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.
I sit and prick my finger with the thinnest needle I’ve ever seen. It feels as thin as a loose-leaf page between my fingers. This needle reminds me of the first time I tried to grasp what was taking place on the table after I let the alcohol dry and stomach lbs of anxiety to push a simple white surrender button that has no problem piercing me at its own inorganic intention. That bee-stinger reminds me of my family’s hang ups every time I glance over the medical history list and check off every sick inheritance. It’s one more thing to put on the death record. The son of a bitch needle reminds me of where my life has been and where it’s going.
I think about who I’m becoming? I think about the coincidences that tie into another coincidence like a necklace and how I never believe much in coincidences or in necklaces that are meant to break with the purpose and strange intent to try and shake up my faith. I believe in life’s orchestration and in every gift given by higher sources. I think about my faith, motivation and temperament. How much fight I have in me? How to keep positive mantras by the altar of my heart and how to deal them out as needed, as well as how to go about feeding my spiritual backyard with water when it’s looking dry as a bone due to inner turmoil.
The small round dot of red reminds me of a ladybug. I believe the ladybug is searching for answers life can’t always give while I’m still breathing, punching and kicking alive. The ladybug is on a quest for numbers in low ranges and metabolic disorders to be of order. I’m checking my blood sugar, but I call her ladybug because it verbally and visually sounds prettier than the faults I hold as a human. The New Year brought me diabetes and I’m not sure how to feel about this progressive disease that had a lot to do with taking my mother’s life.
What does the bigger picture hold?
The surgeon says, “Are you aware diabetes further affects the ligaments.tendons in your foot and how your foot heals from surgery?” I don’t take advice from anyone who butchers human bodies for a living because even though what they do for a living can be helpful, there’s something inhumane about cutting into human bodies. Let alone, the discord for why surgeons lack brainpower, logic sense, human emotion and emotional intelligence. I can’t tell you the countless times I’ve been in his cold office and every single time I’ve felt like I was touched and centered by a black-hole; the entire light of my thirty-something being vanish in a space where I was beginning to be invisible to myself.
Then there’s my primary doctor who’s younger than I and mentally more fucked than I am says it’s in the controlled phase, don’t worry so much she blurts carelessly. Is she telling the 29 million Americans with diabetes not to worry too? Yet in the same session casually mentions how her supervisor said you would be a good candidate for bypass surgery as if I resemble a hippopotamus of sort. Anyone who hacks into human bodies for a living with a scalpel is god-awful fucking people. No thank you I know how to lose weight on my own even though these gargoyles of depression won’t get off my shoulders and every painful step and every stretch of my Achilles heel is a partial reminder where the mess of my life went awry.
So I asked for a referral to see the endocrinologist, which took me a year plus to get because I didn’t become a candidate until the diabetes clock decided to tick its way in because a 40lb weight gain in a 2 year span doesn’t constitute as a person having a real problem other than depression or hatred in America. So, do I consider the diabetes to be a blessing in disguise? Well, I certainly believe it came on time!
Now Dr. Endocrinologist doesn’t dish any hope at all, but he talked openly about his country, how poor he was as a kid and how he’d go hungry and learned the power of discipline through starvation unlike the Americans who have every convenience and option rolled out for them like a red carpet. He went on to say I know I’ll get diabetes eventually because it’s hereditary, but I do my best to prevent it by not eating all the wonderful fatty and carby things I would love to eat now. Then he wrapped up with a spiel of willpower and the difficulty most people have when it comes to willpower. And I kept looking at him, like do you know who the fuck I am? Then I realized no this is your first meeting and he talks like his because he doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall, so I don’t hold his appalling lecture personally.
He goes on to say 50% of your pancreas is shot and will never work the way it once did. Then right away I felt like a dying tulip on the side of neglected roadkill sitting on the thought of my pancreas dying a whole ten years prior according to him. The only thing I did agree with is the way his eyes lit up with sinful fire as he said, “What is wrong with your primary doctor? It’s crazy for her to mention bypass surgery for 3 reasons: 1. That’s not a solution. 2. Most people lose 50% of their weight the first year, but gain it ALL back because most people aren’t disciplined. 3. You don’t even know the basics of endocrinology.
To be continued..
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.”
The chord of my guitar
Lie on my forearm
And I’m almost there
And the sound is constant
How I suck your breath
Draining your life
I’m almost there
Putting you to sleep
Like how you did me
My voice is coming back.
I figured, I ironed my hair flat
Get on a straight groove
Create great moves.
Fuck the past!
There’s nothing there,
So, don’t ask.
My brother disappeared
To somewhere in Long Island
With a fat neurotic wife
Who handed my brother to her psychiatrist
Off like a diamond
Of over thirty years to see
Nothing that wasn’t there.
Now, he’s abandoned
The only family affair
He’s ever had in thin air.
People should be placed under suspicion
Because life is stranger than fiction.
My mother died,
A few months ago
And it was an unpleasant surprise.
All the memories
Because subplots rot
And you never thought
The ending was euphoric
Or that the present could be historic
In all the future
Things you will ever do
Or never not put in review.
I’m no longer scared of anything.
I experience all the good and bad
And come out tougher
And freer living on
Life’s golden wings.
And no I haven’t forgotten about my WordPress. Or any of you great people who have faithfully read and still come through to like/comment or message me privately about my work, theories and the likes. I appreciate it! YOU, YOU YOU and everything in between to the fullest. So a big warm “Thank You” comes from me to all of you. Thanks for sticking with me even when I least expect it. 😉
As of lately, I’ve just been a Hot Mess and doing my best to regain my sense of Self or even Purpose for that matter? *Sings* I’m losing my religion. But I’m here for the moment and decided since I haven’t written anything in what seems like forever.. I’d share with you a poem I’m working on. The current title I have may change (and so may the poem itself) but it’s under: Don’t Chase Me Round.
And everywhere I turn, there you are.
In a stranger’s laugh, a toddler holding mummy’s hand.
In every expression I vouched No to a Drug.
Every Death I yearn in a suicide of a leader’s band.
The map of my blood, the brother I disown as my own.
And you there when I try and sleep while holding the moon.
And you there when I wake up early day getting burned by the sun.
Bringing me to hell of a state of such Doom by Womb.
It was in the heart of New York City
I lost my mind
And yet to find
The contract I signed
I’ve the southern hospitality
Of a country land
Living closely with grace from dignity’s hand
Out in the distance
I keep an eye on misery’s demand
For memories like pistons
Revolutionize on commands
Place your finger on the gun
Fight for your right
And for your purpose by the sun
The last days can be for living
But when death knocks on the door
Are you willing To be forgiving?