misplaced mama

Let me start out with this.

A handful of things I grew up believing. 1. The more beautiful you are inside, the lovelier you are on the outside. 2. Don’t steal even a stick pin from the ground 3. Pray for the souls in Purgatory 4. Wear underwear to bed in case you have to go to the hospital in the middle of the night 5. Mary was a virgin 6. Be nice to everyone. 7. Make a lot of money so you can win friends.

My mother was a professional in mothering and used to to sneak bills from my father’s wallet while he was still asleep, because apparently the stay at home gig to 7 kids wasn’t really worth being paid for. My father was a professional bookie. He was a grade school drop out, Sicilian immigrant. Only had a mother, a dead father, and 2 handfuls of older siblings. He learned to hustle young, like age 10, around the same day he began smoking Lucky Strike unfilters. By the time he had 7 kids he was running serious books for our small town. This did not mean we were mafioso rich. Not even close. This meant that some months we just survived, some months there were lobsters tails for dinner and some months the stress was so fierce I’d take to hiding in my room.

M parents never let on to the outside world we were in need. Pride or whatever stood in the way and we pretended/lived like all was fine even when it wasn’t. Inconsistency was my constant.

I began to believe that worth is equated with money and poverty was a flaw caused by laziness. You would not be accepted if you were poor, you would not be liked. I took this cloak of thought to University with me, where I was enrolled under the Educational Opportunity Program (and my kick ass essay) I lied through my teeth once I was there and never let on to my white, middle class friends whose parents who had normal jobs that I was “one of those kids” who “stole” a place in enrollment for being poor with unusual circumstances (another secret revealed!!)

Of course as I matured I rejected this as a theory, but the idea still lives in my matrix, Like now. I am scared of what you’ll think of me. Rationally, I know that poor people aren’t uneducated and stupid and I know that monetary wealth isn’t equated with intelligence, but there is still something in me that tugs “if I was as good as I could be, I’d be able to buy groceries without foodstamps right now.” I want you to think I am good! I want you to accept me!

The economy has sucked for the trades and then my husband ripped his guts apart and to this moment still can’t hold his own children without wincing in pain, let alone do the job he perfected over 10 years. But this is not my sob story. No. Fuck that. The oaks are not pissed when the wind rips through them and steals them of branches, the ocean isn’t bothered when the storm throws it’s massive around, the mother isn’t full of spite when birth pours through her like hot lava. This is life and I am working with what I have, opening myself to the fullest. And I celebrate hurricanes and tsunami’s and the painfully burning ripping crowning of life. How can I not? This, this right here is a radical miracle. This is the important stuff. The richest kind of matter that brings me closer to me.

But now that I am against a wall, my husband unemployed and my rent outlandishly late, I have to ask this. What is this writing worth? This service of sharing my experience as well as the gush of energy that comes from the Unknown? Is there a value here to me? To you?

And then.

My fucking computer broke 2 weeks ago. Rewind. My fucking computer broke 2 weeks ago. Right now I am typing on a friends. The computer was the tool I had to keep this all coming and going out, sounds and syllables riding the waves of the ether and landing on your lap. And now it’s done. Gone. irreparable.

When I was 26 and 27 and sort of cool I used to work in Music PR for emerging musical artists in Los Angeles and during this time there was a movement to bring the power back to the artist; between payola on the radio and greedy record labels, the musician made a penny off the dollar and mass produced music came into effect and most successful sounds were boiled down to a tasteless pile of powdered mash potatoes. Soon the internet exploded and dotcom radio stations and artist direct sights came bursting through the pixels and a new era was born for musicians. Pay the artist directly so that it can still be art.

I have written on this blog for 5 years and done so happily. It was my way to hone in on my craft while connecting with the world as a stay at home mama. I never thought of securing advertising. I don’t begrudge blog owners that advertise, I completely understand it. But I knew it wasn’t for me partly because I am just so business and computer inept and partly because I didn’t really have to, partly because I feel I didn’t deserve payment (another secret!) and partly because I’m a fucking radical purist who doesn’t want to pimp myself out to diapers made with toxins or shampoo made with Napalm. I read The Sun Magazine religiously because there is not ONE advertisement in it. Again, this isn’t to say that advertising, especially when it’s smaller business providing healthy and artistic services is wrong in the least. Cross promotion I am all for. It’s just all food for thought and digestion.

There has been an outpouring of love and compassion from my readers in the past month while I’ve shared our circumstances. I have been so supported and honestly overwhelmed as I walk in gratitude. And now here comes the rip my skin open with a rusty knife painful part. More than a few readers have suggested I create a tip jar for this blog. And this is why today I borrowed this computer to write.

I know what I am worth to you. This isn’t even a question I ask. It’s not about money but the comments and emails that flow into my box connecting with me on a soul level even though we aren’t touching hands or watching the sun jump off the iris of our eyes.

My husband told me once if every artist had 500-1000 fans willing to contribute a small amount every year, that artist could survive keeping the art in their own hands, keeping the artists family fed and sheltered, living simply, but living while doing what the love. What else do we really want? Money? No we want freedom and time to enjoy what we love.

And so here I am. Open heart. Open mind. I need a computer to continue sharing these words. I absolutely can’t buy one now or the foreseeable future.

In the past five years I have humbly stood on the edge of the cliff and ripped off my clothes and jumped. Birth and sex and mothering and politics and sitting and food and shit and fear and love and drugs and blood and music and pranayama and cancer. Someone recently questioned the whole authenticity thing in writing….like what does being authentic mean? To me it means this. Being in the moment, allowing it to happen the way It Is in every second. We are 10,000 different beings wrapped into nothingness and we can’t be scared to empty that space each millisecond of each letter born on the page. We are all puzzles that might never be solved, but if each of us offered a piece at a time we could come together. We are Lost. We are Found. Over and over again. In my truest self, in this very moment right now, I ask for help.

Has this blog ever fed you? Filled you? Have you ever been grateful for whatever the hell has come through me from whatever lives inside, outside, up, down? Has anything in the past 5 years that I’ve written consisted of something would pay to read? If you have, can spare $1? $5? $10?

Here is my blood sister promise to you. I will write and post 3 times a week for the next 2 weeks. I’ll use public computers or a friend’s computer. At the end of each post there will be my email where you can donate to my paypal account. Once I garner enough funds for a cheap laptop (which I have the feeling will happen in no time at all. I have this faith. I must.) my promise will continue. 3 times a week for the next 6 months. Feel free to ask me to explore topics, subjects, or force me to keep revealing the secrets inside (I got a lot more!) CHALLENGE MY BELIEF SYSTEMS (contrary to popular belief I love more than just blog cheerleaders).

I can’t even express how hard this was to write, to ask. I am freaking out and want to just hit delete and run away. I want to just sigh and say it’s a sign to go back to my Brother Word Processor and create a zine. But I know my worth. And somehow, right now, the Universe is asking me to allow that worth to translate into the green stuff. The Universe is asking me to know, deeply, that I worth this.

If you want to just go ahead and donate now to the Misplaced Mama’s computer fund, my email address it triumphmind.words@gmail.com. Just go to paypal and select the option that says Send Money. Seriously a $1 will help.

I love you. And I know I am going to get some serious hate mail for asking a world of strangers to help my buy a computer so I can continue blogging/writing. But whatever. We’re all in this together, right?

One, MB

I am sitting down to write just because I haven’t.

And because I can.

The first thing on my mind is this: I’ll have no more kids that grow inside my belly and come raging or slipping out from the birth canal into my own hands. It’s bittersweet, really. My man went into surgery today to fix the ripped apart gut and while the doc was in there….he did whatever you do to make those little sperms absorb back into the blood stream while one ejaculates.

It’s sad only because I love being pregnant. I do. And I’m not lying because I am suppose to love it. I LOVE IT. Everything about it even the crappy stuff. Being pregnant is like the sexiest feeling ever. I’ve been pregnant for what seems like seven years straight, but whatever, I could do another 3 more. The hormonal cocktails surging through my body in just the right ways. Nothing like it. It’s one of those Earthly delights.

And, of course, I love birthing. I LOVE GIVING BIRTH. Sure it throws you completely Off, rocks you in every way you can possibly imagine, makes you CHOOSE to take it on completely, forces you to be only a vessel for someone else’s plan, it hurts and it feels good. Even though it never came to me in ways I’d ever expect, they were the most profound days of my life. The process is just something unexplainable and then that baby…..oh that baby……! Do I need to talk about all the fucking power of the Universe coursing through ones body to bring a human to earth? Nah. We get it.

And come to find out, I am actually a pretty intuitive and decent Mother. It’s who I am. Who I always knew I was. Who I always dreamed of being. Call me a Mommy Blogger and make fun of me for it, but I love being a mother. And I love that I’m good at it. And if this was all I ever was in life, I would be lucky.

And so that chapter ends. The baby making part. I grieve. As the sunsets over the Bay I write messages in the sand to the line of souls pounding on my cosmic door asking to come on over. Sorry, I say, I love you…find me another way. I cry walking into the market saying…”four kids wouldn’t be so bad, a little baby would be nice” and my youngest daughter looks at me with her 2 and 1/2 year old eyes and says “but you have me mama, I your baby”. And so it is. She’s my baby. My youngest.

(unless of course some of those post 12-20 ejaculations required post procedure end up inside me. you never know with us crazy kids.)

(can you believe my husband went under the knife today and all I can think about it me and my empty womb? I really am I bitch.)

I can’t believe the generosity of people in my life. In the past month we’ve received food, more babysitting than you can imagine, some Reef flip flops, 2 hot sun dresses, a PLANE TICKET, a HUGE gift card to our local food co-op, goat milk caramel, help with the rent, a free vasectomy, $250 a month in food credit from the lovely state of Washington, and time. Time. Time. Time. I feel like time has come and reminded me to forget about it completely and let this summer roll in very slow doses.

I never really even had to ask, and abundance has been showered upon me. Sometimes I think even more than manifesting, is just trusting that The Mystery Provides.

We all leave for NY next week. I hate flying. The mere thought of me in the air, a wingless creature, makes me throw up in my mouth. It’s my mother’s 80th Birthday Bash. Crazy even writing that. Seems like yesterday I was just a zygote in her belly right here (she’s the one on our left in the pinstripe number) in Vegas the place I came to be (yes she’s with Jerry Vale and yes he is my long lost father and yes I’d like to cash in).

My mother is a rock star, cancer survivor, mother of 7, grandmother of 18 and great-grandmother of 2. Can’t get much better than that.

So we are off to spend 2 weeks with her and party down with the whole family. It won’t be without drama, of course. Someone will get hurt from having too much fun. Someone will end up crying. Someone will piss my mother off my smoking in the backyard. You can’t get seven siblings together with spouses and all their kids and not have some kind of crazy assness happening. Plus we are Italian, even better, Sicilian. And we are all drunks. And I am by far the nicest one in my family. I kid you not. These people are fucking nuts. Let me lay it down for you. First you have The Delicata. . Then you have Crazy Farting Pill Popper. Then you have Should Just Shut Up And Write. Then The Simple Stoner. Then The Sensitive Witch. And finally there is In My Home We Serve The Lord, and we all know what comes with that business. I often hope they were right when they used to tell me that they found me in a basket on the door. I love my family. So much. I’m glad my real parents picked their house to drop the basket off.

Here’s me, the little one, with 2 of my sisters and my mama and daddy.

I’m not in a comfortable position to write and am too lazy to get to one. I’m on my belly and my back hurts. So I’ll spare myself the motivation to get up and go to my desk and do what I love to do, what feeds me the good stuff. Instead I’ll be signing off and keeping my comfortable ass in bed eating vanilla pudding and watching Sarah Silverman on Netflix.

But before…

I get to wake up to this. No matter where we are or what we have to eat for breakfast or whose going where….this is what I get to see when I open my eyes in the morning. Not so shabby.

and this, right before she attacks me with those teeth and tries to suction every last drop of milk from me.

This is our downstairs bathroom. I encourage all guests to the use the upstairs one. There is a mouse with two ducks painted on the wall above the toilet. Creepy. My daughter Sula took this shot.

And if I ever complain about not having enough. First slap me. Then remind me I have Everything. This here is Mr. Everything. I’ve written about him before. Jamaica. 1995-96. He lived in that shanty shack with his kids. He had everything. The best in everything. Those words were painted in that little house, to the right of the door. The Best In Everything. Here’s to you, Mr. Everything. We are alike, we both have the best in everything.