What do you see in this rock?
Warning: this post contains some time out words.
How do I process the game you played?
I am the subject of the game.
Or the victim.
Or no, I refuse. It is your game. I was not playing. I am the honey badger, metabolism so fast that I have to run from one meal to the next or else I will starve. I eat whatever I can find: cobras, bees, anything. I eat or I die.
You have tethered a honey badger to oxygen by playing a game.
I am the football and you have been kicking me, throwing me, catching me, slamming me to the ground as hard as you can in the end zone.
And now that I am worn and damaged and torn, you’ll toss me away, not even notice me, and find a new ball.
You will need a new football. To play with.
I don’t envy that person.
The truth is, it will be one of you. The group will rest on their laurels, oh, we nearly killed her, wasn’t it great? We showed her. She is so stupid, took her what, 21 years to fucking figure it out? And she thinks she’s so smart.
I was looking for food because I am always hungry. The food insecurity goes back to infancy. Maybe to the womb: my mother says she was not to gain weight and spent the entire pregnancy longing for a gigantic ice cream Sunday. Think of being in a womb, attacked by antibodies to tuberculosis, and starving all the time. Might be a little bit worried when birth happens. Fuck, I am going through a tunnel, what horrors await me here? But maybe there will be more food.
Maybe someone will love me. Maybe there will be someone for me to love. And feed. We can give each other food.
My advice to you is don’t be the ball. I was the ball for 21 years. I was so hungry the whole time, for food and for love, that I kind of noticed but dismissed it as unimportant. Food and love were more important. Work and my patients were more important. You don’t matter and your games are trivial.
It will be the weakest one who will be the ball. You worry that you are the one. You should worry. You had better look strong right away. Post some horror. Write something really tough. Don’t show anyone any niggling doubts. Um, the ball is wearing oxygen. I am feeling a little bad about this. Are you feeling bad about this? The ball isn’t just crazy, it’s hurt. Actually crazy is an illness too: I know that you discriminate and think that cancer is a legitimate illness and that mania isn’t, but you are assholes. No, you’re too small and pathetic to be an asshole. You are a one celled animal that is clinging to a hair on an asshole and you get shat on daily. And you know, deep deep in your tiny shrunken heart, that you deserve it.
I am so glad I am not you.
I am tethered to oxygen. But I am healing. I don’t think you can. You are locked in your small sick pathetic triangulation competition and pretending that it’s a game that it’s ok that you are just playing.
Meanwhile, the oxygen is portable.
I have food and I have love and I have work to do that lifts me on wings. I will go too near the sun and light on fire and fall burning, but that’s ok. I’ve done it before. The ocean heals me, always. It is so much fun to fly!
This is in memory of my mother, my father and my sister. I miss all three and I love them and they love me. Today is the day my mother died. The longer we live, the more days are days when someone that we love died. But they are still here. They are in the rocks and the sky and the trees and the coffee cup. They are not in sugary donuts or foods that cause heart attacks. But they are all around us, cradle us, still love us. Joy to you and the memories of your loved ones who have gone on. Blessings.
Well, that’s the way it is.
The picture is from Lake Matinenda in Ontario.
I was playing along a stream on Tuesday. It was darn hard to climb down to with my oxygen tank and camera. It made me very short of breath. But I love water and running water is joyous.
I was picking up rocks and looking at rocks. This rock really interested me. Look at all the cracks. When the river is higher it would wear the rock down. In the winter the cracks might freeze. I thought this rock might be ready to break. What is inside?
This is for the Ragtag Daily Prompt: workshop.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: bail.
The little red pram is older than I am and leaks. Last summer we got it out and my daughter sailed and bailed with ease. She is on the racing team at Western Washington in Bellingham, racing FJs.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: rock.
One of my favorite early morning rocks, in Ontario, Canada.
The mergansers like it too.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: wanderlust.
“And how are you getting back?” I ask my daughter. “Are you going to edge backwards?”
And she returns without falling in the lake.
This is from Fragrance Lake too. With the overcast light, it is difficult to see what are trees and grasses and mud and what is only a reflection in the water. And it’s all a photograph, so the illusion is complete.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: immerse.
My daughter loves the water. Here she is going into Lake Matinenda in Ontario. She swam across it, miles, with me in a small canoe.
My daughter took the photograph. This is the first summer after my sister died.