janus

Two-headed Janus, source of the silently gliding year,
The only god who is able to see behind him,
Be favourable to the leaders, whose labours win
Peace for the fertile earth, peace for the seas:
Be favourable to the senate and Roman people,
And with a nod unbar the shining temples.
A prosperous day dawns: favour our thoughts and speech!
Let auspicious words be said on this auspicious day.
-Ovid, Fasti: Book 1

thank you note.

last night i opened up the gifts from my friends. there was no bright paper to rip and toss onto the floor, no ribbons for my cat to chase, just pure generosity from true hearts.

they are the best gifts i have received this year.

the heartfelt messages, the poems and lyrics, the images and videos -- they are all shinier than the newest gadget or the latest toy. i saved them all, and i know i will be re-reading them and re-viewing them, many times.

whenever i am tempted to think no one cares one way or the other about me, i will look at them. whenever i feel as though magic is impossible, i will take them out and let them serve to remind me how very magical the world truly is, for it brought all of you into my life.

merry christmas, my friends, and thank you.

with love,
-tj

storytime.

let's play a game! i'll start, and you can add a sentence or two to keep it going. everyone can play, even anonymously, so be creative!

okay? okay!



my starter sentence:

"ugh," annie bee groaned, looking up from her computer, "my cat is snoring again."

countdown terminated.

in every spy flick there's the defuse the bomb! scene, wherein the hero feverishly -- yet calmly -- saves the world yet again by disabling the most fiendishly clever incendiary device. there's always a red digital readout on the thing, ticking away the seconds to the end of the world, and it always stops with a second or two to spare.

my ex played the role of james bond today. he gave me his christmas bonus, which happened to be the exact amount i needed to stave off my eviction.

i'm still in a financial mess, and it's going to take a while to straighten it out and get myself back on a solid path, but the crisis is over. my world is saved. i have a home.



and to everyone who has been so kind, who has come here and left such warming words of support -- bc (the avenger!), cupcake, dei gratia, ergoproxy, miss t, mustardisbetter, paperheartxx, sdock, and shame in me -- you are the ones who strengthened my heart, and chased away the fear, and no words can truly express the gratitude i have for you, or show how blessed i feel to be a part of this blog experience that has brought all of you into my life. because of all of you, i wasn't alone. it didn't matter that you are all scattered across the globe, with your words i could feel your care as if you had all come to my doorstep at once.

thank you, my friends. i love you.

four days.

none of the requests for help i sent out have been answered.

i have been trying to pretend that there isn't a monster standing behind me, but today i cannot deny that i can feel the breath from it's gaping maw.

i never thought that i would be in this situation. i know how to manage money, i'm a responsible person, i don't drink, do drugs, or gamble. still, i'm broke. i think i'll probably be homeless by the end of the month.

when i was a teenager, i used to joke about wanting to grow up to be a bag-lady, because my style at the time was so scruffy. i saw one such at a bus stop this past week, and wondered if i was looking what i would soon become.

i just don't know.

i've made such a mess of things and now it's time to pay, and i don't know what the cost is truly going to be.

i'm scared.

six days.

that's all. not even a full week until the apartment management turns me over to their lawyers and the eviction process is set in full swing.

my mom might be helping me, or she might just be asking me a lot of questions. i can't tell yet.

i've begun to research what to do with my belongings and who might shelter my cat, just in case.

i'm sorry to everyone that i haven't been putting gifts under lolita's tree, that i haven't been on the blog adding my support to those who need it.

i can't be of use to anyone, neither our host nor our friends.

i am embarrassed, and ashamed.

please stand by.

real life will be temporarily interrupted due to modest mouse, coheed and cambria, et al. once their needs are attended to, i shall return and resume angsting up the place in my usual fashion.

p.s. my one-year anniversary of seeing my chem live for the first time.

buon giorno!

my boat just sprung a leak.

ok. not really a leak. more like the bottom just ripped out on some jagged rocks. i wasn't paying attention to where i was going, didn't see the shoals up ahead.

or maybe i did, and just thought they wouldn't apply to me.

imagined immunity.

it's my own fault for straying so far from shore.

i used to be a very capable person. you would have marveled at the skill of my budgeting and penny-pinching. it was almost a game. made me feel all laura ingalls wilder, smart and self-sufficent pioneer stock. my favorite saying was a line from the farmer's almanac: if it won't make a pot, it will make a pot lid.

i pulled us out of debt. my schemes and lists made his paycheck enough to pay off both our school loans.

but that must have been one of the things i lost when my old life died. when i buried the housewife.

oh gods. not even praying is enough anymore.

look away, look away.

i have two places where i am able to unburden myself, here and in my own private journal. in both, i am free to rail against the pains that trouble me, free to weep without restraint. in this place, i also have the illusion of talking to friends. so.

you have been warned.

i have two people in my life that i can tell my heart to, that i can turn to for comfort and advice, two sisters of my heart. one an old and dear friend, one a sister in truth. both recently shut the door on me.

so now i have no one.

no one to lend emotional support as my life slowly falls apart, due to my own failure at being an actual adult. i know how to be a student, i know how to be a housewife, but a woman on her own? apparently, not one of my life skills.

i know my problems are small compared to others, but they are things i have never faced before. i have never been on my own before. how do you learn how to be a grown-up in one year? well, it's probably not difficult if you're at all competent, but clearly, i am not.

i just asked my ex for money yesterday. i haven't seen him since we signed the divorce papers, and though we're cordial enough, and have kept in touch through the very occasional polite email, the last -- the very last -- thing i ever wanted to do was to need to ask him for help, he who rejected me, he who saw me as a burden.

but my juggling act has fallen apart. i'm at risk of losing my home by next week.

failure, most definitely.

and now all i can do is wait to see if he will bail me out, with the fear that he won't, and then what will i do?

what a mess.

what a stupid woman.

what a failure.

this is what i really want to do.

i want to go through my apartment, room by room, corner by corner, and pull out everything. every book, every box, every item of clothing, every household tool, every scrap of paper, every toy i "had" to have, every bit of flotsam, and lay them all out, room by room, and look at them, and decide: which is "me", still.

and when i have done this, each room will contain two piles. the first, the smaller, will be those things i truly treasure, those things that truly have a berth in my soul, that truly help me to be me. the second, the larger, will be a heap of crap, which i will sell or give or throw away, as each item requires.

and then there will be space enough. and then i will be able to hold all that is mine in my two arms, and i will be able to go anywhere. i will not be trapped anymore. i will not be bound anymore. i will know who i am again. i will not be locked in a box of my own making, unable to find the key to the chains. the chains will be gone. that person will be gone, the one who built this box.

and i will be free.

at the beep.

pretend i've written something fantastically insightful and yet also full of pathos, and you are moved to tears and simply must comment to relieve the pressure of compassion in your heart.

maybe.

it has not been a good week, for the most part. in fact, it has been hellish. my initial numbness gave way to a growing sense of utter loss. i understood their feelings, to a degree, but nothing in my entire life could have prepared me for the cruelty, and the speed at which that cruelty was displayed.

something precious had been destroyed. it would never be able to be renewed. i had lost it forever.

tonight, however, someone i trust did something unexpected that showed me a glimmer at the edge of my vision. it was a little silver strand of spider's thread, and when i looked down and traced its path, i realized it lead to me. i was holding it in my hand.

i don't know where it leads. i don't know if it's strong enough to not eventually snap. but i think i'll hang on to it, and wait, and see.

grounding and centering.

tuck yourself into a quiet space and ride your breath in and out of your body,

the slow ebb and pull of life.

after long enough, you will become focus and breathing.

this is when you unfurl your heart,

reach down into the earth at your feet,

for it is always at your feet, even at the top of a tower,

and draw up the sweet green energy, juicy into every line of vein and nerve.

hold it at your heart.

make a levy there and let the wave wash and fill you.

with your breath now,

reach up into the overarching sky and let the gentle fizzing sweetness flow down and through you,

buzzing into every line of vein and nerve,

until it meets with the earth in your heart and together

they bind themselves to you,

so that you are filled with earth and sky,

so that you are a bead on the string between them.

***

(I've been running empty for too long.)

to all my friends on the crumpetty tree.

The Quangle Wangle's Hat
by Edward Lear

I
On the top of the Crumpetty Tree
The Quangle Wangle sat,
But his face you could not see,
On account of his Beaver Hat.
For his Hat was a hundred and two feet wide,
With ribbons and bibbons on every side
And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace,
So that nobody every could see the face
Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

II
The Quangle Wangle said
To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, —
"Jam; and jelly; and bread;
"Are the best of food for me!
"But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree
"The plainer than ever it seems to me
"That very few people come this way
"And that life on the whole is far from gay!"
Said the Quangle Wangle Quee.

III
But there came to the Crumpetty Tree,
Mr. and Mrs. Canary;
And they said, — "Did every you see
"Any spot so charmingly airy?
"May we build a nest on your lovely Hat?
"Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!
"O please let us come and build a nest
"Of whatever material suits you best,
"Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"

IV
And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree
Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl;
The Snail, and the Bumble-Bee,
The Frog, and the Fimble Fowl;
(The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg;)
And all of them said, — "We humbly beg,
"We may build out homes on your lovely Hat, —
"Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!
"Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"

V
And the Golden Grouse came there,
And the Pobble who has no toes, —
And the small Olympian bear, —
And the Dong with a luminous nose.
And the Blue Baboon, who played the Flute, —
And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, —
And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat, —
All came and built on the lovely Hat
Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

VI
And the Quangle Wangle said
To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, —
"When all these creatures move
"What a wonderful noise there'll be!"
And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon
They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon,
On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree,
And all were as happy as happy could be,
With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

cliff-diving.

all open, right? all my clues out on the ground at my feet, right? see them spread out on the blanket there? a bargain, every piece of me. no haggling.

here's a piece. it's a bit odd in shape, and maybe the workmanship is shoddy, but it was sincerely done, i assure you. and some might even find the colors pleasing. what is it? oh, it's a little bit of mental fluff, a little bit of philosophical dalliance that she held herself to. she never wanted to be a greedy thing. she knew she was just being hopeful. so she kept a respectful distance in order to allow the fates to work on her, if they wanted to. made it into an inner law. a taboo not to be broken. avoid the star, avoid the fan, so that maybe someday, two people could meet.

what's that? oh, well. yes, you're right. it is broken. hmm. will you take it at a reduced price? it was broken for a good cause, i assure you. in answer to a compulsion, even.

no? you don't want it? you don't want any of it?

who would?

i can only be myself. and if i'm not shiny enough, well...

then there's nothing to be done about it, is there? there's no mask i would put on to be acceptable, that would be pointless. i'm new to this business of not hiding, but i know that if it's not for who i am, then it's worthless. i told my sister once that i needed to become my best self, for me, and for the vain hope that someday, the fates would smile on me. why would i want to offer you anything but my best?

did this blog hijack that hope? because i'm not my best self. not even close yet! and there's so many things i'd love to tell you, and so many things i'd love to hear you talk about, and now i fear i'll never get that chance to just see if maybe you were a friend i hadn't met yet, because here i'm just a scary silly weepy sheep.

and i'm sure that this is also the wrong thing to do, to cry over my failures in front of you, to show you just how messy and needy and greedy i really am. but what else is there to do? i'm giving you whatever poor words i can scrape up out of my heart for you, because if i consider all here my friends, friends i owe my true self to, then i can't exempt you from that can i? you're a part of this, too. you're a friend, too.

no matter what the fates do.

offerings.

i like to watch people.

when i'm out and about, i like to look at the people on the street, in their cars, in the next seat on the bus. i watch how they walk, how they laugh with their friends, how they're dressed, how their faces reflect their inner conversations. i try to see how much i can figure out about each person from the clues they carry. i wonder about their stories.

is he a good man, is the stiff angle of his jaw a sign that he is belligerent, or carrying unasked-for burdens? is she just a tired woman, or mortally disappointed by what life has given her? does he know that when he falls asleep, the kindly smile he wears slides into a lonely frown?

i can't help this. watching people is necessary for me. i fade into the background, another invisible woman, and i watch, with my eyes sharp. by seeing these people who pass by me, i train myself to see those people i have yet to write about, so that when i do write about them, you will see them too.

being invisible is a good skill for a writer to have.

except, i don't always want to be invisible. i want to be seen, too. i want to have my story read.

who's watching me? what am i telling them with my clothes, my hair, my demeanor? do i seem flighty, a bit of a lightweight? or can they see that behind the silliness, i'm a solid and true friend, someone who can be leaned on for support? am i easily overlooked, or do i catch at the eye, someone to be curious about?

am i seen?

and underneath it all, my heart, which i open up fully now, no sense hiding anymore, no sense fading into the background, not if i want to be seen, not if i want to be heard. every clue i have i lay out at my feet. here i am. no more am i the writer watching from the back of the room. that way is safe, but i don't want safety anymore.

so here is my heart, here is my voice. it's just me. sad and strong, lonely and loyal, silly and sincere. not much of a story, maybe. still, i will not hide it anymore. what do you read in me? when i speak, what do you hear?

here i am.

do you see me?

waste not, want not.

yesterday on the other blog a wonderful little game was indulged in, but because i had to slog to the grocery store and back, i was unable to participate. (yes, you should feel sad for me. *grin*) but also because of that slog, i had plenty of time to come up with my own answers to the questions.

so, as not to let my efforts slide into obscurity, here is my contribution to yesterday's game.

what i love:
how soft my cat is, autumn light, diesel fumes and cigarette smoke, green tea ice cream, my eyebrows, the sister who understands me, the sisters who don't, the curls chemotherapy gave back to me, that blog and all the people there, that band and all the men in it, sandalwood incense and candlelight, being the first one awake at the campsite, coffee, green tea frappuccino and green tea bubble tea, my gods even when they're obnoxious, my family even when they're obnoxious, live music, the way shakespeare makes me feel, the sound of my skirts when i kneel, the wind, thunder storms (go zeus!), rain, rain, rain, walking with the full length of my stride, the legend of zelda soundtrack, books and particular authors, homemade soup and biscuits on the next day, watching a sportsbike zoom by, the feel of magic.

what i hate:
that one particular "meow", feeling like i'm nothing, neighbors who can't clean their cars without having their radios on, being afraid of life, that liquid contrast they make you drink before a ct scan, big shopping carts in small aisles, that question my co-worker asks me all the time, oh, and man's inhumanity to man, of course.

what i miss:
my dad, my grandmother, my other grandmother's laugh, being able to live on my income, england, being loved, kisses, school, camping, my family, my friend from high school.

what i want:
to have learned how to drive back in high school, my dream job and/or to make a solid income from my writing, a lovely two-bedroom apartment in an old building up in the city, upgraded technology and an ipod, jeans that i actually like wearing, clothing that expresses my inner self, an annual vacation in england, and everything to be well with him (you know, that one guy).

damn. silence is hard.

though the magic of silence is potent, i breathe words and tell myself stories and have long, rhetoric-filled imaginary conversations with strangers inside my head, and i simply cannot keep some of all that from spilling out onto this space. you have my apologies, o imaginary invisible reader. i wish i could say i was writing for you, but all this babble is but desperate vanity and word-craving masturbation.

i grew up being the sharp one, the clever girl, the reader, the witty daughter. apollo and mercury my patrons. sunday's child in truth and in pride. daddy's girl, and bright and special, so bright and special.

but i am not a girl, anymore, though i cannot seem to shake the habit of referring to myself as one, and it comes to me now as i stare down this long silent path my life has become, that perhaps i'm not so special anymore, either.

in fact, it is beginning to dawn on me that i don't know much of anything.

in fact, the only story i'm the center of is my own feeble one.

so, back to practicing silence, then. i should be able to acquire at least this one skill, shouldn't i? it's best that i learn it. no one likes a chatty extra on the stage.

mum's the word.

Darkness is for silence.

This I know, Dark Moon.

Just a few words of remembrance, then,

and I will keep the silence with you.

-- Ceisiwr Serith

oh, hell.

all hallow's eve is this week. i knew this. of course i knew this.

how then did i not realize it meant finding a photo of him? of her? how did i manage to overlook the fact that now they have a place on my remembrance altar? how is it that every step i take away from them is like laying earth on the grave all over again?

photos are traps, sharp wire snares of memory, and now i must venture into the mine field.

i am not looking forward to this hallow's eve.

more of the same.

connections. boundaries.

did i imagine the one? did i overstep the other?

but what's done is done, it can't be erased, and now i'm struggling to not regret using my voice when moved to do so. to be proud of the risk. to allow that to be its own reward.

though in truth, i'm staked out between belief and doubt and lost with the uncertainty of it.

(and it doesn't help that there is a portion of myself standing aside from the rest and laughing at the foolish, foolish, utterly ridiculous girl.)

let there be welcome to the night.

the grass was ghost white with frost this morning, and the air cold enough to make my fingertips hurt. winter is almost here.

i had plans for this past summer. in fact, i had a plan, one that would have laid the foundations for my new self come spring. but summer is gone, my plan is as fruitless as an unharvested garden, unheeded and left to rot. i may still have time to lay those foundations, but it is all uncertainty. what will happen? how long can i remain in this liminal state? why didn't i do what i told myself i would do?

but i don't care today. not at all. not one bit.

today the world is fully saturated with color, every shadow another bright shade, another rich tone. my eyes are drunk on it. my breath traces my path, trails along behind me. i have too much life to be confined in my body. i can taste winter in the air, cold and clean. winter air purifies; you breathe it into your soul, not just your lungs. it comes straight from the stars and the black night, and it refuses to sit still. today, this winter wind is everywhere. it streams my hair away from my face, presses my skirts against my legs in an embrace: i'm back, my love, i'm back.

winter is near. my larder is bare, my clothes are thin, but i'm ready for the season all the same. i'm feasting, i'm full, i'm ready for the dreaming night of the year.

so ranty.

how is it that one can feel so safe in such an imaginary environment? i just blew my stack on another blog -- said exactly what i was thinking and what i was feeling without regard for consequences (and now, of course, i'm feeling the inevitable "oh shiiiiit").

and it's not like i was posting anonymously. nope. there's this blog, and this blog is linked to my other journal, and there's an email address, as well. if i pissed someone off sufficiently, they could find me.

but all i received was kindness and support.

i'm amazed, and grateful, and dammit, crying again.

unasked-for editorial.

last night you wrote some beautiful things, but in the end, the one i haven't been able to get out of my mind is this:

Breaking hearts is the only thing I'm good at..

And the twist in this tale is I enjoy it.

i honestly felt a little stab of pain when i read this, to read this claim you wrote about yourself. and i recognized it. it isn't a statement of self-knowledge, but one of self-harm. it is a wound you gouge into your own heart. i have some of my own, and i know them for what they are.

but this isn't true of anyone, and it most certainly isn't true of you. i haven't the ability to convince you of this, but i can hope, i can pray that someday you'll be able to allow this wound to heal. until then, just know that these words of yours i refuse to believe.

what one says in the midnight hour.

secrets and games and people having conversations behind masks. layers beyond layers, and on the surface, people talking about anatomy. every night it seems, there is something to stretch my mind with, and i fear i'll never figure it out, i'll never have the ability to see what lies behind each nuanced word.

why is this little boxed-in world so vital to me? what draws me back, unthinkingly, a swallow on her migratory path?

not the secrets, i think. not the bright new friendships -- though they make it a pleasure every night. not the idea that i might actually be able to help -- i'm not naive enough to claim that power.

to admit this is to risk embarrassment, but...

honesty compels me.

the lure i cannot resist is the chance to have more words from him. the few addressed to me are the best, adrenaline-laced and terrifyingly wonderful. the rest are a solid warmth that i return to repeatedly. i love his words. for them, i will swim in the bottomless currents that seem to make up this cloistered creation. for them, i will take liberties with strangers. for them, i will oh-so-willingly suspend disbelief and embrace credulity.

everyone is a fool in the quiet hours of the night.

i have no bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.

two years ago i learned that my life was dying. terminally diagnosed in autumn, toe-tagged the following spring. since then, i have stood on a shrinking sandbar, pretending to build a new life for myself, dabbling in transformation (look! i dyed my hair!), and accomplishing absolutely nothing.

at times i can see the shape of the life i want, a glimpse of a shimmering shiny mirage. i can almost taste it, that feast laid on the table in the next room. yet, i stand here. the sandbar is so very much smaller than it was last year. a sliver, really.

i want to jump off, splash into the rushing river and make my way to the shore. i want to be a pioneer in my own life. i know who i want to be, i always have. i almost know what i have to do to become her. yet, i stand here.

a writer who does not write.
an artist who does not create.

where is my will? where is the fire i can call on to make this transformation real? how much more do i have to give up before i have nothing left to lose?

too much cinderella has left me too skilled in waiting, i fear.

riding the night mare

i dreamt about my uncle last night. in the dream, he had been ill for awhile, with a major disease, though i don't know which one. probably cancer though. finally, he made the decision not to persue any more treatment, and died.

here's the thing i can't shake about this dream though. it was my dad telling me this. he was standing right here in my dining room, right next to me where i sit at this computer, and he was describing how my uncle made his decision, and slowly pulled out the iv from the back of his hand...

and i was watching my dad mimic the removal of the iv, watching him pluck at his own hand.

my uncle isn't dead, and i would never wish that he had died instead of my dad...at least, consciously.

stupid brain. i didn't need to know this about myself.

my mind is flexible, but...

there are limits to its ability to keep up! i think i've seen at least three versions of the world tonight. i'm not sure what to believe anymore, beyond the fact that i know myself to be a believer, still.

am i toy? am i gullible for believing? eh. maybe. but it's my belief, thankyouverymuch. if this was a performance, then a sincere bravo for the display of creativity and exquisite manipulation. if this was yet another messy implosion, then...well, he put it better than i could: quamvis longa sit nox, aurora tandem illucescet.

everyone needs to belong to something, and regardless of the foolishness of it, this is all i have. so i'll breathe deep, listen closely to my heart, and stand steady through the confusing night, waiting to meet the dawn with a single lit candle in my hand.

every day a different story.

tonight i might very well explode from the happy! why?

it's just...

there are two very clever, very tricky, very delightful people in the world, and through their separate actions, they have made this day better than about a hundred christmases! damnitall, i just want to give them each such a bear hug, they'd think they really had popped a rib!

in my arms you are buried.

my beloved dead come close to me in this season. it is a new experience for me. last year i had only nameless ancient ancestors. this year, the dead.

autumn has always been my favorite season. the leaves all blood and bronze, the sky sheltering soft and damp, the air scented with life in this dying season. after the hard flat skies of summer, autumn has always been a time of utter exhilaration. but this year, you see. this year, the bright leaves falling in my path are leaves he never saw. the grey sky is the one i travelled under to go to him. this air, the last he breathed.

and the music i still listen to -- the soundtrack of those trips, the security blanket of those sleepless nights -- sings again of fear and disbelief. and each song calls out the memory. see, here is where you believed he could pull through. see, here is where you sat beside him and held his hand -- had you done that since you were a child, i wonder? -- and said nothing. see, here is where food turned to stones in your mouth. see, here is where you grieved without acknowledging that you were grieving.

oh yes. he is close by. i feel him and i ask: why didn't i miss you when you were alive?

it's autumn, glorious autumn, brightly burning autumn. can you see me, walking alone under the trees? my bones are showing. my heart is flayed by the scourge i lay on it. but at least i have my beloved dead. you can take everything else from me, but i hold him close, now.

now that it's too late.