Tuesday, August 30, 2011

End of an Era 29 Aug. '11

End of an Era 29 Aug. '11

A little story...

They look like shards of a mirror, shattered with the screwdriver pushing in and up and snap--bits fly with wings of force counteracted by air friction and gravity laying them to rest. I should have worn the glasses but I didn't and I was lucky. That little bit resting at the outer corner just hurt when I blinked. I brushed it way. The one on the right side below my collarbone sat on the skin, adhering by a bit of sweat, and that peeled off as if a fragment of reflective skin.

First laptop bought and about 8 years old, can't keep up with the WWW and simple if bloated MS Word at the same time. Favorite saying became: 'Not responding' add whichever application before that duet.

On this I carried my literary children 8000 miles away. On this I expanded the fantasies, daubed the red of horror into new declivities, and twisted science into my fiction. I spread slow poems to ferment for later arrangement and dropped quick ideas for stories that sometimes opened into vistas and other times sat intriguing and coy with just a line.

I wrote to old friends, made new ones, went semi-paperless for personal business, tried not to panic when I needed to open it and clean the dust, had the harddrive replaced, replaced the CD burner and spent a small fortune in cursing the slowness that increased as other newer better machines jumped on a millisecond. I ended up getting one of those, and this old (then at 4 years) laptop was relegated to the term 'spare'. It came in handy off and on feeling slower every time to the point of needing to end it.

I don't need some enterprising thief getting into my private business, though admittedly it's easier to use a tracker bot or keystroke recorder than it is to pick over a scratched disk. Easy enough to undo a screw, then 4 more tiny ones, pry the lip up and the coup de grace with the Philips screwdriver.

What are harddrives made of?

Things we want to remember. Things we've forgotten, with or without reason. Things we though we'd need, want, had an interest or passing fancy.

All the information is stored elsewhere, elsewhen.

Like the shattered mirror of the SnowQueen, dropped by arguing demons, bits of me were scattered, picked up and discarded, but none reached my eye or into my heart. The bits are already there, accumulated and expanded upon, organized and categorized, set safe and wanted in other places.

To that discarded machine, well done, good and faithful servant.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

the Call Apr 27, 2011

Two years ago, on a Monday, about 7:30am EST, (2:30pm CAT time where I live), my mother died. From that time til the home called my brother in NY and he to me, was about 3pm. It was a call I knew would come, and one I dreaded. My brother never calls that time in the afternoon, rarely did anyone else, so it was a foregone conclusion when I picked it up, heard his voice, and knew before he said anything.

My partner and I coordinated a seaside service the same day and time as my bother and his nephews held one alone by a sixteen foot Japanese maple tree. It was the same one we scattered my father's ashes under in '95. This one we planted, the second tree (since the first was undermined by insects), that we chose to plant for my sister two decades earlier.

Mothers and daughters.

Entire libraries could be filled with that relationship, whether by birth or choice.

Things we do, and don't do. Things I learned were topics best not discussed because my mother couldn't get past her dislike of the actions. Patterns set are hard to break, even years after.

Decades ago, a spot of blood on my brother's shirt became a point of hysterics when Mom found out it came from a scratch he'd gotten from his partner, same as now, with whom he'd had sex and she scratched him. Mom didn't speak to J for years, wouldn't even see his partner, whom he considered his wife, because of the scratch.

Same pattern, my sister G met a man she lived with until her death. Mom couldn't wrap her mind around that 'sin' of living together and didn't speak to my sister for years, wasting so much time.

I'd talk to G on the phone, travel to see her. Mom would send a card, money, but for years she held that 'living together is wrong' bullshit tight to her bosom.

Eventually, they did reconcile, Mom met G's partner who cared more about her than the man she'd married and divorced before. Mom gave G a kidney in '83 since G's were shrunk to the size of walnuts by Type 1 diabetes. G had 5 good years before she died in Nov '88.

So, what didn't I tell Mom whose closed mind was a rock in the river of my life? Like water, I went around, sent tentative drops up every now and again but they slid off, unremarked.

I'm pagan, wiccan. Mom was an atheist downgraded from agnostic and before that a Protestant. She wanted to believe, but there was nothing for her to hold on to.

I feel I'd worked my way up from Protestant to agnostic to seeing the Divine in everything.

Never told Mom I felt more attuned to women than men, again having gone from straight to neuter to lesbian. (Aren't labels wonderful?)

Mom asked, halfheartedly--and I denied, because I didn't want to get into that empty useless discussion and have her not talk to me for years. I wanted her to grow up, and failing that, I said nothing so as to keep her happy in her small space where she was comfortable. I knew we had very little in common, and what little we did was superficial most times.

My life sunk below the riverbed and the rock, finding another way, finding the one who is more a part of me than anyone ever knew.

When Mom met her, she said 'You two look so much alike' and that comment has since come from others on this side of the pond as well.

Mom wanted me to be happy, and I couldn't tell her who is making me so, and why.

End of every phone call, Mom would say, 'Give her my love.'

I could never say, 'Mom, I do.'