Plateau

So vibrant it is here-- another world than what I have lived.

Red rock and sage brush,
turquoise,
and a dusty sky.

The perspective
is clearer up here
on the plateau.

It is a sturdy place to build a home,
The Hopi told me so.

It is safe here, on the plateau.
A rising up,
A leveling out.

I level out
with you
              stopping
before I reach the pinnacle
                              of my point.

The San Francisco Peaks
seem so far away.

Deities live there,
that is what the Hopi say.

And so with you,
so far away,
a place I've always dreamed
but never reached.

Like climbing up Fish Point
with medicine men;

He does not know or understand his gift
but he accepts.

As you guide,
You accept.

Looking for someone like you, but not you.
(I thought I was too),
But aye! Not I.

(I'll accept.)


But as Eric Blue Bird sought his kokopelli
down to the deepest regions of Yucatan,
So I search for any sign
of where you're coming from.

Like Alice Blue Bird,
I gather up the salt;

We gather up succulent salt plant in grocer bags,
finding moisture in the dessert;
finding growth between the rocks.

I look beyond my dusted toes
red covered sandals
seeking nourishment in the desolate,
an old woman my guide.

Like drunken reservation youth,
reclaiming their own name, their own path,
I scrawl my own symbol with the ancients;
I try to carve out my own path.

I claw at the rock wall;
I climb and scrape my knee
but when I reach what seems the top,

I've only reached the plateau
not San Francisco Peaks.

The plateau is a good place to build a home,
the Hopi told me so.

But just as Skinny the Navajo
I wish to know
what lies beyond the peaks.

emmenit (death)

We can only do
so
    much.

To the touch,
           you were warm.
To the touch,
           you were known.

I knew your shape.

your day
your preferences
your triggers
your games.

I did not know,
               I never Knew,

The true state
                                    of your heart.

(I am sorry you were sick for so long)
( I am sorry I didn't know)
                                                               Didn't know
                                                                          of your cancer of the soul.

I am sorry

That I am not a doctor.
That I was just a nurse
who tried to help you,
to make you comfortable,
to get you back on track;
but in your pain,
                         you claimed I made it worse.


It was too much for me.
And when you pushed the buzzer,
demanding my return
to turn over your bed pan
and I did not,
you withered
                      in pain        (alone).

But I could not help you
could not force you to under go treatment of the soul
                                                                   of facing self.

I cannot help you
even though you demand that  I do so.

You claim that I am your only
                                                 life
                                 your only
                                                hope.
you don't want to see
the doctor.

you claim you just now have seen
                                                 the truth.

like you couldn't tell;
like I could ever feel safe
while helping a stubborn, angry man throw bed pans of inner hate my way
plates of piss and blame
and blame me
for all his pain.

I am sorry friend.
I am sorry one I love.

I cannot help you
with your cancer.

I cannot help you
I concur.

And now you threaten,
to pull the plug.

A threat to cause
all nurses
to come and run.

But you say,
I am the only one.

I look around the ward and see
all those who find your life worth fighting for.

You look around and see
all those who could care less of thee.

I am sorry friend
I am sorry one I love.

You are to heavy for me to turn.
Your pain is too great for me to coax.

I cannot be your doctor; I can no longer be your nurse.

My shift is up,
my break is now.

I must rest
and find myself.


I pray for you
when I am not there
I pray that you
might find yourself
                                                 too.





                                                                                                                    good bye (my friend).

Knowing (and not)

How can you know,

that I connected your bated breaths on the phone line
with all the kind words you said?
all your silly jokes.

How could you?
How could you know,

that I didn't need that key or extra copy
just a chance to see you--
to maybe talk.

How could you know,

that the deep compassion, deep feeling, in your brow
for those you hardly knew
was so different.

How could you know

that through these minute interaction,
you gave me strength;
an invalid sipping broth.


How could you know

that while you were silently seeking yourself,
I was bound to one who devoid himself,
stoic.

That as you provided nourishing broth,
he provide gut-wrenching poison.

That while you praised my gifts and took interest,
he mocked and belittled them.

How could you know

that I would fall for you?

but that i would keep my hands out
to catch myself,
to protect myself,
to deny myself.

Others see it-- the wandering prophets told me so.

"we weren't sure if you were together," said the youngest.
"What made you think that?" I asked.
"It's the way you two communicate."

my heart froze in that second.
that moment refused me the safty off writing of my connection with you
as just another person to whom you shared compassion.

if this stranger saw what I told myself couldn't be true,
maybe there would the slightest chance,
just the tiniest fragment of possibility
that what I thought of you
was what you thought
of me.

tough.

Done.

Well done.

Over done.

like meat.

a long time sizzling

till you become tough.

the rawness of rare 

was a long time ago.

you know you have been forgotten here

on the coals

and you know someone will comment,

when you are presented,

on how you are not as you should be.

you can feel it already:

the judgment plate.

you will be sauntered out with poor wine and a spring of parsly

to try to cover up how 

done

you are.

I'm done.

muscles stiff, color, lacking, smell, stale.

my mind sits in a taught nagging-- a numbing.

no thoughts please, no more thoughts.

we are done, please;

let us just be done.

what ever juicy pink was once inside has been dried up.

If seasoned better, I might consider myself more like jerky.

but that is what I am afraid of, right?

being jerked around; being carelessly torn at by teeth after pulling me from a rations bag.

I'm afraid of drying up-- of being wrinkly because you are so vain- it is not becoming of you.

Afraid of become nothing

but a piece of meat

that is overdone. 

to be swatted.

stay

          single.

that's what I told myself. 

I will have you know, 

                                   I am not very good at listening to my own advice. 

thinking of it now, the free-ness comes back.

oh, the ease of shoulders

that allowed me to "Ship" others people love

with a smile,

a hug,

a blessing.

It was sweet, their  love.

enduring, their  love.

and outside of middle school crushes,

I had little want of it.

only

       appreciation for it.

to. be. SINGLE!

not

single and flirty, mind you.

I was too awkward; too shy.

not

single and dreamy,

though I did have my days.

I was single and FREE.

free to juggle my own emotions,

rather than rearing the train wreck of constant disapproval and pettyness as I do now.

I got a lot done then.

and it is not to say that I did not blame my emotions on others 

when I was young and free, 

either.

My parents-- my father, mostly--

were the source of an upmost frustration.

My sister, an utter un-empathetic disappointment.

My peers, a hum of annoying social norms and lame lisps jokes.

But it is easy to internalize anger.

Easy to let annoyance drive you into a focused frenzy.

Easy to let the disappointment of others drive your own success.

but wantoness,

ay, want!

of affection approval and attention

drive you to the brink.

                                    drive you insane

                                                  drive you to wish you were the drinking sort.

I did not desire what I did not know;

  did not want 

                         what I saw in no way beneficial to my goals.

sigh.

but then you happened.

              

              you happened and I made the gravest mistake of my life.

I chose to fall in love.

                                      they call it falling for a reason.

                                        once you fall,

                                                 you must claw your way out.

or forever

be lost in the darkness of wanton affection.

sometimes the want is answered.

but all too often, it is rebuked.

                                             It is probably just because you are an aspie.

                                         

more likely,

                  because you are a spoiled, manipulative asshole.

unfortunately for me,

                       you have been the sweetest thing in the world at times.

and it makes me not know

If I should go

or not.

It is easy to be angry-- easy to channel even fear.

but confusion, 

                                                                                                        I have not mastered that.

to be the dog that does not know if he will be swatted on the nose or praised is how I am with you.

to be dammed

is how I am with you.

                                        dammed if I Do,

                                        dammed

                                                      if i do not.

because of you,

because of falling,

this is my cry in the night:

                                              is it worth it? 

                                                                (am i worthless?)

  

 

 

Speak in freedom, do not speak freely {a reflection on congratulations}

When I turned sixteen, I made sure my sister did not breath a word of it to my father.
It was Aug. 8th, and I acted natural. Ok, maybe a little more quite than normal.

I had one wish for my 16th: I wanted to go on an hour long bike ride in the country. I did. The worn fabric of my holey-gray tank top gathered together as i spread my arms out against the warm breeze I created as I moved though invisible atoms of air.

I was happy; satisfied. No one said anything, as I hoped. I got $20 from my grandma in the mail. As a summer born, I had the luxury of avoiding half-hearted blessings from classmates. The one year I did not remove my birthday from facebook, I felt so special and felt the need to respond personally to each blessing on my wall until I realized, "Oh yeah. They were responding to a pink and red box on their screen with my name on it."

This did not make their blessings less true, but for me, I did feel like a fool.

I had puffed myself up because people were responding to a social grace; a social norm.

This is why I prefer to keep my engagement private. Why we have chosen no ring.

As I grow into an adult with more complexities of self, I have become tired of acquaintance-driven small talk. I would rather converse with a stranger. In the conversation with the stranger, when each know we owe the other nothing. We can freely share an ancedote, laugh at the great complexities and simplicities of life, and at the end, call out, "have a nice day!"

It is a sincere interaction of humans bound together only through momentary space and time.

When it is someone you know, but are not really friends with, or have fallen out with,
there is OBLIGATION.
Oh, the horror!
Some where someone mandated that all individuals who had worked together, gone to social functions, or were an acquaintance twice removed from someone, and who happen to make eye contact in a random situation MUST make small talk to affirm that you know each other, affirm that you have not forgotten each other, and pretend like you actually care. (Hint: few people actually care).

Some do care.
For the some that do, the interaction is as free as an interaction with the stranger: a moment of time and place shared, but with a history of other genuine moments and times shared. For the hominid driven by social obligation however, I would rather they nod, take care of themselves, and move on.

This is one reason there is no ring on my finder though I am engaged:
I do not wish to bring unwanted attention to myself.

I barely want to tell people.

Not because I am embarrassed by my fiancee, but rather I am embarrassed by the behavior that our society mandates from those updated on the recent engagement. The classic "AW!" and "Were so HAPPY for you!" and "Where's the ring? Where's the ring?"(So superficial and materialistic).

First of all, why are you happy for me?

Nothing has changed.

If Aaron or I get accepted to the jobs of our dreams, be happy for us. If we find another great couple to live with dropping large rent down, be happy for us. If we find out we have been accepted into a program that lets us live in Europe for 2 years, Be Happy For Us!

But don't "be happy" for me for getting engaged.
Me getting engaged is really for everyone else, not for me.
It is a status change only in what we tell people.
Relationship wise? Living circumstance wise?
NOTHING HAS CHANGED.

We still FIGHT.
We still MISUNDERSTAND.
We still DOUBT.
We still get JEALOUS.
We still HAVE PROBLEMS.

 Getting engaged did not change that.

We still are attached to each other.
We still make amends.
We still demand affection from each other.
We still wait and wait and wait for the other to get home.
We still help each other out with things we don't really want to.

Getting engaged did not change that.

And the people who don't know us as a couple and find out?
You know what they say?

 "We're so happy for you!"

And I laugh!
Because this declaration, from them, means nothing to me.
They do not know us.
They do not know our trials.
Our Issues. Our Successes.

They pretend to be an intimate part of our lives when they have never been there,
like the co-worker who talks with you about the weather in the line to get coffee just because he knows your face and name.

This does not mean that the congratulations is not sincere. But it does render it unuseful and misguided.

Why do you not wish me strength to get through the next bout of loneliness when no one is home?
Why do you not tell me to call you after the next fight me and Aaron have?
Why do you not give me a somber, sweet smile, and tell me gently, "It's a long road."

Instead, you LIE
you who do not know "us"
and tell me you are "happy for me."

What good does that do me???

I have received more meaningful blessing from old men and young women of whose doors I canvassed or faces I encountered at bus stops concerning my intimate relationship with my fiance than from those who I do business with or have good times with as an individual.

Why?
because strangers were given the freedom to tell the truth.

They owed me nothing,
so they were free to give words of value.

"You're first huh? I hope it goes well for you,"
67-year-old-republican in support of responsible fraking.

"Love is a journey. You have to accept that,"
Man who got back together with his (ex)wife 2 years before she died
and was excited to show me his compost pile.

"You guys sound like you will go far together,"
30-or-40-something woman when I told her of our career goals
when I heard what she taught at the local university.

When spoken in freedom, the blessing of a stranger is more valuable than that of a polite friend.

So, unless you really have something to say,
please shut up.

communion (the need of)

a life with you
is a life alone.

a wife with you
is a wife alone.