I was on my way outside to smoke when this guy stopped me. “Dew?”
…. uuhhh “yeah. How do you know my name?”
“You don’t remember who I am?” he pretended to be hurt and I could see we were going to have to play the guessing game. Does anyone like that shit? I hate it.
“No. I don’t. How do you know my name?”
“Mr. Nagy?” he said. But Mr. Nagy was my fifth grade teacher.
“Dude. You recognize me from FIFTH GRADE!?!”
“Yeah. I saw you dancing and I told my buddy “that looks like Dew.” but I told him it couldn’t be you because you’re way too young. You’ve always been scrawny but you look about twenty one out there.” he unzipped my coat while he was talking to look at my tank top and I re-zipped it.
“So ..” I paused awkwardly, still having no idea who he was though he looked familiar. “What’s your name?” I smiled to let him know I realized I was failing and it sure didn‘t reflect on him.
“You don’t know me?” the fucker was not going to tell me and he was betting high that I cared very much. “Who did you have a crush on in fifth grade?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t think I thought about boys much yet.” Unbelievable, he thought what? That I’d been harboring some crush on him for twenty years? “Listen, you wanna come meet my table?” It seemed a reasonable way to break off this awkward conversation and distract him from playing This is Your Life While I Remove Your Clothes with me. So we went.
“Hey guys. This guy remembers how awesome I am from fifth grade!” and I deposited him in a chair next to the birthday girl.
Bars are loud and he was now an entire body away from me so I didn’t have to interact with him again until I over heard Sock’s Mate say “kick your ass.”
So he leans over her to ask me “Will you switch places with her, she thinks I’m talking too close to her and if I keep doing it those guys across the table are going to kick my ass.”
“That’s her boyfriend. I’ll switch but I’m sleeping with his big brother so you’re not going to want to crawl in my lap either.”
“Really?” he asked. I wasn’t sure if he was astounded I had a boyfriend (fifth grade Dew certainly did not ‘go out’ with anyone) or what.
So for twenty minutes or so he told me everyone we might both know from grade school that he had run into since he last saw me and a bunch of other drunken rambling about life living with his mom and whatnot. By now I’ve been informed of his name and I’m getting some memory back and I’m pretty sure I’ve never liked him and further that he didn’t like me then either. It’s amazing what a little drunkin’ horny adds to my personality.
Across the table The Man’s little brother is watching very close. And I can see that if I make a move beyond leaning all the way away from this guy into Sock’s Mate’s lap that says he should he’ll take care of the fucker he will. and it’s cracking me up ‘cause he looks just like The Man. And they both look like giant versions of my son. And I adore them.
Luckily he didn’t have to do that ‘cause down the table a fight broke out. The table was toppled, D was covered in five or ten drinks and a plastic tree took some of Lila’s forehead. So I didn’t even have to make my way through an awkward no-you-can’t-have-my-number-I hope-it’s-at-least-twenty-years-before-I-see-you-again conversation with my buddy from fifth grade. We were all booted from the club. Good times.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Clubbin'
A Few Requests Regarding Clubs:
*Don’t charge me a fucking cover because you have a computer system with a cracked out kid in a sideways hat standing next to it. Surely you’re making enough off my nine dollar drink.
*There’s an on-going debate that my being on the dance floor is an invitation to be fucked. Not so. Go ahead and argue with me. See what happens.
*You ladies crouched on the floor (get low) with your underwear flossing your ass look like those public bicycles chained to parking meters around the city. Seriously. I’ve seen butter churned with more grace.
*I realize it makes your boyfriend hard when you rub your tits on me but I’m not interested in playing pretend. I will raise the bar to reveal your prudish self and send you running right back to his lame ass.
Anything to add?
*Don’t charge me a fucking cover because you have a computer system with a cracked out kid in a sideways hat standing next to it. Surely you’re making enough off my nine dollar drink.
*There’s an on-going debate that my being on the dance floor is an invitation to be fucked. Not so. Go ahead and argue with me. See what happens.
*You ladies crouched on the floor (get low) with your underwear flossing your ass look like those public bicycles chained to parking meters around the city. Seriously. I’ve seen butter churned with more grace.
*I realize it makes your boyfriend hard when you rub your tits on me but I’m not interested in playing pretend. I will raise the bar to reveal your prudish self and send you running right back to his lame ass.
Anything to add?
Friday, February 27, 2009
Once.
I just want to say.
Fuck.
About everything. And everyone and me. And all of it.
I just want one fucking thing to be what I think it is. Just one fucking time. I want one thing to go the right way. I want one fucking time for right and want to meet. I want one fucking happy ending. I want one time of doing what I want without any damage. Just one. Just one fucking time.
So just.
Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
That is all.
Fuck.
About everything. And everyone and me. And all of it.
I just want one fucking thing to be what I think it is. Just one fucking time. I want one thing to go the right way. I want one fucking time for right and want to meet. I want one fucking happy ending. I want one time of doing what I want without any damage. Just one. Just one fucking time.
So just.
Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
That is all.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Swimming
I’ve been thinking about swimming.
My grandpa always said “Don’t get wet!”
So ridiculous. "Oh Grandpa!"
But...follow-able advice as it turns out.
Maybe not good advice and a complete illusion
but enough to keep you from seeing anything much
under the surface.
The thing about swimming is there‘s no air down there.
Staying on top and getting air seems to be the goal or so I thought.
but I was wrong.
As long as you’re worried about breathing you’re not going to swim.
You have to go under.* and it's like...
you are the water. So you breathe that.
I’m not going to tell you to do it. I haven’t quite yet.
But I got my head wet and I’m pretty sure it’s awesome.
*It helps if the water is warm.
My grandpa always said “Don’t get wet!”
So ridiculous. "Oh Grandpa!"
But...follow-able advice as it turns out.
Maybe not good advice and a complete illusion
but enough to keep you from seeing anything much
under the surface.
The thing about swimming is there‘s no air down there.
Staying on top and getting air seems to be the goal or so I thought.
but I was wrong.
As long as you’re worried about breathing you’re not going to swim.
You have to go under.* and it's like...
you are the water. So you breathe that.
I’m not going to tell you to do it. I haven’t quite yet.
But I got my head wet and I’m pretty sure it’s awesome.
*It helps if the water is warm.
The English Teacher
We walked out of the club and stumbled right into him and his crowd leaving at the same time.
*rewind* Approximately two hours before I had flipped him off. Well not him. The guy behind him that felt a tantrum was appropriate when I turned down a dance (clothed dance floor fuck). And he widened his eyes and put his arms out questioning his misfortune and I had to hug him. Then she flirted with him a little while about their hats while I made awkward conversation with his buddy until I could go back to dancing. So we were old friends in downtown night life time.
“Hey Handsome.” I said. “Is this your gang?” we all started down the street and I exclaimed “Shit, Lila we’re in a gang now!”
“Yeah,” his buddy rushed to walk alongside me “but you have to be initiated. A gang bang.”
“You want all of us to gang bang you right here?” I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t bring any lube. But I imagine we can come up with some sort of phallic like object. Or just make use of your buddies”
“NOoooo that’s not a gang bang. It has to be a girl. I don’t mean to shock you. It’s just that this is gang life.”
I adjusted the collar on his polo shirt. “and I can see you are just the guy to fill me in on such things.”
“What the fuck? Did you just dog me?” he turned to another in the group. “What’s up with that chick?”
“Where are you guys headed? Are you going to another club?” Hat boy asked Lila and I. I made the please let me start my long drive back to the crack ass of nowhere so I can go to bed and she made the I’m not done yet face and we shrugged. We were standing in front of a hippity club and I lit a cigarette. “Well. Can I smoke with you.”
“Sure.”
“Can I have a cigarette?” Lila laughed at this and I pulled out a cigarette and handed him that with my lighter.
“Just starting right now?” I asked him.
“That’s not how you light someone’s cigarette!”
“You want me to light it for you?” I took the lighter and stepped in closer and attempted to light his cigarette. It kept blowing out. And I laughed.
“No you’re doing it all wrong. You have to look me in the eyes.”
I couldn’t. Freaks me the fuck out. Finally Lila lit his cigarette like a pro and he said “See, your friend can do it.”
“Yeah. She’s awesome that way.”
“So what do you do?” She asked him.
“I’m an English teacher.”
“Dew loves English.” Lila surprises me by saying. He whips around to look me over to see if this might be true.
“Sure. I love me some words.” I said.
“Do you read?”
“I’ve been known to do that when I come across words.”
“What’s the greatest book of all time?”
“WHAT? Ahahaha! That’s a crazy question. And look at ya. You think you know. You already have one in mind. Only an English teacher.”
“I do.” he’s watching me and I’m trying to decide if I’m going to gamble. “I think you know.” he encouraged me. I had a moment of mild hilarity, as if I was in class and the teacher might be hitting on me.
“English teacher. What grade?”
“Tenth.”
“oh. Well that’s just too fucking easy.” I eye-balled his hat and his facial hair and his manner and I knew I knew. “You know. It’s sorta unbearably rude to ask someone to be wrong for you the first time you meet them.” I inhaled and looked him in the eye. “It’s a big deal to ask someone to do that. Or you’re an ass.”
“Or they’ll be right.”
“Come on, Dew.” she was bored. “let’s go.”
“Alright. Thanks for the smoke lighting instructions English teacher.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in here with us?”
“I have a long drive.”
“Okay…” he shrugged.
I turned around mid-intersection and he was watching us go. “The Great Gatsby?”
“I knew you knew!”
“Not the best ever. But it was a great book”
*rewind* Approximately two hours before I had flipped him off. Well not him. The guy behind him that felt a tantrum was appropriate when I turned down a dance (clothed dance floor fuck). And he widened his eyes and put his arms out questioning his misfortune and I had to hug him. Then she flirted with him a little while about their hats while I made awkward conversation with his buddy until I could go back to dancing. So we were old friends in downtown night life time.
“Hey Handsome.” I said. “Is this your gang?” we all started down the street and I exclaimed “Shit, Lila we’re in a gang now!”
“Yeah,” his buddy rushed to walk alongside me “but you have to be initiated. A gang bang.”
“You want all of us to gang bang you right here?” I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t bring any lube. But I imagine we can come up with some sort of phallic like object. Or just make use of your buddies”
“NOoooo that’s not a gang bang. It has to be a girl. I don’t mean to shock you. It’s just that this is gang life.”
I adjusted the collar on his polo shirt. “and I can see you are just the guy to fill me in on such things.”
“What the fuck? Did you just dog me?” he turned to another in the group. “What’s up with that chick?”
“Where are you guys headed? Are you going to another club?” Hat boy asked Lila and I. I made the please let me start my long drive back to the crack ass of nowhere so I can go to bed and she made the I’m not done yet face and we shrugged. We were standing in front of a hippity club and I lit a cigarette. “Well. Can I smoke with you.”
“Sure.”
“Can I have a cigarette?” Lila laughed at this and I pulled out a cigarette and handed him that with my lighter.
“Just starting right now?” I asked him.
“That’s not how you light someone’s cigarette!”
“You want me to light it for you?” I took the lighter and stepped in closer and attempted to light his cigarette. It kept blowing out. And I laughed.
“No you’re doing it all wrong. You have to look me in the eyes.”
I couldn’t. Freaks me the fuck out. Finally Lila lit his cigarette like a pro and he said “See, your friend can do it.”
“Yeah. She’s awesome that way.”
“So what do you do?” She asked him.
“I’m an English teacher.”
“Dew loves English.” Lila surprises me by saying. He whips around to look me over to see if this might be true.
“Sure. I love me some words.” I said.
“Do you read?”
“I’ve been known to do that when I come across words.”
“What’s the greatest book of all time?”
“WHAT? Ahahaha! That’s a crazy question. And look at ya. You think you know. You already have one in mind. Only an English teacher.”
“I do.” he’s watching me and I’m trying to decide if I’m going to gamble. “I think you know.” he encouraged me. I had a moment of mild hilarity, as if I was in class and the teacher might be hitting on me.
“English teacher. What grade?”
“Tenth.”
“oh. Well that’s just too fucking easy.” I eye-balled his hat and his facial hair and his manner and I knew I knew. “You know. It’s sorta unbearably rude to ask someone to be wrong for you the first time you meet them.” I inhaled and looked him in the eye. “It’s a big deal to ask someone to do that. Or you’re an ass.”
“Or they’ll be right.”
“Come on, Dew.” she was bored. “let’s go.”
“Alright. Thanks for the smoke lighting instructions English teacher.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in here with us?”
“I have a long drive.”
“Okay…” he shrugged.
I turned around mid-intersection and he was watching us go. “The Great Gatsby?”
“I knew you knew!”
“Not the best ever. But it was a great book”
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
I'm Tired of Food
My toddler has finally entered the “I don’t eat to live” phase. He’s not picky. He just doesn’t need more than a lick of anything to keep ticking. He’ll suck all the juice out of a sliced orange leaving the rest on the plate, lick a pickle slice and spoon up a pile of mustard or salsa and call it good.
Have I mentioned I’m doing it different with this one? I made the first one uptight. Or she just is. Or I am. I don’t know. I sorta tied her hands behind her back and now she “can’t”. Just ‘cause I always “did”. And I do it so fucking well. There’s no way she’s going to embarrass us by fucking it up. I knew this when she was three and I busted her shouting at her friends for organizing her books incorrectly on her shelf during clean up time. But… she was right so what are you gonna do?
SO when this one raids the refrigerator to feed himself I try not to wonder if he’s going to alphabetize the condiments when he puts them back in the door and instead focus on his can do attitude. When we lose a jug of milk to gravity because two year old noodle arms can’t lift it .. I don’t make him cry about it. I just toss a towel on the floor and talk about the way spiderman downs water like he’s actually fishman.
But now that he’s not eating dinner. And since The Man doesn’t seem to eat food as much as magically transport it from plate to belly without ever tasting it. And since The Girls hate everything except the mac n’ cheese they requested made with Velveeta that I’m sure is still in my lower intestine somewhere breaking down at the pace of Styrofoam next to all the gum I’ve swallowed. I don’t want to cook.
I don’t. I don’t want to plan meals. Or buy the ingredients. Or chop. Fucking chopping. My gawd. And the standing there watching so it doesn’t burn. The stirring. The clean up. My gawd. Fucking food. What a waste of energy. I swear.. How does anyone gain weight with all the work of creating meals?
But these people!! (my kids are now these people) They demand food on the table five times a day so they can scrape it into the garbage can. Oh I know. You want me to make them eat it. You want me to sit their and negotiate bites with them. Fuck that. And we wonder why we have all the eating disorders. Oh sure, blame the skinny asses in the magazines if you want but who the fuck even buys a magazine anymore?
I don’t give a flying fuck if they eat. I count on their bellies to tell them when to eat. I just provide the food. But I’m considering a raw diet. Still with the chopping… I always slice the shit out of my fucking feckless fingers. I wonder what they would say if I slammed some veggies down without peeling the carrots, or slicing the celery so it doesn’t string out and strangle down their throats? *sigh* They would want ranch. And I think the toddler is allergic. His entire lower face turns pink and slightly raised like that time I tried Nair on my nethers.
*****Nair is satan revealing himself as YOU from inside a bottle!*****
So I can’t seem to find a way out of the endless cycle of food. *slams head on counter top and slides to floor that needs mopped and stares at ceiling wondering how long those bugs have been dead carcasses inside the light thingy* Why haven’t we figured out some better way? Why can’t we all just plant edible shit everywhere and let our children graze the way it was intended. (I’m pretty sure only humans would make this so fucking hard)
Have I mentioned I’m doing it different with this one? I made the first one uptight. Or she just is. Or I am. I don’t know. I sorta tied her hands behind her back and now she “can’t”. Just ‘cause I always “did”. And I do it so fucking well. There’s no way she’s going to embarrass us by fucking it up. I knew this when she was three and I busted her shouting at her friends for organizing her books incorrectly on her shelf during clean up time. But… she was right so what are you gonna do?
SO when this one raids the refrigerator to feed himself I try not to wonder if he’s going to alphabetize the condiments when he puts them back in the door and instead focus on his can do attitude. When we lose a jug of milk to gravity because two year old noodle arms can’t lift it .. I don’t make him cry about it. I just toss a towel on the floor and talk about the way spiderman downs water like he’s actually fishman.
But now that he’s not eating dinner. And since The Man doesn’t seem to eat food as much as magically transport it from plate to belly without ever tasting it. And since The Girls hate everything except the mac n’ cheese they requested made with Velveeta that I’m sure is still in my lower intestine somewhere breaking down at the pace of Styrofoam next to all the gum I’ve swallowed. I don’t want to cook.
I don’t. I don’t want to plan meals. Or buy the ingredients. Or chop. Fucking chopping. My gawd. And the standing there watching so it doesn’t burn. The stirring. The clean up. My gawd. Fucking food. What a waste of energy. I swear.. How does anyone gain weight with all the work of creating meals?
But these people!! (my kids are now these people) They demand food on the table five times a day so they can scrape it into the garbage can. Oh I know. You want me to make them eat it. You want me to sit their and negotiate bites with them. Fuck that. And we wonder why we have all the eating disorders. Oh sure, blame the skinny asses in the magazines if you want but who the fuck even buys a magazine anymore?
I don’t give a flying fuck if they eat. I count on their bellies to tell them when to eat. I just provide the food. But I’m considering a raw diet. Still with the chopping… I always slice the shit out of my fucking feckless fingers. I wonder what they would say if I slammed some veggies down without peeling the carrots, or slicing the celery so it doesn’t string out and strangle down their throats? *sigh* They would want ranch. And I think the toddler is allergic. His entire lower face turns pink and slightly raised like that time I tried Nair on my nethers.
*****Nair is satan revealing himself as YOU from inside a bottle!*****
So I can’t seem to find a way out of the endless cycle of food. *slams head on counter top and slides to floor that needs mopped and stares at ceiling wondering how long those bugs have been dead carcasses inside the light thingy* Why haven’t we figured out some better way? Why can’t we all just plant edible shit everywhere and let our children graze the way it was intended. (I’m pretty sure only humans would make this so fucking hard)
Monday, February 23, 2009
F*cked
The river stones are doing serious damage to her knees and she spreads her legs farther apart to relieve some of the pressure without letting up on the rocking. He’s watching her body, watching the moon filtered light on her navel, watching the place he goes in her and leaves her behind for someone she can‘t see.
This is me fucking him outdoors.
There’s a May breeze sending her hair aloft and she shivers without being able to stop, wonders why romance is always so damn frigid. The water rushes over the rocks below and an owl somewhere above is asking for identification. Leaning over she presses her cold face in his neck and tries to kiss him but he pushes her back. “I want to see you.”
This is me watching him fuck me.
She’s still fascinated by his effort and easy trusting slide into her. Still thinks she might find a way to crawl inside this part he cast for her and feel it from the inside. It just takes a reach around to end this but she lets him go a little longer, lets him love her a while longer.
This is me fucking myself.
This is me fucking him outdoors.
There’s a May breeze sending her hair aloft and she shivers without being able to stop, wonders why romance is always so damn frigid. The water rushes over the rocks below and an owl somewhere above is asking for identification. Leaning over she presses her cold face in his neck and tries to kiss him but he pushes her back. “I want to see you.”
This is me watching him fuck me.
She’s still fascinated by his effort and easy trusting slide into her. Still thinks she might find a way to crawl inside this part he cast for her and feel it from the inside. It just takes a reach around to end this but she lets him go a little longer, lets him love her a while longer.
This is me fucking myself.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
No Going Back
It’s his leg. Under the table, pressed against mine. Not pressing. Just there against my calf. It feels good. Friendly and relaxed and warm and nice. But also… the other, that flutter of wings opening. Does he feel that? Does he know what he’s doing? There’s a buzz of electricity there. It isn’t a storm but it’s a light bulb in an otherwise dark room. And then I’m aware, I am on and it’s all of me and there’s no room for anything else. It shuts my mouth and I remember that crack where I left the door to my center open and only for you. My hands get clammy and my forehead knits considering how I can stop myself, if I even want to stop myself from ..I don’t even know what…. it’s exactly that.. That I might do anything without thought and it will set a domino over that can’t ever be retrieved.
You opened me with one finger. One slipping sliding finger at my core and I’ve been exposed. I’ve seen what this body might do, the places I might go. And now I ache and I long in ways I never did before. I need and I want and you cut me off and as much as my heart would rather travel with you, as much as my head realizes a mirage can be summoned in the desert, as much as I restrain myself from landing this twisted cursed mess of a self in anyone’s godforsaken and undeserved lap for so temporary a relief I don’t know that this butterfly can ever be shoved back in her cocoon.
You opened me with one finger. One slipping sliding finger at my core and I’ve been exposed. I’ve seen what this body might do, the places I might go. And now I ache and I long in ways I never did before. I need and I want and you cut me off and as much as my heart would rather travel with you, as much as my head realizes a mirage can be summoned in the desert, as much as I restrain myself from landing this twisted cursed mess of a self in anyone’s godforsaken and undeserved lap for so temporary a relief I don’t know that this butterfly can ever be shoved back in her cocoon.
Friday, February 20, 2009
It's in His Kiss
“You know what I hate about kissing?” She made meaningful eye contact with me and my 16 year old self groaned internally. Fuck we’re really going to try this shit?
“Can you believe all the fucking lights you can see from up here?” I questioned lamely. When it’s after dark and you’re a teenager the options are limited. That’s how the three of us ended up parked at the look out as I’m sure will always be for teenage girls, their best friends and their boyfriends.
She went on anyway, not even a flicker of hesitation in her voice. “too much drool. All the slobbering is such a turn off.” I was trying to keep an eye on the boyfriend while she spoke to see if he could see through the half-baked ploy we had come up with to clue him in on his little problem. He didn’t appear to be any wiser but he kept most of his real shit way under the surface and walked around in a bullshit suit of armor few could (wanted to?) penetrate. She went on, “The thing is. You can’t tell if you’re a great kisser yourself. And nobody is going to tell you that’s kissing you. Not honestly.”
I wondered if the issue was solved as simple as that. If it really was just a matter of him having no idea. Wondered if it had absolutely anything to do with technique or if it was that other thing. Wondered how anyone could not realize the ocean was falling out of their mouth unless they‘re not kissing another person but just hanging their mouth open and pressing it into any available surface. I spoke up, “The REAL thing is that even if they DO tell you you’re a great kisser that just means you’re great at kissing them. That doesn’t mean everyone is going to appreciate the way you kiss. And I might like to be kissed one way by one person and another by some other person. It might not have anything to do with how someone kisses. It might just matter who is kissing you.”
“Yeah. But you never want a bucket of saliva on your face.” she accurately pointed out sending me into hysterics. “and a great kisser can kiss anyone and it may be different but it’s always great. I like that one thing with the tongue, you know what I mean?” She attempted to demonstrate solo.
The boyfriend was using one of those squeeze hand strengtheners and suddenly dropped it into the console and turned toward us. Smoke from our cigarettes hung in the air and we stared at him… waiting. “so show me.”
“Show you how? Kiss you right now?”
“Do you care?” he asked laughingly.
“No. By all means…” Do I care? I should probably care. Who am I jealous of? Is it her? Or him? Or is it that I’m not jealous of anything except their ability to do what they’re doing? They look pretty good kissing. They look like they should be kissing. It’s weird that they’re somehow mine and yet I’m the one who doesn’t belong here in this car; their apathetic connective tissue. I can’t even manage apathetic. I love them both but not enough.
“See, that was great.” she told him. “Here I’ll show you.” she said and she was kissing me. The air was charged with what might happen the way it always was when we fucked around like this and it made it easier to forget what wasn’t happening. Somehow my feeling trapped, my drowning in him had opened a window and let some air in for him. He was less mine than I was his and it was only because I didn’t know any other way to be. They tasted like samples in a petri dish. It would take a long time to get the tests back and see it was toxic.
They tasted like ‘there’s no going back now’ and ‘it's too late for what I want anyway.’
“Can you believe all the fucking lights you can see from up here?” I questioned lamely. When it’s after dark and you’re a teenager the options are limited. That’s how the three of us ended up parked at the look out as I’m sure will always be for teenage girls, their best friends and their boyfriends.
She went on anyway, not even a flicker of hesitation in her voice. “too much drool. All the slobbering is such a turn off.” I was trying to keep an eye on the boyfriend while she spoke to see if he could see through the half-baked ploy we had come up with to clue him in on his little problem. He didn’t appear to be any wiser but he kept most of his real shit way under the surface and walked around in a bullshit suit of armor few could (wanted to?) penetrate. She went on, “The thing is. You can’t tell if you’re a great kisser yourself. And nobody is going to tell you that’s kissing you. Not honestly.”
I wondered if the issue was solved as simple as that. If it really was just a matter of him having no idea. Wondered if it had absolutely anything to do with technique or if it was that other thing. Wondered how anyone could not realize the ocean was falling out of their mouth unless they‘re not kissing another person but just hanging their mouth open and pressing it into any available surface. I spoke up, “The REAL thing is that even if they DO tell you you’re a great kisser that just means you’re great at kissing them. That doesn’t mean everyone is going to appreciate the way you kiss. And I might like to be kissed one way by one person and another by some other person. It might not have anything to do with how someone kisses. It might just matter who is kissing you.”
“Yeah. But you never want a bucket of saliva on your face.” she accurately pointed out sending me into hysterics. “and a great kisser can kiss anyone and it may be different but it’s always great. I like that one thing with the tongue, you know what I mean?” She attempted to demonstrate solo.
The boyfriend was using one of those squeeze hand strengtheners and suddenly dropped it into the console and turned toward us. Smoke from our cigarettes hung in the air and we stared at him… waiting. “so show me.”
“Show you how? Kiss you right now?”
“Do you care?” he asked laughingly.
“No. By all means…” Do I care? I should probably care. Who am I jealous of? Is it her? Or him? Or is it that I’m not jealous of anything except their ability to do what they’re doing? They look pretty good kissing. They look like they should be kissing. It’s weird that they’re somehow mine and yet I’m the one who doesn’t belong here in this car; their apathetic connective tissue. I can’t even manage apathetic. I love them both but not enough.
“See, that was great.” she told him. “Here I’ll show you.” she said and she was kissing me. The air was charged with what might happen the way it always was when we fucked around like this and it made it easier to forget what wasn’t happening. Somehow my feeling trapped, my drowning in him had opened a window and let some air in for him. He was less mine than I was his and it was only because I didn’t know any other way to be. They tasted like samples in a petri dish. It would take a long time to get the tests back and see it was toxic.
They tasted like ‘there’s no going back now’ and ‘it's too late for what I want anyway.’
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Random(ed)
I dyed my hair this morning. You know, that tempting tube of blood red knock off manic panic I’ve been coveting in the bathroom cabinet for about nine months? *sigh* To answer your immediate questions: Yes, I hate it. Yes, it mostly looks orange-pink a color only suitable for sunrise. True, to be fair the orange is all mine and natural. No I do not have a sunrise personality. Although I do enjoy the way it accentuates my ass crack from where the color drained, I could have achieved that without this much headache and lets face it I rarely get to eye ball my butt cleavage enhanced or not. Yes, it looks like My Little Pony hair after fifty vigorous toddler scrubs with Magic Bubbles. Yes, I squeezed the bottle like a banana out of a peel and splashed blood red dye all over the bathroom wall. Yes the wall is the only thing still red. Everything else is flame pink but only when light shines on it. And. No, Mr Clean Magic Eraser’s are NOT that magical. (fucking men. I don’t care how shiny their head is you just can’t count on ‘em) It’s weird but now that my hair is destroyed and beaten and owned I have this odd sense of satisfaction. My work is done.
Before I took out my hair angst on myself (as it should be) I relieved a bit of it through my son. For those of you who don’t know; my son was born bald. A beautiful satin bald that I liked rubbing my face in. In the last two and a half years he grew some silken hair. Flat, limp, shiny delicious baby boy hair. Recently he began to develop a tic, shoving it out of his eyes. It was driving him crazy. Or it was driving me crazy. I don’ know I am growing out bangs so.. Could be I projected it. Shannon recommended cutting it in the bathtub and it worked great what with the mess going down the drain and him being relatively still albeit slippery. HOWEVER… there’s a LOT of shrinkage involved in the difference between wet hair and dry hair. And he didn’t hold THAT still. So0o0o0...Now his head looks like an egg would if you put a funny little swatch of carpet sample on top and the egg had big gorgeous brown eyes. And rubbery little pink lips and dimples. Gawds, there’s nothing I could do to un-adorable him.
For those of you still on the edge of your seats… My car is fine. I did get gas, but did not yet change the oil (smells like a weekend task, don’t it?) and the heater runs fine now that The Man removed the dead rodent from the fan bowl thingy. Turns out a mouse tail can sound remarkably like a pencil in a fan. I assume this is achieved through the stiffening power of rigor mortis. Or perhaps a limp something can occasionally get a job done. Maybe he used his tongue. Oh I know you think I’m one hair flaming satanic bitch but seriously that little shit had it coming, crawling up into a car!?! Once in awhile there is still a waft of dead odor coming from the heat vents. Or that’s what the family claims. But I know their asses too well to believe it.
Do you remember in middle school how people used to say “SCROUNGE!”. How fucking funny is that? You couldn’t pick up a pencil without the deep throaty accusation going up… “Scrounge!” I mean, you might drop a twenty dollar bill on the ground and STILL hesitate to retrieve it for fear one of your classmates might accuse you of scroungery. It would be social death. *laughing* Of course, this was before grunge.
I think we should bring back the word Hobo. But instead of calling homeless train jumpers Hobo we’ll use it for girls. Like say your girlfriend is up on the bar dancing you might shout “Look at the can oh beans in that caboose! HOBO!” *shrug* yes, I find myself HIGHLY amusing.
Have you seen the people hired to hold a sign at intersections? Is this everywhere? I guess it’s a job but fuck that would be miserable, just standing there with your “CLOSING EVERYTHING MUST GO MATTRESSES” sign. It’s a non-job. You’re taking the place of a nail. Is it really cheaper for the store to hire these people than it would be to pay for advertising space? Is it some sort of community outreach program? The best thing is when we have the strong winds and they’re STILL out there. Literally being BLOWN OVER. Ahahahahaha! Oh how I laugh/feel sorry for them.My favorite is the guy who says "fuck, if I'm going to do this I'm going to DEW it!" and he twirls and whirls the sign putting on a fantastic show. I don't care what the fuckers with their horns behind me thought, it was worth sitting through an extra light cycle. SO then I was thinking… why not advertise on the jack asses begging for money at on ramps? “Out of work, anything helps, god bless… this message brought to you by ADewZ’s myspace blog” But I wouldn’t make them hold the sign. It would be attached to their heads like a hat and it would be HUGE. Not that I would advertise my blog. That’s just an example.
Before I took out my hair angst on myself (as it should be) I relieved a bit of it through my son. For those of you who don’t know; my son was born bald. A beautiful satin bald that I liked rubbing my face in. In the last two and a half years he grew some silken hair. Flat, limp, shiny delicious baby boy hair. Recently he began to develop a tic, shoving it out of his eyes. It was driving him crazy. Or it was driving me crazy. I don’ know I am growing out bangs so.. Could be I projected it. Shannon recommended cutting it in the bathtub and it worked great what with the mess going down the drain and him being relatively still albeit slippery. HOWEVER… there’s a LOT of shrinkage involved in the difference between wet hair and dry hair. And he didn’t hold THAT still. So0o0o0...Now his head looks like an egg would if you put a funny little swatch of carpet sample on top and the egg had big gorgeous brown eyes. And rubbery little pink lips and dimples. Gawds, there’s nothing I could do to un-adorable him.
For those of you still on the edge of your seats… My car is fine. I did get gas, but did not yet change the oil (smells like a weekend task, don’t it?) and the heater runs fine now that The Man removed the dead rodent from the fan bowl thingy. Turns out a mouse tail can sound remarkably like a pencil in a fan. I assume this is achieved through the stiffening power of rigor mortis. Or perhaps a limp something can occasionally get a job done. Maybe he used his tongue. Oh I know you think I’m one hair flaming satanic bitch but seriously that little shit had it coming, crawling up into a car!?! Once in awhile there is still a waft of dead odor coming from the heat vents. Or that’s what the family claims. But I know their asses too well to believe it.
Do you remember in middle school how people used to say “SCROUNGE!”. How fucking funny is that? You couldn’t pick up a pencil without the deep throaty accusation going up… “Scrounge!” I mean, you might drop a twenty dollar bill on the ground and STILL hesitate to retrieve it for fear one of your classmates might accuse you of scroungery. It would be social death. *laughing* Of course, this was before grunge.
I think we should bring back the word Hobo. But instead of calling homeless train jumpers Hobo we’ll use it for girls. Like say your girlfriend is up on the bar dancing you might shout “Look at the can oh beans in that caboose! HOBO!” *shrug* yes, I find myself HIGHLY amusing.
Have you seen the people hired to hold a sign at intersections? Is this everywhere? I guess it’s a job but fuck that would be miserable, just standing there with your “CLOSING EVERYTHING MUST GO MATTRESSES” sign. It’s a non-job. You’re taking the place of a nail. Is it really cheaper for the store to hire these people than it would be to pay for advertising space? Is it some sort of community outreach program? The best thing is when we have the strong winds and they’re STILL out there. Literally being BLOWN OVER. Ahahahahaha! Oh how I laugh/feel sorry for them.My favorite is the guy who says "fuck, if I'm going to do this I'm going to DEW it!" and he twirls and whirls the sign putting on a fantastic show. I don't care what the fuckers with their horns behind me thought, it was worth sitting through an extra light cycle. SO then I was thinking… why not advertise on the jack asses begging for money at on ramps? “Out of work, anything helps, god bless… this message brought to you by ADewZ’s myspace blog” But I wouldn’t make them hold the sign. It would be attached to their heads like a hat and it would be HUGE. Not that I would advertise my blog. That’s just an example.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Automotive Neglect Inspired Ephiphany
I’m just going to confess.
I don’t give a flying fuck about my car. I’m being literal. I’m not talking about what it looks like or if it’s the latest in car technology though that’s true as well. I mean I don’t take care of it.
I don’t change the oil. I don’t even check the oil. *makes obscene gesture regarding oil*
The maintenance light has been on….. Since September. Yeah. That long.
I forget to put gas in until the empty light is on. And then I drive awhile more before I get around to getting gas.
Today I noticed there appears to be moss growing on the outside driver’s side. Down low along the doors where the grime has built up. And while I’m sort of ashamed at the implications I’m also sorta loving it’s groovy natural greenness.
The idea that I can use something every day and abandon it at once.
My neglect is a rebellious puddle to stomp and laugh in. When it’s machines that don’t breathe and we’re allowed to laugh and I don’t have to go to hell.
It’s like I dare the fucking car to complain. I dare it to tell me it won’t run like that for me. I dare it to knock or smoke or any fucking thing. Go ahead you fucking hunk of silver metal! Tell me we’re breaking up! Tell me you want more too!
But it doesn’t. It loves me. Other then producing a strange smell a couple weeks ago that sorta just went away and I blamed something maybe being dead in there and hoped it dropped off during some high speed race to the gas station. Other than that the car just keeps going.
Or it did.
Earlier this afternoon I drove the car over to my moms. And the heater started making a noise. I heard it just under the music… the sound of a pencil being stuck between running fan blades.
Oh shit, I thought. That smell had to turn to sound eventually. What? It makes sense to me.
So I turned the music off and turned the heater up and it was enough for even the kids to question the obnoxious noise. I told them that was just the sound the car makes before take off but they’re completely used to me by now and only rolled their eyes.
When I got home I informed The Man of the results of his automotive neglect. I mean. He’s the boyfriend and has a dick so I’m pretty sure this falls into his bucket of dream chores. He went out there and poked some things and made some suggestions and
*light bulb*
I realized. He’s just fucking around out there. He doesn’t have special knowledge of Honda Pilot heater fan belt something or others. It’s just the penis. So he fucks around and tries. I don’t try ‘cause I assume some expertise is probably necessary.
Like when people assume I can iron. Or cook. Or clean. Or raise kids. Well fuck. I’ve been doing that for years now with zero expertise and moderate success.
So tomorrow I’m going to fix that mutherfucking heater. And if I can’t I’m going to hollow out the center console, line it with brick and start burning wood there. Cause I’m skinny and I get cold damn it.
And then I think I’ll buy some oil. And drain all the oil out. Into a bucket or whatever is handy. How hard can it be?
But I’m not washing it. That mossy shit is kick ass.
I don’t give a flying fuck about my car. I’m being literal. I’m not talking about what it looks like or if it’s the latest in car technology though that’s true as well. I mean I don’t take care of it.
I don’t change the oil. I don’t even check the oil. *makes obscene gesture regarding oil*
The maintenance light has been on….. Since September. Yeah. That long.
I forget to put gas in until the empty light is on. And then I drive awhile more before I get around to getting gas.
Today I noticed there appears to be moss growing on the outside driver’s side. Down low along the doors where the grime has built up. And while I’m sort of ashamed at the implications I’m also sorta loving it’s groovy natural greenness.
The idea that I can use something every day and abandon it at once.
My neglect is a rebellious puddle to stomp and laugh in. When it’s machines that don’t breathe and we’re allowed to laugh and I don’t have to go to hell.
It’s like I dare the fucking car to complain. I dare it to tell me it won’t run like that for me. I dare it to knock or smoke or any fucking thing. Go ahead you fucking hunk of silver metal! Tell me we’re breaking up! Tell me you want more too!
But it doesn’t. It loves me. Other then producing a strange smell a couple weeks ago that sorta just went away and I blamed something maybe being dead in there and hoped it dropped off during some high speed race to the gas station. Other than that the car just keeps going.
Or it did.
Earlier this afternoon I drove the car over to my moms. And the heater started making a noise. I heard it just under the music… the sound of a pencil being stuck between running fan blades.
Oh shit, I thought. That smell had to turn to sound eventually. What? It makes sense to me.
So I turned the music off and turned the heater up and it was enough for even the kids to question the obnoxious noise. I told them that was just the sound the car makes before take off but they’re completely used to me by now and only rolled their eyes.
When I got home I informed The Man of the results of his automotive neglect. I mean. He’s the boyfriend and has a dick so I’m pretty sure this falls into his bucket of dream chores. He went out there and poked some things and made some suggestions and
*light bulb*
I realized. He’s just fucking around out there. He doesn’t have special knowledge of Honda Pilot heater fan belt something or others. It’s just the penis. So he fucks around and tries. I don’t try ‘cause I assume some expertise is probably necessary.
Like when people assume I can iron. Or cook. Or clean. Or raise kids. Well fuck. I’ve been doing that for years now with zero expertise and moderate success.
So tomorrow I’m going to fix that mutherfucking heater. And if I can’t I’m going to hollow out the center console, line it with brick and start burning wood there. Cause I’m skinny and I get cold damn it.
And then I think I’ll buy some oil. And drain all the oil out. Into a bucket or whatever is handy. How hard can it be?
But I’m not washing it. That mossy shit is kick ass.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Almost and Always
It’s awkward every time and when we're alone there's no where to hide it. Nervous tension. All the emotions laid out like junk at a flea market. Years of what if stacked high and deep, dust filling in the cracks. There are no price tags, the value can only be determined by the right someone wanting it. Bargain with me. Let me pretend I wouldn’t give it all just to feel your fingers brush mine in the exchange, just to know someone else has cataloged and revealed it in all it’s chips and faded colors as indefinably us and wanted it for keeps.
And your eyes do. See me. Or I imagine they do. I can hardly look at you full on. I’m afraid you’ll know you’re everything and it will scare you away. Afraid it’s the almost you really want. And there’s nothing almost about the way my skin doesn’t even touch yours as much as it is yours. I will be lost in you, have been lost in you and managing this half-assed broken wandering around without you anyway. How is it that you don’t claim what is yours and get to keep it anyway?
Even with all our clothes off and seemingly nothing left between us we missed something. Waited for something. Neither willing to push. I think I was supposed to. I think you must have needed or wanted a large gesture of faith. I still thought there might be a magical way that somehow it could be right and that we deserved that. That we could have it without stealing. Please don’t make me be wrong. Not always.
And your eyes do. See me. Or I imagine they do. I can hardly look at you full on. I’m afraid you’ll know you’re everything and it will scare you away. Afraid it’s the almost you really want. And there’s nothing almost about the way my skin doesn’t even touch yours as much as it is yours. I will be lost in you, have been lost in you and managing this half-assed broken wandering around without you anyway. How is it that you don’t claim what is yours and get to keep it anyway?
Even with all our clothes off and seemingly nothing left between us we missed something. Waited for something. Neither willing to push. I think I was supposed to. I think you must have needed or wanted a large gesture of faith. I still thought there might be a magical way that somehow it could be right and that we deserved that. That we could have it without stealing. Please don’t make me be wrong. Not always.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Driving Ms. Dew
I’ve been having erotic dreams. *blush* I know, I don’t believe it either. I don’t even really remember them exactly it’s more like an impression. It’s been like a parade of historical lovers marching past in the wee hours. Well. Not so much a parade as a small crowd crossing against the lights in front of my car.
Can you walk any faster asshole? I’m driving here.
“Dew(ed), look! It’s a gang!”
“It’s not a gang Mom.”
“It IS a gang. Why can’t you ever listen to me?”
“Any random group of teens in torn clothing and strange hair styles does not a gang make, Mom.”
I want to tell you how pitiful the playbacks are but it’s only to offer the chance for one of you to remind me of the common denominator. Go ahead and tell me what I won’t do. No not right now, I’m still telling you what I did anyway. I think mostly I’ve only ever fucked mirrors. Pardon me. Made love. Had sex. Fornicated. *snicker*
Watching my car in the reflection on the buildings I drive past.
Let me move against you to find out who I might be if I continue to stand here next to you. Let me wrap you in me and slide up your dick until we‘re flush. Let me feel it to the core and turn inside out and around and over and under until I’m someone you/I/they love.
No really. I like it when you think you’re driving. Go ahead and steer so I can be blameless.
Can you walk any faster asshole? I’m driving here.
“Dew(ed), look! It’s a gang!”
“It’s not a gang Mom.”
“It IS a gang. Why can’t you ever listen to me?”
“Any random group of teens in torn clothing and strange hair styles does not a gang make, Mom.”
I want to tell you how pitiful the playbacks are but it’s only to offer the chance for one of you to remind me of the common denominator. Go ahead and tell me what I won’t do. No not right now, I’m still telling you what I did anyway. I think mostly I’ve only ever fucked mirrors. Pardon me. Made love. Had sex. Fornicated. *snicker*
Watching my car in the reflection on the buildings I drive past.
Let me move against you to find out who I might be if I continue to stand here next to you. Let me wrap you in me and slide up your dick until we‘re flush. Let me feel it to the core and turn inside out and around and over and under until I’m someone you/I/they love.
No really. I like it when you think you’re driving. Go ahead and steer so I can be blameless.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Missing Mom
We lost my mom when we moved back to Portland from Idaho. She’s never been the same. Or it might have been before that, when we moved there. Or maybe when my sister was conceived. It could be it was before we even came along. Or that it happens in a series of small breaks.
but when we came back she stopped pretending. There was some sort of letting loose of herself. A tail between the legs giving in to the inevitable end to her former self. Still, knowing and knowing are worlds away from one another and after dad died she not only wasn’t herself, she hated who she wasn’t too.
Hates us even. Oh I know I’m not supposed to say hate. Nobody is allowed to say hate about anything anymore. Except maybe a movie or some other inconsequential. As if banning a word takes away what it needs to express.
It’s only because she loves us. It’s only because she thinks she owes us. It’s only because she does.
I’ve been trying to think of how to break her loose. I’d like to remind her she’s not dead yet. I’d like to tell her he would have done it no matter what. I’d like to tell her we don’t blame her. I’d like to think it might matter. that I might matter.
It’s a tricky thing to suggest … that a person can ground us. That a person can bring us back to our self. That it could be something she needs from me....Just me doing something that reaches into her heart with emotional shock pads and jolts her back to us, to her. If that’s the case she’s also right. And if she’s right then we’re all wrong.
And we failed him.
I'm pretty sure she won't ever let us prove that. But I miss her.
but when we came back she stopped pretending. There was some sort of letting loose of herself. A tail between the legs giving in to the inevitable end to her former self. Still, knowing and knowing are worlds away from one another and after dad died she not only wasn’t herself, she hated who she wasn’t too.
Hates us even. Oh I know I’m not supposed to say hate. Nobody is allowed to say hate about anything anymore. Except maybe a movie or some other inconsequential. As if banning a word takes away what it needs to express.
It’s only because she loves us. It’s only because she thinks she owes us. It’s only because she does.
I’ve been trying to think of how to break her loose. I’d like to remind her she’s not dead yet. I’d like to tell her he would have done it no matter what. I’d like to tell her we don’t blame her. I’d like to think it might matter. that I might matter.
It’s a tricky thing to suggest … that a person can ground us. That a person can bring us back to our self. That it could be something she needs from me....Just me doing something that reaches into her heart with emotional shock pads and jolts her back to us, to her. If that’s the case she’s also right. And if she’s right then we’re all wrong.
And we failed him.
I'm pretty sure she won't ever let us prove that. But I miss her.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Ripples (part of untitled twelve?)
A couples first fight will be their last fight. It will be every fight in between. Everything after that is just building a good case. Gathering witnesses. Interrogation techniques. The silences. The snubs in the kitchen, the sneer on the other side of the door. The history written for the children. The future displayed in black and white. My parents were no different.
It’s difficult to tell you what they fought about. That’s against the rules. All the fucking rules. Nobody tells you the rules. You figure it out. You just know that twist in your guts that says this is ours alone. It’s not for anyone but us. It’s not even ours. We’re not supposed to show any signs of being a refugee in their war. So you shut up and you hunker down and you wait for it to be over.
Over was going to be when my younger brother, the youngest turned sixteen. That was always the conclusion at the end of the fights, before the angry silences. They would keep it together for the kids until he was sixteen and we were all old enough to handle a separation. No, that bit of irony wasn't lost on us. Or not on me anyway.
**********************************************************************************
Part One: http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=294775159&blogID=421947256
Dad picked me up in his tiny hatch back, he used the ashtray but it was over-flowing and the entire flooring was covered in ash. I folded myself over my bulging belly and tried to fit in the space marked oldest daughter and only one to ask. On our way up to the VA hospital he explained that he understood he couldn’t ask me to do this, that I couldn’t do this but that he needed me to go along with it anyway. There wasn’t any way he could go back there and they were only going to let him out on his own if there was an adult who agreed to work with him and the doctor.
The emphasis of course was on the fact that it was my choice. That I needed to want to commit to it. Both he and the psychiatrist made that very clear. It was ridiculous sitting there in the sanitation of a hospital conference room staring at the man with the white coat, listening to his kind tone. The man was clearly insane himself. Who asks a twenty year old girl, pregnant out of wedlock to be responsible for the suicidal man who raised her?
Sitting there in an old pair of Dad’s beat up levis slung low under my baby I contemplated the idea that I was now to take care of him. It occurred to me that I should ask them both when the fuck it would be my turn but that hardly seemed fair with both of them being so fucking nuts.
There was no choice but to sign all the paper work. There wasn’t anyone else. And we both knew there wasn’t anything I could do about it if he decided it was time to go. The words could and would and should roll and tumble in my psyche. I knew I would carry it with my signature on the line or not. Some of us just have those shoulders.
**********************************************************************************
There was a backpack, a military pack that I remember from the night he came back. I don’t remember when he exactly left. I don’t remember more than the vague sick wonder of a child. Where’s dad? Mom must have muffled that for us. Must have thought the dark of inexplicable would rub it inconsequential.
And then there he was coming in the front door and he wasn’t mad. He was okay. The khaki green pack over his shoulder, the way his hair stood up from his head. The three of us were all over him, the way children are when the dad comes back in. Where were you? What were you doing? The unspoken; how could you ever stay away from us?
I don’t think he was gone more than a day. It felt longer in the wake of their fight. It felt longer not knowing if he was ever coming back. He told us he found a wonderful place, woods with trails and he would take us one day soon to see it. He told us hush it’s bedtime, I’m going to talk to your mother.
Even then I wondered at that pack. What was in it? What did a man put in a pack when leaving like that? Was it just beer? Was there a picture of his family? Did he take a book and slide it alongside the water canteen?
My brain tumbled all the possibilities, avoiding the idea of what must have really been in there. The little box next to the larger box with the mystery mom didn’t want in the house.
It occurs to me now that he might have set the date then, when he didn't go through with it. The date he could finally be done. And it must have eased a bit, knowing the deadline.
It’s difficult to tell you what they fought about. That’s against the rules. All the fucking rules. Nobody tells you the rules. You figure it out. You just know that twist in your guts that says this is ours alone. It’s not for anyone but us. It’s not even ours. We’re not supposed to show any signs of being a refugee in their war. So you shut up and you hunker down and you wait for it to be over.
Over was going to be when my younger brother, the youngest turned sixteen. That was always the conclusion at the end of the fights, before the angry silences. They would keep it together for the kids until he was sixteen and we were all old enough to handle a separation. No, that bit of irony wasn't lost on us. Or not on me anyway.
**********************************************************************************
Part One: http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=294775159&blogID=421947256
Dad picked me up in his tiny hatch back, he used the ashtray but it was over-flowing and the entire flooring was covered in ash. I folded myself over my bulging belly and tried to fit in the space marked oldest daughter and only one to ask. On our way up to the VA hospital he explained that he understood he couldn’t ask me to do this, that I couldn’t do this but that he needed me to go along with it anyway. There wasn’t any way he could go back there and they were only going to let him out on his own if there was an adult who agreed to work with him and the doctor.
The emphasis of course was on the fact that it was my choice. That I needed to want to commit to it. Both he and the psychiatrist made that very clear. It was ridiculous sitting there in the sanitation of a hospital conference room staring at the man with the white coat, listening to his kind tone. The man was clearly insane himself. Who asks a twenty year old girl, pregnant out of wedlock to be responsible for the suicidal man who raised her?
Sitting there in an old pair of Dad’s beat up levis slung low under my baby I contemplated the idea that I was now to take care of him. It occurred to me that I should ask them both when the fuck it would be my turn but that hardly seemed fair with both of them being so fucking nuts.
There was no choice but to sign all the paper work. There wasn’t anyone else. And we both knew there wasn’t anything I could do about it if he decided it was time to go. The words could and would and should roll and tumble in my psyche. I knew I would carry it with my signature on the line or not. Some of us just have those shoulders.
**********************************************************************************
There was a backpack, a military pack that I remember from the night he came back. I don’t remember when he exactly left. I don’t remember more than the vague sick wonder of a child. Where’s dad? Mom must have muffled that for us. Must have thought the dark of inexplicable would rub it inconsequential.
And then there he was coming in the front door and he wasn’t mad. He was okay. The khaki green pack over his shoulder, the way his hair stood up from his head. The three of us were all over him, the way children are when the dad comes back in. Where were you? What were you doing? The unspoken; how could you ever stay away from us?
I don’t think he was gone more than a day. It felt longer in the wake of their fight. It felt longer not knowing if he was ever coming back. He told us he found a wonderful place, woods with trails and he would take us one day soon to see it. He told us hush it’s bedtime, I’m going to talk to your mother.
Even then I wondered at that pack. What was in it? What did a man put in a pack when leaving like that? Was it just beer? Was there a picture of his family? Did he take a book and slide it alongside the water canteen?
My brain tumbled all the possibilities, avoiding the idea of what must have really been in there. The little box next to the larger box with the mystery mom didn’t want in the house.
It occurs to me now that he might have set the date then, when he didn't go through with it. The date he could finally be done. And it must have eased a bit, knowing the deadline.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Ten Seconds
Awhile ago Madge wrote a blog about anxiety and asked her readers if they feared death. Several people answered that while they didn't fear BEING dead…the possibilities of HOW they might die did frighten them.
Drowning. Fire. Falling. Congestive heart failure on the royal thrown. You know. The usuals.
But that doesn't really worry me, for two reasons. One: We don't have much control over that. Well. A little. Obviously I'm shooting for organ failure due to lung cancer but one can't be certain in these matters. Two: Who the fuck cares HOW it happens?
It's DEATH!!! *terror!* (yes My ego IS that big!)
So yeah. DEATH. (heavy, I know) It's not that I'm MUCH afraid of being dead. Most of the evidence seems to point to a ceasing of being. So. You won't KNOW you're dead. That's not very scary. I mean it is but it will only be scary until it happens. And then it won't be anything. And if it is SOMETHING most accounts point to it being all nice and peaceful despite the fact that none of your dead relatives bothers to bring you a pair of ray bans to deal with the stunning bright light. Nothing to fear about THAT.
People are missing the scary part! The scary part is the DYING.
The scary part of dying is this; assuming you're not killed immediately with some sort of blunt force trauma inflicted on the brain stem… and even then there's doubt about immediate loss of brain activity but we won't get into that here what with there being no hard proof….. So unless you're lucky enough to be shot or have a piano land on you unexpectedly it's likely the old lack of oxygen to the brain that's REALLY going to get you.
So what? I'll tell you so what. TEN SECONDS. Give or take. That's how long until you lose consciousness. We call it that big word when really we mean; That's when you lose YOU.
TEN SECONDS.
That's a long time.
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Yeah. THAT long. That's longer than the Dylan guy from 90210 had to stay on that bucking thing in that one movie. I could barely take it in movie time!
Then your brain cells begin to deteriorate. You can still be revived within four minutes or so with less damage than you inflicted yourself every damn weekend in your early twenties give or take a cell or two but after THAT the cells begin killing themselves off in a mass suicide. That's right. You DECIDE to die. The suspense KILLS YOU!!!
So what if we can decide NOT to? Apparently somebody is working on it. They're working on a drug to at least slow down that process in the cells, for hours or even days. I assume to give doctors longer to fix you before there's nothing left in the brain to fix. The rest of the body does better because it's cells have a back-up plan to break shit down and get rid of it. Has to do with why we get muscle pain after lack of oxygen in a work-out. But don't listen to me.. There's a whole internet to read smart people about important things such as cell function.
I'm just wondering.. What do you suppose YOU will be thinking during YOUR ten seconds.
As for me I have my money on mad panic, frantic holding on, and a shit ton of angry resentment. But that's just me.
Drowning. Fire. Falling. Congestive heart failure on the royal thrown. You know. The usuals.
But that doesn't really worry me, for two reasons. One: We don't have much control over that. Well. A little. Obviously I'm shooting for organ failure due to lung cancer but one can't be certain in these matters. Two: Who the fuck cares HOW it happens?
It's DEATH!!! *terror!* (yes My ego IS that big!)
So yeah. DEATH. (heavy, I know) It's not that I'm MUCH afraid of being dead. Most of the evidence seems to point to a ceasing of being. So. You won't KNOW you're dead. That's not very scary. I mean it is but it will only be scary until it happens. And then it won't be anything. And if it is SOMETHING most accounts point to it being all nice and peaceful despite the fact that none of your dead relatives bothers to bring you a pair of ray bans to deal with the stunning bright light. Nothing to fear about THAT.
People are missing the scary part! The scary part is the DYING.
The scary part of dying is this; assuming you're not killed immediately with some sort of blunt force trauma inflicted on the brain stem… and even then there's doubt about immediate loss of brain activity but we won't get into that here what with there being no hard proof….. So unless you're lucky enough to be shot or have a piano land on you unexpectedly it's likely the old lack of oxygen to the brain that's REALLY going to get you.
So what? I'll tell you so what. TEN SECONDS. Give or take. That's how long until you lose consciousness. We call it that big word when really we mean; That's when you lose YOU.
TEN SECONDS.
That's a long time.
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Yeah. THAT long. That's longer than the Dylan guy from 90210 had to stay on that bucking thing in that one movie. I could barely take it in movie time!
Then your brain cells begin to deteriorate. You can still be revived within four minutes or so with less damage than you inflicted yourself every damn weekend in your early twenties give or take a cell or two but after THAT the cells begin killing themselves off in a mass suicide. That's right. You DECIDE to die. The suspense KILLS YOU!!!
So what if we can decide NOT to? Apparently somebody is working on it. They're working on a drug to at least slow down that process in the cells, for hours or even days. I assume to give doctors longer to fix you before there's nothing left in the brain to fix. The rest of the body does better because it's cells have a back-up plan to break shit down and get rid of it. Has to do with why we get muscle pain after lack of oxygen in a work-out. But don't listen to me.. There's a whole internet to read smart people about important things such as cell function.
I'm just wondering.. What do you suppose YOU will be thinking during YOUR ten seconds.
As for me I have my money on mad panic, frantic holding on, and a shit ton of angry resentment. But that's just me.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Start of a Big Story
My parents eloped. There are two photographs. The one he took of her. And the one she took of him. It is the way we see them throughout our childhood. Him through her and she through him.
He stands by a mailbox, impossibly thin and his face is covered in hippy beard. The beard is mine, too red to be brown and too brown to be red. His hair is my sisters, dark and wavy but without the weight hers has. His eyes, his eyes are my brothers and he is the closest to seeing out them. You can see the beginning in the way his pants are snug at the hips. You can see the end in the shoulders that carry everything. His smile is a cat that couldn’t quite swallow the canary.
She sees all this right away, the way you can see your entire future with someone in the first minute you meet them, every possible door. She sees it and she tucks it in her heart. She sees it and knows it and breaths it and owns it. She walks in anyway, it’s her door.
They met through his sister. They met in a parking lot, my mom in a car with her Beauty School friends, smoking cigarettes and at the edge of alone in the big wide world. She is clean virgin and simple beauty, an apology for everything. He says “I’m not your pardoner” and she apologizes for that as well.
He carries it and she’s so sorry.
He stands by a mailbox, impossibly thin and his face is covered in hippy beard. The beard is mine, too red to be brown and too brown to be red. His hair is my sisters, dark and wavy but without the weight hers has. His eyes, his eyes are my brothers and he is the closest to seeing out them. You can see the beginning in the way his pants are snug at the hips. You can see the end in the shoulders that carry everything. His smile is a cat that couldn’t quite swallow the canary.
She sees all this right away, the way you can see your entire future with someone in the first minute you meet them, every possible door. She sees it and she tucks it in her heart. She sees it and knows it and breaths it and owns it. She walks in anyway, it’s her door.
They met through his sister. They met in a parking lot, my mom in a car with her Beauty School friends, smoking cigarettes and at the edge of alone in the big wide world. She is clean virgin and simple beauty, an apology for everything. He says “I’m not your pardoner” and she apologizes for that as well.
He carries it and she’s so sorry.
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