Ripping Off the Band-Aid
Remember the roller coaster of emotions you felt as a kid when you fell off your bike or did something else to earn yourself a scrape wor- thy of a Band-Aid? I remember falling off my bike and skinning my knee more than once as a child.
At first, I felt the rush of pain as my knee hit the gravel, followed by the burn of peroxide once my mom began to patch me up with her first aid kit. Then, after we both blew on it, I felt the cool relief of the Neosporin and a Band-Aid to protect the wound so it could begin to heal.
In some ways, grief was like skinning my knee. After the initial pain and shock, I covered up the wound after the funeral with pleas- antries and a return to daily life in an attempt to heal. But just like wearing a Band-Aid, at some point, you need to rip that thing off and expose your wound to the air so it can finally scab over and fully heal. I had been dealing with my grief on a surface level up to that point, only allowing myself to know the depths of my heartache. It was finally time to excavate my sorrow and bring my pain to the light. I decided to join the Young Widows Grief Writing Workshop and braced myself for the necessary healing that only spilling my emotional guts could bring.
Our group’s first virtual meeting was on November 8, 2021. Five of us shell-shocked widows assembled on Zoom, and Joan quickly introduced herself and explained how each session would work. We would start with a short poem or writing excerpt and then be given
about twenty minutes to write how we felt about the writing, followed by each person sharing what they had written with the group.
Before Joan gave us the writing prompt, she asked each of us to introduce ourselves. It was awkward enough to meet for the first time online. Add the fact that each of us had lost our spouse within the last year, and you could cut the anxiety with a knife. Thankfully Joan had run these groups for a while and did a wonderful job holding space, including silence, for us to begin to open up.
The introductions were as painful an ordeal as you would expect. All five of us widows were in our forties, and each of us had kids. In comparison, I felt lucky only having one child who was now a teen- ager versus the other women struggling to piece together their lives while also caring for one or more children under the age of twelve.
Even though my situation was slightly different, for the first time since Al died, I felt truly seen and understood. Some of the women had a spouse die from illness, having to experience the added pain of watching their husband suffer for months before passing away. A couple of the women were like me, having their significant other stolen in an instant.
After our round of introductions, it was time to complete the writing prompt. The assignment was deceivingly simple. Joan asked us to free write for twenty minutes, using the phrase “This grief is ”
followed by a description of our feelings. I grabbed my purple-and- gold embossed journal and proceeded to bare my soul. Oh boy, here goes nothing . . .
This grief is debilitating.
This grief is insidious. It seeps into every thought, every move, and every breath in my lungs.
This grief is selfish. It won’t allow me to take my mind off it and comes back with a vengeance at the slightest hint of joy.
This grief is sad. More sad than I’ve ever felt in my life, and
I’m scared to feel this way for the rest of my life, but I’m terrified to let it go.
This grief is lonely. I don’t know how to connect with others sometimes because they don’t understand the magnitude of my loss. This grief is haunting. It fills my nights with thoughts of him.
With longing and regrets and desires to wind back time to have our love all over again.
This grief is awful. It sucks the life out of you and makes you wish you were dead.
This grief is a part of me. Like a scar I’ll never get rid of or a wound that won’t fully heal.
This grief is surprising in its depth and complexity, and magnitude. It swallows anyone and anything in its path.
This grief is special because it’s shaped by the love I had for him.
That’s why I cling to the grief some days in remembrance of him.
This grief is necessary to honor my pain and my experience. I need this grief if I ever hope to deal with the terrible thing that happened to me and my son.
This grief is confusing. Some days I can talk about Al and laugh, and other times if I catch a glimpse of his picture out of the corner of my eye, I’m enveloped in tears.
This grief is strange that way. No rhyme or reason. No predict- able pattern or warning. It’s just raw, primal emotion of a love lost and a heart broken in two.
What comes of this grief? I hear it wanes over time, but at this stage, I’m skeptical if it’ll ever go away.
I looked up from my journal after reading my piece to the group and was instantly comforted by the all-knowing eyes of other women who also had been thrust into the rotten club of widowhood.
For the next twelve weeks, I showed up to our grief writing group faithfully. Some days I dreaded attending because I knew during the
session the pain of my own loss and the loss of the other women in the group was inescapable. The fact that my grief was inescapable in these meetings was the unexpected gateway to my healing.
Afterglow Theorem:
Let 1 equal you and 0 equal the void.
0 + 0 = 0
0 - 0 = 0
0 + 1 = 1
1 + 0 = 1
1 - 0 = 1
1 - 1 = 0
0 - 1 = -1
Q.E.D.
Jazz Warmups:
Tortured yesterday means tortured today
only if you write it.
The more guttural the scream
the more intelligible.
Sam Shepard serving Nina Simone ice cubes
for her scotch: this is my thesis.
Oblivion obscurity christs still air—
everything's a target for revenge.
All heavens are alike
each hell's a hell its own way.
No one notices
a diamond among diamonds.
Splash in some horseshit.
Toro bravo:
I see a pair of ruby lips
I ignite.
My nostrils blast smoke.
I charge.
Hundreds of banderillas
regal me
yet I remain
standing.
Love, please—
if you won’t
deliver the final blow
let me.
Brooks Lindberg lives in the Pacific Northwest. His poems and antipoems appear in various publications. Links to his work can be found at brookslindberg.com.
a painting i did (not) finish
walking into my room
those i know always stare at
a girl trapped in the gray canvas
yellow bonnet covers her brown hair
that two sides show two individuals
her with a sky-blue dress
with wrinkles from the hot sun-day
but what they wonder
is why she has no face?
i tell them:
do you know about a girl
whose face a tone of mud
a neck colored with the noon sun
and white hands that
resemble caucasians?
do you know about a life
of black, of yellow, of white
intertwined
a product of differences
that belong to no home?
she has no faces
she has no races
she lives in the shade of her own
hands hugging one another
for support
for reassurance
but they are still searching for something
in this murky liquid
she is standing in the water
she is drowning
or instead, you can say
i don’t know how to draw a face
or how to finish the dress
that my little stupid story
is covering up for the lie
for why her skin has three colors
i guess you should know better
about a girl who has no face
because in real life
she has no face, either
search for her in the dark
search for her in the water
has she blended in
or is she waving in vain?
Bach Le is currently living in Hanoi, Vietnam. From young, Bach has had a deep interest in poetry, shown through his works in both written poetry and poetry slam. Through poetry, Bach unveils his insights in life, across topics from love and self-identity to grief and loss.
Ah Smothering Slumbers
Peter? Paul here. Yas that. One Paul here. That is precisely what I said, do not lay down the game-play of your usual fairybabe of a long tail over me. That is because. Wait wait wait.
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha smothering slumbers ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Okay say that hoot what you will be ready this time though. This time will be different because I will be because I will be scribing I will be scribing down will be scribing down a be scribing down a precise down a precise and a precise and a precise and a tangible and a tangible a tangible record record of your entirely-entire line of the usual spew.
Wait I hunt up.
It’s been weeks since then what fool can’t look this over in an hour it were me they’d been off my land by dusk that day.
I hunt up a.
That day. You know? Ha ha ha ha.
Hunt up a writing.
Ha ha ha ha ha smothering.
Up a writing implement.
Slumbers come over kmaerflentefpohawt.
A writing implement.
Whheartf tahtiesr all is ha ha ha.
A suitable writing implement of the necessary.
Ha ha ha is all tahtiesr whheartf.
Sharpness to show up no matter.
Kmaerflentefpohawt overcome slumbers.
To show up no matter how.
Smothering ha ha ha ha ha.
Show up no matter how long.
Ha ha ha ha know? You day. That.
Up no matter how long it.
Day. That dusk by land my off been they’d me were it hour an in over this look can’t fool what then since weeks been it’s.
No matter how long it lies.
Peter? Paul here.
Peter hey Paul here hey hey hey listen; ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha slumbers smothering ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha which all gets all true no matter how long it lies unread. Hello welcome to Weathering’s Wheelsup-SuperBalanced-storage-acid-fishing-sinkers supply house and brainypup breeding farm. Because it may lie a very long time it may lie a very long time unread may lie a very long time unread and unread, Peter lie a very long time unread all over all under, Peter my lie a very long time unread down under all over its varying selfnesses, Peter my man a very long time unread.
That’s as if lost in the woods and coming into a pack of wolves. Peter my man, because very long time unread. Peter my man, because there long time unread. Or out in a grove of wild feral beasts, it would not know fear. Peter my man, because there may time unread. We’ve all up to four souls. Peter my man, because there may be Peter my man. Four only no more availably after our last inventationary. Because there may be no my man. A tiny man.
Because there may be no one more adequate man, because there may be no one with because there may be no one with the urge to wilding down and down and, there may be no one all over this space. No one to step out leading in many more other tinier men. With the necessarily there may be no one with the necessarily strong be no one with the necessarily strong stomach no one with the necessarily strong stomach to be one with the necessarily strong stomach required to be with the necessarily strong stomach to there yell hey hey hey, Barbazee.
Peter up? Paul here. Yas that—go on.
Okay to be able the necessarily strong stomach to be able okay to necessarily strong stomach to be able to okay okay dispassionately strong stomach to be able to dispassionately review, but when the wrong okey-dote is like a bulge on the throat cross all this house of scale model non-barbary ape people in their big gamer’s village, the stomach to be able to dispassionately review. It would not know fear, lacking the experience and having no reason for fear. The to to to to be able to dispassionately review the red be able to to to dispassionately review the red streak able to to dispassionately review the red streak sinewy to dispassionately review.
Beforewhich stands that—that—that being there uh! That black pepper! The red streak sinewy steely dispassionately review the red streak sinewy steely and review the red streak sinewy steely and strong the red streak sinewy steely and strong! Add in green bell pepper, red bell pepper, onion, and mushrooms and red streaks all sinewy steely and strong in its streak sinewy steely and strong in its graphicularity sinewy steely and strong in its graphicularity. Is it because of—but—consider a career as a technical specialist, in Man Vessel’s new citrus house emergency cedar weevil treatment service. Is it because of that business about—to boot!
Jawohl, steely and strong in its graphicularity and pull and strong in its graphicularity and pull out strong in its graphicularity and pull out the in its graphicularity and pull out the bit its graphicularity and pull out the bit parts. Is it because of that business about tipping the bellboy? Graphicularity and pull out the bit parts. The blood normally harmlessly flooding the body will act as a poison. All and pull out the bit parts. By speaking so softly as to be indecipherable. All needed pull out the bit parts.
No point the inside. Et et. All needed to out the bit parts. That business about and about and. Inside the outer-side. Tipping the bellboy? All needed to nail the bit parts. Cook over medium high heat until evenly brown. All needed to nail you bit parts. Tipping the bellboy and tipping and tipping? And know the real secret is that all flameheights are regulated by the single frontwise master control panel. All needed to nail you as needed to nail you as being the to nail you as being the one nail you as being the one—a true innovation only at Bison’s tree service!
Having as being the one having pressed being the one having pressed me the one having pressed me down one having pressed me down in torment. Down in torment. Down in torment. We learn of the techniques of illumination from two sources: from uncompleted manuscripts that allow us to observe the interrupted stages of the work and from the directions compiled by medieval authors. Torment unceasingly through this all. Okay? Through this all. Here I am armed. This all this all torment there. Now me I the ready-man. There I found out the guts. Yah readily ready the man all unafraid. To say it.
Hippo. So say it I’ll scribe it down Peter. Peter pete and repeat eh et ah. Say it now I will scribe it down that’s all as the Kmaerflentefpohawt overcome slumbers.
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha slumbers smothering ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Okay Mack, now. Now you get a turn.
(ladybug auspicious, ajna awakener, skate the night, the lady guru is around, for she lives in Electric City)
where is the secondary light? I used to have two. by this I mean lamps. no, three. one was green and one was orange and one was blue but with a white light and built w/a stone base. that lighting was better. the world it illumined more mysterious, the hard edges of reality faded, like in certain good dreams or possibly astral, other world lands filled w/feral reeds dancing for a cosmic breeze, and I stand w/canines beautifully alone, seven of them,- and there was, I was thinking, no end to the lands,- they are literally infinite in all directions. we begin walking, and we are happy beyond the world, a fine and wonderful and boundless joy.
which brings me to the dream.
but first the ladybug. a ladybug visited me in the middle and midst of the long lonesome cold dreary winter. it just was there on a wall beside a rosary I bought long ago in Mexico.
decades and the ladybug.
I think it is auspicious. and the dream is also…
big strange city, lit up at night, many many sections, perhaps miles long and wide, think Blade Runner meets Wizard of Oz meets The Rolling Stones music, and I am skating on roller skates fast and well, downhill, but not too steep a hill, experts following me that see me and it’s my first time but I can skate fast and they notice.
after perhaps five sections I meet the strange lady eclectic who is the leader, a leader in that faraway section of the odd metropolis, she talks to me briefly. I was there to get salt and vinegar chips of all things, for my beloved and the leader lady’s people couldn’t help me but she threw over a bag but it was a strange unknown brand to me.
these are not the right snack, I tell her.
she says, oh ya?- and we begin talking.
she is beautiful and powerful and dressed in business attire a black skirt and white blouse, and asks if I want my third eye, the ajna-psychic chakra,…touched.
I say yes.
She touches it.
For about ten seconds.
I suddenly see rural pastoral scenes like a highly advanced animated art form moving fast, and in one a duck chases after a bike going from left to right on a property and the scenes and the feeling is that it is free spontaneous living alive not contrived and it has a high energy. everything is in green blue and black.
the lady stops and says to return later. but she speaks. like anyone. doesn’t use telepathy though I am sure she could.
I go back to where I came from amaz-d,- to find Tara. I find her finally and tell her I have to go back to see again the lady that touched the third eye for she had said to come back again.
there are people on the outskirts of the city.
walking.
talking.
people being people.
Tara says ‘If you must-‘
a luke warm response.
and I go back again. Or try to. the strange lady is halfway there,- waiting, leaning against a wall. she knew I was on the way think. – and smiles and is happy I am on this way- and turns to have me follow her.
she is somehow a part of my people spiritually but knows much more than I, at least about that strange city of electric light.
I am skating.
I yell out w/ joy at the top of my lungs at how fast and free I am going amidst those places, primal great real real real real real joy. I jump and fly through the air for a bit.
but then I go where I should but can’t find her. I keep looking, scrambling. she is not reliable. but I don’t right off want to admit it to myself.
something is wrong.
why does this have to happen like this?
that whole place is hard to navigate.
a security agent at a check point stops me and says something. I can’t hear him. I
think I am in trouble though have done nothing wrong.
He repeats ‘zoom’.
I ask, ‘Zoom?’
‘You should zoom,’ he says.
I say, What?- and he says then, ‘…zoom,…it’s what is written on your bag so you should do that.’
I wasn’t really aware I was carrying a
bag, but he was right.
Like a white duffle bag or duffle bag type thing. but the same route is taken to further off, like an arcade type setting. I see someone I think could be her, that looks like her, but when I get closer it is not.
disappointment.
no other would do save for she. but she is nowhere to be found that strange gifted chakra lady, that master of third eye manifestation and manipulation.
though there are many people around, everyone is a stranger.
I go back.
I find Tara.
But it’s not before a long journey, to parts of the night electric city that don’t work- like an escalator that doesn’t function. And the people walk on it knowing it hasn’t worked for a long time and that part of the city is on the outskirts, not as interesting. but the people take it literally in stride.
Tara wears white.
we begin to leave, and i steal a glance back. I can see that in many parts there are so many lights that you’d think day was breaking or dusk had barely begun.
they must hum like a spiritual download but I can’t hear them then.
and i knew, as in reality, that it was still night. where was the electric city? Electricity spells electric city. that is strange. was it real, was it imagined, or somewhere in the middle somehow? was it on an astral plane? why did it feel hyper real,- and who exactly was the ajna awakener?
I longed to know the answers even before I awoke.
then the dream vision ended.
I remained still. ‘Remember remember remember,’ I told myself. ‘What were the curving streets I had skated down made of?’ some had interlock brick, I told myself,- yes I noticed that. and the buildings?- how about them,- every different design one could think of,- even an architect, I reminded myself,- yet I didn’t remember anything too high, more than say,- five stories. and more- beyond words also- the feeling,- the connection w/the guru, if she was a guru- master of some sort. and the fast skating, a certain freedom even in a strange place.
and a thought…hadn’t I deserved to skate like that, having skated my whole youth and adolescence in real life from age seven or eight onwards?- nothing it seems, but skating. I had began not being able to hardly stand on skates, and by the end I was usually the fastest skater on the ice.
‘Remember remember remember, because even when you think you have remembered everything or much,- there is often or perhaps always something recalled that you had forgotten. The bigger the chunks of dream you remember,- the more chance you have of arriving at some other memory within the chunk, around the chunk….’
I even tried to re-enter the dream. a long time ago, I could often to this,- by quickly forcing myself back asleep. I must have done it thirty times successfully through those past years.
but i couldn’t do it this time.
some skills you lose.
hopefully others you gain.
and I breathed deeply then the fresh air from the close open window, air clean and against logic and reason, full of the good and robust and coldish night. I felt a tinge of sadness as the dream slipped away further from me, and more sadness when the FEELING the dream brought began to recede further and further.
I had always wondered where dreams went when we left one another.
And I had always had the idea that it would be interesting to view one’s life in dreams from birth to death, a biography and chronology of dreams.
I stood and looked out the window then.
some streetlights lit the world somewhat and softly. bits of snow wafted down if you looked a little closer, like some invisible or hidden someone was up there just a above the electric light dropping handfuls of it.
I liked the bulbs and glow even if I didn’t love them.
I guess they would have to do as secondary light until I found a lamp again.
“In everyone’s life, at some point our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful to those who rekindle our spirit.” --Albert SchweitzerThe Brink of Summer’s End: Travel Log Celebrating the Authentic Spirit of the Seasons
By Jacques Fleury
[Originally published in Spare Change News and Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting You Authentic Self]
The noonday sun has mellowed. The laughter of children echoing in the playgrounds has dwindled. Soon, the chilly breath of winter will be upon us, fogging up car windows in the early morning and late at night. Yep, summer is practically over and for some of us, this glacial news is mighty sour.
Now is a time to reflect on the last few months. Did you keep all the promises you made to yourself back to the beginning of summer? Did you take that vacation you’ve always wanted to take, talk to that cutie you’ve always wanted to talk to, read that book you’ve
always wanted to read, see that movie you’ve always wanted to see?
Or did the summer days pass by you as fast as a NASCAR race car, drowning you in a smog of dust, confusion and missed opportunities? Well, you’re not alone. I did not get to do all that I wanted to do either, but I sure did as much as I could do and I don’t think it’s necessary for me to be hard on myself for the things I didn’t get to do and neither should you.
Then in late August, I decided to go on a road trip with some friends. We decided to tour some of the states of New England so that we can get to know other northern neighbors, each other and ourselves along the way.
Driving down the countryside almost always leaves me mesmerized. The quiet dignity of the trees; the wide majesty of the mountains; the boldness and beauty of the sunset and the docile and gleaming offering of the moon. As we drive along the highways and back roads of New England, assimilating Chinese fire drills and switching seats
with one another, we talked about things that we normally wouldn’t talk about in any other circumstances. We spoke of our hopes and aspirations, joys and pains, unrequited loves, past loves, present loves and pondered about future loves that we hope would save us all during our lifetime. Sometimes, we didn’t even speak at all. We just drove and rode in silence or listened to the radio and the music of our hearts.
We drove up to Jeffrey New Hampshire so that we can climb Mount Monadnock, purported to be the second most climbed mountain in the world, second only to Mount Fuji in Japan. Climbing the mountain was both challenging and invigorating. I saw all types of people climb, young and old. But I don’t think I saw even one other Black person climb. I suppose hiking is not “a black thing”, but I was there to challenge this stereotype. I did get some malevolent (what
are YOU doing here?) looks from some of the hikers as well as some benevolent (welcome!) smiles. I decided to concentrate on the smiles.
I was able to find some time to be alone in the woods, to hear the sound of the heart of nature and so that I can feel closer to the creator. Having some quiet time to think about my life to me is
a great luxury. I was able to think about what I’m doing right and what I’m doing wrong.
Behaviors that I need to re-evaluate and behaviors that I need to celebrate. I thought about all the people in my life who contribute to who I am and I could not help but smile. I realized then that I
have a selective group of people around me who contribute greatly to who I am and who I’m becoming. I gladly let go of toxic relationships that threaten my progress and embrace new friendships that can only strengthen me. During my vacation, I also rediscovered the power of
God in my life, which forced me to re-evaluate my spiritual path.
Getting away even for a short time from my day-to-day life taught me something. It taught me that I could find happiness outside of all the “stuff” I have back in my apartment or all the accolades I often get from my community for being a writer, performer and Television
personality. Being away from all of that, generated in me a sudden epiphany. I realized that other than my God, I’m all that I need. I am self-sufficient. I don’t really “need” someone else to make me happy.
I don’t “need” someone else to give me what I can give to myself: respect, love and attention. I realized that all one need in life is to be comfortable, healthy and happy. How can I expect someone else to give me what I can’t or won’t give to myself? I don’t believe in the
notorious saying “I’m looking for my other half” because I think that one should be a “whole” person first and naturally, if I know anything about karma, another “whole” person will find you.
We often get stuck in our lives when we practice the same behavior but expect a different outcome. Well you may be aware of the omnipresent saying: “Insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results.” Well, I have two things to say about that! First is “be the change that you want to see” and secondly “when you change the way you look at things, the things you look at begin to change.”
In other words, if your wish is to see the world as a friendly place then you have to try being friendly yourself. Yes, it is that simple. Because if you choose to see the world as a friendly place then you begin to look for evidence of that. However, if you choose to
see the world as a hostile place, then you began to look for evidence of that. It’s all about the way we think about things.
My point is this: as the Autumn leaves change colors, you too should try changing your thought patterns by being the change that you want to see, by changing the way you look at things and I promise you the universe will change with you. Remember, keep your hearts open, have good intentions and everything will most likely fall into its rightful place.
Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey Towards Understanding Your Authentic Self
Jacques Fleury is a Haitian-American poet, author, educator and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His book “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at public libraries, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…
