tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38257749644732677342024-03-13T08:41:09.371-07:00minutiaefingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-48208114352484256362013-01-07T13:27:00.002-08:002013-01-07T13:27:42.448-08:00Stealing Time From BusyI always wanted to steal time - to sneak into the fissures and crevices of it's passage before NOW was gone, and put a halt to it. As if somehow I could manage a suspension. An idling. A breath forever caught in the inhalation. Spaciousness without borders. No tick-tock-ing of the forever omnipresent but elusive clock. A still-life.
The hurry of childhood saddens me. How I raced at it with nothing but eagerness and zeal. How my own children can be so swept up in the promise of aging that tomorrow seems like more of a gift waiting to be granted than today appears to be a miracle. How we plan. How we dream.
Today, a 10 year old said to me, "Me? I'm a lonely sorrow".
He wasn't sad when he said it, merely alive and spontaneous and unguarded. The words did summersaults off his tongue and bounced around in the car until they fell like lead balloons into this mother's lap. She stole the line.
I like to think that we are not broken. That our wounds are the glue that keep us adhered to life. And maybe this is where Time stands still. When we listen. When we allow meaning to fly
or crumble
or sit
still . . .fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-33815116254845826102012-09-03T13:57:00.000-07:002012-09-03T13:57:48.883-07:00This GardenBecause there is bamboo and mums
and the filtering of sun through trees.
Beacause he said "I love you <i>more</i>, Mom, and yes, it's possible."
Because god.
Then the shock that is a gentle awakening
too quickly turned to chaos
and the impossibly fine line
between play and rage -
only then
and because god
is tolerance.
I wanted to love like some Southern California sun -
so consistent and reliable the warmth, the offerings,
that the life-sustaining light itself
could be taken for granted.
I wanted to love like water.
A brook, a river -
an uncharted ocean
whose quiet calm
could not be imagined.
Still, the magnificent crimson mum
sharing a stem with her lifeless brother
and they, the mere possibility of a bulb
only one Winter gone.
This womb.
There are wild clovers thriving
amidst flowerless forget-me-nots -
their heads pulled off without method
by the eager fingers
of adolescent's zeal.
This garden.
I figured the succulents would take -
would spread and cover the cinderblock walls
that define our beds.
But they are weary -
their empty hands
seeking light
in this Northwestern house of shade.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-27445746892553968902012-06-22T08:43:00.004-07:002012-06-22T08:50:07.888-07:00ResistanceAnything but writing. And I mean <i>anything</i>. Shoot, I 'll crawl under the sub floor of someone else's house to look for potential leaks, even though there is no indication of one, before I will sit down and get my work done. This, in the book The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, is called "resistance." I have all flavors.
It started when I was 9 and I realized I was a writer. I wrote a poem in class and that was that. I was a writer. That it was a relatively deep poem for a nine year old is true. But of greater significance is that upon completing it, I knew - and I mean KNEW - that I had just discovered something - a part of myself - that was as important and air and water. I had found my voice.
What followed this "realization" was a series of distractions. I was to be the first female President of the United States. Next, a doctor. An attorney. A teacher. A writer again (heavily medicated with alcohol and consequentially, unable to do anything with the writing that I actually did), a bar-tender, a waitress (these last two only AFTER receiving a BA in English Literature and a MFA in Poetics), a sales rep., and finally, a Realtor. A gal who sells a lot of houses and writes just a little bit of poetry.
The book suggests that if we were all taking up our callings, and doing what we know in our hearts we were put on this planet to do - that one genius about us that is ours only - there's be no more war, addiction, mental health problems, etc. Sounds good. I, of course, want to chain smoke cigarettes while I am writing and since that feels like a recipe for an early death - I don't. Also, I don't write. This is the resistance Pressfield is talking about.
I wonder what all the people I love are not doing. And all the just so-so friends - what is it that they are not doing that they were born to do? And how, when we really like someone, finding out this gold morsel of what is under all the doing-ness and the busy-busy and the roles - how they are even more like-able, how suddenly they are fascinating.
I am going to put it out there - on Facebook. I am going to ask. What are you NOT doing that is your true calling, your forever dream, your heart's desire?
See what shakes loose.
Maybe it will give me something to write about. And, if not me, then maybe you.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-69670944342394040942012-02-15T21:56:00.003-08:002012-02-20T07:35:38.838-08:00Spirulina Licorice and The DementiaMy friend Nathalie told me tonight "the thing about your writing is that you say things that I think everyone wants to say but doesn't". Aside from this being a huge compliment as I have worried that my blogging is merely self-indulgent, I felt compelled to say "Then...FUCK YOU!" Not to Nathalie, of course, but to every other person I ever wanted to say "FUCK YOU" to, but didn't. And now, since I sort of feel like she gave me permission to say a few things that maybe other people wanted to say, I think F- YOU is very apropos. So there, I said it. <br />
That she also mentioned, in passing, a person whom had actually used the phrase "he has THE dementia" simply made me happy. Not because someone has dementia - that is sad - but because someone called it "The Dementia". In doing so, he gave a secret squirrel insight more into himself perhaps than the person of subject. I imagine he has an old closet full of neatly folded doilies and handkerchiefs from 1939, and a trunk full of someone else's old photos. I imagine he opens the closet only on the first Sunday of the month, at precisely 7:12 PM. He wears vintage white gloves that have never been washed but still appear pressed. He is lonely.<br />
<br />
My heart has been broken several times in my life. Some breaks were more like surface cracks that hurt in the instant but seemed to regenerate and even close after a modest kindness from time. Others occurred more like tremendous re-enactments of the Grand Canyon - an act so ineffable and deep cutting that neither time nor any forthcoming kindness could propose to offer solace. These are the ones that stop time. The swollen heart syndrome that destroys a day a month a year a life...in an instant...that seems to last forever. They are the great global tragedies, the abuses done to the innocent, the day someone tells you they no longer love you. "F you" doesn't do it here, words fall apart in your throat, muteness only speaks to the surface. If I had a color for every bottomless moan and wounded yelp that cannot be uttered, I'd paint a crimson umber blood orange sky that wrapped the entire universe in forgiveness. I'd sing so sweetly, so quietly, so right.<br />
<br />
People want to be acknowledged where it hurts but not dragged into the mire. I am supposed to say something funny that wipes all the badness away. The Dementia helps with this. My own, and yours too. If I told you that my seven year old flipped me off the other day, you'd think I have some good fer nuthin' punk ass kid with a bad attitude and a whole helluva lot of trouble headed his way. These are not the facts. My son is funny and sweet and kind. He makes me laugh everyday, from the bottom of the barrel of my gut. He is precious and he cares about the hearts of others. And, he gave me the middle finger. The funny thing was, he didn't mean to . But it happened, at just the perfect time while he was saying just the perfect thing. Quite by chance, it was the middle finger that pointed at me, while he made some playful delivery and we both laughed until we cried. So inappropriate, so awesome. If, in the same breath, I mention that he also called a "mean kid at school" a "ball sack" you might think differently of him again. But I tell you, he is an angel. An angel who has a way with words way beyond his age.<br />
<br />
Being married is a whole lot like a carnival. Caramel apples, merry-go-rounds, and the House of Horror. A crazy tooth-less carni super-imposed by a lovely plump lady in a polka-dotted dress. Sun shining "this is the best day of my life" while a midget is stealing your wallet.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-34557333560376105462012-01-26T14:53:00.000-08:002012-01-26T14:53:15.158-08:00Time OutIt has been nearly 3 weeks since my last confession - I mean post - and I think that is a significant amount of days for the "time out" my previous blog warranted.<br />
<br />
a new day.<br />
<br />
i have a therapist.<br />
this is new for me.<br />
even newer that i would say it so LOUDLY.<br />
<br />
It is fascinating to me, this seeming indulgence, that for 50 minutes straight, one day a week, I would speak either entirely about myself or, if about others, how they occur for me. Not to me, but FOR me. me me me me me. Now, I am whole-heartedly and sincerly interested in other people - people move me - they make living worth all the little whiles that are burdensome. They are my light - even in their darkest hours. It just didn't dawn on me, truly, that who I am and what I believe, feel, think, etc., might be of serious consideration to another. That sounds silly - almost ridiculous, i think, and I suppose this is some sort of pride in reverse. ( I am wholly aware of the inconsistency in capitalizing the "I".<br />
I also get that I am paying my therapist to listen, which adds an entirely other but noteable element to the equation...meaning maybe there is an agenda to the supposed interest - but putting that aside for a moment - fascinating nonetheless.<br />
<br />
I used to be afraid (though it was masked in disdain) of becoming the stereotype of a middle aged mom. It was not so much the suburban living, the minivan (yes, I had one), the soccer mom label, or even the white picket fence and golden retriever (though this image did at once haunt me) but rather the tiny things that would seal the deal and bury any sense of true self I once harbored, forever. <br />
1. Having plastic, matching labelled bins which housed various re-usable decorations for each holiday.<br />
2. Being invited to tupperware parties. ( It is true that I called my mom once almost crying when I was invited to my first Tupperware party - I thought it meant my life was over. It is also true that 4 years later I was asked to host a scrap-booking event at my home for a friend selling Creative Memories crap and I immediately put my house up for sale. It was, for this bohemian, rebellious poet who suddenly awoke to herself driving a minivan and living in a subdivision where <i>everyone</i> drove a minivan and had a matching house, the vertiable straw that broke the camel's back).<br />
3. Not only buying every form of calendaring device and life-organizing tool to efficiently run a family, but actually <i>using</i> them with steadfast efficiency.<br />
4. Having matching bed sets at all costs.<br />
5. Pre-set, organized, planned out play dates.<br />
6. The days running into each other like a series of Ground Hog days with no room or space or time left for the magic of spontaneity and passion and whim.<br />
7. There are more.<br />
<br />
The point, or maybe there isn't a point after all - just a moving sphere or blob or spatula - is that I have become (sort of) a person who does this shit because (sadly, somehow) it works. Sure, my bins don't match, and most of the crap inside them was given to me by people who felt my naked Christmas shrub/Hannukah bush was all together wanting. True too, that I make the calls or send the texts, albeit only moments before "pick-up", proposing a play date or two. (The dry-erase calendar posted at eye level for kids still shows signs of the manually filled in dates from back in September when I got it and.... I'm usually flying off the seat of my pants when it comes to attending school events (even though I programmed them into my smart phone weeks before) having forgotten almost every day of my life to actually look ahead and what is already on the schedule.)<br />
What interests me about all of this right now is that I don't truly give a damn. I'm almost disappointed in myself for having taken the time to even write about it. AND, I still gotta get my ass of the computer and go pick up the kids, feed/love/coddle/admire them and then get them to gymnastics, sneak in a date with my guy, pick them up, feed 'em, read books, snuggle, turn off the lights, and "prepare" to do it all over again tomorrow.<br />
<br />
So...for 50 minutes I was asked to recall some things. My childhood. The blazing sun, the freedom, the joy of no plans and no structure and simply radiant wild dirt-filled outdoor living. I remember it fondly and vaguely. Not so much as a series of events but as a feeling. Some eternal, parent-less summer in a safe neighborhood with no real rules. It is not so much that there were no parents, but they are noticeably absent from the memories, from the feelings that are evoked by the memories. Like maybe they were there, while this pack of wild children was running free all over the open hills between Tiburon and Corte Madera......but maybe they were organizing their bins or scheduling appointments, or crying into their Crystal Light.<br />
I am one of those people who do not wish they had a different childhood. I feel lucky. I made lasting friendships and felt that the world belonged to me. I want that for my boys. A Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn kind of life that involved fishing poles and bare feet and all day adventures from one end of town to the other.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-62126643245885494692012-01-08T21:26:00.000-08:002012-01-08T21:26:54.158-08:00AmmendsI need to start by making an amends both to George W.Bush and to golden labs everywhere for suggesting that either were maybe one card short of a deck. I see now that it was mean and unnecessary - especially coming from a girl who is about as smart as a box of hair....on a good day. Even if I delete my previous blog, I get that any future running for the Republican party is over for me now once and for all - independent of what my somewhat "colored past" would have determined anyway. So, it's back to writing for me - and real estate. I just hope all the families out there with labs won't look elsewhere now that I've inadvertently slandered one of their family members.<br />
I wrote that last night but then almost gave up blogging entirely - I was disappointed in myself for having, the day before, resorted to saying anything negative about a man I have never met. If I ever get the chance, I will apologize in person I suppose.<br />
Enough.<br />
This feels too indulgent - this blogging about nothing in particular. Self-centered at least, if not downright narcissistic. I fell like I should be heralding a great cause or describing Mount Tam after a very fortunate run, or minding the stars.<br />
I am not sure where all of this leads, except deeper into the rabbit hole. The Mad Hatter just knocked on my door. What a beautiful time for tea.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-52492611828060643692012-01-06T21:47:00.000-08:002012-01-06T21:47:41.680-08:00Organic SpamYep - you guessed it! My latest search for a new name ( which is becoming more of a sarcastic joke at this point, since all the supposed genius names I come up with are TAKEN) left me out in the cold again. Even OrganicSpam.com was somebody else's idea before it was mine. So I guess this is what that "collective mind" is all about...the "we are one" I continue to be persuaded to believe in. The Buddhist booby prize...the Way.<br />
When I was growing up, we went to church most Sundays. A congregational sort of hippy collective that read (somewhat metaphysically I think) from the Bible but which also hosted meditation classes and Tibetan bell playing on Tuesdays. I remember going to the bell session with my mom - she was a master at it - and writing an essay on why Jimmy Carter should be re-elected for president. I am pretty sure my main argument in his favor was "because he is nice". I felt this way about George W. Bush also - not that he should be re-elected but that he was probably just a "nice" guy who bit off more than he could chew. Maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed, but "nice" nonetheless. I just couldn't believe someone who could get their photograph taken reading a book to a children's class, holding the book upside down, could have the kind of calculating malice his adversaries suggesteded he was capable of. Also, I always thought of him more as a big (duh umm?) golden lab who thought hanging out with pitbulls would get him a better seat at the doggy park. Kinda like he was playing a game of pick-up baseball and he was way out of his league but didn't realize it until it was too late to quit without disappointing his dad.<br />
I cannot imagine for a second why I am even suggesting to have an opinion about any of this. Sorry if I offend. Tough job, really, the Presidency...I couldn't do it.<br />
I am not sure what class it was or even what grade, but I remember the teacher saying "Everything is political, even a bowl of fruit". I think it was an art class, maybe art history. The point I think the teacher was making was something along the lines of...if one had the resources to draw a bowl of fruit, or even to have a bowl of fruit to draw, one had means and having means, or not having means, was a matter of political persuasion. Does that make sense? It did when it was spoken - I'm just chopping it up with my wordiness.<br />
I like poetry because it is quiet even when it is yelling. It makes one <i>feel</i> more than it allows for one to <i>understand</i>. At least, that is what it does for me. Like a good song it makes me ache - either for the sheer tragedy of it all or for the joy....and then there is that fine line where the two sensations mirror each other and I feel so damn happy to be sad.<br />
I want to be a better. Just a better.<br />
Mom, friend, wife, student, athlete, sister, daughter, niece, spatula....wind.<br />
I want to wake up seizing the day when my head leaves the pillow and pass out praying to make a difference when I hit it at night. I want to live like I really am aware that this is all I got.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-3783576323497159032012-01-05T22:16:00.000-08:002012-01-05T22:19:35.326-08:00Eating PooPuppy or not, you're just not supposed to do that. It is wrong. So is getting a puppy on a minutes notice just a week after finally deciding you are not going to get a pet of any kind. That you simply cannot take care of one more thing. That enough is enough.<br />
Coco is 9 1/2 weeks old, cute and soft and full of sweet puppy eyes. She sits, she shakes, she chases her tail. She pees once in a while in the house, the moment she comes back inside from a long outdoor romp. I yell. I am not as patient as I would like to be. I am not as cool or calm or tolerant or full of unconditional love. Coco reminds me this - stares at me like "huh? WTF? What crawled up your behind?" as I holler "NO!" and grab the furry little love nugget, wanting to hurl her into the great unknown, but placing her somewhat gently outside instead.<br />
In certain ways, my life has been a series of potty training and tolerating something. First it was my own unbridled passion for life, next my addictions, then my kids, then an old dog who never should have had to die, now Coco. The mortgages don't care what is happening, nor does the laundry, or the clients, or the boss. Only the heart cares. Mumbles something incoherent, whimpers a little, cries.<br />
Feeling alone in something, at the same time that the crowd is nearly suffocating you doesn't help - but then, even that doesn't make the experience unique enough to warrant the unrequested aide one so desperately needs in the midst of such despair. So the puppy barks (!), leaps up at nothing in particular with a monomaniacal zeal, falls on her chin, wonders at the finality of a slammed door.<br />
I am trying to choose between now and the future as if I could. Trying to calculate loss. Running years, like numbers on a calculator...counting moments that have passed that I somehow think I missed.<br />
If love were perfect, it would sit when you needed quiet without having been asked. It would shake for no cookie at all. It would nuzzle into the broken crook of your heart and exhale warm glue into the fissures. It would not pee on floor. And if life were perfect you could wake up happy and stay that way, for an entire hour or a day or a week or maybe even a series of years that floated by slowly like a single spiderweb thread through a a windless summer afternoon. If men were perfect they would love all our little disasters and women, they would smile at the toothpaste tube and children, they would never feel the disappointment of a promise you never made and certainly never meant to break. But, there is pee on the floor and a blob of toothpaste on the mirror and a lot of tiny disasters everywhere and it is late and the children are exhausted just from being alive and.....the laundry thinks it is cute all crumbled in piles pretending to be done.<br />
I gave the dog a bath tonight (she is called "the dog" when I am faining ignorance of how she ended up here in the first place) because earlier today she ate poo. At least, I am 99.9% sure it was poo. (I am holding on to that last .01% because I believe in miracles and unicorns and even rainbows in the midst of hurricanes of shit). So I gave her a bath and she was so tiny in the big tub; so tiny and scared and confused. And I was thinking, maybe we are all a little like this - cute and fluffy terrorists when we're running around letting our shit hang out - and then tiny and scared when the unknown comes calling. I don't know, I was just thinking that. Just for a minute.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-35469434672310056332012-01-04T22:44:00.000-08:002012-01-04T22:44:07.614-08:00Rebel Momokay...I admit...it is getting old - even for me - this searching around for a name for my pen other than "FingerPoet". This coming up duds over and over again - an ever futility-inspiring moment of realizing I missed the boat on domain names....likely years ago...when all the organized A types were buying the cool new tech saavy shit while the rest of us ( or maybe just me) were still sifting through the rack of the Salvation Army for a cool (dig it) polyester blend floral mumu we would pretend we had the umph to someday turn into a funkadellic pillow....or a shawl. <br />
I digress.<br />
I gave RebelMom a shot - TAKEN. Not that I actually want to conjure up visuals of a harley davidson vest wearing 40-something with mom jeans and a feather-strung roach clip in my hair. Plus, for this mom, it hits a little too close to home....like calling myself a rebel will somehow betray the last 15 years I've spent trying to undo that stigma. I imagine myself smoking Marlboro reds with chipped fingernail polish while making Pillsbury Plus sugar cookies out of the tube. Of course, after being denied access to the purchase, I perused the site for rebelmom and it (she) was nothing like I imagined myself to be, given the name. She's all manicured and beautiful and has her S%#t together - a pretty mom (likely of girls, which explains some things) and she has the real deal advertisements on her site to prove she is up to some reputable good.<br />
Sigh.<br />
Next, either off the seat of my pants, or through the ingenious methodolgy that only a mind itself can know, I searched "FatPeace". AVAILABLE! But c'mon, you know 37% of the people will think I meant "FatPiece" which makes me immediatly think of "piece of ass" and well, the truth is, I don't want anyone to think of a fat piece of ass when they think of me, or my writing. So, the drawing baord smacks me up side the head again and I have to hope that someone out there reading this will either convice me to choose what I got, or at least point me in a sound direction. (Then I have to deal with whether I am indeed a person even willing to follow sound direction). Uh,,,,Duff?<br />
What kind of rebel am I anyway, really? I mean, when you get down to it? I wake up every morning, make the oatmeal or breakfast burrito or yogurt parfait (yes, there is a bowl or 3 of cereal in there somewhere). I pack the flipping lunches - REFUSING to cut the crust off - I attend the games. Do hoework, day dream about botox and manicures and more time. Certainly I'm not slamming martinis before getting in the car line or popping valiums on my way to the dry cleaners - and that wouldn't necessarily make me any more of a rebel than an ass, so...?<br />
One of my partying friends was saying about New Years Eve to another friend who had said she was spending the night home with her kids "Oh, come on! What are you gonna do, stay home with a tomato enema and a Mormon video?" As if that were like the worst thing one could do on a night so worthy of hurrah as New Years Eve. All I could think was "a tomato enema and a religious video (?) - that's right up my alley!"<br />
Sadly, I am only sort of joking.<br />
I added adsense to my blog thinking it would be fun to make $000.13 a month off my writing but the only ad they approved me for was some nonesense abouta phone service for "entreprenuers". I am not sure whether to laugh or cry.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-43802923754951555552012-01-03T12:55:00.000-08:002012-01-03T12:55:45.039-08:00Ripe MomI went back to godaddy.com to see if my new idea for a blog/website was available. Turns out ripemom.com is taken also.My idea was that it would be a blog where I would interview awesome women who were creative in the arts or in business or something like that - who were playing FULL OUT and whom also happened to be moms. Women who were able to really still BE themselves, in the midst of changing diapers or scrubbing toilets, while packing lunches, calendaring multiple conflicting events, bandaging skinned knees, attending school events, picking up the dry cleaning...you know the routine - the million little pieces of minutiae that seem to gobble up time that like that poor little chicken who was beheaded but stayed alive and runs around eating feed off the floor with no head (you can google it if you're interested). Anyway - WOWZA....my idea of ripe mom and that of the actual owner of the URL are a wee bit different, let's just say. I wouldn't recommend checking it out (like I so innocently did) unless you want to end up with cookies all over your computer and likely a stream of future hot sex websites popping up. (what if the cookies were actually chocolate chip that showed up on your computer in a fit of their own surprise!!?)<br />
I like that in some ways, I am still very naive. Even in the face of having seen what I have seen and done what I have done in my short little run with life. But that's another story for another time.<br />
So, I am back to the drawing board. Thinking that somehow if I change the name of my blog, you will actually read it. It's like organizing my desk for the hundredth time thinking that will make me write. Like imaging if only I had more time I would actually be the writer I used to consider myself to be. It's all hogwash I suppose - this idea that some other thing outside of myself will make me more of who I think I really am.<br />
I am a writer.<br />
And a mom.<br />
And a business woman.<br />
Not necessarily in that order, but true nonetheless.<br />
If you are a writer or an artist or weaver of some kind of cool and even obscure dream that is not being fully realized, I'd be honored if you would share some of your wares with me. I am a junkie for inspiration. I love to be moved.<br />
Check.<strike></strike>fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-60545851950312000642012-01-02T20:13:00.000-08:002012-01-02T20:13:48.720-08:00Chasing HappyI was so bummed to find out that chasinghappy.com is taken and that when I put it in my web browser I come up with a very smart and articulate and funny blog now called "good enough to read". Definitely worth the stumble, but still the having showed up a day late and a dollar short, smarts like a missed interview for a dream job. I can never spell "definitely" correctly the first or second time.<br />
I thought about "chasinggay.com" but it seems just a tad bit too controversial for this girl. I'm already known (at least to myself) for shooting from the hip so to speak when I talk...a sort of unedited blah blah blahing that runs out of my mouth before anyone has had time to drop and roll or at least take cover.<br />
My friend Kerry Duff of, CEO of The House (ceoofthehouse.com) is encouraging me to shut up and start writing. She doesn't talk like that, of course. She just makes me dark chocolate covered peanut clusters in cutesie cupcake papers and hands me a metaphorical pen (polka-dotted bow and all). She does this all of course with 4 kids, a real estate career, a talent for taking photos and likely a place on the PTA and every other possible board out there that makes A+ parenting seem like a part time gig. WTF? I'm here picking up poo off my 7 year olds bedroom floor - left a wee bit too liquid from a puppy I mismanaged to import off the streets of Mexico....during the holidays and only 2 weeks after a major move from LA to San Francisco meant to "simplify my life". All of this makes me NEED chocolate covered peanut clusters and friends who make my projects seem small enough to actually complete. Thanks Mrs. Duff!!!<br />
Since it is indeed already January 2nd, I suppose it is time for a new year's resolution or two.<br />
So here goes:<br />
1. to give up dieting<br />
2. to do things I love, often<br />
3. to wake up happy <br />
<br />
I'd throw out a couple more but I want to win this year so that's it. Recap: I'm gonna nourish myself, enjoy life, and laugh. All funny people, please drop me a line.<br />
<br />
Happy 2012.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-16230278184116069032011-08-21T09:04:00.000-07:002011-08-21T09:04:01.975-07:00Sunday MorningI want Sunday to start with a little "s", as if that way, I could trick the following day into not noticing it's turn in line. When did I begin to worry about tomorrow? When did I buy into Monday being a poor broker of time, the bastard child of an incomplete two-night stand, some sort of uptight nanny? I digress. Remembering to center around the self, rather than run headlong into the tragedy of self-centeredness, I find myself ever talking a big game and slipping behind smoke and mirrors with an "I know I'm gonna get caught" grin and a craving for a cookie. Or 12.<br />
Sometimes I think it would be better to think before I speak, but mostly I am either exhaling the impetus in my chest or putting it on lockdown, ears burning - metaphorical fuming galore. Once in a while, there is a memory....of not being willing to suffer....a calmness, that reminds me no thing matters but this, now, and breathing.<br />
I'm either pulling a Ghandi or stirring up sh*t. Balanced between the two is the little me that's at last unaware of my size. I betray her though, in writing....desperate to give longing a voice...melancholy a microphone.......desire a dance partner.<br />
Three hours into Sunday - sunday - sun day....here in Santa Monica in a canopy of fog...thinking about church and GOoD, how capitalization ruins everything, space.<br />
If I've told one person about the insatiable whole of being, i've told a thousand. Trans-versing back and forth between Me and me and I and i and obviously, not yet having had a moment free.<br />
Then there is you. YOU. How the silence between us is enough. How your quiet soothes me.<br />
I never wanted to be in love. I wanted to be filled. <br />
Who would've thought it was the emptying that mattered?<br />
<br />
fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com0Santa Monica, CA, USA34.0194543 -118.491191233.977511299999996 -118.5451482 34.0613973 -118.4372342tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-9746197756624584372011-06-13T22:11:00.000-07:002011-06-13T22:11:57.379-07:00hair cuttonight i got a hair cut because i can neither smoke nor nonchalantly toss back a shot of wild turkey nor drive off a bridge. i have no desire to harm myself...i simply like change. alteration. riots.<br />
<br />
there is something so quiet about being simple. and the silence grates on me. makes all my inner poetry a beggar. makes all my hunger mad.<br />
i try to be quiet. not to stir up the metaphorical pot of wanting that bangs like a thousand fists upon my psyche - demanding i spill my own gunk over into your lane - and YOU - driving so fucking fast - across these freeways called los angeles moments - that you have no time - no space - no listening - for my need.<br />
you see, the want became a need in only 44 words. imagine a life. despair.<br />
<br />
so we give up the trying.<br />
trade it in for some real authentic no bars held love. the good stuff. we suffer having enough (finally) like a series of jesus's in drag...i know gayle.... you will understand this. (and mostly because of the girls who broke the rule.) i'm not sure all wisdom is earned. some of it just is. like an allergy. like a curse. like a gift.<br />
<br />
the line that is the finest is always the one one is walking. i am at odds, forever, with my mouth. she speaks. she chews. she catches breath.<br />
<br />
because my hair is parted, there are lovers leaving each other for the last time. the way the bangs fall means the loneliest man in the world has just been given a promise. crazy glue and broken hearts and gob-stoppers and electric eels and dinosaurs and magic erasers and the wilderness and yellow work. people say thank you. they ask "how are you" and wait for an answer. married couples remember why they fell in love.<br />
<br />
had i curls, on the day you came to cut - it could've been different. you may have been a poet and i pencil or maybe there'd be two children laughing or i'd roll you a cigarette instead of going to therapy. and maybe you would have pop tarts in your car and for that reason alone, for you, i would take a bullet or give you my parking space or maybe i would learn how to sing.<br />
but today the hair was straight so i just said "thank you so much" and when you drove away, I said a prayer for the girls who broke the rule.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-48318454538057246282010-10-07T09:28:00.000-07:002010-10-07T09:28:57.127-07:00The Tamed Dragon<br />
<br />
Taming the Dragon sounds so much more interesting that actually having tamed it.<br />
Sounds like the fire is gone. All the magic - poof.<br />
That's what it feels like inside the absence of a compulsion to write.<br />
Easier was it when the finger, connected to the pen, spilled the not so metaphorical blood of the heart.<br />
Now, there are highways between need and want. Long stretches of road that separate the flame from the campfire. How do you warm another person with matches soaked in minutiae?<br />
Understanding the distinctions of that word, which is incidentely the name of this blog, adds very little to the overall effect one can have on the world, but it makes something interesting - just what that thing is, I'm not sure.<br />
i was very disappointed to find out the e.e. cummins already had some sort of a monopoly or at least claim to the little "i". I thought I had really stumbled upon something when I began to use it. Expressing the tiny insignificance of my me - a reversed solvency of the soul. a bounced pay check.<br />
there is certainly some disdain for CAPITALIZATION - not that the liberal whimper in me has something to defend - it's just so formal. So run of the mill. That it is expected and suggests a lack of attention to detail in its absence ruffles my feathers - makes obtuse my particulars.<br />
Can one imagine no longer using the first person singular? For a minute of conversation? A day? A week. One would perhaps need to seek refuge from an awareness of self-centeredness through silence. Try it. Do you understand of what she speaks?<br />
SO - the recovery business. Working in recovery. Drunks, meth addicts, heroine junkies, bingers. purgers, gamblers, coke-heads, pill poppers, inhalers, gamers, sex addicts, klepto-maniacs, cutters, my brothers, sisters, saints.<br />
<br />
I i I i I i I i I i I i I i I i I i I i I i i i I i i i I i i i i i i I i I i i i i I I i I I I I I i i i i i i i i I I I i I i i i<br />
<br />
A whole bunch of enormous and tiny me me me's running around inside a broken heart. Having been there makes the trouble almost endearing. I want to squeeze a heart of joy into the broken drum. Sooth a million sorrows with a whispering. Patch back up the brokenness with a nod.<br />
The question now is do I break the silence with some detail?<br />
What is the imaginary line that one might cross between sharing and spiritual extortion?<br />
Where is the listening?<br />
<br />
Puff lived by the sea. It is not a happy ending. Like so many fairy tales and children's stories, with awareness comes the realization of the great tragedy involved. Is this the point? To break the heart as early on as possible? That we might understand each other? That we might learn to defend the weak? That we might build a wall around ourselves? What? Why?<br />
Puff<br />
Bambi<br />
Nemo<br />
all of them.<br />
Something huge is taken away by something bigger.<br />
And we act as if.<br />
<br />
I suppose this is where god comes in. God. god. GOoD.<br />
One enormous amorphous unnameable sigh<br />
holding up the umbrella<br />
marshaling us home.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Minutiae (pronounced /mɨˈnjuːʃɪ.iː/; sing. minutia, /mɨˈnjuːʃɪ.ə/; both also /mɨˈnjuːʃə/) are, in everyday English, minor or incidental.<br />
In biometrics and forensic science, minutiae are major features of a fingerprint, using which comparisons of one print with another can be made.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-3731923638629613542010-09-17T00:03:00.000-07:002010-09-17T00:03:40.653-07:00minutiae: B Sic<a href="http://fingerpoet.blogspot.com/2010/09/b-sic.html?spref=bl">minutiae: B Sic</a>: "I want to start an AA meeting called B Sic which stands for Being Sober is Cool but I am not sure that it really is or whether any of that a..."fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-6529113870558691852010-09-16T23:56:00.000-07:002010-09-16T23:56:34.153-07:00B SicI want to start an AA meeting called B Sic<br />
which stands for Being Sober is Cool<br />
but I am not sure that it really is<br />
or whether any of that actually matters at all.<br />
<br />
It is possible to have your heart ripped out of your chest<br />
beating pumping beautifully bloody<br />
and alive<br />
and then, through the immaculate beauty of sorrow,<br />
have it handed back to you<br />
in tact<br />
effortlessly free<br />
and re-covered.<br />
<br />
Being rescued is lovely<br />
all these little islands of despair<br />
where the ship of some larger horror shows you your grace.<br />
<br />
I thank god every day for showing up inside of you<br />
and reminding me<br />
that we are the same.<br />
<br />
I have not seen my boys since 8:23 this morning -<br />
when I watched them walk in a single-file line<br />
into the school house.<br />
<br />
I hit AA and recovery and belligerence and faith HARD today<br />
squirreled it all up<br />
inside a cupcake<br />
with a friend<br />
on a street<br />
in LA.<br />
<br />
All I am saying is that she is beautiful<br />
those newly seeing eyes<br />
all green and hazel and glorious.<br />
We sat side by side and were thankful<br />
to know each other<br />
and be a friend.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-43341840481996689322010-09-15T23:43:00.000-07:002010-09-15T23:43:15.338-07:00i am in love.<br />
there is no more meaningful way to say this.<br />
he comes home with his sweater on inside-out<br />
smelling like cigars<br />
calling me chuchi.<br />
i want to open the door and say<br />
I ATE 5 DONUTS<br />
but instead i open it<br />
give a kiss far from the lips<br />
giggle at the tag on the outside<br />
and say nothing.<br />
we carry the boys to their beds.<br />
we yawn.<br />
<br />
i met a man from cambodia today at Miss Donuts.<br />
he liked my blond hair.<br />
The Red Carpet he mentiond. America.<br />
8 Years in America and he has his own business.<br />
The American Dream.<br />
<br />
But always working.<br />
<br />
I want to go back to not capitalizing.<br />
so i do.<br />
thinking i will invite him to dinner sometime. to yom kippur or christmas or kwanza or tea.<br />
<br />
my boys went crazy for him. this smile that went on and on for miles.<br />
<br />
they asked to be his friend. yes. he said. yes. i am happy your to be a friend. what? huh? i am happy -<br />
i understood every single sentence he spoke today. and even the ones that he did not utter.<br />
<br />
there is nothing like los angeles.<br />
i am telling you.<br />
there is a miracle here - ever uncovering itself.<br />
<br />
there is some kind of bizarre and honest hope.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-31987370243836118072010-09-14T00:43:00.000-07:002010-09-14T00:43:04.793-07:00lost angelsand so i suppose we are.<br />
living here amidst the lights and the traffic and the busy buzzing bumbles.<br />
the quiet rage.<br />
the sparrow.<br />
i want to reach out through my windows and touch the walkers.<br />
people huddled over their bags at the bus stop.<br />
an old man with no cane on the sidewalk leaning east.<br />
inside the heart of every person<br />
is a riotous knowing.<br />
a belonging to something unspeakably grand<br />
yet still....unspeakable.<br />
i do not look far for god -<br />
brooding in gray eyes on sun-beaten faces<br />
or hurried whistles chasing a bus<br />
or you.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-56669288683462698532010-02-27T13:15:00.000-08:002010-02-27T13:15:47.906-08:00broken fingersperhaps it is the fingers, more than the heart, which are broken. disenchanted or disengaged - who would know which(?) - they remain motionless in the midst of a spiritual riot. nothing to note. no typing to do.<br />
long fingernails, born only of neglect, break further into the fluidity of connecting heart to screen. blood-pumping passion to the digit's tip. when my dog died I wanted to name everything "Finger". She wore her name like water wears oxygen and simply was. no meaning made of it from her. simple joy. love. i thought if i could place her in the title of things - a web-site, a blog, another dog - a squirrel....then maybe the legend of "Dedo", el perro, would live on beyond the loud and quiet places of my soul.<br />
i throw too many words around that defy interpretation - soul, heart, love, spiritual - deciding at times whether to become a preacher or a natureopath - a surgeon or an envelope - a noun.<br />
i will tell you from where all my broken promises come....the written word. you could not imagine the times i have given my solemn oath to write - every day - every week - every month - every every one can put in front of time - and every every i have also failed to do the same. liar. cheater. slug.<br />
psych 101 sys fear of failure fear of success fear of blah blah blah blah blah<br />
but i say fear of nothing more than. that's right, ".". period. lazy tired bored indulgent gluttonous weak. time steals nothing but what we offer up to it and it would seem so much easier to go with the flow of molecules around me than to fight back down and into the heart of the matters being avoided and dislodged.<br />
i am no philosopher so i quit right there.<br />
move to eat some mangos - correct a typo. chew.<br />
i think it would be so interesting if the world were as full of good listeners as it is with good talkers.<br />
musical earrings on golden ears. the flowering lotus inside the drum.<br />
my mouth is a marathon runner. my ears, the 5k. occasionally a sprint.<br />
even here i have babbled a thousand darlings<br />
not foregoing fear<br />
and i have forgotten to mention the earthquakes.<br />
god bless one and all - this beautiful planet, our brothers and sisters,<br />
one's self.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-22370781539725008172008-12-25T15:46:00.000-08:002008-12-25T16:05:03.840-08:00dim sum and pot-bellied day dreamers<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">christmas</span> woke me up round. dusted off my lashes and poured me a cup of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">joe</span> as strong as a woman. i snuggled into wrapping paper, ribbons and bows. only , there really are no ribbons or bows at my house. lots of tape. and extra folds in the edges. no clean lines here - a rumpled pile of a gift. a present.<br />having given back sugar, these days of holy divining are so less sweet.that is not a metaphor for anything i say. simple isms. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">stevia</span>. rice.<br />brother cooked eggs and bacon and bread. reminds me of a heart attack. i am drinking water like it is wine, and still legal. inside my own little courthouse.<br />did i mention love? tumbling from the branches of our crooked little tree - busting a toe in the newest stocking and onto the floor with a crash! his eyes are the richest brown. the insides of dark chocolate. espresso micro suede <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">umph</span>. we made 2 more - because of those eyes - and now there are 6. crazy saucers of radical delight. heavenly tortes.<br />yesterday J said "wait! i am pulling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">buddha </span>out of my pants" so I had to idle before backing out the car. I am sure you understand......... he is 4.........so........ of course he is pulling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">buddha</span> out of his pants! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">sheesh</span>.<br />when i think about 20 years ago i am filled with great joy and also a slipping. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">wooosh</span>.<br />and what will tomorrow bring. poetry? peonies? poverty? promises? plethora? polyoople lop?<br />pangs.<br />i am hoping everyone has little slice today - and yesterday and now and next week and tomorrow and in an hour and backwards and upside down and inside out and even in the places where there is no light i am hoping there is an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">eensy</span> weensy teeny weeny <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">lil</span>' slice-o-love.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-90658795054403549802008-11-25T22:30:00.000-08:002008-11-25T22:45:40.370-08:00town councilit is hard not to want to run - either for the hills or for town council...when the belligerence of bureaucratic red tape leaves a little whip mark on your face. i eat chocolate and talk way too fast on the phone. i google legos, ramble through e-bay, craigslist, turn to email, chew. one house is too big, one lot too small. an ego excavated, another bent into tiny pieces of busy-ness that annoy. we tolerate with shrewd boredom the spinster and her allegations. i find half a pretzel and some string cheese at the bottom of my purse.....and announce it...at just the wrong time.<br />remember when we were just so in love with being in love that every act was a sort of celebration of the grace of being able to do it? i burned the pans with every artichoke, you ate my salmon lasagna even though by its very nature, it was inedible. i blushed when you looked at me. now, it is not the being in love with being in love but the loving the lover that's so irresistible. your warm hand across the small of my back in the middle of the night - the coffee in bed that always has too much cream but is the best i have ever had because you brought it to me. the way you wrestle with the boys every freaking night right before bed - winding them back up after i have just calmed them down with warm dinners and baths and books. how you cannot help but make me laugh when i am mad. all of this i come home to while i imagine the town criers are alone. these are the reasons for the incessant comments and calls to order, the fussing. if everyone could just see in the other the way he loves that one special person specially - with a roundness or a forgiveness or a soft heart, the war would be over. you know the one.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-73731702470315227062008-10-26T22:30:00.000-07:002010-09-15T23:15:39.035-07:00Casein-freeThere is so little time to dig a deep hole. So they are shallow; and, because they are shallow, they are safe and kindly without purpose. I hold tight to old friends, pray they stay unbelievable.<br />
<br />
I wonder outside of the dream to fill Tupperware with the same old thing: salami(2), baby carrots(2), sliced apples(2)one cliff bar per back pack(snack), water bottle(2). "Middle class" green. I should have glassware, not plastic. No salami - I wouldn't eat it. Maybe some hand-rolled vegetarian sushi and a wakami salad I made from first soaking the sea veggies in reverse-osmosis water in a porcelain bowl.<br />
<br />
I read Dr. Seuss to the kids and then ate two mugs of mint chip ice cream from Safeway. We discussed composting - my attempt at apologizing to the honey bees.<br />
It is definitely a circle - every action causing a ripple which eventually taps you on the shoulder; "Hey you, I'm back." You learn to toe the eco-friendly line.<br />
<br />
If i did not love people with such unreasonable urgency, i might crawl into a chair facing a window and just stay there. not get up anymore. not try to connect the dots. only because there is something to just sitting. to just sitting and listening and not doing. not speaking. i could not go on one of those silent retreats; the knowing that i was going to speak again at some time would ruin it for me. i'd have to just stop sometime without having planned it. just mid-sentence shut my mouth. i wouldn't want to try to explain - even to the person to whom i was speaking at the moment i quit. no cheapening allowed. .....lets face it though - the probability of my quietude???!!! blah blah blahing and all until sleep comes again- raw cheer - "cogito, ergo sum".fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-2931200458411263452008-10-20T21:05:00.000-07:002008-10-20T21:50:31.461-07:00bedtimei don't know how they fall. bolts of energy bouncing on the bed, sneaking in and out of the bedroom to spy their election-induced elders, giggling. thinking that to sleep naked is the funniest thing ever. then - poof. fast asleep. upside down on the bed here - sideways and pillowless there. there is so much raw abandon in the sleeping i think there must be a tranquilizer involved - shot from buzz lightyear's button-stuck, battery-dry plastic arm. making him worth his price in gold. finally. but it's just a switch. the awake in them is bored or something - it jumps ship without warning, hails a taxi, flies the physical coop. and then there is just this heap of lovely boy on one bed and pile of vacant potatoes on the other. no one sleeps like they sleep. so thickly.<br />i read a somewhat racey, very funny, and equally intelligent blog today www.pettiobservations.blogspot.com which made me think how is it that i have arrived at a place in my life where i am more likely to get an invitation to a recipe swap than a jam session? does the "taskiness" of motherhood have to creep into every crevice of every moment of every hour? again, you may find me ungrateful. i am not. i thank the high holy roller every day for the gifts i continue to receive as a parent- for instance, the black eye my four year old gave me this morning with his power ranger toothbrush and the inside out full-skid faced skivies left on the bathroom floor following bath time. thank you god. thank you.<br />seriously though, is it too much to ask for a little room for some rhythm and blues between the patty cake twinkle stars? i was almost unnaturally excited to bump into the mom of one of my boys' friends, who happened to have made a few very hip necklaces today...YES! i was thinking...art IS indeed happening between spin cycles and chaperoned dumps. we really are so much more than just what we are doing. there is Being here. creativity. light. you may have noticed that i didn't drop any <br />F-bombs in the blog today - i am trying very hard not to use profanity. i was informed as of late, in response to a previous post that, "yes, god does indeed care" if i swear. rats. <br />Whoa! bet that just about knocked you outta yer socks!fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-35542056965216669642008-10-19T21:26:00.000-07:002008-10-19T22:16:14.756-07:00Church NightI cannot believe it is only day two of my new blog and i already almost bailed out...tomorow....i was saying to myself...i'll write tomorrow. well, tomorrow is an old beggar, a whore. you want to help but the cup is empty. i once wrote an essay on emily dickinson "the whore" and i used some bs about how she revered love rather than god and that the definition of whore was blah blah blah something about honoring false idols and blah blah blah love was a false idol. how the hell did i even pose that argument (?), which i did and actually went up against someone in a debate. talking my way out of nonsense. that is crazy. what IS god if not love? whatever. don't ask me to talk about jesus - though i'll throw that name around as much as possible. i like to say it in spanish. heysoos! and you? i recently purchased jesus band-aids. they were there next to the bacon strip band-aids and the little black pussy cats. i wanted to cover a scratched knee with one but wondered what that might infer about my little one. an obama hat. a jesus cut. it just doesn't seem right having our kids run around plastered with our political views. but then, i guess they ARE even without us thinking about it...i mean, how many Gap shirts have you bought this year?<br />let's see...i really don't mean to be smart about any of that stuff and i love the gap by the way. at least, before the items are washed. oops. i was just thinking. without pausing. (my reckless story). abandoning reason. hope.<br />i was wondering what happened to Fall? It rained like February two weeks ago and that was that. I gave up watering the second the first rain drop fell. and then, there were no more. now all my flowers are dead and i cannot believe i could be that lazy that fast - at the very first chance i had. save me says the withering blossom. hello?fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3825774964473267734.post-49410520229379364282008-10-18T16:13:00.000-07:002008-10-21T12:15:23.399-07:00idealism's nemesisnobody wants to see me sarcastic. it just isn't right they think - she must be depressed. depressing if nothing else. i start a riot. sarcasm slips in at the quietest of moments. like a drunken lover through an open window - clamoring, raucous, a bull in a china shop, sweet. it is not that i have lost my passion for the positive...it's just that the sweet aftertaste of a sarcastic recounting of ordinary moments (when made without injury to others) is too delicious to disclaim. bringing me to motherhood. what the hell is this all about? are we all now greatly appalled at the thankless efforts of our own moms? genetically predisposed perhaps, to alter history, i find myself filling volunteer positions at multiple schools with a near crazy zeal, cutting happy faces into PB&J sandwiches, and even setting up play dates. this being "engaged" is shadowed always by a looming disdain for those parents (usually the mothers) whom appear to do this naturally. these are the organizers, the delegators, the hosts. perhaps i only envy them. the coiffed hair, the matching sweatsuits, the pretty faces of seeming serenity and control. i am running around mismatched and,more often than not, clueless. maybe...just maybe i have on both shoes if there is a run scheduled...but surely the socks i wear are stained brown from the trails and it did not dawn on me until age 38 when my neighbor, the self-proclaimed "spin-cycle slut" re-introduced me to bleach last week.... that there was another way. my two boys, age4 and 6, are sitting here now - threatening things like " i will punch you in the wiener with a hammer. and a screw-driver...even a cactus and a hundred million things that will hurt you in the wiener" then they step on one another and head-butt like high school rugby bro's without the pain-erasing effects of beer bongs. they are my angels. big brown eyes the size of "my helmet in that picture" he says - pointing to a picture of the little man he is becoming (on a skateboard attempting an Olie off a picnic table at Corte Madera park.) You know where we got god(?) he is asking now. we got god from life. pretend this is god, responds the 4 year old, pointing to the action figure he has hanging off the edge of the seat, ready to plummet to its final and fiercest death. this is all quickly completed upon the discovery of a shoe box next to the coffee table...now they are insane kung-fu fighters....the box has wings....anything is possible. i always thought i would be this super fun and creative mom, inspiring my children to greatness. but i am more a blank slate than they...and surely i have become the one inspired, instead, by they. inspired to overeat and weep at trite commercials. inspired to merely think about losing the muffin top carrying both these glorious beings afforded me. inspired to keep up with something though i am not sure yet, what. the kung-fu fucking panda has just turned into the incredible hulk and the shoe box has become somewhat of a clam. i mean pile of debris. i mean recycling. in the time i typed, it was obsolete. like peace and quiet in a houseful of boys. gone. please do not confuse me for a complaint. i relish the absurdity of it all. that i would be a parent. that i could love like this. that i would have fear where once there was none. fear of worldly things like flying and sharks and mountain lions and creeps. anything that could physically take me away from my two little dashes. anything that could hurt enough to break me. i want to keep this physical body forever now - so i can have the eyes to watch them grow, the ears to listen to their ridiculous genius, the arms to hold the wounded. smart litte f$%ckers, both of them - reminding me of the way my brain worked before i cared about what other people thought. before i was trying to fit in. before i understood there was even anything to fit into. oh sweet oblivion....the magic elixir before the beer came along. which was then replaced with wine, then whiskey, then various other elicit and illegal things, then work, then doingness. doing. doing. doing. they are wrestling now, on the couch they are forbidden to wrestle on :) "you break a tree, you break me" says the 4 yr. old - jumping fearlessly into the fire of his older brothers invisible shield. the tears will come eventually. it's just a toss up which one of us will shed 'em.fingerpoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04312470606832075652noreply@blogger.com1