64

doing nothing?
I'm told it is my prerogative. 

I got a tiny, syrupy taste of grace,
doing nothing for freedom's sake.

shame hardens like old frosting.
fear cuts a big piece out of birthday cake.

who will pay our day to day?
someone says he will, spouts numbers,
pleased with investments in Wall Street.

Doctor for 20.
Rx for 10.
1500 or more extra

House in 7 yrs 
except to insure

AARP:
"Social Security prevents starved, homeless,
not all of it."

In my head scary scenes wind up into stringy, random balls of yarn 
until the room is filled.
becomeing heavy,
matted weight gathering light til it's dark.
I'm mashed.
each day.
yearning for sweets.


 

A feeling, often called bored, is not.

It's not the correct descriptive adjective for the feeling called:

Bored.

Sitting around.
Donnwanna read,
donnwanna go somewhere,
donnwanna do anything.

My head is so bored I can't even concentrate on daydreams.
They seem to be flipping in my heart like old tvs in the 50's.
Flipping and static turn darker when the early evening descends,
announcing a flimsy end to a whole day wasted.
Through the day the fog hovered behind my eyes like a coming migraine,
and now settles on shoulders, sore for ages, shoulders getting worse,
probably needing a doctor's attention.
But that's too boring to care.

So, boring is not so boring.
Rather tense, looming, bitter.
Reeking of failure.

Looking forward to 8:00.
Earliest I can go to bed with no one knowing.

I'm miserable.

My Brother asked, does your Everything Hurt?

I've been thinking

*Shoulder hurts.relax body
ice
Tylenol

*heart hurts.
let go
breathe
be here now

*Head blurry.
rest
accept

*Fingertips tingling.
don't worry
don't dwell

*Forgetful.
so what

*Indecisive.
who cares, I'm retired

*Moody.
settle and rest
meditate that
I'm loved beyond all understanding.

*Procrastinating.
make a list
do the first thing

Not the worst week, but

Can I just say this?
I did not go to the hospital.

1. did not have work
2. did not have children to take care of
3. have an amazing, understanding, supportive husband
4. friends helped me hang on. listened to me cry, to my memories
5. understood CPSTD and brain scars from childhood maltreatment
6. knew meds could solve the breakdown
7. went horseback riding

I think if I stayed home, didn't do anything, I'd be ok.
That's what I think, that's what I want sometimes, 
Fool that I am, fool.

I am mentally ill.
I never have said it.

Breaking through denial hurts,
but there it is.

We Wait and We Wait

Then the thing rushes in at us, 
thick as fog, green as a storm. 

I did so well for so long. 
Since Thanksgiving.
Cold hard water troughs had to be hammered to let the water up for the birds.
Rain was cold and frost was jagged.

Solstice swept in with summer heat, then back to rain, 
dripping sprinkles light enough for a new lawn. 
So many birds feasting on grass seed 
that a second bag must be sown, then even more.

Each day we watched the tiny green blades fight towards the light. We stared and watched, finally letting it be,
knowing green blades would fill in, 
eventually was filling in in bare spots. 

Birds drifted away when their wild birdseed was not refilled.
We checked morning, noon and night...the growth is infinitesimal.
The gophers try to move the house.
Time is on their side.

Rain pours and pours and a foot step sinks,
a collapsed tunnel, now a low spot.
And a muddy shoe trips...a lumpy mole hill.
This kind of sturdy grass creeps on, growing through mowing, through muck.

That patch is not a lawn at all finally.
No flat to be seen, but not quite dirt either.
Land. Field. Yard. Driveway. Cold before Christ's birthday.
We live here? Right here? Garbage cans at the driveway?

I know childhood eyes can't see their older adulthood. Not even adults can; can't see nights spent drowsing, snapping to conclusions,
then drift again to a restless sleep until the next wondering wakes us. 
Sick with fear, colored blinding magnesium. So hot I'm shivering.

This year, last year, all the years; traditions.

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A while ago

A while ago I wrote the post below.
Now,
it is the third day after Thanksgiving,
in  a different year.
And,
I think I need a heart and head massage
and a back massage probably.

Do you think if I had a broken leg 
there would be anyone rushing over,
longing for, reaching out,
dying for connections?

Nah, I'm annoying.
But also wonderful.
Sometimes when I've annoyed,
I wish I'd been wonderful.

There was a heavy, soggy stick Penny chased into the ocean.
She keeps loping out farther than ever!
then races back to us with or without the stick,
in absolute joy!

My gray matter has scars that cause fear, loneliness.
I need to rest in that loneliness, 
not fight because it's inoperable
a physiological part of me,
and admit 
that Penny has been waiting for me,
quietly on the couch, 
for hours.

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I'm writing 

I'm writing on a Christmas card
the third night after Christmas,
because it's strewn here by my bedside
in a pile of unattended stuff. 
Everywhere you look in this house 
is unattended stuff.

I suppose I should be ashamed -don't care -
I want to care, that could lead to attempted cleanup.

This stuff will unwind itself eventually.
New Year's Eve is my goal.

This communicating thing. Can't do it.
Texts come though the phone with exclamation marks,
meaning what? 
I keep mine to "I love you!".

My fear was confirmed today: family not answering the phone.
Do they want to control the conversation, will not communicate now.
Will not.
Will not call back.
Will demand memorization of all emails, texts.
Will pout with disdain if I forget.


I'm scattered and unattending on a calm day. Forgetting is my bane.

I believe this with all my heart, God help me act.

Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

* Kahlil Gibran was a Lebanese American artist, poet and a writer.