He is holding me, face buried against my head, arms around me. He is telling me how sorry he is that he hurts me, that he loves me and doesn't know why he doesn't always show it. I am thinking how nice it is to be held, and I wish it was enough, but I can't forget the hurtful things he says when he is not showing me he loves me. I wonder if he will ever understand the damage he has done and that it cannot be undone, that it cannot be erased, that it may one day heal over but it will always be a knurled, twisted, ugly scar and that the healed over places will never, quite be what they once were. I wonder if he realizes how torn and tattered I am inside, and how little "I love you" does to mend that when there's still the other, the not-love, happening.
~~~~~
I am holding Sprout. She has her back to me and is leaning into me, standing in front of where I sit. I bury my nose in her neck and smell her Sprout scent, and clean pajamas, and the spicy pungency of the diaper ointment, and the sweetness of the juice she is drinking. Her arms reaches back and wraps around my neck, holding me to her, her little hand alternating stroking my hair and patting my neck. She does not want to let go just yet, and I am content to be held onto, to hold her warm sweetness to me.
~~~~~
The Evil Genius scrambles onto the lounge with me. He smells faintly of wood and something a little sour, and he needs a haircut. He is warm except his feet, his toes, which make me jump when he tucks them under my leg. He leans on me and I am surprised by how solid he is - so often he is a ghost in our home, in his room playing some electronic game or building imaginary realities with Legos and other toys, honestly sometimes it's like he's not real himself, but some kind of imaginary son who is no less loved. He leans against me and closes his eyes and smiles and tells me he loves me, and it's still the best thing ever, and he is still my best good thing, my heart.
~~~~~
It's so easy to feel lonely. It's so sad to feel...removed...from warmth and love and life. The cats pile up on me when I sit down. They want to be touched, loved, and I oblige them. They purr and make painful showings of their happiness with their paws, claws slightly extended, kneading me. They seem to know that their warmth is a balm, their weight on my lap an anchor, that I feel like I need something solid to hold, to touch, or I will fly right out into space because gravity has stopped working for me.
~~~~~
I do not make very good choices. I'm a decent enough person, and I try to be loving and compassionate, but I know people who know me look at me and my life and wonder what the hell is wrong with me. I could tell them, if they had a lifetime to listen. There's no nutshell version. Unless...the nutshell is "Me."
~~~~~
I am having the dream again...the one with the man who wraps his arms around me and I feel...what? Home? Safe? Loved? Wanted? Accepted? Nothing real. It isn't real. It doesn't exist. There is no man. There is no guardian, protector, cherisher, and there never has been. He's a figment of my imagination. If he exists, he does not exist for me. The sooner I can get my subconscious to accept that, the better, because that dream? Is a kind of torture. And I can do without it.
~~~~~
Sprout often wanders through her day singing. She sings everything - requests for juice, what she'd like to play with, what color she sees. I remember being told that I used to sing my way through the day when I was a little girl. My grandmother called it "K's day at the Opera". I don't remember. I must have been happy, or thought I was happy, or at least content, to sing that way. I don't sing, now. Don't want to. I think about the band and I am just...tired. When we are rehearsing again I'm sure the ennui will go away, but for now...tired...as if even the idea of making music is tedious. I have no song, and I do not want to sing it.
~~~~~
My children are both on the bed with me, snuggling. Cygnus has spent the night at his place, so the bed is too large with only me and the cats (who don't come up on the bed when he's here, any more, and sometimes I miss their furry presence reassuring me what's the real and what's the dream), and it's morning but still early enough we don't feel too bad about being in bed, and both kids have climbed up and nestled in with me and I am listening to the whisper of their different breaths and my arm is thrown over them both so I can hold them snug to me and they are warm and wriggly and I am suddenly a child myself and I am in the big brass bed with Mom and my brother in the room over the kitchen at my grandparents' house, and it is early morning but we don't need to be up yet and Mom is cuddling us and we're in that hazy place between awake and dreaming and she smells of soap and cigarettes and Mom and it is good and I love her and we are warm and safe and loved and for a minute that is all there is and I am happy.
~~~~~
How are you today?
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Friday, January 10, 2014
Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum
I smiled today.
Big deal, right?
Well, yeah, kinda.
Not tired, wan, sad, fleeting, this smile.
It was genuine. It made it all the way to my eyes and hung around for a while.
Those smiles, the ones that go all the way through and up and into, those smiles are rare for me.
It felt light. It felt peculiar. It felt good.
Big deal, right?
Well, yeah, kinda.
Not tired, wan, sad, fleeting, this smile.
It was genuine. It made it all the way to my eyes and hung around for a while.
Those smiles, the ones that go all the way through and up and into, those smiles are rare for me.
It felt light. It felt peculiar. It felt good.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Thoughtfetti
I spent Dec. 22 - 25 in the ICU at Redneck Central General Horspital, Pill Dispensary, and Sock Emporium. Nurses are marvelous. I try to make mine laugh whenever possible. They don't have enough opportunity to laugh.
~~~~~
When they sent me home, I was instructed to rest. Umm. About that...
~~~~~
Winter has us in its teeth and is shaking us like a rat - the wind is so fierce right now the house is making a sort of rattling hum. Some people think it's cold outside, but it's not too bad if you're just taking out the trash. I did put on shoes, anyway.
~~~~~
I want to bake something, but I don't know what. Perhaps I shall take a nap and make up my mind in my sleep.
~~~~~
If I didn't have kids I would crawl under the blankie and stay there for a week. Sigh. I DO have kids, though, and they are so unreasonable about eating on a regular basis and having clean clothes to wear. Double sigh.
~~~~~
I have a rash. Under my arms. It itches and burns and distracts me something fierce. My body hates me.
~~~~~
Sprout is speaking so much now, and it's funny to hear her. I love how little kids talk and make connections. She makes me smile.
~~~~~
The Evil Genius has a crush. Oh, how he will deny it, but his father gave him an iPhone for Christmas and the boy spends as much time talking to her with face-time as he does doing anything else. It's cute. Disturbing, but cute.
~~~~~
My feet have been chilly for more than a week. What's that about???
~~~~~
What books are you reading these days?
~~~~~
When they sent me home, I was instructed to rest. Umm. About that...
~~~~~
Winter has us in its teeth and is shaking us like a rat - the wind is so fierce right now the house is making a sort of rattling hum. Some people think it's cold outside, but it's not too bad if you're just taking out the trash. I did put on shoes, anyway.
~~~~~
I want to bake something, but I don't know what. Perhaps I shall take a nap and make up my mind in my sleep.
~~~~~
If I didn't have kids I would crawl under the blankie and stay there for a week. Sigh. I DO have kids, though, and they are so unreasonable about eating on a regular basis and having clean clothes to wear. Double sigh.
~~~~~
I have a rash. Under my arms. It itches and burns and distracts me something fierce. My body hates me.
~~~~~
Sprout is speaking so much now, and it's funny to hear her. I love how little kids talk and make connections. She makes me smile.
~~~~~
The Evil Genius has a crush. Oh, how he will deny it, but his father gave him an iPhone for Christmas and the boy spends as much time talking to her with face-time as he does doing anything else. It's cute. Disturbing, but cute.
~~~~~
My feet have been chilly for more than a week. What's that about???
~~~~~
What books are you reading these days?
Friday, January 3, 2014
Happy Birthday, Evil Genius
If I could give one gift to you
What would that gift be?
Shall I make the world anew
Create it sickness free?
Shall I banish hunger,
Banish hatred, banish pain?
Shall I mend the broken,
Let them dance in the rain?
What if I could take cancer,
AIDS, Alzheimer's too
And send them gone forever
As my gift to you?
Could I soften heartache
Anger and fear
Give vision to the blind
Help the deaf ones hear?
Help the lost to find their way
Along the winding path
Show the weak and weary mind
The beauty that life hath?
I cannot snap my fingers
And make everything right
But I can tuck you safely in
Each and every night
And while the world is faulty
And filled with many woes
I can help you learn to avoid
The very worst of those
And I can help you to be strong
When you most want to be weak
And I can teach you to raise your voice
When most you fear to speak
I can help you find your light
To shine for all to see
And I can help you learn to know
Why the spirit must be free
In time you'll grow beyond my words
And stand up all alone
In time I'll be a whisper
Where the winds of fate have blown
But if you see injustice, hunger, or need
And work to make it right somehow
Then we both succeed
Be strong, my child, and wise
Compassionate and smart
And don't forget to listen to
Both your good head and good heart
Wherever else I be,
Whatever else I do
I will always be that soft whisper
Saying "I love you"
What would that gift be?
Shall I make the world anew
Create it sickness free?
Shall I banish hunger,
Banish hatred, banish pain?
Shall I mend the broken,
Let them dance in the rain?
What if I could take cancer,
AIDS, Alzheimer's too
And send them gone forever
As my gift to you?
Could I soften heartache
Anger and fear
Give vision to the blind
Help the deaf ones hear?
Help the lost to find their way
Along the winding path
Show the weak and weary mind
The beauty that life hath?
I cannot snap my fingers
And make everything right
But I can tuck you safely in
Each and every night
And while the world is faulty
And filled with many woes
I can help you learn to avoid
The very worst of those
And I can help you to be strong
When you most want to be weak
And I can teach you to raise your voice
When most you fear to speak
I can help you find your light
To shine for all to see
And I can help you learn to know
Why the spirit must be free
In time you'll grow beyond my words
And stand up all alone
In time I'll be a whisper
Where the winds of fate have blown
But if you see injustice, hunger, or need
And work to make it right somehow
Then we both succeed
Be strong, my child, and wise
Compassionate and smart
And don't forget to listen to
Both your good head and good heart
Wherever else I be,
Whatever else I do
I will always be that soft whisper
Saying "I love you"
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Quotes
"...besides love, independence of thought is the greatest gift an adult can give a child." - Bryce Courtenay, The Power of One
Tibi gratias agimus quod nihil fumas.
It says "...freedom of...", not "...freedom from...".
Nolite te bastardes carburundorum!
"It's amazing to me how many people think that voting to have the government give poor people money is compassion. Helping poor and suffering people is compassion. Voting for our government to use guns to give money to help poor and suffering people is immoral self-righteous bullying laziness. People need to be fed, medicated, educated, clothed, and sheltered, and if we're compassionate we'll help them, but you get no moral credit for forcing other people to do what you think is right. There is great joy in helping people, but no joy in doing it at gunpoint." - Penn Jillette
Tibi gratias agimus quod nihil fumas.
It says "...freedom of...", not "...freedom from...".
Nolite te bastardes carburundorum!
"It's amazing to me how many people think that voting to have the government give poor people money is compassion. Helping poor and suffering people is compassion. Voting for our government to use guns to give money to help poor and suffering people is immoral self-righteous bullying laziness. People need to be fed, medicated, educated, clothed, and sheltered, and if we're compassionate we'll help them, but you get no moral credit for forcing other people to do what you think is right. There is great joy in helping people, but no joy in doing it at gunpoint." - Penn Jillette
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Friday, December 20, 2013
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Leading Into Yule
I have been so busy...I can't even catch my breath! Things are rough, here at the casa, but life goes on. Yule is coming, and I thought I'd post some old videos I made and share a little music with ya. Enjoy...or don't, your choice. Whatever you celebrate, I hope it is marvelous.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Wee Hours
Sometimes the only time I have with my thoughts, the only time it is relatively quiet (except for the humming of the heat pump, the bubbling of the fish tanks, the creaking of the house as temperatures change and the wind kicks up, the dishwasher, the fridge, the cats...) is when everyone else is asleep.
It doesn't happen often...even when they're all in bed, sometimes I am back and forth to Sprout's room to shush her back to sleep when something disturbs her and she cries out. Sometimes I am too tired, or feel guilty for wasting the little bit of time that Someone and I have together on the rare nights he stays over, or I need to fold laundry.
Once in a while, though...once in a while I am up late, like the old days, just me and whatever is rattling around in my brain.
Tonight is such a night. Someone is staying over but he went to bed, worn slap out from a day of working out in the yard at his place. I needed to stay up and work a bit, trying to get a slew of Etsy listings done for K2 to have up for Cyber Monday - look for Unleashthegoddess on Etsy if you want to shop a talented artist and find unique items to gift or wear yourself (shameless plug). I finished a few minutes ago, and I could go to bed, snuggle up to Someone, enjoy his warm presence...but I need...truly, need...a few minutes.
Week after relentless, sometimes grinding, week of being a single mother homeschooling her kids wears me out. Week after endless week of noise and movement and chaos leaves me breathless and in need of just a little peace, and as it stands the only way I can get some of that precious peace is to snatch it from the wee hours.
I can sleep some other time. Right now I am going to get my think on.
It doesn't happen often...even when they're all in bed, sometimes I am back and forth to Sprout's room to shush her back to sleep when something disturbs her and she cries out. Sometimes I am too tired, or feel guilty for wasting the little bit of time that Someone and I have together on the rare nights he stays over, or I need to fold laundry.
Once in a while, though...once in a while I am up late, like the old days, just me and whatever is rattling around in my brain.
Tonight is such a night. Someone is staying over but he went to bed, worn slap out from a day of working out in the yard at his place. I needed to stay up and work a bit, trying to get a slew of Etsy listings done for K2 to have up for Cyber Monday - look for Unleashthegoddess on Etsy if you want to shop a talented artist and find unique items to gift or wear yourself (shameless plug). I finished a few minutes ago, and I could go to bed, snuggle up to Someone, enjoy his warm presence...but I need...truly, need...a few minutes.
Week after relentless, sometimes grinding, week of being a single mother homeschooling her kids wears me out. Week after endless week of noise and movement and chaos leaves me breathless and in need of just a little peace, and as it stands the only way I can get some of that precious peace is to snatch it from the wee hours.
I can sleep some other time. Right now I am going to get my think on.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Thankful.
I have a few traditions on this day. Not many - the menu, recording the Macy's parade so I can watch it and fast-forward through all the crappy pop music, commercials, and talking heads to see the twenty minutes of balloons, floats and high school bands I'm interested in hidden among all that junk (although I will have to forgo that pleasure, this year, alas), and my list of some things for which I am thankful, in no particular order and in no way complete:
The house in which I live
The Evil Genius
Mum
Someone
Sprout
Gypsy, K2, Mizz A, Kit, Sam-I-Am, PJ, Mizz Beth, and all of my friends who put up with me when I am most myself and therefor least likable. They are the net beneath me when I fly and fall.
Bread
The scent of leaf loam and woodsmoke in the crisp autumn air
Books, music, and art
Clean, plentiful water
Clean air
Clean clothes
Freedom
Nature and the way she finds to show me something new of herself every day
Words
Song
Dance
Adversity, that joy is all the sweeter (Okay, okay, the joy is sweet enough, so basta with the adversity for a minute, please)
Every creature and plant that I consume to sustain myself, because without the life I take, there would be no life to live
Love - that it exists at all is a wonder, and I feel blessed to know it in many forms
Chocolate, gift from the Gods (yes, even the perversion called "candy bar") (Mmm...candy bar...)
Strong hands
Strong spirit
Strong will
Laughter
Cussed determination not to curl up and die just because life can sometimes be a succession of truly awful, bleak, and desolate days...but sometimes it isn't.
The Internet
You
I hope you have a blessed day, and that you the things you're thankful for outweighing the things for which you're not.
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all, from us at Casa de Crazy to you out in the Blue Nowhere and beyond.
Someone
Sprout
Gypsy, K2, Mizz A, Kit, Sam-I-Am, PJ, Mizz Beth, and all of my friends who put up with me when I am most myself and therefor least likable. They are the net beneath me when I fly and fall.
Bread
The scent of leaf loam and woodsmoke in the crisp autumn air
Books, music, and art
Clean, plentiful water
Clean air
Clean clothes
Freedom
Nature and the way she finds to show me something new of herself every day
Words
Song
Dance
Adversity, that joy is all the sweeter (Okay, okay, the joy is sweet enough, so basta with the adversity for a minute, please)
Every creature and plant that I consume to sustain myself, because without the life I take, there would be no life to live
Love - that it exists at all is a wonder, and I feel blessed to know it in many forms
Chocolate, gift from the Gods (yes, even the perversion called "candy bar") (Mmm...candy bar...)
Strong hands
Strong spirit
Strong will
Laughter
Cussed determination not to curl up and die just because life can sometimes be a succession of truly awful, bleak, and desolate days...but sometimes it isn't.
The Internet
You
I hope you have a blessed day, and that you the things you're thankful for outweighing the things for which you're not.
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all, from us at Casa de Crazy to you out in the Blue Nowhere and beyond.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
What's Fer Dinner?
Time for the annual posting of the menu! You've been anxiously awaiting this post all year, haven't you? I knew it!
Casa de Crazy presents: Thanksgiving Dinner
Featuring: Mr. Thomas Turkey
Co-Starring: Herb and Onion Dressing, Mashed Potatoes, Gravy, Green Bean Casserole, Mashed Turnips and Carrots and a special appearance by Can o' Cranberry!
Also Appearing: Mrs. Smith's Dutch Apple Crumb Pie and Sara Lee Cheesecake along with Vanilla Bean Ice Cream and Reddi-Whip
Special Guest Appearances by: Pitcher of Water and Stick of Butter
How's your Feast shaping up (if you celebrate, that is)?
Casa de Crazy presents: Thanksgiving Dinner
Featuring: Mr. Thomas Turkey
Co-Starring: Herb and Onion Dressing, Mashed Potatoes, Gravy, Green Bean Casserole, Mashed Turnips and Carrots and a special appearance by Can o' Cranberry!
Also Appearing: Mrs. Smith's Dutch Apple Crumb Pie and Sara Lee Cheesecake along with Vanilla Bean Ice Cream and Reddi-Whip
Special Guest Appearances by: Pitcher of Water and Stick of Butter
How's your Feast shaping up (if you celebrate, that is)?
Sunday, November 24, 2013
The Countdown Begins
Thanksgiving is in four days. Four days! Where'd my year go? Gah!!!
Ahem.
Today I am baking herb bread so I can cut it into cubes and let it go stale. Yup. That's how I do my dressing, and so far no one's complained they don't like it. The dough is on its first rising as I type. I dig bread dough - it's alive! Watching it poof up, slowly encroaching on the edges of the rising bowl, is kind nifty.
In a couple of hours it'll be in the oven, making Casa de Crazy smell fantastic. I'm baking two batches, which will yield four loaves. Not all of it is for dressing, but I have learned that I need to make extra - filling the house with that delectable scent and not having any to nom on is just about the height of cruelty!
I'll be doing little things all week to get ready for Thursday. We're not having a huge crowd and I'm not cooking a huge feast, I just don't want to have a ton of work to do in one day, and some things do better when they've had a day or three to sit and mingle.
Tomorrow I am shooting photos at K2's place - this time of year she comes off the road and updates her online presence and I help by shooting pics and writing Etsy posts for her. There's a link on her sidebar if you're interested in some fantastic art and wearables!
The rest of the week will have me in and out of the kitchen and tidying the Casa (which isn't as much work as it has been because I've been kinds sorta keeping up with it a tiny bit more).
How's your week shaping up?
Ahem.
Today I am baking herb bread so I can cut it into cubes and let it go stale. Yup. That's how I do my dressing, and so far no one's complained they don't like it. The dough is on its first rising as I type. I dig bread dough - it's alive! Watching it poof up, slowly encroaching on the edges of the rising bowl, is kind nifty.
In a couple of hours it'll be in the oven, making Casa de Crazy smell fantastic. I'm baking two batches, which will yield four loaves. Not all of it is for dressing, but I have learned that I need to make extra - filling the house with that delectable scent and not having any to nom on is just about the height of cruelty!
I'll be doing little things all week to get ready for Thursday. We're not having a huge crowd and I'm not cooking a huge feast, I just don't want to have a ton of work to do in one day, and some things do better when they've had a day or three to sit and mingle.
Tomorrow I am shooting photos at K2's place - this time of year she comes off the road and updates her online presence and I help by shooting pics and writing Etsy posts for her. There's a link on her sidebar if you're interested in some fantastic art and wearables!
The rest of the week will have me in and out of the kitchen and tidying the Casa (which isn't as much work as it has been because I've been kinds sorta keeping up with it a tiny bit more).
How's your week shaping up?
Monday, November 18, 2013
Do You Know Him?
He's an alcoholic and a drug addict and he carries his demons under his shirt and close to his heart where they claw and rend and he bleeds out anger and hatred and misery and love.
He carries his demons close to his heart and inside his head and they whisper and taunt and tease and blend with the voices outside his head that tell him he's useless and worthless and wrong and bad and a drunk and no good and unwanted until it all turns into this big noise and the I Love You gets lost.
The I Love You gets lost because he isn't capable of understanding it, can't comprehend how anyone can look at him and his scars from the all the demon-scratching and his bleeding and anger and drinking and pot smoking and still say the words with meaning, even after he has spewed so much anger and bitterness out that they have coated everything, my heart, my soul, our home, his eyes and ears, and taken all the meaning out of his own i love you.
His own i love you has no meaning to him because he can't believe he has value, because he knows what he has done in this life and feels, behind the curtains of his eyes, deep in his mind, that he cannot have value because he has broken the law, broken hearts, broken vows, broken his word, broken himself down and down until he is tiny fragments, dust to be swept up and discarded.
He is dust to be discarded because that, in his mind, is all he has ever been. In his mind, in his eyes, in his heart, in his experience, he has been tossed away like refuse when he turned out to be a disappointment, when his imperfections, so many imperfections, burst forth despite his best efforts to hide them and pretend to be the person he wants to be, and so tossed away he has drifted far from his better self and become this drunk addict who feels the scorn seeping through his walls and into his bones.
He is an alcoholic and an addict because he is trying to hide from, trying to buffer himself from, trying to resist what he thinks is real, that he is no good and no one could really want him and the hammer will fall, the shoe will drop, and he will once more be thrown out the door he is always halfway through.
He is halfway through the door because he has created a life that is untenable, taken the love he's been freely given and twisted it up, torn it to pieces, tossed it about, trampled it, all because he can't believe it is real and simply love and not some desire to change or turn him into what he isn't, that he can be loved for nothing more than himself and so must lash out at what he doesn't understand because love can't be love for its own sake but has to have a dollar value.
He thinks love has a dollar value because he has only felt loved when he was approved of, was only approved of when he had a job and was a good boy, did as others wanted him to, hid himself away behind blue eyes and a smile that never reached them.
When the smile reached his eyes, he was afraid, because that meant something more than a plastic existence of pretension, it meant he was opening himself up to an honesty for which he was not prepared, and that honesty burned and ate at him until he had to call it a lie, but in naming it a lie has only wounded himself more because he knows that the lie is truth and he can't hide from truth in the one place he wants to, inside his own head.
He can't hide from himself, and so...he is an alcoholic...and an addict...
And I love him.
He carries his demons close to his heart and inside his head and they whisper and taunt and tease and blend with the voices outside his head that tell him he's useless and worthless and wrong and bad and a drunk and no good and unwanted until it all turns into this big noise and the I Love You gets lost.
The I Love You gets lost because he isn't capable of understanding it, can't comprehend how anyone can look at him and his scars from the all the demon-scratching and his bleeding and anger and drinking and pot smoking and still say the words with meaning, even after he has spewed so much anger and bitterness out that they have coated everything, my heart, my soul, our home, his eyes and ears, and taken all the meaning out of his own i love you.
His own i love you has no meaning to him because he can't believe he has value, because he knows what he has done in this life and feels, behind the curtains of his eyes, deep in his mind, that he cannot have value because he has broken the law, broken hearts, broken vows, broken his word, broken himself down and down until he is tiny fragments, dust to be swept up and discarded.
He is dust to be discarded because that, in his mind, is all he has ever been. In his mind, in his eyes, in his heart, in his experience, he has been tossed away like refuse when he turned out to be a disappointment, when his imperfections, so many imperfections, burst forth despite his best efforts to hide them and pretend to be the person he wants to be, and so tossed away he has drifted far from his better self and become this drunk addict who feels the scorn seeping through his walls and into his bones.
He is an alcoholic and an addict because he is trying to hide from, trying to buffer himself from, trying to resist what he thinks is real, that he is no good and no one could really want him and the hammer will fall, the shoe will drop, and he will once more be thrown out the door he is always halfway through.
He is halfway through the door because he has created a life that is untenable, taken the love he's been freely given and twisted it up, torn it to pieces, tossed it about, trampled it, all because he can't believe it is real and simply love and not some desire to change or turn him into what he isn't, that he can be loved for nothing more than himself and so must lash out at what he doesn't understand because love can't be love for its own sake but has to have a dollar value.
He thinks love has a dollar value because he has only felt loved when he was approved of, was only approved of when he had a job and was a good boy, did as others wanted him to, hid himself away behind blue eyes and a smile that never reached them.
When the smile reached his eyes, he was afraid, because that meant something more than a plastic existence of pretension, it meant he was opening himself up to an honesty for which he was not prepared, and that honesty burned and ate at him until he had to call it a lie, but in naming it a lie has only wounded himself more because he knows that the lie is truth and he can't hide from truth in the one place he wants to, inside his own head.
He can't hide from himself, and so...he is an alcoholic...and an addict...
And I love him.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Six Things
Some while ago, I took part in some memery called Six Things, wherein one listed six things one found in various places. I have had it in my head to play again, so here goes
In my laundry basket:
One sock made with recycled cotton yarn of varying blues and purples. Where the other is I do not know, and Sprout isn't saying.
One pair of not-so-frilly unmentionables that I should bin, but can't bring myself to because they are soft and comfy.
One t-shirt. How I managed to wear it is a mystery, because I don't wear that kind of shirt any more and won't until another fifty pounds have gone the way of the Dodo.
A Peek-a-Block
Something that looks suspiciously like a petrified cat hork.
A spoon.
In my bathroom:
A mini Butterfinger. Why?
Four dry-erase markers. Again...why?
A jar lid filled with honey and borax. I know why.
The spout to my bathtub...on the counter...
A ghostly spider that is wondering why the dearth of insect suppers.
Cat litter...on the floor...no matter how often I sweep.
In my kitchen:
A plastic baggie full of white powder. Guess.
A bright pink charger cord.
A terribly empty cat bowl (it will be filled this afternoon).
One yellow Playtex glove.
A magnificent cobweb.
A frighteningly poofed up milk jug.
In my refrigerator:
Something green and furry that may or may not have been edible at one time.
Something orange and furry that ditto above.
Something liquid that should probably be solid.
Something solid that used to be liquid.
A piece of brie of indeterminate age but impeccable breeding.
A questionable brownie that could double as a brick, it's been there so long.
In the pantry:
A light bulb.
A box of club crackers with exactly six crackers in it.
Some stale oyster crackers that no one wants to eat, but we can't seem to toss into the compost.
A cat toy.
A package of Fig Newtons with two Newtons in it, both of which bear more resemblance to blocks of wood than cookies.
A sock...but not the mate to the recycled cotton one, alas.
In my van:
A handful of Froot Loops from the stone age.
A piece of beef jerky that is slightly older than the Froot Loops and twice as tough as Chuck Norris.
A flashlight that sometimes works.
Three different toddler shoes.
A small jug of chocolate milk that occasionally hisses at me.
An astonishing assortment of crumbs of varying sizes and ages that bids fair to take over the back seat.
So...if you want to play along, just pick six places and list six things you found there. Easy-peasy.
In my laundry basket:
One sock made with recycled cotton yarn of varying blues and purples. Where the other is I do not know, and Sprout isn't saying.
One pair of not-so-frilly unmentionables that I should bin, but can't bring myself to because they are soft and comfy.
One t-shirt. How I managed to wear it is a mystery, because I don't wear that kind of shirt any more and won't until another fifty pounds have gone the way of the Dodo.
A Peek-a-Block
Something that looks suspiciously like a petrified cat hork.
A spoon.
In my bathroom:
A mini Butterfinger. Why?
Four dry-erase markers. Again...why?
A jar lid filled with honey and borax. I know why.
The spout to my bathtub...on the counter...
A ghostly spider that is wondering why the dearth of insect suppers.
Cat litter...on the floor...no matter how often I sweep.
In my kitchen:
A plastic baggie full of white powder. Guess.
A bright pink charger cord.
A terribly empty cat bowl (it will be filled this afternoon).
One yellow Playtex glove.
A magnificent cobweb.
A frighteningly poofed up milk jug.
In my refrigerator:
Something green and furry that may or may not have been edible at one time.
Something orange and furry that ditto above.
Something liquid that should probably be solid.
Something solid that used to be liquid.
A piece of brie of indeterminate age but impeccable breeding.
A questionable brownie that could double as a brick, it's been there so long.
In the pantry:
A light bulb.
A box of club crackers with exactly six crackers in it.
Some stale oyster crackers that no one wants to eat, but we can't seem to toss into the compost.
A cat toy.
A package of Fig Newtons with two Newtons in it, both of which bear more resemblance to blocks of wood than cookies.
A sock...but not the mate to the recycled cotton one, alas.
In my van:
A handful of Froot Loops from the stone age.
A piece of beef jerky that is slightly older than the Froot Loops and twice as tough as Chuck Norris.
A flashlight that sometimes works.
Three different toddler shoes.
A small jug of chocolate milk that occasionally hisses at me.
An astonishing assortment of crumbs of varying sizes and ages that bids fair to take over the back seat.
So...if you want to play along, just pick six places and list six things you found there. Easy-peasy.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Oooh, 'ku!
I've been playing with Haiku on Facebook. I enjoy them. Here are a few of my recent creations:
Sunlight pours whisky
Through shivering Autumn trees
Illusory warmth
~
Small girl wakes often
Nestles late in Mama's bed
Warm nest hard to leave
~
Small girl has bad dreams
Crawls into bed with Mama
Mama holds, girl sleeps
They're not exactly master class, but I'm having fun with them, distilling a head full of thoughts into seventeen syllables. Do you 'ku?
Sunlight pours whisky
Through shivering Autumn trees
Illusory warmth
~
Small girl wakes often
Nestles late in Mama's bed
Warm nest hard to leave
~
Small girl has bad dreams
Crawls into bed with Mama
Mama holds, girl sleeps
They're not exactly master class, but I'm having fun with them, distilling a head full of thoughts into seventeen syllables. Do you 'ku?
Monday, November 11, 2013
Veteran's Day
If your feet walk foreign soil, I wish you a swift and safe return home.
If you came home broken, I wish you swift and full mending.
If you suffered loss, I wish you the softening of grief, and abundance in your future days.
Thank you Dad, Big Brother, Uncle, Cousin, Basque A, and all of those who step/ped up and put on a uniform.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
And I don't Even Have A Pilot's License!
Listen up, people!
I don't drive so much as fly low.
I like to go fast.
As fast as conditions allow. Maybe just a little faster.
I am no Maria Andretti, but I do enjoy feeling my Astro hunker down, take the bit in her teeth, grip the road, and go. It is probably for the best that I love my Astro and have no desire for a sporty car. You're welcome.
65 is tolerable. 70 is nice. 75 is even better, and 80 is just lovely. I am quite comfortable at 90, and I have learned to my sorrow that my Astro maxes out at 100...my sorrow because I was on a beautiful, long, straight stretch of unoccupied road that just begged to be zoomed.
I try to keep it safe and keep the cuss words down to a minimum. I sometimes wish the other motorists sharing the road were a little more cognizant of their surroundings. Sometimes that wish for awareness expresses itself in a stream of invective that makes my kids laugh and horrifies or amuses any fellow adults in the van.
If you're one of the right lane hugging people who have the misfortune to wander into the left lane when I am steaming towards my destination, some tips:
-When you must enter the left lane, take a moment to assess the traffic in said lane. Those handy makeup mirrors on the side of your vehicle, and the hair styling one in the center of your windscreen? They are perfect for seeing what's going on behind you! Note the speed at which the left-laners travel and try to time your entry into Speedsville with a nice gap that won't force anyone else to disengage their beloved cruise control, mash the brake pedal, and engage their profanity release mechanism.
-There is a special Hell for people who drift into the left lane and then float along beside the vehicle they were thinking about passing until they noticed their speedometer indicating a two-mile-over-the-limit increase in velocity. Don't ensure a place in that Hell by crawling along the left lane like you have nowhere better to be and all the time in the world to get there. That steam in your rear view? Isn't an engine going bad. It's coming out of someone's ears. Probably mine.
-I am not afraid to pass on the right. If you force me to, please don't be surprised when I stare at you as I go by, maybe even shake my head and look at you like a dog with a grape (if you don't know that look, give a dog a grape and watch him try to sort it out...is it food? toy? some other category of thing that is neither/both food or toy? What should he do with it? Confusion abounds!). Please don't pretend to be surprised or offended when I move back into the left lane a safe distance ahead of you, and please don't slam on your brakes as if I have suddenly cut you off when I am a half mile ahead of you before I make the switch.
-Turn indicators (also known as blinkers) have a purpose. If you don't know what that purpose is park and take a bus until you have educated yourself. Buses, by the way, stay in the right lane because they know that's where they belong. There are people on the road who could take their cue from a bus.
We share the road, not always by choice. I know there are people in the lanes who can't see well, are distracted, or are driving impaired or scared. I know there are people who make it their business to slow everyone else down because they don't think anyone needs to drive that fast, should have left earlier if they're late, should slow down because speed kills.
I know there are people who think I am slow and who impatiently try to crawl up my tail pipe without so much as a by-your-leave. They wish I would move out of the way and drive over there in the right lane where 80mph cruisers belong.
We all have to compromise a little. I like to think that, despite my need for speed, I am conscientious, courteous, and really quite safe in my driving. I don't ride anyone's backside like we're on some kind of kinky, automotive themed date. I don't try to force anyone aside or wedge myself into a half-sized space when a lane is ending. If construction signs are visible, I mind them, and if a lane is closed I make sure I move from it as soon and as safely as I can. I don't cut people off. I'm not dangerous...I simply like to move along at a low cruising altitude. Do me a favor and let me, won't you?
I don't drive so much as fly low.
I like to go fast.
As fast as conditions allow. Maybe just a little faster.
I am no Maria Andretti, but I do enjoy feeling my Astro hunker down, take the bit in her teeth, grip the road, and go. It is probably for the best that I love my Astro and have no desire for a sporty car. You're welcome.
65 is tolerable. 70 is nice. 75 is even better, and 80 is just lovely. I am quite comfortable at 90, and I have learned to my sorrow that my Astro maxes out at 100...my sorrow because I was on a beautiful, long, straight stretch of unoccupied road that just begged to be zoomed.
I try to keep it safe and keep the cuss words down to a minimum. I sometimes wish the other motorists sharing the road were a little more cognizant of their surroundings. Sometimes that wish for awareness expresses itself in a stream of invective that makes my kids laugh and horrifies or amuses any fellow adults in the van.
If you're one of the right lane hugging people who have the misfortune to wander into the left lane when I am steaming towards my destination, some tips:
-When you must enter the left lane, take a moment to assess the traffic in said lane. Those handy makeup mirrors on the side of your vehicle, and the hair styling one in the center of your windscreen? They are perfect for seeing what's going on behind you! Note the speed at which the left-laners travel and try to time your entry into Speedsville with a nice gap that won't force anyone else to disengage their beloved cruise control, mash the brake pedal, and engage their profanity release mechanism.
-There is a special Hell for people who drift into the left lane and then float along beside the vehicle they were thinking about passing until they noticed their speedometer indicating a two-mile-over-the-limit increase in velocity. Don't ensure a place in that Hell by crawling along the left lane like you have nowhere better to be and all the time in the world to get there. That steam in your rear view? Isn't an engine going bad. It's coming out of someone's ears. Probably mine.
-I am not afraid to pass on the right. If you force me to, please don't be surprised when I stare at you as I go by, maybe even shake my head and look at you like a dog with a grape (if you don't know that look, give a dog a grape and watch him try to sort it out...is it food? toy? some other category of thing that is neither/both food or toy? What should he do with it? Confusion abounds!). Please don't pretend to be surprised or offended when I move back into the left lane a safe distance ahead of you, and please don't slam on your brakes as if I have suddenly cut you off when I am a half mile ahead of you before I make the switch.
-Turn indicators (also known as blinkers) have a purpose. If you don't know what that purpose is park and take a bus until you have educated yourself. Buses, by the way, stay in the right lane because they know that's where they belong. There are people on the road who could take their cue from a bus.
We share the road, not always by choice. I know there are people in the lanes who can't see well, are distracted, or are driving impaired or scared. I know there are people who make it their business to slow everyone else down because they don't think anyone needs to drive that fast, should have left earlier if they're late, should slow down because speed kills.
I know there are people who think I am slow and who impatiently try to crawl up my tail pipe without so much as a by-your-leave. They wish I would move out of the way and drive over there in the right lane where 80mph cruisers belong.
We all have to compromise a little. I like to think that, despite my need for speed, I am conscientious, courteous, and really quite safe in my driving. I don't ride anyone's backside like we're on some kind of kinky, automotive themed date. I don't try to force anyone aside or wedge myself into a half-sized space when a lane is ending. If construction signs are visible, I mind them, and if a lane is closed I make sure I move from it as soon and as safely as I can. I don't cut people off. I'm not dangerous...I simply like to move along at a low cruising altitude. Do me a favor and let me, won't you?
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
The Illusion of Normalcy
Today I must finish a quilt I've been working on for a benefit auction and then ship it.
I must take the injured kitten I've been caring for over the last few weeks to the vet to have her splint re-wrapped or removed, depending on how her bone is healing.
I must bake banana bread for a friend who just underwent cancer treatment.
There are dishes to do, and laundry.
There are floors that so desperately need cleaning, we stick to them. I wish I was kidding.
I must prepare food for my children, hopefully things that will nourish them rather than convenience me.
What I must not do is give any sign that the ground beneath me (figuratively) is crumbling. I must not let show the cracks in the facade, the hurt, the fear, the sorrow. I will not cry where anyone can see me, there will be no evidence of tears if anyone takes the time to look. I will have a pleasant demeanor, as always.
It is for myself that I perpetuate the illusion. For myself because I just don't want or need to hear opinions about my feelings and what I should be doing about them. I don't want to trot out my damaged soul one more time and show how tattered and worn it is, how it flutters in streamers smirched by shadow and history. I don't want to talk about it. Isn't it enough that I am experiencing it? It's exhausting.
This slow disintegration is tortuous. It's not a nice, quick cut of the psyche it's a long, horrible slide down the rusty edge of a cast off blade, itchy and painful and dull.
I am thinking things that are...unpleasant...things like why don't I just drive away and leave everyone behind and just disappear, because they'd all be better off without me. Things like I could drink those two bottles of whiskey all at once and be catatonic in short order. Things like why is my honor so bloody important that I let it get in the way of what I so desperately need.
And don't need.
Because not wanting to live and wanting to die are two very different things. Worlds apart. Huge distinctions. I can not want to live without wanting to be dead. I can look at the mess I have made around me and want to live differently without exactly wanting to walk through the other side to get to cleaner, less damaged ground.
This churned up muck that is sliding away from me while dragging me through itself is, at least, my muck. It's my experience, and there's no escaping that. Try and run away, it just follows, flows through lifetimes until the lesson is well and truly learned. May as well endure and learn now.
So none of the turmoil will show. I will look just like a fully functioning member of society with never a hint of the internal train wreck that's going on. Perhaps you'd be surprised to know how many like me there are in the world.
I must take the injured kitten I've been caring for over the last few weeks to the vet to have her splint re-wrapped or removed, depending on how her bone is healing.
I must bake banana bread for a friend who just underwent cancer treatment.
There are dishes to do, and laundry.
There are floors that so desperately need cleaning, we stick to them. I wish I was kidding.
I must prepare food for my children, hopefully things that will nourish them rather than convenience me.
What I must not do is give any sign that the ground beneath me (figuratively) is crumbling. I must not let show the cracks in the facade, the hurt, the fear, the sorrow. I will not cry where anyone can see me, there will be no evidence of tears if anyone takes the time to look. I will have a pleasant demeanor, as always.
It is for myself that I perpetuate the illusion. For myself because I just don't want or need to hear opinions about my feelings and what I should be doing about them. I don't want to trot out my damaged soul one more time and show how tattered and worn it is, how it flutters in streamers smirched by shadow and history. I don't want to talk about it. Isn't it enough that I am experiencing it? It's exhausting.
This slow disintegration is tortuous. It's not a nice, quick cut of the psyche it's a long, horrible slide down the rusty edge of a cast off blade, itchy and painful and dull.
I am thinking things that are...unpleasant...things like why don't I just drive away and leave everyone behind and just disappear, because they'd all be better off without me. Things like I could drink those two bottles of whiskey all at once and be catatonic in short order. Things like why is my honor so bloody important that I let it get in the way of what I so desperately need.
And don't need.
Because not wanting to live and wanting to die are two very different things. Worlds apart. Huge distinctions. I can not want to live without wanting to be dead. I can look at the mess I have made around me and want to live differently without exactly wanting to walk through the other side to get to cleaner, less damaged ground.
This churned up muck that is sliding away from me while dragging me through itself is, at least, my muck. It's my experience, and there's no escaping that. Try and run away, it just follows, flows through lifetimes until the lesson is well and truly learned. May as well endure and learn now.
So none of the turmoil will show. I will look just like a fully functioning member of society with never a hint of the internal train wreck that's going on. Perhaps you'd be surprised to know how many like me there are in the world.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Once Upon A Time?
There must have been a time, a place, some circumstance, when I was confident and felt like I had value to myself and the world at large.
There must have been.
I see my children, how they go so boldly about their lives as if they are the center of it all, and I know I must have been the same way, mustn't I?
No one's born into this life thinking they are without worth, are they?
So what happened? Why can't I remember a single time or place when I felt like I was doing it right? Why am I always so very aware of how I'm fucking things up, but if I am doing something good it's like I'm not there and can't remember it ten minutes later, like it never happened? How is it that the positive, if it exists, is so quickly and easily drowned out by the horrid?
Why is it so easy to believe the ugly things people say, to believe the ugly things are deserved, even in the face of love and compassion?
My love and compassion feel battered, bruised, and trampled right now. They feel...useless...pointless...unwanted...much as I feel I am.
Depression is a hard row to hoe. It's no easier when one is volubly judged as a fuck up. It is no easier when people think one should just get over it, or that it isn't real like cancer or the flu. It isn't easy when it grinds and grinds and drags and darkens, sucks one into the mire. It is certainly not any better when the best one can do is met with scorn, derision, indifference or apathy.
Days and days I wonder why I fucking bother.
Days and days I wonder why I don't matter.
Days and days I struggle with the idea that everything and everyone would be so much better off if I wasn't here to fuck it all up.
I can't remember a time when the idea of love, the words "I love you", didn't mean "I want something from you" or "Whatever I say or do you have to accept" or "I own you and you have to be who I want you to be"...when they haven't meant the speaker believes to their core that I have some obligation to them. If that was all I knew of love, maybe I'd be fine, but I see others NOT living in that reality so I know there's another way and I'm just not allowed to join those reindeer games.
Yes, I am in a very bad place right now, and my head is full of shades and ugliness...but how is that any different, I wonder, than when I am NOT in a bad place?
I wonder if I will ever be able to touch a memory of feeling right, or create one in some distant future. I wonder if I will ever be free of this doubt, the self-defeating, self-hating internal dialog that tells me to shut the fuck up and go away because really, how could I possibly think anyone is interested in my nonsense?
I don't think I ever had whatever it is that lets people go through their lives with grace, confidence, compassion, and love. Deficient, me.
There must have been.
I see my children, how they go so boldly about their lives as if they are the center of it all, and I know I must have been the same way, mustn't I?
No one's born into this life thinking they are without worth, are they?
So what happened? Why can't I remember a single time or place when I felt like I was doing it right? Why am I always so very aware of how I'm fucking things up, but if I am doing something good it's like I'm not there and can't remember it ten minutes later, like it never happened? How is it that the positive, if it exists, is so quickly and easily drowned out by the horrid?
Why is it so easy to believe the ugly things people say, to believe the ugly things are deserved, even in the face of love and compassion?
My love and compassion feel battered, bruised, and trampled right now. They feel...useless...pointless...unwanted...much as I feel I am.
Depression is a hard row to hoe. It's no easier when one is volubly judged as a fuck up. It is no easier when people think one should just get over it, or that it isn't real like cancer or the flu. It isn't easy when it grinds and grinds and drags and darkens, sucks one into the mire. It is certainly not any better when the best one can do is met with scorn, derision, indifference or apathy.
Days and days I wonder why I fucking bother.
Days and days I wonder why I don't matter.
Days and days I struggle with the idea that everything and everyone would be so much better off if I wasn't here to fuck it all up.
I can't remember a time when the idea of love, the words "I love you", didn't mean "I want something from you" or "Whatever I say or do you have to accept" or "I own you and you have to be who I want you to be"...when they haven't meant the speaker believes to their core that I have some obligation to them. If that was all I knew of love, maybe I'd be fine, but I see others NOT living in that reality so I know there's another way and I'm just not allowed to join those reindeer games.
Yes, I am in a very bad place right now, and my head is full of shades and ugliness...but how is that any different, I wonder, than when I am NOT in a bad place?
I wonder if I will ever be able to touch a memory of feeling right, or create one in some distant future. I wonder if I will ever be free of this doubt, the self-defeating, self-hating internal dialog that tells me to shut the fuck up and go away because really, how could I possibly think anyone is interested in my nonsense?
I don't think I ever had whatever it is that lets people go through their lives with grace, confidence, compassion, and love. Deficient, me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
