Tag: Life

SEISMIC SHIFTS

~ graciej311

I lived in the long shadows
of the Wasatch Mountains
the first 22 years of my life.
The fault lines always
bubbled below the surface
bounced somewhere beneath,
like a moth trapped under a glass.
On a spring day in middle school,
rumor ran rampant —
a major earthquake would happen
the next afternoon.
Predicted not by scientists,
but by conspiracy theorists.
Those who typically foresee
natural disasters and the end of the world.
“The Big One” never arrived.

When I moved to Nevada,
the first fissure felt
was my mistake-of-a-marriage —
dissolved and crumbled,
thin layers of heart’s crust
pulled away, delicate as snake skin.
I was several months pregnant
and awoke during the gray hours.
The pictures on my wall rattled,
ever so slightly,
and I peered out the window
to the eerily empty street
where only lights on the lampposts
indicated any signs of life.
My bed swayed
just enough to rock me back to sleep.

The next morning,
I figured it may have been a dream,
because no one in my family felt it.
But the news confirmed I was correct.
A fault in the California desert,
hundreds of miles away,
cracked and shifted
during the night.
No one was injured.
No one was deceased.
Broken jars of spaghetti sauce,
fallen from store shelves,
the only casualties.

And my baby girl
leapt in my womb,
elbowing her way to comfort,
lacking amniotic fluid,
fighting for her life.

THE DEEPEST PURPLE

~ graciej311

Red is motivated. Red is proactive. Red is power. Red is a nasty argument that you want to win. Red can’t hide its crimson. Blue is perfectionism. Blue is thoughtful. Blue cries during commercials and movies. Blue is all the emotions.

I’ve always had a somewhat split personality. I frequently veer between type-A and “I don’t give a shit”. Many years ago, my therapist suggested a book called “The Color Code”. The book contains various quizzes, drawn up on a points system, to determine what color represents you. Each of the four colors: red, white, yellow, and blue correspond with various emotions and personality traits. Upon taking the quizzes, it determined I was equal parts red and blue. Those two colors are so different from one another in the code that I thought, “That can’t be correct.” I took the various quizzes again and received the same results. While this book helped me make more sense of myself, being “purple” is still sometimes a terribly confusing experience. I’ve often described myself as being equally obsessive about things I love (blue) and things I hate (red). If I like you, I love you and would do virtually anything for you. If you cross me, I am unlikely to give you a second chance and will probably loathe you with every fiber of my being into the eternities.

I have this war inside my heart and head; and it’s deeply ingrained. When I look at my dad, I see all that is inherently red and all that is inherently blue. I know he gave these colors to me. This purple rose that is such a deep hue, it’s nearly black.

I’m trying to overcome the parts of each color that have weighed me down: The impatience, the annoyance, the unforgiving nature, the salty sting that creeps into the corners of my eyes when I am frustrated. But sometimes, the hardest thing to do is deny your genetics. Deny what is your material. Regardless, I have been trying more vigilantly the last few years to find an in-between. The attempt has, at times, been futile and I have had to start over more than once. My husband is the picture of calm and collected, even in high-pressure, stressful situations. He also has unparalleled levels of patience, even in the most frustrating scenarios. I am trying to emulate him in these regards, because those are character traits I admire greatly (white) and areas in which I have been lacking.

I don’t think I am as deeply red or blue as I used to be — but the changes have continually required me to re-think, re-draw, re-write. It’s been draft, after draft, after draft. But that’s the way it is when you are creating a thick biographical book, a masterpiece painting, or an album that is destined to be a classic. Toil, sweat, dark places, light places, and everything in between.

On my best days though, the scale finds a balance and I realize that purple, especially the deepest shade, is the most stunning color in the spectrum.

SOMETIMES, OKAY, ALWAYS

~ graciej311

Sometimes
you just can’t.
When the wound is too deep.
When the love is too strong.
When the bend becomes a break.

Then, other times,
you devour the whole beast.
Eat all flesh.
Tear apart sinew.
Suck marrow.
Save fat for later.

I drew a blank for six months,
while all the flags were drooping emblems
constantly at half-staff,
wilting among thoughts and prayers.
Even after warm bodies gone cold.
Headstones and ashes.

Always
you return and remember.
The time your fingers tickled the pages.
The time we laughed until we bled.
The time we sighed, chests heavy.
The time the world turned around again

and the thrum of life moved on.

THOUGHTS OF AN INSOMNIAC

~ graciej311

Did I lock the deadbolt? What’s my favorite kind of cheese? Whatever happened to that cast member from “The Real World Hawaii”? How many books have I read this year? That moonrise in Alaska was one of the most stunning sights I have ever seen. What does it take to become a Canadian citizen? Small talk has completely died now that everyone has smartphones. I hope my daughter gets financial aid, a couple scholarships, and doesn’t let losers take advantage of her once she’s in college. My nephew is the most adorable toddler on the planet. Mmmmm…a bagel with cream cheese sounds delicious right now. No wait! A chocolate Croissant from Starbucks. Why is anyone thinking we can live on Mars? That’s the dumbest idea ever. Scott Pruitt pisses me off. Betsy DeVos too. I need to make a donation to The Committee to Protect Journalists. How many licks DOES it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? Should I get up and shower now? What book do I want to read next? Why do so many artists and actors OD or commit suicide? The next time I organize the closet, I have to get rid of that quilt. It’s bulky and takes up tons of space. “Garden State” is still one of my favorite movies. It would be amazing to hang out with Mike D and Ad-Rock. Does David Sedaris have a reading coming up soon? I am stoked for the Kings of Leon concert. Why is summertime such a waste land for TV viewing? How old would John Lennon be if he were still alive? I wonder if he would have reunited with Paul McCartney to sing duets. What’s on my to-do list for today? I am going to need a nap. Can’t sleep. Clowns will eat me. Can’t sleep.  Clowns will eat me. Mmmmm…donuts.

BEGGING FOR ANSWERS

~ graciej311

I came of age in the era
of argyle socks
and plaid shirts
stolen from your father’s closet.

We stopped before school
to fill Super Big Gulp cups
with frothy Orange Bang!
which we kept in our lockers all day.

We didn’t realize
that MTV would soon cease
to be music television
and would peddle us “Jersey Shore”.

There was no comprehension
of intrawebs and internets,
and the smart phones
our children gobble up like Candy Crush.

I think about the pivotal moment
when he filled three pages of my yearbook
with a break-up message
that I didn’t fully comprehend until age 38.

I sometimes remember
the way he smelled like Play-Doh
and combed his hands
through my wet hair.

Then I wander to the artist
with the wire-framed glasses
who tasted like Budweiser
and smelled like paint thinner.

They tell us not to look back,
but they also say if you don’t examine the past
you’re doomed to repeat it.
So which is it, huh?

THE INNOCENCE OF BEING OBLIVIOUS

~ graciej311

The summer the Idaho potato fields
lay spread out before us
and the world was ours for the taking,
we met the tall one in the mall parking lot.
There were no smart phones or Google maps.
We didn’t even have a paper map.
Talking Heads was on the radio
and it was the summer before our senior year.
I should have had sights set on the dark-headed boy,
with the slight lisp and sincere eyes.
Instead, my focus was
the broken-hearted, harder to crack veneer.
He’d been my mission since day one.
We spent inordinate amounts of time
in his basement that trip:
listening to music,
making each other laugh,
cuddling on his water bed.
We didn’t know where his parents were,
and we didn’t ask.
Even though it was innocuous,
it felt like we were pushing boundaries.
Doing something daring.

We went ice blocking down Simplot hill,
a vast swath of property in the midst of Boise
with a mansion perched atop.
A city conquered.
Security must have been lax,
because the more we slid down the hill
with our hair flying behind us,
and the more trees we climbed,
the freer we felt.
No sign of a reprimand.

The river flowed around us seamlessly.
Our inner-tubes bobbed along,
like Halloween party apples in a bucket.
But there was an unspoken surface tension,
that I mistook as the thrill of being on the river.
Your first kiss
should have been with someone better,
someone who didn’t claim to be “rebounding.”
Knowing the situation now,
the pictures speak volumes.
I often think about the innocence
of being oblivious
and frequently wish that was
a more recurrent state of mine.

NOW IS THE TIME

~ graciej311

My husband says that I’m getting old. Actually, it may have been me who said, “Do you think I am getting old?” And his reply was something like, “Well, you do read the newspaper every day, watch the evening news (often on more than one channel), and wake up early on Sunday mornings to eat a bagel while you watch ‘Meet the Press’. So…yes?”

I always claimed to be the type of person who wasn’t “into politics”. Even as recently as early 2016, I frequently said I didn’t care about caucusing. I would rarely bring up my own political views in public forums, and especially refrained from doing so on social media. (I no longer participate in social medias, so that wouldn’t be a thing for me now anyway.) While I wasn’t into politics, I always voted. The first election in which I was old enough to vote took place in 1996. I was sick as a dog and still made it to the local fire station to cast my ballot. Our rights as citizens of this nation have always felt important to me. I have never been affiliated with any political party. I have always considered myself an independent. I thoroughly research all the candidates and then have previously proclaimed, “I vote for the one who seems the least loserish.” Everything changed for me on November 9th of last year, when I realized with a slap in the face, the importance politics plays in every single aspect of our lives.

After the election, I found out that a few people I knew had voted for Trump. I wanted to know why.  The answers were varied: “Because Hillary thinks abortion is okay.” “Because Hillary’s personality is annoying.” “Because, Hillary’s private servers.” To me, none of those reasons are valid. Donald Trump’s shortcomings bear much more weight and are hugely massive compared with any of those reasons. He has let into his orbit many horrible humans, has thrown rallies filled with hateful rhetoric, and has admitted to groping women, because he has a right as a wealthy man to do so. He’s the worst kind of xenophobic, racist, narcissist — and now he has a world-wide platform and attention for all of his bad behavior. Not only does he have a platform, but he scoots over occasionally to share it with others who should have no place being able to spread their fear and vile words.

After the occurrences last weekend in Charlottesville, I noticed that some people, including Trump, don’t seem to understand what rights The First Amendment protects. The Bill of Rights wasn’t designed to protect the hate speech and incitement of riots by white supremacist groups. They are never out to peaceably assemble. If you have seen or heard any of them speak, you can tell they are a soulless mob and they are armed to the teeth. I’ve heard many news pundits and others claim shock and surprise that Trump seems to be endorsing these groups. I am not surprised at all. Haven’t people been listening to his words for the last two years/decade? People who were hoping he would become more “presidential” once he was actually elected were fools. As my uncle used to say, “People don’t change too goddamn much too goddamn much of the time.” Trump is a zebra who has been showing his stripes since day one.

Now is not the time for silence. Now is not the time to say, “I’m not into politics.” Now is the time for shouting about what we hold dear. We need to band together as citizens of this world to protect the environment, safeguard our children and schools, push for the rights of immigrants and women and healthcare for all. Now is a time for action. We cannot tolerate the aforementioned perversions of democracy. This famous quote I have heard several times recently sends chills down my spine. It should prompt all of us to act. It is from a Nazi survivor named Martin Niemöller:

“First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

THIRTIES IN THE REAR-VIEW

~ graciej311

I.
In the mid-1980s,
my mom professed her
crush on George Michael.
Being quite young,
I was certain
my middle-aged, Mormon mother
was going to leave
the suburbs of Utah,
her three children and my dad,
move to England,
and set up house
with George Michael.
(In hindsight,
I suppose she would have
been in a relationship with Andrew Ridgeley
of Wham as well)?

II.
Knowing there are others
who feel this way,
think this way,
and want the crush of madness
to stop, is what wakes me up most mornings.
I don’t have news alerts turned on —
I don’t like being reminded
about what’s coming next.
Yet I read voraciously,
like it’s my job.
The words of reporters and authors
are my lifeline.
They say “the struggle is real”,
and many days, I know it has just begun.

III.
I am glad I didn’t turn 40 in 2016.
Last year was filled with death,
depression,
earth-shattering,
life-altering events.
Taking on another decade
would have overwhelmed instantly.
My heart felt stretched in January,
again in April,
and by November’s end,
my lungs headed for collapse.
Put a star on the wall for me.
I was one of the casualties
of the soon-to-be prophesied “American carnage”.
By February,
I rose up, bandaged,
a resurrected, bettered zombie
of my former self —
and this one isn’t putting up with any shit.
Forty is the new 1984.

THE RIVERSIDE SHAKESPEARE

~ graciej311

“I say there is no darkness/but ignorance.” — William Shakespeare

Today,
for the first time in more than a decade,
I dislodged The Riverside Shakespeare, Second Edition
from it’s prominent place
on my bedside table,
and blew a collection of dust from its cover.
Its primary use over the last few years has been:
to prop up my oil diffuser,
make a stand for the Kleenex box,
and create a handy shelf for my smaller book of “Shakespearean Insults”.
I had a love/hate relationship with this
behemoth
all through college.
The love part came
during the late nights of reading
“Macbeth” and “Twelfth Night”
while taking copious notes
in ragged college-ruled binders,
while dreaming up ideas for my next
20-page paper.
The hate part came when I had to lug the
15-pound volume across campus,
up several flights of stairs to the classroom.
(I’m sure I have curvature of the spine to this day.)
I’m re-reading “As You Like It” for the one-hundredth time,
as I will be seeing the play at the Utah Shakespeare Festival
in a few weeks.
I have a stand-alone, sparse copy of “As You Like It”,
but something from the bowels of  The Riverside Shakespeare
called to me.
As I cracked its well-worn binding
and leafed through its vellum-like pages,
all the notes and underlining
came back in a flood.
I used a silver gel pen
and the markings are thin and precise.
Hanging on Will’s words (and play on words) was a hobby of mine.
Only two Shakespeare classes were required for my major:
one tragedy, one comedy.
I took at least three additional,
including an independent study course
on the plays no one wants to read. (“Troilus and Cressida” anyone?)
Delving into Shakespeare’s meanings and teaching them in a concise way
was an expertise of my professor who had her own volumes of knowledge.
I’d been to her home previously,
where guests were greeted in her entryway by a suit of armor.
Her house was a living testament to the finer parts of the Middle Ages.
Reading Shakespeare plays is a difficult fete.
Understanding them is not easy — especially if you haven’t seen the play.
But in the end;
we know Macbeth’s wife cannot get out the damned spot,
we know Romeo & Juliet are destined to die,
we know Puck lurks merrily in the woods creating mischief.
However; I figured out more about myself from Shakespeare
than from any other classes I took in college.
In many ways,
even though Shakespeare’s era was more than 400 years ago,
I feel an indelible connection
to his snark, his wayward characters, and those he makes lovable.
Yet, all the while,
it reminds me of a period in my own life less than 20 years ago,
which was also riddled with
comedy,
tragedy,
darkness,
uncertainty,
and in the end, the brightest light.
The Riverside Shakespeare

THE FINAL LIFETIME

~ graciej311

Recalling the person I was
all those lifetimes ago,
holding the red Solo cup
surely sloshing a sweet liquor
I would regret consuming
the next morning.

You chased me.
I allowed the pursuit,
confused in my teenage brain
about where I belonged among
the Mormon-pioneer-ancestor
mountains.

At the behest of my parents,
we married (living in sin is a sin).
They paid for the Vegas wedding,
but did not attend.
Probably best that way.
We wore vampire fangs,
because it was Halloween.
My dress was a paisley-print velvet material
and my feet blistered
from wearing dull-but-new Mary Jane shoes.

It feels like yesterday and 20 years ago
and all those lifetimes ago.
You didn’t have a lot to offer.
Your mom never read to you when you were little.
You’d done drugs and dealt drugs
and drank and drank and drank.
We lived in an 8×8 foot room,
mis-matched dressers stacked on top of each other.
Mis-matched desires trying to stoke the same fire.

All those lifetimes ago,
you told me you wouldn’t be able to get anyone pregnant.
Said you’d taken a steel-toed boot to the groin.
Within two weeks of casting aside my prescription,
I was growing a life.
The only productive, worthwhile thing that resulted
from our broken-down, wrecked-18-wheeler of a marriage.

It always felt like full-speed ahead,
because we will die someday?
If we don’t drink this case of beer now, who will?
It was a hostage situation —
me being held by the Insane Clown Posse and their juggalos.
You were never home,
and when you were, you weren’t present.
I missed my Granny’s 85-birthday party,
because you didn’t want to make the 70-minute drive.

Time slowed when you left.
I was glad to grab every inch of the sanity,
and give myself a few miles of this final lifetime.