Notes on My Life

  • The Haunted Hotel

    As I write the title and press space, the power flashes very briefly in the room, as if the energy in the room itself gasps. I feel my stomach drop and then feel funny all over. I’m pretty sure the keyboard flashed too, even though it’s not plugged in. I may not write more before morning comes. I am a bit afraid to sleep here, more so now. Will my dreams be more vivid than usual, or not at all? Is just processing this reality too much to create dreams now, while I’m still in it. But I do know that I am not able to fall asleep in this period, for some reason, probably sadness, is making me not want to sit still.

    I wake up the next morning not remembering any dreams. I don’t think I was able to dream as I was too high. This pattern is dangerous and I know it. Black out high is the same as black out drunk with just a different hangover. Not remembering is the goal. Total escape. How do I tame the internal struggle between my old self, the one with the addictive tendencies, the one that goes wild for food and nicotine. The one that tamps down feelings with sugar and fullness. When I smoke, I smoke. I absolutely don’t stop. My new self wants to be present, and this is possible, but one must be a certain level of stoned, like the one I managed yesterday afternoon and evening. A little high, and things seem clearer, calmer. The THC having a calming effect, it helps with anxiety. It also destroys my concept of time and planning, sitting deep in my emotions. I learned something interesting about myself yesterday, my mind in its grieving and high state actually refused to comprehend the necessary time that it would take to complete a task before my Aunt and Uncle were leaving town. An object permanence issue again, perhaps, but inversely – they were here, so I was thinking of them as indefinitely here, existing in a world where the were here to help, with no beginning and no end. In fact, they only stayed for 36 hours, and not having met them for dinner the night before yesterday meant that I would only see them for about six hours. Six hours to talk, grieve, tell stories, make arrangements, and tackle logistics. Six hours, and they would be gone the next morning. Six hours and no time to stay, after taking five days to get here, geo-caching along the way, driving through Texas, which is not on the way from Missouri, at all, but now they are in a hurry. At least, I’ve said out loud several times, they had the gift of the experience of passing through the Saguaro cactus desert the morning after mom died. It seemed like an appropriately dramatic journey to make after receiving such news.

    Last night, well evening, at an appropriately early time, we had dinner at a German Restaurant that they’d picked out. It was delightful, very modern, and the food was excellent. We were talking about the logistics of moving mom’s things, and I disassociated from the conversation, thanks in part to the cannabis. The plan was that they would take a few things with them in their Prius up north to the house, and they could only fit a few things, of course. So what should they take? I’d have to prep a few things to go with them, ready for 8 am, so I must do it tonight, I finally deduced, after planning to go directly to the hotel and pass out. My mind had refused to connect the two events to the now, that tonight I would need to do it as tomorrow they were leaving. Nope, too tired, my body said, and my mind played along. Can’t do it tonight. Once reminded that today and tomorrow are in fact quite dependent on each other, quite inevitable it seems, I finally was able to be talked back into taking action, or losing the plot completely Ok, I will, if I have to.

    This morning I still feel the cushion of cannabis enveloping my brain and my body. Smoking home grown weed is best for me, as my sister, as well, seems to like a long, strong body high. My body feels when high, really feels. I can feel sadness moving though my body, it is overwhelming. I must focus on that, as it helps the sorrow move through and away from my heart, as I’m afraid it might kill me if it stays there.

    I feel the proximity of my departure draw closer, the days divided into only two parts, morning and afternoon, as the pain is too heavy to make plans in the evening. Yesterday 5:30 felt so late, I could have slept then but instead got high, listened to music, feeling the songs on the radio and suffering with them. Song after song came on Pirate Radio that seemed just for me. I felt tremendous guilt for just sitting, smoking cigarettes, and listening to music. Where else do I have to be? What else do I have to do? This is all. This is grieving. My body slowed by the grief and the weed to a near halt, floating on my back in a Salton Sea, languishing in emotion, not wanting to move, just drift in the idle, heavy waves, lulled into a state in between sleep and awake where I can just be sad.

    So now I must go, again, to my mother’s apartment, to pack her things, to sort her papers, to take care of her belongings one last time. It’s hard not to be sentimental about every last thing, as she feels still attached to everything. I am very aware of the tendencies to keep everything, to find meaning where there is none. But as I pack up her clothes for the last time, I find pieces that I will wear when I go home to visit, things that Cele might like, or my sister might reach out for when she needs something cosy. I save the ‘house clothes’ as I’ve always called them, the items that are so cool, so good, they must never be lent out, as they belong to the house. They can only be work with the expressed intent of returning them to be washed, put back, and reworn by the next visitor. The old Illini sweatshirt that is probably as old, or older than me, and its newer counterpart, the Marine Diving Humboldt State hoodie, a classic gem of a shirt, now a relic of the recent past too, as HSU is now Humboldt Cal Poly Technic, a great school, a great upgrade, a place I not at all secretly hope the kids will fall in love with and want to attend, a school thousands of miles away from home but in Grandma’s backyard, a place I hope to fill with years of memories.

    Now I must go and pack again, for the last time.

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  • The Sad Clown

    I went to Mom’s apartment alone last night. I knew, with our Aunt and Uncle coming today, that it would be the last moment of calm in her studio at the care home I could be with her in her space, unaltered, one last time. It was sad and comforting. I lay still and fell asleep in the space, on her bed, where she had lain so many evenings and afternoons before.

    As I was packing her stuff, gently, for the last time. I found a silver coin. It fell off of something so that I could find it. Then it fell off while I was packing the car so that I could again find it. I’ve again put it somewhere safe, forgotten immediately. I will find it again when I need to. It only occurs to me now, when I get up this morning and wonder where it is, that it was meant for me. It was a silly oversized coin from a casino, somewhere that wouldn’t have been of any significance to her. On the back was an image, and above a title, The Sad Clown.

    Pagliacci, the sad clown. She understood a certain sadness that we both shared. She knew that there were not always happy endings, she lived many lives without one. But this suffering, it makes us human. This is not American film, this is closer to an opera. Don’t be afraid to cry the sad cries for your self, your loss, your life. It’s probably not just going to be ok.

    Now I must go, and be, but I take this lesson with me today. If I must be the sad clown, the jester, I can do so once again, for her, for peace.

  • Ghost Train

    At night now in our ‘after’ hotel, we can hear the trains pass. They remind me of Lincoln’s Ghost Train, a long sad funeral train that crossed the state of Illinois, maybe even the country, after he was assassinated. The long, slow moans echo in sorrow throughout the landscape.

    The trains seem their loudest at night, when there is not so much noise around. They make all sorts of sounds, long and low or fast and high, announcing their variations in speed and moods. You can hear the different meanings if you listen closely. Some seem to be calling out, on the road home. Others drift by on a soft tweet, like a tired bird at the end of the hot day. They come and go, slow and steady but stable. Predictable, not exactly like clockwork but close enough, they pass.

    Sleeping is the new challenge. I am so very, very tired, but I do not want to sleep, afraid of what awaits me. Too many signs have arrived to confirm what we already know is the truth, the truth that we face when we are raw and receptive, that everything is connected, the divine is present, and we can channel the presence of our dearly departed loved ones anytime we want. This looks crazy to write, is it crazy to read as well? Once you tune into the spiritual energy that is all around, it’s hard to turn it off. I place myself and my needs at my center to remain centered, grounded in this physical life. Having this experience has been an intense spiritual and emotional reckoning. This reminds me of a book that was featured on Amanpour and Friends last night, by V, the author formerly known as Eve Ensler. The book charts her journey of reckoning with the memory of her father, through her own personal history, and created a change in her so strong that she changed her name to V, feeling alien to her former self, when she identified as Eve.

    I am on my own personal journey, too, but for me it is back to Susannah. Since leaving the US in 2010 I went back to using my name, Susannah, instead of Suzi. Wait, it was even before that; perhaps it was when I moved to DC I started to switch back, or earlier even – in LE. You see, Suzi was a nickname that I gave myself when I was much younger, maybe junior high is when I started to introduce my self as Suzi, as I though it was a much cooler, funner name than Susannah. Maybe it was eight grade, when I realised that there was another choice out there, the punk choice, though in that time the term that was used was ‘alternative’. This term was a catch-all for the post-punk kids who wanted nothing to do with the established order of things. They saw through the bullshit of playing along to get ahead, a view that I shared. They were the skaters, as most of them skated; I did not. In retrospect, I have seen them with a new perspective, many of them were from difficult homes, where forging an outsider identity would have been a form of escape, and self acceptance. As we got older, through high school, friend groups began to broaden, across formerly strict lines, divided by class, neighbourhood, IQ, and race. Now us kids seemed a little bit more enlightened about seeing each other as equals, facing the same struggles as young people finding their ways in the world. Everyone seemed to be suffering in their own ways, clawing their way to the top of some imaginary pyramid, constructed by the pressure to be the best, at something, and the goal of being the ultimate success story.

    I grew up in the country with no paved surfaces outside so I never learned to skate, whether on a board or skates. Learning to ride a bike was hard enough, I remember the feeling of balancing on my bike and a feeling of great fear, should I fall off the bike I would hit the bumpy gravel ground below and surely hurt myself. I was driven to learn by the fear of pain, that is sure.

    The fast freight train passes through with a many-chorded pronouncement of a hoot. Long and strong, it must be heavy freight. The end sounds kind of panicked, perhaps someone was too close to the tracks? The long rhythmic rumble carries on. It must’ve been a long, heavy load.

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  • The Grief

    Here we are, now. The day after, the morning after the night before. In a hotel room, not far away, we have woken up to a world where our mother no longer exists in her body. She is all around, though, everywhere all at once.

    This morning, for the first time, I noticed one small sea green crystal on a necklace of all pink crystals, a necklace that I found on my last trip to her house. On that last trip I actually spent a few moments on myself, instead of just staying busy in her house, doing things for her, packing her things to take to Oakland for her to have there in her care home apartment. I gave myself the pleasure of organising her jewellery, one category of her stuff that I’d left before as it wasn’t essential to the organisation of the house. Non-essential to life, but jewellery is very important, and telling. It tells the tale of a person’s life, in small doses. The pieces are like little relics from moments. This is why I like to buy jewellery on vacation, or during a special time. I feel that the object can hold the memory of the time, can act as proof of existence at a later time. I have always struggled with object permanence, and I lately have tried to understand why. Is it my insecure attachment to my mother, my father, something determined in infancy? Is it from growing up in environmental chaos, a disheveled home, surrounded by too many objects, therefore unable to discern the useful and beautiful from all the rest? I don’t know yet, but I am aware that there is something there, at the root of it all, that I have yet to discover.

    Going through Mom’s jewellery was a journey through her life. There were delicate gold pieces, I assume from before she had children. On finding these, I could imagine her life before, at University, a polished young woman from Chicago, shy and full of hopefulness. What happened to her? The pieces of this story continue to reveal themselves. An old boyfriend got back in touch with her recently, what was he like? It occurs to me that we have to tell him, she’s gone. Also, I might ask him, what was she like, before? He could help me to understand the timeline of events, of secrets we never discussed, secrets that impacted everything in her, and how she was, as our mother.

    I found many pieces from the years we did not speak. She loved to buy jewellery, one of the few pleasures she would afford herself in her life. I found pieces in doubles, likely meant for me and Camille. I found lovely post pins, California-themed, which I gave to my kids on my last return. There were also enough silver crosses for all the kids to each have one when they are old enough. I will give Celestine one for her first communion this spring. The boys will have them when they are baptised, or perhaps I will wait for their first communion, as well. I took the pink crystal necklace back with me to France with other bits of her jewellery that I found in my moment. The pink is a calming colour, and I have worn it around my mother lately, and prayed with it on my body. Today there is one small green crystal that I did not notice before Perhaps it is her, she changed it, I think.

    Last night we sat with her for hours, holding her hands, crying on her, over her, together for the last time, the three of us. We played music she loved, music we loved, danced a little in our sorrow. Her faced changed throughout, tiny little breaths leaving bit by bit. I believe her spirit lingered there with us, and left with us as well. Her face grew more and more relaxed, more and more youthful, more at peace.

    I know the memories are locked in, I cannot remember every moment now, as the grief has arrived in a new form. I know from experience that all of these little moments will come back, piece by piece, and I must write as often as I can, whenever I remember a new story.

    We stayed together for more than four and a half hours and it was beautiful.

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  • She’s Gone

    As simple as that, she felt us, she left us. How strange it is to write these words, what a strange relief. Now I feel terrible guilt. But to recognise them is to help the feelings to be seen and heard and then go away. They are not destined to become part of our hardwiring, like before. For now, we will make new memories, new patterns of being, so that our children and our loved ones know that it’s ok. It’s ok to have feelings, to feel them. Yes it is hard, and sad, and difficult. Life is not always easy. Why do we think we must live without suffering? Why have we been sold this American Dream? The trappings of consumption have sold us the lie that to have the perfect life is possible, if only we buy the newest and best, next thing. But that is all for now on that topic. I must stay rooted in the moment here.

    Once in a lifetime you die. To be able to be a part of that transformation is a gift. We have been here – to be present, to hold space, to participate in that transition – and it was a gift to know when it was coming. I will have my mother with me forever, for we are the keepers of the story, the chaplain reminded me. She was there, when I came out of the room where mom was, and she was the only person I asked to see. No more medical people. Just me and Mom and God.

    I will write more later, as for now I must be present.

  • Impossibility

    Again, it has been a week that we have been in here. Another week that this fierce woman, such a fighter, has beat the odds. She has been given hours every day for a week. My hope is that she is able to do her work to leave this earth, in her mind, spirit, and soul. I had seen this going very differently. Not sure what I’d expected but I’m pretty sure that it didn’t involve my mother dying like this. We’ve worked so hard to give her the dignity to die in her own place, on her own terms. Yet here we are, all rooming in at the hospital, free of the imbedded comforts of home, where it’s easy to grab the book, music, or snack that you need to calm things down. For we are on a constant state of alert, and it is exhausting our nervous systems, all of them. I am not at all prepared for the shock that awaits me. My mother, my living breathing mother, who has been an enigma to me for so long, will no longer be, shortly. I am facing the The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Eyes of Someone Living. *

    I think of this idea a lot. Is there enough flexibility in the sober mind to be at peace with the cognitive dissonance brought about by the idea of death? Can we be at peace with science and spirituality? This is a space in which art can help us to be. It is not this artwork, named above, of the shark suspended in the tank of formaldehyde that haunts me now, though the name itself has stayed with me for years. It is another work by Damien Hirst that comes to me when I think about life, death, and the afterlife. This work is For the Love of God *, a diamond encrusted 18th century skull which was presented in the core of Tate Modern in 2011, in the Turbine Hall, an impressive industrial structure with an open interior, 6 storeys tall. The architecture feels like that of a modern pyramid made of steel and concrete, an industrial giant, a marvel, a deity worshiping the gods of power and electricity. It’s size and cavernous shape offer the perfect placement for a black box gallery that contains the skull. The rapidly decreasing size here focuses one to confront this death mask as though looking through a zoom lens. One must confront, confront, confront. The skull seems to say, in Hirst’s sense of humour, that as much as you try to dress it up, you still can’t save yourself from the inevitability of death. No matter what power, money, richesses you possess, this is your fate. So here I am, doing the same dance, hoping that the next cigarette or tv show or song might delay the inevitable. Praying for a miracle just helps me avoid dealing with thinking about what happens next. There is a universe in which she gets up, and does a happy skeleton dance, and goes on with her life. Maybe this universe is all in my mind, it’s impossible to know.

    Here we are now, in a universe where my mother has spent her last few days on morphine, a drug which I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t like. My mom wasn’t exactly a tea-totaller, but I’m sure she wouldn’t like narcotics. I realise that the tense I use when speaking, thinking about her is a mix of present and past. I’m ok with that. I know she likes psychedelics, as she made some great pot butter, which them became pot cheese, by no effort on her part, that was our go to on toast for a while last year. She was into trying MDMA, but as I didn’t follow up and she was unable to do so for herself, it seems that we have missed that boat as well. But we are in California, and there are good dispensaries everywhere, including just next door in Temescela at Root’d 510 where the medical cannabis menu is quite impressive. I will go back there today when they open to see how I might better serve my mother, and her right to die on her own terms.

    A disclaimer here, I feel I must be honest and transparent. I will address this separately but for now time is limited and I must make choices and be brief. I am no longer sober, I am alcohol-free. I have been using cannabis again, sometimes smoking, vaping, and eating edibles. I have cracked under the psychic pressure of this situation to depend on it again to help me through. I am grappling with my addictive nature, addictive tendencies, and also trying to be gentle with myself. I am trying to enjoy the calming nature of the plant, the perspective and reassurance it gives to me in this situation. I am trying to balance using it to help me with the need to be present in this difficult moment, a task that alone feels like more than my body can handle. I am in the place, like my mother was last weekend before we brought her back in, via ambulance, where emotional and physical pain meet and become indistinguishable from the other. They work together to destroy all perspective, understanding, and ability to move forward. They are crippling. So for now I am again using cannabis to deal with all of this, I am trying to use it to better understand and be at peace with this, and to tap into my intuition as well. I am not sober, but I am alcohol free, and for now that is ok. I am doing the best that I can.

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  • Lying In

    We are now all in the hospital, Mom, Me, Camille, two cots next to Mom’s hospital bed, and a lot of bags surround us. I have such absolute deep sorrow in me. At the same time, I am thankful that she is still with us. I wonder if her laboured but relaxed breathing will just stop. I wonder how it will end. My precious mother, now forgiven completely by me, free of the debts and disappointments of her life. I wonder if she feels that her’s was a life well-lived. What are her regrets? Does she think about that now or does she simply dream, visiting the memories of her life, passed, or does she create new ones for the future? She is doing her work, said Thalia, our hospice nurse and angel. What had me troubled was the work she was going through the other night, the night that we left her care home for what is told will be the last time. She was oh so very distressed, holding her forehead in either or both pain and worry. It was a terrible thing to watch, knowing that there was nothing I could do, I couldn’t reach her as the pain was too much. I could see all of the things she was facing. Sometimes it is hard to even separate emotions from physical feelings, when they are bad.

    She’s better here, they said, she’ll get the comfort care she needs. Now we can rest with her, and lie down with her. But there are no more conversations, only monologues. I do love a monologue, just ask my husband, and now here lies my most captive audience ever. I should say the things I need to say, while she is still here in here body, at least a bit.

    I must write this now as my body and mind are both so tired. I am not thinking well, straight or in any other direction. I am a crumpled paper bag, wet in the rain, that slowly takes on the moisture to soften, and then completely disintegrate onto the pavement. I don’t know what I am supposed to do. I have been doing my best to make this right, to do what I can to connect at the end, but it all seems so futile now. If I believe that her spirit goes on, that means I can speak with her after, too. To be in comfortable silence with her seems right, and why not?

    There are many questions left unanswered, about our life together when I was a child, my father, so many things. She was the only one left to know things that will now die with her. I had questions to ask, but not the time. I was too busy worrying about her care, and her pain, and I, we, were drowning in the responsibility of it all, not knowing what to do.

    So now I sit here, wondering, and waiting to know when she will pass. Any amount of time is a gift, but what do you do with it? I write in hopes that I can revisit, knowing that I will revisit these questions at a later time, all of them, and I will have to come up with the answers all on my own.

  • Intensive Care

    It is not lost on me, as I come to the crossroads in the corridor, that on the left is the NICU and to the right is the ward which contains my mother’s room. This floor of the hospital is a special place, maybe even a portal for souls, on the verge of life, and death. To the left, the tiny babies in the incubators, fresh and clean to the world, knowing nothing but the inside world, the before, in the wombs of their mothers, and now, out, feeling in their bodies for the first time, wiggling, and wanting to sleep, be held and eat.

    I’ll never forget the cries of my babies in the NICU, proof to me that they really do come with fully formed souls in them, babies. My Constantin would cry loud like his life depended on it. His cry, said the nurses, was not one to be ignored, ever, and he was sure he wanted to eat. His latch was difficult from the beginning, and he would pull off with resolute determination when he was done. Even in utero he would stretch, pushing to get out. I was worried that they had been given the right names, as they were taken out of me with a cesarean section, and I wasn’t sure who was who. But when I saw him stretch, I knew it was him. I knew him before he was even born.

    And now I sit next to my mother, who knew me before I was even born, who had wanted a baby before me, but was told she couldn’t keep it, as she prepares to leave this world to go to the next place, the next body, the next life, I wonder what she felt before she had me. Did she feel my sensitivity before I came? Did she pass her knowledge, her fears, her experiences down to me, before I was even born? Did I know her as well, her soul having been so close to mine, as she grew my body inside of her? This I both know, and will never know, and in between this lies faith.

    Faith that we have known each other, in this lifetime and before, and that we will continue to know each other in this lifetime and beyond, working through our cosmic knowing, finding our way, intersecting, forever knowing.

    Just down the hall, life enters and is cared for with kid gloves as here we care for our mother, respecting her wishes and dignity and loving her just as she is, as she prepares to leave her body, with the same care and attention as those tiny babies, who are just on their way in.

    For now I am still living in a world in which my mother exists, and for that I am deeply grateful.

  • Here We Are

    Listening to Handel’s Messiah in mom’s room, at her bedside, in the hospital. What a moment to be alive. Here we are now, nothing else matters except this moment, and the hope of another moment with her, here, on this earth. Hoping that she hears these ancient notes and song and feels the spirit in her. And heaven and nature sing.

    A long, slow build that starts in the second song of at least forty others, a piece created in love, praise, and admiration of the miracle of God, so many years ago, when a symphony must have been considered a modern miracle.

    This moment will forever be mine, just as this music continues to live forever, centuries beyond its creation, the notes sing to create a long, deep, meditation on life and joy, themselves creating an opus of joy and beauty. So too will her spirit become timeless, a part of the ether of my life, my memory, and of all those others who have loved her.

    Remember no matter how bad it may seem for you, that you have touched so many lives with your kindness, your spirit, your joy, your lessons. You may be an angel to someone else, having shown up in their life at just the right moment, when you needed to be there, and created a small miracle in their life, becoming part of their story. Their path, you may have changed it, a puff of encouragement, or aide, or reassurance, to keep them strong in their moment of darkness. A reminder that they are not alone. This is the God, the real miracle, to be able to see each other’s beauty, vulnerability, and humanness and to act with kindness and love. This I have learned by being with my mother, today, and forever, Hallelujah.

    Well, the CD goes silent every few songs so I wonder if she really likes it or if she just floating in energy in the room and turning it off. What a journey she must be on. We all love a bit of drama in this family, so I’m sure she appreciates the operatic noise and intensity. It’s because of her, and PBS, that I love the opera. My god, the intensity, the passion, the depth of emotion. One of my classic Halloween costumes was the sad clown from Pagliacci. I had a poster of him on my wall, probably from in the fourth grade. This was my normal. It wasn’t exactly him, per se, but Picasso’s rendition. I guess I’d seen this painting at the Art Institute of Chicago, as this was our regular outing when we would go to visit Mom’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa D, in their very grown up apartment in Villa Park, Illinois. It was a tony suburb next to the even tonier suburb of Oak Park, where Mom had gone to High School for a time, and I think graduated, after their time in Oakland. So every holiday when we would visit, Mom and Grandma D would take us downtown to the museums, sometimes the Field where there was, and probably still is, the Fairy Castle, a dream dollhouse made for a Golden Age princess, probably a Field herself. Most often though, and this continued for many years, we would go to the Art Institute on most visits. Even then I was terrified of the 3rd rail of the El, and would imagine the worst possible fate for all of us, especially my little brother, and would hold him close to me, as close to the middle of the platform as possible. So off we would go, to see the treasures at the museum.. First, always, was the hall of armour, so wonderfully imposing. Then would be Sunday in the Park with George; I call it that because of the musical of that name, a delightful opus starring the glorious Bernadette Peters. Finally would be the Georgia O’Keefe painting of clouds over the stairs going down, a serene white hallway with natural ambient light – there must’ve been a skylight. Somewhere in all of this, surrounded by impressionist sunrises and post-war icons, was Picasso’s early period, and the loving portrait of the sad clown, with his white silk pyjamas with three big black pompons on the front, a stand-up collar, and a little hat. He was a youngish boy in this portrayal, perhaps one about my same size, at the time, so I really connected with his pale face and innocent poise.

    I forget now why I’m telling you this story, but it seems important. I must go now to see my sister downstairs, while I can still do so in a world where my mother is alive and with us, for time is short.

  • 24 Hours

    Hello. I write to you today next to my mother’s bedside, in the Emergency Room. Time is passing. I don’t even know how to start, so I start like this. What a 24 hours it has been. I have so many stories to tell but I don’t know where to begin.

    Last night I lost consciousness. It was the second time in a week. Should I be concerned? I would think so if I weren’t also having such intense spiritual experiences hand-in-hand with these losses of consciousness. I honestly think it’s all meant to be like this, and I’m just glad I didn’t hit my head, as I definitely don’t need to add that to the mix. Blacked out, though. I was gone gone gone, into another dimension. Left this realm and went into another dimension, for real. See, if you start to tap into the spirit world, or whatever you want to call it, you can’t just tap out. Maybe God can give you a rest, and for the love of all things holy could it be today?? I am so very grateful, and so very tired. So very, very tired. So much has happened, so many miracles, so many angels, but I am so very, very tired.

    I told mom last night that these 24 hours would be key. Just hold on, I said, and you’ll make it through, but you’ve got to fight. The devil came a knocking last night and we said, no Satan, not today!

    So many things, everything all at once, and angels everywhere. André, the maintenance man, who is also an artist, told me just to park the car inside the basement garage, just all the way up to the entrance, to the left, next to the boxes. Thank you so much, I said, as I was really just needing to control what I could control by knowing the car was inside and not going to get broken into. The jury is still out on whether or not it’s safe to park your car on the street in Oakland, but I’m cautious. Why the fuck not? Prepare for the worst and hope for the best. Why not, nothing to lose, hey?

    Anyway, this is halfway through the story this happens, after absolutely joking with the med-techs and the carers that the evening was still young, it was Chinese New Year, which explained the background fireworks earlier on. I don’t even remember what happened first, but I’m sure I’ll remember soon, as my brain and next level self slowly make friends. Slowly but surely I will integrate what I’ve been learning on this journey, this recent path, in this distant place, distant time from my life at home. Peace and ease is all I ask for now, for all of us, everywhere.

    Here I am, listening to Arlo Guthrie with my mom in bed and with Betty dancing, in the hospital, shaking out the weird feelings cause if you don’t they just stay in, as I write. Why not? All we have is this moment, and as sit here and write, my mom smiles the biggest damn smile that she could ever smile and rocks out, singing alone, and just as Arlo says to join in singing, mom says the same to anyone who’s listening. This is where I get it from, my sense of inclusion. It’s from her. Just wants everyone to feel loved, included. It’s crazy how dissonant our desires can be from our actions, if we aren’t in tune with ourselves. It’s so easy to just act from where we are, in our systems of behaviour, with no awareness of how our behaviours effect other people. Damaging others as we had been damaged, unawares of so much.

    Camille and I were discussing the plan for the evening, and we stepped out for a cigarette, went down to the lobby, and in the midst of our walk through the hall towards the door, we were stopped by two of the ladies working there who, in an excited panic told us that someone’s car had been broken into, in the back parking lot. Right where I was supposed to park, told by the management that downstairs was forbidden, but André had swooped in, knowing that I just needed to feel safe, and given that to me. The unfortunate car been smashed and grabbed, even under video surveillance. No shame, no fear, of being caught, stopped, or held accountable. Shit just happens, if you don’t take all of the advised precautions. You’ve got to listen to the signs, and watch out for the bullshit.

    Then the helicopter came. It circled over the care home area, quieter than the ones I remember, but it has been a long time since I’ve watched one circle over head, since LA-Corona times. How differently that must read than how I intended. Corona, before it became the virus that changed the world, was the town my family lived in in California when they finally moved out of the Midwest. It was once just a small horse town surrounded by orange groves, but by the time we got there it was on its way to being a failed suburban experiment. The only thing real thing left was a small part of the original town, where the houses each had backyard pastures, hitching posts out front, and a genuine identity. The rest of the town was strip malls and superstores, a sad, tired main street long forgotten, and lots and lots of houses, all looking the same. They had proportions that weren’t quite right, but worked, and everyone with a swimming pool. After years in Ohio, living in a small town surrounded by the poverty of hopelessness of Northern Appalachia, this could be seen as bright and shiny California dream.

    I didn’t love it, but I was happy to see my family coming to California. My father had been so happy to be out of there, for certain. I remember speaking to him once, catching up, when he was there first, before the family joined him, before they found the house. He was eating well and living his best life. He seemed really happy. I can still remember his smell a bit, if I really try. I spoke with Camille about this conversation too, last night, as I’ve just remembered. Pieces are coming back to me slowly.

    We talked about Uncle Kimmy, a friend of my mother’s who lived in Chicago. His name was Kim, and she tried to play him off to us as Uncle Kimmy. WTF, I even thought this as a kid, in kid language. This guy was not our uncle. He was a bit weird and nerdy and quiet, like my mum. He died not too long ago, which I had to tell Camille, in the same unexpected conversation we had in which she revealed to me that he was actually mom’s unrequited love, or something. This must have added yet another layer to my state last night, another seismic shift in my reality, in my schematic of the world as I knew it, then.

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