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.