May 22, 2013

May 13, 2013

The Huey Show

It's Monday, and I have many thoughts clanking around in my head, and I'm overwhelmed and overflowing with emotions, which means....it's time for another music break.

My friend Christian introduced me to The Huey Show a while back, and I am forever grateful. I usually listen to it when cooking, and it always leads to delicious food. It must be the voice.

This is the link..enjoy http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b01sfhhx

May 9, 2013

Grass must grow after a storm

Once again, you are bridging the distance between us, as we speak.

Others seem surprised at the summer storm today. Only yesterday they were sunbathing at the beach, bodies strewn in the sun and sweating tanning oil and salt.

Today there is hail and rain and a great black cloud covering the island. Why?

Because you are coming. Because there is no black without white, because there is no joy in one's heart without pouring rain on one's face.

Because this year I have been thrown violently from one extreme to another like a slingshot or a pinball.

Because there is no relief without guilt.

I don't even get up from my chair to follow the others outside. Sitting at my desk I open the window next to me and breathe in the wet earth. Deeply. I wonder if the wreaths at my mother's grave have wilted, I wonder if it's raining on the mountains, if grass will grow at the mound of dirt covering her body, if the breeding birds have found shelter in the thick branches of the pine tree growing at her feet.

I stare at the black sky and I imagine you in a plane somewhere over continental Europe flying towards the big dark cloud. You are sitting strapped to your seat watching some silly movie or playing with one of your i-devices or thinking about me waiting for you. I imagine your broad goofy smile and like the Cheshire cat it's all thats left in my mind as you approach my little sad and lonely island, thrown in the middle of the sea and hit by stormy waves and crashed down upon by heavy clouds. Your bright smile comes up closer to the stormy black cloud, your teeth flash their white brilliance at this ungodly dark mass swelling up with evaporated tears and hailstone heartbreaks.  It is an unsightly battle and I try not to agonise over its outcome. I remind myself that I cannot control the forces of nature, and that I cannot reckon with them at this moment. But perhaps you can.

I feel the thunder roll, it vibrates my body cells and sends me shivering back to the present moment. I need to finish this work before I head for the airport.

May 7, 2013

This is true growth, Womanhood.

I miss writing love poems about you.
You need to come here and inspire me
touch me in a million different ways
feed me cherries
talk to me with your lips touching my skin.

But innocence will never be without a touch of grief
love will never be without a touch of loss
life will never be without a touch of death
ever again.

Maybe when I have kids, and I watch them play,
maybe then I will forget about mortality for a second there
and believe in my second childhood.

May 3, 2013

The Dawn Chorus

It’s all still too raw, I haven’t found it in myself to deal with this loss yet. I feel this cigarette burn on my soul combusting and burning larger and larger; I fear it will consume me. What’s left of oneself then? The body that gave flesh to mine is buried under the earth and I saw it. I saw the body and my brain wanted so much for it to be my mother sleeping. And then they took it away and I picked clothes for it. And then I saw it again at the funeral, and it was all made up – so much so that it didn’t look like my mother, it looked like a doll, so I believed it. My brother found it funny that we were crying for a doll and my dad reprimanded him during service. And when they lowered the body down into the ground we stood there looking with our arms around each other and thought it was an empty casket they were lowering down and smiled again, while dad walked away and stood in a corner under a tree. And at night we slept next to each other but my brother was throwing up and we called it a stomach bug – and then I caught it, and then the next day my cousin caught it and then the next day we all sat down to Easter lunch and hoped that the Easter story was true, and that resurrections were not a thing of a previous time but still very much in fashion today.

Night and night before I tried to tell myself that death would happen but my brain refused to listen. My mother begged us herself to give up on hope and I told her patronisingly that “we understand the situation but hope is a human and natural thing to hold on to and she shouldn’t ask of us to give it up or else we will fall apart.” How silly was I to think loss is something easy to handle, easier than disease. Disease is a physical burden, both to the bearer and the caregiver; loss is a hole in your soul that no one can ever fill for you, not even yourself. 

And now I sit here, unprepared, unable to sleep, trying to fathom this loss. Mostly trying to understand how something you have known your whole life to be real is now unreal, how something that has made you exist now does not exist. In a way, it is like pondering about God. And about how God is Life and everything and nothing. And if I cannot accept that God exists, I must accept that my mother does not exist. But since I accept that she exists but merely in another form, then I must accept that God exists but he cannot be fathomed, and he is in everything and nothing at the same time. And if that is true he must also exist in me, and so my mother must also exist in me. And with this crazy and scrambled thought I am comforted a bit, even though my forever is a different forever to that of eternity, and I will never see my mother in this forever again. 

May 2, 2013

Funeral blues by W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good