Turning, turning

Riding in the car does it every time. I don’t know whether it is the repetitive motion that lulls me into a mindless/mindfull state or it is just that I can turn up the radio and not pay attention to anyone but myself. Maybe it is lure of being a vehicle and the possibilties that I could just drive away. Maybe because your car feels more private. You know, like how most people pick their noses at redlights oblivious to the fact that you can see through glass and you are like, 2 feet away from someone. I guess people just bank on the fact that people are in the zone of being in a car. Your own isolated island of ownership.

But, I digress.

I am not really thinking of nose picking. I am not really all that into my car. Its like your car radio is pyschic and every single song reminds you of the thing you are trying not to think about.

I wish I could digress.

The sound between your ears

So, this terrific guy I know wants me to meme and since my life is chaotic to actually write about it and it is all so acutely personal and too, too, too much I shall be happy to meme. QUICK…scroll down and play the video below.

“Think of THE song that most inspires you to write, whether it gives you an idea for a story, script or just puts you into a better frame of mind AND/OR peek into the lyrics and find a verse that sums up the theme of whatever project it is you’re working on. If possible, post a video of the song to convey to readers the full context of the song and the mood it puts you into. Finally, send the assignment to five other writers to do as well.”

If I had to say one song right now, which is difficult to narrow it down to just one it would be :

Start Choppin by Dinasaur Jr.

This song makes me want to write about my life right now but I won’t.

OH crap, I forgot…i spy with my little eye…Debbi, Gina, Donna (oh yea, you dont blog…), keith, olympus mons and Anyone else that wants to join in…

Dinosaur Jr. - Start Choppin’

Listen to this as you read The Sound Between Your Ears.

Hear me roar

These little people. These small roommates of mine. These tiny forming humans who tug on me, jump on me, ask too many questions, refuse to do too many ordinary things, wreck shit, break shit, scream, yell, dance, are crazy, silly, say great jokes, work my last nerve, make me pull out my hair, learn amazing things each day, love me, kiss me, hug me with their small arms tight around my neck, smell delicious, smile just for me, call me Mama, barf on their rugs, cough all night into my pillow, lay against me after nightmares, share our food, our roof, discover new things, learn together, get to know one another, exasperate and make brains come out of my ears and make me feel and see what love really is.

There was nothing I would not do for them. To protect them, to nurture them, to love and adore them. I would actually kill for them. Die for them. It is the only thing I think I will ever do that is perfect, the creation of them.

I am beginning to think that the strife and turmoil we feel as parents is the constant struggle to feel worthy of the love a child can willingly give you.

Thank you Tracyann for being a model for my early parenting and for being the kind of mom whose children feel that they are loved because you are present with them in everything you do.

Thank you Jeanne, my mom, for always being fearless in letting me be who I would become and who I am. You were brave and it must have been scary.

To May, my grandmother, who showed it the old school way with sugar cookies, special egg sandwiches and letting me do whatever damn thing I wanted. For teaching me things like crochet, bringing me into the tribe of grown women.

To Phyllis, my grandmother, who floated around her chaotic life of 7 children while still retaining the desire to paint, be artistic, appreciate music and nature. For always have a moment to see something beautiful and be willing to share it with me.

To Gail, my lost friend, who never missed an oppurtunity to show people how much she cared. She was a kind person and didn’t need to show it because you could just feel that she cared.

To Maryanne, my aunt, who was a pioneer parent at such a young age and tried always to be a parent who supported and loved her children, fiercely. Adventure, togetherness and fun. All those things I have learned how important they are to a family because of you.

To Janine, my cousin, who sent me a book that changed my views on parenting and who is quietly supportive and enthusisastic about parenting.

To my friends who help me understand this messy journey I am on like Amy, Donna, Debbi, Megan, Cait G., Gina, Laura, Trisha, Caroline, Kate G., Velma, Jess, Christina and so many others.

I know why the frog rib-its and chickadee sings

Rather than the chorus of singers in a pack of crickets chirping together or a tangle of snakes hissing as one I am the lone frog on a log rib-iting just to hear himself speak.

Like the male chickadee singing his lonely Hee-Haw whistle calling out to anyone that could hear him.

Don’t ask me why I feel masculine. Beats me.

Battle at Kruger: Bite me Creationist

This video is just for all the idiots who still believe that animals are lower forms of life than humans.

As my good friend Kate, who is a new college graduate and under her facebook views on religon states her affliation is,
“In it together.”

Good grief

I have been thinking for days about various themes and ideas to write about and none of them come together into any cohesive type of idea. There are things I want to write about but dare not. There are things I want to write about but they feel to large to encompass. There are things I want to write about but the people I would be writing about read this and I can’t do that if I am not willing to talk to them. (cue theme to, “You’re So Vain…”)

So what I think I want to say is that my blog, at this time is like a teasing dangly carrot on a stick.

Why bother to talk about how I feel because who really gives a shit? I mean, why bother to talk about what I think or feel or see? This voyeuristic venue is grating on me and makes me feel like I am in some kind of competition to be liked, thought of as clever and interesting. I am none of those things on a regular basis and feel like this blog shit is a sham. I am all jazz hands and top hats when in fact I am actually holes in my panties and two left feet.

Do you remember that confusion over social situations you felt when you were, say, um, like in 7th grade? Or pick whatever age you felt simultaneously acutely aware of your ineptness and your desire to be a part of things and you have got what I mean. Is this what a mid life crisis feels like? Like you are coming unglued or maybe it was water soluble glue anyway and not crazy glue? Not permanent no matter what you thought?

fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck. (that is incredibly fun to type btw). fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.

Whiny and self serving. Boring and repetitive. Bland just like everyone else. I was listening to This American Life yesterday and the guy that does it said that he was watching the OC and they said, “Hey, isn’t that show by those hipster types who talk about how fascinating ordinary people are?”

Yes, that is what blog life, or much of it, is. LOOK how clever and amazing I am. OR even more loathsome, I am so funny because I can mock my self and others wink nudge burp cough bleck in a clever way with made up words and long expansive sentences, like this one, to say how unamazing I think I am.

I feel like that creature in the M. NIght Shamalain movie about those people who voluntarily  become like pilgrims in the woods and the grown ups create a mythical creature for everyone to be afraid of to keep them from venturing out into the world. A fake and if you look closely, you can see the stitching and glue and it isn’t at all what you thought. Not nearly as wild as you thought. Pretty stupid, really.

and praise the trees, wordpress has finally put back my spell check button because i can’t spell. Thanks progressive open space schools!

Spwan has pneumonia and because there is nothing really interesting about that

Every five years:

1970: While I was incubating my mother was eating canned apple rings and french bread and my dad was wondering if he could do it.

1975: I was four years old and my parents were splitting up. I got a parakeet I wanted to name big bird but they talked me out of it and I chose Harold. Why, no one is sure and I can’t remember. I loved my big wheel and we lived in Middle River and I remember finding a turtle and being told I had to put him back where I found him which was just on the sidewalk. That was also confusing to me.

1980: I was 9 and lived in a big house for the first time and had a huge yard and no friends. I flew off my handle bars right in front of Nell Tapscott and her twin John on their way to a birthday party. Their dad felt sorry for me and made Nell invite me, bloody chin and all. I loved to play school, by myself, was a fantasic roller skater and that summer camped on the beach in Mexico with my dad and it was the best vacation I had ever had. We found lots of dead baby sharks and I can’t remember the reason why there were so many washed up on the shores in Encinada.

1985: I had the best jean jacket and got it before anyone else had one. I was considered super cool and all the cool girls wanted to borrow it. It began my love of fashion, clothes and subconsciously I realized people only like you because of what you appear to be. I had my first real boyfriend Dennis Patrick James.

1990: I was 19 and lived on my own in the hood off North Ave and was a bartender and a nanny. I made tons of money and did lots of drugs.

1995: I was 24 and living with D and in love. We were on Cape Cod and living together. I think that is the year we went to Europe but maybe that was 96? My mom was really sick for the first time and almost died visiting us for Christmas.

2000: Pregnant with Spawn, finally. Missing my mom who died two years before. I was working at a high end antiques store and loved my job. I planned to be a working mom and D would stay home with the little one. Spawn’s early arrival threw a wrench in that idea next year. Living in Baltimore in Charles Village in our first real home together.

2005: We lost a baby girl a couple of years before and had our girl Chica in 04′. We were a complete family and I still missed my mom. I loved being a stay at home mom and human food bank of nursing two little ones. We were going back and forth to Cape Cod and that would be our last year to do that as I had decided to be a nurse and really go for it. The next year I would start taking my prereq’s and 3 years later I hope to graduate. The next January I would start nursing school for real.

Where do I hope to be in 2010? A nurse, a mother, a wife and friend. Healthy. Happy. And working to live not living to work while I watch Spawn and Chica blossom and grow. Spending more time with my husband of many years by then and watching D be the successful artist I know he can become.

8

Mud puddles and race cars. Kung-fu hide and seek. Running until you taste like a salt lick when your mother kisses you. Laughing with your friends and feeling special for today. Waking up to presents and special breakfasts. Phone calls, cards and presents. You can’t believe your mom actually got it for you. The people you love singing to you watching your face lit by 8 candles on your cake and squeezing your eyes shut tight making a wish. Being tucked in to bed as your mother tells you that she is so happy you were born. That she is so proud of you and loves you with all her heart. What a big boy you are and how much you’ve grown. All the new things you have learned in school this year and all of your friends. Laying in bed you think about how much you wanted a 3rd piece of cake and maybe, just maybe your mom will let you have it for breakfast. All your new toys waiting for you and hopefully the school day will go by fast. The mind wanders and thinks of boy things like which is more fierce, a tyrannosaurus or a hippopotamus? How far can you jump your bike before you fall over and crack your head? Who runs faster and can you beat them in a race? In the back of your mind you think about your mom and brother and sister and how much you love them but at 8 you can’t quiet articulate it but you can feel it and it feels good. You close your eyes and drift off to sleep on your 8th birthday knowing that next year you will be nine. Then ten. Then eleven. You’ll never be older than your brother or sister but thats okay. You hear your mom cleaning up the party and talking to her sister and brother in law in the kitchen. You hear your mom laugh as you finally give up the ghost and go to sleep. Dreaming of more wonderous boy things and how pretty your mom is and how you love the way she smells.

I can only imagine that for you and hope that where ever it is that people go when they die that you are warm and delighted and happy. Your mothers embrace calming you and making you remember all the love that people that miss you have just for you. Today, I wish you a happy birthday Brandon.

In case you were wondering

About the existence of god…