October 2004 Archives

I'm sitting here at the time I was supposed to be heading off to my first day of proofreading the university paper. "But what about Dora?" my son implored. "It's our favorite show!" The paper isn't counting on me to show at 11am exactly, but boy have I been looking forward to this opportunity to serve as a copy editor. I decided to stay until "our favorite show" was over.

- - -

Copy editing is great. The students in the newspaper office, however, were unkind. They didn't introduce themselves, ask my name, or otherwise show interest in me, and they weren't encouraging when I tried to join in their conversation. They were all eating sandwiches and they had a lot of extras, which they actually discussed right in front of me. "What are we going to do with these extra sandwiches?" they asked as I eyed the food hungrily. Did they offer me one? Ha! So I sat and edited. Oh, the pleasure I derive from marking up a manuscript! My goal is to actually have my name in print, credited in the paper.

Oh man, I have so much more to say and I'm feeling utterly exhausted. Every night the past few nights I've been up very late, usually on the phone with MFB. But then, we talk *every* day. . .

Galena
meaning...
English: a dark, bluish gray, metallic lustered mineral
Russian: a new light, like dawn; calm, tranquil; God has redeemed; bright
Greek: healer; (galen) calm
Spanish/Gaelic: little bright one

Galena is the brother of Chester (named by Shay for reasons unknown). Yes, we've taken on two kittens who needed good homes. Two!

Bri called me yesterday with much excitement in her voice. "Mom! I called to tell you the good news!"

I was glad to hear it was simply that she got a cabbage patch doll and not some other kind of baby. I bet that's not the only time she greets me with these words.

I went to a poetry reading tonight with my friends. It is so nice to have friends to go places with, to have friends at places who call out your name and wave you over. This evening was spent at a cozy restaurant tucked away under the street, Le Sous Terre. Well-dressed folk and college students alike sat at cloth covered tables with wine bottle lamps, drinking real wine ordered from a wine list so long I at first thought I'd been handed a book. Warmly yet dimly lit we sat among wine racks and real wood, treated to decor, atmosphere, friendship, good wine, good poetry, and a live musical interlude. It was fancy, it was cozy, it was perfect.

It is so neat to attend a poetry reading and know that your opinions helped reshape most of the poems. A published author, a talented poet, and that person behind the mic? Yeah, I helped her write that stuff.

I went to my first bellydance lesson in a five week session with a lady named Jeluna. I just received notice of the class in the mail the very day it started, so this is very sudden. Classes are thirty miles from here and that's not good, but it's as close to home as I can find a teacher. I was afraid with this being an introduction to bellydance class that it'd be too easy for me, but I was pleasantly surprised to learn new things and get an incredible workout. I'm sore. And bellydancing in a setting with others is much different from doing it alone.

I've been writing poetry for class, reading poetry, discussing poetry, going to poetry readings...I really enjoy the exposure to literature and the intellectual stimulation.

Last night I went to the writers' club meeting and I really love doing that. Those people are intelligent, funny, and fun. They really like me, too, which somehow surprises me. Every time I go to a meeting (which is hanging out at one of their houses, usually with cookies, talking, laughing, and workshopping poetry) I leave feeling very happy and, again, very creatively and intellectually stimulated.

I don't know how to sew and I just bought five yards of fabric and a cheerleading pattern for my girls.

Go ahead and laugh. I'm torn between the realization that this is impossible and I've just wasted a lot of money (and future hours and hours of time and tears), and my determination. Oh no, you will not tell me that I can't sew a cheerleading costume! The girls want one and they will have one. I see it as a great learning experience. I've always wanted to learn to sew...

I just had a series of wake-up-screaming nightmares that has me sitting here at 3:45am avoiding sleep to avoid another. The dream before the last one had to do with TNG and Her, and while I don't remember how it ended as a nightmare I remember very clearly looking her in the eye and saying measuredly:

"My only consolation is that this pain I'm feeling now will one day be yours. One day, he WILL hurt you." Then I paused and added more quietly, "Sometimes I hope you get him first."

I am amazed at the content of my dreams.

"You should move on," a commenter says. Believe me I have. Understand that seeing it all come to final conclusion was difficult only for the great sentimentality I'm prone to. It was so final and so sad, to go through all these motions we've gone through before in such love and happiness, now with such different meaning. I can say with the foremost in honesty though that I am glad, and have been for some time, that he's gone. I am genuinely thankful.

"I know why you're crying, 'cause he left."
Nods. "You know he's not coming back, right?"
Nods.
"But maybe he'll come back for," holds up small finger, "one more day?"
One more day.
"He'll be back to get more of his stuff," I nod.
"Yeah... but maybe just one more day he'll spend time with us?"
I nod and excuse myself into my room.
One more day.

Just another day, I go on as if I don't feel the collapsing. Water pours forth from the tap and I join in. It's so hotly uncomfortable today I want a cool bath but the water is not hot enough. I sit smack in the middle of it with my cheek on my knee and I fill up the tub with drips and heaves. Empty, heaves, retching, wretched, coughs in between razor cuts that are accidental. Shave my legs so I can wear that cute skirt that no one is here to see me for, because the guy for whom I thought it worthwhile just walked out the door (I did lock the door behind him, didn't I?) and there is no one anymore to think I am pretty or worthwhile, there is no reason. Amidst my ragged breaths I shave but my eyes are always tiring, always closing and oozing and my breaths as haggard as one on their death bed. I lay back but my last is not coming, instead I baptize myself, come up new to wash with Pore Perfect. It exfoliates, it refines, it helps you breathe a little easier. It purges you of dirt, oil, and blackheads as it removes dead skin (but snot is pertinacious). My mascara promises not to run and indeed it only smudges. Wash these eyes with soap, red and irritated and swollen, dripping, I erradicate them in the towel tired of seeing I get dressed, I'm not naked anymore, only collapsing. On the floor, on the bed I put lotion on, rub it in that its difficult to feel cute or pretty coated with all this dripping. Who is whimpering? I am getting dressed, I am moving here sitting on my bed being left behind. Who is moving? Breathe, breathe, I keep coughing and I can't breathe these ragged breaths into my collapsed chest, eyes and lungs and legs and heart failing as I pull on a very cute pink skirt.

"Are you okay?"
I don't know how to answer that so I cover the betrayal with makeup and clothes and determination and I stand up.

The gray, the gray the shawl that chills as it descends over your head and drapes itself about your shoulders and won't be shaken off. Moist and chilly and damp entertwine with and almost becloud the light, but a candle is glowing in the corner. Look around, all your things in place. Wistful wind. Distant laughter of a boy who is thrilled beyond scooters and blocks to have the company of someone who meant so much to him. The exclamations of the two of them over the hum of video games. A hero, an idol? Maybe. An adult buddy admired and now gone, and why? Let's play video games together, while you're here. I'll show you a thing or two.

"Now you know I understand you're with me only in the past. Only in the past." --Only in the Past, The Be Good Tanyas