it took several years of practice
a lifetime, in fact
but it was finally down to an art;
he had it down pat!
his grey head nodding
underneath a gray hat
asleep in the buffet line
where the plates were all stacked.
8 months ago
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
a comment on the youth of 2008
little mr. big man
walking around
starbucks in hand.
when i was your age
you had to reach a certain...stage
of maturity to drink that stuff.
see, caffeine is a personal choice,
one that only an adult should make,
because you have to live with the
consequences.
these days nothing is sacred at all
not coffee, not cell phones, and I wish we could draw
the line here--
but not even sex.
walking around
starbucks in hand.
when i was your age
you had to reach a certain...stage
of maturity to drink that stuff.
see, caffeine is a personal choice,
one that only an adult should make,
because you have to live with the
consequences.
these days nothing is sacred at all
not coffee, not cell phones, and I wish we could draw
the line here--
but not even sex.
Monday, September 15, 2008
expression is too big
she wrote it everywhere
on her whiteboard first
appropriately
sloppily
and then intentionally onto walls
painted white
calling the words to them like giant sheets of
computer paper
floor to ceiling, they craved the syllables
the slow curve of each "C"
the violent slash of "i" and "h"
and with clear voices they called her hand
she walked dragging her fingers, dipped in
ink
charcoal-ed tips, burnt branches singed by the language they released
the door remained the last
pure canvas
a closed mouth waiting
to be opened
to sing
on her whiteboard first
appropriately
sloppily
and then intentionally onto walls
painted white
calling the words to them like giant sheets of
computer paper
floor to ceiling, they craved the syllables
the slow curve of each "C"
the violent slash of "i" and "h"
and with clear voices they called her hand
she walked dragging her fingers, dipped in
ink
charcoal-ed tips, burnt branches singed by the language they released
the door remained the last
pure canvas
a closed mouth waiting
to be opened
to sing
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
school woes: two periods left in the day
it is thick, palpable, tangible
i hold it in my hand and roll it from one side of my palm to the other
watch it loll lazily, sluggishly, slowly
it makes my eyes feel heavy,
falling to half-lid--
a sad proclamation of the state of things--
it pours sand under my skin
and makes it impossible for me to move but to drag myself
from one place to the other
this tiredness, this weariness, this rot inside my bones
distracts me and i am the minute hand
ticking each second away methodically
i hold it in my hand and roll it from one side of my palm to the other
watch it loll lazily, sluggishly, slowly
it makes my eyes feel heavy,
falling to half-lid--
a sad proclamation of the state of things--
it pours sand under my skin
and makes it impossible for me to move but to drag myself
from one place to the other
this tiredness, this weariness, this rot inside my bones
distracts me and i am the minute hand
ticking each second away methodically
Monday, July 28, 2008
where no camera can go
my eyes are lenses
my brain the camera
i blink
taking endless pictures second by second
focusing on that rich chocolaty brown of my coffee
the smooth, crisp white lines of the rim of my mug
if only i could publish what i see from this perspective
let others see the view from here
and invite them to feel what i feel now as i stare at my feet
and watch leaves cast smudged shadows across the floor by my toes.
my brain the camera
i blink
taking endless pictures second by second
focusing on that rich chocolaty brown of my coffee
the smooth, crisp white lines of the rim of my mug
if only i could publish what i see from this perspective
let others see the view from here
and invite them to feel what i feel now as i stare at my feet
and watch leaves cast smudged shadows across the floor by my toes.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
purple
he exchanged his soft cotton sweatpants for the purple spandex that he was unfortunate enough to be destined to wear. they were so difficult to pull up over his bulging calve muscles and girthy thighs, made huge by so much action, so many opportunities to "work out." he had gotten it down to an art, though, hardly noticing the way it mercilessly squeezed his skin tightly together, like being inside the digestive track of a large snake. he decided daily to look past the way it pulled his leg hair out as he struggled to pull them up. he ran his hands over the rubbery, eggplant smoothness of the lower half of his costume--costume, could you call it a costume? it was a representation of this double life he lived.
usually he was yanking on these glorified rubber bands in his haste to get to the next "mission," to solve the next "problem," but he was simply trying them on this time, taking time to measure their effectiveness and assess his need for improvements. he was startled by the hollow clicking of Marcie's stilettos on the shiny wooden floors of his house. he had these floors installed for just this purpose--for all his strength, his hearing was his kryptonite and he needed whatever help he could get. each definitive CLICK CLICK was closer than the last, and his brown broke out in a sweat as he stumbled out of his spandex, falling to the floor as they stuck around his ankles, grape colored feet cuffs, making him a desperate prisoner for an endless 30 seconds. there was a soft scrape at the base of his door as she came to a stop and moved her left foot into that impatient pose she often assumed.
SPPPPPPPT. SPPPPPPPT. SPPPPPPT. his curiosity made him pause on his side, one foot out and one foot in.
SPPPPPPTSPPPPPPTSPPPPPPTSPPPPPT. potent aerosol stinging his nostrils. the key hole spat a fiery mist into the room as the sound persisted. he watched it settle and cling to the floor in tiny droplets--a miniature crime scene of a murdered orange. he listened a while, unwilling to move until the SPPT'ing stopped and her legs-long with tiny calves that got unusually bigger as they climbed upwards-CLICKED away across the polished oak flooring of the hall, across the recently varnished living room and finally taking her through the front door onto the long, winding stone walkway. the door closed firmly behind her.
he waited to hear the purring of an engine and the grinding of gravel as it spun under retreating wheels, before kicking off the last of the purple tights and, in his tighty whities (that gave him underwear lines but he wasnt able to shed yet, even after 6 months. he often kept his cape pulled together in the front to hide them), gingerly opening his bedroom door to survey the mystery on the other side.
"BERLIN, LAST SUMMER" it read, its unmistakable orange color bleeding slowly down the door, eventually drying in globs several inches down. each letter was neatly drawn, like computer print, a stark contrast to the way it was messily weeping.
he settled across the hall, sliding to his bottom with his back resting against the wall, below the large picture of a yacht at sea, facing the cryptic message squarely. he remembered last summer, remembered when the microwave had turned on at 2am and ran by itself for three hours before waking him up with the pungent smell--so pungent he could taste the charcoal in its scent--that called him to unplug it and toss it in the back yard. he found buddy licking out its insides later that morning when he was opening all the windows to air the house. that started his summer. a couple of other appliances followed the microwave's suicidal example as the weeks stretched on; the toaster was next, then the coffee maker, and finally the stove that was only a year old. the deterioration of his kitchen--the electrician said it had something to do with his sockets--led him to venture into the city he tried to avoid. by the end of july, he had eaten at almost every restaurant within 50 miles. he was not one to eat the same thing over and over again; which is why he preferred to cook at home, looking up recipes on his computer that wouldnt connect to the Internet any other way but dial up, and so filled his office with static dial tones.
he kept fruit in a bowl on a marble-topped island, but that summer, he was gone so often that he always returned to the staggering odor of rotted bananas and peeled his Florida oranges only to dig his fingers into mushy, spoiled fruit that he would throw on his composte pile and try to keep Buddy from eating.
it was august by the time the air conditioning went out and buddy learned to turn on the hose. he would wake up early in the morning, when the sun had already climbed high enough to set his burning gaze over the entire city, to the high pressured water spraying his window, a torrential downpour on his house alone, each drop heavy as lead and pounding, pounding him awake, as it uncontrollably snaked across the yard. buddy would howl with pleasure and lapped at the spray in the air before it hit the ground, and he would wake to turn the hose off and wouldnt be able to fall back asleep because of the humidity, sticking him like glue to anything he touched.
it was a relief, then, when he was called out of the country--a highly classified mission. of course, everything was "highly classified" since the government had discovered him and forced him out of his private life into the public's great, blinking, unforgivable eye. Berlin was much cooler and he had breathed the thinner air in great gulps. unfortunately, he had spent most of his time there lying face up, staring at the uneventful white stucco ceiling and trying to match footsteps to people. the surgeon was unmistakable, he clunked heavily down the squeaky tile, his geriatric white Keds taking the punishment of his overlarge belly without mercy. each step filled the air with its force and aftershock. he counted each time the surgeon came in to check on the patient, and got to 23 before his client was finally wheeled out for the operation. he was a glorified babysitter that time. this was becoming a usual occurrence.
but he met Marcie that summer. he was not a very assertive man, outside of his purple spandex outfit and sense of justice and urgency. she had made up for his shyness, pulling herself to him by grabbing the knot that tied his cape together. she reached for the mask that concealed the top half of his face--now there out of habit rather than for necessity--and pushed it to rest just above his forehead, giving him just-out-of-bed hair. he remembered the waxy taste of her lipstick; was it supposed to be some kind of berry? it was reminiscent of crayon, and left an oily film on his teeth when she bit his lip. he had taken, not returned, but she gave freely every time anyway. everytime he saw her, that taste-so artificial, so heavy, fell from his memory back onto his tongue and his smacked his lips to get rid of its reminder.
"BERLIN, LAST SUMMER" was it a command to recall their first meeting, how this disastrous relationship began? as if he had forgotten. could it be a goodbye? or her way of forcing her hello into his life again and again and again, an endless greeting.
buddy, who had graduated from hose knobs to doorknobs, trotted across the kitchen tile on TAP TAPPING toenails and dropped yesterday's Wall Street Journal onto his lap (he hadnt quite figured out the importance of dates, and was doing good to assume the role of mailman these days). he pushed it-covered in thick slober-to the side and easily pushed himself to standing. he imagined himself rummaging through his shed for some turpentine, when an article title jumped out at him like a lightening strike, clarity against the hazy darkness of his mind. "THE LOST COURSES OF THE ADIRONDACKS." each bold letter seemed typed neatly into the space of his consciousness.
he ruffled buddy's shaggy head and returned to his bedroom to collect his supersuit, leaving the blaring orange lettering to dry, soaking its message into the wood permanently.
usually he was yanking on these glorified rubber bands in his haste to get to the next "mission," to solve the next "problem," but he was simply trying them on this time, taking time to measure their effectiveness and assess his need for improvements. he was startled by the hollow clicking of Marcie's stilettos on the shiny wooden floors of his house. he had these floors installed for just this purpose--for all his strength, his hearing was his kryptonite and he needed whatever help he could get. each definitive CLICK CLICK was closer than the last, and his brown broke out in a sweat as he stumbled out of his spandex, falling to the floor as they stuck around his ankles, grape colored feet cuffs, making him a desperate prisoner for an endless 30 seconds. there was a soft scrape at the base of his door as she came to a stop and moved her left foot into that impatient pose she often assumed.
SPPPPPPPT. SPPPPPPPT. SPPPPPPT. his curiosity made him pause on his side, one foot out and one foot in.
SPPPPPPTSPPPPPPTSPPPPPPTSPPPPPT. potent aerosol stinging his nostrils. the key hole spat a fiery mist into the room as the sound persisted. he watched it settle and cling to the floor in tiny droplets--a miniature crime scene of a murdered orange. he listened a while, unwilling to move until the SPPT'ing stopped and her legs-long with tiny calves that got unusually bigger as they climbed upwards-CLICKED away across the polished oak flooring of the hall, across the recently varnished living room and finally taking her through the front door onto the long, winding stone walkway. the door closed firmly behind her.
he waited to hear the purring of an engine and the grinding of gravel as it spun under retreating wheels, before kicking off the last of the purple tights and, in his tighty whities (that gave him underwear lines but he wasnt able to shed yet, even after 6 months. he often kept his cape pulled together in the front to hide them), gingerly opening his bedroom door to survey the mystery on the other side.
"BERLIN, LAST SUMMER" it read, its unmistakable orange color bleeding slowly down the door, eventually drying in globs several inches down. each letter was neatly drawn, like computer print, a stark contrast to the way it was messily weeping.
he settled across the hall, sliding to his bottom with his back resting against the wall, below the large picture of a yacht at sea, facing the cryptic message squarely. he remembered last summer, remembered when the microwave had turned on at 2am and ran by itself for three hours before waking him up with the pungent smell--so pungent he could taste the charcoal in its scent--that called him to unplug it and toss it in the back yard. he found buddy licking out its insides later that morning when he was opening all the windows to air the house. that started his summer. a couple of other appliances followed the microwave's suicidal example as the weeks stretched on; the toaster was next, then the coffee maker, and finally the stove that was only a year old. the deterioration of his kitchen--the electrician said it had something to do with his sockets--led him to venture into the city he tried to avoid. by the end of july, he had eaten at almost every restaurant within 50 miles. he was not one to eat the same thing over and over again; which is why he preferred to cook at home, looking up recipes on his computer that wouldnt connect to the Internet any other way but dial up, and so filled his office with static dial tones.
he kept fruit in a bowl on a marble-topped island, but that summer, he was gone so often that he always returned to the staggering odor of rotted bananas and peeled his Florida oranges only to dig his fingers into mushy, spoiled fruit that he would throw on his composte pile and try to keep Buddy from eating.
it was august by the time the air conditioning went out and buddy learned to turn on the hose. he would wake up early in the morning, when the sun had already climbed high enough to set his burning gaze over the entire city, to the high pressured water spraying his window, a torrential downpour on his house alone, each drop heavy as lead and pounding, pounding him awake, as it uncontrollably snaked across the yard. buddy would howl with pleasure and lapped at the spray in the air before it hit the ground, and he would wake to turn the hose off and wouldnt be able to fall back asleep because of the humidity, sticking him like glue to anything he touched.
it was a relief, then, when he was called out of the country--a highly classified mission. of course, everything was "highly classified" since the government had discovered him and forced him out of his private life into the public's great, blinking, unforgivable eye. Berlin was much cooler and he had breathed the thinner air in great gulps. unfortunately, he had spent most of his time there lying face up, staring at the uneventful white stucco ceiling and trying to match footsteps to people. the surgeon was unmistakable, he clunked heavily down the squeaky tile, his geriatric white Keds taking the punishment of his overlarge belly without mercy. each step filled the air with its force and aftershock. he counted each time the surgeon came in to check on the patient, and got to 23 before his client was finally wheeled out for the operation. he was a glorified babysitter that time. this was becoming a usual occurrence.
but he met Marcie that summer. he was not a very assertive man, outside of his purple spandex outfit and sense of justice and urgency. she had made up for his shyness, pulling herself to him by grabbing the knot that tied his cape together. she reached for the mask that concealed the top half of his face--now there out of habit rather than for necessity--and pushed it to rest just above his forehead, giving him just-out-of-bed hair. he remembered the waxy taste of her lipstick; was it supposed to be some kind of berry? it was reminiscent of crayon, and left an oily film on his teeth when she bit his lip. he had taken, not returned, but she gave freely every time anyway. everytime he saw her, that taste-so artificial, so heavy, fell from his memory back onto his tongue and his smacked his lips to get rid of its reminder.
"BERLIN, LAST SUMMER" was it a command to recall their first meeting, how this disastrous relationship began? as if he had forgotten. could it be a goodbye? or her way of forcing her hello into his life again and again and again, an endless greeting.
buddy, who had graduated from hose knobs to doorknobs, trotted across the kitchen tile on TAP TAPPING toenails and dropped yesterday's Wall Street Journal onto his lap (he hadnt quite figured out the importance of dates, and was doing good to assume the role of mailman these days). he pushed it-covered in thick slober-to the side and easily pushed himself to standing. he imagined himself rummaging through his shed for some turpentine, when an article title jumped out at him like a lightening strike, clarity against the hazy darkness of his mind. "THE LOST COURSES OF THE ADIRONDACKS." each bold letter seemed typed neatly into the space of his consciousness.
he ruffled buddy's shaggy head and returned to his bedroom to collect his supersuit, leaving the blaring orange lettering to dry, soaking its message into the wood permanently.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
there are worst things to have to say to someone at the bar when, over the jukebox, booming out some song that some guy was dared by his friends to play, someone you are meeting for the first time asks loudly, "what do you do for a living?"
i mean, you could admit that you work in retail, selling produce or pencils to mass consumers, or that you move boxes or deliver furniture 40 hours a week to keep your lights on and your cell phone company satisfied. yes, there are less glamorous options than leaning over, beer bottle tipping slightly in hand, and saying into your new acquaintance's ear, "i am a paleoclimatologist."
but Bill never enjoyed telling people his line of work. it was frustrating. once he got them pronouncing it correctly, then there was the awkward moment when the person he was speaking with had to decide between pretending they are familiar with the term or honestly proclaiming, "what the hell is that?" regardless of what they chose, it always ended the same way-awkwardly. there is no conversation killer quite like admitting you are a scientist in an obscure field.
so Bill had taken to dumbing down his profession.
"i work with weather stuff."
"im a scientist."
"i do research."
"i read boring books."
and then, perhaps he could steer them onto another subject. he was, after all, well versed in these types of scenarios, due to excessive practice. bars were, after all, where he spent the few hours he had to himself between midnight and 3am, when he had returned home from the lab or the library or the classroom and when he had finished his chores at home, making dinner and putting Mother to bed.
there were, of course, the long moments and minutes and hours in between, when he listened to her talk about her uneventful day and had to recount his own to her eager ears. he used to listen with rapt attention, his body language and conversation engaging. in those moments, he was the model of his mother in the days when her hair was long and full and she brushed though it quickly and carelessly. he was proud of her hair, like a movie star's hair, her bangs falling over her left eye constantly. he watched her push it back every few minutes as she made him an after-school snack and listened intently to his stories about Mrs. Harth and his crayons and the big, heavy clouds he drew across his paper during recess. they were only slightly gray, and the rest he left white as the paper; he said because they were only thinking about raining at the time that he drew them. he had learned to listen from the way he saw her eyes and brow and hands and back and long neck, often hidden by her brown hair left down, listened when he spoke. she asked questions-she always knew the right question-and he loved to answer them. he had learned to ask questions from her too-about the weather, about hot and cold, about seasons and their city and the sky today, tomorrow and yesterday and then about many yesterdays ago.
but he was losing these skills even as she needed him to do them well. the truth was, it was painful to listen, to watch those same dark eyes when he had to see the wrinkled hands with large, purple veins, and bent back. he already knew the answer to the questions he would ask and so he held off until he could change the answer.
"you look so tired. must've been a long day."
why was she talking to him? he had seen her walk through the door, stepping nonchalantly through peanut shells and right up to the bar. he had noticed her long dark hair but failed to notice moments later, when she moved to a stool nearby.
"uh, not bad i guess. just thinking." she laughed.
"so thinking makes you tired, then."
"if i think too much."
"well then, i hope you dont make a career out of it." she shoved a handful of peanuts, that she had been cracking, into her mouth and washed them down with a Blue Moon. "is it?"
"is it what?"
"your career?" Bill turned his bottle sideways and stared at the label a moment, contemplating his response.
"i do some research on the weather."
"thats awfully vague." she asked for it.
"i'm actually a paleoclimatologist that works with Brown's Graduate School." she pondered over another handful of salty protein.
"paleoclimatologist." she moved it around her mouth like a first sip of wine, letting it touch each part of her tongue to investigate it. "paleo...old stuff. climate...weather. ologist...specialist." this was certainly a new response.
"yes, im an old weather specialist." im going to use that from now on. "and do you deal with language much? or a detective, maybe."
"both, actually."
"well, then, arent we both impressive?" he had finished his beer, and at the usual 3am mark, but he wasnt quite ready to go yet. to the bartender's surprise, he ordered another. "do you like being a language detective?"
"oh, im not a language detective. i just work with both." he wasnt in practice to deal with her coy answers, and the scientist in him just wanted real facts. the scientist in him made it impossible to respond and he turned back to his drink. "i was supposed to meet someone here, but i guess he isnt going to show."
"oh, sorry about that."
"yeah, well, im not really. it makes it easier actually. now i have some ammunition to stave him off at work tomorrow." she finished the last of her beer and slapped some money on the counter. "got to get going, work starts at 5am!"
"not much time left to sleep, huh?"
"oh, i dont need to. nice talking to you-weatherman."
"yeah," he tipped his bottle towards her, startled, and turned slightly on his stool, as if pulled towards the door by her movement, "you too..." and she was gone with a wink, pushing a strand of frizzy hair from her face.
Bill wasnt much of a people person. he simply endured night classes full of bored students for the extra money. he didnt mind other scientists, though, especially when they were as passionate about the same field. he was startled
i mean, you could admit that you work in retail, selling produce or pencils to mass consumers, or that you move boxes or deliver furniture 40 hours a week to keep your lights on and your cell phone company satisfied. yes, there are less glamorous options than leaning over, beer bottle tipping slightly in hand, and saying into your new acquaintance's ear, "i am a paleoclimatologist."
but Bill never enjoyed telling people his line of work. it was frustrating. once he got them pronouncing it correctly, then there was the awkward moment when the person he was speaking with had to decide between pretending they are familiar with the term or honestly proclaiming, "what the hell is that?" regardless of what they chose, it always ended the same way-awkwardly. there is no conversation killer quite like admitting you are a scientist in an obscure field.
so Bill had taken to dumbing down his profession.
"i work with weather stuff."
"im a scientist."
"i do research."
"i read boring books."
and then, perhaps he could steer them onto another subject. he was, after all, well versed in these types of scenarios, due to excessive practice. bars were, after all, where he spent the few hours he had to himself between midnight and 3am, when he had returned home from the lab or the library or the classroom and when he had finished his chores at home, making dinner and putting Mother to bed.
there were, of course, the long moments and minutes and hours in between, when he listened to her talk about her uneventful day and had to recount his own to her eager ears. he used to listen with rapt attention, his body language and conversation engaging. in those moments, he was the model of his mother in the days when her hair was long and full and she brushed though it quickly and carelessly. he was proud of her hair, like a movie star's hair, her bangs falling over her left eye constantly. he watched her push it back every few minutes as she made him an after-school snack and listened intently to his stories about Mrs. Harth and his crayons and the big, heavy clouds he drew across his paper during recess. they were only slightly gray, and the rest he left white as the paper; he said because they were only thinking about raining at the time that he drew them. he had learned to listen from the way he saw her eyes and brow and hands and back and long neck, often hidden by her brown hair left down, listened when he spoke. she asked questions-she always knew the right question-and he loved to answer them. he had learned to ask questions from her too-about the weather, about hot and cold, about seasons and their city and the sky today, tomorrow and yesterday and then about many yesterdays ago.
but he was losing these skills even as she needed him to do them well. the truth was, it was painful to listen, to watch those same dark eyes when he had to see the wrinkled hands with large, purple veins, and bent back. he already knew the answer to the questions he would ask and so he held off until he could change the answer.
"you look so tired. must've been a long day."
why was she talking to him? he had seen her walk through the door, stepping nonchalantly through peanut shells and right up to the bar. he had noticed her long dark hair but failed to notice moments later, when she moved to a stool nearby.
"uh, not bad i guess. just thinking." she laughed.
"so thinking makes you tired, then."
"if i think too much."
"well then, i hope you dont make a career out of it." she shoved a handful of peanuts, that she had been cracking, into her mouth and washed them down with a Blue Moon. "is it?"
"is it what?"
"your career?" Bill turned his bottle sideways and stared at the label a moment, contemplating his response.
"i do some research on the weather."
"thats awfully vague." she asked for it.
"i'm actually a paleoclimatologist that works with Brown's Graduate School." she pondered over another handful of salty protein.
"paleoclimatologist." she moved it around her mouth like a first sip of wine, letting it touch each part of her tongue to investigate it. "paleo...old stuff. climate...weather. ologist...specialist." this was certainly a new response.
"yes, im an old weather specialist." im going to use that from now on. "and do you deal with language much? or a detective, maybe."
"both, actually."
"well, then, arent we both impressive?" he had finished his beer, and at the usual 3am mark, but he wasnt quite ready to go yet. to the bartender's surprise, he ordered another. "do you like being a language detective?"
"oh, im not a language detective. i just work with both." he wasnt in practice to deal with her coy answers, and the scientist in him just wanted real facts. the scientist in him made it impossible to respond and he turned back to his drink. "i was supposed to meet someone here, but i guess he isnt going to show."
"oh, sorry about that."
"yeah, well, im not really. it makes it easier actually. now i have some ammunition to stave him off at work tomorrow." she finished the last of her beer and slapped some money on the counter. "got to get going, work starts at 5am!"
"not much time left to sleep, huh?"
"oh, i dont need to. nice talking to you-weatherman."
"yeah," he tipped his bottle towards her, startled, and turned slightly on his stool, as if pulled towards the door by her movement, "you too..." and she was gone with a wink, pushing a strand of frizzy hair from her face.
Bill wasnt much of a people person. he simply endured night classes full of bored students for the extra money. he didnt mind other scientists, though, especially when they were as passionate about the same field. he was startled
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
fireworks and relationships...relational fireworks!
perhaps these days are a taste of what its like to be a stay-at-home-mom. well, at least the stay-at-home part. i got up with mikey but had to say goodbye and have since been on facebook looking at pictures and sending people messages. the dryer just stopped its soft purring and thumping and for some reason i cant stand the thought of going to match all of those socks and fold all of those towels and put all of those shirts on hangers. i want a smoothie but i shutter to think about having to unload the dishwasher and then re-load it with the mess in the sink JUST to have the faucet available. and yet, that's all i really have to do today, so why isnt it "no big deal"?
its difficult for me to think of my future now, mother or not. the only things that seem certain are the things that will cause major disruption and uncertainty in my life. i tend to let my imagination run wild, the possibilities start to choke out my breath, and my heart speeds up.
so ill think about something else.
on the fourth, we had something like 30 people unexpectedly camping out in our apartment-anywhere there was an empty space available to sit. we hadnt planned on getting rained out. it made me wish i had a huge living room with lots of comfortable couches and chairs so that everyone could sit together--but they seemed happy enough on the porch, in the living area, on the floor in the dining room and kitchen. our friends can be versatile!
we didnt get to see fireworks though, and that was sad. the fourth of the july is just any other holiday without fireworks dazzling us so high above.
going to see fireworks has always been one of my favorite things to do. its one of those family activities that just isnt the same with anyone else. we have our own family traditions that make things uniquely fun. the place was always carefully chosen so that we got the best fireworks, and we always went early so that we had the best seat! sometimes we were on the lawn in chairs, sometimes in the back of a truck or sitting on the roof of our van. sometimes-my favorites-we were laying on our backs on blankets and looking almost straight up into a shower of sparks over our heads. i love for them to be so close that you feel they will pour over you on their way down-like colorful rain. to pass the time and entertain each other, we would name the different fireworks. our favorite was always my sister evie's creative "rainbow blood." nothing could really ever top that one. i remember the year we were obsessed with videotaping everything (someone must have given us a camera--and it was one of those really old ones, a huge black machine that you almost had to hold with two hands; the kind with a big pocket on the side that pops out so that you can put the vhs right into it) and we took it to the park in P.A. to catch the fireworks on tape. re-watching it (probably later that night), you could see them just barely in the background, while me and my church friends did the YMCA as it blasted from a radio nearby.
i havent seen them with my family in a while. lately, since ive been married, mikey has taken me to the top of a parking deck downtown and we watch the fireworks from the baseball game that we didnt pay to go see. he leans against the concrete wall of the deck and i lean against his warmth. from that spot, you can see fireworks all over the city, some close and some so far away that you can only see a glimmer of red and blue light on the horizon--mini bombs exploding over crowds of tiny people who thought it was a private showing. nothing is private from our lookout, we see all of the entertainment, the entire city's patriotic celebration.
they feel so far away, but i think that's because im bigger now, and all things that seemed colossal to me as a kid have gotten smaller.
not knowing what to do for the day paralyzes me. i think im not choosing, but i am doing so merely by not making a choice--this is my choice. here at these keys, when there are dishes and laundry and books to read. i brought a bag FULL of files home from school, and here i am into july and have only touched it to move it out of my sight. i cant fathom looking at the stuff. those handouts and lesson plans would throw me off these heights of summertime and im not prepared for that fall. instead, ill probably go down to the pool and read so that i dont have to shower or think about being alone in this apartment.
i am seeing christie ray today. i saw her recently but this'll be the first time i actually hang out with her in...at least a year. and you cant count the year before that because, even though we were at the same party, being next to each other was so awkward we opted to sit at different tables and hang with different people.
i am envisioning all sorts of scenarios-as i am apt to do. it takes me back to my college freshmen days, but instead of being afraid to go to the cafeteria, its her house im frightened to enter. instead of being terrified by starting a conversation with a stranger, i am terrified to enter into this relationship again with someone worst than a stranger--an old friend, an old best friend, an old roommate...with history and background who voluntarily fell off the face of the planet. but who am i kidding? enter into relationship? there is no guarantee those doors will be opened for me or, if they are, that i will walk through them again. who knows what will transpire? the part that scares me the most is that there is one conversation we will have to have that i will have to start.
its difficult for me to think of my future now, mother or not. the only things that seem certain are the things that will cause major disruption and uncertainty in my life. i tend to let my imagination run wild, the possibilities start to choke out my breath, and my heart speeds up.
so ill think about something else.
on the fourth, we had something like 30 people unexpectedly camping out in our apartment-anywhere there was an empty space available to sit. we hadnt planned on getting rained out. it made me wish i had a huge living room with lots of comfortable couches and chairs so that everyone could sit together--but they seemed happy enough on the porch, in the living area, on the floor in the dining room and kitchen. our friends can be versatile!
we didnt get to see fireworks though, and that was sad. the fourth of the july is just any other holiday without fireworks dazzling us so high above.
going to see fireworks has always been one of my favorite things to do. its one of those family activities that just isnt the same with anyone else. we have our own family traditions that make things uniquely fun. the place was always carefully chosen so that we got the best fireworks, and we always went early so that we had the best seat! sometimes we were on the lawn in chairs, sometimes in the back of a truck or sitting on the roof of our van. sometimes-my favorites-we were laying on our backs on blankets and looking almost straight up into a shower of sparks over our heads. i love for them to be so close that you feel they will pour over you on their way down-like colorful rain. to pass the time and entertain each other, we would name the different fireworks. our favorite was always my sister evie's creative "rainbow blood." nothing could really ever top that one. i remember the year we were obsessed with videotaping everything (someone must have given us a camera--and it was one of those really old ones, a huge black machine that you almost had to hold with two hands; the kind with a big pocket on the side that pops out so that you can put the vhs right into it) and we took it to the park in P.A. to catch the fireworks on tape. re-watching it (probably later that night), you could see them just barely in the background, while me and my church friends did the YMCA as it blasted from a radio nearby.
i havent seen them with my family in a while. lately, since ive been married, mikey has taken me to the top of a parking deck downtown and we watch the fireworks from the baseball game that we didnt pay to go see. he leans against the concrete wall of the deck and i lean against his warmth. from that spot, you can see fireworks all over the city, some close and some so far away that you can only see a glimmer of red and blue light on the horizon--mini bombs exploding over crowds of tiny people who thought it was a private showing. nothing is private from our lookout, we see all of the entertainment, the entire city's patriotic celebration.
they feel so far away, but i think that's because im bigger now, and all things that seemed colossal to me as a kid have gotten smaller.
not knowing what to do for the day paralyzes me. i think im not choosing, but i am doing so merely by not making a choice--this is my choice. here at these keys, when there are dishes and laundry and books to read. i brought a bag FULL of files home from school, and here i am into july and have only touched it to move it out of my sight. i cant fathom looking at the stuff. those handouts and lesson plans would throw me off these heights of summertime and im not prepared for that fall. instead, ill probably go down to the pool and read so that i dont have to shower or think about being alone in this apartment.
i am seeing christie ray today. i saw her recently but this'll be the first time i actually hang out with her in...at least a year. and you cant count the year before that because, even though we were at the same party, being next to each other was so awkward we opted to sit at different tables and hang with different people.
i am envisioning all sorts of scenarios-as i am apt to do. it takes me back to my college freshmen days, but instead of being afraid to go to the cafeteria, its her house im frightened to enter. instead of being terrified by starting a conversation with a stranger, i am terrified to enter into this relationship again with someone worst than a stranger--an old friend, an old best friend, an old roommate...with history and background who voluntarily fell off the face of the planet. but who am i kidding? enter into relationship? there is no guarantee those doors will be opened for me or, if they are, that i will walk through them again. who knows what will transpire? the part that scares me the most is that there is one conversation we will have to have that i will have to start.
Monday, July 7, 2008
question free-write; 7.7.8
things id like to know:
1. why cant i ever drink all my milk before it goes bad?
2. what's so hard about cooking that it baffles me?
3. do i have a learning disability?
4. are there secrets in my left brain that ill never know unless my right brain ceases to function?
5. am i doing enough activities to exercise my brain?
6. why is being alone, sitting still and silent, so hard? will it ever get easier?
7. why do i forget all the important lessons that i learn?
8. what will happen when i rekindle that broken relationship?
9. am i deceived when i think that my marriage is healthy?
10. how can you ever really trust a person, absolutely; especially when you find that they have lied to you before?
well?
3. ive always wondered if i had a learning disability. ever since i could remember, some things have been hard for me to remember, or to even grasp in the first place. numbers especially, like in math or dates in history. historical or geometrical facts next. my mom eventually gave up teaching me to tell time when i was in elementary school. for some reason, i couldnt understand how to figure it all out, especially with one glance at the moving hands. it wasnt until much later, and many digital clocks with blinking red numbers, that i taught myself--or rather, continued my education in the time-field. this was a point of good-natured jest to me in college when i released the information (for who knows what reason--a moment of delicious shock on their faces? it made me different than others, didnt it?). however, to this day...years after college and several full-time, professional jobs that include time-telling as a necessity, and a few years of successful marriage and i still count by fives to discover the time of day, and double check myself often when deciding how long a casserole should be in, or the chicken on to boil. it wasn't just the numbers on the face of a clock that gave me...complications. its numbers anywhere...everywhere. ive past numerous simple math tests on job applications, but when that old gentleman is standing before me at the register and he's given me an amount of change so that he can get certain coins back and ive already punched in some amount on the screen so that the computer's calculator is no help, and the drawer full of money is standing open with a huge line behind his wrinkled form, bent over a cane, peering into my face, disgusted with my under-developed math skills, i am hopelessly lost in the matrix of numbers scrolling through my brain. or when i am adding a tip on my receipt so that my bill will be an even number...or when im measuring something so that lengths and widths and depths match up or so that i can buy the right amount of soil...or when im trying to follow a recipe written for two in order to feed 12...i am incapacitated...my mind shuts down like C-3P0 when the plugs been pulled.
i wish i could say that was it, but its history and geography, too. i can never remember where, exactly, things are on the map, nor how to get to the place ive been a million times before when ive missed my turn or been blocked off my construction. ive learned the capitals of the united states several times, but they fly out of my head after several moments of un-use. i cant recount the times my husband has relayed the times, dates, locations and significance of the SAME historical events, battles and people only to have to re-tell them when the subject is brought up again. i dont know many of the presidents that have impacted my country, cant remember the dates of the civil war and couldnt tell you in what era people were riding around in buggies or wearing those dresses with huge bone hoops underneath. it takes a long, patient process to explain much of anything to me, and there's no guarantee it will stick. in fact, not much of anything sticks to the walls of my slimy brain unless there's a gigantic picture or chart pinned in there with it.
English, words, literature, language...tend to be a different case (or so i hope, as ive made it my career). why grammatical structure fascinates me and i am able to retain facts, is beyond me. i love the systematic process of writing a beautiful analysis, or the careful dissection of a story to get to the palpitating heart of its mystery. with all of my other educational failures, i wonder if this indicates that these fields use little of the brain and require minimal thought or skill. if this is true, then why are random combinations of these things we call "words" (in the English tongue, of course) into larger structures ("sentences" and "paragraphs" to be precise) capable of calling forth, manipulating emotions, like lion tamers or perhaps fisherman? how are they able to touch such a complicated variety of people in such unique ways if the art itself is not complicated or unique?
this thought-a fragile light bulb whose filament is barely glowing, but burning all the same-is what keeps me from turning myself in, taking some test, and letting some person in a suit behind a desk give me a white slip of paper that has me sinking money into their brand spanking new yacht that ill never get to ride.
1. why cant i ever drink all my milk before it goes bad?
2. what's so hard about cooking that it baffles me?
3. do i have a learning disability?
4. are there secrets in my left brain that ill never know unless my right brain ceases to function?
5. am i doing enough activities to exercise my brain?
6. why is being alone, sitting still and silent, so hard? will it ever get easier?
7. why do i forget all the important lessons that i learn?
8. what will happen when i rekindle that broken relationship?
9. am i deceived when i think that my marriage is healthy?
10. how can you ever really trust a person, absolutely; especially when you find that they have lied to you before?
well?
3. ive always wondered if i had a learning disability. ever since i could remember, some things have been hard for me to remember, or to even grasp in the first place. numbers especially, like in math or dates in history. historical or geometrical facts next. my mom eventually gave up teaching me to tell time when i was in elementary school. for some reason, i couldnt understand how to figure it all out, especially with one glance at the moving hands. it wasnt until much later, and many digital clocks with blinking red numbers, that i taught myself--or rather, continued my education in the time-field. this was a point of good-natured jest to me in college when i released the information (for who knows what reason--a moment of delicious shock on their faces? it made me different than others, didnt it?). however, to this day...years after college and several full-time, professional jobs that include time-telling as a necessity, and a few years of successful marriage and i still count by fives to discover the time of day, and double check myself often when deciding how long a casserole should be in, or the chicken on to boil. it wasn't just the numbers on the face of a clock that gave me...complications. its numbers anywhere...everywhere. ive past numerous simple math tests on job applications, but when that old gentleman is standing before me at the register and he's given me an amount of change so that he can get certain coins back and ive already punched in some amount on the screen so that the computer's calculator is no help, and the drawer full of money is standing open with a huge line behind his wrinkled form, bent over a cane, peering into my face, disgusted with my under-developed math skills, i am hopelessly lost in the matrix of numbers scrolling through my brain. or when i am adding a tip on my receipt so that my bill will be an even number...or when im measuring something so that lengths and widths and depths match up or so that i can buy the right amount of soil...or when im trying to follow a recipe written for two in order to feed 12...i am incapacitated...my mind shuts down like C-3P0 when the plugs been pulled.
i wish i could say that was it, but its history and geography, too. i can never remember where, exactly, things are on the map, nor how to get to the place ive been a million times before when ive missed my turn or been blocked off my construction. ive learned the capitals of the united states several times, but they fly out of my head after several moments of un-use. i cant recount the times my husband has relayed the times, dates, locations and significance of the SAME historical events, battles and people only to have to re-tell them when the subject is brought up again. i dont know many of the presidents that have impacted my country, cant remember the dates of the civil war and couldnt tell you in what era people were riding around in buggies or wearing those dresses with huge bone hoops underneath. it takes a long, patient process to explain much of anything to me, and there's no guarantee it will stick. in fact, not much of anything sticks to the walls of my slimy brain unless there's a gigantic picture or chart pinned in there with it.
English, words, literature, language...tend to be a different case (or so i hope, as ive made it my career). why grammatical structure fascinates me and i am able to retain facts, is beyond me. i love the systematic process of writing a beautiful analysis, or the careful dissection of a story to get to the palpitating heart of its mystery. with all of my other educational failures, i wonder if this indicates that these fields use little of the brain and require minimal thought or skill. if this is true, then why are random combinations of these things we call "words" (in the English tongue, of course) into larger structures ("sentences" and "paragraphs" to be precise) capable of calling forth, manipulating emotions, like lion tamers or perhaps fisherman? how are they able to touch such a complicated variety of people in such unique ways if the art itself is not complicated or unique?
this thought-a fragile light bulb whose filament is barely glowing, but burning all the same-is what keeps me from turning myself in, taking some test, and letting some person in a suit behind a desk give me a white slip of paper that has me sinking money into their brand spanking new yacht that ill never get to ride.
lessons
things that my first (temporary) college roommate taught me:
1. collaborating on the room set-up is an adequate introduction
2. hospitality has its limits but guilt is interminable
3. questions are better answered by actions than words
4. its less uncomfortable to say ooops! than to ask for permission
5. lying for each other is the roommate's initiation into friendship
things that i did NOT learn from my first (temporary) college roommate:
1. the cafeteria feels safer with a friend at your table
2. college will be an easier adjustment if you arrange knickknacks on shelves and have a set of drawers all your own
3. boy sleepovers are a joint roomie decision
4. be careful where you decide to put a tattoo
5. the gym opens at 6am
***
things that I learned from my husband:
1. "cooling off" means nursing a wound and then shoving those feelings deep down so that the explosion will be more impressive in the next argument
2. God has multiple personalities, so he's okay with unique worship
3. the differences between men and women should be celebrated--or at least, women should recognize men's differences as inevitable traits of the race and offer some tolerance
4. patience is a virtue...and still a virtue and, STILL a virtue...
5. don't ever ask "what are you thinking about?"
things that my husband did NOT teach me (and never will):
1. marriage stereotypes are true: husbands must eventually grow dull, wordless and irritated and wives must eventually grow paranoid, garrulous and grating.
2. a lack of thoughtful, loving acts is evidence that your husband doesn't care anymore
3. its better not to know and only safe to keep some things secret
4. men and women must accept that they are from different origins and can never cross over to understand each other
5. not speaking means not listening
1. collaborating on the room set-up is an adequate introduction
2. hospitality has its limits but guilt is interminable
3. questions are better answered by actions than words
4. its less uncomfortable to say ooops! than to ask for permission
5. lying for each other is the roommate's initiation into friendship
things that i did NOT learn from my first (temporary) college roommate:
1. the cafeteria feels safer with a friend at your table
2. college will be an easier adjustment if you arrange knickknacks on shelves and have a set of drawers all your own
3. boy sleepovers are a joint roomie decision
4. be careful where you decide to put a tattoo
5. the gym opens at 6am
***
things that I learned from my husband:
1. "cooling off" means nursing a wound and then shoving those feelings deep down so that the explosion will be more impressive in the next argument
2. God has multiple personalities, so he's okay with unique worship
3. the differences between men and women should be celebrated--or at least, women should recognize men's differences as inevitable traits of the race and offer some tolerance
4. patience is a virtue...and still a virtue and, STILL a virtue...
5. don't ever ask "what are you thinking about?"
things that my husband did NOT teach me (and never will):
1. marriage stereotypes are true: husbands must eventually grow dull, wordless and irritated and wives must eventually grow paranoid, garrulous and grating.
2. a lack of thoughtful, loving acts is evidence that your husband doesn't care anymore
3. its better not to know and only safe to keep some things secret
4. men and women must accept that they are from different origins and can never cross over to understand each other
5. not speaking means not listening
between white blinds
she can't finish a cup of coffee these days. no matter how big the mug is, or how full it is of coffee, she can't digest past the half-way mark. of course, she's never tried filling it only half-full at the get-go, but one would think that only logical.
maybe she likes leaving it cold and unfinished. her silent rebellion, a retaliation to the hold the unpredictable beverage has over her. she sips at it, and as its heat diminishes, only picks it up to feel ceramic beneath her fingers, teasing the contents but not drinking again.
she is sitting on her porch this morning, and the heat of the day has already reached its peak. still, steam rises out of the off-white, blue and black striped mug that is on an old, wooden chair, covered in cobwebs and dust, that she is using as a table. it is too hot for coffee, but she picks it up and nurses it like a wounded kitten. she is observing everything, but taking nothing in. instead of that tree, she sees a black and white photo; instead of that couple, walking to their cars, she sees a small boy dancing in suspenders and red socks. her world is infused with memories that choke out the present.
or perhaps she is thinking of sending her daughter a happy birthday card after 13 years of silence. who knows? after all, im not a mind reader. just a neighbor.
maybe she likes leaving it cold and unfinished. her silent rebellion, a retaliation to the hold the unpredictable beverage has over her. she sips at it, and as its heat diminishes, only picks it up to feel ceramic beneath her fingers, teasing the contents but not drinking again.
she is sitting on her porch this morning, and the heat of the day has already reached its peak. still, steam rises out of the off-white, blue and black striped mug that is on an old, wooden chair, covered in cobwebs and dust, that she is using as a table. it is too hot for coffee, but she picks it up and nurses it like a wounded kitten. she is observing everything, but taking nothing in. instead of that tree, she sees a black and white photo; instead of that couple, walking to their cars, she sees a small boy dancing in suspenders and red socks. her world is infused with memories that choke out the present.
or perhaps she is thinking of sending her daughter a happy birthday card after 13 years of silence. who knows? after all, im not a mind reader. just a neighbor.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
after a long day when you have worked and i, not at all.
you're sleeping early tonight.
curled up.
your breath is rhythmic and heavy and sweet
and i lay close to feel it break over me, a small wave casting out and pulling slowly back.
the space around us feels wide and empty without your conscious presence. i am suddenly quite alone.
i wonder, am i with you, a part of the dream that is between us now?
i touch your skin and hold on to small hope that you will join me again.
but you're sleeping fast,
so early this evening.
there are no stars, but the wind is strong and knocks at our bedroom window. i fake a yawn that serves to remind me only of how awake i am.
soundlessly, i watch and fully, i love
your gently moving form. rising and falling.
the way your face is soft.
i trace patterns on your cheeks, around your eyes,
smooth your eyebrows and dare to touch my lips to your brow.
i listen, straining to hear each breath, as i burrow close into the curve of your back and wonder
full of wonder
how have you captured me so completely?
curled up.
your breath is rhythmic and heavy and sweet
and i lay close to feel it break over me, a small wave casting out and pulling slowly back.
the space around us feels wide and empty without your conscious presence. i am suddenly quite alone.
i wonder, am i with you, a part of the dream that is between us now?
i touch your skin and hold on to small hope that you will join me again.
but you're sleeping fast,
so early this evening.
there are no stars, but the wind is strong and knocks at our bedroom window. i fake a yawn that serves to remind me only of how awake i am.
soundlessly, i watch and fully, i love
your gently moving form. rising and falling.
the way your face is soft.
i trace patterns on your cheeks, around your eyes,
smooth your eyebrows and dare to touch my lips to your brow.
i listen, straining to hear each breath, as i burrow close into the curve of your back and wonder
full of wonder
how have you captured me so completely?
a beautiful song
"something always brings me back to you
it never takes too long.
no matter what i say or do...
i still feel you here,
till the moment im gone.
you hold me without touch,
keep me without chains.
i never wanted anything so much;
than to drown in your love and not feel your rain.
set me free,
leave me be.
i dont wanna fall another moment into your gravity.
here i am, and i stand
so tall...just the way im supposed to be.
but you're on to me,
all over me.
you loved me 'cause im fragile,
when i thought that i was strong.
but you touch me for a little while,
and all my fragile strength is gone.
set me free,
leave me be.
i dont wanna fall another moment into your gravity.
here i am, and i stand so
tall.
just the way im supposed to be.
but you're on to me,
and all over me.
i live here on my knees
as i
try to make you see that your
everything i think i need
here on the ground.
you're neither friend nor foe
but i cant seem to let you go
one thing i know
is that you're keeping me down.
keeping me down.
on to me,
you're on to me and all over.
something always brings me back to you,
it never takes too long."
sara bareilles, "gravity"
it never takes too long.
no matter what i say or do...
i still feel you here,
till the moment im gone.
you hold me without touch,
keep me without chains.
i never wanted anything so much;
than to drown in your love and not feel your rain.
set me free,
leave me be.
i dont wanna fall another moment into your gravity.
here i am, and i stand
so tall...just the way im supposed to be.
but you're on to me,
all over me.
you loved me 'cause im fragile,
when i thought that i was strong.
but you touch me for a little while,
and all my fragile strength is gone.
set me free,
leave me be.
i dont wanna fall another moment into your gravity.
here i am, and i stand so
tall.
just the way im supposed to be.
but you're on to me,
and all over me.
i live here on my knees
as i
try to make you see that your
everything i think i need
here on the ground.
you're neither friend nor foe
but i cant seem to let you go
one thing i know
is that you're keeping me down.
keeping me down.
on to me,
you're on to me and all over.
something always brings me back to you,
it never takes too long."
sara bareilles, "gravity"
Saturday, June 28, 2008
talking to heaven
he is sitting here, in the room, even though it feels like he is miles and miles away....a tiny dot on the horizon that i have to strain my eyes to see. but no, he's here. i don't feel him, but he told me, he's here.
he wants me to say something, to open my mouth and talk to him. he didn't use audible words to tell me this, but i know it's what he wants. there are words here, in my heart, in my head, making their way into my mouth and moving over my tongue like liquid. they become bitter the longer they stay on my palate and i tend to swallow them to get rid of the taste. he waits for them, even to be spit out like a child who thought they were eating a packet of sugar but got salt instead. i know it doesn't have to be glamorous, adult-like, sophisticated.
he waits. patiently. i feel no nudging from him to begin although somehow i know its what he wants and what he waits for. id rather him reach out and touch me, push me forward, bring me closer, but we stay put in our places and dont move an inch towards one another. in fact, i move further away, make myself busy. i check my e-mail, and enter amounts on receipts into my budget; i glance over my schedule and contact some people. i try to fill my head with names and dates and numbers so they push out the real thoughts. everything crowds together and what was there before, working its way forward, is pushed to the back of the line again.
i know what he's thinking, logically as usual: it would make sense to just let them go, those words, those thoughts. it would be a relief, in the end, to have finally said them instead of tasting them over and over and over again. fear is what makes them bitter and pushes them back instead of out. what if he rejects them? what if i look like a fool? worst of all, what if i let them go but he doesn't hear them? then they are out there, and bouncing around the floor and walls in empty space--meaningless. is it worst to have said them and get no response or to not say them at all? obviously, my actions answer the question.
he wants me to say something, to open my mouth and talk to him. he didn't use audible words to tell me this, but i know it's what he wants. there are words here, in my heart, in my head, making their way into my mouth and moving over my tongue like liquid. they become bitter the longer they stay on my palate and i tend to swallow them to get rid of the taste. he waits for them, even to be spit out like a child who thought they were eating a packet of sugar but got salt instead. i know it doesn't have to be glamorous, adult-like, sophisticated.
he waits. patiently. i feel no nudging from him to begin although somehow i know its what he wants and what he waits for. id rather him reach out and touch me, push me forward, bring me closer, but we stay put in our places and dont move an inch towards one another. in fact, i move further away, make myself busy. i check my e-mail, and enter amounts on receipts into my budget; i glance over my schedule and contact some people. i try to fill my head with names and dates and numbers so they push out the real thoughts. everything crowds together and what was there before, working its way forward, is pushed to the back of the line again.
i know what he's thinking, logically as usual: it would make sense to just let them go, those words, those thoughts. it would be a relief, in the end, to have finally said them instead of tasting them over and over and over again. fear is what makes them bitter and pushes them back instead of out. what if he rejects them? what if i look like a fool? worst of all, what if i let them go but he doesn't hear them? then they are out there, and bouncing around the floor and walls in empty space--meaningless. is it worst to have said them and get no response or to not say them at all? obviously, my actions answer the question.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
my stupid mouth
i find myself gagging on my own foot these days. maybe i should just keep it in there and save myself embarrassment and heartache. i end up saying what i dont mean to say or doing things that i dont realize have far-reaching implications. i dont know which is worst--realizing ive done something wrong and then needing to correct it a few days later, or realizing im doing something wrong as the words slip out of my mouth. is it better to instantaneously recognize your failure or wait and let it seep over a few days until its nice and thickly flavored?
its frustrating. a small piece of the pie chart of my heart (my heart is circular for this illustration only) doesnt want to do hurtful, ignorant or irresponsible things because i hate to see people hurt or offended or angry and i want to be sensitive to them. the jolly-green-giant sized piece of the pie is the part that doesnt ever want to do hurtful, ignorant or irresponsible things because i dont want to have to fix them--i dont want to have to have to recognize the wrong in what ive done; i dont want to have to feel stupid; i dont want to have to be honest; i dont want to have to say im sorry. sadly, id almost rather live very small and safe than large and messy.
its frustrating. a small piece of the pie chart of my heart (my heart is circular for this illustration only) doesnt want to do hurtful, ignorant or irresponsible things because i hate to see people hurt or offended or angry and i want to be sensitive to them. the jolly-green-giant sized piece of the pie is the part that doesnt ever want to do hurtful, ignorant or irresponsible things because i dont want to have to fix them--i dont want to have to have to recognize the wrong in what ive done; i dont want to have to feel stupid; i dont want to have to be honest; i dont want to have to say im sorry. sadly, id almost rather live very small and safe than large and messy.
Friday, June 20, 2008
once upon a picture
the figures stare out at me from behind glass that is reflecting light and images from the room around me; an imperfect mirror.
i recognize the faces and their smirking smiles. i try to concentrate and remember, too, what it felt like to be them on that day, before they were snapped into still photography and planted on my desk to gather dust for years.
they stand shoulder to shoulder, their heads close together, with only a small sliver of sky pouring through the gap between their ears. their stances are firm, arms flexed to showcase impressive biceps.
i remember when my body aged out of that shirt, and when those watches broke, and i had to cut off the hemp necklace in exchange for a more professional appearance. it speaks to the time that has passed between then and now.
holding the photo close to my nose, my eyes pour over our bright features, carefree expressions and smooth, young bodies. vaguely, i recall a feeling of freedom, of exhaling, of moving and doing and thinking with little difficulty or consequence. we lounged about at will and acted impulsively. we ate what we wanted, and spent time lavishly and without regret.
i am drawn to his younger image, gazing across his shapely face, his startling eyes and confident gaze. his mouth seduces me once more.
us. frozen, a motionless moment to remember the then before time moved one tick-tock at a time and here we are growing old, wrinkly and in love with one another like we did that bright, timeless day.
i recognize the faces and their smirking smiles. i try to concentrate and remember, too, what it felt like to be them on that day, before they were snapped into still photography and planted on my desk to gather dust for years.
they stand shoulder to shoulder, their heads close together, with only a small sliver of sky pouring through the gap between their ears. their stances are firm, arms flexed to showcase impressive biceps.
i remember when my body aged out of that shirt, and when those watches broke, and i had to cut off the hemp necklace in exchange for a more professional appearance. it speaks to the time that has passed between then and now.
holding the photo close to my nose, my eyes pour over our bright features, carefree expressions and smooth, young bodies. vaguely, i recall a feeling of freedom, of exhaling, of moving and doing and thinking with little difficulty or consequence. we lounged about at will and acted impulsively. we ate what we wanted, and spent time lavishly and without regret.
i am drawn to his younger image, gazing across his shapely face, his startling eyes and confident gaze. his mouth seduces me once more.
us. frozen, a motionless moment to remember the then before time moved one tick-tock at a time and here we are growing old, wrinkly and in love with one another like we did that bright, timeless day.
play by play: class on june 19th; written june 19th on the porch while consuming iced coffee
words come in and out like sounds flashing by an open car window at 80 miles per hour on I-40. she takes a moment to wonder how rude it would really be to put in her headphones.
he babbles on about geography and timing and this or that translation.
she traces around her hand, palm-down, then makes smiley faces within each empty finger space.
he changes the slide to another black and white striped with several bulleted points stated with careful rhetoric. her hand slips and a finger-face frowns back lopsidedly.
"this is an important revelation because it reveals a point about..."her face is screwed up into a look of intense concentration as she holds her notebook on her lap and draws several ecstatic clowns. they juggle and smile widely. she struggles to get one atop a unicycle when a five-minute break is called.
all she can do, seated at the front of the room, is write AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! in the margins to convey her mounting frustration and boredom to her neighbor, who giggles to show amusement.
back in the squeaking, felt-covered chair, sipping 7-UP from a dented Styrofoam cup, only 3 more hours to go and just 3 behind her. she starts the hour with her water bottle modeling, imitating it carefully, looking discreetly from bottle to notebook so as not to reveal where her attention truly lies.
he noticeably clears his throat in response, as he can obviously see her drawing from his perch at the podium. she quickly looks up in interest and copies from the slide:
"*The Message
*The Match
*The Marvel"
astounding alliteration. she doodles a picture next to each point to help "associate meaning." the super-hero's cape next to the last point trails off and becomes the stem of a cartoon flower with spots in the middle. soon there is a garden and a bee dances on one of the petals of a smiling daisy.
"and what do we know about this?" ah, another rhetorical question beaks through the invisible dome allowing her to ignore him. a voice behind her, the only other male tone in the classroom, responds smartly. the same voice that's been snickering at the teacher's corny jokes all day.
floppy ears emerge on her paper, joined soon by a long snout and mouth with buck teeth, open wide in a long , loud HEE-HAW!
"Here are some visual representations. As you can see..."
the home stretch. she draws a gigantic clock in the center of the page and scribbles out new hands every time they move forward. underneath, she adds a picture timeline of what happens each minute: a stick figure points to a projector screen; another, face-down on a desk, surrounded by Z's.
he finally moves between the desks and she puts her finishing touches on a scaled-down sketch of the desk sand chairs before her. she flips her notebook over and smiles innocently as she receives her seminar evaluation form.
she connects a row of 1's down the right side of the page like a gigantic arrow that points to a grinning smiley face under the word, in black, capital letters:
COMMENTS.
he babbles on about geography and timing and this or that translation.
she traces around her hand, palm-down, then makes smiley faces within each empty finger space.
he changes the slide to another black and white striped with several bulleted points stated with careful rhetoric. her hand slips and a finger-face frowns back lopsidedly.
"this is an important revelation because it reveals a point about..."her face is screwed up into a look of intense concentration as she holds her notebook on her lap and draws several ecstatic clowns. they juggle and smile widely. she struggles to get one atop a unicycle when a five-minute break is called.
all she can do, seated at the front of the room, is write AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! in the margins to convey her mounting frustration and boredom to her neighbor, who giggles to show amusement.
back in the squeaking, felt-covered chair, sipping 7-UP from a dented Styrofoam cup, only 3 more hours to go and just 3 behind her. she starts the hour with her water bottle modeling, imitating it carefully, looking discreetly from bottle to notebook so as not to reveal where her attention truly lies.
he noticeably clears his throat in response, as he can obviously see her drawing from his perch at the podium. she quickly looks up in interest and copies from the slide:
"*The Message
*The Match
*The Marvel"
astounding alliteration. she doodles a picture next to each point to help "associate meaning." the super-hero's cape next to the last point trails off and becomes the stem of a cartoon flower with spots in the middle. soon there is a garden and a bee dances on one of the petals of a smiling daisy.
"and what do we know about this?" ah, another rhetorical question beaks through the invisible dome allowing her to ignore him. a voice behind her, the only other male tone in the classroom, responds smartly. the same voice that's been snickering at the teacher's corny jokes all day.
floppy ears emerge on her paper, joined soon by a long snout and mouth with buck teeth, open wide in a long , loud HEE-HAW!
"Here are some visual representations. As you can see..."
the home stretch. she draws a gigantic clock in the center of the page and scribbles out new hands every time they move forward. underneath, she adds a picture timeline of what happens each minute: a stick figure points to a projector screen; another, face-down on a desk, surrounded by Z's.
he finally moves between the desks and she puts her finishing touches on a scaled-down sketch of the desk sand chairs before her. she flips her notebook over and smiles innocently as she receives her seminar evaluation form.
she connects a row of 1's down the right side of the page like a gigantic arrow that points to a grinning smiley face under the word, in black, capital letters:
COMMENTS.
the look of love; june 19th on the porch at night by the light of twinkling bulbs.
i catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as i stand and re-adjust my jeans around my waist. my hand goes instinctively to smooth the fly-aways of my honey-colored hair. i dare, for a moment only, to imagine that my long locks are actually quite pretty. honey-colored. i imagine walking back into the office and my husband looking up from his computer carelessly only to be enraptured by the sight of me. "darling," he says breathlessly, "i am so lucky that you chose me. sometimes i can hardly express how beautiful you are to me; your slender waist and silky, honey-colored hair." suddenly, he is next to me, fingering the irresistible follicles.
rather, suddenly i realize that i don't really want him to say such things because i would laugh in his cheesy-cheese face and not believe a word of it anyway.
what i really want is a lingering look. to catch his eyes on me when I've been unaware, as opposed to when i stare him down and then nonchalantly return to the task at hand, moving extra seductively when i think he has glanced my way. a look is all a wise woman ever really requires from her man. it would communicate all the desire and appreciation needed without bothersome words in the way.
words...there are only so many of them and they've already been used in the usual pathetic combinations. did i say pathetic? i meant poetic. being original can be such gut-wrenching pain.
but a look? that is truly unique...
unique to the relationship;
the moment and the feelings therein;
the face...
the eyes themselves are entirely one of a kind--no two people can offer the same soundless expression.
i want him to leave the words up to my fantastical imagination and just...
stare:
unhurried,
enduring,
entirely,
occupied by nothing but that one task.
rather, suddenly i realize that i don't really want him to say such things because i would laugh in his cheesy-cheese face and not believe a word of it anyway.
what i really want is a lingering look. to catch his eyes on me when I've been unaware, as opposed to when i stare him down and then nonchalantly return to the task at hand, moving extra seductively when i think he has glanced my way. a look is all a wise woman ever really requires from her man. it would communicate all the desire and appreciation needed without bothersome words in the way.
words...there are only so many of them and they've already been used in the usual pathetic combinations. did i say pathetic? i meant poetic. being original can be such gut-wrenching pain.
but a look? that is truly unique...
unique to the relationship;
the moment and the feelings therein;
the face...
the eyes themselves are entirely one of a kind--no two people can offer the same soundless expression.
i want him to leave the words up to my fantastical imagination and just...
stare:
unhurried,
enduring,
entirely,
occupied by nothing but that one task.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
my brain
a new obsession with coffee has erupted out of my soul!
namely, cappuccinos,
caramel macchiatos,
iced coffees and
iced chias
why?
because i can make them myself! a-huh, foam and everything! i've unchained the wild and delicious abilities of the French press, the stove-top espresso maker and a bottle of caramel syrup (thank you laura jo and girl's night left-overs).
and so i slink off to the porch with my book, iced caramel coffee and twinkly lights.
but before that, i am here in the office with mikey and tim keller. we are listening to how we really are greedy even though we dont think we are. we are listening to him telling us that when we dont treasure jesus, we are treasuring something else.
"you will always pay any price for your treasure, but jesus is the only treasure that paid the ultimate price for you." he says.
"you only die for your most precious thing" he says. that means we are his most precious thing. we are his pearl of great price that he gave everything for.
i am torn between burying myself in my book and being in the presence of mikey. i want mikey to be able to do what he wants to do, but sometimes its not the same as what i want to do...okay, a lot of the times its not the same as what i want to do...so i dawdle and play around on this here machine and look over at him once in a while with dreamy eyes and admire his beard.
woah-he just winked at me. flutter flutter goes my heart. :D
namely, cappuccinos,
caramel macchiatos,
iced coffees and
iced chias
why?
because i can make them myself! a-huh, foam and everything! i've unchained the wild and delicious abilities of the French press, the stove-top espresso maker and a bottle of caramel syrup (thank you laura jo and girl's night left-overs).
and so i slink off to the porch with my book, iced caramel coffee and twinkly lights.
but before that, i am here in the office with mikey and tim keller. we are listening to how we really are greedy even though we dont think we are. we are listening to him telling us that when we dont treasure jesus, we are treasuring something else.
"you will always pay any price for your treasure, but jesus is the only treasure that paid the ultimate price for you." he says.
"you only die for your most precious thing" he says. that means we are his most precious thing. we are his pearl of great price that he gave everything for.
i am torn between burying myself in my book and being in the presence of mikey. i want mikey to be able to do what he wants to do, but sometimes its not the same as what i want to do...okay, a lot of the times its not the same as what i want to do...so i dawdle and play around on this here machine and look over at him once in a while with dreamy eyes and admire his beard.
woah-he just winked at me. flutter flutter goes my heart. :D
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
freewrite and prayer
scooters
vacation
fall
fall i miss fall. i am cutting out pictures of me and my husband in the shape of leaves. all that's missing are the brilliant colors that can't really be duplicated by anything man-made. they are unique, every single leaf. i especially love the mix of colors, one leaf that achieves bright red, brilliant yellow, rich green. i wish i could do that, could be many beautiful things at once.
here i sit trying to write an hour and only 21 minutes have gone by, even though I've already written a poem for the day. a poem about my own panic at having the summer wide before me. why is it so difficult to rest well? i have had several lazy days off here at home but don't know how to balance between doing exactly what i want to do, what i feel like doing, and what i should be doing. i guess that is precisely because i don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. chores at home? errands outside? there is a world of possibilities for me but I'm not sure which ones to take. i am used to being around people, talking to people, listening to people, being with people, and here i am alone in this house with only the sounds of the clocks ticking on, and the outside world creeping in through the windows in all its loudness. i want to be quiet, to be restful without feeling like i have to fling myself into the rush of the world outside--ill just spend money if i go out there anyway. but i guess i feel like i should at least be able to read my bible, pray a little to make my day worth while, and those things haven't found themselves a very routine part of my "summer vacation."
why cant i rest? i want to be able to rest, to be with God, or to be with myself without freaking out. do people rest and not do anything, not read, not watch TV, not browse the web, not knit or walk around or sing or listen to music or be on the phone? is there resting beyond doing things that you like to do but normally don't get to do? i mean, what kind of rest is sitting there staring out into nothing? it just seems boring--nearly impossible to achieve! i sit there for maybe 3 minutes before i run off to get my book or involve myself in some activity. how can i be still? is there any value in being absolutely still? how long do i have to be still before something magical happens; before i unlock the inner mysteries of my being and hear my true self in dialogue? or is there a time period that, if you get past it, God truly starts speaking...i mean, you hear his actual voice and then he clear up all those questions you have? why doesn't this spell check accept the correct spelling of the word "dialogue"? i know it exists!
wouldn't that be terrible, if dialogue didn't exist, no back and forth between people. it would be impossible, wouldn't it? our world cannot function without proper communication--well, i guess that's not true entirely because there is very little proper communication in this world but it still spins on and on and people get by. there is so much missing beauty because of a lack of proper dialogue--i mean, a real back and forth session of truth-telling. too often we say what we think we should say and keep behind what we really feel and then its all a dance of who can be the most eloquent and tasteful. what a dance--circles and circles and circles without actually going anywhere, without any actual moves to embellish and perfect the movement. no real beauty...just circling like sharks. mark my words, in the end of bad communication, there is a death.
death. I'm reading in a book in which one of the characters sleeps in her coffin. i am not terribly superstitious, but i think it would freak me out to sleep in my coffin. maybe i shouldn't see it as so unusual, perhaps I'm already living daily in my coffin...i mean, i keep wanting to push time forward...what's next for me, what do i do next year, what do i do this year if, if, if....wanting to know what's ahead when the ultimate piece of information is that i am going to die at the end of one of these stretches of time. why am i, essentially, pushing myself towards it? i guess it wont be so bad, being dead. heaven. there is no fear in being there.
i want to write something meaningful, something really cool (except id like to be able to write something without any N's because the N button just fell off and is cramping my writing flow. but here i am just typing my flow of thoughts, and its hard to see what value there is in just writing for the sake of writing. how long will i be able to keep up this writing every day thing? this is only the second day. i need to go to the library and get a book with prompts in it to help me along.
i read in the book "WRITE" by someone i cant think of right now, that we should write if we have the inclination because no one can say what we can say, but i don't know if that's true in my case. maybe i feel like lots of people are saying what i want to say and doing it better than i am. so what's the point then? i still want to say it, but my reason for saying it is gone according to her.
i want to believe that i have stuff to say and that it is unique and special and necessary.
i don't know why, but i hate relating things back to God. maybe i should do so in this case, though. what does my writing have to do with God? what does he have to say about me writing. i feel like i have a talent in some capacity, and that i have a love for language and for this ability he's put in me. i know i am fearfully and wonderfully made and it includes this writing part of me, this language part of me, this feeling part of me. what does it mean to use my gifts to the glory of God without falling into a trap of being cliche and cheesy and unreadable?
God, what is it you want from these typing fingers and this thinking brain and these words and the mind that is putting letters and sounds and ideas together?
what can i do with this? i want to exercise it, not to neglect it as i have been but i want to have a purpose to do that.
why is it so much harder to write for an hour today than it was yesterday?
a prayer:
papa,
you are my creator. you have a reason for me being here, or else i would not be here. i was a thought in your mind before my parents began to consider me. you watched me grow, not occasionally on the ultrasound screen, but daily, moment by moment. every single time my heart beat, you saw the pulse. you watched the tiny molecules of my organs, of my skin form and grow. you made me, wonderfully. fearfully...what does that mean, fearfully? respectfully? in awe? does this mean that even you were astounded my the beautiful mystery of my birth-of me?
all of this must mean that you care for me, that you pay attention to me. that who i am is not an accident in any sense--even the parts of me that long to be motivated and disciplined but aren't. its not just the me that "reaches my goals and expectations for myself" that you love, right? it is the whole me. the laying in bed reading until 9:30 me; the going through the whole day yesterday without cracking the Bible me; the me whose voice you heard twice this week in prayer as i struggle to talk to you but not doubt you are there. the me with dishonest doubt and sometimes, if I'm lucky, healthy, honest doubt.
what does all this have to do with now? i want to know that every day of me has some purpose, even when I'm NOT accomplishing something. that i don't have to be doing this or that task to be wroth something--that i am worth something right here, tapping away at these keys, eating oatmeal and reading Hispanic literature. i want to know that you are gazing at me with love. how can these things not effect me, not make me want to express something in whatever ways i can??? i want to express these intricacies of me in writing, but i get really frustrated. i am swamped with feelings of inadequacy, feeling that nothing i do has worth, that i am pathetic and my words lifeless and meaningless. just like i feel my day is if i don't get out there and DO something. show me how to use the gifts you've given me, show me how to be the ME you've made me, without living moment by moment in regret of the things I've chosen, of the things I've done, and wondering if i could have made a better choice.
what would you have me do this summer? what would you have me do this day? what purpose is out there for me right now?
let me be still and let you speak--or not speak...but let me be still and shut up so that i can hear wisdom. i am distracted by this pouring out of questions within me, this pouring out of doubt and unrest and regret and uncertainty. i am haggard by it, i am tired of it!
vacation
fall
fall i miss fall. i am cutting out pictures of me and my husband in the shape of leaves. all that's missing are the brilliant colors that can't really be duplicated by anything man-made. they are unique, every single leaf. i especially love the mix of colors, one leaf that achieves bright red, brilliant yellow, rich green. i wish i could do that, could be many beautiful things at once.
here i sit trying to write an hour and only 21 minutes have gone by, even though I've already written a poem for the day. a poem about my own panic at having the summer wide before me. why is it so difficult to rest well? i have had several lazy days off here at home but don't know how to balance between doing exactly what i want to do, what i feel like doing, and what i should be doing. i guess that is precisely because i don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. chores at home? errands outside? there is a world of possibilities for me but I'm not sure which ones to take. i am used to being around people, talking to people, listening to people, being with people, and here i am alone in this house with only the sounds of the clocks ticking on, and the outside world creeping in through the windows in all its loudness. i want to be quiet, to be restful without feeling like i have to fling myself into the rush of the world outside--ill just spend money if i go out there anyway. but i guess i feel like i should at least be able to read my bible, pray a little to make my day worth while, and those things haven't found themselves a very routine part of my "summer vacation."
why cant i rest? i want to be able to rest, to be with God, or to be with myself without freaking out. do people rest and not do anything, not read, not watch TV, not browse the web, not knit or walk around or sing or listen to music or be on the phone? is there resting beyond doing things that you like to do but normally don't get to do? i mean, what kind of rest is sitting there staring out into nothing? it just seems boring--nearly impossible to achieve! i sit there for maybe 3 minutes before i run off to get my book or involve myself in some activity. how can i be still? is there any value in being absolutely still? how long do i have to be still before something magical happens; before i unlock the inner mysteries of my being and hear my true self in dialogue? or is there a time period that, if you get past it, God truly starts speaking...i mean, you hear his actual voice and then he clear up all those questions you have? why doesn't this spell check accept the correct spelling of the word "dialogue"? i know it exists!
wouldn't that be terrible, if dialogue didn't exist, no back and forth between people. it would be impossible, wouldn't it? our world cannot function without proper communication--well, i guess that's not true entirely because there is very little proper communication in this world but it still spins on and on and people get by. there is so much missing beauty because of a lack of proper dialogue--i mean, a real back and forth session of truth-telling. too often we say what we think we should say and keep behind what we really feel and then its all a dance of who can be the most eloquent and tasteful. what a dance--circles and circles and circles without actually going anywhere, without any actual moves to embellish and perfect the movement. no real beauty...just circling like sharks. mark my words, in the end of bad communication, there is a death.
death. I'm reading in a book in which one of the characters sleeps in her coffin. i am not terribly superstitious, but i think it would freak me out to sleep in my coffin. maybe i shouldn't see it as so unusual, perhaps I'm already living daily in my coffin...i mean, i keep wanting to push time forward...what's next for me, what do i do next year, what do i do this year if, if, if....wanting to know what's ahead when the ultimate piece of information is that i am going to die at the end of one of these stretches of time. why am i, essentially, pushing myself towards it? i guess it wont be so bad, being dead. heaven. there is no fear in being there.
i want to write something meaningful, something really cool (except id like to be able to write something without any N's because the N button just fell off and is cramping my writing flow. but here i am just typing my flow of thoughts, and its hard to see what value there is in just writing for the sake of writing. how long will i be able to keep up this writing every day thing? this is only the second day. i need to go to the library and get a book with prompts in it to help me along.
i read in the book "WRITE" by someone i cant think of right now, that we should write if we have the inclination because no one can say what we can say, but i don't know if that's true in my case. maybe i feel like lots of people are saying what i want to say and doing it better than i am. so what's the point then? i still want to say it, but my reason for saying it is gone according to her.
i want to believe that i have stuff to say and that it is unique and special and necessary.
i don't know why, but i hate relating things back to God. maybe i should do so in this case, though. what does my writing have to do with God? what does he have to say about me writing. i feel like i have a talent in some capacity, and that i have a love for language and for this ability he's put in me. i know i am fearfully and wonderfully made and it includes this writing part of me, this language part of me, this feeling part of me. what does it mean to use my gifts to the glory of God without falling into a trap of being cliche and cheesy and unreadable?
God, what is it you want from these typing fingers and this thinking brain and these words and the mind that is putting letters and sounds and ideas together?
what can i do with this? i want to exercise it, not to neglect it as i have been but i want to have a purpose to do that.
why is it so much harder to write for an hour today than it was yesterday?
a prayer:
papa,
you are my creator. you have a reason for me being here, or else i would not be here. i was a thought in your mind before my parents began to consider me. you watched me grow, not occasionally on the ultrasound screen, but daily, moment by moment. every single time my heart beat, you saw the pulse. you watched the tiny molecules of my organs, of my skin form and grow. you made me, wonderfully. fearfully...what does that mean, fearfully? respectfully? in awe? does this mean that even you were astounded my the beautiful mystery of my birth-of me?
all of this must mean that you care for me, that you pay attention to me. that who i am is not an accident in any sense--even the parts of me that long to be motivated and disciplined but aren't. its not just the me that "reaches my goals and expectations for myself" that you love, right? it is the whole me. the laying in bed reading until 9:30 me; the going through the whole day yesterday without cracking the Bible me; the me whose voice you heard twice this week in prayer as i struggle to talk to you but not doubt you are there. the me with dishonest doubt and sometimes, if I'm lucky, healthy, honest doubt.
what does all this have to do with now? i want to know that every day of me has some purpose, even when I'm NOT accomplishing something. that i don't have to be doing this or that task to be wroth something--that i am worth something right here, tapping away at these keys, eating oatmeal and reading Hispanic literature. i want to know that you are gazing at me with love. how can these things not effect me, not make me want to express something in whatever ways i can??? i want to express these intricacies of me in writing, but i get really frustrated. i am swamped with feelings of inadequacy, feeling that nothing i do has worth, that i am pathetic and my words lifeless and meaningless. just like i feel my day is if i don't get out there and DO something. show me how to use the gifts you've given me, show me how to be the ME you've made me, without living moment by moment in regret of the things I've chosen, of the things I've done, and wondering if i could have made a better choice.
what would you have me do this summer? what would you have me do this day? what purpose is out there for me right now?
let me be still and let you speak--or not speak...but let me be still and shut up so that i can hear wisdom. i am distracted by this pouring out of questions within me, this pouring out of doubt and unrest and regret and uncertainty. i am haggard by it, i am tired of it!
transitions
she routinely mixes
strawberry and peach instant oatmeal in a bowl of milk.
she likes the way the flavors mix in her mouth when they are
cooked together and satisfyingly
mushy.
the day is wide
and open and empty before her,
waiting to be filled,
but it fills her with dread.
she rocks back and forth in her chair,
eating her oatmeal and staving off thoughts.
her breakfast dries out her mouth but still
she sits,
paralyzed by the possibilities of the day and unsure which to indulge.
she is alone without the grumbles of kids flooding into her classroom at the start of the day.
it is too quiet without cheerful good mornings in the teacher's lounge,
and weekend updates over coffee the color of milk chocolate.
she is too still,
used to pacing between rows of desks and back and forth from classroom to copier.
she misses the company of students,
the conversation of colleagues,
the purposefulness of meetings,
the need to write and copy and type and plan and organize and lecture.
the smell of home is trash that needs emptying, dishes that need loading,
clothes that need washing.
she can't miss the dirt of the un-vacuumed floor and the un-mopped bathroom tile.
the sound of home is whatever happens to seep through the walls from the outside world;
the apartment creaks with emptiness, save herself.
the liberty of laziness makes her feel guilty.
the liberty of busy-ness makes her feel tired.
she is a teacher off for the summer.
strawberry and peach instant oatmeal in a bowl of milk.
she likes the way the flavors mix in her mouth when they are
cooked together and satisfyingly
mushy.
the day is wide
and open and empty before her,
waiting to be filled,
but it fills her with dread.
she rocks back and forth in her chair,
eating her oatmeal and staving off thoughts.
her breakfast dries out her mouth but still
she sits,
paralyzed by the possibilities of the day and unsure which to indulge.
she is alone without the grumbles of kids flooding into her classroom at the start of the day.
it is too quiet without cheerful good mornings in the teacher's lounge,
and weekend updates over coffee the color of milk chocolate.
she is too still,
used to pacing between rows of desks and back and forth from classroom to copier.
she misses the company of students,
the conversation of colleagues,
the purposefulness of meetings,
the need to write and copy and type and plan and organize and lecture.
the smell of home is trash that needs emptying, dishes that need loading,
clothes that need washing.
she can't miss the dirt of the un-vacuumed floor and the un-mopped bathroom tile.
the sound of home is whatever happens to seep through the walls from the outside world;
the apartment creaks with emptiness, save herself.
the liberty of laziness makes her feel guilty.
the liberty of busy-ness makes her feel tired.
she is a teacher off for the summer.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
coming to an end
i guess it's easier for some than others.
breaking up. or perhaps that's just how they "come off" after the ordeal, and it says more about how much they were really committed to the relationship than their innate abilities.
which is the worst part? recognizing the need for change or going through it? the feeling of the approaching demise of a relationship is like no other. weights drop in the pit of your stomach; bile rises in your throat; hot tears are constantly in waiting, so much so that there is the lingering taste of salt; breathing becomes a task and shutters as it draws in and releases out; it is accompanied by any number of sounds: screaming, moaning, swearing, wailing; like hot flashes, emotions change in an instant: from disbelieving to defensive, from hopeless to heated.
its easy to feel personally attacked and solely hurt; its difficult to truly know what the other side is feeling.
i guess this is not just "breaking up." it is the death of a real relationship, a commitment that seemed interminable. is it the pain of losing that person that is the greatest? or the pain of realizing that what you thought had value, had longevity....is vanishing? that you were naive?
breaking up. or perhaps that's just how they "come off" after the ordeal, and it says more about how much they were really committed to the relationship than their innate abilities.
which is the worst part? recognizing the need for change or going through it? the feeling of the approaching demise of a relationship is like no other. weights drop in the pit of your stomach; bile rises in your throat; hot tears are constantly in waiting, so much so that there is the lingering taste of salt; breathing becomes a task and shutters as it draws in and releases out; it is accompanied by any number of sounds: screaming, moaning, swearing, wailing; like hot flashes, emotions change in an instant: from disbelieving to defensive, from hopeless to heated.
its easy to feel personally attacked and solely hurt; its difficult to truly know what the other side is feeling.
i guess this is not just "breaking up." it is the death of a real relationship, a commitment that seemed interminable. is it the pain of losing that person that is the greatest? or the pain of realizing that what you thought had value, had longevity....is vanishing? that you were naive?
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