This Day.

In a different world with different endings
This is a day we’d laugh and play
this is a day we’d celebrate
a day with a new beginning
the love would be fulfilling
the night would not end with ushering in
so much emptiness
so much regret
This day would be reaffirming.

Big Differences.

Growing up, every year on my birthday, my Dad would make a point to become overwhelmed by sentiment, and then force his recollections upon me of the day that I was born. I typically spent the following few moments listening to him describe what life had been like prior to my birth (a dramatically dismal and rainy scene in which he, my Papa, and my older brothers spent their days feeling incomplete and longing for the missing piece to the puzzle of Life that only I could provide). My father never held back from parenthood, and he did everything with gusto when it came to his kids – his only daughter, especially – so the birthday strokes came on thick and lasted pretty much throughout the day until I went to bed.

Anyway, I think about this often (at least once a year); and can’t help but to compare these types of memories with those that surround me as the parent and Boo as the birthday girl (her 19TH birthday is tomorrow). It makes me dwell heavily in the land of self-inventory…and I can’t help but to wind up feeling guilty and shitty because I honestly don’t have such sweet sentiments in regard to my Life as a mother to Boo. I always used to eat myself that way because I would secretly feel quite different about Life before and after Boo (in comparison to those annual mountains of sugar that my Dad always fed me, at least).

Just been stuck in Plebian Mode all day over this stupid comparison, I thought I’d dump it out into the Universe and see if that helps it go away.

Holding.

I can still surely say,

I won’t let you fade,

I still tearfully celebrate,

the anniversary,

your former birthday;

bless that day you came,

and changed everything,

a little, blue bundle,

so similar to me;

barely junior to me,

by just thirteen months,

arriving epically,

to button our family up,

you were technically,

the reason, meaningfully,

each day that I’d wake up,

and everybody noticed,

the natural bond between us;

years and experience,

were hardest on you,

your mind was too fragile,

your heart was too huge,

and, regretfully

I failed to see,

the toll it took on you,

and when I blinked my eyes,

you were bigger than I,

and just as intelligent, too;

there remains,

in my heart – a pang,

words still lingering,

from our childhood days,

we used to complain,

and each would convey,

how we hated sharing,

a birthday party;

as so very few,

between 25 and 22,

they always killed both birdies,

through ONE party that they threw;

I know you never meant it,

I continue to pray,

that you knew the same,

if I could have you back again,

I’d give up my birthdays,

without the slightest hesitation,

to see your face again,

to bring you medicine,

whatever situation,

I might have you in;

we were so, considered,

just like a set of twins,

we had something special,

something better,

born in Forever,

part of who I am;

I know you’d,

surely understand,

why I’ve become,

this thing that I am,

and these days,

a “birthday”,

only stands to represent,

another wound,

another loss,

another failure,

another painful regret.

today would be that party,

that you and me,

always hated to share,

and let me tell you,

I would sit happily,

without a word,

Gods willing,

bone-chilling,

you were here.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s An Ice Cream Cake.

Go back about 30 years to when I got my first pair of bike shorts;

…yup, bike shorts; remember those?

Yeah, those – with the neon stripe down either outer leg, that’s right. At the time, my brothers gave me Hell, beginning a life-long joke that has something to do with my thighs and the word “drumsticks”. It was due to this very instance that I was too self-conscious to wear anything even remotely tight on my legs until maybe…like, 5 or 6 years ago; it was due to the drumsticks that I never wore shorts growing up. I never wore a bathing suit in the absence of shorts, either; I dropped out of cheer-leading (which was probably a blessing in disguise anyway; imagine me as a cheerleader, wow…).

Shivers

It was that singularly potent time; that half-hour of being taunted and laughed at in my new bike shorts by my older brothers that turned my legs into “Turkey Sticks” for decades to come. I honestly spent many years of my Life with the warped image of two big ol’ turkey drumsticks in the mirror where my legs should’ve been.

And, so…in the spirit of keeping me on my toes and looking alive for my REAL BIRTHDAY, my roommate Dice got me this amazingly sweet reminder of the good old days at home with my brothers.

NOTE: Dice is so very much like any one of my brothers in a given moment, that this totally acceptable and fitting, coming from him.

Smile, and Nod.

So last year (as well as the previous year), I recall writing a post around my birthday about how my mother flaked me off for the dinner that she had planned and made me commit myself to way ahead of time. She is a professional at this type of thing and has been celebrating my birthday in such a manner since I can remember, in all honesty; so it doesn’t affect me, anymore. If anything, the instance of this type of things wins me money placed on bets made with various people leading up to my birthday, without fail.

  •  May the Gods bless my mother and each and every one of her strange and remarkably injurious shortcomings toward her children.

This year, she surprised me a bit by completely switching the date of my birth to that of yesterday. We sat through a meal last night following an intense disagreement surrounding the day that I was actually born. Upon my pulling out my driver’s license, she even went as far as to try and tell me that they incorrectly recorded my birth details (because I was born on the reservation and the record-keeping wasn’t too reliable back then), a statement which I KNOW to be untrue because my father told me so many times about taking me, himself, to the local hospital and county clerk, etc. to handle my true and technical registration as a person.

In my Life, any discretion between my parents always ends in my own mind with my long-dead (too fucking long already) father winning, hands down. He was a logical man; an engineer brain, a computer geek, and a military spirit…the one and only fluke to his behavior was the uncharacteristic element of “a psychedelic artist”, in spite of being the notorious “wet blanket” among his friends due to his unwillingness to ever try any type of hallucinogen during the 60’s and 70’s. He was a damned good acid-trip painter; and painted shit that made me cross-eyes, even as a sober little girl. But, I digress…

Point is, there has always been a striking contrast between my parents; the story of them is so bizarre and happenstance in its totality that it left me and my brothers pondering their union as very young children, in the face of such differences in their characters. Apparently, these ponderings will never end until we are all dead and gone, because they were strong as ever last night as I “celebrated my birthday” with my beloved mother, Willow, three days early.

Under Foot.

Temper-treated,

pressed ‘n pleated,

predisposed and superseded,

diagnosed,

poorly heeded,

over-psychiatrically,

pre-treated,

super-imposed,

pin-up prose,

cake-layer completed,

centrally distributed,

locally re-heated,

self-stimulated,

pseudo-violated,

over-chewed,

nearly spewed,

swallowed up,

oh Hell –

regurgitated,

won’t sit well,

if stacked up to,

the tried and true,

another epic fail,

shoddily fabricated,

horizontally situated,

systematically nauseated,

linguistically free,

tongue in cheek,

verbally inebriated,

an atrocity,

a featherless Crane,

singed into the brain,

of the Herring,

a forsaken queen,

been busy,

out bone-collecting,

well beyond her means,

never satiated,

by her plundering,

blindly placated,

by the obsolete,

of the broken-spirited,

broken down,

rotted through,

to an army paraded,

beneath the sole of my shoe.

Kicking.

If you could somehow –
only get a look at me now,
alive, with a surprise kick –
to my birthday number thirty-six;
bet you’d been sure you’d outlast –
the years of mine still slipping passed,
who could’ve known how it’d look –
at the final chapter of your big, bad book;
I don’t mean to convey this fact maliciously –
but, after all, you tried to steal the life from me,
so, you’ll excuse me – for recognizing the irony –
of one more birthday under this belt on me;
so many days filled with bad memories –
nights too afraid to close my eyes to sleep,
at last now, slowly but surely-you’re fading away –
while I trudge through towards next year’s birthday;
I’m not always happy by how my existence is defined –
but I never forget getting a second chance to be alive,
despite the trivial bullshit that keeps me up at night –
life is love – love is truth – and truth burns eternally bright.