So, today you guys get an unfinished poem, because. My conviction is still quiet, but as convicted/ing/whatever as ever. In the past week or so, however, things in my life have run amuck, hair on fire, landmines exploding ... as things in my life are wont to do. The result at the moment seems to be that I'm sitting here at ten after ten in the morning, struggling to keep my eyes open, having od'd on donuts last night, fighting to string two words together in a way that even slightly resembles something intelligent. Beer good. Fire bad. Old poem, not finished. Enjoy.*
You're looking for biddable?
I'm not it.
I tried that shit.
It didn't fit.
I burned it
Like the mythical, metaphorical bra
In a barrel in the backyard
Buried it
By the dark of the moon
And salted the ground over it
Take your demure -
I'll turn my fierce into
Something Sasha wouldn't know if it bit her in the face
Blessing and curse, phenomenal and commonplace
*I searched my post archives, and didn't see it, but I have intended to post this before, at least three times, so if it is indeed redundant, forgive me.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
To Blog or Not to Blog
Yeah, yeah, ok, we get it, you can quote Shakespeare. Go you.
But really, is that even a question?
So how are you guys? The nice thing about having a tiny readership is that when I ask that question, I have specific people in mind. Yeah, you. I'm looking at you. I miss you. What's up?
So since the last time I posted something here, lots of things have changed. I moved. 40 miles. In the dead of winter. Instead of a mountain in my backyard, there's a stream. No more fields and sugar shacks, but I'm enjoying the shit out of seeing what's coming up in the garden, and anticipating what's going to come next. It feels good: cozy, like a hobbit hole, or a witch's cottage. You never know, next full moon might see me skyclad under the giant pines. The kid is in a new school. The brother started school. I took a semester off. Jon Stewart retired. Obviously, words cannot describe how much I miss him, but I honor his decision to get out before he became an embittered old man. That would have been ugly for all of us.
I'm pushing to post more regularly here, and to write more regularly in general. This is a secret, just between us, because I've seen what often happens when a writer returns from a long hiatus with big plans for blogging at high volume. I don't want to set myself up for failure, so I'm whispering. With conviction.
But really, is that even a question?
So how are you guys? The nice thing about having a tiny readership is that when I ask that question, I have specific people in mind. Yeah, you. I'm looking at you. I miss you. What's up?
So since the last time I posted something here, lots of things have changed. I moved. 40 miles. In the dead of winter. Instead of a mountain in my backyard, there's a stream. No more fields and sugar shacks, but I'm enjoying the shit out of seeing what's coming up in the garden, and anticipating what's going to come next. It feels good: cozy, like a hobbit hole, or a witch's cottage. You never know, next full moon might see me skyclad under the giant pines. The kid is in a new school. The brother started school. I took a semester off. Jon Stewart retired. Obviously, words cannot describe how much I miss him, but I honor his decision to get out before he became an embittered old man. That would have been ugly for all of us.
I'm pushing to post more regularly here, and to write more regularly in general. This is a secret, just between us, because I've seen what often happens when a writer returns from a long hiatus with big plans for blogging at high volume. I don't want to set myself up for failure, so I'm whispering. With conviction.
Monday, July 13, 2015
Alas! for my poor spinach
So my spinach seems particularly ill-fated this year. I planted Bordeaux, a variety highly recommended by our local seed maven, and some combination of wet and cold and cold and wet and my procrastination led to seedlings that went straight to bolting. However, I did not despair. Also courtesy of our local seed maven, I have enough spinach to feed a (very small) army for a season, so yesterday I planted two more varieties. Bloomsdale Longstanding and something weird that started with an "L," I think. Lawa-something? Anyway. I had just watered the garden, so I sprinkled them both in the little square I'd set aside for spinach and called it good. And I'm sure it was, until today, around noon, when the heavens opened. Now I'm sure all the tiny spinach seeds are huddled up against the pebbles edging the bed, shuddering and crying, and I'll get one of those weird rows that results from such circumstances. Oh, well. I've always got more spinach seeds.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Fiddling With the Edge of the Bandaid
I've been feeling the urge to write something, anything, but I don't have anything particular in mind, so y'all will have to put up with my brain-vomit once again. So gross. You're welcome.
Things are intense here. They're always intense. I waffle between seeking to cope and seeking to escape. Coping is more realistic, obviously. Tools, frameworks, routines. Hiding just increases the pressure. Also, it makes me fat.
Summer time has its own ... I won't call it a rhythm. That almost-annoying hum in the background is the child, fracturing my concentration when I need it the most. You know, when I'm doing the all-consuming work of checking facebook and reading blogs.
My garden is short. I'm sure we haven't gotten rain every day, but it certainly feels like that. The spinach went straight from seedlings to bolting. Something's eating the kale, probably slugs. Or snails. Whatever it is, they've got easy access, as nothing in the garden is over two inches tall except the peas. And the weeds. Those are growing like ... well, you know.
Speaking of snails, I've never seen so many snails outside of California. I wonder how the Cali snails are faring with all the dry out there. We drown while they desiccate. Balance?
Today offers an opportunity I have no intention of grasping. I have a deep-seated resistance to go-carts, acquired long ago through semi-traumatic experience at Disneyland. My brother is visiting us, and, since it's his birthday, and since, at his age, "people want experiences, not presents," we'll be heading to the go cart ... range? course? Anyway. I could drive a go-cart and conquer this ancient prejudice. Somehow, in this case, I have no desire to redeem the past.
Things are intense here. They're always intense. I waffle between seeking to cope and seeking to escape. Coping is more realistic, obviously. Tools, frameworks, routines. Hiding just increases the pressure. Also, it makes me fat.
Summer time has its own ... I won't call it a rhythm. That almost-annoying hum in the background is the child, fracturing my concentration when I need it the most. You know, when I'm doing the all-consuming work of checking facebook and reading blogs.
My garden is short. I'm sure we haven't gotten rain every day, but it certainly feels like that. The spinach went straight from seedlings to bolting. Something's eating the kale, probably slugs. Or snails. Whatever it is, they've got easy access, as nothing in the garden is over two inches tall except the peas. And the weeds. Those are growing like ... well, you know.
Speaking of snails, I've never seen so many snails outside of California. I wonder how the Cali snails are faring with all the dry out there. We drown while they desiccate. Balance?
Today offers an opportunity I have no intention of grasping. I have a deep-seated resistance to go-carts, acquired long ago through semi-traumatic experience at Disneyland. My brother is visiting us, and, since it's his birthday, and since, at his age, "people want experiences, not presents," we'll be heading to the go cart ... range? course? Anyway. I could drive a go-cart and conquer this ancient prejudice. Somehow, in this case, I have no desire to redeem the past.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Last Ditch
Because writing something and hitting "publish" might make me feel halfway human again. Or, ok, at least human enough to remember that earphones work much better to play music when there's music for them to play.
Perhaps it's just the end of winter. The drift out the window behind the house is still waist deep, or so I'm guessing. I have no desire to empirically verify. The feeling I had earlier this month, that things were moving underground, feels like too much work to maintain now.
Bleak. The sky is deep blue behind the bare branches, the maple buds are starting to turn red, but I don't really care. There's crap on the floor (metaphorical, not literal, relax. Wait, unless you count guinea pig crap, which I found in my rubber boots earlier). I spent a certain amount of time picking it up, getting angrier and angrier, not at the people who left it there, necessarily, but that the crap exists in the first place. Things need to be picked up. I hate that.
I thought about depression, earlier. I wore my rubber boots because I knew outside would be better, but tying my sneakers was too much effort. Maybe not, though. Maybe repression. Or burnout. Or the low after a crisis. I've been fighting to find the words for weeks now, showing up on my therapist's couch (actually, she has these kickass purple leather chairs) to say where's the fun? Where's the harvest? Why does life never let up? Where's my vacation, dammit? I feel like there's no give and take here, no rhythm, just life sucking everything I've got. Loneliness, and the demand that I show up with all the right answers, and a shiny face.
Maybe I'm being too dramatic. I'm going to go sit on the steps and catch the last rays of the sun. Maybe that's all I need.
Perhaps it's just the end of winter. The drift out the window behind the house is still waist deep, or so I'm guessing. I have no desire to empirically verify. The feeling I had earlier this month, that things were moving underground, feels like too much work to maintain now.
Bleak. The sky is deep blue behind the bare branches, the maple buds are starting to turn red, but I don't really care. There's crap on the floor (metaphorical, not literal, relax. Wait, unless you count guinea pig crap, which I found in my rubber boots earlier). I spent a certain amount of time picking it up, getting angrier and angrier, not at the people who left it there, necessarily, but that the crap exists in the first place. Things need to be picked up. I hate that.
I thought about depression, earlier. I wore my rubber boots because I knew outside would be better, but tying my sneakers was too much effort. Maybe not, though. Maybe repression. Or burnout. Or the low after a crisis. I've been fighting to find the words for weeks now, showing up on my therapist's couch (actually, she has these kickass purple leather chairs) to say where's the fun? Where's the harvest? Why does life never let up? Where's my vacation, dammit? I feel like there's no give and take here, no rhythm, just life sucking everything I've got. Loneliness, and the demand that I show up with all the right answers, and a shiny face.
Maybe I'm being too dramatic. I'm going to go sit on the steps and catch the last rays of the sun. Maybe that's all I need.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Duly noted
See, people? Do you see what happens when I add one single navy item to my wardrobe? It ruins the whole thing! Now I have to rethink everything! In other news, it takes a special kind of person to overbook herself, out of a pathological need to make everyone happy, and then work herself into a pouty swivet because she's overbooked. Said pouty swivet has so far involved coffee caramel ice cream, a sip of last night's wine, and the decision to pretend that my hair looks just fine without a shower, thank you.
In other news, blogger recognizes neither "pouty" nor "swivet" as a word, and there's a tiny tab down at the bottom of my screen, just above the clock, that says, "Complain." Yes, thanks, I think I shall.
In other news, blogger recognizes neither "pouty" nor "swivet" as a word, and there's a tiny tab down at the bottom of my screen, just above the clock, that says, "Complain." Yes, thanks, I think I shall.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Mindless Blogging, Vacation Edition
By vacation, of course, I mean school break, and by school, I mean the one my child attends. I enjoy my younger son quite a lot, actually. He's smart, and intuitive, and an incredibly deep thinker, traits that make him, to me, extremely entertaining. When he's home all the time, though, linear thought becomes difficult. He's six, after all, and the concept of other people's separate consciousnesses is a nebulous abstraction at this point, even for such an advanced philosopher as himself. For example, in the course of writing this paragraph, I've been asked to look at his Minecraft horse, play Minecraft with him, witness said horse's fashion show, reminded again that he's ready to hold the fashion show, and informed that his horse is misbehaving.
When one has reams of schoolwork to accomplish, chores to perform, and all of it should have been done yesterday, these interactions are a special kind of spiritual torture. When one has nothing planned and the vague feeling that one should post a blog entry once in a while, it's even worse. After all, why? Why shouldn't I can this half-assed effort at blogging regularity and go ride horses around in (shudder) Creative Mode? (They're trapped in a cage of arrows. See? It looks like somebody has been shot by a bunch of arrows ...)
I'm sure this angst is worsened by my semester off, which is about to end, during which I have accomplished ... what? My Great American Novel remains unwritten. The new house still doesn't look like it's inhabited by Martha Stewart. It might even look like it's inhabited by a crew of hillbillies with a penchant for decorating with cardboard boxes. (Are you ready yet? ... Look!) My art remains exactly as I left it in August. My crafting skills have been at the service of a horde of small children for months, with nary a concrete project of my own to show for it.
Should I tie this up in a neat bow? Note that, although greatness in the arts has not yet been achieved, other greatnesses are showing potential? That as a result of willing and enthusiastic work at my son's school, I have a community, potentially wonderful and deep friendships, a house, for Pete's sake? I don't know. Ennui and uncertainty are often voices worth listening to, provided we listen deeply and discerningly enough. In the meantime, my child has, again, delighted me. Mom, look, I made an exploding blueberry!
When one has reams of schoolwork to accomplish, chores to perform, and all of it should have been done yesterday, these interactions are a special kind of spiritual torture. When one has nothing planned and the vague feeling that one should post a blog entry once in a while, it's even worse. After all, why? Why shouldn't I can this half-assed effort at blogging regularity and go ride horses around in (shudder) Creative Mode? (They're trapped in a cage of arrows. See? It looks like somebody has been shot by a bunch of arrows ...)
I'm sure this angst is worsened by my semester off, which is about to end, during which I have accomplished ... what? My Great American Novel remains unwritten. The new house still doesn't look like it's inhabited by Martha Stewart. It might even look like it's inhabited by a crew of hillbillies with a penchant for decorating with cardboard boxes. (Are you ready yet? ... Look!) My art remains exactly as I left it in August. My crafting skills have been at the service of a horde of small children for months, with nary a concrete project of my own to show for it.
Should I tie this up in a neat bow? Note that, although greatness in the arts has not yet been achieved, other greatnesses are showing potential? That as a result of willing and enthusiastic work at my son's school, I have a community, potentially wonderful and deep friendships, a house, for Pete's sake? I don't know. Ennui and uncertainty are often voices worth listening to, provided we listen deeply and discerningly enough. In the meantime, my child has, again, delighted me. Mom, look, I made an exploding blueberry!
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