Just a place for this redhead to post her random thoughts, odd food cravings, and newest "ooh, shiny!" moments. Oh, and to rant about one particular co-worker from the Great White North.
Each time I make this, it turns out a bit different. Sometimes the sauce is thinner and other times, like tonight, it turns out thick. What can ya do? The prep time seems to take longer than the actual cook time. Here’s what you’ll need:
Chicken (The “real” recipe says 4 skinless/boneless breast halves. I prefer to pick up a pack of chicken tenders – already thin, and easier to control the portion that way.)
Butter (About 3 tablespoons, give or take. Make sure it’s room temperature – don’t try to shortcut this by softening it in the microwave. Just my preference.)
Flour (Measurements to come.)
Olive oil (2-4 tablespoons.)
Lemon juice, fresh squeezed. Use that crap that comes in the plastic faux lemon and I will never speak to you again. (Now, I’m all for lemon – during the summer I would eat one, or maybe 3, lemons per day. Loves me some lemon! That being said, the recipe calls for 1/4 cup but I would cut down on this and use more wine, or more broth.)
Chicken broth. (Approximately 1/4 cup, depending on if you use this to cut the lemon with.)
WINE! Dry and white. (About 1/3 cup, but I always wind up using more. My preference is sauvignon blanc. Use your favourite, just make sure it’s dry.) Buy two bottles – one for cooking, and one for drinking.
Capers (drained) and parsley (1/4 of each. Typically I’ll use mostly fresh parsley and some dried, but use what you have.)
Salt and pepper, to taste. (I prefer kosher or sea salt. And some white pepper mixed with the black.)
Typically this is served over angel hair pasta, but tonight I used jasmine rice. Choose whatever side you prefer.
1)In a small bowl, take 1 tablespoon of the (room temperature!) butter and mix it with 1 1/2 tablespoons of flour. Mix together until it’s smooth. Set aside.
2)Flour the chicken. (Dump some flour in a deep plate or shallow pan.) If you use breast halves, you’ll want to pound them down. I hate to beat my meat (no comments, Peanut Gallery!) which is why I use the already semi-thin tenders. You can either dust the chicken with salt and pepper before drenching in the flour, or you can do what I do – mix the salt and pepper in with the flour. Set aside. Wash the caked flour off your hands. (This is the part I hate – icky chicken and flour under my nails. Bleh.)
3)Take a drink. You may drink the wine, I’ll stick with beer.
4)Start with 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Dump into the pan and heat (hot, but not smoking.)
5)Add chicken and cook until golden-ish. About 3-5 minutes per side, or until cooked through. Salmonella is BAD! Depending on your pan size, and amount of chicken, this may have to happen in two batches. If you have to cook the chicken in more than one fell swoop, this is when the extra oil comes in. Add a touch more to the pan, and cook away. Set cooked chicken on a plate and tent with foil.
6)In the same pan, add the wine, broth, and lemon to boil. (Heat is about medium-high, to medium.)
7)After the wine/broth/lemon is boiling, stir in the butter/flour mixture from earlier. Boil. (This may take a bit of whisking to get it to blend together. Be patient. It will come.)
8)Once the butter/flour is introduced, throw in the capers, parsley, and last 2 tablespoons of butter. Stir. Take a taste. If you want to add more salt or pepper, do so. If you want to add more wine, broth, or lemon juice, now is the time to do so (if the sauce is too thick, definitely add more liquid).
9)Place pasta or rice on a plate. Put chicken over that. Over THAT, spoon some sauce. Viola!
10)Crack open the wine (or beer, or water, or what-have-you) and enjoy over some candlelight. Or pop in a movie and curl up on the couch. Or … open up some Scottish Sock Puppet youtube clips and enjoy.
This one is a hit at my house. Unfortunately, these guys get nothing. NOTHING! (Okay, they get some kibble. And love. Lots of love. But that’s it.)
Whaddya mean I don't get the leftovers?!
This is my patented stink-eye. When asked why he was giving the stink-eye, Senor BooBoo was quoted as saying, "You get this because you are not sharing the chicky-chicky with me. I might just eat your head."
Teddy says, "Phbtphbt!"
I think Argus is contemplating peeing on my head. It was later found out that he did, indeed, say, "If I don't get some chicken love, I will pee on your pillow. Don't push me, woman!"
Asmo was unavailable for comment at this time, but his agent said that he would get back to me. Riiiiiiiight.
“You just don’t flirt with members of the opposite sex when you’re in a relationship.”
Okay, you know what? That may be true for you. But for me? I flirt. I love it. Does it mean anything?
No.
Dictionary.com describes in part “flirt” as: “to court triflingly or act amorously without serious intentions”.
Without serious intentions. Do you see how I highlighted that? Without serious intentions.
Maybe, just maybe, your life experience has taught you that flirting is more serious. My experience has shown me that this is not so. That flirting is NOT serious.
We have just gone round and round about this. And yet you persist in the unyielding view that flirting equals intent. For you? Maybe it’s true. For me? It is not.
Honestly, the men I actively flirt with are the ones whom I have no ulterior motives about; the ones that I have absolutely no interest in. This is because they are safe. They know this, and I know this. Apparently, you don’t.
When I say I’m going out to dinner with a friend I mean just that – a friend. We have known each other for neigh on 17 years. I am sorry that you may feel that we are “on a date”, when in reality we met for pot stickers so that he could talk about his ex moving to some god forsaken state to live with her producer. And how that affected him.
If that is a “date”, then I’m dating every single person that I know who needs some time to just vent. To just talk.
_____________________________
You asked me to give specifics of when you put words in my mouth. I wish I could give them to you right now. I wish I could say that every time you accused me in surreptitious ways of still being in love with my ex, that I could shake you by the shoulders and say, “no. I am NOT in love with him. Yes, I did I spend my years between 16 and 29 either wanting, or being with, him. However, he cheated on me. He literally destroyed my childhood home, and then sold items of my fathers that were never his to sell! How does this not parse with you?”
How does me saying, “we were done months ago, but I just couldn’t tell you that because I wanted to make sure it was true, and not just fear speaking” … how does that say I was lying to you? Does this not show you that I wanted to MAKE SURE that I was making the right, and hard, decision about us? How does me, trying to work through some feelings so that I know that they are real, equate a lie? Yes, it IS true that I didn’t bring up these thoughts and fears to you. For that, I apologize. I fucked up, and I am sorry.
It is also true that I didn’t bring them up because I was afraid, yes, afraid, that you would take them very much to heart and then squash everything that you were feeling.
Those feelings? Those emotions? Those are what made me fall in love with you in the first place. And, you know what? Those feelings are still there. I loved you then, and I love you now. But …
… but …
But now I realize that, even though I DO love you, you aren’t “the one” for me. And I’m sorry I cannot give you some pat answer that will make it all be okay.
We are human.
We are fallible.
I am fallible.
And as fallible humans, we fuck up. We fuck up because of fear. Because of fear we don’t communicate in the moment, when we should. And for that, I am truly sorry. Mentally, I am groveling on my knees. (Physically, I am embracing my outer Ice Queen.)
I wish I could have verbalized my uncertainty about us earlier. But … but … I was terrified. TERR-I-FIED. Terrified that I would come home to find you gone. Not just gone, as in your stuff is no longer where I thought it would be, but gone as in, “I keep shaking him but he’s not waking up. No, I SWEAR I can see him breathing. I don’t care that his body is cold, he really isn’t gone” …
And yet you say that if I had only just talked to you, we could have worked things out. That you could have, or would have, changed.
And I don’t want that. _____________________________
I want someone who I can love, withOUT the change. Someone that I can honestly embrace and welcome, warts and all. Your “warts” were also mine. And because of that, I realized that yes, there can be someone who accepts me. But at the same time … no … no, I cannot have your warts mix with mine. Because if they did? I would take too many steps backwards.
Did you understand and accept that? Yes. Yes you did. And for that? I love(d) you.
But now? Now it is not okay.
Because of the acceptance you showed me, I have truly realized that there honestly IS beauty in the flaws. And because of that, I have learned that my flaws cannot also be yours. Because if that is the case, my (and our) flaws create cracks. And those cracks create chasms. And those chasms create the deep dark places that I have already lived through, and cannot visit again. CAN-NOT.
You said you would be willing to change.
I don’t want that.
_____________________________
I want to love someone, warts and all, and be okay with it. And I want them to love me for the same reason. Down to my soul, down to his soul.
I want their crevices to balance out my peaks. And vice versa.
What I don’t want is for them to change solely for me. If they want to change for themselves, sure. Have at. If they want to change because it is something they want, and because of that, they know I will support them, please … knock yourself out.
But to say you would change because it makes *me* uncomfortable? Because by changing it would make things easier? No. No, no, no.
He was, and IS, a wonderful, kind, and caring man. Sadly, he wasn’t the wonderful, kind, and caring man for ME.
Could I have been more communicative about that? Yes. Of course. Did fear constrict my throat? Of course it did. Did I learn what to do, and more importantly, what not to do, in the future? You bet your ass I did.
If you read this, please know that I DO love you. But please realize that no matter how much you say that you aren’t my ex, that you aren’t the people in my past … please realize that those people still colour my present. And no matter how vehement your protestations are, those experiences I will still bring to the table. Is it fair to you, or to me? No, not really.
But it is all I know. _____________________________
Am I running away?
Maybe I am.
But, if I stopped running, would I be settling?
Survey says … yes.
I am learning that sticking up for myself is hard. Damn hard.
And that when sticking up for yourself, you will never have the cut and dry answers that the other person wants.
...
Oh jeez. Fuck it.
To live a cliché, “It’s not you, it’s me. I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”
'cuz the bathroom mirror has not budged and the woman who lives there can tell the truth from the stuff that they say and she looks me in the eye and says would you prefer the easy way? no, well o.k. then don't cry
It’s taken a while to look in the mirror. And now? Finally, I can look myself in the eye. The easy way really isn’t all that it is cracked up to be.
I will never apologize about my past. No, nay, never.
No, nay, never. NO MORE.
Even if it makes you feel better.
Everything I have ever done, every mistake I have ever made, every encounter I have lived through ...
... all of those occurrences have made me the person that I am, today. This moment. This here and now.
This person that you have loved? This person that you still love? This person standing in front of you? ____________________________________________________
I AM the sum of my parts. Ain't nothin' will change that. And no longer will I apologize for my past. Instead ...
Instead?
I will revel in it. I will bathe in it. I will let my fingers rummage through each experience, each jewel, and I will let them slide through my fingers. I will grab handfuls of them, great big fistfuls, and I will bring them to my face, let my lips taste and kiss every one of them, and then... ?
... then I will inhale each and every one. I will smile at the remembrance. I will throw myself down in the plunder of my past. And I will roll in it. I will laugh in it. I will be positively GIDDY in it.
These gems make my mosaic. This one here, this blue one? It shows learning.This crack here, this red facet? It shows experience. This scar, the green one that catches the light just so? It shows a lesson. This one here, the amber one with all of its flecks? The one that seems like it will break with the slightest breath? This one is my cornerstone. The one I hold most dear. ____________________________________________________
Individually the tiles, the gems and jewels - they may be marred, they may be scarred, they may be broken, but on the whole?
They are beautiful.
And you know what? So am I.
Sometimes all you can see is the whole. And you forget that it's the small details, the small cracks, that make the whole gorgeous.
Don't you dare forget that. Because? Because even if you do? Even if YOU forget?
I won't.
I REFUSE. ____________________________________________________
Some of my imperfections, some of my flaws, some of my light that is reflected out, you may not like. Well, you know what? Too bad for you. I like them. I may not love them, but I like them just fine. And if you don't? If you can't handle them? If you can't embrace them? Well ...
... that's your loss. Not mine. I have fought too long and too hard to hate myself because of them. I have earned each and every one of these oddities. ____________________________________________________
THIS ... this is my face. Suck it.
(And this stone? This one right here, that you can't seem to look away from? That one is a diamond. And that diamond is me.)
Words and perception – the definition of “hell” to one person, that same word can mean something completely different to another.
Growing up there were some words I wouldn’t say. Not that I couldn’t, I just wouldn’t. Take the word “just” – it was something I would steer away from in spoken conversation. I would write it, just like I wrote jam, shit, Shannon, and chicken – all of those words were verbally verboten to me.
No, it wasn’t that I wasn’t allowed to say them, but somehow between my brain and my tongue, the ch, sh, and juh sounds come out somewhat jumbly and slurry. It gets tiring to write out my spoken words, when I was trying to say something innocuous as “Jim ate jelly”. Beginning then, I learned a work-around in my spoken vocabulary. It’s why I don’t say “shit” out loud a lot, even though it was my first word.
*******
Raised in Orange County, I always thought that all women wanted big boobs and blonde hair – it’s what my friends and peers talked about when we reached puberty. “D’ya think they’re real, or does she stuff?” “I dunno. Do you want me to go ask her for a tissue and see where she reaches for it?” When I finally did get my own set of boobs, I wanted them to be bigger, better, faster.
Well, that’s not really true …
For a long time, I didn’t want boobs. Did not want them. No, no, no. It meant I would be a woman. It meant that I could no longer go and hide in trees, or at the bottom of the pool. It meant that I would be noticed. Being noticed was tantamount to my own personal second circle of hell.
Driving home from school one afternoon, my grandmother said that it was time for me to get a training bra. Of course, anything my grandmother said I needed, or what she thought I wanted, I did everything within my power to do the exact opposite. I really didn’t need a training bra at the time, but apparently I had reached some magical, mystical age that meant, to her, that I did. From that day forward, I slouched. No amount of love taps on my back from the ruler-wielding nuns would make me sit up straight.
Well, that’s not really true either…
In dance class I always had perfect posture. (Is it odd that I was more afraid of my jazz teacher than the nuns?)
The uniform blouses that we were forced to wear at school aided and abetted in trying to hide my growing buds, but the leotards? Every flaw, real or perceived, was there for all to see, much to my shame. (Did I mention that I really didn’t want boobs?)
It was only when my dance teacher said that I might need some support that I finally caved and let my grandmother get me a training bra. I’m still traumatized from that shopping experience. Did she not realize that clutching a bra, then holding it to my chest, and exclaiming for the entire store to hear, “No, this one is too big!” would scar me for years?
The summer between 8th grade and my freshman year, the beige satin trainer began to pinch and I had to resort to stealing my grandmother’s C-cup bra. That, too, pinched in time.
“I don’t know where your bra went – maybe it has gone to play with the socks in the Dryer In The Sky?” After that one and only shopping trip, I was still too emotionally raw to experience another one and so I lied. That was the time that I realized that some small white lies are good. So, I lied about stealing her bra and I hid it under my mattress.
Again I found myself slouching.
*******
Once I realized that my boobs garnered attention from the cute surfer boys (Sal Belmonte? I’m looking at you), I started to embrace my boobs. To see them not as a hindrance, but as something to be used; used so that I could get what I want. If I wore a low cut top, leaned against the counter, and placed my arms just so, I created cleavage and the attendant at the Arco would sell me cigarettes – at age 14. Since his eyes didn’t get much further up than my clavicle, I was never carded.
Fast forward to age 21. Tanya was complaining about herself, saying she felt fat, that she looked fat. I, of course, told her, “You aren’t fat, you’ve just got huge tits.”
That went over like a lead balloon.
Actually, a lead balloon would have gone over better.
I’ve learned a lot since then.
*******
Words are a cozy blanket on a rainy day – I roll in them, they cover me, and give me warmth. Sometimes how others perceive my words? It is more like a big bucket of ice water splashed in their face.
Actions speak louder than words at times – I think Tanya saw that. My actions belied the stupid words I had said.
When I saw the look on her face after I made that comment about her boobs, I realized that I really stepped in it. Another case of foot-in-mouth-itis. After a long conversation, I realized the hurt that my words caused, and she saw that I was trying to compliment her. (That whole concept of “big tits = beauty” was what my Orange County and raised by a male experience taught me. It’s all perspective, no?)
*******
Almost 12 years later, that moment is what comes to mind when someone asks my opinion. That moment, and her face. “Are my words being filtered through my own life, my own perspective? How will the asker receive my words? Will they understand what I am saying at the core, or will the words cut?”
I have learned to love my boobs, just as they are. They, like my words, are me, I am them, I embrace them, but they no longer define me (nor do they make me slouch). Sometimes, like my words, I use them. But more often than not, I let them be. If others want to judge me by them, that is their perogative; their perception.
Yes, I still speak honestly, but not quite off the cuff any more. I allow myself pauses, and deep breaths, before I speak. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. And sometimes I still slouch. But always, it is heartfelt.
I hate this. My nose is so plugged up I can’t breathe, my eyes are so teary I can’t see. My heart is so sore, that I can’t feel. (Or I feel too much.)
Oh, Dave. Dave, Dave, Dave! (For the “Dead Like Me” fans out there, the intonation is the same as when George says, “Mason, Mason, Mason”.)
*******
Where to start?
You are a storyteller.
A rescuer of stuffed animals.
A kind man. And I DO mean that – there aren’t many people that I describe as “kind”.
Nice? Yes. Caring? Yes. Sweet? Yes.
But kind? To me, that word sums up all that is good, and right. Not many people can embody both of those words. Some live one word, some the other. But both? Only you.
You work with developmentally disabled and abused kids. You act as an advocate; a counselor; a teacher; a safe port.
A friend.
Throughout my life I have been blessed (not just blessed, but lucky, lucky) to know many people who work with the downtrodden, the so-called less desirable, the broken, the “unfixable”. Granted, they all work and embody caring, embody love, and embody aplomb. But you?
You …
YOU are KIND. Down to your marrow, you are kind.
*******
Before I officially met you, we played. Without ever knowing the other persons name, we saw each other on an early Saturday morning – you seeing me, me seeing you, and we both made eye contact.
Blue to green-hazel.
Green-hazel, to deep blue.
Our eyes met.
Of course, I was confused. But I went with it. You? You were going out on a limb.
(At the time I was 16, and you were close to 30. But then, as now, I couldn’t, I can not, resist a game. I think you sensed that in me. Then, as now, you always saw to the core of a person.)
Blue to green-hazel.
Green-hazel to blue – our eyes told the story before any word was ever spoken.
You ducked behind a tree. After a second of confusion, I see your eye, then the rest of your face, and that sly, joking smile, emerge from behind that tree; seeing me standing there, very confused. Just as quickly as you popped out, you popped back in again. And then? Then I knew what you were about. I joined in, my lip curled in understanding. My head ducked in a quick nod. A nod that said, “yes, I see what you are about. I see your ante, and raise it”.
The game was afoot.
I, too, found a nearby tree, and for a few moments, we played a game of peek-a-boo, much to the amusement of the various passersby. Once our trees tired of us, and shook us off like tired leaves, we moved on.
A slow, yet fast moving, game of statues followed. A visual Marco Polo, a game of “red-light, green-light” if you will, wherein each of us pretended to not see the other. Again, the passersby were confused, yet they still walked away with a smile. I?
I walked away with a song in my heart.
I think it was at the end of that weekend when we actually, and officially, met. (As soon as you hid behind that tree, and I followed suit, we “truly” met. Everything else was just semantics.)
“Hi, I’m Dave. Thank you for playing with me yesterday.”
“Hey Dave. I’m Anni. Thank you for allowing me to play with you.”
“Thank you for joining in. It’s not really about you and me, is it? It’s about the world.”
“True ‘dat. See you next Saturday?”
“I’ll be behind the tree. See you then.”
******* After a few years of talking, we became friends. We each saw through the others wall, but neither said so. It worked for us.
Goddamnit! You were supposed to marry my cousin, and show her that not all men are self-centered jerks. You and I knew that, though it was never spoken aloud. It was always danced around, and winked over, on your part and hers.
“Hey, how’s Dave? Have you talked to him recently?”
“Yes. I have. He says hello.”
“Hey there redhead. How’s your gorgeous cousin?”
“She’s fine. She says hello.”
All the unspoken subtext between the two of you was never verbalized, but it was felt. Always was it felt.
If there was ever a match made in heaven and all of the afterlife’s, you two embodied it. Sadly, you were both circling the same tree, but never met on the same side. It was a game of tag, with no one being “it”.
Circles. Both of you searching for the same end, but both …
Running in circles.
Circles … around each other.
*******
Thinking back to that first of many games of hide and pseudo-seek, and peek-a-boo, what I see most, what I remember most, are your eyes. God. Your eyes!
They are so, so, SO incredibly blue. Paul Newman had nothing (nothing) on your peepers.
You know that blue of the Caribbean ocean? Where the really light part meets the really dark part? That small sliver of colour in between the dark, and the light? With a touch, just a touch, of the setting sun indigo? THAT is the colour I remember.
That is the colour, and the smile, that looked out at me that very first time.
That shade embodied everything in and of you. It was deep. It was light. It was fun. It was sad. It was a fan-fucking-tastic mix. A mix of this, that, the other, and everything in between.
Your eyes? They are open. And loving. And, yes, mischievous. There is that gleam. Always that chuckling gleam. God, how I miss that look. The concept of the eyes being the window to the soul? In your case, there was never any doubt.
Your panes were never smeary, or smudged. Clear. Open. Clean.
I envy that, yanno?
*******
One of the first honest, and no holds-barred conversations we had revolved around the developmentally disabled, and abused, kids. Somehow the conversation was hijacked from the light and fluffy into something more real, and tangible. And felt. How we got there, I don’t remember. Somehow …
… I spoke of creating theatre on a semester time-frame with these kids; you spoke of creating a connection with them, on a day-to-day basis.
We both taught each other during that conversation.
You admitted that many of their stories, their life trials, their experiences, made you want to quit, you knew you had to stick with it. “Who else is willing to just sit and LISTEN to them? And then get up and play with them?”
And then you did. You sat. You listened. And then? Then you played.
Then … then I spoke of volunteering at a certain facility in San Francisco … you responded with the fact that you worked, day in and day out, with those same kids at that same location. The heartache and love you expressed, not just through your words, but through your body language, spoke volumes.
Although I loved you the moment you started to teach me to play years before, behind that tree, THAT moment solidified that feeling. And then some.
You make me want to volunteer again.
*******
Your smile and humour – it is open. It is wide. At times, it is guarded. Subtle. VERY subtle.
Only those who knew you could see that subtlety. And the walls you hid behind, calling them “subtlety”.
Not a mean, vicious, or even snarky, bone resides in your body.
Sarcastic? Yes.
Biting? Wellllll, at times.
But overall? So damn joyful; life affirming.
Joie de vivre? You should have been the spokesman for that concept.
*******
You know, I have never realized until THIS moment … this exact, very moment … that you, YOU, were an underlying component in my new-found optimism.
It’s all so clear now.
*******
The difference between child-like, and childish? You taught me that.
For the longest time, I gave up the fun, because I thought it was “childish”. Until you, I never realized that childlike does not equal childish.
There is a difference. Truly.
And you taught me that. You did.
Thank you. Thank you for teaching me to love the swings again, without feeling self conscious.
Thank you. Thank you for showing me that to play inane games with a toddler doesn’t equate to me being “an idiot”.
Thank you. Thank you for showing me the joy of living, and experiencing, through another’s eyes, and lens.
Thank you. Thank you for teaching me that stopping to smell the roses doesn’t slow you down from your walk through life.
Thank you. Thank you for teaching me to embrace. Embrace life. Embrace friends. Embrace children. And? Embrace the moment. Embrace “the now”.
The now only happens once.
When the hell is the now? Well … it is … NOW. The now turns into “the then” and also “the future”.
“The then” can only be appreciated if you experience the now.
“The future” is only, truly, lived if you embrace the now … now.
Future and past … the cannot be measured without “the now”.
As much as I loathe to say this … thank you. Thank YOU for showing me what an uptight ass I was; thank you for opening the door, again, to child-like (but not childish) wonder.
And joy.
On Saturday, when I am able to visit my friends’ kids, I will play with them until they fall down from exhaustion. Until they fall asleep on their feet. Until they pee from laughter.
*******
I can’t call or text the cousin to tell her – it’s too late, and she needs her rest. After Dad died, she became the caretaker, and warden, of Nana. If I tell her right now, this will kill her.
It’s better to wait until daylight.
It amazes me that after 9 years, each of you still asks about the other. That is telling, no?
You, Mr. Dave, have touched people. Some of them you KNEW you touched. For others, others like me who prefer to keep their emotions and feelings locked up, you touched, without you knowing.
You never knew that touched people, though I suspect that you had an inkling.Your fingerprint lies on them (and me, and us), all the same.
*******
Another storyteller I met at 16 was Mykie Dave. Larger than life, he was; literally and figuratively. (He was also a redhead, so he got untold bonus points for that fuck-up in genetics. What can I say? Like attracts like. And you and he were friends, not just with me, but with each other, so … )
He was the first person that I thought of to officiate my wedding. (Though you were a close, a very close, second.)
Your storytelling, and his, were very similar: both of you told tales of love thought lost, but then found … and realized.
The only difference between your stories was this: Mykie Dave always said that, “funny doesn’t have to be nice” – he sometimes beat you over the head. Whereas you … you were always nice. (Mykie Dave used a 2x4, and you used a ruler – both were tools to beat people over the head. The difference was in the bruises left the next day.)
*******
I should have called. I FELT it. I FELT that I should have called.
But I didn’t.
For me, time doesn’t hold a lot of sway. (I think you knew that.)
Sadly, for the last two years, I think you not only heard, but felt, each moment count down.
Tonight … that clock ticked its final second.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
(GodDAMN those egg timers!)
*******
That friend or that family member that you have, for no known reason, been thinking about lately?
Call them.
Send them an e-mail.
Give them a hug.
Reach out.
If only "just because".
******* Before I completely lost my shit tonight, my old roommate Ken randomly IMed me. He offered me a much needed break from my own head, and emotions. When I was on the verge of a breakdown, on the verge of an “ugly cry”, he brought me some laughter.
So did some of the goofy and off the wall blog posts tonight.
If you can’t laugh through your tears, what else can you do?
*******
Shit. Say it ain’t so. Please.
Say it isn’t so.
This news is still just a few hours old. I wish I could plug my ears with my fingers, close my eyes, rock back and forth and repeat, “la la la la la, waterfalls, waterfalls” over and over, and over again, and when I opened my eyes, the world would still have you in it.
*******
Although you were not my safe harbor, you were still part of the shoal, and you played that role (of safe harbor) for many kids.
What the fuck are they (and I? and us?) going to do without you?
I have lived through this before – I have lost someone, some people, I love too soon. However, *I* had a support system in place.
Many of the kids you touched don’t have that. They never experienced the haven of acceptance and peace until you came along.
*******
I hope I can do you justice.
Each day, I try to find my own tree with which I can hide behind and invite others to come play hide-and-seek. Although I do live the mischievous, I am still trying to find those who will get, and play with, me.
It’s a long road, but such a fulfilling one. (Thank you for showing me the alternate route.)
And although I am pretty much over the concept of praying … I PRAY that this weekend, when I am playing with the bazillion kids of my friends, that I can channel you.
That I can offer them some hope. Some laughter. Some mystical twinkle. Some safe bubble.
*******
Death is what gives this thing we call life a frame. To quote Rumi,
Dance when you're broken open. Dance if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free.
*******
Goddamnit Dave! We weren’t done telling stories. (YOU weren’t done telling stories. I was just learning how.)
Why did you have to up and die tonight?
You may be gone, from this physical plane, but I will dance. I will dance in my blood.
I will dance for me, for you, and for YOU, YOU who are reading this incoherent babble.
I will dance to embrace life: mine, yours, yours, and YOURS, and ours.
*******
I have heard, and experienced, better storytelling. However, here is a link to a story that Dave recorded just 8 short months ago.
Dave? You know that you can do better than this, I have seen, heard, and experienced you do better than this … you KNOW this. However, I will embrace what is below, and remember all of our conversations to the best of my ability.
I will miss you. It's only been a few hours, but already I miss you. (You hated to make me cry, but damn … you are doing it now. But you are doing it in such a happy, yet sad way … you can’t yell at me for this. DON'T YELL AT ME! Stop smiling at me, and laughing with me, whilst I cry. It defeats the entire purpose.)
The beauty that was, that IS you, I will try to pass along. I will try to live.
No. Scratch that. I WILL live. And love.
My friend? I love you. And I wish you nothing but peace, love, happiness, and a pain-free, cancer-free, existence.
*******
David is a graduate of the Dominican University Storytelling Credential Program and holds a Bachelor's Degree in theater. He is a member of the San Francisco Asian Art Museum Storytelling Corps, and has served as a member of the Board of directors for the Storytelling Association of Alta California for six years. David is the recipient of three Marin Arts Council grants. His Storytelling CD, Anything Can Happen, is the winner of a Parents' Choice award.
______
David Ponkey serves as a storytelling therapist for Sunny Hills/Children's Garden group homes, and is a member of the San Francisco Asian Art Museum Storytelling Corps. David served as a member of the Board of Directors for the Storytelling Association of Alta California for six years, and is the recipient of three Marin Arts Council grants for storytelling with special needs students. His storytelling tape, Anything Can Happen is the winner of a Parents Choice award.
I stopped saying “I love you” when I was 5, shortly after she died. I thought that those three simple, monosyllabic, words could kill someone. That I had thatkind of power.
“I love you Mom” ...
BOOM! Gone.
Brrrring! Brrrrring! The telephone was sqealing, screaming, yelling.
"Uhh, hello? Oh, god, no. No. No. NO! Ann!!! Ann!!! Katie is dead. SHE'S DEAD! Katie is gone."
Does it matter that Katie's daughter, YOUR granddaughter, was sleeping next to you in your bed (because of nightmares), and could hear your voice? The voice that was yelling out to Katie's mom, my grandmother, she (I) could also hear?
You were gripping the bedroom doorframe, gathering strength for yourself. Was there any compassion for Ga, for me? Were you grabbing that wooden frame for yourself, or for us?
All that little girl (your granddaughter) knew, at that moment, was that the last person she said "I love you" to was gone. Forever.
And there you were ... bellowing that she was dead. Tsk, tsk.
No compassion.
I guess that is what they describe as a wake up call ... literally.
*******
It took a decade and a half for me to say those same words out loud again. When I first said them, I cringed; I thought that a lightening bolt from on high would come down and smite him; my first boyfriend, the one to whom I said them. The feeling of love? I was full of it. The words? I meant. Never the twain shall meet. At the time, I was terrified to combine the two – the addition of feeling and words I just couldn’t do. Couldn’t handle. It was too terrifying. My soul felt like it was going to be torn. When I said them out loud to him, I thought quietly to myself, “I hate you”. It was akin to not stepping on a crack to keep mother’s back intact. I was trying to balance the feelings. The words. The intent. It was to save your life (or so I thought).
Almost 3 decades later, I still have a hard time saying those three simple syllables. Instead of light and happiness, there is still fear, darkness, and loss tied into those words; more specifically the order in which they are said.
Many times (too many to count) I wished I had said those these words:
I
LOVE
YOU
Say them with me.
I. LOVE. YOU.
Just saying them out loud – separately – it’s not so hard, right? Said separately, they are easy – like reading off a grocery list. They are words that we use every day, in many different contexts.
Stating, saying, and feeling those simple words, in that SPECIFIC order … that can, and is, terrifying.
Still ...
*******
Why the fuck are we so scared of how our love will be taken. Perceived?
Why can we not tell someone we love someone, without fearing how THEY will take it? Are our emotions only true, dependent, and worth something on how the other person sees feels those emotions?
Can I/you/we not love someone? Whether or not they love me/you/us back? Does it HAVE to be a two-way street?
It is comfortable when the one way turns into two-way; in fact … it’s easier. That pent up breath that you didn’t know you were holding? It finally comes bursting out. "I love you."
"I love you too." PHEW! Why the hell are we so afraid to voice what we feel? Why can’t we allow our heart to speak the truth? Damn the consequences!
*******
Thinking back, I remember a couple (maybe two, maybe six, maybe four) times that I actually told Dad (out loud) that I loved him. Out loud. There were only a couple of times that the words “love”, “I”, and “you” came out in the correct, and in the right, order.
The correct order. That was felt. All at once. That small handful … said out loud … well, the amount of times I said it? It makes me feel like a shithead.
The terror I felt, from trying to voice those three words, would always tie up my throat. (I mean, I told Mom numerous times that I loved her. And Dad. And a random assortment of family. But then? Then she died. Were my words enough to kill? I didn’t want to take chances, so those simple words were stricken from my spoken lexicon. Nobody heard those words for a long, long time.)
I know, know down to my heart and marrow, that Dad knew that I loved him. But there are times …
…
... there are times that I wish I could have overcome my own self-imposed fear. Not only for him, but also for me.
They are just words, right? Just sounds that are made – starting at the lungs with an inhale, exhale. Let it out. Let it go through the vocal chords and zenith over the tongue and through the mouth. How hard is that?
*inhale*
I
LOVE
YOU
*exhale*
Three syllables. Three breaths. Three short sounds to make.
*******
Just saying “I love you” was hard enough. Words can be insubstantial. The wind can catch, and take away, anything said. The words out of your mouth are ever changing – a dust mote caught in the sunlight. Never permanent. It twists, and can be twisted. It can be carried away.
Written down though? Said AND felt?
Those words can haunt you.
They are palpable.
*******
Tanya, one of my nearest and dearest friends, taught me the power and sanctuary of saying, and feeling, those three words. Those words said, and felt, in the correct order. Many times she said them to me. I kept pushing her away. She didn’t care – she was saying her own truth. Finally, finally, I accepted them. She taught me how to love myself. Not in any perceptible way. There was no “a-ha!” moment; her words, and feelings, wriggled themselves into my psyche. She created a chink in my emotional wall that went both ways. I opened myself up to love from the outside, and it penetrated my own inside workings.
She loved and accepted me – warts and all. By doing that, by feeling that, and by stating that vocally … she allowed me to open up just enough to love myself.
Many friends and family did the same thing, and they all created the cracks. Each and every one of them had a hand in breaking down my walls. But Tanya was the one who was the most persistent and adamant in her feelings. And one of the most vocal.
*******
There was a time that I was used to, but not yet comfortable with, saying “I love you”; the next step was actually writing down those words.
It was easier to stop cutting my wrists than it was to actually put pen to paper and permanently etch those feelings. The act of writing was more permanent – it was not as ethereal as just saying something What if the object of my love died? Or didn’t reciprocate those feelings? Did that mean that my words, and heart, killed them?
That was my experience – my words killed.
It wasn’t until later that I finally realized that my words, my feelings, were just a victim of circumstance. That by saying “I love you” – it didn’t mean an automatic death sentence. It actually meant growth. And life.
Withholding my true feelings not only hurt(s) friends and family, it also hurt(s) myself. I know that Dad would have liked to hear me actually tell him that I loved him more often than I actually did.
But I also know that he just knew I did.
*******
“I love you Bubba.”
“You too.”
Even though I couldn’t say it, he still felt it.
He, however, was able to say (and feel) it.
Learning ... I'm learning.
*******
Superglue is one of the greatest inventions – it allows you to put back together pieces to where it’s almost whole again ...
In that vein, I’m mostly put back together.
The breaks, the chinks, the cracks, they are all still visible. But by showing them, I’m also showing that I have been used, and loved. I am not perfect, but I am still adored.
“I love you” is no longer something to fear. It is no longer an invective. They are now words that I embrace. They are words that I live. They are words that I feel.
They are words I now say.
And feel.
Now? Down to my marrow, my soul, I feel and live them.
*******
I wish I could have said those words aloud in life, instead of waiting until we were both broken: me, grasping the flag to my chest – he, being lowered into the ground.
At that moment, he was complete – laid to rest with Mom. His pain finally subsided.
I was the one still broken.
*******
To those who are reading these black words on a white page? I say this to YOU, without fear …without reprisal ...
