Sometimes I think, as I watch the numbers on this thread go higher and higher, that there are people out there who wish I'd shut the hell up. If I allow myself the indulgence of total emotional flagellation, I hear ugly voices that speak of "ego-ism" and self-aggrandizement. Occasionally, when I was really stoned--I could hear the laughter of the kids in the schoolyard, too.
I have thought of all of these things (and more) and wished to go back and delete--I wished that I'd written pretty lies.
It does occur to me, though, that BOOM--this could be literally all she wrote--so I decided I'll continue, and my apologies to anyone who is offended by my self-interpretations of life.
* * *
There is a lady here, who write the most beautiful poetry, her pen name is Skyfyre, and she said (or typed) something once that won my total admiration and gave me a bit of strength to carry on in the name of myself. I wish I could remember the thread, but she opened by saying that what she was about to say wasn't going to win her any popularity contests, and I paraphrase here, but she added that she figured if she wasn't pissing somebody off then she wasn't living right.
That may have seemed like an offhand joke to you, but it empowered me to be myself, and lessened the burden of my attempt to be loved by everybody.
What you said was true. (And there's a tiara waiting for you, too.) I realized that telling others just what they want to hear was not just inauthentic, but ass-kissing, and further, I understood that with my deep desire to be a writer, I wanted my words to matter. So thank you.
I don't want to write "velveteen"--I want to be real.
And quite often, "real" hurts.
So if this is too ... hmmm...whazzdawoid? sigh. If it's just too--then turn the page.
I'm writing a journal here.
* * *
I'm a little jumpy tonight so I will be up awhile. It's injection time for my husband, and that is when he gets ill. He needs to be monitored a bit, so here I am, with one ear to the hall...
It also occurred to me that perhaps there are others with Hepatitis C who might be curious about his treatment. So without invading his privacy too much (I hope) I will tell you what we know thus far. This is his second injection, and yes, it makes him ill. He's restless, and just generally uncomfortable. He did get a laugh out of the doc tho, who inquired about how he felt after his first injection:
"It's just like bad dope."
Had they ever done bad dope I doubt seriously they would have found that so amusing.
I keep getting calls too, from friends and family who doubt that he quit drinking & drugs, and I find myself having to vouch for him. And I can vouch for him--he did quit, and I should know - one of the differences in his behavior is that he can't seem to tolerate being alone.
* * *
And I promised some happy stuff, too, huh?
* * *
* * *
Yesterday my son received a generous gift of a Jackson guitar. (Don't ask me the "make"--I'm "tard" again, and too lazy to go look. The instrument had been neglected and forgotten, locked in a closet of a brother of a friend of his. My son apparently lusted after it so diligently, and showed his dedication by learning to actually play, that his friend's brother finally said, "Here. Take it home."
We happen to have some friends at a music store who replaced a few corroded pegs/what-nots, fixed the "wah-wah", and tightened the tuning keys, and yes, now she is all polished and looking spiffy and damn if that ole axe don't sound good...
We broked out an old peavy amp and whoa-it was Christmas in June. He set up the amp on the porch of what will be our new home, and proceeded to pick out the notes of some "Pink Floyd"--"Shine on Crazy Diamond".
Talk about make a momma proud.
Then we heard the creak of the gate, and there was our neighbor's son, with his Dad's Fender and a Gibson amp, coming over to "jam."
He plugged up and they began their musician negotiations, and I tried to watch without being too obviously proud.
The boy's father came out, and leaned over the fence, smiling.
I said, "Hey Mike" and walked over for a chat.
"You know what this means, don't you?" I asked him.
He nodded and smiled without taking his eyes off of the two boys, heads together, all intent and yep, bad notes.
"Yeah, I know what it means..." he grinned wider. "We're gonna need a garage."
and I actually thought this might mean I'd get my guitar back.
The minute my son got home, he corded up my acoustic (it has a pick-up) and hit the distortion on it and screamed with glee,
"Listen to this!"
Maybe he can teach me to play...
* * *
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
* * *
We are all pitching in, and we left our daughter (she's of age, folks) here at this house, to clean and tend to the animals. And nod. She loves having access to the pc too--she's quite the poet and is very gifted at graphics too. She tends to be a private person, except when she expresses herself in the arts. Then I see so much of me in her that it terrifies me.
She can be very dark.
I used to call her my "mini-me", but the truth is she is so much more dignified than I--I couldn't nor would I ever ascribe that quality to myself. She calls me "Mother" and my husband "Father"--and the way that she says it never sounds cold or distant--she's just pure natural grace.
She doesn't socialize much--there aren't many people she wants to see (well that is what she said) but yesterday I was surprised to find a trio of girls knocking at the door for her. I let them in and the sound of giggles of from the bedroom warmed my heart.
It just seemed so idealic.
Then my daughter escorted them to the door and there were no warm goodbyes--I knew something had gone wrong but I didn't press it--right away. (smile?)
I didn't find out until today what went wrong, and my husband had to tell me for to be informed, too.
He told me that he and my daughter went for a ride to return some movies we'd rented, and they'd seen a girl walking down the street.
"That's her." My daughter said.
"Who?" my husband asked.
My daughter explained that she was one of the girls who had visited the day before.
"So...?" my husband prodded.
My daughter was scowling. I wasn't there to see it but I know that look. Smile. I've seen it on my own face in the mirror.
"She was in my room and started bragging," my daughter explained. "She said she'd done every drug there is--even acid."
My daughter continued:
"I told her, 'you have to leave right now.'"
And then the little acid queen was shown the door.
* * *
I'm proud of that, but I confess, I understand, too, that my kids' aversion to drugs is directly related to what they have witnessed through their parents.
I can never un-do it.
* * *
so here it is, again, folks.
My head on the stick, in the middle of the path as a warning:
"Caution ye who enter here"
* * *
But I promise you, if some find this annoying--get used to it.
If I have to, I will dance naked on this internet. If I think I can stop one person from screwing their lives up, I will scream my stories off-key, on an amplifier, cranked to "eleven."
This is spinal tap.