Talking at me. Everyone is talking at me. G says let’s negotiate. He has dollar signs for eyeballs and greed is in his back pocket. He thinks he can whore me out for a price. K says I’m outta here and good riddance. Middle finger raised on a gentleman’s fist. Head held proud with a fukc you behind the smile. A is offering advice as a friend yet I cannot hear what she says. My husband is offering strategy as a partner. Take ’em for all they’re worth. Don’t sell yourself short. Where have I heard that before? The head honcho is calling me dude. Am I in his back pocket? What should I do? I can’t even ask what would Jesus do without offending someone…mostly myself. The only religion that can help me now is the one called confidence. The big dog can no longer bite because that dog is me. Bigger than what I planned on, bigger than who I am right now. Big man on campus. This is what you wanted. They say its a marriage. New wife…new life, right? How many things can I go about changing in my big corner office?
He says I’m tough on people. That I expect too much and I’m pushing buttons. Better than pushing you. Did I push you? Did we throw cups of hot, scalding coffee at each other to see who ducks faster? Did we? If we did, did I win? I didn’t feel the sting of boiling brew so I must have. Big dog me. This isn’t how I wanted it to be. Everyone talking at me.
Category: Life
Beloved Death
When Natalie Merchant wrote ‘Beloved Wife’ she was criticized for writing from the point of view of a man. People couldn’t accept a character out of norm so suddenly she was either lesbian or just plain nuts. The point was missed; the lyrics completely unheard. What she was saying was far more unacceptable, far more controversial to our social norm. We don’t like people to die.
We marry our soul mates. We spend forever and a day with them. Day in, day out is all about being with them, living and loving til death do you part. Ten years turn into twenty until an anniversary of gold looms. “For 50 years, simply my beloved wife.” He or she is all that we know. For life.
What happens when that bond is broken by death and our partner of forever is gone? How do we hang onto a life we no longer know? How do we accept one half of what used to be us and we? Natalie asks the tricky question – “would it be wrong if I should just turn my face away from the light, go with her tonight?” Dying of a broken heart happens all the time. Can we let it happen? “Surrender all the joy in my life, go with her tonight.” As a family member, can we let someone die because they believe being there is better than being here now?
When someone looks at you with empty eyes and swears they won’t live to see their next birthday are you being selfish by saying “Yes, you will. We love you”? When does love become too selfish? Is it possible to love someone beyond the boundries of enough? When is acceptable to let them go?
a depth so deep
into my grief
without my beloved soul
I renounce my life
as my right
now alone without my beloved wife
my beloved wife
~Natalie Merchant
Time Tempted
There are so many things crashing around in my head I couldn’t write a straight-up, this-is-my-life blog even if I wanted to. Like a maze of the brain I’m not even sure which way to start and it feels like there is no getting out. No way out.
The stupid things: there is a wasp buzzing in my office and there is a phone guy banging on my window. I don’t want the wasp to sting me, nor the maintenance guy to break the glass. I’m distracted by the worry of either (or both) of these things happening. I realize the wasp is just looking for a way out and the phone guy is just trying to rewire my office. Yet, I worry all the same. Don’t break my skin, nor my window.
The serious stuff: XCP needs registrations. I haven’t called the publics for liason capabilities. I just got the okay. ACE needs library interaction. We’ll set something up for the second week of school but it all takes planning. PALS starts in 3 weeks and I don’t think we are ready to serve our own public never mind theirs. I have a class in two days and I haven’t even looked at the schedule. Should I be worried that security clocked in but lied about where they went? Should I be concerned that I’m ignoring the vacation time I’m supposed to be taking? I don’t like butting heads with the clearly not here.
The other life: We bought a treadmill and I nearly ran 2.5 miles in 35 minutes. That doesn’t seem like much but consider this – warm up AND cool down are included in that 35. I’m getting there but I’ll blog elsewhere about the details. Grandad is giving up the fight. I hope he sees ghosts. My friend is pining for a married someone and she can’t walk away. Won’t let go. I don’t know who is hurting more. Cape Cod seemed a necessary journey if only to call it home. I recognize the damaged goods in myself. Thank you letters are not flowing from the pen like they should. What more can you say beyond simple gratitude? I got your letter. I’m just thinking of something to say beyond HowAreyou?
Time tempted: I made chicken tortilla soup last night. Red peppers and sweet vidalias sauteed with chunks of chicken, salt, pepper, coriander, thyme and cumin. Fresh salsa. Avocado, lime, tomatoes, cilantro, homemade tortilla strips seasoned with chili and cajun spices. Pepper jack cheese. Served with chili-lime corn on the cob and cold beer. Summer fiesta. Tonight I want to smoke pork chops in sweet apple wood chips. Serve them with crispy garlic green beans and chunky apple sauce…or maybe roasted broccoli and spicy apple rings made from Grannies. I don’t have a lot of time to think out meals.
Two nights ago I slept in fear of calf cramps. Last night the dreams were worse. I see you as I want you to be.
Are You There? part two
I ride the bus from time to time. I like to leave the driving to Greyhound every so often. It allows me to read uninterupted. Think without stopping. Be without moving… among other things.
The first part of my ride was a lesson in conversations with kids. Bouncing, loud, over-the-top kids. But, after they debarked I was able to open my book and read until Boston. Pure bliss…even it was one of those 1800’s romancy things.
Once in Boston we switched buses. I thought the longer your ride, the nicer the bus. Not so in this state. This particular bus had problems with the overhead lights, the AC, the foot rests and the driver. The lights and AC simply didn’t work. I moved three times and finally gave up. I had bruises from the foot rest snapping back into place and hitting my ankles on the way up. I kept forgetting they didn’t work either until finally I sat with my feet tucked underneath me. I had heart palpitations whenever the driver would blow red lights and drift into other lanes of traffic. He gave new meaning to the phrase Bat Out of Hell. Trying to ignore this, I turned to my mp3 player for distraction and listened to every song at least twice. I couldn’t figure out how to turn the repeat function off. To make matters worse the battery ran down until finally, I couldn’t get the off button to function so, ironically, I listened to These Are Days four times before the player finally quit for good and all I had left was silence.
I think Manda will appreciate where I am going with this story. I am pleased to announce that I love my phone. More specifically, I love the text function on my phone. Somewhere along my journey I found I had a text message from a very smart man. I think he knew that I wouldn’t actually call anyone while on the bus so he wrote, texted me, whatever. I texted him back – is that the right way to say I sent a text reply? A few moments later he wrote again and I discovered we were headed in the same direction. I have no clue how he was responding since he was driving at the same time. It’s hard enough just sitting there, leaving the driving to someone else to text! The conversation turned to updates: where are you now? What are YOU now? Sitting in the dark, clutching the phone I waited for it to vibrate so I could reply again. Are you there? At one point he announced he was only minutes behind me. I dared him to catch up. Despite the impossibility of it, I giggled at the thought and actually watched out the window, half expecting the silver streak of a kayak laden car to go speeding by.
My friend saved my sanity that night. There was a darker reason for taking the bus that day. For me, riding with strangers is the fastest way to feeling lonely. I force myself into crowded solitude to feel the sadness of being by myself. Like an addict cutting himself to feel pain, my invisible knife was 5.5 hours alone with my thoughts. Only, at the end of my journey I wasn’t alone. Someone got me to smile at the idea of being just behind me; at the mere thought of catching up to me.
Are You There? part one
This is a half kid, half conversation story for Sarah.
Kid part:
I was waiting to leave on the 4:15pm bus. Ahead of me I had a 5.5 hour ride that would normally take only 3. True to form I forgot lunch (and breakfast) and was trying to inhale a bad bag of Cool Ranch. I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand people eating stinky food in cramped spaces – there’s no way to escape the smell. Anyway, I was trying to mind my own business while two little girls raced around me. Running, playing on the phones, jumping off the curb, screeching and screaming while their parents were nowhere in sight. Soon enough the older girl spied my bag and asked for a chip. I showed her the emptiness and lamented that the pig in me had emerged. I had nothing to share. That didn’t stop her from striking up a conversation, though. Suddenly deemed safe by some unknown intuition she proceded to question everything about me. Why are you wearing those shoes? Where’s your purse? Are you going home? Have you seen Casper? Did you hear that train? Did you know my mother lets me eat chocolate? I’m going to Worcester. Where are you going?
Soon it was time to board the bus, “Michael’s Teddy” (I came this close to getting on “Princess Tiger Lily”). Out of nowhere mom and dad emerged and herded the two little girls onto “Michael’s Teddy” while carrying a newborn in a carrier. I was a little relieved when dad barked an order for the girls to head to the back of the bus, but equally surprised when one of the little girls burst into tears, crying “I want to stay with the lady!” I looked around for the “lady” only to realize she meant me. I’m the lady. Both girls wanted to sit up front…on my lap.
Five minutes out of the terminal and the younger girl turned out to be a boy. With long, dark, curly hair that hung down his back I could only stare. She had been a sweet girl and suddenly, with the reveal of Superman pull-ups he was a beautiful, dark eyed boy. All of four years old with a fixation on McDonalds. Every time we would pass a sign or restaurant he would scream out “McDonalds!” The older child, definitely still a girl, calling herself Princess, would perk up each and every time and shout “where?!” without fail. Princess taught me a game – something involving singing and clapping about a Miss Merry-Something-Er-Rather. She talked nonstop about school, her friends, her jeans, her homework, her little brother, her mother’s boyfriend, her brother’s dad, her dad (not all the same person), her lost umbrella and hated lunch meat. Every time she would get up to make her way back to see her mom her sneaky brother would bounce into her place beside me and with hungry eyes ask if he could hold my watch, try on my ring, wear my hair ties, look at the book I was reading. He asked me if I liked McDonalds, the Yankees, buses, him. How could I say no?
90 minutes later the children reached their destination and left me without so much as an over-the-shoulder goodbye. I waited for the mother to thank me for entertaining her kids. As she came up the bus aisle I looked up expectantly, prepared to say, “you’re welcome. You have great kids.” Not only did she continue by without a word, she didn’t even look me in the eye. Thanks for nothing. PS~ I hate the Yankees.
To be continued…..
My Hero
I have to blog about this. It might offend someone. No, it probably will offend someone. The truth is in-your-face dirty.
Years ago when I started the whole blog thing I had decided I would write about the first thing that came to my head – the first and only thing. That has been modified to include what’s important to me and what I simply cannot get off the brain. Writing is an effort to nudge some thoughts out of the head, get out what I can’t stop pondering. Here’s what is sticking right now: I have one prescription and I can bet you know what it’s for. Before Walgreens I would, once a month, TRY to remember to call ahead to get it refilled. Calling ahead meant I could run in, state my name, pay, and run back out. BingBangBoom. Sometimes, I would forget and would have to wait while some pimply teenage receptionist boy scrutinized my medical records and got the pharmacist to fill the prescription. This sit-and-wait episode would cause anxiety because of my overactive imagination. It wasn’t like I could pick up the prescription and go. Sitting and waiting meant they, the behind the counter pharmacy men, could put a face to a name, put a pill to person. Me. I am always painfully aware that this pill is a sex pill. Yes, it’s so I can have sex without having to agonize once a month over Am I? or Am I Not? Yeah. Yeah, it has other benefits like an easier time of the month, clearer skin and all that, but more importantly the pill spares me from peeing on a plastic stick and perspiring while expecting the blue line (or happy face or whatever it is these days). But, having to wait while the prescription is being filled is like wearing a sign. I have sex. I told you – overactive imagination at work here. I guess it’s like this for people with more embarrassing ailments, predicaments that a particular pill gives away. When the guy with an STD comes in I imagine the pharmacist shaking his head, thinking “you poor bastard” as he hands him his topical ointment.
So it comes down to this. Walgreens. I love Walgreens. I can’t believe how simple they have made my life. Instead of me calling them to fill the prescription, they call me. Automatically. No more calling ahead. No more forgetting to call ahead. It’s a beautiful thing.
Black Blame Game
This. This picture is what I thought about when trying to meditate at Now & Zen Yoga studio last night. It looks like a whole lot nothing, a clear mind…but look carefully. Something is there. Something lurks. Just like in my head, something was on the fringe of calm; just on the edge of quiet. Blame. Ruth called it Wanting vs. Not Wanting. Like a psychobabble tennis match, I bounced between the two. I want to be as confident HERE as when I am THERE. I do not want to worry about this zit mutating on my chin. Why can’t I not worry about it HERE like I didn’t worry about it THERE? As this volleying went on I felt panic set in. I was slipping away from the calm and quiet I had so proudly achieved just moments before. Where was that peaceful easy feeling? Why was I thinking about how awful I am all of a sudden? The blame game was in full swing. Was I completely losing it? Was I stepping off the train and utterly missing the boat?
Fortunately, I was able to grab the bouncing ball and stop the guilt game for the rest of the session. But. but, but here it is again. In my court. Thanks to Ms. Klein. We write parallel blogs. Maybe not on the same days, but sooner or later we talk about similar things. Since I have missed a week of her writings I’m a few blogs behind. Today I read about fault. It took me by surprise because that was the very game that I was playing last night in the middle of a meditation class. Try as she might, Ms. Klein was not able to convince herself it was someone else’s fault. It always came back to her and the question of what she did wrong. Just like how I keep coming back to my split personality problem. I’m like a boater who doesn’t know how to skull, so I keep going around in circles with my one oar. Someone can tell me it’s a question of confidence. I’ve figured that one out on my own. Someone can tell me it’s an issue with comfort. I got that, too. I have all the answers. What I still don’t know is WHY.
Maybe some things aren’t meant to be figured out. Maybe being in the dark with only a hint of the answers is how it has to be. Maybe, in this one case, I need to let the mystery be. Oddly enough, this comforts me. It also brings out the creative thoughts in me. Who says I can’t be there permanently some day?
Sigh of this Soul
This is my first night home. I remember being exhausted from not sleeping well the night before (I never can in a strange place); tired from traveling all day; tired from being on the water (boats always make me drowsy), and tired from that other life’s load. It was a relief to finally set it down.
We ordered pizza right off the boat. The Humble, large with mom. Sue set aside goat cheese and a decadent dessert for me. Chocolate and cream. We crowded around the dining room table and laughingly devoured it with wine. Welcome home. I felt like a six year old, like Queen Eloise. Skipping and giggling, giddy to be back where I belonged.
Later, Kisa and I slipped away to view the dying light of day, just the two of us, hand in hand. A simple hike to what I call Heather’s point. With arms around each other we talked the “what ifs” of living here, working here, loving here, being here for good. Wild fantasy and speculation gave way to silence as we pondered the possibilities. Lost in our own thoughts of what could be. On that first day nothing seemed impossible.
Small House
I met someone who doesn’t believe in fairies or faeries. He does not believe in the kind that gather in P’town, nor the ones we build houses for and make wishes to. Our fanciful ideas are nothing but overactive imaginations for the fairies or faeries of either kind, according to him. I have to say it again. According to him.
I guess after reading this news article I’m still thinking of that lie, “to each his own”, spoken like the truth, like it came from the heart.
I think it’s innovative to let the imagination fly. How enticing to think of what could be, what should be! I have to admit it bugs me when someone says no without considering the possibilities. A flat out no is like a stab to the heart. Where is the maybe? What happened to the we’ll see? Why not possibly? When can we try?
We build faery houses for no other reason than to feel like a kid again; to shirk duty and grownup ways…if only for an afternoon. Crouching down to balance stick to bark, building rock walkways and leafy beds. Taking it all oh so seriously. I remember the faery condo G and I made, imagining ours to be the biggest and the bestest. Awards were made for condos such as this, we thought.
Maybe this is where I learned my love of possibility, of taking dares with Yes. Where the only no heard is the one sandwiched between k and w of “I don’t kNOw.” Because even I don’t know leaves the door open, just a crack, for yes.
Majesty
I’m feeling a little less than majestic; a little less regal and more royal pain in the ass, lately. I don’t know why. Yes, I do. Do I dare say why? Yes. Yes, I do. I don’t feel like a queen in your world. There, I said it. Outloud. Loudly out there.
I think about a perfect storm – when weather conditions have to be just right for something big to happen. Something spectacular, nothing short of jeweled orgasmic. Several different conditions come together to create something powerful and explosive. Each individual condition alone and on its own would be puny, laughable, forgotten even…but, with all elements combined together you have something to sneeze at. A force to be reckoned with. A goddamn hurricane Ophelia times ten. You said my conditions had to be perfect and for the moment I agreed, only because I couldn’t think of how to respond and well, because you seemed right. Again. Correct as usual, King Friday. Only…not so much now that I think about it. And think about it, I have – now that I’m not on the spot. Now, I have a rebuttal.
They say actions speak louder than words. So, I have been the screaming one. In the bathtub I sunk below the water to drown my passions. Before work, I stifled my ambitions to be something else. Even before grocery shopping I let myself cry out with hunger. I raised my stakes and shouted my interest. But, but, but my actions were lost without the royal (dis)order. I lost my voice. Actions stay silent in my world because, according to you, we need a perfect storm. Perfect conditions.
I am medicated for no reason.
Senza Figli.
Dot3 Dash3 Dot3
I had been connected, plugged in, and glued to the Live Earth concert pretty much all day. Somehow, we managed to go out for breakfast (gotta love it when the waitress remembers the vinegar the first time requested), write up menus and grocery lists for the island trip (we’ve decided on pizza the first night – go figure), exchange the xBox360 so my kisa doesn’t go insane, pick up ankle weights and two running books so tigrelily doesn’t go insane, walk five miles and still had time to witness some of the best bands from the day. I am sorry I missed out on Corinne Bailey Rae and John Legend, though.
Shakira, Snoop Dog, Missy Higgins, Genesis, David Gray, Metallica, KT Tunstall, Yusef, Chris Cornell, Joss Stone, James Blunt, Xuxa, Foo Fighters, Beastie Boys, even Nunatak, the Antartica band of scientists. I was really excited to see them since I have such an affinity for the Antartic. Dave Matthews Band (just knew they would perform Too Much and Don’t Drink the Water), Alicia Keyes, Madonna, and of course Bubblicious. I loved his decision to call it “We’re NOT Waiting on the world to change”….
I am anxious to go home. My carbon footprint on the island is much smaller than the one here, in this life. At home I am a 0.9 as opposed to a 12.7. Here, I am big foot. Giant foot. Embarrassing foot. It feels wasteful, awful. Today we bought eco-friendly lightbulbs and talked about the Prius, maybe my next car.
Answer the call. I suppose I should think of that literally because my phone is ringing.
Edited to add: TiVo loves me. It recorded all the artists I missed (and wanted to see): Jack Johnson, Corinne and John and even one I didn’t know I wanted to see – DRUMMERS! Yay!
Battlefront of Id and Ego
Let’s stand up and be counted, shall we? How many of us lie to our personalities, aren’t true to our own true selves? Especially those of us with a first impression to make? I want to say I’m honest when it comes to the first 30 seconds of “nice to meet you” but, then again there isn’t much to lie about. I speak my mind. I will tell you how I feel, what I believe in (or not). I can be “in your face” with my opinions. I will love you forever or walk away. I can’t come off any smarter, prettier, funnier so what’s the point in trying? What you see is what you get. What I hide is insecurity, self-doubt and the amazing ability to sell myself short. I’ve got it down to an art. But, even that doesn’t stay hidden forever. That truth will surface sooner or later. No lying.
As for others, I love people who say “I can respect that” and mean it, really mean it. The people who say with all honesty, “I see what you are saying.” Does that sound familiar, kisa? It’s like they are the people with ability to see the glass from every direction. They walk around it, circle it, inspecting all the facts, and weighing the opinions of half full and half empty and, in the end, despite disagreeing, still say, “I can respect that.” What they are really saying is I don’t agree with you but I won’t hold that against you. It is the attitude of come as you are. So appealing, so attractive, so impressive. Here’s the deal. I’m learning to walk around the glass. I’m learning to see the invisible angles. I see what you’re saying.
Come as you are, but let me be me if that’s what you really, truly preach. No lying. I now walk away.
Edited to add: There are times when I get freaked out by coincidences – especially those involving complete strangers. I consider Stephanie a complete stranger yet I read her blog pretty religiously. We share the same viewpoints on food and the food network, friends…stuff like that. So, imagine my surprise when she blogged about “to each his own” yesterday. She even says, “it’s why Baskin’ Robbins has 31 flavors” (I love the way she writes, by the way). Coincidentally (again), I should have written mine yesterday, but I took some advice and slept on it. Okay, so Stephanie delves into a topic I could never think about much less write about (swinging), but you get the point. Variety is the spice of life…and…to each his (or HER) own! Rock on, Steph! Thank you for putting it into words much better than my own.
Waiting…
Butterflies. That’s the only way to describe the feeling of being this excited about something. How can I explain this without selling out? It started with an idea shared with a friend. Originally, I wanted it to be our idea – something to share. When she handed it back to me I thought I would harbor a disappointment for longer. Instead, I resurfaced inspired by the secret. I vowed to keep it private, sharing it only with myself and moi. They, in their weird way, will help me through this construction area. I only hope blonds have more fun.
Art & Water – I said I was stalking you. I lied when I didn’t say why. I know why. I do. I feel the box closing in on me when I am so close to breaking free. So close to being normal. My heart has been shredded, chewed up and puked up when it comes to guilt. I can fall on a thousand swords and never forgive myself. Dramatic? Hell yes. When it comes to history I don’t know myself like you do.
Before The Accident
A friend reminded me that I haven’t put up a BubbleGum post in a while. It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say. Kisa loaded me up with secret shows (gotta love new music), John posted a halarious video on his site about illegal dogfights off stage (the part about Brutus getting loose is the best part), there’s a buzz about The Breakup (he was too smart for her, IMHO), and then there’s that haircut. (Now, he completely reminds me of a certain artist – don’t hate me SB, but in some pictures the resemblance is uncanny, um…creepy even. Sorry!)
What I can talk about is something a little more profound, something a little more BryanAdams straight from the heart. I forget what show it was but BubbleGum was chatting with the crowd as he often does. He started off with something funny but then launched into about only having one life to live. Go ahead and groan. You’ve heard this from me before. It’s the only life you’ve got so live it to the fullest, blah, blah, blah. But, here’s a different take on it. This is life as you know it, as Bubble says “before the accident.” Okay, so it may not be an accident per se, so fill in your own blank. Life before ______. Here’s an example: Some people blame their current beliefs, actions, downfalls, whatever, on September 11th and they preface defensively with “before 9/11 I didn’t…” So, now you know what I mean. Tomorrow you could be hit by a car and paralyzed from the waist down. Your days become separated into “before the accident” and “after the accident.” I know all about this. I hear a date, say 1995, and I immediately think, “three years after dad died.” I’m constantly doing the math. There are other dates that trigger that response, too. I think everyone has a timeline that resonates a “before” and “after.” But, But. Here is my question. How are you going to live your life before the next accident?
BubbleGum said many tomorrows from now your topics of conversation will circle around how many medications you have to take and how you can’t remember what you had for dinner the night before. You might need diapers, a walker, or hearing aid. Many tomorrows from now you will be saying, “before I got old…” It’s a different kind of accident, an unavoidable one at that, but one to consider.
What I Don’t Have
What I don’t have is hair sense. I’m the girl who has two styles, ponytail up or just plain down. What I don’t have is the ability to go chignon fancy. What I do have is a friend with classic style and grace.
What I don’t have is matching accessories. I’m the girl with the $5 fish that circles my thumb. What I don’t have is where to start with the silk scarf. What I do have is a friend with maturity and wisdom.
What I don’t have is a cool demeanor. I’m the girl who can rant about razor burn for an hour. What I don’t have is class. What I do have is a friend who is sweet and funny.
What I don’t have is the ability to make small talk with you. I’m the girl who circles her friends and asks their advice. What I don’t have is patience. What I do have is a friend who walks the walk, talks the talk. Straight up.
What I don’t have is strut. I’m the girl who can’t find sexy shoes that fit (but I’m working on it, Ruby). What I don’t have is a stop-’em-dead-in-their-tracks swagger. What I have is a friend who is confident and beautiful enough for the both of us.
So, I’m not fancy. I don’t have that kind of personality. I don’t have fukc me pumps so I’ll settle for cute maryjanes. But. But, what I DO have is an amazing group of people in my life who are stylish, graceful, mature, wise, sweet, smart, straight forward, confident and beautiful with a little bogger thrown in for fun. When I asked, they rallied. When I asked, they answered. That’s all that matters.
Thank you.
~*LunaSea*~ 