shake me awake

One of my worst nightmares. I'm suddenly given a small hurt creature - a human baby, a kitten - to make well. I can't, of course, I can't even keep it alive, and it shrinks smaller and smaller as I lose it to its inevitable death, by which time I can cup it in the palm of my hand. One of my worst. I can't remember if I started having it after That One Time or not.

This time a little grey fox got hit by a car. Not bleeding or moving, just still and quiet and hurt. And there I am, crouched under the shadow of this huge car, and the wheel's taller than me, hunched over the small silky thing in my hands.

[this next thing has never ever ever ever happened before in my dream]

"Here," you say, suddenly to my right, and you've taken the fox, much smaller now. And you're rooting around in your bag for something - yeek, a syringe. The little dude is no longer than your hand now, oh god, not much time, and before I can think you've plunged the syringe - needle-less, the dream's being kind - into the creature. It's all right, it's done the trick, creature whisked off somewhere and my unicorns and rainbows will help him convalesce, maybe. Whatever, the end.

I remembered it this morning. I never remember my dreams, unless I've taken Melatonin (your idea, actually, though you'd stopped taking it because of weird dreams by the time I took your supply home with me) and even then they usually slip away if I try to tell Ramon. But last night I picked the Melatonin up and then put it back on the shelf again; the last thing I want are bad dreams,  however desperately I want to sleep, and we've already taken care of sleeplessness by pretty nearly libation-ing ourselves to sleep every night. Lying awake worrying about Simone is too cruel to contemplate. Anyway, how remarkable that it stayed with me, and I flipped the Universe a double birdy (like I haven't the whole time the shadow of her illness has hovered around us) that not only would I be sent That Dream, but I'd remember it on a day when not only was I not intended to dream, but I'd made sure by NOT taking sleep aids that make you dream. God fucking dammit.

But *I* sent it, fool that my subconscious is. Not fool. Sadist. Betrayed by my own better half. But it sent me you, too, miraculous savior that you were. You saved me as much as you saved the fox in that dream.

***
fox. a fawn-colored fox. my Simone, my little fox-face, my princess, my mosquito, my Queen Bitch, Little Paws, come on, kittypants, come back to me, come back to me Si Si, comebacktome...

***

And you. Long ago cemented in my mind and heart as a lioness who faces death, the death of her loves and those she doesn't know, with courage. And action. You hurt, and pack it all - and much too much of it - into much too small of places. But you also stay, and wait, and Do. You run to pain and death to muscle it away or smooth the passage. And you and I have found ourselves in such similar situations with regard to the mortality of non-humans, and I think my dreaming mind has been a bit cruel to us both.

And Simone's shrinking. Fading, and whether she'll return we don't know. I've now literally bathed - anointed - her in my tears, and she's drunk them. I've plunged a real needle into her, and Ramon three times. Four, tonight, unless it's my turn to have the steady hands. I haven't left the flat in days - Ramon's reintroduced my one clove per day habit just to get me on the outside landing. My current state of mind probably has to do with the fact that I've played nothing but Deva Premal on shuffle near Simone's home by the window, because why the hell not and I'm sure as fuck not trying Hail Marys over her at this point. Maybe she believes in healing chant.

I wait. I stay. I watch, and weep, and look for signs, and brush brush brush her cheeks and the top of her head, and she still leans into me and squeezes her eyes and flexes her paws. She's still here.

But girl, if you're in my dreams now, and if I dreamed Simone into a little fox...were you there to fix her body, or send her on? Needles give and release life. I wish you were here. I don't know what to do. The dream ended in relief for the first time ever, and I'm afraid my nightmare is real, and hasn't even gotten going yet.

When Can I Stop Being Bipolar?

I can feel it, goddammit. I was in the light for so long this time I thought maybe I'd figured something great out, that I'd crossed a line and dancing and vitamin D and whatever else had lifted me up a little farther, for good - far enough that my eternal cycle between light and shadow had shallowed out, and I would be able to move at this faster pace, and lighter step, and brighter outlook between ups and downs without having to curl up in silence and weariness and sadness so completely. Ever again. Every cycle, a little farther up the hill. The meds, the therapy, all the tricks and cues, finally making me different, instead of only smoothing over the not-livable parts. No more having to make embarrassing excuses to myself, and people around me, about why I don't get out more, see them - don't I care? Don't I care enough about my friends to get out? Am I going to be stuck inside again, begging myself for enough effort to just....just put on your clothes and a little makeup, girl, and get onto the bus. Once you're on the bus, or have your feet on the sidewalk, the rest will take care of itself. Just show up. But when I'm in the shadow, I just can't seem to find enough reasons to leave my warm, stale-aired cave for noise, and faces, and people listening to me yammer and Thinking Things. And I'll see folk hurting, walking around with such pain on their faces that it will take me down too, and I'll think about my home, and my food in the fridge, and wonder what on earth *I* have to whine about.

It feels like I'm moving back into "I can't" again. And oh my god, these cycles ride ME. I don't have any other pills to take, or inspiring little mantras, and dancing last night...I ran out of steam 1 1/2 hours before we were done! No no no no NO NO...dancing is saving me, it's supposed to be making THE difference! Shit. I think I'm losing ground. And it's Spring and I ALWAYS get duped, every goddamned year! March and April? "Everything's different, this is going to be a GREAT year." And then later it'll all feel like a shiny dream I had.

Please just let this be fear talking, just a false alarm. A sore foot, off night, not enough sleep lately. My times in the light are always marred by the dread of the shadow that waits, and I can certainly scare myself enough to think I'm going dark again when I'm not. It's not real - I'm just reading too much news (WHY is everybody saying no and not yes to each other? What will we lose, WHAT?!), dwelling too much on the sorrow around me in this city (what, do I stop walking and take a cab to work every day? I'll stop seeing the sad man with the cardboard sign, and the old lady with too many garbage bags for her cart, and the tired fat lady dragging her O2 behind her, and the too-young kids sleeping in a puppy pile under a tree in the park, trying to keep out of the rain, and and and and...), getting too angry at the same bullshit. I'm not helpless. I tend to catastrophize. This is probably just a melancholy few days. Probably just a few down days.

I've been racing around gobbling up as much life as I can, because I can! and I've felt astounded at the schedule I've been keeping, at the amount of people I can interact with without costing myself anything. I've been extroverted! I've been Going Places and Doing Things. I've been so...I've actually found myself TORN between dancing with this group or the other on a certain day, think of it! I have a thing to do, so I get up and get ready and go there, no vacillating, no bargaining, no whingeing battle of weighing the pros and cons of staying put and feeling shitty or dragging myself out and maybe (probably) reaping rewards, while knowing that I'll stay where I am and curse myself for laziness regardless. It's been heaven. I've been so fucking happy. I haven't felt like a failure, or a waste, or neglectful, or lazy, or powerless, in weeks and weeks. It's okay. I knew that I wouldn't be able to go this all-out forever, that I'd have to steady a little and find medium ground and go from there. I tried to pace myself. Maybe I just have to level off, but I won't be lost again, not so thoroughly gone, and for so long. Not so long this time. Not so quiet, not so low. Please.

i can't lose this i can't face another quit i just ordered a SWORD for fuck's sake this can't be happening i'm not ready to be sad and tired again please please please let me stay in the light please the flowers just got going and I've begun new things and met new friends please don't let this slide away don't let me lose them don't let me slip away please. Please.

Healer: Mom Part One

My Mom celebrated a milestoney birthday last week and, healthy, happy (or insert whatever odious vocabulary for people describing a person approaching the winter of their lives in reasonably good shape, like "spry" - give me a BREAK) and exquisitely nearly universally loved as she is, I'm having some trouble with the whole aging-parent thing. In Facebook I described it thusleh: "I'm finally seeing my old friend Time for the thief he is, and doing my best not to beg him against all sense to spare my Mama."

I'm writing some stuff and sending it to her, along with multiple silly gifts, like footie socks (NOT the ankle length because they pinch, you see). To deal with my grief at the sudden realization that my time with her has an ending, and to let her know what happens when you don't let your daughter make a fuss with streamers and many people and cake. This thing I wrote went along with a donation to the organization she works for - Life Services. Think Planned Parenthood for fundies - they bring in young ladies and men with STIs or unplanned pregnancies and direct them to care, house them if their home life has broken down and facilitate adoptions. What they don't do is anything - anything - related to contraception. You won't walk out of there with a sample bag of condoms, is what I'm saying. But the deal is that when I rail against the sign-wavers trying to skew politics away from a woman's right to choose, one of my problems with them is that what's THEIR strategy for dealing with what would be an enormous influx of childbirths and dependents if abortion is abolished? The people Mom works with are some of the ones actually trying to help, their way. Mom herself gives exams (she's a nurse practitioner), prescribes meds, counsels and prays with them.

She came to Seattle to study male exams - the clinic wanted to be able to treat boys, but none of the other NPs would do the exams, delicate creatures. At Harborview Mom saw many man parts, and on her last day of training found herself holding and crying with a gentleman who got news of his positive diagnosis for AIDS from her mouth. She came home from that day profoundly changed, and wept with me in her turn for her brokenhearted patient. My understanding of my Mother's depth of spirit was likewise rocked for all time. So I gritted my teeth, suspended my own ideologies, as she has hers for love of me, many times, for a minute and made the donation (I donated double to PP to salve my conscience) and wrote this for my Ma:

I think of the hundreds – it must be thousands – of young women and men that you’ve seen at Life Services, and wonder how many you individually remember. Probably doubly that of the average human memory, for yours is nothing short of astounding, how much random information about people you pack in there.

Who do you remember the most? The ones who cry? The brave, smiley ones? The pretty ones who just got a big bad surprise about how much their boyfriend really cares about them? The angry ones? The ones with pimples and terrible hair who you can tell never felt valued at all? The meek ones who stare at the floor and twist their fingers? I’ll bet the meek ones – you’re such a sucker for the scaredy-cats of the world. And the boys…you must get the contrite, the wrathful, the sullen, the frightened – the odd cooperative good guy. You must sit through oceans of awkward silence.

Most of them must be so scared. They’ve found disease, at the beginning of their lives, that they’ll never be able to wash (or wish) away. You’re visited by baby girls who’ve found out that they’re going to have a baby – they’ll become Mother before the Woman in them ever got a chance to wake up on her own. I’ll bet in so many cases you’re the first really good Mother (they wouldn’t know it, because you’re MY mom and only Nathan and me really get how amazing you are) they’ve ever seen. And you have them for so little time. Half an hour, maybe? You must have had some who were abandoned by their support systems when the news came out. I wonder what you must say to someone who has lost everyone else in the gaining of their new little one.

I’ve thought about the humiliation endured already by your patients. You must see victims of abuse. You must have the terrible job of examining victims of abuse, which must be another kind of hell for them. I wonder if you’re the first person who has touched them with care, and love. Dignity. You speak to the most embarrassed of all humans – teens – about the most embarrassing topics known to anyone. I’ll bet you’re the first person to have The Talk with some of these kiddos – overdue by years and years. I’ve heard you discussing difficult topics with people – the death of their loved ones, their own imminent passing, talking people gently through their own physical conundrums when they didn’t understand their own doctors or don’t have one, confronting, sympathizing, challenging, questioning, and most of all comforting, comforting, comforting. You’ve got to be one of the most well-suited people on the planet to have around when kids at your clinic need a listening ear. You must weep for them. With them, sometimes, maybe. I’ll bet on that one, too. Maybe you’re the first adult they’ve seen cry for the pain they keep in their hearts.

When I summarize from my own imagination all that you must see to, person to person, you embody that which these young people should have had already. They should have had attentive parents, who watched them, knew their habits, knew what they loved and hated, what made them laugh or feel bad. What kind of people they got along with, and who bedeviled them. They should have had a woman nearby to teach them about their bodies – how things work, how things feel, what to expect, and what to do when things go wrong. They should have had a host of adults around making them feel safe, listening to them, interested in them, honest with them and treasuring their honesty in return. They should have grown up knowing that they could and would do the right thing, and that their family and friends would love and respect them when they didn’t, no matter what. You see the paupers who should have been millionaires. You get wan, squashed dandelions who should have lived like your roses, drowning in love.

Your dandelions don’t know what I know. In the tiny moment they have with you, they have You – all of you – Healer, Friend, Confidante, Guide, Teacher, Mother. For that moment they have the love and regard of a truly brilliant woman who would give her life for them; who would, if you could, turn back time and give them the lifetime of love that they deserve. Remember that they will remember you. Whatever happens in their new life, they knew a lady who took their despair and confusion and gave them a Plan. Touched and treated their bodies and souls as the incalculably precious things that they are. Along with their folder of papers and bag of samples, they carry the memory of a wonderful person who believed them to be a wonderful person too, and that will change who they are forever.

morning spider - a very deep-sounding personal reflection

new day

stumbling to the toiley

(effing cat really has to stop lounging in the bedroom doorway. No one's feeding her until Ramon gets up, whether or not she trips me up and gets pissed on for her trouble)

compliance meeting today - fuuuuck meee...


Call in sick?   Yes:    No: x   (dammit)

Bathroom light on. AIEEEEE MY EYES

And...

HUGE DADDY LONG LEGS IN THE SINK. Doing that...sweet jesus, that BOBBING THING. Bobbing up and down, up and down. Sink walls clearly unscalable.

must pee must must must must

toilet MUCH too close to the sink

kill it

"No, no, NO!! Earth trees mountains living together hungry children recycle like a good girl no jobs people hit dogs sometimes toxic sludge grownups yell at kids with scared eyes fucking pipeline offshore bullshit anonymous will take us back to teh stone age and maybe quite good says I Arcade Fire prolly agrees earth and trees shower don't bathe la la laaaa people just need to be loved and THIS SPIDER SHALL NOT PERISH."

Ah. The preachy voices always wake up first. At least I tend to agree with the Negative Hippie (and she never gets me up with "This day presents you with all the problems you didn't see to yesterday and probably made worse by your neglect. Today's a new day and you will most likely disappoint yourself" like the Old Church Lady). So. The spider lives.

Problem #1: can't touch that bitch. Cerise kills few things (besides mosquitoes or cockroaches and I would kill mantises 'cause they're fucking naaaasty-looking but they're too big) but she won't touch 'em, my precious. Noooo spank you.

Problem #2: Daddy can't get out of the sink. I need that sink. If I were a spider (YEEEEK) what would be a good ladder?

dart to the sink, carefully toss washcloth near (but not on, or at, 'cause I'm pretty sure those bastards can jump) Old Daddy and rocket back again

He climbs. HE CLIIIIMBS! Up up up the cloth, to the edge of The World.

Oh, damn. Problem #3: *Now* what? I'm NOT going to hold anything for him elevator-style (ohhh, HELL no ick ick ick ickyyyyyy).

Ah. No. Apparently this is the sort of spider that can let itself down on - oh, I don't know - a line. Made of SPIDER WEB. Dumbass.

Suddenly he's drifting down, legs feathering out like a dancer's, pedaling gracefully for the descent. Touchdown so soft I can't tell when he actually stopped moving. A couple more bobs (ew)...and he ambles behind the toilet and out of my sight.

breathe

breathe

pee

Flunked

Some of the most vivid memories I have are the times I've really, really flunked in the kindness department in my life. I mean, everybody's unkind, petty and ungenerous - sometimes all three on a bad day, right? We ache, ask forgiveness, forgive ourselves and move it on down the road. I'm talking about memories of the times I've been a real low-down sonofabitch - really grindingly shitty behavior. I made my mother cry. I made Ramon cry. I made a dorm mother cry. I hurt my friend and roommate with one snide remark - hurt her bad, about something in her life that was already a source of torment. I fucked a musical rival over like I can't even tell you over how many solos each of us got for a concert. Etc. Etc.

This last Christmas was one of those times. Not on a par with some of the cruel things I've said, but an act of neglect and callousness that shocked me, both by how I handled it and how easy it would have been to do right, or quickly undo the wrong.

Ramon and I took a ferry over to Bremerton for Christmas with his parents. The ferry was sparsely populated, as usual. Wired kids; the kind that race around and clearly think they seem awfully cute to those of us watching them back and forth, back and forth. FYI, munchkins, not so much. A couple of girls got up in "Santa Baby" outfits that strengthened our belief that THE fashion lesson of 2010 - don't wear tights if you're not going to cover your bum - is a scientific oddity in that it's been proven to be a lesson that ISN'T SINKING IN to many females' minds. But I digress. I didn't wrong the girl who had a runner traveling up her left cheek.

Okay, so I had already transgressed in trying to strike up a conversation with Ramon about a conversation I had with Carmen (therapist) regarding our arguing style. Christmas morning, foggy brains, chilly ferry travel, family gathering ahead and I bring up our FIGHTING tactics? It ended poorly - shit, it STARTED poorly - and I got off the ferry feeling sulky and hard-done-by. Since my excellent Mother-in-law hadn't checked her email or texts for 24 hours no one was waiting to meet us at the ferry. Chilly. Sulky. Now planning to be chilly and sulky for at least 20 minutes, IF we could get hold of any Deslauriers within driving distance. No one was answering their phones. So we're standing in the passenger pickup space with a couple of other random, some disreputable-looking, strangers. Ramon was on his phone leaving "if you get this come get us" messages. A boy - maybe 16 or 17 - came up to us and asked, "can I borrow your phone to call my Mom?" He was in full-cut (I'd say saggy baggy, but I'm cool like that and not one of those stuffy grown-ups who tut at teenage menswear) jeans and a big damned hoodie, with light brown skin and curly black hair. Oy, I was SO not having it.

I'd already refused to give a guy bus fare on the way to the ferry terminal. We were late, thinking we'd miss the boat and not wanting to wait the hour it would take to get another. I had the change, and he looked like he really did just need a couple of quarters to make fare (unlike the usual run of "I'm trying to get to my Aunt in Tacoma who has a job waiting for me" spiels I get downtown). I felt bad about that one, especially since we made it onto the ferry with the seconds to spare that I could have used pulling some sodding quarters out of my pocket and handing them over.

OK, back to the kid wanting to call his Mom. I was finishing up my share of leaving family messages - still talking shortly to Ramon and feeling kind of wearily hostile toward the strangers around me, the gray cold rain and the fact that we were going to be looking around at a really crappy (and deserted) part of Bremerton for a good while. He made his request to Ramon and me. I glanced sideways at Ramon - sometimes I hope he'll deal with the solicitations - but he was still trying to reach our family. All of those goddamned Yahoo articles about "Never let ANYONE borrow your phone - they'll just take it and RUN" were screaming in my head. I wanted to just hand the phone over, but jeez, he was a teenager from Bremerton and what if he DID just run? My iPhone! I looked down at my phone, then finally up at the dude hovering about 15 feet away and said in my no nonsense but not unkind city voice, "I'm not going to let you use my phone, man."

"You're not?" "No."

By then I was looking back down at the technology in question, but I could still see him turn away slowly and shuffle down to the sidewalk and then up the street. Shit, CERISE, what the hell?! For about 2 minutes I could have caught up to him and apologized (please take me back there, back in time, right now, please? Please?). He clearly wasn't a thief. I walked two or three steps toward him, back to Ramon, back toward him, back to Ramon. The kid was making deceptively fast time up that hill. Eventually he was out of my reach and I waited, saying little to Ramon, tears in my eyes, until Dad pulled up.

I waited all day - through presents, visiting, The Meal, the ride back, a blessed quiet moment with Abram and Christa back at our flat before they pushed off home - until we were alone in our home to grab a completely flabbergasted Ramon and bawl. I sobbed into his shirt that I hadn't given my phone to that poor boy who just wanted to talk to his Mom! On CHRISTMAS.

Why wasn't his Mom there waiting for him? Was he surprising her? Does he have a good Mom? Is he loved enough in his life? How much did my nasty little refusal hurt him? How long did it take him to walk to where he was going? Did he get any presents? Does he have friends? Why doesn't he have even a crappy old cell phone? Most kids have phones nicer than mine.

[wipes more tears]

Ramon's been sweet, telling me that I hurt myself much worse than I'd hurt him. My beautiful friends have offered rich absolution on Facebook and praised me for even worrying about it.

If only this were about me. If only my feeling better were what I wanted.

But that child asked for something - such a small thing - from me, and had a long, cold walk ahead of him when I refused him. He didn't even have the heart to ask the other two or three people standing around.

Nothing like that should have happened to him, and the person that made it happen was me. On Christmas. Because I got shirty with my husband and felt peevish afterward.

Fuck the phone. I'd give the bloody thing up twice over to have that one moment back. Child, wherever you are, I am so sorry. I hope you had a splendid, fat, gorgeous, hilarious Christmas. I hope someone does something richly loving for you every day of your life. I wish you could know that I'd give you the phone if I could, including the pink and purple cover and awesome Cut the Rope game and EVERYTHING.

I'll never forget. I know these nasty little memories and they never stop hurting, even when I can ask and be granted forgiveness from the people I've wronged. I'll never find this guy. And this is just the sort of thing I feel in my bones is wrong with this planet: we don't TRUST each other! Bugger the Yahoo articles advising caution. I can afford another effing phone. I can't afford to live the way I did that day. This city is killing me in some ways. I tell people - a lot of times the same people over and over - no when they ask for handouts every single day. I'm not going to say I no longer see or hear them, or that it doesn't hurt a little tiny bit every time I say "No, sorry." (Some city dwellers marvel that I even apologize.) I don't refuse every time, either. But my reflexive "no" is coming a little too easy these days, I think. I could have done right by that boy.

And the real hell of it? There's nobody to say sorry to. If I believed in god I could raise my hands to the sky and cry out my shame and beg forgiveness of The One who would hear and weep with me, and I would know that Someone would reach down and touch the boy's life and my sin would be washed away. And I would feel relief, and that a wrong had been righted.

I no longer believe that it works that way. This one, and other memories, I live with and remember alone, and grieve over for the rest of my days. (And smile at the fact that I get to live inside a Drama Queen who absolutely refuses to forget, or let the memories fade as they surely could.)

Shit.

[backs away slowly]

Holy crap, so I got on this ol' blog to write a thing about Ramon, I'm looking around - just seeing what I wrote in the past on this gorgeous clunker - and found the following in the drafts. I had never posted it. So I read it and was all: "good god I'm glad I didn't publish it." It's furious, selfish, a TINY bit (a-a-n-nd by that I mean 'wildly') self-righteous and so very very far away from how I've been feeling lately. But then my je ne sais quos kicked in and I read it again and my lower brain shouted "FUCK YEAH" (it's right next to the 'what the hell' section) and...what the hell. It's so tempting to only put stuff up that's flattering and well-crafted. This is neither:

7/7/09

Fuck this world today, man. Fuck it. I'm so goddamned tired of being mad, crying, explaining, and most of all, SO FUCKING SICK OF NEVER GETTING TO SAY WHAT'S ON MY MIND. You know that thing, in the world, where you have to watch your tongue, use your words, don't name-call, put yourself in the other person's shoes? All of that? FUCK IT. Everyone has a day (I betcha) when they have to just turn their backs on all that loving, healthy pro-relationship crap and just say what they feel like saying. This is my day.

You know what I love about myself? I say shit. It's not always honest or well thought out or accurate or empirically valid or very nice at all, but Jesus Christ, at least words are coming out of my mouth that I really feel. At the time, I mean.

Hey, everybody has to watch their mouths. I should say, everybody would generally be better served to watch their mouths. Relationships thrive on people NOT vomiting their feelings on each other all the time. Mostly because feelings change, you gain perspective, tempers cool, but you can never unsay words. I get that. It's so true. I know there are people who know me who think I have no frontal lobe, so crazed are my words, but man...if you knew what isn't coming out, all the time. I must be the angriest, most selfish, meanest, most easily wounded motherfucker on the planet, since I'm currently taking inventory of what I'm not saying and that's the content. Pain. Isolation. Bitterness. Loneliness. Hatred. And, last but not least, complete contempt for...those who have currently come under the lava wave that is my wrath.

I've been around people lately, people I can't avoid, who spend a lot of their time not saying things to me. What I mean is, I'm intuitive enough to know that they're keeping words to themselves that they'd probably like to express to me. Withholding information I could really use, both to understand what's going on between us and to...shit, to just have SOMEONE say SOMETHING to me that's real, for the love of god. To have a little courage and connect with me.

Wheeee...

untitled love rant - not for the weak of stomach

Ramon, my Ramon, you will never read this. Nobody's here anymore, and rightly so. I've been too twisted up to write anything these last years. But I was watching you laugh last night, and this popped into my head:

There's an anxiousness that comes along sometimes when I think of how I love you so much. It comes when I revel in your beauty and wonder if I can offer anything like it for your eyes (besides my hair, oh yeah). I wonder at your patience with my stupider bits and hope to god you receive even a fraction of that steadfastness from me. I hope that the ferocity and wonder with which I love you makes up for my thousand physical imperfections. I hope the words and words and WORDS I shower on you make up for my inability to grant you a moment's peace now and then.

Most of this I keep to myself, dearest, because such silly comparisons distress you so much.

They don't mean anything. There's nothing to them but my automatic cranial shutdown every time I contemplate the near-perfection of your love for me. Because you never treat me as anything but the most beautiful creature breathing - in your eyes I must be a queen, a wonder, a model of human generosity and kindness. I know you, and it's that sort of person who would make your eyes brighten as much as they do when you look at me. I keep looking at myself for reasons why you could dig me so evidently (human insecurity knows no bounds) when I could be watching YOU watching me. You're like a...a... you're really good lighting and a fan in my Photobooth of Life. And I never truly fear, not really.

Because since that day I saw you across the classroom I've craved you beyond the telling of it. And since that day my heart asks, every day, "Are you mine? Are you? Can I have you reallyreallyreally, for the rest of my life?" And never has your response wavered. To my every unspoken Question you have always, always answered with an unspoken, but deafening, "Yes."

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

Angry for a Very Good Reason (FINALLY)

Ramon and I had had - were having - a lovely afternoon up on the Broadway drag. I had a 2:30 haircut with Nicole (freakin' genius at making my untidy mess look like an intentional untidy mess) at Scream Barber, and we were wandering home after, stopping by our haunts. Bailey Coy books, Linda's for brunch, I turned the prayer wheel at Vajra and a brief visit to Urban Outfitters, but only to use the privy and to sneer at the gladiator sandals and the $20 hip flasks that say things like "Bitch" and "Horny". Ramon bought me flowers.

On the way out we stopped at Dick's for a chocolate shake and some fries - the line was about five deep as usual. As I waited for Ramon to pay I heard a voice behind me; a lady on the phone.

"Yeah, someone just 'small-changed' me, so I'm buying him a burger. I'm in line right now - talk to you later." This voiced in a loudish tone of complacent ennui. I looked over at her and saw a man beside her (I had seen him a couple of times that afternoon - a little shaggy, but tidily dressed and kind-looking, asking people here and there for money), looking sheepish. Many people were around.

She looked - well, it doesn't matter, save to say that she pretty much satisfied my prejudice about what a person who said things like that, and how they said it, would look like.

Hey, I feel put-upon sometimes, lots of times, when people ask me for money, and especially if they've got some kind of 'I'm different from the others, just in an unfortunate spot at the moment' spiel (some that I've heard from the same person, day after day - I know your Aunt in Tacoma didn't forget your return bus fare for the third day in a row, love). I don't like it that I get hit up more than once every day in this town, and I hardly ever cough up. I hate hearing the conversations that people have to have about The Homeless Problem or the 'get a job' mentality of the cats who feel like they need a reason not to give their hard-earned cash to someone just because they asked for it. I still seethe with rage at the memory of the dude who yelled at me when I told him no: "Well, what fuckin' GOOD are ya?!" The whole homeless/panhandler issue is a thorny nest of not fun thinky thoughts for me. Seeing things from many sides is a sonuvabitch sometimes, no?

This one cut me down, man. Hurt me right to the heart. I hated that woman - I was so mad I was tearing up on our way home. Who DOES that to someone? Some people like buying food for folks who ask them for money, cool. Not my way, of course - I give 'em money and they do what they like with it - but still better than giving people nothing at all or speeching them out about their naughty vagrant ways. But insisting on buying food and then shouting it all over creation - WHILE the poor sucker is with you, for the love of Pete - not nice. Not loving. Maybe not worth it, to that guy.

Sorry, no 'You see, Timmy' moment to cap this one off. I'm just angry, angry, angry. And hurt. And you know what hurt angry people do in this great age - yes.

Yes, we blog about it. Good stuff.