Holy CRAP, I spit nonsense. Only a few particles make it here.. but for the TRUE insanity that are my words, visit me here. I’m ashamed, but it is what it is.. fucking Facebook…
Monthly Archives: November 2013
wings against cages
Who AM I ?
A question for the ages
for who I am
and who I’ve been,
what I’ve seen
are but wings against cages.
There is no past
no future
I live for this day alone
yet the life I have lived
I nurture.
I ask who I am,
not who I should be
or who I have been
for today is the one day
I know I can see
always
We are born genius. Born loving, caring, without leaned hatred.
It is life that slowly takes that away.
do whatever you can to hold on to it. Do whatever you must.
and remember, you are always a child.
once, and again.
Without question, one of the sweetest “miss you” messages I have ever recieved…
…so of course, I had to post it here.
(From Cameron)
| Subject | Don’t make us come get you!!! |
|---|---|
| Message | New Orleans misses you too!!I’m sorry we all left you this summer in the heat to tend to our lives for us… but we came home just to wave goodbye. DAMNIT!
So I went out the other night and…. EVERYONE misses you, deeply. You know the crew. We are conspiring to come get you and drag you back. Its cooling down. Tourists are back in town, most are back from thier travels, gigs aplenty and focus from many. It’s just not the same without you.We can’t replace you and we leave little white and red flowers on yur spots in the square. (sniffles) We sat around and toasted you lamenting lamenting… you who can never be replaced, loved by so many. If you ever want to come home remember the long list of us who were gone through those hot monthes who all love and miss ya. Shall I start naming names? |
control
It is in times such as these, with so very much past behind me, that I need to remember the present and all of everything.
I lose myself, have lost, am lost, but the exquisite memories of who I am taunt me, haunt me. I continue.
I continue and wonder why. Who am I now?
I don’t want to seem an ungrateful dissatisfied fuck, for this life that I have lived has brought nearly every dream, fought hard for and won…
I look to the shadows of who I was and realize that there is still more that I must become… and will.
I must not let fear control me. I must reach beyond everything.
46 Years Believing
When I walked around the corner to where we planned to meet, I didn’t expect to see so many people standing outside. Sunday brunch in San Francisco, yeah… but SO many people waiting!
I was looking for my brother. Though I have seen old photos of my Mother, he’s the only one I have anything recent of – none at all of my sister. My mother explained this to us in our first conversation; “We just don’t take too many pictures.”
Well, that’s about to change.
I walked through the crowd outside, looking for Quincy, and probably walked right by my sister and Mother, stretching my neck, looking everywhere, but for once I was a few minutes early. I walked inside and saw Quincy’s name on the board, and then I knew. They were there, somewhere. Or maybe they went to get coffee, or, or, or…
Then, I see someone waving at me, making direct eye contact. This must be Mendocino, my sister… but then I look to her left, and see, for the first time, a face that I have looked for in the mirror for all of my life. Wondering, searching, praying that she was still alive – and she was smiling my smile, looking at me with my eyes, beaming so brightly at me.
This is my Mother. I recognized her in a familiarity that the photos had nothing to do with.
I saw me. I saw me in the way she smiled sometimes with downturned mouth, I saw her gift to me in my eyes.
And… I saw her love.
I walked straight up to her, trying not to run, and for the first true time, felt at home as we hugged.
It still hasn’t really hit me yet, the walls built so meticulously are hard to break down – but now, I have the tools to destroy them with.
Thank you all so much for your support over the years, for your words, for your love, for your sticking with me when that’s all I could write about.
I don’t expect anyone who hasn’t been on this journey to understand, but even when you didn’t, most of you still offered me love and support.
Thank you.
AND NOW INTRODUCING…
Annie – My MOTHER!
to complete the circle
The time grows near, and nearer. I last saw her 46 years ago, for 15 minutes after she gave me my first breath, held me to her heart before I was ripped out of her arms and bought by people who gave me everything they could – except my mother.
He was a boss, but trying. She… she said things that get in the way of all that I want to forgive. And they killed my dog without talking to me first. I didn’t find out until months later when I returned ‘home’ from boarding school… but this isn’t about them.
I have let so very much go, and I work hard on being free of them… but perhaps I like the pain. I am a fool that way. I don’t like it, but it is familiar. I reach beyond what I know, for that is the only way I will live, the only way I can love…
Off that tangent.
I admit that I am insecure in meeting her. Her, My Birth Mother. The shadows that have created me are soon to be flooded with her light, and what if I am not the person she expects? We have talked, told each other of our love, and yes, I believe that this will be good – I will clean myself up, dress nice, but I refuse to be anything other than me.
I have worked far too hard to become a person I admire and love, and will not waver, not be false.
That terrifies me. I WILL be honest.
I owe her nothing less.
This time, the choice is hers. If she chooses to leave me again, at least I will have met her.
16 days left of a lifetime of searching.
The Circle will finally be a rising spiral… I hope.
Then, maybe a letter to my father letting him know he has this son. He has no knowledge that I am.
And I fucking AM.
Again, a Child
The circle is nearly completed, the pain never gone but nearly understood, making me stronger…
“…Adoptees are usually shadowed by a pet of some kind, more than likely of unknown origins. They tend to identify with animals, perhaps because they share some state of grace that is outside the human condition… The live or stuffed animal grazes loyally in the interstices between them and the rest of the world… adoptees, of all ages, have live and inanimate animals to accompany them through life.”
~ Betty Jean Lifton – “Journey Of the Adopted Self”
(While most everything these days is about Ruby, this is one of the few times it is not.
I just liked the quote.)
I read this book years ago, over, and over, and over. Each time finding new places woven into the words to cry. It was only then that I knew my loss wasn’t my own to suffer with in silence. In some ways it was good, healing. I also found rawness in myself, vulnerability, a rage that I managed so very well to hide for thirty one years.
It has now been just a couple weeks past one year since I first spoke with my birth mother, after forty years of creating fantasies about her, (Well, I was born in ’67, so maybe I *am* David Bowie’s son…) and at least twenty five of actively searching when I was able. Paying thousands of dollars to find her in the end, because doing it myself ripped me apart.
I destroyed amazing relationships, I still have the scars from punched and shattered bar mirrors, I wrote like an uncontrollable fever, and felt the cold steel of my cocked .38 on the roof of my mouth, releasing the pressure on the trigger at the last fraction of a second.
Some of you may understand in your own way. We have all lived lives.
“You see the one who I am, not the one who I was. But the one who I *was* is also still a part of myself.” ~ Jean Amery
In myth, the hero does not return until he returns what the treasure he went in search for.
Some things I have read on the soul of the adoptee say that they feel just meeting their mother would somehow make them whole – and many end up becoming more splintered than before, trying to piece together what was, what might have been, and what is.
But I am far from most. Some who have followed my writings know this. Me? I can’t explain it. Maybe someday I will, but that will come in time. I weave my life out of the pieces I have.
All of this is bringing you up to the big news I received today. It’s like a refresher course.
A surprise email from my (1/2 blood) sister, my Mothers daughter:
Hi Casey,
I hope things are well with you and Ruby. I finally got mom to come down for a visit; she’ll be in the bay area on the weekend of November 16-17 (Quincy will drive her down). I was thinking it might be a good idea to get together, maybe for brunch/lunch on Sunday the 17th? I talked to her this morning and she would really like to get together with you.”
So… yeah. I will meet my Mother and Sister for the very first time – except for the 15 minutes they allowed my mother to hold me after I was born.
My Mother is not in the best of health, and has been living in a tiny town for… a long time. I want to say twenty seven years but most likely more, I am not certain. A long time. She lives alone… but something really screwed up inside of me has a purely selfish desire to greet her with as many friends as I can wrangle as we stand in the line for brunch, to show her that she created a good heart in her firstborn. Just for a few minutes, because as I don’t really care if people see me crying like a baby, (her baby)… this is our time. I want her to see that she did good. Perhaps that is a really fucking backwards way of saying that I really need support. Perhaps it is genuine. You won’t even need to actually park, just take up most of the street and tell her you love her.
She created me. I just need her to know that she did something good in letting me live…
So, yeah. In eleven days I’m meeting my Birth mother, AND my sister for the first time.
Eleven days after forty-six years.
Holy shit.
Love & Promises
In a strange way, it’s funny. All wrapped up in writing, becoming again, and playing with a beautiful dog that though I am broke as fuck (.65 to my name) I missed walking down and picking up my pittance check, the illustrious weekend in front of me.
And not a bone in the cupboard to chew on.
I was focusing on work, and forgot to get paid for living.
(I will never understand that. past rent and necessities (phone, internet) I get $300/ month.
Only when you have so little that everything, *everything* is a sacrifice. Trash bags, toilet paper (gots to have a clean ass) good soap, the herbs I still live by, and when I have an extra $10 in my pocket, a toy for Ruby. Honestly, she should come first, but I do occasionally need to crap, and… well, need to make certain its clean, just in case anyone really wants to sniff my ass. (Yeah, it’s happened. No comment.)
But fuck me, I wrote through the small time frame to pick up my check, again the fool.
So here’s to a penniless weekend, again. Fuck this shit. I’m climbing out. In three months, I will host the most amazing event you could ever dream of. Saturday, February 15. The day after Valentines day. I’m Coming BACK
But fuck, this current scrapping shit wears so dreadfully thin. Here’s the rub – if you have felt this, feel it now. The desperation in a single day, the withering of the soul.
So I post this again, for now. Please forgive me.
Saving up for Ruby, but PayPal is immediate, and buys her toys – and some food for me. http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/534079/wdgi/451145
A heartfelt thanks to all of you that have found it in your heart to donate – Ruby and I are working on something special for you…
To Keep A Promise
I have come so close to death. I survived because of will, and Ruby.
Reach through my blog, and you will find love.
This is a simple request, a need for her and me (Yeah, that is proper grammar.)
Please, time is short. Give anything you can. I trust in you. She does as well.
shovels, digging up the past.
Digging through the past, successfully finding the now. Shovel load by load over my shoulder, there are many layers to get by. Rip out the weeds, down to the soil, bricks of clay for protection. Dig out the bones of who I once was and putting the gristle of life on them.
I found me again.
I am a friggin’ archeologist of the soul.
If only I wrote when I was a child, full of wonder and daring, looking at everything anew, learning how to walk again, to dance, to speak, to sing, to write.
And then I remember. Just a couple of years ago I couldn’t do any of those things, and had to relearn every. single. one.
Careful what you wish for, yes?
What were we when ‘impossible’ was not an option? The cliffs I used to jump off of into the sea are now closed. Too many injuries, too many deaths. Too much risk.
Too much life, exultation, living.
The dangerously narrow path that we rode on our bikes is now flattened for a private golf course – or was. I haven’t been there in years.
The fences I jumped walking to grade school, the life I lived without any type of helmet or protection on my skateboard, surfboard, and only a crossbar pad on my bike hoping my balls wouldn’t get crushed. Fuck life, protect the balls.
In dirt clod armies I almost lost an eye, cut above and below, the dirt wrapped around sharp cement. The scars are still there in my skin, the laughter in my soul. My right eye will always be a bit more protective.
I have been held under the sea by waves. I learned not to panic, but to open my eyes. Gods, what a beautiful world there. If only I had gills.
BREATHE. I didn’t want to come up – but there was always another wave to catch.
There always will be.
Give in to your passion, give into love, give into your heart. Look at how much you have fought for to bring you here.
I love you.
of Petals & Thorns 