Bird Clouds & Cyber Lies

Shoveling through sorrow is not one more brick in the wall. Suffering while a courageous MIA son is tortured in Syria, or knowing a sweet daughter hemorrhaged on her wedding night because her tender female innards were underdeveloped, or losing your life partner, best friend, and fishing buddy in your arms – these comprise a range of Himalayan high peaks of pain.

When another asks, “How are you holding up?” or “How are you?” you cyber lie, semi-smile and try not to break down into a million pieces. Alone, as hurting arises from your heart, your nose suddenly turns sniffing icy hot as you battle smarting bb shots firing at the portals of your askew soul, your red-eyed green eyes.

Betrayal of one’s self by one’s self is what writer’s specialize in?

Soreness takes up residency in your breasts waiting to leak up, and out. Some days, overflow from prior days and nights of stuffing the angst erupts usually when one is shelled shocked with a barrage of memories. A slickness of an impending flood is a mire of happy incidents twisted now into reminiscences as imaginary flashbacks. A guiltless whopping case of what ifs find a convenient camping site and pitch burning teepees. 

Grief is not a process, no matter what the nice still-breathing people who love you chant on cue as they sense your bridled heartache. Abandonment supercedes all other shit. We are the ones left behind. No one feels what we do because no one was as close to the loved one as we were. Weirdly these pity pots never fully empty becoming linked together as urn sets of departed husband, mother, son, father, lifelong chum, devoted dog, soul mate, lover, daughter, grandmother, grandfather, aunt, uncle, cousin, niece, nephew, fallen hero, and heart felt relationships that never worked out. Causalities of love pile up on singular highway systems assigned to our numbing ducky lives.

Getting up each morning drugged by the absence of them, a husk now of what we thought we were, the pervasive dullard pain surfaces. The legends in our minds of those we adored help us. They reach out and make the Kleenex box fall from the shelf into our hands. They let us forget to turn out the lights at bedtime so we are not in the dark. They remind us to put down fresh bowls of water for the canine corps and pitch spent bouquets of ginger and heliconias.

Looking in the mirror, today I see my mother with her beautiful crooked smile and unrelenting generosity. She tilts her head and we merge into one form aglow with warmth.

While washing dishes this morning, I thought of how precise Arthur was as he placed service ware and silverware in the drain. The spoons spooning, knives standing pointedly tall and straight, forks arranged like a jammed up marching band, and glassware and plates arraigned in like-kind perfect alignment. My washed dishes and silver are a chaotic sculpture piled onto each other with no order. If you do not know exactly which key (dried object) to initially remove, the entire house of disarray could crash into potential shards and splinters. Arthur use to call this stuff of mine – Bon’s traps.

It is the ‘use to’s’ that grind me spinning into compunction. I suppose from my husband’s end of the spectrum he is fishing with his father and son, and his beloved Sophia, Italian Spinone dog. Why would he want to visit me? I am a mess. Arthur never liked messes and why he spent 43 years as a compassionate luminous lawyer cleaning up other people’s crap. 

I admitted to my devoted older brother the other day in an email, “I think I am depressed, for the first time in my life.” At least I suppose this weepy bullshit and collapsed shoulders style of walking is depression. I mean I am a trained humanistic Jungian-bent therapist and supposedly am able to identify psychiatric disorders in the human condition. After careful review of my slump, it is more like an extended area of low barometric pressure dumping binges of rain, except my rain gushes from my heart.

Gloominess is not my thing. I am one of those noisy creatives who rant on how despair is narcissistic and a squander of preciousness. Melancholy is an uncultivated now. I am getting my come-uppings with the dogs (one dying) and the wild creatures of Finca Vigia.

Writing is a trophy companion of misery. The silence is deafening. Being with people, occasionally, my standard snarky-ness returns with two or three quips of quasi-brilliance. These together times are so weak compared to the connection I had with my loved one it is like carnival cotton candy to dinner at the finest golden-era brasserie in Paris. I way lay my grief watching movies at night or in the afternoon standing too long gazing at panoramic views of the Pacific, the jungle, and the Valley of Horses down below. Back in the here and now, I do not actually continue forward. I am severed at the heart, the knees, and the spirit captured by what was, could have been, might have happened, or probably did not for a damn good reason.

Do not over-extend mercy. This will only aggravate me. An Arthur via Robert Heinlein, “Never try to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and it annoys the pig.”

To those who continue to cyber chat and thumbs up via social media blessed are you. To those who bailed from me, f**k you. To those on the other side wondering why we are separated by dimensions of unknowing I offer no applicable wisdom or even a box of band-aides. This perturbation is a molecular slight disturbance within the cosmos, but it is this bitch’s hell.

This too will pass is so lame in its lack of effect I think my REM sleep has stopped in revolt.

Praying is more akin to applying body lotion to my soul than release. 

The end of what was is an impasse. Peering through meditative lens my optics are smoggy. Paradoxically, the fix is no fix. The higher power may be sending constant opportunities to jump to the next spiral yet at this stage I am going nowhere faster and faster. Maybe this purge serves as a juncture to smack down the tangle and move on toward newfound anything better than this?

E-bay and Amazon sell no replacements, or viable imitations for those gone. Googling grief is murky futility. The bigga lesson is aloof and untreatable. Ms. smarty-pants, as she revs up her groovy winged ATV to fly over funky bridges of too many rivers to cross, is perplexed and pissed. Carolina homemade plantain bread spread with Rebecca of Chirippo’s butter is supposedly part of the passage. It does not sustain itself to make much of a grand difference. I do appreciate the kindness, in any format.

The whole morgue hole is expanding? Intelligence and comprehensive skills appear to be drawbacks. Hoopoe, my muse, is hovering sending smoky mixed-signals contributing to a maze needing serious repairs by him, not me. Consumed I cannot handle being rebuked, so I ignore.

Faith? You scream-taunt from your side of the curtain. One lavender infused crystal chunk in the elasticized flow is all I ask. Get me outta here and bring sparkle back. 

What a friggin’ whiner I have become. At least I know what happened to Arthur, Sophia, Fran-Ma, Dale Davis, Grandpa Mac, Auntie Be, Richard, Clancy, Patty, Candy, Jetson Pacific, and so forth. The list is too long and at my age, everyday, another one of us bites the dust.

What about the mothers and fathers of every religion and culture on Earth who have no notice as sons are brutalized to instill oppression? What about young Egyptian men witnessing friends die as a monster made military coup erupts inside their houses of worship and on the street the empire plows the sacred dead into piles? What about lovable parents whose teenagers depart to parts unknown? What about pretty girls kidnapped and their lives stolen by totally deranged nut cases? What about millions of babies and little ones (human, and not) falling asleep with empty tummies? What about assholes who think 9/11 was caused by a tall Arab named Bin Laden because Wikipedia says it is so? What about Snowden, Manning, Assange, and a whole army of whistleblowers detained by the empire? 

Sometimes, the only way through is by naming the comparisons.

This is neither cute nor charming, but maybe it is engaging.

Here, step into my spindly attempt at universal charity. Let us take a vain gallop around the planet looking for unconditional beauty. At the first rest stop, it is your turn to dispense medicinal insight. My prophetic jewelry case was welded tight 4 AM, March 27, 2013.

Dear one, I do not have a clue about the glue, but I remain at your side, flapping away, carried by the wind through imperial clouds.

 

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