KUPERGRASS

 The box can be transformed into joy. The box is my story.

 

 I visited you in my mind today. I saw you in a chair across from me The art I would make you what it would look like what I would write about your eyes as they met mine. A box to write, you are just a box. Things your hands touched are in this box I eat strawberry wafers and lemon hot water with ginger and I think of your. Gait. Remember L? My love for her! And no one could know.  The Christmas card and my bitter lesbian heart flowed out in every loop. The lies and the secrets she gave me only to pull them away. With these objects she touched and it’s all about love. Love that is above my head like a silver blimp. It w as never real. Wave a pride flag and watch me sink into her face. Snapshots in time of them and me and how I felt. How little they gave me. How far I jumped. How people are messengers and when they leave the love remains…. Not my picture memory holding onto these shreds timeless in their representation breeding stagnancy. Get rid of it! Get rid of this junk no ...

 How much of me is in disrespect. How I heal…. How I identify it… I need to stop that cycle.  Questioning, spinning,  Is disrespect something that happens after you love someone? I have the inkling to get rid of all of my stuff. Empty the boxes and go to good will. What it takes to live cleanly. What it takes to be myself without these crutches I used when I was hated. Remember that gourd mom bought when my only gay friend in elementary school went to see Reba Macon type and we were so excited? The palo alto air the witch hazel crew shampoo and my mother and her red hair and the quiet rainy day when we stared at a fence with a blue birdhouse on it calm and warm inside. A Mexican antique store next to the salon….. her gourd. Red and wonderful. Like her.  Wonderful because she loved me that day. She didn’t lock me outside to find hairpins in the dirt. The things in my cabinet. When people were lovely to me, objects. … it’s something to ponder. I hold sacred being treat...

As the dishwasher runs. Donovan.  The wisdom I hold as my own.

 

 It’s a warm night at the end of January. Windows open, crickets and wild parrots. It’s Pasadena. I kept the studio open just to know that it was there and I’m happy it is. I wrote and did the dishes. Tomorrow my therapist wants to know about mom.  I have a box. Everything she did. It’s all truth and it’s all there out of my body and into a box. I want to go back to Arizona. Today was not eventful and that’s a blessing to me. To be back in autonomy, domestic life. The healing I’ve been through in two weeks is incredible.

 There’s things to say But I am tired and emotional.

 Security Trust Taking time Stretching out nervous system Now Focus on work. I’m doing great.

 

 I love myself. I am loved. 

 I protected others from knowing the pain I was suffering. They didn’t know about my mom and I assumed no one would care to know. This is private this is personal, this is hidden, this is my pain and no one else’s. There was guilt about sharing it Sometimes the things my mother did were so outrageous I myself couldn’t understand. This was confusion…. Why is this happening? What is happening? “ I really don’t need this today” After being insulted or knocked down after trying to stay afloat. Trying to match other kids my age. I’m okay as I am. Or am I not? Am I what they said I was? In college. Moms surgery room, the vomit, the screaming, the crying, the walking in pain, her suffering.I was sitting on the hospital floors. Sitting in plastic hospital chairs smelling like disenfectant. Wondering when Chris and his family would find out how I was being treated “ don’t let your self esteem show” My smile….. smile through it…. This smile…. Like nothing was going on. No tears, no truth....

 The love that we receive becomes the love we exude and the more love the more we glow  The glow becomes popularity….the glow our countenance, our energy. I always knew and had to counterbalance this in myself since mom didn’t give it to me. There was an emptiness in my upper stomach. A reticence. A pause. I am ready to let this go. I am ready to face what she did, I’ll answer all the questions. I’ll be brave and flexible like a wave. I am wise.I am knowing. I heal. I understand. I hold. I am held.  There is grace of my heart. There is peace in my studio.  There is love.  Love is real. I have it now. I am not alone. I am not hungry. I am not searching with hands out fearful as I was as a young girl. 20 yrs old and feeling so so cold. I am 38 with the option to grow and love and smile and feel the full beauty of my own warmth and joy. The joy of being a friend, being someone who loves. I love myself. I wear crystals and hug my brother. I speak! When I’m questioni...

 There’s a box where I’ve written everything mom did. So I don’t have to feel it in my body it’s all there. I quit therapy two years ago because it touched a nerve. Now I’m back.  It’s the same damn nerve.  Good news I’m 38. Secure in my life and relationships. Self secure ( that’s the mom issue) That’s the meat, that’s the biscuit. That’s it. Self fuckcing esteem. I know I’m strong enough. As the burritos and digestive enzymes kick in things could come up. Weight loss.  I must be graceful and focus on working in the studio. I’ve told my loved ones. I know it’s healthy I know I must do this. This.  What’s this? Challenge my own self esteem by healing confronting my mom. I’m in control now. Make epic pots.

 Romanticizing mom still. I’m getting better. I know I have to face it. Therapy. Goals.