Temps Perdu

Ugh, I have no idea why all of this is coming up right now. I’m very confused by it. I hope you can bear with me.

 I’m not sure how to be a woman, without being married to you. I guess I will have to be a very sharp and kind of lonely person. I’m very responsible now, and much more sensible. How will you be man? Do you want to be with this person when you are old? Would you like to see me with someone when I am old? How would that be.

 I’m sorry, it just doesn’t make sense to me. I need to talk to you sometime soon, on the phone. I have no desire to upset your life. Or mine. I don’t want to be upset. I want to figure out how to process this once and for all. We have never been allowed to truly be together, no matter what we try. Why is that? What should I do with these feelings? I want to do what is right and have common sense. But I also don’t want to pretend like they are not there.

 I want to hear your voice, so that I can be embarrassed by myself, or hear your inflection, or understand this.

 Because now, when I am at work at night, and I look out the big windows into the city, it looks like it could be anywhere. It looks like it could be the city where you live. It makes me feel… like I am 4 years old. Like I am 44. Like we are in some past existence where we were married in some Eastern European church. I don’t understand how all of this happened, but it feels like I could walk right out into the night and to a house where you are.

 How can I not have seen you for 2 years? We always do this, 2 years on, 2 years off. Maybe it will be much more than two years this time. Maybe always. I don’t understand it.

 Everything else makes sense to me now, I belong, I understand. But not this. I keep thinking I will wake up, and everything will be fine.

 All I can think is that something which has been this painful, and beautiful, for so long must turn me into steel. I don’t look at other men, I’m almost a nun. I am a nice person, I help people. But I don’t truly like any of them. Is this what adulthood is going to be? Can you imagine me with another man? Who would I like? Can you tell me who they are so I can just get on with it?

 Just bear with me. This is very painful. But no one is the same as they were before. I am a lot stronger now than I was then. I will figure this out. I’m sorry to send you all of this. But who else knows? Really knows. Who else would understand.

 If only we had just sat down to a couple of pork chops and some mashed potatoes. If only there was laundry in the washing machine. If only there was a ring around the bathtub, and music playing.

Still doing it.

I’ve been uncharacteristically proactive lately, and I can’t help but wonder if I can keep it up. I have this strange feeling that I understand something that I didn’t understand before. It cuts across everything I do. Like there’s an “old way”, and a “new way”, and I can’t explain how, but I’m doing things the new way. Things seem to roll off my back a little more. I try to have confidence in the fact that God gave me at least a modicum of usable intelligence, and just go for it. I’ve been doing a lot of things I wouldn’t normally be comfortable doing, and stopped doing a lot of things I was too comfortable doing.

I have a lot of work ahead of me and am consciously trying to line up projects that bind together many things I care about at once. I’ve never been a big technophile so it surprises me that the internet has been very helpful in this endeavor. So… a lot of writing and artmaking projects on my plate, and a calendar to keep track of them. A written calendar, and as deadlines approach I just peck away at things, like a knitter or whittler would, until they’re done. Much different than my usual aproach of ignoring or procrastinating.

I’m making more art, that I care a little less about. Not careless, just not expecting every piece to be the be-all-and-end-all. Just doing it to keep it going. It works better. I learn faster.

Lots of writing. Here, and all over the place. Really giving it my all. Setting up constraints and deadlines for myself. Because these things are what I truly own. No one can take them, and they’re mine to use. I don’t have much else other than my brain. Decent health, a healthy kid.

My kid, everything is so much easier with her the “new way”. I just make sure to make her know that she is loved and supported, I fill that up all the time. Then when I need to differ with her, I do it out of respect. I still get pissed when I’m tired, but at this point I can explain. And she mostly understands.

I may lose something very dear to me soon. I can feel it; I am trying to approach it and take a stance of readiness. I can’t guarantee it will happen; but if it does, it is going to hurt. A lot. There will be no stopping it. It will ruin me for a while. But not permanently. I’m not cursed. This new way recognizes that there is too much important work to be done for me to linger around that too long. I am going to try to face it, and to really feel it. To really let it happen. Maybe it will make something unexpected occur.

Tomorrow I have a lot of work to do, a lot of making my own value. I have always had ideas, but have been too concerned with what other people think right out of the gate. I am learning to have patience and stick to ideas that I think are good, and work people into them. It is really a surprising business. Very pleasant.

What’s become apparent is that I have to be vigilant who I socialize with. I just don’t have time for people that make me feel like shit about myself. And that includes a few surprises; some people I thought were very dear friends just don’t do it for me anymore. I want to walk away from conversations invigorated and re-invested in my life, not mysteriously flagged. Weird head trips just don’t work for me. I’d like to see myself as a good person doing the best that I can, and I think I deserve to feel that way because I work at it 24/7. If you’ve got something else going on, that’s not my problem. Have a nice day.

What I want is for this to translate into about three months’ worth of living expenses saved up for whatever finacial calamities may ensue in the future, some decent clothes on my back (not necessarily expensive, but decent), and a decent roof over our head. I’d love to have a real relationship someday. A real one. I have been purposefully making myself look like a man lately, to keep men away. I just need to work hard right now. Someday I’ll get distracted again by the amusement of sharing my tiny waist or long, soft hair. For now, I just want to forge ahead. I am thinking of being Joan of Arc for Halloween this year. Or maybe all year, if I can get away with it.

My husband.

Never, not once did he say it was all right. That he understood. That he still loved me anyway. Never, not once. But still, I think of it as my fault. My fault that I broke a time-earned rarity, that I can never go back, that we are almost like dead to each other.

My husband. Not once have I thought of him as anything other since the day we were married. I can’t change what’s happened, and I can’t extricate myself.

We don’t speak anymore. I have the divorce papers, I think they’ve expired, unsigned by me. I can’t do it. In my mind I am still dancing at the wedding reception we never had, still looking forward to many years of baked chickens and Duke Ellington on the stereo.

He lives in New York City and as such that place has taken on an unimaginably rich glamour for me. On top of the memories we already have there, I add more daily, of all the things we would have done since then. All the things, all the places, the museums. Arguments. There were a lot of arguments. We were a spirited pair.

All the years since when I have lived in crushing poverty, while I’m sure he’s been socking money away in the bank. Who knows. Maybe he’s lonely. I doubt it. He’s a one-person person, and likes to settle down.

Was I wrong? How do you pick who you pick? And can you ever, ever, please God ever unpick them?

Why did he do it. Why did he move away. Why did it have to be this way. This love is still alive and hanging around, and it’s killing me.

Welcome to Winter #12 in Columbus Ohio

“I can’t stand being away from Cleveland too long, it’s just like, goddamn, doesn’t anyone else in any other part of the country feel like standing up out of their chair every once in a while and saying: ‘Goddamnit, you motherfucking cocksuckers’ ?”

Holy crap, what is it about this time of year?? Winters here are designed to kill things and put things to sleep. Well it has almost got me again. I fucking hate this time of year. In Columbus. Because this time of year, somehow, always ends up being the time when I am broke-ass poor, and there is nothing that can be done out of doors without spending money.

Broke ass poor, month upon month, until buying a new kind of beans is an exciting experience. Never fails, right after New Year’s… total shit, every year.

I am trying to keep myself busy this year and stuff that in my complain-hole, but dammit, it is not working.

For instance, I am trying to start a new writing project that could end up being a lot of work. I’ve already put about 10 hours of work into it. I’ve gotten the go-ahead from several people, but now none of the people I want to interview are getting back to me. Considering I am doing this for free, for a non-profit organization, it is kind of making me feel like shit.

I painstakingly crafted thank-you cards for everyone I saw at Christmas, but now have no money for stamps.

I’ve made two new painting series and although I like certain things about them, I kind of want to just burn them.

I’ve been wanting to get out of my house and fucking hang out with someone for days now, but despite my frequent requests, no takers. This is the inverse of what usually happens: there are 45 things to go to any day but I’m working or too tired to go.

I wrote a letter to Wendell Berry and it’s not good enough. God I wrote it 4 or 5 times and it’s still awful. But I’m sending it anyway.

I have no idea what’s going on with my job, and I don’t think anyone else does either. I just sort of show up and try to do things. That scares the shit out of me because it doesn’t seem like my position is paying for itself.

We are broke as hell. My roommate’s place of work is so close to closing that his last two paychecks have been held… because there’s no money to pay him with.

I live with my daughter’s father, in a tiny one-bedroom apartment, even though we are not together. Everything in the apartment is breaking, but he won’t call the landlord. I’m not on the lease, so I don’t think I should call the landlord.

I haven’t actually hung out with my sister in about a month, and honestly, I don’t want to. Whatever the fuck happened at our last job together, was unbearable and I’d rather just put it behind me.

The guy I was dating just moved back into his parents’ basement and is generally being kind of an asshole about it.

All of my clothes are rags and are falling apart.

I need to see a dentist, eye doctor and gynecologist. Like 4 years ago.

Every time I leave the house, it’s a full snow suit. I walk my kid to school, and walk to work. I don’t own boots so my shoes are wet all day, every day. I pack my lunch in mason jars.

So… if you can afford to go out and drink colored martinis all night long with your “gal pals” at Spice Bar, why don’t you go take a flying fuck? Thank you.

Who are you people?

Every so often I check the stats on this page and, lo and behold, there are a shit ton of people reading this. Who are you?

Or does that break some kind of magical surface tension??

Write me a comment and let me know who you are and what you do with yourself. If you don’t want it published, just tell me and I’ll erase it.

Work Plus

Lately I have realized that work, really hard focused work, toward something I care about really makes me feel like a human being. I’ve known it for quite some time but only recently have I become truly addicted. I’ve been cooking like a madwoman because I am trying to really tighten the bolts on our budget around here, and it’s always a boon. I just don’t have time to feel crappy if I keep busy. And at least I know I’m being useful. It’s a special kind of “you can’t fuck with me” feeling that I really like.

My biggest cause is my daughter. Lately I’ve been able to talk with her more like an adult, reason with her. Swear around her (I’m from Cleveland– we swear a lot I think). I can talk things over with her, we can hang out and just enjoy each other. I can help her learn how to do for herself instead of always feeling like I am carrying her over my shoulder over a mountain pass using main force. I can try to develop in her an appreciation for this attitude of service– of making more without buying more. Making extra, saving extra. Giving for free. She is starting to understand that it can be up to her.

My second main task in this life is to support a nature preserve I care very much about. I’ve had the opportunity to live on it in the past, live on the actual preserve itself, and have become very acquainted with every rock, building, person, plant and some animals. I have been taught a great deal of Ohio’s native flaura and fauna. As we as a nation deal with the undoing of our economy, and strive toward more community awareness and service, I have become aware of the importance of actual pieces of real land in the organization of one’s life and energies. A piece of land can be home, can be loved, can love you back. A piece of land is the basis of any true community. A piece of land is a tangible place where the duties of a body can be enacted, where familiarity breeds protectiveness, where responsibility begets plenty. I have a lifelong commitment to this piece of land because I have SEEN it. It, like the Velveteen Rabbit, is REAL to me. It is alive. I know it well. It is a friend, confidant and provider. A family member. Never to be abandoned or forsaken. I must always take its side.

This is such a very glad feeling, and one which I struggle with. When  I moved out to the preserve I immediately became aware of a new feeling growing in me, one which I wonder if any big-city environmentalists can understand. The power, the beauty, the intense down-to-your-toes satisfaction of doing real work that directly affects the land around you. When I donate my time to this cause, the preserve is so stingy with its staff that literally every ion of energy I expend turns directly into more trees, more plants, more animals. More beauty. No middleman. It is real, it is tangible. More land that can serve as an eternal, unexhaustible textbook from which to learn of the natural intelligences of Ohio, and by extension the Eastern Deciduous Forest.

The feeling which welled up in me was not smugness, nor self-satisfaction, but a much happier cousin: plain old satisfaction. The ability to go to sleep at night dog-tired, and completely satisfied. I had done my part each day. What rest I had was total, blissful, unblemished by worry. I knew I had done right as surely as if a cherished grandparent had told me so. This, I have decided, is what I would like my life to feel like.

I have come to terms that there may be a selfish undercurrent to my service– that my natural opinion of myself, through genetics as well as my family structure– is so low, that I may need something always to fill that hole. Something to convince me that I am not the worst person ever born. But I don’t care– if I can be of use, then I can make my peace with my faulty basis, and only hope that through many years of serving these causes I can, like leather, be softened and made more flexible with use.

Between A Cock and a Boring Place

Relationships! So, now that the mouth-breather who lives in his mother’s basement has left the building, who will it be next?

Will it be an Over-Earnest, Acoustic Guitar Lover, or the Debonair Sociopath?

One thing’s for sure, it will be one of them. It always is.

Help Me, Rhonda

I really hate romance. I’ve had just about enough. I’ve had some horribly romantic things happen to me, and I’m sick of it. You see the opposite of romance is feeling like shit, and the two always go hand in hand.

If only I could really, truly fall in love and accept love from someone who really loves me. Instead I will always be chasing the rainbow of some devil-may-care asshole. I wonder if this has only been by chance, or if there really is some horrible pattern at work here, a pattern for which I am responsible.

Whatever it is, I wish I could know what I’ll know at 60, but still be 30.

I’m very sad about it right now. I seem to have thrown a lot of good guys to the curb, and kept a lot of duds. Pretty spectacular duds, though. But duds nonetheless. I’ve really been fortunate enough, as a fairly strange and crabby individual, to have a lot of really nice people offer up their time and care to me, and really be unconditional with it. It’s always at that exact moment that I get the hell out of there. I don’t want to be in a club with me as a member. But let a guy be flippant, come on cold and then warm, etc. etc., I’m in. I can let a guy get by on joking around for quite sometime. And I don’t know why it is, but it’s always the pretty ones that get the extra rope. And then I never hang them with it. I mean, I guess eventually even I can recognize an unhealthy situation, but by that point, forget it. I’m in love and hopelessly fucked.

I’d say the worst case scenario as far as this goes is my husband, who I never even lived with. But I have been in love with that guy for twelve years. I have the divorce papers in hand, haven’t signed them for over three months. They have most definitely expired. I just can’t do it. It feels like I’m sinning. And I don’t throw that word around. It feels like if Picasso came back to Guernica a few years later and said, “Hey– you know, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea”. And then cut the thing off the stretchers. Signing those papers is loathsome to me, even though I know that relationship will never be. I still have dreams about every guy I’ve been hung up on. I think I must just live entirely in the past. It’s all a loose, overlapping wash of empty-headed allusions and memories, a little world I’ve concocted where everything has it’s place. Maybe I’m most disturbed when a person’s real existence doesn’t match where I’ve assorted them to go in this passion play. I don’t think that’s wise for me to react that way. It makes me wonder if I’m verging on paranoia.

My grandfather, who was a paranoid schizophrenic, developed a curious habit late in life of taking photographs of particular sequences of numbers. He was a pedophile, a veteran of serious war action in Korea, a politician, and an engineering genius. He admired house addresses in particular. I think of this often when I consider that I am trying to look for patterns in my life. Am I looking for patterns to root out– things to avoid? Or just contantly re-emphasizing my neuroses, tracing the same steps over and over?

As a young teenager, when feeling mixed up, I had a little ritual I would follow. I would start out early in the day and trace a particular route, from my home, south on Erie Street toward downtown Willoughby, then onward all the way to the High School. I would walk barefoot there and back. It had to be ten miles one way. I knew it would fuck up my feet and I knew I’d get a lot of strange looks, but I wanted this. I knew I would feel better when I got home, knew I had done penance for just being myself and that I could look anyone in the eye. I still feel that way about hard work. Volunteering. If I work hard enough I feel really good. I can forget myself. So I try to do a lot of it.

And lately, I’ve needed it. I find myself apologizing constantly to people, and having crippling social anxiety. It is so hard for me to even be in a room with friends. I know they don’t understand how I am behaving, and I think it is burdensome to them. I don’t understand how they are the same person every day, how they can be so cohesive. I can never decide anything. It’s just a constant storm of emotions and information, a constant barrage from all sides.

And just this sadness, that I have always had. At the end of the day, I look in the mirror, and what is there? Bad decisions, emptiness, sadness. An aching awareness of the passing of all that I find beautiful. A failure to thrive. A constant need. Whatever talents I have bucking themselves and turning into something incontrovertably backward. Years and years of failed starts, years and years of the phoenix rising from the ashes, and here I am again. I know it’s a joke. Where am I? Is there anyone in there?

High Low

There’s a knot. There’s a knot, and I pick away at it. It’s what I do when I write. Well, here’s a little something, I say. Something I can get around for a while, something I can fully elucidate if I just look at it long enough. It’s noticing. Like drawing. Like drawing something.

Well, my whole life’s a knot. You know when you’re twenty, twenty-one, you say to yourself, how do I get grizzled? The kids with their Marilyn Manson makeup and their rebellious stances. How to get beat. Well guess what? I’ve arrived. Everything is a perfect mess, and I’ve licked up one side of the street and down the other. I’ve been in every psychologists’s office, every nutty ward, hung around every street in the dark, kissed every man, had every baby I could and blown through every credit rating, college loan and bank account I could get my hands on. And it took me all of that to learn a damned thing or two. So: now that I’ve finally gotten as low as you can go, and it’d take me 20 years to climb out of this hole, let’s go and have a recession on top of that. Oh no, I couldn’t have had this epiphany during the dot com boom. I had to go and sow my wild oats with the rest of the bozos then. It needs to happen now, so I can start in with saving tin tv dinner containers, old bread wrappers and rubber bands. My cat means more to me than a cat should. I’ve got no room for error, and unfortunately I can’t stop making them. It’s a perfect hall of mirrors of errors, stretching back into infinity. A popcorn popper of errors. Merchant Ivory, Thomas Hardy couldn’t do a better job. I’ve sealed off all of the exits, there’s no room for this spirit in here, no oxygen, no space. No choices. It’s time to kiss the ring of the collection man.

And on top of it all, I refuse to see it. I refuse. I’m still myself. I love science, I love art, I’ll cry at something beautiful, I’m always reading a book to learn about something perfectly unsaleable. I’ll be the smartest, most well-read unemployed drifter ever known. I’d like to do so many things. I’d like to have a patron, many, and it means I’ll have to get off of my ass and start making things. Get into practice. I’d like to live for two months in the city of Cleveland and  make immaculate, reverent oil paintings of the sides of all of the old chipping buildings with their faded advertisements from before it was a dead city. Spend countless hours in the Palm Room of the Cleveland Art Museum (it’d better still be there, Vignoly– I know where you live, and I’ve separated your perennials)– just inhaling the smell of old things and some old lady’s Opium. I’d like to go to New York and paint and see everything. I’d like to have a farm and a family and paint all of that too. Why can’t I have been born rich, why do idiots get to spend million making garbage?

Nothing of beauty will last in this world, least of all my conception of it. I am a perfect fool in every way. I miss my erstwhile husband, I’d like to be an invisible old lady like Louise Nevelson or Agnes Martin, and repeat the same artwork ad nauseum in perfect grace until I die. Happily. Leave me alone, come back here.

Blue Christmas

You know what’s great? Walking to the worst job ever in 15 degree weather.

Can’t wait to get to work, to beg for hours working for a company I can no longer stand, for people I distrust and feel betrayed by. Can’t wait.

I am eating a giant bowl of oatmeal, and drinking hot tea, layering on the woolies and the ski suit and the scarves and gloves, two pairs of socks, and going there.

I am taking a little extra money that I can’t afford to spend, just in case I need to get drunk and write 10 pages of hate-filled diatribe after work.

I am getting a new job doing work that needs to be done, with people that need and want me to do it. You know, sane reality? Acceptance, appreciation, grace and respect? You know, human warmth and responsibility?

I can’t wait until I never have to set foot in that place again. I will completely ignore it for the rest of my life. “Oh, that?”, points at old workplace–”…that’s not even an area.”