Anna. It's Almost October 3

The day approaches. I think about my birthday less than I wish I was part of yours.

We all make choices. Sometimes the choices pay off; sometimes not. I knew there would be consequences for my choices. I made the choices and can't bring myself to regret on the one hand, because half of my heart is filled with joy and happiness. I love this place and the one I spend most of my time with. That's one hand.

Oh, but the other hand. The other hand hides. It aches and burns to hold what I left behind. It itches to tap out emails and text messages and dial your number... My ears want to hear your voice, my eyes to see your face. Half of my heart empties, and sits cold with regret for pain and confusion caused. It regrets directions taken and feelings hurt.

I love on the one hand and ache that you might believe I choose NOT to love you. It's not an exchange. I can't stop loving you. You are mine; an original, made from a piece of me, with part of my double helix.

October 3rd, 1994. 17 years ago. I remember everything about that day. I remember everything. You don't think I do, but I remember you. Your existence is my great fortune, pretty redhead, with the sharp wit, stubborn nature, and artistic brain. Your smile and grace, your nature... you enchant.

I miss you, love you. infinitely

the Line

One day, when you have kids...

Do you remember your mother or father trying to explain to you the complexity of raising a child; you in fact? Do you remember being angry at the restrictions they placed upon you? Maybe the minimal amount of responsibility you were given to begin with?

I watched a kid have a tantrum in a restaurant today and it took me back to when I was a child. That sort of shenanigan would have gone exactly NO WHERE in my family. If it wasn't my mother putting me in my place, it was one of my surrogate parent's in the form of an aunt or uncle. My sister and I were well behaved because we knew the consequences. This child, the one having the tantrum, pretty much ran the show in the restaurant. All I could think was beat that kid's ASS.

I travelled across Texas with my friend this weekend and she told me a crazy story about her young cousins. These two young girls are both behaving in an alarming way on Facebook. One is posting pornographic photos of old men and the other is exercising a vile pornographic vocabulary. Both of the girls are under 15. Where on earth are the parents?

Where is the line? Isn't it the parent's job to teach their children where the line is? It is part of "nurture", and helps control "nature"... right? So, why do I see so many parents trying to reason with their small children? Is it simply that corporeal punishment is so frowned upon? I don't have any problem with a parent swatting their kids behind in public, most people don't. I do have a huge problem with a poorly behaved child in public. Those children that run amok and disturb your peace. That kid is likely to be headed to a disturbed and disappointed adolescence and young adulthood.

Kids need to know where the line is that they aren't supposed to cross. A parent teaches them a good line, you know, like drawing in the sand, "Don't cross this line over here, okay?" The kid may push, toe the line occasionally, but they aren't going to run the family show; they aren't going to cross the line without knowing they are doing something that will have consequences.

So, parents have to lay down the line, and show their children where it is. That way, when your 13 year old screws up, the conversation you have with them goes something like this, "Why did you pick the cereal with colored marshmallows, instead of Raisin Bran, when you know that the Raisin Bran is nutritious..." and not like this, "Where the hell did you get that orgy picture of the gay octagenarians, and why on earth did you post it on your Facebook wall?"

sense sin

sleep think endure

time so loud soon

that sense impure

near smiling moon

wake eyes open

look at, what?

see frailty then

here not, wish that

into curve made mine

feel breath sweet skin

warmth only in line

kiss touch sense sin

Jump

Wings unfolding now

Spanning deep blue and starry

This precipice toed

safe

a space, curl, find shelter

under blanket, warmth

thump under ear

neck tickling breath

own scent filling senses

impression of hip, thigh

undeniably gripped heart

safe, place waits

Unhinged

With the doors on our secrets closed, locked, what does anyone know about the people around them? We all have reasons for keeping our secrets. Because we would open ourselves to ridicule, for the most part, but there are other reasons as well. Maybe we prefer the image that the lie gives.

Sometimes the secrets are puked on the floor in the middle of a crowded room, with nothing to do but observe the varied expressions of horror on the faces surrounding us. While standing amid the crowd, ankle deep in vomit and life heading down a road that wasn't on the well-marked map... what response? Keep that plastic smile on your face; the one showing an inch of gum and your tongue pressed against your upper teeth, like you're wearing a retainer? Take a new photo that looks as good as the old one? Photoshop out the vomit, in a lovely background and sell the new photo to your friends as a trip to the Bahamas?

Or... set out to obliterate that road and all the roads you've ever known, all the while fabricating, nay, confabulating reasons the loony-toon behavior is fully justified?

Do you take your gun and drive in circles for hours, adding a measure of crazy, as each second ticks loudly by? Do you sit at the end of a road, staring at a curtained window, wanting, plotting to obliterate its existence? Do you stand in a parking lot, kicking, hitting, biting, paint-covered key in hand, imploring your focus to come closer, screaming like a lunatic at an innocent child? Oh, it's alright. She isn't your child. Cling to the justification as you may, it won't help in court.

When you pass the mirror, do you catch a glimpse of this new you? Do you like what you see? Do you even notice the change?

Not secret anymore, how do you re-hinge this unhinged lid and put the crazy back in the box? Can you? You have to ask yourself if the crazy wasn't just under a perfunctory lock and key, like the one found on a child's diary; Always there, rattling the flimsy little lock.

I have seen and believed, appearances meant everything... What then happens when a bully can't control the appearance anymore? I wonder now, if once the pretense is dropped, the unhinging is permanent.

je vous ai dit cette chienne est folle

Words

Words are...

They are just words. You can say, say, say anything. You can say anything you want. But it doesn't mean that you've said anything. They are just words.