Stripped back constructs
of disguised suppression
stir hopeful postulations –
I am bare-boned, dreaming,
questioning realities marred
by incestuous suspicions,
intending renewal, probing
dank floorboards housing
codependent disharmony.
This state of disrepair
manifests ego-inundated
trivialities, reveals burial…
blackened circles of rage –
coffin-like – implode, emit
entombed screams – echo
tremors of past fault lines,
destabilizing augmentation –
the liability of renovation.
Played host to insecurity,
catered to bullying,
undermined by warped
agendas – slayed by
provincial minds –
retreated, convalesced,
sanitized lost vitality,
believed in phantoms,
haunted by compulsions,
attempted rescues,
counseled to let go.
Shell-shocked
in the aftermath,
incoherent,
judging self,
incomprehensible.
Where do I go from here?
Ignore criticism,
disarm cruelty,
sanctify privacy,
detach, discern,
redefine boundaries,
embrace enlightened,
caring, receptive –
choose life.
I covet a place hidden
from view, tucked in
between the Highway
Of Life’s Disappointments
and the Edge of the World.
Access cloaked by years
of unkempt bramble, forks
left, just before the abrupt
right turn onto the Freeway
Of Destiny’s Next Calling.
A hermit’s cottage, quaint,
shrouded in the Forest of
Puppeteers, where one can
live a simple pantomime –
pretend strings don’t exist.
Perpetually perched between
bustle and abyss – a child’s game
of I can’t see you, you must not
be able to see me –Â I’d sleep,
a blissful state of detachment.
Those eyes – simultaneously
pleading and apologetic –
sweet eyes begging for attention
which I cannot give – understand
that I am unable to extend any
more responsibility – am over-
taxed – just want to retreat, be
burden-free – the affection you
crave from me unavailable.
Remember simpler times?
How you and I would curl up
arm in arm, on the rug in front
of the television – inseparable.
Disinterested, you would turn
your back to me, and I would
nestle into your solidity, feel
comforted, accepted, reassured.
Oh, how we’d play – outdoors,
you chasing me on my bicycle,
teasing, threatening to topple
and I’d laugh till I cried – I loved
you so. And at night, you would
sneak into my room and without
waking me, fall asleep – it was
our undoing – you were exiled.
I know you only wanted to be
near, but what you didn’t know,
couldn’t know, was that I was
never meant to be so attached
to another – that your loyalty
was affecting my well-being –
that unconditional love, such
as yours, was never in my
karma – please understand.
When I let you in my life again,
I was not the same person –
already worn down, unable to
open my heart – it was not you –
you are guileless, pure of intention –
I could never blame you – it is all
me – don’t give me those eyes –
you know I’d love you in a nano-
second if it were not for this
terrible affliction – this bodily
reaction to any contact between us.
Now you come to me in dreams,
eyes still tender, gentleness your
constant demeanour, still asking for
my acceptance and even in such
a state of unconsciousness, I both
remember your love and reject you –
what am I to do? I know you will
persist, have witnessed your dogged
determination – but do not know how
to respond – so undeserving, am I,
of your resilient love.
Disability wants me back to work
(rehabilitation they have promised)
and since I’ve given up my car –
driving is difficult when cognitively
impaired – I’ve decided to take a bus.
It’s a school bus, which is fitting,
although much harder to drive
than I had originally anticipated,
and since I’ve been assigned to
a new school, parking is a problem.
This is an inner city school, so no
parking on site, and if they expect
me to park at the back of some lot
across the street, they are sorely
misinformed about my capability.
I cannot walk that distance, and
come to think of it, I will not be
able to maneuver through the
hallways of this three-story ark –
we are not off to a good start.
I pull in front of the school – begin
my return by breaking rules – and
head for the office to explain my
misguided efforts and question
the sensibility of this whole idea
when I suddenly realize that even
before I’ve entered the classroom
I’ve just abandoned a whole load
of students, who are undoubtedly
wondering where their bus got to.
This rehabilitation scheme has
proven to be a bigger fiasco than
any extravagances I have allowed
myself – and paid for – since falling
ill – thank god I’m only dreaming.
To my insurance company, I say:
thank you for being there, and the
support administered monthly, and
please be patient – I will voluntarily
return to life when feasibly plausible.
I forge a path,
for those who follow –
my children and theirs.
We lived a small-town,
incestuous fishbowl
life, before the change.
As much as I would
recapture the simplicity,
nothing is ever the same.
The horizon has shifted –
former choices vacated,
sad memories remain.
Eerie desolation repels,
yet I’ve lost an essential
part of me, cannot leave.
Was it curiosity that lured
me into that seedy corner –
forced me into darkness?
Did I not see evil lurking
behind the black curtains,
deception masking as mystery?
I rage for what was taken,
strike out against injustice,
cry vainly for innocence lost.
My daughter, myself,
stripped, shamed,
dishonoured, for what?
Sexual gratification?
Exploitation and profit?
Is nothing sacred?
We lie to ourselves –
we women – born to
appease – disillusioned.
Abandon our birthright,
are marketed, consumed,
objectified, souls shattered.
I rage against the inequity,
plead for common sense
to save them – my daughters.
From the hell I’ve lived,
from patriarchy’s treachery,
from the hurt I’ve inflicted.
I’ve forged a path for none
to follow, pray they choose
another, brighter way.
Please be warned,
if you invite me to share
in an issue about which
you are overworked,
I will involve myself.
While you are
attempting to ascend,
I will be vetting out
the underminer –
aiming at sizeable
transformation.
I will dress myself
in false shades of
compassion, pretend
grace, while all the
while prodding –
trigger-happy.
No doubt, my
pursuit will result
in mortal injury –
chasing redundancies
is an obsession
of mine.
While you’re looking
for closure, I will
be killing the
proverbial
‘fat lady”
so there will
be no end.
Please be warned,
if you engage my
participation,
on any level,
you can be
sure of
overkill.
Muted shades of browns
and greys
define my black and white
existence
while succulent pink skies
explode in my dreams: neon
green vibrancy beckoning,
enticing – rude reminders.
My life is measured in
handfuls
one visit a week, two
outings
three phone calls, seven
minutes
for standing, fifteen for
sitting.
I dream in exponentials
multiples of numbers,
unlimited possibilities,
combinations, outcomes.
I live a stripped down
dirt floor
one room, structurally
unsound
solitude, boundary-less
instability
and dream of concrete
cities, institutions housing,
nurturing, protecting, life
with abundance – crowds.
How do I resign myself
to this juxtaposed reality,
fill in the missing gaps,
find sustenance in a void?
Acceptance is shattered,
faith
undermined, storm clouds
intensifying
threatening cyclones of
chaos
blacken the horizon, no
bottom
in sight to ease this soul.
Only in dreams will I find
my legs, run with mercy,
embrace freedom, and
know fullness of spirit,
fueling one more day
of survival,
until I am once again
whole.
It’s not that I’m not open
to new perspectives –
I am aware of daylight
beyond these walls –
conscious that mine is
not the only viewpoint.
It’s just that the inflexibility
of this existence is unrelenting,
and I have come to see opposing arguments
in the bleak morbidity of aging –
am having doubts about the willingness
of skilled, principled, professionals
whose rigorous platforms require
energetic, sheltered, regard.
I am lacking confidence
in my ability to articulate –
sanitizing personal inkling,
disinfecting institutional
impotency.
What lesson have I signed up for?
How is it I’ve found myself,
mired in sterility,
shrouded in grey,
an unwitting student
in my own life?
“I am sending you a red box,”
the voice says in my dream
(a dream within a dream, really).
“Will you be there to receive it?”
An image of a lipstick-red, life-sized,
shiny red box dances in my head.
“I will!” I say, wondering who would
send me such an extravagant gift.
“Will you be coming, too?”
I add quickly, remembering manners.
I am asleep, if you recall, have no idea
who I am speaking to: a poor connection.
“Do you know who I am?” asks caller.
“Yes, of course!” I respond, not actually
knowing at all, trying to be polite.
“Looking forward to it.” Am I?
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Surprised and delighted!” I assure,
falsely – in this semi-consciousness,
sensibility has not yet set in.
Only when I disconnect, do I panic.
Some distant memory surfaces,
a vague recollection of indiscretion –
have I invited danger into my house?
Now, I am awake – faculties firing,
heart still beating, curious/ alert.
What could this mean, this
dream within a dream?
Look to where my mind went –
larger than life expectations,
when no such detail was revealed –
was the panic just as unwarranted?
Am I subconsciously mocking:
commenting on the instability
of thought processes, in this
altered state of health?
I ponder meaning, wonder at
the significance of red boxes,
when my husband delivers –
a small, red patterned box.
“I won this for you,” he says.
Three beaded necklaces inside.
I thank him, dismissively, rapt
in my mystery, inattentive –
I’m sending you a red box;
was the message, will you be
present to receive it? – Oh God!
The pieces fall in place.
Presence alone heals
weakening connections,
honest communication,
with expectations aside.
Distraction, fear, anxiety
are the undermining factors
that rape relationships
turn us from the actual gift.
I am awake, but dreaming
suspended between fantasies
of promising futures, and insults
from the past – selfish indulgence.
Marriage is the red box,
in its ever altered form –
offering endless gifts if
only we’d receive it.
One Woman's Quest 