"One cannot spend forever sitting and solving the mysteries of one's history." ~ Lemony Snicket
------------------------------------------------------------------
There was a moment that day when the shaking hands were gripping the sink, the heart was pounding and the breathing was labored; that the wide open eyes were forced to meet themselves in the mirror.
For the first time in 66 days.
me: "Who are you?"
her: "I was wondering the same thing."
me: "A year ago today I landed in my new life. A year later I'm back at the old one?"
her: "With a whole lot of stuff in between."
me: "Epic understatement."
her: "You haven't unpacked, but it doesn't make it any less true."
me: "I can still smell there in those clothes. I can hear it and see it. I can still feel what I felt. I need all of that to leave my memory first."
her: "You wait on that, okay?"
me: "I can't breathe."
her: "You're breathing."
me: "How?"
her: "You just are."
me: "Maybe I'll quit."
her: "Who says you have a choice? A lot of people see your strength."
me: "F*ck them. They see what they want to see."
her: "Or what you can't."
me: "I hate you."
her: "You are me."
me: "I just need to fast forward 5 years so I don't have to live in this."
her: "Welcome to reality where that isn't an option."
me: "It stings."
her: "Like a million bees sometimes... I feel it too."
me: "I can feel it pressing on the top of my head, driving me into the ground. It makes my knees numb."
her: "Change your stance."
me: "Sometimes I don't even know where I am."
her: "Well, right now you're in your bathroom. In your house. Just upstairs from the desk where you work the job that you found 48 hours after you lost the one you kind of loved. And right outside is the car you can still pay for that takes you to the studio where you can dance and to the store where you can afford to buy the food you like."
me: "Blessings."
her: "In the midst of this storm."
me: "Touche."
her: "Checkmate."
me: "I feel like I failed it."
her: "You fought the hell out of it."
me: "I don't know where to begin to find myself again."
her: "You don't have to. Take the gloves off. Be still. Work. Pray. Listen. I'll be here to welcome you back when you're ready. Have a little faith."
------------------------------------------------------------------
"I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am." ~ Sylvia Plath
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Monday, November 1, 2010
Day 62: It Was a Tuesday.
"He killed her."
When time stands still,
You can't hear.
Because the words you just heard are too big to let any other sound in.
You can't see.
Because light is suddenly too bright, and causes everything to fragment and pixilate.
You can't speak.
Because when your heart shatters, all the pieces land in your throat.
When time moves again,
You find yourself sitting in a chair in the middle of a hallway, your body folded in half, arms wrapped around the back of your knees, rocking back and forth. And a refrain of "in, out" plays in your head as your body reminds itself to breathe.
You think of the last conversation, of what she'd shared with you only two days before, how she'd called and insisted that you get dressed and come out, how she'd made everyone dance, how tightly she'd hugged you.
The story plays in your head and you tremble at the thought of how scared she had to have been. And how brave.
You walk, in a desparate attempt to keep reality from catching you. You walk as you talk to friends, each of you repeating a story over and over again. A group of words that don't belong together. A story that will never make sense.
Five years later,
The feelings live just beneath the surface.
You don't take time or people for granted.
You can still feel the cling of arms that knew they were hugging you for the last time.
You can still hear her voice and how she used to fuss at all of you for not keeping up with each other. And it makes you grin.
You remember how you sat in a courtroom staring at the back of his head without blinking, the ringing in your ears as you listened to the guilty verdict being read, and the feeling of despair as you turned your head towards the courtroom door and stared until your heart realized she wasn't going to walk in.
You have learned that time won't heal the hole in your heart.
Her home and cell numbers are still in your phone. You can never again call them, nor is deleting them an option.
You still wish you had turned around that night and told her you loved her.
You remember that day five years ago when you answered your phone and heard your Soror, her best friend, say,
"He killed her."
It was a Tuesday.
When time stands still,
You can't hear.
Because the words you just heard are too big to let any other sound in.
You can't see.
Because light is suddenly too bright, and causes everything to fragment and pixilate.
You can't speak.
Because when your heart shatters, all the pieces land in your throat.
When time moves again,
You find yourself sitting in a chair in the middle of a hallway, your body folded in half, arms wrapped around the back of your knees, rocking back and forth. And a refrain of "in, out" plays in your head as your body reminds itself to breathe.
You think of the last conversation, of what she'd shared with you only two days before, how she'd called and insisted that you get dressed and come out, how she'd made everyone dance, how tightly she'd hugged you.
The story plays in your head and you tremble at the thought of how scared she had to have been. And how brave.
You walk, in a desparate attempt to keep reality from catching you. You walk as you talk to friends, each of you repeating a story over and over again. A group of words that don't belong together. A story that will never make sense.
Five years later,
The feelings live just beneath the surface.
You don't take time or people for granted.
You can still feel the cling of arms that knew they were hugging you for the last time.
You can still hear her voice and how she used to fuss at all of you for not keeping up with each other. And it makes you grin.
You remember how you sat in a courtroom staring at the back of his head without blinking, the ringing in your ears as you listened to the guilty verdict being read, and the feeling of despair as you turned your head towards the courtroom door and stared until your heart realized she wasn't going to walk in.
You have learned that time won't heal the hole in your heart.
Her home and cell numbers are still in your phone. You can never again call them, nor is deleting them an option.
You still wish you had turned around that night and told her you loved her.
You remember that day five years ago when you answered your phone and heard your Soror, her best friend, say,
"He killed her."
It was a Tuesday.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Day 52: HEARD. Vol. 3
The people quoted below have two things in common, they're all adults and they're all people I've come in contact with over the past several months. With the exception of one title, their identities were not recorded and will not be revealed.
There are times in this whirlwind adventure when the dust settles.
It was during those times that I listened.
This is what I heard.
------------------------------------------------------------------
"I love daydrinking."
"It was like someone transported us to London, England on the most boring day of the year."
"Q-R-S. I know my alphabet. You can't confuse me."
"Toaster ovens are like, the best thing ever."
"How do you spell impactful?"
"I-m-p-a-c-t-f-u-l. But it's not really a word."
"Impactful? It's not?"
"Nope."
"How about thrilling?"
Me: "Will you write my check please?"
My Boss: "Sure. Your last name is Shaw, right?"
"Those dresses look like cheap witches at Burning Man, I got my costume at Rite Aid."
"We made out and I was so excited because it was just what I wanted!"
"And I was like, "Hey!" 'cause I'm like, you know, friendly."
"When you say cash only does that mean I can only pay with cash?"
"Pork is a dessert meat."
------------------------------------------------------------------
Kilah: "I may not understand the people in my new reality, but I am grateful for them. And thoroughly amused."
There are times in this whirlwind adventure when the dust settles.
It was during those times that I listened.
This is what I heard.
------------------------------------------------------------------
"I love daydrinking."
"It was like someone transported us to London, England on the most boring day of the year."
"Q-R-S. I know my alphabet. You can't confuse me."
"Toaster ovens are like, the best thing ever."
"How do you spell impactful?"
"I-m-p-a-c-t-f-u-l. But it's not really a word."
"Impactful? It's not?"
"Nope."
"How about thrilling?"
Me: "Will you write my check please?"
My Boss: "Sure. Your last name is Shaw, right?"
"Those dresses look like cheap witches at Burning Man, I got my costume at Rite Aid."
"We made out and I was so excited because it was just what I wanted!"
"And I was like, "Hey!" 'cause I'm like, you know, friendly."
"When you say cash only does that mean I can only pay with cash?"
"Pork is a dessert meat."
------------------------------------------------------------------
Kilah: "I may not understand the people in my new reality, but I am grateful for them. And thoroughly amused."
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Day 50: Daughter of a Man.
Though I am his daughter, I am not a Daddy's Girl.
My sister and I were raised by our Mom. She loved, taught, sang, laughed, chauffered, fed, hugged, worried, rejoiced, disciplined, bought, made... She parented.
And though I am sure my Father caused her endless frustration, she did not allow his daughters to hate him.
"You shouldn't speak to your Dad that way. He loves you."
"Do you love him?"
"Yes. Because he helped me make you."
As adults, my sister and I made the decision to have a relationship with him. We have learned to enjoy the time we have with him inspite of his sporadic presence during our childhood. He is an intelligent quirky man. He was a French professor for over 30 years, he ran a bartending school and owned a cleaning service. He was not one to show much emotion, but was generous with his praise. He is an excellent cook, an avid vegetable gardener, and, in his retirement, he has mastered the game of pool.
Our infrequent childhood conversations and visits with him were filled with the following mantras:
Him: "Who are the prettiest girls in the world?"
Us: "Kilah and Nza."
Him: "That's right!"
Us: "We won..., made..., achieved.... etc...."
Him: "That's great Kilah Wilah/Nza Pinza. Makes my toes tingle!"
I carry his dark skin, his wiry hair, his slanted handwriting, a few of his mannerisms and his mother's maiden name.
It was with him that I ate my first (and last) raw egg, learned to pickle cucumbers (a process which I have long since forgotten), got my first taste of the French language he adores, and learned my first reggae dance steps. He is frugal, into healthy lifestyles and cares little about material goods. He loves music, languages and African sculpture. In his own way, he also loves his daughters. He speaks deliberately and does not waiver once a decision has been made. He is not easily affected.
And now he is sick.
I learned of his diagnosis a few days before I left and last week's surgery two days before it occured. He waited until the last minute to tell me of his diagnosis and surgery on purpose.
Him: "I've just come in from the garden so I wanted to call and let you know that my surgery is the day after tomorrow."
Me: "Why didn't you tell me before? I might have been able to be there. And why are you in the garden this late at night?"
Him: "That's why I didn't tell you. And I had to get my collards in the ground."
He then went on to explain, in explicit detail, the information concerning his prognosis. In the months between his diagnosis and his surgery, he had researched, compared and questioned. He educated himself on every possible facet of his illness, treatment options, side effects and longevity.
As I listened to him detail everything from the growth pattern of his tumor to the place where the initial incision would be made, I realized that my Dad had armed himself with a plethora of information because he is scared. Part of his defense is knowing the twists and turns of his disease before he reaches them. He is not a fan of surprises.
His daughter shares that trait with him.
He is back home now, healing, resting and awaiting more tests and treatment. He is being well cared for. I spoke with him briefly and he explained his goal of eating more solid foods before he faded. For the first time my tall, lean, stoic Father sounded old.
And his daughter was not prepared.
My sister and I were raised by our Mom. She loved, taught, sang, laughed, chauffered, fed, hugged, worried, rejoiced, disciplined, bought, made... She parented.
And though I am sure my Father caused her endless frustration, she did not allow his daughters to hate him.
"You shouldn't speak to your Dad that way. He loves you."
"Do you love him?"
"Yes. Because he helped me make you."
As adults, my sister and I made the decision to have a relationship with him. We have learned to enjoy the time we have with him inspite of his sporadic presence during our childhood. He is an intelligent quirky man. He was a French professor for over 30 years, he ran a bartending school and owned a cleaning service. He was not one to show much emotion, but was generous with his praise. He is an excellent cook, an avid vegetable gardener, and, in his retirement, he has mastered the game of pool.
Our infrequent childhood conversations and visits with him were filled with the following mantras:
Him: "Who are the prettiest girls in the world?"
Us: "Kilah and Nza."
Him: "That's right!"
Us: "We won..., made..., achieved.... etc...."
Him: "That's great Kilah Wilah/Nza Pinza. Makes my toes tingle!"
I carry his dark skin, his wiry hair, his slanted handwriting, a few of his mannerisms and his mother's maiden name.
It was with him that I ate my first (and last) raw egg, learned to pickle cucumbers (a process which I have long since forgotten), got my first taste of the French language he adores, and learned my first reggae dance steps. He is frugal, into healthy lifestyles and cares little about material goods. He loves music, languages and African sculpture. In his own way, he also loves his daughters. He speaks deliberately and does not waiver once a decision has been made. He is not easily affected.
And now he is sick.
I learned of his diagnosis a few days before I left and last week's surgery two days before it occured. He waited until the last minute to tell me of his diagnosis and surgery on purpose.
Him: "I've just come in from the garden so I wanted to call and let you know that my surgery is the day after tomorrow."
Me: "Why didn't you tell me before? I might have been able to be there. And why are you in the garden this late at night?"
Him: "That's why I didn't tell you. And I had to get my collards in the ground."
He then went on to explain, in explicit detail, the information concerning his prognosis. In the months between his diagnosis and his surgery, he had researched, compared and questioned. He educated himself on every possible facet of his illness, treatment options, side effects and longevity.
As I listened to him detail everything from the growth pattern of his tumor to the place where the initial incision would be made, I realized that my Dad had armed himself with a plethora of information because he is scared. Part of his defense is knowing the twists and turns of his disease before he reaches them. He is not a fan of surprises.
His daughter shares that trait with him.
He is back home now, healing, resting and awaiting more tests and treatment. He is being well cared for. I spoke with him briefly and he explained his goal of eating more solid foods before he faded. For the first time my tall, lean, stoic Father sounded old.
And his daughter was not prepared.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Day 45: Lost and Found
I had an interesting weekend, but I can't quite get my ego in check enough to write it with the truth it requires. I'm working on that. In the meantime, I'll tell you about crazy cool today.
My Tuesday started with a hike. My friend A and I had been talking about hiking together for awhile. He has lived in L.A. his whole life but has never been. He said he wanted to do a 'real' hike, so I took him to my favorite Vermont Canyon instead of Runyon which can seem more like a steep walk.
Vermont Cyn is a Griffith Park trail that takes you to one of the peaks next to the Hollywood sign. It is a 2 hour hike that offers a 360 degree view of L.A., including the ocean, catalina island and Forest Lawn cemetary in Glendale where MJ is buried. Not to mention endless mountain ranges. The views along the trail and from the peak are breathtaking.
The price you pay to have your breath taken away is a series of super steep climbs along the ridge line of a couple of way too high mountains. There are times during that hike where I have actually considered calling search and rescue to demand an explanation of "What in the hell I was thinking when I decided to do this today" followed by a request to "Come get me off the side of this mountain!". The rush is addictive though, and I find myself hiking it with Kasey at least once a week.
A and I set out at about 830 this morning and made to the peak around 930. He enjoyed it, but admitted that there were times when all he could think of was "a way out.". The climb down which takes you by the Hollywood sign takes a solid hour. It is pretty easy and allows for great conversation.
On the last leg of the descent, I reached into my pocket to make sure I had all of my things:
Phone - check
Keys, which I carry to scare away rattlesnakes - check
Drivers License, which I carry in case I have an unfortunate encounter with a moutain lion or a coyote - MISSING
In a split second I felt my airways constrict, my stomach churn and my knees lock, all of which I masked behind bulging eyeballs and a gaping mouth.
It was hot, we were almost to the car and our legs felt like jelly, but we turned around and hiked back up with our eyes glued to the ground.
me:"A, I owe you my first born."
him: "I'd rather have a smoothie."
Half an hour back into our re-climb I called it and full on panic set in as I realized that my perfectly good, nowhere near expired, matches the tag on my car and insurance in my glove compartment, license was gone. I couldn't drive without a license! How was I going to convince the DMV to give me a CA license when everything about my car is GA?! How would I get a new tag?! California insurance?! I'm not even sure I want to live here that long!
I stopped my pleading prayer long enough to explain my plight to a police officer and a park ranger. They were both very sympathetic, giving me cards and phone numbers to call, but held out little hope.
Soft spoken, laid back, California calm A explained that it wasn't a big deal and then treated me to a smoothie.
Later on at the studio, I sat researching CA licenses, tags and insurance. I made my appointment at the DMV and laughed out loud at the realization that I would have to take a driving test. I then worked myself into a hot flash at the realization that the completion of these steps would mean that I would be in California for awhile. I am not quite comfortable with that thought yet.
I took a class to calm my nerves and then ran to the office to check Facebook like the good little addict I have become. Imagine my surprise when I saw the following in my inbox:
"Hi, my name is Stephen and I found your license in Vermont Cyn today."
Hi Stephen.
He went on to explain where he lived (about 3 minutes from my front door) and gave his phone number. We made arrangements for me to pick it up from a hiding place on his front porch.
God is good.
And I'm buying a fanny pack.
My Tuesday started with a hike. My friend A and I had been talking about hiking together for awhile. He has lived in L.A. his whole life but has never been. He said he wanted to do a 'real' hike, so I took him to my favorite Vermont Canyon instead of Runyon which can seem more like a steep walk.
Vermont Cyn is a Griffith Park trail that takes you to one of the peaks next to the Hollywood sign. It is a 2 hour hike that offers a 360 degree view of L.A., including the ocean, catalina island and Forest Lawn cemetary in Glendale where MJ is buried. Not to mention endless mountain ranges. The views along the trail and from the peak are breathtaking.
The price you pay to have your breath taken away is a series of super steep climbs along the ridge line of a couple of way too high mountains. There are times during that hike where I have actually considered calling search and rescue to demand an explanation of "What in the hell I was thinking when I decided to do this today" followed by a request to "Come get me off the side of this mountain!". The rush is addictive though, and I find myself hiking it with Kasey at least once a week.
A and I set out at about 830 this morning and made to the peak around 930. He enjoyed it, but admitted that there were times when all he could think of was "a way out.". The climb down which takes you by the Hollywood sign takes a solid hour. It is pretty easy and allows for great conversation.
On the last leg of the descent, I reached into my pocket to make sure I had all of my things:
Phone - check
Keys, which I carry to scare away rattlesnakes - check
Drivers License, which I carry in case I have an unfortunate encounter with a moutain lion or a coyote - MISSING
In a split second I felt my airways constrict, my stomach churn and my knees lock, all of which I masked behind bulging eyeballs and a gaping mouth.
It was hot, we were almost to the car and our legs felt like jelly, but we turned around and hiked back up with our eyes glued to the ground.
me:"A, I owe you my first born."
him: "I'd rather have a smoothie."
Half an hour back into our re-climb I called it and full on panic set in as I realized that my perfectly good, nowhere near expired, matches the tag on my car and insurance in my glove compartment, license was gone. I couldn't drive without a license! How was I going to convince the DMV to give me a CA license when everything about my car is GA?! How would I get a new tag?! California insurance?! I'm not even sure I want to live here that long!
I stopped my pleading prayer long enough to explain my plight to a police officer and a park ranger. They were both very sympathetic, giving me cards and phone numbers to call, but held out little hope.
Soft spoken, laid back, California calm A explained that it wasn't a big deal and then treated me to a smoothie.
Later on at the studio, I sat researching CA licenses, tags and insurance. I made my appointment at the DMV and laughed out loud at the realization that I would have to take a driving test. I then worked myself into a hot flash at the realization that the completion of these steps would mean that I would be in California for awhile. I am not quite comfortable with that thought yet.
I took a class to calm my nerves and then ran to the office to check Facebook like the good little addict I have become. Imagine my surprise when I saw the following in my inbox:
"Hi, my name is Stephen and I found your license in Vermont Cyn today."
Hi Stephen.
He went on to explain where he lived (about 3 minutes from my front door) and gave his phone number. We made arrangements for me to pick it up from a hiding place on his front porch.
God is good.
And I'm buying a fanny pack.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Day 38: Free
I remembered today a time in my life that seems like a lifetime ago. While my teammates were and are some of the best people I've ever known, I was doing a job that had me so stressed that my body was trembling 24 hours a day and my hair was falling out. I felt strangled by the regulations that controlled my wardrobe, schedule and how often I answered the phone or responded to an email. I hated the fear that formed a knot in my stomach on the elevator not knowing what my inbox would look like on any given day or what new report I wasn't measuring up to. I cried on the way to work and on the way home.
I would sit at my desk or go to an empty office and stare out at the Atlanta skyline wondering why I wasn't doing something I enjoyed. Why wasn't I in some studio building sets or dancing or putting finishing touches on costumes or painting, gluing, nailing, taping...?
Today I spent the day at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art working on my boss' residency debut. I crawled around the floor in mismatched clothes helping to build 50 ft walls and an 18 foot divider. I cut, punched holes, reinforced, and tied together. I witnessed a space being transformed. I planned for the studio. I rehearsed and then watched my boss sew costumes in his hilltop house.
Tomorrow I'll be laying carpet on asphalt, re-tying, cutting, taping, dancing, running lights and celebrating.
I am tired.
I am covered from head to toe in fiberglass and itching like mad.
I am rejoicing at the realization of the answer to a whispered prayer.
I am free.
I would sit at my desk or go to an empty office and stare out at the Atlanta skyline wondering why I wasn't doing something I enjoyed. Why wasn't I in some studio building sets or dancing or putting finishing touches on costumes or painting, gluing, nailing, taping...?
Today I spent the day at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art working on my boss' residency debut. I crawled around the floor in mismatched clothes helping to build 50 ft walls and an 18 foot divider. I cut, punched holes, reinforced, and tied together. I witnessed a space being transformed. I planned for the studio. I rehearsed and then watched my boss sew costumes in his hilltop house.
Tomorrow I'll be laying carpet on asphalt, re-tying, cutting, taping, dancing, running lights and celebrating.
I am tired.
I am covered from head to toe in fiberglass and itching like mad.
I am rejoicing at the realization of the answer to a whispered prayer.
I am free.
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