Thursday, March 30, 2006

who's raising our kids?

a father got on the bus this afternoon with his 3 kids. 2 boys, about 9 or 10. and a girl, about 7 or 8. the girl sat near the back of the bus, on a seat over the wheel, beside one of her brothers. the father sat in a separate seat, closer to the front of the bus. as little girls do, the girl delighted in playfully teasing her brother. she had his hat, i think. would not give it back. she taunted him. giggling. waving it in the air. the angrier he got, the more she giggled. then finally, he started hitting his sister.

i'm sitting at the back of the bus, watching these kids. thinking - this is the next generation. when i am old and a little more vulnerable, this is what will be in charge of society. YIKES. what struck me so solidly is the use of violence as a solution. okay, so if you are pissing me off, and i just can't make you stop, then i should hit you? why, exactly are 9 and 10 year olds doing this, and where, exactly, do they learn these problem solving skills from?

now everyone is out there pointing the finger at the tele. okay. its violent. no denying it. but ... i raised 2 boys. they watched the tele. stuff like the power rangers, the ninja turtles -- things with gratuitous violence. yet, they did not resort to violence with each other. never. not even once. i know, that's just one example, it proves nothing. but my point is, parents are responsible for teaching their children about life, for helping them find the tools to manoever thru it. that does not mean plunking them in front of the tele while we go off and try to keep up with the jones'. and it sure would help if news of some unilateral, unecessary invasion were not plastered all over the media ...

just sayin', is all. this is just my opinion - what i see.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

come to my window

i would dial the numbers
just to listen to your breath
and i would stand inside my hell
and hold the hand of death
you don't know how far i'd go
to ease this precious ache
you don't know how much i'd give
or how much i can take
just to reach you ...

come to my window
come on inside
come to the light of the moon
come to my window
i'll be home soon

keeping my eyes open
i cannot afford to sleep
giving away promises
i know i cannot keep
nothing fills the blackness
that has seeped inside my chest
i need you in my blood
i am foresaking all the rest
just to reach you

written by Melissa Etheridge

this is how i felt a lot in my 20s - i like this song, it describes the longing i felt so clearly. longing for what? a person? i don't know. just a longing.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

dear sis

i thought of you today when i read these words: "living is the horror, not death. the living mourn the dead. the dead mourn no one." and so it is, kay. i, the living, mourn you, the dead. kay, i cannot put into words how i miss you. and how bitterness, tempered with regret, fills my soul when i think of all the tender moments, secrets, and sorrows that remained unshared between us sisters.

i'm sorry that you never got to experience motherhood. its amazing, kay. amazing. these tiny lives - so dependent. vulnerable, and so and we mold them. shape them. they become our life project.they become life ... and its meaning. its scary, kay. and so much responsibility. and difficult. but ... ahh. the joy of hearing yourself in a tiny voice, or seeing your gestures in a tiny body. and the intensity of it ... knowing you would die for them, or .... worse - kill for them. i think you would have made a wonderful mum, kay. better than me, i think. better - because you were always the strong, disciplined one. but --these are just thoughts now, dear sis. i miss you. and ... i'm forever sorry. and, it changes nothing.

i'm sorry that mother never understood, kay. that she discarded you like a torn sock. when you refused to deny yourself in order to declare your 'loyalty' ... some fucking stupid and nebulus concept they made up for their own self-importance. and that i, weak and cowardly, fell for her ultimatum and turned on you. this, i think, shall remain my undying regret --lifelong. the only thing i shall take to my grave, kay. and ... kay, i do so wish you had a grave. somplace i could visit you. but ... all i have are those secret shadowy places inside my heart ... filled with childhood memories ... you and me, kay. and ... i have my sad, searing regret.

i try not to think of the fact that someone from florida had to call us to tell us that you died in a car accident at home, in northern alberta. when i do think of this fact, i reflect on how complacent, cowardly and distant i had grown in relation to you. and of the last time i saw you alive. on the no. 60 bus. i can never really know for sure - but in my heart i believe that you saw me snubbing you. me - that fucking snotty little sister of yours.

i felt so sheepish, at your funeral. and judged. judged by all those who thought they loved you more, and therefore deserved to mourn you more intensely. i felt so much i felt nothing, kay. numb ... flaming numbness. my boss - a bitch from hell - gave me the gears about taking five days off to travel to your funeral, kay. fucking cunt! but i travelled all the same. i don't remember the bus ride to edmonton ...

i'm guessing that has something to do with the 3x500 cc bottles of rye and coke (a 50-50 mix) i drank en route. i have a very, very vague recollection of getting off the bus ... and, i'm actually amazed that i could walk at all. but, kay ... nothing could drown me. i tried, drinking as much alcohol as i could find. nothing. just a little of the edge taken off. i wonder what your in-laws thought - seeing me at breakfast time in the restaurant, already drinking alcohol.

i'm not really sure how ... but thru some form of osmosis the reality of your absence from this earth seeped into my soul. leaving its mark ... indelible. this wound of mine - it closed over, kay. but it never really healed inside. i miss you. i'm sorry. but i know that no depth of feeling can change the unchangeable. and so it is. the living mourn the dead. i mourn you.

Saturday, March 18, 2006

room 408

that's where you died. i'll call you cindy, even tho' we did not call you this in life. i know you can hear me, out there, somewhere, soaring on a trail of stardust. you're there - with your eyes wide open ... singing, shouting at the top of your voice, the voice that got so cruelly stifled toward end of your earthly existence.

cindy, i have thought about you these years since your death. wanting, so many times, to put your story in words. wanting to share your courage, your pain, the rip-off of your life ... and death. wanting to share this with others. but, until now cindy, i could not. could not give a voice to that very painful story -- your story. you seem so far away, cindy ... and as i revisit bittersweet memories of you that linger in my heart, i think each day since your death must seem an eternity to your children. i hope that you can watch them grow, and silently, wrap your loving arms around them, cindy. 15 and 17 years old ... that's far too young to lose your mother.

know what i remember, cindy? i remember that angry, stubborn and fiercly secretive woman who brooded in the corner of a 4-bed hospital room. angry, cindy ... so very angry. and - i don't blame you. but it sure made nursing you a challenge at times. even tho the rapidly growing cancer on your thyroid gland, and the tracheostomy it neccesitated, had silenced your voice, your outbursts could be sooo vitriolic just the same, cindy. in those early days of your admission, how you lashed out at us all. possibly, you hoped to keep us beyond your towering wall?

cindy ... i cannot imagine the journey you took, battling your cancer alone. your kids ... so lost and alone, too. such desperate sorrow silently gushed from their pores each time they came to visit. and ... how did they manage, so alone? forbidden, by you, to tell their father that their mother had terminal cancer. and ... that acrimonious relationship between you and your ex ... it left you with a bitter taste of antagonism in your mouth even as you contemplated your death.

i remember, cindy, your denial. how, at one point, you decided that the oncologist made a mistake. maybe that's why you had not really prepared yourself, or anyone else around you for the inevitable? the reason your head was swelling so severely that it made your eyes close, you announced, was because of an undiagnosed heart condition. oh, cindy, how this made me feel so sad about the job i had to do. how could i guide your passage thru this dark and difficult tunnel if you did not want to even walk inside it? and we watched you, cindy, lose each tiny battle with the cancer. day by day. week by week. and, eventually, silent, sad resignation cross your face like a shadow. and it rested there.

what a rip-off, cindy! how cheated we all felt for you. so intelligent, so determined, so much mothering left to do, and one course away from your PH.D. and cancer washed it all away. and you hung on, for as long as you could. maybe for too long? we all just wanted it to end, cindy. but you hung on. and, it hurt. and i remember trying really hard not to let the other patients see me cry whenever the harpist would come and play for you, cindy. a small, simple pleasure, cindy. but so beautiful and it made you smile. and what a beautiful smile, cindy. and we marvelled that you could still smile. and we cried that you could not even talk to your own mother on the phone, because you had no voice ... you could not even tell your mother you loved her, missed her. cindy ... no words can express it.

cindy, i remember marvelling at how you could write out what you wanted to say on the paper so neatly, so legibly ... even with your eyes swollen shut, your handwriting looked like 'school teaching writing' - perfectly formed and readable. and, cindy, i remember how you replied 'don't make me brave, make it easy,' when i told you that i thought your were so strong and brave. i'll never forget the feeling i felt, then - best described as a shard of glass thru a soft, ripe fruit - as these words sunk into my soul.

i watching you wither, fight, then fail over a period of 8 months. each and everyday i worked with you, cindy, you took my breath away. and when i think of you now ... you still do. you challenged us every day, cindy. and you made us feel it. and you taught us courage, hope, compassion, patience ... and above all - humilty. thank you cindy ... for your eternal lesson. i feel so privileged to have shared so intimately the raw moments of your life and to have made a difference in your death. i remember you, cindy, for so many reasons.

i'll never forget how you said goodbye to your kids. on mother's day, they came to visit ... spent the afternoon with you, pinned their artwork to your hospital room walls. when they said their goodbyes - the last time they saw you alive. and, two long and lonely weeks later, you died ... alone, in the hours before dawn, in your private and dark room. 408. i remember, cindy. 408. i will never forget.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

seven years

that's how long has passed since we shut the machines off .... since ... your body died. when i think of you, i find it hard to believe that so much time has passed. and ... find it hard to understand why you just had to give in ... give up. My dear, i have known the sweet, searing sorrow of anguish, loneliness, of loss and shame. But ... it never made me want to destroy myself. Despite the shards of grief that pierce me as i walk along the path of life, this earthly life has so much to offer - if i only reach out and touch it, taste it, savour it.

And, my dear, i feel very sad that you gave up too soon, missed out. And i feel such sadness when i think of your mother -- without her only daughter in the dusk of her life. Alone ... she's alone ... and she must grieve for you terribly. I know ... i know this feeling, my dear. And ... know that you witnessed this grief ... my grief ... our grief - i will call it our grief, because you loved my boys like a mother.

And, dear ... that brings me the prize ... the prize of my life. My boy ... our boy ... you should see him, dear. He has grown into a man! I can hardly believe my eyes, when i look up at him (yes, look up at him -- he is taller that us, my dear) and into his gentle, brown eyes. So much life and experience in these eyes ... like ... they belong to an old, old soul. And he is a hit with the girls, my dear. Just like his dad was at that age. You should see our boy. It makes my heart shine, glimmer, sing. Perhaps yours too? Out there, somewhere?

And i feel a pinch of sadness that you could not stay, and see this. See how it all unfolded. But perhaps things may have turned out differently if you had not given up on yourself like you did. I dunno. I just know that we have moved on, my dear. Your name never gets spoken on our lips. When it does, i think we flinch - for the sound of your name resonates despair ... your despair. But ... your name sits in my heart, silent ... ever remembered. For the love you shared ... for the difference you made during your short earthly existence.

Monday, March 06, 2006

is this mid-life crisis?

well, whatever IT is ... fuck! it is making me soooo restless, indecisive, fickle. i cannot stand to live in my own skin some times. these times a restless, bone-chilling ache seizes my soul and does not let go. a residual feeling of unsatisfaction looms, hovers in the distant horizon. like a giant, dark cloud - the culmination of every loss, every disappointment, every heart break i have felt. and then there is self doubt - a nagging, high-pitched squeal that resides inside my consciousness.

where does self-doubt end and self-evaluation begin? when does 'taking stock' become wondering if i made the right choices? and why bother wondering at all? the choices have been made many years ago. is marriage a life-long commitment necessitating mutual-exclusivity and fidelity, where 2 become 1? isn't this a prison sentence,then?

is marriage a symbiotic relationship - eventually so habitual that it weaves itself into the fabric of each partner's personality? this implies that each person remains an individual and does not get assimilated by the 'marriage entity collective,' but nonetheless remain somehow intertwinned in existence. why do we think true love is ownership, possession and jealousy? is marriage really ownership and assimilation? that certainly is NOT what i signed up for ...

does true love mean sacrificing oneself to fidelity? isn't it naive to think that one can truly be sexually satisfied for a lifetime with one sexual partner? shouldn't we continually strive to push the envelope, stir the passions, seek physical satisfaction if the status quo does not meet our needs?

don't we continually strive to push the envelope and challenge ourselves in every other arena of life? then, why does the physical suffer? why do we have to settle for the status quo? and ... what if i don't want to? what if i want a meal supplment? like ... an hors d'oeuvre? if i have an hors d'oeuvre, does it mean i am rejecting the main course?

author's note: okay. so i couldn't stay away. i like this place far too much. and i missed you guys. i have tried to leave this place a few times. but you always bring me back here, my dear blogging friends.

so ... look for me here from now on.

its all about ME

  • i'm roxanne, and this is velvet, the voice inside my head. and this -- this is her blog.
  • i'm that wild, passionate and unruly girl your mum warned you about

    i'm a maelstrom, a whirling dervish, a minx. i run from "same-ness" - i find it oppressive.

    change is good. change is necessary. life is change.

    if change scares you, if change intimidates you, if change makes you uncomfortable, then you're a BORE!

    this blog changes to reflect its continually evolving creator - moi.

    so ... adapt!

    you never know what you'll find when you get to velvet's place. that's the adventure of it all.

    this place continues to take shape, as velvet finds her voice in all this darkness.

    velvet rants, rages, throws the occasional hissy fit, launches the odd venomous tirade, and intellectually contemplates all the stuff of life, love, and soul

    its depressing, and enraging because the world burns and crumbles before our eyes. yet we sleep.

    we sleep. apathy, greed, power sit atop our eyelids like lead weights

    so, welcome to my world.

    i aim to pry your eyes open, to pry your mind open, to get you thinking outside the box, to shock you even.

    i ask the questions most choose to ignore. i think the thoughts most consider unthinkable. i'm alive. i'm awake. are you?

    hey -- WAKE UP!

  • fury wrapped in a daffodil, confused, undecided, wild child, indigo child, impatient, insomniac, rebellious, outspoken, artistic, restless, bored with routine, i love change, afraid of commitment, i work to live - not live to work, claustrophobic, perfectionist, odd and maybe downright wierd, anxious and maybe a l'il (ok, a lot) neurotic, dichotomous, a teensy bit vitrolic, prone to nastiness, a maverick and a cynic, highly intuitive, sensual, erotic, intense, spiritual -- NOT religious, a bitch, a wordsmith, poet, storyteller, addict, mother, caregiver, dog lover, voracious reader, Mac person, Coke drinker, cannibis appreciator, clean freak, prone to hissy fits, attitude - i got one, fav. colour: red, perfume: estee lauder pleasures exotic, voluptuous, afraid of falling asleep, afraid of the dark, hate being touched, still get flashbacks - PTSD, nite hawk, into fetishes, got a sadomasochistic streak in me
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methuselah lives here

    i have several poetry blogs on the 'net. essentially these contain the same stuff, just presented in differing formats. this methuselah just likes digging around in more than one corpse at a time!

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      afghan hound

      yes to madness





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    velvet poetry

      bell jar dreams

      you held me in your arms,
      my trembling alabaster fruit
      and savagely,
      you trampled me, underfoot
      as master of my shattered freedom
      you - the twisted and beautiful lord
      who sealed me in a windowless bell jar
      with anguish and solitude,
      as my only companions

      captor! my demented master!
      my withered soul screams for you
      it howls for the soothing barbs,
      hidden, in your voice
      and your frail, orgasmic vulnerability
      my withered soul screams your name,
      raging delicately,
      for the gaping hollows of my existence,
      which melted into yours:
      dessicated dreams,
      vanquished innocence

      this sick hunger in my heart for you -
      will it ever ebb?

      copyright ROXI G 2006

      your grace grotesquely crumbles

      your grace crumbled
      into grotesque flakes
      as your fingertips slashed
      my tender silken face
      with rage and vengence,
      that drench my frail child-spirit

      steeped in self-loathing,
      you infected me -
      my gauzy soul
      on your poisoned barbs
      of hatred and lusty greed

      once, i loved you -
      worshipped you, adored you
      and darkness
      eviscerated my heart
      as i watched this adoration stream past
      your inert, stoney heart

      my trembling eyes splinter
      into a thousand tears
      when i look upon your face -
      my reflection - in the looking glass
      you, who deserted my child-trust -
      remain, achingly, ever present

      this dark riverbed of adoration
      that flowed in my viscera for you
      has dried up; my heart --
      which once glistened sublimely inside yours,
      now lies in eternal anguish:
      dessicated, petrified, searingly denuded

      your grace crumbles
      into grotesque flakes
      of grief, rage and greed,
      soaked in the brine of remorse
      you beg, like i did, for a morsel of mercy
      but -- i will STARVE you of forgiveness

      copyright ROXI G 2006


        "there's no way around grief and loss: you can dodge it all you want, but sooner or later you just have to go into it, through it, and, hopefully, come out on the other side. the world you find there will never be the same as the world you left." (johnny cash)

        "i wore black because i liked it. i still do, and wearing it still means something to me. its still my symbol of rebellion - against a stagnant status quo, against our hypocritical houses of god, against people whose minds are closed to others' ideas." (johnny cash)

      poetry masters

        if only you would touch my heart
        if only you were to put your mouth
        to my heart
        if only you were to put your tongue
        like a red arrow
        there where my dusty heart is beating,
        if you were to blow on my heart
        near the sea, weeping,
        it would make a dark noise,
        like the drowsy sound of train wheels
        like the indecision of waters,
        like autumn in full leaf
        like blood,
        with a noise of damp flames
        burning the sky,
        with a sound like dreams
        or branches or the rain,
        or foghorns in some dismal port,
        if you were to blow on my heart
        near the sea, likea white ghost,
        in the spume of the wave,
        in the middle of the wind
        like a ghost unleashed,
        at the seashore, weeping.

        ... Pablo Neruda, from 'Bararole'

        By a route obscure and lonely,
        Haunted by ill angels only,
        Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
        On a black thrones reigns upright,
        i have reached these lands but newly
        From an ultimate dim Thule -
        From a wild wierd clime that lieth, sublime,
        Out of SPACE - out of TIME.

        ... Edgar Allan Poe, from 'Dream-Land'

      anais nin

        "and the day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

        “i do not like to be just one anais, whole, contained. as soon as someone defines me. i do as june does; i seek escape from the confinements of definition.”

        “i speak of relief, perhaps when i write; but it is also an engraving of pain, a tatooing of myself.”

        “we are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.”

        “life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. this is a kind of death.”