“You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby.
But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
-The Velveteen Rabbit
Effin’ Hell.
Crawl out of bed at 6am, stumble to the kitchen to make my coffee & smoothie, meanwhile keeping my eyes on the clock – I swear, it always seems to go faster in the morning. By 6:30 it’s sip of coffee, throw on a sock, sip of coffee, the other sock, gulp of coffee, the boots. 6:45 – do I bring my laptop today? Yeah. Close it, hit the bathroom to throw some water on my face & brush my hair. 6:55 already? Screw the lappy, just grab my small bag & a couple books, a few decks of cards shoved in my pockets to practice manipulation & magic, throw on my hat, grab my keys then limp to the elevator – no stairs, the legs hurt again today for some reason. Not legs, leg. Always my left one. It’s the bitch that never got the memo that I refuse to be sick or in pain. Need to have a talk with it later.
Dragging the doors of the ancient elevator open, I see my car through the entrance doors, right where I parked it, directly outside of my building. Good.
I walk outside… waitaminute. Cars lined up in front and in back of mine. No one rushing to move them.
It’s Saturday. Goddamnit, I knew that. No towing today, only street sweeping on the *other* side of the street.
A weak chuckle at myself, a decision to save fuel, and back inside.
It’s easier to practice with the cards in my apartment, anyway.
It was only a few minutes, nothing really to speak of at all – but for those few minutes, that brief moment this past Wednesday – I was home again. Where I feel best, where I feel I belong – with 454 cubic inches of motor singing its sweet, throaty song next to me in the driver’s seat of my motorhome.
Wednesday, 6:30 am and the alarm on my phone went off, my eyes barely opened as I lift this hellish thing off of my dresser and be certain I touch ‘dismiss’ instead of ‘snooze’. It’s not a noise I wish to hear again. Of course, the night before I had found the rare parking on Hyde St. which *didn’t* have street sweeping this morning, but they were unable to start my girl the day before and needed the space for a 50 foot trailer that was coming in. Not expecting to find such ideal parking I promised that I would be there at 7:30 to move her…
It’s been a while – perhaps well over a month since I’ve been to the East Bay, as with fuel prices and bridge toll it’s not a trip I can make too often, and besides, except for just opening the door and sitting in her, there was little reason to go visit my motorhome.
I felt her welcoming smile as I opened the door and stepped inside again after so long – it was like visiting a dear old friend. Some may understand this; those people whose vehicles become, after a time, much more than just something to use in order to get around in – they become, in a way, a part of you. Part of your history, part of your future, part of dreams both realized… and yet to come.
I climbed into the driver’s seat – *my* seat – and sat there for a minute or three, just looking out the windshield with my eyes closed, imagining the roads we would someday travel, then with a bit of massaging and a small simple trick I turned the key and her heart roared to life, a deliciously low rumble as her blood was sucked up from the oil pan and started circulating again, feeling her strength & power as I pressed lightly on the accelerator pedal, checking the gauges to be sure all was well and, after far too long, moved the lever on the steering column to that sweetest of letters: ‘D’.
DRIVE.
I didn’t go far, just out the rollup door and around the building to the other side, but it was still a sweet little spree and reminded me of what I had been missing.
In those few short minutes, I was home again.
Perhaps some may think I’ve gone off the deep end in writing about a motorhome with such romance – words that are usually saved to paint poetic images of and for loved ones of the more, shall we say, *human* nature, and well, perhaps I have – but dreams are still dreams, regardless of what form they take or the way in which they are realized, and Serenity, my motorhome, is the way in which my dreams not only are formed – but can also become a reality.
The past is the past.
Let the dead bury the dead.
I should be over it.
No one wants to hear about this, no one else can understand except those very, very few.
I don’t have the right to feel this, to talk about this; it isn’t fair to others.
It will only open old wounds…
and of course, those lovely words from my adoptive mom when I was searching before: “I don’t know why you’re bothering with this, she’s probably dead anyway.”
The mind, the ego, has its own repertoire of rationalizations that keep us quiet, keep what we truly feel suppressed. Emotional debts to the past in the form of feelings we can’t allow ourselves to express, but the past isn’t over as long as these debts go unpaid. It coils around our soul, suffocating us, keeping us from who we truly can be, living our lives in quiet desperation and pretending that everything is alright…
But I am a construct of my past, the things I cannot forget, the things I cannot let go, the things that made me who I am – a boy forever searching for Self, denied by law the right to see a true record of my birth. Though I look human, my life is a hard-wired fantasy that has no beginning; I am one of the Unborn. I bleed and get sick just like you, but astonish the doctors when I don’t die. By others I have been called an illusion, an apparition, a vision, a ghost. Wrapped up in myth, living a life of secrets and taboo from time before my first memory, I never became so I never can be, living a life of fiction where I am the author…
They say that you cannot change the past, but they are wrong. Terrifyingly wrong.
In my heart there is a hole, a hole shaped like her, and no one else can fit it. Fill it.
Why would I want them to?
Of course I have tried, not expecting anyone to be able to, but perhaps they could blunt the edges that have cut this mold, this man, that boy, that child I once was and still am – that child that can be seen through the razor edges in this man’s heart, looking out at you, looking into each strangers eyes, searching for the arms, for the voice, for the hearts beat that soothes and mothersoft skin that was comfort, that held the promise that everything would be alright, that even in this world of suffering I was safe, protected… that I was hers.
That I belonged… not only in this world, but also – belonged *to* someone.
I received a call on Friday – the search is moving forward, they are making progress. I play the message over and over again. As soon as they receive the non-identifying information from the adoption agency (which in CA commonly takes up to eight months for a couple of pieces of fucking paper), they “should be able to wrap things up fairly quickly.”
I need to change. I need to start living again, break out of what I let the past couple of years of bouncing from one hospital bed to the other do to me, and again be a part of my life; create, perform, breathe… exist.
I need to be someone that she would be proud to meet.
Last night, I fell into a poem
one that made my heart expand so much, that I felt at times as if I was suffocating
on dreams
on fantasy
on truth
on reality
on everything that I keep hidden, and everything that I give away.
Last night, I fell into a dream
one that filled my heart so much, I felt that I could finally breathe
because everything that I give was finally accepted
and everything hidden was finally exposed
and I was raw
and I was beautiful…
and I still am, today.
Calling Bad Unkl Sista’s production of ‘First Breath – Last Breath a show is an offense. Calling it a performance doesn’t even begin to ring true to what it actually is. If one calls it an experience, they’re getting closer, but beyond everything, the closest I can come to describing it would be – a gift. An offering.
If you’re fortunate enough to have been there for it last night, perhaps you know what I’m trying to say – or perhaps you feel something else entirely. What you let it do, how far you let it go, can be your gift to yourself, or you can simply just watch and be transfixed by whatever it is *you* choose to give to yourself.
It’s entirely up to you how far in you want to go.
Almost.
Anastazia Louise – stazL – and the amazing people who collaborated with her on this have created nothing less than an atmosphere, an experience, a…
Hell, just go yourself, and FOR yourSelf. Only two more showings, today at 2 & 8pm. Z-Space.
Details at BadUnklSista.com
Day in, day out, up at 5:30am again, out the door at 6:00 to move my car – no too many people out on a post-rain morning like this but the crackheads and me. I start driving and on the way remember that I still have almost $5.00 in my paypal account – a fortune these days, but a fortune that goes fast…
Groggy in this hellish yet beautiful hour, but in a special kind of mood; life is turning around. I not only feel it, but it’s there, in front of me, smiling and calling and just looking for my answer.
YES.
Always yes.
Things are coming my way… the way they should and do when I do something as simple as switch my heart around and believe, *know* that they will turn around. I think the magick is in far past just believing, as that always leaves room for doubt. It’s the feeling of knowing that makes all the difference, and simply taking action. Simple.
Not easy.
This past Thursday I stopped by the Vau de Vire rehearsal at Cell Space, to say hello to good friends, and to get out of my damned apartment which, after I move my car, wait for the time I need to and return, has become something of a glorified jail cell, one that locks from the inside. The struggle to leave is immense, the reasons, few – but on that day, that Thursday past, I made it out – and that’s all that needed to happen.
I take a seat for a few minutes; watch Shannon work on choreography with all of the insanely beautiful & talented Vau de Vire folk as much as I could (it’s a love/hate relationship – I love them for their stretchy, bendy, strong and insanely sexy ways – and hate them for the same out of utter envy.) and then see Mike across the floor, taking notes. I give Mike a hug, (Gods, that felt good – so long since I’ve felt the warmth of touch) the smile on my face in seeing him, feeling an old friends arms around me stretch the muscles that I so seldom have use for these days, save for the rare occasion in front of the mirror where I try to remember what it feels like when it’s genuine, coming from my heart instead of forced to my lips as an exercise…
He says that he and Shannon have been talking – want to know if I’m up for performing with them at Symbiosis as a Human Statue. I try to contain my joy, try to maintain *some* control but realize that it’s an exercise in futility and act like a little girl who actually *did* get a pony for her birthday. Without thinking of logistics I readily accept, already feeling like I’m on my way home again – the home where the heart is, not the walls behind which I pretend to live. The home where when I walk in there are smiles to greet me instead of a room barren of life, of warmth, of welcome.
I have no idea how I’ll make it to Symbiosis, a three day festival a few hundred miles south, but I’m sure I can figure out something… I need to. I’m certain that I can get a ride, but I have no tent, sleeping bag, or anything that a proper camper should have – it was all given away or sold long ago when I got my first running motorhome. I could take my motorhome, but how would I afford fuel and that one small part I need for the carburetor? Answers with more questions are all that I possess. Still, I have to make it – more for my heart and spirit than anything else. All I can do is trust. All I can do is *know* that somehow, some way, it will work out.
Two days later I get an email from someone named Bascom. Seems that he & his girlfriend are looking for a third to busk with. Someone taller, someone with a voice, someone seasoned on the streets who doesn’t have the encumbrance of trying to gather a crowd & work a pitch with razor blades hidden in his cheeks. It will be a far cry from a human statue, but it’s back to what I love – what I need; the smiles of strangers & passerby, a special gift that I know how to give them – reaching out of the common sights, the magick of wonder, and, even if just for a moment, the feeling that they are someone special, someone outside of the crowd. Even in stillness, even in silence I could do this, give them a gift of my energy, that they would hopefully carry in their hearts instead of their minds, that could just possibly bring splendor to a commonplace day, beauty to the mundane, remind them how to *see* the majesty of this world, instead of only looking at it through jaded eyes…
I drove towards the Mission for the sole reason that my car was already pointing that way, and to celebrate recent events decided to buy a vanilla latte from Peet’s Coffee with part of my final five dollars – one of the few coffee drinks that I’ll spurge on, one that I haven’t had in months. On my way inside of Peet’s I notice a homeless man sitting in front of Safeway, wet, cold, in between two bags that look like they weigh a ton dry. I get my latte, then thinking of how even something small can make all the difference in the world, with my last two dollars I buy a regular coffee, fill my pocket with some sugar packs and a cup with some half & half, and put a cardboard cup thing on mine so I don’t mix them up. I walk outside into the wind & wet & deliver the cup of hot coffee to him along with the sugar & cream.
His smile and gratitude was worth far, far more than that last two dollars.
Getting back to the warmth of my car, I notice that I had somehow, somewhat impossibly, mixed the cups up and that he ended up with my treasured vanilla latte. I look out my window, see him cupping it with both hands, taking gentle sips, the absolute pleasure on his face… and share a chuckle with the Universe.
After all, it’s simple – who am I to argue with what is truly meant to be?
Saturday, April 21, 2012 :
6:33am
It’s a tight game, this. Making sure I have the dregs of gasoline left in my tank to avoid the street sweepers; get out of the neighborhood I was put in and get back. Today, however, I’ll make it – but tomorrow or the next day? Yet to be seen. Still, I have faith. No reason to worry until… well, no reason to worry at all. I either make it or I don’t, like so many other things. If I agonized over the challenges in life I would never sleep again – I’d be an anxious rattle-boned boy, or more likely the remains of one tossed to the Sea.
This life, though nothing special to me, is mine to destroy or cherish – and I’ve done the destruction. One question that will never be answered in this life without a beginning is if I believed in it, if I knew where I came from, if I knew who my mother was – would I have valued my life more? Been more careful with it, instead of searching for the subconscious suicide? Or is this my purpose, into so many hells and out the other side, and bring that wisdom with me to help others in some way? So many questions…
The Sun rises, warms the back of my neck through the car window.
It’s always a new day…
I was offered death on a silver platter, on the house, free of questions or guilt or blame; the setting complete with cocktail forks and a shell cracker to be sure that every bit of its marrow and juice was consumed, to pick clean the memories and every bit of what was and could have been so that nothing remained but the carnage and shattered bones of a life that had become empty. It was a gift that would have been so simple to accept – an easy way out of something that had become lackluster and plain –
There was one mistake made though in the almost perfect set-up. It would have been far, far too easy to do. Some said I was courageous, which I possibly now understand.
Perhaps the courage was in turning it down. I have an unquenchable thirst for adventure, for life, for proving the impossible possible, for realizing dreams – yet with all of the meticulous preparation there was no beverage served to satiate my craving.
Possibly it was believed by the hosts that death would have been enough of a voyage in itself to entice me. Perhaps the Powers That Be, The Great Big Ooh-Ahh, The Universe, The One And All were giving me a way out of what’s coming, and a fantastic justification at that. I’m certain that one day that final journey *will* be enough and I’ll cease this struggle for life – but that can only come after all the things I wish or need to do while alive have been undertaken.
The fifteenth day of the second month in my new apartment. I’ve become to view it as a jail cell that locks from the inside, offering peace, offering comfort, but this is not who I am. It is with unease that I call upon the words again, beckoning to them, encouraging them to be my friends again, as where I need to go inside is a place that I inevitably go alone.
The Search.
It takes everything I am, everything I have been through, every tiny bit of strength that has been cultivated over my years, and yet I don’t believe that this will be enough. It will, however, be better than the first time, be better than when I attempted to do it myself, as this time I have hired a search company to assist me – I had little choice, although payments for the fee will leave me destitute for the next four months. It’s either live for this time barely able to survive due to lack of food and the herbs I need, with some air of hope for finding my birth mother, or it gets put off longer and longer with the possibility of never getting done at all, never having the questions answered that I’ve been asking since one day as a child I found my adoption decree hidden in my parents things and taught myself how to ask them. Either I do it now, and with the help, or it never gets done and I’m forever left wondering, forever remaining incomplete, a shadow of who I could be.
At the autopsy they would find a heart with a hole in it and no guts.
Though it is Spring, the branches of my heart are barren, wanting for the tender meat of the fruit to sink my teeth into, the succulent juices of “I love you” dripping from my lips, the shine of the tender meat that would appease my hunger mirrored in my eyes and smile as I look into hers…
but who would want this man?
Bruised, tainted, scarred, both outside and in, yet still and forever an incurable romantic, who eternally dreams of what could be.
All the words that I wrote then rings just as true today. I’m praying that I get to write something different soon…
1/13/99
“I sensed my loss
before I even learned to talk”
and yes, this
I know
for too long
kept away from those places
in me
that could feel
keeping it all in my head
profound ignorance for what it said
to my heart
How close am I now?
Is there something missing in her?
can you take two missing pieces,
put them together -
and transform a world?
The sorrow that has hidden in silence
for so long
now has gained a knowledge
of it’s voice.
1/15/99
Early to bed
early to rise
a cup of coffee
a cigarette
wet hair
the morning sun streaming
through the clouds
silence has a sound.
Ring…
Ring…
“Hello?”
(Would I know her voice?)
silence
“Hello?”
“Um, hi. I was wondering if there might be a woman with the maiden name of Stenerson there.”
“Yes, this is she. Who is this, please?”
more silence. A question I have been wondering for all of my life. a question that I might
finally be able to answer.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“I’m called Casey, but that doesn’t matter anymore. We knew each other very briefly thirty one years ago, but I doubt that you have forgotten me. I don’t know your face, I don’t know your voice, and I don’t know your life, but I’ve never been able to stop thinking about you. The three months that we had together so long ago I can’t remember, either, but it has affected every relationship in my life, the way that I related to others around me, my expectations, and my fears. There has been a profound pain, an excruciating sense of loss inside of me all of my life that in some ways, I was able to ignore, in some ways I was able not to feel, but it always showed itself in my actions. Now I want it to be gone, and I think that you can help me.”
More silence. Her turn this time.
“This is your son, and I need to meet my mother.”
I don’t want this pain anymore.
