Thin (Fake news:real girls)

After the 911 call, the sirens, the knocked-in door.  After the 2-for-1 autopsy, the souping-out of ballistic shards in layers of mother, curls of child.  After the sewing up, the tissue samples, temporary storage in this antiseptic place. 

After this near-final totem of mother-and-child.

After all that

the cool and empty morgue fills with an emanation of light, softly cupped voices, perfumed flurry, fairy godmothers.  A little late she thought as they scooped and coddled the baby-little late she thought as they lifted her from the crook of each bent elbow, inexplicably washed and free of blood.  Here child, they murmur, try on this, try on that.  Blur of organza and tulle.

After the day she’s had she goes along with all the fuss. Come on, child, carriage is waiting!

And there they all are bippity, boppity, boop!  Apartment lot for courtyard, uncajolable vermin  with no intention of donning livery or pulling pumpkins.  No signs of princes.

Unfazed she realizes that even here, in the weird, magic-less limbo yonder, even here the grownups believe in magical fairytales..

which still end up 

doing no good for the real girls

Living then dying 

Alone.

Fake news for real girls

once there was a real girl

who (lucky for her)

Lived in a city with superhero dolphins

So when the humans she lived with began to

Bruise bones beneath skin

Pull out hair

Leave signs of trauma on shared walls

Well.. the

The magic dolphins of San Antonio 

leapt to action!

Circled the child

Nudged her to safety

with their silvery, bottle-shaped snouts 

Clicked and nodded their unequivocal attention to all

The days of her distress

Used their shear numbers to buoy her up

Brought her 

bits of fish and garlands of seaweed

And in an unanimous decision 

Ferried her to their own

blue, cool comparatively safe

Under-water-kingdom

far from the

city where these human mothers had

Failed her

Mike Pence and mysogyny accusations 

Just the day before the 2016 presidential election I told my friends  I feared that this election was like two toddlers fighting over a single ice cream cone.  The loser was going to fuss.

This has proved true beyond my wildest imagination.  And since 80 percent of the national press was unabashedly on Clinton’s side of the ice cream fight, the tantrum that has ensued has been both instructive and embarrassing–watching grownups with real jobs behave like the stepsisters in Cinderella.

Nowhere, and I mean nowhere, has this been more apparent than in the sly criticism of Mike Pence’s diligent faithfulness to his wife, and as an extension to his family and his community.

I dare to say that given their druthers, Bill and Donald’s family would have benefited from Pence’s honor rules.

So to call a man mysogynistic for honoring his wife seems to be a bellwether of the ice cream tantrum situation–better to call up down and left right than to report real objective news?

It seems that way.

The American public deserves better.  So does Pence.  If more men followed his rules, women in this country would be safer.

And as journalists in places like Russia and Mexico pay with their lives for their autonomy and journalistic integrity, ours have devolved into middle school bullies.

Kicked out, part 3

If you read either part one or two, you may notice that the kicked off part is not there.

Hence, part 3:

I did not realize that the ropes were separating from the handles on a regular basis until I was riding and two riders-one very good, one pro, hollered at me from the water–I lost my rope!

I was not sure what they were talking about so I let go of my rope and asked them.

They both told me the same thing-they had been riding when suddenly the rope separated from the handle and they were left in the water with only a handle.

Weird.

I then quizzed a group of good riders, the cable operator, the cable manager, and one of the owners about how the cable rope was affixed to the handle.

The answer is-like a Chinese handcuff the rope is threaded through itself.

Which means that threading it right is crucial.

The cable operator told me his safety policy was to let everyone know they should expect to lose the rope.

The owner said the manager sometimes said stuff without thinking it through.

The manager said I was being a troublemaker.

The owner said I brought too much drama and was taking up too much of his employees’ time.

But by the time I had quizzed a dozen people I realized that 80 percent of them had a rope-loss story within the last two weeks.

I realized I might have had one as well…

There are falls and losses in wakeboarding all the time.  These things often happen in isolation.  A rider, even a good one, may not realize that a fall is due to operator neglect or park negligence unless they know that it is happening to other riders, sometimes with alarming regularity.

Within the two weeks following the refunding of my family’s membership the ropes continued to separate from the handles while in use.

I hope that someone remedied the situation eventually.

Kicked off the ranch part 2

It is a basic tenet of writing lists–of you have a part one you have to have a part 2.

So this is it:  how I went from dragging my kids to the Texas Ski Ranch every day –to-how I was told to leave no matter what.

First, the bikini contest-reminiscent of nothing more than a stock show.  A stock show to sell price inflated Corona?! Treating beautiful young women like commodities?

Then there were the poorly attended juvenile detention peeps.

And last there were falling ropes.  It seemed to be clear that either through operator negligence or rope defect the ropes were separating from the wooden handles–off the dock, in mid-air, on structures riders were falling because their ropes had failed them.

Safety has to be a paramount concern in extreme sports.  When it is not taken seriously, people get hurt.

So that is how I was kicked off the ranch.  But just as interesting as that is the waiver that TSR and Springloaded require participants to sign.

Worth careful perusal.

Like the confusion about light years

Just like the confusion over light years-

Unit of time?  Unit of distance?

Grief is more than ordinary synonyms

Loss, sorrow, mourning.

No, grief is a place you go sometimes

Sorta like a cruise or a bus tour, I guess

Or trip to a fancy casino

Only of course all the slot machines are empty and 

You have no stomach for the buffet.

At first you think

This trip will never end

But it starts to let up after

A very long time

Then, just when you thought you were home 

Safe, with your bunny slippers on,

You fish up

Back on that dammed boat, that bankrupt resort

And somehow your inability to escape this

All expenses paid vacation

Makes you weep, weep in the weird soulless light

Of this world of broken pronouns

Standing in for faces in a picture, once so vivid alive

Before the fall…before all the terrible falls

Crash into light years.

Dear Sir,

Imagine the mountains

you would move to save

The one you loved

then switch

to the hills you might shift

for someone you were

merely fond of

then calculate the dirt

in disheveled piles

you might consider

scooping here to there

for a stranger

then last of all take this into account:

all real love stories are also physics problems

Either stones rolled in place over deliberate tombs

or somehow, miraculously

Rolled away.

Sleeping Beauty and the treachery of images

they say her dress

obscured her face when they found her in the river

he as young as his eventual wife would be

when she went from girl to muse

muse is a tricky thing, Child

who never was a pipe

I inventory both the cause and the cure for addiction

The need, the proper remedy, the clouds white amidst blue in the cup of your head

Chose a different slumber

Not opioid, not heroin, not poison in the fruit or spindle, not locked in a room, not guarded by dragon

Medicinal sleep

Antiseptic reset, white coats, gently beeping monitors

Let the girl rest

Let her own dreams fell the dragon

So that when the spell is broken 

The clouds and sky will spill out over her

Beautiful, fragile babies

What if this is the real world?

what if this is the real world?

what if you are the ghost?

what if it is your own child

you see in the sudden picture 

on the other side of the scrim 

Holding 

worlds both together and apart

You do the math when 

you see her–how old she 

was, is, will be

If she makes it that far

Refrain in your head thudding 

like fists on plate glass

because you are the ghost

voice thin and impossible

just the other side of glass

as you watch her slowly 

slip away.