Welcome Love, I have made a place for you here

Today as our sun is setting, I am starved for your attention. Damned arrhythmia. I used to keep up the tempo. Now my wounded beat draws too much juice at once and I cannot control the flow of life into my fractured heart. I do not want it, but still it comes. It fills, it empties, it shares with the rest of me, and it makes my brain hate my own resilience. I would have handed this vessel over to you if only you would have taken it. You are content to have me miss you.

I am sitting with Gabrielle at our kitchen table. It's still a grainy cherry hue, cutlery-chipped and stained by years of unsteady hands and coffee rings. It has changed less than I. Gab is spreading butter on toast, and I note with some surprise the matured elegance in her fingers as she works, wondering at what moment she became a woman. Her face has grown brighter, shining with a wise kind of beauty. She is speaking to me in her usual sweet, syrupy tone, pleading that I eat something. Her caring, concerned demeanor used to calm me. Now, though I love her as I always have, I need her gone. She is so much like you. I force a thin smile and ask for the Strawberry-pineapple jam, and she grins in triumph. Gab stands, pressing her hands into the table for support. She walks a few steps behind me and opens the refrigerator. I am glad not to be looking at her. I rest my hand on my cheek and think of how you used to mock the way it would stretch my face. Looking about, I view our kitchen the way I did when we were thirty years old. We hadn't moved anything since, hadn't cared to remodel. The walls are yellowed from their crisp white, have peeled in places that we ignored. The sink's faucet sits tired and tarnished, but not worlds away from the shine it used to have. The cupboards held up quite nicely. Only a few handles have come off in all this time, and you were always quick to get out your tools and put things back together. I hear the melodious echoes of laughter left by you and our children, and I see this room, where we would sit each morning sharing coffee and trading stories, and know it has aged, but its familiarity is haunting without you. Darling, I am fallen apart. Why can't I be your cupboard?

The jam is on the toast now, and placed in front of me. With one inhalation, I am back. Back to my 13th year. Grandma's house. She made her own jam and spread it over tortillas. I can't imagine a time I had things easier. Every moment was the best and the worst, all wrapped up in a clean package that delivered the simple, unwavering gift of security. I was a dramatic teen, but I relate my freedom of expression, my courage to feel everything all at once and to ensure everybody knew it, to having the safest spaces in which to do so. Even in the throws of my most emotional adolescent crises, I acted knowing that nothing could really hurt me. Sleep would find me quickly, family would always need me, and tortillas were the key to making everything right.

I grew up, and never really changed. I was a dramatic adult, and somehow you accepted me. It takes a lot of luck to find a person who will give you, who will create with you, a shelter reaching beyond the assumed, granted haven you have in childhood. Every day we spent in love, you worked. You built us up, forgave my faults, and provided shade whenever you sensed I needed it. I was lucky, but tonight sleep will not find me, and you will not need me. You waited far too long to teach me sorrow, agony...profound loss. You, you were far too good to me.

"Ma, are you going to eat? We need to get you dressed. Daddy's funeral is in less than an hour. Come on, I'll help you pick out your outfit." My eyes wash over her, blank.

"Remember? You said last night that you couldn't decide. That you needed some rest and that I could help you find something to wear this morning." Again, I meet the appeals of our beautiful girl with an empty gaze. It's all I can find here.

"We just need to get through this morning. Let's get you through this morning." She gently takes me up all at once and leads me to our bedroom. And I let her choose.

The black dress is stifling. She put me in long sleeves in August. I look like a schoolmarm, but when she was finished dressing me and placed me in front of our full-length mirror, I smiled and thanked her anyway. She is kind, like you. I can tell from her worried expression that she wishes I would have let her do more to ready me.

Truth is, I'm not afraid of people noticing that I couldn't bring myself to comb my hair. Lids open or closed, this place is empty. Just you, descending, and bits of me crumbling to the ground, aiming to join you. I seek my center, look around and cannot see, clench my teeth as I hear echoes of prayers you do not need and goodbyes you do not hear. I sense nothing but that with this moment it means nothing how near you may be. I rock, back, forth, and back, sky, and clouds, and neat feet in beautiful formations, all pointing to you, and now me on the ground, crouched, writhing, and palms pressed to grass, and muddy fingers dug all the way in. You are quiet, hidden, and still I love the way you move me.

*****

The waning and waxing moons seemed to fly right by me as I mourned your passing. I spent my hours in my room, ignoring our children's calls, dismissing the flowers and cards and well wishes from everyone who loved you. I wasted my breath on being selfish. I hated them for the times they took you away from me. You couldn't ever tell anybody no. In life, I loved your generous ways. The way you'd share your time and knowledge and laughter with others, as if you had all the time in the world. And then you'd come home to me, eyes bright, arms wide, lips soft and inviting. Even the times I missed you, I admired and respected the care you had for others. An hour here, half a day there, no matter. We were present for one another in each moment we spent together. And we had forever.

God, this hurts. I remember your smell with a level of clarity that, if I close my eyes and breathe just deep enough, I can still sense you on my skin. I can discern the shape of your fingers and palms as you'd hold my face and kiss me before sleep. I can hear the low, smooth rasp of your voice as you whispered that you loved me over and over, and I remember wishing you would never stop.

As I write to you tonight, a year after I cried out for you in the cemetery and you did not come, and as I picture myself now, alone but seemingly composed, bent over this notebook and telling myself you must hear me somehow, I imagine us eons apart. I'm knowing now more than ever that no number of seconds can heal my heart. I'm playing the last CD you burned, the one you handed to me as you joked that we'd been left on the other side of the technological divide, and feeling myself sink hopelessly further into the earth with every note that she sings:

I went somewhere to hide
far behind my eyes
I willed you there to see
but you never came for me

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. How wildly must I plead to make you come find me?

Welcome Love: Part 3

I'm not afraid of people noticing, that I couldn't bring myself to comb my hair.  Lids open or closed, this place is empty. Just you, descending, and bits of me crumbling to the ground, aiming to join you. I seek my center, look around and cannot see, clench as I hear echoes of prayers you do not need and goodbyes you do not hear. I am screaming in and out. I see nothing but that with this moment it means nothing how near you may be. I rock, back, forth, and back, sky, and clouds, and neat feet in beautiful formations, all pointing to you, and now me on the ground, crouched, writhing, and palms pressed to grass, and muddy fingers dug all the way in. You are quiet, hidden, and still I love the way you move me.

Welcome Love: A continuation

The jam is on the toast now, and placed in front of me. With one inhalation, I am back. Back to my 13th year. Grandma's house. She made her own jam and spread it over tortillas. I couldn't imagine a better snack, or a time I had things easier. Every moment was the best and the worst, all wrapped up in a clean package that delivered the simple, unwavering gift of security. I was a dramatic teen, but I relate my freedom of expression, my courage to feel everything all at once and to ensure everybody knew it, to having the safest spaces in which to do so. Even in the throws of my most emotional adolescent crises, I acted knowing that nothing could really hurt me. Sleep would find me quickly, family would always need me, and tortillas were the key to making everything right. 

I grew up, and never really changed. I was a dramatic adult, and somehow you accepted me. It takes a lot of luck to find a person who will give you, who will create with you, a shelter reaching beyond the assumed, granted haven you have in childhood. Every moment you and I spent together, you worked. You built us up, forgave my faults, and provided shade whenever you sensed I needed it. I was lucky, but tonight sleep will not find me, and you will not need me. You waited far too long to teach me sorrow, agony...profound loss. You, you were far too good to me. 

"Ma, are you going to eat? We need to get you dressed. Daddy's funeral is in less than an hour. Come on, I'll help you pick out your outfit." My eyes wash over her, blank. 


"Remember? You said last night that you couldn't decide. That you needed some rest and that I could help you find something to wear this morning." Again, I meet the kind pleadings of our beautiful girl with an empty gaze. It's all I can find in here. 


"We just need to get through this morning. Let's get you through this morning." She gently takes me up all at once and leads me to our bedroom. And I let her choose. 

H20

From a distance, the sea is not much more than a blue and blurred horizon. Distant ripples crawl in all directions, spreading like wildfire, veins, and air escaped from nostrils. Closer, a break in a wave, a crash and a swell flow in rapid succession. One. Another. One. Repeat. There is no discerning the start of one from the end of another, and perhaps there is no difference. A tide will change, disappear even, but it always builds to something--forever feeding coalescence, beautiful with each surge, crest, and descent. 

For our friend, Aziz

Old thoughts, complaints, and memories

I am deleting my Myspace account, but I couldn't part with some of the writing I did on my blog there. Most of these things I've kept because I am an egomaniac and I think they're artful or something. Some are good memories. Some are not. Some are about Aaron and I as a couple. Some are not.  And there are swears (non-teacher Rikki had a lot more of a potty mouth...or maybe I just didn't think it was tacky to be vulgar over the internets). Read, or don't. Thanks friends.

09/01/09

Your surname is Spanish. Why don't you speak it?!

Hello my friends! 

So, I'm about a month past due, but I've finally gotten around to posting pictures and writing a little about my very first trip outside the United States. It took some time to process everything and get back into my American persona, but I'm ready to re-live the adventure. 

I won't waste time by going over every detail. My pictures do that on their own! If you have any interest, you can see the pictures if you’re myFacebook friend. I'd love for people to see all the cool shit that goes on outside our borders. Maybe I can inspire you to get a passport and see the world. So, on to not wasting your time with billions of details and wordy sentences. Hopefully. 

The first day

We began our trip on Monday, August 3rd and traveled for about a day toward our destination. Aaron was not a fan of flying, and I am horrible at consoling people. I gave a frowny face and tried to hold his hand, but ultimately I failed in my endeavor. Once we landed and had the chance to perk up a bit, we made our 20 minute trek through the airport to the Metro system. After getting off at only one or two wrong stops, we found our own way to the hotel without needing to ask for directions. I am a fantastic navigator! After settling into our hotel and napping for a few hours, we took an afternoon stroll and found ourselves a cafe. Ordering seemed so simple at first, but I soon realized that I would never be prepared for the responses I got from Spanish folk--no matter how long I planned out the conversation in my head. I tried on my best accent and requested water, to which he tersely replied, "Sin gas?" I had no clue what he was saying. I couldn't even Identify the sounds coming from his lips. He then made a bizarre gesture that looked like somebody lighting a coleman lantern, and I concluded he MUST be asking a yes or no question. I guessed and replied, "No." It wasn't until he brought our still water (without bubbles) I realized what "sin gas" meant. I was definitely prepared for the next time somebody asked me that question, but you already know that nobody ever did. The rest of my interactions with the people of Spain went mostly like this for the rest of the trip, only it was much worse in Barcelona. Catalan is ridiculously strange to non-French speakers and only half literate Spanish speakers like myself!

The Artwork

During our time in Spain, we visited Barcelona, Toledo, and spent most of our time in Madrid. We visited El Museo Del Prado, a Spanish museum that houses works of Goya, Bosch, Velazquez, and Raphael, among others. It was adorable to see Aaron get so excited over The Garden of Earthly Delights. I did my best to read the Spanish explanations of the artwork for him, and we later bought him a souvenir T-shirt with a scene from the painting. 

We also visited another museum that is too difficult to spell without googling it, so you will go without the name. There were a few unpopular Picassos and about a bazillion landscapes. 'nough said. 

Architecture all around Spain is very interesting. Each building has its own personality and at least 17 pieces of flair. I loved photographing the diversity and detail of these structures. They really kick Utah's ass. 

 The People

While walking around Madrid, we also saw an uncommon amount of women crying on the street. Perhaps it is only uncommon to bawl in public in the states. Prostitutes were plenty, and if you were lucky (which we were) you could see their ass cracks protruding from the bottom of their skirts. Some had found scraps of cardboard to sit on to avoid getting their bottom-crack dirty, but these were only the highest ranking of the hookers. We also learned that Spanish parents have no qualms with allowing their female school-age children to run about topless and to urinate on the sidewalk at the local zoo, just twenty feet from free, clean, and modern restrooms. 

The Food

Was not good. 

The Cities

Madrid has a vibrant nightlife. In fact, you cannot get dinner until nine or ten in the evening. This city would be perfect for Aaron if he knew how to get around without me. ;) Barcelona is so humid I wanted to kill myself, but I didn't because there was just too much to look at. My favorites were the beach (La Playa) and the Sagrada Familia (a Catholic Cathedral designed by Gaudi). Aaron liked the stretchy  boobs of the women at the beach, which he "didn't know was a nude beach until we'd been assaulted by 5 pairs of tennis balls inside tube socks almost simultaneously." Right. 

Hopefully I'll be able to post pictures from Toledo when I have more time. Toledo is like a giant outdoor museum. Absolutely everything is picture worthy. Of course. I forgot my camera. So, we wandered around the city and took some breath-taking photos with Aaron's VGA (not even 1 megapixel!) camera. It may be difficult to see the city's intricacies with the terrible resolution, but in no way could even the simplest of visual representations conceal the beauty and charm of this historic city. I can't wait to show you.

The End

Is not actually here, but Aaron is waiting for me to stop typing so he can buy me dinner. Clearly, I failed at writing a quick-and-dirty summary of our trip! Perhaps I will add more later, or maybe I'll just make you listen to my ramblings the next time I see you. Which is? 

Love you all!

-Rikki

May 12 2009        

A Poem


If it's not too late for me

I'll sit back and hold your head

In my lap I'll see you know my heart

And I'll forget to worry

about all the things I'll never know

And I'll tighten my fingers on your wrist

hoping to let it all go 

And I'll plead till your smile washes me away

How I need you to slow me down

If it's not too late for me

I can grow my heart and wait and see 

4/11/09

Retrospect

“So now that you’re graduated, what are you going to do, Rikki? What do you want to be when you grow up?” my father’s friend, Bill, bellowed with a grin.

“I’m not sure. I haven’t decided yet. I was thinking either marketing or special education,” I replied.

“Why on earth would you want to be a teacher?” He shrieked. “I’ve always said you gotta go where the money is, and teachers don’t make anything!”

“I just think that I’d enjoy helping kids who really need the support. I—“

“Listen here, Rikki, you’re talking to a guy who knows a lot about business and how to bring in the big bucks. It’s fine if you choose to do something that you love, but it’s a thousand times better if you do something that you can stand, and make a lot of money doing it.”

I paused, hesitant. “You really think so?”

“Sure. Look at me. I’m a happy guy, right?”

I entered college tired. In high school my focus was: Join every club you can. Get into college. Get a scholarship. Looking back, my junior and senior years of high school were the busiest, most stress-filled years of my life. Upon entering college I expected everything to be so different, as if graduating high school had been my ultimate goal, but I was simply bombarded with a new and huge list of things to do.

I was unsure of which route was best for me, so I bought into Bill’s logic. I followed his advice and began my first semester with my required generals and a few business classes. Immediately, I felt not only that I would never finish school, but also I felt disillusioned. I listened as my old high school friend—a modern dance major—gabbed about how much she was enjoying her program. I celebrated my boyfriend’s passion for his political and social science classes. I knew for these two that the fields they had chosen were meant for them. Why, then, if I could recognize a right fit for my friends, could I not recognize it for myself? I found my eyes glassing over in the middle of “Microsoft Office Basics 1100,” and in my early morning business philosophy class I could hardly mask my aversion to my classmates’ interest in selling products to consumers and debating whether or not Rent-A-Center is a responsible organization. I saw how fulfilled the people around me seemed to be; the way they were able to engage in their education escaped my comprehension. I was ashamed that I did not feel the same.

I withdrew some, only staying on campus long enough to attend my classes. I didn’t take the time to get to know anyone. I passed my classes without difficulty, but took no knowledge away with me. I was just too tired.

1/28/10        

The Philanthropist

There's so much trouble to be found in thinking somebody needs you. Either you'll find shame in learning you did them a disservice only after putting at least half of your good energy into fixing them, or you'll find heartache in realizing you do not possess the power to change half the shit you want to. Nobody really knows how to discern altruism from hubris, and any kind of service we do for another illustrates the truth to such a statement. I see how much you are hurting. God, believe me. I hear the seconds you pass, ticking your way down to a massive self-destruction. And there's no small question over the fact that you need something, and I hate that our world expects you-who sits alone and rocks in the corner and cannot microwave macaroni-to pull yourself up by your bootstraps. The need is apparent to anyone caught looking your way, and the haphazard do-gooders don't tread lightly. They come charging. They're hopeful. They assume they can change you, and care not to show any regard for your own capacity. You've already seen them fail. Was it because you simply didn't want the responsibility, or did their patronizing assumptions help you master your helplessness? How can you grow when you are stifled for the benefit of another's self-esteem?

Better question. Why am I here? Am I so unlike the others who confuse support with power? Do I passionately proclaim my devotion to you so you do not see that I am starved for worth and my sole means for feeding is by saving you? Am I cruel to make you need me, or am I cruel to turn away you, the needy?

12/30/08

Welcome Love, I have made a place for you here.”

I used to feel like a rock song. I could bounce and smile; I would nod my head and furrow my brow. Happy or sad didn't matter; political or sentimental had no effect. I couldn't make it, couldn't manage to sound human singing it, but I felt myself part of the melody and every song was written for me. I lived it. I was every rock song.

Today as our sun is setting, I am starved for your attention. Damned arrhythmia. I used to keep up the tempo. Now my wounded beat draws too much juice at once and I cannot control the flow of life into my fractured heart. I do not want it, but still it comes. It fills, it empties, it shares with the rest of me, and it makes my brain hate my own resilience. I would have handed this vessel over to you if only you would have taken it. You are content to have me miss you.

I am sitting with Gabrielle at our kitchen table. It's still a grainy cherry hue, cutlery-chipped and stained by years of unsteady hands and coffee rings. It has changed less than I. Gab is spreading butter on toast, and I note with some surprise the matured elegance in her fingers as she works, wondering at what moment she became a woman. Her face has grown brighter, shining with a wise kind of beauty. She is speaking to me in her usual sweet, syrupy tone, pleading that I eat something. Her caring, concerned demeanor used to calm me. Now, though I love her as I always have, I need her gone. She is so much like you.

I force a thin smile and ask for the Strawberry-pineapple jam, and she grins in triumph. Gab stands, pressing her hands into the table for support. She walks a few steps behind me and opens the refrigerator. I am glad not to be looking at her. I rest my hand on my cheek and think of how you used to mock the way it would stretch my face. Looking about, I view our kitchen the way I did when we were thirty years old. We hadn't moved anything since, hadn't cared to remodel. The walls are yellowed from their crisp white, have peeled in places that we ignored. The sink's faucet sits tired and tarnished, but not worlds away from the shine it used to have. The cupboards held up quite nicely. Only a few handles have come off in all this time, and you were always quick to get out your tools and put things back together. I hear the melodious echoes of laughter left by you and our children, and I see this room, where we would sit each morning sharing coffee and trading stories, and know it has aged, but its familiarity is haunting without you. Darling, I am fallen apart. Why can't I be your cupboard?

Date: Unknown
Lyrical Protest

Angelina says she made her mind up

The moment she kissed him

Between his lips she says she'd live forever-

But he's pulling away, too cocky or too afraid

She feigns poise, says she doesn't mind

For him her heart could break a million times

But she swears to love him till the day she dies

Cause soon enough she knows he'll have to realize

That it's not enough just to have her in his life

And she whispers, "Darling, love is patient"

Though he cannot hear her

She knows he will with time

Angelina fell asleep last night

Tear-stained but hopeful

She says there's no other girl

Who really knows his smile.

I sing, "Hold on, Angel, hold tight"

For him her heart could break a million times

But she swears to love him till the day she dies

Cause soon enough she knows he'll have to realize

That it's not enough just to have her in his life

And she whispers, "Darling, love is patient"

Though he cannot hear her

She knows he will with time

Angelina says she made her mind up

The moment she kissed him.

Angelina knows she gave her life up

Because she could not desert him

I sing "Hold on, Angel, kill yourself right"

For him her heart could break a million times

But she swears to love him till the day she dies

Cause soon enough you know he'll have to realize

That its not enough just to have you in his life

And she whispers, "Darling, love is patient"

Though he cannot hear her

She knows he will with time

She knows he will with time

Date: Unknown
Untitled 

Ribs are cracking under terror, but behind the shield lies too great an optimist to close it off. She'll Stuff the brain with lofty expectations, and give blood and veins and soul to them. Then wait, wait for a return in oxygen-for once a reciprocation that calms a frantic frame. But Again, The flesh and heart and capillaries have given too much. Dizzied with doubt she'll cry, "perhaps it's always been the giving that poisons it." This is another something too quick and far too severe. Nearly out of habit, this creature too trusting will fall eyes shut on black-stained down. "Scream silently throat," she sings, "Feel the latest lonely fracture."

Date: Unknown        

How I contracted Ebola

I was so caught up in black

soaking you in and clinging

I was starved for what you would not concede

and in my foolishness I followed you down

I made detours and fell into your fester

in the rank suffocation I think I lost my mind-

I saw my body's dehydration take over

as I plunged my face in stagnant pools

I screamed but only you replied-

tore up my tongue and left death in my eye

ill thick air caught up to my clamber,

so thinning lungs were resigned to choke

fallen into darkness, delusion came

but spoilt eyes at last saw clearly

and when sprawled on an empty belly

I found myself no longer hungry




Date: Unknown
Pregnant Pause 

We laughed with exhilaration,

caught in a beautiful, electric maze

rough and jagged lines--made smooth and right

when grazed against mine


And in youthful hide and seeking

lovely aspiration met our fears

acquainted before, I was blind to it

We hid our weakness well

Out of darkness discover the in-divine: 

A child named Ambivalence that feeds on you and I

Neither bound nor expelled, we exclaim
How can passion love despair?

We ignore it, smother the result

and still the offspring wakes us

night after night to wail and wail and wail

I hope and I love but I fear-

Some things are never left behind.