Bath

So I just took my first oatmeal bath in an attempt to soothe my spots. The spots creep ever-upward. They have now gained the territory of the torso, reaching the stomach, breast, upper back. It's like a gradient. They are most prevalent at the ankles and calves and then thin out-and-up.

MY OATMEAL BATH EXPERIENCE

First of all, consider the name: colloidal oatmeal. I thought: spheroid, toroid, ... it's shaped like a colon? I knew that wasn't right but the word colloidal was intriguing. Googling the etymology gives you

1847, from Fr. colloide (1845), from Gk. kolla "glue" + -oeides "form"

It's a type of suspended solution.

Secondly, the packet. Made by Aveeno Active Naturals. It looked like the type of oatmeal packet where you'd microwave it for breakfast. Which led to my third fleeting thought can I eat this? No. For external use only. In bold type. Directions: Turn warm water faucet on to full force. Slowly sprinkle packet of colloidal oatmeal directly under the faucet into the tub or container. Stir any colloidal oatmeal settled on the bottom. The writers of the package copy liked the word colloidal too.

I turned on the faucet, sprinkled slowly at first and then got impatient and sort of dumped it in. It smelled like (surprise!) oatmeal. The clumps --of course there were clumps b/c I was impatient --looked like cat vomit. I tried not to think about that as I reached down and unclumped them with my fingers. They felt like warm velvety goop and dissolved as soon as I touched them.

As I slid into the tub I wondered about my new ink and soaking it. For two weeks, no sun, no soaking, no pools. Soaking opens the pores and compromises the ink or something. Then I remembered that I marked 8/31 in my planner as TATTOO HEALED TODAY.

August 31 was also my mother's birthday.

Oh dear God I just said was. Fuckshitfuck. Not was was. Just was, as in, it happened yesterday. Not that it never will happen again. Not what I meant. She's 66 now.

I did not call her.

At the time of our recent goodbye I told her I'll call you in a few days. If you're up for talking we'll talk. She smiled and said okay sweetie. There were tears in her voice but her voice is one that sounds like there's always tears in it.

I did not want to call her until after the Prosody taping was over. Now it's over. I should probably call her tonight.

I told my brain not to think about that.

So into the tub. I stretch into a forward-fold and scrutinize my legs. Today a new friend made a reference to something that happened in 2002 but you were probably still in your crib. I replied fake-indignantly, pshosh! I'll have you know they send babies to grad school now. I started grad school in '02. She : are you thirty-five? Me :  thirty-seven. She : you look twenty ____. Some number I didn't hear. Well, from the hips up I might look twenty-mumbles, but from the hips down I look my age and more. Mottled pink-gray-pink. Lots of varicosities and knots, bruises, blue stripes and swaths. And of course, the recently arrived constellations of spots. The mess on the back of my left ankle that I've named Clusterfuck. The one in the bend of my left knee that I named Sammy.

Then: damn, this tub is shallow. Hotel tub. Who knew it was more shallow than the one at my house? I pretzeled my legs underneath me and submerged my head to the point where the water was over my ears. My thighs, knees, and the top surface of my torso still stuck out. Chicken, get in the pot. I couldn't get myself into the pot.

I looked up. Towel rack. White towels. The deliciously scratchy kind. My hair floated around me. I thought what if the spots come up on my scalp. I briefly fantasized about shaving my head. I remember what that felt like. The divine feeling of quarter-inch-long head stubble. I thought about my natural hair color, which is sort of an ashy brown. Which made me think about how my mom, for the first time since I've known her, has her natural hair, with no processing of any kind. It's actually really beautiful. She had it straightened when I was there, or perhaps merely straight. Cut into a tidy little bob. The color a deep nut-brown with streaks of gray in her long bangs and at her temples. Little threads at her part. I think it was the most beautiful I've ever seen her hair.

I wondered if it would fall out, now that she's starving.

I told my brain not to think about that.

I looked up at the towel rack again. I wished I was at home with music in my tub where the water will cover more of me. I absently sloshed water over my exposed torso. With my ears underwater I could hear a deep hhrrrummm hhhrrruuumm. This room abuts a service elevator. Distant noise of people talking, moving crap around. I begin to sing very softly I hear the roar of a big machine / hot metal and methedrine / I hear your dive bombers / empire down. Well, at least all those words are in the song anyway. More of me sloshing. I wonder if the guys talking can hear me sloshing like I can hear them talking. I wonder if they wonder if I wonder if the-----

The water got cool too fast. I sat up, drained the tub. Some colloidal cat vomit had streaked and plocked onto the bottom of the tub. I was like eeeewwww and wiped that up. I didn't want the housekeeper coming tomorrow and thinking sheesh what drunks or something. Only later did I realize there would be one if not two showers taken by the time the tub was cleaned.

[I think too much about what other people think about me.]

I compromised a white towel with some red hair dye. Oops.

I leave stains everywhere I go I told my brain not to think that.

BOTTOM LINE:
Bathing is relaxing.
Sloshing is relaxing.
My lower back and hip muscles feel better.
My skin feels extra soft.
But also prickly and itchy.
Deeper tub next time.

Last Day in Vegas

So it's 7am here and I'm not supposed to wake up until 8. This didn't work though, because I'm sunburned everywhere and the weight of the comforter on me was starting to be irritating. I'm barely awake, so ... fun blogging! This whole trip I've only used my cane in the airport. In this and other hotels, it's been all "sighted guiding," which for Mike and me means careful hand holding. I don't know why I made this decision. It sort of made itself up out of my unconscious. Certainly, I'm never going to see any of these people again.

So venturing down here to the Orchid coffee lounge by myself was like what I am now considering "the old days." Walking slowly and hesitantly. Really paying attention to sounds to figure out my distance (and closeness) to the world. You know what has a lot of ambient noise in it? A casino. Friendly Me is out this morning, especially to baristas doing the morning shift. I got a soy mocha because I only have one of those little pills that mitigates lactose intolerance left, and I want to use it with Mike at breakfast. They don't have soy in the breakfast place. But that means I had to forego a pre-breakfast mini cupcake... I gotta say these are real beauties. The supermodels of mini cupcakes, with an elegant minimalism. If the light was better I would have tried for a picture.

Things are so surreal at this time of morning. There are gamblers coming in from what looks like all night sessions. They look sort of baggy and rumpled. There are many behind-the-scenes people scurrying to make sure the "guest experience" is ongoingly even and nary a leaf of asiatic lily is out of place.

I would post you my pics but I forgot the cord that connects the phone to the computer in our room. Mike sleeps. I kiss his forehead and he murmurs something. His hair trails over two pillows. It's so long! Like butt-long. When I suggest cutting a few inches off, those last ratty few, he says cryptically that it might be "time for a change" hair-wise. One can only wonder what that means. I know that when I had my hair at its longest, which was only at about chest level, it felt like I was constantly minding a small child. Don't get caught in my backpack. Don't get snagged in the door. Now it's cut close to my head on the left and either a sleek cascade or a wavy wildness on the other side. When I pull a piece down, it hits just above my clavicle. My right-side, normal clavicle, not my left-side, crispy crispy crispy clavicle. I have the weird sunburn pattern of someone who went in the pool and was then haphazard about re-applying lotion. The ends of my hair on the long side are dry from the chlorine. Not used to having dry ends. They needs a deep conditioner or something. I was thinking I'd dye it raspberry when I got home. It wouldn't be the first time, but the first time in awhile.

[Alaina, if you are reading this, do you remember the cherry kool-aid dyeing experiment you did in high school? Your long dark tresses had that raspberry gleam. Do you mind if I write a poem about it?]

I actually got to read! books! while I was here and love the experience of sitting by the water reading. Wish I could re-create that. Part of me is like, why can't you dummy? I've managed to crawl out from under the panic and guilt long enough to have some fun. Whoa. Mind-blowing. I've read The Miseducation of Cameron Post, which Carrie sent me as a gift. It's by her friend Emily Danforth. If one had to categorize it I would say: a queer coming of age novel. It was really riveting. I had to make myself put it down, attempting to pace myself. My plan was to finish it on the flight back but too late! It's done. I intend to write Carrie with all the books this one is "better than." There are MANY highly touted volumes, and also some noir, which I've tried and failed to read on the plane --just gave up and fell asleep. After about an hour I get super-claustrophobic on plane flights. Mike will sometimes stretch his legs by walking the aisles, but my limited vision plus unlimited shyness make this plan not a good fit for me.

[When I went back to add the link from Amazon, I noticed that Miseducation is one of Amazon's Best of the Month in Young Adult selections. Rock on with your bad self Emily!]

I'm also reading Jim Daniels' book of ghazals All of the Above. Adastra put it out last year or so. Good. Soooo goooood. Like, these poems surprised and impressed me with their leaps of language and image. I think of "the Jim Daniels poem" as being fairly straight-forward, narrative, and sort of tough. I'm a little in love with these ghazals though. Of course then after getting about halfway through the book, I had to write a ghazal. So yay, one vacation poem.

And then I picked up on Kindle, Nancy Mairs' Waist High in the World: A Life among the Nondisabled, which I'm also knocking out much faster than I intended. I'd wanted to read the whole thing instead of scattered essays in anthologies. I need to get something lighter for the plane though. Mike gifted me Christopher Moore's Bite Me: A Love Story at Christmastime. I adore Moore's humor, but I don't know if I can do vampires right now. Maybe I'll see what Amazon thinks I should want.

Then again, when I went back to add the link for Bite Me, I noticed that this book has "a huge shaved vampyre cat named Chet" in it. I think of Rus, my oldest at 13... soon to be 14! Tall, strong, and meaty with giant fangs. He won't let anyone stick their hand in there but me. Let's hope he doesn't go all vampire.

Uhhh, speaking of sharp things, I'm getting new ink on Friday. It will pretty much trail down my left arm the way the leaves-and-eyes trail down my right. Again, I designed this one myself and it's kind of wacky. Jason said holy fractals! when he saw it. I don't really think the fractal is super apparent.

Okay, now I'm babbling, because I haven't had enough coffee, and I don't have much more to give you right now. It was nice to get away. I'm restless to get back already. But I don't want to lose this otherworldly relaxed feeling.