Hallo,

It has been many days since our last communique. I'm soaking my feet in cold water to lower my core temperature. Necessary things without a/c. I did get a free sb drink today. They're card machine/reader was malfunctioning- maybe melting because of the heat. And so not only do i still have my freedrink on the card but my venti soy extra shot latte was on them. Total score. Jesus must love me sort of moment. I can't say I managed anything else today but yard work for Marge my preschool teacher and I did superglue the stone on my ring and set about to watering everything. Weeping obviously at the abysmal state of the garden.

I am obsessed with things like, where do I put the book case? Do I mask the nook or set the bookcase back- oh ok and I did spend a soul sucking hour at home depot buying paint and bits- and that leads to more questions like well do I want a 2nd drape set or maybe I just go with blinds and take back the café curtain rods. I'm sure if people whoever they are go back to read this - or any of a stack of missives, they might draw a knife or a gun at themselves at the mundanity of it all- but they'll know the minutia and then it'll be up to 'them' to draw the broader stroke of singleness, life with cats, the obsessive way she writes about home renovation must have something behind it. And why over the last 9 years of blogging has she brought up missing cabinet doors and why did she paint her living room like a cave? Possibly, probably no one will care. And someone will chuck everything into a dumpster as some ironic turn and insult to my entire life. Not sure why i'm thinking of these things. I was dismantling some of my albums-- making chaos, decluttering in order to make streamlined memory remembered. Which strikes me as pointless and a little sad, these batches of life photographed and how lots of them just pass from existence. Although I went to a wedding shower on sunday and I was around a handful of people I've known off and on for 18 years because of the co-op. You never know what you do or learn or love or obsess over or grieve will crop back up into your life. Not unlike pending 20 year reunions.

As I was writing this I received your letter. And then I had a video chat with jeju sarah. And so let it rest.

The day started with my senile marley yowling into the echoing hall, and the dawn breaking over the mountains and clouds coming from the north east to an overcast morning. To my indulgence of two English muffins with all their nooks, crannies, butter and fruitspread, plus 1 egg. Salt and peppered.

Last night I watched this documentary called girl27. Sort of horrifying. And had some annoying unresolved story threads- but it was good. It was about this girl that was raped at an MGM function back in 1937 and the lengths that they went to cover it up-- the mother bought off, the witness bought off (his kids traumatized because of it), the doctor, the lawyer!, the DA!. And besides that yes, some vindication65 years later, but really, the power unforgiveness and unacknowledged trauma- what it can do to a person- how it didn't just devastate their lives and rob them of their gifts and dreams, but the culture of secrets and pain pervaded and infected their kids too- and their kids kids. Yikes. And the documentarian though he brought those things up didn't want to comment further but let it lie. A good/bad thing. For instance this crazy fact- Clarke Gable had an affair with one of his leading ladies. She was catholic and deeply shamed I suppose. She hid herself away until she gave birth, gave her baby UP for 18months!!!! into an orphanage!!! and then adopted her back! And would not relent about this secret everyone knew about until much past her daughters wedding- AND actually went so far as to ask that her daughter tell her granddaughter she was adopted! THE HELL! Talk about bondage.

Anyway the trash people came and though the automated arm slowed considerably, the 100+ carpet is out of our lives for good. Just like secrets if you give them up and over. They're not lying their stinking and getting eaten by moths and then soaked by sprinkler runoff and let to mildew in a driveway for 2 weeks. There you have it.

Now back to antiques roadshow and mustering the strength to finish medieval forest.



 

Sorry I wrote you hate letters Mom,

We don't have to wait till mother's day to appreciate our moms. Having me for a kid I am sure prepared her for all the vitriol and animus that she was to encounter in her life, my kind souled mother. However, as a child I obviously did not take "because I told you so" as an answer for anything in my life and not even to strangers. I had, still have, a sort of abnormal barometer for truth and needing to see the reason or story behind things. As my mother said, when I cut my foot and she took me to the doctor, he was saying something about the fact that he was Santa Claus and I started to cry for being a liar. I was 3 or 4? I'm not exactly sure of the details anymore. But take an absolute knowledge of truth and a very angry child and you get letters that are more than a little like murder weapons and less  like the aw, kids. Aren't they funny. And more like the um, right. Yikes. I will forever recall being sent to the principals office to be paddled because I looked at my teacher funny. The look was probably akin to absolute indictment or probably contempt. I was 8. The pamphlet below, excerpted was stapled together on construction paper and written when I was 11.

 

There are the usual peculiarities of being highly verbal- using the word ridiculous and spelling it correctly. But of course lacking the ability for more complex sentence structures it gets a bit unhinged as I sloppily site my brother's treatment of the cat, (not pictured here), but seem to capture how demeaned and condescended I felt. Just yesterday I was about to start gnawing on a table leg in regards to arguments about whether or not I could or should get cut stone for the bathroom- because of how it won't work- and this from the people who didn't get drywall thick enough to be flush with the door jamb. Who are we kidding here people? The "right" way of doing things? The "proper" thing? I don't think so. And and, and there my mom is petting my arm like calming an angry cat. It was hilarious. Also, she was always insisting I smile. It sometimes worked but I mostly fought it, which is probably why my default smile is a left cornered wry smile and not a fully committed one. Amused but holding back.

 

Now the pitchforked mom with the horns is more typical of childhood I think- though the 'kill, kill' part i'm a bit circumspect about. If it were just the picture with "I hate you" I would say adorable but it's all the other furious rantings, and the of course the coup de grace below which seems a very adult and venomous thing to say at 11, which of course I saved till the very end.

As it is I've come along way from being that angry. Thankfully. And have forgiven mom for all sorts of things children like me carry along with them. I think even into high school it was hard to find a place for feelings as strong as these- and kids have them- I remember being utterly relieved when a teacher I had said it was ok to hate my father. Because that's where I was at. And the absolute tension and torture I felt at not honoring my father and mother dissipated to a place of being able to say, ok, this is where I am. I have somewhere to go now. It's not just this pent up thing in my heart.

Anyway thanks for loving me mom and holding me dear. Glad it all turned out ok in the end. But ps. I burnt the letter. No need to keep the bodies lying around. Time to tidy up. Bury the hatchet and all that. Maybe you can write about it in your memoirs of me instead. And as a narcissist you know that's just the sort of thing I would love. Mothers are narrators to their childrens lives- and the stories they tell go really far in cementing reality - spiritually, emotionally- the things they chose to keep and tell. Looking forward to more.

m.