Archive for the personal Category

DANGER ISLAND

Posted in flash fiction, musings, personal, relationships, writing with tags , , on December 2, 2017 by kimmy

danger island

I lived there once, among the snakes and venomous insects, blissfully unaware and deliberately so, keeping the beaches swept of leaves and the coconuts lined up in neat rows.  I slept under the stars in a hammock that swayed with trade winds and swam over coral reefs teeming with life.  The sun rose every day over cloudless blue skies and when the rains fell, they were soft and warm as a whisper.

But I didn’t listen to their warnings, did I?  Their words were unintelligible fluff, blowing around on the breezes and arranging themselves in illogical sequences that were easy to ignore.

So, I ignored them.

For years.

Until one day, I opened my eyes and the beauty was gone.  The coconut palms yielded no fruit and the fish abandoned the reef.  So I fashioned a raft and floated away from my island, back over the seas to the mainland where I grieved the loss of my tropical paradise.

For the skies over the mainland were cold and grey.  And though it was crowded with people, I felt more alone than I ever had on my island.  The winds no longer cradled me at night, but howled ceaselessly at the door and screamed in my ear.  Their words were not entreaties, but demands that were hard to ignore.

So, I tried to ignore them.

And failed.

For the cruel mainland wind changed its strategy and employed a human mouth to deliver its message, and my grief came to an abrupt end.

“How did you manage to survive on that island?” asked he who was sent by the wind.  “Didn’t you know it was a nuclear testing site and unfit for human habitation?”

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LITTLE GIRL DEFIANT

Posted in personal, writing with tags , , , , , , , on May 24, 2012 by kimmy

When I was a very young child, adults seemed old.  Not mature, sensible, I-wanna-be-like-them old, but old as in irritable and weary.  Most of them seemed to be travelling identically, down the same path and with the same complaints.  I didn’t see them smile and shout with joyful abandon.  They didn’t climb trees and write on the sidewalk with blue and green chalk.  Instead they slumped over piles of paper, piles I couldn’t throw around like confetti.  They argued behind closed doors, sometimes weeping; sometimes shouting.  Occasionally they threw the most spectacular tantrums imaginable, ones for which I would be swiftly punished had I dared to do the same.

I longed to be older, to have access to their privilege but not to their burdens.  For even as a toddler I knew they were weighed down, and I didn’t want what they carried.  Life was for the running, for the zooming, for the revel.  Where was their fun?  I didn’t see any evidence of it and that worried me.  Did one have to exchange freedom for entry into the over-21 club?

However, on rare occasions, I did encounter adults who didn’t fit the mold, ones who were living life on their own terms:  chic and childless women living in high-rise condos, gray-haired ladies riding bicycles to the grocery store, funky old men teaching kickboxing, people of various ages and gender climbing mountains, doing research, painting pictures, dancing en pointe, flying planes, planting vegetables, playing baseball, writing poetry and travelling to the mysterious  places of the world. And one day I realized that I might do the same.  They were zooming; why couldn’t I?

I resolved that day, and every day since, to follow their example and live life on my terms. I don’t know what it will bring, but I know that when it comes, I might color it with chalk.

RELINQUISHING CONTROL

Posted in musings, personal, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 29, 2010 by kimmy

One of the traits of being a chronic over-achiever is desire for control.  As long as all the contingencies are in place, the world is manageable.  Managing the contingencies and all their permutations is not.

I learned this the hard way, as do we all, when everything I had was suddenly severed from me.  It was only then that I realized that I was trying to manage my feelings of powerlessness by controlling all external factors, no matter what or who they were.  In a nutshell, I was a classic control freak.

Funny how I used to laugh at people who I thought had control issues.  Never in a million years would I have described myself as one of them.  Did I have the bulging eyes and nervous tics of the OCD?  No.  Did I corset myself into inflexible routines?   No.  Did I lose my temper and scream at others if  they were hijacking my show?  No.  Was I hoarding newspapers or compulsively surfing the home shopping channels?  No.  Was I drugging or boozing myself into a stupor every evening?  No.  I didn’t recognize any of these extreme behaviors in myself, so I dismissed the idea.

And yet when I found myself without a home or a job, I realized how dependent I was upon them, not only as a source of income and refuge, but as a means of identity.  Was I really my home?  Was I nothing but a career jockey?  Yes, I had other interests and I flattered myself that they made me a rounded individual.  But when my anchors were suddenly pulled up, I knew I wasn’t the renaissance woman of my imagination.

It made me wonder what I truly valued.  Was I just a product of my environment, aping the behaviors of my family and in some cases, trying to insulate myself against the damage they had inadvertently wrought?  Or was I mindlessly following the dictates of greater society which tells me what I should and should not do?

I suppose I would have had an uninterrupted life full of approved activity and expectation had I not been soul-searching and earnestly practicing.  I may have gone to my grave and onto another lifetime none the wiser, just like everyone else around me.  But what started out as passing interest, has during the last twenty-five years become the fire that keeps me alive. 

What was I thinking, that search for truth is nothing but an intellectual exercise and life goes on without change?  I must have because none of the people around me, even those who professed a deeply spiritual bent, were inconvenienced with massive life changes.  They worked, raised families, drove luxury cars and lived very well.  It seemed as though they had the best of both worlds; why wouldn’t I be in awe?  So much so that I might try to emulate them?  Of course!

And so I did.  For years, I worked and lived in the world while praying and meditating for deliverance from it.  When those worldly anchors began to slip away, I felt betrayed.  Why couldn’t I have it all?  I wanted to yell at God for misleading me, for swindling me out of those sweet rewards that others possessed.  Wasn’t I doing everything right?  Wasn’t I trying to be compassionate?  Didn’t I chant, meditate, ruminate, contemplate and contort my body as prescribed?  Where was my piece of the action?  My enlightenment?

In other words, I wanted to control it all.  I wanted to make the decisions, judge what was worthy and dole out the perks.  But as I said before, the hard way taught me more than I realized:  I cannot serve two masters.  One of them has to go.

And so this control freak has to relinquish control.  It’s time to grieve its loss and let it go.  Maybe when I’ve been completely lightened of this baggage, I’ll finally see the light.

THE VELVET ROPE

Posted in personal, writing with tags , , , , , , , , on October 22, 2010 by kimmy

Get behind it.  And I mean NOW…

Your all-access pass was revoked the day you voluntarily surrendered it, so don’t try to climb over the barrier.  I have enlisted the aid of large burly men -and one particularly vengeful seraphim- to act as bouncers and they will be delighted to throw you out on your ass… provided you have one after they’ve finished.

Stop with the lame explanations.  It’s not as if you didn’t have it coming.  You’ve been lurking around like a thief in the night and and helping yourself to that which is not yours.  I’m tired of it.  Who said you were welcome?  Get back behind the rope and stay there.

It’s obvious you’re accustomed to having your own way and not being denied anything.  Get used to defeat, my friend, because you’ll never win this one.  There are some lines that cannot be crossed even for those who never observe boundaries, and you’ve crossed the last one.   

You’ve managed to avoid discovery by assigning blame or denial, but that won’t work with me.  Consequence follows action in this world.   It doesn’t matter how convincingly you plead your case, the outcome will not change, so heed my warning and back off. 

I don’t care if you object.  This is not yours to decide.  You’ve crashed my VIP lounge for the very last time.

CLOSING UP SHOP

Posted in personal, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 5, 2010 by kimmy

 

I never thought it would be this hard.  It’s almost like divorce or death.

I probably should have paid more attention to the red flags.  Malaise, thinking about my late father, guilt, shame, moodiness.  Small bad habits that started to creep back into my life.  But yet, I didn’t.  Instead I put on a smile and soldiered on, thinking that it was only a minor setback and one from which I could easily recover.

I was wrong. 

I really haven’t fully recovered from it, and if I hadn’t had the good fortune to be the company of generous and loving friends, I wouldn’t have even known what it was.

Grief… plain and simple.  Not my favorite emotion and one I usually keep buried because of the pain.  I mean, who enjoys despair?  Besides, I didn’t believe that the situation warranted grief since it was only the death of a business, and not of a loved one.  Aren’t people the only thing worth mourning?

Apparently not.   Would it be wrong to wear black and cover the mirrors?  I don’t feel like celebrating new possibilities right now.  I just don’t feel that brave… yet.  Can’t I shed my tears and actually feel my feelings before they’re pushed aside?  It’s taken nearly five months to even recognize them.  I don’t want to repeat the emotional strangulation that followed the death of my father, when for three years I chose stoic self-punishment over sorrow.

No, I won’t fling myself onto the grave or carry on like Medea, but before I close the doors for good I will take the time to reflect on all that has occured, how I have changed in these last fifteen years, and acknowledge that all things have their time and place.  Maybe once I’ve laid down this burden, I can happily pick up another.

THE GIN MILL

Posted in personal, reminisce, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 7, 2010 by kimmy

When I was in college, my bff Sara and I haunted the local dive… which was literally underground and aptly named The Cellar.  Our undergraduate budgets didn’t allow for lavish evening entertainment, so we made do with 25-cent beers and double-bubble nights, swilling well-gin cocktails until we were sufficiently hammered to tolerate the throngs of disco divas at the local club across the street.

Not much stood in our way of a good time.  We trekked out in sub-zero temperatures in platform shoes and skin-tight jeans, daring any passerby to thwart our quest for fun.  There wasn’t much to be had of it, especially in the middle of the Illinois cornbelt, but what little we found we maximized.

It usually involved ridiculing the spandex-clad and, in my case, slamdancing into the carefully coiffed Farrah Fawcetts, sending their scrawny glitter bodies careening across the dance floor.  What do you mean we had to listen to KC and the fucking Sunshine Band?  Only occasionally would the dj relent and play some homogenized punk music, most of which would send the dancers off the the floor to stare in resentment while I pogoed.

Sara was more diplomatic.  She danced to all variety of music, swaying with her cocktail in hand and her giant 70’s perm bouncing in time under the disco ball.  By the evening’s end, there was usually a line of drooling men waiting to escort her home.  Unless the gentleman was exceptionally hot, she graciously declined the offers with the explanation that she had to get her unruly friend back to the dorm before she caused any serious harm.

But that was only an excuse to get away from the dreary ISU hangouts and head into Bloomington where our rock and roll Mecca waited for us.  Otherwise known as the Red Lion Inn, it was a dingy nightclub frequented by local and quasi-national bands and the scene of many a howling night’s fun.  There were no disco dancers, light shows or coke spoons, although the smell of reefer did on occasion waft from the ladies’ room.

Here we were free to dance as we pleased until the overhead lights were switched on and we remembered we weren’t as free as we surmised.  There were classes to attend in the morning and papers to write in the evening.  We left grudgingly in the early morning light, accompanied by the twitter of birds which we quickly came to resent.  Why did they have to herald the end of our night of fun?  Morning came too quickly.

… prompting the men to act too boldly.  Again they fluttered around Sara, this time begging to take not only her home to their bed, but her unruly friend as well.

BRING OUT YOUR DEAD

Posted in personal, reminisce, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on August 27, 2010 by kimmy

It had the earmarkings of a truly life-changing week.  And it did change me… but in ways I didn’t anticipate.

I was on retreat in Kansas City, trying to make sense of a life which had become incomprehensible.  The grounds were beautiful and I walked them everyday, sharing my despair with the trees.   They must have heard my pleas because not long after, my walk was accompanied by an enormous bird.  She had an eight-foot wing span and kept pace with me, always twenty yards ahead. 

It never occured to me to wonder why she was out of her normal habitat, or if she considered me prey.  Instead I followed her, listening to the heavy whoosh of her wings as she lighted from branch to branch, hoping that she would reveal her secrets.

She did, of course, a few days later when I realized that my marriage had died.    Why hadn’t I seen the vultures circling earlier?  I knew that it had to be buried, but the pain of this knowledge was so profound that it paralyzed me. 

And there was more to come.  I left the retreat the next day and rode to the airport like a zombie.  The highway was just a blur; the voices on the radio, a jumble of noise.   I paid no attention and just stared out the window, watching the fine Missouri homes pass by in streaks of color.

“… he died in a helicopter crash at Alpine Valley.”

The location roused some recognition in me, and I turned up the volume.  Stevie Ray Vaughan was dead on a hillside in Wisconsin.

It felt like a knife in my heart.

I couldn’t stop weeping.  And couldn’t understand why I was weeping for a man I had never met.  The dj’s were hushed, reverent as they recapped his life and played songs from his repertoire, but I didn’t hear them.  I only mourned the loss of, what felt like, a brother.

There was no respite when I returned to Chicago.  I walked into my apartment and dialed the phone.  I had to speak with Kathleen.

There was no answer.  Oh, why was I gallivanting around the country trying to find myself when she was in such frail health?  She had been good friend for ten years, but all I could recall in that moment were her lips stained with morphine.

“When I go, I’d like it to be of heroin overdose.” 

She couldn’t have meant it, so many years ago, laughing with the recollections of youth.  But her words were prophetic, and she had died in my absence, after a long battle with cancer.

What more would my winged messenger bring?  At the wake, I saw more than Kathleen’s body lying in the coffin.  Domestic fantasies, idealistic visions and adolescent dreams were nestled next to her, waiting to be interred forever into the cold ground.