Chicken Fried Vogue

For 15 years and most of her adult life, Bubblez lived in the suburbs of a major metropolitan city. She enjoyed taking her children to museums, parks, and dates at Starbucks. Then Bubblez moved to the country and her En Vogue attitude got chicken fried. Her yard is a park where the neighbor's rooster won't stop crowing, Starbucks is almost an hour away, and her large collection of fancy shoes is worthless. But, living in the acres of green has presented more opportunities for living "green" as Bubblez travels the path toward self-sufficiency (and bitches ((and prays)) along the way).

Wednesday, October 24, 2012


There is no composure to my writing today. I do not plan to edit, plan, tidy style anything. There is no composure in my world today. No composure to me. I am disheveled and sniveling, sputtering words into type that my mouth won't speak. There is probably snot on my face. My eyes are swollen to slits.

Imagine this. A person in a chair with tears streaming down her face and snot attempting to drip out her nose and as she sniffs to keep the snot in, the tears that have traveled through the under eye valleys and over cheekbone hills into the little stream bed under nose mountain are being vacu-sucked up her nose. The only reason she keeps attempting to sniffle it up is to keep the nasty mucous from dripping all the way into her mouth, and where tears have a mildly pleasant salty taste, snot is just plain gross. As a passive observer in your own imagination, this scene admittedly, has a certain hilarity about it, the thought of someone sucking tears up their nose.

In reality, if you saw her, you'd look away, for no matter how evil some of us claim the human race to be, we can not stand to see each other in pain.

And she is in pain. Wracked with pain. Limp with it for she can't wipe the salty rivulets from her face or even exhale hard enough to blow the mucous away. She simply sits, head cradled on her very own shoulder, completely silent but for the occasional sniff.

I want to throw something, break something, smash a million somethings into a wall, a floor, a tree, it doesn't matter, but I can't lift my arm. I am crippled by the weight of my own heart. Cliche as that may be, it's true.

I lost someone very dear to me today, and my soul is bleeding. I am sitting in grief's belly. It smells earthy, stale, and putrid like rotting potatoes, a wretched nauseating, smell. This is the third time that grief has swallowed me. Before, I waited for it to digest me and dissolve me into nothingness. This time, I know that it will only consume a small part of me before drifting away like a dense fog, leaving me wondering how it is that I can see again. Each time, my soul bleeds into Grief's thirst, and I am left to live, but live a little more hollow, a little more empty inside walls that will be colder and harder, where once they were like the brightly colored feathers of a boa.

I've never been punched in the gut so I don't know what that feels like, but I've done 100 sit-ups and the pain in my middle feels something like that. In an attempt to pull it together and wash my face, my body doubled over, tight and weak, convulsing, unable to stand, my eyes vomiting tears into the sink. And then the sobs came, as I laid my cheek against the cool marble and wondered how I'd get through the day with my children watching me. Heavy sobs that I hope were muffled by the bathroom door.

I'm a Christian. I believe in God and heaven and an afterlife filled with perfection. I don't claim to know all that exists in the spiritual world. There are mysteries, things the Bible doesn't tell us. There are feelings and forces and deep unexplainable connections that we have together.

A friend approached me last night. I do not know the depth if his spiritual beliefs, but he chose to touch me and without saying so, but it is who he is, attempted to lift away my bad aura. He pulled and pulled at it as if there were sticky strands attached to his fingers. He's done this before, and typically, I am left feeling cheery and peaceful, but this time it was something akin to removing gum from a small girl's long hair. The strands stretched and snapped but refused to let go. In the end, he hugged me and demanded I squeeze back hard. I think he was trying to absorb it. He never said as much. I did take some comfort in that, but he pulled away and looked at me uncomfortably.

This morning I got the call. I've been expecting it for years. In Minnesota, I would lay the phone by my bed each night in anticipation of its ringing. Day after day, it was the same. When we moved here, I let the practice slip because I was close enough to watch for signs.

For over five years, I waited as her body grew weaker. There were a few close calls, sudden trips to the ER, nights spent with pneumonia in a hospital bed, but still she hung on, and the call never came. Yesterday, she had a stroke, and today the phone rang.

She was 93, and had lived far longer than she said she'd wanted to. The youngest and last to remain of 11 children, she had seen the suffering that old age can bring. She was depressed, embarrassed, tired, and often cranky, though usually not with me. "I sit and think about people," she said, "and all of them are dead."

My mother called me, and as I tried to ask questions she talked over me proceeding with the speech she had rehearsed. They would meet today to discuss arrangements, blah blah blah. "Are you ok?" to which I said yes, because at the moment I was. Then I stepped inside the house, sat on the edge of the bed, and the tears came, unwanted, unwilled, not crashing through the floodgates, but rather seeping in between cracks in the mortar and running down the walls until everything was damp, sticky, and dark, an inch of salt water having quietly pooled onto the floor refusing to drain away.

The weather is sunny and hot, today. Odd for late October, and incongruent with my suffering. I suppose I should take it as a good omen, and I hope somebody does, but I feel cheated and it makes me angry.

"One more thing
That looked like me
When it still breathed
Rest in peace
Until the rapture comes to meet us"

No comments:

Post a Comment