Pig and farm report

 

Functioning as an adult and notes from a violin teacher and her 6 year old student

 

I love W

W greeted me on the floor, writhing and whining Poor Smigel, it burns, it burns, it burns us. My guess is he wasn't into having a lesson. I don't blame him. It's hard work and it's like first getting into the pool when you're standing on the damp concrete, shivering in your warm dry swim suit. You dread that first plunge because it always feels cold, but once you're in the water, it's heaven. W slithered up the entire flight of stairs, still moaning and whining. The lesson proceeded normally after that, except at one point he asked me to hold his violin and bow, then started madly scratching his legs. This went on for a full minute and then I asked him if he was okay. He said today is my itching day. I said What do you mean, your itching day? He said Mondays, Wednesdays and Sundays are my itching days. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays are B's itching days. (B is W's best friend.) I said What's wrong with Friday and Saturday? W patiently explained that those are not itching days. I told him I didn't quite understand, so he picked up a pawn and a knight from the chessboard that's always on the floor, moved them strategically and tried to explain it to me that way. I still didn't get it but I respect his determination to make me understand. After the lesson, W offered me a piece of lemon candy called a Mega Warhead. It was so sour I think it took off the lining of my mouth, but I didn't let on that I was in pain. As I was leaving, W. said WAIT! and he ran into his room and came out with a small rubber chicken. He held it up and said BACH! BACH! BACH! BACH!

*

I called my medical clinic this week and asked if they could refer me to a psychiatrist they asked if I was okay but it was more like OH DEAR JESUS OH MY GOD SECURITY!!! And I told them I was just feeling a little bit manic because there was water in my house and there were men in my house every day banging with actual hammers and the loud jet engine fans in my closet and in the other bedroom running 24 hours a day and sometimes I wonder what my electric bill is going to be because I am a functioning adult and I always look closely at my electric bill and compare it to the previous month and those fans running all the time running in my ears in my bones down to my feet but especially bouncing around in my brain are going to be expensive.

*

I love W

I was 15 minutes late to W's lesson tonight because of a traffic snarl. He was a bit frantic when I got there, but I told him I would cut the lesson short if he worked very, very hard. W said your hair is getting whiter. I told him yes, yes it is. We didn't talk much after that. We were both tired. We just played Bach, and watched his bow arm. Watching his bow arm consists of me reaching over and stopping his bow when he gets to the tip, which is when the bow strays out over the fingerboard. This usually makes him giggle, but today it frustrated him. I kept doing it because if you practice the violin wrong, you learn bad habits that can take a lifetime to undo, if ever. Tissue memory, muscle memory, the body remembers. (This is not an exaggeration. Bowing is the most difficult part of playing the violin and I know accomplished musicians who have never learned it properly.) After our lesson, W took me into his bedroom to show me his brand new bed. It's tall. W said I want stairs to climb into it. The bed is covered with a beautiful quilt with deep blue and bright yellow stars. It's the first time he's asked me to come into his room, the first time he's invited me anywhere in the house except the foyer and the room in which we practice. It felt like a gift.

*

The medical clinic told me that Washington does not refer Medicare patients or anyone else to psychiatrists which is odd considering they have referred me to a fancy pants dermatologist and gastroenterologist. Even though I am a functioning adult I don’t have any kind of insurance except for Medicare and my car because I am still only one or two rungs up on the functioning adult ladder. In my not to distant past I never checked the previous month on the electric bill because I was too poor to function as an adult I was a frightened child all the time.

*

I love W

W: Do you want to hear my evil laugh? Me: After you play the Bach. W and I discuss a lot of things during his violin lesson. We've talked about poetry, painting, dance, sculpture, (his favorite story is me getting thrown out of the museum for sticking my fingers in Balzac's eyeholes) architecture, mathematics, history, science, running, swimming, and the ever looming OUTSIDE (he’s terrified of the OUTSIDE.) We talk about insects, books, composers, color, clouds, boats, snails and the fact that making a lanyard is never going to really be a fun thing to do. Today, W had this note for me: WRTING MAKES ME NRVS I had to agree. He then showed me how 2+2 = a fish, and how 7+7+7+7 = a window. I'd show you, but you need a pencil and a piece of paper. He told me that his friend D got kissed on the L by a girl. (L = lips.) He also found a picture in one of his father's books, and he showed it to me and told me it was Mr. Bach, when in fact it was Mary Queen of Scots, but I told him I could see his point even though he was about 100 years off, and this made me laugh so hard that W became slightly alarmed, and then he laughed so hard that a big long piece of spit fell out of his bottom lip onto his violin. I looked away and said I didn't see anything as he wiped it up. Our lesson was pretty much over at that point.

*

You can see how much better I am mentally these days. I actually live in a house purchased with money my dead horrible mother left me in her will. I no longer have a slumlord knocking at my door telling me he’s raising the rent again. I get a haircut at least twice a year. My clothes all fit and I have a Vitamix. You can’t get more functioning adult than that. My doctor called me after the alarming no I’m not crazy I just need a referral phone call to my clinic and insisted I come in the next afternoon. I had to say yes. I have a terrible fear of talking to regulation physicians about being bipolar 1 and having CPTSD agoraphobia panic attacks and severe anxiety. Regulation physicians really don’t get it and I have a secret feeling that they all want to lock me up because when I’m nervous I have a real knack for talking fast then stumbling over my tongue while doing so. My darling Johnny Cash Psychiatrist wanted to lock me up “for a while just a little while” and I asked him if I could write in there because I was working on Cadaver Dogs and he said no nope no way I might stab a crayon into my eyeball so I told him to fuck off. I think I scared him because I had a bad panic attack once in his office. I believe my fear is or might be well founded. That one flew over the cuckoo’s nest thing abides deep in my soul like Jesus and all his saints especially St. Lucy who scooped her own damn eyeballs out perhaps with a crayon and on walked around with them on a plate like they were Dilettante Chocolates. They were probably lock her up too!

Side note: Dilettante Chocolates is a chocolatier that used to be in Seattle and they are no more though my very soul longs for them. I have never found a better piece of chocolate ever.

I took my adult son with me to the doctor as my ADVOCATE because I learned from Elizabeth Aquino that if you ask for an ADVOCATE they pay better attention to you. I also walked right past the ever present scale and when the winged monkey nurse asked me to step up I said I won’t be doing that today and sailed right into the doctor’s office. Please read Elizabeth Aquino brilliant writing @elizabethaquino

Side note 2: Did you know that you all of you can skip the scale at your doctor’s office if it makes you uncomfortable? They make me uncomfortable because I was shamed for my weight for my entire childhood and most of my adulthood. If you skip the scale the bloody weigh in because you despise it or it terrifies you as it does me you won’t be arrested or anything. Nothing will happen! I didn’t figure this out until I was 55 years old.

*

I love W

Today at W's lesson, I had him write a poem for J.S. Bach whose birthday is tomorrow. Here it is.

Dear Mr. Bach,
Happy birthday.
Have a good B.day.
Why did you have 22 children?
Did you play piano?
You'd look good in a hot-pink wig,
but first try it on.
Why did you write so many minuets?
You'd also look good in a work suit.
I want to be famous like you.

Your friend,
J.S.W.

Later on during the same lesson:

Me: Okay, Feral Bunny, quit stalling.
W: What will happen if I don't?
Me: I'll get cranky.
W: Will you turn into a feral bear and eat everyone?
Me: No, I'm a vegetarian.
W: Then you'll only eat vegetarians?

*

When I got to the doctor’s office yesterday as a functioning adult meaning both shoes on the correct feet and my teeth in and my hair combed with my tall and muscular son who had a look on his face that said don’t fuck with my mom a son who knows what manic looks like (I’m so sorry to say my darling son I’m sorry I ever made you witness that) and who also knows exactly what meds I take etc. a son who knows more about psychiatry that any of those clinic yahoos. I mean he was fully prepared to be my ADVOCATE and you could tell the way the winged monkey nurse kind of squeezed away from us that she knew we meant business. I had to tell her everything about the water heater exploding and the subsequent flood and the hammering and the men in the house and my CPTSD getting massively triggered the whole goddamn drama as she typed squeezed away in her corner and she typed it all which is kind of weird but my clinic has a portal any patient can enter to read appointment notes and you know how I love portals. I could hear my voice rattling out of my mouth as it does when I am very nervous or when I am manic or approaching mania and I can’t make it stop. Once my doctor came in he rearranged my meds giving me more Tegretol (hilariously he was the one who made me take less Tegretol last year) and a little more trazodone so I can sleep I hope. Tegretol is my bipolar control drug. He told me that he doesn’t think the psychiatrist I am trying to contact as a functioning adult accepts patients who aren’t “locked up” though when I spoke to his nurse she told me he would be accepting new Medicare patients at the end of November. My doctor told me to come back in two weeks to see how the new meds are working but I told him we both knew that was not going to happen. In the end I was not sent to any 1950s lock up places where they put crazy people. I came right home and lay in my bed and listened to the goddamn fans in my closet that sound like jet engines.

*

I love W.

Tonight W and I mostly talked. We were both tired and I was late. He had forgotten all his music vocabulary words from previous weeks, but quickly learned the subtle and difficult bow marking that looks like this // that means a very slight lift of the bow, not even a real lift, more like a breath, like your bow is taking a breath. He understood immediately what I was saying and played it perfectly. As I was leaving, he reached down the back of his pants and said I'M GIVING MYSELF A WEDGIE! I asked why, and he said Because it feels good.

Well. There it is.

Thank you Darklings if you have read this far. You each get a gold star sticker.

Pig and farm report

 

Word is not responding

Yes I get it Word means brain this morning my son is scampering around on the roof blowing off pine boughs and pine needles and probably a squirrel or two with his goddamn noisy machine and I am panic panicking panic I keep my phone in my hand in case I need to call 911 in a hurry in case something horrible happens up there or down here or worse down there this is take an Ativan kind of panic it is both real and not real and feels a lot like manic

I sliced two onions in half then peeled them then sliced the halves into thin crescent moons put a bit of olive oil and one tablespoon of butter in a pan then piled the onions up to the edge and added salt I am caramelizing onions for a quiche this takes anywhere from an hour and a half to two hours on Lo which means almost no heat on my Black Becky Baker stove I am baking and cooking because my son is actually running on the wet roof with his leaf blower and my stress levels are already out of my skull high be careful oh be careful

out of my skull high is a professional term for my mental sick which is officially bipolar 1 it has been a long time since I’ve had a manic swing not since the beginning of covid but the flooding inside my beautiful house has made me spike Oh Spike Me Jesus

*
pass me the screwdriver
even your snow is selfish and wrong headed
an unmanageable stain a kind of hoarding
I abandoned my clothes
break me
I’ll swallow whatever you put in my mouth
stage a fake suicide
guttural momentum
Rocco Peacock
clean boys and roasted hog
the jungle drapes its skin long and wet across my feet
a woman suckles a piglet
oh plague oh Mena

*

part of this manic feeling this need to pummel yeast and flour eggs and onions yams and giant green squashes is because my house is still tipped upside down my son has completely moved into the precious empty outer outer room so he only has two walls and basically no privacy unless I stay in my own bedroom which makes me feel trapped and rusty it makes me feel like a rusty trap one that might bite and snap and I think I did just snap and bite at my son after he came down from the roof like Jesus on a Bender you might wonder why I have a completely empty second living room in my house that is what happens when you live with a hoarder I feel terrible for snapping at my son

I’m sorry
I’m sorry

on Sunday I was doing laundry and watching tv and I heard leaking in the walls I muted the tv and it was still happening I ran to see if the washing machine was spilling out sending water everywhere but it was not then I walked to my closet to peek at the new water heater but there she stood tall silent and sentry I finally opened the back door to see if the sky was falling but I heard someone mowing their lawn that was the noise

*

Sunday wears a beaky mask
stuffed with sweet herbs and flowers
meant to hide the smell of sickness
my son has the first apocalypse dream
we drive to the beach at dusk
and talk about ghosts
until I cry but I keep the tears
inside my eyelids
I dream a conga line of men
in my yard dancing their way into the ocean
dropping one by one
I am ripe and my blood is high

*
in truth I’m happy I love living here and things are going to start getting fixed next Tuesday though I wish they wouldn’t call it demo as in demolition happiness is sometimes fake mania with me so I have to be careful not to be too happy for instance is this happy deep Easter morning happy or is this happy floating on top of mania like a warm winter coat that is still a little too new to be comfortable happy

*

in this version of America
a girl in a yellow sweater bee bright
against black hair stands on a stage
the first day of spring
as photographers adjust lights
and microphones waiting
for the turgid man to squat bellow
thick tongued and vile
and attack the press corps

in this version of America
my son and I eat Sunday breakfast
every morning at the kitchen table
and the first day of spring streams
in cold sun and roses open
and cherry trees carry on unperturbed

in this version of America
we are all grieving each day a funeral
as every sparkling proud city closes its ears
puts on blindfolds holds its breath
and descends to its maximum depth

in this version of America
my son and I eat with only the ticking
of the wind up clock
the stunning sense of Equinox
against our voices as we plan the hours
place cloth napkins on our laps
his sky sky blue
mine zinnia orange

*

Side note:
Easter used to be my favorite holiday because it meant a new dress and new shoes and usually a hat with an elastic that was supposed to be tucked in back under my hair but I usually kept the elastic around my chin giving me that marionette look and the opportunity for friends to pull the hat up and snap it back. Once I think in 1963 I got a silver sheath dress entirely polyester and tinsel probably 100% flammable and silver shoes MY FIRST HEELS and silver nylons and a silver clutch purse. Damn I was fine. And shiny. Like the Tin Man’s prepubescent daughter. I kept the purse for years and when my son was little he carried his baseball cards around in it then it disappeared. Ahhhhh the 60s. The funny thing is that little clutch purse would be a hot item now. The nylons too.

*

The goat traveled around the planet a round
Twinkle Twinkle Little Goat
an old French folk tune
how the goat traveled
one person at a time going sick in the lung
like playing kindergarten piano
or blowing out candles on a damp cake
my goat has not fled my body
very still until horns and hooves clatter away
I have water I can force my body for six hours
go from knock-knock-knocking at death
to cheerful and radiant
it's not that we heal
it’s that we are liars and fakes

*

The onions are almost done they have been on the stove for two hours the pie crust is in the refrigerator I’m going to add ¾ cup of cream ¼ cup of milk 4 eggs spinach caramelized onions aged mozzarella cheese a little bit of goat cheese salt pepper and fresh grated nutmeg how I wish how I wish you were here.

 

Thank you, Darklings for reading this far.

Bone

this happened

eighteen I crawled through the duplex window into Wayne’s bed the rotten middle his fists all night I screamed ran down the street screaming neighbors called the police who knew Wayne I crawled into him what I expected love he called me love his fists all night I screamed ran down the street bruised black eyes broke broken broken rib I thought this was normal my normal the rotten middle his fists I a girl running screaming down the street every other night police sirens again again again no job no car a girl screaming running down the street waiting for the police who knew him my normal the rotten middle his fists I a girl running down the street screaming Wayne the police knew his name knew my me the girl running down the street screaming all night screaming & screaming & screaming then my dad sent me a bus ticket

*

Dear Henry,

my friend brought me a bear and I lived with the bear in my house we were quite happy the bear and I then my friend came back and told me he had to chop off the bear's paws I would have to eat them I sucked the meat out of one paw disgusted and filled with grief now I'm eating an avocado that tastes like fifty-five acres of California heartland it tastes like Frida Kahlo's dream of having a baby it tastes like sugar and sweet-grass and cream and butter and cotton bed sheets dried on a clothes-line in the hot sun and it tastes of the cornfields that spread across Illinois this avocado came into my hands like Jesus on a bender I'm not kidding

*

this happened

he found me at the commune everyone there told me not to go with him he was a bad man but I loved him he shot speed into his arm his needles his tiny packet of white powder his spoon then he spent hours and hours drawing pictures of women with huge breasts on ruled paper with a blue ball point pen and he hit me if I interrupted sometimes he hit me for fun and I ran down the street screaming then came back I always came back his job was drug dealer he told me I could take his car if I wanted to get away and I tried but I had never driven a stick shift I didn't know how I didn't know how to escape and he stood on the porch laughing at me

I finally figured out how to run away I had to actually run

*

Dear Henry,

I was inside an old Pentecostal church where cakes were being auctioned I tried to buy a perfect tiny orange cake for you I told the auctioneer I have three dollars but the auctioneer said sorry this cake is fifty dollars I stuffed a giant wooden crucifix into my suitcase I sat in a chair smoked a cigar what are you doing here

*
this happened

I got a job at a nursing home but he found me again and he found out that I fucked his brother for revenge I was living in my own little apartment I was so happy there but I went to live with him in a big white house with an open meadow behind it the white house terrified me there were no neighbors to go run to why did I go why  why    why  The Johnny Cash psychiatrist told me it was because violence was all I had ever known it was my normal 

* 
Dear Henry,

we were sitting in your yard when Violet turned to me and said I want a huge rabbit I jumped in my red Nancy Drew convertible and headed out in the rain as I drove the road disappeared I jumped into a powerboat on the ocean big waves rolled no sign of the city I kept my foot on the gas turned a corner there was a pet store with crates holding giant rabbits I looked in each crate to make sure they were open so the rabbits wouldn't drown the store owner said your life vest is too loose he tried to tighten it then said I’m sorry you're too small as I examined each rabbit the first had a sad disfigured face with one eyeball down near his throat the other rabbits were okay I was in a hurry but not hurrying I let the disfigured rabbit swim away then I saw a rabbit with markings like a Siamese cat a deep chocolate colored head and a white body with chocolate feet I held him and kissed his head then let him swim away remembering how you mistreated your dog finally I found a rabbit for Violet gray with long fur and eyes like God he looked at me with such love

*

this happened

he finally got tired of hitting me so he put a gun to my head he put a gun to my head then he put the gun down and punched me and punched me finally I swerved and he punched the wall and broke his thumb he cried!!! then he drove to the hospital and I called a friend from work and her mother showed up in a big station wagon and we put my stuff in it some clothes and my violin and my guitar and I never saw him again

*

Dear Henry,

in Chicago my son was in jail you had been abducted by aliens and recently returned you said wear the green dress which I kicked under the bed Violet’s car broke down and I placed round tables covered with white cloths embroidered with Napoleon’s royal bee crest up and down Webster Avenue summer undulated my hair a blond tangle of sweat my feet were buried in hot asphalt the heat rose up through my body like a kundalini picnic all set about with fever trees now a pure god a nasty little salamander lives with you in my heart

*

this is who I am now

animal insistence turned my velvet body to leathery grit arms & legs clammy skin a breath off corporeal temperature shivering dog calm trudge pant & blunt I ate mercury as a child broken thermometers bright pools on the bedroom floor gums not yet black not yet turned a grand tolling into children’s rectums removed it from a velvet lined case passed it with Jesus care one child to the next & I dropped it shattered globs silver animals wriggling toward a fairy-tale center I scooped them into my mouth I am about to die or win a great award a shivering dog inside you life swings onto the gridded macadam as my mother in the driver's seat turns smiles & waves she holds a cigarette a bottle of gin & a gun

this happened

my chemical fire hums when propane is forced through the pipes the pipes inside my walls whistle high birds on fire when I turn on the heater elder madronas drip and burn fluorescent in the primal sway in the animal ship the manic needle in my eyeball when we say medicine it is a red stigmata canvas when we say panic it is the guts of the cottage in the woods with the graham cracker door gumdrop windows where wolf crouches on the roof lick lick licking himself I choke at the worst possible moment smash the rabbit saint who gave his life for my glue the Palace of Versailles blisters in my shoes I want to tell you how my feet burn how bright steam rises from the dog’s bowl did I ever really dance in a sweet short dress flared at the hips did I prime did I tango?

*

Dear Henry,

you and my cat were bit by a scorpion a terrible deathly bite I had to choose who to save because I didn’t have enough money for two doctors I chose my cat the three of us drove onto the Nestucca ferry landing a long uphill ramp when we got to the top the ferryman said you had to pay him five dollars then we went down another long ramp onto the boat then drove on to another ramp going up again and the ferryman said you had to pay him five dollars and you handed him a huge five dollar bill painted on severely creased paper with mimeograph ink and water colors the ferryman said THAT IS NOT REAL MONEY my car slid backward down the ramp out of control my foot was crushed ached sharp its own scorpion bite

*

If you or anyone you know is being abused HELP IS AVAILABLE speak with someone today

NATIONAL DOMESTIC VIOLENCE HOTLINE

Call 800-799-7233

24/7

Waning gibbous the Sweet and Sour moon

do you know how much a tray of flaming desire weighs?

Sometimes I wake up

like a BIG wake up in my brain that makes me shake with want with need falling is constant failing Alice down the rabbit hole what is happening? I am happy in my reclusive state but sometimes I see women walking up and down my street two by two like they're happily walking in the direction of Noah's magical zoo boat 

I miss the company of women I miss women friends like a stab in my heart

I too walk back and forth down my street but early early in the morning with an animal insistence that turns my velvet body to leathery grit arms and legs clammy skin a breath off corporeal temperature shivering dog heart as I trudge and pant 

how to introduce myself to these women with their perfectly coifed hair and little walking measurement dealys connected to their arms and comfortable walking shoes 

how do I introduce myself to them? would they be horrified if I did? I have good hair but it's not currently perfect and my shoes are Converse and I wear a weird grandma cardigan and I have the crazy eyes

those women look so                     normal

should I hide in the trees then jump out and scream Hi!!! in my uncomfortable-around-pretty-much-everyone voice? should I stand by the mailbox like I'm looking for something intellectual like the New Yorker then start walking behind them a witch wriggling toward a fairy tale center? they might invite me in or they might call the police on me maybe my democrat-ness shows?

but that's not what I want to tell you dear Darklings who have read this far

I want to tell you about the tree murderer that lives straight down the hill from me whose house is behind my house if you're a deer or a bear or a crow or an owl or a goat

during the first wave of Covid that March when we were all terrified and doing stuff like washing our clothes every time we got home after being in public I was still in a narcoleptic numbness stupor my tender edges gurgling away as I sat drooling in front of the television depression and fear making a serious dent in my play time 

I listened to baseball games on the radio from the early 1960s heavy brown leather and boxy I started building terrariums to slow my own stupid down because I had no flour with which to bake I kept propagating plants wanting something to grow to be violently alive in the news of so much death

and then I saw a man trudging through the underbrush in my backyard which was very weird he knocked at my front door KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! I opened the door in my protective mask and this very much not masked man said I CUT DOWN A COUPLE OF YOUR TREES I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND

well darling readers you know I minded I minded very very much and I told that man I minded yes I minded a GREAT DEAL and I asked him how many of my trees exactly had he cut down and he said THREE which as we all know is a Jesus number a sacred number of trees so I told him it was NOT OKAY and not to cut down any of my trees down ever ever ever again because they were MY trees on MY property 

I tell you it felt like an attack that hit my head then my stomach this is not my quest! this is not how people live! he felt like an infection like a broken rib like bees in my hair like a black eye like something rotten in the middle

I took to driving down his street glaring at his house at my poor trees their poor bright orange stumps bleeding sap where they were cut and bleeding I drove by a LOT and by Jesus if he didn't cut down three more trees after that so he could build himself a driveway up into the woods on my property on my hill

goddamn it makes it hard for me to breathe to finally write it out

the next time Page was around we both walked down there and told the tree murderer to stop raping my property and that if need be I'd have my lawyer come by and speak to him (the idea of me having a lawyer is hysterical hahah but he didn't know me from squat) and he said he was going to plant more trees like that would fix the fact that I could now see his stupid compound from my deck and also all those dead trees and I still can but he didn’t cut any more of my trees down my darling darling sugar maples

but I still drive by his house occasionally to check

every time he drives by our house I say there goes the tree murderer and I give him my bullet eyeballs

                                    that should be the end of this long story but it isn't

today I asked my son to pick up my library books for me and guess who the new librarian is? it's the tree murderer's WIFE

I am conflicted friends

my heart tells me to march my fanny right down to the library and introduce myself to her because libraries have always been safe spaces for me and I've always loved librarians and maybe some time she might want to go for a walk with me maybe since she knows I'm a reader we at least have books in common                                           

and trees

and now that my soup is bubbling away and my bread is in the oven I must give you a And they all got hit by a truck kind of ending sorry I ran out of steam by the telling

And they all got hit by a truck.

The End.

Equinox, Henry, and the bad man

 

Equinox

a thin line of blood mingled with shaving cream on my leg



I wanted to carry you on a drum
but my fat lip stopped
                   everything

I took it as communion
ASCENSIONE
(it’s OK to eat the host)

&      some women you know they hate you 
&      you wonder why they don’t call
&      you wonder what you did wrong
&      you run down the hallway barefoot screaming
&      you burn a bit
a bit
                   golder

it does not get easier
it never gets easier
this is the HA HA Annie Oakley curse
pistol
rifle
shotgun
littlesureshot

*

Henry Darger is what I want to write about but this is also not what I want to write about
I want to write about Henry but I need to write about my abuser and this morning when I sat down at my computer and opened a blank Word document my heart was pounding and my hands were shaking (my hands never shake) I know I have to write about the bad man first because my guts now insist

I can’t start at the end when he chased me through the house then put a gun to my head that’s all I ever told any of my therapists or my psychiatrists when I had to explain my PTSD

*

Dear Henry,

 

I'm over and I hide in flames does it sound like your sacrificial sheep stood there I live in a hot kitchen hot pipes where four peregrine falcons circle believe me I learned the lesson of butter on a poultice I can’t fool you I have fallen where truth is sowed parked my hips invented a thief to live between my every thought I learned how to see startled like a white whippet an ink drawing of lettuce the whole wide world on stilts in Wales maybe I woke to see myself standing in the reeds maybe I was an object of the queen and drunk at night

*

I met him and started having sex with him when I was 18 and newly married to someone else he lived in the duplex next door it got messy right away it’s fuzzy now and weird I called my father and he gave me the money to take a greyhound bus to California where I settled into a religious commune high in the mountains of Humboldt County but that’s all I can write today I feel ill my danger guts spilling out all over the place

he will never not haunt me
maybe I can write him out of me

trepidation

*

Dear Henry,

 

you said you knew what it's like inside but you lied under a bank of lights men and women moved rapidly covered  me with warm sheets I chose to stay awake in spite of being betrayed perhaps a saintly height there was a knock we were under arrest Frances the kids the bookie hand-on-chest heroics I wore dark rimmed glasses showered every morning and every night you never satisfied my obsession with truth or learned to cook a lye-laced Bon Ami shot at best and drunk without books enthusiastic about my portraits and my magneto giant vulpine loping and scratching in the muddy crawl space under your precious floorboards

*

I am not brave enough to write about the frightening part under the part I have been tiptoeing around for so many years I am reading Tia Levings’ brilliant and heartbreaking memoir A Well-Trained Wife and it’s opened a hot needle of fear and bravery inside me I want to write about him but when I try I really want to lock all my doors and pull my blanket over my head all these years later and it makes me angry that he still affects me this way and I know I have to write it in order to gain my power back Levings’ book has unlocked a powerful key inside me

*
Dear Henry,

 

I am being chastised I spent a lifetime being chastised I woke up you pull my hair question how I tend my animals remind me of your fierce life your sweet addictions your chambers your lighthouse I thought I had it figured out but I don’t even have my own lungs figured out much less the architecture of the universe the meaning of the cigar smoke I smell at the oddest times or why that damned black bear swam across the sound wandered around on the beach then visited a suburban neighborhood before he ran across the freeway only to get hit by an unsuspecting driver and how that driver must have felt seeing the bear out of nowhere I swell up in my head and my eyes push out like turnips I wrote my phone number on the inside of a red matchbook but the phone doesn’t ring you are feral I am feral I keep my legs crossed at the ankle and my arms inside the ride at all times but it’s tricky it’s tricky and it seeps out into my pungent reality I can’t see around that big curve of earth and up the mud-soaked red clay road I can’t remember what I promised or why the irises refuse to bloom though they are packed tight in their green dresses packed so tight and hard they burn purple lips crisping at their edges

*

I want to name him can I name him? should I name him?
IHOPEHESDEAD

(I want to throw up now I want to take all the above and fold it and fold it and fold it until it becomes a tiny pit then I want to bury it somewhere far from my beautiful life)

*

Dear Henry,

 

I am mindless no belief in angels barely sentient immobile and singular it’s Sunday I can hear the veins of the rational world everyone in a dream is also dreaming the milk hour the gaunt hour the children’s hour I need to dream around the planetary tides here on the border everything is exposed malignant blind without direction you walk in the river measuring my attention the contrails of dreams the complicated earth instead of the one I love

 

Tomorrow is the Equinox I want to light it on fire I hope you can join me