Thursday, November 26, 2015
I observed you there, at the museum, watching me from the corner.
Your eyes seemed to know me,
to beckon me,
and drawn by their intensity I came to you.
Standing before you, I glanced to the left and to the right, and then,
I looked at you.
Your brown eyes, soulful, honest, knowing.
I could not look away, but I wanted to.
I knew I wasn’t worthy, I knew you were just a painting, but
Rembrandt must have captured some part of your soul
because there you were!
You seemed to know everything,
all at once,
I stood before you, unable to look away, seeing only your beautiful face,
feeling your grace, your forgiveness.
You stared deep into me, and
for one moment I felt total.
My eyes filled with tears as you gazed my way,
knowing that I would hold this moment forever.
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Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Need a little non-writing help here.
My grandson and granddaughter steal once in a while. Never money, but usually something small.
This last time they stole candy bars that we were selling for a friend’s daughter to support her skating. We realized it after they left. We haven’t spoken to them yet.
If it comes down to it, they may be spending their holidays with their parents who are the influence of their behavior. I don’t want them there because we do all the fun stuff with them and it won’t happen if we don’t take them.
The boy is ten, the girl is twelve. Has anyone dealt with this situation before? It’s driving me crazy. I’ve had him bring things back to the store and hand them to the manager, and as far as I know this is his sister’s first time.
Last night my boyfriend asked me what I wanted to do, and my response was to cut off one hand.
I’m so sick and tired of the disrespect and the disappointment. They don’t need to steal from us. They don’t need to steal at all. Yet they do.
Any advice would be appreciated. Help!!!
Friday, November 20, 2015
It was always us against the world.
We singled ourselves out of the mainstream.
We were different, and proud of it,
even though we wanted desperately to fit in.
When they chose sports, we chose art
and when they chose preppie, we chose grunge.
It wasn’t grunge then, there were a few more years before the label for that came out.
We were the living epitome of The Outsiders, by S.E. Hinton, and we wanted it that way.
We wanted to be misunderstood,
too complicated for mainstream.
Posing a tragic figure was an opportunity to stand out
and also a way to blend in with the background.
No one tried to figure us out (like we were THAT complicated)
and for our part,
we didn’t want to know them either.
Our denim jackets were our shields from the outside world.
One could see us, but they would never know us.
Not how deep we are,
not how talented we are,
not how painful our existence is to us.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that
angst never leaves.
It’s still there, it still whispers in my ear that I am more,
more than any of you will ever know, and there is tragedy in that.
The tragedy that will keep you from knowing me
and the missed opportunity of me
ever trying to know
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
They slammed the cupboard doors and yelled about the filthy house. Nothing was ready for company.
“I’ll take care of it!” I screamed.
It had been a long week and I was extremely tired.
After they finally left, I lit the match.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
I wrote a story once, about a memory from my early childhood.
It was the first time I put myself out there, published,
and when she read it she asked me if I really thought
she was that “terrible”.
I never thought she was.
I didn’t see the story in that light at all,
but her comment effectively
shut me down.
Even now, if she read this
she would make me feel guilty
for not writing what I felt
because of her.
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Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Anxiety rips my chest apart and causes pain in my
non-stop thoughts in my head about
how I can make everything better,
that kissing your boo-boos will make all the bad stuff go away and
then I realize I can’t fix everything like I used to and
you are an adult with a husband and
you both need to stop acting like kids yourselves and
face up to the fact that he is mentally unstable and
my grandchildren are living in that environment and
getting more and more unstable themselves when they are faced with moving yet again and
this time without more of their stuff even though their father gets to take all of his toys and
the system that is set up to protect them does nothing,
they are left on the wayside again even though
we’ve told their teachers there is something wrong and please,
please report something, anything,
so they might have a halfway decent life, even if it is in a stranger’s home, and
even if we never see them again as long as they’re safe and away from him, and
then maybe you will decide you’ve had enough and
leave him too and
start your life the way you would have had you not decided to leave home at sixteen and…
…then I take a breath. I think that this will never change. This story will play out over and over again, and
I need to check out. I look at the clock.
Twilight will not make the dark circles under my eyes any brighter.
I love you, but this is your circus.
You chose that monkey.
I will help destroy him, but in doing so, you and I may be destroyed too.
As a mother
I have to tell you
– it’s for your own good.