cancer – The Wind

A ONE HANDED ENTRY

mommy with her sisters, before we knew she was sick.

this is tough, this being me.

i say all kinds of euphemistic things:

endure, be brave, be faithful…

a memory stirs,

i am back to missing you.

i am glad you are not suffering.

i am glad the pain is gone.

but here i am left,

wondering.

how do i carry on?

my life is like typing one-handed,

always swimming uphill

with one broken paddle, one broken pencil,

one half of one one-dollar bill.

i remember the days of our freedom

the two of us crying and laughing at once!

sipping our vodka tonics and talking like schoolgirls

till we were tipsy and high.

your kneecaps jumped up and down,

so i put you to bed,

worried that i somehow harmed

those beautiful knees.

they parted to give me birth,

but i don’t feel alive.

the sunlight changed the day you died

left me all dim and damaged inside.

now my life is like typing one-handed.

always swimming uphill

with one broken paddle,one broken pencil

and one half of one one-dollar bill.

my relief is coming, the shining day

you will return to me-free from any disease

it is our God’s promise to us!

the world will resound with our laughter,

our brothers and sisters will join in

we will all be perfect and no one will die,

not ever, no

never again.

i wont have to type one handed,

no more swimming uphill.

no broken paddles, no more broken pencils,

no need for one-half of one one-dollar bill!!!

The decision to enter my painting in an art show at a real art gallery was easy to make. I believe I am being motivated by fear, having learned while Pops was in hospital that I will basically be destitute after he dies or if he must be placed in a home. I had always hoped that I could make a living with my art, knew I could, really, but I never wanted to let anyone see it. It isn’t that I am ashamed, it is just so personal. That is my heart on the canvas, my veins torn open, my blood on the page.

I never wanted to sell out. to allow complete strangers to dissect my innermost thoughts, to critique my self expression. My life has been so full of can’ts:

You aren’t a boy, Susan. You can’t play ball like that.

You can’t just draw from your imagination- you must be trained properly.

You can’t go to art school, it is not realistic.

You are too sensitive, you can’t take everything to heart.

YES I CAN!!!!

The latest critic in my life is an elderly aunt, who believes she has my best interest at heart by terrifying me about my future. She wan’ts me to look into selling my antiques, selling my china, selling my whole sense of home and safety in preparation for the big nothingness that she keeps reminding me that looms ahead when Dad dies.

I try very hard to be smilingly pleasant on the phone with her, but it is the most negative words she can say. She totally does not understand my bipolar disorder or depression. I absolutely CAN NOT focus on what MIGHT happen. I will dwell on it, I will obsess about it, and if I am not careful, I will drink and drug over it. Her constant warnings of doom will be a self fulfilling prophecy for me.

I was on my own for many years without any material possessions, and those were some of the most meaningful years of my life. Meaningful in that I learned how to survive happily with nothing, that I appreciated every single meal, blanket, pot, pan, article of clothing, tree, water faucet, sunrise- and every single human being who crossed my path.

I was much younger, sure, but I learned how to SURVIVE. And I succeeded.

Jesus had no place to lay his head- he lived by faith. He lived free, and appreciated all His Father’s blessings. He did not fear not knowing where he would sleep, what he would eat, and the Bible counsels us to follow in his footsteps.

I do not want to sell Mom’s china, and I won’t. If I have to eat dog food on it in the dark, then that is what I will do. I will use my considerable brain function to keep my head above the proverbial water, but not by selling the things I hold dear, or by giving into fear of what may or may not happen.

Cleo 1-31-12 072 — after I lost 70 pounds in 2010! (now I have to lose it again!!)

If something good can come out of my anger at her doubt in me, it is that I am taking a leap of faith and taking my painting to the Gallery.

And I might just take a binder on my writings to an editor while I am at it!

So thank you Auntie Doubtful for the motivation. I remember that I am still the brave girl who jumped on a freight train and rode across Arizona, hitchhiked through 6 states, dumpster dove for greasy Mcdonald’s burgers, and that they tasted like T-bones!

I am the brave girl who worked 27 jobs in 25 years, rigged for the crane building Missle Silos, worked with Belgians and Shires and Clydesdales and Andalusians, and groomed the Atlanta Police department’s horses, learned to decorate cakes and operate forklifts, did lawn maintenance and worked on the tip of an island in the Atlantic. I have befriended train tramps and illegal immigrants, and helped a 15 year old Mexican kid hide in a grain car to get to his uncle’s house, his only relative in this world! I have accepted gifts of food, and given some, accepted rides and given many, and I have loved and believed in the very best of my fellow man, and I also believe in myself.

I am the brave girl who survived rape ad beatings, being stabbed and shot at, falling in holes and having horses roll on me, having a riding lawnmower flip over on me, divorcing a dangerous man, jail, drug addiction, alcoholism, hepatitis C, and the death of my beloved Mom, and losing my sanity, and I am still standing, even if it is crooked.

I am that brave girl, and I am a survivor.

Moving Images by S.T. Martin2012

moving images

out of the swirling mists of time

images flit like scenes on a movie screen.

her dark hair in short cut, smooth and sleek,

lying coyly against perfect curve of cheek.

next image of child with chopped-off bangs

standing forlornly in kitchen doorway,

little striped cotton pants fall low,

eyes peer cautiously into lamplight’s glow.

through fog i see her glance at me:

mother’s gaze, so full of certainty.

daughter will survive harsh world,

grow into a brave, steady girl.

how wrong she was, this mother mine

lost now to cruel winds of time

for tumult wrecked the childhood lost

onto rocky shore fair dream was tossed.

i awaken to alarm clock’s clang

begin another drudgey day to slog,

put memory away till later time

when night’s embrace again lets film unwind.

by S.T. Martin c. 2012

We Never Moved, Just Moved On…

This is Baby Izzy. Her full name is Aiko XoXo Izabella, and she is a shih-tzu, as are my other 2 babies. This is her older brother, Kiko San Majestic:

He looks like a wookie from star wars here. Or an Ewok, I can’t remember what that furry creature as called. Both of the kids were young in these pictures, Kiko may have been just over 2 years old, and Izzy was about 8 months. SO cute!!!

standing in Alabama looking into Georgia

Mom and dad and I had driven up to Alabama looking at houses. This was when houses here were selling for 3 times more than they are now, so we could have purchased a larger, nicer house, with some acreage. Mom had not been diagnosed with stage 4 colo/rectal cancer yet, that would come the next year. And although we saw many beautiful properties, we decided not to move, which was a good thing in the long run. Here at this house where we have been for 30 years, everything is paid and there is no mortgage.

We also live by a major Interstate Highway that runs from Maine to the very tip of the mainland in the Keys. Every type of hospital, doctor’s office, pharmacy, store, post office, and any retail establishment you can think of are in a 10 mile radius of our home. I happen to hate “city” living, so now that we are bigger than West Palm Beach I do not enjoy all the traffic. We are so close to the HWY. that we had a big wooden privacy fence erected to block traffic noise and keep us safe from transients, and criminals. I used to go to sleep to the thumping sound of car stereos rattling my windows. And the house next door has been abandoned for at least 5 years now. It has had a pool full of mosquitoes nearly the entire time, the shutters all fell off, and they ran over their septic tank with a backhoe before they moved. I am only scratching the surface here, but suffice to say the grass is high next door!

Ok, I gotta hang up my pencil now- my neck has a crook in it…I mean a crick! Or is it a creak? I know it is creaky, just like all my other moveable parts! Goodnight friends!

Pray to Jehovah, my friends!

What Color Is Despair?

what color will you paint my soul?

blues and greens in endless dreams

what color will you paint my soul?

what color will you paint my life?

blacks and reds of endless strife

what color will you paint my life?

what color will you paint my house?

winter white where no one shouts

what color will you paint my house.

what color do you think i see?

a space of clear that once was me

what color do you think i see?

what color should i paint my walls?

a shade of pink when no one calls

what color should i paint my walls?

what color should i wear?

it don’t matter no one’s there

what color should i wear?

why should i even try?

cause if i don’t i know i’ll die

why should i even

try?

a poem of sorts by S.T. Martin 3/5/2015

How Do They Dare?

How Do They Dare:

to say they know how I feel?

to say they understand my pain?

to say I am overmedicated?

say I am overfed, or unleared?

to say I am just overreacting?

pretend to know what my lonely days are like?

to use my body when I said,”NO!”?

to laugh at a man in pain?

to feed my children their sick ideas, on love, on morality?

to say they know my God, when they don’t even use His name?

to feed the native people their poison corn, while they eat the fatted calf?

to make my mother pay for the chemo that killed her?

to say they have my best interest at heart, when they don’t have a heart to know?

How far shall I go? How far do I dare?

I do Dare, because I am full of power, power to read for myself what the Good Book says, not their interpretation.

I am full of power to make up for my own mind what God I will serve.

I will not bow down to the TV god, who shows me that all that glitters is dead.

The power I have in this mind God gave me tells me to reject the lies of the politicians, who say my sons must kill other humans.

Reject the lies of the church that says my sons must die for a god that belongs to lying politicians.

I have the power Jehovah gives me to fight for my right to believe in his Son, Jesus Christ, a Son who restores life to the dead, who is the very image of his Father, and who Is my reigning King.

For Him I will gladly die, I will gladly die for my brother.

Freedom lies in the Truth, and lies never lead to freedom.

I have the power to open my mouth, to pick up my pen, to type on my keyboard, because you are all my neighbors, and it is my moral obligation to try to help you Survive!

Survive through the lies, live into a peace that comes from Freedom, the wonderful freedom of the children of God.

I will be there, I will be the one with the big smile, and the open arms to welcome you.

We will never have to feel the Big Empty, anymore.

We will never want our eyes to shut, forever.

The Great Gnawing Fear that has dogged us all our lives will be gone, and there will be no more burning pain.

The 1st liar in history will be gone, Our King will see to that, just as His Father promised.

They won’t dare to lie anymore, the time for lying will be over.

Then the greatest thing of all will happen: our people who have died will come out of the grave and Live again, and Love us again!

Death, the result of the 1st lie ever told, will be thrown away, forever!

No one will ever hurt us again!!!

They wouldn’t dare!!

What is Paradise? What does it mean to you, if you could just glimpse it in your mind’s eye?

To me it means peace, and a beautiful quiet. No one yelling, no one swearing, no one hating. Clean water, clean air. The joy of making this earth a beautiful garden again, with no pollution, no decay. Endless years of life in a perfect, pain-free, young body, and waking up like I did as a kid, with wonder in my eyes at the possibilities for the day! Perfection means feet that can run, arms that can hug, a heart that can truly feel love, all under our loving God, Jehovah.

(Please take this chance, and dare to be different. dare to ask questions, and be brave enough to accept the truth when you hear it…)

Like that young actor said at the Oscars, keep being weird! And brave!

this kind of started out as a poem, but then I started thinking about how awful conditions have gotten, all the terrible acts of violence. And the only solution they ever talk about includes inflicting some kind of suffering on someone else. Sanction, war, airstrikes, and on and on.

I just want to give someone hope…there is a way of peace…

The Soundtrack of My Life/ writing 101,assignment

Deep Purple was my favorite band for many years. My brother was 4 years older than me and so I inherited all his records as he grew up and moved on. But deep Purple’s lead singer, Ian Gillian was my secret dream lover, and his singing their song, “Pictures of Home” cut deep into my aching heart. I was a depressed, or rather, disturbed girl, and very lonely. So the words were my plea for help:,”I’m alone here, with emptiness, eagles and snow- Unfriendliness chilling my body, and taunting with Pictures of Home…” That last echoing cry sent out along the moors, stolen from his “kissy” lips, and making me ache in ways I had yet to understand.

Then there was Black Sabbath, with my idol, Ozzy Osbourne at the helm. It wasn’t the “crazy train” that owned me, but rather a darker, more personal song, also very dark. I had this song on a cassette that I played in my “Boom-Box” everywhere I went. Selling joints to my school mates, taking quaaludes, and tripping on acid. Always, this song moved through my mind like a mist: “I hide myself inside the shadows of your name… Your silent symphonies were playing their game…” Then, later in the song, my hatred for authority came to a climax with the chorus, “Why don’t you just get out of my life”, repeated twice, and then the big finish,” Why doesn’t EVERYBODY LEAVE ME ALONE!!!” I took that cassete with me to the locked Psych Ward where I spent my eighteenth birthday, along with the 6 razor blades I hid in my clothing. I oozed hatred from every pore that day, but I craved love so much and lacked it so much that my gut felt like a bottomless meat freezer when those doors slammed shut behind my parents,

But there are other songs today that I hear and love. Songs about joy, songs about love. Songs about life. There is one particular song I am hearing now in my exhausted mind. A lilting melody that I can not play without sobbing all nthe way through it. It is by Eva Cassidy, and I have also heard it done by Sting. I believe it is an old song, but I’m not sure. I know that it carries within it the seed of my dead mother’s essence, Carol, my best friend, has been gone for 5 years now, but when I hear this song, it is she who sing it, ” Among the Fields of Gold.”

I miss you, Mum.

Falling in The Memory Hole

Days go by, pleasant thoughts ensue.

not a minute when thoughts are not of you

I make him sad, talking about your life,

And it makes me cry, him forgetting you:

his wife.

I hear him say how wonderul your love,

yet I recall him on a pedestal above.

he sat in the den watching Rambo,

I tried to stem the bloodflow. The hateflow.

did you ever love him, mom?

I remember asking.

he seems to believe you loved him, madly…

I remember you being mad,.

all the time

You frowned so much a crease formed in the middle of your brow,

so deep, it never went away.

your head, always down, voice, eyes, down, down.

where are the pleasant things i recall?

did they happen for real? at all?

I miss the you who loved me, all the end days.

laying in your giant bed, two grand women,

mother-daughter, sister-sister, best friend-best friend.

face to face with tears and laughter,

joy and pain.

i miss you.

The Mirror

my heart looks for you

under handmade afghans…

in the kitchen…

in your seat.

always smoking your

deadly viceroy.

little did i know

they would steal you away.

your son wanted you to

do what you could not:

quit.

so he cut you loose

from his twisted heart.

but not me

i bound you to me

with chains of

suffocating

love.

if i hear your voice

it’s because i speak you,

i move you,

i do you.

it’s how i keep you alive.

“mother, how could you leave me?”

staring back from the glass

you are not really gone.

i am.

Tag: cancer