A to Z Challenge: H is for Haemorrhagic

That conference in Kigali almost killed me. I have never been so exhausted in my life. Four lectures a day plus networking in the evenings? Never again. 8,593 miles from Kigali to Denver and I am finally home. Well... if you can call it a home. I don't have much in the way of furniture except for a fold out chair and mattress on the floor.

I drop my bags just inside the door and go to the kitchen. For some reason, a vague sliver of hope rests in that moment before opening the fridge door. As if kitchen fairies might have filled it to the brim with healthful, tasty food. I sigh, staring at the lone bottle of wine and a case of diet soda. I really need to go grocery shopping. For a moment, I just stare into the fridge, enjoying the coolness on my skin. My face feels stretched taut - like the heat of Africa followed me home. I grab the wine and slam the door.

If only my colleagues could get a look at me now. Whenever they see me it's in five star hotels, Prada, Louis Vuitton. I must be quite the picture, sitting on a mattress on the floor drinking wine out of the bottle. It's not even good wine. I laugh to myself and kick off my shoes. God, that feels good. I stretch my toes, arching my foot and stretching it back out. The wine makes me feel warm.

All this jet lag must be finally catching up to me. Or maybe it's the wine. I stretch my whole body this time, feeling the twinges and stiffness of a 30+ hour flight. At least have two days to myself before I fly out again. I'm feeling light headed. I glance at the wine, but I've only had a couple of gulps. Another wave of dizziness hits me and I fall back against the mattress. The wine bottle rolls off the bed. I manage to turn my head and watch as the red wine soaks into the tastefully off-white carpet. I try to care, but exhaustion overwhelms me.

I open my eyes sometime later. It's dark outside. My clock glows dimly showing 9:42 p.m. But I didn't get home until after ten. How long did I sleep? My arms and legs are covered with red starbursts. I must have spilled the wine on myself. I lick a finger and try to rub the red out, but it doesn't wash off. I trace the pattern again. I must be dreaming. I try to sit up, but I feel so heavy. I lay back and watch the headlights flare and fade on the ceiling. The light bends and hits me. I flinch back, covering my eyes with my arms. I must have the flu or something. Maybe a migraine. My head hurts. My  whole body hurts.

Damn those airplanes! Such a small closed space packed in with who knows who? Wasn't there an old man coughing a couple of seats behind me? At the thought, my throat tickles. I try to hold it back, but I can't. I roll onto my stomach and cough. Something splatters into my hand. It looks black, but I can't really tell. It's so dark in here. I wipe it off on a pillow I'm not using and throw it away from me. I should go to the doctor, but the only thing open right now is the ER. I try to sit up again, but fall back on the mattress. There's no way I can drive myself, but surely it's not bad enough to call an ambulance. It's probably just the flu. I should have gotten my shot weeks ago.

I close my eyes and drift off. Or try to. Someone opens the front door and light pours in. I try to cover my eyes, but I cough and cough. The carpet is stained with the black stuff or maybe it was the wine. I'm surrounded. Hands press against my skin, hot and heavy. I try to push them away, but I'm falling. I land against my mattress and start crying. Crying and coughing. My tears are thick. Too thick. I wipe my cheek and my hand comes away red. I scream, scrubbing my face, but I'm still coughing hard. I feel something rising and I vomit, throwing the black something over the carpet and bed, covering the wine stains.

It's a nightmare. A fever dream. I try to find my phone to call 911. My hands scrabble around the bed but the only thing I can get a hold of is the empty wine bottle. It must be in my purse. My purse is across the room with my luggage. I crawl off the bed through the black vomit and wine. Why does my apartment feel so freaking huge? My body is too heavy. The hands press against me, stopping my movement. I scream, but nothing changes. I need to get to the door.

Why do I need to go there? I can't remember. It's so far and I'm so tired. I'm crying steadily, great sobs that wrack my body until I can't breathe. My nails break, digging into the hard concrete under the carpet. I collapse, barely able to move my head.

Something inside me tears. A violent ripping shudders through me, but I relax. My muscles don't have the strength to clench. The pain is numbing. Bright white light washes through my mind and I close my eyes.

My hand lands on the wine bottle. The glass is cool against my skin. I sigh, because now I understand. I'm dying. It wasn't even a good vintage.

A to Z Challenge: G is for Gwenhwyfach

What stronger hate is there than that between sisters? Sister mine, you who were fair of face and voice, you had the heart of king and the love of a hero. You braided them into your hair with anchoring knots, like pretty playthings to decorate your beauty. You had no understanding of the hearts of men.

Was it not enough to be Queen? Was it not enough to know the love of a great man? While other women scrapped at the smallest plot of land that they may survive the winter, you held grand feasts and laughed as men fell over themselves to entertain you. You were always a simpering little fool. 

They call that slap one of the "Three Harmful Blows of the Island of Britain." I can still feel the sting of my palm against your smooth cheek. They say I am the one who began it, but it was you, dear sister. You threw away a king and a kingdom for your childish ideals. You threw the greatest kingdom on God's good Earth into peril for what? Piercing eyes and a handsome face?

A king lies dead at your feet and you flit off to France. Were it not for you, the king would be on his throne. Were it not for you, his blood would not water the ground of Britain. Were it not for you, I would have been happy.

Instead your folly unleashed a flood that swept through our land, scouring her clean of good men and hope. Death followed on your heels as you danced heedlessly into the arms of another. You spoke of love as if that had anything to do with it. As if love justified the destruction of a great man and his kingdom. As if love was enough.

Three things are not easily restrained, the flow of a torrent, the flight of an arrow, and the tongue of a fool.

A to Z Challenge: F is for Father

"Father"

When I said "Daddy," I spoke to you.

The you that tucked me in 

And washed the pain from my broken skin

When I fell, as children do. 

When I said "Father," that was you too.

That was the you of hidden histories
and bones and lost identities.

The you that ran my heart through.

"We didn't want to tell you,"

You whispered through your beer

As Mom pretended not to hear.

"You weren't there. What else could I do?"

My vision shifted, the world askew

made me Atlantic-sick,

the ocean you picked

To cross, the country you picked to woo.

And they took you.

Despite the pain at your feet

And the secrets you keep

They pretended you were someone new.

But who, really, are you?

Daddy, Father. Empty words

that echo the countless voices unheard

because you only did what people do.

Now they scream at me, too,

From the camps and the ovens

and the smoke that rose to heaven.

Am I as guilty as you?

This much I know is true:

You fell, as fathers do. 

A to Z Challenge: E is for Elflock

I wake with tangles in my hair. My grandmother would blame the fairies who sneak into young girls' rooms at night. My grandmother with the small, strong hands and the lilting accent of the old world. My grandmother who set a bowl of milk out every night for the elvish folk. I think they followed her to this land of skyscrapers and nine-to-fives. They wove themselves into her long silver braids and slipped over the waves to this land of opportunity and shallow roots.

Women like my grandmother bring her roots with her. She held the stories of generations in her breast and whispered them to me for bed time stories. Her father, my great grandfather, was the seventh son of a seventh son. Tall and brilliantly blonde, he slayed monstrous beasts and bested unjust kings. Her mother was a changeling, a fae child small and dark. She worked magic in the between spaces and the earth flowered at her touch. My ancestors. My mythology.

These little secrets were whispered to me as I fell asleep and in that between space - between awake and dreaming - the fairies took root. They grew through my limbs and mind and now my lips whisper their stories. My pen draws their faces and wings and tangled hair. And I see them, from the corner of my eye. From the edge of a shadow or in the glare of a bright light. I see them as I fall asleep and I hear their whispers before I wake to find their knots in my hair.

Each morning I brush my hair gently, undoing their night's work. My hair has started to silver now, like my grandmother's. And like my grandmother, I brush and brush, then plait my hair in a thick rope down my back. The hair has an ombre effect now, silver shimmering down into dark black, the color my youth. Dark and fae like my mother and her mother before her and her mother before her. On and on and back to an elvish woman who chose death and love over eternal life.

And forward onto my own granddaughter who sleeps and is visited by the fairy folk. At night, I sit beside her and whisper the roots into her ears. I see the stories grow as her eyes grow bigger and she falls asleep with the whispers of her ancestors and their magic. She wakes, her dark hair tangled around her face. And the roots live on. Across oceans and time. Despite routines and grocery stores and electricity bills. Magic lives in the blood and feeds on stories and I am a gentle gardener.

A to Z Challenge: D is for Desdemona

Sorry for missing a couple of days, but good news! I am officially moved into my new place. There's still a lot of work to do, lots of boxes to be unpacked, but I shouldn't miss another day because of it. Thanks for your patience! So let's get back to it.

D is for Desdemona...

What kind of mother names her child "Desdemona?" Who chooses to call her only daughter the ill-fated? The cursed? My mother the tragically romantic. My mother the Bardolater.

Why yes, mother dearest. Of course I'd like to be named after the naively faithful and desperately optimistic woman who is murdered by her husband. Because hearing that story as a four year old makes me look forward to getting married. Because growing up with my namesake's unjust death makes me optimistic about relationships in general. Most young girls are presented with Cinderella. Snow White. Sleeping Beauty. None of them are murdered for love. No. But Desdemona? Not exactly Happily Ever After.

So here I am. In another coffee house, on another blind date. My best friend is as bad as Austen's Emma when it comes to making matches. I definitely don't fit in her Austen-style rom coms. She's presented me with tall and short and large and skinny. With bookish and artsy and business-like. With smart or funny or handsome. But I am no Elizabeth Bennett.

I am Desdemona. The ill-fated. The cursed.

The coffee shop is nearly empty. It's almost ten at night on a Tuesday and all that's left are the dregs. There's an old man in the corner with a mustache to rival Nietzsche. An equally old bloodhound is curled up at his feet. A young college student is taking advantage of the free wifi. Her book bag looks bigger than she is. The barrista looks like a tattooed Audrey Hepburn, elvish and delicate. She has vine and flowers curling up her arms.

I chose the location this time. No more awkwardly fancy dinners. No walks through a park at sunset. This time the battle is at a place of my choosing. And isn't that what a date is? I put on high heels like daggers and war paint. But I am not looking to win. I just want to walk away with my skin intact. High hopes for a "Desdemona."

The bell above the entry rings halfheartedly as the door is pushed open. A man walks in. He's older than me, maybe ten years older. He's carrying a book, but I can't see the title. A hardback that looks well-worn. He glances at the old man in the corner and then the college student. He looks at her and writes her off, then he turns to me.

He walks to my table and sets his book down. Anna Karenina. I can work with that.

He smiles shyly and holds out his hand. "I'm Heathcliff. You must be Desdemona."

"Heathcliff?" I ask. What kind of mother names her child Heathcliff?

He smiles and nods, understanding my question. "Yes, Heathcliff."

I shake his hand and he sits. Strangely we are united in a coffee shop and I know. Whatever the end of the date may bring. Whether or not I ever see him again, this Heathcliff. He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. We children of tragedy.

The Classics Project: The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is the debut novel of Carson McCullers. It centers around a deaf/mute man named Singer and the people that he attracts to him.

Before I get into my review too much, I do want to say I think this book is worth a read. It's very different from anything I've read before and I think it will take me a while to decided if I "liked" it. But it did make me think. There are also several spoilers, but I've tried to leave out the major turning points. So read ahead at your own discretion.

The main characters are Singer, his deaf/mute friend Antonapoulos, the tomboyish and musically inclined young girl Mick Kelly, the educated and idealistic black physician Dr. Copeland, the alcoholic would-be labor organizer Jake Blount, and the observant Biff Brannon who owns a local all-night diner.

McCullers weaves these characters around each other in a vast tapestry of a late 1930s Southern town. There's nothing particularly special about Singer (except for maybe his vast patience), but he pulls the lonely and downtrodden to him with a gravitational-like force. Each of the side characters are attracted to Singer because he is a deaf/mute who is willing to let them talk. They come to him individually and talk endlessly about themselves and their own lives, imagining that Singer is the one person who really understands them. Because of his silence, he becomes a reflection of them.

I almost pitied Singer his unfounded confidant status except that he does the exact same thing with his deaf/mute friend. Singer who uses sign language talks endlessly to Antonapoulos who doesn't. Singer is absolutely certain that his friend understands him without any evidence of it.

I thought the book would go on to some kind of commentary about how relationships that are based on false pretenses (seeing as how none of the characters actually understand each other) are ultimately unsatisfying, but no. Everyone seems completely happy as long as they have someone to talk at. When circumstances take that away they are exactly where they began or worse off. At one point, two of the secondary characters that have quite a lot in common actually get together and talk to each other. They end up not only not satisfied, but furious. Like they are just happier when the person they're talking to doesn't talk back.

The only character that seems to have any clue at all is the diner owner, Biff Brannon. He watches all of these people hover around Singer like moths around a nightlight. He knows that each of them are just projecting themselves onto Singer and he doesn't understand why they're all satisfied. In the end, nothing really changes even for him.

At times, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter seems so pointlessly nihilistic and at others it's like I'm the only one not getting it. I've read a lot of reviews of this book and, honestly, I feel like the readers are projecting themselves onto the book just like the characters and Singer. They make something larger out of what's there and everyone's satisfied. While I do think the book is worth a read, I don't think it's some amazing masterpiece. There are a lot of details that bothered me, but even the big picture seemed somehow less than what I'd expected.

Carson McCullers is a good technical writer and I would be interested in reading another of her books, but The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is by no means one of my favorite classics.

A to Z Challenge: C is for Calliope

They cry out for me as to a god,

As though creation is external.

Do not, dear mortals, be over-awed

For heads unfit still wear the laurel.

"Calliope!" My name has grown vast

Beyond the edges of my own ken.

The romance of myth, of ages past

Of what once was and what might have been.

Story itself has christened me 'muse'

And has thrust upon me this burden

Of inspiration, the spark and fuse.

What of the path that I determine?

For I was a mother long ago

And bore a son of most brilliant light.

I taught him words of strength - my sorrow!

For my lesson brought this lasting night.

The beauty of his words laid him low

Torn apart by jealousy and hate.

That was the harvest of my furrow!

What cruel twist - this irony of fate.

Muse, oh Muse! They exalt me on high,

Begging, pleading for a spark of grace.

For words they live, but by words they die

And leave forever mother's embrace

So call not to muses nor idols nor gods;
Rather look within for the path yet untrod.

Thanks everyone for reading my blog. I'm never really sure how what I write will be received, but I appreciate all of the encouragement I've been getting so far! Please keep reading and I promise there won't be too much in the way of archaic poetry (well... I say promise...)