Djinn

There is always this presence inside me,that takes on a form nearly of spirit quality. There has never been a moment in any of my recollection that this discomfort was not present.

As a small child I would lay myself on my mothers’ lap and demand she rub my belly.

It was as if there were Djinn resident within me, I was their precious vessel. I was the identified servant, merely a vehicle , a reluctant home.

As a child, growing up, and to this day whenever I was upset or sensed danger or felt any kind of negative emotion, the spirits inside my belly would swell and demand their freedom.

 They were angry spirits, defiant and garrulous spirits. The spirits would take form as a wave

of nausea , a rising up of  bile and enzyme , now awakened,  rebellious and determined to rouse me from  my complacency, my lazy inner voice, my inertia.

They are unforgiving and show no compassion or sensitivity for timing, place and situation. They might arrive as I ride an elevator in a museum, they may arrive as I am waiting in line at Macy’s to pay for my new underwear. They may arrive as I sleep, committed to a dream and no longer in this body. They seek to bring me back to this body to serve and acknowledge them. They care nothing for convenience or decorum or invitation.

The spirits love ginger in any form.  The tender little chews from Asia, or a a tisane, fresh shaved ginger root, infused in boiling water. They love Canada Dry Ginger Ale, served in a tall glass filled with crushed ice, as it was first served to them by Sister Maria Stella, from the Convent of The Little Flower of Jesus.

It was the eve of my First Communion.  At 6 years old,  I too young to be in a convent and too young to be receiving this First communion, not fully understanding the symbols of partaking of the Body and Blood of Christ, and I woke the morning of the ceremony, ravished by the Spirits as they pounded and protested , devoured my calmness in the uprising of Bile which turned my skin a terrifying shade of green.

I lay on the cool floor of the bathroom in the dormitory where we all lived, feverish and vomiting and Sister Maria Stella, came in with a tall glass of Canada Dry Ginger Ale, filled with crushed ice, and a straw and as I drank this miraculous tonic, The spirits were pleased and smiling and smug. They went outside, and relaxed on the lush green lawn outside the dormitory building, they were happy and celebratory, resplendent and sated.

I was given a bath and dressed in a crisp white Communion dress my mother bought at Saks Fifth Avenue, a confection of organza and ruffle punctuated by seed pearls.

I was made sacred with new white socks trimmed in lace and perfectly new white patent leather mary jane shoes with a tiny pearl button clasp.

The Spirits looked over at me from their lounge outside and nodded in approval at my outfit, as I sipped the ginger ale from a straw as Sister Maria Stella brushed my hair and wiped the sleep from my eyes.

We were never given sodas at the Convent, nor were we ever given crushed ice in anything.

It was momentous and remarkable that we were given such an offering. I suppose if was from that point on, that the Spirits knew I was at their beckoning, their dutiful servant.

The procurer of Ginger and Ice.

purgatory

My desk sits in front of a very large window that faces west. It is on the second story of my home and if one were to look down, one would see the ground 30 feet below it. I have spent days and days here, looking out this picture window watching barges head up the northern current to Alaska.  From this perch I have watched the color of the sea shift from pink in the morning to steebluegrey at late in the day. I have seen the calm sea of morning change to a whirlpool of white caps and sea swell by early afternoon.

I will often sit at this desk until late at night, fighting my fatigue. I stave off sleep and the comfort of my bed, where rosie, my dog, sleeps and snores incessantly, breaking the quiet of this hill at night, shattering  the tenderness of the owls singing .

 I have rubbed myself raw with oils of neroli and helicrysium and myrrh just in order to sleep.  I do anything I can to find sleep and the safety it brings although often times sleep does not comfort or soothe me at all … it propels my psyche into past lives that I never loved and I often kiss men I have never met and both my ex-husbands meld into one person. I often dream of my family, all now passed on, all but me, and they arrive as if they were real life. They are potent apparitions, unrepentant and

urgent.

This astonishes me, awakens me, and frightens me even though I do often wish I had my mother around, you know, just to make everything feel all right. For solace and haven. I often wish to be held or consoled but I am neither.  So, I look for answers, consolation and balm in rose bushes or under the artichoke plants, behind the pump shed, under the Burmese honeysuckle, amid the tangle of fragrant sweet peas, the rich humid earth, the cool marsh by the creek.  I look under the wings of Ravens, beneath the newly budded tiny peach blossom, beneath the young fruit, the tiny new pears, beneath the bronze stalk of the pomegranate tree.

I call out.

I call  out to ancestor, Arab, Grandmother, Inuit, Whale Goddess, I call to Spirit in the form of predator bird and omen, I call to omen in the form of a piece of paper lying on the street, just near the old Laundromat, I look for clues on this old crumbled artifact for wisdom, for a way forward, for an explanation, a map, a treasure. I look into the eyes of the old Miwok men who come every Wednesday to the post office, where they pick up their government checks, their eyes are clouded with yellow milk and swirled brown earth and they tell me nothing, I know they see everything, but they say nothing of my darkness, my longing, my fate. They tell me plenty about their darkness and their place in the 15^th bardo, the bottom of the rung bardo that fills one’s liver and spleen with sorrow and despair. The meat hook, the fiery pit. They are No Longer Willing to evoke, conjure, or speculate.

They do not give me the answer because I am filled with Light. I

 know this, even  as I bellow and wail and force my will upon the course of my private river, I will always fill myself with light every time I see the moon.

They know this. The Miwok men can see the moon in my soul. They know I have sold the moon my dreams.

 The moon does not elevate me nor will she answer my questions about my future. The Greybluesilver Sea and the barges speak nothing to me of their journeys, nor of mine, or of the Miwok men at the post office. The moon will not reveal my destiny, illuminate my darkness or speak to me about my transience.

  I have been holding myself in this suspended place for so long that I fear if I were to be released from it, my feet would touch the earth and crumble into dried ambergris. I would be devoured by the Spirit of Whale and Fox, I might be left out to dry on a driftwood rack, as if I were a Fileted Cod , Salted and Curing.

Here now, at this big window, looking west, over this tree canopy, over the nesting ravens,

This moon just simply fills me with light. Unobstructed light. Unfiltered, irreverent, elliptical, proficient light. I may someday find my passage here, under this Moon that remains silent, says nothing, is no fortuneteller, is no gossip, this Moon that refuses to be an oracle.

creative man seeks.......

There began the usual flurry of beguiling emails. The digital pictures that described this particular man, handsome, confident, witty. The pictures included a beautiful daughter he courageously raised alone. The pictures revealed interesting paintings and sculptures he created in his live /work loft in urban Berkeley.

I say to myself.

O this one will be perfect. This will be the one who will help me exorcise Stefan from my soul. Heal my broken heart, replace the bleak monologue of despair, with promise. Spring was imminent.

There were possibilities here. Yes, possibilities. I would prove wrong the psychic from Arizona who told me that I would have no more romances. That Stefan and I would reunite in the fall, marry and live happily ever after.

 We arranged to meet Friday night

at a tiny Japanese restaurant in San Anselmo. As he walked through the door, I thought, well, he looks pretty good, taller than I thought. We greeted one another with a tentative hug. He smelled like cigarettes. We sat down at the table and instantly he became insulting , demanding and belligerent to the waiter who came to get our drink order and tell us the specials.

He tried to smell my neck nearly ten minutes after we introduced ourselves but I had not invited him to do so.

We settled into the evening and ordered a Saki flight, and I could see his face flushing, and I felt the color in mine return as well.

He confessed was 54. though his posting said he was 50. when I asked him about that he replied” ah well what’s a few years here or there, age doesn’t mean anything”.

He asked me if I had written to Stefan , telling him I had met someone, fallen in love and had finally moved on. I said I had not. That it never occurred to me to do that.

He then told me about the women in his life. The woman he really loved and the woman he longed for. When he spoke of the woman he longed for, he painted a  dark portrait of a disturbed woman, who he lovingly described as looking much like a dwarf. He said her head was elongated and she has small rat like eyes. He said they had a violent relationship and now she refused to see him because she felt him to be an abusive alcoholic. He then began to cry . Big discolored tears  fell down his cheeks. He wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve.

He grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from a little bundle of cookies I made earlier that day, and had brought to the date as an offering… he grabbed the cookie, as he was still sitting in front of a plate of albacore belly.

I think I may have shrieked! “ what are you doing?”.

I think I did that. I did shriek. I apologized, I said,” O I am sorry, you do what ever you want. They are your cookies.

When I asked him what happened with the woman he loved, a woman he was with for nearly 10 years, on and off….

 He then explained  me the woman he loved would no longer sleep with him because, “ I would not go down on her”.

I sat in the corner looking at the hand blown glass soy sauce dish. It was  luminous turquoise and reminded me of the 80’s rage inCraft glass blowing. I thought about my first marriage, and the dress I wore at my wedding was sort of this color. Shot silk it was made of. I remember going to the Craft and Folk Art Museum in Los Angeles and looking at hand blown glass then, to register for the wedding… something arty and different. The soy sauce dish was something I would have registered for.

He said, “ Oh, you know, it’s not that I don’t like doing that kind of thing, I do but…..”

I looked  down at the cobalt blue water glass and thought of the Welsh spring water I once served at my restaurant.

He looked at me and I think he may have sensed my discomfort.  “Where exactly is Lebanon” he asked.

Ty Nant… that was the name. I chose it because my father was Welsh. I had Welsh water and Lebanese wine, for my Lebanese mother… this liquid ode to my parents. They are dead and have been for a long time now.

It seems that my description of the global location of Lebanon, satisfied him and he then continued to explain his predicament to me

“ I did not like the way she tasted” and I put the piece of perfect Spanish mackerel down for a moment.

They had albacore belly that night as well, it was 

Really Very Good. He ordered the Fish Miso Soup, which I knew was just something to do with the fish that wasn’t fresh enough to cut, I believed it held the bones of a big sea bass.

It was cloudy and unrefined. Fishy tasting.

He told me “ I did not like the way she smelled” and I looked for the waiter to make eye contact, but you know, at this point in the evening, he hated our table. He hated the guy. He may have hated me. Every so often I got a whiff of stale cigarette. There was a damp spot on his sleeve where he wiped his nose when he was crying about the other woman.

I used to smoke. I remember when I quit. I remember how hard that was. How I struck deals for garnering strength with deities and the ghost of my father who died of lung cancer.

He had the pallor of a smoker and the urgency of someone who wanted so desperately to light up but could not, not for the date, not for the impression he was trying to make on me, knowing the the hip Marin restaurant would be intolerant.

 People who smoke can’t smell or taste very well… you know. The waiter looked at me with a sort of peculiar empathy.

At one point I realized that I was sitting there with my arms crossed over my chest. Hands on opposite shoulders cowered in the corner of the pretty little booth . I was trapped. I fixed my attention on the interesting glassware, on the bus boy’s perfect white uniform, on the bus boy’s waxen black hair. on the sushi chef who wore a handwoven dark charcoal grey scarf on his head that was longish in the back and elegant.

The room was ambient with crazy chaotic fusion jazz… there were these tense moments of musical hysteria and there were moments where my hysteria was reduced to a fixated obsession with the swirls of green wasabi in the soy sauce dish.

 He said the sushi chef was a control freak.

The bus boy, who looked Mayan, hovered around our table. Swooping up empty dishes as fast as we could empty them.

We split the tab, he offered to pay, but wanted no part of that, I wanted to leave it clean, without feeling obliged, knowing that if he paid for dinner,he might expect a kiss or possibly more.

We both admitted with certainty and relief we had no chemistry. That we would stay in touch, you know. But we won’t. We didn’t.

As we walked out into the night, back to our cars, he said,  “ Well, I wish you luck in finding someone, you know, you’re probably menopausal and that means that pretty soon you won’t even care about sex anymore”.