...swollen angels point and laugh...

...so the world shrinks drop by drop,
as the wine goes to your head...

It's like that, when I'm sick. The world shrinks to the exact size of my apartment. I can't conceive of a space outside of the apartment, away from the couch. It's as though the people in my life - all of those people not connected to me by those holy lines of blood - don't exist. I try to imagine them, and I fail - their images expressed as stylized versions of their names in my mind. Even the Captain seems far away.

It's a strange feeling. When I get sick, I lose more than my appetite, more than sleep, more than days of wellness - I lose my taste for other things. For books. For music. For video games. For much of anything. Today's the first day I've really *listened* to music. And I have to do that to focus, to exclude the sounds of my coworkers, to override the regular hoopla that passes my window every hour during the school day.

I've had two major nosebleeds today. My comfort? I like the sight of my own bright blood on white porcelain. Isn't that awfully emo and goth? *laugh* Maybe it is. It's pretty, what can I say? I'm no cutter, not into self-mutilation. Definitely not into pain. It's just...picturesque.

I'm so tired...I hate being sick. I was sick for three months - December (bronchitis), January (the flu), and February (sinus infection from hell). I was WELL in March, and I anticipated being well until the fall. I did not anticipate being sick in April. :( It's 'cause the co-worker who sits behind me got sick, and I got it from her. I have a hard time resisting colds and other respiratory infections. *sigh* I have the world's worst immune system, seriously. I always have. The Captain insists that it's been worse since the time we suspect that I developed fibromyalgia. Which makes sense - fibro is an auto-immune disorder. It only follows, to my mind, that my immune system would fail in other ways. If it's dumb enough to attack me, of course it would be dumb when it came to actually *doing* its *job*, you know?

Anyway. No point going on and on about it. I'm sick, bottom line. I'm tired, bottom line. I want to go home, but I can't, since I came in late, and I'm trying to make up time. ...time... This morning, the fine blue sky and the undeniable green leaves twisted their tongues in my ear - and I heard them, felt the warm, clear honey, but I couldn't do anything about them...work waited. Work, work that I've had to avoid for my own good. Work that I wish I could continue avoiding. Heh. *shakes head* There's work waiting at home. No doubt, the good Captain dropped his end of the bargain again. Fact of life. Like me being sick all the time. Fact of life.

I am not some delicate magnolia, I swear. It's just the world conspiring to make me as such. It's not in my will to be such. It's in my will to be lithe and healthy and golden. To be fierce and night and nocturnal and hungry and burning, not with fever, but with that little Promethean light. That little spark of cosmic sentience.

...you cast a shadow 'round my room...

I feel...crazed. Fevered. I probably am fevered...it's a shame, really, to be this bright, and it's a malfunction. Bright eyes means madness, rather than mania. I used to worship the former; I am in service to the latter. I'd give a great deal to be master of both.

...you put a chill across my face...like the air of December...I swear I remember it that way...

There's work I'm putting off, because I don't want to do it. I'm sleepy and sluggish, fevered and unfocused. I want to put my head down and sleep...drift...there's a khaki-painted room somewhere, with a faded caramel couches, hot cups of lemon & honey with herbs, hot cups of broth with herbs, the soft hands of the Captain, the soft voice of the Seidman Robin (the shaman I know)....I am little more than a memory, or the fever that snags my eyes, carries them away. I'll be writing in my delirium later, no doubt, and proud of the incoherence that sings out of my blood, an incoherence I often equate - mistake - make for wisdom.

When I wake up again, I'll be imagining yellow fields and green swamps and blue skies.

...sometimes it rages....rock a little...even when it's calm....

I've never had use for people who were not genuine, or people who were so self-absorbed that they failed to see how much they hurt the people around them, especially the people that love(ed) them. And now - oh, now, this morning, on the bright tide of mania-cum-spirit, I am righteously angry, and mentally flailing. Were I able this day to drive to Baltimore and beat the absolute HELL out of my best friend's ex-boyfriend, I would. I was this angry when he dumped her - on their four-month anniversary, downtown, on the curb. The AUDACITY of the man to drop her like that, to tell her that all the I love you's were wrong, were lies, and then to seek comfort from her...it is enough to drive me straight to him with a whiffle bat and a grim determination.

He told her, great spirit that she is, that he could envision a life with her, marrying her, owning a home together, maybe children; she believed him. Never should a person say such things to another if they do not mean it. Maybe he meant it when he said it, but if there had been any doubt in his mind AT ALL - either because of his own issues, or concern for her - he should NEVER have said those things at all. They became LIES when he left, and they became the foundation on which her misery has been made.

And now? NOW? After he told her he could not find it in himself to marry again, it could not happen, her dream was over: that BASTARD has gotten married. MARRIED. The man who had decided at their end that marriage was no longer for him, has gotten MARRIED. And had I known, I would have called his bride and told her the misery he had grafted the tree of my friend's soul. I would have told her the lies, told her the locks, told her all that I could tell her to make her INTIMATE of the WRONG in her future husband's heart. Oh, I would have told her how he had made the moon gleam on the snow for the saint that is my friend, and how the sun itself smiled on their meeting. How the blood in her veins was fire in a way it had not long been. How the words remained when he did not, and he abandoned her on a corner in downtown Baltimore, in the shadow of the buildings, no comfort given, though comfort requested. Oh, I would not spare a detail, not spare a tear, not spare one moment's vicious victory over the bride's misconception of her so-called beloved.

*sigh* But I cannot now, it is impossible. And I cannot bring myself to wish misery on that poor bride; enough may come from the hands of her new husband. And I cannot wound him for fear of wounding my beloved friend, who once loved him. What I want now is to go to my friend, is to comfort her, to hold her hands and warm them with my own love, with the love that does not falter, does not lie, the love of sisters not-blood. The love that asks for nothing but love.

Where you are, there you are, my coal-maned sister:
come to the South, where we will warm you,
let you bask in the shade, not the shadows,
where the world will not tilt, you will not tumble off,
where the nights will be sweet without the sinister tongue
of a liar, of a man to whom nothing is owed.
In a bed of green, in a room of light,
we will comfort you, we will laugh with you,
and dredge the nightmares out; we will roam,
we will sing, we will weave a circle
'round that heart of yours,
oh glowing coal of heaven,
and bind the wounds with tea and cake,
smiles and friends, and green green grass,
and the wind on your face, and the sun in your eyes,
and you can trust that the words are wisdom,
that they are real and reliable,
and the promises made are carved
in the stone of the bones of the earth,
and in our own bones, to hold us to
our promises and our pacts.
Oh, come to us, blessed woman-child,
to the open arms of blood not-blood,
and heal where you are guaranteed love eternal.

A Plea for Understanding

As many of you know, I have fibromyalgia. Many doctors consider fibro to be an auto-immune disorder: basically, my body attacks itself. As many of you also know, I have the immune system of a bottle of glue. I seem to have very little resistance to infection, and since I was diagnosed with asthma, I’ve had more problems, especially as far as respiratory issues go. Many of you also know that I have chronic sinusitis and that, from time to time, it flares up into an actual full-blown sinus infection.

In December I came down with bronchitis; in January I had the flu. Now in February I have a very nasty sinus infection that is causing me a lot of problems. I am penicillin-allergic, so there are a limited number of meds I can be on when I get sick. This time I’m on Cipro, but it doesn’t seem to be doing as much for me as it could. I have had a headache for the last three days which I can do very little for; until last night, I couldn’t stand up for more than five minutes at a time without being violently sick. Apparently I have a lot of fluid in my ears because I’m having vertigo. I periodically have really bad nausea (like this morning). I keep wearing out insanely easy. I’m exhausted all the time. And I’m just not getting well fast enough this time around.

So, what does all this mean? Well, between talking with my doctor, my parents, and the Captain, we’ve decided it means that I am not taking care of myself as well as we thought, and that we’re not managing the fibro as well as we thought. Consequently, there are greater ramifications for activities than we originally thought: travel is harder on me than previously thought; I need greater time to recuperate from late-night activities; my recovery time after illnesses is longer than previously thought; when I am sick, the effects of fibro are twice as bad; and I simply can’t do as much as we thought I could do in general.

What I am asking is that y’all be patient with me. I am going to have to say “no” to activities more than I want to; I am not going to be able to plan parties and get-togethers like I used to. I am not going to be able to go out as much as I would like, or hang out with peeps as much as I would like. I am not going to be able to travel as often as I want. I can’t do these things because the repercussions are getting worse and worse. Every time I get sick, my symptoms are more exaggerated and it takes longer to recuperate.

It’s not that I don’t want to see you guys; I do. I miss you guys a lot. I miss seeing my family and friends. I miss spending time with you guys and having fun. But I just don’t have it in me like I used to, to do things the way I used to. I don’t have the tokens, I don’t have the strength, and I don’t have the wherewithal to explain this whenever I have to say no; it makes me sad that it’s come to this. But this body, this one body I have, as Sally Field says on the Boniva commercial, doesn’t work right, and I have to care for it the best way I know how.

Does this mean don’t invite me to things? No. Does this mean I’ll say no to every invitation I receive? No. Does this mean I’ll never throw another party? No. Does this mean I’ll never travel again? No. It just means I have to be *very* careful, and I’m asking for you guys to understand and be patient with me. Please keep inviting me to stuff, so I at least *feel* normal. Please trust that, from time to time, I’ll plan stuff – I just have to be very careful. And remember, I am always with you guys in spirit. And I want to be there for my family and my friends – but in order to do that, I have to be very restrictive and careful. And I am sorry.

If you can’t cope with this fact, now is your chance to walk away. I bear no ill will, honestly – I know this situation can be hard to understand and more difficult to deal with. If you can’t deal with it, here’s your easy out. But if you can cope, and you do want to stick around, well – thanks. It means more than you know. *hugs*

Behind the gates and the granite...

...of the Planet of New Orleans...New Orleans...with other life upon it...and everything that's shaking in between...if you should ever land upon it...you better know what's on it...on the Planet of New Orleans...

God knows, I am intimately acquainted with the Planet of New Orleans, its ragged sidewalks and shiny gutters, the gnarled trees and priceless courtyards. I am a child of the sacred city, pure and simple - it don't really matter that I was born and raised in Jackson, it really don't. Within a year of my birth, my parents were already taking me down there. This year I attended my 27th Mardi Gras (for those of you keepin' score, I'll be 29 this month). I tell people I was raised between Jackson and New Orleans, that's how much I love New Orleans.

Those who know me best know that New Orleans is Home; no matter where I live, where I go, New Orleans is Home. I spent a month in Russia in 1996 - the farthest I'd ever been from home and Home; the distance meant nothing. I still craved NO with a ferocity that denies explanation. Her destruction at the hands of Katrina and the levee breaks was my own destruction; I cried for days and days after it happened, as much for the city herself as for her people.

Lawks, I'll be 29 this month, and over the years, things about me have changed, no doubt. The lovable parts haven't changed (otherwise, I wouldn't still be friends with peeps I've known for years), but other things have. One of the things that hasn't changed and never will change is the love I have for the Crescent City. That is my goal, my Grail, and the prize on which I keep my eyes: moving there, making my life there.

I just spent 5 glorious days in the Big Easy, for Mardi Gras. We attended many parades: Endymion (still sacred to me); Thoth (new to me) and Bacchus (best damn parade I've EVER attended); and Proteus (saddest parade I've ever attended, and I went down to Mardi Gras following Katrina). I didn't make it to Morpheus (to which I've never been) or Orpheus (still sacred to me), but I had a blast every which way, so I ain't complaining. If there's a complaint to be made, it's that I had to come back here and start living this life again, rather than that life down there. That life down there: that's the life I ought to be living, and I know it. The Captain knows it. Those who know me best know it. We all know it - but it can only happen like this, for now, in small bursts, when no one can make a demand on my time.

I am surprisingly buoyant this morning, and I didn't expect that: I expected to wake up feeling depressed and deprived, but no dice. I feel all the generosity and freedom, all the contentment and honesty that NO engenders in me. I still feel it. Maybe it's because I left the city under my own speed, by my own will, with an understanding that I never really leave her. I saw that skyline once more before I left. I did not look back to see it, and so perhaps it wasn't like leaving, and that made it seem easier.

Whatever else might be said of me, you can say I have never hidden my love of the Captain, and I have never hidden my love of the City Beneath the Sea. My loyalties are few, to be sure, but they are fierce, and this morning, that ferocity, those loves, they keep me up and going. And I am grateful for all the love and strength they give me. If you have never known the love of a city, I am sorry for you, for you have missed something sacred and singular in life.

This Foggy Morning in the Year of the Lord 2008

(Title snitched from one of my soul-sister's blogs.)

Lawks, and a ragged morning it is - I'm not in a great mood. One might even say that I feel the stirrings of moodiness, owing to the weather, to the ever-increasing sleep deprivation (damn insomnia), and a rather inexplicable feeling of raggedness in myself. I ought not dwell on it; it will do no good. But it's there, and I am not strong enough this morning to resist it, or ignore it. They say you feed bad spirits when you acknowledge them, and perhaps that's true - but sometimes they are hard to ignore, like that strange, tight, almost-angry feeling hovering at the base of my heart.

I feel...strangely empty. Ragged. Tired. Not quite used up, but definitely not fresh, not young, not vibrant. Smoldering wet ashes: fog-drizzled dawn. Soaking smoky moon. And I am not those things - but I feel them this morning, like stagnant water in the veins. It's a morning for unfortunate gothy poetry. A morning for overwrought, Romantic ramblings. But I can't find it in myself either to indulge in such things - that would be giving in, and no matter how sunk I feel, I'm not giving in.

I have class tonight, which is not helping my mood. After a full day's work, I'll have two-and-half hours of class, in which I am the only grad student, which doesn't help my mood (my experiences in mixed classes has left me cold). I've done all the readings for class: poems by two poets; an essay on revision and critiquing poetry; and the poems from classmates. On the whole: not bad work by my classmates. But there are two poems in the batch trite enough and cliched enough to make me cry. The Captain, who is in the class with me, expressed concern over his ability to critique the poems without being cruel (which has been expressly forbidden); he asked to read my comments and observations, in order to better phrase his own comments to the works. We shall see. I feel rather...blase' about the prospect of my classmates reading my stuff. *shrug*

I could give a great deal for a huge steaming cup of dark hot chocolate this morning; I feel like it would warm me all over, from my creaking ankles to my hovering heart, and everything in between, and drive out the ragged feeling. I had a cup of hot tea late last night, and it was good for the soul.

Meh - that's enough of my moody ramblings. I ought to work, to shed the mood by focusing the mind on the matters at hand. I have a session to teach in about half-an-hour, and I need to wake up and focus on that, rather than the drifting, driving melancholy. We had a lovely, full weekend: resting Friday; dinner and boardgames with friends Saturday; and I spent Sunday afternoon washing dishes (our dishwasher seems to have snuffed it) and giving the kitchen floor an honest-to-God hands-and-knees cleaning. I also did some general straightening and arranging, which made the ever-present clutter issue more bearable, and then I spent the rest of the evening writing letters and watching "Sense & Sensibility" over and over again.

Well, that's all from my ragged corner of the world. How 'bout you?

Had to dream awake

....had to dream awake...

So: a stupid commercial about phone service or a credit card or something tore my heart up last night, for one line: One day is a tourist, a whole year, a traveler. It took my breath away: my bones felt the earth. The moon. The sky. I call myself a traveler; am I really nothing more than a tourist? I thought the difference was the intent, the desire, the burning love of the Road and a wordless, psychic pain that drives one on to places that have no logical hold on the heart. Here I am, no trace of Italian in my blood: but Firenze, oh, Firenze; Assisi, blessed mountaintop sanctuary; Capri, blessed isle. Here I am, not a drop of Russian in me - but one month, just 30 days in the bosom of St. Petersburg has meant a lifetime of yearning. From pictures, stories, the heart has reached out toward the Land of the Rising Sun, to Japan; to tian xia, to China, from where new blood to the family comes - now our blood will burn with the fierce holy fire from Tia Shan - our line will live beyond a hundred years.

Bottom line? Can't my yearning make me a traveler? Isn't my desire enough? I haven't the resources to circle the world, however much my heart tells me that my destiny should be crossroads and wild winds and the purest expression of my gypsy soul - I was born with it for a reason, God help me, under heaven, and I want to realize my soul. Not be stuck in this god-forsaken town where nothing pulls me, nothing but mercenary survivalist instinct.

So: mercenary rather than gypsy. How will holiness help me? God help me - I'm not dying, not dead, don't let the world leave me behind. Let me move with it, rather than against it. Let me see the white lines of the Road, let me see the blacktop river, the many tongues of the language of yearning, of knowing the holiness of journey rather than destination. I still speak the tongues of the Road...

...All my life
I've been workin' them angels overtime
Riding and driving and living
So close to the edge
Workin' them angels - Overtime...

I don't expect the yearning to ever end, don't expect the restlessness to ever leave me, and I wouldn't want it to - it's proof of concept, proof of life. Proof that, in spite of all the damage, all the sorrow, all the self-destructive, unproductive, wrong-thought, bent, bad, and mourning moments, I am still a good person capable of feeling, worthy of love, and, ultimately, still able to hope for salvation, day after day. All my life, I've been working them angels overtime....

Blame it on my wild heart...

...why even the angels don't give up at all...

So: Restless. Melancholic. Misanthropic. Unmotivated. Enchanted. Burning. Raging, though only in my blood, where it's safe. Anywhere else, and the rage eats me alive. In the blood, it stays on the move, which means it doesn't get a chance to hook in to anything - it can't catch, so it doesn't catch fire.

...even in the darkest places of your mind...

I want the Road under me, the Captain next to me, and nowhere to go ahead of me. I refuse to push this restlessness down, I can't allow myself to refuse feeling it - it's a means to an end I'm craving terribly: self-renewal, self-awareness, self-understanding, self-discovery.

...dare my wild heart...

It's going to take some reconciliation, and not a little bit of work on my side. It means rescinding my willingness to compromise, for the sake of something I never really believed in the first place - subverting my self for a greater good. It's bullcrap, and I can't believe I ever sold myself on it.

I shouldn't be so hard on myself: I was looking for survival. I'm more than surviving now, and I owe it to myself to dig out and dust off that frightened soul and let it go. Before: I was only surviving, only existing, protecting the most precious parts of myself from people who refused to understand, people who honestly couldn't understand. And now: now I'm free of those people. Or maybe I'm not, but it doesn't matter. Maybe that's the key: not letting things matter anymore. I let them matter before, for the sake of breathing. For the sake of learning. For the sake of chance-taking. And now: now I don't have to, won't have to.

I am surrounded by so many soulmates - men and women alike who have that same fire, that same desire, that same ability to hear between the notes, read between the lines, and see through the cracks in the wall. I have nothing to be afraid of - only love and understanding to look forward to. Love and understanding, and perhaps even joy.

...in dark sorrow...

...I did dumb things. Make mistakes. But I know how to confess, admit, and be absolved, and I believe I have been. Now to break those chains: to have regret, yes, but not to let it weigh me down. I'll blame it on my wild heart...and move on. Which is what I should have done in the first place, but I didn't, for whatever reason. But now?

Maybe now I can. Maybe I can forgive myself and move on. Maybe I will.