i'm dreaming of a hypocritical christmas.

i'm feeling a bit jaded. so take this with two advil and comment later. (;

it's minnesota. it's two days from two-thousand-seven, and the grass outside my patio has the temerity to be GREEN.

we've had a few days of icy windshields, and some frosty lawns, and even some large, fluffy, beautiful snowflakes.

but the weather is being pretty damn hypocritical for a minnesota winter, and withholding the cold and snow that makes me love the state.

of course, being a minnesotan, i can glance outside, sigh, and continue with my day, because that's what being minnesotan is all about. usually.

and if any of the rest of this post makes any coherent sense, let me know. my man dan made me some kickin' coffee this morning and i'm kind of punchy. (;

***

perhaps i get frustrated this time of year because my workplace celebrates the holiday with wild abandon--cookies and gift exchanges, toasts of non-alcoholic bubbly--all while taking phone calls from the most ungrateful, ill-mannered group of public i've ever encountered.

for almost three years at work the holidays have been a time of overtime with a thin veneer of joy. here's why:

people forget that they are speaking to other people.

other people who are working double time and triple time, staying later than late trying to patch up a human error committed by one of their teammates, who probably ran out of coffee and wasn't able to run for a refill. other people who arrive at work three hours early, other people who are trying to make ends meet. other people that you probably brushed elbows with, at wal-mart, while edging in for the same cabbage patch doll.

i'm in a different position now; i no longer have to assist people on the phone who preach the Golden Rule to their kids but don't practice it with the rest of the planet. i still work a ton (workspeak: sixty hours or so) during year end (workspeak: December 15th through January 30th, no time off and weekends optional) and i help out a lot with my client service coworkers, because i cannot stand to see someone go without assistance. props and thanks to my mom and dad, who would give their last shirt to their neighbor.

at any rate, most of the people in my exceedingly short-handed office don't see their family a lot during the time of year when family is touted as the focus of the season. if our customers knew what the stress level was like in our office, would they take pity? would they not raise their voices, when they call about a problem that can be fixed? would they edit the swear words from their vocabulary, and perhaps treat their fellow humans with a bit of respect?

yesterday, at the height of the week's strife, i turned a corner to run into one of our managers, heidi. she was carrying a sheaf of files and paper, and from her direction, had been in a meeting with some irate client.

i'd never seen this bubbly girl cry. and i suddenly also knew what the term "big, fat tears" defined. i stopped in my tracks and asked if she was okay, if there was anything i could do. she shook her head and choked out no, she'd be fine.

the problems that cause people to explode like this, they are minor. the compassion that the season preaches gets lost.

my rule of dealing with an angry client is to remember that there are worse things that could have happened than the post office losing their payroll package.

i think of dan's brother, corey, and having lost him is much, much more terrible. it's not that i do not treat my clients with respect; it's just my way of keeping a calm head, when dealing with a ready-to-detonate person.

***

on top of the stress of work and being home long enough each day to shower and make sure the cats have kibble, my mom had a cancer scare, which has since been alleviated and found to be a fatty deposit. thank heavens for fat. never thought i'd say that again, except when i slip and hit the ice and then am thankful for the deposits on my ass, which protect said tailbone.

however one of my cousins is still in hospital, after a week and a half. she was being treated for an infection, and when rushed from the northern hinterlands to the Big City, it was found that she had cancer. they removed part of her stomach, her uterus, a lot of her colon. there are still three more tumors there. she's not much older than me; it's kind of scary, and it's much worse than anything that happens at work.

it's not that i don't care about my fellow man. i do. i have been in those shoes before, so frustrated that i can't do anything other than search for my tissues and a hershey's bar for solace.

i guess it just bothers me that halloween has passed and yet people wear the same hypocritical mask: love thy brother, love thy church, love thy family, but do not spare the verbage when you're angry.

my parents always used to preach the whole "do unto others" policy. dan's mom had a little plaque on her wall about not bitching about someone else until you have walked a mile in their moccasins. there's the wiccan rede: do unto others, an it harm none. the three-fold law: what you mete to others will return to you three-fold.

it's all the same message, backed by a god or quip-creator.

i'm not pissed off at the people who call and whose invoices pay my salary; i'm annoyed with their behavior. in therapy we talked about that difference, how you sometimes have to separate behavior and being.

i'm going to generalize here: everyone on this planet has the capacity and the ability to be hypocritical. and if they haven't been, yet, they will be, at some point, about something.

i know i have. i know i will, in future. it's inevitable. it's the two-faced nature of humanity, the yin and yang, night and day. if you walk far enough in one direction, there is the chance that you will meet your self, coming the other way. you might not recognize your own face, but it's you, meeting in the middle.

and if that is the case, i'd hope to meet me with open arms, and not show the same hypocrisy for which there is the potential.

the mating habits of electric deer

every year our townhome managers decorate for the holidays with pine boughs and red bows on the mailboxes and such. for the past two years, out by the big townhome sign on the street, they've put up these deer-shaped lighted deer.

last year, as we waited for traffic to ease up so that we could leave the house, i giggled to dan that wouldn't it be funny to move the deer around, perhaps having some type of discovery channel mating session? dan vetoed that; he said it would be like grafitti.

this year, same thing. decorations go up and i wonder briefly if i have the stones to go out in the middle of night and re-arrange the deer into as much of a compromising position as deer could be found. and then the notion is forgotten amid the detrius of work and mundane life crap, the never-ending list that runs through my head as i sit in my car at the stop sign: did i turn on the dishwasher? did i feed the cats? do i have my purse with me?

about two weeks ago i was doing just that. we were leaving, after dark, headed towards a bookstore foray. i was sitting in the passenger seat; we were chatting about something. as we turned, i looked over my shoulder and voila! someone had read my mind! there was a lighted, moving stag mounting his very own lighted doe.

how quaint.

the next day the deer were gone, moved back to the front area near the townhome office.

go figure.

***

those deer drive me nuts, during the holidays. they aren't painted to look like the real thing; they're just wire with white lights, heads bobbing up and down. they look frighteningly like golems of the real thing. i can almost hear the pinnochio-related thoughts: but i want to be a real ungulate! i want to graze on clipped suburban lawns! i want to nibble your nasturtiums to their roots!

i don't like being out by myself at night. in fact, i'm not so keen on it during the day, either, unless i am in a public place. for whatever reason, being in barnes and noble with nine hundred other people makes me feel safer than being in the local park by myself, with just one or two other hikers.

out of nine hundred bodies at the bookstore, i'm sure that there is a better chance that one of them will be a perverted person with mayhem, mischief and assault on their mind. but my imagination paints that lone jogger on the same hiking trail as myself as much, much more scary.

last night i was supposed to meet friends at the legion in richfield, for drinks and such. i arrived and could not find them; when i got back to my car i realized that my phone was dead, so i couldn't call for clarification or anything. i decided to do some retail therapy and drove to the local wal-mart to pick up a few items needed yet for christmas prep.

as i walked up to the store i thought about how easy it would be to just be gone--be mis-placed in the sea of bodies. dan thought i was having drinks; the people i was meeting thought i was probably home. my parents and friends would think whatever they would like to think about my present existence. in the end, how long would it take before someone even realized that i was gone?

i considered briefly getting in the car and driving somewhere, and staying the night, just to see if i was missed. it was a scary thought, that momentary urge to disappear amid the throng.

i thought about how easy it would be, how simple. i thought about how much i missed my northwoods, and the safety that i felt when i was in those woods, even if it was a sham and probably imagined security.

one of the things i used to dwell on, or perhaps cling to, when i lived by myself, was the fact that a tree, standing for years in the darkness outside, could not be scared of the night. it was rooted in ground. animals, too, could not be scared of the dark--they had no choice about flipping a switch and being ensconced into the wee hours by beautiful, lovely, safe light.

this year as i plodded back to my vehicle, shopping completed, i thought again about being alone in the dark. as i drove home i thought about those ridiculous deer that bother me so, thomas edison gone horribly awry. i thought about how they could subsist in the darkness, alone or in pairs, and not feel a thing about their situation.

were they luckier, those deer, than i, for their lack of brain cell? or were they aware of their own irony: that if they were real deer, they would stumble through tight forest and browse thickets for leftover buds, all in utter blackness?

apparently that is why i'm sitting in my house, warm and well-lit, and the lighted deer are plugged in down the street.

the ticking of a thousand clocks

yesterday while typing up a comment on dan's blog, i realized that i'd been sitting at my desk for a good solid two minutes, just listening to the clocks in our living room.

they both read the same time. but due to the fact that humanity had a part in setting that time, they are off, by just a second or two. they don't tick in tandem; they tick separately, never leaving a space between them wherein there is actual silence.

upstairs we have two ticking clocks, in addition to the myriad electronic alarms, but they are in separate rooms; if they do not track time at the same instant, you do not know. it's only in the living room that you hear these two.

i remember when i was a child reading a story about a puppy being just brought home, and how the father puts a hot water bottle and a clock in the little puppy's box, to soothe him. the clock is supposed to remind him of his mother's heartbeat.

truthfully, it doesn't sound that far off, if you muffle it with your pillow.

i also remember laying in the basement of my grandma's house. interesting that at my father's parents home we slept in the upstairs bedrooms, while at my mother's home we slept in the basement. it's all about area, i suppose, and a family of six takes up considerable space. anyway, in my grandma's basement the walls were painted a pale turquoise, almost white, and they leaned in, shoved by frost in the winter. there was a beer sign on the wall--budwieser, i think--that one of my uncles installed in their youth. the bar light was our night light, red and white neon against those turquoise walls.

my mom's home town is steam heated. when the heat kicked on at grandma's house, the radiators were silent. but in the basement, the pipes clicked and made odd noises. at least odd in the light of three am, i guess.

at any rate, being a light sleeper even as a child, i'd wake up at night and in wobbly sleep-vision, see those walls, pressing in and wavering. i'd hear the pipes clanging, a sound i never heard at home in the land of natural gas furnaces. i only hear with my right ear; the left is nerve damaged and deaf. so i'd put my good ear on the pillow, to drown out the pipe noises, and that is when i would hear the footsteps.

soft, at first. slow and steady. and then, as i panicked, they'd speed up. for hours i'd lay there, frozen, waiting for a man to come out of those bowed turquoise walls and step into the darkness of the basement, perhaps take a seat on the brown sofa from 1952 that felt like astroturf rather than fabric, or lean up against the three television sets stacked in the corner.

it wasn't until years later, after suffering through visits during which i'd play dead to avoid the man in the blue walls, that i realized that the footsteps i'd heard were the pulse of my own heartbeat, throbbing in my temple, pressed against the pillow.

***

i'm still a light sleeper. at night, everything wakes me, even though i don't hear well at all. perhaps that is the reason i am a light sleeper--during the day, i am always straining to hear things, so it stands to reason that that alert would remain through the night.

it also explains why hearing these clocks annoys me, but the other people in my house probably do not even notice. their focus on sound is very different than mine, more relaxed.

sometimes i have to take sleep aids, to keep me drowsy enough to fall back asleep. it annoys me to do so, because i sleep deeply but i wake drowsy and it takes quite a while for that feeling to wear off. this morning, when i am awake and my cats are starting their daylight nap, the noise surrounds me: the heater, clicking and whooshing to life, the cars on the street, the sound of a neighbor going down stairs. somewhere there is a high pitched whine, as if off a television. my fingers on the keys, and the ticking of those two clocks.

***

a thousand clocks regulate life. as a rule the one which we are most attuned to and yet most ignore is that of our own inner clock, our heart. it's not until the night, when you lay in the deep of your bed, that you focus and pay attention to your very own pulse, that you can hear your heart, thudding its own rhythm in a bony cage.

the clock inside--that is the clock to which i should listen, i think. and yet i am dominated by the clocks that tick in my house: the alarm, the wristwatch, time running down sun.

usually i am not constrained by the ticking of clocks. i like to pretend that i am free as lynyrd skynyrd's bird. but the clock winds down, at some point. i see that clock in my parents, and suddenly my life is all about the time remaining. it seems often that i have frittered away my life, living outside time in my own pretend land. i have time left, if i care for my body, during which i can make the most of the little lapse between the ticking of my two clocks.

siberia

during the past few years, dan and i have spent time in separate bedrooms. for many years prior to this, we shared a double bed. but neither of us are small people, and when we decided to merge bedrooms again last year, i just pushed together the double bed and my acquired single bed.

when dan saw it, the first thing he said was: "my god, it's like siberia...it just goes on and on." (;

it's actually quite comfortable--mainly because we're both thrashers, and on separate beds, you don't feel your partner shifting around and trying to get comfy. the exception is that if you want to cuddle you have to roll across the divide.

this morning i woke up a bunch--i think i saw every hour after 2 am, and then between 530 and 7 i just laid there, cocooned in my down comforter, listening to the white noise fan, the burbling vaporizer, and the feathers in the comforter crinkling, awake and drowsy. for a while i thought, "i should get up and exercise, since dan was kind enough to fix my exercise machinery." but i couldn't get up the gumption.

i thought about dan's blog, and how sometimes you can be so close to a person that it creates the biggest distance on the planet. i thought about the work on my desk and the time in which i had to complete it. i thought about devin and babies, buying a new house, renewing the lease on our current townhome, how much i wanted it to snow. i thought about the dreams i'd been having, strange and convoluted, not scary but for some reason unsettling. of course i couldn't recall any of them, just that i'd been unsettled.

suddenly i wanted to curl up next to dan, just to be close to him. i laid there thinking about all the things i'd been mulling. i remembered two things, right then:

1. one of dan's issues with me was that i always waited for him to make the first move
2. my friend cari saying that if you're having issues then you have to ask yourself: what are you going to do about it?

it seems like an aggressive stance toward emotional and mental items. but it's something that i think people like me, who wander between distraction and depression, need to do on a regular basis. perhaps everyone does; i don't know. but i suppose i avoid it, because to answer that question, to even take the first step, would mean that the problem would be on its way to being resolved.

resolution, in my world, exists only with dishwashers and sitcoms. it's not something in which i try to take an active part. i'll help it along, but i won't initiate it.

and i think asking that question is the R L Ermey of brain militia.

someone has to police my mental status, and it has to be me.

i'm still learning the ropes, mind you. i'm not able to all the time take control of the runaway train and route it correctly again. but i am trying. and that's something, right?

***
anyway, i lay awake, trying to excise the wandering of my mind and erase the odd sense that i just dreamt i was a half-dressed barbie doll, plastic tits and all.

trying to get over the need in my marrow to cuddle up to dan's sleeping warmth and leech some comfort from that heat.

the two thoughts ran like tandem hamsters through my head, endless circles: start something, kim! what am i going to do about it?

i rolled across the great divide and found a limb; felt like a knee, folded. i didn't much care. the frantic pace of my head slowed a notch. i could feel the heat radiating through the comforter. hear his breathing, smell the familiar scent of sleeping dan.

***
when i got to work this morning i thought about that morning, laying there next to an unconcious man who feels like an extension of my own body, but whose mind is often further away than any hands can grasp. and how mine often does the same to him--hiding, flitting about, crawling into the darkness.

i think about serena--the other day her birthday reminder popped up in my yahoo! mail. lingering there in memory is a dangerous place, especially when it's a memory of pain. i think of my dad's mother a lot too--when i wake in the morning and stand up, the first thing i see is her perfume bottle. then i think of the tender scent of her, wearing that perfume, and i think of her laying on her deathbed, lungs rattling.

it's like biting your lip again, just after you have bitten it the first time.

in the dark, at my desk, in the car, reading a book--those memories overtake me, pull me under. they are just as familiar, much of the time, as the feeling of love and calm, and they beckon me towards that dark end of the pool. can i stop them? can i keep them at bay? the question then becomes: what am i going to do about them?

laying on that bed this morning i wavered--i could have remained on my side, could have suppressed the need to roll closer to dan. it's what i would usually do, the litany of fears: what if i wake him? what if he's angry that i woke him? what if what if what if...

thinking those two things--i CAN start something, i CAN do something about this--that rolled me over, that silenced some of those clamoring thoughts. knowing that i can try--that even if i i fail, i have tried--that is to what i should cling. the other things--the doubts, the pain, the frustration and the apathy--they're still around, old relations i cannot remove from my blood. but i have the choice, i always have the choice, of whether i wish to allow my habitual responses to rule me, or if i choose to question them and martial some random order in my mind.

***
in siberia, i imagine that there is no time to dwell on these things.

i also imagine the alternate: that this morning some person woke and thought in another language something akin to my thoughts, felt like emotions, crossed the space within themself--their own personal siberia.

passion, potlucks and pride

so last night, due to the fact that there was no Sci Fi Friday (sniff!), dan and i sat down and watched the two Netflix movies that had been taking up dust atop the tv. the second was one i'd highly recommend, Thank You for Smoking. excellent movie, very excellent.

first up was A Prairie Home Companion, which was good and amusing but disjointed. i wanted everyone to hear garrison keillor say, "not much is going on in lake woebegon these days..." and all that. but he didn't. it was interesting to see downtown st paul on the screen (another moment when we could both point and say "i've been there!") and to hear meryl streep and lily tomlin sing. but the plot was thin, if present, and it could have used a bit more...passion.

of course, it *is* the midwest, and we're not a passionate people up here, unless it concerns a few things: hunting, children, fishing, potlucks and snow boots.

i'm not making a mean-spirited comment about the midwest. perhaps more of a generalization, based on movies made, songs sung, tales told. midwesterners, minnesotans in particular, seem to take some inordinate pride on being dispassionate.

from where does this stoicism stem? perhaps that's not such a mystery. watching garrison keillor, spawn of lutheran norwegian ancestry, you get the idea perfectly: it takes patience to live here.

down south you can storm out of your house pretty much any month of the year, slamming the door on your spouse/parent/child/dog.

up here, nine months out of the year, you have to stay in the house, content with moving room to room, because storming out the door would mean a variety of things: jackets, scarves, gloves, fumbling for car keys, shovels, ice scrapers and kitty litter, so that your escape can be made with head held high, and not skidding on slippery sidewalk.

it's hard to maintain a good righteous anger when your ass hits the pavement and you need to ask for help to get up.

does the weather really shape us, that much? perhaps. culturally, the folks up north of the mason dixon line have to be more patient, in my mind, not just with the weather but with each other.

you can't fight as much, but it's not because the weather has pounded it out of you. it's because you know that you have to huddle together for warmth, it's that genetic code that says, don't antagonize your neighbor...you might need to borrow wood for the fire this winter.

perhaps the disjointed arena of that movie just pointed it out, at length. it wasn't lacking anything; it just wasn't like the majority of hollywood movies, with their heated arguments and wild actions.

i'm sure that long ago, before we had highways and electricity, people had to all get along in their own little caves. and the further north you went, the better you had to get along. the less passion you could cultivate, the more subtle it had to be, because the microcosm of your world was, for many months, the size of your cave.

are there less secrets here? nope. they're just better kept. less passion? no; it just doesn't stand out in the same way, it's not broadcast visually; it's radio waves, things you can't see, something you hear and you know and you internalize.

welcome

on thursday i stared in awe
the pale skin of your face, stretched
thin and new

friday i held you, nestled deep,
blinking dark eyes and restlessly
feeling out your
boundaries

watching her face,
perplexed
as you twist and swirl
onl y the night before
shrouded in mother
you slumbered

today the blanket rises
shoves at the crook of my elbow
one small foot
each nail a transparent crescent
pokes out,
heel tasting air

call it what you want

it's some sixth sense--not smell or taste or sight, and not hearing, especially for me. (;

my great grandmother read tea leaves for the police department. she saw things sometimes before they happened, or so the stories go. the only person who remembers is my uncle jed, who's immobilized by strokes and unable to speak.

*sigh*

when i first went to therapy one of the questions helene asked was about knowing the future, or having ESP. i grudgingly admitted that yes, i often had dreams that came true, or knew something before it happened. it's never anything life shattering--nothing that they'd make movies about, and helene just asked for some examples and moved on.

one of the examples i gave was years ago, when dan's parents got a german shepherd. i dreamed that they had a dog that looked like an elkhound but people kept telling me was a german shepherd. then his parents got gabe--who looks like he's been crossed with an elkhound.

another was a friend who needed to get into the doctor, but was on a long list. one day two months prior to the scheduled appointment i said, call now. and there was an opening that afternoon.

it's little things like that, daily bits, that enforce my belief that sometimes people are given, or people sense, things that you cannot predict. my sisters and i all call our mother on the same day. we send each other the same cards. is it esp? probably not--we all think a lot alike. but to pick out and send the same card at the same time was a bit odd, i will admit.

some dear friends of mine are due to have their baby next week, 11/25/06. due to the baby being bashful when it comes to ultrasounds, they've no idea of what the sex is, and they haven't told anyone what names they're considering, either. i had a silly dream months ago that it was a boy, with the same first name as last name. like, Smith Smith. personally, i had a very strong feeling that the baby would be a boy, for whatever reason.

anyway, this last tuesday night i dreamed i stood in the kitchen with my friend cathy. i dreamed she held a little girl in her arms, with wispy red-brown hair and cathy's gray eyes, named evan. the child was about 9 months old, sitting upright, with fingers in her mouth.

this morning i woke up at 3 am. i'd been dreaming about a hose, spraying water all over a crisp green lawn. i fell back asleep. at 4 i woke up, dreaming that dan was bringing me a cup of water that ran over the lip of the dark little cup. usually these dreams mean i need to go to the bathroom--it's my subconcious' way of reminding me, i suppose. but i didn't, when i woke.

later that morning, we got the email: cathy's water broke around 4, and they had a little girl named devin.

how much of this is coincidence? how much of it is random chance? how much of it is something else, that cannot be pinned to anything but the unknown ether that makes up this world?

just when i had given up on my gut instincts, and the dreams that seemed to have abandoned me as of late, i dream something that is so close to reality that it doesn't feel as random as it should.

my sister beth and i have discussed how dreaming feels just as real as being awake, and how sometimes the dreams mix so well with reality that you cannot separate them--they have fallen out of separate bottles, and swirl on the floor, reality melding into dreamscape.

goliath, felled by one stone...

or kim, felled by one bacterium.

i'm here. existing. crawling out of whatever virus-infested hole i got sucked into.

will post more later. after much cat-enhanced napping. (;

insomnia

in the dark
beneath the skin
i wake
lids peeling like oranges
eyes gritty with unslept dreams

in the dark
where i have prayed for release
from unending dawn
i sit up on edge of bed
curl one leg into the comforter
gray cat thuds against my side, purr
rumbling marrow

in the dark
your seige on slumber
rages on, you roll over
small countries shaped like
a green and purple crocheted blanket
breathe deep and deeper

in the dark
i surrender, my war
lost
i rise and pad on pink toes
running from my battlefield
i envy
your fight

recess

the word recess always reminds me of elementary school: crisp autumn races around the cement playground, skimming across the monkey bars and swinging wildly, trying to see how high i could get, just flinging myself back and forth on steel chain and a slice of rubber.

recess also reminds me of holes in the wall--a recessed area, for example. when i was young i always wanted to find places to hide, always dreamed of secret passages and hidey holes, like a priest's hole: a spot designated for just little old me to shrug into, and hide from the world.

for the most part i remember this time with happy memories. i was a happy kid, for the most part, but that may have been because i was living about 85% of the time in my imagination.

like a recess in my brain, where i was permanently at recess.

does that make sense?

when i was in third grade my teacher was mr. zagorski. very nice guy--tall, with a good-sized belly, glasses, dark receding hair and a bushy mustasche. we read "call of the wild" by jack london, out of a big book with pictures. my parents went in for their annual conferences and he shared that if i could just pull myself out of my imagination, and apply myself, i could be a very good student.

i now wonder if that's a byproduct of this add, that the dreamer in me is just more focused than the reality-creator will ever be.

right now i'm on vacation--another kind of recess. a recess from work, where i spend weeks holed up in my fuzzy gray cube. i've got lots of plans, probably too many, and i'll probably accomplish only a fraction of what i feel i should be able to.

***

when we read jack london's shortened version of "call of the wild" i took that name and went to the library. i found the real book, and devoured it. i don't to toot my own horn, but by the time i was in fifth grade, i was reading james michener. the reality of that book scared me, probably more than any scary movie could--that people could have things like leprosy, something i'd never heard of.

i think that is when i started to become an anxious person. i've always been afraid of the dark--where i think the well of imagination is disguised, bushes piled up in front of an endless cave. the monster under the bed changed when i started reading things that were probably out of my league, morphed from a dark, toothy blob into germs and the unknown world outside my house.

i started doing things like checking to make sure doors were locked, and only drinking out the family water bottle in the car if i could drink first. when i was thirteen my parents went bowling one night and came home to find me sobbing, sure that i had AIDs. my mom sat me down and said: "kim, are you having unprotected sex? what about using dirty needles?"

when i look back i can see the silliness of it, the ridiculousness of my brain. the structure of school i always felt held me back, when in truth, it kept me in bounds...of some kind.

now that i'm without structure--ie, no work deadlines, nothing to keep me on the tracks--i'm scattered and lost. too many bright and shiny objects on which to focus.

too many projects, too many thoughts.

***

so maybe i'll regress just a little and go find a playground, and sit on the swings for a while. provided there aren't any kids around. (;

mirror mirror on the wall

i found a mirror at ikea (one of my favorite stores, if you couldn't tell from...well, most of my home...) it's a circle with all these little squares around a large center. the patterns are interesting, as the little squares around the edge are not all glued on perfectly, and pick up light and color at different angles.

then another, at a church rummage sale. and a few more on clearance somewhere else, squares that i have to figure out how and where to place on some vertical area.

at any rate, the garage sale mirror started this afternoon's Attack of the Re-arranging Spasms.

the boys are at a computer thing today, so i've had the house to myself since i got home from work. always refreshing, as i never have the house to myself--don't take this wrong, i've lived my whole life save eight months with two to 8 people, and i like the comfort of having others in the house with me. i think it's the vestiges of growing up in a larger family; i'm most comfortable in the house both when i'm entirely alone, and when i'm surrounded by other people.

the dichotomy is not lost on me.

at any rate, in fall and spring i go through these predictable phases in which i want to clean and junk old crap and rearrange the house. this year i thought i was going to wait until the week after next, when i'm on vacation and plan to take care of a number of appointments, etc, that just never occur during the week.

had to go to work this morning, had to have dan stop in and move a HUGE computer monitor (props to dan for doing so--thanks babe!!!) and then stopped at ikea on the way home. (it's right next to work, honest...) the only reason i stopped there was because the other day we'd been talking about how cold it gets over by the patio doors during the winter, and how much i despise putting plastic up, since the windows are the only source of good light in the living room. dan suggested hanging a blanket, or curtains, instead of our horribly ugly vertical blinds.

so i stopped in with the intention of picking up a curtain rod and such, and then working on sewing the curtains at a later date. of course in the as is section i found curtains marked 60% off, so they came home with me.

now, the garage sale mirror has been sitting in the foyer for weeks. months, perhaps? i can't recall when it made its debut. i was going to wait to put up the curtains until dan got home, since that's a tall person thing and i'm short. so i thought, heck, i'll just hang up the mirror. found a spot, leveled things, got the mirror cleaned up and hung. i think it looks very nice, if i do say so myself.

however after hanging up the mirror, i felt empowered, which is always a dangerous thing, when you're alone in the house with power tools at hand, in my opinion.

i had options: i could clean something, or i could hang up the curtains.

however, to hang up the curtains, i needed to move the kitty tree. to move the kitty tree i had to move shelving units, lamps, plants, and the occasional concerned cat, until things looked more or less the way i wanted them to look. so far i am enjoying the new look--it freshens and somehow makes the living room look more finished, even if it is such a hodge-podge of the new, the slightly used and, in the case of the couch, the broken.

then of course i had to make trips to the garage, to ditch extra stuff, and clean up the kitty poo zone by the back door...so on and so forth. when i finally sat down on the couch to survey the look, i realized that i had two mirrors in the living room, and recalled the others upstairs, awaiting installation.

hello, my name is kim, and i have a mirror problem. i think. i suppose the first step is admitting...

***

mirrors reflect the reality. memory and opinion shift that reality, warp it into something that resembles a real fun-house mirror--stretch me tall, wide, crazy swishes for a face and hands the size of old oak trees.

i've never really liked mirrors, mainly because i don't like looking at myself in them. that being said, i've done a lot of reflecting lately, while working copious amounts of overtime. what can i say, sometimes data entry is like meditation.

(that and i have this theory that stress is like juicing oranges--under pressure, the orange changes and produces something different...follow? if not, oh well. it's my theory anyway. last week my exec T and my old manager S got canned on tuesday morning, out of the complete and utter blue. needless to say the office has been in uproar since.)

anyway, back to relflections.

when i look back in pictures i can see the way that i see the world, at different times in my life. sometimes i took pictures of my feet or hands, sometimes a blurry shot of my self, mostly shots of trees and the outdoor world. lately i haven't done much picture taking.

if you face two mirrors together you get infinity; perhaps this is my inner spirit, reminding me that my reflecting is not done, that it never will be.

***

when i was leaning over the big mirror that started my empowered interior design fit, scrubbing at the sticker on it, i saw my face, determined. that is not the face i always see, in the mirror. i have many faces, many looks, many emotions. i suppose that life does have beginnings and ends to it, just like a length of string, but for the duration, reflecting is a mobius strip, from which i cannot remove my self.

so thus, there is a reason for my multitude of mirrors. at least i think there is. (;

through the looking glass

can i just say this? i HATE being on all these drugs. i despise it. i'm sure that there are folks out there who take handfuls more, and i should be thankful that i just take this little bit, but i'm starting to feel like alice--drink this, eat this, grow tall, grow small.

are things better when i am on my drugs? i have to admit that yes, they are.

my blood pressure drug really does lower my blood pressure.
my hormone drug really does control my hormones.
my depression drug really does help keep my depression smaller.
and my favorite drug, my adhd drug, really does keep me focused.

the last time i was at the doctor i said that i didn't think that my cocktail was working quite right. my dr rocks; she pulled up all the visits we've had and went over the little test that i take whenever i go in. i didn't want to be on wellbutrin anymore, because i didn't think it was doing anything for my adhd.

then the world had to show me up. i got this thing from my perscription company stating that i needed to start buying meds thru the mail. why, you ask? because it cuts down on price for them. yay. the new rule was that i could get a refill twice but then after that, the refills would be normal price, and not the price that my insurance company covers.

fine. dandy. i order them by mail.

and in the mean time, i run out.

the pill that scares me the most is my blood pressure tablet. without it, my blood pressure ranges pretty far into the Ick Numbers--the ones where nurses take it and say, "are you feeling okay? you should be having a stroke." i actually stopped by the pharmacy and the pharmacist was kind enough to give me a few tablets to get by.

anyway, i didn't think that not being on wellbutrin would be a big deal. it didn't seem like it had made that big of a difference to me, while on it. however my doctor apparently didn't go to school for nothing: in combination with the lexapro (which is for depression and dysphoric disorder) the wellbutrin really does make a difference.

i think i was out of it for a good solid month. being stubborn i didn't worry, and i certainly didn't call the pharmacy looking for extra tablets.

and things slid down hill: my house kind of has piled up, work showed a lack of focus, and i really have been drifting again.

having since received mail refills and started back on my regular regimen, i can feel the difference. it's a difference that i don't want to feel--i want to be just fine, minus these little chemistry miracles.

i guess what it comes down to is that i'm not. the doctor agreed that next spring we will try to wean me off some of them, see where i'm at, etc.

it's a double edged sword, when and if you find the right combination for yourself. i've been lucky enough to do so.

the double edged sword part comes in when you realize that with this little white pill you feel better. and that you hate that pill, you hate yourself a bit, for needing that pill.

i am having trouble finding a good metaphor for this. it's like and dislike, sitting on opposite ends of the see-saw, having a grand old time.

but i suppose it's more like alice in wonderland than i would like to believe. i am handed a little cup and told to eat, and i eat. the differences are not so apparent as a giant blonde girl, or a shrinking one.

the girl in my head, the one who apparently needs the cup of pills, she is the one who changes, she is the one who orbits the looking glass, wondering which side she is on today.

home

when i was a kid we used to drive 8 hours north to visit my mom's family, every other christmas, and sometimes in between. my grandma's house was small--i say my grandma's house because despite the fact that my grandpa was always there, his home was in his boat, which had a more lived in look than anything else that had his name attached. my grandma's house was exactly that: hers. and we didn't spend more time anywhere than in her kitchen.

the kitchen was, and still is, tiny. i can't imagine how she raised a family of 7 in there, baking bread by hand and creating food. my grandma is a strong woman; i have no doubts about that. there's this family story about when her and my grandpa were going to remodel the house so as to add a bit more room for all the kids. grandpa was dragging his feet, so my grandma took a sledgehammer to the wall herself and said, well, there's a hole in the wall, you better fix it.

she's one of those people about whom legends begin.

morgan lwellyn wrote a book that i love, called finn mac cool. in the book she delves into the humanity behind the irish legend of finn, basing the great feats that made him notorious in reality. the legend happens later, when the tales are told around fires and roasted turkey legs.

i can see how legends are born; i am proud to say that i am born of legends. my family is a bunch of tale-tellers--tales of our family, what happened yesterday while we were shopping, the what-if of science fiction. we tell tales because it's written in our genetic code to do so.

but i think it's written in everyone's code, to share experiences with someone else's ear. the telling is as important as the listening, the absorbing, because at some point you will have to re-tell that self-same tale.

i've told more stories about my family than i can count. there's too many of them, i often think, to write down, so many that they'd fill a book. why do i keep them around, these stories?

because they remind me of home. they remind me of that feeling i had when i was a kid, that if i got a hug from my mother, the world would be put at rights. that when i sat in my grandma's kitchen, i was safe.

grandma doesn't live in this house anymore. i won't ever hear her bedroom door, which was just off the kitchen, open up with that little creak. i won't hear her slippers slapping across old yellowed linoleum, or the swish of her aqua-flowered house coat as she putters around and starts the coffee. it's not because she's dead; it's because she has alzheimer's.

people with alzheimer's often wander. they say they're going home. i read an article not long ago concerning that search--that they're not really going to any certain place, that they're searching for the safe place that they remember as home.

my home has been in many different states, many different dwellings, with many different people. it makes me feel safe, knowing that home is where you take it.

it also makes me wither a little, to know that the tales i tell about my legendary grandma, who won a nail-hammering competition by burying the nail in one hit, will someday flit away from my mind. that her kitchen table and those bright curtains will be dimmed and lost. the inevitability of losing her, the woman, is already made manifest in my mind. it's the loss of the idea of home, the loss of security, that is hard to fathom.

this morning i sit in my own home, secure and warm, watching my white cat loll on the dark couch, little rib cage rising and falling. i will keep this thought of home safe inside me, for as long as i can. it's my refuge, wherever i am, whoever i might be.

afraid of the dark

when i was kid i was always
afraid of the dark
the dim shadow beneath.
i'd leap from floor to mattress,
muffle the world with my pillow,
and if i woke at night,
i'd lay there imagining the shape
of my nightmares

later in life you realize
--while sleeping one night, next to your
snoring
bedmate--
that you are no longer afraid of the dark
that is sky lacking sun,
or moon behind cloud.

the dark that you fear, the darkest
of darks
is the pit of your own soul
which perhaps has been lurking along
for all these years,
disguised as the shimmery breath
beneath your bed.

a different arsenal

henry is being a little feline shit this morning--attacking shiva, begging for the faucet to be turned on, biting when he's annoyed. so on and so forth.

however i have to give him credit--he is more aware of his landscape and his surroundings than i am. he uses his body better, and is in better shape. how much of this is due to species differences and how much is due to good kitty kibble, i don't know.

about a month ago i stopped at ikea on my way home. i'm a dedicated clearance bin shopper and the ikea as-is section is yet another red-stickered mecca for those in my cents-off bracket. for a while now i've been eyeing this stepstool, wooden and unpainted, of course. being the short person in a house of tall people is generally not an issue; but i don't like being totally dependent on the tall folks being around 24/7 to fetch items for me that seem out of reach.

so finding a host of stepstools in the as-is department, for 7.50 instead of the regular 19.99, was a boon.

i got it home and found it a home in the living room, within easy reach. i stood on it and considered the world from dan's height, and asked if he could always see the top of the refrigerator. he spent a goodly amount of time smiling at me, balancing atop the stool, pondering the vagaries of being so much shorter.

so i added a new tool to my household--a tool that is basically just for me.

friday i was in the kitchen, cleaning or something, and i looked up and noticed that there was a large amount of clutter that had gathered on top of my cupboards--pint glasses, a large stainless steel bowl that fits nowhere else, bits of pottery that i like but have no real useful purpose, some emtpy glass jars with lids for a fit of crafting.

i had just gotten that stepstool; if i wanted to, i could have used the stool to dust and sort and reimagine the upper realm of my kitchen.

but i didn't remember until this morning, when henry was careening around the living room after being shooed away from his squalling and angry feline roommate, and launched himself to the top of the stepstool, that i had the necessary tool to complete the job i'd considered only two days ago.

***

it's of interest to me how quickly thoughts pass in and out of people's brains. the sieve of your mind is not as thin and finely woven as cheesecloth; it's more like two hands trying to catch a bag of rice as it tips and falls off the counter. even the good ideas, each grain scattering on white linoleum--the ones you have as you fall asleep, or blearily search for your car keys before work--the ones that startle you into thinking that einstien is not the only genius in the world--they're often forgotten.

but just as easily forgotten are the simple things, like stepstools.

***

many many moons ago dan wrote a letter to my parents, asking for my hand in marriage. it was very charming and when i heard that he'd done this, i was sure beyond belief that my parents would be happy, that this would appeal to their post-WWII sensibilities.

instead dan got a response that we should wait, etc. perhaps they were right, perhaps they were just being protective, perhaps they were wrong. it's not been long enough, historically speaking, for me to be emotionally objective about their response. perhaps i'll never be able to be emotionally objective about it; i'm too close to the situation, too involved.

last weekend, however, my dad made a comment that has had me flummoxed, something to the effect of when would dan be his next son in law, he enjoyed his other son in law so much he would like another one.

it was something small in the conversation, but it overshadowed the whole weekend, and i kept coming back to it during the week.

i have had the tools, for a long time, to move past the original negative statement that my parents made about my choices. but i've never really used them. they've been as forgotten as my stepstool.

i could have picked up that stepstool years ago, when we first moved here, and cleaned comfortably and safely from the floor, instead of walking around on the counters and trying to keep my stocking feet secure.

for years i have chosen the harder road, the path of most resistance, the path that i felt was defining myself. i didn't use the tools available to me, i didn't see that there were tools i had. in retrospect, i could have made this leap of realization at any time.

why didn't i? i wish i knew. now that the stepstool has been revealed by my rambunctious cat, perhaps i will delve further, excavate the tools i have always had, my arsenal in plain sight.

as the rooster crows...

the older i get, the earlier i like to get up. it's like internally my body is aware that there is only so much time left over between this exact moment and whenever it is my ticket gets punched, and most of the day is taken up with mundane things like scooping the litterbox and emptying the dishwasher.

last week i got up very early for most of the week, just trying to keep my head above water. this week i doubt will differ; there is just too much to do and not enough hours in which to accomplish said work.

i think back five years to tomorrow, the day the trade centers fell. i think of the lives that were snuffed out, and the people who probably got up early that morning to get to the office, get their days started. how many cups of coffee were brewed prior to the first plane hitting? how many reports printed, files filed, voicemails checked and deleted?

how many people had yet to arrive, that day? what twists of fate those spinners tugged, what weavings they wove, to keep bodies out of the dust that day.

i think of all the souls whose lives ended and i think of their mentality. they were feeling just like me: the work is at hand, and it needs doing. they showed up that day, not knowing what it held in store. ready to share gossip over cubicle walls and curse at the copier.

what of all those people who were not in the towers, for whatever reason? those lucky, blessed number who escaped? we remember the day, we remember the fallen, we remember our emotions.

i think of the sole survivor of that plane crash last week, the one man who lived through cartwheeling flames. i wonder at the feelings he is only beginning to process--does he feel guilty to still breathe?

in college one of my fellow students was a gentleman about ten years my senior. i can't remember his name now, but i remember that he was a quiet, quiet soul. quiet in humor, quiet in contemplation. just quiet. his face did not bespeak silence--you know some people, with their animated features, the way they look on the verge of mischief or great thoughts. that was this man.

i asked someone, one day, if he was okay; i didn't know him well enough to touch his shoulder as i would a friend and offer support. he just looked bereft, or lost, adrift in thoughts.

he was in a bus crash, in south america somewhere. like peru, i was told. out of the eighty-some people on the bus, he was the only one who lived. he's been different ever since.

you cannot experience these things--this disastrous type of event--without being changed. the heat melts your mentality like lake ice in spring: the middle buckles, and all the waves push it up onto the shore, jagged until it trickles back into the lake.

i think of the blessed many who count each day as a day of luck, for having missed the subway or seen the dentist or buttoned their six-year-old's jacket instead of showing up to work right away. or those who called in sick, or late, whatever their reason.

i consider how early i must rise, tomorrow, to begin my day. i cannot know what tomorrow holds. it probably will be the same menu as friday, as thursday, as last week and month and year, crowned with a gray cubicle.

those whose lives were lost, i remember you. but today, i raise my glass to you, you survivors. your existence reminds me daily to be grateful for the bumps and potholes in life, the endless jostling. i will be quiet, like my quiet college compatriot, and remember how glad i am to be.

just be.

once upon a time...

when i was in college, i came home the first year over christmas break and promptly got sick. i think it was something about finally having time to rest, and being completely exhausted.

i think of those videos on the Discovery channel, where they sedate the lion and then let him loose later, stumbling around and finally dashing away. it's got to be tiring.

at any rate, i flopped down on the couch one night. my mother said, "kim, are you okay?"

my reply? this is lovely: "She's tired, she said."

as if i was narrating my own life, not only that but in the third person. i didn't use "i." i used "she."

***

once upon a time i wrote a poem. it was something that spilled out of me after corey died. i'd have to go looking for it, but in summation it was like this:

my sound is wind
my color is gray
my name is lucy
and i feel sorry for kim.

i took that in to one of my professors, who read it and even now, years later, i can remember the look on his face. "you're distancing yourself," he said. i remember feeling a profound sense of comfort, just knowing that someone else could see my location, even if i was still there, alone.

***

dan's been writing about being the star in his own movie, and how he doesn't feel like he ever has been. the idea sprouted after i was paging through "the four agreements," a book that has some good ideas but wanders too much for me. i kept thinking that i'd read the page already, only to peek back and find that the author was reiterating what he'd just said two pages ago.

anyway, the author posited that perhaps everyone's lives were their own movies. i do agree with parts of that statement--your movie is what you are seeing. your eyes are the cameras.

but if that is the case, if you are looking out and watching the film run through reel, then you are never the star of your movie.

you're the narrator of "a" movie. is it your movie? only insomuch as you feel the need to narrate it.

i'm a pretty word-based individual. i do my best thinking on paper, or in this case, virtually. i find it difficult to speak sensibly about things, because as i speak i lose direction, and before you know it, you've sprayed water all over the kitchen, and not just at the cake pan in your hands.

sitting down and writing, i can focus, for a while, and it's more personal to me than talking. or perhaps it's because in writing i don't have to miss words with my bum deaf ear. (;

***

anyway, back to my narrative.

i think a lot of the time, people don't feel like they're even narrating their own movie. you dance to the beat of your parents' drum, you try to blend in with the herd of children at school, you walk between the lines across the street, as if those lines are going to save you from that chance horrible driver.

the other people in your life, the ones who walk on and off the set, become the stars. you're relegated to cleaning up after them, supporting their shoulders, wiping tears and feeding and loving them.

you never know, narrating your own tawdry tale, if they feel the same way as you. you don't know how much of a star you are in their movie; just as they probably will never know about the Oscar nod you gave them, in yours.

***

once upon a time, there was a girl, sitting at her keyboard, typing. she listened to the clack of her fingers on the keys, the softer thud of her thumb hitting the space bar, and the pause as her brain caught up with her fingers, and tried once more to lead the dance.

speaking of serendipity...

speaking of serendipity
it's nearly labor day
and i feel as if i am actually
laboring
this year
just to make it to friday.

perhaps it's not serendipity
perhaps it's just ironic
a weekend reserved for picnics and gatherings
is the three days that i would like to hole up
and be
alone

this week has been rough
serendipity played its little games
filtering emotions like coffee--
dark, rich, moist.
i want to curl up in the loveliness of the word
but i'm reminded again and again
that it can go
either way.

the olive branch of peice of my mind.

so you know those emails that get forwarded all the time, about politics or religion or whatever the flavor of the week has been? last week on thursday i got an email forward from one of my aunts. it was labeled: Allah or Jesus?

the email went on about a christian minister who was privy to a talk from a muslim imam. the imam, when questioned, apparently said that muslims view americans as infidels.

it's an email that i usually would just go for the Delete key on, as quickly as possible. but this time i read it, and a growing intolerance blossomed.

so instead of deleting it, i replied.

my argument was first that you cannot generalize all muslims, just as you cannot generalize all christians. labelling and generalizing are sad paths to destruction.

my second argument was that the lines that separate are far fewer than the ones that unite. the god of abraham is the christian God. the god of abraham is yaweh, jehovah, eloh, allah.

he's the same entity. and i'm sure he's laughing his ass off somewhere at this entire debate. or at least smirking. i know i wouldn't be able to help it.

anyway, my email was countered with an email that stated that in her neighborhood, my aunt has three (yes a whole THREE) muslim families, and they believe that my aunt and the neighborhood at large are infidels. they apparently look down their noses in scorn at the christians.

personally, i have a difficult time believing that these parents would willingly raise their children in an area peopled with the Bad Guys if they believed such.

but that might just be me.

***

at the end of her email, my aunt said: "Allah or Jesus, Kim? I know my choice is simple."

it comes down to faith, dan said, and you can't argue with faith.

and that part at least is true. part of my argument was based on discussions i'd had with my muslim coworker, dilshad, who was frankly appalled that the american public grouped all muslims in the same terrorist family, despite the fact that the Qur'an does not support or encourage such activity. in fact, the actual dictate in their holy book is that to kill one human is to kill all humans, and to help one is to help all.

the thing that got me, that i keep going back to, is when my aunt said in the same email that perhaps the dilshads of the world would be able to educate the muslims about american culture.

i so badly wanted to return fire: dilshad IS american. perhaps you ought to take a lesson from her, instead.

***

when i was a kid i was always afraid of the monster under the bed. it wasn't even so much the monster; it was the shadow, the idea of lurking darkness, the unknown. for the same reason i never jumped off a boat and swam in the middle of lakes--the murky bottom was reaching up, in my imagination, to grasp a toe and gently drag me under dim weeds.

i see my aunt in this same way. i see her lack of compassion, fueled by imagination and lack of understanding, stretching forth a hand and tugging her away. i see that the monster under the bed, the one that switches our "terror alert" from level to another is that self same monster.

i think of my own family tree, stretching back across the ocean. my family is here, i am an american, because somewhere back in time, some little genetic coding urged my family west. i think of the irish in history, the oppression and the derision. the slurs for my italian grandfathers.

in my aunt i see hypocracy--the fact that she is a child of immigrants who themselves had to stand up to the accusations she spews.

you would think, in a country based on cultural differences and the freedom of religion, that there would be more compassion for your neighbor, who has climbed the same ladder.

meditations on polyester fiber

o, soft as astroturf beneath my toes
i'd like to know where the softness goes
is it swept away in the rush of feet
or deposited via cat-parcel so neat?

when does malleable concrete emerge from plush,
the seemingly indestructible foot-cradling lush
of fibers woven like a beige throw of grass
capable of cradling both heel and ass--

can it be proven, that optimum time
when everything falls away from sublime
and becomes spotty, blotched and stained
over and over and over and once more again?

i suppose it's just fate. the way you rake leaves.
the way farmers bushel autumn barley in sheaves.
so seasons, they pass, and i hope beyond hope
that the steam cleaner will create miracles with soap.

***

darin and cathy were kind enough to offer use of their really nifty steam cleaner so that i could steam clean the carpets tomorrow. it's not that i figure it'll last a long time; not by a long shot. i'm certain that just like washing your car brings certain rain showers, cleaning my carpet will mean that the cats will find new levels of regurgitation, never before seen in the feline realm.

anyway, i'll be glad when it's done. tomorrow is my day off for the month, and i'm looking forward to it. i do realize that this steam cleaning is going to take longer than i figure. most things happen that way when your mind skips around like mine does--time folds in on itself. i am a black hole in motion.

so yeah. that's my Big Day Off. i know, keep the excitement to yourself. (; i also need to run some errands, so i'm hoping to get on the bandwagon early and get this done so that i can move on from cleaning the house and into something else.

like ironing.

i suddenly feel like i'm channelling doris day. *sigh* must be middle age, settling in for the long haul.

in place of a witty title...

i'm feeling a bit out of steam. perhaps that's because it's been a long week again, already. i'm ready for the weekend and it's only midweek. well, past midweek, at this point, being wednesday night and all.

still struggling with a sinus infection, still trying to sleep for more than 6 hours a night. still tired during the day and still worshipping at the altar of Coffeemate Fat Free Hazelnut Creamer. it honestly is why i get up some mornings.

okay, not the whole reason. but part of it.

i'm just feeling...mired again. when i was a kid i remember my mom gave us some old containers to play with--peanut butter tubs, these metal Schwans ice cream tins, and the gallon size plastic ice cream containers. i remember trotting around the basement, one foot in an empty Blue Moon flavor and one in Fudge Ripple.

which is where i feel i'm at, right now. skidding about on the carpeting in the basement, 8 years old and unaware of the world at large.

my friend rene was down on monday; i met her and her daughter at the moa and we romped around until we were tired and kendall was still trucking. back to my house, where henry was horrified to realize that there was indeed someone on the planet with more energy than him. he spent most of the night slinking around, trying to avoid being scooped up by tiny arms and a roar of blonde energy.

i suppose that's what it's like, to be seven.

i often wish i could go back to being a kid; i think that's the trope i loop through, every once in a while. the mobius strip of memory and future, rolling around and around. i would only want to be a kid in the summer, at home, with my mom and siblings--i was quite bullied as a kid, and hated school for the most part.

that is when i liked being a kid--roaming around the park, building forts underneath giant pines, climbing up the crab apple trees, gathering acorns and trying to put robin eggs back in their nest.

those are the glossy pages of my memory. i'm sure if i went back and relived those days now it would seem tedious, and i'd refresh the memory of longing for adulthood.

i've been thinking alot about kids lately. perhaps it's the ol' biological ticker. but thinking about kids makes me remember being a kid. perhaps that's from where my lagging attitude springs--i'm in a holding pattern, reliving and letting go.

i'm not going to get to go back, not going to be that young again.

when we met in the mall, kendall threw herself--literally threw her little body--into my arms. i caught her and hugged her close, remembering that i met her while she was in utero. i remembered that childhood indestructibility--the knowledge that if you tossed yourself at someone, they would catch you.

when does that flee? that sensation of just living life to live, with no thought of tomorrow. is it when you get your first invoice for electric heat? is it when you realize that a lot of the time, no one is there to catch you? is there a day, or an hour, a second when i could pinpoint my innocence falling to earth?

or is it a slow loss, this gradual slope to middle age, when you realize that there is no going back, when that finally sinks in. i'm sure i've considered that before--my own mortality--but something about friends having babies and children growing like crabgrass has a few cells in the noggin fixated on where i'm at, and what i'm doing.

i am the hamster on the wheel, running. the wheel squeaks and i continue. the wheel groans and i dash onward. where am i going? when will i arrive? am i running for a reason, or just running to fill my time?

i'm not feeling particularly depressed right now. just out of sorts, not quite in place. i've come un-moored. i think the reality for me is in remembering that childhood--where it is fine and dandy to drift about from time to time, to lose yourself and toss your self to the winds, regardless of if there is someone there to catch you.

it's like fat has momentum.

i've been overweight most of my life. i can't remember a time anymore when i was happy with my body. there are times that i'm glad of my eye color, or my hair color, or the shape of my feet. but for the most part, my body is just terrain that's difficult to camoflauge.

i don't write about this...well, ever. for the most part i live in blissful ignorance--i'm so used to the body that i don't notice any more. it's like walking with a limp, and after time wondering why you are limping, and not remembering...but still limping anyway.

i've tried watching what i eat--which does help. and exercise--which helps a lot, both physically and mentally. i just have such a difficult time sticking to any kind of regimen.

a few years ago i started taking vitamins, every morning. a nice centrum way to start the day, just in case i was eating for shit. (which happens often in kimland, where you get distracted before you can eat, and then realize later you're so hungry that you'll eat anything) they say that after 21 days, if you do something the same every day, you develop a habit.

for a while i thought this was true. and then one morning i missed taking my vitamin. and after that i didn't take one again.

i thought about it months and months later, when i was talking to my sister. we figured out that we'd both done the same thing, around the same time: put the vitamin bottle next to our clock, so that when we sat up and turned off the alarm, we would just take the pill. however we both did the same thing--after a few months, missed and just never picked it up again.

is it my memory, losing the middle parts of the bridge, unable to continue in a straight line?

yesterday i took a walk, before movie night with dan. i walked until i was sweaty and red-faced. as i walked it came to me that there were many things that i could say that i didn't remember when it started, or i couldn't remember a day when... (for example, i can't remember a day that i haven't eaten one piece of chocolate) i realized that i cannot say that i can't remember a day on which i was healthy.

which is scary. i don't want to have a zipper scar on my chest, between breasts, like my father's bypass scar. i don't want to always take a hypertension pill. but then why is it so hard to change?

i think part of it is comfort.

when i feel sad, i sink into those things i know will bring me comfort--my pillow, a familiar book, a movie, curling up with my cats, cleaning something. i hide in those things.

if i apply this thought to my body, suddenly it becomes clear--i am hiding. behind one gigantic fat cell.

when i think of it like that, it seems silly. beyond silly. well into ridiculous. i see me, the fat me, hiding behind that one tiny cell. which in my mind i can see as huge. it's the size of the world. i've hidden behind it for years. for most of my life.

but the cell isn't opaque. it isn't solid. it's clear. you can see me, behind it, looking out at the world.

i wouldn't know how to clothe a thin body, my subconcious shouts. what kind of bra would i wear, if i didn't have the boobs i do? what if i go too far, what if i get too thin? what if i try and nothing happens? what if i just stay fat?

years ago i was really, really healthy for a good stretch of time. i lost weight. i felt better. i wasn't depressed as often, and i wanted to do things.

thus my conclusion: the more baggage i schlep around in the form of extra weight, the less i feel like moving. it's like fat has momentum.

anyway, when i was eating better and exercising more, i used to visualize this body as if it were a candle. the longer i burned, the more wax poured off of me. i pictured the weight sliding off my bones, pooling on the ground. i pictured walking away from that weight, leaving behind something the size of michelle pfeiffer, a pile of liquid that i no longer needed.

***

i see this shield that's sheltered
my soul, the comfort
the knowledge of
being
solid.

i relate to earth in a way
you can never imagine--dense,
molten core, compressed and bright,
it's burning inside me, somewhere
you can't see
i've hidden it so successfully
that stephen hawking would need
another lifetime to create
that equation and that theory.

i know the edges of this self
this body that i propel
and fuel, this flesh i wash
and perfume.

it is simpler to hide
than it is to peer over the counter
and into the mirror
and know
know to your very cells
that the body looking back
is your own

for so long it's been missing
a lost dog, reclaimed, the watch found
under the bed
i don't have to sit and affirm--
"I love my arms. I love my calves. I love my ass."
in the end, i just have to
accept that all these bits
are
mine

aural serendipity

i don't often pick up new music because i don't hear too darn well. in fact i ought to be that old lady in the chair, with the giant cone held up to her ear. i'm partially deaf, and if you know me well enough, you stay on my right hand side.

if you don't know me that well, you'll probably stumble at some point when i dash around to your left, to make sure i can hear what you're saying. i do read lips, but not well enough to get by entirely on that alone. it's all about positioning myself; in the good times when i'm not unhappy to be deaf, i think of it as a sunflower just getting in the way of the rays, turning and twisting.

at other times, when i'm laughing at a joke i can't hear, or sitting at the wrong end of a table confounded by the conversation, it's a burden, one that i don't want to carry.

in the scheme of things, it's a pretty small burden--all my limbs work, my eyesight is fine, etc. it's just this bum ear.

anyway, at work, the gal to might right (the good side) turns on her radio every day. i can hear the words if the singer is the right pitch; most of the time i just tune it out, because i'm on the phone or concentrating on something else entirely. lately there's a song that's played over and over and all i can hear is the chorus: just breathe.

who is the singer? what does the rest of the song sound like? the deaf girl knoweth naught.

last saturday i met my sister downtown for a concert. she's pressing me to get a myspace account, because she has one and is addicted to them. while waiting between bands i glance at the up and coming posters--who's travelling through. one name sounds interesting.

so a few days later when i finally give in and set up my my space account, i look up the name. the song playing on the account is not familiar; i click on the next one available.

and there it is--just breathe.

so yesterday the deaf girl bought a cd. listened to it for a good three hours last night. and i really, really like it. the words are well wrought, and anna nalick's voice is a little smoky, a little husky, a little young. there's something warm about it that appeals to me in the same way that norah jones did, years ago.

strange turns take you to where you need to be. this isn't my normal listening music--generally i like heavier rock, and recently i just keep listening to the same Disturbed cd over and over. so it was time for something new, i suppose. it's just strange the path that you can see, once you have arrived at some stopping point on the journey.

***
Breathe (2 am) -- Anna Nalick, off "Wreck of the Day"

2 AM and she calls me 'cause I'm still awake,
"Can you help me unravel my latest mistake?,
I don't love him. Winter just wasn't my season"
Yeah we walk through the doors, so accusing their eyes
Like they have any right at all to criticize,
Hypocrites. You're all here for the very same reason

'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button, girl.
So cradle your head in your hands
And breathe... just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe

May he turn 21 on the base at Fort Bliss
"Just a day" he said down to the flask in his fist,
"Ain't been sober, since maybe October of last year."
Here in town you can tell he's been down for a while,
But, my God, it's so beautiful when the boy smiles,
Wanna hold him. Maybe I'll just sing about it.

Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable,
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table.
No one can find the rewind button, boys,
So cradle your head in your hands,
And breathe... just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe

There's a light at each end of this tunnel,
You shout 'cause you're just as far in as you'll ever be out
And these mistakes you've made, you'll just make them again
If you only try turning around.

2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to

But you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable,
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button now
Sing it if you understand.
and breathe, just breathe
woah breathe, just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe.

running in place

so tuesday was my last appointment with my psychologist, helene. i'm terribly bummed that she's moving. at the same time, i feel like i'm entering some kind of graduate area in which i may be able to not see a therapist all the time.

that being said, i already have another one lined up. just need to find time to call my insurance provider and make sure that she's covered, even tho it says she is on the site. oh well.

there's this ongoing list of shit that i have to get done--around the house, with bills, you name it. living just as an adult is a freaking full time job--without the regular nine to five cubeland drudge. it's invoices for your heat, credits and debits, paperwork and filing and stamps and envelope licking.

i need an assistant.

course the job description would suck, and i doubt that i'd want it, myself.

"amateur thirty-year-old looking for professional assistant to organize, de-clutterize, and manage her life. must be willing to do dishes, vacuum the stairs, pay bills online, clip coupons, and clean out the litterbox as needed. other duties may apply, including pedicures, facials, general primping in the morning prior to work, and ironing. this is a volunteer position. if you are interested, please call...blah blah blah..."

yeah, sign me up for that one.

when i was a kid my sisters and i all shared a room--the three of us, pretending we were in college and in a dorm room all at the same time. you grow up and find out that you actually can't live with your sisters anymore, not because of the miles between you but because of the time between you--the time spent with other friends, growing up in your own ways.

my sisters and i are like three shrubs at the nursery. we're all marked with the same tag. but we're all different shapes, too. i'm short and round, my sister is tall and lovely, and another is slender and svelte. we all belong in different places--perhaps i'm for under a window, beth is for near the stairs, and sara's for sitting by a doorway, framing the height.

or something like that. it's been a long week, cut me some slack.

anyway, i think back on those days and i wish that it could be as easy as we dreamed--living together, going out dancing, sharing all our secrets between us. the bond is still strong--apparently mitochondrial dna is a much more solid glue than anything else. i don't usually see men figuring these things out on their own, let alone being able to voice them.

last night we went out to dinner for craig's birthday, at ichiban's, a japanese steakhouse downtown minneapolis. dan and i took the train; it was cheaper and easier--no battling traffic or finding a parking space. the dinner was a great deal of fun, although a bit pricier than i'd normally imagine spending. afterwards we walked back to the train, as the rain pattered down, and then got on the train and meandered home.

sitting here making a mental list of the stuff to be done around the house, i think of how i would like to be able to curl up with a cup of cocoa with my sisters, and share the story of such a lovely night--holding hands in the rain, laughing at the teppanyaki chef, drinking ice cold chilled sake. it's something that i will always remember.

nowdays it's harder to share things with my sisters. i think it's that pool of unknown time between us, the fact that we are shaped so differently after all these years. sometimes i feel as though i have run in place--that i am still running in place--being the oldest, wanting to help them, protect them, pick them up.

at night, sleeping in the same room as children, we shared the same air. we woke up talking to each other in our sleep. when i got to college and slept alone in the room for the first time, i slept poorly, waking often without the reassuring hum of siblings. i suppose that is where i would find that same childhood solace again, sleeping dark and formless.

it makes me wonder if they also feel that same marathon, neverending adulthood, the scales balanced?

i feel like karma tonight.

today has been a mishmash of memory and future.

i had to stop at work this morning and actually work for a few hours--which wasn't bad, and will get me ahead and reduce stress next week. both of which i can appreciate. on the way home, i hit some garage sales for my dear friend cathy, who's expecting right around my mom's birthday in november. i got a lot of great baby stuff, including toys and a few clothes and books. and my fave buy: a graco pack and play crib, used very little, for only $20! to give you an idea of my elation: usually those sell for about 70-90 clamshells.

being the bargain hunter that i am, it was a warm fuzzy. thinking of the future of this little one, whose nose looks just like its mommy's, even in utero.

at the same time, this morning was a meditation on the past. my youngest sister and i were talking about friends whose relationships were taking unexpected dips and sways--spouses unsure of their feelings, or feeling things for someone other than their intended.

i never thought that i would be entirely glad about discovering what i did last summer. at the same time, if i had not explored this territory, the dark parts of my soul and the forgotten, dusty arena of my relationship withdan, i would not be where i am: learning.

i'd be stuck with one foot in the mud and the other in a solidifying vat of cement.

i admit, i have a long way to go. i'm still re-imagining my self, and my role in kim and dan, inc. but my eyes are more open now; i'm not deluding myself, and when and if i drift into excuses, i can discuss it openly.

when i was a kid, about 5 or 6, my sister and i had a little table. it was from the seventies, so the legs were metal and the top was metal. the legs had little white rubber feet on them, but this was no lightweight plastic thing that kids have nowadays. we decided to move the table; halfway across the room, my sister dropped her side, and it fell on my right foot, second toe in from my big toe.

when i look at that toe now, if the nail is unpainted, i can see the fissure from back then. whatever i spliced apart healed up, but it grows with a line down the middle of my nail, something you can see and feel, if you run your finger over it.

the toe works just dandy--it's not like i lost feeling in it or anything like that. it just looks strange, unpolished. it doesn't look like all the other toenails.

whenever i remember that toe it brings back a twenty-five year old memory of pain--so dim that i can barely remember it. but i've stubbed toes since then, accidentally dropped other things on them, etc. i know how much it smarted then, and i know how much it would hurt now.

i don't think i learned the same things from the table that i obviously am learning from the unveiling of my mental state; toes cannot compare to feelings. but the idea is the same, if on smaller scale: i was careful after that to watch where my feet were, and learned to keep them out of the way whenever i could. i could warn others if i noticed that they were in danger, too.

i have that feeling now, looking back at last year. i think of what avenues have been torn up and are still under construction, the bridges that i am rebuilding. it takes time and patience, which is something i need to remember more often when i am cursing orange construction signs and the smell of hot tar. (;

anyway, i have all this information about living my own life. i thought it was something unique to me, something that someone could interpret and apply to their own life. but it also is something i can share, a lesson that is generally applicable. it's different--but everyone IS different.

the thing i guess i have learned is that while everyone has that toe that's a bit different, they still have the foot--they still understand the cause and the pain, the growth and the joy. those are things that are universal.

in a few months there'll be a new little body and mind in the world, a combination of darin and cathy, small and precious. that child has so far to go--i'm only part of the way through my journey, and i have come a long ways. i don't envy the pain of that still-sheltered life, but i envy the cocoon of safety that child enjoys now, and the joy that child will know in life, too.

my dad always says, "what goes around, comes around." i suppose it always will.

girlfriends and the space-time continuum

so a week ago we went out and watched the latest installment of plunder and dirty boys, pirates of the caribbean: dead man's chest. i loved the movie--it was a frolic, something fun and light and beautifully filmed. that and the boys are pretty easy on the eyes, if i do say so myself. YUM.

this weekend i got to see it again, and loved it just as much, and want next summer to be here NOW instead of...well, days away.

i keep thinking what a very long time that seems, one year. a turn around the sun, the earth has danced this dance for eons. to the rest of the universe it's probably a drop in the bucket, and moves by faster than i can blink in rain.

this weekend i got to see my girlfriends from the north, all former co-workers at the grocery store. all of us have since moved on into new positions, new places. time seems to stop when the four of us get together, and coalesce into a moment that stops and fudges on the record, just a blip.

it's not just distance that separates and joins people--i can drive anywhere and map out the mileage, and that does not change. it's still the same number of miles, if the crow flies or if i put tire to pavement, as it always has been. i feel blessed that i live in an age where it doesn't take more than a few hours to arrive up north and be welcomed into that group again, and make a new memory to sustain us on the miles between.

it's been two whole years since the summer of amanda's wedding--all the chaos and laughter on the canadian border, and the tears, too. impossible that time has moved so swiftly. stephen hawking postulates about black holes--the folding of time in on itself, to close the distance. sometimes i don't think that applies to space, insofar as space is usually considered as the conglomeration of stars and moons and galactic rickrack. i think that the black holes are more likely to occur between people--the closure of memory, sewn tight and broken and resewn.

when i get together with my friends, time no longer exists. the fact that we have been apart in distance that can be mapped and days that can be counted no longer matters--the distance is closed, the time removed, and we are all the same bodies that gathered once before, long ago.

how did it become us four people, a solid front, a net between? then again, how does the universe decide to create a star?

i can't remember when things gelled into place and simple became this way. i have other friends as dear, and other friends closer, siblings of blood and of heart, but these three are like their own small pocket of sanity for me.

one of my friends is in crisis now, has been for some time. the pocket that gathered around me in my time of need has gathered around her, in hers. i thought that perhaps it was something that could only contain one person at one time, that we were only strong enough to hold up one at a time as she stumbled. this weekend my reminder became that together we are far stronger, even with our own individual weaknesses, even if our weaknesses are all at the same time, than we are apart.

it is not only with this handful of women that i feel this net, reaching out in all directions. it is with everyone who has reached out a hand in my time of need, or to me in theirs. a great web extending over time and space. when i reach out my hand i write that theory of mr. hawkings', i prove that it is real.

there's no equation, nothing that is tangible, nothing that you can touch or see. can you prove love? is it just some chemicals, tossed together, or something more, something that can only be mapped by hands not yet born?

land of a thousand geeks...

...give or take a thousand.

i think there were actually about 2600 geeks all at a lovely and very patiently staffed Sheraton hotel last weekend in minneapolis. on the 2nd floor in a very serene room, were my fellow girly geeks, the Galactic Geishas House of Tea...and A.

yes, tongue in cheek. we all wore kimonos of various origin (mine was acquired hastily at Ragstock in the mall of america on thursday evening, and embellished with beads on thursday night...) my dear friend tish made her own and a few more for others attending(she's quite the seamstress, and does her own renaissance festival outfits too!) she also cooked fried rice and egg rolls, and asian cucumber salad, which was all just yummy.

for a few moments on friday and even saturday morning, before heading over, i was nervous--just a vague, persistent uneasiness. probably all the people--i'm a hermit a lot of the time, at heart. anyway dan asked me at some point if i was nervous and all of a sudden i realized that i wasn't nervous, not one drop.

why, you may ask, this sudden lack of nerves? perhaps it was the dawning of comprehension: i would be a girl, dressed up pretty and with tits and a brain to boot, in the land of a thousand male geeks.

i would be a goddess, for one shining brace of hours.

i'm not being egotistical here--i know what i look like, and for the most part, am terribly self-concious about my looks. but the hotel would be full of people who thought the same way i do: geeky. nerdy. and in the strangest of ways, i think that makes them more accepting than a church group.

anyone can hide in a crowd at the mall, or downtown. anyone can pull up their hood or shove their cap low to disguise features.

but at con, everyone is on display, or in various stages of presentation. it's like a living museum, an exhibit in which all bodies partake.

it didn't matter that i was not as kitted out as the man dressed as Willy Wonka, or did not have a wild, gravity-defying foot-high blue and green mohawk. the whole day was a blur of sights and sounds, tastes--bright and shiny, a kaleidescope of humanity.

for a while i tagged along with a few friends and checked out the dealer's room. we ended up in a panel discussion as it ended: asians and minorities in science fiction. we were only there for the last twenty minutes of the panel; but it was interesting to consider.

i enjoy science ficton because it bends the mind, and allows for imagination to bridge off on different pathways that perhaps alone you'd not consider. it's a springboard. science fiction blends things--it's the combination of human and robot, the fact that superman can fly, the faery folk with gossamer wings. all these things make science fiction a universal and yet so very individual clique.

in the panel, the discussion dissected and branched from asians as the minority to encompass the gay community, and then hearing impaired people. the discussion posited that every community shares culture in a way that another community can never comprehend--ie, only another half-deaf person could completely understand my corner of the world.

for the most part, my friends all belong to this universe of geeks--they all know what i'm talking about when i say "World of Warcraft," and the importance of dice and clipboards and sunday afternoons.

mainstream media struggles with topics that i think many sci-fi geeks have an innate and intimate knowledge--the feeling of being the minority. if you were a geek in grade school, you were the minority. even now, at work, when i explained what i was doing last weekend, people got a little smirk on their face: "oh, a science fiction convention. nice."

no one would have blinked twice if i said i was going to the Home and Garden Show.

anyway, the point that i'm coming to is this: last weekend was fun. and it was an eye opener for me--to understand more fully and appreciate more fully the friends that i do have, for their geeky world.

being a geek is wonderful. it allows you to revel in your knowledge, to flaunt your Klingon makeup and toast Wonder Woman as she skips down the hall. there was no one who was not accepted--for race, for creed, for thoughts, for costumes...or lack thereof. (;

perhaps that is the best of show--not the art pieces or the weaponry on display, not the party rooms in all their creative genius. it was the fact that no matter what form you were as you shuffled through a hotel, you were accepted just as you were.

in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, they say. in the land of a thousand geeks...well, cripes, anyone can be king, even if your name is Eleanor, you're 4'10" and you're wearing a t-shirt that says: "if you don't talk to your cat about catnip, who will?"

the few, the proud...the bra-less.

i've got a big chest. i'll be the first to admit it. it's not always one of my features of which i'm that terribly proud--without good support, they're just the same boobs with which every other female on the planet is blessed.

i'm glad they're a nice size, don't get me wrong, but i think at a certain level, it doesn't matter so much about size any longer, and more about...apparatus.

by that i mean exactly that: structure, form, something to keep the girls at bay.

last year in a fit of fashion pique i purchased a halter top. it's white with little red cherries and green stems all over it. it covers my middle and all that jazz, but it's something i'd have to wear with a strapless bra, which, in my size, is the equivalent of the Brooklyn Bridge, condensed and made of latex and snaps.

needless to say, it's somewhat uncomfortable.

my youngest sister said, well, just wear it without a bra. i rolled my eyes. riiiiiiiiight.

i can pinpoint the exact last time i went into public without a bra on--last year at about 6 am, wearing a t-shirt and a very, very baggy gray sweatshirt. i felt covered and i was so ill at that point that i just didn't give a shit.

today, however, i'm lucid. i'm awake. and about fifteen minutes ago, i decided that it was much, much to warm out today to strap myself into another contraption that keeps both flesh and heat carefully in line.

so i put on the halter top.

i'm still in the house. i'm not sure i can leave, like this, everything contained only by the ties behind my neck and the grace of god. gravity's not going to work with me.

so say some web-related prayers for me, i'm going to home depot. and i'm not going to add more padding.

living on the edge--just another day in the life of kim. (;

disaster is the spice of life. or was that variety?

i love my enchilada recipe; it brings back memories of a hot summer kitchen, my dear friend nathan and his boyfriend at the time, federico. federico was a chef in mexico city, and spoke very limited english, so nathan translated whole meal preparation, since we were in my kitchen.

it was an ongoing chatter--federico asking for a colander, nathan translating, me fetching. the kitchen was humid and sticky, full of the fresh snap of cilantro and mellow garlic.

it was the first time i'd used tomatillos--dried husks peeling off, we boiled them until green faded to yellow, and then tossed them in the blender with onions and serrano peppers. the resulting sauce was poured over two warmed corn tortillas full of steamed chicken, covered in sour cream and cheese and lettuce, and garnished with avocado.

the food was hot enough to leave your mouth tingling, your lips feeling flushed and swollen; cold coronas tasted divine.

i've made the recipe since that august many times. added too many peppers one time and it was nearly inedible.

last saturday night at spoon's house we made enchiladas--the kind you stuff and bake. she used flour tortillas, and a meat substitute called "quorn" that was so good you honestly could not tell the difference between that and chicken. i made the sauce; sarah stuffed the enchiladas. the resulting dish was delicious--flour shells curling around tasty filling, verdant sauce spilling onto the plate. lovely.

so last night i decided i would make the same for my lunches this week. i spent a good hour and a half in the kitchen, making the filling and sauce, boiling and chopping and blending. i rolled and stuffed, dumped sauce over the top and sprinkled with cheese. the pan was full and in my opinion, looked delicious.

what emerged from my oven later appeared tantalizing as well. the cheese had crisped and browned on top. i let it cool and then dug in, separating out amounts for lunches this week.

and that, my friends, is when my meal went from wonderful to FEMA qualified.

i didn't have the neat enchiladas of saturday evening; i had a mound of enchilada filling mixed with disintegrated corn tortilla.

today at lunch when i dumped the mixture onto my plate, it smelled just like that august dinner from years ago. i covered it in sour cream and lettuce. from the outside, it looked the same, too.
but when i dug into it, it did not taste quite the same.

it wasn't my ingredients--those were all the same. the difference was in the texture of the food concealed beneath toppings and cheese.

last year at this time i was still struggling with truths that i didn't want to face. all the ingredients--the people, the emotions--they were all things i had experienced before. but presented in a different light, they were raw and unsavory.

i think for a long time i garnished the truth so that it would be palatable, edible, you name it. i wanted it all to be the same. i didn't want to imagine that what i was removing from the oven was anything other than wonderful, was anything painful.

my lunch-shaped lump of enchiladas went in the garbage half way through today. i'll probably try the other lunches but i don't have my hopes up; i know now what lies beneath the greenery and dairy. i've got the option to chuck the whole batch, start over some other time. it's a waste of money and time, true enough. and i'm struggling with that, small as it may be.

but the result doesn't have to be hidden. the result doesn't have to be the end result. i can change--my emotions, my path, my enchilada recipe. the change i made last night to my recipe didn't turn out quite as intended. i need to tinker with it.

make it better.

because glossing over the disaster that is my enchiladas isn't going to make them any tastier.