I Wish I Had Learned To Spit

Caught in Corners…

I wish I had learned to spit.

Sometimes, it’s the only way to express myself adequately.

I’m in a saber-rattling mood this morning. The day is gray as a nun, but I am smoldering. Breathing fire. I am of the idea that people should do their work, when it is their perception they are too important to do so & they are too aligned with that perception to accomplish much. Yet, am I not among them in my own way? So what is my job? For now, let me just vent here. Lie low, readers for I am in “take no prisoners” mode. I need either a vacation (coming soon) or more flower essences for noncombatant status than I can afford or have on hand.

I think I can & do make a difference. But yesterday was a revelation. I am newly involved in a Board for a local service organization. I found out my training did not include essential duties – actually, did not even incorporate training to do a proper job. Deadlines are missed which will cost our 501(c)3 money better used to help our clientele. Who passes over a title with a quick underhand, without informing the trainee of essential responsibilities? Well, the folks who elected me to the position. They were far more interested in the sale at Hobby Lobby for the fairy garden gnomes available this spring than in making me effective for what I will be doing. So I’m playing catch up but cannot do so until they have finished their sewing project, so just hang on here, Carol.  Curb your enthusiasm, okay?

I am becoming adamantine when I need to be malleable. Is this what age is about? Entrenchment? So it would seem. I arrive on the scene, cloaked in dragon mode, all teeth arranged in a ripping row, only to find those departing have waved over their shoulders, leaving me nothing to chew. All kinds of words rise to the surface: inefficiency, drawn to detail without a glimpse of the bigger picture, going to war armed with paper clips & rearranging the magnets on the fridge as the IRS ticks us off on the box saying “no response from them, time to set the penalty fee.”

I take flower essences for being haughty, for being pushy, for being bossy. These are needed qualities to get tasks organized & completed, especially in leadership. However, I’ve enjoined a flaw along the way: thinking others wanted to me to succeed when they were more interested in finishing up the latest pièce de résistance craftwork for the mantel than in the efficiencies of the organization they are fading back from. Is this what public service has become?

People show up at meetings with clothing on inside out, with papers disorganized & without the simple knowledge that to get these in order beforehand might work. The Treasurer is opening bills at the meeting, trying to pull together a report offhand & full of “um, it’s in here somewhere, hang on”. He turns to me saying, “You need to run a tape of your expenses before submitting them” (I point to the totals list) “What’s your last name, anyway?” (I point to the address label on the report.) “What’s the name of the play this is for?” (Not only is he in this play, but the name is at the top of my paperwork.) The President has no Minutes from the last meeting – the first item up on the agenda. Oh wait, did I even see an agenda for this one? Actually, no. But it will be all right – the ten-minutes’- late-arrival of another Chair to the meeting (entering as we dial her number) will furnish the Minutes, handwritten & out of sequence, to be squinted at & read to the group. The entire meeting is conducted in the spirit of passive-aggressive counting coup. Few stay to topic – a specific question leads to discussion around recipes. I sit & simmer, pen in hand, waiting for a conclusion to write down. If none appears, I make one up…my contribution to next month’s confusion.

Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one with a point to it all. But it isn’t up to me & my point is lost in all the trying to be nice when underneath nice is where everyone lives because no one understands how to hold a real meeting. It’s a cabal of amateurs with the impression they know what they are doing. And why is the group less than successful? And why do they settle for this when they should take leadership in the community & serve as they ought?

Another volunteer gig sees me wrong in the eyes of the client – who thinks no one should be talking out loud in the room. As I prepare to ask the talkers to tone it down or leave, I am accused of not doing my job, “this only happens on your shift! Even YOU talk out loud in here.” “We’re not the public library,” I mildly protest, only to have a set of headphones flung at me as she screams “you’re a white shit” & flounces out. The client’s last name is “Mello” and she comes into the computer lab to listen to Indian Chant…guess she was having a Kali Ma day. My laugh-out-loud at these antics does not calm the situation. So I write “bipolar” next to her name in dismissive retaliation. Am I any better at handling the situation?

To say yesterday was frustrating is to say stupid is not abroad in the land. When people with beards & wearing fatigues are screeching, “You didn’t call me Ma’am! Watch your ** pronouns!” I am a bit lost in it. Is everyone in town off their meds – or should I be taking some?

Most of the time I’m a nice gal. But my slide into satire, cynicism & sarcasm is down a very short slope. My descriptions are apt, to the point, painful. I can leave people bloody & it takes awhile to scrub the entrails from under my nails & many toothpicks to dislodge these bits from my teeth. I try to remain patient, kind, loving – but I can be overbalanced by raw stupidity, discourtesy, unprofitable idiocy…just to name a few.

I like volunteering. But it makes me low on the totems. It is a false “in-charge” position against which demands are made to enforce the rights of others in a place where they um, actually? do not possess “rights.” Or perhaps these are better described as “entitlements.” They are availing a public service offering, unpaid & disrespected as it doesn’t live up to what they consider their standards. However, their life is not my fault. If one goes to a library, it doesn’t pay to throw the books around while hollering at the help. Or at least it never did before. I guess it does now.

I won’t go off into “whatever happened to” here. That would take pages to write. But I do have a realization that everyone is in their own space of right & wrong & it is one I may never have visited or conceived.

Among these experiences – being shoddily trained & left unprepared – seeing the underbelly of how irresponsibility can slow down the results of any process…I recognize I need to be more patient & forgiving, more forbearing overall.

I will smile when Ms. Mello next returns & asks for a set of headphones. I will show up to take minutes at the next Board Meeting of our town’s best hope at theatre. I will find a way to tame the fires of wanting so fiercely for all to be “right” as my way in the understanding that all is right just as it exists in now-time. I will turn it into laughter, as I do most of the silly adversity by which others use to prove they exist. I am both larger & smaller on the scales than I like to think.

It’s far more fun being the MGM lion though! Love that big, snarly roar!

Letter to a Lover

Feeling more coherent this morning, after sorting through all my thoughts & writing Gina our daily email exchange. I remember significant dreams, tho the details are sifted thru the dreamcatcher & gone. I feel like the untethered astronaut sailing thru space, limited on oxygen, but involved in the grandest experiment & rendition of All Time, my observations birthing stars of only nascent power, tentative glow. “Even a star doesn’t shine on its first day.”

I feel like a poem, short on words, long on powerful yet truncated description & all the more intense for this, fingers dextrous, pen tapping the paper…restless yet settled with the warm, charging computer on my lap.

There are so many things I wonder & will to happen. Yet I must needs stand in the hallways of love, never settling into the pink room, the green room, the red room, the beige room. I am ready to settle somewhere. Part-time love is not what I’m about right now in my life. I need & want to give myself fully into a relationship – Bring It On, Damnit! Yet this is not available. Future is nebulous on this. I am unsettled about the need to settle for what is.

Barking Mary next door is trying to clear her throat. I am trying to clear my heart. Noise & silence, the story-facts of living life.

I appreciate well that you tell me loving things; I am hard-put to respond since I cannot grasp the air they ride on into my lungs, nor take solid nourishment from them. I am ineligible to ask for anything more, only able to settle for less. And I am not a lesser woman withal. My conundrum, yeh?

So, I’ll say it for now: I love you. I’ve no idea where that beach ball will blow to. I do not go gently into any lightening morning. I track bees who are about being furry, winged, hungry for sweetness. Bees who want me to accompany them into dark hives where the honey is hard, compartmentalized, both execresence & food – the gold of life made palpable. Bees who ride stingers & who can tag the unattentive most severely – sometimes even with death.

For want of an epi pen…

I do not know where anything is going anymore. I think I know what I want but the paths I take keep shifting with my dreams, kalaidescopic & tantalizingly incomplete. I dwell in the present of you & hold that at arm’s length since I don’t even quite know what to do with it: put it down? put it away? set it on the bureau to glow under a lamp?

Physical need in the space of psychic want is unbalanced & I am a Libra.

This is the thin line poets have always examined minutely. One side of the hand holds on while the other is only capable of letting go. This duality of life frisks me with cold hands, searching for emotions & wallets both…neither of which are to be found with any level purchase.

I will take what you offer, but I am a dragon sitting on a lake of wealth, licking out tongues of flame, hatching eggs that promise far too much of greed & endeavor without true bonding. My wild nature may overtake the short blonde sitting in front of you at any time, like some celluloid morphing characterization. I cannot guarantee you either flight or burning…most likely both.

Love,
Carol

The First Post of the Year

What is it I see within? A universe of spiral stars’ unrivaled inspiration – stem cells growing out of undirected potential. There is always a past behind me & I have a tendency to pull it up around my shoulders like a shawl. It can be warm there. It’s comfortable.

But it is time to strip naked & walk the mountains unprotected by any save my divine aura. I feel my angel holding out wings over me. His Prime Directive is to attend the Soulspark within – my little shaving from Source around which I have built this life. How can I not trust the light informing the dark?

Being human is like carrying a cactus with long thorns. They catch on every silver streamer of dream. The soul cries out to me about mortality, but this is not its true state & I know mortal ears distort the eternity of the song intoned. There is a brutality in desire that flays willing skin…yet I return my flesh to its hungry outreach. What I remember most about love is goodbye. I am called to surrender to the eternity of love which has only proven a short-term endeavor.  Back to that cactus image…I’ve gotten stuck so many times on my own perceptions.

Am I another genetics experiment in the Great God’s Garden?

I have been voluntarily immersed in the all-being of life I reached for the inflatable ring with puncture tools & nearly drowned so many times. Yet here I am, as above, so below.

I trust my words over family to be my golden thread of immortality. But who is willing to delve that deeply into my little life? Does it matter, withal? It’s my mind. I’m the only one here no matter how many humans make appearances in front of me. The Akashic will bear my imprint. Maybe someday someone will channel me. I was told I’d be famous for my writing posthumously. Indeed, this took the pressure off!

I could fill so many books with writings, but I lose interest immediately upon writing. I almost cannot bear to return to old writings at times, at least of memories & old tales. They no longer have meaning…I have moved beyond them, like the mile marker vanishing behind. I’ve written love letters, suicide notes, unfinished stories from above & below the waterline. Who cares?

Validation, witnessing, perception – all longed for but not elicited or expected. I’ve done all I have. I’ve experienced earth, air, water, fire & ether. I’ve loved both the human & divine in my life. I may be close to closing the circle of life. What will it have contained within it?

Blessing: a prayer & a blessing. One song of many lyrics sung to Source. My whole life, a lyric sung by an overlighting angel.