Adoring Chopin

A love for Chopin keeps you woven into the cloth of a tight circle, a circle of adoration for genius.

As the cloth constricts around my neck, I dog paddle to keep above the water, searching for others , who also love Chopin. Others who protect peace, who linger to savor the joy and awe of tiny grey droplets of water clinging to naked bony branches. I love stalking the Japanese maple out front, deep slow staring, teeny little Christmas lights perfectly made by nature.

We should be moved by masterpiece work. Whether the work is toiled in ten thousand hours of practice by the hands of a sensitive soul, or created by magic at the direction of Mother Nature. Living in a technological wonder of a world dilutes the richness and potential of a human mind. The human mind needs to stretch, to strive, and work. Who will be original. What will be “original”. What a boring thought. It is a blessing to be alive, we must live unlike robots and think private thoughts, make things with your hands, grow food.

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April 12, 2004

My mother is crazy. A light bulb turned on in my head at the ripe age of 45. BPD says my therapist, “your mother sounds like she has BPD”. My mind goes to WTF is BPD, privately of course, but publicly , I say , “oh, okay” , then run home to google three letters with the unbeknownst power to throw me off a cliff.

July 07, 2024

As I am coming to terms with my new roommate situation, stage right BPD Mother enters the room, I find my brain pondering all the WTF moments of my childhood, only now I have the right fucking glasses to see! All of it makes sense and honestly, ‘it’ making sense is a new kind of torture , a new survival room to navigate your way out of. My guts feel tight , like they are getting mashed up in one of those sausage making machines every time I am in my Mother’s presence. I close up from the inside out. Tight, rigid, stiff, on guard and indifferent woven together as a blanket of shame.

She is a wounded child , I have been told. Trapped in a hell that she is not even aware of. I am desperate to keep reminding myself of this to uncover my compassion for her. To help acknowledge childhood is over, life is always about perspective. Instead of being a victim I can applaud myself for attempting to heal , for being strong, for being resourceful, and maintaining creativity to release negativity , voice and inspiration.

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