Shelley's got me thinking--again. In today's post she made me feel nostalgic in a way I've never felt before. Not more or less intense than regular nostalgia, but compressed for sure.
I remember the days Shelley is writes about. They were what, six months ago? In blogland it seems like ten years ago. Jokin', jivin', jawin' on the tele, everything was upside down and sideways but somehow just right. Are we saying, "Those were the days, my friend?" Well, for now, maybe I am.
Looking back. Shared History.
Shared agony, ecstacy. hurt. laughter. With you, Shell. About those days.
When George was in Hong Kong, me here with Jenna, the telephone inviting long talks with Marek, Shelley, Halley, Gary, RB, Tom, Elaine, and crew. They helped take care of me, supported my journey into therapy and soul searching. Jenna wasn't even in pre-K yet. I was working full-time. I hadn't told my parents they were alcoholics yet. So much is different now.
The world in blogtime.
And so I go further back.
And I realize that a year ago Monday (Oct 7th) I started blogging. I signed onto blogger with Reading Gonzo--Engaged after spending a week engrossed with a review copy of Chris Locke's Gonzo Marketing. The infamous RageBoy and I had exchanged a few emails before then. But I never imagined the guy would be our daughter's Uncle when I sent him that MS Word document last October--a document in which I'd been journaling my reading of Gonzo Marketing. He wrote back and said, "This would be just right for a blog, or two, or three." I took him at his word. Still do.
For me, this is where my life among bloggers began.
Gonzo Engaged lived a pretty full life, as its archives attest to. But of late, it has waned in popularity and postings. Many of the bloggers Locke inspired, some of whom started blogging right then and there on the Gonzo team blog, are now focused on their own weblogs and team blogs, me among them.
Still, I wait. To see if Gonzo will re-ignite.
Blogs are funny that way.
So is RageBoy.
But when I look back at my first year of blogging, it seems like a lifetime ago.
Maybe that's because we're living in so many people's lives at once.
Do you think?
I remember when Gary launched the soon-to-be international phenomenon known as Blog Stickers, me saying, can I put one of those things on my blog? (Yes, I was the first.) I picked "Blog is a four letter word," bought up Gary's t-shirts and mugs, told him we'd just hit the new era of e-commerce, and shit, we kind of did, never forseeing Gary was just getting going with his insane ideas, hadn't yet experienced his Chukka Bar Incident; chalk chalking was just a glimmer in its father's eye, as was Baby Turner to be.
RageBoy was loving, then dying; now reborn. I've watched the metamorphosis, which has been incredible, and as real life as real life gets hundreds of miles away over wires.
Halley, Craig, Shelley, and now Doc, all lived in different houses. I feel like I've moved with all of them. Is that why I'm so tired? Halley, where'd you put my f-ing can opener?
Marek hadn't scared us yet with his traumatic hospital stay, Dave Winer hadn't either.
I was on Mike Sanders' blogroll and he was on mine.
The warbloggers were mere pains in the asses, not a full-fledged movement.
Blog Sisters was an idea that woke me up one night, nothing less or more, until... and then...
Elaine wasn't a grandma yet.
I hadn't met AKMA's amazing wife, Margaret.
So many things. So many things to have happened. So many things to have happened to so many of us.
And more to come.
Only one absolute: I feel blessed to be among you.
September 30, 2002
I am a mouth hanging open
Well, since Uncle RageBoy posted his plea to burst Jenna's brain with a bushel of presents for her five-year-old birthday, I decided to check Jenna's wishlist to see what was going on. I was dumbfounded by the outpouring of generosity--and really cool presents--that are coming her way. I called George over to my laptop and said, "Check this out!" We were stunned. No way, George said... I said, "See, I told you these bloggers are cooler than most of the real life people we know." Which, in and of itself is a rather odd statement, but, I know you all know what I mean. What we have is a truly amazing community of love unseen, of hope untouched, all the more powerful because.
And it's not just the presents--the good wishes from those who can't or choose not to jump on amazon and one-click Jenna a gift are just as sincere and meaningful, just as special and appropriate, and we appreciate them all. Please do know that.
I sat Jenna down at the laptop before school early this morning to read her the comments from Dean, from Frank, from Shelley, from all these crazy uncles and aunts she has yet to meet.
She was all smiles and giggles, and please know that you are all becoming household names around the Sessum homestead. That *can* be a good thing.
Thank you one and all... I'll keep you posted as the packages arrive--try to get some pics of our little darling in her glory.
And it's not just the presents--the good wishes from those who can't or choose not to jump on amazon and one-click Jenna a gift are just as sincere and meaningful, just as special and appropriate, and we appreciate them all. Please do know that.
I sat Jenna down at the laptop before school early this morning to read her the comments from Dean, from Frank, from Shelley, from all these crazy uncles and aunts she has yet to meet.
She was all smiles and giggles, and please know that you are all becoming household names around the Sessum homestead. That *can* be a good thing.
Thank you one and all... I'll keep you posted as the packages arrive--try to get some pics of our little darling in her glory.
September 29, 2002
put her back inside?
Five years ago this evening, we stared at each other, a lot.
We knew that the next day we'd have a baby, with ultrasound certainty, a baby girl to be exact.
Tonight, I don't know why, and I do know why, and either way, I mourn the end of my pregnancy. It's five years later, and tonight I am grieving over the loss of those nine months as if the last four years never happened.
Although my pregnancy was filled with plenty of peril--ultrasounds to track my multitude of uterine fibroids (many bigger than "the bean" as we called her then), office trips for episodes of sudden bleeding, and my own untold doubts about my ability to mother--it was also the most blissful time in my life. For a couple, there is nothing like a first pregnancy. You have one another's complete attention (which you never have again). You watch the miracle of creation take place before your very eyes. You learn what your mate is made of. You work together to complete the most amazing human task there is.
Having been married 11 years before deciding to take the plunge into parenthood, we were pretty used to being two. I relished those 9 months knowing that I should, understanding that nothing would ever be the same again. I took five or six baths a day, read every trashy novel I could get my hands on in the tub, loved my husband attending to my every need.
It really was the best of times. And it's over.
And maybe it's me being 40 and Jenna turning 5 that has me in this place where I'm afraid--very afraid--I'll never get to do it again.
I remember saying to George, one night in my 8th month, "Think about what we're doing right now--this minute. What will it be like to have another person here with us?" I couldn't fathom it. He said, "The house adapts; we adapt. She'll just be here doing these things with us."
And so she is. And I feel so blessed I am weak from it. And I am going to sleep.... to lie next to my baby for a while. Goodnight.
We knew that the next day we'd have a baby, with ultrasound certainty, a baby girl to be exact.
Tonight, I don't know why, and I do know why, and either way, I mourn the end of my pregnancy. It's five years later, and tonight I am grieving over the loss of those nine months as if the last four years never happened.
Although my pregnancy was filled with plenty of peril--ultrasounds to track my multitude of uterine fibroids (many bigger than "the bean" as we called her then), office trips for episodes of sudden bleeding, and my own untold doubts about my ability to mother--it was also the most blissful time in my life. For a couple, there is nothing like a first pregnancy. You have one another's complete attention (which you never have again). You watch the miracle of creation take place before your very eyes. You learn what your mate is made of. You work together to complete the most amazing human task there is.
Having been married 11 years before deciding to take the plunge into parenthood, we were pretty used to being two. I relished those 9 months knowing that I should, understanding that nothing would ever be the same again. I took five or six baths a day, read every trashy novel I could get my hands on in the tub, loved my husband attending to my every need.
It really was the best of times. And it's over.
And maybe it's me being 40 and Jenna turning 5 that has me in this place where I'm afraid--very afraid--I'll never get to do it again.
I remember saying to George, one night in my 8th month, "Think about what we're doing right now--this minute. What will it be like to have another person here with us?" I couldn't fathom it. He said, "The house adapts; we adapt. She'll just be here doing these things with us."
And so she is. And I feel so blessed I am weak from it. And I am going to sleep.... to lie next to my baby for a while. Goodnight.
baby blogger's turning five tomorrow...
I remember five years ago, all the feelings of terror and wonder, knowing that the next day we would have a daughter. Scheduled c-section means you pick your baby's birthday--a weighty task not lost on me. September baby? October baby? The choice was ours, and we made it based on who we thought the best doctor for the job was. Turned out, he wasn't, but along came this beautiful spirit, powering her way into the world--she hasn't let up a day in five years. I love her so.
Jenna's Amazon Wish List
Jenna's Amazon Wish List
September 27, 2002
the big top
Pink cotton candy
on a rolled paper stick,
slick hungry fingers unwrap,
hurrying, taste sugar, melting.
Is that you? It is you.
So much so sweet
so long I've known
those eyes.
dare, I dare you.
come with me to
the big top
where carnival music
carries us back,
light hearted children
without scars,
just loose cotton shorts
that tie at the waist
tie dye tank tops
and a cool fifty cents
to burn.
Hurry, Hurry,
step right up.
don't be late
to the greatest
show on earth.
on a rolled paper stick,
slick hungry fingers unwrap,
hurrying, taste sugar, melting.
Is that you? It is you.
So much so sweet
so long I've known
those eyes.
dare, I dare you.
come with me to
the big top
where carnival music
carries us back,
light hearted children
without scars,
just loose cotton shorts
that tie at the waist
tie dye tank tops
and a cool fifty cents
to burn.
Hurry, Hurry,
step right up.
don't be late
to the greatest
show on earth.
September 24, 2002
blog therapy
cold stone sleep feathers dust damp night
lantern stove light wood appear among
man woman betrayal dance leaving coming
going esteem shame blame run faster guilt
trance eyes closed thoughts come stories
undone swirling starts....
trigger.
stop!
blog.
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is where we heal.
lantern stove light wood appear among
man woman betrayal dance leaving coming
going esteem shame blame run faster guilt
trance eyes closed thoughts come stories
undone swirling starts....
trigger.
stop!
blog.
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is where we heal.
September 22, 2002
Answer Song: Let Us Purge
Yeah, brother forgive me, Marek, I've consumed too. Consumed and watched others consume this poison culture, out there, not in here, yes in here too, skinning me raw, making me consume poison, the poison we're fed all our lives, from parents who consumed, and who consumed us, and now I am so full of emptiness, I need to consume some more until I have stuffed so much consumption so far down I feel very full of empty, and so then what do I do? I am power; I am unconsumption; I purge. I vomit sleek tall runway models and bulging musclemen from my gut, puke them on the floor, Disney soft porn drips from my lips, tastes sweet going down, bitter coming up. I shake from 4/4 rhythms in the key of C until bile bubbles up from the pit of my stomach, burns my throat on its way out, unconsuming sexy sleek brainless mindless realfakeworld people that fuck so good, drive shiny new cars that hurt my eyes. I am purging them, vomiting scrap metal and lingere onto my tile floor, a heap of consumption unconsumed, until I am empty but so full.
Thank you. That felt so good.
Thank you. That felt so good.
September 21, 2002
getting to know you
George is back home. Been busy catching up, growing, cloudbursts, sunbursts, living, transitioning into unto within whereas who knows. But mainly I wanted to say I skinned his blog and put some sound samples up. 'bout time someone round here did that. Now, if I can get a new pic and figure out how to put the permalinks in, Im'a call it done.
talk at ya soon.
talk at ya soon.
September 17, 2002
search and destroy
There was, not so long ago, quite a dialog in blogland about anger. I'm trying not to focus on anger this 3:17 in the morning, when I should be sleeping, so much to do, so much to keep up with, and the plague of the locuses chirping away outside.
Instead I'm thinking more about anger's natural outlet: Destruction. There is, I think, no greater power than destruction. Destruction reduces creation. So, then, destruction is the natural enemy of creativity.
But still, there is so much I could destroy, I wouldn't know where to start. It's in my genes to do this. Family members have murdered business partners and been sent down the river for it. Lives and families have been destroyed. And in a covert way, on the other side of my of my family continuum, destruction is even more powerful because it is executed covertly. Many have died in my family, in my life, and not all by accident. In fact, even without a physical murder weapon, destruction has laid waste and left dead bodies strewn across upstate New York graveyards. Some of us are walking monuments to destructive forces. Give me a steamroller anyday.
So I look at my inherent ability, and inborn proclivity, to destroy and wonder why I don't do it. And I think, then, maybe I have done it, by trying to avoid destruction, thereby playing into its hands. And that makes me want to search and destroy all the more. The power surge I feel just thinking about unleashing my wrath is, well, pleasant. No, it's not disturbing to me at all. This may not be a good thing. What should I run over today, what should I reduce to rubble, and what should I save? Myself? Well, yes, there's that. No power surge in that though.
And yet, when the wave passes--the pure DNA based understanding that I could easily smash the tallest castle to dust with my mind, that my thoughts and the manifestations of those thoughts could so over power another human creation, that my strength of voice could leave another human being a drewling mass of flesh and not much more--oops, I got carried away there, sorry--as I was saying, when the wave passes, some odd sense of peace and joy take it's place. A greater understanding of all I've been so angry about. I jump to another level of understanding.
And I can't decide whether it's because I've resisted the urge (and in many ways have not been allowed) to destroy something, or because I've already exercised it here, in my blog/voice/mind and need not act it out. No matter how you cut it, destruction is a force we must keep in check, because when the whirlwind starts, self-destruction is often the end result of that large load of anger.
Instead I'm thinking more about anger's natural outlet: Destruction. There is, I think, no greater power than destruction. Destruction reduces creation. So, then, destruction is the natural enemy of creativity.
But still, there is so much I could destroy, I wouldn't know where to start. It's in my genes to do this. Family members have murdered business partners and been sent down the river for it. Lives and families have been destroyed. And in a covert way, on the other side of my of my family continuum, destruction is even more powerful because it is executed covertly. Many have died in my family, in my life, and not all by accident. In fact, even without a physical murder weapon, destruction has laid waste and left dead bodies strewn across upstate New York graveyards. Some of us are walking monuments to destructive forces. Give me a steamroller anyday.
So I look at my inherent ability, and inborn proclivity, to destroy and wonder why I don't do it. And I think, then, maybe I have done it, by trying to avoid destruction, thereby playing into its hands. And that makes me want to search and destroy all the more. The power surge I feel just thinking about unleashing my wrath is, well, pleasant. No, it's not disturbing to me at all. This may not be a good thing. What should I run over today, what should I reduce to rubble, and what should I save? Myself? Well, yes, there's that. No power surge in that though.
And yet, when the wave passes--the pure DNA based understanding that I could easily smash the tallest castle to dust with my mind, that my thoughts and the manifestations of those thoughts could so over power another human creation, that my strength of voice could leave another human being a drewling mass of flesh and not much more--oops, I got carried away there, sorry--as I was saying, when the wave passes, some odd sense of peace and joy take it's place. A greater understanding of all I've been so angry about. I jump to another level of understanding.
And I can't decide whether it's because I've resisted the urge (and in many ways have not been allowed) to destroy something, or because I've already exercised it here, in my blog/voice/mind and need not act it out. No matter how you cut it, destruction is a force we must keep in check, because when the whirlwind starts, self-destruction is often the end result of that large load of anger.
September 16, 2002
Shame Blame Insane
One of the first damaging emotions many of us learned is shame. I remember its roots in my early life, remember the earliest lesson in human creation even: shame. It is one of the worst feelings, isn't it? Fear and shame run deep in me. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" What is that to tell a child? Lessons of unlove=lessons in shame.
I remember my grandmother, my mothers' mother who stayed with us for months on end, coming into my room one cloudy afternoon--a staunch Roman Catholic ultra uptight and nervous woman, enough baggage to fill a semi. I was there on the floor, doing what I always did: drawing on something. That day it was my Barbie, naked, and of course Malibu Ken was with her, sans swim trunks, and me, at probably 8 years old, outlining their forms on plastic flesh, circling Barbies breasts, wondering how do they get like *that*? And Ken's buldge, curious, but mostly noticing form, form and shape, lines and space, the abscence and presence of *body*, the hills and valleys, indentations, all the time drawing and circling, until Barbie and Ken looked like they had just returned from an outing at an obscene tattoo parlor.
When my grandmother happened upon me, by surprise of course, she said, "Shame on you! Look what you're doing! Give me those dolls!" Memory stop. Full stop. Left with no memory of events following the moment but a very strong memory of feeling shame. I'm sure she took them to my mother, who probably set them aside, never said anything to me about it, instead most likely remembered her own shame: reflect the mirror, shame be with you--and also with you.
The other memory I have of second generation shame is directly related to nakedness, an early love for it, for liking to sleep without a nightgown if I could--or at least without the very modest "underpants" I had to wear. I didn't know anything other than I really liked the feel and smell of cool, ironed, perfect, air-dried, cotton sheets against my skin, especially on hot nights. So I got away with what I could, which meant a nightgown, and if I could, nothing else.
Who should happen upon me in my state of euphoric disrepair one night--yes, Grandma, with her reaction: "Look at you! Don't you ever go to bed without underpants on--shame on you!"
It wasn't until this week that I figured out what she was worried about. She wasn't worried about my nudity as much as what I might be doing without those panties on. And you know what? I wasn't doing anything except exploring the magical feeling of cotton on skin, of cool on hot, of smooth on rough, of skin on fabric, lulling me to sleep. And regardless, should shame be the reaction to a child in wonder? It was the mighty sword that kept me in control, covered, hidden, stuffing curiosity and wonder in place of fear of retribution.
And yet, I don't blame her. Unless we unlearn the unhealthy pieces of what we learned, we cannot know. And if we let our moral compass be guided by fear, not love, that is our destiny--that was their destiny. That is not my destiny.
I remember my grandmother, my mothers' mother who stayed with us for months on end, coming into my room one cloudy afternoon--a staunch Roman Catholic ultra uptight and nervous woman, enough baggage to fill a semi. I was there on the floor, doing what I always did: drawing on something. That day it was my Barbie, naked, and of course Malibu Ken was with her, sans swim trunks, and me, at probably 8 years old, outlining their forms on plastic flesh, circling Barbies breasts, wondering how do they get like *that*? And Ken's buldge, curious, but mostly noticing form, form and shape, lines and space, the abscence and presence of *body*, the hills and valleys, indentations, all the time drawing and circling, until Barbie and Ken looked like they had just returned from an outing at an obscene tattoo parlor.
When my grandmother happened upon me, by surprise of course, she said, "Shame on you! Look what you're doing! Give me those dolls!" Memory stop. Full stop. Left with no memory of events following the moment but a very strong memory of feeling shame. I'm sure she took them to my mother, who probably set them aside, never said anything to me about it, instead most likely remembered her own shame: reflect the mirror, shame be with you--and also with you.
The other memory I have of second generation shame is directly related to nakedness, an early love for it, for liking to sleep without a nightgown if I could--or at least without the very modest "underpants" I had to wear. I didn't know anything other than I really liked the feel and smell of cool, ironed, perfect, air-dried, cotton sheets against my skin, especially on hot nights. So I got away with what I could, which meant a nightgown, and if I could, nothing else.
Who should happen upon me in my state of euphoric disrepair one night--yes, Grandma, with her reaction: "Look at you! Don't you ever go to bed without underpants on--shame on you!"
It wasn't until this week that I figured out what she was worried about. She wasn't worried about my nudity as much as what I might be doing without those panties on. And you know what? I wasn't doing anything except exploring the magical feeling of cotton on skin, of cool on hot, of smooth on rough, of skin on fabric, lulling me to sleep. And regardless, should shame be the reaction to a child in wonder? It was the mighty sword that kept me in control, covered, hidden, stuffing curiosity and wonder in place of fear of retribution.
And yet, I don't blame her. Unless we unlearn the unhealthy pieces of what we learned, we cannot know. And if we let our moral compass be guided by fear, not love, that is our destiny--that was their destiny. That is not my destiny.
September 15, 2002
September 14, 2002
she shoots, she scores
Well, after we got washed out in the rain today, the first rain in forever, Jenna decided to put on some lipstick--what a better time to get a mother/daughter self portrait. ha! Anyone want to make a trading card for me? I got left out of the "great blogger" trading cards that went around the first time. And, well, I think it's time. Remember those trading cards when you were a kid--baseball, or the ones in those big packs of gum? I used to think about the players, how much more valuable those cards would get when a player got traded. Funny how that works. So, if ya make me one, will you send one on over? May make us rich someday. ;-)
September 12, 2002
I'm with Marek
Nothing's really funny anymore. I used to feel funny, but not today, not anymore. More work to do. More soul searching. Drained and pained. A commercial-free break is in order. Read the people on my blogroll for a while. They're pretty funny.
Redneck Neighbor
As someone who actually lived next door to a *worse* redneck neighbor than this one, I can sympathize. Another one of Georgia's finest. You have to click through on some of the pictures to get the full flavor--chickenwire fence, torched lawn, burned down deck, and various "building projects" this fine southern gentlemen has subjected his neighbors to. heee heee.
September 11, 2002
wanna hear it? here it go...
steamroller
New day, sky goes gray
Unearth some roots of pain
Think I’m moving aside without a fight
Means you better think again
Fade away, not today
So much stronger than you know
Getting what you bargained for
Means you better lie real low
Got my eye on you while your eye’s on him
Got the hurt planned out as the gear slips in
Got some demolition plans for you, baby….
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.
Watch your back, sneak attack
No warning for a thief of hearts
Dust kicks up you might think twice
Think I’ll smile while you fall apart
Talk real sweet, teeth grind meat
For a better game you’d disappear
Kick your pumps off girl and get a head start
‘cause my aim’s always been real clear
Got my eye on you while your eye’s on him
Got the hurt planned out as the gear slips in
Got some demolition plans for you, baby….
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.
Got my eye on you while your eye’s on him
Got the hurt planned out as the gear slips in
Got some demolition plans for you, baby….
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.
The steamroller's rollin' on -- you.
September 07, 2002
More on Dr. Real
One quote that I should have included in the post below from Terrence Real's interview is this one:
"I'd like to see the culture change. I'd like to see more people like you doing interviews like this. When you think of the support that a young woman has, in breaking out of roles, Ms. Magazine and all the consciousness-raising groups, and you contrast that to the almost total aloneness a young man has in trying to break out of these roles, I think it's time for us to help a young man like that by creating some kind of a counter-movement or counter-wave that he can feel at home in. That's partly why I'm here."
To a great extent, that's what I think many men are doing through weblogging. The brave ones. You guys ARE the counter-culture movement among men. Men like Mike Golby, Marek, George S., George P., Ray, Tom S., Tom M., Craig Jensen, AKMA, Euan, Frank Paynter, Gary Turner, and of course the father of male truth bloggers and post 40s depression, RageBoy.
If Real is right, and cultural edicts are largely responsible for disconnecting men--under the guise of a survival mechanism for their very gender--then this is why so many men are "coming out" and reconnecting as bloggers. I know that Mike and Tom and Gary and George Partington go to work each day and do their thing--their semi-connected, make-the-best-of-it role which is necessary for their survival, to provide for the well-being of their families. I also know that they unleash parts of themselves in a very real and necessary way within their weblogs that the folks at work--sometimes even at home--don't get to see.
Men ARE reconnecting through weblogging. Not in the same way that women are--more subtle, more slowly--but perhaps in an even more important way. Somehow Real's notion that cultural edicts have taken power away from women and connections away from men seems just right when it comes to what we're doing here in Blogaria. Women are gaining power and voice in a way that's never been before, and men are connecting in ways that are rare and special and human.
Food for thought. And you guys are braver than I knew.
"I'd like to see the culture change. I'd like to see more people like you doing interviews like this. When you think of the support that a young woman has, in breaking out of roles, Ms. Magazine and all the consciousness-raising groups, and you contrast that to the almost total aloneness a young man has in trying to break out of these roles, I think it's time for us to help a young man like that by creating some kind of a counter-movement or counter-wave that he can feel at home in. That's partly why I'm here."
To a great extent, that's what I think many men are doing through weblogging. The brave ones. You guys ARE the counter-culture movement among men. Men like Mike Golby, Marek, George S., George P., Ray, Tom S., Tom M., Craig Jensen, AKMA, Euan, Frank Paynter, Gary Turner, and of course the father of male truth bloggers and post 40s depression, RageBoy.
If Real is right, and cultural edicts are largely responsible for disconnecting men--under the guise of a survival mechanism for their very gender--then this is why so many men are "coming out" and reconnecting as bloggers. I know that Mike and Tom and Gary and George Partington go to work each day and do their thing--their semi-connected, make-the-best-of-it role which is necessary for their survival, to provide for the well-being of their families. I also know that they unleash parts of themselves in a very real and necessary way within their weblogs that the folks at work--sometimes even at home--don't get to see.
Men ARE reconnecting through weblogging. Not in the same way that women are--more subtle, more slowly--but perhaps in an even more important way. Somehow Real's notion that cultural edicts have taken power away from women and connections away from men seems just right when it comes to what we're doing here in Blogaria. Women are gaining power and voice in a way that's never been before, and men are connecting in ways that are rare and special and human.
Food for thought. And you guys are braver than I knew.
the night that the lights went out in georgia?
Well it seems as though my state of personal reflection of late has taken me away from some---uh---fundamental responsibilities---uh--like paying bills. Or, well, like not bouncing checks. Much to my dismay and without any sort of my typical panic, I realized today, after reading some unopened mail, that I have bounced two checks to Cobb EMC, the lovely power fuckers that provide our gas and electric service.
ooops.
It all started when work cut me a paper check, after four years of direct deposits, without me knowing it. The check got here three days late, and needless to say, my checking account -- shakey on a good day -- danced itself into an amazing downward spiral that I, given my current detached emotional state, have watch like a made-for-tv movie. I wonder at it. Mainly, that's what I express. Everything is full of wonder for me now. Even things that used to scare me. Like fiscal mismanagement.
Which is to say, the letter from Cobb EMC also said if the redeposit of the check bounced, which it did last night, I would be subject to an immediate disconnect. I hope to straighten it out on Monday, but if I go dark for a while, literally, you know why.
Doesn't help that all my phones are cordless.... which is to say... cordfull, as they all "plug in."
Send energy. And maybe Quicken.
-me
ooops.
It all started when work cut me a paper check, after four years of direct deposits, without me knowing it. The check got here three days late, and needless to say, my checking account -- shakey on a good day -- danced itself into an amazing downward spiral that I, given my current detached emotional state, have watch like a made-for-tv movie. I wonder at it. Mainly, that's what I express. Everything is full of wonder for me now. Even things that used to scare me. Like fiscal mismanagement.
Which is to say, the letter from Cobb EMC also said if the redeposit of the check bounced, which it did last night, I would be subject to an immediate disconnect. I hope to straighten it out on Monday, but if I go dark for a while, literally, you know why.
Doesn't help that all my phones are cordless.... which is to say... cordfull, as they all "plug in."
Send energy. And maybe Quicken.
-me
Depression: the word of the day
Marek isn't the only one feeling it. George isn't the only one writing about it. You guys know who you are. Read this 1998 interview with Dr. Terry Real who tackles the whys and wherefores of male depression in a way that's incredibly new, refreshing, and I think accurate. Dr. Real's book, I Don't Want to Talk About It: Overcoming The Secret Legacy of Male Depression, is worth reading, for both men and women.
Some of what he says in the interview I've pulled out and posted here:
"Here's what it boils down to. As a culture, it's like we've taken a piece of paper and drawn a line down the center, saying that everything on this side of the line is feminine and everything on the other side is masculine, and woe unto that little boy or little girl who dares to cross that line. Women have been complaining for the last generation about the forces that have brought to bear on women to stay on their side of the line and the consequences of that. My work is about the reciprocal story for the boy. The half of the humanity that girls have been pressured out of has to do with power. The part that boys have been pressured out of has to do with connection."
"Let me say something about the idea of depression as an auto-aggressive disease. I wish I could take credit for it, but Sigmund Freud is the one. He didn't use that phrase, but he talked about depression as aggression turned against one's self. The thing that's important about that is understanding that the root of male depression is violence. And the core of gender socialization for little boys is violence. The way that we "turn boys into men" in this culture is through severance. We turn boys away from their mothers, from their hearts, from other people. The cost of this is disconnection, a disconnection I call the normal traumatization of boys. What happens is that men have overt depression take this violence and turn it in on themselves. Men who have covert depression don't want to bear this violence. I don't blame them. They either try to run from it through intoxication or burying themselves, or they inflict it on other people."
"Once you start to hit the geyser of those raw feelings, it's very tempting to act out. I've been there. You're in a rage, you're hurt. You don't want to feel the pain. Somebody walks into our face and crosses you, and you're not a very pleasant person to be around. The other thing is that a person can be in touch their wounds until they're blue in the face. I know a lot of guys who are working their wounds, but they're still creeps to be around. In the work that I do, I talk about two inner children. I learned this from Pia Mellody. There's the wounded child, who was young, who was on the receiving end of the abuse. But there's also the adaptive child, which is the part of you that took on the mores, the privileges, the false empowerment and the point of view of the perpetrator."
"The very phrase 'be a man' means 'disconnect.' Disconnect from your own feelings and play through the pain. The thing that people are tumbling onto is that the other word for these transactions is violence, trauma. Men walk around with these deep, deep wounds, coupled with an entitlement to mishandle these wounds by irresponsible addictive or violent measures. When you have a hurt little boy walking around in a big, grown man's body, with centuries of male prerogative, that's a pretty volatile combination."
There's lots more. And it's worth reading.
Some of what he says in the interview I've pulled out and posted here:
"Here's what it boils down to. As a culture, it's like we've taken a piece of paper and drawn a line down the center, saying that everything on this side of the line is feminine and everything on the other side is masculine, and woe unto that little boy or little girl who dares to cross that line. Women have been complaining for the last generation about the forces that have brought to bear on women to stay on their side of the line and the consequences of that. My work is about the reciprocal story for the boy. The half of the humanity that girls have been pressured out of has to do with power. The part that boys have been pressured out of has to do with connection."
"Let me say something about the idea of depression as an auto-aggressive disease. I wish I could take credit for it, but Sigmund Freud is the one. He didn't use that phrase, but he talked about depression as aggression turned against one's self. The thing that's important about that is understanding that the root of male depression is violence. And the core of gender socialization for little boys is violence. The way that we "turn boys into men" in this culture is through severance. We turn boys away from their mothers, from their hearts, from other people. The cost of this is disconnection, a disconnection I call the normal traumatization of boys. What happens is that men have overt depression take this violence and turn it in on themselves. Men who have covert depression don't want to bear this violence. I don't blame them. They either try to run from it through intoxication or burying themselves, or they inflict it on other people."
"Once you start to hit the geyser of those raw feelings, it's very tempting to act out. I've been there. You're in a rage, you're hurt. You don't want to feel the pain. Somebody walks into our face and crosses you, and you're not a very pleasant person to be around. The other thing is that a person can be in touch their wounds until they're blue in the face. I know a lot of guys who are working their wounds, but they're still creeps to be around. In the work that I do, I talk about two inner children. I learned this from Pia Mellody. There's the wounded child, who was young, who was on the receiving end of the abuse. But there's also the adaptive child, which is the part of you that took on the mores, the privileges, the false empowerment and the point of view of the perpetrator."
"The very phrase 'be a man' means 'disconnect.' Disconnect from your own feelings and play through the pain. The thing that people are tumbling onto is that the other word for these transactions is violence, trauma. Men walk around with these deep, deep wounds, coupled with an entitlement to mishandle these wounds by irresponsible addictive or violent measures. When you have a hurt little boy walking around in a big, grown man's body, with centuries of male prerogative, that's a pretty volatile combination."
There's lots more. And it's worth reading.
willow
Silence paints
memories of you
on me
like leaves
from the willow,
majestic shade,
now
even the stump
is gone.
never enough
to drink,
roots
sought something
from the concrete
and gave up.
Fresh water was there
all along.
But then.
Not knowing
what you know
only me knowing
I love you.
Numbness
tries to find a
way in,
to erase us,
but can't.
waiting.
memories of you
on me
like leaves
from the willow,
majestic shade,
now
even the stump
is gone.
never enough
to drink,
roots
sought something
from the concrete
and gave up.
Fresh water was there
all along.
But then.
Not knowing
what you know
only me knowing
I love you.
Numbness
tries to find a
way in,
to erase us,
but can't.
waiting.
pathos
So I called her, for the first time in over a month. Me at 40, detached. Finally. And she wept and apologized and begged. Asked forgiveness. I listened. Did not follow her down that ruinous path. I said this instead:
"Every interaction I've had with you
has been affected by your drinking.
I cannot have that in my life anymore."
waited. hoping for I don't know what.
"I understand."
Acknowledgement without excuses. My fears true. A year ago I didn't know what was false; now I know so much is false--and maybe I understand one truth: the fundamental truth in addiction is the need/compulsion to do something--sometimes anything--to mask incredible pain. Without getting to the pain, the addiction remains. And in some cases, when the addiction is so entrenched, the addiction has to go first, before you can touch the pain.
So many people in pain. So much ruin. An endless circle of tragedy.
Breaking the cycle.
She tells me she's at the end of her journey, that something better awaits her. In other words, I've been doing this too long to change now. I wish I understood that. But I'm not 70. She tells me that if I'm alright, she's alright. And again I want to scream, stop living through me. It is an incredible weight, that need to be okay for you. I am no longer willing to carry it.
With this knowledge, an amazing burden has been lifted. I try not to let sadness replace it.
I used to tell her "When you get little and I get big," and whatever followed that was a reflection of my illusion that we would one day trade places. She'd be the little girl, I'd be the mother. That was even after I knew that parents die, because my father had. But somehow, I thought with her: "When you get little and I get big, I'll take care of you." But you see, I already *was* taking care of her at a great cost to me. No more. I've known that for months. But I said it. My voice. Strong.
Underneath it all I am alone.
Through my window concrete pain.
Rippling with the heat off my driveway, whisps of joy.
Beginning to discern which is which.
"Every interaction I've had with you
has been affected by your drinking.
I cannot have that in my life anymore."
waited. hoping for I don't know what.
"I understand."
Acknowledgement without excuses. My fears true. A year ago I didn't know what was false; now I know so much is false--and maybe I understand one truth: the fundamental truth in addiction is the need/compulsion to do something--sometimes anything--to mask incredible pain. Without getting to the pain, the addiction remains. And in some cases, when the addiction is so entrenched, the addiction has to go first, before you can touch the pain.
So many people in pain. So much ruin. An endless circle of tragedy.
Breaking the cycle.
She tells me she's at the end of her journey, that something better awaits her. In other words, I've been doing this too long to change now. I wish I understood that. But I'm not 70. She tells me that if I'm alright, she's alright. And again I want to scream, stop living through me. It is an incredible weight, that need to be okay for you. I am no longer willing to carry it.
With this knowledge, an amazing burden has been lifted. I try not to let sadness replace it.
I used to tell her "When you get little and I get big," and whatever followed that was a reflection of my illusion that we would one day trade places. She'd be the little girl, I'd be the mother. That was even after I knew that parents die, because my father had. But somehow, I thought with her: "When you get little and I get big, I'll take care of you." But you see, I already *was* taking care of her at a great cost to me. No more. I've known that for months. But I said it. My voice. Strong.
Underneath it all I am alone.
Through my window concrete pain.
Rippling with the heat off my driveway, whisps of joy.
Beginning to discern which is which.
September 03, 2002
undie
the scream is real.
come out
come to be
visible
from behind
for
the first
time
see you/me
breaking
thawing cracking
I'm in my father's skin
I'm in my father's skin
looking out
seeing her
for the first time
needing
pleasing
undoing of
me
seeking
regretting
forgetting
getting
to remembering
no net
no skin
begin
unfold
behold what
you fear
understand
it's more than
real
it's more than
alive
electric
static
pain
bend the frame
twist and knott
untie.
come out
come to be
visible
from behind
for
the first
time
see you/me
breaking
thawing cracking
I'm in my father's skin
I'm in my father's skin
looking out
seeing her
for the first time
needing
pleasing
undoing of
me
seeking
regretting
forgetting
getting
to remembering
no net
no skin
begin
unfold
behold what
you fear
understand
it's more than
real
it's more than
alive
electric
static
pain
bend the frame
twist and knott
untie.
September 02, 2002
Be who I need you to be or I'll cease to exist, and so will you.
When you're face to face with a time of complete undoing, you know it. Not any one thing--everything. Not depression, revelation. Not maturity, rebirth. Not pleasant, painful. Agony. I've been writing for a while now about feeling that everything I ever thought was so wasn't. But I didn't know what I meant. I just knew that the thread of me was weakening, fraying. Now, the flashes hit several times a day, make me scream out, oh no oh yes I see.
I can't get the words out without sounding trite, blaming, petty. Blame your mother--so cliche. So I'm quiet. You would have to be able to see the thousands of pieces assembled to understand the power each piece had on me individually while I was growing up (the first time around). What you don't know about is the neurotic need she fostered in me because she needed it, had to have it to live herself, how she replaced my father with me as her feeding ground after he gave up and died. That is the little girl who prayed every night in terror well into her teenage years that if her mother were to die, please God take me too. The 17 year old who tried to open the door of a moving car and jump out upon news that she'd be going away for two weeks. The adolescent and college girl obsessed with confessing, asking absolution, trying to drive her away--test her--do you love me still?
But it was never love because it was conditional on her layering and devouring of me. Her love was based on me feeding her exactly what she needed, her then feeding me everything I didn't need, and I was so good at keeping the cycle going. It was all I ever knew. Her light on me, nothing felt as good. And yet, she undermined me--set out to ruin my beauty as it threatened her spotlight. Set out to ruin me emotionally so I would need her always. Keep me. Eat me. Drink my blood. This is narcisism. Now, add alcoholism on top of that, and you see my wall of denial build itself.
When you have a child, you begin to see your parents for who they really are. In my case, the lifting curtain reveals monsters--pitiful monsters. Having removed my mother's voice from my head for the first time in my life--not speaking or hearing a word in well over a month--I know why she kept up the constant drone, the noise. When the noise falls away, the truth creeps in.
It's not like this is a huge revalation. It's been happening since Jenna was born, and intensely over this past year. But for the first time I'm embracing this loss and using it to heal ME to build ME.
I can't tell you all about it because there is too much to tell. I do not want to write "about" the place I'm in right now, but from it. But I thought you deserved to know where I was, kind blog friends; you continue to give me the gifts of wonder and hope.
I can't get the words out without sounding trite, blaming, petty. Blame your mother--so cliche. So I'm quiet. You would have to be able to see the thousands of pieces assembled to understand the power each piece had on me individually while I was growing up (the first time around). What you don't know about is the neurotic need she fostered in me because she needed it, had to have it to live herself, how she replaced my father with me as her feeding ground after he gave up and died. That is the little girl who prayed every night in terror well into her teenage years that if her mother were to die, please God take me too. The 17 year old who tried to open the door of a moving car and jump out upon news that she'd be going away for two weeks. The adolescent and college girl obsessed with confessing, asking absolution, trying to drive her away--test her--do you love me still?
But it was never love because it was conditional on her layering and devouring of me. Her love was based on me feeding her exactly what she needed, her then feeding me everything I didn't need, and I was so good at keeping the cycle going. It was all I ever knew. Her light on me, nothing felt as good. And yet, she undermined me--set out to ruin my beauty as it threatened her spotlight. Set out to ruin me emotionally so I would need her always. Keep me. Eat me. Drink my blood. This is narcisism. Now, add alcoholism on top of that, and you see my wall of denial build itself.
When you have a child, you begin to see your parents for who they really are. In my case, the lifting curtain reveals monsters--pitiful monsters. Having removed my mother's voice from my head for the first time in my life--not speaking or hearing a word in well over a month--I know why she kept up the constant drone, the noise. When the noise falls away, the truth creeps in.
It's not like this is a huge revalation. It's been happening since Jenna was born, and intensely over this past year. But for the first time I'm embracing this loss and using it to heal ME to build ME.
I can't tell you all about it because there is too much to tell. I do not want to write "about" the place I'm in right now, but from it. But I thought you deserved to know where I was, kind blog friends; you continue to give me the gifts of wonder and hope.
August 30, 2002
Theory: The Critical Mass of Therapy
"When you are working more on yourself than you have self to work on." --jeneane sessum
thank you very much.
Elvis has left the building.
thank you very much.
Elvis has left the building.
August 27, 2002
one more for the road
He was mostly a pest. He showed up on my doorstep while George was in Hong Kong, you remember, an interlude between all those love poems and self-exploration I was doing. I didn't need a tom cat around. He was needy and bit when he didn't get just what he wanted. I'd have to fill his food dish on the outside step three times a day just to keep him from nipping at my heel when I stepped outside for a smoke.
Still...
He hasn't been around in three or four days. Not like him--he usually shows up a few times a day -- coming from wherever he came from. I never did figure out if he was someone's cat just looking for an extra bowl of food, or a stray, or just a lost little cat soul.
I saw him today, not on my step, but on the main road. I didn't look closely as I approached the run-of-the-mill roadkill that seems to haunt these streets. I knew though, not from the guts and innards I saw first, but from the unusual tiger grey fur that had opened up to let his life force go, it was him. My wheels straddled him as I continued on -- had to get Jenna to school in time for french toast sticks. I blocked it for most of the day. But tonight, when the little sister cats next door had the courage to come up my steps like they used to--before him--and see what was left in his food bowl, I said good bye to Ashes.
Glad I could give you a bowl of cat chow and fresh water when you were in need. Sorry I couldn't do more.
Ashes to ashes...
Still...
He hasn't been around in three or four days. Not like him--he usually shows up a few times a day -- coming from wherever he came from. I never did figure out if he was someone's cat just looking for an extra bowl of food, or a stray, or just a lost little cat soul.
I saw him today, not on my step, but on the main road. I didn't look closely as I approached the run-of-the-mill roadkill that seems to haunt these streets. I knew though, not from the guts and innards I saw first, but from the unusual tiger grey fur that had opened up to let his life force go, it was him. My wheels straddled him as I continued on -- had to get Jenna to school in time for french toast sticks. I blocked it for most of the day. But tonight, when the little sister cats next door had the courage to come up my steps like they used to--before him--and see what was left in his food bowl, I said good bye to Ashes.
Glad I could give you a bowl of cat chow and fresh water when you were in need. Sorry I couldn't do more.
Ashes to ashes...
August 26, 2002
Taking time
Still not well -- taking some time to re-focus energies and spirit on the positive, the truly meaningful. Above all, do no harm.
Peace, y'all.
Peace, y'all.
August 23, 2002
Or then...
Well, I felt fine. But now I'm getting sick--catching Jenna's cough and head cold. I'm worn out. It sure felt good to feel good for a minute! Remind me about that in a couple days, will ya?
Going to rest.
Going to rest.
August 21, 2002
if someone had ever told me
I wouldn't have believed them. If they told me I'd be here at 40 at this very odd place on the precipice of losing nearly everything I've held dear--rewind, replay, repeat--I wouldn't have believed them. My family, my self, my future--all resting on unsteady ground.
I thought I had the biggest loss once upon a time, when I was very young, and I thought no other empty space would ever compare to that. With my dad dead, the only loss I could imagine being greater than that, at six, was my mother. Things would get bad, very bad, and I had my mantra: at least my mother's alive. I would watch others die, move away, go away, and I would repeat the mantra: I still have my mother.
At the same time, I watched my mother and step-father drink, retreated from the odd and uncomfortable situations that resulted from their nightly insobriety, and my mantra became just as uncomfortable to me. It was starting to not work. I wasn't hers; I wasn't mine. I was just incomplete. I tried to complete myself with my worthy spouse, then a deacde later with a child. But, big surprise, that doesn't work. Not for long. At least not forever. Joke's on me.
I did not come to this mother mantra all alone, I now realize. It's something that she nurtured in me--she needed me to be hers. She herself had been through great trauma. And so, it was fed to me. An unhealthy diet of "love" by control, and me willing to eat and repeat, knowing no other way.
It's not all her fault. And I love her still. But I hate what she's done. She takes no responsibility--she won't look at this.
Not won't. Can't.
Did I mention I haven't spoken to my mother in nearly a month now? Yes. Well. To you that may seem like no big deal. To me, it's nothing short of miraculous. I have never gone more than a week--two during a particularly nasty family blow up--without hearing her voice. We were once so close. The problem was, we were mostly always way too close. I let myself subsist on her. And she let me. To the detriment of all other relationships.
And so I've asked her for space, now--time to be with me. And I've gotten it, and a month has ticked by.
George away. Jenna in school. No mother to direct and intercept my feelings. I'm here with me. Really here with me.
And I've discovered why I never tried this before: The movies that play backward in my head are not very comforting. I'm seeing them for the first time. They are unraveling what I thought was so, a little at a time, and in their place I'm left with what really was. Freeze frame:
He's behind the wheel for the hundredth time in a condition that by any account, even in the 70s, is illegal. And she is in the front seat, staring straight ahead, no seat belt--her role is not to challenge him, only to control him through her reactions. I whisper to her, "Why don't YOU drive?" Even I know, from car rides past, weaving in and out of his lane of choice, me gripping the side door, that it will be a dicey ride home. She doesn't ever take the keys from him.
This is the part of this backwards movie I'd like to remember a different way: A police car pulls us over, he blows, he goes to jail, something. Something to change what was. But that never happened. We always made it home. See, she was right to let him drive. Everything turned out fine.
Nothing was ever fine.
But me, I am going to be fine.
I am going to be FUCKING fine because I'm finding me, and I'm finding out.
I thought I had the biggest loss once upon a time, when I was very young, and I thought no other empty space would ever compare to that. With my dad dead, the only loss I could imagine being greater than that, at six, was my mother. Things would get bad, very bad, and I had my mantra: at least my mother's alive. I would watch others die, move away, go away, and I would repeat the mantra: I still have my mother.
At the same time, I watched my mother and step-father drink, retreated from the odd and uncomfortable situations that resulted from their nightly insobriety, and my mantra became just as uncomfortable to me. It was starting to not work. I wasn't hers; I wasn't mine. I was just incomplete. I tried to complete myself with my worthy spouse, then a deacde later with a child. But, big surprise, that doesn't work. Not for long. At least not forever. Joke's on me.
I did not come to this mother mantra all alone, I now realize. It's something that she nurtured in me--she needed me to be hers. She herself had been through great trauma. And so, it was fed to me. An unhealthy diet of "love" by control, and me willing to eat and repeat, knowing no other way.
It's not all her fault. And I love her still. But I hate what she's done. She takes no responsibility--she won't look at this.
Not won't. Can't.
Did I mention I haven't spoken to my mother in nearly a month now? Yes. Well. To you that may seem like no big deal. To me, it's nothing short of miraculous. I have never gone more than a week--two during a particularly nasty family blow up--without hearing her voice. We were once so close. The problem was, we were mostly always way too close. I let myself subsist on her. And she let me. To the detriment of all other relationships.
And so I've asked her for space, now--time to be with me. And I've gotten it, and a month has ticked by.
George away. Jenna in school. No mother to direct and intercept my feelings. I'm here with me. Really here with me.
And I've discovered why I never tried this before: The movies that play backward in my head are not very comforting. I'm seeing them for the first time. They are unraveling what I thought was so, a little at a time, and in their place I'm left with what really was. Freeze frame:
He's behind the wheel for the hundredth time in a condition that by any account, even in the 70s, is illegal. And she is in the front seat, staring straight ahead, no seat belt--her role is not to challenge him, only to control him through her reactions. I whisper to her, "Why don't YOU drive?" Even I know, from car rides past, weaving in and out of his lane of choice, me gripping the side door, that it will be a dicey ride home. She doesn't ever take the keys from him.
This is the part of this backwards movie I'd like to remember a different way: A police car pulls us over, he blows, he goes to jail, something. Something to change what was. But that never happened. We always made it home. See, she was right to let him drive. Everything turned out fine.
Nothing was ever fine.
But me, I am going to be fine.
I am going to be FUCKING fine because I'm finding me, and I'm finding out.
August 20, 2002
deux intervieux
See if you can follow this--not sure I've gotten it down yet: Sandhill's Frank Paynter interviews the barely downloadable Mike Golby (not once, but a couple of times), and Blogaria's quickest study George Partington interviews Frank Paynter, who has earned my respect for his ability to churn out these great interviews, for just being Frank, and for quoting Alphonso Johnson--a great guy and colleague of George's.
August 19, 2002
Backstage Riders
I've seen backstage/tour riders before and have heard some amazing stories from George, but these are pretty interesting.
Like, Ozzy Osbourn and Frank Sinatra required Decadron (a steroid); Aerosmith says no alcohol backstage at any time; Black Crows say LOTS of alcohol backstage; Busta Rhymes says NO to pork and beef, yes to KFC, and bring it on to the obligatory box of Rough Rider or Lifestyle ribbed condoms. Busta, with all that dough, you can't supply your own rubbers?
Like, Ozzy Osbourn and Frank Sinatra required Decadron (a steroid); Aerosmith says no alcohol backstage at any time; Black Crows say LOTS of alcohol backstage; Busta Rhymes says NO to pork and beef, yes to KFC, and bring it on to the obligatory box of Rough Rider or Lifestyle ribbed condoms. Busta, with all that dough, you can't supply your own rubbers?
August 18, 2002
My Mother Needed No One
Here's the thing about my mother. Married at 19, three kids by 28, and a dead husband by 35, followed two weeks afterward by her own father's surprise death (today they would call it negligent homocide), a widow raising 3 kids alone for six years in the 60s and 70s, where, in suburban Irondequoit, that made her a freak and us the "freak" family--she didn't have it easy. The whole time, me as the youngest, looked at how she did it and thought: She doesn't need anyone. She is so strong.
But that strength went awry somewhere. If someone made her angry, or looked to be contradicting how she was raising us, she'd cut them out of her life like most people slice cheese. They were there one minute, gone the next. Relatives, friends, no one dared mess with my mom. They all knew the consequences.
So, I'm finding out, did I.
She was and is in the eyes of most who know her one of the strongest, most together woman walking the planet. Then the undercurrent rushes in. Me the mirror. And I remember so vividly my thought process that went: Maternal Strength = Mother loves X + X made Mother mad + bye bye X.
What I saw as great strength then, I now see as a weakness, and a life lesson that has left me a little skewed. Turning people on and off like light switches isn't a strength--it's cruel, it's selfish, and it's false. It was a way for her to avoid confronting the things she should have been and should still be confronting. It was her way of hiding.
And so I learn little things about who I am and why--these snags in me that are caught on the rough edges of my insides.
One thing is for sure: this apple has begun her roll.
But that strength went awry somewhere. If someone made her angry, or looked to be contradicting how she was raising us, she'd cut them out of her life like most people slice cheese. They were there one minute, gone the next. Relatives, friends, no one dared mess with my mom. They all knew the consequences.
So, I'm finding out, did I.
She was and is in the eyes of most who know her one of the strongest, most together woman walking the planet. Then the undercurrent rushes in. Me the mirror. And I remember so vividly my thought process that went: Maternal Strength = Mother loves X + X made Mother mad + bye bye X.
What I saw as great strength then, I now see as a weakness, and a life lesson that has left me a little skewed. Turning people on and off like light switches isn't a strength--it's cruel, it's selfish, and it's false. It was a way for her to avoid confronting the things she should have been and should still be confronting. It was her way of hiding.
And so I learn little things about who I am and why--these snags in me that are caught on the rough edges of my insides.
One thing is for sure: this apple has begun her roll.
No Deposit, No Return
Today was a delightful day. Believe me? Consider this: A good two hours of it, on and off, was spent with my daughter sobbing for her daddy. "Two more days--that's all I can do! Daddy, please come back nooooooow. DaaaDeee! DAAADEEE!"
Having sat with this for what is now close to five months with him out of the U.S., my nerves are wilted, not frayed. I have no more tears to cry in the bathroom, alone, hoping she won't hear me--that I won't feed that need in her that is usually just south of the surface in me. So I have no more tears for it now. I'm fine. I hold her and say, "I know. I know. Soon, baby. Soon. Way sooner than last time." And she says, "Not soon, Now!" And I wipe tears away some more, wishing I had some to give her, let me cry instead of her. But they don't come.
I took her to my sister's house for a cookout, which brightened her mood some, until it was time to leave, and leaving reminded her, and again all the way home, more tears.
Then I went about the business of trying to get a $500 tuition deposit back from a school she's not going to. Mind you, I raised the flag right after I gave them the check--before the deadline for admission. Also asked if this money was a deposit or if it was part of the tuition. I was assured this went toward the tuition. It's a new school, so they weren't bothering with admission fees. They needed bodies. If I'm right no tuition, no attendance, withdrawl before the August 1st deposit deadline--I should get the money back, right? I know most schools keep the $75 admission fee if you don't attend, but $500???
And to think, around the end of July, I had a flash that I should put a stop payment on that check. Why didn't I? I thought it was unnecessary. People are ethical. People live up to their agreements. I'm such a stupid fuck.
Two days ago, I called the administrator again--he said his checkbook was at home and that I should finish talking it over with the directress. So today, I call the teacher/directress, whom I really do love (she is not the administrator--i.e. money man), and she is still trying to get me to enroll Jenna there, but we can't afford it. And I say what George said to the administrator: "Let's get the money back in my hands--then we can talk about it--maybe for January. But right now we can't do it."
So SHE says that according to what she was told, the $500 is non-refundable. There go my ears, filling up with blood again. Ouch, that was my neck. I'm about go balistic. Then I back off, thinking of my sister's lawyer who will write a letter for $90 if I want her to. At this point, the teacher offers me another deal (discounted tuition) that I said I'd talk with George about, but I can't really, because he's not here, so there I am. Back where I started from.
No deposit, no return, a grieving daughter, and only me-myself-I and the blog universe to whine to about it.
Here's to Monday!
Having sat with this for what is now close to five months with him out of the U.S., my nerves are wilted, not frayed. I have no more tears to cry in the bathroom, alone, hoping she won't hear me--that I won't feed that need in her that is usually just south of the surface in me. So I have no more tears for it now. I'm fine. I hold her and say, "I know. I know. Soon, baby. Soon. Way sooner than last time." And she says, "Not soon, Now!" And I wipe tears away some more, wishing I had some to give her, let me cry instead of her. But they don't come.
I took her to my sister's house for a cookout, which brightened her mood some, until it was time to leave, and leaving reminded her, and again all the way home, more tears.
Then I went about the business of trying to get a $500 tuition deposit back from a school she's not going to. Mind you, I raised the flag right after I gave them the check--before the deadline for admission. Also asked if this money was a deposit or if it was part of the tuition. I was assured this went toward the tuition. It's a new school, so they weren't bothering with admission fees. They needed bodies. If I'm right no tuition, no attendance, withdrawl before the August 1st deposit deadline--I should get the money back, right? I know most schools keep the $75 admission fee if you don't attend, but $500???
And to think, around the end of July, I had a flash that I should put a stop payment on that check. Why didn't I? I thought it was unnecessary. People are ethical. People live up to their agreements. I'm such a stupid fuck.
Two days ago, I called the administrator again--he said his checkbook was at home and that I should finish talking it over with the directress. So today, I call the teacher/directress, whom I really do love (she is not the administrator--i.e. money man), and she is still trying to get me to enroll Jenna there, but we can't afford it. And I say what George said to the administrator: "Let's get the money back in my hands--then we can talk about it--maybe for January. But right now we can't do it."
So SHE says that according to what she was told, the $500 is non-refundable. There go my ears, filling up with blood again. Ouch, that was my neck. I'm about go balistic. Then I back off, thinking of my sister's lawyer who will write a letter for $90 if I want her to. At this point, the teacher offers me another deal (discounted tuition) that I said I'd talk with George about, but I can't really, because he's not here, so there I am. Back where I started from.
No deposit, no return, a grieving daughter, and only me-myself-I and the blog universe to whine to about it.
Here's to Monday!
August 17, 2002
waxing and waning
I've figured it out. Not me alone. You know. But I think I figured out the problem with the planet, world, country, region, neighborhood, family, and people in general. It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.
That problem being that too few of us understand what it means to love. Simply to love and to love simply. At the heart of the matter, too many (for my liking) are missing heart--a passion that transcends the feelings we have for ourselves (our own individuality, needs, and so on) and that transcends even the feeling we have for the other person involved (the recipient of our love).
That "beyond" place is a place where love loves itself--driven by an undeniable instinct to protect and honor itself at all costs. Suddenly, there, if you're lucky enough to get there, love carries you and yours. You are no longer under your own power--things become more effortless, a moving sidewalk. If you're there, hang on. Don't leave that place, even for a minute. It's like a good concert--if you go outside, you'll have a hell of a time getting back in. Do not pass go, do not leave your spot on the love line.
To lose that place is to be truly lost.
That problem being that too few of us understand what it means to love. Simply to love and to love simply. At the heart of the matter, too many (for my liking) are missing heart--a passion that transcends the feelings we have for ourselves (our own individuality, needs, and so on) and that transcends even the feeling we have for the other person involved (the recipient of our love).
That "beyond" place is a place where love loves itself--driven by an undeniable instinct to protect and honor itself at all costs. Suddenly, there, if you're lucky enough to get there, love carries you and yours. You are no longer under your own power--things become more effortless, a moving sidewalk. If you're there, hang on. Don't leave that place, even for a minute. It's like a good concert--if you go outside, you'll have a hell of a time getting back in. Do not pass go, do not leave your spot on the love line.
To lose that place is to be truly lost.
alone again, naturally
George is off to Germany to record for a couple of weeks. I'm back to the familiar alone-with-jenna life I've become accustomed to over the last six months. It's just wonderful. Really. You believe me? Well, then. Don't. I'm not having fun yet. Feeling very family-less. I miss him--I miss "us" the family of three. My life suddenly isn't what it was.
It's funny, when you're growing up you long for that family that will be better than the family you were raised in--in one way or ten.
When you're six, it's "When I have a family of my own, I won't make MY kids go to bed at 8:30."
When you're sixteen, it's "When I have a family of my own I won't run my kids' lives the way my mom tries to run mine."
For me, as a teenager, it was, "When I have a family of my own, no one will ever leave or die." (okay, so I had a little baggage.)
When I was 24, and I heard myself thinking, "This is my husband, this is our house, we're a team ready to take on the world. No one can stop us now."
When I was 36 I thought, "I have a family of my own--this is our baby girl--we're three now. We'll be together always and laugh and joke and play stupid games."
Now I'm 40 and three months, and I hear myself thinking, "Where did my family of my own go?"
It's funny, when you're growing up you long for that family that will be better than the family you were raised in--in one way or ten.
When you're six, it's "When I have a family of my own, I won't make MY kids go to bed at 8:30."
When you're sixteen, it's "When I have a family of my own I won't run my kids' lives the way my mom tries to run mine."
For me, as a teenager, it was, "When I have a family of my own, no one will ever leave or die." (okay, so I had a little baggage.)
When I was 24, and I heard myself thinking, "This is my husband, this is our house, we're a team ready to take on the world. No one can stop us now."
When I was 36 I thought, "I have a family of my own--this is our baby girl--we're three now. We'll be together always and laugh and joke and play stupid games."
Now I'm 40 and three months, and I hear myself thinking, "Where did my family of my own go?"
August 15, 2002
skewered
it is sharper
than the edge
of a blade
turned inward
feels like
blood pooling
around my
heart
wretch
to purge
the agony
a feeling
I know
a familiar
letting go,
getting to
emptiness.
than the edge
of a blade
turned inward
feels like
blood pooling
around my
heart
wretch
to purge
the agony
a feeling
I know
a familiar
letting go,
getting to
emptiness.
August 14, 2002
vow
From two lips
until forever
spoken on leaves
that drip promise
or is it the surprise
morning shower
that soaks
the day
with heat.
One now
not two
the thickness
of the air
carries the music,
a slow cadence
purposeful,
the notes
have time
to lick my ear
remind me
this day
happens
only once.
Unwrap a lifetime
look at it up close
meaning gives
way to knots, bumps
the bee hive disturbed
children in suits
and party dresses
scatter, crying,
stung
welts rising
eyes
wet with tears
the grownups kiss
away.
until forever
spoken on leaves
that drip promise
or is it the surprise
morning shower
that soaks
the day
with heat.
One now
not two
the thickness
of the air
carries the music,
a slow cadence
purposeful,
the notes
have time
to lick my ear
remind me
this day
happens
only once.
Unwrap a lifetime
look at it up close
meaning gives
way to knots, bumps
the bee hive disturbed
children in suits
and party dresses
scatter, crying,
stung
welts rising
eyes
wet with tears
the grownups kiss
away.
step down
Cixous says
climb the
ladder down
step down
into writing
where pain
and grief
bring strange
joy -- relief
if not because,
then because not.
I step down
into pain
again
that doesn't
go away
eases up
for a year
two, five,
minutes
another
step down
now into it
and how do I know
when I'm at the
bottom
my foot
reaches ahead
of me
my toes
feel only air
I am afraid
to know
I'm not there
yet.
climb the
ladder down
step down
into writing
where pain
and grief
bring strange
joy -- relief
if not because,
then because not.
I step down
into pain
again
that doesn't
go away
eases up
for a year
two, five,
minutes
another
step down
now into it
and how do I know
when I'm at the
bottom
my foot
reaches ahead
of me
my toes
feel only air
I am afraid
to know
I'm not there
yet.
August 13, 2002
more on relateivity
back to relationshipping for a minute, or relationtrips, because they are a trip, right?
tripp-fucking-y.
Elaine had a really good comment (that's now gone because of my disappearing/reappearing previous post) that said some stuff about the power of coming to a relationship already formed, complete, good with yourself, individually together BEFORE you delve into the long-term relationship, not struggling to get there after you've made the commitment. But I think you can't do that, or at least mostly you can't. I think it takes relationships to make you relate. I shouldn't use "you." Or should I? Are we relating? I guess I should use we.
Maybe folks who wait until they're 30 or 40 to get serious about a relationship do bring their more fully-formed individual selves into their eventual relationship. But don't they bring extra baggage too? Because how did they get fully formed? Not by sitting on a rock alone shouting into the wind? By relating, no? I think.
Does it take that kind of thing--that individuality of being completely alone by and with yourself for some I-don't-know-how-long length of time before you become that complete/solid individual who can better fulfill his or her end of a relationship? And if so, where do you run into another individual just like you? Someone who's also been sitting alone on their rock getting good with themselves before they get good with you? Like, how would you two ever run into one another? Because you wouldn't want to waste your solid self on someone who hasn't been doing their own deep interpersonal work--otherwise, aren't you doomed to a failed relationship?
Fascinating to me. Really. Because I'm pretty sure I just don't get it. It's like some mystery novel for me with the back half of the book torn off.
I say that we say this: I fucking love you, that's first, then second, I love us, what we are together, and yes of course, third--this is where last but certainly not least comes from--I love me because if I didn't love me, how could I love you? or Us? And if I happen to not love all of me, then show me how you do. And I'll do that for you too. Look, you love me. That's amazing. What do you feel like inside, now, this minute, no, do you see me? look at me. see my eyes. know them? you do know them. And they love you. It's more than my "self" that loves you--bigger than that. It's my skin on yours, my eyes shining out from yours, my finger tips on your cheek that love you. It's your brain on my funny bone. It's my head tucked under your chin.
It's the wierd places of me that I wouldn't know I had unless they were bouncing off of you.
tripp-fucking-y.
Elaine had a really good comment (that's now gone because of my disappearing/reappearing previous post) that said some stuff about the power of coming to a relationship already formed, complete, good with yourself, individually together BEFORE you delve into the long-term relationship, not struggling to get there after you've made the commitment. But I think you can't do that, or at least mostly you can't. I think it takes relationships to make you relate. I shouldn't use "you." Or should I? Are we relating? I guess I should use we.
Maybe folks who wait until they're 30 or 40 to get serious about a relationship do bring their more fully-formed individual selves into their eventual relationship. But don't they bring extra baggage too? Because how did they get fully formed? Not by sitting on a rock alone shouting into the wind? By relating, no? I think.
Does it take that kind of thing--that individuality of being completely alone by and with yourself for some I-don't-know-how-long length of time before you become that complete/solid individual who can better fulfill his or her end of a relationship? And if so, where do you run into another individual just like you? Someone who's also been sitting alone on their rock getting good with themselves before they get good with you? Like, how would you two ever run into one another? Because you wouldn't want to waste your solid self on someone who hasn't been doing their own deep interpersonal work--otherwise, aren't you doomed to a failed relationship?
Fascinating to me. Really. Because I'm pretty sure I just don't get it. It's like some mystery novel for me with the back half of the book torn off.
I say that we say this: I fucking love you, that's first, then second, I love us, what we are together, and yes of course, third--this is where last but certainly not least comes from--I love me because if I didn't love me, how could I love you? or Us? And if I happen to not love all of me, then show me how you do. And I'll do that for you too. Look, you love me. That's amazing. What do you feel like inside, now, this minute, no, do you see me? look at me. see my eyes. know them? you do know them. And they love you. It's more than my "self" that loves you--bigger than that. It's my skin on yours, my eyes shining out from yours, my finger tips on your cheek that love you. It's your brain on my funny bone. It's my head tucked under your chin.
It's the wierd places of me that I wouldn't know I had unless they were bouncing off of you.
okay my relate-ivity post got gone, so I copied it and pasted it in again
but... comments from elaine, marek, and ray went away. sorry.... wha happend???
my theory of relate-ivity
Relationships aren't individuals.
Individuals aren't relationships.
You don't relate individually, except, to yourself.
yourself. yourself. yourself.
(that's an echo)
You relate in relationships. ONLY. period.
So, I'm asking. How does it work?
Is there ever or always a third and fourth person in relationships?
You bring yourself in.
The other person brings himself/herself in.
Then each of you brings the self who works on the relationship TO the relationship -- that's the entire job of these third and fourth relationship selves. Because you need them. It's that hard.
Individually it is much easier to remain an individual. Separate from a relationship. No?
Maybe...
Individual self says:
I want my needs met = Meet them for me or I will have to meet them myself.
Relationship self says:
I want my needs met = I want to meet your needs too.
I dunno. This isn't all about love/romantic relationships. I think it stretches across friendships and blogging and work/business and all of that. Our boundaries are ever more interesting. This relating thing is getting more and more complicated as our understanding of our "selves" and "our world," and their limits or lack thereof, continue to morph.
good night.
my theory of relate-ivity
Relationships aren't individuals.
Individuals aren't relationships.
You don't relate individually, except, to yourself.
yourself. yourself. yourself.
(that's an echo)
You relate in relationships. ONLY. period.
So, I'm asking. How does it work?
Is there ever or always a third and fourth person in relationships?
You bring yourself in.
The other person brings himself/herself in.
Then each of you brings the self who works on the relationship TO the relationship -- that's the entire job of these third and fourth relationship selves. Because you need them. It's that hard.
Individually it is much easier to remain an individual. Separate from a relationship. No?
Maybe...
Individual self says:
I want my needs met = Meet them for me or I will have to meet them myself.
Relationship self says:
I want my needs met = I want to meet your needs too.
I dunno. This isn't all about love/romantic relationships. I think it stretches across friendships and blogging and work/business and all of that. Our boundaries are ever more interesting. This relating thing is getting more and more complicated as our understanding of our "selves" and "our world," and their limits or lack thereof, continue to morph.
good night.
August 12, 2002
artist+realist=progeny
Getting Jenna to wind down for bed is never easy. I could tell you all of the "conversation"--a demand she makes nightly, no matter how many books, no matter how many stories--that we had tonight, but it would embarass her well into her 30s. This nugget deserves to be told, though. Aunt Net is Annette, our next door neighbor. And for those playing the home game, Jenna is 4.
Jenna: "I love all the arts and crafts Aunt Net does. Those are the kind of things I like to do. Do you know if she painted the pine cones for me yet? I will ask her. Tomorrow. I still want to be an artist when I grow up. When I have my own house, I'll paint and draw all the things I want to, and I'll paint my bathroom any colors I want. I'll draw pictures for it too."
Mom: "That sounds fun--and can I come over and watch you?"
Jenna: "Sure, if you're not dead."
Jenna: "I love all the arts and crafts Aunt Net does. Those are the kind of things I like to do. Do you know if she painted the pine cones for me yet? I will ask her. Tomorrow. I still want to be an artist when I grow up. When I have my own house, I'll paint and draw all the things I want to, and I'll paint my bathroom any colors I want. I'll draw pictures for it too."
Mom: "That sounds fun--and can I come over and watch you?"
Jenna: "Sure, if you're not dead."
August 11, 2002
BB votes to amputate RB's lips
Shelley is tired of them. I'm tired of them. We're all tired of them. THOSE FUCKING LIPS! Join Shelley's email campign to nudge the God of Gonzo on to other body parts. No more teeth. No more lips. No more teeth and lips. Say it loud. Say it like you mean it: "Lose the Lips TODAY, RB!"
My body part replacement suggestion was the middle finger. I know, it's been done. But it still seemed fitting. So hands off the middle finger, Paynter. ;-)
My body part replacement suggestion was the middle finger. I know, it's been done. But it still seemed fitting. So hands off the middle finger, Paynter. ;-)
August 10, 2002
the return
mountains good
city bad
deer good
stray cat bad
pontoon boat good
blue minivan bad
hotel good
house bad
service good
no service bad
eating out good
cooking bad
fishing good
PR bad
sun good
flourescent lights bad
swimming good
typing bad
guess where I'd rather be.
city bad
deer good
stray cat bad
pontoon boat good
blue minivan bad
hotel good
house bad
service good
no service bad
eating out good
cooking bad
fishing good
PR bad
sun good
flourescent lights bad
swimming good
typing bad
guess where I'd rather be.
August 09, 2002
Gone fishing
Headed to Red Top Mountain for a day or so to fish, swim, and celebrate our 16th Wedding Anniversary, with Jenna in tow, of course. Will reflect upon our return. Hard copy blogging while gone. Film at 11.
August 06, 2002
Skeleton Keys
Before I happened upon yesterday's metro carnage, I was taking one of those naps--a three hour doosey during which I never slept at all, rather lay there paralyzed by visions hell bent on attacking me. Those are fast dreams. It's like being pummeled by a stronger oponent with bigger boxing gloves than you. I always "wake up" from those kind of naps more tired than I was before, and generally suicidal. It's a long standing thing with me--DON'T NAP.
You see, I tricked myself after having a baby. I became a pretty good napper. A champion napper. You have no choice but to nap when you have a baby. Our little chow hound demanded milk every hour and a half. Her shrill scream would snap me out of slumber, wouldn't hush until her mouth was busy on my breast, where it gnawed for a half hour, which meant, I spent three months sleeping one hour at a time. That's some major nap mileage. Yeah. I learned to nap. I really can be like normal people.
No, sorry. Not so. That was just exhaustion talking. I still can't nap. Not without waking up feeling like I need to crawl out of my skin, like nothing could ever possibly be okay again.
Where does that come from? It's not a fear of napping--I like the idea of napping. It's the fear of waking up into chaos. I got a glimpse of it tonight, as I thought and thought about it, and almost got back there, to the morning after my father died, the first coming awake with the knowledge that nothing would ever be okay again, and I think my wake phobia may have roots to that very morning. The day of the news, I did what any six year old would do, I think. I asked to go outside and play. I wasn't allowed to. Understandable. Now. Not then. Okay, you guys have a stiff drink and I'll sit here twidling my thumbs--what about my relief? Play was my relief. But not this day.
Still, the day he died, as I remember it, wasn't that bad after the initial shock wore off. Used to being helpless, children come to acceptance faster than adults do. You have been trained by six to accept what you have no control over.
The next day. The waking to find everything still undone. That's where it is. That's where I am.
So yesterday's nap was one of those three hour paralysis sessions that I guess other people call naps, and one of the wake-dreams I had was about skeleton keys.
Growing up in western New York, the houses were old. Not like here. City houses in Rochester are big, huge, old, structures with lots of oak and wood inside and a whole lot of character, some good, some not so good. The doors in the houses I remember aren't these hollow pre-fabs. They're solid. They're massive. And all the ones I knew had skeleton keys.
That's what parents had back then that we don't have now. Skeleton Keys. For all the inside doors, the bedroom doors. One worked pretty much like the rest. All you needed was one good skeleton key. You know why skeleton keys are different than regular keys? Why those locks are different than the spin-the-handle knob locks we have here? Because skeleton keys worked from both sides. Lock in / lock out. That's how good Rochester Catholics kept all twelve kids on regular nap and bedtime schedules. That's how they kept kids in line, out of their hair. That was discipline. That's when "Go to your room" meant you were going to your room, and if you came out, the skeleton key would make sure you didn't do it twice. Lock us out, lock us in. Privacy. Order. Enforced loneliness.
Something to be said for that. Or is it just time for me to take another nap?
You see, I tricked myself after having a baby. I became a pretty good napper. A champion napper. You have no choice but to nap when you have a baby. Our little chow hound demanded milk every hour and a half. Her shrill scream would snap me out of slumber, wouldn't hush until her mouth was busy on my breast, where it gnawed for a half hour, which meant, I spent three months sleeping one hour at a time. That's some major nap mileage. Yeah. I learned to nap. I really can be like normal people.
No, sorry. Not so. That was just exhaustion talking. I still can't nap. Not without waking up feeling like I need to crawl out of my skin, like nothing could ever possibly be okay again.
Where does that come from? It's not a fear of napping--I like the idea of napping. It's the fear of waking up into chaos. I got a glimpse of it tonight, as I thought and thought about it, and almost got back there, to the morning after my father died, the first coming awake with the knowledge that nothing would ever be okay again, and I think my wake phobia may have roots to that very morning. The day of the news, I did what any six year old would do, I think. I asked to go outside and play. I wasn't allowed to. Understandable. Now. Not then. Okay, you guys have a stiff drink and I'll sit here twidling my thumbs--what about my relief? Play was my relief. But not this day.
Still, the day he died, as I remember it, wasn't that bad after the initial shock wore off. Used to being helpless, children come to acceptance faster than adults do. You have been trained by six to accept what you have no control over.
The next day. The waking to find everything still undone. That's where it is. That's where I am.
So yesterday's nap was one of those three hour paralysis sessions that I guess other people call naps, and one of the wake-dreams I had was about skeleton keys.
Growing up in western New York, the houses were old. Not like here. City houses in Rochester are big, huge, old, structures with lots of oak and wood inside and a whole lot of character, some good, some not so good. The doors in the houses I remember aren't these hollow pre-fabs. They're solid. They're massive. And all the ones I knew had skeleton keys.
That's what parents had back then that we don't have now. Skeleton Keys. For all the inside doors, the bedroom doors. One worked pretty much like the rest. All you needed was one good skeleton key. You know why skeleton keys are different than regular keys? Why those locks are different than the spin-the-handle knob locks we have here? Because skeleton keys worked from both sides. Lock in / lock out. That's how good Rochester Catholics kept all twelve kids on regular nap and bedtime schedules. That's how they kept kids in line, out of their hair. That was discipline. That's when "Go to your room" meant you were going to your room, and if you came out, the skeleton key would make sure you didn't do it twice. Lock us out, lock us in. Privacy. Order. Enforced loneliness.
Something to be said for that. Or is it just time for me to take another nap?
metro carnage
It seems that every time I go out in this metropolis that is Atlanta, trauma is waiting. Maybe it's the size of this overgrown and mostly annoying city. Or maybe it's haunted. Something about everything being so new--burned down once to rise again with a vengence. What's under the layers of bulldozed earth, made so pristine by hired-hand landscaping and clean brick fronts. I think of Shelley telling me to peel back the layers of the onion. Be careful how far you go.
I'm on my way to pick up Jenna from afternoon summer camp. Forgetting the cell phone, I head back upstairs to get it. Those are the 30 seconds, a minute maybe, the ticking of the clock you become thankful for later, after you happen on an accident that just happened, one you would have been in if you hadn't forgotten something, hadn't stopped to wipe down the counter before leaving.
I'm one of the first cars there--neighbors are already rushing out of their houses doing the thing that makes people feel connected--we're at war you know--and God bless them, they try to direct traffic, call 911, wonder how the hell they'll get out of their driveways now.
Like an exclamation point at the nucleus of the wreckage, I see the perfect, shining coat, amazing muscular body lying on its side, part of him still under one of the cars, three cars in all in various stages of being forever mangled, interrupted from the daily rush by the simple and innocent instinct of this purebred Rottweiler who decided to cross the road at the wrong instant. He's still--I know he's dead. A petite blonde with bad hair kneels by his belly, strokes his face. She isn't crying. I wonder if this is his owner, or one of the unhurt from the mangled cars feeling just as crushed.
I've seen accidents with semi-trucks where the unlucky participants didn't look as bad as these cars. What the hell happened? I can only imagine the white car turning off the side street, seeing the romping mass of life charging across the street, then slamming on the breaks just in time for the two cars barreling down the main road to smash him and this beautiful creature to bits.
You didn't have to be there. Officer, would you like me to tell you what happened? I've just watched the replay in my mind a dozen times, and I didn't even see it happen.
I sit two, three minutes waiting for the police to come, which they do, and clear an imaginary path so that the growing line of traffic can get around the mess, which is taking up the entire road. While I wait for them, I get to stare at the dead-or-dying rottie, the man in the driver's seat of the first car in the line of wreckage with his head tilted back in a way that clues me in: he has no other option. Neighbors are reaching inside another car and shouting to one another. Everyone is in motion, except the dog.
Sacrifice. That's what I named him, there, this day.
I'm on my way to pick up Jenna from afternoon summer camp. Forgetting the cell phone, I head back upstairs to get it. Those are the 30 seconds, a minute maybe, the ticking of the clock you become thankful for later, after you happen on an accident that just happened, one you would have been in if you hadn't forgotten something, hadn't stopped to wipe down the counter before leaving.
I'm one of the first cars there--neighbors are already rushing out of their houses doing the thing that makes people feel connected--we're at war you know--and God bless them, they try to direct traffic, call 911, wonder how the hell they'll get out of their driveways now.
Like an exclamation point at the nucleus of the wreckage, I see the perfect, shining coat, amazing muscular body lying on its side, part of him still under one of the cars, three cars in all in various stages of being forever mangled, interrupted from the daily rush by the simple and innocent instinct of this purebred Rottweiler who decided to cross the road at the wrong instant. He's still--I know he's dead. A petite blonde with bad hair kneels by his belly, strokes his face. She isn't crying. I wonder if this is his owner, or one of the unhurt from the mangled cars feeling just as crushed.
I've seen accidents with semi-trucks where the unlucky participants didn't look as bad as these cars. What the hell happened? I can only imagine the white car turning off the side street, seeing the romping mass of life charging across the street, then slamming on the breaks just in time for the two cars barreling down the main road to smash him and this beautiful creature to bits.
You didn't have to be there. Officer, would you like me to tell you what happened? I've just watched the replay in my mind a dozen times, and I didn't even see it happen.
I sit two, three minutes waiting for the police to come, which they do, and clear an imaginary path so that the growing line of traffic can get around the mess, which is taking up the entire road. While I wait for them, I get to stare at the dead-or-dying rottie, the man in the driver's seat of the first car in the line of wreckage with his head tilted back in a way that clues me in: he has no other option. Neighbors are reaching inside another car and shouting to one another. Everyone is in motion, except the dog.
Sacrifice. That's what I named him, there, this day.
Happy Blogday, Marek
Marek's two today! Marek, I think that makes you old. Or else terrible. I dunno. But I do know you have been an inspiration to me both as blogger, and more importantly as a human being. Struggle, climb, fall, struggle, climb, fall, struggle, climb, summit. We will. Have a great blogday Marek!
August 05, 2002
swallow
Find out too late
maybe never
the swallow in the
garage yesterday,
drawn to the
shine of the
black truck,
what he saw there,
himself.
the sudden sound
of damage
wings meet metal
flight interrupted
by panes of glass
he doesn't know how
to stop trying
to break free.
How long did it
take me
to open the door
watch him fly off
touch down
on the highest branch
the nearest tree,
his rapid altitude saying
no thanks to you.
I pick up a feather
study its fine lines
play tricks with
patterns
wonder
is this all
he lost?
maybe never
the swallow in the
garage yesterday,
drawn to the
shine of the
black truck,
what he saw there,
himself.
the sudden sound
of damage
wings meet metal
flight interrupted
by panes of glass
he doesn't know how
to stop trying
to break free.
How long did it
take me
to open the door
watch him fly off
touch down
on the highest branch
the nearest tree,
his rapid altitude saying
no thanks to you.
I pick up a feather
study its fine lines
play tricks with
patterns
wonder
is this all
he lost?
For Immediate Release
But Don't Let RageBoy Make It
Boulder, CO., August 5, 2002... Digiorno Pizza today announced an improved method for cooking its fast-rising-crust Supreme pizzas. Next week the company will make a correction to its label, which previously instructed "users" to remove pizza from the plastic wrapper and cardboard before cooking. Digiorno now advises that cooking the pizza with the cardboard backing still in place is safe, and in some instances advised.
The correction was based on recommendataions from the R&D department, headed by Dr. Rage Boy, (RB) PhD, who made the discovery late yesterday that Digiorno cardboard is inflamable.
"I never knew you were supposed to take the fucking cardboard off in the first place," he said. "I put the za in the oven with the cardboard on the bottom, and when the timer went ding 20 minutes later, I'm asking myself, with blogger friend Jeneane Sessum listening in by phone, what the fuck do I put the pizza on? OUCH! Shit, I burned myself. So she goes, put it back on the cardboard, goofball. And I go, it's already on the cardboard. And she goes, already on the cardboard? What, you cooked the fucking cardboard? And I go, um, yeah. Aren't you supposed to? And she goes, you're the head of R&D, don't you know? And I go, no."
Sessum expressed immediate concern that dangerous carcinogens may have leached into the pizza from cooking the cardboard at the extra-crunchy-crust 425-degree recommended temperature.
"I was pretty sure he'd be dead," Sessum said. "I figured, either his place was burning to the ground and he had no idea--he's on these medicnes, you know--or that he'd be taking a dirt nap after one bite of that bigass fast-rising crust laced with poisonous cardboard shavings."
In a surprise move, RB pulled the cardboard off the bottom of the pizza, threw it in the trash, and downed the first piping hot piece in 30 seconds flat.
"It fucking tasted better," he said. "Tender, chewy and crunchy all at the same time, with a nice wood smoked flavor to boot. I'm thinking that this is the Reeses Fucking Peanut Butter Cup story all over again. Peanut butter in my chocolate, cardboard in my crust. EUREKA! So I call the boss right away and I says to him, Papa Digiorno, I gotta some news! Tell marketing to call me--I gotta newa crust idea!"
The company intends to add the cardboard-ready fast rising supreme pizza crust to its product line sometime next fall. Currently, packaging on the full line of Digiorno products will be revised to include instructions for the with-cardboard preparation method.
Digiorno's move shook the already volitile market, with Dominos' stock up $8.70 on the news.
August 03, 2002
Welcome Mary to the blogging scene
Welcome Mary Brotherton to Blogaria. I've been giving her prods and hints all along, after reading many emails from her that were worthy of blog posts. We met Mary, who works for our accupuncturist, about a year ago. Knowing that she loves to write, George and I both told her, MARY YOU SHOULD BLOG! Well, she finally gave into the temptation. Watch how quickly it becomes an addiction, Mary. She's new, so any hints you can give her, I know she'd welcome. Hey Mary, put your email in my comment field if you want some extra advice from the crew.
August 02, 2002
Taking a Chance on Me
I've been working full time for 20 years now. And for me--well you all know me well enough to know that full time is full time plus pulling all the stops out, doing whatever it takes for a cause or colleage--which means that full time is more like 50-60 hours a week. Sometimes more. Not all my dutiful nature, mind you. I got a lot out of my work--I always have since writing has always been involved. So I loved work as much as work loved me. The star performer, the one the client always wants to work with. Meantime, have a baby why don't you, and raise her at home while you work full-plus time, trading care for her off in random intervals with your husband, who is also trying to further his career and take care of business, and suddenly project after project after project, goal after goal after goal, time ticks by. And where did you go? We go?
So I made a decision yesterday, and my employer was kind enough to accommodate me. I'm going part-time. Starting with 30 hours a week, which will give me the freedom to work just the hours Jenna's in school when Pre-K starts August 12th. Doesn't sound like much of a cutback, but when you realize I was working 50 just to be able to bill 40, it could mean a lot. What that means I think, first, is nights and weekends without work. Wow.
Wow. I can't remember the last time I didn't work a weekend to try to keep up, bill the hours. Be the star. The one they think kindly of. That's the wonderful world of consulting. Billability, the double-edged sword. It's sweet when times are good--look how valuable I am = see how much I bill. But in tough times, both economically and personally, the struggle to fulfill your commitment to the organization (when you're an overly consciensous worker like me) can wear you down, wear you out. burn you out.
I'm worn out. And I'm doing my best to change one part of the equation that's burned out my passion. By going part time I think I can give the BEST of me to work and the BEST of me to myself and my family. It's a start anyway. One change at a time, so to speak.
Next week, for the first time in my grown up years, I am a part-timer.
yikes.
wow.
That's all for now.
So I made a decision yesterday, and my employer was kind enough to accommodate me. I'm going part-time. Starting with 30 hours a week, which will give me the freedom to work just the hours Jenna's in school when Pre-K starts August 12th. Doesn't sound like much of a cutback, but when you realize I was working 50 just to be able to bill 40, it could mean a lot. What that means I think, first, is nights and weekends without work. Wow.
Wow. I can't remember the last time I didn't work a weekend to try to keep up, bill the hours. Be the star. The one they think kindly of. That's the wonderful world of consulting. Billability, the double-edged sword. It's sweet when times are good--look how valuable I am = see how much I bill. But in tough times, both economically and personally, the struggle to fulfill your commitment to the organization (when you're an overly consciensous worker like me) can wear you down, wear you out. burn you out.
I'm worn out. And I'm doing my best to change one part of the equation that's burned out my passion. By going part time I think I can give the BEST of me to work and the BEST of me to myself and my family. It's a start anyway. One change at a time, so to speak.
Next week, for the first time in my grown up years, I am a part-timer.
yikes.
wow.
That's all for now.
August 01, 2002
looking for me
It's not that I got lost along the way; it's that in some fundamental ways, I never formed. I'm talking origins, the origins of damage--not of damaging things done or said, but of the most important thing that never happened at all.
I've been running for a long time--making my life one big project, one activity-packed week at a time, living my days in billable hours, pushing along, trying to make progress for me and my family--in short, hiding. Hiding from what? Noticing. Noticing that I'm not here. Anywhere.
You've heard people say, "I spent a year in Alaska trying to find myself." That'd be nice. I wish that would work for me. The point is, I'm not out there. I could go to Alaska, Australia, to the corner smoke shop to get a pack of American Spirits, and guess who wouldn't be there. Me.
So begins my odyssey. Unraveling and digging into really hurtful places, empty spaces, terrifying to me, and coming out of it with I don't know who, hopefully coming out of it alive. Hopefully coming out of it with my family still there. And even more--hopefully making myself do it. I have to start. No other way through but in.
I've been running for a long time--making my life one big project, one activity-packed week at a time, living my days in billable hours, pushing along, trying to make progress for me and my family--in short, hiding. Hiding from what? Noticing. Noticing that I'm not here. Anywhere.
You've heard people say, "I spent a year in Alaska trying to find myself." That'd be nice. I wish that would work for me. The point is, I'm not out there. I could go to Alaska, Australia, to the corner smoke shop to get a pack of American Spirits, and guess who wouldn't be there. Me.
So begins my odyssey. Unraveling and digging into really hurtful places, empty spaces, terrifying to me, and coming out of it with I don't know who, hopefully coming out of it alive. Hopefully coming out of it with my family still there. And even more--hopefully making myself do it. I have to start. No other way through but in.
July 30, 2002
some time off
I won't be blogging for a while. Some other things demand my attention right now. Thanks for understanding.
July 29, 2002
we went to chuck-e-cheese
My mother decides to run her game on me--she knows that we try to make Sunday "family day," and that we didn't get to have our family days--well, not the usual ones anyway, which are, well, fun--while George was in Hong Kong. Lots of in between here that would take me staring a dysfunctional families team blog to recount, but the bottom line is that we offered them some visiting time with Jenna Saturday, and on that day they became mysteriously not around.
So by Saturday night my mom is appologizing for missing us, asking if they can take Jenna for a few hours on Sunday. Now, consciously, she believes this is just a simple request, oh they miss her so. But unconsciously it's LOADED. So yesterday when the Sunday Request phone call comes in earnest, I say no. I say, Sunday is family day and we have plans. She is dejected, hurt I can tell, but I'm getting better at NOT letting it ruin my day or yank my survivor child chains.
And we had a really nice day. We went to the hobby shop and raced cars. Then off to Chuck E. Cheese. George writes about it it better justice than I could:
"There is a beautiful common bond parents can share with one another and that bond is their progeny. It is truly a thing of beauty to behold so many people who decided to take the chance of procreating and sacrifice a considerable amount of freedom [mental and emotional freedom, especially]."
Every time I hate Atlanta and begin looking at it through the eyes of someone who doesn't live here anymore, I become more and more aware of its one redeeming quality: diversity. I don't think there was a country or ethnicity missing at Chuck E. Cheese this day. At the booth next to us a family in traditional garments from Africa chatted in a language I didn't know. On the "Take Your Photo with Chuck E." ride, a mother perhaps speaking Portuguese was watching her incredible daughters with whisps of curls that I wanted to sink my fingers into, take a lock and keep it for my own. Hispanic, East Indian, Mediterianian, varieties of Asian, African Africans, African Americans, Red Necks--and, my FAVORITE--mixed families crossing and bluring all of these lines, just like the net.
And the unity among the fathers, which George writes about made me teary eyed. Here were men that could be doing anything else on a Sunday, and they were there with their children, and in many cases, their wives. Good dads. Dads that lifted their daughters on and off rides, not with a monotone stare, but with the contagious joy of a child.
George hit a payday at one of the games. He figured out how to align the trigger mechanism just so, nudging it a milimeter at a time, until the coins roled upright across this spinning wheel and threaded themselves inside a thin slot. The other dads gathered round. I glanced over to see three at one time in rapt attention at George's technique. And once he'd won about 1,000 tickets, he took a break and handed his perfectly-aligned shooter to a fellow father, who brought home at least that many before handing it off to another dad, who soon learned the technqiue before handing the reins back over to George.
All these dads, giving one another the thumbs up across the expanse of children. Winking at one another--their secret safe with eachother. They'd walk by George and say, "Thanks, man. Thanks for showing us." I'm proud to be there--wife of the Chuck E. Cheese game master.
Meanwhile, Jenna--yes, she was there too--had the time of her life, making friends and learning how to finally boss other kids around instead of being on the receiving end.
All in all, it was a fine family day.
Although I don't think we're here for the long term, it sure was a pleasant day in historic Kennesaw, Georgia.
So by Saturday night my mom is appologizing for missing us, asking if they can take Jenna for a few hours on Sunday. Now, consciously, she believes this is just a simple request, oh they miss her so. But unconsciously it's LOADED. So yesterday when the Sunday Request phone call comes in earnest, I say no. I say, Sunday is family day and we have plans. She is dejected, hurt I can tell, but I'm getting better at NOT letting it ruin my day or yank my survivor child chains.
And we had a really nice day. We went to the hobby shop and raced cars. Then off to Chuck E. Cheese. George writes about it it better justice than I could:
"There is a beautiful common bond parents can share with one another and that bond is their progeny. It is truly a thing of beauty to behold so many people who decided to take the chance of procreating and sacrifice a considerable amount of freedom [mental and emotional freedom, especially]."
Every time I hate Atlanta and begin looking at it through the eyes of someone who doesn't live here anymore, I become more and more aware of its one redeeming quality: diversity. I don't think there was a country or ethnicity missing at Chuck E. Cheese this day. At the booth next to us a family in traditional garments from Africa chatted in a language I didn't know. On the "Take Your Photo with Chuck E." ride, a mother perhaps speaking Portuguese was watching her incredible daughters with whisps of curls that I wanted to sink my fingers into, take a lock and keep it for my own. Hispanic, East Indian, Mediterianian, varieties of Asian, African Africans, African Americans, Red Necks--and, my FAVORITE--mixed families crossing and bluring all of these lines, just like the net.
And the unity among the fathers, which George writes about made me teary eyed. Here were men that could be doing anything else on a Sunday, and they were there with their children, and in many cases, their wives. Good dads. Dads that lifted their daughters on and off rides, not with a monotone stare, but with the contagious joy of a child.
George hit a payday at one of the games. He figured out how to align the trigger mechanism just so, nudging it a milimeter at a time, until the coins roled upright across this spinning wheel and threaded themselves inside a thin slot. The other dads gathered round. I glanced over to see three at one time in rapt attention at George's technique. And once he'd won about 1,000 tickets, he took a break and handed his perfectly-aligned shooter to a fellow father, who brought home at least that many before handing it off to another dad, who soon learned the technqiue before handing the reins back over to George.
All these dads, giving one another the thumbs up across the expanse of children. Winking at one another--their secret safe with eachother. They'd walk by George and say, "Thanks, man. Thanks for showing us." I'm proud to be there--wife of the Chuck E. Cheese game master.
Meanwhile, Jenna--yes, she was there too--had the time of her life, making friends and learning how to finally boss other kids around instead of being on the receiving end.
All in all, it was a fine family day.
Although I don't think we're here for the long term, it sure was a pleasant day in historic Kennesaw, Georgia.
July 27, 2002
so, like, if we were going to move....
Say we're thinking of moving out of the U.S., you know, packing up the blogs and taking them with us, so to speak. Does anyone think they live in a really great place outside of the U.S.? And, is there a house for sale or rent near you? And why do you love where you live? What's it like there--what makes it special?
Because, really, I'm trying to figure out if it's the climate here in America, which seems to be growing ever more obnoxious, or if it's Atlanta proper that's getting unbearable, or if it's just that the world is ready to spin off its axis, in which case we won't bother packing but instead get into the bathtub and prepare for a bumpy landing.
Everything seems amiss. Nothing seems right. I just got Letters of Transit: Reflections on Exile, Identity, Language and Loss to add to the pile of books I want to read, not so much thinking of this displaced feeling I've had based on geography, but more based on rootlessness or something I haven't quite "got" yet.
But I will get it, and when I get it I'll blog about it, if I get it this decade. Anyway, here's a snippet of an editorial review to tell you what the book's about, which, since I've only read a very nice 5 pages worth, I can't tell you yet (though I CAN tell you it doesn't have the cool briefcase looking handle it appears to have--it's a paperback.) Nonetheless, it looks like a very promising read.
---->In these distinct and forthcoming original essays, five prominent writers offer their meditations on exile and memory. The authors represented in Aciman's (Out of Egypt: A Memoir, 1995) collection are a varied lota not atypical sampling of men and women who have found their way to the US from around the world: Aciman, an Alexandrian in exile via Paris; Eva Hoffman, a Pole in exile via Canada; Bharati Mukherjee, a Bengali in Berkeley; Edward Said, a Palestinian exile via Egypt; and Charles Simic, a Yugoslav exile of 1945 vintage. These voices of exile are unusually eloquent ones. All five authors are non-native speakers who write professionally in English. For them, the common duality and instability of exile are heightened by the very nature of their work. Aciman puts it well: ``their words . . . are the priceless buoys with which they try to stay afloat both as professional thinkers and human beings.'' <----
See, their WORDS are buoys that keep them afloat when they are exiled, homeless, rootless. Ring a bell? A poetry bell? A music bell? a blogging bell?
Anyway, it's really late, and I need to be sleeping, but instead I'm sitting in a relatively comfortable home with my nice laptop and air conditioning thinking somehow I've always been in exile from myself. Either that, or I've been living in the wrong places, places that don't quite feel like home.
So give a shout if you happen to know where home is.
Because, really, I'm trying to figure out if it's the climate here in America, which seems to be growing ever more obnoxious, or if it's Atlanta proper that's getting unbearable, or if it's just that the world is ready to spin off its axis, in which case we won't bother packing but instead get into the bathtub and prepare for a bumpy landing.
Everything seems amiss. Nothing seems right. I just got Letters of Transit: Reflections on Exile, Identity, Language and Loss to add to the pile of books I want to read, not so much thinking of this displaced feeling I've had based on geography, but more based on rootlessness or something I haven't quite "got" yet.
But I will get it, and when I get it I'll blog about it, if I get it this decade. Anyway, here's a snippet of an editorial review to tell you what the book's about, which, since I've only read a very nice 5 pages worth, I can't tell you yet (though I CAN tell you it doesn't have the cool briefcase looking handle it appears to have--it's a paperback.) Nonetheless, it looks like a very promising read.
---->In these distinct and forthcoming original essays, five prominent writers offer their meditations on exile and memory. The authors represented in Aciman's (Out of Egypt: A Memoir, 1995) collection are a varied lota not atypical sampling of men and women who have found their way to the US from around the world: Aciman, an Alexandrian in exile via Paris; Eva Hoffman, a Pole in exile via Canada; Bharati Mukherjee, a Bengali in Berkeley; Edward Said, a Palestinian exile via Egypt; and Charles Simic, a Yugoslav exile of 1945 vintage. These voices of exile are unusually eloquent ones. All five authors are non-native speakers who write professionally in English. For them, the common duality and instability of exile are heightened by the very nature of their work. Aciman puts it well: ``their words . . . are the priceless buoys with which they try to stay afloat both as professional thinkers and human beings.'' <----
See, their WORDS are buoys that keep them afloat when they are exiled, homeless, rootless. Ring a bell? A poetry bell? A music bell? a blogging bell?
Anyway, it's really late, and I need to be sleeping, but instead I'm sitting in a relatively comfortable home with my nice laptop and air conditioning thinking somehow I've always been in exile from myself. Either that, or I've been living in the wrong places, places that don't quite feel like home.
So give a shout if you happen to know where home is.
exile 1
when you cut
me open
the thing
that will suprise
you the most
is the mysterious
ball of twine
that is my heart
twisted tight, its
genesis invisible,
hidden within
a tight coil
it would take
too long
to unravel.
this is what
exile
feels like.
unable to
touch the
beginning of
things
roots buried
so deep
it takes
memory
to unearth
them.
And then,
they are cold.
Understand.
It's not always
about leaving
a place, about
leaving family,
exile is a place
leaving
you
is family
gone because
you
never knew
them.
Exiled
from yourself:
the wind.
I leave myself,
a homeland
wasted by
war,
this war
is inside me
and
not the best
answer
but the only
answer
is to
flee.
me open
the thing
that will suprise
you the most
is the mysterious
ball of twine
that is my heart
twisted tight, its
genesis invisible,
hidden within
a tight coil
it would take
too long
to unravel.
this is what
exile
feels like.
unable to
touch the
beginning of
things
roots buried
so deep
it takes
memory
to unearth
them.
And then,
they are cold.
Understand.
It's not always
about leaving
a place, about
leaving family,
exile is a place
leaving
you
is family
gone because
you
never knew
them.
Exiled
from yourself:
the wind.
I leave myself,
a homeland
wasted by
war,
this war
is inside me
and
not the best
answer
but the only
answer
is to
flee.
July 26, 2002
people are saying...
Hey, j., I like your poetry. When do you write it--do you write right there in your blog?
Answer: Gee, thanks. and, uh, yep. I write right here in this posting spot, and most often, I write the poetry as I'm nodding off at night, in that space between wake and sleep where I find that having my fingers on the laptop keyboard pays infinite rewards, the most fun being, I don't know until the next day what I wrote. And sometimes I acutally like it! Write a stanza, nod off, pull my head up, write another, nod off, and so on. It's not for everyone. For instance, if you have a life and/or need your sleep, this method of writing may complicate things.
That's pretty much how I do it. No real thinking. Just finding the words leftover when my mind goes dark.
A highly recommended exercise for blogging junkies.
And now, speaking of sleep, I'm off to put the kiddo to bed.
Answer: Gee, thanks. and, uh, yep. I write right here in this posting spot, and most often, I write the poetry as I'm nodding off at night, in that space between wake and sleep where I find that having my fingers on the laptop keyboard pays infinite rewards, the most fun being, I don't know until the next day what I wrote. And sometimes I acutally like it! Write a stanza, nod off, pull my head up, write another, nod off, and so on. It's not for everyone. For instance, if you have a life and/or need your sleep, this method of writing may complicate things.
That's pretty much how I do it. No real thinking. Just finding the words leftover when my mind goes dark.
A highly recommended exercise for blogging junkies.
And now, speaking of sleep, I'm off to put the kiddo to bed.
Bottom's Up, by the way
This is precisely how we are going to change Korporate Amerika. Not so much the "role of weblogs in organizations" thing. That's nice. That's a good way to get companies used to it--unafraid of it. But the bigger change is going to be more about the role of BLOGGERS within organizations.
I am waiting a little bit anxiously for the convergece of George Partington's and Jeneane Sessum's and Gary Turner's (and more) split personalities into one well-informed, tightly-connected, dangerous, risky and serious weblogging mofo. Today we have one foot on the net and one in the workplace. Tomorrow we are the workplace, or more appropriately, the workplace is us.
Go George!
I am waiting a little bit anxiously for the convergece of George Partington's and Jeneane Sessum's and Gary Turner's (and more) split personalities into one well-informed, tightly-connected, dangerous, risky and serious weblogging mofo. Today we have one foot on the net and one in the workplace. Tomorrow we are the workplace, or more appropriately, the workplace is us.
Go George!
Hello, he's one of us.
Lots of talk yesterday about the Worldcomm article on weblogging and organizations. Doesn't seem like anyone noticed that the author of the article is George Partington, Atlanta blogger and author of the recent interview with Chris Locke.
Doc blogged it (but his archives gave me an error so you'll have to scroll down to the post--and Doc I think your link to the aritcle is off.)
blogroots blogged it.
And the article is 23 on Daypop right now.
So it's only fitting that George take a bow. You could say George P. is clued. Smart. Creative. A great writer. And an all around great guy. Well, that's what I say.
Denise Howell and I chatted by phone last night--HI DENISE!--and she told me about the article and how no one had picked up on George being one of us. She wasn't sure if George wanted anyone to pick up on that--those of us with corporate day jobs can be kind of sensitive about that--so I emailed George, who called while George S. and I were still in bed--SORRY GEORGE P.!, or should I say SORRY GEORGE S.?--and so I didn't answer, but rose and shone to an email from George P. telling me to blog away about him being the author.
George also has a link off his article to an information page he put on blogspot. Nice!
So there you have it, the REAL scoop from the early edition of allied. all the news that fits we blog.
Links to George Partington's blog and his Worldcom article on blogging are welcome. Let's push him to number 1 today.
Doc blogged it (but his archives gave me an error so you'll have to scroll down to the post--and Doc I think your link to the aritcle is off.)
blogroots blogged it.
And the article is 23 on Daypop right now.
So it's only fitting that George take a bow. You could say George P. is clued. Smart. Creative. A great writer. And an all around great guy. Well, that's what I say.
Denise Howell and I chatted by phone last night--HI DENISE!--and she told me about the article and how no one had picked up on George being one of us. She wasn't sure if George wanted anyone to pick up on that--those of us with corporate day jobs can be kind of sensitive about that--so I emailed George, who called while George S. and I were still in bed--SORRY GEORGE P.!, or should I say SORRY GEORGE S.?--and so I didn't answer, but rose and shone to an email from George P. telling me to blog away about him being the author.
George also has a link off his article to an information page he put on blogspot. Nice!
So there you have it, the REAL scoop from the early edition of allied. all the news that fits we blog.
Links to George Partington's blog and his Worldcom article on blogging are welcome. Let's push him to number 1 today.
July 24, 2002
soar
ima take a ride
ima go too fast
ima smash a wall
ima not come back
ima fly so far
ima lick a cloud
ima do some flips
ima yell real loud
ima stay up high
ima feel so cold
ima slice the sky
ima make a hole
ima fly on in
ima float above
ima hug the dark
ima die for love
ima go too fast
ima smash a wall
ima not come back
ima fly so far
ima lick a cloud
ima do some flips
ima yell real loud
ima stay up high
ima feel so cold
ima slice the sky
ima make a hole
ima fly on in
ima float above
ima hug the dark
ima die for love
motion
wind barely moves
tattered blue drapes
remind me
that nothing
is still
in time
always
going away,
her footprint
in grey carpet
lifts and fades
three steps
from now
night is charged
ripples displeasure
the neighbor
on the phone
says a big storm
is on the way
Back from rehab
four weeks,
he knows storms,
been home
too much,
I've started
to look for
packages
in his hands
you come/go
and the wind
moves us,
I reach back
for you.
Hold me.
tattered blue drapes
remind me
that nothing
is still
in time
always
going away,
her footprint
in grey carpet
lifts and fades
three steps
from now
night is charged
ripples displeasure
the neighbor
on the phone
says a big storm
is on the way
Back from rehab
four weeks,
he knows storms,
been home
too much,
I've started
to look for
packages
in his hands
you come/go
and the wind
moves us,
I reach back
for you.
Hold me.
racetrack
George's post today tells where we're at. It's a big adjustment going from a physically and emotionally charged performance situation six nights a week at a five-star hotel in the opposite time zone to a messy livingroom where a four year old tests your patience every chance she gets. He's doing remarkably well; off tonight to buy a hard-earned fretless--I can't wait to hear how it records, how it sounds through his gear. We have so much work to do to hook him up with the right management this time around--maybe keep him from having to go so far away next time--Europe in autumn has a nice ring to it.
Meanwhile, back to the old responsibilities of momhood and dayjob, fatherhood and business. What I think we need is a vacation. Away from home, atlanta, routines, work, school everything. Fishing. Amberjack are biting in Pensacola. How hot could it be there now--any hotter than Atlanta? I'm not sure. As long as there's a pool and the ocean, it's good by me.
And what is the payoff? I don't know anymore. Once I had hopes that what we're doing right here, right now would pay off. I still have a glimmer--part of me wonders if Shelley isn't right. If I stopped doing this, would I follow through on the other, more important things? Or does doing this give me the confidence and energy I need to do the other, more important things? No answer yet.
The payoff, the checkered flag, who's in the race, who's gonna win. Used to be when George went on the road there were gigs to be had at home when he came back. Since 9/11 and the economic blunders of our current administration, ain't nothing extra going on. Corporations have eliminated entertainment budgets; parties are a thing of the past. The production business is tougher than ever--folks are conservative with their money thanks to our daily dose of bad news.
One answer is hightail it out of here, maybe to Europe, pick up and go. Harder for me than for George, but if it had to be, I could do it. The nice thing about my online family is that I could take you with me. Matter of fact, you'd be there ahead of me. That is an amazing feeling. That confidence thing I was just talking about.
No decisions to be made yet, but so much work to do; press kits to get done for George, CDs to make, dayjob dayjob, house, house, jenna jenna jenna.
and no sleep for the weary.
Meanwhile, back to the old responsibilities of momhood and dayjob, fatherhood and business. What I think we need is a vacation. Away from home, atlanta, routines, work, school everything. Fishing. Amberjack are biting in Pensacola. How hot could it be there now--any hotter than Atlanta? I'm not sure. As long as there's a pool and the ocean, it's good by me.
And what is the payoff? I don't know anymore. Once I had hopes that what we're doing right here, right now would pay off. I still have a glimmer--part of me wonders if Shelley isn't right. If I stopped doing this, would I follow through on the other, more important things? Or does doing this give me the confidence and energy I need to do the other, more important things? No answer yet.
The payoff, the checkered flag, who's in the race, who's gonna win. Used to be when George went on the road there were gigs to be had at home when he came back. Since 9/11 and the economic blunders of our current administration, ain't nothing extra going on. Corporations have eliminated entertainment budgets; parties are a thing of the past. The production business is tougher than ever--folks are conservative with their money thanks to our daily dose of bad news.
One answer is hightail it out of here, maybe to Europe, pick up and go. Harder for me than for George, but if it had to be, I could do it. The nice thing about my online family is that I could take you with me. Matter of fact, you'd be there ahead of me. That is an amazing feeling. That confidence thing I was just talking about.
No decisions to be made yet, but so much work to do; press kits to get done for George, CDs to make, dayjob dayjob, house, house, jenna jenna jenna.
and no sleep for the weary.
July 22, 2002
to be real
dusk mountains
streaked
blue gatoraide
lightning slices
wind moon,
moon, moon
skinned faces
fried in oil
nuclear winter
fire rain
trees ignite
dead crow
children holler
open door
the old lady
on three wheels
rolls by --
looks like
fun
agony
take meds
turkey sandwich
piles of books
loss, forgiveness,
self, relate
abandon
cry don't cry
loss
never was
mother
peanuts by the door
lead me not into temptation
evil, sex, acid
drop
coffee
snow drifts
blues
writing not writing
heat, sleep, moan
ring
the colors
red black blue
white
lights
crawling clawing
to get to you
then undone
love unloved
christ
madness
escape voice
exile
heart
rage
page
247.
streaked
blue gatoraide
lightning slices
wind moon,
moon, moon
skinned faces
fried in oil
nuclear winter
fire rain
trees ignite
dead crow
children holler
open door
the old lady
on three wheels
rolls by --
looks like
fun
agony
take meds
turkey sandwich
piles of books
loss, forgiveness,
self, relate
abandon
cry don't cry
loss
never was
mother
peanuts by the door
lead me not into temptation
evil, sex, acid
drop
coffee
snow drifts
blues
writing not writing
heat, sleep, moan
ring
the colors
red black blue
white
lights
crawling clawing
to get to you
then undone
love unloved
christ
madness
escape voice
exile
heart
rage
page
247.
July 21, 2002
stresssssssss
I rested for two hours this afternoon--stretched out on the bed across four or five pillows... I love lots of pillows because it's like laying on a cloud. The "nap" was something I could do only rarely the last four months. I didn't get much rest--hardly any from April-July. But since George has been home, I have had sweet relaxation, the kind I forgot existed, the kind where you don't wake up in a panic. I drifted off thinking about how many single moms were wishing, at that very moment, that they could lay down too. Take a break. Listen to silence for just a half hour.
So many single moms, single dads never get the relief I got today, while Jenna and George worked on the computer, and I slept, pure simple uninterrupted rest, until she couldn't stand it another minute and came to find me, her hair smelling like bubble gum and baby powder, the scents of the oils daddy had put in her hair as he combed it through while I slept.
I wish I could bottle the feeling and send it to other moms who are missing their rest. I can't pretend to know what it's like to be a single parent day in and day out, but I do know what it was like for almost four months to carry the load by myself, to have my child on my own, with Dad on the other side of the world. I do know the fried patience, the wear and tear that sometimes buckles your knees as you wonder, can I do this another day? Why won't she listen to me? What happened to my kid? Who is she and who am I? Why can't I focus? Why can't I pay the bills, keep the house up? And will frozen dinners for one more night kill us? And if they did, would it be so terrible? And who's taking care of me anyway?
Showers for mom put off until after bedtime, books I'd like to read piled up with the mail; instead it's Phonics and fights over bathtime, friends I'd like to talk to who can't hear me through the wildings of a four year old who wants nothing more than my undivided attention.
I think of Halley, who posted today that she will be getting divorced, and I'm sad and sorry for her trauma, her stress, and wish I could bottle my rest today for her, for a time in the future when she will need it most.
So many single moms, single dads never get the relief I got today, while Jenna and George worked on the computer, and I slept, pure simple uninterrupted rest, until she couldn't stand it another minute and came to find me, her hair smelling like bubble gum and baby powder, the scents of the oils daddy had put in her hair as he combed it through while I slept.
I wish I could bottle the feeling and send it to other moms who are missing their rest. I can't pretend to know what it's like to be a single parent day in and day out, but I do know what it was like for almost four months to carry the load by myself, to have my child on my own, with Dad on the other side of the world. I do know the fried patience, the wear and tear that sometimes buckles your knees as you wonder, can I do this another day? Why won't she listen to me? What happened to my kid? Who is she and who am I? Why can't I focus? Why can't I pay the bills, keep the house up? And will frozen dinners for one more night kill us? And if they did, would it be so terrible? And who's taking care of me anyway?
Showers for mom put off until after bedtime, books I'd like to read piled up with the mail; instead it's Phonics and fights over bathtime, friends I'd like to talk to who can't hear me through the wildings of a four year old who wants nothing more than my undivided attention.
I think of Halley, who posted today that she will be getting divorced, and I'm sad and sorry for her trauma, her stress, and wish I could bottle my rest today for her, for a time in the future when she will need it most.
and on this odd day...
of traversing the neighborhood, looking for Shelley's missing house, I find a photo of Dane Carlson's radiant and pregnant wife among the sunflowers.
That is sweetness. Enjoy the ride, Dane.
That is sweetness. Enjoy the ride, Dane.
BurningBird, I miss you and your blogroll
I just realized how many places I used to get to through BB's blogroll. Now that it's gone, where's my jumping off point? I'm disoriented. I have to rearrange my unconscious map around Blogaria my brain, in my fingers. It'll take me some time, I think, to get used to not reading Shelley, to get used to not jumping off from her place to other places.
It's like someone erased a road from my neighborhood. The road to the familiar mom and pop grocery store where I could count on cold, fresh milk and my favorite Cheese Doodles (JAX). I knew the way, always found what I was looking for. Now the road's gone, and I'm wondering how I ever got places before I knew about that road.
Off to drive around the neighborhood for a while, find a new route to the places I go.
Damn.
It's like someone erased a road from my neighborhood. The road to the familiar mom and pop grocery store where I could count on cold, fresh milk and my favorite Cheese Doodles (JAX). I knew the way, always found what I was looking for. Now the road's gone, and I'm wondering how I ever got places before I knew about that road.
Off to drive around the neighborhood for a while, find a new route to the places I go.
Damn.
grocery shopping for dummies
Make a list that goes something like this:
bread, meat, eggs, toilet paper, lettuce, salad dressing, chicken breast, microwave popcorn, coffee, cream, soda.
Think about going to the grocery store
Find anything else to do instead
Blog
Stop blogging
Get off the fucking couch
Get car keys and purse
Walk down the steps
Get into the car
Start the car
Drive
Park in fire lane
Get out of the car and lock it
Remember you left the list at home
Say, oh fuck
Grab cart and start down the isles
Get stuck behind some lady checking the many sizes of pampers
Load cart with 1 bag of Doritos, six frozen dinners, three frozen pizzas, microwave egplant parmesean, 1/2 gallon chocolate chip ice cream, whipped cream, hot fudge, salted peanuts.
Grab a bottled water and drink it while looking for your checkbook
Toss the bottle in the garbage before checking out
Pay $44.23
Load healthfood into the car
Drive home
Carry all the bags upstairs at once
Cook til al dante and serve
enjoy!
bread, meat, eggs, toilet paper, lettuce, salad dressing, chicken breast, microwave popcorn, coffee, cream, soda.
Think about going to the grocery store
Find anything else to do instead
Blog
Stop blogging
Get off the fucking couch
Get car keys and purse
Walk down the steps
Get into the car
Start the car
Drive
Park in fire lane
Get out of the car and lock it
Remember you left the list at home
Say, oh fuck
Grab cart and start down the isles
Get stuck behind some lady checking the many sizes of pampers
Load cart with 1 bag of Doritos, six frozen dinners, three frozen pizzas, microwave egplant parmesean, 1/2 gallon chocolate chip ice cream, whipped cream, hot fudge, salted peanuts.
Grab a bottled water and drink it while looking for your checkbook
Toss the bottle in the garbage before checking out
Pay $44.23
Load healthfood into the car
Drive home
Carry all the bags upstairs at once
Cook til al dante and serve
enjoy!
July 20, 2002
and the world turns
Getting back to normal family life here, which means Jenna is getting sick, I'm pretty tired, and George is off to do the business thing and show off his hands tonight. We haven't been apart since he got back. Feels odd--to have the old routine coming back slowly, elation subsiding, replaced by something resembling comfort, though it's vaguely unsettling, because I forgot how to feel plain old comfort. The last four months have resembled something more like manic depression. Now life is going and coming. Our default. Memories are giving way to real life. Live or memorex? I'm somewhere in between.
And in the middle, Shelley Powers signed off of blogging, I hope not forever, but with her usual style, she gave evidence that was hard to argue with on why it was time to go. Still, she remains one of my blogger heroines and role models, and I hope she shows up in my comment box every once in a while, as the spirit moves her.
And in real, real life today, we bloggers have a new granbaby courtesy of Elaine's daughter--YAY!!! And I guess that means we have an Uncle Bix too. Bix, I got a copy of the free book too. Whatup? I never look a gift book in the mouth. Three free books in one day is about as good as it gets (the two Perseus blogging books and Nexus). I will be reviewing something about them soon.
Today was a day of go, come, end, start, disappear, appear, and so it goes.
And in the middle, Shelley Powers signed off of blogging, I hope not forever, but with her usual style, she gave evidence that was hard to argue with on why it was time to go. Still, she remains one of my blogger heroines and role models, and I hope she shows up in my comment box every once in a while, as the spirit moves her.
And in real, real life today, we bloggers have a new granbaby courtesy of Elaine's daughter--YAY!!! And I guess that means we have an Uncle Bix too. Bix, I got a copy of the free book too. Whatup? I never look a gift book in the mouth. Three free books in one day is about as good as it gets (the two Perseus blogging books and Nexus). I will be reviewing something about them soon.
Today was a day of go, come, end, start, disappear, appear, and so it goes.
just another friday night
We set out to Dave and Busters tonight as a family. Jenna loves the place--nothing but loud music and a thousand games, some better than what her imagination could conjur, and great prizes at the end when you turn in your cup full of tickets. For the adults, it's even better. Alcohol, smoking, and decent food--nice hot wings, pretty good salads, and did I mention drinks and smoking?
There's always a million people (give or take 999,000) running around the place, playing this game and that, and on Friday I knew it would take a team effort to get a table. George kept Jenna busy with the games while I scoped out the booths, waiting for someone to slap the tip on the table and stand up--and there I am, grabbing that red plastic booth seat before you could say daily double.
I'm feeling pretty good--it's 9:00, we just came from Mars where George had to say hello to a bass he's been eyeing for six months, and I haven't heard him play since before he left, and he tries this fretless out and I'm bowled over, because when he told me his hands were back, I didn't realize he meant all the way back, but yes, they are.
And when we're leaving (sans bass because they wouldn't meet his price) we're loading Jenna into the minivan from hell and we hear some crazy motherfucker singing across the parking lot only to find out it's Nathaniel, one of the guys George was playing with in Hong Kong, who'd just arrived back in Atlanta two weeks prior--and Nathaniel doesn't even live here; he lives in Tennessee, so you see, the thrill of watching these two guys laugh and embrace and share war stories with the look of survivors of a long fought battle, the thrill was quite nice.
So I'm sitting in the booth rethinking the night that was, rather minding my own business as I have a smart tendency to do, when this amazing looking blonde woman at the booth next to me strkes up a conversation. "I'm from Nebraska," she tells me, and she's smoking, so I figure she can't be all bad, though the makeup was kind of killing me by then--plastic perfection wears on me after like five seconds. "Oh, wow," I say. (I don't talk like I blog.)
And from there I was sucked into the whirlwind that is Sharlene, who glommed onto me I think because her boyfriend is black, and that's not the half of it.
Because over the next two hours, George and I in varying degrees and of alternating stamina, heard so much more. More than we ever wanted to know about Sharlene and Ron.
She starts crying pretty much right away, and she's in my lap--well she might as well have been--in our booth within the first half hour. She's needing some loving. She's had a hard day.
You see, this morning while Ron, who lives here, not in Idaho, went someplace--might have been church since she says he goes to church a lot and has Bibles all through his house--and Sharlene was left at his house with time on her hands. So what does she do? Gets on his computer. And what does she find? Porn. Plenty of it. And more. Guys, let this be a warning: Platinum blondes with really large breasts CAN figure out your passwords.
And when she figures them out, she finds...
conversations...
lots of them....
of her man with a woman from another state, offering to make a visit and show her, as Sharlene says, "His Big Black Cock." By now our daughter is off playing on a game with Sharlene's five year old girl (from another man, another time). I am quite literally thanking my lucky stars. George and I are wide eyed, smiling, laughing at the absurdity that's playing out across the table.
"And there were pictures," she tells us. "Lots of them! Pussy--all this pussy with stretch marks and right up in my face. I was SO angry, and hurt," and I'm pretty much stuck in the booth, and Sharlene who it now appears is pretty much wasted, is now my best friend. At once point I'm pretty sure she's grabbed my boob instead of my arm by mistake, but I'm still not completely sure, and George and I are exchanging looks like, "How do we get out of this?" since Ron is now entertaining our daughter and hers at a nearby game.
"Now I had a webcam, sure," she tells us. George's eyes perk up. "But that was BEFORE I met Ron. I can't have my daughter exposed to all this--I can't trust him; he says he's going up there to stick his-----(you get it)----into her, and what, now I'm supposed to believe him when he tells me it's just 'entertainment.'?"
George and I have a code phrase now. It's "A-B"
[CONTINUED HERE.]
There's always a million people (give or take 999,000) running around the place, playing this game and that, and on Friday I knew it would take a team effort to get a table. George kept Jenna busy with the games while I scoped out the booths, waiting for someone to slap the tip on the table and stand up--and there I am, grabbing that red plastic booth seat before you could say daily double.
I'm feeling pretty good--it's 9:00, we just came from Mars where George had to say hello to a bass he's been eyeing for six months, and I haven't heard him play since before he left, and he tries this fretless out and I'm bowled over, because when he told me his hands were back, I didn't realize he meant all the way back, but yes, they are.
And when we're leaving (sans bass because they wouldn't meet his price) we're loading Jenna into the minivan from hell and we hear some crazy motherfucker singing across the parking lot only to find out it's Nathaniel, one of the guys George was playing with in Hong Kong, who'd just arrived back in Atlanta two weeks prior--and Nathaniel doesn't even live here; he lives in Tennessee, so you see, the thrill of watching these two guys laugh and embrace and share war stories with the look of survivors of a long fought battle, the thrill was quite nice.
So I'm sitting in the booth rethinking the night that was, rather minding my own business as I have a smart tendency to do, when this amazing looking blonde woman at the booth next to me strkes up a conversation. "I'm from Nebraska," she tells me, and she's smoking, so I figure she can't be all bad, though the makeup was kind of killing me by then--plastic perfection wears on me after like five seconds. "Oh, wow," I say. (I don't talk like I blog.)
And from there I was sucked into the whirlwind that is Sharlene, who glommed onto me I think because her boyfriend is black, and that's not the half of it.
Because over the next two hours, George and I in varying degrees and of alternating stamina, heard so much more. More than we ever wanted to know about Sharlene and Ron.
She starts crying pretty much right away, and she's in my lap--well she might as well have been--in our booth within the first half hour. She's needing some loving. She's had a hard day.
You see, this morning while Ron, who lives here, not in Idaho, went someplace--might have been church since she says he goes to church a lot and has Bibles all through his house--and Sharlene was left at his house with time on her hands. So what does she do? Gets on his computer. And what does she find? Porn. Plenty of it. And more. Guys, let this be a warning: Platinum blondes with really large breasts CAN figure out your passwords.
And when she figures them out, she finds...
conversations...
lots of them....
of her man with a woman from another state, offering to make a visit and show her, as Sharlene says, "His Big Black Cock." By now our daughter is off playing on a game with Sharlene's five year old girl (from another man, another time). I am quite literally thanking my lucky stars. George and I are wide eyed, smiling, laughing at the absurdity that's playing out across the table.
"And there were pictures," she tells us. "Lots of them! Pussy--all this pussy with stretch marks and right up in my face. I was SO angry, and hurt," and I'm pretty much stuck in the booth, and Sharlene who it now appears is pretty much wasted, is now my best friend. At once point I'm pretty sure she's grabbed my boob instead of my arm by mistake, but I'm still not completely sure, and George and I are exchanging looks like, "How do we get out of this?" since Ron is now entertaining our daughter and hers at a nearby game.
"Now I had a webcam, sure," she tells us. George's eyes perk up. "But that was BEFORE I met Ron. I can't have my daughter exposed to all this--I can't trust him; he says he's going up there to stick his-----(you get it)----into her, and what, now I'm supposed to believe him when he tells me it's just 'entertainment.'?"
George and I have a code phrase now. It's "A-B"
[CONTINUED HERE.]
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