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

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

I can say it clearly without feeling guilty

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

I may have failed . . .

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

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

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

Building Blocks

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

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

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

      for    . . .

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

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

--One letter, just one letter                        Dear Jesus

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

This is a waste

repeating a task                                                                     that repeats before I’ve finished

       Anaphora

at its best

More on Polar with Mom

Dawn Luebke November 3 at 1:14pm

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

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

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

Sketch Sixteen

The Hall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I find myself writing . . .

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

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

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

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

I will attempt more journeys here. I need to.

Sketch Thirteen

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

What Could Be Worse?

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

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

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

Well, the Week Just Keeps Coming!

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

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

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

Oh, this week just gets more wonderful!

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

The Moon of Man

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

The week continued . . .

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

This week has been tooooooooo long

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

Seventh Sketch

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

Being Lazy Sketch

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mind Sketch

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

Sketch Five

Applebee’s

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

Waiting Outside a CVS/pharmacy

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

If you have not already . . .

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

Much appreciated!

Third Sketch

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

Second Sketch

Native at Johnny Appleseed

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

First Sketch

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

 

Must Be Rain

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

A Promise To Me

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

Email address

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

Okay, It Is Sunday

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

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

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

Two Stones

1.a
Evening fails to end the day.
Starlight and moonlight stand over me.
In the church, an urn stares at forty people.
The last bee flutters over a flower.
In the cemetery, a casket blindly looks at the tent ceiling.
I can only mix these two days into a moment

when the urn resides within the casket.  At each moment

the preacher says, “. . . bow our heads,”

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

1.b

from the sorrowfulness.  It is only fitting to bury
ashes with the embalmed.
I can’t help remembering words: “his huge body

splayed over a Lazy Boy; an Arby’s bag below

his left hand on the floor; the television

sounding “Bad Boys” as the coroner
pronounced him dead.”  The last time I saw him

2.b

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

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

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

3.d
40 years ago for coffee to Sambo’s, where some big-busted

waitress would laugh and giggle, and he would point out,
“She’s my niece.”  I was bait.  The seal slides down
as I stand at a distance with my toes facing another stone.

Excitment again

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

Excitement

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

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

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

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

Three Rivers Festival

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

I figured it out!

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


We had fun, lots of fun.


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

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

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

My favorite.

Two Parties in One Day

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

Movies I would normally not watch

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope to see you all at the movies.

Attempting to keep my writing habit whole

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

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

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

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

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

Is there something to post?

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

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

It has been thunderstorms outside while tornadoes inside.

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

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

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

Lightning Strike

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

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

About the last entry

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

When a Love Song Doesn't

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

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

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

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

Realization

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

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

Thoughts

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

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

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

Death

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

Since I Have Faced the Words Aloud

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

Emotional Train

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

Today is . . .

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

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

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

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

Forgive me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you all on First Friday.

First Day Back in the Class for Spring 2010

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

Lost in revision

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

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