I do so greatly apologize for disappearing into the mist after such a sad post. I struggle lately to find my voice (perhaps a delayed by-product of switching to morning-person status at the beginning of the school year). But, while there is much sadness in me, it is more the gentle lapping tides of the east coast than the tumultuous waves of the west. There is also gratitude and contentment in me, so do not worry overmuch. Hopefully soon I will emerge from my hiding place and re-acquaint myself with finding the proper keys on the keyboard (with a more reasonable number of backspaces)....
-the silent one
Monday, March 31, 2008
Thursday, February 07, 2008
reaching
This man sits erect next to me – rigid with the knowledge that the world is out to confuse him. He just spoke to the offices yesterday. He was supposed to be at the other office today and this one in two weeks. How can they remove teeth before taking impressions? How will the impressions be accurate if there are no teeth to model? This office is trying to steal business from the other, and now he is going to get a bill from the other doctor too – for a no-show. He just talked to them yesterday. He wrote it down on the card in his wallet. See? It is written right here. His daughter is just trying to confuse him. This office must have everything backwards.
Pent up from the non-confrontational tendency to pacify by agreement, I must support a position based on second-hand knowledge. No, I didn’t talk to the oral surgeon myself. Yes, my sister did. Yes, I know you did too, but I am taking her words over yours – trusting her more. Yes, I understand that you cannot admit I was right about the office and instead have to make new defenses about dentists charging you double and changing the routine instead of you perhaps, just maybe, writing it down wrong. I reach out from my own hurt and isolation – understanding your fear when faced with direct proof that you cannot trust your certainty. I reach out knowing that in ten minutes, we will repeat the cycle. You will accuse me again. I will explain again. You will use your sugary voice to persuade the nurses that your daughter is horribly confused. I summon power from the God-seed deep within. I’m too young and vulnerable to find that power in my own character.
I am seven years old. Today I will blow out the candles to prove it. Where are you? You said you were coming. You even called me with the sole purpose of blessing me with that information. I don’t live with you, but I adore you. Maybe it is easier to do because I never remember a time when we did co-reside. The party ticks by. The cake is delayed. Your car never pulls into the all too empty space in front of our town home. The phone gives me no apologies or assurances – only empty rings.
After everyone leaves, I venture out to your town home – just a few blocks from our own for the first time. Your car isn’t there. There is no evidence of emergency. I just fell to the bottom of a priority list. The maturity of newly seven is certain that I am less valuable than doing drywall for a friend in return for a few beers and easy conversation. I am not worth the top of the list. I’m not even worth remembering.
My hand reaches out to touch your door, and it is cold just like the stiff shoulder turned to me now. The years of walls built to keep the pain away have been stripped gradually. I have no protection from the chill.
You walk through the doors into the chair. When I see you again, you will have six less teeth, but a full measure of bitterness toward me – bitterness that you will somehow remember even after you have forgotten what it is for.
I love you.
Pent up from the non-confrontational tendency to pacify by agreement, I must support a position based on second-hand knowledge. No, I didn’t talk to the oral surgeon myself. Yes, my sister did. Yes, I know you did too, but I am taking her words over yours – trusting her more. Yes, I understand that you cannot admit I was right about the office and instead have to make new defenses about dentists charging you double and changing the routine instead of you perhaps, just maybe, writing it down wrong. I reach out from my own hurt and isolation – understanding your fear when faced with direct proof that you cannot trust your certainty. I reach out knowing that in ten minutes, we will repeat the cycle. You will accuse me again. I will explain again. You will use your sugary voice to persuade the nurses that your daughter is horribly confused. I summon power from the God-seed deep within. I’m too young and vulnerable to find that power in my own character.
I am seven years old. Today I will blow out the candles to prove it. Where are you? You said you were coming. You even called me with the sole purpose of blessing me with that information. I don’t live with you, but I adore you. Maybe it is easier to do because I never remember a time when we did co-reside. The party ticks by. The cake is delayed. Your car never pulls into the all too empty space in front of our town home. The phone gives me no apologies or assurances – only empty rings.
After everyone leaves, I venture out to your town home – just a few blocks from our own for the first time. Your car isn’t there. There is no evidence of emergency. I just fell to the bottom of a priority list. The maturity of newly seven is certain that I am less valuable than doing drywall for a friend in return for a few beers and easy conversation. I am not worth the top of the list. I’m not even worth remembering.
My hand reaches out to touch your door, and it is cold just like the stiff shoulder turned to me now. The years of walls built to keep the pain away have been stripped gradually. I have no protection from the chill.
You walk through the doors into the chair. When I see you again, you will have six less teeth, but a full measure of bitterness toward me – bitterness that you will somehow remember even after you have forgotten what it is for.
I love you.
Friday, January 25, 2008
today, from the refrigerator
the narrative:
my friend felt like a girl under worship
trudge together through delirious and hot chocolate
the imperative:
death of a mother by sausage
please stop shaking the fluffy fiddle puppy at her breast
smear sweet lather on your shadow
always incubate repulsive language
yes you may beat up a drunk wet purple honey finger
watch their peaches
the philosophic:
a languid flood would recall my power
sleep after a bitter vision
my friend felt like a girl under worship
trudge together through delirious and hot chocolate
the imperative:
death of a mother by sausage
please stop shaking the fluffy fiddle puppy at her breast
smear sweet lather on your shadow
always incubate repulsive language
yes you may beat up a drunk wet purple honey finger
watch their peaches
the philosophic:
a languid flood would recall my power
sleep after a bitter vision
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
vague mutterings from underneath the laundry pile
well excu-u-use me
“You need to blog more often,” typed a dear friend. I agree with her, but it seems all I manage to do lately when I blog is make excuses for my lengthy absences. There are some valid excuses: family issues alluded to in previous posts concerning my father and his physical and mental well-being, the holidays, a certain inability to use my fingers for about a week after Christmas, my darling husband taking time off work during the two weeks surrounding the holidays, my preference for typing on the desktop which was largely controlled by the aforementioned husband, not to mention (though I am) my finicky ‘v’ on the laptop. The truth is, though, that when I am faced with a blank page and blinking curser, I am simultaneously overwhelmed with the fact that I both have altogether too much and absolutely nothing to write about.
the times, they are a-changin’
The N boy had a job interview last week – the real kind, the actual career kind. This is a computer-related company run by someone the hubster used to work with, one which helps obtain certifications and reimburses for college courses according to grades received. And just like that, I am rudely awakened with the certainty that my time with this child under my roof is oh so short and precious. The prospect of college didn’t wake me up to this knowledge – the financial dependence married to higher education gave me a cushion of safety. Tell me, how does one prepare for a child to leave the nest when they have never even gone to school away from home? I know I am jumping the gun a bit. He won’t even be 18 until October, but with great velocity it approaches!
a first time for everything
We recently had to move my father into an assisted living facility. Physically, he is in remarkably good shape considering how many underlying health issues there have been, but he suffers from dementia. Sometimes, you can spend more than an hour with him and barely notice that anything is wrong. Other times, you can have the same conversation repeatedly for that hour. If it weren’t for certain circumstances, he would probably be fine living with my sister or me. As things stand, this is the best option. The facility is in an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere (and relatively inexpensive in the comparative analysis) which is a good environment for him. Still, he gets a bit stir crazy from time to time.
Last weekend (as in more than a week ago now, since it is taking me so long to write this post) I went up to take him out to the movies. We stopped for lunch first, enjoyed the film, and then stopped to buy him a calendar (his way of trying to keep track of time – though my sister also bought him one last week, so I don’t think it is working very well).
If I tell you that the factors in this equation are a chilly day, a bad memory-loop day, a moment of stupidity on my part, and a son with a very bad sense of direction, will that give too much away? Yes, dear reader, I locked my keys in my car for the very first time. I do believe the resultant hour and a half wait for rescue (and all of the associated grievances) might just be a strong enough deterrent to keep me from ever repeating that mistake. There is always hope.
let it rise
And then there is bread.
Sunday, I made pizza dough in the bread maker. The recipe merely instructs the dough to be divided after it has spent its kneading time in the appliance, then formed into crusts. Sacrilege! Those divided pieces of dough must be lovingly shaped into dough balls and left to merrily rise before forming. It is a moral imperative – even for me, and I don’t like pizza! In fact, an overnight rise in the refrigerator produces the very best results. But time, in this particular instance, was not on my side; therefore, I could be found forming semi-pliable dough into recognizable disks early Sunday evening.
The ingredients of life blend together. They are kneaded and allowed to rise in their melded state. If I try to work the dough as soon as the kneading is complete, frequently I end up with tears or holes – with patches and lumps – with a battle-scarred, tough, and barely recognizable finished product.
And so, as life’s cares weigh on me – most of them minor ingredients – I seek the wisdom to allow the rise time and, simultaneously, the ability to remember that I have the dough rising at all.
Life scurries past – a white rabbit in a rush, and I find it is so much easier to focus on the swiftly fleeting details of each passing day, allowing myself only the briefest of introspective moments. If I’m not careful, I will end up with dough of Lucille Ball proportions.
How thankful I am that control of my life does not rest solely in my hands (even if that is hard to take sometimes) but in the hands which lovingly formed the very fabric of the universe!
“You need to blog more often,” typed a dear friend. I agree with her, but it seems all I manage to do lately when I blog is make excuses for my lengthy absences. There are some valid excuses: family issues alluded to in previous posts concerning my father and his physical and mental well-being, the holidays, a certain inability to use my fingers for about a week after Christmas, my darling husband taking time off work during the two weeks surrounding the holidays, my preference for typing on the desktop which was largely controlled by the aforementioned husband, not to mention (though I am) my finicky ‘v’ on the laptop. The truth is, though, that when I am faced with a blank page and blinking curser, I am simultaneously overwhelmed with the fact that I both have altogether too much and absolutely nothing to write about.
the times, they are a-changin’
The N boy had a job interview last week – the real kind, the actual career kind. This is a computer-related company run by someone the hubster used to work with, one which helps obtain certifications and reimburses for college courses according to grades received. And just like that, I am rudely awakened with the certainty that my time with this child under my roof is oh so short and precious. The prospect of college didn’t wake me up to this knowledge – the financial dependence married to higher education gave me a cushion of safety. Tell me, how does one prepare for a child to leave the nest when they have never even gone to school away from home? I know I am jumping the gun a bit. He won’t even be 18 until October, but with great velocity it approaches!
a first time for everything
We recently had to move my father into an assisted living facility. Physically, he is in remarkably good shape considering how many underlying health issues there have been, but he suffers from dementia. Sometimes, you can spend more than an hour with him and barely notice that anything is wrong. Other times, you can have the same conversation repeatedly for that hour. If it weren’t for certain circumstances, he would probably be fine living with my sister or me. As things stand, this is the best option. The facility is in an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere (and relatively inexpensive in the comparative analysis) which is a good environment for him. Still, he gets a bit stir crazy from time to time.
Last weekend (as in more than a week ago now, since it is taking me so long to write this post) I went up to take him out to the movies. We stopped for lunch first, enjoyed the film, and then stopped to buy him a calendar (his way of trying to keep track of time – though my sister also bought him one last week, so I don’t think it is working very well).
If I tell you that the factors in this equation are a chilly day, a bad memory-loop day, a moment of stupidity on my part, and a son with a very bad sense of direction, will that give too much away? Yes, dear reader, I locked my keys in my car for the very first time. I do believe the resultant hour and a half wait for rescue (and all of the associated grievances) might just be a strong enough deterrent to keep me from ever repeating that mistake. There is always hope.
let it rise
And then there is bread.
Sunday, I made pizza dough in the bread maker. The recipe merely instructs the dough to be divided after it has spent its kneading time in the appliance, then formed into crusts. Sacrilege! Those divided pieces of dough must be lovingly shaped into dough balls and left to merrily rise before forming. It is a moral imperative – even for me, and I don’t like pizza! In fact, an overnight rise in the refrigerator produces the very best results. But time, in this particular instance, was not on my side; therefore, I could be found forming semi-pliable dough into recognizable disks early Sunday evening.
The ingredients of life blend together. They are kneaded and allowed to rise in their melded state. If I try to work the dough as soon as the kneading is complete, frequently I end up with tears or holes – with patches and lumps – with a battle-scarred, tough, and barely recognizable finished product.
And so, as life’s cares weigh on me – most of them minor ingredients – I seek the wisdom to allow the rise time and, simultaneously, the ability to remember that I have the dough rising at all.
Life scurries past – a white rabbit in a rush, and I find it is so much easier to focus on the swiftly fleeting details of each passing day, allowing myself only the briefest of introspective moments. If I’m not careful, I will end up with dough of Lucille Ball proportions.
How thankful I am that control of my life does not rest solely in my hands (even if that is hard to take sometimes) but in the hands which lovingly formed the very fabric of the universe!
Friday, December 28, 2007
the refrigerator
The outside of a person and the inside of a person are often very different things. I’m not talking about muscles and blood and body organs either. Inside of each human, there is a depth that makes them tick, gives them purpose, and defines who they are.
Refrigerators are backwards.
On the inside of a refrigerator, you will find the foods which sustain us, but which also go into the make-up of our external bodies – the foods which nourish us and those which add character to our hips, our waists – our outward frames.
In many homes, the outside of a refrigerator is rife with preschool drawings and family pictures. Our home isn’t much different in its capacity to show the inner workings of the mind – the medium is just different.
There is a chore calendar – laminated in hopefulness to allow a white board marker the freedom to cross off accomplished chores. It bears no marks.
There is an enormous magnetic band-aid perched above the memo pads for recording needed groceries (blank) and telephone numbers for callback purposes (also blank).
There are various free magnets from assorted solicitors by mail.
There is a bumper sticker, held down with an earth magnet, bearing the words Fat people are harder to kidnap.
And there is a new addition.
On Thanksgiving, at my sister’s house, the entire family enjoyed playing with the magnetic words they had on their refrigerator. This enjoyment was obvious enough that my mother gifted us with our own set for Christmas.
While our ponderings varied from silly to profound upon my sister’s cooling vessel, they have yet to gain such loft on our own.
From the freckled boy on Thanksgiving came these haunting words:
Speak the word slowly as though a whisper can be judged.
He is a bit amazed at all of the fuss those words received claiming not to truly understand them himself. I, on the other hand, have contemplated the heritage of assembling text that somehow speaks the inner workings of the soul while remaining only the messenger that carries them to the outside world.
But alas, perhaps our own refrigerator’s surface just as accurately captures the little idiosyncrasies that make us who we are.
The Drama King (9):
Pedal when drunk
and
crush the light
driving could be eternity
The Freckled One (12):
pound, stare, and love a puppy
The N Boy (17):
I as wet of a storm
smell beauty spring and
sausage heave
Spongebob (6):
TV’s purple finger
why love time
The Brat (old):
drool sweet juice there in the dream
music of honey spray
Da Man (older):
Stop leaving a smear
And a bonus anonymous entry (which may be attributed to the Instigator (14)):
Dress in shaking peaches
blood is behind shining pictures
I’m sure the Pink One will be contributing soon, but she has yet to learn how to sound out words. Once she does, I am betting we are all in trouble.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
still kicking (and screaming)
I just wanted to let you all know that I am okay. Things have even gotten somewhat better in all of the unmentionable directions. I will certainly try to be back soon with more substance.
-the brat
-the brat
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