Dancing with the Devil
There is a wind that blew by me today showing me who I was and who I am. Resting only on the shoulders of yesterday but walking with today’s beauty. If I were to dance with the devil and I have, would you find me leaving the love I long to honor. One moment I can add to my shoulders weight while my spine buckles and bends, soon breaking with the lack of structure. I waltz with this unknown. Embracing only a trance of inductions. All chemically enhanced by lust. Riches only exist in trust. How can I? We can’t dance with the devil and not be steeped in excrement pouring forth from the center of our insides. I run just one step in front of the wind, wondering if it will ever catch me.
I’m walking through night’s energy
Calm sweet repose begins and ends
Completeness as I breathe
It has been too long
What holds me back
My touches forbid forward motion
Imagination is not enough
Trees that touch the sky
I open my eyes to you.
Each step walks with weight
Your shoulders sag
Like tree branches
Weighted with snow bending to touch my hand.
These are worlds I do not know
Touches I’ve never had
Dancing in the Night
There is quietness coming over me
As if blanked with a newly fallen snow
Earth frozen, storms as winds shelter
The warmth of home still the chill
The air needs fire and spark
Wisdom found in a dance
Alive in the retreating
My mind wanders
Marveling found in tranquility
Repose exchanged for passion
Still stopping so I can sleep
Incredulous and alive
The touch of a hand
Power grasps and slides
From ribs to hip
Slowly gripping
Hips awaken
Arms rest
Shoulders beckon
One sweet kiss
On a bearded cheek
Lips brushed and bruised
Nothing more, nothing less
This is what we had.
Outtake Daddy
As a toddler I can almost feel how much control I had over my parents, especially my father. My mother told me he was finally ready to be a father. They had a teenage boy, who probably didn’t want much to do with them, and there I was; dethroning (my mother’s words) my brother and capturing them and their friends with my cuteness. My mom, Opal Jeanne Orem, the proper Southern Belle and her daughter were going to be a part of a very fine confederate tradition. Patent leather shoes, little anklets, a smock dress with lots of crinolines, and white gloves with a little patent leather purse to match my shoes.
My father, an orphan, was raised in a Bostonian family giving him culture, but the sensitivity from being given up for adoption, probably never left him. Victor Dayton Westcott, my father’s name, was ever proving himself as an entrepreneur after leaving his adoptive family. I only know hints about this from my mother and given that my mother was prone to embellishments; I’m not sure what is true and what is not. Adoption was what most men did when their wife died back in the early part of the 20th century. Somewhere I have two uncles and cousins I have never met. My mother told me that my dad never forgave his father and we never saw him in the years my dad was alive. The story that seemed to be repeated by my mother’s secretive nature was my beginning relationship with my father and cue’s to who I am now. Ever present is my tale of the little girl with my little purse and my father taking me to work with him at the rifle range. I was loved by this man. The essence of what connected me to men and father later impacted my adult world. At least I have discovered that in my years of searching for my truth, this is my memories and perceptions.
I became a compulsive truth teller in reaction to the power of my mother’s expressive confusion and lack of being able to tell her truth because of fear. She would change her mind incessantly. I must have observed and felt it. It was as if her lie would work, why would she tell the truth. She also held over my brother and me the fear of loss that she carried; only to be understood later. My brother Victor Dayton Jr. and I were in competition. Later in my mothers life she promoted this. He was 17 and became the new man in my mother’s life, to take care of her. He only wanted to be a teenager. My sense of craving attention among the men at the rifle range was gone. As I see it now, Daddy as I called him and the attention the other men gave me, left a sense of entitlement that has carried me through my life. Within this base of how I developed, men and a doting father had been lost with a teenage brother who was not taking both my mother and me as a father image. Within a year he barely got out of high school, wanting college and receiving a college scholarship for Basketball it was out of the question. He started working to help my mother and me. She took in foster babies to add to the loss of my father’s income. He was only 45 years old and his career and sense of party spirit left a home to be paid for by only Social Security. In today’s world he would still be alive because of the advancements of medicine.
Gay in the 1960’s
There were expressions flowing from my days when I was young. The restaurant table next to us was having so much fun with the waiter. Why does it have to matter at all then or today if I jump in and have fun with them. I just took the liberty with one of the men who was also having fun, we spoke a language I know. I stepped into my past and cut loose. I became a young adult woman playing with men who liked men.
This type of man was around when I was 19 years old; they loved my openness. They styled me with form in a way which allowed me to become who I can become today and then. I wasn’t allowed such freedom in the 1960's. It was hidden and taunted my spirit. Memories of stepping back into my father’s rifle range running around at 3, maybe 4, years old looking for attention might have manifested them. However, it doesn’t always work for me. I accept the label of my age to hide behind last night as protection for eccentricity. Too much fun with these men today and the men of my youth. Should I be allowed to do this kind of playing with all men at my age?
When I was young, I worked in the department store being as fashionable as I knew how to be. I played and talked with the window dressers much like the fun I had with one of the men at the restaurant last night. In those days I was called a fag hag or fruit fly. I chose to ignore the taunting. I loved attention of any kind.
This was where I began selling department store finery. Every morning the guys who were window dressers would walk in and tell me of the fun they had the night before. They went dancing at a place called Martha’s, a small bar hidden on a back street in downtown Rochester, N.Y. In those days being Gay was out of the question for freedom of being oneself. You had to hide at all costs. However, we were part of a liberating generation and I was about to cross the threshold in my own style of coming out in self expression. Loving and living life. I asked if I could come dancing with them. It was going to be wonderful. I knew freedom with them from the beginning. They knew in some instinctive way I was exploring life after the confines of my mother’s hand and home. They said they had to take me to lunch first.
The store was just off one of the first indoor malls and it had a food court. We sat with me in my openness as I asked what’s up? They wanted to tell me they were Gay before I could go out with them dancing. I looked at them and said “Oh I’m Gay too”. Their eyes looked at me in marvel from my openly ignorant response, but being thoughtful to lead me on. I was clueless to what they meant, “Being Gay.” So many variations on that theme in the years ahead, rowing from that moment into going to my first Gay bar and the experiences to follow.
A Labyrinth
Whirling again
Spinning into a labyrinth
His web tangled in mine
A quick swirl
Without feelings
We move.
We repeat habits.
Never really talking
Only evolving in comfort
There is no personal reason based on some research paper that I have read. Only stories as to how I am and how I got to this point in my life. I know that as I developed deeper into who I am and how to have successful passage through my aging years. I know that it is important for me to get my stories unleashed. I can see my path unfolding in developing a structure. I never had to work as hard, until now. I’ve realized as my doctor told me as I age I had to work harder, I also say I have to work smarter. Being smart is something I have cultivated or at least what I thought might qualify as smarts. A lot of formal education and I am continually working within my process to find a way of looking at my life in a lighter fashion. I joke that God knew not to give me main letters or titles. If I went after a Doctorate I knew I might have been insufferable and ended up with heart failure for being entirely wound without release. However, that's a moot point. I love to make light or I once love to chase education. Now I am learning how to manage my work method. Unleashed feelings I never knew.
I have held and lived perhaps carrying so many memories within, I had held most of my stories in check. Rarely did I talk about my past with men I’ve known. I was beginning to see my need to tell stories to someone. My pathology is such that I want to value every moment with love and live in some positive wonderland where I continually create pretty cerebral pictures.
Now after jumping from flirtations to flirtation, I'm looking for care with whoever might be a part of my life. I’ve got lost in my external focus, I would either run or stay. If I felt wrong within some nebulous fit, my flexible personality would rationalize what was happening. I would lose the self I never had; life seemed to be forcing my hand to decide who I am: I have to change or make peace in any given moment. I flounder within my interactions.
“Life isn’t all about stories” I had a captive audience within my captivating actions. I got to experience a muse in with his unleashing nature, he sat mostly in silence. His silences offered such power over my fear, when I slipped into my illusions with facing questions I never asked… or had answers for. I gave myself an assignment to not run from him because he certainly isn’t dispensing anything in the way of negative information. This man has not confined me even with his title and stature within a public image.
Where does my real time exist? I don’t have the truth, only a Hollywood script I keep writing over and over. Acceptance and warmth has brought me to as much trust at any given moment. When do answers bounce off the wall within my statements? Choosing words well has to be chosen, without a weight of commitment. For me it is a continual mystery which draws me back into the ambiguity of relationships. My poetry is self-exploration. Still I want to know who people are... My real assignment is how I shall know myself contained in an ever changing dynamic. It seems it is my mind's secrets that are being healed.
Labels
Tonight there was information flowing from my days when I was young. We went out to dinner. The table next to us was having too much fun with the waiter… I don’t like the definition of any label. I knew they were gay and for me saying that doesn’t matter. Why does it have to matter at all. I just took the liberty to have fun with one of the men who was having so much fun with the waiter. I joined in. It was all too fun, who I became as a young adult had to do with gay man. They styled me. I had fun in a way which allowed me to become who I am today. I wasn’t allowed such freedom in the 60’s. However it doesn’t always work. I used the label of my age to hide behind just to have fun.
When I was young, I worked in the department store being as fashionable as I knew how to be. I had fun with the window dressers much like the fun I had with one of the men at the restaurant tonight. I was an aged fag hag as I was once called or fruit fly, this was where I began, I sold department store finery. Here I was living in my youth. Telling another story. Every morning the guys would walk in and tell me of the fun they had the night before. They went dancing at a place called Marthas. A small bar almost hidden on a back street in downtown Rochester, N.Y. In thoses days being Gay was out of the question for freedom. You had to hide at all costs. However, we were part of the Freedom generation and I was about to cross the threshold in my own style of coming out.
I asked the window dressers if I could come dancing with them. I had a freedom from the beginning of realizing what it was to be female with feelings I didn’t have a clue how to manage. Yet there I was I knew in some instinctive way I had to explore life after the confines of my mother’s hand and home. So I asked them to take me out dancing and they said they had to take me to lunch. The store was just off one of the first indoor malls and it had a food court. They sat with me and I in my openness asked what’s up? They wanted to tell me they were Gay before I could go out with them dancing. I looked at them and said “Oh I’m Gay too. Their eyes look at me in marvel from my openly ignorant response. They were being thought. In my openess I didn’t have a clue what that meant, being Gay. So many variations on that theme in the years ahead and where I grew from in that moment. I had heard “Don’t wear Green on Thursdays”. It meant you were Queer. The word wasn’t used in the terms of being Gay or accepted. My circle of life experiences frankly didn’t care. I just wanted fun.
So they were men who didn’t want a woman but a man. I was at a stage that was purely about openness and loving what is. Just having fun for the first time expressing myself and being accepted myself.
Dreams Complete
You woke me as if the need was met
You woke me as if you were there
Walking forward your smile embraces
You woke me when I couldn’t sleep
The morning bells greeted
I’m shaking in my need
I don’t want to be in control a simple release
The bells and cool air meet my morning
I gather a newspaper I do not read
You woke me and I feel finished
Projections from the dream
Complete, final, accomplished.
Searching for Voice
I have just left my e-reader sitting on the chair realizing as I read in my comfortable recliner that it has been a long time since a novel captured me. Their language and story finds me remembering my poetic longing for love and romance. In some synchronistic fashion I have found words that wrap me in my long love story yearning for my lost father and the attention and excitement he created in my formative years before he died. I also realized that all the self help books gathered around my chair gave me some notion of making myself feel smarter. None of this is a simple story of just getting to my feelings of having an insecure need. Simply said, now it was alright to have longings and feelings embedded in my brain as hard wiring capturing and misconstruing my thoughts, saying it was not alright to have feelings. A voice of can’t that lingers deep within me. The intonation that I was good enough would give me all that I need in continually working at learning. Terms of handling life, messy as it is, I will meet it all. This was now a time I was looking at all my stories to find expression when teased out by life as I kept looking instinctively into my primal self.
Now I am looking, again. The voice weaving its thread’s tightly. I venture into areas I think I’m not ready for. Or was it historical fears needing to tell me that reputation can be found in practice is needed even when it is boring but needed. Drama and self acceptance had not been my friend and waiting for structure could only be found if I used a compulsory will power as I saw needs from looking at past trauma. Acceptance was now a new drummer finally declaring order while riding the wave of my final years.
How do I care
Yesterday began as it always does and gradually I moved through the day with food, food, food. My need for having a chance to meet my own needs was met by making a luscious mock crab salad and putting it on my favorite roll. How I get ready for my own path and a reentry back to Buffalo will be met by a seven hour car ride. It will be the beginning of getting back to my own life. The dreams will soon be of my making and I can see how continually I am able to learn and meet my own needs and when I don’t have to pay a price. How silly I can be continually looking for my prize in learning to share my husband's happiness about seeing his family. Another rung on the ladder of my life. Help me learn and continually learn to flow with what is. Now after riding in the car told me a lot about my happiness. I was working at how to flow once again into my life when I decided to called my new daughter-in-laws mother for we share poetry and art. the car had been to quiet. I also admit to loving new friendships and newness in general. I talked so much about what I am doing. The proud little girl wanted to be acknowledged. Still I feel guilty when she is to tell me she is in the first stage of figuring out she has mouth Cancer. I take responsibility for her illness as I took care of my mothers. A little girl who was shown how to care for those who were suppose to take care of me. The rung on the ladder is shaking and have I stepped up or moved forward into how I take care of my life and still have compassion. All this will remain to be seen. My thoughts are tugging at my whole spirit and wondering will I have to navigate a new struggle as I move forward to figure out, is her illness for me to remember to appreciate my life further in the days ahead.
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