Spring

I woke up this morning to the sun. Still wearing winter's mood, I stood outside listening to the sounds of spring - birds chirping, squirrels chattering, a slight breeze rustling the fallen memories of fall, and the distant hum of a lawn mower.

Slowly, the smell of spring undressed winter from my soul and glimmers of rebirth began to sprout where silence and hibernation lived only moments before.  My thoughts of course thawed to those of something new, something with seedlings of me planted deeply there and tending to those seedlings with love, caring and passion. 

I glanced to the still naked tree in my back yard with its nakedness revealing the wooden box placed in the crook of two branches that has served as a nesting place for several generations of young squirrels.  It's empty this year.  No family of bushy tailed creatures darting in and out of the round hole that was cut by someone who once lived in the bigger box next to the tree.

For a moment, I was sullen with the thought that this place has become so barren.  That the sounds of children's voices from previous tenants have evaporated from the walls, that the gardens have only evidence of the most stubborn ancestors of plants from owners ago.  But, as seasons go, one dying for the other to live, so did my sadness.

"This isn't an ending, "I thought. "it's the beginning." 

These surroundings have become barren as if to provide a clean slate for those who will come next and to ease me gently, naturally, out of one season of my life to the next.  These surroundings and the way I feel in them are detoxifying.  I am cleansing myself of past mistreatments, hanging on to those things that are hearty enough to survive and readying myself for rebirth and renewal. 

It is spring, and there will be much cleaning. There will be the clearing of the dead for the new to arrive. I will tend to this house with respect, but no longer with the thought that it is my mine because my home and my spring are there.   They are in the specks of sawdust that lay in the corner of a garage miles away. They are in the journey that will take me to there, to my new home, to my own nest that will no longer be empty.

In the Shadow of Ghosts

I can hide from ghosts I know and with whom I am familiar, but it's harder when they are strangers. It's harder when they reach around corners and up through crevices I didn't even know existed.

 

They bruise me... these ghosts of ghosts, on top of places my own ghosts have left scars. They threaten new-skin coverings still fragile and pink. And scream in my ears that that my ghosts are right. I'm not good enough.

 

 I just nod in agreement hoping it will satisfy all of them.

 

I try to shine light on their shadows in an attempts to make them disappear yet they dart into corners and underneath other shadows like spiders chased into cracks and soon peek out again. The light too dim to ever replace them. 

 

They laugh on their way through my nostrils and as they dive into my lungs, smothering any breath of air I thought I had stolen or earned and they revel in using my gut as a punching bag. 

 

They are cold blankets on top of still wet memories and they are see-through fences between then and now, black and white, here and there, was and is. 

 

They constantly shove me from behind  and I smile as I fall forward  face bloody and broken.

 

-Gina

Another tale of my life as an operator: It Could Have Been Me

"U S West, This is Gina. How can I connect your call?"  - you might remember from my first post of my life as an operator, was the standard greeting for every caller to my station. Monotonous, boring, routine... but that was the job. 

 

Sandy was a senior operator. She was rather tall, had long blond hair, a pretty smile and was in her early 40's.  I was new to the job, new to the city, 23 and in need of the motherly warmth and posture she took toward me.  We found ourselves on the same shifts and often sat next to each other and chatted between calls.  A friendship began.

 

I met her boyfriend, Robert, who was also an operator, 11 years younger than Sandy, and seemed to be madly in love with her.  Four months into my new life and my roommate decides that Denver isn't the place for her. I'm left worrying about how to pay the rent until Sandy says,  "hey, why don't you move in with us?"

 

They had a loft with a private bathroom in their condo that was sitting empty. We had shared many dinners and many conversations. It was the perfect salve for my predicament.  August of 1990, I moved in... warmed by their invitation and by their sincerity of having me become a part of the family. 

 

I didn't notice that after dinner drinks became stronger.  I didn't notice the look in his eyes when Sandy and I were conversing in the kitchen while clearing the dishes from dinner.  I didn't notice the bruises on her neck until I had already moved in. 

 

The doctor had prescribed 1,000 mg. of Eurythromiacin. Reactive Airway Disease was what they were treating.  The strength of the medicine made me puke... the disease filled my lungs as if I were drowning. I was only several weeks into my new living arrangements when it hit me.   I lost weight in record time. I went from 150+ pounds to 110 in less than 3 weeks. My body shook from sickness and lack of sleep. Laying down would certainly drown me, and sitting in a chair was less than restful, but it was my only alternative.

 

 I had finally fallen into a somewhat comfortable sleep. Half sitting, half in prone position. It was the first time in weeks when I smelled his breath before I felt his hand on my shoulder.
 

"Gina.. Gina... Wake up. " he said. 

 

My eyes opened to see Robert, at 2 in the morning, fully dressed and kneeling by my bed. 

 

"Come on.  I need to talk to you. We need to go so I can talk to you."  His voice was so insistent  that I didn't even question him.

 

My body rose voluntarily from it's spot without even asking me. Before I could register, we were in his car and driving. His mouth was moving, stop lights blurred as we raced through town, and my eyes were desperate to focus. When my eyes finally did adjust to the time and light... it finally came into view. It was black and square. Not the normal pistol of Gunsmoke or Andy Griffith. But something more like Kojak or Magnum P.I. would carry.  It sat there on the dashboard almost as afraid and unsure as I was... sliding from side to side as it maneuvered the corners in opposition to the turns he made.

 

Lights of the city faded in direct proportion to the fear that rose in me.  He obviously knew where he was going, but I was dizzy with sickness and fear. He kept talking of acceptance and belonging and quizzing me on how it all worked. All I could say was  "I don't know." 

 

He rambled and his voice grew louder.  He commanded answers to questions I couldn't understand. He demanded voice when I had none.. he demanded sympathy when all I had was fear. 

 

A series of turns and we were in the middle of a housing development to be. All that was concrete were the streets and the streetlights.  No houses... no people... just roads and empty lots... and a street light that spotlighted the isolation and privacy of it all. 

 

"Get Out."  Earlier pleas for understanding or tutorial were over.

 

He was angry that I didn't have answers to the ethanol questions on his breath.  He was determined.  All I could pray for was rape. I had survived that once before - guns on the other hand, I was pretty sure I couldn't survive.

 

God please let him rape me and leave me here miles from anyone or anything. I prayed for what I thought would be the best of all outcomes. 

 

My prayers were constantly interrupted by his screaming. By his questions for which I had no answers, by his questions I couldn't even understand.  Hours passed. I have no idea really what was said. My eyes weary from watching the waving of the gun and his finger off and on and off again of the trigger.

 

My pants were wet.  And my legs stung from the cold.  I was tired, and sick, and cold and sure. Sure that this would be the way I died. Unsure if anyone would ever find me.  Broken to the point that I barely cared.

 

 He stared -   to the East as the sun dared to rise. He had waited too long. 

"Let's go." he said. 

 

"You have an early shift."  We drove back.  Silent. 

 

He disappeared. Back to the bedroom where Sandy lay sleeping. Wrapping his arms around her. 

 

I  sat... for an hour or so until the alarm went off.  I showered and made my way to work. 

 

"U S West, This is Gina. How can I connect your call?" 

 

I was too terrified to say anything more.

 

 

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"Twenty-five year old Rhonda  Maloney was abducted and raped by Robert Harlan in the early morning hours of February 12th, 1994. Shortly after 5:15 AM, on a cold Saturday morning, Maloney flagged down a passing motorist, Jacquie Creazzo. As the two women made their way to the Thornton, CO police department, Maloney's abductor gave chase. He opened fire on the women, wounding and eventually paralyzing Creazzo. After she crashed her car into the lawn of the police station, Harlan dragged Maloney from the car and fled. A police officer arrived one minute later. By that time, Harlan and Maloney were gone. Over the next few hours, Harlan continued to rape Maloney. He shot her twice under a highway overpass, placed her in his trunk, hosed the body down at a car wash, then dumped her body under a bridge in a remote area."

- DEAD RECKONING: Left At The Scene - The History Channel

Being there...

"It's  just what one does." she says 
"No," I say "it's just what you do. It's what you do for her and her for you. It's special." 

 I watch them -- friends...pranksters... compadres, soul-sisters I think.  No.. I know. 

I envy them that bond and find myself wanting to protect it. I know how special it is, how important, how necessary. The food to love's wine, the water to love's air, the balance on the other side of the scale... friendship.

For those lucky enough, it will hold amongst love and loss, pain and joy, fear and freedom. For those lucky enough it will last a lifetime.  This is for the lucky ones... 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
it is ever present that knowing between them, around them, in them; 
it is a friendship born not of recipes and play dates, but of silent wombs and strength; 
it is a togetherness unequaled immeasurable
no words to describe,define,defend or deny no need or time or reason for that; 
it is their strength in times of absense and pain;
their comfort amongst uncertainty; 
it is their smiles of hidden secrets and jokes between only them; 
it is hope;  and  it is theirs. 

-Gina

A Memory: The Fish, The Monkey, The Python and the Capitalists

 It was mid morning as we wove our way through the murky water  'klongs' or canals that served as playgrounds and front yards for some of the kids that were swimming along side us. The sputtering of the engine and the diesel fumes on our long-tail boat were not so different from the sound and smell of the modified 3 wheeled motorcycle or 'tuk-tuk'   that had delivered us to the pier 30 minutes earlier. Loud noises and diesel fumes equaled transportation everywhere in Thailand.

The tour guide revved the engine and leaking gas, water snakes, and swimming children with smiling faces waving to us with one hand and treading water with the other were left in our wake. We floated by houses, women building fires on their front porches and hanging laundry from strings that hung between awnings and water trees. We passed men who were too stoned on opium to do anything but stare at the sky. And then we began to hear the hum. The hum and the hustle of Damnoen Saduak. The floating market.

The engine suddenly went quiet and we were drifting on momentum and excitement. My eyes burned and watered a bit from the toxic smoke but I could see it getting closer.  A large warehouse-like building on stilts surrounded by water and long-tail boats galore, each filled with their owners wares of the day.  We slowly slid into our makeshift slip and we heard some one yell 'Sawadee, Merikan, Sawadee'. Of course we looked up to see who was calling to the 'Merikans'. We were surprised to see two young boys, maybe 14 taking a picture of us in our boat wearing 'Merikan' clothes and a Thai tan.

 I gripped my own camera and just smiled.

Getting out of a long-tail can be tricky. I'm sure many a tourist got closer to water snakes and bamboo roots than they ever wanted to. I'm sure it's why there we're several Thai boys and men ready to take our hands and pull us to shore.

I was the next to the last person off the boat and my legs were trying to steady the craft as my uncle made his final ascent with a large push to the ledge. "Damn, Chris... Tip the thing... I'm still in here!".  Chris and I were just about to engage in playful family banter when ....

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

What the fuck?!

Chris and I swung around, I clawed my way onto the bank on hands and knees standing up just in time to see my aunt, who was first off the boat and already halfway into the market, come running back towards us, hands in the air and screaming "GET IT AWAY!!!!!!!! NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

She grabbed my arm and swung behind me like she was escaping a schoolboy kiss by rounding the tether ball poll.

Coming towards us was a man... a man offering us a python.  I found out then.... my aunt doesn't like snakes. Before I knew it, the man wasn't just offering just anyone the snake. Since my aunt had so politely declined his offer, his sites were now on me.  Not only were his sites on me, but so were the first few feet of his python. The head slithered around the back of my neck, its cold belly like a heavy silk scarf on my skin. Its muscles contracting and expanding along my side as its tail wrapped my waist.

I was giggling like a two year old at the experience and my aunt who was staring at me in sheer horror. I was having so much fun I didn't notice the snake's owner holding out his hand until I saw Chris put 5 baht in the palm.  Nor did I have time to think about the other man coming toward me with a monkey  in his arms... it's arms outstretched toward me. Nope... didn't think about what the repercussions of holding both a snake and a monkey at the same time would be... at least not at first.

So now I've got a snakes head by my right cheek, it's body a little tighter around my waist than before the monkey arrived, and the monkey in my left arm grabbing my ear and peeking around my face to see what's on the other side. I think it was about then that I asked our guide to interpret for me as I spoke to the snake handler....

"Sawadeekha" (traditional Thai greeting with a slight bow... nervous smile on my face)
"ummm... when was the snake last fed please?"

The man just laughed.  And actually, that may have been comforting had not at just that moment the monkey decided to grab the snakes throat and begin shaking it like a baby's rattle. Mind you now the proximity... snakes head was near the right cheek... the monkey's face was near my left cheek. Now I have the monkey's own personal puppet show going on inches in front of my nose.  I have big blue eyes.  But I don't think they've been any bigger than they were at that very moment. Giggling was still going on... but now it was my aunt... laughing at me and my "predicament".

I'm not sure who was more concerned, the snake's handler or the monkey's handler, or my uncle who was handing out Bahts  like crazy... but... everyone ended up in there respective corners unharmed... and I got a picture and an experience of a lifetime.

The rest of the floating market tour wasn't quite as "eventful" but it was amazing and truly awesome in its own right. The mid-afternoon sun was hot and sweat dripped down my chest as I purchased a cold Tsing-Tao beer for the boat ride home. I paid the smiling woman and followed the rest of the 'Merikans' out the back door.  Just then their was a tap on my shoulder. I turned and for being surrounded by strangers, his face was somehow familiar.  Before I could even smile or ask what he wanted, his own lips curled into a big smile and then a porcelain plate rose up between my face and his.

In the center of this porcelain plate, edged with red designs and gold on the rim... was a picture. A picture of my aunt, my uncle, and me  arriving at the market a couple of hours before.

"45 Baht." He said with confidence yet winking for a barter.

I just grinned and pointed to my head, "No baht.... memories", I said. 

We both gripped our cameras and smiled.