San Francisco

 Dear Will:

work by Anselm Kiefer, SFMOMA

I got back from San Francisco a week ago.  I meant to write to you earlier but when I came back I fell into my basement dweller self again, not calling anyone, not writing my thank-you notes, just smoking weed all day and sitting in the basement.  Oh, okay.  Yeah, I did have a great dinner with Stacey on Thursday night and I saw my dentist, my contractors, and the Tuesday group.  So I saw people.  And soon I will be getting my brain softened so I won't keep believing my friends don't call me because they really can't stand me and only put up with me because I force them to.   Soon...maybe by November, I'll actually be able to look at my friends' social media feeds without feeling so whiney!  

I know, I know.  Woulda been nice if my craziness had stopped while you still had your brains.  I remember one time you said, early on, that you didn't have time to deal with your own neuroses because you were so busy dealing with mine.

I missed you terribly the day I got to San Francisco and got sick in a restaurant and started crying, thinking that I couldn't function.  But I went to MOMA and the theatre and the symphony on Saturday and to Grace Cathedral and the Opera on Sunday.  I was popping weed gummies all day each day and felt great.

Do you remember the wonderful Rigoletto we saw in San Francisco, way back in the day?  Inside the set shaped like a box? I think that was San Francisco, anyway.  Could have been Portland. 

I think I was able to love San Francisco and be there by myself happily because it was mine before I met you.  New York was ours, never mine.  Except that one time.

I thought of you most often when I was in MOMA.   Especially when I saw the great Anselm Keifer.  Remember when we saw his work in Germany?  And then went to the great retrospective in the City?  His work is so vast and often ugly yet beautiful in its ugliness.

Like my grief for you.

Love,

Kake

Back to School

 My teacher friends are back at work. And I'm back at work this morning.  I'm taking a poetry class out of Sarah Lawrence Writing Center.  Our first assignment isn't due until next week but I've already written it.  Our prompt was to write something about doorways and have two questions.  So I gave myself the challenge of writing a sestina.  So, ok.  It ain't great.  Doesn't have enough physical detail.  But pretty good for two hours of writing.

AFTER 50 YEARS

 

 

Our first kiss was in the doorway

of your duplex. Chill autumn air

Invited us inside. Why wait?

Do you remember?  When we kissed

you were confused.  It was too fast.

It was too soon. I was too young.

 

I didn’t know that you were young

as well. I didn’t see a  doorway

to something permanent. “Love fast,

die young,” my plan. All up in air

the moment that we hugged and kissed

because I was too hot to wait

 

for freedom. And you couldn’t wait  

for a companion, so took a young

thing home. Were you surprised we kissed?

When we stepped through your doorway

what was your hope?  I sought to air

my youthful lust. Some called me “fast:”

 

an old insult. But we made fast

to love.  Remember the wait

during the blood test?  Orange August air

made us sweat.  We were both too young,

Me 18, you 43.  Doorway

to disaster! But when we kissed

 

something connected.  When we kissed

we didn’t know we’d be bound fast.

You didn’t hoist me through your doorway

and sometimes I couldn’t wait

for satisfaction and sought young

things myself.  “Give her the air,”

 

they said, who didn’t know us air

for each other. When last I kissed

your flesh, it chilled.  I am now young

again in this world, a long fast

of kisses ahead.  A long wait

until I pass through that doorway

 

to find you young, eternity’s air

a doorway bright, sun- kissed:

Love holding us fast. Till then I wait.

Drama - yuck

photo by hidefumi ohmichi on Unsplash

 I talked with a friend (A) yesterday who had experienced a weird communication from the friend I "broke up with" back in January (B).  I told her about the break up and then reassured her that friend B was a good person but that I had grown afraid of him because of my interpretations of his communication behaviors.

I kind of miss friend B but how can I restart a relationship with someone I'm afraid of?  Does my fear make sense?  Yes and no.  What is the reality?  I had a relationship with B for over a decade.  He did nice things for me.  I thought we had a dependable relationship.

And then against my expectations, he expected way more communication skill from me than was possible after Will's death.  I behaved inappropriately and then he blew up in a way that scared me.

I am someone who has had my world turned violently upside down a few times.  And when I say "turned upside down," what I mean is that an event occurred which undercut my understanding of how the universe was functioning.  These are times of extreme disruption of perception.

1. ghosting by first lover
2. oldest sister - "The Hero" - killing her child and trying to kill herself
3. kidnap-rape by strangers and disbelief by family members 
4. Will showing that he didn't accept a core aspect of me after we were bonded
5. relationship with emotionally abusive Irish Catholic
6. death and smelly rotting of best friend in grad school
7. accusation of sexual harrassment by good friend in the workplace
8. dementia of my sweetheart (a saga of dealing with piss and shit)
   
9. death of my partner of 50 years, 66 days, and 15 hours.
   

Here's the point.  I don't think my lost friend understands how PTSD has shaped my brain.  I'm about to read the book, The Body Keeps the Score.  Hopefully, this will help me to understand my fears and why I can't talk to certain people after a blow up.  After I read the book I'll think more about hiring a mediator to help our friendship restart.

The Shooting in Bend:  As I said to some friends the other day, as someone who experienced violence early, I think it's a privilege to live in America without having experienced it.