(Photo borrowed from here.)
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
House
Twirling head.
Spin.
Gathering a shite-load of paperwork to present to the Banking Royalty in an attempt to keep my house. Giant Scary Stuff. On top of all the other Giant Scary Stuff.
A few years ago, I almost lost this house in a lawsuit -- a very ugly thing, in which I was held responsible for something I had no part in except in the legal definition of what marriage is. It was the worst of bad things: death, injury, loss of my business, teenage children spiraling to the depths.
Too many lawyers, too much advice. The bottom line: yes they WILL try to take a widow's home from her. Never tell anyone this can't happen, because it can. After numerous settlement attempts, the plaintiff finally settled for less than my original offer. My bill, after all the accounting was completed? Nearly $200k. And then the plaintiff died of a heart attack shortly thereafter.
Karma gets you.
So now it's new circumstances, a different-shaped chopping block, not to mention I've been around a few blocks of my own in the past few years.
Don't mess with me.
Don't mess with my kids.
DO NOT mess with my home.
And that about sums it up.
Spin.
Gathering a shite-load of paperwork to present to the Banking Royalty in an attempt to keep my house. Giant Scary Stuff. On top of all the other Giant Scary Stuff.
A few years ago, I almost lost this house in a lawsuit -- a very ugly thing, in which I was held responsible for something I had no part in except in the legal definition of what marriage is. It was the worst of bad things: death, injury, loss of my business, teenage children spiraling to the depths.
Too many lawyers, too much advice. The bottom line: yes they WILL try to take a widow's home from her. Never tell anyone this can't happen, because it can. After numerous settlement attempts, the plaintiff finally settled for less than my original offer. My bill, after all the accounting was completed? Nearly $200k. And then the plaintiff died of a heart attack shortly thereafter.
Karma gets you.
So now it's new circumstances, a different-shaped chopping block, not to mention I've been around a few blocks of my own in the past few years.
Don't mess with me.
Don't mess with my kids.
DO NOT mess with my home.
And that about sums it up.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Tuesday Poem: Anne Sexton
The Truth The Dead Know
Fascinating, these two versions of the same poem, one obviously recorded before the revised version was published.
Gone, I say and walk from the church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one’s alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in their stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
Fascinating, these two versions of the same poem, one obviously recorded before the revised version was published.
Necessary/Not-Necessary
I'd forgotten the many chores of setting up housekeeping again. Despite moving back in with my sons, in my own house (!), still there remain gaps and crevasses which I must either fill or straddle, trying not to fall in, lost.
Things which are useful & handy:
1. A bed.
2. Sheets.
3. Blankets.
4. Pillows.
5. An iron. Yes, I still iron stuff. Miraculously, there still exists here an ironing board. It's lonely, though.
6. A broom with a handle attached and bristles. At Lowes: "Giant Corn Broom"!
7. TP roller. (Okay, not exactly necessary, but it prevents escaping rolls from unrolling all the way across the floor to the tub.)
8. Towel rack.
9. Hook for bathroom door.
10. Laundry basket.
11. Rug for cold tile bathroom floor.
12. An old-fashioned push-mower.
13. Etc.
14. Etc., etc.
15. Etc., etc., etc.
Other things which are useful & handy but will have to wait:
1. Lamps. (I really like light.)
2. Living room furniture. What currently exists would really blend well with the decor of the City Dump. And should soon go there. Yikes.
3. Computer -- this one is limping along. Keeping fingers crossed.
I've resurrected an old receiver which I think will hook up to some ancient speakers which I think are all compatible with a DVD player which is, I believe, of the 21st century. My heart be still.
I've repaired the 35-year-old Cuisinart. I've become handy again with a hammer and fixed some falling-apart bookcases. Now I'm gathering courage to wield the Sawz-All to go to work on the remnants of an apple tree which had to come down, sadly. Nelson gave me a Sawz-All lesson last night, showed me the proper way to hold it, the stance I should assume, when to back off, how to lean-into. Gads. Drill, baby, drill.
And Nelson, who just returned from a long-weekend backpacking/fishing/wild-turkey-hunting trip, reminded me that if I lived in a tent somewhere I would need far fewer things than those in my list above. Of course, he is completely right. But no.
(And no wild turkeys, and his fishing pole broke, and the rain started in earnest so he and his buddy returned turkeyless, troutless, happy as ever.)
My sons are the glimmering gems among the detritus of this living.
Things which are useful & handy:
1. A bed.
2. Sheets.
3. Blankets.
4. Pillows.
5. An iron. Yes, I still iron stuff. Miraculously, there still exists here an ironing board. It's lonely, though.
6. A broom with a handle attached and bristles. At Lowes: "Giant Corn Broom"!
7. TP roller. (Okay, not exactly necessary, but it prevents escaping rolls from unrolling all the way across the floor to the tub.)
8. Towel rack.
9. Hook for bathroom door.
10. Laundry basket.
11. Rug for cold tile bathroom floor.
12. An old-fashioned push-mower.
13. Etc.
14. Etc., etc.
15. Etc., etc., etc.
Other things which are useful & handy but will have to wait:
1. Lamps. (I really like light.)
2. Living room furniture. What currently exists would really blend well with the decor of the City Dump. And should soon go there. Yikes.
3. Computer -- this one is limping along. Keeping fingers crossed.
I've resurrected an old receiver which I think will hook up to some ancient speakers which I think are all compatible with a DVD player which is, I believe, of the 21st century. My heart be still.
I've repaired the 35-year-old Cuisinart. I've become handy again with a hammer and fixed some falling-apart bookcases. Now I'm gathering courage to wield the Sawz-All to go to work on the remnants of an apple tree which had to come down, sadly. Nelson gave me a Sawz-All lesson last night, showed me the proper way to hold it, the stance I should assume, when to back off, how to lean-into. Gads. Drill, baby, drill.
And Nelson, who just returned from a long-weekend backpacking/fishing/wild-turkey-hunting trip, reminded me that if I lived in a tent somewhere I would need far fewer things than those in my list above. Of course, he is completely right. But no.
(And no wild turkeys, and his fishing pole broke, and the rain started in earnest so he and his buddy returned turkeyless, troutless, happy as ever.)
My sons are the glimmering gems among the detritus of this living.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Salvage/Salvation/Salve
Today we dug a hole
and filled it back in.
Quick, that.
Acceptance.
Then I wrestled with bindweed and Himalayan blackberries, buttercups and lemon balm -- all clearly in control of the landscape. It's no longer a garden, but I'm wielding my machete and I intend to show it just who's in charge.
It used to be a lovely hidden garden. One year I inventoried the different types of flowers in bloom at one time and the count was in the 80's. That was a former life. A last-century life. Not one of us still inhabits it.
Today.
More culling in the kitchen, more combining of oils and vinegars, of unsweetened cocoa and unbleached flour, of rice both white and brown. Every project I undertake is woven into several other tasks simultaneously. So this afternoon it was drawer/closet/cupboard/another-cupboard/more-drawers: emptied, scrubbed, arranged & rearranged.
So often we are past the pull-date, every one of us.
Let's all recycle, now, every last cell in our sack of skin.
and filled it back in.
Quick, that.
Acceptance.
Then I wrestled with bindweed and Himalayan blackberries, buttercups and lemon balm -- all clearly in control of the landscape. It's no longer a garden, but I'm wielding my machete and I intend to show it just who's in charge.
It used to be a lovely hidden garden. One year I inventoried the different types of flowers in bloom at one time and the count was in the 80's. That was a former life. A last-century life. Not one of us still inhabits it.
Today.
More culling in the kitchen, more combining of oils and vinegars, of unsweetened cocoa and unbleached flour, of rice both white and brown. Every project I undertake is woven into several other tasks simultaneously. So this afternoon it was drawer/closet/cupboard/another-cupboard/more-drawers: emptied, scrubbed, arranged & rearranged.
So often we are past the pull-date, every one of us.
Let's all recycle, now, every last cell in our sack of skin.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Be Careful
I lifted her from the box in which she appeared to be merely napping, on her side, still soft, though no longer warm. I wrapped her in a faux-needlepoint twin-fitted bedsheet my mother gave to me when my boys were just out of their cribs and which has resided these long years in the same cabinet in the bathroom. I was surprised to see it still there, this afternoon, so long unused.
Tomorrow Reilly and I will take turns digging the hole beneath the Chehalis apple tree, dislodging a few yellow tulips, some sweet woodruff.
Sadness accumulates.
Of course, there have been many deaths, both human and animal, for all of us. This one, though, is walloping me. Marley had belonged to my dearest of friends Carol, who passed away a year ago May 7th....a group of about twenty of us marked the occasion with a special dinner at Carol's favorite restaurant.
I've had Marley for almost three years now, but prior to that, she lived down the street, and often came in the cat door to dine with my three cats (sister to one). The story goes on in more detail, but this is all I can write about now. Suffice to say, she embodied constant gentleness in my life, a part of Carol I was able to carry with me beyond her death.
This is the poem I shall read tomorrow when we've replaced the unsettled earth:
The Mower
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.
I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:
Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful
Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.
--Phillip Larkin
---
Tomorrow Reilly and I will take turns digging the hole beneath the Chehalis apple tree, dislodging a few yellow tulips, some sweet woodruff.
Sadness accumulates.
Of course, there have been many deaths, both human and animal, for all of us. This one, though, is walloping me. Marley had belonged to my dearest of friends Carol, who passed away a year ago May 7th....a group of about twenty of us marked the occasion with a special dinner at Carol's favorite restaurant.
I've had Marley for almost three years now, but prior to that, she lived down the street, and often came in the cat door to dine with my three cats (sister to one). The story goes on in more detail, but this is all I can write about now. Suffice to say, she embodied constant gentleness in my life, a part of Carol I was able to carry with me beyond her death.
This is the poem I shall read tomorrow when we've replaced the unsettled earth:
The Mower
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.
I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:
Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful
Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.
--Phillip Larkin
---
Artifact
Where to find a space, in a small city backyard, to bury my cat?
Under the apple tree, I think, with its shower of May blossoms.
I could toss my wedding rings in too, a bright glint of surprise
beside bones for some future excavator.
It could be a lucky day for a stranger .
Under the apple tree, I think, with its shower of May blossoms.
I could toss my wedding rings in too, a bright glint of surprise
beside bones for some future excavator.
It could be a lucky day for a stranger .
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Yawn
A gruelingly long day after only three hours of sleep: awake awake awake, from 2am on....
But what woke me up was this stunner of a dream:
There was something afloat in the air beside me, smaller than a hummingbird,
slightly larger than a Western Damselfly,
and glowing, but neither bird nor insect. Although it was clear that it was genderless, it exhibited a decidedly feminine anima (yes, that might be redundant). I was dumbstruck with fascination, clearly agog, enthralled with its other-worldliness and the abundance of benevolence emanating from its presence.
It spoke: "I used to be human."
I said "I want to know everything about you...."
It hesitated, lingered, said "I'm going to change again soon."
---
Early to bed.
Sleep deprivation is the cruelest of states.
But what woke me up was this stunner of a dream:
There was something afloat in the air beside me, smaller than a hummingbird,
slightly larger than a Western Damselfly,
and glowing, but neither bird nor insect. Although it was clear that it was genderless, it exhibited a decidedly feminine anima (yes, that might be redundant). I was dumbstruck with fascination, clearly agog, enthralled with its other-worldliness and the abundance of benevolence emanating from its presence.
It spoke: "I used to be human."
I said "I want to know everything about you...."
It hesitated, lingered, said "I'm going to change again soon."
---
Early to bed.
Sleep deprivation is the cruelest of states.
Monday, May 9, 2011
"D"
I am stunned by the similarities between death and divorce. The two "D" words that intersect and transform our lives. I have never -- until now -- truly understood the trauma of divorce. I only knew it in a more cerebral sense -- as termination, but without the rituals that death afford us. I knew divorce only in its language of whispers and shame, and the ensuing silence, the failure. I knew it as an ending/a severing with its share of heartache, especially in the presence of shared children, but had no concept of its more profound impact.
I am intimate with the knock on the door at 2am by police officers, those bearers of ill news; and now I know the surprise of coming home from work to a dramatically altered reality, in which one has no voice, no choice. As in the unexpected death of a loved one, the axe has wielded its blow, the trunk of the tree which seemed would grow and last far beyond what anyone could ever imagine is now forever sundered, and it's not at all a clean cut but with rips and shreds of still-alive bark, the blood-work, the guts of the tree spilling and spilling.
It's a messy universe.
Now, though, there is not so much (I think, but may be wrong here) the extended grief of the larger community. When M. died, it seemed that a greater share of my grief was borne from the reflection of my own in that of my children, his parents and siblings, my siblings and their spouses, his friends and the large community that loved him, and vice versa. The physical weight of it seemed a living thing, visceral. The only way I could endure the grief in others was to attempt take carry it all myself. (Not recommended.)
This is not the case now. This is an entirely new and foreign social order. Battles lines have been established, defended. There are those who walk both sides, which, though troubling for all my sense of righteousness, illustrates on their behalf a willingness to want to see both sides of the story.
But for me, now, there exists only this staggering sadness, and sorrow for the relationship I loved/love. I don't dismiss the polarity of feelings that rampage through my nightmares, the love/hate, the anger/joy, the confusion, and this teetering on the edge of every day. I am -- as always -- primed for a moment of teary laughter (which occurs more often than not), and also leery of lingering melancholy.
Yet within this past month I've gone from the absolute terror of walking alone down the street to today's confident striding to-and-from the mile-long walk to work.
What is the path?
The destination?
A bucket-load of cash to any of you who can answer that.
I am intimate with the knock on the door at 2am by police officers, those bearers of ill news; and now I know the surprise of coming home from work to a dramatically altered reality, in which one has no voice, no choice. As in the unexpected death of a loved one, the axe has wielded its blow, the trunk of the tree which seemed would grow and last far beyond what anyone could ever imagine is now forever sundered, and it's not at all a clean cut but with rips and shreds of still-alive bark, the blood-work, the guts of the tree spilling and spilling.
It's a messy universe.
Now, though, there is not so much (I think, but may be wrong here) the extended grief of the larger community. When M. died, it seemed that a greater share of my grief was borne from the reflection of my own in that of my children, his parents and siblings, my siblings and their spouses, his friends and the large community that loved him, and vice versa. The physical weight of it seemed a living thing, visceral. The only way I could endure the grief in others was to attempt take carry it all myself. (Not recommended.)
This is not the case now. This is an entirely new and foreign social order. Battles lines have been established, defended. There are those who walk both sides, which, though troubling for all my sense of righteousness, illustrates on their behalf a willingness to want to see both sides of the story.
But for me, now, there exists only this staggering sadness, and sorrow for the relationship I loved/love. I don't dismiss the polarity of feelings that rampage through my nightmares, the love/hate, the anger/joy, the confusion, and this teetering on the edge of every day. I am -- as always -- primed for a moment of teary laughter (which occurs more often than not), and also leery of lingering melancholy.
Yet within this past month I've gone from the absolute terror of walking alone down the street to today's confident striding to-and-from the mile-long walk to work.
What is the path?
The destination?
A bucket-load of cash to any of you who can answer that.
Herbal Update: Breaking News
The one mystery herb we couldn't identify last night has finally been named: catnip.
(I nearly seasoned my red sauce with it.)
(I nearly seasoned my red sauce with it.)
Sunday, May 8, 2011
New/Renew
So much history in this revisited, rejoined house; striving to bring a fresh breath to every room while honoring the past with its span of joys and sorrows. Claiming/reclaiming my kitchen. I spent two hours digging through the jars & baggies of spices & herbs, combining, tossing, sniffing, sneezing, labeling. When I asked my son to identify the last remaining anonymous & mysterious elements, he repeatedly said, "custom mix." Ah......
Could you identify ground cardamom, unmarked, with only your sense of smell? How about ground coriander? We argued about oregano: apparently one was Mexican oregano, which smells markedly more potent than what I would call traditional oregano. Five versions of chili powder, four incarnations of curry, each with its own particular tang. The beautiful star anise, the rolled-cigar-rusty cinnamon sticks, the perfect symmetry of tiny black mustard seeds.
And then there was even more mystery: Grains of Paradise. Identifiable seed pods: keep? Toss? I made the rule that if we couldn't identify it, it had to go. Toss toss toss. I believe that between my son and me we have enough spices to last at least until the next century, albeit most by that time will have long surrendered their zing.
Spice categorization is good therapy, I think. There's the visual component of varying shades of mostly brown/beige/red-brown, and there's the olfactory component which induces any number of sneezes, and when nothing else succeeds in identification, there's the tongue-test. Three of the four senses ain't bad, as these things go. And now all has been condensed, combined, relabeled, rebagged, cleaned-up and shined. It's full steam ahead in SpiceLand.
Could you identify ground cardamom, unmarked, with only your sense of smell? How about ground coriander? We argued about oregano: apparently one was Mexican oregano, which smells markedly more potent than what I would call traditional oregano. Five versions of chili powder, four incarnations of curry, each with its own particular tang. The beautiful star anise, the rolled-cigar-rusty cinnamon sticks, the perfect symmetry of tiny black mustard seeds.
And then there was even more mystery: Grains of Paradise. Identifiable seed pods: keep? Toss? I made the rule that if we couldn't identify it, it had to go. Toss toss toss. I believe that between my son and me we have enough spices to last at least until the next century, albeit most by that time will have long surrendered their zing.
Spice categorization is good therapy, I think. There's the visual component of varying shades of mostly brown/beige/red-brown, and there's the olfactory component which induces any number of sneezes, and when nothing else succeeds in identification, there's the tongue-test. Three of the four senses ain't bad, as these things go. And now all has been condensed, combined, relabeled, rebagged, cleaned-up and shined. It's full steam ahead in SpiceLand.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
An old friend welcomes me back....
The Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary,
out of sight these past three+ years.
Back together again.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Now
A little advice: do NOT move out/in/out/in over a four week period, while working full time and grasping at some contorted semblance of reality.
This day did not border on insanity: it was insanity. Attempted at work to get the last lingering April orders out for UPS so we could clear the deck for the quickly piling-up May orders. This meant an afternoon of aerobic box-building, hefting, up and down stairs, and again, repeat. Paint, fire-on, cool, polish, box, box again, and once more. And at the end, there was some slow-down (computer? printer?) so only three cartons ended up with shipping labels. Sigh. There is always Monday.
Immediately after work, Melinda and I headed off to my play-house temporary apartment to pack all my temporary play-house stuff (I can't believe we filled two cars...where did all this come from??), the we cleaned the place from corner to corner, replaced the bed linens, carted off all the used sheets and towels to be washed and returned next week, then drove the kit-and-caboodle over to the B. Street house, unloaded, up stairs, and up more stairs. Melinda stopped at the store and picked up some deli goodies along with a cut-flower bouquet. Lovely!
R. and I heaved the bed components up from the basement, laughing ourselves silly trying to figure the angles around several tight stairway corners. (Much improvement over last night when I melted down and vented directly at him. ) I sent him off to the hardware store for a few nuts and bolts, and now I'm fully assembled, fully spent, fully ensconced back at the house I first moved into 24 years ago, a rental then, just weeks after fleeing a burning apartment with, well, R. in my arms.
(Always with the drama.)
Cat is back at the vet. Some really weird shit. Dithering over whether to do surgery, whether my checkbook can support such a procedure. Decided to give it until Monday.
Early this morning two of my sisters jetted off to another continent, to enjoy -- I imagine -- the amended version of the trip that I suggested, planned, dreamed about, and ultimately canceled. I would've appreciated a phone call from either, a fare-thee-well, etc., an acknowledgment. Maybe it's just all too much. But I carried a heavy sadness with me all day, weighted and on the edge of breaking down, and worked up a frenzy in the shipping department instead on almost no food and an intense caffeine-induced mania.
Maybe by Monday the fist inside my chest will have relaxed a bit, maybe the swim-and-twirl in my head will ease.
Please.
(I'm asking nicely.)
And remember to be kind, even when it's too fucking difficult.
This day did not border on insanity: it was insanity. Attempted at work to get the last lingering April orders out for UPS so we could clear the deck for the quickly piling-up May orders. This meant an afternoon of aerobic box-building, hefting, up and down stairs, and again, repeat. Paint, fire-on, cool, polish, box, box again, and once more. And at the end, there was some slow-down (computer? printer?) so only three cartons ended up with shipping labels. Sigh. There is always Monday.
Immediately after work, Melinda and I headed off to my play-house temporary apartment to pack all my temporary play-house stuff (I can't believe we filled two cars...where did all this come from??), the we cleaned the place from corner to corner, replaced the bed linens, carted off all the used sheets and towels to be washed and returned next week, then drove the kit-and-caboodle over to the B. Street house, unloaded, up stairs, and up more stairs. Melinda stopped at the store and picked up some deli goodies along with a cut-flower bouquet. Lovely!
R. and I heaved the bed components up from the basement, laughing ourselves silly trying to figure the angles around several tight stairway corners. (Much improvement over last night when I melted down and vented directly at him. ) I sent him off to the hardware store for a few nuts and bolts, and now I'm fully assembled, fully spent, fully ensconced back at the house I first moved into 24 years ago, a rental then, just weeks after fleeing a burning apartment with, well, R. in my arms.
(Always with the drama.)
Cat is back at the vet. Some really weird shit. Dithering over whether to do surgery, whether my checkbook can support such a procedure. Decided to give it until Monday.
Early this morning two of my sisters jetted off to another continent, to enjoy -- I imagine -- the amended version of the trip that I suggested, planned, dreamed about, and ultimately canceled. I would've appreciated a phone call from either, a fare-thee-well, etc., an acknowledgment. Maybe it's just all too much. But I carried a heavy sadness with me all day, weighted and on the edge of breaking down, and worked up a frenzy in the shipping department instead on almost no food and an intense caffeine-induced mania.
Maybe by Monday the fist inside my chest will have relaxed a bit, maybe the swim-and-twirl in my head will ease.
Please.
(I'm asking nicely.)
And remember to be kind, even when it's too fucking difficult.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Cold
The Spanish bluebells are finally in bloom, a month late. Coldest spring on record here. The records are relatively recent in the sweep of history, but still. For twenty-five years I've picked bouquets of bluebells on my son's birthday (April 3rd), but not this year.
Everything is slow this year: flowers, love, resolution.
Saturday marks the one-year anniversary of my dear friend Carol's death: a group of us shall mark the occasion with dinner at her favorite restaurant. My kitty -- who belonged to Carol, and possesses the same gentleness and sweetness -- is back at the vet. It's icky stuff. I'm hoping. Here's a link to the piece I read at Carol's memorial.
It goes on.
Everything is slow this year: flowers, love, resolution.
Saturday marks the one-year anniversary of my dear friend Carol's death: a group of us shall mark the occasion with dinner at her favorite restaurant. My kitty -- who belonged to Carol, and possesses the same gentleness and sweetness -- is back at the vet. It's icky stuff. I'm hoping. Here's a link to the piece I read at Carol's memorial.
It goes on.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Sinking
I'm tired of talking about this here, I'm tired of this being the focus of every day, I am tired I am tired I am tired of not sleeping and the ongoing panic and the anger and loss and betrayal and and and and and and and and
Some moments rise up and smack me in the face, and I pretend it's all okay because it's been a month now -- shouldn't I be getting over this already? -- a month since that D word got under my skin, but, parasite that it is, continues to burrow deeper every day.
And I don't get a choice in this.
In the State of Washington, if a spouse wants a divorce, that spouse gets a divorce. Done and done.
The path from A to Z varies from couple to couple, but the end result is dissolution.
Disillusion.
This is losing.
Bad behavior on the part of either spouse: no matter.
No punishment.
Infidelity?
Not an issue.
Lies?
No one cares.
Outrageous cruelty?
No big deal.
This ain't ethics.
It's law.
Meanwhile, the glass shards and the briars and splinters and thorns I'm certain that I've swallowed grow more diamond-sharp with each intake of breath.
Wave upon wave, gust after gust, this tempest rages.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Every day I see that many of my fellow bloggers have posted anew, yet I can't quite bring myself to read them. The Who and The What is fundamentally off-balance; I'm still living out of a suitcase, digging out the grime at my house on the weekends, cleaning the trail of seeping fluids from my cat who I fear is not making progress to recovery.
But the many layers of accumulated grime are receding, at slow pace, but nonetheless they are starting to wash down the drain. I brought out the Big Chemicals and the stiff brushes, and every square inch of everything is getting scrubbed. Tomorrow the carpet cleaners come, so this afternoon my son and I carted the flotsam and jetsam from carpeted rooms to the bedroom recently (today, in fact) vacated by my paying renter. My house/my home is beginning to come into view.
But the many layers of accumulated grime are receding, at slow pace, but nonetheless they are starting to wash down the drain. I brought out the Big Chemicals and the stiff brushes, and every square inch of everything is getting scrubbed. Tomorrow the carpet cleaners come, so this afternoon my son and I carted the flotsam and jetsam from carpeted rooms to the bedroom recently (today, in fact) vacated by my paying renter. My house/my home is beginning to come into view.
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