Sense and Nonsense

Do click on the flyer below…  a cultural event that  shouldn’t be missed.  And if you are not in Manila on these dates…  spread the word to family and friends…

do you see ME?
when you stare into
my irises of deepest
brown, do you see
who I AM?

do you see ME?
when you look at
the curves and lines
that make up my silhouette
do you see what I have
become?

OR
do you only see mirrors
of who YOU are?

** NPD = Narcissistic Personality Disorder

It began with a haircut.  Had my tresses nipped off.  Cut real short.  It was the claiming of a new space, a new phase, a new lease on a journey that has continued on — for better, for worse — way beyond pledges and doubts, way beyond plots and canvasses, way beyond the dull and distant sparkles of the child’s eye that stared back at me from long-ago mirrors. 

I have become a SWAN.  When I was a young girl, I was made to believe that I was a duckling, a sad aberration from a brood of of lovely beings.  But I was also told of the story of the Ugly Duckling… somehow that was meant to give me hope… that someday I will come out to beauty and float about with grace and confidence.   So I worked hard at being good inside.  To be gentle, quiet, unobtrusive, peace-loving, unassuming, polite, undemanding.   I worked hard too at being an exceptional duckling.  To be intelligent, diligent, creative, persevering, goal-getter, hardworking.  I drew strength from my belief in God’s goodness — learning from school, and from the books I read as a child, that He was a loving God. He seemed to love and protect children, and those who took inspiration from Him seemed to be the kindest and warmest beings in the world.  I remember a wooden carving of Jesus hanging from the wall at home, with one hand raised up in blessing… and with the gentlest of eyes that would stare at me even as I felt lost in my hurried childhood.

And I remember Papa.  His eyes spoke louder than the few words he would speak.  His love emanated and embraced me from the coldness that cloaked the vagueness of my child-existence.  In my child-eyes, he became bigger than the crushed soul he might have been… for his love was my anchor.

And thus I have journeyed.  With veiled eyes, I would often see an ugly and awkward duckling in the rippling waters of my passage.  But oh what a gift it was too.  For I wasn’t wont to staring at water reflections, I was looking at skies with dazzling brilliance, sprouting green weeds on edges of riverbanks, trembling dewdrops on brown orange leaves … I was seeing beauty all around me. 

The ugliness and darkness of violated early mornings were buried under all the beauty that seemed to spring forth in every twist and curve of my passage.  It allowed a retreat of memory that would help me to move forward to a better place.  It allowed a space for me to gain enough strength and inhale enough life to enable a surfacing when time was ripe.

And it has resurfaced.  And I had enough strength.  And I continue to breathe life.  And beauty.

Saturday out in Yangon with Choo and her beautiful kids — Nikolas and Shamyi.

river reflections unseen
from window woodframes
ripple through my body
wrapped in the nakedness
of your fingertips,
silently screaming of
truth in its passion…
licking me awake
with moonlit remembrances.

ragged breath whistling
unintended melodies
as you pierce me
with your soft tongue.

i am the moon — witnessing
from opened windows.
i am the moon’s rays — caressing
from opened arms.
i am the moon’s shadow — falling
silent.

I wrote this for Hannah in July of 2005.  She had posted a quote from Alexx McCoy, which goes:

Real women have curves, wrinkles, and flaws. Each one earned with
experience, perseverance and determination. There’s no computer to
airbrush your mistakes. Let them make you who you are. Love every mark,
every scar, every extra curve you wished to go away, Accept what you
can’t learn to love, Then let go of what you can’t accept. Treasure
them for their memories Like a worn love letter or ratty old quilt from
generations of old. Each wrinkle comes with the wisdom only years of
life can give. And life is not to be hidden or covered up. For life is
how a girl grows into a woman And real women have curves. Real Women Have Curves. By Alexx A. McCoy

And I say…

With soap-lathered hands I traverse
The landscape of my own body,
Rising and dipping with the curves
Which you have taught me to celebrate.

The quietness of soap bubbles
A fitting tribute to the sensuous line
Which I begin to trace at the crown of my
Dripping tresses. Sliding softly behind
Curved earlobes, I continue the line down to
The smooth surprise of my neck.

Angles of my collarbone offer a welcome
Step into the mounds of my treasured breasts
As I inhale with the sideways dip of my waist.

Bubbles pop, fade and then come alive again
As I move my hand in gentle circles, reaching for
My hip and crossing my lower belly to awaken
Remembrances of nurturance, birthing, creation
That defies poetry, that defines poetry.

Returning, I lead bubbles to the dipping shadow
Between my legs. Remembrances of pleasures drown
The demons of long-faded pasts. Yes, there is more
Celebration that awaits. More.

My thighs whisper their stories to the dampness
Of my palms. And the bubbles quiver with unspoken
Echoes. I bend further to chart a half circle towards the
Back of my knees, squeezing out more celebratory
Heartbeats as I reach for my lower calves, to the final curve
Of my ankles, as the bubbles gather on my feet.

I fold myself into my own embrace and breathe in
The melody of my celebration. The bubbles disappear into
A gentle hum. And I am left alone with my silence. Ready to
Welcome new remembrances, in a continuing celebration of
My curves.

(For Hannah)
22 July 2005
2:30 a.m.
Phnom Penh

I call him Uyi.  Victor to his friends. Julian Victor is the name/s we
gave him when he was born.  Where can I even begin to describe this
beautiful creature that has been my source of pride and joy?  I
continue to be amazed at the blessing in my life that is him.  Happy
birthday, my dear, dear son!  I love you with all myheart and I continue to thank God for the gift that is YOU!

I wrote this piece a while back.  A remembrance and a prophecy?

When fear overcame the need
for kisses

Heart-stopping gasps muted
the

Phrases that might have led

To what, I know not and
will never

Really know.

Why expressing my truth
would scare me so

In the face of love… why the claiming of

Happiness makes me shiver
with fear?

Why hesitate at the edge of
sweetened

Promise? I know not.

And here at the end of a
journey, at the

Brink of a new path

I look back and hear the
echoes

Of muted moments.

Wooden school desks and
checkered uniforms

And skipping heartbeats at
the sight

Of his face, young
beautiful face.

Summer afternoons on cement
benches

Looking into eyes and
grasping at melting

Embers of my silent heart.

And more silences as years
passed

A child’s cry, a child’s
laughter

Covers up the vacuum carved
by words

Left unsaid. Even as love cloaked the pain of

Knowing, of bearing witness
to a forgotten past,

Silence held steadfast,

A moat lending more echoes
to

My fortress of silence.

Explosion and silence. Fire
and silence.

The words fail me. My heart’s truth muted by

My own ignorance. Endings and silence.

Hands and lips burn
unspoken words on his

Skin. I scream in the
silence of kisses. 

Endings were never easy.  I hear you from across crisp clear phone lines.  But I find myself gripping the receiver  pressed close to my ear.  As if hearing would be aided by doing so, as if the connection would hold on to my clenched knuckles turning numb with the effort.  I try to laugh and make you laugh, just as we have always done when times get real rough.  But days later, the sounds fade and as I sit in silence, I feel sad.  For you and the one you loved.  For me and the ones I loved. 

For what can we do after lights flashing the warning  GAME OVER becomes undeniably clear and persistent?