am·biv·a·lence

am·biv·a·lence (m-bv-lns)
n.

1. The coexistence of opposing attitudes or feelings, such as love and hate, toward a person, object, or idea.
2. Uncertainty or indecisiveness as to which course to follow.

Ambivalence; a favorite well-worn word of mine which I have come to love and loath. A delicate descriptor in many works; it frames me, captivates me, feeds my anxiety, and coats my numbness. Ambivalence grows with me and it seems the older, the wiser I become, the more I understand the depth of this word.

Today is Halloween... According to the History Channel:

"Halloween's origins date back to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-in).

"The Celts, who lived 2,000 years ago in the area that is now Ireland, the United Kingdom, and northern France, celebrated their new year on November 1. This day marked the end of summer and the harvest and the beginning of the dark, cold winter, a time of year that was often associated with human death. Celts believed that on the night before the new year, the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. On the night of October 31, they celebrated Samhain, when it was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to earth. In addition to causing trouble and damaging crops, Celts thought that the presence of the otherworldly spirits made it easier for the Druids, or Celtic priests, to make predictions about the future. For a people entirely dependent on the volatile natural world, these prophecies were an important source of comfort and direction during the long, dark winter.

"To commemorate the event, Druids built huge sacred bonfires, where the people gathered to burn crops and animals as sacrifices to the Celtic deities.

"During the celebration, the Celts wore costumes, typically consisting of animal heads and skins, and attempted to tell each other's fortunes. When the celebration was over, they re-lit their hearth fires, which they had extinguished earlier that evening, from the sacred bonfire to help protect them during the coming winter.

By A.D. 43, Romans had conquered the majority of Celtic territory. In the course of the four hundred years that they ruled the Celtic lands, two festivals of Roman origin were combined with the traditional Celtic celebration of Samhain.

"The first was Feralia, a day in late October when the Romans traditionally commemorated the passing of the dead. The second was a day to honor Pomona, the Roman goddess of fruit and trees. The symbol of Pomona is the apple and the incorporation of this celebration into Samhain probably explains the tradition of "bobbing" for apples that is practiced today on Halloween.

"By the 800s, the influence of Christianity had spread into Celtic lands. In the seventh century, Pope Boniface IV designated November 1 All Saints' Day, a time to honor saints and martyrs. It is widely believed today that the pope was attempting to replace the Celtic festival of the dead with a related, but church-sanctioned holiday. The celebration was also called All-hallows or All-hallowmas (from Middle English Alholowmesse meaning All Saints' Day) and the night before it, the night of Samhain, began to be called All-hallows Eve and, eventually, Halloween. Even later, in A.D. 1000, the church would make November 2 All Souls' Day, a day to honor the dead. It was celebrated similarly to Samhain, with big bonfires, parades, and dressing up in costumes as saints, angels, and devils. Together, the three celebrations, the eve of All Saints', All Saints', and All Souls', were called Hallowmas."

I often marvel at the complacency of humanity's bulk to live in a societal plateau. Content never to reach beyond the knowledge, or rather lack of, of what is comfortable. Like sheep, never challenging the fence, going through the motions of existance. This is not to say that there are not incredible and wonderous exceptions, but I'm not writing about exceptions; I'm writing about sheep. I'm not amazed by those who rise above and beyond, but rather the majority who chooses not to. I do not fault those without means who desire, but rather those who have the means and no desire.

It is that blind ignorance which divides us, not our differences. Not our races, nor cultures, nor faiths, nor even countries of origin. It is that dangerous certainty which so many of us subscribe to, like those who spend their lives in front of the television gobbling propagandanda and passing quick judgmentsnts upon what they fear because they're simply too small to understand. It's far easier to go with the flow, however disgusting and polluted, than to pick up a freaking book or Google for Pete's sake. We're just too damn lazy to care.

Halloween today is nothing more than a plight of capitalism, spawned of ancient pagan rituals and rewritten histories, marketing their ritualistic crap to the masses devoid of significance and understanding. Just like Christmas. Just like every other holiday I have grown to become ambivalent about. Hell, I would gander that the majority of America's trick-or-treating families consider themselves fine Christian citizens, whose children are counting the days until Santa Claus comes to town again on that night, you know, when Jesus was born. No different really, as a matter of blind faith, than gun-yieldinging Muslims who have made "jihad" synonymous with "war." Read your damn books.

Geez, I recall the haunted house at my cousin's Methodist Church and sticking my hands into shoeboxes which were supposed to hold dismembered body parts of some dead guy. Now what exactly was the point in that I wondered then? Still do. It's really no wonder at the confusion in the world. --There's either too much thinking or not enough; too much understanding or not enough... too much living, or not enough.

Ahh, but that is the beauty of age and wisdom. Life teaches us about stuff, eventually, whether or not we wanna learn. It is those lessons and experiences that shape us, into hopefully, something worthy of our Maker. And somewhere along the way, in between all the idle buffers and major events, we begin to see the world in an unimaginable hue... our souls mellow into a harbor of acceptance, adjustments, and hope - else we despair to the cancer, unable to digest the realities beyond the safety of our self-made wombs. It's called "growing pains" (*note the 'pains'). Everything, everything, has a purpose... And that which doesn't kill us, as they say, makes us stronger, and hopefully a better, more tolerable people... not to mention, leaves us with some really entertaining tales to tell.

Speaking of buffers and tales...

I remember being six or seven years old when I inherited my first musical 8-track tape from my older cousin - KISS's "Destroyer," which I listened to religiously on my 2XL; I knew all the lyrics to every song on that album and used to perform song and dance routines for anyone I could coerce into witnessing the insane display, which generally was my grandmother. (Hey, give me a break; I was a bored little farm girl back then.) Peter Criss was the love of my life at that point. --Oh those were the truly ignorantly blissful days...

Nearly three decades later, KISS went on tour with Aerosmith. I can't even begin to describe the nostaglia! What a crazy deja-vu standing there with my two German counterparts, memorable worlds colliding in untouchable, unspeakable ways. And then, there they were, smoke rising as "Detroit Rock City" sounded off and throngs of seventies survivors, many sporting clueless grandkids upon their has-been shoulders, cheered and raised lit cigarette lighters of tribute into the air while the sweet fetid stench of marijuana wafted through the night. I felt the rippling chill of "once upon a time" wash through us all, like a big magic wave, wistful. And then, as quickly as it came, dissipatedted into the present moment, when I saw them - my childhood rock stars, jamming fast and furious, as grande as they ever had been in their glory days... even as their flabby beer guts hung over too tight leather chaps, even as Gene's heavy caked-on stage make-up and fake blood oozed into the cracks and wrinkles of his forlorn face, even as the guitar didn't break apart on the first slam upon the stage or even the second, even as the crowd abscent of screaming, half-naked, sexually-liberated hippy girls - stood hollering, mesmerized and lost in time, wanting more, just a little more, to return, for just one more song, to their lost bittersweet youth, where ever they were. --Something about the near-geriatricric rock-n-rollers parading around in their leather and studs, 'shouting it out loud,' wasn't quite the kinder-euphoria I remembered, however, I had to smile in spite of myself and be eternally thankful for the buffer of the ride.

Thirty years and another circle. What an incredible show.

"Flaming youth will set the world on fire"... and they always do... then you grow up, like it or not, and hopefully learn something useful and good and maybe have some interesting tales to tell.

Now about Halloween... Personally, I am indifferent about Halloween. No, we didn't get around to trick-or-treating this year, however, did support the good ole American economy by buying a couple bags of chocolate. True, it had once been a favored mischievousous event in my rebellious younger days and yes, I had once the notion that October 31st, would be an ideal day to wed, having hysterical visions of a costume clad congregation led by a grim reaper. Alas, Halloween ended up being a much more befitting day for a divorce, and so it was. --Still, I find the historical trivia worth knowing.

But I digress. What a rambling hallowed eve it has been... So you're wondering now, what Halloween, history, life, religion, sheep, and Gene Simmons have in common?

Simple: It's all about ambivalence and it's all about the ride, in a manner of speaking...

---

Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine ownself be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
(Polonius speaking)
--William Shakespeare, Hamlet, act I scene III

Being Lucky

I had considered myself "lucky" the first antibiotical time around, when by the shear grace of God, I slipped quietly past the hands of fate in acquiring a yeast infection. I was certain I would get one, for I had specifically requested the high-power, extra-strength, kick-ass 3 day course of the unpronounceable penicillin derivative to conquer my debilitating case of strep throat. And, for me, I have to be pretty much sitting on the edge of my death bed to do that.

Strep and I are long standing arch nemesis whose rival wars began approximately 3 decades ago. It seems to me that I contracted strep throat at least 3 or 4 times a year. Sometimes even, if I was especially "lucky," I managed to have step throat and an ear infection both at the same time. Oh bliss. Of course, growing up in the grand ole tacky '70's, the then world of modern medicine was all a buzz over antibiotics as a near 'cure all' from everything from ingrown toenails to STD's, and the FDA being as liberal and free-loving as the rest of the [*cough*] drug community.

I am convinced that the reason my tonsils were never removed as a child was due to the doctor's revenue security he was fortunate enough to have found in patients like me. I am further convinced that the exorbitant amounts of penicillin and amoxicillan which has, over the years, "boosted" my immune system into artificial overdrive, is the very reason that I contract every strain of viral crud my young daughter brings home from school.

So it really came of no surprise to me, when just a month later, I awoke one morning trying to swallow my engorged uvula which was the size of a kiwi, only embedded with sandspurs. (Okay, well that's how it felt.) Oh joy. --I've learned the hard way that there is no way out of this save a damn prescription least I end up in the hospital again. Screw Vitamin E and Echinacea.

Long story short, I'm on antibiotics again. The big pill kind which requires great skill to dump into the ole gullet, like inhaling an egg or something. And while obedient, I knew that this time, I wouldn't be so "lucky."

[*Note for the unwise: antibiotic use most commonly cause yeast infections due to the fact that these drugs do not discriminate between non-healthy and healthy bacteria in the human body; unfortunately in women, this often results in a tragic imbalance of the vaginal ecosystem, allowing the natural yeast to take over.]

"Have you ever had a yeast infection?" I ask Kevo. He looks at me waiting for the punchline before finally answering "no."

"Well, it is an experience that every man should have at least once in his life," I tell him, smiling sweetly. He declines and says he'll take my word for it.

"No really, allow me to explain... Imagine an itch so intense that it possesses your mind, body, and soul; all you can think about is how to alleviate the hot, burning agony, the insane itching, the nymphomaniac-like raw sexual arousal, and pain... like a million mosquito bites on a swollen, frost-bitten choach... and that's not even counting the discharge..." He is squirming by this point and trying desperately to change the subject. "Visions of instruments of torture dancing in your head... It's so bad that all you can think about is taking a fork, a Brillo pad, or a steel tire brush and scrubbing the flesh right off of your body."

"I really didn't need to hear all that," he insists.

So the following day when I call my dearheart and ask if he can stop at the drug store on the way over and pick up my prescription, he complied happily. Not so much out of concern for my well-being I'm sure, but rather in hopes that I will quickly 'recover' and refrain from my obscene commentary which mars the delicate feminine image with which he prefers to think of his girlfriend.

Imagine my euphoria, when I unwrapped my prescription baggie like a birthday present and found... only one pill. ONE pill?!!! Yay! I pop that sucker out of the cellophane and down it like seasoned perscription-med junkie.

Emerging from my bedroom, I feel very, very "lucky" that the pharmaceutical gods have spared me the wretched series of gooky syringes of slimy stuff that does not defy gravity; this alone has spiked my mood right into pure happiness. And when one is happy, one enjoys sharing that happiness... I am no exception of course, and cannot resist enthusiastically enlightening Kevo on the miracles of modern medicine and the evolution of yeast infection treatments.

"Oh God, please make it stop..." he says.

---

"The deepest experience of the creator is feminine, for it is experience of receiving and bearing."
--Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke

Bleachy Haired Honky Bitch

Oh my God. OH MY GOD! This has got to be one of THE absolute most hysterical books I have ever stumbled across: "Bleachy Haired Honky Bitch, Tales from a BAD Neighborhood." Written by NPR commentator and linguist, Hollis Gillespie, this book simply ROCKS.

A product of a bomb-making, chain-smoking mother and an unemployed traveling trailer salesman father, it's clear that her sharp witted sarcasm and warped humor to say the least, has been her saving grace, molding her into the entertaining survivor she has become and paving her way to pure literary genius. Her writing style is RAW, occasionally deep, and often pee-in-your-pants funny, literally.

A few nights ago, reading a chapter entitled, "Killer Turkey," to paraphrase a favorite line from Hollis, 'I laughed so hard, I thought I would cough up a shoe!' Only I wasn't wearing any, thank goodness.

I don't generally chose books; they have a tendency to chose me, which is why I have to pace myself on visits to local book sellers. This title all but leapt into my arms and was laughter well spent.

A taste from her website:

Travel Essays

Letting Go in Vegas The Long Goodbye The Imposter Lost Things My Portable Prison It's All About Safety

Changing Values The Complete Plebeian's Guide to Barcelona Over the Counter Culture I Don't Swallow The Fall of the Wall

---

"Perhaps I know why it is man alone who laughs: He alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter."
--Friedrich Nietzsche

Bait, BBQ, & Karyoke

One of the most interesting and curious "charms" of small town atmosphere is the names of local businesses. There are others of course (charms that is) but generally, it is the ingenious marketing strategies, names and such, of these small town entrepreneurships that hurl me into fits of laughter.

Take New Bern for example, a lovely historic waterfront town, where the Crowe and Dodge Law Firms are strategically located just across the street from Big Daddy Wesley's Grocery and Bail Bonds (you can get yer bait there too); a real one stop shop if you ask me!

This past weekend, while dredging the off season North Carolina coastline marrying people, I became so engrossed in my own amusement that I began keeping a list... I saw Carla's Hair Design, Jack's Seafood, Skip's Tire Center, and Brad's Grill. We also passed Chris's Collision Center, Jaws Reef, Randy's Meat Center and Bart's BBQ (apparently a 2 in one establishment), Victoria's Restaurant, and Granny's Antique and Flea Market. My personal favorite was Big Nell's Pit Stop, apparently the real hot spot for local cuisine judging by the makeshift impound yard which served as a parking lot. --And those where just the ones I thought to write down, you know, for memories.

It should be noted that nearly every single food establishment also sold bait, as did the gas stations, for the record.

I mentioned other "charms." Another "ambiance" of the more rural civilizations is the fact that if you're hungry after 9 o'clock, you're pretty much shit out of luck unless you're hankering for beer and pretzels at some karyoke bar, which, just hours before was serving shrimp and scallops by candlelight on the waterfront.

Ironically, the dead of convenient corporate entities is one of the things I adored most about living in a little farm village in Northern Bavaria. Just one of the things. But let's face it, Brunswick County is a far, far cry from meine liebe Deutschland, especially when I'm starving for seafood at 10 o'clock at night after marrying my friends on a beach.

---

"Anthropology provides a scientific basis for dealing with the crucial dilemma of the world today: how can peoples of different appearance, mutually unintelligible languages, and dissimilar ways of life get along peaceably together?"
--Clyde Kluckhohn

I Will, I Do

"Good morning, did you have a good weekend?"

"Actually, it was wonderfully, insanely beautiful." I said with a smile.

"Really? What did you do?"

"Oh, nothing much... just took a drive to ocean to hang out with a bunch of cyber strangers who flew in from around the world and married my friends on the beach while my daughter chewed on the hem of my dress."

Blank stare...

But that's pretty much the way it went!

Late Friday night, I'm still packing and finishing up the fresh-water pearl jewelry I had committed myself to make for the bride as a wedding gift, when the phone rang. It was the groom, "We wanted to know if you'd do us a favor?" he said...

It seemed that the preacher couldn't make it. Everyone else was there - from Tennessee, from Montana, from South Carolina, from North Carolina, from the United Kingdom, and from other random locations I don't recall... long time friends and cyber family. But no preacher. "You want me to do WHAT? Have you lost your damn minds?"

"Well everyone is here and we don't have the paperwork; we'll have to do the legal stuff later... But it would really mean a lot to us, if you would perform the wedding..."

I laugh hysterically at the mere thought, the absurdity of it all. "Okay, Sure. You know I can't say no to you," I tell them.

I walk out to the patio where Kevo sits engrossed in a book written by a recovering crack addict in rehab, smoking away at one of his massively big, stinky cigars. I am still laughing. "Are you finished packing yet?" he asks for the sake of hearing himself ask, knowing full well I hadn't.

"You're never gonna believe this..." I say to him...

Saturday morning, we wake prematurely at 0600 on 5 hours of sleep in an effort to leave by seven. We finally hit the road by 9. Exhausted and recovering from my second attack of strep throat in 2 months, Kev had no mercy for me, refusing to let me sleep. So we listened to various talk radio stations along the way, losing reception at each instance that the dialogue became slightly engaging. Inevitably the conversation between us turned to politics - an ugly and infuriating subject to have with a lawyer from Texas, especially if you happen to be a culturally endearing bleeding-heart, live-and-let-live type. And as always, we concluded with huffed silence and feelings of alienation, which lasted until we reached near to our destination when we were forced to rejoin forces in an effort to figure out where the hell we were going.

Upon arrival, I immediately recognized the Brits, who were unsure who exactly I was until I introduced myself by my online pseudonym, then the hugs commenced. Then there was this one and that one with images of avatars popping into my minds eye. It was strangely exciting "meeting" so many people I had carried on exchanges with for so long from across a computer screen... and here we all were, like old school friends reunited.

The nonchalant disorganization became quickly apparent as the keeper of the house announced at intervals, the bridge schedule to cross to the island. "Okay, we can leave in 15 minutes or in an hour," and hour after hour passed while girls made floral arrangements and put on make up, guys munched on chips and salsa, my daughter made many near successful attempts at boyfriend snatching, and everyone just kind-of caught up on real life. The eluded time table drove the lawyer to the brink of a nervous breakdown, which he cleverly disguised in whispered sarcasm every time I passed by. I mused quietly and kissed him on the head.

To add insult to injury, the two sons of one of the bridesmaids were watching a football game, Iowa State and somebody... not the one, however, that Kevo was interested in. He slyly asked the elder 10 year old, "You like football? You know Notre Dame is playing on the other chanel... You DON'T know who NOTRE DAME is?... The winningest team in the history of football?... Never heard of them?..." Nope. They'd never heard of Notre Dame. They wanted to watch Iowa and the other team. Being the mature adult, he politely retreats, sulking and mubbling something about improper parenting, returning to the porch swing to sulk amid the smog of second hand smoke.

At long last, flowers were made, cake set, hair was done up, dresses on, jewelry adorned, and photos and photos and photos before we finally caravaned toward Sunset Beach.

It was a beautiful day. The weather was perfect. The mix of laughter and forged life-long friendships permeated the atmosphere and we all, perfectly strange strangers stood barefoot in the sands, humbled at the couple who had all brought us to the moment that we shared. --A woman from Europe and a man from the foothills of North Carolina who had found the magic missing from their lives from across oceans, from across computer screens... And here we were wishing them the happily ever after they so deserved. For what they found in one another transcends everything physical. They had set lose from their souls, the homing pigeons who found themselves in the purest sense. And that is why, I could not say "no."

I stood before them all on the beach, speechless. While I am an excellent writer, I am to public speaking what a debutante is to backyard auto mechanics. It was painful but I managed. --I said something about how we were all joined by the love for these two people, to witness what they had defied the world in finding... I said something about how they had chosen one another as their mates, their other half and asked what they, before us all, could promise the other... Then the waterworks came... from the groom, from the bride, from the bridesmaids and groomsmen... from me. With his arms around the woman he loved, he looked into her eyes and said, "I promise you everything I can give you and all that I am." I didn't hear what she said for at this point they clung to one another in a teary embrace... It didn't really matter. It was all for them. I went on, adding in the love, honor, and cherish bit - I had hoped the lawyer would intervene with his dramatic courtroom performance ability, but he only whispered in my ear, "you forgot 'obey'" before I elbowed him in the stomach. All the while, my beautiful angel sat at my bare sandy feet and gnawed the hem of my red dress. --We all pronounced them husband and wife. Oh, and then the rings! Oops. "Yeah, you know what to do with them." ...The ceremony ended... in a group hug and I couldn't think of anything more perfect. =)

It would have been a clear and utter nightmare for any 'Bridezilla,' the entire day actually, but the ridiculous chaos only added to the bohemian charm. And for these two, for this group; it was a perfectly wonderful day.

Afterward, I thought of the perfect opening that I wish I had had at that moment... The description of a native american wedding ceremony before whitey landed upon the shores of the Brave New World - two people who come together before their elders and announce their wishes and upon the approval of all witnesses, they leave together to begin their new life, disappearing into the vast wilderness to forge their union before God and the natural world. Just as these two did on that day... Well, sort-of.

More photos and photos and quick dips in the sea, then the caravan journeyed back to the ancient, post Hurricane Hazel beach house where we all gorged ourselves on wedding cake.

Kevo mentioned a rumor of honeymoon tattoos; I was in mid-eyeroll when one of the bridesmaids asked if everyone was ready to go. He wasn't kidding. I broke down in hysterics again unable to contain my laughter. I mean really, what better ending to a day like this I thought to myself? Kevo, sweetness that he is, offered to stay with my daughter and watch the remainder of the football game, which is what he wanted desperately to do anyway. I took his Jeep and drove with the Brits, who were thrilled to ride in a 'real american SUV'... and off we sailed into the sunset, toward the ink shop to commemorate the union of insanity and friendship.

---

"The supreme happiness in life is the conviction that we are loved -- loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves."
--Victor Hugo

Pen Snob

I used to write a lot. Pages and pages and pages. I used to write in spiral notebooks, filling dozens of them, long before technology snuck into my life and grabbed me by the throat, dragging me, kicking and screaming, through the doorway of word processing and the world wide web... Eventually, completely against my nature, I stopped resisting and even conformed ...and flourished, spreading wings and adding graphic design and web development to my bag of tricks. I've become such a slave to technology that I can barely sign my own name legibly. But I can blow the motor in an electric typewriter pecking at warp speed! Yet, I still carry a blank book with me most everywhere that I go; a blank book and a fine roller ball pen. Yes, I am a pen snob to the umteenth degree, squared.

It's actually pathetic - my writing utensil collection. On my desk, both at home and office, I have jars, coffee cans, bier steins, and mugs, full of pens. Then of course, I keep the really good ones locked in my desk while ordering the cheap disposable crap for everyone else in the office. I have so many pens that they generally expire long before any one of them is ever used up. It's an addiction I'm sure, as I've also been known to unconsciously steal them as well, signing checks in restaurants and such, just as any other addict might thieve for survival. They justify the act as a lesser evil for the sake of self preservation, their need is greater - just as my mind has already resolved that I must write; I need to write. --Funny, I go through sunglasses quicker than toilet paper, but I rarely, if ever, lose a pen, especially if it was mine to begin with.

My love for writing began young, as an innate desire, no better, a need to expel. Like how, in ancient years it just made sense to someone to drill holes in people's migraine heads to let lose the demons inside. Thus I write. To let lose my inner demons, thereby saving the innocent lives of unsuspecting annoying people.

The art of 'word-smithing' is no simple matter. Words must be deliberate and flow like a melody, or at least a melodrama, and punctuation, must be very precise, even when utilizing creative license. It can be a painful process when one is wordless. Mental constipation of the creative kind. I'm pretty sure people can die from that; heads exploding, spontaneous human combustion... I have learned to alleviate the pressure by writing warped nonsensical rhymes and vulgar free-word associations. It works.

I have hoards of compilations from the past 2 decades - literally thousands of works of poetry, short-stories, journals, 'interludes,' and 'pieces'... I even have a designated folder entitled "Unfinished," fuller than it ought to be. Occasionally I share, though there are few, and those few have become great fans... "How are you? Have you written anything lately?" they'll ask, thirstily. It's a question far above idle chit chat. It is a sincere invitation, because they most certainly know that such a query may mean having to critique yet another twisted tale, spiritual insight, obscene poem or a combination thereof. I always smile inside, then I miss writing as a mistress misses her lover and sigh, "No, not lately." I've often been asked, by those who have read me, why in 20 years, I have never bothered to publish anything? (I have been published actually [an early childhood journal], just nothing of literary genius.) It's not that easy I say. I don't have the time. Blah blah blah... I have even had an offer from a fellow kindred spirit to publish a collection of my choosing for me. I was honored. However, that means I'd actually have to chose them first, excuses, excuses.

The truth is, I write for me and I am my own worst critic.

Yes, I adore provoking thought in others. I relish the glazed over distant imagery I see in eyes when I read. (Poe said poetry was best read aloud.) And I love the astonishment in voices asking, "You wrote that?" Above all else, I delight in slyly slipping my whispering hand beneath the breastbone of another and gently creeping my fingertips around their soul until it nests securely in my palm, squeezing, squeezing through the climax and pain, until I see it too in their eyes... and I know, I have taken my audience, for a moment, into a place they have never before seen, a place they would have otherwise never dared to venture...

But the truth is, I am my own worst critic.

---

A poem begins with a lump in the throat, a home-sickness or a love-sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where the emotion has found its thought and the thought has found the words."
--Robert Frost

"A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If we do not cherish him, he spreads his wings and flies back into his homeland."
--Kahlil Gibran, "The Poet of Baalbek"

Dr. Claus, the Shrink

I can barely move today. The world sits upon me like a big beefy rock and all I want to do is lay underneath it and allow the paralysis to soak in.

Kevo says I'm depressed. I tell him I'm not sane. "I know that," he says, "but you're still depressed." He tells me everything is going to be alright and asks me when I'm going back to see the shrink?...

Something about that small, simple phrase, "everything will be alright" feels like a warm sip of cocoa on a bitter Winter's morn; even if you don't really buy it, even if it's only temporary, it still feels good. Like a weaker form of human magic that mysteriously works, against all odds.

Feeling I have been on the verge of a long over-due nervous breakdown for sometime, I - now newly insured - begrudgingly elected to seek out a mental health professional who's job it would be to listed to me bitch and cry and rant and rave about all the really screwed-up, sinister things I've kept carefully packed away in secret corners of pill bottles for so many years; a well-seasoned professional who has been around the block a few times and has, no doubt, heard much worse than anything that could come out of my mouth, so much so, that they, in their labyrinth of wisdom, understand that nothing in life is simple black and white, but many, many shades of gray.

So... I found this Guy, because I tend to "jive" best with those of the 'male persuasion,' --an older guy, fantastic credentials and nearly 4 decades of practice experience dealing with crazy people. I figured either he's either some kind of Buddhist saint or a real sato masochist, but he takes my insurance and is located near my office. (I resent having to play the whole managed care horseshit game, but there it is and damn glad to have it as opposed to the alternative.) In increasingly postal spirits, I made an appointment, mapped driving directions, and spent the following weeks in dread and anxietal anticipation. By appointment day, I had already well made up my mind that I would not like this man. He gave me more reason to not like him by not giving me proper directions as I ended up at a residential address and not his office. So I was late, not that this would surprise anyone who knows me, however, lost tardiness only added to my pessimism and guarded mind-set. He was standing outside waving to me as I drove past the building for the second time.

My shrink looks like a tall Santa Claus with a summer beard. He has a kind face and that calm monotone air with which shrinks are always depicted on TV. --Funny how such a general characteristic considered to be a good communication trait is immediately transferred into a stereotype when coupled with such a profession. Take the same "calm monotone air" and apply to another profession, like that of an attorney, and one can easily make the assumption that this trait is evidence that the lawyer is calculating and manipulative, using the poker-face to hide behind an agenda. I actually strive to consciously not subscribe to stereotypes and immensely dislike those who do. Interesting how the mind works... Hence the field of psychology!

So I go in, am shown to the tiny sitting-room office and then we do the chair dance figuring out who sits where. It's clean, it's cozy; there are shelves across the windows with different colored small jars and bottles. It's a sunny day and they look pretty. 'A neat idea for a kitchen sink window' I think to myself... We're both just sitting and starring at one another now. Finally I fold my hands in my lap and say to Dr. Claus, "So tell me about yourself." He looks a bit puzzled at this role reversal but humors me with a brief career bio, arms folded ironically across his chest in position of subconscious defense. I continue to interview my shrink - asking why he chose the profession, did he have children of his own, and lastly, his position on Intelligent Design in schools... I tried in vain to find something wrong with this man, something I didn't like, but he continually foiled my plan. He even laughed when I told him about the Kansas School Board case and the Flying Spaghetti Monster. By the end of what was left of the hour, he had won me over... I mean, after all, a man who looks like Santa, isn't intimidated by little ole me, and can laugh about the FSM can't be all bad.

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"We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe."
--Johann von Goethe

Snoring Bastard

You fucking snore. I hate that. You snore like some raggedy ass moped with a big black hole in the exhaust system. You sound like you're desperately trying to snort up all the oxygen in the room, suck the mucus down your esophagus, and drive me fucking insane!... You ran me out of my own bed. You know I have back trouble and you force me to go to my own couch at 6 in the morning - on a Saturday. Thanks. But you know what? I could still hear your snoring ass through the fucking vibrating walls. What's even more annoying is how you seem to be on some synchronized time lapse with your obnoxious snoring so that it correlates with my body's desperate attempts to sleep - meaning that each fucking time my body does the exhaustion override thing on my senses to knock my ass out, you, without fail, will chime in with one of your hideous nasally rumbles and wake me up again. Why not just throw a bucket of ice water on me and get it over with? I mean really, how many times do I have to nudge you, push you, shove you, kick you and yell??? It can't be a pleasant night's rest for you either. And then, so as not to continue disturbing you, least you be suffocated by a feather pillow, I get MY ass up and leave MY bedroom so you can continue your personal nose symphony in peace. I honestly don't know how the fuck you can sleep throughout that racket either, unless maybe your poor brain just overdoses on all the air you're hoarding, rendering you unconcious. But frankly, just so you know, depriving me of my precious sleep in such a cruel, torturous manner only makes me evil... Understand? EVIL. ...Especially when the child of mine wakes up at daybreak bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to go, and I know that there is no making up lost sleep... It is gone forever. Nope, not even a wink and a nod for another 14 hours... I need my sleep! Don't you get it? I'm a single parent for Christ's sake! You get to go home, lay on your ass and watch football all day. Woot. (I hope Notre Dame loses.) I get to rip my hair out by the roots, cook, clean, and sort books and videos a few hundred thousand times. So no, it's not that I'm moody sweetheart... I'm FUCKING TIRED. Which equates, under the circumstances, to: evil. So you'll please forgive me honey, with my aching back and eyelids taped open with duct tape, when I'm a tad short with you later and you happen to find a turd in your coffee.

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"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep."
--Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Fall, Fall, Falling

So, I woke up this morning, against my will I might add, and entered into yet another cold dreary day... the perfect day to start with a mocha cappuccino, but alas, I had resolved to resume my fast despite my present state of mind and my mouth waters, even now, to think of that hot java ecstasy. [*sigh*]

This is my most favorite time of year... Fall... followed by winter... then spring. I absolutely despise, detest, and loath the summer in this God-forsaken mosquito-infested broiling steambath. Summer in other places I can deal with, like anywhere whose weather doesn't require a constant Freon flow and monthly electric bills are below 200 bucks. Like the northern states, like Canada, like most of Europe; hell, like Antartica. I genuinely do not understand people who move to this hell hole for the glorious humidity, and somehow the Triangle has managed to get itself voted among the top 10 places to live & work in the u.s. for many a year. It's like walking around in a sheet of Saran Wrap for 4 relentless months. I don't get it; I'll be happy to do a permanent housing swap... Even throw in my mortgage as a bonus!

Back to fall... It feels like Germany and I miss it so that I ache. [*fades...*]

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"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to be free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
--Emma Lazarus, Excerpted from a poem by Emma Lazarus, 1883, inscribed on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty.

---

Oh the irony...

Ashtray Juice

Funny, I still use the same password for certain web things as was assigned to me randomly 4 years ago by some online dating site I can't even remember the name of now. Yes, that was the one that brought Dave and I together... the fucker who shagged his aunt, yes that's right, and while living in my house I might add. Ahh the memories.

Sitting here in near silence, save the purr of the CPU, wanting a cigarette so bad that I'm almost willing to drag my daughter out of bed to go to the store. --I said almost; I'm not quite that selfish. Actually, the irony is, I hate smoking. I grew up in the backwoods armpit of the piedmont, Johnston County. It's come a long way since I was 14 years old and saving my lunch money to buy bootleg whiskey on Friday nights... and well, that's when I first began smoking -- something to do to pass the time waiting to get drunk. Anyhoo... Never been one to keep a pack on hand, usually just comes with the mood, and I'd rather throw up than smoke a cigarette first thing in the morning. Generally, I hate cigarettes. Hate the smell, the taste, hate the way the stench permeates everything and leaves the world smelling like an ashtray. Like the way my mother smells, has always smelled. I remember as a small child how she used to do the 'thumb-lick-rub' mother thing to my face and I remember thinking that my mother had just smeared ashtray-juice on my face. Disgusting. I generally don't date men who smoke either. Maybe that makes me a bit of a hypocrite, but well, aren't we all to a degree? To add to the further irony, I still consider myself a 'non-smoker'. "It's kinda like my peace-pipe," I say, "helps me think when I write." And well, I have conditioned myself so that when I do sit to expel as such, I instinctively want a smoke, kinda like "When you give a mouse a cookie"...

Ahh yes, which reminds me, I hate cigars and football too.

I'm in a rather foul and distant place tonight. Antisocial. Very antisocial. The kind-of mood that would make me hide behind a display of Krispy Kreme donuts if I happen across someone in the grocery that I know well and should want to say hello to... and most especially, God forbid it be someone I haven't seen in 5-10 years. There's just no way to catch someone up on all my shit... much less expect any reaction other than a deer-in-headlights-wtf-is-she-talking-about look with an occational chuckle when I toss in some twisted humor at my own expense, you know, to keep the trauma "light." Pfft... And I hate small talk too. Nope, "You'll just have to wait 'til the movie comes out" I say.

Ohh, so negative tonite aren't I? Okay, good karma and stuff... Good things about my day: 1) I made my daughter giggle by blowing raspberries on her tummy, 2) I made it thru yet another day without being pulled over for an expired inspection sticker, and 3) I have not yet fallen victim to the world's apparent epidemic of natural disasters. Yay! [*knocking on wood...*]

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"Good can imagine the possiblity of being evil..."
--W.H.Auden