Humanity

in which i follow a prompt… more dreamy? MORE?

Cynthia Lee gave us a prompt yesterday, based on a line she heard me read aloud… i love the tiny writing community I am building. love it. I said I needed to get more dreamy. She asked,

What if I’m going to get MORE dreamy?

Watch out kids. I better get some food planted or they’ll starve all summer. I’ll be covered in colors and drifting from room to room. I already know its time to lose my phone and with it, my tether to a social community. If I get more dreamy, I might be half clothed and dye my clothes to match my hair, tie flowers into chains and get the sauna going again. I predict things trailing behind me, raggedy and ribboned all at once.

If I’m going to get more dreamy, I’ll have to cry it out more often, this prickling sense of dissatisfaction with the present. The longing will have to be let go, and what is that like? I confess to not knowing. What happens when you have no longing?

If I am to get more dreamy, I worry that I will detach.

And if I detach, how will they know themselves, these kids, how will they do it?

If I have secret desires around a man to care for me, like really take care of me… (not money, but care. CARE.) how can they not? Isn’t that what a mother does? Provides the safe and soft landing place? The constancy of support and nourishment? Is it? That sofa again? But with words and thoughts of love and bolster? Is that what it is? And if I am gone? What then? Will they spend their lives seeking it? Like I am? And how could I ever give them that? the longing? The pining?

I can’t, I can’t do it. How will I know they are old enough for me to skitter off? To rattle along the ground like the dry leaf before it is swept up and away?

I forsee my flight, if I am to get more dreamy. I can see it.

And what is that, annihilation? Do I believe I disappear, or am I ascending? Or dispersing, into the brambles to sit with the birds?

I think it’s the birds. It might be that I am already there, somedays. And how is one like this, supposed to get a job, and raise a family and provide?

Hello I’m maria of the alps. It’s a problem.

i’m working on it. in my way.

lovelove… me.

white and black bird on tree branch
Photo by Erik Karits on Pexels.com
Humanity

in which I tell you what I am not writing about.

writing about things that i don’t want to write about, at any level? hmm. meta meta?

1. i’ve never written exact events in my story as i remember marriage. and i mean, anywhere. i never journaled about it, never took pictures, never captured it, except in my head and memory. and its my story, even if there were other players.

i’ve been challenged to write it, as a therapeutic tool. not here, not publicly, but in the world. because writing things down gives them power.

and also sets them on fire so they can float off.

2. i’d like to write about my mother-in-law. I’ve known her since I was 15. She was my first, most powerful example of the kind of woman I’d want to be, that I could be. I knew her long before I knew her children, or the father of my kids. She was my high school English teacher, and fierce. Unapologetic. Worldly. (she was from New York, after all)… I’m scared to write about her because I feel like its too risky, that there may be loss involved and I don’t want to get into it. I’m thrilled that I got to keep her in my life and I’m ever better for it. But I think if I start I will float off on waves of sadness.

3. Sex. I’m super at writing about it, and having it…but not here. I don’t really have a forum for writing about sex and relationships, because I claim this space as just my own, my own thoughts about things and I try not to include other people unless I am reacting or responding. BUT, its been pointed out that I am leaving so much unsaid that my story almost becomes untrue. And if I start? Hmm. That’s a whole different kind of blog, right?

Is that true, that leaving things out makes me untrue? I don’t think so. And yet, I’m caught on the snag of it.

And that’s today’s essay folks. love you, miss you, really want to kiss you. 🙂

What do you not talk about?

ash blaze bonfire burn
Bonfire sparks… Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Humanity

In which I write ‘what pleases me’.

what pleases me.

  1. finally getting my former mother in law on the phone. she remembers me. and we laugh like no time has passed. she threatens to kill me and I almost pee myself. This is the goodness, the love.
  2. growing things. watering the plants and watching them change. remembering what waters me and how i change, despite appearances.
  3. lighting a candle when i’m working. boy, does it draw me in. so ancient a tool.
  4. the feeling of water filling me up and spilling out my ears when i think i might not be able to hear her voice on the phone many more times. (its not pleasing, no, but the satisfaction is that the grief is not here yet. i will not borrow it early.)
  5. my elders getting vaccinated.
  6. palettes. pallets. palettes. food, paint, food, paint. trucks.
  7. using my new workspace and staring at the bookshelves. the words i can pick out over there are like this: dragons, ice, ashes, frost, fire, dawn. It is its own fantasy. There is also auden, o’connor, rowling, smithsonian, sibley, brewer, and keene.
  8. I’m taking my christmas tree down, a little earlier than planned, honestly. because i need the space for the next season, the new growth. i’ll have to live with the discomfort of the empty space for a little bit before i fill it again. isn’t that always the way?
  9. a bath. a bath always pleases me. today i will cry about my mother-in-law, despite my not borrowing grief. i’m not, i’m really not. i have bath bombs and salts. and hot water. and that’s all that i need.
  10. it pleases me that i made it to ten. that i’m wearing two sweaters and a scarf and i feel naked without my hat. it pleases me that i’m letting go of so many things, and i can see how many more there are to go. and then there will be that unbearable lightness. and i will float like a feather on a breeze.

that is the shortlist, my lovies. the life is good. and rich and full of tragedy and more life than we can handle. isn’t it, though?

-kate

wood art painting colorful
Photo by Markus Spiske on Pexels.com
Humanity

in which i call bullshit on myself.


It is what it is.

I’m a pleaser. I want the people around me to be happy. I want to smooth their way forward in life. I want to leave behind a satisfied grin. I want to be the hidden favorite, the one who brings a smile. the generous one. the good one.

After I do this pleasing, smoothing thing for a while, with adults, I feel the ting and tang of loss. What have I been given, for all that giving? Have they just taken it all and run? what do they know of me?

You know what? This cycle doesn’t really do me a lot of good. It’s gross. You ever hear of a male artist who spent his free time smoothing the way for others? No? You don’t think Hemingway gave a shit if the kitchen counters were clean do you? You think he gave a shit for anything besides his beer and his next adventure?

Almost all the famous women artists that you know of? No kids.

I don’t even have the energy today to call myself an artist. I fight it, in my head, pointing to other people instead. But you know what?! I call bullshit on that.

Just because I don’t have the myopic self-absorption of a male artist? I’m constantly distracted from thought and doing by children and house and family, constantly. and I don’t want to give that up, or choose otherwise. (i mean, i’d give up the distractability, but not the kids and their lives, right?)

They’re growing, I don’t have anyone physically attached to me anymore, so it is easing. Their demands are for presence and food. And the presence has to be close, but not too close. And I laugh as I type, because its true now of all of them, even the 8 year old girl. I’m the favorite sofa. Necessary at times, but not especially expected to speak. I’m the witness and the solidity. (and that might be the best thing i have ever written about the way i’m parenting these kids. although i need to squish flexible into the solidity somehow and I’ll work on that tomorrow. )

I don’t make enough currently with my writing. I’m still supported by alimony and child support. I’m going to have to get a higher paying job to manage without them. When then will I have the time for the writing and the thinking? I’m not at all digging where my mood is taking me right now.

it is the way it is.

and it’s my whole gig right now, to imagine something else.

my daughter asked me what my dream job would be. just this morning. no lie. and i told her, ‘mom’ and then for the second, i was stuck. but also very very dreamy. what is it? what’s the feeling i want when i go to work, what’s the subject i want to be working with? thinking with? hmm?

I need to get more dreamy.

This is a rambler. I’m working shit out, I think. Maybe next time I’ll write it somewhere else first and come here with something more cohesive.

but i wouldn’t want to shock you too much. heh.

hmmm. thought-filled.

love, love,

me.

Humanity

Starting up. February’s ending game.

I know I’ve been off my game, I’ve felt it. I haven’t been writing, but I’ve been full of thoughts about how I’ve not been writing and that, honestly, can just bite it. Its not enough, its not.

Its like the taxes that are sitting next to me on the desk. The actual job would take ten minutes. So, why are they sitting next to me on the desk and not winging their way to their destiny? Hmm.

So, I’m going to set myself the task of writing again, for real, again. I’m not holding myself to every day, but 5/7 would be pretty awesome. March it is. The anniversary of our discontent.

Sigh. all the ‘last times’ that we didn’t know about. a year ago. I predict not much writing about it really, i am not really producing a time-capsule for the sake of history, after all.

I find that the writing connects me to my deeper self, and i’m bolstered by the sharing of it. The imagination that tells me there are a small multitude cheering me on, and maybe doing their own thinking of their deeper selves.

I want to go back to that tether ball pole, idly waiting for players. I need the tether, in this chill spring. A whole tumult of change is arriving, again, and I do like the smell of the dirt in this season. (though the mud? questionable)

End of February. Beginning of March. What have we here?

What have we?

Love love,

me.

black and white chickadee
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