I've had it off and on for four days now. It's on - I'm freezing, shivering. It breaks - I'm sweating, hot and clammy. My throat is sore and my cough physically hurts. I did manage to get a shower this morning. If the sun hadn't been out - I don't think I would've had it in me. Tomorrow, I've got to have the energy to head in to campus by 1:30PM to talk about the poetry reading scheduled for Monday night. I am hoping that the stupid-little-fever-that-could is gone by then.

Tonight, I have to write a character sketch of a faculty member (???) for literary journalism and I have to finish up my Broadside for Neely's class. I was going to do something with Polaroids but I guess that's really not all that original. I need a better plan. It's hard to plan when one's brain feels like it's been switched off. Click. More to come later - once I get my broadside done, I'll post it here.

And so then this evening while I'm attempting to pull myself through this stuff - it's all sip sip Sprite and Orange Juice between Cepacola losenges. If I could be sleeping now (again), I would be.

I blame the little argument that we had in the restaurant on the bad food and crappy service. I'm still trying to figure out if Matt stomped out of the place before everybody else because he was legitimately angry or if he just really wanted a cigarette (ha ha). It's all blowed over, but the childishness of the whole thing still lingers in my mind. Now, sitting playing video games isn't doing much for making it all fade.

Now, I'm trying to figure out the C-panel on SiteGround - after paying ahead for the space for a year, I must continue to investigate. I've changed the name of the journal to CEllA's Round Trip . . . I'm not sure if I like it yet, but it's too late now. Also, I have a new concept idea for gathering submissions - I'm going to post requests on Facebook Groups. Brilliant. Why hadn't I thought of this before?

Meanwhile, my guests have yet to arrive . . . We're still under a Winter Weather Advisory and I haven't even received a call as to whether or not they've hit the road . . . but we spent $300+ at WalMart this afternoon on Guitar Hero III, The Simpsons Movie, stuff for Banana Splits and a big pot of chicken noodle soup, and clothes hangers, and various other life SHIT . . .

There's nothing like a lunar eclipse to make you feel like you've got to get things in line . . .

Yesterday, I had an odd notion sweep over me - professionalism (as a writer - blog excluded). I'm still trying to decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

Today, I'm cleaning this stupid house. We're actually having family up this weekend - At least, I'm praying that my sister didn't change her mind or run out of money. I'm anticipating inspiration.

This morning my oldest kids have 8AM dentist appointments in Indianapolis. Yes, I've seen all the fresh fluffy snow. It's fucking lovely.

So while I'm not dealing with their braces, I'm dealing with whether or not I should get them condumns. I'm dealing with the fact that kids do have sex and, in most cases, I can talk until my head explodes and they will still have sex. And they will have awful sex and think it was great sex. That's just how things go. It is my job to make sure that unwanted babies or diseases do not rise up out of said awful sex.

I really shouldn't obsess and worry about it too much, I guess. They're smart. They'll figure things out eventually, just like I did. In fact, they will have to figure out so many things on their own.

Meanwhile, I need a job of some sort. I need to add to our money source. Matt really wants to quit his job (at least he's bitching like he does - although there is little action in the job search). I am hoping that I can get another assistantship for the summer, but I'm worried that it won't pay much. And I really hate the thought of taking that literary seminar for two weeks straight. English/Literature professors can be intimidating - especially ones with beards.

Next semester I can have a Teaching Assistantship, which would be an awesome thing. No more money in our pockets, but damn good experience. I've already got a shitload of experience, but not the kind that will land me a good job. Is THAT what this is all about? What a wasted morning. We're all going to McDonald's for breakfast before I have to take them back to school. Damn it.

(Here's a bit of creative nonfiction . . . I remember this man and I remember the drive and bits and pieces of our conversation and they ran basically as such . . . although we know the memory muddles shit up on a regular basis . . . and I made up his name . . . but it was something similar . . . Hardcore Journalists [or Oprah] may use my claim to nonfiction as reason to egg my house . . .'Don't much care.)

Mellow Yellow Cab
By Rachel Hartley-Smith

I didn’t ask the cab driver his name, but he offered up his title freely: "Rueben, the Absolved." He was a large, dark black man in a derby hat and a thick sweater. He had his bucket seat pushed so far back that he was practically beside me, but it was still a tight fit between him and the steering wheel. He said he knew Indianapolis well and then belly laughed.

“Well, truth is, fifty years here,” he said, “and I still get lost on occasion.”

I sunk into the smell of new car spray and highway, wondering what it was he had been absolved of.

West Washington from Michigan Avenue would be a long drive in silence, but Rueben said, “I could write a book of all my passengers’ lives” and scrawled an invisible pen through the air. Then he asked me about mine.

He asked me how my father made a living. I told him the man is small-town, retired, raising pigs and chickens. Rueben said he’d have no part in eating swine and, even as he was driving, jotted down Leviticus 11 on a scratch pad for me to read for myself why.

He asked me about my husband. I told him the man was chained to his politics lately, possessed with a tendency to argue and win. I confessed that he wasn’t the easiest man to live with, and I hated the thought of being wife to a politician. In the rear-view mirror, I watched Rueben laugh again, glance up to heaven then shake his big head. He told me not all politicians must be dirty and instructed me to have my “better half” read Proverbs 31 and make sure he reads all of it.

Erect city buildings rolled along beside us, then we moved past them. At the trip’s end, between a mall and a hospital, I forked over double the meter-read for the Holidays.

Rueben deeply said, “Thank you, Maam, for including yourself in the company of this easy-going, God-fearing cab driver. Any time you need a ride, you call on this ole’ mellow yellow cab.” He pointed to the cab’s number on the dash board. "And once you’re in the Bible,” he added before my hip could bump the car door closed, “You might find The Songs of Solomon -- good entertainment for a woman and only eight chapters.”

The words “Thank you, Sir” fell from my lips before I could stop them. I regretted the man's tip and crumpled his note in my coat pocket. Later, wandering around the mall aimlessly, I absolved him.

It would seem that the sun is never out these days. And then it would seem that when it is out, it's worthless. It only glares off all of the damn snow and causes migraines.

It's another Friday and I'm home. I've been home a lot. Just myself and the baby and the puppy. For now, both the baby and the puppy are snoozing - it's still early. But soon, I'll have to venture out into the cold wind to hook the puppy up to his clothesline and I'll have to wake the baby up to prevent her from peeing in the bed again. Valentine's Day wasn't too bad. I attempted to make a fancy dinner, but jarred Alfredo sauce just outright sucks - especially Classico's "sun-dried tomato alfredo." Remind me that I have forever given up on the shit. Still, it ended nicely. I woke Matt up at 10:30PM (he's always in bed by 9PM for work the next day) and we shared a moment ;) - a lovely lovely perfectly romantic moment. We were reminded of the pointlessness of chocolates and roses (we couldn't have afforded them anyway). This was all we needed.

I have work to do. I have a "Description Draft" for Literary Journalism that I'm putting off. Me? Put something off? Preposterous! Instead, I started looking at Low-Residency MFA programs again. Ashland looks nice. River Teeth journal is way cool. I filled out an application for a summer assistantship yesterday - I had brought Jo into work with me for a couple of hours. I may have devastated her (she really needs to see the real world a little more often - her shyness was almost embarrassing). The graduate director was there beside me in the office while I devoted a few minutes to the app (while Jo hid between my legs), and I asked her about the summer assistantships - what they required, time, etc. For some reason, I didn't ask her about money. Anyway, she eyed me and asked me about my Digital Storytelling degree and she asked me, "So, how are your digital skills?" I answered, "Awesome." She nodded and sort of smiled at me like she had a plan. So . . . perhaps I've got some sort of employment for the summer, i.e. money source!

I submitted a couple of job applications online over the last couple of weeks. I figure if I get offered a nice, big fat job, I'll take it - but, if not, I'm staying here and getting the teaching experience next year. If Matt must go crazy on me, then so be it. It's selfish, I know . . . but, I'm almost there. I'm almost there.

It's a strange feeling when you know that your dreams are actually culminating. You look around at so many that surround you - so many who have just given up because they had to or because they were scared to push it or they were scared to take out loans and live on welfare for a little while. Well, isn't that funny? These kids - any intelligent being would tell you I never should've had them so young - these kids have been my element, my force. When everybody else wasn't even attempting at college, I was and I was able to because I had these kids. I've used my share of food stamps. Up until five years ago, I still had Hoosier Healthwise cards for all of them. Hoosier Healthwise paid for the birth of my most recent baby. Sounds sneaky. But we ARE poor. We have too many "dependents." I should be dropping the whole college thing - as I friend put it "Maybe I'm too old to keep chasing this rabbit." I guess I should be getting a job and get to working my ass off. But, the dream is so close . . . I cannot let go. My college bills are going to start morphing into my oldest son's college bills. I don't care. Here's my shot. It's take it or leave it. There's no restart button.

Re: Your Pictures
(By Rachel Hartley-Smith)



Dear Bridegroom,

I painted you up inside my camera,
sexy in your silken lapel,
a ten man line beside you,
your chubby pink princess
and her fleshy court in all its ringlets.

You handed the ring over.
You dropped to your soft knees and cried.
You were cradled in a womb of roses.
You were icons above the gods.
Money marvelous.

I’m a pre-paid artist.
I stopped for a while,
for a drink – something stiff
or to change batteries or clean my lenses.

Here’s to your future
and that she insisted
upon the dry white wedding wine!

I missed the shot of your lifetime
(dancing, wide smiles, love junkies, good lighting)
and I caught you with your eyes
half open
every time.


Sincerely,
Jaunty Photography

Well, it would appear that I'm not the only one with "angst." And it would appear that this is nothing new. How could I forget? It's deeeep in the little myspace blogs of my teenage kids and their friends. I thought about responding, but I can already see them rolling their eyes and switching the volume to "mute." I don't quite understand the thought-line behind "cutting." Should I? They know I can see those things - their little "rants." I would like to toss back the following: Freedom is bologna. Sex cures nothing. It's all an illusion. See the smoke? It's just smoke - there's nothing behind it.

I spent the morning submitting job resumes to jobs that I don't really want, while the puppy chewed up shoes and the baby watched Nick Jr. What IS Yo! Gabba Gabba??? I'm still in my PJs and I didn't get to "sleep in" as planned. I would rather write, but . . . Excuse me now - I have to go clean my stupid house. Such is LIFE.

I know . . . I know . . . this whole post is illusive. Consider it a speciman in study.

There’s a huge story in me. Well, I wouldn’t call it a story. It's more like millions of story pieces. And they roll over and into one another. They’re void of traditional plot peaks and introductions and conclusions. They're a little blurry from time to time. Characters sometimes lack direction and motivation. Settings are so fucking repetitive.

I’ve only lived in one state. I could blab about this for hundreds of pages and title it “How I Discovered Poetry.”

Or I could make it into a chronicle. I could set up the whole damn thing in four or five chapters. We’ll call the first section something alluding to my youth (cockroaches, slumber parties, Mom's boyfriends). The next section we’ll just title “other” and I’ll give a quick layout of various pricks and Prince Charmings I’ve dated. The next three sections will pounce, one after another, on the birth of each of my older three children and their fathers.

From there, I guess we should stop because if you get me on into chapter 5, I’ll have to start bitching about my first marriage (which, yes, came after I had those first three babies and had left all of their fathers), and then the huge tangled mess that would rise up from there (disabilities, domestic violence shelters, court room scenes, child custody battles, moneylessness, motorcycle rides, online dating, etc. etc.) might just be too fucking much, really. I wouldn’t fit all that that involved in one measly chapter. I mean, who wants to read shit upon shit upon shit? Really, the shit’s still sticking a little. So let me find a healing point in all of this. Let me roll back and then see how far I can roll forward. I’m not sure where it needs to end and I don’t really care much. It’s therapy for Christ’s sake. Why the hell else would I write?

I found tons of journal entries and saved spurts of free writing in which I have complained over and over again about my inability to sit down and write non-fiction. Not just non-fiction but my personal non-fiction. A memoir. Damn, that still sounds so pretensious. I figure I might as well lay the old urges to rest. It’ll be like laying the nag in my head to rest, right? Should she appear at random places throughout the long string of pages, I apologize. She’s like a fucking seed wart.

“It’s stupid to sell all of your weapons - everything - for a mega gun that doesn’t even come with ammo.”
~ Justin, age 17

So I poked around the house a little today. I picked up a few things. Threw the heap of dirty clothes down the stairs to get washed. I made our bed. Did the dishes.

The corners and surfaces of everything are all covered in a half inch of thick gray dust - cigarette ash and fluff. We still haven't found where we're supposed to put that filter for the heater. It shows. Empty cigarette packs. Dirty socks. Heaps and heaps of junk mail. Coupon Valu-Packs. Grocery store sales flyers. Bills that nobody told me about.

I sat down to write checks to pay the bills. I'd been reminded. The amount going out will leave us with about one hundred dollars in our checking account. I'm thinking that I'll have to hold the electric bill to make space for the terrific gas bill and the overdue 2-months-worth of water/waste bill. Then there are all of these little bills - the Insurex bill (I'm still paying for an uninsured car accident that occurred in Broad Ripple in 2004), the Muncie Music Center (for Erin's glorious flute), a doctor bill (for the specialist that Justin required when he acquired a little hole in his right lung and earned an overnight hospital stay a few months ago). Then there is the High School Winter Dance in less than two weeks - Justin needs pants, a jacket and dress shoes. Ashleigh wants a new pair of pumps.

When Erin, my seventh grader, gets home off the bus (the other two stayed late to clean their lockers - so they say), the first thing I do is jump on her about her crappy dusting job over the last month. I know there are places that haven't been touched with a dust rag for months upon months. But, she drops a bomb on me. Dusting the mantel dissolves to low-priority.

Her thirteen year old friend is pregnant (or rather they're pretty certain). Her parents know. There has been talk of abortion, adoption, keeping it so that the girl's mother can raise it. The girl hasn't been too shy about it actually. Her and a group of several other girls had an apparently lengthy conversation about it today at school. If she is pregnant (and Erin thinks it's true), the father would be an eleven year old boy. The whole story flowed out of Erin as though she couldn't stand to hold it in. She hinted at a secret at first and then made me guess why So-N-So might be in big trouble. My guess was, "Did she sneak out of her bedroom window, leave it open and drive up the heating bill?" Yeah, she snuck out of her bedroom window all right. Erin tells me that some of girls (including the one who is pregnant) think that there is an operation that she can have - one in which you can have the baby removed from the womb to place it another woman's womb. They said they saw it on Friends . . . Uh . . . So, I drill it into Erin's head that in-vitro fertilization is not quite that. Nope - not in the rules. Not an option for crying out loud! Thanks alot, Pheobe. They all think abortion is murder - no doubt connecting abortion to the brutal chopping and mutilating of a cute little swaddled baby-doll-like creature - It's like snapping a cute fuzzy mouse in a trap - It's cruel. Why would a girl ever want to harm something so cute? Good Grief. And this is why thirteen year olds (and definitely 11 year olds) shouldn't be having sex - They don't understand the concepts. They're nowhere near getting the fucking science. It's too bad that our society doesn't own up to the one true purpose of sex. Entertainment? A culmination of true love? Let's admit that it's flat out animalistic survival instinct driven REPRODUCTION. It results in more PEOPLE - not more cute little sweet babies. Cute little sweet babies are as such for a flash in time and even cute little babies can be like weights hanging from your ass.

Anyway, this has floored me. I talked to Erin until I thought that my head might fall off. It was all huge adult concepts of consequnce and decision. I like to think she's smarter than her friends. I've drilled it into all of my kids' heads that having sex IS A BIG THING that shouldn't be taken lightly. Why? Well, because those little sperm are like life-grasping tadpoles - relentless in their efforts to survive. Not to mention the psychological disruptions when the act is performed at the wrong place and wrong time (reproduction or no reproduction). And don't even assume that I haven't scared the shit out of them with the possibilities of sexually spread diseases! It's like any other bad habit we've jumped on. It comes with consequences and requires responsibility. I have a right to state this - even as much as I, personally, like sex. It's gotten me into a number of conumdrums (see previous blog post and note "things" I'm still dealing with).

I wish I could help Erin's friend somehow. I wonder what kind of shit these kids are getting from the Health class sex chapter discussion?

I came home to a peaceful house this evening - AND a plate of fish sticks and macaroni and cheese. I actually got to read a little more of Jill Christman's autobiography and, wow, it amazes me that she is able to fillet her soul (word pun, get it?) for the world to see. I have asked her before about how hard this had to have been - if she was worried about hurting people, etc. She said that it really never occurred to her. Maybe she was too young? Maybe she looks at it as par for course?

Tonight, in a Writer's Group meeting (a group of Grad creative writers who are getting together to re-workshop), I was surprised by the positive feedback for my non-fiction piece about Jimmy's funeral. I worried that it came across as boring, but they really seemed to like it (or perhaps because it was non-fiction, they were hesitant to critique it . . . ). So, I've been leaning more towards exploring my own soul in the non-fiction realm (although, if you judge this blog - you'd surely believe that it has the upmost potential to be boring as hell). BUT, holy smokes, how do you throw all the secrets out there so unforgivingly? Maybe "unforgivingly" is the wrong word. First, how do you muster the nerve to dive back in and pull it all up? Second, how do you pull it up without seriously offending family and ex-lovers (ha ha)? Well, this last thing is my biggest worry (despite the fact that I just tried to turn it into a joke). I know where I've been and it hasn't been all that pretty. I have "things" that I'm still dealing with. I'm on a role with the self-centeredness it would seem (hello? blog?) - so maybe I should just go with it?

Speaking of "things," I noticed that my ex finally took down his slimey MySpace page - the one on which he had posted only pictures of himself from his "better looking" days and on which he had befriended about fifty slutty half-dressed chics with names like "Gabriella" and "Kinky Kim." I'm sure it was bad for his law firm personae. Well, he's always got Second Life. I can see him in a muscular little digital body and a pseudonym, dancing in the virtual nudy bars.

I'll keep meditating on spilling my guts in a more meaningful memoir-esque manner - or maybe I'll just start writing. I've written so many alluding poems. If this blog turns into flashback every now and then, you'll know it's me "fleshing out" some non-fictional issues of past traumas. This may get interesting. Then again, it might spawn hate mail.

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you." -- Ray Bradbury

It's a strange feeling when a professor makes suggestions on your paper that seem to rip your voice away. Your style should be as follows . . . ick. ick. blah. How can I be expected to refer to Jerry the farmer as "Smith"? Why should I take out my references to Round-Up or suppertime? My mind was swirling around this the whole drive home. One of the books that he's given us to read is titled "Writing Creative Nonfiction" - it's a sucky book, but notice keyword "creative." I sorta' spaced out in the Wendy's drive-thru in Daleville (ordering a plain Jr. Cheeseburger and a water - waiting on a trucker who had actually walked up to the drive-thru window to place his order). I stared off and realized that there are a whole hell of a lot of trucks who stop at the Pilot on the West side of I-69. I had no idea so many piled in there. This is how my mind lingers . . . Anyway, my attention to detail or desire to maintain a voice, set mood, whathaveyou is seemingly foreign to the journalism department. I have not been motivated to read this profs book by any means. I got positive feedback - sure people didn't understand a few things (i.e., a "farmer's diet" or how Mother Nature IS in charge of your health) - but why turn it into spam?

Meanwhile, I finally made it home to chaos. My house is NOT supposed to be chaos at 10:45 in the evening. All the kids were up. Even the baby. Ash tossed her into my arms and said "She can't sleep." I really needed to pee and I barely had my coat off. The dog had chewed up Erin's "snot rags" and scattered them all over the floor behind the couch. There were a million Ramen noodle wrappers scattered across the kitchen counter tops. The trash can was overflowing. I find out that Matt took Erin to the doctor's office earlier (which was a HUGE favor for me) only to be given a prescription for eyebrops and a negative result for the flu for which they were 100% positive was her problem. Erin said that Matt also got a speech from the doctor about smoking in the house. I'm sure that made him kipper. I doubt he'll ever offer himself up to take one of the kids to the doctor again.

So, tomorrow I'm not going in to campus. I'll try to get Erin in to see that doctor again (or maybe another one). I'm truly pissed that they didn't give her some form of antibiotic. I hate to say it, but if I had been there I would've insisted that they give her SOMETHING besides eyedrops. Seems crazy. Tonight, her fever's not so high as it has been. Maybe she's getting over it herself.

(Here's another "meanwhile") Meanwhile, I still have this strange dream lingering in my head. I had a dream this morning that Matt was getting married to a short chubby girl with butch blond hair. I was at the wedding and trying to enjoy myself, socializing, etc. Then I realized that the man getting married to this woman (who professed herself to be a "countess" with lots of money in my dream) was MY Matty. I started bawling like crazy. Crying my eyes out in a dream. He seemed so happy and far away from me . . . and I couldn't believe that I was losing him to this stranger. Suddenly the wedding was over and I saw them boarding a plane to leave for their honeymoon. I had to get his attention and I had to hug him. I was crying the whole time. He came to me smiling - like he was an old friend or like I was a homeless puppy. He still had his pony tail, was thinner, and was wearing shorts and a colorful t-shirt (was it tye-dye?). He hugged me and I cried and cried as he held me, but it was still understood that he would be leaving. He had made his decision. He had another life to live. Now, what, pray tell, do you think of that??????????????????

Hardly. I spent the whole day writing my expository assignment for literary journalism . . . I now know more about Polycystic Kidney Disease and the dialysis process than I ever thought I would know. I fear the prof will still slam me for inserting occasional boughts of "character illustration." I figure it is necessary - if not unavoidable. Regardless, there's not much left in me for writing.

My thirteen year old has a wicked illness - high high fever all weekend. I'm thinking strep throat. I'll have to get her to the doctor as early as possible to make the appointment with Mark in Muncie at 1PM to finish up the review of the Broken Plate. This may prove itself to be impossible. Tomorrow, my day promises to be crazy. Monday, Monday.

Go Giants! :)
Go House! :)~
I did manage to squeeze in a little TV time tonight . . .

Nighty night.

But we've got lots of shitty slush and ice. It was a fun drive in to Muncie today - an even funner walk from the van. I saw two cute little college girls in those faddish fuzzy boots slip and almost fall on the ice. I smiled and reminded myself of how childish I can be.

I've spent too long gathering notes for my Literary Journalism class - meditating on the conversations that ensued last night while the little model toy tractors dangled from the chains of Jerry and Janie's ceiling fan (the fan was on to divert all the cigarette smoke). It's funny how, once you start writing, it all just starts flowing back to you. Last night, I was thinking that I wouldn't be able to remember any of it, but then that was probably just the Margarita mix talking.

I've determined that I'm a terrible talker. How do your social skills weaken in the process of gaining an MA? I thought about applying for a worthy position at the Children's Museum, working to improve their website (man, it needs it) and making a considerable amount of money (should I actually get such job), but then I worry if I could even pull off an interview let alone the social skills the job would require. I feel like I had to "pull off" lunch today with a couple of my friends. What falls from my lips is not revealing of the person that I used to think I was. I sound stupid, just plain stupid. My thoughts just don't seem to fall together right . . . I stutter and my inquisitive side faulters. I can't follow conversations and feel braindead. Nope, no feedback, sorry. Little ole' me? Oh, I don't think about those things. I start telling myself that I'm surely talking about myself too much - and saying shit that no one wants to hear. Hmmmmm . . . I was going to blame it on my medecine again, but maybe it's just in habit out of doing all of this goddamn blogging.

I know one thing (since I am on MY blog, I will continue to keep talking about myself), after last night's story fest, I've got a creative story or two presently in the spawning process. I've got to get something out about the crackhead/theif grand-daugher/ step-sister with the huge boobs who'd steal gas and cash-wads from the farmers. Dad says to son, "Why don't you let her move in with you? She needs a place to live. Ya' know, the two a' you aren't related. Something extra might just come of it." Dad winks.

Meanwhile, I've spent most of the day editing the latest Broken Plate. I truly enjoyed the hell out of it. Finding commas and grammatical errors in sentences is something I spend a whole hell of a lot of time doing anyway. Perhaps, I have some skill in the field.

Home life was peaceful this evening. Erin's not feeling well - she had a fever and I wouldn't let her go to the movies. Ashleigh wanted me to curl her hair with a curling iron (she's trying out "looks" for the winter dance, and, yes, she had that slinky dress on again). I watched the latest episode of Breaking Bad and I got to eat left-over pizza for supper. There's still a sink full of dirty dishes in there, but then there is tomorrow . . . The house already smells funny anyway . . .

Here's to an awesome night, sitting around a big farmer's table with friends, smoking cigarettes, sipping on a tall glass of ChiChi's margarita mix (with table salt caked to the rim), telling stories about car wrecks, old dogs, and encounters with raccoons (among other things). :)

The blizzard has yet to appear even though the forecasts predicted the shit to falling by 7PM. It's still on its way, so they say.