Category Archives: Day To Day

too lazy to categorize anything

This is the End, My Only Friend, the End

Well, we’re getting a divorce, so. I read through the blog for a while in hopes that I might salvage some of it as am archive maybe, but in truth the arc of it all is really more than I can bear to revisit. I may save this space for a while, in case I begin to write again someday, but I think I’ll tuck these entries away in the box I’ve placed in the attic with our wedding album and the mix tapes we made for each other when we were dating.

We tried.

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Oceans of Love and Flowers and Blood and the Mountains to Hold it all Down



I’m pretty sure the painting was supposed to be a field of poppies, a simple landscape. Flowers in the foreground, mountains in the distance. I’m sure of it. Maybe the reason I picked it up for $4 in a hand stretched linen frame has to do with the fact that that the poppies look a whole lot like droplets of blood.

Some nights swear I’m in the room with him while he daydreams himself into the canopy of leaves, pine needles poking into his legs as he stretches out to let he sun dry his trail sweat. Him and me, we explore those trails together; we say fuck those flowers, fuck the flat land, and we skinny dip in the coldest water this side of the Mississippi. A black snake stands up to judge us for a minute before settling onto a rock above our heads, the way black snakes sometimes do, sideways on a rock, looking like someone drew a curvy line with a sharpie.

He doesn’t care about anything back beyond that bloody lake. He wants out of this commitment, and this painting, and this fucking field of flowers that he -oh, why in GOD’s NAME did he- promised her he’d hang on the damn wall across from that godforsaken mechanical bed. That up and down, up and down, up and down bed that will never-will NEVER-take her to the mountains. The mountain range she HAD to have. That she MADE HIM PAINT. On the other side of an ocean of blood.

In my fantasy the man put this canvas away-he hid it in the garage, out of her reach and field of vision. I like to picture us, shaking hands gently at the trailhead as he turns to wade through an ocean of blood back to a clean canvas to begin again.

I like to imagine that, somewhere there exists a cheerful painting consisting of a field of poppies and happy mountain range, and there is a woman who wakes to that painting every morning and says “On! My poppies! My mountain! My love! Thank you for bringing my home to me when I can no longer go to my home.”

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Some Things I Said and Heard This Morning

“I don’t want there to be anything alive in the basket you just brought onto the porch!”
“okaaay…” Two little people skulk off the porch to empty a basket of – something. I think about returning to my breath, about getting out the purple ass pillow that is designed to make meditation comfortable (at this moment I hear Brad Warner saying something like “pussy! sit up straight and stop bitching about your bony ass”) and I envision myself focusing on my breath while my children befriend rattlesnake babies or small creatures in the yard. Some other time, transcendentalism.

Wind Chimes
Birds singing

Snow Patrol. We don’t need anything, or anyone. If I lay here- if I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world?

In the distance, a plot is hatching. How can they distract me long enough for one of them to unbury the baby mud turtle from its new home in the flower pot? No way. I’m not doing it, she’ll kill us.

Avery is such an incredible troublemaker; an evil genius except we can’t really call her evil can we; since she is six and filled with daisies and rainbows, explosions of light and musical laughter when she looks at you?

All that I am- all that I ever was is here is your perfect eyes.

The plan is scrapped. Boy with a Coin is the soundtrack to a collection of rocks and a game that involves creating a pirate ship from an arrangement of chairs and a mini trampoline.

“Please don’t land in the fish pond!”

I catch a glimpse of my son walking by with a play cell phone pressed to his ear. One moment, his hand gesture tells me. His hulk pajamas might say party but his body language is all business.

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Shrimp Festival 5k 2010 Race Report-Slapping Pavement, Not Triggers Just This Once

Earlier this week my old/new friend Joe casually mentioned (threw down a gauntlet) the upcoming 5K race at the HUGE tourist festival in our resort town. We traditionally avoid crossing the bridge onto the island during this whole weekend, and I would have used that as my internal excuse as if I needed another one besides I HAVEN’T BEEN RUNNING and I FUCKING DIDN’T WANT TO but when someone throws down a gauntlet (Joe says “what? All I did was ask if you were running in it.” and to that I say whatever man. you asked me ON MY FACEBOOK WALL) what the hell else are you supposed to do.

Well I don’t know what you guys do, but what I do is register for the damn race.  Whatever, it’s a 30 minute race. Okay, 35. OKAY, 37. Ish. They’re just calf muscles. They heal.

To prepare, since I had four days, I did what anyone in my position would have done: Jack shit-well, except abstain from the firebowl/ rum-with-a-shot glass-after-everyone-else-is-asleep late nights. (oh, by the way. could you cut some more firewood, honey?) Nobody wants to be the one runner in the Saturday morning 5K that has to stop and vomit a 1/2 mile in. There’s always somebody, especially in a town famous for a drink called Pirate’s Punch that’s served in a 32 ounce souvenir cup at the local bar called the Palace Saloon. Side note: Once, my friend and I decided to put straws in our Pirate’s Punch cups and race them to the bottom like mind erasers.  1) BRAIN FREEZE. 2) Very early bedtime that evening. So glad I wasn’t a runner back then.

stop looking at me

almost almost almost

Back to the race, which I did run, vomit free. I believe my new custom will be as last time, less sleep is better; more coffee is good. Why break tradition when the formula seems to work so well. I couldn’t sleep, as is my habit, until after 1 a.m. and was awoken rudely by Joe THREE FULL MINUTES before I specified my wakeup call. Had my internal debate about pre-race coffee, looked up the pros and cons on runners world forums again and decided the ritual and the caffeine was worth the risk (again), almost left without breakfast (again) and arrived too early at the race site (again).

Only this time I wasn’t alone and I wasn’t nervous. I knew because I have only run a handful of times lately that my time would be slow that I didn’t care about time and being humiliated by mine(there’s ALWAYS someone slower, even if they are 4), and I had a friend there so whatever. Race cherry popped. It’s all downhill from here; it’s all chasing that first race high. (I’m doing a 10K next. If a 5K is good, a 10K  must be better.)

Plus: a 30 minute race, ho hum. (All RIGHT, 35-37 minutes. Fine.) I found my friend from last time and he’s gonna do it barefoot! yay!, fielded eleventy million questions about my weird toe shoes and we got into the pack. Right up front. I love making the high school boys trip over me. Just kidding, I’m back with the strollers, I know my place in the hierarchy.

Joe goes, “It takes me a while to get going. Then I can turn it on”
I go, “It takes me a while to get going. Then I never turn it on. I also don’t sprint. Ever. I don’t know how. So when we start together and you want to speed up, just go.”
Side note: I say I don’t know how to sprint but it’s really that I don’t have any muscles in my legs. I’m not sure what lifts them up and down to run. I think it’s just strings from my brain to the soles of my feet. I’m a big marionette. Little marionette, whatever.

I never saw Joe again. I thought “either he lapped me a long time ago, or he’s hurt” I stopped to walk about 1 mile in when I got a little side cramp and figured “well if he’s back there he’ll pass me right now” and he didn’t.

Blah Blah Blah run run run. I didn’t run with music. The girl next to me for a while had great music. I wish I could have stayed with her bad ass mix, but she was too slow. I can’t believe I just said that, can you? She probably passed me at some point and beat me by 8 minutes.  Whatever, at 1.5 miles she was dragging ass and not doing the Dust Brothers justice.

At the finish, I had a decision to make. I knew my time was irrelevant-but I’m 37 years old. I don’t like crowds, new things, or being in front of people.  I wouldn’t call what I did a sprint, but I ran hard. Ish.  You could say I “finished strong”. And when I ran under a clock with a big 31 on it, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at, until Joe called my name and said “did you see your time?”  And that’s when I knew I wasn’t hallucinating and their clock wasn’t broken.

It’s not newsworthy, but if every little roll out of bed half nights sleep 5K will net me a couple minute improvement on my time for a while, I might just be as fast I want to be here before too long. I know I didn’t earn this, and I know I could be so much better, and I know all I need to do is weights, and eat better, and supplement, and gain some mass, and blah, and blah and blah and blah.

But thanks universe. For the gimmie. That was a big righteous move and I won’t forget it.

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