Sweet Ginger Green Eyes

There is an ebb and flow, an innate rhythm to this blog. I won't spoil it by dissecting it and attempting to define it. Life's mysteries often need to remain so. Just as once humor is devolved, it ceases to amuse, so are many other aspects of our world.

I will reveal that I always blog on Tuesdays and Saturdays, minimum. I keep those days scheduled up ahead a month or more. Then as I am inspired, I fill in the gaps one day at a time and plug in more blog posts. Ideally, a new one uploads every night at 12:01 a.m. But worst-case scenario, there will be something fresh every Tuesday and Saturday.

Why Tuesday and Saturday? Well, balance for one thing, but not entirely. Of course not! If you've been reading for long, you know there are always multiple reasons why I do anything – or I hope you've figured that out by now.

In Stephen Stills' Suite Judy Blue Eyes, a heartfelt song about his and Judy Collins' impending breakup, he perhaps unkindly refers to her therapy and mentions that “fear is the lock, and laughter the key to your heart.” 

Fear vs. joy/laughter of course is the bottom line of both my blog and my personal journey. It is true in my life, and I believe it holds true for many others. But what does that have to do with Tuesdays and Saturdays?

Suite Judy Blue Eyes is, well, a suite. That basically means a piece of music containing four sections. The second section is a forlorn accounting of their relationship in which he admits that they can't seem to get along living together on a daily basis. The weekend works out fine, but by Tuesday, they're tired of one another. He eventually decides to move out and asks her to come see him Thursdays and Saturdays.

As an artist/creative personality, I love deeply and passionately and fully but ethereally as well. I require space, time, and distance in order to function, refresh, and create. I chose Tuesday and Saturday as a tribute to the yin and yang, the up and down, the positive and negative forces, the balance – the “please be gone, I'm tired of you” Tuesday and the “I am yours, you are mine” Saturday.

I freely offer up these bits of my soul. I trust they are enough. So come see me Tuesdays and Saturdays. What have you got to lose? ~~Ginger

Attitude Adjustment 101

For months, I've hated on the pogo stick jumper outside. The endless pa-ching, pa-ching, pa-ching. An audible Chinese water torture to the middle of my forehead. Drip. Drip. Drip. Day in and day out since May.

Today the sound stopped, and an exuberant child voice proclaimed “101!” 

Now I want him to make 102.~~GH

Guest Poet: Shakespeare

This truth has presented itself to me in recent weeks, especially when applied to one's self or one's love. 

Let the wind blow as it may. Close your eyes and feel its caress, never forcing it. Its timing is impeccable.~~GH

East Kanawha County

East Kanawha County

Cookie cutter houses

On narrow winding roads

Nestled between a ridge and a creek

The siding man's been here

With his silver tongue

And easy payment plan

Leaving a legacy of low

Maintenance monopoly

And coal-begrimed aluminum

A Hunger for Howlin Wolf

Here's a taste of something written after Thanksgiving. The Muse is generous now, pouring out her bounteous goodness. This is an excerpt patched together from a much longer piece; hopefully it makes sense.~~GH

A Hunger for Howlin' Wolf 

In high school, I had a ridiculously cheap record player/stereo. I'm sure it was only a step above a child's portable player, but it was what I had. The spindle did hold multiple albums, three perhaps, and it did autoplay and drop the next one so I had an hour or so to lie back and listen before I had to get up and turn the records over or change them. Sometimes I could get five 45s out of a session if I took a chance on the needle catching on the edge of the stack.

I burned incense and smoked pot and played my music, the same songs over and over until the grooves in the records were deep and full of pops and crackles. An avalanche of Elton John, a flood of Foghat, ELP (“Still, You Turn Me On”), the Carpenters, Jethro Tull, The Who. BTO, Average White Band, Marvin Gaye, I hungered for different sounds. All we had at home was AM radio. Somewhere out there, I knew/sensed there was more.

An older teen from down the road gave me her collection of 45s when she went away to college and I embraced them hungrily. Clarence Carter, Bill Withers, as soon as I discovered Jim Croce he was dead but I had heard him. And, oh-mi-god-Howlin-Wolf's “Spoonful.” The sound had been revealed, the curtain pulled aside. I knew there was more out there than they let me hear on the radio.

Seals and Crofts, Edgar Winter, Uriah Heep. Ronnie Montrose. I met Jeff Beck and listened to him play at a friend's house once. I heard and tried to like but didn't, Joe Cocker.

The Eagles, and funk. Oh good lord, funk. I couldn't get enough of it. Rufus and Chaka Khan, Parliament. Cat Stevens, Joni Mitchell, Barry White, Grand Funk, Bad Company, Jackson Browne. Rhyme or reason, there seemed to be none.

I think if I'd had access to blues records I may have never left my room. I would have sunk into the cheap mattress and disappeared. As it was, I listened to the same angsty songs repeatedly. I sang along, wailing with deeply felt sorrow for love I'd yet to be given, borrowing future trouble, mourning lovers yet to leave. I had such a longing to experience Life, but I was stuck in a gloomy, claustrophobic, institutional yellow-walled box of a room.

I'd throw back my head and let my unruly hair shake free. Sometimes I'd slide my glasses up on top of my head like the models in television commercials did. I couldn't see a thing but if I touched my nose against the mirror on my dresser, I could see how cool I looked. I longed to do this outside my bedroom and years later, the first thing I did once I got contact lenses was buy a pair of sunglasses just to prop on top of my head with no intention to protect my eyes whatsoever.

Other times, I danced. I sang into my hair brush as loudly as I could, the volume control set as high as I dared get away with – eight, because nine would bring a parent banging on my door and result in revocation of stereo privileges. Even then, I had to move the speakers away from the walls so the sound didn't carry downstairs as well. But eight, well, eight I could get away with.

Bonus Post: Sensuality

Sensuality. I'm feeling it.~~GH

This haiku by incredible haiku poet and Facebook friend, John Tiong Chunghoo, rocks me to my core:

In my heart
You glow
Like a painting

And this music video by Nina Simone

These few moments of beauty are yours. Repeat liberally. ~~GH

To Live Out Loud

“If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.” ~~Émile Zola

 Original painting by Frederick Leighton entitled "Flaming June."

I have been unable to identify the artist who created the image above.

Me too, Emile. I am here to live out loud.~~GH

Bonus Post: Poet Yvette Wielhouwer Weds

Today, my dear dear soul-friend, pen pal, one of this generation's truly most magnificent writers, keeper of Hope's flame, beacon of Light in the Darkness of Divorce, fellow traveler down these long winding roads of life and strife, Yvette Wielhouwer joined her fortunes with her Frank and is married. 

Shine on, Lovely Light. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Step in joy and peace from hereon.~~Ginger

To read some of Yvette's amazing writing, click here. New window will open.

Remains of the Fall

Remains of the Fall

A stand of birches

Waving in the wind

Tan tatters

Waving in the wind

Birch bark peeling

Waving in the wind

Shreds shivering

Waving in the wind

Remains of the Fall

Waving in the wind

Welcoming Winter

Bonus Treat: Synesthesia Art Film

This is a wonderful film by Terri Timely which depicts synesthesia. Synesthesia is not easy to define and impossible to pin down, but basically it is when one sensory stimulus triggers a non-traditional neurological response. Popular media often depicts people using hallucinogenic drugs as seeing music dripping like paint -- that is synesthesia.

Example: I smell cinnamon and perceive the scent as a color (brown). I hear a certain musical instrument and feel the smooth texture of velvet. It is a sensuality that crosses the neurological borders which we are taught that the five senses include.

According to Wikipedia, as many as 1 in 23 people may be synesthetes. The most common manifestation, apparently, is assigning color values to individual letters and/or numbers. 

I hope you enjoy this amazing video. ~~GH

Giving Thanks

She doesn't answer the way others do. If I ask "Why did you do that," she might say "Broccoli." Another time she may answer, "Just because." I can never predict when she's with me and when she's taking a journey none of us can join. That's partly why my schizophrenic, developmentally disabled sister is both interesting and frustrating to live with.

Recently she told me she resents me and my ability to function. She's jealous I could marry, bear children, paint, draw, write – comprehend life. She hates me for knowing what she doesn't, and hates me even more when I teach her a concept that upsets the delicate balance of her understanding. 

She didn't used to discern between commercials and programs: The two ran together for her and each was equally real. I patiently showed her the distinctions in an attempt to enrich her life. The result was more resentment – she felt embarrassed, and it's my fault.

The fine lines blur for my sister, and many of the wide ones as well.

She lies. She lies about what she can and can't do and what she
understands. Sometimes I can tell she's lying; often I can't.

"Do you know how to peel potatoes," I ask, offering her a chance to  help make Thanksgiving dinner.

"Oh, yes," she replies, with an artificial emphasis on "yes" that reminded my ex of cheap porn actor dialogue. The assisted living group my sister lived in for eighteen years realized they couldn't teach her. Instead, they made her into an actress. She's learned to laugh when others do – whether in the living room watching TV, or in social situations.

She has a repertoire of exchanges she draws upon in conversation: how are you; fine, thank you; how is your (wife, husband, mother, father, son, daughter); it sure is (hot, cold, wet, dark) out today; have a good day; take care. Unbelievably, these few phrases allowed her to fake her way through twenty years and countless situations before she came to live with me.

"Okay, peel these potatoes for me while I get the pies made."

She lifts the potato ever so carefully, as if her thumb might burst through the skin if she pushed too hard on it. Suspiciously, cautiously, she stares at the peeler for a full minute before picking it up and setting down the potato. 

Turning it over in her hand a sacred number of times, she inspects the peeler. It passes some cryptic test and she cradles it in her palm. She stares at the
blade, hard. She's getting that shifty look again. Her eyes move rapidly from side to side, then her gaze flashes back to the peeler. I wonder if she's considering plunging it into my heart.

"Are you okay, honey?"

Blinking, she grudgingly looks away from the peeler and fixes her shifty eyes on me. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you. How are you?"

"Do you need me to show you how to peel a potato?"

"No, thank you." She turns away, now shielding the potato from my line of sight with her body. Her arm moves in a rhythmic motion. I assume she's peeling the potato and forget about her while I prepare the pies.

About an hour later, I have five crusts made and three pies assembled – two apple, one pumpkin – and I glance at her work area to check on her progress. There are four tiny chunks of potato peel on the newspaper in front of her and three large clumps of hair she's ripped out in frustration.

I remember my sister cried when she realized that my second grader surpassed her ability to do math problems. Until then, she hadn't realized the extent of her own limitations. She believed she led a normal life while in the assisted living group. When it closed, I  took her in.

Her observations of our family soon made her existence intolerable. She'd ripped out most of her hair and clawed her face till it bled, then slapped herself until what skin wasn't bleeding was bright red anyway. Something inside her shut down. She became a ghost for nearly six months, under constant assault of the reproachful voices in her head – on a self-inflicted journey I could neither join her on nor bring her home from.

"That's great, honey. Thanks for your help. I'll finish up." I hug her. "Why don't you go watch some TV now? I think Rugrats is on."

"Oh, yes," she gushes, and scurries out of the kitchen.

Bonus Post: Joy

I am just too filled with happiness to leave my poem "Autumn" as today's record. Instead, I give you Love.~~GH

Flash Fiction: Autumn

Autumn

We hope to maintain life’s vibrant verdant greens

and rich reds, but death prevails. Beaten, we suck 

bitter amber liquid from glass bottles in honor of 

fallen comrades -- road dust on our worn-out boots, 

tanned arms and faces hard as leather, our dried 

corncob pipes cradle russet tobacco.

~~Ginger Hamilton Caudill

I Challenge You

I issue this as a challenge: Turn away from the ways you were taught -- to avenge someone, to seek revenge, to enact punishment. Destruction can only lead to more destruction. Instead, do not only passively forgive but actively seek to prevent further misery. ~~ Ginger

A Leaf Falls

A Leaf Falls

The whirs and beeps of life-sustaining machines no longer intrude on my consciousness; they have become as natural as my breath. Nurses rustling past my door are ghosts from a distant memory. Warmth arrives as my daughter gently tucks in my blanket, protecting me from an omnipresent flow of cool air. Sounds are distant, mostly irrelevant now.

At last my family recognizes and responds to infinitesimal signals – the upward curve of my mouth, a tiny wrinkle appearing in my forehead, an escaping sigh. A lifetime of hurt where words never sufficed has passed. 

Harsh feelings and miscommunications were the patterns in the days when I longed to be understood. Now -- when I yearn to take my journey alone -- people focus on every gesture and sound, and hold me here. 

I'm a dried leaf clinging to a dead branch, assaulted by a chilled wind. Release, I need release.

My parents and grandparents attend me without words. They know I will come to them when I can – when the living allow me to leave. Smiling, my ancestors wait for me in the blazing sunlit corner of the room. Untiring arms reach out, extending an invitation to join them.

The wind nudges me again. This time I open my hand and let go. I glide away from the tree as the wind lifts me up. We dance, the wind and I, for a precious moment. If I plummet to the ground and am no more, this brief instant of freedom is worth it all. 

He sets me down gently beside family and friends. I am warm.

Kindness

Your kindness cannot be said.

You open doors in the sky.

You ease the heart and make

God's qualities visible.

~~ Rumi

Each act initiates ripples in a never-ending ever-increasing circle. Do not underestimate the impact of the smallest kindness.~~GHC

 

Hope When Traveling By Way of Sorrow

The Wailin' Jennys

By Way of Sorrow

By Way Of Sorrow

You've been taken by the wind
You have known the kiss of sorrow
Doors that would not take you in
Outcast and a stranger

You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years

You have drunk a bitter wine
With none to be your comfort
You who once were left behind
You will be welcome at Love's table

You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years

All the nights that Joy has slept
Will awake to days of laughter
Gone the tears that you have wept
Will dance in freedom ever after

You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years

 But you'll reach your destiny 

Selective Sensitivity

My smoke detector is so sensitive, it alarms when the oven's on at 400+ degrees for more than ten minutes. Incense? No problem. I can smoke the house up till it looks like an opium den and the smoke detector nods its happy little head in time with the music. When I used to chain-smoke cigarettes, the smoke detector didn't care one whit. 

Makes me wonder when it and the oven had their first falling out.~~GH

Guest Poet: Jack Gilbert R.I.P.

As is Synchronicity's way, this blog post was pre-scheduled to run today. Yesterday, Jack Gilbert's heart blazed white-hot as his earthly fields perished.

May your Love grow ever brighter. I shall think of you every time I see a rowboat or hear an oar touch water. R.I.P., Jack Gilbert. I for one shall risk delight.~~GH

Getting Ready

What if the heart does not pale as the body wanes 

 but is like the sun that blazes hotter each day 

on these immense, perishing fields? What then?

~~Jack Gilbert

What, indeed. ~~GH

And if you have a little more time, contemplate this one.

A Brief for the Defense, by Jack Gilbert

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God Wants.

Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

Guest Poet: John Tiong Chunghoo

My friend John Tiong Chunghoo is a professional writer who lives in Malaysia. He makes his living as a writer and also is a wonderful poet. 

Although it is impossible to narrow down the thousands of his haiku and poetry and decide which are "best," this poem plucked at a chord in my soul. So I share it with you.

by John Tiong Chunghoo

i have seen poverty sweat

from dawn till dusk

under the tropical sun

smoothening highways, 

coating multi-storey buildings

"I have seen poverty sweat." Dayum. Rocks me to my core.~~GHC

Compulsion

I am more uncomfortable when I refrain from attempting to communicate the inexplicable than when I struggle to express it. And so, I am compelled to write. ~~GH

Blow Away the Chaff and Carry On

Today has overflowed with revelations. 

Letting go. Every time I think it's done, I discover residual chaff waiting to be blown away. I would rather find and deal with it now than years later. ~~GH

"A new day, a new way, and new eyes to see the Dawn . . .. . . the sky is clearing and the Night has gone . . .. . . to sing the blues, you've got to live the dues and carry on . . .. . . carry on, love is coming, love is coming to us all . . ."

Musical Guest: The Wailin' Jennys

Sweetly exquisite. I created a music playlist for my wake/funeral/life celebration -- don't worry, it's not scheduled for a long time to come -- and this is the final song.

The Parting Glass

Lyrics:

Oh all the money that e'er I spent
I spent it in good company
And all the harm that e'er I've done
Alas, it was to none but me 
And all I've done for want of wit
To memory now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all

Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had
Are sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e'er I've had
Would wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call
Good night and joy be with you all

Love and Resilience

Had a long chat with the X2B on the phone. Wrote out my musings and decided now is not the appropriate time to share them publicly. Shorthand version: Let it suffice to say that he is doing some good psychological work and I am happy for him. He is making progress. And I feel oddly saddened by the fact that I didn't care on more than a superficial level. He has become an outsider to me.

So this blog post begins in media res -- in the middle of things.~~GH

Then I told him some things. I told him that I wanted him to know no matter how deceitful he had been, that I had felt protected and largely safe during most of our marriage. That this experience had not caused me to feel bitter or close my heart. That I was still able to allow myself to be tender and vulnerable and open and trusting. And he cried and said “That is your resilience.”

The word resilience stuck in my head, so I decided to look it up. Turns out it's not what I thought it meant. It isn't some magical quality I possess or can lay claim to as a character strength. It's a coping mechanism, a dynamic process of behavioral adaptation. I read through Wikipedia's page on resilience and at times wondered how in the hell I ever developed it considering the dearth of outside support I had as a child. I thought about it for a couple of minutes and came up with this idea:

I am able to continue through hardships because I really do believe I am loved. Dearly and deeply and fully and in a special way. I believe I am precious – to somebody. I am not even sure who. I don't want to think too long or too hard about it either. But in my darkest hours – well, maybe not the darkest ones but the dark ones – I know I am loved and cherished. In my darkest ones, I despair and feel abandoned and alone. But in just the awful hours, I still believe I am loved and not alone. And if I'm not alone, I can do anything.

Even though my parents did the horrific things they did to us, they sold me on the idea they loved me. I truly believed them. I felt loved. I felt angry and betrayed and confused and conflicted and wondered at times what the fuck love meant if it hurt so badly, but I still believed I was loved. And that was enough. And that was how I got through nineteen years (or however long it was) of living a total sham of a marriage: I believed I was loved.

Do not misunderstand me. Surviving is not thriving. Believing you are loved when you are not loved is like being on a ventilator. It will keep you alive but you can't really go anywhere. But you can get through the crisis until such time as you can move on and breathe on your own. I suspect that may be why religion was created. But that's another musing for a different day.

Know that I love you. I really do. I have such love for my brothers and sisters, every one of them. Call it resilience if you want to. I don't care. To me, it's Love.

Bonus Post: Striptease

In response to a friend's status: "Facebook convinces me we all need therapy."

I think Facebook just functions as a reflection - it holds the mirror up and we recognize ourselves when others reveal themselves. We stand disturbed because we are exposed. 

It represents the greatest tool I've found thus far in my life to improve myself.~~GH