Home/Away

Words have such different meanings sometimes.

Like brother, or cousin.

My oldest brother feels more like a cousin,

and my two closest cousins feel more like sisters.

My family is a big mix of half-siblings and step-siblings and double cousins;

we are close, but not weirdly - this is New England, so emotions aren't really allowed;

we have superfluous drama,

and actual trauma.

We are a family like any other,

but sometimes I feel like the only things that make sense in this world are the things that I knew as a child, or the way that I perceived the world and my connections to it, as a child.

Those cousins who lived next door, and spent so much time with my sister and I, they felt like an obvious extension of our family;

the (half) brothers who lived with us felt like brothers,

but they were gone every summer,

and graduated and moved away by the time I was 6;

the (half) brothers who didn’t live with us felt so much like cousins that I sometimes couldn’t remember, of all my male cousins which two were actually my father’s oldest children.

Their names both started with the same letter as my father’s, which may have been the first pneumonic device I ever used, long before I knew the term.

And so, on this Christmas Day, I spent some time adding to the slow building of a relationship with the oldest (half) brother, whom I never lived with as a child.

He lives on the same quiet, winding street as my in-laws, a street that leads a short distance away from the great, teeming sea in which my brother and our father and our cousins and uncles and grandfather all made their living from the helm of a lobster boat.

We share bowls of seafood chowder, and tell stories - similar but distinct memories of our father and the other members of our family that we took turns knowing.

As the goodbye hugs are being liberally shared, I say to his sweet wife, “I was thinking I might like to borrow my Dad for a while…”

“Of course,” she said. “Robbie won’t mind.” She led me upstairs, smiling as she acknowledged that it probably seemed like a strange place to keep him, but didn’t hesitate to lead me into the happy and real space of their lives, clean but laundry-strewn, and pointing to the dresser where his urn sat.

She asked if I wanted some time alone with my Dad,

which caught me off guard;

that would have been far too much for my carefully constructed walls to withstand

So I just shook my head and blurted out, “No, I’m not ready for that,” with a half-laugh.

I touched the smooth metal and smiled a little:

I hadn’t remembered it as being so big;

I loved the simplicity of the details on the vessel.

“Why don’t you run it by him after I leave? I don’t want him to feel pressured,” I said.

“Sure,” she nodded.
I couldn’t really look at her. I wanted to leave.
It felt like I was being selfish by wanting to have him, when I was his final child,
not the son he’d given his own name to.

I left, and she texted a little while later to let me know that I could stop in any time,
the house would be open.

I’ll pick up the urn tomorrow,

And tuck it into the pile of luggage and Christmas gifts in various stages of dishabille that fill the cargo space of my car, and take him with me to a home he never knew. 

Maybe this one would have been more hospitable.

Owls Head Light, Owls Head, Maine.
This lighthouse stands guard over the waters my family fishes,
and has fished for...really, about a hundred years. 

Friday, September 29, 2006 -The Old Blog

(A post from the OG Blog)


I have this great song in my head.
It's the hidden track from a matchbox 20 album.
I love it.
And it's making me think of stories to spin.
I can picture a boy, a boy who thinks he doesn't need anybody
and doesn't want anybody to need him.
A boy who claims he doesn't believe in love.
He is handsome, and so smart.
This boy, if he were real, would have a smile to light up a night sky--
a sky without city lights to drown the brilliance of the stars.
And deep, dark eyes.
It seems like this kind of boy wouldn't know what he wanted from life--
he would know better what he didn't want.
I do wonder, though, if a boy like this would ever be able to let go.
Would he be able to stop running long enough to see some of the universal truths of life--the happy kind?
Ok, so now I'm getting a crush on my imaginary friend...
I'm picturing a very sexy boy, with just the right amount of chest hair,
and a long lean body.

Maybe it's the autumn, maybe it's the moon--
but everything feels foreign lately.
The wind whispers with a thick accent,
the sky is upside down,
and my entire center of gravity is off.
I want way more than my share out of life,
and it's a heavy load to carry.
It settles over me like a lead blanket...
as I wait for an x-ray of my head to be taken;
but don't look at the results...you'll be haunted and feel hunted.
yes, I'm a hunter.
I feel like a great jungle cat, or a sharp-eyed wolf--
but I don't know what I'm hunting.
My prey is elusive and amorphous.
I want to fling my fingers from their tight grasp on this life
and
let the tornado sweep me away to my own Oz.
Instead of munchkins I would have pool boys.
Instead of the tin man, the man of steel.
Instead of the scarecrow, a stoner.
Instead of the lion, a rockstar.
The witch would be a skanky blonde.
heh.
I would vanquish her with a bucket of water--
girls like that can't live without their props: makeup, hair gunk, etc.
And the great and powerful Oz?
That would just be me, wearing those glasses with the fake nose and moustache.
And I would laugh at how hard the other me had tried to get there, to only find I had the power to
go
home
all along.

Cover up, it's cold out...

I stumbled onto some covers on YouTube,
and I can't stop clicking on the next one, and the next one.
Prince does Radiohead's "Creep" at Coachella,
Eddie Vedder & Beyonce, "Redemption Song," WHAT,
Dave Grohl and Nora Jones sing "Baby, I'm Amazed" to honor Paul McCartney at the Kennedy Center,
Dave Grohl sings "Tiny Dancer"...

I think I've been holding my breath for a long time,
trying not to actually feel things.
Because I feel too much and and if you don't know what that means, I'll tell you -
I see Dave Grohl sitting on a stool with his guitar,
and he talks about not knowing Tiny Dancer until he saw the movie Almost Famous,
and a pit of sadness opens just behind my sternum,
maybe it's not very deep, this particular pit,
but it swirls a little,
because I'm picturing how I felt about Almost Famous,
how I loved it and wanted to live inside it,
and maybe felt like I'd almost had it in my grasp--
but mostly, thinking of the movie connected me like a telegraph line to the person I'd been then...
It was startling to feel that set of emotions,
to have my perspective tilted to the orientation it once had.
So that's what made me blink a little
and wonder if I've been holding myself away from the well of deep feelings I once swam in.
Because it is very different now.
Finding my soul mate flipped all the switches,
and settled me into joyful contentment.
I've grown lazy and the only thing I feel with any sense of depth is fear--
fear of loss, fear of going back to the life where I was looking for this,
for exactly this.
The life where (most of the time) I had faith that this future existed for me,
that this love was somewhere waiting for me;
but not always.
Sometimes I was certain that everyone else was as upside down and inside out as I was,
other times I was certain that no one else ever had been or could be.
I needed to believe it was possible that I would find the man who would love me the way that all the story books and love songs insinuated, illustrated, hinted at, promised.
I never considered that I was a fool for taking art literally...
I didn't stop looking.
I looked everywhere for this love, this life.
I looked in bars, in beds, in boys, in men.
I looked across deserts, and the giant red rocks sprawled across them;
I climbed mountains, combing through underbrush and dipping into springs - seeking;
I sailed through oceans, and drove back and forth across the expanse of this country;
I reached out into the web of the wide world, hunting for love on other continents--
these forays filled me with bursts of glittering hope
(Chaz, you British biker poet, stole my heart and stood me up in Paris, you fucker)
and quiet devotion (you know who you are, ya kiwi ninja, the best matrix-bound friend and lover a girl could ask for);
without these moments, I maybe would have given up my search,
and lived the rest of my life unloved;
stuck in the wrong marriage, always searching for more.

Instead, here I am.

Winter Wondering

It was a faded world this morning,
the fields blanketed with frost,
the air thick with fog.

I didn't know how many years I'd gone without seeing fog
until I finally saw it again,
and my whole being sighed with relief.
I didn't know how many bodies of water I encountered daily at home,
until I got to the desert,
and mistook the shimmer of a wet parking lot for a pond.

Days like this make me wish I was still a housewife;
I would charge out into the day for a brisk walk,
daydreaming along with my music...
then home to write or clean or bake.
But I needed a change, I needed to be part of the world again;
I needed people and tasks.
It is good.

I'm rambling,
but I feel like it has been too many days since I've put my fingers on a keyboard.

I am homesick,
but truly, for a home that doesn't exist anymore.
I love my sweet home town -
it has turned into the idyllic place that it once only was in my mind,
from my perch in those desert mountains of the west.
It is thriving and art-filled, and I don't quite belong there anymore,
and yet...I always will.
I miss the dark blue of the angry ocean, its white caps showing its mood;
I miss the smell of salt water and decaying seaweeed;
I miss the words people use, and the way their words sound;
I miss the rocks on the beaches, rolling and tumbling in a symphony of smoothing.
I miss returning to my parents' small house on the winding road in the wooded edge of the peninsula;
I miss feeling anchored there; everything right and safe and good.
Well, I just need to wrench my heart free of Westbrook St., and allow new roots to form.
So grateful for the family that is still there,
and the friends-like-family that welcome me with the open arms of Homecoming.

Floating

I float along
on the current of sound
that fills me with images and emotions
the way only great music can.
I drift through the day,
buffered from the impact of feet on floors
and slams of doors,
insulated from voices laughing,
complaining, demanding.
The words and notes
swirl around me in the air and
filter out everyone else.
This is how I numb the need,
the shaking jones of an addict,
craving and seeking
the next fix -
I am haunted by this habit
that seeps through a crack in my foundation,
where it has been buried.
It surges to life and controls me like a puppeteer;
I am at war with myself,
wanting what I don't want,
needing what I can't have.
And then I remember...
I already have it all.

History of a Heart

Once there was a girl

and she was sweet and quiet and happily religious.

She dreamed of falling in love every day until

she heard the new boy in school had asked about her,

and they went walking on the north shore of the harbor 
after school that one day,

with his friend and her friend.

And then she stopped dreaming of anything but him,

the cute boy that no one really knew yet,

and she kept him all to herself,
as they spent every day wrapped up in each other;

and she kept him safe until he left for the stupid Marine Corps,

and then they slowly fell apart.

But they loved each other so much that their division 
wasn't something they acknowledged;

she wrote to him and called him

and met him on leave in Harrisburg and Virginia Beach

and said yes when he offered her a beautiful diamond ring

on the cold and windy beach,

and she should have offered him her self, finally, 
after all the time they'd spent 
driving each other mad with desire;

she would regret that for many, many years.

She went home, and showed her friends the ring,

and was giddy for weeks,

but then he couldn't make it to her prom, at the last minute,

and she was devastated,

but a guy-friend saved the day 
and got the last tux in town 
and filled the evening with laughter and fun.

On her birthday, a few weeks later, 
she opened the door and almost couldn't smile,

she was so overwhelmed with joy and surprise:

he was there!

She cried with relief and happiness and held him so tightly; 
he cried, too.

They didn't leave each other's side for the whole weekend;

they walked on their favorite beach,
and talked about their future together -
vaguely and dreamily.

She didn't know it would be the last time she would kiss him,

or rest her face in the crook of his neck;

she didn't know it would be the last time she would see him smile at her

while telling her how much he loved her
(the last time she would see him at all).

She didn't know that someone would tell him

that she was cheating on him (she wasn't);

she didn't know that while she was starting her freshman year

at Brigham Young University in Utah,

and he was beginning his duties with Presidential Support in D.C.,

that he was drinking himself into oblivion,

almost ruining his career,

in order to drown out the lies he'd heard about her.

She didn't know that when he didn't come home for Christmas

he was letting go of her...

and maybe she was too wrapped up in her new life in Utah

to notice it as keenly as she should have.

They played phone tag a lot after Christmas,

and then it was February,

and she called him that one time, at the barracks,

and asked for him by rank and last name, as always,

and when they asked if she was his fiancé she said yes,

and then

then

the man's thick southern accent unscrambled itself in her ear,

and her brain registered the phrase he'd really said,

"He's with his fiancé," unbelievably,

wrongly,

broken world, broken heart set in motion with that phone call,

as she was given a glimpse of his world, 

so far away.

Phone tag that had finally yielded the game-ending, 
career-ending injury.

She cried for hours, then days.

She called again and was told he'd moved.

She asked her roommate to call the new number they gave her...
too afraid of what she would find
(the last time he'd had a new number,
it was a new barracks).

A woman answered; it was not a new barracks.

A woman answered; he was away for the next week, could she take a message?

A woman answered. A woman answered. "This is his wife."

She waited until he was back before she called a second time.

He answered, and she had prepared a cool, distant speech, 

quietly asking if he'd planned on telling her 
he'd married someone else, 

and then wishing him well,

even though her sad kindness was greeted with bitter cold.

Her heart was shredded into tiny slivers of light gone out.

She didn't know how to breathe anymore,

because her whole world had twisted into 
a grotesque impression of itself.

She told the story over and over, 
until the raw ends of her nerves dulled 

and it only felt like having a truck drive over her chest.

She cried herself to sleep every night for months.

She dreamed of him in vivid detail,

those dreams where you wake up crying,

panting from having been wrenched form the alternate reality

your brain created to soothe you...

she dreamed he had joined the CIA and needed to cut ties with his old life, 

dreamed that was why he'd taken a chainsaw to her heart,

why he'd severed their bond with the slash of a machete.

She called again, once.

She wanted him to know that he hadn't broken her, 

that she was fine without him.
She hoped it would hurt him,
or prove something -
what, exactly, she didn't know.

After that phone call,
she felt emptier than ever,
and when his letter arrived a few weeks later,
telling her to kindly fuck off,
she was angry
(HE was the one who deserved to fuck off)
but not surprised.

She went home that summer, 

and worked at her same job she'd had in high school, 

waiting tables at the western-themed restaurant, 

overlooking the achingly beautiful harbor.

She felt tiny and alone in the restaurant 
where he'd come to ask her on their first date, 

where he'd sent her roses after their second date, 

where he'd waited for her to finish work, 
so they could go walking down Main Street.

She stayed away from the place he gave her her first kiss,
on the street between the Thorndike 
and that jewelry store that isn't there anymore...

She went to work, 
and cried when she told Lisa P, and Jan, and Shirly, and Beth...

they hugged her and told her 
it would take twice as long as they'd been together 
to get over this kind of thing...

four years sounded like an eternity,
and she wasn't sure she could make it.

She let Greg and Glen make fun of him, 

because it made her smile a little through her still-puffy eyes.

She developed a crush on Glen because he wasn't out of the closet yet;

she was disappointed when he introduced her to his friend,

but the friend was almost the perfect salve for her still-crushed heart.

He wasn't her type; 
she didn't like him that much; 
but he would fall in love with her, 
and that felt like a necessary step to healing...

She felt so selfish after she broke his heart

(because it's only a matter of time 

before you break the heart of a person 

who thinks you love them).

She did throw her virginity at him 
in a lousy attempt to get back at her sweet boy 
for marrying someone else; 
it didn't work, obviously.

It did open the door for her to escape mormonism, though, 
so it wasn't a total loss.

And then...there were the Utah boys - 

long-haired stoner boys to rescue her 
from the homogenous dating landscape of BYU, 

where she had never quite belonged.

She hopped from one to the next, 

hoping that in one of their beds would be the magic potion, 

allowing her heart to heal, instead of limping along, still dripping blood.

After a while, she grew tired of the games, 
and took a break from it all, 

then met the man she would marry.

She knew as soon as they met that they would marry; 

at a certain point, she didn't really want this, 

but she felt like it was what was supposed to happen, so she did.

He was broken, and she thought she could fix him, classic story.

His childhood had been so hard, 

so she excused him for his roughness, 

for his coldness, 

for his insane jealousy.

She closed her eyes and turned her head away 
while he spent hours fucking her.

She dreamed of far away places and sweet Marine faces 

while the pain spread where pleasure should be.

She kept heaping more love on him, 
but it slid off like sand, and piled up at his feet.

She crafted a perfect life,

pushed the boulder of housewifery uphill all day every day, 

to make his home happy,

but somehow it was never enough.

She dreamed of her home in Maine,

hating the oppressive social fabric of Utah,

feeling trapped there, trapped with him.

She grew weary of not being loved, 

and of his constant accusations of infidelity.

She found herself again, when the babies were 2, 

and she started working out and writing;

she felt strong and beautiful and necessary.

She flirted with the idea of never trying to satisfy him again,

and the idea of falling in love again;

she continued to crave Maine with the fervor of an addict.
She found loopholes,
and almost slipped away from him -
in fact, she did, in her heart & her mind.
But he wasn't ready to let go,
so they tried to fall in love with each other again (for the first time).

For a few months it seemed like it had worked,

but then everything went back to the same old,

and she knew it wasn't only his fault,

that she was to blame for her own misery;

she would never be satisfied with this

(later, she would wonder why it seemed so bad, so impossible, but it was.)

She would be relieved when he finally asked for a divorce;

unaccountably, and briefly, she would be jealous of the woman

who came over the night she moved out,

the woman who replaced her in his life as seamlessly as a fulfilled warranty.

She would delight in settling into her pretty little house with her sons

and the cat they got to have since Dad was allergic,

but they didn't live with Dad anymore...

this broke her heart too much to really love the cat.

She thought about getting wings tattooed on her back,

because all she'd wanted for years was to fly away from that man,

but now she didn't need wings; she was free.

She was happy.

And then she found her soul mate, the sweetest man on earth,

who loved everything about her and was everything she'd dreamed of;

every cliché, every love song.
Miraculously, he was from her home town,
and had recently moved back;
like a dream come true, she joined him there.

Her heart was finally whole again, and she gave her entire soul to him;

this would prove too painful,

so she had to pull back a little, and keep some of herself for herself,

but it didn't diminish her love for him,

or her sense of security and blissful joy.

Blending their families was harder than she'd expected;

leaving her cherished hometown nearly broke her;

living on the plains of Iowa was as barren as it sounds.

She would follow him around the country,

like a devoted puppy,

never quite daring to put down roots,

and not even daring to hold onto her dream of returning to Maine.

She tumbled along, letting her world revolve around him,

because her heart was beating in his chest.

She was happy; he was her home.

Circle Jerks

Too many--

I would say thoughts,

but maybe it's more like emotions?

Maybe it's both;

Too many, too much--

I can't really discern through the fog of anger.

I want Louis C.K. to be treated fairly,

and I am fairly

certain

he is not.

I think women who thought he was gross

accepted his apology years ago

(years after the incident, incidentally)

and then shouted about how wrong it was

that he did the thing

he said was going to do--

the thing that they stayed and watched, while laughing,

after going back to his room for drinks.

I get that there is a level of Pressure there

that I probably don't get.

But how is making someone uncomfortable

at all the same as

a hand on a specific set of body parts 

(pushing, pulling, needing, kneading)?

I know that I would feel different if the man in question were repulsive to me,

but I would say that he wasn't repulsive to them intrinsically - 

they wanted something from him, too,

in that subtle way that life is a negotiation:

we get what we want from each other in many ways,

small and large,

pointed and subtle;

saying "please" and "thank you" gets us less spit in our hamburger,

for example,

while hugging a sad friend builds the trust and care between two people and benefits the hugger at some point--

some spectrum of this exchange is a part of so many aspects of life,

from the subconcious to the blatant.

They wanted what he had to offer (career boost) and they thought going back to his room and having a drink would lead to getting what they wanted;

instead he asked them if he could do something that is generally categorized as weird,

and they laughed because they didn't think he was serious,

and he began to undresss and do the thing he'd said he was going to do.

I can understand being surprised by this, and feeling yucky about it,

but after he called years later to apologize, why still throw it back at him?

It seems 

petty and spiteful.

It seems 

like an attention grab.

And I can't seem 

to let it go.

Because unfairness is so abhorrent to my prickly little sensors,

and because of something else, 

something I can't put my finger on, 

and so I go around and around with it,

parrying and retreating.

We have decided 

that people can decide 

so much about their own sexuality,

and that is beautiful, and wonderful, and we aren't even all the way there yet, I know,

but what about letting people have a little room for testing boundaries? 

It is unsettling to settle for 

wondering 

where those boundaries are 

as I navigate the waters myself

and attempt to usher so many sons through them, too.

Maybe I'm ruffled by the question 

"What if the roles were reversed?"

What if Lisa Lampanelli had masturbated in front of two handsome young men?

Would they be complaining?  

Maybe.

Or maybe not...

Maybe I feel like saying, 

"Why don't you talk to your therapist about how this made you uncomfortable, 

rather than ruining a guy's career because you couldn't deal??"

I just don't know.

I know that what he did is far away from 

what Harvey Weinstein and Kevin Spacey did 

on the spectrum of misbehavior.

I know that he didn't assault anyone,

and that he thought that asking meant it was ok - 

the fact that he now realizes that was incorrect is not surprising to me; 

he is so insightful to the human condition, 

and it feels like the kind of thing he would have figured out as he matured, 

and figuring it out, he would have felt guilt,

which is what happened.

I go 'round and 'round.

I can't seem to solve this riddle.

The riddle of how to feel about this.

How to live in a world where a man like Louis 

can be villainized because some women he apologized to years ago 

decided to pile on to the "Hollywood is full of pigs" bandwagon....

fuck....around I go, again.

I worry that I can't feel settled about this because I'm wrong.

What if I'm wrong?

(or at least I suspect that all my fiercest, 

dearest friends would think so, if they knew

--knew that I don't condemn this man, that I adore him still)

What if I need to dig deeper and find unforgiveness for the man?

Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I'm not wrong.
Because Louis isn't wrong.

Maybe I'm just grieving.
(denial, bargaining)

Maybe I'm just going to have to keep readingandthinkingandtalking 

about this until it stops feeling so bad.

Fuck.

Immovable

Sometimes it makes me sad that my mother is so
immovable.
She doesn't have room in her right/wrong columns
to add anything new to her "right" side.
She can't
won't?
doesn't
conceive that there could be a reason for me to include lots of gorgeous,
richly textured FUCK words into my life, my world, my writing.
I can't imagine sharing with her the chapters I'm working on right now for my book about boys.
(especially the Frank one, where there is already lots of "fuck"ing,
soon to be lots of fucking;
or the Gary one, its ugliness almost invisible beneath the sunshine she herself created)
I can't imagine her ever being able to allow for the belief
that tattoos are holy,
that listening to fingers on ivory,
while a Russian girl sings her jagged, sparkling poetry
could be a spiritual experience.
I can't imagine my dear, sweet mother
ever sliding anything from her "wrong/naughty/bad" column
even a little closer to the line of her "acceptable/right/proper" column.
And I can't imagine
not imagining
all the wicked things
and delicious things
and beautiful, raw, wild things!
I'm grateful, though, that she doesn't push me into her columns -
which one would I fit in?
Certainly not the "acceptable/proper/right" one,
but what does that leave?
Because I don't exist in a world of black and white,
I exist in all the vivid shades of grey,
that aren't visible to my colorblind mother.

Listening to Regina Spektor last night,
my thoughts were drifting and charged.
The collection of stories I'm writing this month -
she whispered to me that it's a kaleidescope of boys...
all the ways I've loved them
since I first started dreaming of them
as a very small child.
Has there ever been a more boy-crazy girl?
No, probably not.
I'm working through some of the hard stories right now,
but leaving the hardest for another day...
for a day when I have all day to sit with it,
because they don't call them "daddy issues" for nothing.

Lullaby Set List

Sometimes Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here," comes on the radio,
or cycles through in my playlist,
and when it does,
I always smile.
I see myself sitting in the dark,
with one twin snuggled onto my lap in the rocking chair,
and the other waiting his turn in the nearby crib.
I would sing a few of the usual nursery rhymes, as well,
but the three songs that were always a part of my bedtime routine were
"Wish You Were Here,"
"Puff the Magic Dragon,"
and Suzanne Vega's "The Queen and the Soldier."
I remember looking up the lyrics for "Puff the Magic Dragon,"
so that I would know all the verses;
same for Suzanne Vega.
I remember how good it felt to sink into that chair
at the end of a long day chasing those two around.
I remember how soft their little cheeks were,
and how solid their warm little bodies were,
as we slipped into dreamland.
Now they drive themselves to work and school
and tower over me.
They are hilarious and generous and kind
and my heart is full,
but I stare longingly at their baby pictures and
wish they were here...

Tragedies

I used to think they only happened to other people,
and then I found out they happen to anyone,
anytime.
I think I kind of thought I would live forever,
or at least,
I didn't really believe that death could be so
wrenching
sudden
world-skewing.
I'm not sure how I failed to comprehend,
since I'd lost a cousin, a brother, a friend's toddler brother, a cousin's husband...
all so close to my sphere,
so young,
so unexpected.
But, I guess...just not quite close enough to my daily life,
for me to feel the impact,
for me to see the absence in every room,
in the driveway,
in my husband's eyes.
When the one lost was violently snatched from within your grasp,
from under your roof,
moments after you heard his footsteps enter and exit...
When you are the one to answer the door to the 4 men in uniforms,
and then you stand alone in that big,
emptier-than-ever house,
and try to figure out who to call first,
how to call,
how to say the words,
where to start...
He was so young, so full of potential.
But this tragedy was much less complicated for me to process than the next.
The next is far too sad,
far too filled with
all that I could have
SHOULD HAVE
done differently.
It is filled with a bond that never seemed like it was all it should be,
from the very start of my life,
and certainly wasn't, at the end of his.
I will break apart inside if I have to think about that night again.
I tried to process it all in the aftermath,
but sometimes
everyone keeps telling you there was nothing you could have done,
and they say it over and over until you want to scream at them with ragged rage,
and reject their ridiculous absolution -
they don't know that you held anger in your heart,
they don't know that you didn't know he needed help,
but that you bloody well should have.
They don't know that their forgiveness isn't what you need,
or how it feels to know you should have taken a deep breath
and forgiven him,
and been able to see how broken he was...
They are wrong.
It was definitely my fault.
This is the one I will someday
maybe
figure out how to live with.

Word Count

Today is the first day of NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month.
The goal of this endeavor is to write 50,000 words during the month of November.
If I average 1,667 words per day, I will meet this goal.

Today's Word Count: 1551

11/7 Updated Word Count: 4334

I'm still behind my goal, but at least I'm writing! Woot!

11/9 Updated Word Count: 6053
11/12 Updated Word Count: 8750
11/14 Updated Word Count: 10,852

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...

Snarling Heart

Every word you sent was wrong
each one hit me at an angle,
a dull but heavy pain
no way to argue
no way to tell you why
and so
I let the pain stay,
pressed into me,
growing flatter, smoother,
but not losing its flavor -
sharpening over time
turning into glistening white teeth
that will tear you to shreds
devouring your kind heart
and your gentle soul
spitting them out in a dissatisfied fury -
the bloody pulp of them landing on the sidewalk at my feet
before I turn on my heel
and sashay away