Exposure

Oh, I could tell you all the awful things,
I could tell you in a terse inventory,
titles on a playlist of pain.
But that would be searing and wounding,
rending.
I would rather use all the brushes and paints in my toolkit
to fill in the vast tableaux that make these horrors
(understandable?)
(forgivable?)
bearable.
I'm not sure I deserve the grace provided by a backstory,
but I know I can't bear to confess
without explaining how
my soul can bear the weight of all that has passed.

Grace(less)land

Tonight I got home, hungry but happy,
to find two of my three men asleep
and the other openly apathetic about dinner.
At first I was mildly annoyed, but then...
I smiled, and sank into my favorite chair,
pulling my laptop onto the top of my lap
(because...what is the bottom of one's lap??)
so that I could spend some time here.

Saturday we wound our way across a part of this state I haven't seen much of;
we went to an orchard in...Morgantown?
and then on to Bethlehem.
Not to give birth in a barn, fortunately,
but to satisfy a primal urge for pastrami.
Hot pastrami on rye, in fact--
(and this immediately brings to mind
that time, when I was 4 years old,
riding in the "way back" of my Mom's yellow Datsun station wagon,
as we rounded the north end of Rockland's Main St.
and headed back south on opposite one-way street toward home in Owl's Head;
I was looking out the back window, free-range in the glorious wild west before seat-belt-laws,
and soon I was hiding under a blanket with a song,
"Hot pastrami on rye-eye," was the refrain,
repeated over and over until I soothed myself to sleep).
So, we headed west and/or north from the apple orchards
(and their decadent donuts)
through Reading
(I love this name, because it looks like my favorite hobby)
and onward to the
gross
smoke-filled
casino
which houses the only remaining Carnegie Deli on the East Coast.
The casino was...gross, did I mention that?
Intentionally polluted air choking us as we wended our way
through the maze that couldn't outsmart us
(after all, this isn't Vegas)
and slid into a booth in a happy little slice of New York.
The sandwiches were not all that we had dreamed of,
but the pickles were,
and the sweet old lady who saw my husband taking a picture of his sandwich,
stopped by and showed him the picture she had taken of a far superior pastrami
at the 4th St. Deli in Philadlphia,
which filled us with longing....
and so...
the quest continues.

We drove home through the dark evening on the winding roads
that connect Bethlehem to wherever it is we live,
(a route I know well,
from that winter I spent driving away my worries for O.
as I drove the hour-long tortuous route once a week until he said, "Enough!"
even though it wasn't).
The Mr. and I glided over those tiny, twisting roads,
bathed in the notes of Graceland,
(with diamonds on the soles of Chevy Chase's feet, calling me Al)
and I was lost in my own thoughts and daydreams,
and everything felt golden and right.

(Don't) Take Me to Church

When I first heard this song,
I was struck by the image of raw passion,

visions of desperate, grasping desire

spinning across the stage of my mind - 

and then I saw the video;

different from what my neurons fired at each other 

within my skull,

but not so far removed, really.

This song's title, at least,

goes well with the little snippet I pulled from my memo pad on my phone.

8/14/2016
My church is this beautiful planet - 

the rocky coastline of Maine, 

where I grew up,

its rugged terrain, its harsh winters;

berries growing in cool forests,

sea life teaming in dark grey-green water--

Maine, with its only straight lines to be found 

in the pine trees that crowd its shores; 

the red sands and arches of Utah's deserts, 

capped by rich blue skies; 

soft snow cascading down ski-able peaks, 

rivers to kayak in,

and all the animals one might be lucky enough to see. 

I've lived in 4 states so far, 

and even found serenity in the comparatively bland beauty of Iowa--

rolling green hills, crowned with rich red barns;

I'm in Pennsylania now,

and William was not exaggerating:

this is a sylvan wonderland,

rich, green forests bend low over winding roads,

like Mother Nature herself hugging the world.
This is heaven,
this is church.
And I don't believe in hell. 

For many years after leaving the church of my youth, 

of my family, 

I uneasily, defiantly,
joked about the certainty of my place in hell... 

Now, I smile, filled with peace and joy, 

because the only hell is the one we make for ourselves--

by choosing to believe that we deserve pain or punishment for simply being human.
Church is to build and test self-discipline. That is all.
Love yourself, forgive yourself. 

Be kind, be honest. The end. 

Once Upon a Time...

That's how all the good stories begin, isn't it?
All the tales of fairies and such.
Sometimes the dark stories start out with hope, too.
Sometimes the fairies grow fangs and claws and loom larger than the sun...
And sometimes the witches are just misunderstood loners.

But I know one thing -
every possible iteration of each of those scenarios will be written by someone,
somewhere in the world,
during the month of November.
November is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo.
I'll never forget my first time
(participating in this unique challenge, but also,
obviously that other event that just popped into your mind, unbidden...).
I was a sweet little housewife,
with 2-year-old twins and a work-aholic, golf-loving husband
(the state of my marriage could have still been described as "I wasn't yet willing to admit what a mistake I'd made," but that's another story for another day).
I had recently reunited with a friend from high school, via email,
and this friend played in a (fantastic heavy metal) band,
and performed stand-up comedy,
and inadvertently introduced me to Raymi the Minx -
maybe she was a fan of his music, or his comedy...?
I can't quite place the connection,
but I was riveted.
She was wild and beautiful and her writing was compelling.
I clicked on the other blogs she linked to,
and was soon following a small web of interseting folks...
one of whom was participating in NaNoWriMo,
and so,
when I first learned of this awe-inspiring challenge on November 5, 2002,
I signed on and began writing like mad.
My parents came to visit for a few days around Thanksgiving,
so all in all, I had probably 20 days of writing.
I passed the 50,000-word goal, though.
I wrote and wrote and wrote...it was an obsession,
filling every waking moment,
and many should-be-sleeping moments.
When the frenzy of it had passed,
I found myself needing to continue,
so I started that blog...
with the sassy title and url which has continued to draw people in,
for what they think it must hold.
Which it didn't at first,
but I don't think it took long before
my daydreams were making their way onto the page.
I sort of can't believe how entirely I dumped my soul onto that blog...
My wildest dreams and my many neuroses,
on full display.
I felt like I was living life on the edge of a cliff,
pirouetting in the wind, fully in control,
but
so visible...so precarious.
It was my world, but also
my diary in many ways.
I remember how proud my (then) husband was
of how sexy/edgy/cool that blog was...
which I would belatedly find out had led him to share it
with many of his friends/brothers and work associates.
I remember how it felt to walk up to the door of that huge house in the foothills,
expecting to meet the Venture Capitalist he knew through work somehow,
the man with an old man's name,
the man I'd heard of a dozen times,
and every time I heard his name,
I pictured a short, paunchy, balding, upper-middle-aged grey fellow.
I walked up to that door,
on a sunny autumn day as we took a break from house-hunting
for house #2.
I walked up to the door,
with that stodgy picture in my mind of who I was about to meet,
and the heavy oak door opened wide,
but not as wide as the smile on that
heart-stoppingly handsome man's face
or as wide as my eyes
when the first words out of his mouth were,
"I love your blog!"
I kind of wanted to die or kill or
melt into the masonry beneath my feet...
Exposed.
All of my inner thoughts and desires
already in this man's mind,
without my permission,
without my knowledge...
I was almost dizzy as I smiled back and
definitely
blushed 18 shades,
and took the hand he offered
and maybe shook it, but probably just mumbled
pre-programmed pleasantries.
My blog existed in my mind,
my mind existed on my blog...
it felt like such a betrayal for my husband to have shared that with this man,
and not warned me.
But then,
Bob was such a gregarious, gracious host
(much closer to my 30 years than I'd been picturing, too)...
And his wife's name was also Lisa,
and I loved her immediately,
and so...
I didn't die or kill or melt,
(and we had lovely dinners and languid drinks and marvelous conversations
with them over the next year or two, until our worlds shifted apart again...
I wonder where they are now?)
but, I can still remember the way I felt,
as that rug was pulled out from under me,
and how angry I was at my husband
for not understanding.

Focus

Maybe

I like the way it feels to be
driven

   propelled

      dragged
forward

by my own tunnel vision.

Maybe

I need 

to imagine

(you).

There is a fire lit beneath me

once again,

and you are the fuel

giving life to that fire

and to me.

You filter through every daydream,

and I chase the thrill of every smile.

You are my drug,

my high.

Old friends, getting older

Happy birthday to two marvelous souls, today.
Technically one birthday is on the 11th, but today is the 11th,
if you live in Auckland.
Which he does.
She is so remarkable she's practically fictional,
and he lives in the future,
like some kind of guitar-playing ninja.
She has a laugh as big as the Montana sky she lives beneath,
and he has a heart as big as the ocean that separates us.
She was my twin-of-choice for the entirety of my childhood,
and has remained the template for who I want to be when I grow up.
He was my lifeline during the chaotic and ugly end of my marriage,
and coincidentally was the template for who I wanted to marry when I grew up,
and I did.
Thanks for helping shape my life,
you two crazy kids.

Julie

D-man

"With a handshake, your loving Vincent"

Loving Vincent

We had such a lovely time in Philadelphia yesterday. We really need to spend more time there, but when New York is only an hour futher, it is hard to resist the pull of its vibrancy, and grit...god damn, I love that city. But I digress...Philly is pretty cool, too. We went to a groovy little theater and watched this gorgeous, melancholy film about the death and life of Vincent van Gogh. I'm not here to review it, but I am so glad I saw it, and so grateful it was made.

Tom Petty and the Hearts Breaking across America

When I got in my car after work today,
Wildflowers was playing.
I smiled, turned it up,
and let it borrow a few minutes from my daily phone call to my Mom.
I let it float me down memory lane -
That song, that whole album, always reminds me of my best friend,
Jasmine, and that one summer in Utah...
can't remember which one,
but I picture us at Cecret Lake, above Alta,
first selfie ever, film camera...gorgeous hike.

I didn't know Tom Petty.
But he knows me,
or so it always seems.

This was a tough one for me.
Losing the gods of my recklessly crafted religion
is perhaps reminding me that even they aren't immortal.

I am so grateful that he followed the path he did,
and created the music that wrecks me, baby...

Thank you for being, Tom...