Another Day, Another Dollar, Another Disappointment, Another Desire, Another Dollop

My babies are sick - they both have fevers that tucked them under blankets on the couch all day yesterday.  I changed out movies, made them soup, brought them water to drink and coaxed them into eating popsicles and warm chocolate chip cookies.  They hardly ate anything.  I'm not sure how it happened or why, but I pray that their little bodies are better today.

Kitty hasn't had much better luck.  Obviously a truck cannot get a fever, but she was in rough shape.  I blew a tire on Sunday.  I'll summarize without much detail:  me and the kids were on our way to my friend Bryan's for a pool party/cookout.  The tire blew just around the corner from Bryan's house.  I called him and said, "I need a hero."  Him and Jake, another good friend, showed up strutting their manly stuff.  They set out to get the spare and change the tire - "We're going to show you how easy it is and next time you can do this." 

They couldn't get the spare out from under the truck.  It had two separate, anti-theft locks, and one of them was rusted.  They worked on it for over an hour.   Finally, I told Bryan to go back to his party.  (The kids had already gone ahead with Jessica and her friend Kristy and were probably having a blast).  I'd say 30 seconds after he pulled out and 10 minutes before the tow truck was to arrive, Jake got the spare tire down.  He came up with black hands, and a ruined, sweaty shirt on his back and a "I conquered the world" smile.  After that, I changed the tire. (Did you hear that?  I changed the tire!  Cross that off my bucket list...).

Kitty went to the shop yesterday.  She needed all new tires and an oil change.  In the past year I've probably spent $65,439.54 on getting her fixed.  (Not that much of course, but anything over $500 might as well have been that much).  I'll probably spend another $65,439.54 on her and get her all fixed up and then put her into semi-retirement for the remainder of her life.  She's getting tired. (She drove me nearly 5,000 miles since March).  She's been a champ, but she's going to have to move over for my new vehicle soon.  (New job begins at the end of August - decent money, honey.  Mama deserves a new car).

The entire filter and pump for the pool needed to be replaced yesterday.  (Had the warranty though so no cost to me).

A storm blew through the state on Sunday and I have 54,000 huge tree branches in my front and back yard that need to be picked up.  The electricity was out for an afternoon and night, and sent the dogs into a frenzy.

I finished draft number 2 of novel number 1 and it needs a lot-a lot-alotalotalotalotalot of work - new scenes better ways to say and better transitions than "I stood up". If I were to count how many times that phrase is in there, I'd be counting all day.

I have a blind date on Saturday that I have no desire - not even an inkling of desire - to go on.  (I'm not against men, just freaking dating.  I'd much rather stay home with my book and notepad and write about dating.  At least then I can imagine it to be much less disappointing).

And so on... life is going on.  The kiddies and kitty, the pool and the storm, the dogs and the writing, and disappointing dates...

... the beach tomorrow with my sister-in-law and nieces ...Buffalo in a couple weeks with the entire family for a stuffed pepper recipe contest ...my 20th class reunion

...my babies are awake.  Time for a new day to begin.

My Humbled Pride

I just finished reading my brother Cliff's blogpost.  He talked about illusions driving your existence.  I want to say that it was a peppy post but in reality, it was downright depressing.  (Thanks Cliff).  I've had the whole "illusions" thought process.  I used to like the word.  I used to think that having an illusion was what brought about change.  Now?  Not so much.

Illusions seem to be the cause of so much heartbreak.

A few nights ago, I attempted to write something about love.  The title of the blog was True Companion.  I wrote it, posted it, slept on it and at 5am, I re-read it and deleted the post.  (Thank God nobody saw it).  Who was I to write anything about love, about a true companion?  I am the living proof that I don't know shit about shit (thanks again Cliff) when it comes to relationships.  I share my kids with someone every other weekend and I entertain their questions about the divorce - why did you get divorced?  When will daddy come back?  Didn't you love each other?  Why can't you just live together and get remarried? - every other day.  (I recently read a line from a book called If You Want Me to Stay (Michael Parker) and in it was a line that went something like this:  Defer the question and hope that they forget to reask it.  After I read it I thought, "Yes! That is exactly what I do!").

Yet, yet, not knowing shit about shit when it comes to relationships hasn't knocked me out.  I've been down for the count, sure.  Yet I always stand back up before we get to 10, with my hands protecting my face.  I am worse for the wear - it shows on my face and in my ability to walk steadily with the humbled pride that rests between reason and illusion.

It's all I can do.

Today, the gloves are back on.  I'll defer the questions and hope they're not reasked; I'll daydream about someone I probably haven't met yet; and one day, I'll be able to show my kids what a true companion truly is - and their questions will have been answered.  Someday.

That is the illusion. 

TRUE COMPANION

The measure of each wrinkle, gray hair, laugh, fear, tear, dream (the ones that do and do not forget about the promise) - spanning the years. The hours remembering and recalling. The strength needed to find it in every day. There is loneliness in this candle light tonight, a glass of Chardonnay keeps it at bay, and messages from new friends and old friends blanket its smoke; climbing that mountain, seeing that mountain, being on that mountain, and wandering in the reality, canvassed grasses pecking at the ankles, mosquitos slapping; a veil lifted, a mouth kissed. A true companion. What it is to be in love! What is it to be in love? That spark! That spark? The shadows of the past that need a full ray of light. To shine. Finding you, that will be the day.

A true companion.

It's all an illusion but damn it, it's better than nothing.

Blessed Vacation

It is the hottest day of the year.  If I were my mother, I would be chopping vegetables for a big vat of soup, or a spicy chili.  She thrives on irony.

As it is, I am gathering firewood from my neighbors' stack of it. (He doesn't know it yet but if I supply the Bud Light, he'll have no problem with my theft).  I went to the grocery store with the kids on Wednesday and the first thing we saw on a huge display were supplies for s'mores: marshmallows, graham crackers, chocolate and s'mores sticks (which work much better than twigs from the woods - dug out in the darkness among mice and spiders and those little tiny bugs that leave welts on your ankles).  We will have a bonfire - and it will be fun damn it.  Hot.  Oh, so hot though.

In thirty minutes, after the cake finishes baking, we are going to take our sweaty selves to the air -conditioned truck, sing Justin Beiber or Taylor Swift (the kids are victims of pop rock despite the fact that they know every song that my best friend Bruce sings), and buy a boat big enough for three at the pool supply store.

It is the first day of an eight-day vacation with them, and the pool - my beautiful, round oasis filled with sparkling blue water - will be our companion for the weekend.  We will make whirlpools, wrestle on basketballs, play Marco-Polo and swim.  Swim!  Glorious swimming followed by popsicles and reading on the deck while we dry off.

After the weekend, we are heading for the beach.  More swimming! 

Being in the water makes me feel at home.  Being in the water with the kids makes me feel whole.

Cake's done.  Let's go!

True Companion

The measure of each wrinkle, each gray hair, each fear-filled argument (the ones that forget about the promise), spanning the years.  The hours spent on remembering, recalling the conversations; the laughs; the tears (from it or whatever); the strength to find it in every day.

Loneliness in this candle light, a glass of Chardonnay and messages from new friends;
climbing that mountain, seeing that mountain, being on that mountain,
and wandering,
wondering in the midst of the turmoil of reality, canvassed grasses pecking at the ankles, mosquitos slapping; a veil lifted, a mouth kissed.

A true companion.

What it is to be in love!
That spark!

The shadows... the shadows of the past, needing a full ray of light.  To shine.  In order to shine.

Finding you, that will be the day.

A true companion.

With killer graces and secret places...

... and gray hair, laugh lines, memories of all of it - the willingness to know all of it - a reading, a writing, a word, a song.  Within it all.

A true companion.

Time.  Not on our side.

Why didn't I?  Why didn't I?

Maybe you did.  With killer graces and secret places and gray and wrinkles and laugh lines and a past...

A true companion.

Why not?

Love

I've been awake for a couple hours now.  In probably less than an hour, the kids will be awake and ready to start a brand new day with me and the dogs and the 100 degree weather.

I look forward to it.

Yes, my PC busted and I have to take it in.  Yes, I got another flippin' bill from my lawyer and will have to pay it.  Yes, the house is a mess and will have to be cleaned.  Yes, the garden is overgrown and flopping.  Yes, yes, yes.

A couple days ago, after Tony and Paige returned, I watched them interact.  They are brilliant.  I know it sounds so cliche coming from their mother, but it's true.  (I suppose it's true of any child).  At one point, I said, "Here comes Enzo, Tony."  And he replied, while tip-toeing, "Is he creeping slowly?" 

Where does a child get these things?

At dinner last night we talked about our favorite parts of the day and we all agreed that "right now" (seated beside each other at the table) was our favorite part of the day.  I said:  "It's weird we all have the same favorite part of the day."  And Tony said, "Technically, it means we love each other."

So incredibly beautiful.

I'm not sure what the theme of this post is supposed to be.  Yet, my heart feels full and warm and content this morning, despite the responsibilities associated with living. 

Wait, I know what it is!

I am in love.

In love. 

Sitting in the midst of it, feeling it, surrounded by it, hopeful of its power, wrapped in its strength, aware of its depth, and discovering that, technically, it is my favorite part of every day.

Peppers Out the Wazoo

I spent two hours in the garden today.  The weeds that got through the black paper are like trees.  The tomato plants are so heavy that they knocked down the cages and so I was burdened with the task of putting in stakes and tying them into an upright position.  I am tripping over watermelons.  (What possessed me to buy four watermelon plants?  The neighbors are going to hate me by the end of the summer). The cucumbers are coming in waves, alongside the yellow squash and the zucchini. 

We mustn't forget the peppers - hot banana peppers, sweet banana peppers and jalapenos. 

Out the wazoo.

I could feed a good portion of China on the peppers alone!

It is not clear why I planted so many peppers this year.  I think it was because last year I was in such a fog of grief that I don't recall eating any.  So this year, I think, I subconsciously tried to make up for it.

I spoke with my sister yesterday about the 2nd annual stuffed hot pepper contest.  I will be a participant this year and I am a sure winner.  If my siblings start talking smack now, they are sure to regret it when they have to eat humble pie and pin the blue ribbon to my shirt.  I say this in jest because we all know that Jeff is looking down on us and loving every second of it, and would probably be the winner.  I've been saying prayers that he come to me in a dream with a good recipe, just so y'all know.

Anyway - if anyone nearby needs some vegetables, stop over and pick away.  And if you need peppers, check the wazoo.

Fastening My Belt

Abdication.
Abdication?
Ab-dic-a-tion??

I awoke with this word rolling through my brain and for the life of me, I couldn't remember what it meant.

It means: to relinquish or give up power formally.  Such as a king abdicating from the throne; or a person of power resigning from the position.

Okay, great.  Now I remember what it means.  Why the hell was I dreaming about it?

Then a song by Sting sang in my head.  It is a song that I might have listened to, maybe, a dozen times over my lifetime.  The only line I know is:  "Let your soul be your pilot, let your soul guide you, he'll guide you well."

I suppose the two are connected.  Of course they are connected.  Why else would my little brain be reciting the word abdicate with Sting singing in the background?

Then there is the separation of where your soul wants to fly you and where your responsibilities take you.  For example, my soul is telling me to hop in the truck and pick up the kids in my pajamas because I am desperate to see them;  yet, responsibility necessitates that I a) put on regular clothes; b) wait for a reasonable hour because 6am is not acceptable; and c) ugh, grocery shop first.

On a bigger level, I am sitting in a house that used to belong to a marriage.  I made it my own - adding a pool, a puppy, flowers in the front garden and a boatload more love within.  Yet, today, it feels like a heavy burden.  I suppose it probably has to do with having been piloted to the top of a mountain for over a week and then landing in the same destination as always.

The difference however, between being here now and being here then is that there has been a shift in my little brain - an urging to continue writing and to watch my step, lest I fall into that same old rhythm of the past year.  It's like eating pizza every day and then finally tasting its zest.  It's difficult to go back to just eating it.

Make sense?

So this is my formal resignation from eating bland pizza; from being in this house and forgetting to taste its flavors.  I am abdicating from autopilot, and will navigate my flight via the directions from my soul.

It should be a fun ride.

A Week Long Vacation in the Stratosphere

"...and you know it's really hard to hold your breath.  I swear I lost everything there ever was to fear..."

Okay, I realize that the last post was unlike many of my other posts - it was a creative endeavor to show you all just how much I learned at the writing workshop, and it is a rather funny story.  Consider the line:  My hippie fell down... hard!  That's funny stuff all by itself.  Yet, I realize that my regular readers are breathing a sigh of relief - "phew - her voice is back", you might be saying.

Yes. That is true.  The above quote is true as well.  Up in those mountains, I swear I lost everything there ever was to fear.  Much of the fear came from my doubting my abilities in writing, and what I realized while I was up there was that I didn't care if I was a lousy writer, right now.  I want to be a better writer, of course.  Yet the whole process is such a turn-on.  Dorky.  Sure. I like to write - how it makes me feel when I nail a sentence or a sentiment or a description.

At one point, while I was up there, I had a heavy wave of insecurity hit me upside the head.  I was surrounded by some brilliant writers and I thought, "I can't compete."  Then the voice of my father whispered in my ear:  "Compete only with yourself."  (I actually called him today to thank him).  The truth is, I like writing and I will continue to do so and I will continue to improve.  In the meantime, I will try out different styles on this blog (as I did in the previous post) but I will continue, also, to have the Carrie voice you are used to.  (See?  I just ended a sentence with a preposition!)

And so.... how was the writing workshop, you ask?  On an academic level, I learned a bunch.  It will come into play as I revise and revise my manuscript.  You may even sense some subtle changes to my writing on this blog.

On a visceral level - way down in the gut - I realized that my life is in my own control and being on the mountain, although certainly not so dramatic as to be life-changing, made me realize some things.

I refused to turn my computer on or visit the internet.  The only people that I called were Paige and Tony and that was because I can't breathe very well without their breaths.  I realized that I can survive without the constant bombardment of emails, facebook messages (not that I am that big into facebook) and surfing the web for innocuous information.

So that was good.

Most importantly, I met some people up there that I think I was destined to meet.  (As you know, I don't believe in coincidences).  I met people that needed to speak with me and people that I needed to speak with - even if it was just for those moments of sharing stories.  With some, I shared laughter.  With others, sorrow.  Yet the common thread was that they were genuine.  For that I am grateful because I truly believe that if God made these people, he must really like me too.

I'll end with that thought, and hopefully, will have more to say about it tomorrow. 

60s Night at Wildacres

Inside the Jack Kerouac beat, where the music and haze was as natural as a birdsong and fog, the current generation took a step back or perhaps into a time warp where modern tie-dyed shirts, peace signs, “Love you, mans”, go-go boots and mini-skirts were pulled from bins or purchased for this particular dance.

It was 60s night at the Wildacres Writing Workshop.

Bongs and joints, demonstrations and chants, nipples and dirt were missing from the mix and the authenticity was blown when, at one point I believe, the electric slide was a dance choice. (Although, in its own right, watching hippies boogie, woogie, woogie was quite entertaining).

In particular was one man (perhaps wearing his original sixties gear) with long hair down to the middle of his back, a beard to match and his own song rolling through his bones – which caused his eyes to droop to slits and his quarter-sized lenses to smudge – who swayed to his own beat; the Byrds or Grateful Dead humming a tune while the tin roof rusted on the Love Shack for everyone else.

An Afro-wearing ex-pastor – who, two nights previous, danced to the beat of his own i-pod while the other attendees of the impromptu dance party sat dejected on the sidelines – paused with his hands in the air, waiting for the beat between “tin roof” and “rusted!” and bobbed his head and body to the rhythm of the chorus.

Dancing beside him was a Girl in a red-bandana and a beaded rock-and-roll necklace who was as grateful to be smiling on that dance floor as she was to have given birth to her two beautiful children. She had solidified her friendship with the Afro-wearing ex-pastor when she informed him that his i-pod two nights previous had shit the bed.

Her interest in wearing his Afro resulted in a quick game plan to dance beside someone as sexily as an Afro-wearing ex-pastor and a Girl wearing a red-bandana could. They conspired and the Byrds-induced Swayer with the long hair and smudged glasses was their chosen one.

They shook their hips, jumped to the beat and waved their arms inside the swarm of other dancers who were doing the same. They moved toward the Swayer, into and through a week of dialogue, critiques, rough drafts, Chekhov, a few reflections of their loved ones (she with a memory of her brother doing the corn cob dance at her wedding, him remembering the tenderness of his mother’s smile), thisness, readings and applauses, criticism and praise, and into pockets of new friends, old friends and friends that were OLD old friends creating a vortex of energy that pushed them closer and closer and closer to the Byrds-induced Swayer.

Before any physical contact had been made, a well-versed man of prose (whose eyes held the velvet warmth of a Werther’s original), stood outside the vortex of bobbing heads and jumping Jacks and watched as the swirl blew the man down.

He was caused to exclaim: “My hippie went down hard!”

Indeed, the hippie had gone down hard. He sat splayed on the ground looking up at the Afro-wearing ex-pastor and the Girl in the red-bandana with a question of “What’d you do that for, Man?”

The Afro-wearing ex-pastor and the Girl in the red bandana locked eyes that reflected a vision of them bent and holding their sides in laughter. They extended their hands, heaving the hippie back to his feet whereby Nights in White Satin began playing in his head.

In tempo with their plan, the girl pulled the red bandana from her head and slipped on the afro, while the ex-pastor did the opposite.

Their heads sprang into the air; they caught eyes and jumped, shook their heads and hips, waved their hands and arms, and resumed dancing around the swaying hippie who had gone down.

Hard.

A New Day on the Horizon

The coffee is strong this morning, warming my tongue and throat, heavy in its aroma and in its ability to perk me up.  It's Tim Horton's, after all.

I awoke grinding my teeth again.  My jaw and neck ache from it, yet I realized as I stepped out into the 80 degree weather at 5:55am that for the next week or so, a shift in my life will occur.  I also realized that the two pieces of pumpkin pie left over that I made for Paige and Tony will likely get thrown into the garbage can because they won't step foot into this house for over a week.  The dogs are going to be in a tizzy when they wake up every morning next week and I'm not there to kick them out of the way as I groggily descend the stairs to let them outside and then feed them.  I wonder if Gracie will sit on the rug in front of the kitchen sink and look up at the coffee maker while it doesn't brew. 

I am leaving my responsibilities for this house to Jessica.  Last night, she pulled out a sheet of paper and said, "Okay, what are my duties?" 

We started with the pool and the chemicals it needs; how to get the filter up and running; how to vacuum; how to dial my friend Bryan's number when she gets confused - he's my "on-call" pool boy.

The next thing we talked about was the lawn - mowing and watering the sod; watering the hanging flowers in the front; keeping Enzo from tearing up the wet sod and rolling in the mud puddles (lest mopping be on her to-do list).  

Oh, the dogs.  Up early, feed, let out. Oh, the duties that are required because of the dogs.  Every detail left to the imagination. 

She became visibly overwhelmed at this point.

Garbage and recycles go out on Sundays and Tuesdays. 

I'll leave an emergency number with her in case any of my family needs to get in touch and my cell phone coverage is jacked.

Have fun!

Since she works full-time, it's a lot to handle.  So, I vacuumed the pool last night, put in some of the necessary pool chemicals, mowed the lawn and will weed-wack later this morning for her.  She crossed those things off her list and was a little less overwhelmed. 

I will be free of these duties!  I will be forced to ignore the nagging voice in my head that pushes me to make appointments for the kids (physicals due), the dogs (shots due), and myself (dentist due).  I will be forced to ignore the scrolling grocery list that invades my brain every other day.  I will be forced to know that I may not be able to answer any emails or phone calls from prospective employers.  I will be forced to let go of the ex angst.  I will be forced to be engaging and creative and less worrisome. 

Oh, and I'll have to learn to walk without the heavy baggage of my usual loneliness that comes from the absence of Paige and Tony.  I might have to drink some V8 so I am not walking at an angle.

I anticipate that this will not be as relaxing as a vacation on the beach but that it will have a longer-lasting effect on my psyche and well-being.  How many people can spend a week in the mountains with people who are similarly obsessed with writing?  I am lucky.  But more importantly, I will be practicing the essence of me.  Free.

The coffee sure tastes good this morning.  Next week I will be tasting it a few thousand feet above sea level, and a few thousand feet closer to heaven.  Tasting Tim Horton's in the mountains... should be a treat.

Waves and Waves

In the ocean of life, faith is the anchor of the soul.  I've mentioned this before.  It is on a book mark that my Mom bought me over 15 years ago and it has hung from every rearview mirror of every vehicle I've ever owned.  It is sun-faded, a little tattered on the edges, but golden in its strength.  It's funny because this was the first thing I thought of as I opened my eyes from a very sound sleep this morning.

In the ocean of life, faith is the anchor of the soul.

Man, the ocean gets turbulent sometimes, doesn't it.  It whips you around like you're an ant in a tornado.  Doesn't seem like you have the slightest chance of survival.  And then, magically, it calms and you are left contemplating the most beautiful sunrise you've ever set eyes on.  And oh, the fish that are within it.  Bait and hook, hook and bait all day long.  Not only is fishing entertaining, it feeds you!

In the past three days, I've gotten phone calls out of nowhere for job interviews, for dates and for social events.  I was sitting in turbulent waters, contemplating the weight of that anchor on my shoulders, and whammo, the waters changed, the tide turned and my anchor began drifting like it was a feather on very powerful, breathtaking waves.  What is in store for me?

It feels like there has been a bend in the ocean, that I have moved beyond looking at the horizon and actually am part of it now.  Like the pink and gray backdrop of that horizon line has somehow pulled me into it. I wasn't even trying to get there.  But magically, the phone started ringing.

I have a phone interview this afternoon with a billion dollar corporation doing work that I can do with my eyes closed - writing and negotiating legal contracts.  Yawn.  It does call for some traveling though, so it may not be a winner for me because we all know my number one priority are my babies and traveling kind of works against those priorities.  Unless they mean traveling from my bedroom to my office to finish my work. Wouldn't that be nice?  After I finished setting up that interview, my phone rang again with an opportunity to begin work as a manager for telecommunications for a previous company - this was piggybacked by another potential opportunity. 

All this, after looking for something since January.

I have a date on Thursday with a "nice, Italian boy who has a crazy streak".  Boy, that sounds familiar!  It's a blind date but the age and physical stats sound promising.  It's merely a date and a mere date is all this girl can handle at this point.  I look forward to a couple beers, the niceness and the craziness.  The last thing I want is a relationship, so crazy and nice sounds appealing.

The kids will be going with their dad this afternoon for their vacation.  I will be mapping my drive to the mountains of North Carolina for one of the only things that doesn't weigh my heart down with the thought of being away from them...

Big things bobbing up and down in this ocean.  The next storm awaits - boy, does it await - but I'll just grab onto my anchor and wait for it to pass.

Marco!

I am four days away from my trip to the mountains of North Carolina to attend a writing workshop with about 90 other people - 10 of which I will become more familiar with because they will be in my fiction-writing class with me.  There will be no dogs to wake me up at 5am, no lawn to mow or pool to vacuum, the kids will be doing whatever it is that they do with their father (or whoever is watching them) and despite the fact that I always feel an ache when they aren't next to me, I will have the workshop to fill the void.  And truly, aside from being a mom and running this household, writing is truly my passion.  Hopefully, I'll walk out of there with a little more confidence in my abilities and some tricks to get me through the short story, poem or novel that urges me to write it.  My writing sure as hell hasn't been up to par lately.  And I know why that is too.  I just can't shake the anxieties of the days that have strung together over the past month - no matter how I try. 

I dunk my head under the waters in the pool, I teach the kids the right and fair way to play Marco-Polo, we get the whirlpool going pretty good, we shoot hoops with a ball that has patches over where Enzo's teeth have landed, we spend lazy minutes on our towels, reading books and drying off in the sun... and in those moments, all is good.

The minute they do their own thing - cuddled up on the couch with a book or an ice cream sandwich or watching Spongebob - I am tensed up again, clenching my jaw and worrying about the next time I have to face my ex, the next time I have to hear either one of them complain about leaving me again, the next time my lawyer calls to say I have to go to court in order to talk to my ex about things that, if his guilt and pride would stand down, could be done in a regular conversation between a mother and father of two very beautiful children, and the next unexpected/unaccounted for bill that comes in the mail...

I used to be able to let it all go - take a deep breath and let it go because tomorrow worries about itself and I am not obligated to take over its job - but the truth is, nothing ever changes.  It's been three years of me begging to get on the same page, swallowing my pride and apologizing to keep the peace, watching who I introduce the children to, what we eat, how we spend our time and realizing that life will play out the way it plays out regardless of my actions because despite wanting a normal childhood for the kids and an amicable relationship with a man that has no idea he is leaving a graveyard of broken relationships behind him - and that this flippin' skeleton is standing up and crawling toward him again and again and again just to ensure that his babies don't get hurt.

And it sucks.  And I'm tired. And while I am at this writing workshop or in front of this computer, I'll be thrown sideways in anticipation of being beaten down again and again and again.

Time is the conqueror, they say.  You'd think after three years, the battle would have been won by now.

But it's not.  It's just a string of days, with fun moments stuck between the days of drama with a person who thinks he's a real man with integrity, but is really a coward dressed in fine clothes, driving expensive cars with pretty girl after pretty girl...and taking it all out on me.

Time for pancakes and then a full day of swimming with the kids! Moment by moment by moment by monumental moment...

Polo!

Twice Shy

Oh, the hours I’ve wasted, distressed from the transpirations of the past three years. And only now do I realize, at 6:46pm on a Friday night, that this attractive writer is dressed in her pajamas and ready to go to bed.


How weary the body becomes after all this time: the pain and exhaustion of scrutinizing a venomous wound that has long since healed; the puzzle of the mood of the snake – whether the fangs will be hidden or exposed at the next meeting; and how the wounded will walk again after the onslaught of insults and negativity.

Why bother?

Is this longing for a beer with friends a comfort or an ache? Is this longing for companionship real or just a cruel joke? The knob to turn off the risk and the pain has broken in my hands. That poisonous snake is hiding somewhere….

So why bother?

The quiet moments when the soul is alive,
when the voices inside are comforting,
when the solitude of being a part of something bigger erases the pain of living – those are the moments I should concentrate on.

In the green fluidity of the leaves on the trees –
from the distant bird song and the pleasant screams
of neighbors playing in the pool.
I must become enchanted.

The seriousness of life shall never stop
with its incessant hammering.
Only a fool would listen.

I am a fool.