Social Nigger

"Alcoholic"

It's like social speak for 'nigger'. Some folks will understand, maybe even accept you. Some will be astonished by the quality of your personality and intelligence despite the obvious flaw. But among the normies, among those that ain't your own, you're sitting on the back of the friendship bus. You're giving up your seat as mate or girlfriend when a 'normal' person presents similar (maybe even a few less) strategic qualifications.

So we stick to our own, make more of our own, get together and share our tribal stories and have our rituals. We have our private picknics with burgers and watermelon in the summer where we laugh at pain and tell stories in a lingo nobody but us understands. But, quite without pointing fingers we can see lots of niggers in hiding amongst the legions of 'normal' folks. I see my same disease festering just below the surface of a culture crazed by entitlement and the pressure of 'more'. I see it boiling over into stress and spiritual crisis now that consumptive wings have been collectively clipped by the tumbling tower of lies. Just as humanity all came from Africa if you dig back far enough, we all proceed in our various incarnations from a sacred wound which bids us to re-member Who We Really Are through as many paths as, well, humanly possible.

Can't you see past my disease? It is NOT a "lifestyle choice"! I didn't ask for this. But it has been my curriculum to God. Love doesn't have a color and certainly doesn't show up with a menu of demands.

I'll show you. I'll show you I'm as good as and someday your children, the children you didn't want to have with me because of these two scarlet letters - "AA" - will look at you in shock and disappointment that you would put a person of my caliber to the back of your bus. "How could you expect a perfectly capable human being to settle for such treatment?"

When they ask that, I want you to tell those children quite plainly that I DIDN'T.

Ciao bella

Clouds dry brush the sky with steel and indigo. The approaching sun peeks through in pastel drawn lines of pink and red. It's not like last week's clear, perfect sunrises. But somehow it's even better, as if the clouds, the steel sky and blue shadows make something even more clear. Push through the wall that's coming to meet me after just two miles.

My earphones aren't interfacing properly with my auditory canal. Something about the vacuum it forms lets no sound in from the left. Instead, the morning leaks in, the echo of no traffic & bird song.

Here it comes; the glycogen wall. I will my legs to keep up the pace.

So I told him. I told him about my past as an addict and decade plus of sobriety. He wished me well, puzzled, and then said "It's ok for friends, I respect this was your lifestyle choice, but for a mate - someone I might even have children with - is unacceptable...Why are you telling me now?"

"I thought, based on what you said during that conversation we had while driving to Home Depot, that you wouldn't talk to me anymore. I finally just decided that I couldn't hide it anymore. Being a sober person is a big part of my life and I decided that if you don't want me around because of that well, you should be able to make that decision. I was afraid. There have been times I've told people and they said it was cool, but they disappeared. No returned phone calls, gone."

"No no, I don't disappear. I'm attached to you. Not going away." But again, I don't trust it. Attached... check your dictionary again. In subsequent days since this conversation? Silence. Better to know the truth, I guess. So I guess that's it. Done. Over and out. Ciao bella.

Right now, as birds scream around me, I want to yell at him. I want to shake him until his brains rattle and ask "Since when is having a disease a 'lifestyle choice'? It's a sickness! A pre-existing condition like any cancer. So fuck you! Every day for 10 + years I've had to dig down & tap a greater source just to stay alive! If you want to have a negative judgement about that it's your problem! My journey has been a blessing! You want to walk away? Fine. FINE!! You're selfish and I hate the way you make humor by putting me down, anyhow! Ciao!"

The flock of seagulls mingles, squaks and swarms, conversing with jets flying low. Our birds eat McDonals and our waterlife takes unwilling doses of ridalin & antidepressants. It seems like too much, for a minute.

I feel the volume of my heart, pumping away in my chest. Pushing through I get that power and it carries me all the way home.

A drift

"How long are you going to hang out on that glacier? How many more years to cling to that frozen landscape you've called a heart?"

I'm floating, again, in the sapphire sea, adrift on my rock of ice. It's a comfort, this cold stillness that I can cling to, like the cool side of the pillow on a hot night. I come back here for solace, for knowing, despite knowing that there is no truth on this glacier.

It's melting. I've given it permission to melt. I've asked for it to be warmer, here, in this environment I call a soul. But as I watch large chunks calve into the blue void and leave me, I can't help but to be filled with grief. Less and less space is left for me to act out the old play. Old roles and actors leave gaps in the mental drama after they've gone. And as I watch another piece float away part of me accepts the departure, part of me screams with grief.

Yet another addictive facet of me instantly it melts into the warm, understanding sea like an ice cube in bath water. There it goes. I pretzel my self, twist stories and bend truths just to look good enough to get that measure that means approval. I just want to be in this whatever we're calling it today (friendship? relationship?) so that I can take the satisfaction I want. I'll exert whatever verbal calisthenics are necessary to come out looking justified and right. And now all 'needing to feel good about myself by what you tell me about me' all of the 'I'm nothing unless I can take what I want from you' chunks off with a base thud and a quake - gone. With it go the fairy tales of what life should bring to ME. Me me me wants someone to say "I love you" just once, wants someone to think about her before they go to sleep, wants to be right, just wants.

Want has drifted off. I'm left on an even tinier island of my ice. What will be left of me, now. What do I become now if I've hit the point of truly realizing that I need nothing from another person - neither sex nor approval nor cash - to be Who I Really Am. I was born to give, not to take. I knew this... KNOW it in my head. But now, taking it into being and behavior and saying yes to that truth feels like dying.

"Maybe that's ok. Consider that something has to die for something wonderful to be born. Without the disintegration of fall and death of winter no new seeds could be born into fresh growth."

For now I ride in the bluest ocean, clutching what remains. What remains? I don't even know yet what sediments lie under the surface of what's left. I shudder to think of what life will look like without these few old things to cling to. My shrinking glacier is a cold, hard and barren turf. It is a lie of a landscape. But, it's what I know. And when its gone I will be left in this big, empty ocean drowning in the sea of feelings. I will die. I will absolutely die.

"No. You will not die because you cannot be killed. Let go of the ice and you may find that you've known how to float all along."

designer dawn

Some days she paints and the mushy, watery pigments of nature blend in edges of mystery. Today, though, mother designs. In the pantone blue west a half moon glows as if stenciled on with a 20mm deckle. Schaedler precision rulers set the deep aqua lake apart from the neat gradient of encroaching dawn in a perfect horizontal line. Eastern sky could be called a "rainbow" but the mesh is more complicated. In the moving mix shades of grape juice, apricot jelly and strawberry candy present fleeting overtones. I can see the caption written out, in perfectly kerned Helvetica. "Dawn" - neatly punctuated at the end by a water pumping station resting on the horizon.

I was tardy for the iPod parade this morning, taping the feet up took a bit longer. After the last run I managed to rip all the skin off the top of my foot. Fuckin nice! Have to be more careful, now. Today the feet send back no messages of pain whatsoever. All systems are go.

"And so what? I am a rock star! I got my rock moves! And I don't need you!"

Out here the dark silhouettes of trees are fast becoming old fashioned. In an hour, charcoal shadows will seem so passé. Why, dark is so night time! Naked limbs expose brown clumps of abandoned birds' nests. I can hear the ticking in the trees. In each branch a countdown nears the zero point when green will explode on the earth. In some day to come we will be shocked with the sudden blessing of leaves.

"I'll be eaten by the worms, and weird fishes. Picked over by the worms, and weird fishes. Weird fishes..."

I look up at soccer hill, opting for the longer path around its circumference today. 8 runners use it to train; I see their black creature-ish silhouettes against the sky. They each go down the hill, then up, then down a different direction, then back up. Together at the top, then breaking into a chaos and then converging at the crest, they are a perfect swarm.

"It's all and illusion. There's too much confusion. I'll make you feel better..."

Rounding that bend which could hook me back north or feed me further south, I take in the perfectly crafted vantage point of Montrose Harbor. My feet yell "next stop: Belmont harbor!" But I look at the time and force them northward, promising that on Sunday we'll go for 10 miles. I promise! From this spot on this clear morning, I can see all the way to Navy Pier. "Navy Piers" he calls it. Silly Italian, he pluralizes everything. "Piers", "Cereals"...

"Something is going on at Navy Piers this weekend I thought maybe we could do that..." Later I get an SMS updating the suggestion to one of going to galleries - a genius stroke. Someone has been doing his homework. He's being awfully friendly; awfully kind and even, maybe, sweet. It's dawning on him that I don't need him, maybe. Maybe he's realizing that I can be pleasant company, after all. But, something has shifted. I'd love to trust the kindness, but I don't. I can't. We'll see how he acts once the green card issue gets resolved.

"I woke up this morning the sun shining brightly I put on my happy face..."

Dawn doesn't just happen at the horizon. The whole sky participates in sunrise. The west takes its cues from the refracting atmosphere and accepts the hug of long pink and purple arms, gently waking the whole dome. A gold glow above the horizon, an atmospheric revealing the hideout of angels, marks the location to watch. There, in moments, the thinnest pink line appears. Line grows into a mound like a bright pimple on the water. Soon, there she is. Blink and you see every step of the sunrise still framed in the retina burn of your eyes. Look at that, will you. Look at that color and drama and tell me it isn't natural for humans to adorn themselves and seek beauty.

Nature itself rolls the drum - such a showoff.
On the other side of me, the drive is starting to fill with southbound traffic. Off to markets and jobs, man rolls the dice - another day.

pinch me

She sounded so excited on the phone yesterday, and I mean excited not in a good way. Like her world just got put on a merry go round and run in circles too fast after lunch. So I took her a little something this morning to brighten up the workspace. Get rid of that "twilight zone" feeling of watching all of the people and departments you work with the most get disappeared. She's the only one who would, here, and she refrains, from making a weight comment. Hiding half of me behind a counter helps. I don't like the comments. There's a subtle criticism to them, I think. Some small disapproval of the change. Oh but the change is coming. Just you weight.

I pinch myself. Hiding in the dressing room at the gym because I don't like being subjected to the nattering on of other women, I pinch and find the pockets which will be the target of next ten pounds. Outer thigh, not so bad. But inner thigh still has parenthenthetical adipose tissue. That must go. Arms don't suck, just need more muscle to shape them out. Inside of knees... how does one loose the inside of the knee fat? Belly, not so bad at all. But there's this persistent pocket, like a guffle of bread made out of fat, that rides on the back of my hip bones. It's neither butt fat, nor waist or hip it's just... back fat.

On a pig that would be called the "leaf lard". It's a persistent little storage depot, I can tell. Furthest back ancestors foraging across Africa would be proud. But 21st century woman gets a less positive judgment when the fat pocket puckers out from her side like an anatomical interloper during prayer twist pose. Well, you're next. I'll think of you every time I'm hungry enough to eat my fingers. With herbal laxatives, fiber supplements, protein powder and pickles for dinner, I'm coming for you, leaf fat. Leaf lard is supposed to be the highest quality. "Aren't you eating anything?" Why yes, I'm eating the best bit of fat on earth.

On line at Livestrong.com obsessing over which foods spiked my carb intake and how to classify my homemade chicken with no noodles soup. The system has popped me down to 1600 calories a day outside of tracked exercise which I don't enter until I go to bed so that it doesn't suddenly start telling me I can eat way more calories. I stay at least 200 below what they allot me, as a rule. Down too much too fast and I open myself up to bingeing. If there's nothing else I've done right in a day I've done hunger properly. There are charts where I can watch the graphs of what I eat and what I do and what I lose and the best part? No one is admonishing me. The computer just watches in mute anonymity. Thank you for the data, user "meatball".

Down just 15 lbs. from Jan 23. BMI at 22. Fuckin not enough! I remember that day. On that day I said 'no one will ever reject me again!' I'll never be not good enough again. It was all the fat's fault, that artificial layer of ick that is not part of the real me, I'm sure of it. No sir, from now on the ball is in MY court! She who is perfect gets to call the shots! Just another 20 lbs. to go. I fiddle with the numbers on the BMI chart. Well... 23. 23 pounds to go before the BMI raises official eyebrows. 23. How is that for symetry?

I'm going to live today

5:55 am. On with sneakers. On with iPod. Out the door. There's more what's awake at this hour than a normal person would believe. But somewhere folks are already at work or assembling for a 6 am aerobics class. The day to come is just a faint amber glow to the east of an ink blue sky.

Descending in the west, the ancient overseer glows, still, though her eye is half shut from a month's tiring work. The path is dry as there is no more snow left to melt. Already one can feel it. This will be a good day.

My belly complains. 40g of prunes and 2 tsp. of honey didn't shut it up at all. They compound with yesterday's total intake of 1200 calories to mock my effort. But just that much sugar is turning the trick & I hit a stride with pure octane pumping the engine. Feet go, legs leap, no wall in sight.

I weighed in at 146 lbs. at 5:15 am. I checked. That's down 15 lbs. from January 23. People keep asking if I'm loosing weight and I retort with a surprised "no!". Why it's so impolite to comment about weight - no one would say shit if I were a man! But the numbers don't lie - not like I do. After the weigh in I pulled my thinspiration out of hiding and compared again. Down 15 lbs. and still there is a bit of a tire around the middle! Of all things my tits get smaller! But for now I take the hunger in stride. That pain in the gut is a comfort, telling me I'm still alive - as does the twinge on my feet from the tape which holds them together.

The glow brightens. The lesser light bows down as a rosy stain spreads across the big bowl of sky. Spaceship Earth is turning. I can feel it - slightly different moment by moment under each foot fall. Cue dawn.

Maybe this morning I'll run over the hill between the soccer fields. From Cahokia to Giza, humans have pulled higher vantage points from the flat earth, seeking mountaintop experiences where nature provided none. Some theorize this stems from a common spirituality or a synchronicity. Perhaps it's just the instinct brain expressing a vestige from when our souls were bird soul. We go up because we must leap. We leap, once knowing but now just hoping, that a thermal will catch our frail selves and buoy us on.

"I wanted to take you out to dinner. Not well planned, I know. I wanted to do something nice together other than just me relieve stress at you..."

'Relieve stress'. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? What's so terrible about stress relief? But he's right. I'd rather just talk, sometimes. Sometimes I wish breakfast together lasted longer. He has been awfully nice lately. Knit one eyebrow. He also still needs that green card. But then, he must know I suspect him of being up to something. Knit one eyebrow, pearl two. Maybe he wants to feel different about himself? Maybe being nice is his way of stepping away gently? No idea. Knit two eyebrows, pearl one. I'd still love to put him in my pocket and protect him forever. But I know what happens next. It's time to pull back the curtain, show him who I really am... and wait to see if he stays or runs.

I make myself run until the flat top of the hill levels out. Around me city towers encircle like a glittery Stonehenge. Brightly lit birds, on wings of American and United, fly off to the east. It is a good day to wear green and have a holiday. It is a good day to heal. I look over the morning rituals of other humans subjecting themselves to this early exercise and glory. Some run in tandem, others in circles. Some walk with arms pumping while others skirt along on two wheels. I stretch.

And then, through an invisible gap in the horizon's blue curtain, the sun steps through. First, she demurs with an artsy smile. Then in red roaring glory that arrests the eye, she makes the heavenly demand for pause. This is the day. I'm going to live today.

sketch of a day

Inky sky in the frigid morning gives way to slate grey and snow. Soon it will be spring, but not yet. Today, still, the wind blasts me in the face like a power drill forcing its way into every pore. Someone leaves their takeout on a post box and it has frozen faster than a hungry mouth could find it. The barker selling papers on the corner makes a "wooooooo wooooo" song that he does when the wind whips up real cold. Sometimes, on particularly warm mornings, he's out there singing a tune at 7 am, but he pipes down when someone gets close. I've started saying "good morning" when I go by, even though he seems to ignore me.

I walk into the gym, the same song comes through the speakers as was playing when I walked out yesterday morning. In the locker room I run into the "running granny" as I call her. She's in her 60's, runs marathons, skinny as a bird. Today I'm a bit earlier and she's just stepped out of the shower. Perhaps I've surprised her but we look at each other for a long second. Hair wrapped in a towel, the bones of her face seem to jut out further and I see how dark and sunken are her eyes. Is that where I'm heading by going on 5 hrs of sleep a night?

That same PM at work has been offering me beers for over a year now. Finally just tell him "allergic...sorry". Maybe the allergy theory of alcoholism is bunk, but I happen to like it and have repurposed it handily to circumnavigate events I don't wish to attend. Company lunch at a Chinese restaurant. I could do that, consume almost 1000 empty calories and spend 2 hours in awkward conversation not working - or I could just beg out thanks to an MSG allergy. Pizza? Gluten intolerant!My rarified system can only tolerate the finest sashimi and European chocolate!

Now if only I could beg off being allergic to silliness and stupidity. It still chaps my hide, that person who seemed so shocked at my suggesting they take the CTA."I'm from Texas! We don't have trains there!" Yet you've lived in a city WITH trains for long enough to get a medical degree. I moved from a tiny town of 900 to New York City in 1988 and after 5 minutes with a map - I spoke 'public transit'. Ok ok, drop it.

It's light out at 6, but sooner or later the sun must slide under the bend in the Earth. Night like a stain that won't go away. Dark that one has to wipe out of your eyes upon finally arriving home.

1300: Over the moon

Another abnormally warm late winter day. Waxing gibbous overhead reaches its zenith in the early evening sky as I turn onto the lakeside path for a run. Remnants of melted snows catch her like many tiny mirrors and I step over the moon.

The lights on top of the Hancock have gone back to white with the passing of Valentine's day. It's like a big fake moon hanging over the city. And at 11pm, the moon shuts off. In the darkness I hear the purring next to me. Man - cat sleeps happy.

At Foster beach I take the unpaved, unlit path next to the water. In the eastern sky approaching stars move and weave as they come in for a landing at O'Hare. Our conversation keeps running through my head. His constant worry is his green card. While we watch the telly a birth control commercial comes on and I hear myself making the comment about how I hate the pill - how it felt like having the steering wheel to one's brain stolen by an angry monkey.

Then, he says it. "If you got pregnant I could get my green card."

"Neither of us needs that mess."

"But I could get my green card!"

"You run that idea past your momma, see what she says." Me, I know what mine would say. I know what she'd do and how she'd feel. It's the wrong reason. Of all the ways to fall of the horse of independence that would be the worst. What if he tricks me and sabotages the birth control?

The melt off has left puddles in the pathway which do not refreeze now that night has come. I'm hitting the wall a little early and my legs feel weak and light. Still, I step over the moon.

It's tempting, though, if for no other reason than it's nice to have the brief illusion of being wanted. In the early morning, before the sun has arisen, his form covered with soft skin finds me. His arms feel good. His back feels good. His head rubbing against my neck feels good. His cock feels good. Afterwards we both lay silent, playing possum, when I hear the whisper.

"You awake?"

"yes"

"Tell me, what makes me such an irrisistable lover?"

"Hm. Let me think about it."

"Ok, talk to you later."

"Ok, I'm just going to go to sleep and take over the whole bed now. That's my German half that does that!"

I roll over to fall asleep. The smell of his sweat is on my skin. I love it and feel sorry to have to wash it off in the morning. I don't know what it is that makes him irresistable. He's like catnip.

The wind along the lake is terrific. It pushes me backwards and threatens to tear the hat off my head. I turn back and finally hit a groove. In the dark the puddles collect her silvery light. I know she's high over my head, and leaping over water, I step over the moon.

Can I trust his being kind? Now that the idea is out there, that the green eyed lady could double as a green card lady, how do I know that the friendliness is genuine? He wants something. But then, we all want something and pose hard to the side that will get us what we want. He won't be content to be my hostage for long. In the morning I come to the end of the cereal. Do I buy more cereal or stop coming over?

By the elevator I grab his chin to kiss him goodbye. "oh, your question..." He seems a bit baffled that I would answer it there! "I need to do some more experimenting!"

The walkway to my front door is terrific for collecting water and so her reflection lights my path like a celestial guide. Coming home to independence, to strength, to me, I step over the moon.