Trying to get back to the swing of things.

Old Friends

When I was a child, my dad drove an old tan and white pickup truck.
I don't really remember it, but snapshots capture my dad standing next to it in a matching leisure suit.
Eventually the pictures change over to a brand new blue and white pickup.
Standard cab, bench seat, with air conditioning. A complimentary blue camper shell was quickly added.
We would drive to the farm for the free firewood, me, Dad and Grandma.
On the way there, I would sit in a lounging fold up lawn chair, legs still bent under, and read a book to pass the time.
For the return trip I would be squished between Dad and Grandma, the three of us sweaty of being outside all day in the sun, and my book remained hidden in the pocket of the door.
In it's old age, that pickup truck tolerated me as I learned to parallel park and then chugged me gracelessly to my part time job.
My suit never matched it, and by the time I had my licence the air conditioning had stopped working,
But we had a lot of miles together, that old truck and I.
When it stopped starting every day and started stranding me on the way to work, the pickup was replaced by a nice, reliable Buick. I was happy to see it go.
Now, I'm a little sorry for being ungrateful for all those quiet moments in the lounge chair, reading a book, covering the miles.

State of Mind

There is a lot of negativity building inside riding a way of despair and doubt.
When I lay in bed at night, trying to sleep, I can see it all building and I'm afraid it will blow the top of my head off, neatly,
In a way that will only be apparent to me.
As if I will be able to style my hair over the fracture marks and hide the evidence from the world.

Sleep is a gift that cannot be squandered, yet a horror full of chaotic dreams and insufficient rest.
When I close my eyes I can feel blood pulsing through my ears.
It is a side effect; the one-two punch of congestion and exhaustion turns my hearing towards the internal.
The pulse in oddly comforting in it's regularity, a gentle whoosh, whoosh, whoosh I can almost see against my eyelids.
As if the sound releases some of the pressure and I'll be spared the indignity of this blackness.

Yes, it's been awhile. I've been busy.

Things just keep . . . something. I don't know what. Something. I've gone insane.

At the moment, I'm just completely enraged. It's not a big deal, in the long run, I guess, just the perfect example of the way things are these days. I thought about getting a gift for the step-nephew and niece. I think it's a little silly to exchange gifts with them just because we all have way too much stuff. Plus, it's expensive. Seriously, what's the point? It's not about how I feel towards them. But we all just use presents and money to prove how civil we are. OK, that's the rage talking.

The point is that I was a little behind in getting them a gift. Just like I'm a little behind in everything. Take, for example, the 'free' trial of Amazon Prime. Sure, I know the gimmick - get people to sign up and then renew them before they remember to cancel. I know this is the hook. And I've successfully avoided it all before. Only this time, I was one of those forgetful people. Now I've got $80 worth of free 2 day shipping. So I figure: I might as well make use of it. Yes, it's another hook. I'm forgetful, not stupid.

So I buy the previously referenced family some gifts through Amazon, and I'm sure to get the order in so that I can have them this weekend. In case you're wondering, I've already missed the Christmas deadline and have just accepted it. So I was aiming for Sunday, when I'll be seeing them again. I placed the order, dutifully supplied my credit card number, and waited expectantly for the box to arrive.

It didn't.

I called UPS. The man I spoke with made brief apologies and was generally useless, except to inflame the situation. He pointed out my responsibility for calling after 7 pm. He pointed out Amazon's failing for not getting the package to UPS sooner. In the end, I told him that their customer service was infuriating, the system was seriously flawed, and I was hanging up before I belittled myself by calling him names he's probably never heard of before.

The package is officially out for delivery. But it's not here. It's not there. Nobody knows for sure where it is. And nothing can be done until Monday. When will the package be moved again? Monday. When can I log a complaint? Monday. When I can get more information as to what has happened to the package? Monday.

Fuck Monday. Fuck the delivery guy who only dropped one of the boxes scheduled for delivery. Fuck the Alanis Morissette Irony for the box being the wrong one. Fuck the customer service guy for shifting blame everywhere else. Fuck trying to do the right thing, trying to do it by a certain date, trying to be some semblance of my old self.

I am so thoroughly pissed; the words are inadequate.

I know. It's not about the UPS package. I'm falling apart, not stupid.

It's all about the complete lack of reasonableness in my life. I'm not even sure that's a word. I've ceased to function on a reasonable, productive level. I haven't balanced the checkbook so I missed paying some bills. There are piles of laundry everywhere - clean/folded, clean/piled and dirty. I don't get a shower every day. I drove all the way home from the gas station without the gas cap on the tank. I keep forgetting to fill out the mail order prescription information that might actually save me money on my drugs.

And these are just the symptoms. The answer? More lists, I suppose, detailing the things that need to be done on certain days at certain times. But the lists just emphasize my incompetence.

I hate feeling incompetent. Fuck that, too.

I'm just boiling over. The saddest thing is that this is all just a defense mechanism against an impending mental breakdown.

And it's all just... something.

The simple life

Tonight's topic for car talk was death. Sure, death isn't exactly a common subject for a four year old, but Ari learned long ago that it's OK to ask questions - and that we'll answer any reasonable one. I've never once responded with "Ask me again when you're older" or any other delaying tactic. [Aside from the "I'll have to look that up." That one happens a lot.] So, tonight, we talk Death.

Ari says, in the context of death, "When God calls, you have to go." This sounded like a 'lesson' to me, so I asked "Did Omi tell you that?" Apparently she has; I had no argument with the concept so I was ready to move on. Ari wasn't. We moved into a conversation about how old or young a person is when God calls.

For some explanation of the upcoming breakdown, remember that I am exhausted. I'm so tired I can't remember all the important things while the small things are tripping me up completely. My reserves are shot. Enter: Death.

Ari says "Grandma Betty wasn't very old when God called her." My stomach immediately knotted. My mother is so peripheral to our existence that Ari called her 'Betty' rather than 'Debbie'. This is probably 'Right' and 'Good' - after all, it's probably not healthy for a four year old to have anything but a peripheral relation to a grandmother gone for 6 years before she was born.

I took a nice deep breath, and corrected her. Unfortunately, Ari wasn't through yet. In her peaceful, matter of fact, uncomplicated way, she asked me if I was a grown up when my mom died. How do you explain 'teenager' to a four year old? I said "I wasn't little, like you are, but I wasn't all grown up either."

For my fantastically thorough girl, this wasn't enough. How old was I, really? "Eighteen."

And again, in her peaceful, matter of fact, uncomplicated way, Ari says "Oh, well you were a grown up then. So you didn't need your mom anymore. So it's OK that God called her."

By this time, tears rolled freely down my face. I had missed my turn. And I was all out of answers. So I cried silently and let my mind wail "God! I needed her...."

It was part prayer, part resignation, part childishness, part desperation, part emptiness. It was love and hate and loneliness and frailty. It was grief, and rejoicing.

A few minutes later I hurriedly wiped my face off before Ari could see it. I prefer that her life remain a little less complicated for a little bit longer.

Spinning my wheels, or something

I'm not sure where to start. On anything. Everything is so disorganized and scattered that I find it incredibly difficult to find a beginning. The idea is personified in the living room, where stacks of things are laying around waiting to find their new home. Yet nothing can be put away yet. My thoughts feel like the dining room.

I still haven't figures out how to type on my new keyboard, but I think that longer fingernails are impeding my progress. And to think I worked so hard to stop biting my nails. That bad habit would come in handy these days.

The craving to smoke is back. No lectures needed, I won't light up. But oh how the feeling is there...

A Bright Red Roar

When I was a child, our home was heated by a giant wood burning furnace.
It was red, with a heavy black door, and took up almost the entire room.
We weren't supposed to open the door, but I could see the dancing flames as I watched the adults stoke the fire.
The heat caressed your face until it was so hot you had to blink - and then the door was closed again.
When I was 10, it did not seem unusual. Chopping, hauling, stacking wood was a matter of course. Part of
Winter.

I always knew Autumn was upon us; the days were shorter and the colors changed but the real test were the long drives to "the farm."
Some acreage, mostly wooded, with a few ponds and a ravine full of our large trash.
Refrigerators, tires, worn out furniture.
One year: our white dog who had grown deaf in old age and too aggressive with children.

Some days at the farm I managed to sneak away from the buzz of chainsaws to walk around with little purpose.
Once, I found a long black snake sunning itself along the shoreline.
Once, I walked until I came to a fence where I was greeted by a white and tan horse.
He blinked slowly at me until I wandered away again.

Autumn trips to the farm packed the truck full of wood to heat the house.
We packed until sunset and drove home in the dark, tired and sticky with tree sap.
The pickup would sit to the side, waiting for daylight, and then we would drive through the yard and begin unloading.
Cords of wood lined the fence and by the time we moved the bottom layers were sinking, rotting, into the ground.
The stacks were always crooked; the yard flooded with every heavy rain.

Polarized

The weather has been a bit harsh the last season and so the
Usual beautiful trees are dropping their leaves all at once,
Shrugging off the changes with a distinct air of self preservation.
I have pity for the trees; the people I know with a similar approach never
Know when to stop.
I currently err towards self sacrifice; my religious upbringing left me with
Such an appreciation for the martyr.
At the back of my mind lies the need to be adored.
Recognized.

I went walking the other evening, casually, hands
Tucked into my jacket pockets
While I shuffled through the crackling green/brown leaves.
A lesson lies there, on the sidewalk, but I can only hear the whisper of meaning
Over the sound of my passage.

Happy Birthday to me.

It's officially official: I've turned 30. It doesn't feel any different and I don't think I really care about the big 3-0. It was a great excuse to go out to dinner, though.

Things are moving along no matter how I feel about them. I suppose that's he very nature of things. I realize this doesn't make much sense. Perhaps I'm only typing in an effort to acclimate to my new keyboard.

Appearances

I stood before the mirror today and carefully brushed my hair straight.
The gray dulls the shine I was hoping for but I've
Long become accustomed to the sight.
My body feels all used up these days. My brain
Assures me that this feeling will fade over time.
I am not convinced.
I do not believe my own lies.
I cannot discern the truth, either. The confusion deftly weaves through
Certainty.
I am still shocked by the sight of it.



I find myself craving water but eating chocolate instead. One of these days, I might be able to make sense of that. Or this post. Who knows?

I hate my birthday. Reminds me of all those who have gone away. This is the best part; the end of the day when I am the furthest possible from the next birthday.

But thanks anyway to all of you for your thoughts and cool stuff. :)