This place

This place,
this house of my grandparents,
has memories that are not mine.
And yet, I am somehow
embedded in the wallpaper.
I linger on the steps,
my hands forever spread
across the railing.
I dwell in the cupboards
and live within the creases
of my grandfather’s chair.
I smell of peppermint
And King Edward cigars.

My voice mingles with others
gathered around the tables,
pushed together to fit more in.
My name is carved into the oyster shells
piled carelessly at the end of the path.
I stain the hammock
that stretched
beneath the mulberry tree.
I am part of this house,
this place of memories
that are forever mine.

Bipolar life

It's a bipolar day. 

For those who wonder what it's like, 

here's a stab at description...

My mind is racing 100 miles a minute, 

A dozen fabulous ideas at once. 

New inventions, ideas for books, 

things I want to buy.

Yet sadness weighs on my shoulders 

like a wool blanket - heavy, itchy, 

smelling of wet sheep. 

Can't think, can't write, can't talk.

Too much noise; can't concentrate.

Voices are too loud.

The phone buzzes like angry bees.

Light is over bright. It hurts to see.

Every chore seems monumental;  

Even walking takes too much energy

like my feet grew 2 sizes overnight.

Maybe they did. 

I keep moving.

This will usually passes in a day or two, 

then I can get back to functioning. 

Until then, I think I'll sleep, 

watch reruns of documentaries,

And play video games 

until the computer runs out of juice.

State of the world

58 dead in Vegas,
we sigh and shake our head.
"A tragedy," we say.
Warmest condolences
From the President.
We just keep scrolling
through the news.

Thousands homeless
in Texas, Florida, Puerto Rico
Hurricane casualties
still without food, water,
Illness clawing at their door.
"Those poor people," we say.
Here's 5 dollars
for your trouble.

Tom Petty has a heart attack,
and the Internet goes into mourning.
CD and MP3 sales increase.
We spend hours reminiscing
about our lost youth.
"Where has time gone," we ask.
Lines will form at the grave
For a last view of the icon.

How did this become
our priority?

Take a knee, America.

It takes courage to risk your livelihood, and often your life, to take a stand against bigotry, racism, and violence. But when a country no longer shows respect for all of its citizens, then those citizens, the disenfranchised, must find a way to make themselves heard.

The NFL players, as well as those in other public positions, have seen kneeling during the national anthem as a way to utilize their visibility to represent groups that have become invisible. It is a peaceful protest. Our flag is only a symbol, and the national anthem only words if the nation no longer embraces the ideals embedded within them. 

As a Veteran, I still salute the flag, and as a patriot, I cry every time the national anthem is played.

... But then, I'm not afraid of getting shot by the police.
I'm not watching my kids die from poverty.
I don't get turned down for jobs, housing, schools because I'm not white enough.

I will never understand the battles these Americans have to fight every hour of every day.  So I cannot condemn the actions of those who would be their champions.

Buying the farm rather than the company

While European markets are working to reduce food waste, American grocery stores throwing away more and more. Then they wring their hands and wail as neighboring families go hungry. And its because they are trying to meet the expectations of selfish shoppers. So here are a few ideas on how we can stop this trend.

1. If you want specialty items, buy from a specialty store. Or don't buy so much junk, period! Turnip twaddlers are highly overrated.

2. Don't expect one stop shopping for everything from soup to videos. That's lazy.

3. Stores can certainly cut food waste by reducing variety, especially of non-essential items. Grocers don't need to buy so many varieties of cocos puffs. Nobody needs 25 new flavors of pop tarts, or magazines, or soda, or beer, or potato chips, or vitamin drinks. That's just greed, advertising dollars, and big business sticking it to all of us.  One. More. Time.

4. Think like a society rather than an individual every time you shop. What is sustainable, what is healthy, what is enduring, what will make us stronger as a community?

Buy Local. Limit foods to those that are simply processed, have less chemicals. You'll live longer, have fewer medical bills,  and see your kids graduate from college.  If you're lucky.

Ode to a lost friend

"I just found out my best friend died."
Those were the words uttered as an excuse
For the overcharge at a local restaurant.
I hadn’t noticed a mood change
I didn’t see the verge of tears look on her face
I detected a quiet sniffle but nothing more
Her best friend just died

There will be an autopsy
Autopsies are never good
They refer to the OD’d, the beaten, the run off the road kills
They’re for the junkies and the villains
And the murder driven psychos. 
Not for best friends or daughters
Or dates for the prom.
Autopsies are for others.

You have to finish your shift.  
Going home is not an option
Being sad is not in the job description
Selling strudel and cakes,
And ringing up the guests and wursts
Of this charming gasthaus.
That’s what you’ll do until end of shift
When you can call your family, or other friends
To give them the news and sit with them in silence -
On opposite ends of the phone
Listening to the quiet of pain
Wondering what to say.
For there really aren't any words
To take away the shock.
"I just found out my best friend died."

The mind of a poet, the heart of a warrior

I was once asked to write an essay entitled, "Who are you?"  At that time, I could only answer in a way that related to my father.  Who I was – or was not – was dependent upon our rather contentious relationship.  He has since died, but I understand that the answer is still very much the same.  Who am I?  I am the child of a poet who died in the war, then lived to write about it.

I am the minstrel daughter of a troubadour who described his world through poetry and music. From jungles of Vietnam to the mountains of North Carolina, my father soothed the pain of separation, poked fun at his friends, and taunted the foibles of an imperfect government.   His gifts were music and words, and I am blessed to have a portion of his talent. 

I am the warrior child of a Marine who fought battles in the Pacific during World War II.  My father never talked much about the war, except the recitation of assignments he had in theater; Binika, Rendova, Munda: exotic names for desolate, war torn islands.  He told funny stories that glanced over the reality of war.  Midnight requisitioning; flirtation with nurses; getting around the strict system of the military: these were his public memories of battle. Semper Fidelis.

I was born to a visionary blinded by the atrocities of war.  When my father came back from the Pacific, he suffered from a form of hysterical blindness.  While he joked about the war in public, his private memories included horrors so profound that they shattered him.  The military doctors administered shock treatments to help him recover from his illness. The treatments only twisted his memories and created a broken and dysfunctional psyche.  For decades I questioned the story of his reaction to war. Then last spring, in the midst of my own battles, I awoke with blindness in both eyes - a form of optical migraine.  Though my vision returned within minutes, I finally understood the way that the body can cope with too much stress.

I am a restless child of gypsy parents. Even my grand parents and great grand parents were restless wanderers.  The joke in our family was that I started hitchhiking at the age of three. However, the real journey began when my father was sent to Vietnam as part of a rebuilding mission with USAID.  My mother, sister and I went to Thailand, and while I held court in the streets of Bangkok, my father raided the opium parlors of Saigon, excavated VC camps and watched as convoys of trucks got blown up by the enemy. Dad fought his own battles in Vietnam, with alcohol, with malaria, with corruption so vast that his attempts to clean it up only scratched the surface.  My father’s exploits eventually wrecked our family.  But I understand all too well the anticipation of the next adventure.

I am a living legacy to my father's imperfections and to his great gifts.  He was a prodigy who knew the darker side of genius.  He knew the private horror that came with facing demons of his own making, while fighting against those that were bequeathed by another generation.  I struggle with my own moments of insanity, but now understand now that they are the "flip side" of an artistic mind.  Intelligence and creativity are but places along a mental continuum.  They are often accompanied by the darker side of the mind - depression, self-doubt, racing thoughts, and the high flight of mania. 

In the days before designer drugs, I too might have been an alcoholic or an addict or some other lost soul.   But thanks to good timing and the compassion of family and friends, I have carved a life out which did not include either of those outcomes.   It has not been perfect, but it is sufficient.