doing nothing is creative

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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 . . .

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

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:

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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)

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

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

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

I.

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

V.

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!