RhondaK at Bridge Street Fest November 7 2010- rhondaKwrites.com
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So disconcertingly at breakfast we sat through a presentation about hospice and the high calling of dealing with the dead, dying and mourning. I don't agree with dead. Or the joyful transition. Why that was there today my Mom will call a sign, it just dug in to me. After the hospice nurse said my dad was dying she left the house and forgot something. When I took it to her out in her car, she was sitting there crying with the car running.
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- Current Location:US, Florida, The Meadows, Sarasota, Avant Ave, 5380
It was 10pm, so it was like a blacker than black sun setting.
I sat to talk to my dead. I called their names. Waited.
I was quiet to talk to my dead. I said their names. Waited.
I cried. I tried to talk to my dead. I said their names. I waited.
Which is now a thing I do. I don't know why. I want it to change. To be different. For love to survive or failing that -- Hate. For something to happen.
At best what I look at when I look at myself -- I've become my other-- my soul mate. The crazed artist with ideas, plans and paint from head to toe and then I'm the trying to be normal "real job" person picking paint out her nails, picking up a not bad at all check. But really, people think an artist with dreads lacks intellect or there's a lack of respect. They talk why the dead do not.
But there's the issue -- I'm the artist who wants to fucking flip tables, birds, skirts and what the fuck.
I'm the person who likes to pay her rent.
I'm the person who'd drink a bottle of rum in a church pew and feel I belonged there.
She'd want me to pretend I can sing Amazing Grace from stem to stern.
And together, we sat on the beach tonight with the pug who was sniffing, spitting and chasing ghost crabs.
And I talked to my dead. We said their names over and over again over the waves as the black sun of the storm set in the horizon. A black blacker than sleep.
They did not talk back. They did not talk back to either of us.
we're on a boat with two of Alan's friends and he's crying and he can't straighten out. They are dying. They don't have long left. He just saw his best friend poured over the side of a boat.
There's this woman in a dinghy. She's cruising slow. A Busch can of beer in her hand. She has gotten far too much sun. Her hands are really, really big.
Alan's friends say the man she lived on a boat with had died ...and that is all she does. Putter around alone and not talking. Just waiting to die.
I just find myself staring at her slow movement past the mangroves like some how the whole thing had something to do with me.
And I think back on this memory and I'm the only one from that tableau who is alive. The only one that cruel day who remembers the wind in my hair and her slow sad funereal progress through those brackish waters.
I have almost 5 years of writing blocked on this site that I'm thinking making public again. I need to know what I was thinking that got me where I am, because I did have a master plan and I think I'm misremembering it, mistaking myself for that woman in the boat.
See...that's not my story.