In an Undated Entry, I Felt Political

People are bought and sold
like opinions and News
and it doesn't matter anyway
because hotels are built underwater
for the lifestyles of the rich and infamous
as we all work to afford
the gas that will take us to work tomorrow
when it will be the same
as the day she let them eat cake.

So maybe we get back to the roots
of the nation,
roots that were ripped up with Manifest Destiny.
And maybe we hold hands,
dance a rain dance
to cultivate the garden we see
to feed the neighbors we know.
Indeed, let them eat.

Semi-logical Speculation

We are a family of story-tellers. We don't even do it on purpose. Stories just come our of imagination, curiosity, nosiness, semi-logical speculation.

Sometimes we'll be driving in our car and we'll see something strange. Someone will say, "Hey! Did you guys see that (insert strange occurrence)?!"And someone else will start to make up a story about the origin of the strange thing. A typical drive can sound something like this:

Person 1: "Hey! Did you guys see that lady? She was standing waiting for the light and she only had one high-heel on."
Person 2: "Hmm. That's weird. Maybe she lost the other one."
Person 1/3/4: "Doing what?"
Person 2: "Maybe it got stuck in the mud or something."
Person 1/3/4: "Where would she be walking through the mud in high-heels?"
Person 2: "Maybe she owns some horse stables and she was just going to check on the horses before she went to work."
Person 3/4: "But one of the horses was sick...and so she had to go tell the vet but her car was broken so she had to walk. But one of her heels got stuck in the mud in the stable. But the horse is really sick, like dying, so she has to hurry to get to the vet before he closes his office."
Person 1: "Why wouldn't she just call the vet? Or why wouldn't she just call someone to give her a ride to the vet?"

By this point, we've long passed the one-shoed lady. Who really knows where she was going or what happened to her other shoe... No one really knows what her life is like, what her name is, who she loves, what she believes in...and it really doesn't matter. Because the next time we pass that corner she was standing on with only one shoe, someone in my family will un-doubtably say, "Hey. This is the place we saw that lady with the sick horse."

I like these things

Because the last couple of blogs have been "downers," I decided to focus my mind on things I like (aside from the given family, friends, etc.). Call me a hipster if you must... but each of these things touches something in me, resonating nostalgia, love, peace, beauty, connectedness, something--something good.

Trees

Dresses

Polaroids

Lace

French

Type writers

Bows

Fall Colors

Scarves

Laughing

The beach in the winter

Lavender scent

Flowers: lilacs, orchids, lilies, tulips, gardenias, etc.

Folk music

Feathers

Clothes lines

Dessert

Clip-on earrings

Dryer sheets

Water colors

Museums

Books

Cafe Au Laits

Windows

Art journals

Pearls

Details

Crayola Super-Tip Washable Markers

Malbec wine

Writing

Singing Tracy Chapman in my car with my sunglasses on and the windows down.

Anxiety

It's like the dripping of an ocean; the tension in your jaw; the constant, present feeling of that dream you almost remember.
It's like someone lifted the drain-stopper but you don't know which part of that analogy you are.
It's like that part in the movie that you know is going to change everything.
But you don't know the decision. You don't even know the genre.
It's like fightorflightorfightorflight but nothing happens.
You smile calm like a riptide, embarrassed that you misspelled your diagnosis.
It's like white noise in your whole body you don't know how to clear.
But what if you did? What would be left?

Everything is fine. It's fine. Everything is fine.

Sometimes

“How do you feel?”

“Tired,” I say.

“Tired is not an emotion.”

“I’m tired. Exhausted.”

“Synonyms of ‘tired’ don’t count as emotions either. Maybe you can draw how you feel.”

I color the whole page black.

Untitled

Picking up an expensive bottle of boutique lotion, she read the label: Calming lavender. The scent confused her more than it comforted.
She smelled the lotion and heard the moan of the old woman in a rest home bed. "Help me. Please help me. My god, someone help me." Calming lavender and the stench of adult diapers, breakfast milk sitting until dinner, the alcohol of hand sanitizer. Everyone in their own world and no privacy. "There's a scorpion on the wall." The red button to call the nurse. "You have to swallow the hole pill, Ma'am. Don't chew it." Her hands will get cold. That's when you know. Vanilla pudding, apple sauce. "How is her oxygen saturation today?" And the heavy lavender room spray, too thin to cover it all.
She put the lotion back on the glass shelf and left.

The Best Professional Compliment Ever

I have been working in Watts for the last few weeks with Carver Elementary School and the Watts/Willowbrook Boys and Girls Club. 

I was on my way out of the B&G one Friday and was stopped by the computer teacher, Mr. Sean. He formally introduced himself, though we'd been passing each other in the hall for a couple weeks.

"You're the new sub with CYFC, right?"

I nod and smile. (Dude, it's seven, already. All the kids have gone home. End of a long week. Time to clock out...)

"I've been meaning to introduce myself. I'm Sean."

Smile. Nod. "Casey."

"Yeah, I know who you are. The kids have been talking about you." He laughs. Mr. Sean's computer room faces the educational center, where I work.

"Uh-oh." I joke. (But, okay, seriously.... traffic...) I'm about ready to tell him to have a nice weekend. 

Cue: best compliment ever.

"Yeah. They've been telling me all week. 'Hey, Mr. Sean. See that lady over there? (pointing through the window toward where I teach) She a'ight (insert adorable third grade chin-up gesture).'"

Cue: Casey's heart melting. Cue: Affirmation that she's making a difference. Cue: Rejuvenation. Cue: Rays of light, mana from heaven, burning bush, doves, cherubs in neon-colored Boys and Girls Club shirts eating Flaming Hot Cheetos getting red finger prints all over Mr. Sean's keyboard--third grade cherubs with chin-up gestures.

I love my job.