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.