i call my mother once or twice a week
just to say hey
i love you, did you eat dinner
i am as old now as she was when i was young
and thought she was old
so how old she is now
continues to be a surprise
because she seems so young
I see my mother 4 or 5 times a month
she has a busy schedule
works, volunteers, goes to church
the other women she’s met along the way
and of course her children
my brothers and sister and I
are old enough that she doesn’t
Have to see us everyday
she knows we’ll call and catch her
as catch can.
my mother calls me
once or twice a week
just to say hey
i love you, are you getting any exercise?
I don’t eat
sleep too much
sleep too little
spend too much time alone
she knows all my telephone smiles
and that some are just for show
even if she doesn’t know why
I call my mother once or twice
a week to remind myself that
she had a life, like me
becoming a mother
The holiday season is upon us. Not even a day after Halloween, the Xmas commercials started.
The nerd in me had the opportunity to talk with an epidemiologist over breakfast. Very cool to be acquainted with a scientist.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want to do next. I’ve got about 40 good years left if I’m lucky. If I am really lucky all of them will be good, mobile, thinking years.
I want to be an automechanic and a lawyer; a web designer and a photographer. Only the first two do I want to do because of money. the other two because i just want to be good at them; sort of like I want to be good at piano. Except with the piano I feel like I already know that my fingers just will not do what I want them to do. They don’t stretch to hit the right keys. I can only play the music if it’s already written and even then my ability to read what is written is questionable. If I just practiced more I would be better but at what point do you say to yourself, I really am no good at this and practice won’t make me any better it will just help me maintain my current level of mediocrity. I live in the mediocre. I want to be fantastically good at something but I don’t want to have to work at it anymore.
I’m so sick of working hard. I dream of getting rid of my possessions and living in an rv with my dogs. and doing whatever I want to do. The only problem with that is I know that it wouldn’t take long for me to get really really sick of working even harder to figure out my day to day existence. I imagine that what I would really do is lay around for a couple of weeks doing absolutely as little as possible. I’d probably waste away from not eating or drinking because that is entirely too much work. Even having the dogs would be too much responsibility for how I feel. But having the dogs would be the only reason to keep getting up in the morning. They depend on me. I invited them in and I could not abandon them because I got tired of taking care.
I wonder if those thoughts are a prelude to a depression or if it’s just clear indication that there is a void in my life that I don’t have any clue how to fill.
I am at the doctor’s office. I dont like going to the doctor although I like my doctor very much. She’s very compassionate, empathetic, takes time to talk to me. More important, she listens to me.
But still the idea that she will find something wrong (more than the minor complaint that brings me to the office) always gives me significant pause.
Then there is the idea that she might tell me that my health might require me to do something that i don’t want or am not ready to do.
I guess i better just get over it. I hate not feeling well.
There is an artistry in friendship. Friendship as a means to an end is not an art. To want someone’s friendship only as a stepping stone to what you really want but will not say is not an art. To claim friendship and abandon it at the first or second sign of something shinier, is that art?
Friendship as a fall back postion, is that art?
Art is the physical, visual, or aural manifestation of a single thought in time.
I ramble, I am uneasy in life today.
20 years later
she* got up the nerve
to call Anita Hill
on the phone
She prayed for the
and got her wish
She wanted to say
She wanted to say
I know how he is
I knew what he was
But I married him and
I followed him
and I believed in him
like you probably did
before you didn’t
She wanted to ask.
She wanted to ask
how did you do it
in front of the cameras
and his friends
and the senate subcommittee
on keeping the priviledge in place
in front of all the bosses
you ever had
or ever would have
who sat across
from you and him
in front of all those people
who knew the truth
but stayed blind under oath
and pain of lost elections
20 years later
She called to ask for
for something she couldn’t
put her finger on
she called as if time
will have had some effect on
she chickened out
turned the tables
like they’ve always been turned
when something ugly
gets thrown into
*She is Mrs Clarence Thomas who phoned Anita Hill’s office to ask for an apology.
Today, I am tired of it. Ususally I brush it off as the non-sense that it is: the automatic fall back position of those who resent the fact that I will not dissappear into the floor because they have an opinion that differs from mine and I do not hesitate to actually believe that I might be right.
so it’s that I’m hostile. It gives them an excuse to behave the way they behave. I don’t deserve it so it’s bothering me right now. She was almost nice to me. Then she remembered she’s not suppose to like me. That makes me sad. That’s why it bothers me.
[hos-tl or, especially Brit.-tahyl]
- of, pertaining to, or characteristic of an enemy:a hostile nation.
opposed in feeling, action, or character; antagonistic: hostile criticism.
characterized by antagonism.
not friendly, warm, or generous; not hospitable.
Doesn’t even sound like me.
I drove 14 hours this summer on my way to a week’s vacation. The beginning– let’s say first four hours–were easy. My mind was awash with how far I’d gone, what I’d do when I’d get there, am I hungry, am I thirsty, am I good on gas, look at that car, this road is cool. The end –let’s say the last 2 hours –were about being close to the goal, only 2 more hours, do I have to use the bathroom, should I fill up before I get there so I don’t have to stop too soon on the way out, I hope I brought everything.
The middle part is a blur and it’s in that middle part where I imagine my mind was as close to quiet as it was going to get. By that middle part, not much about the journey was going to change, I just had to keep driving; keep my mileage steady, I wasn’t hungry, thirsty, or needing a break.
I feel that way right now. Like the brain is chugging away on its rails, doesn’t need a lot of watching, fiddling with, or tending. Yet, I get the sense that the light and sound that I sort of hear off in the distance might be important but all I can do is keep chugging on my present course and adjust when I have more details.
That is all.
I want to write a TV show. about a newspaper. old auburn ave feel. and i want it to be about stuff like urban sprawl. regentrification. innercity and outercity politics. mass transit. drug trade. death penalty. prison industrial complex. gay marriage/gay adoption/gay gayness. passing the torch. family dynamics. interracial marriage. suburbia. downtown. and more…
1st season- 7 characters introduced.
1 patriarch (owner of the newspaper)
2 his daughter (researcher, fact checker)
3 his son-in-law (new politician who wants to trade on newspaper contacts and history, idealist)
4 his wife (senior editor, has to be Alfre Woodard)
5 idealist beat reporter (just married, moving from downtown to suburbia)
6 new kid (writer who by mistake but with writing genius brought down a local political ‘gang’ with a series of articles on personal blog)
7 ?? (maybe six is enough)
I also want Tina Marjorino in it…
“I felt the kick, a slight shift of weight that wasn’t there before but is now” I put it in quotes because it is what I was thinking but then I thought someone (although, there is no one here!) might think there is a baby involved. There is not.
Words, developing meaning, slowly, like what was a feeling growing into something tangible, touchable, real. Not just one word. Thousands! Growing into sentences, paragraphs, chapters, one after another reborn, reincarnated, rearranged.