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Photo By  Cindy Sherman
 

 

Still not myself, What is myself



Sunday July 18, 2004

 

 

I was supposed to go to a bridal shower for a girl at work but I was still feeling like shit.  Still dizzy, still light head, feeling better, but definitely not myself.  I left a message on her email a couple hours before the shower explaining that I am having some side affects after going off my meds and that I wouldn't be able to come.  She called back and really made me feel at ease and that she totally understood (thinking about it I'm sure she totally understood)  and hoped that I was feeling better.  

 

my mother, myself...and the cursed aloe


I stopped by my mom's in the morning to see how she was doing.  Since Monday she has been having spiked temperatures reaching as high as 102.  I fear her ending up in the hospital again and have been trying to spend as much time with her on the weekends as I can.   She was in between fevers on her way up again maybe 99.9 but still in good spirits.  I laid with her on the futon in the living room and asked her to tell me the story about the aloe she cursed again.  I knew that the story would make us both laugh, something we both needed.  Last weekend I came by to pick her up to take her to the thrift store with me when I saw her huge aloe plant tossed on its side half on the sidewalk half on the driveway.  When she got into my car I pointed at the aloe and asked her what happened to her.   While putting on her seatbelt she flippantly told me that she  had in fact cursed it.  And that it was in the driveway waiting to die.  Cursed it? Cursed a plant? A healing plant of all things?  I was a little shocked because this was the plant that my mother had used to help  heal her shingles on at least two occasions.  As much as it did bug me that my mother cursed her faithful aloe plant and tossed it on its side, half spilling out of the pot waiting to die, I found it horribly funny and concluded that this was my mother and that she was as crazy as me, or I was as crazy as her and I love her. 

 



 

 

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"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us.... We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us."


-- Franz Kafka


 

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Mothers
for J.B.
by Anne Sexton

Oh mother,
here in your lap,
as good as a bowlful of clouds,
I your greedy child
am given your breast,
the sea wrapped in skin,
and your arms
roots covered with moss
and with new shoots sticking out
to tickle the laugh out of me. 
Yes, I am wedded to my teddy
but he has the smell of you
as well as the smell of me.
Your necklace that i finger
is all angel eyes. 
Your rings that sparkle
are like the moon on the pond. 
Your legs that bounce me up and down,
your dear nylon-covered legs,
are the horses I will ride
into eternity. 

Oh mother,
after this lap of childhood
I will never go forth
into the big people's world
as an alien,
a fabrication,
or falter
when someone else
is as empty as a shoe.