I am no different.
I am so very different from before.
Oddities of a world, in free fall.
Every thing is change.
Gotta keep up.
So they say.
Who are they?
The sun is here, feels funny after months and months, buried beneath white and gray. I think, one day I will move away, escape the blasé. I don’t know. The future eludes me. Maybe, the sun’s shine wouldn’t mean so much, if I saw her everyday. I don’t know. Flash floods require mopping, cleanup, restructuring. I don’t know much, I know hope. I pray, I uncover infinite wells of wisdom, reserves of strength, courage, joy, humility. I know some things, in silence. I place intimate, dark thoughts on the page, where they belong. Sharing my time in the sun. Healing, questioning, replenishing you, and me.
“I see…fields forever Growing wild and free.”
Stuff I’ve learned the past five years. Good-bye, NY.
-when in doubt, go back to the start, go back, go back, keep going back
-I don’t miss cement towers, crowds, noise, designer flare and busy streets full of empty strangers
-if you plant seeds, they will grow
-closets filled with fancy things are just that, overcrowded
-sweats, sturdy hiking boots, practical dress may not look cool, they are warm and efficient
-purpose. find a purpose that nurtures the five-year old dreamer, naive, exuberant, happiest parts
-choosing love is hard, brave and healing
-loosing your mind, over and over, putting the pieces together is not what I would have chosen, it’s what I got
-right now is it, tomorrow is guaranteed different, tomorrow is not a guarantee
-I have lived in many countries, cultures, cities, experienced various tastes, varying people -you have only one heart-happy home
-when asked if I wanted to replace Lupe, born blind in one eye for a different puppy, my answer was a vehement no, thank you -trust your first instinct, even when living in a constant flux of polar opposites
-at my sickest, darkest, scariest I knew, I would take care of her
-what I didn’t know was how well she would care for me, asking for nothing
-Lupe sees and feels with her heart, much like her mama
-where I am going is…nowhere, nothing special on the agenda -I am here, doing my best to make it count
-there is pure, white magic on the small-town Street where I come from
-doors remain open, smiles greet me no questions, no judgement -warm welcome home.
-simple is good, simple is okay, simple is not very simple at all
its all right
to go back, try again
Immersed in the land of Georgia Pine., a glimpse. The mysterious, ethereal image was the first I found. It helps shape the divine character I see in my imagination, so vividly. The cover, a sneak peek. The Vast Landscape sequel, is a steady work in progress. Harrison’s raw, honest beauty carries on, through Georgia Pine.
©Laura Makabresku photography
Thank you dear Laura, for sharing, your art, haunting imagery and intimate, emotive, fairytale world. I am honored.
“Every wound, tear is real. They are mine. And every photo separately I treat as my own spiritual child.” Laura Makabresku
I like to fix things, the fixer am I. Without a toolbox filled with talisman, memory and crazy glue, the fixing proves difficult. A house is built with cement, nails, wood, copper and steel. A home is adjoining parts, veins, bones and good intention, feeding the heart. The most perfect, precise pump ever made, says the master journeyman, and my ancestor. Impossible to understand, at times impossible to fix.
When I’m stressed, I clean. When I’m confused, I clean. When I’m angry, I clean. Exhausted, nauseated, in full-blown Benzo withdrawal. Not permitted by my shrinks to travel, basically I’m assigned to the nut house. Only, this house arrest comes with a ton of perks, comfortable amenities. Yeah, you could this house is pretty clean. Benzo withdrawal is worse than heroine. You could say, that, yes could.
Just when I think I can’t take one more day of the absurdity that has become my existence, apparently I can. I blame the doctors in part, the shrinks, quacks, they don’t a clue what might work, and what won’t. Mental Illness meds that could very well kill you, they’re so quick to write a script. Well, that one didn’t work, let’s try this on top of that. Pretty soon, your brain is a full on pileup of conflicting signals, no wonder it’s lost without a roadmap. My beautiful mind, gets more and more tangled, lost inside forgotten memory, drooping eyelid, psychosomatic illness, blindness, hallucinations. They’ve really fuked you now, you have no choice but to go nuts. There’s no winding the hands back on the clock.
Me, I’m the anomaly. The med-resistant patient, the BiPolar opposite. I hate the drugs. Muscle rigor, swollen tongue, numbness, vertigo, ringing ears, eye paralysis, what’s next? Fuk off, you can keep your pink, white and yellow pills, in various doses of madness. When I can’t fight anymore, when I can’t find the will, I will look to the clock. With what’s left of my shredded dignity, faith, courage and hope, I’ll simply go, on my time. My brain, I’m donating to science.
I received ‘the phone call’, email. The sad news we dread, three times in one week. Each ring, every broken heart, gave me strength to fight the personal pain, fear and sorrow. Empathy takes over in tragedy, gratitude settles in. One loss hit hard, knocked the wind out. The loss of a child. I would’ve gladly given away some of my time, to his mother. I have lived so much beautiful, loved so deeply and laughed so loud, freely. Time doesn’t work like that, the hands do not stop. I will fight for her, silently, the unbearable loss. In honor of mother and child I will live, because that’s all I can do. I offer prayer, for the loved ones who’ve gone missing. Maybe they’re not missing at all, maybe they returned home. To an ethereal world where there is no pain, no disease, filled with Technicolor dreams, and Opal crystalline riches. Enough for us all. Home to an impeccably clean house, with five-star amenities and perks, and no sorrow.
Time tells me I’m here, for a reason. For now. Until I’m not.
And that is, just fine by me.
This morning I told my mother to fuk off. I did not mean it, not exactly. Living here, where I don’t want to be, being sick, bad genes, I blame her. I can’t help it, I do. As I watch her walk to the car, a fragile, old woman it’s too much. She gave me her whole life, I can give her a fraction of mine. She knows I don’t mean it when the venom spews, before I can retract. I was her precious baby, happy girl, her funny, fearless child. I wonder how she felt, when I became a brat. The loud, mouth teenager, forever unhappy. She couldn’t fix me, Lord knows she tried. I called her, every night from NY pursuing my dreams, crying and alone. “You can always come home.” That’s what a good mother does, a mother like mine. She knew I wouldn’t give up, even before I did. Keep at it, she taught me persistence. She was my first call when I booked a modeling job for $12,000. That was a boatload of money, she was proud. I could tell. She has one tone, but a thousand different voices. One for every mood, situation, emotion. That’s what a good mother does. When my glorious, faulty wired mind went missing, I didn’t understand. She listened as I sobbed hysterically, for hours and hours, months on end. She never hung up the line. “You’re coming home, that’s it.” I believed her when she said I’d be ok, that’s what a good mother does. She was right, on Lithium my mind got better. I mustered the courage to go back to NY. She promised everything would work out. I called her, just to check in. She was my lifeline, to sanity. Everything was fine, until it wasn’t. I had seven years in New York, working, living without one psychotic episode. She listened when I was incoherent. That’s what a good mother does. “I wanna come home,” I cried, scared out of mind, seeing dead people. I could not find my way back. Out of the pain, the indescribable fear, the black hole. She came to get me. My seventy year old mother came, to bring her broken, adult daughter home. “Everything will be fine.” She lied, it won’t. On the days I hate her, because there is no one else around she takes it, silently. On the days I hate this place, this house, this illness and exhaustion, it’s mostly because I hate myself. I want to die, I don’t. I vacuum my frustrations, do the heavy lifting for her because she can’t. Because, that’s what a good daughter does.
I write stories, about mother-daughter relationships, that are only partially untrue.
GEORGIA PINE. – excerpt
Addie stressed over the twins, checked on them two or three times a night. She couldn’t breathe, scared they might break. “Comb your hair, brush your teeth. Chop-chop.” Adelaide was never so grateful to see her mother. That was a great day. Harry did that, she could take your worse days and throw them in your face. Make you face your fears, move on.
today is a three-part kind of day
I used to see Phillip Seymour Hoffman in the Village, head-down, unassuming posture. The year was 1995, I was studying acting and a mega fan. My brother saw him on the subway, asked for his autograph for me. He graciously signed a pack of matches, he was kind. Addiction, Mental Illness are merely misfirings, faulty wiring in the brain, that cannot be fixed with duct tape. People judge, self-involved, some do anyway on any given Sunday. He didn’t judge, why should you?
I know – part 2
I look nothing like I felt yesterday. I have two friends who knew me when, and still like me now. I might be peculiar, have you looked in a mirror lately? Be prepared if you get around to The Vast Landscape, just sayin.’ I don’t feel like playing nice, I’m a grown-up shouldn’t have to. I try, was brought up with manners of a sort. I’m stuck in a place I don’t belong, temperatures below freezing. The agoraphobiac, surroundings don’t matter much. State of mind is the devil’s business.
I knew from the age of five, I was different. My father remains alive in my heart, my most favorite person. He draped me with love and kindness. I was rich, well rich enough, spent time in exotic places. I rarely said, “sorry.” Thought thousand dollar bags, shoes would make me happy. They never fit, are of little use now. I had ‘fancy friends’ who stopped coming by, when I started seeing visions. My family didn’t understand, yet hung around. Obligation or not. I was skinny, young and less sad, some time ago.
God’s listening to the internal discourse going on in my head. Maybe he can show me a future, one with me in it. Give me a reason to choose hope, not hell. I best get back to the make-believe world of Georgia Pine. I’m so enjoying the bayou, lingering spirits, the deep south. Three stories intertwined gets complicated, direct descendants, sisters and friends of Harrison. The character I adore, who doesn’t exist in real-time. She shines bright and vivid in my imagination. I dare, hope.
To carry on this one piece of madness I love.
I watched On the Road this week-end, and wanted to pack a bag, just go. I felt the itch crawling up and down my spine. Creative freedom at its maximum. Those boys drove sex, drugs and beats into the gravel cemented streets like hot gum melted in tar. I did not realize the date, 1950. Artistic freedom and exploration came early. I recognized a small piece of me on the journey. The struggle to break free from societal tradition I have no use for. I long to grow, experience, to see. Take to the open road to discover all the things I cannot know. The curious fever, planted perhaps before conception. Drawn west, the beat boys only reinforce the pull. The 90’s were my pinnacle, the height of exploration. Music dominated my world, words, places I visited, which stories to catalogue, which to share. Long before my existence, there was desire. Long after, the insatiable search for truth remains. I’ll go west someday, before I leave this place. Stopping from time to time, to take in earth’s majestic beauty, refuel and recover. The spirit tells me don’t give up. Don’t rest stop too long, ask the questions, challenge the beliefs, embedded. Freedom is the truest form of self-love.
On the road, there is much to discover.