Love My Friends

I love my friends well. I love them with all my heart. If they will allow me my imperfections, my lapses into total self-absorption and sometimes even my utter cluelessness, they find that there are some things I can offer. I may not be there every day. I may not be there for big things but you know what I’m there for almost always? The little things. The hidden things. After the birthdays, weddings, graduations, deaths and births, I am there to listen to what they were really thinking or feeling while they were smiling for all the pictures. I’m there to hear them out. When they are joyous beyond compare and they feel no one can feel that with them, I’m there and I shed tears of joy with them and jump up and down. Because I really feel that with them, not because I pretend. When they are devastated and crying on the floor, I will get down there with them and cry too while I hold them, because I know that feeling and I want to get them through it. I love my friends. I may not be there to paint the walls or move the furniture or get the car out of the ditch – that’s another friend. But I’m there when they need somewhere to go with them where even they don’t want to go. As I write this I realize it is a shame I can’t do that for my family. They want me there for the birthdays and the weddings. I've made most of them, but missed several. If I’m not there for those they think I do not care. But they’re very wrong. I won’t try to explain it to them. It’s too bad.

Hypocrite

I hate hypocrites. Always have. At the age of 10 I told dad I wasn't going to play into the church games anymore because everyone I've met there is a hypocrite. But you know what? I just read my last entry and I realize I'm a hypocrite too. Congratulations, Me! It's sickening to realize you're just as bad as everyone else.

I read all that ranting about my sister using people as pawns and how I think she's all instinct and survival and then a little voice in my head said, "who are you kidding?" Damn that little voice. It's right. I've been all instinct and survival for as long as I can remember. I want desperately to think I can be better than that. I want to think I can overcome years of guarding myself and trying not to disintegrate under the weight of my psyche but I too am just scratching by the best I can. Scratching and hanging on. All nails and upper arm strength, just like in the movies, one slip away from a serious crash.

To my Lover

December 19, 2009, 9:05 am

I have so often -
in my head -
deemed you beneath me.
(it is sad to say out loud)
Thinking too highly of myself
you have been too dull of wit
too unpolished a stone
a wild stag in the woods
too happy to run
unaware of the chase
in the forest of its youth.
Still, I cannot help but regard you
as excellent.
Because.

I have so often -
in my skin -
marvelled at your fingertips
as they remade my body
into a priceless objet d'art.
while also molding it into an Olympian,
championing hours of passion
with the stamina of gods.
(the heights to which you inspire)
The electric confluence of our lips
has neared transcendence
and several times surpassed.

I have always -
in my heart -
guarded my soul,
keeping the matter
under tight lock and key.
yet each time you look me in the eye
you gently unlock it and peer inside.
There you see where you have your place in me.
Tenderly you brush my cheek.
I, knowing it’s okay,
Leave that place unlocked for you and you alone.

--Celia Castro

Erasing My Father

Thanksgiving afternoon, after packing up the food to take to dad, I had a task to perform. One which my mom’s been asking me to accomplish for a couple of weeks. Before dad got sick there were creditors at his back. (Some might not want to admit this about a parent, but I know before he got sick, we had talked about ways to handle it but then things happened and he didn't get a chance to fix it.) Now that he’s incapacitated and cannot speak for himself, they have been calling the house regularly. We’ve spent months explaining the situation. We’ve told countless collectors that he is in no condition to speak to them, write to them, show up and make arrangements with them… nothing. What part of weak heart, failed kidneys, impaired thinking, difficulty speaking, uncoordinated limbs and needing months of recuperation are they having a problem with? We offered to send hospital documents to them and they didn’t e even want them. They just wanted to “speak with him”. So finally, after consulting a lawyer a couple of times and getting advice, we decided it was time to take my dad’s booming baritone voice off of the answering machine.

There are no words to describe the inner tumult this sent me into. I didn’t have any outward tears or long discussions about it. But I spent weeks hearing my father’s voice in my head. Remembering every rise and fall of his voice. How his voice would swell and deepen whenever he was in his role of “locutor” for a church function. How he would pause at certain points during a prayer service. How, if he was telling a joke, his baritone became more tenor and slightly mocking and you could tell when he was anticipating laughter to follow.

In my head I heard his singing. I heard him singing when he was serious and when he was mocking himself, becoming a caricature of a grand singer. I heard calling me when I used to hide in the closet and wait for him to find me when he got home from work. It was a game we played my whole childhood. He would come through the door and I would always hide in the tall armoire in my room. He would come in, “cuncuna mamana”, he would sing, and he would whistle (Do, do, do, do Dooo(8ve up) Laaaa). I have been hearing that whistle all week. That whistle incited a squirming and burrowing inside the armoire as I tried to hide behind the clothing, while in anticipation. Because I knew when he finally found me he would grab me, pull me out and cover me with kisses.

His voice was only ever angry a few times that I can recall. Mostly it was a voice filled with love and compassion and understanding. Among the many beautiful things about my dad that have been taken by this illness, is his voice as I knew it. The message on the answering machine was priceless. I couldn’t just erase it. Instead, first I re-recorded it twice, for safe keeping. Then I finally got around to erasing it. But the moment when I hit the button and started to record the new outgoing message felt like I was undoing something forever. I thought to myself, “I’m erasing my dad. Oh God. I’m erasing my dad.” I didn’t cry. I simply went into the living room and told mom and Sandra it was done and we should go visit him now. I didn’t want to dwell on it on Thanksgiving. But now, two days later, I had to write about it. Because that voice is one of the dearest things I’ve ever heard. And at least I can still hear it in my head. I still hold out hope I will hear it sound like that again someday soon.

Wise-Ass-Dom

"A man will never be as in love with you as he is with himself."
"If you do find a man who loves you more than himself - run - it's a trap."

-- Alice Carots :)

So sick of you.

Antiquated
Loathsome
Exasperating
Self-serving
Sanctimonious
Impostor
Oblique

Feel Good Day

Emancipated
Freed
Liberated
Flying
Floating
Moving
Changing
Dancing
Twirling
Skipping
Jumping
Excited
Animated
Me.

Mess.

I have been playing it safe and sheltering myself for the past few years. Suddenly I feel an urge to break free and take risks. However, this seems to be a fine line I'm not able to walk. I think I'm creating drama now just because I'm so unbelievably bored and dissatisfied with my life. I can see where I might be landing. It's a long way down.

Procrastination

I am procrastinating. And I know it.

I came home ready to start putting together study notes for biology, check over my math homework, read all the World Literature assignments and prepare tomorrow's homework. Those were my intentions. Instead I've completely rearranged my farm on Farmville (a virtual reality game on Facebook), spoken to my mom, eaten very healthy food (at least there's that) and contemplated tackling the world literature assignment. I'm still contemplating it. I gathered the stuff then realized one of the articles which I've already made notes on is missing. I think I left it upstairs. With my bum foot I don't relish the thought of climbing the stairs to find it but I can't finish the homework without it. So, what am I doing? Sitting here writing this instead.

Oh, and I called my friend David a few seconds ago cuz he's usually very good about returning phone calls and texts and he hasn't this week. Wondering if he's okay.

Aside from that I just don't feel terribly motivated. But I've now procrastinated for a good 2 hours. It's probably time to stop it. I will go upstairs and see if I left that article there.

Yep.

That's what I'm going to do.

Now.

Now.

I mean... now.

Glass

Glass. 9/26/2009, 7pm.

Shards of glass are what remain
In the bottom of the well that once housed a spirit.

Fragments of light reflect from those pieces
But the light is absorbed by the dark.

The initial crash reverberated throughout the well like a bass drum
Thunderous (murderous) and loud; but the well, from above, seemed still.

Tiny feet of despair pulverize that glass into sand,
Sand soon to be heavier than the well can contain.

At this unfathomable depth , the well will sink further still into the earth,
Seeking the legendary water table which might quench its ancient thirst.

Instead it will find hot molten lava to transform its profound cargo
Into liquid glass indistinguishable from lava except in its vain hope.

Unimaginable, unthinkable, unspeakable hope.
Of perhaps being cooled again into pure, crystalline, radiant glass; one day.

Dad

Today is Pedro Castro's birthday. Well, it's after midnight now so technically it was yesterday. I'm just looking back on the evening and beaming with pride and love and gratitude. My father is truly an inspiration. He has taught me so much about the human spirit. What it means to be gracious and kind and truly loving with your whole heart. The kind of love that is unselfish and always remembers to treat others with respect. That is who he's always been. And today I saw how much this just IS who he is.

In his weakened and sometimes confused mental state, he has no time for being anything more or less than his true self. And today there was so much of him there. Even as he sat in his wheelchair looking slimmer and smaller than he used to, the man inside is still evidently totally there. He was teary eyed and choked up and weepy when he saw how many of his friends came to see him on his birthday. When the singer/guitarist sang for him, he was very touched and cried. And at a couple of points today he tried, even though his speech is not that great yet, he tried to thank everyone. He said that he felt the value everyone felt for him and that he felt the genuine love. And I believe he was truly grateful.

But the moment that really made me see how much of my dad is beautiful despite his recent sickness happened before the party. It's a bit of a difficult story but I want to say it because it says so much about the man I call my father with pride. Mom and I were taking him to the bathroom. From outside, where dad couldn't see her, a girl was giving us instructions on what the easiest way to replace his adult diaper was. Mom and I aren't good at this. The nurse usually does it. She explained an easy way to get the job done. (He has to wear them even though he goes to the bathroom just fine.) Anyway, we did it and we said thank you to the girl for showing us a very easy way to get the job done. As we wheeled dad past this girl, even though he hadn't even seen her, he'd figured out who it was who'd been talking through the curtain and he said "thank you, thank you."

It might seem a little sad to someone reading this. But it made me smile deep inside. Here is this man in what is his weakest hour. He's got his pride. He's not happy that he has to put up with things like diapers and wheelchairs and being in a nursing home. He would rather be healthy again and be home. But he hasn't let all of this get in the way of his ability to thank people when they help him out or help us help him. His spirit of gratitude was not touched by the heart attack or the other injuries. He's still as gorgeous in his soul as he's ever been. And that moment made me realize why he is so loved by so many. So when we went downstairs to greet his friends and he started to cry, I knew it was a well deserved cry for him. He should feel the amount of love we were all giving him. Because through the years he's always given so much to everyone he's ever met. If only by letting them know that they mattered for a few seconds.

Me.

I have just done something that I feel has come from a deep place of longing for change. I have just sent email to the two people I know who are dedicated to a lifestyle of spirituality and health. One of them runs her own holistic service for meditation and massage and had actually asked me if I wanted to run workshops with people to help them free their voices. At the time I said "no". I wasn't feeling in a place to do that. I think I'm growing closer. I think I might want to try that now. But first I'd like to cleanse my own energy a little. A lot. I think I want to cleanse my energy in general.

The other person I contacted is a friend of my husband's. He is a psychotherapist and his wife is some sort of spiritual seeker. I know this because of her trips to India for spiritual purposes. They also keep a vegeterian organic lifestyle. I'd like to move in this direction myself. I am seeking them out for guidance.

I think I'm learning that I am influenced too much by the people that I care about and/or have cared for me. It's like I feel a need to continue to be the image of me that they have chosen for me. Meanwhile the me inside that is dying to come out remains hidden for fear that this new me won't fit their image of me. I am inside of me dying to come out. And the only thing that's keeping me in there is fear. Fear that my mother will wonder who I am. My sister will think this "new" person is an impostor. My husband will freak out entirely because the "hidden" me is even more wiggy and spiritual and laid back than he previously thought and he's so high strung that this will certainly cause a seismic shift in our relationship. My friends will wonder how I turned into this crazy hippie chick.

But, frankly, I've always been two people. The girl who likes the glamour and glitz of being a creature of the stage and the girl who just wants to do yoga, eat chick peas and get centered. But that second girl gets sidetracked. That second girl has been buried because at the mere mention of tofu or yoga or "spirituality" my husband cringes. Other people in my life seem threatened by the idea of me as a spiritual seeker. I hadn't thought it through before but I think I am understanding why. Because they know if I get centered and quiet and in touch with my higher self I will stop giving a shit what they think or want. And you know what? I think I finally want that. I think I finally want to stop giving a shit what these people think and want from me. I want to get in touch with what I want from me. And if it means that everyone, my husband included, need to fall away so I can get closer to the me I need to be then so be it.

Music

music,
you cut a hole through my pain
then left me while I mourned you
in a comforting vacuum
in fear of your sharp and penetrating return
for all the times you singed my soul by
mocking my attempts to spread your excellence
I have sealed my ears and shut my throat;
to keep you at bay where you cannot destroy me
luring me to your high c’s -
a disembodied siren.
I’ve sung along these many years
but now

I will betray you with my silence.

Surgeons and Vampires (revised 6/29/09)

everyone in the city has become
a burgeoning surgeon -
eager to cure the blood with a fresh new cut.

I walk the streets bleeding my offerings.
(the vampires at least are honest in their hunger.)

the well meaning faces are smiling
a kind of mercy which serves to kill.
(while whispering, “if only...”)

The heat of the sun reels me forward,
like a daylight zombie I walk toward the sun
which never once before took notice of me nor cared
whether it singed or seared me.
At least there my wounds might find relief;
Newly cauterized scars
to greet my morning mirror.

Or else
or else,
perhaps,

the sun will consume me into itself
so that one day I may flourish as a series of rays
to swaddle
a new generation of surgeons.

but the vampires
the vampires
will always be safe.

Marie

You, dear girl,
were sent to France.
To be a queen, they said.
you learned -
after Austria -
how to endure.

You, dear girl,
were sent to marry.
Your first deflowering
before you evem met him.
they removed your possessions,
your friends and your soul.
replacing them with rich fabrics
and a head like a doll's.

You, dear girl,
were duped.
Your dignity was next in line.
Plucked but not so much as
annihilated in utter indifference.
But ever resilient as the returning sun,
You faced your fortune
Gleaming and undaunted.

You, dear woman-child,
turned your venom
into a sweet poisoned spell,
out onto the landscape
in a selfish rain of opulence -
a thunderous downpour
of cake.

Field of Dreams

Oh field of flowers where I've roamed so long
sweetly smelling your births and decays
suffering the stings for the sun
your calla lillies and your dahlias
attracting creatures to feed upon you
as you grow ever taller and fuller

sweet field of poppies;
the black eyed Susans watch over you in envy
while the Irish bells ring their delicate chimes in the wind

I have bathed in your cacophony of color year in and year out; grateful as a hummingbird in Spring.
But this year as I wander
I long for the ocean, for far off sands and mountain tops
The sun seems hotter on my shoulders,
the insects seem more insistent on biting
and my feet do not take me all the way to where the shady Hostas grow

I fear, sweet meadow of my dreams,
soon you shall become a vision for my dreams but
my dream of dreams no more.

Obama and his views regarding torture...

I don't pretend to know what it's like to be President of the United States. But I do understand one thing. I understand that idealism has a tendency to fade away when you're faced with facts. Ugly facts. Ideally we'd like to have no hate and no wars and no torture. But that is not the world we live in. When a man becomes president, no matter how peaceful and loving he is, a group of people who are long-time insiders sit with him and tell him things you and I cannot begin to conceive of. Things we weren't meant to hear and never will. There's a very good reason people look like hell when they're done with their 4 years as president. (Except for Bush cuz he's an idiot and he probably didn't even understand half of what was being said to him anyway.) The things the president is told behind closed doors change his outlook, change how he proceeds. We don't always know why these decisions are made. If we believe that all and all Obama is a good man with only the best of intentions for our future and our world, then we must also have faith that if he makes unpopular decisions there are reasons behind those decisions that perhaps we cannot ever fully understand.

As to the torture itself. People have been employing torture throughout the millennia. People have also been waging war for a variety of incredibly bad reasons throughout history as well. Torture is a part of war. If there is war, there will be torture. It is just a fact. Not a pleasant one, but nonetheless, it exists. It comes right out of the ugliness of war. Do people stop torturing to "get intelligence" and then make a sick game of it? Yes. They do that more than not. But this is where I think Obama is exercising a kind of fairness that is hard to explain. If you create a monster and set it loose on the world, do you blame the monster? I think he's chosen not to blame the monsters. Perhaps he's waiting to get at the creators. Perhaps he wants to eradicate war because with that eradication he understands torture will also be put to rest. I'm not sure what his thinking is. I do feel that he will make unpopular and seemingly incomprehensible decisions based on exactly this sort of thought process. We must wait and see where he is going and not jump to conclusions.

Monique

Juicy pear;
Sweet and ripe for picking
Succulent skin to devour.
The vulchers -
who don’t eat fruit -
come at your flesh like
fresh kill,
raw carnage
savage feast
you, their tasty
desert dish
satisfy their
buzzard bloody beaks…
brimming full of your innocence and light.
they fly
ever upward to their perches
content in their bellies
empty in their souls, as their eyes;
half closed in sleep,
already search out the
next delicacy.

Pondering after Psych Class

After my psych class, this guy walked up and asked George if he thought people can go their whole lives just not addressing some bad event and keeping there, unaddressed without necessarily turning to the torture of animals. On the drive home I thought about that some more. That guy sounds like there's something deep seeded that he wants to just sweep under the rug. I know all about that behavior. My husband is a huge rug sweeper type. It doesn't seem to result in any serious behavioral problems or "issues" (i.e., torturing small animals). But it does have an affect on him and on me sometimes, whether he realizes it or not.

Anyway, that conversation got me to thinking about all the different ways people cope with things. I said there were two great divides, in my view. People turn behavior inward or outward. But, while driving, I realized that can be either negative or positive. I think there is a great impetus to react negatively to negative events. In my view, the greater categories this falls into are 1) Negative affect turned out and 2) Negative affect turned inward. But then I thought some more and I realized there are plenty of people who've taken a horrible event and channeled it so it became a good thing. For example, the kid whose dad dies of heart disease and vows to be a great cardiac surgeon - and does! He could have easily become a Seligman and cut hearts out of mice or something but chose a different route. That begs the question - why? Why do so many people take their negative life events and run off to be rapists or drug abusers or cutters or killers and why do other people with similar pain go on to be doctors, lawyers, priests and Bach!?

Just something to ponder for today.

Mia

Introducing, Mia Addison Castro. Born March 19, 2009 at 3:39pm, weighing 6lbs. 11 ounces.