A Weekend in the Life

Today was Monday, September 2nd, Labor Day.  I say was because it's after midnight, so technically it's Tuesday!  But in my eyes it's still Monday night.  A lot of the rules don't apply to me anyway, so why should the parameters of a.m. and p.m.,  the basis for distinguishing one day to the  next,  be any different?

Since I don't work, I really didn't have any labor to commend.  And yeah, I know it's a holiday but do I really have anything worth celebrating? What, am I suppose to enjoy the fact that a lot of people are off work by joining in on the typical holiday pastimes of cookouts and family gatherings?  No instead, I am choosing to partake in my own labor -- the labor of writing! 

 

Mother and Son

If I'm gonna do this, I gotta keep it real!  I mean if I'm really going to be a "blogger" I have to be able to say exactly what I want to say, when I want to say it. Of course, I'll not purposely hurt anyone but at the same time I don't want to be limited in what I say based on the consequences of whomever reading it.. With that in mind, I feel like it's pertinent to share this conversation I had earlier this evening with my mom on Facebook.  I do this not out of spite, nor as a show of disregard, but as a testament of personal affirmation and, upon reading it several more times after it was sent, I thought, Boy, that really came out nicely... I've been meaning to say that for a long time.

But being a poet, primarily (thus far) the aforementioned candor as well as said conversation conjured up the recollection of a few poems. This first piece is over three years old. I first began writing it not long after I got out of the hospital back in April/May of 2010.  It's name signifies my feelings then about the situation I was in and now about the ordeal I face in being forthright in my writing.  I hope you enjoy.

No Place for Modesty

Day 3 in the I.C.U. and pe-eeew! I need ­­­a bath. When I lift my arm and sniff I get a whiff reminiscent of a Cesar salad doused with onions and Miracle Whip.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

 Gross! I think as I lay awake past midnight plotting my escape: First— I’ll pull up and flip out of bed, careful not to land on my head. Next—I’ll scoot across the floor and find my chair; I know it’s in the room, back there somewhere Then—I’ll reach up, grab the arms, try to push with my feet, lift and pull, find the handles, twist and turn, and finally sit up in the seat.

Now I’m back in my power-chair; I get my bearings and my breath, find the door and I’m outta there. But before I consider where to go first, I remember all the I.V.s I’m hooked up to, including the catheter and a tube protruding from my neck

Damn! That will surely foil my plan. At 2 a.m. tonight’s nurse, Shannon, comes in and sees I’m still awake. She says it may help me sleep to get cleaned up a bit, but before that she has some more patients to see and needs to grab a quick bite to eat.

Finally at 4, just as I start to snore, the bright florescent lights flick on; it’s Shannon’s voice saying she hopes I don’t mind, she brought some help this time. I can’t see yet because my eyes haven’t adjusted to the light, but I’d just as soon keep my eyes shut tight. There’s at least three of them; they casually talk about boyfriends, weddings, and in-laws, as they wash my hair, unbutton my gown and scrub me up and down. I picture them all relatively young and good-looking, although I’m afraid to look.

They wash my underarms, my legs and thighs, and then it’s no surprise when I’m asked to roll over… With an Easy Wipe, I’m wiped—my butt, my balls and gooch—all very quickly, and I think: Gosh, that WAS easy. Lastly, Shannon says she has to clean around my catheter so it doesn’t get infected; she does, all the while a voice goes off in my head: Don’t get a boner. Don’t get a boner. Don’t get a boner.

All done, she announces. as she heads for the door, urging me to sleep. Okay, I murmur, as I start to weep.

Man that sure was a riveting experience, one that I hope to never repeat! But before I lose sight of the original intention of this entry, I want to show the conversation that Mom and I had which triggered this whole thing.




Me


Hey mom, what's up? Are you mad at me, or something? First off, you leave without even saying goodbye. Then you don't answer my call later on that night, or call me back and now today I call you again and you don't answer. Now, here I am, again, waiting for you to call me back, but I get the feeling like you're not going to. So I got to ask, what have I done this time to piss you-offi?
Then again, maybe there is a perfectly logical explanation. If so, I apologize. Call me back on my house phone: 309-0172.


Mom
Sorry Jude I love you so much it hurts and I only mean the best for you in all my worrying about things with you and/or your house but I just feel so sad and disconnected every time I'm around you. I really feel like I'm the last person on earth you want to be around and I just can't take it anymore.
In times past it hasn't seemed to matter if I tell you by or not you never even come out of your room sometimes to "see me off" like I've seen you do with other ppl even though you know I'm loading up and getting ready to head out. I don't know when you started hating me so much but I feel like you do. And like I said I'm just tired of being so sad because of it. Sometimes I'd just like to kill myself to get rid of the pain.
You and I seem to argue about just about everything so "talking it out" doesn't seem like an option anymore.


Me 
Wow!! Really?! You really feel that way... Why do you think I always call you (almost) every week? And why do you think I make sure and find out when you're coming up, what your progress is? It's so I can make sure I'm around so we can get together! And as far as arguing goes, what do you expect? We're mother and son. That's what we're supposed to do! And I have really been making an effort not to argue with you so much when you're up here because it happens so seldom! Take this latest visit: I thought it went pretty well. Did I argue with you about what movie to go see? Or what restaurant to have dinner? No. Not at all.
And to tell you the truth, I was a little hurt and surprised, when I woke up Sunday morning and you weren't here. Why? Because I would've liked to see Mamaw and Papaw, and Sherry, and Leslie. You know I don't have a car and can't see your side of the family are as much as I'd like to.
And as far as thinking about killing yourself to get rid of the pain, how do you think I feel? I think about suicide AT LEAST once a week! When I broke up with Elizabeth my life got dramatically worse. And for what? Because she was trying to control me? Because she was possessive? Controlling? So what! A lot of women are like that. Okay I admit, she was a few flakes short of a bowl of Special-K, but at least then I was happy. So yeah, I think about offing myself sometimes. But I don't. And do you know why I don't think I ever could? Because of you all: my family, you, Ben and Dad. I know how much it would kill you all if I did that, just like it would kill me if anything happened to you all. And I'm not sadistic enough to inflict that kind of hurt. And I hope you never would either.
So, this shit about me hating you? Put that out of your mind right now! I don't know how that idea ever fostered in your brain but it's absolutely ridiculous!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm all outta talk.





So again, I need to reiterate: Mom, if you're out there reading this, please don't interpret it as an exposure of a private conversation, but rather a doctrine of the perseverence of the unconditional love we have for one another.

Lastly, I feel compelled to share a couple of poems about my ex.  The first was written in the spring of last year, a little more than halfway through the duration of our relationship, and the other was written just in the last couple months.  Both of these have been read publicly, at the Holler Poets Series open-mics, here in Lexington, Kentucky.

A Mental Misfire All to Hell

Me and my old lady were together

ten months. I thought she was the one,

and by the one you know which one

I mean. The one I’d spend the rest

of my life with; the one that would settle

me down and make me forget all the other

women in the world; the one I’d grow

old with, love to the bitter end, till death

do us part. Now when I say old lady, I

mean OLD LADY, literally, she was

nearly twice my age anyway. So growing old

together was never a possibility; guess I

orta said: ‘The one I’d age with.’ Course

who knows how long that’ll be; neither me

nor anyone else knows what age they’ll be

when their number’s called. Only God knows.

All I know is, she proved to me that maturity’s

got nothing to do with age. It wasn’t long

                         

after our courting began that I began to

realize that she wanted the rest of our lives

to be right then, and in retrospect, I guess

I’m the one who misconstrued the two.

And anyway, till death do us part is

another one of those not-to-be-taken-literally.

Parting, like parting ways has a connotation

of finality; spending time apart, though,

is only temporary, in fact, it’s healthy!

But explaining this to her exactly like

that was like talking to the broad side

of a barn. Any time I’d go somewhere it

was like I was breaking her heart,   

for real breaking her heart, like I was

leaving her for someone else. So when
I was gonna be away a few days I had

to go through the same old rigmarole. Lordy B!

it was like dealing with a fifty-year-old

fifteen-year-old – frantic tantrums of insecurity.

Alright now, allow me to offer a preemptive

apology for any innocent ears out there:

It was her pussy power that compelled

me to stay. I coulda danced a ditty

not having to worry about unplanned

pregnancy. But the last straw came when

she tried to make me forget all the other

women in the world, including my own kin!           

Because family runs deeper than blood,

I had to choose between the two. So I said

HELL NO, you gotta go! and that, I presumed,

was the end. But between me, you and the

fencepost, I gotta half a mind to go call her again. 

I recited this one just last week:

Time’s A-wastin’

While everyone I know

is gettin’ married

or havin’ kids

I’m startin’ over

I lost my baby, my lady

                                    lover    best friend

                                    significant other

and just when I was

      comin’ close to

     settlin’    slowin’ down

                 closin’ up shop

I realized I was makin’ a big mistake—

(well what other kind would be worth mentionin’?!)            

what I needed was

            `                                               another lover   a new best friend

                                                           

and if she’da been my significant other

what would that’a made me: insignificant?

The way I figure it

                             I deserve better      deserve a lady

     ain’t gettin’ stuck with no ball-and-chain baby

and sure ain’t settlin’ for someone crazy! no sir-ee.

it’s my life we’re talkin’

                                    which is short already

                                    least that’s what they say

but they sure say a lot, don’t they?

they say I’ve already lived mine half way—

                                                                           (yep, God’s sure got a god-

    damn twisted sense’a humor,

don’t ee?)

To anyone out there who may be following, this outta keep you busy for a while!

Going Down

Well, here’s a little tale about my most recent fall. It happened outside a Cracker Barrel about a week ago on my way home from French Lick Resort. You see, my stepmother’s family lives all spread out across the country – literally from coast-to-coast – and, rather than have a family reunion every year, they all get together biannually and go on vacation together.  This year, we went to French Lick Indiana, which was great because it was less than three hours away. Anyhew, after staying up there for three days we checked out Wednesday morning, said our goodbyes and hit the road.  We drove for about an hour and then, just before we got to Louisville, we pulled off to eat, having eaten nothing in our hurried departure. I was with my dad, stepmom and her little grandson, Hagan. I ate well, had a cup of unsweetened tea and my usual one cup of coffee.  Then before we left I needed to use the restroom.  So my dad went with me, in case I needed help.  But everything went smoothly, no spillage or leakage I washed my hands and we left.  The only thing is, when I unzipped to go I had unbuckled my seatbelt…

We had just walked out the door and my chair had stopped.  It is so old that the power cord is worn—and really broken—that we have to tape it together so the fastener stays connected.  But some times, it loses contact and I have to play with the connector to get it to come back on.  So that’s what I did.  When I bent over to “fix” it, I tumbled down onto the concrete porch. As soon as I hit the ground, I heard the lady nearest me shriek, “Oh my god!”  Then automatically I was surrounded by hoards of people offering help and asking me repeatedly if I was okay, not realizing that I am used to that.  On these occasions, I am thankful that I have such a hard head.  I go down like a champ! 

Having been through this many times, I have learned that while bystanders are helping me up in my chair that it is better not to offer instructions about how to do it.  It doesn’t do any good anyway, they’re just gonna get’er done the fastest way they can, using brute force and no consideration. Bless their hearts. No matter how many times I go through this, it still makes me feel embarrassed. There is no nothing more emasculating than being scooped off the ground by total strangers. 

Upcoming Events/Appearances

•   Sunday, April 21st  @ 4pm -  Penn's Store - Gravel Switch, KY.. For driving directions click on this link: http://www.pennsstore.com/map/map.htm Will be reading in one of the final timeslots of the 2013 Kentucky Writers Day celebration.
  
  

Jude's Book Store

 

  

Intentions

     It's a good thing I'm not very adamant about keeping my New Year's resolutions because this year I made three (off the top of my head) and I haven't stayed true to any of them.  First, I said that I'd stop procrastinating on everything: returning e-mails, phone calls; checking my mail, reading books, adding movies to my Netflix queue; looking into things: music that people recommend to me, classes that I may be interested in, programs, government or otherwise, that may be beneficial to me. Secondly, I told myself that I wanted to learn Spanish.  I took a couple semesters in high school and then in college but I never had anyone to converse with, and without a way to practice regularly, that frivolous knowledge never materialized and faded away, like former phone numbers. Lastly, I vowed to start blogging again regularly.  I know that I have a lot ricocheting around in my mind, but most of the time those mental firings undulate and dissolve.

     So now, instead of calling them "New Year's resolution,” I'll just consider them "New Year's aspirations" or "New Year's intentions."  But better yet why don't I just drop the "New Year's" part altogether?  It doesn't matter what time of year it is; you don't need any specific occasion to follow through with something you want to do.  For me the problem is that I need some sort of tangible motivation before I will act on impulses, big or small.

    Never before have I had such apparently obvious reasons to make good on my intentions. Having a blog is sort of like having a webpage, except it’s free (and I'm all about free).  I want to start selling my books online because every time someone buys one, either from the local bookstore, off Amazon.com or off the publisher's website, accents-publishing.com, I'm missing out on being compensated for all my hard work. It was stipulated in my contract that the only royalties I would receive would be from the books I sold personally (50%).  It's true that being a writer is not all about the money.  If that were all that I cared about then I am definitely in the wrong business!  But, who are we kidding, it is a little bit about the money!  I mean, that's why writers try to get published, so they can reap what they’ve sewn (or wrote).  Unless I have a place for people to buy my books on the Internet, then someone else is profiting.  This is my formal announcement that I intend to have this page where people can buy my work.

     Regarding the other two aforementioned intentions, I am dating and have fallen in love with a beautiful Guatemalan lady. She’s a native Spanish speaker so no longer can I console myself with the excuse of ‘not having anyone to converse with,’ for not brushing up on my Spanish. And my desire to stop putting things off and to start checking into what’s available to me, I just want to expel the notion that I’m unreliable, flaky or not well informed. I’m with it, look out world, Jude’s on it!

     As is my custom, to include some poetry with these blogs, here are two poems written this year:

Last Taste

The morning is spent packing

an array of items,

cramming carry-ons and crushing

southwestern souvenirs.

We sip coffee to persistent knocking

as the lovely Latina

offers room service.

When all is accounted for,

one final sweep is made

before hitting the sandstone-lined streets

of San Antonio in search of sustenance 

(anything but Mexican).

We scurry up blocks and down sidewalks

but spot no restaurants and so descend to

the subterranean sector

to find our final fix of Texas flavor.

Then the river walk becomes

the “river roll,” as we creep

alomg concrete seeking legless-level access

for a tour of this busy waterway,

still teal from St. Patrick’s Day.

Half Night’s Sleep

Tired, stayed up till the moon mellowed

           woke with birds’ breakfast chirps

Once the hum of 1^st shift motors

meanders into awareness,

it’s no use staying in bed.

The day wears like baggy overalls,

            sags like lost lovers’ eyes.

A late afternoon nap becomes too much

            too late when I wake, groggy,

at 2 in the morning.

Out of sorts, I sort through PC pics,  

rummage social networks, hand-glide

digital displays and finally contemplate

refreshing my dinner, but first must

consider what to call it.

*The fist was started the day after I came home from the National Ataxia Foundation’s Annual Membership Meeting in March, which was in San Antonio. The other came about as I sat up late one night waiting to tire.

Hello again