tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34641335283801605502024-03-19T04:49:25.815-04:00Stationary Unicycle
"You say weird like it's a bad thing." Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.comBlogger145125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-79932314281033041202019-09-11T13:00:00.000-04:002019-09-11T13:00:00.354-04:00Humiliation. That word encapsulates the last few years of my life.<br />
Just when I think I've learned all the lessons I need to be an expert, something else comes along, something just a shade more humiliating. I didn't realize humiliation came in so many colors, but it does, a veritable Pantone panorama.<br />
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Things become almost unbearably embarrassing, one shame builds on the last shame, a tower with a deep foundation. If it fell, I'd be buried under the rubble of 51 years of staggering embarrassments.<br />
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We have to make a choice to step away from humiliation. We have to choose to step forward and embrace humility.<br />
Humility, humiliation, and human share a common Latin root, humus, ground, earth.<br />
Make of that what you will.<br />
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<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-86606194530103275602018-10-03T12:56:00.001-04:002018-10-03T12:56:30.552-04:00We're in a horrible mess and I feel like I owe folks an explanation Hey there friends.<br />
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In the past, I haven't been shy about talking about my bipolar II, my near constant depression, and anxiety.<br />
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Writing about my experiences has been a mixed bag. Sometimes I feel I am reveling too much and that I'm embarrassing myself. Then there are times when people reach out and thank me for being honest about my mental health struggles. Some folks find comfort or solidarity in the stuff I write and that's good, because that's my hope and intention. </div>
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I've been mostly silent though about this most recent episode. It's been so dire I felt foolish discussing it much. It just felt too big to be real. I worried that people would think I was being overly dramatic. I have been tempted to dump it all out there like a bag of old garbage, but I though, who needs that. And frankly, at a certain point it felt like who cares, why bother, it's all a load of shit and in the long run, who gives a fuck.<br />
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At this point though, I feel like I owe some people an explanation. </div>
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You may have seen the GoFundMe page my spouse set up to help us pay off over $9,000 in back mortgage payments and the $10,000 to pay for a new roof we badly need.<br />
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One of the things Brad alluded to in the GoFundMe profile was that we've been dealing with a disability issue. Since Brad is working and the kids are kids, the disability is obviously mine. It's mortifying but that's the truth. I've been out of work for going on ten months and the unpaid house payments mirror that pretty clearly. </div>
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I have been unable to work since December 5, 2017. I had a huge PTSD response to shit at work. I was coming down fast from a hypomanic episode anyway, and was headed straight for a major depressive episode. My therapist and doctor both adamantly counseled me to stop working immediately. The idea was that I would apply for disability. They felt the severity of my illness was such that I would qualify, </div>
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I started applying right away. I submitted my request and was denied. I tried to go back to work in January and it wasn't a good scene. I submitted the paper work for disability again and was denied again and still my doctors thought going to work would only worsen my already severe depression.<br />
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I had been doing everything I could do to get better, going to therapy twice a week, seeing my doctors, taking my medications as prescribed. I still felt horrible.<br />
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My doctor upped the medications I was already taking, no improvement.<br />
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We talked about inpatient care. I was reluctant to leave home and the kids.<br />
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We talked about ECT, electroshock therapy. I have a friend who suffered pretty severe side effects from that treatment and I declined. Also on the table, Ketamine infusions, a relatively new treatment which has been somewhat successful, though long term effects are obviously unknown. My doctor was skeptical of the Ketamine.<br />
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Then she suggested I start in on a new drug, an anti-psychotic, Vraylar, that had shown some promise in the treatment of bipolar depression. I agreed to try it though some of the side effects were off putting, I was desperate to become a functional person again.<br />
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At first the Vralar seemed to take the edge off the depression. I was exceedingly tired but the doctor seemed to think that side effect would abate over time. Emotionally I became numb. I would cry for no reason, but I didn't really feel sad. I didn't really feel anything except exhausted. I couldn't remember things, I was confused. I couldn't read, I couldn't write, I slept all day, doing anything became painful. I would go out with Brad to the grocery store and I couldn't get out of the car. I attributed this stuff to deepening depression, so my doctor upped the dose.<br />
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Daily exercise was my goal. I tried to go for walks with my son but walking around the park was painful. The effort required to walk even short distances was unimaginable. I had gone from being able to walk miles a day to hardly being able to walk around the block. At one point Brad had to come with the car to pick me up, he had to help me inside. I went to bed. I slept the rest of the day.<br />
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The simplest task was overwhelming to even contemplate. I could barely lift my arms high enough to hang the laundry on the line. Going up the stairs to shower was an effort. I felt worse and worse until I decided I had come to the end of the road.<br />
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I read about a woman in Belgium who was granted permission by the government to seek out physician assisted suicide because her depression was so severe and treatment resistant. I knew exactly how she felt and yearned for that same right. I was ready to die.<br />
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I decided I would try the Ketamine injections and that if that didn't work, I would kill myself. My life stretched out in front of me and the idea of hurting that bad for the next twenty years was unbearable. I couldn't stand it any longer.<br />
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I neglected to follow up on the Ketamine thing. It was just too hard to make the phone calls.<br />
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Because my memory and cognitive functioning were so impaired, I forgot to take my medication. The brain fog lifted a little and I thought, hey, I think I feel a little less bad. I decided to try a second day without the medication, I felt a little better. Without consulting my doctor I decided to stop taking Vraylar altogether.<br />
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Over the next few days the improvement was undeniable.<br />
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I've been off the medication for about a month. I no longer need to sleep 18 hours a day. I can walk with my son. I can make dinner, do the laundry, I can remember shit, I can form a full sentence.<br />
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It sounds so fucking stupid but I feel like I've had a near death experience and lived to tell the tale.<br />
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It sounds so fucking stupid but I feel like I've woken up from a bad dream.<br />
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The problem now is, upon waking, I find there are areas of our lives that are in terrible disarray. This mess is attributable in every way to my mental health crisis.<br />
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I feel guilty and ashamed and I'm so sorry.<br />
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Even under the best of circumstances, due to wonky brain chemistry and trauma, I'm not exactly a high functioning adult.<br />
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When I'm sick I am pathetic.<br />
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I did everything I could do to feel better and wound up prolonging my illness. It is dispiriting.<br />
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Anyway, that's why we're in this horrible mess. I felt I owed folks an honest explanation.<br />
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Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-69587863797998287482018-08-05T17:27:00.000-04:002018-08-06T09:29:34.119-04:00and then W.S. Merwin came along and I was inspired once again.<br />
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I'm reading W.S. Merwin, or trying to. I don't know, but I gather, he was educated in a rather classical tradition, which is sort of uncommon among the common folks especially these days. Not a lot of Greek and Latin scholaring going on if you know what I mean, which I think you do. </div>
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I need a translator and an historian to walk me through Merwin, with his references to Greek history and Latin phrases. </div>
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It's beautiful stuff though. The most accessible the poem for me so far is, <i>The Dance of Death</i>. </div>
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A king, a huntsman, a scholar, a monk, a farmer, and a woman (because at the time, a woman would not be anything else but a woman) address the reader in verse, what it is to be alive, but then each stanza ends the same, "Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio" which I looked up and it's a quote from the Bible, Job 7:21 "For now shall I sleep in the dust, and thou shalt seek me in the morning, but I shall not be." Bible words in Latin. Wowz. Beautiful stuff. </div>
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I feel smarter already but I can't really riff on it. It's too stately for me to rob from, too serious and too stately. </div>
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Or can I riff on it?</div>
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First of all, Spellcheck wants me to change my misspelled huntsman (I originally spelled "huntman") to "stuntman" which would shake things up considerably. </div>
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<b>The Stuntman</b></div>
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pretending to be slew<br />
in front of the assembled film crew</div>
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through a fake window threw</div>
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the stage blood a scarlet hue---</div>
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waiting for my next cue<br />
so for now I shall slumber </div>
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in the Styrofoam rubble </div>
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for I, I'm just the body double<br />
Sempi ubi sub ubi</div>
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oohhh, ouch. Yeah, no. Or maybe all kinds of yes.<br />
Step aside W.S. Merwin with all your fancy learnin'. I've got this shit DOWN.<br />
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Merwin by the way was educated at Princeton, is a linguist, poet, and editor, is 90 years old and still very much alive. No Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio for him. He's totally not dormio in the pulvere. (the Latin is intentionally bad, just FYI)</div>
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Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-20200573537398327542018-08-04T11:13:00.001-04:002018-08-04T11:13:14.344-04:00 Inspired by Louise Gluck, a Poem about the Heavens <div>
<b>a poem by Louise Gluck </b><br />
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<b>Under Taurus</b></div>
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<i>We were on the pier, you desiring</i><br />
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<i>that I see the Pleiades. I could see</i></div>
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<i>everything but what you wished. </i></div>
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<i>Now I will follow. There is not a single cloud; the stars</i></div>
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<i>appear even the invisible sister. Show me where to look, </i></div>
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<i>as though they will stay where they are.</i></div>
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<i>Instruct me in the dark. </i></div>
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Isn't that beautiful?</div>
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That to me is just perfect. </div>
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Isn't that perfect?</div>
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Everything just comes together. Perfect. </div>
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Of course, I feel inspired.</div>
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<b>Under Uranus...</b></div>
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easy fishing, that. Low hanging fruit. But can you blame me?</div>
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I know Uranus isn't a constellation, but it is a heavenly body, so I let it stand. </div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">"Of course, </span><b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">you</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">'ll have to </span><b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">know</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> exactly where to </span><b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">look</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> for it. Barely visible by a keen naked eye on very dark, clear nights...</span><b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Uranus</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> is...visible during the evening hours among the stars of Pisces, the Fishes."</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif;">https://www.space.com/22983-see-planet-uranus-night-sky.html</span></blockquote>
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<b>Under Uranus, inspired by Louise Gluck's 'Under Taurus'</b></div>
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I stare stupidly up,</div>
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I can't find Pisces</div>
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in that mass of past brilliance</div>
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much less Uranus.</div>
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I don't understand the first thing</div>
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about astronomy. </div>
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There was that one time though,</div>
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when the, </div>
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colloquially speaking,</div>
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planets alligned</div>
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and the sky was clear</div>
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and the telescope</div>
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a cheap one</div>
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we bought for the children at Christmas, </div>
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though we could ill afford it,</div>
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that they never even asked for, </div>
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was finally assembled. </div>
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That one time, </div>
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when the sky was clear</div>
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I marveled </div>
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at the fullness of the moon;</div>
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reflected </div>
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reflector</div>
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reflected</div>
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in my squinting right eye. </div>
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Or here's another attempt. </div>
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We were in the driveway, </div>
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Looking up at Orion, </div>
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see the belt? See the sword?</div>
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not able to discern the </div>
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difference between Ursas</div>
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major or minor.</div>
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Remembering</div>
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that astronomy class I almost flunked in college; </div>
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years later making friends with the wife of </div>
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my professor, </div>
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hoping he wouldn't remember me</div>
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mediocre student of the cosmos </div>
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though he tried to instruct me, among the many</div>
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in the dark lecture hall.</div>
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Oh Louise. </div>
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such a travesty. </div>
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Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-30250730655233856742018-08-03T11:34:00.001-04:002018-08-03T11:35:17.422-04:00Random not Randome ThoughtsThe other day was National Orgasm Day.<br />
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I missed it.<br />
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Do I have to wait until next year to observe the day?<br />
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Questions that keep one up at night.<br />
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Why do I keep trying to write the word <i>random "randome" ? </i>I have similar issues with handsome, only I try to leave the "e" off. And Awesome. This makes no sense. Sense is a word I often stupidly misspell "sence". It looks wrong, I always catch myself before it's too late. Misspell is another word I often misspell. Not mispell, but mistook, not misstook, right? Missunderstood? Confusing. I can't spell. It's not a secret, but I try to compensate. Spell check is something I'm grateful not greatful for.<br />
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And I am delighted and fascinated by the etymology of words, you'd think that knowing the origins of words and their evolution would significantly improve my spelling, but no.<br />
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Yup. What else.<br />
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I am not a fan of summer, the heat, ugh. I can't stand it. But I have a nice memory of being too warm,and the smell of warm dry earth and meadow flowers and sweet grass walking down a gravelly path to the empty school playground when I was a kid. It's vivid this memory of nothing much in particular. I wonder why I remember that moment and not other more significant events.<br />
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I went to the library, got a couple of books of poetry, Merwin and Gluck. Not as accessible as my current beguiling poet crush, Kenneth Koch. I tried to read some Kenyon, but I got too jealous, jealous, a word I should be able to spell but struggle with every time.<br />
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Another book, Writing as a Path to Awakening, seemed like a good idea at the time. I was hoping to keep this book a secret but I just now spilled those beans. It just sounds so crystals and incense, and that's not usually my scene. Something about the premise repels me and intrigues me. I almost said, repels and intrigues me simultaneously (another tricky spelling word, simultaneously) but simultaneously is implied, and adding that word makes the writing poorer. You know? I'm learning.<br />
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Picked up a novel by Chuck Palahniuk, which is spelled correctly despite Spellcheck's red line declaration otherwise. I admire his style. Direct, quirky, macabre, (a word I can actually spell right the first time). Also David Sedaris. I love that guy for the same reason. No lies. Just straight up truth, ugly bits and all.<br />
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Another random thought:<br />
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I'm looking around, the fan's on, the dog is sleeping like an old cat in the sun, the cat is sleeping like a cat, sprawled across the desk in such a way that I am typing this sitting on my bed hunched over a low table, uncomfortable.<br />
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The houseplants are doing well and I've been able to keep everyone watered despite their proximity or lack, to the kitchen sink.<br />
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And that's what there is.<br />
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<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-75386449224188461882018-07-30T13:41:00.001-04:002018-07-30T13:41:25.872-04:00two little poemlettes to life as inspired by Kenneth KochAs part of my ongoing homage to Kenneth Koch, here are a couple of little poems, odes if you will.<br />
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To Life, If Life were a Gift </div>
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I didn't ask for this</div>
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it's the wrong size</div>
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I don't like the material</div>
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it's not as advertised</div>
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I would have been perfectly</div>
nothing<br />
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without you</div>
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the spaces between people</div>
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air without breathing<br />
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To Life if Life were a Fairy Tale<br />
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rarely</div>
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if ever</div>
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Goldilocks' just right</div>
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spilled farina</div>
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a broken chair</div>
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rumpled bed clothes</div>
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an ungrateful child<br />
lost in the woods</div>
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waiting for bears</div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-3269869386648775132018-07-26T13:57:00.002-04:002018-07-26T13:57:47.465-04:00Ode to the housefly, this one particular housefly. <br />
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I mentioned I was going to borrow from Kenneth Koch's <i>New Addresses: Poems</i>. Every poem in his collection is an ode, a poem addressed to something. </div>
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I love that idea, and I've decided to write a series of odes myself, just as a writing exercise, not to steal but just to write something, I've hit a dry spell, and well, whatever.</div>
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I've written a couple of poems. He wrote a poem called To Life, and I wrote a poem by the same name. It's very different in every way, starting with quality and ending with content. </div>
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As far as I know, Koch didn't write a poem to a housefly. </div>
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I have. </div>
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If he had, it would be better or course, but I beat him to it. </div>
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To the housefly
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buzzing and
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bouncing off the screen
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of the open window</div>
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you are obviously unsatisfied
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with your surroundings</div>
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It's clear you'd like to
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get the fuck out of here</div>
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you can sense the outside world</div>
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yet</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
it's confounding</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
illusive</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
elusive </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In a few days time,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I will find your</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
desiccated little body</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
legs up</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
on the window sill</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
next to the
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
aloe plant</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-22762769790595882812018-07-25T12:15:00.001-04:002018-07-25T12:18:15.593-04:00Top Ten Lists and Beauty Secrets of the Perpetually DepressedAs a long term depressed person, the most compelling material I have is not exactly compelling. I don't get out much and I don't do anything when I stay in. This lifestyle does not make for scintillating content. So I did a simple Google search for blog ideas, and I pilfered.<br />
<br />
Top 10 lists are big, beauty and fashion blogs are big, these are not my personal go-tos for material, but I found myself oddly inspired.<br />
<br />
Even when I'm feeling well, the topic of beauty and personal grooming doesn't come up. When people think of me, which, you know, is not exactly often, but if I do cross a mind, I'm pretty sure the first thought isn't, "My, that woman is well groomed and so well put together." Pretty sure. Pretty damn sure.<br />
<br />
<b>Beauty secrets of the chronically depressed</b>: There is no beauty going on here people, unless you call 16 hours of heavy mouth breathing drool sleep a day "beauty sleep", then there's that.<br />
<br />
Here's a tip: Shower sometimes. If you can't remember the last time you showered, you're overdue. So go take a damn shower already. However, maybe the buildup of all that face grease is an anti-wrinkle treatment. You could claim that, own it, and pretend that not bathing is a choice.<br />
<br />
Which deodorant do I recommend to kill the stench when you've gone too long between showers? I reach for the Old Spice. Sure it's for the dudes, but trust me, I needed an upgrade, if you're depressed and finding personal hygiene nearly impossible, try the dude pit schmear, you'll thank me, your friends will thank me.<br />
<br />
How to comb your hair so it doesn't look as greasy or matted? On that issue I say, fuck it. Live with your hair, lint is an accessory, who's to say the slick look isn't in, natural hair grease is nature's hair styling product, bed head is a fashion choice. Combing hair is too much effort.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>The top 10 best reasons...to nap</b>: all the reasons, life, sadness, politics, overwhelment, money issues coupled with unemployment guilt, pervasive feelings of doom, body ouchness, head too heavy to hold up, housework too hard so sleep good.<br />
<br />
<b>The top 10 places to nap:</b> dark place, soft place, quiet place, in the room that used to be a bed room but is now a deep cave sleep crypt. On the couch, on the floor, in the car, in the bath. All the places. Is that 10? Counting is hard.<br />
<br />
There, two top ten lists and a blog entry about beauty and fashion.<br />
<br />
It's progress.<br />
<br />
<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-91425047889331089592018-07-18T03:14:00.002-04:002018-07-18T03:14:35.737-04:00<br /><div>
You know when life is sort of shitty and most things really aren't going your way, and I don't mean just the little things, but the big things, things having to do with keeping the roof over your head, things having to do with food on the table, those sorts of big things, when those things are shitty, you know, that's when I want to throw everything real aside and sink into my own personal fantasy land. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
By personal fantasy land I mean sleep. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When everything has turned to shit, I want to go to bed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I think that's what I'm trying to say. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I start to wonder, am I ever EVER going to get my shit together? </div>
<div>
At this point I don't need a Magic Eight Ball to tell me, all signs point to NO. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then I have to wonder, does it matter?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm getting old people. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-27285145971041382592018-07-15T12:17:00.001-04:002018-07-15T12:17:46.999-04:00Here's a first draft of a little poem for Tonks the Cat.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>To the white cat sleeping on the chair</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
yellow eyed beauty</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
your purpose in this world</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to be lovely</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
you sleep on the chair
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
spread across the seat,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
like you were poured there</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the dog, tiny thing</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can pick up in one hand,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
but you I can barely lift</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with two</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
as though you double your weight</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
just to make the task more difficult</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the chair you occupy
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
is mine</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
overstuffed and tucked between the book
shelves</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I scoop at you and push you
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and you move begrudgingly</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with palpable disdain</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
as I lower myself
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
into my seat with my book</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
you jump back quicker than
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a creature of your luxury should be
able</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
you spread yourself thick and languid,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
as though you'd never moved</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
you are certain the laws of gravity
will bend to your will
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
you are</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
ready to take your chances</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
certain I will catch myself
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
before causing you harm</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I gyrate and scramble</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
slapstick </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to prevent my awkward bulk</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
from crushing you</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I concede the chair to the superior</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
being</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
you blink your golden eyes shut
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
like the headlights of a Lamborghini
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I topple myself
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
onto the bed</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
next to the dog</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
who is happy to share</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a corner of the pillow</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with me.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-57487584381264063132018-07-14T14:43:00.000-04:002018-07-14T14:43:03.359-04:00Just thinking about poetry after reading Kenneth KochIn his collection of poems, <u>New Addresses: Poems,</u> Kenneth Koch has written poems in praise of everything from mundane objects to profound states of being: <i>To Life</i>, <i>To Some Buckets</i>, <i>To Old Age. </i><br />
<br />
The reason I don't read more poetry is that I worry about copying voice or content from others. When I let go of that fear a little and I read some poetry, I realize other people's work can be pretty inspiring and I don't feel nearly as concerned about inadvertent theft.<br />
<br />
It just occurs to me that these poems are odes (which I keep trying to spell "oads"...because rhymes with toads) which is kind of nice, odes are kind of nice. Since it's a pretty common sort of poem, I thought maybe I'd write some odes myself. I won't steal from good old Kenneth but I will gladly help myself to the ode, because the world is full of things to praise.<br />
<br />
Poetry isn't for everybody, I get that, I mean, I actually don't get that. But I hear it and I try to accept it.<br />
<br />
When I think about the world through the lens of poetry, everything becomes worthy of notice, everything, every tiny thing becomes exquisitely worthy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And a random thought:<br />
<br />
We become annoyed when other people repeat themselves,<br />
but will listen enraptured to the birds singing the same song repeatedly<br />
<br />
I wonder if the birds tire of one another<br />
"A cat! A cat! A cat!"<br />
"Come and mate! Come and mate! Come and mate!"<br />
Is it just so much chatter to the birds?<br />
"There he goes again.<br />
Again with the cat and the mating!"<br />
<br />
But for the not knowing<br />
we are willing to call it song<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-3548523348030204622018-07-12T16:26:00.003-04:002018-07-12T16:29:53.431-04:00three more recent poems<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15.84px;"><b>Honest Question</b></span></span><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;"><br /></i>
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;">Why is poetry</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;">monopolized by academic</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;">fuckers</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;">who make their poems</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;">mercury elusive</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;">or</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;">slick</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;">like a noodle</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;">you can't pierce with your fork?</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;"><br /></i>
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;"><br /></i><b>
Reading Koch and Kenyon</b><br />
<div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>in the past, I was </i></div>
<div>
<i>afraid to read other poets</i></div>
<div>
<i>for fear of inadvertent thievery</i></div>
<div>
<i>and lately</i></div>
<div>
<i>lately</i></div>
<div>
<i>not an idea</i></div>
<div>
<i>in my head</i></div>
<div>
<i>just my bland life, </i></div>
<div>
<i>And then to read</i></div>
<div>
<i>of the bland lives of others,</i></div>
<div>
<i>buckets, full and empty, </i></div>
<i>insects crawling in a book</i><i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;"></i><br />
<i>I remember </i><br />
<i>the big secret</i><br />
<i>everything </i><br />
<i>every fucking thing</i><br />
<i>is a poem</i><br />
<div>
<br />
<br />
<b>Critique</b><br />
<div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>I wander</i><br />
<i>the house </i></div>
<div>
<i>foul</i></div>
<div>
<i>bored</i></div>
<div>
<i>dissatisfied</i></div>
<div>
<i>there is nothing</i></div>
<div>
<i>to say</i></div>
<div>
<i>I have </i><br />
<i>nothing </i></div>
<div>
<i>to say</i></div>
<div>
<i>"My mind is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing..."</i></div>
<div>
<i>ee cummings wandering my barren</i></div>
<div>
<i>internal landscape, </i></div>
<div>
<i>with that lamment</i></div>
<div>
<i>"My mind is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing..."</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>but the shadow of my </i></div>
<div>
<i>arrogant self</i></div>
<div>
<i>hiding behind </i></div>
<div>
<i>a tree of charcoal and soot</i></div>
<div>
<i>says </i></div>
<div>
<i>Why "Big" mr cummings?</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>I think </i><br />
<i>it would work better</i></div>
<div>
<i>without the big. </i></div>
<div>
<i>Hunk is a word that </i></div>
<div>
<i>sort of hulks around</i></div>
<div>
<i>and there is a connotation </i></div>
<div>
<i>of largeness</i></div>
<div>
<i>about it</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>To think, </i></div>
<div>
<i>me an unpublished </i></div>
<div>
<i>self proclaimed poet</i></div>
<div>
<i>has the temerity </i></div>
<div>
<i>to edit </i></div>
<div>
<i>one of the greatest poets </i></div>
<div>
<i>of the 20th Century.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>The temerity</i></div>
<div>
<i>Who do I think </i></div>
<div>
<i>I am?</i></div>
<div>
<i>the words of </i></div>
<div>
<i>ee cummings</i></div>
<div>
<i>linger in the</i></div>
<div>
<i>burnt out bunker</i></div>
<div>
<i>I call </i><br />
<i>my brain</i></div>
<div>
<i>and </i></div>
<div>
<i>I am there too</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>I say, </i></div>
<div>
<i>Yo. </i></div>
<div>
<i>Big Hunk. </i></div>
<div>
<i>No, not you, </i></div>
<div>
<i>Big hunk of irrevocable nothing...</i></div>
<div>
<i>It doesn't work for me</i></div>
<div>
<i>I mean, </i><br />
<i>it works for me, </i></div>
<div>
<i>I feel it,</i><br />
<i>I live it, </i></div>
<div>
<i>you nailed it, </i></div>
<div>
<i>but, </i></div>
<div>
<i>big?</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>I </i><i>lurk </i></div>
<div>
<i>in the quiet</i></div>
<div>
<i>exploded minefield </i></div>
<div>
<i>my </i></div>
<div>
<i>mind</i></div>
<div>
<i>desolate</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>I imagine </i></div>
<div>
<i>my bored and dirty face</i></div>
<div>
<i>looking into his face, </i></div>
<div>
<i>white round</i></div>
<div>
<i>quietly exasperated </i></div>
<div>
<i>the face </i><br />
<i>I've seen </i><br />
<i>on </i></div>
<div>
<i>the book jackets, </i></div>
<div>
<i>balding and thoughtful</i></div>
<br /></div>
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px;"><br /></i>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-5189515484330487072018-07-12T12:45:00.000-04:002018-07-12T15:57:00.131-04:00My personal essay and recipe for French BreadI wrote personal essays, I really enjoyed writing them, too.<br />
<br />
I mean, I still do write personal essays, but it doesn't give me the same pleasure to write them, and frankly, I find myself at a loss for material or bored as fuck.<br />
<br />
I wonder who really wants to know about what I find funny, frustrating, or sad?<br />
<br />
I know I personally have a hell of a time reading personal essays.<br />
<br />
There are people I love to read and I could read their stories every day, David Sedaris comes to mind first and shows like This American Life beguile me. I almost didn't use the word beguile...it was the first word that came to mind and then I was like, "nah, beguile? Really? Isn't that a bit much?" and I realized, no. These stories beguile me.<br />
<br />
Then there are the personal stories of people I love, and I love to read those too.<br />
<br />
But then I'll read some other stuff, and I'm bored shitless, and I think to myself, why the fuck should I care?<br />
<br />
For example, I'll be looking for a recipe, maybe I'm settling in to make a cake or a loaf of bread, and I'll Google whatever it is, and up will come a bunch of cooking blogs, and I'm not picky, one cake is much like the next, and bread recipes are pretty standard, whatever, and I'll have to scroll down past pages of written text to get to the damn recipe.<br />
<br />
I've got to read all about how this recipe was this person's spouse's favorite recipe and the birthday when, oh my gracious! Some pedestrian funny thing! and then Grandpa did a thing, and Bobby-Jimmy-Bob said this HYSTERICAL thing, and then MOM...oi. Really. I don't care.<br />
<br />
Would I want to write a story to go with my recipes if I had a cooking blog? Hang on, I was going to say no, but the more I think of it, I realize you bettcha, I would.<br />
<br />
Do I want to read the heartwarming story of Belinda in Iowa's husband's birthday that one year when all that funny shit went down?<br />
<br />
No I do not.<br />
<br />
But I want to write about my shitty life. I do. I have found the way to liven up my own personal essay writing. Eur-fucking-reeka!<br />
<br />
Here's my recipe for basic white french bread.<br />
<br />
Once there was this one time, well not just the one time, several times, several times, we've run out of bread before we've run into payday.<br />
<br />
On those occasions I make bread.<br />
<br />
Usually we only have white flour on hand, why I don't know. I could think on that question, but I don't feel like it. I am a bloated lady whose eating habits suck white dough balls. Okay?<br />
<br />
So I don't want to use up our eggs or milk just to make some bread, so I make the sort of bread with the fewest ingredients, that would be french bread. True story.<br />
<br />
you'll need:<br />
<br />
1 packet of yeast<br />
2 C. lukewarm water...why Luke? how about Hanswarm? Or Leiawarm?<br />
1 TBS sugar<br />
1 TBS salt<br />
some table spoons of oil...I'll get back to you on that.<br />
5 or so cups of flour, I use cheap unbleached white, unbleached because even if I'm a health disregarding bloated lady, I have standards.<br />
<br />
Dissolve the sugar in the Leiawarm water in a large bowl, add the yeast, stir that yeast around, watch it start to orgy and bubble, you're watching yeast sex, you're a perv. Add the oil, that will show those licentious fungi.<br />
<br />
Toss in a couple cups of flour, don't mix anything yet, toss the salt in on top of that flour, now mix it around. Salt can kill your yeast. Years ago when I worked in a bakery making this shit for a living, only it was made with wheat flour, some wise Zen baker dude told me about the salt thing. I still think of Dave the hippy baker dude when I make bread. How could I not?<br />
<br />
Now you can think of him too.<br />
<br />
mix that shit up.<br />
<br />
add more flour.<br />
<br />
Stop when you get to 4.5 cups, it mix it up more, get your hands in there. You can oil your hands first, or flour them in an effort to keep the dough from sticking to you. It may work for you.<br />
<br />
If the dough is still wicked wet, add the .5 flour. kneed it around some more. If it's still wet, add some bit more of flour, do this a little at a time until you have a dough that is not too dry and not too wet.<br />
<br />
HAHAHAHA!! If you've never made bread before you are a little lost! What's not too wet nor too dry look like? That's sad but also funny to me, because right now I'm feeling like an asshole and I might not tell you. Actually, I don't know how to tell you. Just wing it. You really can't fuck this up unless your yeast is dead. So don't worry. It's perfect.<br />
<br />
Flour your work surface, dump that dough down, now you're going to knead it for 8 to 10 minutes.<br />
<br />
This is the best part.<br />
<br />
to start, flatten that dough a bit, fold it in half, push down then forward with the heel of your hand. A bit like you're trying to give Resusci Annie a chest compression. Only not down, but down and forward a little, so, if it were Resusci Annie, you'd be breaking the ribs on the side farther from you.<br />
<br />
Now turn that dough clockwise from 12 to 3 o'clock, give her another compression, turn from 3 to 6 o'clock, etc. Do this as many times around the clock as you can in 8-10 minutes.<br />
<br />
Now your bread should feel like a chubby lady's thigh. Woowoo. You're welcome.<br />
<br />
This is good.<br />
<br />
Keep your dough intact, don't be stretching it around, don't pull on it, you want to keep this dough in a nice tight little ball of slightly firm slightly squishy doughness.<br />
<br />
grease the bowl, grease the top of your dough, toss that dough in the bowl.<br />
<br />
Some recipes call for covering the bowl with a kitchen towel.<br />
<br />
I have 4 cats and a dog...there's hair on every fabric surface in the house. I use plastic wrap. I use plastic wrap because of the hair issue and because I hate the Earth. I bet you could use parchment paper or wax paper instead. Or maybe you don't have a small zoo, so use a damp clean kitchen towel, but be prepared to pick dough out of your towel and that's going to suck. So do what you will in this regard.<br />
<br />
Let that shit rise for an hour or until doubled in size.<br />
<br />
Now, the next thing is to PUNCH DOWN THE DOUGH. But you don't want to punch, that's violent and mean to the yeast.<br />
<br />
You want to gently press the air out of the dough, then turn it onto your floured surface and give it a few kneads.<br />
<br />
Here's my technique. It might suck but this is what I do. I go all gentle on this dough, ok?<br />
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I gently push the air out. I gently roll that shit into a 6 inch log. I cut that log in half. Now you have two loaves of bread.<br />
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Flatten 1 out and gently stretch it to make a rectangle about 12 inches long and some length, maybe 6 ish inches wide, start at the point in the middle closest to you and roll that dough 1 rotation pretty tightly, now roll the sides to catch up. Do this rolling thing till you have a loaf, pinch the seam closed. Don't be afraid to really pinch that shit shut. Give it a roll. Place on the cookie sheet I should have told you to prepare before now. I'd grease that cookie sheet with olive oil, toss the loaf on that sheet.<br />
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Do it again with the other loaf. Cover the loaves with the whatever you used to cover the dough in the first place. Let rise for about 1/2 hour or until it's doubled or close to.<br />
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Take a sharp knife, slash those mother fuckers, three or four times diagonally.<br />
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Oh. You should have preheated your oven to 350...or is it 400?<br />
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400. Toss the pan in the oven.<br />
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Now here is the greatest thing, take a handful of ice cubes, toss those on the floor of the oven. Shut that door. Do not open again until at least 20 minutes have passed.<br />
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This will give your bread the wicked hard crunchy crust that will lacerate the roof of your mouth, like proper french bread should have. Those French. Here's something so delicious! Hahaha! And it hurts you!<br />
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Bake for 25 minutes or until your white bread baguettes are goldeny brown.<br />
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There you go.<br />
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As I said before I make this bread when the family is low on provisions, and I do, but the ironic thing is, we inhale it so fast, we still don't have any bread when it's time for breakfast the next day.<br />
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And there you go.<br />
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My chatty personal essay and the first and possibly last of my cooking blog recipes.<br />
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<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-32505423982670080082018-07-10T13:11:00.002-04:002018-07-10T13:31:11.175-04:00Once again talking about mental health issues<span style="font-size: large;">I have written about mental health issues in this post and if you're feeling low, you may not want to read any further. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">If you are considering suicide or if you are in any kind of mental health crisis, please call the Suicide Prevention Hotline: </span><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.87); font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">1-800-273-8255 or head to your local emergency room. Please reach out and get help.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I've been sick for months, too sick to work, too sick to do much of anything. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've slept a lot like one does when one is ill. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's embarrassing, because when I say I've been ill what I mean is, I've been depressed. As far as I'm concerned, mental illness is a real thing, and those suffering are actually ill, but there are still folks around who don't think depression is a life threatening disease, or a disease at all, and that those of us afflicted are merely lazy whiny "snowflakes" who'd rather lie around and do nothing than make an honest living. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I am certain I internalized that negative appraisal of the mentally ill, no doubt about it. Those messages seep into our minds without our knowledge and only become clear when we become clear to ourselves. For as lowly regarded we are by others, we judge ourselves the same, and that self hate adds to the illness and multiplies the already debilitating self loathing that comes in the depression goody bag. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, lately I think I've been feeling better. Not entirely better, but somewhat better. I've been pacing the house, antsy, bored. Sleep is no longer something that can occupy me for several hours. This increase in energy has brought me a whole new level of guilt. Even though I could acknowledge the severity of my illness these past 6 months I can't quite get my head around the fact that despite my increase in energy, I may still not be well enough to work. I'm not at death's door, nor am I working. How dare I? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's one thing if I'm sobbing uncontrollably for hours a day. Of course one can not go among the people and toil away for wages. One is in a state, and unfit for decent company. One should keep out of sight, one is a friggin' emotional disaster, that's pretty fucking clear. But when one is pacing the house, bored out of one's ever loving mind day after day, it's a little harder to figure out why exactly one is not out in the world doing what other adult ones do all day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Despite not weeping like a Greek chorus, the truth is, I'm still not well. I still become fatigued easily, I still become panicked in social situations, I still have days when I pull the covers over my face and say, nope. Not going to happen. I still cry for no apparent reason. I still, though not as often, I still think about suicide. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When depressed folks start to regain some of their energy and appear to be firmly on the road to recovery, that is a crucial time. It's then that many depressed people take their own lives. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">At the deepest depths of despair, suicide was nearly impossible for me to carry out though I thought about it all the fucking time. I longed for it, begged for it. I couldn't stand being alive. But, I could barely move, there was little chance I would have been able to coordinate all the actions necessary for taking my own life. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But NOW, I'm well enough to wander the house muttering to myself, and the full impact my illness has had on my life, my family, and our finances is sinking in, and I'm blaming myself for the whole freaking mess and it's overwhelming and terrible. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I won't kill myself, of course, but I can understand the thinking of those who do at this point in their illness, at least I think I can. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Everyone is different, so actually what do I know. But I think I might know. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A couple of days ago a new idea hit me: you know after a bad bout of flu, how it takes a few extra days to get over feeling shitty, even after the worst of the illness has passed? I think maybe for me the same is true for my depressive episodes. And because the descent took a long while, and because I was sick for so long, the time it takes to crawl out of the hole is equally protracted. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, I'm up and around, taking solid food, even though I'm not still puking my guts out, I'm still not well, and it's okay for me to be scuffing around in my slippers and pajamas. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm doing better, but I'm not 100% okay and I need to make sure I'm well before I go out into the world again, or I risk setting myself back and that's not going to help anyone. </span></div>
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Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-1601960724155150612018-07-09T10:32:00.006-04:002018-07-09T10:32:48.989-04:00<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Haven't had a compelling thought or written anything interesting in a very long time. On the other hand, my spelling seems to be improving. Not much solace in that though, not a fair trade. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-78795008213350647612018-07-06T11:31:00.001-04:002018-07-06T11:43:34.045-04:00whatever the fuck When the kids were younger it was easier to write about stuff.<br />
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It was easier to write about them because frankly, they didn't care, and it was easier to divulge personal stuff about myself, because frankly, they didn't care.<br />
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None of it showed up on their radar.<br />
<br />
But now everybody is older, and I feel there is more at stake.<br />
They deserve privacy and their lives are their own, not mine to mine at will, to bend and fashion into something that serves or pleases me or makes a point that I've chosen.<br />
<br />
That's not fair.<br />
<br />
And as they get older I feel my public behavior has more of an impact on them. I mean, I'm friends with some of their friends, and if I share some big deep secret or trauma with the world, they are going to know about it, and their friends may know about it, and then I'm just a little too uncovered to feel comfortable. Then there is the very real possibility of being "cringy" which is something to be avoided at all costs. I know I cross the line between cringe-worthy and just being my weird self often enough regardless of my intention to toe it. Second hand embarrassment is excruciating, especially if it's your mom who's making a fool of herself.<br />
<br />
It's one thing to be a fully human being around people I consider my peers, but another to be vulnerable to people who are peers now but who were, until very recently, kiddos.<br />
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It's weird and it sort of cramps my style to be honest.<br />
<br />
My big fear right now is that I'll embarrass myself in front of the kids and they'll be disgusted and ashamed of me.<br />
<br />
I could write about many things but everything that comes to mind is fraught and so I remain silent.<br />
<br />
I often say there is strength in vulnerability but I'm finding it a little more difficult to believe that right now. Right now there's just just this hiding behind a curtain in a hospital johnny sort of feeling.<br />
<br />
The big truth is that no matter how old we get, we remain ourselves. Some of us have our shit together and some of us seem to be on a different path, the "I may never get my shit together and I'll have to learn how to make peace with that hopefully before I die" path.<br />
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The reality for most of us is that we don't know where we're going or what we're doing, most of us have regrets, and most of us have fucked up at some point. The reality is we are as sure about the future when we are 19 as we are when we're 49.<br />
<br />
Maybe at some point I'll get whatever "mojo" I had, back. I'll just have to be a little more real and a little braver, but right now I don't think anyone is ready for that.<br />
<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-1988905735200331012018-07-05T14:38:00.002-04:002018-07-05T14:44:17.207-04:00tired of this shit. <span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">look my pals, I risk alienating you all, over sharing and generally coming off as an attention seeking pathetic loser, but here's the deal: I've been depressed on and off for the last 42 years and I'm really tired of it. I mean really tired, really really tired. Not to worry. I'm just going to go back to bed and hope tomorrow is a better day, but Jesus Christ, this sucks so hard I can hardly stand it. </span></span>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-29763965628163469292018-07-03T13:55:00.001-04:002018-07-03T13:55:47.612-04:00summer isn't my favorite, I give it one out of four<div>
Some, I'd venture to say, most people have happy memories of summer. </div>
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Childhoods spent at the family camp on the edge of the pine woods </div>
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on the shore of some small cool pond.</div>
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Or maybe weeks spent away at a summer camp with other kids </div>
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learning to sail or build camp fires, pitch a tent, singing songs around the fire at night, roasting marshmallows. </div>
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Summer might have meant day trips to the coast, trips to the local pool, </div>
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pool parties with friends, BBQs. </div>
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But for me summer was just riding my bike around the block while my mother was at work, or riding my bike around the block while my mother reclined in her plastic lounge chair, greasy with sweat, in a tube top and shorts with her black coffee and cigarettes in the back yard. </div>
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I spent a couple of summers with my dad in New York. That was fraught as well. He worked nights and slept days.</div>
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Summer to me means being alone and lonely. It means being too hot all the time because I was so ashamed of my body I refused to wear shorts or a bathing suit. </div>
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Every year, that dread and despair I felt as a child revisits me. </div>
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I'll work on changing that, but in the meantime, here's a little poem that meandered into my head. </div>
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It's a rough draft and really, just a little piece of silliness. But I'm overdue for a post, I'm supposed to be writing this shit every day. </div>
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summer's</div>
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oppressive swelter, </div>
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humidity like a warm damp wool sweater</div>
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over the face</div>
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gardens left to weeds, </div>
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potted geraniums </div>
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the color of straw</div>
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withered in </div>
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cracked soil</div>
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interminable days</div>
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stretching into </div>
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the distance</div>
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summer is</div>
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sitting in the dentist's waiting room</div>
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bare legs sticking to a Naugahyde chair</div>
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each child hour equivalent to weeks, </div>
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with nothing to occupy </div>
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oneself </div>
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but an old copy of </div>
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Highlights magazine</div>
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and the puzzles have already </div>
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been solved </div>
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in ink</div>
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Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-69836991172677059582018-06-29T22:41:00.002-04:002018-06-29T23:40:06.955-04:00shaving the dog We adopted our elderly Maltese the day before Thanksgiving 2017. Summer looked like a well coiffed old lady, sparse closely shorn white hair with a slight wave, her pink skin showing through. She wore a little red sweater. If she had been a human she would have smelled like tea rose dusting powder and kept a tissue up her sleeve.<br />
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I'd never had a dog of a specific breed before. I was taken with her sad story, her owner had passed away, those who had been tasked with caring for her neglected and abandoned her. Her 17 year old companion, Max, also a Maltese, had been so ill he needed to be put down. I needed to take care of this tiny old lady and so I adopted her on the spot without doing much thinking about what taking care of an aging Maltese would entail.<br />
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Grooming a Maltese is part of responsible ownership, not just for aesthetic reasons, but for their overall comfort and health. Had I done my homework I would have know that Maltese fur grows pretty fucking fast and is hard to care for.<br />
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So our wee dog's sparse fur began to grow. It grew and grew, like kudzu, it grew fast and thick til it covered everything. It cover her eyes. She grew a long beard that would make any mountain man proud. Her little feet became covered over with great tufts of fur. Because her fur is so cottony, it began to knot and mat, and despite frequent baths and brushing, she started to look bedraggled. I've been out of work for seven months. There is no money for dog grooming. I feel like a bad dog mom for saying that, but it's just the truth.<br />
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As the weather turned warmer, my tiny old friend was becoming uncomfortable and I couldn't stand it, not one more day. We bought a used set of electric clippers for $3 at a thrift store and we figured we'd shave our good pup ourselves because how hard could it be?<br />
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After testing the shaver out on own skin and hair to make sure it wouldn't hurt the dog in anyway, my son set to work, shearing off tufts of Summer's cottony fur. I said, as a mother would, "Don't shave her down to the skin" even though he wasn't. After a couple of minutes I said, as a mother would, "Can I have a turn?" because, like a mother, I thought I could do better. Moms can be insufferably conceited.<br />
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Two passes with the electric razor showed my complete lack of barbering skills. I'd shaved her quite bald in two long stripes down her back. Ironic. But one thing was certain, being too warm was not going to be an issue for her at least not for some time.<br />
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I admitted my inferior skills and passed the shaver back to my competent son.<br />
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Finally, the dog got tired of these shenanigans and would have no more to do with us, and so we called the grooming episode over.<br />
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It wasn't until later when I saw her across the room I realized we did not trim the fur on her legs. Like, at all.<br />
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There she is, my good and loyal four legged friend, a pure bred dog that probably cost her original owner a fair amount of cash, bald in patches with ridiculously fluffy legs. She looks less like a refined old woman now and more like a Dickensian protagonist, scrappy and scruffy yet still somehow hopeful, and for some strange reason and quite anachronistically, wearing giant fluffy leg warmers.<br />
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<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-43473899648682534242018-06-29T15:29:00.004-04:002018-06-29T15:30:23.471-04:00Nothing is ok and everything feels wrongI am unbearably sad right now.<br />
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My country is a disaster, those who are leading us are leading us straight to hell, and it feels like there is nothing I can do.<br />
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I know "they" want us to feel powerless. If we're weary we give up.<br />
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It's hard to think of anything else but the terrible news every moment of every day. I think that's part of what is eroding my will, the constant bad news, the daily tragedies. It's exhausting.<br />
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I will endeavor to find something to lighten the mood in an effort to ease the heavy burden of our shared reality.<br />
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It may take a while to come up with something though.<br />
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I may take several whiles.<br />
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There's the story of how my son and I shaved the dog.<br />
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That's pretty funny.<br />
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Yup. It is.<br />
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The punch line is, the dog looks like Olivia Newton John circa 1980, you know, skinny with giant leg warmers. Shaving the dog's legs was tricky, Summer the Amazing Elderly Maltese was over it by the time we got to her limbs, and frankly, I get it. Who could have foreseen just what a big job shaving a 6 lb dog could be?<br />
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I think I'm not really telling the story well. I mean, I'm not. But you see, I'm just too worn out. And really. Five journalists in Maryland were shot dead yesterday by another white misogynist domestic terrorist with a gun, ICE is rounding up people to deport, children are being kept in cages, Justice Kennedy is resigning, and I have just read that Kennedy's son was responsible for loaning the trump 1 billion dollars? Is that even possible?<br />
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Who gives a fuck about a dog grooming gone wrong?<br />
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If it doesn't have to do with fighting the current regime, it's nothing but a distraction.<br />
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Everything isn't ok. Nothing is ok.<br />
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<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-47673639532464377522018-06-28T12:59:00.003-04:002018-06-28T12:59:25.552-04:00I bought my 15 year old son his first pair of cleats today.<br />
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He's joining the football team this year despite growing up in a family devoid of interest in sports, despite never having played football before, and despite my past stance on tackle football in middle school. I refused to let him play, he seemed so young. It felt like too much of a risk.<br />
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Am I worried about injuries now? So much yes.<br />
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So so much. I know that head injuries, neck injuries, broken teeth, broken bones, did I mention head and neck injuries, are a real concern. And I am concerned.<br />
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I'm already worried and the season doesn't start for a few months yet.<br />
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But I'm letting him join anyway. Because he wants to. Because he said he'd do it even if I said no.<br />
Because I want to support him in his effort to become stronger, I want to support his need for being a member of a team. Because he's been searching for his place for so long and he feels he may have finally found it.<br />
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I remind myself that most high school sports players do not get terribly injured. I remind myself that a kid who's never played football before probably won't get much time on the field. I remind myself that living a sedentary lifestyle is bad for ones health and the idea of working with a coach and team mates in the weight room and on the field has encouraged him to take an interest in physical fitness. I know that having a strong cohort group and mentors is important for kids this age.<br />
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I want to encourage him to try new things, to take calculated risks. I don't want him to live in fear like I have my whole life.<br />
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I am certain that there will be many people who do not approve of my choice to let my son engage in such a dangerous sport. I get it.<br />
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To rationalize my decision to let him play, I think about other rough sports, rugby and lacrosse, even soccer. At least football requires helmets and lots of protective gear.<br />
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On the one hand I want to keep my son safe, on the other I want him to try the things he wants to do.<br />
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Parenting is a balancing act. As our kids get older, we have to give them some of the choices, some of the weight of the burden of choice.<br />
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It's not easy.<br />
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<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-49054418761418668042018-06-25T13:32:00.001-04:002018-06-25T13:33:43.907-04:00feeling especially hopeless at this moment I am going to just blather on about stupid shit.<br />
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My heart hurts from all the terrible news, my head hurts from all the stupidity.<br />
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I can't believe my country, the people of my country, our "leadership", I just can't .<br />
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I find myself just wanting to go to bed and never get up again.<br />
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I try to stay on top of the news even though it makes me ill.<br />
There are times though, when I need to hide.<br />
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I know it's my privilege that allows me to bury my head when I become overwhelmed.<br />
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I can't help but feel ashamed and weak for checking out of reality long enough to binge watch Queer Eye.<br />
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I also know if I don't do something silly or enjoyable, I will become totally burned out and even more useless than I feel right now.<br />
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I am sure there are others who feel the same.<br />
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But every time I sit down to write something frivolous and funny, nothing comes to mind. It's as though there will never be anything good again. We've turned a corner and we've gotten lost and it seems there is no hope in finding our way out of this darkness.<br />
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<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-55338437284112089492018-06-20T11:38:00.002-04:002018-06-20T11:38:35.132-04:00do something"And Jesus wept."<div>
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I am not a religious person, but these words moved me. </div>
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My county's leaders are corrupt and immoral. Some of them are truly evil. </div>
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Nothing else seems to matter right now.</div>
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Children being torn from their parents and kept in abandoned buildings behind chain link fencing like animals is almost more than my brain can comprehend and my heart breaks. </div>
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I will put my body on the line, I will raise my voice, I won't quietly sit in the background. This is the time when our moral fiber is tested and we must all be strong, stand up, speak out or forever be on the wrong side of history.</div>
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To stand back is shameful. If you don't do something, be ashamed. </div>
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Silence is complicity. </div>
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Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-70574944256660040932018-06-18T12:51:00.002-04:002018-06-18T14:38:08.308-04:00Prattling <br />
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I am writing in public. When
writing in public, I use the smallest font I can. I hate the
idea of someone reading over my shoulder. Not that they would, why would they? But what if they did? Horrors. </div>
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Inevitably
they would catch a glimpse when I've spelled something wrong, like
GLIMPSE, which I just a moment ago spelled GLIMPS but then I caught the error and fixed it, but what if someone saw that before I noticed the mistake? Would they think I think there is a
singular GLIMP? God forbid. </div>
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Out
of context, anything can be embarrassing or damning.
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Also,
fruit salad should be cut into smaller bits because eating it in
public alone is sort of gross.
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Do
you take the bigger chunks in smaller bites? If you stuff the whole thing in there, you can't chew it and sometimes it gets wedged on the roof of your mouth and the only way to save the day is to pry the food out with your your finger. So then, smaller bites it must be, but what if you're afraid
you'll bite the fork and chip a tooth? That's scary. How about you
just pick the chunk up in your bare hands? Not like you'd feed sugar
cubes to a frickin' pony, but as daintily as possible, between two
fingers for a demure nibble here and there? But perhaps eating fruit chunks with fingers is just
unforgivably tacky and gross no matter how dainty or demure.
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Fruit salad grapes are usually icky. I recommend skipping those. </div>
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Also
swallowing is loud.
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<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3464133528380160550.post-61852362314191293042018-06-11T15:04:00.000-04:002018-06-11T15:04:03.070-04:00Writing PoetryWriting a poem can take me years. <div>
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The first draft usually comes to me quickly and it's heady stuff, exhilarating. After that, editing the thing, that is where the real work lies, and that can take years. </div>
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At some point I need to let it go. </div>
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Lately I haven't had a glimmer of a poem, except for that haiku like thing I shard here on the blog, or was it the other blog? Anyway, even though it was only three lines, that was stewing for a couple of years. </div>
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I didn't change it much from the original, but it did take a long time for me to recognize it's poem-ness, </div>
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I carry a notebook with me most of the time. I was flipping through an old one, from 2013, and I came across only one line in the entire book that really stood out.</div>
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As I carve the seeds </div>
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from the soft fruit</div>
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I think,</div>
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children learn by example</div>
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It's been said we should write what we want to read, and in my head this is a nice little poem, complete, as complete as it needs to be for my personal taste, but I'm certain that others wouldn't feel the same, and though it's been simmering away in that little Moleskine for five years, I'm not sure it's ready. </div>
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Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16439497744235401175noreply@blogger.com0