Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

Unedited Freewrite with Kate: 09/21/10

Topic: Home is…

Home is where the heart is. Home. That word sounds nice. Sounds warm and soft and sacred. I want to be there. This is not home. Well, I don’t know. It almost felt like home, felt like a place I could make home, or maybe was home – last week when I was walking in the dusty earth with my leather worn dusky cowboy boots kicking up microcosms of sand spitting into the earth dusty dusty all the way till dawn, I kicked my way out past the gorge, rock-climbed down into the little crevase that ian and I had found last year – was it just last year? Last summer, and crawled down, only this time it was just me, just me talking to myself, meditating to myself, hot hot, it was steamy and waves, even though there was no moisture in the air the sage burning and each rock I placed my fingers on, into, grabbed hold of and scratched at was abrasive in that nice chalky way, in that commotion and crawled down down down into the mouth of the gorge I loved sticking my boots, the tips and licks and tongue of my boots deep into little cracks of rock – I loved the notion of bouldering in cowboy boots, I imagined Robin in her little felt micro-stick spider shoes leaning and swinging and artfully placing a toe on the tiniest of ledges and giving force – and then I imagined her watching me scamber about this desert hideaway, this desert wall, and her laughing her low little Robin laugh, a chuckle really, and I think she’d dig it.

I felt like NM could have been home then, all those days, when the air way dry and my nose was dry and my lungs were dry, but open – back home, my before home, my California childhood home, things were moist and contracted. I’ve always had a little bit of mold growing in my lungs. Rhumetoid arthritis. Not sure where that came frn bronchitis I meant to say, that dampness, secrets, something growing, an open room or basement that people know exists but you don’t’ really ever go in there, or maybe just to grab your skis in the winter but that’s it nothing else you pretend you don’t even know your old sweaters are in there, gathering up damp dust. But they are there, they are, and they gather and grow and mold and fester and there is a sadness there, a muskyness of grief, a small particiulate matter that fills the air that feels ancient, and old, and forgotten, and neglected. That attic is me. My small child self who thought she had to abandon her sunlight and small, tiny wishes, because there was no room for any more stuff, too much furniture already, so leave it all in the attic and come on out because there are some things to do and you really should attend to them. You really should do them.

My brother liked old things. I actually don’t knw if he did or not. I’m making this freewrite up. He liked board games and magic, geeky star trek and pretend. He wanted to play and live in a fantasy world. My brother was a true Aquarian. Skitzy and oddball and off beaten and quirked. He was bright, very bright, would pull apart our VCR and reconstruct transistor radios out of crystals and old copper wire. He would build and create and very mad scientist, would architect chairs out of legos with trap doors to collapse under unsuspecting sisters. (me.) he would be rats and mazes and labyrinths and love an dglitter ok not so much love or glitter but affection… lots of teasing, and affection. He affected me.

All this stuff with D. is painful. I don’t know where to begin. Dear Death – you are no better than life, with your arrogance and haughy nature! Both of you require work, and all I wanted was quiet. I’ve been working these long, long lifetimes, and I’m ready to be put to bed.

§1162 · September 21, 2010 · Daily1, New Mexico Magic, Writing & Language · · [Print]

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