I don't know that I remember the date of my last entry, exactly, but it would have been around this time last year, I guess. Let me start by saying that I'm still undecided as to whether or not keeping this blog is a good idea. On the one hand, I feel like writers, poets especially, are open books by nature, so keeping a record of Every Little Thing comes quite naturally. On the other hand, I don't tend to change names or attempt in any way to protect anyone's identity, and I can see how that might rub some folks a little raw. Let's get through this post and see where we end up, huh?
My little boy will be two years old this August. He started crawling at 8 months and walking around 13 months. He is the single most beautiful thing on the face of earth. I don't have to search for some fabled golden city or peer into wood grain looking for the faces of angels. He's it. The love I feel for him makes me certain of my own shortcomings as my love pertains to my husband (but I'll get to that later). He likes closing doors, knocking on them, and then telling himself to come in. He's into the RAWR at the end of the Dinosaur Train theme. He's also into the wa-sound in the Wild, Wild, Wild Kratts song. He says no and nonononononono. We're still co-sleeping, but I have a feeling he'll outgrow me and the recliner sooner rather than later. That breaks my heart more than a little, but I won't fight it too hard. It might be nice sleeping on a bed again. Might. MIGHT be. When he hugs me, he pats my shoulders. He is excellent at mimicking tones. He seems to prefer percussion to stringed instruments, but that he prefers anything at all tickles me pink. He's still in the puppy 'chew everything' phase, but he's finally past eating cardboard. I think.
I will be 30 this year. I have never understood the panic of aging. Everyone does it, and the ones that aren't doing it damn sure wish they were doing it. My body is going through unfunny changes, though. I start feeling period symptoms 3 weeks before I actually start. If you're keeping score, that means I end my period, experience one week of normalcy, a week of irritability, two weeks of irritability and cramps, then the next period arrives. Being a woman is hard. It's harder when you have to be one around menfolk. I had three beers last night and two slices of pizza when I got home. It was right around midnight and I didn't think much about it before falling asleep. I woke up with a barfy heat in my throat that has persisted even to this very point in my entry and I think my days of 'suh dude' scarfing are over. In the spirit of getting older and having seemingly mundane abilities (like eating before bed) taken away from me, I have been considering a road trip. A last hoorah, if you will. Will you?
Here's how this terrible/terrific idea was birthed.
Writer friend Liz had sent me a link to a publication called "Yellow Medicine Review" and urged me to submit some poetry. I'd never sent my work anywhere, so I sent six their way not really knowing what to expect. Time passed and passed and I hadn't heard anything back, so I just sort of assumed I didn't get picked. No biggie. Fast-forward something like two months after submission and I found out they'd picked two of the pieces I submitted. Neato! Fast-forward another two months and the book arrived in the mail with my name listed on the back under a guy named Tommy Orange. How perfect is that, right? Anyways, Writer friend Liz called me a few weeks ago saying there's another thing she thinks I should go for and that she was going to an indigenous writer's conference in Calgary. Ordinarily, I wouldn't think twice about a trip like that because I've got too much shit going on here and trekking into the unknown gives me fuddy duddy anxiety. But something took root in my head and the idea morphed into an epic road trip with an RV full of exceptional poets. One of my best friends in the world (and a brilliant writer to boot) would be the navigator while Liz, myself, and my other brilliant writer friend Kate would be the kids saying Are We There Yet? No? Good!
It is mostly just a pipe dream at this point, but the more I think about it, the more excited I get. I don't think I could leave Herb for more than a day without feeling the unyielding pang of not being with him, but then how cool would it be for me to get some sort of famous on our week on the road! Then, when he's in school and his friends are telling him what a square his mom is, he can say, "Hey man, she actually went on this crazy trip when I was a baby and brought me back treasure from every stop". It is good to instill a sense of adventure in your children. That being safe is paramount, but that doesn't mean you have to stay home every day of your life.
Anyways.
It's a nice thought.
Do I want to get into my marriage right now?
I may as well.
Alcoholism is and has been the shear to my shaggy relationship sheep.
Just when I think our wool has grown back and we are prepared to weather the bitterly cold stings of lies and disagreement, those alcoholic shears come snipping in, leaving us naked and ill-equipped. I shiver and shake and shiver and shake and this cycle has repeated itself enough times where I don't feel much about anything anymore. Everything feels distant. Nothing has weight. Apart from the love I feel for my immediate family and my son, I don't feel much of anything else for anyone else. Friendships feel pointless, even. I'm just sort of here. And that's terrible. I would love to Not feel that way (or rather, I'd love to feel at least Some kind of way). At this time, Herb's dad and I are out of love and playing house until Herb is old enough to thoroughly understand. Maybe when he's 18. I don't know. I have a love for him similar to the love I have for any living thing. I don't want to see him hurt or hungry or helpless. But I don't feel like he's anything other than a person I see on the bus regularly. Who knows. Maybe dead limbs amputate themselves and grow back stronger than ever. Maybe dead things stay dead. Only time will tell. To be fair, I'm quite certain the feeling is mutual, which is to say I'm pretty sure he could take me or leave me. Herb is undoubtedly the glue keeping us together. But even the fact that this nothingness is mutual eats me. What the fuck did I do? I gave in and gave in to promises that the alcohol was under control. I gave inches, he took miles. I gave miles, he took fucking quadraspheres. I'm not saying I'm perfect, but what the fuck, man?
Anyways....
..........George?
Poor bastard has a haircut goofier than Herb's <3
Music got exciting for a little bit, but it's back down to the nothing it usually is.
Easy come easy go, ya know?
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