Quaritry? Poetry and Quarintine

So its day 50 or so of shelter in place and cleaning yeilded som nice results. Namely, I found an old notebook with poetry on it. Below is a rediscovered poems of mine that I slightly retools.

Untitled

Forgotten roadways taste, seven states out of home . Let’s stop here. He says. It looks nice. He says. rusted out, din down shack of a restaurant, with an “I” burnt out, but no cover charge for me. Women are always free. We don’t see many girls. (Off stage) I don’t smile. You here for the show or the food. I’m starving. Both. He says.
Plastic tits. Artificial, wanna-be twelve year old cats bounce out of time to the nineties grunge. Now, I understand Cobain. hashbrowns and pancakes please. And some clothes.
What would you suggest? Everything’s good here. (if you know what she means hint, hint). Toast, butter, two eggs, sunny-side up, honey. Isn’t this amazing? Yes, hope dreams of undercooked eggs.
Fog machine fire, dizzy neon burnt-out. Spinning. Tan-hidden cellulite, forming to the poles.
Burnt hole through head, his eyes caught a starring look.
I’m starving.
Aren’t you glad we got away from everything? It’s nice to have a chance to escape it all, if only for a while…do us well
Uh-huh. I think we should hit the Keys first, don’t you. I hear the sand there is beautiful. Did you hear me?
Hey you.
I look down (b-cup blues).

Back story of poem

During my senior into year year of college, I experienced my first serious relationship. One of those immediately connected, the world can never stop us, this is true love things. Of course after a year of and a half and a haphazard engagement, like many things that burn too brightly, it fizzled.

A co-worker of mine suggested a road trip down to the Keys. I left broken-hearted, hoping for a vacation from life, only to find myself stuck in a car for two weeks with a friend, who decided this trip was going to be the start of our epic romance…. it was not.

Quaratine: Is this madness

Every night I fall asleep later.

10

11

12

1

2

I procrastinate. I wait. I find at midnight that I’ve lost my jump drive, and even though everything is saved onto my laptop, I must clean the kitchen, then the bed room, the bathroom, anywhere until I find it.

As Monday bleed to Tuesday.

Or is it Friday.

Does it matter anymore?

heavy eyes give in. I lose

myself

in dreams.

Always the same dream.

Sometimes I’m 17, or 25 or 34.

Sometimes I don’t even know.

But there I am walking down the hallway. Step by Step.

junior –

no senior year.

A decison

already made

books burning in my hands.

I don’t know about what.

Maybe it’s just lunch.

My blood pumping drowns voice around me.

Thud-Thump

Thud-thump.

Maybe it matters.

My legs grow roots into the…

Maybe it–

Eyes opened

No,

it must be wednesday.

Laundry day is wednesday.

 

I believe Dr. Ford: Why women don’t come forward

I believe Dr. Ford. I believe her because I was her.

When I was 19 yeard old I was sexually assualted, in front of mutliple witnesses who relunctatly (and that part comes in to the story later) were willing to tell the truth.

This is important to the story because I was lucky. There were witnesses. Most cases are a a he said, she said.

This was two drunken boys who fucked up publicly over the course of a few hours and the question was now  how much word they be punished.

I was lucky in that my school reacted quickly. The boys had been acting out, nakedly entering young women’s apartments and refusing to leave. These women had reported it to campus security however, none of them would sign a sworn statement as they were too afraid of how the campus community would act.

I had pretty much made up my mind at that point to press charges, however hearing the stories sent my mind in stone.  I made my report to the police (campus and local).

In a matter of weeks, both boys lost their scholarships, were kicked out of the campus apartments, kicked out of school and permanetly banned.

And that’s when hell broke out.

It was March I believe when this happened though it was over ten years ago, and I don’t remember the exact date. (I do however still vividly remember the details of what occured). I understand how Dr. Ford forgot some facts but still remembers the incident. Trust me, most of us wish we could forget.

I first heard that I was ruining their lives! How could I? They were my friends and now because of what I did, they would lose their scholarships and get kicked out of school.

This was reiterated so much to me, that I started to believe it and question my own sanity.

Then came the death and rape threats. People would stop by my apartment to see if I was there and threaten to fight me, or show me what it was like to be raped. These were people I knew. People that until that week, I hung out with.  They were my friends.  And they wanted to harm me, over something I didn’t do. Over something that was a known fact.

Everyone there was my friend. It was a small campus apartment building about 60 people. The boys who assualted my friend and I were my friends, they were people I trusted. We hung out with them most weekends. I’d crashed at their place.

Girls, even ones who had expereienced the boys inappropriate behavior, barred me from their apartments. Even my best friend, who witnessed everything told me not to come to his apartment as his other roommates (one who was mad solely because he may have to come back to testify to what he say) were too pissed.

I had food thrown at me, as well as every name in the book.

Most nights I hide. That was when my classmates would start drinking and usually when the threats started up.  I hid in the laundry room with the local pot dealer. He was perphaps the only person hated on this campus more than me and was one of the few people who took my side. And it was a ridiculous friendship as I had never done a drug a day but at least I was safe.

I transfered out at the end of that year, but even when I came back to visit a friend, almost a year later I recieved the same treatment.

Sitting on a park bench, talking with Dan, a group of boys threw food out their thrid story window at me and yelled how I ruined the campus. I had ruined their fun.

I think sometimes how my life may have been different. I remember my mom saying that she didn’t know how hurt I was but she knew I was broken because after it all happened, I couldn’t take the silence. Woke up, head set in. Music blaring. Showering, music on. Sometime twenty four seven to keep the silence away. To keep me away from my thoughts.

I think of what I went through, when the facts weren’t disputed and wonder what hell it is like for women who aren’t as lucky as I was.

I believe Dr. Ford because I am her. So are you friends, your wives, your sisters and daughters.

 

 

My toddler’s full of sh*t

Literally.

We had our yearly wellness check for Coraline this morning. I like her doctor, as much as I can like doctors. I think once anyone has had a fairly major illness the negative feeling kinda linger. But I told my anxiety and hostility to suck it. After all, it’s a wellness check: boring but with a little luck, you aren’t stuck in the waiting room for more than 20 minutes and don’t have to see them for another year.

We struck gold in the waiting room. Call into the  patient’s roomo within five minutes! Then it was height/weight check: good, the is your child functioning normally questions: goodl  Does she watch too much tv/ipad: probably but hey we will fudge the numbers a bit to get by.

15 minutes later, the doctors telling up how good her heart and lungs are and I’m thanking my lucky stars until he checks her stomach.

There’s a lump, and after a quick well this could be nothing (constipation) , he immediately sends us to xrays.

Immediately.

I over course am having a mini panic attack. I’ve been around enough doctors offices to know its never a good sign when the immediately send you for anything. .  But as a parent you can’t just explode all over the floor so I bit my lip while…..

my Doctor Google brain goes to the worst case scenerio (Everything is cancer! Everything is cancer when you google it!…..)

Luckily, our complex has outpatient xrays so they were able to get us in pretty quickly.

However, an hour later we are back in her pediatrian’s waiting room.

At this point, Coraline, is hungry and tired of sitting.

I have, after an extensive google search, found every horrible possibility it could be and am silently cursing everyone who is called from the waiting room before us.

Kyle is shooting me dirty looks and telling me to stop worrying.

Minnie Mouse blares on the tv.

Another fifteen minutes  and we are back in the  patient’s room. Coraline’s running around as she always does, and me, well I’m making a mental check list of the worst case of scenerios and wondering how a kid who is never sick and full of energy could be really really sick…..

The wait seems like a forever, it’s probably three minutes.

“Let’s look at your xray, I’ll admit I was worried by the feel but this xray is reassuring.”

Do I have to I think to myself, but am releaved that he seems to think it’s nothing.

Well not exactly nothing…..

She was full of poop. Like a lot of poop.

So we all get a weekend of Myralax and suppositories. Well I mean I guess I don’t get that, but I do get a weekend of giving a crabby toddler this..

But considering the alternatives, I’ll take it.

Plus when she’s older and ready for her first date, this will be a great story to share.

 

 

Parenting is hard

I’ve been debating how I should start this blog post (my first in what almost a year). I’m torn between two cliches:

“Parenting is hard”

or

“I love my kid but….”

It’s odd to feel the need to soften the difficulty of parenting. That somehow admitting it’s difficult is equated to not loving your child.

*My wonderful loving child who is currently pretending to be a tornado on the bedroom floor because she has a sick sense of when mom hides away for some free time*

Of course the difficulty is not equated to loving your child.  I’d take a bullet for my child ( I know another cliche right) but let’s face it, when your lovely daughter or son is channeling their inner demon, at of course the most inappropriate time, pretending childrearing is some instagram dream is just foolish.

Or when you throw a birthday party. Remember back to the magic of your birthday. You’d get hopped up on all kids of sweets, run around crazy with your friends and open presents.

Remember that precious childhood memory.

It was probably horrible for you parents.

Coraline’s fourth birthday party was yesterday.  After spending a good three months lying to myself that I was gonna channel Martha Stewart and countless hours wasted Pinning birthday party ideas from parents that are frankly MUCh more talented than I am, about three weeks ago, I realized that “hey you have a birthday party date announcced on facebook” with nothing prepared for it including a venue.

But since I’m trying to be Zen (I mean I meditated….sometimes…occassionally and it’s not court ordered), I decide to just brand it as “simplistic” and lie to myself that it’ll be a relax ing time.

Who needs Facebook memories? We will just invited family and friends and hold it somewhere local.

Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy.

That is until it’s 15 minutes befor the party starts and I’m trying to pack everything into my Subaru and hope that I can beat that one annoying party guest who has to show up early.

I’ve spent the night before cooking 4 batches of spaghetti sauce(which frankly I suck at), sent Kyle to decorate becuase frankly I suck at that to. Suprise we find out the kitchen is locked and they forgot to give of the key!

Coraline, who is NEVER sick, somehow magically had a cold and was a crab pants. And I have about twenty guest coming, ten or so of which are children most under the age of 6. And for some reason I planned the party during my child’s nap time (because that was the logical thing to do).

Fast forward an hour, Coraline’s grandfather is telling a lovely famliy story about how his grandfather MURDERED his son. (Which suprise was the first I’ve heard about it).

Coraline and her gaggle of tiny toddler friends have decided to plan dino balloon war which is about as loud as I imagine an actual war to be.  At least I think they were playing, it’s hard to tell if toddlersaurs are actually getting along sometimes.

And this goes on for about five hours.

Yeah parenting is hard. I think I’ll go with that.

 

 

 

 

Pussy has to grab back

I stopped writing when my father died. I was numb, an actor stuck in a horrible play and while my world slow-motion shattered the world went on. It was just another Tuesday after-all.

I sat there knowing he needed a lung, knowing my words world helpless as the single most important thing I love slipped in front of me. And I realized how meaningless my words were. Air, vapors dancing around the world but never touching flesh.

And now, I sit after a night of crying, watching a man who has admitted to sexually assaulting women, who is racist, who is anti-gay, who is xenophobic, a man who wants to commit war crimes and jail his political opponents ascend to the highest position in our country.

And I realize my words are needed again.

Mark my words there are plenty of people in the United State who will not sit quietly by as our friends and family and freedoms suffer.

 

Advice, create create create

It’s been a while hasn’t it? I’d like to say that I’ve spent my time away from the blogger-sphere creating, unfortunately it’s been much more mundane than that…surviving if you will. (I’d say living but that implies a certain zest that these droll winter months haven’t much afforded me.)

But this morning, a deary day with nipping hints of Persephone’s legacy swirling around my face, I stumbled upon this and decided today would be a beautiful day to rededicate myself to writing  and to the world at large.

In short, I’m back. And if you have had a creative drought or are feeling your work isn’t up to par, please take a minute a listen to the video below.

A minute can reset your life after all.