My three year old has a habit of crawling into bed with us around 4 a.m. I confess, it's a habit that I have not put much effort into breaking (and I know better - I do). It's just too easy to lift her up, throw her into the middle of the bed beside me and snuggle her back to sleep. And she's three - soft and warm like the Snuggle Bear - and most days, she smells good. She will wake from her sleep, wander out of her night-lighted bedroom, through the dark hallway, through the living room, and all the way up the stairway into our bedroom. She will tell me that it's because she was afraid of the dark, yet she will venture out into it, through the dark house, bravely, to seek comfort, to at least no longer lie in it alone. Sometimes, I wonder if she actually does wake from her sleep or if she does it all out of some instinctual half-wake/halk-sleep state. We have a set of beads that hang from the doorway into our room (we bought them at a yard sale back when Matt and I wanted to give the room a sexy jungle theme), and she will get down on her belly and wiggle under the beads so that she might slip into the room silently. I've caught her doing it once or twice - and then, well, I just HAVE to snuggle up with her. She's obviously a genius - all half-asleep and considerate. Or adorably sneaky.
This morning, she woke me up at 7:30 a.m., insisting that we come downstairs to look for her daddy (despite how many times I told her that he had already gone to work). The little stinker gets me down here, and I go to pee and make coffee. When I return, ready to turn on Tom & Jerry or Sesame Street, I find that she has curled up on the couch under the afghan and has drifted back to sleep. She's softly sawing toddler logs. So now, up earlier than I had planned to be, I feel I have to be productive with all of this quiet time. So I'll babble on my blog, check my e-mail three times, check facebook, etc . . . Call me Dodger.
I received a response in the same day that I sent my submission - last night. Quick for a rejection, eh? I have never responded to my submitters for CRT ever so quickly. The editors for the mag told me they would pass - that although the story had some "beautiful moments" it was not "conceptually tight." So I've thought about this - Hard. I googled the terms "conceptually tight" last night (which didn't work really, but I was desperate and sleepy and caught up in that twisted sting of rejection), and I still laid in bed awake for an hour thinking about it before falling asleep.
So said concept is not a "tight" concept. "Tight" as in "cool", or "tight" as in "precise"? Here are the words they used - what they got as the "concept" - "the portrait of a senile man going 'bye bye' in the head (or whatever)" . . . The concept that I was attempting to portray wasn't quite this simple . . . was it? Maybe the title screwed it up . . . No, I'm thinking "tight" as in "cool" was a main issue. Bud wasn't cool enough, and I can understand this. I should've had him murder his wife before he left . . . or had him utter the word "fuck" a few times at least (like that would've fixed everything). The story was too peaceful and needed more darkness. I know darkness. Maybe I'm pretending otherwise. Therapist?
Truth is, I don't think I write "stories" well - I do better with "moments." I think this makes me more of a poet (maybe?). I was never good at direction or claiming a singular title (except for maybe "mother" - and, even that one has been tricky over the years - all 17 of them). Good at lots of things - Expert at nothing. My lame claim of the century. Seriously, conflict with direction towards a climax presents itself to me as evasive (which is probably why my stringy, pointless confessional blog has so few readers).
I saw Deb Marquart's piece about her abortion on Brevity and I read it. Slowly. Twice. It's an excerpt from her novel. It's straight up - follows a few of these mysterious "rules" that have irked and evaded me, and abortion, I suppose, is always a "tight" concept. Still, I'm not sure if I want to (or can) write this way and manage to get anything published . . . I wonder how long the scene - the string of moments - must have festered as a dark memory before becoming a "story." I wonder if I just shouldn't say fuck it and go back to playing with artsy collage (I have all of those old Life magazines stacked by the toilet) . . . Perhaps, I'm a big chicken, and I would rather keep dodging the "darkness" (just stay in my little room alone with the closet's light on) might things get really scary.
7.30.2008,9:42 PM
Axing the Trooper and Aging Shamefully, Wordlessly
Well, I spent the last hour messing around with that last story posted . . . and I cut out the shit about the trooper's oozy memories and even sent it off as an attachment (after giving it back it's old title). I submitted. Not that I think it's that great of a story (well, I didn't think it was all that bad, but . . . after clicking "send" and then re-reading it again - My God - it surely sucks).
My uneasiness and insecurities have got to be buried farther - at least so that I can only see their foreheads. But encouragement has been scarce. I need to be submitting more, but I'm the only one telling myself this. Which sounds as though it should be a big warning - but, it's not so bad considering the fact that conversations with others rarely, if ever, drift to my writing. What's been freaking me out lately is that the world around me is getting younger. Everybody has either been published out the whazoo or has a novel in progress. Everybody is under thirty. Where the hell have I been? Oh yeah . . . I remember. I've never had a lack of ideas . . . just time and discipline - perhaps community (I miss that sweet little ring of Broadside Poets at Marian back when I was still married to Hitler). But I can't always blame my kids or my childhood or my ex-husband. "On Hold" is getting old. I'm getting old. Perhaps that's why I've been surrounding myself with women as old as my mother. To keep myself feeling younger. Given, these women are cooler (sorta), usually addicts of some sort, and sometimes so fucking honest with me it's creepy.
The Non-Fiction workshop in the fall should prove interesting. How do you convince yourself, psychologically, that the world would want to read anything that you've written of yourself? How do you write of the sad, pathetic stuff without sounding like you're on an all out dark pity-me-please campaign? How do you write of the days when you were stupid without earning an ever-lasting invisible dunce cap? I keep having a hard time with this - I run at the Non-Fiction all gung-ho, but then I back out of it and twist it into something unreal. I guess this is a common habit, actually. Perhaps I haven't meditated on the past enough to make it interesting when I write about it. Back there are mere concepts. Usually concepts piled upon concepts. This rarely works in short stories or in books that require some sort of hoaxy plot development. Creative Non-fiction is key - just haven't figured out completely yet . . .
I don't think I've had a cold. I think it's just the stupid menthols I keep smoking.
Tomorrow, I'm outta' the house for a day and looking forward to a single lime margarita at 2PM.
My uneasiness and insecurities have got to be buried farther - at least so that I can only see their foreheads. But encouragement has been scarce. I need to be submitting more, but I'm the only one telling myself this. Which sounds as though it should be a big warning - but, it's not so bad considering the fact that conversations with others rarely, if ever, drift to my writing. What's been freaking me out lately is that the world around me is getting younger. Everybody has either been published out the whazoo or has a novel in progress. Everybody is under thirty. Where the hell have I been? Oh yeah . . . I remember. I've never had a lack of ideas . . . just time and discipline - perhaps community (I miss that sweet little ring of Broadside Poets at Marian back when I was still married to Hitler). But I can't always blame my kids or my childhood or my ex-husband. "On Hold" is getting old. I'm getting old. Perhaps that's why I've been surrounding myself with women as old as my mother. To keep myself feeling younger. Given, these women are cooler (sorta), usually addicts of some sort, and sometimes so fucking honest with me it's creepy.
The Non-Fiction workshop in the fall should prove interesting. How do you convince yourself, psychologically, that the world would want to read anything that you've written of yourself? How do you write of the sad, pathetic stuff without sounding like you're on an all out dark pity-me-please campaign? How do you write of the days when you were stupid without earning an ever-lasting invisible dunce cap? I keep having a hard time with this - I run at the Non-Fiction all gung-ho, but then I back out of it and twist it into something unreal. I guess this is a common habit, actually. Perhaps I haven't meditated on the past enough to make it interesting when I write about it. Back there are mere concepts. Usually concepts piled upon concepts. This rarely works in short stories or in books that require some sort of hoaxy plot development. Creative Non-fiction is key - just haven't figured out completely yet . . .
I don't think I've had a cold. I think it's just the stupid menthols I keep smoking.
Tomorrow, I'm outta' the house for a day and looking forward to a single lime margarita at 2PM.
7.29.2008,10:50 PM
The (My) Greater Engima Machine
(My original intentions with this one - once titled "Bye Bye Birdie" - was to make it shorter. Instead, I expanded it - on accident - by 200 words (word count: 750). I post it here - revamped - should anybody want to read it. The inspiration is non-fiction. This, however, is all me filling the blanks in. I just can't bring myself to write more of the ongoing shit that surrounds me - besides, I have a bit of a cold. Maybe tomorrow. Critique and comments welcomed. I'm unsure if my revamp left it shinier or outright pitiful.)
The Greater Enigma Machine
By Rachel Hartley-Smith
Bud was once a Baptist preacher, but he had started calling his Cocker Spaniel Anne Margaret, stroking her dark blond curls for too long too often. And his sermons had crossed boundaries - emotional, confrontational. When retirement was strongly suggested by prestigious members of the congregation, Bud had coolly accepted. Bowed out and attended in the background. Respectable.
It was a Saturday afternoon, warm and agreeable, and Bud’s wife, Helen, from her leisure chair with her freckled ankles propped on the ottoman, reminded him to trim weeds around the fencing.
So Bud slipped on mismatched sneakers. Found the Weed Whacker hanging on two long carpenter nails inside the shed. Last weekend, he had wiped all the green plastic on the Whacker clean and left it glistening under the shed’s single florescent overhead. Now, he thought he might restring the machine before he whacked anything. Fresh line sprung, looped and tangled. Two hours wasted.
Bud ended up in his S-10 Chevy pick-up, contentedly driving towards, perhaps, a mower repair shop in Noblesville, just south of his brick two-story ranch in Cicero, just north of Indy. He drove through intersections, parking lots, and subdivisions.
He pulled a map from the glove box. Unfolded it and blocked his vision. No city he recognized. Must have been of Kentucky. From the trip to the Falls of Rough where he and Helen found absolutely nothing but a reservoir and a scraggly river. Wadded up the map. Pushed it in the floorboard of the passenger’s side.
Bud veered down an exit and into traffic on I-70, heading east.
Someone had moved his Highway 19. Someone had stolen all the road signs. Someone had spent too much tax money making a simple, straight road so wide. Semi truck drivers were impatient. Whooshed past him, one after another, rocking his insides.
Hours vanished. Cradled in the truck cab’s vinyl, Bud floated by acre after acre of soybean and corn. Peddled up hills. Coasted by insignificant towns and over countless invented lines. He rolled and sailed. Would have to rediscover his original intentions tomorrow or in the dark, and that woman would nag him.
In an old place above the gray highway, Bud put on his Navy suit and cap and freed his calves inside bell-bottoms. Misplaced the semi trucks so they became no longer bothersome. Waves were low. Wind blew steady. Behind him, the sun settled in an ocean of orange gelatin.
By the grace of Lord Jesus, he mumbled over and over to no one.
Darkness arrived. Headlights of passing cars lit up and played tricks with his eyes.
An Ohio state trooper pulled Bud over. Time: 2:12 AM. Found: dark blue ’87 S-10 Chevy turtling along – 45 mph – just south of Dayton. One big silver IXTHUS fish on the tail gate.
Helen had long reported Bud missing. A danger to himself and others. A little truck for a weapon. MISSING: Mr. Buford “Bud” Miley, retired, well-respected reverend. A photo taken three years ago of Bud smiling – one eye half-open, behind his pulpit in a dark and crisp jacket – had been shown on every five and ten local news hour.
Church members phoned Helen. Prayed with her until she tired of verses and stopped answering. Two of the children arrived. Sipped on coffee with her. Sat at the kitchen table, stared at a Boggle box. Tipped and turned and tipped and turned the mini plastic hourglass. The white sand drained fast.
The trooper, mustached and bald headed, stung Bud’s eyes with his flashlight. Asked: Are you lost, Buddy?
Bud tugged on his long left earlobe then pointed a shaky finger to the north, off the way of the interstate, scoping a vanishing point black and absent. The sparse evidence of Dayton twinkled off-center in the distance.
Bud cleared his throat and answered: Absolutely not, boy. They’ll be needing me in Oahu, Hawaii. Right there. You see it? Now, let me get on my way.
The trooper lifted and turned his head, following the old man’s projected line of direction. The trooper sensed his own grandpa’s presence, a weak but intelligent man who had worked for Dayton’s National Cash Register Company in the 1940’s. A stroke ruined him in ‘78. Diapers. Liquid everything. Large, loud nurses walking right in without knocking to shave and bathe him. For too many years, only one index finger ever moving. Slightly. Managing shaking and nodding.
The trooper squinted. Hard. Sharpened his vision, might he see Bud’s island more clearly before he called it in.
The Greater Enigma Machine
By Rachel Hartley-Smith
Bud was once a Baptist preacher, but he had started calling his Cocker Spaniel Anne Margaret, stroking her dark blond curls for too long too often. And his sermons had crossed boundaries - emotional, confrontational. When retirement was strongly suggested by prestigious members of the congregation, Bud had coolly accepted. Bowed out and attended in the background. Respectable.
It was a Saturday afternoon, warm and agreeable, and Bud’s wife, Helen, from her leisure chair with her freckled ankles propped on the ottoman, reminded him to trim weeds around the fencing.
So Bud slipped on mismatched sneakers. Found the Weed Whacker hanging on two long carpenter nails inside the shed. Last weekend, he had wiped all the green plastic on the Whacker clean and left it glistening under the shed’s single florescent overhead. Now, he thought he might restring the machine before he whacked anything. Fresh line sprung, looped and tangled. Two hours wasted.
Bud ended up in his S-10 Chevy pick-up, contentedly driving towards, perhaps, a mower repair shop in Noblesville, just south of his brick two-story ranch in Cicero, just north of Indy. He drove through intersections, parking lots, and subdivisions.
He pulled a map from the glove box. Unfolded it and blocked his vision. No city he recognized. Must have been of Kentucky. From the trip to the Falls of Rough where he and Helen found absolutely nothing but a reservoir and a scraggly river. Wadded up the map. Pushed it in the floorboard of the passenger’s side.
Bud veered down an exit and into traffic on I-70, heading east.
Someone had moved his Highway 19. Someone had stolen all the road signs. Someone had spent too much tax money making a simple, straight road so wide. Semi truck drivers were impatient. Whooshed past him, one after another, rocking his insides.
Hours vanished. Cradled in the truck cab’s vinyl, Bud floated by acre after acre of soybean and corn. Peddled up hills. Coasted by insignificant towns and over countless invented lines. He rolled and sailed. Would have to rediscover his original intentions tomorrow or in the dark, and that woman would nag him.
In an old place above the gray highway, Bud put on his Navy suit and cap and freed his calves inside bell-bottoms. Misplaced the semi trucks so they became no longer bothersome. Waves were low. Wind blew steady. Behind him, the sun settled in an ocean of orange gelatin.
By the grace of Lord Jesus, he mumbled over and over to no one.
Darkness arrived. Headlights of passing cars lit up and played tricks with his eyes.
An Ohio state trooper pulled Bud over. Time: 2:12 AM. Found: dark blue ’87 S-10 Chevy turtling along – 45 mph – just south of Dayton. One big silver IXTHUS fish on the tail gate.
Helen had long reported Bud missing. A danger to himself and others. A little truck for a weapon. MISSING: Mr. Buford “Bud” Miley, retired, well-respected reverend. A photo taken three years ago of Bud smiling – one eye half-open, behind his pulpit in a dark and crisp jacket – had been shown on every five and ten local news hour.
Church members phoned Helen. Prayed with her until she tired of verses and stopped answering. Two of the children arrived. Sipped on coffee with her. Sat at the kitchen table, stared at a Boggle box. Tipped and turned and tipped and turned the mini plastic hourglass. The white sand drained fast.
The trooper, mustached and bald headed, stung Bud’s eyes with his flashlight. Asked: Are you lost, Buddy?
Bud tugged on his long left earlobe then pointed a shaky finger to the north, off the way of the interstate, scoping a vanishing point black and absent. The sparse evidence of Dayton twinkled off-center in the distance.
Bud cleared his throat and answered: Absolutely not, boy. They’ll be needing me in Oahu, Hawaii. Right there. You see it? Now, let me get on my way.
The trooper lifted and turned his head, following the old man’s projected line of direction. The trooper sensed his own grandpa’s presence, a weak but intelligent man who had worked for Dayton’s National Cash Register Company in the 1940’s. A stroke ruined him in ‘78. Diapers. Liquid everything. Large, loud nurses walking right in without knocking to shave and bathe him. For too many years, only one index finger ever moving. Slightly. Managing shaking and nodding.
The trooper squinted. Hard. Sharpened his vision, might he see Bud’s island more clearly before he called it in.
,1:15 AM
Bar Talk
(A scribble I found tucked away in one of my old journals . . . and an enlightening image on what thought goes into beer glass design ingeniousness. I miss beer.)
Bar Talk
"Cousin Dave got religion
and all that I ever wanted was to
win the lottery,"
I said to no one while pouring salt on
my napkin.
The bartender showed me the cross pendant
he kept dropped behind his collar.
I showed him my fish-eye.
Bar Talk
"Cousin Dave got religion
and all that I ever wanted was to
win the lottery,"
I said to no one while pouring salt on
my napkin.
The bartender showed me the cross pendant
he kept dropped behind his collar.
I showed him my fish-eye.
7.27.2008,11:25 AM
Drama, Mama?
I'm not sure if I AM the drama magnet or if I am just at a time in my life during which drama IS a certainty, given all the teeny wieners. BUT my teenage girls are on and off in love so they're on and off with the tear faucets. They're sampling hair dyes and stealing my smokes (one thinks I have yet to notice). Worse yet, fellow mothers feel compelled to tell me such things as the last time they had sex with their beastly, creepy husbands (3 years ago??!). Others tell me about their addictions, their therapy sessions, the details of the last four times they tried to commit suicide. I have the friends of my kids in need of shelter and domestic stability trading off shifts to sleep on my couch; they look up to me and say "Fix everything, please." I did a quick check of my laptop's internet browser history and found that my son's been checking out fuckthebabysitter.com on a regular basis (okay, this isn't the worst of the drama - I'm over this one). My sister is pissed at me because I haven't returned her phone calls over the last couple of days - She's trying to set up her own domain as a Slumber Party specialist - a master of sex toys and the triple-leveled female orgasm. Drama seems to run in the family. So I've been completely ignoring my mother who I blame, in secret, for all of it. In some round about way, I think this is normal.
At 1AM this morning, we had to crawl out of bed and get out in our PJ pants with bedhead to go to the elementary school in town to pick up my fourteen year old daughter (I was already in a deep sleep, having crashed during Matt and I's date to watch No Country For Old Men on the new TV upstairs - I should've never been expected to watch such a slow movie from the comfy zone of our king size bed).
Matt had received a panicked phone call from the mother attempting to hold together a slumber party - Four fourteen year old girls, one my own, had insisted they would sleep like good little girls in the dome tent in the backyard. They were discovered out past curfew on school grounds (behind the elementary school building by the playground) sitting in a car with a seventeen year old boy (a boy the birthday girl knew from Tae Kwon Do). When we pulled up, there sat two of P-town's snazzy new cop cars. The birthday party gang had lied to the officers and told him that they were all fifteen and the boy in the car was their brother. Sneaky.
By the time we arrived, the clean-cut cops were just leaving (I must've said "thank you, sir" to the one with the mustache five times), and the girls had all resorted to sobbing and bawling, hysterics, fantasizing about juvenile detention centers, desperate for sympathy to take the edge off of brutal lectures and certain nasty punishment of the worst kind - Grounded in Summertime. One of the girls' fathers is seven feet tall and wears a goatee; the other is like commander in chief of the Maximum Security Prison guards. Neither were happy with being woke up and forced to drive into town in the middle of the night. Then again, I had the sense that none of it was new to them. At first, it seemed that these girls were in fear for their lives. I came to see, however, that there rested something discomforting underneath - these girls were enjoying it. I swear the acting was either too thick or too thin - either way, it was obvious. At one point, the drama scenes felt competitive . . . and eerie . . .
Sweetness has become an anti-tool, a tainted cover-all. Who ARE these girls . . . capable of so much fucking disaster? My daughter wasn't as dramatic and self-centered as the other two, but, knowing my daughter, I could see her leading the crew. The birthday girl (chubbier and more insecure) had been peer-pressured by her friends (with their short shorts and alarmingly large breasts), but my daughter did actually confess to this and apologize. I made my lecture speech into one about respect and friendship. "Real friends won't get you into trouble," I told them . . . knowing in the back of my mind that that's not all 100% true . . . And then I knew that if I had my choices, back when I was fourteen, between being stuck in a dome tent telling ghost stories or hanging out under the moon flirting with some mysterious guy, I would've been in that car too. I also attempted to scare the shit out of them with worse-case scenarios: "What if that boy had drugs on him?" The one thing I said that I knew made absolute sense: "There are consequences for your actions" - and then I'd elaborate: "You want to break the rules; You risk getting caught." For me, this was a hard lesson learned (maybe I'm still kicking it around - out here spilling my guts . . . ).
What lightened my evening: The cops cited the boy for having chewing tobacco. he he . . . Sneaky.
At 1AM this morning, we had to crawl out of bed and get out in our PJ pants with bedhead to go to the elementary school in town to pick up my fourteen year old daughter (I was already in a deep sleep, having crashed during Matt and I's date to watch No Country For Old Men on the new TV upstairs - I should've never been expected to watch such a slow movie from the comfy zone of our king size bed).
Matt had received a panicked phone call from the mother attempting to hold together a slumber party - Four fourteen year old girls, one my own, had insisted they would sleep like good little girls in the dome tent in the backyard. They were discovered out past curfew on school grounds (behind the elementary school building by the playground) sitting in a car with a seventeen year old boy (a boy the birthday girl knew from Tae Kwon Do). When we pulled up, there sat two of P-town's snazzy new cop cars. The birthday party gang had lied to the officers and told him that they were all fifteen and the boy in the car was their brother. Sneaky.
By the time we arrived, the clean-cut cops were just leaving (I must've said "thank you, sir" to the one with the mustache five times), and the girls had all resorted to sobbing and bawling, hysterics, fantasizing about juvenile detention centers, desperate for sympathy to take the edge off of brutal lectures and certain nasty punishment of the worst kind - Grounded in Summertime. One of the girls' fathers is seven feet tall and wears a goatee; the other is like commander in chief of the Maximum Security Prison guards. Neither were happy with being woke up and forced to drive into town in the middle of the night. Then again, I had the sense that none of it was new to them. At first, it seemed that these girls were in fear for their lives. I came to see, however, that there rested something discomforting underneath - these girls were enjoying it. I swear the acting was either too thick or too thin - either way, it was obvious. At one point, the drama scenes felt competitive . . . and eerie . . .
Sweetness has become an anti-tool, a tainted cover-all. Who ARE these girls . . . capable of so much fucking disaster? My daughter wasn't as dramatic and self-centered as the other two, but, knowing my daughter, I could see her leading the crew. The birthday girl (chubbier and more insecure) had been peer-pressured by her friends (with their short shorts and alarmingly large breasts), but my daughter did actually confess to this and apologize. I made my lecture speech into one about respect and friendship. "Real friends won't get you into trouble," I told them . . . knowing in the back of my mind that that's not all 100% true . . . And then I knew that if I had my choices, back when I was fourteen, between being stuck in a dome tent telling ghost stories or hanging out under the moon flirting with some mysterious guy, I would've been in that car too. I also attempted to scare the shit out of them with worse-case scenarios: "What if that boy had drugs on him?" The one thing I said that I knew made absolute sense: "There are consequences for your actions" - and then I'd elaborate: "You want to break the rules; You risk getting caught." For me, this was a hard lesson learned (maybe I'm still kicking it around - out here spilling my guts . . . ).
What lightened my evening: The cops cited the boy for having chewing tobacco. he he . . . Sneaky.
7.25.2008,4:49 PM
My Strawtown: It's ALL cheaper than string beans
On Thursdays in the summer, Strawtown is a flea market hot spot. Farm animals. Antique tools. Sweet Corn $1 by the Baker's dozen. VHS tapes. Blackmarket DVDs. Outdated, crunched up boxes of Little Debbie snack cakes. Naked Barbie dolls. Irregular blue jeans. Cheap dreamcatchers. We are an amazing bunch of people, exchanging amazingly useless items. I looked for old hardback books (finding classics - preferably with notes scribbled in them - is a fetish), but all I found were used up paperback slut novels.
My favorite overheard conversation: "You're sellin' that door for a quarter?" "It don't have no glass in it." "Still, HOW are you pullin' that off, friend?" "Only askin' what it's worth. It's cheaper than string beans." "Cheaper than string beans?" "Aint' you heard that term? I'll take a dollar for it." (then he snickers)
Cheesy Spaghetti Fries from the P&H Chuck Wagon (there is a fly there, but the camera missed it)
We stuck to the tables outside. This building reeked of pig shit. We ventured inside once to find an ATM that was out of cash.
Manly GI Joes to go with the naked Barbies. Man, I didn't even SEE that funky little black person-shaped bottle-thing on the right - I might've bought it.
Livin' the American Dream . . . ?
I almost bought this awesome painting for Matt . . . Instead, I bought him a board game - "The Worst Case Scenario Survival Game" so that he might feel better prepared.
Mr. & Mrs. Claus sell old Ball Jars, etc. out of the back of their red mini-van.
SuperMan Ice Cream on the drive home
My favorite overheard conversation: "You're sellin' that door for a quarter?" "It don't have no glass in it." "Still, HOW are you pullin' that off, friend?" "Only askin' what it's worth. It's cheaper than string beans." "Cheaper than string beans?" "Aint' you heard that term? I'll take a dollar for it." (then he snickers)
7.23.2008,9:47 PM
Where Closed Beaches Get You
Today was better. Today was actually quite nice. After a depressing chat with Matt during his lunch break ("Well, this day is just as shitty as every other day . . . "), I gave up on sitting home to cheer him up in some round about way (was that what I've been trying to do?). Looking back on my day, it feels a little selfish - childish even, but, then again I'm looking at it as part of my job - entertaining the kids and keeping myself from going loony . . . As of now, as awkward as it sounds, I suppose I am playing "Stay at Home Mom." I have little experience with the role, actually. I do have a working vehicle and a check card. AND it's summertime - I won't have the role forever (and would I want it if I had it?).
I packed all the kids into the van by 12:30PM. I made them all wear swimsuits, and we brought towels. My 17 year old had been out of the house early - off to work at the farm by 7:30AM. He says he spent all morning in a grain bin shoveling out rotten corn (He made $30; I think that's pretty good money). On the way to M-Ville to pick him up, I found a set of end tables at a yard sale for $10 (almost passed them up on the highway!). They're old and clunky and all scratched up. The name of a little girl (Aleecia?) has even been scratched into the side of one with an ink pen . . .
So with my Ford Windstar full of four teenagers, a toddler, and a set of end tables, we headed towards the Prairie Creek Reservoir because I still had it in mind that I wanted to sit in the sand and soak up sunshine. I wanted to relax (without feeling lazy). I had to keep my eyes on the map and veer off on a road or two that wasn't even on the map, but we found it.
Bad News: IT WAS CLOSED. It's only open Thursday-Saturday. If I had only put off my beach-lust for one more morning, I thought. Ash, my 15 year old daughter, says, "We just drove twelve years to get here, and it's closed???" We considered jumping the fence, but we were all starving, and it just didn't seem right heaving the toddler over to trespass. We drove on up into Muncie and found a BK Rootbeer Drive-In joint. Breaded Tenderloins and Root Beer in a glass mug. Paradise.
No . . . I can't say paradise was the Drive-In joint (my fries were soggy, and the chics who served our food were lifeless). There was true paradise at our final stop - a little park in Middletown (great name, eh?) which defines the word quaint. It's a park with a creek, baseball fields, and one of those old WWII guns painted silver and posed among the playground equipment like it's just another happy-go-lucky jungle gym. It even has a little water park where water squirts up out of the concrete, sprays randomly out of plastic tubes, even falls off the rim of a giant metal mushroom. Josie, the 3 year old, loved it. The teenagers even loved it. There was towel snapping and even occasional ass-mooning. Luckily, there weren't too many onlookers to be offended.
Once we all got wet and sun dried, we walked down a side trail and found an old railroad bridge that sparkled with smalltown graffiti (always a good read). I wish I had had my camera. I let us all risk certain contact poison ivy, and we climbed up and over, where we discovered a side creek of trickling water and smooth pebbles. There was an old suspension chord hanging across it that made for a great swing.
BUT, the truly cool moment - the absolutely Mark Twain moment - was when we came upon a group of local kids (ages 9-13 maybe) jumping off of the side of a trail bridge and into the creek below - They'd jump the wooden rails, fall a good ten feet, and splash down on their asses when they landed in 3 feet deep mud/water. There was a little blond girl who kept wiggling out to the edge like she would jump, and then she'd chicken out and get downright stubborn when the gang started nagging her on too much. My son and his buddy couldn't contain themselves and had to join in. They showed off in lovely, shirtless adolescent male fashion. My son even tried to reassure the little chicken blond girl that he'd catch her. I just watched and watched and watched. And I thought: I will make note of this later. In truth, I also thought that surely another "adult" would come along and make them stop - and someone would smack my hand for letting them carry on. It was dangerous, but, then, I like to think that's what made it absolutely wonderful.
After we'd left, I spotted a can pop machine in front of the Harvest Market. I parked on the wrong side of the road, counted up my dimes and was able to buy us each an ice cold thirty-five cent Faygo for the ride home. Mine was strawberry. I made them listen to a 70's - 80's radio station the whole way home. Disco Inferno . . . Depeche Mode . . . Billy Joel . . . To my observation, they enjoyed it (sang along even) and it was not torture.
The evening consisted of tacos for supper and the first three episodes of Lost, Season 2. I'm thinking the whole LOST thing is going to take a satanic turn (like Fantasy Island did before it was finally canceled). Matt was in bed by 10PM. We didn't discuss our days much.
I packed all the kids into the van by 12:30PM. I made them all wear swimsuits, and we brought towels. My 17 year old had been out of the house early - off to work at the farm by 7:30AM. He says he spent all morning in a grain bin shoveling out rotten corn (He made $30; I think that's pretty good money). On the way to M-Ville to pick him up, I found a set of end tables at a yard sale for $10 (almost passed them up on the highway!). They're old and clunky and all scratched up. The name of a little girl (Aleecia?) has even been scratched into the side of one with an ink pen . . .
So with my Ford Windstar full of four teenagers, a toddler, and a set of end tables, we headed towards the Prairie Creek Reservoir because I still had it in mind that I wanted to sit in the sand and soak up sunshine. I wanted to relax (without feeling lazy). I had to keep my eyes on the map and veer off on a road or two that wasn't even on the map, but we found it.
Bad News: IT WAS CLOSED. It's only open Thursday-Saturday. If I had only put off my beach-lust for one more morning, I thought. Ash, my 15 year old daughter, says, "We just drove twelve years to get here, and it's closed???" We considered jumping the fence, but we were all starving, and it just didn't seem right heaving the toddler over to trespass. We drove on up into Muncie and found a BK Rootbeer Drive-In joint. Breaded Tenderloins and Root Beer in a glass mug. Paradise.
No . . . I can't say paradise was the Drive-In joint (my fries were soggy, and the chics who served our food were lifeless). There was true paradise at our final stop - a little park in Middletown (great name, eh?) which defines the word quaint. It's a park with a creek, baseball fields, and one of those old WWII guns painted silver and posed among the playground equipment like it's just another happy-go-lucky jungle gym. It even has a little water park where water squirts up out of the concrete, sprays randomly out of plastic tubes, even falls off the rim of a giant metal mushroom. Josie, the 3 year old, loved it. The teenagers even loved it. There was towel snapping and even occasional ass-mooning. Luckily, there weren't too many onlookers to be offended.
Once we all got wet and sun dried, we walked down a side trail and found an old railroad bridge that sparkled with smalltown graffiti (always a good read). I wish I had had my camera. I let us all risk certain contact poison ivy, and we climbed up and over, where we discovered a side creek of trickling water and smooth pebbles. There was an old suspension chord hanging across it that made for a great swing.
BUT, the truly cool moment - the absolutely Mark Twain moment - was when we came upon a group of local kids (ages 9-13 maybe) jumping off of the side of a trail bridge and into the creek below - They'd jump the wooden rails, fall a good ten feet, and splash down on their asses when they landed in 3 feet deep mud/water. There was a little blond girl who kept wiggling out to the edge like she would jump, and then she'd chicken out and get downright stubborn when the gang started nagging her on too much. My son and his buddy couldn't contain themselves and had to join in. They showed off in lovely, shirtless adolescent male fashion. My son even tried to reassure the little chicken blond girl that he'd catch her. I just watched and watched and watched. And I thought: I will make note of this later. In truth, I also thought that surely another "adult" would come along and make them stop - and someone would smack my hand for letting them carry on. It was dangerous, but, then, I like to think that's what made it absolutely wonderful.
After we'd left, I spotted a can pop machine in front of the Harvest Market. I parked on the wrong side of the road, counted up my dimes and was able to buy us each an ice cold thirty-five cent Faygo for the ride home. Mine was strawberry. I made them listen to a 70's - 80's radio station the whole way home. Disco Inferno . . . Depeche Mode . . . Billy Joel . . . To my observation, they enjoyed it (sang along even) and it was not torture. The evening consisted of tacos for supper and the first three episodes of Lost, Season 2. I'm thinking the whole LOST thing is going to take a satanic turn (like Fantasy Island did before it was finally canceled). Matt was in bed by 10PM. We didn't discuss our days much.
7.22.2008,9:10 AM
Good Morning, Dog Shit.
You know it's going to be "one of those" days when you wander down the stairs, half-dead because you were kept up all night by a freakish thunder storm, and you find a abominable and foul pile of dog shit sitting on the carpet between yourself and the coffee pot. Apparently, no one woke to put the dog out when he needed it. But, I take all shit in stride, don't I? I scrubbed and scrubbed on my knees, and I squirted excessive amounts of Febreeze. 'Not that my sense of sleepy determination made me feel any better. Nor does writing about it now.
This morning, I've made plans with a friend, but it doesn't look like they'll work - She called me yesterday evening in tears because she'd suffered another "melt down", had an argument with her husband, and started drinking her canned Miller Lite's by 2PM. I was busy flipping omelettes for supper (adding cheese, mushrooms, ready-cooked bacon, etc.). I told her I'd stop what I was doing and be there at her farm in M-ville if she so needed me. She refused. "Make your omelettes," she repeated. "Make your omelettes for your family. I didn't mean to bother you. Just wanted to hear your voice, sweetie."
Sometimes, she - who has almost 20 years on me - views me as her sorted female "hero." Her distorted opinion makes for heavy pressure. But, I keep doing my best to fill the role (it's impulsive). I made an offer that I come by tomorrow, as of now, today, (with my van full of kids - four teenagers and a three year old), and we would kidnap her from the boring perils of the farmhouse and head towards a beach on a near-by reservoir. We could lay out in the sun and bitch about our upbringings and our past love lives. It's just what she needs (I think). She seemed to like the idea - asked if she could sneak in her beer cooler (I should've told her 'no').
This morning, however, I have a feeling she'll be too hung over and hard to wake. I know my kids stayed up all night, and THEY will be hard to wake. I wonder if she'll even remember we made a date. And it's likely that she was kept up all night by the storm too. They have a farm dog, a golden lab mix, ("Ruty" - short for Rutabaga, the root vegetable) who has anxiety attacks during thunderstorms. He shakes and cries and tries to bury himself under the shirts of his loved ones. Every time a storm rolls through, I wonder how Ruty is handling the stress. They have to give him medication - vet prescribed chill pills. Last night - all the fury of the immediate thunder and lightning (which sounded like it was constantly finding the ground or near-by trees) - likely drove poor Ruty nuts.
I just got a call from my friend's husband as I was writing (strange, eh?), and he asks me if my son can help him with some farm work tomorrow. I offered him up willingly - of course he can! Then, I asked if his wife still wants to go with us to the beach. Nope. Turns out today is their anniversary (a fact she failed to mention yesterday), and they're going out for an anniversary lunch. It's like the teary phone call over the sizzling omelettes never happened. They argued while I listened through the receiver: "Has it been 14 years?" "No, it was '92" "Nine years? Yep, nine years." "No, it's 2009!" "No it's not." "Yes, it is!" "It's 2008! You went and lost a year! It's been NINE years."
Nine years? 'Gotta' love farmers.
Well, my plans for the day just turned to more shit. I think I was looking forward to it. I guess I could go any way, load up the troops and bring a book.
This morning, I've made plans with a friend, but it doesn't look like they'll work - She called me yesterday evening in tears because she'd suffered another "melt down", had an argument with her husband, and started drinking her canned Miller Lite's by 2PM. I was busy flipping omelettes for supper (adding cheese, mushrooms, ready-cooked bacon, etc.). I told her I'd stop what I was doing and be there at her farm in M-ville if she so needed me. She refused. "Make your omelettes," she repeated. "Make your omelettes for your family. I didn't mean to bother you. Just wanted to hear your voice, sweetie."
Sometimes, she - who has almost 20 years on me - views me as her sorted female "hero." Her distorted opinion makes for heavy pressure. But, I keep doing my best to fill the role (it's impulsive). I made an offer that I come by tomorrow, as of now, today, (with my van full of kids - four teenagers and a three year old), and we would kidnap her from the boring perils of the farmhouse and head towards a beach on a near-by reservoir. We could lay out in the sun and bitch about our upbringings and our past love lives. It's just what she needs (I think). She seemed to like the idea - asked if she could sneak in her beer cooler (I should've told her 'no').
This morning, however, I have a feeling she'll be too hung over and hard to wake. I know my kids stayed up all night, and THEY will be hard to wake. I wonder if she'll even remember we made a date. And it's likely that she was kept up all night by the storm too. They have a farm dog, a golden lab mix, ("Ruty" - short for Rutabaga, the root vegetable) who has anxiety attacks during thunderstorms. He shakes and cries and tries to bury himself under the shirts of his loved ones. Every time a storm rolls through, I wonder how Ruty is handling the stress. They have to give him medication - vet prescribed chill pills. Last night - all the fury of the immediate thunder and lightning (which sounded like it was constantly finding the ground or near-by trees) - likely drove poor Ruty nuts.I just got a call from my friend's husband as I was writing (strange, eh?), and he asks me if my son can help him with some farm work tomorrow. I offered him up willingly - of course he can! Then, I asked if his wife still wants to go with us to the beach. Nope. Turns out today is their anniversary (a fact she failed to mention yesterday), and they're going out for an anniversary lunch. It's like the teary phone call over the sizzling omelettes never happened. They argued while I listened through the receiver: "Has it been 14 years?" "No, it was '92" "Nine years? Yep, nine years." "No, it's 2009!" "No it's not." "Yes, it is!" "It's 2008! You went and lost a year! It's been NINE years."
Nine years? 'Gotta' love farmers.
Well, my plans for the day just turned to more shit. I think I was looking forward to it. I guess I could go any way, load up the troops and bring a book.
7.21.2008,9:20 AM
Me, Mom, the Multi-Functional
Before he had left for the Crue Fest on Friday, I had told my son to call me by noon on Saturday to assure me that he was in fact still alive and definitely not in jail or hitchhiking along the interstate still trying to get home. I thought it would be a hard call. Assuming he got home just fine, he'd probably be in the position to want to sleep until 3PM. He did call - at 11:51AM. I was joking around with him - "Wow! I told you to call by noon, and you actually DID! Incredible!" In a flat voice he says, "Mom, can you get over here to pick me up ASAP? I'll explain later."
Any decent mom will step out of the house in a heartbeat in her PJs and braless, hair unbrushed, when her child is in need. I was at my son's little buddy's trailer behind the car wash in five minutes. I pulled into the driveway and honked. I rarely honk - I always forget how loud the fucking horn is. My son hung out the metal door of the trailer, held up a "just a minute" finger and then was gone again.
My son's little buddy's mother stepped out from behind a shed and made me jump; she had seemingly appeared from out of nowhere. My instincts told me all of this somehow involved her. I had never seen her outside. She's a single mom - it's just her and her boy barely getting by. They haven't lived here long, and they're looking at moving again - into some guy's attic in a house behind the video rental store. I can relate. I wanted to like her. I half-smiled at her and made a little wave. She didn't smile back. She was in a black tank top and short shorts, anorexically skinny, long blond sloppy ponytail. Pretty. Young. Tired. Angry about something.
My son popped out of the trailer with his bag and with extra bags. He throws the bags in the van and then tells me, "Wait, we have to get his bed."
Uh . . . I know the boy's been sleeping on an army cot in his own 5X6 bedroom. He's told me as much. The blond woman disappeared back into the trailer. I hear her two little chihuahuas yelping. I really don't like chihuahuas. My son's buddy, the blond's son, jumps down the metal steps with a huge bag on his shoulder - apparently, he's fit the mattress into a gym bag and left the frame?
My son explained to me that his friend needs to get away from his mother for a while. She's a pothead and an alcoholic. She's popping and selling pills. She's using crack. She kicked her last boyfriend out because she found child porn on her computer. She had barely got them home the night before - all drunk and driving in circles. She left them to fend for themselves at the concert. She stayed in the food courts, got drunk and slutted around with strange men. Her son is quiet and keeping his red, puffy eyes pasted to the ground. I consider walking up to the door of the trailer and bitching her out; but I don't. My son says the woman and her son have been fighting non-stop since last night. The boy is considering calling the police on his mother once he gets to our house. Believe it or not, I'm not surprised. I just sigh. Let's go home.
I don't mind being a safe-haven. It's ironic really - especially when you've once been the one in need of a safe-haven. You can't say no. I'm not sure what the future holds - but this kind of stuff happens . . . It's odd when I step back and take a look at what I actually have here . . . To my own surprise, I suppose, I've managed to give my kids an oddly stable home. It's not typical (we have our creepy back stories), but it's more so odd in that few exist as such. Matt and I care about each other, and we care about the kids. We try our best to keep rules. We try to be fair. We have managed to buy a decent home (given our credit scores - this never should've happened). It's summer time, and the kid was going to be here most of the time any way. We've talked to him about the details, discussed future possibilities, what all is involved, where his other family members are . . . He's a smart kid. We can't afford to get him a lawyer. We know these things involve lawyers. For now, I'm just letting him relax. I'm hopping he's not outsmarting me, actually, but my own experiences have taught me to keep my eyes and ears open.
Still, I was more of a bitch about the fact that my son lost his fake front tooth at the concert. He tells me it flew out of his mouth - I assume while he was moshing or some shit - and then a fat guy stepped on the tooth and crushed it. I haven't even finished paying for the stupid fake tooth yet.
So this was the weekend adventure. The other adventure that I spoke of previously - the teen road trip up from the south in the name of Love - was canceled in light of poor planning, shitty cars, and over-demanding parents (namely, ME). One of the boys who said he'd come, chickened out. The girl who was coming along and forking over gas money with her minimum wage paycheck, had become wishy-washy. They weren't sure if they'd had enough money or if it was a great idea to blow it all in two days on gas. The gas mileage on the white Camaro was just too crazy; they couldn't drive it - it might not make the trip anyway. Actually, I confess, when my daughter told me (around 9PM) that they were now trying to get a ride up from some Mexican guy who was driving up this way any way - I flat out told her NO and that if they appeared at my door (especially after midnight) without a definite ride home, I would not let them in - In fact, I'd ground her for the weekend. I was pissed because of all the chaos, and I told her she did not need to keep such a stupid boyfriend. So, my daughter had a bit of an anxiety attack, tears and short, heavy breathing (I think she was trying to make herself pass out) - she wanted to see this goofy boy SOOO badly . . . The boy kept telling her he'd do whatever he had to do to get up here to see her, but then she had to explain to him in desperation that he, in fact, could not come . . . Mom said "no" . . . I wasn't going to let the boys stay at the house any way (did they ever think that I would???). I think their stupid plan was to sleep in their car (probably in our drive way). They argued over the phone off and on for the remainder of the night. I didn't like the fact that the kids were expecting me to feed them and not one of them had even asked me if I minded the inconvenience nor had uttered the word "please" - especially not my daughter's boyfriend (who had it in his best interests to be blatantly kissing my ass). I stood in the way of young romance. I added the element of "desperation" and upped the drama (how these teens LOVE imposing and conjuring drama . . . I feel like I'm just along for the ride.). But, seventeen years ago, when my own mother did something similar to me, it only made the "love" stronger (of course). I know what I've done.
Ah, the protocol of motherhood . . .
Another weekend is over.
Any decent mom will step out of the house in a heartbeat in her PJs and braless, hair unbrushed, when her child is in need. I was at my son's little buddy's trailer behind the car wash in five minutes. I pulled into the driveway and honked. I rarely honk - I always forget how loud the fucking horn is. My son hung out the metal door of the trailer, held up a "just a minute" finger and then was gone again.
My son's little buddy's mother stepped out from behind a shed and made me jump; she had seemingly appeared from out of nowhere. My instincts told me all of this somehow involved her. I had never seen her outside. She's a single mom - it's just her and her boy barely getting by. They haven't lived here long, and they're looking at moving again - into some guy's attic in a house behind the video rental store. I can relate. I wanted to like her. I half-smiled at her and made a little wave. She didn't smile back. She was in a black tank top and short shorts, anorexically skinny, long blond sloppy ponytail. Pretty. Young. Tired. Angry about something.
My son popped out of the trailer with his bag and with extra bags. He throws the bags in the van and then tells me, "Wait, we have to get his bed."
Uh . . . I know the boy's been sleeping on an army cot in his own 5X6 bedroom. He's told me as much. The blond woman disappeared back into the trailer. I hear her two little chihuahuas yelping. I really don't like chihuahuas. My son's buddy, the blond's son, jumps down the metal steps with a huge bag on his shoulder - apparently, he's fit the mattress into a gym bag and left the frame?
My son explained to me that his friend needs to get away from his mother for a while. She's a pothead and an alcoholic. She's popping and selling pills. She's using crack. She kicked her last boyfriend out because she found child porn on her computer. She had barely got them home the night before - all drunk and driving in circles. She left them to fend for themselves at the concert. She stayed in the food courts, got drunk and slutted around with strange men. Her son is quiet and keeping his red, puffy eyes pasted to the ground. I consider walking up to the door of the trailer and bitching her out; but I don't. My son says the woman and her son have been fighting non-stop since last night. The boy is considering calling the police on his mother once he gets to our house. Believe it or not, I'm not surprised. I just sigh. Let's go home.
I don't mind being a safe-haven. It's ironic really - especially when you've once been the one in need of a safe-haven. You can't say no. I'm not sure what the future holds - but this kind of stuff happens . . . It's odd when I step back and take a look at what I actually have here . . . To my own surprise, I suppose, I've managed to give my kids an oddly stable home. It's not typical (we have our creepy back stories), but it's more so odd in that few exist as such. Matt and I care about each other, and we care about the kids. We try our best to keep rules. We try to be fair. We have managed to buy a decent home (given our credit scores - this never should've happened). It's summer time, and the kid was going to be here most of the time any way. We've talked to him about the details, discussed future possibilities, what all is involved, where his other family members are . . . He's a smart kid. We can't afford to get him a lawyer. We know these things involve lawyers. For now, I'm just letting him relax. I'm hopping he's not outsmarting me, actually, but my own experiences have taught me to keep my eyes and ears open.
Still, I was more of a bitch about the fact that my son lost his fake front tooth at the concert. He tells me it flew out of his mouth - I assume while he was moshing or some shit - and then a fat guy stepped on the tooth and crushed it. I haven't even finished paying for the stupid fake tooth yet.
So this was the weekend adventure. The other adventure that I spoke of previously - the teen road trip up from the south in the name of Love - was canceled in light of poor planning, shitty cars, and over-demanding parents (namely, ME). One of the boys who said he'd come, chickened out. The girl who was coming along and forking over gas money with her minimum wage paycheck, had become wishy-washy. They weren't sure if they'd had enough money or if it was a great idea to blow it all in two days on gas. The gas mileage on the white Camaro was just too crazy; they couldn't drive it - it might not make the trip anyway. Actually, I confess, when my daughter told me (around 9PM) that they were now trying to get a ride up from some Mexican guy who was driving up this way any way - I flat out told her NO and that if they appeared at my door (especially after midnight) without a definite ride home, I would not let them in - In fact, I'd ground her for the weekend. I was pissed because of all the chaos, and I told her she did not need to keep such a stupid boyfriend. So, my daughter had a bit of an anxiety attack, tears and short, heavy breathing (I think she was trying to make herself pass out) - she wanted to see this goofy boy SOOO badly . . . The boy kept telling her he'd do whatever he had to do to get up here to see her, but then she had to explain to him in desperation that he, in fact, could not come . . . Mom said "no" . . . I wasn't going to let the boys stay at the house any way (did they ever think that I would???). I think their stupid plan was to sleep in their car (probably in our drive way). They argued over the phone off and on for the remainder of the night. I didn't like the fact that the kids were expecting me to feed them and not one of them had even asked me if I minded the inconvenience nor had uttered the word "please" - especially not my daughter's boyfriend (who had it in his best interests to be blatantly kissing my ass). I stood in the way of young romance. I added the element of "desperation" and upped the drama (how these teens LOVE imposing and conjuring drama . . . I feel like I'm just along for the ride.). But, seventeen years ago, when my own mother did something similar to me, it only made the "love" stronger (of course). I know what I've done. Ah, the protocol of motherhood . . .
Another weekend is over.
7.19.2008,9:06 AM
Jingle Bells, Batman Smells . . .
There was a little group of kids next to us in mini lawn chairs who repeated this song (Jingle Bells; Batman Smells; Robin laid an egg . . . the Bat-mobile lost it's wheel, and the Joker got awaaaaaay . . . you know the one, right?) five times while the intro was running for The Dark Knight there at the Skyvue Drive-In. Ah, lovely Skyvue. Skyvue Drive-In, surprisingly, has amazing cheeseburgers and yummy, greasy funnel cakes AND the bathrooms work. The trip to the Drive-In is always worth it, if not only for the experience (e.g., uncomfortable chairs, wrapping up in a damp blankie, bugs, poor sound, bugs, the occasional car horn and blinding set of headlights) - AND we can smoke while we watch a movie - How cool is that?
Actually, the Batman movie didn't stink all that bad. Heath Ledger made the movie - he was all evil in the best of ways - and still sexy, even with slimey green hair, those smiley scars and all the runny clown make-up. I loved that quick darting thing he kept doing with his tongue . . . So sad that he's gone. Knowing that he is dead added an unexpected creepy element to his freakish character. BUT if I had to give a one word review: "exhaustive." My god, the film was two and half hours long! By the end, my attention had drifted to the Big Dipper and how it looked like it could've been dumping soup on the screen, floating there above all the projected explosions and gunfire in Gotham, stars all majestic and geometric. Still, I confess, I do have a weakness for sexy comic book characters . . . Alas, Wolverine makes my knees shake.
Journey to the Center of the Earth, however, was short and felt like an after-school special. If I had to give a one word review: "cute." No thinking required. In fact, DON'T THINK - it will screw the whole thing up. Jules Verne might've half-smiled and shrugged if he had to sit through this one. I foresee theme park rides . . . but, wasn't there already one? Indiana Jones in the mineshaft car/roller coaster? They'll have to revamp the ride, but not much - maybe just change the sign?
We didn't make it home until 3AM. At 8AM, my three year old wanted to crawl in bed with me, but she had wet her pants. So, I had to wake up far too early. My poor little baby girl has three big, red mosquito bites on her face. Mosquito repellents are no match for nasty Mid-western skeeters mid-July.
My weekend promises to be interesting. I am highly annoyed because an adventure is about to ensue, and I did little to stop it. I am soon to have FOUR more teenagers invading my space. ONE is a boy with a white Camaro . . . Let's just say a road trip has spawned in light of a summer romance (or was it a fascination with my fourteen year old's D-cup breasts?) . . .
I have yet to hear from my son. Let's hope he made it out of Crue Fest alive.
Actually, the Batman movie didn't stink all that bad. Heath Ledger made the movie - he was all evil in the best of ways - and still sexy, even with slimey green hair, those smiley scars and all the runny clown make-up. I loved that quick darting thing he kept doing with his tongue . . . So sad that he's gone. Knowing that he is dead added an unexpected creepy element to his freakish character. BUT if I had to give a one word review: "exhaustive." My god, the film was two and half hours long! By the end, my attention had drifted to the Big Dipper and how it looked like it could've been dumping soup on the screen, floating there above all the projected explosions and gunfire in Gotham, stars all majestic and geometric. Still, I confess, I do have a weakness for sexy comic book characters . . . Alas, Wolverine makes my knees shake.Journey to the Center of the Earth, however, was short and felt like an after-school special. If I had to give a one word review: "cute." No thinking required. In fact, DON'T THINK - it will screw the whole thing up. Jules Verne might've half-smiled and shrugged if he had to sit through this one. I foresee theme park rides . . . but, wasn't there already one? Indiana Jones in the mineshaft car/roller coaster? They'll have to revamp the ride, but not much - maybe just change the sign?
We didn't make it home until 3AM. At 8AM, my three year old wanted to crawl in bed with me, but she had wet her pants. So, I had to wake up far too early. My poor little baby girl has three big, red mosquito bites on her face. Mosquito repellents are no match for nasty Mid-western skeeters mid-July.
My weekend promises to be interesting. I am highly annoyed because an adventure is about to ensue, and I did little to stop it. I am soon to have FOUR more teenagers invading my space. ONE is a boy with a white Camaro . . . Let's just say a road trip has spawned in light of a summer romance (or was it a fascination with my fourteen year old's D-cup breasts?) . . .
I have yet to hear from my son. Let's hope he made it out of Crue Fest alive.
7.17.2008,10:22 PM
Lost on the Couch, Missing Tommy Lee
What a long fucking week. We've managed to watch half of the first season of LOST. It's been our "family time" in the evenings. We sprawl out on the couch, watch at least four episodes, and grumble if the puppy or the three year old needs to pee or if one gets in the way of our line of vision. We ask each other things like "Why aren't they setting up flaming markers like Tom did on Cast Away?" or "How did so many sexy people end up on one fucking plane???" I am going to end up morphing into the end of this couch. We ordered pizza again. The last thing I wanted to do was cook. I am amazed that my ass has not grown to planetary status with all this eating out. I am amazed that our check book hasn't bottomed out. I guess I get up and do fiddle around enough during the day to keep the diameter of my hind-end in check (although today might have been the exception). These days off are actually starting to wear on me . . . Today I did manage to get a little computer work done. I was on the phone with Adobe Customer Service for an hour reciting and re-reciting my customer ID and (long) serial code to five different strangers with barely translatable foreign dialects. Ends up, they can't just send me a link and code to download Fireworks CS3 - they have to mail it, and I had to pay shipping and handling. I was pissed over $6.57. I'm over it now.I'm keeping my "poem a day" goal - at least I have for three nights now. I suppose I need to pick up a book and read. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll start reading something and get my hopes back up for fall semester. I deserved the break. I've taken it. I'm done.
I'm still determined to spend a night camping this weekend (whether Matt can stand sleep on a blow up mattress or not). I want to go canoeing (whether we can afford it or not). I NEED MORE SUN. Tomorrow night, Matt wants to go to the drive-in - Batman aka The Dark Night and Journey to the Center of the Earth. Hoo-Ray (note: sarcasm). If we're not staring at a screen, how else then would we live if not through alternate psuedo-lives and dramatic falsehoods? (note: more sarcasm) Adventure movies have a tendency to put me to sleep. I think I'll go ahead and take my sleepy pills before we leave . . . I'm not driving.
Tomorrow night, my son is going to his first rock concert, and I won't be there to steer him clear of all the pot and M.I.L.F tits that will surely be free floating around a "Crue Fest". He's seventeen. I am letting him go. I'm recalling all the drunken idiots wandering around the Steve Miller concert and multiplying it by 25. I didn't even have any cash on hand to give him. Without at least a ten, he won't even be able to buy himself a coke. He won't even walk away with a T-shirt. Let's hope he doesn't walk away with scars. I wish I could've talked him into mowing the lawn first . . . I wish his little buddy who knew someone who knew someone could've gotten ME free seats in the pavilion. MY M.I.L.F. tits do need to breathe . . . for Tommy Lee? Maybe . . . he he . . . ;)
7.16.2008,8:00 AM
Ear Wigs, Abortion Rights, and Sedatives - all before coffee number 2!
This morning it was hard to wake up. I thought I had another headache, but now that I'm up and having my coffee (sharing the couch with my puppy - poor little guy's having strange dreams), I'm feeling okay. I have a box of chocolate "donettes" and my laptop. All is quiet. Bliss. BUT I have to shower within the hour. Yesterday, my fifteen year-old and I covered our little back deck with water sealant, and the 
greasy shit is all in my hair. We also painted the swing in the front yard; it is now a lovely Royal Hunter Green Exterior. We discovered that the wood was infested with earwigs and found a seething little nest of them even. It was semi-fun painting them green and watching them curl in anguish. Nasty little boogers - the kind of mini-monsters that haunt your dreams and make you sleep with cotton shoved in your ears. Regardless, the hands-on work under the sun seemed to bring me out of my stupor.
This morning, in my inbox, I found a desperate e-mail from Planned Parenthood. Title X is in trouble says Cecile. I am not surprised. I can hear the GOP now as they're ever-seeking to obliterate women's rights to choice: "Family planning? Those slutty girls need only to learn to keep their legs closed!" or "The tramp wouldn't have gotten pregnant in the first place if she had only been taught to be a good Christian!" Of course, they're being sneaky about it. Their wording it as "anti-discriminate" or some shit. They're saying that health clinics such as Planned Parenthood cannot discriminate when hiring or they will lose their federal funding. In other words, when interviewing/hiring/etc., Planned Parenthood cannot assure that their potential employees support their same beliefs, intentions and guidelines. In other words, Planned Parenthood clinics - especially in small-town low-income areas - run the risk of being obliterated. Okay, Okay, if we're going to be realistic (as politicians NEVER ARE), Planned Parenthoods never thrive in small-town low-income areas (for fear of public flogging perhaps); but lotsa' and lotsa' fatherless babies and sexually transmitted diseases do. I know. I've been there. I could go all passionate here with a speech (Why won't they open their eyes???) but I won't (Why cling to old mythologies over realities???). I can't believe we're still even having this fight. I'll leave it at that (Odd how it's the WOMEN who suffer most . . . reminds me of that old one-liner: "if men had periods, tampons would be free.").
The New York Times: Abortion Proposal Sets Condition on Aid
Last night, I wrote a poem. It wasn't so bad. I have to look at it this morning though. It's possible that while under the effect of my sleepy-time pills, I wrote absolute shit. Then again, maybe I won't look at it just yet. I am telling myself that I'm just getting warmed up.
On Monday, the doctor gave Matt a prescription to Prozac, Wellbutrin (to curb the cigarette cravings), and 5 whole sedatives of some sort (for emergencies). When we got to the clinic, Matt's blood pressure was 153/108, so they gave him an EKG. His heart is fine. The high blood pressure was just him having another anxiety attack, but his heart was keeping up with it okay. The doctor said it would take weeks before he could feel the effects of the meds and told him not to make any rash decisions meanwhile. Meanwhile, Matt has decided he wants to go back to work at FedEx. I have reminded him of how much he hated the place, but he's reasoned his way around it. We shall see. I wonder if smacking him may be defined as a supportive action? After the doctor's appointment, he didn't drive straight in to work - He came home and relaxed. He called in and got a little bitching from fellow employees in Boston, but he tried to shrug it off. With no one to run it, his little private shipping and customs office on the West Side of Indy, on the crusty lip of the airport, was closed. Needless to say, he now only has four sedatives.
greasy shit is all in my hair. We also painted the swing in the front yard; it is now a lovely Royal Hunter Green Exterior. We discovered that the wood was infested with earwigs and found a seething little nest of them even. It was semi-fun painting them green and watching them curl in anguish. Nasty little boogers - the kind of mini-monsters that haunt your dreams and make you sleep with cotton shoved in your ears. Regardless, the hands-on work under the sun seemed to bring me out of my stupor. This morning, in my inbox, I found a desperate e-mail from Planned Parenthood. Title X is in trouble says Cecile. I am not surprised. I can hear the GOP now as they're ever-seeking to obliterate women's rights to choice: "Family planning? Those slutty girls need only to learn to keep their legs closed!" or "The tramp wouldn't have gotten pregnant in the first place if she had only been taught to be a good Christian!" Of course, they're being sneaky about it. Their wording it as "anti-discriminate" or some shit. They're saying that health clinics such as Planned Parenthood cannot discriminate when hiring or they will lose their federal funding. In other words, when interviewing/hiring/etc., Planned Parenthood cannot assure that their potential employees support their same beliefs, intentions and guidelines. In other words, Planned Parenthood clinics - especially in small-town low-income areas - run the risk of being obliterated. Okay, Okay, if we're going to be realistic (as politicians NEVER ARE), Planned Parenthoods never thrive in small-town low-income areas (for fear of public flogging perhaps); but lotsa' and lotsa' fatherless babies and sexually transmitted diseases do. I know. I've been there. I could go all passionate here with a speech (Why won't they open their eyes???) but I won't (Why cling to old mythologies over realities???). I can't believe we're still even having this fight. I'll leave it at that (Odd how it's the WOMEN who suffer most . . . reminds me of that old one-liner: "if men had periods, tampons would be free.").
The New York Times: Abortion Proposal Sets Condition on Aid
Last night, I wrote a poem. It wasn't so bad. I have to look at it this morning though. It's possible that while under the effect of my sleepy-time pills, I wrote absolute shit. Then again, maybe I won't look at it just yet. I am telling myself that I'm just getting warmed up.
On Monday, the doctor gave Matt a prescription to Prozac, Wellbutrin (to curb the cigarette cravings), and 5 whole sedatives of some sort (for emergencies). When we got to the clinic, Matt's blood pressure was 153/108, so they gave him an EKG. His heart is fine. The high blood pressure was just him having another anxiety attack, but his heart was keeping up with it okay. The doctor said it would take weeks before he could feel the effects of the meds and told him not to make any rash decisions meanwhile. Meanwhile, Matt has decided he wants to go back to work at FedEx. I have reminded him of how much he hated the place, but he's reasoned his way around it. We shall see. I wonder if smacking him may be defined as a supportive action? After the doctor's appointment, he didn't drive straight in to work - He came home and relaxed. He called in and got a little bitching from fellow employees in Boston, but he tried to shrug it off. With no one to run it, his little private shipping and customs office on the West Side of Indy, on the crusty lip of the airport, was closed. Needless to say, he now only has four sedatives.
7.14.2008,8:23 AM
Manifestations: The Flip Side of Hum Drum
Here are truths. But it's missing a little I suppose. I guess I've been caught up in hum-drum shit (like Martha Stewart comforters and trips to the matinee). The hum-drum shit is deadly. No wonder I'm not writing anything worth reading; I'm swallowing it all and keeping it down. It's sneaking up in the my sleep and manifests itself in night sweats, nocturnal seizures, and restless leg syndrome. It has been doing this for years.
Of late, my new plan has been to start taking my meds early instead of just before I crawl into bed. I've always taken the whole dose of meds at night (because I figure that's when I need them, and I can't imagine waking up in the morning and getting myself going after downing 600mgs of generic Trileptol). So, since I've been taking the meds (somewhere around 2003 - just after The Divorce), I can't drink any more - I'm hung over before I even have a buzz. Alcohol equals migraine (although convincing myself of this has been difficult - I keep trying and trying when the opportunity presents itself. I tell myself that I just haven't found the right mix of alcohol yet. Maybe rum? Tequila? Wine? Maybe if I just drink two or three beers . . . but it all equals nasty fucking headache.), BUT if I take my pills a little early (all 1200mgs) - say 9pm - my lips are feeling numb by 9:15pm. For the rest of the evening, I'm feeling light and floaty. With the nerves all tingly on my lips, I open my mouth and whatever comes to mind pops right out. It's as good as being drunk (sorta'). I get downright funny when I'm drunk, and I enjoy sex more (Friday night was nice). And it's not like it's illegal or an unhealthy habit. I've been taking the pills for years . . . only now I've figured out that I need not go crash right after taking them. I can enjoy the change-over. It's sorta' like the "sleepy sillies" on full throttle. Might as well enjoy. I have to take the stupid things any way. The toddler is already in bed. The teenagers don't give a shit - it seems they have alternate worlds (ah, I remember). It's a discovered method of escape. I've been on the quest for a long time.
Meanwhile, it's another morning in the quiet house, on a quiet hill. The lights are low. There's a strange kid sleeping on the couch. The kid left his MySpace up on my computer this morning. It was easy to discover that he's another cutter. I keep trying to understand this - and it just feels like a fad, like the "in" thing. But then I suppose our quests are not so far removed - escape. Matt is playing WOW and awaiting an 11am doctor's appointment in hopes of getting his hands on some anxiety pills. From the doctor's office, he's driving straight in to work.
Of late, my new plan has been to start taking my meds early instead of just before I crawl into bed. I've always taken the whole dose of meds at night (because I figure that's when I need them, and I can't imagine waking up in the morning and getting myself going after downing 600mgs of generic Trileptol). So, since I've been taking the meds (somewhere around 2003 - just after The Divorce), I can't drink any more - I'm hung over before I even have a buzz. Alcohol equals migraine (although convincing myself of this has been difficult - I keep trying and trying when the opportunity presents itself. I tell myself that I just haven't found the right mix of alcohol yet. Maybe rum? Tequila? Wine? Maybe if I just drink two or three beers . . . but it all equals nasty fucking headache.), BUT if I take my pills a little early (all 1200mgs) - say 9pm - my lips are feeling numb by 9:15pm. For the rest of the evening, I'm feeling light and floaty. With the nerves all tingly on my lips, I open my mouth and whatever comes to mind pops right out. It's as good as being drunk (sorta'). I get downright funny when I'm drunk, and I enjoy sex more (Friday night was nice). And it's not like it's illegal or an unhealthy habit. I've been taking the pills for years . . . only now I've figured out that I need not go crash right after taking them. I can enjoy the change-over. It's sorta' like the "sleepy sillies" on full throttle. Might as well enjoy. I have to take the stupid things any way. The toddler is already in bed. The teenagers don't give a shit - it seems they have alternate worlds (ah, I remember). It's a discovered method of escape. I've been on the quest for a long time.
Meanwhile, it's another morning in the quiet house, on a quiet hill. The lights are low. There's a strange kid sleeping on the couch. The kid left his MySpace up on my computer this morning. It was easy to discover that he's another cutter. I keep trying to understand this - and it just feels like a fad, like the "in" thing. But then I suppose our quests are not so far removed - escape. Matt is playing WOW and awaiting an 11am doctor's appointment in hopes of getting his hands on some anxiety pills. From the doctor's office, he's driving straight in to work.
7.12.2008,7:46 PM
Après La Matinee
We didn't go to The Nile tonight . . . We bought a new comforter set instead. A Martha Stewart comforter set with psuedo-suede and stripes. Only $40 at Big Lots. I love close-outs. And, now, another mid-western summer squall line is rumbling across central Indiana. It's probably best that we got home and then stayed.
Kudos to Wall-E. We caught the matinee. I loved it. Although I'm not sure that fat, lazy humans would ever be so heroic in the end; it was a love story and a hopeful nonetheless. We all love the hopeful stuff, especially when we're sharing a theater seat with our three year old, a.k.a. wiggle pants.
After the matinee, we stopped in two different book stores - Borders and a nameless used book store sit side-by-side in the wimpy shopping mall called Mounds Mall in Anderson. This little mall is so lame that it only has two places in the food court - a Japanese place and one of those all Italian pizza places. The Japanese stuff is pretty good. Borders (aka Walden's) absolutely sucked. No poetry whatsoever. Not even a poetry section. The used book store was pretty bad too - BUT it had a free box (I picked up a little plain brown children's book called "Good Wife, Good Wife" and plan to hide it upstairs on my private bookshelf to perhaps be discovered one day after a die). I bought a new blank journal. Matt bought a Heavy Metal magazine and reconnected to his youth. We stopped by a hippie shop and bought lots of incense, and we've been burning "Patchouli" and "Misty Mountain" and "Dragon's Blood" all evening. We're only hiding cigarette smoke - I swear.
I've enjoyed my Saturday. We spent lots of money on shit we didn't need and put off doing lots of other shit that we should've/could've been doing. Amazing how we tend to do that so often. I do believe, however, that I am going to succeed at talking Matt into taking a night class in the Fall (something liberal in the name of his sanity).
CEllA's Round Trip will be attending AWP in Chicago in February. I will write more of this later. For now, I'm going to remain brain dead for the remainder of the day. No need to hault such a powerful force in flow.
Kudos to Wall-E. We caught the matinee. I loved it. Although I'm not sure that fat, lazy humans would ever be so heroic in the end; it was a love story and a hopeful nonetheless. We all love the hopeful stuff, especially when we're sharing a theater seat with our three year old, a.k.a. wiggle pants.After the matinee, we stopped in two different book stores - Borders and a nameless used book store sit side-by-side in the wimpy shopping mall called Mounds Mall in Anderson. This little mall is so lame that it only has two places in the food court - a Japanese place and one of those all Italian pizza places. The Japanese stuff is pretty good. Borders (aka Walden's) absolutely sucked. No poetry whatsoever. Not even a poetry section. The used book store was pretty bad too - BUT it had a free box (I picked up a little plain brown children's book called "Good Wife, Good Wife" and plan to hide it upstairs on my private bookshelf to perhaps be discovered one day after a die). I bought a new blank journal. Matt bought a Heavy Metal magazine and reconnected to his youth. We stopped by a hippie shop and bought lots of incense, and we've been burning "Patchouli" and "Misty Mountain" and "Dragon's Blood" all evening. We're only hiding cigarette smoke - I swear.
I've enjoyed my Saturday. We spent lots of money on shit we didn't need and put off doing lots of other shit that we should've/could've been doing. Amazing how we tend to do that so often. I do believe, however, that I am going to succeed at talking Matt into taking a night class in the Fall (something liberal in the name of his sanity).
CEllA's Round Trip will be attending AWP in Chicago in February. I will write more of this later. For now, I'm going to remain brain dead for the remainder of the day. No need to hault such a powerful force in flow.
7.10.2008,8:56 AM
Talking Myself Into and Back Out of Things
The Fourth of July is over.
I'm kinda of pissed off at myself. I went to bed last night and laid there thinking of poetry (all the while, Matt's Sleep Apnea machine is hissing in my ear, and it's fucking cold because the AC is too low - again). I wake up this morning and immediately start fiddling around with blog-design (a job that I'm working on for friends) and facebook and gmail. I have e-mails to answer, stats to check up on. I have other things to worry about and coffee to drink before I can do anything meaningful. I even write on the FunWall of an old high school buddy. And then there's my three year old and that whiney puppy. So instead of attempting to write poetry, I finally work my way over to my own blog to bitch about how I can't write any poetry. How utterly lame and cowardly.
The other day in the store, I almost talked myself into buying another composition book - My last one (a really nice brown pseudo-suede covered booklet) is filled with shit - notes about work, notes about CRT - not much creative stuff from me. In fact, I have been in a state of avoidance since I bought the stupid thing. Maybe the little blank book was too pretty. Instead, at the store, I bought two new cheap lamps for the living room and a couple of smelly candles.
I know, I know: Once you're out of practice, you suck and continue to suck more and more as time goes by. I have gotten myself far out of practice. I'm not a manager or an editor so much as I am a creator. I'm not the best creator (a hard lesson learned), but I always have been a creator. And I'm not a fiction or flash fiction writer (despite my efforts of late); I'm more turned on by poetry. "Plots" seem to allude my psyche. Too many things simply "happen" in singular moments, often oddly disconnected. I would like to think that I could write non-fiction, but it would have to be creative - none of that "these are the facts" crap. My memory isn't good enough. It would have to some sort of twisted form of poetry.
In undergrad, I managed to piece together a little chapbook, and it was definitely non-fiction (although I admitted it to no one, it was likely that everyone knew). The title was awful and it looked ugly, but I was happy with what it contained. It was therapeutic but not too obvious. It took me back to a place that I was being forced to forget (especially in the midst of my shitty first marriage - My God, how could I have ever married a Republican and wannabe Lawyer???). The poetry was my little gateway to courage. I think it gave me the balls to leave that horrible marriage behind and rediscover (recreate?) this person who sits here now with her ass on her favorite spot at the end of the couch typing away (but back on the playing field, nonetheless).
So, I should challenge myself. I should get back into the practice of things. I should quit trying to hide from my callings. I should quit trying to find an "adult" solution. What is this thing I keep referring to as "career"? Poetry is the one avenue that has yet to be brutally tainted by rigidity or capitalism (but they're likely to be there more than I realize). I saw a few competitions posted around for chapbooks - If nothing else, it could be a way to set a deadline for myself. I could pull a Plath and just start churning them out day after day. I could make a "poem a day" goal - at least, I'd have shit to look at by the end of the month. I CAN edit. I know what's good and what's not good (although we all know that this is harder when it's your own stuff). I have friends who are finishing up novels. I WILL be at AWP in Chicago this year. I should be beyond insecurity by now, right? I know what's out there. AND I've birthed four kids. For Christ's sake, I'm over 30. I have a NEW laptop.
So if I talk myself back out of things . . . at least the laundry will get done; I might put water-sealant on the back deck; I need to buy a new set of patio lights; I need to clean the bathroom; I need to spray the weeds; I have to take the kids to the dentist again; We're out of bread and milk; I should probably shampoo the carpets and spray again for fleas; I have a list of jobs to do for my assistantship; I have a stack of books to read - next semester is coming up fast . . . shit, shit, shit.
7.07.2008,8:27 AM
Here's what makes me fall in love with the Mid-West again.
We're standing in the grass beside the giant, green jumpy balloon - Josie is inside jumping around in her socks like she's crazy. It cost us three carnival tickets to get her in there. It's dark so she can barely see. There are little boys jumping up and doing flips - hand-stands even - but she's hopping and dodging around them all.
There's the smells of corn dogs, nacho cheese sauce, fried hamburgers, motor oil, burnt car engines, diesel smoke from tractors, popcorn, cigarette smoke, spilt beer, etc . . . and it's all tossed and blissful. The Otwell Summer Festival is on its last limb - It's the Saturday night after the Fourth of July. They had a kick-ass fireworks show on the 4th, and we got to sit on a blanket in a field (by my sister's husband's grandmother's retirement complex) and had the show booming right above our heads - the higher ones were ghostly behind low, still rain clouds. I got a kink in my neck from looking straight up - so we had to just stretch out on the blankets on our backs. Some flaming sparks drifted down as low as our heads. We could see where they were setting them off - an entourage of pick-up trucks then a smoke cloud haunted by silouettes with red flares - Only one explosive flower exploded too early. They handled themselves just fine. The finale was fabulous - so many booms and sparkly flowers that the children got bored with it and started wrestling on their blankets, rolling over into the grass at the risk of getting chiggers.
Now, they're taking down the Gravitron behind us - a large ride that looks like a UFO and spins around at super speeds sticking its riders to the inside wall (centripetal force? centrifugal? I forget my Physics lessons). There's bald guy stacking the pieces of the ride for the semi bed. He's playing Kenny Rogers' greatest hits so loud that it's flowing through the whole strip of the festival. You can hear it at the other end, at the horsey carousel. He's taking the Gravitron down a little early, and the teenagers claim that it's because something broke or someone puked inside. The rides all look like they've been in use since 1965.
We had just left the Demolition Derby - and it was THE most fun (It made the Steve Miller Band Concert look like a yawn). We walked away from the bleachers, the little mud-field enclosed by concrete barriers, the tractors and the last of the smashed up cars with our ears ringing and flung mud splattered across our t-shirts (Immersive!). We saw the winner of the final heat - winner of the whole derby and $1500 and a ton of tools - strutting down the strip with his wife and little junior like he was king. And he was. A group of young boys grabbed him every now and then to shake his hand and offer congratulations. Mud and grease up to the tatoos on his biceps, he looked tired.
I had yet to have a funnel cake, but I would - The long line to the funnel cake camper was shrinking. So Matt and I wrap arms around each other and have a slow dance to "You are So Beautiful." We look at each other and make a little joke - taking note of the details - we'll remember this moment forever and always. Otwell in Pike County is so goddamn lovely. The locals are hardly oblivious. We want to be here again next year.
There's the smells of corn dogs, nacho cheese sauce, fried hamburgers, motor oil, burnt car engines, diesel smoke from tractors, popcorn, cigarette smoke, spilt beer, etc . . . and it's all tossed and blissful. The Otwell Summer Festival is on its last limb - It's the Saturday night after the Fourth of July. They had a kick-ass fireworks show on the 4th, and we got to sit on a blanket in a field (by my sister's husband's grandmother's retirement complex) and had the show booming right above our heads - the higher ones were ghostly behind low, still rain clouds. I got a kink in my neck from looking straight up - so we had to just stretch out on the blankets on our backs. Some flaming sparks drifted down as low as our heads. We could see where they were setting them off - an entourage of pick-up trucks then a smoke cloud haunted by silouettes with red flares - Only one explosive flower exploded too early. They handled themselves just fine. The finale was fabulous - so many booms and sparkly flowers that the children got bored with it and started wrestling on their blankets, rolling over into the grass at the risk of getting chiggers.
Now, they're taking down the Gravitron behind us - a large ride that looks like a UFO and spins around at super speeds sticking its riders to the inside wall (centripetal force? centrifugal? I forget my Physics lessons). There's bald guy stacking the pieces of the ride for the semi bed. He's playing Kenny Rogers' greatest hits so loud that it's flowing through the whole strip of the festival. You can hear it at the other end, at the horsey carousel. He's taking the Gravitron down a little early, and the teenagers claim that it's because something broke or someone puked inside. The rides all look like they've been in use since 1965.
We had just left the Demolition Derby - and it was THE most fun (It made the Steve Miller Band Concert look like a yawn). We walked away from the bleachers, the little mud-field enclosed by concrete barriers, the tractors and the last of the smashed up cars with our ears ringing and flung mud splattered across our t-shirts (Immersive!). We saw the winner of the final heat - winner of the whole derby and $1500 and a ton of tools - strutting down the strip with his wife and little junior like he was king. And he was. A group of young boys grabbed him every now and then to shake his hand and offer congratulations. Mud and grease up to the tatoos on his biceps, he looked tired. I had yet to have a funnel cake, but I would - The long line to the funnel cake camper was shrinking. So Matt and I wrap arms around each other and have a slow dance to "You are So Beautiful." We look at each other and make a little joke - taking note of the details - we'll remember this moment forever and always. Otwell in Pike County is so goddamn lovely. The locals are hardly oblivious. We want to be here again next year.
7.06.2008,11:26 PM
Swim at Your Own Risk
Tomorrow, I'll write more of my weekend. It was incredible.
For now, I'll share a nice little pic. The bed is calling. I just watched four episodes of The Two Coreys and I'm feeling a little more than less creative.
Swim at Your Own Risk:
(this weekend, at the lake, a guy I went to school with apparently was drunk - as I remember him - and bragged that he could swim the length of the lake. He nearly drowned. Dumb ass. Nevertheless, here's a picture of the lovely place.)
For now, I'll share a nice little pic. The bed is calling. I just watched four episodes of The Two Coreys and I'm feeling a little more than less creative.
Swim at Your Own Risk:
(this weekend, at the lake, a guy I went to school with apparently was drunk - as I remember him - and bragged that he could swim the length of the lake. He nearly drowned. Dumb ass. Nevertheless, here's a picture of the lovely place.)
7.03.2008,1:00 PM
I finally paid off that debt that I owed to my last big, fat credit card - the one that I ran up when I was mid-divorce, an undergraduate student and pretty much homeless! It was an odd feeling, canceling my "credit care" account, knowing that the debt was gone. I've had debt since I was sixteen. I really got tripped up on several credit cards there for a while. Of course, I have those student loans, but I have a plan. I will take a class each semester for the rest of my life and remain in forbearance until I die. :)
The rainy day aint getting me much in the mood for the holiday. We have a plan to go camping, damn it.
The rainy day aint getting me much in the mood for the holiday. We have a plan to go camping, damn it.
7.02.2008,6:25 AM
Pattern #39 and the Irrational Chapter 7
The digital, virtual I-Ching stones told him this morning that the lava lake beside the mountain was rumbling, that he was struggling with an obstacle that he could easily walk around, and that his biggest battle was within himself. This is basically what I told him last night, sitting on the edge of the bed, having come up to apologize because I was pissed because he's been so unhappy (and not doing anything about it for another evening) and so did not kiss him good night. Well, I didn't mention a "lava lake" - those eastern metaphors . . . He was amazed - how did the virtual I-Ching stones know? He knows how these things work - that every card, every stone pattern, whatever, is applicable and has good advice that anyone can manipulate and formulate into their own daily being. But, I ran with it. I told him he should read more about Zen Buddhism. He had found the I-Ching page on a "stumble" - an add-on in the Firefox browser. It must be a morning routine: coffee, smoke, sit at the desk, stumble. I've been telling him for years: please, just try to enjoy your day. And it only comes across as pompous - I know nothing of his hell.
Today, I have a check-up meeting with a professor to run over the to-do list of my summer assistantship, then I'm basically free. I don't have as much done on his little website, the e-mail list, the ads, etc. as I had intended to have done. I could blame the loss of materials on my last laptop crash (which would be TRUE). BUT, we all know what I've been doing: promoting my journal and keeping an eager eye on it, waiting for positive reviews, e-mails, etc., gathering the incoming submissions for Issue #02, planning and waiting for tomorrow.
Planning and waiting for tomorrow is exactly what I told him we need not do. I don't want to live for retirement - what a western concept. I suggested that he start a blog, a place to write (which is a "hobby" that he's upheld far longer than he ever did the hobbies of archery, leather-stamping, or drawing). This got me thinking about writing (I always wander away from our conversations like this) and why there are so many unread and barely viewed blogs in the "world" . . . how we're all attempting to communicate and hoping that a few people will pop in and read. How several of the stories I've read of late feel disconnected, removed from the point of communication, jumbled, purposefully confusing, removed from the concept of "touch." "Touch" makes us feel too open, too violated - maybe? And we have been taught to be cautionary. I miss my confessional poetry. I wonder what someone will tag for this wedge of the century (post-confessional? de-postmodernism? flatulent-ism? --ha ha).
So . . . I checked on my virtual Osho Zen Tarot for the hell of it. I've got ten minutes before I need to shower. One card for the day. Of course, it fit. The advice is good. It's not quite meditation. I know this. I want to say that it's a good way to "waste" a morning, but then I detach myself from the moment, neglect the "journey," don't I? So, instead, I tell myself that, later, when I'm in the shower, when I'm driving the mini-van to Muncie, when I'm trying to figure out what the hell to feed the kids, when the puppy is whining and driving me nuts, when I'm folding laundry, when I'm checking the stats for my site again, I will stop and smile and just "be there," but, all the while, I'll likely still be thinking "I should be . . . "
Life is a continuity always and always. There is no final destination it is going towards. Just the pilgrimage, just the journey in itself is life, not reaching to some point, no goal--just dancing and being in pilgrimage, moving joyously, without bothering about any destination. What will you do by getting to a destination? Nobody has asked this, because everybody is trying to have some destination in life. But the implications... If you really reach the destination of life, then what? Then you will look very embarrassed. Nowhere to go...you have reached to the final destination--and in the journey you have lost everything. You had to lose everything. So standing naked at the final destination, you will look all around like an idiot: what was the point? You were hurrying so hard, and you were worrying so hard, and this is the outcome.
Osho Rinzai: Master of the Irrational Chapter 7
Commentary (on the card "Traveling"):
The tiny figure moving on the path through this beautiful landscape is not concerned about the goal. He or she knows that the journey is the goal, the pilgrimage itself is the sacred place. Each step on the path is important in itself. When this card appears in a reading, it indicates a time of movement and change. It may be a physical movement from one place to the next, or an inner movement from one way of being to another. But whatever the case, this card promises that the going will be easy and will bring a sense of adventure and growth; there is no need to struggle or plan too much. The Traveling card also reminds us to accept and embrace the new, just as when we travel to another country with a different culture and environment than the one we are accustomed to. This attitude of openness and acceptance invites new friends and experiences into our lives.
(I almost wrote "I want to be ready for the 'new'", but, then, I suppose it's already here, isn't it? Then I just turn it into a new task: I want to be ready when the "new" becomes concrete, but, then, I suppose it's concrete enough. My words are either real enough or not real at all.)
Today, I have a check-up meeting with a professor to run over the to-do list of my summer assistantship, then I'm basically free. I don't have as much done on his little website, the e-mail list, the ads, etc. as I had intended to have done. I could blame the loss of materials on my last laptop crash (which would be TRUE). BUT, we all know what I've been doing: promoting my journal and keeping an eager eye on it, waiting for positive reviews, e-mails, etc., gathering the incoming submissions for Issue #02, planning and waiting for tomorrow.
Planning and waiting for tomorrow is exactly what I told him we need not do. I don't want to live for retirement - what a western concept. I suggested that he start a blog, a place to write (which is a "hobby" that he's upheld far longer than he ever did the hobbies of archery, leather-stamping, or drawing). This got me thinking about writing (I always wander away from our conversations like this) and why there are so many unread and barely viewed blogs in the "world" . . . how we're all attempting to communicate and hoping that a few people will pop in and read. How several of the stories I've read of late feel disconnected, removed from the point of communication, jumbled, purposefully confusing, removed from the concept of "touch." "Touch" makes us feel too open, too violated - maybe? And we have been taught to be cautionary. I miss my confessional poetry. I wonder what someone will tag for this wedge of the century (post-confessional? de-postmodernism? flatulent-ism? --ha ha).
So . . . I checked on my virtual Osho Zen Tarot for the hell of it. I've got ten minutes before I need to shower. One card for the day. Of course, it fit. The advice is good. It's not quite meditation. I know this. I want to say that it's a good way to "waste" a morning, but then I detach myself from the moment, neglect the "journey," don't I? So, instead, I tell myself that, later, when I'm in the shower, when I'm driving the mini-van to Muncie, when I'm trying to figure out what the hell to feed the kids, when the puppy is whining and driving me nuts, when I'm folding laundry, when I'm checking the stats for my site again, I will stop and smile and just "be there," but, all the while, I'll likely still be thinking "I should be . . . "
Life is a continuity always and always. There is no final destination it is going towards. Just the pilgrimage, just the journey in itself is life, not reaching to some point, no goal--just dancing and being in pilgrimage, moving joyously, without bothering about any destination. What will you do by getting to a destination? Nobody has asked this, because everybody is trying to have some destination in life. But the implications... If you really reach the destination of life, then what? Then you will look very embarrassed. Nowhere to go...you have reached to the final destination--and in the journey you have lost everything. You had to lose everything. So standing naked at the final destination, you will look all around like an idiot: what was the point? You were hurrying so hard, and you were worrying so hard, and this is the outcome.Osho Rinzai: Master of the Irrational Chapter 7
Commentary (on the card "Traveling"):
The tiny figure moving on the path through this beautiful landscape is not concerned about the goal. He or she knows that the journey is the goal, the pilgrimage itself is the sacred place. Each step on the path is important in itself. When this card appears in a reading, it indicates a time of movement and change. It may be a physical movement from one place to the next, or an inner movement from one way of being to another. But whatever the case, this card promises that the going will be easy and will bring a sense of adventure and growth; there is no need to struggle or plan too much. The Traveling card also reminds us to accept and embrace the new, just as when we travel to another country with a different culture and environment than the one we are accustomed to. This attitude of openness and acceptance invites new friends and experiences into our lives.
(I almost wrote "I want to be ready for the 'new'", but, then, I suppose it's already here, isn't it? Then I just turn it into a new task: I want to be ready when the "new" becomes concrete, but, then, I suppose it's concrete enough. My words are either real enough or not real at all.)