I Know There's Pain

Here's this: my bike was stolen.

I can't seem to settle my heart. I can't calm down. I can't seem to quit kicking things; fantasizing both about explaining to the bike thief the emotional earthquake he's thrown me into and standing on his throat.

To say the very least, I'm struggling with resentment - the kind that is so pure one drop out of the little glass vile I keep around my neck would burn a hole through an oak tree.

I'm sad.

But also, something beautiful is happening. I posted on all my social medias about my Fuji folder and the rush of sympathy was instant. And wonderful. My posts were shared and reshared and commented on and then reshared again and again by friends and friends of friends. On all platforms. There are eyes everywhere in my city looking for my Fuji.  And I can't help but feel sugary in my browbeaten bones. So thank you. Thank you, universe. Thank you, Fort Wayne. Thank you, West Central.

But one man has destroyed me with his kind words.

I knew your dad and he was mature beyond his years. He was taught to be nice and respectful to everybody. He always greeted me warmly with a smile. His deep voice and kind eyes were very inviting to everyone who talked to him. I'm very glad to have been a friend of his. He had a super mom and dad, I believe that is where he got his personality and character traits from. I'm sure that he would tell you that what's in your heart far outweighs what that bike represents to you. Dayne wouldn't want you to harbor any resentment. Let it go and free yourself of the bondage of resentment. You need look no further than his friends to have mementos of your dad. There are plenty of stories of him to go around. 

And now, I'm looking for a new bike.  

Three (three, three) for my heart-ache

I want to make a grand statement, but I'm fearful.

Declaring that I have survived the winter is probably a little premature. I want to strain my ears for the spring time quartet. It's too early, though. It's too early. Be careful.

Proceed with caution. Quit longing for day-lilies and bumble bees to get wrapped up in my hair. Help me stop thinking about mud to my knees in May. I want to throw a few stones to see if I can hit summer in the face, is she that close? (She isn't.) I want to dip my cup in the long-evening purples of dusk and drink it like smooth bourbon (I can't). I want to walk around and grab little squirrels by their little hands and hold them close - congratulate them for living. (I won't).  Anyway, winter is still here. She's dying, but even fading things can kill someone's spirit if one is not careful.

This is what I want to say: I survived the worst winter to date.

This is what I want to say (also): I barely survived. If you see the magnolia buds on my street, ask them to hurry - and to please bring reinforcements.

I Aint Nothing but Tired

Listen closely to me. One day I will die.

Let my brothers look through my books first. Even the ones I've borrowed and never returned. This is important.

I want you to touch my dead face. Just so you can take it with you that it's all real. Yes, her cheek is cold. Yes.

Someone tell the story of the first day I saw a loon dive.

If you have my secrets, please keep them. And one day when you're old, you can reminisce about this one time there was this one girl who died. How sad, you might think. And if you remember then, at that moment, tell the world. Until, put my words in a quiet box.

Put them in that quiet box with me.

Meet me everywhere

In college, I took the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. Typical personality inventory, right? Except I had to take it twice because my E (for extrovert) was 99%. It gave me career choices like Social Worker, Teacher, Retail and Food Service. Got it. What it didn't tell me: You will most likely be a little... well, unbalanced.

On a very related note, my social wrap-up after nearly 30 years: Sometimes you're a part of stuff, other times not.
(I had to stop seeing my counselor. Can you tell?)

I wept in fear for things

I want to write a letter to my imaginary baby. You know, it'd start out saying something like "Dear Baby (if you ever exist)" and I'd follow it up with poignant pieces of life that I've gathered to be helpful. For example, "Life is fucking hard, lightening splitting the earth, and there's no two ways around it" - something like that. I might paraphrase. But, maybe not. My imaginary baby knows I have a mouth on me. I would then continue with apology after apology. For instance, "I'm sorry that you will always have dirt under your fingernails.", "I'm sorry I will be drunk, like garden parties and paper lanterns, more than I should be.", "I'm sorry that I will for sure lose my temper, a firecracker in closed hands." The best thing? Imaginary babies forgive. Real ones internalize. But, that's besides the letter I want to write.

I'd write about my dad. A workin' man with hands like dried sponges. And also, my mom, ol' knives for tongue. I'd write about me. And how, secretly, I always wanted the (imaginary) baby to look like an Anderson (aren't we glad he does!!). I'd write about writing. And how, the moment, right above the creek near Maxville on highway 32, when I saw a Belted Kingfisher for the first time, how that moment I knew that life was different than what was given me. Whatever that means.

I'm sure I'd write about love. But, probably in a way that's not appropriate for babies. Even really rough and tumble babies like my imaginary one. I might even tell that child about the times I snuck out of my house to meet older boys with magic hands. I'd use the word "magic" and make a footnote* (*ask me about this when you are older - babies can't read anyway.) I'd be pithy about love, because let's face it, does anyone ever listen anyway? (The answer is no. But you fucking knew that)

I would probably say it's okay to fight. Even with fists sometimes. Not always*. (*footnote: consult with me first. Please.)

I'd probably end with something like "Dear (imaginary) baby - just know that mostly, I'm gonna try real hard to be what you need, but probably, I'll let you down. Aint that the way?".

let's talk over mai-tais. waitress, top it off

Life shifts often. My skin comes off everyday and my hair falls out and my finger nails grow, get dirty and I bite them off, but here I am, the same human. Kind of.

The shifting. The death. The life. It's all too much at times. The standing up tall and watching everything change, that's something else, too. I barely can stand it.

All of this to say: I'm getting old. I can see it around my eyes and in my blood. And with the friendships I've cultivated for so long. The shifting. The slow transfer and melting away and putting our hands into the cold river that never stops - these things tell me, you know, nothing fucking stays the same.

And I mean it: nothing.

You've got to wait for it

Please, if you must know, Yes! Of course, I've been sad lately. That's a silly question. The answer to your questions lay in wait in my belly, the mystics of my body. Crazy shit happens in that cavity. My colon, for instance, can tell you. It somehow, in the last few years, got fused to the left wall of my abdominal cavity. And that shit ain't right. I know this because of a laparoscopic surgery I had on Valentine's Day to scrape my insides of endometriosis. Delightful, is it not? Anyhow, things are fixed and that colon is back to it's rightful place. This should be cause for celebration - and I suppose, it is. But, as is par for the course, I just feel nuts about it.

I could tell you, but you already know.

Maybe you don't, so here's the summary: issues with control and trust and paralyzing anxiety (complete with fat tears) because said ailments in psyche. Afraid of, but grounded by, mortality. Et cetera, et cetera. I blame my mother, who, by the way, hasn't even called me. I get it, it was a small surgery, but god damn it, it was surgery. So, that's where I am. Reduced to the same issues revolving around a different circumstance. Ain't that life?

And tonight, I sat in my bar - my throat tight like dried leather, holding back the good weeping I deserve because of poetry. A book of poetry to be exact. And, as we all know, so much more.

I made a mistake tonight. I wanted whiskey, but I chose tea.

take everything away

Everyone knows a writer.

Don't tell me that doesn't make you feel overwhelmed. Because I know how it makes me feel. All void-y and let down and like maybe, just maybe, somehow I got short changed. Don't worry, I'm well aware that this whole post (up until now and probably on and on and on) is a snug Woe Is Me sweater. I get it. And tomorrow I'll be fine.

And if we're honest, I'm fine right now.

Kind of.