welcome to the next chapter...

once a long time ago, i read on a blog, "i am a lesbian but thats not all i am". i was then just teetering on the edge coming out as a lesbian. back then, although i understood what she was saying, i was completely drowning in that one dimension of my identity. i knew then i was more than also but such turmoil tends to shrink your field of vision. it is scary and exciting and anticipatory and it is exhausting.

i am almost 5 years out now. some things look differently in my life. some things are the same. but i revel in the knowledge that i am a lesbian and in the knowledge that i really am more than just... my field of vision has grown to include the wide open spaces of life's endless possibilies.

for those of you who know me, you will be able to find the familiar places of my old writings which i will have on the sidebar. for those who stumble upon me and find yourself confused by fragmented references or are struggling to come out later in life, you will find the Closer to Fine link most helpful. I recommend reading it from the beginning, it makes more sense.

one more thing, blame my lack of capital letters on e.e. cummings...

Thursday, March 31, 2011

"c" is for cultivation

as promised, i planted a garden today.  we planted a garden today.  god bless gardens and god bless roomates with sarcastic humor.  i have a sunburn and a backache that has nothing to do with being sick. 

Gardens are like churches,
each flower a sacred prayer raised up to the heavens,
reaching for light and warmth and goodness,
barefoot I walk amongst them,
silently hoping God sees me as well...

soon with faith and careful tending, twenty packets of pink and white cosmos will poke their heads above the fresh peat moss and top soil. 

"c" is for cervical cancer

at least they skipped my birthday and waited a day, although really,  i care nothing of my birthday except the dis-ease my laissez fare attitude toward it affects those around me who honestly want to do something for me or give me or just the opportunity to wish me well.  so the first line of this post is perpetuating a lie...  they could have called me on my birthday and it wouldn't have mattered.  i won't again associate the diagnosis with the date.   its a lie and uncovers opportunistic tendencies i have to transmit my desire to perform for a compassionate audience and act out my tendency to curl up into the fetal position, rock and wait for rescue. pray for rescue.  pretend to be powerless and helpless.  let depression swallow me up and act as if i don't care.  i don't know why i am like that but that is what my counselor is for...  we are figuring it out.

i have stage 2 cervical cancer.  it is not a death sentence.  by this time next thursday i will be finished with the procedure and start a 5 year waiting game  or i will find someone to just take out the damn thing altogether.  its not like i need a womb anymore and i have been irritated that i have to have a menstrual cycle since the day i had my last baby.   take my cervix...please. 

yes, i am sick and i feel so freakin tired...   tomorrow i will go outside and plant a garden.  i will feel sick and tired then too but i will also begin the steps back to renewal and do the interpretive dance of faith by planting seeds and knowing that if i water them they will stand up with awesome beauty and strength.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

things i have done today...

filled out police report
forgot to mail my letter AGAIN
opened a beer
ate a braut
wait for biopsy results

its not even noon, who knows what more may come my way...  i will keep you posted.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

The People We Meet

this was written a long time ago however, i have found that there can be more than one person in one's life.  how blessed.  how fortunate.  i don't know why or when it happened but it did... and this is rededicated to her...


As we go through life, people imprint themselves onto us. They all leave a mark. If we were dusted for fingerprints some would barely be traceable. Sometimes we meet those who knock us flat. We find ourselves on our asses in the middle of the floor wondering what the hell happened and nursing the welt which rises from our skin. Sometimes if we are lucky, we meet someone who seeps into us. Warm and liquid, like paraffin. They flow into every place imaginable. They maintain their heat allowing us to swim in them. We marvel at how we feel, how we look, marvel at how places inside us are suddenly alive, warm and filled up with this person.

I am one of the lucky ones. I have the pleasure of such a person. One who knows my darkest secrets and tends them like precious children. Who with one smile can set my heart to flight. I long for the "next time", though it doesn't much matter what "next time". Next laugh, next insight, next breath... I gather them up like Easter eggs. I pick each one up cradling it, commiting the details to memory, drowning in its beauty.

Some people are so much more than a finger print. Some never make you afraid that you will be sent flying to the floor. Some people you just know, perhaps from your quickening heart or your goofy grin each time you engage, that they are definitely going to leave a mark.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

just call me abby for now...

(click below)
instead of "brain" though, replace it with "cervix". 

there now, it all makes so much more sense for you right?  odd feeling to just be left waiting in the "to be announced" Results Room though.   one thing, no two things, that make me feel less like freaking out is that i know i am not unique and THAT my friends has made a world of difference in my reaction today. the other one is my roomate who does not tolerate drama and instead offers up something better, laughter and politically incorrect humor.  i am grateful today.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

depositions don't have to be all bad...

while fighting the mother of all custody battles,  i had the pleasure of not only being interrogated but interrogated on video.  LOL!   i have no idea what they did with that tape, (i assume they had some psychiatrist study every little nuance of my mannerisms.  i haven't seen it on youtube yet).

some of the questions were a little "out there" to say the least but one (actually two but for the life of me i cannot remember the other one at the moment but it will emerge, eventually) brought back a sweet childhood memory.  the attorney asked me if i cooked with my girls in the kitchen.  puzzled i said "no, not usually".   "my kitchen is small and when i am cooking i just prefer to get it done without interference.  however, one kidlet knows how to make scrambled eggs."   she then asked if it would make me mad, or how i would feel, if i knew that their step mother was teaching them to cook.  it made me laugh, and i said that i didn't care one way or the other, which is true.  in my head i was thinking,  its her mess to clean up so go for it lady..."   

but something came drifting back later as i was pondering that stupid question.  my grandparents lived in a lovely old brownstone in the middle of downtown Salt Lake City, Utah.  i can recall everything about that place, and those quirky people.  my grandparents apartment had a very small kitchen.  my "Nana" would cook dinner every  weekend.  usually t-bone steak bought from the family owned grocery store just one apartment building and a driveway away.  they were exotic, friendly Greeks (i think).  one box boy who worked there had a crush on my older sister and he would sing the Beatles song "michelle my bell" to make me blush and run away so he could talk to her "alone" in the canned vegetable aisle.

as the excitement would raise in the apartment, the young one.... me.   the alcohol level raised in the adults, and the temperature would rise in the small apartment as my grandmother lit the gas stove and began to cook the most delicious food in the world, she would hit her limit of noise and lack of personal space.  this beautiful Danish woman who never raised her voice, would square her shoulders toward everyone crammed into this hot, loud, little apartment kitchen. Standing in her apron she would raise whatever cooking tool she had in her hand and say,   "Get out of my kitchen!"  We all squealed, grown ups included and we ran for our lives.

i realized that i am so much like my Danish Nana.  i am so happy to be.  it makes me giggle.  she was a wonderful grandmother... i named my last daughter after her.   i have learned to stretch the time between the raising of the wooden spoon and the adamant warning to get the hell out,  i have taught my daughters a few things here and there but i plan to keep my Danish roots,

"Get the hell out of my kitchen!"

i love you nana and miss you. i long for a picture of you.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

nothing more than fiction...

The Brick Wall
Just today, she took off her glasses gracefully and tilted her head backward, the way she always does and we laughed, as we always do. Then, she gazed into a place that only she can see. A secret place where she has locked things inside her (weights and measures, memories or fears perhaps?) and she is the only one permitted to see and to know it‘s content and it’s equations..

Sometimes its less clear why she does that and I wonder if her interpretation of the context of my contribution to our conversation is mirroring mine.

Just pondering that makes me CRAZY… but in a good way.

Though, when it gets to that point, I mean after a minute… okay, a second, it stops mattering to me… I confess! I begin to feed off of my interpretation of her interpretation and that, my friends, is how I roll. I like to watch her expressions and I do so with fascination and imagination.

Then all too quickly, she brings her long, strong fingers up to cover the gaze from her eyes into her secret place, as if to hide it’s address, it’s emotional impact and it’s physical manifestations. Sheltering her, me, many, from it’s possible consequences… When I try to look the same direction as she is/was, all I see is ceiling.


We always gather ourselves again though, because…

We both are living in clarity. We know, who we are, who we have become to ourselves and who we have become in other people’s lives. We know who we were, and the Chernobyl-esque landscape we left in our wake. We know.

The summers in Boise are intoxicating. Small town-ish enough to feel safe. Bigger city-ish enough to feel the tension, the electrical hum of life, expectations, of wishful thinking… the sidewalk vibrates with these human emotions… the cement bounces back the days discontent and the heat of solar energy.

It is the catalyst of our collective frustration and unbridled, undeniable craving for connection. It offers us space… space enough for those who have been just walking that line, and there is more than enough space for those who have subconsciously decided to step over that line. Be it for a night or a life altering event that they cannot lie about in the morning.

We both knew the draw of the city when we headed out to “just to take in the surroundings“. The music filtering out of Pengilly’s… “Is that Rebecca Scott?” I said to her… she stopped and listened one door down… “Yes it is.” she said, then she took her hand and placed it on the small of my back and grabbed my hand in hers… my always sweaty hand that I have when I am around her. She moved forward against me, in time with the music and I followed… my other hand moved slowly from her hip to her shoulder, so far above me. I curled my fingers around her shoulder once I reached it, as a climber would reaching for the summit. I secured my hand hold over her muscle and swayed. I love to be lead… but I am just not good at it. I stumbled a bit and we laughed but she urged me on to learn her rhythm.

People passed by our sidewalk dance floor. In the background, a Vendor was shouting out his wares. Some stupid people said stupid stuff. Some young, first timers just giggled at their “exposure” to “real gay people” but carried on because that is what they had came there for. Some men made crude comments and we released our waltz with a “you are a fuck” look as we left to find greener, less insulting, less voyeuristic pastures.

Hannah’s, then the Balcony… we were dancing and happy but still restless. What was worse is that we could see it in each others eyes anytime we locked in on each other. When we would sit down to drink a glass of water between the hard stuff, there were hands on knees or hands just lightly settling down on top of the other’s. Shoulder slides and the complete breakdown of the traditional American personal space… nothing more delicious than that cognizant mutual disintegration of our prized personal space.

There was a moment when we looked at each other and realized we needed air and sobriety. So we exited the bar into to the parking lot. Though we were parked on the bottom floor we began to climb up the ramp to the top of the garage. Breathing deeply, trying to find the sober part of ourselves within the mix of car exhaust and the smell of sushi and deep fried onions.

We hit the top and the sky opened up to us. Beautiful, though muted from the lights of the city. The moon hovering over us… we took advantage of the view… we walked around each side of the structure, pointing out landmarks and silly things. Shoulders becoming reacquainted again. We turned to the east and Table Rock and the Cross stole our vision, stole our breath for a moment. Her hand slid silently into mine. We both, clutched each other as if we were about to be thrown from the face of the earth.

My heart, it was beating in that weird way that it does when I am flooded with desire and “the perfect moment” situation. When she squared her shoulders with mine, I knew by those eyes, by our situation, isolation, this was just between us. Both her hands interlaced with mine. She glanced over my shoulder and smiled in a fashion unperceivable to someone who was not as aware of every movement that she made, as I was.

I didn’t look behind me while she moved me backward. I trusted her to be in control of my body and my environment. I studied her expression as we moved toward the center of the structure. It felt like time stood still. It was quiet except for the street noise way below and the sound of our feet echoing on the cement.

She stopped. She made me stop. I was mesmerized. She put her hands out and leaned against the concrete wall that was just inches behind me. Her hands spread out to feel the rough texture of the brick. She leaned into me, I teasingly moved slowly backward until my head made contact with the wall.
She smiled that smile I had thought she could but never saw it in real life. Not until she tilted her head and kissed me so hard that we fell against the brick wall together.

Before I knew it, she had my wrists. She was in control and my knees tried to betray me. She smirked but held me tighter as she kicked my left leg up and it came to rest on the bumper of a Sarah Palin special.

Her thigh slid perfectly between my legs and my hip bone was the perfect target for herself. There was a moment. We stopped, frozen… listening to our heavy breathing, the street noise and perhaps our conscience. It was our last chance to back out.

She started moving… slowly, gracefully. Listening to my breathing and waiting for a moan to indicate she had hit the spot. Then while continuing the rhythm she found her’s. She tried not to groan when she hit it but I heard her and it made me crazy.

We danced against that brick wall, not like the waltz on the sidewalk earlier but we danced nonetheless. I didn’t stumble, she didn’t stop. She sank her teeth into the flesh of my neck and I yelled in passionate pain. She moved down between my neck and my shoulder and dug her teeth in harder. The guttural moan uttered from me, triggered her into making a sound that can only be described as warm liquid honey with a baritone vibration. It moved through me, through the brick wall I was pinned against and then into the moonlit sky echoing forever. Adding to the electricity that was being created all over the streets of Boise a million floors below us.