my Teen Wolf, as I like to call him, is wild over the blight known to him as 'English homework', in the form of what's called an 'Article of the Week', for which he has to read an article, summarize it, and write what he thinks about the issue addressed. this small practice, I've explained to him time and again, will be of immense help to him when he enters high school, and is required to write full-on research papers and personal essays. writing is Not his forte (go figure), and he asked for help with this one, which means I have to cajole him with every kind fiber of my being (not many) to get through this cringe-worthy exercise in pulling sentence after sentence out of a reluctant student. it takes heaps of calm not to rise to his arguments, or attempts to side-line the activity with various distractions. we've been at it for over two hours, and I hope we're getting close to being done, as I'm about out of patience for the activity myself!
click on the link below for directions on how to participate, and once there, click on 'Home' for this week's wordle, which is also posted above ~
I'm not even sure how to start this week's blog. I had a subject I wanted to write about, and even tagged the page a few days ago to leave myself a prompt for where I wanted to start today, following the theme I have been working with, but I had a conversation this past weekend that scrambled my mind a bit, and I guess I want/need to deal with that instead, even though it's rather disturbing and personal, and involves some hard, possible truths about people other than myself, as well. or maybe it doesn't - I'll have to see how it plays out, and decide whether or not I need to 'protect the innocent' after it's all written. so hang in there, or duck out now...it may get ugly.
While visiting my mom this weekend, at some point in our conversation she asked me if I remembered being 'molested' by one of my babysitters. Now, I'm not entirely sure what we had been talking about that made her ask that, but I have an idea...it had to do with my brother and his friends, and their ways of behaving towards me, so that in and of itself was weird enough, but I had no idea what she was talking about with this alleged molestation, so I said as much, and asked who it was, and what happened. She gave me a brief sketch in hushed tones, because my teen was across the room, napping peacefully in a comfy chair. She asked if I remembered her friend So-and-So, who had the two sons, one of them nice, the other one not so much. I remembered the friend So-and-So's name, but only because of her gorgeous dog - an Irish Setter; the first, and possibly only, I had ever known - whom I adored for her soft, pretty red hair, and lovely name that seemed to suit her so well. I have no recollection of the friend herself, nor either of the sons. Apparently, one of the sons babysat me one night, behaved inappropriately, and what I told my mom about what happened caused her to never speak to that friend again, end of story.
So here's what's fucking me up about this - or rather, I have some questions...who was this guy? What was his name? How old was he? How old was I? Where did this take place? When? Where were my folks that night? Where was my brother? Where in the house did this alleged abuse take place? What did he do to me? Why don't I have any memory of it...or do I? Was I taken to a therapist? What did my dad say or do? Did my mom ask my brother about it? What did he say? Was he aware it had happened? Was it ever addressed again, or was it forgotten about entirely? Did I have any issues surrounding it? What were they? Should I ask my mom for more information, or should I leave it in the past? Should I seek counseling? Has it had any long-term effects on me? What the fuck?! I mean, there are obviously people in the world (way too many) that know exactly who did what to them, how often, and for how long (who have my deepest sympathy), and next to some of the horrific abominations that happen in this world, my tiny issue is an insignificant little nothing, and it is with bearing those atrocities in mind that I think it's worth my time to just brush this little 'factoid' off and move on, but it doesn't seem to want to leave my mind right now. It may well in the future, with some time between having this nugget of truth dropped on me, and the rest of the important facts of life going at speed all the time, but for Right Now, I can't help but feel like all I want to do is love and nurture that poor little child that may have been violated, and hold her, while reassuring her that she's ok.
Without knowing what happened, it's hard to make a judgement call on how 'bad' the actual incident was, and I'm not sure that matters at all. Does it? This is an area in which I have very little experience, and maybe that's why I'm so fucked up about it. I know a great deal about a lot of things, but I'm also quick to admit when I'm out of my depth. This feels like a big, empty, dark room without any reference points to me, and I'm not used to being lost, because I've always managed to find myself, wherever I am, and get back to where I need to be, but I may need a map for this one. I can answer some of my own questions with basic deductive reasoning, such as...okay maybe I can't, but I'm here to work through it, so I'll go through them one at a time.
"Who was this guy/What was his name/How old was he?" - well, he was the older of the two sons of my mom's friend. I don't think there's any more to be said about that, but I guess if I wanted to know more, I'd wonder where he went to school, who were his friends, did they know he liked to do the things he did - did he even like to do those things? Were there other little kids he did them to, or just me? Was it just a thing he did to see if he could get away with it? Was it a real problem? Did it continue throughout his life, was it once, what was it? Does his name matter? If I find out, will it change anything? I would like to know how old he was at the time, because I feel like it will
give me some clue as to what he was thinking...or...something, I don't know. Well, that just brought up more questions, so let's move on.
"How old was I/Where did this take place?" - this I would definitely like to know. I can assume it was in the house we lived in during the years I was 4 through 12, because I think that's when my mom was friends with that woman...but it could have been the house before that (which would mean I was less that 4 years old when it happened?). I know for certain it wasn't after that, because we didn't have babysitters anymore by the time I was 12.
"Where were my folks that night/Where was my brother/When/Where in the house..." - the first part hardly matters, I'm just curious (were they out with the babysitter's parents?). Maybe wondering how much my mom remembers, or how late a night it was. The rest of the questions are really important - I assume we kids were both home (why would they have taken my brother with them?), so the 'when' question is more about whether the babysitter put us to bed in our respective rooms first? Was my brother asleep in his own room when it happened in my room? Or was he awake for the incident, and possibly watching or involved? Did the babysitter send my brother to bed first, then keep me awake? Did it happen somewhere else in the house? Did it happen early in the evening, or in the wee hours of the morning? Does it matter? I think the timing has a lot to do with my questions surrounding my brother's presence/possible involvement, which leads into my statement above about how he and his friends later behaved towards me...you see?
"What did he do to me/Why don't I have any memory of it...or do I/Was I taken to a therapist?" - Mom said I told her 'his penis didn't taste good', so...I guess he had me put my mouth on his penis, but is that all he did? And how much of 'that' did he do? Just make me touch it with my lips and/or tongue, or make me (convince me to) put it in my mouth? Did he climax? So many questions around this... I must have blocked it out, because that's obviously a normal and frequent response to this kind of thing, but I feel like that for so long I was not into touching a man's genitalia during sex, that on some level, I must have had some kind of aversion-response. And there was this weird dream I remember having as a kid that involved some disturbing sexual imagery of masked people touching my body in ways that I felt were probably wrong, but if I was just quiet and let it happen, than I would be 'good', get rewarded, and be celebrated. At the end of the dream, I remember having my hair washed and styled, tied up in a new ribbon, and being carried on the shoulders of the two men I loved most at that time (who seemed grim and wooden), like I was some kind of hero for having endured the 'treatment'. I doubt I was brought to a therapist, because of the next question:
"What did my dad say or do?" - I'm going to say with 98% certainty that my dad was Not told, because he would have murdered that babysitter. I mean literally. It would have taken a great deal of convincing, and several large, strong men restraining him to get him to Not kill the babysitter. I mean, given the way he trained the dog to kill anyone who attacked us violently, he would have been beside himself for failing to protect us from people who appeared to be friendly or kind. How could the dog have known I was being molested? If I didn't cry out, or if there wasn't violence, I don't think the dog would have known to react, which also suggests the babysitter wasn't inherently a 'bad' person, because that dog Knew bad people, and protected us from them more than once, when they weren't doing anything more than being friendly (their 'crimes' only became apparent later). There's no way in hell my dad ever knew this happened. There was an incident in our family involving another young girl who Wasn't me, and given the way he reacted to That, well...nope. My mom kept this a secret. If she had taken me/us to therapy, our dad would have wanted to know why.
"Did my mom ask my brother about it/What did he say/Was he aware it had happened?" - again, it seems like my mom just chose to sit with this herself, and either convinced me/us to forget it, or that it didn't happen. I'm Really curious as to my brother's level of involvement, or knowledge of what went down that night. Was it only that one night? How many times did that loser sit for us?
"Was it ever addressed again, or was it forgotten about entirely/Did I have any issues surrounding it/What were they?" - I'm gonna say no, yes, probably, and varied. Seeing as how I have no memory of the incident, it was probably swept quickly under the rug, and never discussed again. My mom probably thought that was best for herself, and possibly for me (and my brother) as well. I'm sure there were issues. There had to be. As I mentioned, I had a pretty strong aversion to oral sex when I became sexually active - at an age I think of now as too young (though not ridiculously so), and go figure, given this new info. I've had lots of sexual encounters with men who treated me inappropriately, and I'm beginning to see why, maybe?
"Should I ask my mom for more information, or should I leave it in the
past/Should I seek counseling/Has it had any long-term effects on
me?" - I want to ask for more info, but it's really uncomfortable, and knowing my mom, she'll be reluctant to discuss it, which will once again make me the bad guy for forcing a conversation she's not willing to have, even if it involves my own healing. I will most likely seek some form of counseling, just to hash it out in a manner other than overeating, or punishing myself in other unhealthy ways. I'm sure there are effects, as mentioned above.
"What the fuck?!" - why would she tell me Now (maybe she's been repressing it, or is just able to deal with it herself)? and so casually...did she think I'd just be like, 'oh, haha, never mind, it was all so long ago, la-de-da!' Was it because of the discussion we were having? So
fucked up on so many levels, and makes me wonder even more about how
much my brother knew, or was involved. I can't help but wonder if this incident is the impetus for everything that's ever gone wrong in my life because I wasn't given the opportunity to deal with it, or decide for myself how I wanted to handle it (again, how old Was I?), or I'm overreacting to the news of it as a way to make it the 'all-encompassing excuse for everything'. Not that I need any excuses, I'm fully willing to accept 100% of the responsibility for the poor choices I've made over the years (as well as the good ones, because I've made plenty of those, too), but could I be staring into the abyss of what helped shape my sexuality, and my perceived inability to form lasting romantic relationships? I thought it was just that I'm such a bitch, and have impossibly high standards, but...it could be more. It could go deeper. It could have something to do with the ways in which I allowed myself to be violated over and over again because I was taught/learned/surmised that my worth was tied up in how men valued me sexually, and that my role was, as I mentioned earlier, to keep quiet and let them do what they wanted, no matter how it made me feel, in order to earn some reward, like being valued, or celebrated as a Queen should be by her King. Problem is, I've never had a 'King', or even a 'noble' boyfriend - just a series of Jokers, with one enlightened yet highly damaged pauper who may have actually come close to loving me, as much as he was able, for a brief period that didn't last as long as our short relationship. It's a wonder I learned to enjoy sex, though I finally did - just in time to not ever have it again, as my age, weight, and refusal to settle for less has rendered me undesirable. Selah ~
well, here we are. together. me and my invisible audience (such as it ever was). or rather, her I am, sitting right where I said would, last week. good for me! that's a step in the right direction, anyway... now, to avoid the responsibility for making myself be here, I can: make a phone call, answer emails, renew my student loan repayment plan, eat something, practice the songs I'm supposed to be playing on keyboard for an upcoming show, start the passport renewal process, reorganize the art supplies and/or my bookshelf, fill out craft show applications, or check my to-do list for other options. nothing gets me motivated to do the dishes more than a task I want to complete even less than doing the dishes. and why is writing suddenly so far down on my list of things to do? two reasons. one, I have nothing in particular I need or want to write about in this moment; two, setting it up as a 'task' drains all the creativity and spontaneity out of it for me.
but wasn't that the purpose of the exercise (to drain all creativity and spontaneity out of my writing? I think not.)? the purpose of the exercise was to get myself back into the habit of writing regularly. I used to do my journaling at night, reliving the moments of the day to see what happened, what I did or didn't do in relation to what I thought I should or shouldn't have done. to remind myself of things still needing doing. sometimes a poem would come out, sometimes a rant, on occasion a pearl of wisdom... it helped to organize my thoughts, to get stuff out of my head, to draw a map of where to go next, and how to get there - especially helpful when I was overseas, and again when I was pregnant and homeless. those journals are still waiting for me to collect them together the way that I did for the ones I wrote in my younger years. it takes me a long time to get things 'done'; I'm one of those obnoxious people that has 50 unfinished projects taking up space in my closet/trunk/head at all times. why do I do that? I'm sure it's some deeply rooted psychological nonsense that I won't make the time to research...unless I'm trying to avoid a task I've set myself.
and the avoidance continues, because I seriously did just take the time to read 5 different articles on the subject of 'failing to complete projects', and here's the breakdown: it can come from a fear of evaluation, a fear of success, or worrying about failure (among other things). ways to get past it include breaking the tasks down into smaller bits, knowing that beating myself up won't get me anywhere, and losing the guilt of not getting it done altogether (also among other things). so, technically, telling myself I have to blog once a week is taking a step in the right direction. forming (or re-forming, in this case) a habit, building momentum through ritual and practice. during the course of writing this post, I did check both my email and social media several times, made the phone call, ate food, and read more than the previously mentioned 5 articles on procrastination. to be fair, the emails pertained to rehearsals for the show I mentioned needing to practice for, as did the social media checks (I need to let people know the show is happening, so they can come out and support us), the phone call was to my mom about an upcoming trip we may be taking, and the food I ate was both last night's cold pizza out of the fridge and a few handfuls of Cheerios straight from the box. yum. I talked about my crappy food habits in the previous post - not wanting to cook for 'just one', not wanting to dirty any dishes - add to that my poverty-driven need to save any and all food for the growing teen to eat, and...well, it's a recipe for disaster, in terms of my own health.
in any case, since I take Mondays 'off', I'm perfectly happy giving myself the whole day to get this done, even though I have 8 other tasks on the 'to-do' list today. so let's discuss the concept of the 'muse' - generally defined in Greek mythology as "each of nine goddesses, the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (or Ouranos and Gaia, or others, depending on your source material), who preside over the arts and sciences; a person or personified force who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist." in some traditions there are only three Muses, some name four - and by different names - but nine is the commonly accepted number. their names and attributes are as follows: Calliope, epic poetry; Clio, history; Euterpe, flutes and lyric poetry; Thalia, comedy and pastoral poetry; Melpomene, tragedy; Terpsichore, dance; Erato, love poetry; Polyhymnia, sacred poetry; and Urania, astronomy. they apparently have Hindu and Buddhist counterparts known as Apsaras, which I would like to explore as well, but one thing at a time, here.
in questing after this theme, I ran across this article from a few years ago (and followed several of the links) which spoke to my personal feelings about being a conduit for something much older and wiser than 'me' to express itself through. I remember writing about how disappointing it was that my earlier heroes all died so young, mostly of overdoses, and how I wanted a role model that could skirt those edges of insanity without falling in - how I admired the ability to harness that mystical energy we conjured from our magical gatherings where we called our daemons and genius into being from Source, and gave over to them our bodies for their use in dance, song, rhythm, poetry, and more. The 'duende', when everything is working in harmony, it all clicks, those moments when Divine Inspiration made me move this way, or write that - when after the ritual, others would gather around me and tell me of my power, or after a reading when they'd tell me I was such a good writer...no darlings, no...all I did was show up, and the Muse worked through me. I am simply a tool for the Ineffable, and oh so humbled at having been granted the opportunity to be of use.
the author of this article, androcentrist as they may be, discussed the Muse as 'a surrender', which they describe as 'the ultimate feminine act'...now, I can probably spend hours unpacking that particular sentiment, but I'm going to let it stand for a moment, because I like where it led, if I didn't like where it began. they go on to state that "the closest place where 'feminine' surrenders and gives freely to a creation is probably the way many mothers surrender their lives to their children ...to create a larger objective...that transcends the ego." yes, I cut a bunch out of an entire paragraph to whittle it down to just what I needed to make my point, but it relates back to last week's post where I wondered where my creative flow had drained off to, after discussing how I'd been spending all my energy for the past 15 years being a certain kind of parent. this is relevant, because I have often been heard to say that I put my life on hold to dedicate all my energy towards raising my Wolf Cub the best way I could, with the little I have. While I was pregnant/single/unemployed/homeless, I asked with my anger where all the Good Energy I put out into the Universe had gone. I questioned all those times over the years that I danced naked in the woods around a bonfire, connecting with the Absolute, sweating in lodges, and cold-plunging into the lake - directing the Work towards where it was most needed, howling under the stars. Where Did It Go? WHY wasn't it helping me NOW? the moment my son was placed on my chest the answer came, as I welcomed him with the words, "there it is!" and lo, there he was. and he still is - my Greatest teacher. luckily, I don't lean on him past asking him to wait at the bottom of the stairs if it's slippery, because my footing is less sure with every passing year, and as the 'head of household', I need to be protected from falls and the like, because if I go down, our household flounders until I recover. what I mean to say in the context of this writing, though, is that I am not overly attached to my child as 'my ultimate creation', or that penultimate Work I can never top - while he was created in a certain kind of scared ritual, he is a person, and I'm not all wrapped up in ego over him. like I've said, I've mostly done my job with him, and it's his time to see where he gets to, using the tools I've given him to make choices and survive, and time for me to reclaim some of that energy I've surrendered over the years to get back to My work...or rather 'my Work'. time to look in the mirror, and recognize my internal desire in my own reflection - the Source of my own Being - again.
to shake off the cloak of Fear society has laid about my shoulders, with all their doubts and misgivings about what a woman can do, who she can be, how she must look/smell/laugh/sit/dress/behave, where her 'place' is, when she can speak, and what about. I've heard "you can't..." come at me from too many mouths, mouths that claimed authority over my sovereignty, enough that I grew fearful of the world I formerly traveled through alone, and sought refuge in the relative safety of societal norms, but...I am too large to be contained that way, and I chafed at my bindings, so I never really let them hold me all that tightly. now, I'm ready to burn them down. 'they' can have their 'crabs in a bucket', as Lao-Tse reminds us: "you cannot pull me down, for I sit at a place from where you cannot go any lower. therefore my throne is well protected." he also tells us that "if you want to attain that wealth that no thief can take from you then become wealthless and consider it to be your greatest treasure." this is the Sutra for perfect knowledge - only the last can be first. and that Wise old Fool Nasruddin concurs: "the first chair is never safe in this world, it is the unsafest place in the world." Plato's 'allegory of the cave' works well in this context, too, as the pull to live one's own 'uniqueness' often disrupts the vision 'the collective' has for all its members, and it can be extremely hard to live as one's full self in the wake of such numbers and the weight of its negative onslaught, but the call to freedom comes with the obligation to attempt to bring others along, because once you've experienced it, you remember the pain of having to live without it. it's no wonder I need to call on All my Spirit guides to remind me how to live my truth, and I fall back into quoting the old masters when my own words aren't enough. to restore the balance that is critical to my survival - but more than that, it is Our survival. to restore balance to our communities, our justice systems, our world leaders, and the Earth itself. this Work is crucial, this Work is personal, this Work is collective, and this Work is given to us as creatives to channel through the physical manifestations the Absolute has gifted us with to share with as many others as we can reach. so I have sat with my invisible audience all these years, not so much for myself, but as an expression of one of all of our Selves, saying what the Universe is typing through my fingers. I've been busy healing the wound birthing a human left me with, but I believe I'm finding my way back, and asking you if you'd like to come along. dream we ride Pegasus to where his hoof brought forth the Hippocrene,
where we bathe in the beauty of Helicon, pilgrims to the sanctuary of the Muses who crown us with laurel and gift us the Divine.
I said I was going to do this more often. I said I was going to make a commitment to myself to post about once a week. I said I needed to remember how to write. remember? remember when it was like breathing? remember being at parties, and not having anything to say to the beer-swilling guests? remember trying to find a pen in that house? remember wondering how people didn't even have pens or paper? remember tucking into a corner at the top of the stairs and making poems "on the paper bags we brought the alcohol home in"? remember D asking to hear that poem, staring blankly for a minute, then commenting "well, at least you can still use the bag." bitch. I wonder if She ever wrote anything worth reading...or anything at all. like that mama yesterday who said, "I never made any money when I used to write." like writing is something people pick up and put down, like it's a hobby, or a whim. well, it is to some, but to others...but to me... maybe that mama wasn't very good at it. maybe because she thought she'd get paid well. maybe she was romantic or something, I don't know. whatever she is (she's a pretty right on lady), she isn't a writer. not like me (unemployed and unpaid? my inner critic sneers).
Inner Critic by Ana Bettencourt Tirolese
have I lost my muse? did I ever have one? was it youthful idealism, or a 'fire in the belly' to express my longings and desires? was it using my artistic expression to categorize my trauma and figure out a way to heal? remember how it just came right out of me, unbidden and undeniable, how it ached to Not get it out? obviously, I'm talking to myself, here, the 'masses' that aren't reading any of this have no knowledge of the volumes I've written in the past, the dusty chapbooks sitting on my shelf, unread, ignored, unpublished, other than a few sloppily made artist books shared with the wrong people for the right reasons. remember fingers flying across the typewriter (Yes, Typewriter) so fast I could barely keep up? remember the typewriter, also collecting dust in my bedroom closet? god, how I love that machine...
this is a stock image of the actual machine I own - isn't it gorgeous?
I read the drivel people turn out and call writing. it's awful. yes, I'm talking to You, now. I love you, dear person, but your writing sucks. it's awkward and blocky, lacks imagination, and your editor should be ashamed of themselves. and you, less-cared-about person, your writing is Way too wordy, says nothing, is historically inaccurate, and frankly boring. you, valued acquaintance, I must admit to not having read anything you've written in awhile...have you written anything lately? ugh...dear soul who I care for, your writing is...ugh...I can't even say. oh, but there IS You dear heart, whose writing fills me with delicate images I want to touch, but am afraid to shatter - gorgeous feelings of connection that take me away... and you, new friend, your writing reminds me that I used to write...I used to...the way you do. in some way, you all inspire me (and Keep Writing!). to what, I wonder? post on my irrelevant blog 'at least once a week' to keep the face-shnook insights engaged? to keep myself 'in practice'? to force my own hand to live inside the muscle-memory of fingers flying across the keyboard, the unsatisfying thumpity of the computer as compared to the clackity of my old typing beast?
I have spent around 15 years wrapped up inside this concept of being the kind of mom I needed to try and be for my offspring - from the first moment I knew I was pregnant, to hustling for money/places to live/food during my pregnancy, to working at home so I could stay near my baby, to putting him in daycare so I could work outside the home, to having him get off the school bus at my job so he could work that last hour with me. then the next job, which had me rushing back and forth to work and home between putting him on the bus in the morning, and getting him off the bus in the afternoon. then came the homeschool years, when I worked from home again; and when I didn't, bringing him to work with me. when he went back to public school, there came the day when I found myself unemployed (again), and I sat on my couch staring at the wall, wondering what to do with the freedom of hours stretching out before me - and remembered that I used to Be Someone, and that someone Did Things. what were they again? ah, yes...I used to write, and make jewelry, and paint, sew, crochet, knit, weave, sculpt, play music, sketch, make pottery, shoot and develop film...but more than anything, I used to write. All The Time.
by Henriette Brown
my teen barely needs me anymore - and soon, when he starts driving, he'll need me even less, if at all (other than a thing to rebel against in his quest towards autonomy). and who will I be then? still his mom, sure, but what else? one of the middle-aged ladies working at the grocery store, earning the same minimum wage for the same job I had when I was in high school? so what all have I managed to accomplish since then? what social standing have my achievements lent me? what form of wealth? is it for money that we artists sell our souls? is it for status? I guess the successful ones do... how many times have I heard "you could write a better story than that" about some multi-million dollar book series that got made into several multi-million dollar movies? more than once. more than twice, actually. I need to believe that I can still succeed at my dream, no matter how many times it's been put on hold, or set aside for the 'here and now' of having to survive in this world while raising a kid as a single mom who can't succeed in the mainstream work force. I truly suck at 'having a job' because I hate pretty much everything I've ever had to do to earn money, other than selling my own crafts at markets.
but where did my creative flow drain off to? it's supposedly a bottomless well, that one only needs to feed in order to be filled. so I tell myself I have to post to the blog once a week to get that flow going. I tell myself I need to send cards out to the friends I owe letters. I tell myself to get off my ass and Move My Body to jump-start the energy I need to tackle the task at hand, which should be easier now that it's almost Spring in the northeastern 'united states'. I need to nourish myself, physically, mentally, spiritually, and figuratively (artistically). I read every day. I watch movies frequently. I'm working on getting back in the habit of meditation and ritual. I need to remember to feed myself food, because single people often don't care to cook for 'just themselves', and I graze through the kitchen, trying not to get any dishes dirty to avoid having to wash them. I guess I need to set up a schedule for myself, the same way I did for the kid, to 'raise myself right', now that I've mostly done a good job with him - though he still needs to be reminded to brush his teeth twice a day, every day (guilty secret: so do I), along with other teenage imperatives.
long before I read Julia Cameron's 'The Artist's Way', and learned her concept of 'filling the well', I referred to myself in my writing as a vessel created by the Universe to be filled with its desire to express itself through me.
there are at least a million motivational tools available to everyone with an internet connection and a computer, but I don't to use them, because I'm way too cynical to have sunshine blown up my ass by anyone other than myself, and I'm more into the 'tough love' approach, anyway. the teen and I joke that my skill-set is more akin to what we call the 'Cotton Hill School of Parenting', in reference to a character from the animated sitcom 'King of the Hill'. if you're familiar with the show, let me remind you - I said JOKE. Cotton is a despicable character, though he is funny in the context of the story...but I digress. motivation is 'the reason one has for acting or behaving in a particular way', or one's general willingness to do something. OR - like I stated earlier, when the ache of NOT getting it out hurts more than keeping it in. and motivating oneself will produce momentum. science shows that setting schedules and building rituals around tasks are one way to make getting started and keeping going easier, so my coming to the page 'once a week' (at least) is a very small step towards reminding myself to do what I love. isn't it weird that I need reminding? I chalk it up to life being about cycles - I've been so wrapped up in my day-to-day, I didn't realize I let my 'raison d'etre' got lost under the piles of monotony.
cook, clean, laundry, dishes, trash/compost/recycle, shop, drive to activities, work, socialize, help others, keep pets, pay bills, bathe, handle emergencies, eat, raise a human (which comes with it's own sub-set of activities), celebrate holidays...sleep?
ah, well...it's no wonder with all I've got to do that something had to suffer, somewhere - too bad it was my creative outlet, and being able to take part in a romantic relationship! well, back to work, then...the creative outlet part, not the relationship. I still don't quite have the bandwidth for that. I've gone on a few dates recently, and I wasn't really all that impressed by any of them. but we are kind of living in the age of 'most men are trash' right now, so that part of my life can wait a bit - I need to be working on Me, and I don't have any extra energy to give to anyone that can't show up Whole when I have So much to offer (I'm really kind of fabulous, but I tend to keep it under wraps, because most people don't deserve to know, shallow gossips that they are). so Monday is what passes for a day off in my world, and I was all set to write this post then, but I got side-lined writing cover letters and sending out resumes instead. I did come to this page on Tuesday, but there were so many other things that needing doing (Not a day I 'take off') I wasn't able to finish it. now it's Wednesday, and I've spent most of my morning attempting to finish this up so I can take care of my other responsibilities (hello business taxes) that got neglected yesterday. where are my single moms at? I know you hear me... hope to see you here next week ~
Hakeem Olajuwan, Geena Davis, Grigori
Rasputin, Jam Master Jay, Billy Ocean, Jack Nicklaus, Chritian Dior,
Telly Sevales, Benny Hill, Steve Reeves, Wolfman Jack, Placido
Domingo, Ritchie Havens, Robby Benson, Cat Power, Emma Bunton,
Cristobal Balenciaga, Ethan Allen, and me!
What could I possibly have in common
with any of these talented, famous people? Well, seeing as how this
is my 'birthday month' post, I'm guessing you can figure it out.
That's right, we all share a birthday! I wanted to talk about how I
was able to celebrate this year, because it was kind of a big deal to
me – it's always a big deal to me, really, as I don't generally go
out of my way to be seen or even heard, for that matter, but one day
out of the year, I do like to be the star. For someone who makes a
habit of staying in the background, hiding in the shadows, and
silencing my voice so that others (who may or may not have anything
useful to say, but seem to need to shout over each other anyway) may
be heard, it's not always easy to jump out in front of everyone and
yell, “let's have a party for ME!” but I do it every year, with
varying levels of success.
Last year, a bunch of people suggested
I 'go to the local Women's March', which happened on the same day,
but I have a love/hate relationship with that march, so there was no
way I was doing that. I mean, it would have been nice to feel like I
could join in the march, but
there were too many issues that spat in the face of intersectional
feminism for me to feel good about being a part of it, so I wasn't.
I felt much the same this year, but even worse – the local
organizers started an online group, to which I was added by an
activist friend, and I was able to ask some questions about what
would be taking place during the march, such as if there was going to
be space made for people such as myself to feel safe and included.
The answer was a resounding 'NO', even though their mission statement
(which has since been changed) read thus: “Our mission is to
provide a safe and accepting platform for supporters of equality to
rally and march in promotion of civil rights for every human
regardless of gender, race, sexual orientation, ethnicity,
disability, religion or creed.” Now, I know that's what they
believe they're
supporting, but the truth is, they are too entrenched in their own
privilege to see that they're not, and they staunchly refuse to hear
anything telling them so. So? They kicked me out of their group –
way to promote equality, people – and I'm done dealing with local
activists on that particular 'pink' parade of proprietary pretense.
I went dancing with some girlfriends, and had a blast, instead.
This
year, after several online calls for celebrants to come join me for a
fancy dinner or some-such, it became apparent that none of my most
intimate friends could actually negotiate a fancy dinner due to
finances, kids, and other random but important factors. So I set a
date and time, and invited whoever was able to come out on a Friday
evening for pizza, and alerted the closest pizza place that I would
be arriving around 7pm, with a contingent of anywhere between 2 and 20
people. I was completely overwhelmed with love and appreciation that
20 people really and truly Showed Up. They even brought cake and
brownies! And gifts! It blew me away. I sat at that table (we took
over all but one in the small dining area) looking around at these
dear people, some of whom hadn't spoken to each other for awhile due
to some of the interpersonal issues we all face as parents, and felt
Home with my Family. I had worked all day, rushed home to pick up my
son, and didn't bother to change my clothes, brush my hair, put on
make-up or jewelry, because I wanted to go straight there to get the
pizzas ordered so food would be ready when guests arrived, and it
didn't matter to anyone. We're not a fancy crowd like that, and it
doesn't matter to any of us if you're in a ball gown or your pajamas
when you come to the table, as long as you come to the table.
I felt
truly and utterly blessed to be sitting in the middle of this group
of folks – one grandpa, five mamas, four dads, four teens, five
kids, and one toddler (and a fetus, even!). It moved me. It's a
feeling that is going to sustain me all year long, if not throughout
the rest of my life. My Tribe, my community, my group of intimates,
my cronies, the parents of my son's besties, our homeschoolies...the
people I hope I know for the rest of my life, that I get to grow old
with, and see our children bring us the next generation. Will it be
so? I hope against hope, because these are all people I've only
known for four years or less, as all the rest of my 'friends' have
fallen away (a few who would come
are simply too far). Even still, these are our people, and I hold
them oh so dear, like family. Better than family, in fact, because
aside from my mom (with whom I have a rocky relationship that happens
to be in an upswing right now), my 'family' has thrown me away. But
this is not about them, it's about me – celebrating myself, and
having people in my life who are willing to do that with me. It's
amazing, and I haven't had it in a long time. I feel renewed by
their being present for me, and I hope I can do the same for them.
I've
had some amazing birthday parties in my life...I remember: a bunch
of school-friends in sleeping bags on my parents' living room floor
(my 10th?);
my Sweet Sixteen; Mom taking my bestie and me to see Cats for my
17th;
I spent my 19th
throwing up in my dorm after an off-campus college party; a few
friends and I went out to my favorite restaurant for my 21st,
where I grandly ordered my first legal beer, which they wouldn't
serve to me because I had forgotten my ID, though one of the local
crack dealers generously offered me some free cocaine during my
overnight shift at the local 24/7 store; seeing a favorite band for
my 23rd;
my boyfriend choosing to work a double shift, then party at the bar
rather than come home for my 30th;
getting my first Barbie for my 32nd,
who happened to be wearing the same outfit as me when she came out of
the box (that bitch!); finally getting an apartment after spending my
entire pregnancy homeless for my 35th,
as well as being taken out for Indian food; throwing a 'masquerade
ball' for my 40th;
the homemade chicken mole cooked by a friend for my 42nd;
and this - my 49th,
for which there was the pizza party, a 5-course Israeli dinner with
my mother and son, a movie with my son and a dear friend of ours, and
a Greek dinner with a new friend, which turned out to be the 'fancy'
dinner I had originally envisioned, just much more intimate, which
was perfect!
49 is
the square of 7 (an auspicious number by many counts, times two!);
the number of days of the Counting of the Omer in Judaism, which is
the spiritual preparation and anticipation for the remembrance of
the giving of the Torah between Passover and Shavuot; the number of
days and nights Siddhartha Gautama spent meditating before attaining
enlightenment and becoming Buddha. Some Indian Buddhists believe in
the notion of the 'intermediate state' (between death and rebirth) as
lasting "seven times seven days" at most; the name
'forty-niner' was applied to 'Gold Rushers', being derived from when
they showed up, in 1849; In blues music lore, Robert Johnson 'sold
his soul to the devil' at the junction of US Highway 49 and 61 in
Clarksdale, Mississippi; Howlin' Wolf immortalized the road in the
song “Highway 49,”
by Big Joe Williams, with the lines “Long tall momma /
She don’t pay me no mind / All she wanna do / Walk the Highway 49.”
It's
going to be a Great trip around the Sun, and I look forward to
sharing the journey!
We adopted our Thomas cat in May of 2015, having lost our previous cat to a car in April, and we were sad and missing him, so we randomly stopped by the animal shelter to pet the kitties. there was a young orange tomcat there, not a kitten, but not fully grown, either. my teen took one look at that cat, and looked back at me with those big, pleading, eyes...and we just had to go back for him the next day. the name on the cage said 'Alvin', but we couldn't have that, so we changed it to Thomas O'Malvin in a nod to both the Thomas O'Malley character in The Aristocats movie, and the Primus song 'Tommy the Cat' (which I believe is based on the Aristocats character as well).
Thomas O'Malley in The Aristocats
'Tommy the Cat' by Primus
Thomas - like most of the shelter cats I've adopted and brought 'home' for the first time - spent about three days hiding under my bed before he decided to give in to our soft calls of encouragement to come out, and be our friend. he was rather skittish, and we had no idea where he had come from, or where he had been, but judging by the way he kept his butt so close to the ground while sniffing out all the new things, I figured he may well have been a feral kitten, rescued off the streets, or from outside. no matter. we did our best to make him feel welcome. when he finally became comfortable with us, and used to his new home, we decided to let him explore the outdoors. it's been awhile, so I don't remember how that went, but suffice it to say that he loved being able to roam the large property we are lucky to be living on, and to hunt. he liked hunting, and while he was very well fed, he still enjoyed killing and eating the small mice and voles that are abundant in our woods. and that baby squirrel...eww.
he wasn't a particularly cuddly cat, but every now and then he would jump tentatively up into our laps, freeze as if we might do something to shoo him, then step ever so gingerly over us until he found just the right spot to settle into. sometimes he liked to lie along my legs when I had them stretched out, other times he would lay himself up along my body and drape his head over my shoulder, and sometimes he'd settle into a furry pile on my chest and neck. he was (still is, I hope) a big, tough guy...he could also be mean, and I would warn small children that he'd rip your hand open if you pissed him off, but he would usually make damn sure to give you a warning with his ferocious growl, first. he was our sweet boy, and could be friendly and loving, but he was not to be trifled with.
when an elderly friend's caregiver's cat had kittens, my son could not resist petting and playing with them (who could?), when we were there for our weekly visit, and so he became enamored of one of them, going so far as to start calling it by a pet name. I warned him that those kittens would be given away when they were old enough, and not to get too close, because he would eventually have to say goodbye, so he decided to preempt that inevitability by asking if he could adopt the one he liked himself. I weighed the decision and gave him the go-ahead, he asked the care-giver, and she gave him a non-committal response which changed from week to week - sometimes more towards yes, sometimes more towards no. in any case, the week came when she said the kittens were ready for their new homes, and when my son stated that he was prepared to take his little friend home, she told him, "I never said you could have him." well...I was furious, and so was my son, who was also hurt and upset. I reacted by remembering another friend with a litter of kittens to give away, so we regrouped, asked if any were left, and went to visit with them.
they were incredibly adorable - and there went those big eyes again, pleading with me to take this one home Right Now, even though we didn't have any kitten food, a separate litter box, or whatever else we might need in order to welcome a new little fuzzball home. didn't matter, we could get all that later, we Needed her! but...what about Thomas? "he'll kill her and eat her," I said, in no uncertain terms. "she'll live in My room," countered the boy who would not be deterred. so we drove the baby home in a box, made up a make-shift litter box, and fed her adult cat food softened with water until we went to the store. when we got home with her, we took her straight into my son's room and closed the door. within the first few hours of her being there, Thomas was at the inch-high space beneath my son's door making the most adorable cooing and chirping sounds at the tiny little paw that was extending out to grab at and play with him. it was too cute, and so we decided to let him in...
while the kitten (Nahiri) seemed to have no fear of him, Thomas was a bit scared of her! it didn't stop him from dropping to the carpet and rolling on his back, though, purring at her, and making sweet little love-noises at her. we couldn't believe it - we'd never seen him behave like that, so we decided to let the little one have the run of the house when we were home, but kept them separated when we went out, for safety's sake. eventually, we found there was no need for that, and they were allowed to co-exist:
Thomas & Nahiri
while Thomas loved his new baby kitten, he made it very clear he was the
Boss of this house, and there were a few times we scolded him and made
him stop chasing her around, or pulled him off of her if she cried out. mostly they were good siblings, and Nahiri adored her big brother, sitting on him every chance she got, and letting him help her groom her fabulous, long, grey fur. we didn't let Nahiri outside until she was over a year old, so Thomas would use 'outside' as his escape hatch if she got overbearing, which she sometimes does...because he knew she wasn't allowed to follow him. she'd watch him, jealously intent, from the windowsill, leaping towards the door every time it opened, in hopes of escaping her confinement to engage with all the wonderful things Thomas smelled of when he returned. eventually, Nahiri grew big enough (and smart enough) to go outside as well, and we lived our happy life as a two-cat/two-human household.
Best of friends
💕
this past summer, the property we live on was sold to new owners, and renovations of the buildings and land began in earnest. while the general construction noise wasn't so bothersome to us particularly, one of the workmen sometimes brought his large, aggressive, German Shepherd to the property, and she would chase the cats if they were outside, so I tended to try and keep them in if there was work going on around the house and cabins. it didn't always work, because my cats are used to having the run of the land, and they would often choose to be in the woods for the day rather than locked in the house, no matter how I felt about it. but if they got out, they'd stay out until things quieted down, then come back in the evenings. I always bring them in for the night - we have black bears, bobcats, coyotes, fishers, and owls in our valley, which can all make a meal of a housecat - even a bruiser like Thomas. then the new landlords started taking down trees, and Thomas in particular had a Big problem with the sound of the chainsaws.
again - I did my best to keep my cats in the house, because the anxiety of having them out in the woods while workmen were dropping trees made me crazy. although Nahiri didn't seem particularly bothered by the noise, she did seem to choose to spend those days on my son's desk, basking in the sunshine, while Thomas would make a break for the door, because he'd rather take his chances outside than be trapped inside with nowhere to run when he felt threatened. one day, after having managed to lock him in, I couldn't find him when I came home. I located him a few hours later under the couch, refusing to come out, because they had cut down the dead tree closest to the house, and he must have been terrified by the noise. I felt so guilty, I let him make his own choices as to where he felt safest, which was - outside.
to add to this chaos, there was, until very recently, an abandoned property with its own house and cabins right next door (I suspect that lot and ours used to be one big property). at some point over the summer and fall, during the dead-tree-removal frenzy, a bunch of large trucks and a bulldozer showed up next door and took the buildings all the way down to the ground, as if they had never been there. that was another reason I wanted the cats in - I know Nahiri liked to play over there, so I expect Thomas did as well, though I never caught him at it. as soon as I saw those trucks roll in, it added a level of panic to my 'protect the cats' campaign, and I redoubled my efforts to keep them locked safely In The House, with varying levels of success (see previous paragraph stating Thomas' preference in feeling safe when threatened). the day after the trucks finished demolishing the neighboring property, my kitchen cabinet happened to fall off the wall, smashing a good portion of my dishes and glasses, as well as cooking oils and spices - it made an extremely unholy racket that scared the kid so bad he screamed long and loud... again, hardly a wink from Nahiri, but Thomas had just come inside from his day hiding in the woods, and turned right back around and went out.
I did manage to get him in that night, and he even slept inside the downed cabinet, which I stood upright and left in the middle of the kitchen floor, but he was back out again the next morning. that evening, I called and called him, but he didn't come. I went out to check for him every hour. "Thooomaaaaas!!! Thomas O'Maaaalviiiin!!!" I yelled desperately in all directions, shining my flashlight around the yard...where could he be? well, he could be anywhere, really. he could be under my car, watching my pulse quicken, amused at my distress...but wherever he was, he didn't come. at some point, around 2 or 3 in the morning, I just went and stood on the porch, willing him to Be There, when I heard an owl hoot so close - in the lilac bush next to the house, about 10 feet from where I was standing. that was weird - I'd never seen or heard an owl in the lilacs, what was he doing there? it gave me a bad feeling, like it was telling me something, though I didn't know what. I found myself wondering if it had fought with Thomas, and he was out in the woods injured, but it was still dark out, so I went in to bed. he was a big boy - he'd spent the night out before and still come home, I was just going to relax about it, and be positive. he would come back when he was ready...he would come home tomorrow.
we haven't seen Thomas since early October, and it's now mid-January. we've both seen him in our dreams. we've both decided to believe that he got freaked out by all the tree-cutting, house demolition, and cabinet-falling, and went on walkabout. we want to believe he went yowling at a neighbor's door, and got let in somewhere. we pray that's what happened, in light of the recent sub-zero temperatures. more than wanting him back, we want him safe. people have regaled us with stories of cats returning years later, and I'm not sure if that's supposed to make me feel better, given how often we end up moving, but it does give us some hope, and keeps us from getting another cat to assuage the sadness of missing Thomas. but how do we explain it to Nahiri? she's been super-sad, and was needing to cling to us more than usual for awhile, and now she's sort of lost all her previous playfulness. she sits in the window listlessly for hours, for whole days, moving only to eat, or visit the litter box. I feel so badly for her, and talk to her about Thomas, not sure if the sounds I make to identify him are familiar to her, and if they are something she recognizes in association with him. does it help or hurt her? I can't tell, but maybe she can understand that we miss him, too, and that we are all grieving his loss together as a family.
we also know that if we choose to let our pets be 'outdoor' animals, that we have to deal with the consequences of that decision - they could get hit by a car, they could be eaten by a larger animal, they could get hurt and not make it home, who knows what could happen. but I don't think it's fair to keep them in, and they definitely Love being out, so...I wouldn't choose to lock my kid in all day every day, so I don't. the cats go where the cats want, and we let them. period. we just love the hell out of them while we share our lives together, and do the best we can for them. we hope it's enough. if Thomas is with a neighbor, we hope he's ok, and that he chooses to come back one day (soon!). if he's...gone, we hope it was quick and painless, and that he forgives us for not being able to find him and help him, that we loved him dearly, and miss his purrs and companionship.
with love and remembrance of other kitties I/we have known: Delia, my traveling companion for 5 years,who was killed by a wild dog (she's buried in a pet cemetery, with a headstone and everything). Potato, a feral rescue who didn't want to be rescued, and took off out an open window the first chance she got, and never came back. Little Bear, who disappeared in the woods one night, never to be seen again, about a year after the same thing happened to his sister, Beaner. Molson, who I took in for a friend's brother for a period of time, who now lives with another friend. Sphinx, who didn't come in one night, and may have chosen to take up residence in the nearby mouse-infested barn, but we were never sure. Mr. Spats, who we lost to a car in the road. Petey, who we suspect got into it with a nesting wild turkey mama, and died at home from what appeared to be multiple puncture wounds (we buried him under his favorite bush). Taco, who we lost to a car in the road (he is buried out back of our current residence, by a patch of daylilies). we loved them all ~ may they rest in peace.
well, here we are again! another New Year, another Memory Jar post (my teen and I started this tradition in 2014, and posted our first list in February of 2015). it was a rough year - for many people, not just us - and as a result, I feel like our jar was a bit lacking in fun memories this time around, but we made the effort to recognize, and that's what matters. of course, the teen (being a teen) was much less enthused with both filling the jar, and reading the memories out loud to each other, as has become our yearly tradition, but I made him take part anyway. maybe he'll thank me someday, maybe he won't. either way, I like the idea of it, so it will be continued as long as he lives here with me, so there. every now and then, it's good to be the Queen, even though having jurisdiction over the household traditions really counts for very little in the grander scheme. whatever, I'll take it where I get it!
Our Good Memories of 2017
Teen Wolf:
Magic the Gathering Draft Tournament
trip to Mystic Seaport, CT with best friend's family
13th birthday party
Bar Mitzvah & after-party
defeating the Zelda video game
getting a (toy) drone
FUNSPOT! (largest arcade in the world)
Candy!
Magic the Gathering workshop @ Olive Library
going to New Hampshire (to visit Funspot)
Jethro Tull gig
getting a refurbished laptop from a friend
sleepovers with G
Robot 'camp'
robots
heavy metal rehearsal!
that time we picked a point on the map
to explore and ended up at a post office
Summer Solstice bald eagle by the river with
L in the morning, fox on the ride home at night
Ike Willis show @ BSP
NYE ('17) w/W's
taking the teen on a mini-vacation to Weir's Beach, NH
my new-to-me bed
new dress and skirt
joking around and being goofy with the teen
Haunted House/Nosferatu/Rocky Horror Halloween show
being in a place where we can help
others
laughing over sound effects: “it's like a whooo-ooo-oo” “you mean like this - kaRAKAKAKAKAKAA!” “uh...no.”
complimentary dinner at a local restaurant, decorated by a local artist we like
finally inheriting my grandmother's Bedouin
collection
tying balloons on the cats for the teen for his birthday - hilarity ensued
laughing really hard at ridiculous
things we make up when we're in a silly mood
Rosendale Street Fair
Funspot!
things that didn't make the jar, but should have: Teen Wolf: Magic the Gathering Ixalan Draft 1 & 2, joining the wrestling team, Big 4 of American Metal shows, Star Wars The Last Jedi, new-to-him iphone, hanging w/A me: both 'Big 4 of American Metal' gigs (SO much fun!), Star Wars!, Hannukah and winter Solstice gatherings, NYE ('18) w/N family.
