4/13/2015 Confucius, Urban Corning, and a mildly depressing poem

Aleathia says:

Tonight was pretty interesting in my personal universe.  I woke up from my afternoon nap to find that Michael had finally moved all the items to the curb that we needed to get rid of.  I had wanted this done for awhile, but hadn't pushed the issue because he works a lot and who am I to ask of him all this extra?

We spent the evening puttering around in the yard and the basement and getting some spring cleaning done.  It felt like we were a team again and I had really missed this.  I suppose all those months ago when he got his job I had feared that we would lose something.  I feel like we have at times, but today felt like we were rounding the corner to get it back.

I'm not sure what sparked a conversation on getting back to what matters, but I am thankful for it.  I know he has been watching a lot of foreign films, especially films from Hong Kong, and in the last few days talking about the values and wisdom of Confucius.  I had explored his virtues briefly in my 20's right before discovering Buddhism and never really went back to it.  The point of the matter is that it has opened Michael up to see the world in a little different way.  He is in a process of reassessment and I find this to be really important to do every so often.  The world we live in is ever changing and to think that you can live by the same set of rules throughout your time on the Earth is pretty narrow and confining.

After he went to bed I decided to head down to my favorite bar and try a new beer that I had not had the opportunity to experience.  It is normally pretty empty when I go on Sunday late and it suits me just fine.  I can enjoy my beverage and listen to music and enjoy a quip or two with the bartender.

As you may know, I have sort of an obsession with H + F and I have written many a blog about the place which I understand probably makes me look like an alcoholic, but trust me, I am far from it.  Tonight the owners were there and personally thanked me for what I had written.  There was another regular there who also blogs about this lovely town of Corning and he expressed that he had not only read that particular blog, but many others and liked my writing.  If you know me, you understand how frigging difficult it is for me to take compliments.  I have learned over the years that the most humble thing you can do is say "thank you" whether you feel you deserve the praise or not.  It was very gratifying to know that people read this blog sometimes.  I always hope that I am not just writing a damn "dear diary" post every few days.  You should check out Sean Lukasik's articles at Urban Corning.

During this nice night out an acquaintance (whom I have never physically met) told me she wished I lived closer so we could cook presidential meals together.  I can't tell you how fantastic this makes me feel.  I have spent a life of being fairly invisible.  I have grown accustomed to it, but as I get older it feels nice to be seen, to be thought of, to know that my company is enjoyed.

I walked home listening to Fiona Apple (Thanks Charlie and Sean) and enjoyed the night air and the burn in the muscles as I ascended the hill home.  My life is pretty fantastic.  I am thankful for every moment of it.

Sunday's poem prompt was "damage".....yeah...nothing positive is coming from that:

My Black Shroud

I remember nearly dying in your arms
and back woods trailers with my father,
you on the coast fighting for your life,
burning toads in barrels
and running from a black girl that hated me.

I remember you always smelled
of beer and cigarettes and roses.
I was your sweet pea
when you were sober
and the Queen of fucking Sheba
when you were drunk.

I remember your second husband
torturing my cat and killing my dog in the desert.
I remember how he looked at me
like I was something he wanted to wear
and how I feared your disapproval more
than I feared his hands on me;
all those nights listening to him
beat you in a manic rage
and you pretending it never happened.

I remember not going to college
because he threatened your life if I left,
my dreams and freedom traded
for the air you breathed.

I remember when he ran you over
and when you found the next one
that broke your arm
and got you addicted to meth,
and that time the ER doctor called me
from Arizona to tell me you overdosed
or that time you told me you had brain cancer
to cover up your addiction.

I remember all those times you made me feel
like a bad mother, made me feel soft for loving my kid
with everything I had, for not wanting to hear her cry
or think that my actions made her suffer.

And now you are gone.

I feel more damaged after that night
you died in your chair on brandy and Xanax
than I did from 40 years of suffering.
I had hoped there would be time
for you to make it up to me,
time to reclaim the love I never got
but reality is harsher than I ever imagined.
I wish I couldn't remember anything
about you in the small hours
of the night where you haunt me most.

Aleathia Drehmer 2015

April 12, 2015

4/7/2015 Poem of the Day....something experimental

Aleathia says:

Tuesday's in the poem a day world means two poems.  Sometimes it is hard enough to write one.  So while delirious and standing in the shower after being up for 24 hours I thought I had a clever idea to get them done together while still being separate. The theme is a love poem and an anti love poem.  Here goes:

LOVE                                         IS NOT

Love is not just                        gimmegimmegimmegimmegimme                                                                                                         gimmegimmegimmegimmegimme

                                                                 
                        sex

Any man can stick it in a               I can fill that….
                                             hole……

It’s more about the deep    relationship<<<and give you the best >
 
                                        Let’s do it a few more_

you build in the calm, quiet         times,                                                             
                                                                                                       
                                                               baby.    



Aleathia Drehmer 2015
April 7, 2015         

4/6/2015 Living Without an Agenda, poems of the day

Aleathia says:

Ok.  I spent the last two days sweating out fevers, body aches, headache, and abdominal pain on the couch.  I had to miss work which I hate to do, but every time I was up for more than 5 minutes I felt like I was going to pass out.  I slept over 14 hours yesterday and today I wake up feeling a bit washed out, but better than the last few days.  Back to the grind I go.

Today I would like to share an affirmation from Pema Chodron.  Her words often help me get through any of life's problems.  In the work that I do, Emergency Nursing, there is a high probability to get burnt out especially when I work nights.  It is easy to get jaded about the patient's that come in, because often we are treated like waitresses who bust their asses and never get a tip.  We often don't get thanked for waiting on people hand and foot, for wiping their asses, cleaning up their vomit, and making sure we send them out in one piece.  It wears on a soul and yes we get edgy and judgmental at times.  There was a case recently where I wasn't as compassionate as I could have been.  I wasn't mean, but I didn't believe the patient's opinion of the situation and that person ended up having something wrong with them.  I am the first to stand up when I make a mistake at work.  I feel bad that I acted that way, because I am usually very intuitive and understanding.

As I have been sick, I was thinking about this person that I wronged and today I read this passage from Pema Chodron:

"Could our minds and our hearts be big enough just to hang out in that space where we're not entirely certain about who's right and who's wrong?  Could we have no agenda when we walk into a room with another person, not make the person wrong or right?  Could we see, hear, feel other people as they really are?  It is powerful to practice this way,  because we'll find ourselves continually rushing around to try to feel secure again--to make ourselves or them either right or wrong.  But true communication can happen only in that open space."--Pema Chodron



The poem for 4/5/2015 had a prompt of "vegetable":

Warm Tomatoes on the Vine

My child's mind
is tenacious
unforgiving,
her world concrete
and literal
once the daily
imagination faded.

She speaks of her Nana rarely
though she knew her well enough
before she passed.

When my mother died
she didn't cry
and it crushed me.

Where had I gone wrong
that she didn't understand
the magnitude of what had happened?

Last summer, out of nowhere,
she began to sob about how
she would never get to garden
with her Nana again
or eat warm cherry tomatoes
from the vine while she smoked
cigarettes and drank beer.

She wouldn't get to learn how
to keep slugs away or when to plant beans.

I couldn't say a word
but hugged her tight,
let her have that moment
to feel her grief
I was sure hadn't existed.

Aleathia Drehmer 2015

April 5, 2015

and the prompt for today is "something not as it seems":

Secret Society

On the outside
he’s blunt,
often grouchy.

My daughter tip-toes
around him in these moods,
has learned silence a virtue.

She never mentions it,
she knows this is who he is...
intelligent,
impatient,
and analytical
knowing he is always there
to educate and keep safe
secrets she cannot tell me.

They don't hug.
Instead fist bump
and say niceties
to each other.

I can't ask for more
between my child
and a step dad.
I remember
so much worse
from my own
experience.

On Easter he brought her home a basket.
She was stunned and inside there was a card
that made her cheeks cherry and give him a hug.

Later I asked what was in the card
and he told me to never mind that.
“If she wanted you to know,
 she'd have shared. “

He smiled to himself.
He likes to be what people
           think he isn't.
It keeps us guessing
and always wanting
him even more.

Aleathia Drehmer 2015

April 6, 2015

4/4/2015 Katherine Bowling and poem of the day

Aleathia says:

Believe it or not I get my education on contemporary artists from Pintrest.  There are always fantastic artists being posted there that really catch my eye.  I'm terrible about remembering where or when I see new art so it is convenient that I can save (or Pin) artists in a folder and revisit them.

The artist I would like to feature today is a woman named Katherine Bowling.  She was born in 1955 in Washington D.C. but gets her inspiration in my NY backyard of the Hudson Valley.  She has a rented home there where she spends time taking pictures which she then uses to transform into great pieces of art.  Her work is primarily landscapes, but the effect is very ethereal and dreamy.  It translates those moments when you have a seeming out of body experience in nature.  I know I have had these when I am overtaken by the beauty of nature so much that I do not feel as if I have a separate existence.  Our atoms mix.  Nature and body are but the same thing.  When I saw Katherine's work it reminded me of those feelings.

Bowling works in oils but has a process that uses spackle and sanding to create the texture that catches my eye.  Her work is also primarily on wood panels.  You can read through Katherine Bowling's career achievements at her website.

She has two primary collections called Ether and Divide.  Here are some selections from both of those collections:

"Curve"

"Moon"

"Petal"

"Pond"

"Shine"

"Storm"

"Vacation"

and the prompt today is "departure" which can be interpreted in any way you choose.  Leaving is leaving, right?  I happened to find this poem today and the original notes were from 3 years ago, but I reworked it today in my present state of being.

Smooth Scars

Sometimes the poem is dead inside.
It’s lifeless carcass staring at me
with great longing.

I circumnavigate its bulk
not willing to captain
the ship of words
needed to resume it.

Part of me feels like weeping
over its smooth black tombstone,
the other half smiles in the satisfaction
of being all consuming in living.

The poem flourished when I rotted
from the inside, living off the purification
of dreams.

This has healed
clean and pink and filled
with smooth scars
that don’t need
another stack of words
to validate my existence.

Aleathia Drehmer 2015

April 4, 2015

4/3/2015 Coursera and the poem of the day

Aleathia says:

I was looking through apps the other day to see if there were something other than games to download.  I spend a fair amount of mindless time playing games when I could be filling my brain with something more enriching.  Hell, I could be reading a book or sewing or making art.  It is all about choices and I have been going with the flow all winter.  I need to break out.

I found an app called Coursera.  It is also available online and it is a place to take online courses for FREE from top notch collages like Johns Hopkins, Columbia, Duke, The University of Edinburgh etc.  It goes on and on.  If you want to learn for learning sake it is a wonderful opportunity.  For a small fee you can also purchase a verified certification of completion of the course from that particular college or institution.  At this point in my life I don't feel like I need the slip of paper, but I do need a place to feed my curiosity.

I can't wait to dig into a class!


and a poem with the prompt "machine":

Magnitude of Force

Somewhere in the dream
I drove half a car, the seat
pure Samsonite with tiny wheels
carrying the weight, rotating
like demons after souls
as I look out the window
of a deconstructed door.

I escaped work
in the middle
of my shift
     to get a drink,
     to free my mind,
     to stop myself
from burning
the eyes out
of my patients,
though secretly
I wanted to smoke
one blazing death stick
after another.

I park my machine
in the lot, dismount
the bionic suitcase
and lock the door
which feels pointless
and rote—something of times
passed as it is exposed
to the air like the rest of us,
and walk to the Chinese
grocery dreaming of menthols
and sesame candy.

The lights flicker out
as I touch the handle,
my heart sinking into
the deserted parking lot
with the last buzz of neon
extinguishing the night.
In the new silence, I hear
breathing not my own,
and turn to see him
standing beside me.

He lets out a sigh,
but does not say
a word as the empty,
crumpled cigarette pack
falls to the wet pavement
making our desires both
friend and enemy.

He leaves me there alone
fighting with reason
and responsibility,
neither of which are winning
as they have always done in the past,
making them whimper as I drive
until gravity won’t
         have
         me
         any
         longer.

Aleathia Drehmer 2015

April 3, 2015

4/2/2015 Sufjan Stevens "Carrie & Lowell" and poem of the day

Aleathia says:

I am pretty lost and drowning in the new Sufjan Stevens album "Carrie & Lowell".  It is a heavenly mixture of the best parts of Bon Iver/Bowerbirds/Sufjan/The Shins/Andrew Bird.  Put them all in a blender, strain, and sip in a dark, musty room of an empty house.  It is hard to explain exactly how it makes me feel other than transported and haunted.

Sufjan's music is definitely an acquired taste and I have loved it the moment I heard it.  Even if you don't really enjoy what he has to offer you have to appreciate that the guy can play so many instruments including: guitar, bass, banjo, piano, xylophone, vibraphone, English horn, oboe, drums and the theremin.  I can barely sing let alone sing and play one of these instruments.

The sentiments of this record have to deal with his mother's mental illness and addictions.  It is personal and terrifically haunting.


And for today's poem the prompt is "secret":

You’ll Never See Us Again

At sunrise,
the birds
              blather
the nights
darkest secrets
across tree tops.

The Vernal Equinox
recently passed
yet our dawn
is still ravaged
by the gray teeth
                             of winter
ice shards
creep the edges
of our windshields.

I stop to listen
for glimpses
of my own
deep and hidden
mysteries, scared
they were plundered
in the night
like fat crawlers
from a rain soaked
                                field.

There is nothing
left I recognize
but the meticulous
timing of fleshy
valves and blood
in stipulated
hesitation.

Aleathia Drehmer 2015

April 2, 2015

4/1/2015 April Poem A Day Challenge

Aleathia says:

Today starts off the April Poem A Day Challenge at Writer's Digest!  I love this time of year because it gets me to write almost every day and push myself to be moving my pen.  Last year at this time I used this platform to help me get over my mother's death.  She would have been 58 this year.  Happy Birthday Mom.

Today's poem prompt is resistance.  Here is my stab at it:

Guerrilla

I didn’t notice
the gray hairs
staging a resistance
on my scalp
until after
you died.

There they are—
white lightening
amongst the dirty
blonde strands
of my youth.

Somehow
I got older
without realizing it
my life spent
being a little girl
grappling at your skirts
for a word
of encouragement;

for a sign
that I amounted
to more than
a collection
of cells fighting
an endless war.

I was never much
of a rebel, my guns
filled with truth
cold and quiet;
your hand a dictator
over my heart.

Aleathia Drehmer 2015