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Monthly Archives: December 2019
Dear Santa, I hope this letter finds you warm and well at the North Pole. I also would like to extend my condolences to Mrs. Claus, who is probably the most harried woman in the hemisphere right now. Although some of my mom friends are snorting with derision, no doubt. Hey, they brought it on themselves. Dern kids. I was never taught to believe in you. I think I waited until third grade to ruin it for everybody else, though. Seemed like about time to be growing up and putting away the foolishness. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve found Santa in some. Really, it’s Jesus but some of these good people are self-proclaimed atheists, so let’s just agree to disagree, yes? In the spirit of Christmas and all. So what I’m writing to say, is what everyone writes to you about- my wishes. I’ve been good….but I’ve also been bad. To be honest, it’s probably an even split. I won’t even try to convince you, you see me when I’m sleeping, you know when I’m awake…but even you gotta admit, Santa, that I got pushed to the edge and when I’m cornered….well, it ain’t pretty. I normally wouldn’t write on behalf of anybody but there are people in my life that…
From June 12th, 2019: I haven’t written anything in awhile, I know. Slap me with your splintered ruler. (Any Alanis fans out there?) It feels like a waste when I don’t write, like I’m throwing away perfectly good food that I’ve allowed to rot simply because I forgot to eat it. Yes, that happens more often than I care to admit. But I sit and I try to think if I have anything worthy to share. And most times, I don’t. So I don’t write one day. And one day turns to two, and that stretches into a week, and before I know it, a month has gone by and I haven’t shared a word. Because I don’t have anything much to say. Oh, I’m doing stuff, and I do have topics I’d like to write about, but most people have an idea of me: that I’m fairly happy-go-lucky, apart from my occasional outburst on fast lane slow drivers and what have you. The truth is, sometimes I feel like I have bees in my head searching for a place to build a hive. It’s a relentless buzzing as they dart here, there, and yon, smacking into the sides of my skull and flying into each other because their radar doesn’t work in such close quarters at warp speed. Occassionally it’…
I’ve changed my mind. The gateway drug isn’t alcohol. How could I be so stupid? It is, of course, love. Love will make you do some crazy shit. And once you lose it, you try to get it back. Enter alcohol. But love is definitely our first drug. It produces feelings of euphoria. It makes us hallucinate- we see things through rose-colored glasses, do we not? Everything is touched with gold. Everything is surrounded by warmth and light and goodness. And we can’t get enough, we want more, more, more. We burn with it. We spend money on it, trying to make sure the object of our affection sees how much we’ll sacrifice for it. We cut ties with people who don’t like our love interest. We stop seeing friends in order to see our “soul mate” more. It’s not healthy. Nothing is in excess. But when you are enjoying riding the high, you don’t think about the repercussions. You don’t want to temper it. We trade passionate love for other kinds of love when we can’t get the kind of love we want. We shower love on family, on friends, on pets, on making a home. Sometimes this is enough. And sometimes it’s not. And when it’s not, what then? Do you seclude yourself and play music? Furiously scribble some angst-y poetry? Maybe…
The cursor blinks in time….wait…wait…wait… My dog snores. I chew my fingernails.I don’t need to have a radio goingOr a TVOr someone here incessantly chattingIt’s not unnervingTo live alone In a house haunted by my grandmother–it’s true! But it’s worrysome To think about falling down the stairsAnd nobody realizing anything is amissUntil MondayWhen I fail to show up for workAnd maybe not even then…I try to be cautious.Someday I hope to have steadfast companionshipBut so far There’s been a drought One might sayA moonscape of desolationBut my life doesn’t look bad, per seI’ve traveledI’ve lovedI’ve lostI’ve lost booksearringsmoneyfriendspatience But not weightNot latelyThere are worse things Sour in my mouth when I think ofFireDebtCancerBlindnessAddiction Athiesm Not taking a chanceLight as a featherCozy in my nestThoughts of fishing Whole days spent waiting for a tugPoetry in motion EverywhereMy dog snores onHe’s a grumpy chunkFat ‘n sassy, like his mommaWho writes poetry In the premature winter night…
Do you pause to count the church bellsto make sure that they’re rightOr do you listen to hear the reverberations and look for the pigeons in flightDo you chew your food slowlyand remark on each flavor Or do you rush and drink awayall that you could savorDo you ever stop to photograph the daffodilsthat grow thick in the hope of springOr must you hurry to your next conquestnot thinking of the brightness they would bringDo you linger over a passage in a bookscribbling a note in the marginOr do you keep your ears tuned to the TVand all the senseless jargonDo you ever wonder what goes onin the lives we see on FacebookOr do you think it’s close enough to truthnot bothering to pursue a deeper lookDo you stand at the edge of the oceanand let the sand be sucked from beneath your toesOr do you stay within your phone all dayand wonder if you captured your best poseDo you know the difference between someone who’s happyfor themselvesand someone who’s living to make someone else happy? Can you recognize the look in their eyes? Can you see what they need? Can you define it yourself? Who are YOU, without your husband or children? What makes you you, with your flawed teeth that braces never really fixed? Can you say the alphabet backwards? Can you drive a boat onto a trailer? Can you read music, recite poetry? Can you paint the way light falls on water? Can…
I once owned the best horse in the world. It’s true, everybody wanted him. He was a perfect blood bay, no markings. Oh, he had about four white hairs where a star would have formed if hairs multiplied like fungi, but they don’t, so no star. He was 15.2 hands, and finely muscled from carrying me around for a minimum of two hours every day. I fed him an all-grain mix, heavy with molasses, cut with a bag of 12% sweet feed because I hadn’t been educated. And of course, I added a supplement for hoof growth, one that’s probably not around anymore, replaced by a fancier, daily-dose, with more attractive packaging, and marketed on all the right websites. I fed a supplement derived from seaweed and it worked great but smelled terrible. But my beautiful Saddlebred consumed it willingly. This horse would walk through fire for me. He was spirited, and every time I lost my balance, I could feel him shift to accommodate by oaf-like tendencies. He tried to help me look graceful. But I sometimes still wound up on the ground, and he would stop, and look down at me pityingly…maybe with a touch of disdain. I’d dust my breeches off and climb back on, shaking my head at myself. He was beautiful, and people would stop their cars in the middle of the road to watch us. I’m…
Yesterday morning I had a visitor to the office. I’ve known him since my earliest days at the Co-op, and I really enjoy our chats. We have those deep conversations that flow easily. Those come way too infrequently for my liking. Most people talk to brag, or talk to gossip, or talk to hear themselves talk. Not him. And it really touches my heart when he takes time out of his day to sit down for a spell. He’s a busy man. So we got to talking about how fortunate we are, and how we’re not thankful enough for what we’ve got. And, as our conversations invariably go, he got around to telling tales about his dad and his group of buddies. They were truly a redneck gang. They loved to play practical jokes on one another…sometimes even mildly dangerous ones. And ALWAYS ones that will make you late for whatever your next task will be. So he’s recounting some story about a notorious fishing trip and it made me think. There just aren’t friendships like that anymore. I have one friend I could call for anything. Annnnnyyyyything. We even had a code for in the event I killed my former husband. I have no doubt she would have come a-runnin’. There might have been more than one or two “oh shit”s uttered, but we would have taken care of…
There are a lot of rings in rivers. There, under a layer of silt and mud, a multitude of diamond rings gradually becoming covered with sludge and moss, growing dingier and more tarnished by the day. These rings were once worn and cherished by a host of good women. Or maybe they belonged to cruel women. Women with pure hearts and vicious tempers. Women with big smiles and twisted souls. Women who put supper on the table every night and mopped the floor every Saturday morning. Or perhaps she just sat on the couch, talking on the phone and eating bonbons. Maybe she had an agenda the whole time. But I would guarantee you, the rings in the water were loved. As were the men that gave them to the women who slung them. Their rings were never taken off till the day they were. But it’s not the diamond’s fault. The diamond had one job: to sparkle. At first I didn’t write about it because it was all I could do to get dressed and drag myself to work, forget about extracting words from the shredded pieces of my heart and telling the world my woes. Then I didn’t write because to write it made it real, and I didn’t want to see it in black and white. I didn’t want to see it at all. I wallowed in the land of delusion, where I didn’…
Dear Grandmother, You’ve been gone eleven years {eleven years!!! I had to count twice, then looked up a picture of your gravestone to make myself believe it}. I guess that’s right. But today doesn’t mark the day of your passing, it is your birthday. No, I didn’t forget. I just haven’t slowed down long enough today string words together in remembrance. I woke up, and it was Pearl Harbor Day, which equates to your birthday. Pearl Harbor day didn’t really resonate with me until a few years ago, when I was having a conversation with a young adult who didn’t have much to remember about 9/11. And that floored me. I couldn’t believe that it was possible to be alive and not recount the horror of that day in full detail. I digress. It’s a clear night, the moon is half full, and it’s cold enough to see my breath. You’d like it. I have so much to tell you, everything has changed since you’ve been gone. But you know, you haunted me for awhile. Why’d you quit, anyway? I knew it was you the whole time. I guess you moved on because it quit being fun. How do you like the new floors? I’m certain you hate the yellow wall. And probably my painting, too. It’s too abstract…
Y’all probably think I’m a ridiculous sap, but I just want to say that I’m despondent over East Town Mall closing. Even though its glory days are more than a decade past, I’ll never forget the good ol’ days of walking around in a pack of best girlfriends all day Saturday, giggling and looking cool in our stone washed Guess jeans with layered slouch socks, crimped hair scraped back into neon scrunchies, and an armful of jelly bracelets every color of the rainbow. We’d hit 5-7-9 and Merry Go Round first, then the music store (singles tapes!), fawn over the puppies and kittens in the pet store, then maybe have a slice of pizza in the food court. We’d get mildly freaked out by the weird witchy stuff in Crystal Visions, check out clothes in Express and Limited, try on leather pants in Wilson’s Leather, buy some glitter nail polish from Claire’s, and pretend we were punk enough to pull off the tank tops in Rave. We’d point at boys with their long skater hair and follow them around till they went in the game store behind the waterfall. We’d go smell erasers in Hello Kitty and widen our eyes at the displays in the windows of Fredericks of Hollywood then make for Victoria Secret, pretending we were just there for lotion. We’d share pretzels…
