Own Weird Way

A few weeks ago I rummaged through a box of old letters and things from my dad, looking for a description of martial arts moves he wrote out for me, in exhausting detail, years and years ago. I thought they might be useful in self-defense training for my new job (more on that later…maybe). Naturally I was swept away in memories and spent the rest of the afternoon reading through the letters sent to me over the years; pale yellow pieces of paper filled with compassionate lectures and promises made in the distinctive, slanted penmanship of a convicted felon (two of my cousins went through a ridiculous inmate pen-pal phase and trust me, they all have the same handwriting…it’s a little creepy).

One thing you must understand about our relationship is that he went away when I was eleven years old. Our bond is sealed in bi-weekly envelopes and short, inconsistent visits. I guess in some ways I am still eleven years old.

But even before all that, childhood for me was not so much boy bands and sleepovers as it was Chess and cappuccinos. Evenings were cloaked in philosophical talks with Dad and I truly thought he knew just about everything there was to know- each word kept tightly clenched in tiny fists, locked away for safe keeping because I just knew I’d need to use all of that wisdom someday. The thing about Dad is he has no idea what it means to have a casual conversation, and he certainly didn’t have any idea how to relate to a young female child. Not on my level anyway. So I was always struggling to climb up to his.

Then I got older (as kids often do) and realized that perhaps Dad is less knowing than he is seeking. In the mind of a child- even an almost adult one- that can be a truly devastating realization. What was it that Steinbeck said? “There is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck.” Yeah, that’s it…  

I owe quite a bit to my dad. His carelessness unearthed my own survival instincts and his selfish actions inspired me to always strive for compassion. I inherited his relentless energy, which has provided a pretty solid foundation for my ambitious nature. He taught me many useful, albeit often age inappropriate things. I read Les Miserables when I was probably nine. I learned the fundamentals of driving a stick shift at such an early age that I forgot it all and now I can barely even drive an automatic! ;) He also suggested I read this book on how to teach yourself Calculus (that I still have…not opened) before I even mastered long division and he had me theorizing on the origin of life when all the normal kids were steady feeding their Gigapets.

I can recall a time in my early teens in which he sent me a damn near ten page letter detailing various Chess strategies. Quite frankly, all I really cared to master at that age was how to put some nice looking guitar pickin’ fella in check mate, ya dig? But the point is his heart is usually in the right place when it comes to his children. I respect and appreciate him for that. I am thankful to have a father who, despite screwing up big time, found a way to be a dad regardless…in his own weird way.

I find it strangely impossible to fully explain who I am without relating it all back to good ol’ Dad. Well for starters, we are both hyper active narcissists with bi-polar tendencies and a self deprecating sense of humor. For years, I idolized the genius I wanted to believe was my father so that I would not have to hate the weaker man whom I suspected lay deep beneath his overwhelming presence. I don’t know how to discuss this without giving away too many details that are really not mine to give away, but suffice it to say that the choices he made- the ones that eventually directed him into the animalistic life of structure and obedience he must now live- epitomize the raw disgust I have for certain humans and their abuse of emotional and/or physical power over others.

I have spent years struggling to understand and accept the severity of my dad’s crime(s). Even now, it is difficult to divulge so much information to you without immediately trying to follow up with some kind of defense or explanation for his actions. And the only reason I am sharing so much is because my journey through this piece of my life is precisely the reason I am able to sit here (at almost midnight, coffee cup to my left, school work being procrastinated on) and tell you that I genuinely like the woman I am becoming. She is good people. I welcome the future because I know I can count on her… well I’m about 85% sure I can count on her and that, my friends, is a passing grade.

Desvanecerse

A short story.

Desvanecerse

Rena

I lay in bed, immersed in foolish thoughts, letting my heart beat to a Mazzy Star song. Elliott climbs up next to me and places one of the earbuds in his ear, humoring me as he rests his head in the crook of my elbow. We lie there like that for several minutes, silently breathing the same air; listening to the same soft acoustic tune. No worries. No expectations. Only the moment.

He shifts his body closer to mine (I am not even tempted to flinch) and casually plays with the tips of my fingers, letting his own dance lightly along them with the eloquence of a concert pianist. His eyes will not meet mine but he is smiling and for a moment I am convinced he enjoys the music as much as I do. But I know better.

Then the song changes, a quicker pace now. And the moment is lost, evaporated almost as suddenly as it came. Smoky vapors linger but that is the only proof it even existed. He rolls toward me in a light hearted attempt to reach me on a level I cannot be easily found. Our fingers brush as he stretches closer but there is always that centimeter of space between us. We revolve around the same sun but we do not collide.

Desperation hugs onto the air molecules so tightly they begin to suffocate. Part of me knows if I pushed just a little harder I could ease the room of all its suffering, but I lose my grip too soon. His strong arm is a faint silhouette in the distance, reaching as far as it can go. I consider holding out my hand once more but the fall feels too much like flying.
I simply close my eyes instead.

Elliott

Rena sleeps with her back to me, so close I can taste the clean musk of her skin and yet too far away to touch. My love is always most pure in these starlit moments. It is not busy and affectionate as it often is in our waking hours; not frothy with passion as we fumble over buttons and door handles, trying to reach some kind of understanding. The night brings forth a simple, unavoidable humming; a kind of reckless admiration that holds no secrets…no lies and no truths.

I listen to her breathing and watch the way her shoulders rise and fall with every breath. The undulation is graceful and I realize with regret that it is the only action she doesn’t over think. Suddenly I am reminded of June Miller. How Anaїs and Henry both agonized over the possibility that June was merely a projection of their desires, a storyteller not with her pen like them, but with her body.

Without thinking I begin to trace the curve of her spine. She shifts her weight and I retreat. To awaken her would snuff out the magic. Asleep, she is not tense; prepared to brush away my advances and scoff at my desire. She does not rage and cry and tell me to go away, her black eyes shining with a sincere hatred that makes me question everything I’ve ever believed about love. No, in her fluid dream state she retracts those sharp defenses… She melts into my embrace and smiles when I kiss her cheek. In those short evening hours the moon illuminates the earth and I am enough to keep her.

Smile Aphrodite

So for the past two or three days I have been trying to locate this magnificent poem I read in a book either shortly after Bean was born or around the time we moved to Florida. I can’t exactly remember when it was, all I know is that it was a critical time in my life and the words of this particular poem just sort of leaped off the page, grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted, “Listen here young lass!” So I did. Unfortunately that’s all I did. I failed to write down the words or even memorize any of those life-defining lines I so crave to read again. The English translation of the poem is called “Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name” by a Sami poet named Marry A. Somby.

The title is enough to make me nostalgic, pulling me right back to that moment in time. I can feel the tug of the words lulling me into a kind of merciful depth but I can’t remember any of the words or even really the content of the poem, only the feeling it gave me. My strange selfish memory allows me to recall sensations but rarely details.

So instead of obsessing about this poem for yet another day I thought I’d share my own, in honor of National Poetry Month. It’s somewhat of a coming of age poem, I guess. I wrote it this morning over breakfast because somehow in the midst of shredded wheat and pomegranate tea, I came of age. Not really, but I have been doing some spiritual branching over the past few weeks and this is sort of a marker of my growth. A Soul University progress report, if you will.

Smile Aphrodite

Rise sullen angel, your fortress awaits

Over valleys that sneer;

 A most charmed kind of place.

Relax bitter maiden, king is far from his throne,

He’s sweeping the floors

In Burberry cologne.

Smile Aphrodite! Raise a toast to the past.

But you’ll taste bitter tannins

If you drink from the glass.

Take note sparrow bride or you’ll never be more

Than fingers crossed in your pocket

And one foot out the door