ASSUMED SO MUCH

 49 of #100daychallenge

Some days, well, twang! Jupiter! you just feel like an alien, maybe not from "outer space" but more like an inner-space alien. You are still contained within your familiar skin, but what is inside is in varying degrees of roiling. 

There have been times when I was in a kind of fugue state, (the word "fugue" is derived from the Latin world for "flight" ... hello, fugitive?) wherein everything external was in an out-of-reach-water-yet-molasses state. When I first moved to Berkeley and suffered significant depression, I can remember driving to someone's house, him either not home or answering his door, and leaving a note on his car saying "Come see about me." He thought I was being clever. He couldn't know I was in need of the grounding of a friend. I walked over to a pay phone and made a collect call to my parents, though I had a telephone of my own less than a mile away. I can still remember my despair and confusion standing in that 76 Station on Telegraph Avenue in 1978. 

I am reading Rickie Lee Jones' memoir, Last Chance Texaco: Chronicles of an American Troubaour as a procrastination read from Ulysses of which I have to read 100 pages by next Thursday. I found the middle of the book, when she is 14 and figuring out how to be a hippie chick though she is too young (check), very much in alignment with how I experienced and thought about that time (probably about '68-72). 

"I crashed with three girls, then I crashed with a couple on welfare, but having no money, no driver's license, no clothes, no food, and no skills, I soon went from houseguest to house pets and tried the goodwill of my hippie hosts. They did not realize I was an immature teenage kid, because I looked so much older. It was my large breasts, they were a ticket into any psychological door. People, whether men or women, assumed so much because of their relationship with my breasts. And I let them. If I got fed and people were nice to me, then let them think my age was related to my bra size."

It's true that when you are young and have large breasts it is carrying a sandwich board or something. You get related to by something that is part of you, but isn't YOU. And boy did I get mixed messages from guys literally grabbing my breasts and then attacking me when I rebuffed them, telling me I was a fat ugly pig. What? I think I was so confused about expressing sexuality then (and now to a much lesser degree) that I just assumed I was ugly. 

I can still remember two of them times quite clearly. In high school, halls would be rented by someone so that local community college kids and area high school students could drink and smoke and dance to some band (Van Halen was one of the bands that played at these parties). It was a common thing to do but I only went the once. I thought I looked foxy (but why?) wearing a U-necked polyester knit sweater-shirt (ugh, god it was awful) and, why? a push-up bra. This fellow came up, never looked me in the eye and grabbed my left breast. Man, that was like a brand. When I protested, he looked up at me and made some disparaging comment. I don't remember anything about the rest of the evening. I have staid away from push-up bras, however.

The second time was at a Jerry Garcia Band show at the old Keystone Club in Berkeley. I was up at the front as usual. During the break, I was glowing with the pleasure of the music and resting against the stage when out of the cloud of non-focus, a drunk dude walked up to me, muttered something about my breasts and touched me. Startled, I slapped his hand away. He was the one who called me a fat pig. Through my pot-and-alcohol haze, I remember thinking "Then why are you touching me?" Which ever friend I had gone to the show with was no where in sight or didn't even notice (the latter being more likely).

Breasts are more complicated than some of you might think.

Today is the anniversary of Oona getting murdered by coyotes. I still miss her terribly and think of her almost every day, even though I love the cats I got in her wake. When I was feuding (not so very long ago) with Luz next door, she chastised me for going on to her property to have Oona's remains removed without telling her or asking her permission. Of course, my only thought was finding someone to help (Hail, Patrick!) get her removed before any of Luz's family saw her. I am still in shock and grief after a year. Even losing my much beloved Emmylou was easier as she did not die in fear or in vain, as she was ill.

See, a dour mood here today. 

And perhaps that is enough. Did not get any gardening done, at least by me. Sebastian, our "yardman"... (he calls himself a gardener but to me, a gardener is someone who pulls weeds and knows the difference between most weeds and plants) came by to fill our green barrel with plant detritus and to clear out another little bed for my rock rose and night blooming jasmine. I will photograph when they have taken.

Nina got out tonight and I had a hell of a time getting her in.  Most of our windows don't have screens so I have to recall every window I opened before I call in the cats around 6:00. Fortunately, there are generally one or two of them in the house and they are all ready for dinner. This evening, I forgot to close my window and Nina made her escape. Plus, she loves to be chased. I am not sure how I finally lured her in. I think I need a butterfly net kind of device to trap her when she is close. Another person helps, too, but that ain't gonna be Janet.

THE WELL OR THE CUP

How can

you tell

at the start\what you 

can give away

and what

you must hold

to your heart.

What is

the well

and what is

a cup. Some

people get

drunk up.

—Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, Grove Press, New York 2010