I thought maybe I could come up with something of interest to write about tonight, but I've got nothing...
Maybe tomorrow.
Slipping Into the Solitude
Went out tonight after work to do a little school shopping for KC, and ended up making an unexpected pit stop at Barnes & Nobles. I just can't seem to help myself when it comes to certain things lately. Maybe I can pass it off as a quest for knowledge or a thirst for words, either of which is a happy excuse to blame my most recent purchase of a book of poetry by Louise Gluck. Perhaps it's just the silent push of winter knocking at the door that has me lining my nest with small pockets of joy, golden nuggets of inspiration for a cold, dark day to come.
Mutable Earth
Are you healed or do you only think you're healed?
I told myself
from nothing
nothing can be taken away.
But can you love anyone yet?
When I feel safe, I can love.
But will you touch anyone?
I told myself
if I had nothing
the world couldn't touch me.
In the bathtub, I examine my body.
We're supposed to do that.
And your face too?
Your face in the mirror?
I was vigilant: when I touched myself
I didn't feel anything.
Were you safe then?
I was never safe, even when I was most hidden.
Even then I was waiting.
So you couldn't protect yourself?
The absolute
erodes; the boundary, the wall
around the self erodes.
If I was waiting I had been
invaded by time.
But do you think you're free?
I think I recognize the patterns of my nature.
But do you think you're free?
I had nothing
and I was still changed.
Like a costume, my numbness
was taken away. Then
hunger was added.
- Louise Gluck
Vita Nova
Mom & Daughter Fun Day
KC and I went to the Renaissance Festival today in Sterling and came back with much less money in our pockets than we started with. However this picture alone was well worth the drive, our time and the coins. (And it doesn't hurt that I don't look half bad, half naked. At least in cartoon form...)
More stories from today to come later. Or at least a few months down the road when I get my film developed...
Not So Distant Memory
Someday I'm going to get back in the swing of things and fill this blog full to bursting with the words I've kept concealed these past few months. I guess I just can't help myself. Too many words and I get in trouble, too little and it's like I never existed at all. To me it's felt like a weakness. A purveying of the truth in small doses; the only quantity I can handle. But inside my head there is so much more to be said as summer days begin to run together racing for the cold.
Tonight the house smells like warm licorice. A comforting smell that brings a thought and a smile to my face much like a conversation would with an old friend. My thoughts are filled with moments, both found and stolen. And I look at the clock above the stove and think about this time last week remembering where I was and who I was with and wishing I could find myself there once more...
Tonight the house smells like warm licorice. A comforting smell that brings a thought and a smile to my face much like a conversation would with an old friend. My thoughts are filled with moments, both found and stolen. And I look at the clock above the stove and think about this time last week remembering where I was and who I was with and wishing I could find myself there once more...
Jupiter in Motion
I am not an illusion, though truth be told, I thought I was. Me, the invisible girl I thought no one could see. But you pushed the envelope, moved me forward when I would have taken a step back until I found a valid reason to stop. Any excuse to put on the brakes and pull away, with no intention of beginning.
A Moment of Possibility
She cannot think of a single thing to say, so tied up is her tongue, now that they're alone on the porch. And she could kill her friend for leaving her out there with him to fend for herself. To sink. Or to swim.
She sits back in her chair, thinking for a moment of what she should or maybe shouldn't say. She is intrigued by him. By things he's already said out in the other room. His explanations, which to others might seem too long and impractical seem just right to her. She sneaks a peek at him from beneath her lashes, noting the strength of his jaw, the character of his face, the tall leanness of his body and hair she's already imagining running her fingers through.
His cell phone rings and saves her from having to start the conversation while he answers in a language she cannot understand. She could listen to the timbre of his voice for hours, heavily accented and yet fluid in his native tongue. He looks up at her and seems to really look at her, "I'm sorry honey," he says, offering her an apology for having answered his phone. And she finds herself smiling, telling him it's okay while he says a few syllable's more and then neatly ends his call. "Now where were we?" he asks, giving her a smile.
In the space of a few minutes she puts to him her questions, learning about the country from which he came, and how long he'd been here. He tells her that his family was originally from Europe, Bosnia to be exact. And she admits to having the world's worst geography skills, telling him she has no idea where to find it on a map. He asks her if she knows where Italy is. And she laughs, at his description of Italy, "You know the country of the boot with the too high heel," he says.
They continue talking, alone on the porch with only the moonlight for company. And she apologizes for not remembering his name. "Armie," he says, "Like an army of one." She rolls his name off her tongue, liking the sound of it on her lips. At some point, after they'd talk more about his job, and he said she should stop in to see him some time, they went inside. She shot her best friend a look across the room, a thank you but I'd like to kill you all the same sort of face, flushed with a dreamy smile.
All too soon the night came to a close, ending with a mass departure of voices drifting off into the night. And though theirs was an ordinary goodbye at best, she couldn't help but hope that he might entertain the thought of wanting to see her again.
She sits back in her chair, thinking for a moment of what she should or maybe shouldn't say. She is intrigued by him. By things he's already said out in the other room. His explanations, which to others might seem too long and impractical seem just right to her. She sneaks a peek at him from beneath her lashes, noting the strength of his jaw, the character of his face, the tall leanness of his body and hair she's already imagining running her fingers through.
His cell phone rings and saves her from having to start the conversation while he answers in a language she cannot understand. She could listen to the timbre of his voice for hours, heavily accented and yet fluid in his native tongue. He looks up at her and seems to really look at her, "I'm sorry honey," he says, offering her an apology for having answered his phone. And she finds herself smiling, telling him it's okay while he says a few syllable's more and then neatly ends his call. "Now where were we?" he asks, giving her a smile.
In the space of a few minutes she puts to him her questions, learning about the country from which he came, and how long he'd been here. He tells her that his family was originally from Europe, Bosnia to be exact. And she admits to having the world's worst geography skills, telling him she has no idea where to find it on a map. He asks her if she knows where Italy is. And she laughs, at his description of Italy, "You know the country of the boot with the too high heel," he says.
They continue talking, alone on the porch with only the moonlight for company. And she apologizes for not remembering his name. "Armie," he says, "Like an army of one." She rolls his name off her tongue, liking the sound of it on her lips. At some point, after they'd talk more about his job, and he said she should stop in to see him some time, they went inside. She shot her best friend a look across the room, a thank you but I'd like to kill you all the same sort of face, flushed with a dreamy smile.
All too soon the night came to a close, ending with a mass departure of voices drifting off into the night. And though theirs was an ordinary goodbye at best, she couldn't help but hope that he might entertain the thought of wanting to see her again.
Too Much of a Worry Wart
Very odd dreams last night featuring a full cast of characters, stairs without handrails or landings, gardens made completely of stone, and an overall theme that burdens should not be a solitary effort.
If I were to pick it apart, I know that one of those efforts is my daughter and this week we've spent apart. And though I know it's a good thing for her to get in some extra time with her father while the summer months allow, I can't help but miss her to distraction when she's gone. And of course, I worry...
Worry that her Dad doesn't always make the best choices when it comes to what she watches on TV, what time she goes to sleep, whether she eats a healthy breakfast, lunch and dinner or dines on a mountain load of empty calories, or if she's outside without supervision in the yard. My worries and the list of them are endless.
And yet I do know that she is safe there. That he takes care of her in his own way, and that she enjoys the temporary escape out from under her Mother's thumb. The ten year old wisdom that announces to the world that her Mother is much more than just a tad bit overprotective and that as far as trusting the world at large, her Mom doesn't subscribe to it. Not one little bit...
I laugh to myself thinking how much now I sound like my Grandma Angie. I can remember her fretting away each time my sister and I were on the loose. She had a way of saying "Ooooh," every time she caught site of us playing in the yard dangling from trees or sneaking into the forbidden broken down barn out back to look for buried treasures. "You girls," seemed to be the way she started every sentence, though it could finish in a number of different ways. One thing however always held true, Grams had constant agida over us.
If I were to pick it apart, I know that one of those efforts is my daughter and this week we've spent apart. And though I know it's a good thing for her to get in some extra time with her father while the summer months allow, I can't help but miss her to distraction when she's gone. And of course, I worry...
Worry that her Dad doesn't always make the best choices when it comes to what she watches on TV, what time she goes to sleep, whether she eats a healthy breakfast, lunch and dinner or dines on a mountain load of empty calories, or if she's outside without supervision in the yard. My worries and the list of them are endless.
And yet I do know that she is safe there. That he takes care of her in his own way, and that she enjoys the temporary escape out from under her Mother's thumb. The ten year old wisdom that announces to the world that her Mother is much more than just a tad bit overprotective and that as far as trusting the world at large, her Mom doesn't subscribe to it. Not one little bit...
I laugh to myself thinking how much now I sound like my Grandma Angie. I can remember her fretting away each time my sister and I were on the loose. She had a way of saying "Ooooh," every time she caught site of us playing in the yard dangling from trees or sneaking into the forbidden broken down barn out back to look for buried treasures. "You girls," seemed to be the way she started every sentence, though it could finish in a number of different ways. One thing however always held true, Grams had constant agida over us.
High Irritability Warning
I'm in a pissy mood tonight. Maybe because I've yet to eat dinner. Or because I miss my kid who's been at her Dad's since last Friday. Or it could be because I've worked late for the past three nights and I'm extremely ready for the four day weekend coming up. Or maybe it's because I'm just tired of all the bullshit, day in and day out. And all the things I'd love to change if I could. If there was a way, if there was enough money, if there was enough time. If, if, if, if, if...
And there's nothing I can do about it even though my brain keeps throwing out things like when, how, and where, as if it's expecting some easy answer to just float by and say, "Oh yeah. I know you've been waiting for me. Here's your solution."
It ain't that easy baby. Trust me on this. When you get yourself in a pickle, there is no such thing as quick and easy. It just doesn't happen that way, because the road out of hell is always a lot longer than the road in.
And with that jolly good thought, I'm off to eat dinner. Woo Hoo!
And there's nothing I can do about it even though my brain keeps throwing out things like when, how, and where, as if it's expecting some easy answer to just float by and say, "Oh yeah. I know you've been waiting for me. Here's your solution."
It ain't that easy baby. Trust me on this. When you get yourself in a pickle, there is no such thing as quick and easy. It just doesn't happen that way, because the road out of hell is always a lot longer than the road in.
And with that jolly good thought, I'm off to eat dinner. Woo Hoo!
Long Distance Letter
Hard to believe, but I was in Greece yesterday - it was beautiful. I swam in the Aegean Sea, ate a mid-morning snack in a tiny village of fresh tomatoes & cucumbers with feta cheese. Local wine and ouzo also served, but since I was driving a 4 wheel drive vehicle up a mountain, I only had a sip of each. The view from the top of the mountain was tremendous - 27 hairpin turns on the way up on a road only about one vehicle wide - even met a full size bus coming from the other direction on one of the turns, but we all managed to maneuver around each other without incident. I was up to see the sunrise over Greece yesterday and I cried both coming into Greece and leaving...I really could live there.
We have a sea day today and I am taking it very easy - this has been a very intensive trip - lots of walking and climbing and humid, Mediterranean summer heat. Tomorrow we will dock in a Citiavecchio (sp?) and take a shuttle into Rome; we will then do Rome on our own for the day - the Vatican, St.Peter's square, the Trevi Fountain, and whatever else comes up.
I can't tell you how much I have enjoyed seeing Europe - it goes without saying. I would like to return to both Italy and Greece - but I should tell you that Croatia was very beautiful. I saw a picture of Dubrovnick when it was bombed by Serbia in 1991 - to see it today, you would never know that it was a country at war 15 years ago. Just so you know, the Italians take things a lot slower; I saw buildings that had been damaged by bombs in WWII that were still not repaired.
I miss you both - it seems like ages since I've heard your voices. I love you both and treasure you both. See you soon.
All my love,
YM
PS - As much as I wanted to stay in Greece, I couldn't - I have to see you both again.
Awwww ... Isn't my Mom just the absolute best???
Perhaps Somebody is Home
I tried. I really did. But nothing came to mind when I thought to write. And this dry spell that started all those months ago just keeps taking its toll, leaving me with more of nothing much to say. And I wish I could say more and not the less I'm growing more and more familiar with. A growing silence that can't be recalled.
A Lodge Worth Leaving Home For
I think I might have mentioned something about Bren and I taking our kids on a mini-holiday a few weeks ago, and since I just got my film developed over the weekend, I thought I would share at least two of them. Above is the lodge we stayed at while in Queensbury, NY which is part of the Six Flags/Great Escape theme park. And below is a rather dark and dingy shot (that would have been far better if I had remembered to kick the flash on)of the upstairs tree house unit of the indoor water park.
To say that the kids had a great time would be putting it mildly, although if you ask the adults, they might be more prone to remember two of the little ones heaving over the toilet bowl getting sick in the middle of the night.
Awake at 2:45 AM
Writing this early in the morning, or this late at night, whichever one you consider it to be, is never a good sign when it comes to me. Few things pull me from my bed from a deep sleep. A loud noise in the middle of the night. A dream too real to continue on with. And now it seems it's the things I don't hear which seem loudest of all.
It would be in my best interest not to care, though try as I might there are moments when I don't do as well doing that as I should, momentarily allowing myself to plug back in and feel where I'd rather not feel at all. Detachment is the far better option that allows me the security to feel nothing. No hurt. No rejection. No expectations. No disappointment. But it takes a true master of control to remain so disaffected by everything around her, and I'm afraid that though I am quite good at it, it's not a skill at which I exceed at being my very best.
I miss what I would describe as passion in my life. Miss it like one would miss breathing if all of a sudden our lungs stopped working on their own leaving us to rely on forced air being pushed into our chests to make it rise and fall. Without passion, the promise of something more falters. And what we're left with is the feeling that we're living a half life, a life incomplete of itself. A life that lacks an element of joy.
And what I want is something more to come home to. To open up the door with a smile on my face with the same eagerness of a child waiting to hear the final bell on the last day of school, heralding the beginning of summer. I want the rush of euphoria, the tingle of happiness down my spine as I make my way home each night from a long day at work. I want the promise of companionship that offers the safety and security of love, and a friendship that would not falter even in the worst of storms.
They say good things come to those who wait, but it seems to me that I've been waiting all my life for nothing much to happen. If I were a gambler I'd be sitting before you with empty pockets, for my choices each time that they are made are never on the crowd favorite, or what some may call the sure thing. I can pick them, but seldom has it been where they've panned out.
I guess what it comes down to is that in order to cut ones losses, one must truly cut their losses. And one must be able to wake up the morning, present themselves with a new day, and give all their effort to making it a day worthy of the passing of time. Allowing youself to stagnate, to give in, or resign yourself to things being the way they are with no hope for change is not the answer. Sometimes it is the slightest change and effort on our part that makes all the difference, though these moves often require our bravest face to do so. LeAnn Rimes says it best with one line in a song, "Fear of leaving is no reason to stay."
It would be in my best interest not to care, though try as I might there are moments when I don't do as well doing that as I should, momentarily allowing myself to plug back in and feel where I'd rather not feel at all. Detachment is the far better option that allows me the security to feel nothing. No hurt. No rejection. No expectations. No disappointment. But it takes a true master of control to remain so disaffected by everything around her, and I'm afraid that though I am quite good at it, it's not a skill at which I exceed at being my very best.
I miss what I would describe as passion in my life. Miss it like one would miss breathing if all of a sudden our lungs stopped working on their own leaving us to rely on forced air being pushed into our chests to make it rise and fall. Without passion, the promise of something more falters. And what we're left with is the feeling that we're living a half life, a life incomplete of itself. A life that lacks an element of joy.
And what I want is something more to come home to. To open up the door with a smile on my face with the same eagerness of a child waiting to hear the final bell on the last day of school, heralding the beginning of summer. I want the rush of euphoria, the tingle of happiness down my spine as I make my way home each night from a long day at work. I want the promise of companionship that offers the safety and security of love, and a friendship that would not falter even in the worst of storms.
They say good things come to those who wait, but it seems to me that I've been waiting all my life for nothing much to happen. If I were a gambler I'd be sitting before you with empty pockets, for my choices each time that they are made are never on the crowd favorite, or what some may call the sure thing. I can pick them, but seldom has it been where they've panned out.
I guess what it comes down to is that in order to cut ones losses, one must truly cut their losses. And one must be able to wake up the morning, present themselves with a new day, and give all their effort to making it a day worthy of the passing of time. Allowing youself to stagnate, to give in, or resign yourself to things being the way they are with no hope for change is not the answer. Sometimes it is the slightest change and effort on our part that makes all the difference, though these moves often require our bravest face to do so. LeAnn Rimes says it best with one line in a song, "Fear of leaving is no reason to stay."
A Swan In Final Flight
There is nothing now of you that I can keep.
No memory, no train of thought, no lost letter
to call you back.
And my heart that thought it couldn't bleed,
beats one last time, a slow and steady staccato,
in memory to all those moments that we had shared.
You and I - we were temporary things.
And between us the future could only be measured by the minute.
But how I treasured each minute that we shared,
storing them away for the inevitable winter to come,
when your words alone would be enough to keep me warm.
One last swan song is enough to bear witness to the truth.
That love and life seldom walk one path in the same direction.
You must live as you see fit, even if that living leaves me far behind.
Once upon a time he wrote...
You excite me Stacey; you make me feel good about myself and about life. I don't know many people that can do that! Call me silly, but I still have some of the messages you left on my answering machine, regarding its rudeness. I never deleted them. I wish you could see the smile I get each time I listen to them. :) I think you and I have many of the same thoughts. I don't know where it will lead, but I am gonna enjoy the ride.
So many years in-between now and then. And I suppose I knew a long time ago that he'd gotten married. Still finding out for sure, I had that single moment when I let myself be saddened by the news, though in truth, I only wish him the best of everything...
Mazal Tov Michael.
Three Strikes and Mom's Out...
KC's softball game was interesting tonight. Interesting being defined as how long I managed to hold my temper and my mouth in check before finally giving way to my grievances in what could probably be described as a loud and obnoxious tone, if one were really so inclined to describe it at all that is.
And it is becoming painfully obvious that I'm turning into one of those parents who will eventually be ejected from their child's sporting event by some off the wall official with an overdeveloped propensity for whistle blowing. But in this, I blame my daughter's coach for being the absolute tool that he is. And a clueless one at that.
Now don't get me wrong as I'm sure he's a real swell guy off the field, but on it, he's a complete ass... God forbid he ever get quizzed on the names of the girls on his team, or actually have to tell them to play a spot that wasn't the same spot they played the inning before. Or teach them about the game of softball in more detail than just hit the ball, run around the bases and when the other team is up to bat, try to get them out. In other words, everything they already know.
Then again holding practices might count for something if he bothered to have any which technically he hasn't done and I refuse to call his half hour before the game warm up sessions worthy of such a word. But tonight absolutely beat the cake, hands down, as the worst almost non-practice prior to the big show.
Tonight two little boys, obviously related or closely associated with the coach, took the field with the girls and then proceeded to catch the ball, throw the ball, and basically make it so every little girl on the field either starting drawing diagrams in the dirt with their cleat clad feet or pretty much sat down in the grass as if they were bored spectators rather than up and at 'em participants in the sport.
And poor KC was livid.
I could see it in her face, the stubborn tilt of her chin, complete with the look of absolute disgust in her eyes and the movement of her mouth which was gearing up to tell them exactly what she thought of them. (This is a good point to mention that my daughter is the not so watered down smaller version of me, and really it is quite a scary sight to behold at times.) So being the wise and wonderful parent that I am - and not so politically correct at times - I yelled out as if to my daughter, "Hey KC. Why don't you just sit down exactly where you are until the boys finish with their softball practice!"
(Hey. I never said I was the poster child of parenting and good role modeling...)
Really though, I thought it was quite a charming way of saying. "Why are you letting the boys out on the field when it's the girls who are supposed to be practicing?" Needless to say, other than my daughter giving me the thumbs up sign from the pitchers mound, it went pretty much unnoticed and the game started about three minutes later. But don't ask me who won, because no one keeps score...
And it is becoming painfully obvious that I'm turning into one of those parents who will eventually be ejected from their child's sporting event by some off the wall official with an overdeveloped propensity for whistle blowing. But in this, I blame my daughter's coach for being the absolute tool that he is. And a clueless one at that.
Now don't get me wrong as I'm sure he's a real swell guy off the field, but on it, he's a complete ass... God forbid he ever get quizzed on the names of the girls on his team, or actually have to tell them to play a spot that wasn't the same spot they played the inning before. Or teach them about the game of softball in more detail than just hit the ball, run around the bases and when the other team is up to bat, try to get them out. In other words, everything they already know.
Then again holding practices might count for something if he bothered to have any which technically he hasn't done and I refuse to call his half hour before the game warm up sessions worthy of such a word. But tonight absolutely beat the cake, hands down, as the worst almost non-practice prior to the big show.
Tonight two little boys, obviously related or closely associated with the coach, took the field with the girls and then proceeded to catch the ball, throw the ball, and basically make it so every little girl on the field either starting drawing diagrams in the dirt with their cleat clad feet or pretty much sat down in the grass as if they were bored spectators rather than up and at 'em participants in the sport.
And poor KC was livid.
I could see it in her face, the stubborn tilt of her chin, complete with the look of absolute disgust in her eyes and the movement of her mouth which was gearing up to tell them exactly what she thought of them. (This is a good point to mention that my daughter is the not so watered down smaller version of me, and really it is quite a scary sight to behold at times.) So being the wise and wonderful parent that I am - and not so politically correct at times - I yelled out as if to my daughter, "Hey KC. Why don't you just sit down exactly where you are until the boys finish with their softball practice!"
(Hey. I never said I was the poster child of parenting and good role modeling...)
Really though, I thought it was quite a charming way of saying. "Why are you letting the boys out on the field when it's the girls who are supposed to be practicing?" Needless to say, other than my daughter giving me the thumbs up sign from the pitchers mound, it went pretty much unnoticed and the game started about three minutes later. But don't ask me who won, because no one keeps score...
Common Misconceptions
She sat on the other side of the table and I felt superior,
feeling so much smarter than she at her age as
I made a mental list in my head in order of importance,
checking them off.
Things that were non-negotiable,
things that no matter what I just wouldn't tolerate.
And I watched - listened too -
as he talked to her and shook my head.
Shook my head because I wished she knew that
he didn't really matter at all.
That what she really needed to do was to
take charge of her destiny,
and forget all about the little boy man who
threw fast balls at the heads of defenseless children,
taunting them to retaliate.
He's in Peter Pan world I would tell her.
Not ready to grow up.
And you deserve more than a man who treats you like dirt,
but calls you when there's no one else around,
and says come on over but I really don't want you here.
Men create women like her...
Women like me.
They tease us with false promises,
dangling precious pearls of hope,
pretending the one thing we want is just within our reach.
And we think we can make ourselves better.
We can win the prize if we just try harder,
if we change ourselves,
our expectations,
if we surrender our pride.
And after she left, he continued to complain.
I listened with one hand over my mouth not
wanting to create a stir
as he went through a littany of woe is me
and it's so hard to get rid of her.
And had I not been trying to be polite,
I might have clued him in.
Perhaps I might have said that
this is the cost of toying with a woman's heart.
The cost of manipulating her affections.
That it is his own actions which
have born the fruit of creating the woman who
sat silently by his side today.
She is not at fault.
Not for feeling the way she does.
Or for believing in his multitude of lies.
She is not at fault for wearing her heart out on her sleeve,
or holding it in her hands,
sitting at a table amongst a group of strangers thinking
pretty thoughts that being
there will make a difference.
(We both know that it won't.)
She is not at fault for the wanting of more
and the earning of less.
Nor should she look to him to validate her worth.
He is an empty pocketful of change,
and he could never afford such jewels.
feeling so much smarter than she at her age as
I made a mental list in my head in order of importance,
checking them off.
Things that were non-negotiable,
things that no matter what I just wouldn't tolerate.
And I watched - listened too -
as he talked to her and shook my head.
Shook my head because I wished she knew that
he didn't really matter at all.
That what she really needed to do was to
take charge of her destiny,
and forget all about the little boy man who
threw fast balls at the heads of defenseless children,
taunting them to retaliate.
He's in Peter Pan world I would tell her.
Not ready to grow up.
And you deserve more than a man who treats you like dirt,
but calls you when there's no one else around,
and says come on over but I really don't want you here.
Men create women like her...
Women like me.
They tease us with false promises,
dangling precious pearls of hope,
pretending the one thing we want is just within our reach.
And we think we can make ourselves better.
We can win the prize if we just try harder,
if we change ourselves,
our expectations,
if we surrender our pride.
And after she left, he continued to complain.
I listened with one hand over my mouth not
wanting to create a stir
as he went through a littany of woe is me
and it's so hard to get rid of her.
And had I not been trying to be polite,
I might have clued him in.
Perhaps I might have said that
this is the cost of toying with a woman's heart.
The cost of manipulating her affections.
That it is his own actions which
have born the fruit of creating the woman who
sat silently by his side today.
She is not at fault.
Not for feeling the way she does.
Or for believing in his multitude of lies.
She is not at fault for wearing her heart out on her sleeve,
or holding it in her hands,
sitting at a table amongst a group of strangers thinking
pretty thoughts that being
there will make a difference.
(We both know that it won't.)
She is not at fault for the wanting of more
and the earning of less.
Nor should she look to him to validate her worth.
He is an empty pocketful of change,
and he could never afford such jewels.
The Trouble With Being Ill
Lucky me. I've a three day weekend and here I am just a hacking and coughing away with a vicious early summer cold. It's just not right. And believe me when I tell you, I know exactly who I should blame. Two people in fact. The very two who sounded much like I do now except much worse and who despite being afflicted with the bubonic plague kept coming into the office, day after day, for the sole purpose of passing their contagion around. I mean really, why use a sick day when you're actually sick?
So here I sit, mug of hot chocolate to the right of me and an open door to the basement to the left of me. And I think that perhaps I should be doing more than I am, like finishing the laundry I took downstairs yesterday, or cleaning up the dishes I left behind last night in favor of sleep. And while decisions will have to be made, at the moment I've decided upon not making them. Not a single one. I'm sick after all and as far as I'm concerned that is a good enough excuse to last me until early afternoon if not later.
So here I sit, mug of hot chocolate to the right of me and an open door to the basement to the left of me. And I think that perhaps I should be doing more than I am, like finishing the laundry I took downstairs yesterday, or cleaning up the dishes I left behind last night in favor of sleep. And while decisions will have to be made, at the moment I've decided upon not making them. Not a single one. I'm sick after all and as far as I'm concerned that is a good enough excuse to last me until early afternoon if not later.
In My Dreams
I woke up this morning with leftovers of a strange dream still lingering on the fringes of my mind and I thought to myself, "It's funny sometimes, the things you think in your sleep. The bits and pieces you're left to wake up with. Sort of like a puzzle where you have to figure them out, and put them together to make a coherent statement. The things that don't make sense, and the things that do and how in dreams they always manage to combine themselves all into one continuous story."
For months I haven't been remembering my dreams. I'm not sure I've even been having any. But this past week, it's as if someone has turned my dream faucet back on, and every morning I wake up with new technicolor images in my head, foggy images, and memories of conversations I've had but have never had. It's like they've been gone so long they're trying now to make up for lost time. So many of them crammed inside my head, bursting at the seams to get their story out, or educate me with their images. And I'm convinced that my dreams are manifestations of my internal dialogue at work. Things I need to approach head on, deal with, or keep holding out for hope for. It's all there when I close my eyes, like a sigh of relief of finally being able to say all the things that need to be said.
For months I haven't been remembering my dreams. I'm not sure I've even been having any. But this past week, it's as if someone has turned my dream faucet back on, and every morning I wake up with new technicolor images in my head, foggy images, and memories of conversations I've had but have never had. It's like they've been gone so long they're trying now to make up for lost time. So many of them crammed inside my head, bursting at the seams to get their story out, or educate me with their images. And I'm convinced that my dreams are manifestations of my internal dialogue at work. Things I need to approach head on, deal with, or keep holding out for hope for. It's all there when I close my eyes, like a sigh of relief of finally being able to say all the things that need to be said.
Happy Mother's Day...
I may be a bit prejudiced in my thinking, but as far as I'm concerned, I've got the best Mom in the entire world.
I guess I just must have been born lucky...
Sliding Into Home
My daughter is going to play ball for the minors... And even though I'll be fresh out of whatever it is you're supposed to snack on at a softball game, I'll be up in the stands just a hooting and a hollering away, and if necessary heckling the other team and the ref all at once. There are refs in softball, right?
Tonight is KC's very first game for the little league I signed her up for way back at the tail end of March. And even though they've never even had one single stinking practice and can't possibly even know the names of all the members on their team, I'm sure this game is going to be top notch. Especially since the coach has such faith that practice does not make perfect and that somehow a group of ten year old girls will pull forth their psychic connections and automatically know that Jill Jones is on first, and Jane Doe is playing centerfield instead of being forced to scream, "Hey! Girl on second! Catch this!"
Yes, you heard it hear folks. The smell of sarcasm rising up high early in the morning. As far as coaches go, KC's coach is less than impressive with a questionable commitment level to the game in serious question. In fact, the general buzz of all the other parents would lead me to believe that Sir Coach is going to have his ears set aflame tonight if he doesn't get things a bit more pulled together before this season is out. I mean really... We all shelled out fifty dollars per kid to have them play softball, I believe we all need to see some bang for our bucks!
Batter up y'all.
Tonight is KC's very first game for the little league I signed her up for way back at the tail end of March. And even though they've never even had one single stinking practice and can't possibly even know the names of all the members on their team, I'm sure this game is going to be top notch. Especially since the coach has such faith that practice does not make perfect and that somehow a group of ten year old girls will pull forth their psychic connections and automatically know that Jill Jones is on first, and Jane Doe is playing centerfield instead of being forced to scream, "Hey! Girl on second! Catch this!"
Yes, you heard it hear folks. The smell of sarcasm rising up high early in the morning. As far as coaches go, KC's coach is less than impressive with a questionable commitment level to the game in serious question. In fact, the general buzz of all the other parents would lead me to believe that Sir Coach is going to have his ears set aflame tonight if he doesn't get things a bit more pulled together before this season is out. I mean really... We all shelled out fifty dollars per kid to have them play softball, I believe we all need to see some bang for our bucks!
Batter up y'all.
Salt In Open Wounds
My heart bleeds and breaks and makes wishes for things it cannot have. My anger is my sorrow, my sorrow, my pain. I don’t know how to disconnect one feeling from the other. I am a river that rages lost and out of control, hoping always to return to you.
I wish I could paint you a picture to make you understand, or make sense of these things myself. The way the pain can overtake me as suddenly as a violent summer storm, living here with you, but not with you, scared of the loneliness that refuses to leave my side, scared of my own future now so uncertain.
How can you live with someone you love and know that they don’t feel the same? How can you live with someone who breaks your heart every time he picks up the phone and you know it’s not you he’s talking to? How can anyone even begin to imagine that kind of pain unless they themselves have felt it?
I thought that I could put this all behind me, moving on from here without really moving on from here. Opening myself to what I thought could be new options, new dreams to make come true. But at the end of the day, my need to displace the emptiness I feel inside is as tenuous as the connections I pretend to make. And nothing and no one can stop my tears once they begin to fall. Not even you…
And I know that it would be best to listen to those that have counseled me, my family and my friends. And I feel bad for what I’ve put them through. Days and nights when they have listened patiently when I could barely speak between my tears or keened my sorrow loudly like a lost child in the woods. They have seen me at my worst; a pitiful broken thing as helpless to make a decision as a newborn lamb and they have implored me to change.
But still I wait. Wondering if someday soon you might remember who I am, and the reasons why you chose to find me when I was lost to you. You came back to me of your own accord, opening doors I thought I’d shut. You made me a believer in fate and perhaps it was foolish of me to think that we should be destined to be together when truth seems to be saying that we are destined to be apart.
The way you love leaves me little doubt that somewhere in your heart there is a space for me. Some corner I’ve already claimed. But even I can see that you’re nowhere near ready to allow anyone any closer than where you want them to be. Love is a dangerous weapon. Give your heart away, and there is a strong possibility that you will never get it back. And despite what we think, we cannot live without our hearts.
And so I’m taking mine back and asking you to understand that my pride, my passion, and self-preservation has made this the only move that I can make. I cannot love you and allow myself to fall apart. I cannot love you and surrender my pride. I will not love you and ignore my passion. And I will not put my entire life on hold hoping and waiting for you to figure out that your next move should be with me, beside me... Together.
Eventually I will leave, and be not like the wife of Lot, who in her need to look back on all she left behind, was left to stand a pillar of salt.
