i keep track of these days

by the pills that i swallow

to delay my future,

to hold back the things that should come.

the days go by slowly but take forever,

the only agenda is one i set  -

my goals are simple, self-imposed,

responsible and mundane.

i have visions of doing as i please

in this hot summer sun -

i picture a better me

dipping my toes in the writer’s pond,

seeking my answers where he found his,

leaving rocks upon the ruins of his cabin.

nobody ever said that any of this

would make sense,

would be easy -

i recall the opposite advice.

i hear my father’s words echoing

from the stove of his tiny kitchen

as many miles away as years,

all i can do is stay true to myself.

and my youth slips away to be wasted on those younger

as the universe intends, implies, imposes.

waiting, coping, holding on,

i pound the beliefs of others

into my aching head,

into my buried soul,

wishing i could believe in me

like they do,

wishing i had the eyes of those who love me,

because they see something real

between the words.

my path in the woods comforts

just by stretching out before me -

a softly waiting lover

beckoning me forward,

to the place where things

get better.

here among the trees i am stable

because they are strong

i am golden

because they are green.

the sunken earth gives way,

cradling each step,

holding the print and

keeping the secret of my footfall,

the secret of my tears.

the kinds of birds

my grandmother sometimes sends 

fly across my path,

a distant reminder that somewhere,

i am loved.

and the woods make me worthy,

the leaves steal my sobs,

the dirt absorbs my aching pain.

beneath the boughs,

beside the river

i have hope.

i survived the night

the world crashed in around me

crumpled and crying

on my four poster bed.

i felt the weight of it all

surround my body,

as my hands grabbed at the

iron bars,

cold and rough beneath my palms.

displaced by the human condition,

spaced too far from

the compass point,

trudging these bumpy trails -

downtrodden and trodden down,

i thought i’d had enough.

but i survived that night,

picked up the shards

lying underneath,

i pieced myself together

with the scraps of the world.

and though my eyes were dark

they saw the rising sun.

i’m getting to that point in moving where the lighting feels funny and voices echo uncomfortably around the spaces. my apartment is transitioning from being mine to being another’s. i feel the energy shift, the warmth of home draining away, dripping into boxes of things to be opened in the next place i’ll call home. the same things in different places – but its never quite the same.

good or bad, every home i’ve had has been an entity unto itself. there was my first apartment, the top floor of an old, creepy, crumbling house, across the street from george washington’s headquarters. there was my apartment in the basement of a building, with that distinct ’something is illegal here’ feel. i lived for two year’s in a friend’s house, a place he had rebuilt before moving in. my favorite residence was the hippie hut, the first floor of a two family house on a busy suburban street in new jersey.

the timeline of my life is marked by the places i’ve lived. each place had it’s own spirit, it’s own breath. the walls that have known me have seen my secrets, have felt the bang of my fists and heard my moans of pleasure. the places i’ve lives have become part of me, intricately woven in to the events and emotions in my life. a song, a scent, a certain breeze can bring these memories flooding back, and i dance through all my kitchens in a single thought.

the idea of home settles thickly in my head. i know i have wandered too much, rolling around to avoid the moss. but i also know that, while the walls are fleeting, the photos on the walls are forever. i hold my memories tight and keep the pictures clear. the truth is, home is wherever i land, and every place i’ve ever been.

now that i’ve bitched everyone’s ear off about how much moving sucks, i’d like to move on to the good things about it, by giving you a clear picture of what i am leaving, and why i am so thrilled.

this is the story of yesterday.

i was packing, of course, when i smelled smoke coming from outside. because it was so nice outside, i assumed someone was cooking out or having a bonfire. i heard some firetrucks shortly after, and figured there was something minor going on in the area. after about a half hour, i noticed the smell of smoke getting worse, and i went to close my windows. the air outside was chalky, thick, dark gray. the fire was bad, and it was close.

after a short moral debate with myself, i grabbed my camera and took off, wanting to see something cool. i walked down the block and around the corner, following the smoke. there was a crowd in front of an ancient victorian house, starting at the billowing smoke. realizing this is the house i can see from my backyard, i headed back home.

my neighbor was outside, and there was a perfect view from my yard. we watched the action, the flames licking along the roof, the firemen smashing through walls, the ladders being raised. i got firehose spray on me, as it shot over the roof and into my yard. it was scary and exciting to watch, though i felt a bit dirty for doing it. the report was that the place was uninhabited and there were no injuries.

i went back to doing my thing. when i took the garbage out, i noticed the neighbors setting up for a barbecue. they tend to have loud parties late into the night, so i was rather wary. within an hour, there were cars parked all over my street, including one in my driveway. when i asked them to move it, they backed out and left it, parked, in the middle of the street. (i do live at the end of a cul de sac, so cars do not need to get through. however, there are other houses and driveways at the end of the street, which they were blocking). these fucktards filled in the end of the street like it was a parking lot.

highlights from their party include screaming, cheering, and clapping for no apparent reason, blasting crappy music, and lots of kids driving away drunk. while outside briefly, i watched a girl fight with her boyfriend and stumble away to her car, 40 in hand.

meanwhile, on the other side . . .

the neighbors that share my duplex moved in recently. they argue a lot, and seem to have a lot of drama in their lives. on a regular basis, they have awful, scary, screaming fights that i can hear through my walls. sometimes they fight outside, and i’m sure the whole neighborhood can hear. it is wholly unpleasant, even more so because there is a child living there.

last night, they started arguing. within minutes, we were hearing smashing against the walls, screaming, and horrible anger. it was so bad i was shaking, having a panic attack. when it got even worse, we decided to call the police – i was afraid someone was getting hurt.

they calmed down after the police came. the party on the other side went on, loudly, until at least 2.

since i woke up today, have been listening to a shrieking, barking dog somewhere in the distance. my nosy neighbor is ALWAYS outside and ALWAYS wants to talk. a constant stream of neighborhood litter ends up in my backyard.

my new apartment is in the middle of nowhere.

and i can’t fucking wait.

i had to get away from the bookshelf. it was being way to difficult, giving me attitude and sass. i was trying to fix it ; it wanted nothing to do with me. it refused to listen to soft, comforting talk, and did not respond to being yelled at. after it scraped my leg, dribbled glue on the carpet, and fell apart again, i kicked it hard and stormed away.

i swear, i am a sane and rational person. i’m even usually even considered ‘nice,’ yet i somehow lost it on an inanimate object. although it is the time of month where i start to lose patience with things, hate myself, and cry a lot, hormones cannot take the blame entirely. i wonder if the DSM has listed ‘relocation anxety’ as an official disorder yet.

it seems moving is making me a fucking lunatic. i am frantic, manic, at most times. i can think of nothing but packing, moving, carrying the heavy furniture. i’m impatient, moody, sensitive. moving has taken over my brain, and is not being too friendly. it happens every time – i think i should be used to it by now. If my count is accurate, this will be the seventh move in about ten years. most were short distances, one was major. all were difficult, stressful, and exhausting, both physically and emotionally.

i’m not sure what it is that is so upsetting and difficult. it’s a lot of work, yes. i’ve been spending all my non-working time packing, organizing, and cleaning. i’m stiff and sore in the morning from the physical work (i take the blame there for not being in better shape, but i can still whine about it a little). i can’t walk from my bedroom to my kitchen without hopping over boxes and dodging piles of stuff. my favorite things are in boxes, and my fingers are crossed that nothing breaks. there is a roll of tape and a sharpie in every room.

all i see is disorder everywhere – i used the term ‘visually stressful’ the other day, to myself, and was immediately annoyed by the obnoxiousness of such a phrase. i corrected myself, using the proper term ‘a fucking mess,’ while thinking of george carlin – ‘it’s not ‘post traumatic stress disorder – it’s SHELL SHOCK!’ gotta keep myself grounded, right? moving is not a time to get uppity.

i need boxes, i need days off, i need newspapers, i need caffeine and cigarettes and drugs. i need friends to help lug boxes, i need it to not get too hot in the next two weeks.

anyway, i’ve already taken too much time to write this. the break gave me a bit of sanity, though. i may not harm any more furniture today. i will, however, daydream about owning bookshelves that don’t fall apart, and wonder what it’s like to have movers handle all this shit.

last weekend, i escaped to the white mountains. i took my boots, my camera, my boyfriend, and my ever-present brown moleskin notebook, and took off in the snow, aimed north. we drove and smoked and laughed and blasted good tunes. we arrived at our cabin, met up with our friends, made a fire, and drank long into the night, laughing over board games.

we ate good food, smoked mediocre weed, didn’t sleep well, stepped carefully around the ice and snow. we played with the fireplace, talked philosophy, ate junk food and saw fireworks.

we took a short hike on a snow covered trail that ran along the river. it was a beautiful saturday, cold and sunny. we followed the packed paths from skiers and snowshoers before us, being careful not to fall into the knee-deep edges. we hopped across streams, and stopped at the edge of the river. we stood on rocks, took pictures, talked, planned future hikes, soaked in the sunshine.

i wandered away from my friends, and i stood on rocks in the middle of the pemi river. i breathed in the mountain air, so crisp it felt like the icy water below me. i took off my hat, let it dangle around my neck by it’s string, and listened. i took in the rushing of the water, the power of the river crashing over, around, between snow capped rocks. i looked downstream, where the river ran on forever and a stately mountain loomed – seeing, watching, protecting. i froze myself there, copied every detail into my memory.

the moment at the river, the weekend in the mountains, cleansed me, fulfilled a longing i wasn’t even aware i had. spring is nearing, the long, dark winter is receding. i have been reminded of the beauty and the power of the earth.

my super awesome twitter friend, tygersquared, suggested i answer this list of questions. sounds like fun, hope you enjoy reading it! repost on your blogs, send me links!

 http://senselist.com/2006/09/06/the-questionnaires-of-james-lipton-bernard-pivot-and-marcel-proust/

James Lipton’s Questionnaire

1. What is your favorite word? i really do love words, and there are many that make it onto my ‘favorites’ list. if i had to pick one right now? goodness.  but that might if you asked me again in an hour.
2. What is your least favorite word? panties. it makes me cringe.
3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? water. music. mountains. pyilocybin. fire. the energies that make up the universe.
4. What turns you off? advertising. stupidity. those that take this all too seriously.
5. What is your favorite curse word? i probably use ‘fuck’ the most, but i also tend to string together long, nasty, dirty compound words, most often directed at inanimate objects. email me if you want examples.
6. What sound or noise do you love? moving water – babbling brook, rushing stream, or ocean waves. rain on the vinyl roof of my car. windchimes, if the right tone and distance. am talk radio as background noise. 
7. What sound or noise do you hate? i can’t stand the sound of knives being sharpened or a fork being scraped on teeth. both make me want to jump out of my skin – it is really so uncomfortable that i don’t know what to do with myself. 
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? most people that know me know that i really enjoy baking, and would be thrilled to turn that into a career. a few lesser-known things i’d like to try? boston duck tour guide, long distance truck driver, bartender, stage manager, ice sculptor.
9. What profession would you not like to do? i couldn’t handle anything involving birds. or the constant use of math.
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?  ‘good job spreading the love, thats all i ever want you humans to do. here, take a hit from heaven’s bong. ‘

(this is only the questions that were not the same)

Bernard Pivot’s Questionnaire

1. What is your favorite drug? different situations call for different tools, i feel. 
2. Who would you like to see on a new banknote? bill hicks
3. If you were reincarnated as some other plant or animal, what would it be? i’d hope to be a sunflower.

his room of escape cowers dollhouse small

in this tiny tudor house.

his mother’s before him,

the yellow tiled kitchen

is tradition

more than a room.

the dried flowers placed on the wall

by his mother’s delicate hand decades ago

are crumbling.

a memory suspended by a nail,

the ghosts of roses long ago pulled

from the ground and tied with a pink ribbon.

this is now his room,

his place.

longing to be a zen buddhist

my father stands at the sink, staring out

the window, squinting against the sun.

washing dishes, water is calming.

he says he sees enlightenment.

the floorboards groan beneath his feet.

they are worn almost through,

and the gleam of the laundry room shines up.

bob dylan whines from the stereo,

carefully tuned and turned

up to rattle the purple and green wine glasses

suspended by their feet

above the stove.

he becomes lost in the music,

a tantric hypnosis, the melody his mantra

bringing him summers 20 years past.

summers of love and freedom,

he remembers feeling real.

he turns his attention back to the dirty dishes,

sighing while singing with dylan.

peace can be found in unlikely places -

nirvana at the sink.

a simple, ugly root was at the heart of a quest i had last week. i sought horseradish. for three days and four supermarkets, i bravely hunted. i was misguided, led astray by seemingly friendly produce managers and left empty-handed among the kumquats and ginger. but i waged on. i needed to have horseradish.

sure, i could have caved and bought the pre-made, jarred kind. i could have made far less work for myself. i could have skipped the mission, the peeling of the tough skin, the chopping of the tough flesh, the watering eyes as i prepared the pungent root. but, when it comes to cooking, i am a purist. and real, home made, painful horseradish on easter sunday goes beyond being a recipe – it’s a tradition.

it’s hard to explain why it is so important to me, why i put irrational stress on myself over a simple condiment. nobody else wanted or expected it, i was not following through on a promise or the whim of another. the desire, the need, was all mine. i don’t ask anyone else to understand it, i only ask those i celebrate with to enjoy it. (although, this year’s batch is more potent than usual, so enjoying it may be a lot to ask!)

my love of the bitter, burning herb must be in my blood. it’s been served at every family easter i can remember, and i proved myself capable of handling such delicious pain at an early age. it feels like home, tastes like family. it is an unusual and powerful connection i have, deeply rooted in the love from which i grew.

the horseradish is merely a symbol. it burns, makes me red, makes me cry. but every tear it brings to my eye brings me back to every easter of my youth. back to the red faces of my father and grandfather, piling obscene amounts of horseradish onto hard-boiled eggs, daring each other to go further, eyes streaming with tears. i remember the warmth of childhood easter, the new dresses and the hunt for the plastic eggs filled with treasure.  i feel the grass between my toes, jelly shoes slipped off in haste, while i blow bubbles and spin in the sunshine with my sister. i smell my grandmother, feel the mix of smoke and estee lauder perfume in my throat. i relive every beautiful moment.

now, more than ever, it is important to me to feel that connection. it’s been almost two years since i moved 300 miles from my family, and getting together for the holidays doesn’t always work out. i miss my family, i miss visits to new york, i miss home. i do what i can to bring myself closer to the ones i love, to keep my memories fresh and the spirit of familial love alive.  i take what i have learned and am passing it on, proud of where i have come from, using it all to spread the love.

i have been so lucky to have such great people, here in my new home state, with which to share my strange traditions and abundance of holiday food. we have had a few fun, filling, and memorable holidays, complete with silly stories of collapsing tables and plenty of beers. and there will be many more holidays, and more traditions of our own, as we grow and have our own families.

it’s the small things that keep us connected, that tie us together.  i’ll always have horseradish in my heart.