Not quite ripe

"Don't write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance. So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty - describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember."

-- Rilke, letter one, Letters to a Young Poet

Why are the most poignant issues the most difficult to capure? Death. Love. Beauty. Truth. Perhaps it is their elusive quality that makes them so lovely. I'm not a good enough write to write about death. But how can I describe my daily little sorrow and joys, when all of them point back to that larger theme which I do not have the skill to sketch? I can't really describe what I'm feeling. I've been writing the post below over the last few days. Verbal dabblings. Crude lines. But it suggests the form of the emotions, my thoughts, that I have been carrying. Why make it public? I don't know. There is something to be said for publishing one's self. Something beyond a desire to draw attention to myself and pain, but something endemic to the healing process itself.

With that said, read on....

Last minute

One year ago today. February 21, 2006. We decided not to tell him that the steak and potato dinner had been thrown together last minute. Who wants to be told that his loved ones almost forgot his birthday? I’m glad Larry never knew that we almost forgot his special day. My mom and I frantically grilled steaks and chopped vegetables so that we could prepare a special meal before he came home from work. His favorite; he was a meat and potatoes kind of guy. Simple.

He loved his truck. Burgundy leather seats, four wheel drive, a good old American GMC. I used to laugh at him for being a city cowboy. You’re not on a horse – why do you wear boots and a belt buckle? Why drive a truck? You’re not hauling anything except your business papers. How impractical, how silly. I resented him.

How could he take my mother away from me? We were so happy, she and I, mother and daughter. Our little brown rancher home. Hikes to the reservoir. Late nights of watching Pride and Prejudice. Then this man who is not my father. Telling me what to do, how to behave. He doesn’t treat me like the miniature adult that I am. Just because I am ten doesn’t mean that I can’t take care of myself. Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my dad. Don’t touch my cheek. Don’t squeeze my knee. Who do you think you are?

I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Part of it was my immaturity; part of it was the residue of divorce. Most of it was my raw selfish nature.

Over the passage of eight years, he slowly tapped into my life. A veterinarian, Larry had kindness in his hands. Children and animals really aren’t that different. Innocent, trusting, needing. He treated me like his patients, with patience and gentleness, and coaxed me into his arms. He put his hands on me. One year ago today. February 14, 2006. I came back from my dinner date, and he was waiting for me with a stuffed bear and chocolate. It had been a hard day. My mom had been gone for two weeks tending my sick grandmother. But Larry was there, and he wrapped me in an embrace. He put his hands on my head and stroked my hair. I couldn’t let go; those hands held me for a solid half hour. It felt so good to be held. To be loved. I think at that moment, I finally decided to let him into my life. I had been slowly opening my heart to him over the course of eight years, and I had finally twisted the handle and opened the door. Be a part of my family. Let me share my life with you. Will you be my dad?

One year ago today. February 23, 2006. My first day at work. My first day at a real job. I was making 6.75 an hour, folding clothes and sweeping stores of the Express clothing store. When I went on my dinner break at 6:05, Larry left his office. When I was searching the back room for the broom at 6:35, he had finished picking up groceries for my mom and was northbound on Highway 83. At 6:55, I was refolding camisoles on the shelf. Where were you, Larry? It was dark by then. You were in your leather burgundy drivers seat. What were you thinking? Were you relieved to be coming home to see my mom? Was it a long day at work? It was dark by then. You had your lights on, how could you have not seen the approaching car? Did you not see that he was accelerating at the intersection? 6:55. Why not 6:54? It was all you needed. Another minute at a stop light. One more person in line at the grocery store. What did it feel like when the car hit your truck, your four wheel drive impractical cowboy wannabe GMC? Did it hurt? Did you have on your seatbelt? Did you feel the asphalt on your head? Did you feel the hands of the sixteen year old girl who ran to your unconscious body? It was dark by then. I hope I didn’t hurt too badly.

I don’t remember what the last words you said to me. I don’t remember the last time that I saw you. You slide from my memory everyday. My life is so radically different now. It’s only been a year. Would I seem that changed to you? I’m going to DU now. My mom and I are making it. We’re going to move. She bought a new car. I gave a speech at graduation. I have some incredible professors. I have great friends. I’m becoming an adult. Are you proud? I wish you could see me now. You’re my dad, and I miss you. I don’t think about the accident all the time. I wouldn’t be able to live. But the pain doesn’t go away. Charity once told me, probably four or five years ago: “the pain never loses its intensity, but the moments come less frequently.” Here’s the moment. One year plus one day.

Tonight part 3

To know myself in solitude and to isolate the restlessness instead of appeasing it with the fire of the flesh. It takes maturity to choose at all, and wisdom to choose well. Laugh? Cry? Sit beneath the tree climb the tree kick the fence I'll kick his face I'll cut my hair I'll cut my wrists I'll drive away in her car I'll jump in front of that car I'll try to get raped I'll see you again maybe it'll never be the same again this was meant to be I fucked up good maybe it was good maybe it is good maybe he'll touch me under the stars maybe I'll touch God I'll touch God maybe he'll damn me maybe I'll damn you maybe I'll play the violin maybe I'll do nothging at all maybe I'll sleep maybe it won't matter in the morning maybe I'll be dead by then maybe I'm dead already

Tonight part 2

I went to the spot you know of. How could I forget the night where you tore out your heart to see how it works? Nevermind that it never went back in the same way. It still functions (mostly). Religion and doctors can only do so much. The tears were sacred that night, and in each drop was reflected a piece of the soul you had never seen. Now it is my job to find each tear and collect them in a bottle, so that you can drink the elixir and be well. So you can take each tear, each fraction of your soul, and piece it together. So you can see your soul, like your heart. But now the tears are sunken into the bricks, and the bottle I hold is a glass sieve.

Tonight part 1

There was something about the light and the way it shone through the windows of the chapel that filled me with hope. All is well, just as you knew it would be, the light said to me. I was afraid it was a mere reflection of the streetlamp across the path. Maybe there was no light coming from within the church. Maybe it was only a reflection after all. Does it seem strange that I wanted there to be light inside the chapel? I hoped. I walked. With each step, the light dimmed, so that by the time I was in front of it there was nothing but a dull expresionless window. A stoic window. Such are the windows of all the churches. I walked up to the door. Surely it was locked. Be faithful. I reached for the doorknob. I noticed the keyhole and wondered if it had been locked. I looked at the board standng next to me, wondering why there were no white felt letters announcing the next service. Services don't happen on Sunday here. The door was locked. Seek and it will be found. Knock and it will be opened. True? My mind says yes. Perhaps my faith is too small.

This is what I was thinking

Thanks, ee -- I couldn't say it myself. That's it.

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title later..

I hated when the hair from your jacket marked my palms and lingered on the lycra fabric stripe of my pants
..............but I remember when the pines of your inchoate beard laughed in my ear

I hated when the snake of the road before our minds and the chilled leather cracks seemed to divide us when it was really the woman I followed in my dreams
..............but I remember when the minutes turned to mud because the water in your arms squeezed the crunchy leaves out of my eyes

I hated when the loops of rolled syllables and the transparent blahs circled into a never-ending metal cord which coiled into kinks building tilted stairs that lead to holes
.............but I remember the flint incense in your iris when you showed me how to guide the syringe into my gelding's vein and let the blood swirl with evaporated tears

Fire

I didn't find fire until I was ten, but I think I've known it always. I'd always feared it, but one day I felt strangely impelled to touch it. Flickering rising ballet of light, I touched it. No burn, no pain. Only, release, and a desire for more and more and more. Heat. I didn't tell anyone, but I indulged in it, submitted to its alluring voice, so it wasn't long before they noticed the worn-off pads on my fingertips from the daily exercise. My mom was concerned, but my dad was horrified. They took me to a doctor, but he only smiled. Lately, I've been spending more time with the flame. It sheds no light, I keep it in darkness. So I surrond myself with candles in the night when only the fire can abate my the cold in my body and the need in my hands. A God-given human need. These days everything seems to stir the embers. But please don't tell anyone, this is my darkest, though not deepest, secret.

It's okay to say it. Larry is dead.

It's okay to say it. Larry is dead. Now that it has been a few weeks, people seem to avoid the "taboo" subject, as if I would break down and cry, or as if they would be clawing at the scab that has just began to firm into brown red crust over my wound that we all know will scar, no matter how many bandaids we reapply. Honestly, I'd rather people just say, "how are you handling Larry's death?" Not saying it doesn't make it go away, and I'm aliright. You won't make me remember, because I never forget -- there's a little shadow that follows me wherever I go. Sometimes it is behind me, and when the sun reaches its zenith, I barely notice it at all. But those times aren't the best. My favorite is when the moments before twilight come, when it is plain right before me, I can't avoid it, stretched to its longest, magnified larger that it is even in actuality. Those are the hard moments. But they don't last for long, and not as long as they should. I wish they would come a little more often, and keep me company for moments instead of instants.

Life has thrown some interesting things at me lately, and while I am the most equipped to handle them that I ever have been, I am still incredibly weak, young, and vulnerable. Larry's death has been really difficult and painful. But I have outstanding support and wonderful friends, and I know I will make it through, stronger and wiser, albeit a little sadder, than before. Sadness. Laced in all that I do, see, feel, taste, touch. But Beauty is still right there beside it. Along with something new: Hope. My joy is still pure.

I'm living life, loving to my full capacity, looking for wisdom and happiness. I'm not afraid of fucking up now and then, of crossing a boundry instead of testing it, or of falling down and scarring my knees. It's all part of this great gift we call life. In this way, I see myself as a breathing, thinking, feeling tribute to Larry and the time we spent together.

How strange

I remember the first day I drove alone. Coming up to the stop sign at the end of my street, I felt a strange mixture of excitement, fear, and respect.

Where has that respect gone?

Today, driving down 83, I saw an accident. A motorcyclist that had passed me ten minutes before, was 100 feet off the road, his motorcycle a twisted piece of metal, and he had ten people gathered around his too still body. Life can change so quickly. Is caution a virtue?

I have so much in my head right now, that I don't know what to write.

Driving, wandering down a dark road. It was about this time of night. I wonder what was going through his head as he turned here? As he drove down this stretch, as he passed this house. Did he have any idea? Any sense of what was to come? I'm glad that girl was at the intersection and held his hand. No one should die alone. I wonder if it hurt. I hurt.

Love and death. They have a lot of similarities. Love song lyrics get to me, these days. How strange.

It's a little strange that a man I love can't be touched, or hugged, or talked to. I find him in the most unexpected places. As I squeeze the soap through the porous sponge while doing dishes. When shaking the hand of a woman I don't know, our finger tips touch, and he is there. Strange reminders, strange emotions.

I can't feel bitter. I still see too much beauty. In all these friendships, all this love. So much beauty. The flowers. These feelings. I'm growing, becoming more beauty-filled myself. How can I be angry when I am filled with so much love, even if death waits on the doorstep...

I want to write something beautiful for him, and for me. I just need a little time.