Wednesday, February 3, 2016

My god.

Do i change my entire blog premise? the name, even?  am i no longer a wife, because someone thinks me not a good one? i suppose so, since it is the husband who says so...

but my god...

can i be a non-wife? a no-longer wife?

as a generic term for 'woman', i still could claim it, helpmate, and so on...
since the helping of others is still going on.
Do I want it anymore?  How do i reshape that word, instead of re-shaping myself, as i've done for so long, in the quest to fill it?

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Oh, really?

I just hit upon something I'm certain about. **   how the fuck about that?

nice, actually, the feeling of it. . . is this what normal people feel all the time? is there some trick of naivete in it, stupidity even ? in certainty?

**gah, i take it back.
what do i know?!

Monday, January 25, 2016

Sorrow spills..

I may be a gardener, appreciative of the full glory of the percolation of hibernation,  but it doesn't mean that i'm not weeping into my downward dog.  I'm trying so hard to keep my sorrow from the kids, and its not really working... it just spurts out in 'short-temperedness' and apologies. and i feel so for the three year old that i will cry in front of, because i think she is too young to understand, because i think i'm fooling myself and shortchanging her.  so much change, so much sorrow .
and surprise. so much that i wasn't ready for... the silence, man.  thats a killer. not knowing if sending a text is appropriate, not knowing what to share, striving for normalcy but not knowing what that even is, anymore.
and, fully, realizing that i am on my own, that i might not get any response at all, much less the interest and curiousity that i am pining for.  i told a friend that i am a keeper of the flame, and i am aware that i hold the light, but am filled with sorrow that noone is looking for this flickering... the mystery is too deep and right this second i am in sink.


Friday, January 22, 2016


Definitions are in flux here, these days. Incorporation of all this new stuff is leaving me feeling unstable.  like i'm a popcorn popper starting up without the lid... a quarter in spin .

Yesterday I momentarily won a battle with the 'what he thinks/feels/wants' game, and did spend some time focused on self-definition. (the game is awful, it requires me to make-believe, and fill in blanks in conversations that aren't actually happening.  It frequently results in tears or in telling myself to shut up.)
It was a victory, however fleeting, and I have clutched it to my heart.  These days I am a gardener.  In winter. I am in it for the long haul tending, learning of chemistries that kill and bolster. I am prepwork, and whole cycles.  I am every part of the process, from seed to death, to seed again.  Check me preparing for winter now, while the snow is flying, tending my tools, gathering my dreams of seeds, and the invisible, buried, and faith-based lurk of life.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

home. HOME.

i'm a home maker, that is what i have done for the past ten years, babies, home.  and now, i have to let go, and spread home to some other place that i may never see, with their dad. and i am having a great deal of trouble with this changing definition of home.
there are thousands of thoughts on home, what it is, who it is with, and i am conscious of that, but i am stuck in singularity.
and that is a weighty sentence, and another weight is not exactly what i am looking for these days. shedding and winnowing are where i would like to be.  but  they are words that i am not happy with. coldness and wind.  i am trying it out, stretching more and more when i thought my times of stretching my walnut heart were through.

winter .   and as always, spring seems far ahead.

there is so much here, i could be days in the thinking and processing and ... i just can't... but here...
I am reading something rather perfect for this ... :

Inside Out

by Stefan Kurten, two dots over the u, painter. and also Rebecca Solnit, writer.  My god, I obviously do not know how to make a link show up anymore.

This is good writing. Non-fiction, its more of an essay on women and definitions of home, and men, and things domestic and material.  It is really good writing, though of a more casual style than say, Dostoevsky.  (i write this with a hysterical burble, i mean, DOStoeyvsky?!) For instance, this is one sentence, and whacked at the end, read it slowly.

"It often seems that the house is an extension of the female body, the car of the male body, for thus go the finicky and exacting arenas of self-improvement, the space that represents the eroticized self, and in these female interiors and male rockets lies the old literary division of labor, of travelers and keepers of the flame, of the female as fixture in the landscape the male traverses, conquers and certainly historically men had far more mobility than women. Until Odysseus comes home, but then the story stops. "

There is more, and more, and it is worth the slow read that will get you through the whole fifty six pages. It is interspersed with the paintings of Kurten, with those damn dots above his u.  The whole is a modern, bleached out California postcard.
I've got another Solnit to read, called Wanderlust: A History of Walking... and i am very much looking forward...