Archive for January, 2016


Letting Go

Letting Go

January 24th 2016 by Tama J Poore

It’s all about letting go. It’s often easier said than done.

If it’s bad for you, you need to let go. It may mean a life’s change, relocating, making new friends, and never seeing those you once knew. It’s not easy.

Who ever said it would be easy?

But the hard part isn’t moving on, it’s letting go. We are comprised of our memories, our feelings, and our thoughts. Our memories contain the fragments of our decomposing lives. The mistakes, the heartaches.

Why is it that the laughter is always what we least recall? And if we do recall the joy, it’s on the crest of misery because we can’t reach out and touch that same joy, or feel the fractals of love, of admiration, because we let go. Remember? We moved on. We don’t have that life anymore. It’s in the past.

The heavy weight of anguish drives us back down to that sore spot we loathe. Of feeling low, of being embarrassed by the choices we made. We will examine it. Do we want it? If we could go back, would we? Ask yourself: For those measured, rose- tinged moments, would you sacrifice who you want to be? Who you hope you will be? Ask this. Are those who you remember the way they once were? After all, have they sought your company? Maybe you weren’t so important to them, after all.

Crashes. Life’s crashes. Over and over again there will be life crashes. From the first baby steps when we fall on our padded bottoms; from the first skinned knees when the training wheels came off; to the first kiss that ultimately ended in heartbreak. It couldn’t last forever, you know?

Happiness can’t last forever. Nor can the misery. Nor can the all-consuming pain as betrayal reaches into the core of our soul, and stings our cheeks with color and leaves behind a hardened fossil of trust that will become more difficult to reach in the future. These are the first of life’s crashes. Sometimes they feel like a train wreck.

But we did let go. We turned loose of the table and furniture and took our first baby steps. Someone removed the training wheels and we took off, streamers sailing on the wind. We walked. We rode that bike. And we kissed our first crush. And we forgave our first traitor. And we allowed someone to soothe us, to comfort us, as we fought with trust all while relinquishing control. We let go of the safety net inside of us, invisible even to our own eyes and we moved on.

If we had never let go, we wouldn’t be here at this moment. And we surely wouldn’t see the next moments. The moments that will be filled with sweetness, laughter, pity, anxiety, anger, loathing, love, and filled with question and uncertainty.

Live in life’s moments, they form who we are. Store them in the deepest folders of your memory for future recall, but always, always let go. It’s not in our control, this thing called life. You may control this moment, but can you control all the seconds and minutes that build your lifetime? Would you want to?

It’s alright to just let go. When the time is right, simply let go. The hardest part of moving forward is always letting go.

 

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Momma Smokes. 1/10/2016. By Tama J Poore

Of course I loved it when my momma smoked, it was funnier than hell and the minutes flew by. She would dance around, parading like she was all alone in the spotlight. Where did those twirls come from?

And my Momma sang, boy did she sing. Belting out some bluesy shit, she didn’t come from Harland. But life was tough as hell back then, they did things old school. If you didn’t break your fist on that dude’s face, then his facial bones sure weren’t broken! “That’s man shit.”, I heard some of her men friends say! And Momma liked manly men.

A lot of those memories are buried. But did you know that on rare occasions buried things will rise to the surface?

I remember one night this burly man was with Momma, and I was just about to unlock the door, because they didn’t seem to have a key, what with all the noise and banging sounds they were making. But then the scouring sound of scuffling replaced the banging and I risked a peep through the eyehole, he had Momma backed up against the door. I spun around, middle finger up to the air and went back to bed.

I got so fed up with her coming home late, or sometimes not coming home at all. Well, sometimes she made it in before sunrise, but still, I was home all alone, 11 years old and worried like an 86 year old wondering when he closed his eyes if he would wake up to see another day. Or, would his conscience slip away on a long snore followed by a cough, choke, gasp….hold it!! Hold your breath.

I must be holding my breath because I can’t feel the air. I can’t clear the stuffiness from my nose. Why are my eyes tearing up and burning? Everything is burning and my lungs feel like they are going to burst! A damp hotness spreads across me and then the heat turns to cold. Like someone pulling a blanket of snow and ice over me. I can only see white. It’s the same whether my eyes are open or shut. I sense the presence of shadows, sinewy shadows with long, wavy arms. But I can’t feel them. And I can’t hear them. They move silently, are they really there?

Well, Momma is really here now. And, as mad as I was at her for leaving me alone, I am not mad anymore. Despite the morbid fantasies that play out in my mind during the anguishing hours between midnight and 4am, scenarios which involve Momma’s car leaving the road, or Momma driving into the back of an 18 wheeler, my heartbeat softens because now she is safe at home.

How could I stay mad at Momma? No one was prettier than my Momma when she was feeling carefree, her face soft and wrinkle free while her hair flows from her shoulders when she does a twirl, dancing in the memories of the bar room song. How could she do a twirl and not fall down when she is so damned drunk that piss is already trickling down both legs! Fuck! Fuck it all to hell! Oh, I want to walk away. I want to run away! I want to leave her there, already stumbling, as her nylon stockings slip on the urine in the floor. Her urine!

Disconnected images flash through my mind, I can see Momma falling hard, her head hitting the door frame. I can see her crumpling to the floor and her neck drooping, tendrils of stringy hair draping to the floor, soaking up the urine. Was that blood staining her soft, blonde hair? It sort of looked pinkish; it wasn’t a deep red, no wait! Those were tears which had picked up traces of blood. Nope, the blood was flowing from her scalp, and it was very red.

I shake it off, whatever this loathing feeling is, it has ways of creeping upon me. I hate the sickness in which it reels. It’s a dark place, a place where a sober Momma lives. Or is she living? Her face furrowed, the corners of her mouth dragging down. A few years ago the crevices between her brows formed parallel lines. Now they form an incomplete hash tag.

Is any of this my fault? If it weren’t for me she wouldn’t have to work hard labor, long hours, ruining her soft skin. She wouldn’t have to suffer, her shoulders and back aching. I will rub them for you, Momma.

Oh, the worried face of Momma. That’s when parentheses form around Momma’s mouth, and her eyebrows make punctuating commas above her eyes. The eyeliner starts to smear, she tears up so easily these days. Is that also my fault?

So, of course I love it when my mother smokes. She doesn’t piss on herself, or vomit on the floor. She doesn’t go on crying jags, and drooping drags where she falls to the floor in regretful sobs, pulling on me, weighing me down.

Nor does she go out and find a man to tickle her fancy, even if just for one night. No, the smoking Momma laughs and giggles and sings and dances, oblivious to the fact that she can’t do any of those things well. But it sure makes her pretty, smoking does. It erases the frown lines and the signs of anxiousness. It makes her stay home, where she belongs, with me on weekends. It makes her spend time with me. Time that won’t last nearly long enough.

The minutes zip by on the tails of meteors, and too soon the long week begins, with me going to school, her going to work for way too many hours. My sitter taking me home, feeding me, helping me with homework until an exhausted Momma comes home, ready for a bath, a greeting full of hugs, until she falls asleep on the sofa trying to watch the news. Each day ending the same, no deviation till laundry day and grocery shopping on Fridays, then the weekend arrives and I wonder, ‘this weekend will Momma spend it drinking or smoking?’

If it is a drinking weekend, she will seek the depressing music in a smoke filled bar, and the weekend will bring the gloom .These are the slower paced minutes of my life. The ones that are laden with weight. And time always, always creeps by slowly. Much, much too slowly. THE END

Revived, and alive! I am back! I have had writer’s block and lived in a funk since 2011 when life literally fell to pieces for me.
The pieces no longer fit into that puzzle.
It’s a new portrait. Different dimensions. Different depths. Different realities. And the puzzle is evolving.
Let’s start putting puzzle pieces together! 2016 is a new year. A new chapter.
Welcome. and Thanks! Thanks for everything – Tama Poore