Lukia Sky Ranting

Thank you to those who have helped me along my journey in the past year.

2011-12-22T07:08:00.000-08:00

I have met many people since my separation, and I use the word people because I have not met men only. Some good friendships have developed over the past year, friendships I will not discard at a whim. There are men to be listed, there are women to be listed, but my time won't allot for such a list. Anyhow, I'm here to say that there are a few men I must thank on my journey that have touched me in some way and have taught me something about me that I lost long ago. Let me start with Johnny, a dear man, a retired ministered. Thank you for showing me the beauty that I do have from within me, the beauty I had forgotten existed. Showing me this beauty began to allow me to be me. I'm still working on being me, but I am me, now, more than I have ever been. There is Jim, a retired monster truck driver--yeah, monster truck driver, of all things. Well, he as well helped me find that beauty within, not by scolding me, as Johnny did at times, when I needed it the most, but by just listening, by being there at the oddest moments, and just calling me "cute" when I would say exactly what I felt. Then, there is Rod, a retired bull rider--boy, I have them in every line of work! Rod taught me what signals to look for, those mixed signals, those signals that are so subtle, unless you've been played often, you just don't recognize them. No matter, Rod will always have a special place in my heart. Of course, there is Ken (not Kenny), who I did decide to live with. It was brief. That brief excursion taught me I can stand up for myself, I can face a man who gets into my face, that I am strong even when I am weak. And Kenny (yes there are two Kens--lol), who made me realize I can pick who I want, that I am not limited, that I do have beauty on the outside. Some part of me knew this, but the insecurity of age always keeps this at bay. Then there is Peter, a very spiritual man. I thank him for the church, his family, his love and nonjudgmental way, but also his constructive criticism of my situation. He helped me open up my heart more to God, to see God, to feel God in a fuller presence. I doubt I will be leaving Agape Fellowship any time soon. The spirit abounds in this place. There are many Sundays I don't want to leave, the people, or the building. Peter and his family, and the church family, have been a tremendous blessing. Without them this holiday season, I doubt I would have made it through. And there is still Christmas. Lastly, at this moment on my travels, is Kurt, a Christian biker. I do have to admit I have deep feelings for him; where it goes I do not know. Kurt has brought all the previous meetings to a full circle. I am me in his presence. I hide nothing of who I am. If Kurt and I do not become significant others, there will always be a close friendship, without doubt. Meeting him has made me understand that all of me can be acceptable, that I need not hide any of me. These men have become good good friends on my journey after the separation and Vincent's initial battle with cancer. I must also thank Tom for being there with his Lutheran wisdom when I needed it the most, him not judging me as I made my transition, allowing me to see friendship, even at a distance, is a great blessing. Tom, I hope you read this. So, on this journey, in the aspects of male friendships, it has been good. Of course, this does not exclude the female friends made on this journey as well. The most notable friends of course, before this journey began are Kiersten, Tammy, and Tobey. The other notable friends are Mona, Lisa, Cathy, and Nancy--none of these four even live in the state of Indiana. If anyone would say it was impossible to have friends you've never met in person, I would argue my case against such thoughts. Cathy kept the jokes coming. Mona just listen and gave wisdom of God. Lisa sat through long nights with me. Nancy and I had things in common, number one being grandchildren. Thank you to each of you. All is much appreciated. God does send people to you, even people that might not be the best just to give you a lesson much needed. And Kenny, I hope you get your phone back soon! Miss our conversations much!

It has been forever since I've been here.

2011-11-09T19:23:00.000-08:00

Tonight I come here with hope in my heart. It has been a long long road. I do wonder how many of you still look at this site. Anyhow, I have found a freedom I never knew before, and in that freedom came a choice place upon my heart. In time I hope to reveal all. As of now, it is good for me to say, I am happy--in a strange way because this happiness has a funny twist. Can't explain this but much will become evident as the days go on. I wait on God to do the work promised, in me--more completely, in my family (and yes that includes my ex-husband Garry), my friends--old and new, in the church I have come to enjoy, and even in those who have caused me problems in the past--those that are labeled as an enemy. God's grace, love, blessings be on you all!

No name

2011-06-06T17:18:00.000-07:00

I cannot speak the name here; I cannot speak the name among my family; only my closest friends can hear this name. It pains me. This name came to me without looking, without knowing it should be. I wished, I prayed, I gave up, I prayed, I wished, I decided to just be, just be in all my pain. The name came without a notice, the name came. I want to speak the name all the time, but cannot; forbidden it is to speak such a name, to speak a name that causes a smile, a laugh, a feeling of peace. I cannot speak this name. Happiness is forbidden, for now, for now. No name. No name.

Proceedings to Begin

2011-05-19T21:39:00.000-07:00

It has been many months since I have been here. Much has happened in those months. I don't know if there is time to put it all down here, at least not tonight. I have been accused of much. I do not attempt to defend myself because the mind of those who accuse are set on what they believe. Time is my ally now; pain is my guest for this time; friendships are my leaning post. Ginet will not speak to me unless absolutely necessary. Jess is Jess, but bitter with me often. David takes no sides, which is the way it should be. Vincent . . . well, he deals with his issue. He isn't happy about dad and me, but he will survive.

Vincent's cancer appears to be gone, but nothing can be positively concluded until September when most of the scar tissue from radiation has subsided, leaving the doctors to see what is "really" there. Chemotherapy does not fair well with Vincent. Treatments have been altered three times since February. The doctors believe that therapy might have to be stopped because his body cannot take it. He has had at least four transfusions that I can remember, but I believe it is more; and one transfusion--beyond the regular transfusions--has been for platelets. Half of Vincent's bone marrow is depleted. Pretty much, if he gets cancer again, he won't make it. Steroids are tearing up his body. I keep praying he will be off of them soon. Well, so is the chemo. Vincent struggles to be motivated to do his physical therapy, his occupational therapy, and speech therapy. His stroke has made him become weak hearted mentally, feeling as if there is no need to do anything. Prayers please.

A rough, pitted, rocky, knee wretching journey begins.

2010-12-11T08:45:00.000-08:00

Well, Garry knows now. His reactions are desperate. While I'm excited for Vincent to go home, it only means closer contact with Garry. For a year I have reflected back to see how my feelings changed only to realize how many times I fought to stay in love with Garry. The work was always on my side, everytime; he couldn't see where any fault lie with him. Now, I feel sick when I have to go home to get things. I've been told to set ground rules. If I can get it where we can talk without him trying to touch me, to kiss me. I wanted to have the money to just move out before I ever said anything; I was given no choice to the when. I was cornered when I came home to wash clothes and take care of other needs. Pleaes pray for me as I take this step forward, as I walk this road.

I can say it clearly without feeling guilty

2010-12-02T17:11:00.000-08:00

For the first time, I wrote the word "divorce" in my journal. Yes, I wrote the word "divorce." I kept from putting anything in my journal in fear that someone would pick it up, read it, then run off to tell the person I haven't spoken to yet. Well, that time is coming very soon. I'm figuring withing the month. I thought it would have been at the end of November, but I wanted to speak to a pastor first for some spiritual guidance as I take this step. My heart figured out long before my mind that I am no longer "in" love with Garry. I do not feel guilty. As I weighed the reasons to "not" file for a divorce, to the "do" of filing for a divorce, the do's were heavier. I also made a list of all those arguments that people would come up with in an attempt to stop me from following through. The fact about all of this is, I don't love Garry, I am not happy being with him, and I realized I have fought to stay in love with him for at least 20 years--the last 20 years that we have been married. In those 20 yeas, I went to counseling three times (without him because he wouldn't go). The focus was on "what could I change about me, and in doing so, change him." Or, "what could I do for him to get what I need in return"? Wait. Just wait. Something wrong with this picture? I'm not going back. Twice before I didn't love him and fought to regain it, all to my determent, which unhappiness most of the time, feeling empty and lonely, and doing most of the marriage as a single parent. I will no longer live this way. If I am going to be lonely, I will be lonely because there isn't someone there physically, not lonely with someone there physically with no emotional conscious of me or my feelings, my cares, my hurts, my frustrations, or not backing me without my implicit planted foot to "prove" it is good for me to do this. His actions never needed my approval. My actions always needed his. And then, when I asked for his input, he was always to busy until I made the decision "he didn't like." Argh, I do not want to write a tagent here. Anyhow, this is where I stand; so friends, now you know what my new futurre is. I know it will be hard, but it is time to step out and see the world through free eyes.

I may have failed . . .

2010-11-16T21:07:00.000-08:00

Love is a tricky emotions to understand with so many nuances and avenues, all the different types of love that exists--that is to say I came to love the foundation in a soul that my husband has never filled in me. No, I did not have an affair. This is a love that is friendship, a deep friendship, a friendship that shares who we are without fear of the other judging. We might question the other, but we do not judge. When I figured out this "love," I questioned myself morals, the traditions, and what it was that made this love possible. This other person fights for my emotional well-being as I fight for "Taylor's"--I use a neutral gender name for protection of self and other. There is no other attraction within this "relationship." We have agreed; we are emotionally there for each other. "Taylor" fights to remind me how strong I am; I fight to remind "Taylor" about the strength possessed within "Taylor," remind each other daily our strengths that carry us forward--Taylor has his demons, I have mind: together we fight.

Now, knowing that I no longer love my husband, and I have figured it is due to the lack of emotional support throughout our marriage and his inability to fight even with support, I pray for the guidance upon the decision I have made. Most of what will occur in the months to come will be lain at my husband's feet; his decision will decide my final decision; however, separation at this moment is needed for him to first see--I think this illness of Vincent's has started that, but he still continues in self pity and pushing others away. I doubt complete understanding will come for him--faith has always been an issue for him. I guess I'm trying to say, I want a complete man (not necessarily a man that has nothing physically wrong), a complete man that fights and supports as much as I do.

I thank you "Taylor," even if you do not make it through your turmoil for showing me how love works. I hope you read this.

Building Blocks

2010-11-03T10:33:00.001-07:00

The dishes stay stacked (like Richter 10 buildings) on the counter
in both sides of the sink My eyes count the hour

hand by hand into the rack (the difficulty of shaping)

empty and full at every moment just one (pulled out of place implodes) could be wasted

for . . .

--I must ask myself over and over
What am I doing here--

pen to hit the paper drop a word shatter a letter
(rupture) (toppling) (rubble)

--One letter, just one letter Dear Jesus

Please rescue me
find the time to take away the cancer--

This is a waste

repeating a task that repeats before I’ve finished

Anaphora

at its best

More on Polar with Mom

2010-11-03T10:16:00.001-07:00

Dawn Luebke November 3 at 1:14pm

Okay, we have a second word becoming more visible: more. Then, with occupational therapy, she was able to get him to say, "oh yeah," which is part of the order of the vowels he has been practicing: ae, o, oo, i (long e sound), and eye (forgot the phonetics for 'i'). He even said MOM today! Ha ha, I was able to hear MOM! Yesterday the speech therapist worked on picture board, identifying yes and no, pointing to it to communicate. His grade for the test given was 75%. Have to always make sure he is looking at the board.

On the physical side, when I left this morning, he was able to roll his right hand. It took a long time to get the message from the brain to the hand, but he did it. I could see the muscles contracting, the arm wanting to obey, and I could see the rest of his body working to make it so. I hope he is stood up today, placed in a chair, and sits for an hour before radiation.

And . . . the x-ray showed pneumonia depleted.

Sketch Sixteen

2010-10-30T22:05:00.000-07:00

The Hall

In the hall of Lutheran Hospital, the hall that connects the third floor of the Orthopedics Hospital to the regular part of the hospital are windows on each side--large windows that a car can go through, windows that start two feet from the floor and stop two feet from the ceiling, windows that aren't divided by much except about every three to five, where a piece of wall jets out. The windows are situated much like window seats without a cushions. In this hall are three offices and a small boutique center, which is no longer in business. The offices and the empty boutique divide up one side of the hall, making a center nook, the place where I sleep in the evening. This is how the three offices and the empty boutique are arranged: The empty boutique and one office is placed closes to the regular hospital, the office down the hall. Some 30 feet is left for chairs and tables, the nook I mentioned, before the next two offices appear. After those offices, another open space where the windowed-wall cuts into the doors that lead to the Orthopedics Hospital. The offices, upon inspection one day, when noticing a door open, has the very same large windows as the hallway. Here, in the nook, a pocket of sorts, is my bedroom by night. The chairs and couches in this part of the hall are different from those in the other cubby hole area and the waiting are for ICU, except for the chairs used around the tables. (I must stop this observation briefly to tell you about one conversation I can hear, one of many that becomes part of this hallway: much grief finds its way to this hall. An older gentleman with a midlife women pass me to stand in front of the empty boutique. She begins to cry, he pats her back, in a hug I suspect, but I can hear the light patting; whispers and whimpers persist. There is much of this here; and still there is laughter as families meet, coming to know grief, often over an older person, not the young--the young are few here.)

Back to those windows; they intrigue me. The large windows allow vision to the construction of the main hospital, a fifth floor addition. Sometimes I imagine the crane not functioning correctly, the items upon its lift smashing through the hall. Here, it is quieter, even during the day, less traffic, even when the carts come barreling through with equipment and people walking to and from each hospital. The waiting room is always full, the elevator always busy.

As I attempt to finish this sketch, I am not in the hallway. I cannot honestly recall the wall colors. I can see the pattern in the chairs: the green and green blue colors. As vivid as I think the pattern is in my mind, as often as I have it, I'm without words to describe it because it is not in front of me. At a glance, from memory, a person can assume it is camouflage, which I say it is, but the pattern . . . I must see it, is not truly leaves and twigs--or is it. I've yet to determine if there is a genuine pattern with all the times I have stared at it. (Again grief can be heard as I sit alone in the hallway, sit on one of the couches that make up my makeshift bed late at night; a man talking to a brother, a sister, I do not know who, but someone who comes across as family by the way he speaks. His mother has been sent her from St. Joe. The situation is not good. She has been made more ill by the actions taken at St. Joe. His anger doesn't override his grief, but his voice speaks the pain of negligence, of lawsuit. The many different issues that bring us here.)

I have made time to write while in the hallway. My makeshift bed all tore down, I sit looking about me. The walls are a dirty cream, not quite a tan with a peach tint. Those chairs--let me get to them in a moment. The floor is carpeted: green mainly, a dark green, probably a hunter green with a cream and barn red in a splattered patterns highlighting the greens. This carpet comes in a darker type pattern as well, which creates a square outline in some areas of the hall--well this one is rectangle. Now for the chairs and couches: a person can witness leaves and twigs, but the lay out of the pattern is very deceptive because squares come in--some squares have tattered edges. There are a few vines with leaves at the tips, but don't stand out. The colors of this pattern also throws a person off: slate gray, off-dirty white, three to four tones of green with a blue hint in them. The couch pattern I've stared at mostly develops its own character, an entity, as if it shifts shapes, moves as if uncomfortable with its being: an eye within a jaw, the jaw jetting out sharply like that of a broken skull where the jaw protrudes. This same pattern repeats, but because of its position on this couch it stands alone.

There are two coffee tables in here; all the tables are alike among the three areas. The top is bordered by light colored wood, the same wood used for the legs (and beneath most likely). It feels like polished compressed wood. The top itself might be formica, a tan, brown mixture of colors in a splattered-marbled pattern.

Oh, those chairs have wood along the back and the cushions are divided by the same wood, making the couches look like individual seats, three side by side. The couches and chairs are wood framed benches of sort.

On one wall hangs a TV--LG; a light switch at the edge of this wall (this is the wall against the centered offices). Across from it, on the other wall, hangs a picture. Until now, I have not noticed it, I have not paid attention to it, nor looked at it.

I will not be finishing this sketch unless my son is placed back into ICU. He has moved to the regular part of the hospital, meaning he is better. There is much more to sketch.

I find myself writing . . .

2010-10-29T19:55:00.000-07:00

in my head, but I have no pen, no paper, no laptop, and when I do, I am often too tired, wishing there was a recorder attached to my brain to record the words that come through. I should be sleeping. I said goodnight to my friends, to my family, finished the movie, but find myself here. The one night I can be in bed early. Multiple visions bombard me as each turn of events happen; it is like life projected through a movie camera. Some of you will find this statement odd, bizarre, scary, creepy, while saying, she is nuts: the spirit world will not leave me alone, and I'm not talking dreams alone. I only get peace at night by making sure I say a prayer not only for Vince and the family, but for myself, then fall asleep praying (I must--this is the only relief). For those of you who do not believe, there is no light I can share on this; if you have not experienced it, you will not understand. Many years ago I closed this door. The door is no longer shut. I do not believe I am to shut it, now, or ever again. I ask for continual prayers as I learn to adjust to this life, both dealing with what the family is dealing with and what has returned to me.

Most of my time is now spent in the hospital. If I am not on campus, I am here, with the exception of being home on occasion. Vincent is dictating some my decisions right now. I have managed four nights away since the beginning of this ordeal, only because Vincent has said he felt comfortable with me leaving or because necessity said I had to. If any of you want to help in another way, other than prayers, send up some home cooked meals, plus a gas card or two--if possible (I do not fear begging right now).

As soon as I can, I have a sketch to put up: the hospital hallway I spent most of my nights in. I have many more sketches planned out. Time mostly consists of listening to information, learning the therapies Vincent must do, understanding treatments, grading students' work and planning for classes, making phone calls and texts--texts keeping attached to the outside world, dealing with home issues from the hospital, and working on getting Vincent's paperwork down (with the help of my daughter, who is handling most of that end). If you say you can't imagine this, you are right, you can't. I still can't, but I am doing it. While I am becoming more accustomed to the new lifestyle, it is still surreal (the word that sums it up best). Out of all I have watched done, there is still one aspect I cannot take--the secretions that Vincent must clear from his chest everyday via the trachea. I guess that's my biggest weakest.

If you wish to follow what is happening more closely, my oldest daughter does well keeping Vinny's Journey page posted on FaceBook. If you don't find it with those two words, add PNET, the short term for the type of cancer he has.

I will attempt more journeys here. I need to.

Sketch Thirteen

2010-10-08T14:48:00.000-07:00

The night we came into the hospital, the only couch had no vacancy, and had none for a week. An old lady with short silver and white hair kept a make shift bed upon the couch all day. I thought nothing of it until the waiting area became crowded during the day be visitors up to see loved ones in ICU, many to see loved ones in the restricted area of ICU. A decent relationship started between I and the old lady, but I knew she was a person that must have her own way. I could never look at her, look at her long enough to see what she wore, either in a wheel chair or on the couch, and after a few days of her presence, of her loudness, I spoke to her little, looked her way little. The one part of her I remember clearly is the oxygen tube under her nose. The second part of her I clearly remember is the attitude that she could do as she pleased while others must suffer and be condemned by talking behind the back. I snickered the day I overheard another older lady say, "She said that this one family came in, leaving their children jump on chairs, fun all over, and putting dirty diapers into the trash bins in the waiting area; that the family had the whole room stinking." Funny thing, her grandchildren threw paper airplanes all over the waiting area, and ran around, nearly bumping into people, without her even batting an eye. Funny, she talked about other families as well, but I would pay her no attention. She was definitely a woman who needed to have all eyes upon her: "Not I," said this women when the old lady attempted to interrupt a conversation.

What Could Be Worse?

2010-10-08T14:29:00.000-07:00

Of all the things I could have imagined to go through, this is not the one thing: watching my child go through cancer of the brain (one large tumor, and some small ones--not told how many). The tumor is aggressive. His process from the second surgery, which was emergency, is slow. The time frame is small to begin procedures to "kill" the tumors. I am in a dream world; if you wish to know surreal, place yourself in my shoes. When you are told to live your life day to day, that is what is meant. Vincent"s advancements are a day to day success, with the occasional set back. Each piece of news comes with mixed emotions because most is attached to "if." My chest has not stopped hurting since the day he was wheeled quickly back to surgery. I have not left the hospital in the evening since that time either. I have found my way back to work. Working has helped to relieve some of the stress. Amazingly, my family has kept phone calls during my campus hours to none, which allows for NO PANIC. However, I miss Vincent attempting to call or text during those times.

If I knew the name of the cancer right off the top of my head, I would give it to you. I only know that it is rare, especially in young women and men over the age of 18. Simply put, the cancer is rare in children, and in that rarity, only 1% over 18 get it. Unlike many cancers, this cancer responds well to radiation and chemotherapy. The worse part is that the cancer grows quickly. The window for opportunity is slim. Progress is needed in the healing department. Everyone is doing all they can do, and even Vincent is fighting. I keep hearing he will be good, that I will have a son come home. It is difficult to see this. I'm sitting on the fence because I know the slim window of opportunity.

I will attempt to do my sketch work again. I need that distraction as well.Once the swelling decreases to safe numbers, I will go home in the evening to rest. For now, I stay here. Internet access is poor here. Luckily, tonight, I have the internet card, allowing me to do some things instead of quickly getting needed information done at home when I drop in briefly. I had to decide what I would do tonight: read students' papers, or take some time for just me. Obviously, I took time for me.

Well, the Week Just Keeps Coming!

2010-09-27T10:55:00.000-07:00

The phone call ended, a call from son with a severe headache. Figure it is sinus; tell him to take sinus med, go to bed. Gin and I at grocery store; son calls; pain is more than he can take.

Well, that was Saturday. It is Monday now. That son, my son Vincent, is in a hospital bed with a brain tumor. I have only reported the week, now onto the second week without the first ever ending, but the whole month has been situations: two of Gin's friends dealing with problems, both in a dangerous mindset, then a run to the hospital to make sure Gin isn't having a heart attack. Her food diet with a drastic change, and meds; a visit to the doctor for a check-up, which turned up something in question--more meds, onto . . . . This month will not end by this year I can see.

Okay, another issue: Vincent doesn't have insurance. Please think of ways to help raise funds. Not only does he not have insurance, but he also has a little daughter who receives the majority of his paycheck. Advice readily accepted!

Oh, this week just gets more wonderful!

2010-09-25T14:33:00.000-07:00

Sarcastically said after a student who has become my friend calls me to say, "He punched me this morning, I've left him." She needed to hear someone tell her she was doing the right thing. "By golly girl," I say, "Yes you are, leave, don't answer his text, don't talk to him. You need to think about how to handle his questions and what you want to say to him." Tell me, how many sorries before it is right? Before the dude left the house this morning, he complained about what she did wrong, all the while, she apologized. Wait, what is wrong with this picture? Okay, I'm done, I think, ranting about this. This has been one hell of a week!

The Moon of Man

2010-09-25T06:33:00.001-07:00

The moon full on the night of equinox, clouds shadowing her fullness. The night of the wolf exists, I think to myself. The perfect moon, the moon to play hide 'n' seek, the moon to kiss under, to bite under, to tease the one you love. I feel the pull upon my heart and wonder who is my wolf tonight, will she allow me to have a wolf tonight. The clouds heighten the craters, which are just visible to the human eye. These clouds make the moon look rugged, like a man gone unshaven for a day or two. A little ruggedness isn't bad, in fact, some intimidation is needed at times, but not against the love, against those who would take the love. The moon loves Earth, loves man, without man, she would lose hope of being, her little control a delight of life. She gives the sign when birth is to come, when conception is possible; she guides the heart like no other at night, especially in her fullness. There are times, man should fear her, a woman should fear her, when all of Earth should fear her. She has more control then we want to believe. Time has not made her more than what she is, it is because she is and man cannot deny her. The equinox has only heightened this time, this night, emotion swelling without a place to let it go, without a source to give it to. She will not give me my wolf, not tonight, she knows it is not time.

The week continued . . .

2010-09-24T14:47:00.000-07:00

Thursday does not end with being ill: scratchy throat, ears hurting, eyes swollen. A call from Gin's doctor after her visit. I am upset. Argh. Now it is Friday. My vacuum smells when I turn it on. When granddaughter visited yesterday, did all her sweeping, she swept up doggy water from the floor. Now, the area (which is a bag on many vacuums) and the filter needs to be cleaned out with Lysol. Glorious day, I must use a broom to sweep up dog hair and dandruff. I look at my kitchen, thumb my nose at it, sweep, get out the mats to work out. The 10am alarm goes off, which means I must check student emails, check all other post. I only have till 11am to do this, then prepare for work. I don't have a supper to pack today. Hide in my office from 1 to 2:15, then instruct, but the day doesn't end until after my last of three stops after leaving campus. Now, I am home, doing double duty for my sketches. Is this the last day of the week for me?

This week has been tooooooooo long

2010-09-24T14:36:00.000-07:00

I do not want a week, even remotely close, repeat. A run to the hospital for the daughter, making sure it is heartburn and not more (this on Sunday evening). Monday at work does not go well: no computer wants to work for me, or the site. Then coming home to a kitchen not clean and no supper ready. Tuesday is running from doctor to doctor, and still no clean kitchen. Wednesday, classes appear to be going well, but I am worn from the first two days and feel like I will not make it through, and don't, when I find my kitchen still not clean (well, except for the stove), and Will taken to the hospital for a returning ear infection. Ginny and I go out to eat. I actually do not have the funds to do this, but we need to eat. We go to Applebee's. Salads. Her friends come by, whisk her away to a night of movies. She, or a friend, is supposed to call me, telling me when she will be home. No call. I start calling at 2 am. Yes, I stayed up; I don't like being woke up after a few hours a sleep; it makes sleeping difficult after that. At 3 am, she answers. "Phone was dying; charging. We are watching a movie. I don't know when." Tell her to call when she leaves. The call comes, when she is half way home. I tell her to call when she is in the drive, this way the dogs won't park from her knocking. You are asking why she doesn't have a key: ex-fiance took it, or lost it, and I haven't replaced it--locks need to be changed. She doesn't call; now the dog's are all barking. Will is sleeping on the couch. He had a hard time sleeping because of his cold. He is stirring, but stays asleep. All quiet again. Gin cannot sleep due to the heartburn. Will wakes up from coughing; he cannot have another dose of medicine. Some noise begins outside, but do not know what it is. I cannot sleep. Once asleep, about 5am, after Will has fallen back to sleep, after a diaper change, after changing position on the couch with him, the phone rings at 6:30am. NOOOOOO. Answer, deal, back to bed. The phone rings again, 20 minutes later. Answer, deal, back to bed. Now the dogs are ready to go out at 7:30am. I shut one in the room with Ginny (hers), and the others in the kitchen. I refuse to deal. Will is up at 9am. I am now ill.

Seventh Sketch

2010-09-24T14:15:00.001-07:00

Yes, I forgot yesterday! I thought about it. Wasn't feeling well, and just forgot. So here is yesterdays. Today's post will come a little later.

Being Lazy Sketch

Thursday, I awoke to a scratchy throat, to a headache, to eyes swollen from both lack of sleep and sinuses. I can smell a pool full of chlorine each time I breathe in. What is this? Why? Today I will not work, will not put in my 6 to 7 hours of students' work. I feel guilty, but do not care. My day will be about me, will be lazy. My kitchen is not clean; it calls to me. I do not care; besides, the person assigned the chore did not do the work on Monday. I clean what I need and am done. I am tired. I do not go back to sleep. I am bored. I will not read from the papers. Instead, I sit in front of the computer, look at post with pictures--I do not read, except the message with larger letters in messenger. I have a few good conversations. I know I must motivate myself. I will not. I do not run the sweeper, my granddaughter does, who has been dropped off after a doctors appointment. She cannot stand the dog hair and dandruff on the hardwood floor. She does an amazing job. I hug her. She puts in Mama Mia. Good. I cn taek this sound.

Midday, my spirits are lifted. I attempt to read. I cannot focus. I don't want to. I don't care. Is it right? I don't care. I stay in pajamas until three, four. I talk to Sam while he talks to Gin, we have some good laughs and some serious discussions: all good. Music is great. I don't care about getting anything done!

Sketch six, but you guys get an extra that I couldn't post to my other blog site

2010-09-22T20:27:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, I know. I need another sketch! I've been pondering this all day. I thought I knew the sketch I wanted to do, but now find that I don't want to share it. Why you ask? Some of it is a little more than I want to have explored on this blog site.

In front of me sits a Spanish / English, English / Spanish Dictionary that is often useless. The orange block on top of the yellow block holds two different languages. The orange block holds black lettering in English, as I have given the title. The yellow block has red lettering in Spanish: El New World, Diccionario, Espanol / Ingles Ingles / Espanol. The thickness is the old fashion standard of a novel. And with that thickness comes a lack of knowledge, missing verb tenses because supposedly a person should know the root word. Many mornings, as a ritual, I sit at this same computer, in front of the screen, preparing a statement in Spanish to a friend who speaks it fluently. This is my way to learn Spanish, which is made difficult by the lacking dictionary. Sam is kind, he does not laugh at me, and shares his knowledge. How could learning another language be made more simple? I ask the dictionary every morning when I look upon its pages, "Why do you not have all the forms listed under each form, allowing me to look up all the tenses with explanation. Even explanations are missing. Dictionaries that are of two languages need to have explanations, to explain. Yes, the book would be that much thicker, but do I care as a person learning a new language? NO.

Almost a worthless sketch, but at least I put something down. Something is better than nothing.

The Mind Sketch

I have no ideas. My mind saying boring, nope boring, and wanting to write a story. Guess what? There is not time for a story in the thirty minutes I allot myself Monday through Thursday. A sketch of my mind? The ramblings of life, of confusion, of children, of teaching, of my wants? Wants? What are those? Are they needs? This isn't a sketch of my mind is it? Chocolate on chocolate. There is this door I want to open but I fear what will happen; disapproval from family, friends, society in general. All are having trouble with the fact I have to move to have a better job because good jobs do not exists here, up here in Fort Wayne, the Fortanywherebuthere living. Do I even want this sketch known? Pour it hot and quick, down my breast. Fear. It holds me back sometimes. Edging into a situation lessens it. Originally I had "lessons," why? The lessons I have learned, the lessons I have taught, the lessons I have watched have all led me to here. I see a window in this door. A peek in tells me I will like what there is, I like making this decision, but I can't have it yet. The chocolate cannot be licked up, or down, can't even be wiped off, it can only run and run, drip away slowly--there is no one there to care for it. Still, it is hard to make change, and it will be difficult for those near me. Once again I will need to edge through, and this time for others. Should I? Do I need to do this for others as well? Am I responsible for this? The other door must come first, the door that is more tedious and time consuming--the job, the move. Decisions have been made about an area, an area more teaming with opportunities, and an area I have fallen in love with as I have searched over the year. With this job is also, maybe, taking on my PhD. Away from everyone I can be more in the right position than I ever have been. My children grown, it is time to fly. That door with the window looks good; I want someone to care for that dripping chocolate.

Sketch Five

2010-09-21T19:31:00.001-07:00

Applebee’s

The day starts early in the morning, the bed not yet slept in for either gal who had walked into the restaurant. Applebee’s salad dishes sit upon a table, empty, while two gals await the desert of three scoops of ice cream upon a large chocolate-chip cookie, whip cream piled in swirls around the stack, each pile decorated with crushed Oreos, the whole dish crisscrossed and swirled with chocolate syrup. Little is said between the two. It doesn’t matter if any words are said, the night hasn’t ended and they are meeting the new day in style. The desert comes. If it was true that eyes could pop out of your head, theirs would. Together “Oh my” escapes, and the older adds, “We won't be able to eat this all.” They dip a spoon each into the fluff first, smiling, moaning as women sexually charged. Each scoop is savored until a serving is left. EAch have eaten a serving and a half each. They can go no further. They are filled, delighted, perked for the long morning before their heads hit the pillow.

2010-09-20T19:35:00.001-07:00

Waiting Outside a CVS/pharmacy

Night sounds at a CVS/pharmacy are unseen. A voice that cannot be seen echoes against the wall I am staring at. A rattle, like a skateboarder, sounds, but no skateboarder. A shout out of Camel Menthol enters the opening door to be shut off quickly at its closing. A motorcycle chitty chitty bang bangs by, a putting image of one light riding across my review mirror. Thirty-five minutes to wait on medicine drowns the eyes to sleep. It isn’t late late, but late enough; 9:25 feels like midnight on five hours of sleep. Two headlights cause as much noise as the engines coming on or the car driving by at 35 mph--supposedly. The doors to CVS open and close with medical emergency, like the cart being wheels through sliding emergency doors. My ears hurt as much as my eyes; my ears wish to sleep as badly as my eyes. Don’t talk so loudly I think, even though I can hear to words. Only five minutes have passed; there’s another fifteen to go.

If you have not already . . .

2010-09-20T08:40:00.001-07:00

please add my other blog, which is solely for the purpose of my art, lukiaskywritingtobefree.blogspot.com.

Much appreciated!

Third Sketch

2010-09-20T04:57:00.001-07:00

She stands in a candlelit dance studio, lightening dancing through the sky. She is only in her skin colored, low-heeled dance shoes. The butterfly wings were completed but two hours ago, butterfly wings that have taken a little more than a year to complete. She has made herself madam butterfly. The wings begin at her ankles: the curl of the wing wraps around the ankle bone and rolls to the back of the leg, flaring slowly out with small jagged, caressing, edges. Those edges smoothly jet to the sides, but never completely around the leg, the outline of the design just visible to a person who may stand directly in front of her. At the back of the knee, the wing widens more, little do the jagged edges appear as the wing caresses into the curve of her inner and outer thigh, but never reaching the front of the leg. Upon reaching the buttocks, the division of the wings begin to meet between the each individual cheek, the coloring of the wings are a marbled-lining of deep blue hinted with silver, a light turquoise, and the deep blue of a lavender flower to this point. The colors become more defined upon the cheeks of the buttocks, as well as blending into each other more precisely into a pattern of chaos, of memorizing tranquility. Only if she leans over can a person witness the separation of the wings. At the bottom of the buttocks the wing wraps toward the front as it does from the top of the buttocks, taking in the entire hip, narrowing as the lower wing travels to just below the navel. The colors once again take on the pattern of marbling. The wing loops below the navel into the opposite lower wing, an intricate gathering that makes a low lined “V.” The upper wing begins above the navel.
Just as the lower wings connect, the upper do as well, the “V” turned opening down. A diamond, laying on its side, encases the navel. Each wing pulls back in its elegant, intricate entanglement. Just a small area of the lower wing is hidden as the upper wing begins to widen. The top of the wing reaches the first two lower ribs before wrapping around the side to the back. The colors continue as they did before and after the buttocks, reaching around to the back, slowly edging up the shoulder, becoming jagged in areas as parts dart out, but not too far, never reaching around to the front again, the pattern hovering at the very edge of where arms lay at rest along the side. Not quite under the arm, heading towards the shoulders, the wing begins to narrow, the division of the wings in the center of the back visible again about three-fourths up from the waist. From this division a wing begins its movement up and over the shoulder—covering the curve of the shoulder and just hugging the neckline—where a wing plunges inward, slightly, narrowing greatly, until an inch from the areola to go around the darkened flesh but never entering the teat area. The wing ends with a small balled-hoop, just as the wings had connected above and below the navel.

Second Sketch

2010-09-18T17:08:00.000-07:00

Native at Johnny Appleseed

In a tent, aligned with many other tents, at the Johnny Appleseed Festival, an older gentleman is dressed in Native American skins. The small popped-out-belly dangles little over the clothe that hangs from his hip. He stands, first without being noticed, and then, his bare legs lead to stares as he turns to reach into a kettle that sits to the left of his seat, where he had been sitting behind a small table decorated with Native American items to sell. The clothe moves, little in its draped position, this mind worrying if he may mistakenly flip the lightly flapping clothe up. He is now with his buttocks to the passing people, as if this is an everyday occurrence, as if he was in a chip and dale show. Surprisingly, his legs are not flabby, the muscles moving as they should with the proper ripple as he moves some item unseen to the passer-byers. I stop to think about the woman who sits in the tent across the way, wondering, how long did it take for her to get use to this, does she think it is disgusting, has she finally tired of staring at the partial naked body and wondering when his junk will become visible? I am thankful there is no wind.

First Sketch

2010-09-17T21:36:00.000-07:00

This post is going up later than I wanted, after midnight of Friday evening. This is Friday's posting, regardless of the clock. Little fella, called my grandson kept insisting I must dance with him to Happy Feet, my next sketch, I believe.

Must Be Rain

    For two weeks, the shower had been broken. Baths had become a cuss word.
    On a Tuesday, the eldest son, Bud, bought all the replacement parts. By evening, the shower head was working, the hand held shower piece flowing.
    The first to step in was Auntie.
    In the living room stood Bubby, Bud’s son, only son, listening closely, head cocked, a curious look coming over his face as his Mammaw walked out of the bathroom. One word exploded as his finger pointed, quickly stepping to the closing bathroom door: “Shouw-er, shouw-er.”
    Mammaw scooped him up, saying, “Yes, shower. The shower is fixed.”
    The water sounded like the trickling rain just before the storm. Once Mammaw sat him onto the couch, he was up again pointing, “Shouw-er, shouw-er,” grabbing his Mammaw’s fingers, pulling her along to the bathroom door, where he pushed open the crack door.
    “Yes, Auntie is taking a shower,” but Buddy kept insisting, while climbing upon the toilet to stand on the lid, “Shouw-er, shouw-er.”
    “No, you can’t take a shower now; Auntie is in there.”
    The shower curtain was slowly pulled back a bit, a head appearing with wet dripping hair, “Do Buddy want a shower.”
    “Shouw-er, shouw-er,” he pointed. The words repeating.
    “You take a shower with Auntie.”
    Buddy quickly slid off the top of the toilet, dancing, “Shouw-er, shouw-er,” his feet bouncing in delight, “Shouw-er, shouw-er.”
    “Alright, let’s take off your diaper,” Mammaw reached down, realizing before it was too late, that he might be a little more than peed.
    He was moving for the tub, ready to climb in, Mammaw pulling him back, “Wait Buddy, we have to take care of that diaper.”
    Mammaw took the diaper off slowly, seeing the full diaper wasn’t as bad as she thought. “Okay, Buddy,” she lifted him into the tub as he pushed back the shower curtain, giggling with joy like a child that had found his long lost favorite toy from under the couch.

A Promise To Me

2010-09-17T09:33:00.001-07:00

I have came to a decision to write one sketch every day for a year. I may have some late nights or early mornings to get it done, but I plan on sticking to it! First sketch tonight! I can do this, I can do this!

Email address

2010-09-12T14:01:00.000-07:00

Sadly, when I went to check my go.com email, there was no such thing. The Go site has eliminated email accounts. I don't check it often because it always fills up with mail that is full of sexual content. I always used it for my junk email, in case I wasn't sure about a place. Well, this blog was set up on that account. Luckily, I could make a new account elsewhere, and give this blog a new email. What a pain in the carcass! Wonder why the Go site no longer has email? People complained about all the BAD content?

Okay, It Is Sunday

2010-09-12T08:31:00.000-07:00

I greeted Sunday in the usual way, staying up past midnight watching a movie, two, three, four, or repeating certain movie or movies. Alright, Kyla wasn't here, but I had Will all night while his parents were at a wedding reception. Will had his choices of movies that I knew he would keep him calm and not want to run out the door to chase mom and dad. He chose . . . Mama Mia! And we watched it twice, then onto Happy Feet, twice. Will and I danced half the night between me searching the web for jobs, revising my poetry, looking at apartments, and preparing a general letter of application that I change minor detail to as the possible job found requires. I'm not complaining, I just wish there were more hours in the day so I could get those eight hours of sleep in.

Will and I had the living room, on the most part--plus a dog now and then, to ourselves. He kept going like the Energizer Bunny. I know he didn't want to go to sleep till his dad walked through the door. Just as I thought he was winding down, Ginet came home from Kim's--somewhere between 2:00 and 2:15 this morning. I finally had Will laying down by 3:15, approximately. His dad and mom walked through the door, I would say, about 4:00. Well, Will and I have been up since 9:00 / 9:30. I have fixed breakfast, took a dog out, read Will a book, and now sit here typing (with some interruption to tend to Will). Thinking it is time to get his parents up. Kung Fu Panda isn't keeping him happy. Mum (as he calls me) is tired, very tired.

I was surprised that Kyla didn't come over Saturday to spend the night, her weekly ritual. I am happy that she didn't, there wouldn't have been enough room for the three of us on the couch while we slept. Sleep overs are always on the couch. I guess I'll post the poem I revised last night here for my faithful followers. The poem, "Two Stones," is a huge revision, taking an old poem "At Another Stone," which was about the funeral of my two uncles, turned into a poem about the two types of "resting." I don't want to say much more about the revised poem because I want your input.

Two Stones

1.a
Evening fails to end the day.
Starlight and moonlight stand over me.
In the church, an urn stares at forty people.
The last bee flutters over a flower.
In the cemetery, a casket blindly looks at the tent ceiling.
I can only mix these two days into a moment 
when the urn resides within the casket. At each moment 
the preacher says, “. . . bow our heads,”

2.a
and only the motion happens.
I’m looking at the flowers and wandering with my feet
the intention of this day when he says,
“I do,” and I follow. The preacher gives his blessing,
collects his twenty dollars, and two signatures
record the record of the gathering, a gathering
which could come

1.b 
from the sorrowfulness. It is only fitting to bury
ashes with the embalmed.
I can’t help remembering words: “his huge body 
splayed over a Lazy Boy; an Arby’s bag below 
his left hand on the floor; the television 
sounding “Bad Boys” as the coroner
pronounced him dead.” The last time I saw him

2.b 
he limped with a moderate gut and a cane. His disability
locking his mind up into believing
his body couldn’t do, wouldn’t do: too much pain
to deal with; pills lined in the clear
plastic case labeled with days of the week wasted
on swallowing

1.c
pounds of meat for the five years I didn’t see him.
He could have been anything. A voice troubles me
as I hear the speech like a poem:
“He gave whatever he had to a hand out:
a pauper himself and a spender when he saw a want.”
I never knew this man. Maybe it was there,

2.c
not in my little girl eyes of 31 years ago when
he took me to be his bride, 32 years ago when I allowed
him to take me, to take me

3.d
40 years ago for coffee to Sambo’s, where some big-busted 
waitress would laugh and giggle, and he would point out,
“She’s my niece.” I was bait. The seal slides down
as I stand at a distance with my toes facing another stone.

Excitment again

2010-09-10T17:34:00.000-07:00

Strange. It has been a long time since I have been excited about my birthday. It isn't like I am going out anywhere special, or going to have a party at my house. The birthday wishes on FB felt great, being pumped about moving forward, even if don't happen as fast as I want to, the feel of exploration coming to me, is keeping me up and ready, no matter the downside within my home. Happy Birthday to me. And . . . I bought myself clothes from AE! I bought a pair of jeans and a shirt, and I look so thin, even though I have another 40 pounds to go. I feel GREAT!

Excitement

2010-09-01T19:08:00.000-07:00

Getting more excited as each day gets closer to seeing Alpharetta, Georgia. Can't wait. Hope the dreams, hope this goal, isn't dashed. I don't think I've wanted something as much as this for a very long time, nor had the hope I feel in thinking about a move.

I want this to happen soon, but I want it to happen smoothly. Future set time is good, I believe.

2010-08-29T09:25:00.000-07:00

I have just read, "I have but a few minute before the cafe closes, consequently this will not be the most eloquent post I've written (if ever I have written an eloquent post). The search for a graduate school continues. I am in the process of planning a road trip to Rochester, New York to visit the University of Rochester. I am excited by the adventure, fearful of the risks involved, and quite frankly baffled as to why I am going. The univerisity has shining points, as does any university, but it doesn't feel like a perfect match, at least not logically. I keep returning to the university homepage and reading the content as if something new will emerge. But the courses, the faculty, the program remain the same. I look at other programs, but my heart returns to Rochester. Why is this?" posted by "creativity in community.

Dear Creativity in Community:
It seems our group will be permanently separated in a short while. I, on my adventures in looking for a full time position, have fallen in love with Alpharetta, GA. There are several colleges in the area, and I am willing to work in three of the colleges part time to stay there. When I look at positions elsewhere, at areas with several colleges to work in, I always return to Alpharetta. I have started the journey of emerging myself with the people by inviting those that on FB to befriend me. It sadness my heart to leave here, but I know I must take this journey. Whenever a pastor had spoken about a "calling," I halfheartedly understood what he meant. Now I know. It isn't so much a want to go, although that is definitely behind the decision, but it is a "feeling" that calls to you no matter the reasons for not leaving. I believe this will be the place I will be able to "spread my wings." If I fail to get to Alpharetta--I will not fail!--my heart will run dry. I know, in my heart, Fort Wayne is not the place for me to stay, for many reasons. The reasons to go and the reasons to stay are evenly weighed until I take into account "What do I want, what do I feel, what is my dream, what about ME?" I discovered a part of me, it is time to discover the rest of me. Creativity in Community, together, our separate ways, we have made the right decisions and share a great journey!

Three Rivers Festival

2010-07-12T18:38:00.000-07:00

Went to the parade! Made it to the Chalk Walk, without a square, and managed to pick up two small squares for the children to do. I don't know how to upload pictures to the post. If I figure it out, you will see a purple tree (Ginet's), a balcony with a sunset (Brianna's), and a crane (Anna's, Dawn's [Anna's mom, not me], Anna's sisters--Ruby and Grace, and my granddaughter's--Brianna and Kyla did together). The crane was to commemorate the Miami tribe.

I figured it out!

Sorry; it would take forever to rotate this picture before I could post it--I don't know all the ins and outs of my Mac yet, not as well as Gin does.

We had fun, lots of fun.

No, I didn't do any of the art work this year. I kept an eye on the little one, and the two granddaughters hard at work. Next year, when I don't forget to sign up for two large squares, I'll plan something out to do.

Hope you all come down next year, find us. This is a tradition for us now. The only way I won't be there is if I'm in the hospital or dead.

I'm adding other art work that caught my eye. While the one piece isn't fabulous as artistry goes, I find the piece the best: all done by children. Enjoy.

My favorite.

Two Parties in One Day

2010-07-04T11:05:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a full day. I hadn't planned on being out all day. That statement should tell you I was gone aaaaaalllllll day. First, to cousin Mike's (hubby's cousin), where chicken, hot dogs, and hamburgers were made on the grill, a good amount of a noodle salad I've never had before, potato salad, and fruit fruit fruit! Stayed at Mike's four hours talking to people I haven't seen for a year, some more--and attempting to put what child went with what parent. While there, I was informed by my sister-in-law that Paul (brother-in-law) was having a cook out. The two parties only blocks from each other. So, Gin, Kyla, and I went to Paul's. I hadn't planned on staying long, just dropping by to say hello. We did leave, only to come back because Gin wanted to see Jimmy (a boy who took some interest in her before), who came in with her two cousins as we were leaving. And on top of it, my bladder struck. I turned around. We didn't leave until 9:30 or 10:00. (Nephew) Corey had all three of his daughters with him, the littlest I've only seen in pictures; and (nephew) Chris was there as well: took me an hour to realize it was him, it had been soooooo long since I've seen him. I played some poker, a game I haven't played since my teen years. Forgotten soooooo much. Corey, found me a cheat sheet. Needless to say, I lost track of time, was supposed to babysit for a few hours (little Tadan) that night. Then, there were two calls, no make that four calls (two while at Mike's, two while at Paul's) from hubby insisting I wasn't supposed to be out all day, that the replacement fridge needed my attention, and he wanted his $10.00. After the last call, I was so distracted, I couldn't concentrate on the game. Why is it he wants to spoil any fun I may have. I'm sure his sister, his nephews, and their wives caught my words: "I'm with your family!" (I'm sure they all caught the meaning behind that one.) I know all those phone calls were more than wanting his bit of allowance for the month. His words were, before I left that day, "They all are drunks ya know!" Yeah, the family was drinking, but none were plastered. The only thing I feel guilty about is forgetting about babysitting. The rest perturbs me.

Movies I would normally not watch

2010-06-26T16:26:00.000-07:00

I'm not a fan of more to true / real life movies filled with violence, killing, blood, and all the ugliness that comes with violence. Of course I have those few I don't mind watching: all Lethal Weapon movies is just one group I can think of. A recent movie came to me this weekend. I watched to just watch it: Boondock Saints. Is there something wrong with me?

Another type of movie I don't seriously care for are horror movies. One exception (I think it is horror, sci-fi horror), Predator movies (not AVP, just Predator movies), especially the one with Glover in it.

I do see a pattern here: Danny Glover. However, I can't say it isn't Danny Glover. I like him as an actor, yes, but . . . I just fell for Boondock Saints II (awaiting to see Boondock Saints I).

I know, I know, you are all saying I am a sci-fi nut; well, not the horror side of sci-fi. Will not, refuse to watch Alien! Any of those movies. I think, maybe, it is the humor in the movies, taking the tension out of what is happening. I really don't know.

Okay, I must admit, much of sci-fi has violence in it, i.e., Star Wars, Star Trek, blah blah blah. However, there is a difference in the for aforementioned movies to the movies just mentioned: the reality. But you know say, how can sci-fi horror bother me when it isn't reality? Hmmm, because I know almost all the characters are going to be killed by the end of them movie, and the whole movie is going to be about blood and guts everywhere!!

Well, there it is in a nutshell. It doesn't matter if it you can't make sense of it, I had to write it.

Hope to see you all at the movies.

Attempting to keep my writing habit whole

2010-06-22T15:48:00.000-07:00

I go through these damn stages where I don't want to write a damn thing. When I do this, I feel bored, so bored, that I do the unthinkable: eat. Then, when I want to write, something always gets in my way. I can never have a happy medium. Okay, I didn't get to pick up my novel this morning to revise as I wanted. Tomorrow seems as if my time will be spent dealing with medicaid, again! Not for husband this time, for daughter. It is a never ending battle! My daughter is supposed to be on medicaid disability. For some odd reason they had her on something else I guess, and now are canceling her services. Well, here is to a week worth of phone calls that will begin tomorrow, a week worth of being jumped from place to place and being put on hold.

Argh! Okay. Back to the title. Well, just to write about anything is better than nothing; and as I stated in the post prier to this one, limited funds in replenishing my other artful activity: painting--haven't had the chance to get the chalk out yet, too much damn rain! I mess with the chalk outdoors. Don't bring it indoors if at all possible. Still can't find my wood. Can't make my hats right now because my last needle broke (the needle that helps hide all the straggling yarn to be tied off).

Hmmm, I did get The Required Silence of Women sent out to two places (or was it three?). I did so much research and inquiries, I can't remember if I managed a third place. Also, The Beasthood was sent to two places. Really want to have my novel revised by the end of the summer. I know it will be hard to look for publishers while teaching, but I'll do it somehow. Of course I'm looking right now as well; however, I know it will be a very long process.

Man, the material I am gathering for the paper I want to write! I'm trying to determine exactly what the focus will be! I pulled out two of my old papers from two different classes to combine them. They won't exactly be combined, they'll be revamped into one, pulling certain information out, to create a new paper. While doing this research, I noticed that my writing has a flavor for attempting the oral tradition, and find my novel lacking lust. Now I'm questioning who the novel should be geared towards: the reader who is use to the traditional novel, or the reader who is seeking a bit of a challenge? I'm leaning towards the latter.

I guess I've ranted enough today. I guess I did my writing. One days worth of habit done.

Is there something to post?

2010-06-19T15:30:00.000-07:00

Actually, I have not much to give. Boredom strikes me too often. I find myself fighting to be motivated. Those things I want to do I cannot: limited paints, can't find the wood I saved to be creative (think the wood was thrown out when several people was specifically told "do not touch"), the weather interferes with plans, I don't have cable to see the World Cup, car is in need of three hundred dollar repair (so not much traveling done). I attempt to fill the boredom with exercise, walking (which I cannot stand--prefer a bike), writing more gibberish than I normally do, but always scheduling specific times to look for a job, write / revise / edit my words, research Conrad, Harjo, and Cliffton--oral traditions found in their work, and read whatever I want. I don't mind having time on my hand, but I hate not having money, which would enable in filling that time. As for the walk, because I know someone will mention walk to a destination, living where I do makes it difficult to get anywhere--a walk up and down my road is the only safe destination, walking Goshen IS NOT an option (although I see many doing it; drivers don't pay attention well enough, using the gravel berm for a passing lane).

I sit in boredom writing this now, listening to the television in the background, seeing clouds float by out my front door, wondering if I read some more on my research--will I soak it up, or should I sweep the floor to lay out the mats to exercise, take that walk up and down the road, or decide I don't need to be busy today? I wish our pool was up. The pump went out for the . . . whatever it is called that keeps the pool clean.

It has been thunderstorms outside while tornadoes inside.

2010-06-05T08:56:00.000-07:00

Let me clarify the title. First, the roof needs to be "replaced"; second, after the roof is replace, ceiling needs to be fixed; third, the refrigerator is about out; fifth, the carpet has been ripped up and the hardwood floor needs to be sanded, plus waxed; fifth, no money for any of it because I am not working. Who said the economy is turning around?

No jobs to find, unless you are a person with limited skills and education. Employers do not want a person with any of it because then the company must pay for those items. If I "don't tell" on my resume, I have lied, then can be fired; if I "do tell" on my resume, the company sets me aside. I'm seriously thinking about taking a course in medical terminology, or something like that, because those seem to be the most prominent jobs currently. Yes, I am applying for positions with colleges. However, I need cash flow now.

On another alphabetic note, I'm trying to work through my . . . non-passion. While I have told my oldest about how I feel towards her father, I know what I have to do and cannot bring myself to talk to him. I think I am hoping for something to change because I am fearful to lose the known, and, also, because I have nowhere to go if he takes nastily to my words. A part of me wants back what there was, while I know much counseling is needed, counseling he won't attend. Not only counseling, but his willingness to do all in his power to "care" for himself, to want to "get out" and be active the best he can, to not sit in his "cave" with the TV going 24 hours, to have friends--he has no friends! Why did I ignore his words many years ago when he said he would like to be a hermit living in the mountains. He might not have the mountains, but he has become the hermit he wished for. I refuse to ask him to go beyond taking pills for his medical problems, I refuse to mention counseling due to his responses from previous problems in our marriages (which I took counseling for alone), I refuse to become angry with him when he smokes (hampering his emphysema more, and possibly becoming cancerous)--he would laugh at me, make jokes about my anger--and I refuse to have that pain he feeds on to make himself feel "wanted." Since he has enclosed himself, since he has taken the downturn years ago, the words "who are you seeing; who is your boyfriend" has left his lips all too often, and yet, he does nothing to change such a possibility. I do not like this difficult situation: while I am thinking about myself, I am handling the situation delicately, as to not overly upset any of my children. I only wish I had another to talk to that has been here, and how she (even a he) has handled it. My mind keeps playing on "31 years of marriage" and the dream of "until death do we part." Correct me if I am wrong, but we have already parted, haven't we? Isn't death of emotion and being "in" love as much as physical death? I do need to go away for awhile to think this through thoroughly. I feel fake living in my own home.

Lightning Strike

2010-06-02T13:07:00.000-07:00

Ginet and I woke up just before the storm began, hurrying about to get the dogs out before the poured. As Ginet stepped outside, the rain began, not too hard, but big drops. She knew she couldn't leave Phoenix out, and I was preparing to take Champ out, who also needed to be walked. I stood at the door watching briefly because I couldn't find the other leash, knowing that we would have to quickly switch out dogs. No thunder was near, only rumbling in the way distance. As Phoenix relieved himself, a bolt of lightning came down about six yards from Ginet and Phoenix. There was no time to react; all I could do was stand and watch. Ginet screamed, nothing came out of my mouth, Phoenix bucked. After realizing that neither was hurt, and they realizing they were still standing, both came running into the house. Ginet was having a panic attack. The flash was blinding! Ginet said there was a bird right next the the strike, but wasn't hit. Only half the house lost power: how strange.

Later that day, we went out to search for the strike area. A small tree was struck at the base. With the tall pine and oak in our front yard, how did it hit there, or how did it miss the transformer about 10 yards away? I never want to be that close to a lightning strike again!

About the last entry

2010-05-29T15:38:00.000-07:00

Bad poem, I know. It was a line that kept going through my head, wouldn't leave me alone until I did something with it. This was the place to put it since I can't share such information outright publicly. I finally told my oldest how I feel. I thought she would react with anger, but she didn't. Her hubby had it figured it, talked to her about it before I ever said anything. I figured he would because he watched his parents go through. . . . I'm not prepared to tell my other three as of yet, nor Garry, not until I can find a job that can actually support me. I have sneaky suspicion Garry will make me leave the house, and ask "Who He is?" There is no other, unless He is work, manuscripts, grandchildren, the child still at home, and caring for Garry. I don't want to be in this house right now. I imagine the day I only come by to check on Garry, make sure things are being done, and to visit, nothing more. Talking about this will make it easier, I hope, to tell the others, especially Garry.

When a Love Song Doesn't

2010-05-22T22:14:00.000-07:00

A beginning of poem, possibly?
Yes?
When a love song doesn't
make you tingle,
When a love song doesn't
bring the image,
any image,
an image that once stood vivid
in the eye,
Has the heart turned cold?

A love song you say?
A great poem to cry to?
Yes?
When a love song doesn't
make your stomach flutter,
When a love song doesn't
sound like joyous chorus in the ear,
Has the turned to ice?

A love song isn't love without love?
Are the words only a scrambled alphabet?
Is there any meaning to the scrambling?
Yes?
When a love son cannot
sound like hope,
When a love song cannot
promise a fluttering heart,
When a love song cannot
feel the air with the aroma of romance,
Has the heart lost all soul?

2010-05-09T18:27:00.000-07:00

I have finished reading Troy's Creative Community. I remember the days with children young, active, and too busy for me to be busy except with them. Today I finished posting grades for students. Today I enjoyed searching for publishers and agents. Today my thoughts were my own. Today, I didn't know what to do with myself. Life is change, and I am now learning how to slow down. As children grow up to become their own, I have less to do. I have grandchildren that come, but they soon go home. If I don't want to go anywhere, usually I don't have to go. Life is looking different as I figure out what I will do, what I am doing, and looking for the job to carry ME through. Yes, I said me, not we, not us; however, there is still the responsibility, but the job I look for isn't to satisfy the we, only the I. I is now more in the foreground than the background. Life has changed, and more change is to come. Strange, thinking I instead of We.

Realization

2010-04-13T08:21:00.000-07:00

After some thoughtful conversation in my journal, I have realized that my husband has given up on making himself better, or at least enjoyable. All the information he has been given to keep his body active and in less pain (while those things often cause pain until a few sessions have been done), has been rejected by him. He is even back to smoking again: he has emphazima. I can not longer rant and rave only about medicaid issues. However, Plan D through Medicare (I believe) won't pay for one of the medications the doctor is trying out on him now. The medication it is replacing is for . . . I forgot, but anyhow, the medication he was on slowly stopped working, the reason for the change. The medication, out-of-pocket, will cost $23 a month. That isn't bad, but when the dosage goes up, the cost goes up. I don't know how we'll budget it.

Now, I no longer tell him the information I find that can help him, I let him fill his days with medication. I no longer get angry with him when he smokes, he doesn't care. I can no longer ask him to try because he has ignored me. I wonder how long it will take before he realizes I don't care anymore.

Thoughts

2010-04-08T12:46:00.000-07:00

It seems I have come to an inpass. There are those items that must be done, those items that will be done, those items I do not want to do, and those items where questions arise. I am there. Too many questions without any defining answers, without any defining evidence to help me through, and with a few, questions I can do nothing about because the control of the situation isn't left up to me. Maybe the title of this page should be frustration. With all the items at my doorstep, I have a sinus infection and ear infection, and a new perscription for my glasses that I am attempting to get use to all on top, my mind . . . well. I feel like a wishy washy sea urgent bobbling along wherever the waves want to take me, both physically and emotionally. The items and illness made me feel like I put in two days yesterday. I awoke this morning thinking I forgot to go to work yesterday, thinking yesterday was Thursday, not Wednesday. I hate waking in a panic. I know, all of you will tell me to slow down. Had nothing to do with me attempting to do too many things at once, it had to do with having too much on my mind (knowing what has to be done and what I can't do). Glad that summer is not far away.

One thing I did do for myself last night was to watch a movie. 2012 is a suspensival funny movie. I didn't find the movie overly serious because, first of all, the theory concept given in the movie wasn't working for me. The character building was awful. While I felt the suspense, I also found humor in most of it (except for the final plea for all the lives waiting to board the huge arks).

Enough said about the movie. Enough said about those items. Now, I ask (those who have the time to do so) that you read some of my work I have recently posted on lukiaskywritingtobefree.blogspot.com.

Death

2010-03-26T08:34:00.000-07:00

The past week, the family's oldest dog as been ill. First we thought he dug into the hamhock bones tossed in our pile for fertilizer. Now, today, we know that he is coming to the end. The old man, as we have come to call him, is 14 years old. While some will be upset because we didn't take him to a vet to have him put down, first I must say is tat dying of old age is a natural stage of being, secondly, a person must have the cash to do so. As a human, I prefer to die at home with people I know. Do animals think this way? I don't know. Then there is the family leaving it up to mom to do the "necessary" chore. If they cannot do the necessary chore, what makes them think I can? Did I talk myself out of it, did I cop out with the words I wrote above? Yes. No. I did my best.

Since I Have Faced the Words Aloud

2010-03-10T08:54:00.000-08:00

I have come to say a few words aloud. Those words have helped in finding perspective, in knowing what I need to do for my own sanity. I have said these words aloud to those who I converse with on regular basis, finding comfort in not being judged. Now, when the time comes, to say those words to those closes to me. Here lies the hardest part of equation.

Emotional Train

2010-02-21T09:47:00.000-08:00

Okay, it is official, I am an emotional train running towards the end of the track with nothing to stop me. I can see the cliff, and the part of me that wants to stop isn't powerful enough, or there isn't enough of the want to stop. Maybe a good crash is what I need. I will keep going on this track, looking for an alternate track, in hope that there is an end without a cliff. With my luck, there will be a wall, a giant wall. The question to asks myself, which is worse? I have to go somewhere because stagnation is eating me alive. I prefer to die trying, in doing, in going forward, regardless of the harm that meets me, regardless of the heart aches others may have over my decisions.

Today is . . .

2010-02-05T12:30:00.000-08:00

First Friday, where a local author reads his or her work. I go to this event regular. I will not miss tonight either, regardless of how I feel right now.

I have been seriously moody lately. I was nearly crying walking through WalMart today when came across something that reminded me of how . . . . In the car the country song played, "Turn the lights down low . . . ." I cried. My daughter, thank God, didn't notice. She isn't feeling well, so her mind was wrapped up in getting home after picking up her meds. Now, I'm reading different post: on the blog, on myspace, on facebook, and listening to the quiet in the house that doesn't happen often. I am crying. I don't want to go anywhere tonight, but will. No, I should say, I don't want to take myself anywhere, I want someone else to take me somewhere. Don't ask the difference. If you don't understand that statement, I am not explaining it.

Ginet is sleeping in her room. Will is asleep on the couch. Garry is sleeping in the bedroom with the T.V. blaring, as usual. David and Anna are doing their job of crossing children at busy intersection after school.

I finally gave up on Garry. He refuses to keep cigarettes away from his lips, and he refuses to attempt any physical therapy to help his body. I can't stop him from NOT caring about himself. He is back to smoking three or four cigarettes a day. The pack a day won't be far behind and I will be fighting to keep him from spending money we don't have. It is coming. I am getting closer to walking away. I cannot take this. What else can I say. And don't give me that load of garbage of prayer right now. Not working. Garry doesn't wasn't to listen to any other "will" but his own. I am depressed, but keep it hid from all in my family. I cannot listen to any of them, and I will not have them . . . making excuses, attempting to make me feel better with whatever actions they may think appropriate. I don't think I can explain why my family can't know, other than what they will do will not be the right way, no matter how much love is put into it. Yes, you can all tell me to speak to Garry; if he isn't listening to me about how I care about his health, about us, then whatever I have to say about how I feel right now isn't going to be heard. I guess, it is time to move on however I can. I don't want to do this! I just don't! When I come to my final decision, all will be mad and disgusted with me (well, at least my children will be, and Garry's family). Yes, yes, yes: love and cherish till death parts us. But what if one has decided on his way as . . . . ?

Forgive me.

Rambling; what this page was made for. Why am I not party material?

2010-02-01T12:01:00.000-08:00

I've been wanting to post many many things, but don't find the time, or I have someone looking over my shoulder that I don't want there. Those that come to this blog I trust enough to share with. This is why my family does not know this site, because they will be pestering me about all types of things, and complaining about what I said. I say things here because I am working through them and because my friends that know about this blogsite give insightful thoughts about whatever it is I say.

Dear friends, I miss you all terribly. It is wonderful when we can get together. I feel badly when I do discuss what is going on, but it feels great to bounce my worries, my WORDS off of you, even if you don't have a reply. Thank you. Right now I should be reading my students' one page papers (about 45 left--they had three due last week), about half of what I received. I don't even have the gumption to focus on Ginet's studies. I have seen the doctor twice for a cyst on my back. The cyst came infected after Ginet tried to squeeze it out because it looked like a blackhead. Last Friday, the doctor cut it open, but it wouldn't drain, thus having to work on it by pressing on its sides, actually squeezing it to force it out the large hole she created. The damn thing didn't want to come out. She left the incision, packed it with gauze, a tail hanging out, hoping for the thing to drain on its own. It didn't. I went back this morning. I had my oldest come with me because I feared that I would need to go to the hospital. The doctor had to push on the cyst more, working the substance out. She was unable to get it all. This means, in time, I'll have to go in for surgery. Probably this summer. The dilemma is . . . . I am not insured. The doctor charged me half last week by paying cash upfront, and nothing today. I really appreciate this! I need a second job just to make ends meet and put food on the table. As it stands, Garry's income coming from SS and Ginet's SSI, then my part time money from IPFW is more than food stamps will allow! Garry and I do not have massive credit card debt: yes I have two, but manageable, both will be paid off shortly and kept for establish good credit again. All other bills deal with day to day living: house, utilities, cars, and insurances. Which do I not pay? Right now, I am on the edge of tears. I do not know where to go from here. I also now I need eye care, and dental care. Garry has some dental care needed that medicaid won't pay for. Ginet will be there soon because she is no longer under the listing of "child," once she is "out-of-school." My tax return will pay for half of my property taxes; thus, meaning, I will need to borrow more (where I took a loan out to get my car fix when Vincent hit someone: the my $1,000 deductible) to pay my property tax: last years! This doesn't include this years! I take care of all the paper work for Garry and Ginet, and have started to take care of some of the issues for my parents that have to be done online--they refuse to learn how to do things on a computer. And then, I look for work. By the time I am done, I don't have much time to work on publication (both books and academic articles). I want to RUN AWAY!

This has felt wonderful! Exactly what I created this blog for: ranting! It didn't solve much, but it has helped relieve some pressure, just a little.

Still can't focus on the papers. My back hurts: burns and itches, and constantly feels as if a knife is stuck in it. I don't know if I'll make it to class to teach tomorrow: my muscles are sore. If I can't find someone to drive me to work and home, and help lug all the papers, I'm not going to be able to. My daughter showed me how much the doctor took out from the area. The substance was the size of a half dollar in width, and at lease an eighth of an inch thick. The doctor showed me the depth of the cyst, which is a little more than from the tip of the pinkie finger to a little past the first knuckle. My daughter has to clean it once a day for me with peroxide on a q-tip, taking the q-tip into the wound in a circular motion. I am not looking forward to this at all! This wound will take a couple of weeks to heal, and it has to heal from the inside out, meaning I must pull the wound open to keep the skin from closing over the top for at least the first week, maybe more. I won't know until after Friday's visit.

I need a fun night out! I need to forget everything for at least a whole night! A night out as my daughter does with friends (without the stumbling drunk, puking activity). I have realized, as growing up, I had friends, but never had friends (except for one or two for a couple of years) where I could go out and goof off, be dumb and silly, be slap happy and down on the floor rolling with laughter at dumb shit fun. People didn't see me that way. Hell, my husband even said he wouldn't ask me to go party with his friends because "You're not the type; you'd be a lost puppy." I remember one good friend, where we had a blast whenever we were together. I loved it. Later, I found out, she enjoyed being with me, but sense I wouldn't get into the drug scene, she never invited me to go along with any of her other friends. I appreciate it, I do, and I'm glad I was never placed in that situation. However, I always felt like an outsider, and was always called "goody" (how is it spelled?) "too shoes." Why does everyone assume that someone who doesn't do drugs, nor drink, and keeps a morale belief while having fun doesn't know how to have fun? I like dark humor at times; I enjoy the good sexual joke occasionally; I like to pull pranks; I'm a Red Skelton fan! What wasn't funny about him?

OHHHH! must not keep going on about this. Tammy, I miss you. June, I miss you. Gran'ma, I miss you. Two of you are far away, and one of you will never be close again. I feel lonely way too often. I'm tired of being alone in a room full of people. Garry, I miss you. I want to touch and cuddle and wrestle, and do all those things we use to do. Damn, I want the end of all that fun as well: might as well say it--sex, making love! I'm tired of faking; I'm tired of being strong; I'm tired, just tired emotionally. The only joy (once getting myself to the classroom) is teaching, and watching my daughter have fun, watching my grandchildren enjoy life. I deserve much much much more!

Yeah, I'm feeling seriously down. I need to, or I am going to burn out. This crying is wonderful. Thank you for reading, if you have found your way here, if you have decided to read through.

See you all on First Friday.

First Day Back in the Class for Spring 2010

2010-01-12T20:02:00.000-08:00

Felt good to be in front of new students, and then again, I wanted to be home working on the house, my manuscripts, and my hats, plus pushing Ginet a little harder in her studies. Damn, not enough time to do all those things you want and "need." Something always gets lost.

Lost in revision

2010-01-04T15:15:00.000-08:00

Not the revision I want to be working on; it is the revision of the syllabus. I've decided to eliminate the Essay Project and allow extra time for the first two projects. After three semesters of four projects, I realize the first two projects fail in getting the results I want. One problem, the first two projects means longer papers. Oh, well, I think I will succeed in doing this because the Research Project will now have a full annotated bibliography. I'll make the Essay Project a journal assignment requiring three full pages. I like the Essay Project because it made the students actually look at the required readings more closely to answer specific questions.

No more about the syllabus. I'm here to rant about medicaid once again. I want something more like "real" insurance. I'm so tired of all the spend down garbage. We are not making enough money to spend out up front! Why can't the system just say $10 co-pay? With a $750 spend down, how much does that come to per month if split up into a co-pay? Someone want to do the math for me? It would be easier to plan on visits when the budget is set up for it, then to spend out $750 whenever. What is the reality of medicaid? There is none. I know this. There is never a reality side to the government. Okay, $64.25 is much easier to dole out once a month, or each visit then to worry if I have $250 for a visit.

doing nothing is creative

2009-12-28T21:14:00.000-08:00

yeah, i just thought of it while i sat down to right. i'm lazy tonight. no capitals will be used, and if possible i will not hit the shift key to make any special characters. i'm going to stay lazy. wasn't sure what i was going to write here. i only knew that i had to write, either here or in my journal, or work on my book that i've decided to entitle 'silence satisfies requirements.' well, as you can see, i am here, but that doesn't mean i won't be elsewhere after here.

any who, i'm supposed to be ranting about all those things that has to be done to fulfill requirements to keep my husband on medicaid. Here is one, and it is huge:
     a person is given ten days from the date of the letter to retrieve and send in all required information.
     sometimes the letter doesn't come until two days before the end of the date stamped on the letter.
     then there is the travel time to collect that information when a person is already living on nothing,
          besides the time taken (usually) away from work to get the required information because it can
          only be obtained during business hours.
     if it isn't all the above, there is the cost to send either by mail (which doesn't mean it will get to the
          government on time) or by faxing: although a person can go to an office in the city to have it
          fax, but often the people in the office forget or mix up the paperwork, thus the information isn't
          obtained by the main office in marion on time.
today, to send out all the required information needed, it cost me 28 dollars (to make sure the information was in marion today, the ten days after stamped on the letter. 28 dollars i could have spent for food or cleaning products needed in my home.

now, do you call this efficiency for those in need?

well, i will close with this: the one extravagant gift bought last year is going to be played, Wii (eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee).

Zachary Reinhoehl

2009-12-27T15:35:00.000-08:00

I titled this blog with a name. Let me describe this young man who has walked into my daughter's life. the first words that comes to mind is "sweet." Next is "knowledge." Then comes "knowing himself," as much as any person could know him- / her- self. Sadly, I have to say, Ginet may not be ready for such a "man," seriously. She is so unsure of herself at this point, and her knowledge of the new developments dealing with her disability, plus still working through the issues of the ex, along with an interest in another young man (who is currently serving) in the U.S. has her confused. Mom can only sit and watch. Ginet has talked to me some: "I like him, and I like Tom, but I haven't met Tom. I want to meet Tom, and . . . . I said friends right now, but . . ." Why do I share this? This young man doesn't come off as fake. He doesn't avoid eye contact. He answers questions without veering from the question. However, he may be a good con; however, there appears to be something very genuine about Zach. If he is the best thing to come along for Ginet, I hope God allows him to have the stamina to stick out the ride.

Just Sitting: Don't answer those questions: I am

2009-12-27T15:15:00.000-08:00

When I started this post, all I had was "Just Sitting." I left the post with the title. Don't even remember what this post was supposed to be about. But I've taken up the advice of Michelle and Troy about stopping in the middle of a sentence or project to come back to it later. Here I am, just sitting, as the title says, pondering the semester coming, pondering the interview on Wednesday, pondering medicaid, pondering Ginet's "friend" who I have found to be wonderful--I hope he is everything that he appears to be so far, pondering Garry's mood that has been seriously bitter and rude, pondering why I haven't been able to read any of the books I want to or why I can't get into my book. Maybe this will loosen up my mind and allow for otherness.

Have any of you watched "Monsters vs Aliens"? I and Ginet had a good laugh last night. The ending is great! We kept saying we need to send it to Derek! The whole ending to the story relates to Derek in every possible way. And the character's name, which is supposed to marry the character Susan, is named Derek. Ginet's new friend was with us, and he got a kick out of us laughing our asses off at the end of the movie. Yeah, he knows about the ex.

Now, pondering again while I sit here, just sit here letting my fingers let out anything that they want, such as clpgen;acnen vopaeh vepohadl, jepohte: did any one get that? Ha ha, felt good. Nonsense has its worthiness sometimes. So does randomness. The Kingdom of Randomness can be the greatest kingdom of all; wouldn't you agree?

Wonder why adult children won't clean? So do I. Wondering when adult children decide that cleanliness is actually next to Godliness? Poor cliche to use. How about, when does adulthood lose slobbingness? Don't attempt to answer any of those questions; you're brain will stop functioning in one minute. Promise, I know this to be true.

Okay okay. Can I get more random than I already am? I am random. Randomness is me. I am the woods and I am the pastor. I am the tree and I am the granite. I am the stillness and I am the aggravation. I am all and I am none. I am random when life is the most stressful, my mind fused and chipped into phrases that fall like fall leaves: my selfhood attempting to survive with multi-personalities finding themselves on my tongue; telling myself to shut up when one decides to speak, and usually when it isn't the time or place: I can't have someone hear my inner-beings struggling. I am an ocean roaring inside the I am the river flowing outside; I am who I do not appear to be; I am exactly as I appear to be; I am as I am as you are and are not: I am every letter in every alphabet without escape to speak. I am just sitting as I am: don't answer who I am.

Letting Go Is So Hard

2009-12-27T14:56:00.000-08:00

Ginet went to a party with a few friends; not a sleep over with girls, a party with guys and girls, older guys and girls, ya know, the party where . . . .

I don't remember when I started this blog, but all went fine. Her friends are protective: those who know about her disability. At least, so far, they have been good friends. I don't think she realizes how lucky she is sometimes.

To the Young Man Full of Random Act of Kindness

2009-12-06T09:19:00.000-08:00

I noticed the words "random act of kindness" on "Life As I See It" blog, and thought about the young man that befriended my daughter as she dated Derek. He has talked to no matter what happened or what she said; has said things to her that needed to be heard and she took them; has become a long life friend I am sure for my daughter. Now, I call that random act of kindness, especially when he has indicated how much he cares for her, and how much more he would like to have. His discussions, after she made it clear that friendship was all there would ever be, have been about being friends, about life in general, about each looking out for the "other" and what they want in life. This young man has not made a scene or pushed her into making a choice, hasn't pushed her away when he found out about some issues--my everyday readers will know what I am talking about. He is tremendously aware that he will gain nothing, while I'm sure he wishes. How do I know this? He is dating, and we do talk. I have thanked him over and over again. This wonderful kind young man does have a name: Cody Sprauge. If you see him, if you come across him, tell him his random act of kindness means much.

Sunday after Thanksgiving

2009-11-29T11:00:00.000-08:00

Well, the first Thanksgiving since I've been over 240 lbs that I ate tooooooooo much. Hmmm, serious control needs to take place now. Last night I finished off the pumpkin pie and green bean casserole. Wanting chocolate right now, and know it is a no no. I think I put on five lbs, maybe more. Damn, there goes that 180 barrier I just broke. No more goodies, no more extra eating until Christmas. Have lots of hard work ahead of me. I hate it when I fall from willpower. Water, tea (without sweetener of any type), and coffee (without sweetener of any type) have become my best friends again. I may have the occasional hot cocoa, made from scratch so I can take out some sugar. I don't mind the bitter chocolate taste, in fact, I prefer it. I just received a craving for corn bread with butter melted over the top (real butter). Tell me, do cravings ever stop when you finally reach that ideal weight, or is it a battle for the rest of my life?

Well, back to tummy rumbles during the day and filling up on water, tea, and coffee, plus carrots, celery, lettuce, bananas, and other fruits that won't cost me an arm and a leg.

GOOD NEWS GOOD NEWS GOOD NEWS

2009-11-24T20:45:00.000-08:00

Ginet isn't pregnant! Whew! A relief.

However, while she celebrates the negative, feelings for Derek keeps dropping in. We talk about him when she needs to, but I don't mention it otherwise. Spooky thing though: she came across a blond look-a-like! Man, the blond and him could be brothers! (Oh, Derek is a red head.)

Another good note: a new mattress for Garry and my bed, which means I will be back in the bedroom. We do need a bigger bed, but the mattress was the big problem. For him to get the support he needed, he had to "nest" himself, and two nesters don't sleep well in the same bed. Doesn't matter what type of mattress I have, I still nest. Now, the next thing to deal with is getting him to keep the tv off all night, and keeping the heat down. Don't get me wrong, I love to be warm, but when I sleep, the heat sucks! Let me cover up some. Usually he is the one with the heat down low, usually the one with the air blasting in the summer, but not lately. Think the meds have something to do with it; not sure. Plus, now, no reading in bed. It is so funny; I can't have the tv on, but he can't have study light on. Well, neither can I when I lay down to sleep; I can't have any lights on, and absolutely no sound except nature. Oh how I wish we were further out. 69 sometimes keeps me up at night with those semis and bikers.

Time to say, tootle doo; up to late already.

Dream or Not to Dream

2009-11-16T20:33:00.000-08:00

"The Cheek of God" spoke on a dream he had recently. His words made me think about the dream I had early this morning.

If I had time I would go into the dream full detail. Here is the short version. Remember the remake of "War of the Worlds"? I haven't watched that movie for over a year now, but anyhow, I see the ships shining their little lights to the ground searching and sucking up people. I suggest everyone go into the basement and get under the concrete flooring (our house has wood floors, except for one room). I see people outside fascinated taking pictures, making the whole scene a family outing. My dream jumps from herding the family to the basement to me being a slave by the alien race. I remember helping helping someone find an escape route, lying to my master who doesn't know about the underground tunnel, but never attempt to escape myself. I haven't been under their "control" for long. I'm dressed all in white. Many of us are herded out a door. I look for my slice on comfy shoes but am told that I do not need them, slaves are not allowed footwear. I say I need them. The master's reply, or at least one of them, "Where you are going, the journey you are taking, you will not need them." I remember thinking, "Why didn't I try to escape, why am I so complacent and willing to go with the flow, as if I don't have a mind of my own, and still help others." I don't like this dream. It frightens me. I say, "Dawn wake up, this is only a dream, this cannot be real. Wake up. If I don't wake, . . . ." My eyes open facing the wall. Am I relieved! While the dream had no violence, violence of some sort lurked about in the calm demeanor of the masters and the other slaves who had no will to escape. I did not want to go there but followed, looking back, remembering children and a husband as if another life, as if in a far off land, listening to screams in the far distance as we were led off on a road of white.

Now, interpret that!

Looking for extra work / hours

2009-11-14T15:59:00.000-08:00

Every time I decide to make an effort to just take the car for a round of "who is hiring," something stops me: usually myself because I'm too tired or frustrated, or just bummed out; last minute details I forget for the students; someone needs my attention; not enough gas in the car and no extra money to put into it. I don't want to go back to a factory, no security; I can't stand on my feet for long hours: back, knee, and angle issues; tired of being tired. Excuses, yes, I know. Mentally, I can't take on a "real" thinking job; physically, my body won't accept much. Damn, I want to make more money, I just don't want to die for it. Another dilemma: make more money and Garry's medicaid / medicare gets changed, putting more cost on us. Without me making an extra $1,500 a month, what we would have to pay out would harm us more than help us. I do need full time work that pays well. I've been pushing the children to "care" for Garry more, but that isn't happening either. Now I'm thinking about filing as a full time caregiver to Garry and teach one or two classes if allowed. This way I know Garry is being cared for, the house is kept up so he can walk through. I still haven' t given up the idea of applying for work that would require me to relocate: Garry just won't go; so that means the children would have to tend to him, do what has to be done. This whole job issue and dealing with Garry's medical issues really rubs me every day. I'm tired of living from day to day like an animal searching to fill its stomach.

I had a conversation with my son-in-law today: we talked about what . . . crap! forget the presidents name during the depression . . . did to get the economy going again. Much of what we talked about was a socialist approach, which FDR--there it is!--used. Son-in-law is a history buff, and I remembered some things from readings (outside of the classroom for reports), but a point was made in the conversation: spread the wealth; time to close the gap between the poor and the rich. Within this conversation he mentioned a friend who said, "Then you'll make this a class society." Hell, we already are; what was my son-in-law's friend thinking! Brainwashed was the first word that came into mind. Why are Americans so closed minded?

The Blahs

2009-11-13T13:53:00.000-08:00

Don't know why I feel so down. Feeling stuck I guess. I don't want to do anything but curl up with a few books. No TV, no students' papers, no phone calls, nothing but me and a few books until I finish them. When does Christmas get here? I'm ready for the end of the semester.

I've been contemplating . . .

2009-11-08T10:19:00.000-08:00

on whether to post the situation my daughter now has herself in. I've been really proud of her, still am, but . . . . The best I can say is "A ONE NIGHT STAND!" What The Hell Was She Thinking! Of course, I understand it a little: the affection and attention of another surrounding her whole being; and it didn't help that the young man came out of a bad relationship not long ago himself. Now, we are waiting to see . . . . Imagine what that might be. I haven't told my husband, no sense in worrying him right now. What is happening my not have anything to do with the One Nighter: at least I hope not. To top the whole thing off, medicaid is being slow, dragging its feet on changing her main doctor. Because of this, I can't get her into a doctor yet. Home testing shows negative, but those test aren't all that reliable, are they? She sure all the symptoms. Damn! Double damn! Quadruplet damn! What does "quadruplet" even mean: four or more, or something else; am I using the wrong form; maybe not in this situation; can anyone answer me!!!!!!?
I've been staying calm during all of this, keeping the young man calm as well: "My father will kick me out" scenario. Hell, shit fire, what all can I say less than a FUCK! This is the first I've expressed any of this so far. It felt GOOD.

Etch ‘n’ Sketch

2009-10-31T12:02:00.001-07:00

mom told me about this toy
with a silver window placed
inside a red plastic box
with two white knobs.
she told me how a black line
glided across the window
as you turned the knobs.
i saw a young girl in a movie
turn this box upside down and shake
the sketch away.

i etch with safety pin, dried up pen tips;
sketch my life of pain:
right, past; left, present.

mom wishes she could turn me upside down and shake.

I must ask:

2009-10-30T17:52:00.000-07:00

how does one receive more readers? Michelle, I need to sit down with you so you can show me the ropes of this blogging!

Halloween Party; New Date; Medicaid; Just LIFE; me

2009-10-24T19:33:00.000-07:00

Despite the weather, Ginet's Halloween Party went well. It was indoors, so no bonfire as planned; however, Guitar Hero had a work out. Ginet had a date for her party. She didn't ask him, he asked her; he even contacted her (through a friend). Another date for Ginet! Another step of washing Derek out of her blood.

Garry made it to the doctors this week. The general doctor made him get the two flue shots; said that he caught the flue, either, he would possibly die due to his health. Garry went about two months without some of his medicines because of medicaid. It is a full time job keeping up with medicaid. Is the government going to pay me for my time?

If you're reading this post, please slide down and read "Chickenfucker."

I'm random tonight; please forgive the interchanges.

Garry's pain is high because of the absent medications, and she went through some withdrawal, which caused much turmoil in the house. He wasn't a person to reason with. Talking to pain, and to withdrawal is not easy, and at times impossible. Sometimes I think it would be better for him. . . . I can't even say it. His mind is still fully functional, but the body. . . . I can't imagine being in his shoes. I may have pain everyday in my lower back due to sciatic nerve damage and a torqued tailbone, but I know my pain is nowhere near his.

I'm troubled, though, for myself. I can't afford to get into any physician, and I know I need blood pressure medicine. In the last two years my blood pressure has gone up while my weight has been going down. This doesn't make sense to me. Can anyone tell me what is going on?

Ginet went to the young man's home today. She was angry with me when I asked if an adult would be home. When I picked her up tonight, I asked her what they talked about: Pokemon, and other nerd games. Have a hard time imagining this date being into those things. Being nosy, of course, I asked a few more questions. Yes, they kissed. I asked her how she felt: "Like I'm cheating on Derek." I think she took this step to see how she would react.

Last night when I took a friend of Ginet's home from the party, one of the young men that has been interested in Ginet for a long time, he said: "I like 'C.' They make a cute couple. I wish I wasn't moving, but since I am, I think he is acceptable." I told Ginet: "He wasn't jealous?" I said: "No, he was happy for you." I started to think; maybe her brothers and some of her good guy friends should be filters. Don't guys know guys best?

Something I've been seriously thinking about is taking over the care of a grandchild. I don't want to; I want my freedom from little ones; then there is responsibility for a child that can't say what is best; Garry is getting there as well; how the hell do we do this without causing serious grief for all? I feel like a bad person saying this.

Well, two . . . or is it three? papers to read, and some class planning tonight. Tomorrow I am doing for me! Don't know what yet, but something. I don't want to leave the house, but that may be the only thing I can do. Wish I knew someone I could contact tomorrow to go out somewhere for fun. Don't know of any fun safe place (I don't drink, so what is left open?).

Once again, please scroll down to "Chickenfucker," and leave a comment.

Waiting

2009-10-18T00:02:00.000-07:00

for Ginet to get home from the Haunted Jail. They all left at ten. It is now 2:50. She doesn't has the key; and that reminds me we have to change the locks, Derek took her key and his with him. Hopefully, he lost them. Well, Ginet now has two young men interested in her. One she can't see as anything more than a big brother. The other, well . . . he is working on it. While those two are interested, she has her eyes on three other young men. One problem, they all three live in other states. They talk plenty. Thank goodness for free evenings and weekends!

Tonight she is out with a group. Of course the one young man interested in her is with them. He is a sweet young man. Seems sensible. Has been friends with her brothers for a few years; god father to my grandson.

Damn . . . I can't stay up much longer. I can feel it sitting into my body dragging me down. I was attempting to stay up and get all the students' papers read and graded tonight. No luck in that. Couldn't keep the concentration. Being ill for four days didn't help, and the way it is going now, I'll be ill again from lack of sleep. I guess some students are going to have to wait for their midterm grades. Getting sick at the wrong time doesn't help, and then again, is there a right time to get sick?

I smile to myself, think, isn't it wonderful that Ginet is getting out, not depending on some "guy" to fulfill her day. Although, I know she misses the hugging, the kissing, the . . . , all those things that come with a relationship. She's doing well. I'm proud of her. At least she is being up front with the young man now working on her . . . attention. She told him she isn't ready, she still has feelings for Derek that she needs to work through because when she does go out she feels like she is cheating. As much as she wants another relationship, she knows she isn't ready and it wouldn't be fair to the newby, not excluding herself.

Well all, good morning bed time. Can't wait. She'll have to knock loudly!!!

Chickenfucker

2009-10-15T14:36:00.000-07:00

to Derek
for Ginet

Chicken poop
////// Concealer
////// Corn meal on beef
////// Traveling salesman
//////////////////////// Lay on the grass
//////////////////////// rubbermaid
//////////////////////// tupperware
//////////////////////// No protection in the pocket
///// Cock ////////// Cock /////////// Cock
/////////////////// a doodle
/////////////// everywhere find

Chicken poop
////// Spread eagle ///////// too many
//////////////////////////// times ///////// forms
/////////// promise //////// bells ////////// jewels
//////////////////////////// security ///////////// seafood alfredo
/////////// Brownie points in bonfire
///////////////// melt the chocolate //////////////// let it run
///////////////// fill in the body ///////////// hiding
////// with a broken shell of volunteer fireman
//////////////////////////////////// army

//////////// Don't hate me
//////////// I don't ///////// Love me
//////////// I do, I will

Chicken poop
///// in fear to be
///// in anger . . . runs
///// from self from family from self from girl from self

////////////////////// Eye socket left ripped
//////////////////////////// ripping lungs
//////////////////////////// ripping gut
//////////////////////////// ripping loins
//////////////////////////// promises ripped left ////// behind for
///////////////// Jolie ole sole at the heel of me

Chicken poop
////// Daddy wants to kill
////// Brother wants to kill
///////////////////////// the boy in the shell of a man: Chickenfucker
////// Mom . . . crying, dying for me
/////////////////////////////////// i'm the chick in fuck her

I so wish I could get the spacing in as it appears on my computer. All spacing disappears when I post. Anyone know how to combat this problem? Decided to use "///" to get the lines where they need to be. Hope it doesn't detract much from the poem. The spacing means as much as the words on this page.

Ginet's first date since Derek left.

2009-10-07T19:52:00.000-07:00

This coming Saturday Ginet has a date with a friend of her brothers. A group of guys and gals are going to the Haunted Cave. It was funny how this date came about. It started out dutch, everyone pay for themselves. Then Ginet realized she might not have the money to go after she gets her tattoo done earlier in the day -- Yeah, She Is Getting A Tat! She text the young man to let him she may not be able to go because she may not have the cash. He said he would spot for her. She laughed, realizing that now it was a date, not going as a group. What all of you don't know, this young man has had a crush on her for at least five years. He finally admitted it. He does know that she came out of a long term relationship and isn't looking for anything serious too soon, but he was glad to make it a date. Hope she has fun!

Johnny Appleseed

2009-09-19T08:08:00.000-07:00

Wonder when it will become a holiday here? Maybe we should all start sending out cards saying Happy Johnny Appleseed Day! Send friends and family an apple.

Walking, walking, walking, this is the most walking I do in a day unless I go to Cedar Point. Haven't been there since 1997. Wonder how much has changed. Well, this year I'm looking forward to some good apple treats, esp. caramel apples. A good junk day has come to me! Wonder what a chocolate covered apple would taste like, a dark chocolate covered apple? Anyone courageous enough to make one and try it with me?

Have a Good Johnny Appleseed Day!

Feeling Lonely

2009-09-18T19:41:00.000-07:00

The past two months have been extremely stressful. In the stress I didn't realize how lonely I feel. The past two weeks, since most of my daughter's ex problems have dissipated, I have been feeling the nagging want for a serious conversation and companionship. By writing this I am completely exposing myself. Garry and I have been drifting apart. Most of it is due to his disability. Physically he cannot stand to be touched because of the pain, even while on medication. This does take a toll on a relationship. I am a very physical person, putting it politely. Then, to make the situation worse, he doesn't want to talk. He spends his days watching movies and court shows. To explain the distance that is becoming between us, he found my daughter's condoms in my pantie drawer. I honestly can't remember why they were there. There are two reasons that I can think of: one, my daughter didn't want her brother to use them up; two, I found them thrown on the floor and hid them from her for being irresponsible. Either way, they were there. Now, imagine what Garry insinuated from finding the condoms. This was four days ago, and he is still mad at me. I guess it doesn't help that we can't sleep together because the way he has to lay to keep the pain at bay. Keeping myself busy is the only solution to not feeling the loneliness, but I get tired of "keeping busy."

I've been thinking of something else as well. He has already said in so many words that he wouldn't move "south." But the way he said he wouldn't move, said so much more: he wouldn't move at all. What if I don't have a choice? What if I have to find a job in another state? I know he doesn't want to be away from the grandkids, and neither do I, . . . but. . . . A good job, a good paying job will make me move. I'm tired of living on the edge, never knowing if we are going to make it to the next month. And I'm not going to kill myself by working many hours a week at low paying jobs, it isn't worth it--there is more to life than working. I want to live. I'm not saying that I'm not living, I'm saying I'm tired of just surviving. It gets old fast. I want to enjoy a little more of life. Damn, I'm nearly fifty and haven't accomplish the one dream I've had since I was in the first grade: publish a novel. Just surviving makes it hard to concentrate on a dream.

I have to stop writing before I start crying. If I start crying, and someone walks through, there'll be questions asked I don't want to answer. If only . . . . If only what? If only a heart break was all I had to worry about.

Ginet on an outing without me.

2009-09-11T18:34:00.000-07:00

Yeah! Believe it! She is out with a new friend. This new friend happens to be a student of mine as well. So, where's the fine line . . . . :) . No, I don't have a problem with it, her new friend will receive the grade she deserves, no matter what happens.

Another piece of news. The dog that was given to her by the ex was taken away when she had surgery. We were told that he was going to a home for awhile, until Ginet's wrist healed. On Wednesday we found out that Phoenix was taken to the pound. Vincent, my son, took a trip over the following day. Phoenix was there, and named Flop. Phoenix comes home on Wednesday. I had to adopt him. Oh well, at least something that was taken away came back. What I mean by that statement is, that when Derek left, she felt her self ripped apart; then when Phoenix wasn't returning, she felt her whole self had been taken away. The tears of joy to know he was alive!

Something else good happened as well, although this will sound terrible. The information that came to light the same day we found out about Phoenix has enabled her to take a big step forward. I won't say how the information came to us, but suffice it to say, Derek had been seeing another girl for three months before the break up. I guess, if the information is correct, he couldn't chose. His hand was forced. In the long run, Ginet turned out on top, although it is hard for her to see. The last information given to us says, he moved with her back to Illinois, where she is from. Without him here, it will be much easier for Ginet to move on more.

Another good note. She has been talking to several boys. She is testing the ground for personality first. She isn't stepping into a relationship for awhile. She has decided to date, see what is all out there. Though, she says to me often, "I hate being alone without a man's arms around me. I miss that comfort." I hope she holds to this plan. With friends surrounding her, I think she can.

Even so, the past few weeks is the most fun I've had with her. We have been doing this activity together we call "guy shopping." She says, "Look at this mom; what do you think; I think he's hot; here's his information," as she surfs myspace. We discuss what is before us. I keep thinking of the movie Because I Said So. If you've seen the movie, you'll understand why.

Something else good came from all of this as well. She is focusing on her school work, and has decided to take up an apprenticeship at a local photography studio. Next week is her first shoot. I hope she has fun while she learns. Having her own photography business is all she has talked about for two years. She now realizes that training is needed before starting such an endeavor. I know she'll need a partner who can do the business end while she does the creative end. I hope when the time comes the right person can be found.

It feels wonderful writing this all up. I thought I would be crying as I wrote everything down. (Well . . . type it.) I'm not sure when I can actually write the story I want, but I believe I have a title that will capture the reader: When You Love Your Daughter's Boyfriend. Of course, it isn't like it sounds. I think writing about the experience from a mother's perspective would be well received by those mothers who have received the daughter's boyfriend / fiancee as a son, believing in the promises given to her by the young man. Sadly, I can't even say Derek is a young man. I look back and think about a time when I called him "a boy," yelling at him, telling him, "You're not a man! A man would be here, now, facing the family to be with the woman he loves!" Derek will only be a "guy," a term that I've come to use for a boy in a man's body. Wanting my daughter to be happy, I was blindsided as much as her. I'll admit! It is hard to admit it. And I did treat Derek like my sons. Hmmm, I just produced from my throat and shrugged my shoulders. Will I allow myself to be blindsided like this again? I know it can happen to Ginet again. But I'm the more mature one. And then, if I'm not blindsided, how do I tell my daughter? Remind her what happened before? That's so hurtful. Yes, I'm jumping the gun, I know that, but these are thoughts I have.

For those of you who know me, you'll probably asking, "Didn't you go through this with your oldest daughter?" Similar, but Jessica's ex never felt like a son, and I was never as close to my oldest as I am to my youngest. Jessica is grandpa's girl, Ginet is mommy's girl. Don't let anyone say they don't have favorites among their children; they're lying. I used to try to fool myself. I will admit, at times, all of my children are favorites at time. This depends on my mood and the situation taking place. Still, overall, Ginet I prefer to be with, and then Vincent. Why, I'm not sure. I've always been closer to them. Chuckled to myself as I realize I've never admitted this to anyone outside of my four children. All four have confronted me about this because they see my actions. Yes, I didn't lie to them. I told them exactly what I said right here.

Wow! How good it feels to write all this. How good it feels to write instead of read read read. How good it feels to write what I want instead of writing to fill out applications. My journal has been lonely all summer. It is time to get busy in it again.

Well, I know it isn't Sunday, but I said I would be reading on Sundays. Now, I've decided to write on Friday nights. No students' papers, none, nihil, zilch. Writing the "nihil" made me think of an old poem of mine where I drew out a time line and placed Roman numerals on it to show time. If I remember correctly, there isn't a zero, as is none, in the Roman numerals, and the word "nihil" came about later. Damn, don't remember exactly how that went, I just know I had to find something that meant zero from the Greek language (was it?). Oh, Tom, where are you in my time of need? Anyhow, the poem I speak of is in my chapbook, I Can't Be a Star Wars Junkie. Troy, you might remember the poem, I think you were in the class that year when I did that chapbook.

Now I must go. Anna made homemade break, and my stomach is saying "get some now!"

Just before church

2009-09-06T07:39:00.000-07:00

I'm attempting to catch up on many many blogs. My new motto is, read blogs on Sunday. Time will tell how well I do. I have to leave for church in four minutes, and don't want to go while knowing I need to go because I haven't been to church (my church) for over two months. The problem is I don't like going to church alone. Plus, I don't like going to church when I feel down. My closest friends now live in Florida, and those friends I have here have a life as busy or busier than mine. Hmmm, does life ever slow down. For those of you who know me, yes, a still have a good friend that only lives minutes away, but there are times I cannot burden her due to some of the issues she has to deal with. Close friends remember this. Why am I writing this? In hope that I can say something without saying what I want to say, allowing me to get through the day, if only for the day. Well, my clock says it is time to go. Look for part of another story in a week or two on my other blog "writingtobefree."

Love

2009-08-20T15:43:00.000-07:00

When love is not madness, it is not love. ~ Pedro Calderon de la Barca

I just read this quote on the blog “Cheek of God.” Interesting that the quote would appear with the madness happening in my home, and the home of the family that houses Ginet’s ex. Michelle stays in connect with Ginet, which is very welcomed, because if Ginny won’t listen to me, she usually listens to Michelle. Why I am here to post isn’t for myself, actually, it is for Michelle. Her mother is very ill, in much pain, and won’t be on the earth much longer. Michelle told me that they cannot find where the cancer started, and treatments have failed. Last night as I was speaking to Michelle, something happened and she had to let me go, immediately. I found out today that her mother took a drastic downfall in her health in a few minutes. Please pray for Michelle Potts and her family as they go through this hard time. My problems, and Ginet’s, seem so small compared to dealing with a dying parent / grandparent.

Michelle, our thoughts are with you.

On another note:

Ginet had surgery today on her wrist to remove a cyst. Nothing tragic happened, but a little worried. This is the second time her blood pressure has risen considerably. The doctor and I think it may have been nerves, or fright, but Ginet said she was fine until she felt the drowsiness hit her from the medication. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. This same thing has happened to me, but not with what is called a “local.” As soon as she felt like she couldn’t breathe, she heard them say the number 180, which was the top number of her blood pressure. The doctor said she shot up to 180 over 90. Not good. Yesterday, at a doctor visit, she was 90 over 50. Something isn’t right. Now a vigilant watch. Maybe there is something that is being missed dealing with her heart problem.

a trip to the mall

2009-08-16T06:41:00.000-07:00

Saturday, I took Ginet to the mall to shop with a friend. Sadly, none of her friends that are girls have kept in contact with her, so it was a guy friend. Proudly, she said to him when she made the plans, "If I don't have a group to hang out with, my mom has to come." They guy said, "Ok, sounds like fun."

I met him. He's young. His brother and step mom were there; we came across them occasionally. Ginny helped him select clothing. He was polite, joked around with me, had some good conversation (all three of us), and a little before we left, he smiled at Ginet and said, "Your mom's cool; coolest mom I've met." Don't know if that was because I was there or if he was serious.

Ginet wanted a few other friends there, but myspace tag doesn't work so fast, not like having text messaging. For her, I think I'll attempt to get a cheap plan that has unlimited texting. Can't have her in front of the computer screen all day.

Well, after two hours at the mall, she came home peppier. A little later that night, though, a bomb fell: ex's girlfriend stated she was pregnant. Don't think it's true, I think it was sent to her to upset her. It will take some time for her to not react when messages come to her like this. Yep, she is young, but I know she trusted him with every ounce of her body. She has always been a trusting person, thus she gets crushed easily. I guess that is better than being bitter and weary all the time--I just don't know. Maybe, all of this, will teach her how to read body language, and pick up signals of others to tell her how far she can trust.

On the ranting side of life. Garry's medical situation has changed little. Don't know who to contact to get done what needs to be done. Every time he calls, he gets the run around, passed to someone else.

Well, must go now, be back later, time to leave for church.

the break up

2009-08-14T18:45:00.000-07:00

For all of you that have heard about my daughter's heart break, she is doing reasonably well. I don't know if the goofing around is fake or real, but she is laughing. She has decided to just go out on dates--when she is ready. For now, she said it is best for her to hang out with a bunch of people. I took her to the library a few days ago to meet a friend that she met through another friend about a year ago, someone she has talked to for a long time. Her and I met the young man, and his buddies that he hangs out with--girls and boys--down at the library. We all spent about two hours talking. The young man has been here for her on line and by phone all through the relationship she had with Derek. I could see he really cares for her, but he kept a proper demeanar. I don't think it was because I was around much of the time, I think he understands what she is going through. Ginet understands she needs some distance as well, and told him she wouldn't step into another relationship any time soon. Smart girl! I'm proud of her. Anyway, she told me he hugged her a few times when they were talking when I wasn't there, because she started crying, but he never attempted anything. After three to four nights of crying with her because of her pain, it was nice to see her smile and laugh outside the house.

Now here's something I have to really think about. A boy, and I mean boy, from Florida, said he was coming up to see her before school started. I know they've talked on line for some time, but this "boy" is only 16. What kind of freedom does he have? And he's a senior? Is that possible: 16 and a senior? There is one thing that Ginet and I, and her father has agreed about. She is not to be alone with any one fella for some time, everything will be in a group or a double date, even chaperoned by I or big brother if need be. Hey, I didn't say it, she did! Maybe this bad experience was a good thing. Hate saying that, because she does love Derek, and I know she would probably take him back (with severe conditions, she has said to me).

To My Viewers

2009-08-10T10:36:00.000-07:00

Please visit LukiaSkyWritingToBeFree.blogspot.com to view my stories and poems from now on. I'll be keeping this site for venting.

Zolof or excuse?

2009-08-01T17:59:00.000-07:00

My youngest has shown stages of depression for some time, my husband and I fighting it naturally. Now, because she believes 18 means mom and dad are completely cut out of the equation, every small situation is an issue. A month ago, after her physician spoke to her, she came out and told him how she felt there were times she didn't want to live. He prescribed Zolof (and if the spelling is wrong, oh well, you know what I'm talking about). She has calmed down, not flying off in a rage as often, but . . . . Today, her boyfriend called me into the room to talk to me. She had told him she has thought about killing herself. It's been a little over a year since we conquered the "cutting." I also know, much of the problem also stems from her money she receives from SSI. Her father and I have came up against a problem stemming from lack of work (not being able to find a job). I informed her that I would need her next two checks to "keep" the house, that I would be missing a car payment, and asking the church for help to pay for the utilities and have food on the table. The fury began. I am being unfair. I'm using her. She doesn't understand that her father and I have received SSI for her since she has been six, this being part of our income for years. I truly want her to have "all her money," except what we agreed upon as rent after she turned 18. Although, she has never took her money to buy her "needs", which includes food. I understand her point, but she seems to think dad's SS is enough to pay for essential living, i.e, house, utilities, personal needs, food, and insurance, not including gas for a vehicle and the up keep of house and vehicle.

Sometimes I wonder if some of this stems from her boyfriend who has been out of work since March. I know he wants to take a trip to Chicago to visits friends before he goes into the service. The thing is, his leaving date isn't set yet--which needs a little explaining that I don't feel like going into here. her father and I have attempted to explain "a roof over your head, or living in the street (not exactly, but living with relatives, most likely her sister, who she doesn't want to be around right now). She doesn't realize the packing and moving that would have to be done, quickly, nor the amount of money to just move!

Anyhow, I don't know if her saying she feels like killing herself is due to the Zolof, which can cause this feeling, or the fact she thinks that her father and I are using her. She has refused to do chores, to do anything but sleep, watch movies, draw on the cement porch with chalk, and primp . . . and be ready for her boyfriend when he shows up.

Last night we had a blow out. I sat in my room crying, so angry with her for insinuating that I only want her money, and she insisting she doesn't have to do anything in this house if she doesn't want to because she is "18", and because I'm taking her money. She believes she can live on her small amount of money every month without working: rent, phone, utilities and food.

I think her father and I were weak on teaching her the meaning of responsibility, but how do you teach a child the meaning of money when he / she still cannot understand how to count it? Did we allow her disability to keep us from doing what we did with the others? Her math skills barely reach second grade level. Is her concept of money unrealistic? Is it our fault?

A part of me says "a little", while another part of me blames her in butting heads with me continuously in her lessens.

I can't write about this anymore without getting upset with the education system as much as with her and myself. I don't know what to do.

about the poem: talking jacks

2009-07-03T14:15:00.000-07:00

The poem's form didn't come out on the page as it should. Can't get it in the form intended.

Retelling Gran'ma's Stories in the Right Position (Here's the story from Mary Ann's Community and Creativity course)

2009-07-03T13:52:00.000-07:00

Retelling Gran’ma’s Stories in the Right Position

Gran’ma sits at the round kitchen table in the rec-room that was once a garage. Some of the garage is still visible — the door, and a small deck area fro storage covered by drapes. The real reason I’m here is to listen to gran’ma’s stores, which is why I always come — the chores are worth doing to hear her.

“Didjya get the table cleaned off?”

“Yes, gran’ma.”

“What’cha do with the crumbs?”

She already knows. I look down.

“Get the sweeper.”

I know I’m supposed to sweep the crumbs into my hands, then throw them into the trash can under the sink, but it takes longer to do that. I quickly pull the sweeper out, struggling with its massive weight to clean the freckled floor of bread crumbs from our made-together cheese toasties. I must do it quickly, but not so fast as to miss a spot.

“Good. I’ll get it later”; she means the sweeper. She knows I’m eager to hear a story, if not stories.

Gran’ma sits in one of the bucket chairs, and I pull up another on the other side of the table. Elbows and chin are always needed from gran’ma’s stories.

“Here, when your dad was small, we bought the first television. All the neighbor kids would come watch the television in the evening. The living room would be full. I remember Bud’s friend, Butch, whose family thought they controlled everything. He thought him and Bud were in charge. Your dad and his friends would watch Howdy Doody. Butch thought he’d watch. . . .”

I’m sorry to say, I can’t remember what the name of the other show is.

Anyway. . . .

“He turned the channel. I wasn’t having it. I grabbed his ear.”

The ear is gran’ma’s favorite body part when she gets mad at you. I’ve seen uncle tom’s ear dragged a few times to his bedroom.

“I didn’t care who his parents were. They could buy a television of their own to watch, by the Almighty. They weren’t going to rule my house.

“Your dad and his friends went back to Howdy Doody. I made Bud watch the show too. Just because you’re the oldest doesn’t mean yo do whatjya want.

“Pete, Jack’s friend — your dad’s friend — laughed so hard he threw up his supper. His poor mother was worried sick after I called her. Thought he caught something. He wasn’t allowed back for a few weeks.

“Every week the same group of kids came. I didn't’ mind all the kids. Preferred it.

“One evening, Jack — your dad, . . . .”

My gran’ma has a habit of doing that. Like I would forget who my father is.

“. . . Wanted to play ball instead of watch Howdy Doody. He refused to watch the show. We all had a good time.”

It’s hard for me to imagine my dad missing a show. My dad wanting to play ball! If he thinks he won’t be home for a show, he sets the tape recorder. Before electronic smarts, he bought the tape with the longest recording hours. Mom would have to start the recorder before we left to pick him up at work, so when we returned from the baseball diamond — he coached baseball — he could watch all those shows he missed.

“The television wasn’t very large. I don’t know how all those kids could see the screen. The box was so large; it made the screen look like a square plate. Brown wood encased all the gadgets in the back; gadgets that took up more room than the screen. The television always went off after Howdy Doody.”

This isn't’ my favorite story, but my dad is in it. It’s hard to imagine this house without three back rooms, and the bathroom. If I heard gran’ma right, when she told this story before, they were the first with indoor plumbing — a bathroom!

Gran’ma begins another story; this time it’s about Bud.

“I got a call from Butch’s mom. She didn't’ like what I had to say. Always running around, making me have to chase bud down. If all beat it! He crawled into bud’s window, woke up the other boys, trying to get Bud to take a joy ride in his parents’ new car. I called them up. ‘No, no, our son’s in bed.’

“I walked him home. Bud didn’t see the light for days, and stayed in my room on the floor.”

I wondered how gran’ma knew if he stayed there. No reason to ask. Gran’ma knows everything.

“Always knew what Bud was up to. Neighbor’s kept me informed. Even knew he broke into the school to steal a test before the principle called.”

______________________________

I love stories, and write them down the only way I know how: mostly with squiggly lines because my vocabulary isn't’ large enough yet. And I want to write the fancy way. Gran’ma listens to my stories, asks questions, and I explain. I feel very big. I can tell a story as good as gran’ma’s!

My favorite stories are about Betty. She’s my aunt, but I can’t see her. There’s the story of the Fortune Teller, and the story of dad playing jacks with her. Both are creepy, and always give me goose bumps.

“Down in Converse, when your dad used to sit on grandma Cunningham’s stairs, and played jacks, he would sometimes talk to himself. He was about four when he started. Grandma would listen to him a lot. She finally told me to pay attention. One morning, Jack — your father — took his jacks to the stairwell. He would close the door at the foot of the stairwell. After listening through he door some, I decided a chair would be handy. Ic an be sneaky. I oiled the hinges and knob so I could prop the door open to hear. Grandma was usually upstairs fro a nap when she heard Jack.

“That morning, Jack — your dad — sat at about the third step up. He started playing jacks. About the fourth bounce he started talking. ‘It’s your turn now,’ I heard the ball bounce some more. ‘Hah! My turn.’ then he’d ask questions, ‘Whenya comin’ home?’ ‘Why can’t you?’ This wen ton for a long time. I was concerned. The doctor said he’d grow out of it in time. I listened whenever I could.

“I was at the top of the stairwell one day. I didn’t bother him. He started playing jacks; and if that ball and jacks didn’t move on their own!”

I could see my father sitting on the steps at Grandma Rose’s. It wasn’t hard to see him as a little boy. Gran’ma had plenty of pictures. I shivered. Every time gran’ma tells the story, I shiver.

_______________________

I write in cursive now. Gran’ma reads my stories. Still, she prefers I read them to her as she does her chores. I follow her around the house, scurrying behind her. At times, she’s at the sink, and I talk to her as she mumbles approval, or asks questions: why, who’s that? Occasionally she nods her head. There are two comments she always makes to me: “You should be a writer. You and Mark [my cousin, the master of philosophy, the poet, the calligrapher] have beautiful penmanship.” I know that writing and penmanship are two different things. I want to know why I get ‘C’s for handwriting if what gran’ma says is true. Comparing me to my cousin makes me special — he is smart!

___________________________

High school is here. I still listen to the stories; I still write my own, burt not as often. But I start to ask questions.

I ask dad about the stairs, about the jacks, about Betty. He doesn’t say much the first time.

Dad finally talks to me, just a little. “I use to talk to Betty on the stairs all the time. We’d play jacks when she stayed home.”

He interjects his feelings about government interfering. This was a time when a doctor and the state could force a family to send a child to an institution for retardation, especially fi the family wasn’t rich.

“That was our secret place. We’d talk about everything. She hated that place.”

This is all I receive for awhile. I let it go, and wait.

A few weeks later, maybe a month, he opens up some more, calls me unexpectedly: “I would talk to her. I kept begging her to stay. I was only four. Children at that age are still connected to the spirit world.”

Dad doesn’t go to church anymore, but he still believes. He believes in ghost, he believes in aliens, he believes in the unusual. No more is said. I wait again. There’s something that isn’t being said; something that my gran’ma always hints at; I’ll wait until dad is ready to tell me.

He calls a few weeks later. There is something about the fact that I’m interested in this subject. Maybe it is because I’ve told him the story that gran’ma has told me. Anyway, he calls: “Gran’ma calls the doctor. He tells her I made up an imaginary friend to replace Betty. Betty wasn’t imaginary. That ball, and those jacks, moved on their own.”

I go back to gran’ma’s story in my mind. I write it out. I put dad’s words into the story. What is being said? I don’t know what to do with this information. I begin to ask more questions of my father, then ask my uncles. Much more begins to make sense, but as I begin to tell the stories I feel that something is wrong. Where’s Grandma Rose? Where’s gran’ma? Does dad know they are there? Why can’t I get this story or any of the others to come out right?

___________________________

I have three children. My oldest, Jessica, listens to gran’ma’s stories; David is beginning to know the stories too. I write the stories down into my journals, or other papers that I put into large three ring binders that I keep ordered on a book shelf. I change the stories every time I write, especially when I retrieve new information. Today I will tell a story orally.

“When your Grandpa Jack was little, he used to play jacks. Remember the house you saw when we went down to Converse? He would sit in the stairwell. Ya know how Grandma Luebke’s stairs lead to the upstairs? The stairs looked something like that, with the door at the bottom. Grandpa would sit on about the fourth step up, and play jacks. One day, your grandpa’s grandma, Grandma Rose — the older lady you saw in the black n’ white picture that looks like a football player — heard him talking. She was upstairs taking a nap when she heard voices. Gran’ma Ginny was usually in the kitchen or out in the garden, like she does now. Grandpa would play jacks, talking to himself. Or so his Grandma Rose thought. He would ask questions, such as, ‘When ya comin’ home?’ after awhile, his Grandma Rose became concerned, telling his mom — Gran’ma Ginny. One day, Gran’ma Ginny sat and listened, but since she couldn’t hear well enough through the door closed, she decided to crack the door open a bit. The door squeaked; grandpa stopped playing his jacks. Every time Gran’ma Ginny tried to catch him talking to himself, grandpa would stop. She kept asking Grandpa chick to oil the hinges and door, telling him the door was getting hard top open. Grandpa Chick wouldn’t do it if she told him the real reason; he would tell her to leave the boy alone. Finally, she oiled the door one day, moving items in the garage — Gran’pa Chick’s space, after jumping on Gran’pa Chick too many times, who never got around to it.

“The next time she had a chance to listen to him, she pulled a chair up close, cracked the door — no squeak. Grandma Rose was upstairs. Gran’ma Ginny listened every day. So did Grandma Rose. Gran’ma Ginny, and Grandma Rose, would talk about what grandpa did, and what he said. They started to believe that grandpa was seeing Betty’s ghost. Uncle Bud heard Grandma Rose say she saw things when jack — your grandpa — was on those stairs.

“Grandpa would say, ‘It’s your turn now’; ‘You missed that jack’; ‘Why don’t you come home anymore?’

“Gran’ma Ginny called the doctor. The doctor told her he had an imaginary friend to replace Betty. Gran’ma Ginny didn’t believe the doctor; she thought grandpa was talking to Betty, that grandpa could see Betty. Gran’ma Ginny wanted to see Betty too.

“Finally, one day, Gran’ma Ginny was upstairs before grandpa came to play jacks, because his grandma was sick. She watched him quietly, and listened intently. She saw the ball bounce by itself, and the jacks move into the air, as if someone was playing jacks with grandpa. Betty was playing jacks with grandpa; Gran’ma Ginny is sure of this.

“Gran’ma Ginny kept listening, and one day, she finally heard the other voice. It was Betty. She swears she saw the ball and jacks move by themselves more than once, and heard Betty’s voice a few times. Funny thing is, Gran’ma Ginny could only hear Betty’s voice when she wasn’t looking. I remember Grandma Rose talking about this to Gran’ma Ginny when I had the mumps, and had to stay at gran’ma’s house until I was better.”

Telling gran’ma’s story to my children is much more complicated than the way gran’ma tells the story. I realize that gran’ma’s stories are separated, that certain subjects cannot be crossed, but the stories can be changed: two or three stories happen within in one day of her history, but none of them can be told together. There is never, “while this was happening, so and so was doing this.” this makes it difficult for me to write the stories as I see them happening — as a movie; I want to connect them into a clock-like time line. When I write these stories a as a continuous flow, I ruin the momentum, I ruin the imagery, I ruin the stories. Orally, I don’t do much better.

I complicate the simple. I am in both worlds now — the stories of my gran’ma’s, and the stories from those who are in her stories. Which is the writer? Which is the penmanship?

_______________________

I hear gran’ma’s stories from the grave: all of her stories; even her stories of complaints. Sometimes they haunt me. I see, now, how she lived: black ‘n’ white.

“Dawn, God does punish you. I did something wrong. That’s why Billy is like he is; that’s why Betty died — I went to see the gypsy. I should’ov never seen the gypsy in town. I never went back.”

The fortuneteller story. I was always confused as a child to why she thought God punished her when I was taught in Sunday school that God no longer brings His wrath upon our heads. Now, as I look over her grave, I see the separations in her stories from her life. I begin to realize the times I told my stories as she ran from place to place doing chores was her kind way of showing interest without reinforcing an illusion of publishing. “You should be a writer.” Somewhere inside of her she wanted me to tell the stories because she always bought those stories for me to read from Reader’s Digest that were nonfiction. When she told her stories, we were sitting down; when I told my stories, I was following her around. When I responded to the stories in Reader’s Digest, when we discussed the stories, we sat down at the kitchen table.

Storytelling is for the imagination; penmanship is for the living: “You should be a writer; you have beautiful penmanship like Mark.”

But gran’ma had beautiful handwriting — I loved watching her write on Birthday and Christmas cards; I still look at them today. Penmanship is a job; writing (storytelling) is a pastime. Penmanship like Mark’s was to keep me from being her.

I remember gran’ma telling me that she learned to be a nurse’s aid because she didn’t want to be a sale’s clerk, a receptionist, or a secretary. She also said she didn’t want to be a nurse; she didn’t was the responsibility. Then, I remember her babbling on to Farmer one evening; she was irked about giving “shots” to patients. For years the nurses assigned her to give shots, when the law said no, when she found out that the law said “no.” She would be liable, and wasn’t insured for such liability under the hospital. Gran’ma did her research. She fought, and nearly lost her job. In fact, all the aids fought. I remember the week where the nursing aids “went on strike.” Gran’ma didn’t talk about it much. She also told me how she hated to write up reports. That wasn’t her job either. She hadn’t gone to school; what if there was a mistake?

At gran’ma’s funeral, a very dear friend of hers approached me:

“Are you Virginia’s oldest granddaughter?”

“Yes,” not thinking about Beth, who lives in Denver.

“She was so proud of you. Are you still in school?”

“Yes.” My curiosity was now peaked.

“How much longer before you graduate?”

“I’m a sophomore now.”

“All she wanted was for you to get a college education.”

The woman left me standing there in complete confusion. My gran’ma never asked me about college, nor indicated her pleasure in my attending. Although, one time, she did say, “I’m glad you went back to school.”

______________________________

I’ve finished my bachelors, and have continued onto graduate school. I practice gran’ma’s stories in poetry because prose doesn’t work. Poetry helps, but it still isn't capturing the essence of what gran’ma told. Do I know too much now? Have I collected too much information that my imagination can’t take over? I want to write the Stairwell Story. I take advantage of a poetry class:

talking jacks

Bounce the ball

pick up one.

Bounce the ball

pick up two.

Bound the ball

pick up three.

Now you have missed,

You must speak.

In the stairwell, Jack speaks to his jacks, everyone

thinks :

“Why did you go away?”

No one hears
a reply :

(Shh, Jack, it had to be),

Jack lays out

his jacks, again,

(this way);

Jack shakes

his heads,

“Your turn.”

Bounce the ball. Someone

watches from the upstairs landing,

the fourth bounce recuperates

nothing :

“Betty, why can I see you and they can’t?”

Gran’ma Ginny holds her

breath hoping to hear :

(Jack, you missed four).

Bounce the ball. Alone

he is left to talk it through;

Gran’ma wants the twelve year old

spirit to visit her.

She stands at the stairwell’s door

awaiting the voice of her daughter :

“I’m not growing up

Because you’ll go away.”

(Jack),

jacks roll

without his touch,

(I can’t play anymore).

This isn’t my story. I still cannot feel the story as when gran’ma told it. The writer in me wants to be free. I am free, but lost when I want to tell gran’ma’s stories. Writing these stories give great loss to the way they are supposed to be. What is the story? Maybe I should be asking, “Whose stories are these?” are they gran’ma’s, are they mine, are they the person’s of whom they are about? Are they my children's, or grandchildren's?

And then, there is always, what is the penmanship? First, if ind in myself, the penmanship is the person wanting to be correct, to be perfect, the person who wants all the information in the order it’s supposed to come in. The penmanship is oral-nation coming to life on paper. That’s the logical side of me. I cannot tell the stories my gran’ma told, I can only add to the stories. I will always be in two worlds when I re-tell her stories, for I know what she did not know: that little kid in me enjoying the nonlinear line of a story, where different time lines were all one; and that older I, who is now in the academy, attempting to answer the underlying questions that my children, and grandchildren will ask me, “Why?” Do I need logic; must there be logic?

But there is more, much more happening in the “you should be a writer” and “beautiful penmanship.”

There’s the “like Mark” comment. Mark the ex-philosopher, Mark the ex-poet, Mark the calligrapher, Mark the Fortune 500 company owner. I can only conclude that Mark’s education is what gran’ma saw me doing, that my penmanship would lead me to the Right Position, but not the position that another wants me in — it’s my position.

No, I’m not Mark; and, maybe my penmanship is beautiful, but I can tell stories, I do have a degree, I’m where gran’ma wanted me, in the Right Position. Not the position that someone else wants me in, but the position I want to be in — making change. It’s alright to change gran’ma’s stories. I can be a writer; I can be the penmanship. I don’t always have to please — anyone but me.

Tangle Me This (A piece done in Mary Anne's Creative Nonfiction course

2009-07-03T11:52:00.000-07:00

Tangle Me This

Solitude is like a treasure chest waiting to be opened, full of creative nothingness waiting for me to release it. Well, I should probably say that solitude finds me, when it decides to appear. When solitude does find me, I steal it regardless of the time or place, regardless of what I’m dong. Sadly, solitude visits when I must escape. Have I just contradicted myself?

Lately, solitude visits me in my daughter’s room (when she is away) among her mess she keeps: pile of clean clothes, pile of dirty, game and movie boxes sitting about the floor or bed, hair dryer draped from the dresser, personal bedding wadded up on the bed and on the overflow shelf, a type of messy stillness that doesn’t bother me, unlike cups, pates and bowels, wrappers and bags--food keepers that I find about the house, food keepers that everyone believes are decorative ornaments of non-removal. Beyond the messy stillness in this room is a quiet I can’t find in the rest of the house because the mess outside her door interferes with my life. In here, cozied by piles, I write, I read, I thing, I work, I cry, and bring back moments lost to time.

Crying. I haven’t done much for the past . . . , well, since 2004. Recently, during Christmas break, all of it let loose. I had no place to hide; not even my own bedroom. Three days, maybe four, consisted of tears amongst the family that visited; their issues spilling over and overwhelming others, mostly me. I’m about a family being “whole,” about relationships being cordial in public and during holidays, about having ALL my children together for Garry and I, about being gran’ma and gran’pa, about living for love. Maybe all of this has to do with how my gran’ma kept the gatherings going. I miss her; I miss the family gatherings with aunts and uncles, with cousins and their children. The piles no longer separate issues; they become tangled, none able to loosen, no pile able to walk away alone. I knew the crescendo was coming; I knew the crest of the wave would crush me. I longed for the bedroom that I once shared with Ginet when the boys both lived at home. The house has gone through many transformations. When David and Vincent both lived at home, I and Ginet shared the bigger bedroom, the boys had to smaller room, and Garry slept on the oversized couch in the living room. Garry and I haven’t technically had our own bedroom since we bought the house in 1996 (or was it a year later, or a year early, I can never remember). The dining room is our first bedroom within this house. David and Anna have the big bedroom because of William, my grandson. Ginet has the smaller room now. David and Vincent have never moved out at the same time, one or the other having the larger room to the self on occasion, after Ginet didn’t want to stay in the large room by herself, after Garry and I could afford a Futon to sleep on in the living room together; not really a bedroom, just a place to hold our bed--no doors, no privacy. While in the large room, my bed snuggled up to the Northwest window where the falling sun would send its orange glowing message to me and the moon could speak without interruptions. My mind would align, regardless of the problems; what I saw through my eyes wasn’t bleak after a tender talk with the moon. Our room––Ginet’s and mine--had two dressers, two beds, a bookshelf that catered to a cheap stereo system, which interchangeably played five CDs; this all adorned the room I hid in often, paying selective CDs to tune out what went on outside the door.

One night, the room and the moon were my only comfort as I walked away from Garry’s “shutting out” mode that he would so often display those few years while he worked at a job that he began to hate. I remember this night clearly, because I had finished a book in the Star Wars series dealing with the spirit of an old Sith Lord lingering in a cave on Yavin 4--a small moon that appears in A New Hope, where the first Death Star is destroyed as it comes around the gas giant Yavin, the same moon where Luke Skywalker trains new Jedis, at least in this series that I am speaking of. The moon, Yavin 4, was extremely bright, just as the moon was this night. Luke walked closer to the dark source, the brightness bouncing off the cave walls as he came closer and closer to the source he felt calling him, a dark source, a dark source that he knew he must face. Oddly, this darkness called tenderly, warmly, welcoming him with understanding and grace that he so longed go have. The moon that night, the aloneness in that room that I could call my own, called me in just that manner. There was something genuine in the setting of the book that implied the spirit was not completely Sith. I took this image to the bedroom with me after having a serious argument with Garry, after being tuned out by the television that was used to ignore me. I curled up, wedged a pillow between me and the wall, aligned myself to look out the window. The room became the cave: it smelled of outdoors and the calling of childhood (because the window had been left cracked open, allowing the coming spring to crawl in), sending a lingering desire to climb trees so I could reach the moon, a desire to climb the Weeping Willow to build a tree house where I only existed, where my books and I could dance and laugh, tell stories to each other, where I could write, or dance, or do anything when I felt like it, where my writing was famous to an invisible crowd, and the crowd cheered:

Deep Inside

(Yavin 4)

out my window is black

the hidden moon

painted on by foliage the gray sky the misty eye

what spirit peeks back what spirit asks

will you let me in

warm my sole, warm my mind

(Place poem here: “Wishing Well.”) My writing is all I have when I feel discouraged, when I feel confused, when I don’t know where to turn to make sense of what is happening, or at least to calm em down and see another perspective of what has happened. It never matters if I find an answer. And, I have noticed, I find myself finding myself over and over, as I do now. Growth brings change, continuously, and I have found it is usually grievous change, losing the old is death, and when the new is created, or formed from the dying, joy begins. As I said, it never matters if I find an answer, there may never be one.

Enough of my philosophy. I am rehashing memories, one memory in particular, a room to hide in without ever being kicked out.

Tonight, while I don’t want to pay attention to what is in this room, I sprawl out my work on the Futon amongst the wadded bedding that stretches from one corner of the bed to the center, clothes piled and stretched with pillows shoved into the corner nearest the window and closet. Sometimes the stuffed animals that are shoved in her closet find heir way out onto the bed, as if they can claw their way out; and those monkeys, Monkeys, MONKEYS smiling at me from shelves, the closet, and her post-it board where Bobby Jack, a name brand clothing that always has the same monkey on it doing things, or surrounded by sayings, stares at me from a shirt, stimulates me into throwing them, squeezing them, strangling them, and finally smoothing the fur as the tears swell. I pick up my pen to write, then sit it back down on the bed, some force keeping me from holding the pen. I do know that I must write. I look about the room again, looking fro the greater power within in the free whatever forces me from my writing. It will take time, but it will come, it always does.

I claim this room for the next four hours, before Ginet and Derek, Ginet’s fiancee, come home. I shuffle one of the piles to get comfortable again. I want to make the sign on her bedroom door become mine: “Do Not Enter, Sleeping Nude.” I have not done that for years. I arrange another pile and pull a monkey towards me. A lion snaps out. Its size is better, and conforms to my neck better. I push back yet another pile to lie on my back, lift my knees up to take the pressure off my back. His boxers straggle along, reluctant to move. I remember all those mixed feelings I started surveying after November first of 2008; the poems I wrote; I see them posted on Ginet’s wall. I gave them to her. It’s so hard to explain:

i must keep smiling, even through these tears

gathered in my eyes. They cannot fall,

not tonight, not yesterday or tomorrow.

sadness is all I have

to hold as he falls away from me.

buried deep is the boy who pinned me down,

licked my face;

buried deeps is the boy who wrapped my arms

about my chest, held me tight

to bite my neck.

i must keep smiling, even with the pain

gathered in my chest. It cannot subside,

not tonight, not yesterday or tomorrow.

sadness is all I have

to hold as he falls

away from me.

Watching Love

they stand without space

so close the heat melds

their chests into one

my mind wields the memory

as if I am standing in her body

my chest in pain as it remembers

once I was her

II.

they kiss the force molding

a new body

a figure that impedes the work of angelo

i remember molding

the length of her body

into mine

once I was him

III.

she lays in the hospital bed

squeezing my hand

crying as the nurse fishes

for the vein weeding through

to keep the next heart bat

her heart is mine

and it doesn’t want to stay

IV.

his body bends in

curves without muscles

any touch is torture

but his eyes say “touch me”

his body is mine

and it doesn’t want to love

that stare

that lingering look

that finger stroking longingly up the arm

those locking legs

aching to feel more

once we were free

After Halloween, after ISSMA (Indiana State School Music Association State Band Championship, after a few nights of chaperoning the two of them it hit me. I kept the tears at a minimum; I kept all of it quiet while sitting at my Mac. The first few tears of relief to fall: tears of confusion, tears of fear, tears of need, tears of compassion that I didn’t know what to do with––and sometimes still don’t know what to do with. These tears were the beginning of the tangled piles. No more neat tidy separate living arrangements of the heart and mind.

I’m at that need, the need where no force can stop the hand from writing; a need that I will not deny anymore because the physical illness that often befalls me from not relieving myself. I start with one of my journals that I keep, each journal with a purpose, and all them used for whatever if the other isn't’ within reach. I questioned my purpose to cry before working on students’ papers, the real reason I came into this room. I lay back on the piled clothes and pillows, re-prop my knees, and remember I haven’t done my therapeutic exercises for months, therapeutic exercises needed to keep my lower back, and my left hip in place. Both are in pain. I can’t sit, I can’t lay, walking is becoming difficult, sitting at school is a squirmy job, and standing on Wednesdays when I reach in the computer lab creates so much pain, by the time the second class is done I’m nearly ill from the pain. I limp to the car. I attempt to put one foot in front of the other with an even rhythm so I will not limp. By the time I get to the car, I can barely bend down and seat myself, the pin in my hip intensifying as I raise my leg to sit in from of the steering wheel.

Oh, the cushion of the pile that has no relief, and those bright orange boxers walking out of the bottom of the pile intensifies the irrational quarrel taking place in me. My pain, my need, the thought of who I was before, the thought of Garry’s pain, who he was before, but my pain cannot be compared to my husband’s. And I can’t deny the young feelings of life that still swell up in me, which still wants to jump onto Garry and wrestle him to the ground, play as if nothing else in the world matters but us. I know that isn’t why I’ve came to this room; not to reminisce, not to work up that hurt. There’s another hurt that is tangled in the aforementioned pile that interferes with Garry’s living more than mine; still, it causes great discomfort for me as well. I’m finally writing in my journal.

Jan 24, 2009

I’ve suffocated the tears I feel lingering due to homework. I’ve locked

myself in Ginet’s room to work & cry, but have yet to do so. So many

interruptions. If only everyone could do their responsibility for fifteen more

weeks, along w/ picking up my slack while I finish the end of my schooling,

EVERYTHING WOULD BE FINE. I’ve foregone my homework to cry, and

cannot. I want to because I need to. At this moment I remember the young

girl’s heart I felt before locking myself fin here.

Hmm. I felt the young girl’s heart when Ginet + I watched the TRJE

today when we visited. I wanted to DANCE, but the pace ism meant for

children.

I’m also hurt by what isn’t being done––the irresponsibility of leaving

without things being completed.

On top of this, is Jessica excluding Anna in activities. I feel for Anna.

She needs her friends. Why does Jessica have to manipulate? She hated done

to her. She hates to see the same done to her girls at school. What examples

is she setting.

Yes. I’m mad at Derek. Not much is asked because he does work. No

different than David.

Yes. I’m made at Jessica. I've already said why.

Yes. I’m mad at David. Pretty much the same reason as Derek.

Although, I’m also worried, esp. After Anna read the note he left.

Yes. I’m mad at Anna. Using Will as an excuse for her not sleeping at

night.

And . . . I’m not please with myself. Still,there isn't cause for me to be

upset w/ me––my need is legit, my reasons acceptable. I’m the major

supporter (all around supporter).

I WANT SOMEONE TO SUPPORT ME!

I stop here. Something is holding me back. I look at a few of the students’ papers; I look at my own schoolwork that needs to be done. I proclaim I am doing my schoolwork; this is creative non-fiction. I shouldn’t feel guilty for the pleasure of writing for me, but I do. Is that the force that has been holding me back? Guilt? I can't approach an new subject. I say quietly to myself, “Pick up a student’s paper and red it.” I do. I read a short one that I now doesn't need major comments from me, a student’s paper that is nearly competed even in the first draft. It’s such a pleasure not to stumble over sentences that leave me piecing together the information to understand what is being said, and I do mean one sentence. The lion is staring at me. I turn it over, and it rolls to its side, the one eye glaring at me. Why is this stuffed animal talking back to me? I see one of the Siamese cats from the Disney movie smirking, twisting its tail. It looks alive, as if it will jump onto the papers spread about the bed and on the different piles my daughter left behind. I imagine everything flying off the bed, the lion and Siamese romping through and over the mess tearing up the room––i snicker, then sneer back, “Go away.” I look down at the paper before me. So may run-ons this semester, so many pronoun issues this semester; so many words not placed correctly in a sentence at all! Forget it all. Open up your journal.

I go back over what I have written, then begin.

Garry supports my schooling, my writing, and does his best w/

chores––inspite of his disability.

Now I’m crying. That’s what I need. The support I desperately need is

from the adult children.

Maybe they all need to go! I can't take the stress anymore. And the

sad part is, I don’t want them to go.

Support me. What support do I need besides the tending of the house?

I’m crying too hard to write; I take a deep breath; a few tears spread onto the page that is still white with blue lines. Crying is good for me, but not if I can’t function. “Cry hard for a little bit.” the oversized Teddy bear lingers at my side. I grab it up and squish it. I don’t feel like I need to be violent now. It feels good to squeeze and release. I still have to get some work done.

My breathing slows a bit, but my nose is clogged. I get up, unlock the door, sneak to the bathroom and grab a roll of toilet paper, then slip quickly back into the room, locking the door. I bump my purse as I get onto the bed, and real nose tissues spill out. Throwing my hands up in the air, I sigh, and drape the tissues over the teddy bear’s buttocks.

Emotional: Garry has never done well with that. If he can’t fix it, then

he can’t support it. His reply tonight to my anger about the house began

pushed off (by those specifically assigned to chores) was, “Let me stop taking

my pills (happy pills) and I’ll have ti straightened out in a couple of days.”

One, I couldn't’ handle the pot boiling that high; tow, it would only last a few

days. Why can’t they (the kids) regulate themselves?

What other support am I talking about? There’s not enough time to

run-out to a friends and gab. And I’m not looking for that support outside the

house, it won’t solve the inside of the house.

What am I talking about? Yeah, supporting me. Taking care of my

needs instead of theirs. Fix my supper, worry about me, wash my clothes,

check to see if I’m doing well, if I need to talk, do I need assistance––I'm

sounding like an old woman.

Am I becoming my mother? But I was still very young––it was before I

met Garry––when she was put on tranquilizers. Mom would have been about

34. I’m 47. Is it all too much now? Sharon? Grandma? Where are you? Even

Ginet needs you Sharon.

Have I walked too far away from God? I have this sense of God

(neutral sex)––habit makes me want to say Him. Because I refuse to see God

as Him, am I separated? But I don’t feel that. And I don’t feel that God

is . . . , well . . . In charge as so many say. God is, but we still have will. Also,

I don’t think relying on god as people do is conducive. A person must also do

for God to do. I do believe God leads. Ah! There it is; I haven’t been listening.

I stop to think. This thinking isn’t the thinking I put onto paper because my mind rambles on too fast. Have I been listening to those words that sometimes come out of nowhere, like yesterday when I was walking across campus and I said to myself, “You need to go home and sleep, just cancel class.” I wasn't even thinking about being tired at the moment, I was thinking about not having read all the journal entries yet. I must also listen to what I read. God’s voice comes through the strangest places.

Did I hear anything as I read my schoolwork? I believe so was God

speaking to me? I believe so. To stumble through the words + thoughts

previously written, I received information from Elbow that spoke directly to

what I do when I write in my journals. Was it an answer I needed? Not a

compete answer. I don’t think I’m ready for the answer that I should receive,

and I doubt I’ll find it in my homework. The word Bible keeps bouncing

between the words I’m putting down. Still, God can find anyway he wants.

I’m beginning to believe there is no such thing as coincident.

I stop writing again. I have to force myself to read my students’ papers and get my homework done. I decide to read a paper that will take some time. I pick up a paper that disgusts me as I see the unformatted pages—single spaced and small font. How many times have I told the students to double space the pages, and to use Times New Roman? And the paper is only a page an a half. Double spaced pages would make the paper about three, not even close to the amount needed for the final paper. This is only the first draft. I shouldn’t worry. I pick up a stuffed squirrel, throw it against the wall, and then apologize, and hear my voice, “the students are lazy this semester.” quickly reading through the pages, I write in the margins, commenting mostly with “transition, unclear, awkward.” This paper done, I choose another. This new paper is written in block paragraphs. I’m not sure what that is supposed to mean. Information overlaps from one section of the paper to the other, characters are not identified when speaking. I must concentrate. I’m half way through and stop.

I pick up a book that needs to be read for post colonial theory. So far, the first novel bored me with the one minded adventure--although, I must say there are paces in some of the novel that intrigued me, captured me for a bit, making me feel like I was there. Maybe it is the superior dribble that bores me. I manage about one chapter.

Don’t feel like finishing my schoolwork. I only want to sleep. Don’t

want to clean up. I’m not. They can when Ginet kicks me out of her room.

That’s all I can put down for now. I’m not going to focus on any homework. I pick up the same student’s paper. I force myself to read; occasionally stop to focus; cry between a couple of pages. It’s not time to write. It’s not time to write. It’s not time to write. I know this. I came here to read my student’s papers, and do my homework. I’ve decided not to do homework. I manage three more students’ papers before my eyes give out, and I close them for a while, and think.

Ginet’s room. Mine for just a short time. I cannot waste it. I’ve finished my schoolwork, read my students’ work, wrote off and on in my journal until I could cry, and did cry. Garry suggested that I lock the door; I did so. Locking a door? Such a simple act. While it will keep people out, it doesn’t keep their words from crashing into, and then flowing under, around the sides, and over the door into the room. This room has the only lock in the house that isn’t there to keep the inside out. My lock tonight. My outside. But for how log? When will the inside get outside? The lock will keep the inside out. Will it work? I lock the door and curl up under a free edge of the blanket, tuck a pillow, or a jacket, something under my head. I cry some more. My work, my journal, my students’ work scattered on the bed. My lap top flashes pictures as it waits for instructions. I turn to the light and notice small bulbs peering through the space between wall and curtain. A light flashes on the X-Box. I hear the hum of the television that has only had the channels switched after the game was left behind. I get back up to shut off the TV. The cold bar of the Futon shocks me from the comfort of Ginny’s warm room--not too hot, not too cool, but there is a cool breeze traveling across that small space, keeping the metal cold. Black metal. Black as the night without the moon and now snow on the ground. Black metal. Black holds this body up off the floor.

This is as dark as it will ever get around here, now. Factories, commercial buildings, trucking companies make my home and a few neighbors a pond. Lights reflect everywhere; even the moon is hard to see some nights; there isn’t a tangled mess here, it is a strangling that takes place, like oil scum surrounding a feather floating in a puddle, like an ameba being attacked by some unknown predator. I remember as a child the nights without a moon, without the snow, being black, except for the stars on a clear night. And when the clouds came, night was night, was real night, was black like the tar smeared on a roof. I’ll never see that again, unless we move far out, far away from any city. Nights with only the stars were solitude. Looking out my bedroom window, looking up through the crack between the curtains, the stars would talk to me by blinking stories. Funny, I’ve just remembered, I would get some strange stories started in my head from just watching the stars. If the moon was there, I would watch it. I would watch for the face of the moon, I would look for the sea, I would look for the craters, I would wait for the moon to wink at me. The last time I talked to the moos was when my daughter and I shared the larger bedroom. I miss the bedroom. I miss the dining room.

The moon has meant much to me. While my daughter and I haven’t shared the moon from either room she and I have shared, we’ve shared the moon from within a vehicle. Our discussion one evening, after making a stop at an ice-cream shop wasn’t dull; in fact, the discussion was quite spectacular, was engrossing. She came away with as much as I did: our special night with the moon was my space and her space, was solitude shared without interfering with the other. This is how that night went:

A spoonful of moon.

“Open Sesame

A teaspoon of stars fall

Far from grace” — Cathy Young

An accident of words

Spilling over my lips

: “A spoonful of moon”

When attempting to say the moon can’t be

Spooned, after daughter said,

“The spoon dipped into the moon,” instead

Of “The spoon jumped over the moon,”

When she just finished an ice cream dipped, singing

: Hey Diddle Diddle with a hesitation: “I want

Another cone dipped.” I went to correct her on the line

: “The cow jumped over the moon;”

And instead I said, “A spoonful of moon.”

Or was it that we talked about

Spooning over a love, and the moon didn’t

Romance, when my daughter asked

About spooning the moon?

The subject that night

Was the moon, all the way home

From a girls’ night out. There was that discussion

Of the big dipper that fell

Somewhere between the dipped

Cone and the spooned lover, of which

In the sky, the dipper appeared

To be dumping the moon.

Grace of grace, the space shared was a solitude I would like to have with her again!

The door! The door! Did I lock it after I returned from the bathroom! Yes? No? I’m too tired to know if the door is actually locked. The room is dark except for those few peeking lights. I lie back down and wait for Garry to wake me up by saying my name because Ginet has to get the key from him.

I hear Derek’s voice: “Your mom’s on the bed sleeping.”

“Mom,” my daughter whines out the overused name, “get up, we’re tired.”

I didn’t want to wake up the moment they came in the room. I hate that I sleep lightly most of the time. The lights come on and I cover my eyes, hide my eyes enough to let them know I’m not moving yet. It’s after midnight. I’ve been asleep for about a half hour. I don’t want to move. My bed has been causing serious back pain. Sleeping on the couch is less pain, but the living room was left a mess by all the adult children: dishes, clothes, wrappers, no enough room for me. I linger, peering under my arm to see how serious they are. The door stays open. Derek’s legs scoot back and forth as impatience sets in. Yes, he sleeps here. Am I wrong to allow such a thing? Ginny’s door stays open; I walk in whenever I want; the door is NEVER allowed to be locked; and if they wanted to do something, they’re together enough in so many places, I wouldn't be able to stop them.

I move into the living room, and before I start to fuss, I write.

Fell asleep in her room, and the door wasn’t lock—don’t know why. Oh

well. Neither asked any questions. Yeap; I’m looking for some attention.

Tomorrow, I’m lockign myself in her room to get my work done, regardless of

her protest. I’m disappearing for about 4 hours.

I feel the tears. I also feel the hunger of not having supper. Where’s

Ginet’s and Derek’s responsibility?

Again, I want to be taken care of during the 16 wks, especially. 4

grown children can’t do that? I guess it is time to get out. The tears are there

again, well they’ve been there, just below the surface—and not only tonight,

but for at least a week, probably more.

I want to hug love on Garry; I want to be hugged and loved. I miss

him touching me. I miss him. He’s in the next room and there’s nothing I can

do except make the pages wet w/ my tears. I’ll have to leave this open a bit

to let it dry, or else the words will smear. What does it matter; who’s going

to read it anyway?

I really need a room with a door!

My room.

No, my daughter’s room: I must remember that I share a room with Garry, a room that was once the dining room. Yes, the dining room. I miss that room. The room where my computer used to be, the room where four large windows allowed the beautiful sunshine to stream in, even during the winter—this is the morning room, rarely the evening room for me. This is the room I went to when getting up in the morning, because it would be all mine—the room where I would listen to the raccoons chatter as they attempted to take the lids off the trash cans, and finally succeed. Bricks and large pieces of concrete wouldn't keep the raccoons out. I miss the dining room. Bu the dining room became less mine as Garry’s body deteriorated, causing him to do less and less of what he loved. With an old office chair that he has been able to adjust, he left the room less and less, until now . . . Where he leaves to only use the restroom, get his cups of coffee and tea, and on occasion, walk out to get the mail—on good days. The ex-dining room, now our bedroom, is still dominated by him, even at bedtime, the television going on and on and on. I shut it off and he wakes up. He goes from the bed to his special chair and back again all day long (with a few steps into the kitchen to refill his cup of coffee or tea, which—for either drink—are often spilled due to his hands). He yelled at me for years about never having his own space. I didn’t go into the garage, and still don’t, unless my presence is absolutely required there. Garry’s place of solitude has been abandoned for mine.

Solitude has left me again. The living room will be toned down after my feverish quick pick-up.. Solitude will return briefly, and then the noise of dogs’ nervous licks that we have been unable to cure will resound through the house. The refrigerator hums. The stove light set on low soften the dark. My Mac has fallen asleep and doesn’t glow. I leave the bedside light on that I attach to the coffee table before laying down. My work lays gathered in a pile at the edge of the couch, my lap top shut off by my daughter lays on top of Anna’s hope chest, my journals gathered up by me to stay by my side if the urge strikes me, keeps me awake—I want to do something with them. Journals: write in which ever one I have nearer. Tonight I have all three. I read through each of them briefly. I cannot believe the dull stench of denial for the last four years: Garry’s inability to become better; the children's need for us to always be there; my need to have my children around; Garry’s hiding act—so much like his father, his crazy father, the father that he hates to love; Jessica's inability to cope with her own children; my need to have Garry physically in contact with me, to touch me, to make love to me—not sex, to make love; his anger that is sweltered by a happy pill; Anna’s inability to deal with physical closeness—she was a lover before meeting David, but David is loner as well, just boxed in by a family that isn’t; Ginet’s depression, she calling herself EMO—a term is used to describe a person overly depressed who cuts his or her body; helping her through a bad relationship with a so-called friend; the backstabbing gossipy garbage that I cannot stand. A slat in the blind isn’t closed all the way and lights from the trucking company creep through. It doesn’t matter; I’m playing Sudoku on my cell phone. I need to lull myself back into sleep. I want to start crying again. The orange light on the surround sound flashes. The word VIZIO on the TV is orange. An orange light from the Time Capsule flashes—I have to find time to get it talking to my computer again. I only want to go back to sleep. My green throw blanket wraps my feet. They have turned to ice while laying here. The refrigerator stops humming and Garry’s television takes over. The repeating music of X-files will make me get up and shut everything off; he’ll get up and ask twenty questions, one of them being why are you up, and then “Are the kids home yet?” Well, duh! I’m not locked in Ginny’s bedroom. I want to go to sleep, but so much annoys me: dirty dishes, unfolded towels, sweeper not ran, . . . . Can I go back into Ginet’s room where my responsibility stops?

I remember my words: I want to be taken care of. I’m not only tired from lack of sleep, I’m tired from aiding and abetting children that don’t want to grow up. But this isn't’ right either. Ginet is still under age. Will, my grandson, begins to cry. This goes on for several minutes until I hear David or Anna mumble and stumble from the bedroom. I realize Anna hasn’t been asleep because the glow of her lap top streams through the open doorway. She allows Will to cry, trying to get him to stay in his crib and sleep the night through, attempting to “not” get up and take care of him with hugs he craves continuously. I haven’t had the heart to tell either of them that William is showing signs of retardation. I hope I’m wrong; I hope it is mild. Ginny has recognized it as well. There will be no solitude now. It will be noisy for the next hour as Anna keeps putting him back into his bed with a bottle or his Elli (a squishy, squeaky, crumbly sounding toy that looks like an elephant).

I work my way out of the game, close the phone, position my pillows and shut off the small light that is clipped to the rolling printer table that I use as a coffee table. I curl around a pillow, place one between my knees and ankles, plop a small pillow under my left arm and fold the sheet and blanket up to my chin. Garry’s television repeats, Will cries off and on, and I can’t go to sleep in my car—it’s too cold!

Can't believe this!

2009-07-02T13:47:00.000-07:00

The people who work in the section for medicare part D called Garry Monday with all the information he needed! I have never had a government agency call back so soon. We were refunded for all of the prescriptions (minus co-pay) from the pharmacy, thus no fees from the bank. Sadly, all the money we were refunded went to pay bills. I couldn't believe what had been paid out for the last month! At least the bills that needed to be paid were paid: the refund helped pay for the phone and part of the utilities. Someone heard those prayers you all sent up.

Medicaid / Medicare

2009-06-28T10:51:00.000-07:00

Garry received a letter stated that he had part D for prescriptions on medicare, but when he went to reorder his meds the pharmacist said the card number was no good, said that he wasn't covered. He needs one of his meds today, and I don't have the 103 dollars to get it. A partial--four days worth--cost 20 something; still don't have that either: end of the month blues with cash. The government is making it so I have to buy without money, thus a fee from my bank. End of the month blues exists for my parents as well, so I can't borrow from them. My children are looking for jobs, and the one who is working is making just enough to pay the bills. The situation we are finding ourselves in explains why so many elderly people die--eat or meds; housing or meds; so forth and so forth. Medicaid won't pay for anything until the spend down has been met. Is there any hope?

Being Consumed

2009-06-10T12:02:00.000-07:00

Ha! What do you think I mean by that?

I'm attempting to make blankets and hats to sell, find a job, and take care of paper work dealing with the whole damn process of SS and medicaid for Garry and Ginet. Obama's screwed up everything dealing with Garry's SS! Yes, Obama. This new . . . whatever it is he is doing, has caused less money coming on his check to pay for insurance. And then, medicaid is saying he makes too much and must have a spend down of $705.00 a year. In two months the spend down will be done, but in the mean time, where the hell am I going to get the money for his meds and his doctor visits? Two of his meds cost over a hunderd dollars a month. What type of help is this? (And forgive me if I spelled the presidents name wrong. I think there is an 'h' in there somewhere, but have't remembered exactly where it goes.) So, he loses $100 a month from SS, and has to spend money out of his pocket. What is the thinking here? Already poor, and now . . . ; yeah, I get the idea--kill off the poor! Extreme, yes, but that is how I feel. Hmm, send Obama the bill for Garry's meds?

Anyone have a suggestion, other than writing everyone? I'm so tired of dealing with paperwork, and more paperwork, and then fighting with all this lousy government garbage, which is supposed to help, and then turns out to be more work. I spend more time dealing with government issues than looking for a job!

Well, that isn't the only thing hampering my job search. Children who don't get the idea that cleaning takes place everyday, all day. I've been doing spring cleaning, and in the middle of all the spring cleaning, "children" don't want to keep up with dishes, laundry, and general cleaning--especially the bathroom! What am I complaining about anyway, they didn't even do it when I was working or going to school. Need a job I can do from home on the computer. Staying up late isn't an issue, and if it takes eight hours for me to get the house clean everyday, then I can skip all programs (as I've come use to doing anyway) to do paying work. I do take weekends off, but having to leave the house for work and then come home to clean wears me out much quicker. Don't know if this makes any sense. When I'm home during the day, I can stay on top of things. When I'm not, everything stacks up and makes the clean up that much harder. Okay, okay, then how does things stay clean during the weekend? Monday is hell! Yeah, yeah, I know, put your foot down. I do. It last about one day, two if lucky, then they all disappear each day when chores are needed to be done. I've even been pushing them out the door to get work, anywhere! They're younger than me, and can take slop jobs of physical labor.

Done with all this ranting. LORD give me a job I can do without stressing!

2009-05-23T20:31:00.000-07:00

I really miss Thursday nights. That time together forced me to be constructive. I really need to be constructive right now, but don't have the effort to do so. Need a push.

Bringing the Mountain to Mohammad

2009-05-22T06:44:00.000-07:00

Garry has his own garden on top of my dresser now. He's growing miniature sunflowers, herbs, a cactus, and I don't know the names of the many other plants on my dresser. Then, he has a pet green frog, a baby garter snake, and a baby painted turtle. The green frog escaped last night. Though the dog may have ate it, but I heard this ruckus coming from the open window, and there he was attempting to jump out of the window through the screen. Well, at least all of this gives Garry something to do. The problem is, I now have to help care for some of it because his hands don't always cooperate. Like I don't have enough to do already. Wonder if I'll ever see the top of my dresser again?

2009-05-20T19:54:00.000-07:00

Garry has been doing poorly. The doctor upped his meds, and he is close to the limit for them all. Don't know what will be done once he reaches that limit.

The children think I've been a real big grouch. I've been jumping on everyone about not keeping the house clean. My day is spent cleaning mostly. I have told them all that the stove gets cleaned off every night. Tonight I didn't do any dishes. I've been washing dishes twice a day for the past three days. Guess what? The dishes are still sitting there. Hard fact is that I'm out of dishwasher tabs, and no one wants to wash by hand. Hell, they hardly loaded the dishwasher, and then never washed the pots and pans if they couldn't go into the dishwasher.

Still schooling Ginet when "she" decides to be schooled. I'm also schooling the granddaughters. Parents didn't have the money to pay for the last quarter at the Lutheran school. Four hours is spent with them, and Kyla is ADHD! What fun!

Back to the house. I can't believe the filth that was left everywhere when I was working and taking classes. I'm finding everything everywhere. I have to find a job I can do from home! But, then again, where would I hide. I've been getting up in the mornings to do things, and staying up a little late at night. Three days out of the week I sleep late (but of course I can't go pass 8:30 because the dog wakes me to go out). I never know when he'll wake me: anywhere from 6 to 8:30. If Garry is up, and isn't feeling too rough, and he knows my the day before was long for me, he'll take Boots out. I just wish we could get him to stop chasing rabbits and birds! I would love to let him run in the yard and play soccer with me without a leash or chain.

Hmm. Briefly, Derek and Ginet are now taking it very slow. Many many issues have occured. Let me say, they were forced into it by many many people. Seems to be what was needed. The rumors have disapated some. He travels with relatives or very close friends everywhere he goes. Garry told him he wasn't welcomed here for a while. In about a week, Garry will let him back into the house. Ginet is handling the best she can. I keep telling her that some separaton does the heart good. Anyhow, all the "issues" sent Garry's blood pressure rocketing, and tensed up all the muscles in his body, causing many tremors for a few days. It has been reasonably quiet lately. I don't know what to do with myself when I don't clean, or when I'm not working on my poems, short stories, books, or looking for work.

Hey! Does anyone know of a job that pays well, and there are openings?

Star Trek

2009-05-10T20:34:00.001-07:00

My Mother's Day gift from my hubby was a trip to Rave; although he didn't go. Loved the movie. I think critics put it down. While I'm not a big big fan, I think it was done tactfully, and the actors and actresses chosen for the parts studied the original actors' and actresses' movements and manners well. The show impressed me by the ability to make me "see" the characters as I know them; plus, the dialogue was wonderfully done, fitting the personality of each character impeccably. Of course, it helped going in without any expectations.

Soap Opera Letters continued

2009-05-10T19:56:00.000-07:00

The show begins on time; the opening scene in the driveway of Mrs. C's home. Miss G is in the house practicing her craft--art. Mr. D and Miss K are outside standing in the driveway. Miss G's brother has come over for a visit. He opens the door to step out for a smoke. Do his eyes deceive him? Are Miss K and Mr. D embracing? Mr. D is confronted. He denies everything, and boldly states that Miss K was frightened by a loud sound, that he was only comforting her. Miss G's brother walks away; although, he does tell Miss G.

The scene jumps to Miss G sharing her experiences with a friend: "I know they've made out; in fact, we've had a threesome." This friend hears the soreness behind the words; this friend recalls her past; this friend weeps for what is to come.

Mrs. D drops the remote as she stands up quickly. The remote lands vertically, then falls face first. Mrs. D stumbles across the floor ill to her stomach: "What has happened to the simplicity of breaking up, of finally saying, "I don't want to be with you?""

Well, those of you that know me, I hope you enjoyed another clip of "Soap Opera Letters." For those of you who don't, take it as you see / hear it. There is meaning in "soap" for those of you who aren't in the inside.

My Papers Are Done

2009-05-05T19:33:00.001-07:00

I turned in my last paper tonight. However, I'm still not completely free. I have students' papers to read. Last night, after finishing my post colonial paper, I decided today would be movie and family day, stay at home and be lazy day. For the most part it was. Some dishes, a run to the grocery store, and the run to the school to turn in the last paper. Yaaaaaahooooooooooo! A May 2009 Graduate Student! I do admit, I don't know what I'll do with myself if I'm not studying for a reason. Although, I know I will be writing. I'm definitely sending out work this summer—no slacking. Publishing is the goal.

Now, to write about what this blog was made for—taking care of a disabled husband. While what I'm going to speak about isn't directly about my husband's disability, it is about dealing with the situation, and another type of disability I've witnessed within my own church community. I've began a gathering for women who take care of a disabled member of the family. Originally, the plan was for women with disabled husbands. Since few (as in two, one of them my own daughter) came for the first two meetings, I broadened the field to family members. Sadly, the gathering has only stayed to two to three women (not including me); plus, the place where the gatherings are to be held has never been available to me—the trustee has never unlocked the room. Once, to even have entrance into the Lutheran school, I had to check with the church office, hoping someone was there to let me into the school, where the small gathering used the commons, as we have been doing. I know there are women within the congregation that have disabled husbands, disabled children, and other disabled family members (both physical and mental). I've personally invited one woman from the congregation. I don't understand what is to be feared about discussing the daily activities, fears, issues, agitations, frustrations of everyday life with a disabled family member. I've arranged the gatherings to be creative, to be expressive through the art that a woman enjoys mostly, the art that makes her feel comfortable, welcoming, and herself.

I'm saddened that the women in my church community do not see this as an opportunity to explore the well being of the self. I wander, how do they deal with it, who do they speak to? I needed someone else to speak to, to explore my emotions of life when dealing with my husband; hell, I needed it when I was raising my two mentally disabled children! What is the fear? Are they afraid to find the self?

I'm with finding another place to bring the gathering together. I will be reaching out to more than my church community. A letter will be going out to another member's church family in a couple of weeks. I'm hoping it only takes me one week to find another place to hold the gatherings.

Please, if anyone reads this that lives in Fort Wayne, please post a request to find out where the meetings are if you are interested in coming to a gathering. The group releases its feelings through any art form, and then discusses what we have done—asking of ourselves, and of others, and sharing what we think. We never judge! We are not gathering to judge each other, we are gathering to get in touch with ourselves, to help ourselves through the issues that face us as we live life with a disabled family member. Come, All Is Ready.

Soap Opera Letters

2009-03-31T22:32:00.001-07:00

Mrs. D watches her favorite program: Minutes in a Day. She follows the story ritually. A lonely lady—but this observer is unsure. Some time ago, the characters Miss S and Mr. V have had some problems. Mr. V has known something is wrong for some time, has felt that Miss S has been seeing someone on the side, or many some bodies. His best buddy, Mr. D has recognized this as well, and has now become part of a plot summoned up by Miss S. Miss S has involved Mr. V's sister, Miss G—a young un-expecting girl who doesn't see the "bad" in a person. Miss G is also dating Mr. V's best buddy, Mr. D. Mr. V and Mr. D grew up together, went to school together, went out and got drunk together. The plot starts with Miss S acting on her "crush." She wants Mr. D. To accomplish such an act, she begins to see Mr. J—Mr. D's friend, a family friend for many years, asking Miss G to come along often. "Promise you won't tell V." Torn, but not seeing the "bad," Miss G swears to keep the promise. After a few secret visits with Mr. J, Mr. J mentions how Miss S and Miss G have been meeting him to do things together, and how Miss S makes certain suggestions. Mr. D has serious trust issues because of his past family history. Miss G and Mr. D argue, but do not separate. Mr. D explains to his mother, "I love her; she sees the good in people; I don't think she realized what was exactly going on." Mr. V confronts Miss S. Tensions are on edge for a few days, but they make up. Still, Mr. V is leery, but he loves her; although, he knows she is consistently texting other men and meeting men on MySpace; he also knows that she meets men at P's Night Club to dance—he is not yet 21, she is. There are a few days that past before more drama. Miss G and Mr. D go to his sister's place for awhile. Then Miss G decides to help Mr. D's sister with some redecorating that needs to be done. She stays for a weekend. The perfect opportunity is opened up for Miss S to strike. She is going out with her best friend Miss K to P's Night Club; the two men are going to see a movie while the women are away. They see a movie at a theatre, then rent a few movies from the All Night Rental. Mr. V gets a call: "K's to drunk to drive, and I can't drive, come and get us." Mr. V asks Mr. D to ride along to pick up the women. That night, Miss K sits close to Mr. D, pushing herself closer to him as they watch movie after movie. Miss S passes out on the couch. Mr. V is concerned with Miss K's "body language," knowing his best buddy's down fall when he is worn down from a long day. He knows that his buddy's mind will see Miss G. Miss S knows this all too well, as well. The next morning, all appears well. Mr. V is concerned about Miss K's actions, but puts it up to her being drunk. A little later in the day, Mr. D mentions to Mr. V that Miss S and Miss K have said, "You can do better than Miss G."

Mrs. D sighs, "Can he be that naive? He's dated many girls." She tunes in the following day.

Mr. V and Miss S are planning on the movies. Mr. D has taken the comment in stride, believing it is only an opinion, that nothing is actually meant by it. Miss D calls to say she has a free ticket to the theater. They all go out. Mr. D and Miss G have talked on the phone, but nothing has been said about Miss K. After the movie, they visit Mr. V's mother's place; watch her many movies, have a few beers, stay up late. Mrs. C notices the body language of both girls. She has witnessed Miss S's actions for some time when she is near Mr. D. Her son discusses last night with her. He is concern, but can't imagine a "good Catholic girl" doing anything wrong. She reminds him, "She is a woman, and he is a good looking man." Mrs. C has already expressed her concerns about Miss S around Mr. D to her son in the past, "She has a crush on him, more than a crush, she wants him." Mr. V doesn't take it to heart, but now he's beginning to see what his mother has expressed as the night continues. Both watch the actions that take place. He knows this was the right place to come, to hang out. Mr. D still appears to not understand what is happening. Mr. V realizes Mr. D still sees both Miss S and Miss K as friends. But Mr. V knows there is more, now. As the night progresses, his mother comes out of the bedroom on a regular schedule. She is close to Mr. D; she has discussed much with him, letting him know right where he stands with her daughter. The next morning, after all are awake and about, after Mr. D goes out to help take care of some yard work for Mrs. C, Mrs. C notices he has taken a break and approaches him. "Let's take a walk; there's something we need to talk about."

The program ends, and Mrs. D is impatient to see what mother will say to her daughter's boyfriend. She also knows, when all is said, when all is put into the proper place, Miss S will retaliate.

The weekend is long, and all the possibilities run through her head. "Is Mr. D truly in love with Miss G? He never picked up on the moves that Miss K made; although they were subtle, very subtle. Is Mr. D use to aggressive women? Has he never witnessed a vixen at work? Mr. V has, he has one." Finally, Monday comes.

The conversation is pleasant. Mr. D has not paid attention, but begins to think about it. He admits his tiredness kept him from seeing what was happening. Then he tells Mrs. C about the conversation with Miss K and Miss S. Mrs. C expresses her concerns about Miss S using Miss K to get to him: "You do know she has a crush on you." He uses a joke to relieve the tension, "What women doesn't; admit it, you have a crush on me too." He smiles and hugs her. "I love your daughter; nothing will happen; we're all friends." Mrs. C expresses once again that both want more, especially Miss S. "I wouldn't do that to Mr. V; he loves her, he's good to her." Mrs. C agrees, but adds, "She's been trying to say V has been abusive, but she never says what he does, nor does she show me any bruises. He has always walked away when he was angry and felt his fists tightening." The next day comes; Miss G comes home. The two talk. It has been agreed that Miss K cannot come over, and that Miss S must stay away for awhile. Mr. D lounges on the couch studying for his entry test to the army. Mr. V and Miss S have come to visit again. Some brief argument takes place while Mrs. C helps Mr. D study the math portion. Out of the corner of Mrs. C's eye, she sees her son shove Miss S into the piano, hard, with intent to harm her. Quickly she intervenes and pulls her son into the bedroom. "What was that? What were you doing?" "She's been pushing me, making comments and whining, and slapping me again." Mrs. C has known about Miss S's abusive acts toward her son, and he's handled it well. Knowing all that has happened, she knows what Miss S is up to. "She wants you to hurt her. She is trying to make you do something to her. She wants to make sure you look like the bad person, the only responsible party in the situation." Later that night, a text comes to Mr. G, "I'm leaving him; he's abusive. Mrs. C said you were cheating." Anger engulfs Mr. G. He ignores Mrs. C, doesn't look at her when he passes, and won't sit in the same room with her. A few hours go by before he speaks. "Why did you say I was cheating?" Mrs. C doesn't understand. "Miss S said that Mr. V said that you said I was cheating." "Honey, Mr. V and I talked about Miss S and what she is doing. Nothing more. She's attempting to put us against each other, just as she did between you and Miss G. She knows you have trust issues. Don't let her do it to you."

The program ends again, and Mrs. D is relieved to see Miss S has not divided the adorable couple, and that she hasn't left Mr. V; although, she knows Mr. V has laid down the law, and one misstep by her will mean his departure. Somehow, for some reason, Mrs. D knows that Miss S loves Mr. V, she just doesn't know how to control the impulse, and the drama.

Do the Tremor

2009-03-13T21:46:00.001-07:00

Last week, while I was in class, my husband had a serious muscle attack. All the children were at the house, thank God! I realize why I was getting so many texts half way through class (the class I'm writing this for). It scared the children to see their father disabled by uncontrollable quaking muscles, making him incapable of moving in any form, stuck where he was, standing, leaning against the bed, holding William (our grandson). I felt helpless, I felt insecure, I felt responsible. He has not had a serious attack like this before, not as my son described it to me. Vincent saw his skin moving. He described it as a bubbling, as if his father's skin was boiling. And while this motion was happening, he watched his father's curl in and out, cramp and let go. Garry described his toes doing the same thing. Vincent said, if he hadn't gone to the kitchen to something to drink, he wouldn't have known what was happening, and Will would have been dropped to the floor. Vincent attempted to help Garry to the bed, but the pain was so great that Garry wouldn't allow him to touch. What will happen the next time when no one is in the house? And as I've voiced before, how does this affect all his organs, especially the heart, which is a muscle. Are the lungs a muscle too?

After Vincent witnessing such a tremor, he decided that Garry would no longer watch any child, and could not hold a child without another in the room with him. He made it perfectly clear to everyone, even me. I smile as I say "even me." I still hear his words: "No one mom, and I mean no one, will leave their baby with dad." Of course Garry is bucking at it, thinking he was still in control, insisting that he wasn't about to drop Will, and would never drop Will. Garry denies much. I think all of us have been denying plenty. I have to make sure, with his next appointment, that I ask specific questions about when and how the heart will be effected by the medical condition he has, the medical condition that the doctors cannot put a single name to.

Just yesterday, he was down for about fifteen minutes with mild tremors. He told me last night, that ever since he had the big attack, he has had several smaller attacks. Sounds like after shocks. It isn't funny, but it sounds quirky. I'm wondering if someone doesn't need to be home with him all the time, now. I was scared to leave him alone before, now I'm really scared. What if he would fall over during one of these attacks and seriously hurt himself? Hit is head, fall onto something that would cut him deeply?

With the mentioning of him cutting himself from I fall, I realize that he is unable to feel much of anything immediately after injury. He's been getting these cuts on his legs that he doesn't know are there until he feels a burning sensation, or sees the blood. He went two days without knowing he cut the back of his leg, pretty deep. I'm asking myself, as you are asking me, "How did I not see it?"

No title to match

2009-02-22T19:39:00.001-08:00

I have yet been able to finish all the work I need to get done! As of now, because of so many interferences, frustration has taken over; thus, focusing to read and respond has become an issue. So, I will BLOG out my frustration.

First, Garry has had to do things in the house he should not. We had to buy a new stove. He didn't transport into the house, but he had to assist with some of the functions when switching the stove from natural gas to propane: orifice needed to be switched out for each cooking top, for the oven, and for the broiler. I, of course, had much cleaning to get done so the stove could be put in—clean up the kitchen so no dirty dishes were in the way, move items that usually set next to the stove, and once the old stove was moved out, clean up all the garbage that rolled under or fell along side the stove, plus scrub down the side of the cabinet where grease collected (as well as the walls), and move the pots from the cabinet next to the stove to reach the plug for the range. I called my mother to get some help, since cleaning is a disease for my children: "Hey mom, want to spend some quality time together doing what you love to do?" "What's that?" "Cleaning." She came down, and we started cleaning.

I was reluctant in calling my mother because of complaining, a gossiping complaining that I prefer not to do. I did well, keeping the discussion limited to getting the work done without mentioning how little help I get from the kids. If I would have said this, I would have heard about all the things that my oldest daughter has done, what my sister and her children have done, and so forth and so forth. Most of it comes down to money. All in all, we had a decent conversation—with little pointing of the finger.

Before my mother showed up, Garry and I picked up items in the living room after many items were moved to bring in the new stove (before I was able to get to the kitchen—so mom and I worked around the new stove to clean). We actually didn't have a choice: snow and rain isn't the best washing for a new stove. The underside of the coach looked like a dropping ground for cheerios, pennies, socks, and wrappers. I completely moved the coach to sweep under it. Garry just moved small items, and picked up larger paper products tucked in various places. Upon moving the coach, I found a lost shoe, and a lost channel changer, plus more wrappers wedged at the end of the coach that sits along side the wall, where the tray tables are kept (between coach and wall). Had to move all that out. Then, I found sticky substance—someone had spilled a pop and never cleaned my night stand. I moved everything, and swept where the sweeper usually doesn't get. Unhappily, I was now a full day behind on all my schoolwork. I had just finished putting all back when my mother showed up.

With the kitchen clean, and preparing to get a little school work done, the boys came walking through the door to install the stove. This took up most of my energy as well, seeing that I was helping various people find tools, making phone calls to find the proper tools (calling dad), and helping my granddaughter, Brianna, find information for her school project. (Oh, did I neglect to mention that my Brianna had to use the internet to find pictures on Anne Frank, thus leaving the house to go get her—but not far, she was down at my parents. And I probably should explain that my parents only live a block away.)

Now, while the stove is being converted by Vincent and Derek (Ginet's boyfriend), they are setting up Guitar Hero as well. There goes my space to study, to write, to read, to . . . do all those things I need to do with space. After the stove was in place, it had to be "burned off" before any cooking could be done, so this awful smell permeated the house. I finally gave up trying to do any studying, settled down to watch the little ones, and played a little Guitar Hero.

But this isn't the end of it! Let me back up some. I promised to babysit Chloe—Vincent's little girl, so he and Samantha could go out for awhile. This was the day before. While watching her, I was able to manage my students' journal folders and put the grades into my books. Still didn't get much accomplished, and everyone knew that Saturday would by my day for study. Well, as you can see, it didn't happen. Vincent and Samantha took me out for breakfast (after stopping at a car lot to attempt a loan for a newer car. Thank GOD Vincent came to his senses!). And here, my started on Saturday without touching one piece of work, Garry left at home trying to do cleaning that I had planned on fitting in between my studies (some dishes, and our laundry).

Now it's Sunday. I've managed to respond to Welch, and to one peer's rough draft. That doesn't scratch the service. I'm so frustrated that I can't observe a damn thing I'm reading. I have nearly forty students final drafts to their first project to grade on top of what I haven't been able to get done, and still need to prepare Monday's class! I've jumped ahead of myself here a little. Before I could "study" there were a few issues to handle: getting the kids up to take care of their dogs, get David moving to work on the drain that is leaking, and making Anna (David's fiancé) get up to watch Will—she had stayed up late to play Guitar Hero. I went to bed two hours before her, and was up at 8:30a. At 11:00a she still wasn't moving: not a pretty scene when I riled her into getting out of her bed. I was so mad at her for deciding that David could get up to take care of Will and fix the drain (after he had only slept three hours—he works third shift) that I spoke my mind: "Regardless how late you stayed up to party, you're responsible for Will; he is yours to care for!" A few words came from her, I made my point again, and then Garry took over from there. She has been in a closed off, upset mood all day. Once I settled down, once I did a little tearing, received some hugs from others, I was studying. Everything went well with my studies for about three hours, until my son called: "Mom, I need to tell you something. . . ." My stomach sunk, and I thought, "No, he isn't going to tell me about my car." Well, he did. He hit someone. My car, not drivable. The person he hit could drive away with a bent fender. Yes, my car now sits waiting to be fixed on some lot here in Fort Wayne. My car that "I" bought on my own, the car that "I" chose without a man telling me what to do, the car that "I" dickered for to keep my payments within my income—unlike the dealership wanted me to do, my car—the car that I can say is MINE because I did it by myself and pay for it from my own paycheck! Now, I have four grown children, and two of their friends in my living room playing Guitar Hero while I'm shoved into my bedroom—though, I don't mind my bedroom, just don't care for the shows Garry watches.

Yeap. Having to deal with Garry in his cave. The bedroom is called his cave. Rarely does he come out, and when he does, few people are home. I sit in my bedroom with my travel internet to post this to Blogger. The noise is ripping me up. I haven't had a quite day since Thursday night. I'm tired. Garry isn't being pleasant about my presence in his space. I do understand; but I think he forgets, I haven't had a space since. . . . Oh, hell, I can't remember. It's been toooooooooooo looooooooooong.

Hmmm, I really need that support group! I'm going to be pushed too far, and then, there'll be more than mom crying uncontrollably for two days, I'll snap into a rage!

Do It Right

2009-02-14T23:04:00.001-08:00

Do it right? What does that term mean? If a stranger walks into my house they wouldn't believe I'm doing it right. My house looks like the cave of hell. School, work, homeschooling, and caring (originally the word posted before caring was carrying: wonder why I did that?) for my husband are two full time jobs. Have I taken on too much? Yes. I just want to finish my degree this semester, then work full time to meet the bills. In all of this, I miss my free time to write. The required blog for the weekly class I'm in does help enforce the free write. Still, 600 words plus here a week, and another 600 words plus a week for another class (with the same professor --whom I enjoy learning from much) tasks the abilities to come up with something new. I do not want to repeat myself in either; and, my life is so packed with just life, I can't respond to any news, let alone any new breakthroughs. When I have to deal with SS again, I'm sure I'll be writing plenty.

It wasn't long ago I had to fill out a form for my daughter's portion of the SS. All they questions they asked are already on file with answers. Why take my time when they can pull it all up on a computer? Well, I filled it all out, and found the sealed envelop still sitting on my desk! I know I should have placed it in the mailbox, but when I called home to have my son immediately get it off the desk and put it in the mailbox, I never thought about checking to see if he did. Three weeks since I filled out the information. It is a good thing that the information doesn't have to reach them until the end of March.

One thing that gets tiring is filling out paper work for Garry and Ginet. I know I haven't mentioned much about her disability. She does have a physical disability, but it isn't recognizable—a narrow pulmonary artery that interferes with her valve, causing blood to flow back into the heart instead of flowing out as it should (whatever section of the heart that is called). She also has a hole in heart, the hole that all babies have at birth that normally closes up. The recognizable disability can only be witnessed when she speaks—Mildly Mentally Handicapped (MiMH) is how she is labeled. Mild retardation. She 's on the lower rung of the mild category. She isn't my only child with the mental disability; my oldest son has the same condition, but is a little higher functioning. I've been told that two children in the same family with retardation is unusual; in fact, I remember someone saying, during all the testing, using the word anomaly. It can't be much of an anomaly when I personally know a family in New Haven that has two children with retardation.

Sadly, my grandmother blamed herself. My aunt, who I never had a chance to meet, because she died at the age of twelve, was mildly retarded. My uncle, who lived to a good old age, was retarded, but not from birth—he had two childhood diseases (one on top of the other). Most people would say, "Fried the brain." Gran'ma always took some things too personally. The doctors cannot tell Garry and I why we have two children with retardation, but we know a syndrome called Noonan's genetically runs in one of our families. Noonan's syndrome's characteristics are short stature, heart trouble, and in about thirty percent of the children, retardation. An early noticeable condition is having trouble swallowing, or continuously regurgitating immediately after swallowing. There are a few others, but I can't recall what they are right now. Garry's family has people from under 5 feet to over 6 feet in height. Ginny is the shortest person on my side of the family. The term short stature means people under five feet tall. Garry's youngest sister is under five feet, his grandmother was under five feet, and if I remember correctly, her mother was under five feet. When Noonan's runs in the family, half of the children born to the family will have Noonan's. I believe the other children are carriers. Most children live very normal lives. If the geneticist is correct, than there should be at least three to four other of Garry's siblings under five feet. Hmm, oddly, there isn't. The trouble is, I don't know how many miscarriages my mother-in-law had. I know she had a few. And I should have at least one other child under five feet, but I don't. I did have three miscarriages and a stillborn. Maybe Ginet doesn't have Noonan's. Hard to say; Garry and I can only go based on the scientific facts we have been given.

What does everything I have just said have to do with "Do It Right?" It looks like there isn't a way to Do It Right—life doesn't allow for it.

Thank you classmates

2009-02-09T20:29:00.000-08:00

I want to say thank you to those who posted a response to week three. I am happy to see that you felt sorrow, but did not take pity; pity doesn't help me, it only holds me back. Any ideas you can swing my way would be of great help, and greatly appreciated! We've already fought Medicaid, and won (to receive it); fought SS, and won; now the fight is on to change Medicaids mind about experimental test and medicines. Of course, that isn't the only challenge we have: the house needs to be enlarged. In two years, we've managed getting the new sewer lines in for the extension. I'm hoping this spring will bring about the foundation and walls (at least the foundation). Biggest challenge is MONEY to do what is needed, and then to fit everyone's schedules together to do the job. We're do it yourself people, which Garry misses tremendously. The best he can do is supervise from his window on bad days, and on good days, take his cane and find a spot where a chair can be placed with enough area to do a little walking when sitting becomes to much. Hmm, wonder how it's going to work since he has to nap about six times a day.

Enough of this. Thinking out loud too much.

2009-02-09T20:08:00.000-08:00

Poetry Abounds Again

What I’m going to write about this week has nothing to do with, or at least directly deals with my husband’s disability. My story begins with a note I wrote to my daughter’s boyfriend after being informed that they were asked to babysit on Valentine’s Day.

Derek,

I ask that you decline to babysit, seeing that it is Ginet’s first Valentine’s Day with a beau. It was unfair of Jessica to ask you to babysit on Valentine’s. There are others that can do so. (And a few more words were added, but this is the important part of the note.)

Somewhere between the night I left the note in Derek’s shoe as he played in the mud in our front yard, the day of the family pictures, and just before the night my granddaughters returned from their father,s, Jessica calls, hollering about the note I left Derek.

Screaming: “He offered . . . what right—“

Self: “I was told—“

Screaming: “No mom, you’re going to listen to me, you’re not going to say a word; I didn’t ask, he offered; and we don’t ask everyone to watch our kids; where do you—“

Self: “I didn’t say anything about you asking every—“

Screaming: “Listen to me; we’re not asking anyone to do anything; we don’t come over anymore because you don’t have the time; you act like we are in your way . . . .”

I allow her to continue for awhile, but once she says I act like they don’t exist and don’t involve her in anything, I become the scream.

SCREAM: “I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS GARBAGE. NONE OF IT WAS IN THE LETTER. I HAVE PAPERS TO GRADE AND STUDYING TO DO. I’M HANGING UP NOW, JESS; I CAN’T ARGUE WITH YOU; I CAN’T LISTEN TO YOUR SCReAMING; I DON’T HAVE TIME TO DEAL WITH YOUr MISINTERPRETATION! BYE!”

I hang up.

About an hour later, I receive three consecutive texts, stating how I don’t treat her like my daughter, that I ignore her and, in her words, that she may as well be dead.

My response was no response to her, just a quizzical look on my face, telling my husband about the texts, and reading it out loud to Ginet. Poor Ginet, she felt like a dog caught in a fence.

I smile to myself and begin to poetically respond. This is what came of the whole event.

“I am selfish.”

I call when you can come over

My door is always locked

My refrigerator is key-coded

My pets smell like a rose garden

My house is immaculate—never a spot

My yard has DO NOT WALK ON THE GRASS

My concerns are only about my future; this is why I’m always broke

I’m only forced into sharing

I’m only forced into compliance

Yes, I am always busy

I sniff roses only when I grow them

The birds dive into my windows

Chlorine, Lysol, and Murphy’s Oil soap keep the rats away

Friends call me every night to dance: this is why I’m always home

My last semester of graduate school (9 credit hours)

Teach elementary composition times 2

My door revolves on loose hinges

Time sneaks in momentarily: Goo; Gaa; Patty-cake

Water-line breaks

Hot water heater out

Not enough room for a wheelchair

I only wish for “Sleepless in Seattle”

Mother Goose never had this many eggs

Does this sound about right? I give up hours to do many different things for many of the children; give up money—most of which I never see again (my house payment, my car payment, my electric bill payment, and more and more and more, right down to my gas for their vehicles or more for mine after use by them). Go on, say it! I let it happen; WE let it happen. We do, a great downfall we have—love for our children that is misdirected all to often with allowing them to step over us to where they don’t know the word NO, or how to SEE beyond their own four walls.

Hmm, I wonder how Jess heard about the letter?

No matter; I take the blame and go on. I can’t dwell on this situation. It is minute to what I must take care of—my husband and my well-being to keep doing exactly what we have always been doing—loving them all as we only know how to do.

Family pictures

2009-02-02T19:16:00.000-08:00

What does family pictures have to do with my husband's disability: he is limited to motion and has a hard time getting around; a hour out on his feet can put him down for two days; and he can't sit in one place for very long either! Garry goes from laying, sitting, to standing, and cycling back through again. Sometimes, for about two hours he can go between sitting and standing, but that is on his good days.

Let me start with Today (Jan 31) I spent time running around helping others "buy" clothes for a picture setting. Jessica insists on blue, black, white, and / or gray to be worn. Many do not have these colors. Chloe's clothes all have some type of pink in them (too much, even if they are tiny flowers I am told), William's clothes consist of blue, but has yellow (too bright), Sammy doesn't have a dress-like top, and Anna had nothing that wasn't patterned with bright colors; Derek doesn't have a proper dress-like shirt, and Ginny just couldn't wear her very formal skirt and top that would win her a job--all this for a family sitting that Garry can't go to.

I can't help think about what he misses by not experiencing the family outside of his little domain--he rarely comes out of the bedroom, except to exchange his water bottle with a fresh frozen one. His life, now, consist of television watching--programs and movies (bought and rentals).

He is seriously addicted to the television. The DVD recorder / player went out on Thursday and he nearly had withdrawal. It took him four hours to disconnect the burnt out DVD and install Ginet's (of which she hadn't been using). I can't image what he would have done if her DVD had been hooked up! He couldn't wait for one day for me to get a new player, and he couldn't wait until one of our children were home to help him. I kept him at bay during the day before classes, but after I left, well . . . you get the picture. That is the most movement I've seen him do for awhile--but he paid for it! He was down a half day on Friday.

I know he NEEDS activity because in the long run it would help his muscles. If he could do everything at little tidbits until his body started "taking" to it. I have spoken to different people that have similar problems to Garry, and they all said that he needs "tiny" exercises and some "massage" therapy. He won't do it. While neither of them will cure him, it would help his mobility and keep him from being so sore and worn later when he has to "get out."

I'm wondering how I can get him more involved with family functions that happen in the house as well. He'll hide out during those times as well. He keeps saying he needs new clothes, but I can't buy them for him because his waist line has grown. He was just complaining about needing a new suit "encase" he does have to go out. I doubt he would even go to a sibling's death--he barely went to his nieces wedding two years ago. His mother may get him out of the house, but at this rate, I doubt it. I'm already telling my last daughter that he may be pushed down the isle in a wheelchair. She isn't happy about it; Garry makes jokes; I want him to walk.

Today has turned into tomorrow (Feb 01). The wind is blowing just enough to create a small roar through Garry's window fan. One of the side effects of the medication he takes is weight gain and being hot all the time. He was always on the little warm side before the disability, before the meds; now it cost me in having a bedroom that never gets warm, and a heating / cooling bill. A cool shower makes him sweat. Any movement, such as him getting the DVD hooked up, causes him to sweat. He is on blood pressure medicine. An active man severely slowed, and just over 50. How well will he move by the time he is 55? With research, we've been told, on stem-cell, scientist may find an answer to all of his multiple problems.

Controversy for me. There are different ways to receive stem-cells. One of those ways is not an option for us: abortion. Unborn babies murdered for the advancement of health? What could these babies give us in years to come? A cure for the common cold? Still, the other stem-cells that are used can only take scientist so far. There is also another issue with fetus stem-cell, something that deals with reliability in its use. I don't remember exactly. What you can get from one doesn't mean you can get it from the others. Anyhow, Garry, nor I, am willing to kill to help him "get better." It has no logic.

The doctor offered to raise his dosage on vicadon. Garry refused because he doesn't want to become seriously addicted. I don't think he has a choice. Pain management is all that is left to him. It has been a week since he saw the doctor, now he is wondering if he should have said yes.

Thinking even deeper into all of this: what will happen when his exterior body stops functioning? Can these multiple problems effect his organs? Will I be able to care for him when the time comes? Baby poop and pee is one thing: adult feces is another.

Oh hell! What will I do when he can't even hug me? I'm a person that has to have the physical contact. I'm already feeling neglected; I know he can't help it. I sometimes wonder if I'll have the strength . . . to . . . get through the long dry spell that will come. And then, I wonder, what if I die first? Who will care for him?

Keeping myself overly busy isn't going to keep my mind from all these "ifs," and definitely won't keep me at bay for affection.

Ah; BAY--I thought of a werewolf who cannot help itself, cannot control the urge. There are those days I can no longer keep from clinging to him. I can only shake my head as I think this and as I write this. What am I going to do?