侘寂

Wabi-sabi

This is a Japanese aesthetic that finds beauty in imperfection and in the natural process of things. Life is beautiful because it is imperfect and mortal, fleeting, impermanent and incomplete. Have you ever seen a piece of pottery with dents and bends with paint unfinished? That is Wabi-sabi.

Transportation is and always has been a part of life. Public transportation is a new convenience. The buses are imperfect structures filled with people who live imperfect lives. I want them to be art.

Just Up

Why am I up? 1:04. Hungry.

I know I need sleep. 1:05.

1:06. Was that really one minute?

Browsing, just browsing, mindlessly, sleepily.

My face is dry. 1:07.

Do androids dream of electric sleep?

I don't want to dream. 1:08.

Rest is when I go somewhere else.

When I come back it is like I never left.

1:09. Somewhere with no thoughts, worries, it's just.

Just there. Not here.

Can I go?

Will you let me? So much to think.

1:10. In that place I don't.

I can't go now. Not down for a nap.

I'm up. Still, just up.

Hopeless

I haven’t slept all night. One of the nurses told me yesterday at the hospital that people have died in their sleep before because they started bleeding in their throat and didn’t wake up so they drowned. I wonder if she realized the horror that would bring me. I’ve been watching “Man vs. Wild” on the Discovery Channel for five hours now. I’m pretty sure I know how to survive in any climate and any country. What is on at 4am on a Monday morning? Something’s tickling my throat. This can’t be real. I run downstairs to get a cup full of ice because the doctor told me that, if it started bleeding again, ice might make it stop.
Two large Taco Bell to-go cups full of ice later and my body is shivering. My arms are convulsing and my lips are numb. I yell for my mom when I realize that the ice is not helping. As soon as an ice cube fully melts, the blood flows. My mom comes in to the TV room and when she realizes that I am freezing myself she takes the cup away from me and walks me down to the car for yet another trip to the emergency room.
It’s the same setup, same nurses, same doctor and same procedure. I don’t have much hope. At 7:45am he finishes up his cauterizing and sends me home saying:
“No one ever bleeds a third time honey, don’t worry.”
We pull into the drive way and I stagger up the stairs to the couch that has been my home for the last two and a half weeks and lay down. The second my head hits the pillow I smell the salt and rusted metal, feel the warmth run down my throat and begin to sob. I walk in to my mother’s room where she is calling work to tell them she won’t be coming in today and she immediately hangs up the phone.
“You have got to be kidding me. What did that man do to you?” she says with a quivering voice.
I get another bowl from the kitchen and ride back to the hospital, my arm still sore from the I.V. they just pulled out, the identification bracelet still on my wrist and the smell of Clorox still fresh in my hair. I am at the end of my patience.
I go into the same room and my mother tells them to call my original doctor and tell him to get here as soon as possible. I never would have thought that I would’ve wanted to see that cold and ugly man again. Today, he is my last hope for sleep, food and healing. They give me a double dose of morphine to help calm me down because I am so distraught by this point. As the blood continues to run from my mouth I am crying and shaking and praying out loud for God to please make it stop. I have myself so worked up that I get sick and have to lean over the trash can in the corner of the room while holding my arm out straight to keep the intravenous working properly. The back of my paper robe falls completely open and my not so “very sexy” (or whatever Victoria calls them) underwear are exposed to anyone walking down the hall and the two males nurses that are caring for me.
After my stomach calms down, I am able to sit back in the bed and wait for my doctor. He finally arrives in a tizzy. Hope. My mom explains everything we’ve been through and he apologizes countless times for his absence. The nurse with the worn down tattoos comes in and they get ready to fix me for good. I feel comfort. He spends an hour longer than the other doctor tending to my throat and uses ten times the amount of instruments, creams, medicines and Q-tip thingies. Finally, I feel like I can sleep. He finishes up and tells me that he wants to keep me in the emergency room on watch for the next eight hours to make sure that I am healing correctly.
My mother sits by my bed holding my hand and rests her hand on my side. She is worn out from the ups and downs and the driving and worrying. I feel so bad for her. She had to watch me this entire time. What horrible images she must have seen. My mom is a strong woman. She loves me well. We both sleep for about four hours while waiting for my doctor to come back and tell me I was okay to leave.
He returns and checks me out. All seems well and he assures me that I won’t bleed like that again. I am prescribed more pain killers and told not to eat for a week. We go home.
***
One week after my last hospital visit, I am 25 pounds skinnier than I was four weeks ago, hungry and ready to get my mind on other things. I slept through the entire night last night. My body will let me live without my tonsils.

侘寂

The scent of urine causes an immediate gag reflex. I turn my head in all different directions to try to navigate where the smell is coming from. It is definitely coming from the right side of me but it is beyond my seat partner. I think it is travelling from across the aisle. It has set its eyes on me and is now waging war against my Bath and Body Works Warm Sugar body spray that I apply every morning. I feel like the scent is covering me. It is causing a bit of my claustrophobia to kick in. I bury my nose into my scarf and try to observe more beautiful things to get my mind off of it. Across the isle there is a woman with a red purse. It shines a deep wine red over a snake skin pattern, it looks like candy.
In front of the woman is a little girl wearing pigtails in her hair held by rainbow colored hair bands. Her hair is black with sweet tight curls and her skin is a soft bronze. She catches my eye and smiles at me. As she smiles, her eyes grow wider and squint a little from the pushing of the muscles behind her plump cheeks. This little darling doesn’t think about how dirty the seats and windows are, nor does she worry about who sits near her or how she seems to the people that pass through her life. She sees beauty all around her through her untainted eyes, and she is glad.

TURN-A-ROUND

I have to get off here and catch a new bus back home or somewhere else.
The driver looks at me a bit concerned and asks, “Do you know where you’re goin’ sweetie?”
“No, but isn’t that the fun of it?” I smile. “I’ll figure it out,” I say.
“Good luck darlin’,” he says, sincerely.
“Thanks, have a good one.”
He drives away. I stand there looking around at the streets signs directing me to places I don’t know. I take a deep breath that smells like soot and stings my face a bit from the cold. Where to now? I don’t need an invitation; I just need the courage to go.

Comfort in Nature

Just cold enough to cause me to pull the ends of my long sleeves over my knuckles and curl my toes within my socks. Such clean, chilling temperature causes me to want to be sheltered by my skin. There is nothing cozier than feeling comfort in your body. I am reminded how the flow of my blood and the hair on my flesh work to bring me warmth.
I am tempted to steal the richly colored leaves but they are the treasures of the ground and that is whom they belong to. I know that if I take the treasures from their place, they will immediately lose their value. The earth has set a spell on them so that they cannot be taken for granted by the greedy human beings.
The rays of sun that leap through the branches of the trees catch my eyes just enough to excite the rods and cones within them. My pupils shrink in order to manage the light and my brain releases the feeling of happiness into my nervous system causing those cute little bumps to emerge from the skin on my arms and neck. In response to the chilling of my skin, the rays produce a quick stroke of heat that puts my cells at ease.

Mediocrity

While sipping a vanilla latte with soy milk steamed to 150 degrees in a sophisticated 60 percent recycled to-go cup with a philosophical quote by one of the greats printed on the side, I read the newspaper filled with stories about about people who live lives that contain remarkable happenings.
I love finding raisins amidst the soy nuts and cashews in my trail mix but I try to combine each one with a few nuts and seeds in my palm before pouring them into my mouth. This gives me an argument for trail mix rather than just raisins (which would be just too boring).
Such dilemmas make up the majority of interesting experiences in my life. It's a shame I have never seen a headline that reads, "Girl Strives for Equality between Raisins and Nuts: The Fight for True Trail Mix."

Me = Busy

I am so sorry to all (if any) that read my blog. I have been swamped lately so I have not been posting... as you can see. I have a bunch of essays and poems I have been working on in my journal that I will be adding ASAP. So sorry!!!

The Woman

I call her Agnes.

She is a strong woman with a bold face and long, soft, ash-colored hair. Her chin is broad and her eyes are sure. Rimless glasses act as her telescopes for the world. I feel as though she can see into my soul, she knows my thoughts and feelings, she sees everything I do and judges, but she is not judgemental - she is true. I sense a caring love from her like she knows my heart, my hopes, my fears, and she only wants to help me find my way. She uses a cane and walks with difficulty, I want to help her but I feel that I would taint her pride. Just because it is hard for her does not mean that she is unable to do it, she can and she will. I believe that she can fly, fly above us all filling us with strength through hope. Agnes is my fairy godmother, and she is a woman who rides the 100 West Busway Oakland city bus every morning at 8:13am.

We have never spoken.

by Jess

Crumbs of Memory

I sit on the bed with my dad. He has no face but I know he is my father. I haven't seen him since I was three years old. Once upon a time, he must have had a face, but it has faded along with every other memory of him. We are making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches using saltines as substitutes for bread. I take a bite and the cracker crumbles down my shirt landing in my lap. He smiles at me. I cannot see the smile but I can feel its presence. I know he is happy. I return the smile and we finish our mini sandwiches on paper plates making a lovable mess.

My mother tells me that this never happened. I have told her about this memory many times and she always insists on its implausibility.
"He was never home with you during the day, Jess. He was always working or drunk," she tells me.
I also could not possibly have been old enough to participate in the making of the sandwiches. He left us when I was three. Maybe I just watched him make the snack alone, or maybe it was my mother whom I shared the moment with. I have tried to rationalize it and I have heard my mother's truth multiple times yet the memory stays.

He is faceless but the vision in my mind is vivid. I taste the crackers, I feel them break, I sense his smile, I know he is my father. I may be lying to myself and to you but amidst all of the hatred and heartache this is the only memory I have of him and it is sweet. Can you really take that from me?

By Jess