March 31, 2012
How do I get this damn thing to space poems properly? I haven’t been able to do it since I opened this account. The first one I posted was a sonnet and sonnets only have fourteen lines that run along one stanza. The second was an improvisation so it didn’t need spacing for stanzas and whatnot, the Haiku was a Haiku, and on the last one I actually gave up and just put indents which I ended up liking.
I’m trying to post one of L.’s poems. I can’t sleep.
I’m having this fear of falling asleep. It’s strange and I get it when I’m dealing with lots of anxiety. I just keep pacing, watching T.V., pacing again, laying down and getting up to pace some more all between crying bouts. I still feel like my body is coming apart at the seams. I knew L.’s funeral would be hard to deal with but I can’t even describe… No words. It simply made it more official. I can’t hide behind the false notion that I’ll just be able to pick up the phone and call him today, tomorrow, whenever.
So I wanted to publish one of the two poems A.F. had printed for the funeral, but I can’t seem to get it formatted properly. I’ve tried the forums. I’ve done the shift + enter deal. I’ve tried pasting it straight to HTML then formatting. I’ve tried formatting with <br></br> or <br/> in HTML. I’ve tried preformatting. I’ve tried typing it from scratch. I’ve tried pasting it only as plain text then doing all of the above over again.
What the hell man?
March 30, 2012
March 13, 2012
Note: This post isn’t really all about a rapper; it’s a rant, a bit of angry rambling even. But I’m settled down now, really. I’m settled, so much so that I can focus on typing with my (currently) one useful hand.
Rant commences now…
(Just a heads up.)
So there’s this chick who’s in a jazzy, hip-hop trio from the Rockies terrain. Let’s call her K. Miss K is the MC/beats-maker of the three; there’s also a saxophone player/soulful singer and a live drummer. She’s about two years younger than I am and also has OI. She’s also nearly deaf in one ear, but not nearly as deaf as me–hearing loss is a common thing with us OIers. I think Miss K is also type III but I don’t know, she could be type IV (she uses a wheelchair like I do but looks like she may be an inch or two or three taller and that’s not saying much). And get this, she also studied audio engineering and music production (yeah), only she went to a four year program that offered a B.A in it. I went to a two year program then transfered to a four year university to complete a broader study in media arts and whatnot. The similarities are just wonderful.
Anyway, I’ve never met her in person. I’ve only chatted with her on Facebook. After all she’s from one of the Grand Canyon states and I’m down below in the plains of larger-than-life-Tejas. We “met up” in one of those rare coincidences. I don’t even remember now. But as it turns out, L. knew her from years ago when his godfather would take him to national OI conventions. What are the odds? When she came up in one of our conversations, L. was the one that told me what she was going to school for which prompted me to ask her, and thus, sparked a mutual connection.
I finally got on Facebook yesterday and there she was telling me she’d be in Houston today for a performance before heading to Austin for SXSW–a four-day long music and film festival–and that she wants to meet up.
“Hey, I’m in your hood! Let’s meet up!”
I really want to meet her, so I hastily replied by saying I’d do my best to make it out tonight (I even forgot to ask if there’s a cover charge for the show).
Yesterday evening I asked my mom if she’d give me a ride (I don’t have easy access to transportation). I earned a little bit of cash from my brother for another favor I did this past weekend and I offered to pay for gas with the little I have. She said she would. Problem is, I’m not sure I wan’t to go. I don’t really. I just want to meet her.
I keep thinking if I had my own means of transportation then situations like this would be easier. I could just drive up there after the show, go to some quiet cafe to meet her and drive back home. But I know, I know “maladaptive, wishful thinking”.
I’m already dealing with a lot of anxiety. I just started Sertraline last Wednesday, even though I’ve had the script for over a month, and it has me on edge. Being in a crowed right now would only make me reach my peak. Just thinking about it makes me tremble. I know because I’ve put myself in situations like this before, situations where I have to wait in a crowd in a rough side of town with nobody to talk to but my shivering, shriveling mind. Sure, there are people to talk to, but a shivering, shriveling mind doesn’t see that.
Besides, my ears can’t handle that level of noise anymore. It’s one reason why I’ve avoided shows the last two years. And who would I invite on such a short notice? I can’t push myself around with a broken arm. I’ve hardly talked to anyone since I’ve been back from Florida, not even L. I already asked L bit he’s in a worse mental state than I am. He’s not picking up these days, and when I text, he tells me to leave him be. I could ask B., a good friend and all around great guy, but then again I don’t want to talk to anyone.
“Hey how you been? How’ve things been?”
“Good. Good. Well…”
Nah, I’m not up for that.
People don’t want to hear it. If they’re your friends they will, you may say. But there’s only so much they can take at a time. I just hate being a downer. Besides I tend to be an introvert and keep my feelings to myself, even in the presence of a close friend.
If I go, they may see my grimace. Sure they may also see what I have of a smile. Oh no, they’ll see my crooked smile, my palsied out face. I look like a grinch not being able to smile.
This morning I was at the hospital with my dad. I had an appointment with the geneticist today. The thing about these community hospitals is there’s always a really long wait and you only see the doc for about fifteen minutes–turns out my bone density is very low, but more on that later. So we eventually get called in and as the doc finishes up his final remarks, he adds, “Are you still seeing psychiatry?” I guess he must’ve read it in the charts. I only started “seeing psychiatry” there in December, though I have been seeing psychiatrists off and on since 2008.
“Yes,” I reply.
Then out of nowhere–no, no, right behind me–my dad makes some snappy remark. But even with my hearing aides on, I couldn’t make it out clearly. I was still in a bit of shock from the doc’s unexpected question. Whatever my dad said must’ve been a joke ’cause everyone chuckled. I chuckled too, instinctively and half-heartedly. The awkwardness in the air filled my lungs and I wanted to gag. I felt so piercingly uncomfortable. There was another doctor in the room, one I’d just met. Too much for one morning.
Later, we were in the car leaving, and I asked my dad what it was he said.
“I told the Dr. ‘but she’s crazier than ever,'” he replied.
[insert laugh track]
“Oh. ha. ok”
Now, I think I’m someone who can take a joke, but really? That’s mildly amusing at best. It’s uncalled for. Wrong time pops. Bad, bad timing. He needs a comic coach.
Let me make the joke, please, or let me participate in them. A warning at least–would’ve been nice. And this kind of remark is exactly what creates stigma. What’s most inflammatory though is that I sensed some passive aggression there. My dad has many good qualities about him, he really does, but he completely lacks discretion. I know he’s been taking a lot my shit lately. I know it’s not easy on him these days being in a not-so-good financial situation. I know it’s been a hastle for him to still have to care for a household at his age and then drive me around to the hospital every week for the last two months. He’s sixty-eight. He’s tired. I know.
I let it slide like water. Slide on down, drip on down my head, my body, my legs. Let the carpet soak it.
Then about two hours ago, my dad and I get back home from the hospital. I’m in the kitchen about to eat ’cause I’m hungry. All the while I’m deciding on whether or not to go to this thing K. invited me to. I start telling my mom about K and how I miss being in the music scene. I miss recoding, miss making music–my number one love.
“You know she looks really jovial, really cheerful and happy, a go getter” my mom interjects. (I’d shown her pictures online the night prior when I asked about the ride.)
When she said that, I don’t know what came over me. No, I do know, I took offense. It must’ve been my shattered pride, that demonic ego. I guess I got on the defensive because I’ve been a hard-working, jovial, go-getter too. I’m just not right now. I felt she was implying something, like she was comparing, criticizing. So I start saying how L. mentioned that she K. a big temper. Why does this all even matter? Why would I say that about her in my defense? I too have a big temper. So what? Great comeback PAZ.
My dad passes by as I’m making these remarks about K. and interrupts, “one thing is having a temper, another is being afflicted and sad all the time.”
Ok. Now I’m perplexed and angry. But I do my best to maintain my cool. Keep cool P. Keep cool.
“What do you mean by that?” I ask. He doesn’t reply and walks off. I look over at my mom, “What does he mean by that?”
My mom then starts a lecture about how she learned to let things slide and that’s how she avoids being miserable these days, these dog days . She tells me that sometimes, it’s difficult to let it go, to drop it, but it’s best to.
She’s right. She’s right in many ways.
And she learned this after she had been in therapy (referred for mandatory therapy by APS) a short while as a result of the last serious fight we had three years ago, the one where she slammed me to the car floor, nearly choked me to death, and had to be pulled off of me while clawing and lashing at my face and hair and everything. I’m not even going to say all of the angry nonsense she was yelling at me while all of this was going on.
So I start to think that if I didn’t “let things slide” or “let things go,” I wouldn’t be talking to her right now. I’m not so bad then. And I know what she means. I know she means well. I know my mom is concerned. I know she loves me. She has done a great deal of change since then. I guess one could say she sure has benefited more from her brief stint in therapy than I have in my four years of it. But who’s to say? In the end what does concern alone do? And what was this all about? How did it get started? What am I doing?
I’m frustrated. I’m confused. It’s beyond me. My mind is in a swirl. Whatever.
I don’t want to be bitter.
“Oh you’re gonna end up bitter like your grandma if you don’t change” I hear that a lot. (This is the grandmother that lives in Colombia, the one I haven’t seen since I was four.)
Have I not been trying?
I’m not going to be bitter. I know better. I’ll continue trying.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t hurt; it doesn’t mean things like that are cool to say. How do I get him, my dad, to understand? He doesn’t even know the half of it. He doesn’t even know half of half of half of it. I will not burden him with my madness. This isn’t sadness. I am not “sad”. I do not want this.
Pride is spiraling down. It’s all just piled and avalanching within. Idiotic pride. And this, this situation’s gotta change. Something’s gotta give and I’m ready to make way. Otherwise, I just may…
Well… I guess it wasn’t so much a rant after all. Or was it? Don’t tell me. I’m not in the mood to argue.
Jesuz. I’m really sensitive these days.
So in the end, I listened to my mother until she was done, then quietly rolled back to my room to cry for a bit. I calmed myself with this song. It’s on replay.
(I normally wouldn’t embed videos but Fiona is an exception, an extraordinary exception. Oh Fiona, my platonic wifey.)
I know I can be self assured. I’m just not right now. I want to be so again because I’m pretty fucking extraordinary.
Will I go see K. perform? I still haven’t decided. Probably not.
As you may know, I am a girl prone to low-days. I don’t know how many times I got to soundcheck, in a grumpy, nasty, teary rut.. ~Fiona Apple
And after all the folderol
What did I learn?
I am likely to miss the main event
If I stop to cry or complain again
So I will keep a deliberate pace
Let the damned breeze dry my face
Oh, mister, wait until you see
What I’m gonna be
~Better Version of Me, Fiona Apple
March 11, 2012
today we went adventuring. we danced over the clouds
of our greatest laments, then walked through
the tallest of weeds, taller than our
and i read Plath to you
and you read Parland to me
we sat on tree stumps, picked buttercups and
flicked off the flies. we pulled off burrs from
each other’s hair and laughed when our
clothes got caught on loose
branches and laughed when
we stumbled on words
and laughed when you
lifted my skirt
and i pinched
and we laughed
at the absurdity of it all.
we talked about everything we loved and everything
we didn’t love and we just sat and sat and said
nothing for a long long time
and relished the silence.
in the silence.
© PAZ 2012
March 3, 2012
My left arm which is the one I write and draw with is still broken, so I can only make due with the remaining useful arm. He’s a little angry that I had to render him so poorly though, especially because he’s the ring leader of all of my other pretties.
He says he’s not interested in buying anything either, this includes salvation–so don’t offer–unless, of course, it’s a sexy little thing.
Kudos and thanks for reading.