Thoughts of this time (day), so far

Wind and rain feel more alive than the stale sun.
Why so loud? Why so loud? Why not outside!
I hope I do not get wet out here, I just want to observe.
Does death always bring rain like this-this day of rain to hold me and set me free?
Cinnamon, I remember Cinnamon and her death and I sat in this exact spot and watched the world weep, just as now. My mom was there, she sat with me for awhile.
Is that all I get? Is that all you have to say? It is selfish of me to expect to receive.
The leaves are bright... bright green, red, yellow... no, light rather, they are light! Perhaps the leaves of fall are trying to bring the light back. They do say the changing of the colors is begun by the shorter days.
Perhaps that is why fall is about hanging on, we hang onto the light of the leaves while they hang onto the branches. But eventually they die. The light leaves. The darkness is swallowing, humbling.
When does it become inappropriate to say "my mother just died"? It has been three weeks, reality. It has been always, me. She is always dying, to me, each day. I wake up and she is dead, again. So when I wake up in a year and she is dead, again, do I have to follow reality "my mother died a year ago" or can I say the truth "my mother just died"?
I think in: words-present, memories-past, film-future. I don't even believe in timeline, so it is odd that there are these alignments. I wish I could be more abstract, think farther, larger.
Bird noises can be beautiful. Incense, candles, flowers, leaves. Beautiful. There is something more to beautiful, we don't mean 'good to look at,' it goes deeper than that. Beautiful... it is connected, it is ethereal, it connects one to... something... incomprehensible understanding.
I need to pack. I need to pack. I need to, stop being sad! I need to pack. I don't have time to look at rain. I need to pack.
Do I have a very very very mild form of PTSD? No, that's not justified. But the eyes, her eyes, the eyes. They flash.
I didn't understand much about death. It wasn't unexpected but it was shocking.
NPR is interviewing Hyperbole and a Half 's author about her depression. Thank you.

Death is Not: Do It Then Done, and so Nor is Grief

My words feel clumsy as they knock against the walls of this reality, attempting to reach beyond, to reach her. They roll about inside the world I can see, only able to describe the things that belong here... not her, and not how I feel about her passing.

People often ask me how I am, they hope I am okay. Sometimes I want to say:
My mother just died. Images of men taking her out in a body bag keep flashing in my head. A memory of saying goodbye–wanting to kiss her hand one last time before they took her, but her blood had pooled and I couldn't raise her hand to my lips because of rigor mortis–this sits on my heart. I remember her eyes–dilated, dark, and dead. I watched my mother, the person who loved me most in this world, my greatest source of love and comfort... I watched my mom turn into a corpse. How the fuck do you think I'm doing?

This is one of the ways my words are clumsy. I am not mad at the question, and I am not mad at the person asking. But I feel SO HARD, so much. Using words is attempting to squish immeasurable forces and feelings into a measurable unit. It can be frustrating and so I apologize for lashing out; and I apologize for not speaking.

Every time I have entered into a social situation since she has passed I have realized I have lost all normal social functioning capabilities. Any time someone greets me as if my universe hasn't just been shaken up, I feel dizzy and confused. Alone, too. Even talking to some of my closest friends leaves me feeling stranded because they cannot be where I am, they cannot understand. They do all they can, and I love them no less. But I am standing on an island that no one else can see.

I am not ready to leave this place, though. Not sure if I ever will be. No matter how alone and no matter how sad, it somehow feels closer to her. Raw, filled with blood, alive and dead... I feel all these things.

I hope, with all of this, that when, if you (all you living loves who may be left behind) ever stand on your own island between here and somewhere, that I can sit in a boat just offshore. If you ever want to step off the island, just for a moment, you will not have to travel far.

My words are also clumsy in expressing gratitude and love–for these things cannot fit into such restraints. But thank you. I love you. I think I still somewhat fear being judged for my pain, for being too mellow-dramatic or for being stuck. I don't want you to push me before I am ready, but I also do not want to be left. Please continue to bear with me as I attempt to re-settle. I'm sorry, I'm sorry... it will not be a short journey.

Eternal Mothering.

I listen to the world much more deeply now. I listen for her and I feel the calm and the peace and the love and the perfect chaos and perhaps that is not all her but she still helps me see it. I thank her for that. I listen to myself much more deeply now. I listen for her and I find myself, truths of who I am that I can now see and love and fight for. I thank her for that. 

Thank you, mom. I love you eternally. 

Be Back Later

I don't feel as though I can be poetic yet, or elegant. But I don't think I will be writing about much else for awhile so one day it may come--a reflection. Now though, I just want to record what THIS is.

I still don't think it has fully hit me yet, which is terrifying. I am waiting for the moment when it hits me full on that she is gone and I can't breathe and I can't function, because I know it will come but the mystery is when... it keeps me on my toes.

Waking up this morning, on the couch since I couldn't sleep in her room, I felt like lead and I couldn't focus on anything, I wasn't thinking about anything, but I couldn't move.

After a couple hours I made it to the breakfast table where Alison told me that I had marks on my face where my tears had fallen and I couldn't wipe them away. I managed to eat a small pancake and then slowly exited from the haze until I was able to take a shower and exist as normal.

I felt weird about this, how normal I felt, how people around me were crying and I wondered if somehow I had done enough of my grieving beforehand to move forward somewhat seamlessly.

Another hour passed and I felt a little sad, the kind of sad I feel on really bad days, the sad I am used to. But it moved down my throat and seeped throughout my body, a heaviness (like lead again) pushing through my veins. My vision began to blur and I lost most of the awareness of my surroundings. My chest tightened and a mild nausea set in. My eyes well and tears fell from my eyes... not crying, exactly, but just nearly constant tears.

I didn't quite understand when people told me grief came in waves, like nausea. It is all too clear, now.

I will not return to Hendrix this semester, I will simply try to return to any basic form of life and go from there–grow into it again. I know I will be different though, it will all be different.

For now the difference just makes me feel sick.

Fuck.

That word, words, all words, no words can even come close to the description of what is inside of me and around me. Words are in a different realm-an earthly one. I feel a spiritual pain that runs deeper than the means by which this world has created to explain or communicate. Perhaps that is why I feel so lost and alone, even while I am surrounded.

But I will try.

I hear: gurgled raspy gasping breaths
I feel: the blanket that lays on atop my mother's withered legs
I smell: stale air sprayed over with happy scents–flowers, lavender, clary sage
I taste: salt tears
I see: my mother, eyes half open, unresponsive, seemingly gasping for every breath and every so often vomit-type substance falling from her mouth.
I see: my mother dying.
When I am asleep, when I am awake.

Nothing could prepare me for such an experience.

Life ain't fuckin' easy.

The matrilineal passage of genes, love, and tattoos.

When I was in middle school I began to plan the tattoos I would get when I got older:
-"Kelly Rose" written with a spiky vine that ends up being the stem of a rose.
-A yin yang of the most intricate quality.
-A picture of a smashed up car with the words "shitty shitty bang bang" written around it.

Luckily, I never did get any of those... although I still think my shitty shitty bang bang idea was pretty clever. Knowing that a tattoo would last forever (and my fear of pain) deterred me from ever following through on any whimsical idea of a permanent mark on my body. It did not feel right adding to my visual representation if it did not resonate with my soul.

This little guy did just that. I did not seek him out, he came to me, and I knew that there was a beautiful reason for his addition to my existence. 

You see, my mother decided to get a ladybug tattoo before I was even born, making it a part of her existence. So, as an ode to her and to represent an even deeper physical/spiritual connection between my mother, sister and I, Kate and I each got our own ladybug wrist tattoos. Their existence attributable to my mother's ladybug, just as mine and Kate's existence is attributed to our mother.

We love you, Mom!

P.S. I designed this lil' dude. He came from this sketch I drew:

What is wrong with you people!? (me included)

Have you ever thought that perhaps these crazy famous folks suddenly losing their heads isn't an affliction just felt by the rich/famous?

We all probably go through this same shit. But most people don't have public outlets that they can manipulate to fuck the world. But we shame them. We spend more time judging them than we do the people who are living near us and beating their dogs.

"Oh they are such bad influences on our children!" Yeah, because without seeing these people acting out, your angelic kids would never be inclined to do anything stupid, outrageous, against your/their morals.... WHAT WORLD DO YOU LIVE IN? This world is chaos. That's it. And yet we spend excessive amounts of energy attempting to swat, stamp, squash and shelter the crazy out of it–out of ourselves, out of our fellows, out of our entertainment, out of our schools, out of our world... la la la la, and on and on.

                                                                  Yea! No More Insanity!

If I had a way to fuck things up publicly hell yeah I'd do it. I'd get drunk and put on a horrendous show to make the mouths of the 'sane' gape. Or I might punch some paparazzi while simultaneously shaving my head into small squares of hair. At least I could show the youngins (and the not youngins) that going off-the-edge isn't something unique to them. When they feel themselves going crazy, at least they could look to me and somehow feel less crazy. Unfortunately, we shame these acts (I have) for the betterment of... what exactly? Sure, society may crumble a little if we allow some insanity, acknowledge that all this living is chaos...or it might improve it, I don't know. It's a gamble but that's. the. point.

I will live. I will have moments of peace where I can focus and read and produce. I will have other moments where I just want things to get fucked up–throw things through windows, run naked through a beehive, spray some cops with water-guns, whatever. In those moments I will think of Miley or Britney, Charlie Sheen and feel not quite so alone. Keep on twerkin', Miley.

I am a tiny fissure in this rupture of the world. keep me sane and I will go insane, let me be insane and I will feel goooood.