the dance

I know I'm not the only one faking my way through life.

I know goddamn well that no one really wants to know anyone well enough to heal them.

We're all just supposed to keep dancing through this sham of existence.  This social mockery of reality.  This civil obedience.

To scream from the mountain top "I am here!" Is no longer allowed.  Now, the battle cry is so fucked up and convoluted.  

We wear our masks, or resist for whatever political bs we identify with, in this covid era.  

But, we've all been wearing them all along.

We're all liars, criminals, theives, whores, scoundrels, scum.  In our deepest hearts.  In our private places where no one ever wants to go with us.  We are all awful deep down.  But we are so good at this facade of life.

Who cares if it's all a matrix simulation?  We are so in it, most of us can't get through our day without mind altering substances.  

We feel all the pain and disappointment our parents told us to, and struggle to even get up for one more day, one more episode of this pretend empty life.

We know the dance so well.  One two three, one two three... Turn slide dip.  Whatever.

Knowing when we're all alone you will be tormented with the pain of lying to yourself and everyone else.  Not because you want to, because you're a good girl and that what you were always taught. Oppression is the human way.  And when no one can oppress us, we will do it even more to ourselves.

Oh, what is freedom but nothing left to lose.  Thats the only definite answer I've ever heard.  What does that mean?  Why can't I be free?  Free from me?  I can tell you, no matter where you go, there you are.

I just want to go home.  Safe, sound, peaceful.  Just go home.  I know someday... I hope.

the color purple

Have I really seen this film about 100 times without knowing Steven Spielberg directed it?

All I seem to cling to is the music and Whoopi Goldberg.  She is just incredible.  

A couple of weeks ago, I bought my youngest a label maker, and she went to town.  I went to do dishes, and she had labeled the kitchen window.

"Window" 

It brought me back to this film, that back in the vhs days I watched over and over.  When I finally read the book, I still wasn't experienced enough to understand all the subtlety.  

I can recall causing quite a stir in my white bread high school junior class with my presentation on women characters in film.

I got real high tech, with two VCRs, and had a 10 minute presentation ready with narrative and film.  I used more than one clip from this film, and of course Jenny from Forest Gump, Scarlet O'Hara, Abigail Adams from 1776, scenes from 9 to 5.   

I have to say that at that time in my life (16) I was aware that women were not on the same level as men, but I don't think I was fully aware of how deep it ran.  I focused on the brilliant and (of course) deep scenes the most.  

When the scene with Miss Ceelie and Sug Avery kiss came up on the screen, one of my sheltered classmates verbalized that he was offended.

My teacher (that I hated) to her credit, ignored him, and allowed my presentation to play to completion.

That was 1994.

Today, in 2020, the powers that be tried to block us from watching "Gone with the Wind" because of the depictions of black slaves.  I was horrified.  That happened.  It isn't cool, it wasn't right, it's fucking terrible and I can't imagine that reality.  But, regardless, it was real, that did happen, and to deny or hide it (in my opinion) actually is more harmful and disrespectful than allowing the film to be what it is.

I think it's dangerous to obliterate the past.  No matter how fucked up it is.  Actually, the more fucked up it was, the more harmful it is to erase the reminders.  

Good God, people actually owned other people.  That is incomprehensible to me.  I know it really happened.  I know there was a whole industry and many a white man's fortunes were built upon it.  To me it's impossible.  Yet I know it was a recent reality.  

I cannot stress enough how much the slave trade was completely fucked up in every imaginable way.  I cannot deny that the wonderful actresses that portrayed slaves in "Gone with the Wind" faced a life of segregation and inequality.  I have no intention of not recognizing that, nor that I can not identify with that because the benefit of my privileged pedigree.  I have light skin, blue eyes and red hair.  I can't even begin to walk a mile in the shoes of a human that was "property".  Thank God 

Now bear with me, again it is not my intention to lessen the completely fucked up history of African slaves in America.  I do, however, am afraid and embarrassed to bring forth the mistreatment of all women, still to this day.  I feel like that's still ok, somehow.  

In all the film's I chose for that English class presentation in 1994, women were portrayed as what women actually are (or were for their time).

Jenny was an abused little girl, that grew into a wounded and wrecked woman.  Watch carefully, even though she was living the high life, none of it was hers. She was always portrayed as property untill she finally gives herself over to the only person who ever treated her well.  Which, come on, she knew it was a pity fuck, and that he would take care of her.  When she was on her own, as a single mom, she's portrayed as a waitress.  Don't even get me started.

Scarlet, for all her amazing courage and dirty deeds was no less than property.  Marrying men she didn't love so she could have some sort of ownership and rights.  She legally couldn't have owned Tara at that time.  Remember when she goes to beg Rhett for the money for the taxes, and she goes to great lengths to visibly entice him and manipulate him?

Remember when he kisses her hands and calls her out for working like a "field hand" (slave) and shames her for doing manual labor?  Wtf is chivalrous about that?  How in the world was anyone supposed to keep up the former standard of appearances in that time?

Does he protect her?  No.  

Was she ever protected?  No.  From the first scene, it's very clear that Scarlet is for sale.  Because of her attractive qualities, she was a hot commodity for her family's continued success.

I know, it's not anywhere even close to being beaten and denied everything that a human should have choices about.  But (and I know this is gonna be controversial) it kind of was.  Father's did sell their daughters.  Women weren't allowed to own property or vote.  They were often abused physically, sexually, emotionally.  They were denied the education that men received.  

I can't deal with this.

Slavery still exists.  I'm not sure how or where or anything because I'm a stupid, spoiled, white person that hasn't had to see it in 2020.  I have experienced the continuing abuse and discrimination against women of all colors.  And I have witnessed through my friends the continuing bull shit people of color face every single day.

It seems like the only safe thing to be is a white American straight male.  

Is it useless to hope that it can get better?

Much love,

A

regret

Very recently I've come to accept that I am talented.  It fucking breaks my heart to even write that.  Here we go, even worse... I am a musical genius.  

Gross.

I have to accept it, just to believe that I can save my work for someone else to hear.  Just to believe that I can help teach other people what I've learned and tortured myself with.  Just to save their regrets, and release my own.  And to give my gift to those who would appreciate it.  It's so hard.  

It's so hard to believe those things and not be an ego maniac.  In fact, most of my time and energy is spent on service to others.  I think that's how I'm able to reconcile it all.  I'm obligated to share my gift.  To share it, I have to own it.  

For years, I destroyed most records of my work.  I never believed it was good enough and would just be ignored, annoying, awkward...

Now, I see that it is my responsibility to do this.  Whether I feel "special" or "gross".  It's my cross to bear.  And I have been.

Today, in a few hours, I plan to share some of my most beautiful work with my parents.  The people who paid for my instruments and teachers.  I am terrified.  I think my dad will love it, I think my mother will too but she won't let herself show it.

I think I'm driving my love away.  He was better off in his own world without me to shine next to him.  He is a genius, beautiful, talented.  He has yet to accept himself.  I owe him everything.  He pushed me to who I am now.  I talk with him and try to help him accept who he is and stop fighting it.  The past few days, it's made him very sick.  And I can't find a way to help him feel better.

Regrets.  I regret that I am struggling with this, and have forever.  I regret that my mom and my love feel like they don't shine because I do (like my sister).  I regret that I let their discomfort alter my work.  I regret everyone I've hurt.  

I wish I knew how I look to other people.  Why my students are intimidated by me.  Why the people I admire don't seem like they like my work.  I wish I knew how to share better.  I wish I could understand the right way to do all this.  

I am ready to know how to handle it.  I wonder if I even get it or if I'm really just a poser.

Maybe it'll get better.  I pray it all goes well.

Tick Tock

I can't sleep.  Again.

This has been a thing for me since very early on.  

When you can't sleep, and you live with other people, there comes a time in the night when you try hard not to wake them.  There's no piano playing, no hammer nailing, minimal floor board wailing.  It's a game of hide and hopefully they won't seek.

I used to learn to do new things in the middle of the night.  I taught myself to see, paint, use sign language, write poetry.  Now, I just sit up and wait for the awake time.  I used to sometimes pray, to God, to Mary, to Jesus.  I even fancied that angels would visit me.  I used to do breathing exercises and muscle tightening loosening moves.  I used to read books.  I've gotten a lot of who I am from not being able to sleep, and being able to pretend like I had the next day.

Maybe I should go back to the way I was.  I've made my own space recently.  Maybe, on these sleepless nights, I should continue to learn - to practice - to expand.  I fear so much disturbing anyone else, I've given up on quite a lot.

When I have had to lay next to another, wide awake, hearing them go deeper and deeper into their resting rhythms, I would meditate.  I would thank each atom and electron in my physical form.  I would pray and focus protection on my people.  I would pray for peace in the world.  I would take 100 deep, square, 10 count breaths.  Sometimes, I would finally go to sleep.  Sometimes, the bittersweet sound of the alarm would come and I would rise, unsure if I had touched the other realm.

Maybe I should exercise more.  I used to take long walks at night.  First solo, then with Kojo and Laurel, and then Frankie.  Sometimes after those walks, I could sleep.  I used to sing and dance for hours and go eat eggs at 3 am.  Sometimes after those nights I could sleep.  

I don't know.

I don't know why sometimes, I can sleep, and others I just can't.  I don't know why I get so uncomfortable in my own home when I can't.  I doubt it will ever change (the sleeping part).  I hope I can change the discomfort part.  God knows how it could be if I was ok with being creative or constructive while I just can't sleep.  

I'm sure I'll keep working on it.  

The Irrationality of Grief - or Something

I have recently lost my closest friend ever.  My dog.

I have never had a dog before.  We were truly attached at the hip.  She had some special needs, and because of that, I took her to work almost everyday.  She slept with me every night.  We did everything together.

When she started really acting funny, I didn't see it as something that meant the end was coming.  I talked with trainers, and then took her to neurolgical vets.  Where I still didn't get that I would have to part with her. 
After all the medicine didn't work, it became clear that she really was sick.  She had a brain tumor, and I would be saving her from further pain and incapacitation if I did the humane thing and sent her over the rainbow bridge.

So, one Sunday morning, after a full day goes bucket list day the day before, and with her whole family with her, that's what we did.

I still think she's going to be here when I get home.  It's been 7 weeks.  I still think I hear her collar rattle.  I still think she's in the backseat of the car sometimes. 
But the worst is, I just can't wait to see her again. 

She made me feel so safe and loved.  She never judged me, yelled at me, or expected more from me than I gave her.  She always accepted my love and time however it was.  And was always so happy to have it.  I miss her so much, it's ridiculous.

I don't know how irrational it is, I just can't wait til I don't have to miss her anymore.  This is just too hard.  I cry nearly every morning still, Everytime I see a picture of her, and almost Everytime I leave my work.  Without her to go with me to lock up and go, it's just horrible. 

I know I am very lucky to have had someone in my world I miss this much.  But that doesn't make me feel anything other than wishing she was still here.

I hate cancer.

In Australia, there is free veterinary medicine.  They would have taken that murderous tumor from my best friend, and she'd still be here.  Happy to have coffee with me this morning.  Even if I woke up late.

Within

I have been suffering for a while with myself. 
Seems I turn it in then out then in... It goes on and on.
The truth is that I'm suffering at my own hand.  Whether I always recognize it or not.

I owe myself, and those around me better than that. 

I resolve to be responsible.

Much Love.

Strange Dreams

Last night, I had a very strange dream.

I fear I have no place to share it other than here.

I should prelude this story by telling you that my only sister committed suicide ten years ago, at the age of 31.


I found myself in a dingy, dark classroom.  Sitting at a student desk.  It was populated by people I know, most of them are still living.  They were milling about while I just sat there, wondering what was going on, feeling a little out of place and confused.  This was quite the lucid dream, as I can remember feeling the cool smoothness of the desk, hearing the muttering and the shuffling of the feet of the people in the room with me.  Feeling too hot as I became embarassed that I seemed to be the only one who was confused.... all that.

Someone said, "Betsy's here."
"Where is she?"  I answered.

I looked behind me down the aisle of desks, and here came my sister, walking towards me.

She looked alive, but dead all at the same time.  Her color was pale, her skin was rotting and dehydrated, but she moved as though she was alive.

As she came towards me, I made the conscious decision not to take offense at her clearly rotting condition.  I was just so happy to see her.  I took both of her icy hands and held them in my own.  "I've missed you so much."  I said.

"I know you have" she answered.   Now, I was graced with a flash of her whole face, only this time, she looked exactly as she had when she was living.  I told her how young she looked, and that I was so much older than her now.  She said she knew, that was what was supposed to happen.

I followed her into another classroom.  I was aware that our grandparents were in the room.  One set looked as they had when I was a child, grey haired, a little old, but not as bad as they had been when they died.  The other set both were young, in their 30's.
I noticed that none of them appeared to be rotting like her.  I asked her about this.
She said, "Oh, yeah.  That's because they can go wherever they want to."  I asked why she couldn't.  She said, "Oh, well, I'm stuck here for another 19 years or so... but who's counting."

She led me past more familiar faces, I heard more voices muttering... very strange.

She sat me on the floor in a dingy, dark corner and handed me a basket of laundry.  She said, " we need to do your laundry."

Ok, I thought, let's do laundry.

I started folding the clothes, and was surprised when it was my children's baby clothes.  Items they used to wear when they were just babies.  She had me place them in an invisible bag, that I could see my hand through, but not the clothes.

I woke up in tears.

I wish I knew what it meant.