curse

Curse you for almost hitting my frickin car when I have the right of way. Curse you for tail-gating and almost running into my frickin car. Curse you for hitting my frickin car on the freeway at what must’ve been 60 miles an hour. Curse you for the slow-mo what-the-f-ness of getting rammed into and having no idea what the frick was going on for what seemed like minutes, while alone in the car on the freeway, with things flying from behind, glass breaking, doors jamming, air bags popping, horns blaring, sirens starting, traffic stopping, cars scattering like billiard balls. Curse you for making me a spectacle as I crawled out of what was left of my frickin car, hoping it wasn’t about to burst into flames. Curse you for making me borrow the cell phone of the driver of the vehicle immediately behind me, who was yelling hysterically about how she was hurt. Curse you for giving me whiplash. Curse you for killing my car. Curse you for the years of driving in the meantime during which I curse every driver that gets close to me. Curse you.

--Julie Carter

[curse]

Dark hair, native soil where the blood of slaves, the blood of ancestors mingles with the dirt. The blood of hanged men. The milk of mothers, of chicken's blood and red dust on the ground. What is it when a woman bleeds? I've bled once too many times, a conception ill-conceived, an idea half-formed, the fear is that I can't do it again. The fear is that I'm cursed. It's just who I am. Fuck.

That kind of curse.

The pain of being a woman, of always being on a cycle. Spinning. Blood as thick as thieves. The night came and you were stolen away from me. Quiet as cat's feet, clawing me from the inside. A stream, the hearse, another lullaby in verse. What could be worse? To endure this course, this curse of course. Where intercourse could mean divorce. Or devotion.

I'm stuck. Not stuck. I'm fluid. The fluid of ages, of women's wiseblood, the genetic manifestation of all those mothers and fathers. The being inside me who never became. Who was and who then wasn't. What was the agreement? Where do any of us ever start, or end?

[resolve]

A carpet cleaner, a New Year, a new clear spot. Fists balled, breath held, heavy sighs and the eyes close. All kinds of music, all kinds of love, all kinds of light and dark. The scripted voice on the radio, the natural voice of my son calling the balloon on the ceiling a cloud, enjoying the cadence.

I hear songs and stories of death. Songs and rhythms of life. Tide at my toes. Cold wind under my shirt. Cold wind in my lungs. Cold fingers and a Chinese satin shirt. These are the scenes from the first day. The lights get too hot. The polarities, the axis, it all dissolves when my eyes close. And reappears upon waking. Upon opening. Upon a spontaneous kiss from my son.

Weaving across the playground, waving his arms in an imaginary tunnel. Songs half sung. Traditional food. The tradition of coffee first thing. First things. A handstand at age two. Calling cartoons "raccoon." First trip to the ocean. First time on a horse. First music put together. First puzzle solved. First fright. A picture of a lion in a book. The death of a friend against the stark backdrop of my son's joy. My first forays into Real Life.

Even auspicious beginnings must come to an end.  Where is the deep contemplation, the somber reflection, the warm clear pool, the dimples and the bright blue eyes that can only be here for so long. Even the lotuses are dried up and gone this week. Out of this winter, out of 01 01 10, I resolve to resonate. I resolve to bloom. I resolve to sing a complete song, not just half-recalled verses and choruses. I resolve to teach and be taught. To write. To make it right. To love.

[refine]

Refinement, so sweet. Like sugar. Like understanding light. Waves, patterns, the sacred trembling of the universe. The sound of my son's voice, ringing out around the house. The sound of life in the mornings, low-humming radio, oven buzzing, laughing baby, whimpering dog, the freeway in the not-too-distant distance. The lightwaves and the frequency.

How often do I stop to smell the rose? We go for walks down the street, takes an eternity, since we stop at every flower garden to count every butterfly and bee. I am so grateful for the bees, who are in danger of disappearing from our planet. I love how they take nectar from the morning glories or the lantana or the marigolds, and refine it into an even thicker substance, into honey. Like the light moving from the eyes down into the core of the pelvis. The place where he grew from one into eight. And then some. How orderly the division, how echoing the green, how narrow the hallway the birth canal the chance we take, to get to be born human, to be born at all, to count all the perfect fingers and toes and breathe, the deep relief I feel when I do not brace, the perfect symmetry of it all in hindsight, how much deeper. How much sweeter. How much denser, darker, lighter the unfolding. And the unfolded.

I want to tune him like my guitar, be consistent with my words, patient with my hands, loving with my eyes, firm with my voice, soft outside but strong inside. Every day it gets better. More refined. Even me, burnished by the strife and the fire and the constant grating of my will vs his. Burnished dross, turned to gold. The tiny speck of gravel turned into the pearl by the nacre. My words for him. My sense of my self. It's getting better all the time.

[real]

my favorite childhood book was "the velveteen rabbit." it's about the toy bunny who longs to be real, and the little boy who loved him into existence. every time i think about it i get this dull aching heart and my spirit soars upward, lifting my little girl face to the sky and praying, wondering, if i too will ever become real.

watching my baby boy grow up before my eyes has peeled back the layers of protection i had so carefully placed over all of me, or a moat, a shield, a circle of fire. the drawbridge of my life has opened for the wrong random strangers and left angels outside, waiting. with my boy, i feel as alive i did when i was six, seven, ten, twelve. i want him to know how everything works. he asks me a thousand times a day, "what's that?" even when he already knows the answer.

he wanted to wear his costume twice. he wanted to learn how to knock on a stranger's door and say "trick or treat!" he danced circles in the living room until he fell and hit his head on the doorframe. not to mention the fact of a doorframe, but there, i mentioned it.

so i look at him and i learn how it is that i came to be, after all: my daddy and mommy made me out of fire and food. they bred me. they bore me. and they loved me. just like we. just like i. just like he.

Dark darkness

When my 9 year old son goes into his funky funks, brought on by low blood sugar or an injustice served or fatigue or some such, we call it his dark darkness. Sometimes he goes there and we understand and we let him go there and it's all good and he's just feeling the feelings and he sits in it until he comes out of it. Other times though we're kind of pissed at his dark darkness and we get mad for him being mad (yes, I've talked about this in various sessions and yes I'm mostly done with it but you know we can't always do it right). So we call him on it and we say, HEY! You're going to the dark side too fast on this one. We actually say it just like that. And he stews and furrows his brow and gets more dark and we might even go back and forth we me trying to rationalize him out of it (as if that could actually happen when he's in the dark darkness). And we either get into a bit of a tiff, yelling, or just a bad, bad exchange of words all together and eventually then, after this ridiculousness on my part, I usually walk away leaving him to feel his feelings and return to us when he desires. And then I wonder why the hell couldn't I have just done this in the first place? Walked away and let him feel the feelings. Even if his feelings seemed to me to be out of sync with the events. As if I was the one in charge of feelings around here. As if I could protect people from the dark darkness. As if I had some kind of magical powers to keep my little people from feeling anything too bad. Or at least from taking it out on me.

[dark]

As in the Night. As in Joan, bright and dark. The dark one. The blackness. The bleak house, the inky hole and the absence of light. Or the calm before the storm, the moment between the end and the beginning. A rocking. A swelling. A trembling. The nerve endings and where the muscle begins to twitch. I'm a witch. Am I a good witch or a bad witch? Either way, I'm dark. Dark and lovely. The night of the gondola, gliding around corners in blackest waters, stretching our necks to see the home of Marco Polo at midnight. The ink is black. The pages white. The dark is not empty. The dark contains me. The dark caresses me. I'm afraid of it. I have always been. I can't sleep without the light on, somewhere. Some light. Stars vortex into deep space. My deep sadness and fear vortex into dark night within.

There is still a part of me that is always on. The inner sun. The part of me I have forgotten for the most part. The light heart. The feather. Big heavy mama rolls around relishing the dark parts. I need a little love, a little memory of how it was. When the sun came up, when the light danced in my son's eyes and I saw it there.

[smoke]

Where there's fire.

The lady with the flowered green bag sulked around and paced outside the restaurant door, sucking on a cigarette. My bright shiny cheeked boy anxiously tugged my hand as he pulled me past her to go for a walk down the mean sidewalk streets of Austin.

Meter. "Failure" sticker. Chicken wire covering an air cooling engine. Dirty wooden trash bin with bright red duffel bag and 2 rotting bananas in half-opened skin, lying side by side like war casualties in a ditch.

What is the world coming to?

Where are we now, and where have we been?

What hath rock and roll wrought...on the hair of Americans? Bad dye, frizzy, puffy, thin but poofy, long and greasy, sideways and inappropriate or not quite matching facial hair. My rock and roll hair signifies my allegiances. I choose to align with the Divine. Or Patti Smith.

Who may smoke.

The fire of heat, steam coming off our skin at Eastwoods park. It's Eila's birthday, it's Jenn's birthday. The day a woman's first baby is born is the day she dies, reincarnates as...a Mom.

"It's like a scud missile has gone off in the middle of your life."

In a good way.

Leaving plumes. Peacock feathers, Krishna's kiss, Radha longing to be the flute at his lips, fiery fists and furrowed brows, real tears, throwing things, scratching mama's lip off, the explosive growth of the toddler mind.

I feel blackened, crisp. Delectable, smoky incensed.

Unfiltered. Unwashed. Deliriously happy. Gnawing on nails, carrots, knuckles and baby boy knees.

I send my offerings up to God, into the wild blue yonder, along with the prayers, the nag champa, the longing throb of my voice.

Fan me, I'm a flame.

I'll never go out.

--Liz

Smoke on the water. Water on the stove. Pasta in the water on the stove as we race against hungry bellies inside each and every one. Can I help? Oh no. Not now. Time is of the essence and there is no time for cooking lessons when low blood sugar stares us in the face and comes out in the form of snarkiness. Wah. Wah. Wah. And that's just from the parents. Imagine how it sounds in the babies and the kids. Italian sausage in the broiler smokes. Ah! Get it! Oh well, a little carcinogenic but tasty nonetheless. Fresh greens picked by our 11 year old at Green gate farms where she goes every Friday instead of going to school. Yippee for intentional hooky! Better than my version of childhood hooky which involved spur of the moment decisions and no plans and drives to the Jersey shore or the big apple smoking, smoking all the way.

--Bernadette



Not supposed to smoke while I'm pregnant--that part is easy. Not supposed to drink (a lot) either; that's not so easy. Especially after a day like today, which followed a night like last night. Baby up twice, second time for a full hour, writhing and kicking her fleshy knees into my growing belly. Sleep was my insatiable craving, and I thought nasty thoughts while she stirred, I really did, crazy how you can do that and love so profoundly at the same time.

Today I drove two friends and my tired girl to a barbecue mecca in small town Texas. If I would have come alone, as my old self, it would have been all open arms gluttony, cold beer in tow and bring on the fatty meats. But now, baby on my hip, I wondered if I should feed my tot the greasy links and cheap, soft white bread and if the smoke from the wood fire would linger in our clothes and hair (I actually relished this possibility). The electric knife they used to slice the brisket make her wide-eyed with fear (such noises are terrifying since her tiny cast was sawed off), and that image took away my hunger.

Feeling a 100 years old, with baby on my lap (jabbing her brother with every bite), I was reborn, I was again surprised by the renewal of being a mom. I watched my sweet girl sucking on rib bone, plucking pintos from the sauce with her fingers, eating tiny pieces of smoky meat for the first time. And my indulgent anxieties and self pity were snuffed out. My happiness was a hot fire, and it smolders still, as I remember messy face and greasy napkins and my pants soaked with the ice tea that she had spilled.

--Paula

The end of a very. long. day. My cranky girl exhausting every resource of calm and even temper I have available to me. And I am fortunate to have many.

But I'm all run out. She's finally asleep and I can't shake the feeling of fight or flight that has risen from riding, wrangling and reeling through the histrionic roller coaster that is the emotional life of a toddler. I remember that my fellah keeps a little green bud in the top cabinet in an oregano jar. 'Medicinal' he says.

Tonight I understand. I acquiesce. I smell it. Smells like Christmas tree. I smoke. I choke. I remember then why the last time I tried this was in the 80's. You see...."Bitches can't hold their smoke. That's what it is."*

*Weird Science 1985

--J

[heat]

There is heat here, in this little belly. The red cheeks, the rosy skin. The sun shines down and reveals all. I'm afraid of the weather changing. It's not like it was when I was a kid. When I used baby oil on my skin to soak in the sun. It's all I can do to put a hat on my son's head. I want him to be able to brown, to tan, to be warmed by the rays of that big, brotherly star above. In our frenzy to own, eat, devour and become everything we will perhaps leave nothing behind. As the season changes, as the nerves in my arms and hands tingle, as the pie cools and the teeth come in, heat. Spark. Tapas. Food. Fire. Discipline. The lines between blur. The cold hard facts of the light at the end, the dance. My son's fiery bursts, his small fists, his nails on my skin. If I can't take it, I'll have to step out of the kitchen.

want

I want to need to love to want you. All of you. All 5 of you that share this house, this family life, this space that is ours to share. I want you to understand. I want you to listen when I speak. I want you to be reasonable creatures. I want you to stop wanting sometimes. Because sometimes your wants seem endless. And other times your wants seem frivolous or pointless or senseless or wasteful or ridiculous and then I catch myself and remember the saying that I wrote out on a piece of paper in big block letters and posted to the refrigerator door: WE ALL WANT DIFFERENT THINGS. Or does it say WE ALL LIKE DIFFERENT THINGS? Want, like, they're kind of the same anyway. But I have to walk the talk I talk so damn much to my kids. I want them to realize that there is no accounting for taste or like or want. Each of us having our own. I remember my own mom of nine children used to say the same thing only good Catholic girl that she was she said it in Latin. What was it? Degustibus non es putantum. Or something like that. basically it meant, there is no accounting for taste. We all want different things. And as I want them to allow it in each other, I too have to allow it in all of them. Like what you like. Want what you want. State it clearly. And it just might be satisfied. Want to try?