I’m Your New Year’s Baby

I sit here not knowing yet what to write, feeling obligated to put down words before the end of year 2012.  All around my body is a crushed black velvet robe; a birthday present I gave myself yesterday, and one I’m treasuring.  I’m treating myself the way I want to be spoiled.

I long imagined myself as a grand dame dressed in silks and this black velvet robe with heavenly slippers as shiny as silver, roaming the house with my trusty black cat, sometimes sitting at my desk — which once was a vanity dresser with a lit-up mirror like the ones showgirls use but converted into part writer’s desk, part artist’s drawing board, with a little Pagan altar facing northeast on the corner where a basil and citron candle softly burns — and peacefully meditating, taking in the silence as if my will alone has made all the world gone still.  I wonder…  why my desire for luxury and my penchant for setting a stage like this, making myself seem to play the part of a past life character (an actress, perhaps?) drives my happiness.  Of course I do not believe I am this character.  I believe in making believe, but not in believing in the realities I create.

I like dressing up.

New Year’s Eve has formality to it — when I go out, even if to only sip some bubbly and receive a hug (instead of that foreverly hoped-for kiss… someday it’ll happen, maybe next year, this year?) — I dress up, get my nails done, make my hair look and smell good enough to eat, bathe in perfume, and walk in high heels.  If you can’t get a kiss on New Year’s Eve (a kiss from a stranger is good luck for both you and the stranger), wear something new and shiny, preferably a hat or headband, anything to decorate your crown.  I do not know if it is an “official” tradition from any one culture, but I remember being told by my elders that showing off your crown was a sign of prosperity on New Year’s Eve.

Dress for the occasion and Fortune will reward you with many blessings in the year to come!

We meet the New Year in our finest clothes, be it to show off our wealth or to attend the funeral of the passing year.  But, better yet, could it be a custom, like I suspect, like a spell to welcome luxury?

I was born the day before the last day of the year.  Every time I get one year older, it almost happens unnoticed.  Celebrating my birthday is often postponed until days later after all the New Year’s hoopla.  Yet sometimes New Year’s Eve and New Year’s day feel like an extension of my birthday.  So, as I sit here in my butter-cream-soft black velvet, enjoying every silky-fuzzy warm sensation of wearing a prize to the point where I feel I am ‘the prize!’, I feel like the whole world is partying with me.  I love it.

I hope you’re having a good one.  Why don’t you come up and see me sometime, hmmm?

Postcard #48: Is This How the World Will End?

Is this how the world ends… without you and me
in this space and time, empty and white, swiped
cut out, placed apart, singled, buried in silence
in years lost in between little deaths lined up
without funerals or celebration
no going-away parties
recognitions, torn in ribbons
covered in coats of snow, lumps of sorrow
unknown, gone without explanation, without story
if there is hint and talk, it is delusion-definition
signs of illness best ignored, abandoned
any stirring is disturbance, better left wounded
one person left hurt is best than others left disillusioned
‘we cannot let the world believe the world will not come to an end’
 
This is how the world ends, without belief in The End
without you and me participating
in this suffering-fighting-looking-forward
without you and me anticipating
damage and cracking-down, the fears
that separate us from
I and You loving

and will we ever love?
with all the stuff we throw down
people, too, between us, the tales
we tell to entertain at a truth, to serve
and sever-why’s we came apart, can’t be again
serving useless ways to burn the bridges over the rivers
waters that flow us into each other time over time anyway
where ever we leave we are part of each other, un-denying
the ends where roads lead to home and worlds begin.
 
Is this how the world will end… without us?
without enemy, envy, remorse-guilt-pitying me all the time
blaming and pointing out every flaw and searching for
means to make amends and ways to break things to fix
things all over again we collect to save, to feel, become the Hero
I want a world ending without need for Heroes
just you and I, friends, equals, playing, dancing
no picking or critiquing
longing for just the talk
the share of a drink
the joy of a walk
 
Let the world end
for all those who seek apocalypse
let those who feel lost save each other
my tears will end
when I’m out here
in the woods
with a friend.

Postcard #47: Home is the Safest Place to Cry

There is no greater healing balm than the comfort of bed. I spend many of my days there lately, simply over being sad, nothing more.  The days have grown dark.  There is much dying and dead.

And everyday the deeper the dread.

Not because the end of the world is nigh!  Nor does the upcoming Winter Solstice bode for me any significance that the world will end.  It just means another world transition, but a time of anxiety for a great many people lost out there in a world far from me.

I am quite comfortable to keep my problems and tears confined to my little place.  My tiny disasters mean nothing to the pains of others.  When I was a child, I had been told to keep my cries hidden, quiet down, become invisible, and shut-up-right-THIS-MINUTE else anyone should think somethin’s was wrong with me and all the other kids were not to speak to me until I stopped crying.  If I accidentally slipped out a sob in public, I’d face punishment at home and in school, not allowed to speak or be spoken to, and be the first to go to bed early.  After awhile I learned to appreciate being alone because it meant I could write and draw, create an interior world for myself other kids didn’t have.  As I became an adult, I worried and wondered why I never outgrew my “crying fits”.  At odd moments I’d cry, people become afraid, or they make a fuss over me, to this day no one knows how to help.  So, like me, you learn how to help yourself.  You take yourself home and sink into bed and hope for a long sleep to take the pressure off.  Plus today the therapy and meds go a long way, of course!

Many friends would be upset to know how often I cry, or they will be annoyed.  “There she goes again,” I can feel them roll their eyes and the ridicule drives a splinter into my gut, because I have been through the accusations of manipulation several times before.  Even in childhood I was accused of crying for attention, adults slapping me away and ordering me to go to my room, telling my mother not to bring “your daughter along” because I brought the other children down.  And no matter what I did then, as now, the more I explain, the worse it gets, my words do nothing to convince people I’ll ever get better, or that I’ll remain worse, it comes and goes in waves.

I am a constant shifting, blowing, raining, storming sky, a force of nature.  Not unhealthy, powerful, not dangerous, just interesting to handle, strong when I’m weak, and equally sensitive and nice at peace.  There are times when I don’t think I’m ill at all.  Normal most of the time, and yet…

In the darkness, just when I take off my shoes and drop myself on the floor for a weep…

It is good to know, someone stopped by, left a note, emailed a message, called, or better yet sent me a little something in the mail.

Even in a city where so many people abound, there are not enough smiles or kind thoughts expressed.  The pressures of not-being-home where ever you are when you’re not “here” can make you catch your death.  The loneliness builds like the end song tempting you away from bed into the grave.

Better to lie in bed than in the grave.  Catch me?