My Little Bride

My grandma is dying. At a faster rate than the last 15 years, which were at a faster rate than her first 60, give or take a few. Much faster now.

I have known that her Crohn's Disease, the crippling arthritis that bent her spine, her extended morphine addiction, loss of hearing and deteriorating vision will take her completely from us one day. I have known for years now and I think I have accepted that depressing reality. Her body has stolen from her and from all of us. It is so strange to watch the slow progression of near constant pain take more and more of her corporal being from the people left to see it.

(Ohop Valley where my grandparents farm is located)

I miss a great deal of it living the distance away that I do. It probably gives me a buffer and will make her passing less of a striking impact on my life. I take no comfort in that truth. If anything I wonder if the distance I have established from these familial relations risks a great deal of closeness, love and feelings I could be sharing, experiencing... I don't want to get the phone call that she is gone and wonder what I am supposed to feel. But I probably will. And I will tell people out loud that I am thankful she was taken from the pain, safe in the knowledge that it was her time, blah, blah blah. I will also be pinching my own leg under the table. See, you still know how to feel, I will reassure myself.

Someone that will be feeling too much will be my grandfather. He will feel so much that he will cease to feel anything but the loss. Now, I readily acknowledge that I idolize my grandpa. I have always said that I do not use the word hero for anyone but Lucille Ball and My Grandpa. I decided that when I was young and it stuck. So yeah, my hero is going to loose his wife. And it is going to ruin him.

It is a strong statement, but entirely true. How do I know? Easy. My grandma has spent much of the last 6 months in a nursing home in an attempt to have her put on weight, heal deep and infected bedsores, receive physical and medication therapy, etc and every single day my 87 year old grandpa drives 45-60 minutes from their farm to the nursing home, spends 6-10 hours by her side and then late at night drives home. Alone. He has yet to miss a day as far as we know.

(That's actually great gramps. Photo by my uncle. Find him here. )

He became the staff favorite within days, no doubt in part to his "awe shucks" amicableness and simultaneous old soul/really listens to what you say-ness, but mostly because he so clearly loves my grandma. He has the taken to referring to her with the staff as "my little bride." As in, "take care of my little bride," "we gotta make sure my little bride is getting better," or "how's my little bride doing today?"

Yeah.

He has other pet names for her that only recently came to light in front of the family because he shows his soft side with the nursing assistants. Maybe when my mom, aunt and uncle were young they heard these endearments, but chances are they weren't privy to this inside world either until now. As lovely as he has always been as a grandpa, I know little of his parenting or his married life. And it's not mine to know beyond what they let us see.

My little bride. And she is little, even more now than ever. She used to stand at 5'7" and 120 pounds. Tall, thin, regally hosting dinners at times, dirty and sweaty from the zucchini patch at others. And my Grandpa no doubt has flashes of all those times and more as he tries to get a response from her hunched and nearly gone from this world frame. His love... boggles, inspires, hurts, repairs all at the same time.

What I will feel, regardless of close or far, will pale so dramatically in comparison to his loss it will risk disappearing. And I am glad. I am glad that his love for her is so powerful. I don't pretend to understand their relationship. It is foreign in too many ways to account for, but I understand what he means when he uses those terms of affection. It resonates like Shakespeare or Rumi.

Translated as best I can, My Little Bride:

Your being sustains me, gives me order, thrills me, breaks me, has been next to me for decades (millennia), is all I know, and I cannot bear the thought of losing this gift. I do not know how to live without you. If you disappear, will I also? I think I might. I love you my little bride. I love what we have had, as the farmhand on your family's homestead that teased the farmer's daughter and promised to come back for you after the war. I love you here and now in this smelly, sterile building I drive to and from where you are fading from me daily. I love you in all the in-betweens we spent together that only you and I really know. I learned love with you and I am scared to love without you. So I won't. When you leave me, us I will pack away my heart for the hereafter. I will save it for you as I always have and I will come to you again.

True Life: Random Happens

Some true tidbits from today:

After my shower I was toweling off in the hallway (don't ask) and I suddenly knelt down on the floor next to my slightly affected cat and sang loudly "THE FINAL COUNTDOWN!" I then stood back up, walked into the bedroom and looked in the closet for what I wanted to wear.

While rifling through a drawer for a shirt I came across a pair of panties and thought, "Hmm, underpants. What a concept." I AM NOT KIDDING. Who thinks these things? (other than me, clearly.) I am proud to say I am in full undergarment regalia today.

I made 18 phone-calls in a row to clients, employees and funding sources for work. Back to back to back to back to... Well you get the idea. I hate the phone intensely and get all sweaty and annoyed when I have to talk to that many people (or their voicemail) in a row. Then again, pretty much anything makes me sweaty and annoyed, so perhaps this last tidbit lacks the required randomness I was going for.

I made the thickest steak I have ever cooked the other night and the leftovers will not quit. Today I took a hunk and thinly sliced it to nom on. Very tasty and I went back for seconds. Which I followed by eating three spoonfuls of peanut-butter and two glasses of milk. My stomach wants to punch me in the face. Too bad for you GI track my brain controls voluntary movement of my limbs!! HA.

Tonight has lots of promise for a continued trend of WTF.

This Could Essentially Be a Tweet It Is So Short In Nature

I have threatened The Universe with my wrath more than once today if certain events transpire. I also bargained, pleaded, and perhaps briefly cussed out the Cosmos. I intend to maintain my stance that me holding a grudge against All That Is ranks as a pretty frickin' huge threat because though I may be diminutive in thought, word and deed I know some people. People you don't want on your bad side. Like the Russians. YEAH, pretty sure everything will turn up roses since I had my little chat with the Macrocosm.

And for good measure here is a tweet from earlier today with the added bonus of pictures:

sometimes when I worry about a loved one I visualize my brain as a burrowing animal, displacing dirt rapidly & accomplishing little.

Pretty Ones and Zeros

My anal retentive side loves organizing jellybeans by flavor. Like, I zen out on that shit. And then get a massive sugar rush because I ate half of them while organizing. Oops.

It's not so much that I have a crush on this vintage nerd as it is I respect the shit out of him. ACCORDION PLAYERS ARE AWESOME. It is a well known fact among hot redheads, but lesser known to the masses. It is my job to educate in the ways of accordion pride (and occasional lust. Fine, you got me.)

No idea. I just like the color.

I would wear every single pair of these ankle boots. In fact I think I may have a version of the top black pair. Vintage ads never fail.

These gals are my new best friends, they just haven't been informed yet. But they will know when I find them, dressed as a dancing peacock with a pumpkin in tow. Then all will be revealed and we shall frolic in fields of gold as scripture spake. Or Sting sang about. One of the two. I am too busy collecting feathers to check.

Editors note: I have no idea why some of my words are underlined and others aren't. Let's pretend there is a conspiracy theory that explains it all. When you have figured it out let me know in comments. Which means it will always remain a mystery because I have no one that comments. /echos into internet infinity-void.

Wanting To Be Electric

Because if I were I could simply plug in to a wall outlet and recharge. My little battery percentage status would blink 100% when I was ready and I would receive equally effective and accurate warning when my levels approached dangerously low. Instead of this highly controlled measurement system I operate in a world of "that was the third night in a row I hardly slept" and "what can someone make for dinner from panchetta, mustard, two slices of bread, and a carrot, because said person hasn't had time to go to the grocery store in a well over a week?" And my current favorite "acquiring deep, dark bruises when a the fluffy cat laid on your leg for 15 minutes. OMG WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO MY BODY. I think I might be DYING."

(art is titled "a pile of bruises" and be found here)

Yeah, it is time to attend to my health again. And a sanity check in with a therapist probably wouldn't hurt. And a spa day. In the south of France. Alright, spas and transcontinental travel is not so much a realistic option, but I did go the the GNC section of Rite-Aid today and stock up on my ulcer prevention meds, Malox, multi-vitamins, omega-3 fish oil pills. (Confession, I actually like the "tuna burps" those things give you. No one around me does, but I do.) I have a habit of starting medication and supplements and sticking with it for as long as it takes me to get back to well. After the anemia fades and the stomach cramps are gone I invariably get lax in my approach to healthy regimens and ho-ho's and pickles for lunch and dinner seems totally okay.

Drool....

Ummm, yeah that sounded so good I sorta went cross-eyed. I'm back now.

It always seems like recharging, attending to personal health, caring for your own person enough to actually treat it like a temple (or at the very least a nice museum or theater) should not be so dang hard. Why is it that I will have to schedule on my calendar what days I will go for a walk/run/die/sweat-fest and finally call the doctor to ask about the bruises, exema, and lethargy after saying I will do it tomorrow everyday for the last month? It would be in my best interest to take care of myself, but it is just one more damn thing I have to do. Hell, most days I come home from work so exhausted that I cannot think past getting my pants off of my being and having a glass of wine while I let my glazed-over eyes flit through the comments on Jezebel and Awkward Family Photos. Adult responsibilities can pretty much suck it as far as I am concerned at that point in the day.

The short-term effect is great. I get a little buzz before dinner, don't have to think too hard for 45 minutes and forget about the t0-do list. The long-term effects can really bite you in the ass though, huh? Laundry piles up to frightening proportions, you end up with more of a tolerance for wine than a gal your size should have and for me the anxiety kicks in at full blast, often in the middle of the night. Since I have been off pretty much all pharmaceuticals for 8 months now I don't have the "oh, I'll just pop a sedative and coast through the hellish landscape of panic attacks" option anymore. I keep some Ativan around just in case I really start to go sideways, but ideally I have been able to address the root causes and thus engage in preventative measures against those very moments. Until I lose focus and forget to keep apace with getting my shit taken care of.

It is no fun to be reminded that for as much of a blast as it is to work-hard, play-hard it is simply not an equation that is compatible to my system for long. Wishing I could leech energy from some easily accessible source and then just keep truckin' along ends up being kind of a lame desire after a bit of consideration. Perhaps if I put in the effort now to discover some of those recharging aspects within me I won't have to keep wishing and hoping for some saving grace from places outside of me. And I like the idea of that better than being an appliance any day.

This Is Not Really How I Feel

Angry Cats Are Awesome.

When You Put Your iTunes On Random and It Plays The Cure Anyway

I know I wanted to blog, but I wasn't sure what about. So I did my nails (and am now attempting to not get polish on my board with each keystroke), and put iTunes on random to see what it pulled up. That should inspire me, right?

It should be noted that I have been listening to The Cure pretty obsessively lately and purposefully did not opt for that particular heavy rotation band this evening. It then makes sense that when I opened up the iTunes application and hit play "Pictures of You" started streaming out of my weakling Mac speakers and I just had to wryly smiled to myself. Yes, of course coincidence allowed this to occur. Too bad I don't buy into the idea of reason or coincidence for moments like this because at the end of the day the science of statistics (variable frequency of item A, when item A occurs in conjunction with variable items B through Z, etc) is my bread and butter. I trust data, I trust numbers and I trust patterns.

The contradiction I struggle with after asserting that if all that IS (as in exists), is mathematics where is the meaning? (Does it depend on the what the meaning of is, is? thank you Bill Clinton for putting that question into the ether so effectively.) I have been working on creating personal relevancy to my actions a lot lately (as well as trying to balance the risk of new-agey bullshit with the hope for purpose) and would not mind feelings stronger about any of it.

So I mentioned "God-Girl" in my last post, who really did drive me up the fucking wall. She was nutso. But this is where I hedge, because through her extreme example I saw what I would never have again. That delicious, unwavering, core-strength faith in why things are. Yeah, maybe you can't explain it all, but you believe in its reason by the virtue of your overall faith in god. I used to have this. I used to (in a palatable manner I hoped) witness my faith to others. I was the youth homily-giver on numerous occasion at my various churches as I grew up. I spent hours on my knees praying and willing what I very much wanted to be true into existence. For a small period of time I actually thought I was called. As in called to serve and go to seminary. As in me as a pastor. STOP LAUGHING. Actually, keep laughing, because it is more bearable that way.

It hit me part way through my weird willingness to read Kierkegaard for my own personal growth when I was 16 years old that what I was most attracted to was the study of it, the questions I would get to ask and explore, the teaching of my interpretation to others. And the talking. Having a captive and willing audience appealed to me much in the way that I adored acting and singing. Power and the esteem of others are heady fucking drugs. And I was good at it. I have the gift of gab and I would have used it not for faith (though I am sure I would have convinced myself of it much of the time), but for glory, and that would be a chimera if ever there was one.

So now I am on the other side of things. Doubting, quick to explain away based on the here and now, math, frustrated that I can't get that 'belief in more' feeling back. But then my favorite song by The Cure plays and it has meaning damn-it. Not as in, God Willed This Song To Play or some batshit crazy reasoning like that, but that I love that song and it resonates with me and perhaps that is all the meaning I should be after. If I have given it meaning through experience, then I need not look for more.

Jeezy-chreezy, fresh and breezy, this has been some heavy shit. I think a post about not wearing pants or --HOLY SHIT, now iTunes is throwing down with Jeff Buckley. OKAY YOU WIN UNIVERSE. I am just a woman (more on the girl/woman identification issue soon) trying to relax at the end of a long day, not some cosmic seer or some damn shit.

Let's De-clutter this MutherFucker

(WELL IT ALMOST RHYMES and I don't have time for your hoitey-toitey grammer rules anyhoo.)

There are times when I clean house purely as a procrastination method. I will pay the bills and write those thank you letters today! .... Right after I scour the bathtub and huff the mixing chemical fumes, followed by changing the sheets and vacuuming the furniture. Then I can really FOCUS on those letters. Yeah....

Today, yes there are all the loose ends, the week is almost starting and shit-I-have-15-things-I-need-done-by-8p.m.-tonight. BUTT, by which I mean but, I am really trying to keep a positive outlook on things and it is very hard to get my ass aligned with the universe when there is fucking cat spit-up on my floor.

And the truth is I despise cleaning. I pawn it off on anyone else I can. Hell, I even paid a pretty penny for a young, energetic, sanitizing goddess to come in a month ago and go to town on my place. And it changed my life (on a stack of Bibles). I was able to relax when I came home from work, not immediately going into a litany of cleaning jobs to foist onto AM the moment my eyes rested on the crumbs on the chair or the cat hair wafting in the summer evening breeze by the open window. That appears to have a dirty hand-print on the sill -I SWEAR TO GOD I HAVE MAIMED FOR LESS PEOPLE.

Where was I? Oh right, becoming one with the cosmos. The truth is for all my attitude and tone I really am feeling motivation most days to make something meaningful out of my time. Put myself out there more, tell people that they are important to me, talk to the cashier at Safeway about her niece and nephew, and staying on top of the dust quotient at home makes those overtures that much easier to come by.

Not to say that I didn't snark about the guy who's ample front and backside were spilling forth from all his articles of clothing as he bought bacon. I still live in an elitist bubble most of the time, entry into which requires various hazing procedures, etc. And certainly not to say that I don't heave a great big sigh, as dramatic and herculean as they come about the toils of life, the blue days, the cobwebs so high up the wall we can't reach them. Those suckers can really get a girl contemplating the gloomier elements of conscious living.

Further, I have to physically restrain myself from accosting anyone who walks around with the phrase "turn that frown upside down" or statistics about the number of muscle it takes to "make those sad faces." I wonder how many muscles it takes me to bitch slap the positive out of you? Yeah, so I am kinda on shaky ground in regards to taking "character flaws" and turning them into "attributes." Which is a conversation I have had twice in the last two days.

Just as long as I don't become one of THOSE people. I remember this gal from college who's sunny disposition knew no bounds. She had a smile on her face at all times and was quick to attribute anything nice or pleasant to the grandeur of God. She, on numerous occasion came up to me and stated "Aren't you just so thankful for today! God really is an awesome God." Then she would turn on her Keds clad feet and bounce away with the smile that only someone on the good shit should have. We called her God-Girl and it was not in a complimentary way. She was straight-up possessed.

That ain't gonna happen in my world anytime soon. What I am actively working on is setting goals and the stage markers to know where I am in relation to those goals. I had focused for so long on just getting employed, just staying healthy for a few months, just scraping by that I forgot all about drive and motivation and.... Well, let's face it, thinking about a future in a realistic way at all wasn't even on the table 6 months ago. Now it is and I am enjoying it.

Of course first I really must finish the dishes before I start planning my slow, but determined accent to the toppermost of the poppermost.

Faux-Family

I have a fake family. It is new and strange and no else I have met has something quite like it. I almost worry that by mentioning I risk it. It goes like this: there are people that you meet in life that you just get immediately. Neither party can explain it and to the outside world it probably looks fucking weird. Really? You get along? You feel comfortable around this person? We watch cartoons and eat homemade brownies together. Yes. YES.

And it is brand new to me, this layered, lovely thing. How does one get welcomed in to an already existing entity like a family unit? The answer is I don't know. What I do know is that I have found a very sweet experience. We get together and do vaguely domestic things. We play house in a way. But this is no regular house, nor would I want it to be.

I am coming closer and closer to understanding that my wants and expectations of life don't line up very well with the larger populations outlined playbook. I don't buy into many of the lines drawn about this or that. I don't want kids, even though I adore them and think at times I would be a pretty bitchin' mom. End of the day, I don't want to be, but that doesn't mean I don't possess that maternal pulse. I use some of it in the work I do each day which is a very gratifying thing. So in this new opportunity I mostly just am, but I care for this little, crazy family. Fuck, I adore them. It triggers this slow, soft part of me. The part that listens, doesn't need to talk incessantly. The part that watches carefully, that takes it in and simplifies when possible.

AM taught me a phrase that I hold very dear. "Family is as family does." I consider myself lucky in that I have some blood relatives that are amazing, connected and dear. I also have the gift of individuals I have met along the way that exceed the bounds of acquaintance or best bud. They cross over into the realm of humans that I love outright, no questions asked, will do whatever is needed. And they are the ones that last.

Is my little faux-family part of that circle? I wouldn't say that yet, but at the same time I have abiding feelings of hope, trust and a presentness that you just don't come across that often. So here's to the unaligned ones, the ones we cherish, the ones that belong in a way all their own. These are my people and I raise a glass of milk (to go with the brownies) to them.

I think I am in love

Aw, hell. I know it. Just check out this art. And then check out his website. It is sweetass.

FULLARTON

this guy is amazing.

Composition Books

As per usual I have taken a leisurely attitude toward posting regularly. I am not too worried about it nowadays and figure writing happens, just like shit, so no major worries on when. It comes out in the end (ba-dum-BUM!).

Hell, the only real reason I am getting my prose-based ducks all lined up is because a good friend reminded me what fun blogging can be again. And I ain't knocking all the talented people who I have on my blogroll and beyond that post almost everyday, but let's face facts: I don't know you. I know the internet you and that is all there is. It is different to have a physical being you love to get drinks with and talk till all hours, etc. that is also a blogger. You can check her out here: Happy Formula

It is not to say that I haven't been writing copious amounts of drivel like my more hefty posting months imply I am capable of. I just haven't been writing it down. It is a very weird habit I have of being out somewhere and composing a full, edited post in my mind (even with breaks for the pictures I think I would want) and then never revisiting it again. I go to the extreme of picturing the blogspot layout preview page as I "type." In my imagination. Yeah...

And then there is the stuff that I have written down on paper and it sure as shit isn't getting posted here. Which may beg the question "really? you have been holding back about stuff? Cuz I am pretty sure you have emotionally vomited all over this sucker the whole way through." I hear you, but yes there is plenty that gets edited out. Maybe one day it will find its way, but much of it need time. Distance, perspective and all that thoughtful shit.

But I want to keep this interesting so I am going to scan some pages from my old composition books from college. They are self-indulgent ramblings, so not far off from everything else I have written before and since.

Here is one cover in all its beauty:

And here is a page. Fucking upside down. Hey, fuck you scanner. When I saved the pic and even adjusted the Gamma and Saturation and Sepia I apparently could not figure out how to rotate it and keep it that way. Suck a nut, scanner.

Translated is reads:

words we like & what they mean

hedonistic: pleasure seeking

analogous; similar in certain respects

indemnify: compensate

sophistry: deceptive, false arguments

immutable: unchangeable

chimera: fantasy

I subscribed to the royal "We" even back then. Good to know. Next:

And translated it reads:

there's a silk shirt i know

that lures me close, but i am

not sure why

i sit and watch and listen a bit

more absorbing and

w/ it all comes what!?

i need a good rattle

i need a good shake

i need you to come over

and breath me awake

what is it that is not filled in

there is a color that is

missing

some caress i crave that i

cannot have

because laws and mores

and folkways forbid

and the song i love he is starting

to play.

as though he knows my quiet

smile was telling him so

What makes me laugh the most (out of the numerous embarrassingly available options presented) is my favorite part is the bit that rhymes and bounces along all cadence-conscious.

Oh, that and I apparently did not believe in punctuation, had crushes on men in silk shirts (really? I am blushing right now), and was a horndog back then too who liked to use her psychology and sociology terms in tangential ramblings. Of course in the end I like that part of me a smidge. She wasn't so bad, though the writing leaves much to be desired. I can look back at all the pages and know that as plodding, clumsy and word drunk I may have been, I meant it all, word by word.

Just as I clearly meant everything implied in this picture from those same days:

Guilty of the Laze About

Plenty to write but not so much on the energy. So lets laugh instead.

Is it bad of me to realize I would completely love this song (more) if the words were different? I just am into the Doors that much, okay?