without this dying narrative

And when you can no longer lift your right arm above your head or allow yourself a good pandiculation first thing in the morning, it occurs to you that maybe you have been treating yourself the same way they have, subtly at first,  but enough to know it wasn't kind, telling yourself it's not a big deal, there's nothing wrong with your body, wear and tear is all it is; ignore the red flags, stop asking for help. 

It would be easier that way, making them right. In the short term anyway. There are immediate advantages to not trusting your inner knowing; there are benefits to staying stuck. For one, the fight is exhausting. Ignoring yourself is effortless; it feels so familiar you hardly notice. Monkey see, monkey do.

Until the short term becomes longterm and you loose half of your body to the neglect you bought into, wanted to believe. For a million reasons that you've believed before until you could no longer sustain yourself on those beliefs, you had to accept that something was really not right, that, no, it's not all that normal to not be able to lift your arm over your head, just like your brother said it wasn't right when your leg wouldn't straighten or your face felt tingly. You knew it then like you know it now. You know now that there is only so much that they can do and that the doing is on you and you alone, the same way you know you will return, like a moth to light, with your dead lighter to the old narrative and it's dying flame because now what? 

 Now what?                                                                 

Now what without this dying narrative?

Of course with emptiness, with all else 

Text reply to my brother who wonders what to get my son for his 14th birthday

 Oy. You guys. Don't worry. He doesn't need anything. 

Write him a letter. Tell him about being 14 and what u remember. Tell him what's great about being a boy and what adventures await him. Tell him about who u are and what made u happy at his age and what school was like and ur first crush and first toy and chores u did and what u collected and of the sugary things u ate, what the most valuable thing you learned was and a funny memory and a day u could live over and over even now, and who your best friend was and what u thought of ur little sister and granny and papa doo and how u got in trouble and what u played and what made u sad and what ur city was like and what dreams u had.Tell him what he has to look forward to and the best thing about being a kid and about being grown up. Introduce yourself. He'd like to know you. 😊

I wonder what John B is doing right now

 And then when you find yourself writing about something as seemingly simple as your first car, that magenta Saab that you've written about a million times, the lemon that dad insisted on because of the great deal he was getting for a foreign car perched for early birds like you on the corner lot of that used car place on Sawtelle that you named after Magenter from the Rocky Horror Picture Show and that broke down on nearly every hill, miraculously making it all the way to The Evergreen State College, only to die in the rain forest upon arrival

and when you are halfway through writing about this for the who knows how manyth time, you find yourself back there, in 1988, driving to West Hollywood with Susan to John B's apartment  and writing about all that went down, the dream and the tragedy, both as you now see it for reasons you never saw before, and somehow, you are liberated and brought back to life, long after the last time you saw John B, long after Majenter went unwillingly for a dollar into the arms of your exotically gorgeous roommate, your lover-not-lover, girlfriend-not-girlfriend who damn, if only I was into women... and the deeper you wrote, the more you began to wonder about her, and John B, and so many others you have wondered about during Covid: are they still here? 

really

 Stop being so hard on yourself   

read the hundreds of emails you sent, the countless you replied to

your lengthy, honest, intimate responses to friends, coworkers, family, the handyman, the stranger from the bank, the wrong address

Reread your own writing as though it was written specially for you, to you

Feel into your love of animals and try as hard as you can to take in what goes out like the way you  do on a walk when you pause to really feel the sun shine beneath your skin

Look around: love what loves you   allow what you love to love you back

Right now, that is the most political thing you can do.

Please, please, stop breaking the house.

Today might be a good day to write about holding hands

 Because writing is time travel. And writing is space travel.

Because today I felt my grandma's hands again, the ones I miss so much, the ones that sliced the watermelon, baked the brisket, wrapped the gifts, held open the big Jaws towel for me after the pool, unlocked the enormous garage door, put down colorful, smiling tiles in Rummikub, pointed past the lemon tree toward the Palm Springs mountainside, just outside her winter trailer park she said we could climb, brushed the hair out of my face so I could see what she saw and love what she loved

If there is no hand to hold onto but your own

 

which is also one way

And you can also write about a time when you held someone's hand and they held yours. And it felt safe and like love and even a little scary because what happens when you feel, really feel, the edges and the softness, the rough and the smooth, support and surrender, curvy planets, someone's hand in yours, both holding and being held? It's a little sweaty, maybe, but that's okay, because it is love.

And writing is time travel. And writing is space travel.

Because today I felt my grandma's hands again, the ones I miss so much, the ones that sliced the watermelon, baked the brisket, wrapped the gifts, held open the big Jaws towel for me after the pool, unlocked the enormous garage door, put down colorful, smiling tiles in Rummikub, pointed past the lemon tree toward the Palm Springs mountainside, just outside her winter trailer park she said we could climb, brushed the hair out of my face so I could see what she saw and love what she loved

Thank you Writer Readers!

Dear Writers and Writing Family,

Thank you so much for coming to the Pendemic 

Student ZOOM             Reading on Saturday 

night! I am so grateful for all of you. I think it really well, don't you? Love, Rox