My Birth

My mother’s father, Samuel Joseph Cawley, died three days before I was born and was buried in a paupers grave in Van Nys, California, alone and still drunk so the embalmer had it easy. My mother went into labor etherized and alone, and, hearing “ it’s a girl”, sighed into her peignoir and turned her back on it all: the dead first boy, the second, another boy, then two girls and then me. A brood mare. She struck a match for her L&M and flicked the ashes in the nightstand drawer it’s white metal smooth and cold. Loyal to her. She slammed it shut when she heard my grandfather’s voice in the hallway. The most important post birth attendant. Bearer of the name and the cash envelope labeled “Olive”. He always wanted her to be free of his son.Telling my father to be kind to her, grandfather gave her money. He said it was so she could leave but really it was so she would stay.
Lucinda Watson

 “The Red Kerchief “Claud Monet

I wanted him to notice me.

It wasn’t that difficult to see what I wanted.

In winter he stayed inside all the time.

Painting. He was.

All the time.

Winter, always a danger to everyone, young and old.

No freedom in winter.

Too much freedom for him.

I wandered by that day wearing red,

A reminding flag of conscience,

I’m waving a shawl of belonging,

frayed and thin. Notice me.

Aquatic Entertainer

My Life as an Aquatic Entertainer.  

 

In another life I was an aquatic entertainer because I needed to practice my breathing. I suffered from anxiety and worried nightly about remembering to breathe. I could barely sleep.Sometimes this fear kept me up for hours. Aquatic entertainers are required to hold their breath for a minutes at a time.That’s “minutes”. I wore a costume of filigree, seaweed, and Jantzen , a rubber plastic cap of petals variegated in color like a new variety of lettuce leafs. I descended into a tank at Hollywood Gardens In Winter Tree, Florida at 10am, 1PM and 5PM. I was the best in show. I sipped more air from the dangling hoses than other girls and was penalized for it. Holding the dangling hose like a lucky strike, taking my sips, men died for me. I was still the best. Then I dried off, removed my costume, and fraternized with the drinkers. All part of the job. I liked the drinkers. Encouraging them to have more was good for them. They felt happy and slapped each other on the back. They always asked me to give them a special wave from the tank so I always told them I had and how could they have missed it? Aquatic dancers have certain health problems which are an accepted part of the job. We tend to grow back fins which are tricky to remove and sometimes can only eat underwater: much cleaner but not as tasty as normal eating.

I liked my job but in the end I had to quit. It was too hard on my hair. I never had time to socialize or get a life. The worst part was constantly smelling of chlorine. The best part of being underwater was not having to talk.

 

 

 

 

Desperate Comprimise

Desperate Compromise

To be honest the other night I pretended I didn’t mind this man was a Trump supporter because he was so handsome and I couldn’t take my eyes off of his mostly craggy face. At 80 his arms did not look too bad either. Though I could not see them, I could see their outline through the crisp blue check of his shirt. It was all I could do to keep myself from reaching across the table and stroking them. “Will it bother you if I tell you I am a Trump supporter?” he asked, as we sat down at a local restaurant meeting for the first time at the suggestion of a friend.

I do not think I even heard his question as I was mesmerized by his arms and found them around me, holding me closely, gently kneading me like brioche dough, though I could still see them attached to his shoulders. I wasn’t  tempted to walk away particularly not without those arms. That’s what shows me just how desperate I’ve become for male companionship.

It might also be that I drank a half glass of wine before walking down to the restaurant to calm my nerves. My nerves need a lot of calming these days. I am monitoring my wine intake. I must or I might just get to drinking first thing in the am before toothpaste. Once I saw my husband grab a half-finished Scotch from the night before’s party and swallow it right down. I always liked his style. For years I remembered that drink with deep admiration and knew I was not up to it.

Well, I am now. I like this Trump supporting man. I like his obvious masculinity, his low testosterone filled voice, and his arms. I think I will take him home and keep him. He could live happily in the freezer.

From time to time I could partially defrost him and have dinner with him quickly before his brain unthawed.

Imprinting

I am working on an imprinting machine and it’s kind of like Konrad Lorenz did with his ducks. Only this time everyone that wants to feel better about themselves can go through my machine and be imprinted with a more powerful, confident personality. It’s slightly painful but you forget that immediately because you take steps out of this machine into what is now sunshine and everything about you is more powerful: your arms your legs your heart your brain the way you look the way you feel the way you move. People pay a lot of money to go through my machine but I don’t take it. Actually that’s a lie. I am like Robin Hood. I take the money from the very rich people but I don’t give them as much boosting as I give to the people who have no money but are just very fragile and need it. The boost. The key measurement is compassion. No compassion, no boost. I don’t think I’m God I’m just very smart and the machine has been extraordinarily successful. In my old age I’ve decided that I am only going to allow women to use it. I just think it’s a better bet in the long run. Frankly, testosterone gets in the way some of the time in allowing people to be compassionate, humble, and kind. Life is too short. I want to be prudent in using my machine.