Lunar eclipse in Pisces
Like a vulture,
Who does not understand
I have circled the hot spot
Of my own pain
Every time I try
To get away from it
A blast of its heat
Takes me up on
So I can only hover
Above it from
Then slowly, I
Circle back down,
Drawn by the stench of infection,
So that I may rip away the
Barriers to healing.
The overwhelming majority of comments I get on my blog are from Mr. E (one of his chosen monikers and I don’t recall how I’ve referred to him, on this blog, in the past). They are typically unpleasant and accusatory. Once, or only one time that I remember, the comment was defensive. I have chosen not to publish them, but they are saved. I have no idea when, if ever, this blog will remotely resemble something I’d want to publicize actively. I could simply write in a journal. I could use my pc’s word processor. But I enjoy the blog. I enjoy the tools present to make it contain images or videos, etc. I like the idea that it’s being archived on “the web” even if my computer craps out.
I received a comment today that was from a different person. One who found me due to the poem in a previous post and who felt connection and said so. It was a surprise. I feared/expected the comment-er to be Mr. E’s new “woman” coming to defend “her man” (his lingo) online. Not that I know anything about his relationships or lack thereof. I haven’t felt relevant or searchable online in years. I haven’t been able to write rhythmically in years. The time allotted is minuscule when compared with the amount of emotion and transition I’m processing. Also, the pressure is on to get a lot of shit done all the time every day.
Any way. The last free wordpress theme was agonizingly wrong, so I picked something that seemed mostly fool proof that I could spruce up quickly and leave be without embarrassment. I’m still a blogspot girl at heart, but wordpress seemed so potentially professional at the time I made the switch.
Creditors sometimes call at the best times. Until I left my well paying job and turned over the financial power to another I was doing pretty well in the credit/debt world. Since I’ve left him and diapering, feeding and shoeing my children has become priority number one the creditors have become unhappy with me. I attempted to refer them to him at first, but that was to no avail. I usually just don’t answer unrecognized phone numbers, but sometimes they call at the just the right moment. There is dirty laundry scattered in every room. The baby is resisting any nap today, I don’t even think the toddler has brushed his teeth today and my one day off of “work” this week has basically been depressing as a result of the pleasant help a teacher in our playgroup offered. She gave me yet more disciplinary advice for the controlling of Salamander and what happened is that I felt some vital self-control within snap. I made Salamander remain on his own in an unused room of the summerized school until he could control himself enough to walk to the car with me and once we arrived at the car I began crying uncontrollably. I haven’t even been able to make myself cry with sad movies or music, but there we were. My eyes are still all red and hot and it’s six hours later.
So the creditor called. And I gave her a piece of my mind. Usually they listen, apologize, say they will make notation and ask me to please call as soon as I am able to begin paying again, they won’t be able to help me until I bring the account current, blah blah blah. This one however didn’t get to the empathy section of training so when she ignored my explanation I asked if she had heard me correctly. Ah, the vent. Venting on someone whose job it is to do the dirty work. Sorry lady. I’m sure they did teach you how to deal with impolite persons on the phone.
So today the kids and I went to the local farmer’s market. It’s part of our new Saturday tradition and when the season ends, I don’t know, we’ll have to return to pancakes and Car Talk unless something better presents itself… maybe a hike. I had planned on buying some cornbread with orange honey butter from a booth once we got there and while we waited in the slow line, Salamander so patient amid his energetic curiosity, the cinnamon rolls began singing a siren song to me. Continue reading
Just before our hero departed for her epic journey across the country she acquired music to accompany the miles. She sentimentally chose an album that her now estranged man had dedicated to her in the first, rosy and bloomin days. She tried, and failed, to listen to the album at points but wasn’t able to bear it.
It happened to be Father’s Day. She’d accepted the role of mother/father months ago. There was no irony lost when she looked at the cover and title of the album.
“Mama took me down to the river bed. Showed me something I never seen. Mama took me down to the river bed. Showed me something I never seen. Oh Mama. What is that?”
She says she never had the patience to learn an instrument. She says she is a singer. Has great rhythm. Works well with musicians and is attracted to them. She says she never had the patience to learn an instrument but she is a good singer. She thinks the truth might be halfway between not having had the patience and also being afraid to fail. She wanted to play drums, she tells people on the rare occasion it comes up. In fifth grade, when the tall band director with his heavy silver medical bracelet and the skin hanging off his chin and arms gave her the coronet instead of drums, that’s when it all went wrong. She had wanted the drums.
But it wasn’t the drums versus the coronet that did it. It wasn’t the impatience. It was the fear of failure. It was the fear of putting her heart into something then failing at it. She wasn’t good at being taught something she wasn’t good at. She was quite good at being told things she already knew. And if listening and learning something had led to a feeling of sexiness or approval she certainly was good then. But if listening meant she was admitting ignorance. That was hard.
All my life I’ve been drawn to helping people. Fixing people. Wanting to help people fix themselves. In an effort to fix myself I must resist this urge to help people fix themselves. To help myself, I have to not try to fix anyone else. My karma is to clean up my house and to not apologize for doing so. I have to not narrate my son into a fictional future in which he asks himself about the man who must have been holding the camera, shooting all those snaps of his mom. I have to maintain hope and maintain distance. I have to not apologize. I have to let go and let gawd. I have to then shut the door and clean my own house.
A splashed cup of coffee reminds me of the man. I’m not sure “what kind” of man he is any more.
As I notice how his memory follows me around incessantly, I can’t help but to romanticize my loving him. It’s like the Adele song. Part of me really does believe “we almost had it all.”