Yesterday my favorite author passed away. I was late in hearing the news. I was vegging out with my best friend after a long day of work. I was instantly punched in the stomach with grief. All the wind escaped through every open pore. Those heart tears filled with passionate heat welled up and streaked from my eyes. I watched as Steven Colbert replayed an interview he had done with Maurice. All I could think of was: when an author dies, videos and sound clips aren’t released virally the next few weeks. You have the solid books and words printed in them, that’s it. For me, the characters in Sendaks stories were some of my best friends. They accompanied me from state to state, mile after mile, year after year. They never complained when my fingers were sticky. Not once did Max look up from where the wild things are and say, “I don’t like that shirt, or your hair cut.” They were characters and stories I could always depend on being the same reliable and flawed, yet learned statements and memories. When I was eleven, my parents decided to buy my happiness with a new drafting table and easle and the first thing I drew was a forest. My wild things forest. I filled it with all the rage and anger I had over my parents and their issues. I work on that scene for weeks. Then I meticulously painted in every color, ever leaf, every creature. And when I was finished, I set it on fire. I imagined that Max was rescuing everyone from demise in his boat. Funny, the things you never tell a soul. At seventeen, I wanted a tattoo to represent my love for all things Sendak. I was talked out of it, for this reason and that, instead settling on a tribal butterfly I had picked years before. Accomplishing all tattoo faux pas in one sitting. Tramp Stamp, tribal, butterfly. What a fucking cliche. At the time, it represented freedom, grace, rebirth, loss of control… Now I wish that a single tree sketched by Sendak was in its place. Tonight I thought of the last time I was at my mothers. I had come to stay back at the house we both owned (3 story, 5 bedroom) alone. She was leaving for the work. I thought about this habit I have. I shut every door and all the curtains and leave only the loft (where my mothers room is) open. Her door, her window. I then would curl up in her handcrafted bed, under her handmade quilt that smelled of baby oil, smoke and night magic and call my dog up and into the mattress. I’d read Wild Things & Where the Sidewalk Ends and pet my dog and smell my mommy and I’d feel safe and unafraid with my books and the essence of my mom. When an author dies, they don’t publish half finished works or incomplete stories. The souls only live on in the fragile pages that can meet their demise at ever turn. my heart breaks over three truth and finality of that.
illumination!
Express, express my wishes, my thoughts…Polar opposites with extreme differences stretched to either ends of the world. I’m looking to understand the unmapped territory. Trying to find the similarities so I can stop seeing you as despicable. i’m trying to humanize you and knock you off your throne. When you walk in a room, there’s a neon sign above your head that reads: “worlds best” and if I was going to express myself I’d ask: what’s above me? What is the sign that follows me everywhere? I just want to know what casts that bright illumination across your face… the one that is special for me. A look I only see you giving me.
(Source: reoccurringache, via wanderingant-deactivated2011120)
Valentines Day
I am 3000 miles away from 3/4 of the people I love. I came seeking treatment for the cancer they can longer seem to find. They gave me hope and a new lease on life with less medication, but they are holding me hostage. I sent a text tonight to my best friend, the man who’s kept me safe and sane these last months. “My pillow doesn’t smell like you anymore.” He asked if it had been cleaned. “No.” And I was suddenly struck with an emptiness. Relationships can fade like the scent on fabric, people can become nothing but molecules and atoms. We must work hard to leave behind something, a trail or a dent or a strand of who we are, what we stand for. I lose hair because of my illness… Everywhere. Like the breadcrumbs of Hansel & Gretel. Little strands of me filled with stories and history and love and loss and my DNA. I asked, “Are you still finding my hair in everything?” I couldn’t breathe as I waited for the answer. “No” would mean I’d disappear in a light second. You know, at the speed of light. Zoom or Zap or Kapow, or maybe it would be subtle. Like a gentle breath that blows away dandelion seeds or a smokeless poof or even a gradual disappearing act like luminaries or the stars as the sun rises. He took five long minutes to answer. I contemplated a trillion ways I would meet my demise. I thoughts travel much faster than light. “Not as much but yes.” I can breathe again. I’m still alive. My memory will live on as long as pieces of me still work their way out of the pillows, and shirts, and sheets I’ve been in at your place. As long as I’m still in your car and work bag and shoes my soul is safe.
My fingers constantly find skin. SOFT. DRY. SCARED. YOUNG. WEATHERED. BEATEN. HARD. STAINED. FRECKLED. COLORED. BLEACHED. Each with its own story. The conversation that happens between my fingertips and anothers skin is the most important ones I’ll ever have. I traverse the terrain like I’m meticulously writing a treasure map. I lightly run my fingers over a person until I find that apprehension that reveals a crack. Those cracks that, when followed as deep as they go, lead to a soul. I slowly and gently pour my love and light into that cavernous crevice. I mark that location with an “X” on my map.
My fingers are constantly searching for a hidden treasure.
And my truest treasure… well, I’ve buried deep in you.
self image: the perfect heart lips that sip slowly on sparkling water instead of these thin chapped ones that speak to quickly with out thinking in the accent I wish I heard instead of this semi southern drawl I have that speaks about the hair that’s straight and managed and perfectly kept instead of this outrageous and large head of hair I’m afraid to lose that has a short layer that grazes the tops of my shoulders that are covered in pale and perfect ivory skin that I wish I scrubbed in the tub with these fragrant bubbles in lo of the tanned, taught freckled skin that been weathered with life that stretches down to the perfect toes I long to teeter on instead of these wide feet that ruined my chance of becoming a ballerina.
I’m so angry at your lack of maturity and the pain that you cause by your asinine behavior. I’m erasing you because you’re on everything I have where I preoccupy my inner irritations: Twitter, tumblr, Facebook. I deleted you from my phone so I would stop pocket dialing you, and so I wouldn’t be able to text you when you PISSED me off. You intentionally take shots at me in a cyber world, so i’m intentionally going to avoid you in the real one. I systematically erased you from my life. However we are stuck in the same little town on this God forsaken island. You drink where I eat and I buy groceries from where you work. We both love the same coffee place and have those habits of buying fresh baked bread from the same bakery. I wish you would disappear with the new moon.
Big Beach October 30th 2011. One of the most beautiful beaches on Maui and for 20 minutes today (in the middle of the day, after a slight down pour) God cleared every single person from your sandy shore. I had crossed over the lava rock that splits little beach from big beach due to a chill in my bones from the rain. I was half way down the beach before I realized what phenomena had occurred. I was completely alone. I could hear the waves lapping, the birds singing, branches from the mountain shifting in the wind, there were deer grazing and the sound of drums were drifting over from the Sunday festivities. Not a single voice floated in the wind. From the north rock cliffs to the south rock cove every soul had departed. The rain had erased every footstep from the sand and because I had walked where the waves lightly kiss the shore, mine too were gone. For 20 minutes, I stood in awe that I was alone. This moment of solitude was a gift and I was reminded of my unique and special soul. I was breathless over being worthy of something so rare, so special. It was a literal 20 minutes before I was joined by another person. A single man entered from the path that runs from the parking lot. I rose up and walked over to him. Honestly, I think I needed a witness to validate the situation. I said to him, “In all my years here, I’ve never seen this beach deserted in the middle of the day. Will you please take a moment to stand with me and appreciate how amazing this is.” He sat his belongings down, held out his hand and with a heavy French accent replied, “Take my hand bella, dance with me.” So, I did. For a few moments I was a child again, spinning as if in a dream. He finished our dance by twirling me under his arm, into his chest and back out into the world. I made a curtsy like gesture to say thank you, he kissed my hand and wished me a beautiful night. I turned to the sea and I closed my eyes and instantly, I thought of you, of your face. I was sad because sometimes you are so lost in your routine. For years, your days have been roughly mapped. And recently you’ve seemed more and more weighed down. I wish more than anything I could have shared this moment, this feeling, this dance, this inspiration with you. God knows how badly you need it.
