The Buck Stops Here

By my calculations (and mind you, I have had to learn a quite irresponsible way of calculating this scenario) this situation is as precisely screwed up as it is allowed to be.  I walk in with a semi-smug grin upon my face thinking that maybe for once, the truth shall set the situation free.

No dice.

Stupid dice.

Whoever signed me up for this game anyway?

Be that as it may, in the case that one might not be completely accustomed to small claims court - let me shed some light:

They care not so much about the issues that you bring legally, but the best defense offered by a skater-brained dimwit on the opposing side who happens to have the much desired ESQ behind the initials of her name. ESQ mind you, means little more than "extremely & stupidly qualified" to speak...I digress...

I defend me. I do blush a tad and skip a word here and there, but hey! I'm a layman.  Give. Break. Jerk. And besides, Esq didn't defend honestly anyway. She blathered on about inconsequential numbers that she read directly from an order that was A: old, and B: illegitimate (and we're all about illegitimacy here I thought, no?)

In addition, and to be completely fair, one such person in position of judgeship stated that he did not care to (and I paraphrase) "address a situation which was clearly a debacle of mass proportions - ergh, dismissed without prejudice...sorry lady, take it back to the party that has done NOTHING for you for five years and counting. Good day."

I'm striking on the court system!

Join if you feel ye are capable of holding one such sandwich board large enough to discuss such lunatic rantings as I feel the need to rant.

On a sunnier day I might consider this to be part and parcel with the matters of divorce, but at five years - this crap is getting old, and curdling my blood. Besides that, I swear I have a new set of divinely inscribed crow's feet upon my forehead.  (Did I mention "strike"?).

Eh.  I consider this a fallacy and will call this week a "week" to the capacity that my vocabulary allows with children in the room (they don't need to hear my real feelings).  And tomorrow...tomorrow, I will consider myself lucky if I don't rack up a charge or two.

I get it though, I really do.  One court has the extension of their legal arms, criminally speaking - which goes only so far as public housing issues and that of the stereo-typed baby-daddy's crowding Main Street, but C'MON!  You can't exert power as legal ramification upon a man so delusionally human as to help a woman out?!  What happened to the foundation of this place anyway?  They all leave or something?  The only answer that we conjure is to return to a place which has obviously accomplished squat in half a decade that would, might, probably should on a highly-medicated day have me believing that they will do something? 

Malarchy.

[Side note: Lovey, get the bail money ready]

She

She was amazing.

She was innocent and uninhibited. She spanned the time from dawn to dusk; never realizing that it mattered. 
She encompassed the entirety of true, unadulterated love and compassion toward that which brought her happiness.

Her happiness is him. 

He knows that. She reminds him as much as that delicacy allows and pushes the limits of mushy, smushyness that would make grown men bashful and red in the face.  She doesn't care though.

It is important to tell; to talk about and be reminiscent of.  That is what she believes anyway.  She is currently in the process of comparing her romanticism to the novels of Shakespeare and love that cannot be compared to.

Carrying on with the wings of a cupid (minus the semi-nakedness).

Ahhhh, love.

It Was Not Plainly Clear

Of course, it often isn't plainly clear. Moreso, it comes across as paralleling a bad night in Mexico with some persons that are not. so. trusty.

I happened on the scene with a lofty head filled with idealism and a mouth wrought for writing...or speaking. Wrought for speaking; wait, no writing.  At least that is what I had been told by persons not so wrought.  Personally, I didn't see it.  It was a combination of being blinded by the light (as my buddy Bruce dost protest) and a labor of love that would, might, possibly, eventually enable me a better person capable of transient work and bestowed efforts of the family context that I so desired. 

I was hopeful.

Hopeful bites sometimes.  A lot of sometimes, sometimes.

The point was to gain enough experience as a person, an advocate, a mother, speaker-of-truth, and outright human being, that I would gain enough strength points to move to the next level.  Truth be told, I often used cheat codes and moved along passively because I thought I'd mastered the lamest of elements only to find that I was the lamest and would be moving back several spaces until I conceded to run due course. Phewy.

A side note of suggestion offers that I have mentally compiled a resolution list of ideas toward my next role: Awesomeness.  I have a book-signing (equipped with author-signed pages of my first and best-selling novel; currently untitled and missing each page beyond that there signed page), a children's book of characters who parallel the life and times of me and my son (and Lovey -- Lovey's always there!), and the perfect act and wording for when I am let go due to budget constraints.  Seems profitable, right?

Ought to.

This has taken me a lot of years to compile.


Where to now?  That is the point at which I currently reside.  It is either continue down the road of least-resistance/no achievement and no forward-movement for the sake of being "easy" -- OR a big, fat: double-barrel bustin' truth on the situation, eat-my-grits, bite my dust and go big, or go home kind of circumstance.

Big, fat?

Yeah. I'm leaning in that general direction too.

I find a large issue with the legal society that happens to run, organize and fund much of society. WHEN the heck did that happen?!?!  And why wasn't I invited? Doesn't seem right. Isn't right.

But...

I have had this pot on the stove for far too long, finally turned the heat up and have a reduction of fine, unadulterated comprehension that will pair nicely with a baguette and the "No BS clause" that I put at the opposite end of that book-signing deal where all I have is a cover page. ( I guess that isn't entirely true -- I have the No BS clause as well).

Put My Finger On It

Dear Lacking Self-Esteem and Void of Security,

You bring me nothing but problems.

I'm leaving you.

Don't call,
The Biebs

Resolution Solution

I, ______________________________ do hereby resolve:




- To no longer be bound by critical overviews, self-serving perspectives or ego-filled commandments. They are not mine, I shall not harbor or accept them

- To act in the sole interests of safety and well-being for my self, my children and my family and to negate all other efforts of control by parties unaligned to this objective, with the strength of faith over explanation

- To be a seeker of truth and be cognizant that there are times when what I may want may not coincide with what I need – and greater still, that it is not I who is in charge

- To ask for help and be unafraid of receiving it

- To place greater belief in the challenges that are placed before me that they will make me great

- To say “thank you” more than I have expectations

- To lose expectations, or rather, replace them with anticipations and preparations for the glories that will undoubtedly be bestowed upon my life

- To hone my focus on forgiveness

- To pray for contentment over understanding, explanation of, or worry

- To return the smile lines to my face, dirt to my fingers, sunshine to my shoulders, and blue paint to my toenails

- To engage in more random acts of kindness

- To journal and pen letters more than I document wrong-doings

- To dissolve anger, hatred, and jealousy to the grit of sandy beaches – that it will be washed away not by me, but by time and the act of being forgiven

- Above all, I resolve to accept that where I now stand, what air I now breathe, and the placement that I now exist in is precisely where I am supposed to be



Signed, this 24th day of December, 2010 with much Faith, determination and God as my witness,



___________________________________________

Just Thinking

I feel that I have given more than enough thought to this.  It circulates around the fact that I am semi (emphasize "semi") sorry that you are in fact, lame.  There is not quite enough emphasis in your language to justify giving thoughts of you another go-'round and there is definitely not enough justification to allow your words to breathe any longer than the air they encompass when passing through your lips.

That's not all.

You are, in fact, wrong.  You do not care as deeply as a mother should.  And arrogance does not compensate for immaturity.   Nevertheless, it is not my place to pass judgment, so I am simply stating my perspective and shall leave it as such until someone else is willing to validate the truth that I see and speak.

On a day that one is willing and able to be as much of a strong person as one verbosely claims, then ...and only then, will I listen contently and move accordingly.  That. Has not happened so far. 

I stand on the accounting to one motivation only - that is truth.  Truth, (not to be confused with truth) shall set you free and in as much as I would like to assist, I cannot.  Truth can only be found through long-plodding, and sometimes sorrowful efforts as a seeker.  truth, on the other hand, is often confused with and linguistically challenged by the commonalities that bind mankind.  ( I personally feel it is the capital "T" that does it in).

Evermore,
and with much anticipation,
Selflessness-in-measure-yet-slightly-perturbed,
Me

The Hardest Wall

 A hair's breath from Christmas and the air is still. There is something that lingers, untold truths, begotten lies that fill the space between right and wrong.  It never comes easy to stand on faith alone but that is where we reside.  The effort at mental creation of black and white has long since dissipated in this stale and stagnate environment.  Try as we may -- it feels harder to gather the energy to remain calm and present the facts as they stand, hoping someone will listen. 

I wonder why?  Why is it that what presents as evil, manipulative and coercive is more easily accepted, welcomed almost, than the truth?  What has brought us to the brink of extinction among ourselves? I know I didn't start out this way, but yet, here I am. Wondering...

Unsettled with what my mind returns to me as an answer.

Attempts to reason with the unreasonable fumble the hope and I watch it wobble across a field that a growing part of me doesn't believe in.  To justify this feeling would be to suggest that once again, the essence of life must be fortified in faith.  That one small and tender offshoot of a larger, and dying mainstay.

 Faith don't fail us now.

Why is precisely the reason.

Why? Because it is fun. Because it brings laughter, enjoyment and wedge of memory that will not dislodge.

Why?

Because there are too many reasons why not. That is why.

There was a time when I thought that in order to perfect the art of planning, one had to immerse themselves in some delicate field of professionalism that gave enough weight to their purpose to justify the end result.

Not so.

After boiling down the crude ingredients of what it means to be human; to learn and live and wonder...and wander, there is so much more able to be said about the unanswerable "why?" than there is to be explained by the "because".

Just live.


Let it be.

Enjoy. And dammit, hold on for the ride with the most zealous hairspray in your bouffant and the zestiest of nail polish colors on your digits. Do not fear the answering of "why?" -- live it. And when you do decide to unbuckle to let the next rider board, smile a smile that says "Brotha, it's worth it -- but I give you no more than that" and make sure that smile spreads ear to ear.

When all is said and done, it is for mere pleasure of the ride, not the safety restraints or the approval received beforehand.

Breaking out the rule book, solely for the intention of burning it as soon as the burn-ban is lifted.Or before...before would be alright too.

Wham! Bam!

Absolutely; Positively

I am currently finding myself absolutely, positively irritated to the maximum of my being over the issue of absentee-parenting and ignorant-fueled "guidance" (if you can call it that).

It's late.

My little one - the essence of childhood, heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Sibling-trickery is the name of the game as he goes about explaining to his older sister why he spread hand soap across the bristles of her toothbrush. There's a hint of laughter in the air as the reasoning makes its way to the excuse.

He says that he always has to deal with soap in his mouth. That he's always being directed to consume a sudsy matter when the step-mother of the West comes into play with her dictatorship antics and lack of good parenting style.

What?!

As he's being reprimanded for the sake of health over concerns that soap will cause sickness to someone he cares about, he's duly-explaining that this kind of thing happens constantly when he's at his dad's house.

Since when is that kind of guardianship allowed to run freely over the land? It's not.

He says he has to do it when he's forgetful. Or when he mistakenly trips down the stairs because, (as she believes) he's not paying attention.

And this woman runs a daycare center?

Oh, to get my common sense in an injection form and inoculate the charge-parties of the county government seat.

In an honest token of biology, it doesn't take more than a misguided effort to create a child -- and though that might make one lost soul a "parent", it by no means, makes you a father...or mother.



Take head dear stand-in placement of guardian-over-my-child: your concurrent acts of embarrassment and degradation, while your husband remains inattentive, shall be construed as direct and intentional efforts of abuse; not "guidance" as you may conceive them to be.

Likewise, the same establishments which have naively supported your daycare establishment will be noticed of your poor judgment and inadequate, lacking, and immature parenting. And though I understand this may mean nothing to a county which oozes corrupted policy, you surely comprehend that it means worldly-measures to a woman that simply does. not. give. up.

Absolutely, positively,
Me

Memento

There is a delicately planted lipstick kiss mark on the rearview mirror of my truck. It arrived a few weeks ago from a dear friend of mine, who I can just picture as she smacked her kisser together with a nice shade of Burt’s Bee Balm and was perfectly poised before planting a reminder for me on what I would have thought was entirely too dirty a surface. In her defense, love knows no boundaries, which applies even to muddy mirrors and parked vehicles.

At this point, the balmy reminder is slightly coagulated and speckled with the remnants of brazen little bugs that dove head on at 65 mph into my memorabilia, only to discover the sticky surface too late. I'm going to leave it there – and what a great token it is.

I’d contemplated a visit to the car wash because the postal delivery lady was kind enough to put on e of those nifty 50% off coupons in my mailbox. However, after I did the calculations on my would-be savings, I’ve decided that my smooch is worth more than the $4.28 credit that I’d have in my bag.

I laughed this morning to the idea of this little muse of mine, jaunting through the side yard and curiously contemplating how she’s leave her mark on my world while I was away. These moments; those actions – come at precisely the right time in a life that sometimes is too rushed to gather your breath from. So little red-headed muse – THANK YOU!

You mean the world to me.

The Hourglass

February of 2006 delivered a lyrical blow with the release of Cowboy Mouth’s Voodoo Shoppe CD. Every note, each word, I swear was targeted at me and if ever I dreamed to purge my emotions of the black-hole voids, it was then. And purge I did! The love of my life (who, I might add is not crazy) stood beside me as I landed stage side, rocking the stones right out of my costume jewelry rings and mutilating the semi-precious metals because of all my beat, beat, beating on the sub-woofers. That concert rocked my soul in early 2006; I was alive!

And now, September 2010 as the summer draws to an end, this surging desire rears again. This time though, with Zac Brown Band’s fall release of “You Get What you Give,” CD and particularly, the “Let it Go” track. Repeating over and again in my environment, the “let it go” phrase and ideology reverberates through every waking moment and interrupts my subconscious while I sleep. Tonight marking the Autumnal Equinox and a very full moon, I'm prefacing all thought patterns and emotive reactions with the tide receding; finally. It’s clear skies ahead and full intention of loosening my grip.

I do feel however, that with the heavy-handed suggestion of “just let go”, there should come a warning. Something akin to: “Not as easy as it sounds”; or “Expect a ration of retaliation”, or “internal combustion may occur if occupant happens to be a Type-A personality”. Something.

Mid-month September marked the New Moon, a phase that I was sure would linger longer with the coming of dreams, the going of nightmares. It seems to have been short-lived given the knock-about I’ve endured these last two weeks. Though it is suggestible there may be a reasoning there too. I don’t know. I was pretty certain that a weekend at a cabin in Vermont with the leaves changing, the smell of apple cider in the air and my best lovey, would cure my heartache, but…

I'm processing.

That’s what it is. Processing.

Similar to that little hourglass symbol that comes up on your screen when you’re waiting for the next function to take.

Processing.

I did purge again recently, actually am in the process of purging to take it a step further. This here and now involves a conundrum of empathy, memories, intentions and a boat-load of “Yes, but why…” questions. That. Needs to stop. Let it go! Then I recollect – thinking of the times spent in sessions, sitting, waiting, wishing (again, to quote a musician with lyrical mysticism). Sitting, waiting, wishing. And all that time spent in an oversized, stuffed chair with a delicate golden-weave and a fifteen dollar co-pay – well, I thought it counted. Maybe in some sense of the “process” it does count – but right here and now it doesn’t feel like that.

I think of the purging as if a vomitorium; in layers. Or a timeline. Peeling back the layers of stuffed baggage, and damage, and …crud, is no easy feat. And I actually enjoy picking through what others might consider “garbage” – that whole trash/treasure idea you know. This one though, aye. This purging situation leaves much to be desired and actually, I think it’s given me an ulcer, a headache, and has most-definitely affected my sleep patterns.

So, as long as we’re on this musical road to recovery, I’ll leave you with the mental picture of Ray Lamontagne’s verbiage: “I looked my demons in the eyes, laid bare my chest and said ‘Do your best’”.

I don’t think they have the moxy, to tell the truth.

Casper Was A Punk

He (why was Casper a "he" anyway? It's not as if he had any organs to differentiate his sex, right?) had no cause to existing as a fathom of one's imagination, he just hovers around, poking at whatever insecurities might exist when the lights are all turned out. Some thread of our existence quests for identifying the ghosts, I think. To have a tangible thought to assign our fears to maybe. Or that we can generate hypertension in lieu of contending with the real change agents of character.
Change agents are really the masquerading "Casper's" - the chubby, rounded, smiling and floating fear-driven punk that's invading individual progress. The flip side of this though is that the little apparition is as transparent as breath in wintertime.

Take the change agents, the ghosts, the fears as a tool, ... and there in lies real growth. Too afraid of being presented with what's on the other side of Door Number 1...or 2...or...it is typical; comfortable to stay with what we know. In that however, everything else additionally stays the same. A comfortable numbness might show face at this stage, often accompanied by depression, psychotropic medication and eventually, the withering of our core, until we're so mechanical that we don't challenge any longer. The Casper's of the psyche won't give any indication that blunt survival (if you can title it that..."survival") is the end goal of initiating fear, but it is. Those who don't challenge, don't pose a problem. Or as an attorney once presented to me, "just take your sour grapes and go home"; a "don't question my authority!" expected of the masses.
Getting back to the immensity of change agents, or as I like to see them, the would-be life altering accelerant to potential power. We each have several opportunities throughout life to acknowledge and accept our challenges and venture on into the unknown, flashlight or not. With each step of intention into that unknown we gain strength and a clearer perspective. Not to be paralyzed by those little storm troopers of ignorance, we should recognize those threads of opportunity, rise to the occasion and swallow hard the idea that your life will never, ever be the same. But you must, must...must, be willing to do the work, put in the time, make the changes that unfold to you, wake up...and breathe. Recognize that the only thing that will stall the process, the awakening, the movement; the only thing that will inhibit growth, or halt awareness is fear. Fear that the recipe might not produce a delicacy, or fear that the end product will render us with less than our start. Fright of a hundred cognitive "what if" scenarios for every small percentage of change we're called to do. And why?

Because Casper is a punk!

Mental

She came to suggest it was a manifestation of the mind.

That's the only way she would be able to validate everything that had gone down over five years. How uniformly the pieces lined up too, when she uttered the words: "only in my head". To herself of course, there were very tangible issues occurring succinctly with those that played in her psyche. They were different though; the tangible ones. They were the ones that had places, times, patterns and cut far deeper than the reasoning assigned by apologies. They scarred over but were picked at by the mental pick-lock kit and they'd even heal if only she'd stop tonguing the thoughts; the blame.


Between what she could see and feel and that w3hich she could not, she hovered. Determined not to role play the victim any longer gave a fierce blow of freedom and power, but also engaged the mental minions of doubt and fear to engage the wheels of uncertainty. And yet - she recalled how determination had led her to this very place where she now beckoned it to taker her from. Faulty wiring, maybe. She did allow for enough time to pass until deciding upon the cognitive reproach after all. If there was something else that might explain all this, then maybe it would venture to be heard before running off. Yes? Yes? No.

In her mind's eye she could see that charred treasure map that was the layout of her life. The destination always being happiness was fraught with heartache and hardship when she backed up her game piece from the space it resided. She'd gone too far ahead on the board before paying the jailer or having that audit done. And quite simply; that was not allowed.

Mental; it was all mental.

You Don't Know What You're Doing

Language:

That illusive pet that we each engage in the morning; that irritating reminder that we sometimes don’t measure up, language is the vehicle for all thought, action and intention.
I often wear my heart on my sleeve, I'm entirely too sensitive at times and succumb to bouts of depression when I'm not cognizant of where my head is at. I take more than my share of things personally and as if they’re at attack on my heart. I often can’t explain what I'm thinking because there simply seems to be too many words and one, in particular…that I’m thinking of as the main descriptor.

On many occasions this is a “flaw” so-to-speak of the Type-A personalities and often, one of the most difficult issues to compete with. I’ve sat countless hours in therapeutic seminars and stress-relief classes where I’ve felt the need to correct the speaker or have inserted my own set of verbiage in order to clear the air for the way I could feel my mind processing what I was hearing. This…Is not a good thing.

This morning, the thought occurred to me that there is a power given to language depending on the context, form and tone of the message; mostly tone. When handed an insult say, it becomes insulting depending on the way that we perceive our own self image. If someone were to call a name that has no meaning in our mental dictionary that word would then cease to have any power. On the other hand if someone insulted our ability to be a “good” person, a “great mom”, or the way that we look – reacting as if an insult is in a sense, to say that we have agreed with enough of the statement to feel powerless against it. That we additionally think we’re not “as good” a person as we should be/could be, that we’re not a “great” mom, that we are: ‘ugly, stupid, ignorant, etc.’ enough so, that hearing the statement from someone else is as if they’re exposing our vulnerabilities to everyone…and how dare they!

It’s probably the reasoning behind why I have such a difficult time developing a resume. Whomever played with the chemistry set for making a ME must have eye-balled the recipe and put in way too much idealism because I find it very difficult to fib about having the ability to do things or be something that I don’t feel 100% about doing or being. You know, cutting and pasting in all those action words and power phrases for grabbing the attention of a perspective employer: managed, detailed, organized, lead, prioritized, supervised, and so forth. It never seems to measure up to enough of a description for my real abilities and always lacks in what I'm intending to present as a one-page descriptor of my self. And while we’re on the subject, who ever said that resumes should only be one page? I’ve read enough of the self-help resume starter kits for creating something fabulous to know that it should be original and spectacular like an action thriller movie trailer, but yet be in compliance with margin settings, highlighted name and contact information, font size and be in Times New Roman style. Dumb. Whenever I get to step 4 of the “create your own masterpiece resume”, I indefinitely quit because my urge is rather to scrap steps 1 through 4 and start over with a poster board, some finger paints and a medley of candid pictures, a sharpie marker, those shape-cutting scissors and a glue stick. I’d fill little comic bubbles with quotations from past employers and coworkers and then sum it all up with a highlighted statement (in much larger font) from someone prestigious that I’d cunningly convinced to speak as to my abilities and standards. None of it would be a lie, so I wouldn’t be stumbling over what to write where and how to phrase the statements, yet stay in the lines of what constitutes a proper representation of me. And it would be catchy, brightly colored and give the reader a face to identify with a quirky, glittery past because of all my candid shots.

Back to the original message however, language is the problem. It’s the drive and the road block – and how much of a conundrum that something can exist two-fold like that. The root cause of all internal battling, at least on my count it is.

“You don’t know what you’re doing…”

“Yes I do! No, actually I don’t. Wait. What did you say? What am I doing? I know! I know what to do!”

From the perspective that language is a mirror being held to our faces, or more appropriately, that insulting language is a mirror – that it can enable us to identify our problem areas…well, that’s much more pleasing that it being a constraint restraint to our delicate psyche. It’s like being a student rather than everyone else always being our jailor. So the next time I catch a phrase of “you don’t know what you’re doing…” I can mentally respond with the: “You know what? No. I don’t. Gotta work on that.” And then go about whatever it was that I didn’t know I was doing. Inevitably, it all works out in the end anyway, so vehicle or not, language is the voice-over for life. Heh. And to think that all I wanted to know what why resumes have to be limited to one page?

Breathing: The Temporary Depletion of Oxygen

It really came as no surprise that my mind once again tricked me into thinking the idealism I harbor was capable of overcompensating for the realism that exists. 

There are times when I feel as if I am a spectator to my own life, and how odd a feeling to be routing from the bleachers…for myself.  The parameters of human magnificence again I suppose.  I'm that rat in the maze of legal blunders. Right turn; left turn then a circle-‘round, then *Bam*…I run smack-dab into a petition, or a summons, continuing litigation and most certainly, notice of charge for a $50 phone conversation that I don’t recall having. 

When I read, I come across the bravest of statements to take charge, take control and become accustomed to the good things happening when you’re able to drop the negativity at the door and welcome the breadth of change with open arms.  On certain days, this rainbow outlook is more difficult to maintain than others.  Today = certain day.  Why is that?  The circle evolution of everything; it’s everywhere.  It’s like the quote: “The more things change, the more they stay the same” we somehow become accustomed to change that’s really not. The flipside of this, of course is that we could choose to be the change.  Where in essence, we’re the ones making the change.  I question if this is always a safe thing to do; probably not.  I remember pushing pretty hard a number of years ago in order to make something happen – something that I thought I was in desperate need of having happen and when all was said and done  -- well, here  I am, longing to get out.

Deep breath.  (Did you know that there's an actual technique to proper breathing?  Yeah, who knew? )  Apparently, I've been screwing up the breathing pattern and thereby, losing vital amounts of oxygen in the process.  Guess that explains why some days go bye in a zinger and others are mellow atonement's of the exercise of inhale/exhale.   Either way, there's purpose in them there walls and here I've been with my pick-ax, fumigating mask and galoshes, hoping that it'll all collapse before I do.  Take another step toward the purpose of creating the life I see and have faith.   That's where the context of it all lies.  


Okay -- for the sake of life as I know it,  I'll work on my breathing patterns and this exhausting exercise in futility.  I'll be certain to say my prayers at the dinner table and before bed....and when I brush my teeth in the morning and at work....oh, and during my breaks, and when I'm weeding the garden and when I'm in the bathroom....


You get the point. 

The Evolution of Fireworks

My thoughts remain somewhat obtuse this morning. They’re circling a vast theme of characters, references and time frames in the process of marrying young and divorcing early – of beginning a family and dropping dreams – somewhere among the process of becoming I’ve concluded that this really needs to materialize to a book. The raw materials are mined and lying atop the mine field, wanting for harvest. I'm just not sure how to place them all into a congruent timeline of events.




I return to the whole “If I were to paint a picture of my mind’s eye” explanation where that picture would be something of a woman jumping through the universe, attempting to collect the sparkly remnants of a firecracker; a big one! Drawn to the colors and the glittery essence of the big *Ka-boom!*, that woman would be spastically grasping at the air and pulling in the memories of such an explosion, never before seen by her and hopefully, never to be seen again. She would know that it holds relevance and meaning, but how does one encapsulate meaning into an interesting tale of deliverance? It has to have enough substance to engage the reader and keep them interested. It would have to pack a punch, yet not offend too entirely much. It would have to consist of just the right amount of tenderness, affection, loss and dismay – but with enough understanding to make a play for the heart strings of everyone who could identify and God knows there’s a bunch of them.

(Photo courtesy of W. Post: 2010)

And then there’s the timeline. Do I take it back to the early-birth-quack-social-worker-from-Stone-Ridge timeline that she thought she was professional enough to give an opinion on, but which she failed miserably? Or just start at day one of “Once Upon a Time: The Uncut Version”? Heh. The uncut version could sometimes be recalled as more of a mini-series or marital encyclopedia of what not to do when betrothed. Purposeful though; I do believe that it was all purposeful.

Well, until my firework thoughts calm enough to rub the particles out of my eyes and tackle this project head-on, I’ll put out there to ask that you stay-tuned. This is going to evolve, I can tell!

Be Not...

There is a bit of simple serenity when jaunting through the woods after a summer rain.  Behind me, trails the dog; nose feverishly smelling for a trail that may lead to some grand find...and my son.  He's seven and as such, has a capacity for language that I don't quite recall having at such an age.  It may be that the synapses are firing much more quickly than his gum-filled mouth has time to speak, or that he's simply a spontaneous conversationalist.  As it was, we trod in our flip-flops with but one, small hand trowel and the want to find a native plant that might suit our myriad of gardens in the manicured landscape of a back yard. 
The hound happened to sniff out a plethora of deer droppings and skittered away whenever a branch would snap, or a leaf would rustle and my son only seemed to find every poison ivy plant that exists this side of the reservoir.  Nevertheless, it was serene.  Imagining a time when the worries of parenthood and adulthood might be behind me, I figured that there is cause to stop and take in the space around.  As much as the days take up the time for working, the evenings following supper time are somewhat of a lost art form.  Although it did work to our advantage that dinner came earlier tonight, rather than the usual 8pm time frame that we have to work with.
Lovey and I spoke of instituting the much-sought-after summer delight of "Sunday Sundaes" again.  A wonderful idea brought on by none other than Grandma -- Sunday sundaes are just that...a call to all family members to Grandma and Grandpas on Sunday afternoon, armed with a sundae topping of choice.  Grandma supplies the ice cream and among eight siblings and significant others, we cover the gooey, chocolatey, nutty goodness (whipped cream too!).  So, after the search for greenery I'm thinking that there must be the priority of making up for lack of Sunday sundaes and make the times for jaunting ~ flip flops, or not.

There was Him and There was Her

He did ask.
In all fairness, he asked before too.
"What's the matter?" or "What's wrong?"

Her answer always seemed vague and obtuse and for this, he'd get irritated.  It seemed as if she wasn't sharing, or that she didn't know.  And really, that was it - she didn't know.  No one word could embody the helplessness and judment she experienced.  Not only did it seep from her pores, the trepidation would drip from her fingertips or tear from the corners of her eyes with the slightest of cause.

He'd think that he'd neglected something, forgotten or entangled some problem - but it wasn't him.  She loved him so much that it hurt.  And there were days that came and spoke to her: the feeling of freedom in one person, of finally finding what had for so long been sought - her Love.  Mentally though, the words to explain to him... they were caught. They were jumbled.  And for all the worry; he knew this.  He wanted with his every effort to make it all better for her.

But he couldn't.

Sitting in her garden she could tell that he tried.  She watched him come to her in sweetness and just smile.  He'd given up asking what was wrong since the last time her explanation came out sideways. Shame.  For she certainly loved to hear the care in his voice when he'd speak to her.  Shame that experience conditions the heart.

She pulled the weeds that choked out the brightest greenery in her garden and thought that one day soon, she would be able to hand him an invitation with all the right words. It would be perfect with gold lettering and flowing design.  It would have space and comfortability - it would be welcoming, promising and undoubtedly ideal. 

She would invite him to be her husband, to take her heart and protect it well. 
She would promise the same for him.

For as much as she didn't know, the one thing that she could count on as sure as rain was that for her, he was perfection.

Invested Energy of Focus

The way that I see it with my “mind’s eye” is that my brain is compartmentalized into many, colorful, and oddly-shaped boxes.  Some have trinkets of memorabilia; some have Swarovski crystals, while others are ink drawings, covered in dried flowers and decoupaged to the hilt.  They’re all representative of some mode of thought-process and are often called upon when the subject matter fits.  There is no “round peg; round hole” synapse here…it’s strictly dependent on will, emotion, energy and incredibly accurate.  The placement of each thought or engagement of activity has a reference point of subject matter in those colorful little boxes; similar to that of a cognitive card catalog.   And the point of all of this is that when something occurs and needs to be referenced, responded to, reacted on or have mental reflection, I go to what I know.  The problem exists therein.  If you’re made aware that what you know is dysfunctional - if you’re reference table is devoid of purpose any longer and if you’re effectively responded, reacted or reflected on something that has served no good purpose, how does one eliminate that strain from the brain?

             At first glance, I would assume that you would simply stop referencing that same old way of behaving and reacting.  But it’s proven that our little computerized brains create synapses of connectivity for thought by the history that we’ve engaged it to; a self-conditioning, if you will. So, then the question becomes “how does one un-condition?”  Maybe it’s like a computer disk and formatting it to erase all the old data and would-be information.  I’ve got to figure that one out – how to format my brain waves.  Not return to the same course of thought, action or process that I’ve done in the past – the ones that simply do not work.  

               I suppose that as I contemplate a new way of approaching the old and of creating new, I am engaging the new as we speak.  Don't wonder so much how to do it since you're already doing it.

The Web

I don’t recall it having started this way. You know, me: being pummeled through the universe with a milkshake in one hand, pen and paper in the other and all the while, attempting to maintain my sanity. I believe the purpose was to experience growth as it would be similar to the flowery expressions you find on bus stop posters or bill boards lining the highway of life. This though; this is for the birds.


In one aspect, I feel a pressure on the seams of my garments – pressure from elatedness, being happy and having faith that everything’s working out as it should. On the other side of those same garments, I feel the prickly sense of: anger, hurt, futility and an arm-load of that wrinkly face you get when you’re biting your tongue and cursing under your breath. That part usually comes out in a sarcastic sense of wit and charm.

The time span of this chaotic sensibility began years ago and somewhere in there I recall having the thought that the huff and puff of getting things done always seemed to land squarely in my lap. I didn’t mind so much at an earlier age because I could handle it, I welcomed it. I wanted to have the opportunity to prove I could do most anything. Now though, now I feel as though I’ve documented the pleadings of a sycophant and have to somehow remain on course while making efforts to get off the bus! I went to the doctor at one point – finally accepting that I was upset and depressed... that I’d cornered the market on not being able to sustain my innate sense of happy-go-lucky and somewhere deep inside, I was dying a slow, horrible, stinking, rotting death. I remember that day too: the day I walked in to the doctor’s office and hung my head to save the receptionist from seeing the dark circles under my eyes, or that she might assume (correctly) that I’d been crying for a good, long month’s worth of time. Either way, the doctor appeared – listened to my story, (P.S.: I initiated my consult with a “I think I’m depressed”) she made some medical hieroglyphs on my chart and then suggested that “I think you’re depressed…have you tried a calming bath? Do you get enough sleep? Maybe you’re not eating properly, etc.”. It was more debilitating if anything. At one point in time, the doctor did recommend that I get on some heavy medication, but I could just imagine that one coming to surface in the realms of the court. Lovely.

I did contemplate eating the “calming bath salts” at one point just to overdo it on sodium, but I believe I ran out of energy there again. Then there was the idea that sprung to life – I had decided that just to get someone to listen, I would pack my trail-blazing back pack and camp out on the steps of the county legislature building until someone had me removed, or pulled up a cot. Either way, I figured, they’d have to listen. They didn’t.

I conjured that I would begin painting billboards to place in my own yard – things that would read “Abusive Man Gets Away with Not Paying Child Support for Years”, and “How to Escape Accountability: Live Here!”, a “Can’t Keep Your Hands Off Your Kid? Get on the ‘Fathers’ Rights Train!”, or “Do-it-Yourself Widowing Company. Inquire Within”…but decided against my better judgment on that one too. Really, the whole point was (and is) to get someone to listen….someone, anyone, somewhere please just listen!

‘Round about that time, I landed on one of my best analogies for the tumultuous state of affairs that is being married to a madman and the subsequent child-rearing and divorce that follows: The Web. The Web, is the idea that I'm walking through this fiasco and like would be when you’ve stepped into a spider-web hanging almost iridescently in the trees…where it spans across your face and you feel the snagging tentacles of it between your eyelashes and around your mouth…that you pull at it. You make grand gestures of swinging hands and fingers to try and remove it from your head, but you miss. You keep waving arms and hands, wanting that eerie feeling to be removed from your life, from your person. You can feel it, you’re living it, and it’s there right in front of you…but to everyone else - everyone that sits on the side lines or can view you from afar…or can hear you, see you, know you – all they see is you waving like a lunatic. And because the mass populous really doesn’t enjoy spending much time investing in prosperous cognitive energy (i.e. to think) … you are nuts.

With that in mind, I'm investing in that awesome spray that they use in the movies. The stuff that hangs on the invisible rays of an infrared sensor so you can see where the lines are as you’re pulling off a jewel heist. That’s what I need…spray it on my face and *BAMMO*!

Proof.

That what I’ve been saying, doing and relaying all along: THE TRUTH!