apples, plums, cherries, 
mangos, peaches, strawberries, 
kiwis, pears, and mandarin,
breastfed baby's cheeks fill-in

Little Passenger

All this time you've been with me
a dormant part waiting to meet
another to make us both complete.
I'm more than just a little scared
of the changes that you bring but,
each day you grow inside so grows
a Mother's bravery.

ROTR Observation

A tradition, form, or system loses its connection to reality when it becomes separated from the necessity that gave rise to it.

I am on a plane which is beginning to descend into Los Angeles. Across the aisle to my left is a bald man asleep in his chair. He has a square bandage on his head. I wonder how he injured himself and also imagine him hitting it on a hard, low doorway. I also have the thought that I like watching people sleep on planes. Out his window, the Hollywood hills are bathed in the rose-gold hues of dusk. The city sparkles. My arms are somewhat stiff from cradling my dog in my lap. She is also sleeping. I can feel her warmth, her heaviness, and how soft her hair is in my right hand (the left is supporting a pillow, which is supporting her head). Beside me, my husband laughs. He is watching a film on his phone. A feeling of gratitude washes over me mixed with contentment.

Clarence James Wigger 1941-2019

Dad was an all-around easy person to like. He exuded warmth and used his sense of humor to make connections with people wherever he went. He was the kind of person that could immediately put you at ease, and his greatest reward for this was making you laugh.

It’s not surprising that he loved children. He was fun-loving and generally unafraid of being silly. That part in us that is sometimes lost when we harden into adulthood was never lost in him. Even after Alzheimer’s had taken so much, it never disposessed him of his right to a good joke.

Humor was one of Dad’s greatest gifts and he used it to help him get through the difficult times in his life. My Dad came from humble beginnings – the kind that would turn a lesser person understandably bitter – but he kept an open heart and, despite challenges along the way, managed to live life with a kind of reluctant optimism many of us fail to achieve, even with more advantages and privilege than he.

My Dad was humble. He didn’t pretend to have all the answers or ever assert that his way was the only right one.  He was tender-hearted and unreservedly affectionate towards his daughters. He gave out of what he had and it was important to him that we knew he was there for us come what may, without judgment or qualification. He was good at being comforting. He knew how to listen even though he loved to talk. He had so many stories…

departures

On October 16th, at approximately 9:35 a.m., the wheels of my plane hit the runway in Los Angeles and I started to cry. Out of all the essentially irreversible moments which led to this one (robotically packing my bags in the darkness of early morning, driving my rental car across the long bridge between St. Petersburg and Tampa, every step I took getting to the terminal, walking to the gate, boarding the plane) it was touching down that somehow made my departure real - the last of a string of moments I could trace directly back to my living, breathing, father. Though the quality of his life is not what it was, I am comforted by the fact that he continues to exist. He is still on this planet, however changed, the last thread not yet broken, his departure made final.

December 25, 2017

I wake up a little late, and shower before going down. Abe makes breakfast. He likes to marble his scrambled eggs. They turn out really good.

12:00 pm or so we start to open presents. I feel strange and hesitant about it - like I could have put off this part of it longer. I'm not sure why. Maybe because Dad struggles in the morning or because the demands from here on out only seem to grow.

Robbie is insecure because they didn't get us much. We start opening presents. Dad really likes his butt-pillow. He's not sure about the video drone. We enjoy going through some memories on the picture blanket I gave him with images of me and Melissa (and Robbie) with him on it. It leaves white fuzzies on his pants, though, so she puts it away. My presents from Mom and Tom make me a little sad. The fur hat I tried on during our last visit. Kahil Gibran from Nana.

The plan is to go to Venice Canals and Robbie will pay for lunch. We decide to do the canals first since we ate late. We're able to find parking directly in front of Baja and the entrance we know best. Dad remembers the last time we were here more was in bloom. It looked more manicured back then. I have his arm as we walk. It's fun to look at the different plants and styles of houses. We pass cute dogs and other people and wish them a Merry Christmas.

He's cracking the funnies. There are lots of people out taking photos. We run into a woman with a cute dog and she offers to take ours. He has the sniffles a lot and two different bandanas a red and blue that he carries with him. His head gets itchy.

He's moving well on the walk. We offer to go back early, but he points to another bridge he wants to go over so we take it and then instead of going back the way we came, we're able to cross it and go back on the other side. He likes the ducks and quacks at them.

We decide to leave the car where it is and walk to the cafe, which isn't accepting more people for lunch. We elect to go to the Whaler and get there by about 3:00 pm. It's loud. We get a table by the bathrooms. There is some confusion about the menu and lots of hubbub about the chowder. Dad tries and seems to like it. It takes us a long time to order and is a somewhat stress-inducing experience.

Abe runs to get the car afterward and we are able to get in easily. I put Bob Marley on to calm everyone's nerves. Dad seems to like it. We're tired when we get back. I think he lays down on the couch for a snooze at some point. Robbie might be a little frustrated at this point. I remember going to him and rubbing/scratching his head then getting him up so he can nap in the bedroom where it's more comfortable. When I get him to lay down he closes his eyes instantly. I tell him I love him.

Abe begins getting dinner ready. A roast. At some point (around 7:30) he leaves to go get his parents. I'm up (I napped as well) and get Dad up or perhaps he's already up. I put Bob Marley on again and Dad and I have a dance in the kitchen. He moves REALLY well. He holds the jambox up to his ear like it's a boom box. Robbie gets a video. It goes on for what feels like a long time. Don't worry about a thing and Three little birds. Let's get together and feel alright. Made me so happy to goof off and also to see him dance again.

December 24, 2017

I wake up later than Robbie and Dad. She apparently woke up at 4 or 5, couldn't get back to sleep, and moved to the couch. He's very groggy in the morning. 

I made scrambled eggs, hash browns, sausage, and pancakes. He stands by me quietly in the kitchen. It makes Robbie uncomfortable like he's failing somehow. She tries to cajole him away, but my sense is that he just wants to be close to me, which is most welcome. My Dad, in essence, which he is closer to now than perhaps any time since childhood, just wants to be close... to me. 

My timing wasn't great.  The eggs are cold by the time we sit down. We listen to the Dad's Mix I made on the jambox. Dad sings along to John Denver, but really responds to Neil Diamond. Dad takes his Mango drink from a straw which I am relieved we had. Robbie likes to pick at Dad's food after she's finished with her own. He pushes things around a lot but doesn't complain. He didn't really complain the whole trip. 

We decide we will do the Venice canals on the 25th instead of today so they can rest up a bit. Our Melting Pot reservations are that evening. He looks really nice in his blue flannel shirt and black pants. He wears size 9.5 airwalk black sneakers.

December 23, 2017

Preparations are made. A realization that not everything I envisioned being done would be. Let it go.

Arrive early at the airport (the flight got in at 10:12 - which was also early). Habit takes us to departures instead of arrivals, but we park and get in with plenty of time. Abe and I take a spot close to Terminal 2 and line up with other expectants where most people are coming through to baggage claim.

Several individuals wearing Tampa sports team jerseys go by. We wait. Still, we wait. I text, unsure, only to find moments later that they've taken a different route and are waiting, with bags, at baggage claim a few steps to our left.

My Dad is in a wheelchair. I can see in his face his concern about my reaction. He wants to get out, but the individual with them has offered to take us all the way to the car and that is what Robbie wants. Several times on the way to the car his foot slips off. Robbie takes it as him not understanding or not obeying, but I can see it's just him wanting to get out of the chair. He has always been very physically affectionate and animated. I'm sure it feels unnatural for him to greet his daughter seated.

We get to the car and it is difficult to get in. He is tall and the car is low to the ground. Robbie has to squeeze in the back, but we make it work.

all my lost fathers

Red sings on the 3rd Street Promenade between Santa Monica Blvd and Broadway. Regular hours. Something like 8 pm to 11 pm, Monday through Friday. Red must be in his 70's now and the American flag behind his chair gives him the look of a veteran. He plays his guitar seated - mostly folk ballads in the vein of John Denver, Johnny Cash, and Bob Dylan. When he's playing I can't help but be drawn in. These are the songs of my childhood and Red's steady voice wraps around me like a long-awaited paternal hug.

I'm joined by a homeless man. His white-yellow beard reaches down to his chest. He sits on the same kind of walker my grandmother used. She called it her Red Racer. When it's not aiding in that unutterably tedious task of walking, it substitutes quite well for a chair. I watch him gently pull a blanket from beneath his seat, unfold, and place it neatly across his lap. When it slips askew moments later my impulse is to righten it for him.

I am not repulsed by your sunburnt fingers or back-alley cologne my fellow music enthusiast, my friend. Nor am I frightened at the prospect of another thwarted act of love. 

I have not forgotten you, John Denver. I have not forgotten you, Bob, Paul, Art, Cat, Leonard, or James. I have not forgotten you all, my lost fathers.

slings and arrows

I've been hurting over the willingness of people I thought I was once close with to villainize me. It's really a strange thing being elevated in status from a person basically struggling, confused, and heartbroken, to an entity of mythological proportion. But, I suppose a threat doesn't have feelings, it's just a threat - an object of scorn and fear. While it is a distinct and undeniable downgrade from being human, it's not a position without power.

This is the dual life of the scapegoat. You are the honorary symbol of dysfunction, yet the only one who gets credit for having any agency. Someone points a finger and says she made me do it, or better yet, I would never do that. While I get to remain responsible for my own choices, everyone else involved is just a puppet.

In this black and white world, I am the black, the wrong, the bad. And as the bad one, I lost the right to feel hurt. I became invisible behind a screen on which others projected their fears (and formed alliances behind). People secretly love a villain. It validates what they always suspected to be true, that they are better than others. Disregard a person's total hypocrisy in numerous other ways - their transgressions big and small - on this count, they are fucking pious and will scream it from the rooftops.

Forgiveness is a slow process. Being human isn't enough, you have to deserve what you get. Well, I've decided I get to hurt. My gift to myself. I won't pretend the slings and arrows don't still land because they do. But I would rather sit with my grief rather than run to new dependencies. I will sit with my imperfections because I am ashamed. Not for all the debts I'm accused of owing, the pound of flesh, but for trading my love, my sense of self-worth for a lie.

"When we allow ourselves to be irritated out of our wits by something, let us not suppose that the cause of our irritation lies simply and solely outside us, in the irritating thing or person. In that way, we simply endow them with the power to put us into the state of irritation, and possibly into one of insomnia or indigestion. We then turn around and unhesitatingly condemn the object of our offense, while all the time we are raging against an unconscious aspect of ourselves which is projected into the exasperating object." ~ Carl Jung

Baba Yaga

You can hide behind another, like a bairn behind its mother's
skirts, but you're still scared of me. And you should be
for I've shed my earthly status for the realm of fantasy.

In the funhouse mirror of your eyes, I'm difficult to read,
as deformed as Baba Yaga sharpening her teeth.
But the bony one is hard to kill, I won't die easily.

Not because I'm supernatural or impervious to your swing.
It's simply hard to win a fight against your own psychology
(and it began long, long before I was ever on the scene).

In a few days, my understanding no more enriched than now, I place myself in the center of a green crater off the coast of Maui.

one, two

it's ok, really

no judgment

just numbers

like 4 follows 3

you're simply not 

strong enough yet

in yourself,

not for me.

don't stop the music

Walking to my car last night I ran into a neighbor and his friend. Sometimes it's ok to be vulnerable. You choose your moments or perhaps they are chosen for you. My building has covered parking in the rear of the building that opens to the street behind. There's an indenture in the wall behind the cars - a concrete stoop mostly hidden from view. Dominic and his friend meet here at what seems to be odd intervals to talk and (from the smell I would assume) smoke pot.

I take a seat between them without asking and am thankful when they don't object. An 80's mix of R&B plays on Dominic's phone. They are guys and I'm a girl, but there's no flirtation. People are people and right now I need it to be as simple as that. We commiserate over our crappy parking spots and swap stories of scratched car panels. We talk about Los Angeles. How it has changed and how it has stayed the same. Dominic's friend leaves.

Yarbrough and Peoples' Don't Stop the Music begins to play. I know this song from a disco tape my sister and I used to dance to as children. I don't have to think about it too much. The space hangs there between us, suspended by a few bars of music. I sing. And I let my voice carry. There have been so few moments lately, so little room for the heart. It doesn't lessen or even dislodge my hurt (which hangs somewhere between my ribs, sticky and unforgiving as tar). But I know I've been witnessed in some small way. And my idiot self is made easier to live with by it. 

Saturday, June 13

6:30 – Woke

7:15 – Morning sitting in the Ballroom

8:00 – Breakfast

Comments were made of the completion variety, several relating to the performance and the audience's reaction. My observation was that the right impulses seemed to arise out of being present, sometimes bringing about surprising or unexpected turns of events, obstacles, and fears, which were overcome by, again, becoming present. Afterward, I realized my comment was poorly timed, but was able to laugh at the irony. 

10:30 (?) - Intro team with Curt, Tony and I for guitar mechanics.

Some insecurity about whether commentary from me would be supportive or disruptive to the group. I felt I couldn’t quite hold the space. A wish to see what is needed for the Intros post-performance. 

Private lessons: