I feel so removed from all of the groups. My life is full of too much serious bullshit. I can't do the parties, the damn conventions, conversations, whatever. I don't have the self-confidence, money, or free time to be so group happy. No clicks. Just married with children. My house is tacky and dirty. I haven't had company since I don't remember when. I live too far away. At least they put me on the mailing list. I know I'm not any less intelligent, just less of a social butterfly. I used to be a social butterfly. I guess step #1 is "stop whining so damn much."
The weekend was good. It was too hot. I wish that I could've got drunk.
This morning I woke with a migraine and Matt and I both skipped work. I think that I may have had a seizure this morning. I got a little off on my medicine over the weekend and then there's the stress of having sent the kids back to the last place they need to be. When I tried to call the kids tonight, I got to talk to the girls for about fifteen minutes, but didn't get to talk to my son. The whole thing reminded me of the days of worst, when I would go in to kiss my son good-night and talk to him for a minute or two about his day, and asshole would wheel in and tell me that I needed to leave. It reminded me of when I left for good and asshole was holding my son back and had convinced him to stay, convinced him not to trust me, convinced my son that I wouldn't do what I said I was going to do and that I would be back. Anyway, all of this shit - I mean ALL of this shit - has me depressed (again). The evening is over though, but even with the air on, the house is hotter than hell. I'm not looking forward to sleep because I'm really not looking forward to tomorrow. I think that I might be handling everything better and suiting up to my graduate student role a little better if it wasn't for my damn job. There is a constant voice in my diseased brain telling me that I'm not worthy of graduate school. Geez . . . I really need to shut up and start letting things fall as they will. I've got way too much research to read. One would think that I step out of my worn out shoes and find some comfier ones. Matt keeps trying to help, but together, too often, we're energyless and lazy. I will work up the strength to change this eventually. Promise.
7.28.2006,10:13 PM
Papyrus Has the Power to Ruin my Weekend
I tried to reach some research tonight - a paper on Hyperfiction - but all that I got was a headache. Yep, won't be long until I'm needing bifocals, or I guess there comes a point when you just can't print long PDF's, shrunken to two pages per sheet to save paper.
I've spent way too much money in these last two weeks. With Matt having a little check and our planned trip for the weekend, I'm wondering if we'll have the money to get the huge stack of bills paid. The huge stack lays there by the window sill so lifeless and unnoticed, yet ominous only to me.
For most of the evening, I sat playing the piddly games again, watching the line-up after I'd made supper: Malcom in the Middle, The Simpsons, That 70's Show. The bills, my research papers all glowing red in the background. I am really starting to hate paper.
Finally, it's Friday. Why does it feel like the weekend is an impending hell? Is it because I'll be packing the van for our one night camping trip? I'll be the one thinking of toilet paper when nobody else does? I'll be the one worrying about how we'll feed all of these children (my four, my sister's five, my cousin's three, and any other children of any other branch of the family tree wondering around barefooted and sunburnt). It'll be another night of bad sleep. We'll be unable to get the baby asleep. We'll set up until 3AM or so around the campfire, but I don't think there will be as many giggles. Uncle Jimmy got his car impounded for driving without a license and having a tail-light out and therefore lost his job (I don't think he and his family will be joining us). I am having to drop my kids off at the asshole's apartment on the drive back on Sunday for their trip to Florida. I won't see them for at least two weeks. I'm still trying to be chipper. At least I will be in the company of smokers and coffee drinkers and my fellow poor people.
I've spent way too much money in these last two weeks. With Matt having a little check and our planned trip for the weekend, I'm wondering if we'll have the money to get the huge stack of bills paid. The huge stack lays there by the window sill so lifeless and unnoticed, yet ominous only to me.
For most of the evening, I sat playing the piddly games again, watching the line-up after I'd made supper: Malcom in the Middle, The Simpsons, That 70's Show. The bills, my research papers all glowing red in the background. I am really starting to hate paper.
Finally, it's Friday. Why does it feel like the weekend is an impending hell? Is it because I'll be packing the van for our one night camping trip? I'll be the one thinking of toilet paper when nobody else does? I'll be the one worrying about how we'll feed all of these children (my four, my sister's five, my cousin's three, and any other children of any other branch of the family tree wondering around barefooted and sunburnt). It'll be another night of bad sleep. We'll be unable to get the baby asleep. We'll set up until 3AM or so around the campfire, but I don't think there will be as many giggles. Uncle Jimmy got his car impounded for driving without a license and having a tail-light out and therefore lost his job (I don't think he and his family will be joining us). I am having to drop my kids off at the asshole's apartment on the drive back on Sunday for their trip to Florida. I won't see them for at least two weeks. I'm still trying to be chipper. At least I will be in the company of smokers and coffee drinkers and my fellow poor people.
,7:55 AM
Flat Friday
I had trouble getting to sleep last night. Maybe it was the three cups of coffee that I had after 9PM while I was trying to write about my Flea Market experience and mess around with the blog template. I tossed and turned until 1AM. Matt woke me up at 5AM as usual but in the best way (it had been a while) . . . You would think that this would put a sweeter smile on my face for the day (I love sex in the morning . . . *sigh*), but I'm still incredibly tired and I don't want to be at this stupid job. The sun isn't even out.I actually got a response on my Cultural Immersion website after having sent the link out to a couple of profs. One has presented me with a challenge. So, the idea is to present the actual "storytelling" as it occurs between vendors and between vendors as customers as one of the "real" reasons why Flea Market shopping is enjoyable and, at times, even addictive. Easy. I also have to make my presentation stand up beside all of the other students who were able to travel outside the country. My "subculture" has to be comparable. I think I'll get drilled on this one.
This is my last weekend with the kids before they are swept off to Marco Island with you-know-who for a week and a half. My son is still saying that he wants to go to school here and move back in with me. I still don't think it's going to happen - it definitely won't happen without another trip to the family therapist and without my son demanding it repeatedly. The therapist is the man calling the shots, the man who is neatly sweeping black eyes and busted lips under the rug so that we may communicate as a healthy family once again. I am thinking that I am going to have to crawl under the rug myself or I am not going to be able to get through school (to get a better job to actually afford the family therapist and a lawyer when I need one) . . . This means actually handing the fight over to three children who know nothing of fighting. I can keep screaming. I could never lose my children. I'm not that nuts - or at least I don't appear to be in most social circles.
Matt goes back on days on the 7th . . . This weekend, there's lots to celebrate, lots to cry about. So why does today feel like it's lacking emotion altogether?
7.27.2006,10:05 PM
Shape Shifting Again
Today, I visited a Flea Market and actually got my blog going for it. It's already late and I've written ALOT there, so I won't write as much here. It was really fun getting to talk to all of those weird people. I would post a link here . . . but then I may be revealing a little too much of my true identity . . . :)~
The day has felt like a break. I'm getting my "student mode" back and I'm feeling less stress and like less of a failure on the homefront. I'm feeling productive again. So what if the laundry's piled to the ceiling; I'm doing research.
I'm sticking with the Fiction workshop that I had signed up for. This is a good thing. I know that if I dropped it, I would've regretted it forever. I'm still trying to keep a little bit of myself and my dreams in getting this degree. I figure it's got to get me somewhere closer to where I want to be. Anywhere is better than cataloging books and screwing up accounting (which I've been doing for almost four years now). When I leave my current job, I am going to leave them with such a heaping mess that they'll probably cut off the grant and shut the place down. This is my plan anyway. hehehehe. Just kidding. I'm not that mean.
Keeping this blog has really got me tied back to my writing. I had fun logging my Flea Market adventures today . . . and in the days that come, as school starts back, I'll be logging less of my life here . . . The point is that I'm writing. Everything's coming up roses if I'm writing.
The day has felt like a break. I'm getting my "student mode" back and I'm feeling less stress and like less of a failure on the homefront. I'm feeling productive again. So what if the laundry's piled to the ceiling; I'm doing research.
I'm sticking with the Fiction workshop that I had signed up for. This is a good thing. I know that if I dropped it, I would've regretted it forever. I'm still trying to keep a little bit of myself and my dreams in getting this degree. I figure it's got to get me somewhere closer to where I want to be. Anywhere is better than cataloging books and screwing up accounting (which I've been doing for almost four years now). When I leave my current job, I am going to leave them with such a heaping mess that they'll probably cut off the grant and shut the place down. This is my plan anyway. hehehehe. Just kidding. I'm not that mean.
Keeping this blog has really got me tied back to my writing. I had fun logging my Flea Market adventures today . . . and in the days that come, as school starts back, I'll be logging less of my life here . . . The point is that I'm writing. Everything's coming up roses if I'm writing.
7.26.2006,9:36 PM
Queens in Old Folders
I found this is an old file lost in the My Documents folder. I wrote it a long time ago . . . I'm sticking it on here now because I'd rather be doing anything aside from reading my research . . . I always kinda' liked it . . . ah, sweet conceit . . .
A Sidereal Year
(circa 2000)
It was when she asked for submission[s]
that I realized that I had come full circle and hadn't gotten anywhere.
My neck and the small of my back were only more tender
than they had been at this time last year.
(The Days had passed like rowboats.
The new buds were overcome by Jack Frost.
Spring crept up on me like consumption;
I didn't notice until I couldn’t stop coughing.)
She wanted something for her collection,
something penetrating but sanctum and of love.
I hadn't gotten that far yet.
(But how could I tell her?
She had the eyes of a darling.
She dreamt in pastels.)
~
It was when she asked me again
that I realized that I had been avoiding her,
thinking that I didn't want the string drawn
between what she did and me.
(The Days had passed like rowboats.
The stars made Greek Tragedy under the cruet.
Summer crept up on me like an epiphany;
I hadn't noticed until the sweat was pouring.)
She wanted to know if I had written anything new,
something that could be added to her album,
where she could edit and reform it softer by context.
(But how could I tell her?
She had the teeth of a mouse.
She listened through a cup to the wall.)
~
It was when she glanced down at my feet
that I realized that I thought myself above her.
My word was better than her words.
I thought her soap dramas were gutless.
(The Days had passed like rowboats.
The skies had congealed like gelatin.
Autumn crept up like a change in a romance;
I hadn't noticed until after the leaves had fallen.)
She wanted to tell me that I had missed the deadline,
which was something that she hated,
still she couldn't bend the rules were rules.
(But how could I tell her?
She had the parted mouth of a mannequin.
She spoke in dally murmurs.)
~
It was when she showed me her book completed
that I realized how I was shallow.
I had come full circle to be beheaded,
and my disregard for love and sanctity had soured.
(The Days had passed like rowboats
The Solstice overstated my shadows.
Winter had crept up on me like age;
I hadn't noticed until I lost my memoirs.)
She wanted to show me that her collected pages were good,
something she was proud of.
It was pure and edible and virile, with or without me.
(But how could I tell her?
She had the skin of a snake.
She thumbed my armor with her scaly finger.)
A Sidereal Year
(circa 2000)
It was when she asked for submission[s]
that I realized that I had come full circle and hadn't gotten anywhere.
My neck and the small of my back were only more tender
than they had been at this time last year.
(The Days had passed like rowboats.
The new buds were overcome by Jack Frost.
Spring crept up on me like consumption;
I didn't notice until I couldn’t stop coughing.)
She wanted something for her collection,
something penetrating but sanctum and of love.
I hadn't gotten that far yet.
(But how could I tell her?
She had the eyes of a darling.
She dreamt in pastels.)
~
It was when she asked me again
that I realized that I had been avoiding her,
thinking that I didn't want the string drawn
between what she did and me.
(The Days had passed like rowboats.
The stars made Greek Tragedy under the cruet.
Summer crept up on me like an epiphany;
I hadn't noticed until the sweat was pouring.)
She wanted to know if I had written anything new,
something that could be added to her album,
where she could edit and reform it softer by context.
(But how could I tell her?
She had the teeth of a mouse.
She listened through a cup to the wall.)
~
It was when she glanced down at my feet
that I realized that I thought myself above her.
My word was better than her words.
I thought her soap dramas were gutless.
(The Days had passed like rowboats.
The skies had congealed like gelatin.
Autumn crept up like a change in a romance;
I hadn't noticed until after the leaves had fallen.)
She wanted to tell me that I had missed the deadline,
which was something that she hated,
still she couldn't bend the rules were rules.
(But how could I tell her?
She had the parted mouth of a mannequin.
She spoke in dally murmurs.)
~
It was when she showed me her book completed
that I realized how I was shallow.
I had come full circle to be beheaded,
and my disregard for love and sanctity had soured.
(The Days had passed like rowboats
The Solstice overstated my shadows.
Winter had crept up on me like age;
I hadn't noticed until I lost my memoirs.)
She wanted to show me that her collected pages were good,
something she was proud of.
It was pure and edible and virile, with or without me.
(But how could I tell her?
She had the skin of a snake.
She thumbed my armor with her scaly finger.)
,7:46 AM
WANTED: Energy Enough to Kick Myself in the Ass
There is work to do. There is always work to do. And so many evenings drift away. Hours can drift away while I play Sodoku or that stupid little jewel game and I smoke one cigarette after another. Meanwhile, the dishes sit. The laundry sits. My articles sit. There is no one to motivate me. I am the motivator. If I'm not doing anything, no one else will do anything. We've blown too much money lately on Chinese Buffets and cheeseburgers. Things are slipping back to "pretend everything's peachy" in regards to the ex and the children. I worry and I worry. I am so tired of being lazy and nonproductive. I guess that it's easy to slip down and out of functionality during the dog days of summer. I figure the more I sit on my ass, the wider it spreads and the more I dig myself into this ditch that I can't crawl out of. Hiking the Appalachian Trail is looking crazier and crazier.
Instead of using my time to create, I am using my time to let this precious time roll by. I have paints and brushes and canvases even. I even have an artist's easel. I want to be creating every minute. I want to wear overalls around, barefooted, with my hair all stringy. I want to love my camera so much that I sleep with it and wake up taking pictures. I want to start harvesting old magazines for huge collages. I want to figure out Flash 8 to its full extent so that I can make my own Digital Creations (actually, this would mean starting on my Thesis). So what if what I make eventually gets ruined or thrown away because it's hideous. At least I will have fooled myself into thinking that I have accomplished something and I'll have proof. I would leave something for my children aside from those old stacks of journals filled with page after page of me bitching about how unfair life is. I suppose that it's all about energy. I need more good sleep and more energy (good or bad would be okay). And nobody's motivating me. So, I guess I have to motivate myself. Super Motivator Man isn't showing up at the door to drag me out into the real world by my hair.
I think that I'll ban anyone in the house from games and television for a week. Let's see if I can handle the break in the addiction . . .
This weekend, we do have the camping trip. I am going to be grasping desperately at relaxation, but not laziness. I want to find the relaxation in action. Maybe I'll take a nice, long walk around to the other side of the lake, out onto the little jetty where fishermen back their boats in. Maybe Matt and I can take a nice, slow walk alone as the sun is going down . . .
7.25.2006,11:52 AM
Hiding with the Primates
I have been told in the offices of self-absorbed cheeseheads that I tend to overreact. I figure that this is not an unusal thing for a woman my age, but then what really pisses me off is that it's not true. If anything, I underreact. I let it slide by. I push back tears and lift my chin and laugh. I make jokes and shrugs. Sometimes I succeed at totally shoving off any reaction whatsoever. I can't wait until the weekend. It's time to do some shrugging. I think I'll be bringing the Southern Comfort and doing alot of smoking (only cigarettes, you idiot). I won't be going anywhere near the Corn Festival. Nope, I'll be hiding in the primitive camping. Close family is all I need to see.
,6:52 AM
Form . . .
There are some books that refuse to be written. They stand their ground
year after year and will not be persuaded. It isn't because the book is
not there and worth being written -- it is only because the right form
of the story does not present itself. There is only one right form for
a story and if you fail to find that form the story will not tell
itself.
~ Mark Twain
year after year and will not be persuaded. It isn't because the book is
not there and worth being written -- it is only because the right form
of the story does not present itself. There is only one right form for
a story and if you fail to find that form the story will not tell
itself.
~ Mark Twain
7.24.2006,9:50 PM
Days Gone By . . .
July has been one hell of a month. I am slinking back into my shell. I have lost some support that I thought I had . . . it just sort of fizzled out, so I am wondering what sort of a flame ever burned in the first place. It is hard to give respect and trust to someone that you despise, to someone who has hurt and dragged you through the mud. I'm not one to play games that much, aside from the meaningless ones. I have been having nightmares like crazy, terrible dreams in which I'm stuck in a hard spot and having to scream out my reasoning. I am not being heard or taken seriously. All of these stresses are turning me back into a weakling. I am backing off from the other things that are important to me because I can't get out of this stupid tug of war. I'm tired of making excuses for someone else's mistakes. I am tired of being strapped to someone else's scheduling. Do I get a chance to respond? Am I of the proper mind set to respond, to stand my ground? Do I have any idea of what is really going on here? Maybe I've got to cut things off, hand them over . . . When is that point where you have to step back and let your children handle their own lives? When does it flip and the children decide for me that I can't handle my life?
Ex: Tonight, I was telling my own mother that she should make her mother (my grandmother) move out of the awful little maggot hole she's been living in. There are holes in the roof. Come rain, the eighty-something year old woman is dumping buckets and calling on my mother (who lives thirty miles away) to drive down and help her. Granny can't even take her trash out. She weighs less than a hundred pounds. Yet, she has all of these beautiful dolls and furniture and dishes . . . She's keeps them all hovered around her like a life-force. She refuses to get an apartment yet she wants everyone to keep coming by to mow her weed-infested yard, to help her move her junk from one corner to the next. The house is caving in around her. Her daughters are not ready to parent her.
Life isn't so pretty and nothing is easy. I have made no profound assumptions here. I am feeling directionless once again. I am feeling like a failure in too many ways, especially as a mother. There's too much to write about. One of these stupid entries reveals and covers about as much as one of those stupid hour long family therapy sessions. Nothing ever really gets thrown out there, or if it does, it's in tiny pieces. Nobody reading (just like no family therapist) wants to take the time from their own life to put the pieces together. I am selfish to think that anybody would. But it's for me. The words are for me. The therapy is pointless.
Ex: Tonight, I was telling my own mother that she should make her mother (my grandmother) move out of the awful little maggot hole she's been living in. There are holes in the roof. Come rain, the eighty-something year old woman is dumping buckets and calling on my mother (who lives thirty miles away) to drive down and help her. Granny can't even take her trash out. She weighs less than a hundred pounds. Yet, she has all of these beautiful dolls and furniture and dishes . . . She's keeps them all hovered around her like a life-force. She refuses to get an apartment yet she wants everyone to keep coming by to mow her weed-infested yard, to help her move her junk from one corner to the next. The house is caving in around her. Her daughters are not ready to parent her.
Life isn't so pretty and nothing is easy. I have made no profound assumptions here. I am feeling directionless once again. I am feeling like a failure in too many ways, especially as a mother. There's too much to write about. One of these stupid entries reveals and covers about as much as one of those stupid hour long family therapy sessions. Nothing ever really gets thrown out there, or if it does, it's in tiny pieces. Nobody reading (just like no family therapist) wants to take the time from their own life to put the pieces together. I am selfish to think that anybody would. But it's for me. The words are for me. The therapy is pointless.
,7:05 AM
Mom, How Could You?
We had goofed off through a cornfield between one small town and the next. He boosted me up onto a role of hay and I observed the horizon like some kind of native. I had a slither of Indian in my blood on both sides. Mom had a pinch of Cherokee back there somewhere and my father’s Blackfoot had been visible in Grandma Gladys’ eyes and temper. I still had blond hair. I slid off on to his shoulders. He was unable to gain his equilibrium. I demanded that he put me down, but he had something to prove and refused.
The sun was setting behind the closest county line, pulling a few stringy clouds down with it. We were young and in love and didn’t notice our stretched shadows. You never notice any sort of impending darkness when you’re young and in love. It’s like a Taoist poem.
I finally slid down his back and onto firm ground before he dropped me. He smacked my ass and, when I went to slap him back, he darted away. He smiled like a cat. He was covered with light freckles but still had a tan. He kept grease beneath his fingernails like it was precious and he wouldn’t dare wash it out. Or maybe he was just dirty and lazy. Or maybe he had been told by too many people that he was worthless and had come to consider his hands not worth the time to wash. I still didn’t mind holding his hand. And I was certain that he was worth something. I was certain that because he saw something in me, there was surely something worthy in him, something that I could nurture and mold . . . ya ya ya ya. We’ve all been there. If you haven’t, God bless you.
He convinced me into walking back along the gravel road. I wanted to cut across fields and streams. I wanted to be chin deep in the scenic – so what if it was dark. He wanted my panties off again. We would make love in the woods by the railroad tracks, lay back in the weeds, and imagine what it might be like to live in a car. We'd park it by some stream and sleep close – every night - in the backseat. I could breastfeed and he would get a job, eventually.
The sun was setting behind the closest county line, pulling a few stringy clouds down with it. We were young and in love and didn’t notice our stretched shadows. You never notice any sort of impending darkness when you’re young and in love. It’s like a Taoist poem.
I finally slid down his back and onto firm ground before he dropped me. He smacked my ass and, when I went to slap him back, he darted away. He smiled like a cat. He was covered with light freckles but still had a tan. He kept grease beneath his fingernails like it was precious and he wouldn’t dare wash it out. Or maybe he was just dirty and lazy. Or maybe he had been told by too many people that he was worthless and had come to consider his hands not worth the time to wash. I still didn’t mind holding his hand. And I was certain that he was worth something. I was certain that because he saw something in me, there was surely something worthy in him, something that I could nurture and mold . . . ya ya ya ya. We’ve all been there. If you haven’t, God bless you.
He convinced me into walking back along the gravel road. I wanted to cut across fields and streams. I wanted to be chin deep in the scenic – so what if it was dark. He wanted my panties off again. We would make love in the woods by the railroad tracks, lay back in the weeds, and imagine what it might be like to live in a car. We'd park it by some stream and sleep close – every night - in the backseat. I could breastfeed and he would get a job, eventually.
7.23.2006,8:57 AM
Fishy Dreams and Homemade Ice Cream
Yesterday morning, I wrote a post all about this weird dream I had about a little fish pond that I had been wading in. When I had found out it was full of all of these huge fish, I had the shit scared out of me. Suddenly, the fish (carp, catfish, little goldfish, tropical fish) became menacing in their schools, darting around and rolling over top of each other at the surface. Anyway, I had done some research into the symbolism of fish in dreams and found that for the most part, a fish is a good symbol. It is excellent symbology for navigating the subconscious successfully (the water is always representative of the subconscious). However, I also found that to dream of carp in particular is a bad thing. The appearance of a carp in a dream is a forewarning that one is soon to be subject to one's own reactions regarding criticisms. So, the tables turn. Clear as Windexed glass . . . I make accusations and attack and the same comes upon me. I found this interesting being as I am not all that familiar with carp. Of course, after I had written about all of this and even incorporated some nice little links to a dream dictionary or two, Explorer crashed on me and I lost all that I wrote. So, this was my best effort and salvaging it.
Last night, we went to the Super Wal-Mart because we needed groceries (and - damn it! - I can't afford to be PC - I have children). We spent too much money on supper at a half-ass Mexican restaurant - Mi Casa . . . Once we were home, I made us some homemade ice cream with good ole' Grandma Willow's recipe.
Yesterday morning, I woke up with a headache knowing that once I let the kids out the door for a luncheon with their Father-by-Law, I might not see them for a while. We had to skip the flea market plans even though I was up and about all by myself by 6AM. I was in full-fledge migrane status - maybe worse - I was throwing up, having hot flashes, and shaking like a leaf. I could be losing my mind. That was the plan wasn't it? Anyway, he took them to Pizza Hut down the road and they were back by 1PM. Once they were back, I was able to fight my headache off with four Excedrin and some French Fries. The evening went well. This morning, I have to make a coconut cream cake for the Sunday family dinner. Next week, you-know-who will be gone for most of the week, and I can rest easy a bit - maybe even get to work on some reading for school . . . Where is my student mode? I know I left it lying around here somewhere . . .
Last night, we went to the Super Wal-Mart because we needed groceries (and - damn it! - I can't afford to be PC - I have children). We spent too much money on supper at a half-ass Mexican restaurant - Mi Casa . . . Once we were home, I made us some homemade ice cream with good ole' Grandma Willow's recipe.
Yesterday morning, I woke up with a headache knowing that once I let the kids out the door for a luncheon with their Father-by-Law, I might not see them for a while. We had to skip the flea market plans even though I was up and about all by myself by 6AM. I was in full-fledge migrane status - maybe worse - I was throwing up, having hot flashes, and shaking like a leaf. I could be losing my mind. That was the plan wasn't it? Anyway, he took them to Pizza Hut down the road and they were back by 1PM. Once they were back, I was able to fight my headache off with four Excedrin and some French Fries. The evening went well. This morning, I have to make a coconut cream cake for the Sunday family dinner. Next week, you-know-who will be gone for most of the week, and I can rest easy a bit - maybe even get to work on some reading for school . . . Where is my student mode? I know I left it lying around here somewhere . . .
7.21.2006,9:49 AM
Didn't Wanna' be No Pop Singer . . .
Sometimes, when you get accused often enough of lying, you start to believe that you thought happened didn't actually happen. What you thought you were once sure of starts to become cloudy. When the whole world is looking at you, telling you that what you thought happened didn't actually happen (even when they actually have no idea), you start to look back at yourself in the mirror and say, "Wait a minute! I must be crazy! When did this happen?" And then before you know it, your brain is mush. Fitting the status quo matters immensely, especially when NOT fitting the status quo has severe consequences.
Anybody up for a game?
Anybody up for a game?
7.20.2006,9:19 AM
young marriage = divorce = permanent mistake
My "issues" are supposed to have disappeared a long time ago. We were supposed to have re-congealed as a pretend set of parents and been able to work together as though nothing had ever gone wrong. I am supposed to have forgotten how I was treated and how I watched him treat my children and everyone else who surrounded him. Blame is flying like spit and none of it is hitting his cheek. Parenting styles matter. Before marrying an individual, discuss parenting styles. Two people of totally different concepts of morals, ethics, and values should NOT get married. Don't buy the "opposites attract" bullshit. Don't buy the shit that spews from your counseling pastor's mouth before you walk down the aisle of his beautiful church. He will say such things as: "You will balance each other and the result can be harmony" even as he is looking at your opposing personality tests with shock and attempting to keep himself from shaking his head at the certain future vanquishment or your "happily ever after." The result for me has been pure hell. The persons that mean the most to me are being raised by methods of discipline that I find repulsive. I am supposed to shut-up and take it or I get threatened and pounded back into remission. And no one can understand why I "take it" and don't stand up to him more. I don't have much longer before the kids will willingly tell him to kiss their ass. I guess I have only to throw up my hands (once again). When does karma kick in? She must have passed back out somewhere. I know that I didn't screw up this badly . . . did I?
7.19.2006,9:46 PM
a little page . . . more tomorrow
"It is I, my Lord, who knows that there is beauty in any permanent mistake like me."
" . . . the Great Enigma can't be thought of unless you turn your head the other way and come upon thinking with the eye that you fear, which is called the back of your head . . . "
~ Djuna Barnes, Nightwood
7.18.2006,7:01 AM
Tell Tale
Stories . . . on the radio, in the office, floating through the livingroom, across the interstate . . .
Most of them are repeats and you know them as well as you know the scars on your knees. They are interactive. In your mind you can take them from flash visions of memories and twist them and select which parts you want to rewind and zoom in on and which parts you want to skim over. You set the color to suit your mood. I love my stories. I was looking back in an old journal yesterday and I surprised myself. I have alot scribbled down. I imagined my children sitting around, aged themselves, sharing drinks, and reading through all of my old journals one day (laughing and crying) after my funeral and after they've dropped my ashes from the window of a cropduster.
Yesterday, I was chatting with a lady whom I had once met on an epilepsy support sight. She popped up out of nowhere on AIM (I had forgotten I was signed on). She was telling me how she woke up in a pool of blood on the floor of her laundry room just the other day and was taking a couple of days off to recover. She said she has been having uncontrollable seizures for 14 years and cannot drive. She said she had one a while ago that totally wiped out the memories of her childhood. Geez. I always feel like a wienie saying that my seizures have only been while I'm sleeping and my medecine does a good job at controlling the grand mals. Petit Mals and auras sneak up on me every once in a while, but they don't scare me too bad anymore. BUT losing the memories of my childhood??!! You may as well cut off my head.
Maybe in the coming days I will make the time to share a few old journal entries out here in Digital Country. I have some wierd poetry that I have never polished - poems that I had long forgotten, poems written while I was stopped at a traffic light or waiting for a drive-thru order, poems created from suggested assignments within books like Writing Down the Bones or How to Think Like Leonardo Da Vinci. I'd hate to see my efforts all lost - should my children all abandon me in a nursing home and use my ashes to fertilize their lawn . . . In one of my old journals, I found this great little entry - dated about 2 years ago - in which I wrote forever about a little mouse that had stumbled out onto my countertop without regard to the flourescent lighting as I had sat near-by smoking a cigarette. The little mouse was drugged with D-Con and killed over in convulsions in my sink. But watching the little guy die (it was slow and awful) made me write about God and the cycle of Life and the importance of details and the act of being in the right (or wrong) place at the right (or wrong) time. I also have a few drawings, collages, and doodles to share . . . and I have a scanner, should anybody be looking . . .
Most of them are repeats and you know them as well as you know the scars on your knees. They are interactive. In your mind you can take them from flash visions of memories and twist them and select which parts you want to rewind and zoom in on and which parts you want to skim over. You set the color to suit your mood. I love my stories. I was looking back in an old journal yesterday and I surprised myself. I have alot scribbled down. I imagined my children sitting around, aged themselves, sharing drinks, and reading through all of my old journals one day (laughing and crying) after my funeral and after they've dropped my ashes from the window of a cropduster.
Yesterday, I was chatting with a lady whom I had once met on an epilepsy support sight. She popped up out of nowhere on AIM (I had forgotten I was signed on). She was telling me how she woke up in a pool of blood on the floor of her laundry room just the other day and was taking a couple of days off to recover. She said she has been having uncontrollable seizures for 14 years and cannot drive. She said she had one a while ago that totally wiped out the memories of her childhood. Geez. I always feel like a wienie saying that my seizures have only been while I'm sleeping and my medecine does a good job at controlling the grand mals. Petit Mals and auras sneak up on me every once in a while, but they don't scare me too bad anymore. BUT losing the memories of my childhood??!! You may as well cut off my head.
Maybe in the coming days I will make the time to share a few old journal entries out here in Digital Country. I have some wierd poetry that I have never polished - poems that I had long forgotten, poems written while I was stopped at a traffic light or waiting for a drive-thru order, poems created from suggested assignments within books like Writing Down the Bones or How to Think Like Leonardo Da Vinci. I'd hate to see my efforts all lost - should my children all abandon me in a nursing home and use my ashes to fertilize their lawn . . . In one of my old journals, I found this great little entry - dated about 2 years ago - in which I wrote forever about a little mouse that had stumbled out onto my countertop without regard to the flourescent lighting as I had sat near-by smoking a cigarette. The little mouse was drugged with D-Con and killed over in convulsions in my sink. But watching the little guy die (it was slow and awful) made me write about God and the cycle of Life and the importance of details and the act of being in the right (or wrong) place at the right (or wrong) time. I also have a few drawings, collages, and doodles to share . . . and I have a scanner, should anybody be looking . . .
7.17.2006,8:20 AM
A Brutal, Loving God
I'm feeling a little stumped today when it comes to writing. I've made my way in to work and I've been enjoying playing brain-dead, cataloguing stupid books like there's no tomorrow.
And if I have allowed my brain to open up to the intellectual if only for a little bit, I discovered reports on the bombings in Israel on the news and in my e-mail - even in conversation with my sister - ironically everywhere this morning following my viewing of Spielburg's Munich just last night (unplanned).
So concepts of religious wars, perspective, peace, terrorism, human fallability, etc. have been inescable in spite of my efforts. I have not followed such goings-on as closely as perhaps I should have. It all makes me so sad. Certainity is always muddled by perspective. Religion demands faith, true and full. To fight for what one believes in is labeled as dignified and brave when in fact it more often become cyclic and idiotic. I suppose that there are certain "truths" regarding right and wrong . . . The Golden Rule for example . . . The need for respect is global . . . but then again, on certain islands, we eat each other.
And if I have allowed my brain to open up to the intellectual if only for a little bit, I discovered reports on the bombings in Israel on the news and in my e-mail - even in conversation with my sister - ironically everywhere this morning following my viewing of Spielburg's Munich just last night (unplanned).
So concepts of religious wars, perspective, peace, terrorism, human fallability, etc. have been inescable in spite of my efforts. I have not followed such goings-on as closely as perhaps I should have. It all makes me so sad. Certainity is always muddled by perspective. Religion demands faith, true and full. To fight for what one believes in is labeled as dignified and brave when in fact it more often become cyclic and idiotic. I suppose that there are certain "truths" regarding right and wrong . . . The Golden Rule for example . . . The need for respect is global . . . but then again, on certain islands, we eat each other.
7.16.2006,10:26 AM
What's Interesting?
We watched the moon rise from its place on the horizon, huge and orange - three quarters - up to tiny and white like one of the Drive In theater's lot lights. We watched the Big Dipper drop directly behind the movie screen. We watched the fog sneak across on the grassy play area up front (where kids had been tossing footballs and glowsticks) until it seemed that the screen was floating on a stratus cloud. The van beside us left early; the family left all of their trash for someone else to pick up and, before leaving, the mother screamed at her kids to SHUT-UP ten times and tossed threats at them involving her shoes. Our baby enjoyed the outdoors and was amazed by the giant screen and the fact that we were shoving Jr. Mints and Popcorn in her mouth, but she had a hard time figuring out what the hell we were doing and why we wanted her to go to sleep so badly if she wasn't at home in her bed. Finally, once I had tried and tried to curb her fussing and squirming and decided I needed a break and a cigarette, I plopped her in Matt's lap during the last quarter of Pirates of the Caribbean. She laid her little head on his chest and the thump of his heart must have been like a lullaby. The other kids were awesome: enjoying themselves, making friends, trying to look cool, acting goofy, wanting to spend money. This is how kids are supposed to get to spend their weekends.
And all of these aspects of our Drive-In experience last night were far more interesting and entertaining than the movies themselves. Both movies - Pirates of the Caribbean and Superman - were so overloaded with action and graphic fancies that they reeked with the lacking of story. I was amazed by the special effects (I especially liked Davey Jones), but I got bored with them after simulated battles and destruction whizzed on and on and on. If I had been at home, in my couch spot (Right hand corner under the side lamp) I would've been snoring. Too much action puts me to sleep. This factor is the only thing that I was disappointed with in regards to our evening.
Yesterday morning, I drug the kids with me and finally stepped foot within Great American Flea Market - thus beginning my "Cultural Immersion." I met a few interesting people - a retired school teacher/wrestling coach who collects and sells cookie jars and really hates his wife; a woman who sells hot sauces with names like "100% Pain" and "Whoop Ass Hot Sauce" and "No Sauce for Sissies" and "Death Sauce" (this brand has a little skull hanging from the cap) and hot spiced peanuts with titles like "Acid Rain" (she's more of a 7 on the spicy scale of 1 - 10 - she can't go too high); and a polite nerdy young man who sat behind a card table with some cheap acrylic paint and cans of spray varnish painting Nascar numbers, happy faces, American eagles, turtles, monkeys, and awful distorted family portraits on smooth, round landscape rocks and craft beads. I do believe that next weekend we're waking up early on Saturday and grabbing us a free table outside to attempt to fit in with the vendors (and, hey, maybe make some money!). I need to get to know these people better. It's required of me for college credit. Maybe eventually, however, I'll make a permanent move-in. I have my talents . . . and I have always been a collector of sorts.
And all of these aspects of our Drive-In experience last night were far more interesting and entertaining than the movies themselves. Both movies - Pirates of the Caribbean and Superman - were so overloaded with action and graphic fancies that they reeked with the lacking of story. I was amazed by the special effects (I especially liked Davey Jones), but I got bored with them after simulated battles and destruction whizzed on and on and on. If I had been at home, in my couch spot (Right hand corner under the side lamp) I would've been snoring. Too much action puts me to sleep. This factor is the only thing that I was disappointed with in regards to our evening.
Yesterday morning, I drug the kids with me and finally stepped foot within Great American Flea Market - thus beginning my "Cultural Immersion." I met a few interesting people - a retired school teacher/wrestling coach who collects and sells cookie jars and really hates his wife; a woman who sells hot sauces with names like "100% Pain" and "Whoop Ass Hot Sauce" and "No Sauce for Sissies" and "Death Sauce" (this brand has a little skull hanging from the cap) and hot spiced peanuts with titles like "Acid Rain" (she's more of a 7 on the spicy scale of 1 - 10 - she can't go too high); and a polite nerdy young man who sat behind a card table with some cheap acrylic paint and cans of spray varnish painting Nascar numbers, happy faces, American eagles, turtles, monkeys, and awful distorted family portraits on smooth, round landscape rocks and craft beads. I do believe that next weekend we're waking up early on Saturday and grabbing us a free table outside to attempt to fit in with the vendors (and, hey, maybe make some money!). I need to get to know these people better. It's required of me for college credit. Maybe eventually, however, I'll make a permanent move-in. I have my talents . . . and I have always been a collector of sorts.
7.15.2006,7:51 AM
The Many Faces of Hercules
Yesterday didn't go so bad. I still have my kids. They are at least being listened to. I didn't lose my mind, nor did I go into hysterical fits of sobbing. The ex came up with lots of excuses and tried to make light of the whole thing. This really pissed me off. But he also found himself backed into a corner in which he had to apologize and speak in a friendly tone. One apology doesn't fix everything that's been done, although it did shock the hell out of the kids. But then, he's always been good at kissing ass, so it wouldn't surprise me if he's trying to make their schedules again before the year's up. He's probabaly going to raise hell about my son switching schools - although since the boy is struggled so much and has sort of lost himself in the giant population, it might be a good idea to let him try something new. Here's the big bitch the ex is gonna' have - I am a loser. He will be trying to keep up on everything and when I don't adhere to his standards, he's gonna' point one of his disabled fingers at me. I'll probably have his damn finger practically up my nose until the youngest of the girls turns 18. He's Mister Organized, obessesive compulsive organized and timely, and, of course, he has money. I've always allowed these things to intemidate me and they have performed their given duties well. This man is so unlike anything I have ever known - Until I met him, I thought everyone had a tendency to be disheveled and lazy. Still, in spite of how much it may rub his ass the wrong way, it seems to be the case that all three children will be staying with me for a while - until THEY can work out a few things with HIM. It is odd that I'm not the one hanging so much in the middle, making claims of his assholeness and then having to endure his shaking head and rolling eyes. I know that it's got to be driving him nuts. He's got to be taking notes and trying to figure out how he can turn all of this to be my fault. I don't think it's going to work this time. I also know that he's trying to figure out what will work best here to get him back in control - bribery? threats? pressure? excessive kindness? It's all a game when there's no real love to keep ya' in line.
No matter. I am placing it all aside for the day. I am not even gonna' mention you-know-who's name. They are with us (where they need to be) and we are going to live life as we do and as we would - relaxed and soaking up the moments. It's a beautiful, steamy Saturday in July. We don't have anything too pressing (although my summer Cultural Immersion course is breathing heavily down the back of my neck). We are going to enjoy the day - go find a park with a creek to wade in and, this evening, we're finding a drive-in (even if we have to drive for an hour) showing Pirates of the Carribean II. It will be the baby's first big screen movie experience. I figure she'll fall asleep in her car seat on the drive over and not see one minute of the movie . . . Ya' never know though, she surprises me often.
No matter. I am placing it all aside for the day. I am not even gonna' mention you-know-who's name. They are with us (where they need to be) and we are going to live life as we do and as we would - relaxed and soaking up the moments. It's a beautiful, steamy Saturday in July. We don't have anything too pressing (although my summer Cultural Immersion course is breathing heavily down the back of my neck). We are going to enjoy the day - go find a park with a creek to wade in and, this evening, we're finding a drive-in (even if we have to drive for an hour) showing Pirates of the Carribean II. It will be the baby's first big screen movie experience. I figure she'll fall asleep in her car seat on the drive over and not see one minute of the movie . . . Ya' never know though, she surprises me often.
7.14.2006,7:56 AM
My own Degree of Insecurities
I responded instinctually with a list of concerns to a request to place the children face to face with the emotional vampire and, in doing so, revealed "my own degree of insecurity." A mother protects her young instinctually. I know I have insecurities! For Christ's sake, I had my heart ripped out by all the smart people in the world whom I had trusted. I had my confidence as a mother drug through the dirt and spit on by the man whom I had chosen to make a life commitment with. I was convinced by others (including him) that I was lowly, over-dramatic, stupid and irresponsible. Ya' know, I always thought that I handled myself well under pressure in spite of my insecurities. The degree of insecurities that one displays and holds can be genetic (it has to be); I didn't do so bad in the gene pool when you consider the possibilities. Yes, I would say that I have a higher degree of insecurities now than prior to my divorce. Yes, I would say that I am a little weary and untrusting of professional counselors and custody evaluators as well as adults in general, including other mothers.
A mother's insecurities run deep. We humans are nasty creatures who rarely bathe and pick the bugs out of the hair of our neighbor's babies. Instead, we stand back and, in order to cover our own lacking, we point fingers and say "Look at how horrible she is at that!" I remember a friend's mother when I was a teenager who told me about how she once breastfed her best friend's baby because her best friend was unable to do so. I had been disgusted by the whole scenario and for years thought of her as a freak. We like to suggest to society that we are the best at being self-sufficient survivors. Worse yet, motherhood is a source of divine pride, one that gets misused and twisted especially at those little candle parties or at school functions when the women ignore their children and stand around and gossip to each other about how horrible some other woman has handled herself and gone and done something like smile too big at the school principal or wear white shoes after Labor Day (or is it black shoes after Memorial Day?).
Anyway, today is likely to be a nightmare. Today is a day in which we are to bring it all to the surface, be honest, look at you-know-who and say "You're wrong. This isn't our fault." Of course, I probably won't be saying anything. It's all on the kids, but I feel like I'll be pouring my heart out just sitting there in the waiting room, knowing they are having to face him without me beside them. I will be concentrating on funneling them all of the energy and courage of every hero that ever walked the earth, including me, poor little insecure me, who has dealt with a hell of a lot and lived to tell about it.
A mother's insecurities run deep. We humans are nasty creatures who rarely bathe and pick the bugs out of the hair of our neighbor's babies. Instead, we stand back and, in order to cover our own lacking, we point fingers and say "Look at how horrible she is at that!" I remember a friend's mother when I was a teenager who told me about how she once breastfed her best friend's baby because her best friend was unable to do so. I had been disgusted by the whole scenario and for years thought of her as a freak. We like to suggest to society that we are the best at being self-sufficient survivors. Worse yet, motherhood is a source of divine pride, one that gets misused and twisted especially at those little candle parties or at school functions when the women ignore their children and stand around and gossip to each other about how horrible some other woman has handled herself and gone and done something like smile too big at the school principal or wear white shoes after Labor Day (or is it black shoes after Memorial Day?).
Anyway, today is likely to be a nightmare. Today is a day in which we are to bring it all to the surface, be honest, look at you-know-who and say "You're wrong. This isn't our fault." Of course, I probably won't be saying anything. It's all on the kids, but I feel like I'll be pouring my heart out just sitting there in the waiting room, knowing they are having to face him without me beside them. I will be concentrating on funneling them all of the energy and courage of every hero that ever walked the earth, including me, poor little insecure me, who has dealt with a hell of a lot and lived to tell about it.
7.13.2006,7:43 AM
Fickle Karma?
This morning, on the news, I heard of a man who was run-over and killed on the Interstate last night. He had been hitch-hiking his way back into the city, back from a Lynard Skynard concert and, for some unknown reason, jumped into the South bound lane. I'm thinking there are two possible stories behind the event: 1.) he had a very bad evening (at a Lynard Skynard concert?!!); couldn't go on living, and jumped into oncoming traffice on purpose, or - and this one is more likely - 2.) he was stoned out of his gourd. And I was thinking, if he was stoned or drunk, what life-debts did he have to pay to make Karma step up and react so emphatically?Yesterday, I discovered that Karma isn't always collecting her debts. Sometimes when you've put up with shit for far too long, Karma eventually places her torture devices aside to come up and give you a little pat on the shoulder. She supports Justice. Justice is a nice concept but too often gets muttled and twisted in the system and dollars holding it together. Karma doesn't always show herself in public.
Meanwhile, my fifteen year old son was puking off of the back porch this morning (his sister was in the shower). I hope Karma was watching. I feel like I've had to scream at her to get off of her lazy ass.
7.12.2006,6:42 AM
Where are my stakes and crucifixes when I need them?
" . . . the process of circling the waggons allows a skillful narcissist who instigated the moral panic to become the focus and leader of a group in seige mode . . . The techniques are infinite, and very hard to pin down, because skillful emotional vampires take advantage of the best qualities of those around them: compassion, loyalty, trust. They are themselves outgoing, charming people with a large circle of friends. It's often only after several cycles of crisis and drama, and after quite a few people have been damaged, that one begins to notice that each of these situations was like a social vortex which sucked people in and oriented their energy and attention around the vampire who created and managed the scenario." (http://www.writingsonthewall.net/ , By: martin: 2006-07-02; Tags: psychology politics power *)
. . . What the hell was I thinking when I thought that a man whose desire was to be a politician would make a good husband and father? . . . This little tidbit (ironically found under the Stumble button as we are all preparing ourselves for the counselor) hit home in a personal manner, and I am pretty sure that the man who wrote what I quoted here is being more global. He is talking about extremists who led whole communes to suicide or to men like Hitler . . . Wow. What do I have on my hands here? I know this sounds awful, but I know that there are loving parents who swat their children's asses on a regular basis, who get drunk and grant black eyes at inopportune times and for no good reason whatsoever . . . This one - you-know-who - who was granted parenting rights like it was a new sweater, does the most damage in the subtle and slides by with it. He has every adult around him so preoccupied with smiling that no one notices how badly he reeks of bullshit. He sucks on their best qualities with nasty fangs . . . Calm is out the window, especially following the conversation that I had with my son last night. I am now righteously angry. If you pray, direct it my way.
. . . What the hell was I thinking when I thought that a man whose desire was to be a politician would make a good husband and father? . . . This little tidbit (ironically found under the Stumble button as we are all preparing ourselves for the counselor) hit home in a personal manner, and I am pretty sure that the man who wrote what I quoted here is being more global. He is talking about extremists who led whole communes to suicide or to men like Hitler . . . Wow. What do I have on my hands here? I know this sounds awful, but I know that there are loving parents who swat their children's asses on a regular basis, who get drunk and grant black eyes at inopportune times and for no good reason whatsoever . . . This one - you-know-who - who was granted parenting rights like it was a new sweater, does the most damage in the subtle and slides by with it. He has every adult around him so preoccupied with smiling that no one notices how badly he reeks of bullshit. He sucks on their best qualities with nasty fangs . . . Calm is out the window, especially following the conversation that I had with my son last night. I am now righteously angry. If you pray, direct it my way.
7.11.2006,10:46 PM
My Last Trip to the Moon
After finishing our lunch today at a local mediocre Chinese Buffet and approaching the register to pay the bill, my coordinator and I were informed that the Buffet was, as of this moment, officially closed by the Health Department. The Health Department consisted of two snobby looking white people standing stoutly behind the little Chinese family muttering to each other frantically in their native language. They were told to immediately lock their doors and not to let anyone else in. A line of hungry Crab Ragoon lovers were turned away. We still had to pay. The Health Department couple told the owners that they should have had their doors locked before the lunch rush. My fortune cookie read "A smile is the best medicine." So, I laughed it off and tried not to imagine what the kitchen must have looked like. The little family (familiar faces - we've gone there more than once) shuffled around with shocked and embarrassed eyes, finishing up the moment, probably trying to figure out how to fix things or how to pay the month's bills. There I was in the group of flabbergasted middle class American citizens considering how I had enjoyed my meal and how soon it would be before I started showing signs of Eboli. I have to assume, however, that whatever was found in the kitchen couldn't have been any more unsanitary than my mother's kitchen had always been. The roaches and mice droppings only made my immune system stronger - or so I like to think. The Chinese family scribbled a sign for the door on a blank piece of paper; it read "Sorry Closed Equipment Problem" in blue ink.
,10:16 AM
I love this website . . . it kinda' reminds ya' of how life buzzes on around you and how we become so out of touch with the rest of the world when it doesn't involve ourselves. I've found lots of cool stuff . . . once, I found a whole shed, abandoned out in the woods, full of high school year books, photo albums, trophies, Christmas decorations, letters from lovers, Tupperware . . . it made me wonder if someone had been murdered . . . How else do you forget about all of that stuff and go on living? Objects can hold so many stories . . .
foundmagazine.com
foundmagazine.com
,9:01 AM
Creative Procrastination = looking up quotes
"You have typewriters, presses. And a huge audience. How about raising hell?"
~ Jenkin Lloyd Jones
"The first draft of anything is shit."
~ Ernest Hemingway
still trying to raise hell . . . still trying to remold the draft . . .
~ Jenkin Lloyd Jones
"The first draft of anything is shit."
~ Ernest Hemingway
still trying to raise hell . . . still trying to remold the draft . . .
,7:08 AM
Forgive Me, Self, for I Have Sinned.
I should probably back up a little on the tendency to spill my guts. Nobody wants to read this shit anyway. I should pick a topic and ramble on about it, teach the world (ha!) what I've learned through all of my nutso experiences . . .
I somehow made my way into work today. Seems quiet. It's dark and rainy. Yesterday was quiet. Yesterday was beautiful. No actual friction; we didn't hear a word from the sleeping demon; we didn't see one cop car in our drive-way, nor did we get any phone calls. But we were watching for them. The little demon isn't sleeping; he's plotting. Despite the tension, I've had quite a few beautiful days lately. This morning, on the way into work, I kept thinking about my cousin Kenny. I saw him for all of a couple of hours and he affected our entire weekend. All that he had to do was point out our crappy tire - the way the threads were showing - and Matt became a nervous wreck and determined that we wouldn't make the drive home. We went out of our way for the new tire and I got upset about being late and pissing off the ex. The later it got, the more diligent the children got in voicing that they didn't want to go back. They said the bad tire was Fate telling us that they didn't need to get back at all.
Kenny also threw me in the lake on Saturday. I had my jeans rolled up with my feet in the water, watching the kids play with the baby. He came running down the beach and pulled me in, blue jeans and all and with a full pack of cigarettes in my back pocket. It was awesome. I've missed him. My jeans laid over my cousin's car for the rest of the weekend, but never got dry. I was out of cigarettes before the trip came to an end. My mom acted more than a little odd over the weekend; she hid in her screened in porch and read her Bible when she wasn't bitching at the kids or sobbing to somebody about how little money she gets from Social Security. She had both of her girls there, all of her grandkids, and still couldn't be happy. The rest of us just kinda' tucked our problems away for a little while. We enjoyed the fire, the jokes, our roles as parents to a bunch of smart-mouthed teenagers. Of course our frustrations and worries came back as we were packing. My sister snapped at me about being brave and doing what needs to be done (in regards to the kids). I defended myself and voiced how sick I was about everyone telling me what needs to be done. Nothing is as easy as it looks from the outside looking in. I also voiced every fear. We cried. Everybody hugged each other. It was beautiful. It strengthened me as much as my daughter's determination and courage at McDonald's as we were waiting on that new tire and she insisted that I call you-know-who so she can tell him herself that she's not coming home. I am ready to stir the pot. I've got all of this beautiful support . . . how could I do nothing? How is it that I haven't been doing anything? I knew it was going on . . . The truth always shines through. Love conquers all. Wait and see.
I guess I can't help but to ramble about this stuff . . . I've titled this blog my confessional . . .
I somehow made my way into work today. Seems quiet. It's dark and rainy. Yesterday was quiet. Yesterday was beautiful. No actual friction; we didn't hear a word from the sleeping demon; we didn't see one cop car in our drive-way, nor did we get any phone calls. But we were watching for them. The little demon isn't sleeping; he's plotting. Despite the tension, I've had quite a few beautiful days lately. This morning, on the way into work, I kept thinking about my cousin Kenny. I saw him for all of a couple of hours and he affected our entire weekend. All that he had to do was point out our crappy tire - the way the threads were showing - and Matt became a nervous wreck and determined that we wouldn't make the drive home. We went out of our way for the new tire and I got upset about being late and pissing off the ex. The later it got, the more diligent the children got in voicing that they didn't want to go back. They said the bad tire was Fate telling us that they didn't need to get back at all.
Kenny also threw me in the lake on Saturday. I had my jeans rolled up with my feet in the water, watching the kids play with the baby. He came running down the beach and pulled me in, blue jeans and all and with a full pack of cigarettes in my back pocket. It was awesome. I've missed him. My jeans laid over my cousin's car for the rest of the weekend, but never got dry. I was out of cigarettes before the trip came to an end. My mom acted more than a little odd over the weekend; she hid in her screened in porch and read her Bible when she wasn't bitching at the kids or sobbing to somebody about how little money she gets from Social Security. She had both of her girls there, all of her grandkids, and still couldn't be happy. The rest of us just kinda' tucked our problems away for a little while. We enjoyed the fire, the jokes, our roles as parents to a bunch of smart-mouthed teenagers. Of course our frustrations and worries came back as we were packing. My sister snapped at me about being brave and doing what needs to be done (in regards to the kids). I defended myself and voiced how sick I was about everyone telling me what needs to be done. Nothing is as easy as it looks from the outside looking in. I also voiced every fear. We cried. Everybody hugged each other. It was beautiful. It strengthened me as much as my daughter's determination and courage at McDonald's as we were waiting on that new tire and she insisted that I call you-know-who so she can tell him herself that she's not coming home. I am ready to stir the pot. I've got all of this beautiful support . . . how could I do nothing? How is it that I haven't been doing anything? I knew it was going on . . . The truth always shines through. Love conquers all. Wait and see.
I guess I can't help but to ramble about this stuff . . . I've titled this blog my confessional . . .
7.10.2006,5:47 AM
From One Weekend to the Next . . .
Well, I've made some bold, possibly idiotic, moves this weekend. I was even threatened with going to jail. If anyone has ever heard of a book entitled something like "How to React Properly When Your Children are Being Abused," please, let me know. Last night, at about 1:30AM, a police officer came by because he had called them and made the claim that there was a possible child in endangerment at our address. There were three children at my address sound asleep and glad to be home. VERY glad to be home and not at the home of you-know-who. Yesterday, sitting in the McDonald's, getting a new tire at a Super Wal-Mart 20 miles out of our way, my daughter and son gave me the strength to turn my tears and fears into anger. I have absolutely no idea how this will go. I might lose all of my custody rights if he can pull off his pristine act, the one that he has down so well having practiced and bullshitted the world for the last fifteen years. Regardless, I couldn't take them back for another week. What really stinks is that, now, I will have counselors and lawyers and possibly judges looking at me as though I over-reacted. If I didn't react, they would point fingers at me in court and accuse me of under-reacting (just like they did when I finally left for the Domestic Violence shelter), therefore, the abuse couldn't possibly be as serious as we all claim. There is no win-win situation. There is only one day to the next. I really have to get a lawyer. I need money.
Our weekend was so beautiful. I got to see family that I hadn't seen in years or even three years. We camped. We swam. We argued (just a couple of times). We apologized and hugged. We laughed our asses off around the campfire until 3 in the morning (or maybe it was later - nobody was looking). My mom was being her usual moody self. My cousin's children were being usual smart asses. The kids swam for hours for free in the Lake and now have hellacious sunburns.
I am unsure about what I should and shouldn't be writing here. Given what is going on, it is likely that I will remove this from the "lists" again . . . Of course, I have figured out that this isn't the greatest place to release and vent and bitch, especially when it's about people you love and share a contract of committment with. I'm sorry. Things should likely refrain from being so personal. But, then again, I really stink at making decisions.
Our weekend was so beautiful. I got to see family that I hadn't seen in years or even three years. We camped. We swam. We argued (just a couple of times). We apologized and hugged. We laughed our asses off around the campfire until 3 in the morning (or maybe it was later - nobody was looking). My mom was being her usual moody self. My cousin's children were being usual smart asses. The kids swam for hours for free in the Lake and now have hellacious sunburns.
I am unsure about what I should and shouldn't be writing here. Given what is going on, it is likely that I will remove this from the "lists" again . . . Of course, I have figured out that this isn't the greatest place to release and vent and bitch, especially when it's about people you love and share a contract of committment with. I'm sorry. Things should likely refrain from being so personal. But, then again, I really stink at making decisions.
7.07.2006,4:29 AM
Sleep, I'll drive Home
Well, my dear little blog, it looks as though you may be my one source of discussion and chitchat for weeks to come. My marital partner doesn't seem too concerned with missing out. Perhaps I am just too much of a downer or not enough of a downer . . . or perhaps he's just adjusting his system to the unnatural sleep cycle now required of him and in the weeks to come he won't think that he needs to sleep from the time he gets home to the time he leaves for work the next day. He neglected his duties to wake me up at 5AM - good thing I had my alarm set. He fell asleep on the couch with a Playstation control pad in one hand and all the lights on. I really hope this doesn't last long because #1 (as I've already said) it isn't natural and #2 I don't like being by myself all the damn time and #3 we have a very close relationship and it terrifies me to even think about it crumbling. He is my best friend. As of now, he is my only friend.
Somehow, this weekend, we have to work around his new odd sleep schedule and drive four hours South so that I may vanquish a little bit of homesickness and this constant desire to listen to old country music (John Anderson, Willie, Kenny Rogers and Dolly, Hank . . . ) - the stuff I grew up with, the stuff Mom played on the 8-track player and in her Red Ranchero. I have made plans with my sister and her family to meet at some old Campground and "relax." Ha ha. I don't get to relax much with my sister around. True, I can be myself around her, but lately I've been having to hold myself back from roaring up and snapping her head off. Last night, she told me that I was going to give my daughter cancer by feeding her popcorn shrimp (she says this while she's puffing on a Pall Mall). Anyway, this new camp spot has opened the lake to "Swim at Your Own Risk" now that some little boy died two years ago. They saw that the "No Swimming" signs didn't work for the local yokels (they never do) and they didn't want to pay for insurance and a lifeguard. I guess the town council (or whoever makes up these rules) decided that letting people swim at the lake was better than having the kids sneak out to the rocky old bottomless coal mine pits full of water mocassins (snakes!) and junked cars (this is where I learned to swim). I remember my cousin Dave would jump off an 80 foot jagged cliffwall and into the green water like it was nothing . . . of course, he had to be drunk. At this lake, they've opened up the area to cheap camping and I've heard rumors that if you lay still for too long in the water, the fish will come up and bite your nipples (hee hee). Wow. I really miss home.
Somehow, this weekend, we have to work around his new odd sleep schedule and drive four hours South so that I may vanquish a little bit of homesickness and this constant desire to listen to old country music (John Anderson, Willie, Kenny Rogers and Dolly, Hank . . . ) - the stuff I grew up with, the stuff Mom played on the 8-track player and in her Red Ranchero. I have made plans with my sister and her family to meet at some old Campground and "relax." Ha ha. I don't get to relax much with my sister around. True, I can be myself around her, but lately I've been having to hold myself back from roaring up and snapping her head off. Last night, she told me that I was going to give my daughter cancer by feeding her popcorn shrimp (she says this while she's puffing on a Pall Mall). Anyway, this new camp spot has opened the lake to "Swim at Your Own Risk" now that some little boy died two years ago. They saw that the "No Swimming" signs didn't work for the local yokels (they never do) and they didn't want to pay for insurance and a lifeguard. I guess the town council (or whoever makes up these rules) decided that letting people swim at the lake was better than having the kids sneak out to the rocky old bottomless coal mine pits full of water mocassins (snakes!) and junked cars (this is where I learned to swim). I remember my cousin Dave would jump off an 80 foot jagged cliffwall and into the green water like it was nothing . . . of course, he had to be drunk. At this lake, they've opened up the area to cheap camping and I've heard rumors that if you lay still for too long in the water, the fish will come up and bite your nipples (hee hee). Wow. I really miss home.
7.06.2006,7:58 PM
Found: Pooch Island & A Strange Drawing Artist
Take a peek at this one and smile . . .
Pooch Island
NO STANDING, and keep your arms in the car at all times while in motion. Hang onto the lap bar and enjoy the rides that made Pooch Island famous.
Rock the car at your own risk!
Here's another wierd one . . . I love the set-up . . .
Slawek Gruca - Drawing Artist
Pooch Island
NO STANDING, and keep your arms in the car at all times while in motion. Hang onto the lap bar and enjoy the rides that made Pooch Island famous.
Rock the car at your own risk!
Here's another wierd one . . . I love the set-up . . .
Slawek Gruca - Drawing Artist
,1:01 PM
I sure can smell the rain . . .
Well, I did some reformatting. I went and stole one of Pannasmontata's blogger layouts because I couldn't figure out how to make a good one on my own. Maybe I can continue to play around with this one until it is more uniquely my own. I still don't know Flash well enough to make something really funky . . .
Last night, I crashed on the couch in front of the ten o'clock news with every light on in house. Matt got home at 2AM and put me to bed. I had managed to avoid doing the dishes one more day. I felt my headache coming on then. Maybe it was the way my neck had been kinked on the couch pillows . . . Anyway, this morning, I had a headache so bad that I finally ended up throwing up all of my attempts to get myself going (three cups of coffee). I gave myself the benefit of the doubt, popped some Excedrin (although I know they never work), and took the baby over to Matt's mothers. I drove towards work for 15 minutes before I decided that I'd better turn myself around. I felt like an ass. I've missed way too much work lately. Imitrex, however, is my only salvation once a migraine hits me, especially one that makes me throw up. So, I went home and slept until 10AM, hopped up - headache gone, and drove into this stupid little office. Of course, now that I'm here, I really haven't done much work, aside from working on my blog. I'm fanatasizing about getting fired. I guess getting fired really wouldn't be so bad. I'd live through it. It would teach me something. BUT having these migraines for the all my eternity would be a royal pain in the ass and there is obviously no educational value to them whatsoever (no matter what positive spin I want to pull out of the air). In fact, every time I have one, it's like stamping a few crucial hours of existence from my total being. They truly suck.
On a lighter and more universal note, things are changing . . . It's amazing to watch. With some "one" time for myself, I am feeling a little odd but liking it. The kids are coming into their own. My mom and I actually had a decent half-ass intelligent telephone conversation last night. Of course, there will be a disaster before there will come the calm. I'm wondering what I did with my paints . . .
Last night, I crashed on the couch in front of the ten o'clock news with every light on in house. Matt got home at 2AM and put me to bed. I had managed to avoid doing the dishes one more day. I felt my headache coming on then. Maybe it was the way my neck had been kinked on the couch pillows . . . Anyway, this morning, I had a headache so bad that I finally ended up throwing up all of my attempts to get myself going (three cups of coffee). I gave myself the benefit of the doubt, popped some Excedrin (although I know they never work), and took the baby over to Matt's mothers. I drove towards work for 15 minutes before I decided that I'd better turn myself around. I felt like an ass. I've missed way too much work lately. Imitrex, however, is my only salvation once a migraine hits me, especially one that makes me throw up. So, I went home and slept until 10AM, hopped up - headache gone, and drove into this stupid little office. Of course, now that I'm here, I really haven't done much work, aside from working on my blog. I'm fanatasizing about getting fired. I guess getting fired really wouldn't be so bad. I'd live through it. It would teach me something. BUT having these migraines for the all my eternity would be a royal pain in the ass and there is obviously no educational value to them whatsoever (no matter what positive spin I want to pull out of the air). In fact, every time I have one, it's like stamping a few crucial hours of existence from my total being. They truly suck.
On a lighter and more universal note, things are changing . . . It's amazing to watch. With some "one" time for myself, I am feeling a little odd but liking it. The kids are coming into their own. My mom and I actually had a decent half-ass intelligent telephone conversation last night. Of course, there will be a disaster before there will come the calm. I'm wondering what I did with my paints . . .
7.05.2006,10:57 AM
A Stitch in Time/ A Thimble of Marijuana
My memory gave me a toddler
told by his Mama to pass the houseguests
the hemostats holding the roach.
The smoke settled at his little eye level
and gave him a contact high.
He flipped over one hundred times,
started chewing on his toes.
He hid from the TV – Saturday Night Live –
crawled under his blanket and cried a little.
He made us all chuckle.
There was duct tape covering the holes in the vinyl sofa.
There were cowboys on horses stenciled in a border
around the low, drooping ceiling.
We stayed thirty minutes longer.
told by his Mama to pass the houseguests
the hemostats holding the roach.
The smoke settled at his little eye level
and gave him a contact high.
He flipped over one hundred times,
started chewing on his toes.
He hid from the TV – Saturday Night Live –
crawled under his blanket and cried a little.
He made us all chuckle.
There was duct tape covering the holes in the vinyl sofa.
There were cowboys on horses stenciled in a border
around the low, drooping ceiling.
We stayed thirty minutes longer.
,7:33 AM
A time to break down, and a time to build up - Ecclesiastes 3
It's a Wednesday like a Monday. I didn't sleep for shit. The fles bites on my feet literally kept me awake and then this morning I find that some mosquito found his way up under my shirt while I was attempting to sleep and left a big, itchy bump on my left side on my ribs. I was awake when Matt got in (2:30AM) and I was semi-awake when he cued me to get out of bed at 5AM. I got out of bed and then he went to sleep. The baby was a little confused when I woke her up. She will likely be confused again this evening when it's just her and I having supper together. Here at work, the Coordinator's gone for the next two days. So, I'm taking in some freedom. I'm already dreaming of where I can go for lunch all by myself. And so I'm thinking that some "to myself time" is just what I needed (Wait! Did somebody pray for this?) so therefore it's coming to me from all directions.
This week there is lots going on. Some things (things that I'd rather not write about here) that could happen that could change things forever, that could offer me an opportunity for self-reconstruction as well as to restructure my family - more so the way that it always should have been. The kids and I have been trading e-mails. I wish that we could've had a nicer weekend. On Monday, I took them for a country drive and then for a short trail walk around the park with the Native American mounds . . . We walked down by the river . . . My younger daughter (not the baby) hated it and pouted . . . My son picked on her and made her even more bitchy. She makes me want to cry when we're out in nature and she tells me she'd rather be at a mall. Where have I gone wrong? My older daughter sent me an e-mail last night to apologize and she wasn't a pain at all. She added flame to fire a couple of times by trying to play Mom next in Rank, but nothing too hurtful or snappy. They were hot and thirsty and before we left the park (I paid $4 to get in the gates of the park and then settle arguments between them on the trails for an hour), I tried to get them to hop out of the van for a minute and wade in the shallow of the river with me - to expose the baby to some cool wayer and pretty rocks (she's had a new fascination with the rocks in the driveway). They acted as though it would've killed them. The whine came on full-blast and I cracked a little. I played the guilt card and I laid it on heavily. We shot out of the park and back home. So I joined the act of tantrum throwing. I was ashamed of myself. Still, I guess it wasn't all that bad even if we didn't get our feet wet. The baby loved it. I always love the energy in such places. I can always imagine canoes coming down the river to meet with unioned tribes. The mounds amaze me. I hate that they've bee excavated. I hate that they are weathering away. But then everything weathers away . . .
This week there is lots going on. Some things (things that I'd rather not write about here) that could happen that could change things forever, that could offer me an opportunity for self-reconstruction as well as to restructure my family - more so the way that it always should have been. The kids and I have been trading e-mails. I wish that we could've had a nicer weekend. On Monday, I took them for a country drive and then for a short trail walk around the park with the Native American mounds . . . We walked down by the river . . . My younger daughter (not the baby) hated it and pouted . . . My son picked on her and made her even more bitchy. She makes me want to cry when we're out in nature and she tells me she'd rather be at a mall. Where have I gone wrong? My older daughter sent me an e-mail last night to apologize and she wasn't a pain at all. She added flame to fire a couple of times by trying to play Mom next in Rank, but nothing too hurtful or snappy. They were hot and thirsty and before we left the park (I paid $4 to get in the gates of the park and then settle arguments between them on the trails for an hour), I tried to get them to hop out of the van for a minute and wade in the shallow of the river with me - to expose the baby to some cool wayer and pretty rocks (she's had a new fascination with the rocks in the driveway). They acted as though it would've killed them. The whine came on full-blast and I cracked a little. I played the guilt card and I laid it on heavily. We shot out of the park and back home. So I joined the act of tantrum throwing. I was ashamed of myself. Still, I guess it wasn't all that bad even if we didn't get our feet wet. The baby loved it. I always love the energy in such places. I can always imagine canoes coming down the river to meet with unioned tribes. The mounds amaze me. I hate that they've bee excavated. I hate that they are weathering away. But then everything weathers away . . .
7.04.2006,10:37 PM
Revisiting Independence Day: Some Lame Parable?
The highway was smoky
from the richer neighbors’ fireworks
or it was just fog. I guess they weren’t so close.
Cracks and booms like thunder encompassing my rental,
screaming Roman candles, pops and color,
and me on the front porch with a mug and a camel,
in the dark with my spiders and squinting at cars passing,
alone again, thinking.
The evening is mine.
The coffee is all mine.
The computer is mine.
The news is mine -
its faces and vibrance
and weather and firework safety and
an average amount of injuries at the ER for the holiday.
I ironed up spilt strawberry candle wax from the carpet.
I neglected the dirty dishes.
I laid the baby down early.
I settled my thoughts on the previous evening
around a fire lit in the pit on my backyard,
with a black dog named Coal laying on my feet
and my sister feeling the need to witness to me.
She wanted to stamp reality on her miracles
and show me how God slapped her family at the right moment
(they once drove 36 miles on E by way of faith and singing)
and left them poor and starving for a reason at the right moment
(God is select when teaching).
She brought me Southern Comfort,
but didn’t make me drunk, and therefore, I didn't speak much.
This evening my feet are itching with flea bites.
from the richer neighbors’ fireworks
or it was just fog. I guess they weren’t so close.
Cracks and booms like thunder encompassing my rental,
screaming Roman candles, pops and color,
and me on the front porch with a mug and a camel,
in the dark with my spiders and squinting at cars passing,
alone again, thinking.
The evening is mine.
The coffee is all mine.
The computer is mine.
The news is mine -
its faces and vibrance
and weather and firework safety and
an average amount of injuries at the ER for the holiday.
I ironed up spilt strawberry candle wax from the carpet.
I neglected the dirty dishes.
I laid the baby down early.
I settled my thoughts on the previous evening
around a fire lit in the pit on my backyard,
with a black dog named Coal laying on my feet
and my sister feeling the need to witness to me.
She wanted to stamp reality on her miracles
and show me how God slapped her family at the right moment
(they once drove 36 miles on E by way of faith and singing)
and left them poor and starving for a reason at the right moment
(God is select when teaching).
She brought me Southern Comfort,
but didn’t make me drunk, and therefore, I didn't speak much.
This evening my feet are itching with flea bites.
,5:25 PM
Sappy Independence Day
Okay, okay . . . I'll write. It is a holiday. I am home alone - just me and the baby and the baby is currently enthralled with the Disney channel. We had left over taco meat for lunch/supper. I slept too much today. Matt left thinking that I was pissed at him because I couldn't bring myself up and out of this depressed funk, having overslept this morning and then shipped my kids back to the butthead's apartment in the city for another torturous week. Last night, my sister and her husband came over and they reminded me of how little social interaction I've been getting. I tried to get drunk (out by the campfire before it started storming), but I didn't even get a buzz. I was hoping to loosen my tongue . . . I was hoping to pull the real me back out of the hole that it's found. It didn't work. So, this morning, I also looked up to Matt and - after he had spent a large part of the morning telling me about all of the crazy people that he works with - I begged him to please makes some plans with these crazy people so that we may on occasion get the hell out of this damn house and "hang out" and get some laughs and make friends. I've tried to do this at school, but this summer, I'm working and everybody else is gone . . . Culturally immersed or just growing up elsewhere, across oceans . . . hardly interested in hanging out with a "Mom" who can't even manage to get a buzz. Anyway, Matt always takes that stuff personally. He shies away from social interaction because he's a suspicious pessimist. He said he didn't think that he could trust any of those people. I'm thinking "Trust them with what?" Are we planning on spilling some dark secrets? Are we el supremo trust-worthy people? No, we're lazy as hell. In fact, I think this is part of our problem. We're just flat out lazy.On to the writer's block . . . This is a phrase that I've held tightly to for far too long. I'm always looking for something to inspire me. Truth is, since Matt got the promotion that moved him to second shift, I think I'll be doing better with some time to myself. I think that having time to poor into this shit will be beneficial. I don't like sitting here evening after evening playing Bejeweled or Soduko. I am better at being creative when I'm alone . . . Tonight, while the rest of the world is gawking at fireworks, I'm staying home. I'm going to read or write and I'm going to smoke and do laundry. I'm going to conjure some plans so that I may have some accomplishments to display once this pathetically unproductive summer is over. I think it will cheer me up.
I've decided that a large part of my writing anxiety has resurfaced in light of my epilepsy (after the week long hospital stay, it was verified that I in fact have it - who woulda' thought?). The words aren't fitting and flowing the way they used to . . . of course I'm blaming this on my dysfunctional brain when it is more likely just because I haven't been staying active and in practice . . . So, here we go again. I don't think this is supposed to be so much work.