If it comes to you in ashes that means I burned it. Burned it, but sent it to you anyway. I am twisted enough that I would do something like that…just to show you my good intentions comes with an evil streak. I started this whole thing in earnest thinking I would, I could, build you a masterpiece. Something worthy of a bedside table as a good bedtime story..or maybe even a coffee table out in the open if I let myself dare to dream that big and ambitious and grandiose. Shopping for supplies was much like being a id again. I was drawn in by sparkly stickers, glittery borders, sticky glue, funky cutting scissors, colored paper of vellum and linen and cotton. So much to chose from I didn’t know where to begin or end. Embellishments aplenty. My credit card shook from exhaustion. I wish I could say my enthusiasm for the project held up through the piles and piles of purchases, pages and pages of printed out out-of-print pictures, the plethora of everything saved and once cherished. Suddenly, without warning I felt unworthy of the task at heart. Who was I to decide what to keep? What to exclude? How could I decide what was coffee table worthy? Every well-wished sentiment, every scrap of paper had something worth saving, keeping, holding onto. The insecurity grew and grew and grew with each passing page created until finally every page created became a page hated.
So, I started again. Tearing the old masterpiece down and starting new. Different ideas flowed and I worked feverishly to retain the enthusiasm. I worked methodically, determined to use everything given to me, entrusted to me. Everything meant a creation oversized and bulging. Bigger and bigger. But, like a sandcastle caught in a rising tide my enthusiasm ebbed away…again. This time it was my displeasure with how cramped and crowded every page looked. Bigger didn’t mean better. My eagerness to please was obvious overkill on every page. With remorse, I tore it down again and again.
I ended up rebuilding a third time. I started with all new supplies. This time I dared to play god to the creation. I dared to determine the worth of each scrap. When it was done I was proud of it but also insecure. I needed more time to reconcile the conflicting emotions before I sent it off.
I never sent it. It’s still here. I sent a decoy, a fake. something to placate you and keep me covered. I still want to burn it. I still want you to have it. Two conflicting emotions. So, maybe it will come to you…in ashes.
I met someone today who blew me away. Picked me up, spun me around like a hurricane and got me going in the right direction again. As everyone knows it’s far too easy for me to be angry, to hate, to be glass half empty (and cracked). Far too easy for me to be Negative Nelly. Bitchy bitchy bitch bitch. Then came him and the hurricane. Here’s how it went. I complained, he came back with compassion. I bitched, his was a brighter view. I ranted, he rallied. I was negative, he said never say never. I smirked, he smiled. Back and forth we sparred.
Take this story – I have a hanger-on. Someone who just won’t go away. I was feeling cynical and snide. Loved to be evil, warming up to the hellish conclusion. When I was done I thought he would agree. I thought he would share in my negativity. Instead, he smiled. Smiled and offered me this HaveYouThoughtAboutThisWay? different angle. He cocked his head to the side and said, “from everything you told me I can’t see what the big deal is. I don’t know Your Problem so I can’t judge except to say I don’t see the problem.” It’s the “I don’t know…so I can’t judge…” part that got me. Why am I quick to say weird? Why am I eager to say wrong? Exactly what is the problem?
I’m sorry I have been so mean to you when you weren’t looking. I’m sorry I painted a bad picture when really you are a masterpiece. I’m sorry to have confused you with something sinister. I take it back.
To my new friend. Thank you for being compassionate. For being caring without knowing. For listening to me judge without a jury. While you drove me crazy with your “to be fair” sentence starters I see where you are coming from. And to be fair, I want to be just like you.
We are right in the middle of a messy divorce. Not that we want to be. We didn’t mean to put ourselves here – it just became part of the deal by default. But, in the grand scheme of things it has taught me a valuable lesson: stay away from drama. Run, don’t walk, from situations out of your control.
I learned of an on-coming train wreck last night. My first instinct was to jump from the track. My second was to stay and see what happens. High drama is always highly amusing. Except when there is the potential to get tangled up in it. I really, really don’t want to be involved. I was there before. I feel like I just got free of it. Why get in the way again?
Last night I ignored the signs and stayed on. Last night I wanted to believe. Today, I see things differently. Much differently.
There is a scene in some chick-flick movie. Of course I don’t remember the name of it. Bette Midler plays a meddling mother. She loves her daughter too much to be of any good to her. In the end she picks a fight to end the relationship. She does it on purpose to put some distance between her and her daughter. It’s painful – but necessary. Something she must do. At the time I didn’t understand the ending. Thought it was stupid and unnecessary. A royal WTF? Now, I get it. I am at that point. I get the point. All I want is for you to be happy. I’ve said it a thousand times. You mean the world to me. Butbutbut, I refuse to be part of the approaching drama. There is no way I can be involved and be accused. Again. If I can’t live my passions out in the open without having them distorted and distrusted I don’t want to have them at all. I refuse to defend what I hold dear.
Some say imitation is the highest form of flattery. Well, what do you call plagarism? A friend came up with the perfect word, asinine. In my world it’s “I am not smart enough to write my own sh!t.” In my world it’s “I’m so stupid I need to take other people’s ideas and call them my own.” Colin Deslage, if that’s even his real name, fits this description. IQ of a sand flea. Or, more accurately, a sand flea’s fart. Why else would he take my book review and post it on his blog? I don’t think he’s an azzhole. I think he’s just floundering in a sea of smart people and doesn’t want to drown looking like a dolt. When you are that obtuse looking intelligent is a really, really hard thing to do.
When I was first alerted to this odd occurrence I seethed. I thrashed around with so much anger I couldn’t sit still. Not long enough to write anything anyway. Then I considered the blog Colin Deslage stole – it’s an odd one to steal. Consider the facts: it’s a freakin’ book review (a very unprofessional one at that), it’s about chick lit (which says something about Colin’s reading preferences, or maybe I’m mistaken and he is really a SHE), and it mentions my hometown, a place where few people have ever heard of (let alone visited).
What does anyone have to gain by posting something that obviously isn’t original? Sand flea fart credibility.
How I’d like to talk to you right now. How I’d like to explain this fear that snakes around my lungs, making me think of choking, feel like drowning. I am a sea of nerves and awash with panic. I am not good enough for this journey. I have not the strength to take this next step. The fortitude of a fortress surely cannot be mine. I feel the fall of failure before it has even happened.
“Daddy, come quick! The dreaming tree died.” ~ David J. Matthews
They accepted the offer and we have accepted the responsibility. Only now do I think I am wrong to think I deserve so much. Why can’t you be here with me? Be here now to walk me through this thing called a process. You have missed out on every little thing, but it’s the big stuff that bugs me. We are so distant by design. Apart on purpose. How I’d like to break that barrier.
The past week has been a little on the hellish side, without the heat – if you know what I mean. Two major storms; one with weather and one in my personal life. I’ve managed to dig out from both.
Thank you to the students who were so appreciative of the extra library hours. Staying open an extra 5.5 hours for you was my pleasure. I had nowhere to go and, apparently, neither did you.
Thank you to my mother-in-law for braving the weather to see Miss Rebecca sing last night. I couldn’t have asked for a better pilot. Now that we know how parking works we should do it again.
Thank you to Rebecca for making the four hour trek to Northampton. You and your funnier than all get out father are amazing. Thank you for singing your heart out. I must insist that you stop saving ‘Hold Me’ as your last song. I couldn’t hold my camera steady thanks to the tears. I’m sure the video is going to reflect that grief. Don’t worry, I will blog about the entire thing…maybe even post a snippet of the video (depending on how shaky it is).
Thank you to my friend. I understand your absence. I missed you just the same.
I have been meaning to blog this. I have needed to blog this. I miss you and you and you and you and you and you. To Germany: I have been trying and trying to get a Sunday – something worthwhile and lengthy. So much to catch on from so far away. Thanks for the video email. I can’t stop watching it. You know me and a good cause. It brings tears to my eyes everytime. To Ms Delusion Dr: got your holiday email tonight and I have to say I loved the sax but missed you more. Hope all is well, my friend. To Ruby: we keep trying for a meal. We keep trying for a royal bitch session (I think that’ll be my part) and nothing has worked out. You are graceful and reassuring. This is my sanity saying thank you for listening, even if it isn’t the way I want to be communicating. I love you. To Gnasher: Maybe you think I have been avoiding you. Silence on my end means nothing more than a bad day multiplied by seven to make a whole week of hell. Make that two. I miss you. Dear, dear Smiley: I need a laugh. I need something funny to keep me one step ahead of my black cloud. Cookies don’t cut it. Really. Belise: I’m intimidated by the running force you have become, yet..and yet…You might be proud of me. I’ve put in 27 miles last month and 15.6 miles so far this month. You inspire me. I’m still scared of the hurt I could inflict on myself- the shadow of pain is always there like a dark shadow I can’t escape…but I’m trying. Really trying.
And for Rebecca:
You know me and live music. You know me and this voice. You know me and this friend. Just have to promote everything about her. Rebecca Correia will be at the Iron Horse on 12/21 (Sunday) @ 7pm. She’s opening for Brian O’Connor. Have to admit, I’ve never heard of Brian, but I’m game.
Speaking of games, Kisa is going to a football game that night – a mercy outing with a friend who couldn’t get rid of his extra ticket. Probably will be the last game of the year so how could I say no? I’m no Kill Joy wife. No matter what.
Rebecca, I have missed your songs and your weird sense of humor. Can’t wait to see you!
Thanks for the phone call. Eerie to think, but I was just thinking I needed the “phone a friend” option and there you were. I am scared of this. It almost seems to big to bear; a skeleton in every (large) closet, an issue around every joist. To make matters worse, it’s all in my head.
Thanks for the stories. That “been there, done that” reassurance goes a long way – Especially on this road I am traveling. Speaking of traveling, I hope you got there safe. But, back to me – it’s all about me, you know. This eventoops, I mean PROCESS is such a roller coaster. I’m not a lawyer but I’m beginning to see the power of negotiating. Can I negotiate a whole new house (kidding!)?
So begins a new day of the waiting game. When I get the scoop, you’ll be the first to know. Have the cell phone handy because I’ll probably give you an earful.
Hello my friend. I would like to bombard you with the number twenty-two. That is my wish for you. I would make you embrace it as your own. Twenty plus two. Think of it this way: Twenty-two is your magic number. It holds the key to letting go. It’s the permission to move on (not that no one needs to give you premission…except yourself). I am tempted to call you on every twentieth day and say (with authority, of course), “let one slide, let one slide…” I could send you a bottle of cheap azz tequila, make you have a shot – one for each hand – then, one for me, too. After that, maybe then you could let one slide.
I haven’t known how to write this letter. I haven’t known exactly what to say. It wouldn’t really matter because, knowing me, once it was all said and written I wouldn’t have sent it anyway. Excuse the grammar but it’s true. You wouldn’t have gotten whatever it was that I wanted to say, in more ways than one. Instead, I am tempted to be like a politician and say what you want to hear all the while not really saying anything at all. This is how we get along best, am I right? I don’t tell you what I really feel and you don’t spill anything worth a thing either way. Polite as polite can be except with a bite of caustic. That’s us.
You told a story over a meal and I wanted to throw up. What you didn’t say was so telling. What you meant was so obvious it made my stomach roll. I realize I have always been the stronger one. There was never a need to protect me. I acted like nothing could pierce my armor or hurt my pride. My heart was unbreakable and my soul, unreachable. Cold as an Ice Queen in the heart of January. I accept that image. I am comfortable with the chill of uncaring. But, here I am, waiting. I wait for glass half full comments; signs of compliment. They never come. Condescending, accusing, critical, not a single good thing to say. With each utterance I slide away. Closing myself off from wanting to be anywhere near your mouth. If you don’t have anything nice to say…. I played a game in my head. For every criticism it’s one less month here. When I got to three years I gave up knowing I could never stick to my story and stay away for that long. There are too many other things I would miss. Even you. Eventually. I don’t care that I’m not worth worrying about. I don’t care that I’ve never been a cause for real concern. Blame it on the drugs. Blame it on the maladjustment period (or whatever they call it these days). Blame it on the rain. I don’t care.
So, I didn’t say what I really wanted to say. Mums the word.
Somewhere along the way I decided I wasn’t going to play the game anymore. Except, somewhere along the way I forgot to tell you. Consider this the open letter of I’m telling you now. I’m wasted enough to stop waiting.
I’m through with the games. We have been lying to each other for a while now. We play ping pong with promises. Bounce one to me and I’ll volley one back. But, really, they’re all lies. I have no intention of calling you. I have no intention of helping you out. The game is at the give up point and I’ve given all that I can. Now I’m just pretending. Now I’m just acting stupid because I can’t tell you how I really feel. Until now. I went from being your biggest fan favorite to feeling like the biggest fallout failure.
You used me to get somewhere else. That’s okay as long as you got where you needed to go. That’s only because I got something out of it, too. But now I’m done. There were too many other people involved and I can’t justify dragging them into this any longer. If there’s any dragging to be done it’ll be done by me – dragging my tail between my legs and admitting I was stupidstupidstupid.
Kisa has heard the rant. Time has heard the rant. I think everyone has heard the rant. The rant has turned me into a raving lunatic. Pass me the bottle. I want to poison myself enough to puke out everything vile, everything I thought I believed in. I need to get wasted to make you go away.
What you owe me is an apology. An apology for being so fukcing insensitive. An apology for thinking we are close enough for that elbow-in-the-ribs-just kidding-hardy-har-har sh!t. Didn’t you notice the silence that followed? The slow, drawn out, dripping with barely contained sarcasm when he replied, “riiiighhht….” Was the tension thick enough or did you move right through it oblivious (as usual)?
This is a public rant so filled with anger you might want to turn your heads. Someone touch a nerve you ask? Not hardly. This wound is so raw, so tired of people poking at it, never giving it time to heal that it has bled dry. Nothing left to give. It gets tiring, always making excuses, pretending to be brazen and beyond it all. Well, not anymore.
DINK. Dual Income No Kids. Also stands for Didn’t I Not Know? Here’s what you don’t know. I’ll break it down for you:
Dual Income – yes because neither one of us is in it for the money we need both incomes to live the life we want. Neither of us has the luxury of being a stay at home anythings. Dual income because we love the work we do. Wouldn’t change a thing even though it means working for nuts and peanuts.
No Kids – Here’s where I gnash teeth and spit nails because you have no clue what you are talking about. Did you ever consider this: Clinically infertile. Barren. Irrevocable damaged goods. WhatE-v-e-r you want to call it. No natural born killers kids. No. Maybe there was a kid and now he’s gone and nothing can replace him? One shot deal. Adoption is a laughable gesture. Who in their right mind wants to hand over a kid to someone who has lost a mind; been to the funny farm? Has a shrink on speed dial? Has tried to commit suicide more than once? Has mental moments on an almost daily basis? Give me a fukcing break.
There comes a time when you know something just wasn’t meant to be. Seriously. You don’t pine away. You don’t cry over spilt sperm. You pick your azz up and carry on. Last but not least, you don’t take too kindly to the nickname dink.
So, back to what you owe me. Dink.
When it comes to friendship age has no consequence. Color has no connection. Gender shouldn’t be a guiding factor. These are the rules I try to live by when it comes to friends. Simple as that.
Last Friday such a friend came to East Greenbush, N.Y. with me. It was a reckless adventure. No real address. Didn’t know what to expect. No real plan other than to hear great music. We had 90 minutes there and back to talktalktalk and believe me, we did. When we got to the restaurant it looked as though we had found Funky town. Weird mix of bikers, bouncy houses and a bizarre cover band. Definitely not what I bargained for. With a shrug we went inside the restaurant to eat. Clean eating be damned, I was sick of salads and ordered a bad burger and lemonade – unheard of for me. Sometime later I realized we hadn’t seen or heard the music we came for. Confused I sent a text to a friend. A knowledgeable, computer-ready, cool friend who looked up where we were supposed to be…right where we were sitting. How bizarre. Thanks, Bri. Even though you confirmed our confused state, you rock.
In the end we found our music and figured it all out. It was an adventure to remember. We met cool people, heard great music – the music we came for, saw five towns worth of fireworks, and decided “fireworks are a lot like parades…a lot of anticipation with little payoff.” Despite all that, I was glad she was with me for the adventure. Doing this trip alone would have tapped my ability to unhinge my security of self. So, thanks.
ps~ S~ this is the pic that made me think of you…how could I NOT take a pic?!
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.