Hate

Hurt turns to anger turns to hate.  Hate is the worst, you can't downgrade it or gently slip into another state.  It sticks.

I hate San Francisco.  I cringe when I sit next to a homeless person on the bus, or when I see someone sleeping on the ground.  I watch at a distance, people's reactions when they pass the person on the bench.  The person with ragged hair and unfit clothes, the person asking for bus money.  Some people don't even respond.  They look right past them, as if they don't even exist.

It's not that I hate homeless people, or that I am scared of them.  It is that I am sad, and that sadness goes so deep it terrifies me.  It is not that I am necessarily sad for them, or sad for me.  I'm not mad at the people who ignore them, or sickened by the drugs.

It's that I see my sister.  And I see a child.  I know that once, they were a child, just like my sister was.  She was born 8 years before me, but I've seen the pictures.  If I spread them all out and look closely, I swear I can tell when it was that her expression changed from pure to pained.
The group of homeless people on the grass at the park.  HOMELESS PEOPLE.  That is what they are, just like black defines those BLACK PEOPLE.  OLD describes that old person.  Labels.  But I see children inside.  Little and pure and now utterly destroyed.  Ravaged.  Destroyed and robbed of what could have been.  And I see that child starring through.  Hurt, and longing for help. 
I know that, while they are responsible in many ways for the choices that have brought them to a life on the street, I know that they would most likely have not made those choices if things had been different.

My sister would not have touched heroin, if she had been left alone in her sleep.

My sister would still have a face I recognized, a face like the ones in the pictures of her at age three on the swing, if my dad had played chase with her around the park, instead of killed her soul one night at a time, over and over again for years.

My sister would not be that person, shaking, unwashed hair, a look of death, evil, and disintegration spread across her face, if she had ever had a chance to heal.

I see behind the people.  There are stories, so sad.  I work with children every day as a nanny, and I know what they need is love, positivity, hugs, and support.  So many children do not get this.  They may not end up on the street, or navigate to drugs, but maybe they will find themselves in abusive relationships, not knowing why they stay.

Maybe they will find themselves so driven for power and achievement because they were never good enough for their parents.

It manifests in so many ways.  And I wonder why so many people have children.  Why so many people can't love their children.  Why pure love is so hard.  Why people can't see their children as individuals, as whole people entirely separate.  Why people are so attached to their children, treat them like trophies, condition them to be like every one else.

And would I be the same?  A few months ago, when my period was weeks late and I didn't know why, and I thought, "oh no...uh oh."

And I thought, would I be able to teach a child differently from what I have been taught?

Would I be able to undo all the things my family brought and filled me with...to show my child something new?

And is it EVER fair to bring another life into this world when you are not prepared to treat it wholly, perfectly, to love it, to support it, to be unbiased, to be unattached?

My mother got pregnant in her last year of college, and she went on to have three more children.

With a man that didn't love her.  With a horrible, terrible man.  Why did she do this? Get pregnant at 21?  Get married at 20?  It was what you did? She wanted a family.


You trace back my mother's family, and see the dysfunction, the sickness created over and over again.

You trace back my father's family, and the abuse, over and over and over again.


When does it stop.


It stops with me, I know this.  But it is so hard to stop.  You have to trace it back, examine it closely, and break yourself down into little pieces to be examined.  What do I want to keep? And what do I need to separate from and discard? And what do I need to keep but shift and change to something that fits ME?


It is an ongoing process that requires commitment and help and ups and downs.

I know it is possible, to heal and to not repeat mistakes,

but when I feel that sinking sensation in my chest, the pressure.

When I see the homeless man and think of my sister,

When I feel desperate and helpless and inexplicably sad,

when I wish I could go back in time, and find that little girl, and hold her and shield her

and when I realize I can't,
that solid, terrifying, deep, aching sadness.
it eventually recedes and I am left with a sort of longing and sullness,

a feeling like sitting alone on a northern california isolated beach,

a gray foggy morning, drizzly and wet,

inside of me,

I wonder if it will always be like this.

The weather

I have become someone who checks the weekly forecast.  

What does this mean!?

And then, we weren't there anymore.

Our relationship
disintegrates in the space between you and I
It slowly fades
dissipating until it is no more
and we have forgotten that it ever was

It's layers unfold
up in the sky above
point A and point B
It was too difficult for you to get to me
for you to hold me

But I never knew until now
what this time and space has slowly shown
It has burnt us down to ashes
and you cannot rebuild the structure
and with its loss you lose everything it held

and slowly move on
in a dream like state
like it never happened at all.

The photo on the desk
You and me
Embracing
It sits there, steady, next to the card from our 2nd anniversary
I think of that night
but I don't feel anything anymore
all the feelings have been felt
used up and now there is only room for acceptance

the final blow has been dealt
I know we are standing here
over the grave of us
in a mix of mourning, disbelief, and a lingering holding on

But I look over at the desk
At the picture frame
In it we once were, but we aren't there anymore.
We are gone.

dream

walking walking there was a river and the water wasn't blue
it was eerily idle sullen and still dripping dripping soft cold water down canyon walls soaking the green mixing in with the grey rocks lined with ferns all growing in spots that made you wonder at how much they held on to the steep wall lateral lateral looking to fall
But they don't
they don't come down to where you are now floating along slowly moving with the sound
of slow slapping waves writhing around searching for an outlet a place to go but that waters are flowing full mixing back in no way to reach out
lapping up against the rocks against the cold stone sides trapped in a dance that lasts forever in time
circular circular around and around
there are books pages floating surround
you reach for them but you can't read them
words blur in your eyes water soaks in and takes them away lingering remnants and now you move on
the water moves you forward
rushing rushing so slowly but yet its rushing
moving moving but so thick and so stuck
green brown you look down but you can't see can't feel the ground
cold embracing bringing you in mixing with your skin
now you see finally a break in the channel sand plants life free
swim desperately
drag yourself out, feel the water seeping up sinking into ground then recessing back with a seeping sucking sound.

Move into the dark into the green leaves leaves damp
walk for a distance and you are back at waters edge
but this time its different- its thick and its blue and its not concerned with you.
drawing drawing it takes you in. warm. engulfing. fluid. full.
let the hands lift you, up from beneath, eyes to the sky body left beneath mind flutters upwards to the canopy in the trees insects and birds and you just BREATHE.

Then suddenly quickly, without your consent, feel it pulling you dragging you under.
slow-motion. the water. thirsty thirsty. drink drink. you don't want it you don't need it but wait what happened?
Now you have it.
When did it grow dark?
where did the light go...you remember you thought..the books. the books. wander back stumble wet, hot.  humid air.  back to the beach.
hear the angry clashing of water against water, frustrated waves...rapids. rapids.
let go. walk in. you can't see but you don't care.
let go. let go. feel the flurry

You don't really know her

I bet she was excited,
the moment she found out.
I need to remember that.
I think she truly believed in forever
and that he would always stay
I need to remember this
I imagine she couldn't wait,
and thought he couldn't too,
a baby girl.
I bet she was happy when she was born.
Radiating, fufilled.
I need to remember that.

I can't know now,
what it feels like for her to look at her own daughter,
disintegrating, piece by piece, a slow death
when she once carried her in her womb.
I need to think of this.

But in  thinking of it... an open space emerges, and welcomes in the filling of it with thick sadness...
and the space threatens to open up more, widen and engulf everything else there is to me.
So I close it up again, sew it shut tight.

But if you don't even open it, delve into and examine the darkness then how can you ever find the light?

I think she must be so broken inside
to see everything she created
and everything she raised
so completely destroyed

I wonder at who she is
and how I came from her,
and my other half, how did she fall in love and trust him?
I wonder,
and feel such sadness when the disconnection remains steady and ever growing.
Once, I was inside her.
And now I practice severing that connection,
repulsed by its reality.

I must remember, that once she loved me, read me books.
Said no TV.  Eat your brocolli.
She taught me about the earth, the plants the wildflowers, the bees.
The birds in the sky, their names, their calls.
The dolphins, the whales, where they migrated on our tiny globe- it was placed on the piano next to the mouse cage.
She let me run free, climb in the trees.

I must remember this.

I must remember how to feel.
Open up and be real.
I must remember
I must heal.

Go and I will Follow

You go by, fast paced and full speed ahead
and I dont even question, I can't see ahead at all,
but I follow, increase my own pace and try to keep you in my vision.
100 miles per hour, but as long as I'm with you I convince myself I'm safe.
When did I stop believing?
In my own ability to go forward slow, set at my own rythym and alone?
I remember a time, filled with walks and songs, singing, I heard my own voice.
Blackberry bushes and wide open skies screaming blue.
Summers before I gave myself to you.
There was a breakage, a severing of life.
An attempt to merge into another person.
I wanted to, so much, but you wouldn't allow me to.
The motorcyle is feeling shaky now
The wind pushes so hard- trying to send a message and pry me off you.
But I cling to you as if I am clinging to my very existence, because I believe I am.
We speed ahead.  It's dark and I know I'll never see light, only meet dead ends.
And somewhere inside, I know its this simple: You simply get OFF the ride.
But I push that thought away.
I prefer the lonely nights spent pretending that you care.
When really, you're not there.
You're feel speed ahead, headed toward a place where I don't exist.
Still, you go, and I follow, searching for the place you are, somewhere I'll never find.