On a Break ...

Sun's long gone, but the air remembers the heat: heavy, sticky, hard on the lungs. Two kids on black and blue bikes, ball caps on sideways. Leaning against the wall in front of the A&W smoking cigarettes and staring at junkies as if memorizing the walk, the talk, the life ... for later ...

J shuffles by, bums a smoke, says his girlfriend's a bitch because she took his dope and sold his shoes for more when it was gone. His glasses are crooked and a month's worth of sleeping outside lingers in the air after he's gone. Used to be a mechanic, has a kid in Courtenay he pretends to visit when he's dope sick ...

... N is pulling her cart, her back is like a question mark and she wobbles back and forth like a dashboard puppy. Drunk. Pulls her gear through the front door: suitcase on a trolly, headscarf, torn dress, fuscia lipstick, leather shoes. She'll sit silently in a wathroom stall for at least 45 minutes before calling a Swiftsure taxi and climbing in it to take her ...

... Blonde woman, jean shorts, bikini top, ink scrolled delicately across her lower back. No shoes, packsack, tiny pink purse with make-up sticking out of the broken zipper. "Working." Say hello and she looks at me like she'd rather stick me than answer back. Avert eyes, kind of afraid: climbs into a pick-up truck with one of hundreds of faceless fucks who made her that way ...

... S limping away from G, who's shouting at him: "Fucking goof, I told you no middling, you piece of shit." G catches up, 1.5 feet taller, grabs S, slaps him: echo. S starts to cry, G pushes him down, walks away. S gets up, dusts off greasy jeans as if he's not been wearing them for two weeks, walks over. "Gotta quarter?" Hand it over, S says G's a pussy and offers to run to Co-op for me. "You'll hate yourself for ripping me off, S, so let's say no." He cries again for my mistrust but doesn't blame me. Whistles at a black Volkswagon, which slows down: he's laughing, gone ...

... Two girls, early 20s, jean skirt/lace skirt, tank top/t-shirt, flip-flops/plastic sandals: "Did you see Steve's face?" "No, what'd he say?" "He said she's a useless bitch, but I think he's fucking her." "Prick." "Who's playing at --"...

Here comes D, cheeks like pockets of death, hugs me then tells me to wash her off my clothes before I touch anything delicate. Hair fire engine red, lilac perfume, too many rings, finger tips black, cracked, broken. Used to give lectures at a recovery house and answer phones at a treatment centre you've probably heard of. Her teeth seem stuck together, smile frozen in place, as she asks questions about my life and doesn't listen for the answers. "Want a balloon?" I'm not sure how to answer so she says, "Oh. I thought I had a balloon." Looks around confused, embarassed, breaks a heel crossing the street ...

... Door opens, F falls out, pukes, wipes his mouth and asks if he can go back in for a tequila. I call him a taxi instead; he tells the driver to beat it. "I never come here, you know. I'm from Alberta." Pukes again. Came in three hours ago with a wad of cash, bought rounds for the house, more instant friends than hairs on his head. Now: sits down, pockets inside out and bare, alone in a doorway: friends on to someone new. S reappears, tries to fleece F for his cigarettes. I give S a look and he wanders off: F keeps his smokes ...

... Wide shouldered cowboy hat guy; frilly dress girl with squeaky voice. Walk up to the A&W drive-thru, shout orders at the orange and brown uniform behind the moveable plexi-glass. Car drives up, cowboy hat thumps on the hood. Girl giggles, grabs his balls and tells him she loves him. Guy abandons driver, who's about to get out and smash him. Cowboy hat and frilly dress shove tongues down each other's throats; orange and brown uniform waits patiently, brown bag and waxed cups in out-stretched hand ...

Break's over.

Glob of Blog

"My fingers are red and swollen from the cold,
I'm getting bold in my old age, so go ahead, try the door
It doesn't matter any more
I know the weak-hearted are stong-willed and we are being kept alive until we are killed
He's up there
The ice is
Clinking in his glass
He sends me little pieces of paper
I don't ask
I just empty
My pockets
And wait ... "

Everytime I open a new blog page that Ani DiFranco quote from her spoken word piece, "Up" comes into my head, though I don't know why. Maybe it's the candence, apparent only when performed, that sticks in my head, but why it comes out in blogging world is beyond me.

It's funny, this business of blogging. We begin because we feel the need / desire / curiousity to share ourselves with strangers, but ultimately create alter egos, hungry for little chunks of dismembered human persona. Yep, that's my name, that's my picture; yes, I'm really interested in ______ , no, I never wanted to ______ ... It's real but it's incomplete, and omission is guilty by default.

I am never going to talk about my most profound truths in this or any blog.
I am never going to tell any of you, in this or any blog, what makes me wake in the night gripped in horror.
I am never going to tell anyone about the things I have done that still hang over my head, nor will I share my greatest joys for fear of dibilitating them with words. At least not in this or any blog.
I am never going to post a picture of myself ill, hurt, crying, angry, or just barely awake.
I am never going to fill in any kind of searchable criteria that reveal anything about my height, weight, shoe size, sexual orientation, religion, ethnicity, or family of origin anywhere on the entire Internet, nevermind in this or any blog.

Is the story I tell of myself true, then? I continue to judge you all as I judge myself, choosing carefully what you might find interesting; what I feel safe enough to share. I create myself as I go, and what I create for this screen comes from me, and makes me too.

This chapter is over.

peace~

Ramble, ramble, sleep

I live in an urban jungle. Racoons scamper around under my car, staring at me like they can't wait to use their opposable thumbs to choke the shit out of me if I dare think about driving anywhere. They live under my car when it rains, which is handy since I tend to stay in when it does. Snails have invaded my recycling bags, which wasn't a big deal until they (the bags, not the snails) got tagged for having glass inside and I had to dump them out in the driveway and pick through socially conscious trash to find the offending babyfood jars. Four in total. Every morning I am greeted by a spider the size of a golf ball in my bathtub. I capture it and set it free outside, only to meet it's furry gaze again the next morning. This morning there was some big, giant, red and brown, spider-beetle-IslandofMorrow-type thing in there and I'm sorry to say, I couldn't handle it so I drowned it. My first act of intentional violence in about nine years. Everyone in this building has cats who seem to find more comfort in my backseat or in my living room than in their own overstuffed beds. That is, of course, unless they are chasing ferrets, which have also somehow invaded the neighbourhood. I hear there are ants upstairs. Can't wait to meet them.

***

A travelling evangelist knocked on my door this afternoon eight minutes after I put my son to bed for a nap. She was soaking wet, dripping from every surface, black strappy sandals, no coat. God held my tongue as she offered me an invitation to a religious conference, raising her voice just a little so I could hear her over the sound of Kaeden crying. "Thanks," I said, respecting her sense of obligation instead of innocently suggesting she go look under my car.

***

I feel safe with my head covered, so I'm wearing a toque with my jammies right now, which is what I do when I'm sad or grouchy, which is how I feel when my normally docile and friendly eight-month-old cries himself to sleep for a week straight, which makes me feel helpless, which makes me more grouchy, which makes me want to blog to feel better, which is an act made purely in the spirit of retaining my utopic bubble.

***

I bought apricots today for the first time ever. This is kind of funny because "apricot" has been the secret password between my sister and I for over twenty years, but I've never actually eaten one before. I wonder if she has? I finally found plums and peaches too, which bring delight to my day, so much so that I'm writing about it when really, it has no significance whatsoever to anyone but me. (That was painful.)

***

If anyone is interested, by "other" blog is at www.myspace.com/xziat but be prepared: I reserve it for purely meaningless meandering and save the important stuff for this one. So don't expect anything genius, as if you do already.

peace~

Cheater, Me

Okay, it's time to fess up. I've been unfaithful. Instead of paying strict diligence to this happy lil' blog 'o' mine, I've been fooling around on myspace.com, creating another blog. No, don't cry -- I'll make it right. I promise. I actually signed up over there because I have created a myspace for my work, and I wanted to make myself a profile in order to make my work account feel more at home by adding myself as a friend. As it turns out, there's a lot of action over there and although I meant for my diversion to be a temporary, meaningless, but immediately gratifying romp, I find I just ... can't ... pull away ...

So, I hope this doesn't put strain on our relationship. I mean, you could always join in the fun if you really wanted to ...

I just got home from Edmonton. Went to see my sistah and her snuggle bum, and to flail around in the West Edmonton Mall, just so I could say that I did. I thought that wrapping my head around the idea of a shopping center big enough to house a roller coaster would definitely be worth the trauma of being bombarded with three billion ad-like store signs, and it was. My favourite part was the sea lions. Even though I didn't actually see them, just knowing they were there was comforting. Yay, memories of BC!

My sister's dog, Hanna, and I have a lot in common. We are both snuggly, a little akward around people we really love, and appreciate the charm in a good, solid nap. I'm also not sure who looks more like a human ... it's kind of creepy in a loving, intriguing kind of way. I think Hanna knows a lot about the meaning of life, and that she is quietly seeking a modest way to share her gift with the world.

peace~

A List

Things I Have Done While Carrying A Baby On My Back:

1. Walked eight miles.
2. Painted a house.
3. Painted a bar.
4. Painted my toenails.
5. Put on make-up.
6. Gone to a job interview.
7. Conducted job interviews.
8. Packed and unloaded the entire contents of my house. Twice.
9. Attended a flamenco rock concert.
10. Performed in a flamenco rock concert. Just kidding.
11. Done the dishes.
12. Cooked spring rolls.
13. Visited a prison.
14. Swam laps.
15. Attended a poetry reading.
16. Attended class.
17. Attended to a bleeding junkie.
18. Carried groceries home.
19. Cleaned three houses.
20. Wrote seventeen newspaper articles and half a dozen blog entries.

I love being a momma.

peace~

Haiku

Silvery fishes
Silent in watered darkness
Stewie will catch them.

~For my good pal Stewie, a semi-retired fisherman.

Gratitude

My house looks more and more like me every day. Things are finding their way into the little corners and culverts of my various rooms, finding their way and making those spaces their own. I always guage my level of progress in a new space by the status and location of my tool kit. At the moment, it is sitting on a chair, tucked beneath my dining room table, with the lid half on. Translated this means I am not finished with it or the house, so it's out, but I'm getting there and not using tools all day long, so it's kind of tucked away. Once it is nestled comfortably in the storage space, lid snugly secured, I'll know I am finally at peace.

I learned something important today about single parenting. I was watching a woman angry with her ex-husband about his emotional unavailibility remind him mercilessly of his past transgressions. It was interesting because I feel her pain: I know how the joy of special firsts is squashed by the lonliness of no one to share them with. I understand the frustration of someone else putting your child to bed because you have to work. I have carried at once the baby, the groceries, the mail, the coffee, and the car seat, then dropped the car keys. I have paced for miles; I have cried in the night.

You only know these things when you have children of your own, so now, the children only see her anger and they don't understand it. She may have always been there, but she didn't own her aloneness, and being present in anger isn't enough. Today, this woman's children see only the kindness of a father trying to make up for his loss and the cruelty of a woman trying to escape the darkness within her. Do you see my lesson in this?

I have a lot of gratitude today for my son, my health, my home, and my independence. The kitchen I missed beyond belief is sparkling in the dim light of the oven lamp and the baby is sleeping perfectly in my room. I have been eating fresh fruit and buttery croissants all day long, marking my return to normalcy as my cycle has returned. It was a lovely holiday, but thank goodness I'm a woman again.

My commitment for today is to stop writing and speaking in cliches. I hope I make it.

peace~

Strawberries in my Golden Grahams

I moved. Again. Just settling in to my new place, which I love. It is a two bedroom plus storage space in a house with two other suites. Technically it's a ground level apartment, but my bedroom is underground due to a creative sloping of the front yard. I've painted it warm, yummy colours, which, incidentally and without intention, match perfectly with the hair and complexions of all my favourite people.

I was reading a daily affirmation by one of my heroes, Melodie Beattie, in which she suggests the idea that things happen too slowly, too quickly, at the wrong time, or whatever is an illusion. Timing is perfect, says Melodie. With this in mind, I say, the place from which I just moved and all the chaos and heartbreak generated there was exactly where I needed to be at the time, because it led me here.

The neighbourhood is interesting. There's a park a block away and a primary school that I will not send Kaeden to, but is nice to have around anyway. There is the Typical of Nanaimo Token Crack Shack two doors down, which is okay since it makes for delightful evening entertainment in case the satellite ever goes down. That's the other thing: the rent includes heat, hydro, laundry, and ... wait ... satellite TV. I won't get into a big schpeal about the evils of TV; it's nice to have for babysitters and for myself when I'm in the mood for a movie.

I can walk downtown from here in about sixteen minutes. I haven't tried it, but I'll bet Kaeden's grandparents are about the same distance walk in the other direction, and there is a store close enough to walk to in case I ever have a burning desire for candy worms or a tabloid newspaper. Across the street is a guy who has been cutting down and into pieces the hugest tree in the city (just a phrase; don't call the historical society to fact check) for about a week. In the dark the twisted, masticated trunk looks like a medium-sized elephant.

Upstairs is a girl I used to work with and her boyfriend. They are extremely cool and like to listen to death metal. I don't know a lot about this kind of music, but I'm looking forward to learning. They've invited me to let Kaeden play in thier part of the yard one day, and that sounds good because they have a nice garden. In back is a woman who rides a moped and is equally pleasurable to live attached to. She cares a lot about this house, I can tell, and is constantly giving me little tips on how to settle in with ease. For example, she suggested I not park so close to the road because people use our driveway for a turnabout and might take my car out. Also, she warned me about leaving things outside, in light of our twitchy neighbours two doors down. In all, I am in a good place, surrounded by good people, and I am going to stop using the word "good" now because I'm reminding myself of Martha Stewart.

All right then. Typing makes me tired for some reason. I've finished my cereal and am going to take one last look around for a little bag of screws I've been searching for since seven o'clock, then maybe head to sleep.

The night is just another way to experience day.

peace~

Twins

Well, now ... don't I look like I haven't slept a full night's rest in seven months. Wait a minute ...

As Kaeden gets older, we look more alike. I'm told babies are meant to look like their dads when they're born because in the wild, if a baby animal doesn't look like its dad at birth, Dad will eat it.

All the male members of Kaeden's dad's family have stopped licking their lips when we come over, so I assume the coast is clear. Thank goodness. That was close.

Mini and I are on a mission to find a copy of William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch. All seven of Vancouver Island Regional Library's copies are missing, and the used book store guy laughed at me when I suggested he may be able to find a copy or even keep one on the shelf for more than thirty seconds. Little do I know about cult books, I guess.

[editor's note: for the sake of my christian readership, let it be clarified that "cult" in this context is meant to denote a book popularized by its obscurity and lack of reason, so much so that all seven of one Island's copies are stolen, and does not refer to a book about people to have group sex with antelope while burning images of mao tse tung into the flesh of their asses. thanks.]

As much as I hate the thought of it, I am officially part of the work force once again. I swore I'd stay off for a year, but the bills are piling up and it's starting to make me want to vomit. So, barring divine intervention, I will reclaim by Beer Slinger's Brownie Badge on Wednesday from six-til-close. *Sigh* I'm quite crushed about it, actually, because I don't want to miss a single minute of Kaeden's growing up, or at least babyhood. I suppose that's just the way it goes and I should get over myself; it's just hard, is all. I am taking pleasure in the fact that I will only work 2-3 shifts per week, and that my EI benefits still go until July. Perhaps I can find work where babies are welcome in the meantime.

Alright then, speaking of babies and working moms, it's time for me to pump. I feel like I should be mooing while I do it.

Be safe, speak the truth, and if you can't pronounce "anonimity," just say "broccoli."

Stop it.

Here it comes.
Cosmic repetition,
New order confusion,
Karmic retribution.

Taking
Making
Breaking

Me.

Like waves.
Omnipotent gifting,
Transcendental haunting,
Inner evil boiling.

Poring
Goring
Luring

Me.

Take it away.
Prophetic selfism,
Lethargic deflectism,
Indifferent survivalism.

Downing
Drowning
Clowning

Me.

Abjugation

How do I explain, in 2500 words or less, how power is abjucated, never taken away? When looking at a bunch of street kids and how they are treated by the police, the government, the public, and other such "good guys" it's hard to make the case that the kids have simply handed over their power without force or coercion. That is my assignment for today. Nine pages, double spaced, 2.5'' margins, please. I'm all over it.

Besides staying up late rotting my stomache lining with coffee, extra cream, this day has been a good one. I had a long, dreamy, steamy bubble bath while my roomies watched the baby. It was amazing and as I frolicked happily in vanilla-honey goodness, I had for a tiny moment a glimpse of life before motherhood. Strangely, I had no feeling of nostalgia or longing for what was; I seem to fit sharing my life with another human quite nicely. But really ... look above and tell me if you blame me.

My new place is fabulous. I like the company, the space, the yard, the view of the mountain ... I even like the thumps and bumps coming from all over the house. Makes me feel safe and stimulates my chronic Small Town Syndrome, symptoms of which include ear straining, eye popping, and neck twisting to find out what's going on with all people, in all places, at all times. I took a walk downtown today in the ghetto and felt quite at home. Every second person on the street was someone who had touched my life at some point over the past 1.5 years -- at work, in volunteering, at school, rolling in their own vomit below my bedroom window -- it's nice to be back.

Enough shinannigans. I've got a paper to write. Live free and eat asparagus.

Peace.

Not So Fast!

Hi, Kiddies. I'll bet some of the less hopeful thought I'd abandoned my lovely new blog in favour of something more trendy and enticing like wearing thong underwear with low-rise pants. Not a chance. Truth be known, my laptop has gone to the Great Electronic Heap in the Sky. Also, I just moved, so connecting to the Internet meant crawling under boxes of stale cereal and oven cleaner to get to the modem. Anyhow, here I am, safe and blogger-happy sound.

I am enjoying watching my new digs come together, although a slightly melancholic yearning for my church of solitude in the woods still abounds. I realize now how much I enjoyed my alone time. Not that I have any gripe with my roomies - who are great - I just really loved the quiet, the bunnies, the darkness, the lonliness. Things are different now: more active, more cars, more unidentified midnight thumps. It's new and old and interesting and familiar all at once. I think once my things are all put away and the carport (currently overrun with the World's Largest Supply of Abandoned Cardboard) is clean, I will settle in with a piping hot green tea and a good cry for the old and the new. I'm funny that way.

So it's Super Bowl today. Or, it was. All that fuss and it's over in a few short hours. It's a lot like Christmas that way, except no one feels inclined to buy plastic trinkets for people they don't like in order to commemorate a football game appropriately. Sometimes I wish I understood the game; other times I figure it's just as well. Does the world really need another obnoxious, over-caffinated sports junkie obsessing over grown men in tights fighting over a dead pig? I think not. Besides, learning about football would cut into my hockey-watching time.

Well, as much as I am enjoying sharing my little tidbits with the cyber-world, I am exhausted and must go to bed. I did a Step Two today and there's something about risking emotional vulnerability in order to attempt to reverse thirty years of painstakingly developed negative behaviour coping mechanisms that simply wipes a girl out. Imagine that. That's all I've got for today. Walk tall and have mercy.

Peace.

Che Baby Che

It's late. For me, anyway. Kaeden has just fallen asleep and I am contemplating the richness of Japanese Sour Cherry Green Tea within the confines of a tiny pot and an even tinier mug. Makes me feel exotic to drink from a vessel smaller than my dog's paw.

I am moving soon. There is a duplex with five bedrooms, two bathrooms, two living rooms, one kitchen, a carport, and many doors in just the right places, simply dying for the arrival of my son, my friend and her daughter, and I. It's been a long time since I lived with anyone and I am looking forward to the company, but will also savour the privacy of the arrangement. I am going to miss my little church, partly because it's beautiful and partly because this is where I first brought Kaeden home from the hospital. It will, in a sense, feel like I am leaving a part of our short history together behind. Good thing I have a camera and a strong will or I might chain myself to the front door on moving day.


I was thinking about buying some rubber pants tomorrow and taking Kaeden to the pool. The pants are for him, silly, not me. Mind you, it would be an interesting experience in human behaviour if we both wore rubber pants and peed in the pool anyway. We could giggle and snicker. Until we got caught. Imagine: photos of us being tossed from the Nanaimo Aquatic Centre together. Would that require a page in the baby book reserved explicitely for deviant behaviour or would that just go under the general heading of "firsts"?

There was a time in my life, not too long ago, when I felt that I was as perfectly satisfied and beautiful as I would ever be. I may have been about 23, and filled with a new found ability to express myself in ways I never knew imaginable. I travelled and wandered and partied and laughed and cried and did just about anything that tickled my sense of wonderment, even for a minute. It was during this time that the garden gnome you see above in james' picture made his journey across BC, with a brief stop in Seattle, WA. When things began to change, I was afraid everything I had learned would change too, but lo and behold: I have only compounded on those discoveries and added an inkling of maturity to the potpourri of developmental scraps we collect like bag ladies along the way. I love who I am now and in seven more years, I can only dream that there exists enough beauty in the universe to expand this same feeling expotentially.

Where did that come from, you ask? I have no idea. I just sit in this chair and wait for the words to tell me what to write. Perhaps moving makes me melancholic; it exacerbates the duality between my insatiable hunger for diversity and desparate clinginess to familiarity. I should have been a Gemini.

I'm finished now. Che Guevera is waiting for me in my bed. According to the New York Times, this John Lee Anderson masterpiece is the most extensive, well-researched biography ever written about my little Argentine hero. I question how many biographies of left-wing guerilla revolutionaries this right-wing, ultra-conservative newspaper is actually familiar with, but anyway ...

... there is Love in everything. Can you see?

Newness

Everybody loves it. There is a certain charm, excitement, mystery about the new: an irreplaceable opportunity to wash over past transgressions and start again like babies.

A new day: today I'll start running, stop smoking, remember to pray, forget to be miserable.

A new relationship: this time I'll assert myself, live in the moment, be playful, not do anything psychotic.

A new car: I'll keep it clean, offer to carpool, get regular oil changes, name it something other than Betsie.

A new diary: keep it current, draw pictures in the margin, save it for my kids, hide it from my partner.

A new garden: plant early, remember to compost, don't slaughter slugs, water every day.

A new home: put my clothes away all the time, do the dishes every day, leave no opportunity for dust bunnies to stage a coupe d'etate, relax in it.

A new moment: react gently, notice beauty, breathe first, stop counting backwards.

A new year: resolve to ________, make plans but not plan the outcome, aim for progress not perfection, stop making resolutions.

We mean well, I know.

I have a personal fetish for new paper: crisp, clean, flat, smooth, enticing -- waiting, beckoning for words, pictures, scribbles of brilliance. Stationary bliss.

I love new books: smell of ink, flawless pages, shiny covers -- standing tall and proud on the shelf or table, begging for someone to suck up their message. Literary opium.

I feel excited about new spaces: hidden alcoves, closests full of other people's secrets, walls screaming for colour -- begging for someone to brush and stroke their idiocyncracies all over smooth, inviting surfaces. Structural ecstasy.

We live for fresh new moments, second chances, opportunities to forget. There is nothing wrong with the old; that is where the magical place between knowledge and wisdom resides. Drawing from that which was, if we're smart, we bound like puppies into the new, full of anxiety and optimism. It's challenging. And delightful. And scary. And unavoidable. And delicious. And unworthy of human-made, egocentric adjectives designed explicitely for asserting our superiority over the omnipotent complexity of symbolism.

But anyway.

Happy New.

Done, done, done, done.

Well, Kids ... It's over. And we made it. Some would argue that it is, in fact, not over, as is indicated by the 1/2 block line-up outside A&B Sound at 6:30 this morning, but in theory, it's over. For now.

I think Santa has a crush on me. Presents abounded, as did love and snuggles for my lil' mini me. We are fortunate, it is true. We made a voice recording for his first Christmas, complete with messages from loved ones and he himself crying in the car on the way home after 17 hours of chaos.

This week between Christmas and New Years always confuses me: is it still technically the holidays, or not? Is it safe to reestablish a routine, hit the gym, stop eating bonbons all day, or is there still five more days of lying on the couch like an inanimate, yet slightly sentient pleasure seeker? I ponder.

I am taking someone to the airport today, a real gift as far as I am concerned. Everytime a person travels, they are, in essence, expanding the boundaries of their existence and I am always honoured to share the experience. It's like having mini-cameos in a hundred little B-flicks.

Anyway, I am grateful for the sun, my son, the stopping of the rain, and the fact that the milk in my espresso didn't curdle today. Life is grand.

It's Here!

Christmas Eve ... a weirdly happy yet melancholic day in my world. It's 7 a.m. and I just noticed another one of those fuzzy, incoherant fogs creeping in, reminding me immediately of the ambiguity of my feelings about this holiday. I am pleased at the prospect of seeing my family (some of it), my friends, and relatively happy strangers. I have sparkly little gifts all over the place, which I wrapped mostly in fabric or decorative boxes to make my impact on the earth miniscule this year. Giving is exciting for me, even if it just means hanging a lil' somthing on someone's door knob and driving away. I do this all year round, though, so there is no foriegn element to the glee of it all.

It is a time of reflection for me too, and I think that's where some of the melancholy comes from. I miss the simplicity and joy that Christmas was as a kid. Travelling about from house to house, seeing family, eating yummy food, opening presents, and falling asleep in the car on the way home. Those are nice memories. I miss my sister a lot, all the time, but now especially. She hasn't met my son yet, which is tragic, but unavoidable. I miss Kaeden's dad a lot, especially now. Last year this time there was so much about him I didn't understand (maybe didn't want to understand?), and I wonder if we'll ever get past the confusion, the hurt, the wanting peace so bad but it always being just outside our reach. I hope so. Nonetheless, our sweet little baby was already growing inside of me last Christmas. That's him above.

I have a long day ahead of me. I am delivering gifts of cookies and other treats, then heading to my dad's later on. Christmas Eve always seemed more like Christmas than the actual day, so I am excited and thrilled I finished all my fussing early. Like November. I made it through yesterday without stocking up at the liquor store, although admittedly I needed an escort to the mall in order to avoid this. It's just too easy.

Time to get sparkled up for the day. I am sending healing, safe, comforting, empathetic energy out to everyone today, especially those suffering on this emotionally voltile holiday. Remember: it's just a day, and if you can make it through without giving up, picking up, or throwing up, that's one more big, fat accomplishment under your belt.

Happy Holidays and Peace be with Everyone.

A Seinfeld Post

I don't know why it is, but every time I come to this site and begin a new entry, everything freezes up. Not the site -- my words. I wait for my son to fall asleep, make a cup of strawberry-cranberry-orange-green tea from the Shanghai Emporium, nestle into my little chair, and prepare to send my brilliant ideas out in to the universe. Then I stop.

Everything flies out of my head like George W. in a crisis, and I sit here, staring, wondering, thinking. I'm considering the possibility that my brain freeze is the direct result of knowing I am writing for myself, and not for entertainment ... perhaps my head is bigger than I think it is, and I do, for a change, mean that metaphorically.

***

It's crispy cold outside today and my yard looks like something out of a creepy fairy tale. I live in a church, steeple and all, and the grass is all silver and crunchy around me. We have bunnies. Many, many bunnies. They don't look cold at all, little muffins. There is a thin fog around the perimeter of the property and I half expect a buff, boobsie blonde to come barrelling out of the horizon, only to be shredded by some freak with a steak knife a half inch from my front door.

***

It excites me that Christmas is almost here, not because I love the holiday, but because I love the idea that for one whole day it won't be hard to find anybody. No fifty phone calls around, no work schedules to remember, no social functions to keep track of. Just a whole wack of people snuggled up in their houses, revelling in soft lights and the joy of softly spent jammies. That is the life. I'm doing something special this year, but to talk about it would be to violate an imperative principle of self-care. So yeah.

***

Enough about me, let's talk about junkies. I drove past a guy laying on the sidewalk today and I thought he was hurt. I slowed down, pulled over, and went to get out ... then I saw his hands, the rig, his eyes. I suppose after 1.5 years in this town it's rather futile for me to become in any way perplexed by a person doing a big smash in the middle of the sidewalk at 2 p.m., but it still makes me wonder where people are going in life. All of them. The ones and the manies.

***

Mayonnaise has got to be the sickest thing known to human kind.

***

Start Again

Here i go again with this blogging thing. I started one many moons ago, but got busy, bashful, and bored; here i go again.

There is so much to say, since the last time. I've created a new life, entered a new decade, changed my hair. Where to begin?

At the start. Someone once talked me out of covering up an old tattoo by saying it was part of the road map of my life. Interesting point. I suppose if that's true, I can jump in just about anywhere along the map and call it a new beginning.

Here's one.