a new year;;

I love that once a year we're given the opportunity to wipe our slates clean and recreate ourselves. Or keep going as we were. That's a privileged opportunity.

What do I want out of this year.

Healthiness, this year, last year, always. A chance to experience life as a healthy person would - with deep breaths and a strong body.

Happiness, per usual.
Peace of mind.
New experiences, big and small. To appreciate them both equally and for what they are.
Rich foods and strong teas, in small doses.
To try new things. I've written myself a small list including, but not limited to:
- take a drive along route 66
- try to kiteboard, surf, and/or paddleboard
- bouldering

And lastly, but never least, I'm gonna hula-hoop this year.
..for real this time.

one day;;

I soar.
I fly.
I travel.
I climb.
I see.
I taste.
I explore.
I soak it in. Into my bones.

In my dreams, I am everywhere.
I do anything.

I experience it all without ever leaving this bed.

I;

I would love to find a place to call home.
A place to settle my bones.

I try not to react on a base emotion.
I work better when I analyze and think before I leap.
It's not always easy to remember that, but I wrote it on my hand for good measure.

I never intend to be mean, or hurtful.
Of course I've made mistakes.
I do my best. I'm human, though.

I get hurt easily, and let go slowly. I'm working on reversing this.
At times I wish I could change others, but that's not the point.
The point is, I can only work on myself. That's all I'm here to do.

CF is a large burden to carry, and is, I believe, the biggest challenge I've been faced with this life. I'm aware that it's changed my outlook on life, which I'm not sure is a negative OR a positive thing.

If I didn't know my age, I would say it fluctuates between two and eighty seven, approximately.

If I could say anything, to anyone, to everyone, to myself, if I had the nerve, or the conviction, or I didn't blush so easily, I would just say to treat others how we would like to be treated. Words are so powerful, written and spoken, as are actions, and it's all too easy to forget this. I'm guilty of it, have no doubt.

I would also say that eating a peanut butter and honey sandwich for breakfast every day for a week and a half may or may not be a good idea, but it would be highly recommended by yours truly...

set the sun;;

I woke up today and realized I was more than my flesh, my body.
I drove and the hum of the traffic reduced me to tears, along with the remembrance that I once believed I could change everything. Anything.
I've resisted the idea that we are all we've got. That at the end of the day, with or without a religion, with or without a god, we are all we've got.
Today I didn't question that.
Today I woke up and realized I was more than my body.
Yet it's all I have.

It may look like a flamingo, but, ahem, it's a stork.

Cortney sneaking cupcakes and/or supporting the pregnancy. Depends who you ask.

Katie thought she'd see what all the fuss was about.

Comparing their baby bumps.

Try as I might, I couldn't hide from the camera forever..

to do;;

- oil change and/or pour a gallon of bleach inside the car and hope it gets out that mystery smell
- pack; the general things like socks, and pants, but perhaps also a dress appropriate for a baby shower, and an extra shirt for when you spill Mexican food on yourself
- BATHING SUIT -- your family has a hot tub, and a pool, and you never remember your bathing suit. it may be Alabama, but you're not comfortable being that 'nekked' around yer 'kin' ;)
- medicine is good, especially if you want to b r e a t h e while in Alabama's rather polluted air
- a book, or two, to keep you occupied; it is rude to read a book at a restaurant, though, keep that in mind
- cameras are nice to capture memories -- but remember, NO MORE FILM. after last night's developing disaster, you've given up film fo' lyfe. yer fingers are pretty, but not in every. single. photo.
- music. is good. a thirteen hour car ride spent scanning radio stations - ESPECIALLY IN THE DEEP SOUTH - could break your heart, so do your best and find a CD or two worth taking along. i'd recommend a Zune, but Momma darlin' has an old fashioned car that doesn't like your new fangled mp3's..
- last, but certainly not least. keep yer head on straight. don't drink cheap beer and drive. cockroaches will NOT actually kill you. Tuscaloosa is WEST of B'Ham, not EAST, please don't make that mistake again. Yes, there was a Checker's near your old high school. Might want to drive by it for memory's sake..

I'mma growin' restless.

It's SPRING. After ten months of nor'easters, I can feel my toes. And they're no longer BLUE. I'm feeling as though the universe is pulling the wool over my eyes and just waiting for me to break out my flip flops before it goes 'NICE TRY, Linberg, have some snow.'

Miss Ann Thrope

life cycle;;

I sat in your room and felt my life leave my body with yours, and everything inside that was good, or real, flew toward my fingertips and left in an explosion of anger, resentment, and hurt, not at you, but at something greater than all of us. Or smaller than us.
Just collected there, and then lifted above my head to a place that, could I move my hands, I couldn't quite reach, and the only emotion I could find was an empty one.
I cried to the Earth Mother and to my mother, and to his mother, and felt my tears mark the dirt beneath my sodden feet, and I collapsed, a heap of bones, and hair, and wetness.
I found a peace in the ground with the trail of ants passing by my feet, and the bitterness of the sea air, and the gentle, rhythmic pull of the water. I sat up and my lifetime passed before I could catch my breath, or perhaps seconds, or months, as time, while inevitable, can slow and speed up at will [or against will] and I craved for time to reverse itself and allow me one more moment by your bedside with your hand in mine.
Within moments of life departing your body, death became you, and your chest was still. Unnaturally still. I held my hand over your chest hoping to feel an imperceptible beat, just one last attempt at proving the unprovable, to tell the doctors in the room [your husband and son] that they were wrong, your heart and your mind and your blue eyes were still there, awake, in that quiet, bent shell, and we no longer had to mourn.
Instead, all that was left to do was hold what you left in your wake, your shell, that ashen, pale shell, to prepare your body to be lowered back to the earth, to resume that unholy cycle.
I became a heap of bones, and hair, and wetness, as I held my hand over your chest hoping to feel an imperceptible beat.

Rest in peace.

I don't understand modern art. Hanging a toilet seat on a wall to represent, hypothetically, the inner angst and repression of women in patriarchal societies is a bit of a stretch, and to be frank, I'd rather make words with my alphabet soup than pretend that I have any fucking clue what the artist's point is.



But one could argue that my point of view is limited, and I'd then ask, can YOU make thirty-two words from a bowl of Campbell's?

INK+WIT

listening;;

Brian Eno - The Big Ship

And sometimes, despite myself, I can't help but get out of my own mind and appreciate this early spring.

A monsoon has taken over the northeast.
Soon I'll have to attach floaties to my car in hopes it won't drown, and an umbrella to Bailey's collar, as my poor dog hasn't gone outside in two days. Literally. Two days. She'll walk onto the deck, possibly get as far as the bottom step, and run, not walk, back inside, all the while looking at us with her sappy eyes as if to say, 'Why? I don't understand. Make the wetness go away.'
At this rate she's either peeing in a potted plant or unnoticed corner, or Labradors have incredibly large, expandable bladders.

But assuming my plane can weather [no pun intended] the storm and make it to 10,000 feet, I'll need not worry about the weather pattern in Massachusetts, as tomorrow I'll be on my way to Florida. For six days. Alone.

While it's a small blessing to be able to pack up at my leisure and head to the beach, it's just another tiny reality check that it's not my grandparent's home anymore. It's my grandfather's house. By title only, as he's not even living there. The home I associate it with seems to be slowly dissipating, and my grandmother's presence, while prevalent in my mind, seems to be drifting to just memories. My heart aches for the twenty-two years of life I spent there. I'm not quite ready or willing to let it go.

If we survive the storms, though damp and no doubt moldy, perhaps it will help wash away this winter and encourage the spring along. I could use a little color in my life.

This week has led to two conclusions.

ONE: I do not look good in red plaid.

and TWO: No matter how much I am certain, full to the brim with conviction, it's unlikely that a random encounter with Shia LaBeouf will make him fall to his feet in awe, take my hand in his, and proclaim me as his own.

Just a feeling, I'll say.

I've also come to realize that I am tired of hearing my own voice.

'Bailey, why are you chasing the squirrels? Stop rolling in the dirt. Grass is not food! I TOLD YOU NO, THE RABBITS ARE FRIENDS!'

'Yes, Mom, I will start answering my phone, and returning calls, and listening to not just deleting your voicemails. No really, Mom, it's my PHONE that's the problem, it's just on silent the service out here... Horrendous.'

'It's not that I forgot our plans, per say, I just ... something came up.. uh, you see, my dog, that thing, doctor visit, cough cough, hello, can you hear me, so much static....?'

To rectify, I took a vow of silence.
That lasted until I stubbed my toe on the refrigerator and a resounding 'GODDAMMNIITT' flew out of my mouth before my left hand could clamp over it tightly enough.

I'll mention here how unrewarding and fruitless it is to fight with an inanimate object. Stubbed toe = fridge 1, Renu, 0.


I'm sitting here skirting the big issues life has thrown my way, and focusing instead on the unimportant, minute details of daily life, and I'm okay with that.

For now, it's all I've got.

a conversation of old;;

Guy 1: Dude, those lightsabers were EXPENSIVE.
Guy 2: It's probably because they're the real thing.
Guy 1: You think?
Guy 2: Yeah. Definitely. They wouldn't charge $199 for fake shit.
Guy 1: Whoa. Dude, we need to get those.
Guy 2: Yeah man, like, those could cut through the fuckin' Eiffel Tower, dude.
Guy 1: Or like, a car.
Guy 2: Yeah dude, definitely.

She was a lovely woman.
And oh, how she is missed.

Beach, beach, beach...

Then funeral, funeral, funeral...

Not ready...

An emptiness has settled over the house, filling our hearts to the brim. Last night, she squeezed my hands before putting her arms over my head, and, opening her eyes but not seeing me, she said, 'Let's go home.'

She's home.

Our family is walking around in a daze, waiting for her to come in and wake us up, to tell us to stop cleaning and yell at us for feeding the dogs generic dry food. My dad was sitting on the couch when he started to cry, and he said, simply, 'Now that the house is clean, I even miss her mess.'

We all miss her, that messy, stunning, selfless woman.
But, she's home.

In death there are hidden, invisible keys
That only when swallowed
Reveal where they lead.

Life is a mess
We wake up to,
A single thread of a deeper truth.

‘Cause God, when life here ends,
We’ll beg you for more.
In temper we’ll hate you,
But please keep no score.

-Sleeping At Last

pura vida;;

There was a girl, we'll call her ... Vida. Vida, she had a beautiful smile. The creases gave way to crooked teeth and an easy laugh, and did she laugh. Her laughter was pure, and strong, and clear.

She moved through the world, a naive young girl, learning, and backtracking, and finding her way. She traveled often and far, and lived among many people whose beliefs were as varied as their fingerprints.

Her intuition led her to the depths of glances, and shy smiles, and casual conversation. She felt it all. Her soul filled with others tears, and heartache, and fears, and their love, unbidden and whole, traveled to the depths of her belly, and settled there, spreading goodness to the tips of her fingers.

Vida, at some point along her path, felt her own pain, a truer pain than others had been in the past, a pain that radiated to the depths of her belly, and settled there, spreading an ache and longing to the tips of her fingers.

Vida felt broken. Her life, her core, her center, it was off-balance, and she was uncertain, for the first time, what to do.

Her face felt the creases, foreign and new, attempting to spread over her teeth, crooked and white, to release a laugh, pure, strong, and clear, but for the first time, no sound came out.

Yet she would not stop. Unknown to Vida, her pain would one day, diminish. Her lips would give way to crooked teeth, and an easy laugh, and she would laugh. Strong, and clear, and pure.

Her vida will not stop here.

I was a little girl alone in my little world who dreamed of a little home for me.
I played pretend between the trees, and fed my house guests bark and leaves, and laughed in my pretty bed of green.

I had a dream
That I could fly from the highest swing.
I had a dream.

Now I'm old and feeling grey.
I don't know what's left to say about this life, I'm willing to leave.
I lived it full and I lived it well, there's many tales I've lived to tell.
I'm ready now, I'm ready now, I'm ready now to fly from the highest wing.

Priscilla Ahn, Dream

Sleep is ... elusive. For many people in my family:

3:57 am -
Nana: incoherent mumbling
Rob: you're hungry?
Nana: no
Rob: you want meatloaf?
Me: who the fuck wants meatloaf at 4 in the morning?
Rob: ignores me.
Nana: no
Rob: a deviled egg?
Nana: no
Me: again, really?
Rob: ignores me -- how about some chicken?
Nana: no
Rob: spaghetti with meatballs, chicken noodle soup, a sandwich? i think you want a sandwich.
Nana: i said i'm thirsty
Rob: oh. ice cream, then? pudding?
Nana: NO!

we are all in desperate need of sleep.

Where is my mind?

We all get cabin fever sometimes.

anxiety = insomnia = sleepytime tea + honey = too much honey = still awake, not even a yawn = biting my nails = all bitten = twiddling my thumbs = all twiddled = taking a walk = walked farther than expected = taking a drive = drove until my gas light came on = no cash/card to fill up tank = went back home = still. wide. the. fuck. awake.

anxiety, you win.

That's it.
From what I gather, there aren't any treatments for end stage metastatic breast cancer.

Though despite her two week to two month prognosis, she's getting an eye surgery tomorrow night, so she 'can see which pearly gates I'm walking through - I don't want to go through the wrong ones.' She's stubborn and lovely, through and through.

She said, to everyone's surprise, that she already knew this, she just wanted the doctor to tell everyone else. Perhaps the body, or soul, or what have you, really does feel when it's time to let go.

What happens now, to a family tied together by loose threads and once a year phone calls? Our last bit of glue, on her way out. What I wouldn't give to just hold on to her, go back to when I was five, holding out my purple cast and standing under her arm, telling her that I really wanted a green cast, and one day she might be able to fit under my arm, I'll be so tall.

And oh, my grandfather. He's never needed more love.

It was the best of times.
It was the worst of times.
It was the age of wisdom.
It was the age of foolishness.
It was the epoch of belief.
It was the epoch of incredulity.
It was the season of Light.
It was the season of Darkness.
It was the spring of hope.
It was the winter of despair.
-- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

e.e. cummings

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
T.S. Eliot

Often I find myself falling into patterns, without realizing.

Starting the car, putting it in reverse, then drive, hitting the road, adjusting the stereo, fidgeting to find a comfortable position, sunglasses on.

Spent the day in my actual hometown yesterday. Funny to think I have a hometown. I've spent so much time packing and unpacking and repacking just to do it over again that I forget, at one point, I was stable. Or, I was a baby, but my parents were stable.

Drove by a house I lived in for a year, then another house I lived in for four years, took a drive by Kripalu, went to Route 7, drove to Pittsfield, took a right onto Holmes, went into automatic mode and just drove. Found myself at Starbucks, shut off the car, got a tea, went back outside. The prices have gone up. They not only charge for the hot water and tea bag, but for the cup, the hard labor, the lid, their time, their children's college education. Took a sip, burned my lip.

Relaxed at Jackie's after being tailgated the. entire. way. to. her. house. Walked down North Street, took a shortcut through a building, made funny faces in a window display, was introduced to the Beacon Cinema, went up an escalator of doom, so steep and narrow and tall that she closed her eyes until I remembered to tell her to open them, it was over, might want to step off now. Sat in red crushed velvet chairs, watched a movie, gave in and got a popcorn, walked around the deserted upper level of the theater, got a little creeped out by the lack of people and lights and overall decor, so I went back in to pretend to be surprised by a movie I had already watched.

Left. Felt bowled over by nostalgia and found myself smiling out the window at a town that only recently I had resented with every ounce of my being. Gave up the resentment, let it go, it flew out the window with the smoke stacks that resemble clouds and cause the Starbucks parking lot to smell like a garbage dump in the early morning hours of the warm Berkshire summers.

Started my car, put it in reverse, then drive, hit the road, adjusted the stereo, fidgeted to find a comfortable position, left town.

It's good to be home.

Today ... is not my best day. I've made it from one end of the house, to the kitchen, then to the other end. Bouncing from a bed to a couch, to a chair, to another couch. I've got a trail of pillows and blankets following me around, and a little pup who's wondering why her couch is occupied, and why she hasn't been fed..

I don't always mind days like this, though. I push myself a bit too hard at times, and sometimes it takes my body shutting down for me to remember to take it easy, that my lungs are the most important thing to take care of, and that everything I want to do can wait until tomorrow, or the next day. Life will happen in time, and I've got to learn to be patient.

Now to sip on my warm cup of vanilla ginger chai, and watch old Tom Hanks romantic comedies. What a perfect, albeit lazy, winter evening.