have not been here for a while, because something horrible is happening in my right hand. It might be arthritis caused by psoriasis. It might be my horrible mother’s horrible brand of arthritis that swole her knuckles up to baseballs it might be my own brand new brand of arthritis it might be raging tendinitis which is what I suspect since this happened to me in the factory on and off for years and I’ve been waiting for it to go away typing hurts, holding a coffee cup hurts holding a fucking book hurts everything I do with my hands hurts which is pretty much everything I do being as I’m a human and all. I’ve got to give it a rest and so I’m speaking into the little microphone which makes punctuation, commas, and stuff like that appear and if you’ve read my work, you know I don’t use commas I keep wanting to brush them away like eyelashes and so I stopped Using them years ago. And yes, reading Emily Dickinson drives me bonkers. Also, speaking into the microphone, unless I speak slowly, which I don’t, makes strange words appear With random capitalizations. I typed the Below paragraphs on July 4 and I don’t know why I didn’t post it I guess because as the post got older and older, and I got older and older, and the holiday got further and further behind us. But here I am and I ache to write To be writing to be a writer. After this, my posts will be done by voice and we’ll see How that goes an experimental soup of language and garbled sounds. Next week I turn 70 I can’t wait I’m going to the city for a party and I’ve been celebrating myself all week.
Hello Darklings I’ve missed you.
I made an apple pie my son’s favorite and had a slice for breakfast with coffee which was delicious which made me feel my tiptop best like crap
the neighbors have been shooting off fireworks since Wednesday fireworks that sound like cannons that sound like guns that sound like a rifle in my house
I saw remarkable and terrible things this week
when I was at the beach an eagle flew down and plucked an oyster from the sand not three feet away from where I stood his tail feathers spread he took his time with it in no hurry to fly off
every year on this day I relive my trauma my PTSD reels me to the floor (my bed my little boat where I hold onto the sides as I capsize) I used to think PTSD was only for soldiers even back in the 1990s before I had a name for it my fireworks/extremely loud sudden noises anxiety cracked me through the roof which looked like my son becoming injured in a horrible accident or the house in flames or me losing my hearing or my cats running away the litany of woes dancing through my blood when I was still expected to show up to bring the giant bowl of potato salad make the pico de gallo with my tomatoes and peppers
bake
the pie
before I had a name for it before I stopped showing up to the parties and potlucks and social type visits and being hounded in my own skin before I stopped lying and saying sure sure I’ll be there before I learned to say no NO. no thank you not this time not ever and acknowledging strange it was to face my own goddamn disease and stop backing down before my child and friends realized it wasn’t me just not wanting to have fun
I saw a dead owl on the road this week his huge wing fanned out I watched three young boys carry a forth by the arms and legs down the street all of them laughing I watched a lame rabbit drag his broken leg behind him as he disappeared into the underbrush at the state park I walked past an eight year old boy tap dancing like Gene Kelly alone in the back of a truck with the tailgate open a look of pure concentration and joy on his face
two people flew giant homemade squid kites at the lake
last night the guns fired in my house from 4 pm until well after midnight I looked at my calming app I wore noise canceling headphones I played white noise music I shut my windows and turned on my fan (I didn’t do any of these things) I just held onto the sides of my boat and hoped I wouldn’t die
my son and I are going to the store then to the beach I want spaghetti for dinner he wants normal holiday fare he wants to be with his father his father’s giant family
Once through blood
Again through blood
I spilled over my regulation Sunday horror spilled over I walked to the kitchen heard Somewhere Over the Rainbow on a tinny childhood radio Sundays a black resonance secrets hidden meanings my inner cake fell my heart tried to escape my chest I made a mess of my kitchen butter sugar flour yeast a single orange yolk from Jack the Egg Man cinnamon I sat on a kitchen chair taking my own blood pressure over and over and over every five minutes in fact there are no facts am I dying the doctor says my blood pressure is normal my blood is normal my glucose levels and cholesterol levels are all normal all of it normal but here is my heart bleeding for Seppuku bleeding for Fridays at the Pearl Oyster Bar in New Orleans bleeding for Henry’s dream horses bleeding for coronavirus victims on a cruise ship bleeding for Amerikkka I am coming down with a ragey case of insanity my heart bleeds for Dorothy Gale and Alice Liddell and Elsie Paroubek and Violet Vivian
A woman is born twice
once through blood
Again through blood
A third time through the kitchen her kitchen every kitchen in the known world
I wish I had a zombie font so I could type
COFFEE COFFEE
and then put my arms in front of me and stagger around drooling
I am so sorry about your hands. But I am so glad to know that you are alive and writing in spite of. And so brilliant as always my dear, dearest girl of the sea. From time to time I am unable to type (well) and have found Word to work pretty well, though a paid companion/secretary would be preferable.
I’m sorry about your hands -- and I’m happy to read your brilliant writing.