In fall, things flame before they die. There is Fire! Pain! Dramaaaaaa. And then wintry death.
I’m on my phone, typing with a flashing digit of my own. It’s all surreal, how many changes we’ve incorporated fairly seamlessly. (technology, divorce… )And the changes we cannot seem to absorb? Those are surreal as well. (technology, divorce…)
its another day now, i’m not on the phone anymore, which is a blessing. i’m 100% positive I cannot communicate well with it, even verbally.
so here i am.
It is really so clear here, where we have such a fiery fall, that there are these last gasps of glamour, and one strong wind will sweep us into the branch segment of our year. the sticks of winter, the pokey bits.
i’m feeling a little dissociated lately, even the writing i do for myself feels a little flat. i just thought about telling you how my direct line of sight goes to a row of evergreens out the window, so i find it very easy to feel/see/remember green year-round.
and then i stopped myself (obviously i lost that battle, in the end, but the gears all jarred, clang clang clang) because i thought it was too flat, too un-quippy.
Last year i was very caught off-guard by the grief i felt at the fifth Fall since my dad died. This year i’m not caught off-guard but am surprised by how much I feel like crawling into a hole for the month.
and there is nothing I can do about it. The kids keep demanding to be fed. The dog barks, the chickens will just up and die. So there is no hole for me.
hi. I’m at the end of my recovery day, from yesterday’s full 24 hours of hell, from both ends. the kids were at school for the bulk of it, but after school were play auditions for two kids, and a soccer game so I needed to ask for help. and it came, with trumpets. kids were taken to tryouts, soccer was watched and that kid got to go out to dinner with his dad…dinner was served to other kids, homework was done. a small crew of 3 adults did what I do on a normal Wednesday.
I’m not going to tell you I’m not proud of my life.
and I’m going to tell you that you are lucky if you have family and love like I do. so lucky.
today is recovery. fair amounts of water, boredom in bed, sickness at the thought of food, but hungry. by the time the bus rolled around today, I had moved myself to the kitchen cozy. spent an hour just chatting with my girl because I missed her yesterday. an hour. the bliss of it. just cozied up. I learned about the lady who did all the math for the moon. (Katherine Johnson) Everything stays the same, yes? but these tiny differences? that my girl sits on my lap and tells me all about the LADY that did all the math to save the men who traveled to the moon? oh, it’s rich with possibility. if this were a comic, we would turn the page to the next ms. marvel.
but since I’ve been in bed all day, I now can’t sleep, as weak and ridiculous as I feel. and so I’m here, apologetic.
I thought it would be so cool to go through it and pick out the things that I loved, that I have written, those bits of beauty that slipped through and away during those years.
and I can’t. I read the first post, and the second, and did some flipping. and it is just unbearably sad. I was so sad, all the time, and mad, and lost. like the perfect puppy who lives under the bridge while the happy family walks by, unseeing. I hate ‘near miss’ movies, and I’m pretty sure I lived one for a long time. Maybe the hate comes from the experience.
It was ten years of my life, that writing. and makes two volumes, when divided chronologically. the first is so fat, rich with hope and trying. and the second volume thin, with so much less of everything.
I don’t want to look into the memories, or remember what the code was in my stories, as I was trying so hard to communicate with my husband my devastation at what i was, what we were.
Its been crushing me a little, into sickness maybe? and this is the season when I feel devastation the deepest. if one has any choice in that, at all.
so there it is. my late-night blog. what the hell do i do with all that?
hot apple cider, available at the coffee shop. not coffee. and boy, when you ask for it plain, you get a look. however, this is new England and hot cider is a required force on a fall morning.
cider smells like breast-fed baby poop. i’m happy about that. also glad that it doesn’t TASTE like breast-fed baby poop.
I ran out of my kitchen (at 8:30 am) because my tenant was there. she lives there. I don’t have any problem with her. I just ran away, because.
I am afraid to talk to people at the ‘real’ health food store. because I feel guilt for fast food, and high fructose corn syrup and not enjoying cooking, and so I feel a fraud, or like I have to confess. Makes for an awful lot of drama.
So many people here are still wearing flipflops, or sandals of some sort. I don’t care about toes but I do care too much about warmth and chilly-ness. too much, I know. but hats are imminent, people!
there’s all these women with babies under 6 months old. some mommy and me class must’ve just finished somewhere.
plus, its gone from before 10 am to after 10 am and the place is hopping. who lives these lives? I wish they would all stop by my table and tell me. (not really, maybe. maybe.)
I’m too distracted by my phone. memes can be really funny. i’m still tired of snark though.
I don’t ever want to be around pumpkin spice. i’m a purist. apple cider. i’m going to make a flag for my pickup.
maybe they are nannies. this one does not have a body which has carried a child. are nannies a thing here? maybe i’m in the wrong end of town.
I have to go back home to take a walk, and to hear me some more Mother Teresa. because. what else would you do while waiting for the work to roll in, right?
I think a dozen is a pretty good place to stop. I imagine my Lionness getting down with the apple cider too.
(seriously, where the hell are all these babies coming from? there are SO many babies here! a meet-up?)
shitcakes and fuckery. I wrote that this week in a shared space and made two women laugh. and man that feels pretty great.
yep, you read that right. I’m on day 3 of listening to * Carolyn Myss talk about Archetypes, and how we all can relate better and feel more connected when we use a common language of symbol and metaphor. (of course, cross-cultural might provide hills and valleys, but Mother, Mother is the broadest thing in the universe, potentially, but is still Mother. Child, Warrior, Student, Saboteur, ) These are elements we have within us, not what we do to others, necessarily.
For fucksake, Mother Theresa wasn’t even a mother, and she was. right? we dig? Its not ‘literal’, its symbolic, full of meaning that doesn’t even need to be spoken. men can be Mother, ladies without kids can be Mother. whatever.
again, whatever. So, work is slow and I’m looking into the things I love. I love mysticism, have, do, but because I went to a Jesuit College, I studied a whole bunch of mystics, and I don’t envy them a goddamned bit.*= I mean, we’re talking very very dark trials and tribulations, some including blood and abandonment and hysteria, and super early deaths. So, you know, not that much of a celebrity thing.
BUT, I love Mother Theresa. And I’ve been getting into the whole ‘Listening to things on tape/phone’ thing lately. it allows me to concentrate in a way that I haven’t for a very long time, almost collegiate-ly.*-
“If I ever become a saint—I will surely be one of ‘darkness,’” Mother Teresa wrote in September of 1959. “I will continually be absent from heaven—to light the light of those in darkness on earth.” *& This site
oh, man, she is my guy. (I know)
and one of the archetypes that i’m learning I have in me is that of the Innocent Child, the Magical Child… ooooh, sparkly lights and rainbows and steadfast faith and oooh, a butterfly!! its not an immature thing, or naïve, but it is a pretty significant part of me in much of my life thus far. And… every archetype has its flipside, or ‘shadow’ and the times when my child is despondent, and believes in nothing, and hides in the blanket fort, are for real. Disappointment, loss of faith in the goodness, oh man, they swing through and knock me down.
I am not equating my mood swings to Mother Teresa’s dark nights of the soul. except metaphorically. **
anyhow, i’m freehanding this, and I want to stop now to go back to thinking. so, there. Oh my word, I just started to type something about how my bulletpoints below are hollow but stopped to look up what that meant literally and oh my god, guys, what kind of world are we living in?!
*I don’t know much about Myss or Sacred Contracts, or what not, but I ‘GET’ the idea of archetypes, whether we grasp them on the surface or just recognize them floating under the dock. I just ‘get’ it.
*=my language is pretty damn funny/punny. unintentional, I swear.
*-let us now talk about the girl who is deaf getting back into ‘listening’, shall we? no? okay then.
*& I don’t know anything about this site but its where I got the quote so I had to link.
**if there is a God, and a ‘living’ Mother T, then i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m not worthy… full on face in dirt.
i’m at the car repair place fixing a recalled item. its going to be about two hours and I’ve got to make my own prompt for writing: How do you access what the *Lionness* wants you to? (this is a reference to the archetype I’m embodying these days)
all my readings have been telling me to look at my joy, to just be in the JOY. and i’m like, yeah, gimme another blanket and let me settle down further into my bog.
I’ve stopped taking my antidepressant and I think it is good but am struggling a lot with how to support my system between 4 and bedtime. I have so little time with them, and then i’m a wreck. it doesn’t seem like a fair deal .
boys here in what look like suits until you look down at their feet and see their shoe-style.
and distraction aside, I think that guided meditations are the way to go for me, and i’m still not doing that. I found, or my Lionness found, me that way. in my ability to sink into my own body and my own imaginative base, which I have, and how I have seemed to survive this past few decades. which is still an amazing thing to say. decades have passed.
what I mean, in my huddle, in my mess of blankets on the couch with my fears around me like infinity scarves gone wrong, is that I am moving, but not moving at the same time. in two ways. my lists are getting crossed off, i’m handling things. i’m applying myself, i’m in the fall cleanup, and i’m not. i’m not any of that. and it happens during and around all of the same actions.
I get interrupted to be frightened by the car repair man that I need a timing belt replacement. I am here to fulfill a recall. happily I remember that I have a new engine in there, ask me that fucking story. no, don’t. so I don’t need no stinking timing belt. thank you very much. nobody is getting any of my money today, and hopefully that includes the vending machine I am staring at, which has chips AND candy. bastards.
what I mean, in my need to keep writing, to give myself some sort of structure in the day, is to give myself more of a foothold into understanding myself. there is a lot that I get, dig? but this whole HERMIT thing? its not making me feel like I can take care of my kids independently, and that’s a pretty damn big deal. I say.
and what I mean, really, is that I know I can take care of my kids, I know I can. I don’t even doubt it for a second. Don’t make me fuck you up.
but I worry about the money and the living on alimony/childsupport mix. still and always. I am not good with dependence.
which brings another fear in the LM category . (Loveliest Man) What if I do fall in deep love with him? like dependent love? wherein I need him? Isn’t that the death knell ? isn’t it? why do people do these things? LM, be not afraid. also, don’t comment. I can’t handle it.
And herein lies the end of the freewrite. Apologies? I don’t know. But here I am, trying to give myself a foothold that I am sure of… its always good to have one foot on the ground, yeah?
*(i’m learning a lot about archetypes lately, and for me, Lionness has shown up, and that sort of matches up with Queen archetype, and also Mother, and also Warrior, so there.)