My friend’s husband went on a cocaine rampage while she was out of town with their baby daughter last week.
A year … two years ago my husband and I weren’t my husband and I and we went to visit them in the middle of Redemption Southland. He’s a good old boy, I’d met a few times before. Been sober a while, shorter than me, but still –
We talked about things, laughed, got a long.
They’d been married a while then. I’d been at their wedding in the hills of Tennessee. Done the requisite best friend thing and flirted with her brother even.
And now this.
He tried to score crack from a friend of theirs.
Snorted.
Stole.
There were pills in the truck he drives. The usual suspects; kolonopin, xanax …
and she’s walking this path of questioning. Anger, resentment, loathing, dread. Not wanting to see him and missing him so badly it hurts. I wonder if, when you find someone who’s broken, you think “okay – this person won’t fuck up anymore – this person is going to be fixed and I won’t have to be the glue that holds us together”
so when they break, it’s that much more heartbreaking.
Crack is whack
Maybe Whitney was a prophetess.
http://www.shelsilverstein.com/indexSite.html
we went walking last weekend and I kept seeing places in the road where the sidewalk ended. Just spots in the grass with squares of cement. I wanted to take a picture and say “this is where the sidewalk ends” but it somehow seemed too sad. Today someone sent me a card with the Missing Piece on it. It just said “I love you”.
Crack is whack and I love you too
Friday, June 19, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
sandcastles
There is sand beneath my toes.
I hate the feel of squishiness so I walk to the cabin to change. he remains. Cold beer in a cooler and too much ice. We watched the ice water run down to the lake for a while, form a river through somebody’s sandcastle. Somebody’s dreams dashed in the surf.
Ever since we got here I’ve been thinking about broken dreams and promises. Things that are made and cast aside.
I went inside and watched a curtain float on the breeze.
The air tastes different here. Softer. More white cotton and lace eyelet.
The shower felt good on my skin. Little pellets of salt water taffy coming through somebody’s rusted over shower head. I remembered what it felt like then. Cool hands on an overheated body. Love in a pay by the hour motel. The dirty, sticky, needless feel of it.
The sand fell smooth beneath my toes. I slipped out of the shower as messy as when I’d stepped in. you were in the kitchen. Hissing of fish frying, smell of oil on frying pan gave you away.
I kissed virgin oil from your finger tips while clean air swirled around us.
Outside the sand fell through an hourglass we could no longer see, or sense.
I hate the feel of squishiness so I walk to the cabin to change. he remains. Cold beer in a cooler and too much ice. We watched the ice water run down to the lake for a while, form a river through somebody’s sandcastle. Somebody’s dreams dashed in the surf.
Ever since we got here I’ve been thinking about broken dreams and promises. Things that are made and cast aside.
I went inside and watched a curtain float on the breeze.
The air tastes different here. Softer. More white cotton and lace eyelet.
The shower felt good on my skin. Little pellets of salt water taffy coming through somebody’s rusted over shower head. I remembered what it felt like then. Cool hands on an overheated body. Love in a pay by the hour motel. The dirty, sticky, needless feel of it.
The sand fell smooth beneath my toes. I slipped out of the shower as messy as when I’d stepped in. you were in the kitchen. Hissing of fish frying, smell of oil on frying pan gave you away.
I kissed virgin oil from your finger tips while clean air swirled around us.
Outside the sand fell through an hourglass we could no longer see, or sense.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Grounded from my Computer
This weekend I learned how much time I spend in front of my computer. And the funny thing is I don’t even accomplish anything while I’m in front of it.
What do I do that’s so important? I certainly don’t write the way I want to – or produce beautiful things. Sometimes I try – but a lot of times it’s work. Takes a long time but doesn’t really do anything. At least not anything spiritual or meaningful. Not anything that will last forever – leave a mark on the planet or on people’s hearts …
My husband and son, the two guys in my life, were driving home and he asked where I was. My husband said I was home (I was cleaning, waiting for them, reading). My son said “probably on her computer” … telling
From the mouths of babes
I have been trying to be on less, be present more
What good is it to be a corporal being in a non physical world if I lost the precious reality of moments? How can I say I love people really if when I’m with them I’m always talking about them to other people? I’ve always hated cameras for that, it’s why I have so few pictures – enjoy where you are when you are and let the memories become that when they have to.
My Mom finds comfort in pictures. Poring over images of the past.
I find comfort in the written words, things people once imparted to other people through paper. My Grandmother wrote about her life once and I cherish it forever. I am tormented by things just out of reach. People just lost, or on the other side of an easily traversed ravine.
Ravines, though, no matter how easy to cross, are still – at their core – dangerous.
From the mouths of babes.
I want to be an earth mother, a child of the wilderness, a girl running wild, barefoot in the wood. Somehow I think I would still carry a laptop in my knapsack, some granola bars and water in a jug. Just in case one of us grew hungry.
It’s just how it goes.
What do I do that’s so important? I certainly don’t write the way I want to – or produce beautiful things. Sometimes I try – but a lot of times it’s work. Takes a long time but doesn’t really do anything. At least not anything spiritual or meaningful. Not anything that will last forever – leave a mark on the planet or on people’s hearts …
My husband and son, the two guys in my life, were driving home and he asked where I was. My husband said I was home (I was cleaning, waiting for them, reading). My son said “probably on her computer” … telling
From the mouths of babes
I have been trying to be on less, be present more
What good is it to be a corporal being in a non physical world if I lost the precious reality of moments? How can I say I love people really if when I’m with them I’m always talking about them to other people? I’ve always hated cameras for that, it’s why I have so few pictures – enjoy where you are when you are and let the memories become that when they have to.
My Mom finds comfort in pictures. Poring over images of the past.
I find comfort in the written words, things people once imparted to other people through paper. My Grandmother wrote about her life once and I cherish it forever. I am tormented by things just out of reach. People just lost, or on the other side of an easily traversed ravine.
Ravines, though, no matter how easy to cross, are still – at their core – dangerous.
From the mouths of babes.
I want to be an earth mother, a child of the wilderness, a girl running wild, barefoot in the wood. Somehow I think I would still carry a laptop in my knapsack, some granola bars and water in a jug. Just in case one of us grew hungry.
It’s just how it goes.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Happiness is a Warm Gun ... or a Chocolate Fondue
It’s hard to find really happy people in the world.
There are the fakers. People who know they aren’t happy but want you to think they are, so they go out of their way to project happiness through monetary acquisitions or body language. These are the people you see in places like Denny’s, seedy truck stops in the middle of the night. They’re the ones in shitty clothes checking out other people’s shitty clothes and making sure everyone knows they’re on a road trip, or their car broke down. They have a reason to be here, like this, at this hour – but regardless – they’re flipping happy about it.
It’s BS. They’re just as annoyed as everyone else and anyone else would be.
Then there are the “unfazed ones”.
Those people who just don’t care. Doesn’t matter what happens “no sweat man” and they move on as though nothing happened.
“Mom died”
“no problem”“I busted your car”
“not a thing, I have seven others”
“dude, I slept with your women”
“no problem, I wear rubbers”
These guys are scary for an altogether different reason than the fakers – because while the fakers will ultimately break down and freak the fuck out, “unfazed ones”, unlike the fakers who end up face up in a bathtub, both wrists bleeding, end up on the top of a tower somewhere with a shot gun and two or twenty rounds of ammo. That’s right. These are the guys with the trench coats and the bombs.
“no problem” is code for “I’m going to get you, just not today”
Then there are the people who are on drugs
These are the people you want to know
These people know they’re aren’t happy and have taken steps to improve their lot, along with everyone else’s. Whatever they’re on – drugs, alcohol, chocolate, French fries – smile, take a hit, and give them some space. these are the people who won’t rule the world, but they won’t ruin or rule your life either.
Happiness is transient.
It is an arbitrary state of mind that ebbs and flows with the world and people that surround you … spending the day with friends, sunshine, and a chocolate fondue is always a good way to stretch the happiness bubble a little bigger, make it last a little longer.
Good luck with yours.
There are the fakers. People who know they aren’t happy but want you to think they are, so they go out of their way to project happiness through monetary acquisitions or body language. These are the people you see in places like Denny’s, seedy truck stops in the middle of the night. They’re the ones in shitty clothes checking out other people’s shitty clothes and making sure everyone knows they’re on a road trip, or their car broke down. They have a reason to be here, like this, at this hour – but regardless – they’re flipping happy about it.
It’s BS. They’re just as annoyed as everyone else and anyone else would be.
Then there are the “unfazed ones”.
Those people who just don’t care. Doesn’t matter what happens “no sweat man” and they move on as though nothing happened.
“Mom died”
“no problem”“I busted your car”
“not a thing, I have seven others”
“dude, I slept with your women”
“no problem, I wear rubbers”
These guys are scary for an altogether different reason than the fakers – because while the fakers will ultimately break down and freak the fuck out, “unfazed ones”, unlike the fakers who end up face up in a bathtub, both wrists bleeding, end up on the top of a tower somewhere with a shot gun and two or twenty rounds of ammo. That’s right. These are the guys with the trench coats and the bombs.
“no problem” is code for “I’m going to get you, just not today”
Then there are the people who are on drugs
These are the people you want to know
These people know they’re aren’t happy and have taken steps to improve their lot, along with everyone else’s. Whatever they’re on – drugs, alcohol, chocolate, French fries – smile, take a hit, and give them some space. these are the people who won’t rule the world, but they won’t ruin or rule your life either.
Happiness is transient.
It is an arbitrary state of mind that ebbs and flows with the world and people that surround you … spending the day with friends, sunshine, and a chocolate fondue is always a good way to stretch the happiness bubble a little bigger, make it last a little longer.
Good luck with yours.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Therapeutic Musings
There are days when thoughts are like mud and mud is like quicksand. Days when outside turns to in and the world is a place made of barbed wire. Everything hurts
It’s amazing how this works – the days of up and down, that’s what they would call my life if anyone watched it so carefully. If it were a movie, a book. The momentary glimpses into my psyche. And my life is incredibly good. Incredibly good.
Just one of those things
The couch is short, like a fat man who enjoys powdered donuts. If you think too long about it you won’t clutch the pillows. Too many people have blubbered here. The confessional of the nineties, bleeding, seeping, open wounds. I look out the window as we talk. A tree limb taps unceasingly during out 50 minutes. In the winter it becomes an ice branch, in the spring it is supple, light.
She sits quiet, hair grazing her chin, eyes fine china gray. Judgment in a tea cup.
“The world hurts”
She nods. I wait for her to ask how that makes me feel, but she never does. Only jots occasional notes on a steno pad and waits for me to speak. If I ask she will say she doesn’t judge, only listens and lets me bounce things off of her. For $125 an hour, that’s an expensive bouncing board. She does judge though, I know. I would if I were her. How do you not?
I remember things no one else does. Painful things, things that make sleep impossible and nightmares creep into daylight hours.
I watch her while I talk. Waiting for the disgust to creep into her face.
She only sips at a cup of something hot. Prompts me to continue.
I curl into the corner of the overstuffed couch and wish there wasn’t any more. the dirty feeling returns and I hold onto a pillow as though it is a life vest and I am bobbing in dark waters. Maybe it is, maybe I am. There is no one else to tell this to, no where else to go. I speak words that lighten my body until I am finally above water. Finally able to breathe again.
“The world hurts” I whisper.
She nods as the timer erupts
It’s amazing how this works – the days of up and down, that’s what they would call my life if anyone watched it so carefully. If it were a movie, a book. The momentary glimpses into my psyche. And my life is incredibly good. Incredibly good.
Just one of those things
The couch is short, like a fat man who enjoys powdered donuts. If you think too long about it you won’t clutch the pillows. Too many people have blubbered here. The confessional of the nineties, bleeding, seeping, open wounds. I look out the window as we talk. A tree limb taps unceasingly during out 50 minutes. In the winter it becomes an ice branch, in the spring it is supple, light.
She sits quiet, hair grazing her chin, eyes fine china gray. Judgment in a tea cup.
“The world hurts”
She nods. I wait for her to ask how that makes me feel, but she never does. Only jots occasional notes on a steno pad and waits for me to speak. If I ask she will say she doesn’t judge, only listens and lets me bounce things off of her. For $125 an hour, that’s an expensive bouncing board. She does judge though, I know. I would if I were her. How do you not?
I remember things no one else does. Painful things, things that make sleep impossible and nightmares creep into daylight hours.
I watch her while I talk. Waiting for the disgust to creep into her face.
She only sips at a cup of something hot. Prompts me to continue.
I curl into the corner of the overstuffed couch and wish there wasn’t any more. the dirty feeling returns and I hold onto a pillow as though it is a life vest and I am bobbing in dark waters. Maybe it is, maybe I am. There is no one else to tell this to, no where else to go. I speak words that lighten my body until I am finally above water. Finally able to breathe again.
“The world hurts” I whisper.
She nods as the timer erupts
Monday, June 1, 2009
Green Light, Stop
Today I stopped at a green light. There was a break in the traffic and I pulled to the light, slowing, and stopping.
Three perfectly sane people flew past, honking and I started again, just in time for the light to flash amber, then red.
The precision with which depression and madness hit are startling. Not their accuracy, but their precision. “I will hit at this moment, in this time.”
Sitting at work
Working
Pulling reporting and numbers, this will shake off slowly, today, or the next day
The fog will lift, but not with the exactitude with which is falls
More like rain. Scattered showers and thunderstorms predicted for the next few days. I will be one of them,
Simmering just beneath the surface.
And searching for the sun
Three perfectly sane people flew past, honking and I started again, just in time for the light to flash amber, then red.
The precision with which depression and madness hit are startling. Not their accuracy, but their precision. “I will hit at this moment, in this time.”
Sitting at work
Working
Pulling reporting and numbers, this will shake off slowly, today, or the next day
The fog will lift, but not with the exactitude with which is falls
More like rain. Scattered showers and thunderstorms predicted for the next few days. I will be one of them,
Simmering just beneath the surface.
And searching for the sun
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