This Too Shall Pass

Earlier I wrote a short, angry post. Read this, which I have linked to before, to understand why I didn't post it. It's one of my favorite RLP posts.

On (& Off) Photography

So I posted this freaky pic of myself around 2 a.m. last night (this morning) and left it there overnight. I had misgivings about leaving it there this morning, so snatched it safely back and there it has been sitting, a blob of html code saved as a draft in the editing section of blogger.

I think of myself as a generally rational person - but I admit to being somewhat prone to superstition. I have to say that I have paranoia that is almost extreme about having an image of myself - well, one in particular that shows my eyes - floating around "out there". The posted/unposted pic shows one eye, some cheekbone, some hair, part of my ear. I decided it was too much.

Now, I sure as hell don't look at photos that friends have posted of themselves on some of those haaaarible social networking, or worse, dating sites, and think - "Wow! Their soul is leaking out all over the internets!" And yet, I know I - my soul - would feel somehow "compromised" were I to allow similar images of myself to just be "hanging out" in the ether. (Here's where you can roll your eyes and mimic a cuckoo clock)

As most of you probably know, many "primitive" cultures regard photographs/cameras themselves as very suspect, with the idea being that, potentially, they can and will in fact steal your soul, or at least part of it. I guess the "primitive" part of my mind responds to this notion.

I don't feel quite the same about "real" film and photos that require a darkroom to develop as I do about digital photos. There is less of a sense of endless replication, of images taking on lives of their own once they "live" on the internet. There is some sense of solidity and control. Still, I instinctively shy from the camera. And still, I do own a digital camera, in addition to several traditional ones.

I'm not swearing off ever posting a photographic image of myself. I did it once already on this blog, an image of my neck. I just don't see it happening to the point where I could actually be recognized or identified. No, that will never happen. It's not important to the content of the blog, certainly, though I understand that in a basic way photos add interest to blogs, at least they do for me.

Sigh. I don't know how to end this post. Have a bitchin' weekend, all.

whisper

Rain speckles and spatters into the night, hushing the little town of houses all lined up in tidy rows, quenching the dry bone thirst of the too salty streets and the mangled blanket of scratchy yellow grass. The wooden siding of the garage drinks deeply, its oil and gas scented bays sigh quietly. The black of my car slicking wet into the asphalt, slow-moving rivulets flow down the hill under street lamps, great glistening pools of light reflecting mine, we stare as into deep wells, detecting life in the watery echo and cold vibration of stone. I lay across thick beds of granite, feeling the warmth and weight of every atom expanding and contracting. My bones tune to the same pitch, my blood warms, the hairs on my head circle me and like antennae find frequencies, infrequencies. Vaporous clouds form near my mouth, I blink brightly and clearly and calmly and I welcome you in.

Well, Hopefully I Don't End Up with TB

Today I was ruefully informed by a co-worker that one of the residents at the home I've lately been working at a few times a week has pneumonia, and quite possibly also has TB. I just stared at her over the counter, allowing my jaw to drop for dramatic effect. "You're fucking kidding me."
"Oh no!" she chirps, eyebrows raised and jaw cocked to the side.

You expect this scenario in this setting, a group home, still you don't really expect it. The person who might possibly be infected was very sick last week, and I suppose thankfully, also very anti-social and isolating a lot in his room. So today when he politely and cheerfully asked me to play Monopoly with him, I did not want to refuse him. Acceptance in this setting, especially after a "bad week" means a lot, and I didn't want to risk alienating him. I agreed to play.

The Monopoly money was in a giant scrambled mess in the box, so I took on organizing it into stacks while he set up the rest of the game pieces. He mockingly threatened to upset the piles I was making several times. I would volley back in a "stern" manner, "Yeah, try it" or "See what happens." After everything was set up and I had chosen the Scotty Dog game piece and he a horse, we realized there were no dice. We checked some other game boxes, still nada.

Secretly I was relieved. I didn't really want to have to turn or move away from him if he started coughing. He seemed nonplussed by the whole thing, and mildly satisfied that at least we had organized the money and the game pieces. We might play tomorrow.

Later I had to run out to the store to get chocolate milk for him. He wanted to come, but I suggested that it would probably be better to wait til after he gets his test tomorrow, in case he has an infection. He protested a little, "I can sit in the back", to which I had to respond, "But you probably shouldn't go out around people until you know if you're contagious." He understood. He handed me five dollars and explained in detail the location of the milk he wanted.

The store is a rinky-dinky some-of-everything kind of very small town New England store, but is almost iconic in the eyes of the residents at this home. It's a life-line of sorts, cigarettes, sweets, junk food, a deli, even an odd assortment of movies to rent or buy, and all within walking distance (though not in this weather - 15 degrees with a wicked wind.) The staff at the store know them and are patient with their occasionally curious behavior.

As I walked through the short, cluttered aisles I felt simultaneous comfort and constriction, warmth and depression. Cold beer, day-old donuts, a few used Sidney Sheldon and Danielle Steel books, clothes pins, scented candles, lighters, fudge, WD40.

Walking out to the car, chocolate milk in hand, I had a brief flashback to age 18, working at a plant farm in this same vicinity. Remembering the odd combination of isolation and independence. Wondering if any of the residents, the 20-somethings in particular, felt any of that sense.

The road back was incredibly dark, the night incredibly cold. I have only one more day of work left at this house, tomorrrow, before I start the new job next week. The attachment I feel is unexpected. Everyone seemed so content tonight, just staying warm, watching Jeopardy, being themselves.

Tonight the vampire resident, as he eyed me cutting cooked pork into tiny pieces for a shepard's pie, remarked that I was "cooking Chinese-y" then laughed in his deep, warm giggle. He calls me "Miss" when dinner is being served, and "Senorita" when he is just being playful.

I'll miss being called Miss.

Considering Lent

Next Wednesday is Ash Wednesday, one of the four most widely observed Catholic holy days of the year. In Catholic school, we were curtly reminded by one of the nuns that this was one of the "CAPE Catholic" holy days, where all the fair-weather Catholics decide to attend mass. Following are the holy days, and the reasons these half-assed, so-called "Catholics" attend mass on those days:

Christmas: Duh. Birth of Christ.
Ash Wednesday: You get to wear a pious-looking ashy smear on your forehead all day, thereby "proving" you are Catholic.
Palm Sunday: Yeah, wha? Simple. You get to bring home palm leaves to stick behind crucifixes and/or mirrors etc. at home, thereby "proving", once again, that you are a Catholic.
Easter: Obvs. Rebirth of Christ. Technically the most important holy day of the year.

I have become a, uh - well, "I suppose if your kid's getting christened and you're inviting me I'll step into the church" Catholic. I no longer attend even the CAPE Catholic masses. The belief is long absent, and I don't believe in doing things for show.

And yet. I must admit to the season of Lent as being one of my favorites as a young girl. I loved the drama of the Stations of the Cross, and would usually go to the church after school during Lent, my prayer book in hand, and dutifully circle the perimeter of the church in the afternoon light, stopping at each station.

Good Friday, with all its hardness, its barrenness, its bleakness. The Stabat Mater,

Virgin of all virgins blest! Listen to my fond request: Let me share your grief divine.

As a child taking such words to heart, feeling the hollow echo of that day, purple and black no matter the weather.

Always we made our sacrifices, usually candy or ice cream, and took them seriously. Easter needed to kick ass, and it would kick much more ass if we had abstained from sweets for forty days.

This evening my mother gave me and other family members a copy of a small book, "Daily Reflections for Lent." That I actually took it home with me was satisfaction enough for her, I think. I have absolutely zero intention of renewing my faith, still, the Lenten season maintains a somewhat curious hold on me.

Sacrifice, reflection, culling out the heart and soul. Ancient Hebrew thought considers the heart to be not only the seat of emotions, but of the will. I struggle to keep my will and emotions at peace and at pace with each other, there at the center.

Already, the days lengthen.

Love Dogs

One night a man was crying,
Allah! Allah!
His lips grew sweet with the praising,
until a cynic said,
"So! I have heard you
calling out, but have you ever
gotten any response?"

The man had no answer to that.
He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.

He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,
in a thick, green foliage.
"Why did you stop praising?"
"Because I've never heard anything back."
"This longing
you express is the return message."

The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.

Your pure sadness
that wants help
is the secret cup.

Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.

There are love dogs
no one knows the names of.

Give your life
to be one of them.

- Rumi

Moving On

The frost heaves are heaving
the road home is blurring
salt wet sand ice
can't tell the difference
I seem to keep moving
antifreeze light is blinking
yellow light is blinking
now a red light is blinking
winking
slyly
stop-and-go
stop-and-go
go go go
home again warm again toast again beer again
every move you make is win-win
yes, it's a no losers win-win situation,
as they say,
those who speak
that sort of language.

Food & Jewelry & No Internets

Tonight it took me approximately, oh, FOREVER to de-ice my car to a point that made it drivable. Forever=about 25 minutes in, I dunno, maybe 10 degree weather. It’s 1:30 a.m. as I write this, I’ve been home long enough to have a beer and toast with peanut butter, and while doing that, try in vain to connect to the internet. I keep losing my connection lately, I don’t know if someone is fucking with my wireless (i.e. stealing it - yes, it has happened) or what. There’s a password and all, but somehow the connection goes to hell for no reason all the time now, usually requiring the assistance of my fix-it friend. Anyway. I'll post this tomorrow.

Today was Valentine’s Day. I suppose my date was a client at work, we had soup together and made brownies. I do happen to adore this person. I guess we mutually admire each other. She gives the most bizarre compliments, and on a regular basis.

“C., you have such a delicate feminine athletic frame!”
“I didn’t know your hair was so long! It makes you look like a real lady-girl!”
“C., you have a very reassuring and gentle nature!”

Really, she talks like that. Half the time her compliments make no sense or are frankly inaccurate. But she is darling. Tonight she reassured me when we started talking about boyfriends, “You can get alot of satisfaction from other things in life, like food, and jewelry and recreation and clothes. And food and jewelry.” I nodded. Food and jewelry.

She went on to talk about praying to Jesus Christ. Really, she’s such a girl. A forty-something year-old girl. Earnest beyond belief. She told me the other day in response to my full-time hiring at the program, “Oh, thank Jesus! My prayers have been answered!!”

So yes, the lovely and earnest Miss P. was my date. We even hugged each other goodnight.

The rest of the evening I played janitor (I don’t just play a janitor - I was one in high school) and cleaned the hell out of the bathrooms and floors. Something about scrubbing toilets, emptying trash and getting grubby on V-day night felt good and right.

The roads of course were total crap, but at 12:30 a.m. there aren’t too many people to crash into or to crash into you. I liked the cold, lonely, ice-coated trip home. It just sort of matched everything. This is why most suicides occur in the spring. The weather begins to not match, to disagree with the interior landscape. For me, tonight, the unforgiving and bitter weather feels good, and sympathetic, and bracing. Honestly, I feel good. But I usually feel that way in the spring, too. Good.

Fucking hell it’s late. The wind is rattling everything angrily. I imagine the house as a 1940’s cartoon, stout and pinching it’s window eyes, the roof animating into a tophat, the chimney somehow becoming a glowing pipe, puffs of cheerful smoke emitted at rhythmic intervals. A tinny, warbly orchestra plays in the background.

Inside, the curtains pull tight, the bed sighs and yawns, and blue light spills everywhere.

My Funny Valentines

Happy Valentine's Day to the nice people who check in here. My last few posts have been a bit raw and slightly head-scratching maybe, I don't know why I mention it, maybe to make sure anyone reading this knows I know that they are. Blogging - this kind of blogging - where it feels like a semi-private affair in some ways, and there's a very small "audience" is just weird sometimes, I guess. I mean, because your ego is involved - it has to be - expressing yourself in any manner is impossible without it, in it's truest definition - but still you're putting this mostly sorta boring day-to-day crap out there about yourself that in the end makes not a speck's worth of difference to the world at large, and is noticed by just a handful.

Still, I check in on a number of blogs where the blogger isn't out there saving the world or having a crisis-a-minute or making savvy political commentary etc.

I just think people with "normal" lives are interesting. Aside from that, appearances can be very deceptive. I think of a geode, how they are so plain on the outside, but when you get to the center of them they are just stunning, intricate, amazing.

I like the idea of beauty hidden in plain sight and circumstances. Of finding it because you expect to.

Have a lovely Love Day.

Jeep Cherokee

the smell before the snow
is the smell of him
a cushion of atmosphere
clean, cold, and certain
him
he
who finds me stranded
at least,
that's how he wants to see it
a rescue mission
for a little girl lost
needing warmth
protection
and a very
long
hard
fucking
yes
sometimes those are the things
a lost girl needs
just
not always
what she gets.

EyesHeartStomach

Throwing up on the stairs.
My earliest memory. Two years old.
Vague recollections of a convertible couch.
At three or four, in a different house,
I slept on it with my mother.
The Underwood devil crept in,
bones and all, waiting for me.
Though I ran, he followed, he kept near
as I begged for protection,
and though it seemed uncertain and wooden,
perhaps I was safe?
Later I awoke in a panic,
alone in the cold,
dark hallway -
how did I get there?
Where were the rest of them?
Creeping, tiny in a nightgown
the darkness of 1975.

When did I begin to run away?
Was it in the quest for the white stuffed cat,
made of real fur, eyes of blue
a mascot of belief that someone, at some time, found me precious?
Was it at the onset of the perpetual search
for the hidden attic room
above the roof,
how could I have known
it led to nowhere?

Pink Floyd The Wall impregnates the air
as hands and confusion find me,
perhaps I was eight,
spying
my fault
believing I was nothing
in truth
having not the vaguest sense
of what young flesh could inspire.
All was internal, til then
and simple, and safe.

What is the cost
of a breach
in belief
of a breach
in innocence.
What is the cost
of blue eyes
spiraling
internally
eternally
of a heart
slammed against kindness
and open-ness,
of a child's need
to please.

Tell me I'm safe.
Hold me like the sun.

Suburban Cowboy

Last night I went out with a couple of friends, to a bar I've never been to before that has the new feature of a mechanical bull. I've never seen one of these things in person. It's about as primitive as you'd expect it to be. Basically it looks like the midsection of a generic cattle, with a brown and white hide, a funny looking saddle-ish thing, and a silly little "tail" made of rope. Also, it's surrounded by this air-filled moonwalk thing to sort of prevent injuries.

Big surprise (not): The ladies can ride that thing far more effectively than the fellas. I mean, really the whole point of it is for people to gander and gaggle at women who for all appearances look like they're fucking the shit out of... whoever they want to imagine them fucking the shit out of. The longer she rides, the more hoots and hollers she gets from the crowd. I did use the word primitive.

Um, no, I did not ride the bull, mind you I don't take issue with anyone else, female or male, for mounting the thing with wildly varying degrees of grace, stamina, and success. The main point for the women seemed to be, again, displaying their "technique", or tits, or how great of a fuck they might be. I don't need to display or prove that to anyone other than my chosen mate. (By the way, because of the preponderance of women who were riding, whenever a guy got on, he managed to seem a little bit Brokeback. Not that I have a problem with that. But that was the effect, with one or two exceptions.)

Speaking of Brokeback, there was this squid there (that means Navy dude - we're near the sub base - I have always found that slang term hilarious) who had been ordering pitcher after pitcher of beer for himself, and kept insinuating himself into our little circle of three. He was actually from Wyoming. There was another guy there who kept throwing his cowboy hat up to whoever was riding the bull, women and men alike. So this Navy dude says "Is it just me, or is it a little gay for that guy to be sharing his hat with other dudes? Where I come from you don't share your hat with anyone!" I shrugged. I conceded that maybe it was slightly odd.

I felt a little bad for the guy, he was trying really hard to impress us with talk of the 3,000 acre ranch his Grandpa owns, his two houses, one in Rhode Island, one in Georgia, with boats to match each. If only that was all a girl wanted.

My friends and I went back to my place afterwards and ate toast with butter and talked about work. And speaking of, I gotta go.

Pizza & Champagne

That's what we had for dinner at my parent's house tonight. I got the job, and am having a great day.

I want to write about it but am too relaxed at the moment... I feel like I've shrugged off eight months of wandering through a maze, chasing unraveling balls of yarn.

The world looks different, and it's not insignificant. It's layers deep.

This made me cry.

I'd Like a Refill

The title of my last post, if you weren't aware, was borrowed from the Will Oldham aka Bonnie Prince Billy song of the same title. Johnny Cash also covered it. It's a gorgeous, sad song. I was just paying tribute to it, is all I'm saying. It was running through my mind. Find it on the internets if you've never heard it, and let it humble you.

Last night I took a half a Xanax before bed, determined to get some shut-eye. Instead, I lay awake until, at 5:00 a.m., with my brain becoming increasingly more active and my body more anxious, I took a half a Vicodin. I fell asleep around 5:30 probably. Woke up at 7:00. Reset the alarm for 8:00, but never fell back asleep. Yes, this was the interview morning. No, I wasn't awake all night fretting only about the interview - I mean, I was fretting about it at some point, but mostly due to the fact that it was looking more and more like I would never ever ever fall asleep, and would then have to drag my ass into the interview feeling like...well, like I hadn't slept all night and was mildly under the influence of drugs. Fuck.

So, yeah, it was priceless. After lying there for an hour between 7:00 and 8:00 trying to relax, I had to get vertical, I had no choice. I sat up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and began to cry. I stood up, and continued crying. I walked down the stairs, hand to forehead, crying. Fucking fuck me.

Get the fucking soldier going. Buck up. So you didn't sleep. So you have to go and present yourself and appear that you have your wits together. So have a shower, get yourself all prettied up, have a few cups of coffee, and deal. You think this is tough? Get over it.

Interview went really well, and after that I went to work. I suppose I'm running on fumes at this point. The bed is big, and soft, and warm, and now we're gonna hold each other close.

I See a Darkness

Apologies to the few nice people who bother to visit this blog for having had only photos and nothing new to read for some days. I've been in the grip of some pretty difficult emotions recently and have retreated deep into my little seashell home to heal. Really I've just been trying to maintain for the last 2 days, and with having to work, that's been tricky. I had a lot of alone time last night at work, so I got some crying done. Tomorrow morning I have a job interview, same agency, different job. If I get through tonight and tomorrow morning I'm golden. Still have to work after the interview, at another site, but then I have Wednesday off, so if I really need to, I can crash and burn tomorrow night. What I mean by crash and burn is maybe drink a bottle of wine while I go through all the crap in my basement til 2:00 a.m. or something, and cry if necessary. Or better yet, get the studio set up. That wouldn't be a crash. It would be a definite burn. Interpret that however you want.

Even though I generally understand the world and people in it better than the world or people in it generally understand me (and if you think that's a cocky thing to say, I don't mind, because I'm telling the truth), I still love them both. The world. The people in it. Really.

Frozen Doors

Just got home from work. As I sit here drinking Grandpa's whiskey (yes, it's really my Grandpa's whiskey - he's been dead for 30 years) my cats are getting uber-violent with each other, I kind of hate that, because they often end up knocking shit over. I swear it sounds like there are 3-year olds running around upstairs.

Today I busted out my Metallica cds, I was inspired (?) to listen to them after watching the documentary "Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills" the other day. Metallica does the soundtrack - well, essentially it's all songs from Master of Puppets. The movie is in two parts, so if you decide to check it out, which I very highly recommend doing, give yourself 5 hours. It's a pretty fucking amazing, sad story. Your opinions and emotions will really run the gamut, trust me.

So I took Master of Puppets in the car with me as I ran errands before work today. I probably haven't listened to it since last summer maybe. It is a wonderful cd, and of course for me is tinged with all sorts of associations that at this point in my life I don't mind. People, places, even articles of clothing are trapped in the notes, and that's ok.

I went to the bubble-gum scented carwash and cranked "Welcome Home (Sanitarium)" as the bubbly mist of foam obscured my view of everything, and jets of water pounded and vibrated my little black car. It was really lovely. If only the car wash lasted a bit longer. And if only my doors didn't freeze shut tonight as a consequence of having gone. I got in through one of the back doors and made it to the front in a Houdini-like fashion.

The cats have only moments ago called a truce, tonight's battle was a rager. My shot's worth of whiskey is almost gone. I barely knew ya Gramps, but thanx for this fine bottle, and cheers.