It's almost 1:00. I should probably put on my glasses. And pants.
Dance-cleaning. Coffee. Goddamn Facebook, of course, because lonely and attention.
I think my Liz Phair Pandora station makes me cool and hip, when, in fact, no song on there so far is fewer than ten years old, and I wouldn't know if it was. This cracks me up. I am cool and hip!
Lots of Rilo Kiley, Regina Spektor, Kate Nash. Weezer isn't afraid to show up (their Blue album is 20+ years old. Get out!). Hey, it's the Pixies! The presence of their songs makes me feel cool and hip, when, in fact, there are maybe three of their songs that ever show up, and I wouldn't know if any others did. I like them, though. Because I am cool and hip.
More coffee, I think. Whee!
Usually, Saturday stales around 4, when I realize time's a'tickin' toward Monday, but I get J at 4 today. I was so worried about him spending time with the ex-husb, but I find I love the time to myself (my music! no pants!), and being away from J makes him drive me somewhat less bonkers with his crazy teenage shit. Damn, I luh dat kid. We're getting Chinese then doing a mega grocery trip when I get him.
Currently in my fridge? Milk, coffee creamer, yogurt, cheese (damn, that's a lot of dairy... huh), old eggs, two containers that need emptied and washed, hot dogs, and Newcastle I bought at Christmas. A tiny bit ashamed, but it also amused. I will have a Newcastle tonight. Yes, bitch.
More coffee. It holds off the appetite and there's nothing in my fridge. Ha!
Glasses on (and Mazzy Star... that's a whoooooole other post...). It's hours before I have to get J, though. Hell with pants.
Will be back for seconds.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Fallow
Contemplating poetry vs just saying it.
I'm lonely.
I suppose I'm not "ready" (whatever the hell that really means) to be in a "relationship." Doesn't mean I don't really, really want one.
Yep, no poetry here. Just the feeling.
The music has been good lately. And I'm getting things done around the house that I have put off for ages. I feel less "stuck," which is just short of miraculous. Why isn't that enough? I think about my last post... care, write, music, be happy... Why isn't it enough? Why can't I lie down at night and be grateful for all that's going well, rather than sad for what I don't have. Is it just human nature? Habit? If I try hard enough, can I make myself non-lonely, non-longing?
Not sure who the hell I'm asking.
Oh, I miss having regular friends, too. Everyone is at arm's length, and that's pretty damn close for me. I miss having friends who know my shit. I stopped letting people know my shit when I started seeing the person I would eventually marry and divorce. That person introduced a level of crazy and sad and shame I had never had before. It was my fault for letting him in and letting it go on. But what he did was not my fault. His anger, abuse, fear... I own none of that. It wasn't my fault and I didn't deserve it. The side effects linger, though. I closed myself off. I hid. I'm still hiding. I'm used to hiding.
I have been slowly, slowly un-hiding over the past few months. A date. A brief fling. A somewhat revealing blog (which no one's reading, but whatever). Slightly more eye contact than I used to make. I have a lot of healing to go, though. Which, I guess, is why I am still alone with no friends closer than arm's length. I guess that's closer than it used to be, though.
No poetry here today. Just release.
An empty field, waiting. Spring grows warmer, though. Maybe there's something to that. (I thought about trying to haiku that up, but I don't really feel like it. Just let it lie.)
The music is good lately. Hurts and heals.
I'm lonely.
I suppose I'm not "ready" (whatever the hell that really means) to be in a "relationship." Doesn't mean I don't really, really want one.
Yep, no poetry here. Just the feeling.
The music has been good lately. And I'm getting things done around the house that I have put off for ages. I feel less "stuck," which is just short of miraculous. Why isn't that enough? I think about my last post... care, write, music, be happy... Why isn't it enough? Why can't I lie down at night and be grateful for all that's going well, rather than sad for what I don't have. Is it just human nature? Habit? If I try hard enough, can I make myself non-lonely, non-longing?
Not sure who the hell I'm asking.
Oh, I miss having regular friends, too. Everyone is at arm's length, and that's pretty damn close for me. I miss having friends who know my shit. I stopped letting people know my shit when I started seeing the person I would eventually marry and divorce. That person introduced a level of crazy and sad and shame I had never had before. It was my fault for letting him in and letting it go on. But what he did was not my fault. His anger, abuse, fear... I own none of that. It wasn't my fault and I didn't deserve it. The side effects linger, though. I closed myself off. I hid. I'm still hiding. I'm used to hiding.
I have been slowly, slowly un-hiding over the past few months. A date. A brief fling. A somewhat revealing blog (which no one's reading, but whatever). Slightly more eye contact than I used to make. I have a lot of healing to go, though. Which, I guess, is why I am still alone with no friends closer than arm's length. I guess that's closer than it used to be, though.
No poetry here today. Just release.
An empty field, waiting. Spring grows warmer, though. Maybe there's something to that. (I thought about trying to haiku that up, but I don't really feel like it. Just let it lie.)
The music is good lately. Hurts and heals.
Saturday, April 16, 2016
Thirteen lucky petals
(This was actually written on 4/13... by hand, even! So pretend for a minute that you're reading this on that date. K, thanks.)
J and I took out the garbage tonight and played outside. J inadvertently scared two pigeons out of their hiding spot which, in turn, scared him out of his skin ("I can feel the adrenaline in my tongue..."). He hopped to the top of a retaining wall, light as a cat. I climbed it, graceful as an elephant. We raced to the car and laughed. He spent the evening in the living room with me.
We should take out the garbage more often. We must play more often.
I have been somewhat afraid of thirteens in recent years. I'm not sure why. I know it's all superstition. Still, in life's difficult or stressful or worrisome situations, when a thirteen was added to the mix, I would be hit with a small but powerful emotional "d'oh!" Like the time I, a nervous-ish flyer, was seated in row thirteen of the airplane (d'oh!). Or when my latest poetry club started at school and I was nervous enough, and on the first day I had thirteen students (d'oh!). Or being in the midst of an uncertain and emotional situation, on the edge of an ending I didn't want, and the 13th of the month was looming (sigh... d'oh...).
So I approached today with trepidation. And the difficult bit did come to pass. Not a huge bit. Not a bridge burned or an awful exchange or anything, but the sad choice to say goodbye to something. It hurt. I was disappointed. I let a few tears fall. It wasn't a choice I wanted to make, but I felt I needed to, so I did it.
And then my day improved. Exponentially. To the thirteenth power.
After goodbye and the thirteen or so tears, I felt stronger... I felt strong. The best part is, I realized almost immediately that I had learned from what I lost. I recently saw a quote by attributed to Confucius: "Learning without thought is labor lost; thought without learning is perilous." I have thought long about this situation while I was in it. I think a lot about things. I often struggle (yeah, or don't bother) to find or adequately consider the lesson in them, though. I learned from this one, though, and I feel real strength and happiness in that.
Here's what I got:
When you don't take care of things, people will think you don't care
The purpose of writing is to get rid of the garbage
Music is not to make you feel better or worse, it's to let you know you aren't alone
He wants me to be happy
Here's what I'll remember:
Care Write Music Be happy
And tonight, this 13th evening of the month, I learned from taking out the garbage and playing with J. I learned to remember to take out the garbage with J. I learned to remember to play with J. And I think maybe I learned to stop being afraid of thirteens.
J and I took out the garbage tonight and played outside. J inadvertently scared two pigeons out of their hiding spot which, in turn, scared him out of his skin ("I can feel the adrenaline in my tongue..."). He hopped to the top of a retaining wall, light as a cat. I climbed it, graceful as an elephant. We raced to the car and laughed. He spent the evening in the living room with me.
We should take out the garbage more often. We must play more often.
I have been somewhat afraid of thirteens in recent years. I'm not sure why. I know it's all superstition. Still, in life's difficult or stressful or worrisome situations, when a thirteen was added to the mix, I would be hit with a small but powerful emotional "d'oh!" Like the time I, a nervous-ish flyer, was seated in row thirteen of the airplane (d'oh!). Or when my latest poetry club started at school and I was nervous enough, and on the first day I had thirteen students (d'oh!). Or being in the midst of an uncertain and emotional situation, on the edge of an ending I didn't want, and the 13th of the month was looming (sigh... d'oh...).
So I approached today with trepidation. And the difficult bit did come to pass. Not a huge bit. Not a bridge burned or an awful exchange or anything, but the sad choice to say goodbye to something. It hurt. I was disappointed. I let a few tears fall. It wasn't a choice I wanted to make, but I felt I needed to, so I did it.
And then my day improved. Exponentially. To the thirteenth power.
After goodbye and the thirteen or so tears, I felt stronger... I felt strong. The best part is, I realized almost immediately that I had learned from what I lost. I recently saw a quote by attributed to Confucius: "Learning without thought is labor lost; thought without learning is perilous." I have thought long about this situation while I was in it. I think a lot about things. I often struggle (yeah, or don't bother) to find or adequately consider the lesson in them, though. I learned from this one, though, and I feel real strength and happiness in that.
Here's what I got:
When you don't take care of things, people will think you don't care
The purpose of writing is to get rid of the garbage
Music is not to make you feel better or worse, it's to let you know you aren't alone
He wants me to be happy
Here's what I'll remember:
Care Write Music Be happy
And tonight, this 13th evening of the month, I learned from taking out the garbage and playing with J. I learned to remember to take out the garbage with J. I learned to remember to play with J. And I think maybe I learned to stop being afraid of thirteens.
Wednesday, April 6, 2016
Compost
I took all the fruit and seeds and stems and leaves and put them in a bin. It all turned into... crap.
I had step-grandparents when I was younger. They lived on several acres and they had many animals and a huge garden. After Grandpa passed, several people from the community and their church would come in the spring and summer and work the garden for Grandma. I remember people would go to the goat pen and get "good rich dirt" for the garden. That's what they called it. But it was really just goat poop that had been there for a long time, right?
What a shitty metaphor I'm working on here (haha... shitty...). What I was eventually hoping to get around to was that sometimes good things can come out of the bad (swung right from a bad metaphor to a cliche, there... Awesome). Sometimes crap can turn into something that really helps things grow.
There's been a lot of crap since 2010 when I last freaking blogged. There's been a lot of crap since YESTerday. Quite frankly, I'm sick of the crap.
So.
It's time to turn that shit into "good rich dirt." Time to grow for real. Someone with an MA and a bunch of other letters recently told me that I am "really stuck" and "just so damaged." It was sort of vindicating... "SEE? I really AM screwed up! No wonder I'm having such a hard time!" But that went away pretty quickly and I thought, "Oh. I'm really stuck. I am just so damaged. Crap."
And it's the truth, Ruth. A fact, Jack.
Enough is enough. Every day, from now until forever, I have to do the work.
There is so much work.
Sometimes waking up feels like work.
Sometimes fun feels like work.
Growing useful plants from the ground? That has ALWAYS felt like work. I envy those who find the pleasure and the zen in it.
Anyway. I have work to do. It's part of why I started writing this again (this feels like work, too). I have to get my shit together.
And I'm hoping maybe it will stop feeling like shit, stop feeling like work, and start to feel like growth and life again.
I had step-grandparents when I was younger. They lived on several acres and they had many animals and a huge garden. After Grandpa passed, several people from the community and their church would come in the spring and summer and work the garden for Grandma. I remember people would go to the goat pen and get "good rich dirt" for the garden. That's what they called it. But it was really just goat poop that had been there for a long time, right?
What a shitty metaphor I'm working on here (haha... shitty...). What I was eventually hoping to get around to was that sometimes good things can come out of the bad (swung right from a bad metaphor to a cliche, there... Awesome). Sometimes crap can turn into something that really helps things grow.
There's been a lot of crap since 2010 when I last freaking blogged. There's been a lot of crap since YESTerday. Quite frankly, I'm sick of the crap.
So.
It's time to turn that shit into "good rich dirt." Time to grow for real. Someone with an MA and a bunch of other letters recently told me that I am "really stuck" and "just so damaged." It was sort of vindicating... "SEE? I really AM screwed up! No wonder I'm having such a hard time!" But that went away pretty quickly and I thought, "Oh. I'm really stuck. I am just so damaged. Crap."
And it's the truth, Ruth. A fact, Jack.
Enough is enough. Every day, from now until forever, I have to do the work.
There is so much work.
Sometimes waking up feels like work.
Sometimes fun feels like work.
Growing useful plants from the ground? That has ALWAYS felt like work. I envy those who find the pleasure and the zen in it.
Anyway. I have work to do. It's part of why I started writing this again (this feels like work, too). I have to get my shit together.
And I'm hoping maybe it will stop feeling like shit, stop feeling like work, and start to feel like growth and life again.
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