I always knew this day would come
and knew that I would know what I had never
known before about fighting to survive.
I recognize the reason I don't write here or anywhere.
My journal sits beneath the bedside table, unwritten
in for many months. I know I would not be able to write
nor speak of my station in life at this point. I realize
now how much I let myself be completely self-absorbed.
How much I needed someone to hear me, read me, want
to know me. I am too tired now. My life is filled with
so many conflicting emotions. I don't like where I am
with me. I actually prefer the days when I rose above
me in all of my narcissitic and egoistic leanings. Oh, oh!
To have them now could probably make all of the difference!
Not boring, my life. But I write things about what I cook
and what I wear and what I do to the house. Oh!
Dirty ashtrays. Glasses filled with liquor on the porch. Left
for days. Soured laundry. Swollen eyes. Rough and calloused
feet. Wild, untamed and unmanageable hair. The sinking. the
giving up. I don't like it. I wish I was a wild woman baying.
A wild woman truthful. I could sleep better and eat better
and let my heart know peace. In all of its troubledness, it would
know peace.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Rounding A Curve
They look like knees, these two
stones at the foot of the hill. I brake, even
though I know what they are, afraid
I may bruise or break one of them.
Molly does not know my hesitation,
with all its limitations. She is focused
on the run through the stones,
over the graves, around the crypts.
To be a dog and not care, I think,
as I park the car on the shoulder,
realize I don't even look to see
whose name is etched in stone,
whose shoulders lie beneath the clean
mown lawn, to question whether they
ever touched another's shoulders, arms,
torso, whether they knew love or not,
whether anyone remembers who they
were, their mother long since gone, a father,
perhaps, gone as well. I don't even stop
to read the names any longer--the Lula's,
the Falcon's, the Lesbia's, the Williams.
I wonder what has happened to my wonder,
if this landscape has become family to me, part
of my every day, the easy chair in the living
room, the cheap plastic chair under the carport,
the tarnished abalone shell on the porch filling
with ashes and ashes and ashes, wonder gone
to dust, life's pull the drag from the lips on a
cigarette smoked in the dark, knees crossed
on a swing whose motion relies on me.
They look like knees, these two
stones at the foot of the hill. I brake, even
though I know what they are, afraid
I may bruise or break one of them.
Molly does not know my hesitation,
with all its limitations. She is focused
on the run through the stones,
over the graves, around the crypts.
To be a dog and not care, I think,
as I park the car on the shoulder,
realize I don't even look to see
whose name is etched in stone,
whose shoulders lie beneath the clean
mown lawn, to question whether they
ever touched another's shoulders, arms,
torso, whether they knew love or not,
whether anyone remembers who they
were, their mother long since gone, a father,
perhaps, gone as well. I don't even stop
to read the names any longer--the Lula's,
the Falcon's, the Lesbia's, the Williams.
I wonder what has happened to my wonder,
if this landscape has become family to me, part
of my every day, the easy chair in the living
room, the cheap plastic chair under the carport,
the tarnished abalone shell on the porch filling
with ashes and ashes and ashes, wonder gone
to dust, life's pull the drag from the lips on a
cigarette smoked in the dark, knees crossed
on a swing whose motion relies on me.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
I know
that no one can help me through this. I get through
it all or die. I see how death takes those whose hearts
are so broken, whose worlds are turned upside
down, who feel they have no purpose left.
Being melodramatic, but I am distraught and sad beyond
expectation or necessity or an acceptable level. It's, perhaps,
another way I sabotage me.
I ran over my 11 1/2 yr old cat two days ago. Just after burying
him and returning to work (as if I could work), I got a call that
my son, daughter-in-law and grandson were in a car accident
in Evansville (about an hour from here). They are going to be
fine, thank god. The car is totaled, son has a broken collar bone,
son and daughter in law both hurting and bruised, my darling little
Isaac is just fine.
But I can't not hear that thump under the wheel, see him running
herky jerky int the neighbor's yard, watch him take his last breath.
I can't get that outof my head. I can't stand to go to the door and
not find him there, waiting to come in to talk to me a bit and have
a bite to eat. I am so heartbroken.
Youngest is now off to school. The house is so quiet. Husband is
going to be gone for 11 days. Could not come at a worse time.
I need some help. I just don't know what kind of help.
that no one can help me through this. I get through
it all or die. I see how death takes those whose hearts
are so broken, whose worlds are turned upside
down, who feel they have no purpose left.
Being melodramatic, but I am distraught and sad beyond
expectation or necessity or an acceptable level. It's, perhaps,
another way I sabotage me.
I ran over my 11 1/2 yr old cat two days ago. Just after burying
him and returning to work (as if I could work), I got a call that
my son, daughter-in-law and grandson were in a car accident
in Evansville (about an hour from here). They are going to be
fine, thank god. The car is totaled, son has a broken collar bone,
son and daughter in law both hurting and bruised, my darling little
Isaac is just fine.
But I can't not hear that thump under the wheel, see him running
herky jerky int the neighbor's yard, watch him take his last breath.
I can't get that outof my head. I can't stand to go to the door and
not find him there, waiting to come in to talk to me a bit and have
a bite to eat. I am so heartbroken.
Youngest is now off to school. The house is so quiet. Husband is
going to be gone for 11 days. Could not come at a worse time.
I need some help. I just don't know what kind of help.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
We Didn't Bury A Bowl
He didn't have a toy any longer,
and he shared a bowl with the love
of his life, so I could not put that
in the ground with him. So I wrote
him a note, triple-sealed in baggies.
I thanked him for the smiles, laughs,
frustration, worry, and the share
of yuck value he gave me on any given
day, when he was young and the hunt
was the mission. I said I knew he understood
I did not see him there under the carport
in the shade. It was not a place he ever slept.
He was predictable to a fault, I thought,
but chose not to write. I told him I would
need to work hard to forget this day. The
thump beneath the wheels (I did not write
that to him--he knew the feel), the frantic
drive to the vet, my neighbor cradling him
in his arms, his mouth opening wide for air
he could not get. Oh my dear, dear Old Boy.
I have a shepherd's hook in the yard. One which
has not held a plant in some time. I went to
the store today and found a cat wind chime
and hung it from the post, which I took from
its unused and useless place and placed them
both on your grave.
I will miss you.
The scratch at the door, the fights with Molly,
your strange, and oftentimes pained yowl, your love
for me and for every human who came in this house.
And I will take care of your girl, who is missing
you this night, who searches the back door
hoping beyond hope that y0u will lift yourself
off all fours and bring claws to glass--your love call,
your letting us know every day you were still here.
He didn't have a toy any longer,
and he shared a bowl with the love
of his life, so I could not put that
in the ground with him. So I wrote
him a note, triple-sealed in baggies.
I thanked him for the smiles, laughs,
frustration, worry, and the share
of yuck value he gave me on any given
day, when he was young and the hunt
was the mission. I said I knew he understood
I did not see him there under the carport
in the shade. It was not a place he ever slept.
He was predictable to a fault, I thought,
but chose not to write. I told him I would
need to work hard to forget this day. The
thump beneath the wheels (I did not write
that to him--he knew the feel), the frantic
drive to the vet, my neighbor cradling him
in his arms, his mouth opening wide for air
he could not get. Oh my dear, dear Old Boy.
I have a shepherd's hook in the yard. One which
has not held a plant in some time. I went to
the store today and found a cat wind chime
and hung it from the post, which I took from
its unused and useless place and placed them
both on your grave.
I will miss you.
The scratch at the door, the fights with Molly,
your strange, and oftentimes pained yowl, your love
for me and for every human who came in this house.
And I will take care of your girl, who is missing
you this night, who searches the back door
hoping beyond hope that y0u will lift yourself
off all fours and bring claws to glass--your love call,
your letting us know every day you were still here.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Leavening
I listen to the sounds coming from my son's
room. A man's voice, acoustic guitar, words
that match the light rain falling. His door is
closed. He packs his things in anticipation.
I won't knock on the door, won't interrupt
the busyness involved in leaving, won't take
from him these minutes he needs. I need them
too. I am most keenly aware that, one night,
shortly after he's moved on, I may go into his
room and hook up a boom box, try to figure out
who he was listening to, try to reproduce this
night as if it were all that easy to do. He comes
out and tells me what a job it is to unload, let
go of all the things he's held onto for years.
We laugh. I say I understand. And I do.
The tension rises like the leavened dough
in the warm oven, covered there waiting
for my touch. And I will touch and knead
and wet the softness with my own pain
as he packs and nears his time to rise.
I listen to the sounds coming from my son's
room. A man's voice, acoustic guitar, words
that match the light rain falling. His door is
closed. He packs his things in anticipation.
I won't knock on the door, won't interrupt
the busyness involved in leaving, won't take
from him these minutes he needs. I need them
too. I am most keenly aware that, one night,
shortly after he's moved on, I may go into his
room and hook up a boom box, try to figure out
who he was listening to, try to reproduce this
night as if it were all that easy to do. He comes
out and tells me what a job it is to unload, let
go of all the things he's held onto for years.
We laugh. I say I understand. And I do.
The tension rises like the leavened dough
in the warm oven, covered there waiting
for my touch. And I will touch and knead
and wet the softness with my own pain
as he packs and nears his time to rise.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Really Should Refrain
...from posting while intoxicated. Ruinous.
Disastrous (as evidenced by the post beneath this one).
*
It's strange today. The house is far too quiet. The only
sound the keys responding to my touch. A. is gone.
Her plane should have landed 1/2 hour ago. It's been
such an intense summer with her. Her mother thinks
I am relieved that she is gone. Unburdened. Her mother
can't know what I know and have seen all summer.
Her mother doesn't mean anything negative when she
says things like, "I know you're ready for her to go. I know
you must be under a great deal of pressure."
And I have been under a great deal of pressure, and A. and I
have been around one another every day (except for 3 days
in July) since 6/03. I miss her and will miss her. I have to
believe she is well enough now to move on. Her meds are
working, but now depression is rearing its ugly head. That's
generally how it goes. Get rid of the mania and psychosis,
and there's good old depression waiting to take you down.
I know she can do this. I know she can finish college, make new
friends, hold down a job, engage in intelligent conversations,
make sound decisions. I also know she is still vulnerable
and unsure.
Wes is gone today, too. Matter of fact, I was all alone last
night. It's a good thing some friends came over, and then
I went to J's house and stayed until 3 or so this morning.
I have had a child at home since 1978. This is going to be a huge
adjustment for me.
*
I am working on getting Dorianne Laux here to read in the fall.
I've contacted her and contacted the assistant professor at the
community college. I am hopeful it all works out. I would so
love to hear her read and to spend some time with her.
*
Need to get back outside and work, but it's 93 and humid, so
I think I'll wait until it cools down a little. I mowed this afternoon,
but I still need to weed the back gardens and plant some things.
Bout some heather, lantana, sedum, and coneflowers for one
of the side gardens. I must get them planted today, but I need
to lie down for a little while. Blood sugar's dropping or something.
Too much liquor last night!
...from posting while intoxicated. Ruinous.
Disastrous (as evidenced by the post beneath this one).
*
It's strange today. The house is far too quiet. The only
sound the keys responding to my touch. A. is gone.
Her plane should have landed 1/2 hour ago. It's been
such an intense summer with her. Her mother thinks
I am relieved that she is gone. Unburdened. Her mother
can't know what I know and have seen all summer.
Her mother doesn't mean anything negative when she
says things like, "I know you're ready for her to go. I know
you must be under a great deal of pressure."
And I have been under a great deal of pressure, and A. and I
have been around one another every day (except for 3 days
in July) since 6/03. I miss her and will miss her. I have to
believe she is well enough now to move on. Her meds are
working, but now depression is rearing its ugly head. That's
generally how it goes. Get rid of the mania and psychosis,
and there's good old depression waiting to take you down.
I know she can do this. I know she can finish college, make new
friends, hold down a job, engage in intelligent conversations,
make sound decisions. I also know she is still vulnerable
and unsure.
Wes is gone today, too. Matter of fact, I was all alone last
night. It's a good thing some friends came over, and then
I went to J's house and stayed until 3 or so this morning.
I have had a child at home since 1978. This is going to be a huge
adjustment for me.
*
I am working on getting Dorianne Laux here to read in the fall.
I've contacted her and contacted the assistant professor at the
community college. I am hopeful it all works out. I would so
love to hear her read and to spend some time with her.
*
Need to get back outside and work, but it's 93 and humid, so
I think I'll wait until it cools down a little. I mowed this afternoon,
but I still need to weed the back gardens and plant some things.
Bout some heather, lantana, sedum, and coneflowers for one
of the side gardens. I must get them planted today, but I need
to lie down for a little while. Blood sugar's dropping or something.
Too much liquor last night!
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Eating Taco Salad (loosely based on Cohen's Famous Blue Raincoat)
its 2 in the morning
the middle of july
i'm writing you now
just to pretend to ask why
i'm eating my taco, spreading
the lettuce, wanting to say
that i know why you let us
drift on
to that place
in the nether
you're living for everyting now
i hope you're keeping some kind
of journal
and she came by with a smile
and a bod, you all balding and fat,
still enough to attract
send her my regards
Ha ha
its 2 in the morning
the middle of july
i'm writing you now
just to pretend to ask why
i'm eating my taco, spreading
the lettuce, wanting to say
that i know why you let us
drift on
to that place
in the nether
you're living for everyting now
i hope you're keeping some kind
of journal
and she came by with a smile
and a bod, you all balding and fat,
still enough to attract
send her my regards
Ha ha
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Trying to go to bed
She throws a pad away in the bathroom
garbage and forgets to close the door.
I only know this when I pull the sheets
back to go to bed. The dog has dragged
her pain into my life, once again.
Banish dog to crate. Self-talk about what needs
to be said. Make an effort at 1 a.m. to lie
down. Question tomorrow: (which is today):
train new coworker, enter data, empower
client, empower family, wait for son to return
from concert, think about last night's dreams.
Who lies down easily? Who sleeps through the
night? How and what.
My ankle turns easily to the right as I think.
She throws a pad away in the bathroom
garbage and forgets to close the door.
I only know this when I pull the sheets
back to go to bed. The dog has dragged
her pain into my life, once again.
Banish dog to crate. Self-talk about what needs
to be said. Make an effort at 1 a.m. to lie
down. Question tomorrow: (which is today):
train new coworker, enter data, empower
client, empower family, wait for son to return
from concert, think about last night's dreams.
Who lies down easily? Who sleeps through the
night? How and what.
My ankle turns easily to the right as I think.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Yesterday morning
I woke up remembering a kiss. Remembering
what it felt like to lose yourself in a kiss. Remembering
how just that one kiss changed my entire life.
A few days ago, a mourning dove was standing
in the middle of 41 A. Birds do that sometimes. Birds
other than scavengers. She was standing there, slowly
walking in that herky-jerky way birds walk, to the
southern shoulder of the road. I thought she would
just fly over me, but she flew right into the grill of my
car. Feathers rained over me for a few miles. I drove
to Kroger but refused to look at the front of my car.
Then I drove to the liquor store where this most
beautiful young man works. He reminds me of a
young Bob Dylan. The hair, the nose (though his is
a much nicer nose than Dylan's and his hair is light
brown). He's taller though. He's gentle and seems
somewhat delicate, he laughs easily, he listens intently,
he appears to be genuinely interested in what I have
to say. He asks me questions about how to cook
certain dishes, what music I listen to, who I like to
read. He tells me he's grilling portabellas and wants
to know what wine would go well with that. He tells
me he and his girl go kayaking. He has this bemused
look at times. His arms are muscular, his body lean.
He is one of the few people I look forward to seeing
every week, though he's soon to be gone. Almost
out of school. On to bigger things. I don't even
know his name.
The young man at the liquor store walked out with me
and pulled the bird's nearly intact body from the grill. He
then reached in with his fingers and removed bloody
bird parts. The whole scene made me love him more,
this young man. If I was twenty five years younger
and single, I'd most likely have kissed him that way.
The way that kiss was so many years ago. That kiss.
Yes. The one which changes everything. Never been
kissed like that since. Though I have kissed through
many years of my life.
I felt old and sad and confused when she flew into the grill.
I think she killed herself. Maybe her partner had been killed.
Maybe she was sick and needed to be released. Maybe I am
to feel blessed that she chose me, and that I, in turn, chose him
to touch her still nearly perfect body.
I wonder some days if I shall ever be able to feel passion
the way I once did. I wonder some days if it wasn't to my
advantage to live with mania. It drove me. It kept me
on the edge. It kept me wondering. I am just simply tired
all of the time now. Not much room for passion. Real
life is intense but devoid of passion.
Had to hospitalize A. Mother-in-law broke her arm and
was hospitalized for 5 days. Trying to help her out, too.
A. was discharged Monday, so I brought her home after
I got off work. She's gone for the weekend, and I hoped
that would help her and help me, but there was to be no
R&R for me. J. calls telling me that A. calls her telling her
things which are red flags for J. I lost it. I said Why don't
you call L. and ask her what the hell is up? Intense. The
intensity is sucking the life outta me.
It's been raining throughout the night and morning.
Not raining now. Perfect weather for weeding. I need
to weed. I need weed. Weeds. I need to feel them
reluctantly untether themselves from the earth as I pull
them out. I need to feel their resilience.
Sometimes I get this idea that each time I pull a weed,
it laughs. It knows. I can come out year after year after
year and pull away, but I'm never going to win. There is
something in that losing which is healing and uplifting
to me.
I woke up remembering a kiss. Remembering
what it felt like to lose yourself in a kiss. Remembering
how just that one kiss changed my entire life.
A few days ago, a mourning dove was standing
in the middle of 41 A. Birds do that sometimes. Birds
other than scavengers. She was standing there, slowly
walking in that herky-jerky way birds walk, to the
southern shoulder of the road. I thought she would
just fly over me, but she flew right into the grill of my
car. Feathers rained over me for a few miles. I drove
to Kroger but refused to look at the front of my car.
Then I drove to the liquor store where this most
beautiful young man works. He reminds me of a
young Bob Dylan. The hair, the nose (though his is
a much nicer nose than Dylan's and his hair is light
brown). He's taller though. He's gentle and seems
somewhat delicate, he laughs easily, he listens intently,
he appears to be genuinely interested in what I have
to say. He asks me questions about how to cook
certain dishes, what music I listen to, who I like to
read. He tells me he's grilling portabellas and wants
to know what wine would go well with that. He tells
me he and his girl go kayaking. He has this bemused
look at times. His arms are muscular, his body lean.
He is one of the few people I look forward to seeing
every week, though he's soon to be gone. Almost
out of school. On to bigger things. I don't even
know his name.
The young man at the liquor store walked out with me
and pulled the bird's nearly intact body from the grill. He
then reached in with his fingers and removed bloody
bird parts. The whole scene made me love him more,
this young man. If I was twenty five years younger
and single, I'd most likely have kissed him that way.
The way that kiss was so many years ago. That kiss.
Yes. The one which changes everything. Never been
kissed like that since. Though I have kissed through
many years of my life.
I felt old and sad and confused when she flew into the grill.
I think she killed herself. Maybe her partner had been killed.
Maybe she was sick and needed to be released. Maybe I am
to feel blessed that she chose me, and that I, in turn, chose him
to touch her still nearly perfect body.
I wonder some days if I shall ever be able to feel passion
the way I once did. I wonder some days if it wasn't to my
advantage to live with mania. It drove me. It kept me
on the edge. It kept me wondering. I am just simply tired
all of the time now. Not much room for passion. Real
life is intense but devoid of passion.
Had to hospitalize A. Mother-in-law broke her arm and
was hospitalized for 5 days. Trying to help her out, too.
A. was discharged Monday, so I brought her home after
I got off work. She's gone for the weekend, and I hoped
that would help her and help me, but there was to be no
R&R for me. J. calls telling me that A. calls her telling her
things which are red flags for J. I lost it. I said Why don't
you call L. and ask her what the hell is up? Intense. The
intensity is sucking the life outta me.
It's been raining throughout the night and morning.
Not raining now. Perfect weather for weeding. I need
to weed. I need weed. Weeds. I need to feel them
reluctantly untether themselves from the earth as I pull
them out. I need to feel their resilience.
Sometimes I get this idea that each time I pull a weed,
it laughs. It knows. I can come out year after year after
year and pull away, but I'm never going to win. There is
something in that losing which is healing and uplifting
to me.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
To Do
brush teeth
wash face
do dishes
mop kitchen floor
do laundry
mow yard
plant the speedwell before it dies
shower
cook
do it all over again
and again
again
May just lie in bed and read--too hot to do anything outside.
It was 95 yesterday with a 105 heat index.
Let's see--lots of stress this week. A. is up and down.
I don't want to be making any kind of diagnosis, but
she is going through some definite rapid-cycling.
I can't think this would still be from the drug.
I love her and want her here, but she and Wes are not
getting along and she really doesn't like Molly at all!
Every time Molly barks, A. looks like she's going
to jump out of her skin. I think she's making Molly
a nervous wreck. Molly's definitely not behaving
like herself (not eating her breakfast 1/2 the time,
looking mopey). But what can I do? I am trying hard
to be here for everyone, but I'm getting stretched
rather thin. Thank goodness for the good days and
moments when things are on an even keel and we're
just quietly all hanging out together or we're playing
a game or having a nice meal.
Speaking of having a nice meal, something weird is
going on with me. I f****ing don't even want to cook
anymore. I was so digging creating new dishes or
finding old favorites in the recipe books or reading
new recipes and trying them. My shelves are lined
with recipe books, but my heart isn't in it. Matter of
fact, I don't even want to eat many days. Eat I do
though, and drink. Mostly drink lots at night and just
let the liquor take me away. I did teach A. how to
make tortellini soup last night. It was good, and she's
thrilled to know how to make it. Tonight something
very basic like a ginger-glazed chicken, some fresh
corn, broccoli, herbed new potatoes, but I could really
care less.
Sister lost her house. F***ing Obama plan is nothing
but hype. Any reader of this tripe who so chooses should
go review the website and read some of the testimonials.
Here's one that really gets me:
http://makinghomeaffordable.gov/example_modification.html
The chick in the example brings in $4,200.00 a month. Holy
crap! And she can't make ends meet on that? That's ludicrous!
It appears this is another one of those plans for people with money
who live beyond their means. I know my sister has worked
hard all of her life, not lived beyond her means, currently works
2-3 jobs to make sure she can pay her bills, but is she going
to get any help? Nope. She lost her job in Nov. and is now bringing
in only about 1/3 of what she once brought home, but can't they
work with her for five years to give her time to hopefully find
a better job or for the market to improve so she can sell the house
and actually have some money left after paying off the loan,
or enough time to find a better job and be able to continue to keep
her house.
But, it's a done deal. They (the infamous they) said no.
So, I have to figure out when I can get to Fl to help her
transport her art here. Most likely, she will rent a U-Haul
there and bring the work here and I'll take her back.
Much to consider.
Time to go brush my teeth. Crashed last night without doing
that and they feel really gross. Yuck.
brush teeth
wash face
do dishes
mop kitchen floor
do laundry
mow yard
plant the speedwell before it dies
shower
cook
do it all over again
and again
again
May just lie in bed and read--too hot to do anything outside.
It was 95 yesterday with a 105 heat index.
Let's see--lots of stress this week. A. is up and down.
I don't want to be making any kind of diagnosis, but
she is going through some definite rapid-cycling.
I can't think this would still be from the drug.
I love her and want her here, but she and Wes are not
getting along and she really doesn't like Molly at all!
Every time Molly barks, A. looks like she's going
to jump out of her skin. I think she's making Molly
a nervous wreck. Molly's definitely not behaving
like herself (not eating her breakfast 1/2 the time,
looking mopey). But what can I do? I am trying hard
to be here for everyone, but I'm getting stretched
rather thin. Thank goodness for the good days and
moments when things are on an even keel and we're
just quietly all hanging out together or we're playing
a game or having a nice meal.
Speaking of having a nice meal, something weird is
going on with me. I f****ing don't even want to cook
anymore. I was so digging creating new dishes or
finding old favorites in the recipe books or reading
new recipes and trying them. My shelves are lined
with recipe books, but my heart isn't in it. Matter of
fact, I don't even want to eat many days. Eat I do
though, and drink. Mostly drink lots at night and just
let the liquor take me away. I did teach A. how to
make tortellini soup last night. It was good, and she's
thrilled to know how to make it. Tonight something
very basic like a ginger-glazed chicken, some fresh
corn, broccoli, herbed new potatoes, but I could really
care less.
Sister lost her house. F***ing Obama plan is nothing
but hype. Any reader of this tripe who so chooses should
go review the website and read some of the testimonials.
Here's one that really gets me:
http://makinghomeaffordable.gov/example_modification.html
The chick in the example brings in $4,200.00 a month. Holy
crap! And she can't make ends meet on that? That's ludicrous!
It appears this is another one of those plans for people with money
who live beyond their means. I know my sister has worked
hard all of her life, not lived beyond her means, currently works
2-3 jobs to make sure she can pay her bills, but is she going
to get any help? Nope. She lost her job in Nov. and is now bringing
in only about 1/3 of what she once brought home, but can't they
work with her for five years to give her time to hopefully find
a better job or for the market to improve so she can sell the house
and actually have some money left after paying off the loan,
or enough time to find a better job and be able to continue to keep
her house.
But, it's a done deal. They (the infamous they) said no.
So, I have to figure out when I can get to Fl to help her
transport her art here. Most likely, she will rent a U-Haul
there and bring the work here and I'll take her back.
Much to consider.
Time to go brush my teeth. Crashed last night without doing
that and they feel really gross. Yuck.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Purpose
In the last week, two or three of my clients
told me during their initial assessment that they
just feel there is no purpose to their lives.
One of them is in her mid 40s--the others in their
50s. All presented with anhedonia and dysphoria,
all had suffered losses in the last 2-3 years, all had
grown children, each expressed a prior interest
in a variety fo things--gardening, art, reading--
which no longer exists. For as dysphoric as each
of them was, it gives me hope to know they reached
out for help.
So, I am thinking about purpose. What is my purpose?
Does it matter? How much? Will I be one of those
people who thinks I can never be the person I want
to be, who thinks of myself in utilitarian terms, who
lives the rest of my life on the outside looking in?
I don't know. It goes back to the old question:
What do you want to be when you grow up?
The question was not What do you want to do?
Be. Key word.
Today, I "be" lazing. Slept until 10:30. Eating a
light breakfast. Going to have lunch later with a
friend. Then I need to clean this mess up.
Email from Lauren. She was sick all night with severe
vomitting and diarrhea. That's bad enough when you're
in your own home, but when you're in Costa Rica in a
hostel room you're sharing with your boyfriend and
brother, that's real bad! She says she feels better
this morning. I sure hope the worst of it has passed.
In the last week, two or three of my clients
told me during their initial assessment that they
just feel there is no purpose to their lives.
One of them is in her mid 40s--the others in their
50s. All presented with anhedonia and dysphoria,
all had suffered losses in the last 2-3 years, all had
grown children, each expressed a prior interest
in a variety fo things--gardening, art, reading--
which no longer exists. For as dysphoric as each
of them was, it gives me hope to know they reached
out for help.
So, I am thinking about purpose. What is my purpose?
Does it matter? How much? Will I be one of those
people who thinks I can never be the person I want
to be, who thinks of myself in utilitarian terms, who
lives the rest of my life on the outside looking in?
I don't know. It goes back to the old question:
What do you want to be when you grow up?
The question was not What do you want to do?
Be. Key word.
Today, I "be" lazing. Slept until 10:30. Eating a
light breakfast. Going to have lunch later with a
friend. Then I need to clean this mess up.
Email from Lauren. She was sick all night with severe
vomitting and diarrhea. That's bad enough when you're
in your own home, but when you're in Costa Rica in a
hostel room you're sharing with your boyfriend and
brother, that's real bad! She says she feels better
this morning. I sure hope the worst of it has passed.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Some Rain
Much needed. For months, we had nothing but rain,
but now, when I really need it (just planted some new
flowers), it clouds up, thunders, and lightnings but only
produces a scant amount of precipitation.
Eating a turkey sandwich for breakfast. Turkey and some
Laughing Cow 50% less fat swiss cheese on whole wheat.
If I eat yogurt or cereal, I'm hungry again in about 2 hours,
but I don't get hungry if I eat a sandwich or leftovers
for breakfast.
Missing my son and will be glad when he gets back to the
country. Of course, I miss my daughter, too, but she does
not live here. It is going to be a huge adjustment for me
when Wes leaves. I've been a mom with children at home
since 1978. I would bring Isaac here if I didn't have to
put up Molly, but unfortunately, Molly still jumps on
people. Very annoying. I work hard with her, but my
husband doesn't, so there is no consistency in the training.
She is not going to stop until he does what I ask of him:
ignore her when you come in the door. Don't look at her,
don't pet her, don't speak to her, turn your back on her.
When she is calmer, then acknowledge her. Not the way
it works. So my grandson can't come over here. I go visit
him at his house. Need to go soon--haven't seen him in a
few weeks and I am missing him! Been busy with travel
and A. at the house. She's doing better each day, and I love
her company. We've always been close, and I'm glad she knew
she could come here.
Woke earlier than usual this morning. Maybe I'll actually
get to work on time!
Much needed. For months, we had nothing but rain,
but now, when I really need it (just planted some new
flowers), it clouds up, thunders, and lightnings but only
produces a scant amount of precipitation.
Eating a turkey sandwich for breakfast. Turkey and some
Laughing Cow 50% less fat swiss cheese on whole wheat.
If I eat yogurt or cereal, I'm hungry again in about 2 hours,
but I don't get hungry if I eat a sandwich or leftovers
for breakfast.
Missing my son and will be glad when he gets back to the
country. Of course, I miss my daughter, too, but she does
not live here. It is going to be a huge adjustment for me
when Wes leaves. I've been a mom with children at home
since 1978. I would bring Isaac here if I didn't have to
put up Molly, but unfortunately, Molly still jumps on
people. Very annoying. I work hard with her, but my
husband doesn't, so there is no consistency in the training.
She is not going to stop until he does what I ask of him:
ignore her when you come in the door. Don't look at her,
don't pet her, don't speak to her, turn your back on her.
When she is calmer, then acknowledge her. Not the way
it works. So my grandson can't come over here. I go visit
him at his house. Need to go soon--haven't seen him in a
few weeks and I am missing him! Been busy with travel
and A. at the house. She's doing better each day, and I love
her company. We've always been close, and I'm glad she knew
she could come here.
Woke earlier than usual this morning. Maybe I'll actually
get to work on time!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Reflections
I posted Reflections of My Life on my other blog.
The one I can't write on any longer. At least not
for now. I'll let the music speak for me.
I am making stuffed peppers. It is sunny. I planted
flowers yesterday. My heart has been skipping beats
all day. I was dreaming vividly this morning when
the alarm went off. I needed to stay in that dream,
but life was calling. I took Molly for a walk. I worked
1/2 of the day in Hopkinsville. I am getting more grey
hair. I am trying to hang with it. Hang with it.
The kids are enjoying Panama and will be heading back
to Costa Rica tomorrow. They did not enjoy their hostel
stay last night--too hot.
A. is doing better each day. Don't know yet about B. Won't
know for another week the results of her tests.
My mom is not feeling well. She will be 73 in Oct. I should
go see her more often. I have a hard time being with her.
It gets confusing.
I am ok. For this moment, and that is enough.
I posted Reflections of My Life on my other blog.
The one I can't write on any longer. At least not
for now. I'll let the music speak for me.
I am making stuffed peppers. It is sunny. I planted
flowers yesterday. My heart has been skipping beats
all day. I was dreaming vividly this morning when
the alarm went off. I needed to stay in that dream,
but life was calling. I took Molly for a walk. I worked
1/2 of the day in Hopkinsville. I am getting more grey
hair. I am trying to hang with it. Hang with it.
The kids are enjoying Panama and will be heading back
to Costa Rica tomorrow. They did not enjoy their hostel
stay last night--too hot.
A. is doing better each day. Don't know yet about B. Won't
know for another week the results of her tests.
My mom is not feeling well. She will be 73 in Oct. I should
go see her more often. I have a hard time being with her.
It gets confusing.
I am ok. For this moment, and that is enough.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Sleep
I get so little. I woke in the night (around
3) feeling very anxious. Been a long time since
I felt the need to take a Xanax in the middle of
the night, but I did, and I fell back asleep and did
not get up until 10:30. I feel I could go right back
to sleep now--only an hour since rising from the bed,
starting the coffee, taking Molly out, feeding her,
making myself some breakfast, and reading over
the Obama plan for affordable housing (sister is
about to lose her house--hopeful that won't happen).
A. is doing much better. I see improvement every
day. I think she has been overwhelmed and at her
breaking point for some time, and I think she
recognizes some triggers now which she did not
recognize before.
The kids are in Panama today. They are supposed
to go to the beach and through the canal and a few
other things. They will stay one more night and then
head back to Costa Rica.
J got married yesterday. She sent a text at 12:12 the
night before letting all of us (coworkers) know. We
suspected but she was being very secretive. I am happy
for her. I am happy when I am around or see two people
who really love one another. What an amazing part of life
loving another is, and if you have a person with you each day
until the end of your days and the love remains, what more
could you have asked for in this life? That was the first
wedding I had attended in several years. Just her son,
her dad and stepmom, her aunt & uncle, her brothers,
and three coworkers. They were just going to have their
witnesses present, but she changed her mind and had the
family there, and the night before, she told us. I am glad
I attended. Made me feel hopeful for the day.
Of course, there is the love of your children--a love no other
love is like, but children grow up and leave their parents,
as they should. So if the relationship between the parents
is tenuous and based largely on staying together for the
children, I would think it would be very difficult to keep
that relationship afloat.
Yesterday was simply beautiful outside. The kind of day
to take a picnic, a long hike, go to the park, go to the lake,
work in the yard, take a long walk. But I did none of those
things.
I was driving home from the recycling center and had to
make a detour because part of downtown was blocked
off for a soap box derby. As I turned left , I saw a father
(I assume), helping his daughter get into her soap box.
I noticed other participants bringing their cars to the
starting line. I could hear laughter, and see people smiling,
helping their kids, enjoying one small moment in the many
which make up our lifetimes. It made me feel sad.
It made me feel that I was wasting my day. It made me
long for those days when my children were younger
and we spent time doing things together. Sometimes I
feel so empty. I feel all of the joy in my life has gone away
to play somewhere else and might not ever revisit me.
Last night, however, it did. In the form of fireflies. The first
ones I have seen this year. I wanted to come in the house
and find an old jar and go catch some, but I was content
just to watch them, to let them bring light to an otherwise
dark and searching heart.
I get so little. I woke in the night (around
3) feeling very anxious. Been a long time since
I felt the need to take a Xanax in the middle of
the night, but I did, and I fell back asleep and did
not get up until 10:30. I feel I could go right back
to sleep now--only an hour since rising from the bed,
starting the coffee, taking Molly out, feeding her,
making myself some breakfast, and reading over
the Obama plan for affordable housing (sister is
about to lose her house--hopeful that won't happen).
A. is doing much better. I see improvement every
day. I think she has been overwhelmed and at her
breaking point for some time, and I think she
recognizes some triggers now which she did not
recognize before.
The kids are in Panama today. They are supposed
to go to the beach and through the canal and a few
other things. They will stay one more night and then
head back to Costa Rica.
J got married yesterday. She sent a text at 12:12 the
night before letting all of us (coworkers) know. We
suspected but she was being very secretive. I am happy
for her. I am happy when I am around or see two people
who really love one another. What an amazing part of life
loving another is, and if you have a person with you each day
until the end of your days and the love remains, what more
could you have asked for in this life? That was the first
wedding I had attended in several years. Just her son,
her dad and stepmom, her aunt & uncle, her brothers,
and three coworkers. They were just going to have their
witnesses present, but she changed her mind and had the
family there, and the night before, she told us. I am glad
I attended. Made me feel hopeful for the day.
Of course, there is the love of your children--a love no other
love is like, but children grow up and leave their parents,
as they should. So if the relationship between the parents
is tenuous and based largely on staying together for the
children, I would think it would be very difficult to keep
that relationship afloat.
Yesterday was simply beautiful outside. The kind of day
to take a picnic, a long hike, go to the park, go to the lake,
work in the yard, take a long walk. But I did none of those
things.
I was driving home from the recycling center and had to
make a detour because part of downtown was blocked
off for a soap box derby. As I turned left , I saw a father
(I assume), helping his daughter get into her soap box.
I noticed other participants bringing their cars to the
starting line. I could hear laughter, and see people smiling,
helping their kids, enjoying one small moment in the many
which make up our lifetimes. It made me feel sad.
It made me feel that I was wasting my day. It made me
long for those days when my children were younger
and we spent time doing things together. Sometimes I
feel so empty. I feel all of the joy in my life has gone away
to play somewhere else and might not ever revisit me.
Last night, however, it did. In the form of fireflies. The first
ones I have seen this year. I wanted to come in the house
and find an old jar and go catch some, but I was content
just to watch them, to let them bring light to an otherwise
dark and searching heart.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Cleveland, Briefly
I should be sleeping. Drove home from Cleveland
today. About an 8 hour drive. But I can't sleep.
I can still feel the wheels spinning beneath my
feet.
Got into Cleveland around 11:30 pm last night.
First thing I saw when I got off I-71 was Progressive
Field--Home of the Indians. ANd I felt sad and strange
and at home. I was thinking about how we used
to go to balllgames years ago, when my oldest two
were younger.
It was so quiet and deserted at 11:30 on a Tuesday night,
but I would venture to say it's not like that when the
Indians or Browns or Cavs are playing.
My eyes are pouring from allergies. They have been for
two days. I want to write more and I think why.
Lauren, Wes, & Jon leave for Costa Rica tomorrow. I am
struggling with this but must be happy for them. I want
my children to travel and see this world. I don't want
them to be like me--afraid to do much.
Must talk about the elevator next time I write.
I should be sleeping. Drove home from Cleveland
today. About an 8 hour drive. But I can't sleep.
I can still feel the wheels spinning beneath my
feet.
Got into Cleveland around 11:30 pm last night.
First thing I saw when I got off I-71 was Progressive
Field--Home of the Indians. ANd I felt sad and strange
and at home. I was thinking about how we used
to go to balllgames years ago, when my oldest two
were younger.
It was so quiet and deserted at 11:30 on a Tuesday night,
but I would venture to say it's not like that when the
Indians or Browns or Cavs are playing.
My eyes are pouring from allergies. They have been for
two days. I want to write more and I think why.
Lauren, Wes, & Jon leave for Costa Rica tomorrow. I am
struggling with this but must be happy for them. I want
my children to travel and see this world. I don't want
them to be like me--afraid to do much.
Must talk about the elevator next time I write.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Disausted !!!!!
Wes used to say that when he'd get very tired.
I think he was 4 or so. He'd say, "Mommy, I'm
just disausted!" Great word. Combination of
disgusted and exhausted.
Was on the phone until after 11. The hospital
released A. in her father's care. He knew she was
still not herself but was willing to go on with the
charade until she wigged at dinner. When I got
him on the phone at 10:30, they were on the way
back to the hospital. I don't know what's causing
all of these things in her mind. Drug-induced psychosis
can be long lasting, but is generally short-lived.
I have some research to do today.
Wes used to say that when he'd get very tired.
I think he was 4 or so. He'd say, "Mommy, I'm
just disausted!" Great word. Combination of
disgusted and exhausted.
Was on the phone until after 11. The hospital
released A. in her father's care. He knew she was
still not herself but was willing to go on with the
charade until she wigged at dinner. When I got
him on the phone at 10:30, they were on the way
back to the hospital. I don't know what's causing
all of these things in her mind. Drug-induced psychosis
can be long lasting, but is generally short-lived.
I have some research to do today.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Poppies
Red ones, all along the median and on the sides
of the road for a long stretch of drive on the WK.
And some kind of yellow wildflowers. Lovely.
Stayed Sunday and Monday night in Lexington
with D. Drove home this morning (had to leave
at 5:45 to get to work in time). WE had a great time
together. Ther aren't many weeks left until she
completes her PhD and moves on. I don't think
I'll get to go visit her as much if she chooses DC
or Atlanta. Atlanta not so far--6 hours. DC--a
flight, but I'm gonna bite the bullet some day
and fly.
A. hospitalized again. I think this is more than just
having bad trips. I am concerned about the possibilty
of mental illness and it going undiagnosed if certain
people keep insisting it's the drugs. Got the call
Sunday shortly after I got to L'ton. Boston. Too far
for me to go. She's stabilized. And still hospitalized
and her dad should be there by now.
Went to the movies with B. and R. to see Terminator:
Salvation. It's ok. I still think the first one is the best.
After the movie (Friday night), we went to J's and met
her friends from Raleigh. Lawyers. Funny, smart,
interesting two. He's going to be climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro
on 7/25 instead of going to his class reunion. Can't imagine
making such a tough decision.
Ha!
Saturday was cookout at M's house. About 10 of us there.
Those of us who work togther in crisis and a husband and
some of the husband's guy friends. Good time. Good food.
Big night this Friday night. Wes graduates from high school.
I can't believe it. Seems he was just starting kindergarten
yesterday.
Next week, I drive B to the Cleveland Clinic for some tests.
We remain hopeful. I'll take a day and 1/2 off to make the
trip.
Still reading Last of the Romanovs (have not picked it up
in a week or so--not been in a reading mood).
Yard is a wreck. Weeds overtaking everything. I am
ashamed and appalled that I have let things get to that
point, but I am not feeling energetic enough to tackle
it just now.
Red ones, all along the median and on the sides
of the road for a long stretch of drive on the WK.
And some kind of yellow wildflowers. Lovely.
Stayed Sunday and Monday night in Lexington
with D. Drove home this morning (had to leave
at 5:45 to get to work in time). WE had a great time
together. Ther aren't many weeks left until she
completes her PhD and moves on. I don't think
I'll get to go visit her as much if she chooses DC
or Atlanta. Atlanta not so far--6 hours. DC--a
flight, but I'm gonna bite the bullet some day
and fly.
A. hospitalized again. I think this is more than just
having bad trips. I am concerned about the possibilty
of mental illness and it going undiagnosed if certain
people keep insisting it's the drugs. Got the call
Sunday shortly after I got to L'ton. Boston. Too far
for me to go. She's stabilized. And still hospitalized
and her dad should be there by now.
Went to the movies with B. and R. to see Terminator:
Salvation. It's ok. I still think the first one is the best.
After the movie (Friday night), we went to J's and met
her friends from Raleigh. Lawyers. Funny, smart,
interesting two. He's going to be climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro
on 7/25 instead of going to his class reunion. Can't imagine
making such a tough decision.
Ha!
Saturday was cookout at M's house. About 10 of us there.
Those of us who work togther in crisis and a husband and
some of the husband's guy friends. Good time. Good food.
Big night this Friday night. Wes graduates from high school.
I can't believe it. Seems he was just starting kindergarten
yesterday.
Next week, I drive B to the Cleveland Clinic for some tests.
We remain hopeful. I'll take a day and 1/2 off to make the
trip.
Still reading Last of the Romanovs (have not picked it up
in a week or so--not been in a reading mood).
Yard is a wreck. Weeds overtaking everything. I am
ashamed and appalled that I have let things get to that
point, but I am not feeling energetic enough to tackle
it just now.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
My Brother's Mirror
by Donald Platt
At eight years old my brother born with Down syndrome
liked to shuffle
down the sidewalk holding our mother's hand mirror
in which he'd watch
what was happening behind him. What did he see so long ago?
Me on a butterfly-handlebarred
bike, which he would never learn to ride, about to run him down,
shouting, "Look out,
slow poke! Make way, bird brain! Think quick, fat tick!"
I would swerve
around him at the last moment. He gazed back at me with blank
cow eyes and couldn't
speak. He warbled like a sparrow, drooled, and went on
looking
in his mirror. Did he see the wind shake the lilacs
by our neighbor's hedge
back and forth like handbells? They kept ringing out their sweet
invisible scent.
Peals of petals fell to the ground. "Look harder, Michael,"
I want to tell him now.
"Your namesake is an archangel. Do you see Kathy, our beautiful
babysitter, who will
kill herself years later with sleeping pills, waving her white dishtowel
to call us home
to supper?" She once caught me lying on the floor and trying
to look up the dark folds
of her schoolgirl's wool skirt and slapped me. But don't we all
walk forward, gazing backward
over our shoulders at the future coming at us from the past like a hit-and-run
driver? Michael,
God's idiot angel, I see in your mirror our father
yanking out
the plugs of all the TVs blaring the evening news
on his nursing home's
locked ward for the demented. He hates the noise, the CNN reporters
in Bam, Iran,
covering yesterday's earthquake, 6.6 on the Richter scale,
twelve seconds,
twenty-five thousand dead, thousands more buried alive
beneath the rubble.
The aftershocks continue. We get live footage of a woman in a purple
shawl, sifting
through her gold-ringed fingers the crumbled concrete
of what were once
the blue-tiled walls of her house. She wails and keeps on
digging.
This morning I dreamed that I was building an arch
from pieces of charred
brick I'd found in that debris. It was complete except for
the keystone,
but no brick would fit. What I needed
was our father
to put his splayed fingers into the fresh mortar where the keystone
should have gone
and leave his handprints there, so I might put my palms to his.
Brother, I held your hand
for the first time last winter. Your fingers were warm,
rubbery.
The skin on the back of your hands was rough and chapped.
They are the same fingers
that weave placemats from blue wool yarn every day,
slowly passing
the shuttle over and under the warp, its strands stretched tight
as the strings of a harp.
It's a silent slow music you make. It takes you
weeks to weave
a single placemat. Brother, you dropped the hand mirror.
It cracked, but didn't
shatter. It broke the seamless sky into countless
jagged splinters,
but still holds the aspen's trembling leaves, the lilacs, you and me,
all passing things.
****************************************************
This poem was in my email this morning from poem-a-day
from poets.org. It didn't format correctly, but one does not
necessarily have to see it in the format the writer intended
to appreciate this poem. I often wonder why some writers
choose to weave their words in and out, not flush with the margin.
I'm not sure I always get the effect they are striving for, or
feel at times that it's a gimmicky kind of thing to format a poem
a particular way for no reason I can ascertain. Jorie Graham
comes to mind. This one definitely looks and reads better
when in the correct format, but I don't know how to get it
that way.
Lauren and Jon just left. Wes still in Lexington.
It's very cool outside. And sunny. A perfect day to work in the
yard, and I have much to do in the yard, but I don't feel like
doing anything.
Slept poorly, as usual, last night and feel very fatigued. Again,
the sleep apnea (which I assume I have) makes for a poor
night of sleep. Today, my nose is runny, but I don't feel sick.
Weird pains in my legs and hips (As is so often case at night),
but they feel ok now. I have to wonder if everyone feels odd
little things in their bodies every day, or if it's just me and my
focus on me. It's like the heart palpitations and the arrythmia.
I feel them, but there are other people I know who have them
who tell me they never really know they are having them.
They tell me the arrythmia or palpitation is discovered by their
doctor at a routine exam. I can't imagine not feeling it.
Creeps me out to be lying on my side and hear my heart
beating, drumming in my ears. Too much me thinking
about me.
Jon, Lauren, & I had this for breakfast this morning:
*cantalope, kiwi, and strawberry fruit salad with vanilla
yogurt as a dip
*ham
*scrambled eggs with hot sauce, scallions, and Monterey jack cheese
*O'Brien potatoes
Full, but not too full.
I think I'll go brush my teeth, wash my face, read for a little
while and then try to go work in the yard. I have lillies
and sedum to plant. I need to mow and weedeat. And I need
to weed.
My herb garden has just grown out of control. The oregano
has taken over everything. Maybe I'll work on it a little today.
Molly's pillow. Gotta wash it.
Now.
by Donald Platt
At eight years old my brother born with Down syndrome
liked to shuffle
down the sidewalk holding our mother's hand mirror
in which he'd watch
what was happening behind him. What did he see so long ago?
Me on a butterfly-handlebarred
bike, which he would never learn to ride, about to run him down,
shouting, "Look out,
slow poke! Make way, bird brain! Think quick, fat tick!"
I would swerve
around him at the last moment. He gazed back at me with blank
cow eyes and couldn't
speak. He warbled like a sparrow, drooled, and went on
looking
in his mirror. Did he see the wind shake the lilacs
by our neighbor's hedge
back and forth like handbells? They kept ringing out their sweet
invisible scent.
Peals of petals fell to the ground. "Look harder, Michael,"
I want to tell him now.
"Your namesake is an archangel. Do you see Kathy, our beautiful
babysitter, who will
kill herself years later with sleeping pills, waving her white dishtowel
to call us home
to supper?" She once caught me lying on the floor and trying
to look up the dark folds
of her schoolgirl's wool skirt and slapped me. But don't we all
walk forward, gazing backward
over our shoulders at the future coming at us from the past like a hit-and-run
driver? Michael,
God's idiot angel, I see in your mirror our father
yanking out
the plugs of all the TVs blaring the evening news
on his nursing home's
locked ward for the demented. He hates the noise, the CNN reporters
in Bam, Iran,
covering yesterday's earthquake, 6.6 on the Richter scale,
twelve seconds,
twenty-five thousand dead, thousands more buried alive
beneath the rubble.
The aftershocks continue. We get live footage of a woman in a purple
shawl, sifting
through her gold-ringed fingers the crumbled concrete
of what were once
the blue-tiled walls of her house. She wails and keeps on
digging.
This morning I dreamed that I was building an arch
from pieces of charred
brick I'd found in that debris. It was complete except for
the keystone,
but no brick would fit. What I needed
was our father
to put his splayed fingers into the fresh mortar where the keystone
should have gone
and leave his handprints there, so I might put my palms to his.
Brother, I held your hand
for the first time last winter. Your fingers were warm,
rubbery.
The skin on the back of your hands was rough and chapped.
They are the same fingers
that weave placemats from blue wool yarn every day,
slowly passing
the shuttle over and under the warp, its strands stretched tight
as the strings of a harp.
It's a silent slow music you make. It takes you
weeks to weave
a single placemat. Brother, you dropped the hand mirror.
It cracked, but didn't
shatter. It broke the seamless sky into countless
jagged splinters,
but still holds the aspen's trembling leaves, the lilacs, you and me,
all passing things.
****************************************************
This poem was in my email this morning from poem-a-day
from poets.org. It didn't format correctly, but one does not
necessarily have to see it in the format the writer intended
to appreciate this poem. I often wonder why some writers
choose to weave their words in and out, not flush with the margin.
I'm not sure I always get the effect they are striving for, or
feel at times that it's a gimmicky kind of thing to format a poem
a particular way for no reason I can ascertain. Jorie Graham
comes to mind. This one definitely looks and reads better
when in the correct format, but I don't know how to get it
that way.
Lauren and Jon just left. Wes still in Lexington.
It's very cool outside. And sunny. A perfect day to work in the
yard, and I have much to do in the yard, but I don't feel like
doing anything.
Slept poorly, as usual, last night and feel very fatigued. Again,
the sleep apnea (which I assume I have) makes for a poor
night of sleep. Today, my nose is runny, but I don't feel sick.
Weird pains in my legs and hips (As is so often case at night),
but they feel ok now. I have to wonder if everyone feels odd
little things in their bodies every day, or if it's just me and my
focus on me. It's like the heart palpitations and the arrythmia.
I feel them, but there are other people I know who have them
who tell me they never really know they are having them.
They tell me the arrythmia or palpitation is discovered by their
doctor at a routine exam. I can't imagine not feeling it.
Creeps me out to be lying on my side and hear my heart
beating, drumming in my ears. Too much me thinking
about me.
Jon, Lauren, & I had this for breakfast this morning:
*cantalope, kiwi, and strawberry fruit salad with vanilla
yogurt as a dip
*ham
*scrambled eggs with hot sauce, scallions, and Monterey jack cheese
*O'Brien potatoes
Full, but not too full.
I think I'll go brush my teeth, wash my face, read for a little
while and then try to go work in the yard. I have lillies
and sedum to plant. I need to mow and weedeat. And I need
to weed.
My herb garden has just grown out of control. The oregano
has taken over everything. Maybe I'll work on it a little today.
Molly's pillow. Gotta wash it.
Now.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Crazy
Not that. What is that anyway? A good thing
at times. An all alive all over thing.
Tonight, during a conversation with B, I brought
up the matters of that day. The day they loaded
your body in the ambulance, headed for the morgue.
I had to go into the house and wrap my arms around
your husband to get him off your body, to get him
to the outside, to get him to a place where I could
ask the hard questions: where is her address book?
I need to call people.
I feel it's sacriledge, or something close, to write about
it, so I haven't written about it much. It's been ten
years. I don't think about you every day, but I do
very often. A month or so ago, Lauren & Wes were
going through the closet in the computer room.
They found a purse with many pairs of glasses, some
jewelry, and a social security card. I was called in
to answer some questions. It was an odd moment.
It was a hard moment. After it passed, I think
I put all the contents of the purse back together
and placed them back in the closet. It will be 10
years June 1.
I thought I would spend this evening preparing
and then eating my dinner, but I spent it drinking.
The food is in the kitchen,, but I am not hungry.
I need sleep. Good, deep sleep. Lots of days of
good deep sleep. Mornings I can wake up and know
I've slept well. I am going to keep hoping for that.
I don't want eternal sleep. I must not keep fearing
that each night I lie down to go to sleep.
Fight for your right to be here. Fight. It is a fight.
I will fight.
Not that. What is that anyway? A good thing
at times. An all alive all over thing.
Tonight, during a conversation with B, I brought
up the matters of that day. The day they loaded
your body in the ambulance, headed for the morgue.
I had to go into the house and wrap my arms around
your husband to get him off your body, to get him
to the outside, to get him to a place where I could
ask the hard questions: where is her address book?
I need to call people.
I feel it's sacriledge, or something close, to write about
it, so I haven't written about it much. It's been ten
years. I don't think about you every day, but I do
very often. A month or so ago, Lauren & Wes were
going through the closet in the computer room.
They found a purse with many pairs of glasses, some
jewelry, and a social security card. I was called in
to answer some questions. It was an odd moment.
It was a hard moment. After it passed, I think
I put all the contents of the purse back together
and placed them back in the closet. It will be 10
years June 1.
I thought I would spend this evening preparing
and then eating my dinner, but I spent it drinking.
The food is in the kitchen,, but I am not hungry.
I need sleep. Good, deep sleep. Lots of days of
good deep sleep. Mornings I can wake up and know
I've slept well. I am going to keep hoping for that.
I don't want eternal sleep. I must not keep fearing
that each night I lie down to go to sleep.
Fight for your right to be here. Fight. It is a fight.
I will fight.
Thinking of Vincent
and other things and people this morning.
Finished reading Van Gogh's Women: His
Love Affairs and Journey Into Madness
recently. It was a Christmas gift from my mother.
As is so often the case, I am reluctant to like
anything my mother likes. I don't want to
engage in conversation with her about any topic
which may lead to an argument. It's best to stay
safe and stick to the relatively innocuous
things like how good fresh vegetables are, how
much work a yard and garden are, how many
storms we've had lately, etc. But, I am glad I read
the book and plan to order some other books
about Vincent. I am not a Vincent scholar but can
see where it would be easy to want to become one.
Vincent's tendency to self-mutilate when his relationships
did not go as planned makes me think of some of the
people I work with.
I meant to bracket info as I read that I knew I would
want to revisit, but for some reason I didn't. I'm not
sure why this one particular image from the book
struck me, but it did. The author was commenting
on Vincent's time in Arles or Montmarte. He said that
some days the wind was so strong, Vincent had a habit
of painting on his knees, canvas flat on the ground. Some
of the paintings have sand grains mixed in with the paint
I can just see Vincent dropping to his knees and making
love to that canvas.
I bracketed the hell outta Annie Dillard's For The Time
Being, and even though I grew a bit frustrated with her
at one point, I am glad I stayed with the book. I think
what bothered me most were all the god references.
Other than that, there was some fascinating information
in the book. I would see a word or phrase and compose
a poem in my head. But, as I no longer keep a notepad
by the bed to jot down thoughts, those poems were just
lost. They may come to me again, but it seems everything
is hard for me these days. My memory fails me, I can't
spell, I can't pronounce certain words that I feel certain
I probably could have in the past, I have no energy
for exploring the new.
This morning I have a little energy, but I don't plan
to invest it in anything other than reading, at least
for not the next hour or so. Lauren will be here this
afternoon. She and Jon are coming to town for her 10
year class reunion. Wes went to Lexington. He left
yesterday. He wanted to go scout things out since he
has chosen UK. It is so hard for me to let go. So hard.
A quote Dillard selected for her book For The Time Being:
"We move between two darknesses," E.M. Forster wrote.
"The two entities who might enlighten us, the baby and
the corpse, cannot do so."
Some things I underlined from the book (the word poem
written in the margin):
*the face of Jesus arose in a tortilla
*Kandy, Sri Lanka
*God's quondam target
*the black mute stone
*Mycenaean Greeks called the dead "the thirsty"
*The average river requires a million years to move
a grain of sand one hundred miles.
*Solutrean
*double-ogive
*circling the drain
And this passage really got to me:
"People burst like foam. If you walk a graveyard
in the heat of summer, I have read, you can sometimes
hear--right through coffins--bloated bellies pop.
Poor people everywhere still test a fresh corpse
for life by holding a flame to its big toe. If the corpse
is truly dead, gas fills the toe blister and explodes it.
If the body is alive, fluid, not gas, fills the blister;
the fluid boils, and also pops the skin."
Allergies are bothering me today. Lots of sneezes
and congestion. My sweet little baby Isaac is now
on a nebulizer. He has asthma. Oh my. Wes went
through a rough time with that until 2nd grade.
He hasn't struggled with it since that time but I
understand it can rear its ugly head again.
On to read The Last Days of the Romanovs.
and other things and people this morning.
Finished reading Van Gogh's Women: His
Love Affairs and Journey Into Madness
recently. It was a Christmas gift from my mother.
As is so often the case, I am reluctant to like
anything my mother likes. I don't want to
engage in conversation with her about any topic
which may lead to an argument. It's best to stay
safe and stick to the relatively innocuous
things like how good fresh vegetables are, how
much work a yard and garden are, how many
storms we've had lately, etc. But, I am glad I read
the book and plan to order some other books
about Vincent. I am not a Vincent scholar but can
see where it would be easy to want to become one.
Vincent's tendency to self-mutilate when his relationships
did not go as planned makes me think of some of the
people I work with.
I meant to bracket info as I read that I knew I would
want to revisit, but for some reason I didn't. I'm not
sure why this one particular image from the book
struck me, but it did. The author was commenting
on Vincent's time in Arles or Montmarte. He said that
some days the wind was so strong, Vincent had a habit
of painting on his knees, canvas flat on the ground. Some
of the paintings have sand grains mixed in with the paint
I can just see Vincent dropping to his knees and making
love to that canvas.
I bracketed the hell outta Annie Dillard's For The Time
Being, and even though I grew a bit frustrated with her
at one point, I am glad I stayed with the book. I think
what bothered me most were all the god references.
Other than that, there was some fascinating information
in the book. I would see a word or phrase and compose
a poem in my head. But, as I no longer keep a notepad
by the bed to jot down thoughts, those poems were just
lost. They may come to me again, but it seems everything
is hard for me these days. My memory fails me, I can't
spell, I can't pronounce certain words that I feel certain
I probably could have in the past, I have no energy
for exploring the new.
This morning I have a little energy, but I don't plan
to invest it in anything other than reading, at least
for not the next hour or so. Lauren will be here this
afternoon. She and Jon are coming to town for her 10
year class reunion. Wes went to Lexington. He left
yesterday. He wanted to go scout things out since he
has chosen UK. It is so hard for me to let go. So hard.
A quote Dillard selected for her book For The Time Being:
"We move between two darknesses," E.M. Forster wrote.
"The two entities who might enlighten us, the baby and
the corpse, cannot do so."
Some things I underlined from the book (the word poem
written in the margin):
*the face of Jesus arose in a tortilla
*Kandy, Sri Lanka
*God's quondam target
*the black mute stone
*Mycenaean Greeks called the dead "the thirsty"
*The average river requires a million years to move
a grain of sand one hundred miles.
*Solutrean
*double-ogive
*circling the drain
And this passage really got to me:
"People burst like foam. If you walk a graveyard
in the heat of summer, I have read, you can sometimes
hear--right through coffins--bloated bellies pop.
Poor people everywhere still test a fresh corpse
for life by holding a flame to its big toe. If the corpse
is truly dead, gas fills the toe blister and explodes it.
If the body is alive, fluid, not gas, fills the blister;
the fluid boils, and also pops the skin."
Allergies are bothering me today. Lots of sneezes
and congestion. My sweet little baby Isaac is now
on a nebulizer. He has asthma. Oh my. Wes went
through a rough time with that until 2nd grade.
He hasn't struggled with it since that time but I
understand it can rear its ugly head again.
On to read The Last Days of the Romanovs.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
After Closing The Window
It's a bit hot in here, so I closed the window
and turned the air down. I think, in the night,
I may wake and open the window as I much
prefer the outside air and it's supposed to get
cooler.
I talked at length with a friend tonight about
where I am in all of this shennanigan shit.
We came up with a few theories, proofs,
speculations.
I was compelled to watch an MSN video about
Farrah Fawcett. In 1976, I was a senior in high
school. One of my coworkers told me I had
such beautiful hair and encouraged me to go
get a Farrah-do. She also encouraged me to have
my (Brooke Shields--who was not known at
that time) eyebrows plucked. I resisted,
as I always have, to be a frou-frou girly girl,
so I kept my hair long and straight and I never
have plucked one hair from my eyebrows.
I wonder if I made a mistake a long time ago.
Maybe I should have done more to enhance
the natural. But the natural has grown old and
saggy and grey. And there is Farrah, on her
deathbed, I assume, speaking about fighting.
I am just going to get in bed, open one of the
books that arrived today, and read until I can't
read any longer. I question why it's easier to
want to know about the death of a woman
who has lived a rather good life than to know
about the children, men, and women of war,
of poverty, of disfigurement, of destitution.
Which is not to say I don't feel there is every
reason to feel touched by the life of this well
known woman who decided to share with the
world her battle with cancer.
Life is too fucking weird.
It's a bit hot in here, so I closed the window
and turned the air down. I think, in the night,
I may wake and open the window as I much
prefer the outside air and it's supposed to get
cooler.
I talked at length with a friend tonight about
where I am in all of this shennanigan shit.
We came up with a few theories, proofs,
speculations.
I was compelled to watch an MSN video about
Farrah Fawcett. In 1976, I was a senior in high
school. One of my coworkers told me I had
such beautiful hair and encouraged me to go
get a Farrah-do. She also encouraged me to have
my (Brooke Shields--who was not known at
that time) eyebrows plucked. I resisted,
as I always have, to be a frou-frou girly girl,
so I kept my hair long and straight and I never
have plucked one hair from my eyebrows.
I wonder if I made a mistake a long time ago.
Maybe I should have done more to enhance
the natural. But the natural has grown old and
saggy and grey. And there is Farrah, on her
deathbed, I assume, speaking about fighting.
I am just going to get in bed, open one of the
books that arrived today, and read until I can't
read any longer. I question why it's easier to
want to know about the death of a woman
who has lived a rather good life than to know
about the children, men, and women of war,
of poverty, of disfigurement, of destitution.
Which is not to say I don't feel there is every
reason to feel touched by the life of this well
known woman who decided to share with the
world her battle with cancer.
Life is too fucking weird.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Eating
It is nearing 11 and I am just now eating.
I had decided to forego food and just keep drinking.
Doesn't always work that way.
Call it self-medicating. I'm down with that.
I wonder how many years this can go on.
I can see a day when it no longer exists.
I miss some people. I embrace new people.
I am not sure how to navigate these waters.
If I heard a voice from the past, I am not sure
it would soothe me. If I heard a now familiar
voice, I am not sure it would be enough.
Enough tonight is to eat a taco. Not some
authentic ethnic recipe--a little bit of me
thrown into a lot of a box, but what the hell.
I am confused at times that those I feel the
closest connection with don't feel me. Or if
they do, they don't make their presence known.
Be present. Please.
It is nearing 11 and I am just now eating.
I had decided to forego food and just keep drinking.
Doesn't always work that way.
Call it self-medicating. I'm down with that.
I wonder how many years this can go on.
I can see a day when it no longer exists.
I miss some people. I embrace new people.
I am not sure how to navigate these waters.
If I heard a voice from the past, I am not sure
it would soothe me. If I heard a now familiar
voice, I am not sure it would be enough.
Enough tonight is to eat a taco. Not some
authentic ethnic recipe--a little bit of me
thrown into a lot of a box, but what the hell.
I am confused at times that those I feel the
closest connection with don't feel me. Or if
they do, they don't make their presence known.
Be present. Please.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Just Wondering
Why it is that loneliness wants to claim me.
Or aloneness. Or just not belongingness.
Or just wanting to stay fucked up.
I go and do and give and receive, but I still
end up feeling this same way. Alone.
I think, at 50, that perhaps I shall never
feel any differently.
I dreamed last night of an old friend. She
kept coming and going in the dream. She
lived in a huge house in a city. An upstairs
apartment deal with this lovely terrace
and patio and a walkway that led to another
part of the house. There had been a party
going on at her place for what seemed like
days. I saw her dancing in her room--me across
the walkway to the other part of her home.
Her body lithe, supple, beautifully-shaped.
I wondered how it was she looked that way
when I knew she didn't. There were people
from my past coming and going, eating and drinking,
laughing. I woke up feeling very sad. For 20
years or more, I had the same set of friends, and
then things changed. I went to school, I started
hanging out with different people, I started
drinking heavily. I lost so much. I lost so many
years. I lost so many friends. And I think I shall
never know them again. And I must miss them
terribly to dream of them so often.
I have new friends, and I have felt many of them
are closer to me than the friends I had over
those 20 some odd years, but something in my soul
is not right.
I am tired. I always think of things I want to write
here until I get here and then I think what in the hell
does it matter what I write or think, and so I just
don't write what I thought I would.
I wil write this. My peony has four blossoms this year.
That is one more than last year. I noticed from the porch
today that they were in full bloom but I did not walk
out to see the blooms. That is so not like me.
Why it is that loneliness wants to claim me.
Or aloneness. Or just not belongingness.
Or just wanting to stay fucked up.
I go and do and give and receive, but I still
end up feeling this same way. Alone.
I think, at 50, that perhaps I shall never
feel any differently.
I dreamed last night of an old friend. She
kept coming and going in the dream. She
lived in a huge house in a city. An upstairs
apartment deal with this lovely terrace
and patio and a walkway that led to another
part of the house. There had been a party
going on at her place for what seemed like
days. I saw her dancing in her room--me across
the walkway to the other part of her home.
Her body lithe, supple, beautifully-shaped.
I wondered how it was she looked that way
when I knew she didn't. There were people
from my past coming and going, eating and drinking,
laughing. I woke up feeling very sad. For 20
years or more, I had the same set of friends, and
then things changed. I went to school, I started
hanging out with different people, I started
drinking heavily. I lost so much. I lost so many
years. I lost so many friends. And I think I shall
never know them again. And I must miss them
terribly to dream of them so often.
I have new friends, and I have felt many of them
are closer to me than the friends I had over
those 20 some odd years, but something in my soul
is not right.
I am tired. I always think of things I want to write
here until I get here and then I think what in the hell
does it matter what I write or think, and so I just
don't write what I thought I would.
I wil write this. My peony has four blossoms this year.
That is one more than last year. I noticed from the porch
today that they were in full bloom but I did not walk
out to see the blooms. That is so not like me.
Monday, May 4, 2009
I Don't Need Your Concerns, thank you
Hidden under the guise of wanting to share
a picture of a meteor or some such thing.
You have someone to share with these days
How extraordinarily lovely that must be for you.
I don't think I'm ever going to know what that
feels like. I resent you insinuating yourself in
my life. Please leave me be.
Every day is this preparation for battle. I feel it
as I lift my fork to eat leftover grilled chicken.
I feel it as I drop the towel from my wet head
and think of the next step--the practical one--
of getting the dryer out as I have waited too long
now to let it dry naturally. I feel it in the sinews,
the muscles, the bones. I feel it well up in my eyes.
I have been saying I grow weary for some time.
Perhaps what I have grown is complacent. I have
given up in the way the diseased rose budding on my
trellis, which leads the way into my father's garden,
has given up its leaves to an insidious and incredibly
intent mite or aphid. The leaves are but shells of what
they once were, but the buds remain untouched.
Without my help, the whole plant may succumb.
I want to help, and I want to let things go. I want the
backyard to reclaim all those flower and herb beds
I spent so much time cultivating. I spent so much
time planning and choosing the right plants for the right
spot. But I am complacent and unwilling to take care
of anything else at this point. I am doing well to take
care of me.
I have purposely not come here as often as I had planned.
I thought I needed to unload about the daily worries re:
weird health shit, but I think I have given up on that.
It was not leading me to any understanding. Things
continue to bother me. I am not saying I won't find myself
coming here again and blathering on about them.
8:20 now. I'm supposed to be at work by 8:30, but considering
I have not dried my hair, gotten dressed, brushed my teeth
nor put on my make-up, it's not likely I'll get there on time.
But what the hell. I rally am one of the few who ever manages
to get there right on time.
Hidden under the guise of wanting to share
a picture of a meteor or some such thing.
You have someone to share with these days
How extraordinarily lovely that must be for you.
I don't think I'm ever going to know what that
feels like. I resent you insinuating yourself in
my life. Please leave me be.
Every day is this preparation for battle. I feel it
as I lift my fork to eat leftover grilled chicken.
I feel it as I drop the towel from my wet head
and think of the next step--the practical one--
of getting the dryer out as I have waited too long
now to let it dry naturally. I feel it in the sinews,
the muscles, the bones. I feel it well up in my eyes.
I have been saying I grow weary for some time.
Perhaps what I have grown is complacent. I have
given up in the way the diseased rose budding on my
trellis, which leads the way into my father's garden,
has given up its leaves to an insidious and incredibly
intent mite or aphid. The leaves are but shells of what
they once were, but the buds remain untouched.
Without my help, the whole plant may succumb.
I want to help, and I want to let things go. I want the
backyard to reclaim all those flower and herb beds
I spent so much time cultivating. I spent so much
time planning and choosing the right plants for the right
spot. But I am complacent and unwilling to take care
of anything else at this point. I am doing well to take
care of me.
I have purposely not come here as often as I had planned.
I thought I needed to unload about the daily worries re:
weird health shit, but I think I have given up on that.
It was not leading me to any understanding. Things
continue to bother me. I am not saying I won't find myself
coming here again and blathering on about them.
8:20 now. I'm supposed to be at work by 8:30, but considering
I have not dried my hair, gotten dressed, brushed my teeth
nor put on my make-up, it's not likely I'll get there on time.
But what the hell. I rally am one of the few who ever manages
to get there right on time.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Eating Junk
Every time I decide I am going to lose
weight, I end up doing everythng in my power
to make sure that doesn't happen (today: spicy
chicken sandwich from Wendy's--and fries, too).
I just have zero willpower or desire. Even though
my BP needs to go down (and cholesterol too, most
likely), and weight, I just keep hurting me.
I was so sick last week. I discovered I was not an
alcoholic. I didn't crave a drink, and I certainly
didn't want one. Nor did I crave a smoke. But,
by last Saturday, when I started feeling better,
I drank and I smoked and I've been doing it since.
I had such resolve during my sickness and such
confidence that I had turned a very necessary
and meaningful corner in my life. But alas, I
could not sustain the feeling that I could be free.
So, I continue to punish myself. I don't understand
why I have not grown weary of this.
Time to get back to work.
Every time I decide I am going to lose
weight, I end up doing everythng in my power
to make sure that doesn't happen (today: spicy
chicken sandwich from Wendy's--and fries, too).
I just have zero willpower or desire. Even though
my BP needs to go down (and cholesterol too, most
likely), and weight, I just keep hurting me.
I was so sick last week. I discovered I was not an
alcoholic. I didn't crave a drink, and I certainly
didn't want one. Nor did I crave a smoke. But,
by last Saturday, when I started feeling better,
I drank and I smoked and I've been doing it since.
I had such resolve during my sickness and such
confidence that I had turned a very necessary
and meaningful corner in my life. But alas, I
could not sustain the feeling that I could be free.
So, I continue to punish myself. I don't understand
why I have not grown weary of this.
Time to get back to work.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Things That Filled Me Today
I have not worked in the yard since the week
after the ice storm. At that point, my husband
was cutting limbs with a chainsaw and I was
hauling the dead to the front of the yard.
This is grueling. Trying to type when I can't
even see the screen.
So, my happy list:
my bleeding hearts made it and are blooming.
Lily of the valley, with it's tiny white fragrant
bells, did not shrink from my touch. The white
dogwood, which has stood watch by my
bedroom window for 20 years, burst into
blossom, despite the fact that this is the last
time it will ever be allowed to do such.
Molly is lying on the couch with my husband,
content and at home.
Fuck. I can't type anymore.
I have not worked in the yard since the week
after the ice storm. At that point, my husband
was cutting limbs with a chainsaw and I was
hauling the dead to the front of the yard.
This is grueling. Trying to type when I can't
even see the screen.
So, my happy list:
my bleeding hearts made it and are blooming.
Lily of the valley, with it's tiny white fragrant
bells, did not shrink from my touch. The white
dogwood, which has stood watch by my
bedroom window for 20 years, burst into
blossom, despite the fact that this is the last
time it will ever be allowed to do such.
Molly is lying on the couch with my husband,
content and at home.
Fuck. I can't type anymore.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Dark Monday Morning
And it's time to get ready for work, though
I confess that I shall do very little to get
ready for work. Dress, put my hair up,
put a little concealer on those dark circles
and other flaws, out a little powder on,
some blush, mascara, and lipstick. I'll look
somewhat presentable.
And, I am actually wearing pink today. A pink
casual top with black pants. I've been in all black
far too long, though I have added color to my
wardrobe since starting this job in October.
I have worn lime green, a silky amber blouse
with beading at the square collar, red, magenta,
and a multi-colored sleeveless top I wear with black
slacks and a black dress jacket. I have even worn
a coffee-colored suit--very stylish. So, I am branching
out. It's just hard.
Slept from 10 or so until 3:44. That's a long time for me.
I have been having some difficulty breathing, but I am
not sure what's wrong. Everything feels tight. I am better
at the moment.
I would like to get away from the I of all my posts. For
posterity's sake (and perhaps some egoism), I am hooked
on discussing the I of me. Perhaps I can move beyond
that to more interesting topics. So many interesting,
unusual, terrifying, terrible, wonderful, amusing, note-
worthy things happen every day. Even on the most
ordinary day. Even when it is the most ordinary of things,
it is the mind which sees it some days as extraordinary,
and in seeing it as such, indeed elevates it to that level.
The robin in the holly tree who chooses to sing for me.
The deer in the woods who stops herself as my car rounds
the curve. Who waits until she knows I am n0t going
to hit her before she crosses in front of me, fawn in tow.
The light through the shattered trees as night approaches.
The purple sea my bakcyard has become, full of clover
and wild violets. The first butterfly of the season, spotted
in the field at the cemetery as Molly and I walked along.
Those were all ordinary events, but my mind sanctified
each, blessed each, thanked the universe for showing me
all the beauty I don't want to leave. For giving me conviction.
And it's time to get ready for work, though
I confess that I shall do very little to get
ready for work. Dress, put my hair up,
put a little concealer on those dark circles
and other flaws, out a little powder on,
some blush, mascara, and lipstick. I'll look
somewhat presentable.
And, I am actually wearing pink today. A pink
casual top with black pants. I've been in all black
far too long, though I have added color to my
wardrobe since starting this job in October.
I have worn lime green, a silky amber blouse
with beading at the square collar, red, magenta,
and a multi-colored sleeveless top I wear with black
slacks and a black dress jacket. I have even worn
a coffee-colored suit--very stylish. So, I am branching
out. It's just hard.
Slept from 10 or so until 3:44. That's a long time for me.
I have been having some difficulty breathing, but I am
not sure what's wrong. Everything feels tight. I am better
at the moment.
I would like to get away from the I of all my posts. For
posterity's sake (and perhaps some egoism), I am hooked
on discussing the I of me. Perhaps I can move beyond
that to more interesting topics. So many interesting,
unusual, terrifying, terrible, wonderful, amusing, note-
worthy things happen every day. Even on the most
ordinary day. Even when it is the most ordinary of things,
it is the mind which sees it some days as extraordinary,
and in seeing it as such, indeed elevates it to that level.
The robin in the holly tree who chooses to sing for me.
The deer in the woods who stops herself as my car rounds
the curve. Who waits until she knows I am n0t going
to hit her before she crosses in front of me, fawn in tow.
The light through the shattered trees as night approaches.
The purple sea my bakcyard has become, full of clover
and wild violets. The first butterfly of the season, spotted
in the field at the cemetery as Molly and I walked along.
Those were all ordinary events, but my mind sanctified
each, blessed each, thanked the universe for showing me
all the beauty I don't want to leave. For giving me conviction.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Just Another Easter
Today it's sunny and breezy, but no threat
of storms, thank god. We've been bombarded
over the last 6 months or so.
My father was still alive on this day three years
ago. He was still at U of L Hospital waiting to come
home, which he did just 6 days before his death.
He never got to go back home--just hospital
to hospital. I think he wanted to go home, but knew
it would be best, perhaps, if he died somewhere other
than his own bed. I can't say. The last night I saw
him alive was April the 18th. It was a Tuesday.
He was lucid and at peace for the first time since his
ordeal began on March 26th. It's a good memory
to have of him, but I still live with the regret of not
having been at the hospital the day of his death and
the day before.
I think of all the things I could have been doing over
these last three years to help me: be a better person,
be a healthier person, be a happier person, be a stronger
person, be a more spontaneous person, be a better
listener, be a better mother, be a better friend, be more
open to new experiences, be a person who would live
in the moment. I have failed largely at all of the above.
What I have succeeded in doing is not something I am
so proud to write about. I have succeeded in becoming
more hopelessly devoted to alcohol consumption. I
have given myself over to it without much of a fight.
It is so easy to fall in love with a vice which provides
so much freedom, so much relaxation, so much comfort.
Yes, I know. Alcoholics say things like that. Let it be
known that I don't feel I am an alcoholic. I am an abuser.
I have gone a day or two without it and not craved it.
There are days I drink it now and really could care less
about having a drink except that it's kind of my thing
when I get home in the evenings. There are nights
I simply don't want it at all. What I want and what
I crave is the ability to let go all the insecurities, all
the questions, all the worries, all of the self-loathing.
And it helps do that. And I know it's only a momentary
release. But a momentary release is better than none.
So, in these three years, I have seen myself age.
And age rather poorly, I must say. For years, I
managed to look much the same. Now I see the
ugliness of neglect and lack of self-worth. The
puffy eyes, the bloated belly, the long hair I have
not cut since I lost my job in Oct. of 06--6 months
after losing my dad. The loss of my lovely, long
eyelashes. I can still see them when I wear mascara,
but they are much thinner now and not so long.
I have some facial hair--no moustache or anything
like that, but that downy hair on my cheeks that I
can see when the sun is shining on my face. And then
there are all those lovely broken vessels--those small
veins on the sides of my nostrils, which make me look
like a coke addict. And the deepening wrinkle between
my eyebrows. Then there's the lethargy. The hope-
lessness. The belief that I cannot change this part of
who I am, no matter how hard I try.
The sleepless nights. The brain fog.
The desire to lie around on a beautiful day instead
of going outside and working in the yard or walking
the dog or finding some kind of outdoor thing to do.
This is the frist spring I can remember in which I did
not start looking daily for signs of winter's end. I
noticed the hellebores, the crocuses, and the hyacinth
from my screened-in porch but made no effort to walk
outside to see them up close. To touch their petals
or blossoms. To smell them. To get to work cleaning
up around them. My yard is still strewn with ice-storm
damage. Lots of small branches everywhere. I won't
be able to mow until they're picked up. But I don't
care about mowing. And I don't care if the rest of the
house gets finished (the contractors didn't complete
all of the work last October, but that's another story).
I'm just tired. Of many things. But mostly of my inability
to change me. I have settled, I guess. And I don't like
it, but at least I don't have to keep fighting. Acceptance
has given me a reprieve.
Today it's sunny and breezy, but no threat
of storms, thank god. We've been bombarded
over the last 6 months or so.
My father was still alive on this day three years
ago. He was still at U of L Hospital waiting to come
home, which he did just 6 days before his death.
He never got to go back home--just hospital
to hospital. I think he wanted to go home, but knew
it would be best, perhaps, if he died somewhere other
than his own bed. I can't say. The last night I saw
him alive was April the 18th. It was a Tuesday.
He was lucid and at peace for the first time since his
ordeal began on March 26th. It's a good memory
to have of him, but I still live with the regret of not
having been at the hospital the day of his death and
the day before.
I think of all the things I could have been doing over
these last three years to help me: be a better person,
be a healthier person, be a happier person, be a stronger
person, be a more spontaneous person, be a better
listener, be a better mother, be a better friend, be more
open to new experiences, be a person who would live
in the moment. I have failed largely at all of the above.
What I have succeeded in doing is not something I am
so proud to write about. I have succeeded in becoming
more hopelessly devoted to alcohol consumption. I
have given myself over to it without much of a fight.
It is so easy to fall in love with a vice which provides
so much freedom, so much relaxation, so much comfort.
Yes, I know. Alcoholics say things like that. Let it be
known that I don't feel I am an alcoholic. I am an abuser.
I have gone a day or two without it and not craved it.
There are days I drink it now and really could care less
about having a drink except that it's kind of my thing
when I get home in the evenings. There are nights
I simply don't want it at all. What I want and what
I crave is the ability to let go all the insecurities, all
the questions, all the worries, all of the self-loathing.
And it helps do that. And I know it's only a momentary
release. But a momentary release is better than none.
So, in these three years, I have seen myself age.
And age rather poorly, I must say. For years, I
managed to look much the same. Now I see the
ugliness of neglect and lack of self-worth. The
puffy eyes, the bloated belly, the long hair I have
not cut since I lost my job in Oct. of 06--6 months
after losing my dad. The loss of my lovely, long
eyelashes. I can still see them when I wear mascara,
but they are much thinner now and not so long.
I have some facial hair--no moustache or anything
like that, but that downy hair on my cheeks that I
can see when the sun is shining on my face. And then
there are all those lovely broken vessels--those small
veins on the sides of my nostrils, which make me look
like a coke addict. And the deepening wrinkle between
my eyebrows. Then there's the lethargy. The hope-
lessness. The belief that I cannot change this part of
who I am, no matter how hard I try.
The sleepless nights. The brain fog.
The desire to lie around on a beautiful day instead
of going outside and working in the yard or walking
the dog or finding some kind of outdoor thing to do.
This is the frist spring I can remember in which I did
not start looking daily for signs of winter's end. I
noticed the hellebores, the crocuses, and the hyacinth
from my screened-in porch but made no effort to walk
outside to see them up close. To touch their petals
or blossoms. To smell them. To get to work cleaning
up around them. My yard is still strewn with ice-storm
damage. Lots of small branches everywhere. I won't
be able to mow until they're picked up. But I don't
care about mowing. And I don't care if the rest of the
house gets finished (the contractors didn't complete
all of the work last October, but that's another story).
I'm just tired. Of many things. But mostly of my inability
to change me. I have settled, I guess. And I don't like
it, but at least I don't have to keep fighting. Acceptance
has given me a reprieve.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Goes On Life
Just carried my bloodied pillow and
pillow case down to the washing machine.
I've had them soaking since Sunday or monday.
Had a spontaneous nose bleed in the night.
Woke at 4 am wiping my nose thinking
it was running but it was bleeding. Funky.
Scary. I was so tired I could hardly muster
up much fear. But I stayed awake long
enough to get the bleeding stopped.
Been a fun week. In some ways. Had
fun at M's house friday night but maybe
I had too much fun. I am tired
of hitting the cap button. i can see why
some people never use it.
made chicken salad last night when i got
home from B's. don't like it or never have
so looked up a recipe i thought i would like.
curry, red grapes, yogurt, almonds, salt
and pepper, cilantro. i like it but i still
think chicken salad is weird.
also made some tortellini soup.
gonna go clean the kitchen.
Just carried my bloodied pillow and
pillow case down to the washing machine.
I've had them soaking since Sunday or monday.
Had a spontaneous nose bleed in the night.
Woke at 4 am wiping my nose thinking
it was running but it was bleeding. Funky.
Scary. I was so tired I could hardly muster
up much fear. But I stayed awake long
enough to get the bleeding stopped.
Been a fun week. In some ways. Had
fun at M's house friday night but maybe
I had too much fun. I am tired
of hitting the cap button. i can see why
some people never use it.
made chicken salad last night when i got
home from B's. don't like it or never have
so looked up a recipe i thought i would like.
curry, red grapes, yogurt, almonds, salt
and pepper, cilantro. i like it but i still
think chicken salad is weird.
also made some tortellini soup.
gonna go clean the kitchen.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Dancing Queen
That was me, last night. All inhibitions gone.
I hurt all night. Could not even sleep for the pain
in my knees and hips. But I had fun.
Today, I am so sleep-deprived (maybe 3 hours
last night) but I have been trying to stay awake.
So I can go to bed at a reasonable time.
Geez. I think of all the things I want to write about,
but my body and mind just can't get in synch.
So, maybe tomorrow.
That was me, last night. All inhibitions gone.
I hurt all night. Could not even sleep for the pain
in my knees and hips. But I had fun.
Today, I am so sleep-deprived (maybe 3 hours
last night) but I have been trying to stay awake.
So I can go to bed at a reasonable time.
Geez. I think of all the things I want to write about,
but my body and mind just can't get in synch.
So, maybe tomorrow.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Grey, grey go away
Another grey day. We may have one sunny day
a week here. It's getting very depressing. It
was cloudy yesterday morning, but by 3 or so, the
sun had come out, the sky was a piercing blue, and
a male cardinal had graced me with his presence
and his song from a branch in the holly tree. I could
see him perfectly. Could see his chest move as he
sang. He noticed me, but didn't fly away. He just
changed his song. And then, the wind picked up,
the sky grew very dark, he vanished, and the tornado
sirens went off. I had time to get the cats and Molly
to the basement before the hail and heavy rain started.
No damage--just more water in that frigging basement.
It would not be a day in my life if I didn't mention the
my various physical complaints. Woke with my left eye,
left ear, behind my left ear, and the left side of my head
hurting. Not to mention the pain I've had at the nape
of neck (left side) for weeks now. I have also been either
burning up or freezing all morning. My left eye is better,
but full of gunk. Lots of palpitations and tachycardia
in the night. Nothing new about that either. Also heart-
burn (nothing new about that either). I guess that sums
today's aches, pains, & worries up for now.
My mother-in-law called earlier to tell me my father-in-law
is in the hospital--pneumonia. Seems it came on very
suddenly. I just talked with her last night, and spoke to
him yesterday, and he didn't say anything about feeling
bad or coughing and neither did she. She's supposed
to call me back if she needs me to take her to the hospital.
If so, I'll have to call hubby. Wes took my vehicle to Nashville
this weekend to go visit Lauren. All I have is his 81 Z28
Camaro. There was a day I would have enjoyed that car,
but not now. Not an easy one to get in and out of, and would
not be an easy one to get mother-in-law in and out of.
I came here with the intention of writing a poem. I think
I have forgotten how. Not that I ever knew how to very
well anyhoo. I just got lucky a few times when my eyes
and senses were completely aware. That so rarely happens
these days.
I have to lose this weight. I don't like exercise. But, I do
like to dance, so I am going to try to make myself take
at least a 30 minute walk 4-5 times a week and dance
4-5 days a week. I was dancing to Jump In The Line
earlier (finally figured out how to get YouTube videos
back on my blog--just had to post under HTML, but I
am not all that computer savvy, so it took me a while
to figure it out--so, Harry Belafonte made his way here!).
No walk today though. I could barely stand getting in
and out of the car. The wind is biting and it's spitting
snow(or it was earlier). I hope tomorrow afternoon
will be nicer.
************************************
Should I mark more than shining hours?
from For The Time Being by Annie Dillard
Another grey day. We may have one sunny day
a week here. It's getting very depressing. It
was cloudy yesterday morning, but by 3 or so, the
sun had come out, the sky was a piercing blue, and
a male cardinal had graced me with his presence
and his song from a branch in the holly tree. I could
see him perfectly. Could see his chest move as he
sang. He noticed me, but didn't fly away. He just
changed his song. And then, the wind picked up,
the sky grew very dark, he vanished, and the tornado
sirens went off. I had time to get the cats and Molly
to the basement before the hail and heavy rain started.
No damage--just more water in that frigging basement.
It would not be a day in my life if I didn't mention the
my various physical complaints. Woke with my left eye,
left ear, behind my left ear, and the left side of my head
hurting. Not to mention the pain I've had at the nape
of neck (left side) for weeks now. I have also been either
burning up or freezing all morning. My left eye is better,
but full of gunk. Lots of palpitations and tachycardia
in the night. Nothing new about that either. Also heart-
burn (nothing new about that either). I guess that sums
today's aches, pains, & worries up for now.
My mother-in-law called earlier to tell me my father-in-law
is in the hospital--pneumonia. Seems it came on very
suddenly. I just talked with her last night, and spoke to
him yesterday, and he didn't say anything about feeling
bad or coughing and neither did she. She's supposed
to call me back if she needs me to take her to the hospital.
If so, I'll have to call hubby. Wes took my vehicle to Nashville
this weekend to go visit Lauren. All I have is his 81 Z28
Camaro. There was a day I would have enjoyed that car,
but not now. Not an easy one to get in and out of, and would
not be an easy one to get mother-in-law in and out of.
I came here with the intention of writing a poem. I think
I have forgotten how. Not that I ever knew how to very
well anyhoo. I just got lucky a few times when my eyes
and senses were completely aware. That so rarely happens
these days.
I have to lose this weight. I don't like exercise. But, I do
like to dance, so I am going to try to make myself take
at least a 30 minute walk 4-5 times a week and dance
4-5 days a week. I was dancing to Jump In The Line
earlier (finally figured out how to get YouTube videos
back on my blog--just had to post under HTML, but I
am not all that computer savvy, so it took me a while
to figure it out--so, Harry Belafonte made his way here!).
No walk today though. I could barely stand getting in
and out of the car. The wind is biting and it's spitting
snow(or it was earlier). I hope tomorrow afternoon
will be nicer.
************************************
Should I mark more than shining hours?
from For The Time Being by Annie Dillard
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Twitchy Eye
Ok, here we go again. A new problem. My left
eyelid is inflamed and itchy. I washed my make up
off last night and placed a warm compress on it
for about 15 minutes. It is not as swollen this morning,
but it is itchy & twitchy & my eye feels like it has sand in it.
The redness does not appear to be a sty(e). I'll just have
to keep an eye on it.
At the doc last week, I mentioned my bleeding problem.
She thinks I broke a vessel in the flap (can't think of the
name) that spearates the esophagus and the stomach.
It would take it some time to heal, so I could still be
tasting the blood in my mouth from time to time from
that. She did order a CBC with diff, lipid profile, thyroid
panel, CA 125, and some other tests. If my blood count
is normal, it is not likely that I have internal bleeding from
a peptic ulcer or varices, etc. Wow, I can't believe I actually
told her, but I did. I can come here and write about these
things, but I don't dare speak about them. Hypochondriasis.
Must be what everything is all about. Why, on top of all
my other real or imaginary plights, did I have to end up
with that idiosyncrasy?
Raining this morning. Which I don't mind except it makes
me want to go back to bed, which dosn't sound like an
altogether bad idea. I have books to read. But I have
tired of Annie and that upsets me. I do like reading about
the terracotta army and the children in Smith's book--
e.g. the bird-headed dwarf children. So, I guess I'll go
try to read. I also got out my Plath and read Morning Song
and Child. I will look for Nick and the Candlestick.
Ok, here we go again. A new problem. My left
eyelid is inflamed and itchy. I washed my make up
off last night and placed a warm compress on it
for about 15 minutes. It is not as swollen this morning,
but it is itchy & twitchy & my eye feels like it has sand in it.
The redness does not appear to be a sty(e). I'll just have
to keep an eye on it.
At the doc last week, I mentioned my bleeding problem.
She thinks I broke a vessel in the flap (can't think of the
name) that spearates the esophagus and the stomach.
It would take it some time to heal, so I could still be
tasting the blood in my mouth from time to time from
that. She did order a CBC with diff, lipid profile, thyroid
panel, CA 125, and some other tests. If my blood count
is normal, it is not likely that I have internal bleeding from
a peptic ulcer or varices, etc. Wow, I can't believe I actually
told her, but I did. I can come here and write about these
things, but I don't dare speak about them. Hypochondriasis.
Must be what everything is all about. Why, on top of all
my other real or imaginary plights, did I have to end up
with that idiosyncrasy?
Raining this morning. Which I don't mind except it makes
me want to go back to bed, which dosn't sound like an
altogether bad idea. I have books to read. But I have
tired of Annie and that upsets me. I do like reading about
the terracotta army and the children in Smith's book--
e.g. the bird-headed dwarf children. So, I guess I'll go
try to read. I also got out my Plath and read Morning Song
and Child. I will look for Nick and the Candlestick.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
By The Time
...I get around to posting anything here, most
everything I thought I wanted to say either
doesn't matter anymore or I just don't have the
energy or need to say it.
Yesterday, when I had Molly outside in the back
yard to do her business, I noticed that one of the
daffodils I planted two years ago had this deep
orange center. It was the color of free range
chicken yolks. Free range from my friend who
had chickens for a few years. She brought me
dozens of eggs, whose shells ranged from speckled
turquoise to light brown. I was apprehensive about
eating them with a yolk so orange. But they were
good--intense, but good. So I thought about her
and I thought about my brother's significant other
who sent those bulbs to me for my birthday in 07.
And I thought how little I try or make an effort
to stay in touch with my siblings now.
There is a disturbance in the force, which is not
always a bad thing.
So, I read some Kay Ryan last night. About 15 poems.
I liked one of them. I may post it soon.
Work is good. I like what I do. I like my coworkers.
I finally had a response on my other blog from a long
time poetry and blog friend. I am most grateful
and will probably send her a personal email.
I guess I figure I really don't have anything to post
or to say to anyone these days. I keep most of what
I am thinking inside. I spend time with friends--
old and new--and am enjoying that. I talk but
sometimes I just gab. Which is ok. I am me.
I can talk shop with the best of the shoptalkers,
and I can relate to those who don't know how
or don't aspisre to talk shop.
I am falling out of love with Annie Dillard. I was
digging For The Time Being, and then it hit me
that Annie is a rich, educated, white out of touch
with my reality person, and I grew disenchanted,
which is not a bad thing. I don't have her on a pedestal
any longer. I don't know whether she would like
to have been there anyway.
The teracotta army is of interest to me. Don't know
why I never knew about it until I was reading Dillard's
book.
That's all.
...I get around to posting anything here, most
everything I thought I wanted to say either
doesn't matter anymore or I just don't have the
energy or need to say it.
Yesterday, when I had Molly outside in the back
yard to do her business, I noticed that one of the
daffodils I planted two years ago had this deep
orange center. It was the color of free range
chicken yolks. Free range from my friend who
had chickens for a few years. She brought me
dozens of eggs, whose shells ranged from speckled
turquoise to light brown. I was apprehensive about
eating them with a yolk so orange. But they were
good--intense, but good. So I thought about her
and I thought about my brother's significant other
who sent those bulbs to me for my birthday in 07.
And I thought how little I try or make an effort
to stay in touch with my siblings now.
There is a disturbance in the force, which is not
always a bad thing.
So, I read some Kay Ryan last night. About 15 poems.
I liked one of them. I may post it soon.
Work is good. I like what I do. I like my coworkers.
I finally had a response on my other blog from a long
time poetry and blog friend. I am most grateful
and will probably send her a personal email.
I guess I figure I really don't have anything to post
or to say to anyone these days. I keep most of what
I am thinking inside. I spend time with friends--
old and new--and am enjoying that. I talk but
sometimes I just gab. Which is ok. I am me.
I can talk shop with the best of the shoptalkers,
and I can relate to those who don't know how
or don't aspisre to talk shop.
I am falling out of love with Annie Dillard. I was
digging For The Time Being, and then it hit me
that Annie is a rich, educated, white out of touch
with my reality person, and I grew disenchanted,
which is not a bad thing. I don't have her on a pedestal
any longer. I don't know whether she would like
to have been there anyway.
The teracotta army is of interest to me. Don't know
why I never knew about it until I was reading Dillard's
book.
That's all.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
On Naivete
My naivete is large. So large sometimes I feel
I must be stupid. How can one person have such
faith in other people? This coming from me, the
cynic.
It's 10:30 and I'm just now eating my cordon bleu.
I have not been able to get beyond my simplicity
enough to eat until now. Now that I know some
parts of our personalities are so fixed.
I didn't realize until today how much faith I still
had in others. How much trust.
We live and work in a system that doesn't put much
stock in trust. Many of us have been burned, chastised,
ridiculed for believing in some kind of intrinsic good.
I am not saying I will let that go. I am saying I must
learn that there are places and times and situations
in which society has dictated one cannot accept the
offerings of others.
Vague but all I have to give. Time for a soak in the tub.
My naivete is large. So large sometimes I feel
I must be stupid. How can one person have such
faith in other people? This coming from me, the
cynic.
It's 10:30 and I'm just now eating my cordon bleu.
I have not been able to get beyond my simplicity
enough to eat until now. Now that I know some
parts of our personalities are so fixed.
I didn't realize until today how much faith I still
had in others. How much trust.
We live and work in a system that doesn't put much
stock in trust. Many of us have been burned, chastised,
ridiculed for believing in some kind of intrinsic good.
I am not saying I will let that go. I am saying I must
learn that there are places and times and situations
in which society has dictated one cannot accept the
offerings of others.
Vague but all I have to give. Time for a soak in the tub.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Monday Morning, Cloudy
I wake again to find no messages in my email
and no comments on my blog. I think I must
accept that I mean nothing to the folks I thought
had become my friends out here in blogland
and cyber world.
I am enjoying a nice breakfast. Scrambled eggs
with asparagus tips, some black forest ham, and
grated colby and monterey jack. Some hot sauce,
splash of milk, kosher salt, and black pepper in the
eggs (of course!). I normally love eggs, but have
not eaten any in some time. I think it's because
my body knows it needs to eat foods lower in
cholesterol, but what do I know? I just haven't
even wanted eggs in some time. I only buy the
cage free/organic/loaded with Omega 3 eggs, but
I still worry about the choloesterol.
Let me see what else I think is wrong with me this
more. Indulge me, dear screen, nonexistent readers.
I now have a cut on my big toe, which bled out in the
night. I must go doctor it before I go to work. I have
an opened blister on my right index finger and a closed
one on my right ring finger. I trimmed ornamental
grass and raked yesterday. My hands did not like
that repetetive work. My head still hurts in the same
place--base of the brain to the left. The ear on that
saide is better. Tasted blood first thing this morning.
Nose stopped up eyes full of gunk. When I get up
in the night to go to the bathroom, I am not very steady
on my feet and tend to walk with a limp. In the night,
I am awakened often with terrible pain in my right hip.
The only time I don't notice any of these things is when
I've had a few drinks. I don't feel any pain anywhere.
I feel good, and free, and uninhibited and confident
that everything is going to be ok. Of course I know
that alcohol is an antiinflammatory, an analgesic,
and anesthetic, and tow other words that srart with
A (word retrieval an ever growing problem).
Got a call last week about a position I applied
for back in early December. I had not been working
very long at that point and was not sure if I was
the right person for the job I have now. I never
heard back from the application so I assumed
the position was filled, so I was surprised when I
got the call asking me to come in for an interview.
I said yes, but I've thought about it all weekend.
And I am going to have to call back and say No.
I like where I am and what I am doing. Why would
I want to leave? So, I need to call the guy back, thank
him for considering me, and decline the interview.
Don't want to burn my bridges, but don't want to leave
my position either.
Time to go do that and get ready for work.
I wake again to find no messages in my email
and no comments on my blog. I think I must
accept that I mean nothing to the folks I thought
had become my friends out here in blogland
and cyber world.
I am enjoying a nice breakfast. Scrambled eggs
with asparagus tips, some black forest ham, and
grated colby and monterey jack. Some hot sauce,
splash of milk, kosher salt, and black pepper in the
eggs (of course!). I normally love eggs, but have
not eaten any in some time. I think it's because
my body knows it needs to eat foods lower in
cholesterol, but what do I know? I just haven't
even wanted eggs in some time. I only buy the
cage free/organic/loaded with Omega 3 eggs, but
I still worry about the choloesterol.
Let me see what else I think is wrong with me this
more. Indulge me, dear screen, nonexistent readers.
I now have a cut on my big toe, which bled out in the
night. I must go doctor it before I go to work. I have
an opened blister on my right index finger and a closed
one on my right ring finger. I trimmed ornamental
grass and raked yesterday. My hands did not like
that repetetive work. My head still hurts in the same
place--base of the brain to the left. The ear on that
saide is better. Tasted blood first thing this morning.
Nose stopped up eyes full of gunk. When I get up
in the night to go to the bathroom, I am not very steady
on my feet and tend to walk with a limp. In the night,
I am awakened often with terrible pain in my right hip.
The only time I don't notice any of these things is when
I've had a few drinks. I don't feel any pain anywhere.
I feel good, and free, and uninhibited and confident
that everything is going to be ok. Of course I know
that alcohol is an antiinflammatory, an analgesic,
and anesthetic, and tow other words that srart with
A (word retrieval an ever growing problem).
Got a call last week about a position I applied
for back in early December. I had not been working
very long at that point and was not sure if I was
the right person for the job I have now. I never
heard back from the application so I assumed
the position was filled, so I was surprised when I
got the call asking me to come in for an interview.
I said yes, but I've thought about it all weekend.
And I am going to have to call back and say No.
I like where I am and what I am doing. Why would
I want to leave? So, I need to call the guy back, thank
him for considering me, and decline the interview.
Don't want to burn my bridges, but don't want to leave
my position either.
Time to go do that and get ready for work.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
I Think I'm a Hopeless Case
Let's see, what ailment is it I worry I have this
morning? Well, I cut my finger when I was working
in the yard yesterday, and rather than come inside
and wash it out and off, clean it with peroxide,
put some neosporin on it and a bandage, I decided
just to let it bleed and go on working. Which I did.
When I came in, I washed it thoroughly with soapy
water, cleaned it out with alcohol (out of peroxide),
and that was that. I decided to just forego my neosporin
and bandage. So, I'm sitting here this morning on the
computer looking up bland diets for my ulcer (which
I assume I have based on the pain in my stomach
and the blood in my mouth), when I notice my finger.
It's red and there's a red streak coming down from the
site of the wound. So, now I am thinking, Well, that's
just great. Now you can add cellulitis to the list of things
wrong with you.
Oh my. This is so taxing. Why am I this way?
Once again, there were no comments on my other blog.
I thought someone would wonder where I was. I haven't
posted in over two weeks. For over 10 years of my life,
I have been an active user of the internet. There are
people I know only through their comments on my poetry
at Melic and from their comments on my blog, but I thought
I mattered. Silly goose that I am.
I came to the internet in my loneliness and need to connect
with others with similar interests. I knew no one here
remotely interested in talking shop about poetry, music,
wine, etc. I had good friends at that time, but they didn't
live here, and they had no real interest in poetry. So,
I ventured out and connected. For years there has been
correspondence with these people. I feel that I know them.
If one of them was MIA (and some of them have been that
way from time to time), I would just post a note and say
Hey, you ok? I've done that. And many others who follow
their blogs do that. But not one person has left a note on
my blog.
So, let's see: not missed, possible cellulitis, likely ulcer,
possible heart problems, very likely high blood pressure
(will find out Tuesday--have to go see my doc if I want
my anxiolytic refilled), possible tumor in my lymph node,
possible ovarian cancer, sleep apnea, possible deviated
septum. There are more things to add to the list, but
that's a place to start.
Sicko. That's me. Weirdo. Loser.
Let's see, what ailment is it I worry I have this
morning? Well, I cut my finger when I was working
in the yard yesterday, and rather than come inside
and wash it out and off, clean it with peroxide,
put some neosporin on it and a bandage, I decided
just to let it bleed and go on working. Which I did.
When I came in, I washed it thoroughly with soapy
water, cleaned it out with alcohol (out of peroxide),
and that was that. I decided to just forego my neosporin
and bandage. So, I'm sitting here this morning on the
computer looking up bland diets for my ulcer (which
I assume I have based on the pain in my stomach
and the blood in my mouth), when I notice my finger.
It's red and there's a red streak coming down from the
site of the wound. So, now I am thinking, Well, that's
just great. Now you can add cellulitis to the list of things
wrong with you.
Oh my. This is so taxing. Why am I this way?
Once again, there were no comments on my other blog.
I thought someone would wonder where I was. I haven't
posted in over two weeks. For over 10 years of my life,
I have been an active user of the internet. There are
people I know only through their comments on my poetry
at Melic and from their comments on my blog, but I thought
I mattered. Silly goose that I am.
I came to the internet in my loneliness and need to connect
with others with similar interests. I knew no one here
remotely interested in talking shop about poetry, music,
wine, etc. I had good friends at that time, but they didn't
live here, and they had no real interest in poetry. So,
I ventured out and connected. For years there has been
correspondence with these people. I feel that I know them.
If one of them was MIA (and some of them have been that
way from time to time), I would just post a note and say
Hey, you ok? I've done that. And many others who follow
their blogs do that. But not one person has left a note on
my blog.
So, let's see: not missed, possible cellulitis, likely ulcer,
possible heart problems, very likely high blood pressure
(will find out Tuesday--have to go see my doc if I want
my anxiolytic refilled), possible tumor in my lymph node,
possible ovarian cancer, sleep apnea, possible deviated
septum. There are more things to add to the list, but
that's a place to start.
Sicko. That's me. Weirdo. Loser.
Friday, March 20, 2009
There Will Be Blood
And there is. I keep tasting it in my mouth.
I just don't know where it's coming from, and I am
frankly quite scared to go find out. It could as explianable
as post nasal drip. I have bloody noses. I am not throwing
up blood. I am not coughing up blood. I just taste it, so I
grab a kleenex, clear my throat and spit it out. Quite a bit
yesterday. Not so much during the night. I got so stressed
Wednesday night when my mother-in-law phoned me from
someplace in the hospital asking me to come pick her up
at the Same Day Surgery door. I knew she wasn't in her room,
but she couldn't tell me where she was. As soon as she hung
up, I called hospital security to go find her, woke my husband
up to tell him, hurriedly changed my clothes, went back in to get
my husband off the couch to go with me to the hospital only to
find him back asleep on the couch and wondering why I was
so upset. I just left without him. I don't get that at all. He just
said, Yeah, I'm worried, but what can I do? I shudder to think
what would have happened to her had she not been able to #1:
find a phon #2. remember our phone number & # 3 be easy to spot
as she was walking the halls in a hospital gown and had blood
running from her arm from the IV site (yep, of course she pulled
out her IV). I felt like my head was going to explode that night.
Ultimately, we ended up bringing her here that night. Got here
around 1. I got very little sleep. Next morning, her husband
came to get her. He's a frail, tall 86 year old man who loves her
dearly but can't physically take care of her. He had a heart attack
on Father's Day Sunday-- the first Fahter's Day after my father's
death that April of 2006. We managed to get her home and in her
bed, but again, the lack of sleep, the worrying about how he's going
to take care of her, the worrying about missing part of another
day of work (I took 4 hours off to be at the hospital during her
surgery--do you think her son even thought about that? Nope.).
Anyway, so the blood taste keeps returning. and I want to know
why and I don't. I don't want to die. I just sometimes can't get
what the point of living is. I guess more people would want to die,
would want to take their own lives, if they knew what was on the
other side and what was there was more appealing than what's here.
Oh but I do love a sunset and the ocean! Oh and I do love this earth!
I guess if a person believes that there is nothing on the other
side, perhaps they truly don't live in fear of dying. They just live for
today. I wish I could do that. I wish I could stop thinking about all
the things I've done wrong and focus on just living. But I can't.
If I did that, I would have to let go of some things and some people.
Or at least, I think I would.
I know what it is to fall in love. I do not know what it is to
grow old with the person I fell in love with. I fell in love
as a teenager, so I'm not sure that counts all that much.
I didn't know myself--what I really liked or disliked,
what my value system consisted of, what I wanted
to do with my life, what I wanted in a person for the
rest of my life.
Like most first loves, that one didn't last. And I have
never felt that way about anyone since. I married too
young and for too many wrong reasons, but I can't change
that. My marriage brought me three amazing children
and this really great little guy named Isaac--my grandson.
Life has been good to me. But I do not love the man
I live with every day. The man I am growing old with.
We are, for the most part, kind to one another. We do,
for the most part, get along fairly well. And it saddens
me to feel this way.
Now, I am 50. Even if we divorced so I could find out if
there is someone else out there better suited for me and
for him, I don't think I would want to make the effort to go
out looking. Men my age are looking for younger women.
Older men are looking for younger women (I would be
younger, but I don't have the bod or the brains or the appeal).
At this point in my life, I am not even thinking about another
man. I am just thinking I need to know what it is I am looking
for before I do something stupid or before I die. But I may
not know what it is unless I do something.
I stay conflicted. It wears me out.
I just don't want to end up "simply having visited" this life.
I wish I could be happy, dammit. I wish I knew what it was like
to get up exicted about another day. I wish I wasn't riddled
with fears, insecurities, negativity.
I don't know where I am going with all of this. Nowhere,
most likely. I was too exhausted to work today, so I took a
sick day (shoulc have done that yeaterday!) . I don't like
to miss work. I like what I am doing and I like the people
I work with, but I just had to get some sleep. And I did
sleep most of the morning.
I was dreaming about K. We were talking on the phone.
Just having a normal conversation about nothing in particular--
someone's new truck, something that happened in the hood,
something about music, something about books. I can't really
remember now. All I remember was how good it was to hear
his voice. I didn't want to wake up because then I would
no longer hear him. I could feel myself trying to awaken but
just hanging on to his voice. I just wanted him to keep talking.
I miss his voice. K was my friend. He was one of my best
friends. Strange how a person I only met once in my life
had such an impact on my life. I miss him terribly. I can't
believe he died. I don't know why he had to die. I don't know
why I navigate toward people destined to die young.
First there was C--49 years old. Then K, 54 years old.
Then D, 53 years old. Lost K in Oct. 07 and D in Feb.
08. Lost C in 99. It will be ten years this June 1st. I wonder
what she would look like now. I wonder if she would still
be crazy as hell. I wonder if we would have remained friends.
I wonder where she is. I don't miss her like I used to. I'm not
sure if that means anything. I do think about her often.
But why did I choose people to love who were doing
such damaging things to themselves? C & K may have
been thinking Here's a way to hurry this shit up and get it over with,
and hell, I can stay zoned out at the same time. I won't have
to show up too often for my own life. But D--I don't think she
was looking to die. I think she was running from her fears
for so many years. I think she just got tired of running. Her body
couldn't take it any longer. If there is any afterlife, I hope she
is at peace. I hope she's painting again and writing. She was
an artist with tremendous potential.
I guess I should go do some things. Plenty to do. I've been out
of it for a few weeks. I haven't felt good since I got sick at Dawn's.
I'd really like for a poem to gather itself in my mind and then go one
step further and spill out on the page or the screen. Maybe later.
And there is. I keep tasting it in my mouth.
I just don't know where it's coming from, and I am
frankly quite scared to go find out. It could as explianable
as post nasal drip. I have bloody noses. I am not throwing
up blood. I am not coughing up blood. I just taste it, so I
grab a kleenex, clear my throat and spit it out. Quite a bit
yesterday. Not so much during the night. I got so stressed
Wednesday night when my mother-in-law phoned me from
someplace in the hospital asking me to come pick her up
at the Same Day Surgery door. I knew she wasn't in her room,
but she couldn't tell me where she was. As soon as she hung
up, I called hospital security to go find her, woke my husband
up to tell him, hurriedly changed my clothes, went back in to get
my husband off the couch to go with me to the hospital only to
find him back asleep on the couch and wondering why I was
so upset. I just left without him. I don't get that at all. He just
said, Yeah, I'm worried, but what can I do? I shudder to think
what would have happened to her had she not been able to #1:
find a phon #2. remember our phone number & # 3 be easy to spot
as she was walking the halls in a hospital gown and had blood
running from her arm from the IV site (yep, of course she pulled
out her IV). I felt like my head was going to explode that night.
Ultimately, we ended up bringing her here that night. Got here
around 1. I got very little sleep. Next morning, her husband
came to get her. He's a frail, tall 86 year old man who loves her
dearly but can't physically take care of her. He had a heart attack
on Father's Day Sunday-- the first Fahter's Day after my father's
death that April of 2006. We managed to get her home and in her
bed, but again, the lack of sleep, the worrying about how he's going
to take care of her, the worrying about missing part of another
day of work (I took 4 hours off to be at the hospital during her
surgery--do you think her son even thought about that? Nope.).
Anyway, so the blood taste keeps returning. and I want to know
why and I don't. I don't want to die. I just sometimes can't get
what the point of living is. I guess more people would want to die,
would want to take their own lives, if they knew what was on the
other side and what was there was more appealing than what's here.
Oh but I do love a sunset and the ocean! Oh and I do love this earth!
I guess if a person believes that there is nothing on the other
side, perhaps they truly don't live in fear of dying. They just live for
today. I wish I could do that. I wish I could stop thinking about all
the things I've done wrong and focus on just living. But I can't.
If I did that, I would have to let go of some things and some people.
Or at least, I think I would.
I know what it is to fall in love. I do not know what it is to
grow old with the person I fell in love with. I fell in love
as a teenager, so I'm not sure that counts all that much.
I didn't know myself--what I really liked or disliked,
what my value system consisted of, what I wanted
to do with my life, what I wanted in a person for the
rest of my life.
Like most first loves, that one didn't last. And I have
never felt that way about anyone since. I married too
young and for too many wrong reasons, but I can't change
that. My marriage brought me three amazing children
and this really great little guy named Isaac--my grandson.
Life has been good to me. But I do not love the man
I live with every day. The man I am growing old with.
We are, for the most part, kind to one another. We do,
for the most part, get along fairly well. And it saddens
me to feel this way.
Now, I am 50. Even if we divorced so I could find out if
there is someone else out there better suited for me and
for him, I don't think I would want to make the effort to go
out looking. Men my age are looking for younger women.
Older men are looking for younger women (I would be
younger, but I don't have the bod or the brains or the appeal).
At this point in my life, I am not even thinking about another
man. I am just thinking I need to know what it is I am looking
for before I do something stupid or before I die. But I may
not know what it is unless I do something.
I stay conflicted. It wears me out.
I just don't want to end up "simply having visited" this life.
I wish I could be happy, dammit. I wish I knew what it was like
to get up exicted about another day. I wish I wasn't riddled
with fears, insecurities, negativity.
I don't know where I am going with all of this. Nowhere,
most likely. I was too exhausted to work today, so I took a
sick day (shoulc have done that yeaterday!) . I don't like
to miss work. I like what I am doing and I like the people
I work with, but I just had to get some sleep. And I did
sleep most of the morning.
I was dreaming about K. We were talking on the phone.
Just having a normal conversation about nothing in particular--
someone's new truck, something that happened in the hood,
something about music, something about books. I can't really
remember now. All I remember was how good it was to hear
his voice. I didn't want to wake up because then I would
no longer hear him. I could feel myself trying to awaken but
just hanging on to his voice. I just wanted him to keep talking.
I miss his voice. K was my friend. He was one of my best
friends. Strange how a person I only met once in my life
had such an impact on my life. I miss him terribly. I can't
believe he died. I don't know why he had to die. I don't know
why I navigate toward people destined to die young.
First there was C--49 years old. Then K, 54 years old.
Then D, 53 years old. Lost K in Oct. 07 and D in Feb.
08. Lost C in 99. It will be ten years this June 1st. I wonder
what she would look like now. I wonder if she would still
be crazy as hell. I wonder if we would have remained friends.
I wonder where she is. I don't miss her like I used to. I'm not
sure if that means anything. I do think about her often.
But why did I choose people to love who were doing
such damaging things to themselves? C & K may have
been thinking Here's a way to hurry this shit up and get it over with,
and hell, I can stay zoned out at the same time. I won't have
to show up too often for my own life. But D--I don't think she
was looking to die. I think she was running from her fears
for so many years. I think she just got tired of running. Her body
couldn't take it any longer. If there is any afterlife, I hope she
is at peace. I hope she's painting again and writing. She was
an artist with tremendous potential.
I guess I should go do some things. Plenty to do. I've been out
of it for a few weeks. I haven't felt good since I got sick at Dawn's.
I'd really like for a poem to gather itself in my mind and then go one
step further and spill out on the page or the screen. Maybe later.
Friday, March 13, 2009
I Think I Screwed Up
In my attempt to hang out with a friend
who really needed to get out of the house, I think
I made things worse. We were listening to music--
some old Linda Rondstadt (as if any Linda Rondstadt
were not old!). I wanted her to hear some Jeff Buckley.
So we listened to Hallelujah, and she went to pieces.
I didn't expect that. I didn't know if she'd even like
Buckley. I had forgotten what happened to me the first
time I heard Buckley sing Cohen's Hallelujah. I went
to pieces as well. There is something in his voice--something
powerful, spiritual, needy, hurting, longing, aching, whole
and pure. I should have thought that one through.
My head still hurts. It has been hurting since last Saturday
when I was in Lexington visiting my friend. I don't know when
I vomitted last, but I let loose that night. Scary thing was
her face when she saw the last bit of vomit. She said, Not good.
The water is pink. Meaning blood. Little bit, it seems. I was
afraid because she was afraid and then I thought, she's smart
and strong and if she's afraid maybe I should be, too. But my fucking
head hurt so bad and I was so nauseated that I just couldn't let
myself go anywhere except to the couch. I don't know why
there was some pink shit in the puke, but I hope it's something
explainable that does not include ulcer or varices.
I have been more surrounded by friends and new acquaintances
of late that I find it hard to believe all I can do is still think about
how alone I feel. The outsider. The hard one. The hard sell.
The sellout. The idiot. The whiner. The hard core know-there's-
nothing-gonna-help-your-sorry-ass baby. The leave me alone
already and let me die freak. The holding on to bad news/
can't be no good news sadist. The I need excuses so I can keep
drinking fool. Where is my f***ing break?
If I don't give it to me, how can I expect anyone else will?
Started reading some Annie Dillard last night, and my plan
was to come home tonight and just get in the bed and keep
reading. But, I started drinking, and then I started calling
people. I don't know why in the hell I do that. I can't call
people when I am not drinking. But, I drink so often that
it's a rare night that I don't call someone.
Am I an alkie? An abuser for sure.
Seems pretty screwy to me to be sitting at a computer at 10:45
p.m. typing such nonsense when I could be reading Dillard
or making love to my husband or eating a dark chocolate bar
or out of town listening to some music or just living. Is this living?
I am beginning to believe only terribly lonely people who have
no life spend time on their computers. I mean, really, would a
person with a life be out here typing in anything?
I don't think so. I think they would be f***ing living life.
In my attempt to hang out with a friend
who really needed to get out of the house, I think
I made things worse. We were listening to music--
some old Linda Rondstadt (as if any Linda Rondstadt
were not old!). I wanted her to hear some Jeff Buckley.
So we listened to Hallelujah, and she went to pieces.
I didn't expect that. I didn't know if she'd even like
Buckley. I had forgotten what happened to me the first
time I heard Buckley sing Cohen's Hallelujah. I went
to pieces as well. There is something in his voice--something
powerful, spiritual, needy, hurting, longing, aching, whole
and pure. I should have thought that one through.
My head still hurts. It has been hurting since last Saturday
when I was in Lexington visiting my friend. I don't know when
I vomitted last, but I let loose that night. Scary thing was
her face when she saw the last bit of vomit. She said, Not good.
The water is pink. Meaning blood. Little bit, it seems. I was
afraid because she was afraid and then I thought, she's smart
and strong and if she's afraid maybe I should be, too. But my fucking
head hurt so bad and I was so nauseated that I just couldn't let
myself go anywhere except to the couch. I don't know why
there was some pink shit in the puke, but I hope it's something
explainable that does not include ulcer or varices.
I have been more surrounded by friends and new acquaintances
of late that I find it hard to believe all I can do is still think about
how alone I feel. The outsider. The hard one. The hard sell.
The sellout. The idiot. The whiner. The hard core know-there's-
nothing-gonna-help-your-sorry-ass baby. The leave me alone
already and let me die freak. The holding on to bad news/
can't be no good news sadist. The I need excuses so I can keep
drinking fool. Where is my f***ing break?
If I don't give it to me, how can I expect anyone else will?
Started reading some Annie Dillard last night, and my plan
was to come home tonight and just get in the bed and keep
reading. But, I started drinking, and then I started calling
people. I don't know why in the hell I do that. I can't call
people when I am not drinking. But, I drink so often that
it's a rare night that I don't call someone.
Am I an alkie? An abuser for sure.
Seems pretty screwy to me to be sitting at a computer at 10:45
p.m. typing such nonsense when I could be reading Dillard
or making love to my husband or eating a dark chocolate bar
or out of town listening to some music or just living. Is this living?
I am beginning to believe only terribly lonely people who have
no life spend time on their computers. I mean, really, would a
person with a life be out here typing in anything?
I don't think so. I think they would be f***ing living life.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
That's Me (Not) In The Spotlight
Might as well start posting here. All I do on my blog
is yak. It's taking the place of my journal, which has
been so sorely neglected over the last 2 years that it
must certainly be feeling that lack of love. I just can't
believe any longer that there is much sense in this recording
of the most mundane moments of my life, but then again,
I know how much there is to read between the lines.
It is too late for me to write much this morning. I have
to be at work in 20 minutes, and I haven't even started
to get ready. And I need to lie down for about 5 minutes.
This is a day I could stay home and just lie in bed for most
of the day. I am physically and emotionally wiped out.
But, I like my job and don't like to miss. So, to the bed for
a five minute rest and then time to get dressed and out the
door.
Might as well start posting here. All I do on my blog
is yak. It's taking the place of my journal, which has
been so sorely neglected over the last 2 years that it
must certainly be feeling that lack of love. I just can't
believe any longer that there is much sense in this recording
of the most mundane moments of my life, but then again,
I know how much there is to read between the lines.
It is too late for me to write much this morning. I have
to be at work in 20 minutes, and I haven't even started
to get ready. And I need to lie down for about 5 minutes.
This is a day I could stay home and just lie in bed for most
of the day. I am physically and emotionally wiped out.
But, I like my job and don't like to miss. So, to the bed for
a five minute rest and then time to get dressed and out the
door.
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