Category Archives: Relationships

Subsequent To


art Shang Chengxiang

1.

I’m not interested in teaching ways to love or even how to think it up.

2.

I can’t teach you about sacrifice or about how many times we die in this life while we’re alive raging in this deteriorating flesh.

3.

I want the unreasonable and clever aspects of existence to clinch among the goodness and omitted parts of one another.  I want for them to discover the undiscovered.

I want to be taught and be on the receiving end of the million and one things I don’t know like why roses guard themselves by using thorns or why immortality comes on slow but heavy with disdain.

4.

I won’t allow others to share my prayer rug with me if I love in greater ways than them for I would be unfulfilled at an uneven heel feeling the disgust of unjust.

5.

I don’t want to feel less is more when it’s impossible for me to give in smaller amounts as I evolve.

-Pennington

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Under Constant Consideration 2


Under Constant Consideration Part 1

Dr. Endocrinologist referred me to a nurse educator who I believe holds dykeish (is this a word and did I spell this correctly?) qualities because she made jokes (that I didn’t think were that funny) yet blushed with tears flooding her eyes like she was on a date with me that lasted two hours according to her notes.  She even googled her address in front of me.  Then showed me the trail and mileage of when her and her daughter walked from home to school on their journey to lose additional weight. Odd, no?

Anyhow, she explained in more detail about diabetes, showed me videos and we went through the correct ways to use a One Touch Verio.  Lastly, she informs me that I can get rid of the diabetes since it’s in the early stage.  Then goes on to assume I eat white rice and beans because I’m Hispanic.  I said, “No I’m Italian, and that’s where diabetes came from; you know the pasta.”  She chuckled.  I think we left off great after that date because she said if you ever want more education, just make another appointment to come see me.

*

Then there’s this psychiatrist who’s in the wrong field for the discussion subject of choice were forever about weight loss, even though at our last session she says,”Stand up.  Oh, you have lost weight” as she orders me to step on a hippopotamus scale.  She thought it her duty to give unsolicited nutritional advice in her horrible fucking Dolph Lundgren accent:  No peas.  No carrots.  Zero carbs.  Don’t eat carbs at all.  This includes sweet potatoes!   Maybe one day when you lose all the weight you can eat carbs again.  Don’t weightlift anymore.  Weightlifting makes you bulky.  You’ll never lose weight that way.  Only cardio!  Jump.  Walk.  You know what I’m saying.

Every session felt like I watched a bad sitcom with my presence in the hot seat as this insensitive cunt tried to tell me who I was based on 3 fifteen minute conversations we engaged in.  Then she tried to question my purpose in life, inquire if I ever soul search and spoke about people who sleep past midnight aren’t normal.  She took the cake by getting angrier than I was because doctors diagnosed me diabetic and it didn’t matter if it was the beginning stages.

There were many things that amused me about her terrible character, but what got me is the fact that she works in a mental health industry yet treats (many) patients (according to many who work in the building with her) like shit and never bothers to read anyone’s chart because she believes she’s too good to do so.  The thing with putting people in boxes is it isn’t accurate even though on the surface it seems the people you deal with are all the time, which I expressed to her.  Then I never saw the cunt again.

Thank god I’m not some shrimpy insecure person.  Thank god I don’t allow other people’s opinions to affect me or my life decisions.  Thank god I’m not a newcomer and have been weightlifting for over 13 years and swear by it.  So, I’m a professional yo-yo dieter, but I’ve also had my share of steady weight loss, conditioned fitness and extra curves that come with it.  I’ve always been proud, but I believe some people want to come in your life and not necessarily lecture or cast dirty spells on you, but they want to destroy whatever good you hold for their own reasons.  I swear that’s what it is.

*

An angelic bird, close partner and an acquaintance each whispered to see a podiatrist.  Once again I had to verbally fight for a referral to see a podiatrist and prayed for the doctor to be a woman for I could use thoroughness and words of light from maternal grace.  Well, I got a woman and one of the first things she mentioned was, “If you didn’t have diabetes, your insurance wouldn’t cover the orthopedic shoe cost.”  (Life, working in mysterious ways again.)  Goes on further to say:  With the shoes, both your ankles should feel stable; you’ll be even and wobble less since you’ll have built in arches.  You’ll experience less pain as you walk.  It’ll be good for you.

What this all boils down to is I’m still under construction.  This is probably why I haven’t written much on any of these blogs lately because I’m not in the best mindset and part of me doesn’t want to display the pessimism in every single one of my entries.

It’s disappointing, this long journey I’ve been riding on, how I continuously see this trend of people (doctors, therapists, psychiatrists, endocrinologists, etc) who are in these fields to assist and inspire people to live better healthier lives physically, emotionally, mentally, etc, but fail to do so.  How is it and when does it begin for some people that a job just becomes a job and not what it was intended for?  I guess I believe in practicality and being above and beyond with sensibilities like empathetic (empath) abilities along with a higher vision for existence depending on the occupation.

Still, I don’t want to take nothing away from the two people who did give me hope of course – the dyke nurse educator and podiatrist.  The first gave me positive pep talk, smiles, and probably touched me a few times too many since she thought we were on a date, but she came off focused, direct with the right balance of sincerity, care and concern throughout.  Or maybe she was just being extra nice to me because she enjoyed my presence?  Who really knows?  It doesn’t matter because she was one of the nice ones who did her job and assisted in the best way she knew how.

As for the podiatrist, she mentioned that the good thing about my foot/ankle dilemma is it’ll get better over time, not worse.  The little that she did say carried weight.  I needed to once again get the surge back, the kind where I can remain on the optimistic wave, so I can keep fighting and more importantly never give up.

-Pennington

Mother


destroying_mother_nature_by_williamorihama-d7ag83t

The fable of the world doesn’t exist.
Ask the hologram of his kiss.
The dreams we dreamt evaporated.
Ask the schemes of the advocated.
The blindfold is fool’s gold.
Ask time; it never grows old.

And although nothing can stay
I wish you were here today.

The moment arrives and befalls.
Like the highs and lows of cholesterol.
The things I wish for are transient.
Like the ambiance of accidents.
The faith in my chest is insoluble.
Like consolation in the uncontrollable.

And although nothing can stay
I wish you were here today.

The memories spin on its own axis.
And feelings give way to its blackness.
The wind whispers your sweet name.
And I’m allowed to say hi without blame.
The seasons change vast and fluid.
And warm and cold weather are reputed.

And although nothing can stay
I wish you were here today.

-Pennington

Bedevil


art jenny liz.jpg

It’s your birthday month.  Will someone bring on the Bacardi rum?  I no longer feel the sun since you’ve been gone.

 

I want you to trouble me, puzzle, muscle and rebuttal me.  I want you to disturb me, discern, immerse and return to me.  I want you to haunt me, taunt, flaunt and want me.

 

I think I found love with you.  I spoke to mourning doves about you.  I swear I found a home with you.  I even ask the honeycomb on my altar about you.

 

I think I found wholesomeness with you.  I’ve been at homelessness without you.  I swore I kissed the skies when I was with you.  I even ask my thighs why they cry now that I’m without you.

 

You put a love inside me I can’t get rid of and at times, you were my antidepressant drug, the one I sometimes dream of handcuffed, strangely enough.

 

I’ve been cold since we both disappeared.  I haven’t found my heart in two years.  Won’t you appear with your childlike light in my sullen atmosphere?

 

I had a boyfriend who cared about me but he came with his own limits, his own gimmicks and every minute he’s attempting to disguise low spirits with a million cigarettes.

 

He’s nothing like you and you’re nothing him and that’s just one problem.  You barely came with conditions or superstitious wishes, but you were the warmth and blood to my heart even when it rocked bottom.

 

And I look to the sky and I ask why.  I look far and I look wide and the answers were because I cried honesty rather than decide to spend the night with pride.  You made me work for forgiveness like I was some damn spy.

 

What if I asked you to send for me?  What if I asked for your body?  What if I admitted to my monstrosity?  What if every fear we own were given to prophecy?  Would it change the divinity of possibility?

 

I can’t forget the first glance that cemented our song and dance.  I can’t clean the scent of your home from my hands.  I can’t eradicate the taste of you from my throat glands.

 

What if I still loved you beyond this distance and chip on my shoulder?  How am I to know when my heart froze that last time in October when my entire life as I knew was over?

 

And if I show up at your door, will you come?

 

Trouble me.

Disturb me.

Haunt me.

 

-Pennington

Thai Terminal


friends

Written previously, recently revised.

We welcomed each other first with high spirited voices talking into our cell phones and waving from across the street like lost little kindergarten classmates.  Then we greeted like sisters with tight long bear-hugs in the same way we always have because there are a few things in life that never change.  I could hear her wailing happiness beating from her gut than her chest and out into the public and onto my ear.  I smile in her hair with immediate joy but reserved the sound of my joyfulness.

Xyza is an undercover mentor, a maternal-like figure, full of flashes of hippie love, extraordinary kindness and massive angelic light that illuminates from her aura.  I’m also an undercover mentor, half in age, full of loyal compassion, extraordinary hospitality and thoughtfulness that leave the innocent light on in the darkness of which I grow.

In the center of this embrace I reflect over our countless meet-ups and how it never fails, my constant awkwardness in the hub of sharing love and how despite iself, I’m genuinely able to digest her white magic, even if it leaves me depleted afterward.  Xyza looks tenderly beautiful with her strawberry blonde shoulder-length bob.  I compliment her on the new length when she declared, “I had a vision of myself twenty years from now, me with long gray hair and a flower in it off to the side.”

I love the visions she shares with me.

We settle in a Thai restaurant not far from her parked car.  Upon sitting, the server asks, “Are you tourists?”  “No”, we replied.  Xyza turns my way inching up her nose until it crinkles with a question, “How come everyone thinks I’m a tourist?  I was born in New York, but live just outside the city.  I guess.. because I travel a great deal.”  I nod in agreement and chimed, “Your aura never has that grounded feel from being in one place too long.”

But, with me it’s totally different; I’m a New Yorker who’s considerably considerate whereas I allow people to hit me with their bags as I stand overt with an introverted atmosphere on the train or bus.  Unlike Xyza, my roots are established in New York and it’s on display when I talk about my suspicions concerning the worldview.  I may come across as myopic, but I consider myself to be purely grounded.

Thirty minutes of conversation and I’ve been following Xyza’s lead because she’s paying so I never lay a finger on the menu.  The server comes over to nudge us politely – then Thai Chive Pancakes, Vegetable Spring Rolls and a glorious Mango Salad along with unsweetened ice tea lands sweetly before our eyes.  I continued following Xyza’s lead and didn’t touch a single carrot slinky.  I sat glued in passivity to the tales of my friend.

*

I listen to her speak about her ex-husband and how she’s pretty sure a demon owns him.  I listen when she said she knows of two men who have transcended beyond the physical and how they both married wonderful women, but not perfect women.  (It made me wonder, what constitutes a perfect woman according to a sixty-year old woman.)  I listen on in when she said she doesn’t want to play the romantic game from a male’s physical perspective, nor does she have any desire to play the woman’s perspective which is to trap a man in a relationship.  Of course, I agree.  I believe life is too short to live conventionally.

When Xyza decides to come up for air, I volunteer my own discourse.

I speak about isolation from the world and if canceling my gym membership is the wrong thing to do because at least this is a place where I can maintain some social skills.  I speak about having elevated to a place where physical sex is no longer an obligation of mine, nor is it ever a want.   I speak about the tiny things that make me happy like being by the water, the vision of living in a beach house single with two pets:  A husky dog and a petite cat.  I speak about not understanding the point of being in a relationship with men when being the opposite gender I’ve yet to connect and remain on the same wavelength.  I always feel superior.

*

We understood each other the way women and friends frequently do and we continued to eat, sip, laugh and talk the summery night away.

-Pennington

Reminiscing Mother


Me and Mom

1963-2014

My new therapist wants me to open the mystery door about my mother’s death because apparently I’m not depressed enough for her.  Ha!  It’s been a little over a year and a half and I still haven’t come to terms with how I feel about my mother’s death except I’m happy she’s no longer suffering in this cruel world.

Sometimes I go to the river by the busy highway and speak to her directly or through the universe.  I light candles for her in her honor every few months.  My partner and I get her blue flowers also as tribute.  At times, I believe, one reason why I cemented my journey and involvement with ballet-inspired workouts is because I remembered in her childhood she wanted to be a Ballerina, so I honor her by learning and performing ballet.  Last, but not least, I hung her last painting high up on the wall of a bridge over water over a plush purple night that looks a lot like the bridge I eerily live close to nowadays.

And I’m not sure if because death came and went, or because of my denial, but it’s pretty weird how the older I get and the more I stare in the mirror, the more I realize how much I look like my mother’s daughter.  I guess everyone saw it before me.  Maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough before.  Who knows?

The truth is I haven’t been able to sit down and stare longer than five seconds on any of my mother’s photos.  I’ve seen a lot of her different dimensions at different times and the longer I stare at a photo, the more all those dimensions pop out and the more I may have to relive memories that leave me open and scarred.

The longer I stare, the quicker my eyes start to flood and the quicker I start to counter and strain to contain the waterworks.  I’m not a sappy person.  I don’t forget my cruel childhood, but death has a weird way of sitting you down and making you think about your mortality and everybody else’s even if you don’t want to sit down and think about it.  And even though I can be heavily into death itself and metaphysics and pits of darkness, it seems at the age of thirty-four death seems realer than ever.

*

Death has also made me think more about how ending memories are probably the most important ones.  This intrigued me because I’m all about beginnings, so for closing memories to leave a devastating mark haunts me.  What’s worse is I didn’t even get to say goodbye while she was conscious.  By the time I went to travel to the hospital to see her I was in a wheelchair with a very painful throbbing ankle in a heavy cast.  It was hell for my foot to not be elevated, but I believe I was numb inside from my mother’s death.  So much was taken from me in a matter of weeks from mobility and now her.

It was awful having the knowledge of how the doctors had to sedate her until she was finally gone because the pain in her intestines would be too much for her to handle.  And that’s what hurts the most.  I think about how hard her life has always been.  I think about all the times I didn’t want to be happy in my own life because I felt guilty because she was always out there suffering with an incurable disease.  My last memory of her alive was observing her writhing in massive pain.  I knew in the way she talked, it was psychologically different from anything I’ve ever heard her say.  In her words, in the way she spoke she was already gone.

It was hard to stomach mentally and it was harder to stomach visually how she could no longer go to the bathroom on her own and how the nurses were the ones bathing her in the room on her bed.  But on the last day I saw her I caressed her hair.  I remembered kissing her on her warm forehead telling her I’ll visit again very soon, but soon after I broke my ankle and I was already far far away from reaching her.

My mother was dying since I was nine years old.  I became desensitized to every near death and actual near death experience she’s ever has, so when this became the day, it was as if life played a hardcore prank on me.  It just seemed like every time she survived another one and another one and another one, but not this time.

Who knew that was going to be the last time I saw her talking or breathing?  Who knew that would’ve been the last kiss I gave her on her warm forehead?  I think some people have fantasies about how they want people to go before they die.  I always thought I’d see her one last time with my brother in the hospital room and we would both take turns saying, “We forgive you for everything.  We know you did the best you could.  We’ll always love you.”

But nothing ever turns out the way you expect in life and that’s just how it is.  So now I think about the other ending memories, the ones way before she went back into the hospital for a gazillion time.  I think about how even though I didn’t have the best relationship with her throughout my life, she did branch into a second mother towards the ending of her life.  She was a newer mother, better mature.  During that process, I believe a big part of her learned to really appreciate me because I was there to the end unlike my brother who stopped showing up to the hospital and didn’t even come to see her at her own funeral.

*

I’m left with the ending memories like how I did visit her more often in the hospice.  How I left the house with $50 bucks one day and took her to a street fair where I bought her food, had her play games until she won a stuffed animal and I went back home with a $1 in my pocket.  At the time, for a moment I was upset, but I quickly thought about how she wasn’t going to be around forever – so this is something I’m supposed to do and it was something that came out of my heart anyway.  Plus I wanted her to have a good time and not worry about death coming closer and closer.

I think about the ending memories and how I would take her out on pass for a few hours to enjoy new foods, to get her soda and cigarettes, to enjoy the sun and we would sit in the park and watch the hot guys play soccer.  I think about how for a very long time before I even thought about taking her out and seeing her often, for a time I stopped seeing her altogether.  I stopped seeing her for so long with the intention to make her suffer like she did me and when I came in the hospice room she hugged me tightly and cried so much.  I was still pretty numb at the time.  I’ve always been.

I never thought she felt like that about me – love.  Or how my friend (who now is my current partner) passed me a cigarette behind her back while we walked to the pizza shop out on pass and she scolded him lovingly, “Are you getting my daughter into smoking now?”  And that was the first time in a long time where I thought, “Hey, she must care about me.”

-Pennington

Individuality of One


tigra

I don’t want to teach.  I don’t want a leech.  I don’t want you hanging over my head like a gorgeous chandelier.  I don’t want you knowing anything about my severe bipolar gears.  I don’t want your arm wrapped around mine.  I don’t pine when impermanence is exorbitant and stands like an almighty saint on my shrine.

I don’t want every moment to be bursting of sunrays.  I don’t want to use you for every essay.  I don’t want your breath around me twenty-four hours a day.  I don’t want any part of your happiness or your pity party or blame.  I don’t want to share our pains and heavy existential hurricanes.  I don’t want to be the “ex” to your exclaim.

I’m not into pacts by blood or marriages and certificates.  I’m not into the mothering and the smothering of willingness.  I’m not into decreasing my space into a tiny box to suit anyone or anything because I am ubiquitous.  I’m not into cuddles that make a person feel connected to humanity.  I’m not into systems manufacturing normality.  I’m not into turning a blind eye to lesser insanities.

I’m not into him and hers and the chest of drawers.  I’m not into sacrificing my time and energy for you and yours.  I’m not into folklore when trying to coexist has been known to set across great wars.  I’m not into careless tongues that mouth everything undone. I’m not into romantic love and the drug it promises only once you dare to plunge.  I’m not into the togetherness of us, but the individuality of one.

Pennington

MEDS


drugs

God.  I apologize to everyone.  I haven’t been inspired lately.  I write on the side when I can (and I suppose I can put up all my Part 2 postings that were to be continued despite how awful they read?), but it’s hard to feel like I can write something blog-worthy and share it with the rest of you guys.  I can only write from the heart or what I’m personally experiencing at the moment so I’ll share some recent events with you’s. How’s that?  Thanks for reading!

*

I’ve been on an interesting ride these last few years when it comes to seeing therapists and psychiatrists.  At the age of twelve I was diagnosed with Depression.  I had old features, black circles under eyes, razor cuts on my arms and protruding ribs from starving myself at the time to show for it.  However, decades later it seemed I’ve graduated a few years ago (2013) because now new psychiatrists and therapists have diagnosed me: Bipolar.  This explains all the wicked instant mood swings, triggers that were really landmines and how come many of my relationships as well as friendships have failed.

Of course I debated with these so-called experts about nature and nurture because I’m suspicious of everything and everyone that isn’t me.  I debated about all the things that come from my family’s blood and all the things that come from social disease and conditioning.  Still, in the center I fought with myself and knew the truth: There were cracks in the instances and in between all these instances is where I was getting worse.

I’d go into subterranean dark places for leisure, fun and to isolate myself from the world.  I’d write in essays, poems and prose my suicidal ideations which continued from childhood.  I’d meet with a new friend called anxiety again and again and again questioning the past, present and future concerning everything that became (or was) broken.  Was I going to make it another day in this physical realm? My other good friend (since I was 5) came knocking hard on my door and I’d go through all my cycles of chronic loneliness, hopelessness and meaninglessness and stare at the bottomless grief that arrives to taint and place a million holes in my mind, spirit and heart.

Those cracks in the instances became clear as well as my past history when I was going through one of my most tragic experiences at the age of 12 – signed over to two mental hospitals for over six months – I was fed medication for the supposed imbalances in my brain.  First was Prozac, and then came Lithium.  And of course, I didn’t agree with medication being fed to anyone less than 18 years of age, but my mother didn’t share the same views as her 12 year old.  I had zero control as any kid does at that age and was subjected to doctor’s tests, special diets, wondering what was love and how did it look like and was it true I wasn’t normal and these two medications would be the cure everybody else was looking for?

Prozac made me hyper – so hyper that cartwheels became my favorite thing to perform.  I couldn’t stop!  However throughout the day I’d have hallucinations (of what? I don’t remember anymore – but I’m sure I wrote about it in a lost book for the universe to know) and during the night when I closed my eyes to go to sleep I’d have white flashes come over my eyes like strobe lights.  And when I finally fell into deep sleep, the nightmares were horrible – once I dreamt of giving birth to a demonic alien baby.  (Why would a 12 year old dream of having a baby?)

After the hyperactivity, doctors thought to give me Lithium because my grandmother took it and they had reason to believe it succeeded. (I’m not sure how?)  But something tells me this was all a plot for me to lie on their silver platter to undergo a Spinal Tap procedure.  Lithium had its own issues and the dosage was higher – I had to take it 3 times a day.  With this medication came weekly blood work because mercury and other dangerous things a doctor wouldn’t inform you about were concerns. Then there were countless yeast infections my tiny body couldn’t handle.  Lastly, long-term usage meant my kidney and thyroid would be altered, better yet, damaged to a degree in the future.

So every time a current psychiatrist or therapist would bring up the idea of medication to balance the chemicals in my brain – it’s not a wonder why I would say FUCK NO for years on end!  But a few months ago before bringing on the New Year, I made one of the biggest decisions of my adult life and figured I’ll try medication to stabilize my moods and prevent sudden manic highs and lowly lows.  The reason why I decided to try it is because I’m committed to fixing all aspects of myself.

Then again, who’s to say I need fixing if it’s not someone outside me like a relative, a partner or a societal authoritative figure who keeps claiming there’s something about me I need to fix?

 

To be continued.

-Hall

Chewing Gum


chewing gum 2.

You know what’s to come. 
You hear war drums.
You heard about the hunter in me.
You know I’m butter toffee.
You heard I bruise egos.
You know I’m blacker than Negroes. 
You heard I have a million sins.
You know I don’t fix things.

You can’t stop yourself.
You like the pains and welts.
You know the sum of what’s to come.
You love my Puerto Rican in your rum.
You like the ecstasy and high I bring.
You enjoy how I leave you on brink.
You like the bountiful sex I give.
You love me so much to forgive.

You know exactly what’s to come.
You can hear the bass and thrums.
I can’t bring you safety baby.
I’m high, low, manic, crazy.
I’m not stupid to guard your heart.
I can’t even blueprint my art.
I can’t be like you:  Lost in love.
I’m dead inside – a little too tough.

You know shamelessly what’s to come.
Interestingly enough you’re off the cuff.
I’m going to hurt you like the others.
I’ll haunt like the suffering of mothers.
I’m going to give you a world of hurt.
I wouldn’t be able to without teamwork.
You heard of ruin and what’s to come.
Now you’re my next chewing gum.

-Pennington

Gluttonous Woman


image

Oh look at you!
You’re not an enigma so much anymore
But a Sunday crossword

Let him take a look at you
You know he’s a shark bobbing in water
Waiting for first blood

It’s no longer an imagination
You’re at the pinnacle of a tiny death
How easy the gain is when your body breathes and blazes

There’s no longer a battle when your hands are down by the waist
His kisses depressurize your face
Your God can’t save you from the orgasm of your gluttonous demeanor

The tides climb higher and higher
Hands rub: a special seasoning; you’re at the brink of the moon
A candle light flicks on a seed furiously

And a seven inch fishes out in the sea
You burst the milk out of white

-Pennington