A Life of Reading Words
It finally dawned on me that I should post a formal announcement that Rebecca’s show in Simsbury has been canceled. I had forgotten that I had promised free drinks to anyone who showed up. Sorry ’bout that. Next time she has a gig anywhere close to here I will renew the invitation. In the meantime, visit her myspace page for other gigs, new photos and music!
Thanks.
How does one go about planning to leave? She knows she wants out while he has no clue. He mentally packs a bag on a nightly basis, dreaming of the last time he closes the door while she closes her eyes to sleep. How often is it a mutual decision where one looks at the other and they both know what disaster lies ahead? How often is it a firm handshake, nice try, and see you later? The quiet dismantle of a mistake.
To think of my task is chilling
to know I was carefully building a mask I was wearing for two years, swearing
I’d tear it off?
If you are the one planning to leave – do you have a mental count down clock, ticking the minutes to freedom? Is your end date so final you know the weeks, days and hours ’til freedom? Do you have an escape route a la Sleeping with the Enemy; something so well thought out no one (including yourself) sees it coming? Will you leave your spouse reeling with IHadNoClue and your friends shocked (They-Were-The-Perfect-Couple. No, I never suspected a thing!).
I know your feelings are tender. Inside you the embers still glow
but I’m a shadow, only a bed of blackened coal
call myself jezebel for wanting to leave.
If you are the one left behind – do you sense the abandonment before it happens? Did he turn away from you a little too quickly to read a text message? Did you feel the distance before you noticed how untouched you have become? Are you secretly counting down the days until leaving, wanting to play the broken, left behind, but secretly rejoicing the respite from unlove? Do you grasp at what once was knowing you never had it in the first place?
Seven months, three weeks, two days and six hours is what he said to me. Why? I thought you were good at this marital thing.
I may be good at it. I’m just not happy doing it.
How I wish that we never had tried
to be man and his wife
to weave our lives into a blindfold
over both our eyes.
~Jezebel, Natalie Merchant 1992
There are some people in my life who think that my rants are about them. They take my words and somehow see themselves. Yet, while they see words that might work, they dismiss full sentences because they don’t add up. It’s almost like they want the whole thing to be their private Carly Simon moment… but it doesn’t quite fit. Take Dear Mr. Liar, just for hahas. I gender bendered on that one. It’s about a GIRL. Well, sorta. There’s a guy component and he knows his part. Don’t worry. That deletion will happen a n y day. Nothing more to tell. End of that story. So, back to the chick component. I hate fake. When I was finally clued in just how fake this fake really was I decided to lash out a la language style. Words and words upon words. I don’t know. It made me feel better. Now, if I could just delete her from my blogroll…
Then, there’s The Bottle has Been. People have questioned the consumption before. If you knew what bottles I tilt in the air you wouldn’t worry so much. And no, I didn’t write it about You either- not your past, your present nor your future. Not You. I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who drinks too much. We (this different someone and I) got into a discussion about “too much” and, more importantly, who are we to say what much is too?
I have a favorite scene in The Fly. Geena Davis is trying to deal with an exboyfriend who simply won’t go away. Or, more importantly, she decides she hasn’t dealt with the ex in the most proper of ways. In the middle of an epiphany she storms off to do what she should have a long time ago.
That’s me. I’m dealing with things I should have addressed eons ago.
So, here’s what I want to say to you. You are not guilty of anything if not everything. Don’t let it (or me) go to your head.
Dear Mr. Liar,
I’m finally onto you. I finally figured you out. It took me awhile (stupid me), but I finally got you straight. I don’t know what made you lie in the first place or why you insist on continuing (Yes, you keep doing it) but, so be it. The good news is I can walk away from you and your mouth and the things that come out of it. I’m through with pretending you+me=friends.
What brought this on? I came across a present I meant to give to you. Pretty ribbons, pretty paper, pretty well meaning of me. It was meant for Christmas but I thought it could make a good birthday gift. Except I didn’t know where to send it. “You have vanished. Heaven knows where you live. Heaven only knows.” The numbers didn’t add up. That’s when the lies began. If I wasn’t meant to be that part of your life you could have said so. It wouldn’t have hurt my feelings. I don’t have secrets (ask me no questions I’ll tell you no lies)so I didn’t understand your secrets, your lies. They were stupid until the truth came out. It must be tough to lie lie lie all the time. Really tough. One thing has to cover up something else, right?
You made yourself out to be more important than you really are. What’s the sense of that when you can’t back it up? You said you knew stuff but have yet to prove it. It’s not enough for you to talk. I’m onto you. Take it on the run. Prove it, if you can. Until then, I am out. So out.
We debate the alcohol thing. We go back and forth, forth and back again on what makes one the “ic” of the word. Al-co-hol-ic. Obsessed with the bottle. In love with the devil inside. Is it a drink a day without fail, failing to quit? or is it the excess? Can’t stop until can’t stand up? I wish I knew. I know both kinds.
There’s this woman. She has a drink a night. Like clockwork she opens the bottle. Tells anyone who will listen just how much she “deserves” it after a day like the one she’s had. Let her tell you. She’ll go on and on about the day she’s had. Suggest a night without a drink and she’ll accuse you of not hearing her. Didn’t she just tell you what kind of day she just had? Didn’t she just say she deserved it?
There’s this guy. He drinks once or twice a month. Unlike the steady drinker of just one a night he makes up for lost time and downs doubles until he can’t see straight. Can’t walk a fine line. Can’t remember his own name. Passes out while knocking on a stranger’s door. Six packs become thirty packs which in turn become the icebreaker for 151 and SoCo cold. Wakes up with blood bruised knuckles face down in his own vomit on an unfamiliar street. Doesn’t happen all the time. Just whenever he drinks.
I’ve been listening to Natalie quite a bit and one song that has been tearing me up is “The Living.” I don’t know how to describe it other than it’s about alcoholism – that relationship with the bottle. She took inspiration from knowing someone who had it all, someone who didn’t need anything until the drink came into his life. Then, the drink became his life. As Natalie says, “the bottle’s been to me my closest friend and my worst enemy.” She makes no secret that this person was someone great until he threw it all away for the devil inside.
We debate this thing. Back and forth. What puts the “ic” in alcoholic? When is enough enough?
I cannot tell you how frustrating it is to misplace focus, to break a promise. I got on the tread last night, intending to do a quiet 35 minute tune-up session. Everything was wrong. Wrong from the very start. Everything. First of all, you and your Saturday night phone call. I know in my heart of hearts you are right. Three and a half hours of heart to heart and yes, you are right. I know what I need to do, thanks to you. But. But, but I don’t like it. I don’t deserve this. Yeah, yeah, yeah – Harry met Sally and the moral of the story is they couldn’t be friends. I hear ya. I still don’t like it. Last night I went beyond ThatSpace and deleted the phone number. Removing temptation. Cutting things off before they can cut me. I can’t bleed anymore. You are right.
Anyway. So, I thought of you and your words before I ran and they didn’t make me angry. I didn’t find the fire. Instead, they made me sad. I can’t run blue. So, the mood was wrong, the music was wrong, everything was wrong. For the first time ever I skipped Paint It Black and Have Fun Go Mad. I couldn’t find a rhythm I liked. Thanks to a friend I found Fleetwood and tried that. After 25 minutes I admitted defeat and decided nothing would help. I stopped cold. I couldn’t even rock the Aerosmith shirt I bought while shopping with RT. I couldn’t rock anything beyond 2.26 miles.
I’ve never stopped a run before. Not like that – not stopped cold. I’ve had plenty of other I Don’t Feel Like It moments. But, in every other instance of tired I struck a deal with myself and moi – run slower but don’t quit. Lower the incline to nothing, but don’t quit. Don’t you dare quit.
When I got off the tread and paced in front of my husband he was quick to offer kindness. Not your night. You just cooked a huge meal. You are tired. Work is tressing you out. I heard excuse after excuse and headed for the fridge. Chocolate Moo Cow for this quitter.
Maybe another glass of whine…from a box.
I have been hiding behind book reviews and poetry for days on end. Two poems for every one book. Reading like a fiend seems to suit me. Sorry.
I’ve started to tell you about the weirdest things ~ Kisa murdering the ladybugs in the bathroom, the end of N&ZY, my heartbreak over a breakup, the amazing work I’ve done with MSR, the crap I’ve been handed at AIC, how homesick I am, how little I’ve run, the need to hear my music again (go where we haven’t I don’t dare), Natalie, Germany, Sin City, Taka Tak, being stood up, being letdown, sex in my city, Comic Book Tattoo, Darfur, Boston Celtics, wine, angry black man, gun to my heart, arthritis and friends too far away.
I’ve started to tell you about all these things. Yet, I can’t. Instead I tell you about what I’ve read and read and read.
Forgive me.
This is the face that means business. This is the face that says, “mess with me. i dare ya.” This should be my face today. Yesterday, one of my staff didn’t make a deadline which made me look bad. Today, the other shoe drops…with no regrets.
Tonight we go where we haven’t. At least not in a very long time. I’m not sure I’m up to it. I haven’t run in two days Today will be three. I don’t have that Kick In The Azz ‘Tude. And yet, this is the face I should have.
23 days ’til Darfur.
I went through a little post trauma yesterday. Even though the tanker accident is long over and traffic moves on and I said my peace & prayers I wasn’t prepared for to pass the spot. See, usually everyday I pick up kisa from his work, and usually everyday I take that same exit where the accident happened. For all intents and purposes, I usually mimic the car that caused the accident; trying to get on the highway & blend with the rushing vehicles already going my way. Except for the past four days I had been avoiding that spot. Last night was my first time driving the route since the trucker died…and I couldn’t do it. Kisa took the wheel and took over. What surprised me was how I flinched when he smoothly merged between two cars. Am I scared of traffic? Will I be gunshy from now on? How I winced when we came upon the scene of the accident. Have I lost my aggressive nature? What exactly bothered me? The shiny new guard rail? The workers still trying to pick up pieces of debris & rake over the black scorched earth? The evidence was like a fresh wound, ugly and raw. To me, it was like driving through someone else’s hell and feeling the pain. It hurt and I don’t know why.
Someone called me this Grim Reaper this morning. I seem to circle death like a big ugly vulture. I’m like the black widow of the highway. Just last night I was thinking of how haunted I am (still!) by the man hit obliterated by several cars on the highway. I want to talk to him. I want to ask him where was he going? Did he really think he could cross four lanes of traffic in the darkdarkdark of winter? Did he know he was going to be mangled beyond recognition, no legs, no arms, no head- only clothes to make the man human? Then, I want to know to know why there weren’t any flowers, no makeshift memorials to mark someone’s mourning? Wasn’t someone saddened by your untimely demise? Doesn’t someone out there wake to find a void without you day after day? Aren’t you missed by somebody? Even now?
This morning on our way into work (I was driving) kisa and I caught the tail end of an accident of a different kind. Different, yet it was another horrific moment on the highway. Blacker than night smoke and a fireball at least 50 feet high. Cars starting to pile up, break lights glowing. Everything coming to a halt. Here’s what is rumored to have happened: a tanker truck carrying gasoline and diesel was cut off, he swerved to avoid hitting the car that had just cut him off, ended up hitting someone else, swerved again to avoid further damage and ended up hitting a third vehicle, partially going over a bridge and finally burst into flames. People rushed to his rescue. Here’s what drives me nuts. Conditions of any driver involved: unknown. It’s hard to imagine anyone surviving something like that.
Here’s what I do know. Three cars and a truck. At least four different people going somewhere. Going about their business on the same highway. Four people in the same place at the same time. Not one of them said “I might lose my life today.” Not one of them said “Later I am going to be in the accident that will make the headlines. I will be lucky to be alive.” No one kissed a spouse goodbye and thought “Maybe I won’t see you later.” If kisa and I had left on time we could have been in that mess. Ten minutes earlier and we could have been that fourth vehicle. We could have. Could have.
Something to think about: A man from North Hampton, N.H. climbs in his truck and starts his long journey home. Another man settles into his compact car and turns the key thinking about March Madness. A woman looks over her shoulder as she backs down the driveway. She’s meeting a friend for coffee. Another woman pulls her seat belt across her lap as she pulls out of a parking spot. She has one more stop before heading home. Ordinary. Not one of them expects anything different.
Stay away from Gainesville, Florida…or better yet, someone find George E. and muzzle him. George writes for the Gainesville Sun and believes Central Florida should “pull the plug” on public libraries in his county. He goes through the usual blatherings “no one needs a library anymore…we’ve got the Internet!” Yes, you do, Mr E. That and a whole bunch of garbage. Here’s a little exercise for you – Let’s say you have a not-so-manly problem of ED and you want to research the problem. So, you get yourself on Google and “research” your anatomy to figure out where the “dysfunction” comes from. Or doesn’t. Sorry about that bad choice of word. Check out how many hits Google was able to return to you in whatever seconds. [Google likes to brag about that sort of thing. Not sure how useful it really is when no one looks beyond the first two pages of search results…] but, anyway. Back to the exercise. Now go to Google Scholar, that is, if you know how to find it, and conduct the same search. What’s the difference? How much porn did you get with the first search? How much do you really want to be looking at people doing it while you can’t even get it up? Can you evaluate your sources accurately? Do you take advice from just anyone (because that’s what you’re doing if you can’t tell who’s sponsoring your search results)? Do you even care? Obviously not if you can’t see my point.
I like the woman who laid it all out in her comment: what her “library” taxes cost her per year compared to her savings when borrowing (for free) books, journals, dvds, music, cds, and audio books. The real kicker is when she mentions the research help she got from a real, honest-to-goodness librarian that saved her husband’s life. Priceless.
Someone else said Florida’s culture is going down the drain (well, they called the culture “backwater” which to me sounds equally unappealing). I don’t know that much about the Sunshine State, but I do know complaints about Florida’s lack of culture is nothing new. I have a friend who’s dying for a little culture in her little corner of sunshine.
Why do I rant about this? I’m sick of trying to defend my profession. There. I said it. I have a vested interest in all libraries and not just my own. I admit, the word ‘library’ is archaic. But, in this ever-growing wealth of cyber information someone needs to stand in the mire and sort it all out. That’s what professional librarians are paid to do. I have to wonder what Ben Franklin would say if he met Mr. George at a dinner party and was told “you don’t need a library for books, just to go the Salvation Army!” Since I’m not in the mood to promote George’s editorial let me know if you want to read it for yourself. I’ll forward the link….
Stepping off the soapbox for today.
oh yeah, and have a nice day.
“I try to incorporate compassion into my everyday life because without trying, nothing in this world will ever change.” ~ Now & Zen Yoga
Some of you might recognize this quote as a comment from one on my blogs, but as I said before, it’s worth repeating. I lose my compassion about 50 times a day. Drop it somewhere. Forget about it. Impatience, intolerance, insensitivity – all these things find and take control of compassion’s lonely place. Like the impossibility of holding water in my hands I find it difficult to hold onto good thoughts, deeds and gestures throughout an entire day. They slip away undetected as bad moods settle in; goodness is chased away by anger, frustration, irritation. Where does this come from and why is it easier to be this way?
I was at a family function not long ago when my table companion leaned over to me and whispered ” —‘s put on weight.” I found myself taking furtive glances. I couldn’t really tell. Suddenly angry I snarled, “her dress is beautiful!” knowing my companion hated her own. Was I trying to defend the weight-gainer or hurt the observer? Maybe both. I couldn’t tell. I do know I was caught between two kinds of cruelty.
This morning I was on my way to pick up bagels. I could have gotten the supermarket variety – six of one kind, half dozen of the same. Instead I went gourmet and bought flavors like apple cinnamon, garlic and herb, honey walnut, and blueberry. Fancy cream cheeses on the side. It was good to be generous. On the sidewalk sat a crumpled, bearded man. More blue than blueblue eyes stared up at me. I dropped a five in his can and wordlessly walked away. I couldn’t help wondering how he would spend it. Wine? Cigarettes? Or something stronger? Something only a syringe could deliver? Was it callous of me to think that way? Why did I think I just donated to his uselessness? Why couldn’t I think something better of his begging?
Oddly enough, I have gotten help through someone else’s blog. If you are really interested, click on February 15th’s post titled “Happy Day.”
oh. and have a nice day.
I work in a building that could either have bullets or books on any given day. It’s supposed to have books, but more often than not, we find evidence of books and bullets. This time BBs…better known as ball bearings shot from an air gun. Here’s the weirdest thing – evidence suggests the shots came from outside the building yet, a CO2 cartridge was found inside the building. Were the kids having a game of BB tag, shooting from both sides of the glass? I can remember that game from my own childhood, drawing blood on some occasions. But, I was 10. We’re talking collegiate here. This is completely different. What in the world was going on?
If the walls of where I work could talk I’m sure I would hear some great stories. I’ve heard rumors the building is haunted. I like that idea. Some say they hear the high heels of a woman walk above their heads. I say it’s a man, his namesake displaced… so he wanders. I’ve heard theories the building is at war with itself. I believe that. One side of the building can get up to 100 degrees while the opposite end stays cooler than 50. One side is dark and depressed, the other light and happy. Definitely a personality conflict. Feng shui consultants would have a field day. We have Christmas trees up all year long. A few years ago we found a bullet lodged in a wall. From the hole in the opposing window we could track the trajectory, but it didn’t make sense (much like the BB gun evidence). The shooter would have stood at least 35 feet high, or used a step ladder. If anyone had been in the room at the time of the shooting the bullet would have whizzed by high above their heads. It didn’t make sense.
But, nothing in my building makes sense. Not the crazy colors on walls, not the leaks in the ceiling. Ghosts that walk the halls, kids that shoot holes in windows and someone who steals signs with the word ‘oral’ in them. Some days are more confusing than others, but, the odd thing is, there’s nowhere else I would rather be – it feels like home. Oddly enough.
I could have called this “Hell Has A Name Part Two” because this is just a continuation of the disaster I call the Quest for the Dress.
So, I’ve already covered the fiasco that was finding said dress. Yes, this is a picture of me in it. Not a happy camper am I? If I only knew…believe it or not, this is the happiest moment (wearing the dress) I would have that night.
After humiliating myself for five hours finding the beforementioned dress I thought I was being wise to my “hefty” situation by next buying body hugging undergarments. You know the things that cinch you in, hold your extra baggage sausage-like? I guess I’m just talking to the women out there…But, I found the perfect all-in-one. Bra and skirt together. Lots and lots of lycra. Brilliant! Somehow, I really believed I could benefit from such a contraption. And for an hour all went well.
I can’t tell you when it all when wrong or why. I can’t say I made a wrong move, made a sudden move, or really moved at all. But, the next thing I knew the top to before beloved undergarment had popped off. Literally popped off and slid. Down. Way down. Without warning. All through dinner I discreetly negotiated trying to pull it back up. Leave it to lycra to be so uncooperative. I never got it back to the right place.
Sometime later, the same thing happened with the bottom half. Instead of popping suddenly the bottom portion had, unbeknown to me, worked its way up. Subtly, silently. Now the entire garment was around my waist, and cinching only my waist. Not in a good way, either. If I had a tire before, now definitely I had two.
I spent the entire wedding reception glued to my seat. In a corner. Trapped beside an elbowing, poking mother who insisted I asked someone (anyone) to dance. Riiiight. Luckily, my cousin put it perfectly, “We don’t dance.”
Hell does have a name. Hell, hell has several names. Shopping…malls…Macy’s. Take your evil. Pick your poison. Five hours of scouring racks, trudging into fitting rooms, undressing and cringing, fighting static electricity all the while, not wanting to scrutinize lines too closely, yet knowing if I didn’t someone else would, deciding “no, this doesn’t work” only to start the process all over again. Back to the racks. Pushing aside hangers of too flashy, too shiny, too young, too short, too I’mNotThatGirl, too Holy-Cow-They-Want-$250-For-That?! Finding one or two things to haul back to the all-telling mirrors. Glancing over the shoulder, deciding something’s just not quite right (oh wait. It’s me that’s not quite right). Back and forth. Forth and back.
Halfway through the process I noticed a stain right in the middle of my turtleneck and my sweater was beyond brimming with snapping static. My feet were hurting and by dress #8 I broke a nail trying to negotiate the too-tight zipper. That should have told me something right there. With each try-on I felt fatter and fatter. Uglier and uglier. I started to curse my cousin and question why big, fat me had to attend his wedding. The dressing room felt too tiny and someone had turned up the heat. Too make matters worse, some lady tried to steal my dressing room while I was in my mother’s dressing room deep in consultation. How this woman had missed my inside-out jeans on the floor, my cat hair covered coat on the seat, my purse hanging on the door…not to mention the stained turtleneck lying crumpled in the doorway, is beyond me.
Finally, frustration found me and I started trying on black anythings. Black, black, black. Not a shred of color. I settled on something with rhinestones, something fit for a funeral. Shopping had been the death of me. I was so relieved to be finished, done with the search that when I dressed back into my clothes for the final time I put my turtleneck on backwards and forgot to zip my jeans.
ps~ while this makes a great end to the story, just wait until you hear about what happened at the wedding…Hell gets worse.
~*LunaSea*~ 