Basement Elegy (for John Lennon)

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“Let me take you down, cause I’m going to Strawberry Fields
Nothing is real and nothing to get hung about“

In a mother’s absence
Children are cradled by Death,
Who nurses as best she is able.

But she cannot rear us to be ordinary people.
Our bodies grow the same as others.
But Her touch makes us too wise as children,
A bit bent inside and unworldly as adults,

Physical and mental absence leave different scars.
Your mother wasn’t there at all. You survived
The double wound of absence
And a too soon death.

I tended to a body and a shrouded mind
Between Barney and the Beatles
Talk of divorce, infidelity imagined.

Our pain both drew us into ourselves,
But I came after you. Your words
Guided me elsewhere.

Imagine, you told me.

Perhaps another wound made me
a different kind of woman.
A field of strawberries
Grew in the neighbor’s basement.

“Nothing is real”
“And nothing to get hung about”

I waited while he played his strange game
Of force time and again. No one to lean on
But you.


Social Networks

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First thing you need to know: I’m not a very social person, so social networking and me are on teneous grounds right from the start.

Social networks are too instant gratification and image-focused for me. I’ve got a personal facebook and a page for this blog, but I’m there for friends. FB is also kind of a Ouija board for unhealthy people for me, so I don’t even have one under my government name right now.

FB is good for people I’m comfortable with, or when I don’t have someone’s number and want them to get a message. I also don’t like people seeing when I’m accessible. I feel too obligated to respond quickly, and feel like it can turn into a time suck, although it would be less so if I were more assertive. I trimmed some of the fat off my friends-list there, so it’s been less of a source of stress for me.

I like the medium of blogs because thoughts are first, appearance is secondary or not even a factor, if that’s what the author prefers. I’d rather choose my friends by their thoughts and character, rather than their appearance or what they had for lunch.

Completely unrelated, but awesome:

 “Christina’s World” by Andrew Wyeth

“The woman crawling through the tawny grass was the artist’s neighbor in Maine, who, crippled by polio, “was limited physically but by no means spiritually.” Wyeth further explained, “The challenge to me was to do justice to her extraordinary conquest of a life which most people would consider hopeless.” He recorded the arid landscape, rural house, and shacks with great detail, painting minute blades of grass, individual strands of hair, and nuances of light and shadow. In this style of painting, known as magic realism, everyday scenes are imbued with poetic mystery.”

Happy happy joy joy

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I’m not much of a crier, not because I don’t have deep emotions. Just that the act of showing them is a different story. Sometimes a tear bursts through before my badassery counteracts the process, so tears of joy aren’t a thing for me.

Tears of joy were a thing for me, once; I was in love with this guy once and convinced everything would be perfect and used to cry tears of joy around him.

Now I’m a bitter bitch.

I have dated since, but I can’t date. There are too many problems in my life to dedicate time to someone else.

Being alone forever sounds nice.