Monday, March 26, 2012

The overlooked

I've just come back from a visit with my sweet mom.
As she's getting older, her health is changing and the experience of this has me thinking of how much I love her and want to spend as much time with her as I can. In between the times that I visit, I want to think about the rooms she moves through during her day.

I decided to take pictures of some of the discarded areas and areas that aren't designed to have their pictures taken. I think they carry as much information about my mom as the obvious places that hold what's pretty.

This is a very little mirror my mother has hung with a push pin in her spare bathroom.

Yes, it is sweetly, this small.

The little boxes, paperwork and books below the microwave, they have been there for years, I don't know if my mother remembers why they were once important or if they still are. They have become part of the scenery of a home, like so many things can. The kitchen utensils that hang here, they aren't used, they're part of the "artful" presentation set up with the margarita glasses that are there just for color.

Behind a garden chair on the back porch, a can of wood finish and other forgotten containers from projects past. They sit in the dried flower petals of the bouginvillea bush from the side of the house, that have blown to rest here.

Before my mother lived here it was my grandfather's home. This shed is a remaining piece from that time. For me, it represents what the memory of someone can become after they leave, no longer refreshing your memory with new images. It seems sad but there is such a beauty in the falling apart of memory and the forgetting that follows. It's what so many poems are written about and cried over.
This is my favorite. My mom has just left and should be back shortly.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Bedrock

At my friends birthday party a man was singing a song about the time in a person's life when one realizes they aren't going to be famous and change the world in some big way. He sang how it's a time of disappointment, maybe sadness.

In my own life I remember this moment and how it brought on disappointment and the feeling of shrinking into unimportance. But it's evolved into something different. Not that I don't still have my moments of wanting to create with word or picture, a life of influence in the world. But now I think about all who have passed before, tens of thousands of years worth of people. People most of which were and are completely forgotten.

So when I visualize my passing, what it means, will mean to others, etc, etc. I think this: That which is remembered is built on the back of that which is not. We the forgotten, cover this earth from one end to the next. We are the bedrock that holds the built up memories of the so very few. So it's OK to be the dust in a box whose grave stone no longer stands.

besides

Restless with anxiety I'd rather not feel about stories I'd rather not think about. There is a storm outside that has not yet let loose. For the last hour and a half all we've gotten is a bit of lightening and a lot of vague thunder. But it's clouded up and gotten cooler. I'm waiting.

A dog keeps coming to me with wet, cloth toy in mouth asking me to throw it. The other dog sits and chews a treat and my cat cleans herself on the window sill, I assume listening to the thunder too.

I've often rattled around nervously like this, with an inner vexing that rubs till I'm raw. It's a feeling of something coming for me like a blurry monster from my childhood that I should be busy being an adult about, doing adult things in order to avoid. To forget it's constant presence, no matter how vague, always there. Everyone seems to be running from something.

Most everyone I know runs, can't sit still and alone without the TV or noise of some sort in the evening. Needing to do, people to see, something to create. It's a tiring business. For me it really brings up a feeling of how meaningless life is. Not in a, committing suicide, depression kind of way but more of a, oops, we have the wrong idea about what's important way. Anyways, I'm not the first to make a point of it.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Complaints

You're rustling through the park like old dry leaves again. It's not even Fall but here you are in the wind, pushing along the sidewalk. And even though you sound like a lonely, scraping leaf, you will always remind me of early summer.

Regardless of the ragged hole I believed you tore into me after walking away, when you conveniently forgot to untie all those lovely little heart strings I tied to you. Or, tied to what I made up about you. I still see you with dog by your side watching, waiting impatiently as I soak up your image like a photo, to save for a near future in which you will be no more.

I was always terrified by my premonition of my loss of you. You were gold you see, I coveted the immense newness of my wealth, knowing I would lose it all when the market of your affections plummeted. I thought to jump from a window, leaving a note with my Secretary saying, "Send word to my stockbroker, I've jumped in spite."


You've hidden so much of yourself inside your ever thinking mind. Stretching wide, you fill yourself full of words that all eventually come together in a scheme that will always leave me feeling hungry for more of something you only gave sparingly.

Despite my complaints you will always hold such a massive if not horrific acreage in my life. Because of the few gems you gave, I made you an epic masterpiece. And I have written about you before as I have now and no story really describes the immensity as I know it, nor will the 10th, 20th or 33rd story I write after this.

Maybe when I die I will become a transparent glob of ectoplasm carrying stories told by emotion and image, if this is so I will try to play myself like a movie reel for the pleasure of those who would like to feel what my brief wealth was like. But I can't imagine any of the stories ever ending without the audio of old dry, rustling leaves.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

lonelier than normal

I touched myself like a lover, not in the way you may be thinking. I brushed my hand down my stomach, to my waist then hip. For a moment I thought I was somewhere else, someone else. I was being touched and surprised by my own hand. It's been so long since another person has reached for me with intentions thus and now I feel alone, knowing how lonely I am.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

oily dark bears

I drove the ragged car over the jagged and jutted tracks made by big burly trucks, cycles and what have yous. I crashed just before the far hill that I couldn't keep my eyes off of no matter what was right in front of me.

I wanted my tank car to spill it's oil all over the jagged and jutted tracks so I would need to creak open my battered door and walk in my flip flops through the beautiful brambles, milk weed and black and blue berries.

I could stumble upon a oily dark bear, startled by my human thrashing. I would stand there staring at my potential death and think, "I'm supposed to lie down and pretend I'm dead so that I may not die." I would wonder which is better, to die pretending to already be dead or to die standing in witness, this bear threatening in it's bear way with growls and whatever sounds it makes before it eats something or decides to walk away.

I could experience the end of either the encounter or my life. I would stand there waiting for a terrible pain, for nothing or for everything. Laid out on some life platter of decisions I would stand there feeling very alive and none of it would matter either way the bear chose to act. Out of hunger or disinterest, this thing, life, would inevitably stumble on with me as I am or as I am not. And maybe in a week or two someone would find my flip flops and wonder why someone would leave their shoes there.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

a flutter in sleep


The other night I was asleep and I felt a flutter and then something fairly large land on my chest. I immediately woke and pushed it off me. I sat up and said to my partner, "There's a bat in the house!"

I don't know how I assessed this situation to be bat related so quickly and while asleep but I guess I know my bats. It took a couple of minutes to confirm the fact and after a little while I was able to get the bat into a smaller room and then a smaller one still.

As I quickly closed the door of this last small room in order to contain him so I could open a second door and set it free, it fluttered around me and gently landed on my back and held on to my shirt for 30 seconds. It had such a gentle soft weight, I felt privileged to have this brief connection with this precious animal who's specie is in such jeopardy to a sickness that's wiping them out by the thousands.

I opened this second door to the night and off it fluttered to catch bugs. I'm so glad I had this experience.


If you would like to learn more about this problem concerning bats Google White Nose Syndrome.