there is so much work (left) for the living to do.
maybe george’s death will reinvigorate my latent fascination with life, death, and the purpose and effects of each. and well. there is an awful lot of writing to be done, and painting, and grieving, and laughing, and crying, and fucking (and being fucked), and making up, and getting over, and getting through, and moving beyond, and not looking back, and at the center of it all (for some) (most?) (many?) (all.) is relationship. relating to other humans. like it or not and for better or worse, we’re all in the business of living…together. and just as george came and went like a spark in the night, we, too, can either live well and die happy, or live shitty and die miserable. if and when i must go, i must admit, i’m hoping for the less tragic approach to death. i don’t want others wounded in my demise; let it be said, she lived a good life and if she had to go, at least she went like that. i find public displays of suicide cowardly, selfish, unfair. (random)
i visited my brother in prison today. with his face, bald scalp, and arms blackened by the jailhouse sun, my mom and i giggled as he came out. i told her he looked like he’s been working on the railroad. he barely acknowledged our arsenal of questions about how he got such a tan, but launched, instead, directly into his usual capricorn-moon type of ~serious~ conversation. he spoke to his daughter with such intellectual intensity, vigor, and red eyes that i asked him to lay off the kids a bit. he was (as usual) kinda freaking them out, imo (in truth, his daughter was teenage-despondent and courteous and my daughter was tween-awestruck by the potential to spout off facts). my brother feels his every moment of face time with his kids is critical and they must. learn. about. africa. NOW. (“and i ain’t talking about no safari animals!”)
when george was alive, i marveled at his intensity, indulging his sometimes-bizarrely passionate conversations when i could; other times, i abbreviated them after getting the gist. usually not having enough time or interest (to be honest) to sit still long enough to bathe in whatever box of magic he’d opened at the moment (the guitar; dreadlocks; breath, itself), a few minutes of conversation or well-aimed sentences always let me know that nothing george was thinking or experiencing was being taken for granted, or experienced lightly. george lived with force–maybe because his blood pressure was so frequently stroke-high. maybe because he fiercely valued every healthy moment. maybe. maybe now that my tears have dried, i can try to look at his death, and what it means to my life objectively. just maybe.
regardless.
in the wake of his demise, i find myself newly committed to getting my shit out there (i think i hate that phrase). to continue the work of crafting and distributing my material legacy. (read: the art!) (i wonder about the danger of poor perception, for here i wear the holey cloak of self-satisfaction, thinking the work of erecting my non-material legacy is well underway, and that they, too, shall see me as i saw myself and even as i type that tomfoolery of my youth, i ponder the very real danger of thinking anyone sees life just as you do (or ever did, for that matter). better to bounce ideas off others–just for feedback and perspective! rarely for actual direction!–and continue the work of art-making for art’s sake, unfettered by the opining of all the others. (i totally can’t chew gum when i write. what was this all about anyway?)
and so the dash – the time and life and space in between – is framed by relationships and for me, the realer the better (or should i say, the more authentic, the better…). i suppose i come off as a woman possessed of her own brand of intensity. i openly discourage those who don’t wish to go deep with me to go away (and i should note, since i have no idea who reads this blog now, that i’m ONLY talking about discouraging those who don’t wish to go deep, that i want to go deep with. the invitation ain’t open to everybody. jes sayin’…). but the others, and even they who agree to indulge me, can only take so much of me. that’s ok. i spend enough time self-analyzing to be familiar with the act of trying to see myself and my actions objectively. i really hope when i go, it is remembered or generally known that i did try to get it right/to get me right. to stay on the wagon. to keep on keeping on. even if i was a little ocd and inconsistent about it. ahem.
speaking of control, lately i’ve been having dreams about losing it. this madness, embedded within grotesque imagery, the wrong things happening, upset, turmoil, angst even. but the thing that stands out about these dreams is the alarming intensity of emotion and imagery attached to them. i know i’ve woken up multiple times throughout recent nights, reviewing the dreams, recounting the days, grasping for reality, and for him. i share a bed now and so he suffers through my poor sleep habits while i unwittingly attempt to engage him, in eyes wide shut discourse about my dreams, choosing at times, pre-consciousness to never tell anyone what just appeared in my had. because he rarely wakes with a start, but seems instead to just slide quickly, effortlessly, and misleadingly, into consciousness, i often forget i am about to disturb him with wide-awake and half-asleep questions about randomness ranging from my mother not liking him to my daughter ordering room service, or something real-life, like whether or not i should rent a car or an unfamiliar sound in the apartment. but i digress, some: the intensity of my dreams may or may not have a thing to do with my real life, or they may mean everything to it. truth is, the thing about them is that said intensity tends to manifest in hearty, unbridled rage–while asleep. that’s interesting because during the day, i haven’t been so angry in such a long time, if ever, and certainly never about some of the crap i’m irate about in slumber. angry enough to kill. to seethe. to grind my teeth and struggle for breath. in staccato. and so i wonder about all of that.
but i’m too practical to invest much into theory or speculation about it. and too poor to be able to afford a good therapist. so, i bounce a few theories off the bff and go on, considering my fecundity internally. too often when i wake, the 5am intensity to do and be more than i was 24 hours or 10 years ago becomes more relevant, stealing my comfort and snatching my dreams away. i know, every day, that there is still so much more living and doing and becoming to do. is that woman-speak? woman-think, that everything i do these days feels is a temporary means to an end? that i have not arrived or even truly begun to achieve? i look at my life and think, hell, i’ve got but one child, i’ve got an education, and a good head on my shoulders. i was born free, so why haven’t i accomplished more? ain’t i american?
and then i wonder about them who never do (anything!). and those whose lives are snuffed out unexpectedly, or those who live long and hard, never amounting to shit. and those who spend all their time just surviving and getting by, marveling at the occasional wonders of relationship. or money. or sex. or childhood. or video games or music or dope or owning one’s own home. and that’s all fine and good. this universe has a place for everyone.
but i want more, goddammit!
i won’t live in fear of what people might think. or do (i say). i’ll pray for probability and talk to god when i can (put my mind to it.) (“it” being, believing) i’ll always be thankful, because shit could always be worse. i’ll work with the universe with the hand i was dealt, and watch the heavens for those amazing relationships that sometimes fall out of the clear, blue sky.
they are, in essence, what keeps this world going round.
next time – my relationship with/to this bunch:
Nonfiction Woman 