited about a painting he's particularly pleased with. And he was happy that he sold a couple more, even if he didn't get as much for them as he'd hoped to. "I have your Christmas present," he says. My Christmas present? I haven't seen or heard from him since, when was that, last July? "But I'm not going to tell you what it is," he says, "so don't ask me." I hadn't intended to ask. Did he imagine I'd be excited, like a child, "Oh! What is it? What is it?" I'm surprised and curious, but cautious. He also told me that'd he'd missed me. I mean, the dream vision told me he's very attracted to me. "I'm so happy I found you," he said in the dream vision. "I've told my (I didn't catch whom: son, family, friends?) about you. I told them how beautiful you are (and blah blah blah--I only half listen(ed) to this shit) But I told them we're just friends." Geezus, we aren't even that. Nor do I know if we will be. We are acquaintances who met at Talking Circle. But, he's a painter. A very good painter. And that is the only reason I'm willing to cautiously get to know him. As long as he can handle his shit, take care of his personal business. If he continued trying to reach me by borrowing someone else's cell phone, as he did once, I would not be interested. I still don't know enough about him, and I am not attracted to him. But he's from New Mexico and he's a painter. That's enough to make me curious. In fact, when I told him my sister was born in Santa Rita, he told me he had a cousin who had lived there, and that he never thought he'd ever meet anyone who was from Santa Rita. I'll bet his cousin worked in the mine, like my grandfather, and my uncles, and even some of my cousins. After we talked, he said he'd call me "next month". Next month? Well, sure, he can take it slow. Real slow. Because he's too fucking excited. The last time I saw him, in a parting hug, he says, "I love you, Chiri." Then he caught himself, and quickly added, "Like a friend. I mean, I love you like a friend." "Yeah, I know what you mean," I said to him. Indeed.

I don't get it. I'm a sixty-one year old bag, and I got three men acting like school boys around me. But, goddamnit, two of them are toothless! Awkward. Geezus, how can they even imagine I might be interested? Is that shallow of me? I'm curious about Danny because he's a painter. (Danny is not toothless, by the way.) But in some ways Danny seems rather bland. Not like Randy. Not at all like Randy. Randy, who said he only had a ninth grade education, read literature. Tolstoy, Maupassant, Nietzsche. Literature. Randy loved books. Randy was amazing. The only book Danny has ever mentioned was Danielle Steele. Ugh. I didn't have the nerve or the heart to tell him. I don't read that kind of shit. But Danny is such a talented and passionate painter. And so far he's been kind and a gentleman. A gentleman, like Randy was.

The Ugly: Beto said Vicki is taking my mother to the doctor because she's forgetting things. He got pissed when I said, "I'm not buying it." But neither one of us said another word about it.

They believe she is showing signs of dementia. I know she behaves like an innocent, helpless, and stubborn child, and she's a fake and a liar. I also know my siblings are enablers. It isn't dementia. That's my guess. She's a skilled manipulator. No one gets it: not my siblings, not my children, not my nieces and nephew. No one. They assume I hate her. Well, yeah, I can't stand her, but I don't wish her ill. I just don't want contact with her: she's an insidious pathological narcissist. She just happens to be the woman who bore me. She's my most recurring nightmare, literally and figuratively. That's sad. So very sad. To have a mother like her, I mean. For anyone to have a mother like that. Because you really don't have a mother. You have a nightmare.

I can wade Grief--
Whole pools of it--
I'm used to that--

End Of 2011

2011-12-31T18:58:00.000-08:00

Christmas and the few extra days I stayed at my daughter's drained me emotionally. My youngest daughter was sick, so I didn't get to see her, although I got to spend some time with my granddaughter. It was a painful experience. I can't put it into words. It overwhelms me.

My granddaughter spent the night from Wednesday to Thursday, the day I was to come home. She is sweet. So sweet.

I had stopped attending the Talking Circle. I just didn't feel I was getting enough out of it, and in fact it was beginning to irritate me. I won't go into the reasons why. They don't matter. But after my daughter dropped me off on Thursday, I went to see if they were having Talking Circle. I knew I could be there for at least the second half if I hurried. I hustled over. I was glad that, indeed, it was in progress.

I do not, will not, argue. I will not get into any drama. Not with family, not with anyone. Dawn said she hoped I'd come to circle regularly again, and that I'd been missed. (Dawn leads the circle.) In fact, one guy started out his turn by saying he was glad to see me there again, and then he looks at me and says, "Where ya been girl?" We all laughed. Morning Star was there. She'd stopped coming for awhile, and I was actually glad, because she was one of the bad vibes that made me not want to attend anymore. After Dawn said she hoped I'd come more often, Morning Star muttered, "I thought maybe she thought she was too good for us." That really pissed me off, especially since Danny told me he had been telling her that he liked me. She never let on. He said he was there the day I called Morning Star to tell her I was worried about my little Romie when she looked very ill. He said he wanted to talk to me, but she wouldn't let him have the phone. Apparently, he was working for her, helping her with her old mother. That eventually fell apart. The mother was very abusive toward him, and also Morning Star began to slack on paying him. He told me some things about Morning Star, some of which validated what I began to suspect. When she made that fucked up comment, I just said, nonchalantly, "Oh, please." I wanted to take it with a grain of salt. But of course, it stayed with me, like a grain of sand in my shoe.

That bitch. She acts all friendly otherwise. Because she's two-faced. When she saw that another woman gave me her phone number afterward, and told me to call her anytime I needed someone to talk to, Morning Star asked for my phone number again. She said it was in her other phone that was stolen, so she no longer had it. She said, "You have mine." I don't. I deleted it. But I didn't tell her that. She also doesn't know that Danny told me she had gotten her phone back. So, did she? Or did she get a new one? I don't know. But she's exactly the sort of person I don't want in my life anyway: two-faced, controlling, and antagonistic. Like my family. Now, I have to tread carefully around her too. Walk on fucking eggshells. Shit.

I haven't seen Danny since last August. Because of Morning Star, I doubt he'll come to Talking Circle anymore. I gave him my phone number. I had to give it to him twice. He lost the small piece of paper where I had written it down for him, and he asked if I'd give it to him again. Geezus. He said he'd had a cell phone, but he lost it and he didn't really want to get another one, because he was sure he'd lose it again. But maybe he would so he could call me, he told me, maybe, maybe. I asked if he had a land line, and he said he didn't. But I gave him my number anyway, just in case he found some way to call me. I didn't want to give him my address, because I didn't want him to drop by. At least, not until I got to know him better. He actually did call me once. Last August. Some woman friend called and said she was with Danny, and that he was wondering if I was home and would like to meet him, that they were in a cafe on 24th. When I saw him at Talking Circle the following week, he told he that he'd been with his lesbian friend, which explains why she said, "Well, I guess you're not in, so we're headed to the Castro." (I hadn't heard my phone ring and she'd left a message.) But really, did he expect me to be on call at the drop of a hat? After all that, I'm no longer interested in getting to know him. I know enough to understand I'm not interested. I hadn't been attracted to him anyway, as he was to me, but since he's a painter, I was willing to get to know him, see if there could be anything there. Shoot. Nope. I was left with questions: How did Morning Star get a hold of him? He said his son called him from Chicago, but how did he get a hold of him? Was that before he lost his phone? He had said he just talked to his son, and this is when he didn't have a phone. This question didn't dawn on me until afterward, and I had meant to ask him about it, but I never saw him at Talking Circle again, and he never tried to call again. I have no idea whatever became of him. Oh, well.

I end today with two new poems. Still in progress. I will title one "Narcissist", the other "Dysfunctional Family". At least, that is how it stands at the moment. I don't think I wrote a new poem all year, so I'm glad to end the year with two in progress.

I pray next year I find work, and find my own place to live. Oh, please, please, please! I want to work and have my own place to live! Beto is so difficult to live with. Next year, for sure, I will get this poetry published. I only need to find a printer. I have all the poems I want to publish gathered and ready to go.

So, this is how my life stands this New Year's Eve 2011. It's been worse. It's been better.

Joy

2011-07-15T12:39:00.000-07:00

Life ain't peachy. It's a crazy world. The objective is to maintain balance in a crazy world. If you have a supportive and understanding connection, it's easier. All one needs is at least one family member or friend. The more the better, but at the very least you need one other in your life. That's why some people have pets. If you don't have a person you can count in, a pet will do. They love you. They appreciate you. Romie was my little friend. Cockatiels are very loyal. It staggers me still that she is gone.

The Talking Circle is a good place. Everyone there is grateful for it and most of us look forward to our weekly gathering. There are folks from all walks of life. Some are full-bloods, some mixed-bloods, and occasionally a non-Native person. But for the most part, we are indigenous/Native people.

Sometimes Dawn will sing. Once she sang happy birthday to someone: "Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, heya, heya hey..." Another time she sang for someone on his last day there. He was returning to his home state in the Southwest. I've heard that song before, but I don't remember if I heard Ulali or Walela sing it. It's a love song, but Dawn told him it was to him from the Creator. I closed my eyes to listen. If I close my eyes to listen to music or a song, I can feel it (if it has any power: if the singer can sing with heart/soul). Closing my eyes I can be in it, be one with it. When Dawn sang the song to him, the beauty of it made the tears spill out of my eyes. Yesterday, after our closing prayer, Dawn sang a healing song for us all. Again, I closed my eyes. Again, tears spill from my eyes. The beauty moves me when Dawn sings. It makes me feel close to the Creator; I feel the Beauty, the healing. I become sharply aware of the Creator acknowledging my prayers. I feel joy and gratitude for my Earth Walk.

I wrote once about a dream. I sometimes dream of Jamie. I don't know where she is, but I know she has a good life. She has a successful life, a happy life. I don't mean a perfect life, as if she never has fear or sorrow or worry or anger whatever. Everyone does. Happiness is not a constant. But as far as anyone can have a "happy" life, she has one. A professional career, a published/publishing poet, a life companion she loves and who loves her. I will never see Jaimie again. At least, I don't see it happening. We are in two different worlds.

Anyway, in that particular post I wrote, I got a comment from someone (the only comment I have ever received) who claimed to be a tarot specialist, a "psychic". But she isn't, or she isn't a good one. Some people make these claims and charge you for a "reading". In that particular post, I wrote about having to learn to speak English, and my mother wanting us to learn how to be like the Americanos. In her comment this woman interpreted the dream I wrote about, and she said something about my becoming more "Americana" since I've been here. Been here? Stupid, dumb ass. I was fucking born here!

She obviously assumed I was an "immigrant". I sometimes get asked by immigrants where am I from. I tell them, "I was born in El Paso." The first person who asked me this question many years ago was a Nigerian. He didn't understand when I said I was from El Paso, so I said, "Texas." He says, "Oh, you are an American." Well, yeah, I was born here, so I suppose that makes me an American. But typically people refer to me as something else: Mexican, Chicana/o, Latina/o (which I hate), Mexican-American., Hispanic (which I also hate). Last year I was asked by a Dominican and also an Egyptian. "Where you from?"

Some of my ancestors are Apache. I'm more from here than that woman who claims to be a psychic and dream interpreter. Even if she was born here, she's more an immigrant than I am. I have never in my life ever thought myself to be anything other than a displaced, indigenous person disconnected from her culture. As if there was a gap between me and my true ancestry. I've always known I was mixed with Spanish, but I have never considered myself to be Spanish with Indian, but Indian with Spanish. And apparently a spit of Austrian, on my father's mother's side. That would be interesting to research, to find out if in fact this great-grandfather was the brother of the Austrian who built the Panama Canal. That is what my family claims. But most don't want to claim the Native ancestry. My cousin was shocked when she tested her DNA and the results were classified Native American. That was on her mother's side, who she believed was more European than her father, my mother's brother.

Aw, hell. It's a crazy world. What confusion. Last year I took a Native American class, and an Italian woman said that back in Italy just because you are born there does not make you an Italian. If you emigrate, you are an immigrant. She said it is not like here in America where one is American if they are born here. Well, of course. America is a country immigrants created. They treat some pre-Columbian people as if they are foreigners.

But this post about joy. This post is about tapping into joy and maintaining Beauty, balance, in spite of all the crazy shit around us.

R.I.P.

2011-07-12T16:26:00.000-07:00

I've been avoiding it. Wanted to talk about it, but couldn't. I mean, you know, write about it. I couldn't bring myself to. As if not writing about it still somehow kept her alive.

"I am empty of all, except grief," ran through my head. Over and over.

Last year, antibiotics helped her get better. But, really, I knew she still wasn't the same healthy little creature she once was. This time, she didn't recover. On May 18, 2011, a Wednesday morning, I found her at the bottom of her cage. She didn't make it through the night. The shock and anguish stayed with me for weeks. The vision of her lifeless little body lying there flashed through my mind, again and again. The feeling of helplessness, the inability to resurrect her, the grief, about floored me.

And that evening I had to give a class presentation. I could care less about anything else. My little chicken was gone. When she died, a part of me died. I wanted to pause and be alone with my grief, but I had to follow through, as if nothing happened. The rest of the world could care less that my little friend, my pet, my little chicken, my little heart and joy, was dead.

I emailed my instructor to tell him what happened, and that I'd be there to give my presentation and stay to hear the others, but would like to leave class right after. But once I was there, I was able to put my grief on hold, and I stayed to the end of class. I needed to stay, really, because the following week was finals week. If I were younger and had more time, I just might've put my life on hold, take an incomplete, wait till next fall. But I'm too old to do that. I have to keep going while I still can, before I get too fucking old to do anything.

My instructor was really nice. He said he was sorry about the sad news, and that he appreciated my commitment to my coursework. The following week, after my final, he asked me if I was going to get another bird. I told him, "Not right off. She was a little personality. I can't just replace her with another bird." He said he understood how I felt. After his mother died, he said, they took her dog, an old dog. He said he always complained about the dog, what a useless, lazy dog she was, always just lying around, just sleeping, doing nothing. Then he and his wife went to Europe on summer vacation, and he said he thought perhaps the dog assumed she'd been abandoned, because she died a week after they returned. She was nineteen. Nineteen?! I told him, "She waited for you." That's an old dog. I mean, maybe the shock pushed her over, or maybe it was just her time. He said when she died he was so sorry to lose her, so he understood how I must feel.

Eddie helped me bury Romie in the back yard. He was so nice. After he dug the hole and I placed her in it, he had me pour in some dirt before he completed the burial.

I wrapped my little chicken's body in paper towels. I had smudged her little body, before I asked Eddie if I could bury her in the back yard. I asked Eddie if he had any tobacco. He brought me a cigarette, and said, "Is this O.K.? It's all I have." I told him that was fine. I laid my little Romie's body in the grave, placed a sage leaf on top of her, and poured some earth over her. Then I broke the tip off the cigarette, and sprinkled a little tobacco over the grave. I told my little chicken to rest in peace, and thanked her for the eight years she spent with me. Then Eddie finished burying her. I came inside, and after a few minutes Eddie knocks on my back door. "Come look what I did," he said. He had placed some stones around Romie's grave, and laid some twigs across. He said, "I made her a little nest." I thanked him. He said, "She's at peace now. She got rid of that sick, old body. See? She's buried here by the tree. Her little spirit is up in the tree. She's flying around here still." That was so considerate and kind of him.

I miss her shrieks when I make biscuits or tortillas, or slice baguette, or make a sandwich, or toast, or even pancakes. She would always shriek to let me know she wanted some. She loved bread, pancakes, and crackers. Whenever I returned home, I would sometimes hear her start shrieking while I was still half a block away. That always made me chuckle, always made me smile. I knew that shriek was her telling me she missed me. I miss her. I miss her shrieks. I miss her presence. I miss that little diva, the way she'd stamp her little feet and shake her head at me. That always made me laugh, and just lover her so much. I miss her. I miss her so much. :(

Her cage sits empty in my bedroom. I can't bare to get rid of it. The food dish is still full, but the water has evaporated. I know I have to get rid of it, but I can't. I just can't. Not yet.

I would like another pet. I feel empty without a pet. I'd like a small dog. But not until I have more ducats in my life. I barely make it, by the skin of my teeth, from one month to the next. I not only lost my little chicken, but the vet bills wiped out my tiny savings of the last three years. And even then, I borrowed $400 from my daughter, trying to save my little Romie. I only borrowed it because I've a refund coming, prepaid mortgage insurance from my house that I sold ten years ago. (All these years I thought this refund thing was some kind of scam, and I kept ignoring it. Finally, I learn that, indeed, I have a refund due.) I don't know how easy it will be to get this refund, since Vicki's name is involved. I have no idea if she will follow through on her end. But I did my part. Remains to be seen if I can get it. It's up in the air. Oh. No pun intended.

In the meantime, one day at a time...

Good Enough

2011-05-08T17:23:00.000-07:00

When I was in third grade, toward the end of the school year, we had to start cleaning out our desks one day, take home personal possessions and throw out accumulated junk. My teacher noticed an old assignment in my hand that I had never turned in, a report on the Ohlone. We had to draw a picture to accompany the report. The teacher says, "Chiri, was that our California Indians project?" I nodded. I felt ashamed that I never completed the work, scared because I got busted. I wrote the essay, but I wasn't done with the drawing. The teacher took the report from my hand, and looked at it. "Chiri, why didn't you turn this in?" she asked me.

"Because I didn't finish it," I said, timidly. I was so ashamed of my incompetence. There were meticulous details in the drawing I got caught up in, so I ran out of time. I couldn't bring myself to turn in an incomplete, an imperfect, assignment, so I stuck it in my desk.

"Chiri, this is good enough," the teacher said. "Let me take it, and I can give you a grade instead of an incomplete." I continue cleaning out my desk. In a few minutes, the teacher notices another assignment. "Chiri," she says, "is that another project you didn't turn in? Do you have any others?" I nod my head. I'm mortified. I had been hiding unfinished work in my desk all year.

My mother always complained about my being slow at everything: walking, eating, washing dishes, ironing, dusting, bathing, everything. She told me, and she told everyone else, that I was so slow, always lagging behind. Always. Slow. It made me feel abnormal and incompetent. It took me two hours to wash the dishes. My sister, Dolores, was done in twenty minutes. Her dishes weren't as clean as mine, nor the stove and dining table, but she got the job done.

The school bell rings, and my teacher dismisses the class, but tells me to stay. The class leaves, and she pulls up a chair, sits down beside me. "What other work do you have in there, Chiri?" I open my desk and start pulling out all my incomplete assignments. I had always meant to finish, but I never had enough time. I couldn't work as fast as the others did. I couldn't work as fast as I was supposed to. My teacher was shocked as I pulled out one assignment after another. "Chiri, all this work you did, and you never turned it in. I thought you didn't do it, but it was here all the time. Why didn't you turn it in?"

"I wasn't finished." I said, hanging my head in shame. She smiled reassuringly. "Chiri, you should have turned them in. Most of these look done. If you had wanted more time, you should have let me know. I would've let you take it home to work on it." That had never occurred to me.

Dolores walks in. We always walked home together. She was in forth grade. "Chiri," she says impatiently, "what's taking you so long?"

"Oh," Dolores says when she learns what's going on. "She's slow at everything," she tells my teacher. "She takes forever to do the dishes. My mom gets so mad at her."

We get home a few minutes later than usual. My mother wants to know why. Mind you, she's pissed, as if we'd been hours and hours late. It couldn't have been more than fifteen, twenty minutes. Dolores tell her my teacher found all this incomplete work in my desk. My mother looks at me, shaking her head. She reminds me what an incompetent asshole I am. O.K., she didn't call me an asshole, but she made me feel like one.

I'm still slow. I don't think myself abnormal or incompetent. I know I'm slow because I'm insecure and I'm a perfectionist. If I can't be perfect, I won't be anything at all. I mean, I don't feel like this consciously. I'm guessing it's how I feel unconsciously. I struggle against this fear and insecurity.

I have paintings I started years ago, but are still incomplete. I have writing projects that are left undone. I have ideas that remain ideas.

I want to break out of this paralyzing fear and insecurity. Rainy suggested I try stretches to release negative energy that settles in my body. Just analyzing an issue isn't enough. She said something about getting caught spinning things around in my brain, and it getting me nowhere. It doesn't do any good if the negative energy stays in the body. I have to release it, so I can move forward.

I've heard this many times before. I never understood it though. I didn't understand it, because I didn't believe it. I was blocked from understanding it, because I didn't believe it. I didn't believe it, because I didn't trust.

I believed Rainy. It made sense. It sounds feasible.

Getting caught up in perfectionism is the same thing. I get caught up in the details and can't move forward. I just want to be good enough. Well, I'd rather be great, but if I'm not, then I'm not. But geezus, I need to be something. Something is better than nothing. Good enough is something. It's better than a scared weenie who can't do shit.

Writing, Paranoia, Guilt (plus a Poem - Leaving You)

2011-05-05T00:48:00.000-07:00

"Do you feel good when you write in your blog," Rainy asked me.

"No," I said, "it makes me feel paranoid."

I love to write. Oh, I know I can sometimes be an asshole. I'm good at it. I'm great at it. Hell, I learned from the best. My mom reigns supreme. As did my father. (May he rest in peace). Two royal assholes. I sometimes crack up while I'm writing. I crack up when I'm a sarcastic, sometimes caustic, asshole.

But, after I've written something, it might be that night, or the following day, or sometimes even minutes after I've posted, paranoia grips me. Terror, insecurity, and regret sweep over me. "Oh, shit," I think,."did that make me sound disgusting? Did that make me sound like a hateful jackass? Am I inappropriate? Am I garbage? Am I petty? Am I stupid? Will I pay for that?" I feel guilty and ashamed. I feel stupid. I feel terrified.

Last night I had a nightmare. I woke up crying out,."No, no, no!" I wondered if I woke up Beto with my shouting out like that. I know sometimes he hears me. He's told me. I sometimes wake up yelling, screaming, or crying.

As soon as I woke up, I described the dream to myself, in my head, as if I were telling it to someone. I was just too fucking lazy to get up and write it down. It was such an odd dream, and hard to describe. I wanted to make sure to get it down before I lost it. I went over it several times, and hoped to still remember it in the morning.

I think it was room. There were other people with me. I'm not sure, but I think it was my three children. We were trying to get somewhere. The room wasn't just a room, it was a like a passage, or a road to where ever it was we were trying to get to. On the wall, there was like a curtain. I looked behind it, and found there was a portal to another dimension. It was a dark world. There were tall trees, and large, overgrown roots. I don't recall any leaves. I could not really see the tops of the trees, because they were way too tall. Through the middle, there seemed to be a passage leading to a safer place, way in the distance. I could vaguely make out a sky that was lit like a very early dawn. But you had to get through the dangerous, dark forest first. My youngest daughter said she was going through there. I thought about it, but I was too afraid. I told my other two children, we shouldn't go through there. It's too dangerous. We started to leave, but I wanted to take another look first. I pulled back the curtain, and looked into this other dimension. Then I saw a creature among the trees. It had a face like a monkey, but his body was like a small bear. It looked menacingly at me. I dropped the curtain, and walked away. But suddenly, this creature climbed down, jumped into the room and came after me. He ran very fast, snorting and growling. It seemed to have a menacing smile on its face. I ran, screaming, "No, no, no!" Woke up just as it was about to overtake me.

I told Rainy the dream was so odd, I could make no sense of it. I asked her if there was anything that crossed her mind about it, because I could make absolutely no sense of it. She said it sounded to her that I was avoiding fear, and that it was fear that came after me. "Why did you run?" she asked me. "What would happen?"

"It wanted to do me harm," I said.

But now I'm wondering: was the dream about my avoiding fear? What is the fear? If I can face this fear, will it disappear? Isn't that the way it's supposed to go? Face your fears and conquer them. All right. But what is the fear? What is it I fear? How can I conquer it, if I don't know what it is? I want to kill this fear.

Fear
is the mother of all,
a featureless face
full of danger.

It has to do with my mother. It begins there.

Vicki takes care of her, caters to her narcissistic needs. I can't believe Vicki believed it. "Mom said you called her. But she can't call you back. She doesn't have long distance, so she can't call out."

What? I told Vicki I didn't call. She (mom) was mistaken. It wasn't me. I didn't respond to Vicki's telling me that Alice wished me a happy birthday, and that she'd been thinking of me lately. Excuse me? Who's that, Alice? Our meth addict sister? The one who stabbed me in the back? Are we supposed to pretend everything is peachy?
I don't want to play. I'm done. It's over. Turn out the light.

Leaving you was a good move.

It wasn't easy. I loved you.

I loved you so, so much.

I don’t wish you ill.

You already are.

I wish you well, asshole,

even tho you built courage

belittling me. Your jealousy

revealed your insecurity.

Your words were sticks and stones,

your threats, a nightmare,

your fist, a loaded gun.

The romance is over.

I feel great.

I no longer bleed.

The bumps and bruises

barely there.

They too will disappear

like the illusion

that I needed you.

Never Know What Life Brings

2011-05-02T03:07:00.000-07:00

"The opposite of poetry is hypocrisy." That's a good line by Gregory Corso, but I have to think about it. Not sure I believe it, or that there's even any real meaning to that line.

Henry Rollins said, "By the time I'm over this music, art, writing, multi-media whirlwind art terrorist assault that I've been doing for like the last eight years, I'm going to settle down and just be a vagrant lunatic with one breast, syphilis, and no teeth."

Well, that sounds rather poetic, but also hypocritical, because I don't believe he would be happy if he ended up like that. Although, he probably thought he meant it when he said it many years ago.

Although, if he meant, "All I love is poetry, music, and art, and nothing else, nothing short of that, will do. I'd rather be a vagrant lunatic with one breast, syphilis, and no teeth than to live a square life" Something to that effect. I can understand feeling like that.

But, hell, Rollins isn't going to end up a vagrant lunatic. And if he got syphilis, he would see a doctor and cure it. And if he had gum disease, he'd certainly have dental care to prevent losing his teeth, but if he lost them anyway, he'd get implants, like I presume Marianne Faithfull has. I mean, she's written about dental probs related to her drug addiction, and even wrote about having lost a front tooth. I suppose I should say, it's unlikely Rollins will end up a vagrant. I mean, sure, anything is possible in this world. A person might have great success, and later fall to the curb, broke, sick and forgotten. I just don't believe Rollins will end up like that.

Corso ended up toothless..In "A Gang Of Souls", he says something like "I have no teeth, but I have poetry." I doubt he was satisfied ending up like that. Romance is beautiful and seductive, but in the end it can kick your teeth in, and leave you to the curb.

I don't know how much of life has to do with free will and how much has to do with the Creator and the Sacred Spirits moving their power. Marianne Faithfull was a junkie for a very long time, but she continued to be asked to participate in some artistic project or other. There was a time in her life when she literally lived on a wall, and all that mattered to her was the next fix. But even so, she was performing, acting and singing, while living as a junkie. In fact, she was loaded when she played Ophelia on a stage. She was pale, weak and frail, in this performance, but it suited the part and she got great reviews.

She cleaned up around the mid-eighties, if I remember correctly. Strung out for twenty-some years. She's had serious health issues, some drug related, almost died more than once, yet she recently released another CD. It'll be released in June here in the U.S.. But I have my copy already--a birthday gift from Beto. It's her 23rd album. She's written two autobiographies (I read 'em both), performed in stage plays, been on television, plus a couple movies, besides her singing and song writing career. (Beto and I rolled when we saw her in Ab Fab. Edina dreams that God speaks to her, and she sees God as Marianne Faithfull. Anita Pallenberg is in it too. It's my favorite episode, of course.) Marianne even taught lyric writing at Naropa. I mean, she's had a hell of a career, in spite of being a drug addict and self-destructive for a very long time.

Leon Russell had a good long run, but ended up on social security. A brilliant rock and roll musician, songwriter and singer, who ended up broke as a joke and forgotten. Until Elton John remembered him, looked him up, and found him "in the ditch by the side of highway of life," as he phrased it when he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame earlier this year. He's performing again. Thanks to Elton John. Thanks to the Creator, the Sacred Spirits, or the unseen forces in the universe. But you can call it luck if you want to, or a coincidence that Elton thought about him and looked him up.

So, what am I getting at?

I guess I'm just saying that I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and accept that my life is what my life is. I'm doing the best I can, and that is all I need to do. I need to stay positive, and keep the faith.

I had a dream a couple weeks ago. A man embraced me and said something like, "I'm glad I finally found you." The man in this dream is a man who's in the Talking Circle I joined three months ago.The group meets once a week. Danny joined about a month ago.

When Danny said he was Mescalero and that he's originally from Sante Fe, it caught my attention. Especially because his tone of voice made me think of my father.

I get the feeling the attraction is mutual, but I'm not sure. I'm not saying I'm attracted to him, but that something about him drew my attention from the first time I saw him. Then I learned he paints. I've often thought it would be nice to meet someone who is a painter. So, learning he paints intrigued me even more.

Last week, we were all gathering in the waiting room, waiting for Dawn. Danny was talking with Morning Star, and I went over and sat next to her. It was a quarter after the hour, and Morning Star went to see if she could find out anything about Dawn. What delayed her? Danny motioned for me to sit in the chair next to him, where Morning Star had been sitting. He told me he saw me recently. I asked him where. "You were walking toward Valencia," he said. "I thought about calling you, but then I changed my mind. I thought you might want to get some coffee. But I couldn't remember your name," he said, "and I didn't want to just say 'hey?' That would be rude."

I said jokingly, "I answer to 'Hey.'"

"No," he said, "that would be rude." Geeze, I thought, he's so serious. But he's respectful. I thought about giving him my phone number, but I resisted.

The dream caught me off guard. I don't know if it tells me that Danny is very attracted to me, or just that I wish for love in my life. I'm not in love or infatuated anything like that.

I Will, Or I Won't. That's All

2011-02-21T17:36:00.000-08:00

Well, hell. Beto said, "I hate to tell you this, but David tends to sometimes flake. He gets involved in so many projects, I think he overextends himself, so sometimes he flakes." I was already getting that feeling. If I want to record this CD, I'll probably have to find some other means. I don't know. See what happens. If it's meant to be, it will happen. I'll find the way, or I won't. That's all.

Last Friday Beto and I attended the Lunada, the first of the Spring series. Gloria is scheduled to come out from Albuquerque in May. I haven't checked, but if the semester isn't over by then, I can't attend because it's a school night for me. Pragmatics take priority, not dreams. I'm too old to take risks anymore. I have to see this through. I told Rainy, "Sometimes I have mixed feelings about this idea of pursuing a real estate license."
"Why?" she says.
"Well, because it's so square," I said. She laughed, and then I laughed. We both just sat there and cracked up.

Anyway, one of the readers at the Lunada gave props to Hector Torres. In the last twenty-five years or so, I've met many Chicano poets, most of whom teach (and by now many are already retired). More often than not, their work bores me. I mean, hell, I give 'em props: they're established, successful writers and/or educators. (The first Chicano poet I ever read that floored me, but I've never met him, was Celso Romero. I love his book of poems called Leo.)

I heard Hector read three summers ago. He said something like, "I guess these are poems," before he read. More often than not, not always, now, but often, the writers I meet are full of ego. Hector had doubts about calling himself a poet, although his work appears in Chicano/Hispanic/Latino anthologies. Hector didn't teach, as far as I know, and had an ordinary j-o-b at the time, like dishwasher at some restaurant in North Beach, or something like that. He was married, though, and his wife was the primary bread winner with her State job. David coordinated that reading. When he introduced Hector, he said, "Hector has held many jobs. He's been a..." then he listed a variety of ordinary jobs. BUT, Hector had written an award winning novel. He received the National Book Award for Young People's Literature and some other award, but I can't remember what. I was too insecure to go up to tell Hector how much I loved his poetry, but I hoped that someday I would meet him. The next day, after the reading, I went to Modern Times to see if they had his book. They didn't but they ordered it for me. Geeze, I loved Hector's book. Thematically, it might be suited for middle school and young high school kids, but on the writerly level, especially for a poet, or anyone who loves poetry, it's suited for adults as well. His writing is pure poetry.

A year or so later, I ran into Hector.at a Lunada. I learned then that he didn't like to do poetry readings, but he read at the Flor Y Canto, because, he said, it was for his gente. I told Hector his poetry floored me, and that I read his novel and I loved it. He smiled, appreciatively. He said he would send me a book of his poetry, so I gave him my address. Within a couple of weeks, it was in my mailbox, along with a handwritten note. Still have it.

Hector passed away last Friday. He was either already gone or taking his final breath when this poet/teacher gave him props. I learned of his passing the following morning. I broke into sobs for the next two days. Tears still trickle. I'm so sad he's gone. I mean, I only met him briefly. I certainly didn't know him intimately, but I "fell in love" with him. Not sexually, but as poet. I loved him because the quality of his writing came before ego. He worked on his novel for four years, he told me. His friends urged him to submit it for publication, but he refused, editing and re-writing, until he felt it was ready, that it was done, that it was as perfect as he could get it. I had just re-read his book a couple months ago. I knew he was ill, but I didn't want to believe he would die so soon. I was hoping to see him again. Damnit, that wasn't to be. I had told him, "I was once fed the notion of art for art's sake, and I ate it. But now it gives me indigestion." He laughed, and I was so pleased that I made him laugh. I replay that in my mind, his laughter, and how he gave me a good-bye kiss on the cheek after the Lunada. And I still have the handwritten note he sent me, including the envelope. Small treasures. Rest in peace, beloved poet.

I won't lie: sometimes I feel left out; sometimes even snubbed. Geeze, that really pisses me off, but then I think, "Fuck 'em". What the hell can I do? I'm doing the best I can. A bungling asshole can only do so much. Try not to stumble and trip so much, that's all. That's an accomplishment right there. I can still hope for something cool to come my way at some point in my shrinking future. I mean, hell, I'm 60. But I'm still here. I'm still here.

The Late Train

2011-01-18T00:45:00.000-08:00

I know. Just because I don't perceive a poem viscerally, that is, I don't feel or see or hear it, doesn't mean a poem isn't there. I've certainly heard people engaged in extensive and passionate discussions about a particular poem and I've been amazed that they can get so much out of something that is meaningless to me, or, at least, uninteresting. But, then, just because a person is highly cerebral and articulately skillful, doesn't mean they understand everything, that they are always correct. A person might have a great and seemingly convincing argument, but he or she can still be wrong. Who and what you are, what you want, what you seek, what you fear all determine how and what you perceive, what you understand. The film Howl demonstrates this point. The different types of personalities, the literary critics, had different ideas about whether or not Howl had literary merit: was it a piece of art or simply obscene material? I love this film, the way the story is pieced together. The narration of the poem as well as some of Ginsberg's autobiography is depicted in animation, the verbal simultaneously translated into the visual on the screen.
I watched it last night. The movie is about the trial, the obscenity charges against Ferlinghetti for publishing Gingsberg's poem Howl. Essentially, the trial was about whether or not Howl has literary merit, and this question is the film's focus. So the film is about literary criticism, while it performs it.
I vaguely recall seeing Kerouac and Ginsberg on television when I was a kid. I knew of the Beats and beatniks through the media, television and movies. No one in my home discussed art or literature, no one in my home listened to blues or jazz, but I was aware of all this through the media. I wanted to grow up to be a beatnik, like Kerouac, like Ginsberg. I understood that they were artistic, cool, hip cats, and I wanted to grow up to be just like that: an artist, a cool, hip artistic chick. That was my dream, it got deferred.
What is art? Who is an artist? Who gets to call it art? I once ate the notion of "art for art's sake". But art has meaning; art has purpose. Ultimately, the only way to give it credibility, to validate it, is make it a marketable product. David has agreed to help me record a CD.
Recently, Beto and I attended an art exhibit. Jimmy and two other artists were exhibiting. A friend of Beto's was telling me how much she liked Beto's poetry, then she asked me if I had an art too. She herself works with film. I told her I was a poet and planned on recording a CD of some of my work. She asked me if I was here in The City in the seventies. "No," I said,."I caught a late train."

Winter 2011

2011-01-14T00:21:00.000-08:00

The end is the beginning of something new. Beginning is the end of something old. Winter ends the old, while it nurtures the new. Like this young birch tree in the back yard: it is naked of leaves. Last year's leaves reached maturity, died, and dropped off. The tree sits dormant. In spring, new leaves will emerge, and the tree will grow taller, slightly thicker. In summer, the tree reaches its annual peak, then begins to withdraw in autumn, to slumber/die again in winter. Winter cleanses.

I wonder about death. John died five years ago. Was he born into another realm? We are spirits on an earth walk. We come here to complete an earth walk. So, perhaps the spirit goes somewhere else when it reaches the end of it's journey here on earth. The mortal body disintegrates, turns to dust, returning to Mother Earth.
It's easy to say dying is part of life. It is. But it's difficult to accept when someone we care about leaves this earth. The shock of losing John is still with me. The helpless feeling is still with me. He was only 44, fit, and lively. Then, Bam! Gone. An aggressive cancer. A rare cancer for his age and lifestyle, the doctor said. So, he's elsewhere now. His journey on this earth over.

Well, the past is gone. The future is to come. I am here, now, in the present. I am grateful for all gifts from the Creator and the Sacred Spirits, gifts seen and unseen.

Fresh And New

2011-01-05T00:33:00.000-08:00

Oh, where have you been,
Chirichi, Chirichi,
Oh, where have you been,
Chirichica?

Here. Behind insecurity and doubt.

Sometimes I feel that I'm not real, that I don't really exist, except as a character someone created. I'm not telling you my story; she is writing it. She puts these words in my mouth and I deliver them. Or, perhaps, I have created her. I don't know if she is my muse, or I am hers.

Sometimes I wonder if I am really a poet. I'm not sure. But it's a possibility. Poetry is all I ever think about. Poetry is something I love. I read poetry. I read about poetry. I read about poets. I love poets. I see, hear, and feel poetry, wherever it might be. Sometimes it's not in a poem. The writer might call it a poem, but I don't hear it, or see, or feel it. Like Emily Dickinson, I know it's poetry "when I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off", when the words "make my body so cold, no fire can warm me". I know it's poetry when the words, the sounds, and the images drop my jaw. So, am I someone obsessed with poetry, or am I really a poet? Sometimes, I just don't know.

I dream of beauty up the road. Free of this juju, this bad mojo. Its power over me was in my not being able to see it. But I see it now. It terrifies me, because it is hideous and powerful. It lurks waiting to catch me off-guard. I tread carefully, and I pray. I pray for courage and guidance. I pray every day. I pray when I rise. I pray as I go about my day. I pray as I end my day. I pray, and pray, and pray, and pray.

This is a new year. 2011. My God, I am alive. I feel as if I were recently born. Yet, I am not an infant, or a child, or even a young woman. I am old. I am old, but new. My hair is growing more and more gray. My skin less taut. Creases, wrinkles reminding me how many years have passed me by. Yet, here I am, fresh and new.

I pray this new year brings me joy, light, love, and beauty.

Six Months Down, Six To Go

2010-07-06T01:43:00.000-07:00

So, where have I been all this time? I have thought of you often, but either I didn't have time to come visit, or else I didn''t know what to say, or how to say what I wanted to say. Sometimes I just worry that anything I say isn't even worth saying anyway, so I keep silent. I mean, my mind freezes, and renders me mute. In the meantime, time marches on. Just keeps moving forward. Often, it flies, like a swift bird. Look: six months have already passed.

Some days are heavy. So heavy, I can hardly hold them up. But I concentrate on the moment at hand. I embrace the moment I am in, and just keep moving. "I am here," I tell myself, "Doing this.This, that must be done, now, at this moment." And I endure.

So, last time I was here, I told you I saw Randy, and confessed that I still carry this torch. Later, I regretted my confession. Except, I'm not really sure what I actually regret: the confession or the truth of the matter.

At first, it threw me off balance. Can you imagine? I was talking to him, and I didn't even know it was him. I thought it was someone who reminded me of him. I'm still stunned, six months later, that one can know something and simultaneously not know it. After it occurred to me that I had been talking with him and didn't even realize it was him, a feeling of desperation hit me. That feeling of drowning. That feeling of being beside myself. That scrambling of the mind that prohibits focus and concentration. Those feelings you get when you can't be with the one you love. He was right there, and I let him slip away.

But, really, he let me slip away. He knew it was me. I didn't know it was him. Eight years ago, he didn't have those deep creases on his face. That's what threw me. Not to mention, it shocked me, because it reminded me that I'm old too! The man I love is old, and I'm only seven years behind him, so, shit, naturally, I'm an old too! Oh, shit, I'm an old broad! And, of course, as time passes, more wrinkles and creases set in on my own face. We don't like wrinkles, do we? We are conditioned to hate wrinkles, living in a society that markets youthfulness and vanity, creating a desire in us to look as if we never age. No wrinkles wanted!

Isn't it funny, though: love makes old people stupid too.

It took me a couple of weeks before I was able to feel my control returning, to begin to get a grip. I told myself things, like, "Well, now I can really let it go. The Creator responded to my request. I wanted to see him, just to know that he was all right. That's all. Just wanted to know he was all right. Well, now I know. So, let it go. Move on." I also reminded myself that he knew it was me and he didn't say anything! I mean, he tried. I know he tried. He tested it, initiating small talk. I don't know what he was thinking, what he believed, what he assumed. That I was ignoring him? That I forgot about him? I just don't know. Bottom line is, it was one of those situations where neither one wanted to make the first move. For whatever reason. For me, I don't want what it was, the issues, the drama. I have to believe it's for the best. Best for him. Best for me. "I'm ready to let it go. This time, I can really let it go, once and for all," I have told myself. But you know how love is. We lie to ourselves. We say we are done, but we aren't. We say, "Get out!" Then we say, "Don't leave me! Come back!"

So, I wrote a poem.

I said I was going to make this year mine. So far, it hasn't been a bad year. At the end of February, Eddie told me Ella was looking for a part-time office assistant. Not bad. A job landed in my lap. Even if it was only for a minute. I also had a poetry project land in my lap. I got started on that a couple weeks after my job was over. I am part of an editorial board that selected poems to be published in a neighborhood Raza newspaper, which is celebrating it's 40th anniversary. This literary issue is coming out at the end of this month. One of my poems will be in that paper. We are also supposed to put together a couple of books: One, an anthology of culturally diverse San Francisco poets, both established and also emerging new voices; and a small volume of Raza and Native poets only. That was discussed, anyway. I hope it happens. In August, as part of the anniversary celebration, the paper is having an exhibit at the Mission Cultural Center and there will be a poetry reading. I mean, I presume I will be one of the readers. Theoretically, there will be a number of poets and we are all to read one poem.

In April, I had a birthday. I turned 60. Sixty! Geeze, I'm sixty and still trying to achieve a dream. I have been having more and more revelations. Things begin to make sense. Even down to why it's taking me so long to get the chapbook project completed. See, this feeling of impossibility comes over me. Of course. All my life I heard, "No se puede." Or, "Tu no puedes." I feel so overwhelmed, I can hardly breathe. But I will do it. I am doing it. Coming up with the ducats is also an issue, but I think it's the least of the issues. It's this goddamn voice that tells me I'm nothing that is the most difficult obstacle to overcome. That angry face I see in my mind. The ridicule, the disregard, the dismissal. It's planted in my psyche. It's tough to uproot. But I must. I must uproot it and toss it away. I have a dream. I deserve to achieve my dream. Si puedo. Si se puede.

2010

2010-01-31T23:14:00.000-08:00

I expect this to be a good year. Although as soon as I say this, write it, I feel afraid. I am even afraid to say why.

I am afraid I will curse myself. There. I said it. That is my fear. I am afraid that if I give air to the words I open myself to bad luck. Why? Why do I feel this way? Well, that's easy. Because of my mother. An image of her pops into my head, a childhood memory. She is angry. With a dramatic shake of her head, she says emphatically that we are doomed, that we are unlucky, that we don't deserve, that we don't have anything and we should not expect to ever have anything. Actually, she screams it. I hate this memory.

That was my mother's way of not taking responsibility. I understand that. I also understand that she's damaged. Or, perhaps, corrupted is a better term, because NPD is incurable. So, she was perfectly helpless. She was perfect, all right. A perfect bitch.

All right. I must stop harping on it. Let it go. Otherwise, she still controls me, still keeps me down, stifled, unable to grow, to blossom.

Grow. Blossom. An old bag like me still trying to grow and blossom. Still trying to be my own self. Still trying to "leave" and be a full-grown adult. But that's all right. Late is better than never. One should never stop growing anyway. Life is a process. One should keep growing, until The Creator hands you The Big Pink Slip.

I expect this to be a good year. That means I will reap benefits from actions I take. Nothing wrong with that.

Reticence is still an issue. It is the last day of the first month of the new year, and this is my first time here. However, I am here. I didn't miss the month entirely.

After completing my real estate course last semester at the City College, I decided to obtain a broker license, instead of just the salesperson license. I set a higher goal.

I still think about painting, but didn't get to it last year. Will I this year? I don't know, but I hope so.

But one thing I've always wanted to do, I'm finally getting to this year: I've already gathered most of the poems I want for my chapbook. There's no point waiting for hundreds of poems to pour out of me, because that isn't going to happen. I know this now. This is it. I am not prolific. That's just the way it is. So, I will self-publish some of my favorites.

I saw Randy. All these eight years I have looked around. No matter where I am, everywhere I go, I look around. When I was driving, no matter where I was, where I went, I looked around. If I'm a passenger in a car, or walking, or on a bus, I look around. I always look around. Is he driving in that car? Is he walking anywhere around here? I looked out the bus window. I looked around the BART train. When I went to Omaha that one year, I looked around. I always think it's unlikely, no matter where I am, think it improbable, but certainly not impossible. And then one day, about three weeks ago, I got on the bus, sat down, and right there in front of me, there he was. It never occurred to me to look on the bus. I always looked out the window. Now, every time I board a bus, I look around. But he isn't there. I will keep looking, though.

I didn't realize it was him. I told myself it was wishful thinking. I told myself, "This man looks like Randy because I wish it was Randy. But it isn't him." I wondered why this old man had a reaction when he saw me. He smiled, laughed, actually, as if he was surprised, or delighted, or thought something was funny. I looked at him, and wondered if I knew this man, and then decided I didn't, that he was probably just a flirtatious old guy. I thought, "He has eyes like Randy, but this isn't Randy." What's interesting is that I had to force myself to ignore this man, because I was drawn to him. I read my book and ignored him. Then I got off at my stop. I went to the post office, and then into the grocery store. Then I walked back to wait for the bus home. Suddenly, he shows up at the bus stop. I think, "Oh, there's that man that reminds me of Randy." Then he says, "Sometimes it takes as much as twenty minutes for the bus to come." It surprised me that he spoke English. I had expected him to speak Spanish. And again, Randy comes to my mind, and I have to resist talking to this man, because I am drawn to him. I remark that there have been cuts, and that the buses are slower and more crowded now. "Yeah," he says. I notice he stays outside the bus cover, on the other side of the side panel, as if it bothers him that I"m there. I think he was probably afraid to talk to me. I imagine he really wanted to talk to me, and perhaps also didn't want to, for whatever reason or reasons. The bus came right away, unfortunately, and I said, "Oh, there it is already." As the door opens, he motions for me to get on first. I thank him and I board. He sits near the door, and I sit on the opposite side, a few seats in. But we are both in front of the bus. I read my book, but I can't help but look over at him. I see him wringing his hands, or rubbing his knuckles as if they hurt. I wonder if he has arthritis. It occurs to me to ask if he's Shoshone, to tell him he reminds me of someone I used to know. It's as if I know it's him, yet simultaneously don't know. Before I get off the bus, I stop and look at him, and he looks at me. In retrospect, I think he looked worried or scared. I say, "Have a good day." And he waves a hand, and says, "Bye." He stays on my mind, as I cross the street, and I get the feeling he's watching me. But then I don't really know if he did. My mind just wouldn't let it go. Then, the minute I walked into the apartment, it hit me. IT WAS HIM!

The whole thing was so surreal. We talked like friendly strangers. Well, at least he knows I'm all right, and I know he's still alive. I pray I see him again. I want to talk to him. I want to him to know how I feel. Even if we can't be together, for whatever reason, I want him to know that I love him still.

New Career

2009-12-05T10:17:00.000-08:00

Some weeks ago, I was coming home. I don't recall where I'd gone: to the library? to the bookstore? to the produce market on 24th? I think I had run some errand. Anyway, as I approached the corner of my block, I saw Red-Tail Hawk circling above, over the house where I live. I've said this before, I'll say it again: I have a Spirit that watches over me, and He manifests Himself as Red-Tail Hawk. Some people don't believe me, but fuck it. I know it's true, because I know what I experience, I know how it feels. I know someone, also an indigenous poet, and I've heard her say she can talk to birds. I'll bet no one questions her. Well, notwithstanding hard-core skeptics who think indigenous spirituality is full of shit. But she's a name, you know. She has a certain level of "fame", literary fame. You can pick up an anthology of Latino/Hispanic/Native or San Francisco/California poets, and she's one of the poets in there. I'm not. Who would question her if she said this? I'm nobody. I walk in the shadows. The loner walking alone. I'm out of the loop, having missed the train, because something came up that I had to deal with. I mean, who knows how it would have happened if I hadn't taken that desperate action way back then? I'm late on the "scene". Some people know me, yeah, because they've seen/heard me perform my poetry. But they know me from personal experience, not from being published.

Anyway, back to hawk, I quickly came into my apartment, and I grabbed Beto's camera and went out on the deck. There he was. I snapped a few shots. Shoot, too bad I don't have a good camera, a professional camera so I could zoom in and get a clear close-up, since he wasn't coming down too close, like that time he came so close I could see his eyes. Best I could do was catch a few small images as he circled high above.

I once found a bunch of feathers on my deck, and I knew a pigeon had got caught. There was no blood, just feathers. I wondered if it had been caught by this stray cat I used to see hanging around the yard or a hawk. See, hawks are naturally around here, and they feed on the pigeons as well as other birds. That's what makes it difficult for skeptics to believe I have a Spirit. To them, it's just a hawk. But they don't understand the experience, the feelings, the context, how Hawk spiritually communicates with me. I don't know if I'm phrasing it clearly. For now, that's the best I can do. Anyway, when I saw the feathers, I felt it was a sign, and it made me sad. I don't want to get into what that was all about. It's personal. At any rate, there are two levels to this thing about the hawk: my spiritual experience and a hawk in the ordinary physical world. In the ordinary physical world, a hawk caught a pigeon, as much as the fact that Hawk sent me a message. Many months later, I told Eddie about the feathers, and told him I was sure a pigeon had been caught. Then Eddie told me a hawk caught it, because he saw it. It landed on his deck. He heard a commotion and looked out his back door, and he saw a hawk with a pigeon clutched in it's claws and he was pecking it's feathers off. So, see, I was right. I saw a small batch of feathers on my deck, and I knew a pigeon had been caught. In fact, I had a vision of a hawk swooping down on a pigeon, but see, sometimes I doubt, and I disregarded it. I just don't know sometimes: is it vision, or imagination?

So, I've got this new career objective: instead of a real estate license, I'm pursuing a broker license. Talk about a sell-out. I'm after money. I have to put Romance aside. The starving artist no longer appeals to me. I want money. "The best things in life are free, but you can give them to the birds and bees. I want money. A whole lot of money."

Shit Happens

2009-12-01T11:12:00.000-08:00

Many years ago, when I lived in Berkeley, I worked with a Hungarian immigrant. She was married to an American, a young hippie type. They were Grateful Dead fans. I don't recall for sure, but it seems to me they met at a Grateful Dead concert in Hungary. When they got married, they dressed up, she said, in costume, a la Grateful Dead. She was easy-going, gregarious, smart, had a desire to obtain a Masters in social sciences. She had a quirky aspect to her, being a foreigner, from a different culture. This affected the way she spoke. You know, like this Korean chick I once knew who asked someone for a hit off their cig, but she says, "Can I have a sip?" And we all cracked up. Or like I used to call washcloths "little towels", because in Spanish you say, "tuallita," which literally means little towel. Anyway, it was a small office, and on good days people, including our supervisor, the leader of our pack, all talked as we worked, conversed, you know, shot the breeze. One time, I don't remember what was said, who said it or what the heck it was all about, but this Hungarian responded with, "Well, like they say, 'The chicken's always shitting something.'" We all burst out laughing, and said, "What?!" She looked up surprised, and repeated it. "You don't say that here?" she asked. "Here", of course, meaning in America. "No," we told her, laughing, enjoying the quirkiness of this particular expression. "What does that mean?" the boss man asked, chuckling. "Well, the chicken is always shitting something. You know, like you never know what to expect." And he says, "Oh, here we say, 'Shit happens.'" "Shit happens?" she says, surprised, and then added, "That doesn't make any sense." Of course, we all busted up. "It makes more sense than the chicken shitting," boss man said. So, there was a short discussion about what made more sense. Of course, there was no agreement. Meaning is culturally relative.

Beto has been having pain for some time now. About a year, actually. He sent me a text earlier this morning, said the orthopedic says looks like surgery, and that it might be complicated. Have to wait and see what the x-ray shows. Shit. This is worrisome. Given what I've heard about some arthritis meds and treatments, I'm worried. I feel badly for him. If he's scared, he won't say, but he'll most likely be mean, rude, depressed. I'm just going to be strong, and hope for the best. I am praying for him. Burning sage and sweetgrass.

No Granddaughter On Turkey Day

2009-11-30T22:59:00.000-08:00

Well, shoot, I didn't get to see my granddaughter on Turkey Day. Her mother said the car was acting up, and she was afraid the engine would die and leave them stranded on the freeway. Can't argue with that. But I got to talk to my granddaughter for five minute over the phone. Five minutes only because she said her mom's minutes were running out. Can't argue with that either. Had to take what I could get, only what was offered, and I was happy to at least get a chance to talk with her, hear her voice. She's actually a bit quiet, like it's difficult to think about what to say, what to talk about. I know. It's like that with me too. Because we aren't free. Anyway, I told her I was in a writers' group, and she seemed to think that was cool. She goes, "Oh, yeah? Wow." And I think she said something like, "That's great, Grammy," or maybe it was, "Cool." And if not those words, certainly that meaning. I could hear it in her voice, that she thought it cool and exciting. That means I have the power to pave the road for her to reach toward something special. And if I can actually give birth to this novel, that will be good for her. I mean, I hope it helps my children too. Writing this novel will free me from my mother and my siblings.

Her voice is sounding so much like her mom's. The nuances. And she's sounding less like a little girl. She's eleven now. A preteen.

For my last birthday she designed a coffee mug for me. I love it so much, I don't want to drink anything out of it. Just save it. Just have it to look at, like some valuable piece of art work. It sits on my desk. I see it everyday. Everyday. A substitute for my granddaughter, this coffee mug. Shit. I miss her. I miss her so much.

It pisses me off, really. It pisses me off that I have no power. I can do nothing about this. I can't have her come stay with me for a weekend, or a week. I can't spend time with her. Just my granddaughter and me. Just us. And it tears me up that I can't protect her. I can only pray the Creator keep her safe, watch over her.

I didn't count on it. I didn't get my hopes up that I'd see her, so it made it easier. Easier, not easy, to withstand the disappointment. Other than this, though, I enjoyed Turkey Day. Sara picked me up on Wednesday, and I stayed until Sunday. Thought I'd give Beto some space. (That makes me sad too, though, that he didn't want to go. He didn't want to participate.) He's pretty moody lately, upset that he makes more money yet is broke, having a hard time keeping up. He blames me. If I didn't live here, or was working and could pay more, it would make his life easier. Sure. It would. I know that. But my not working isn't because I don't want to. And, of course, I feel guilty because I haven't taken that fucking state exam. I haven't had the fucking courage to take the exam. And as long as I don't, I can't start working toward this real estate career. But I don't think Beto's trouble has to do with me. I'm just easy to blame. I mean, he could have a roommate that didn't pay on time, or moved out without giving notice, or was difficult to live with. But as long as I'm here, he can imagine his life would be better if I didn't live here. It isn't as if I don't want to have my own place. Sure wish I did. But this is what we have right now, this situation. Certainly, there are other people at the moment who have something worse to deal with, losing their jobs, their homes. The state is in economic crisis, this city, the whole fucking country. We have to do the best we can, have patience, and keep hope that things will be better, easier, rosier at some point in the future. It will get better. It will.

I'm thrilled I found this writers workshop. I love it. I'm thrilled that I met George Birimisa. I very much enjoy all the other writers in the group. I'm not the youngest. I'm not the oldest. It occurred to me, that I've been so used to younger people, because I got such a late start. I was already in my thirties when I took my first creative writing course, and in my late thirties when I was at Cal, so here were all these young people, in their early and mid twenties, for the most part. But being young in spirit, you know, all hip and cool, rock n roll, I was comfortable with it. But I think it's time to be with older people. I've caught up, perhaps? I'm in the being, not the developing. It's time to hone it.

Vision Or Fantasy?

2009-11-06T23:00:00.000-08:00

I was eighteen. My sister invited me to her Tupperware party. She often hosted Tupperware parties. (Do housewives have Tupperware parties anymore?)

It was the first time I left my baby in the care of someone else. I didn't want to, but my mother and my sister insisted Danny could take care of him. I didn't like the idea, but I acquiesced. I didn't think anyone could take care of my baby better than I could. Besides, I was his mother. I believed he was my responsibility, mine and mine only. My baby was not quite a year old.

There was always a door prize at the end of the party. We wrote our name on a slip of paper and put it into a Tupperware bowl. The Tupperware lady placed the lid on the bowl, running her thumbs around the rim. Then she pulled up gently on the lid's tab, pushing down the center of the lid, forcing all the air out of the bowl. This was called "burping" the container. It went "Whoosh". Then she ran her thumb over the rim, securing the lid. That sealed the bowl air tight, keeping your food fresh for days, they said. The Tupperware lady gave the bowl a good shake, then removed the lid and drew a name. I won the door prize at my sister's party. It was a paperweight. I still have it.

When Danny came to pick me up, bringing my mother with him, since she'd been co-sitting the baby with him, I proudly showed them my door prize. I held it up, saying, "Look. I won the door prize."

"What's that?" my mother asked, not impressed with this round, glass, useless thing.

"It's a paperweight." I said happily. I loved it. I'd wanted to some day be a writer, and writers had paperweights on their desk. In those days, writers typed manuscripts on typewriters, not computers with word processing programs. As I proudly held up the paperweight for them to see, a vision hit me. I saw myself sitting behind a big desk, bent over a sheet of paper, pen in hand, writing with intense concentration. On the corner of my big desk was a stack of papers with my paperweight holding them down. It was my manuscript. I was writing a novel. I said, "Someday I'm going to be a writer, and I'm going to put this paperweight on my desk."

I still remember the condescending looks on my mother's and Danny's face. "Yeah, right," I read on their faces. "Psss," Danny said. My mother had a smirk on her face. "Oh, yeah?" she said patronizingly.

I was a high school drop out. I was married and had a baby. I wasn't goin' nowhere. That's what they assumed.

Well, shit. I had always wanted to be a writer. All my life. All my goddamn life. I've held on to that image for all these years. Forty-one goddamn years. And, yeah, I'm a writer, to an extent. I perform my poetry at Galeria. But this is not enough. This is a long way from that vision I had. I wasn't old in that vision.

I guess I wonder: was it a vision, or a fantasy? A vision is something that will be. A fantasy is wishful thinking.

I had got it in my head that I was going to get myself into an MFA program, my eye on NMSU in Las Cruces. But I killed the idea. I had to. Shit. Shit. Shit. But I'm hoping to find a writers workshop. I'm tired of writing in isolation.

Jim Carroll, Gone

2009-09-15T07:33:00.000-07:00

Geezus, I am still in that don't-wanna-believe-it daze. Last Friday, Sept. 11, 2009 one of my punk poet gods died. Jim Carroll. Shit.

Story is he was sitting at his desk writing when he suffered a heart attack. I mean, 60 ain't no spring rooster, but, still, man, too soon, too goddamn soon.

I see him described over and over as poet and punk rocker. But I prefer punk poet, because he was a poet first, an incredible poet, an amazing writer. He was a poet who also was a rocker, a punk rocker. He was a punk rocker second. I mean, he would still be writing if he wasn't rocking. Not all rockers, of any type, are writers first, or writers at all. Writing lyrics is very different from writing poetry. But some assholes don't read, and just mindlessly get caught up in the music. I mean, well, the music is powerful, so of course you get mesmerized by it. But those mindless shitheads don't know what the fuck is goin' on, don't understand beyond being possessed by an ineffable power. God, Jim Carroll's writing, I fucking love his writing. He and Richard Hell are fucking awesome writers.

Just last week I was watching Hell on YouTube, talking about aging, tripping on it. He said he couldn't believe that was him when he saw his image, older than he felt. Shit, I know. The body ages, but the spirit doesn't. But you know you age, and the older you get, the more you think, shit, the end creeps ever closer. And, fuck, man, you just wanna keep going. You don't want this ride to end. And sure as hell, you don't wanna age. You want to stay young and vibrant. But you don't, man. You just don't.

But age isn't the only reason one bites the big one. Any day might be your last, you just never know. So, fuck, age gracefully as possible, because dying is what we are born to do. Dying is the destiny. What matters is what you do on the way to the end.

My thoughts are also on my work. The little bit of shit I've done. I want to publish a chapbook. I want to self-publish. I asked Michael if he could give me some advice. We were supposed to talk about it at the last Lunada, but there was no time. And I didn't want to bother him about it afterward. See? It's my insecurity. I hear those fucking interjects: "You're nothing." "Don't bother people with your nothing self." "Who do you think you are?" "You're a joke, asshole."

I want my work to matter, to count, to be of value, to have substance. But I will never get this shit published if I don't get on it more assertively. I mean, I'm no spring chick. I want to publish. Jim Carroll's dying reminds me that I'm late, late, late. Must do it now, now, now.

After thirty fucking years of writing, I sure don't have 2200 poems like Emily Dickinson did when she bit. If I remember correctly, she was 58 when she croaked. I'm 59. Jim was 60.

Shit, I dreamed, fantasized about some day meeting Jim Carroll. The closest I've ever gotten to meeting one of my punk poet gods was when Patti's mother, the late Beverly Smith, called me about fifteen years ago. I thought it was a joke. "Yeah, right, you're Patti Smith's mother. Who is this?" She was so nice. She said she understood why I thought it was a joke, but that it wasn't, that she really was Patti Smith's mother. The more she talked, the more I realized it really was Patti's mother. Geezus Christ, that was just fucking surreal. And thrilling. Beverly read me a letter Sara had written Patti. She complimented Patti on her Gone Again CD, and then told her how I'd been a fan for many years and that is how she learned about her. Sara told her I was a poet, that I always dressed in black (but have toned it down in the last five/six years, because my life got too dark), and that I was trying to get a master's but was having trouble finishing (couldn't write the goddamn thesis), and could she call me and encourage me or stop by to visit me if she was ever passing through Oakland (where I lived at the time). Sara gave her my phone number and address. Beverly said Patti couldn't call me herself and asked her to call me for her. Patti was in New York at an AIDS fundraiser poetry reading. I knew it already. Beto was in New York at the time, at some conference, and he'd hoped to catch Patti's reading. I, as a fan, already knew what Patti was doing, what she was up to. I mean, we fan(atics)s try to keep up with what our gods are doing. I talked with Beverly Smith for a good fifteen minutes. She was so down-to-earth, it was like talking with a neighbor or a good friend.

Then a couple years after that, I got an email from Richard Hell, in response to an email I sent him. I had not expected a response, and was floored when I found that email in my Inbox. He thanked me for my "kind words", and in what seemed encouragement to me, he wrote, "Bold is good." I had told him I wanted to be bold like he and Patti were, and wanted to get my work published.

Shit. Bold? I'm a fucking weenie.

Now, Jim Carroll is gone. Bit the big one. Goddamn. Goddamn. I wrote a short tribute to him, which I want to put in my chapbook, first page, or as an intro:

Salute To Jim Carroll

My punk poet god,
rest in peace,
in your final natural nod,
in that vast void,
where there is no fear of dreaming.
I salute you.

Michael said he loved my punk poem I read at the last Lunada. I don't know if I can make it as a writer, but I fucking write, and I want to publish. Maybe that will cure me. Maybe that is what I need to know, whether or not I can make it. Maybe if I publish and find no audience, that will cure me of imagining myself a writer, a poet, an artist. I am thinking of "For The Hell Of It" as a title.

My punk poet god, Jim Carroll, gone to the great beyond. Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn. Jim, as long as your number was up, you died exactly the way you should have: at your desk, writing. That was living: writing, writing, writing. I salute you, my hero.

Small Bird

2009-08-26T21:59:00.000-07:00

I'm a small bird. An insecure bird. Stifled from flying so long, had my wings clipped a couple times, that I fly awkwardly, and often crash land. I'm lucky I haven't broken any bones. Hurts to crash, and it's humiliating. My wings tire and flap clumsily and inadequately. Makes me feel frustrated, unhappy, and frightened. I want to fly, to spread my wings and soar high, sweep through the air and gracefully land where I please. I am a free bird, but a silly and clumsy one.

Dreaming Dreamer

2009-07-03T09:26:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder, am I pursuing dreams, or am I just a dreamer? Is my head up in the clouds without having my feet planted on the ground? Does my heart guide me, or does fantasy misguide me? Do I wish, or is it wishful thinking?

Given I come from seriously dysfunctional parents, my mother a pathological narcissist, pretentious, arrogant, delusional, and my father full of talents but such a fucking maniac drunk, even when at best he was really cool, but in the end just a broken failure, I worry about my dreams, my wishes, my desires. I worry that I’m unrealistic, that I might have learned to want what I will never have, to assume I am, or can be, what I am not and never will be.

And, yet, I continue to dream, to want, to hope, to write alone, struggling, as days drain down toward the last drop.

Books And Reading

2009-06-14T14:56:00.000-07:00

I love books. I mean, really love books. It’s a jones. I have a book jones.

I had always dreamed of having a library. Walls covered floor to ceiling with shelves stacked with books. I wanted bookshelves everywhere: in the living room, in the hallway, in the bedroom. I dreamed of having a special reading room, a cozy place to sit and read, surrounded by bookshelves packed with books.

I began collecting books for my library while enrolled at a community college. Going to college was something I had always wanted to do, but I dropped out of high school and got married instead. That’s a story for another time. Anyway, now, I was thirty, divorced, and had three children ages 7, 11, and 13. Having been dependent for so many years, I knew nothing, and there was so much I wanted to know, so much I needed to learn. So, not only did I buy the books for my courses, I bought books for courses I wasn’t taking. Books I knew I just had to read. I had a lot to learn, a long way to go. I bought books at used book stores, books for a dollar at Long’s Drug Store, thrift shops, Walden’s, any bookstore I saw. I lived in Concord then, in a house. Some of the books I bought, I read. Some I put on the shelf. “I’ll read that some day,” I thought, “when I have more time.”

I transferred to Berkeley. I sold the house and moved into family student housing in Albany. That was the first time I had to move my library. It was probably less than two hundred books by then. I got rid of a few. It was just too many books to cart with me, to many books to pack and unpack. I was moving into student housing, temporary housing, and certainly would be adding more books to my collection. I could let some go.

After graduating, I moved into another apartment in Albany, out of student housing. Even though I still got rid of some books before moving, my library was twice as big.

I bought more books. I bought many at Moe’s on Telegraph Avenue, and Cody’s, and Shakespeare’s on the corner of Telegraph and Dwight, and Black Oak on Shattuck. I bought books at the UC Bookstore. Then I moved into a flat in Berkeley. I enrolled in graduate school. I bought more books. My library was growing. It was beautiful. I loved it. I loved my books.

Then I moved to an apartment in Oakland. Four months later I moved into another apartment in Oakland. Four years later, I left the Bay Area, my job relocating me to the Sacramento area. I lived in an apartment for a couple years, and then I bought a house. Two years later, I sold the house…

Each time I moved, I purged books from my library. Still, I had more and more books to cart with me, so many books to pack and unpack. But I loved my books. I wanted to keep my library, my beloved library.

I moved four times before coming to San Francisco. That’s when I decided it was time to let go my library. I had a thousand books. It doesn’t make sense to cart around a thousand books. Besides, it’s not like I use professional movers. I’ve asked friends and family, whoever’s available, to help me move. I couldn’t ask them to do this again.

I don’t know how many books I have at this point. A couple hundred, give or take? Still too many. But some books are keepers, some books are just too special. I can probably reduce my books to less than a hundred. Maybe, fiftyish? I’d like to think so. I’m not done moving, but I’m done carting tons of books with me. It hurts me to part with my books, but it’s the practical thing to do. It hurt to part with my Riverside Shakespeare. But, imagine, a hardcover with over two thousand pages. It’s huge. It’s heavy. It’s beautiful. I loved it. I loved it so much. But I said to myself, “Some day I will buy another one. I can get a used copy at some point in the future.” That this copy was mine since I took a course in Berkeley was pure sentimentality. My love of Shakespeare isn’t.

I didn’t even bother to unpack most my books this time. They are in crates and boxes downstairs in my storage closet. Since living here in San Francisco, a year and half, thus far, I have bought four, five books, and have been given three, four others. I only buy “gottas”, books I gotta have, keepers. And if I buy a book, or am given a book, I read it before placing it on the shelf. I go to the public library and check out books. When I find a permanent place to plant myself, then I will feel free to purchase books like I used to, to rebuild my library.

Having a dark sense of humor, I love to read writers with a dark sense of humor. But I also love learning, so I read books to expand my knowledge, the depth of my knowledge, to expand my mind. Reading enriches my life experience.

I think I have to say that my favorite writer in the whole world is Charles Bukowski. He’s a riot. His dark humor knocks me on my ass. I love his intelligence and admire his level of sensitivity. Not to mention his tenacity. He wrote. That was his primary objective in life, to write. He wrote, and he wrote. No matter what, he wrote. Everything else came second. Everything. Except drinking, I guess. First grab a beer, then sit at the typewriter. Or, “the typer”, as he called it. That’s what he did. That’s what he loved to do. I have a few Bukowski books: poetry, short stories, and novels. The first Bukowski book I ever bought, twenty-five years ago, was Tales Of Ordinary Madness. I fell in love with Bukowski. Well, his writing, the writer. There is a difference between an artist and the human being who is the artist. Anyway, my Bukowski books are keepers.

I didn’t keep Going Postal by Stephan Jamarillo. I found that book in a thrift shop in Davis, California. When I read the title, I had a feeling I was going to like this book. It met my expectations, and then some. I loved it. Geezus, did I laugh. One of my many books I loved and had to let go. Just had to. Had to.

My Sherman Alexie books are keepers. Another writer I love. He’s hilarious. It amazes me that he can write about the most tragic circumstances with such humor. Geeze, he cracks me up. Love Alexie.

I’m currently reading Naked, by David Sedaris. Borrowed it from Beto. I’m loving it.

I popped into Modern Times Bookstore a few days ago. I’d hoped to find something I just had to have, and hoped I didn’t find anything I just had to have. Found several books I wanted to have. But instead, I will see if they are available at the library. One was a book of poems by June Jordan. Another was a book of poems by Quincy Troupe. The third was a book of poems by Nina Serrano. Then I checked the Native American section, and saw a few books there I wanted, books I want to read. But I resisted buying any books. It wasn’t easy. “Later,” I told myself, “later. Not today.”

About a month ago, I read The Secret Powers Of Naming, poetry by Sara Littlecrow-Russell. I found it at the public library. If I ever see this book in a bookstore, I will buy it. So far, I resist ordering it. It’s just a matter of time. It’s a book I must have, a keeper.

The next book I will borrow from Beto is Drowning, by Junot Diaz.

Books. I love books. I love to read. And I love to write.

Money, Money, Money, Money

2009-06-09T12:28:00.000-07:00

I grew up poor. Most my adult life I have been broke. Or you can say that most my life I have been poor. That is, no moola. No ducats. No bread. Minimal funds. Out of work, or underpaid.

There is a difference between being poor and being broke. You might have a lucrative income and still be broke, because you spend more than you earn. Being poor means you have limited or no income and limited or no prospects.

But this is America. "Land of opportunity". So, theoretically, there is no excuse for being poor. It's up to you. Theoretically.

It is said that a college education is the key to success. That a college education is necessary to obtain a good paying job, have a successful career. Supposedly, there are more job opportunities and you earn more money with a college degree. I hear it all the time. Read it everywhere. The higher the degree, the more money one can earn. Well, maybe. Maybe not.

College education doesn't translate into job skills. You might have an English degree, for example, but do you know PowerPoint, Excel, Outlook, QuickBooks? Can you write a winning resume? Notice, I qualify that. "Winning". You don't need a resume, but a winning resume. You need to stand out above all the other applicants. Because this is not only "the land of opportunity", it's the land of competition. America is a competitive society. You have to compete for a job, not just apply for it. And if you don't get the job, you have to figure out why you didn't. It's your fault. You didn't shine, man. You lost. Loser.

But there's more good news in this competitive land of opportunity. The number of applicants for any one job depends on the number of jobs available, which is dependent on the state of the economy. The better the economy, the more jobs available, because everyone is working already, so there are more jobs available to the ratio of job seekers. Conversely, in a poor economy, when the economy sucks, when the economy is down the toilet, when lots of people are out of work because they got laid off, because plants shut down, because businesses have gone bust, fewer jobs are available. Therefore, more applicants vying for the few jobs that are available. Competition, competition, competition.

Well, there's always self-employment. All you need is a service or a product. Of course, you need to know how to start a business, and how to run a business. You need to know the legalities of running your business. Do you need a license to run this business? You certainly need to know what taxes and fees are required, and when they are due. So, we certainly need to have knowledge and information. You don't necessarily need a degree, but you need to acquire the necessary knowledge and information. You can take a course, or courses, or self-educate to acquire this knowledge and information. So, yeah, you do need some level of education, right?

Well, it's doable. No matter what, it's doable. Not easy, but doable. You just have to want it. Really, really, really, really want it. You have to want to work, want to be employed, want money in your life. AND, you must think positive.

I have sent out resumes. They don't win. Shoot, they don't even place. I don't get called in to interview. That's the first phase of winning a job. First, you have to win the interview.

I want to work. I want to be employed. I want to have money in my life. But you know what? I want to be self-employed. I want to be my own boss. I would be happier having my own business than working for someone else. I've always felt that. I've always wanted that. As far back as I can remember, it's the one thing I've always wished for, to be self-employed. I guess a lot of people do, actually. That's why I got the idea to pursue a real estate license. A real estate agent works as an independent contractor. You have to be employed by a broker, but you are an independent contractor. But, you see, I've procrastinated on that. Why? It does interest me. I recently read an interesting idea about procrastination. I read that it might mean you really want to do something else other than the thing you procrastinate on, and that you need to figure out what that other thing is, and go for it.

I know what I really, really, really, really want: I want to live an artistic life. I want money for my art. Whether it's writing, or painting, or even crafts. I want to earn money with an artistic pursuit. Because I love art, and all I've ever wanted my whole life was to be an artist. It's money that's been problematic. I've cared more about art, in and of itself, swallowed the notion of "art for art's sake", than I have cared about money. Romantic notions. I need money. I want money. I want to go to a movie when I feel like it. I want to go out to dinner, if and when I feel like it. I want to buy myself a new outfit, a new pair of pants, a new shirt, a new dress, a new jacket, a new pair of shoes when I need to, or just because I fucking feel like it. I want to take a trip, if and when I feel like it. I want to pay off my defaulted school loans. I took out these school loans with every intention of paying them back. But I've never had enough money to live on and make the payments, except for a very short while. Then I crashed and ended up on this fucking social security disability. But I want to work now. I can work now. I don't have that chronic fatigue anymore. I don't feel a wreck anymore. And I want money. Lots of money. Well, at least enough money. Enough money to live on and pay my bills. Enough money to buy a car and pay for the petro to run it and the license fees and necessary maintenance. Enough money to buy everything I need and some things I want.

And I want to be published. I'm going to self-publish a chapbook. I'm going to gather some poems, and publish a chapbook. And I'm going to write more. Stories, vignettes, whatever, and self-publish. Yeah. That's what I'm gonna do. And paint more. Yeah. Paint more. And sell my paintings. Yeah.

And the real estate license? Yeah, that still interests me. I can still pursue that. Whatever it takes. Money. I want money. Money, money, money. I want money.

The Guest From Hell

2009-05-28T12:05:00.000-07:00

It could be worse, but certainly it's bad enough. I had to clean a dried pool of blood from underneath the toilet seat. Her blood. Menstral blood. And I had to rinse blood spots she left in the tub after showering. She spilled her foundation in the sink, and didn't have the courtesy to rinse it out. Toothpaste splatters and toothpaste spit out left to dry there in the sink. Hair in the tub and sink. Stubble in the sink, from shaving her pits, I guess. Crumbs all over Beto's couch and on the floor where she had sat eating toast. She's a slob. Geez, she's a 43 year old woman, not a child, not a teenager. How she keeps her home is her business, or a hotel or motel room. But she could have more courtesy being a guest in someone's home.

She's also fucking rude to me. She was reading a book, and I asked what she was reading, since I have a great interest in books and reading. She said, dryly, "A book I've been wanting to read." No shit, asshole. When she saw me reading the first evening she was here, she asked me what I was reading. "Marianne Faithfull autobiography," I answered, holding the book up to show her. And she was friendly enough. "Oh, cool," she said. This was the first night. So, I thought we were going to get along all right, in spite of the fact that I know she doesn't think much of me, being Beto's loser mother. After all, Beto told me that he and she talk about their mothers and laugh at them. And I've heard some things about her mother, so I can understand why she has mother issues.

Shit, I know I made mistakes, but at least I try to do better. Being a mother is for life. It's only the responsibilities that change. I want to have a good relationship with my children. But at this point, it needs to be a two-way street. They are adults. Unfortunately, there is communication breakdown. Given they see the tree and not the forest, given they disregard and disrespect me, I have to tread carefully. I keep my mouth shut, let shit go. I have to be diplomatic. I can't fix them. If they don't see it, they don't see it. Just like healing has been my own responsibility, healing themselves is their responsibility. But they are so arrogant, they think they are perfect. Damage from my mother's pathological narcissism reaches beyond her children, beyond me to my children.

Anyway, yesterday, Beto saw the crumbs on the couch and all over the floor. As I brushed the crumbs off the couch and swept the floor, I commented, "Your friend is a little cochinita." He knows it's true. But he's no neat-nik either. He said to me, "You stink." It was a "just joking" put-down. You know, passive-aggression. I let it go. I said matter-of-factly, "I don't stink," and just continued to sweep up the crumbs and move about my business. Shit, I dropped the ball on that one. I should not have said anything at all. I mean, it's obvious anyway. So, from now on, nothing. I will say nothing, nothing, nothing. Just maintain, be courteous, diplomatic, and hold my breath until the bitch leaves.

Man, I need my own place. This is Beto's apartment, not mine. I only rent a room from him. Actually, with his crippling arthritis, it's been a good thing I've been here, to help him out. He has severely limited mobility, plus easily runs out of energy. No roommate would help out like this. No roommate should be expected to, unless it was part of the rental agreement. A significant other, perhaps, but not a regular roommate. And really, even the slob guest-friend, Carla, said so. She told me she was glad I was here to help him, because Beto does need assistance. I don't know if Beto thinks about that, or how he thinks about it, if he does. (As his mother, I worry about it. But I know it's his to deal with. If he needs me, I want to be there for him. But it has to be his call. It breaks my heart that he has this to deal with.)

Still, I do need my own place. Beto makes it sound as if he's stuck with me, stuck with his mother living with him, the way he phrases it. And I sure as hell don't like that shit, having people believe my children "take care of me". Shit, wouldn't that be nice? That is, if I wanted it that way. I don't. I divorced my abusive husband to learn how to be independent. Not be a dependent bitch like my mother always was and always wanted to be. But healing has taken so long, and other unanticipated obstacles developed to further complicate shit. Figuring shit out on my own, blazing my own road, and healing? That shit ain't easy, man. But nothing to do except keep at it. Endure, and keep at it...

Psychic Dream Confirmed

2009-04-30T23:13:00.001-07:00

So, in the dream last February, someone I love very much came to me. She was crying and calling to me. She told me she was afraid. I hugged her. When I awoke, I knew there was trouble. Today, someone who had no idea I'd had this vision, this dream, told me what was going on. I didn't ask about it, they just told me. And it was just as the dream had told me.

She is fifty, sixty miles away. There is nothing I can do, or I would. I would bring her here. But that is not possible. There are other people who would not allow it. It's out of my hands. I've been praying on it ever since I had the vision-dream, keeping her in my prayers. The only thing I can do is be strong. And continue to pray on it.

Dreams and Spirits

2009-04-25T08:30:00.000-07:00

I've heard it said that dreams are a way the subconscience attempts to resolve issues. Some people also believe that dreams can be prophetic visions.

Sometimes I have a bad dream that seems to come out of the blue. That is, I'm not aware of anything that might have triggered it. Other times, I know what triggered the bad dream. A worry or an unpleasant encounter can trigger a bad dream. I've also had visions, dreams that warned me of danger. Of course, on occasion I have a good dream, one that leaves me feeling happy or amused or hopeful.

More than a month ago, I had a dream which I believe was vision. I didn't check into it, because if it's true, I'm powerless to do anything about it. In a better world, I'd be able to take control of this. But the reality is that it is a sad world in which I am powerless over this particular situation. So, I pray on it. It's too personal, so I don't want to get into it. It doesn't have to do with me, but with someone I love very much.

Last night I had a bad dream. In this dream, I saw spirits flying past me. One came up to me, attracted by a bracelet I was wearing. A beaded bracelet that had a tooth hanging from it. She wanted this bracelet, so I gave it to her. That's when I noticed she had teeth, dangerous, flesh-eating teeth. She chose not to maul me, though for a moment I thought she would. The next thing I realize, there is a spirit lying next to me, embracing me. My back was turned to her, and I began to shout, "No!" I tried to wriggle out of her embrace, but couldn't move. I could feel her smiling at me, happy with her power over me. She was stroking my arm and breathing in my ear. I had a difficult time getting the words out. But the more I tried, the better I was able to. Then I decided to take courage, and began chanting, "I am brave. I am brave," as I slowly began to turn to face her. I was terrified, but wanted to be brave. Toward the end of the dream, I could tell I was in a state between asleep and awake, and I could hear myself talking "in my sleep".

Some of the spirits were female, some were male. I have no idea what that signifies. As for the beads and the tooth on this bracelet, what came to my mind was R, and the necklace he gave me. It was an arrowhead with a small claw glued onto it. There were black and red beads on each side of the arrowhead. They hung on a leather thong. I don't know if it's true that the claw was a bear claw. I don't know how much of what he told me was true: his name, where he lived, where he worked, if the pickup he drove was his, if he was single, if he once Sundanced (I didn't know enough about things then to check if he had scars from it). I think, though, that he loved me. And I loved him. But I will never love someone like him again, someone who asks too much of me.

Upon awaking from my dream last night, I thought perhaps this is a dream that tells me to face my fears. I have been disappointed that I have not found work, and that even an agency I tried had nothing for me. And I have been disappointed that fear has kept me from taking this licensing exam. I don't have a vehicle, and so I wonder if this interferes with getting work in RE, even if I got the license. Sort of a Catch 22. And then there's my longing to apply for the MFA in creative writing in Las Cruces. But I don't have money, so how could I move out there, and how could I pay for it, and could I even handle the program if I got in? Not to mention, would they even accept me, could I get in?

No confidence. So full of fears. So full of desires. So lonesome. So sad.

Marianne, Roky, and Me

2009-04-20T08:53:00.000-07:00

I love this song. I relate, to an extent. As I do with Roky. Both these artists inspire me.

As a teenager, I wanted to be another Dickinson. At thirty, I feared I was some kind of Plath. Five years later, I thought I could be some sort of Bukowski. At forty I thought perhaps I was some sort of combination of these great artists. I wanted to be Patti Smith. I feared I was nothing. But I am my own self, however, whatever, whoever that might be.

Michael said I didn't read enough. Richard said I was his favorite person on the planet (as poet). Then he added, "She's scary." That makes me feel as powerful as Roky and Marianne.

Roky and Marianne were still teenagers when they went public with their art. I got married and kissed my life good-bye. I quit high school and got married, unconsciously running away from home, symbolically hiding from the world.

I want to have success as an artist. Am I capable?

I know. That's a ridiculous question. The only way to know is to read more. Go public. Get out the damn closet. Do I fear failure, or do I fear success? Now, there's a good question.

"Working Class Hero"

2009-04-19T21:50:00.000-07:00

Watched "Dreaming My Dreams", documentary, or rather, rockumentary on Marianne Faithfull. I found it as exciting and inspiring as Roky's "You're Gonna Miss Me". I love this Lennon song, "Working Class Hero" and Marianne's rendition.

Dealing With The Blues

2009-04-18T09:47:00.000-07:00

Lately, I get hit with the blues too often. I am trying to turn it into a poem. That would give me something positive out of the experience. Aside from that, I turn on my "Positive Thinking Revelries". "I live in San Francisco, and I love this city." (In contrast with being stuck for a decade where I didn't want to be. It's over. That's the positive aspect.) At the open mic the other night, Michael said I didn't read often enough, when introducing me. Then when Richard came up to read, he said, "Chirichica is my favorite person. On the planet." He said "planet" with a bit of emphasis. Some people came up to me during the short break and complimented me. One young gal said, "I liked your Llorona poem, so I wanted to give you props on that." Even LDC, before I left, told me, "That was good." And Michael said I did good. (I had told him I have no confidence, so it terrified me to read.) If people I admire, and even people I don't know, compliment me, I must appreciate and be thankful. So, I make that part of my revelries: "I am thankful for/that...".

LDC is so prolific. And she's such a wonderul person. I like and admire her very much. (I feel insecure around her: she's so accomplished.) I struggle to write. Reticence is a powerful force that stifles me. It's difficult for me to articulate my thoughts, feelings, observations. I wonder why? Is it psychological or physiological? Or both? I know fear looms large. Fear of what? I don't know.

Wishes: to have a meaningful life; that my writing has relevence; to paint more; to taste some form of success. Wish: to see my granddaughter (I so miss her); to have good friends, and a surrogate family (replacing my seriously dysfunctional parent(s) and siblings); to have a good relationship with my children. Furthermore, I wish I could I could buy a small house in New Mexico, where I can garden, plant flowers and a summer vegetable garden, where I can have a small dog, where I can continue to write and paint. I wish to be in a meaningful relationship. Oh, and I wish I were in an MFA program. I look longingly at the one in UNM in Las Cruces.

Sola

2009-03-23T14:26:00.000-07:00

Estoy sola. There was a time when I wanted to be alone. That time has passed. But how to meet someone? There was a time when I didn't want to be married. But that time has passed. But how to find someone?

Ya no quiero estar sola. But how to meet someone? Where is he? How shall I find him?

Life Is What It Is

2009-02-26T09:21:00.000-08:00

Life is what it is. Do the best you can and move on. Keep good thoughts, and maintain a positive attitude.

Prayer gets me through. I pray daily. Pray through out the day. I thank the Creator for my life. It is a gift. The beauty of this Earth and everything upon it are gifts. I am thankful. I pray for courage, endurance, patience, wisdom.

I won't need to see Marisa for very long. Maybe one more time. Two at most. Life is not a perfect dream. Life is full of challenges. I am willing to face these challenges. Everyone has problems, of one sort or another. Everyone. That's just the way it is.

Poetry Readings

2009-02-21T20:03:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I love poetry readings. Other times I'm not sure what to think. Like it's too much about ego, or pontification, or didactics. But other times, I love it. It energizes me, inspires me, excites me. I love poetry, but I guess not all of it speaks to me.

I'm not a prolific writer. But persistent. Perhaps I should just embrace that, accept it. But then, maybe I'm just a wannabe. A wannabe poet. A wannabe artist. Yet, still, I feel compelled to write when those words, images, lines, ideas hit me. I'm a closet writer. Sometimes step out the closet to read in public. Do I have enough for a chapbook? I don't even know. Would one sell? Could I sell my work? Would anyone buy? Not a big market for poetry, as it is.

I don't feel good enough, I tell Marisa. Thoughts in my head say, "Stupid." "Jerk." "Idiot." "Fuck-up." "Jackass." "Clumsy." "Loser." "You're nothing."

She says, "Try to meet that with compassion. Can you try that?"

"How do you mean," I ask.

"Like, 'Gee, that's a harsh judgment.' Something like that. It's like you believe it, you believe that harsh judgment. You've had all those years of people saying that to you. Your mother. Your husband, when you were married. And you were very young when you married."

"I do," I tell her, "I do believe it." When I try to imagine myself succeeding, accomplishing something, I hear, "Who do you think you are? But too, I have this thought sometimes that says, "You deserve to succeed."

"Write that down," she said. "Write it down and post it where you will see it."

Rain Is Good

2009-01-22T08:07:00.000-08:00

I'm glad it's raining. Those lovely sunny, blue sky, mild days are great, but I'm so aware of the weather's imbalance, that it's difficult for me to enjoy them fully. It's winter, and we should have winter weather, not spring or summer. We need this rain. The earth needs this rain.

Although I avoided the inauguration ceremony, it was extensively covered, as I knew it would be, so it's as if I watched it anyway, without having to endure too much of what I find intolerable, like these people marching out as if they were demigods. At least I didn't have to endure the whole thing, only what the media covered, including the Olbermann show which I generally watch on the regular. Politicians. I can't stomach them. And certainly the last eight years were dark, gloomy and frightening, with an obviously felonious administration. The former Pres marches out with that f.ng smirk of his, and his f.ng father who was also bad news, and their wives, and the former V.P. with his evil sneer. And a particular woman from right here in S.F. who was introduced as "The Honorable", which is of course just a formal title, but there is nothing honorable about that bitch. And I don't like the usual speech about being first in the world, and if you cross us, we will kick your ass and subdue you or annihilate you, whichever comes first. Although, this President has a more diplomatic and positive attitude. I've never seen or been aware of anyone else like him. There was a time when I admired and was inspired by other particular politicians, but they turned around and disappointed me. One such disappointing politician in particular is currently a Governor, and has proven to be quite ineffectual. Not to mention a former President who I thought might pardon Peltier, didn't. That is when I became completely jaded and refused to vote anymore. This is the first time I voted in over a decade. So, the words don't seduce me anymore, but I am certainly aware of this President having the potential of being the greatest President this country has ever had. Perhaps the first truly honorable one? Will he pardon Peltier?

Speaking of Peltier, he was moved to Canaan Federal Penitentiary and was severly beaten immediately upon his arrival. Find important information on this here:
http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5639906917648892091

(I haven't yet learned how to add a word that is a link. You know, where for example I would type "this", and you click on "this", and it takes you to the link? I've much to teach myself.)

Ahh, rain. Rain, rain, rain. Stay, rain. Stay for awhile.

Facing My Fears

2009-01-13T13:30:00.000-08:00

I am not familiar with The City, other than around the Mission. And I don't have a vehicle, so I use public transportation. I walk, BART, or bus. On rare occasion I take a cab, like when I went to the American Music Hall last November to see Roky Erickson perform. I was nervous about going by myself, it being my first time. I asked Beto which were the best cabs in his opinion. He's lived here over twenty years so he knows San Francisco very well. I'm always nervous, tentative about doing anything for the first time, just full of anxiety, fear, and insecurity. I mean, after all, I was raised to be a weenie. I've spent the last thirty years, virtually, trying to unlearn that. It was rather recent that it occurred to me that I was raised with a "no-can-do" attitude. I hadn't been conscious of it. "No se puede," "Tu no puedes," I was constantly, consistently told. You internalize that shit, and it isn't easy to undo that damage. I mean, look how long it took before I was even conscious of this. And I'm lucky, because some people never recover. LDCervantes prefaces a poem she wrote with a quote from an anonymous mental health care worker: "If you had enough bad things happen to you as a child you may as well kiss off the rest of your life." That's a very pessimistic point of view. But it's true. Some people can't get over it. Words are easy, platitudes simplisitc. This process, this journey, takes a lot of work.

I had to take the bus to the Haight yesterday. I was scared and worried that I would get lost. I even felt a bit dizzy, so I must have been hyperventilating. But I had my printed instructions on how to get there, which I got off the Net, and I had my "Street and Transit Map", plus my printed Google map. I knew that once I found my way there, to my appointment on Hayes, that I would feel empowered afterward. And I did. Next time it will be a piece of cake.

The therapist I spoke with was great. She's actually an intern. This was the "in-take" process, basically an interview. She asked me a series of questions. Before getting started, she told me that sometimes this was difficult because some of the questions might trigger strong feelings around sensitive issues but that we didn't have time to get into them in detail, that this would come later when I began my therapy sessions. A few times I did start to talk about some things, as some of the questions certainly push buttons, or she would put down her pen and lean forward, compassion and interest on her visage, and she wanted to know a little more. Then we had to get ourselves back on track, to complete the process in the allotted time. This is a non-profit where interns get their training. I believe it's the director, a licensed therapist, who reviews the information and assigns the client to an intern she feels would be a good match. "So, I won't be seeing you," I asked Marisa, "I'll be assigned to someone else?" She said she didn't know, but that if I wished she could let the director know that I would like to see her and it would be up to the director to decide. Marisa also seemed interested in working with me. So, we'll see what happens.

2009

2009-01-11T14:51:00.000-08:00

Wanted to make final post for 2008, but was unable because phone line shorted, twice. Needs new line. This one is old, we were told. Carlos will be replacing it soon.

Am growing increasingly dissatisfied living in the Mission. When I move out of this apartment, I will seek a place in the Haight.

On final chapter of study guide. Dissappointed with myself for not having taken exam last year. This procrastination is an issue, a handicap I have to deal with. I made an appt. with a therapist. She's in the Haight. Sliding scale. First appt. is tomorrow.

Plan on avoiding inauguration, like I did election. I voted, politely refused "I voted" sticker, and avoided the news for the rest of the day. Hell, I don't expect anything amazing. Certainly, he's a better choice, but a cold is better than the flu.

"Silence", a poem

2008-11-26T21:53:00.000-08:00

More than twenty years ago, in a poetry writing class, we had the option of writing on the idea she assigned, or to write whatever we wanted, or needed, to. One day she said, "Write about 'silence'. What does 'silence' mean to you?" I knew I had to write that poem. I had to. Had to. Had to. But I was never able. I have thought about it all these years, tried for all these years, and tried, and tried, and tried. Finally, finally, I was able.

Silence

My silence is paralysis.

Anger is a big rat
gnawing at my heart;
rage is a large jaguar
stalking my soul.

Fear
is the mother of all,
a featureless face
full of danger.

My silence is sorrow.

Grief sunk down
to the marrow,
wrapped around me
like skin,

stuck to me like a shadow
to follow everywhere I go.

Silence is how I disappear.
A mystical mask concealing
my face, a portal to space,
sphere of nowhere, to null.

My silence is passive resistance,

when words are bait to hook
the huge shark lurking in the pool
of my bloody injuries.

11/2008 Edlc

Turkey Day

2008-11-26T09:15:00.000-08:00

Turkey Day is difficult for me. I focus on something positive to get through. This time I will see my granddaughter, whom I don't get to see as much as I wish. I tread carefully through the sludge of dysfunction, silently, letting be, a sort of passive resistance. And then there's the historical bullshit about so-called "Thanksgiving Day". I look forward to seeing my granddaughter. I look forward to seeing my granddaughter. I will see my granddaughter, my granddaughter.

"The year was 1637.....700 men, women and children of the Pequot Tribe, gathered for their "Annual Green Corn Dance" in the area that is now known as Groton, Conn.While they were gathered in this place of meeting, they were surrounded and attacked by mercenaries of the English and Dutch. The Indians were ordered from the building and as they came forth, they were shot down. The rest were burned alive in the building.The next day, the Governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony declared : "A day of Thanksgiving, thanking God that they had eliminated over 700 men, women and children. For the next 100 years, every "Thanksgiving Day" ordained by a Governor or President was to honor that victory, thanking God that the battle had been won."
"Source: Documents of Holland , 13 Volume Colonial Documentary History, letters and reports form colonial officials to their superiors and the King in England and the private papers of Sir William Johnson, British Indian agent for the New York colony for 30 years. Researched by William B. Newell (Penobscot Tribe) Former Chairman of the University of Connecticut Anthropology Department"

A Dream

2008-11-12T11:08:00.000-08:00

In a dream, I hugged a woman, a friend with whom I had lost contact. I was very happy to see her. She was glad to see me. I missed you, I told her. I missed you too, she said. Are you angry with me, I asked her. Yes, she said, yes, I am angry with you. You disappointed me. I'm sorry, I said. It's all right now, she said. We looked a lot alike in this dream, as if we were twins. I could see her from behind, and saw myself come toward her to hug her. Then a woman, a stranger, una americana, said, I don't know if I should get a real estate license. I turned around, and said over my shoulder, yes, you should, yes; it's a good idea.

When I awoke, I wondered about the dream. I wonder if the woman I hugged, who looked much like me, was Jaime. I haven't seen her since I lived in Berkeley, more than fifteen years ago. She was a post-grad student in New Mexico and had come into town for a few days. She brought me a copy of her book that had just been published. I recently read some of her poetry, because I'd been thinking of her. She writes such beautiful poetry.

I think there are layers to dreams, so there might be multiple and various interpretations to any one dream. One possible interpretation of this dream is that all three women were aspects of myself. Past, present, and future. Regrets, reconciliation, and possibility. Why una americana? Acculturation, perhaps?

Images of Hawk

2008-09-26T12:32:00.001-07:00

I found these images of Hawk on the web. I wanted to add them to my last post, but I hadn't figured out how to do that yet. I'm learning as I go along. I'm sure there are children who are more tech savvy than I am. Last July, my granddaughter turned ten. I called to wish her a happy birthday. In the course of conversation, the subject of Blue Tooth came up. I told her I had just learned what that was. She said, "Everyone knows what Blue Tooth is." I laughed. "Well, I didn't," I said, "but I do now." I'm so far behind. But I'll figure it out; little by little, I'll figure it out.

Shot In The Arm

2008-09-22T14:18:00.000-07:00

Much goes through my mind that I don't write. I come here, and even though I have words that want to be written, some sort of mental paralysis grips me, and I freeze. But today I feel great, so I want to make an entry.

I am behind the times, in terms of tech knowledge. Too many years out of the loop. Other bloggers add images, and vid clips, and links to their site or within the blog entry. I'm still trying to figure all that out. I don't have a camera, but I have a web cam, so I used that to take shots of two more paintings, then uploaded them to my site. I painted those two 5 x 7 inch paintings about fifteen years ago. I lived in Berkeley then. My Rude-E cat was just a kitten when I took that photo. She wasn't even a year old yet. I had to put her to sleep when I lived in Woodpile, shortly before I sold my house, when she was 12. She was terminally ill, and I had no choice. Goddamnit, that about killed me. I knew I had to do it. She was suffering. A once eighteen pound cat was reduced to a mere eight pounds. It was the humane thing to do for her. It still hurts to think about it, seven years later. I so loved her.

I had a great weekend. It was the shot in the arm I needed. On Saturday, my neighbors had a garage sale. That was fun. Joe had a sewing machine that no one wanted to buy, and it seemed it was destined for the Goodwill, so he asked if I wanted it, for free. He said if no one bought it, he'd rather give it to someone he knew, rather than take it to the Goodwill. I had a sewing machine, but I gave it to a neighbor before leaving Dullsville. I was selling it, but I really liked her and her family, so I told her she could have it for free. So, I feel like the Universe gave it back to me. Especially, since lately I'd been wishing I had one so I could experiment with these ideas that are hitting me. I also got this really cool maroon-red short waist flannel blazer for two bucks. It's decorated with swirls of gold-trimmed cording on the front and down the sleeves. It looks very rock-n-rollish to me. I love it.

Beto went to a performance this weekend, which I couldn't attend. I knew it was going to be great, and I was sorry I couldn't go. Beto almost didn't go, because he was tired. I told him it was too bad, because I was sure it was going to be an excellent show. At the last minute, he decided he would go after all. "Oh, good," I said, "I think you should go, if you can handle it. I think it's going to be a great show." Turns out I was right. It was a great show, and afterward, Beto hung out with some friends, writer/performer friends. He sent me a text that Derrick might crash here, so I left a sheet and blanket out on the couch. They got home around three in the morning. I made breakfast for us in the morning: eggs, home-made biscuits, and homefries. Beto wanted a fried egg, so I fried one for him, and scrambled some for Derrick and me. I had forgotten to defrost my homemade chile, or salsa, as you might call it. I prefer a little chilito with my eggs. I took it out of the freezer and heated it to defrost it. I asked Derrick if he liked chile? His eyes lit up, "Oh, yeah," he said. "Eres chilero?" I asked him, as he spooned chile on his food. He nodded enthusiastically.

I told Derrick I was sorry he and Naomi have split up. He said it isn't necessary for people to be sorry, because they are good friends, and they know they have just grown in different directions. We talked about music, relationships, gender perceptions, religion, spirituality, even some Raider talk. I really enjoyed it all. After breakfast, Derrick said, "Hey, how come we never hung out?" We met about a dozen years ago. Of course, we've just been on different paths, and never actually had an opportunity to have an in-depth or extended conversation. We essentially just knew each other as artistic people, and he knew I was Beto's mother. I said, "Well, I thought you didn't like me." He said, "Oh, really?" I said, "Yeah, you used to give me these looks, and I didn't know what to make of it. I figured you were thinking, 'Goddamn, this bitch is wild.'" He said, "Well, I just might've thought that, but I wouldn't not like you for it." We both laughed.

As he left, Derrick said he enjoyed last night hanging out with Beto, and that this morning he enjoyed hanging out with me. I said I enjoyed it too, and told him I wished both him and Naomi well.

I'd already had a pretty cool weekend, but the icing on the cake was yet to come. Red-Tail Hawk is my protector, my special Spirit. Before moving here, I saw him often. Of course, there are lots of hawks in that area, including Red-Tail, so I know the few people I told about Red-Tail Hawk thought I was full of crap. But I didn't care. I knew it was true, because I knew what I was experiencing. Red-Tail was there waiting for me from the time I moved out there. I knew, because I saw Him, sitting on a lamp post, and I got a feeling He was there for me, that He'd been expecting me. Of course, I brushed it off as my imagination, but I got the same feeling every time I saw Him, always sitting on that lamp post along the highway. Eventually, I knew it was true, because when things in my life were at their worst, He came closer, and stayed close by.

Recently, I'd been feeling a bit lost, and it was difficult to maintain my positive thinking. So, I prayed to Hawk. I asked Him to come so I could see Him, that I needed His sacred presence. I did this four times. I could hear a voice in my head ridiculing me, telling me Hawk wasn't going to come, that I was a dumb piece of shit. I told it (well, this is all in thought and feeling) that it didn't matter, that I knew Hawk could hear me, because I could feel it, and that if Hawk decided it was necessary, He would come. The voice ridiculed me, but I maintained. Well, this was four weeks ago, and here I am sitting at my computer, when I suddenly think I hear Hawk screech, calling to me. I thought, no way; do I really hear Hawk? I heard Him again, and I went out on my deck and looked around, up in the sky and the tops of the tall trees and even the buildings. Nothing. I wasn't sure, and I didn't hear it anymore. So, I came back inside.

I sat down at my computer again, wondering if a mockingbird could sound like Hawk. Then I heard it again, and this time there was no doubt. That was Hawk. I went outside again, and looked up. There, coming toward me from the east, I saw a bird, that could very well be Red-Tail Hawk, but it was too far away to know for sure. But I could hear the screech, and there was no doubt about that sound. He came closer, then circled around, decending until He was so close I could His eyes, and of course His red feathers. He faced me, and hung there treading the air, screeching. I knew He was talking to me, telling me He had heard my prayers, and had come. I felt infused with a powerful and sacred energy. It was awesome. And if that weren't enough of a blessing, I hear more screeching, more "voices calling to me". I look toward the east, and there are three more Red-Tails coming toward me. They circled back there, just close enough that I could clearly see them, while the first Red-Tail circled there just above me, stopping every now and then, treading in place, facing me. Then they all flew higher and back toward the east from where they had come. Four of them. Four Red-Tail Hawks. Four sacred Spirits.

Won't Root

2008-07-26T22:41:00.001-07:00

I'm glad to be living here, for now. But hipsters are swarming all over the Mission, taking it over, with their air of privilege and entitlement, and it infuses me with such a negative energy. So, I know I won't root here.

I would like to live in New Mexico.

Reticence

2008-06-05T08:48:00.000-07:00

Anger, fear, grief, disappointment, insecurity, strong feelings that render me reticent. It's been a life-long dilemma. Perhaps initially intended for safety, given the instability of my environment: drunken father raging and physically abusing mother; inattentive, narcissistic mother who didn't want to be bothered; poverty making hunger inevitable; that feeling of bleak and terror.

Lately, realizing more and more, inevitable resulting circumstances. Realized that what I recently came to see and presumed was new development, had been there all along and I couldn't or wouldn't see it. Of course, this would be particularly inevitable. I can even understand why this would take so long to accept. Unconsciously so. It is very sad. Devastatingly so. However, I accept it, and move forward. I can carry this grief. I will not allow it to carry me.

"I can wade Grief--/Whole Pools of it--//Power is only Pain--/Stranded, thro' Discipline.../"

Sad Slacker

2008-05-08T19:21:00.000-07:00

I have slacked on the RE thing. But this morning I picked up my study guide and got back to it. I need to get this license.

I am re-reading Ceremony. One of my favorite books.

I am moving again soon. The apt is supposed to be ready in June. It's a really nice place, and it has a balcony and backyard. I will be able to garden. I love gardening.

I really need to get rid of more books. I had always wanted to have a big collection of books, my own library. Lately, I don't think I need to keep all these books. One needs to stay put to have a library. I don't. At least, I haven't yet.

I think more than I do: think about writing, think about painting, think about getting this license, think about one thing or another. But the days go by, and nothing. I'm a slacker. I don't want to be. But I am. Geezus, I'm too old to be a slacker.

I'm sad, really. I'd tell you about it, but I can't.

Invited To Read At Pirate Cat Radio!

2008-04-11T14:28:00.001-07:00

I was so nervous about the reading at Galeria De La Raza. I was scared and insecure. But as it turned out, it went very well. Gabriel seems to be moving toward more of a stand-up routine. He is very charming and charismatic. One of his presentors was a filmmaker, and he showed a short film with Gabriel starring in it. It was well done, and everyone seemed to enjoy it. It was very funny. Gabriel was the headliner, and he had two poets and a filmmaker presenting/performing. I was the oldest of them all, and the only female. I was proud to be among such talent, and was very happy that the audience dug my work. And, too, I was very happy to see Reinaldo there, who was looking forward to my performance. I didn't realize he felt that way about my work. I mean, he'd never actually said anything to me. Certainly, I'm a big fan of his. I asked him if he was still writing. He said he hasn't had time to write, that his nine to five takes so much of his time and energy. Yes, it is difficult to balance pragmatics and art.

It was a shot in the arm to have people tell me they thought my reading was very good. It's cool enough to have people I don't know compliment me, and even cooler when it's people I know and admire.

There was a man there, an "old" hippie who is a local celebrity. His name is Diamond Dave. He dug my work, and he wants me to read on his radio program. So, tonight I'm reading at Pirate Cat Radio, which is out of a cafe on 21st and Florida. And even cooler, he also got Lorna Dee Cervantes to read tonight too. OMG! Me? and Lorna Dee?! Of course, I'm nervous, but very excited about this. To me, it's a big deal.

Anxiety, Insecurity

2008-03-19T17:51:00.001-07:00

I am nervous about the reading coming up. Less than three weeks. Scared and insecure.

Waiting for real estate school to send me certificate of completion. Got that course exam out of the way. Now to prepare for the state exam.

So much I want to write. But feel overwhelmed. This afternoon wrote a blog. A rather long one. But I erased it. Re-wrote another. Erased it. So much I want to say. No time. Or can't organize my time? Can't organize my thoughts?

Planned on attending a reading this evening, but feel like skipping it. Is it my insecurity wanting to keep me invisible? He is the one who invited me to read at this reading in two and half weeks, a reading he coordinated. He's reading tonight with a writing group he apparently belongs to.

This weekend Lorna Dee Cervantes is reading. Definitely will attend that. Planned on reading at the open-mic, but now feel insecure, terrified. Piri Thomas didn't like my poetry. I know some people do. They've told me so. I've had some really positive reactions. But there was that one broad who came up to me and said, "That was depressing." I was the featured reader, in San Jose, about a dozen years ago. I was amused by her reaction, really. I just laughed. I figured it was about her. She didn't catch the humor. Some people do. I guess Piri Thomas thought it too dark and negative, and when he heard me say "nipples", he tapped his wife's arm and took himself and her out of there. I'm no Chicana poet. Not a political poet. It's this dark humor, and I suppose it could described as nihilistic. Someone once described me as "macabre". But I was amused by that description. I like that.

Fear. Anxiety. I feel it in my chest. Hard to breathe.

One Foot In Front Of The Other

2008-02-23T13:48:00.000-08:00

I checked the real estate department at the city college. I called the person listed as the head of the department. I left a message, saying I was looking for someone to proctor my exam. I guess I was surprised that he returned my call next morning, and that he was very nice, to boot. He said he'd be glad to, but first wants to check with the state department to make sure it's legal. The real estate association where I signed up for the course told me I could have someone here in SF monitor my taking the exam. They said to try the library, a real estate board/association, or a title company. SF library doesn't proctor, the SF RE Assoc said they can't/won't. I found a title company in the Castro, the nearest one I could locate, so if this doesn't work out, I'll try there. Presumably, I'll know next week.

Actually, I hear real estate agents are leaving the field because of the current "crisis". But I've already invested effort, time, money, so I will follow through with this. I presume the market will pick up again, eventually. Besides, property still sells, just not as quickly, and it's irrelevant to me that prices are falling, because I'm not greedy; and there are other possibilities besides working as a sales associate, like property management, or office assistants. I have nothing to lose, unless I don't follow through: then I lose what I've invested in time, effort, and money.

Last night I dreamed of blood. Blood spread on something to give illusion that something was so, to "make it look good", make it look "as if", make "it" seem better, even if all was already legit. Specifically, I believe it was a tool. A garden tool? It was a man who was helping me with some project? Was it symbolically this real estate teacher? The blood did not signify death, though. It wasn't a gory dream.

So much on my mind. I'm lonesome. I feel so displaced in the world. But I can only take one day at a time, put one foot in front of the other, persevere.

Slug

2008-02-09T08:48:00.000-08:00

I feel like a slug, time marching faster than I can. I read about what goes on in Indian Country. There is a particular blog that has some excellent coverage, and I read some non-mainstream on-line news publications, like Indian Country Today, UNObserver & International Reporter, to name a couple of them. I feel as if I'm watching the world from a distance, wishing I could participate in it, but I am disconnected from it. I am here in my own limited world, struggling to find a way to make it. I was once an isolationist, but I termed it "individualist", wishing I could live like Emily Dickinson, locked in my room writing great poetry. I welcomed the idea of going mad, like Sylvia Plath or Van Gogh, as long as in the end I produced brilliant art. I didn't mind the idea of being a drunk living alone and in poverty, as long as I could write as brilliantly and prolifically as Charles Bukowski. I wanted to have the brilliance and passion for social justice as Percy Shelley, the brilliance and imagination of Mary Shelley. But I finally snapped out of those unrealistic illusions. Or were they dillusions? Instead I am simply attempting very ordinary crap, like writing a fucking resume, which I find very difficult, since I have never dedicated myself to any career or profession, and I haven't worked in over six years, because I had to go on social security disability. No one believed I had this fatigue. And I thought it was finally happening, I was losing my mind. But I certainly didn't prolifically produce brilliant art. I also see there is a world out there where artists write, and paint, and sing, and make music. It is their lives. It is the sort of life I wish for, to be a recognized artist, with an audience, a succesful artist, poet/writer/performer/painter. Would that I could make music. I want to participate in the world, not live in isolation, or madness, or poverty. I wish I could move faster, but, apparently, I'm a slug and can't move very fast. As long as I move, I guess. Each day counts. Move forward each day, and keep moving. Keep faith, pray for courage and guidance. Damnit, I'm old, and I so regret that I am this age and still trying to figure out how to make it in life.

End Of 2007

2007-12-19T12:28:00.000-08:00

The end of the year. Moved to San Francisco in Nov. Am grateful Spirits provided me opportunity. Temporarily renting this room, but not sure of time frame. Had to let go most my possessions, including more than half my library. It wasn't easy. Still feel pangs. Interesting how we get attached to "things".

Went to register for state real estate exam in Oct, and learned they had changed requirements. Instead of one required course and two electives, they require two courses and one elective. So, registered for second required course, which I will complete before the end of Jan. and take, or at least register to take, state exam by end of Feb.

Was invited to do poetry reading in April. Look forward to performing again.

Look forward to new year with hope and good expectations.

Moving Forward

2007-09-11T08:06:00.000-07:00

There are terrible things going on in the world. I sometimes have to avoid the news. Like I avoid my mother. I have to avoid them because they are terrible realities I have no power to change, terrible realities I must accept exist. Life is a gift. I want to honor the Creator by enjoying this gift. I can't control the world, or my mother, people who are in denial (in the world, in my family), but I can control my world and myself. I was created by my parents, and then damaged by them. But the Creator has helped me heal, has helped me to see and understand the damages, and gives me courage and strength to endure, accept, and move forward. I have learned to think positive, to concentrate on generating positivity. That is why I have to avoid those negative energies, which I get from the news reports, that I get from my mother. My narcissistic, evil mother. She plays the innocent, but that is what a clinical narcissist does.

Sometimes I forget to give myself credit for my accomplishments. I am alive and well. I have overcome so many obstacles, and I am still moving forward, without any family to understand or be supportive. They can't. They are damaged. I once thought that I could fix them, by telling them what was wrong. That only caused them to think of me as the enemy, as crazy, as misguided, as wrong. It generated disrespect and disregard. But that's all right. I get it now. I know I deserve better. I know to avoid what I don't deserve and seek out what I do deserve. I deserve to be treated well. I deserve to live and be happy. And it's all right that they did not understand or believe I was ill and needed them to be helpful, understanding, and supportive. But CFS is invisible, and it layered itself on top of what I was already struggling against. It's more important that I be strong, resilient, move forward, and think positive, stay positive, move toward positivity.

I updated my resume. I am eager to return to work. I am eager to earn money instead of having to live on Social (in)Security. Live? I mean, survive.

Blazing My Own Trail

2007-08-05T08:45:00.000-07:00

In my opinion, my parents were losers. I know that's a terrible thing to say about one's parents. But it's true. They left me nothing good to model, nothing to be proud of. On the contrary. But that is not my ultimate concern. My concern is what I can do with my life. I want to be successful at something. I want to have something to be proud of.

I'm no spring chicken. It isn't as if I have my whole life before me. At my age, most people list their life achievements. I haven't achieved anything. Well, nothing material, anyway. I still want to accomplish something that makes me feel proud of myself. I want to do something extraordinary. Hell, something ordinary would suit me just fine, at this point.

I don't know: do I want too much, or not enough? What do I want? I want to write, to paint, to make money, have love in my life.