Monday, August 27, 2012
Today is a day that requires lots of thought. I feel like I'm on the cusp of understanding something big. But I don't know why. And, especially this, I don't know how. I feel this way when I'm saying my goodbyes to people (and whether you know it or not, I've probably said my goodbyes to you). I feel this way when I know that this body of mine could fail at any given moment. I worry too much, I know. Quit telling me that. I've known for quite sometime. I live this life with this brain and this anxiety. I get it. I'm a big ball of worry, but guess what - it's true. We die. Quickly and without reprieve.
Someone asked me this weekend why I'm so fearful. I answered them as I would've answered anyone. And the song is sung like this: "wouldn't you? wouldn't you worry if you heard your dad scream as he died in a house consumed by fire and fear? Wouldn't you worry if you watched the electrical lines bounce around alive outside your childhood home as everything burned down? wouldn't you if you were haunted by the half corpse that was collected by the firemen who couldn't have cared less?" I didn't say that. I didn't. I wanted to. I said, "because my dad died quickly - and it makes me nervous for everyone i love."
He said I was tormented, this person. I told him that I knew I was. People who live just are. People who live and know how close they are to death just are tormented. And I will be far longer than I want to be.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
What about that family who used to sit in my section when I would sling pizzas and beers... the family with the kids who threw macaroni in my face, the family with the kids who minced up straw papers like expensive garlic. I remember them. The kids, okay, that's excusable, right? They're kids. But those grown-ups couldn't rip their fat faces from their iPads and Netbooks long enough to.. well... parent. Those kids are growing up with no hope. Those grown-ups deserve a well-fed grudge. And I'm just the gal for the job.
Okay? Got it? I understand where it comes from. I do. It's lengthy and vulnerable and for another post. But it has everything to do with trying so hard to be the peace-maker as a child and failing - marinating in a world of not being in control. Those things make me miserably hateful to strangers who suck major dick and incredibly devastated/broken-hearted when the people I love can't reciprocate the way I want them to. It seems like peace-making as a child and holding grudges don't go together, but they do. Believe me. Anyway, like I said earlier, that's for another post.
But, coming back to my original point, I hold grudges. But sometimes I don't want to. Sometimes I see things that make me want to be the "water off my back" girl. Sometimes I don't want to bite my nails because I'm so angry I can't do anything else. Sometimes I want to avoid the anxiety I have about confronting this weird toxin. All the time I want to be better. Better and better. But I just don't know how.
And let's be honest, I'm not sure I have the energy to put forth the effort. Especially when these people just don't understand how hard life can be. People fucking die and people fucking hurt and i'm fearful, like, all the goddamn time-- and here you are, nonchalantly allowing your children to throw macaroni in my sad face while I'm just trying to live.
I know. I'm selfish. But I've never claimed to be a good person.
Monday, August 20, 2012
I can't hide it, really. You know those small moments that peep around the corner, shyly, like the new girl coming into math class? Like, the sun crashing it's way past my house and onto the neighbors big bay window. That's a shy moment that makes me want to sing. Or sitting quietly on the porch. Or knowing my neighbor next door will inevitably talk to me about salvation and amazing grace. Though I don't like that chatter, per se, I like that I know he'll slip it in whenever he can. Praise the lord.
Consistency. My white haired neighbor walking her cat, Pete. The man who lives in apartment 2 listening to The Morning Show so loudly about every other day. My pink perfume catching the sun in the bathroom window. The apple tree in the back yard doing it's thing, making me all romantic for the seasons. These are the things I can't yet sacrifice to the god of maybe-i-can-have-a-better-life-somewhere-else. And it's fine, you know? That's just what I have to tell myself. It's okay to pine for something else, or bigger, or redder, or just different -- but what's not okay is giving up amazing.
I mostly am in love with this, the here and now. I might moan about this thing or another thing, but I've nested in this town. And this town has grown comfortable with me, too.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
books. (i mean it, BOOKS) bowls. it's sick how much i like buying bowls. random little notebooks with poems. The X-Files on DVD in collector's sets (season 1-7), fabrics i don't really ever intend on using. cleaning supplies, lots of them. my love letters to and from andy. wrapping paper from last holiday season and the season before that and the season before that. rock band. coats i haven't worn; coats i have. bedding because i really don't think anyone can ever have enough sheets. a rosary that would confuse my mom and friends alike. make-up i have never used; make-up well loved and used frequently... i mean, the list goes on.
I haven't seen my neighbor's family keep anything. And isn't that just heartbreaking? And if this blogpost is anything at all, it's a salute to companionship, to my partner in life. Because my grandparents wouldn't want my copy of American Indian Myths and Legends but, i really do believe, andy would go to war for it if i died. Same thing with that little blue prep-bowl we use daily for our meals that i bought that one time at that store that's out of business now. Or that dumb pillow case with obnoxious poppies on it.
I can't even think it through. I'm going to stop.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
There are perfect seasons in my life. Friends are friends and my job is just a job and neighbors across our quaint street are not dying alone in their homes. The music has the best beat and good lyrics, the tea tastes like the first cup of tea, fever blisters exist but never on me and my goddamned apartment isn't as confining as I remembered from, I don't know, let's say, 2 months ago.
You know what I'm talking about, right? Like, perfect. Of course you do. Those seasons when time moves exactly as it should (whatever that means for you). And then, like any bi-polar person will tell you, there are those other times.
In ninth grade I cut my hair super, duper short. Pixie. The boy I liked called me a "lesbian" every single day in 7th period. But that's okay, wanna know why? I was cooler than where I was. I'm serious. Nirvana, The Beatles, Violent Femmes and Tom Petty cds frequented my little boom box, I made beaded necklaces and wore mismatched earrings. I survived my best friend's death and the death of my parent's marriage and 2 school moves within 2 years. I bailed hay and maintained a cool composure when faced with social conundrums. And I was smart.
Third and Fourth grade were weird years for me. I was becoming aware of my caste, so to speak. I mean, "caste" is probably too harsh for the social stratification that occurs in rural towns, but I was realizing how poor I was, how uneasy it was to have an alcoholic dad and a desperate mom. It's fine, though. I had a bird book given to me by my great grandmother who taught me how to play cards, Scrabble and forced me to only have one iced oatmeal cookie every time I visited. She didn't play Old Maid the sissy way, either. She was straight streets - none of this "letting the kids win" bullshit. She had the flattest chest due to a mastectomy and a raw, but ladylike attitude (due to the depression). And because of her, now and then, I can point out a Belted Kingfisher, Red-Winged Blackbird, Great Blue Heron - tell you what they eat, where they live, how they sound. I can also remember where I was when I become cognizant of the existence of these beautiful creatures individually.
This kind of bullshit is a mix, huh? Bad and good. So, perfection can visit; I'll allow it, even welcome it. But, let me always be aware of proportions.