Moody Meow

I’m out of meds, and as of a few weeks ago, I haven’t had anything in my system. I try to go to sleep with Benadryl and a beer (or three) and I end up fighting my brain until 6 in the morning, when exhausted, I finally fall asleep to the sound of hectic traffic. I’m trying to pretend I am well, but I’m not. And although I wanted to run tonight, I couldn’t. Why? Excuses, of course - Puck hurt himself, and I couldn’t run without him, I have a deadline looming and a lot of editing to finish…blah. I really thought that I had the mental will to move my ass, to alleviate this hurt that’s starting to build, but it’s not working. I can’t get my head out of my way. So I sit. I feel awful.

It’s just a part of the cycle. It’s how this shit is sometimes.

But that’s just the beginning of what’s going on now. Some of it I can’t talk about in an open blog. Why? When families fall apart, you have to keep your mouth shut for fear of hurting the ones you love the most. I won’t allow my words to become weapons. So, it’s enough to say that my parents are splitting up, my grandmother is in ICU again, and right now my depression is an actual physical ache. It hurts. It hurts a lot.

It’s not to say that my life is a pile o’ poop. It’s just enough to say that there are things that are hanging on my head, in my heart, and pulling me down. And for the first time in a long time, I feel out of control.

It will pass. It’s a part of the cycle. I am going to get back to working on my novel. I have to change the tense (ugh). I’m seriously tempted to scrap it and start over again, but that will take entirely too long.

I think I need to have a smoke.

It’s been cool here and some of the trees have started to take on the colors of fall. I love Portland.

It’s supposed to get “hot” here tomorrow. All of 85…. god, I don’t miss Florida weather.
*edit..they updated the weather. It’s going to be 90. I think Frankie cursed us. I’ll get him back*
I’m working on my garden today, my critiques, and laundry. It feels good to get all of this stuff done. There’s much more to do, like looking for a job, but that’s on the back burner for the next couple of days. The critiques are my main focus. Well, that’s kind of a lie. My garden is what I want to do first. So, should I be responsible, or play in the dirt? Hehehe… we all know what I’ll choose.

So, Michael Vick found Jesus.  Nice to hear that. I am so sick of celebrities and athletes caught in shite behaviors finding Jeezus or attributing their issues to mental illness/addiction. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on buddy. I hope your career is ruined. Cruelty is pervasive in professional sports. Wife-abusers, animal abusers — it feels like the only people who succeed in the sports world are those with compromised morals. Infidelity seems like a hobby to those pricks (although I admit it is pervasive throughout society. Being that they are in the spotlight, it gets more press). That’s a horrific thing to do to a family. And then there is the bee in my bonnet — the animal abuse. I think Vick should be put into his own pit-bull ring, and see what happens to him. I don’t belive in capital punishment, and I know this is just anger speaking, but sometimes an eye for an eye sounds like a brilliant idea.

(that was an incoherent rant… sorry for the grammar)

*later today*

So, I planted my flowers and my jasmine, finally. And for my troubles I have two ripped open blisters, one of my ring finger where my wedding ring is. They frackin hurt. The prior landowners put down a substandard mulch which is riddled with teensy splinters. So on top of my blisters I have splinters on my ankles where my socks stopped. I’m used to Florida dirt. It’s loose and easy to turn. But this stuff is almost a foot deep hardpan, and it is impossible to break through without a shovel. My whining is done now. I’ve got the very beginnings of a loverly garden. Let’s see how the rest of it works out.

It’s windy again, and cooling down rapidly. I enjoy wearing a hoody when it gets cold at night. I think I am in heaven.

Change is good, and I will be the first to admit that. Moving to Portland was one of the best things we could have done for ourselves, but it throws into sharp relief that which will not be done. I’m craptastic about phonecalls (e-mail people!!), and I know I owe you all a few. It’s hard for me to talk about the things going on here. The disconnect is not just with the place I left but also with the person I was. We moved over a month ago, and I don’t feel the same, not at all. When I slow down for a moment and think about the full transition, from college to grad school, from employment to freedom, from Florida or Oregon — it’s hard to sit down and take it all in sometimes. And there are things I miss. I’ve just come to realize that. I miss the birds in Seemore. I miss knowing that when I walk into Babbo’s - they will know what wine I want. I miss the ease of communication with everyone, because we all knew I was there, and just a phone call or a visit away. The phone is still there (again.. I suck.. I have to return phone calls), but the span of time and space, the distance between here and there feels vast. At one end, it cleanses, and at the other…. well I regret a few things. But that’s not what this is about.

When you break a person down to bare bones, to their essence, I feel like that is where my change has come. I’m still in limbo essentially. I’m surprised to find my right way on streets with unknown names. When I see new things, I drink them in, and there are 100 places for us to visit. We will, when the time is right. I’m still me… the big E. But  I am from Portland, and it feels uncomfortable on my tongue right now. It will change. My home is my heart…and that came with me to this place… surrounded by lush green hills, psychos on bikes, people with funny colored hair and liberal beliefs. I’m here. And I am trying to fit my heart into this place. It will work. I’m flexible.

Although I still can’t touch my toes.

Good night all…

I planned on getting a chunk of my writing done today, but last night I had a manic snap…and it lasted until I went to bed sometime after 6 this morning. I figured after dawn hit that I should try to sleep. It didn’t work out well, but because I’m all kinds of sparky right now, I’m not having a problem. Ask me how I am in a day or so when I crash. And this manic snap is not a cooperative one. When I stare at the screen, instead of focus (which I do get sometimes… although not as often as I would wish) I found distractions in the horrific stories of the day and the local coverage of Ikea’s opening on the 25th. YES! IKEA FOR MY BIRTHDAY! How did they know ? *smirk* Okay, so it’s the day after my birthday…who cares. Close enough.

Things here in good ‘ole Portland are strange right now. I waver between the working world and the newness of it all. We went to Powell’s twice this week. I needed books for school, I swear. But it is the greatest bookstore I’ve ever been in. All of the authors I love are there, with old editions and new. I found a book on american slang from the ’50’s. I didn’t buy it. I don’t know what I would use it for yet. Trust me, I’ll find some way to buy it. And everyone here does ride their bikes. Even now, at almost 12, someone rode by, heading home. It’s a great thing to see. Although, I must remind you all — my road is fucking busy. It’s worse than Nebraska, more constant. The upside is that I watch all of the interactions between the cyclists and the drivers. They are pretty patient with each other. The driver vs driver is remarkably different. If you are behind the wheel of a car, then things can get pretty hairy. People don’t drive consistently here. Some speed but LOTS of people crawl. There are less people on cellphones, but there are enough to piss me off. Such is city life.

A few things have come up that I’ve not commented on yet. Personal stuff, but who am I to keep my personal life hidden? I don’t have many secrets, this you should know. And I’m not ashamed to talk about most things. Oh, fuck it. I found out that papa-san (my stepfather) read the blog post from one of my visits to Colorado, when D and I flew out for mom’s 50th. It wasn’t a nice post, to say the least. I was in a bad space, in a very dark place, and feeling uneasy with my relationships with everyone. That post and most of my other ones, are/were written without thought. I don’t edit, and I talk about almost everything I feel. It seems he felt hurt by the post and it was stated to a relative as the reason why he didn’t come or even express interest in coming to my graduation. To say our relationship is okay is being generous. I don’t know who he is or why he is so distant with me. I can only assume that it is the result of our disagreements and disappointments over the years. Add to that - long held resentment for my desire to rekindle a relationship with my father and an inability to communicate - well its not the recipe for a loving relationship. What I find most frustrating and hopeful — his conversations with me. He told me not to subject myself to a career that didn’t involve doing what I love to do — that I should not compromise on that and to fight for a job that fulfills me. It felt wonderful when he said that. It felt like he really got me. I hoped that conversation would be the beginning of something bigger, but it wasn’t. It was just a nugget, a spark. But it is what I will keep with me now. Things between my parents have been mostly crap for years. It’s been hard to watch, and although I love both of them, my Mom is always my biggest worry. She’s not fragile or weak, but constant stress brings out the worst in all of us. I just want everyone to be okay.

On a brighter side - Cat and I have had a great time together. She and B took D and me to the farmer’s market on Saturday. The guys carried big jasmine plants while Cat and I carried our veggies. Prior to that, Cat and I spent the afternoon downtown, talking about relationships and possibilities. I can’t explain how wonderful that afternoon was. It wasn’t just the bright sky and amazing setting (she took me to her favorite neighborhood, and I felt like a tourist — I kept gawking), it was the honesty and comfortable feeling that settled into me. My trust issues remain. It’s a problem I know I have to deal with, but she’s helping me through that by just being there. she and her huzzie have been instrumental in my settling into the city. It’s the nooks and crannies that make a home, and knowledge of those places in Portland that make me feel like I belong here and not like some impostor. It is home here. Cat helped that a lot. And I shall repay her in salsa and laughter…. Oh! And she’s coming with me to Ikea for the opening. That’s friendship.

A woman at the Cup and Saucer, a wonderful restaurant near the house, has the same Celtic knot as I do. It’s on her lower back. she got hers in australia 10 years ago from a little tattoo shop. It’s blurry and needs to be fixed, but she loves it. I didn’t tell her the story about mine, because I am realizing that it doesn’t matter now. It’s there, and I love it still. Not because it is a reminder of what happened to me in Gainesville, but because it reminds me of all of the other possibilities that are out there for sisterhood. If you get a chance to go to this place - get their egg sandwich on sourdough. It makes me hungry just thinking about it.

D and I went to see 2 places for Amanda in the past 2 days. The first one was… stinky. No go. The 2nd I didn’t really get to see because they had already rented it out. It’s hard to find a place here. We really lucked out with our house. Oh! D smashed his head on the ceiling going down to the basement (I will try to take a picture to show you). He got to wear a pirate band-aid. It made things all better. So, Amanda will stay with us for a bit if she can’t get a place before she gets out here. Her kitties will go into the basement, which is not a scary basement, it’s just not all that inviting without furniture. I hope we can help her find a place. I know how freak it is when you are in house-limbo.

We don’t have squirrels or birds yet. This makes me slightly sad. I have my feeders up. Whats a girl gotta do in this town to get some squirrel love? (hehehe insert fuzzy dirty comment here)

I have phone calls that I need to return, but I will do that tomorrow. Right now I am going to read a book on writing archetypes and perhaps I can figure out how to get that 2nd paragraph written. Did I mention that I have 30 pages due next week?

I need a beer.

Sometimes I’m just odd.

For weeks, two onions grew long, pale leaves, and they were growing said greenery in my vegetable drawer in the fridge. I didn’t want to throw them away. After all, they were mighty pretty. So, when in doubt - call Mom. She told me to pot them and when they’ve established some good root structures, plant them in the yard.

She told me to do that three weeks ago, and I finally got around to it last night…..

at 11.

I was sitting on my porch steps, digging through dusty Miracle Grow, and I couldn’t figure out why the damn water kept pooling and running over the tops of the pots. WTF? Then I remembered Good Eats. Seems Alton Brown’s  advice regarding adding wet goods to dry is also applicable to dirt and water. What to do next? Make mud soup. My fingers haven’t squished themselves through dark, wet mud since I was a snot-faced, scabby-kneed kid. Water moved into dirt and mud oozed and I was very, very happy. Only after D came out to see what was taking me so long (did I mention it was 11 and he’s usually sending me to bed at that hour) that I realized I was having fun. After another few minutes, I planted the onions. They are quite beautiful and the pots sit next to my ivy and mini bamboo plant. And the leaves smell lovely… a little like.. onions.

By the way -  you should close the bag of Miricale Grow so it doesn’t end up fluffy, dusty dirt. And it makes great mudpies.

And that story is to share with you how random I am sometimes. I will delay and procrastinate in doing something (yes, something as simple as planting an onion - or as important as getting the wedding rings) and only finish the project when it feels right. Sometimes I don’t even know that I am purposefully halting the progress of this or that. Then something clicks, and its okay to move forward. Why is that?

30 bits of trivia about Star Wars. I think D knows all of this already, but its fun to review. Ahhh… geekdom

I think I should try to make this….. heheheh

You may not be interested, but this is kind of dick. WTF is up with Apple? Don’t they know I don’t have AT&T? Gah! I won’t change my carrier, at least not right now. I love technology, and I love Apple products, but this just seems counterproductive, and lets not mention the price point?!?! Shit. I’ll just get a PS3 and call it a day. I’m horrible with phones anyway.

Speaking of PS3…..ooohhhh. Happiness. Mmmm...

D linked me to this article (or blog postish type thingy) by Joss Wheadon - of Firefly fame (yes, I know he did Buffy and that other thing, but I loved Firefly…and it’s my blog — so nah!). Read the whole thing. I don’t know why I am endlessly surprised by men who really respect women, who try to understand where the toughness and tenderness and coexist. I’ve never been of the mind that women are better than men, that we are superior, but there’s something to our ability to create life that no man can take away.

This may be hypocritical of me to say. I’m well aware that I don’t want children (thank you — did my spawning at 16 — the genes have been spread) but I can still create life if I chose. My womb is a cyclic dance, endlessly moving and changing. That will never end. And it seems, neither will the violence against women. Why are we so frightening? Why is it okay to subjugate women to a male ego.

Please understand that I am not saying this as an abused or even irritated woman. I’m married to the kindest man in the universe, and my brother is similarly reverent of women. There are many people in my life who have never hit a woman or talked down to them or demeaned them. But theres always someone out there who thinks it is okay to denigrate their wife or emotionally abuse their mother. Or… that it’s okay to hit.

I realize this is kind of unfocused rambling, but this issue rings in a place I thought long healed. It’s tickling at memories I would like to forget. If you love a woman, any woman, remember that we deserve respect and kindness and an equal footing in society, otherwise, we are just perpetuating stereotypes over and over again.

For the record — I’ve been many things a woman’s not supposed to be: blunt, uncompromising, sexually adventurous, fierce, and thoughtful. That will never change. You can call me a bitch, a slut, crazy and emotional — it’s all about the adjectives, I guess. But you can’t take away the fact that I’m a strong woman.

Wednesday - My final final, Botany. Again, I believe that Dr. Grey screwed us. I studied the list of topics, made note cards, poured over maps and formulas and all that other nonsense. I packed my brain full of stuff, and when the test came, I almost threw something. He included information from throughout the semester, not since the midterm. Gah! The test was short - the only saving grace. As I exited Bush, pushing my way through frustration and those big doors, I saw my fellow students outside. I wasn’t the only one who felt fucked by the test. So, what do you do after your last final? One that frustrated the piss out of you? You go to Fiddler’s and drink yourself silly.

I should stop here and state that I’ve only been to Fiddler’s a handful of times. I can’t smoke, and as such, I get frustrated. The bar (restaurant) is made for smoking. Dark, shiny wood and brass bits, deep green rugs (although they could be another soiled color — you can only see so much in that light). You can feel the old cigarettes, see the burns in the laquered booths. But there is no smoking now, and I understand why, but if there was ever a place made for smoking, it would be Fiddler’s. Oh, and they have wonderful fries, but their potato pancakes leave much to be desired…. yea. Not healthy food, but there aren’t many veggie choices in a place that serves bird in a pot and steak.

Back to the drinking. We sat down with many (new) friends from class. My drink of choice, Strongbow, seemed to ellict laughs and ribbing from a few. I think Strongbow is acceptable, and Smith-icks is nasty. But that’s just my opinion. Kat and I bonded over Jager shots (yes, I did jager two days in a row) and conversations about the future. I felt so close to all of those people — the cute girl, Raul, Kat… As the night wore on, my face and belly hurt from the laughter. Then, one by one, everyone began to depart. It was the first of the goodbyes, and it felt sad to me. But I will see some in Portland and some at the graduation party, and the rest — I think I will make them characters in a short story or two. D met me up there, escorted me home (I drove after the drink — baaad Erica) and put me to bed, sorta. I ended up manic as all hell and walked the halls of my memory, as the alchohol worked through my body, it seemed to stir up more and more of my Rollins memory. I slept briefly, and fitfully, but thankful for the shots and the laughter.

Thursday — the madness continued. After hurrying through work, I raced to ABC to pick up tasty beverages and a little snack. 2 bottles of Malbec and a champagne-thingish (I’m very ignorant when it comes to bubbly stuff). The courtyard was nearly empty when I got there, just a few people milling about. But Woolson House was open, and I walked inside. On the tables - Cheesecake Factory cheesecakes, luscious breads with sumptuous spreads, fruit, veggies and meat-stuff. I sat my beverages down next to another bottle of champagne and tried to keep my mind positive and out of the muck of my sadness. We sat around and talked about the final. I think everyone got an A, and if they didn’t they at least got a reasonably good grade. I had a slice of chocolate cheesecake which gave me a happy belly and a few cavities. I cracked open the wine. It was a hit, and we ran out of the wine before the good bubbly. Before I could pour myself some, both bottles were empty. For the read-around, several students brought passages from books, others brought short stories they’d written for class. Kyle, an amazing writer, read two poems he wrote. They were about his relationship with his wife and they brought tears to my eyes. That kid has an amazing gift, and he puts my wordsmithing to shame. Then I read two blog posts. I didn’t have time to write any original content, and I didn’t want to use my short stories from Deaver’s fiction workshop — they were just too long. One of the posts was about my birthdaughter. I was okay until the very last line and then I lost it. All of the emotion from the last weeks overwhelmed me. I pulled it together for the rest of the class, and listened to my classmates read their works. Then, without a whisper or exhale, it was over. 6:40 rolled through, and her next class waited to finish their last class (she teaches the Sr. English Capstone). My heart shuddered and I felt it start to whither just a little. My knees wanted to collapse. When you were a child, do you remember when you hurt yourself? When you fell off a swing, or tripped on your shoelace? The shock of the wound hits you — and then the pain. That was what that last moment felt like. I looked at Dr. Dunn and fell into her hug. I am a little embarrassed that I cried in her arms. Not exactly a strong-woman kind of thing, but it happened and she kept saying “I will see you on Saturday…” and that was enough for me.

The class ended and we, those of us that lingered in that moment of finality, sat in the courtyard at Orlando Hall and… well I said goodbye, but most of them just reminisced about the beginning and the middle and the end. I said goodbye to Sanjeev, who really made my classes fun. He was the easiest person to talk to, and we had a lot of common ground. Gene sat with us in the courtyard. We talked about relationships, about Kim’s troubles and the future. Sanjeev told me that I had to actually answer my phone because he wanted to keep in touch (my message says something like “I can’t answer my phone because it is buried in my bag….” which is usually true). After talking to friends for an hour or so, I headed home.

I had a hard moment by the water behind the library, where I usually park. The sun set over the lake. Dark blues and reds shimmered on the water and the oaks were nothing but shadows. I sat in the grass, just meters away from the water and forced my mind to take it all in. The end… it was at that moment that it really hit me. I remembered my first day of school and how scared I was. And at the end, I was scared as well. It’s all shifting to a new place, my life, but I’ve taken comfort in the routine of Rollins — even the chaos of finals and projects and such. I said goodbye, with tears and my eyes and drove home.

We ended up at Fiddler’s again….with many more people. I felt ill at ease initially, like something had to start or the sadness would overwhelm me. The cure? Blackthorn, and lots of it. I don’t know what we said, but I watched Kim dance, and heard Amanda laugh and when D and I were throwing potato pancake bits at each other, we got sour cream on Ginny’s purse. Kyle pulled me aside again and we talked about our writing and how we thought the other was wonderful. Kaleen (I butchered the spelling) joined us, as well as Kim, Amanda, Gene, and others. I got home too late and too drunk. And I don’t remember the latter half of the evening. I don’t normally get that drunk, but it was the Jager. I blame it all on the Jager.

Friday — I stayed in bed. My mind healed from the drinking and the damage of the sadness. D pampered me when he got home. I relaxed and slept…and it was good.

The weekend — I made salsa and enchilada sauce. It took hours and hours. D and I ran errands. It was nice and mellow and relaxing.

And that is it kiddies. It’s all I can remember and all I feel like talking about. There are bits and pieces that are mine, that I won’t share because they feel too small and intimate. It’s a rare thing for me not to blurt out everything, but I think I am learning a little restraint. I am going to miss Rollins. I am going to miss the people and the atmosphere, but life changes everything, and I can’t miss it for long otherwise I will miss what is going on in my present and the possibilities in my future. The time to mourn has passed. I’ve got goodbyes a’plenty. It’s time to enjoy myself.

Find something small to see - a window ledge, a flower, the way the light falls through the screen onto the textures of the table in the living room. Look, closely. What do you feel?

That pink in the window is the brightness of my home, and that texture, the thread of my life. I can feel this house move beneath my feet. It creaks in the hall by the bathroom, two steps away from the tile. The front door needs a little encouragement to stay closed. It pretends, and you think that your cats are restrained by wood and glass. But then the whisper, a creak, and you see the tail of the little gray one, and you know all is lost. I know how frightening it is under my porch. Boogey men, roaches, nightmares, a rodent or two and memories linger there. What did the maker of this house think when those first bones were fleshed out by wall and window?  And who will live here when we depart? Will they love the sound of the rain on the chimney top? Will they find the great honking of the resistant windows amusing? Will they love every texture and moment as I do?

I had my last visit with the shrink. She seemed startled to see me, perhaps she didn’t recognize my name on the chart. The tattoo usually a good reminder We talked about why I hadn’t been back in so long, and where I am with my meds and my health. I honestly forgot to call her.
Honestly.
I kept meaning to, but I just never made it. Then the meds ran out. Then I started to freak a little - albeit - quietly. She asked me what I had done in the past six months and where I was going.

“I’m moving, Dr. S” I said it kind of quietly. I know I’m moving. I’ve said it for months, but for the first time I was telling someone who knew me only on the outside, at the edge of my world.
Without raising her head to look at me. “Really?”

Was that disbelief?
“Yes…. ” and then I explained the reasons, the good ones and the ones I am just making up. I told her about the possibilities out west, graduating, grad school, the future. She stopped writing. Looked up from her notes and smiled. I don’t know if she looked happy because she’s being paid to tolerate my bullshit or because it was easier just to smile. But she looked genuinely happy.

“How are the medications? Are you reacting to them well? Any sleeping issues? Moods?” She laughed at the last on. “Oh, yes. You are bipolar - moods are always a factor.” She has a lovely accent. Her last name is Indian, but there’s a romantic European element in her voice. Her mouth moves around syllables and vowels like a dance. Nothing feels forced, no words…not even - no.

“They are fine…. and so on.” She wrote the prescription. Same old, same old for another six months. Six months of medicated sanity. Six months… more.

Then we started talking, not about madness and medical issues. She told me about a patient of hers, from a family of doctors. They are prejudiced, especially the father. She’s worked with the father/doctor for many years. Being that they are medical professionals, their worlds hovered near each other. He didn’t like my Dr., until his daughter had problems. The Doctor’s Daughter was a lot like me, my Dr. said. I don’t know why she said this, except that the Doctor’s Daughter has tattoos. But the Daughter was bright, she said, with many issues - drugs, sexual stuff (I don’t know what stuff is, but she didn’t elaborate), relationship issues with her family, a feeling of hopelessness, and she was bipolar. After a few months of treatment, the Doctor saw my Dr. in a doctor meeting place of some sort. Perhaps a the cafe downstairs from her office. He told my Dr. that the Daughter changed, and spoke and acted and seemed like my good Dr. He said it with a hint of disbelief, and perhaps awe.

“What is she doing now, Dr. S?”

“She’s in school, doing well. Her medications are working, and I see her regularly, not as a patient, but as a friend. She’s a lot like you, I think.” She smiled.
I wonder what “like me” is.

She asked me about the move, why Portland and why now? “They are more progressive out there. It’s a beautiful city. It will be a good fit for you. I wish I could move. I really do.”

“Why don’t you?”

Her husband, who has a practice across the hall, loves Orlando. They go to Europe twice a year, but that’s not enough for her. She said there is an empty space where she knows that culutre should be. Not her culture, but the culture of the city. She worked to raise funds for a mental health facility with big wigs from the community, and had to go to a banquet to rub elbows. A doctor’s wife whined the whole time… about her door. She (the wife) went to Europe to get a door - a four thousand dollar door, and it didn’t hang correctly. The Dr. listened to the wife, but couldn’t hold her tongue for the whole night.

The Wife rambled on, at a charity dinner, about her door and how people should be worried about the quality of the workmanship coming from Europe. She was convinced that she’d seen all of Europe in her search for the ill-fitting door. My Dr., tired of listening to the beast, finally told her that the door opened into an empty house and she shouldn’t be concerned. The Wife didn’t understand, and my Dr. and I laughed —- big belly laughs.

I stood up to go, thanked her for her pateinece with me and her willingness to work with me. She told me I was her dream patient. I pay attention (according to her) to what is working and am honest about my history. The drug things…yeah… she knows about that stuff too.

The door swung open and I turned to her and smiled — and thanked her again.

And in a motherly way, her palm came up to my cheek. It surprised me. The world stopped for a moment, and I saw her new glasses, and how her smile lines were much deeper than the furrows in her brow. She wore one silver necklace, no pendant or ornament. Just a chain. Both her ears were pierced, but the lobes were naked. No makeup, none of any kind. Unkempt eyebrows battled for distinction with her new gold framed oval glasses. Her hazel eyes stopped me. More yellow, than brown or even gray, they seemed to glitter. Then she smiled.

“I’m proud of you.”

Then, we said goodbye.

I bought my plane tickets for Seton Hill, and applied for Financial Aid. I even rented a car. . It cost more for the car than the flight. How fucked up is that? It’s more expensive to fart around PA for five days than to fly up there? That’s just obscene. I get back home on June 24th. We move the following weekend. It’s getting close, kids!

The Saturday Botany lab left me exhausted. We traipsed through a preserve in Volusia county, and I feel like a jerk because I forgot the name. It was hot — damn hot, and I ran out of water half way through. But, this trip, the last for our class, really solidified my love for cypress trees. You should have heard them, the music in their leaves, as the beginning of a front rolled in. When I see their knees, I look up, and often trip myself, because I want to see the pale bark and cheery, bushy branches Dr. Grey lectured about a well (it monitors water beneath the wetland), and the dried up wetland we stood in. I walked off a ways, ignored the talking, and just listened. I haven’t heard that kind of music since the hurricanes. I tried to keep up my enthusiasm, to continue taking notes, and pictures — but I just got tired. I made it home before 2 after taking a wrong turn into Longwood. I have no sense of direction. This is not a good sign for my PA trip. We saw a baby gopher tortoise! Lauren, a classmate, almost stepped on the little thing. Dr. Grey actually smiled when he picked it up, and giggled when we talked about their history and habitat. I think it made his day.

I feel pretty lost in Botany. Just when I think I have a handle on the terminology, I blank out and forget too much. We have a lab practical on Wednesday that is scaring the shit out of me. There will be twenty stations with a specimen and we will have to identify it - he uses multiple choice, matching, true/false and fill-in-the-blank. I’m trying not to be freaked out, but it’s got my stomach churning.

D and I walked from the Cady Way Trail near his work down a strip of land that paralleled the canal. I needed flowers for my Botany project. A man, walking a bicycle down a thin path between a wooded area and a fence, disappeared in the green shrubbery. I noticed bottles and bits of clothing, refuse from the unseen. I felt like I was intruding, like I shouldn’t gaze into the grass and shrubs in search for a good bit of color. But I needed flowers. I found beautiful ones, delicate cup-shaped, pink and white. I hid my shame in my bag, next to the clippers and my notebook. Their garden’s fruit and color - I stole it for school. Yes, they are “trespassing” on public land, and their shelters are unseemly, but it seemed romantic that they lived in a green world, full of flowers and leaves and wind, and that they could call it home, perhaps without much disturbance. I don’t know how they coped with that rain on Sunday. It was a washout. Maybe their homes didn’t dry as fast, but I didn’t want to take too many flowers from them. They deserved at least that much — also, I wanted to take a picture of one of the “homes” because I thought it was beautiful, but I didn’t. It would have been intrusive. I hope their trees love them, I really do.

I hate it when people can’t pick up their damn feet when they walk. Thought I would share.

I finished my Humanities Portfolio, I turn it in today.

There’s more to say, but I leave you with a tree, one that sang to me on Saturday.

**this is unedited. Sorry for the clunky writing**
Little creatures swirl around your pillow while you sleep. They stuff cotton in your open mouth, and giggle when you choke on your dreams. With the edges of your paranoia, they tickle your toes and the soft spot on the back of your knee. They giggle when you jerk about, trying to find the bug that isn’t there. The little devils like to transform your loving animals into beasts of hell, and they freak out out when they move on the blankets. They giggle when you try to lob your creature (usually a cat) across the room because you feel like you are being smothered. That, my friends, is how I slept last night. And I think those little devils used a Dremel tool to bore into my sinuses. It’s one week of a pretty decent headache. I’m a little tired of it.

On my way home last night, the gravity of our move really hit me. Last night was a perfect Florida evening - just enough warmth and humidity to make the air feel like a loving blanket, but not enough to smother. The crickets sang, and I heard the bats chirping and swooshing through the air. We have bats at Rollins. They erupt from the rafters at dusk. You’ve never seen anything like it. Well, unless you went to Carlsbad Caverns. Not nearly as impressive at Rollins, but worth noting and enjoying. The steps of Bush Hall glowed just a little under the “antique” lighting and I tried to memorize the shadows that fall on the Bookstore and the sidewalk near the soccer field. It felt quiet, very quiet. Perhaps someone graced me with just a moment to take it all in. My time at Rollins is ending. It’s starting to hurt.

I drove down Virginia, coming home the back way through Winter Park. I started to tear up. I thought about all of the things I wanted to do before we moved, and all those things that I won’t have time to do. A part of me wants to spend as much time with everyone so you don’t forget my face or the sound of my voice, and so you remember that I care. But that’s impossible. My impression, what ever it may be, is as solid as it will ever be. This sounds maudlin, and whiney, I know. But I feel it and it feels valid and it really makes me start to feel sad. There’s so much I am looking forward to in Portland. So much to see, to experience, to taste, to discover. It is all there - waiting.

In the twelve years since I moved to Florida, I’ve seen hurricanes and dead friends. I’ve had addictions and revelations. People brought tears to my eyes, and I scarred a few hearts. I lost my way and found it again. I found my best friend, and rediscovered my family. I become more than just an idea to my birth daughter. I came to terms with my manic depression and feel comfortable in that it is a part of me, but it will never define me. I learned to cherish the truth, and ignore the whispers (in as much as I can). I allowed myself to dream the impossible dream, and took the risks to attain it. I’m not young any more. I’ve had blue, pink, silver, brown, black and white hair. I got my tattoos, got pierced, and became me. Florida is a place I’ve wanted to leave for years, but it is as much a part of me as the chip on my front tooth and scars on my arms.

I’m going to idealize Orlando, Miami, Ft. Lauderdale and all the spaces in between. I’ll shine it up in my memory, forget the stink of the back alleys on South Beach, ignore the bad times. It will be perfection when I remember it. And every time I come back to Florida, I will realize that I can’t come home again. Home’s going to be far away, and if I can get beyond this moment, I’ll try to get beyond the stress of these last few months and enjoy it for what it is. It’s been my home for years. And I think it will always be a part of the home in my heart.

I have a mental illness. I am manic depressive. And when it comes to coverage by my insurance company, if I have a full-on breakdown and require hospitalization, I will get only 10 days of paid in-facility treatment in my lifetime. Ten days, kids. When I had a staph infection, I was in the hospital for a week. That was just an infection. Manic-depression can’t be treated with antibiotics. No I.V. will make it all better. For me, it’s a constant - meds every night before I go to bed. If I get another infection, I will be allowed to go back to the hospital for treatment - no questions asked. Why? Because it could be life threatening. What many people don’t realize is that manic-depression is also life threatening when it is at its worst. I have scars on my arms to prove how bad it can be.

A lot of this treatment is my responsibility, but what of the responsibility of the insurance companies? If I pay for insurance, why is a mental medical issue any different from something like diabetes? Both require daily care in order to maintain balance in everyday life. Broken legs, cancer, severe infections, pulled muscles — all covered without question. Actually, if you have cancer, they can ding you if you change insurance companies. A “pre-existing condition” and all of that. I hate the insurance industry.

And what will happen when I lose my insurance? It will cost me $500.00 to pay for both my Lamictal and my Seroquel. D and I are not thrifty, don’t save nearly enough for a rainy day, but that kind money will be a huge burden to us. As of now, I pay 40 bucks a month for both medications. I have no problem paying that - it’s reasonable. But 500? JesusHFuckingChrist!

What’s more affordable - being crazy or being sane? That’s a question I have to ask myself.

The drama from last weeks seems to have settled down. I get very uneasy when people get overly intrusive. People know I can get mean, and if I feel the least bit cornered, I’m not much of a nice person. The sad thing is that I honestly believed that everyone knew the limits of time and inclusion. I guess I need to spell that out a little more. Of course, I don’t think this will happen again. At least, I hope it doesn’t. I just don’t have energy for that kind of drama.
Amanda and I spent most of Sunday scratching our heads, trying to figure out Chapter 4 in our grammar book. I hate the words “that” and “do” and anything passive. Oh! And I hate questions as well. If I didn’t like Dr. Dunn and Amanda and some of my other classmates, I would drop that class. Sometimes I wish that I had the smarts to take an easy class during my last semester. I’m on the edge of graduating with honors (and you can thank that whore of a humanities adjunct for yanking my grade down like a pair of soiled underwear. Yes, she exposed my ass to failure…at least in my mind. We hates her.) and I honestly didn’t think that honors would mean shit to me, but I feel like I need them to validate my work. Regardless…..I’m graduating. I guess that’s something.

I am at work with my headphones on. I mention this because it never happens. I am an admin, and as such, am required to answer the phones. I hate the phone, but it’s a part of my job. Fuck the phones!! Lamb and I are jamming out. I think the rednecks are more than a little surprised when they see me swaying in my office chair. There’s nothing like dancing in the office. Now, if only they’d let me take a nap. Mmmmm….. naps!

D and I watched Thank You For Smoking this weekend. I give it a B+.

For the coming weekend: Another field lab, homework, writing a paper, getting together the information for my term paper for the Novel class, studying for my botany quiz, and taking time out for myself. I need to remember to do that. Oh! And cleaning my office — it is scary right now. The cats took over. I think they want to conquer the house soon.

This is going to be a SUPER TMI section. My period is pissing me off. Since they whacked at my cervix, my “monthly flows” are longer and more…uhm.. bloody. Ladies! If anyone wants to chop up your cervix, ask them if they can take as little as possible. When the doctor told me she took a piece out that was about the size of her thumb (and now that I think about it, she had bigger hands), I was happy. The more she took, the less likely I would be to have any kind of cervical surgery again. Well, good. But now I am stuck with cycles that require bathroom trips every fucking hour. AND I can’t do my yoga or bellydancing when during the first few days. All that movement = very bad accident waiting to happen. I wanted to run, but the same problem. So, tomorrow morning, I am going to wear a fucking diaper if I have to! I need to get out and move my ass, in spite of the issues with my uterus. Ugh. I really hate periods.

TMI - Over!

So, Christianity (nice segue, right ?) If you have read this for any amount of time, or you know me in person, you know that I am scared/angry at/annoyed with/offended by/confused by Christians. I am not a Jesus basher, but I am perplexed by his followers. Because I am a happy pagan- one who has studied the Bible as a literal text, who has studied the history and genesis of both Islam and Judaism- I’m not talking out of my ass about the religion. What makes me scratch my head are the sudden switches from a relative nonreligious life that suddenly takes a turn to some kind of religious searching. I think almost everyone has or will do this. At my darkest times, I rediscovered paganism and it has worked for me ever since (although I do find inspiration in Buddhism and some of the basic teachings of Christianity), but it was an extreme turn for me.. But the seed of my beliefs were planted when I was still a child. You will not see me dancing naked in the moonlight or casting spells. I tend to fuck up spells. I get distracted. So, uhm, what was I saying? Oh…. religiosity. There has been a shift and wiggle between devotion to the church and mere acceptance of the biblical teachings. When the hard turn is taken from holiday worship to weekly travels, I feel like something happened, something hidden under the guise of a newfound love of religion. I could be talking out of my ass here, as I often do, but it concerns me when the turns are taken (and yes, I would be just as concerned if someone went from liking trees one day to devoting their life to wicca the next) with such abruptness. It’s just something I’m thinking right now…. Yeah. Not a satisfying end to that part, but…. oh well.

My Mom and I talked about D’s birthday. She keeps forgetting that it is 2 days before Alexis’. I find that funny. D gave me so much shit for forgetting it as well. Alexis turns old on the 14th of March, and D turns older on the 12th. Easy association, right? Nope! I think I get my Mom’s absentmindedness for birthdays and other special occasions. So, just in case I missed it — HAPPY BIRTHDAY EVERYONE —. That’s my insurance policy against forgetting, because I know I will. I always do. That is something you can be sure of.

My elbow hurts.

He left her a note on the bed.

I have to go.
Have a good life.
Don’t look for me.

He told me stories about his past. He used to slam down shots of whiskey before working in the mines in Kentucky. Just a paycheck away from being homeless, he always had cash for the drink. He traveled the country, without specific destinations, and worked the kinds of jobs that broke other men. He drank his way through his relationships. The drink lasted for years. Left two wives, he said. Laughed when he told me. I am sure that there were more women, he just didn’t have the time to share those stories. I’ve mixed up the wives, their names and dates. I know he has a son, about my age. He never told me the son’s name.

Behind the warm, mischievous blue eyes, bubbled the blood of a wanderer. I think she honestly believed, as we all did, that the vagabond died when he put on the gold ring. He fidgeted with it sometimes, spinning it on his finger when he talked about leaving her. She stayed with him through treatments for a life-threatening ailment, through financial hiccups, depression, stress, emergency room trips, and vicious fights. She left a good job to be his partner in the new life in Gainesville.

This holiday season was their best ever, I heard. The presents overflowed beneath the Christmas tree. Their New Year’s celebration bubbled with joy and love. They celebrated with family, friends and hope for the future. Less than a week later, he left her, their dog, all of his belongings, his phone his address book, his whole life — except his guns. Perhaps he tried to make it as much as it could be because he knew he was going. Or, maybe he didn’t know he was getting ready to leave, but felt something in his bones, and tried to push it back by immersing himself in the steady turn of time during the holidays. Who really knows the thoughts of those kind of men.

With nineteen thousand dollars (part of the money from the sale of their house in Orlando) , he disappeared. Retreating back to the origin of his pain, of his unstable life, of his past - he could have taken the guns for many reasons. I’m still unsure as to their significance in his life. He never showed them to me, never talked about them. Perhaps he kept the danger to himself. He kept many things to himself.
And then there is a decade of marriage severed with a note. Cowardly? I never thought him to be a coward. Selfish? Absolutely. I don’t think he ever understood what he meant to those around him, most especially, his wife. He darkened everything. Bathing a relationship in dark shadows makes it easier to justify moving into a lighter path. He could have almost justified his departure as an escape from dark misery. Or, perhaps, he didn’t care to begin with.

He bought me an ivy plant for my birthday, and I put the pot on my front steps. The vine grows wildly, clinging to certain stones and avoiding other spots. It’s a lot like he was - vibrant and wild.

You can’t tame the nature of Nature.
And you can’t tame the nature of a man with the wanderer in his blood.

Blessed travels, my friend. May you find peace in the mountains of your birth.

My emotions glow like a neon sign. I’m still trying to find a good use for this lack of control, but often, it gets me in trouble. Apparently living on the edge of a breakdown scares people. You see: emotionally unstable. I see the fires of possibility burning brightly.

Now that I’ve completely lost the original track….

This started with my emotions.

There is someone I really don’t like out there. They fan the fires of my rage, gently pushing me towards a full-on hissyfit. For the last few years, the fights have been subtle, each of us remaining somewhat dignified. They poked me in the side when no one was looking, and I kicked them under the table, and stuck out my tongue for good measure. Lately, I’ve been losing the quiet war. For weeks, I’ve fumed had tantrums, and ranted about the slights against me. But someone else came into the picture - the noose-carrier, who is bigger than both of us. The  little dog that’s been nipping at my backside for ages, got a big bite in the ass. I watched the hanging begin. The rope extended as  noose-carrier spoke to both of us about an effort that included us all. It was a situation that required cooperation, but the little dog seemed hell bent on pissing the noose-carrier off. I almost laughed when the little dog got kicked in the teeth, and strung up, bound by puppy pride, ego and a stubborn attitude. The little dog’s smooshed superiority complex made me smile — a LOT. And now, I am happy with my emotions, and instead of poking me in the side today, they actually smiled. I know this is fragmented and obtuse, so I guess the best explanation is — sometimes people get what they give and that makes me happy.

The world has been weighing heavily on my mind. Global warming, a government guided by a delusional leader, the state of health care, the stigma of mental illness, growing old… it makes me want to crawl in a hole for the rest of my life. Sometimes I just get overwhelmed, and right now I am trying not to drown in my fears. It’s one step in front of the other, and if I have time, I dive into the happy escapism of FF. At least in that world, I get to ride a big bird.

I’ve searched high and low for something comfy for my yoga (see: can’t touch my fucking toes) practice, but something loose enough for belly dancing. And I found these!! I bought the canvas colored pants at the bottom. I liked the green and blue pair up in the right corner, but they didn’t have my size.
*sigh*

And I thought about buying the red pants, but I want to see how they fit before I get wild with my colors. Yes, Erica is slightly restrained.

Speaking of……

I found my old YMCA card. I used to have shoulder length hair. This was years ago, but when I look at the picture, I don’t see a woman of twenty five, with confidence and spunk. I saw someone homely and sad. I told D about finding the ID and he told me that I’d suppressed my funk. I tried to fit into what the world wanted me to be, and I kept my hair at an acceptable length, covered the tattoos. I rarely wore my labret, which I wore since I was eighteen, let heal over (during another point where I thought growing up meant taking out all of my jewelry and buying clothes that weren’t black), and got it re-pierced when I was twenty three. I stopped with the fun clothes, and I felt like a marigold trying to be a rose. Eventually, I fell out of my homely stage. I’m not a beauty queen, but no one can say that I hide who I am now. I still have one piercing, my septum, but I let the others close up, not because I wanted to be normal, but because I don’t have to prove to the world who I am. My hair curls around my face, unruly and dark, and when it grows past my shoulders, I will still wear funky braids and pony tails, or put my hair up in a bun that is held into place with pens and pencils. My body’s metamorphosis into the mother (as in “maiden, mother, crone” ) has changed how I see myself. I can see myself in red pants, because it all comes back down to color.

And sorry if this is slightly.. babblish (and no, that’s not a word. I just made it up) It’s where my brain is at.

Happy Tuesday.

I see myself in her eyes. And thirteen year ago, I first  took in the contours of her face, and wondered if her eyes would eventually take the shape of my own. That day, January 8th, 1994, she was born. That day I became a birthmother. I called her last night, just wanting to say happy birthday, but there was an odd message on her end and it hung up on me. I went to sleep, restless, remembering my pregnancy, how our lives are still entwined, and the day of her birth.

The doctor went for coffee and I felt like I had to take a shit. No one tells you about that - that pressing feeling feeling. It’s not romantic or sweet. I was mad, cramping and I felt like I had to take a shit. The woman in the next room screamed like she was dying. I found out later she was a tiny Japanese woman giving birth to twins. I would scream too. I was so tired. I fell asleep between contractions. I remember her mother squeezing my hand, whispering softly to me. I think she was as scared as I was. The nurses didn’t want me to push. The doctor went for coffee. I couldn’t stop myself, and watched him walk in the room, his mouth slightly smiling, before a frown pulled it down. Perhaps he expected something else. A moaning teenager, a whiny child having a child. With or without him, I wanted to give birth. He came in just in time to catch her head, and then I decided I was done. No one tells you about the bone-tired feeling. Your body needs your mind to respond, but my mind wanted to sleep and I kept forgetting how to breathe.

She was born at 4:30 in the morning.

She turned thirteen yesterday. I’ve often said that the children are spiritually changed after birth. She and I shared something akin to holiness in those three days at the hospital. But she’s thirteen now, not the infant with hematite eyes. Still, she carries something of me in her. And I expect that things with change again with time. I’ve been more committed to being her birthmother, and if you need a definition of our relationship, it’s more sisterly than motherly. She’s thirteen now, and I wonder where we will be in thirteen years.

Half written posts clog up a section of Wordpress -  the “manage” section. This probably doesn’t mean a damn thing to you, but I save some sites there, or story ideas and whatnot. The problem is, there are a lot of half-finished posts just sitting in digital purgatory. Some are rants. Others, just incomplete thoughts. Some are specifically addressed to one person or another. A few are alternate drafts of something I posted. But, I’m tired of holding them in that manage spot, so for your amusement, here are the shreds of this blog
the edges and pieces missing from the whole
the scraps,
the mistakes,
the abbreviated ideas,
the places I didn’t want to go,
the truths that changed with perspective and time.

But these aren’t in order, and if you think something specifically applies to you, it probably doesn’t.

Enjoy.
What Monday Looks Like
I don’t know if that little dig was towards me. Kind of vain if I assume it was, but if it was directed towards me, we need to have a little chat you and I. Shit. We should chat anyway. See, things seem to have changed. Priorities shifted. Where there was once a bridge rests a gap of such magnitude that I believe there isn’t a discourse in the world that can gap it.

You do this often, this silent thing. While I understood it for a while, being that I have the same flaw I think it’s time to grow up. Either I am welcome in your home or I’m not. There really isn’t any other way. I’m very black and white.

And I will say one more thing. The world doesn’t owe you anything. The best advice I ever received was that the world didn’t revolve around me. You should take a look at that phrase. I thought I could find decency and understanding in you and all I get is the silent treatment and “I’ll make it if I can” crap. Don’t do me any favors hon.

Moodswing 
I rode the giggly high of mania last night, and crashed as I stood in front of Bravissimo’s.

The limits of my sanity stretch themselves to the breaking point at times. Yesterday I laughed. Today I want to punch someone. No reason, beyond annoyance. It’s so frustrating getting this way. The urge to violate someone’s safety rushes through me and if someone were to invade the sanctity of my desk-space I would be liable to hit them.

This is not sane, people. This does not feel good. It is scary.

Illumination 
I work in a pretty building.

My building doesn’t instill wonder from the outside. Encased in shiny, mirrored windows, the front is a rolling slide turned on its side.

Consecration Isolation

My desk, hell my life, sometimes feels off the beaten path.
But how far is too far? Never doubt that D fills most of the niches that need busy clutter, but there are those spots not even he can’t fill. When they grow empty, dusty with long neglect, I feel isolated.

This is not a plea for an endless stream of visitors to the porch, or invitations offered in the hand of pity. It’s just a statement like many more I shall make. Perhaps it is being out of school for a few weeks that sets me into this tailspin. Or maybe I am still suffering the ill effects of a shitty holiday season. What ever the case, my need for social interaction, some kind of fucking attention

Scene
The door closed, but I expected that. Collecting the shards of his shattered wine glass, I contemplated the moments slowly. Dinner for two, alone. I could feel myself warming in his presence, warming steadily. Eyes scattered about the room. Silence, for the first time uncomfortable. Warmth cools. Dinner abandoned on shiny plates, he gulps the wine between blows in the form of stuttered comments, rolling the liquid around the bowl’s flushing my feelings down the toilet. Moments later, it all breaks apart.

A week later, he brings the reason for our demise to my house. I lived there with his best friend, his best friend who introduced the two of them. She smiled prettily. I refused to come out of my room after the introductions. I wanted to pull him into the darkness with me, hypnotize him with promises and compromises. Instead, I did lines and smoked in silence.

Just Pile it On
Seems I am everyone’s shitcan today.

First, the finances decide to take a big bounce.
Then I come into work to find out that I apparently know nothing about computers, but people who can’t use the “save-as” function understand the inner workings of a network.
And the icing on the fucking cake was an accusation from someone who should have known better. But, I digress, let me address this in the order it was received.

Bouncy. Well, we celebrated too much. Didn’t take into account bills that like to show up randomly. We are going to use quick books and budget our funds. Together, our household salary is impressive. Almost more impressive are the bills we pay. But this is the kind of life we choose to lead, so that’s what comes with it.

Morons. “But I can save to the K drive in the field”
“No, you can’t. You aren’t connected to the network in the field.”
“I do it all the time” Accusatory glance.
“I have no idea what you are doing but you are not saving directly to the K drive.”
“Yeah, what ever.”

What was he doing? He had a folder named “K Drive” on his desktop which would sync with the drive when he got back into the office. But you try to explain that to obstinate rednecks with just enough knowledge to be argumentative.

Hung Up.
I think this was just the cake topper, for me at least. But you officially chapped my ass with your little obtuse commentary. First, the phone works both ways. I have tried to call you numerous times, got the machine, and no return call. That is a subtle hint if I ever got one. But it continued with being blown off time after time. And when I did see you, it was because you were already out, and hammered with one your “best friend”. Beyond that? Nadda. I understand the new job thing.

Stories from the other side
We love Babbo’s at dusk. The Ravioli Formaggi and a good bottle of wine allows for a peaceful evening. Last Friday’s visit was no different. Dusk settled and the sky glowed with puffy pink clouds and streaks of stubborn lavender. Our server (I wish I remembered his name) welcomed us like and old friend and as we sat, I noticed the diverse diners. The well-to-do sat next to a couple of older women talking about their grandkids (yes, I eavesdrop!). I smiled as a couple sat at the table next to us. They shared an appetizer and long, loving looks.

One Year Ago - Today 
We prepared for the unkown. After the power went out at 9:30, I spent the evening huddled in the hallway with the creatures. A storm blew furiously. I felt the ground rumble as great oaks fell. I listened with great fear to the wind tearing my neighborhood apart. Darkness fell. It fell hard. And just after midnight D and I, accompanied by our trusty canines (who had to pee) ventured out to see the damage. It was year ago today that Hurricane Charley blew through our lives.

I have to thank that damnable storm for a lot of things. I learned to fully appreciate air conditioning. I didn’t care much about the lights, as candlelight is quite becoming. But the infernal, sticky, overbearing heat of a summer night brought love for blessed cool air. I also came to appreciate how old homes are built. The idea of covering 27 windows (I counted them all) in preperation scared the shit out of me. But those windows brought such comfort when they were opened to their fullest, allowing the sticky, but clean air to move through the house for a time. The best thing about the storm was a whole and complete understanding of how much I loved my man. It’s strange to think that a storm can clean the cobwebs in a mind such as mine, but as the ferocious wind tore through the brances, it also tore through my heart. I didn’t honestly think that we would die. But I did think that we had a chance of losing this home we loved so. And when the winds quieted, a thought came to me. I loved D. I didn’t want to be without him. And so from the storm came the full understanding that we should marry. I know it seems odd, or off, to think that a hurricane can bring completion, but it did for me.

I still miss the canopies that sheltered some of my favorite streets. And it was not the lives lost that I mourned, it was the corpses of fallen trees and torn vegitation. If you know me at all, you know that the natural cost would hit me hardest. I felt for those that lost loved ones, homes, and whole lives. But I also mourned the destruction of the land I love. I do love it here. I admit that much. For the natural chaos that blossoms from every garden, from every cobblestone street (you’ve seen the grass that grows between them, I know you have), from every sidewalk, it fills me with green.

So, the hurricane allowed some to rebuild with a clean, if painful slate. For me, it clarified what was important. I hope that you don’t have to hear the winds tearing at your door to realize what means most to you. Today, I kiss my husband, and tell all of you who bore witness to that brutal night to remember what you lost, and all that you’ve gained since.

Buying Wine at the Edge of a Circle 
D and I often go to Taste. I am addicted to their grilled asparagus and decor. D fondness for their mashed potatoes and tater tots cannot be ignored. Yes, I said tater tots, but it’s okay. They serve them with a little pot of horseradish ketchup and another pot of Dijon mustard. Good stuff.

Stomach at 95%
I’ve been kind of under the weather for most of the week. It’s a stomach thing. You don’t need the details, but I am glad to say that it’s almost over. I feel better today. I’m tired, but better.
I ended up with a C on my Editing Essentials midterm. At first I was horrified, then, grateful. Many people failed, and some ended up with A’s. I panicked when I took the test. Instead of moving through the answers I knew were 100% correct, I ran around in circles, doubting every answer. We went over the test on Wednesday, and I felt like such a fool. I didn’t answer three questions. Three! No answer, just a blank line. How could I have missed that? And then there were errors that just defied reason. But it’s done. I have the final in 4 weeks. 4 weeks. Oh god.
I have a class called Cuisine/in/art (sound it out) and near the end of the semester, we put on this little party called Art Feast. Everyone in class picks a topic about food and sets up a presentation. I am doing a presentation on my missed opportunity to eat my wedding cupcakes. “The Wedding Cupcakes - the Sequel” will include a better version of my cupcakes, and a little re-enactment of the cake exchange that never happened. It should be fun. I will take lots of pictures.

So, I finally pushed my luck too far. On Wednesday, I got a parking ticket at Rollins

Picknick Killer 
I had this whole romantic picknick thing planned for tonight. A date! A romantic date! And god hates me and is going to wash out my date. I fucking hate Florida and it’s fucking rain. I’m going to go off and pout, then I will have a temper tantrum. And then I think I shall pout some more.

**Edit**

The reason this pisses me off so much is that I am the most unromantic woman on the face of the planet. So, this whole date thing was a big deal. I was even going to bake. I bought a picknick basket just for the occasion. And for the record…I still hate Florida. It’s thundering. @$%#(&%#&%($%$(#&!!!!!!!!!!!!

You can’t feed them in the park! 
This is a heated issue, I guess. It seems that everyone who lives near a shelter or where the homeless congregate want them to do it elsewhere. There are a lot of sympathetic people who claim to want to help and to allow these groups to do what they can to help those in need. But people generally want them to be helped elsewhere. What’s wrong with the homeless at Lake Eola? It’s shaded, with nice bathrooms and has a tacky, illuminated fountain. Is it their body odor that offends? Or the hungry look in their eye

1. 
I want to hurt you all, to rake your face with ragged nails, and then to rip my arms up with razorblades and glass. I don’t want anyone to die, you least of all. But I want you all to hurt, like I hurt. Like this.

What do you do when the meds don’t work? When you get a bill from the shrink you can’t afford. When it’s all wrong? I want to destroy, that’s what this is about. I want to destroy, rip it all down like a 5′3″ Godzilla. Stomping, smashing, killing the pain.

My family hasn’t spoken to me in a month. I’ve pushed them all away, and I am left struggling with what to do next. If it was that easy, then all of the relationships I’ve built with them are bullshit. So easily disposed of. So easy.

David’s feelings are hurt from things I can’t help from saying. I think I’m making sense when the cruel things come to pass, but it’s not nice sense. Not nice at all. I don’t want to hurt him, him most of all. But I do it every time I cut (which I did again this morning), every time I give up, every time I speak it seems.

I’ve cried at some point every day for the past week. It’s the hormones, I keep telling myself. It’s just the hormones. I don’t want my uterus anymore. I’ll keep my phone off to save you all from this. Keep my blog down to keep you all from this. It’s the fifth of May, and I will keep this hidden. Because right now I hate you all. All of you. But I know it won’t last, and I will have to rebuild with the rubble I’ve created. And eventually people won’t come in anymore for fear of violence, and the rooms will be empty. I know it will happen. It always does.

Always.

Sheer Will
Given footsteps and
the beat of a hidden tune
she willed her feet to listen
and tread across the room
But her heart be began to falter
And her body seemed to stop her.

**unfinished?**

Going on a Date
I don’t think people (at least people in long term relationships) understand how important “dates” are. My house endlessly spins with things to do… laundry, poop-patrol, dishes (well, D does those!), dusting, and endless mounds of homework. These dates put a stop to the spinning, the endless motion, so we can enjoy the moment. Watching my parents stumble through relationship problems scares me. Will I repeat their mistakes? Will it ever get to the point where healing is impossible because the distance is too vast? I don’t think they have dated in years. I know that she was overwhelmingly in love with him, but my parents are not friends. Not like D and I are.

Soggy Gray 
This gray reminds me of hematite. Shiny. Dark. Wild. Storms keep us rooted to our dryness, bathed in butterscotch light. My couch called to me, singing sweet songs of peace. But homework, and procrastination compelled me to remain in my office. I tried to focus. She who is dead to me distracted me. I called her and the banner installation began.

I love this weather, though it makes me sleepy at this hour. I want nothing more than to crawl into bed with my creatures. They are resting at home right now, probably squishing the couch pillows in ways that irritate me.

Hidden Dragons

You don’t see her, unless I want you to.
She is gray, swirling on my ribcage in a sea of white flesh.

From Something to Nothing and back again.—- this is the last and most recent remnant

The holidays went from nothing to almost too many engagements. D and I don’t celebrate Christmas, don’t buy gifts, and it’s only recently that I’ve sent cards. Okay, I’ve intended to the send cards, which are buried beneath paperwork, Tokidoki and Kid Robot toys, and pens…lots of pens. Every year we hang out with D’s family for Christmas. Four brothers, with spouses and children, and his mother and grandmother. Sometimes his father comes with his four daughters, but they are all growing up and moving on. So, if you are counting, David has four full-blood brothers and I think three sisters? Maybe four. I feel like an asshole. I should know this, but D’s close to his brothers and pretty much as no relationship with his sisters and his Dad. Such is divorce. His parents divorced when he was still in the womb. All of the Christmas plans for this holidaze season fell through, or so we thought. His mother and grandmother are coming over on Christmas day for some dinner. I am trying to resist the urge to serve tofurkey. Perhaps enchiladas will work. And then we were invited to his brother’s house on Saturday. It’s at 6:00. I wish it was earlier. They will serve dinner, I’m sure, and there won’t be a damn thing we can eat except potatoes. One cannot exist on mashed potatoes alone, although David would try. Then Sunday, it’s Al’s house. Albert is kind of an adopted brother, a close family friend, and surrogate son. He’s funny and I like him a lot. Then on Monday, I make the Xxxxx-mas dinner. So………… shit. Lots of stuff to do. And there’s also a dessert thingy @ Amanda’s on Flyday, and Anne’s momma’s house on Thursday (but I have to work late…so that’s iffy).

All I want…is a nap.

——–

And now, all is clean. My bits posted, I feel relieved. Think of it as I do, Winter Cleaning or making space for the mistakes that the new calender year will bring. Regardless, I feel lighter.

Have spiffy Friday.

Oh my. This article could be about me. I think I have 3 iPods, and I proposed to D with one. It’s become a part of our everyday culture. Each morning I start my day with a cup of coffee and the soothing sounds of my iPod video. For a while, I even had movies ripped so that I could listen to them throughout my day. For some reason, movies are my audiobook. When I cook, I often have a movie playing on my laptop. But, back to the iPod. I own more than one and drool when the newer, slicker ones come out. But at this point, I think I’ve got all I need in mp3 players. Another laptop? That’s becoming a must.

The Pope has something to say about our addition to technology. He does have some valid points, but if God is a DJ, then the Ipod is his son.

**note — God is a DJ is a song by Faithless –

Christmas passed. I kept my phone on silent on purpose. No offense to anyone, but I didn’t feel like talking. This happens every year. I quietly mourn the loss of my idealistic Christmas memorys as they fade further, losing their sharp edges, becoming nothing more than a blurry light in the shadow of my mind. I can’t see the whole tree anymore, but I remember specific ornaments, and Mom’s nativity scene that floated in a sea of glass garland. The smells, I can’t remember them now. The happiness - somehow I feel like I’ve changed the true sensation so it works for my own satisfaction. It’s easier remembering the happier memories, so I’ve turned them all into something shiny, and nothing can dull that. But today, this time of year, right now, I’m not red and green and silver bells chiming. I’m a deep shade of blue, purple at the edges, and far removed from garish lights and Christmas carols. It’s a state of my own doing. I know this. But it doesn’t change that it’s there. I’ve avoided Christmas (and many other commercially exploited holidays) because it’s become about one-upping each other with presents and false wishes. To my mind, the gifts of love and friendship should be given throughout the year, and while I’m not a very good gift giver, I consider my little dinner thingies an explanation of how I feel for those that are in my life. It’s not wrapped with a bow, but it’s something I give nonetheless.

The solution for my blue is a change of tradition. I admitted for the first time, that I want to put up lights next years. Blue lights. No dead pine wreaths or fat, colorful bulbs. Just a little blue, dark and sparkling. And, D and I are going to start a new tradition for Christmas day. At this point, I have no idea what I want to do. Next year we will be in Portland, in a new house near good friends. Perhaps my family will come up, and down (Alexis is in WA and my Mom and brother are in CO). But I won’t hold out much hope for that. Perhaps I should d something outside every Christmas. The outdoors make me happy. Yesterday I spent the evening on the couch, after D’s mother left. Not a healthy thing, but I didn’t have the emotional energy to do anything else. But next year, and every year after that – something new. Something that brings my family closer. Something honest and true and something that isn’t about presents and wasteful wrapping. And I feel better for thinking about it. I really do.

We spent three days straight with D’s family. I love them, but that was a lot of traveling. The pauses remained awkward, but his brother came through with a massive vegetarian cooking book. Expect to be guinea pigs. And cooking for his Mom and Grandmother went well. She showed up way early again, but I finished cooking and took a shower and no one was put out by it.

Due to my poor research skills, I haven’t found a good naked new year’s thingy. They are all expensive. D and I can afford a little pricey, but not obscenely expensive. So, we are at a loss about what to do. What are you doing for New Year’s Eve? For the past few years D and I stuck it out at the casa. But since this is our last New Year’s in Florida, we figured it was  time for something interesting. The planning continues

I am working this week while D is off. He was kind enough to get up this morning and make me breakfast, and I love him for it. But I am going to be working late allt his week. Bully for me.

I hope you have a happy Monday and that you had a nice holiday. It’s back to coffee and work for me.