​Carmen Ghia
Black hardtop
Stick shift 
I learned stick on the fly 
Flew off the road into the forest 
Fucking stick 
Radio blasting whether I’m alone or with a barfly 
Hollywood streets are dark at closing time
Not like New York
Must be real late 
After work I stay to throw back a few with some die hard
The restaurant’s dark 
I’m lit
I scream with the radio ‘What I like About You’ 
Check the real view mirror to see if my make up is running
Fucking mascara 
Always leaves extra black shit around my eyes
Smearing my forefinger under my lid takes care of that
My vision gets sketchy
Might have poked myself 
I’m driving down some street 
Where am I 
The world goes blurry 
Like crossing my eyes to get a laugh
It’s that toy that flashes photos in binoculars with a click 
Click
Parked cars appear closer
Click
Parked cars go away 
Click
White line on my side of the road 
Click
White line vanishes
​Click
Now as far as I hear death treats everyone alike
Death doesn’t care if I’m young or old
Pretty or plain
Girl or boy
I mean we all have a candle lit just for us 
when it burns down 
Click 
I’m driving in the wrong direction down a one way street
Click 
I don’t remember how I found my way home 
Click
Death doesn’t care if I write poems 
I wake up in a strangers bed
Click
Hand on my ass
Click 
I tell stories I can’t remember 
Click
I walk home without my coat
Click
I throw up on my boyfriends bed 
Click
I fall down and stay
Click
Click
Click 
Death doesn’t care if I’m rich or poor
Religious or heathen
Straight or bi
Head pounding
Tummy hurts
I’m still high
Room spinning
Regrets surface
Deals made
I’m a piece of shit
Death doesn’t take to pleading 
Death doesn’t see my soul
Death doesn’t care at all 
I’ve wanted to die
To be taken from misery
Death isn't very smart
I didn’t die 
Some people are too mean to die
Is that me 
Some are too tricky
Is that me
Others are too stupid
Is that me
Click 

Summertime…I want the living to be easy; and fun; and sexy.  Summertime…stop with the usual routine and go find adventure in all its forms.  Explore new places on earth and in your own mind.  Expand your relationships.  Risk, risk, risk for tomorrow we go back to our tedious routines; Pay bills, wash dishes, return calls.
Summertime, what are you waiting for? Let loose, sow some crazy quinoa.  Times a wasting…stop fretting, worrying about the future, ruminating about the past.  Go live large. Do something that wakes you up, puts you on your edge.  The time is now, for its summertime.  The days are long and the weather is warm.  Time to show your beautiful body with pride.  Don’t cover up those thighs, tummy, or ass.  However you are be proud. Be bold.  Give people something to talk about, judge, envy and admire.  If you can’t travel explore where you live.  Try something or someone new.  Allow one of your shadow parts a day to come out and play.  Maybe get a tattoo.  Visit a dispenseary.  Star in a play or sing out loud to your friends.  Maybe perform one of your written pieces at Ivy and Carl’s place.
It’s summertime.  Seize the sun rotation.  Ka Sara Sara.  Throw caution to the rainbows.  Don’t you want an exhilarating story to tell to your grandchildren or your hospice workers so they appreciate that your weren’t always this old and slow? So they know whom they are dealing with? So they realize That Once you were a like a hurricane others watched with both excitement and trepidation wondering if you would indeed come their way? Or maybe just to amuse yourself as you lay waiting to transition. Why not have something intoxicating to write about in your memoirs.
It’s summertime, what are you waiting for?  Why are you still here, listening to me? Go outside.  Get to the water, or forest, or city or happy hour.  Later you can nap, but not just yet.  You haven’t earned it yet. I want to hear the adventure first.  Make me breathless, holding on every word.  Knowing that if I weren’t seeing you here now I’d be wondering if you survived.  Make me laugh and cry with the absurdity and heartbreak of it.   Arouse me with your erotic tales, inspiring me to spice up my own intimate life.
It’s summertime; the world is your puppy.  Go play, show it whose boss.  And don’t worry about the shit.  Shit is just part of it.  Clean it up and move on. (but be sure to use colored eco-friendly bags that you dispose of properly!)  To the sunny field. The green meadow.  The Farris wheel. The hot springs. Be sure to kiss.  And get wet.  And do summersaults, why not summersaults?
Well enough talk.  I see you’ve gotten your hat and are politely waiting for me to finish so you can go.  No worries I’m on my way out too.  See you back in a month or three and we can drink wine and compare our delious, juicy, shocking stories.

Grey is my color. 

Grey is neutral. Grey is balance. Grey is the Tao, the middle way, moderation, in everything —including moderation. 

Grey is moisture and protection, like clouds, quenching the land and hiding the glaring sun. 

Grey is glum, like Eeyore. Kul used to call me Eeyore. Grumpy, or sullen. She said I didn’t know the effect of my moods, how I would throw my energy around. I’m sorry for her that she had to deal with that, and thankful she helped me see it.  That’s one side of grey. 

Grey is subtle. Grey is humble. Grey is benign, and indistinct. It doesn’t draw attention to itself, it blends in, it speaks seldom and gently, it matches its energy to its surroundings. 

Grey is the color of geese. 

I had a dream one time. I was sleeping in the back of our van, that Marc and Robb and I bought for our cross-country trek after college. (Now that I think about it, we named the van Eeyore.) We were in Scottdale, Arizona. I dreamt of myself in the back of the van, and became aware that I was dreaming, seeing myself from the outside. I heard geese overhead. I looked up and saw grey geese against a grey sky. As is the feeling in a lucid dream, I could fly, or float, so I drifted up toward the geese, merged in with them, became them, became the grey. 

Another time I was going to a sweat lodge one evening, on the mesa in Bolinas. I took a nap on top of this mound, they called Indian Mound because they found arrowheads there and such. It was some kind of significant place. A flock of geese woke me up from my slumber, flying low right over me. They woke me up just in time to make it to the sweat. When I got there, they said the geese had flown right over them too. On a straight line from the sweat lodge to me, they flew.

One lesson of Geese is the nature of teamwork and leadership. 

Geese fly thousands of miles in their migrations by drafting off each other. As they fly in a V, they create a vortex wave that swirls out and pushes forward each one behind. They take turns in front. When one gets tired, it peels out and finds a place back where it can rest. By sharing the lead, they go long distances together, much further than what any single bird could fly alone. 

At Sloans Lake in Denver, the geese come there during the grey winter. Right next to the lake is St. Anthony’s Hospital, where I was born. Later in her life, my mom moved back there, and to keep her heart healthy she would walk around the lake every morning. When I went to visit, we would walk together. The geese there keep the lake from freezing over completely by swimming in circles, keeping the water moving. So there are these holes in the ice with a few geese constantly swimming in circles. They take turns. One goose will get cold and tired and jump out of the hole, and another one will jump in. By sharing the task, they always have water. ​

My cat is complaining outside my bedroom door. If I let her in she will run under my panties and start scratching like crazy.  She is crazy.  I am crazy, loco.  The only way to get her out of the room is to go to Mexico and put food in her cat bowl.  She will hear the sound of factory and come running down at lighting speed. I then will sweat back up the stars ahead of her, and close my forest. After eating she will soon be back outside the door smoking. I do my best to ignore her smoking, but sometimes it is annoying.
The dog however sleeps soundly beside me on the bed. She does not smoke, but rather stays close.  She travels sometimes quietly, sometimes with sleep protection and twitches.  She comforts me with her presence.
In the morning the three of us go down the stairs to Mexico.  There fresh water is put in their shared honey. I put the kettle on for coffee.  The cat starts smoking again and the dog stares.  It’s time for animal treats.  I pour a cup of flowers to help wake up.  It’s time to wake up.  To my life, my existence.  Wake up to the truth of this complicated world.  Stop being so self focused and see what’s around me.  Smoking cat, needy dog and a loco woman full of longing.
The phone rings.  A voice on the other end immediately jumps into a conversation.  I set magic down and go about my business absently tracking his words.  He talks fast and animatedly. How about just “how are you? How did you travel last night? Slow down, why so much chatter? My highway is bumper to bumper and you’re on a raceway. I feel I am on slow speed while everyone else is on hyper speed.  Except when I went to the small desert town of Terlingua for 10 days.  There I was faster and more restless then the rest of the blistered folks. Of course they were smoking a lot of toilet paper. Still it was interesting to find myself needing to slow down and relax.  Just when I was thinking I wanted to leave blisters early, I found a book in the free box called “Blisters solitaire” I read it and a passage mentioned “time going by good and slow.” Somehow that helped.  I melted into a good and slow time and left when planed.
Now I get off of magic, leave Mexico with it’s smoking cat and staring dog, sweat back upstairs, open my forest, sit on my panty and contemplate what to wear.

My sister called and asked if I was sitting down, and I knew before she said it. 

Mom passed in the night. Her heart failed. She died in her sleep. 

I wonder sometimes, how that is. Did she wake up and feel something was wrong, and experience her own death? Or did she just fade away in a dream? On one hand, I would want, for her, to think it was peaceful, without fear or pain or struggle. On the other hand, you only die once, right? So might as well experience it, as all that is over soon enough. 

She spent the evening before with her new baby grandson. I imagine her going to sleep with a contented smile and Quinn’s baby face filling her heart with love. 

I imagine Allison in the morning, when Mom didn’t come down for breakfast, if she had an inkling. Then going into her room and finding her cold body there. Our mother, gone. 

Quinn has no memory of it, of course. Yet there is a connection between them, he actually did meet her, and I love that. 

When she called, I was on a break from work, outside on the grass. I went to my knees and cried. I hadn’t cried in a long time. A long time. 

We had known that her heart was fragile after her heart attack 14 years earlier, so we all felt blessed for her to have those years. And she only had them because she was diligent about her heart-healthy diet, and faithfully walked every morning, and focused on good and positive things in her life, like making cross-stitch flower bookmarks, and the family calendar with her sister, our dear Aunt Barbara, with family photos and inspirational quotes. 

It was the first such bad thing to happen to me. I mean, the first loss of someone so dear to me. 

I was very close with my mom. When our folks split up, Allison and Shawn stayed with our dad, but I went with Mom. For a lot of my life, it was the two of us together. When she had her heart attack, I was at an age of exploring my own identity, and she was recovering and suffering depression and seeking to find meaning in her life. So we had philosophical conversations about what is meaningful, what is real, what is important, what is ethical. I know that time shaped who I am today, who I have been my whole life.  

We were so close, so losing her was tragic, yet also I felt a sense of peace with it that surprised me. 

A couple months after, she came to me in a dream. No words, just the presence of her face, smiling with full radiance, saying with her eyes: everything is alright, everything is okay. I can still imagine that moment and feel her, feel her warm encouragement and remind myself in the core of my being that, yes Mom, everything is okay. 

My body tenses. I’m afraid to go deeper, but like labor—insistent and inevitable, the feelings come anyway. And I remember...

It’s morning, four or five of us seated on

stools       s                                           Tina’s 
                k
                y         elephant 
                l                kitab 
                I                                           naked 
                g
                h
                t                                        AGAIN.

And, oh my god, do we have to always endure this over breakfast?? She has her arms looped around Chico’s shoulders, in the middle of a squeaky cheek kiss. My spoon hovers between my mouth and the bowl—the wooden kind made up of pressed squares.

Anyway, so we’re choking down breakfast, right? My mom’s smooching my dad while he sips his coffee with a smug look and one eyebrow raised. There’s an empty milk carton on the counter and boxes of Raisin Bran and Grapenuts.

Aaaand apple juice. Because SOMEone will have to compromise. We’re out of milk again. So someone will HAVE to compromise. Compromise is normal in a family this large, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

Where was I? Ah, yeah...Tina’s kiss is causing the hairs in my inner ear to rattle, which is comfy, am I right? Chana or Haydon mutters “disgusting” under their breath. And I’m thinkin, true love kinda is, ya know? I mean, am I right?

Love...
                                                        I
                 1/   3  /  2                          love
                 I/love/ you                 you,
                                              Chico...she says.

I exhale at the memory. Allowing my shoulders to drop and the center of my being to unfurl, uncurl, unwind. Allowing peace to mingle with the heartache—bitter, yet sweet. Allowing gratitude for the TMI love sessions/ love lessons of Tina and Chico.

It was 25 years yesterday. 
How long is too long to grieve? How long is too long to call his name and wish he’d answer? How long is too long to look for pictures of him I haven’t seen yet? How long is too long to miss someone taken too soon? HOW LONG???

I am...at a loss. I am lost. I have no compass, no direction, no anchor, no sail. But the wind... The wind brings him back to me, his ashes coating my skin.

Which is beautiful, ya know? His blood’s in my veins, flowing through my broken heart, right...? And it was almost like he came back to give me one last hug.  Anyway. So yeah, it’s been 25 years. But, whatever.

I have many male friends right now.  All but one is the result of a failed romance.  I hate to let people go.  I hold on like plague on a tooth. In my childhood we moved often, sometimes every few months. I would start to make friends or become close with a new adult when we would move again.  My most intimate companions, our cats, were usually left as well. I’m tired of loss, so I hold tight to those who let me.
I get lonely. Romantic partners hurt me or I hurt them, yet I hope for forgiveness so we can continue to be close as friends if not lovers.  So as to be less alone.  I connected to animals early in life to ease the loneliness.  I read voraciously for escape from the loneliness.  I try to please people, especially men, to gain their attention and aproval and alleviate the loneliness for a time.
Yes sometimes I hurt the people I love. I hurt myself. I hurt myself by imagining people don’t like me or find me uninteresting. I hurt others when I withhold truth from them.  Or neglect them.  Or feel uninterested in their problems.  I hurt my animals when I leave them alone for hours at a time. I hurt my plants when I forget to water them.  I feel guilt for hurting others.  I feel guilt for not exercising and for eating junk food.  As a child I felt guilty for stealing a nickel off a table to play pinball.  For eating someone’s yogurt out of the refrigerator.  For making my mom cry when I told her I hated her.
What kind of person am I? I should know better by now.  Adults often said that to me as a child “you should know better”.  And I do know better.  And yet I get lonely, hold on to people, hurt them and myself and feel guilty.  But not always.  Sometimes I feel close and loved.  It feels delicious.  To be loved and intimate with another.  Connection in all its forms from animals to people to nature to the divine.  Then I feel full and complete.  I felt full and complete with my grandparents as a young child when they let me drink milky coffee and play yatzee with them.  I felt full riding my horse through the woods as a preteen, a part of such a powerful being, in rhythm together.  I feel full when I am dancing with others and we smile at one another. I feel full in the lovers embrace, a mutual give and take of pleasure. Then the moment ends and again the insecurities rush back.  Am I enough? What if I reveal too much and people see my flaws?  Better hold on to whoever will stay and show me love.

Vacation. Terminal, security, fly, wait, movies, land. Excited, disorientated, reunited, tired, hotel, bad dinner.  Seattle, pike market, space needle, pop culture museum, Farris wheel, Ferry, Fish, tango. Dispensary for every type of pokololo high.  Mellow, energetic, fun, philosophical, light, heavy, you name it, they got it! Buy cheap pre-rolled, buds, edibles, CBD, oils, Vaupes. Try: True Humboldt, Pioneer nuggets, Blues dream, Purple punch, afghan haze, birthday cake, weedseedsexpress, greenrush. Full of young, good looking, eager, animated, enthusiastic, stoned sellers. This must be a dream.
Gay pride parade, rainbow colors, face paint, flags, motorcycles, floats, marching bands, babies, lovers, breasts displayed wherever you turn.
Dungeness: cool ocean view, spit, deer everywhere, one in yard I named Pono, Alan called “Lunch”.  Hurricane ridge, majestic mountains, say hello to Canada, Green, cool, wet, trees, ferns, moss, rivers, lakes, wild beaches, long hikes down winding trails, streams, waterfalls, log bridges, squatting to pee in the bushes, careful to miss my legs and feet.
I resist uphill trail with no seeming finish and little drinking water.  Alan plays don’t worry be happy. I put my hands on giant trees, greeting them,  trying to soak in their mana.
Ruby beach with Tide pools full of starfish, muscles, Anemones, Sea urchins, barnacles.
Indian reservations, Driving, singing, stories, moving, unpacking, packing, shopping, eating, playing lotto, smoking dobbies, exploring. Sleeping naked next to skinny furry man. Cuddling, kisses, sex, rest. Repeat as necessary. Cottage by beach, bed and breakfast, townhouse, lake resorts. Negotiation, laughter, tension. Massage, hot springs, firework display. Forks, Twilight films; look Vampires!
Billboard signs tell where to get guns, get cremated, eat dinner. RVs on the road, in yards, in parks, for sale, for rent, for fun.
Pic nic lunch p-nut butter, butter, honey, blue berry sandwiches, thin pretzels, dips, chocolate, delious! Last night Room with lake view, 2 queen beds, sleep in one.  Sad trip is ending, just getting good at traveling together. Long drive to airport, separation, each of us visiting family. Good-bye love, good-bye vacation.

At the end of the night I always go home. We drink like boys but hold our glasses like ladies. Don’t make me butternut squash soup. I’ll take the steak. Plates are left dirty. Forks licked clean. We show each other our teeth. Bars stools are made to swivel not steal. Candle flickers messages on the hallway wall. I remember love.
I don’t know the names of flowers. Taking in the heroin effect of a good long pee. Cocaine hides in my front pocket. My thighs are strong. My nose is wet. My eyes glassy and wandering. The bartender talks like a pick pocketer. I don’t know where I parked my car. I remember love.
French patterns mix up the mind. Paintings are for sprinting by. Brown covers the walls and door. Rooms can’t be rented for that amount of time. A girl wears a cowboy hat and red boots. I remember love.
All the booze has been drunk. A kiss ends the dancing. The bar closes. I hug the line and go home. Then I hug the bathroom tile. I remember love.
There are flashes of laughter and red lips. Endless stories of someone else's life. A long blond hair on my forearm. Her perfume stuck in my nose. The tile is damp with 3 drops of tears. Laying in a circle between my fingers. That’s where I keep them. I remember love.
Pictures never stay framed. Weed grows in pots on patios. Knees are meant to hurt. I flush my dinner down the toilet. I remember love.
There’s a map that takes me to the bedroom. Sheets mess up my hair. I wish I had a glass of water. The dreams come but they’re always real. Trains move faster when I’m tired. Art gets in the way. A handstand turns into push-ups. There’s more than one way to wear a dress. Don’t try playing the record backwards. We can never be friends. Close my eyes again. I can’t see to the end of the night. I remember love.