Time feels ultimately the most precious today. Saturday and too soon it passes. Maybe because of death and change and spring so slow in coming. Maybe because I want it to slow down. To reverse. Vacation. Announcement. Dismemberment. A moment. A step to the right or to the left. So much depends on instinct. Survival or consequence. To treasure the moments of no obligation and pansies in clay pots in a yard where the wind blows and no rain falls. Only tears. I want to relax in a bath, to fade into the mystery of nothing and everything. Lavender. Gelato. Of thought and feeling and sob. I want Dzhokhar Tsarnaev to be innocent. I want to trust our government. Implications of suicide but a boat riddled with bullet holes where he lay bloodied. An exchange of gunfire. . . ? Maybe. Everything. He lifts his shirt in surrender. We live in a violent time. I want to believe in America. Tic tac toe. Hopscotch. Chalk and circumstance. Circumcision. Tequila and ginger ale and fertilizer. Viagra does not a man make. Though he prevails beyond the expiration date of do over and do again and let it be. Does not ask to put cream on a vagina. Good night. Go well. Good-bye.
Another woman is raped in India. A drone kills a family sitting down to dinner in Iraq. Syria sends their regards. Condolence. Compassion. Newlyweds and brothers and others have lost their limbs at the Boston Marathon bombing. One minute they were whole and now they are broken. Healing. An earthquake, an explosion and words hurled across the internet like anomaly. Shards that penetrate. Bury and burn and stain. In America we shut down a metropolitan area of millions to hunt for one man who lies bleeding in a boat, under a tarp, and I want to know more –tell me what did you see when you climbed that ladder? Information comes slowly like spring. The possibility of the death penalty like the bud of a tulip red or yellow or withering in the sun. Some anticipate with longing and joy. Others cannot comprehend. Carefully (or not so) treading media hiccup remorse not so much but sometimes to what end? –many times already the FBI inquired and followed this man in the black hat. Dead. But what do I know? Why am I so upset? Consumed? Silenced? We wait as instructed under the bed for the bogey man to go away. To trust. Peter Pan out the window. Mary Poppins with her umbrella. . .fly away
. . .The sad assumption carried in these reports is that Americans lack the intellectual equipment and moral imagination to tell the difference between an individual and a group. It’s an assumption that has, in the past, occasionally proven valid. Twitter quote.
My Aunt Rody died this week. They greeted the family from 2 – 4pm today EST. I am the absentee family member. Always. Is it only money for airfare or something else? I miss them all. The dead and the living. Birthday and kitchen conversation and new recipes. And now there are only three (out of 12 siblings). I trim the juniper outside my window with a scissors because it is all I have. Butcher the root of cactus with an old rusty shovel. Red scabs on the top of my palms like needle points. It is manic energy. After my eyes glaze over at my limited value added options at Go Wireless. The energy of sales. I am still conflicted about upgrading to a smartphone. Today anyway. Turn down the offer of friends.
Struggle with independence. I am an alien. Not autistic yet not dissimilar the lack of articulation easily understood by others. Cannot explain. Still I am grateful for thinking deeply. That all my limbs are attached. For the capacity of quietude and patience. The moon rising in the east. A free yellow table at the side of the road. Street furniture. An art opening. Scallops with pasta and conversation. A friend connects the bombings to poetry to hold onto hope and understanding. Eloquently. To gentle the human. But cereal is $6/box and I don’t even have children. No milk in the house.
I’ve been completely absorbed by the marathon bombings/man hunt all week and now filled with questions because the character of suspect #2 (white hat) is of such a sweet intelligent well-liked young man, and isn’t that bizarre (white hat/black hat) –the fact that he became a natuarilized US citizen on September 11th one year ago. Do people still believe in coincidence? FBI. Dogs sniff the finish line. Only the bones blown to smithereens –and after the fact.
I call a friend but leave no message. Will that be evidence later? Used against me in the court of relationships? Drown in my wine. The wind a continuous companion in the high desert does nothing to dilute the dysfunction of day job. No compatibility though I did two loads of laundry. No one responds to hello. Blatant abandon. The sweet dog growls. This is life. Day to day. Guns are the new normal. On patio cafés. There is no substitute for compassion. For critical thinking. CNN in the airport. Our choice is surrender. How much do they pay for that privilege? Bombard with opinion and jump to conclusion give the dog a bone who’s on first? Guns and gratitude and enemy combatant. Terrorist. On line streaming asks my preference on commercials: Walgreens, US Bank or US Army. Really? Houston we have a problem. But I am silenced. No one talking or listening. Don’t forget your helmet. Falling. Fear. Fallen. Fell. Fetch. Fuck. Future. Fodder. Folly. Feelings. Feet. Font. Fiddle. Fault. Miranda.
Brenda is an occasional poet and visual artist currently living in Santa Fe, NM. For information on upcoming exhibitions please visit her website