“A mother’s body against a child’s body makes a place. It says you are here. Without this body against your body there is no place. I envy people who miss their mother. Or miss a place, or know something called home. The absence of a body against my body created a gap, a hole, a hunger. This hunger determined my life.” ~ Eve Ensler

I don’t know how to form articulate sentences about my family. How do I cobble together words that tell that story? How do I breathe life into my peculiar genealogy without some means of self-soothing . . . an assload of crunchy, salty things with a cake batter and Jameson chaser? Impossible appeasement. The dog will never stop barking. The war will never end. For fucks sake, just bake the cake.

How can I pick up a pen and drag it across white paper leaving a trail of inky blue notes to myself that say, “Your mother is dead, and it’s okay not to be sad. To feel relieved, even?” Well, I just did that very thing. And I am sitting in a small town coffee shop, owned by a family of fiddle-playing evangelical christians. The women at the table next to mine are having a straight up Bible study, and they also have adult coloring books and sets of colored pencils that are perfectly sharpened, in rainbow order – not haphazardly arranged, splintered nubs like my colored pencils would be, if I engaged in post bible study public coloring. The ladies room here (gender neutral excretion is frowned upon in these parts) is decorated with a large, wood, shabby chic plaque that says: “God Is Good All The Time.” There is usually Christian soft rock playing on the sound system, but today, “Forever in Blue Jeans” is blaring out of the speakers as I write this, and the only self-soothing that is available to me is a gluten-free bacon mini quiche and a hemp milk latte. God. Sometimes I hate myself.

i don’t know why I chose this place to re-enter the writing world after such a long hiatus. Maybe it’s a subconscious test to see if the vengeful God of my Catholic girlhood actually exists – lurking in the Christian coffee atmosphere, casting a benevolent eye upon the middle aged public bible readers, and waiting for the perfect moment to choke me on my alternative milk latte, as punishment for the sin of mother blasphemy.

There are so many things I wanted to say in this post, but today’s window of freedom  is about to close, so deep exploration of death of the mothership is going to have to wait for another time.

Resurrection, to be continued . . .





Turd in a Bucket

“There exists, for everyone, a sentence – a series of words – that has the power to destroy you. Another sentence exists, another series of words, that could heal you.” – Philip K. Dick

For as long as I can remember, my mother has used the the adage, you wouldn’t know your ass from a hole in the ground, in response to things I’ve done that are ridiculous or incomprehensible to her.  Every misplaced glove or crumpled piece of homework (you wouldn’t know your ass from a hole in the ground); my fear of learning how to drive (you wouldn’t know your ass from a hole in the ground)getting lost after a concert, wanting to be a writer, coming out as a lesbian (you wouldn’t know your ass from a fucking hole in the ground).

Now that I’m almost 50, this series of letters strung together have lost their power to destroy me. The once jagged edges of the words you, and wouldn’t, and know, no longer have the ability to tear at my skin from the inside. The words ass and hole-in-the-ground seem silly when I see them in the same sentence.  The incongruity of those words resting next to each other on the page, makes me laugh. It’s like imagining my subconscious in her underwear.

The stories that accompany those words are ancient history. They occasionally show up in my fiction – where versions of my child self make *bad choice* guest appearances as semi-forgettable minor characters – a young girl who gets scratched by a potentially rabid baby squirrel, or a kid who allows bullies to steal his UNICEF box. But their impact on my self-worth is negligible. The words that make up those stories have become an indistinguishable part of me, like my crooked pinkies or my genetic predisposition for alcoholism. I rarely notice them any more.

*     *     *     *     *       *

I recently got a part-time job at a small cafe in a tiny redneck town.  I didn’t really need the job, but I generate most of my income by working from home, and sometimes I get lonely.

The owner of the cafe is a micro manager who often refers to herself in the third person. She’s also a bit crazy. On my first day of work, she cleared a pile of debris off of a prep table to make room for some chicken, and a medical document depicting an outline of a woman fell out of a cookbook and fluttered to the ground.She quickly grabbed the paper and said: “They found a small mass in my breast. It’s no big deal.” Actually, it IS a big deal. She has breast cancer. But she has decided to forgo chemotherapy, radiation and surgery in favor of swallowing apricot pits and massaging her breast with frankincense oil.

The other employees are nice, but we don’t have anything in common. One of the cooks drives a car that still displays a *Bush 04 – A Safer America* bumper sticker. I’m a liberal. I am also a Buddhist. The main waitress runs an evangelical church out of her rural home.  Her husband is the pastor. On Sundays, they do river baptisms.

Several hours into my shift last Wednesday (after I had cut my finger on a broken glass, and soaked myself from head to toe at least a dozen times with the jerry-rigged sink nozzle), a drain backed up and flooded the kitchen, and I asked myself the same question I had been asking since the day I first walked into that kitchen: “Why the fuck am I doing this?”  Eventually, I unearthed the mop bucket from the storage room to find a glistening three inch black turd mocking me from the yellow plastic interior. I’m pretty sure it winked at me. And I think I heard it whisper, ” Because you don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.”