tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66581333785461286862024-03-13T09:00:03.386-07:00Dew(ed)Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.comBlogger288125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-16468331255503432232012-10-01T13:52:00.001-07:002012-10-01T13:52:20.019-07:00Checks and Bad Seeds <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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A check arrived in the mail today. It will be a turning
point. Any improvement I want to make in my life hinges on transportation. I
know that. She would be glad I have it. I know she would want me to smile and
she would say “this year is going to be different.” And she would say “it was
meant to be because you need this.” She would. She would goddamn say that. And
I hate it. I barely made myself send off the paperwork that would become a
check in the suitable amount to make up for the loss. And now I must take it to
the bank and put it in my account where it will change and become mine. I don’t
want it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d rather have her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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You planted a terrible seed in me. I had an empty place and
you planted a terrible lie in there. And the worst of it is that I grew it for
you. I watered and weeded and pruned and made it in the image you asked for. It
twisted and grew gnarled and hideous against the fierce winds of your constant
criticism and fear. And you saw that and called it weak and you walked away. </div>
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I suppose it’s obvious that when one is naive they probably
cannot perceive it. I didn’t know. You told me. And I don’t know why you would
do that. It would be naive to think you wanted to protect me.You could have
just stayed. It wouldn’t have mattered if you had stayed. </div>
Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-86241209765848750562012-01-16T20:59:00.000-08:002012-01-16T20:59:02.002-08:00The Dark Bottomless Boob on Your Face<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">The worst of it is the dark bottomless. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">I cannot paint a portrait of us to hang over my mantel. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">I don’t know what we looked like. I don’t have the skills. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">Not one single picture exists… of us together. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">I have one picture of you. Your eyes are closed. You are almost smiling. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">I have this urge to piece together a collage of us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">Step back… see….around the shards…between the lines…behind the scenes. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">To slow down the sleight of hand… to see how the bunny gets in the top hat. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">We are mixed media. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">We are found object. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">We are abstract. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">And perhaps….</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">If I could find meaning in the giant boob on your forehead…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">If I could accept my lack of arms as reasonable or at least artful…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">I might be able to sleep. I might be able to turn around and start climbing out. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-16997364781429991252012-01-10T19:52:00.000-08:002012-01-10T19:52:05.103-08:00My problems are small and daily. Or large and lifetime. Or that's the same thing. <br />
<br />
Someone linked me to my own blog. Can you imagine? It's difficult to read my words now. I find myself alternately hilarious and piteous.<br />
<br />
I'm sitting in a small town bar using the wifi. The locals inquire about the laptop as though it is a spaceship. I answer their questions as though it is a spaceship I happened upon and just decided to dink around with.<br />
<br />
"God knows what this darn thing is... thought I'd just tinker it a bit for the mild amusement of tapping keys"<br />
<br />
I also work here just often enough that it pays to blend in as much as I can.<br />
<br />
This isn't working the way I'd hoped... the way I remembered. Nothing works anymore and I don't know how to get back. I followed something out to the edge and fell over the side and I'm not sure I even want to pull myself back up.<br />
<br />
and none of it is very interesting. Just poverty and alone and barely getting by.Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-13435831235519340382011-10-12T12:01:00.000-07:002011-10-12T12:17:54.764-07:00I Am WalkingThe road is not built for pedestrians. It is built for cars and trucks and suvs and leaves no room even on the edge for any other way to get anywhere. It is used as a passage between one important place and another. <i>Are we there yet, Dad?</i> Narrow, winding country roads along beautiful views that the people in the cars and the trucks and the suvs do not see as they are busy and paying attention to the asshole just ahead of them going slower than they would or the jerk just behind them trying to go faster than they want to. I see. I see everything. I am walking. <br />
<br />
People zoom by going forty-five miles per hour in their check income range here boxes ...people are irritated that I'm there... that they have to pay attention to their driving, to me going so slow there outside their white line... forced into the ditch... exposed and without metal armor. <i>Move out of my way so I can hurry up and get where I am going. </i>And always they are going, going, gone fast. I'm not going anywhere any time soon. No one has paved or marked out my path.I am walking. <br />
<br />
There's always interesting litter on the ground if I get tired of looking at incredible rock erosion or endless shades of green and wet and water falling. <i>"The children shall inherit..."</i> Bottles and bags mostly. People drinking and shopping as a passage between one rock bottom and another while they drive there quickly. My reality doesn't exist before or after because I am in it. I am walking. <br />
<br />
I'm already there. I am walking.Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-69635418088914204762011-08-02T18:50:00.000-07:002011-08-02T18:50:42.357-07:00Panic Paddling (arm flapping on a flotation device)Most of the section of the Sandy River that we float down is shallow. Rarely is it deep enough to dive and most often you'd find it difficult to get your shoulders wet without also dunking your own head. It's a relaxing float. The water meanders it's way around large curves and we just sprawl our bodies across our various inflatable devices and watch the scenery. A couple spots are a bit bumpy.... like if you're in small pool and everyone jumps at the same time. We say "weeee" and "wooohoo!" and "white water!" and giggle about the joke.<br />
<br />
And then there are the exciting parts.<br />
<br />
I don't have a nice floaty. I float on a two man (they must mean the smallest men EVER)boat. I don't like that it is a boat so I flip it upside down and use it as a mattress. This works pretty damn well but it's an old crappy boat and only the outermost "ring" actually stays inflated all the way. So I end up in a sort of floating hammock as I make my way down the river. <br />
<br />
I like to be on my belly with my arms up and over the top of the front of the hammock idly swishing them around in the water when I feel like it to cool off. Sara was nearby on her mattress doing the same. Her husband Aaron was a bit ahead of us in his inflatable Lewis and Clark canoe. Then we hear that up ahead the water is getting choppy. We adjust ourselves to be ready to paddle with our arms if necessary. Someone shouts that there is a log hidden in the water up ahead. Right exactly where all the water wants to go, where all the water is taking us. <br />
<br />
"Aaron! Watch out for that log under the water up ahead!" Sara shouts. Her voice sounded kinda... serious. Looking back I think it was just a wife voice. Ya know.... like "Aaron pay attention and don't put a hole in your super awesome inflatable canoe 'cause then you're going to cry." But in the moment... I just heard the <i>don't fuck around </i>in the tone<i>.</i> I started to get nervous. Then she turned to look at me and says "MEREDITH!" and she sounds really worried. Probably because I 'm a noodle armed bikini clad city girl on an upside down boat about to impale myself on a dead tree in the middle of the Sandy River. <br />
<br />
So I did what any person would do. I totally panicked. I tried to get my boat to stop. My noodle arms were paddling like they'd never paddled before wildly smacking and splashing through the water...except... there's no where to fucking go! There's no way in hell I can get ashore and when the current is quick you go where the river fucking tells you to go.<br />
<br />
Sara saw my face. She said I looked scared. (ya think!!? of course I looked scared- all of a sudden I thought we were dying!) "Meredith! Don't panic!" She used her effective first grade teacher voice on me. So I settled down and once again accepted the river as a higher power...... and we all lived.The river carried us along and when it was done being fast and furious it returned to a lazy no care pace for no apparent reason the way rivers do. The way life does. I never even actually saw the log. I probably had my eyes shut when I was panic paddling.Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-81387221475998908802011-07-19T11:50:00.000-07:002011-07-19T11:51:12.470-07:00As I Was Saying...Sometimes we have to go backward before we can go forward. Perhaps eventually I'll write something new. For now I'll be transferring old posts from old playgrounds.Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-68771525515484134562010-06-12T11:23:00.000-07:002011-07-22T22:07:05.332-07:00All Around The Mulberry Bush<span style="font-size: medium;">My friend Kim has some sort of war going with the ice cream man. She runs an in-home day care and I probably don’t have to tell you how horrifying it is when the sound of Pop Goes The Weasel is blasted from a tiny truck and followed by “KIMMIE CAN WE HAVE ICE CREAM!?!?!” in five or six tiny whiny voices. And this is in spite of the fact that the ice cream is really a disgusting Popsicle of some kind that costs $3.95. So she’s asked the guy not to play his music through her neighborhood on the weekdays. Of course his feeling is… “I’m trying to earn a living here.” <br />
<br />
RIGHT. Clearly he’s just full of wild ambition. <br />
<br />
*insert sound of golf cart going down the most pot holed road in SE Portland here* <br />
<br />
Seriously. <br />
<br />
We were standing on her deck when I first learned of this animosity. I was helping her plant flowers in pots all over her back deck. Children were napping. The sun was shining. All was right in the world. The deck is around a pool and sits up plenty high enough to see the road on the other side of her lower fence. I looked up from trying to remove a two year dead bamboo root ball from a pot to observe her giving MASSIVE stink eye to a rather nasty man (aren’t they all though? I mean really have you EVER seen a guy in an ice cream truck that didn’t give you the skeeves? I think not.) in a beat up old ice cream cart thing. Or it was a van. I don’t know. Anyway I give her the “are you nuts? What’s your problem face.” and she proceeds to explain their ongoing dislike of one another. Which I find enormously funny. <br />
<br />
Then she says “The worst part is… when I DO go get ice cream he NEVER has what I want.” <br />
<br />
“ahahahahahahahhahahahahaha! You buy his ice cream??” <br />
<br />
“I’m only human. He plays the music….” <br />
<br />
And now you know why there are still men in golf carts selling the worst ice cream known to man kind. </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-17558283084478747402010-06-10T12:07:00.000-07:002011-07-22T21:05:32.575-07:00The Grim Grey Inbetween<span style="font-size: medium;">I would like to live in a world of white. I would just float about on the fluff that comes off a dandelion and maybe sleep on a puffy cloud when I’m tired of spinning in the blinding purity of right or nothingness. Something like righteous nonexistence. Clean sheets. Blank paper. The absence of anything. <br />
<br />
Then again I can’t help but be drawn to the sharpie staying power of a decisive black line. The words formed on the paper, the quality of what something actually is or is not with no further debate needed. Here it is! Here is the line! The shapes we’ve determined mean exactly this or that, this is the reality we’re all going to keep to. <br />
<br />
Of course what I get is layer upon layer of gray. The smudgy graphite on the too thin paper of a kindergartner learning their letters. Nothing is wrong and nothing is right it's all just trying to figure out what the shapes might mean and trying to avoid tearing. Maybe this… this is almost slate. Nope. Erase that. Try again. Search for understanding of yourself, of others, of any damn thing at all. Ashes and ashes and dust to dust ... the neutral kiss of a girl making love to god while being reamed in the ass by the devil. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">June 10, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-71673312170301280252010-05-27T11:20:00.000-07:002011-07-22T21:06:38.742-07:00And I Still Know Nothing<span style="font-size: medium;">I took my old self down to the jail. Not <i>now</i> me. Not the invented me I walk around in. The me under that. I went ahead and had a full reversion. Seriously. Full reverse sweaty palmed terror driven self destructive nineteen year old me. <br />
<br />
<br />
Because. I thought about him. And I thought about me. I thought about what I thought he was. What he thinks he is. What I think I was. What I think he thinks I am. I thought about the last ten to eleven years. Tried to imagine back to the time and place I was before and figure out what’s different if anything. And I thought and I thought and I thought in circles and triangles and spirals and the thing is…. You can’t un think or out think or think around a feeling. I could not get rid of the feelings. And I got a letter. And another letter. And I had to see him. Because I still don’t know anything. Or I can’t tell if I do. <br />
<br />
Because if I’m the same I want to know it. So I can do something about it. <br />
<br />
And if I’m different. I want to know it. <br />
<br />
And I want to know which parts of the different are improvements and which are really just me still full fetal arms over head frozen reflex crazy girl.<br />
<br />
And the people say “why? Why would you go see him?” because they’re thinking about what he deserves. <br />
<br />
But what about what I deserve? What about who I am? What about who I am regardless of what anyone does? At what point has a person gone so far that I can no longer treat them the way I would like to treat fellow human beings? Is there some line they cross and then I become them? At what point do I say my heart is just not that big. How do you decide if someone was just fucked up and you got in the crossfire or if they actually really truly used you and abused you and will continue to as long as you let them and as long as they can slide it in under the guise of pity or kindness or basic human rights? <br />
<br />
Consider a person in your life that screwed you in ways you’re still figuring out. Screwed you so horribly that after eleven years you’re only just realizing how far they bent you over. Consider that they found you a fucked up mess… KNEW that and then ripped the hole wider. Consider that they told you it was your fault. That you were damaged. That you were fucked up and if you could just quit being so fucked up and trust them it would be fine. Better than fine. That they would be fine and you would be fine. That it would be all the things they obliterated the possibility of for what turned out essentially to be a con. Consider that you believed that. Not all of you. Just enough. Enough to keep the hole and the fear and the choking sad. <br />
<br />
Consider them sitting behind plexiglass looking at a life sentence. <br />
<br />
<br />
Well. I did. Consider it. And seriously. There’s never going to be a safer way to see this person. <br />
<br />
<br />
So I did. And I’m glad I did. And I felt better right after. And then I thought some more. And I thought myself right back where I started. <br />
<br />
And I still know nothing. I sat on a stool bolted to the floor and I leaned over sideways to speak into a telephone and I stared at the man on the other side and I know nothing. <br />
<br />
And he said “I love you. I have always loved you. And I can do that if you like it or not.” <br />
<br />
And I pulled up every horrible thing he ever did to me or those I care about and I held them over the hole hoping not to let the scary awful terrible truth get in. <br />
<br />
That he probably does. He probably does love me. He probably always has. <br />
<br />
And someplace between all his fucked up and all my fucked up.... it mattered not one bit. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">May 27, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-4603184097917085362010-04-26T11:25:00.000-07:002011-07-22T22:06:12.250-07:00The Jail Lobby is Pink<span style="font-size: medium;">It’s only twenty or thirty steps from a warm spring day in the park to a pink tiled jail lobby. Twenty or thirty steps, give or take a falter or ladder rung due to circumstances that may or may not be in your control. It’s only ten or so more to an actual cell. It’s not far away, it’s right there in all of us; the justice center where we all try to find our piece of fair, our fair share of peace our own personal set of rationalizations and neurosis and law. I stared at the pink tiles to avoid contemplating the dark smudges on the walls. The kicking that must happen when someone realizes where their feet or a loved one’s feet had taken them. The sudden wall between them and the end of the road. The sudden visible divide between guilty and innocent between right and wrong. The only sounds from the metal detector gates erupt when officers of the law stroll in and out. <br />
<br />
The pink seemed an odd choice for a jail lobby at first. You had to wonder if someone intended the ladies restroom effect, if they realized the deputies behind the glass would be female, if they pictured the women arriving with children to sit on this hard wood bench and wait for a man’s name to be called, if there had been a discount on dignity. At first I sat up straight against the hard wood but eventually I slumped into a corner against a stain on the wall watching the people coming and going.<br />
<br />
There’s a little girl with pig tails watching herself in a large round mirror in an upper corner. She’s smoothing her shirt down repeatedly and admiring the shine coming off her sandals while her mother fills out a slip to put money on her dad’s books and they wait to be called to go up for their visit. She practices her smile and twirls around to watch her skirt float up around her and as she comes back around she catches her need and want in the reflected eyes in the mirror and rushes over to hide behind her mother with her skirt landing in a whoosh. <br />
<br />
Every bit of research I can find thus far advises that children should visit incarcerated parents. And so I sit in the lobby checking things out. Memorizing procedure so that if I decide it’s the right thing I can prepare my daughter for the pink tiles and the deputies , the procedures and the way a skirt will eventually fall flat no matter how fast you spin. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
April 26, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-31939243144552098932010-04-12T11:27:00.000-07:002011-07-22T22:05:49.387-07:00A Burning Desire<span style="font-size: medium;">Why do people stay in the same line of work when they hate it? Because that’s what they’re trained in. That’s what they know how to do. That’s become who they are. In a job interview they want to know what your experience is, they want to be sure you match the job. <br />
<br />
It’s the same in relationships. <br />
<br />
Say you’re a firefighter but you hate it. You hate the smoke. You hate the sirens. You hate the people jumping out of buildings onto your trampoline. You hate the heavy protective gear. You hate all of it. <br />
<br />
But if you show up for any other job you’re overdressed. There’s no place to plug in your hose. People make disparaging remarks regarding your helmet. You’re not saving any lives. <br />
<br />
If you somehow manage to secure a position in a field unrelated to fire fighting you could be suspicious. Why the fuck would anyone hire a highly skilled fire chief to work in an office unless there are hidden fire hazards everywhere? At the very least you should check the batteries in the smoke alarms. After all, a fire doesn’t give a fuck what it is so long as it burns. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">And in the absence of any real fire duties there are those who find they can't live without using their hose. They have to become the arsonist just for a chance to hop in their big shiny red truck. They will burn the fucking building down for the chance to bring out all their former job skills. <br />
<br />
<br />
Thoughts? Jokes about the hose? Can anyone work the dalmatian angle here? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">April 12, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-29291139834215202512010-04-08T11:28:00.000-07:002011-07-22T22:05:26.222-07:00Paternal Doubts<span style="font-size: medium;">“Mom.” Her eyes were huge with the gravity of her news. “I took a test today.. And…” She was looking at me like maybe I might want to consider sitting down for this. “There’s an eighty to ninety-nine percent chance that I’m half god.” <br />
<br />
*begins tallying therapy bill* “Wow. I didn’t want you to find out this way.” <br />
<br />
“It’s sometimes called a demigod. My father is Poseidon.” <br />
<br />
“What makes you so sure the god half is paternal? What about ME?” <br />
<br />
“Moooooooom.” <br />
<br />
“Of course if I were a god I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you. And I‘d need an elaborate mortal disguise.” <br />
<br />
“Mom. It can’t be you because gods have to be separated from their children at BIRTH because of the smell.” <br />
<br />
“The Smell?” <br />
<br />
“Yes. The smell. Besides the test was very clear that my father is Poseidon.” <br />
<br />
“Still… wouldn’t I know about it?” <br />
<br />
“Not necessarily. That was a long time ago and maybe you forgot." <br />
<br />
"It was a long time ago." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">April 08, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-1130583762510113622010-03-22T11:32:00.000-07:002011-07-22T22:05:03.421-07:00Oh Right I Have a Blog....<span style="font-size: medium;">..I would like clarity to be more than a mood. Still- I reject it as a lifestyle. <br />
<br />
Tell me so I can deny it. <br />
<br />
Show me so I can close my eyes. <br />
<br />
Hear me so I can shut up. <br />
<br />
Give me a mirror so I can turn on the shower and draw pictures in the steam. <br />
<br />
<br />
I don’t seem to have anything to write anymore. Not sure what genre I’m living in. Character motivation is unclear. I’m seasons ahead and lack the skill for a catch you all up montage. <br />
<br />
I imagine you’ll muddle through or fuck off. I’m ambivalent about your decision. <br />
<br />
<br />
It’s 1:13 am. I have no business being awake. In a few short hours I will have to drive The Man to work. It’s spring break so I’m hoping my children will be willing to have a nap when we get back. I’m insane to even entertain that as fantasy. Seriously. Ahahahahhaha! It’s like it’s my first day of motherhood! “motherhood” jesus. Not quite the ghetto yet not so superbia. <br />
<br />
I kid. Twice. Heh. *remind me to send Insomnia a thank you note. This is fun. <br />
<br />
<br />
I’m not sure if my incredible ability to hold this idea of what should be over what is has been my downfall or my savior. Also I used to think it was pulling me up and now I’m kinda wondering if it might be the incredible weight on top of me. Ack. This feels like it might be going somewhere… quick do the hokey poky and turn myself around. Things are just more interesting if you chase your tail. Ask a dog. <br />
<br />
<br />
My nine year old has been hinting about wanting the full details on her dad. “Mom, when did you and my dad break up?” “oh. Well. We didn’t break up because we were never exactly a couple.” what? It’s mostly true other than the sex and it certainly sounds better than “I had to move out because he was starting to slam me into walls and disappearing for days on end to do drugs and strippers and what with being pregnant with you I decided it was an inappropriate environment.” *sigh* I’m going to tell her. Really. Soon as I figure out what to say. It’s not that I need it to sound Disney. Just……. <br />
Okay. So I want it to sound Disney. Send seven dwarfs over to remind me how fucked up Walt is anyway. I’m sure I’ll get over it one of these days. <br />
<br />
<br />
Yesterday my three year old was begging to play a video game he found in the entertainment center. I told him it was too violent and to pick a different one. He hit me with the case. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
On Saturday I got to plant flowers. I was watering them in after and for a moment I felt peaceful. I know this because I was standing there holding the watering can and I realized I felt something and I wasn’t even sure what it was. I had to stand there and try to figure out what was so fucking wonderful. It was the flowers. They’re bright and colorful and I knew what they needed and how they should go and nobody else gave a damn how I did it and I did everything right and they were.. Happy. If flowers can be happy. And I was okay. I mean really actually okay. Calm. And …… forgive me for this… “centered.” It was one of the best gifts I’ve had in ….. christ. My life. Thank you. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">March 22, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-37004469534649919892010-03-14T11:33:00.000-07:002011-07-22T22:04:41.103-07:00Timmy Popped Corn and I Don't Care<span style="font-size: medium;">“This could use some butter. Not a lot but some.” <br />
<br />
“But I salted it.” <br />
<br />
“Sure, I said butter.” <br />
<br />
“But I already salted it. Isn’t the butter just for the salt in it?” <br />
<br />
“What? No. The salt is good but it needs some butter. Salt is not butter. Butter is not liquid salt. It’s not like you salt your toast!” <br />
<br />
“You put butter on toast ‘cause it softens it.”<br />
<br />
“Nooo. You put butter on toast because it’s delicious.” <br />
<br />
“Well I thought it was the same thing.” <br />
<br />
“Now you know butter.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">March 14, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-46790325639304169542010-03-07T11:34:00.000-08:002011-07-22T22:04:20.580-07:00Ruminative<span style="font-size: medium;">I’m angry. <br />
<br />
I know it’s propelling me backwards, the toilet spinning the Aussie way and I can’t help it. <br />
<br />
I don’t even want to help it. <i>Me! Mine! My turn!</i> <br />
<br />
I’m too pissed off to do what I’m supposed to do. For anyone. <br />
<br />
And all this knowledge, this knowing that it really doesn’t matter which way the water goes down, it just makes me angrier. <br />
<br />
I would like to know less. I would like to be less. <br />
<br />
“And here are your wings. Nice spread. I think you’ll be very happy with them.” <br />
<br />
“Oh .. I don’t know if I want to fly… well maybe… yes I think I might.” <br />
<br />
“Before you go… Here’s your weight.” <br />
<br />
“Oh. Shit.” <br />
<br />
*spiral flush* <br />
<br />
My thinking isn’t off exactly. It’s just that it’s impossible <br />
<br />
I don’t feel idealistic. I feel…Willing. <br />
<br />
Willing and Unable Alone. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"> March 07, 2010</span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-47071871173419131322010-02-28T11:35:00.000-08:002011-07-22T22:03:55.732-07:00Sunday Slapdashery<span style="font-size: medium;">I stand on tip toe when using the can opener. I don’t know why. I have to assume my body has an innate sense on how this enhances my upper noodle strength and why the hell would I allow my brain to interfere? <br />
<br />
Consider the relationship between intelligence and culpability. Am I the only one thinking no fair? No worries...there's always the insanity defense. Maybe smarter does mean guiltier. Maybe guiltier means crazier. I can't believe guiltier is a fucking word. Ridiculouser. <br />
<br />
I once had a 4.0 report card where the teacher still couldn’t resist adding “not working up to her full potential.” and “needs to improve time management” in the comments section. Now there’s a mind fuck for a kid; don’t you think? <br />
<br />
There‘s this unrelenting pressure in me. This rigid spine of right my muscles and soft tissue can’t escape. I’ve always had that. As long as I can remember anyway. It’s not just about “right” it’s about potential and debt. This longing for approval made bitter with the desire to be free of it has colored my entire life. I can’t seem to shake it or make it my own. You can’t abandon your bones but they can leave you a pile of mush. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">February 28, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-53844733172474220452010-02-10T11:38:00.000-08:002011-07-22T22:03:02.297-07:00Creepy Septic Problems<span style="font-size: medium;">Jeremiah the septic guy is creepy. What? You would have guessed that? OoooooOOOOooooh *full body wriggle* You’re such the smarty-pants. Well I had no idea. I mean already I knew I wouldn’t like it. Strangers coming over and fixing things is uncomfortable. Answering the door is awkward. Yes, yes I realize I’m a decade’s supply of saved magazines away from being a shut in. fuck off. <br />
<br />
He showed up in his van (LATE!) and called me. From my drive way. *eyes* <br />
<br />
“Hey it’s Jeremiah the creepy septic dude,” okay so maybe he didn’t SAY that. Maybe I discerned it when I glanced out the window in the computer closet to observe him down below staring at me on his cell phone in his van calling me. “Yeah am I at the right house?” <br />
<br />
Dude. You can see me. I can see you. Let’s not pretend. <br />
<br />
“I’ll be right down.” <br />
<br />
So I run down the stairs and I open the back (front) door to let him in …. and then I have to stand there for ten minutes while he chirps back and forth on his Nextel with someone…. Probably he was making sure someone would know where he was… since he didn’t. Finally he manages to wobble-roll his way out of the van and make his way over to me. He looks like a weeble. A super shiny bald weeble.<br />
<br />
“Yeah so I don’t really know anything about this… I assume the management company told you what the problem is?” I mutter while avoiding prolonged creepy eye contact and take him down to the scary scary dark basement I haven’t cleaned out… oh I don’t know since never. There’s a giant mountain of laundry near the washing machine which is right by the downstairs sink which is where he wants to look of course. “I stopped doing laundry and dishes and stuff so it slowly drained but when we use water the sink fills up…” I manage to slide the mountain over all huffing and puffing like and he makes a bizarre humpty dumpty sort of noise like HE’S fucking doing it or just gets off watching girls try to slide mounds of laundry across basement floors. He‘s JUST. THAT. CREEPY. <br />
<br />
He tells me to fill up the bathtub and then drain it. So I run upstairs and do that. Then he freaks because I did it. “I didn’t know you were going to drain it.. right then! We’ve got problems now!” Tool! Of course we have problems! That’s why you’re here! <br />
<br />
Why is it that people hired to fix a problem always assume you’re making the problem up??? Doctors. Mechanics. Shrinks. All of ‘em. <br />
<br />
So I get the hell out of his way and sorta say hey dude do what you need to do - you’re the creepy septic guy - not me. and I wander off to hide in the computer closet with Deon. <br />
<br />
Then he finds us. *screaming and arm flapping* Creepy septic guy found creepy shut ins! <br />
<br />
“I found the problem. You’ve gotta come see this.” <br />
<br />
For the record. When a creepy septic guy says this you should say “no thanks!” but creepy shut ins are not that skilled in human interaction to know this. So we followed him outside to peer down into the septic tank. As if that wouldn’t always look like a problem to me. So I’m standing there looking down at…. Well I don’t even want to know what, wondering why we have to hold hands with the creepy septic guy while he does his job. Honestly I don’t give a flying fuck how the pipes work or where the shit goes. I just want to take a goddamn shower. So when we don’t give whatever response it was that he was hoping for he finally says….<br />
<br />
“It’s full.” <br />
<br />
“it’s new.” <br />
<br />
“yes but it’s full.” <br />
<br />
“But it’s new.” <br />
<br />
He gestures at the nasty below. “But it’s FULL.” <br />
<br />
“what are you saying creepy septic dude?” <br />
<br />
“It’s full.” <br />
<br />
“Well. I just rent here.” <br />
<br />
"I called the management people.” <br />
<br />
“Okay.” Deon and I slowly edged away from the creepy septic hole, the creepy septic guy and his creepy septic van while creepy septic guy went on and on about drain fields and flushing and creepy septic whatnot. <br />
<br />
Luckily my landlord is also my neighbor and we were saved when he came over to see about the problem. He probably smelled the creepy all way over at his place. So we scuttled back into the house and let him deal with creepy septic guy who just wouldn't fucking leave. Even after the landlord ascertained the creep of the dude and told him he was going to use the company that put the septic tank in and not him. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile… if they don’t fucking fix this soon I’m going to be creepy septic girl. *longs for shower* </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">February 10, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-49988230807708032482010-02-02T11:36:00.000-08:002011-07-22T22:03:33.418-07:00Awesome!<div style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We’re all doing it, this watering down of language through repetition and word misuse…. this seeming inability to hold more than a handful of adjectives in our brains at a time. We all have these word cycles… periods of time when everything and everyone is cool or maybe everything is like you know like something else and definitely I know people who have a shit ton of suck going on in their life. And when a word achieves it’s new Mad Lib, fill in any blank status we toss it back and forth to one another thinking we’re communicating something. It's ridiculous! None of us know what any of us is talking about most of the time! We don’t want to actually take the time and effort to express ourselves- but still- it deserves a noise, by god! That’s why most of the time the words that do this have a cave man quality satisfying sound to them. Like Fuck. Can’t get enough of THAT bam-wowy of an anything word, can we?! <br />
<br />
And that’s another thing. We all keep making up words and feeling fucking clever about it. Granted, sometimes it is fucking clever but “bam-wowy?" That’s just stupid. It’s not like I just filled some missing word gap in the English language… like now we’re all going to rejoice that there’s finally a word to describe something never before put into words…. It just means I don’t fucking know the word that already exists and I’m too fucking lazy to go look one up. I mean seriously people… are we now celebrating the crap innovations brought about by laziness and ignorance? Don’t answer…. We might have to do something about it if we name it and I have a lot of online surveys to do, plus there’s my status to update on my five social networks. <br />
<br />
I’ve noticed everything is awesome for me lately. You know, pronounced ouwsum. Of course, not really. My life is certainly NOT particularly awesome. That’s the funny part. Like the choice of word has to be AWESOME to contrast with the reality. It’s annoying. Not as annoying as my “dude” phase but at least then I could blame drug use. (awesome!) So I go through my day and everything is awesome. Does it even mean anything anymore? Am I really walking around in awe at the minutia of my daily life!?! Then again who says that windex isn’t awesome!?! I mean seriously…. It’s blue… I spray it on a surface, wipe the surface and HELLo0o0o0o0o0 shiny fresh scented sparkle splendor! That IS indeed awe inspiring if you stop and think about it. So in short… awesome is awesome and fuck you, you super cool varied vocabulary snobs. Like FUCK YOU in your awesome! <br />
<br />
I guess what I’m saying is….. This is a sucky situation but I’m angry and resentful that doing something about it might mean effort on my part. So carry on!! Carry on…</span></div><div style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</div><span style="background-color: black; color: black; font-size: medium;">February 16, 2010 </span><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-45416052119310218062010-02-01T11:39:00.000-08:002011-07-22T22:02:42.150-07:00F*ckin For Footwear<span style="font-size: medium;">“Those are some awesome boots.” I told some guy standing and chatting with Lori and me. <br />
<br />
“These boots?” We all stared down at his boots. <br />
<br />
“Yeah. It looks like you could hike Mt. Hood right now.” <br />
<br />
“Yours are a lot shinier.” We all looked at my boots. They are super shiny. <br />
<br />
“Different boots for different moods. Tonight I wanted to feel like a super hero.” <br />
<br />
“You don’t understand - she’s a shoe whore” Lori offered. <br />
<br />
“I don’t think I’d say <i>whore</i>.” I interjected <br />
<br />
“…..Actually those are probably her size.” Lori had the nerve to point out. “She wears a six.” <br />
<br />
“What are you, my shoe pimp?!? And wait...you know my shoe size?” I asked incredulously “How can you tell?” <br />
<br />
“The boots you’re wearing now are a little bit too big for you.” <br />
<br />
“They really are!! I bought them at a costume shop. They only had small medium and large. Am I walking funny? Errr... funnier than usual?” <br />
<br />
“No. I can just tell.” <br />
<br />
“Do you really like my boots?” Some Guy asked <br />
<br />
“Yeah. I wouldn’t just say that. They’re cool boots.” <br />
<br />
*nodding all around from everyone* <br />
<br />
“’Cause you can have them.” <br />
<br />
“What?” I looked at his boots some more. Mostly so I wouldn’t have to look at him. They needed red laces. <br />
<br />
“Well, not right NOW. But yeah… another time. They’re a six. They’re actually a little small for me.” <br />
<br />
“Oh sure. Small for you. But still. That’s a six in mens and I’d be a four in mens. ‘Sides you’re wearing them and you’ll wanna wear them again.” <br />
<br />
"It's because you think my feet are too small." <br />
<br />
“Nope. Totally not what I’m thinking.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">February 1, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-35016202092234649702010-01-20T11:41:00.000-08:002011-07-22T22:02:19.822-07:00Shadow Stalker<span style="font-size: small;">It isn’t that I don’t think of you anymore. It’s that when I think of you I don’t think of me. <br />
<br />
Only a small part of me finds it amusing that a shadow would speak to me of being left in the dark. Most of me is not yet that big a person and that is why we‘ll only ever dance across the surface of my tiny big person in passing conversation for now and maybe forever. Don’t tell me it’s not fair lest justice actually find you. <br />
<br />
It isn’t that I don’t love you anymore. It’s that I have to stop loving you to love me. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">January 20, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-71845325615880575772010-01-06T11:42:00.000-08:002011-07-22T22:01:56.793-07:00Missing: Tiny Red Spider Buddy<span style="font-size: medium;">“Mom!-Mom!-Mom! Come see my buddy! Mom!” Thatcher attached his sticky hand to my fingers and dragged me out of the kitchen into the dining room. Sure enough there was one of his many buddies dangling from the light fixture with the end of it’s web about toddler chin height. This year we put the Christmas tree in the dining room and it came with about a thousand tiny red spiders. Thatch has a deep affection for the spiders. Any and all spider removal must happen under cover of darkness or nap time. <br />
<br />
“That’s great, Thatch.” Spiders don’t bother me so long as they’re not on me though I do prefer not to share any of my living space with them. After I removed all the holiday ornaments from the tree and Tim stripped it of it’s twinkling mockery I shoved the tree out on the porch still in it’s stand. It looks nice. Also I’m hoping those spiders still crawling out of it will eat those other weird bugs that live on the porch. <br />
<br />
While in deep conversation with the tiny creature Thatcher suddenly discovered that he could blow his spider buddy through the air. He would take a deep breath and use it to gently lift his dangling arachnid friend in a slow smooth arc in the air. While the spider was at it’s farthest point from Thatch, Thatch would throw his head back and howl with laughter. “Look! Look how much fun I’m giving him!” Then he would quickly prepare for the spiders return and blow it again. <br />
<br />
Until he blew harder sending the spider farther than ever before and then laughed harder and longer than ever before… head full tilt, mouth wide open in pleasure….. <br />
<br />
And then the spider was gone. <br />
<br />
I nearly choked. I wanted to laugh but... look what happened to him!<br />
<br />
“Mom! Where my buddy? Where he go? Did you vacuum him!??” <br />
<br />
I didn’t have the heart to tell him. I just offered him some juice before he could question what (who?) was in his mouth. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">January 06, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-5606488662884192312010-01-01T11:43:00.000-08:002011-07-22T22:01:33.415-07:00A New Year Miracle<span style="font-size: medium;">The only real trouble with going out by yourself on your 30th birthday/ New Year when you have every intention of drinking enough alcohol to forget that you’re going out by yourself on your 30th birthday/New Year is the awkwardness that is midnight. <br />
<br />
Trouble with midnight is the traditional New Year kiss. You’re supposed to have a fabulous bend you over backward into the new year make out session with someone you love. And if you cannot have that it should just be a lot of confetti and horn blowing and friendship and smiles. However…. SOME people think that you can slide into the New Year faking it with a random stranger that happens to be standing there. Or hovering around there like it’s a goddamn game of musical chairs. What? You like musical chairs? Sure you do. You’ve never considered the way the chair feels. <br />
<br />
Of course I was already silly drunkish by ten pm so I was only half aware of the circling by eleven forty-five. Usually I’m consumed with anxiety about such a thing. I mean… their feelings and all. As if it’s my job to make them feel better about circling an empty fucking chair. I mean it would be one thing if the chair were some sort of fancy lazy boy recliner or something… but we’re talking about the cold metal deal they unfold at a church potluck here. So clearly I feel sorry for them that they’re some how confused enough to be hoping to sit in it. <br />
<br />
I remember seeing the time on the large television and thinking I should head outside to smoke a cigarette in the very near future to avoid the horror that is the midnight make out. But then I was dancing… and the band kept changing words in the song to wish me a happy birthday so I danced some more and then before you know it everyone was counting as though a rocket was about to take off and a young man who’d been trying to teach me to swing dance an hour before snaked an arm around me and tilted my chin up and BAM. <br />
<br />
There I was. Starting my New Year out being molested by a rubbery lipped baby marine. <br />
<br />
Damn it. <br />
<br />
So I held my lips together against the onslaught and pulled away and smiled and made nice and whatnot. ‘Cause that’s just what ya do. And then I managed to locate my jacket and I went outside to smoke a cigarette. The Marine followed. <br />
<br />
“Hey I think I locked my keys in my truck! Will you go over there and take a look with me?” He was looking across the road at the parking lot. <br />
<br />
“Not a chance.” I continued smoking. <br />
<br />
“What? Why not? You don‘t trust me?” he seemed genuinely shocked. Or that was part of the routine -I’m not sure. <br />
<br />
“Gee, I don’t know? How about ‘cause I don’t wander over into dark parking lots with strangers?” <br />
<br />
“Stranger! You’ve known me all night! See that little white truck right there? That‘s mine.” <br />
<br />
“Not going to happen. But I tell ya what. I’ll stand here and watch you and if anything happens to you I’ll scream and such.” <br />
<br />
“Oh wow.” He’s rustling his hand around in his jacket pocket. “My keys are right here.” <br />
<br />
“It’s a New Year miracle.” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">January 1, 2010 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-61006436326167572592009-12-28T11:50:00.000-08:002011-07-25T11:51:25.687-07:00Developmental Milestones<span style="font-size: small;">So lately my two year old has been swearing at me. Mostly me. Also sometimes Daddy. <br />
<br />
He says "Fuckin you Mom!" when I'm telling him what to do or am in some way between him and the good times he could be having 24/7 if I would get off his toddler back. He always says it with his head down and even when he shouts it, it's sorta mumbled almost, if you can mumble without losing any clarity. <br />
<br />
That's because that's the way he's heard it. Like say the power goes off for at least two seconds every thirty minutes and it frustrates me and I say "Fuckin' power!" with my head bent and at no one in particular. <br />
<br />
We're mostly ignoring it. I think drawing attention to it just makes it worse AND I'll admit I'm not all that offended. It's in context. It's genuine. You really can't shoot a parrot when it sasses you. I have every confidence that he's intelligent enough that once he gains more impulse control he'll get it. It being the subtle nuances of language use and when and what's appropriate. <br />
<br />
This morning I was on the telephone with my sister. Two Year Old was wallowing around on my lap. I heard him mutter "You butt" but figured it was just one of those toddler experiments with words. Here and there I was carrying on a conversation with both of them, together and separately when he said "You penis." Several times in varying degrees of authority.<br />
<br />
A guttural snicker escaped me. "Did you hear that?" I asked my sister, bemused. <br />
<br />
"I believe he just called you a penis" she confirmed. <br />
<br />
"Where do you think he got that?" I wondered out loud. See, the swearing is clearly all me. When he can't get the trailer attached to the semi and he shouts "Dammit!" with his little forehead all furrowed, I know that can only come from me. A direct quote, if you will. I do not, however, have any memory of calling anyone a penis lately. Not that it would be out of this world if I did. <br />
<br />
"You penis-butt!" he upped the ante hoping for a more satisfying reaction from me. <br />
<br />
"I don't even HAVE a penis" I reminded him, kindly. These kinds of details escape him until we're in the shower and he's eye level with my missing piece. Getting no response that was all that interesting he slid down to the floor and went off to reek havoc elsewhere. <br />
<br />
It amuses me, though. That he, (and likely every toddler) discovered that calling someone a penis is a thing to do so early in life. That it made him laugh. Not an elbow or an ear or a foot… a penis. To already know that at two is pretty big. What else is there? Why do we keep going on and on so long after we make all the major discoveries? And then I realized he has more to learn, he still doesn't know that you can "Dammit" and you can "Fuckin'" and you can even " You penis"…but you do not "dammit", "You penis" or "fuckin'" yer mom. </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-33336707074378147672009-12-23T11:45:00.000-08:002011-07-22T22:10:30.747-07:00On Inappropriate Coed Roommate Behavior<span style="font-size: medium;">Do not answer a knock on your bedroom door wearing a knee sock as a shirt under any circumstances even if it's the sort of knocking one might do in the event of a fire as opposed to a phone call. And no it does not matter that it gave complete coverage. It is the idea that were you stacked the sock would not be enough that is just too much. It’s the motherfucking almost of it all that kills. <br />
<br />
<br />
On Decking the Halls:<br />
<br />
The lit Christmas tree makes me want to weep. I seriously cannot fucking stand it. I want to wrestle the postulating piney prick out onto the porch and beat the sparkling joy right the fuck out of it. I swear to you all it mocks me. Yes I know this is a full turn around from two weeks ago. What are you gonna do about it? <br />
<br />
<br />
On Almost Thirty:<br />
<br />
It’s such a goddamn relief to almost be unarguably an adult. Perhaps now I’m finally allowed to be childish. You’re going to want to back away as I’ve been saving up tantrums for about twenty five years of unfair. I need room for kicking.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
*finger* </span><br />
<br />
December 23, 2009Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6658133378546128686.post-18960126012432236322009-12-22T11:48:00.000-08:002011-07-22T22:00:38.058-07:00To Keep You<span style="font-size: medium;">I hide behind your ambiguity with you not to shield myself from hurt, I’m not so stupid as to fool myself into thinking this doesn’t and won’t hurt. <br />
<br />
I hide behind your forced uncertainty with you to avoid blame, to keep the hurting we’re doing mine alone; to keep it a familiar self-inflicted wound. <br />
<br />
To keep it. To keep you. <br />
<br />
I’m not sure you would be under there if I unraveled all the equivocality. Not sure that isn’t who you are. Or I am. Or we are together. Not sure when my wishes can begin and yours will end.<br />
<br />
Pretending to make-believe with you. <br />
Pretending there’s-no-reality-for-us isn’t our choice.<br />
Feigning naivety of my own vulnerable exposure, as though I’m not naked when draped with your maybe and probably and almost. <br />
<br />
Twisting and turning in wish-you-were-mine is probably just like you holding me always. <br />
<br />
Choking and strangling on make-me-yours is almost filling me up forever.<br />
<br />
Letting you maybe love me in-between the last one that didn’t work and the next one who might because in-between happens to be now and that should be all I want. <br />
<br />
If all I want is everything you have to give.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">December 22, 2009 </span>Dewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09048773308657107186noreply@blogger.com0