So, Obama is having a 4th of July party and the Iranians aren't RSVPd. They aren't even really welcome anymore but the pesky invite was in the mail prior to the taboo civil rights violations. Hmmm, gives me an idea.
Everyone wants to go to the big, major parties of the year. People spend almost all year trying to get invited to Fashion Weeks Armani opener, the Academy Awards Governors Ball, etc... What if America threw a yearly party, and made a totally fierce guest list. I mean, really the creme de la creme of the international scene. I'm talking a party even Oprah might not get invited to.
I'm thinking it would work. After a couple years, a few discreetly leaked photos of President Sarkozy doing a jello shot off the belly of Federal Chancellor Merkel... suddenly everyone wants to be in the in crowd. All the cool kids get together at the UN meetings and giggle about the hilarious attempts to keg stand Michelle without ruining her Haute Couture gown.
I'm telling you... in a couple years, Kim Jon Il will be begging for two party talks so he can schmooze and Dmitry Medvedev will be bringing Obama gifts to the G20 summit meetings. Everyone wants to be included...
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Today
Today the Pope grew a beard,
and I wondered if I'd ever fully appreciate the charismatic nature of a sunrise.
Today the mailman did his route backward
and drank his coffee with half milk, laughing about correspondents.
Today we carve our goals in fast food booths and cower in the comfort of persuasiveness.
Today we bask in words, comprehension is the adversary, rationalization is television- our bases are covered.
Today the government played tennis and beat down my friends. I screamed "love" in the shower, once for every election I survived.
Today a tour guide purposely became lost and wondered if he'd ever fully appreciate his beard.
and I wondered if I'd ever fully appreciate the charismatic nature of a sunrise.
Today the mailman did his route backward
and drank his coffee with half milk, laughing about correspondents.
Today we carve our goals in fast food booths and cower in the comfort of persuasiveness.
Today we bask in words, comprehension is the adversary, rationalization is television- our bases are covered.
Today the government played tennis and beat down my friends. I screamed "love" in the shower, once for every election I survived.
Today a tour guide purposely became lost and wondered if he'd ever fully appreciate his beard.
You
Smile over the illustrious nothingness,
Your sweet yellow blanket covering your solitude.
I lay down over your sadness,
Swallow the anguish,
Kneel down below your screams.
Covering my ears with platitudes.
Love is inept for the mother and the daughter,
I am inept.
Talk, talk, talk.
I stifle your sensibility,
my own insecurities you suffer.
Beautiful one;
You are more deserving than your reality.
Your sweet yellow blanket covering your solitude.
I lay down over your sadness,
Swallow the anguish,
Kneel down below your screams.
Covering my ears with platitudes.
Love is inept for the mother and the daughter,
I am inept.
Talk, talk, talk.
I stifle your sensibility,
my own insecurities you suffer.
Beautiful one;
You are more deserving than your reality.
Yusef Komunyakka: Venus'-flytraps
I am five,
Wading out into deep
Sunny grass,
Unmindful of snakes
& yellowjackets, out
To the yellow flowers
Quivering in sluggish heat.
Don't mess with me
'Cause I have my Lone Ranger
Six-shooter. I can hurt
You with questions
Like silver bullets.
The tall flowers in my dreams are
Big as the First State Bank,
& they eat all the people
Except the ones I love.
They have women's names,
With mouths like where
Babies come from. I am five.
I'll dance for you
If you close your eyes. No
Peeping through your fingers.
I don't supposed to be
This close to the tracks.
One afternoon I saw
What a train did to a cow.
Sometimes I stand so close
I can see the eyes
Of men hiding in boxcars.
Sometimes they wave
& holler for me to get back. I laugh
When trains make the dogs
Howl. Their ears hurt.
I also know bees
Can't live without flowers.
I wonder why Daddy
Calls Mama honey.
All the bees in the world
Live in little white houses
Except the ones in these flowers.
All sticky & sweet inside.
I wonder what death tastes like.
Sometimes I toss the butterflies
Back into the air.
I wish I knew why
The music in my head
Makes me scared.
But I know things
I don't supposed to know.
I could start walking
& never stop.
These yellow flowers
Go on forever.
Almost to Detroit.
Almost to the sea.
My mama says I'm a mistake.
That I made her a bad girl.
My playhouse is underneath
Our house, & I hear people
Telling each other secrets.
Wading out into deep
Sunny grass,
Unmindful of snakes
& yellowjackets, out
To the yellow flowers
Quivering in sluggish heat.
Don't mess with me
'Cause I have my Lone Ranger
Six-shooter. I can hurt
You with questions
Like silver bullets.
The tall flowers in my dreams are
Big as the First State Bank,
& they eat all the people
Except the ones I love.
They have women's names,
With mouths like where
Babies come from. I am five.
I'll dance for you
If you close your eyes. No
Peeping through your fingers.
I don't supposed to be
This close to the tracks.
One afternoon I saw
What a train did to a cow.
Sometimes I stand so close
I can see the eyes
Of men hiding in boxcars.
Sometimes they wave
& holler for me to get back. I laugh
When trains make the dogs
Howl. Their ears hurt.
I also know bees
Can't live without flowers.
I wonder why Daddy
Calls Mama honey.
All the bees in the world
Live in little white houses
Except the ones in these flowers.
All sticky & sweet inside.
I wonder what death tastes like.
Sometimes I toss the butterflies
Back into the air.
I wish I knew why
The music in my head
Makes me scared.
But I know things
I don't supposed to know.
I could start walking
& never stop.
These yellow flowers
Go on forever.
Almost to Detroit.
Almost to the sea.
My mama says I'm a mistake.
That I made her a bad girl.
My playhouse is underneath
Our house, & I hear people
Telling each other secrets.
Geekiest Convo of my Life- Possibly
I said:
Did she just come in here and not mention the witty repertoire of banter?
He said:
Just because you love correction, are you using words without knowing their full definition again, Liesel? Even if you take the definition of repertoire in its loosest form, as being the entire stock of something, and allow the something to be banter, you should have written the witty repertoire of our banter, as our banter does not represent the entirety of banter in general, as there is a lot of banter out there. And yes... she did. How dare she, right?
I said:
That is a perfectly acceptable use of the word repertoire. It is not the "loosest" definition. It's the collection of what we said, and that is implied by the fact that it was obvious what, and who, I was talking about. I don't have to use a determiner in a statement where the pronoun is implied.
He said:
You do, if the object can also be used in the context of a noun. You used banter as an object, and not a subject...
I said:
Wait, a preposition can't link two subjects, so isn't that implied too?
(sensing a loss in this battle at this point)
He said:
A cataphoric subject often requires a subject of it, followed by a verb, preposition and the remainder of the subject... so no. In any case I meant that because it was an object a pronoun isn't implied. For example if you take a glass of water from me, and I say "give back water", it sounds weird... because I am asking after specific water, not water in general. You had to talk about our banter specifically, otherwise you're claiming she should have commented on the stock attributes of all the word's banter located within the page.
I surrender with:
Gotcha... you are so right... damn. I see it now. Mention/banter is the verb/object, just as you said. I was thinking of it more in terms of a modifier/compliment, but that's not really relevant. I'm using reportoire as an object compliment. So, I guess you are right in that sense too. I'm using the word incorrectly. Actually, all of this confusion stems from the incorrect use of reportoire. Lol. You're right. It needs a possessive determiner, either way, because it's a dependent clause. I don't know... If I even have it straight in my head now. It's been four years since I've taken a structural writing class...
I am confused about which of my pronouns are co-referential though (to make it a cataphoric pronoun, I thought that was necessary). Is it "she" and the implied "our".. Oh, wait, am I describing antecedent pronouns... Man, you are stretching me...
I said:
Okay, I had them reversed in my head... I thought that in order to be a cataphoric pronoun the sentence must contain a subordinate clause where the pronoun refers to the main clause, and that isn't happening here.
He said:
*grin* Good catch. True... however I never claimed you used a cataphoric subject sentence... I was using the cataphoric pronoun as an example of where a preposition can be between two subjects. Which you said couldn't happen.
I said:
Well, give me an example of a preposition between two subjects in the manner I was using reportoire and banter. I mean, can it happen subject/subject rather than in my situation where it's a subject/object? Can a dependent phrase even have two subjects? I guess not.
He said:
It doesn't matter now, because you realised you were using it wrong... the two subjects was just me being a smartarse, showing one example of where it has to occur.
I said:
Realized.
Did she just come in here and not mention the witty repertoire of banter?
He said:
Just because you love correction, are you using words without knowing their full definition again, Liesel? Even if you take the definition of repertoire in its loosest form, as being the entire stock of something, and allow the something to be banter, you should have written the witty repertoire of our banter, as our banter does not represent the entirety of banter in general, as there is a lot of banter out there. And yes... she did. How dare she, right?
I said:
That is a perfectly acceptable use of the word repertoire. It is not the "loosest" definition. It's the collection of what we said, and that is implied by the fact that it was obvious what, and who, I was talking about. I don't have to use a determiner in a statement where the pronoun is implied.
He said:
You do, if the object can also be used in the context of a noun. You used banter as an object, and not a subject...
I said:
Wait, a preposition can't link two subjects, so isn't that implied too?
(sensing a loss in this battle at this point)
He said:
A cataphoric subject often requires a subject of it, followed by a verb, preposition and the remainder of the subject... so no. In any case I meant that because it was an object a pronoun isn't implied. For example if you take a glass of water from me, and I say "give back water", it sounds weird... because I am asking after specific water, not water in general. You had to talk about our banter specifically, otherwise you're claiming she should have commented on the stock attributes of all the word's banter located within the page.
I surrender with:
Gotcha... you are so right... damn. I see it now. Mention/banter is the verb/object, just as you said. I was thinking of it more in terms of a modifier/compliment, but that's not really relevant. I'm using reportoire as an object compliment. So, I guess you are right in that sense too. I'm using the word incorrectly. Actually, all of this confusion stems from the incorrect use of reportoire. Lol. You're right. It needs a possessive determiner, either way, because it's a dependent clause. I don't know... If I even have it straight in my head now. It's been four years since I've taken a structural writing class...
I am confused about which of my pronouns are co-referential though (to make it a cataphoric pronoun, I thought that was necessary). Is it "she" and the implied "our".. Oh, wait, am I describing antecedent pronouns... Man, you are stretching me...
I said:
Okay, I had them reversed in my head... I thought that in order to be a cataphoric pronoun the sentence must contain a subordinate clause where the pronoun refers to the main clause, and that isn't happening here.
He said:
*grin* Good catch. True... however I never claimed you used a cataphoric subject sentence... I was using the cataphoric pronoun as an example of where a preposition can be between two subjects. Which you said couldn't happen.
I said:
Well, give me an example of a preposition between two subjects in the manner I was using reportoire and banter. I mean, can it happen subject/subject rather than in my situation where it's a subject/object? Can a dependent phrase even have two subjects? I guess not.
He said:
It doesn't matter now, because you realised you were using it wrong... the two subjects was just me being a smartarse, showing one example of where it has to occur.
I said:
Realized.
Christmas
Christmas, when I was about 10 or 11, all I wanted in the entire world was a Pound Puppy. I mean, badly. I wrote Santa, and I begged and begged. Well, my mom was a single mom, working at K-Mart and she couldn't afford much.
Christmas morning, I woke up, ran downstairs, and all I cared about in the world was finding my Pound Puppy. Instead, in a little brown basket was a little stuffed brown puppy dog. A note was attached that said something like, "My name is Brownie. I know you hoped for a Pound Puppy, but when your mom saw me at the store all alone, she knew I needed a good home and a little girl that would take good care of me."
Well, I'd like to say I was happy... but I threw a fit. Man, I was a total brat. I cried and cried. Late that night, I heard my mom crying. At the time, I didn't understand the depth of emotion that dragged those tears from my mom... maybe I never will until I experience something similar with my son, but I think I have a better understanding now.
Years later, my first year of college, I wrote an article for the school paper about that Christmas, and the little ways we break the hearts of those around us without maybe realizing the damage we're doing. I love that puppy. I still have him. My son has adopted him.
My mom did the best she could with what she had. It's all any of us can do - every day, not just during the holidays. I'm staying here with my mom over Christmas, rather than going up north, because that's the circle of life. That's the way it should be. It's not the name on the gift that matters, it's the swelling, love-filled heart behind the giving that means a damn. I'll hug her a little tighter, brush her hair a little gentler, because she's my gift... she's my gift.
xoxo
Christmas morning, I woke up, ran downstairs, and all I cared about in the world was finding my Pound Puppy. Instead, in a little brown basket was a little stuffed brown puppy dog. A note was attached that said something like, "My name is Brownie. I know you hoped for a Pound Puppy, but when your mom saw me at the store all alone, she knew I needed a good home and a little girl that would take good care of me."
Well, I'd like to say I was happy... but I threw a fit. Man, I was a total brat. I cried and cried. Late that night, I heard my mom crying. At the time, I didn't understand the depth of emotion that dragged those tears from my mom... maybe I never will until I experience something similar with my son, but I think I have a better understanding now.
Years later, my first year of college, I wrote an article for the school paper about that Christmas, and the little ways we break the hearts of those around us without maybe realizing the damage we're doing. I love that puppy. I still have him. My son has adopted him.
My mom did the best she could with what she had. It's all any of us can do - every day, not just during the holidays. I'm staying here with my mom over Christmas, rather than going up north, because that's the circle of life. That's the way it should be. It's not the name on the gift that matters, it's the swelling, love-filled heart behind the giving that means a damn. I'll hug her a little tighter, brush her hair a little gentler, because she's my gift... she's my gift.
xoxo
Holding On
I'm holding on minute by minute. It's the moments I'm caught completely off guard that bring tears. Sometimes I'll be laughing; maybe Aeden did something funny and I'm laughing, or Nathan is leaving after his lunch break and I'm just fussing in the kitchen. All the sudden the loss smacks me, and I want to double over. It takes the breath right from me. I go to call my friend and I see her number in my phone. I see the stack of Thank You cards I should be filling out. I see the flowers from the service wilting in the vase... and I want to freeze them in time. I hate the melodrama of their demise, but I can't throw them away just yet.
I typed out the entire service. I have the hand written service and commitment, and I typed it all out... even the lyrics of the hymns. I don't know why. I just wanted it. I have read it several times and it always makes me feel a tiny bit less surreal. It brings it a little bit closer to real. She's really gone. I'll never call her again. I'll never hear her voice. I'm motherless.
Sometimes I think of her before her illness, sometimes after. When I think of the last 7 years, all the pain, all the sickness, all the doctors, nurses, CNAs... all the ways we sacrificed and strove to make her happy, make sure she had the very best care. How do I move on from that? What fills that void? How can something that has consumed me so fully for so many years just... end? No more phone calls in the middle of the night. No more fear when I talk to a doctor, that he doesn't even know her case, hasn't familiarized himself with her history. What will it be like to mourn rather than worry?
I miss her. I miss her calls. I miss the good days when we'd talk, and I'd hear that certain pitch and tone that told me she was having a good day. I miss her infectious laugh... and I miss being able to hold her hand. I miss making her smile. I miss making her proud.
I miss you mom.
Have you ever sung the full Jesus Loves Me? I sing. My Dad bought me singing lessons, and I was in choir my whole schooling years. I sang the song a cappella at my mom's service. It may sound silly, but my mom loved that scene in The Bodyguard when the sisters sing it together. I'd sing along and my mom would tell me how pretty it sounded. I was going to just sing the first and last verse, because I didn't want to be too long, but then I read the lyrics... so, this is what I sang.
Jesus Loves Me Jesus loves me, this I know.
For the Bible tells me so.
Little ones to Him belong.
They are weak, but He is strong.
Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me,
The Bible tells me so.
Jesus loves me,
He who died,
Heaven’s gate to open wide.
He will wash away my sin,
Let his little child come in.
Jesus loves me,
Loves me still,
When I’m very weak and ill.
From His shining throne on high,
Come to watch me where I lie.
Jesus loves me,
He will stay,
Close beside me all the way.
He’s prepared a Home for me,
And some day His face I’ll see.
Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me,
The Bible tells me so.
Plants as Metaphors
I can't keep a freaking house plant alive to save my life. Today, I cried for about 10 minutes because I killed the last of the funeral plants, sent to my mom's service. I don't know if I over water them, under sunlight them, the reverse? Who knows?
When my mom first became ill, back in 2002, I bought out her mortgage to prevent the state from taking it. My mom was a huge plant lover. She had "spider plants", or whatever they're really called, with limbs over six feet long. Beautiful plants that she'd had as long as I can recall. Our home was full of tons beautiful, flourishing, plants, in every room. She even cared for one in my bedroom, for me. She gave me starter plants from those, for every new place I lived... and I killed every one. None the less, she gave me one every single time I moved.
When I moved into her house, I killed every single one of those plants within 6 months. The two I managed to keep alive, I killed re-potting. I cried and cried, consulted plant experts, web sites, relatives... everyone and anyone I thought could help. Nothing helped. They all died.
When my mom was in comfort care, near the end, I found out from her foster mother that some of those plants were like 5 and 6th generation plants. She said I may have smothered them, overcaring for them. So poignant. Anyway, with these funeral plants, I tried leaving them alone... they started to die anyway. I don't know. I can't win.
I'm destructive.
When my mom first became ill, back in 2002, I bought out her mortgage to prevent the state from taking it. My mom was a huge plant lover. She had "spider plants", or whatever they're really called, with limbs over six feet long. Beautiful plants that she'd had as long as I can recall. Our home was full of tons beautiful, flourishing, plants, in every room. She even cared for one in my bedroom, for me. She gave me starter plants from those, for every new place I lived... and I killed every one. None the less, she gave me one every single time I moved.
When I moved into her house, I killed every single one of those plants within 6 months. The two I managed to keep alive, I killed re-potting. I cried and cried, consulted plant experts, web sites, relatives... everyone and anyone I thought could help. Nothing helped. They all died.
When my mom was in comfort care, near the end, I found out from her foster mother that some of those plants were like 5 and 6th generation plants. She said I may have smothered them, overcaring for them. So poignant. Anyway, with these funeral plants, I tried leaving them alone... they started to die anyway. I don't know. I can't win.
I'm destructive.
Mom
Today I received the layout for my mom's grave marker. I don't think I really thought about the loss much until now. I've been on auto-drive and not thinking about it much. Now that the weather is warming up, it's much harder to deny. I see her in the sunlight, the flowers, the birds that she faithfully fed, especially humming birds. I cried a little when I hung the hummingbird feeder.
Beloved Mother, her name, dates of birth and death... and a stain glass hummingbird in the top right corner. I stared at it, completely unprepared for the forced memory from this inane piece of paper, condensing her memory down to a few lines of text... It's funny... I did it all alone, caring for her, year after year, buying her home, surrounded by her things we'd indirectly inherited before her death... even sleeping in her bed. I handled her finances, her doctors, her Medicaid and Social Security... but in that moment that I sat by her bed awaiting the inevitable slipping away, I was a little girl again, scared of the dark, afraid of being the woman that I would have to be once I lost her. A mom. A wife. I wasn't fully those things when she was with me. I was still "daughter." There's a difference now. A solitude I've been forced into. Staring at the layout mailed to me, so kindly, so I could review it for mistakes, I thought, "It's all a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake. She should have lived to be a vibrant 90."
Sitting out on the porch swing my mom would have loved, waiting for the humming birds to find my feeder, watching my son play in his sand box, I was completely overwhelmed by the idea that I'm my mom's immortality. I'm it. My son will be mine, but if I don't have a daughter, then it will be different. It just is. There's something so powerful about same sex kin. Father and son. Mother and daughter.
I looked over the paper and wanted that grave marker to contain ten thousand words. It still wouldn't have come close to capturing who she was, to me, to everyone who knew her. So, it will have to suffice: Beloved Mother
My Son
I've been to marriage counseling with my husband twice. Not because we were less in love, but because we were dealing with growing, changing, learning to deal with huge emotional events in life. That kind of strain can destroy the best of them... but we were determined that we'd not only survive it, but evolve from it a stronger, more in love, couple. We have. I love Nathan more today than ever before. We truly have a happy marriage.
When we really, verbally, committed to marriage for good, we said we'd just, "Stay." Period... That's how you keep a marriage together. Stay. That gem of advice was given to me by our dear friend Joann Saxon, and it's been our marriage happy pill every since. No matter what, we know we're in it for good.
The afternoon we did that, committed for good, we'd sat down to discuss having a baby. We'd been married for 5 years at that point, and always said "Maybe, if the human race is in danger of extinction, we'll consider breeding."
When that sentiment started to change, we sat down to talk and I told him something like this:
"If you have any doubt, any at all, then this is your chance, with no repercussion, no mouthiness, no emotional drama, to tell me. Tell me now before we spring into being a whole autonomous being.
He deserves more than us. I know that before having him in my arms. If we're going to do it anyway, we have to spend the rest of our lives making that up to him."
He's so miraculous, this boy. Every day I love him more. All the old cliches... every single one of them.. they all make sense to me now. "You can't know until you have one." "A baby will change your whole life."
You hear the sentiment, "He makes me a better person." You hear it, you say, awwww, and you move on. Having him made me stop and appreciate that cliche. Aeden is the dowsing rod that taps my well of ambition. He makes me want to be the best wife, friend, and mother I can be- and then surpass even those aspirations.
I want perfection for him. I feel as though I'd do anything if I could guarantee happiness for him. He crushes me... Sometimes I look at him and I feel as though I'm going mad with love. He looks at me and smiles and my whole body tingles. I melt. It really truly is devastating in the most wonderful way.
Last night I took him to bed and I was rocking him in my arms talking to him before I laid him down and he started petting my hair and behind my ear, just like I do to him...
My cup runneth over.
The Farmer's Market
I love the Farmers Market. Back in 2001, I spent a couple months in California. They had a lovely Farmers Market down by the ocean. A few friends and I would walk down there most mornings, several miles there and back. We'd wander the market for hours, eating edible flowers and goofing off. They had the best candy covered roasted sunflower seeds. I almost always bought a little sack of them.
I took that walk by myself one morning, and on my way back I saw a sign for a open house sale. I turned, walking into the residential area, and went into the house. Now, this is only a half mile from the ocean, and only about 10 miles from LA, so this was a really nice housing development. Here I am, wide leg jeans, strappy tank top, no bra, and a black hoody, a soda bottle jammed into my back pocket. I wander around the house, and a lady is following me around. There's no price tags on anything. I ask her what's for sale and she tells me, "everything." There's boxes of things... a box of sweaters, a box of books, a box of linens etc... all along the wall of the great room.
I get nearer the dining room, just wandering and munching on my sunflower seeds, and I start to hear weeping. All the sudden, I realize what this is... It's an estate sale. I'm so unprepared for it, that I stop cold. I'd never been to one. I found them strangely tacky and disturbing, even while knowing that, logically, they're necessary. I stood there, hovering next to the doorway between the dining room and the great room, listening to two sisters weep and discuss their father's death. I looked back and the woman who'd been following me around looked sad, flustered, unsure of what to say to me. She tells me those are her sisters and that their father recently passed away. There I stood, a woman in my early twenties, poor, totally outside my element in this great house... and a voyeur to this incredibly personal moment bewteen siblings.
I stood a few minutes, torn between enraptured interest and awkward embarrassment, but thoroughly aroused by the feeling. At that time in my life, I was so innocent of such things, never having known any real suffering beyond my own. No death, no serious illness had ever touched my loved ones. I knew nothing of what they were feeling... yet, here I was, peeking into a world I knew nothing about.
I quickly reached into a box of accessories and pulled out a worn leather black belt. "How much for this?" I asked. "How about 50 cents?" she said.
I bought the belt, left, and when I stepped outside, I felt tremendously happy and lucky. Their sadness wasn't mine, and I suddenly felt so light-spirited and almost high with life. Every time my friends and I walked to that Farmers Market after that, I thought of that estate sale and those three sisters, and I loved on my friends a little more.
I took that walk by myself one morning, and on my way back I saw a sign for a open house sale. I turned, walking into the residential area, and went into the house. Now, this is only a half mile from the ocean, and only about 10 miles from LA, so this was a really nice housing development. Here I am, wide leg jeans, strappy tank top, no bra, and a black hoody, a soda bottle jammed into my back pocket. I wander around the house, and a lady is following me around. There's no price tags on anything. I ask her what's for sale and she tells me, "everything." There's boxes of things... a box of sweaters, a box of books, a box of linens etc... all along the wall of the great room.
I get nearer the dining room, just wandering and munching on my sunflower seeds, and I start to hear weeping. All the sudden, I realize what this is... It's an estate sale. I'm so unprepared for it, that I stop cold. I'd never been to one. I found them strangely tacky and disturbing, even while knowing that, logically, they're necessary. I stood there, hovering next to the doorway between the dining room and the great room, listening to two sisters weep and discuss their father's death. I looked back and the woman who'd been following me around looked sad, flustered, unsure of what to say to me. She tells me those are her sisters and that their father recently passed away. There I stood, a woman in my early twenties, poor, totally outside my element in this great house... and a voyeur to this incredibly personal moment bewteen siblings.
I stood a few minutes, torn between enraptured interest and awkward embarrassment, but thoroughly aroused by the feeling. At that time in my life, I was so innocent of such things, never having known any real suffering beyond my own. No death, no serious illness had ever touched my loved ones. I knew nothing of what they were feeling... yet, here I was, peeking into a world I knew nothing about.
I quickly reached into a box of accessories and pulled out a worn leather black belt. "How much for this?" I asked. "How about 50 cents?" she said.
I bought the belt, left, and when I stepped outside, I felt tremendously happy and lucky. Their sadness wasn't mine, and I suddenly felt so light-spirited and almost high with life. Every time my friends and I walked to that Farmers Market after that, I thought of that estate sale and those three sisters, and I loved on my friends a little more.
Settling
Well, I don't know if it's age, or just a personality type, but I've had some thoughts. I apologize ahead of time if this is long winded...
I've been thinking about the concept of "settling" for years. My marriage has gone through so many ups and downs: we've gone to counseling, I've slept on the couch for months, I've spent more time on a bar stool than a living room chair, we've had the stereotypical hours of talking and consoling and begging...
My dad once took me for a walk and said, "L, don't try and change Nathan. Either accept him for who he is or don't... People don't change."
So, I was insanely indignant and pissed! I thought it was awful advice. I thought he couldn't be more wrong. I mean, that statement is ludicrous! After all, I changed! I was so sure that Nathan could make the changes I wanted/needed him to...
Now, years later, I realize my dad was exactly right. Although, maybe not in the way he meant at the time. The thing is, you can't pre-write the recipe of a relationship and then expect to find a partner that is baked precisely to those measurements. Life is so full of flux and flow. People evolve, change, morph, and ascend to different places in life, despite those around them. Change is so sacred and deep... and I mean, real, significant change. Sometimes, those changes will fall right in line with the relationship... and sometimes they won't. Those are the times relationships either strengthen, or end.
I needed different things at different times. I needed closeness when Nathan needed space. I needed trust when Nathan needed emotional security. The times when we were at odds with our needs used to be the times our relationship would almost end. After all, it's all relative from the place you're standing. You want closeness, but not too close, you want openness, and he wants a level of anonymity. These things are expressive of two people in very different places of life's journey. It took me so long to realize that Nathan and I would probably never be standing in the same spot (but how magical it is when you glimpse moments like that).
The real questions I should have asked myself in those times were: Does he make me unhappy enough that I'd rather live my life without him in it (at least in the way I needed him to be in my life)? Do I think the things I want so fiercely from him, will make me so happy that I can't imagine living out a different relationship?
For me, the answer to those questions were both "no." I realized that my need for Nathan to exhibit certain qualities actually came from issues within myself that I needed to work through on my own... not alone. Just on my own. When I stopped insisting that he display certain non-negotiable qualities, and started trying to accept him the way he is, and negotiate within myself for the needs I was experiencing... well, the relationship blossomed.
I wouldn't say that Nathan and I ever conceived we'd be so healthy and happy. I know for damn sure that he never could have dreamed or hoped that I'd stop telling him he was "emotionally unavailable" and "non-communicative." You know what, someone is far more likely to communicate when he feels free to express anything and everything without fear of retribution or anger. He communicates better than ever before... he evolved on his own. Not alone. I was here with him, traveling the same road... just at a different point on it.
Okay, so, I digressed. I went way off topic. I said all this to express my feeling that I think you can wait to long. As tragic as it is, we're all mortal, and everything comes to an end. I think it is possible to "settle" and still be blissfully happy. I don't mean that it's an excuse to remain in a disrespectful relationship. However, if you find someone you love, who makes you happy, who is respectful of you, but just at a different point and wanting different things... ask yourself the questions above.
I think a lovely definition of "settle" is this: to quiet, calm, or bring to rest.
Once I "settled," I found I could hear my husband's fears, insecurities, the things that made him closed off to me. The noise of me beating against us, to "get what I wanted" was drowning out his desire to do the same.
God. I'm so happy.
I've been thinking about the concept of "settling" for years. My marriage has gone through so many ups and downs: we've gone to counseling, I've slept on the couch for months, I've spent more time on a bar stool than a living room chair, we've had the stereotypical hours of talking and consoling and begging...
My dad once took me for a walk and said, "L, don't try and change Nathan. Either accept him for who he is or don't... People don't change."
So, I was insanely indignant and pissed! I thought it was awful advice. I thought he couldn't be more wrong. I mean, that statement is ludicrous! After all, I changed! I was so sure that Nathan could make the changes I wanted/needed him to...
Now, years later, I realize my dad was exactly right. Although, maybe not in the way he meant at the time. The thing is, you can't pre-write the recipe of a relationship and then expect to find a partner that is baked precisely to those measurements. Life is so full of flux and flow. People evolve, change, morph, and ascend to different places in life, despite those around them. Change is so sacred and deep... and I mean, real, significant change. Sometimes, those changes will fall right in line with the relationship... and sometimes they won't. Those are the times relationships either strengthen, or end.
I needed different things at different times. I needed closeness when Nathan needed space. I needed trust when Nathan needed emotional security. The times when we were at odds with our needs used to be the times our relationship would almost end. After all, it's all relative from the place you're standing. You want closeness, but not too close, you want openness, and he wants a level of anonymity. These things are expressive of two people in very different places of life's journey. It took me so long to realize that Nathan and I would probably never be standing in the same spot (but how magical it is when you glimpse moments like that).
The real questions I should have asked myself in those times were: Does he make me unhappy enough that I'd rather live my life without him in it (at least in the way I needed him to be in my life)? Do I think the things I want so fiercely from him, will make me so happy that I can't imagine living out a different relationship?
For me, the answer to those questions were both "no." I realized that my need for Nathan to exhibit certain qualities actually came from issues within myself that I needed to work through on my own... not alone. Just on my own. When I stopped insisting that he display certain non-negotiable qualities, and started trying to accept him the way he is, and negotiate within myself for the needs I was experiencing... well, the relationship blossomed.
I wouldn't say that Nathan and I ever conceived we'd be so healthy and happy. I know for damn sure that he never could have dreamed or hoped that I'd stop telling him he was "emotionally unavailable" and "non-communicative." You know what, someone is far more likely to communicate when he feels free to express anything and everything without fear of retribution or anger. He communicates better than ever before... he evolved on his own. Not alone. I was here with him, traveling the same road... just at a different point on it.
Okay, so, I digressed. I went way off topic. I said all this to express my feeling that I think you can wait to long. As tragic as it is, we're all mortal, and everything comes to an end. I think it is possible to "settle" and still be blissfully happy. I don't mean that it's an excuse to remain in a disrespectful relationship. However, if you find someone you love, who makes you happy, who is respectful of you, but just at a different point and wanting different things... ask yourself the questions above.
I think a lovely definition of "settle" is this: to quiet, calm, or bring to rest.
Once I "settled," I found I could hear my husband's fears, insecurities, the things that made him closed off to me. The noise of me beating against us, to "get what I wanted" was drowning out his desire to do the same.
God. I'm so happy.
Vietnam- the forgotten ones
My Dad is a Vietnam veteran, two terms. He was awarded a bronze star for bravery when he volunteered to stay behind when the Viet Cong moved in on their position, everyone was evacuated. Him and another guy stayed behind to radio when and where to air strike.
When the war was over and he finished with his time in the Philippines, he never applied for Vet benefits. He came home, got a job, and never used any of them. He never applied when I started school, even when my mom asked him to. He said he only did his duty and that there are guys out there more needing of those programs than him.
So, last year, my Dad retired. He's had quintuple bypass surgery and is majorly hypertensive, even on his meds. Since he takes Plavix (an insurance company "red flag"), he's fucked and can't get any kind of insurance. He's only 60, so he has two yrs before he can apply for Medicare.
So, he swallowed his pride and went into the Vet office to apply for medical coverage. They tell him he doesn't qualify because he makes too much money from his pension... that he got working for the state for 20 years. They told him that Bush cut Vet benefits and that the only people guaranteed Vet benefits are Gulf War Veterans. They don't even have to fill out the financial form!
My Dad explained to them that he just wants the very minimum... just enough that if he has a medical emergency his wife won't lose everything they own. He said they didn't have to cover his rxs, office visits, anything like that... I mean, I'm crying just picturing my Dad pleading for help. He told them he's never asked for anything before.
Now explain to me how a Gulf War Vet, in his 40s or 50s is a better instant candidate then our Vietnam Vets? Don't tell me it's Gulf War Syndrome, because Vietnam Vets deal with Agent Orange sickness, strange arthritis development, and all number of effects... almost every war has led to a syndrome (legitimately). How can my Dad be penalized for having a pension? Because he was a productive citizen post military, he's less deserving than another veteran? My father's service is somehow less valuable?
They turned him away. They turned him away... a man who enlisted rather than wait to be drafted, who served two tours at a time when he was primed for college and could have simply enrolled and avoided it all. In fact, he did attend school and graduate after his tours... This man... he's turned away, embarrassed, and now has to face the fear that his family will lose everything if he has another heart attack. Everything he's worked so hard for (and that has ironically then made him more vulnerable), is in jeopardy.
This is why nation wide medical care will eventually pass... scenarios like this.
God Bless Fucking America. Thanks for your fucking time in the jungle, but yeah, fuck off.
When the war was over and he finished with his time in the Philippines, he never applied for Vet benefits. He came home, got a job, and never used any of them. He never applied when I started school, even when my mom asked him to. He said he only did his duty and that there are guys out there more needing of those programs than him.
So, last year, my Dad retired. He's had quintuple bypass surgery and is majorly hypertensive, even on his meds. Since he takes Plavix (an insurance company "red flag"), he's fucked and can't get any kind of insurance. He's only 60, so he has two yrs before he can apply for Medicare.
So, he swallowed his pride and went into the Vet office to apply for medical coverage. They tell him he doesn't qualify because he makes too much money from his pension... that he got working for the state for 20 years. They told him that Bush cut Vet benefits and that the only people guaranteed Vet benefits are Gulf War Veterans. They don't even have to fill out the financial form!
My Dad explained to them that he just wants the very minimum... just enough that if he has a medical emergency his wife won't lose everything they own. He said they didn't have to cover his rxs, office visits, anything like that... I mean, I'm crying just picturing my Dad pleading for help. He told them he's never asked for anything before.
Now explain to me how a Gulf War Vet, in his 40s or 50s is a better instant candidate then our Vietnam Vets? Don't tell me it's Gulf War Syndrome, because Vietnam Vets deal with Agent Orange sickness, strange arthritis development, and all number of effects... almost every war has led to a syndrome (legitimately). How can my Dad be penalized for having a pension? Because he was a productive citizen post military, he's less deserving than another veteran? My father's service is somehow less valuable?
They turned him away. They turned him away... a man who enlisted rather than wait to be drafted, who served two tours at a time when he was primed for college and could have simply enrolled and avoided it all. In fact, he did attend school and graduate after his tours... This man... he's turned away, embarrassed, and now has to face the fear that his family will lose everything if he has another heart attack. Everything he's worked so hard for (and that has ironically then made him more vulnerable), is in jeopardy.
This is why nation wide medical care will eventually pass... scenarios like this.
God Bless Fucking America. Thanks for your fucking time in the jungle, but yeah, fuck off.
What are you?
The comedian asked me a fascinating question... Tell me about yourself kiddo (although I'm quite a bit older than him). Upon telling him I was a mother, wife, student... etc etc. He messaged back, "I suppose I wasn't clear. What is your philosophy, how do you view life? What are you?"
Here was my response. I'm posting because I'd love those of you with more than a couple minutes, who are brave enough to soul search... what's your answer? At least, today? Lol.
I know it's all relative. It's the great cosmic joke that 99% of us think we are the most enlightened, the most beautifully suffering, the most tragically tortured of our circle. I mean, even saying we are none of those things is secretly a way to say we understand Socrates and that admitting our ignorance is somehow the most enlightened of all... Hence my impatience with philosophy. The truth is that we ALL live in a bread box in this fucking nation. We are ALL integers in this life algebra. And, while most imagery of philosophy is disjointed, it is beautiful. I appreciate when people muse and really think. Hardly anyone really simply thinks anymore. I can't stand the woe is me attitude of the existentialists, but agree that most of "life" is simply experience and facticity.
Most people suffer blurred perception... in that they drudge through life fitting into roles that make them miserable out of necessity to survive, but never do anything to attempt to at least free their minds. I mean, I'm not proposing people constantly fight against the organization of society, because, again, that would only become it's own form of society. It's the nature of human beings to organize and compartmentalize. The fabulous irony is that the only reality is our own individual reality, so trying to live by a preset organization of someone else's philosophy of what the world should look like, is absurd. It will always include some and marginalize most. No two realities are alike. We all live in our personal Lynch movie.
I also think we're all struggling with the exact same demons, they just possess us differently depending on our interpretation of that reality. No one can really help us with that. That's why so many co-dependent friendships and lovers just go out like Sid and Nancy, gut stabbed and just not knowing it... because you can't enable life. It's why so many people live a long, slow suicide.
I calmed in my late 20s. I'm trying to find my own comfort in the boundaries of lower middle class claustrophobia. So many of my wanna- be beat nick friends say they can't be happy in this world, but I've come to realize that we all have what it takes to be patient and happy. It's within us all. I've simply gotten my ass kicked by this life so many times that I have boxers brain. I have to relax and be patient and take moments of serenity for the extraordinary gift that they are, but I don't think I value or devalue those any more than anyone else.
I suppose I couldn't appreciate those moments if they weren't juxtaposed next to some fiercely restless and anxious ones. All artistic types struggle with restlessness more than truly left brained people. Of course, they have their own struggles and crosses to bear. Again, the relative thing.
I can hardly function moment to moment some days because I have so many ghosts haunting my mind. Sometimes, when I'm playing with my son I just want to swallow him whole because I'm so afraid of being a mother and failing him and having him be as jaded as so many people. I want so fiercely to protect him from the oh so predictable path of angsted teenage years, self-destructive 20s... complacent 30s, etc etc. It's such a tragedy that most of us spend this consciousness suffering, flailing, trying to find our footing, only to realize when we've gotten it that we hate where we're standing. So, the stumbling and flailing starts all over again...
Then, those moments wash in...of peace and serenity. I just have to be patient enough not to implode my life or self-destruct while I wait for them. I've learned to wait. That's all that's new about me. So, this blathering was all to say... What am I? Appreciative. That's one thing that no one needs to bestow upon me: the wisdom of appreciation. I appreciate plenty.
Church
Church. While I admire anyone's ability to broaden their spiritual understanding enough to visit a church, I am not nearly as connected to that part of myself. I have a lot of discontent, restlessness, and generally confusing emotions and I have no place to put those feelings. Generally speaking, I put them into writing or fantasies, but when I go into a church they get all riled up and confused. Is this making any sense at all? I feel like I'm rambling... I don't know. Churches fuck with my head. There. I guess that's a clear, less convoluted way to say it. I mean, I do have a spiritual relationship to something I consider a god... I do see that creator when I look at my son's gorgeous blue eyes and every time he surprises me and makes me smile. As the faithful in my life have so insightfully pointed out, having a child removes most of the capability to doubt the existence of a force far greater than our capacity for understanding.
Where I get off track is when I walk into a church and feel disconnected instead of connected.... as if the very thought that we could put up walls and somehow commune and understand the vastness that is creation, dumbfounds me. When I talk to God, I'm usually praising the awesomeness of him, or begging for mercy, or at times begging for someone else to be blessed or gain mercy, but never do I pretend to understand him to the degree that I think he'd care if I know him, care what I want, or even recognize me at all. And, I'm okay with that. Never do I feel closer to God than when I stand on the edge of the ocean, or when I'm a mile out on Lake Michigan and can't see a spot of land anywhere. It doesn't make me feel alone at all. That place that makes most people feel small, makes me feel extraordinarily connected and completely immersed in existence. Church... not so much. Maybe you can help me understand.
I will say immediately though that I am not an atheist... I am a fallen Christian with a deep seated confliction about faith and an almost constant love/hate relationship with God, to which he always responds with a kind and sentimental hand that makes me want to puke. I'd prefer fire and brimstone and maybe to be struck by lightning... something to get my attention. My own hangups and Daddy issues (he was a preacher the first 10 years of my life, and gave it up) have no effect on my fundamental belief that certainly we weren't sparked into existence by nothing- so logically something is there... and God is as good a name as any I guess. Although if they can rename the Hoosier Dome the RCA Dome, maybe I can call God... "Frank".
Kicking my legs while seated in a pew in pretty white tights, Mary Janes, and a pretty dress are nice memories from childhood. As a black sheep child of the most fundamentalist republican hypocrisy- machine of a family, I told my Dad that it's difficult to make friends in TN because "I am a socialist, hippy, literature loving, D&D playing, conceptual theorist who hasn't made a friend while sober since she was 15. I'm on an Army base, Dad, and I think the war is an international war crime... I read John Irving, they listen to Rush and the extent of their reading is cheap B-rated porn mags... Even sexually they're repressed". So, he says to me, uncomfortable with the fact that I've gotten all "liberal" and inappropriate and made him uncomfortable, again... "You have a worldly family, but now you need a church family. You're unhappiness comes from your distance from God." [I am not unhappy btw, he misconstrued what i said].
Randomosity
I had a street light outside my bedroom window as a child. To this day, the hum of a street light in a dark quiet street gives me goosebumps in a good way.
My dreams oftentimes involve secret passageways, crawl spaces, and hidden doorways.
Both times that my brother took me fishing when I was little, I dropped the pole into the water when I got a bite. I still don't know why, but I felt terrible.
I had an tree house club when I was little. We all pretended to be Indians and my name was Running Water
I get restless leg syndrome at night and on long road trips.
My mom used to have a routine of having my brother and I lay on our backs, put our feet in her lap and have splinters taken out of our feet with a needle... I didn't like to keep my shoes on outside...
I am really good at keeping secrets... my own and other people's
I believe in class conflict, am a socialist, and an idealist.
My Dad's side of my family gets together at my grandmothers (we call her Oma) every Friday to play pinochle. It's good German food, about 6-12 people, wine, beer, and political arguments. I miss it!
At some point in my life I was able to recite, from memory, every line of the movie Aliens. It drove my brother insane.
My nose has been broken three times. I fell down the stairs as a baby, was hit in the face with a rotary phone, and was in a bad skiing accident (I fell down a mountain in Montana) I'd like a nose job.
I would rather listen to NPR than music... All Things Considered, A Prairie Home Companion, Science Friday, The Diane Rehm Show, Fresh Air, Writers Almanac, and Talk of the Nation.
I graduated with Highest Distinction... 3.94 GPA and love school and especially writing research papers.
I love the sound of train whistles at night.
I didn't have cable growing up and played outside everyday until past dark... almost none of my childhood memories include the indoors.
My mom had an 8 pm rule until high school: come inside, bathe, and either read or sleep. Because of that I have a deep love of reading and often have more than one book going at a time.
I have a great love of bon fires, cool nights, clear skies, guitar music and good friends... there is hardly a scenario I love more.
Musings
In my dreams, I'm as happy as I am now, but I'm free of expectations. I'm done thinking, thinking, thinking about people's perceptions and the things they care about, that I convince myself matter to me too. I have all of these things taken out of my control. Someone smacks me and tells me that I'm fucking stupid for stressing about whether my tile floor is perfectly clean, if my son has a balanced meal every single mealtime. I'm an idiot for weighing myself two or three times a day. I shouldn't care if the neighbor sees me naked on my porch swing, because it's my back yard and I could do anything I want on that porch swing... and maybe I should.
In my dreams, I work out what it is I want...
I'm totally controlling when it comes to feeling held down and suffocated, but feel tremendously rejected when he doesn't want and try to hold me down. I can't stand a guy who beats around the bush or doesn't tell me his feelings and what he wants. Man up, demand what you need, but don't be surprised if I flake on you afterward???
I'm restless and hate feeling like I'm boxed in or have too many expectations of me. I also need purpose and a goal at all times. I don't want to feel like I'm floating. I need something to ground me. So, I need responsibility and a goal, but not the type that I am required to do???
I'm unpredictable but I like the things around me to be predictable. I expect total freedom from my husband, and demand his trust, but I tend to be mistrustful and uncertain when he exercises the same freedom. I'm a hypocrite. I have double standards. I want to be able to do whatever I want, but I expect others to be definable, predictable, and to make sense to me???
I'm an emotional cripple. I don't get depressed often, but I do get restless, fidgety, want something I can't define... and that makes me across the board with my feelings. Plus, I take it out on everyone around me. I try and pick fights. I ask for things that are unrealistic so I can push people away when they can't deliver. I get masochistic and set people up to hurt me... So, I'm fragile but I still want to be handled without care???
My husband is the complete opposite of everything you read above. I spent so many years in violent, self-destructive patterns of behavior. He was my platonic best friend... sitting in the wing, watching, worrying, remaining my loving friend no matter how reckless and ridiculous I became. Once we became a couple, he stayed despite drinking benders that lasted days and resulted in my not coming home, falling down in the lawn, making out with anyone and everyone around me, getting arrested... He stayed. He stayed!
I grew up. I slowly and painfully started to respect myself. I graduated college with Highest Distinction, started making healthier decisions... and started to learn to love myself. It was a slow process, and many of the behavior patterns remain today.
So, in my massively intense project of chasing off the people who love me most, I started to resent my husband staying. I mean, I started to think he was pathetic... not manly enough for me. Who stays when they're being treated that way? So, I started pushing him away... I mean, I'm a fucking genius of forced solitude. He still stayed. Not only that... he continued to love me, despite my convincing and frequent attempts to make myself unlovable.
In the end, I realized it was me that was pathetic. Really, deeply, pathetic... Here I am... this wildly flailing wind storm, circling above a calm island.
He grounds me. I just needed to accept that we don't have to be the same. He doesn't need me to stop being the beautiful disaster that I am, and I don't need him to share in my chaos. We can live independently together. He can let me be me and still love me, and I can borrow some of that peace.
I'm not trying to glamorize my marriage. We have plenty of problems... I guess I'm just trying to say that the healthier I become, the greater my realization that I don't need to spend my life proving my validity. I don't need to fix the contradictions I list above... Maybe it's okay, as long as I'm healthy and the people around me love me. Maybe. Maybe I'm worthy of it all. Just maybe.
Today, I woke up with a strange thought running through my mind... and it contributed to this musing. I thought:
I'm fluttering in the wind, a marionette hooked to a sunbeam.
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