January 31. It's been five months today since her death. Yesterday was the hardest day so far. The pillow of shock has evaporated. The friends that expected me to fall over crying have stopped expecting that. Of course, that's when I fall over crying. I'm contrary like that.
Three glasses of wine went to my head. I slept on the floor in front of the heater for the rest of the afternoon. My phone was next to me the whole time, but I never heard it ring. People knocked on my door, but never hard enough to wake me.
**
I haven't finished learning whatever it is I'm going to learn from her. I might never finish. I don't know how it works, with mothers being mothers and dead mothers being dead. I know that I don't have a lot of patience for tedium anymore. I don't want to waste my life doing things I don't want to do. I don't want to be my mom. I know, I scoff when I say that, too. It's not possible. I just don't know how to articulate my own fear better than saying it that way.
**
My mom and I shared a fear of heights. I never pass up a chore that requires a ladder. I maintain all points of contact I can muster, and I can't ever get my heart to slow down, and I instantly break a sweat as soon as both feet leave the ground, but I keep stubbornly climbing ladders. Because it's scary.
**
The best thing about me is the part that's unrestrained. That part keeps getting smaller and smaller, and maybe that's just life. We only get less free as we age. I don't know. I have allowed myself to be strapped to this table. Some of the restraints I fastened myself. I didn't see any reason not to. I'm not sure I do now, but that unrestrained part says maybe I should be curious.
I've figured out a way to wiggle my fingers. The room is dark and there is no one looking. The strap around my wrist is a little looser than it was yesterday.
********
Obviously, I am just too lovable. You all want to hug me and snuggle me and bring me candy. I understand; I'm warm, fuzzy and fairly squishy. Plus, I really like candy.
I understand how difficult it can be to come up with anything negative about me. You all just want to pet my head and coo babytalk into my ears, and that's sweet. That's swell. Plus, my ears are kind of pointy, which leads to lots of elven extrapolations. Pointy in a cute way, that is. Like every other fucking thing about me. Yup. I can't help it.
So. I am compiling a list. Reasons to hate me. There are lots, but these are doozies! Ready?
I am staunchly pro-choice. I believe in safe, legal abortions for some, miniature American flags for others.
I don't always cite my sources. I occasionally apologize for that, but I don't really mean it. If you don't get my references, maybe you're just shit out of luck (that said, I gladly explain if asked).
I am staunchly anti-death penalty, but not as staunchly anti-death penalty as I am pro-choice. I do not believe that we as humans have the right to take human life. Seems to disagree with the above statement, doesn't it? Allow me to explain.
I freak out when someone wants to set mousetraps, and I've saved more than a few mice from certain torturous death-by-cat, but I allow--nay, encourage--my sister's cat to kill and eat bugs. If it moves, and it has an exoskeleton or more than four legs or it's an invertebrate, it's a snack for the cat. He likes them, and I like the bonding experience that comes after--me patting his head, him licking his chops. Good times.
Lots of people are creeped out by insects. I'm not, particularly. You want to know why it's okay, in my world, to kill them?
Because they're smaller.
Which brings us back to babies. Which brings us back to people (watch me go).
Which brings us to the idea that if you're smaller than me, you might want to go ahead and justify your existence RIGHT NOW, while I'm holding this gun to your head.
This piece is based on the assumption that most people on death row are (much) bigger than me. Absolutely no research went into this. Well, I did have to look up "invertebrate." That doesn't count for much.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
i was a stupid child...
The first time I ran away from home, I was five.
My mom helped me pack my sturdy red suitcase. I remember wanting to wear my roller skates, but we lived on a dirt road. Roller skates wouldn't roll on that. So the roller skates went into the suitcase, along with everything else I held dear.
I distinctly remember packing a banana, as well.
I told my family they had broken the deal. I was off to find my people.
See, my parents and brothers had always told me I wasn't really my parents' child.
They told me they had found me in the forest, as a baby. They took me home and took care of me, but one day an elf knocked on the cabin door. My dad answered the door, and the old elf told him that there had been a mistake. The baby was one of his people.
My parents said they asked the elf in, and he came inside to sit by the fire. It was snowing outside. They asked the old elf if they could keep me, because they loved me. They told me the old elf thought for a while, scratching his pointy little white beard, before he said he would allow it.
He said my parents could keep me, but I had to be loved. I had to be happy. If either of those conditions were not met, his people would come down from the mountain and take me back.
My parents agreed to the old elf's terms, and he vanished, never to be seen again.
So it came to be that I was five, and angry over something, and I decided that if my people would not come for me, I would go to them. Obviously there had been some sort of mistake. I was not loved. I was not happy.
My mom helped me close the sturdy red suitcase.
I lugged the thing out of the cabin and up the dirt road to a trail into the mountains. It took a long time, because the suitcase was so heavy and I had to stop and rest so often.
I climbed the trail, dragging my suitcase, until I got to the top of the first bluff--a hill, really.
It wasn't going quite like I had planned. I guess I figured I would have already seen one of my people. Honestly, I was the only elf I'd ever seen (my parents pointed out my pointy ears as proof of the truth of their story), so I wasn't sure who I was looking for.
But there was no one in the woods. So I sat on my suitcase for a while. I ate the banana. I sat for a little while longer, then I left the suitcase where it sat and went home.
My mom went up the trail later that day to retrieve my suitcase.
She said she was glad to have me back.
My ears aren't quite as pointy as they seemed when I was little. But they're still kind of "elfkin ears," according to fairly reliable sources.
When I decided to leave Biloxi, I was twenty-seven. Divorced. My mom had cancer, but chemotherapy and radiation were still viable options. She was a warrior, I always said. Cancer wasn't going to slow her down, let alone kill her. But I needed to be closer to her, just in case I was wrong. Just in case I was right.
I packed everything that mattered into my car, a sturdy little red convertible. Rosie. I packed books and clothes and my great-grandmother's hope chest. My fat old cat, Moses, rode shotgun. I drove for twelve straight hours, stopping only for gas. I finally stopped in my sister's driveway, carried Moses inside and dropped him on the kitchen floor.
Mom's dead now. My sister and I share a house, just the two of us with three cats. Rosie sits in the garage at the moment, awaiting maintenance.
I guess what I'm saying is, I was right when I was five. If your people can't come to you, you go to them. So here I am.
(old one. 10/26/06)
My mom helped me pack my sturdy red suitcase. I remember wanting to wear my roller skates, but we lived on a dirt road. Roller skates wouldn't roll on that. So the roller skates went into the suitcase, along with everything else I held dear.
I distinctly remember packing a banana, as well.
I told my family they had broken the deal. I was off to find my people.
See, my parents and brothers had always told me I wasn't really my parents' child.
They told me they had found me in the forest, as a baby. They took me home and took care of me, but one day an elf knocked on the cabin door. My dad answered the door, and the old elf told him that there had been a mistake. The baby was one of his people.
My parents said they asked the elf in, and he came inside to sit by the fire. It was snowing outside. They asked the old elf if they could keep me, because they loved me. They told me the old elf thought for a while, scratching his pointy little white beard, before he said he would allow it.
He said my parents could keep me, but I had to be loved. I had to be happy. If either of those conditions were not met, his people would come down from the mountain and take me back.
My parents agreed to the old elf's terms, and he vanished, never to be seen again.
So it came to be that I was five, and angry over something, and I decided that if my people would not come for me, I would go to them. Obviously there had been some sort of mistake. I was not loved. I was not happy.
My mom helped me close the sturdy red suitcase.
I lugged the thing out of the cabin and up the dirt road to a trail into the mountains. It took a long time, because the suitcase was so heavy and I had to stop and rest so often.
I climbed the trail, dragging my suitcase, until I got to the top of the first bluff--a hill, really.
It wasn't going quite like I had planned. I guess I figured I would have already seen one of my people. Honestly, I was the only elf I'd ever seen (my parents pointed out my pointy ears as proof of the truth of their story), so I wasn't sure who I was looking for.
But there was no one in the woods. So I sat on my suitcase for a while. I ate the banana. I sat for a little while longer, then I left the suitcase where it sat and went home.
My mom went up the trail later that day to retrieve my suitcase.
She said she was glad to have me back.
My ears aren't quite as pointy as they seemed when I was little. But they're still kind of "elfkin ears," according to fairly reliable sources.
When I decided to leave Biloxi, I was twenty-seven. Divorced. My mom had cancer, but chemotherapy and radiation were still viable options. She was a warrior, I always said. Cancer wasn't going to slow her down, let alone kill her. But I needed to be closer to her, just in case I was wrong. Just in case I was right.
I packed everything that mattered into my car, a sturdy little red convertible. Rosie. I packed books and clothes and my great-grandmother's hope chest. My fat old cat, Moses, rode shotgun. I drove for twelve straight hours, stopping only for gas. I finally stopped in my sister's driveway, carried Moses inside and dropped him on the kitchen floor.
Mom's dead now. My sister and I share a house, just the two of us with three cats. Rosie sits in the garage at the moment, awaiting maintenance.
I guess what I'm saying is, I was right when I was five. If your people can't come to you, you go to them. So here I am.
(old one. 10/26/06)
Monday, August 24, 2009
a scar i can talk about
This song always takes me right back to Christmas on the Coast. I can almost smell the cold plastic of the Jeep. I had a picnic basket packed with tubs of chicken soup and a plate of brownies. I had the heater blasting but I shivered so hard my teeth rattled.
There was nothing traumatic, nothing exceptional that happened. It was only the beginning of the end. When I look back, I remember pressing my hand against my stomach, right against the bottom of my ribcage. Right against my diaphragm. And I don't know if I really did it or only thought about it. My memory stops being so exquisitely detailed when I try to remember what it was I was thinking. Somehow I had swallowed a cold glass globe and it sat there tinkling against my spine, sending shivers out every once in a while.
I can remember the red of my sweater, whistles and the sound of my own laughter bouncing off the porte-cochere. I can remember the sound of the Jeep's door closing, flimsy like a tent door, wobbling under my hand. I remember details from that night like a flashbulb memory, but it was just another night on the Gulf Coast. I was fucking a bellman at the hotel where I worked, having not started fucking the chef yet, but I was done with the other bellman, the first one. First bellman, I mean. Me and the South American guy from another casino had long since called it quits. Or had we? It's hard to keep those straight. I remember the smell of leather and the concrete pressing cold against the thin soles of my city-girl boots.
I think I was not thinking at all. I think I was operating on faulty instinct. Fear of freezing to death had led me to light myself on fire, but I never quite managed to get warm.
It only felt like the beginning of the end, really. The end was really very, very close. I had just managed to avoid feeling it until then, I think. And I think I was terrified and cornered, insisting I was fine with my face pinned into an appropriate expression.
I wonder if I would recognize that look now on someone else. Something tells me I would, but I am not sure I would be able or even willing to help. People have to learn their own lessons, you know? Even if the only thing you learn is to stop being a whorefaced whorebag.
There was nothing traumatic, nothing exceptional that happened. It was only the beginning of the end. When I look back, I remember pressing my hand against my stomach, right against the bottom of my ribcage. Right against my diaphragm. And I don't know if I really did it or only thought about it. My memory stops being so exquisitely detailed when I try to remember what it was I was thinking. Somehow I had swallowed a cold glass globe and it sat there tinkling against my spine, sending shivers out every once in a while.
I can remember the red of my sweater, whistles and the sound of my own laughter bouncing off the porte-cochere. I can remember the sound of the Jeep's door closing, flimsy like a tent door, wobbling under my hand. I remember details from that night like a flashbulb memory, but it was just another night on the Gulf Coast. I was fucking a bellman at the hotel where I worked, having not started fucking the chef yet, but I was done with the other bellman, the first one. First bellman, I mean. Me and the South American guy from another casino had long since called it quits. Or had we? It's hard to keep those straight. I remember the smell of leather and the concrete pressing cold against the thin soles of my city-girl boots.
I think I was not thinking at all. I think I was operating on faulty instinct. Fear of freezing to death had led me to light myself on fire, but I never quite managed to get warm.
It only felt like the beginning of the end, really. The end was really very, very close. I had just managed to avoid feeling it until then, I think. And I think I was terrified and cornered, insisting I was fine with my face pinned into an appropriate expression.
I wonder if I would recognize that look now on someone else. Something tells me I would, but I am not sure I would be able or even willing to help. People have to learn their own lessons, you know? Even if the only thing you learn is to stop being a whorefaced whorebag.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
you know it's really hard to hold your breath
I kind of have a thing for bridges. Always have. I'm not good with heights and I have a thing for bridges. Maybe it's that feeling I get looking down from a bridge, that sort of swimmy-headed dizzy feeling that always makes me laugh a little on the inside. It always makes me take a deep breath. If I stop.
Lately, it's been all about tagging the end of the bridge. I can't just run up to it. I have to run across it, even if I turn right around at the end. Lately, I reach out at my farthest point and brush my hand against whatever is convenient. Fencepost, guardrail, lamppost, gate, chain link.
There is a mismatched little railing at the end of the pedestrian bridge on Riverside. Rust peeks out from under layers of peeling white paint. I barely brush the tips of my fingers against it, spin and let the bridge realign itself in front of me. The river spreads out a little there, at the low water dam. If you look to your left, the water is like old brown bottle glass. To the right, the water churns and foams, as if it has just woken up. As if it has just remembered it has someplace to go.
Right, left, wherever. It depends on which way you're running. Chasing a train that doesn't run anymore. Seems like it should be easier to catch. But there are white flecks in the grooves of my fingerprints, reminding me that I am getting somewhere. Awake. And I have not forgotten, I have someplace to go.
Lately, it's been all about tagging the end of the bridge. I can't just run up to it. I have to run across it, even if I turn right around at the end. Lately, I reach out at my farthest point and brush my hand against whatever is convenient. Fencepost, guardrail, lamppost, gate, chain link.
There is a mismatched little railing at the end of the pedestrian bridge on Riverside. Rust peeks out from under layers of peeling white paint. I barely brush the tips of my fingers against it, spin and let the bridge realign itself in front of me. The river spreads out a little there, at the low water dam. If you look to your left, the water is like old brown bottle glass. To the right, the water churns and foams, as if it has just woken up. As if it has just remembered it has someplace to go.
Right, left, wherever. It depends on which way you're running. Chasing a train that doesn't run anymore. Seems like it should be easier to catch. But there are white flecks in the grooves of my fingerprints, reminding me that I am getting somewhere. Awake. And I have not forgotten, I have someplace to go.
Monday, August 17, 2009
gambling recklessly
Kids, man. I don't intend to have any more. I planned to, once upon a time. Those plans didn't work out. It's for the best, I think. Overpopulated planet and so on.
Besides, I really like my selfish life.
I like wallowing in the thrill of new nail polish. Buying a plane ticket for funsies. Indulging my own need for adventure, big or small.
I do plan to get a greyhound. But a greyhound can run with me, which makes it way better than a baby. And I won't be changing its diapers or trying to teach it how to be a good person. It will come to me almost fully trained and all we have to do is get along. It's not the same as having the full responsibility of a little human life on my hands.
That's the last thing we need, right? Me trying to mold a little human?
But my brother's wife has this kid. And he's twelve. And he likes me. And I am bowled over. And I think that when a kid looks at you the way this kid looks at me, you have to step up.
I picked him up on Saturday afternoon. His parents came to get him Sunday morning. In our sixteen hours or so, we drove around downtown looking at buildings, visited my office, went grocery shopping, saw a terrible movie, played video games and baked brownies.
What is it about kids, anyway? It's like they reach their dirty little hands right through your ribs and pat on your heart, and all the germs from their grubby little mits react with the chemicals in your blood and burn that little handprint right into the muscle of your heart. And right on the heels of that bitter thought, "I don't fucking deserve this," comes the saner, wiser, clearer thought, "I am not worthy of this."
I don't need the voice in my head saying this isn't going to last, don't get attached. I hear it in my kitchen. My sister standing in the doorway cocking her head at me, watching me watch chocolate melt in the microwave. She says, quietly, "You know this isn't going to last. You know you shouldn't get attached."
They say God never closes a door without opening a window.
I don't believe in God. So I just leave my doors unlocked.
Besides, I really like my selfish life.
I like wallowing in the thrill of new nail polish. Buying a plane ticket for funsies. Indulging my own need for adventure, big or small.
I do plan to get a greyhound. But a greyhound can run with me, which makes it way better than a baby. And I won't be changing its diapers or trying to teach it how to be a good person. It will come to me almost fully trained and all we have to do is get along. It's not the same as having the full responsibility of a little human life on my hands.
That's the last thing we need, right? Me trying to mold a little human?
But my brother's wife has this kid. And he's twelve. And he likes me. And I am bowled over. And I think that when a kid looks at you the way this kid looks at me, you have to step up.
I picked him up on Saturday afternoon. His parents came to get him Sunday morning. In our sixteen hours or so, we drove around downtown looking at buildings, visited my office, went grocery shopping, saw a terrible movie, played video games and baked brownies.
What is it about kids, anyway? It's like they reach their dirty little hands right through your ribs and pat on your heart, and all the germs from their grubby little mits react with the chemicals in your blood and burn that little handprint right into the muscle of your heart. And right on the heels of that bitter thought, "I don't fucking deserve this," comes the saner, wiser, clearer thought, "I am not worthy of this."
I don't need the voice in my head saying this isn't going to last, don't get attached. I hear it in my kitchen. My sister standing in the doorway cocking her head at me, watching me watch chocolate melt in the microwave. She says, quietly, "You know this isn't going to last. You know you shouldn't get attached."
They say God never closes a door without opening a window.
I don't believe in God. So I just leave my doors unlocked.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
birdswallows
A lady who sat next to me during meditation and prayer thanked me at the end of my week. She said I was "a rock." I laughed and said, oh no. Thank you, but no.
I sit crosslegged and take a deep breath, elongating my spine, imagining a string pulling my back straight and my head high. I lay the backs of my hands on my knees. I feel the faintest twitch in my arm and I acknowledge it without fighting it, without dwelling on it. I let it be. I take another breath.
My heart pounds, then hammers, speeding up. My neck gets hot. I want to pant, but my breath feels like the only thing I'm really controlling. I sit like a statue and picture myself calm. On the surface, I suppose I look calm. If you don't look too closely. I feel my palms getting clammy. My breath is still coming too fast. I hold it for a count of four or six and a burst of hysteria explodes in my chest. I am seconds from sobbing. I try to breathe it out. There is a bird trapped inside my ribcage, panicking. It batters itself against my ribs and I think if I threw up, I could maybe get it out. I think I might throw up.
A series of invisible twitches runs up one arm and down the other. I note its path without looking. I imagine the ghost of a mouse and I let him be. I concentrate on soft eyes, soft throat, relaxed tongue, teeth apart, lips touching, breathing through the nose. I try not to suffocate in the open air.
My heart still hammers, loud in my ears. The bird is still trapped in my chest. While keeping my outside self as still as I possibly can, I abandon all pretense of meditation and turn my attention to the bird. I let my breath soothe it. I think calming hushing mothering sounds at it. I imagine it in the palm of my hand instead of trapped in my chest. I imagine the tiny claws pricking at my hand as it finds its footing. I feel its tiny weight change as it fluffs out its feathers, extends its yellow wings and takes off.
It was a canary. All this time, I thought it was a sparrow.
I guess a canary makes more sense.
I sit crosslegged and take a deep breath, elongating my spine, imagining a string pulling my back straight and my head high. I lay the backs of my hands on my knees. I feel the faintest twitch in my arm and I acknowledge it without fighting it, without dwelling on it. I let it be. I take another breath.
My heart pounds, then hammers, speeding up. My neck gets hot. I want to pant, but my breath feels like the only thing I'm really controlling. I sit like a statue and picture myself calm. On the surface, I suppose I look calm. If you don't look too closely. I feel my palms getting clammy. My breath is still coming too fast. I hold it for a count of four or six and a burst of hysteria explodes in my chest. I am seconds from sobbing. I try to breathe it out. There is a bird trapped inside my ribcage, panicking. It batters itself against my ribs and I think if I threw up, I could maybe get it out. I think I might throw up.
A series of invisible twitches runs up one arm and down the other. I note its path without looking. I imagine the ghost of a mouse and I let him be. I concentrate on soft eyes, soft throat, relaxed tongue, teeth apart, lips touching, breathing through the nose. I try not to suffocate in the open air.
My heart still hammers, loud in my ears. The bird is still trapped in my chest. While keeping my outside self as still as I possibly can, I abandon all pretense of meditation and turn my attention to the bird. I let my breath soothe it. I think calming hushing mothering sounds at it. I imagine it in the palm of my hand instead of trapped in my chest. I imagine the tiny claws pricking at my hand as it finds its footing. I feel its tiny weight change as it fluffs out its feathers, extends its yellow wings and takes off.
It was a canary. All this time, I thought it was a sparrow.
I guess a canary makes more sense.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
old priest, young priest
I need to get cracking on that Catholic correspondence course. I've had it sort of back burnered lately.
Exorcising Your Ex has shipped, says paperbackswap.com. I'm ordering self-help books now. It'd be hilarious if it weren't so fucking sad, you know?
So it begins, again.
I hate running in circles. That's why I don't like running on a track. I prefer to slingshot, out and back.
Every time I clean my room, I find the same scrap of paper. I'm going to start leaving myself notes. I'm tired of reading the definition of escape velocity over and over.
The minimum speed a body must attain to escape the gravitational pull of another body.
But this morning's run fell apart and tomorrow is a rest day and it will be Friday before I get another shot at it.
Maybe it was running in eighty degree weather. Maybe it was the humidity. Maybe it was running three days in a row, pushing for something faster. Maybe it was just too much. The drill sergeant in my head took the day off, so maybe. I peeled out of my shirt and mopped sweat off my neck with it. My ponytail dripped. My breath slowed, one hitch at a time. I will pay for taking it easy today. But not today. I'll pay later. I'm on the easy credit payment plan, so I get to pay for the rest of my natural born life.
There is something important here, I am sure of it.
Exorcising Your Ex has shipped, says paperbackswap.com. I'm ordering self-help books now. It'd be hilarious if it weren't so fucking sad, you know?
So it begins, again.
I hate running in circles. That's why I don't like running on a track. I prefer to slingshot, out and back.
Every time I clean my room, I find the same scrap of paper. I'm going to start leaving myself notes. I'm tired of reading the definition of escape velocity over and over.
The minimum speed a body must attain to escape the gravitational pull of another body.
But this morning's run fell apart and tomorrow is a rest day and it will be Friday before I get another shot at it.
Maybe it was running in eighty degree weather. Maybe it was the humidity. Maybe it was running three days in a row, pushing for something faster. Maybe it was just too much. The drill sergeant in my head took the day off, so maybe. I peeled out of my shirt and mopped sweat off my neck with it. My ponytail dripped. My breath slowed, one hitch at a time. I will pay for taking it easy today. But not today. I'll pay later. I'm on the easy credit payment plan, so I get to pay for the rest of my natural born life.
There is something important here, I am sure of it.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
paging electra
My dad's birthday is coming up.
Normally, this would mean nothing to me. Last year, I didn't even call him on his birthday.
He's turning 70 this month.
You have to time things properly with my dad, see. And if you want to talk to him, you'd better call him in the morning. Before noon. He starts slurring around lunchtime. Makes it difficult to have a conversation because you can't understand him. He goes off on tangents and he rambles. Plus, he won't remember it right the next day.
So yeah. You gotta call in the morning.
Last year, I didn't call at all. I think I probably put it off too long on purpose. "Oops, too late to call Dad. Shucks."
I guess I've been mad at him for so long, I don't really feel it anymore.
I'm still mad, deep down. I'll probably always be mad, on some level.
And he deserves it. He's been a son of a bitch. A drunk. Unreliable at best. Mean as fuck at worst. A staggering asshole, sneeringly contemptuous and self-aggrandizing.
My whole life. Give or take a week or two, he's been drunk for my whole life. Maybe give or take a month or two. I'm not trying to paint him worse than he is.
None of it, though, none of it changes the fact that he's my dad.
I don't know if I will ever forgive him. I'm not sure if that's even the point, you know? But I don't hate him. And as angry as he makes me, I have to acknowledge that he pushes my buttons so very skillfully because I came from him. Because in some ways, we are the same. And if I can put my own sneering contempt aside and walk carefully for just one day, it's just barely possible that we might have a mildly pleasant family gathering.
A family gathering. What a novelty. Now, don't get me wrong. All we have are three siblings -- maybe four. Jonathan, if you're blogstalking me, please call me. Or call Jess. Our numbers haven't changed. Anyway, so it will just be the kids and their dad. That's all that's left. I think it's more than enough.
Pardon me. I have to go bake a cake.
Normally, this would mean nothing to me. Last year, I didn't even call him on his birthday.
He's turning 70 this month.
You have to time things properly with my dad, see. And if you want to talk to him, you'd better call him in the morning. Before noon. He starts slurring around lunchtime. Makes it difficult to have a conversation because you can't understand him. He goes off on tangents and he rambles. Plus, he won't remember it right the next day.
So yeah. You gotta call in the morning.
Last year, I didn't call at all. I think I probably put it off too long on purpose. "Oops, too late to call Dad. Shucks."
I guess I've been mad at him for so long, I don't really feel it anymore.
I'm still mad, deep down. I'll probably always be mad, on some level.
And he deserves it. He's been a son of a bitch. A drunk. Unreliable at best. Mean as fuck at worst. A staggering asshole, sneeringly contemptuous and self-aggrandizing.
My whole life. Give or take a week or two, he's been drunk for my whole life. Maybe give or take a month or two. I'm not trying to paint him worse than he is.
None of it, though, none of it changes the fact that he's my dad.
I don't know if I will ever forgive him. I'm not sure if that's even the point, you know? But I don't hate him. And as angry as he makes me, I have to acknowledge that he pushes my buttons so very skillfully because I came from him. Because in some ways, we are the same. And if I can put my own sneering contempt aside and walk carefully for just one day, it's just barely possible that we might have a mildly pleasant family gathering.
A family gathering. What a novelty. Now, don't get me wrong. All we have are three siblings -- maybe four. Jonathan, if you're blogstalking me, please call me. Or call Jess. Our numbers haven't changed. Anyway, so it will just be the kids and their dad. That's all that's left. I think it's more than enough.
Pardon me. I have to go bake a cake.
Monday, August 03, 2009
pusillanimous was one of her favorite words
My mom died four years ago this month. She did not want a funeral, so we never had one. She never told us she wanted her ashes scattered in any particular place, or shot out of a cannon, or anything. She wanted to donate her organs, but cancer made that impossible, and she never told us what plan B should be.
In dealing with a loved one's looming death, it is easy to overlook details. The "last wishes" conversation can be uncomfortable. So we probably changed the subject or something, you know?
Just so we have it settled between us, I don't give a shit what you do with my cremains. I'll be way past being offended. Use me to fertilize the garden, if you want. I honestly do not care. Do what's convenient and cheap and makes sense to you. If you have anything to say about it, I mean. I'm cool with whatever.
And maybe my mom didn't care either. She wasn't big on ceremony. She liked a good joke. She didn't like dramatic displays of emotion. She had a tenacious and unflinching sense of humor. I hope I have a tenth of what she had.
I do wish sometimes that I had a gravesite to go to, though. I know she didn't care, but she's dead. I'm alive. And I need a place to go sometimes. I always had a key to her place when she was alive. I miss that.
Yesterday, I was sorting out my day, writing morning pages and stretching out muscles stiff from running and dancing the day before, when it occurred to me that I really, really miss my mom. More sharply than usual, I mean.
So I went to her old office building. She worked there when she first moved to Tulsa. I got my first office job there, at seventeen. We worked on different floors, but we took smoke breaks together. We went to lunch together.
I drank so many cups of coffee at her office. She had a Garfield comic strip over the coffee pot. "Bottom-of-the-pot-sitting-plugged-in-all-day-coffee."
I didn't go inside yesterday. I didn't even try the door. There were a couple of cars in the parking lot, but there was a spot open under a tree, so I pulled into the shade and sat. I had the end of a loaf of bread in a bag in my purse. And some tissues. I started crying just looking at the place, but I'm a crybaby that way. And I loved the bejesus out of that woman. So it's allowed.
When I finally got out of the car, I walked to the place where we used to stand on smoke breaks. I remember winter, standing in a patch of sunlight, trying to stay warm. I remember wearing skirts that were too short and being too skinny. It's funny, the things that come to mind when you revisit a place you haven't been to in years.
I walked to the middle of the rickety old bridge, slowly. It creaked, but held. I'm not great with heights, and I had tried to come up with a different place to stand to feed the ducks, if I saw any, but the bridge was really the only place. The bridge was where my mom used to feed the ducks.
She wasn't great with heights either.
I tossed chunks of bread into the water. Fish darted in, then ducks, then a turtle. I fed them quietly, one chunk at a time, until my bread was all gone. Then I stood on the bridge with no bread and bawled my fool head off. The end.
In dealing with a loved one's looming death, it is easy to overlook details. The "last wishes" conversation can be uncomfortable. So we probably changed the subject or something, you know?
Just so we have it settled between us, I don't give a shit what you do with my cremains. I'll be way past being offended. Use me to fertilize the garden, if you want. I honestly do not care. Do what's convenient and cheap and makes sense to you. If you have anything to say about it, I mean. I'm cool with whatever.
And maybe my mom didn't care either. She wasn't big on ceremony. She liked a good joke. She didn't like dramatic displays of emotion. She had a tenacious and unflinching sense of humor. I hope I have a tenth of what she had.
I do wish sometimes that I had a gravesite to go to, though. I know she didn't care, but she's dead. I'm alive. And I need a place to go sometimes. I always had a key to her place when she was alive. I miss that.
Yesterday, I was sorting out my day, writing morning pages and stretching out muscles stiff from running and dancing the day before, when it occurred to me that I really, really miss my mom. More sharply than usual, I mean.
So I went to her old office building. She worked there when she first moved to Tulsa. I got my first office job there, at seventeen. We worked on different floors, but we took smoke breaks together. We went to lunch together.
I drank so many cups of coffee at her office. She had a Garfield comic strip over the coffee pot. "Bottom-of-the-pot-sitting-plugged-in-all-day-coffee."
I didn't go inside yesterday. I didn't even try the door. There were a couple of cars in the parking lot, but there was a spot open under a tree, so I pulled into the shade and sat. I had the end of a loaf of bread in a bag in my purse. And some tissues. I started crying just looking at the place, but I'm a crybaby that way. And I loved the bejesus out of that woman. So it's allowed.
When I finally got out of the car, I walked to the place where we used to stand on smoke breaks. I remember winter, standing in a patch of sunlight, trying to stay warm. I remember wearing skirts that were too short and being too skinny. It's funny, the things that come to mind when you revisit a place you haven't been to in years.
I walked to the middle of the rickety old bridge, slowly. It creaked, but held. I'm not great with heights, and I had tried to come up with a different place to stand to feed the ducks, if I saw any, but the bridge was really the only place. The bridge was where my mom used to feed the ducks.
She wasn't great with heights either.
I tossed chunks of bread into the water. Fish darted in, then ducks, then a turtle. I fed them quietly, one chunk at a time, until my bread was all gone. Then I stood on the bridge with no bread and bawled my fool head off. The end.
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