PSST! Rantings, Musings, & "Not Your Mama's" Platitudes

you did me a favor you did me a favor you drove two hours to get to my house you didn't mind, it was on the way from work—you're an important guy you did me a favor when you drove to my house did me a favor when you ate on the way instead of waiting for me now you're here  and my car is clean you did me a favor when you kissed my lips did me a favor when you grabbed my hips pulled them close  to yours you did me a favor you did me a favor your shirt tucked nicely into your pants it's not wrinkled like it was last night in a pile on the floor next to my bed I offered you coffee to go said you could borrow one of my mugs but you said no did you already know I didn't notice the way your eyes dropped to the floor cause I was too busy running off of the high from the night before you did me a favor when you kissed my lips did me a favor when you grabbed my hips pulled them close  to yours It's been two weeks since the message I sent  that you never read I feel like a

I wiped tears from my cheeks as I walked into the grocery store. It had been an extraordinarily difficult day at work. I was working the weekend at my second job, a way to make ends meet and feign hope in getting ahead financially. I passed several patrons in the grocery aisles on my way to find oat milk. I saw the shredded cheese and remembered my daughter asked for kielbasa sausage. My mind was in a fog. I was there, purse hanging from my shoulder, cradling the milk in the crevice of my elbow like a newborn baby, a bag of pre-shredded cheddar cheese pinched between my thumb and index finger. How do you decide which way to go when you're too tired to figure out dinner? I did the next thing. I found the kielbasa. Then I did the next thing. I walked to the cash register. The man at the register glowed with kindness. He was child-like—a sparkle of wonder flashed in his eyes. "Do you like oat milk?" he asked as he scanned the barcode. "Yes, I like to drink it in my coff

For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the na

I had a dream that my brother and his wife had two children—a seven-year-old daughter and a two-year-old son. They decided they could no longer care for two children, so they dropped off the two-year-old at the doctor's office. They told the family they "took care of it." My entire family broke into the doctor's office to rescue the son. An alarm went off, and everyone went running except for me. I saw a teenager there, in the shadows. She wore khaki scrubs. She was living there, in the doctor's office. She said she could help me find my nephew. The police arrived, and I explained what happened. I explained that I wanted to take him home myself, but I could not afford daycare. They told me I would qualify for daycare assistance for six months. I decided I would take him home, no matter what. That things would be okay in the end. My nephew and I went home.

I dreamed I was with my daughter on vacation. We stayed at a small bed-and-breakfast. The room we reserved was full of antiques. I noticed some screws and a metal plate on the wall under a side table. Upon inspection, I found it to be a book chute used to smuggle books hundreds of years ago. The chute connected to a back room, and I could see the owner of the bed-and-breakfast. She looked like a witch. She was stocky with long, gray hair. She was wearing an old dress with old leather boots. She noticed me messing with the chute and came after us. She barged into the room and stole our books. She was yelling and combative and swore we would never see the sun again if we touched the chute again.

I dreamed I met a man who "fell in love" with me almost immediately. He was beautiful and very kind, but in a way that made me apprehensive. His ex-wife pulled me to the side to have a conversation with me. She was tall, blonde, wore lots of makeup, and had lots of plastic surgery done. She lived in LA, where the kids went to school. She was trying to convince me to be with her ex-husband. She pretended to be my best friend. She showed me her kids' back-to-school lists from a fancy schmancy private school. It had a choice between Ativan and Klonopin listed as a school supply. She asked me what was wrong. I told her he was coming on strong—that it didn't feel genuine. The ex-wife walked away to get her ex-husband after our conversation. She talked with him privately. It was like high school conversations: "Ask her if she likes me. Is she interested?" He came back and, as he approached, wouldn't look me in the eyes. He sat down beside me, made eye contact,

I had a friend who lived a couple houses down. Her name was Jules, and we would make mud pies and play in my parents' back yard. One day she came to the front door and knocked, holding a black trash bag in her left hand. I was excited to see her and wanted to know what was in the bag. She wouldn't answer—only asked me to get my dad. I was disappointed that she wouldn't show me. My dad told me later that our cat died. Got run over. Jules saw it and scooped it into the trash bag. She gave it to my father so I would never see it. Jules never had a mom around. As she grew older, she got into drugs. I can't remember if she had a kid of her own. She was smart and kind and thoughtful, and I really hope she's okay out there.

I really love the idea of keeping a blog. My problem is that I like to keep things tidy. Professional. This can be a disservice to the Creative inside of me. I need to give myself permission to write anything I want, without feeling constrained by how it "should" be done. That word ruins me: should. I don't have to write in complete sentences! I can be fucking pissed if I want! This is the beginning of a new journey for me. A way to embrace my freedom as a writer, as a woman. I think a good way to start would include letting go of expectations I've set for myself, especially those rooted in lies carried from childhood. This is an opportunity. The blank page is EVERYTHING.

I'm listening to my daughter talk to her best friend on the phone. I'm not eavesdropping—she leaves her door cracked and knows I'm in the next room. She tells her friend that sometimes she asks her boyfriend what color eyeshadow she should use. "Purple or Blue?" And he says, "Whatever you want." Exasperated, my daughter explains to her friend that she wants her boyfriend's opinion, no one else's. She asks him this question because she wants to know what he thinks of her. What he wants. I think about my own life, the questions I've asked. How, in asking such questions, we are actually saying, "Do you see me? Does this matter? This moment?" How "whatever we want" is never truly what we want, not really. We want a decision. A choice made. Yes, I love you. Yes I want you. "I really like the blue."

I want to ask her if he really is superior. If he loves her and cares for her like she says. Or if there is some silent code among married women. A code that is never betrayed for the sake of hope. What is life without longing? It goes like this: She makes his coffee and he takes out the trash. She raises the children and he pays for the house. She wants for nothing. She gives him what he wants. Keeps him satisfied. It is a perfect exchange, until one of them feels an emptiness. A twinge in the deepest part of the gut. A place that cannot be reached. He spends more times outside, playing golf, a drink after work, two. She smooths her hair in the mirror. Watches the FedEx man bring the package she ordered, the third one this week. She opens the door. The twinkle in his eye welcomes the touch of her hand against his. A forbidden exchange disguised as necessity, normalcy. This secret game they play in the light. There is no reason for hiding. No wrongs were made. They grow further apart,

I guess I just don't understand. I thought we had a connection. I thought that we were grown enough for you to tell me if you weren't interested instead of falling off the map. I think we both deserve to be treated with respect. And I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. Because I know what it's like to feel overwhelmed and scared. To wonder if it's worth putting in the time and effort for someone when you're already giving everything you have to your children. To wonder if someone new can accept you as you are, knowing in your heart you are who you already are. Wondering if you will be enough. I understand how that feels. And perhaps this came down to a physical wanting. Maybe you regretted it. I thought that, since you had a teenage daughter, maybe you would act a little more sensitively towards me. Maybe I know absolutely nothing. I know you've been working nights and that you've been dealing with a difficult ex and that you've been fighting t

I had a dream a man was in trouble. A blazing furnace with a heavy iron door. They grabbed him and shoved his face and neck into the fire. His head and neck shrunk and became charred as it burned. He never even screamed. 

Starting here, what do you want to remember? How sunlight creeps along a shining floor? What scent of old wood hovers, what softened sound from outside fills the air? Will you ever bring a better gift for the world  than the breathing respect that you carry wherever you go right now? Are you waiting for time to show you some better thoughts? When you turn around, starting here, lift this new glimpse that you found; carry into evening all that you want from this day. This interval you spent reading or hearing this, keep it for life— What can anyone give you greater than now,  starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

I dreamed my sister was in a play at a prestigious theatre. The cast members and director had a huge surprise for her at the end. Members of the audience stood up, one at a time. Each person that stood was wearing a hospital gown to match the theme of the play. I knew these people—they were close friends and family, people who supported my sister in her performances. All my sisters stood in their hospital gowns, with toothy smiles, ready to greet my sister. One of the women already made it down to the stage. She was my high school nemesis. She and my sister embraced as I watched my other sisters descend the stairs. I reached under my chair. Surely there is a hospital gown for me! Surely I missed something. There was no gown. I became irate, and the more I raised my voice, the more I caused a scene, the louder the audience became and the darker the theatre. The cheers drowned my voice until it was silent—my mouth gaped open like a fish out of water.