I wonder at the evolution of my life, with all of its stops and starts, hitches and lurches, peaks and valleys. It is so easy to become absorbed in the daily minutiae of my existence, to find fault with the present little frustrations, to regret the past missteps, to dread the future hurdles.
Get over your[my]self.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
post nine [bitter]
i need to learn that i cannot control other people.
i need to let go of wrongs that have been done to me, to shake them off and think about the positive things, think about the husband that loves me and the friend that truly cares. i have two people in my life who openly demonstrate their love and commitment, who i can trust and who trust me.
i have a large group of women in my life whom i love and can trust with anything. who are always available and have sound advice and words of comfort. who seek me out when i am sad or wanting or missing for too long.
i have so much more than so many people. so why do i still get stuck on the past?
why do i get stuck on those two women?
why do i hope that the one girl is suffering? why do i wish upon her the pain that she bestowed on me? her sadness will not remove my own. her crying, sleepless nights will not erase mine.
why do i hope that the other girl misses me? i don't miss her. not really. i miss the idea of her, i miss what could have been. but certainly not what was. there was too much resentment, too many missed opportunities, too many words left unspoken, promises left unkept.
i need to learn that what's past is past.
i know that i cannot change what has happened. i know that no matter how much i would love to go back in time and never have done this thing or that thing, it's just impossible.
every choice i've made in life has led me to where i am now. and there is no going back. there is no reforging the path i've chosen.
there is only what i will do tomorrow to fix what was done yesterday.
wish me luck.
i need to let go of wrongs that have been done to me, to shake them off and think about the positive things, think about the husband that loves me and the friend that truly cares. i have two people in my life who openly demonstrate their love and commitment, who i can trust and who trust me.
i have a large group of women in my life whom i love and can trust with anything. who are always available and have sound advice and words of comfort. who seek me out when i am sad or wanting or missing for too long.
i have so much more than so many people. so why do i still get stuck on the past?
why do i get stuck on those two women?
why do i hope that the one girl is suffering? why do i wish upon her the pain that she bestowed on me? her sadness will not remove my own. her crying, sleepless nights will not erase mine.
why do i hope that the other girl misses me? i don't miss her. not really. i miss the idea of her, i miss what could have been. but certainly not what was. there was too much resentment, too many missed opportunities, too many words left unspoken, promises left unkept.
i need to learn that what's past is past.
i know that i cannot change what has happened. i know that no matter how much i would love to go back in time and never have done this thing or that thing, it's just impossible.
every choice i've made in life has led me to where i am now. and there is no going back. there is no reforging the path i've chosen.
there is only what i will do tomorrow to fix what was done yesterday.
wish me luck.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
post eight
my little girl sighs, deeply, pulling fresh air into her tiny, brand-new lungs and pushing the warm, sweetly-scented air out.
her eyelids are heavy and her lashes rest lightly upon her full cheeks. the delicate line of her bottom lip is pink and shiny, quivers slightly with the force of each breath.
her body is twisted, shoulders down straight, hips perpendicular, one foot flat and one jutting out, toe pointed.
the soft cotton hugs her tiny frame, an outfit surely too small to house a fully functioning human, an outfit we will laugh over together when she is grown large and unruly, the way i did with my mother over my first nightgown.
her tiny hand, with the long fingers, pulled up next to her face, resting on her cheek, delicate fingers stretched up near her brow.
she begins to whimper softly in her sleep, her hands moving to grasp at the air, her feet stretching out, her eyes screwing shut, her face contorted with dreamt fear or pain or sorrow. i pick her up gently, and softly i cuddle her in my arms, and i rock her as she relaxes into me.
i want to remember her like this forever. i kiss her sweet face and wonder how it is, exactly, that i am so blessed.
her eyelids are heavy and her lashes rest lightly upon her full cheeks. the delicate line of her bottom lip is pink and shiny, quivers slightly with the force of each breath.
her body is twisted, shoulders down straight, hips perpendicular, one foot flat and one jutting out, toe pointed.
the soft cotton hugs her tiny frame, an outfit surely too small to house a fully functioning human, an outfit we will laugh over together when she is grown large and unruly, the way i did with my mother over my first nightgown.
her tiny hand, with the long fingers, pulled up next to her face, resting on her cheek, delicate fingers stretched up near her brow.
she begins to whimper softly in her sleep, her hands moving to grasp at the air, her feet stretching out, her eyes screwing shut, her face contorted with dreamt fear or pain or sorrow. i pick her up gently, and softly i cuddle her in my arms, and i rock her as she relaxes into me.
i want to remember her like this forever. i kiss her sweet face and wonder how it is, exactly, that i am so blessed.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
post seven - [happy creek three]
it sounded so rustic, so earthy, so real. it sounded so wonderful. and it was.
my whole life there's been a television on or music playing. my mom was big on music during the day, television at night. when i was younger, i couldn't fall asleep without a television blaring in the background, in some other part of the house, because it's what i'd always known.
moving to happy creek meant no hope of on-the-grid living whatsoever. it was a "squatter's cabin", build on mining land, which the alaskan government sold in huge parcels, hundreds of acres large, back in the 60s. a dirt road was carved out of the land around that time, and hippies immediately descended on the area, building rudimentary shelters and spending every night together around a bonfire. by the late 80s, most of the cabins were abandoned. most of the abandoned cabins were located on one parcel of land, and were burned to the ground when the grandson of the original owner decided to work the land. thankfully, our cabin and two or three others resided on the neighboring plot and remained untouched, waiting for us to move in.
just inside the door was evidence of the last resident's source of power. he had an elaborate bank of car batteries hooked up to a jerry-rigged relay system that was electrical taped to a frankensteined extension cord/outlet. i'm not sure how it worked, but i did know that the batteries had been left in the cold all winter, and burst and leaked battery acid all over the shelving and the floor below. being industrious alaskans, david and i quickly unhooked the relay system, threw it on top of the shelving, and tossed a blanket over the whole mess.
for our power, we bought a cheap generator on sale at true value.we built a small shed to house the generator [carbon monoxide, you know] and david simply ran some 12-guage wire to the house and hooked up a few outlets. in this way we could run our telelvision and a DVD player for a rare treat. we probably watched four or five movies per week, and the other nights were cloaked in silence.
i say silence, but it wasn't really silent at all, was it?
[to be continued]
my whole life there's been a television on or music playing. my mom was big on music during the day, television at night. when i was younger, i couldn't fall asleep without a television blaring in the background, in some other part of the house, because it's what i'd always known.
moving to happy creek meant no hope of on-the-grid living whatsoever. it was a "squatter's cabin", build on mining land, which the alaskan government sold in huge parcels, hundreds of acres large, back in the 60s. a dirt road was carved out of the land around that time, and hippies immediately descended on the area, building rudimentary shelters and spending every night together around a bonfire. by the late 80s, most of the cabins were abandoned. most of the abandoned cabins were located on one parcel of land, and were burned to the ground when the grandson of the original owner decided to work the land. thankfully, our cabin and two or three others resided on the neighboring plot and remained untouched, waiting for us to move in.
just inside the door was evidence of the last resident's source of power. he had an elaborate bank of car batteries hooked up to a jerry-rigged relay system that was electrical taped to a frankensteined extension cord/outlet. i'm not sure how it worked, but i did know that the batteries had been left in the cold all winter, and burst and leaked battery acid all over the shelving and the floor below. being industrious alaskans, david and i quickly unhooked the relay system, threw it on top of the shelving, and tossed a blanket over the whole mess.
for our power, we bought a cheap generator on sale at true value.we built a small shed to house the generator [carbon monoxide, you know] and david simply ran some 12-guage wire to the house and hooked up a few outlets. in this way we could run our telelvision and a DVD player for a rare treat. we probably watched four or five movies per week, and the other nights were cloaked in silence.
i say silence, but it wasn't really silent at all, was it?
[to be continued]
Sunday, May 24, 2009
post six - [happy creek two]
we came to live in march, when there was still several feet of snow on the ground.
the snow served to wrap the cabin in an ethereal blanket, making the candlelit windows all the more inviting. the cabin was sunk into a depression in the woods, snuggled down as it were into a cozy pocket amidst the trees. though this doubtless seemed brilliant during the sticky summer of the first construction, spring thaw never failed to cause a rudimentary moat to pool around the perimeter of the house.
the third addition to the place included cutting a drainage ditch into the moss to the left of the cabin, which alleviated some depth in front of the entrance, but there were still two pallets that lived just in front of the curiously raised door, pallets that elevated you just enough to barely clear the murky, mossy melted snow.
but i'm getting ahead of myself. the moat wasn't to be feared until mid-april, and we arrived in early march.
conveniently, the apartment we were vacating had just been broken into and most of our electronics taken. we'd spent several nights at the cabin during the course of the previous week, so thankfully we'd moved our gun collection, our several hundred movies, and our smaller television set before the burglars had a chance at them.
every thing else was taken; our gaming systems, our vhs and dvd players, our old computer. david's cameras. [that one still stings.]
i say conveniently because in a strange fit of pioneer spirit and self-reliant madness, i agreed to move into a place with no electricity. agreed? i begged.
it sounded so rustic, so earthy, so real. it sounded so wonderful. and it was.
[to be continued]
the snow served to wrap the cabin in an ethereal blanket, making the candlelit windows all the more inviting. the cabin was sunk into a depression in the woods, snuggled down as it were into a cozy pocket amidst the trees. though this doubtless seemed brilliant during the sticky summer of the first construction, spring thaw never failed to cause a rudimentary moat to pool around the perimeter of the house.
the third addition to the place included cutting a drainage ditch into the moss to the left of the cabin, which alleviated some depth in front of the entrance, but there were still two pallets that lived just in front of the curiously raised door, pallets that elevated you just enough to barely clear the murky, mossy melted snow.
but i'm getting ahead of myself. the moat wasn't to be feared until mid-april, and we arrived in early march.
conveniently, the apartment we were vacating had just been broken into and most of our electronics taken. we'd spent several nights at the cabin during the course of the previous week, so thankfully we'd moved our gun collection, our several hundred movies, and our smaller television set before the burglars had a chance at them.
every thing else was taken; our gaming systems, our vhs and dvd players, our old computer. david's cameras. [that one still stings.]
i say conveniently because in a strange fit of pioneer spirit and self-reliant madness, i agreed to move into a place with no electricity. agreed? i begged.
it sounded so rustic, so earthy, so real. it sounded so wonderful. and it was.
[to be continued]
Sunday, May 17, 2009
post five - [happy creek one]
though technically within the city of fairbanks, happy creek road was impervious to the whoosh of traffic, the murmur of human voices, the hum of electricity, all bustling several miles away. the best thing about that cabin was the silence, broken only by the sound of the wind rustling the leaves above, by the occasional songbird, by the raucous meowing of my cat.
that was the summer i broke my lifelong love of cable tv, my expectation of plumbing, the convenience of a quart of milk being three minutes away.
the main part of the cabin, a box roughly 10x16 feet, was built sometime in the seventies. a yellowed picture tacked to the wall attests to the dozen or so hippies that inhabited the area back then. several years later a two-story addition was tacked on the right side, an 8x8 tower, lined with windows on the bottom, with rickety stairs leading to a spider's paradise above. much later, in the nineties, an 8x16 entryway of sorts was added to the front of the cabin, creating a split-level living space of 18x16 feet, with the tower to the side. the resulting dwelling had all the charm of an worn old patchwork quilt. by the time we arrived, the wood had absorbed so many winter nights and summer mornings, so many bouts of uncontrollable laughter and nights of dreamy love that the space practically radiated calm, peace, and comfort.
we came to live in march, when there was still several feet of snow on the ground.
[to be continued]
that was the summer i broke my lifelong love of cable tv, my expectation of plumbing, the convenience of a quart of milk being three minutes away.
the main part of the cabin, a box roughly 10x16 feet, was built sometime in the seventies. a yellowed picture tacked to the wall attests to the dozen or so hippies that inhabited the area back then. several years later a two-story addition was tacked on the right side, an 8x8 tower, lined with windows on the bottom, with rickety stairs leading to a spider's paradise above. much later, in the nineties, an 8x16 entryway of sorts was added to the front of the cabin, creating a split-level living space of 18x16 feet, with the tower to the side. the resulting dwelling had all the charm of an worn old patchwork quilt. by the time we arrived, the wood had absorbed so many winter nights and summer mornings, so many bouts of uncontrollable laughter and nights of dreamy love that the space practically radiated calm, peace, and comfort.
we came to live in march, when there was still several feet of snow on the ground.
[to be continued]
Monday, May 4, 2009
post four
the baby in the apartment below me cries and cries and cries.
sometimes it starts at noon. sometimes it starts at 6. sometimes i wake at 4 in the morning and there she is, crying.
i wish i was like my mother. my mother would intrude. my mother would presume. my mother would put together a basket of food and drink and bring baby me and some blankets and some earplugs and go bang on the door. she would somehow convince these people to open their home to her, and she would scoop up the crying baby and walk it up and down our huge apartment hallways. she would leave me bundled on the couch next to the shell-shocked parents and be gone for several hours, only to return with a sleeping baby. that's just the kind of person she was.
i say was, because my mother has, of late, lost her God damned mind.
still..
sometimes it starts at noon. sometimes it starts at 6. sometimes i wake at 4 in the morning and there she is, crying.
i wish i was like my mother. my mother would intrude. my mother would presume. my mother would put together a basket of food and drink and bring baby me and some blankets and some earplugs and go bang on the door. she would somehow convince these people to open their home to her, and she would scoop up the crying baby and walk it up and down our huge apartment hallways. she would leave me bundled on the couch next to the shell-shocked parents and be gone for several hours, only to return with a sleeping baby. that's just the kind of person she was.
i say was, because my mother has, of late, lost her God damned mind.
still..
Monday, April 27, 2009
post three
most of the time i tell myself that things will only get better.
most of the time i don't believe my own bullshit.
most of the time i know that as bad as things look, someone else has it a fuck of a lot worse.
most of the time i still fall into quagmires of self-obsessed pity.
most of the time i look back a few years and wonder how little changes then might've added up to more happiness now.
most of the time i think about how at 22 i'm supposed to be living in london, smoking clove cigarettes in my flat, wearing suede ballet slippers and black leggings and an expensive lace bra under my french lover's ivory linen shirt, unbuttoned, and putting the finishing touches on my bestselling Bildungsroman.
most of the time i think i am foolish and petty for daring to imagine such things.
most of the time i wonder why my husband married me.
most of the time i feel guilty that my daughter is so lovely, that this is the life she was born into, the mother she was given.
most of the time i am shocked at my self-obsession.
and yet it continues.
most of the time i don't believe my own bullshit.
most of the time i know that as bad as things look, someone else has it a fuck of a lot worse.
most of the time i still fall into quagmires of self-obsessed pity.
most of the time i look back a few years and wonder how little changes then might've added up to more happiness now.
most of the time i think about how at 22 i'm supposed to be living in london, smoking clove cigarettes in my flat, wearing suede ballet slippers and black leggings and an expensive lace bra under my french lover's ivory linen shirt, unbuttoned, and putting the finishing touches on my bestselling Bildungsroman.
most of the time i think i am foolish and petty for daring to imagine such things.
most of the time i wonder why my husband married me.
most of the time i feel guilty that my daughter is so lovely, that this is the life she was born into, the mother she was given.
most of the time i am shocked at my self-obsession.
and yet it continues.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
post two
for years i've thought that the only way to overcome your fears is to cower from them. to avoid them if at all possible, to ignore them in the hopes that they will eventually lose their power over you.
though it's true that in storybooks and on film we are shown that facing your fears is the only way to conquer them, i have always held it to be true that fiction is fiction and nothing more. fiction would not be an escape for me if it mirrored the sickness and the horror of 'real life'.
this is why i have always despised books with unhappy or non- endings. movies in which boy meets girl, boy loves girl, girls dies or stays with old fiance, or worse, boy marries girl and they live painfully and unhappily ever after. this is why requiem for a dream is a despicable piece of trash masquerading as 'art', selling itself as a picture of 'reality'.
i don't pay to see reality. i want the drug addict to clean up, to visit his mother, to marry his girlfriend. i want the underdog to apply faith and hard work to his training so he wins the big race. i want the cancer patient to pull through and regrow her hair before her Christmas wedding to Mr. Right. i want the fat kid to get the girl.
i want to close the book with a sigh of pleasure, not a hiss of disgust.
but i digress.
though valor and honor, bravery and courage work in the printed world of make-believe, they are not aspects of my daily life. i have conditioned myself to bend to the whim of others, to smile and vacillate, to hem and haw and know that eventually the discomfort will pass. i have learned that it is best for me to keep my eyes open and my mouth shut, to be the path of least resistance. it has served me well for a number of years.
only now that i am raising a daughter do i realize how wrong i am. only now do i see that in order to survive as a species, it is imperative that we continually subscribe to the notions of fiction -- to the belief that honesty and kindness are more important to success than greed and trickery. to the notion that courage and honor will serve us better than cowardice and debasement, no matter how easy the latter may be to live by. it is important to know that though thievery may be the easy way, it is not the right way; regardless of how often the opposite is proven by everyday humans in 'real life'.
to this end, it is high time i changed myself for the better. it is time i became the champion of my little fairytale. it matters not that my honesty, integrity, kindness and faith will be but a drop of water in the cesspool of humanity; what matters is that my daughter believes the fiction.
this is going to be tough.
though it's true that in storybooks and on film we are shown that facing your fears is the only way to conquer them, i have always held it to be true that fiction is fiction and nothing more. fiction would not be an escape for me if it mirrored the sickness and the horror of 'real life'.
this is why i have always despised books with unhappy or non- endings. movies in which boy meets girl, boy loves girl, girls dies or stays with old fiance, or worse, boy marries girl and they live painfully and unhappily ever after. this is why requiem for a dream is a despicable piece of trash masquerading as 'art', selling itself as a picture of 'reality'.
i don't pay to see reality. i want the drug addict to clean up, to visit his mother, to marry his girlfriend. i want the underdog to apply faith and hard work to his training so he wins the big race. i want the cancer patient to pull through and regrow her hair before her Christmas wedding to Mr. Right. i want the fat kid to get the girl.
i want to close the book with a sigh of pleasure, not a hiss of disgust.
but i digress.
though valor and honor, bravery and courage work in the printed world of make-believe, they are not aspects of my daily life. i have conditioned myself to bend to the whim of others, to smile and vacillate, to hem and haw and know that eventually the discomfort will pass. i have learned that it is best for me to keep my eyes open and my mouth shut, to be the path of least resistance. it has served me well for a number of years.
only now that i am raising a daughter do i realize how wrong i am. only now do i see that in order to survive as a species, it is imperative that we continually subscribe to the notions of fiction -- to the belief that honesty and kindness are more important to success than greed and trickery. to the notion that courage and honor will serve us better than cowardice and debasement, no matter how easy the latter may be to live by. it is important to know that though thievery may be the easy way, it is not the right way; regardless of how often the opposite is proven by everyday humans in 'real life'.
to this end, it is high time i changed myself for the better. it is time i became the champion of my little fairytale. it matters not that my honesty, integrity, kindness and faith will be but a drop of water in the cesspool of humanity; what matters is that my daughter believes the fiction.
this is going to be tough.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
post one
the funny thing about pregnancy is that every day is a little better and a bit worse than the day before.
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