Hey, friends? All day every single day, if I’m not at work, I am listening to an endless stream of chatter from the tiny humans in my orbit. Currently I have been listening to minecraft chatter for 12 straight hours (YES! WHILE I WAS SLEEPING, TOO. He kept coming in to wake me up and talk about minecraft because he couldn’t go to sleep BECAUSE MINECRAFT)
And drifting down the hall now is Katy Perry on repeat. and repeat. and repeat. If I go into that room, we will talk about hermit crabs. For one thousand hours infinity trillion.
So. That is why I don’t return your phone calls or answer your calls when my phone rings. If you have an urgent thing, by all means tell me in your message so that I will know to barricade myself in the bathroom where I might buy myself thirty-six seconds of focus before someone casually opens the door to chat me up because what’s the toilet matter when you REALLY NEED SOMEONE TO LOOK AT YOUR MINECRAFT HOUSE?
I am available to you! Via text, IM, or email! PLEASE contact me via text, IM or Email so that I can interact with an adult. But please don’t take it personally if I don’t want to voice talk to you because guys. You don’t want to have a conversation with someone who must interrupt you every fourteen seconds to field a question about the lifespan of hermit crabs or to look up a keyboard shortcut for minecraft.
On the days when I have no kids and a work night full of talking to people in my Server Costume? What about those days, you ask? Why can’t I just return all my phone calls on those days? Well because all my psychic talking to people energy goes into trying to compel people to leave me a 20% tip.
I love you all. I really do. Text me.
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.
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.”
“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.
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.