This giant cauldron of feeling that you carry around where your heart should be, and you cook up some love for other people and dole it out to them in steaming cups of the flavor of praise and admiration, bubbles of you go girl and the thick heady scent of I love you the way you are because you heard that was the right way to love, because it's the way you want to be loved, but when the camera swings back around to you, there you are with your aching and longing, your expectant face, your want for payback which, sweetheart, proves that you were never loving in the first place, not really, not the way you like to think. You were placing bets, putting your money on the queen of cups and hoping that once just once somebody would put enough in your bowl to satisfy you. You weren't even looking to have it overflow, just to the brim, like your eyes with tears when the third unconditional serving is handed from your (not actually) generous hands and the thankful smile turns and walks away. Say what you want to make it fine; say you don't need anything, never wanted anyway, easy enough to live without, but if that's true then why is there a tally book in your head and why do you only remember what you give away? Hint: It is not giving if you keep track. You say into a room filled with people that it hurts when people ignore you, or pretend to pay attention and do not, and your voice echoes against the empty walls because nobody wanted to be invited to this, and it turns out the echo of your own voice hurts even more. I'm sorry, I love you, or anyway I want to, but my darling: your need is fathomless, meaning both it never ends and it cannot be comprehended. It makes you hard to be around, and even though I really want to love you the way you are, even though I really want to
too many thoughts in my head
Seems like some people want to teach their subject, some want to inspire in a more "life lessons" sort of way, some want to be popular, some want to be in control. I went into teaching with a certain amount of excitement about language that I wanted to share, and at some point I maybe became a bit of a Nice White Lady about it, and then when I was no longer that person (i.e. no longer inspirational to people) I at least had the courtesy to quit. I'm saying I'm not above teachers in any way, having been a good one and a totally crappy one at different times, so I'll even give the crappy ones the benefit of the doubt. But I feel increasingly like people sort of "get" that students are not all that into the subject, and they compensate for this not by trying to make the subject more interesting, but by making themselves, the teachers, the focus of the lesson. This can be by means of making themselves more fun, or likable or whatever, or by making themselves more intimidating. In neither case does empathy for the student or the sort of approach of trying to involve the student in the lesson seem to come into play. You should learn this because it is good for you in some moral values way seems useless; you should learn this because otherwise I will flunk you seems not the best lesson, either. If you can't come up with a reason why the thing you are teaching is worth learning, maybe you're teaching the wrong thing? Or maybe you're not a teacher. I don't know. I understand unmotivated students, and I once had an adult fly an airplane at my head so I understand the frustrations of teaching those students, but it was never beyond my grasp how entirely useful my subject was.
ANYWAY. Tip of the iceberg, here. I have to go to an audition now. I AM READY FOR MY CLOSE-UP, MR, DEMILLE.
smiled
An older couple, both overweight, walking down the street holding hands, matching bald spots
A teenager skipping down the hill
The sound of fireworks
A woman staring solemnly at herself in the rearview mirror
The streets entirely marked out in neon code
A man riding a bike and escorting another, riderless
A woman and a boy sitting on the sidewalk eating sandwiches, watching a road crew
nice frame
The most simple: a small bitter swallow, a scratch at the throat, a burst of energy. Or maybe diluted with water to make it last longer, but still the same bitterness, the same energy. Sometimes with sweetness, more than a spoonful of sugar, froth and excess and flavor, laughter and guilty pleasures. Soaked in boiled water the grit of it sinks to the bottom, and later I read your future of sleepless nights.
Mother’s Day
I don't get particularly fraught about Hallmark holidays or holidays in general even (care about birthdays, sometimes find Christmas problematic since it comes in the middle of winter when I'm vulnerable), but I felt a little twinge (manipulated, totally fake, etc., and directly connected to tear ducts) over the Google doodle for Mother's Day. demmit. I have totally failed to indoctrinate my son.
As long as I learn, I will make mistakes
The temporary call center job I took, at which I really enjoy the work and my co-workers and the money and really loathe the management, went ugly last week. Specifically, I was bullied by management, was unprepared for the level of bullying, failed to stand up for myself, and had to run out crying from that horrid middle-school combination of fury and shame. Fortunately it appears that they are so clueless that they didn't even notice that I'd walked out two hours ahead of schedule so they totally beat up my feelings but at least they don't know.
I am lucky to be the sort of person who finds a restorative shot or three of whiskey in the early afternoon to be perfectly reasonable. Thanks, Deadwood! The next day I dragged my nails across a dragon's hide and now have resumed my self-defense stance, which is to say the next time someone gets that far into my space, I will head butt them. I mean figuratively. And until that happens, I will continue to call strangers in the UK and ask them to assign numeric values to things they probably don't care about, in exchange for which I will take piles of money that I can later turn into delicious sushi dinners in California this summer.
I am bit bogged by emotion that has not yet acquired the shape of words and this makes it hard to write, hard to speak. I have a lot of anger, a lot of real pain and a lot of anticipatory pain as well. Flowing around this is of course my well-paid voice reminding myself that I am happy, that I am fine, that I am lovable and loved, but so often these clear words seem less real than the inarticulate murmurs of doubt and hurt.
I find myself in the world nearly in love with some people because of their ability to combine intellect and kindness, how they sparkle. I feel words like brilliant and dazzling, and yet it is better, a rich warm light that doesn't hurt the eyes. And with other people how I must bite my tongue because it's not always a choice to be clueless and rude, and not every ignorance that upsets me is aimed at me.
Sumer is icumen in. I bought a fantastic pair of pants a few months ago and it's finally warm enough to wear them, and now I am sitting on my hands to keep myself from ordering five more identical pairs. How many pairs of pants does a person who normally works in pajamas actually need, anyway? The amount of time I spend constructing a minimalist wardrobe in my head is clearly a reflection of the amount of time I've spent packing for long trips and the fact that I was never as sartorially happy as when I wore a uniform and didn't have to think about clothes at all. Three pairs of identical pants and six tops should do it, don't you think?
random
I was remembering the story of how my older sister died, her dark curls, wide smooth forehead, how she played with such seriousness that even on the swings you noticed her look of concentration, and one day she was there and then she was gone, and her dog, too, a black-and-white mutt so loyal, and I found her bones years later under the rose bushes and when I touched them I heard her voice telling me that she knows the truth that only the dead know. When I woke up it was 2 a.m. and I did not want to go back to sleep because it seemed like there was a message I needed to understand and I was afraid to forget but sleep won and already the dream is fading; tomorrow this will be all I remember.
For clarity, I have never had an older sister, nor a dog, nor rose bushes.
I've been hit by three cars in the 18 years I've lived here. Each time I have been in a crosswalk; each time I have been more than halfway across the street; each time the car has been turning across or into traffic and has not seen me because they were looking for other cars rather than pedestrians. Each time it has been less something I could have prevented. The people who think this is my fault or who blame the drivers divide pretty interestingly along who has seen somebody die and who has not.
Unrelatedly, I did something to the ligaments of my foot and couldn't walk for a couple days but that seems to be getting better. Aging, man. I was prepared for wrinkles, gray hair, and gradual invisibility. I was not prepared for the increasing creakiness, the ache of morning, the sudden inexplicable betrayals. It occurs to me that right as I become invisible enough to rob a bank I will be unable to do so because my knees won't be up to it.
What else? The guest room is done. By done I mean clean and with a bed and dresser. It is a small room, spartan but friendly. The walls are green and I will not stop thinking it is funny that I have a green room. It's the room where people go to get themselves ready before they come on the Anne Show, where I will ask about their recent projects and we'll be quite witty together on my comfy couch. You should come; I have some cards prepared with questions just for you.
making the crooked straight
It occurs to me in my second year of self-employment that I am the kind of manager I do not like. Always with the criticism of tiny details, beating myself up for one small error or another, patting myself on the back periodically more because it feels like a necessary exercise in motivation than because I actually think I'm all that and a bagel. As a result I am alternately a sunny employee who focuses on the task (and the general pleasantness of the task) and a sullen, sabotaging layabout who takes too-long lunch breaks and sneers at the boss behind her back. I really care about what I do, and that helps. I do not have to deal with others often, with office politics and watercooler chatter, nepotism favoritism isms in general, and I appreciate that like nobody's business. Working alone and entirely under my own steam is really hard, though, and while I prefer not sleeping to missing deadlines I wish sometimes there was somebody other than me to go "hey nice work." I mean periodically the writers or translators thank me and it brings tears to my eyes every time, because I have created for most of them this idea that I am a perfect machine into which they send their lumps of coal and out of which I pump diamonds, just by virtue of being a ball of tense perfectionism. I mean I don't make myself human in their eyes and they don't either, and most of the time that's okay, but some of the time I forget that in this creation of myself, I am the boss who has to be impressed with me if I want somebody to say I did well. And really impressed, not Stuart Smalley smarming myself. I wish I would give myself the day off sometimes, and not the day off so I can clean but the day off to read a book or something. Maybe if I stop thinking all this nonsense and finish the last paper that's due this week, I'll take tomorrow off. I think I owe it to myself.
a good look
I rode a horse through the candy store, and someone told me that I should ride Napoleon's horse as it would be closer to the ground, and thus allow easier access to the candy. I woke up feeling guilty which means I drank too much; I'd frankly rather have the headache. While being curious over a shoulder I asked a woman what the google doodle was and she said "it's google" and didn't even realize that it was different, or know what a google doodle was. It was the first day of spring, which was true this year and for which I am grateful. I wonder what it is like to not be curious. My cat also wonders, although her curiosity mainly concerns how to get back up into the window she somehow fell out of. Poor furry ball of toothless stupidity. Lost a card from the deck and now can't remember if I've already asked you if you found it; did you? Sometimes I hate humanity so much there are no words and other times I want nothing more than for someone to pour themselves into me, every story a drop of wonder. I wish I could remember more people without mourning them. I got a haircut last week and then dyed it dark red; when I wear lipstick I look like sex and death, so you don't know if you want to kiss me or stay far away. What I told you was true at the moment but not true forever, just like this sentence.
chance, time, night, round, try
Walking home and I wanted one more because it was early yet and also because I am greedy and I always want one more, if we're being honest. And so treated myself to what I wanted, because we cannot be puritans all the time or we'd have nothing to write about. Sitting and feeling the wine roll on my tongue, the words rolling off, smooth talker and my face already sore from laughing. And we went to the bathroom and styled your hair because it was that kind of night. I got kicked out of a Denny's once for doing that but we're grown-ups now and also this is Europe and perhaps a little water splashed in the bathroom at the end of the night is no big deal. One more one more and I caught myself in the middle of a story that had no end and so time to go. Then walking home something small and cold flew into my mouth and I almost spit it out before I realized it was snow, because evenings end but winter is apparently forever.
tuckova 