SIV bed time story - untitled

Copyrighted 8-26-2004 - all rights reserved.

not sure why this never got a title. *shrugs shoulders* maybe typing it in will squeeze it enough to make it give up its name.

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TRIGGER for talk /imagery of self inflicted violence
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Once upon a time there were a bunch of little girls held captive in a tower made of broken china.

As they would go about their daily lives the sharp edges of their prison walls would cut them.

The blood would pitter patter down on the dusty floor like tears.

No one heard their cries...so they stopped crying.

hey stopped smiling cause the darkness was so thick it weighed heavily down on them.

But these "dust" children would create startling hauntingly beautiful works of art.

Paintings, writings, dances...their very souls poured into their art.

People came from miles around to greedily snatch up their work.

The girls watched from their windows, as the people oohed and aawed their creations. The girls no longer even noticed that their hands were being cut to shreds by the window sills.

Someone looked up and saw them.

"LOOK" he shouted "Look at those girls!"

many eyes turned upwards and then turned away, "such wretched creatures" he muttered Clutching the treasured artwork closer to him.

The girls watched them drive away, taking the treasures with them.

On day a woman came and she eyed up the art and asked to see the artist.

No. She was told. The artists are not beautiful or perfect they are flawed.

The woman pushed past and ran into the tower. The girls ran in fear. Who was this person coming into their prison?

She walked slowly looking at the dark stained floor.

"I see pain in here" she said softly. I see hurt in here."

I see YOU in here. " she said to the girls.

The girls backed away. "take the art and leave" they pleaded.

And so the woman did.

She loaded her car with all the beautiful precious art and drove away.

The girls watched from the window...as the broken china tower got smaller and smaller in the distance.

Thend.

Completely forgettable

I am like a living vampire. My image will not leave an impression on your retinas. I am not someone you will meet and then remember four years later, heck even six months later. I am not some super powerful influential person that the paparazzi will hound.

I am not someone so profoundly interesting that you must know me and go out of your way to learn my name.

I am visually not attractive. (that avatar photo of me is a fluke.)

I have done nothing in my life that warrants recording in the history books.

So why do people remember me? Why do people want to know me?

I just don't get it.

A while ago a fellow on the night shift called me by name and asked me a question.

I have worked in the same faculty as this man for many years and didn't know his name. Had no idea he even knew who I was let alone my name.

Most people can't just see my name and know how to pronounce it. Someone has to tell you how its pronounced. Which means he went to the trouble to ask someone what my name was and how to pronounce it and then memorize it.

That just baffles me.

There have been other instances too. When I took my farm son to first grade his teacher just happened to be  the same woman who taught me first grade.  I remember her because she had a strange French name and I couldn't pronounce it....which was fine she couldn't pronounce mine either. As far a I knew I was just a shy kid who faded into the back ground and made no impression.

JEH and I walked in and she looked up and her eyes lite up. She came right over and asked "is this your son?"

I replied, "I wish he was my son, but hes not, he lives with his grandma and me."

She clapped her hands and touched my shoulder. " oh this is so exciting! he is the first second generation child I have gotten to teach!"

I pulled back in my head. woah...is she telling me she knows who I am 20+ years later? Not possible, she must think I am someone else.

"So how have you been P?" she says.

and my heart always reacts the same way. Like its been stabbed, when this happens. I spend most (all?) of my life feeling like I was invisible to the everyone on this planet. Are you kidding me? You SAW me?

When I am struggling with suicidal thought, my mind always tells me "no one will miss you...no one knows you are here."

A lie.

My presence on this planet will be minuscule in the big picture. But to a few people, I mean something. Just like they mean something to me. Maybe not forever, but for now.

I have too many walls around me still even to this day. You can love me but from a far. My soul still damaged and defensive. Then there are those people who just climb over my walls and hug me and pull up a chair and sit down.

Those brave souls who love me for no rhyme of reason. Those who don't ask to be my friend, they just are.

I don't get them either.

Even though I don't understand it. Its a rich blanket that covers my soul and eases the pain. It makes life's journey a bit more palatable knowing someone knows I am here.

Forest Fire

She is born from the brew of
dark rolling snake clouds in the night sky
with it's dry lighting shaped tongue
he flicks the earth
tasting...sensing
and leaves her
nestled at the base of the tree
her slender arms
adoringly stroke
the rough bark
until she can control herself no longer
and she rises
and consumes all
with the heat of her passion

(c) 7-24-94

off the tracks again

Lately I feel like the most wretched human on the planet. Like smelly pond scum that should be scrapped off and disposed of.

Like I should have a warning label attached to me.

I feel alone and struggling with so much stuff that its all going to fall and crush me.

Afraid to open my mouth because I'm afraid that if I do I won't be able to stop screaming.

(In case you don't recognize our ghost-writer today, let me introduce you, Everyone say hello to: Winter Depression.)

I spent more time crying today then I want to admit.

and then out of the blue this pops up in my inbox.

From a fellow traveler on the journey/path we call life.

And in my darkness her lantern saves me.

And I the writer, the guru of words, the weaver of magical sentences, am struck silent. Nothing can explain the gesture or describe it.

I can only embrace it and know that I am so blessed.

Becoming a father

It is funny, when you choose a man to marry you have an idea of what type of provide and husband he will be but its hard to really know what kind of a father he will be.

For me I had been practicing parenting on the farm kids, but my husband didn't have that back ground. He learned to be a parent as his own children came into being.

It was a very strange thing for me to share my children. To learn to co-parent with someone. It was hard to learn to stop and get the input from my husband. It was no longer me…it was us, and these weren't my kids they were our kids.

JUR spent the first four days of his life in the NICU after the hospital tried to kill him due to low blood sugars. I pumped BM for him and Corey got to jump in and feed him. The nurses where thrilled to have a father who was hands on and willing to get in there. They wanted to run off with him.

I was beginning to put together an image of they type of father he would be. And I was liking what I saw.

I love that he took the time to spend with his baby. This is the picture that just melts my heart as I see father and son checking each other out. This is the type of father I wanted for my kids.

It was a neat thing to watch Corey grow as a father and try things.

We were traveling when JUR was less then a year old. Stopping at rest stop I ran into go pee and when I came out there was Corey holding JUR up so he could play in the water dripping off the roof. I stopped and just watched as my eyes filled up with tears. I would have done the same thing, but it surprised me that he thought of it. I underestimated his desire to show his son the wonders of this world.

By the time Hansolo rolled in I could see he was comfortable in his role.

My mother never let my father parent. She ran the house, she raised us her way. I was mindful of that and tried not to be the same way. I feel I failed on that aspect, simply because I was primary care giver. 

In some weird way the biggest challenge he faces as a father is...me. And that is unsettling to me. I wonder if its because in the future our son becomes a gun wielding psychopath, the world will automatically blame me. The buck always seems to stops with the mothers.

I hope he can see the work I have put in for the past thirteen years to conceive and birth healthy children for him, and to help him raise them to be good humans. I hope he has enjoyed fatherhood so far. 

Fathers are so important. I have raised fatherless kids. I could be many things to them, but I could not be a father. I am so glad mine have a father they get to grow up with.

Grinching again

A few years back, when we were packed like sardines in a 2 bedroom place, I sent an email to everyone telling them NOT to give my children any Christmas presents.

We literally had no room. NO ROOM. For my kids to get any new presents would mean they would have to throw away something to make room. They were not done playing with the toys they already had and no where near out growing anything either.

Well...

My email ruffled a few feathers.

okay....a LOT of feathers.

All of a sudden I was the grinch who stole Christmas. I have never seen such a storm of stirred up feelings like that before. WOW! From the ugly words spoken to me and about me you would have thought I was roasting plastic baby Jesus's on my front lawn.

My kids have never lacked for toys.

why?

Because I collected toys when I was single. I still had all my childhood toys. I LIKE TOYS. They had a ton of toys to play with before they were even born.

I choose toys for my children that ran on imagination. As a result they didn't get tossed out once broke or out of batteries.

(Bonus Christmas memory...4 years ago the Borg and Romulins shot up the ginger bread house...despite the federation trying to stop them. That is the stuff my kids will remember.)

My children have a lot of toys.

A LOT OF TOYS 


Seriously. Even to this day they have a bazillion.

Partly because friends and family give them tons, and partly because my kids work for their money and buy stuff for themselves too.

That last Christmas in the small place, was very limited presents. I gave them enough to make it magical but really cut back.

They didn't notice.

The next year at the new place, I cut back even further. There big presents were pillow I made.

The didn't notice that either.

(Bonus Christmas memory: Everyone should get a two handed bastard sword for Christmas, gosh we played and laughed for hours with it.)

(Bonus Christmas memory: filled their stockings with all the goofy gag stuff like Chinese finger traps and bloody nail through the fingers and rubber animal nose masks. Love this picture of them.)

I love the looks my son gives to the camera...what a muggy-bug he is.

This year I'm going grinchie again.

They have each picked out a 10$ present that they wanted, and I will fill there stockings with goodies and get some candy stuff, and they will probably get a DS game and a movie. But that is it.

I am done with this MUSTBUYSTUFF mentality for Christmas.

November 1st I went to wal-mart and was bombarded with Christmas stuff before I even walked into the door.

The stores know we are a slave to memories.

That Christmas memories tend to feel magical and woosh us back to the innocence of youth, back to a time of cinnamon scented anticipation. Where the night was lit up in twinkling lights and the smell of pine trees left a happiness in your heart.

We try to buy that back each year.

Spending money that most of don't have to buy something that you already have in your heart (or maybe never had so we try to buy it?)

Yeah go a head and grinch-a-fy me. But I want something more for my kids. And that can only be given, by not giving to them. Christmas will not be about 1000 presents. It will not be dazzling lights to excess, it will be something quieter and more personal.

There is a space

There is a space
between the rain and the snow.
where
they are close but never joined
one
giving life to the other
each
knowing
when to let go .

This same space separates
mothers and daughters.
who are known
to create an icy slush
both trying to exist
there at the same time.

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This is from memory as I can't find a single hard copy of it. LOL go figure! This was published many moons ago.  I know the last part isn't right so I need to mount another expedition into the boxes to look for it.

Back in the day I used to do poetry readings at the college.

That was kinda fun. I liked seeing the reaction of the audience. Met an instructor from Italy once who so loved one of my poems she took a copy back to show her class as an example of modern American women's poetry.

I am once again having an upswing of the brain fog.... and for the life of me can't recall which poem she took, might even be this one.

MOO!!

JUR is wearing Core's grand fathers WW II uniform, Core trick-or-treated in it too as a youngster. Miss Hansolo is the spider queen, and I am the Interrupting Cow.
Who is that you ask? Let me tell you.

"Knock knock"
who's there?
"Interrupting Cow"
Interr..."MOO!"

Twice I had to stop my son from stealing cats....LOL Every year I have to check his pumpkin for felines.

Man we walked our feet off....er foot off....

It's 8:45 and  past their bedtimes so that is why the tired faces.