My body is in fact defunct. My primordial clay was improperly handled and sent down the assembly line too soon. Perhaps in being born a month early (apparently I was tired of the womb and ready to kick the bucket as I wrapped my umbilical cord around my neck three times)I permanently scarred my chances of having a fully functioning body. All of my organs are fully formed but a few of them seem to malfunction quite a lot of the time--every few days or so.
Oh yes, my organs, how they do hate me.
I have since grown accustomed to not being able to eat without fear of painful intestinal/stomach episode. I have grown accustomed to my joints not lining up properly. I have grown accustomed to my twisted spine.
Or, more accurately, I have grown accustomed to chronic pain. It's odd to hear people six decades older than me complaining of the pains I have now. I fear old age. I fear I will be wheel chair bound. But mostly, I fear the unknown. Some of my ailments have names, like scoliosis. Others do not. For a brief, terrifying summer I believed I had cancer of breast and intestinal natures. Eventually, it was discovered the issue was not cancerous, but quite heretofore unknown. I was sent home, not necessarily living or dying or knowing which of those two labels was more accurate but in a limbo I continue to exist in.
Cancer is terrifying. Everyone has an expiration date but the glory of not knowing how soon or far off it may be is often underestimated. Cancer patients can morbidly watch death approach on a speeding train, BigRig, or whatever vehicle of their choice. Either way, they watch the end approach. I am lucky in that I cannot see mine.
However, when in limbo you have no such comforts of "I eat healthy, live healthy and am not cancerous and therefore will live to be old barring car accident or freak lightning storm". I have: It could be nothing. I could be the next new disease that causes slow, lingering death. It could make me live to be 150. I could die tomorrow.
Limbo is terrible. I now understand why the Pope got rid of it. I wish he could banish it from my body.
And on that happy note, I leave you with Summer Surgeries, a full and far more amusing account of the above ramblings
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Once upon a time, or, let's talk about marriage.
I have always wanted to get married. There seems to be some strange correlation with Disney movie childhoods and an extreme desire to get married. I know what my dress will look like, what my daddy daughter dance song will be, who will be involved in the planning and who won't, etc, etc. I never seemed to contemplate the man much which resulted in supreme terror. And this flash fiction piece: Velcro.
For the linkaphobic:
Our father is clutching her, his wrinkled claw of a hand clasped about her forearm declaring this young woman as his own offspring. He's about to hand her off to a man he has deemed acceptable and she has deemed marriage material. If it were a real material rather than a metaphor it would be made out of Velcro. Once the husband-to-be is brushed up against, removing him is a noisy, gruesome affair--what was once a whole is ripped in two and so on. He says he loves her and isn't any of the things on her list of men who cannot be saved, dated or married. And that is all the matters according to our mother, our father, our cousins and all those rather irritating bridesmaid friends who overdid everyone's makeup including my own.
Her dress doesn't look quite right. I haven't been able to pinpoint what it is and while she claims it is the perfect dress we both know it is not. The one she really wanted was $2000 over her budget so I guess she is pretending this dress is really that dress. I know my sister.
Her husband-to-be, my brother-in-law-to-be, is perfectly bland in conversation, occupation and, so I imagine, in bed. I picture their honeymoon and his perfectly bland abs in numerous pictures at the beach. I picture his perfectly dull smile situated right next to hers. I picture them fighting and laughing. I picture her pregnant and him working eighty hours a week to afford the child. My sister does not picture these things.
She is walking down the aisle with a withering man, one foot in front of the other. Her neck is sweating because she let those bimbos convince her to wear her hair down in July instead of up. We all know she has beautiful hair, but one would think pragmatism would override a fifteen minute aesthetic that will be ruined by sweat. I'll put it up for her later. I will resist the urge to shave her head or yank out all the hairs one by one.
My sister does not love the man she is walking toward. I can see it in the white knuckles around the bouquet. She is going to be white knuckles for the rest of her life if she does not flee. She needs to drop the flowers, drop the pretense and run for the hills before I kill her with my eyes. Our father is lifting her veil. Our mother is crying. I and her ditsy bridesmaid friends are surrounding her. The priest is talking.
They are kissing. There are some rings. There is a limo.
We arrive to the reception and the rest of her life with a man she does not love but has wed because he is made of marriage material and our father likes him. He is bland enough for our family's conservative overtones. I hate that conservative overtone, but he meshes just fine. He seems to enjoy it but I can never tell. He is so boring his face is a mask of tranquility. And 5 o'clock shadow.
Our father is dancing with her now. They are swaying to some song she picked out that has no real meaning to her because she does not love the man she married nor anyone else--she wed because it is expected of her, not for any real want on her part. Her husband, my now brother-in-law, is behind me, waiting for his turn to dance with her. I can smell his unexceptional cologne. I can sense his heat waving off of him onto my bare shoulders as he passes me, stalking toward my sister.
I can see the Velcro waving like conquering heroes from his fingertips.
I have since given more contemplation to the kind of man I would like to marry and as such am highly relieved I am no longer dating the man I was dating for many, many years. It was hard and terrifying and I cried far more than I should have. Now? I am absurdly happy that I will not be strangled by velco but perhaps will have a chance at the "Once upon a time" and the "Happily ever after" that I grew up believing.
Or maybe I'll have a few cats and half empty bottles of cheap wine. Perhaps even the kind you buy in a box. We shall just have to wait and see ;)
For the linkaphobic:
Our father is clutching her, his wrinkled claw of a hand clasped about her forearm declaring this young woman as his own offspring. He's about to hand her off to a man he has deemed acceptable and she has deemed marriage material. If it were a real material rather than a metaphor it would be made out of Velcro. Once the husband-to-be is brushed up against, removing him is a noisy, gruesome affair--what was once a whole is ripped in two and so on. He says he loves her and isn't any of the things on her list of men who cannot be saved, dated or married. And that is all the matters according to our mother, our father, our cousins and all those rather irritating bridesmaid friends who overdid everyone's makeup including my own.
Her dress doesn't look quite right. I haven't been able to pinpoint what it is and while she claims it is the perfect dress we both know it is not. The one she really wanted was $2000 over her budget so I guess she is pretending this dress is really that dress. I know my sister.
Her husband-to-be, my brother-in-law-to-be, is perfectly bland in conversation, occupation and, so I imagine, in bed. I picture their honeymoon and his perfectly bland abs in numerous pictures at the beach. I picture his perfectly dull smile situated right next to hers. I picture them fighting and laughing. I picture her pregnant and him working eighty hours a week to afford the child. My sister does not picture these things.
She is walking down the aisle with a withering man, one foot in front of the other. Her neck is sweating because she let those bimbos convince her to wear her hair down in July instead of up. We all know she has beautiful hair, but one would think pragmatism would override a fifteen minute aesthetic that will be ruined by sweat. I'll put it up for her later. I will resist the urge to shave her head or yank out all the hairs one by one.
My sister does not love the man she is walking toward. I can see it in the white knuckles around the bouquet. She is going to be white knuckles for the rest of her life if she does not flee. She needs to drop the flowers, drop the pretense and run for the hills before I kill her with my eyes. Our father is lifting her veil. Our mother is crying. I and her ditsy bridesmaid friends are surrounding her. The priest is talking.
They are kissing. There are some rings. There is a limo.
We arrive to the reception and the rest of her life with a man she does not love but has wed because he is made of marriage material and our father likes him. He is bland enough for our family's conservative overtones. I hate that conservative overtone, but he meshes just fine. He seems to enjoy it but I can never tell. He is so boring his face is a mask of tranquility. And 5 o'clock shadow.
Our father is dancing with her now. They are swaying to some song she picked out that has no real meaning to her because she does not love the man she married nor anyone else--she wed because it is expected of her, not for any real want on her part. Her husband, my now brother-in-law, is behind me, waiting for his turn to dance with her. I can smell his unexceptional cologne. I can sense his heat waving off of him onto my bare shoulders as he passes me, stalking toward my sister.
I can see the Velcro waving like conquering heroes from his fingertips.
I have since given more contemplation to the kind of man I would like to marry and as such am highly relieved I am no longer dating the man I was dating for many, many years. It was hard and terrifying and I cried far more than I should have. Now? I am absurdly happy that I will not be strangled by velco but perhaps will have a chance at the "Once upon a time" and the "Happily ever after" that I grew up believing.
Or maybe I'll have a few cats and half empty bottles of cheap wine. Perhaps even the kind you buy in a box. We shall just have to wait and see ;)
Friday, July 9, 2010
Waxing Religion
Something that never ceases to amaze me about the various religious sects is their unfailing arrogance that they are right and everyone else is wrong. Perhaps that is what is most off putting about it to me. I believe in God and that is about as far as I get. But that is not enough for any holier than thou branch of Christianity I have talked with. It is all or nothing and I feel judged in their presence. But who are they to judge? I may not know the Bible by heart but I do know Mathews 7 "Judge not, that ye be not judged". My father can quote that passage. An irony really, seeing as he is the biggest atheist I know. Comes from his Catholic upbringing I guess.
Sometimes I wish Dad had just let Granddad raise me Catholic. It was Catholic or nothing doe Dad's side of the family but my father refused. I think it's much easier ot understand and have faith, etc etc when you are raised with it from day one. Instead I got bible stories for children as a toddler, years of nothing, bible study at a 7/8 year old, then years of nothing since granddad found out and oh my the bible study class wasn't Catholic based, and then finally I started church hoping with my friends. Pentecostal, non-denominational, Baptist, Catholic (for over a year, Mass every Saturday Youth Group every Sunday), etc. It has done nothing but confuse me and dismay me. Everybody seems to hate everybody else. They preach love and acceptance, but only for the familiar. The "other" is "wrong" and they are "right". The other is to be saved and if not savable to be shunned.
I do have a wonderful friend who is Christian and answers all my questions as best she can without judging and she agrees with a lot of the things I see and say about Christian churches these days. She says things are changing, a revolution, a movement away from condemning. Hopefully, someday soon I can walk into a church and not feel accusatory glares from the church goers.
Hopefully someday I can feel God's presence because I have never felt it, but it's not for lack of trying. I believe in Him, but sometimes I don't think He believes in me.
And on that happy note, I leave you with The Tang of an Unearned Trophy, a poem about the self absorbed generation I was born into who are so certain of their importance because of all the trophies and medals they were given. We are called the trophy generation for a reason. Once again, text is below for the linkaphobic.
When people die
of creamy rum ruminations
I look up at my unearned
regalia
staring at my
lazy young heart
which will beat
or
will break
and
shed flavors.
Ribbons of organs will fall into ruins of sky because
we are adults,
not scruffy, just buying diamonds and
insurance:
a jar of pennies,
an adolescent girl
bracing to crash against malignancy
or faith
But we're only trash;
Toxic bottles.
We bob to music
And pull others in--
to our constructed superiority.
We don't deserve but
that is trivial
in the face of rum ruminations, penny jar insurance and
death.
The flavors are magnificent.
Sometimes I wish Dad had just let Granddad raise me Catholic. It was Catholic or nothing doe Dad's side of the family but my father refused. I think it's much easier ot understand and have faith, etc etc when you are raised with it from day one. Instead I got bible stories for children as a toddler, years of nothing, bible study at a 7/8 year old, then years of nothing since granddad found out and oh my the bible study class wasn't Catholic based, and then finally I started church hoping with my friends. Pentecostal, non-denominational, Baptist, Catholic (for over a year, Mass every Saturday Youth Group every Sunday), etc. It has done nothing but confuse me and dismay me. Everybody seems to hate everybody else. They preach love and acceptance, but only for the familiar. The "other" is "wrong" and they are "right". The other is to be saved and if not savable to be shunned.
I do have a wonderful friend who is Christian and answers all my questions as best she can without judging and she agrees with a lot of the things I see and say about Christian churches these days. She says things are changing, a revolution, a movement away from condemning. Hopefully, someday soon I can walk into a church and not feel accusatory glares from the church goers.
Hopefully someday I can feel God's presence because I have never felt it, but it's not for lack of trying. I believe in Him, but sometimes I don't think He believes in me.
And on that happy note, I leave you with The Tang of an Unearned Trophy, a poem about the self absorbed generation I was born into who are so certain of their importance because of all the trophies and medals they were given. We are called the trophy generation for a reason. Once again, text is below for the linkaphobic.
When people die
of creamy rum ruminations
I look up at my unearned
regalia
staring at my
lazy young heart
which will beat
or
will break
and
shed flavors.
Ribbons of organs will fall into ruins of sky because
we are adults,
not scruffy, just buying diamonds and
insurance:
a jar of pennies,
an adolescent girl
bracing to crash against malignancy
or faith
But we're only trash;
Toxic bottles.
We bob to music
And pull others in--
to our constructed superiority.
We don't deserve but
that is trivial
in the face of rum ruminations, penny jar insurance and
death.
The flavors are magnificent.
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