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Posts Tagged ‘whiny mcsniffleson’

It comes on so fast, and I am beaten before the gun even goes off; there is no readied startle, no uncoiling, no explosive start.

I am having coffee. Coffee is not my focus, not ever. It is always an aside to whatever else I’m doing, gentle punctuation on a task, a sitting with someone, a get-up-and-let’s-go. Sometimes I drink it not because I want it, but because it makes me feel secure and capable and adult. Professionals drink coffee, don’t they? People who know what the fuck they are doing drink coffee.

I am having coffee and the sun is streaming in the windows. I was so proud to have these windows when they were first given to me, to have the ample natural light and the gaze of nature on my bent head as I sanded and hammered and painted and set my mouth just so as I was coaxing something into existence from a pile of throwaway things. I have a broad expanse of white workspace secured to the wall below the windows and I can look up as I bite my lip, as I focus and hum something old and familiar that pulls at me deeply, to see the tops of the trees I am floating amongst. I can survey the kingdom all the way to the street. It is a terrific view. I’m still proud of these windows.

I am having coffee and the sun is streaming in the windows and my work table is piled over with things crying out to be other things. Perched on the edge of my chair, I’m securing one something to another something, pausing to look with a stranger’s eyes, pushing, adjusting, clamping the things together because they’ll live this way from now on. (Although. Sometimes it occurs to me, you know? It occurs to me that one day this thing might be just another throwaway thing and then maybe the things I put together will fly apart and parts will be discarded while other parts give rise to something else.) I tilt my head, set the new thing down. It’s a process and I can only do so many things at once: There are constraints to alchemy. I begin something else and my chest explodes.

I am having coffee. The sun is streaming in the windows. The work table is ample with materials. They want to be other things, things other than what they are. My chest explodes. Who the fuck am I and how is it that I have a right to be here? It would be better without me, it would be easier to be gone, I am blindsided with worthlessness and anxiousness and why did this start, when did this start, I used to have the answers, oh no.

Oh no, oh no.

What then, when your whole life is scripted as apology? I’m sorry I’m here. I’m sorry I did it wrong. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I’m tired of misunderstanding. How is it that I am so often misunderstood when I put everything I have into being absolutely plainspoken? How do I stop being hostage to the hearts of others? My own heart is far afield. It’s rebellious as fuck and will not come to me when I call it back. My chest has exploded and my heart is running away from me and I curse the day that I ever thought that to let it be seen was a wise thing.

It comes on so fast. I am crumpled at the gate. It opens. It opens and I am never ready.

|| August 17, 2010 || 9:50 am || Comments (12) ||

In the course of the last week, I’ve been informed that my husband and all his employees have a good chance of losing their jobs  in January.

In the course of the last week, I’ve been informed that my best friend in this world and her partner are likely moving just shy of four hours away from me. This, too, in January.

The last week can go fuck itself. As I am a cautious optimist (or an optimistic realist, whatever), the jury is still out on January. I hate to jump the gun and all.

|| July 28, 2010 || 4:33 pm || Comments (9) ||

Scout called me from Chicago last night. She was there on a layover, headed to Detroit for her grandfather’s funeral. I was wandering around Birmingham with Mathias after having dropped her at the airport earlier in the day. Our shopping errands were long done.

“I miss Sam. Do you miss Sam?”

I asked her this question because I am afraid to ask Mathias. I don’t want him to fall apart, not yet. To further that end, I have been doing my own falling-apart quietly, quickly; yesterday this was done in bathrooms around the city. The one at Target was a little more epic than the others, but not by much. That particular come-apart was exacerbated by the fact that I was buying school supplies for Scouty and Mathias but none for Samuel. Then I hitched up my yoga pants, plastered on a smile  and said something along the lines of Holy God, mommy needs coffee…who wants to handle the Starbucks run? when I plowed out of the restroom.

Mother. He’s only been been gone nine hours and forty minutes.”

“You DO miss him, YOU DO! Not even I’m counting the hours!”

“Give me a break, Momma.”

“But do you miss him?”

“Not yet. Probably because I’m not there. It’ll be kind of hard when I get back. We shared the whole second floor, away from the rest of you guys.”

“I miss him.”

“Yeah. But you know what? The first forty-eight hours are the hardest. It’s going to be better.”

The house sat empty, because Maxim was working late and Scout was out of town. I kept Mathias in the city long past when it could have been considered practical. I wanted for there to be life at home, some sort of human racket, so the place wouldn’t feel so hollow when I got back. I wanted to be exhausted, in order to prevent any impulse  to rattle around and run into reminders of Sam at every turn, to see his shirts hanging in the laundry room, to find the stack of borrowed ceedees he’d placed on the table by the door.

A few hours ago I went up to his room to get empty hangers for the laundry and to put some of his clean things away. It was a bit of, ahem, a pit. “This is good,” I told Maxim, “I can choose to be annoyed with him rather than miss him. He kind of did me a favor, the little prick.”

One hour ago, Sam’s friend Jay came to get his car. Samuel is gifting him with it because Jay has it kind of rough and doesn’t have a car of his own. Sam is sometimes infuriatingly arrogant, but mostly he is good and generous and loving.

Ten minutes ago I got this text:

The drill instructor is taking my phone now. I love you, Mother. You’ll have my address soon.

I don’t know how to do this. How am I going to do this??

|| August 7, 2009 || 12:27 am || Comments (0) ||

He was asked every time…every time that he could recall, anyway.

“Is this really the hill you want to die on, son?” This was his father, head so impossibly distant that to peg its details against the sky the boy had to squint.

“Yes,” the boy said each of those times, once he was sure he was looking his father in the eye, once he had squared his shoulders in a stance that he approximated as brave.

The boy was given this passive out in a myriad of situations and outright fuckups and still he said with his ‘yes’, I am not a quitter, I am not a coward, I would rather find myself foolish than forgotten. And he would continue to push headlong into mistakes that became lessons that became Knowing.

Wasn’t Knowing, after all, a mount worthy of shedding ones tears and guts upon?

One day, when the boy was of an age that he no longer had to cock back his head and squint to find his father’s eyes, an old woman approached him. He had been mindlessly tending the inventory of his hurts while seated on a bench beside a fountain. It was autumn, and the bare fingertips emerging from the wool tubes that fit snugly against the fingers’ knuckles worked at a corner of the boy’s jacket.

She shuffled across the wide brick walk, this stranger, until she stood facing him; the messy fluff of her hair busied itself defying the sobriety of the look on her face.

“God wants me to tell you,” the old woman said, “that you can stop fighting. Put those hands of yours down and let Him do your fighting for you. That heart of yours is for something else altogether.”

Later that night a brutal pain ripped across his chest as he sobbed into the phone’s receiver.

“Then she just walked away, leaving me with all this frustration! Leaving me right there where she found me, but taking my equilibrium with her! And I only had one question, just one, I just want to know how? How do I do that? How do I just stop fighting when I’ve had my dukes up the whole of my life and it’s all I fucking know?

“Why won’t He tell me how to do what it takes to achieve His desires instead of just telling me what His will for me is??”

|| November 16, 2000 || 10:36 pm || Comments (0) ||

When I was two-and-a-half, I shattered my right femur. Well, not really shattered as such, but broke the almighty shit out of it in several places. Back then it was the same as shattered….

Anyway, two-and-a-half, badly broken femur, lengthy hospital stay (3 months), most of it in traction so as not to dislocate my hip or further discombobulate my little body. Eight weeks afterward in a body cast. Parents hadda teach me to walk and potty train me all over again. There are several enriching humorous stories (lengthy and not-so-long) that are attached to the bigger picture, but this is not one of them. Nosiree, those are for another time. This story is an ongoing offshoot of that early happening.

Several things in my adulthood are related to this leg breakage thingy.

For instance, my right leg is a full inch shorter than my left. Not that it really matters all that much, because I am pretty leggy. I don’t have to mourn that inch from a stature standpoint, or anything. Because of this imbalance in leg length, my back loses alignment, so every so often I am couched for a couple days at a time, quite literally not able to move. In cases of sudden weather change, I am at a great advantage, because a temporary throbbing in that gimp leg (as the family so jokingly refers to it) gives me a bit of a ‘leg up’ *HARHAR*. Gramma always said that I was the best barometer that she had ever known. And that little hitch in my git-along was largely misconstrued as a come-hither sashay (or maybe I can accredit that to the large boobs, I dunno…) But disregard all that. What I am here to talk about is the pain.

When I gets too dang cold, mostly in a humid-like cly-mutt, mah here laig goes ta achin’ me sumpin’ pyreful. No shit. That shit hurts, mang. The kind of hurt that says, “Hey, since I can’t go away, I might as well fucking spread the wealth around.” So here it goes to my hip, on into my other hip, and down my other thigh. If I am REAL lucky, my knees get invited to the party. w00t!

Since we moved into this new house, I have been hurting a little. Now and then. Okay, a LOT. Like every fucking day. Every night and every morning until I get up and get around. After an hour or so of movement, it abates. BUT, in all honesty, I am less inclined to go to the gym and get on the treadmill if my hips and legs ache like an old fucking swaybacked mule.

The reason for this sudden change? My husband keeps the heat hovering around the motherfucking 66-degree mark. I go turn it up, he turns it down. I comply quietly, he turns it further down.

In all fairness, he doesn’t know about the pain that I am caused by the cold, because I am not the type to run around bitching about how uncomfortable I am. I know that we are in a new, much larger place and he is worried (as always) about expenses; he’s trying to cut corners so that we can do the things that we want to do when and where we want to do them. I do, however, go around grumbling. I say, “MOtherFUCK, it’s COLD in here. SHIT!” and other colorful catchphrases in that same vein.

But NO MORE, I tell you; NO MORE!!!!

Tonight I went into the laundry room to iron a pair of pants and I discovered that the iron had been on the ‘high’ setting all day. 12 hours’ worth of day, to be exact. I credit you here with the ability *perhaps dangerously so* to figure out who it was that left the thing on.

No more Ms. Nice Babe. No more, “Well, we really SHOULD leave the heat at fifty degrees, because there are starving kids in Ethiopia in desperate NEED of a little more electricity to power their ice cream freezers, not to mention the fact that our government gave them all of those plug-in toothbrushes…..”

No WAY. I jacked the heat up to 70 and snarled at him, “My sonofabitching legs HURT, and if you want any pussy from ME this winter, 70 is where this damned thing will ByGod STAY“.

Clarity of communication. That’s all a marriage really needs.


|| November 13, 2000 || 12:00 pm || Comments (0) ||

My brain is rat-tat-tatting today….trains of thought are speeding by too quickly to jump on one and see where it takes me…


I make no bones about my contempt of the world at large, but sometimes I wonder about my place in it. I feel like I am in a rut (“Lump sat alone in a boggy marsh / Totally motionless except for her heart”) and halfheartedly flirting with the idea of getting out of it….raising my shoulders, straightening my back and then….well, nothing. Just nothing. Slumping back to the original position.

My life is plastic pop-beads. Remember those? Those little plastic, obscenely-colored pop beads that snapped together in any number of patterns that you could imagine for four colors. After awhile they become the discarded things scattered all over the house, under beds, in dark corners of the closet, behind the dresser. One by one they disappear, save for the few that cling together stubbornly. Ultimately those too are useless. What’s the use for five little pop-beads? You can’t even hook them together. They aren’t enough. They cannot even hook to themselves. After mom has chased away the rest in fits of springtime tearing out and re-organizing, those five are chucked out as well. They are not a set. Get rid of ‘em.

Ditto my ideas.

Shit, even if the set had remained intact, those pop-beads are BORING; you move past them because the number of patterns and uses are distinctly finite.

I marvel at my current lack of profundity. Ahhhh, fuck; even if I wasn’t deep before, at least I perceived myself as such. I was told as a small child that I was BETTER, I was MORE, I was SPECIAL STOCK. What in the fuck? Why would you do that to a kid?

What kind of impression am I making? Will other people’s mental snapshots of me show me beaming and unfettered? Will they reflect me in a somber light? Will my lips be pursed, my face puckered and closed-off?

|| October 19, 2000 || 3:41 pm || Comments (0) ||

I don’t always read my e-mailed horoscopes. Oftentimes I simply check them off into Deleteland. I didn’t read them today, but I am almost sure that if I had, they’d have said something like this:

“Communications are at the forefront today. You dwell in the realm of frustration, playing phone tag with God & Everybody from morning till night. Then you spend four hours trying to cover vivid aquamarine-colored walls with pale gray paint.”
Off I go to become a spotty gray mess. Anyone care to help? *sigh*