Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 15

SHAME

I push shame around my plate like a chunk of spoiled meat, the toxins leaching to every interface and cavity. With an inverse half-life, the lethal substance grows, reinforcing, sending runners and tendrils to worlds known and those yet undiscovered. I wage my war on this shape-shifting plague. Thrust and parry, I step back from the insurmountable walls and set my sights on tearing down the bunkers in my personal city. Like lead plumbing, the danger eludes the observation of my fellow citizens. I am labeled a lunatic and no attention is paid to my evaluations of water quality. I search for similarly crazed friends, variants within a theme. I depend on the poisoned sanity of my wounded compatriots. We shovel the plate loads of spoiled meat and detritus. The foreshortened mountain of shame allows tiny strands of light to glimmer across the surface but the shamed devotees turn their heads. We, the few, face this glowering mass. I worry like a petulant child. What if we can not prevail? Is shame stronger than recovery? Have we traveled this far to miss the glacier’s edge as it slides away from us? I console myself with the sure knowledge: this life of sobriety is better than any other offering. Healing the world, what a lovely thought. Living free from shame today, what a necessity.



Crumple a sacred cow then iron it flat.
*


ONE


One skin, One mind, One spirit, One day

If I live in more than my own skin,
I am a body snatcher and ghoul.
If I live in a duality of thought I am ejected,
ostensibly out of my mind.

If I redouble my spirit
the increase takes a dark cold turn
and I am lost.

If I try to live two days at a time
the sand shifts in the glass
and I am worse off in that hour than Dorothy.

This skin is all I can be in,
as many times as I walk in someone else’s shoes
it’s the skin I’m in.

This mind is my only bequest,
treasure enough to earn my keep.
Free as this spirit is it is still tied at the heel
and like my shadow it remains.

And today is the only day where the magic works,
witches melt and clicking my heels gets my attention
even if it doesn’t always take me home.




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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 16



THE DEALS I’VE MADE


Because they are deals and not resentments or secrets, these circular schemes did not come out in my fourth step. They didn’t come out in the wash; they come out whenever they are broken. If the deal is don’t eat pickled herring and you won’t have to remember X, the deal will get broken when pickled herring is served to me at some social gathering. As I get healthier, the breaks connect ever more deeply. What in early sobriety would have given me unexplained discomfort now gives me full-blown flashbacks. And I watch the deal unravel… you weren’t supposed to eat this because this is what was on the plate when… but now that it’s on the plate here, now you have to face this ugly roiling mess. The deals saved my life, but unless they are handled with care and honesty, they can cost me the life I have now. I must choose a safe person and place to share these broken shards, living alone with this will not work and making it public fodder is a set up as well. In every one of these deals there is a back door to a drink and therefore We have to go out the front door together.



Pick three color words and use them all day.


*


The Long Dark Ride


Are fear and ignorance one thing
that looks like itself
or terrifying twins who feed one another?

Can they be separated
and if they can will it kill them?
And if they die
what will spring from their remains?

Will it be better or worse?
Can I tell what better is?
Should I tell if it turns out to be worse?

Is there ever an end to either fear or ignorance?
If there is, how deep is that well
and will I survive a trip to the bottom?

Do you know and do you care?
Will you go with me if I find the way?
Will you take me if you find it first?



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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 17


PIGS

“Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the pig.”


Talking to a chrysalis about flight is like talking to a fetus about dry land. Descriptions of future events and possibility are lost in the translation. To the uninitiated, these realities sound like gibberish and flights of fancy or foolish dogma. Yet, I am drawn to talk of these things, imagine and describe them. I am changed by this procedure. I am transformed in the details. When I can accurately depict it, I am taking the stride into living it. I am my own pig. I have taught myself to sing and have wasted no time at all.



List your favorites so you don’t forget yourself.




*
Suzy Q’s Mother
Through process of elimination
I have had to learn who G-d is and who G-d isn’t.
When it comes down to my understanding
everything incomprehensible is off the table
and what is left is mine, all mine.
I can’t fathom an all powerful G-d;
therefore my G-d is not all powerful.
I cannot begin to comprehend a vengeful G-d,
as you might have guessed; my G-d is not vengeful.
Because of these constraints I have
a non-omnipotent G-d, one with limitations and bounds.
This doesn’t mean I love my G-d any less
in fact it may be why I love my G-d so very much.
And G-d loves me with a Mother love
that trails me to the depths and heights of the path,
but like any mother, she can’t do everything.
My G-d is accomplished and wonderful,
but there are days that I need things,
which lay outside my Higher Power’s area of expertise
and I must turn to help beyond our little circle of two.
This is not easy at first.
We both feel awkward in the attempt,
but Suzy Q lives two houses down
Her mother still has her hook shot from college
and since my mom’s experience of basketball
is that it’s the court you walk through to go play tennis,
I ask Mrs. Q with help making the three point shots.
I don’t have to understand Suzy Q’s mother,
I leave that to Suzy.

I just have to ask for help,
learn the jump and go home when I’m done.
It’s nice to be able to slam dunk,
but there is no place like home.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 18


THIN ICE

The ice is brittle, transparent and breaking away. I brace for destruction, turmoil and frigid descent. I am stuck in my topside thinking and can not realize the chance for freedom the cracking expanse promises. I am an oceanic creature. I can escape my watery bonds with the splitting of the ice. Trapped in a hole I keep open only through the friction of my unrest, I am kept from the community of life to which I belong. My reflection mixes with my view of the sky and I forget my place, forget my name, forget how I have come to be trapped here. The pining after what is not mine to have has brought me to this thin edge. I must break through to be who I am; in doing so I shatter the illusion of who I thought I was. Zeal to zenith I must move away from the phantasm and mockery and take refuge in what I am.




Remember your genius.

*

Hiding
“Defeat is what you make of it,” says my sponsor.
“Fighting a thousand secret battles
when you claim that you want peace is not right.
The agony of defeat is when you keep on fighting.
There is no honor in waving the white flag,
but never laying down your arms.”
“I can’t just give them up
they have been in the family for years,”
my whining retort.
“I’m sure they have, darling, I’m sure they have,
and haven’t done any of you a lick of good either,”
her smug reply.

“They are good for sabotage,”
I begin my running start at her.
“Sabotage is something you only do to yourself,
because who else can you really sabotage?
Who do you really hate enough other than you?”
“My hobby is denying that, you know.”
“Yes, and sweet lot of good it does you,

The war rages within you
and outside you say it’s harmony,
no matter all the signs of discord.”

“And if I were to really give up. If, I were really tired enough,
how can I insure my safety?”
I asked with my hands nearly in the air.

“Tell the truth, even if it’s only to yourself.
Put space between you and weapons of mass destruction.
Oh, and make sure you surrender to a friend.”



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 19



LIFE IS UNFAIR

Assuring myself I will not be permitted through the gate, I walk the perimeter, assessing the fence, looking for a place to exploit, a wire slightly high. Trying to look graceful, I duck under the fence, telling myself I prefer life on the edge. The water is less dangerous here on the fringe; I wouldn’t want to be swept away. I stay clear of my peers. I stand in the baby pool and feel confident I won’t drown, brushing from my conscience that I won’t swim either.
Struggling to the top of the pile or scurrying underneath is a blatant lack of humility. Skirting the margin is the same. Facing life and finding it unfair, I take to the world of exception and hope to slip through the cracks to a life of safety. In that act I discount my talent and ability. Worst of all, I disconnect from God.


Toy with your thoughts, play with your food.
*


Jenny

Though ignorance may be bliss,
living in the shadow of someone else’s
ignorance is sheer hell.
The confusion is bad, but the lies are worse.

Want to cripple a child for life
give it to a well meaning fool
who has the rule book to the wrong board game,

That child will grow to need crutches they don’t make
and medicine they can’t brew.
Dependent on misguided insanity the child will require
a miracle cure and may lack the ability to ingest it.

Best case scenario the kid makes a brave escape
into a world she can barely comprehend,
worse case she turns the rule book upside down
and reads it backwards to her own unfortunate brood.

Ignorance is always a twilight proposition,
half agreement the other half handcuffed nightmare.
Full consent is by necessity impossible
while blameless innocents is similarly unachievable.

The only suggestion I can make
from this side of the looking glass
is to pick your poison and plan your getaway.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 20



TIME IS HERE TO STAY


I have passed my days emptying them like breadcrumbs onto a trail of rescue. Expecting them to facilitate redemption, and if not that, at least retreat, I release an audible sigh as I let each evening slip to the path behind me. The future I view as a cliff I am nearing. I hope to be ransomed before the edge. I plan carefully how to stay in sync with revision; things must be resolved and revert. But this is not the way. The past is there to be mined. Inert gold, as well as land mines, linger beneath the surface; the days stream on. I am not nearing the limit; I am shrinking from hope. I turn my eyes from expectancy with a shudder. Deeply, I realize I must leave my fairytale life and walk away with my days in my pocket, a treasure that is mine to spend.


Tie a string around your hopes then let them go.


*

Katie’s Wish


Does G-d arrange for my parking spot,
foil the Colts opponents,
release the stains from my dry-cleaning?
Can I ask for the petty and pedantic?

All One G-d Faith,
reads the side of the soap bottle,
but really is there only one?

Like Santa? The Tooth Fairy? OZ?
Is my life better or worse for the whimsy?
How would I know? Why would I care?

As long as I live with what I get most times,
it truly is okay to ask for what I want sometimes,
I mean hell, the Superbowl is only once a year.
I’m allowed to be unreasonable and happy.


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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 22


SAFETY IN MY CHAIR

Sometimes I have to sit with my knees tucked up under my chin. My feet can’t touch the floor at these moments. I hug my legs to me, I feel contained but somehow adrift in my chair. I center my mind on breath and pulse. Pure fear flits and flutters while I gain my composure. When I feel safe enough to put one foot down, then the other, and connect with the world again, I am leaving home to embark on this earthly trek. The journey is there for me every day but some days I curl up in my chair.


Complement your feet with your shoes.


*

Patricide

I never killed my father.
Why finish a job that
someone is completing all on his own.

It’s not that I didn’t wish him dead;
I did and do for that matter.
Don’t misunderstand me,
I wish him no harm,

It’s just that he is like a creature so tortured
that he is nothing but a danger and a misery.
Left to live he is a hazard to everyone he has contact with,
an agony to live inside.

What can I wish for him,
but departure and rest,
something he can never give to himself.

I don’t plot, don’t scheme,
I only know; know in part,
the terrible lie he lives
and hurt he drags from place to place

Acting like it is not there and nothing matters;
let’s just get by. So, if he is not dead he should be.

He is the embodiment of the hurtful impotent god
and I don’t kill that man
but I kill the image, perish that thought.

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