What kind of person am I? I swear I’ve felt so selfish lately that if my time was up the universe would probably send me back as a sneeze. A great, green glob of one.

Yesterday was the anniversary of Caleb’s death. I could barely speak of it. I went home early and holed up in bed until the light outside faded. I was fading. I needed darkness to find my focus.

The structure of darkness is far from empty; as space is considered neither vacuous nor replete, in all that it amounts to zero, ‘fore and aft. No, dark sits heavy on the chest, so when a star flickers blithely in the night, all feelings swiftly recompose to draw on that light. Between too much and not enough, light is both the exposer and the salve.

My ex-fiancée’s wife gave birth to their baby girl yesterday. I was not in the frame of mind to receive the news gleefully, despite the fact I am quite happy for them both. What unforgivable sin did they commit? None that would hold up to the light of day, but that night a sandpaper gash ran the length of my soul.

Every birth is a blessing; still even now the rash persists. Foolish, stubborn humans, think of what we could accomplish if we only appreciated what truly is, especially when we cannot see.

"So this is how you died. In whispers that you did not hear..."
Hemingway

Journal entry - June 1, 2006

In the quest to remedy starvation there is more than meets the eye. A lack of food can bring an otherwise healthy man to the brink: he may lash out, withdraw, hoard meaningless things, steal, lie, and when desperate, hurt himself or others. His heart shrinks, his blood pressure falls, and his cells break down. You cannot give a malnourished person a hamburger and call it good.

The body's ability to protect itself to the point of destruction boggles the mind.

This morning was rough to say the least. At this time I am not trained to handle urgent care (a grueling practice for both nurse and patient), but there’s more than enough to swallow on the other end. A three year-old placed in my care will be released in less than a week with an extra ration of dried fortified milk and no where to go. Her family is missing.

More adults die in this camp than children.

Does the world hold these adults responsible for having children in a country without means, not taking a moment to fully grasp the lack of education, the violence, the cultural pressure, and when comes down to it, the entropy of a starved mind? It is the adults who suffer due to neglect. They are harder to care for - with age comes pride, resistance and the devastation of loss.

Frances told us of a Somali woman brought to the camp, near death and refusing treatment. Her family had been murdered and she no longer wished to live. When a little girl came up to her crying, she slowly sat up and asked for a comb to brush the child's hair. That interaction, that feeling of being worthwhile, was all she needed to survive.

Still, there is hardly enough for man, woman or child.

This isn't the hot bed of excitement one sees on ER. Not the short news clip or the 20 minute commercial featuring emaciated children too weak to speak of money. Reality show contestants paid to entertain never truly waste away, they only waste our time.

Every night we pack up and drive 20-30 miles to the staff camp. Every morning we return and hope our med tent is standing. Four questions hang heavy in the rushing air.

Is the water contaminated? Will we have enough rations? Has the aid truck finally arrived?

Three questions plagued by the other set deep in the mind.

In a country where more is less, is hope a luxury?

My mother gifted me a box of 50 cards entitled "The Language of Letting Go". Here is what the first one commanded:

today i will...realize that being myself and letting others be themselves is far more important than being "right." Value and worth are not dependent on being right, and I'm striving for love in my relationships, not superiority. I won't hide behind being right, but will just let myself be who I am.

Exactly. I immediately threw the other 49 cards in the trash.

I'm cured!

On another note: I've landed the role of a topless corpse in a campy pirate movie. Raquel, their makeup artist, took one look at me and squealed in delight. "You look practically dead already!" Top of the world, mom.

There exists a kindly, if boisterous, nature in both the Irish and the Scots. They appreciate the texture of luxury on limited means, know the healing powers of music and dance, the importance of a large, tight-knit family, and boy, do they love a good fight.

The English? Nah, more like, "Say ol' chap, another round of tea and crumpets? Hmm?"

My heritage is all three, more Ulster-Scots, a combination commonly the result of that ancient discord over land and religion. There are times I feel branded by the mix - the fire of the Irish, the sovereign contempt of the English, and the largely opportunistic Scots (often pawns in a greater game).

Anyway you stir the pot, gregarious or not, it appears I am an irreverent opportunist filled with rage. Has this diminished over time with each passing generation? I witnessed the struggle in my parents. I feel the same within me.

For mine own child I wonder, with whom and which side do I begin to make peace?

I realize that Kurt Cobain was the musical spearhead of his generation, that he shaped pop (by the teeth, woman...take that back!) grunge culture, that his influence on youth and adults alike drove slackers to take it easy and reflect (is everyone gay?) before it (popped!) and rained rampant productivism on the music of today.

His genius was the construct on which others shaped a new style of play. Yes, without him the Foo Fighters would not exist.

But, and this is a big but, they wouldn't exist with him either. It is like what the dude in Filter said - "Hey, nice shot, man!"

Am I going to hell for saying that? I fear the Corbainians of the world might unite to hunt me down and skull fuck me. It'd be worth it.

I LOVE YOU, FOOS!

Everything smells like cheese today and Stubbs is restless.

In pregnancy I am blessed, for only the lack of a period signifies its presence. Morning sickness, sore breasts, and special cravings took a pass. I've not gained a pound. I feel as nonpregnant as pregnant gets.

It was the same with Caleb. Caleb Cash. I love that name. Anyway...all the maladies I suffered were mine alone. His death, as his life before it, gave no true warning sign. My heart problem, seizures, and fatigue ushered him in and him saw out, no correlation. They linger on and on. I guess the universe doles out pain in an even manner. Here was my fill, and no more was added.

I'm grateful to say the least.

I broke down in front of K earlier this week. I suppose my fill spilled on his shoe and my hot and salty tears came to clean it up. There are days when my coping mechanism fails to clap along with the ongoing parade of jerks and sighs, however carefully hidden from employer and relative alike. I have no soul to communicate my misery to. As I told him in breaking sobs, there is little point in complaining about the same shit, different day. How can I ask another to extend their hand to me when it may constantly be needed? Who has that kind of time and energy? No, my lovies, not even I. We all find out in our way the trials we face alone.

These issues, or what-have-you, will definitely have an effect my little girl's life. It is my first waking thought, will my child be able to count on me? I want to be a strong mother, not a sickly woman trapped in her body like I am on days when two years are an oasis to the twenty it appears. While hardly the worst, it is far from the best and I wouldn't wish this on anyone.

I understand the chaotic nature of life, guarantees are not worth the paper printed on, and strength of will, heart and mind are as fragile as soap bubbles. What I do have is foresight, as much as I am willing to forego, and the ability to plan the unplannable. So I haven't got an answer, right, but boy do I have a clue. And for the wellbeing of my flesh and blood there is nothing that I wouldn't do.

crushed grass underfoot, these rare indentions put
a sinkhole, my navel, my vagina fragrant
eyes, celestial dew drops, knees
spread wide - expansive, hot
sands on which hair-length snakes slide
toes, curls in mud
primordial formations, lava
pooling, hair at the desert of my breast
breath, dense fog blown
up past all that you left crushed
underfoot, these rare indentions put

hard promises

I'm 100% certain this baby is a girl. It's unlikely I have quite that innate a tuning fork. But I knew the instant I was pregnant, although I doubted it later. And when the pregnancy test initially showed negative I was stunned, until I saw the faint line. I knew. Knew it. Just as I know this baby will be healthy, I know this baby is a girl. I hope she's a blond angel, with blue eyes and ringlets.

What am I going to do with a girl?!

My thoughts turn towards her constantly – I can hardly concentrate on else. If she turns into a boy will I be turned upon my head? I have such a long way to go, 32 weeks until I may hold her. Patience? I never liked the word!

The very idea of this baby is magic. The seed, the womb. I am a tree budding with life. How remarkable that I, the human, a creature deemed by itself to be of most import, may reside among those lofty branches. I, too, am creation. Some say God is in the details. Every little one making us a part of the whole - the beginning, middle and end - we are the story untold. What little one, the littlest one, will you have to show me?

Greater awareness is my spring rose, as this child buds so do I, for mon deuxieme coeur I open more and more, exposing the rickety fault lines, the cracks that make me shake. Focus eludes me most; I cannot get a hold of it. This is a test of time and recognition. It took 34 years to become this, so I imagine it will take more than patience (!) to retrain my mind on how to proceed. The rivets are deep and water runs the easiest course. Well, since I don't have a millennium, it would appear that a jack hammer is in order - there's nothing but limestone as far as the neuron can reach.

If my last name was Hardee, I'd name her Harhar.

I took a stroll down Woodlawn in the evening hours, the setting sun clouding my vision. The strange opulence of Windsor Lane holds its own atmosphere. I had gone no further from my apartment than a mile to leave the planet. I am at a loss of experience to fathom the details of my journey, I merely put one foot before the other and occasionally remembered to blink. Some of the properties have fences rivaling that on the isle of King Kong - overgrown and ancient - and I wanted to sneak inside, to find treasure, to come out the other side changed, a wild-child.

The walk did me good. But the bane of sleep (or lack of) comes in fits, sharp starts that sit me straight up. Tired as I was I felt assured sleep lay comfortably with me on its side, I sank so sweetly into it; Oh! in vain, for after a few jolts my restless mind tossed an hour before mercy was paid.

A new sensation gives me an old one. Joy is predominant: a righteous smile embroiders my face. I am in love. This embryo, barely the size of a bean, possesses me. You may find her peeking through my eyes, the corners of my mouth, the slope of my shoulder, the slight skip of my step.

I need to quit biting my nails. I am ravenous today.

There is nothing in writing for me. No catharsis, no confession. I can write endlessly about nothing with great meaning; I could wax briefly profound without profundity. It makes no never mind.

Ultimately, I am too insecure to write. No, not insecure, guarded. I live in fear of being found out. Don't look behind the curtain, please, and the mice do thank you. Lots of things scurry back here.

But what's to find? Oh, there's the rub, rub. What if there is nothing to be found? What if you come to the realization, as I have, that behind that curtain lies nothing more than the mice, drunk on moldy cheese, half-dead, bemoaning their gluttonies?

There is something growing in this empty place. It will slowly fill me until a new question arises - can something come from nothing?

The static of my radio maintains our indecipherable origin in uneven, jarring spats. I have often longed to spit back.

Have you ever heard the emergency broadcast signal on the radio? A song will be playing or the DJ's giving you a useless tidbit of celebrity information when a screeching tone interupts - beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

For the first time (and I've heard this for the past 25 years give or take) I actually wondered if this was going to be the real thing. A real emergency! What would it be? Earthquake; tornado; incoming bomb; factory explosion; raw sewage leak; Godzilla?

The beeps ceased and my muscles tensed - the pause was longer than usual. Then, "This was a test..."

Damn! Always a tease. Is it wrong that I was a little disappointed?