tinkering

education and cynicism and life experience haven’t turned me into an atheist or an agnostic just yet. questioning my beliefs is something i do everyday all day, including my religious beliefs. i try, and often without success, to operate on a level that is integrated, all actions stemming from beliefs, all beliefs stemming from convictions and faith, all assessments of actions rooted in a self-contained matrix of learning. i don’t like catholicism. point blank, it’s been too corrupted over time and has lost its purity. but i still identify myself as catholic.

epic – one more entry left unfinished.

aelita 1 Tied and Tickled Trio

he came to an ocean, his soul in his hand

alone and turned in, to make his last stand

he stood on a rock and yelled to the wind

i don’t know how to live, i only do what i can

the wind screeched in kind, its protest of will

he threw back his head and heaved dry and shrill

the paean carried off on the crests of the waves

and he dove for the rocks and braced for the chill

falling through mist and the damp of the sea

he opened his arms to sound his decree

to a diving gull plunging down for a kill

this is my will and as i will, it will be

passage was offered, but he chose to swim

sodden with guilt, the sage rushes in

again as before, ventured off filled with fear

glistening wet with the thickness of sin

soaked through with blame self-imposed and contained

a great hole in his hand, his innocence stained

murky clay eyes; fragile, torn paper skin

weary with all his past joys abstained

the surface drew near, both clear and dark

a peace filled his chest and he aimed for his mark

there below waits his truth and his reason

guised as a game, an adventure, a lark

the waters of timeless appeal splashed all around

fruition, delight, and rapture profound

he consumed, voracious infant at breast

chaos ensued but he heard just one sound

calliope’s aria, streaming through hadal and brine

his Nemesis, his antithesis, exoneration divine

inverse, though perverse, extends her pale hand

this fruit, suspended from the tip of an ill-fated line

surrogates

blood thins, cords spin, warp

snap by distance. devotion.

by proximity

hello

i’ve been allowing my thoughts and emotions to pass unobstructed. it’s been a steady stream of both happy and troubling phases. and as i was cleaning out the space under my desk half an hour ago, something grabbed my ankle and i was pulled under a tidal wave of sadness. i didn’t see it coming and i wasn’t prepared for it in any way. i can’t communicate the weight of my sadness right now. it’s a chill that twinges my throat and expands to leaden my limbs. every faculty but sorrow is rendered numb. i can barely form thoughts that are intelligible to me. i’m unable to manipulate myself with logic and i know i’m in checkmate and i have to allow this to run its course.

just because i know what an anniversary reaction is and how it functions and that it will pass doesn’t make it any easier for me to be in its midst. me knowing that the images, memories, thoughts that are on perpetual replay are a normal part of this doesn’t make them less agonizing to a person with vivid and detailed memory. and when you add guilt to that bitter tonic, you forcefully poison yourself.

knowing that it’s normal for me to feel prostrate by my grief doesn’t make my throat burn any less when the tears threaten to trespass. knowing that in a few days, or even possible a few hours, i could feel perfectly fine does not help me to not want to curl up in a fetal position and dissolve into myself right now.

you can never forget the sinking feeling in your heart when you expect to see and hear a heartbeat and get neither. only an innocently curled up image of what should be a brief slumber. and the week of wait while you try to block out the reality of the proximity of death but force yourself to bear it because to ignore it is an indignity to a life that was. and trying not to put yourself in the position to be the one feeling life slip away. was there pain? was there fear? was there fight? and one friend has a baby that would be the same age. and two cousins have babies just a bit younger. and a friend gave birth this week. and another is just about to. and because i am knowledgeable, i am often approached about the ins and outs of new motherhood. it only serves to grind the millstone and i extend my advice as generously as possible, never betraying my lingering heartbreak.

and where one drop escapes the clouds, the rest follow close behind.

and you can never wipe out what you beheld as a child and you come to understand that your compassion for those who suffer comes only from having seen suffering. and in a brightly lit hospital room in my mind, seeing the great-uncle that claimed you as his granddaughter try to hide his face and pride as he coughed blood into a metal pan. and remembering the still and quiet moment when his apologetic eyes connected with yours while fretting aunts propped him up on pillows and served him useless cups of water. he had no way to extend comfort. shooed from the room by uncles, who themselves were unable to remain unaffected, and thinking ‘i can’t fix it.’

and you can never forget a father’s last tender kiss on the cheek the week before he is no longer able even to speak. even when he is only actually your aunt’s husband, irrelevant in heart ties. and thinking to yourself, ‘i want to wipe away the moisture he left behind on my face’ and coming to the sudden realization that no part of his physical being will exist for much longer and so you leave it to dry on your cheek. and you will always know that the last thing he ever said to you was that he loved you and it soon becomes the only thing you are able to conjure in his voice. and suddenly being aware that you are a floating child with a string of surrogates who pass in and out as quickly as winter shadows.

and i can play a song on repeat until it no longer incites any reaction. that’s what i will do with my memories and thoughts until the next monsoon. and i’ll re-order events on the timeline. they jumble together so frequently that it becomes difficult to distinguish between old grief and new.