Thursday, January 11, 2018

Once-ler

My mysterious Once-ler.

I found her where the grickle-grass grows at the far end of town.

Perhaps if you put 15 cents and a nail, and the shell of a great-great-great grandfather snail in her tin pail she will tell you a story.


Tuesday, January 9, 2018

There is a space

in 2013 I posted this, from memory version of this poem.

Today a copy of the actual poem got burped up from a pile of papers.

There is a space

between

the rain and snow

where

the two are close
but never joined

one

giving life
to the other

each

knowing
when

to let go.

This same space

separates

mothers
from daughters
who are

known

to make icy slush
by both attempting
to exist in
this space
at once.

(C) March 1992 - P.V.

A copy of this was given to a visiting instructor from Italy to take back to use in her class room.

The poem was for a open mike poetry reading at the college. The way its spaced is how it should be read. I use a hushed 1/2 whispery voice to mimic the weird sound of silence and falling snow. Very effective.

It has been professionally published in an hardbound poetry collection.

and...you know what? even after all these years it still knocks my socks off!

Thursday, December 28, 2017

under my bed

under my bed

Mama had said
"go clean under your bed."
Why I ask
am I being sent to do this task?
Ain't nuthin' there
'cept dirty underwear
1/2 a green twinkie
the babies binkie
a pile of rocks
a dozen socks,
a broken hot wheel
a banana peel
over due library books
wadded up comic books
a bucket of sand
Candyland
a baby food jar
brother's Tonka car,
a stale PBanJ
homework that's due today
a farm animal fence
eighty-two cents,
old  cat poop
unidentified goop
the sole of my shoe
Elmers glue,
a hunk of wood
my coats hood...
why can't Mama see
it looks fine to me!

(c)  6-3-1991
P.V.


Wednesday, December 27, 2017

SAW * graffic trigger for self injury discussion*

To kill time and keep me from over doing things while I heal up I've been watching movies. I just finished the seven SAW movies.  I had seen all of them except #7. Good movies if your a fan of psychological horror films. For those who haven't seen them, the basic premise is, Jigsaw puts you in a puzzle that will kill you and you have to really choose to want to live to get out.

As I watched the characters having to choose to hurt themselves deliberately in order to survive Jigsaw's traps, it brought up some questions in relation to self injury.

I am going to put another *GRAFFIC TRIGGER * here because the discussion will be.

It was interesting to see the characters making choices (like sawing off ones leg, or cutting off their flesh) they all had to make quick decisions, there was no spending hours working up the nerve, there was a clicking timer that they had to race.

Most of the time it was a quick decision and the actor went into the act of self injury with a scream, as if the loudness would drown out the pain.

and it occurred to me

I have never gone screaming into an injury.

Screaming releases nothing. Basically for me the blood is louder then screams.

To go screaming into the pain does what?, meeting the physical pain with a thunderous roar of ....of what? Courage? Sacrifice? Defiance? Angry raw adrenaline burst?

What do you think self injures do? What do you imagine happens when our darkness and pain brings that knife to our skin?

I can't speak for all of us.

For me it depends on the type of injury and the trigger.

Rage injury

The stress boils over and my head is filled with thick muffled explosions as bombs go off with in me. There is a pressure that seeks to exit via a scream........but........my throat is gone. My mouth is sealed. LOCKED. Like some ancient bronze plate has been fastened with bolts to my face. Finding no exit the screams reverberate back into the thick pressure in my head.

I raise my fist and punch the (insert any number of hard objects). Blow after blow in quick succession...until at last I feel my skin scream out in pain and the internal torment is at last released from its silence.

(anger is an energy)

I halt.

With each heave of my chest and exhausted exhale, I feel the stress run out of me.

my head clears.

ugh.

Slowly I look at my hand to assess the damage.

ugh...zero days without self injuring. damn it,

I start the process of looking backwards. What clues did I miss that lead to this? Where did I zig when I should have zagged? What red flag did I ignore? What could I have done to prevent this from happening in the first place?

I flex my fingers. Blood is still seeping into the tissues swelling then even before the bruises show up.

'why?' my heart cries.

Each tear dripping from my eyes silently answers, 'I don't know.'

Punishment

The event is so awful my head can't comprehend it. The pain, to devastating for me to live with and continue breathing. I have to push it away to survive. But I don't want to EVER forget.
I choose a spot for the burn. I choose a spot where I will have to see it every day. everyday forever.

Lighter? candle? matches? I weigh the options. Each one brings a different level of pain to the table.

(Lighter): flame time limited by cramping thumb. Burns often interrupted by need to adjust and relight the lighter. The secondary burn caused my the flame being bent backwards often times is annoying, and has in the past interrupted my concentration.

(Candle): Continuous flame, one long smooth burn, only one focus, burns often larger then intended.

(Matches): a whole new game. It's not one injury. They are a lot of little injuries. Each one requiring

....and here is where I had to stop writing/thinking as I triggered my self.

I may come back and finish this when I am on stable ground. Right now the tight rope is swaying a bit because my life is in a state of flux post surgery.

I won't egg me on. I know even though I am well wrapped and as "healed" as I am, I can never forget, I live with self injury. If I forget that, I will slide right back into it. I worked to freaking hard to wrestle it into a small space in my head to allow it free reign again.

Tuesday, December 26, 2017

Getting the bucks out

My heart sank as I opened the stall door and stare at her.

More mud then horse.

Her mane twisted and tied up in hopeless witches knots.

Her hooves chipped and badly in need of a trim.

Rain rot marring her once gleaming coat.

I step closer and extend my hand to touch her side.

Her head snakes around and attempts to nip my flank.

A quick defensive jab with my elbow derails her cantankerous plans.

How do I take this beast back to show condition?

While I have been off on medical leave my writing ability has gone rogue. Like this mare.

Tons of story ideas, flitter in and out of my writers pail and I feel the pull to write them, but lack any motivation.

Or discipline.

I once took care of a man who retired, bought a computer and set about to write his lives story.

He sat in his room and put nary a word into his computer. He died with his stories untold.

I don't want to be that old man.

While recovering from surgery I got the urge to do a print run of my children's books. As I got out the masters to select which ones I would print, it dawned on me...I didn't want to print any of them...the ones that were calling me to print are the ones I haven't finished yet.

I don't want to rehash the past at the moment. I want to create something else.

Which means....discipline and dedication and consistency and ....getting the bucks out of my cantankerous inner mare. It will take commitment to clean her up and get her back into gleaming prancing show form.

I start by haltering her, while talking softly to her and she bares her teeth at me and tries to avoid the halter.

"Give it up." I say as I buckle it in place.

She rolls her eyes and snorts, then paws the ground.

"We have to get back to work." I murmur as I pick up a curry comb and start brushing her.

Sunday, December 17, 2017

post op

I will spare you the before / after pictures of my surgery. LOL, well at least for now!

wanted to share these with you though.

I am important to my family and I need to take care of my self. They want and need me. It's taken quite a while to understand that and really believe it.

I appreciate that they have been caring for me and picking up all the things I drop and can't get off the floor.


 I want a set of these for the house! loved them!
Was wonderful to see this one after surgery.
 Medical Dab!




Not on pain killers, just normally this weird! LOL
Amused my self in the hospital taking all sorts  of pictures I can't post on my blog.
Its a mirror, my mole is on the right cheek.



House call by medical puddy cat.

surgery made me younger?

"And in the end
The love you take
Is equal to the love you make"

(c)Lennon/Mccartney

a dose of my own medicine

I don't usually  write about my hospice experiences because they are private and very intimate. I'm making an exception here because there is no other way to explain my feelings about a gift that arrived unexpectedly this month.

If I have done my job right all the family will remember is. "There was an angel there, who took care of (insert loved ones name)."

Long ago I spent time with a very cross, angry dying woman. She reminded me of who I used to be before therapy. Walls of barbed wire wrapped around her heart and monstrously tall walls around her preventing anyone from coming closer.

There came the night she found she couldn't hold her glass and it spilled in her lap. She was forced to call for help.

With my face a calm mirror I assisted her to change with dignity and respectful quietness. I dried her skin and then replace her night shirt. Then I lotioned and massaged her swollen legs, put on her socks and cover her gently with a fuzzy blanket..

When I glanced up I saw tears in her eyes."WHY ARE YOU TREATING ME SO KIND!?" she demanded her mouth punctuating her words with a hard frown. The internal pain this was causing her was visible on her face. I could see her soul twisting in agony.

Nothing  was expected in return. Nothing is ever expected in return. I didn't want anything from her. My goal wasn't to teach her anything, My actions were not because I was being paid to take care of her.  I gave up years ago trying to explain or understand it. This gift I give the dying comes from some deep place within me. A place, where all the pain and sadness in my life never tarnished.

A well of unbitter water, if you would...

I softly cupped her face and I feel my face reflecting back the softly glowing light in the room. "Everyone should be treated with kindness."

Her eyes  reach for mine. and we take the conversation to a deeper spiritual level without saying another word.

What I offer isn't anything I can quantify. It's nothing I can turn on /off,  its a deeply connecting action that comes from a higher place, it just comes through me... I merely open the door...connect the circuit.

For a few nights each action of mine was met with flinching and resistance and angry demands of WHY ARE YOU TREATING ME SO KIND!?  One night I see something different in her eyes. I see  surrender, as she accepts the gift without further question.

She surrenders, and accepts.

My family has been gifted with a gift this year that had me  profoundly unnerved.

I wanted to set my jaw and ask. "why are you treating me so kind?!"

why ? where is this gift coming from? 

I am unaccustomed to this level of kindness. I was struggling to deal with this, rather... large dose of my own medicine.

surrender.

accept.

I want to write a thank you note to convey how much this gift has touched me. But I know, much as my gifts are given with no expectations, this one was as well. The act of giving it, rewarded the givers more then my words ever could.

I am to let the magnitude of this gift sit quietly in my soul and its weight impact me...connect me...move me.