I found myself sitting in a chapel thinking about the words on the funeral announcement before me. Johnny was fifty-five years nine months and twenty-six days old when he passed on September 6, 2003; I wondered how old I was at that moment. Twenty-nine and one half hours earlier my alarm sounded. I hit the snooze button, but failed to fall asleep. As I lay eyes closed not sleeping, a video of my Uncle Johnny played in my head. I watched as he used drugs and alcohol--his magic elixir--to avoid the demons that he didn't want to face. I looked on as he took advantage of my mother while she was at her lowest, and I felt nothing for this man who had so ill-used my family all those years ago. That same video played in my head every quiet moment since my mother called to tell me that the cancer had finally taken her brother's life. Her cried-out voice cracked with a sob and twisted my heart in pain. I said all I could say then, "I'm sorry." Once spoken, the words sounded lame; I didn't know what else to add. That sleepless Monday morning I felt heartbroken--saddened by my mother's grief even if I could feel nothing for her brother. My mother needed me, or I needed her, so I decided to get on a plane that afternoon and go to Uncle Johnny's funeral.

The trip to Tennessee was like journeying through a fog of time in a dreamlike state which never seemed to involve the person living in my skin. As I neared my destination, memories crowded my brain, each claiming its own space, wanting my attention, and demanding acknowledgment. From the airport to the funeral home, every mile brought me closer to a whirlpool of time travel, and I found it difficult to pinpoint the year of life that I was living. When I left Dallas, I was thirty-nine. Then I was twenty-six riding in Uncle Jim's pick-up. Suddenly I was sixteen, hanging out with my cousins, swimming in the ice-cold stream near their house. I found myself at eleven, having a slumber party in my Uncle Donald's big rig; then I was three sitting on Uncle George's lap smoking his pipe. Since stepping off the plane, I had been living in a whirlwind of memories. That evening, as we opened the door of the funeral home, I felt my grip on thirty-nine become less tangible.

At the funeral, my mother and I sat together on the hard wooden pew behind most of my aunts and uncles. Nearly all of Johnny's 16 brothers and sisters hid their suffering behind passionless stares--all of them except my mother and Uncle Joe. My mother cried. Like most of her siblings, she rarely expressed emotion, so the visible outpouring of her pain was difficult for me to bear. Uncle Joe sobbed; that Saturday he lost his brother and his best friend in a single moment. I kept thinking about how he cared for John through the cancer, the hospital stays, the pain, and in the last few days, when making funeral arrangements, Joe cared for John through death.

Uncle Joe ached, and I tried to recall the bad things John had done so I could avoid feeling the pain myself; other memories came instead. Memories of a younger Joe and a younger Johnny fluttered through my head. Suddenly I was eight. My grandfather had just passed away; all seventeen of his children were at the funeral, along with husbands, wives, and children. In total, nearly one hundred family members came to say good-bye to Grandpa. It was easy to get lost in the rabble. I don't remember how it happened, but I latched on to Uncle Joe and Uncle Johnny vehemently. They tolerated or adored me; at the time, I didn't care which. I just knew they didn't let me get lost in that ocean of people, and I was grateful for their attention. The three of us went to pick up groceries; we brought back cases of tomatoes, which us kids ate like apples. Sitting at John's funeral, on that hard wooden bench, while the pastor spoke of heaven, I recalled those tomatoes--their savory sweetness filling my mouth. My salivary glands worked overtime as I tried to slurp up the juices before they ran down my chin and arm to fall from my elbow and land soundlessly on the dusty ground below. Joe and Johnny were the most wonderful uncles in the world, perhaps because they bought red ripe tomatoes, or maybe just because they let me hang out with them and not become lost in the horde. At 39 I once again found myself in the crowd of familiar strangers I call family, but fewer of them joined in the grief this time, and I was bigger. Somehow, though, I suddenly felt lost once more, only this time Uncle Joe and Uncle Johnny couldn't help me. Uncle Joe wept, lost in his grief, Uncle Johnny lay silent, lost to this earth, and I sat holding my mother's hand, lost in time.

One night in Italy, I walked to the edge of the little village where I stayed. The town disappeared behind me as I meandered through the halo offered by the last streetlight in the borough. Beyond the nimbus, the field of grain and wild poppies I admired often from my balcony during daylight hours, was but a black ink spot as I stood in the outer rim of the lamp's glow. One step then another... creeping toward the periphery... I inched closer to the charcoal abyss, anxious to gaze into the moonless night sky and witness the perfection of the cloudless heavens stretched out above with no city lights to mar the glimmering beauty of each winking star. The border between light and dark lost distinction near the edge of the black emptiness. Feeling free to look into the star spattered firmament and allow its beauty to overcome my senses, my eyes began their upward journey then halted spellbound. Where once I was in the comforting glow of the mercury vapor above, suddenly I found myself in midnight obscurity. The obsidian void engulfed me and began to quiver with tiny pinpoint sparks of light--not in the heavens but in the fields. Thousands upon thousands of diminutive phosphorescent lamps waltzed among the blades of grass and flitted around my feet. The horizon lost meaning; a blanket of ethereal splendor rippled through the opaque meadow as I walked into the grasslands. I gaped in awe as the Universe left me there to choose between the vast celestial sphere above, and the enchanted dance of the fireflies below.

When I feel them, I cannot always publish my thoughts publicly, so I jot them down in a private place and let them age. This one has been sitting in a dark room mellowing for a time. While tidying up today, I happened across it and thought I would pop it up here. I am happy that I no longer have to live with the confusion of this quagmire.

        As a butterfly, I lit upon your finger. I loved the look of you, the smell, and the taste. I wanted—no begged you to put me into your pocket and keep me forever. You insisted you were not ready for the responsibility of that relationship. I waited. Eventually your love grew and you desired me to be yours for eternity. A box was not enough for you though; you had to put a pin through my heart. Inch by inch you conditioned my responses to coincide with your selfish desires. I did not know I was giving myself up. I did not know you were stealing my life. I did not know until it was too late.

It took years for me to loose myself from that crypt in which you encased me. It took ages for me to discover what pain the shaft in my heart meant for me. I squirmed, and I freed myself from your clenched fists. I could breathe again. I could view the universe from within the world—outside of my tear-stained cell. I could taste the fresh air and feel the warmth of the sun upon my face.  

Now you want me back. You do not see the agony in which you wrapped my heart; you do not feel the residue of my emotions upon your soiled hands—dust removed from my wings as I struggled to free myself from your smothering embrace. You do not fathom the pain from your needle always poised against my soul. You only know your own desire, but that is how it has always been. You want me back, and you say you are willing to settle for only placing me inside the box I once desired. I have tasted freedom now, though, and I can no longer live inside a cage of your creation. As I searched for an easier existence, I went to the edge of my comfort; I tasted fear through experience, and I conquered the bile that rose in my throat. I can no longer live in a cell of my own concoction. When life calls, I must answer. When my spirit says go, I will soar. I am the page on which I create my masterwork; I am my own magnum opus!

You cannot live with that; I cannot live without it.

I have more to do than time to do it. I just realized that school starts in a week, I am taking a math class, and I DESPERATELY need to do some algebra review before I walk in that door. That wouldn’t be nearly as big a deal if I weren’t WAY behind on my novel (which has to be complete by the time school starts), and if I weren’t going out of town this weekend, and if I didn’t have an article to write, and dishes to wash, and laundry to do… oh yeah… and my hair is a wreck!!! Maybe I should just wash my hair and leave everything else up to the powers that be.

I haven’t managed to write much today. I did, however, come up with a great project to write about for my travel writing course (which is no substitute for actually writing something in the novel but that’s the great thing about being human; you can justify anything ). This weekend I think I am going to go to Corpus Christi for an SCA event and while there visit the Aquarium and walk down town to see “Dances with Dolphins.” That looks pretty awesome; maybe I’ll bring back pictures! The whole weekend is a good excuse to attend an SCA event and still manage to get something productive done. Of course I feel like I should do some sewing (because it is an “upscale” to-do), but to hell with that; I have an ample supply of chores without adding more to my list. Hey, anyone out there want to make a 14^th Century dress for me and have it completed and delivered by Friday afternoon? No? Dang. And here I thought you people loved me. Oh wait, you people? What people? Is there anybody out there actually reading this drivel?

Ewww… I went a little smiley-mad. I think I’m trying to compensate for my lack of wit today… Sorry, I’ll try to maintain control in the future.

Oh yeah, one last thing, if you stop by it would be great If you said hi. Tag me, or post a comment or wave really really hard (surely I’ll see you out there) and let me know you were here.

I'm worth $1,574,252.57! How much are you worth?

Who comes up with this stuff? I would like to talk about how sad it is that someone has nothing better to do with their time than come up with these stupid tests, which really test nothing as the questions are irrlevant to any actual worth. Of course I took the stupid test (arguably, it took less time to take the test than it did to make it up and write the code to calculate the results), so how sad does that make me? Perhaps I should crawl back into my writing and quit wasting time in blogland (the internet has some very evil distractions out there).