When I was five my mother made me a Strawberry Shortcake birthday cake. It was me, mom, dad, my brothers and my grandmother. Before I got to blow the candles out on my cake, my baby brother shoved his face into Strawberry's -- I believe in an attempt to give her a kiss.
I was inconsolable. Heartbroken. I was the middle of five kids, the only girl. I was beat-up and left out and trounced upon often. (With love, but that doesn't change the fact life with boys is rough.) My mother tried to make me feel better but what did it was a hug from my grandmother, my mamaw.
For that birthday she gave me my first Barbie doll. She also held me close to her and let me sob while my mother tried to calm down my baby brother who did not understand why his "Sissy" was so upset.
I think that's what I miss most about my Mamaw. Her hugs. She had a way of pulling you to her, wrapping you in her arms and her smell like roses and making you feel like everything would be alright. She could be mean when she wanted, and stubborn and throw fits over things like skins in her mashed potatoes. But she loved deeply and she loved for always.
We found out she had liver cancer not even a year after my grandfather died. She had been ill for a while, since before my Papaw passed away, but no one had caught the liver disease that would lead to her cancer. (We still, to this day, do not know what caused my Mamaw's liver problems.) I was seven months pregnant at the time. Swollen and hot and miserable I hopped in my Mamaw's car for the six hour round trip to the hospital where she was finally diagnosed. My mother drove. It was the worst car ride of my life.
The end of my pregnancy was a bit surreal as my mother and I tried to help my Mamaw navigate her medical options and my Mamaw tried to help me get ready for a baby. When my daughter was born a few months later my grandmother was already beginning to wear the physical manifestations of her disease. Always a robust woman she had begun to lose weight and seemed much frailer than I can ever remember her being.
A little more than a year later she would die. A year that saw my daughter grow as my grandmother diminished. A year that saw my mother become taut with grief and worry. Our one consolation in all of this was that my grandfather had died before Mamaw was diagnosed -- my Papaw was a Marine Corps officer and fought in Vietnam. Very little scared him. Except cancer.
When Mamaw died I thought I would die a little too. But I didn't. I couldn't. I had a mother who needed me and a little baby girl I adored. A little girl my Mamaw had adored.
My mother and I talk sometimes about how my grandmother really fought through a lot of the worst of the cancer for my daughter. At first it was to see my daughter born. Four generations of her family, four generations of women of her family -- she lived to see that. And then, after Sofia was born, my grandmother delighted in each visit. Holding Sofia and cherishing her the way I imagine she must have my mother, my aunt, myself, and my brothers.
Just a week or so before she died, after I had moved out of state, we came to be with her. My mother had called certain that Mamaw was near the end. (She was, just not as close as she thought she was.)
Mamaw ... wasn't there. She was. But she wasn't. My family and I stayed the night with her to give my mother -- who had become her sole caretaker -- a respite. I will never forget that night.
As we were leaving we took Sofia in to say goodbye. Sofia was just over a year old and I was nervous how she would respond to my sick Mamaw. But Sofia just sat there with her and my Mamaw seemed to spark.
I was working when that spark went out. I worked in public radio and came home to find out she was gone. The next morning I went to work at 5 a.m. -- I was filling in for our usual morning person -- and did a fairly decent job of holding myself together until one of the Morning Edition hosts interviewed the woman who'd started hospice. And then I lost it. For the first time in my career I missed a break on purpose because I just couldn't do it.
The grief really never goes away. It eases. But there are moments when it comes back full throttle. Anytime I smell rose scented anything I tear up; my Mamaw loved roses. When I see an old Bette Davis movie we watched, or sit down to a Disney movie with my daughter I have a moment when my heart hurts because Mamaw loved those things.
But, then, there's my daughter. My sweet little Sofia who is the light of my life. My Mamaw would love this little girl. Sofia is pink and sparkly and princessey and all of those things I was not. Sofia loves Sleeping Beauty and cats and flowers. My love and memories of Sofia are tied up with my love and memories of my grandmother. For, as Mamaw was dying my daughter was coming into this world. Each year on Sofia's birthday I think of that first visit my Mamaw made to see my little girl, just two days after she was born, and I remember she is always with me. My Mamaw's love and blood run in my mother, myself and my daughter.
My Mamaw is why I've joined the American Cancer Society's More Birthday's effort. To remember and celebrate all those mamaws and other loved ones who've been lost to cancer but who will never leave our hearts.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Nothing is black and white.
I want to scream this at people all the time anymore. And not just people who belong to one particular political group. People from all political walks of life are really beginning to make me feel like the Incredible Hulk.
What's started this rant? Obama being award the Nobel Peace Prize.
Honestly, I'm not sure how I feel about this. Obama does seem very bent on ushering in a new way of approaching foreign policy; also a a new idea of what the United States should be doing on the global stage. However, it feels odd to reward someone for what they are attempting to do and not what they've done. If this gives Obama the oompah to push a little harder, to achieve more than he set out to, then maybe it's a good thing.
Now, certain members of the right have gone about and made it sound like an election has been stolen! And, honestly, I don't care what that particular segment thinks. It's the same old hate and dishonestly directed at a different person. What's got me has been the reaction of certain members of the left.
What I've been reading on site after site is this anger that Obama has been given this award while he's Commander-in-Chief of a military engaged in two wars.
Now, I understand where their ire is coming from. However, the man hasn't been in office a year yet. He inherited an economy that seemed FUBAR, a healthcare system in need of major overhaul, an electorate in major need of hope. And two wars. Two wars being waged in places that have the potential to devour us. Two wars that were not all that well planned-out.
These are also two wars that have seen a pretty heavy civilian cost. In Iraq our actions unleashed sectarian violence and warfare that's still not resolved. Afghanistan is a place that has defeated empires; a place that is more complicated than the simple "Taliban is bad" storyline we're often fed.
The liberals who are so angry that Obama won a prize for peace while waging those wars seemed to think a great idea would be to pull troops out as quickly as possible.
That's a great idea.
If you want more blood on American hands
Let's face it. Neither country has a government, military or police force that can in anyway keep the peace and keep its citizens safe. Now, I will give you that we should've been doing more to stabilize both places over the last several years. But we didn't ... so what, we pull out now and let it all go to hell?
That seems irresponsible at best. Inhumane at worst.
I don't have any answers. But I know that when we draw down we have to do it in a way that doesn't cause more bloodshed or violence. We will never solve the long-standing issues or historical reasons for the inner conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. But we should, we must, ensure that the governments we leave behind are capable of managing them. A good first step would be to make sure elections take place in a fair manner and aren't shams used to turn once elected officials into dictators.
A next step could be working to really rebuild the infrastructure that we've helped blow to pieces. Build schools and roads and electricity grids. We also need to stop giving contractors carte blanche to do whatever they want.
We need to do a lot of things. But right now, what we need not to do, is make a hasty retreat and watch Afghanistan and Iraq implode. What will we have achieved then? What will all those civilian and military lives lost mean if we leave behind a perfect shitstorm?
There is no black and white. We're dealing with human lives, ultimately. We are far too complicated for anything to be as easy as that.
What's started this rant? Obama being award the Nobel Peace Prize.
Honestly, I'm not sure how I feel about this. Obama does seem very bent on ushering in a new way of approaching foreign policy; also a a new idea of what the United States should be doing on the global stage. However, it feels odd to reward someone for what they are attempting to do and not what they've done. If this gives Obama the oompah to push a little harder, to achieve more than he set out to, then maybe it's a good thing.
Now, certain members of the right have gone about and made it sound like an election has been stolen! And, honestly, I don't care what that particular segment thinks. It's the same old hate and dishonestly directed at a different person. What's got me has been the reaction of certain members of the left.
What I've been reading on site after site is this anger that Obama has been given this award while he's Commander-in-Chief of a military engaged in two wars.
Now, I understand where their ire is coming from. However, the man hasn't been in office a year yet. He inherited an economy that seemed FUBAR, a healthcare system in need of major overhaul, an electorate in major need of hope. And two wars. Two wars being waged in places that have the potential to devour us. Two wars that were not all that well planned-out.
These are also two wars that have seen a pretty heavy civilian cost. In Iraq our actions unleashed sectarian violence and warfare that's still not resolved. Afghanistan is a place that has defeated empires; a place that is more complicated than the simple "Taliban is bad" storyline we're often fed.
The liberals who are so angry that Obama won a prize for peace while waging those wars seemed to think a great idea would be to pull troops out as quickly as possible.
That's a great idea.
If you want more blood on American hands
Let's face it. Neither country has a government, military or police force that can in anyway keep the peace and keep its citizens safe. Now, I will give you that we should've been doing more to stabilize both places over the last several years. But we didn't ... so what, we pull out now and let it all go to hell?
That seems irresponsible at best. Inhumane at worst.
I don't have any answers. But I know that when we draw down we have to do it in a way that doesn't cause more bloodshed or violence. We will never solve the long-standing issues or historical reasons for the inner conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. But we should, we must, ensure that the governments we leave behind are capable of managing them. A good first step would be to make sure elections take place in a fair manner and aren't shams used to turn once elected officials into dictators.
A next step could be working to really rebuild the infrastructure that we've helped blow to pieces. Build schools and roads and electricity grids. We also need to stop giving contractors carte blanche to do whatever they want.
We need to do a lot of things. But right now, what we need not to do, is make a hasty retreat and watch Afghanistan and Iraq implode. What will we have achieved then? What will all those civilian and military lives lost mean if we leave behind a perfect shitstorm?
There is no black and white. We're dealing with human lives, ultimately. We are far too complicated for anything to be as easy as that.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Eight years ago today ...
I was on a bus home to London. My roommates -- several Brazilians and a Japanese girl -- and I had gone on a daytrip to Bath. It was my last big adventure before starting my internship at a huge international news operation two weeks later.
Our day in Bath had been a soggy one. After a later than planned start, we visited the Roman Baths, checked out a museum (that had a Monet I'd never seen) and then had lunch an centuries old pub before boarding our coach back to London.
I was tired. Mentally, emotionally and physically. I was 22 and thought that moving across the Atlantic by myself would be no big thing. Ha! On top of that I was in a long distance relationship that was in trouble and, not least of all, I'd gone overseas not even a month after the September 11th attacks. My mother, who was nervous about my moving to England alone already, definitely hoped I'd decide to stay in Ohio.
I'm too much her daughter for her to really have thought that was going to happen.
But, I will tell you, being an American traveling overseas at the time was strange. Things felt very ... foggy. Not because of anything anyone said, necessarily, but as soon as I opened my mouth my nationality popped out and I would get looks and the inevitable, "I'm so sorry."
How do you respond that that?
So, anyway, I was in a funk, needless to say. And on a bus home. A bus on which I was the only American. I was sitting with one of my roommates and across the aisle four of the other people who had come on the trip were all sitting together -- laughing and boisterous. I was sullen.
Another of my roommates, Fabiana, was on the phone with her mother talking furiously in Portuguese and looking my way.
I thought, "Oh, god, what now?"
I didn't have long to wonder. Soon my friend known as "Big Ana," because she was so tall, yelled across the bus at me something I didn't understand the first time. Then she yelled again.
"Rosemary," she said, "Rosemary, the United States is bombing Afghanistan."
Time stopped. All the heads on the bus turned toward my little group (we were in the back).
"Rosemary did you hear me?" Ana asked.
"Yes," I whispered. Then I slunk down in my seat and stared out at the darkening night.
The bus ride to London, already too long and slightly damp, only worsened after that. People around me were talking about what was happening, what Ana had just yelled.
Surreal does not even begin to describe how things felt. For days. For days nothing felt right.
I watched the news constantly. I sent dispatches home to my journalism school -- who had arranged my internship -- about news conferences and my impressions of things. I remember walking down to Trafalgar Square one day and just sitting there for hours watching the pigeons. The light was that perfect gray-white that sometimes visits London and I was just awash in all this gray.
It's like that Dr. Seuss book "My Many Colored Days." The gray day "nothing moves."
Nothing moved.
Which is strange because I've never been rah-rah patriotic. I come from a family with a very long history in the military and, while I will state quite clearly I support the troops ... I am a pacifist.
It was in London I discovered this. It was sitting in that gray light that I felt this bit of myself finally break through.
Of course, everywhere I went, once people realized I was American they wanted to talk with me about the war. What I thought. Wasn't it amazing the US was going to wipe the Taliban out? Wasn't it awful the US was invading a sovereign country?
I just nodded and went about my way. Except this one night. There's always a night, right?
My housemates decided to go to a bar in a part of town were a lot of Australians lived and this particular bar was crawling with them. Seriously. This could just have easily been a bar in Sydney as in London. And it was full of very big Australians. I don't like to make generalities. But fighting my way through the crowd to buy a beer was like wading through several NFL teams. These men were huge!
So, I have my beer, my friends and I are ensconced in a corner near the bar when this short Australian begins chatting me up. Of course, my accent gave me away and this fellow launched into this long diatribe about how Australia and America were such good friends and how the Aussies had our backs. We Americans were lucky to have such good friends.
Well, I lost it. I totally went off. I said I didn't see how bombing a bunch of people who might, or might not, be Taliban was going to solve anything. How it was going to take more than military action to counter terrorism and beat Al Qaeda and I didn't see how going into a country that had been a kind of deathtrap for every nation that had gone in guns blazing was such a great strategic move.
Needless to say, he left me be after that. Although he did try to talk to me once or twice afterward, but this little American did not need this Aussie to have her back on this one.
The strange thing in all of this was that was eight years ago. And not only are we still in Afghanistan, with no real strategy for how to get out we are also mired in Iraq.
Eight years.
The human toll of the war in Afghanistan is hard for me to imagine sitting in my cozy attic office. It's unfathomable.
The thing is? How do you leave? And how do you stay?
It feels like on one has the answer.
It feels like we're stuck. Like we haven't come all that far in eight years.
I hope, another eight years from now, I'm writing about something else.
Our day in Bath had been a soggy one. After a later than planned start, we visited the Roman Baths, checked out a museum (that had a Monet I'd never seen) and then had lunch an centuries old pub before boarding our coach back to London.
I was tired. Mentally, emotionally and physically. I was 22 and thought that moving across the Atlantic by myself would be no big thing. Ha! On top of that I was in a long distance relationship that was in trouble and, not least of all, I'd gone overseas not even a month after the September 11th attacks. My mother, who was nervous about my moving to England alone already, definitely hoped I'd decide to stay in Ohio.
I'm too much her daughter for her to really have thought that was going to happen.
But, I will tell you, being an American traveling overseas at the time was strange. Things felt very ... foggy. Not because of anything anyone said, necessarily, but as soon as I opened my mouth my nationality popped out and I would get looks and the inevitable, "I'm so sorry."
How do you respond that that?
So, anyway, I was in a funk, needless to say. And on a bus home. A bus on which I was the only American. I was sitting with one of my roommates and across the aisle four of the other people who had come on the trip were all sitting together -- laughing and boisterous. I was sullen.
Another of my roommates, Fabiana, was on the phone with her mother talking furiously in Portuguese and looking my way.
I thought, "Oh, god, what now?"
I didn't have long to wonder. Soon my friend known as "Big Ana," because she was so tall, yelled across the bus at me something I didn't understand the first time. Then she yelled again.
"Rosemary," she said, "Rosemary, the United States is bombing Afghanistan."
Time stopped. All the heads on the bus turned toward my little group (we were in the back).
"Rosemary did you hear me?" Ana asked.
"Yes," I whispered. Then I slunk down in my seat and stared out at the darkening night.
The bus ride to London, already too long and slightly damp, only worsened after that. People around me were talking about what was happening, what Ana had just yelled.
Surreal does not even begin to describe how things felt. For days. For days nothing felt right.
I watched the news constantly. I sent dispatches home to my journalism school -- who had arranged my internship -- about news conferences and my impressions of things. I remember walking down to Trafalgar Square one day and just sitting there for hours watching the pigeons. The light was that perfect gray-white that sometimes visits London and I was just awash in all this gray.
It's like that Dr. Seuss book "My Many Colored Days." The gray day "nothing moves."
Nothing moved.
Which is strange because I've never been rah-rah patriotic. I come from a family with a very long history in the military and, while I will state quite clearly I support the troops ... I am a pacifist.
It was in London I discovered this. It was sitting in that gray light that I felt this bit of myself finally break through.
Of course, everywhere I went, once people realized I was American they wanted to talk with me about the war. What I thought. Wasn't it amazing the US was going to wipe the Taliban out? Wasn't it awful the US was invading a sovereign country?
I just nodded and went about my way. Except this one night. There's always a night, right?
My housemates decided to go to a bar in a part of town were a lot of Australians lived and this particular bar was crawling with them. Seriously. This could just have easily been a bar in Sydney as in London. And it was full of very big Australians. I don't like to make generalities. But fighting my way through the crowd to buy a beer was like wading through several NFL teams. These men were huge!
So, I have my beer, my friends and I are ensconced in a corner near the bar when this short Australian begins chatting me up. Of course, my accent gave me away and this fellow launched into this long diatribe about how Australia and America were such good friends and how the Aussies had our backs. We Americans were lucky to have such good friends.
Well, I lost it. I totally went off. I said I didn't see how bombing a bunch of people who might, or might not, be Taliban was going to solve anything. How it was going to take more than military action to counter terrorism and beat Al Qaeda and I didn't see how going into a country that had been a kind of deathtrap for every nation that had gone in guns blazing was such a great strategic move.
Needless to say, he left me be after that. Although he did try to talk to me once or twice afterward, but this little American did not need this Aussie to have her back on this one.
The strange thing in all of this was that was eight years ago. And not only are we still in Afghanistan, with no real strategy for how to get out we are also mired in Iraq.
Eight years.
The human toll of the war in Afghanistan is hard for me to imagine sitting in my cozy attic office. It's unfathomable.
The thing is? How do you leave? And how do you stay?
It feels like on one has the answer.
It feels like we're stuck. Like we haven't come all that far in eight years.
I hope, another eight years from now, I'm writing about something else.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Compassion. Empathy. Tenderness.
I wonder if we really understand just what those words mean. Sure, on the surface we may know. We may, at the rational-thinking level, "get it" but, I would wager, we don't really get it.
I've been struggling with these concepts for as long as I can remember. I get trapped by them. By the overwhelming nature of feeling them. I'm not trying to traipse about and pretend I'm some new saint -- but I've always felt things deeply. Especially when it concerns the pain and suffering of my fellow living things.
This healthcare "debate" hurts my head. I listen to all these "rational" reasons why we can't have single-payer. All these "rational" reasons why we can't afford it. And then hear "rational" reasons why we must wage wars that were unwanted and spend more money than I can dream of on the waging.
I think I'm just utterly depressed by it all. Because it all seems so callous and hallow. Some would say they're just being realistic, and maybe they are ... but I'm an idealist. Perhaps too old to be an idealist ... but it's who, and what, I am.
It's just so terribly difficult to read the news anymore. To see images of people seeking medical care at the clinics set up by Remote Area Medical. Thank whomever for RAM, but that the organization is necessary is ... awful.
I'm not sure even what the point of this post is, really.
I wonder, sometimes, if we have become so caught up in modern life we've lost our own humanity. And the ability to see that humanity in others.
To see that worth.
I'm not sure if that's true. Or, if it is, how to go about fixing that.
I titled this post "Compassion. Empathy. Tenderness."
Perhaps I should have titled it, instead, sorrow.
I've been struggling with these concepts for as long as I can remember. I get trapped by them. By the overwhelming nature of feeling them. I'm not trying to traipse about and pretend I'm some new saint -- but I've always felt things deeply. Especially when it concerns the pain and suffering of my fellow living things.
This healthcare "debate" hurts my head. I listen to all these "rational" reasons why we can't have single-payer. All these "rational" reasons why we can't afford it. And then hear "rational" reasons why we must wage wars that were unwanted and spend more money than I can dream of on the waging.
I think I'm just utterly depressed by it all. Because it all seems so callous and hallow. Some would say they're just being realistic, and maybe they are ... but I'm an idealist. Perhaps too old to be an idealist ... but it's who, and what, I am.
It's just so terribly difficult to read the news anymore. To see images of people seeking medical care at the clinics set up by Remote Area Medical. Thank whomever for RAM, but that the organization is necessary is ... awful.
I'm not sure even what the point of this post is, really.
I wonder, sometimes, if we have become so caught up in modern life we've lost our own humanity. And the ability to see that humanity in others.
To see that worth.
I'm not sure if that's true. Or, if it is, how to go about fixing that.
I titled this post "Compassion. Empathy. Tenderness."
Perhaps I should have titled it, instead, sorrow.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Floating inside yourself.
Ever have that feeling?
On facebook I wrote that I'm interested in "existential spelunking." Which is true and, given I'm an INFJ, will probably always be true. But ... this current state I'm in feels different. It feels as though this body I have is full of helium and there's a smaller me floating around inside, pinging from knee to hip, hip to elbow, elbow to shoulder.
It's strange. As you may imagine.
There's been a lot going on. I've begun PhD coursework. The less said about that the better. (Not that I'm struggling because of it but because I just finished homework and don't want to think about that stuff.) I am also finishing my thesis. And writing poetry. And working. And raising little kid.
All of these things I enjoy. And that make me ... happy. Sort of.
I went on vacation with my best friend this summer to Maine. Oh.My.God. Heaven. Maine is heaven. I had no idea what to expect, but my mother was born there and spent a large chunk of her childhood in New England so I've always wanted to visit.
I think this floating started there. Which means it's been going on for the last month or so.
I think, perhaps, it's tied to the fact that I've realized I don't know who I am and I'm not going to. Not because I'm not in touch with myself. But because everything is so fluid.
It's strange. I know me, who I am in this moment, but I don't know who I will be when I wake up.
Does everyone feel like this?
(Of course. This all could be tied to the fact I haven't slept well over the last few months. Lack of sleep can make you loopy.)
I'm trying to anchor myself and plow away at what needs to be done.
I just feel very discombobulated. That's all.
On facebook I wrote that I'm interested in "existential spelunking." Which is true and, given I'm an INFJ, will probably always be true. But ... this current state I'm in feels different. It feels as though this body I have is full of helium and there's a smaller me floating around inside, pinging from knee to hip, hip to elbow, elbow to shoulder.
It's strange. As you may imagine.
There's been a lot going on. I've begun PhD coursework. The less said about that the better. (Not that I'm struggling because of it but because I just finished homework and don't want to think about that stuff.) I am also finishing my thesis. And writing poetry. And working. And raising little kid.
All of these things I enjoy. And that make me ... happy. Sort of.
I went on vacation with my best friend this summer to Maine. Oh.My.God. Heaven. Maine is heaven. I had no idea what to expect, but my mother was born there and spent a large chunk of her childhood in New England so I've always wanted to visit.
I think this floating started there. Which means it's been going on for the last month or so.
I think, perhaps, it's tied to the fact that I've realized I don't know who I am and I'm not going to. Not because I'm not in touch with myself. But because everything is so fluid.
It's strange. I know me, who I am in this moment, but I don't know who I will be when I wake up.
Does everyone feel like this?
(Of course. This all could be tied to the fact I haven't slept well over the last few months. Lack of sleep can make you loopy.)
I'm trying to anchor myself and plow away at what needs to be done.
I just feel very discombobulated. That's all.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Testing, testing...is this thing on?
So, I have neglected this blog for a year. I have had every intention of keeping it up. But, you know the saying about good intentions.
I've missed you, blog. And bloggers. So, I'm going to make an attempt to keep this baby going. Why ... I'm not entirely sure. I'm in grad school. And working part-time. And raising a 6-year-old who is insane. But, in my heart, I am a writer. A writer of big things and little.
I'm not sure which of those this blog is. Probably on the bigger end.
Over the next few weeks I'm going to dip back into the pool and hope that I do a little more than tread water.
To new beginnings!
I've missed you, blog. And bloggers. So, I'm going to make an attempt to keep this baby going. Why ... I'm not entirely sure. I'm in grad school. And working part-time. And raising a 6-year-old who is insane. But, in my heart, I am a writer. A writer of big things and little.
I'm not sure which of those this blog is. Probably on the bigger end.
Over the next few weeks I'm going to dip back into the pool and hope that I do a little more than tread water.
To new beginnings!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
A poem about being pregnant.
When I was pregnant with my daughter I had awful morning sickness. AWFUL!
I was also on a writing board that gave you a bunch of words you had to work into a piece. This is what I produced one week -- guess you know what was on my mind.
It's more than five years old now and a bit clunky in a spot or two, but not to shabby I think.
Morning Sickness
Tick tock goes the clock
Time to chew, time to spew
Like a nova, I bend over
Hate to feel, hear a reel
Floating in and out again
Breakfast had, man I'm glad
Toilet basin I place my face in
Open my mouth, it all flies out
Pull of a thread, out comes the bread
On and on, it seems so long
I'm lying there, dying there
My skin is snug, just wanna unplug
Eyes are stinging, phone is ringing
Mother talking, always squawking
How I hate her the incinerator
All her nagging, endless blabbing
My hair I catch before I retch
With the bile, out comes fire
Stoked by anger, I'd like to strangle
The god who, the goddess who
Thought sickness, thought bitchiness
Was a nice way to start the day
With a good leaven, I'd float to heaven
Or just out of body, mine's so shoddy
By some law, my insides claw
At my mouth, it all wants out
Close my eyes, by time flies
The end has come, I’m undone
I was also on a writing board that gave you a bunch of words you had to work into a piece. This is what I produced one week -- guess you know what was on my mind.
It's more than five years old now and a bit clunky in a spot or two, but not to shabby I think.
Morning Sickness
Tick tock goes the clock
Time to chew, time to spew
Like a nova, I bend over
Hate to feel, hear a reel
Floating in and out again
Breakfast had, man I'm glad
Toilet basin I place my face in
Open my mouth, it all flies out
Pull of a thread, out comes the bread
On and on, it seems so long
I'm lying there, dying there
My skin is snug, just wanna unplug
Eyes are stinging, phone is ringing
Mother talking, always squawking
How I hate her the incinerator
All her nagging, endless blabbing
My hair I catch before I retch
With the bile, out comes fire
Stoked by anger, I'd like to strangle
The god who, the goddess who
Thought sickness, thought bitchiness
Was a nice way to start the day
With a good leaven, I'd float to heaven
Or just out of body, mine's so shoddy
By some law, my insides claw
At my mouth, it all wants out
Close my eyes, by time flies
The end has come, I’m undone
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Hello from the Land of Birthdays and Spider bites.
So, my baby girl turned five on Saturday.
Five!
That seems absolutely impossible. Right now she is brushing our cat and talking about how Pepper will look "so beautiful" for the cat show. What cat show?
Our weekend was good. We have friends/family down and just hung out. Very low key.
Except Friday night I decided to walk down to the park. I had some phone calls to make and just needed to breathe a bit after a busy week. Well, while I was down there, enjoying nature I got bit. By what a nurse said was a spider and what a doctor said "Could be anything."
It's gross. And it hurts. They gave me some kind of steroid cream to rub on it.
It hurts, did I mention that?
I mean, really, really hurts.
And it's making me grouchy.
I just yelled at five year old because she kept knocking stuff off this thing on the floor in my room.
So, yeah, I'm in a loverly mood.
How was your weekend?
Five!
That seems absolutely impossible. Right now she is brushing our cat and talking about how Pepper will look "so beautiful" for the cat show. What cat show?
Our weekend was good. We have friends/family down and just hung out. Very low key.
Except Friday night I decided to walk down to the park. I had some phone calls to make and just needed to breathe a bit after a busy week. Well, while I was down there, enjoying nature I got bit. By what a nurse said was a spider and what a doctor said "Could be anything."
It's gross. And it hurts. They gave me some kind of steroid cream to rub on it.
It hurts, did I mention that?
I mean, really, really hurts.
And it's making me grouchy.
I just yelled at five year old because she kept knocking stuff off this thing on the floor in my room.
So, yeah, I'm in a loverly mood.
How was your weekend?
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