poem: The Sun Dog

I always ask for the window seat

I open my eyes, awaken in a panic somewhere off the coast of Delaware's curving spine. She languors, stretching like a cat, before meeting Maryland's silver water fingers, the Bay Bridge's disappearing, resurfacing marvel playing hide and seek below us... and I remember, or try to remember, crossing that bridge with an old lover, a rare moment we were actually in love, and something about the watery expanse of the most glorious sunset of my life thus far, the water liquid gold and flowing and molten, the sky so beautiful it transfixes you in place in this world and you understand nebulas and heartsongs and why humpback whales developed culture and why that is a grand thing. But I cannot do a complete recall- the anxiety strangles those memories, there is not enough money, what if my business is taken from me at customs, what if I cannot ever go home, what if I never find it? What if I am just crazy, what if I end up a beggar on the streets, dying alone in a foreign hospital after an accident?

 

What if no-one ever loves me again?

 

There is a sun dog in the single lonely cloud below, and he is following us like a ghost- a ghost of a dream I once had of starting over back where my journey to the heart began, and I do not know if he is panting in anticipation or drooling in hope of a scrap of leftovers of my carcass, as they say, this is what happens to dreamers in the real world, they have to work to eat, and nothing you do is work, you are selfish, all you do is play, real work is what other people do in fields and banks, you work in information and and beauty and truth and it does not exist, is not wanted. Sun dogs are 22 degrees from the sun and it occurs to me this is roughly the latitude of my new home, too- 22 degrees from where the sun hits the ground hardest, terminal velocity the speed of light itself- and I shudder because it feels like some sort of omen I cannot decipher.

 

And we fly over North Carolina's piedmonts and then her white spits, her own lakes and fissures and sounds, all the way to Nag's Head, where we curve out over the Atlantic; incredibly blue, a want to draw me in blue, an Adirondack Mountain autumn sky blue, and for the first time ever, I miss my home, my childhood, I miss swimming with ponies on the beach and warm sand and someone to say good night to me, lovingly... I miss feeling like a day of joy was important enough for someone to want to give it to me, to tell me it was ok. I miss keenly what life once promised me it could be.

 

There is not even a sun dog and the world is too blue, too intense; I am falling, reeling- it is so empty, so lonely, so alone.

 

I know we are off Florida before I see him (for with a pendulous member that big jutting into the sea, how could Florida be anything but a man?) by the cloud type- subtropical cumulous, perfectly spaced like a child's painting of the sky, and we are descending, moving west, and the yachts appear it is Memorial Day they are scattered on the water like fleas like parasites they are so numerous and now we see coast and breakers but we are moving faster than the breakers so you have to turn your head to see them hit land and understand that really is what you are looking at, their inexorible slow motion towards beachgoers you cannot see, as inexorible as our own slow daily march towards death that we also move too fast to notice muchly.

 

It dawns on me that this is it, this is my last chance, there is no turning back, all I have left in the world outside of my life is packed into 3 suitcases below the plane and in the computer at my feet, and the anxiety comes flooding back in like a wave, like those breakers and there is nothing to do but ride it, ride it, to the shore, to see if she lands me on my feet or drowns me in a riptide and if I ever believed in God now is the time, because never before has my life ever been so completely in his or her hands, arms, or churning stomach acids.

 

There is a deplaning and replaning, and I am glad the gates are close to each other because I am not even sure I am real, how could I be , here in Miami, here where nothing is real except the tans; climate and water and land artificially drawn. And we are flying again, turning in a gyre, and there is turbulence, and then clarity, the dying coral reefs clearly drawn through clear water, and I am both in the plane and floating in that water, the ocean being the territory and property of exactly every and no land dweller, supporter of all life and receiver of all hurts, all wounds, all insults, like her corals and sponges she soaks it up, and is dying slowly from within, our warning systems all going at full blast.

 

And I start to understand again why I came this way, as a piece maybe of something larger than me, for it to nurture or spit back out, and the loneliness starts eating again from inside, fueled by recent rejections and losses and hurts and the feeling that there is not and never will be safe ground, anywhere, for me.

 

Then ah, Cuba, the land doing fine without us, emerald and lush and beckoning, and there is another sun dog, so brief I may have missed him, and the old fear loosens its grip as a new hope- a life that has space for travel and wonder, not spent chained to a desk barely covering rent and never time or money for what is important, for a changing of perspective, for exploring the beauty I see only in books and on my screen, and the old had to be set aside to leave breathing space for the new, and I black out again, awakening as we descend into Guatemala himself- a land so macho he would be insulted to be referred to as a her, which is a pity because the women here carry the Western world's sorrows so that others do not have to.

 

And we are careening over the tortured carved landscape, the in your face dystopian maleness of his reality of greenless concrete and glass and diesel exhaust and razor wire that is La Ciudad, onto that tiny flat expanse on the edge of a gully and braking to a screeching halt in the rain, and I realize that the most courageous act I have ever made so far is as simple as screwing up enough faith and hope to get up out of this seat and walk off this plane and into my new life. And I decide right there, right then that I will buy a dog and name her "Sol" or as soon as I can afford her.

 

I still wonder if I will ever let anyone but a sun dog love me again?

 

about this picture... see update below

 

Author's Note

spoken word stream of consciuosness piece.

While packing on Sunday, I listened to a TED Talk given by a woman who was a brain researcher and suffered a stroke that left her flipping from one hemisphere of the brain to the other. In her talk, she discussed the epiphany she had during this time. You see, the left hemisphere makes boundaries and delineations, and the right makes connections and shares experience. Both have their value and place, but she believed that we need to nurture development of human interaction from the right. It dawned on me during my flight yesterday to Guatemala that I fight that same war inside my own brain, and that transitioning from one country's culture to the other, from one mindset to the other. After a day in Guatemala, I feel my anxiety and the pressure to perform melting; my sleep cycles, exercise and eating habits righting themselves.

The idea for this poem came from my thoughts during that flight.

UPDATE: January 17, 2014. I go for a walk to the neighbor's house to visit a baby goat (yes, my social life really does suck that bad). A 5 week-old orphaned male puppy is placed into my hands. And so Ra the Amazing Guatemalan Sun Dog entered my life and captured my heart.

Reviews

[John Jackson (El Juero)]

I love you...as a friend, Brother, artist, confidante, and most of all a fellow Human trying to make sense of a life tainted by the corporate gyroscope. Your observations of the within and without are both bracing and beautiful, dark yet illuminating. I see tu perro, as female; tough and wise, smart and loving... every bit as courageous as you.

ride it, ride it to the shore...

[Marie Anzalone]

Te quiero mucho tambien, hermano de alma. Fellow Traveler. Your words are a welcome wave of support and gladness and strength. Me hicieron llorar por leerlas.

I forget who said it, but I read once, "May I one day deserve my dog's love." If I ride it well, I hope that will happen again for me, I really do. And you, mi amigo... you helped me see that. Gracias, de corazon, gracias.

[John Jackson (El Juero)]

My heart beats stronger reading these words. Goddess will put someone strong and right for you in the path. Meantime...you and Sol will be gettin' good work done.
Hasta pronto, Amiga.

[Tree]

Sun dogs. I had to look that up. I've never seen one, or maybe because I never took the time to look for one. But I will, from this point forward.

The writer does not hold back in this courageous piece. She puts her hopes and dreams and fear all onto that plane with her, and during the journey she wrote these things down. Very raw in alot of places but this was to be expected in a write such as this, the reader hanging onto the wings of the poets words had to––– in some places ––––hold on tight. And it was exhilarating, painful, hopeful, emotional. There were some pretty funny things too, the phallic symbol that was Florida, Cuba not giving a damn (they'll be just fine), and the wonderful conclusion where we are informed that the poet will get herself a dog and name her Sol; I thought what if the dog is a boy? you could name it Sol too, right?

But these forays into humor were few, for this piece was centered around some real life drama, decisions––life changing, decisions. The first stanza makes this very clear, and honestly I had to read that over once or twice because the poet used some powerful imagery; beggar on the streets, dying alone in a foreign hospital, an accident, and then, finally: what if no-one ever loves me again? Whether the poet was preparing for the worst, sending a message to her past, or just streaming her deepest fears forward, this sets the bar for the rest of the piece, which is: I'm playing for keeps, these are the stakes.

For me, my favorite stanza was the 4th, where the poet takes us back in time; swimming with ponies, the Adirondack mountains, someone tucking her into bed. Unconditional love. Lost purity, lost innocence, a time when everything was wonderous.

After reading this a second time I couldn't help but put this piece in the context of the begginning of a movie, or the first few pages of a novel. Where the protagonist, on her way to God knows where, ––running, flying, lays down, in first person narration the past. The possible future. And the dream. Every story starts with a dream.

Now the poet must implement it, and finish her story.



A deeply moving and fearless piece, Marie.

[Marie Anzalone]

Synchroncity. Mystics tell us that past a certain point, nothing is coincidence. Whether I believe that or not is still up for fierce debate. After some point all bets are off.

I have read a lot of books. I keep a very small stack of the ones I go back to, over and over again, for their ability to say things simply that I cannot in 10,000 words. One such was a life-changer, Elizabeth Kubler Ross's "Life Lessons- What the Dying Have to Teach Us About Living." She asserts that all great fear is just window dressing for the greatest fear- the fear of death. Look under all your fears- rejection, loss, humiliation- and you will discover a fear about your death looking you in the eye. Since reading her words, I have trained myself to parse my fears; to focus them and examine them. Truth is, I fear the shame that comes from homelessness. I see these beggars, with no-one to love them, to care for them if they are injured or hungry or cold. I am afraid they are showing me my own future. I think our fears are harder to give up than our dreams, sometimes. What is your particualr flavor of fear of death? Mine is dying alone and unloved; perhaps another person's is dying in great pain; for another, perhaps dying completely forgotten. As if one never existed at all. We are always playing for keeps; we just forget that sometimes.

We all work too towards finishing the particular story we are writing, even though many never try to make it a Master's piece. Us perfectionists maybe were drawn a little too tight for that. But you honed in so clearly, as you almost always do, on that great central theme- the regaining of lost innocence. The reclamation of a birthright to love and be loved, to be useful, to feel joy. Can we ever get that back? I sure as hell hope we can.

Thank you for the time it took to prepare this review. It was wonderful.

[Tree]

Yes, dying alone is a fear. Outliving everyone who ever loved me.

[Marie Anzalone]

Interesting take. My version of dying alone is that there won't be any loved ones to outlive in the first place. Yours falls into the "why it sucks to be immortal" trap; mine into the "why it sucks to be destitute in America" trap.

[Tree]

Being the last one standing, is what I meant. Having only remembrance for company. No progeny of your own, it dies with you. Your funeral consisting of the two cemetery employees who follow the lowering of the casket with two cigarette butts, and a canof pepsi. Then the headstone that you had purchased 7 years earlier, under duress from a salesman who snuck in the convalescent home, isn't even put up; something about lost paper work, or maybe they new no one would care, if they didn't order it anyhow; besides the poem you wanted written on the stone was too long, and to them didn't even make any sense....

[Marie Anzalone]

you DO realize there is a wonderfully dark poem in there waiting to be wrriten, my friend?

[Tree]

I will cut and paste. Give me a title.

[Marie Anzalone]

"Last Man Standing"

[Tree]

done

[Marie Anzalone]

love it!

[Marie Anzalone]

God, I miss you, my friend. I miss you so much.

[ChemicalMadness]

Theres adventure here, amidst the questioning and loneliness. There's an overlooked bravery, playing amongst the clouds, chasing down waves of unknown heights. It all looks flat from above. But life is not lived in the clouds - their value and benefit being perspective and reflection...and a place to seek, find, and store dreams. On the ground, with hands in soil and arms around the necks of new friends, in the fur of unquestioning companions, our lives wander and context unfolds to reveal, then recedes again to be sought when the time is right to search again. You are in the where now and the world is no longer flat...

CM.

[Marie Anzalone]

I must tell you, CM< your review on this piece blew me away. Utterly. You are so right about the flatland world being different form above; how we travel to change persepctive, not location, how we put our hands into good earth and set down roots and fight for our litle patches of tierra firma. Life cannot belived, as you say, from clouds... but we must find ways to visit them in order for us to design our dreams for living, no? I humbly thank you for taking the time to put down these words on my imperfect expression here.

[Emily B]

my heart hurts with you, yet I am glad you have found yourself at home again, you are loved

this is one of those pieces that i will return to on cloudy days, i will return and learn what it is to be human over and over

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you so much for just understanding what this is really about, Emily. That alone is a gift beyond human ability to value, I think. I am glad you found soemthing worthwhile here.

[Emily B]

the words are still as beautiful as they were a few weeks ago

[Marie Anzalone]

when we are in transition, every day becomes an exercise in courage and failure and resilience. Here's to hoping one day before we die, we get to figure it out. :-)

[Corset]

I have to go to work, so I can't comment, but this went into favs so I hope that says it all.

[Marie Anzalone]

The time you took even to just read this and leave a small comment were much appreciated, Corset. Thank you.

[Corset]

It's my pleasure I promise, I reread it again just a few minutes ago too because i was hurried this morning> I love how you made the continents, land masses, cities into he's or she's and then gave them substance, this was such a wonderful journey, not only in body, but in mind and spirit too, I loved this.

[Marie Anzalone]

thank you kindly for your words this evening :-)