busy-work

One of my earliest memories was my dad saying “up and at it” and “get’er done”. I’m talking early grade school. Definitely sometime between 3rd and 6th grade.

I can’t be the only person my age who had too much time to think while walking home from school that young, growing up too fast. 

So I’ve never been good at waiting or leaving things up to others, especially if  I think I’m not a priority to them. I’ve always preferred to do things myself, depend on myself, and own my mistakes when I make them.

It’s uncomfortable and overwhelming to depend on others, on someone else's judgement and determinations, excuses for inaction. 

It’s uncomfortable and overwhelming to exist in limbo, waiting, filling time with busy-work.

cold has crept

Too late, the cold has crept

into bones and breath

temple to temple it stretches 

behind eyes taught

Gray skies, damp walls

a soul softly shackled 

to shuffling feet, legs

stiff with winter blues

Unmooring

The things I want to do are stuck until one little thing occurs. 

Shedding a life took three years. 

It was mostly physical; documenting my job at work, preparing the house to sell, gifting, selling, donating everything. Whittling away until my life was constrained to four duffles, three boxes, and a crate of art. 

The goal was clear, steps toward achieving my goal were attainable.

It was late March when I retired, early June when I drove cross country, and late July when I crossed the ocean. It was summer. The world was bright, a stunning white-hot. 

Unmooring took weeks. It was mostly psychological: depending on others, the impatience of waiting, the inability to take action. Limbo gave me too much time to sit with my own thoughts and the a lack of purpose except to “wake eat, sleep, repeat” overwhelmed. 

December, January, February, dark skies, cold, rain. Winter drags on as I drift without control. 

in winter, the dying leaves of autumn rot

everything is damp here, and

where the dying leaves settle 

the path is slick on old

stone sidewalks cobbled;

a reminder of a day past.

happiness as two steps 

at a time were taken

landing, sliding,

skinning palms and knees

through jeans ripped

stained bloody;

portent of a marriage 

ending and a heart

never quite mending.

in winter, the dying

leaves of autumn rot,

not just here, but there

where I existed too long.

yester-morrows

sorrow sits, nestled in 

her palms outstretched

tinging a life of walkabouts 

and yester-morrows

guns or fireworks

My little ‘hood in East Dallas was sandwiched between one of million dollar homes and a ghetto I didn’t like to drive through alone. We were mostly middle class? Lower middle class? Monetarily thrifty? Just people with jobs who settled in to a place we could almost afford, or older residents who had purchased new and were nearing death.

When I first moved in, the house on the furthest corner near where I wouldn’t drive, caught fire. Curious, many of us flocked over only to see firemen pulling plants out of a smoldering garage. 

When helicopters were seen, we’d wonder if they were traffic or police. We called them all Ghetto Birds. Around holidays, weekends, and the random weekday, we’d hear loud pops and wonder if it was guns or fireworks. Flat tires were common from the foot-deep potholes and ruts. We knew each other, closely and loosely, wondered and gathered randomly, share food and woes. Some came, some went, some stayed, one or two caused havoc.

I woke up missing my house, the yard, space to dwell. It wasn’t much, the gentrification was encroaching by the time I sold, but it was mine and the people I knew were true.