Friday, August 31, 2012

Oh sweet distraction.

This weekend I'm getting out of town. Home is lovely, and I crave it all day, but now is a time I should be away. I'm hiking, good on me.
I've done it before, boiled my sitting pool of pain into energy. And I rose like steam. It was cycling before, still is. But it's tricky, so elusive. Sometimes I think I've got it, then I don't. You have to wiggle the key just right, come in at the right angle, talk dirty to loosen it up, but not too dirty or you'll blow the whole thing.  Either way, whether I get it or not, anywhere but home. My stardust ass is going to go sit on some stardust mountain, and the particles will say to one another, "Hey, I haven't seen you in a few billion years, like your new ride."

Didn't hear from P-- today. I feel so lost...

Thursday, August 30, 2012

The State of my Garden

I own my home. And one of the great fantasies I had was of the garden. It would be a secret garden, a refuge. Walls of climbing things and vegetables. It was going to be charming, in the true magical sense.
The actual state of my garden is otherwise. I don't value a green lawn, and it shows. Weeds mowed down over messy edges. It crunches like crumpled paper when you walk over it. Clover weeds with oil drill roots have overrun all the bare spots, and there are many. Somewhere in there was a raspberry bush. Giant rotting cucumbers with cracked skin rest beneath dried beans. I gave away the few corn husks I grew. The eggplant is falling over under the weight of the now gray orbs. I didn't eat one. I pull the carrots and the beets, but I won't get to them all, and the tomato has blight. The cilantro and oregano bolted at the beginning of June, it was so hot, and the peppers look the same as the day I brought them home from Paulino's.
Last year was better, but then again I had help. I tried in the spring. Was out there everyday. Now when I step in it says to me, "Oh, now you've come? Decided to show your face? Well we don't need you, and the little you have to give."
"I couldn't help it this year. I've been uprooted myself."
"Did you want sympathy?"
"No. I wanted to be able to do this. Next year, I promise. I can't heal any faster than I can heal."
"Well be dead next year."

I would like to have a garden party, to post instgrams of lovely flowers and bushes.
Guess it is just not that kind of blog.

Crazy Town

7:50 I walk in the door and the phone is ringing. P--. Yesterday, D- fell on a cactus, and P-- wants to know exactly what happened. Because she pulled out 75 stickers from his hand. Plus he has a bruise. She's keeping him home today.

Her crazy knows no bounds.
Neither does mine, but mine looks a little different than hers.

Mine is a Sit-and-Spin. Sometimes I get launched.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012


I'm feeling my trailer-trash-side tonight. I didn't quite buy boxed wine, but the blush wine counts, I think.

I certainly have red-neck roots, and I don't mean to disregard them this evening. But Budlight was just not what I was in the mood for. My father used to drink Budlight, but even he got sick of it, and the jugs of wine did the trick much better, and then of course the little shooters of vodka were easier to hide. I remember going to Indiana with him and after a long night where he and his brother and the neighbors stayed up in the garage talking, he would pay my sisters and I a nickel for every cigarette butt we picked up. Boiler Makers cups filled with filth equaled gold. I've got red-neck roots for sure.
I filled a jelly jar with wine and headed out for a walk with my dog, Pali. Pali is all mouth. She gapes at me and I think she is like a copperhead with ears.

This night hasn't been as bad as the recent few. For one, the Tin House arrived. Hooray.



Last night I had a tearful conversation with a friend. In the topics we covered, we both mentioned feeling compelled to communicate, our situations similar and not.

She loves a man who does not love her back, or will not. He was there last night, eating his ice cream and looking over our heads, stepping away to talk on the phone. Leaving early. Never when you ask, is what he was saying to her, only when I want it.

And, beyond reason, warnings, attempts, and sanity, she will not let him go. In the middle of the night, she sends messages to him, desperate for .... anything? in return. She's written letters describing her impossible and broken heart. She delivers him constant praise. Adores his brilliance. Excuses that fact he's a fucking dick.

She is always reiterating herself. Sometimes with pictures, sometimes with drawings.

My compulsion is different. I'm compelled not to say anything for as long as I possibly can. He got a burst of it, rushing out of the cracked dam, but he can't know now how often I think of him. How sick I make myself. He knows so little; I know even less.

My relationship

I am in a relationship, in fact, with a woman named P--. I talk with her everyday, very often the first person who I utter hello to.
She is the mother of a student at the school where I work. Without fail, she calles me every morning to give me an update of her son, tell me about a shopping trip she needs to make, another unnecessary doctor's visit, a complaint. Then she calls me throughout the day with other innane ramblings. She says "and everything" every four words. It doesn't matter that I am not his teacher, as I've reminded her. "Hi Gwen, how's he doing?" Uh- I think that you are aware of this, not totally sure, but I'm the secretary. I don't know how your son is at this particular moment, nor am I going to check on him. You're making him crazy you know... and me.
I've decided to make a log of her calls.
Today she called to tell me that D is hyper hyper hyper and that the bus is late. Just thought I would let you know and everything, and everything, but just so you know. Also he has been up since 2:30 this morning.
I speak with P-- more than I do some of my closest friends. Good morning P--, and everything.


My friend Mo has been talking to people about dreams. It makes me think, and remember:
I once dreamed that I slept with my assailant, who is dead now. I was ashamed, and my family was appalled. Why would I be willing to have sex with the man who raped me?
I once dreamed that I killed my parents with a shot gun. I was of course, horrified.
I once dreamed I slept with my dad. What the fuck is that? "Where were you," asked a friend who I told. "On top," I said.
Once I was napping in the afternoon. I brought my hands in front of me, and I realized that my actual hands were tucked between my legs and I understood I was lucid dreaming. I at once seized the opportunity and decided that I would fuck in this dream. I got up and walked to my bedroom door, opened it and a line of men stood in the hallway. I invited the first one in and he sat on my bed and took off his shirt. His handsomeness started to fade away and he became dumpy and bald, and I fought hard against it and then woke. How disappointing...
When I wasn't talking to my friend Tori, I dreamed that I would go to her house when she wasn't at home and sleep in her bed.
If I could, I would visit you in a dream tonight, because I can't visit you otherwise. You would find me in your bed. You would be confused but relieved. After we kiss, I would ask you, "If you could choose, would you be a boy or a man?"

Upon my thirtieth year

I had the sense tonight that I my life is no longer leading to anything. I'm not building toward some distant manifestation. I've arrived. And my worries are very much the same as they have always been.
This year has been hard, lumped in with some other lousy ones (21 stands out). It began with a sushi birthday dinner, and ended with another one. In between I've lost love, and maybe hope too. I'm not sure who I feel promised me, but I feel betrayed in the promise that if I just kept at it, loved boldly and honestly, that I would be rewarded with happiness. I've worked hard, and I'm stronger against the hurricane winds, not so easily blown over. But my question is, why is there still a fucking hurricane out there? It's unnatural the things that have been ripped from me.
I also have a sense that my hope is insipid. That as soon as I desire something, I begin to destroy it, that I pluck the flower and it is only a matter of time before it dies. I literally fear saying what I want out loud because I will curse it.
It's not a matter of what I deserve or am worth. Those parts of me are intact. But nighttime continues to haunt me, and I am surprised how many nights I've survived when I thought surely the pain would crush me.
I'm not always sad. But this year I am.

Cleaning Crew needed

6/22/12 -
I need to scrap you off the walls of my brain. You are clinging there dry and cracked and still gooey in some places. It's like a special effects bag of vitrials and chicken breasts and corn syrup and real blood was placed in my mind with a charge in. That's what it is like to loose, leave, and remember you. I need a power hose and bleach. I need to eclipse you. All that's left of us is a mess in my mind, almost too big to take on. Thanks for coming by every now and then to shit here too. That's nice. There's no ventilation. I'm becoming a wastral here in this dingy place. I'm smoking cigarette butts from the ash try. I'm picking my nose shamelessly.
You left the dishes in the sink, months old, not your problem anymore. Renting a new, sunny, almost glittered place. Thanks for that too.
How's it going with her? I let you in my bed two nights ago to prove you didn't love her. But I'm a fool, of course. It only proves you don't love me.
Tomorrow I'm riding 100 miles and dedicating to the rage I have for you now, and I'm sure I'll come away weaker, too tired to clean.