Hawaiian Paradise

This story  was written in August  1999. It was about the death of our stillborn twin girls, and the Doctor who fully abandoned me in her care. We went to Hawaii  for a week  that Spring for a little healing. Our girls would be 16 in February.

Hawaiian Paradise

It is so okay with you to just pass it on. Like a hot potato, you don't want to keep it in your possession.Why of course, just pass it on.  Your shame, your denial, throw it my way. I say crank up the volume.You like cranking it up .... but I see, better me than you.

No matter how how wonderful the tropical drink, the pains too great to bear. I lay in the pool so soothing,  then  look up and see plastic  perfection.

Looking down I see a mound of flesh attached to my carcass, the pool no longer soothes me. I don't want to get out  but  The Director and Starlet are sitting right in front of me.

The ache is greater, why are we here? This Paradise, why did we come, nothing will sooth this pain. The ache grows, take me back to the room. Medicate me, cover me, protect me.

Instead... you open the sliding glass door. The breeze blows and comforts me.

The sun now setting... glows and warms me and I calm down. I realize where else would I want to be?

I feel it all, cry and am sleepy as you hold me  in your arms. I let down just for a minute... in my Hawaiian Paradise.

Venom Soup

 I wrote this July 28th 2003. I was just looking through my old writings this morning....
I was a very uplifting writer. That is a joke. It has taken me until now to write the way I do. I had a lot of demons and anger, hurt to unleash. So telling the truth is the only way I have known to get here. This is part of it, as I will put some of my old stuff out now. Only by accepting our past can we reclaim all of ourselves and become whole.  The point is not to accept this recipe from anyone.... ever.  I am sitting here very hesitant to put this out, because this is a big part of who I am, and what it has taken in my process to become me. It is dark, angry, hopeless. That was me. It has been many years  to let go, forgive heal. It takes time, patience and a lot of  courage to be who you are.

Venom Soup

Not for the light hearted this fare will fill you up and then some.The most important ingredient is the base. A thick murky brown water, toxins a plenty from the earths surface. Slush, rage, and a dash of despondency mixed nicely with a sword to the heart.

A heaping helping of natures toxic veggie. Shame coated in a nice garlic sauce accompanied with a zesty lemon zinger. Hatred.Stir ingredients over open wound until unbearable.Then turn up the heat until the heart is ready to explode in grief.Just when the desired medley comes to a  bubbling cauldron of fear, simmer til sadness and loathing forms creating a nice foamy soup.
Who wants seconds?

A New Year

In a few  hours we will be headed into a New Year. 2012. I am sure I am not the only one who is ready to send this sucker off with a big bang. Adios, see ya....
Lessons learned, enough already, I am good thank you, really. But.... what has been fantastic in the very end of this year,  spending time with people. Really taking time I think in a way I have never done during Holidays. Slowing down, breathing, allowing.  Only when letting the old, funky things that no longer serve us out, can the new come in.  Taking that risk however big or small really doesn't matter. Sometimes I think the smaller ones are full of the magic we really allow ourselves  to notice. The big ones take time to digest, no hurry... layer by layer.

Raym and I are sitting here watching Twilight Zone as I hear Katie and her friends getting dolled up to hit the town. I must be getting old... that makes me tired thinking about the work it takes. I compromised and put a shawl on and perfume over my sweats, that's what being married along time will allow. Noel, Katie and Thalia just headed out. Our usual ok, don't care how much you drink designated driver speech.  And they are off.....  
   I am so grateful  for our kids, our life,  the rocky road we ride at times. It keeps us growing, strong,
 interested in each other.... ourselves.  This next year will be the year of letting others in to our little circle of life. It is time.

Moments of Sweetness

French Fries, drive thru style, always do the trick after a long night out, no matter how old you are.
Last night was no exception, and it was a long one.

We went to a 50th Anniversary Party for a couple I knew long ago. It started with a Mass, then a reception in the Church Social Hall. This couple was a big part of my life when I was at St Lukes School, around the age of fourteen, fifteen years old.
Celebrating their 50th, so there were some people I knew I was going to see. I was kind of happy  many did not show. The  saying, "There's no going home," well that has rung true for me since I was 16, when I left home more or less for good.

Being at this event rang even more hollow. I saw a few people I went to Grade School with, thankfully a couple of the fellas who have my sense of humor,  playful,  and that was wonderful.
Sitting in Church during the Mass for their Anniversary, I did the only thing I could....
took many photographs to capture how I felt. If I didn't do this I would creep even deeper inside myself, which I felt was already happening, as I looked around and had the vaguest of memories of some people that I saw from my childhood.

To entertain myself as a child sitting in Mass, I would look at people's shoulders. I never said I was normal, I would just do comparison studies of all the different styles of shoulders, and that would get me pretty far where I needed to go. Then I moved on to hair, styles and definitely lack of. Toupees askew, color variation, that fascinated me beyond, and then some.
So many things amused me as a child... some things never change.  Yesterday sitting in this beautiful old Church with Raym, I was just looking around at what felt like where I have come from.
Raym didn't grow up with any particular religion most of his life, and I grew up with such strict
Catholic upbringing, it made us kind of amusing together. Before we were walking into the Church and people were milling around, he said, " Do you want me to say Clare Gagliardi really loud?" Now I can take a joke sometimes pretty well, but my boy fellow almost got his teeth knocked in. I didn't even realized how tripped I was.

Facing our pasts is not always easy. Especially when you see 10 Priests on the Altar doing this Shindig.
Again... behind the camera, watching. I wanted to flee so badly, too much history. Two of the priests I knew from St. Lukes, one very well... way too many skeletons.   He was the one leading the Parade.
It's funny, even saying that again... The State Secrets I am revealing. I am so conflicted writing all this.  I have no problem with The Catholic Church, it just isn't my belief system anymore.

 Sitting down at the dining tables at the reception with a few ex classmates, we started chatting about past things we did as a kid.  Now it was particularly funny all these Priests at the next table over, but as we really got into the conversation it no longer mattered. I had no idea that my sister and my
"car heists" (sneaking my parents car out underage) were legendary round  Temple City.
I was fourteen, Anne seventeen we would take the family wagon on pleasure excursions  on certain Friday Nights with certain gal pals.  It just made sense. Now this gal at the table, very nice but quite sensible looked deep in my eyes and asked me if  would have liked to have done my life differently.... A redo perhaps? I just stared and said, " But how would I have known differently?"

That sums up how I felt at St. Lukes. I was me. How or why would I need or have wanted to do my life differently?  Yet, that was the constant message crammed down my throat and everyone close to me -You are not okay as you are. Yet as I sat in this Church last night..... I looked at who supposedly did it right and thought I will leave that one alone, I am a work in process.

What I do know, I looked around and knew that I had a perspective from where I came.
Festive evening, I was very happy for the couple celebrating 50 years.  The people I knew from a long time ago that were there last night, were just that and no more.
Only in my memory had I thought  there was more to it. Seeing things in the light of day, maybe that time was just what got me through until the next step and the next step and that is all.
Moments of sweetness.

That's Disgusting

Some would think that title "That's Disgusting" would imply gross spiders, overflowing toilets, things that creep you out. Things of true disgust.
Now I have said "That's disgusting" one hundred million times, but not like you think. No, not because I think everything in life is disgusting. It is because I am a mimic and copied my mother for so long as she stated how disgusting most things are. It has become a  way of life for me (to those close to me) to constantly mimic my mother and father's voices with complete dialogue. "Bill, that's disgusting."

Come along this momentary journey if you will, into my bizarre brain. My mother, a very Catholic,
thrifty scottish woman from a very large family. She wanted 12 kids, but settled for 6.... that would be our dear Frances. Enter  Bill, my father, as Italian as can be, full blooded small knit family from New Jersey.
Coffee klatch, biscotti eating sort..... well, my mom dug the biscotti at least.

They met on an Air  Force Base in England, in a Mess Hall. She was a teacher..... they both apparently liked to eat.
No wonder I am always so hungry. That was  their love affair, food-  'nuff said. Some things never change. I am pretty sure we were conceived by those biscotti....
 " Frances, if I put some biscotti on the bedside.... "
 We know this only happened six times - six children/ six biscotti

My middle sister and  youngest brother do the best imitation of That's Disgusting.
It doesn't take much for anything to be disgusting. 
Or, "What is that filth you are watching on TV," as she sidewinders her way into the room, acting like she is not watching. Repressed Catholic Woman wanting to not be bad.... but "curious." I can just see my sister Anne right now saying oh Frances is "curious."
 We would read Cosmo Magazine in high school. "You girls are reading that filth again, how disgusting."
We would just howl. We would always up the ante so she would say something else was filth or disgusting.

When it was bathing suit time.... picture the 70's, Montgomery Ward's rocked my mom's world.
My sisters would pick  out bikinis, I being the youngest sister and a brat, would pick out practically turtle neck bathing suits and tell my mother "I thought these would be more appropriate for the girls"-  Cute and practical they were. "Practical" was her favorite word. Still hate that word today.
My sisters were on to my shenanigans... couldn't keep a straight face. But it was too late. Mumsy was convinced these 1920's frocks rocked. My job was done. ( Raym just said he liked that I am amusing myself, trust me... doesn't take much)

Any form of affection, skin showing,  well come to think of it..... I don't know what isn't disgusting.
Long hair is "hot." No, not sexy hot... don't get ahead of yourself. "Isn't that hair hot, wouldn't you be so much cooler with it short?" Pixies, butches,  word of the day.  To make one a dude when originally a chick...... that would be my mother's job. Why, I don't know. She tried desperately to make her daughters boyish.
Whatever "filth" happened in her life I will never know. Having been the object of her "filth" was never an easy thing, although I developed a wicked sense of humor and fairly good at imitating them.
Survival, I had to, what was the other choice? Filthy and disgusting constantly~ instead of beauty, love,
sweetness.

I can laugh, but through many bruises developed a tender and compassionate heart for others who carry their own wounds.  Humor may be my defense mechanism at times.... but it really is my JOY.
Laughter just feels so good.

Billy's The Writer

The title of this story makes me laugh.... "Billy's The Writer".
But not long ago all I think I would do when I heard that is cry, take those words very seriously and  be surly. Ray is laughing sitting next to me, commenting that I am on fire that the keys are blazing.  It is because I can laugh, smirk, do jumping jacks, whatever and not trip about those words that ruled  my life and kept me from what I actually am fairly passionate about... WRITING.
Just to own that I am a writer has come in the past few months. I have been writing since I was thirteen.  But labels are labels, and when you take them seriously, they can shut you down. This label  from my mother that Billy, my brother,  was the writer in the family, well that was that.

I  had a very eccentric, cool "Aunt Mary" ( my Mom's Aunt)  with the best sense of humor who really seemed to "get" me. She had some flaming red hair and seemed ahead of her time.  My Mother held some anger at Aunt Mary for the way she felt she treated her Mother, so I am sure that when Aunt Mary showed me any attention or kindness this unglued my Mom. Just guessing here. But this Aunt was the only one who ever read my stuff in High School besides teachers who said it was any good, encouraged me. My Mom, when Aunt Mary or anyone else would show me any type of attention regarding my writing or otherwise, would loudly proclaim to all in earshot that Billy was the writer.... not me.

In High School I had two wonderful teachers who always encouraged me to write. But I let my mother get the best of me. I didn't listen to them, instead negativity- and let self doubt rule me.  I don't know why some people like to make others feel so small. What I do know, because of it.  I am better, stronger more self assured today. Having someone constantly playing against you, not building you up, challenging you, not for love ~ unkind reasons. It will either make you insane, which I did feel,  then something happens.
 If you surround yourself with enough love, truth, goodness, belief that this is not the way. It may take years.... it did. Finally one day you wake up.
We are all capable of finding our true path. Whatever, whoever that "thing"  has kept you stuck in fear. We all have  known, experienced this at some point .... the great equalizer in life.
We are not alone, not so different. Why can't Billy be the Writer, and Clare.... and Susie and Bobby.  Johnny be President and Mark be a Doctor and so it goes. Who decided what we can and can't be?  A person who possibly had their dreams squished out- became so bitter to pass it on to their kids. The bitter pill of hopelessness. Well bite me... or them.  No thank you. I do not accept nor pass it around the table.
My wish is for everyone to dream. To 2012  and  all the beautiful dreamers, everywhere.  My beautiful hubby says don't forget to include the doer's as well.
 Can I hear a hallelujah from the Choir.....

The Attic

Picturing  an eight year old looking out a musty attic with make shift louvered windows exposed to the elements. I  held my  breath as he continued on this morning, listening as my husband described his living conditions growing up in his home, his bedroom. Not often has he spoken of life on Ontario Ave. Usually with some disconnection, acting as though every child had the same experience as him. This morning was different, why  I am not entirely sure.  It has been a time of release, forgiveness, room to let go, heal, understand. This is the first time I saw a true connection of horror in himself, for the little boy who came out of such an environment.

This is also why I understand from my soul why he loves Walt Disney. Why he  is so drawn to  The Company when it really is so the opposite of who he really is. I can barely contain myself as I am writing this. This is the love of my life I am writing about, and I know his pain so deeply. After thirty years in a relationship together, you know each other's owies. I know the little boy in the attic.

Though he could not possibly believe me throughout the years, that is the boy I have loved and held so dear to my heart. That is the boy that would learn at such an early age to create. That is where this story really begins.

The Attic. I cannot deal with this place as a mother  thinking of my children. I knew this place, he took me up there the first Thanksgiving I  ever went to his house. I was 20 years old and just plain stared. It was dirty, moldy, dark. I don't think it was any different from the time of his boyhood. Back then  the only thing covering the walls were burlap. Behind them exposed wire, no drywall. Rickety, dangerous, steep  unfinished stairs, leading down to the kitchen his father had built before leaving their family. 

An extension cord hooked up  from downstairs was his only form of electricity. The firetrap he lived in was inconceivable. As he walked up the stairs as a small boy, the overwhelming stench of rats at times, dead and alive would frighten him to the point that he would finally act as though it just wasn't there. 

My heart breaks for the man I love,  who deserved to be loved, nurtured, comforted. Instead a little boy went deeply into a fantasy world, which much later came to serve The Disney Family, more than they could ever know.  

Life is funny like that. What pains us so greatly in our childhood, becomes our greatest strengths in adulthood. Not having a TV or radio, Ray created. He put things together. His love of  erector sets, trains, fascination with how things were made stimulated his mind.At the age  of twelve, Ray decided to get some cheap wood paneling and make a room. Goodbye burlap.... he began figuring out for  himself how to create spaces.  For the ceiling, no more exposed rafters, cork panels. I sometimes wonder if his Grandfather had been able to see what circumstances he was living in upstairs ..... I  guess I just so much wished for him a gentler life.  But everything was about hiding and pretending. Life based on fear. Waiting for the welfare check. Living in such a beautiful area, beautiful neighborhood. Praying everyone would not know all your family secrets.  Pretty hard to hide the stumbling father who wanders to the neighbors for another drink.  

I could not be prouder of the man my husband is. The boy who lived through so much fear, and is finally feeling it enough to say I  never deserved that. No one does, ever. A mother who checked out Spent every penny and sold everything, even what was the boys. I understand even more why Christmas has been unbearable for my husband. He would work at  the local hobby shop. His mother would put his Christmas Present on credit, never pay it... and Ray would have to work it off. I am learning to forgive for his sake. We need to forgive together.

This Christmas was beautiful. We went to The Train Store  together, and he picked out what he
wanted. Was I as patient as I could have been? Working on it in Train Stores.

I understand why he creates, why he goes  so deep into a process most will never understand, including myself at times. Walt Disney is a very lucky Company indeed to have this creative man.  He is the Epitome to me, of what an Imagineer is.... A dreamer and a doer.